work_2gb3akmorbf2ncwc56gjjfxmfm	----	EDITORIAL COMMENT DOI 10.1007/s12471-016-0915-6 Neth Heart J (2016) 24:699–700 A Farewell to Arms E. E. van der Wall1 Published online: 9 November 2016 © The Author(s) 2016. This article is available at SpringerLink with Open Access. The great fallacy is the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful. A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway (1899–1961) [1] At a certain moment in life everyone has to make impor- tant decisions with direct implications for their future. This time has now arrived and I would like to announce that, as of 1 January 2017, I will be stepping down as Editor- in-Chief of the Netherlands Heart Journal (NHJ). Formally, the appointment of an Editor-in-Chief is a matter for both the Publisher and the Netherlands Society of Cardiology (NVVC). Together they arrive at the decision on who is the most appropriate candidate for this position at this moment. At the 2016 autumn meeting of the NVVC it was offi- cially announced that from 1 January 2017 Professor Jan J. Piek (AMC, Amsterdam) will take over the position of Editor-in-Chief of NHJ, for a well-defined period of time. He will be assisted by local deputy editors. Further de- tails will be given in the NHJ Editor’s Comment of January 2017. It was 15 years ago, on 1 April 2001, that the Netherlands Heart Journal was founded. It was the offspring of the journal entitled ‘Nederlands Tijdschift voor Cardiologie’ (founded in 1987) and its successor ‘Cardiologie’ (founded in 1994), both journals predominantly publishing in the Dutch language. However, at the turn of this century it was thought wise and timely, by both the Chief Editors and the Publisher, to completely change to the English language � E. E. van der Wall eevanderwall@hotmail.com 1 Netherlands Society of Cardiology/Holland Heart House, Utrecht, The Netherlands and to mainly focus on original and review articles. At that time, the first Editorial Comment in April 2001 ended with the phrase ‘We hope that you really appreciate our efforts to make the Netherlands Heart Journal a new platform for cardiovascular research in a broadest sense of the word’! [2]. Our aims at that time were 1) to reach PubMed to become internationally recognised, and 2) to be listed by the Web of Science (WOS), including the Science Citation Index (SCI), in order to obtain an impact factor [3, 4]. Let us briefly go over the main events and achieve- ments of NHJ since 2001. On 1 January 2005, our journal changed its publishing company from Mediselect BV to Bohn, Stafleu & van Loghum (BSL, Houten, the Nether- lands), which over time became a division of the Springer Verlag Concern, Germany. In 2006, NHJ was adopted by PubMed Central (www. pubmedcentral.gov) [4, 5], which is a free full-text archive of biomedical and life sciences journal literature at the US National Institutes of Health’s National Library of Medicine (NIH/NLM). In 2007, NHJ was internationally recognised by PubMed, the most important literature database compris- ing more than 26 million citations for biomedical literature from MEDLINE, life science journals, and online books (www.pubmed.gov). PubMed has now retroactively listed all NHJ articles (almost 2000!) from its very start in April 2001. In 2008, NHJ was indexed by WOS and received its first impact factor in 2009, which was 1.392 at that time and by 2015 it had increased to 2.062 [6–11]. These major achievements were not given to us for free. It has cost much effort and many years for NHJ to enter the international arena. Once getting there, we have had to battle to stay there and it requires an ongoing fighting spirit to preserve and, more importantly, to improve the scientific level of our journal. This achievement has been made possible, and continues to be possible, through the http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1007/s12471-016-0915-6&domain=pdf http://www.pubmedcentral.gov http://www.pubmedcentral.gov http://www.pubmed.gov 700 Neth Heart J (2016) 24:699–700 cooperation and support of many institutions and individu- als. In particular the Publisher (predominantly represented by Lieda Meester) together with my former Chief Editors, Professors de Boer, Doevendans, Wilde and Zijlstra, laid the basis for these martial accomplishments. Furthermore, over the years we have received support from the NVVC [12, 13], the Cardiovascular Institute for Education (CVOI) [14], the Interuniversity Cardiology Institute of the Nether- lands (ICIN) [15], and the Netherlands Heart Foundation (NHS). Lastly, the true scientific level of a journal is deter- mined by the members of the Editorial Board, in particular the Deputy and the Associate Editors, and of course the reviewers. I fully acknowledge their support for NHJ and for me over the years. In my turn, I sincerely hope I served you well during this 30-year period from 1987–2017. ‘Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending’ the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) once said. A new editorial period will begin and I am fully confident that NHJ will continue to thrive. In the style of Ernest Hemingway, I say farewell to arms with one of his quotes; ‘it is now hard to leave the country but it is in no way impossible’ [1]. Open Access This article is distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons license, and indicate if changes were made. References 1. Hemingway E. A farewell to arms. New York: Scribner; 1929. 2. van der Wall EE. Netherlands Heart Journal: just a change of name or more? Neth Heart J. 2001;9:1–2. 3. Opthof T, Coronel R. The impact factor of leading cardiovas- cular journals: where is your paper best cited? Neth Heart J. 2002;10:198–202. 4. de Boer MJ, van der Wall EE. Towards better cardiovascular jour- nals. Neth Heart J. 2008;16:151–2. 5. van der Wall EE, de Boer MJ, Doevendans PA, Wilde AA, Zijlstra F. Netherlands Heart Journal: accepted into PubMed Central! Neth Heart J. 2006;14:403–4. 6. van der Wall EE. Increasing recognition of NHJ: a first-time impact factor of 1.4! Neth Heart J. 2010;18:399. 7. van der Wall EE, de Boer MJ, Doevendans PA, Wilde AA, Zijlstra F. Journal metrics for the Netherlands Heart Journal. Neth Heart J. 2011;19:159–61. 8. van der Wall EE. Impact factor 2012 for cardiovascular journals: true impact? Neth Heart J. 2013;21:377–8. doi:10.1007/s12471- 013-0455-2. 9. Opthof T. The impact factor of the Netherlands Heart Journal in 2013. Neth Heart J. 2013;21:319–21. doi:10.1007/s12471-013- 0443-6. 10. Opthof T. Impact factor 2013 of the Netherlands Heart Journal sur- passes 2.0. Neth Heart J. 2014;22:137–8. doi:10.1007/s12471-014- 0538-8. 11. van der Wall EE. Impact factors 2015; NHJ on the rise! Neth Heart J. 2016;24:493–4. doi:10.1007/s12471-016-0870-2. 12. de Boer MJ. The NVVC: here, there and everywhere. Neth Heart J. 2009;17:127. 13. Umans VA, van der Wall EE. 80 years of Netherlands Society of Cardiology. Neth Heart J. 2014;22:135–6. doi:10.1007/s12471- 014-0537-9. 14. Michels HR. Continuing medical education in Europe: NVVC, CVOI, ESC, UEMS and EBAC. Neth Heart J. 2001;9:288–91. 15. van Gilst WH, van der Wall EE. Einthoven Dissertation Prize 2010. Neth Heart J. 2010;18:333–5. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-013-0455-2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-013-0455-2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-013-0443-6 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-013-0443-6 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-014-0538-8 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-014-0538-8 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-016-0870-2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-014-0537-9 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s12471-014-0537-9 A Farewell to Arms References 
work_2hnvuo5y7rc47jf5rwujuq5xsa	----	SOAA_FW06 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 194 T h e A m e r i c a n A r c h i v i s t , V o l . 6 7 ( F a l l / W i n t e r 2 0 0 4 ) : 1 9 4 – 2 1 1 In Secret Kept, In Silence Sealed: Privacy in the Papers of Authors and Celebrities Sara S. Hodson A b s t r a c t When administering collections of modern personal papers, archivists must deal with the com- peting ethics of promoting free and open access to the material while ensuring that the privacy of those represented in the collections is not violated. Lacking specific procedural guidelines, archivists and their repositories must devise their own policies. This paper discusses the issues involved in overseeing modern collections in which there are privacy and confidentiality issues, and it focuses on the special challenges presented by the papers of authors and other celebri- ties. These challenges are the result of the high level of public interest in celebrities’ papers, the personal matters discussed in correspondence in these collections, the potential for issues of privacy to be intertwined with copyright, and the fact that repositories increasingly collect the archives of living authors and celebrities as the papers are being created. The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed;– The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. (Charlotte Bronte, “Evening Solace”1) Like the human heart with its hidden treasures, collections of modernpersonal papers often possess personal or sensitive data, kept in secret,sealed in silence. When modern manuscript collections contain per- sonal letters and other writings by those who are still living, such materials can present acutely difficult challenges to the curator or archivist charged with overseeing them. In collecting recently-created manuscript material, archival repositories take on the responsibility of properly administering potentially 1 The Poems of Charlotte Bronte & Patrick Bramwell Bronte (Oxford: The Shakespeare Head Press, 1934), 56. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 194 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 195 private or confidential material that could, if seen by researchers, violate the privacy rights of a living individual. In the case of both literary archives and the papers of other famous individuals, this potential problem is often exac- erbated. This paper will discuss the definitions of privacy, the difficulties of identifying and dealing with private or confidential materials, the competing ethics of providing access while protecting privacy, and the special qualities that make the papers of authors and celebrities a far more difficult adminis- trative challenge for archival professionals than the papers of ordinary people. The modern concept of privacy, a right to which Americans assume they are entitled, and from which springs the archivist’s concern with privacy and confi- dentiality in collections of modern papers, is a relatively recent addition to the American legal landscape. The first enunciation of privacy rights in the United States came from the 1890 article “The Right to Privacy (the implicit made explicit)” by Samuel Warren and Louis Brandeis.2 Believing that existing law did not sufficiently cushion individuals against the improper or unwarranted revela- tion of their private affairs and seeking to combat the propensities of the era’s yel- low journalists to publish gossip and salacious information, Brandeis and Warren sought explicit protection of individuals’ rights to keep private information safe from public exposure. In the more than one hundred years since their article appeared in the Harvard Law Review, subsequent definitions and interpretations have elucidated and broadened this right. For example, the legal scholar William Prosser identified four ways in which the invasion of privacy can occur: intrusion upon the individual’s seclusion or solitude, or into his private affairs; public dis- closure of embarrassing or private facts about the individual: publicity that places the individual in a false light in the public eye; and appropriation, for another person’s advantage, of the individual’s name or likeness.3 Any of these invasions of privacy, but especially the first two—intrusion into an individual’s private affairs, and public disclosure of embarrassing or private facts about an individual—can occur as a result of a manuscript repository acquiring and making available the personal papers of a living or recently deceased person. To what degree should manuscripts curators and archivists be concerned with the possible invasion of privacy by virtue of opening a set of personal papers for research? If such concern is appropriate and justified, what resources exist to provide guidance in identifying sensitive material and deciding whether it safely and wisely may be made available for research? 2 Samuel D. Warren and Louis D. Brandeis, “The Right to Privacy,” Harvard Law Review 4, no. 5 (1890): 193–220. 3 William L. Prosser, “Privacy,” California Law Review 48 (August 1960): 383–423. See also Menzi L. Behrnd-Klodt, “The Tort Right of Privacy and What It Means for Archivists . . . and for Third Parties,” forthcoming in Privacy and Confidentiality Perspectives: Archivists and Archival Records, ed. Menzi L. Behrnd-Klodt and Peter J. Wosh (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2005). SOAA_FW06 12/10/04 4:21 PM Page 195 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 196 Conventional wisdom suggests that the right of privacy ends at death, since the dead obviously can no longer be embarrassed by the revelation of personal information. A corollary to this standard tenet acknowledges that modern archives that include the papers of living people do hold the potential for embar- rassing those individuals. Even when the creator of a manuscript collection is no longer living, some or even all of his or her correspondents might still be alive and therefore still possess a right of privacy. In fact, the privacy of so-called third parties who may be represented in a collection can be the most worrisome and difficult to address. These third parties had no voice in deciding the fate of the papers, and are unlikely to have been consulted about any potential sensitivity in the collection. In addition, archivists must keep in mind that collections of papers contain letters that are, by definition, private communications intended solely for the eyes of their recipient(s), not for viewing and study by researchers or the curious public. Private letters may well reveal sensitive matters or confidential information that is meant solely for a close friend or relative, or for a confidante. In view of this possibility, how should archivists proceed when dealing with modern papers of persons still living? The Code of Ethics for Archivists, adopted by the Council of the Society of American Archivists in 1992, offers this advice: “Archivists respect the privacy of individuals who created, or are the subjects of, documentary materials of long-term value, especially those who had no voice in the disposition of the materials. They neither reveal nor profit from informa- tion gained through work with restricted holdings.”4 The overall ethical tenet is clear: archivists must be aware of, and perhaps take steps to safeguard, the pri- vacy of individuals represented in archival collections. The statement does not provide specific guidance, however, about who will determine what is private, or about what criteria might be appropriate in making such a judgment. Faced with difficult decisions about identifying sensitive materials, and with only general guidelines to follow, archivists, curators and their repositories have devised a wide range of policies and practices. At one end of the continuum, many repositories make no effort at all to define privacy. They even-handedly make available all manuscript material, whether by living or dead persons, regard- less of the content of the manuscripts. At the other end of the scale, at least one institution has routinely sealed all letters by living individuals, thereby even-handedly guaranteeing protection of the privacy rights of all living persons represented in the collections. This latter institution, the Bodleian Library at Oxford University, England, came under fire for this policy during 1993 and 1994. Eric Jacobs, the authorized biographer of the English author Kingsley Amis, requested copies of Amis’s letters that had been housed in the Bodleian. Even after Amis himself requested the copies, the library declined to produce 4 Society of American Archivists, Code of Ethics for Archivists (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 1992). SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 196 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 197 them, citing the policy under which it automatically sealed all letters by living individuals. Ultimately, after considerable unpleasant media attention and lengthy correspondence between Amis and Bodleian officials, the library produced copies for Amis, who promptly turned them over to his biographer.5 Few, if any, archivists in the United States would implement such a blanket policy of closure. Unless they and their repositories adhere to a uniform practice of opening everything for research, and make no attempt to seal possibly sensitive materials, they will need to devise some policy for governing access to private documents. The most common institutional practice relies on the donor to point out sensitive documents or files. Since the donor typically either created the archive, or is a family member, descendant, or close friend or associate, this approach has the advantage of drawing upon the donor’s intimate knowledge of the material at hand and the people, situations, and issues represented in the archive. The donor, armed with this background knowledge, and the curator or archivist, possessing a more detached point of view and awareness of professional ethics and of the law, may discuss or even negotiate what materials in an archive should be sealed, for what reasons, and for how long. Occasionally such negotia- tions can become intense. Donors often exhibit extraordinary concern about matters of privacy, perhaps in an eagerness to perpetuate or sanitize the good rep- utation of the creator of the papers. The archivist or curator more typically favors opening the collection and making it freely available to researchers. Once the par- ties agree on terms of any closure of part or all of a collection, such terms should be written into a deed of gift that is signed by the donor and by a representative of the repository, as a protection for both the donor and the repository. In agreeing to the terms of restriction that have been requested or recom- mended by a donor, the curator or archivist must take care that the restriction is fairly and impartially imposed to ensure that the professional ethic of equal access is followed in administering the papers.6 In earlier days, research libraries routinely implemented inequitable restrictions that had been requested, or insisted upon, by donors. Every institution has its stories of such closures, most or all of which have been quietly corrected in recent decades. According to oft- told tales from the Huntington Library, one manuscript collection had been declared by its donor (a misogynist, we must assume) to be off-limits to women, while another had been sealed to anyone of British descent, and a third could not be seen by Jews, Roman Catholics, or the donor’s nephew. Obviously, 5 See Eric Jacobs, Letter to the Editor, Times Literary Supplement, 15 April 1994, 17; Marianne Macdonald, “Amis Letters to Larkin Stir up Censorship Row,” The Independent, 17 April 1994, 5; Dale Salwak, Letter to the Editor, Times Literary Supplement, 22 April 1994, 17; and Eric Jacobs, Letter to the Editor, Times Literary Supplement, 2 June 1995, 15. Ironically, and to the chagrin of those of us at the Huntington Library, Amis held the Huntington up for praise in making his papers open, while he was criticizing the Bodleian for sealing his letters and denying copies even to him. What Amis did not reveal to the media was that his papers at the Huntington contained material that had been sealed at his request. 6 Elena S. Danielson, “The Ethics of Access,” American Archivist 52 (Winter 1989): 54. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 197 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 198 such restrictions constitute acts of prejudice that lead to inequitable access, in violation of ethical tenets of the library and archival professions. Similarly, curators and archivists should not acquire, except in extremely unusual circumstances, any papers that carry with them decrees of selective access in which the donor or other designated individual retains the right to decide, on a case-by-case basis, and according to his or her own criteria, who will be able to see the collection. Donors may wish to limit access in order to reserve an archive for the exclusive use of an authorized biographer, or of those who have demon- strated the proper reverence or respect for the papers’ creator, or they may simply wish to wield power over the papers and over applicants for the donors’ favor. Such selective availability not only contravenes the ethic of free and unfet- tered access that remains a cornerstone of the archival profession in a democra- tic society, it can also lead to trouble for both the donor and the curator. Copies of material that have been made available to an authorized researcher, for example, may well fall into the hands of someone who was not allowed to see it. This happened with the famous case of some of the papers of Sigmund Freud, which languished under a double set of restrictions. Anna Freud, the psychoana- lyst’s daughter, would allow only those whom she trusted to see papers in her possession, while Kurt Eissler, a collector of Freud material, held the reins of access to the Freud Archives that he deposited at the Library of Congress. After Eissler’s protégé Jeffrey Masson, who had been given access to the papers, pub- licly espoused findings to which Eissler objected, he was dismissed from his position as projects director for the Freud Archives. For her part, Anna Freud refused to supply copies of papers to a researcher named Peter Swales, who even- tually obtained them anyway, merely by asking a more respected scholar to get them for him. By 1986, Eissler’s successor as head of the Freud Archives, Harold Blum, opened all of the papers that had been, or were about to be, published, and he announced that restricted materials would be opened in the near future.7 Sometimes, donors must make restriction decisions based upon outside influences, rather than upon their own beliefs or preferences or their own judgment about the sensitivity of the papers. For example, in 1999 the Huntington Library acquired the papers of the Anglo-American author Christopher Isherwood (1904–1986), probably best known for his stories of life in Berlin in the 1930s that were adapted as the musical Cabaret. The collection includes the original diaries that Isherwood kept throughout most of his adult life, some of which had been published in expurgated form in 1996.8 The 7 For full accounts of the Freud case, see Janet Malcolm, In the Freud Archives (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984), previously published as “Annals of Scholarship: Trouble in the Archives,” New Yorker, 5 December 1983, 59–152, and 12 December 1983, 60–119; and Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson, The Assault on Truth: Freud’s Suppression of the Seduction Theory (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1984). 8 Christopher Isherwood, Diaries, Volume One: 1939–1960, edited and introduced by Katherine Bucknell (London: Methuen, 1996). SOAA_FW06 12/10/04 4:21 PM Page 198 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 199 editor, Katherine Bucknell, in consultation with the collection’s donor/seller, Isherwood’s heir and long-time partner Don Bachardy, had omitted passages that could be embarrassing to those still living. The publishing firm’s attorneys further examined the manuscript of the book for potentially actionable text. Even with this intensive attention to safeguarding privacy, difficulty arose. The attorneys had read and examined the text of the diaries to be published, but they had not checked the footnotes. A revelation of certain information about an individual was discovered in a footnote by a surviving family member who threatened legal action. As a result of this episode, Bachardy, despite his strong belief in free and open access, reluctantly agreed to impose a restriction on the original diaries in the Isherwood archive. Based on the ages and likely life spans of those mentioned in the diaries, a restriction of thirty years was decided upon. In dramatic contrast, another modern literary collection involved the Huntington in a nascent legal wrangle as a result of the unethical behavior of its creator/seller. The collection consisted of oral history interviews about a twentieth-century author, conducted with some of his remaining friends and family members. The family members who had been interviewed were promised by the collection’s creator that only the edited transcripts would be used. The original tapes contained some private information that they wished to seal for a period of time, and I had agreed to take the material under the same condition. Some months after this collection had been purchased by the library, an angry literary agent representing the family members contacted me. The agent claimed that the creator had broken his agreement by publishing a book that contained quotations from, and references to, the expurgated portions of the interviews. The agent threatened legal action by the family if the library did not immediately return to the family the relevant tapes and transcriptions. Returning this material was not acceptable, but I certainly felt that the wronged parties had a valid complaint. More to the point, they could not be dissuaded in seeking redress, so I explained the virtue of sealing the material for a sufficient period of time to ensure that the privacy of the family members would be respected. Following lengthy negotiations that began with the agent insisting on a hundred-year closure, we finally reached an agreement for a restriction of fifty years—a far longer period than I would have wished for, but the shortest time span that the irate family members would accept in lieu of taking legal action. When donors or sellers do not recommend any restrictions for privacy reasons, when they are not aware of potentially sensitive materials in an archive, or when there is simply no one left who can offer any guidance, then the cura- tor or archivist may face a difficult dilemma. In such a situation, if a document or file contains letters or other materials that defame a living individual, or that could cause embarrassment to persons still living if the information SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 199 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 200 were revealed, she or he must decide whether a curator-imposed restriction is necessary and appropriate. The difficulty, of course, involves establishing criteria and defining what is private in a collection of personal papers. Apart from certain legally protected categories of records, such as patients’ and students’ records and attorneys’ case files, no guidance exists concerning sensitive or embarrassing documentation. Thus the curator or archivist is left to his or her own, or the repository’s, discretion to determine which documents in an archive might reveal private information if opened for research. How, then, can the archivist be sure that a restriction is appropriate to the collection and the individuals in it, rather than constituting unconscious or inadvertent censorship? No simple solutions exist. Archivists must take care to seal manuscript material only with the utmost caution, rigorously and objectively analyzing the situation without imposing personal beliefs or values. Of course, this places a nearly impossible demand on an archival professional, and this difficulty leads institutions to apply no restrictions on their own, in the absence of donor requests. If, however, an archivist or curator feels that certain material might contain private information and therefore should be sealed, what criteria can help in reaching a decision when the family or donors either do not know of private material or are not available for advice? In a previous article on privacy, I recommended that archivists should become as knowledgeable as possible about the moral and social milieu of the individuals represented in the collection, and attempt to deal with sensitive mate- rials based on this knowledge.9 An example of this approach arose in the late 1980s, when I began to process and catalog the papers of Patrick Balfour, 3rd Baron Kinross, a travel writer who died in 1976. Because Kinross was unmarried, with no direct descendants, his papers were consigned to the British dealer Bertram Rota Ltd., which sold the archive to the Huntington Library. Kinross, a gay man, was a confidante to an astonishing number of people, many of them gay and many of them still living. As a result, the correspondence files contain numerous letters pouring out intimate, confessional details. Keeping in mind the injunction in the SAA Code of Ethics to respect the privacy of people in collec- tions, especially those who had no say in the disposition of the papers (italics supplied), I felt great concern about the possibility that private matters, in particular the “outing” of closeted gay men who felt their sexuality was their own business and no one else’s, could be revealed if the letters were opened for research. In reviewing the correspondence files, I realized that no archivist could determine whether the private matters in the letters had been confided to Kinross alone or constituted more general knowledge. With no family available 9 Sara S. Hodson, “Private Lives: Confidentiality in Manuscripts Collections,” Rare Books & Manuscripts Librarianship 6 (1991): 116–17. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 200 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 201 for consultation, I had no recourse except either to open all of the letters, despite my concerns, or to try to arrive at some sense of whether opening the confessional letters would reveal intimate, private information about people who would have no idea that their private letters had been housed in a research library in California. Taking into account the tenor both of the correspondence in the archive and of the time in which Kinross and his friends lived, when the outing of gays was controversial and many gays remained firmly behind the closet door, I nearly decided to try implementing restrictions based on a sense of this milieu. Still, this prospect proved very disquieting and I felt no confidence that restrictions could be consistently or sensibly applied. As events transpired, by the time this dilemma had been duly considered and the collection had been processed, sufficient time had passed since Kinross’s death that I felt that all the correspondence files could probably be made available safely without much risk to anyone’s privacy. Thus, the situation resolved itself more as a sort of decision-by-default, rather than as a result of a considered determination of the proper course of action. The debate that lay behind this decision-by-avoidance is possibly emblematic of an over-active sense of ethics that may afflict some archivists. The potential for revealing private information more often constitutes an ethical concern than a legal one. In fact, it seems highly unlikely that a manuscript repository would be sued for invasion of privacy or for revealing private information. Even if the risk for institutions appears small or negligible, however, the administrators of many repositories might still feel considerable concern about their legal liabilities and therefore might seal sensitive materials. An alternative view of the legal responsi- bility for safeguarding privacy holds that a repository could actually be protected legally by never restricting any material at all, thus avoiding any responsibility for identifying and dealing with private or sensitive items. This approach leaves the burden squarely on the researcher, who could be held legally accountable for publishing private information. Indeed, the more likely party to be sued is a researcher who publishes private information, rather than an institution. Whether for legal or ethical reasons, though, it is prudent for archivists and curators to be aware of privacy rights and issues and alert to the presence of potentially sensitive material in collections. If archivists can set aside their ethical worries about betray- ing the privacy of individuals represented in their collections, then the blanket policy of opening everything in collections can safely protect the repository. The decision about which course to follow will depend on a repository’s comfort level. Ethically motivated attempts to respect the privacy of individuals in collections inevitably conflict with the legal gamble that a repository can absolve itself of liability by disassociating itself from privacy decisions. Whatever policy archivists and their repositories adopt for dealing with sensitive materials, collections of the papers of modern authors and celebrities seem to present a somewhat greater degree of difficulty in the area of privacy SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 201 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 202 than do other kinds of collections. Several reasons account for this. First, authors’ and celebrities’ papers are high profile, generating much public inter- est. Second, correspondence and other manuscripts in such collections often deal with personal matters, rather than with historical events or situations. Third, copyright can become intertwined with issues of privacy. Finally, within the past twenty years or so, repositories have increasingly begun to collect the papers of living authors, as the papers are being created. Let us consider each of these reasons in turn. First, the archives of major authors and other well-known figures document high-profile people and contain high-profile content, leading to a heightened level of interest in those individuals and their activities. In the latter decades of the twentieth century and the opening years of the twenty-first, the growth of tabloid journalism and its offspring, the “tell-all” biography, has spawned a pub- lic obsession with knowing scandalous and salacious details about the lives of celebrities. The intrusive interest of the public in the lives of famous people has received comment recently from the relatively anonymous author Charles Webb, whose 1966 novel, The Graduate, is famous as the basis for the Dustin Hoffman film. In the news again with the publication of his 2001 novel New Cardiff, Webb has suddenly become a focal point for media attention, prompting an inter- viewer to relate this anecdote of his conversation with Webb: “Asked perhaps one too many personal questions, he responded with a gentlemanly but prickly sense of humor: ‘Well, what do you think of this? Next time you’re at your dentist, what if you said: By the way, I’d be interested in knowing more about your wife. Can I see a picture of her? Is she your first wife? Have you ever been sued? Are you straight or gay? Do you have affairs? How much money do you make?’ ”10 This kind of obsession with the private lives of public or well-known figures has meant that increasing numbers of researchers prowl library stacks, in search of new biographical details that can titillate an often insatiable public. According to American legal precedent, individuals frequently in the public eye surrender a certain degree of their privacy by virtue of being public figures. Most of us would agree, however, that beyond a certain point, some categories of personal information about famous people are private and should be respected as such. Though we might secretly, and with a certain feeling of shame, savor gossip that reveals a sensitive or scandalous tidbit of information about a celebrity, nonetheless we recognize that a boundary line has been crossed when that information becomes public. The sacrifice of complete privacy on the part of public figures does not usually, and should not, constitute free rein to digest every morsel of that person’s private life. The strong interest that we feel in the lives of famous people is not a new phenomenon, but simply an ever-burgeoning outgrowth of a long and 10 Ambrose Clancy, “A Post-‘Graduate’ Life,” Los Angeles Times, 14 May 2002, E4. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 202 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 203 deeply rooted human propensity. Henry James’s short story “The Aspern Papers” offers an example from 1887. The real-life seed for the tale came to James’s attention earlier that same year, when the young English novelist Vernon Lee recounted to James an anecdote about an elderly lady living in Florence, Mary Jane Clairmont (self-styled as “Claire Clairmont”), formerly the mistress of Byron and the mother of Byron’s illegitimate daughter Allegra. A Boston sea captain named Silsbee, who had a passionate interest in Shelley and who knew that Claire Clairmont had in her possession a cache of Shelley and Byron papers, had exhausted every effort to acquire them and finally arranged to rent a room in her villa, where the papers were kept. After Claire died in 1879, her late-middle-aged, spinster niece, who had been casting longing glances in Silsbee’s direction, offered him the letters if he would marry her, whereupon he immediately fled the scene. James recorded this anecdote in his notebook, noting his interest in “the two faded, queer, poor and discredited old English women . . . with these illustrious letters their most precious possession. Then the plot of the Shelley fanatic—his watchings and waitings—the way he couvers the treasure. . . . It strikes me much.”11 In James’s version of this tale, “The Aspern Papers,” his nameless narrator, a would-be scholar-collector, insinuates himself into the household of an elderly woman, just as Silsbee had done, intending to inveigle her into giving him letters that she had received many years before from the now-deceased Jeffrey Aspern, a well-known poet and her secret lover. The star-struck, avaricious narrator voices his plan of attack to his confidante: “The old woman won’t have her relics and tokens so much as spoken of; they’re personal, delicate, intimate, and she hasn’t the feelings of the day. God bless her! If I should sound that note [i.e., an offer of money] first, I should certainly spoil the game. I can arrive at my spoils only by putting her off her guard, and I can put her off her guard only by ingratiating diplomatic arts. Hypocrisy, duplicity are my only chance. I’m sorry for it, but there’s no baseness I wouldn’t commit for Jeffrey Aspern’s sake. First I must take tea with her—then tackle the main job.”12 The “cult of celebrity” and its effect on personal papers also appears as a theme in other works of fiction. A.S. Byatt’s 1990 novel Possession, for example, concerns a struggle between two twentieth-century literary scholars who vie for first access to a cache of love letters that document the hitherto-unknown love affair between two nineteenth-century authors. The issue seems never to have been more strongly in evidence than in recent years. At its most basic, the human fascination with celebrities and public figures is manifestly evident 11 Quoted in Leon Edel, Henry James: The Middle Years, 1882–1895 (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co., 1962), 219. 12 Henry James, “The Aspern Papers,” in The Great Short Novels of Henry James (New York: Dial Press, Inc., 1944), 475. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 203 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 204 in the tabloid periodicals, which have proliferated in the last few decades and whose screaming headlines seduce the public from every newsstand and supermarket checkout line. Humankind’s desire to know everything, even (or especially) intimate details about the lives of celebrities, has also come to pervade the work of both popular and scholarly biographers. As recently as the 1950s and 1960s, when Leon Edel’s massive, five-volume biogra- phy of Henry James was published, it seemed sufficient to know that James never married, evinced shyness in the company of available women, and might have been sexually conflicted. Fred Kaplan, in his 1992 biography of James, boldly asserted that James was gay. Similarly, in her biography of Anne Sexton, Diane Middlebrook did not merely state that the poet underwent psychological counseling. Rather, she included in her book information from the counseling sessions, causing widespread debate about the ethical proprieties of revealing private medical data, even though the revelation came after the patient’s death.13 A flurry of news stories from the late 1980s concerning authors’ papers and privacy reveals just how large the issue has become. In 1988, Stephen Joyce, James Joyce’s grandson, stunned and horrified a conference honoring the Irish novelist when he announced that he had destroyed family letters. Specifically, he burned letters by the playwright and novelist Samuel Beckett and by his aunt, James Joyce’s daughter, Lucia, who had died in 1982 after living for thirty years in an English mental institution following the 1951 death of her mother, Nora. He cited his action as a personal one, to protect the family’s privacy, and as a justifiable one, since he emphasized that Lucia’s life after Nora’s death could have no bearing at all for research on James and Nora Joyce. However, his action received widespread condemnation from scholars and from descendants of William Butler Yeats and Ezra Pound, who asserted that the lost letters held great importance for the study of the relationship between Joyce, Beckett, and Lucia. Many felt that such materials about great writers are significant public treasures and must not remain private.14 In the face of the public outcry against the destruction of the letters, Stephen Joyce passionately defended his action as a necessary one brought about by such revelations of family matters as made in Brenda Maddox’s 1988 biography Nora: The Real Life of Molly Bloom. Maddox’s frank treatment of James and Nora Joyce’s erotic relationship, together with her recounting of the last thirty years of Lucia’s life, caused considerable 13 See Leon Edel, Henry James, 5 vols. (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co., 1953–1972); Fred Kaplan, Henry James: The Imagination of Genius, A Biography (New York: William Morrow and Co., 1992); and Diane Middlebrook, Anne Sexton: A Biography (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1991). 14 “Joyce, Beckett Mss. Deliberately Destroyed,” Manuscript Society News 9 (Fall 1988): 7. For an analysis of the relationship between the private and public ownership of important cultural artifacts, see Joseph L. Sax, Playing Darts with a Rembrandt: Public and Private Rights in Cultural Treasures (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1999). SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 204 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 205 consternation in the family. Stephen Joyce aggressively refuted the view that his grandfather’s and other family members’ letters are public cultural treasures whose private contents can appropriately be revealed, writing: “I have not destroyed any papers or letters in my grandfather’s hand, yet. Unlike others close to the Joyce family, I do not sell Joyce papers, letters, memorabilia, etc. I keep those I am fortunate enough to have, buy others and destroy some, such as Lucia’s letters to us, which if seen by outsiders and made public would be an intolerable, unbearable invasion of my family’s privacy. . . . I firmly believe that there is a part of every man or woman’s life, no matter how famous he or she may be, that should remain private. . . . Enough is enough, even too much.”15 Also in 1988, Janna Malamud Smith, whose father Bernard Malamud had died in 1986, voiced her concerns about the disposition of the author’s papers. Citing the Joyce case, Smith deplored the trend toward revelations in biogra- phies of intimate details about their subjects’ lives. While acknowledging that authors have surrendered the privacy of themselves and their families, she nonetheless regretted that the families had no power to refute invasive or false accounts of the authors’ lives. Struggling in her analysis of the issues to arrive at a reasonable course of action, Smith reached no firm resolution to the dilemma, writing, “Will we burn papers or letters? I do not yet know. . . . Because there are few limits to what biographers these days will write, I imagine many families will become more careful about what they tell. If an audience for his fiction persists, my grandchildren might wish to make public Bernard Malamud’s private letters and journals. I doubt I will.”16 Both Stephen Joyce and Janna Malamud Smith expressed understandably deep and legitimate concern over the revelation of personal details in the increasingly frank biographies that became standard in the latter part of the twentieth century. They both failed to consider the obvious alternative to either destroying sensitive papers or opening them freely to scholars: placing the papers in an archival repository with an agreement that they be sealed for an appropriate period of time. In such instances, the willingness of a library to accept papers that carry a reasonable restriction may ensure that significant but sensitive research materials survive to be used by scholars in future years. Contrasting dramatically with Stephen Joyce’s actions and with Janna Malamud Smith’s concerns, the widow and children of John Cheever handled his papers with a remarkable, unqualified openness. The public face of certain aspects of Cheever’s private life began with the 1984 publication of his daughter Susan Cheever’s memoir, Home Before Dark, which disclosed his alcoholism and 15 Stephen J. Joyce, Letter to the Editor, New York Times Book Review, 31 December 1989, 2. 16 Janna Malamud Smith, “Where Does a Writer’s Family Draw the Line?” New York Times Book Review, 5 November 1989, 44. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 205 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 206 bisexuality. As she explained her action, “I did it out of anguish and love.”17 Then, in 1988, her brother Ben Cheever edited The Letters of John Cheever, in which he notably did not expurgate sexually explicit passages, citing his reason: “I had an implied contract with my readers. You don’t leave something out because it is impolite. Had I done so, I would have imposed my priggishness on his life.”18 The Cheever family’s comfort with the revelation of intimate, sensitive details about John Cheever’s life is commendable, and it ensures that the letters and other documents that illuminate the private facets of his life will survive and be available for scholarly research. Most authorial families, however, seem unlikely to adopt such an open-minded, apparently selfless stance with regard to sensitive materials. Since these individuals are well-known public figures, the potential revelations of private details about their lives create an enticing prospect to the public and to researchers seeking to publish. Since such a possibility remains so uncomfortable, even repugnant, to the families of these individuals, they are far more likely to react by trying to protect the privacy and memory of the famous individual, as well as their own privacy. The lives of unknown, ordinary people whose papers are in a repository carry far less risk of attracting attention or generating widespread public interest and therefore present a less serious potential problem with regard to privacy issues. The second, closely related, reason that literary papers carry heightened privacy concerns is that correspondence and other papers in literary archives usually deal with personal matters, while historical collections more often deal with historic events. The correspondence files of a literary manuscript collection tend to be filled with letters in which authors write about themselves—their relationships with others, the events of their own lives, their progress or lack thereof on their current writing projects, and other authors and literary topics in general. This concentration on the personal is in marked contrast to histo- rical collections that often comprise the papers of unknown or ordinary people who have either observed or participated in major historic events, or have been part of issue-related movements or events. Such collections might consist of doc- uments relating to water rights in California in the twentieth century, or to an activist group dedicated to the preservation of natural resources in the United States. In cases like these, often the fact that the people involved are not famous makes their first-hand accounts so important to the historical record. Moreover, even when such collections date from very recent or contemporary times, these collections would not hold the same level of potential for revealing personal information as would the papers of famous authors or other celebrities. 17 Quoted in Jerry Schwartz, “Biographers Seek to Air Subjects’ Dirty Laundry,” Los Angeles Times, 11 February 1990, E2. 18 Quoted in Andrea Chambers, “Son Ben Edits John Cheever’s Latest Chronicle—the Literary Genius’ Intimate, Often Scandalous Letters,” People, 21 November 1988, 194–96. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 206 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 207 Literary figures, families, or heirs sometimes “sanitize” the archive, or purge personal letters and documents to safeguard privacy before transferring them to a repository. As a result, an archive loses an important personal dimension that in most instances can never be replaced or re-created. One interesting example of a sanitized collection of personal papers dates to 1922, when the Huntington Library acquired the archive of James and Annie Fields from their descendants. Fields (1817–1881) edited and published the Atlantic Monthly and was a partner in the Boston firm of Ticknor and Fields, one of the top literary publishing houses of the latter half of the nineteenth century. His wife Annie was the socially prominent leader of a literary salon in Boston and, as scholars have begun to recognize in recent years, much more of a participating partner in her husband’s literary and business affairs than had previously been known. The collection contains a deep, rich store of literary manuscripts and letters by virtually every major nineteenth-century New England author, including Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. It also contains important documentation concerning American authors active outside the literary center of New England, including Samuel Clemens and Ambrose Bierce, as well as such British figures as Charles Dickens and Edward Lear. This collection illuminates the working lives of these authors, as well as their all-important relationship with their editor and publisher, and it continues to reward researchers with new insights, even after decades of heavy scholarly use. Still, either the sellers or their predecessors in the family removed from the archive nearly all exclusively personal letters to the Fieldses or between them. As a result, the collection is a superb literary and publishing archive, but it presents very little significant insight into the personalities and points of view of James and Annie or into their relationship. One can only assume that the family either doubted the importance of the personal information about the Fieldses, or that it sought to preserve the privacy of the literary couple. This constituted a legiti- mate concern in 1922, because, although James died in 1881, Annie lived on until 1915. If the family indeed felt concerned about privacy, one can only wish that they had elected to place parts of the collection under closure, rather than to remove permanently its more personal contents. How much richer even this superb collection would be if it had not been sanitized, but had been left intact to afford deep insight into James and Annie themselves. Years after the archive arrived at the Huntington Library, the family donated additional Fields papers. Yet, even this supplementary collection predominantly consists of copy books containing James’s and Annie’s random notes and their own literary efforts. The collection still lacks much material relating to them personally or to their relationship. The third factor that sets the papers of authors and celebrities apart from other collections is copyright, which remains much more of an issue in literary SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 207 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 208 or celebrity archives than in historical collections. In the personal papers of ordinary people who are not famous figures, protection or exploitation of copy- right of either their image, for example, or of a work of art, literature, or music they have created, is not likely to emerge as an issue in the administration or use of those collections. When considering the papers of well-known figures, in con- trast, copyright quite often emerges as a factor. In the case of actors and similar celebrities, the use of their image or likeness might be protected by copyright. The papers of musicians, artists, photographers, and authors typically contain copyrighted creative works. At times, the concepts of copyright and the right of privacy, as they relate to a famous individual’s archive, have become intertwined and therefore somewhat confused or muddled. Probably the best-known exam- ple of this phenomenon is the case of the unauthorized biography of J. D. Salinger by Ian Hamilton. The fiercely private Salinger refused to cooperate with Hamilton, who was writing a biography of the famously reclusive author. When Hamilton persisted with his plans, Salinger transformed what began as a privacy case into a copyright case by retroactively registering the copyright in his letters held in such libraries as Harvard, Princeton, and the University of Texas, thereby seeking to block Hamilton from quoting the letters. His position was upheld by the courts, which ruled that Hamilton and Random House violated the terms of fair use and must not include in the biography any quotations, or even paraphrases, from Salinger’s letters. Finally, Hamilton’s rewritten book was issued, less as a biography than as an account of his legal experiences.19 The Salinger case illustrates how authors or other celebrities who discover that their letters are preserved and available for research in a library, or who feel threatened by the potential use of those letters, can invoke copyright law as a means of protecting their privacy. A similar situation arises when families, descendants, or other literary heirs of a famous individual seek to oversee the use of a collection by applying their literary rights to control access. This occurred with the Jack London Papers at the Huntington Library. Worrying about both the portrayals of London in published works and about the possible invasion of privacy in a collection whose contents dated up until the mid-1950s, the descendants who held the literary rights stipulated in the 1960s that their approval would be required for anyone to have access to the collection. Even though holders of literary rights more commonly grant permission to scholars to use archival material only after the scholars have done their research and written their books or articles, the London estate asserted its right to grant or deny such use before scholars could begin to use the collection. Privacy is a strong 19 See Ian Hamilton, In Search of J. D. Salinger (New York: Random House, 1988). For a discussion of the relationship between privacy and copyright issues in unpublished manuscripts, see Kenneth Crews, “Unpublished Manuscripts and the Right of Fair Use: Copyright Law and the Strategic Management of Information Resources,” Rare Books & Manuscripts Librarianship 5, no. 2 (1990): 61–70. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 208 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 209 motivating force in the estate’s decision to apply its literary rights in this manner, for, while Jack London died in 1916, his widow Charmian lived until 1955. Thus, in the 1960s, at the time the estate established its access arrange- ments, living people were represented in the correspondence files, and, even more worrisome to the estate, mentioned in Charmian’s diaries. Despite the seeming strictness of these arrangements, the estate always responded reason- ably, turning away only a small number of would-be researchers and doing so only in the first years of its oversight. Over time, with more and more researchers using the archive and publishing biographical and critical works on London, and with no hint either of invasion of anyone’s privacy or of legal action, the estate has significantly relaxed its administration. Indeed, for some time I have administered the estate’s granting of permission in nearly all instances, distributing to researchers permission forms already signed by the estate. The fourth factor that sets authors’ archives apart from other collections of personal papers is the increasing trend for repositories to collect authors’ papers during the authors’ lifetime, rather than after their death. Reflecting authors’ awareness of the high market value of their archives, the keen competition among institutions for authors’ papers, and the desire by those institutions to nail down a literary archive as soon as possible, this trend increases the like- lihood that collections will contain private and sensitive documents. With any recently created collection, privacy can be a concern, because of the so-called third-party privacy rights that inhere to any of the still-living correspondents, as well as to the individuals who are mentioned as subjects in the collection. In such instances, the injunction in the SAA Code of Ethics against violating the privacy of those who had no say in the disposition of the papers must be considered by the archivist or curator in overseeing the collection. When the creator of the papers is still living, the risks and difficulties are multiplied. Moreover, as more papers from the author are transferred to the repository, the curator must consult repeatedly with the author about the possible presence of sensitive mate- rials. Each new acquisition must be surveyed with an eye to privacy, both of the author and of other individuals. The longer the time period for an ongoing transfer of papers from an author, the longer the archivist must continue to deal with privacy and with the possibility of sealing certain documents or files as potential issues for that growing collection, even as he or she is addressing sim- ilar questions for other collections being acquired. These situations arose at the Huntington when in 1987 the library began to purchase the papers of British author Kingsley Amis. The initial contact came from a rare book and manuscript dealer, but thereafter each successive transaction took place directly between the library and Amis’s literary agent. Throughout this relationship the awareness of privacy issues was present. In one of the transfers of papers, Amis requested that certain material be restricted until his death. One item to be sealed was the autograph manuscript of an SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 209 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E A M E R I C A N A R C H I V I S T 210 unpublished novel he had written called Difficulties with Girls (not the same work as a different novel that he did publish under the same title). Amis wanted this manuscript closed because he anticipated that critics and readers would incorrectly interpret it as autobiographical, and he did not want to deal with answering questions about it. The other material that he wished to have closed consisted of a large file of letters to him from the poet Philip Larkin. Larkin had already passed away, so his privacy rights were not an issue. Amis knew, however, that the letters contained frank comments about mutual friends still living, and he did not want those people to know what had been written about them until after his own death. His concern clearly was driven by self-interest, to save himself from the possible anger of the people mentioned. The fact that his papers were now in a library, to be opened for research as soon as they were processed, made this an important issue. Had his papers been placed in a repository after his death, this kind of material would not have appeared sensitive. In 1995, when Amis passed away, the sealed items in the collection were opened for research. More recently, in 1995, the Huntington began acquiring the archive of British novelist Elizabeth Jane Howard, who coincidentally was Kingsley Amis’s second wife. According to her request, several groups of correspondence in her papers are closed for various lengths of time, in deference to the privacy of the authors of those letters, who are still living. A slightly different case involves the papers of another British novelist, Hilary Mantel, whose archive began arriving at the Huntington in 2001. According to discussions and correspondence between Ms. Mantel and myself, we have sealed her personal diaries for her life- time, due to sensitive diary entries. In the Amis, Howard, and Mantel examples, some or all of the restrictions agreed upon by the authors and the library became necessary because the papers had been acquired during, rather than after, the authors’ lifetimes. The high market value of authors’ papers, plus the desire by institutions to acquire literary archives early in order not to miss getting them, leads to another kind of situation that could present archivists with a privacy dilemma. In the early 1970s, the British author Stephen Spender was approached by the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley, which sought to purchase some of his papers. Spender, pressed for money at the time, sold to the Bancroft his file of the letters written to him by Christopher Isherwood. He subsequently wrote to Isherwood with some degree of slightly blustery embarrassment to confess what he had done, to seek Isherwood’s approval of his action, and to urge Isherwood to sell his (Spender’s) letters to the Bancroft. That letter now resides in the Huntington Library as part of Isherwood’s archive, along with the rest of Spender’s letters to him, which Isherwood obviously did not elect to sell. I do not know whether the Bancroft closed Isherwood’s letters, but many of the letters certainly had been written very shortly before Spender sold them, so that SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 210 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 I N S E C R E T K E P T , I N S I L E N C E S E A L E D : P R I V A C Y I N T H E P A P E R S O F A U T H O R S A N D C E L E B R I T I E S 211 privacy could well have been an issue. This situation presents a classic case of third-party confidentiality, in which the recipient of letters sells them to a repository without the prior knowledge or approval of the writer of the letters. Whether Isherwood would have approved the Spender sale if he had known in advance remains an interesting question. The combination of the Spender transaction and the subsequent acquisition of the Isherwood archive by the Huntington means that the correspondence between the two men lies at opposite ends of the state of California, split by one of those odd sequences of events that often play such a large part in the placement of collections of personal papers. Faced with the competing ethics of free and open access to research collections and the safeguarding of people’s right to privacy, and in view of the special problems presented in collecting the papers of authors and other high- profile individuals, how can curators and archivists devise appropriate policies for administering modern personal papers? Unfortunately, no good answers exist. There appear few even satisfactory guidelines for handling potentially sensitive letters and manuscripts. Both institutions and archivists must deter- mine acceptable risk levels for the possible legal fallout of violating someone’s privacy rights. Based on such practical considerations as the time that can be spent on processing collections and the level of detail that the archivist and other staff members can devote to examining individual items, archivists must arrive at policies and procedures that reflect an awareness of both the legal and ethical aspects of individual privacy, without being held hostage by the difficulties of administering the personal papers of modern figures. Archivists need to acknowledge that there are few if any absolutes in dealing with sensitive manuscript materials. Nearly all modern collections will present difficult gray areas of privacy for archivists to struggle with. Archivists should be fully informed about the issue of privacy and the options available, and they must behave conscientiously in handling sensitive materials. If sensitive professionals make such good faith efforts, there is reason to believe that modern personal papers may be opened responsibly for research while the private, hidden treasures in them are kept in secret and sealed in silence until they can be safely revealed. SOAA_FW06 12/9/04 7:22 PM Page 211 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.67.2.b53338437x161076 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 
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work_477jsdcknrgqtlcdtb2trcsu3a	----	JW-LASR170047 1..34 UC Berkeley UC Berkeley Previously Published Works Title Cultural Spillovers: Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices Permalink https://escholarship.org/uc/item/5pp2s17t Journal Law and Society Review, 52(1) ISSN 0023-9216 Authors Haveman, HA Kluttz, DN Publication Date 2018-03-01 DOI 10.1111/lasr.12308 License https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/ 4.0 Peer reviewed eScholarship.org Powered by the California Digital Library University of California https://escholarship.org/uc/item/5pp2s17t https://creativecommons.org/licenses/https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0//4.0 https://escholarship.org http://www.cdlib.org/ Cultural Spillovers: Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices Heather A. Haveman Daniel N. Kluttz Economists, sociologists, and legal scholars agree that intellectual-property law is fundamental to markets because legal control over copying motivates creative production. But in many markets, such as fashion and databases, there is little or no intellectual-property protection, yet producers still create innovative products and earn profits. Research on such “negative spaces” in intellectual-property law reveals that social norms can constrain copying and support creative production. This insight guided our analysis of markets for American literature before the Civil War, in both magazines (a negative space, where intellectual-property law did not apply) and books (a positive space, where intellectual-property law did apply). We observed similar understand- ings of authors and similar commercial practices in both spaces because many authors published the same work in both spaces. Based on these observations, we propose that cultural elements that develop in positive spaces may spill over to related negative spaces, inducing changes in buyers’ and sellers’ behavior in negative spaces. Our historical approach also revealed nuances— shades of gray—beyond the sharp distinction typically drawn between nega- tive and positive spaces. In the 1850s, a few large-circulation magazine pub- lishers began to claim copyright, but many still allowed reprinting and none litigated to protect copyright. Economists, sociologists, and legal theorists adopt disparate assumptions and make different predictions about what sustains markets, but they all agree that property-rights law is essential (e.g., Campbell and Lindberg 1990; North 1990; Polanyi 1944; Posner 2010). Property-rights law determines the technical limita- tions on markets by defining rules governing ownership and This research was funded by grants from the NSF (SES-0727502 and SES-0096016), the Ewing Marion Kauffman Foundation, and Berkeley’s Institute for Research on Labor and Employment. For helpful comments, we thank the editors, four anonymous reviewers, William Gallagher, Simon Stern, and seminar participants at Berkeley’s Center for the Study of Law and Society and Center for Culture, Organizations, and Politics. Please direct all correspondence to Heather A. Haveman, Department of Sociology and Haas School of Business, 410 Barrows Hall, University of California, Berkeley, CA 94720- 1980; e-mail: haveman@berkeley.edu. This article was published online on 29 November 2017. An error was subsequently identi- fied. This notice is included in the online and print versions to indicate that both have been corrected on 14 December 2017. Law & Society Review, Volume 00, Number 00 (2017) VC 2017 Law and Society Association. All rights reserved. 1 J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 http://orcid.org/0000-0001-8945-1112 http://orcid.org/0000-0001-5970-8845 control over production, products, and modes of exchange. Such legal-technical effects determine what can be sold, who can sell and buy, who can profit from selling, and under what circum- stances products can be sold. Legal scholars and sociologists also argue that property-rights law creates cultural constraints on markets: cognitive schemas about buyers’ and sellers’ roles, their relative power, and the nature of their exchanges (e.g., Edelman, Uggen, and Erlanger 1999; Fligstein 2001; Gordon 1984). Thus, property-rights law determines both what is feasible (technical constraints) and what is acceptable (cultural constraints). In par- ticular, intellectual-property law gives producers control over the copying of their innovations; such control, in turn, spurs the cre- ative production necessary for markets to thrive. In addition to culture deriving from law, legal scholars and sociologists recognize that cultural factors, such as norms and value systems, can substitute for formal law. For example, people often eschew formal law and rely instead on informal mechanisms such as customs, norms, and standard practices to guide contract rene- gotiations (Macauley 1963), resolve property disputes (Ellickson 1991), and safeguard workers’ rights (Edelman, Uggen, and Erlanger 1999). Similarly, legal scholarship examining “negative spaces” in intellectual-property law1—such as markets for fashion, recipes, and open-source software, all of which thrive in the absence of intellectual-property protection—has shown that social norms can stand in place of formal law (e.g., Raustiala and Sprig- man 2006; Buccafusco 2007; Sprigman and Raustiala 2012). In the absence of intellectual-property protection, producers can copy each other’s products without legal repercussions. Yet social norms often constrain copying and foster creativity (e.g., Buccafusco 2007; Fauchart and von Hippel 2008). In this article, we apply negative-spaces theory to analyze markets for literature in America from the mid-eighteenth cen- tury, when copyright law and markets for literature were not well developed, to the mid-nineteenth century, when copyright was well understood and markets for literature were thriving. During this period, copyright law applied to part of the market for litera- ture in books: the book industry was a positive space for domestic work but a negative space for foreign work, since American law protected domestic books but excluded foreign books from pro- tection. And although magazines were important forums for liter- ary expression (e.g., Gardner 2012; Okker 2003), the magazine 1 In art, the term “negative space” denotes the area around an image; in law, it denotes an area of activity outside the area where formal law applies. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 2 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices industry was a negative space because copyright law did not cover magazines (Homestead 2005; McGill 2003; McGill in Gross and Kelley 2010; Slauter 2015). We show that for domestic litera- ture, books and magazines shared cultural conceptions about authors and intellectual-property rights, and they came to share commercial practices. Demonstrating such cultural spillovers extends negative-spaces theory in new directions. We build on sociological and socio-legal theories holding that law shapes cultural conceptions of market participants (here, authors as producers of literature) and market products (here, lit- erature), which in turn shape how law is used (e.g., Edelman, Uggen, and Erlanger 1999; Fligstein 2001; Macaulay 1963). This work suggests that cultural conceptions of producers and products, which co-evolve with the law inside positive spaces (where the law applies), can spill over to related negative spaces (where the law does not apply) and therefore shape practices in both positive and negative spaces. Cultural spillovers may occur when positive and negative spaces are connected through producers present in both spaces or products exchanged in both spaces. Our historical analysis reveals nuances beyond the sharp dis- tinction typically drawn between negative and positive spaces. Specifically, magazines became an ambiguous space in the 1850s, as a few publishers of mass-circulation magazines began to claim copyright protection. But magazines did not become a purely positive space because magazines were not clearly covered by copyright law and because norms allowing reprinting, even for magazines claiming copyright protection, persisted and no would-be copyright-holders litigated to enforce copyright. This suggests that negative-spaces theory can be improved by being more historically sensitive: (1) spaces can be neither white (clearly positive) nor black (clearly negative), but rather different shades of gray (ambiguous), and (2) the degree of spaces’ shading can change over time in response to economic and cultural shifts. Negative Spaces in Intellectual Property Law Property-rights law is essential to markets (Campbell and Lindberg 1990; North and Thomas 1973; Polanyi 1944; Posner 2010). It makes possible market-supporting tools, such as con- tracts, mediation, and lawsuits. Yet recent research argues that markets can flourish when intellectual-property rights protection is lacking (e.g., Buccafusco 2007; Raustiala and Sprigman 2006; Sprigman and Raustiala 2012). This work focuses on so-called negative spaces, markets in which novel products are not pro- tected by intellectual-property law: J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 3 The positive space encompasses all those creative activities that IP law addresses. . .. The negative space of IP, by contrast, encompasses any other creative art, craft, or act that does not enjoy or at least does not ordinarily rely on IP rights against copyists, either because IP is formally inapplicable or because something – perhaps a social norm against IP enforcement, or a legal or economic barrier that discourages resorting to for- mal IP – limits its salience. (Raustiala and Sprigman 2017:3) The problems created by the lack of property rights in nega- tive spaces can be solved by social norms that engender informal substitutes for formal law. Norms constrain copying and sustain creativity by creating “order without law” (Ellickson 1991). For example, in fine food, norms of exclusivity include prohibitions of exact copies and expectations that people will seek permission before passing on information, that innovators will be acknowl- edged, and that information exchanges will be reciprocal (Bucca- fusco 2007; Fauchart and von Hippel 2008). These norms are backed by expectations that violators will be excluded from infor- mation exchanges. They also protect innovators’ reputations and ensure they receive financial or reputational rewards. In other negative spaces, such as stand-up comedy, social norms spur pro- ducers to make their output distinctive, which facilitates detecting and sanctioning imitators (Oliar and Sprigman 2008). Although socio-legal research on negative spaces has shed much light on how producers of creative or imitative products are conceived, and how they conceive of themselves and their actions, it has focused on negative spaces per se. Yet many nega- tive spaces are in close social proximity to positive spaces. For example, the positive space of trademarked logos and fabric pat- terns is close to the negative space of fashion designs (i.e., items of clothing) (Sprigman and Raustiala 2012) because the same actors (e.g., Burberry and Adidas) are in both spaces. In such cases, we might expect cultural conceptions, norms, and practices to “spill over” between positive and negative spaces. To explore such spillovers, we focus on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when copyright law first developed in America. Recognizing that law is dynamic, we conduct a histori- cally sensitive analysis. We examine two related spaces in copy- right law: domestic work published in books and in magazines. After 1790, the former was clearly a positive space where copy- right law applied. The latter was more complex: until the 1850s, it was a negative space, because magazines, as periodicals com- posed of multiple items, each written by a different author, were not perceived to be entitled to copyright protection. Copyright was rarely invoked by magazines and never litigated, and J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 4 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices magazines had a “culture of reprinting” that celebrated copying. In the 1850s, a few magazines began to claim copyright to dis- suade reprinting, yet some of those still explicitly allowed reprint- ing and none litigated to protect their copyright claims. This shift was due, in part, to the fact that many authors published work in both spaces, which led to spillovers of material practices from the book industry to the magazine industry. Thus, magazines began to move toward being a positive space, but the transition was not complete until well after our study period. This analysis reveals subtle shades of gray in-between the “white” of positive spaces (where intellectual property-rights law shines) and the “black” of negative spaces. Understanding these shadings becomes impor- tant when economic, political, or cultural shifts alter people’s understandings of law. Empirical Strategy Research Site Our analysis begins in the mid-eighteenth century, when intellectual property was governed by English law and American literature was in its infancy. It ends in 1860, the year before the Civil War broke out, when American copyright law was well- established and American literature was flourishing. Analysis: Copyright Law We traced the evolution of copyright law in multiple ways, tri- angulating among data sources. We located all federal Constitu- tional provisions and debates about copyright. We read all state and federal copyright statutes enacted up to 1860 (Crawford 1975; Library of Congress 1905, 1906). To identify case law, we searched Lexis-Nexis and Westlaw, beginning with the inception of federal courts and the highest state appellate court for 27 of the 33 states admitted to the Union before 1860, and with the first official case report for the other six states. We also consulted the Copyright Office’s digest of decisions from 1789 to 1909 (Library of Congress 1980) and treatises on copyright law pub- lished during this period (Curtis 1847; Nicklin 1838). Analysis: The Book and Magazine Trades To analyze the book and magazine trades, we began with research by historians and literary scholars (e.g., Dauber 1990; Gross and Kelley 2010; McGill 2003; Remer 1996). These led us to read dozens of books, pamphlets, autobiographies, and col- lected papers (e.g., Carey 1837 [1942]; Webster 1843), as well as J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 5 letters by prominent authors (e.g., Barlow 1783; Irving 1819 in Hellman 1918; Dennie 1795 in Pedder 1936). To chart trends in naming patterns for books (named versus anonymous or pseu- donymous author), we used a bibliography of American fiction from the Revolution to 1850 (Wright 1969). To chart debates about literature and copyright, we pored over magazines because those were important forums for such debates (e.g., Gardner 2012; McGill 2003; Okker 2003). We examined magazines pub- lished from 1741 to 1825, when archival coverage of magazines was good. We searched the American Periodical Series Online, which contains digitized images of American magazines for articles containing any of the following terms: anonymity, anony- mous, author*, copyright*, professional author, property right[s], and reprint[ing].2 We read all available prospectuses, early edito- rial statements, and second issues of every available magazine (533 out of 902). We also searched for magazines in physical archives (Cornell, Columbia, and Berkeley libraries; New York Public Library) and other Internet archives (Hathitrust and Goo- gle Books). To convert prices paid to authors into modern price equivalents, we used a commodity price index developed by McCusker (2001) and a GDP deflator from the U.S. Bureau of Economic Analysis (2017). We also compared historical prices to historical wage rates. The Development of American Copyright Law The Evolution of Copyright in American Law There are two dominant philosophies of copyright: a recogni- tion of perpetual ownership rights for authors in the literary property over which they labored, and a statutorily granted, lim- ited monopoly to authors that motivates them to produce creative works that benefit the public (Abrams 1983; Bracha 2008a). In colonial America, copy privileges granted by colonial courts reflected a conception of copyright geared more toward monopo- lies for the proprietors who produced and distributed books (printers and booksellers) than toward rights imbued in authors (Abrams 1983; Bracha 2008b,2010b). Proprietors, not authors, usually sought copyright privileges, in part because most authors were gentlemen-scholars who did not seek to profit from their 2 We focused on 1741 (when American magazines were first published) to 1825 because editorial statements and prospectuses were available for 59 percent of magazines founded in the eighteenth century and 51 percent of those founded 1801–1825. After that, the industry expanded rapidly and the fraction of magazines with this documentary evi- dence plummeted, to 13 percent of magazines founded 1826–1840 and 3.3 percent of those founded 1841–1860. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 6 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices writing (Bracha 2010a; Bugbee 1967). Around the time of the Revolution, however, American law began to frame copyright as rooted in authors more than proprietors. In 1772, the Con- necticut colonial assembly was the first to grant copyright privi- lege to an author rather than a proprietor (Silver 1958). After the Revolution, the shift toward authors gained momentum (Bracha 2008c,2010a,2010b). American writers, such as spelling- book author Noah Webster and poets Joel Barlow and John Trumbull, lobbied state legislators for copyright protection (Barlow 1783; Grasso 1995; Webster 1843). They maintained that such protection would unite the nation by promoting a national cultural identity, pointed to authors’ rights as justifica- tion, and claimed that copyright law was necessary to reach cultural parity with European powers. For example, Barlow argued: America has convinced the world of her importance in a political and military line by the wisdom, energy and ardor for liberty which distinguish the present era. A literary repu- tation is necessary in order to complete her national charac- ter; and she ought to encourage that variety and independence of genius, in which she is not excelled by any nation in Europe. As we have few Gentlemen of fortune suffi- cient to enable them to spend a whole life in study, or enduce [sic] others to do it by their patronage, it is more necessary, in this country than in any other, that the rights of authors should be secured by law. (Barlow 1783) Similarly, Trumbull reasoned: As we have in this country no gentlemen of fortune sufficient to maintain [authors] in the sole pursuit of literary studies, it is certainly necessary for the encouragement of Genius, to secure to every author the profits that may arise from the sale of his writings. . .. Surely there is no kind of property, in the nature of things, so much as our own, as the writings which we originate meerly [sic] from our own [creative] imagi- nation. (Quoted in Grasso 1995:23.) After petitioning by Barlow, historian Hannah Adams, geog- rapher Jedidiah Morse, and others who supported themselves at least in part with their writing, the Continental Congress resolved that states craft legislation protecting authors’ and/or proprietors’ copyright privileges (U.S. Continental Congress 1922 [1783]). With copyright legitimized by the Continental Congress and with continued lobbying by authors, all states except Delaware enacted copyright statutes. These statutes’ dominant idea was that J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 7 copyright served to protect authors’ rights (Abrams 1983; Patter- son 1968). For example, all state statutes mentioned “authors” as recipients of protection, while only two also mentioned “publishers” or “purchasers” of copies. In 1787, the Constitutional Convention adopted, without debate, the Copyright Clause of the U.S. Constitution, which granted Congress the power “to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Rights to their Writings and Discoveries” (U.S. Constitution, Art. I, § 8, cl. 8). This pronouncement, embed- ded in the foundational document of U.S. government, reveals a national interest in promoting learning, while centering copyright squarely on authors (Patterson 1968:193). Three years later, Con- gress passed the first federal Copyright Act, entitled “An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned” (U.S. Congress 1790). To obtain copyright, authors or proprietors had to comply with statutory requirements: before publication, record the title of their work in their local district court and pay 60 cents (about $15 in 2016 dollars); within two months of registration, publish a copy of the record of deposit in a newspaper for 4 weeks; and within 6 months of publication, deliver a copy of the copyrighted document to the Secretary of State (U.S. Congress 1790). These onerous procedural requirements, combined with the explicit mention of proprietors in the statute, indicate that the Act emphasized copyright as a statutory grant as much as authors’ property right (Abrams 1983; Bracha 2010a; Patterson 1968). No major legal developments occurred until the Supreme Court, in Wheaton v. Peters (1834), established that after publica- tion, claims of copyright infringement must be based on the fed- eral statute, as no such claim arises out of common law. Wheaton did recognize the existence of common-law copyright (a natural right to perpetual ownership rooted in labor) for unpublished works, but regarding published works, it held that copyright is solely a creature of statute, authors must adhere to statutory requirements to gain protection, and protection is limited to the term specified by statute. Moreover, it held that the purpose of copyright protection is to encourage works that benefit the public (Abrams 1983; Patterson 1968). These legal developments were driven largely by the eco- nomic interest of those who wrote “practical” books, including school books, histories, and geographies, and who earned at least part of their income from their writing. For example, Webster lobbied state and federal authorities for copyright laws because he wanted to safeguard income from his spelling and grammar J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 8 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices books. Others, however, cloaked their interests in the more respectable cloth of civic pride, as Barlow did in the quotation above. As the population grew and the economy expanded, there were more potential readers, with more money in their pockets (more wage-earners, fewer self-sufficient farmers). Thus, there was more reason to support and use copyright law. Technological change also fostered these legal developments. Advances in print- ing, paper-making, engraving technologies, and improvements in distribution systems (roads, canals, steamships, railroads) all improved the economics of publishing. Easier production and faster, more reliable distribution meant it was easier to profit from publishing books and magazines. These changes, in turn, made it feasible to share publishing profits with authors. Positive and negative spaces in American copyright law Federal law created one positive space in copyright law: it pro- tected the work of American authors, provided their work was first published domestically. This positive space covered only “maps, charts, and books” (U.S. Congress 1790, ch. 15 § 1). In 1802, pro- tection was extended to prints (U.S. Congress 1802), in 1831 to musical compositions (U.S. Congress 1831), and in 1856 to dra- matic performances (U.S. Congress 1856). However, even for cov- ered works, the considerable effort and high cost involved in fulfilling the statutory requirements meant that, in practice, many ostensibly covered works by American authors inhabited a negative space in copyright law. This is the main reason why few books published between 1790 and 1820 were copyrighted. Among those published from 1790 to 1800, only 6 percent were copyrighted. Half of these were non-fiction works on law, biography, religion, philosophy, science, medicine, society, or politics, which were the genres most likely to generate profits; less than one-seventh were fiction, plays, or poetry (Khan 2005: 236–37). Despite these practi- cal limitations, the number of copyright filings for domestic book authors grew exponentially, from 1,793 between 1801 and 1830, to 40,000 between 1841 and 1860 (Khan 2005: 237). Federal copyright law also created two negative spaces. The first was foreign work, which was explicitly excluded from protection. The 1790 Act declared: “Nothing in this act shall be construed to extend to prohibit the importation or vending, Reprinting or pub- lishing within the United States, of any map, chart, book or books, written, printed, or published by any person not a citizen of the United States, in foreign parts or places without the jurisdiction of the United States” (U.S. Congress 1790, ch. 15 § 5). This provision enabled Americans to reprint and sell foreign work without paying royalties. Starting in the 1820s, large American publishing houses J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 9 observed a pale, informal imitation of copyright law—“courtesy of the trade” (Barnes 1974; Everton 2011; Spoo 2013)—and paid for- eign writers. But such payments were still far below the economic value of foreign work. Not until 1891, with passage of the Interna- tional Copyright Act (U.S. Congress 1891), were foreign authors protected. Thus, foreign work was utterly without formal legal pro- tection, even though both American and foreign authors lobbied intensely for such protection for over a half-century (Barnes 1974; Spoo 2013). The second negative space, magazines, is less well-known. Fed- eral copyright law in this period referred to “books” but did not explicitly mention periodicals of any kind until long after the Civil War. The earliest known American treatise on copyright law noted tensions in American copyright law with regard to periodi- cals (Curtis 1847:227–29). To resolve these tensions, lawmakers debated a bill in 1844 that, among other things, would have clearly brought magazines under copyright protection (H.R. 9 1844, §§ 16–17). That magazines and magazine contents were specifically mentioned in this bill implies that lawmakers recog- nized the lack of clear copyright protection for magazines. More- over, that this bill failed to pass indicates that Congress was not yet willing to grant magazines copyright protection as “books.” Indeed, not until a half-century later did federal copyright law include the word “periodical.” The 1891 revision stated that, for purposes of copyright registration, “each number of a periodical shall be considered an independent publication” (U.S. Congress 1891, ch. 565 § 11). Periodicals did not explicitly become their own category of copyrightable text until the 1909 revision of the Copyright Act (U.S. Congress 1909). In addition, there is no evidence of copyright litigation involving magazine contents before 1850 (Ginsburg 1990; Brau- neis 2009). In the 1850s, there were 17 copyright-infringement actions in federal courts; two involved periodicals, but neither clearly indicated that magazine contents were protected by copy- right. The first, Clayton v. Stone (1829), is most germane to our analysis.3 There, the court held that a daily newspaper’s com- modity price reports were not entitled to copyright protection because their value was “so ephemeral.” But it also held that a work need not follow the form of a conventional (bound) book to qualify as a “book” under the Copyright Act (Brauneis 2009). 3 The other case was Ritchie & Dunnavant v. Wilson (1856). The owners of the Virginia Medical Journal – The Stethoscope and Virginia Medical & Surgical Journal Combined filed for an injunction against the owners of the Monthly Stethoscope and Medical Reporter. The plaintiffs claimed exclusive right to the word “Stethoscope,” but the court denied the injunction on the grounds that the magazine titles were not exactly same. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 10 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices This suggested that magazines were protected by copyright, pro- vided their contents were of lasting value. Magazines published creative, literary material; they had long-lasting value, as maga- zines were printed on higher-quality paper stock than newspa- pers; they included title pages and indexes for subscribers binding volumes for their bookshelves; and many offered late- arriving readers the opportunity to purchase back issues (Have- man 2015). Yet no-one sued for copyright protection of magazine contents before the Civil War, so in practice, magazines were not conceived of being protected by copyright. Not until after the Civil War were there were copyright cases involving the content of magazines. Most famously, in 1896 Oli- ver Wendell Holmes, Jr. lost the copyright to his father’s book, The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (first published as a book in 1858) because the essays it contained were published in the Atlan- tic Monthly without copyright before being published in book form, at which time the author applied for copyright (Holmes v. Donohue et al. 1896). Although this decision suggests that articles published in magazines before the Civil War could have been copyrighted individually, the case was heard a half-century later, during a time when the book and magazine industries were fully commercially oriented. It is unclear whether such reasoning would have held sway in the antebellum era. One reason why copyright law was not used to protect maga- zines before the Civil War was the onerous procedural requirements for securing copyright, which constituted far more serious obstacles for magazines than for books. If copyright law had treated each issue of a monthly magazine as a book, its publisher would have had to meet these requirements twelve times a year. In practice, these requirements excluded magazines from obtaining copyright (Netanel 1996; Slauter 2015). That may explain why very few of them even claimed it. Between 1790 and 1825, only 7.2 percent of available magazines (39 out of the 546 whose early issues are in the archives) printed copyright notices in their first issues, and one more printed a notice in its third issue. A few others claimed intellectual-property rights in editorial statements, as here: Printers throughout the United States are requested to observe, that this publication circulates as the Editor’s proper- ty. . .. Several trespasses upon the property of the Editor, in different parts of the country, have been already committed – and will be passed without further notice. But a repetition of the injuries, will call, before the proper tribunal, a legal ques- tion of considerable importance; and produce some trouble and expense, which every man of a specific disposition would wish to prevent. (Webster 1788: 2) J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 11 But Webster’s admonition was the exception, not the rule. Maga- zine publishers were generally unconcerned with copyright law. Indeed, some magazines that invoked copyright explicitly allowed others to reprint their contents. For example: The Copy right is secured that the Association may realize the benefit of a future Edition, if the public favor should jus- tify the measure, but it is not meant to restrain printers of news papers, from making occasional extracts, for the infor- mation or amusement of their readers; nor can it be under- stood as designed to prevent an Author of a Communication to this Work, from publishing the same in any volume of his own. (Useful Cabinet 1808: 3) The situation changed slightly around the 1850s, when a few publishers with large-circulation magazines, such as Putnam’s Monthly, began to claim copyright because their success made it economically feasible. But this still did not make magazines clearly positive spaces for copyright. Simply claiming copyright for maga- zines (whether entire issues or individual articles) remained rare (Homestead 2005; McGill in Gross and Kelley 2010; McGill 2003: 197–98; Mott 1930: 504; Slauter 2015).4 And when magazines did claim copyright, they often allowed reprinting if credit was given, which garnered magazines and their authors valuable publicity. For example: “Each number of The Musical World & Times is copy- righted. Editors are at liberty, however, to copy from our columns if mindful of the courtesy of accrediting articles” (quoted by Homestead 2005: 161). Similarly, the American Agriculturist invited others to “copy any and all desirable articles,” and stated that “no use or advantage will be taken of the Copy-Right, wherever each article or illustration is duly credited to the American Agriculturist” (quoted in Slauter 2015: 77). Moreover, publishers did not sue to enforce copyright. Therefore, at this time, magazines might be characterized as “dark gray”—not purely “black” (negative) but also not “white” (positive). Cultural Conceptions of Authors Cultural conceptions of authors—who authors were, why they wrote, and how they and their writing were evaluated—evolved slowly. There were three successive conceptions (Warner 1990), 4 Satisfying pre-publication requirements (e.g., claiming copyright) would not have secured protection unless publishers also satisfied post-publication requirements. In prac- tice, however, even the few magazines claiming copyright usually did the former but not the latter (Patry 1994:32, n.93). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 12 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices which overlapped in time (Grasso 1995). Up to the mid- eighteenth century, the dominant conception of authors was the gentleman-scholar. Although there were notable exceptions, such as poet Phillis Wheatley, a black slave emancipated in 1773, and his- torian Hannah Adams, during this era, almost all American authors were learned white men who crafted ponderous works about religion, philosophy, political economy, and natural philos- ophy. Authors such as lawyer-polemicist William Livingston, minister-essayist Aaron Burr, and scientist-poet James Bowdoin sought to further their own political, artistic, religious, or schol- arly objectives (Charvat 1968; Dauber 1990; Davidson 1986; Rice 1997; Warner 1990; Wroth and Silver 1952). They viewed writ- ing as an avocation, a byproduct of their learning, made possible by comfortable economic circumstances that afforded them time to think and write. To protect their honor and avoid any taint of “vulgar” mercenary ambition, many shunned publicity and pub- lished anonymously or pseudonymously (Charvat 1968; Jackson 1999; Rice 1997; Warner 1990). Perhaps most famous is Thomas Jefferson, who disavowed and threatened to burn the first edition of his only book, Notes on the State of Virginia: “Do not view me as an author, and attached to what he has written,” he cautioned James Madison (quoted in Ferguson 1984: 34). A new conception of authors as republican citizens, participants in civic and political debates, developed around the time of the Revolution (Elliott 1982; Grasso 1995; Jackson 1999; Kaplan 2008; Rice 1997; Warner 1990). In this conception, personal val- ues and honor were the most appropriate motivations for writing (see Elliott 1982: 19–54; Grasso 1995). As before, authors were not perceived as part of the economic sphere and their actions were not evaluated in economic terms; instead, authors were per- ceived as part of the moral sphere and their actions were evalu- ated in terms of honor and propriety.5 And as before, anonymity was applauded, but for a very different reason: the quality of the author’s arguments were paramount, not the author’s personal stature. One commentator wrote: We have never understood that a man is, by any tie of moral- ity or honor, restrained from publishing his sentiments upon a subject or book, unless he will also publish himself, and become an object of personal notice. We conceive his duty to be wholly concerned with the spirit and contents of his book, but whether his name shall be inserted on the title page, or 5 Yet there were exceptions, as some of those who wrote prosaic, practical work expected to be paid for their writing, including historian Hannah Adams, spelling and grammar book author Noah Webster, and geographer Jedidiah Morse. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 13 not, is a question resting entirely with his discretion or taste. (Wells 1805: 211) For both cultural conceptions (gentleman-scholar and republi- can citizen), the view that authors were outside the economic sphere was reinforced by the daunting economics of this era. Printing costs were high: printing presses required skilled manual labor, and paper-making was laborious and dependent on expen- sive rags. There were few wealthy aristocrats, so there was little patronage support for authors. The reading public was small, and many people lived far from the urban centers where books and magazines were published, making it difficult to find readers. Adding to the problem were the expensive and rudimentary trans- portation systems needed to deliver printed matter to far-flung readers. Between the Revolution and the Civil War, however, author- ship came to be more deeply embedded in commerce. Author- ship therefore came to be conceived of as a commercial occupation: authors earned a living from their pens—or at least they tried to do so (Bell 2001; Buell 1986; Grasso 1995; Kaplan 2008; Rice 1997; Tomc 2012; Warner 1990). For example: The first consideration with a professional author is, what his writings will produce, and how he may must profitably trans- mute the productions of his genius or talents into the current coin of the realm. (New York Literary Gazette 1826: 360) Literature begins to assume the aspect and undergo the muta- tions of trade. The author’s profession is becoming as mechanical as that of the printer and the bookseller, being created by the same causes and subject to the same laws.. . . The publisher in the name of his customers calls for a partic- ular kind of authorship just as he would bespeak a dinner at a restaurant. (Bowen 1843: 110) Literature is as lucrative and promising as any other profes- sion, to men who are really qualified to discharge its exacting and lofty functions. . .. It is true that writing is not so produc- tive of money as cotton spinning or merchandise, becau- se. . .the conditions of literary and ordinary commercial labor, are very different. The latter supplies a constant want, the former ministers only to an intellectual luxury, or wants that do not wear out the supply with such rapidity as to keep up a high and incessant demand. Both must be regulated, to some extent, by the vulgar law of supply and demand, and their profits, by the same law, cannot be forced beyond the natural level of cost and competition. (Putnam’s Monthly Maga- zine 1853: 24) J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 14 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices The commercial conception is also evident in Horace Gree- ley’s advice in 1843 to Henry David Thoreau, urging him to pub- lish his work in mass-market magazines rather than elite, small- circulation periodicals: This is the best kind of advertisement for you. Though you may write with an angel’s pen yet your work will have no mercantile value unless you are known as an author. Emerson would be twice as well known if he had written for the maga- zines a little just to let common people know of his existence. (Quoted in Wood 1949 [1971]: 60.) Following this prompting, Greeley helped Thoreau place essays in several large-circulation magazines, including Graham’s and Putnam’s. Writers not only began to conceive of themselves as capable of earning a living, some managed to do so. Almost one-quarter of New England authors who wrote between 1820 and 1865 earned most of their living from writing, including Donald Grant Mitchell, Nathaniel Parker Willis, Lydia Maria Child, and Lydia Sigourney, compared with none for those who wrote between 1790 and 1820 (Buell 1986: 375–97). Outside New England, Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper also earned handsome livings from writing. Yet most authors were not commercially successful.6 For example, Edgar Allan Poe seldom earned anything above the poverty line; he depended on friends and family for financial relief (Ostrom 1982). Similarly, Hawthorne depended on a com- bination of political patronage (first a position in the Salem cus- toms house, later as U.S. consul in Liverpool) and his wife’s family. Willis complained: How much ought the jeweler to have for buying [the watch] from the maker, warranting it “to go” after examining it, for advertis- ing it, and for selling it across a counter? Suppose the watch to sell for one hundred dollars, and seventy dollars to be the net profit above the cost of material. What would you say, if the maker got but ten or twenty dollars, and the retailer fifty or sixty? Yet that is the proportion at which author and bookseller are paid for literary production – the seller of the book being paid from twice to five times as much as the author of it! (Quoted in Tomc 2012: 182; emphasis in the original.) 6 America in the mid-nineteenth century was not much different from America in the twentieth century, when only 5 percent of American authors earned all of their income from writing (Kingston and Cole 1986). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 15 And prominent critic Edwin Percy Whipple protested that “the least lucrative profession in the United States is that of authorship” (Whipple 1850: 38). Finally, blacks, both slave and free, were excluded from the racialized commercial conception of (white) authors, except for a select few like Frederick Douglass and George Moses Horton. Despite rising demand for slave nar- ratives starting in the 1830s, black authors were never placed on par with white authors (Brooks 2012; Goddu 2014). Authors exchanged literary products for money in many ways: poets and fiction writers entered contests for literary prizes sponsored by magazines, and authors in all genres sold their work to publishers of books and magazines. While these varied exchanges were embedded in different kinds of relationships, they were all embedded in commerce. And despite the increasing commercialization of literature, non-commercial exchanges per- sisted. For example, poets traded verses in albums and portfolios given as gifts (Jackson 2008), while budding authors “contributed” poems, stories, confessional essays, and other items to magazines (Haveman 2015; Tomc 2012). The shift in the cultural conception of authors was congru- ent with (indeed, partly driven by) the shift in economic condi- tions. The “market revolution” (Sellers 1991) fundamentally transformed work and family life in the early nineteenth cen- tury. Conceiving of literature as goods to be exchanged through markets, and authors as imbued with economic rights in literary property and worthy of payment for that property, fit neatly into this new economic system. American society was dividing into specialized occupations, with elite lawyers and physicians, as well as less-prestigious groups such as mechanics and dentists, beginning to claim authoritative expertise as a “means of earn- ing an income on the basis of transacted services” (Larson 1977: 9). Authors came to be equated with the other occupa- tions that were carving out protected domains in the American economy, and thus as a class of economic actor. For example, one magazine writer made this case for the author as a profes- sional occupation: And shall not the MAN OF LETTERS – he whose occupations more than those of any other class of society, are largely and intimately linked with those qualities and attributes which gave to man his superiority over the brute creation – shall not the man of letters be admitted to the same privilege [as the lawyer and physician]? Shall a profession so manifold in its departments, and in each so important, be unpermitted to the claims of distinction freely granted to the practitioners of sciences, which however honourable and deserving they may J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 16 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices be of the respect of mankind, are nevertheless incalculably more limited in their range, than the almost boundless field within which the literary character pursues his researches? (G. 1818: 402) This reveals a conception of authors as people who possess spe- cialized expertise, which confers upon them exclusive authority over literature. This conception placed authors squarely in the economic sphere, making it possible to conceive of them and their actions in economic terms: texts as goods to be exchanged for money and authorship as a way to earn a living. Yet the commercial conception of authors was not universally accepted by 1860. Some prominent authors, such as the Tran- scendentalists, maintained a stalwartly anti-commercial stance and continued to present themselves as gentlemen (Dowling 2011: 91–96), while Hawthorne viewed himself as a gentleman who wrote for a few discerning friends (Levernz in Gross and Kelley 2010). Moreover, as noted above, authors’ economic situation remained precarious. Only those with independent means or easy and remunerative sinecures could indulge in writing. Copyright Law and Conceptions of Authors Understandings of copyright law and cultural conceptions of authors were mutually constitutive (Saunders 1992). Up to the late eighteenth century, most American authors were uncon- cerned with claiming property rights in their writing. To them, copyright law had nothing to do with the highly personal reasons they wrote. If they considered copyright, it was to maintain their reputations. For example, Thomas Paine wanted to hold the copyright for publication of the second half of his Age of Reason because he wanted greater control over his work; he was con- cerned that “unauthorized” editions of the first half had changed its meaning (Remer 1996: 30). The emergence of the commercial conception of authors began to change American authors’ and the public’s legal con- sciousness (Ewick and Silbey 1998) regarding copyright. Indeed, this conception of authorship was partly responsible for the development of copyright law: lobbying by Noah Webster, Joel Barlow, and John Trumbull, who sought to safeguard their liter- ary earnings, helped persuade state legislators to draft copyright statutes (Amory and Hall 2000: 477–78; Bracha 2008c,2010a,2010b; Grasso 1995). And the development of copyright law changed authors’ conceptions of themselves (Grasso 1995; Kaplan 2008; Rice 1997; Wroth and Silver 1952). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 17 By the early decades of the nineteenth century, property- rights law and the commercial conception of authors were fre- quently linked in public discourse, which explicitly described the economics of authorship and the value of copyright. For example: If there is any kind of property which ought to be protected by law it is [literary property]. If there is any kind of labour that ought to be rewarded, it is the labour of the mind; it is that labour, . . . which more than all others results in benefits to mankind. (Rhode Island Literary Repository 1815: 594). Another writer described the fate of a friend who thought he could earn enough from selling the copyright to his work (G. 1823). Observers celebrated the few economically successful authors; for example, after Washington Irving moved to England in 1815, over two dozen American magazines described the large royalties paid by his English publisher. American audiences were also exposed to the intertwined understandings of authors and copyright reprinted from foreign media. For example, an American musical magazine demanded that composers, as authors, be accorded copy- right, reprinting a piece from the London Musical Review arguing that authors of musical compositions were being mistreated, remark- ing on “the shameful manner in which musical copyright has been invaded” (Euterpiad 1822: 86), and describing musical authors as tal- ented men whose property rights merited legal protection. Importantly, black authors were excluded. Some black authors managed to obtain copyright in their work (Goddu 2014: 154), but they may not have had clear property rights, given that the legal system (at best) left free black authors to struggle for recognition as full citizens or (at worst) stripped black slaves of any legal status other than as property (DeLombard 2014). As McGill (2013: 415) pointed out, we lack a comprehensive study of the property status of slave narratives. As copyright law and the commercial conception of authors co-evolved, people became more aware of copyright require- ments. For example, one editor quoted the notice and deposit requirements of the Copyright Act, saying that it seemed to be the section “less attended to than any other” and urging contrib- utors to secure copyright in their work: “It would be well for authors and engravers to attend to these suggestions, as we understand there are several valuable works, which, through the negligence in relation to the law of copy-right, might be reprinted on the proprietors without incurring a penalty” (National Register 1819: 275). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 18 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices Finally, understandings of copyright and the commercial con- ception of authors that developed in the positive space of book publishing spilled over to the negative space of magazine publish- ing, for two reasons: (1) many people were active in both the book and magazine industries, and (2) many works were pub- lished in both books and magazines. TableT1 1 lists a selection of authors from before the Revolution to the Civil War whose texts were published in both forms. For example, the Columbian Maga- zine published an early version of Jeremy Belknap’s novel, The Forresters, from June 1787 to April 1788. It appeared in book form in 1792. Judith Sargent Murray published a series of essays titled “The Gleaner” in the Massachusetts Magazine from 1792 to 1794. A collection of these was published in book form in 1798. The novel Sarah, by Susannah Rowson, was published serially in the Boston Weekly Magazine from 1803 to 1804, a decade before publication as a book. Most famously, Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin was published serially in The National Era from June 1851 to March 1852 and then in book form later that year. Indeed, almost everything Stowe published in book form first appeared in magazines (Cyganowski 1988). Finally, Hawthorne’s novel Israel Potter was serialized in Putnam’s from 1854 to 1855, then published in book form in 1855. Impact on Markets for Literature: Naming and Paying Authors As copyright law became more widely discussed and the com- mercial conception of authors developed, practices in the book and magazine trades changed in two ways: (1) anonymous authorship (associated with the gentleman-scholar and republican-citizen con- ceptions) declined and signed authorship (associated with the com- mercial conception) rose, and (2) authors became more likely to be paid for their contributions.7 These material practices were made possible—but not inevitable—by the rising value of literary property, which was driven by the growth of the reading public and reduc- tions in material costs of producing literary work. Naming Authors Shifts in cultural conceptions of authors eroded the accep- tance of authorial anonymity. Novelists may have been especially 7 One practice associated with ownership—excludability—did not become universal in either the book or magazine industries, as magazines frequently and freely reprinted material published in books and other magazines (McGill 2003), while different book pub- lishers sometimes issued the same book (Remer 1996; Tomc 2012). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 19 prone to hiding their identities because this form of literature was contested up to the 1820s (Baym 1987; Gardner 2012). As Davidson (1986: 40–41) remarked, to condemn novels, “Timothy Dwight took time out from presiding over Yale, Jonathan Edwards from fomenting a religious revival, Benjamin Rush from Table 1. American Authors Whose Work was Published in Both Book and Magazine Form Author Work Year(s) first published in book form Year(s) first published in magazine form Magazine title Thomas Paine Common Sense 1776 1787 American Museum John Trumbull M’Fingal 1775 1787 American Museum William Brown Hill The Power of Sympathy 1789 1789 Massachusetts Magazine Jeremy Belknap The Forresters 1792 1787–1788 Columbian Magazine Richard Bingham Davis Elegiac Ode 1807 1792 New York Magazine Anonymous Amelia, or the Faithless Briton 1798 1787 Columbian Magazine Judith Sargent Mur- ray (“Constantia”) The Gleaner 1798 1792–1794 Massachusetts Magazine Charles Brockden Brown Edgar Huntly 1799 1799 Monthly Magazine & American Review Susanna Rowson Sarah; or the Exem- plary Wife 1813 1803–1804 Boston Weekly Magazine William Cullen Bryant To A Waterfowl (in Poems) 1821 1821 North American Review Grenville Mellen The First Glass 1834 1834 Token Mrs. Sigourney The Intemperate 1834 1834 Religious Souvenir Maria W. Stewart Productions of Mrs. Maria Stewart 1835 1831–1832 Liberator James Fenimore Cooper The Pathfinder 1840 1840 New-York Mirror Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Wreck of the Hesperus (in Ballads & Other Poems) 1841 1840 New Yorker Edgar Allan Poe The Murders in the Rue Morgue 1843 1841 Graham’s Magazine Donald Grant Mitchell (“Ik Marvel”) Reveries of a Bachelor 1850 1849 Southern Literary Messenger Harriet Beecher Stowe Uncle Tom’s Cabin 1852 1851–1852 National Era Sarah Payson Willis (“Fanny Fern”) Fern Leaves from Fanny’s Portfolio 1853 1852–1853 Musical World Herman Melville Israel Potter 1855 1854–1855 Putnam’s Magazine Nathaniel Parker Willis Paul Fane 1857 1856 Home Journal Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table 1858 1857–1858 Atlantic Monthly Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. The Professor at the Breakfast Table 1859 1859 Atlantic Monthly Harriet Beecher Stowe The Minister’s Wooing 1859 1858–1859 Atlantic Monthly George William Curtis Trumps 1861 1859 Harper’s Weekly Magazine E.D.E.N. Southworth The Hidden Hand 1888 1859 New York Ledger Mrs. Ann S. Stephens Malaeska 1860 1839 Graham’s Magazine J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 20 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices attending to his medical and philosophical investigations, Noah Webster from writing dictionaries, and Thomas Jefferson and John Adams from presiding over a nation.” We coded data on naming practices for fiction from an authoritative bibliography (Wright 1969). FigureF1 1 shows that the prevalence of named authorship increased starting in the 1820s, by which time novels were popular and the commercial conception of authors was common (Baym 1987).8 From 1841 to 1850, named authorship averaged 59 percent of new titles. But even then, some promi- nent novelists, such as James Fenimore Cooper, withheld their names (Wright 1969: 82–100), while others, such as Ned Buntline (Edward Judson), used pseudonyms (Wright 1969: 201–05). In the colonial era and the young republic, authors often remained anonymous to preserve their dignity and privacy, two characteristics of gentlemen-scholars and republican-citizens (Charvat 1968; Rice 1997). One magazine essay argued the virtue of anonymity (“the mark of invisibility”) for the budding author: “Should he at length find that he has mistaken his abilities . . . he may at once relinquish his plan, without discredit to himself, and have the satisfaction to know that his performances have defrauded him of but little time” (Quince 1805: 1–2). 0 20 40 60 80 100 120 140 160 180 200 1820 1822 1824 1826 1828 1830 1832 1834 1836 1838 1840 1842 1844 1846 1848 1850 Pseudonymous Anonymous Named Figure 1. The Number of New Fiction Titles with Named, Anonymous, and Pseudonymous Authors, 1820–1850. [Color figure can be viewed at wileyonli- nelibrary.com] C O L O R O N L IN E A N D B W IN P R IN T 8 We focus on this period because there were very few new fiction titles published before it: only five from 1774 to 1789, 35 from 1790 to 1799, 35 from 1800 to 1809, and 36 from 1810 to 1819. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 21 http://wileyonlinelibrary.com http://wileyonlinelibrary.com Indeed, early editors often preferred authorial anonymity: “That we may judge without partiality, we wish to have all origi- nal communications intended for publication in the Mirror, trans- mitted to us without the name of the author” (Boston Mirror 1808: 1). Given widespread acceptance of anonymity, editors who did reveal authors’ names apologized for doing so: “To the piece entitled ‘Constancy,’ in our last number, the signature of Malvinia was affixed through mistake, it should have stood as anonymous” (Lady’s Weekly Miscellany 1807: 363).9 Even many of those running early magazines preferred to cloak their identities: a “literary society” edited the Lady’s Magazine and “Robert Rusticoat” founded the Wasp. As the new commercial conception of authors displaced the older ones, however, the meaning of anonymity changed. Anony- mous ideas and opinions came to be denigrated as cowardly and dishonest, while signed ones were valorized as authoritative and honest. One contributor compared signed authors with civilized, upright combatants and anonymous ones with savages who ambushed opponents (Balance & Columbian Repository 1803). Such opinions became more common over time. For example: There can be no secure nor confident reliance on the truth of narratives, resting on the credit not only of no name of respect- ability, but no name at all. It is inconsistent with the plainest rules of evidence and common sense, to give implicit belief to state- ments whose authors are unwilling to stamp them with their own character, and to support them by the pledge of their own repu- tations. (Analectic Magazine 1817: 485) The publication is anonymous, and therefore the pretensions of the writer to personal knowledge and experience are enti- tled to no weight. (Masonic Miscellany 1822: 453) The value of an anonymous communication [is] Nothing. (New England Galaxy 1824: 344; emphasis in the original) It is . . . wrong to give anonymous details of historical facts, while so much depends upon personal authority. (Rafinesque 1824: 202) Authors became increasingly willing to reveal their identities to assure readers of their integrity. For example, the editor of the American Register published “Account of the massacre in St. Domingo [Haiti], in May, 1806” as an anonymous piece, but annotated the article with a caveat: 9 Yet the “modesty” attached to anonymity did not mean authors felt no pride in their writing. For example, one chided his editor for misattributing to him another anonymous piece, which he deemed inferior (Portico 1816: 79–80). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 22 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices The above narrative is an anonymous performance. . . Its only claim to credit must arise from the probable nature of the incidents contained in it. Imperfect as this kind of testimony is, it is, in general, the only kind accessible to a minute histo- rian of contemporary events, where official intelligence is wanting. (American Register 1807: 137) The author responded by stating his name and declaring the arti- cle truthful: I have thought proper, in order that its future existence, as a relation of a historical fact, may be placed upon as firm a basis as my veracity will allow, to acknowledge that I was the author of the publication in question. . .. My presence in Cape Français at the time, enabled me to inform myself fully of every particular that I have stated, and I pledge myself on its correctness, as to date, particularity, and truth, as far as human investigation can extend. (Raguet 1808: iv) This exchange reveals the growing sensibility that authors could claim to be authoritative only if their names were known. In a simi- lar vein, Joseph Dennie gave up the pseudonym Oliver Oldschool, which he had used for a decade for his contributions to the Port Folio, and declared he would henceforth sign his real name: The appellation of Oliver Oldschool, in the opinion of its foster-father, is no longer expedient or necessary. . .. As the liberal conductor of a liberal work, dedicated to the Muses, the Sciences and the Graces, all mystery and artifice should be disdained. (Dennie 1811: 87) Paying Authors Publishers also became increasingly likely to pay authors well for their work. As Washington Irving wrote to his publisher in 1819: “If the American public wish to have literature of their own they must consent to pay for the support of authors” (Hell- man 1918 (vol. 2): 107). He sold 5,000 copies of the Sketchbook, earning $9,000 ($164,600 in 2016 dollars) (Gross and Kelley 2010: 105). In the 1820s, William P. Dewees earned $21,000 for his books on midwifery (over $500,000 in 2016 dollars) (Jackson 2008: 16). James Fenimore Cooper sold the copyright to each of his novels in the 1820s for an average price of $5,000 ($118,000 in 2016 dollars) (Green in Gross and Kelley 2010: 106–07). In 1853, Sarah Payson Willis, writing as Fanny Fern, earned $7,000 for selling 70,000 copies of Fern Leaves ($210,000 in 2016 dollars), while Susan Warner earned $9,000, ($260,000 in 2016 dollars) for The Wide, Wide World. Finally, for J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 23 Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the best-selling novel of this era, Stowe earned $20,300 in 1852 ($610,000 in 2016 dollars) (Williams in Casper et al. 2007:94). Payments to authors also became more common in the maga- zine industry. As book authors came to be viewed as economic actors deserving of payment for their work, magazine authors came to be perceived similarly, in part because the same people were active in both industries, and published the same literary work in both, as Table 1 showed. Columbian Magazine paid Jeremy Belknap for his contributions as early as 1787 (Wood 1949 [1971]: 17–19).10 The Port-Folio and the Examiner began to pay contributors in 1812, with the Examiner offering $2 per page for well-written communications. The Analectic Magazine commis- sioned Gulian Verplanck and James K. Paulding during the War of 1812 (Lanzend€orfer 2013: 290–93). One editor explained this shift: The efforts made to establish and conduct periodical publica- tions . . . have been divided. These publications have, there- fore, received but a partial support, have been of circumscribed usefulness, and of short continuance. To avoid these evils, an attempt will now be made to attain a concen- tration of labors. A method in which it is supposed this object may be effected is to allow a compensation to those who con- tribute to the pages of the proposed work. To make such compensation, is not only necessary, but just. Those who will thus labour for the public good, are not rich, and will need the reward to which they are entitled. (Christian Spectator 1819: iii) Although paying magazine authors was a cultural break- through, recognizing as it did an informal property right, the amounts were not enough to earn a living. The average monthly income of white-collar workers at this time was about $34 (Margo 2000). To earn at this level, a contributor to the Analectic, which had 90 pages per monthly issue and paid generously, would have had to sell at least 12 pages of text each month. Net of the short, unpaid items it published, the Analectic could offer an “average” income to at most a half-dozen authors. Despite the small sums involved, this innovation had enor- mous impact, as large-circulation magazines like the Atlantic Mag- azine also began to pay contributors in 1824. Over the next decade, many others followed suit, notably Godey’s and Knicker- bocker. Even literary reviews, whose writers were most likely to 10 Most previous research (e.g., Mott 1930) dated this practice to 1819. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 24 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices view themselves as gentlemen-scholars, adopted this market- oriented practice. For example, the august North American Review began paying contributors in the mid-1820s, while the Medical Journal did so in 1829. As one commentator noted, “The increase in readers has rendered all standard literary property of higher certain value, and must tend to improve literature by heightening the recompense of successful exertion” (Atheneum 1823: 125). Thus, magazines sharply increased the commercial value of litera- ture, which allowed an increasing number of writers to succeed commercially (Cyganowski 1988; Sedgwick 2000). Prices varied greatly. Between 1837 and 1858, magazines paid contributors $1 to $7 per page ($28 to $171 in 2016 dollars) (Jackson 2008; Robbins 1949; Sedgwick 2000). By the 1830s, mass-market magazines began to compete intensely for essays, poems, and fiction. As a result, prices escalated, especially for work by popular authors (Jackson 2008; Robbins 1949). For example, in 1840, Longfellow was paid by Burton’s (later Gra- ham’s) Gentleman’s Magazine $15 to $20 for each poem ($404 to $538 in 2016 dollars); by 1843, his price had risen to $50 ($1,571 in 2016 dollars), as the magazine sought to make him a regular contributor (Mott 1930; Robbins 1949). This magazine’s prices for essays and fiction ranged from $4 to $20 per printed page in the early 1840s, which translates to $20 to $100 for a 5,000-word article ($629 to $3,144 in 2016 dollars). Average monthly wages for white-collar workers were about $35 in the late 1820s and about $43 in the early 1840s (Margo 2000), so by 1843, Longfellow could earn an above-average income by selling a single poem per month, and prose writers could do the same by selling one essay or short story every two months. In 1847, one magazine estimated that popular authors such as Poe and Cooper were paid $50 per essay, poem, story, or novel chapter ($1,413 in 2016 dollars) (Literary World 1847). Authors who had earlier opposed this market turn came to understand the importance of being paid (Williams in Casper et al. 2007: 97) and benefitted from the rising prices paid by magazines. For example, the Atlantic Monthly paid Ralph Waldo Emerson $50 for a poem in 1857 ($1,332 in 2016 dollars) (Bradsher 1920). Some female authors also benefitted; for exam- ple, Graham’s Magazine paid Emma Embery up to $40 per story in 1843 ($1,257 in 2016 dollars) (Robbins 1949). Even some beginners were well compensated for contributions: an 1850 essay paid Susan Warner $50, enough to clothe her family through the winter (Williams in Casper et al. 2007: 92–93). Yet the vast majority of authors earned little, if anything, from their submissions to magazines (Sedgwick 2000; Tomc 2012). Poe is perhaps the best-known example: between July 1835, when he J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 25 became an editor at the Southern Literary Messenger, and October 1840, when he died, he earned an average of $12,000 per year in 2016 dollars (Ostrom 1982). And in 1837, Hawthorne earned only $108 for eight stories published in The Token ($2,627 in 2016 dol- lars) (Williams in Casper et al. 2007: 96). Conclusion Spillovers between Positive and Negative Spaces Research on negative-spaces theory has shed much light on how producers of creative or imitative goods and services are conceived, and how they conceive of themselves. But it has focused on negative spaces per se. We studied two related spaces: the positive space of domestic work published in books and the negative space of domestic work published in magazines, and demonstrated spillovers between the two spaces. We showed that the positive space for domestic work published in books both promoted and reflected a shift in conceptions of authors, from gentleman-scholar to commercial occupation. The mutual consti- tution of this positive space and this cultural conception of authors led to two changes in both the book and magazine indus- tries: the movement away from anonymous to named authorship and the rise of the practice of paying authors. These cultural spillovers occurred because many writers were active in both spaces and the same work was published in both spaces. Our findings support sociological and socio-legal arguments that law and culture are mutually constitutive and jointly drive economic activity. Economic actors’ preferences develop through social interaction, including conversations and negotiations that take law into consideration. At the same time, the meaning of law itself, and therefore law’s power over economic action, arises from social interaction, as laws governing markets are embedded in webs of social relationships and cultural understandings (Ewick and Silbey 1998; Fligstein 2001). These relationships and under- standings are especially important when formal law is ambiguous (Clune 1983; Edelman 1992; Edelman, Uggen, and Erlanger 1999). How buyers and sellers conceive of law and engage in legal disputes is constituted in part by shared understandings that emerge from social interaction. In this way, law engenders cultural institutions that both create opportunities for economic action and constrain it. The most important cultural institutions that co-evolve with law are classification systems that guide strategies of action (Swidler 1986). Thus, law creates and sustains relations between buyers and sellers, not simply by its own authoritative weight, but J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 26 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices by the intrinsic connectedness of law, society, and buyers’ and sell- ers’ understandings of both (Gordon 1984). In positive spaces in intellectual-property law, interactions between buyers and sellers produce shared understandings of actors and products. These understandings solidify into classifica- tion systems that define creative producers as economic actors (those who sell what they create), rather than non-economic (those who engage in other forms of exchange, such as gift- giving or status-seeking). They also define creative products as economic objects (things that are bought and sold), rather than non-economic (things that are exchanged for friendship, love, or status) (DiMaggio 1990; Lamont 2012). These classification sys- tems also define creative producers as legal actors (those who have legal rights over what they create) and creative products as legal objects (things whose exchange and use is protected by law). In turn, both economic and legal definitions create constraints on and opportunities for economic action in positive spaces by, for example, making compensation for creative production and con- trol over reproduction (i.e., copying) appropriate, even essential. These lines of argument suggest that classification systems, which have normative power over economic actors, can spill over between related spaces in intellectual-property law. Positive and negative spaces can be related in two ways. The same actors may be in both spaces, as fashion houses like Burberry and Adidas are in the positive space of trademarked logos and fabric patterns and the negative space of fashion designs (i.e., items of clothing) (Raustiala and Sprigman 2006; Sprigman and Raustiala 2012). Or the same objects may be produced and sold in both spaces, as when, prior to the U.S. recognizing international copyright in 1891, work by British authors who met all statutory requirements for copyright received formal protection in their home country but not in the United States. When economic actors or objects in a positive space in intellectual-property law are also present in a negative space, the classification systems that develop about those actors or objects in the former may also guide thoughts and actions in the latter, pre- cisely because classification systems have normative power. People rely on classification systems and associated norms to make sense of exchanges of similar goods in similar situations, so norms gov- erning actors’ behavior that develop in markets where the law applies may guide behavior in markets where the law does not apply. In this way, cultural conceptions of what is appropriate and acceptable that developed in positive spaces in intellectual- property law can spill over to related negative spaces, taking the place of formal law and thus supporting markets in those spaces. In our case, for example, norms about recognition for work J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 27 (reputational or monetary) that developed in positive spaces spilled over to negative spaces. When this happened, behavior in negative spaces came to resemble behavior in positive spaces, as creative producers claimed credit and were paid for their work, sometimes handsomely. Indeed, we expect that, in general, the closer the relationship between positive and negative spaces, the more likely such spillovers will occur. Future researchers could test this argument in other settings, specifically those where negative spaces are connected to positive spaces by the coexistence of producers or products. The space of fashion design (negative) and the spaces of logos and patterns (positive) are connected through the productive organizations that operate in both spaces. Industrial designs are another poten- tially fruitful research site because they enjoy robust intellectual- property protection under European Union law compared to the few protections afforded under existing U.S. law (see Raustiala and Sprigman 2017). Shades of Gray Our historical analysis revealed nuances beyond the sharp distinction typically drawn between negative and positive spaces, by exposing shades of gray in-between the “white” of positive spaces (where intellectual property-rights law shines) and the “black” of negative spaces. Magazines became a gray space in the 1850s, as some publishers of mass-circulation magazines began to claim copyright protection. But magazines did not become a fully white space because magazines were not yet clearly covered by copyright law. No magazine litigated to enforce copyright. And even those magazines claiming copyright protection often allowed reprinting if credit was given, which garnered magazines and their authors valuable publicity. This suggests that negative- spaces theory can be improved by being more historically sensitive: (1) spaces can be neither white (clearly positive) nor black (clearly negative), but rather different shades of gray, and (2) spaces’ shading can change over time in response to economic and cultural shifts, driven by the presence of creative producers and products in multiple spaces. We expect that in general, understanding shadings of gray becomes important when economic, political, or cultural shifts gradually alter people’s understandings of law. For example, consider contem- porary publishing. The rise of the Internet has dramatically reduced the costs of reproducing and distributing texts, images, and sounds to nearly zero (Lemley 2015). The extreme ease of copying intellectual property is engendering many new norms about property rights, thus creating spaces with different shades J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 28 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices of gray. And those spaces’ shadings are changing over time. How quickly that change unfolds will depend on how common it is for creative producers to publish their work in “real” forums (e.g., paper or film) or “virtual” ones (the Internet). References Abrams, Howard B. (1983) “The Historic Foundation of American Copyright Law: Exploding the Myth of Common Law Copyright,” 29 Wayne Law Rev. 1119–91. American Register (1807) “Miscellaneous Articles,” 1 American Register 137–46. Amory, Hugh & David D. Hall (2000) A History of the Book in America I: The Colonial Book in the Atlantic World. Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press. Analectic Magazine (1817) “Delapaine’s Repository,” 10 Analectic Magazine 482–8. 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Quince, Peter, Jr. (1805) “The Speculator, no. 1,” 1 The Fly, or Juvenile Miscellany 1–2. Rafinesque, C.S. (1824) “History,” 1 Cincinnati Literary Gazette 202. Raguet, Condy (1808) “No title,” 3 American Register iv. Raustiala, Kal & Christopher Sprigman (2006) “The Piracy Paradox: Innovation and Intellectual Property in Fashion Design,” 92 Virginia Law Rev. 1687–777. ——— (2017) (forthcoming). “When are IP rights necessary? Evidence from innovation in IP’s negative space,” in P. Menell & B. Depoorte, eds., Research Handbook on the Economics of Intellectual Property Law, Vol. I. Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar Publishing. Remer, Rosalind (1996) Printers and Men of Capital: Philadelphia Book Publishers in the New Republic. Philadelphia: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press. Rhode Island Literary Repository (1815) “Literary Property,” 1 Rhode Island Literary Repository 589–94. Rice, Grantland S. (1997) The Transformation of Authorship in America. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press. Robbins, J. Albert (1949) “Fees paid to Authors by Certain American Periodicals, 1840– 1850,” 2 Studies in Bibliography 95–104. Saunders, David (1992) Authorship and Copyright. London: Routledge. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 32 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices Sedgwick, Ellery (2000) “Magazines and the Profession of Authorship in the United States, 1840–1900,” 94 Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 399–425. Sellers, Charles C. (1991) The Market Revolution: Jacksonian America, 1815–1846. New York: Oxford Univ. Press. Silver, Rollo G. (1958) “Prologue to Copyright in America:1772,” 11 Studies in Bibliogra- phy 259–62. Slauter, Will (2015) “Toward a History of Copyright for Periodical Writings: Examples from Nineteenth-Century America,” in N. Colle-Bak, M. Latham, & D. T. Eyck, eds., In from Text(s) to Book(s): Studies in the Production and Editorial Process, Book Prac- tices and Textual Itineraries. Nancy: PUN, Editions Universitaires de Lorraine. Spoo, Robert (2013) Without Copyrights. Oxford, UK: Oxford Univ. Press. Sprigman, Christopher & Kal Raustiala (2012) The Knockoff Economy: How Imitation Sparks Innovation. New York: Oxford Univ. Press. Swidler, Ann (1986) “Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies,” 51 American Sociological Rev. 273–86. Tomc, Sandra (2012) Industry and the Creative Mind: The Eccentric Writer in American Litera- ture and Entertainment, 1790–1860. Ann Arbor, MI: Univ. of Michigan Press. U. S. Bureau of Economic Analysis (2017) GDP deflator table. Useful Cabinet (1808) “Introduction,” 1 Useful Cabinet 3–5. Warner, Michael (1990) The Letters of the Republic: Publication and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century America. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press. Webster, Noah (1788) “Acknowledgements,” 1 American Magazine 2. ——— (1843) Origin of the Copy-Right Laws of the United States. A Collection of Papers on Political, Literary and Moral Subjects. New York: Webster & Clark. 13–78. Wells, William (1805) “Answer to Dr. Morse,” 2 Monthly Anthology and Boston Rev. 211–6. Whipple, Edwin Percy (1850) Essays and Reviews. Boston: Ticknor, Reed, and Fields. Wood, James Playstead (1949) [1971]. Magazines in the United States, Third Edition. New York: The Ronald Press. Wright, Lyle H. (1969) American Fiction 1774–1850: A Contribution toward a Bibliography. San Marino: Huntingdon Library. Wroth, Lawrence C. & Rollo G. Silver (1952) “Book Production and Distribution from American Revolution to the War Between the States,” in Hellmut Lehmann-Haupt, ed., The Book in America: A History of the Making and Selling of Books in the United States, 2nd Ed. New York: R.R. Bowker Company. 61–136. Cases Cited Clayton v. Stone, 5 F. Cas. 999 (S.D.N.Y. (1829) Holmes v. Donohue et al., 77 Fed. 179 (N.D.Ill. (1896) Ritchie & Dunnavant v. Wilson, 12 Va. Cir. 539 (1856) Wheaton v. Peters, 33 U.S. (8 Pet.) 591 (1834) Statutes Cited H.R. 9. (1844) A Bill Relating to Copyright. 28th Cong. 1st Sess. January 3, 1844, as amended January 18, 1844. U.S. Congress. (1790) An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by Securing the Copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of Such Copies, During the Times Therein Mentioned. 1 Stat. 124 (May 31, 1790). ——— (1802) Act of April 29, 1802. 2 Stat. 171 (April 29, 1802). ——— (1831) An Act to Amend the Several Acts Respecting Copyrights. 4. Stat. 36 (February 3, 1831). J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 Haveman & Kluttz 33 ——— (1856) An Act Supplemental to an Act Entitled An Act to Amend the Several Acts Respect- ing Copyright 1856. 11 Stat. 138 (August 18, 1856). ——— (1891) An Act to Amend Title Sixty, Chapter Three, of the Revised Statutes of the United States, Relating to Copyrights. 26 Stat. 1106 (March 3, 1891). ——— (1909) An Act to Amend and Consolidate the Acts Respecting Copyright. 35 Stat. 1075 (March 4, 1909). U.S. Constitution. (1787) Art. I, Sec. 8. U.S. Continental Congress. (1922) [1783]. “Resolution recommending the states to secure copyright to the authors and publishers of new books,” 1774–1789 J. of the Continental Congress 326–7. Gaillard Hunt (ed.). Washington, DC: U.S. Govt. Print- ing Office. Heather Haveman is Professor of Sociology and Business at the Uni- versity of California, Berkeley, and an affiliate of Berkeley’s Center for the Study of Law and Society. She is an organizational, economic, and historical sociologist. Her book, Magazines and the Making of America, was published in 2015 by Princeton University Press. Her articles have appeared in several sociology and management journals including the American Sociological Review, Administrative Science Quarterly, and the American Journal of Sociology. Daniel Kluttz is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Sociology at the University of California, Berkeley. A former attorney, he studies social influences on and consequences of legal institutions and change in contemporary oil and gas development, the digital economy, legal edu- cation, and early American markets for literature. His research intersects law and society, organizational sociology, economic sociology, cultural sociology, and technology studies. J_ID: LASR Customer A_ID: LASR12308 Cadmus Art: LASR12308 Ed. Ref. No.: LSR.03523.R1 Date: 9-December-17 Stag ID: jwaa3b2server Time: 14:23 I Path: D:/Wiley/Support/XML_Signal_Tmp_AA/JW-LASR170047 34 Copyright, Conceptions of Authors, and Commercial Practices 
work_263dt3dzvbbqndzqb7zepeo6uq	----	RESENAS AFRANIO COUTINHO, A literatura no Brasil. Editorial Sul Americana, S. A., Rio de Janeiro, Vol. I, t. i, 1956. 540 pp. Vol. II, I955- 394 PP. Sob a direcgo do professor e critico literario Afranio Coutinho, com a assistincia dos criticos literirios Eugenio Gomes e Barieto Filho, esta em elaboracgo uma revisao da literatura brasileira. Cerca de cincoenta colaboradores e especialistas foram encarregados dos diversos temas. A obra esti dividida em tres partes, a saber: I parte: introdu§co compreen- dendo o estudo dos temas de ordem geral; II parte: a literatura no Brasil segundo os v6rios estilos em que foi produzida: Renascenga e Barroco, Classicismo e Arcadismo, Romantismo, Realismo, Naturalismo, Parnasia- nismo, Simbolismo, Modernismo; III parte: capitulos s6bre temas isola- dos: a critica, o ensaismo, a orat6ria, as relag6es da literatura com a filo- sofia, com as id6is politicas e juridicas, com o jornalismo, com as artes, etc. Entre os colaboradores mais importantes salientam-se: Luis da Ca- mara Cascudo, Hern.ni Cidade, Clovis Monteiro, Otivio de Faria, Pere- grino Jinior, Andrade Muricy, Luis Delgado, Gilberto Freyre, Augusto Meier, Afonso Arinos de Melo Franco, Olivio Montenegro e outros. A literatura no Brasil representa, segundo o diretor, "mais uma tenta- tiva de reacgo contra o sociologismo, o naturalismo e o positivismo, e contra o historicismo, em nome dos valores est6ticos, em nome da critica intrin- seca ou est6tico-literaria, ou po6tica". No estagio atual tem crescido tanto o acervo de trabalhos publicados que a um s6 homem a tarefa de escrever uma hist6ria literaria se afigura insuperivel. Por isso decidiram numa obra coletiva. Apesar de que esta obra foi escrita por virios colaboradores hi, mesmo assim, uma unidade de planejamento. Mas esta submissao ne- cessiria ao conjunto nao diminui o valor de cada critico. O resultado 6 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA uma colefio de excelentes artigos escritos por especialistas -uma colecgo que, ao mesmo tempo, nos fornece una admirivel hist6ria da literatura no Brasil. A literatura no Brasil 6, sem divida alguma, una obra impres- cindivel a t6da pessoa interessada na vida liternria brasileira. Valicsas sao as ilustrag6es que documentam os temas e os autores. Tamb6m de grande valor s.o as bibliografias incluidas. Dos volumes de que constar, a obra faltam o t. 2 do primeiro que tratar, do Romantismo, e o terceiro volume que abrangeri o Simbolismo, o Modernismo e as tendencias contemporineas. ALBERT R. LOPES Universidade de Novo Mixico ANGEL MARIA GARIBAY, Historia de la literatura nahuatl, Primera parte (etapa aut6noma: de c. i430 a 1521, Editorial Porruia, S. A., Av. de la Repiblica Argentina 15, M6xico, D. F., 1953). Obra fundamental es 6sta del padre Garibay que viene a proyectar luz meridiana sobre la literatura elaborada por los nahuas en los mo- mentos en que alcanzaron su apogeo en el Valle de M6xico. El libro inicia la "Biblioteca Porruia". Creemos que con este volumen -dicen los editores- se realiza una feliz conjunci6n; en el tema, de prioridad obvia y en las calidades del autor. Le conocen y aprecian muchos por su personalidad y por su talento; pero, no obstante, es grata y necesaria exigencia presentar su perfil biogrifico a mis numeroso piblico antes de hablar de su obra. Angel Ma. Garibay K., sacerdote cat61lico, ha de- dicado su actividad principalmente a sus ministerios. Despues del profe- sorado en el Seminario y de una vida de contacto con los indios durante su servicio parroquial, es hoy dia Can6nigo Te6logo del Cabildo de Gua- dalupe. Especialmente dado a las letras cl.sicas, ofreci6 a la luz piblica una versi6n de la Trilogia de Orestes, directamente hecha del griego y en versos castellanos. Por lo que toca a la directa exploraci6n de los monu- mentos literarios de la antigiiedad mexicana, ademis de este libro, que da suficiente idea de su trabajo, tiene mucho escrito sobre estos temas y principalmente versiones de todos los documentos de mayor importan- cia. Todo lo cual fue como la preparaci6n para esta obra, primer volu- men de la Biblioteca Porria. En la introducci6n de la obra el P. Garibay trata de la manera como 160 RE SENAS fue trasmitido por los nahuas su pensamiento a trav6s de las genera- ciones. Hubo ya una forma escrita, el c6dice, la alfabetizaci6n del idioma al pasar a los escritos castellanos. La lengua nihuatl era clara, concisa, capaz de miltiples sugestiones, ficilmente apta para la expre- si6n de las imigenes, afecta al "paralelismo" que da belleza al concepto, grave por su acento. El autor divide su estudio en dos etapas: i a Vida aut6noma de la mente nahuatl y 2. El trauma de la conquista espafiola en la mente ni.huatl. Inicia la primera con el sefiorio de Izcoatl, momento en que se des- truy6 la documentaci6n antigua para iniciar una nueva historiografia. El periodo se cierra en 1521. La segunda epoca de la literatura n.huatl se inicia en el mismo afio de la conquista y lo cierra el P. Garibay en 175o, afio en el que hace crisis la ensefianza del nihuatl. Sigue la introducci6n hablando de las fronteras de la expresi6n nahuatl y de las fronteras de la producci6n literaria y sus centros prin- cipales de realizaci6n: Tenoxtitlin, Texcoco, Cuauhtitln y lugares ve- cinos, Azcapotzalco, Tlacopan; despues Chalco y otros lugares mis ale- jados, Huexotzingo y Cholula. Se ocupa despues de los origenes lite- rarios, obscuros por insuficientemente explorados. Fueron los huastecos los iniciadores? JInfluyeron los otomies en la producci6n nahuatl? Pasa despues a estudiar las fuentes de su investigaci6n: anales, sagas heroicas, cantos 6picos, relatos y anecdotas. Ocupan lugar importante en este campo las cr6nicas de los misioneros y posteriormente los trabajos de los antrop6logos nacionales y extranjeros: Chavero, Orozco y Berra, Gar- cia Icazbalceta por un lado, Prescott, Brinton, Seler, Cornyn. Particu- larmente interesante es la n6mina de estas fuentes, con que cierra su introducci6n el autor, que ademis de dar valor documental a la obra, servirin para que futuros investigadores se adentren en el estudio de varios de los temas que admiten futura valoraci6n. Entrando ya al examen de la obra, que tiene que ser naturalmente somero, expresaremos que en diez densos y exhaustivos capitulos realiza el examen de los diversos aspectos de la literatura nahuatl. En el pri- mero se ocupa de generalidades de la poesia: el verso, la m6sica y la danza, y por tanto el ritmo, el paralelismo, las "palabras broches", las metiforas, el uso de ciertas particulas, que servian tal vez, para medir y modular el verso. Por iltimo nos da el P. Garibay los nombres que se daban a los poemas. "Poesia religiosa", "Poesia lirica", "Poemas Otomies", "Poesia 161 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA 6pica", "Poesia dramtica", "La prosa en general", los "Discursos di- dicticos", la "Prosa hist6rica", la "Prosa imaginativa", constituyen los nueve capitulos restantes de esta monumental obra, cuya publicaci6n ha constituido uno de los acontecimientos literarios de mayor envergadura de los iltimos tiempos. La conclusi6n a que llega el autor al final de lo que l llama modestamente "una serie de capitulos monograficos sobre diversos temas" de la Historia de la Literatura nahuatl es muy sugestiva, a saber: "a pesar de la deficiente y precaria base de nuestros conocimien- tos, tenemos suficientes testimonios para juzgar del valor literario de la antigua producci6n en nahuatl. No es una cultura que se pueda poner sobre la griega, la romana o la indostinica; es un aspecto del pensa- miento humano suficientemente conservado y que, para nosotros, tiene valioso interns de dar lo que pensaron nuestros predecesores en este suelo mexicano. Tengamos o no sangre india, tenemos una herencia que nos toca a todos y de la que todos podemos gloriarnos". JULIO JIMENEZ RUEDA, Universidad Nacional Autdnoma de Mexico. CARLOS GARCiA PRADA, Poetas modernistas hispanoamericanos. Antolo- gia. Introduccidn, selecciones y notas criticas y bibliograficas, Edi- ciones Cultura Hispinica, Madrid, I956. 355 PP- El profesor de la Universidad de Washington, Dr. Carlos Garcia Prada, que fue meritisimo primer director de esta Revista Iberoamericana, acaba de publicar la antologia cuya referencia encabeza estas lineas. Comienza el libro con un breve ensayo en el que el Sr. Garcia Prada delinea primero el prop6sito de su publicaci6n: presentar con fines docentes quince poetas con los cuales puede comenzarse el estudio del modernismo hispanoamericano. Tritase pues de un libro de intenci6n pedag6gica, des- tinado a estudiantes y a otros lectores que se inicien en el conocimiento del modernismo. Con tal fin continuia Garcia Prada su pr61ogo dando su propia definici6n, ambientaci6n, caracterizaci6n e historia del modernismo. Estampa luego el compilador las selecciones de poesias de quince poetas, precedida cada una de su breve nota critica sobre el poeta antologizado y de la lista de sus principales obras. Son dichos poetas los siguientes: Gon- zalez Prada, Marti, Diaz Mir6n, Gutierrez N.jera, Casal, Silva, Dario, 162 RESENAS Nervo, Jaimes Freyre, Gonzalez Martinez, Valencia, Lugones, Herrera y Reissig, Chocano y Porfirio Barba Jacob. Termina el libro con una bi- bliografia seleccionada de obras que pueden permitir al estudiante conti- nuar el iniciado conocimiento de los escritores modernistas y el moder- nismo. El ensayo introductorio a que antes me referia es breve y sustancioso. Si este libro se usa, como seguramente ha de usarse, en clases de literatura hispanoamericana, dicho ensayo resulta aptisimo para que el maestro lo explique, lo comente y lo discuta parrafo por parrafo. Su misma nece- saria brevedad ha forzado indudablemente al Dr. Garcia Prada a ex- presarse en forma concisa, en frases epigramiticas, que tanto si se esti de acuerdo con su contenido como si no se esti de acuerdo, pueden ser excelente motivo de exegesis. Las tesis basicas de Garcia Prada son: 19, que el modernismo es una de las manifestaciones de una constante de la cultura occidental que desde el alejandrinismo va hasta el superrealismo pasando por la edad de plata latina, por el barroquismo, el romanticis- mo y el mismo modernismo, constante cultural que se opone a otra cons- tante, la del clasicismo; 29, que el modernismo es la expresi6n hispanoame- ricana de esa constante cultural resurgida simultineamente en varias litera- turas occidentales en el 6ltimo tercio del siglo xIx, literaturas que debido a esa simultaneidad del fen6meno pudieron inter-fertilizarse; y, 39, que precisamente por ser la expresi6n de una constante cultural, el modernis- mo-en lo que tiene de esencial- no esta liquidado. Estas tres tesis pueden dar ocasi6n al profesor para exposiciones y discusiones en pro y en contra en su clase, afiadiendo asi al goce est6tico de la lectura de las poesias contenidas en la antologia el interns intelectual de los temas de historia de la cultura y de la literatura que esas afirmaciones de Gar- cia Prada suscitan. Las notas del compilador que preceden a cada una de las selecciones de poesias son claras, adecuadas a su prop6sito docente, y est.n escritas tambien con la caracteristica elegancia de la pluma de su autor.1 Las 1 Una sola observaci6n respecto a dos de esas notas. En las pigs. 32 y 214 se afirma que Ricardo Jaimes Freyre en sus Leyes de la versificacidn castellacna (1912; 1919), present6 como suya, aduefiindose de ella, la teoria del verso.:que Manuel Gonzilez Prada habia explicado en las notas a Exdticas (1911). La pu- blicaci6n en libro de las Leyes data, en efecto, de 1912 con segunda edici6n en 1919; pero la primera publicaci6n de su teoria la habia hecho ya Jaimes Freyre en 1905 (afios antes, por lo tanto, de la aparici6n del citado libro de 1911 de GonzAlez Prada), en dos articulos: "La ley del ritmo", Revista de Letras y Ciencias Sociales, La Habana, Nim. 15, septiembre 1905, pigs. 177-193, y "Leyes de la 163 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA selecciones muestran el mismo buen sentido pedag6gico -y alto nivel de valor estetico-- en la presentaci6n de las diversas facetas de la obra de ca- da autor y del conjunto de esa obra dentro del complejo modernista. En resumen, el profesor Garcia Prada proporciona con esta antologia un 6til instrumento de enseiianza a los maestros de literatura hispanoame- ricana, un eficaz y c6modo texto a los estudiantes de la materia, y, final- mente, una prueba mis de su experta docencia y de su fino gusto literario. Luis MONGUI6 Mills College CARLOS MAZZANTI, El sustituto, Ediciones Botella al Mar, Buenos Aires, 1954. 136 pp. Con El sustituto, el joven escritor argentino Carlos Mazzanti . (1926- ) ha logrado retratar al hombre angustioso de la 6poca actual. Como "Jesus agobiado por la incomprensi6n del pueblo que lo cruci- ficaba",1 el hombre pasa por la vida sin que nadie le comprenda: ni aun sus padres ni su esposa. El siente personalmente los dolores del mundo. "Creia experimentar cada uno de los dolores humanos, y cualquier perro desamparado en una esquina solitaria que encontraba cuando regresaba por las noches a su cuarto haciale revivir esos confusos tropeles de conoci- mientos donde se mezclaba la sangre, el polvo y las lIgrimas de todos los siglos".2 El sustituto es un libro intenso, escrito en un solo pirrafo, que surge totalmente del interior del protagonista. El contenido de la obra puede dividirse en cuatro planos: los movimientos del protagonista, que trans- curren, a excepci6n de las uiltimas piginas, en un solo dia; la preocupa- ci6n por su vecino que va a morir ahorcado a las nueve y media de la noche por haber asesinado a un viejo; los recuerdos de toda la vida del protagonista; la semi-conciencia del protagonista de ser represen- tante de toda la humanidad. versificaci6n castellana", ibid., Num. 16, octubre 1905, pigs. 287-307. Ver. Dorothy Clotelle Clarke, Una bibliografia de versificacion :espaola (Berkeley [University of California Publications in Modern Philology, Vol. 20, Ncm. 21, 1937), pag. 81. No parece, pues, justificada aquella afirmaci6n. 1 Carlos Mazzanti, El sustituto (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Botella al Mar, 1954), p. 119.- 2 Ibid., pp. 102-103. 164 R E s E A S Los movimientos del protagonista constituyen al principio el:plano menos significante del libro mas van acelerindose hasta culminar en un final heroico y glorioso, en el cual se reinen los cuatro pianos del libro. Una mafiana el protagonista se rasura, toma una taza de cafe, se viste y sale de su departamento. Baja la escalera, sale a la calle y se sienta en un banco en la plaza. A las once pasa por un jardin y luego entra en un caf6 donde pide una cerveza y toma una aspirina. A las cinco va a la bi- blioteca y lee todos los peri6dicos que l1evan datos sobre el crimen. En la calle otra vez, se encuentra con la esposa del reo. Alocado, le grita que ~1 mismo fue el asesino. Huye por las calles. Recoge todo su di- nero y se lo da a la lavandera. Entonces se dirige a la c.rcel y se en- trega a la autoridad. Algin tiempo despus lo llevan al cadalso y lo ahorcan. Desde el principio del libro, el protagonista piensa en la suerte de su vecino sentenciado a morir a las nueve y media de esa misma noche. El vecino no ha confesado el asesinato y por eso el protagonista lo cree ino- cente y quiere ayudarlo. Al bajar la escalera el protagonista recuerda que hace seis meses, la mafiana despues del crimen, habia encontrado alli una moneda de cincuenta centavos agujereada. Durante el dia sigue pen- sando en el crimen cuyas circunstancias recuerdan Crimen y Cartigo de Dostoyevsky. El viejo asesinado fue hallado con el crineo hundido y un martillo a su lado. Al leer el reportaje sobre el proceso, el protago- nista se convence de la inocencia del acusado. Este, en su defensa, dijo que habia bajado al departamento del viejo para recoger una moneda de cin- cuenta centavos agujereada. Su niiio la habia dejado colarse por una de las rajaduras del piso. Al entrar en el departamento del viejo, se aturdi6 al ver a este asesinado. En ese momento entr6 otro vecino y llam6 a los policias. El protagonista, convencido de la inocencia del acusado, ve la oportunidad de quitarse la mayor preocupaci6n de su vida: el nunca ha- ber hecho nada por nadie, y sustituye al vecino en el cadalso. Al realizar este acto heroico y glorioso -insisto en la palabra glorioso por su insinuaci6n religiosa- el protagonista da sentido a su vida. Durante el dia, poco a poco, van surgiendo los recuerdos de su existencia. De nifio vivia con sus padres en una casa entre el mar y un bosque de pinos. No tenia hermanos y andaba solo y desnudo por la playa, hablando con el viento y devolviendo los mariscos y las conchas al mar. Cuando tenia doce afios, muri6 su padre. Su madre alquil6 una habitaci6n en la ciudad y re- gresaban a la playa los fines de semana. Laura, una amiga que lo seguia por la playa, deja de aparecer un dia. La madre de la muchacha le informa 165 166 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA que muri6 asfixiada en la ciudad. Sin embargo, cuando piensa en los horrores que sufri6 su amigo en una ciudad ocupada por los nazis, le parece poco importante la muerte de Laura. La madre del protagonista muri6 antes de que e1 cumpliera los diez y seis afios. Hace unos seis afios e1 se estableci6 en la ciudad. Recuerda a su amante Elena quien le visita en la circel despues de su confesi6n. Despues de unas alusiones muy va- gas en distintas partes del libro, acabamos por saber la historia de su es- posa M6nica en las 61timas quince piginas. Despues de casarse, fueron a vivir en la casa de la playa. M6nica, lo mismo que la madre del protago- nista, tiene que acostumbrarse a vivir sola mientras que este no puede dejar de comunicarse con la naturaleza. Ni el nacimiento de su hijo puede cambiarlo. Un dia mientras 1l vaga por la playa en medio de un huracin, M6nica se asusta, trata de huir con el niflo y los dos mueren en la tem- pestad. La vida y la muerte del protagonista tienen una trascendencia filos6- fica. Representan la vida y la muerte de la humanidad. El protagonista aspira a la libertad de todo, inclusive su alma. Le atormenta el recuerdo del barquito metido en la botella, el cual el queria devolver al mar tanto como habia devuelto los mariscos y las conchas. Por todo el libro se oyen variaciones del motivo "Cuando las estrellas comiencen a llorar... verbs, pequefio mio, que sus lIgrimas son gotas de rocio que regresan desde el tiempo hacia el mar". 3 De igual manera los hombres regresan a su padre despues de haber obrado bien. Asi Cristo, asi el sustituto. Los dos murie- ron por una humanidad que no los comprendia y los dos fueron consolados en sus 1ltimos momentos por una prostituta. Al lado de este concepto cristiano, se siente la coexistencia del materialismo que sefiala el mar como la cuna de la humanidad. Al captar con gran sensibilidad la angustia del hombre del siglo veinte, Carlos Mazzanti, con su primer libro, se ha colocado al lado de novelistas argentinos tan distinguidos como Manuel Gilvez (El mal metafisico) y Eduardo Mallea (Bahia de silencio, etc.). Datos autobiogrificos de Carlos Mazzanti: 4 "Como datos biogrificos le dir6 que naci en Buenos Aires, pero que la mayor parte de mi vida transcurri6 en la Patagonia, pues mi padre es 3 Ibid., pp. 75-76. 4 Carta dirigida al autor de esta resefia, fechada en Buenos Aires, 16 de sep- tiembre de 1955. RESE E AS agrimensor. Hemos recorrido gran parte de la zona cordillerana, sobre el limite con Chile efectuando la medici6n de tierras para entregarla a los po- bladores. Me parece dificil que yo pueda liberar jamis mi obra de ese paisaje grandioso y de la deplorable miseria en que viven la inmensa mayo- ria de sus pobladores aut6ctonos o descendientes en forma directa o indi- recta de los indigenas que antafio poseian todas esas magnificas tierras. Puedo decirle que he recorrido una buena parte de los bosques templados de la cordillera a lomo de caballo ayudando a mi padre. Naci en el afio de mil novecientos veintiseis y mis estudios no han pasado de los secundarios. Actualmente poseo un pequefio taller de marcos para cuadros aqui, en Bue- nos Aires. Eso es todo lo que puedo decirle respecto a mi vida. En cuanto a mi obra, ya le he manifestado mas arriba que El sustituto es mi primera novela. Tengo escritas, ademis, tres obras de teatro: La comisidn de men- suras, La piel oscura y Paralaje 66, ninguna de las cuales ha sido publicada o representada. Poseo algunos cuentos, una novela terminada, El emisa- rio, y otras tres en preparaci6n; Al final de la calle, La casa en el bosque, y Sobre la misma tierra. De estas tres, Sobre la misma tierra transcurre en la Patagonia y La casa en el bosque, en un pueblo cercano a Buenos Aires. Al final de la calle, al igual que El sustituto, no tiene ubicaci6n ni en el tiempo ni en el espacio, aunque puede presumirse que transcurre en Eu- ropa, entre las tres filtimas guerras. Ha acertado Ud. en lo que se refiere a Kafka y Dostoyevski, pero no he leido a Joyce. Son tambien mis autores predilectos Faulkner y Jocelyn Brooke, el autor de El chivo emisario'". SEYMOUR MENTON Universidad de Kansas Cuentos de TomLs Carrasquilla "N~ufrago asombroso del siglo de oro' (Colecci6n popular de clasicos maiceros, IV), editado por B. A. Gu- ti&rrez. Medellin: Editorial Bedout, 1956. 510 pp. Desde hace mis de cuarenta afios Benigno A. Gutierrez consagra sus energias (infinitas parecen ser juzgando por el alcance de sus labores lite- rarias) a los valores culturales de su patria chica, Antioquia, "este terruiio, embotellado en los Andes y harto diverso en un todo al resto del pais". La substanciosa lista de sus publicaciones comprende vol6menes dedica- dso a los escritos de Juan de Dios Uribe ("el Indio") y de Antonio Jose Restrepo, asi como varias compilaciones folkl6ricas y populares que reu- nen las ma's insignes firmas de la literatura antioquefia. Tales titulos como 167 168 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA Notas regionales, Antioquia tipica, Pro patria, De todo el maiz, Arrume folkidrico -De todo el maiz (Nueva edici6n notablemente aumentada), Gente maicera, Serie tipica colombiana, abarcando el periodo entre 1912 y 1952, proclaman elocuentemente el rumbo de su entusiasmo y de su pa- triotismo. En 1954, Guti&rrez inici6 su Colecci6n popular de clisicos maiceros con la edici6n de Cuentos y novelas de Francisco de P. Renddn, publica- da con motivo del primer centenario del natalicio del escritor antioquefio. Los tomos II y III de la misma serie salieron en 1955, consagrados a la obra del "ito" de Concordia, el escritor, orador y diplomatico Antonio Jos6 Restrepo. Ahora el cuarto volumen de los Clasicos maiceros acaba de salir de los talleres de la Editorial Bedout, Medellin. Revela el mismo esmero y el mismo carifio que los anteriores. Hermosamente empastado en piel roja, bien impreso, ilustrado y escrupulosamente corregido, el tomo con- tiene una selecci6n tipica de la prosa de Tomas Carrasquilla, ofrecida en orden cronol6gico. Est. por demis decir que tales compilaciones como 6sta, las que condensan la producci6n literaria de un autor, no pueden me- nos de ser subjetivas, incorporando ciertas obras y omitiendo otras. Me parece que, dejando aparte preferencias puramente personales, la selec- ci6n esti muy acertada. Benigno A. Gutierrez se propone presentar a Tomis Carrasquilla "cuentista", y los ejemplos que escoge para ilustrar su tesis confirman el entusiasmo de los juicios criticos que adornan el vo- lumen. Veinte y una obras tomadas de la entera carrera artistica del autor, cecsde 1890 hasta 1937, componen el libro. "Entrafias de nifio", "El padre Casaffis" (incorporado bajo el titulo original de "Luterito"), "Dimitas Arias" y "Salve, Regina", escritos todos durante la primera poca, tienen .ivs alcance que los demas y, por esto, son clasificados a veces de "nove- las cortas". Al lado de 6stas figuran diecisiete cuentos no menos caracte- r~sticos por los dones de estilo que exponen. He alli "Sim6n el mago" (fir- rmado con el seud6nimo de Carlos Malaquita), el inmortal cuento de Peral- ta, el monmovedor relato de Blanca, el cuento "poco antioquefio" que se titula "A la plata", "El rifle" (que tard6 tanto en aparecer), "La Mata" y otros. El sefior Guti&rrez basa su edici6n sobre las principes, apuntando en el indice el afio de la primera publicaci6n de cada uno de los cuentos y enumerando, al final del volumen, las obras publicadas por el autor. Incorpora los dibujos de Gabriel Montoya y de Horacio M.. Rodriguez R E S ENR A S que acompaiaron la primera publicaci6n de los cuentos respectivos, y afia- de algunos hechos por I. G6mez Jaramillo, Humberto Chaves y Horacio Longas. De entre las demis ilustraciones que realzan el tomo se destacan la partida eclesiastica (p. XXIII) que descubre la verdadera fecha del na- talicio del autor, la reproducci6n de una p6gina del manuscrito de La mar- quesa de Yolombd (p. 471) que revela su modo de escribir "borrando, componiendo y enmendando", asi como el inolvidable perfil de Carras- quilla visto por el doctor Filix Mexia A. con ojo de artista y con amor de familiar. Aparecieron los primeros productos de la pluma de Carrasquilla en El Casino Literario, La AMiscelinea, El Montanes y Alpha, revistas lite- rarias que florecian en Medellin durante las iltimas d6cadas del siglo pasado y la primera del actual. Las notas del compilador que utilizan, en parte, esas fuentes contemporneas, y, en parte, la correspondencia intima del autor, no s61o alumbran los principios literarios de Carras- quilla, aludiendo a la genesis de "Sim6n el mago", "En la diestra de Dios Padre", "A la plata" y "Entraiias de nifio", asi como al "doloroso alumbramiento" de "Blanca", sino que tambien le permiten al lector una ojeada de la fase formativa de la literatura antioquefia. Se han deslizado en la edici6n muy pocos errores y menos lagunas. En el indice (p. VI) figuran "Mineros" bajo el afio de 1934 y "El .prefacio de Francisco Vera"- bajo 1937. Segin mis apuntes bibliogri- ficos salieron los dos, por primera vez, en El Espectador de Medellin en 1914. El. indice (p. VI) apunta correctamente el afio que corresponde a la primera publicaci6n del cuento "El rifle", o sea 1915, pero la nota de la pagina 447 (nota tan generosa como inmerecida) sefiala el afio equivocado de 1913. Una importante nota del compilador se encuentra en las p.ginas 425-426 sin dato correspondiente en el indice, y los deli- ciosos apuntes "El viejo Carrasca" por Cano, Rend6n y Mexia no estin ubicados en la p.gina 425, sino al frente de la pagina 426. Al indice de las obras publicadas por el autor (p. 509) se debieran afiadir la edici6n Ligia Cruz, Rogelio (Dos novelas cortas), Bogota, Edi- ciones Colombia (I3), .926, la titulada Novelas (que contiene la auto- biografia, "Salve, Regina" y "Dimitas Arias"), Bogota, Editorial Minerva, -S. A., 1935, y, tal vez para aclarar la cronologia a los nimeros V y VI (p. 509) el afio de 1914. En la secci6n Post mortem (p. 510o) pudie- ran mencionarse al lado de las Obras compleas de 1952, las dos ediciones de La marquesa de Yolombd, publicadas en Buenos Aires por W. M. Jack- sn, Inc. en 1945 y 1946 respectivamente, con el pr6logo de Rafael Maya, 169 REVISTA IB EROAMERICANA asi como la edici6n de Entrafas de nifio; Salve, Regina, Bogota, Biblio- teca Popular de Cultura Colombiana, 1946. El hermoso libro de Gutirrez no s61o es un homenaje "al viejo Ca- rrasca" que anuncia dignamente el primer centenario de su natalicio en el mes de enero de 1958, sino tambien uno a Antioquia y a "la gran alma de Nuestra America". La cordial invitaci6n: "Compre, lea y regale li- bros nacionales" que se encuentra en la cubierta, no tardara en aceptarse, quedando todos los "libros nacionales" tan atractivos de forma y tan subs- tanciosos de fondo como la edici6n ilustrada de los Cuentos de Tomds Carrasquilla. KURT L. LEVY, University of Toronto Toronto, Ont., Canada DAVID VnIAs, Los anos despiadados, Edici6n Prensas Universitarias, Bue- nos Aires, 1956. El autor, que hace poco tiempo nos diera a conocer Cayd sobre su rostro, fuerte y vigorosa expresi6n de nuestra novelistica, hace entrega ahora de una nueva obra, Los anos despiadados. El mismo titulo va a in- dicarnos el desusado descubrimiento de un adolescente -protagonista sobre la ciudad, la cual presta marco al relato. Aqui vive un Buenos Aires aut6ntico, con sus barrios y lugares caracteristicos, con un vocabulario sim- ple y cotidiano, al cual hemos ya acostumbrado el oido, con la cita de nombres que significan o simbolizan solamente al portefio una trayectoria o un desarrollo ciudadano. Los personajes tienen por ello un decir fresco y que va cobrando autenticidad, a pesar de que el estilo a veces suele volverse confuso y pierde agilidad. Este enumerativo planteo, nos recuerda a Faulkner, por una parte, y siempre, lo cual podria reconfortar al autor, a otro novelista ejemplar y productor del medio ambiente, Roberto Arlt, quien dedic6 su obra a la descripci6n de nuestras barriadas, costumbres y personajes, con una verdadera pasi6n y esfuerzo. David Vifias vuelve a ese camino. Los anos despiadados muestra el proceso de un sector, una calle, una familia. Alli, los pintados gestos, el grotesco tratamiento, la sabiduria popular, el "despiadado" aprendizaje, vienen lentamente en busca de una soluci6n, el rechazo diriamos de esa existencia angustiada o bien la tolerancia, llamada a profetizarle una formaci6n cruel e insatis- fecha. Algunos dibujos de ambiente, "el guapo del barrio", fuente de 170 RESENAS anecdotas, la amistad con el hijo del portero, su madre y la hermana, tocan humanamente al adolescente que sufre una realidad social cruel, que el autor sabe presentar y que ha de producirle una permanencia entre los j6venes valores argentinos. HoRAcIo JORGE BECCO Buenos Aires DORA ISELLA RUSSELL, Oleaje. Pr6logo de Ventura Garcia Calder6n, Im- presora Uruguaya, S. A., Montevideo, 1949. 152 pp. Este libro de Dora Isella Russell, autora ya de Sonetos (1943), El canto irremediable (1946) y un ensayo sobre "Peer Gynt" (I944), es el testimonio po6tico de la desorientaci6n de la juventud actual en una epoca que le niega el cultivo del coraz6n y la obliga a vivir una ma- durez prematura. Dora Isella Russell ha nacido con la angustia moderna por patrimonio, y la nostalgia rom.ntica para castigo de su joven sensibilidad. Su adolescen- cia sentimental casi parece no haber existido, pues hoy mas que nunca es "breve" la "rosa" gongorina. La vida acelera tanto su ritmo que ya no se es- pera la muerte para morir. Se muere con cada hora ("tantos pasados van hacia su rio"), y uno a uno van cayendo los suefios, improvisados casi entre cataclismo y cataclismo; o mejor dicho, llegan casi en "cenizas", sin la esperanza de prolongar por unos instantes la ilusi6n humana. En el mundo de hoy, que s61o puede ofrecer "la triste seguridad de lo inmediato", re- gido por estas desconcertantes leyes de relatividad, hasta en el terreno psiquico, mas que nunca tambi6n y con mayor urgencia que antes "reclama" el ser humano sus "eternidades". Ya nada le pertenece al hombre. Todos van por la finica senda "de soledad y desencanto" que les queda, sin fe en el absoluto. Como poeta, Dora Isella Russell necesita "el suefio" y "la canci6n". Como mujer, le sigue fiel a Peer Gynt que supo crear un mundo de encanto y de fantasia. Si Ruben Dario se lamentaba en I905 de que ya no hubiera una "princesa que cantar", Dora Isella se lamenta hoy de la perdida, no ya s61o de la belleza estetica ("ya no hay cisnes, ni g6ndolas, ni liras") sino hasta de los sentimientos mas profundos del hombre, como lo es el de la naturaleza ("No existen ya... ni las montafias / ni las selvas ni el bosque..."). Los "Sonetos del encuentro" de la segunda parte del libro ponen de relieve la tendencia de su espiritu al equilibrio, a la belleza, a la gracia ele- gante, casi renacentista, de la expresi6n selectiva. Representan lo que es 171 172 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA Dora Isella, lo que aspira a ser en su alma, y explican el sentido de los poe- mas de la primera parte, "Voz de Solveig", que, sin nombrarlo, hablan del destierro en que vive el poeta de hoy dentro de su propio ambiente y del todavia mayor destierro de la mujer en un mundo sin amor. El acento aut6ntico de Dora Isella Russell, la originalidad del pensa- miento, la transparencia y simplicidad de la expresi6n, la emoci6n conte- nida que encierran muchos versos, revelan a un gran poeta. HELENA PERCAS Grinnell College EL PAISAJE EN NUESTRA LITERATURA (A prop6sito del libro de Enrique Williams Alzaga, La pampa en la novela argentina, Buenos Aires, Estrada, 1955). Son numerosos los articulos y ensayos breves sobre el paisaje ar- gentino en general, asi como los analisis e interpretaciones restringidas, ya en raz6n de la zona geogrifica, ya del aspecto paisajistico consi- derado. Faltan libros organicos que afronten el fecundo tema desde el punto de vista estetico y en su relaci6n con la literatura. No me refiero por cierto a descripciones literarias, recuerdos de turistas o memorias de viajeros, cuya abundancia torrencial todos conocemos. Aludo al analisis del paisaje desde el punto de vista est&ico, a la clarificaci6n de su con- cepto y a la determinaci6n de los elementos que lo integran. Vinculando ese estudio con la literatura, esperamos el ensayo que explique estos ilti- mos en funci6n de los rasgos estilisticos que el analisis critico puede re- velar en las obras mis representativas de los diversos imbitos regionales argentinos. Este apasionante programa de investigaci6n puede aprovechar valio- sas contribuciones existentes. Algunas obras cumbres de nuestras letras, como La cautiva, Facundo, Martin Fierro, Don Segundo Sombra, Zogoibi, han suscitado paginas interesantisimas desde este punto de vista. Por otra parte, ningn paisaje como la pampa ha inspirado a tantos escritores ar- gentinos y extranjeros, ansiosos de captar y expresar su fisonomia esencial y su poderosa sugesti6n. La abundancia de material, tanto descriptivo como exegetico, justi- fica su exposici6n ordenada, su selecci6n antol6gica y su examen critico. Es la dificil empresa que ha cumplido Enrique Williams Alzaga en su R E S E R AS reciente libro La pampa en la novela argentina. Se trata de una tesis universitaria que el autor present6 en 1949 para optar al titulo doctoral en nuestra Facultad de Filosofia y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. En pirrafo intercalado en el actual Prefacio cuenta el autor que don Ricardo Rojas le habia sefialado como tema "El paisaje nativo en la literatura argentina" y esa sigue siendo sugerencia que mantiene su validez. Debemos agradecer a Williams Alzaga el serio avance que ha hecho en ese rumbo con su importante libro. E1 mismo ha considerado conveniente reducir aquel vasto programa en dos sentidos: circunscribirlo a la pampa y estudiarlo solamente en la novela. Este volumen, de 380 paginas, con- firma la amplitud del tema, que se despliega notablemente si lo conce- bimos proyectado a los demis paisajes caracteristicos del pais (por ejem- plo selva, puna, montafias y valles, lagos, mar) y los rastreamos en obras literarias de todos los g6neros. Aun demarcando el sector de "la pampa en la novela" resulta vas- tisimo. "No ha sido mi intenci6n -dice el autor- realizar una obra ex- haustiva. (Estimo, asi, innecesario disculparme de las omisiones)". Esta franca declaraci6n hace redundante, pues, el recuerdo de novelas no tra- tadas, aunque son ricas en material descriptivo de la pampa. El autor ha preferido elegir "obras y autores que signifiquen puntos de vista distintos, enfoques diversos del tema" (p. i6). Para lograr este objetivo, Williams Alzaga ha estructurado su trabajo dedicando las Ioo primeras piginas a temas introductorios, como la presentaci6n de la pampa geogrifica y su rastreo a trav6s de los viajeros extranjeros. Aborda el campo literario con un capitulo sobre La cautiva y Facundo, p6rticos por los cuales la pampa irrumpe en nuestras letras. El tema principal se desarrolla desde ei capitulo IV hasta el X, con inclusi6n de uno sobre narraciones de "fron- tera" (con las contribuciones tan valiosas de Mansilla y Zeballos) y otro muy justificado sobre Hudson. Por fin, el iltimo capitulo, de caricter complementario y tambien muy 6til como esquema panormrnico, se refiere a la pampa en el cuento. El criterio general adoptado es el hist6rico. Va presentando las obras a lo largo de 6pocas literariamente significativas, desde el romanticismo al modernismo, pasando por el aporte realista y naturalista. En cada caso, agrupa las novelas rurales separandolas de aquellas en que s61o acciden- talmente aparece la pampa. Es muy loable la seriedad con que el autor se ha documentado y la probidad con que ha cumplido su tarea, bien ardua por cierto. Analiza 173 174 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA los pasajes atinentes de cada novela tratada, destacando los rasgos que se explican por el enfoque est6tico o las particulares condiciones del escritor. Sus observaciones suelen apoyarse en la transcripci6n adecuada, con lo cual el lector dispone de una verdadera antologia. Cualquier estudio futuro tendr, en este libro s61lido punto de par- tida. El autor cumple el objetivo que se propuso. No es mengua de este esfuerzo bien logrado el considerar que mantiene su vigencia la sugesti6n recordada de Ricardo Rojas. El tema del paisaje en la literatura justifica el aporte de nuevas investigaciones. La que comento lo encara a trav6s de periodos est6tico-literarios y nos ofrece un verdadero inventario del contenido de cada novela en relaci6n con el paisaje pampeano. Por mi parte creo que se podria abordar el asunto desde otros flancos. Dejo de lado la posibilidad de extender el campo de estudio a otros paisajes, tambien caracteristicos del pals. Aun con respecto a la pampa, se ve la posibilidad de profundizar en el analisis con penetraci6n esti- listica. Tomando un caso cualquiera, Zogoibi por ejemplo, he compro- bado de que manera prodigiosa se enriquece el paisaje, aparentemente esquemitico y mon6tono de la pampa, si a trav6s del estilo de Larreta vamos poniendo de relieve los integrantes sensoriales. No s61o las sensa- ciones visuales, con sus variedades luminidas y crom.ticas, sino los ma- tices de la luz, cambiante seguin se ofrezca al alba, en los crepusculos estremecidos de presagios o en las noches hondas; la luz como reveladora visual de las cosas y las cosas mismas dotadas de una interna vislumbre. Caben tambien las sensaciones kinestsicas, olfativas, termicas y desde luego las auditivas como refuerzo de la percepci6n del paisaje a travs de los ruidos del campo, de las voces y cantos de pijaros y animales y aun del silencio mismo, que por asociaci6n sinestesica puede sugerir el transcurso del tiempo o la idea de distancia. El entrecruzamiento de sen- saciones de diverso orden es otro magnifico recurso para captar y ex- presar los aspectos mis sutiles del paisaje, hasta llegar a la concepci6n de la realidad geogrifica con sentido trascendente y noci6n metafisica. Las posibilidades de buceo son innumerables y no pretendo ni si- quiera indicarlas. Aunque algunas veces Williams Alzaga recurre a este procedimiento de anlisis, queda en este sentido, tanto en extensi6n como en profundidad, mucho por hacer. La presentaci6n cronol6gica de las obras se explica por exigencias del enfoque hist6rico ya dicho; pero no cabe duda que el lector agrade- ceria, ademis, el agrupamiento temitico comparativo de los aspectos m6.s R E SE N AS caracteristicos del paisaje pampeano. Asi por ejemplo, la luz, el color, el cielo, el horizonte como perspectiva dominante, la vida vegetal y animal, la obra del hombre incorporada plisticamente a la realidad geo- gr.fica. El paisaje ofrece tambien momentos y aspectos inusitados, me- te6ricos o accidentales, como las tormentas, las inundaciones, las sequias, el incendio del campo, que por si solos enriquecen una antologia descrip- tiva. Estos y otros aspectos estin sefialados en el libro de Williams Alzaga, pero es menester recorrerlo integro para localizar los pasajes o referencias correspondientes. Las citas bibliogrificas de esta obra provocan a reparos t&cnicos en cuyos detalles no puedo entrar aqui. La Ndmina de ediciones utilizadas muestra deficiencias en los encabezamientos, en las notas tipogr.ficas y de paginaci6n; desconcierta al lector pues no guarda ningfin orden visible: ni alfab6tico, ni cronol6gico, ni temitico; las ediciones tenidas como base no son siempre las mis autorizadas ni definitivas. Las referencias a obras y articulos criticos incluidas en el texto o en notas se pierden por la falta de una n6mina general de autores citados. Por lo mismo que las novelas estudiadas representan una selecci6n, hubiera sido conveniente incluir en la n6mina obras no examinadas, pero que de pleno derecho pueden ampararse bajo los terminos del titulo, pues son novelas y se refieren a la pampa. El lector siente tambien la ausencia de una sintesis final que apro- veche el fruto de los anilisis. Si se tiene en cuenta que el libro fue ori- ginariamente una tesis, pareciera que falta precisamente una breve con- clusi6n que la exponga. Formulo estos reparos secundarios precisamente porque siento sincero respeto por la importante obra realizada y considero que por su docu- mentaci6n y probidad seri este libro indispensable fuente de consulta sobre el tema que trata. El lector no sale defraudado y por el contrario, al provecho de la lectura afiade el agrado de manejar un volumen de extraordinaria dignidad tipogrifica, enriquecido con fotografias e ilus- traciones documentales y sugeridoras. El autor y la casa editora pueden tener la satisfacci6n de haber realizado un importante aporte a la critica literaria en particular y a la cultura argentina en general. AUGUSTo RAIL CORTAZAR Universidad de Buenos Aires 175 REVISTA IBE:ROAMERICANA EUGENIO GOMES. Prata de Casa (Ensaios de Literatura Brasileira), A Noite, Rio de Janeiro, [1953], 181 pp. e particularmente feliz o titulo que o eminente ensaista deu a este novo livro. A maior parte dos seus estudos tinha versado sobre literaturas estrangeiras; este volume examina virios assuntos de literatura brasileira. Eis o que explica a "casa". E a "prata"? Esta foi escolhida pelo pr6prio autor; nao foi imposicio do acaso. Por isso 6 que s6 encontramos aqui prata de lei: Alvares de Azevedo, Castro Alves, Olavo Bilac, Machado de Assis, Raul Pomp6ia, Joaquim Nabuco entre outros. Com a modestia de todo intelectual s6ido, o sr. Eugenio Gomes teme que esta prata perca porventura o brilho e o valor entre as suas maos (p. 7). Quem lhe con- hece os livros anteriores passa adiante sem receio algum; e quem tomar contacto com o autor atrav6s deste, nao querert perder os seguintes. Pois a prata que ele trata com tanto carinho sai-lhe das maos com um novo lustre e novas qualidades ainda nao percebidas. O sr. Eugenio Gomes examina um aspecto s6 da obra de dado es- critor (o humorismo de Alvares de Azevedo, as imagens do movimento em Castro Alves, por exemplo), mas 6 tao profundo conhecedor da obra estudada que sente a faz sentior as repercussoes desse aspecto na producao total do autor; assim alguns dos estudos chegam a ser visoes integrais de um poeta atrav6s de certo elemento de sua feigao literaria. Nio se trata de aspectos ja estudados por outros e repisados nos manuais de hist6ria literaria; sao lados que, apesar de despercebidos pelos criticos, nao deixam por isso de ser caracteristicos. Nem todos os estudos sao desta natureza. Um traco notavel do livro 6 mesmo a variedade; a curiosidade do autor se manifesta em varios ra- mos e com admiravel virtuosidade. Pesquisador paciente, tira de versos atribuidos a Castro Alves, de um soneto esquecido de Bilac, de um inddito de Raul Pompeia, considera~6es gerais sobre a criacio dos respectivos es- critores. Sensibilidade aberta tanto ao prosaico como ao et6reo, leva-nos a passear pela Pasirgada dos poetas ("O mundo das sereias...") e pouco depois nos oferece um ensaio espirituoso sobre o trocadilho e as suas peripicias. Baiano que preza as tradic6es da sua terra, escreve notas sim- piticas sobre Xavier Marques e Artur de Sales. Conhecedor entusiasta da literatura inglesa, analisa de perto traducSes de Shakespeare para o por- tugues( de Machado de Assis para o inglis; aos olhos de um estrangeiro, pelo menos, esses comentarios constituem proveitosa li§;o de portugues. De prop6sito deixei para o fim dois autores de minha particular 176 RES E NAS afeicao, Machado de Assis e Joaquim Nabuco. Este forneee o assunto de breve mas substancioso ensaio sobre a papel da Inglaterra e dos ingleses na formacao de um espirito essencialmente frances. Aquele, ja dsde hi muitos anos longamente meditado, toma conta de sete ensaios. Saa todos sugestivos, especialmente o sobre a metafora em Machado de Assis, um dos raros estudos de valor sobre o estilo do grande artista. O que diz o sr. Eugrnio Gomes -ao lado de tantos outros, alias- das reag6es de Machado perante a natureza ("Machado de Assis em Friburgo") sofre, penso, ligeiras restrio6es em vista de um trecho de carta de Machado a Magalhaes de Azeredo citado a pagina 169 da quinta edicao (Rio de Janeiro: Jose Olympio, 1955) do Machado de Assis da sra. Lucia Miguel Pereira. Em um dos estudos machadianos o autor volta a um tema pre- dileto: as influencias estrangeiras que Machado assimilou. Em escritos anteriores ja tinha assinalado rastros de leituras inglesas e francesas (ver Influencias Inglesas em Machado de Assis [Bahia: Imp. Regina, 19393 e Espelho contra Espeiho [Sao Paulo: Instituto Progresso Editorial, I9491). Aqui e a vez de Voltaire, que teria influido, atraves de Candide, na con- cepcao da filosofia do Humanitismo e em outros aspectos das Memorias Postumas de Bras Cubas. Alusoes especificas provam que Machado con- heceu essa deliciosa satira; mas nao foi, penso, a unica fonte do Humani- tismo-como alias o reconhece o pr6prio sr. Eugenio Gomes (p. 93)- nem mesmo a principal. Com outros eu ja inclinava a ver nessa filosofia uma satira as desumanas teorias cientificas do fim do seculo XIX, e especialmente ao positivismo,1 quando um velho amigo encontrou entre seus papeis e me mandou um artigo de Joaquim Mattoso Camara Jr., "Quincas Borba e o Humanitismo", publicado no Boletim de Filologia (Rio de Janeiro), Ano II, fasciculo 7 (setembro de 1947), paginas 131- 138.2 0 autor aponta nao s6 o positivismo mas tambem conceitos de Schopenhauer e Nietzsche como possiveis componentes de uma filosofia que provocou a indignaca do humanista radical que foi Machado de Assis. Quanto aos estudos do sr. Eugenio Gomes sobre as influencias estrangeiras, permito-me, salvo o respeito devido a um dos poucos verdadeiros conhece- dores da obra de Machado, achar que o distinto ensaista exagera. Alias, 1 Ver, por exemplo, Raymundo Magalhaes Jinior, MAachado de Assis Descon- hecido (Rio de Janeiro: Civilizaao Brasileira, 1955), pp. 201-203; Ant6nio Noronha Santos, "Quincas Borba: o personagem", Correio da Manha (Rio de Janeiro), 26 de janeiro de 1947, 2.a secao, pp. 1, 2. 2 O artigo foi reproduzido quase textualmente no Diario de Noticias (Rio de Janeiro), 15 de marco de 1953, Suplemento literario, pp. 1, 4. 177 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA alguns criticos brasileiros ja disseram a mesma coisa quando do apareci- mento das Influencias Inglesas em Machado de Assis. Ao lado de acertos incontrovertiveis o sr. Eugenio Gomes revelou o que nao passa, a meu ver, de interessantissimos paralelos; dai a influencia, ha um grande salto. Parece-me que proclamar influencia onde nao ha prova irrecusavel e en- fraquecer um argumento ji de si valido. Mas tudo e matiz em se tratando de Machado; ninguem pode ter a certeza de estar corn a razao, e eu nao exprimo senao uma opiniao pessoal. Sobre a questao muito delicada das influencias, ver um estudo do sr. Augusto Meyer, "0 delirio de Bris Cubas", publicado no Diario Carioca (Rio de Janeiro), em 22 de julho de 1951, 2. secao, paginas 3 e 8, e reimpresso na segunda edigao (Rio de Janeiro: Organiza6oes Simoes, 1952) do Machado de Assis do autor. E, alias, num estudo que aponta paralelos e nega influencias que o sr. Eugenio Gomes nos da toda a medida da sua capacidade de critico: "Adelino Magalhaes e a moderna literatura experimental". Confesso que antes de ler esta interpretacao nao conhecia nem o nome de Adelino Ma- galhaes; pois bem, o ensaio e prova cabal de que nenhum estudioso da literatura mundial contemporanea tem o direito de ignorar esse escritor que por certos aspectos antecipa a gigantes como James Joyce e Virginia Woolf. Espero ter mostrado que Prata de Casa e um livro sugestivo; leva a pensar. Nao me desculpo de discordar aqui e acola; tenho a certeza de que, para um escritor da estatura intelectual do sr. Eugenio Gomes, a ver- dadeira recompensa de seus esforcos reside nao na aceitacao cega de tudo quanto diz, e sim no estimulo que fornece aos seus leitores para pensarem por si. BENJAMIN M. WOODBRIDGE, JR. Universidade da California, Berkeley FRANCISCO MANRIQUE CABRERA, Historia de la Literatura Puertorriquena, New York, Las Americas Pub. Co., 1956, 384 pags. (I: Biblioteca Puertorriquefia). La publicaci6n de esta obra marca un jal6n importante en la cultura iberoamericana por tratarse de, la primera historia de la literatura puerto- rriquefia escrita hasta la fecha. Con ella se inicia la colecci6n de la Bi- blioteca Puertorriquena, bajo la direcci6n de Gaeteano Massa. El profesor Manrique Cabrera del Departamento de Estudios Hispa- 178 RESE AS nicos de la Universidad de Puerto Rico ha hecho un estudio met6dico de la evoluci6n de las letras de la isla borincana desde la 6poca colonial hasta el presente. Los movimientos mas significativos y las corrientes est6ticas predominantes aparecen descritos en relaci6n a la historia literaria del mundo hispinico, aportando Cabrera la interpretaci6n ajustada a la rea- lidad puertorriquefia. El par6ntesis folkl6rico y el capitulo sobre el modernismo superan otros aspectos de la obra, aunque en toda ella se aprecia el esfuerzo del escritor por interpretar y definir los hechos literarios en el devenir cul- tural de su patria ajustindose a un criterio objetivo. La lectura de la Historia de la Literatura Puertorriqueia confirma lo que siempre hemos creido: la injusticia cometida por los antologistas y los historiadores de la literatura iberoamericana, quienes s61o esporadica- mente recuerdan la existencia de Puerto Rico. Un poeta de la calidad de Jose Gautier Benitez, un ensayista de la talla de Brau o de Hostos, y li- ricos contempordneos de la talla de Llorens Torres, Virgilio Divila o Ribera Chevremont bien merecen figurar junto a sus pares en las letras del Nuevo Mundo. En el cuento, el teatro, la novela y el ensayo del si- glo xx, Puerto Rico tiene igualmente escritores de primer orden. Al recoger el fruto de sus investigaciones en esta obra y al dar a co- nocer el desarrollo del quehacer literario en la vida de Puerto Rico, el profesor Manrique Cabrera facilita el estudio futuro de autores y temas puertorriquefios, ademAs de dar fe de la existencia de una fructifera y valiosa actividad creadora en Puerto Rico que data del pasado y se inten- sifica con el correr de los afios, llegando a su plena madurez estdtica en la 6poca contemporanea. MARIA TERESA BABIN New York University FRANCISCO ROMERO: Alejandro Korn. Fildsofo de la libertad. Colecci6n Radar, Editorial Reconstruir, Buenos Aires, 1956. Korn muri6 el 9 de octubre de 1936. Recuerdo el dia de fria pri- mavera en La Plata, la suspensi6n de las clases en la Facultad de Huma- nidades y la grave figura de Coriolano Alberini, a contraluz, en la puerta de la sala de profesores, esperando, con el sombrero puesto, el momento de ir a la casa del gran hombre, "el hombre del cual podemos decir con raz6n 179 180 RE VISTA IBEROAMERICANA que, entre todos los de su tiempo que nos fue dado conocer, era el mejor, el mas sabio y el mas justo", como dijo Plat6n acerca de S6crates, y Ro- mero repite como acapite de su libro mas reciente sobre Korn. Romero se ha ocupado de Korn muchas veces. Aun en vida del fil6- sofo habia publicado un articulo en Nosotros, que debi6 aparecer trunco, pues Korn le pidi6 que lo suspendiera cuando se enter6 de que Romero lo, estaba escribiendo. Despus de la muerte de Korn, Romero ha escrito en diversas ocasiones sobre el maestro y ha hablado de 61 quiza mas ain. En el otofio de 1937, probablemente en abril, muy poco despues que Eu- genio Pucciarelli me lo presentara en la Facultad de Humanidades, a la salida de una de sus clases, Romero me invit6 a acompafiarlo hasta la casa de Korn, donde se reunian los amigos que habian fundado la "Sociedad de Amigos de Alejandro Korn", a la cual me incorporaba. Esa noche estaban presentes los duefios de casa: Guillermo Korn y Emmy Neddermann; ami- gos platenses, como los universales Pedro Henriquez Urefia y Arnaldo Or- fila Reynal; los abogados Enrique Galli, Julio Ratti, Ernesto Malmierca Sanchez y Juan Manuel Villarreal; los profesores de Filosofia Segundo Tri, Eugenio Pucciarelli y Anibal Sanchez Reulet; el profesor de Historia Luiz Aznar y el profesor Angel Vasallo, que, si no me equivoco, venia de Buenos Aires para hacer oposiciones a la catedra de Etica. QuizA habia otras personas a quienes ahora no tengo presentes. A casi todos ellos, y a muchos otros, los encontre en afios siguientes en la Universidad Popular Alejandro Korn o en la Facultad de Humanidades, al cumplirse aniver- sarios de su muerte. Hablaban Henriquez Urefia, Alfonso Reyes y, nue- vamente, Romero. Dos meses despues de la muerte de Korn, la Universidad de La Plata resolvia publicar las obras completa de su ex-profesor, y encargaba la tarea a tres de sus amigos inmediatos: Romero, Pucciarelli y Sanchez Reulet. A principios de 1938 apareci6 el primer tomo con un extenso pr61ogo de Francisco Romero, en el que, aparte de unos pocos datos biogrAficos, bos- queja la personalidad moral de Korn. Este trabajo fue reimpreso en el libro Alejandro Korn, por Francisco Romero, Angel Vasallo y Luis Aznar (Losada, Buenos Aires, 1940), y ahora aparece impreso por tercera vez, como la contribuci6n mas extensa al volumen titulado Alejandro Korn, fildsofo de la libertad, que, ademas, contiene tres opfisculos: "El testa- mento de un fil6sofo" (Los Apuntes filoscficos), que se habia publicado como apendice del volumen Alejandro Korn; "Tiempo y destiempo de Alejandro Korn", articulo de 1942 reimpreso anteriormente en Filosofia de ayer y de hoy (Argos, Buenos Aires, X947) y "Alejandro Korn en la RESEWAS vida y en la muerte", que, probablemente, reproduce un texto ya publi- cado, pero que no recordamos haber visto con anterioridad. En todos los ensayos de Romero acerca de Alejandro Korn encon- tramosel mismo tono de calida admiraci6n por su maestro y amigo. En ellos se destaca mucho mas la personalidad moral de Korn que su obra como pensador y como docente, aunque se nos dice m.s de una vez que en ambas su importancia ha sido muy grande. La exaltaci6n que Romero hace de los valores morales de Korn corresponde muy bien a su con- cepto de persona, tal como lo ha expresado en otros libros, siguiendo las ensefianzas de Max Scheler y Nicolai Hartmann. Pero no se encuentra todavia en estas piginas sobre Korn una biografia completa o siquiera un bosquejo equilibrado de los diversos aspectos de su rica personalidad. Es una pena que Korn, tan capaz de dialogo brillante, no haya tenido cerca un Boswell.* Romero lo sabe y no deja de advertirnos al final de esta nueva recopilaci6n que s610o debe tomarse como "anotaci6n de algunos rasgos suyos, pues su figura presenta muchas vertientes que aqui han sido omitidas". Sin embargo, en el mismo libro de Romero se encuentran sefialadas dos lineas que me parecen fundamentales para una comprensi6n adecuada de la vida espiritual de Korn. Por una parte, sus condicionamientos so- ciales, desde sus origenes familiares, su vida profesional y su status eco- n6mico en una 6poca relativamente respetuosa de los valores intelectua- les, si se la compara con la que le sigue y nos envuelve. "La familiaridad sefiorial de don Alejandro, su continente amable y majestuoso, sus diva- gaciones ante el grupo cordial circundado por los libros de su biblioteca, la marcha lenta con los amigos... estaban muy en su punto en su casa de la calle 6o y a lo largo de la calle 7, y no lo hubieran estado tanto en un departamento portefio ni entre el apresurado anonimato callejero de Buenos Aires. En La Plata se constituyeron los grupos que animaba y consolidaba Korn, aunque participaban tambien de ellos gente de Buenos Aires (pigs. 41-42". La historia de estos grupos intelectuales de La Plata esta por hacerse, pero ella seri necesaria para comprender la vida y la obra de Alejandro Korn. Por otra parte, su vocaci6n metafisico-religiosa, que tambien ha- .sido sefialada por Romero cuando, dice, despubs de indicar su gusto por las * Lo mas parecido que nos queda son los testimonios de Angel Poncio Fe- rrando en el pequefio volumen Alejandro Korn (en colaboraci6n con Ana Maria R. de Aznar y Maria de Villarino, UPAK, La Plata, 1942). 181 REVIS TA IBEROAMERICA NA ciencias positivas: "Pero no era s61lo un hombre de hechos. No podia serlo el lector asiduo de Plotino y del maestro Eckart, el consumado co- nocedor de la mistica de todos los paises y de todos los tiempos... Y acaso su humorismo no era sino la versi6n profana y cotidiana de una inconfe- sada metafisica, de una visi6n de lo trascendente que mantenia relegada a los estratos mas hondos de su conciencia" (pig. 19). Eugenio Puccia- relli, en un articulo sobre Korn, expresa que "afirmando de un modo absoluto -extrafia paradoja- la relatividad del conocimiento, s61o queda una salida para la exigencia metafisica que el hombre no puede reprimir: la inmersi6n mistica en lo absoluto". Y afiade: "Korn, a quien eran fa- miliares los textos de Plotino, Eckart, Silesio, Santa Teresa y San Juan de la Cruz, poseia la disposici6n feliz para comprender la experiencia mistica, a la que asignaba valor como fuente de revelaci6n de lo absoluto. En sus iltimos afios prepar6 lecturas y orden6 experiencias y meditaciones con la esperanza de ahondar ese problema. La vida no le dio tiempo, y en su obra es facil advertir una ausencia, que, de haber sido realizada, nos habria dado el fruto mejor sazonado de su huerto". (Congreso; Interna- cional de Filosofia. Annais. Instituto Brasileiro de Filosofia, So Paulo, 1956, tomo III, pags. 1,144-I,x45.) Pero, en realidad, hay en las obras de Korn mas de una referencia al saber absoluto, y entre sus poemas en alemin hay uno que dice: "Was ich getriumt, ward mir beschieden, / Was ich ersehnt, ich habs erreicht / Und fessellos, in reinem Frieden, / Hebt sich die Seele frei und leicht." (Lo que sofii me fue otorgado, / obtuve al fin lo que anhelaba; / y sin cadenas, en clara paz. / libre y ligera se alza mi alma.) La cuarta y filtima cuarteta reza asi: "Num m6gen dumpf die Jahre schleichen. / Vom alten Joche neu beschwert, / Ich trag des Gliickes heilig Zeichen, / Ich bleib im Kapfe unversehrt." (Ya pueden seguir, bajo el viejo / yugo los afios su caravana. / Yo, con el signo de la dicha, / Me yergo, ileso, en la batalla.) Estos versos, de 1893, se encuentran en la pagina 12 del vo- lumen de Poemas, de Alejandro Korn, publicados con traducci6n espafiola de Ernesto Palacio por el Instituto de Estudios Germinicos de la Uni- versidad de Buenos Aires en 1942. Seria muy deseable que el mismo Romero nos diera mas recuerdos de Korn, aunque no se ocupara sino de aquellos aspectos que se revelaron en el dialogo. Pero el lector tiene el derecho de ser informado por el autor si el nuevo titulo que se publica contiene material nuevo o reimpre- siones. Esta vez Romero no nos dice nada acerca de los lugares y fechas donde los trabajos recopilados vieron la luz por primera vez. Y ya que 182 RESE N AS al trabajo mis extenso siguen los opisculos mencionados, el impresor hu- biera hecho bien en poner un indice a este simpatico volumen. JUAN ADOLFO VAZQUEZ Universidad de Cdrdoba, Argentina FRED P. ELLISON, Brazil's New Novel, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1954, I9I pp., $3.75. No pref.cio, o autor declara que 6ste trabalho lhe foi sugerido por uma votacao literaria de 194I, na qual i80 escritores brasileiros esclo- lheram os dez maiores romancistas do seu pais. Os quatro romancistas contemporneos que conseguiram a decisao foram, nesta ordem, Graci- liano Ramos, Jose Lins do Rego, Jorge Amado e Rachel de Queiroz, todos da regiao do Brasil chamada "o Nordeste" -- que abrange os Estados da Bahia, Sergipe, Alagoas, Pernambuco, Parahyba, Rio Grande do Norte, Ceari e as ireas costeiras de Piauhy e Maranhao. O Nordeste 6 terra de contrastes golpeantes -o litoral tr6pico e ameno, com a sua cultura agricola, antigamente o centro da produc.o da cana de acucar- e o sertao do interior, exposto a secas trigicas, quando morre o gado e corre em fuga o faminto povo para outras partes do pais, s6 voltando talvez anos depois, quando chegam as chuvas torrenciais que fazem renascer o sertao esbraseado. Alem dos fatores geogrificos e econ6micos que a distinguem, esta regiao nordestina, desde os seus pri- meiros dias, encontra-se tamb6n num remoinho de correntes sociol6gicas particulares, cujos efeitos sao necessariamente refletidos nas obras dos quatro romancistas que estuda o professor Ellison no seu livro. Para compreender e avaliar os temas e os personagens duma regiao peculiar, 6 preciso conhecer o ambiente hist6rico, politico, econ6mico e social que se respira nestas obras. No seu primeiro capitulo, realiza isto o professor Ellison com grande sucesso. O leitor, ao termini-lo, esti esplandidamente preparado para a analise pormenorizada da materia literiria. Clara e s6lidamente explica o autor o que 6 o Nordeste, usando como base os trabalhos dos eminentes escritores brasileiros que se tmrn preocupado com esta regiao. Destila para n6s as conclus6es principais das obras de Gilberto Freyre sobre a civilizacao e tradicges dos senhores de engenho -a convivencia dos brancos e pretos na casa-grande e senzala, os resultados da mesticagem. Sublinha o professor Ellison a importicia 183 184 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA de Os Sertees de Euclydes da Cunha, essa obra de objetividade cientifica que agitou o Brasil inteiro com as suas descri§6es da miseria e ignorancia dos sertanejos e f-lo consciente dum problema que havia de trazer re- formas sociais e fomentar um espirito de auto-critica que sem duvida inspirou a criasco dos romances nordestinos. Outra influencia mais recente, do ano 1928, foi o romance A Bagaceira de Jose Americo de Almeida, hist6ria de retirantes que sofrem sob a autoridade tirinica do engenho onde trabalham -uma sintese da vida do sertao e do litoral. Sao discutidas as varias rebelioes militares da segunda d6cada deste seculo contra o gov&rno e a famosa marcha de Luis Carlos Prestes e os seus I500 homens, que por dois anos tratavam de levar a revolucao poli- tica e social ao povo atrasado do interior. Com a revolucao de 1930, apodera-se Getilio Vargas do pais e faz-se ditador. Estabelece o Depar- tamento de Imprensa e Propaganda que censura revistas, jornais e livros e , especialmente feroz contra o que se chama "literatura proletiria". Entre outros escritores, Graciliano Ramos, Jorge Amado e Rachel de Queiroz deixam de publicar. Os liberais que continuam a escrever aban- donam temas sociais com inteno6es politicas e substituem tramas psico- 16gicas. A Semana de Arte Moderna, celebrada em Sao Paulp no ano de 1922, que tinha como prop6sito original a renovacao da misica, pintura e es- cultura na vida artistica brasileira, chegou tamb6m a transformar a lite- ratura e encaminh-l1a pelas sendas j a assinaladas pelos vanguardistas eu- ropeus. Os poetas comecaram a luta, despedacando os velhos moldes simbolistas para empreender temas brasileiros e canti-los no vernaculo do seu pais. Os romancistas, sem demorar demais, ligaram-se as filas dos poetas para ocupar-se com os povos, as regi6es, a psicologia e os pro- blemas sociais do Brasil, e, estre tSda a producao modernista, acha o professor Ellison que a forca predominante liter.ria era o romance do Nordeste porque os escritores dessa terra, por convicc6es sociais prvias e experiencia pessoal no seu meio cultural, eram os mais capacitados. Nos capitulos seguintes, o proffesor Ellison se entrega ao estudo minucioso de cada um dos quatro escritores nordestinos. Desenha os temas principais dos romances,.. d relvo aos acontecimentos na vida dos autores que constituem a base essencial da suas invenc6es ficticias, exp5e com sagaz criterio as faltas e as primazias das suas obras e examina corn cuidado e objetividade as opini6es dos criticos brasileiros e norteameri- canos que tam julgado a literatura e a cultura do Nordeste. Desenrolou o vasto panorama sociol6gico desde regi.o Jos6 Lins do RESEW AS Rego com seus -inco romances do ciclo da cana de acucar. Apareceram um por ano, entre 1932 e i936, atraindo a atencao de todo o pais para a velha civilizacio dos senhores de engenho que ia desaparecendo sob a agencia de novos impulsos econ6micos e sociais. Nestes romances deu vida Lins do Rego a tres figuras inolvidiveis -o coronel Jos6 Paulino, prototipo do altivo latifundiario patriarcal, seu neto Carlos de Mello, melanc61lico, achacoso, inapto para administrar o engenho decadente, e o moleque Ricardo, membro da classe baixa desgracada. E nao 6 menos perito o autor na caracterizaiao das numerosas pessoas secundirias, tao importantes como as principais para integrar o quadro dos romances. O professor Ellison aponta como defeito na obra de Lins do Rego sua pritica de narrar con excessiva repetigao o estado mental dos perso- nagens, em vez de usar mais diilogo que teria a vantagem de introduzir variedades e deixar que os individuos mesmos se revelem. Mas os cri- ticos brasileiros preferem disculpar isto como toque artistico do romancista, herdado dos profissionais recitadores orais que tinha ouvido na sua meni- nice em Parahyba. Outra imperfeiao 6 a pressa com que escreve Lins do Rego e a ausencia de revisao se faz sentir. Tamb6m, em virios roman- ces posteriores aos do ciclo da cana de acucar, onde o autor se afasta da terra oriunda e das lembrancas autobiograficas, ha claras evidencias de debilidades e incerteza na construcao e desenvolvimento das obras. E possivel, afirma o professor Ellison, que outros escritores nordes- tinos contemporaneos superem Lins do Rego em ticnica estilistica e arte literria, mas 6le fica sem rival como interprete da sua regiao -na sua esplendida evocacao fisica do mundo do engenho, dentro do qual fervil- ham as paixoes daquela sociedades singular de brancos e pretos, de sonho- res e descendentes de escravos, na sua compreensao do ambiente e na sua simpatia humana por todos os seres que se agitam nas intensas comple- xidades daquela organizacao social. Dos quatro escritores nordestinos, o melhor conhecido no estrangeiro 6 Jorge Amado. Os seus romances se acham traduzidos em vinte e quatro idiomas. Esta fama, segundo o professor Ellison, 6 devida talvez mais a natureza esquerdista e revolucionaria dos seus livros que a qualidades lite- rarias. Havendo sido escritos os mais violentos nos anos de crise econ6- mica mundial e de grandes agita§6es politicas, quando pareceu a muitos que a peleja entre o Comunismo e o Fascismo ia acabar forcosamente no triunfo do partido dos obreiros, foi natural que este autor propagandista chamasse a atencao e entusiasmo de leitores radicais do Brasil e das outras nacoes. 185 186 REVIS TA BEROAMERICANA Quase todos os romances de Jorge Amado baseam-se numa critica enraivecida das instituic6es sociais e politicas que prevaleciam na regiao baiana--sejam nas fazendas de cacau com o seu proletariado rural ou na cidade da Bahia, comrn o proletariado das fibricas e do mar. Para Amado s.o inteiramente bons os grevistas, os pobres -especialmente os negros-, os operarios militantes duma revolug marxista, tamb6m os seus simpatizadores de classes mais altas e abastecidas. Nao omite os crimi- nosos da categoria dos benignos, porque les resultam dum injusto sistema social. Completamente maus para Amado sao os explotadores dos pobres -os fazendeiros, os feitores, os capitalistas, a igreja e finalmente a po- licia e o :exercito, obedientes aos ricos. Estas prevenc6es ideol6gicas perjudicam perceptivelmente a maioria dos romances de Jorge Amado. Nao dao lugar para caracterizac6es sutis, nao permitem um estudo equinime de situaq6es e pessoas. Ele tem que pregar a revolu§ao a brados -insinu.-la nao basta. Todavia, nasceu Ama- do com talento de romancista. Os seus personagens, ainda que sejam estere6tipos, tem forca, tem vida. Interresam-nos, porque sao homens e mulheres de aqio e energia. A sua linguagem verdadeira, robusta, exatamente como fala o povo. A criticada frecii ncia de palavras obscenas provem deste realismo, nao indica nada' de prop6sitos pornogrificos. O lirismo e a imaginacao de Jorge Amado ficam a suas qualidades salientes. A sua prosa canta, simples e poderosa, como os velhos bardos, sobretudo nas suas descri§6es de elementos folcl6ricos -as macumbas, as supersti6es, as po6ticas tradic6es do mar. Eu concordo absolutamente com o professor Ellison quando assevera que ao considerar a producao total de Jorge Amado, pensamos numa sucessio de epis6dios, dos quais alguns sao pequenas obras-primas. Graciliano Ramos, que morreu em 1953, 6 entre os quatro roman- cistas do Nordeste o escritor mais consciente e polido, possivelmente por- que dispunha duma cultura literaria muito mais ampla que 6les. Nos seus livros percebem-se particularmente influencias de Dostoevski, Balzac e Eca de Queiroz. Nascido nos soalheiros do imenso sertio e passados la os seus anos formativos, foi esta terra, que tao bem conhecia Ramos, que the proporcionou o ambiente, os temas e os personagens para seus escritos mais notaveis, ainda que flagelasse tamb6m em outros os homens e as instituicoes do litoral. Preocupam-no as press6es da sociedade nordestino s6bre a alma e o carAter das pessoas que estio condenados a viver neste meio de miseria econ6mica e de desmoralizac.o espiritual. Ramos nao se presta a solu- RESE 1AS cionar 6stes problemas. E misantropo demais, 6 pessimista. O homen, para 6le, nunca pode gozar da felicidade. Nos seus romances a justica 6 iksoria. Sempre se extravia, sempre falha. T6da a sua critica dos males da sociedades e implicita; nao se descobre nada de propaganda politica direta. Segredo n.o 6 que Ramos foi partidirio ardente do movimento revolucionario e ha quem encontre dificil reconciliar a filosofia inuma- nitaria des seus livros com as suas crengas radicais, mas aclara o professor Ellison que, alum dos seus enraizadas dividas intimas pelo diz respeito a melhoramentos, foi Graciliano Ramos artista literAria demais para inserir serm6es doutrinarias nas suas obras. Graciliano Ramos 6 o mestre do romance psicol6gico. Revela e ex- plora o agitadissimo mundo mental dentro do qual sofrem os seus ator- mentados protagonistas. O brilhante emprego do mon6logo interior em dois niveis de acao para entretecer as recordac6es, pensamentos e terrores do passado e do presente, dando a tudo a qualidade de sonho ou delirio, 6 a sua contribuic;o especial ao romance brasileiro. E o seu estilo s6brio, esmerado e refinado, em perfeita harmonia com o assunto, os personagens e o lugar, alcanca uma forma artistica de beleza parnasiana. Com Rachel de Queiroz, filha do sertio, alarga-se o horizonte do romance nordestino. Entra nele o estudo penetrante da psicologia feminina e da posik;o da mulher naquela sociedade t.o restringida, dominada pelos homens que guardam para si todos os privil6gios, e na qual a mulher tem representado o papel tradicional de ente submisso e inferior. Nas obras de Rachel, a mulher, seja noiva casta numa procissao faminta de retiran- tes da seca, seja prostituta numa aldeia, seja esp6sa dum caixeiro numa cidade, seja colegiala num convento, protesta e rebela contra as convenc6es que lhe tiram o direito de desempenhar livremente a sua personalidade e que a sujeitam a escravidao sexual. A autora nio suaviza as desgradaveis realidades da vida total do Nordeste, nem o sofrimento humano que 6 conseqiincia fatal desse am- biente. Mas ela nao acusa chiadamente; a sua protesta social se patentea nas hist6rias convincentes dos seus personagens. Sabe pintar as profundas emo6bes de amor, de aflilgo, e de desesperanca com sinceridade e com- paixio. Nunca se serve das falsas cores de sentimentalidade. A mao de artista de Raquel de Queiroz 6 certa, 6 segura; para realizar o efeito dese- jado escolhe matizes, omite detalhes. Possuida ela dum senso dramatico, os seus romances escapam A monotonia e a sua mestria dos muitos ritmos da fala popular veste a sua prosa flexivel de variedade. Entre as 34 obras dos quatro romancistas do Nordeste examinadas 187 188 REVISTA I EROA MERICANA e analisadas pelo professor Ellison, estas sao as que considera de mais merito literario e significacao social: de Jose Lins do Rego, Menino de En- genho (1932), Doidinho (x933), Bangue (1934), O Moleque Ricardo (1935), Usina (1936), Pedra Bonita (1939) e Fogo Morto (1944); de Jorge Amado, Jubiab (1935), Mar Morto (1936), Terras do Sem Fim (1943), e Sao Jorge dos Ilhdus (1944); de Graciliano Ramos, Sao Bernar- do (I934), Ang istia (1936), e Vidas Secas (1938); de Rachel de Queiroz, 0 quinze (1930), Joau Miguel (1932) e As Tres Marias ( I 939). No seu capitulo final, o professor Ellison sintetiza as caracteristicas principais desta ficcao nordestina -a importancia sociol6gica da luta en- tre o homem e o ambiente, a critica aguda da sociedade, a nova atitude humanitiria e a grande simpatia pelos parias e oprimidos. Todos n6s que apreciamos a literatura brasileira contemporanea havemos de ficar agradeci- dos ao professor Ellison pelo seu estudo substancioso -bem pensado, bem escrito e excelentemente documentado. LEO KIRSCHENBAUM Universidade da California Los Angeles HECTOR RAUIL ALMANZA Brecha en la roca. Colecci6n Ahuizote. Obre- g6n, S. A., Mexico, 1955. El tema es lo mas interesante de la presente novela de H&ctor Raul Almanza. Tratase de las dificiles experiencias que han de sufrir los obreros petroleros en busca de su libertad econ6mica, arrancando antes sus garantias que como seres humanos les corresponden, de manos de las empresas extranjeras. La culminaci6n de tantos intentos por mejorar la situaci6n, como todos sabemos, es la expropiaci6n petrolera decretada por el gobierno del Presidente Lizaro Cardenas, el 18 de marzo de 1938. El asunto, a mas de tener un interes nacional en si mismo, profundiza oe el problema desde sus origenes, a raiz de la Revoluci6n de 1910, cuando las compafias extranjeras aprovechan las anormalidades por las que atraviesa el pais para hacerse de las tierras convenientes y emprender la explotaci6n del petr6leo para su unico beneficio. Como centro o nucleo de esta historia aparece la de la familia de Antonio G6mez, cuya muerte y la de sus hijos mayores a manos de cri- rninales a sueldo de las compaiias extranjeras por arrebatarles la tierra, R E S E.i..A S deja en completo abandono a dofia Teresa, que fuera mujer de G6mez, y a su pequefio hijo Arturo, quienes, huyendo de sus recuerdos, se refugian en Ebano, San Luis Potosi,. a rehacer su vida destrozada apro- vechando el menguado patrimonio que logr6 salvarse del desastre. La to- talidad de la obra se desarrolla en el Ebano, centro petrolero potosino muy adecuado para mostrar la vida de los obreros, su miseria, abandono, deso- rientaci6n, atropellos a que son sometidos constantemente, y, por fin, el aprovechamiento de su sordo rencor contra las empresas, encauzado, des- pues de vencer muchos obsticulos, en especial el de los obreros "ven- didos", hacia la uni6n de esfuerzos para llegar al bien colectivo, no s61o de los trabajadores de este:lugar sino el de toda la industria petrolera de la Repiblica, al lograr la formaci6n de un sindicato inico, el STPRM. Aunque la novela busca la expresi6n de una clase social, en este caso la obrera, y conduce al lector por todos los caminos que puedan ex- plicarle una situaci6n o el por que de detalles mediatos o inmediatos, y aun cuando el vasto material empuja a la continuaci6n del relato antes que a su consideraci6n, destaca una figura que por su situaci6n y simbolismo debe entenderse como personaje principal: dofia Teresa, la madre. Por su inter- x enci6n directa o por su solo recuerdo o presencia, las escenas se dig- nifican y ennoblecen. Astuta, audaz, inflexible, comprensiva o tierna, esta en el primer plano cuando se trata de hacer un sacrificio o de prestar luna ayuda. El puesto de comidas que regentea le sirve de tribuna y le da oportunidad para ejercer su positiva influencia en la vida del pueblo, tan afligido siempre por la miseria y la injusticia. Esta mujer, recuerda por ms de una circunstancia a Pelagia Nilovna V1asof, herencia de la novela de Maximo Gorki, La madre. Ambas sirven con entusiasmo a una causa colectiva de caracteres semejantes, exponen sus vidas en misiones dificiles de propaganda buscando las conexiones de elementos claves; evitan actos de crueldad infitil; su edad y modestia las hace pasar inadvertidas para los contrarios, pero consiguen, en cambio, el aprecio cordial de los directores de los movimientos obreros. Su intervenci6n en los asuntos amorosos de sus hijos se reduce a discreta comprensi6n y, sobre todo, el sentimiento material que las anima no limita sus beneficios a sus hijos, abarca a todo aquCl que est. caido, que es d6bil, que necesita ayuda. Los otros personajes, con ser muchos o quizi por ello, estan al servicio de una idea, de una tesis, y destacan mas o menos en alguno de los tres grupos que el autor ha querido presentar: los norteamericanos di- rigentes de las empresas petroleras, los obreros y--diriamos--, los trai- dores, espias o guardias blancas al servicio de los patrones. 189 R E V I S T A IB E ROM A M ME RI C A NA Bien se ve que la novela lieva una finalidad y para conseguirla, el autor se vale de artificios un tanto convencionales. Para demostrar, por ejemplo, cuin nociva e injusta es la explotaci6n de los obreros mexicanos por parte de las empresas extranjeras y cuan dura e inhumana es la vida del trabajador, colmara de equivocaciones y vicios a unos para exaltar las virtudes de los otros. Es decir, encontraremos a los buenos oponiendose a los malos en contrastes continuos. En alguna parte, hacia el final del libro, se usa el paralelismo simb61lico recogiendo dos de los temas prin- cipales: el nacimiento de un niiio y el nacimiento de una industria me- xicana. Procedimiento este, poco itil, cuando la fuerza de los asuntos, en lugar de sumarse, se resta. Pero, no hay en Brecha en la roca, general- mente, alardes tcnicos y es evidente que se ha atendido al mensaje antes que a la forma. Los capitulos se encadenan con la 16gica natural de la cronologia y se cifien a la historia en las 380 p.ginas de verdadero conte- vido que forman el libro. Algunos fragmentos emotivos y humanos marcan una tregua en la acci6n y nos ofrecen el entusiasmo sano y fresco de un hombre que cree en la generosidad de la tierra y se acerca a ella con amo- rosa esperanza. Brecha en la roca pertenece al grupo de las novelas interesantes que deben leerse para conocer uno de los problemas mis intensos de nuestra economia nacional en todos sus pasos por conquistar una libertad dificil de alcanzar. Almanza es un hombre que tiene fe y muestra, lo mismo aqui que en sus otras obras: Huelga blanca y Candelaria de los pates, c6mo, a pesar de una realidad poco risuefia, se imponen, lenta pero seguramente, el sentido de responsabilidad, la aspiraci6n hacia algo mejor y la conciencia de unidad. MARfA DEL CARMEN MILLAN Universidad Nacional Autdnoma de Mxico Luis MARIO LozzIA, Domingo sin fzitbol, Editorial Sudamericana, Buenos Aires, 1956. La trama simple de una barriada portefia que por circunstancias comu- nes, queda sin el partido de fitbol caracteristico, dan origen a Luis Mario Lozzia para descubrirnos una emotiva y autentica realidad nacional. Quizi la primera soluci6n de esta novela se desprenda del ambiente, pues alli, en ese pequefio mundillo que sin darse cuenta se entrega a las alternativas 190 R E S E AS de un torneo deportivo, hemos de atrapar algunos personajes especificos e imborrables. Luego, una tarde de liuvia, cierra para las criaturas del libro su evasi6n. La cancha cerrada obliga a proyectar otros planes, y el cambio desconocido sirve para organizar la trama novelistica. Buenos Aires aguarda entonces con frialdad el destino que fabrica un autor. Lozzia sabe predisponer de esta tarde, sin fallas documentales ni falsas pinturas, con una expresiva fidelidad narrativa. Anteriormente habia publicado un libro de cuentos, Estas noches que em piezan, donde se revelaba como justificado escritor y cuentista, teniendo siempre a la ciudad sembrada en sus manos. Ahora, no puede decirse que la proyecci6n no tuvo exito. Al encontrar a los personajes vemos como todos ellos deben por prefijado azar unificarse con ese domingo sin f6tbol. Asi, el jugador y su padre, el cronista deportivo y su mujer, el duefio de la cantina con su familia, las hijas, la tia y su amante, s6lo reflejan estados equilibrados del destino. Surgen entre ellos, una muchacha y su hermana, nifia ain, hijas del canti- nero, para quienes en aquel dia total adquieren conciencia de un mundo cercano y palpable, dando dentro de una descripci6n descarnada la en- trega fisica de la adolescente, y proyectando la realidad algo incierta de la relaci6n humana, en la segunda. Seguro como novelista, sabe apreciar la sencillez del medio ambiente y con una limpieza literaria sin recargos coloristas, ha cumplido en forma singular mostrindonos con gran autenticidad local, una empresa de crea- ci6n plena y valedera. HORACIO JORGE BECCO Buenos Aires MAHFUD MASSIS, Elegia bajo la tierra, Ediciones Pol6micas, Santiago, 1955. La publicaci6n mis reciente del poeta chileno Mahfud Massis es su volumen Elegia bajo la tierra, poema en veintisiete partes, con pr6logo del autor. El leitmotiv de esta poesia, como dice el mismo Massis, es la muerte, pero no la muerte en su calidad de acontecimiento, de hecho final, sino una muerte que es a veces indistinguible de la vida. Como a conti- nuaci6n indica el poeta, en su obra encontrarA el lector muertos que pa- recen vivos y vivos que tienen a veces el rostro de los espectros". En efecto, el poeta se sitia en la confluencia de la vida y la muerte, lugar de interpenetraci6n de dos mundos. Por esta area limitada se mue- 191 RE VISTA IBEROA MERICANA ve sin salir nunca .de su circulo subterraneo de oscuridad finebre. En su trayectoria horizontal se encuentra con angeles y antepasados que legan a su nivel desde arriba o desde abajo, segin el caso. El poeta ni asciende ni desciende a la manera dantesca en el mundo de ultratumba, y su poema, mas que escatologia, es una simbiosis de vida y muerte. Massis no canta a 6sta ni la glorifica, porque no concibe una muerte que se distin- ga netamente de la vida. Tampoco hay en su poema una vida despues de la muerte. Si actian en 61 los muertos, esto no es sino una indica- ci6n mas de la continuidad vida-muerte. A trav6s de los veintisiete fragmentos del poema se desarrollan varios temas que establecen claramente la posici6n del poeta. Primero, Massis se define a si mismo como un paria, un primitivo que esti fuera de lugar en la sociedad contemporinea: "Yo era el Hombre de Java de la fa- milia". Sin embargo, le es imposible cambiar sin "enviar al mercado mi alma". A continuaci6n se identifica con un perro, simbolo doble aqui del proscrito y de la muerte. En su calidad de perro errante cava en la tierra y exhuma "cabezas, fragmentos de antepasados, una lengua cadavrica, morada por el tiempo, que alcanza s61o a susurrar imaldito!" Asi introduce en su poesia el tema de los antepasados arabes que le fascinan y que significan en su poesia la maldici6n, la condena ab utero. Condena doble para Massis, poeta e hijo de inmigrantes y por esto doble- mente desarraigado. Mis fuertes que 61 son los antepasados, "maliciosos y dulces, Agiles y contumaces, celebrando los ritos de la muerte en veloces danzas a caballo". Le muerden la cabeza, "mi cabeza de pobre americano, porque en mi hundida frente de pastor s61o anid6 la muerte y el cuervo desplumado de la belleza". En estas lineas encontramos sintetizada la posici6n de Massis, atacado por la fuerza ancestral, a la vez americano y pastor (Arabe). Tambi6n se debe notar este pijaro que no es ya el cisne modernista ni el buho de la sabiduria, sino el cuervo, simbolo de la muerte. Hasta en el cuervo se ve la confluencia de vida y muerte: el pa- jaro ha perdido sus plumas de color finebre y muestra la carne desnuda. Entonces el poeta les pide a los antepasados que le den su poder y su "es- tructura vegetal contra el destino, a mi, sofiador extenuado, defensor de de- rechos indtiles, vendedor de sudarios y bolsas de colores". La muerte, que Massis simboliza por medio del perro ya mencionado, tambi6n aparece en forma de toro; pero el toro, como el cuervo, ha perdido su tradicional color negro. Aparte de esto, la muerte vuelve siempre a manifestarse en el vocabulario del poeta, como se ha visto en las lineas ya citadas. 19.2 RE SE AS En esta atm6sfera de muerte y de condena ancestral el poeta se ve pequefio y perdidot consciente ademas de la contingencia de toda su acci6n vital. Si bien dice a veces: "Soy un toro con el pecho de jade", o Ilega a ser un angel para los sapos, la identificaci6n en general es entre el yo y un perro, o se compara con "un pequefio dios celeste y pilido" de ojos de perro, o con un pequeio salvaje, un enano, un moscard6n. Hasta en el amor la muerte causa en Massis un sentimiento de inferioridad, de contingencia: Gladiadora en el lecho nupcial, las hienas vienen a comer de tu carne amorosa en la noche... Sobre tu vientre caen aves de pico rojo, y la boca que balbuce6 la frase perdida y querida tiembla bajo el diente fino de los roedores. Ah, c6mo amarte con mi transitoriedad, con mi pobre medula de gusano, si la eternidad esti raida, y el porvenir ondula como una culebra en la resina funeral. El amor aqui no es un esfuerzo para escaparse de la muerte. Representa en la poesia de Massis quizis lo mis vital; pero hasta en este aspecto mis vivo de la vida, este presente la muerte, el deslizarse continuo de un estado hacia el otro, el confluir, en efecto, de los dos mundos de vida y muerte, el cual Massis acepta francamente, aun cuando limite sus posibilidades de actuar en la vida. La muerte que de esta manera, junto con el poder de los antepasados, domina la poesia de Massis, no es en su obra un problema. Es mis bien un hecho que surge en la conciencia del poeta de varios incidentes que entre si no tienen conexi6n necesaria: la contemplaci6n de la propia muerte, la muerte de un ser querido, un paseo por la ciudad, el amor. El hecho de que el poeta est6 consciente de la presencia de la muerte en cada incidente le permite evocar el simbolismo de los acontecimientos y reinterpretarlos, recrearlos para formar un todo podtico. S61o dos veces parece rebelarse Massis activamente. En una ocasi6n exclama: Maestro en lenguas feroces, no siempre me contengo, acuso a mis antecesores, juzgo, olvido, asesino, invito a la extenuaci6n, s61o tengo el veneno de mis palabras iOh, lama mia! iCufnta justificaci6n para vivir! Pero en seguida aparece la inevitable muerte y arrastra el alma del poeta. 193 RE V I S TA IB ER OA M ERICAN A Otra vez en una reminiscencia del sueiio de Jacob, el poeta dormido derriba a un angel y su alma herida asciende cantando. El lenguaje de Elegia bajo la tierra esti cuidadosamente trabajado. No hay palabra que no lleve su carga emocional, no hay frase que no est6 llena de sugerencias simb61licas y metaf6ricas. N6tese por ejemplo la fuerza emotiva de las lineas siguientes: y una pavana de costumbres estoicas caia del naranjo Puedes tocar mi rostro, su lejana mariposa de hueso muertos planetas de hueso de mi contextura [dientes]. Nuestros cuernos chocan contra el 6nix sombrio, y nos amamos. Estoy muerto, pero me crece la barba. Encontramos tambien lo que en otros poetas llamariamos juegos de pa- labras, aunque en Massis nada tiene aspecto de juego: Si entrara al cementerio en la noche, entre el oxidado aroma del oxiacanto Como una flor sobre la negra caja estis en mi coraz6n, y te ciernes, entre ciervos de oro, desciendes al olivar obscuro Leyendo a Massis, se nota sobre todo que la suya es una poesia que no admite los limites de lo tradicional y lo trillado, pero que tampoco siente la necesidad de abrirse camino por medio del exceso. Las imigenes de Mas- sis pueden ser osadisimas; pero al mismo tiempo se caracterizan por su gran sobriedad. Es la sobriedad de un poeta que sabe encontrar la expre- si6n justa para el concepto que expresa y rechazar siempre lo innecesario. Massis es un poeta fuerte, duro, pero un poeta que opera ya en completa libertad. No tiene que derrumbar idolos. S61o crea poesia. Esta poesia, tan avanzada en cuanto a la forma, es a la vez clasica en su utilizaci6n de experiencias personalisimas para el desarrollo de un tema universal. Es una poesia que es imposible leer sin compartir la emoci6n del poeta y sin sentir en su fuerza, su enfoque original de lo eterno, la obra de una per- sonalidad poderosa y segura de si. La misma lucidez que caracteriza la poesia de Mahfud Massis se ve tambi6n en el pr6logo que acompafia al poema. Bajo el titulo sugestivo y polemico de "Palabras en el muro", contiene una cantidad de auto- 194 RES E AS an.lisis de gran perspicacia, evidenciando la clara conciencia que tiene el poeta de sus procedimientos. Sin embargo, se encuentran tambien palabras como 6stas: Ciertamente, si el poeta reparara en esas tristes merluzas [los criticos], estaria perdido. Por tal raz6n, pongo un muro de asbestos entre ellas y mi poesia, grandes piedras refractarias entre su cerebro pardo y mi conducta como individuo... En las paginas que siguen, elaboro una experiencia po6tica en que el regimen de las visiones satisface mi necesidad de ex- presi6n, y ello me basta... En consecuencia, no arguyo ni explico nada: s61o trato de levantar mi grito en medio de la noche. En estas lineas hallamos tres ideas en demasia comunes -y muy discu- tibles- en nuestros tiempos: que el artista crea s6lo para expresarse, que por lo tanto su creaci6n es puramente personal, y que como consecuencia nadie tiene el derecho de criticar la obra de arte. La noci6n de la crea- cion artistica por el solo motivo de la expresi6n, amenaza ahora asumir todas las caracteristicas de un mito, como lo hizo en el siglo pasado "la inspiraci6n". Claro es que la critica puede ser estiipida y que nadie puede vedarle al artista el derecho de expresarse de la manera que mas le guste. Pero abandonando la mitologia poetica que sobre la creaci6n artistica se ha construido, y volviendo a los hechos, tendremos que reconocer que con contadas excepciones los artistas no crean solamente para expresarse, sino tambien para comunicarse con un piiblico, por restringido que sea. Parece demasiado obvio, y sin embargo se olvida a menudo, que al artista que publica su obra no se expresa ya in vacuo, sino que trata de expresarse a alguien, es decir, de comunicarse. En el momento de creaci6n, la obra podr ser una expresi6n pura y nadie tendri derecho de criticarla, como tambi6n nadie la conoceri. Pero en el momento de comunicarse, de pu- blicar deliberadamente su obra, el artista entrega a su publico el derecho de leer o verla y tambien el derecho de criticarla en sentido favorable o adverso. No pasa, por lo tanto, de ser pueril la actitud de exhibirse y luego de negarles a los espectadores la capacidad intelectual de formar un juicio, por tonto que sea, sobre la exhibici6n. Es por esto que tales sen- timientos nos extraian en un autor tan poco pueril como lo es Mahfud Massis, sobre todo cuando tiene la ocurrencia rara de publicar al final de su libro toda una antologia de juicios criticos (favorables) sobre sus obras anteriores. Sin embargo y a pesar de la poca estimaci6n en que tiene 195 196 R E V I STA IBEROAM ERICANA Massis a los criticos, el lector tendri que agradecerle la publicaci6n de un volumen de poesia fuerte, libre, y de una trascendencia sugestiva. JOHN H. R. POLT University of California, Berkeley MANUEL DE CASTRO, El padre Samuel, Ediciones Pauta, 24 ed., Monte- video, 195, 194 pigs. Entre los pocos autores en el campo de la literatura novelesca del Uruguay que han alcanzado notoria fama en este pais apenas descuellan otros nombres que los de Carlos Reyles y Javier de Viana. Puede extra- fiar al lector, por eso, saber que hay otros escritores y otras novelas que merecen atenci6n. Una de ellas, que consideraremos brevemente aqui, ha ganado fama considerable, a lo menos dentro de su propio pais; publi- cada en 1937, al afio siguiente fue premiada por el Ministerio de Edu- caci6n y la nueva edici6n aparecida en el afio i951 da ain m~s prueba de la popularidad que sigue disfrutando. Conviene decir que en la his- toria de la novela uruguaya, El padre Samuel gozar, de una preeminencia segura. El padre Samuel es Ia segunda novela que ha salido de la pluma de Manuel de Castro, autor contemporaneo nacido en 1896. Como ha pa- sado en la carrera de otros muchos escritores de Sud America, las primeras obras de Manuel de Castro fueron escritas en forma po6tica. La primera novela, Historia de un pequeio funcionario, vio la luz en 1930 y poco despubs al autor le fue otorgado el Premio Centenario. A pesar de su escasa producci6n, esta le revela como autor de fina sensibilidad y posee- dor de un claro y penetrante entendimiento del coraz6n humano. La historia politica en ambos margenes del Rio de la Plata ha sido tal que en tiempos pasados el Uruguay ha dado asilo a los desterrados de la Argentina y tambi6n ha enviado a sus propios sibditos en exilio forzoso a la margen meridional del rio fronterizo. Pero el termino region rioplatense ignora las fronteras nacionales, y hace dificil, por lo tanto, la exacta localizaci6n de un autor en una sola de las dos repiblicas ribere- fias. Tenido por uruguayo, ciudadano del pais en donde reside y trabaja, Manuel de Castro naci6, sin embargo, en Rosario, Argentina.' Luisa Luisi 1 Barbagelata, Hugo David, La novela y el cuento en Hispanoamirica, Mon- tevideo, 1947, p. 149. RESENAS le designa compatriota suyo en su excelente articulo, The literature of Uruguay in the year of its Constitutional Centenary 2 y Alberto Zum Felde le concede una posici6n prominente en sus libros sobre la literatura del Uruguay. 3 Cuando El padre Samuel sali6 de las prensas, el autor anunci6 la publicaci6n de otras tres obras, El garrote magico (Cuentos), Gabriel, buscavidas (Novela picaresca) y Cantos del. Retorno (Poesia), de las cuales s61o el tomo de poesia ha llegado a mi conocimiento. El titulo completo de la obra de Castro es el Padre Samuel (su vida sacra y profana evocada por un llamado su sobrino) Novela picaresca americana, y mas adelante en la nota, -Esta obra fue escrita bajo la ad- vocacidn del Presbitero don Manuel de Castro y Cobas, oriundo de Noya y ordenado en Santiago de Compostela el 30 de marzo de 1885. (Titulo Servitii Ecclesiaet indulto apostdlico) y fallecido en Montevideo el 2 de junio de 1908. Gustd el vino de la tierra y comic el pan de los Angeles. Llaman nuestra atenci6n la coincidencia de la patria chica y de la iglesia del ordenamiento asi como de la localidad y la fecha del fallecimiento de ambos el personaje real y el ficticio, aunque no pueda saberse a ciencia cierta hasta qu6 punto haya podido servir el Presbitero de modelo para el Padre Samuel. En cuanto a la calidad picaresca, designada en el sub- titulo, cabe algo de duda. El sentimiento con que queda el lector de El padre Samuel es mas bien el de haber conocido en el protagonista a una buena persona, intensamente humana y dibujada con sensible linea por un autor hibil e inteligente. Alberto Zum Felde caracteriza la novela como sigue: "Su novela (El padre Samuel) puede colocarse, en cierto modo y hasta cierto punto, dentro del g6nero de la novela picaresca espa- fiola, por primera vez abordado en nuestros paises americanos, y con buen 6xito; y no porque campee en su novela nitngin picaro, sino por el sentido de ironia sabrosa con que la vida parece encarada". 4 Se podria afiadir que la ironia misma cae siempre dentro de los limites del buen gusto, no faltando por eso situaciones risibles que frisan en lo picaro. El primer intento del autor, sin embargo, parece haber sido crear un perso- naje de came y hueso, una persona fuerte y debil a la vez, noble pero impresionable. Y asi lo hizo. 2 Luisi, Luisa, The literature of Uruguay in the year of its Constitutional Centenary, Bulletin of the Pan American Union, vol. 64, pp. 655-695. 3 Zum Felde, Alberto, La literatura del Uruguay, Buenos Aires, 1939, p. 66. -, Proceso intelectual del Uruguay y critica de su literatura, Montevideo, 1941, p. 558. 4 Zum Felde, Alberto, Proceso intelectual del Uruguay y critica de su litera- tura, Montevideo, 1941, p. 558. 197 REVISTA I B E R O A M E R IC ANA La delineaci6n de El padre Samuel es bastante sencilla. La acci6n empieza en Rosario, Argentina. Gabriel, el narrador de la historia, tiene nueve afios cuando contempla a su madre muerta. Su padre, despu6s de asegurar al hijito que su madre se ha ido al cielo y alli le espera, se dis- pone para emprender un viaje largo dejando a Gabriel en casa de un matrimonio, amigos oriundos de Galicia. Sollozando el ninio se despide de su padre que promete volver por el. Pasados unos meses, le dicen a Gabriel que ahora es hu6rfano de padre y el nifio solitario se siente tras- pasado de tristeza y de confusi6n. Con el tiempo un rayo de luz penetra su noche. Desde Chile, un tio suyo, sacerdote, sabiendo el estado lasti- tnoso del huerfano manda una carta en que ofrece cuidar y educar a Gabriel con tal que se reina con 1l. Los preparativos se hacen y Gabriel, acompafiado de Villalonga, el muletero principal, que es tambien amigo del tio Samuel en Chile, se pone en marcha. En el camino, Villalonga se muestra locuaz. Pinta al padre Samuel como var6n guapo y alegre que en su juventud tenia entusiasmadas a cuantas muchachas le conocie- ron. Antes de llegar a Concepci6n, Gabriel ya se ha formado una idea algo concreta de c6mo sera su tio, pero no esti preparado para el encuen- tro que sigue. En el and6n ve acercarse a un hombre distinguido en quien reconoce a su padre por la forma de hablar. Desde ese momento se establece entre ellos una relaci6n como entre padre e hijo que se con- servara a lo largo de la novela; para el piblico, Gabriel es sobrino; para esos raros momentos preciosos cuando los dos se hallan en conversaci6n intima, es el hijo amado. La juventud pasada del padre Samuel se desenvuelve o por confi- dencias hechas en conversaci6n con Gabriel o por conversaciones entre Samuel y viejos amigos, escuchadas de paso por el nifio. De joven, no estaba Samuel de talante para ser sacerdote, muy al contrario, pero ce- diendo al anhelo de una madre ciega, el hijo inimo acab6 por servir de cura en Corufia, en la querida "tierruca" en donde naci6. Trasladado a Ambrica sirvi6 en una parroquia en Montevideo. De visita en Galicia, Samuel sinti6 un amor humano tan profundo que juzg6 justificado "colgar la sotana", casarse con Soledad y volver con ella a America. Pa- saron diez afios idilicos. Soledad, moribunda, pidi6 a Samuel la promesa de volver a la iglesia y despues de pasar 61 un afio piadoso y penitente, le recibieron otra vez en el oficio sacerdotal. El amor por el padre y la admiraci6n hacia el sacerdote tienen su influencia sobre el nifio. "-No tienes pasta para ello", replica Samuel a la petici6n de Gabriel de seguir estudios teol6gicos, pero un cambio 198 RE S E AS de localidad geogrifica trae otros cambios. En Victoria, en el sur de Chile, el hijo, ayudando al padre en la misa comete errores ridiculos, y presencia la muerte trigica de su querida amiguita, Blanca. El padre Samuel suefia con volver a Galicia. En la "tierruca" de su madre debe educarse el hijo, y Samuel emprende el viaje a Montevideo por barco adonde lega en plena gloria de la primavera. La casa de ami- gos gallegos es suya y alli se congregan los compatriotas, entretenidos en forma brillante por Samuel que cuenta an6cdotas, canta y se rie con todos. Solo, con el amo de la casa y su esposa, Samuel les abre el coraz6n calmando sus sospechas y revelindoles la verdadera identidad de Gabriel. Un mal de coraz6n le aflige y la condici6n es agravada por noticias de Espafia. La madre de Soledad escribe para advertirle que fuera mejor no volver. "Arrepentido al fin de esas sus andanzas por tierras de Ame- rica" el buen padre Samuel fallece. Otra vez el nifio se halla solo. Resulta obvio que El padre Samuel no puede considerarse como no- vela picaresca de la misma manera que consideramos el Lazarillo o el Buscdn. Hay en la obra de Castro una ternura y tono lirico que nos hace pensar en el fondo po6tico del autor. Del cariiio por parte de Samuel hacia su hijo hay muchos ejemplos. Vueltos al Uruguay desde Chile, el padre disimula su enfermedad y sus dudas de llegar vivo a Galicia, ani- mando a Gabriel, -"Non te afligas, rapacifio. Llegaremos a Galicia con el florecer de los almendros. Ten por cierto que las mismas estrellas que guiaban a Carlomagno nos conducirdn hasta la tierra de su santa madre". Falta un picaro en el libro pero verdad es que hay incidentes narrados por un nifio inocente e ingenuo que colman lo c6mico. La primera prueba de Gabriel como monacillo trae confusi6n completa y dice: -"Pretendi ioh infeliz! levantar el extremo de la casulla antes del debido tiempo, pero la voz del padre Samuel me hizo volver en mi, en tanto-mi rostro se puso al rojo vivo. -Mejor seria que levantaras la cola a los perros- dijome por lo bajo y echindome una mirada fulminante". El conflicto en las novelas picarescas espafiolas se origina entre el picaro y una sociedad que le desdefia por su ociosidad y que a la vez 61 mira desdefioso. Conflicto hay en la vida del padre Samuel pero surge del intento de suprimir un espiritu entusiasta y alegre entre los limites algo estrechos del regimien pastoral. Bien sabia el padre lo que decia cuando contest6 la petici6n de Gabriel con "No tienes pasta para ello". El conflicto se declar6 en rebeli6n abierta durante los afios de su matri- monio y cuando, despubs, volvi6 a ponerse la sotana ya tenia como con- suelo el fruto de esos afios. Aun en Victoria, el puro gozo de vivir le hizo pasar de los limites de la circunspecci6n. En unos juegos inocentes, 199 REV I S T A I BEROAMERICANA el padre Samuel sorprende a Gabriel besando a Blanca, su compafiera, en los labios. Esa noche Samuel invita a Gabriel a confesarse y siguen unas preguntas. "- Quien te enseii6 a besar asi? -Las palomas, tio. -Las palomas? Sabes que tiene crispa tu confesi6n? ,De modo que las palomas te ensefiaron a besar? -Si, tio, -afirm6 azoradisimo. -Sin embargo, tengo para mi que las palomas no se cogen de la cintura para besarse. Tu sabes algo mas. Acaso alli en C6rdoba, en casa de Palacios... -No, no, tio; es la primera vez que beso a una nifia. -~Nunca viste besar a una pareja de enamorados? Enmudeci de nuevo. Todo se con- fundia en mi mente, pareci6me que aquella confesi6n no terminaba nunca. Ante el apremio de la pregunta, me arm6 de valor y dije con toda la ver- dad: -Si, tio, he visto. Una mafiana observ6 que besabas a Isabel; quise hacer lo mismo y Dios me castig6. Perd6name... -exclam6 en tono de contrici6n. El padre Samuel dio un salto sobre la silla y frunci6 e! cefio: ... Al fin me dijo: -Si asi, como ti dices, hijo mio, no me queda mas remedio que absolverte y sin latines... Lev~ntate y sigue jugando con Blanca. Eso si: ten cuidado y no des en imitar demasiado a las palomas". Zum Felde le llama "el buen cura espafiol, de recia contextura y noble fondo, pero no muy severo en sus disciplinas...".5 Por medio de Samuel y sus amigos esparcidos por el Uruguay, Chile y la Argentina, sabemos lo que es la nostalgia por Galicia, la "tierruca" amada. Nunca cesa de llamar a sus hijos. En America el gallego busca amigos entre otros gallegos y sus entretenimientos son las canciones y reminiscencias de su tierra. Manuel de Castro, narrador y creador de personajes, nos permite comprender lo que es el alma de un hombre. A pesar de unos detalles t&cnicos, por ejemplo el uso por el narrador de la primera persona del singular, claramente El padre Samuel rebasa los limites del genero pica- resco y queda como documento humano que merece larga vida y el interes del lector inteligente. MARGARET M. RAMOS Dickinson College, Pa. RALPH E. WARNER, Bibliografia de Ignacio Manuel Altamirano, Impren- ta Universitaria, M6xico, 1955, 218 pp. Ralph E. Warner, ampliamente conocido por su colaboraci6n en la Bibliografia de la Poesia Mexicana (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 5 ibid., p. 558. 200 RESENAS _ 1934) y por su valioso estudio Historia de la Novela Mexicana en el Si- glo XIX (Robredo, Mexico, 1953), es, sin duda, uno de los estudiosos mns capacitados para la tarea que da sus frutos en este libro, instrumento indispensable no s61o para el conocimiento de uno de los mas polifac&- ticos autores del siglo pasado en M6xico, sino tambien para la total comprensi6n de un periodo orientador y decisivo en el desarrollo de las letras patrias. Como especialista en Altamirano, Warner cuenta en su haber una tesis doctoral (The Life and WIorks of Ignacio Manuel Altamirano, Uni- versity of California, 1936) que, tal vez por permanecer inedita, no aparece en el presente libro entre los estudios sobre la vida y las obras de Altamirano, cuyas fichas integran la segunda parte de esta Bibliogra- fia; el pr6logo y recopilaci6n de Paisajes y Leyendas (Tradiciones y Cos- tumbres de Mexico, Segunda Serie) (Robredo, M6xico, 1949) aparte de otras contribuciones al estudio de este autor, estos si incluidos en la secci6n correspondiente. Esta obra viene a completar la magnifica labor de Rafael Heliodoro Valle en el Homenaje a Ignacio M. Altamirano (Imprenta Universitaria, M6xico, 1935) y en la Bibliografia de Manuel Ignacio Altamirano (D. A. P. P., M6xico, 1939) y la del propio compilador Warner, "Bibliografia de las obras de Ignacio Manuel Altamirano", en Revista Iberoamericana, vol. III, niim. 6 (mayo 1941), pp. 465-512. En la "Introducci6n" Warner apunta el metodo que sigue en la or- denaci6n de su acerbo bibliografico, repartiendolo en las siguientes sec- ciones tradicionales: I. Colecciones de generos varios. II. Poesia. III. No- vela y novela corta. IV. Paisajes y Leyendas. V. Critica literaria. Biblio- grafia, Biografia, Cr6nicas y revistas. VI. Pr6logos, cartas-pr61ogos, in- troducciones, etc. VII. Discursos. VIII. Cartas. IX. Articulos varios. X. Traducciones y adaptaciones, secciones que constituyen la primera parte de la obra, estando la segunda, como ya se dijo, dedicada a los escritos sobre Altamirano. Se incluye tambien un itil indice de personas. Con visi6n discernidora Warner ha omitido numerosas entradas que figuraban en las bibliografias previas, explicando en la misma "intro- ducci6n" la raz6n de su procedimiento. Son de especial interns algunas de las notas explicativas que el compilador afiade a ciertas fichas. A pesar de algunas erratas, son de alabarse la atractiva presentaci6n tipogr- fica y la esmerada edici6n de esta obra. MANUEL DE EZCURDIA University of California, Berkeley 201 202 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA ROBERT G. MEAD, JR., Breve historia del ensayo hispanoamericano, M6- xico, Ediciones de Andrea, 1956, 143 pp. La Breve historia del ensayo hispanoamericano, de Robert G. Mead, Jr., la tercera de la serie de resimenes hist6rico-criticos que viene publi- cando la Libreria Studium de la capital mexicana, nos merece una acogida muy calurosa a todos los que profesamos un amor entrafiable a las letras hispanoamericanas, seamos estudiosos o curiosos, profesores o estudiantes. A los estudiosos porque este pequefio libro, tan denso como lo es breve, es en realidad una especie de diario de navegaci6n que documenta el rumbo seguido por el pensamiento en Hispanoambrica, desde el descu- brimiento hasta nuestros dias, siendo asi tanto por su tema como por su contenido una manifestaci6n mis de que la America de habla espaiiola ha llegado a la madurez intelectual; a los curiosos porque les ofrece la ocasi6n de hacer una excursi6n doblemente provechosa, puesto que es amena, por entre los mojones ensayisticos colocados por algunos de los pensadores ms recios que haya producido Hispanoamerica; a los pro- fesores porque puede que les sefiale nuevos derroteros hacia una mejor comprensi6n, mediante las bibliografias criticas generales e individuales, de nuestros ensayistas mis destacados; y a los estudiantes porque les suministra la indispensable orientaci6n hist6rico-critica, sugiriendoles a la vez selectas lecturas representativas y conduciendoles a las principales fuentes bibliograficas de la critica que se ha publicado respecto a cada ensayista comentado. Todo esto lo ha logrado admirablemente el autor y, en realidad, es algo mis de lo que, con modestia, dice haberse pro- puesto, pues habia pretendido ocuparse particularmente de las necesida- des de los profesores y de los estudiantes a fin de ofrecerles un libro lo mis itil posible que les sirviera de guia y que les ayudara a ponerse en condiciones de ahondar en un g6nero poco estudiado y cuyo signifi- cado est6tico y cultural, por consiguiente, todavia sigue desconocido en gran parte. La organizaci6n del libro es la siguiente: en los ocho capitulos de que consta se trata del ensayo como genero literario (I), de la prosa de la Colonia y de la Emancipaci6n (II), de los grandes precursores (III), de los primeros ensayistas (IV), de la generaci6n de i88o (V), del ensayo durante el modernismo (VI), durante el posmodernismo (VII) y del ensayo de hoy (VIII), llegando en este iltimo a los ensayistas nacidos por el afio de 1900. Ademas, se presentan una bibliografia general y el igualmente indispensable indice onomistico. Los escritores a quienes RESE1NAS el autor considera como los mis importantes van sefialados con dos as- teriscos, las lecturas sugeridas de igual importancia, con uno. Las lectu- ras asi indicadas el autor proyecta reunirlas en antologia como comple- mento de la Historia del ensayo. Sumamente interesantes son las piginas que el autor dedica al en- sayo como genero literario. Alli pasa revista a la historia antigua y mo- derna del desarrollo de la clase de escritos que hoy dia denominamos ensayos. Traza su desenvolvimiento desde la antigiiedad clisica hasta nuestros dias, para lo cual sefiala a los autores que mas se han destacado a lo largo de los siglos en los paises diferentes. Respecto a Espafia, des- pues de indicar la importancia de Feij6o como precursor caracterizado del g6nero, hace hincapie en la poca atenci6n prestada a esta clase de prosa hasta fines del siglo pasado, epoca en que aparecieron figuras tan nobles como Giner de los Rios y Joaquin Costa; estos habian de influir de un modo profundo sobre los conocidisimos ensayistas de la generaci6n del 98, de la misma manera que estos filtimos a su vez habian de ins- pirar y servir de modelo a los ensayistas espafioles que les siguieron. Es curioso notar, como lo ha observado muy atinadamente el profesor Mead, que la palabra "ensayo", en el sentido de describir un g6nero literario, no logr6 plena aceptaci6n en Espafia hasta despues de x900. Ademis del aspecto hist6rico del tema, se plantea en este capitulo el problema dificilisimo de los generos literarios y de si hay un g6nero ensayistico susceptible de definirse. Partiendo de la base de que la literatura, proteica por un lado y una manifestaci6n de intuici6n pura por otro, es incontenible dentro de marcos fijos y arbitrarios, se afirma que a los g6neros literarios les falta un sentido de realidad y de valor inherente. El autor cree que las clasificaciones tienen, por lo menos, al- guna utilidad, porque en seguida empieza a analizar lo que se considera como ensayo y se propone ofrecer una definici6n. Principiando con la ms corriente y amplia, le poda unas ramas y presenta otra mas literaria, aunque todavia bastante difundida, para legar a la intrinsecamente lite- raria que ha formulado Enrique Anderson Imbert, a quien cita al res- pecto para dar remate a su discusi6n del ensayo como g6nero literario. No todos los 55 escritores estudiados concuerdan con la descripci6n alu- dida, la cual hace hincapie en los aspectos literarios y de alto valor est- tico del ensayo. No debe extrafiar a nadie que la mitad de ellos, quizis, no alcance el alto nivel artistico que exige. Mead lo sabe y lo deja explicito. Hace historia y esta tarea supone, sobre todo, la organizaci6n y ordenaci6n de los datos interesantes al desarrollo del genero, lo mismo 203 204 REvIsTA IBEROAMERICANA que del fondo sobre el cual actian los maestros del ensayo de las iltimas d&cadas. Asi, ha incluido a no pocos escritores que, importantes para el desenvolvimiento del genero ensayistico en America, han permanecido en las regiones limitrofes del ensayo propiamente dicho. La actitud es sanisima y el resultado es feliz, produciendo un cuadro rico en detalles y matices de las valiosas aportaciones a la madurez del genero que han hecho en su pro infatigables trabajadores de la pluma. Para cuando el autor piense en una segunda edici6n -que ojala sea pronto, pues seguramente la primera se agotari en breve- aprovecha- mos para sefialarle dos defectillos que nos han llamado la atenci6n: el c'lebre predicador padre Vieira no era brasilefio, sino portugues, si bien es verdad que pas6 gran parte de su vida en el Brasil colonial (pAg. 22), y las Obras de Sarmiento no suman 57 volimenes, sino 52 (pag. 33). Tambi6n, y con el mismo prop6sito, queremos participarle algunas ob- servaciones que se nos impusieron mientras leiamos su libro. Como es de esperar en cuanto a manuales hist6rico-criticos, no todos los lectores estarin contentos con los autores elegidos para integrar el libro; es inevi- table. Unos se preguntarin por qu6 se ha dedicado todo un capitulo a los prosistas del periodo colonial, puesto que en Espafia apenas habia asomo del ensayo en la forma en que lo comprendemos hoy, y mucho menos en Hispanoamrica. A otros les extrafiara que se haya incluido a cierto escritor o que se haya dejado de mencionar a otro. A nosotros, por ejemplo, nos parece imprescindible la inclusi6n de Francisco Bilbao en la n6mina de los precursores hispanoamericanos del ensayo, no s61o por sus escritos de caricter ensayistico, sino tambien por su vinculaci6n con el desarrollo de las ideas filos6ficas en America y por haberse ocupado de temas que con los afios les habrian de interesar hondamente a algunos de nuestros pensadores modernos mas caracterizados. Tampoco les agradara a todos, quizis, cada detalle de los analisis hist6rico-criticos que se han hecho de las corrientes literarias y de los escritores tratados. Sin entrar en pormenores, sefialaremos los sitios en donde, a nuestro juicio, el autor podria haber robustecido sus interpre- tciones. En las introducciones a los capitulos III ("Los grandes precur- sores") y IV ("Los primeros ensayistas") no quedarian mal cuatro pala- bras relativas a la importancia de las diversas filosofias (principalmente las humanitarias y las positivistas) que estaban en pugna a principios del siglo xix, las cuales han dejado sus huellas indeleblemente impresas en la vida de occidente desde aquellos tiempos. En las piginas que dedica al modernismo (Cap. VI) habria resultado mas equilibrado el analisis RESENAS si se hubiera prestado mis atenci6n a la gran deuda del modernismo al romanticismo, siendo aqu6l en el fondo mas bien una liberaci6n y una superaci6n del estado de inimo romintico. Tambi6n, si bien nos damos cuenta de las limitaciones de espacio que se le impusieron al autor, no deja de extrafiarnos un poco que no se haya vinculado de alguna manera el desarrollo del pensamiento de fines del siglo xx y principios del actual y, por consiguiente, el del ensayo, su instrumento de expresi6n por excelencia, con los prosistas de la genera- ci6n espafiola de 1898. Poniendo a un lado las influencias, es inne- gable, a niuestro parecer, que nuestros autores y los espaiioles de aque- lla epoca arrostraban no pocos temas parecidos y que los m6viles y la actitud frente a la vida de ambos grupos eran demasiado semejantes para que se les pasara por encima sin mentarlos. Ademas, consta que a partir del modernismo, y desde ambos lados del Atlintico, se empez6 a reparar y a estrechar los lazos, en especial los culturales, no s61o entre los paises hispanoamericanos, sino tambien con Espaia, lazos que habian permanecido o rotos del todo o muy mellados desde la epoca de las gue- rras de la independencia. A la casa editora, tambien, cuatro palabras. De gran provecho hu- biera sido la utilizaci6n de alguna clase de tipo especial para asi distin- guir y poner aparte las paginas en las que se encuentra el comentario principal respecto a cada escritor; de esta manera el lector curioso no se veria en la necesidad de hojear tantas piginas para hallar lo medular. Tambien, el indice de materias habria sido mas itil si tuviera una lista completa de los autores comentados, ordenados por capitulos, para que asi el lector se formase de un vistazo una idea global de la trayectoria que lleva el libro. No obstante los reparos que acabamos de indicar (ninguno de los cuales disminuye el alto valor intrinsico de la Breve historia del ensayo hispanoamericano), la selecci6n de los autores tratados, asi como las des- cripciones hist6rico-criticas de los mismos y de las corrientes literarias, son excelentes y Ilenan por completo los requisitos de un manual de esta indole. El profesor Mead ha obrado con buen tino y con rigurosa hon- radez e imparcialidad frente a problemas de an.lisis y de sintesis no siempre f ciles de resolver. El resultado es un libro sumamente fitil y provechoso. CLAUDE L. HULET Washington University, St. Louis, Missouri. 205 RE VIS TA IBEROA MERICANA RODRIGO M. F. DE ANDRADE, As artes plAsticas no Brasil. Emp. Grif. Ouvidor, Rio de Janeiro, 1952. 296 pp. Esti a venda o primeiro dos tres volumes que constituir.o um estudo s6bre a evolucgo das artes pl6sticas no Brasil. Sob a dire. o de Rodrigo Melo Franco de Andrade, vinte-e-cinco especialistas trabalham na ela- boracgo desta obra gigantesca. O primeiro volume estuda a evolucgo das artes plisticas no Brasil desde as primeiras manifestac6es arqueol6gicas (por Frederico Barata) e da arte indigena (por Gastio Cruls). Seguem capitulos s6bre as artes populares (por Cecilia Meireles), os antecedentes portugueses e ex6ticos (por Reynaldo dos Santos), mobiliario (por J. Wasth Rodrigues), ourivesaria (por Jose e Gizella Valladares), e o 1lti- mo capitulo, louga e porcelana (por Francisco Marques dos Santos). Cada capitulo termina corn uma bibliografia das obras mais importantes que tratam de cada assunto. Este primeiro volume e de grande formato, enriquecido por nume- rosas e excelentes ilustracges. Os volumes que devem aparecer incluirao capitulos s6bre a pintura, a escultura e a arquitetura no Brasil desde o periodo colonial ate hoje. E, realmente, uma obra monumental -um gran- de servico prestado a cultura brasileira. ALBERT R. LOPES Universidade de Novo MAxico STANLEY T. WILLIAMS, The Spanish Background of American Literature. Yale University Press, New Haven, 1955, 2 vols., xxvii + 433 Y viii + 441 pp. $Io.oo. Segfn observa la Enciclopedia Universal Ilustrada (Barcelona, I925), los Estados Unidos de Norteambrica han tomado la delantera en el cam- po del hispanismo literario: "En el desarrollo de este articulo ["Hispanis- mo", t. XXVII, p. 17671 se sigue el orden marcado por la importancia que la tendencia misma tiene en los varios paises. Se da, pues, la pre- ferencia a los Estados Unidos, siguiendo luego Francia, Alemania, Ingla- terra, Italia, etc." Y son algunos estudiosos norteamericanos los que han logrado acabar con la leyenda de la crueldad espafiola en el nuevo mun- do: "Una pujante, fecunda y reivindicadora hispanofilia hase desarrollado en la gran Repiblica norteamericana. Tratase no s6lo de la exaltaci6n de nuestras glorias literarias, sino de la reivindicaci6n de nuestra historia, es- pecialmente en lo que concierne al descubrimiento, conquista, colonizaci6n 206 R E S E AS 2 y civilizaci6n de America. No solamente se estudia y admira nuestro idio- ma y literatura, se traducen sus principales producciones y se realizan tra- bajos de investigaci6n de las letras espafiolas, sino que tambien sacan a luz de los archivos los documentos que hablan la verdad acerca de la actuaci6n de Espafia en America y se destruye la famosa leyenda negra que nuestros enemigos y envidiosos habian forjado." Sin embargo, salvo la obra de Miguel Romera-Navarro, un esfuerzo inicial titulado El Hispanismo en Norteamrica (917), algunas alusiones de Van Wyck Brooks en sus famosas historias de la literatura norteame- ricana, unas tesis doctorales ineditas y varios articulos, los criticos esta- dounidenses, atraidos por el prestigio de otras culturas europeas, no han visto bien el constante interes que en nuestro pais se ha sentido por el mundo hispanico. Ahora, con los dos grandes tomos de The Spanish Background of American Literature (1955), esta laguna se ha llenado casi completamente, gracias a Stanley T. Williams, profesor de Literatura Norteamericana en la Universidad de Yale y celebre autoridad sobre Wash- ington Irving. Asombrosa es la extensi6n de este campo de especializaci6n y ca6ticas las innumerables ramificaciones. No obstante, con su libro met6dicamente dividido en cuatro partes, con 260 piginas de notas, indices y documen- taci6n esmerada, Williams ensaya comprender todo y nos ofrece un ver- dadero compendio de esta inmensa cantidad de materia. Estudia el pe- riodo entero, es decir, desde el siglo diecisiete hasta ahora; incluye no s61o las influencias peninsulares, sino tambien las de igual o mayor importan- cia, las hispanoamericanas y las del suroeste hispanizado de los Estados Unidos; ademis de los escritores de novelas, dramas y poesia, trata tam- bien de los otros que, en su opini6n, constituyeron las fuentes principales de inspiraci6n en los siglos diecinueve y veinte: los autores de literatura de viajes, los periodistas, los creadores de historias "rom6nticas" de Espafia, un genero muy en boga durante el siglo pasado, los modificadores de la "leyenda negra" y los maestros, traductores y criticos. Sin limitarse a la literatura, pasa al campo de los pintores, miisicos, escultores y arqui- tectos que tambien han vuelto hacia lo espaiol. Sin duda, lo muy significativo de este analisis es el reexamen, en estilo biogrifico, del mas conocido contingente de hispanistas: Washington Ir- ving y William Hickling Prescott, historiadores "rominticos" de Espafia; George Ticknor, historiador de la literatura castellana; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow y William Cullen Bryant, traductores y poetas inspirados por temas hispinicos; James Russell Lowell, poeta y maestro del castellano; 207 REVISTA IBEROAME RICAN A Francis Bret Harte, cuentista de la California hispanizada, y William Dean Howells, critico de la novela realista espafiola. Tambien nos llama la atenci6n la interpretaci6n de Williams de las preocupaciones de los no- velistas del siglo veinte por Espafia: John Dos Passos, inspirado por la corriente del liberalismo de la Peninsula; Ernest Hemingway, estimulado por el drama de la sangre y la muerte en la plaza de toros; Gertrude Stein y su afinidad con la mente espafiola, y Willa Cather, conmovida por el mundo religioso y misionero del Estado de Nuevo Mexico. Se ve que este tremendo trabajo ha resultado de un verdadero amor por el tema, y quiz, del inters del autor, desde hace muchos afios, por Irving, en quien la inspiraci6n hisp6nica tuvo su 6xito mas brillante. El autor ha recogido todos los hilos de influencias para tejer un libro tan agradable y f cil de leer como esas historias "rominticas" de Espafia de las cuales nos habla. Indudablemente, ha introducido al mundo intelectual un nuevo campo de especializaci6n sumamente extenso y rico. FREDERICK S. STIMSON Northwestern University LA CULTURA Y LA LITERATURA IBEROAMERICANA. Memoria del Septimo Congreso del Instituto Internacional de Literatura Ibero- americanas. Berkeley, California, 1955. M6xico, Ediciones De An- drea, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1957, 237 pigs. (Coleccion Studium, No. I6). El titulo de esta memoria fue el tema central del congreso reunido en Berkeley los dias 29, 30 y 31 de agosto de 1955, y su contenido es el texto de los trabajos leidos entonces; se han ordenado cronol6gicamente, "segin la fecha del aspecto del problema" tratado en ellos, dice Luis Mongui6, autor de la Advertencia preliminar, pp. 7-8, y presidente de la Comisi6n de Trabajos. El volumen lleva como pr61ogo una meditaci6n general sobre El tema de la cultura, pp. 9-i9, de Arturo Torres Rioseco, presidente del Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana .y del Septimo Congreso. Las piginas de Torres Rioseco, aunque referidas a la cultura en la America hispinica, plantean el problema de la libertad intelectual en todo el mundo moderno: "Una vez perdida la libertad, el artista o el pensador ya no tie- nen raz6n de ser" y "el profesor que transige se convierte en un ser las- timoso". 208 RE S E AS La Seccin hispanoamericana reine dieciseis trabajos y la brasilefa, cuatro. Es de notarse que seis de la primera se refieren en especial al mo- dernismo o a sus grandes figuras, y que s61o tres escritores contemporineos merecieron la atenci6n de los especialistas en literatura de lengua espafiola o brasilefia: Mario Monteforte Toledo, Marques Rebelo y Manuel Bandeira. El orden cronol6gico de la Seccidn hispanoamericana nos presenta en primer t&rmino El .espiritu sentencioso de Martin Fierro, pp. 21-32, segun Maria de Villarino; sea nuestro inico comentario la desaprobaci6n que daria Jorge Luis Borges a la cita mutilada de Calixto Oyuela, extraida de El "Martin Fierro" (Buenos Aires, Editorial Columba, 1953, p. 71), que la autora da sin fecha y sin paginaci6n. Enrique Anderson Imbert nos muestra La originalidad del "Tabari", pp. 35-55, reconociendo que "el tema no tiene importancia" y que "s61o comprendiendo su firme concep- ci6n cat61lica de la vida puede apreciarse el valor de Tabard". Tres nom- bres en Varona [Renan, Shakespeare y Nietzsche], pp. 57-67, por Jose Ferrer Canales. Kurt L. Levy ejemplifica Revuelta y tradicidn: Dos valores del mosaico cultural iberoamericano, pp. 69-79, con la figura de Juan de Dios Uribe, el Indio Uribe colombiano. Los seis estudios dedicados al periodo modernista vienen a conti- nuaci6n: El Mexico de Gutierrez Najera, pp. 81-88, de Julio Jimenez Rue- da, sugerente evocaci6n que completa al de Alfredo Maillefert, al frente de los Cuentos, crdnicas y ensayos, de Gutierrez Najera (M6xico, 1940). El arte literario en la poesia de Diaz Mirdn, pp. 89-105, de Fran- cisco Monterde, se public6, bajo el titulo de La estetica de Diaz Mirdn, en su poesia, en su Salvador Diaz Mirdn. Documentos. Estitica (M6xico, Ediciones Filosofia y Letras, 1956, pp. 37-80). Una posible rectificaci6n, la fecha de Al chorro del estanque..., ya fue hecha por el propio autor en su Diaz Mirdn. El hombre. La obra (Mexico, Ediciones De Andrea, 1956, p. 88). En El signo de la cultura en la poesia hispanoamericana, pp. 117-122, Bernardo Gicovate al proponer el elemento cultural como definitorio de "lo esencial de nuestra tradici6n po6tica", cita a Heredia, Bello, Alfonso Reyes, para concluir asi: "El significado del modernismo entonces es, m.s que nada, la vuelta a nuestra tradici6n de cultura". George D. Schade estudia La mitologia clcisica en la poesia modernista hispano- americana, pp. 123-29. Edmundo Garcia-Gir6n considera El modernismo como evasidn cultural, pp. 131-137. Y Donald F. Fogelquist insiste sobre El caraicter hispanico del modernismo, pp. 139-I45. (Esta lista no es sim- plemente enumerativa; los tiempos verbales, a su modo, valorizan los ilti- mos trabajos). 209 REVISTA IBER.OAMERICAN A Max Henriquez Urefia (Urefi en la firma; Urena en el indice) ofrece un panorama sint6tico de las Influencias francesas en la novela de la Ame- rica hispanica, pp. o107-I6, desde las traducciones de Jacobo de Villa- urrutia (1792) y de fray Servando (iSoi) hasta La sangre hambrienta (1950), de Enrique Labrador Ruiz. Igual panorama de las letras brasile- fias nos da Erico Verissimo en su ensayo O novo descobrimento do Brasil, pp. 231-236. El resto de los trabajos son monografias sobre autores relacionados con el tema de la cultura o la vida: David Bary, con informaciones de pri- mera mano, escribe sobre Vicente Huidobro, agente viajero de la poesia, pp. 147-153; Hugo Rodriguez Alcala, en Sentido y alcance de las compa- raciones en "Don Segundo Sombra'", pp. 155-63, ve a Giiiraldes utilizando los elementos de la pampa para enriquecer la realidad; Alfredo Roggiano estudia La idea de la cultura en Baldomiero. Sanin Cano, pp. 164-173, par- tiendo de los propios textos del maestro desaparecido, y llega a la conclu- si6n de que fue "un espiritualista con ribetes neokantianos, un tanto sedu- cido por Nietzsche, sin duda, pero mas cerca de la escuela inglesa de Bradley y Royce; Augusto Tamayo Vargas puntualiza las relaciones entre Maritegui y la cultura peruana, pp. 175-182; Gustavo Correa hace un detenido estudio de La novela indianista de Mario Monteforte Toledo y el problema de una cultura integral en Guatemala, pp. I8 3-95; Jack H. Parker en Manuel Antonio de Almeida, Balzac brasileiro, pp. I97-203, compara las Memrias de um sargento de milicias con pasajes de Eugenie Grandet (1834) y Pere Goriot (1834-1835); Leo Kirschenbaum se ocupa detalladamente de Marques Rebelo e a vida carioca, pp. 205-215; y Gerald M. Moser traza la imagen de O Brasil do poeta Manuel Bandeira, pp. 217- 229, con abundantes transcripciones y referencias bibliogrificas. Imposible en breves lineas describir y valorar acertadamente los tra- bajos del apretado volumen que constituye esta memoria; estamos de acuerdo con Luis Mongui6 al afirmar que "hay en este libro trabajos, que en las mismas premisas o en las conclusiones, parecen divergir de otros aqui tambien impresos; todos ellos, sin embargo, asedian igualmente con inteligencia y con amor una cultura que por su complejidad de origen y de desarrollo admite en su estudio diversas hip6tesis de trabajo y diversos caminos de entrada. Mis investigaciones, mas descripciones, mas inter- pretaciones, mas evaluaciones como stas son precisamente la via que nos ha de llevar paso a paso al coraz6n de la historia de la cultura literaria iberoamericana". Una observaci6n, que por cierto no invalida el merito de estos tra- 210 k EsE A S bajos, de investigaci6n en su mayor parte, es la referente a la calidad del espafiol en que estan redactados. Es visible el decoro lingiiistico de los profesores de la America hispinica que viven en ella y el esfuerzo de los norteamericanos que escriben en una lengua que no es la suya; no asi el de los latinos que viven en los Estados Unidos, quizi pensando en ingles: propensidad 'propensity' por propensidn (Garcia-Gir6n), o han olvidado que los apellidos ya no se pluralizan: "los Martis y los Darios" (Gicovate), por ejemplo. ERNESTO MEJiA SANCHEZ El Colegio de Mexico LuIs LEAL, Breve historia del cuento mexicano, Manuales Studium, 2; Ediciones De Andrea, M6xico, 1956, I66 pp. El pequefio volumen de Luis Leal es una guia valiosa para quien se interese en el tema. Utilisimo como recuento de las distintas manifesta- ciones del g6nero desde los tiempos prehispinicos hasta nuestros dias, como indicador bibliogrifico y consejero de lecturas, resulta a veces poco homogeneo y original. El prurito de encasillar en rigurosos grupos a los diversos autores y de reducir a una ficha minima -aunque no siempre completa- la presentaci6n de cada uno, la tendencia a echar mano de opiniones ajenas, disminuyen en ciertos momentos los meritos de la obra. Por ejemplo, no vemos con demasiada claridad por que Juan Jose Arreola (pp. 13-x32) figura, sin mis, entre los escritores expresionistas, cuando su producci6n sobrepasa ese limite; no convence tampoco la inclusi6n ro- tunda de Juan Rulfo (pp. 141-142) entre los continuadores del realismo, sin que por lo menos se advierta que el suyo es un realismo muy parti- cular. Pero como el autor reconoce en la Introducci6n (p. 9) que "la clasificaci6n... es hasta cierto punto arbitraria" y no del todo "precisa", preferimos no insistir en el asunto. El af~n de sintesis lleva muchas veces a Luis Leal a conceder espacio equivalente a autores de muy distinta cate- goria: Alfonso Reyes, maestro consagrado, merece apenas unas lineas mis que Emmanuel Carballo, escritor principiante que nada ha publicado en materia de cuentos despubs de Gran estorbo la esperanza (pp. 90-91 y 147). Por otra parte, nos hubiera gustado conocer mejor las opiniones del autor, pues por lo general prefiere recurrir a juicios de otros, no siempre lo suficientemente equilibrados por la edad y el rigor critico para servir de apoyo a un libro serio. 211 212 R E V I S T A IB E R O A M E R I C A N A Como Luis Leal se propone completar su obra, le recordamos que al mencionar a Arreola ha omitido su primer libro (Varia invencidn, Tezon- tie, 1949), publicado hoy junto con Confabulario en la serie Letras mexi- canas del Fondo de Cultura Econ6mica y le indicamos que falta en la bi- bliografia de Juan Rulfo el estudio mis importante que se haya escrito sobre Cl: el articulo de Carlos Blanco Aguinaga aparecido en la Revista Mexicana de Literatura, nuim. I, 1955. Todas las observaciones que hemos hecho no invalidan en modo al- guno el mcrito informativo del libro que, volvemos a repetir, es una guia de extrema utilidad. EMMA SUSANA SPERATTI PIrERO El Colegio de Mdxico, 
work_4gml3hotmze63obh35ifdmxqo4	----	Shared Reading at a Distance: The Commonplace Books of the Stockton Family, 1812–40 Shared Reading at a Distance: The Commonplace Books of the Stockton Family, 1812–40 Amanda Watson Book History, Volume 18, 2015, pp. 103-133 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ Access provided at 6 Apr 2021 02:01 GMT from Carnegie Mellon University ] https://doi.org/10.1353/bh.2015.0006 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/597281 https://doi.org/10.1353/bh.2015.0006 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/597281 On November 1, 1864, 74-year-old Mary Stockton Harrison took out her handwritten commonplace book of poetry and wrote a dedication to her nephew Robert F. Stockton, Jr., on its flyleaf, bequeathing it to him after her death “in token of my affection and gratitude to him & his for their unvariable kindness and tenderness to me.” She had begun copying poems into the volume, a bulky gilt-edged blank book, as a young bride in 1812; she and her family and friends had continued to do so into the 1850s. The book’s 200 leaves were mostly full by the time she bequeathed it to her nephew Robert, more than fifty years after she began it. As Mary Harrison turned the pages of her collection, she held the record not only of decades’ worth of her own reading, but of a web of family relationships that her com- monplace book both commemorated and helped to keep alive. It contained a trove of published poems selected, shared, and re-copied by Mary and her sisters, including several poems about or by members of the Stockton family (including, in a few cases, Mary herself). The volume that Robert Stockton inherited from his aunt was more than a collection of favorite quotations; it was a repository of strong family attachments, expressed through an en- gagement with poetry. Mary Harrison was not the only member of her family to compile a com- monplace book. Two of her younger sisters, Caroline Stockton Rotch and Annis Stockton Thomson, followed her example with collections of their own, as did Caroline’s son Horatio Rotch.1 The five surviving commonplace books of the Stockton family include large shared clusters of favorite poems, which the compilers evidently read together, copied again and again, and handed on to later generations. Together, they reveal an under-examined function of commonplacing in antebellum America: that of maintaining family ties by extending the communal reading that typically took place at home—one person reading aloud as other family members listened while working at domestic tasks—across the dimensions of space and time.2 The Stockton sisters began their reading lives together in one household, where Shared Reading at a Distance  The Commonplace Books of the Stockton Family, 1812–40 Amanda Watson Book History104 the influence of their grandmother, the poet Annis Boudinot Stockton, may well have predisposed them to take an interest in poetry. After marriage and relocation separated them, commonplacing gave them a physical reminder of their shared reading and an opportunity to continue reading together during their visits to each other. The Stockton family’s commonplace books call into question several common assumptions about the format and its uses. First, commonplace books have often been described as tools for shaping the individual self. For the Stockton sisters, however, the practice of transcribing extracts high- lighted their connection to their family of origin; their compiling habits were as much collective as individual, relying on each other’s selection principles as much as their own. Second, commonplace books of the specific type compiled by the Stockton family—miscellaneous, haphazardly organized collections of mostly literary quotations, with contributions from loved ones—tend to be interpreted as monuments to the past, commemorating never-to-be-seen-again friends and dead relatives. But Mary Stockton Har- rison and her sisters, though they participated in this type of memorializa- tion, all spent years copying poems from and into each other’s collections. During the years in which all three sisters were actively compiling, their commonplace books were very much part of their lives in the present tense. This study of the Stocktons is part of a larger project analyzing the con- tents of more than forty American commonplace books of poetry, compiled primarily in New England and spanning the length of the nineteenth cen- tury. Not all of the compilers of these collections can be identified, but many were young women. Their contents overlap but also vary widely, revealing oscillations between shared reading and individual taste. Sentimental and religious lyrics predominate, with many poems focusing on love, death, and mourning. And while now-canonical poets make regular appearances, many of the poems in the commonplace books I have examined either were writ- ten by forgotten poets or appeared anonymously in the periodical press. In some ways, the Stocktons’ commonplace books are typical of their time, but they are highly unusual in that they present an extensive record of a group of compilers working together. A close analysis of these collections as a group suggests that the practice of shared reading and transcription within families may have been more extensive than the often-anonymous archival record suggests. In this article, I examine the Stockton commonplace books as a group, focusing on their shared collecting practices; I end by suggesting how this group of documents can change our understanding of the many other nineteenth-century commonplace books that survive in libraries and archives. Shared Reading at a Distance 105 These poetry commonplace books, also referred to as “extract books,” are part of a late branch of a long tradition—a tradition to which scholars of the history of reading have paid significant attention in recent years. In early modern Europe, a commonplace book was a handwritten notebook of short quotations from many authors, compiled from a person’s reading and organized under topical headings. With antecedents reaching back to classical rhetoric (particularly the branch of classical rhetoric that dealt with memory), the commonplace book was often used as a study aid, an exten- sion of the compiler’s memory, or a source of ornamentation for the com- piler’s own writing.3 Commonplace books were tools for students, scholars, authors, clergymen, and lawyers, among others.4 Early modern readers also compiled less organized, more miscellaneous commonplace books, many containing poetry; Arthur Marotti observes that this type of commonplace book was “the main ancestor of those sixteenth- and seventeenth-century miscellanies and anthologies in which we find lyric poems.”5 Readers con- tinued making commonplace books through the eighteenth century, thanks in part to the very popular system introduced in John Locke’s A New Meth- od of a Common-Place-Book (1706), which allowed the compiler to maxi- mize page space by placing the organizational apparatus into an alphabeti- cal index, using the rest of the book to collect extracts.6 By the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the term “com- monplace book” was also being used in England to describe a collection of extracts, selected by one or several readers and copied without any formal organizational scheme. William St Clair notes that during the Romantic pe- riod, both men and women created commonplace books, with men tending to compile “notebooks of useful information, often with more prose than verse,” while women focused more exclusively on literary quotations.7 Al- though these literary commonplace books, the successors of the early mod- ern miscellany manuscripts described by Marotti, should be distinguished from the traditional commonplace book because they lack its headings and alphabetical organization, they still retain many of the features that Adam Smyth describes as characteristic of early modern “commonplace book cul- ture,” including “the appropriation of materials as the compiler’s own,” “the collection and deployment of fragments, not wholes,” and evidence of multiple compilers.8 Compilers referred to these collections not only as com- monplace books but with a variety of titles suggesting their miscellaneous- ness, including “‘Beauties’, ‘Rhymes’, . . . ‘Gleanings’, ‘Extracts’, ‘Excerpta’, ‘Miscellanies’ and ‘Scraps’.”9 The history of the commonplace book in early America parallels its his- tory in England. What began as an information-retrieval system for learned Book History106 men developed into a looser, less organized way for less learned male and female readers to record favorite passages. Commonplace books formed a regular part of the education of future clergymen in seventeenth-century New England.10 Early American colonists such as Massachusetts school- master and preacher Thomas Weld and Pennsylvanian settler Daniel Pasto- rius kept organized commonplace books, compiled along traditional lines, as information retrieval systems and tools for their scholarship; so did poli- ticians like Thomas Jefferson.11 Commonplacing also helped ordinary read- ers supplement their reading in rural or remote areas where books were scarce, expensive, or otherwise hard to come by. By transcribing passages from borrowed books and periodicals, readers could retain their own copies for rereading after the borrowed materials were returned.12 By the early nineteenth century, commonplace books had become part of the education of young women in the United States, as well as a popular domestic pastime.13 In Enos Hitchcock’s 1790 didactic novel Memoirs of the Bloomsgrove Family, both the son and the daughter of the family are “directed to keep a common place book, to note the material occurrences, the books they read, . . . and to transcribe some of the most remarkable passages they contained.”14 Preacher and author John Todd recommended that young women augment their education by using a traditional type of commonplace book, “a kind of Index Rerum, in which you may note down the book and the page which treat on a particular subject.”15 Todd also pro- duced a printed Index Rerum to help readers with his first recommendation. His Index Rerum is organized along the lines of John Locke’s method, but uses short citations instead of copied extracts. Todd considered this method easier than the traditional commonplace book, because “Making extracts with the pen is so tedious, that the very name of a Common-place Book is associated with drudgery, and wearisomeness.”16 Like Hitchcock, Todd viewed commonplace books primarily as records of a young person’s read- ing, but still saw a use for transcription; he also recommended that young women keep “a book of extracts from such books as you cannot own, or which are rare and curious,” even as he cautioned that copying too much would “injure . . . and nearly destroy” the memory.17 The poet Lydia Sigour- ney also advised against too heavy reliance on copying extracts in Letters to Young Ladies (1833), on the grounds that it weakened the memory. None- theless, she published her own collection of extracts in 1863, noting in the preface that she drew from “a voluminous mass of manuscripts which owe their existence to the ancient adage of reading with a pen or pencil in the hand.”18 Shared Reading at a Distance 107 This type of nineteenth-century commonplace book has much in com- mon with its kindred genres, the friendship or autograph album and the scrapbook. The friendship album was designed to collect contributions from friends, and tended to include short quotations and original verses, along with drawings, mementoes, and the signatures of the friends in ques- tion. Such albums were often compiled by young women either in school or on the verge of leaving it.19 The scrapbook, which gained in popularity as the nineteenth century went on and printed materials became cheaper, grew out of the commonplace book and album traditions but replaced the tedious task of hand-copying with the more efficient method of cutting and pasting.20 The boundaries between these formats frequently blurred. Pasted or pinned newspaper clippings appear in some of the commonplace books in my larger sample, and many include contributions and signatures from friends of the compiler. Ann Moss sees the commonplace book’s shift from an organized scholar- ly tool to a miscellaneous collection of extracts as evidence of its decline and fall into triviality, “foreshadowed in the seventeenth century, accelerated in the eighteenth century, and . . . irreversible by the nineteenth.” For Moss, “the last of its several metamorphoses, as an album of favourite lines of po- etry put together haphazardly,” marks its ultimate irrelevance.21 My project contests this claim. Nineteenth-century commonplace books still performed important cultural work: they helped numerous readers, including many women, interact with literary texts in an intimate but distinctly social way. Moreover, they offer literary historians and historians of reading a compel- ling set of evidence for the everyday interactions between ordinary, non- scholarly readers and the texts these readers considered important enough to record. Scholars have tended to emphasize the commonplace book’s role in what Stephen Greenblatt calls “self-fashioning,” whether the self being fashioned is a student, an eloquent writer, a cultivated person who can perform mem- bership in his or her social class, a clever and cynical man, or a marriageable young lady.22 In this view, commonplace books become (in the words of Thomas Koenigs in a recent article on Henry David Thoreau’s relationship to the commonplace tradition) “reflections of the self, defined in relation to printed materials.”23 I argue here that the antebellum American com- monplace book reflects not only the self in relation to printed texts (which it undoubtedly does), but also the self in relation to other people and their reading. Like the friendship album, the commonplace book could and did preserve quotations rendered significant by their association with (or their Book History108 selection by) the compiler’s friends and relatives. While we cannot always know what prompted a compiler to choose one passage over another, I would suggest that one strong motivation for nineteenth-century readers’ transcription of extracts was the simple fact of their having appealed to a close friend or a relative. Commonplace book compilers may have made their selections on the basis of their association with loved ones’ tastes in literature. Reading could thus reawaken and continue those connections, even when readers were separated from each other. The Stockton family’s collections of poetry allow us to see shared read- ing practices far more clearly than most surviving American commonplace books from this period. A number of scholars have discussed the nineteenth- century commonplace book as evidence of reading practices in both Great Britain and North America. However, with a few exceptions, such as Stephen Colclough’s discussion of British “reading communities” that transcribed poems together, there has been little exploration of commonplace books by readers who knew each other.24 Relationships between compilers can be difficult to prove: numerous commonplace books survive in special col- lections and archives, but unless the compiler was a historically significant figure, we cannot always determine a commonplace book’s origins . Many of the examples I have examined are either anonymous or bear the name of a person whose life is unrecorded outside of census records. The appearance of the same poem in more than one commonplace book from approximately the same time and place may indicate a shared reading network, or it may simply reflect a poem’s overall popularity or the extent of the circulation of a periodical or a printed book in which the poem appeared. The Stockton family’s commonplace books provide a notable exception. Because of the family’s political prominence in New Jersey, their papers have been preserved in several archives, and they and their Princeton home have been the subjects of more than one history. From the Stockton family’s cor- respondence and the internal evidence of these commonplace books (partic- ularly Mary’s), we can reconstruct the place of the sisters’ poetry collections in their lives. I turn now to an outline of the Stockton sisters’ biography as reflected through their commonplace books; I will then discuss the contents of their commonplace books in greater detail. As we will see, collecting, transcribing, and sharing poetry was a lifelong activity for at least one of the Stockton sisters, and it helped bring the three of them together literally and figuratively. Shared Reading at a Distance 109 The Stockton Family and Their Commonplace Books Mary, Caroline, and Annis Stockton were born into a family with a liter- ary bent. They were the granddaughters of Richard Stockton (1730–81), a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and Annis Boudinot Stockton (1736–1801), a noted coterie poet who established an intellectual and cul- tural center around Morven, their home in Princeton, New Jersey.25 Annis Boudinot Stockton belonged to a group of intellectual Philadelphia-area women, some of whom kept commonplace books and many of whom wrote and exchanged poetry.26 A few poems and a journal entry by Annis Stock- ton’s friend Elizabeth Graeme Fergusson, for example, were collected in the commonplace book of the Quaker author Milcah Martha Moore.27 Annis Stockton also avidly read the British poets of her time. She admired the Ossian poems of James Macpherson, from which she took the name “Mor- ven” for the Stockton family’s house, as well as the poems of Alexander Pope, James Beattie, and Edward Young. The grotto at Morven may have been inspired by Pope’s grotto at Twickenham, which her husband Richard Stockton visited.28 Richard and Annis Stockton’s son, the younger Richard Stockton (1764–1828), became a lawyer and served in the Senate and the House of Representatives. He and his wife Mary Field Stockton had nine children. Mary, the eldest, was born in 1790, Caroline in 1799, and Annis, evidently named after her grandmother, in 1804. To judge by the collections of poetry the Stockton sisters left behind, Annis Boudinot Stockton’s literary interests carried over into her granddaughters’ lives. The story of the Stockton family’s commonplacing begins with Mary’s marriage in 1812 to William Harrison of New York. She began her com- monplace book in that year and signed her married name on its first page. Around the time of her marriage she wrote a poem, “Farewell to Morven,” bidding goodbye to her childhood home and attesting to her ongoing ties to her family of origin: Tho’ far from all I hold most dear, I go new joys, new friends to find, Yet oft shall memory linger here, And dwell on all I’ve left behind. No change of place or change of name, Can make my heart one instant stray. 29 Book History110 When Mary copied this poem into her commonplace book around 1815, several years into her married life, her childhood home and family were evidently still much on her mind. Her commonplace book would also com- fort her after more permanent separations. In December 1815, the Stockton family suffered an unexpected loss: the death of Mary’s younger brother Horatio, an eighteen-year-old midshipman in the United States Navy, after an injury received at sea. According to one family history, it was Mary who nursed him during his last hours.30 In the first shock of grief for Horatio’s death, Mary returned to a poem she had previously copied into her com- monplace book, Hugh Kelly’s “The Mourning Mother.” This poem, which appeared in Kelly’s posthumous collected works in 1788 and was reprinted in several American periodicals, is in the voice of a mother lamenting her daughter’s death. Mary had transcribed a longer version of the poem near the beginning of her commonplace book. But a week after Horatio died, she selected two non-consecutive stanzas from “The Mourning Mother” and copied them again, adding (unusually for her) the full date, one week after Horatio’s death: Pardon just heaven! but where the heart is torn The human drop of bitterness will steal Nor can we lose the priveledge to mourn Till we have lost the faculty to feel, O make me then all seeing power resign’d, Thy awful fiat humbly to receive; And O forgive the weakness of a mind That feels as mortal and as such must grieve Dec 10th 181531 Mary omitted all the parts of this poem that specify the speaker as a be- reaved mother and the deceased as a young girl. Instead, she chose more general lines about loss and heartache, and while she included the poem’s final prayer for resignation, she made sure to include its acknowledgement of “the human drop of bitterness” which cannot be denied. Out of a poem about a grieving mother, she selected the lines most applicable to her own situation as a newly bereaved sister. Nor was this Mary’s only response to her brother’s tragic death. She her- self wrote two elegies for him, which appear in her commonplace book a few pages after the extract from “The Mourning Mother.” The first poem speaks directly of her sense of unexpected loss: Shared Reading at a Distance 111 Horatio, Horatio! when last on my veiw [sic], Thy vigourous form slowly faded, . . . How far was I then from forboding this storm, Nor dreamt, bouy’d with hopes balmy breath My roof shou’d receive thy pale trembling form, And my hand smooth thy pillow of death. Like Mary’s extract from “The Mourning Mother”—indeed, like much of the elegiac poetry that Mary and her sisters copied—this poem begins by lamenting a death, and moves toward a sense of resignation to the inevitable and hope for the lost loved one’s place in heaven: “Thou hast gone to thy fa- ther I do not repine,” the poem concludes, “Horatio my Brother farewell!” In the second of these two elegies, entitled “The Dying Sailor,” Horatio himself speaks, asking his loved ones not to grieve for his impending death: O weep not for me, tho’ the winter winds piping, A requiem sound o’er my newly made grave, Nor more from thy eyelid the salt tear be wiping, I have liv’d with the virtuous and die like the brave. By assuming Horatio’s voice, Mary offers direct reassurance to herself and to the rest of her family, stepping back from her own grief to imagine Hora- tio’s consoling response to it. Her poems found an audience in at least one of her sisters. Annis Stock- ton was still a child when her brother Horatio died, but Caroline, then in her teens, began her first commonplace book between 1816 and 1818. Among the first entries, she copied part of “The Mourning Mother” and, a few pages later, Mary’s two elegies for Horatio, titling the first one “On the Death of a Brother.”32 She would, as we will see, copy all of these poems again when she compiled a second commonplace book as a young married woman. In a tribute that perhaps deliberately paralleled her sister’s elegaic poems, Caroline was to name her son Horatio seven years later. In 1819, Annis Stockton followed in her sisters’ footsteps and began as- sembling her own collection of poems. Caroline finished her first common- place book around 1819, to judge by the date on one of the final entries. Later in the same year, Caroline and Annis apparently both received match- ing leather-bound albums with their owners’ names stamped on the front. Annis’s book also has the year, 1819, stamped on the cover, and Caroline’s begins with her signature and the date November 16, 1819. The gift may Book History112 have been prompted by Caroline’s approaching marriage to William Rod- man Rotch of New Bedford, as the first few pages in her album are taken up by an affectionate letter from her father, offering advice and wishing her happiness in her married life. Caroline divided her new album into two sections: “Fugitive Pieces,” in which she transcribed many of the poems from her first commonplace book and then continued to add new ones, and “Original,” a section begun at the back of the book. The “Original” sequence contains ten poems, including three by Annis Boudinot Stockton and five by Mary Stockton Harrison, plus one attributed to the Stockton sis- ters’ cousin John Rush and one anonymous poem entitled “Lines address’d to Mrs Caroline S. Rotch.” The poems by Mary Harrison in this second collection again include “The Dying Sailor” and the first elegy for Horatio, this time entitled “On the Death of H. Stockton who died Dec. 3d 1815.”33 Annis seems to have spent less time on her commonplace book than her sisters did on theirs. All of the dates on her entries fall between 1819 and 1821, and she left more than half the pages of her book empty. Although Annis transcribed fewer poems than her sisters, her collection provides an important piece of evidence about the Stockton sisters’ commonplacing practices: she sometimes noted where particular entries were copied, and the place names indicate that the sisters brought their commonplace books when they visited each other. Various pages in Annis’s commonplace book are headed “N. Bedford” or “N.B.,” “Princeton,” and “N. York,” reflect- ing both time spent at home and trips to see her married sisters.34 None of the surviving letters among the Stockton sisters seem to indicate that they exchanged poems through the mail; their sharing of favorite poems likely took place in person, as one sister brought out her commonplace book for another to copy from (or into). Meanwhile, all was not well with Mary’s marriage to William Harrison. In 1827, Mary took the decisive (though not unprecedented) step of leav- ing her husband and returning to Princeton.35 John Pintard, a friend of the Stockton family, blamed the failure of the marriage on William Harrison, calling him “a bankrupt & a sot” and “incapable of sustaining himself in adversity,” but also hinting that Harrison could not match his wife’s intel- lectual and social stature: “Mr H. had neither mind nor education . . . In- temperance his resource, to wh he is falling a martyr. Mrs H. cd not elevate a man in society, below her rank & attainments, her mortification has long been extreme.”36 Pintard’s description of Harrison as having “neither mind nor education” suggests a further incompatibility between him and a wife who evidently devoted time and effort to her literary reading and who was Shared Reading at a Distance 113 admired for her intellect and sophistication. (In an 1820 letter to Caroline Stockton, whom he was soon to marry, William Rotch praised Mary for “her conversation, . . . strength of mind and uncommon cultivation.”37) The cracks in the Harrisons’ marriage may have started appearing years earlier, if two prose aphorisms that Mary copied in 1821 are any indica- tion: “The Land of Marriage has this peculiarity; that those who are on the outside wish to get in; and those who are within wish to get out,” and “A wife shou’d submit to her husband but her husband shou’d submit to rea- son.”38 Whether or not these quotations indicate an underlying ambivalence or cynicism about marriage is unclear, but they are suggestive. Mary lived at Morven for the next ten years, during which time her com- monplacing activity tapered off. Her immediate family seems to have sup- ported her after the separation. As she wrote to Caroline, “indeed every- body is considerate and affectionate to me and I sh[oul]d be an ingrate if I was not satisfied with such a host of Comforters as I have in my beloved sisters alone.”39 Unable to remarry, however, Mary must still have led a cir- cumscribed life, and the family circle she relied on for support shrank over the years. After her mother’s death in 1837, Mary seems to have moved in with her sister Annis and brother-in-law John Thomson. Annis’s declining health may have been the reason; she died in 1842, at the age of 38. Mary was updating her commonplace book infrequently by that point. But at the top of a page headed “1842,” she copied Charles Wolfe’s elegiac poem “To Mary,” which begins If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be. That Mary copied this poem in response to Annis’s death is clear from her alteration of one line: where Wolfe’s poem reads “And now I feel, as well I may / Sweet Mary, thou art dead!”, Mary Harrison wrote “Sweet Nanny Thou art dead.”40 As when Mary re-copied the stanzas from “The Mourn- ing Mother,” her selection of this poem comments directly on the death of a sibling. She must have felt profoundly alone after Annis’s death, with her parents gone and her surviving sisters, her “Comforters,” married and far away. A diary of Mary’s from 1843 attests to her lingering grief and sense of isolation: the day after the first anniversary of Annis’s death, she wrote “I am alone—no one cares here for me—O for the wings of the Dove to fly away & be at rest to fly to thee beloved Sister—child—friend!”41 Later Book History114 that year, according to this diary, she relocated to live with her sister and brother-in-law Julia and John Rhinelander on Long Island. She remained at their home until at least 1864, when she dedicated her commonplace book to her nephew, and died two years later in 1866. While Mary resettled in Princeton, Caroline, the only Stockton sister to have children, was raising her son Horatio and daughter Mary in New Bed- ford; at least one of them carried on the family tradition of commonplac- ing. Caroline seems to have added to her commonplace book until at least the early 1830s, given the publication dates of some of the poems in it. She may have read to her children from it; at any rate, her teenage son followed her example. Horatio Rotch did not put a date on his own commonplace book, but it seems likely that he compiled it at Harvard University, which, according to his niece Kate Hunter Dunn, he attended between 1838 and 1841.42 He used the 1837 third edition of John Todd’s Index Rerum for his collection.43 Like many users of the Index Rerum, Horatio ignored Todd’s instructions for indexing his reading and simply copied entire poems.44 He signed the front flyleaf “Mr. Horatio S. Rotch, comp.” Several pages of notes on the French Revolution, a poem about a college prank entitled “Harvard. University. College. Justice,” and a section headed “Proffessor H. W. Longfellows. Poems” all seem to reflect Horatio’s study at Harvard.45 But seven of the poems in Horatio’s collection also appear in his mother’s commonplace book, suggesting that he used her collection as a source. The final entries in Horatio’s collection are two extracts from Thomas Babing- ton Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome, first published in 1842; he likely finished his collection around this time, at the age of twenty. Horatio Rotch’s subsequent life was a short one. He studied medicine at Columbia University for several years after leaving Harvard, then made several long sea voyages for the sake of his fragile health,46 though a letter he wrote to his mother from San Francisco suggests that he was also hop- ing to find work as a physician in California. Disappointed in this hope—“I cannot see any use in remaining,” he wrote, because “[t]here are but few Physicians that get much practise”47—he returned home to New Bedford, where by June of 1850 he was gravely ill. Captain Charles W. Morgan of New Bedford made several entries in his diary mentioning Horatio’s illness, his “constitution . . . all broken down by excessive drinking in California from whence he lately returned,” and his death and funeral in New Bed- ford.48 His loss was a severe blow to Caroline Rotch; it must have reminded her of the death of the other Horatio, her brother, thirty-five years before. “I saw Aunt Caroline a few days ago,” one of her nephews wrote to his sister Shared Reading at a Distance 115 several months after Horatio died. “She looks altered and seems very sad indeed. She talked about Horatio.”49 Caroline herself did not outlive her son by many years; she died in 1856. By the time Mary Stockton Harrison died ten years later, she had outlived all three of her sisters. Shared Poems in the Stockton Commonplace Books The most striking feature of the Stockton sisters’ commonplace books is the large number of poems they copied from each other. Their commonplace books all testify to a family network that their marriages did not sever, a network that the activity of commonplacing helped them maintain. Twenty- eight of the same poems or plays are quoted in all three sisters’ common- place books.50 Mary’s and Caroline’s collections share an additional 37 po- ems, Caroline’s and Annis’s share an additional 16, and Annis’s and Mary’s share an additional 33. If we include Horatio Rotch’s commonplace book, the total number of poems shared by at least two members of the family comes to 118. Over half of the quotations in Annis’s and Caroline’s com- monplace books (58% and 65% respectively, counting both of Caroline’s collections) are from poems also copied by at least one other family member. In Mary’s collection, the most extensive and the first begun, 41% of the nearly three hundred identifiable quotations are from the shared poems.51 Mary’s commonplace book contains all but twenty of the shared poems, suggesting that her sisters each copied their extracts from her. The fact that she lived in New York, between Annis’s home in Princeton and Caroline’s home in New Bedford, possibly accounts for the fact that Annis’s and Caro- line’s collections have fewer extracts in common with each other than they do with Mary’s commonplace book. What led the sisters to select the poems they did? Not all of the poems in the “core” group shared by all of the sisters are similar in tone, style, or content. However, examining this group of poems together reveals several recurring themes, most notably the need to cope with loss and the strong bonds between family members. A strong elegaic current runs through this cluster of poems, from an extract from Byron’s “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” describing the death of the poet Henry Kirke White (several of whose poems also appear in Mary’s and Annis’s commonplace books) to James Montgomery’s elegy for the stillborn child of England’s Princess Charlotte, Robert Southey’s elegy “The Dead Friend,” and Amelia Opie’s “The Mourner” and Hugh Kelly’s “The Mourning Mother,” which both Book History116 portray grief-stricken women. The parent-child bond, and the mother- daughter bond in particular, also surfaces as a prominent theme in the core group of poems. It appears not only in “The Mourning Mother,” but also in Mary Mitford’s “The Voice of Praise,” which eulogizes a mother’s “voice of magic power”; an anonymous poem called “The Babe,” in which a mother rescues her child from a near fall from a cliff; and a poem about filial piety called “Lines to a daughter (who devoted herself wholly to the care of a sick mother),” accompanied by an excerpt from Pope’s “Epistle to Dr. Arbuth- not,” which declares Pope’s resolution to “rock the cradle of reposing Age, / With lenient arts extend a Mother’s breath.” The sisters’ favorite poems celebrate the strength of family ties and offer models for coping with the inevitable feelings of loss when these ties are severed by death. Perhaps the Stockton sisters were drawn to these poems in particular after the tragic loss of their brother, or perhaps they were also reflecting on their separation from their parents’ home after their marriages. But the poems embody family ties in more than a thematic way. As I have already noted, Mary and Caroline both collected clusters of poems by or about members of the family, including several poems by their grand- mother, Annis Boudinot Stockton. Mary, who was eleven years old when Annis Boudinot Stockton died in 1801, would have been the only one of the Stockton sisters old enough to know her literary grandmother. Her memory may well have encouraged her oldest granddaughter to write poetry herself. At least one of Mary’s poems (“A Farewell to Morven”) appeared in print during her lifetime.52 In another poem appearing in both Mary’s and Caro- line’s collections, “To Robert F. Stockton on his departure for the Coast of Africa,” Mary wishes her brother Robert (later a commodore in the United States Navy) a safe passage on a sea voyage he undertook in 1820.53 Another “family” poem, written not by but about a member of the Stock- ton family, is “The Bald Eagle and the Whip-Poor-Will,” one of the few poems copied by all three sisters and Horatio Rotch. This poem appears in Mary’s commonplace book with the title “Impromtu. Written in the gallery of the House of Representatives during Mr Richard Stocktons reply to Mr Charles Ingersol’s satirical speech.”54 This incident took place in Congress in 1814; a transcription of the poem can be found in an article on Rich- ard Stockton from the Northern Monthly Magazine in 1867, but the sisters must have had access to the poem much earlier.55 “The Bald Eagle and the Whip-poor-will” allegorizes Richard Stockton as “a bold bald eagle” and his oratorical opponent as a mocking and “irksome” “whip-poor-will.” In the poem, Stockton’s speech in Congress becomes the eagle’s lethal attack on the smaller, less worthy bird. All three Stockton sisters included this hu- Shared Reading at a Distance 117 morous mock-heroic portrait of their father in their collections of extracts; like Mary’s “Farewell to Morven,” it must have been a reminder of the home they had left behind. The order and dating of the poems in these commonplace books casts a further light on the sisters’ reading habits, showing when and where they copied each other’s selections as well as which selections they shared. Al- though not all of the Stockton sisters dated their entries consistently, se- quences of transcription can still be determined. It appears that Mary estab- lished some of the family favorites first, between 1812 and 1818. Caroline then copied some of these poems into her first commonplace book, subse- quently transcribing them into the second commonplace book that accom- panied her to New Bedford, which begins with a series of poems that also appear in her earlier book. Toward the middle of Caroline’s second book are thirty poems that also appear in Mary’s book but not in Caroline’s first collection. Many, though not all, of these poems appear in Mary’s com- monplace book between 1819 and the early 1820s, at around the same time Annis was also copying poems. The period from 1819 through 1821 seems to have been a time when all three sisters were compiling their collections simultaneously. Occasionally we can guess which sister copied a poem first. The poem en- titled “Lines to a daughter (who devoted herself wholly to the care of a sick mother)” appears in Mary’s commonplace book in a section dated 1821; in Annis’s commonplace book around the same time; and in Caroline’s New Bedford commonplace book.56 The first part, which begins “Thine is the fate of many a lonely flower, / That wastes on deserts wild its youth- ful bloom,” is an adaptation of a poem that appeared anonymously in a short-lived miscellany magazine called The Omnium Gatherum, published in Charleston in 1821. The second part is adapted from Alexander Pope’s “Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.” In the Omnium Gatherum’s printing of this poem, the quotation from Pope appears immediately after it, prefaced by a note indicating that the first poem is a translation from a now-lost French poem. The lines from Pope follow. 57 Annis Stockton and Caroline Stockton Rotch transcribed the two extracts as a single poem; Mary Harrison tran- scribed them as two sections, separated by a horizontal line. It is impossible to establish exactly when these extracts were copied in each commonplace book, but it seems likely that Mary copied the two extracts together first, and her sisters, in re-copying them, assumed they were continuous. In a few cases, we can use the sisters’ transcription patterns to recon- struct where they were when they copied from each other. From the dates and place names in Annis’s book, we can see that several of the poems and Book History118 extracts that she shared only with Mary were copied in New York in April 1821. By September of the same year Annis was in New Bedford, copying at least one of the poems she shared only with Caroline. A month later, both Mary and Annis seem to have been visiting Caroline. A poem written by Mary appears in Caroline’s commonplace book, dated “Oct. 20, 1821,” and Annis copied a series of prose extracts from Mary’s commonplace book into her own during the same month. The October 1821 dates in Annis’s and Caroline’s commonplace books for poems evidently transcribed from Mary’s collection suggest that all three sisters were in the same place at the same time, reading the poems that the others had selected and picking out the ones they wanted to preserve for themselves. At least a few poems seem to have been copied by one sister into another’s collection; the transcript of “The Bald Eagle and the Whip-Poor-Will” in Mary’s commonplace book, for example, appears to be in Caroline’s hand.58 For all three of the sisters, then, in-person visits formed a significant part of their commonplacing prac- tices. Horatio Rotch’s collection offers a chance to see how the family’s favorite poems were transmitted to another generation. His Index Rerum contains seven “family” poems: the anonymous “The Bald Eagle and the Whip-Poor- Will,” “The Outlaw,” and “A Tale”; Thomas Moore’s “To Sigh, Yet Feel No Pain” (evidently a favorite with his mother, as it appears three times in her two commonplace books); George Canning’s “Inscription for the Tomb Erected to the Memory of the Marquis of Anglesea’s Leg”; Edward Ev- erett’s “Alaric, the Visigoth”; Nathaniel Parker Willis’s “On a Picture of Children Playing”; and Edward Coote Pinkney’s “A Health.”59 The latter three poems and “The Outlaw” appear only in Horatio’s and his mother Caroline’s collections. Horatio appears to have had a pronounced taste for lighter poetry, favoring the humorous poems of contemporary poets like Oliver Wendell Holmes and Thomas Hood and selecting comic poems like “A Tale” and Canning’s “Inscription for the Tomb” from his mother’s col- lection. But he also made sure to include the “Bald Eagle” poem about his grandfather. There is no internal evidence that Horatio copied from any family commonplace book other than his mother’s; if he was at Harvard when he compiled it, he may have consulted Caroline’s book during visits home to New Bedford. The most frequently occurring poets in each commonplace book can give us an idea of the shared and diverging literary tastes of the family. Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and William Shakespeare are the poets most fre- quently quoted by all three sisters; Moore is quoted a total of 62 times across all three sisters’ collections, Byron 53 times, and Shakespeare 32 Shared Reading at a Distance 119 times. Sir Walter Scott was also clearly a favorite, to judge by the extracts from Rokeby that appear in all of the commonplace books, the extracts from “The Lay of the Last Minstrel” in Mary’s and Annis’s books, and the sequence of extracts from The Lady of the Lake in Annis’s collection.60 The core poems look backward to the poets of the eighteenth century (Pope, Cowper, Montgomery) as well as forward to the Romanticism that was becoming established in America. Annis and Mary transcribed nearly all of the family’s extracts from Shakespeare’s plays (a taste which Caroline did not seem to share, aside from a lone quotation from Measure for Measure in her first collection). Both of them also mined Alexander Pope’s “An Essay on Man” for quotable passages. In many ways, the Stockton sisters’ commonplacing habits are in line with their contemporaries, both British and American. Many others shared their fondness for Byron and Moore, who are by far the most frequently quoted identifiable poets in my sample of 46 commonplace books: half of the collections I have examined contain poems by Byron, and an even great- er number (25) contain poems by Moore. Nearly every commonplace book in my sample from the first half of the nineteenth century contains at least a poem or two by one or both of these poets. The Stockton sisters’ fellow American commonplacers also frequently transcribed Shakespeare, Scott, and Burns. In addition, the sisters selected well-known poems of their day by less prominent poets. Caroline and Mary, for example, both selected Charles Wolfe’s “The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna,” whose popu- larity as a recitation piece Catherine Robson has traced and which William St Clair has found in a large number of British commonplace books.61 In his study of British commonplace books from the same period, David Allan finds that compilers showed a predilection for short quotations from Shake- speare and Pope, much as Mary and Annis Stockton did; he also notes the rapid rise of Byron as a favorite poet for commonplacers.62 Finally, in Horatio Rotch’s commonplace book, a younger and more pre- dominantly American set of poets appears: Oliver Wendell Holmes (nine poems), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (seven), Nathaniel Parker Willis (five), William Cullen Bryant (four), and Hartley Coleridge and John Green- leaf Whittier (three each). With the exception of Coleridge, all of Horatio’s favorite poets are Americans, and several are from the so-called “Fireside” or “Schoolroom” group of New England poets that included Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, and James Russell Lowell. Moore and Byron each appear twice in Horatio’s book, and Cowper once. While his mother and aunts favored a very British canon, heavy on poets of the eighteenth century and the early Romantic era (with Shakespeare as the one repeatedly quoted poet Book History120 from before the eighteenth century), a majority of the 45 identifiable poets Horatio transcribed were born in 1790 or later, and most of the poems were published after 1800. Twenty-nine of the identifiable poets in Hora- tio’s book are American, as opposed to only eleven English or Irish poets. (An additional three poets are of unknown nationality.) In Horatio’s com- monplace book we can see, in one generation, the emergence of a cohort of American poets, and specifically a New England cohort of poets. Horatio’s interest in American poets marks a shift in the family “canon.” Even in Mary’s commonplace book, to which she continued to add poems off and on for decades, only a handful of American poets appear, and poets born after 1790 make up less than a third of the total. The older generation of the Stockton family doubtless favored British poets in part because of the smaller number of American poets active during the 1810s and 1820s and the prevalence of British literature in the American book market during this period.63 But their preference may also be due to already-established family literary tastes; Annis Boudinot Stockton’s fondness for the British poets of her own time may well have affected her granddaughters’ choices of poetry for their own collections. Of the three Stockton sisters, Caroline included the largest number of American poets (17 between her two commonplace books), suggesting a degree of continuity between her taste and her son’s, or their shared access to the same sources. What emerges from the evidence of the Stocktons’ reading habits is a portrait of a family of readers who read the most popular poets of their day—Byron, Moore, and Scott in the 1820s, Longfellow and his fellow New England poets in the 1840s—but who were also deeply aware of what their relatives were reading (and, in a few instances, writing). They participated with varying degrees of enthusiasm in the popular activity of commonplac- ing, but each of them used his or her book of extracts as a space to preserve and renew the family connections that bound them together. For Mary in particular, and probably for her sisters as well, collecting poems associated with the family and poems about loss and grief also provided consolation in the face of the inevitable deaths of family members. Sources of the Poems The Stockton commonplace books can also help us see where antebellum American readers were likely to encounter poetry in print. In addition to copying from each other’s collections, the members of the Stockton family Shared Reading at a Distance 121 probably gathered extracts from a variety of printed sources. All three of the sisters tended to provide attributions to poets, and sometimes to a source. British periodicals—available to American audiences via reprints, whether piecemeal in “eclectic” magazines or reprinted in their entirety64—appear to have provided the sisters with numerous poems for their collections. At- tributions to “Blackwood[’s] Mag[azine]” (or “Black W Mag,” or “B W Mag”) appear after a number of poems in Mary’s and Annis’s common- place books, and a few extracts are also attributed to “Edinburg R[eview]” or “Edin Review.” Mary also gives “Portfolio,” “the Aberdeen Journal,” “Quarterly Review,” “Monthly Mag,” “the Hudson Northern Whig,” and “Mo. Rev.” as sources.65 Of these, the Port Folio (a Philadelphia magazine published from 1801 to 1827) and the Northern Whig (a newspaper pub- lished in Hudson, New York between 1809 and 1827) appear to be the only American publications. “Monthly Mag” apparently refers to the New Monthly Magazine, the source of a prose quotation that appears in Mary’s collection around 1821; “Mo. Rev.” is the Monthly Review or Literary Journal, from which Mary quoted a sentence from a review that appeared in September 1762. Mary may have drawn more extensively on the Port Fo- lio than her occasional references to it indicate. Over thirty of the poems in her commonplace book appeared in the Port Folio between 1803 and 1825, including the extract from Byron’s English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Horatio Rotch seems to have drawn on periodicals to a much lesser degree: one poem in his collection is attributed to the “New-Haven Advertiser,” which may have been the New Haven Journal and Religious Intelligencer.66 This appears to be the only poem he identifiably copied from a periodical. Not all of the quotations in the Stocktons’ collections may have actually been copied from the sources they indicate As Meredith McGill has shown, the antebellum American literary marketplace was marked by a “culture of reprinting” in which poetry and fiction were frequently excerpted and reprinted in the periodical press, often without authorization or attribu- tion, or only with attribution to another periodical.67 Book reviews, which frequently included lengthy quotations, formed another channel for the re- circulation of extracts from longer works by allowing readers to transcribe passages pre-selected by the reviewer.68 Poems that circulated in this way, through the poetry pages or book reviews of newspapers and magazines, could also turn up in the pages of commonplace books and, later, scrap- books.69 An attribution to a particular periodical in a commonplace book can indicate that the compiler transcribed it directly from that periodical, but it can also indicate that she transcribed it from a reprint with an attribu- tion to that periodical. Book History122 Occasionally, we can trace quotations in the Stockton commonplace books to a particular printed book. The series of extracts that Mary tran- scribed from Frances Arabella Rowden’s A Poetical Introduction to the Study of Botany around 1816 begin with the heading “Description of the Jasmine from Rowdens Botany,” suggesting that she transcribed these po- ems from a copy of the book; in 1820, she labeled two extracts “Warings travels in Switzerland,” referring to Samuel Miller Waring’s 1819 The trav- eller’s fire-side: a series of papers on Switzerland, the Alps, &c.70 A genera- tion later, Horatio Rotch relied heavily on a single anthology to fill the pages of his own commonplace book. Thirty-two of the poems that he copied appear in the second and third volumes of Samuel Kettell’s anthology Speci- mens of American Poetry: with Critical and Biographical Notices (1829). He misattributed one poem, “Anne Bullen” by Rufus Dawes, ascribing its authorship to Richard P. Smith—a mistake that becomes understandable when one realizes that this poem appears in the third volume of Kettell’s anthology on a page with Smith’s name in a running title.71 This was not the only book of poems Horatio seems to have consulted: a cluster of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow near the beginning of Horatio’s collection begins with “Extracts from the Voices of the Night,” likely transcribed from Longfellow’s 1839 collection Voices of the Night. Each member of the Stockton family, then, drew on his or her own set of sources for the poems that he or she did not copy from other family members. Mary and Annis seem to have relied most heavily on periodicals, and Horatio on Kettell’s Specimens of American Poetry. (Caroline may also have had access to this anthology, since one of the poems that she and Hora- tio both copied, Edward Coote Pinckney’s “A Health,” appears in it, as do four or five other poems that she copied.) Each family member intermin- gled individual selections with shared family favorites, producing distinct but strongly connected collections. Horatio’s Index Rerum, a generation removed from his mother and aunts’ commonplace books, has the smallest number of poems in common with them, but still clearly shows that he read and drew on his mother’s collection. While he did not transcribe any of the poems written by his aunt Mary or his great-grandmother Annis Boudinot Stockton, his preservation of “The Bald Eagle and the Whip-Poor-Will” demonstrates that the poems in the family collections could still communi- cate a sense of familial identity and history. Shared Reading at a Distance 123 Conclusion Neither Mary Stockton Harrison nor Annis Stockton Thomson left behind children, as Caroline did. But both of their commonplace books remained in family hands. Mary, as I have noted, left hers to her nephew, while Annis’s commonplace book bears the bookplate of her great-nephew Bayard Stock- ton. The fact that Mary kept her collection of extracts for so many years and considered it a “token of [her] affection” suggests how important these poems were important to her, and perhaps to her nephew as well.72 Later generations of Stocktons would not have needed these commonplace books in order to read the poems of Byron, Moore, and Scott, which were still in print in the 1840s and 1860s. But the more ephemeral pieces culled from periodicals and, more importantly, the collection of poems by and about the Stockton family, would have been much harder to come by. The gift of a mother’s or an aunt’s cherished collection of poems ensured that the next generation could still read the family’s literary legacy, and that they could retain something of the personality of the women who compiled it. As legacies of a family’s past, these commonplace books, like many others, can be read in the context of the nineteenth-century culture of literary senti- mentality. If the sentimental can be defined as the mode in which emotions are expressed in conventionalized language, in which memorial keepsakes circulate, and in which bonds between people are paramount, then the com- monplace book exemplifies this mode.73 It recirculates familiar poems, many on themes of love and death; it preserves evidence of close ties of kinship and friendship; and it communicates feeling from one reader to another. Schol- ars have sometimes framed nineteenth-century albums and commonplace books as sentimental texts whose primary concern is memorializing the past and preserving mementoes of sundered relationships. Thus Catherine Kelly, examining young New England women’s friendship albums from the ante- bellum period, argues that the friendships commemorated in these volumes rarely survived the separations caused by the end of formal schooling and the beginning of married life.74 Albums and commonplace books, according to this account, preserved evidence of relationships that were ending. In a similar vein, Mary Louise Kete invokes “the three signal concerns of the sen- timental mode . . . lost homes, lost families, and broken bonds,” to explain the mourning poems in a commonplace book from the 1830s and 1840s, which she describes as “driven by the need to address loss.”75 The Stockton family clearly viewed commonplace books and the poems in them as vehicles for strong emotions, including loss and grief. We can see this tendency in Mary’s appropriation of poems to express her sorrow at Book History124 the deaths of her siblings; in the elegies she wrote herself; and in Caroline’s preservation of these poems. We can also see it in a letter from Robert Field Stockton to his sister Caroline shortly before her departure for her new married life: A conviction of the want of ability to ornament it by beautiful and romantick expressions of thought—and not the want of an earnest desire—has prevented your Brother Robert from asking one soli- tary page in your Album—Though his proffessional pursuits has lost to him the opportunity of that cultivation of mind which ren- ders the expression of our feelings so easy and agreeable, yet they have not destroyed his heart nor blunted his affection.76 Robert Stockton’s concern here is with his ability to summon the “beauti- ful and romantick” figurative language that Caroline expected for her “Al- bum.” But, he insists, the feelings are there, even if he lacks the “cultivation of mind” to express them. His disclaimer both teases at and underscores his sister’s belief in poetry as a conduit for emotion. However, although sentimentality helps to explain the Stockton family’s commonplacing practices, this is not the whole story. Many of the Stockton sisters’ favorite poems foreground the sentimental topoi of lost love and mournful memory. And yet, as we have seen, these collections do more than preserve evidence of sundered relationships, or dwell on the losses the fami- ly suffered. They were, at least during the 1820s, living documents that grew as the sisters read independently and then visited each other and shared their readings. Despite their separate households, the Stockton sisters’ shared sets of favorite poems helped to bridge the physical distances between them, re- minding them of previous time spent together and reuniting them when they visited each other. For the Stockton sisters, commonplacing was a shared activity that continued well into their lives as married women living at a distance from each other. In an unusually philosophical letter to Caroline in November 1826, less than six months before she left her husband, Mary Stockton Harrison re- flected on the human tendency toward unfulfilled desire: in every heart there is a secret spring of bitterness wh. flows some- times too deep for mortal sight—but is no less surely there—and I often think woud I change lots with such and such a person with much apparant happiness? and always come to the determination, not without I knew where their secret sorrows have their source . . . 77 Shared Reading at a Distance 125 Perhaps Mary Harrison was referring to her own “secret sorrows,” or per- haps she was consciously or unconsciously echoing some of the poems she transcribed around the same time, including an extract from Chauncy Hare Townshend’s “The Lonely Heart” beginning with the stanza “Ah, little deems the blind, dull crowd, / When gazing on a tranquil brow, / What thoughts and feelings unavow’d, / What fiery passions lurk below!” Perhaps she was also thinking of the lines from “The Mourning Mother” that came into her mind after her brother’s death, about the “human drop of bitter- ness” that steals into the grieving heart. She concluded her letter by drawing an explicit parallel between her sudden shift into seriousness and her own life: So with this Composing Sentiment I close my letter wh. I think is something like my life—to first sight flippant, gay and rather pert— but the farther you investigate or read—the more grave you think it—and when you sum the whole up—know not—whether it be gay or grave or whether you shou’d laugh or cry Her commonplace book, like her letter, reflected the blend of laughter and tears that she saw in her own experiences. Light verse and popular love lyrics mingled with didactic poetry, somber elegy, and “Composing Sentiment[s],” some of which Mary herself had written. A young woman’s seemingly inconsequential pastime (“to first sight flippant, gay and rather pert”) could contain a whole life, with its joys and sorrows and its network of relationships. The act of shared reading helped to enmesh these family members in each other’s lives. As I have mentioned, it is difficult to find surviving instances of shared commonplacing as extensive as these. But the Stockton sisters could not have been the only nineteenth-century American family who selected extracts to- gether in a group, or copied poems that their relatives liked, or passed their commonplace books back and forth during visits. The traces of their read- ing habits can help us understand more about the uses of commonplacing in a family context. They can also help us see families’ domestic reading as an activity that extended far beyond the confines of a single household, to en- compass family members who lived long distances from each other but who still managed to make a habit of reading together. American commonplace books from this period form a large, rich, diverse archive of evidence for the history of literary reception and everyday reading, one that deserves further study. Any number of social networks may be brought to light when we start examining the relationships that underlie their lovingly copied pages. Book History126 Appendix A: Poems transcribed by three or more members of the Stockton family Author Poem title Transcribed by Brooke, Arthur Ballad Stanzas (When pain and hatred MSH, CSR, AS hemmed me round) Byron, George Don Juan MSH, AS, HSR Gordon, Lord Byron, George English Bards and Scotch Reviewers MSH, CSR, AS Gordon, Lord Byron, George The Corsair MSH, CSR, AS Gordon, Lord Canning, George Epitaph on the Tombstone Erected MSH, CSR, AS, over the Marquis of Anglesey’s Leg HSR Dallas, Alexander Song (Toll not the bell of death for me) MSH, CSR, AS Robert Gamage, C.G. The Grave of the Year MSH, CSR, AS Goldsmith, Oliver Song (O memory! Thou fond deceiver) MSH, CSR, AS Horne, George On David Garrick’s Funeral Procession MSH, CSR, AS Kelly, Hugh The Mourning Mother MSH, CSR, AS Knowles, Herbert Lines Written in the Churchyard of MSH, CSR, AS Richmond, Yorkshire Mitford, Mary Russell The Voice of Praise MSH, CSR, AS Moir, David Macbeth The Maniac’s Plaint MSH, CSR, AS Montgomery, James On the Royal Infant MSH, CSR, AS Moore, Thomas Lines on the Death of Sheridan MSH, CSR, AS Moore, Thomas To Sigh, Yet Feel No Pain MSH, CSR, HSR More, Hannah Sensibility: An Epistle to the MSH, CSR, AS Honourable Mrs. Boscawen Opie, Amelia The Mourner MSH, CSR, AS Pope, Alexander Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot MSH, CSR, AS Scott, Sir Walter Rokeby MSH, CSR, AS Shakespeare, William Measure for Measure MSH, CSR, AS Southey, Robert The Dead Friend MSH, CSR, AS Spencer, William Robert The Emigrant’s Grave MSH, CSR, AS Shared Reading at a Distance 127 Taylor, Jane The Philosopher’s Scales MSH, CSR, AS Unknown A Tale MSH, CSR, AS, HSR Unknown In Memory of Lydia Miller MSH, CSR, AS Unknown Lines to a Daughter, Who Devoted MSH, CSR, AS Herself Wholly to the Care of a Sick and Aged Mother Unknown The Babe MSH, CSR, AS Unknown The Bald Eagle and the Whip-Poor-Will MSH, CSR, AS, HSR Unknown The Offspring of Mercy MSH, CSR, AS Appendix A, continued Author Poem title Transcribed by Appendix B: A partial Stockton family tree, showing persons mentioned in this article Book History128 Notes I would like to thank the following people for their help with and comments on this article: the librarians and curators at the John Hay Library at Brown University, the Princeton University Library Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, the Newport Historical Society, and the Historical Society of Princeton; Jenny Furlong, Diana Greene, Susanmarie Harrington, Jessica McGivney, Paige Morgan, Karla Nielsen, Nina Pratt, Rachel Shaw, and Jill Smith; and two anonymous reviewers for Book History. 1. The five surviving commonplace books from this family are the following: Mary S. Harrison, “Commonplace book of poetry,” 1864, Bound Manuscripts Collection, First Series, 1600–2000 (CO199, no. 455) Manuscripts Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; Annis Stockton, “‘Annis Stockton, 1819’ (cover Ti- tle), Bound Volume,” 1819-22, Stockton Family Papers, Manuscripts Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; Caroline Stockton, “Com- monplace book,” Undated, Bound Manuscripts Collection, First Series, 1600–2000 (CO199, no. 999) Manuscripts Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; Caroline Stockton Rotch, “Commonplace Book, [ca. 1819–1821],” 1819, Hay Manuscripts, Brown University Library; Horatio Rotch, “Index Rerum: Or, Index of Sub- jects; Intended as a Manual to Aid the Student and the Professional Man,” n.d., Hay Manu- scripts, Brown University Library. 2. On communal reading in nineteenth-century American homes, see Ronald Zboray and Mary Zboray, Everyday Ideas: Socioliterary Experience among Antebellum New England- ers (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2006), 128–30, 132–38. For a later example, see Edward Mortimer Chapman, New England Village Life (Ann Arbor: Gryphon Books, 1971). Chapman’s memoir of growing up in a Connecticut village in the later nineteenth century includes an account of his father’s reading out loud to the family: “[reading] was one of this Farmer’s chief avocations in the longer evenings and on occasional stormy afternoons. . . . he could be heard for hours on end without weariness” (95). 3. On the history of commonplace books up to and during the early modern period, see Ann Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1996); Joan Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces (New York: Pageant Press, 1962); Earle Havens, Commonplace Books: A His- tory of Manuscripts and Printed Books from Antiquity to the Twentieth Century (New Haven: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, 2001); Peter Beal, “Notions in Garrison: The Seventeenth-Century Commonplace Book,” in New Ways of Looking at Old Texts: Papers of the Renaissance English Text Society, 1985–1991, ed. W. Speed Hill (Binghamton, NY: Renais- sance English Text Society, 1993), 133–47. Studies of commonplace books in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries include Lucia Dacome, “Noting the Mind: Commonplace Books and the Pursuit of the Self in Eighteenth-Century Britain,” Journal of the History of Ideas 65, no. 4 (2004): 603–25; David Allan, Commonplace Books and Reading in Georgian England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010). On commonplace books in early America, see Ken- neth A. Lockridge, On the Sources of Patriarchal Rage: The Commonplace Books of William Byrd and Thomas Jefferson and the Gendering of Power in the Eighteenth Century (New York: New York University Press, 1992); Susan Miller, Assuming the Positions: Cultural Pedagogy and the Politics of Commonplace Writing (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998); Meredith L. McGill, “Common Places: Poetry, Illocality, and Temporal Dislocation in Tho- reau’s A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers,” American Literary History 19, no. 2 (Summer 2007): 357–74; Beth Ann Rothermel, “Prophets, Friends, Conversationalists: Quaker Rhetorical Culture, Women’s Commonplace Books, and the Art of Invention, 1775–1840,” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 43, no. 1 (2013): 71–94. Shared Reading at a Distance 129 4. For an example of a particularly massive commonplace book compiled by a lawyer in early modern England, see William Sherman, Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 127–48. 5. Arthur F. Marotti, Manuscript, Print, and the English Renaissance Lyric (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1995), 19. 6. On Locke’s method and its subsequent popularity, see Dacome, “Noting the Mind”; Havens, Commonplace Books, 55–58. 7. William St Clair, The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period (Cambridge, England, and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 225. 8. Adam Smyth, “Commonplace Book Culture: A List of Sixteen Traits,” in Women and Writing, c. 1340–c.1650: The Domestication of Print Culture, ed. Anne Lawrence-Mathers and Phillipa Hardman (Woodbridge, England: York Medieval Press, 2010), 94–95, 97, 106. 9. Stephen Colclough, Consuming Texts: Readers and Reading Communities, 1695– 1870 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 123. For a discussion of the looseness of the term “commonplace book” during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, see Allan, Commonplace Books and Reading, 25–29. 10. David D. Hall, “Readers and Writers in Early New England,” in The Colonial Book in the Atlantic World, ed. Hugh Amory and David D. Hall, A History of the Book in America 1 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007), 132. 11. See Matthew Brown, The Pilgrim and the Bee: Reading Rituals and Book Culture in Early New England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 50–52; Patrick M. Erben, “‘Honey-Combs’ and ‘Paper-Hives’: Positioning Francis Daniel Pastorius’s Manuscript Writings in Early Pennsylvania,” Early American Literature 37, no. 2 (2002): 157–94; Lock- ridge, On the Sources of Patriarchal Rage, 47–73. 12. See, for example, Alison M. Scott, “‘The Cultivated Mind’: Reading and Identity in a Nineteenth-Century Reader,” in Reading Acts: US Readers’ Interaction with Literature, 1800– 1950, ed. Barbara Ryan and Amy M. Thomas (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2002), 32. 13. On the role of commonplace books in early American education, see William J. Gilm- ore, Reading Becomes a Necessity of Life : Material and Cultural Life in Rural New England, 1780–1835 (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1989), 47. For the use of commonplace books by students in colonial New England, see Samuel Morison, The Intellectual Life of Co- lonial New England (Ithaca: Great Seal Books, 1960), 51–55. 14. Enos Hitchcock, Memoirs of the Bloomsgrove Family. In a Series of Letters to a Respectable Citizen of Philadelphia. Containing Sentiments on a Mode of Domestic Educa- tion, Suited to the Present State of Society, Government, and Manners, in the United States of America: And on the Dignity and Importance of the Female Character. Interspersed with a Variety of Interesting Anecdotes, Early American Imprints, Series 1 22570 (Boston: Thomas and Andrews, 1790), vol. 2, 189. 15. John Todd, The Daughter at School, 4th ed. (Northampton, Mass., 1854), 114, http:// hdl.handle.net/2027/hvd.32044011418753. I will discuss Todd’s Index Rerum volume in more detail below. 16. John Todd, Index Rerum, Or, Index of Subjects: Intended as a Manual, to Aid the Student and the Professional Man, in Preparing Himself for Usefulness, with an Introduction, Illustrating Its Utility and Method, 4th ed. (Northampton: J.H. Butler, 1839), 5. 17. Todd, The Daughter at School, 115, 113. 18. Lydia Howard Sigourney, Letters to Young Ladies, by a Lady (Hartford, Conn.: P. Canfield, 1833), 70, http://hdl.handle.net/2027/wu.89098886872; Selections from Various Sources, 1st ed. (Worcester, Mass.: John H. Turner, 1863), Preface (n.p.), http://hdl.handle. net/2027/wu.89098860331. Book History130 19. Scholarship on the history of the friendship album includes W. K. McNeil, “From Advice to Laments: New York Autograph Album Verse: 1820–1850,” New York Folklore Quarterly 25, no. 3 (June 1969): 175–94; W. K. McNeil, “From Advice to Laments Once Again: New York Autograph Album Verse: 1850–1900,” New York Folklore Quarterly 26, no. 3 (June 1970): 163–203; Anya Jabour, “Albums of Affection: Female Friendship and Coming of Age in Antebellum Virginia,” The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 107, no. 2 (1999): 125–58; Todd S. Gernes, “Recasting the Culture of Ephemera,” in Popular Literacy: Studies in Cultural Practices and Poetics, ed. John Trimbur (Pittsburgh: University of Pitts- burgh Press, 2001), 120–26; Erica R. Armstrong, “A Mental and Moral Feast: Reading, Writ- ing, and Sentimentality in Black Philadelphia,” Journal of Women’s History 16, no. 1 (2004): 78–102. 20. For a history of the nineteenth-century American scrapbook, see Ellen Gruber Garvey, Writing with Scissors: American Scrapbooks from the Civil War to the Harlem Renaissance (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2013). On the tendency of commonplace books, scrapbooks, and diaries to merge into each other, see Ronald Zboray and Mary Sara- cino Zboray, “Is It a Diary, Commonplace Book, Scrapbook, or Whatchamacallit? Six Years of Exploration in New England’s Manuscript Archives,” Libraries & the Cultural Record 44, no. 1 (2009): 101–23. 21. Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought, 1–2. 22. For the commonplace book as self-fashioning, see, for example, Lockridge, On the Sources of Patriarchal Rage, 4; Mark R. M Towsey, Reading the Scottish Enlightenment: Books and Their Readers in Provincial Scotland, 1750–1820 (Leiden, the Netherlands; Boston: Brill, 2010), 185. 23. Thomas Koenigs, “The Commonplace Walden,” ESQ: A Journal of the American Renaissance 59, no. 3 (2013): 459–60. 24. Colclough, Consuming Texts, 130–34. 25. Annis Boudinot Stockton’s poems and an account of her life may be found in Annis Boudinot Stockton, Only for the Eye of a Friend: The Poems of Annis Boudinot Stockton, ed. Carla Mulford (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1995). 26. On the literary circle that included Annis Boudinot Stockton (a circle which included several women who kept commonplace books), see Susan Stabile, Memory’s Daughters: The Material Culture of Remembrance in Eighteenth-Century America (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004), 9–14, 80–82. 27. Milcah Martha Moore, Milcah Martha Moore’s Book: A Commonplace Book from Revolutionary America, ed. Catherine L Blecki and Karin A Wulf (University Park, Pa: Penn- sylvania State University Press, 1997), 200, 259, 260. On Moore’s use of the commonplace book format, see Catherine Blecki’s introduction to this volume, 61–69. 28. Constance M. Greiff and Wanda S. Gunning, Morven: Memory, Myth & Reality (Princeton: Historic Morven, Inc., 2004), 40, 62–63. 29. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry.” 30. Alfred Hoyt Bill and Constance M. Greiff, A House Called Morven: Its Role in Ameri- can History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 76. 31. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry.” 32. Caroline Stockton, “Commonplace Book, Undated.” This commonplace book, now in the Princeton University Library, is undated, but the presence of Mary’s elegies for Horatio in its opening pages suggest a start date of no earlier than the end of 1815, while an extract dated “February 3rd 1819” appears near the end of the poem sequence. The 1815–1819 date range implies that Caroline compiled this commonplace book first, then copied some of its contents into her later album dated 1819, and took the latter with her when she moved to New Bedford. Shared Reading at a Distance 131 33. Stockton, “‘Annis Stockton, 1819’ (cover Title), Bound Volume”; Rotch, “Common- place Book, [ca. 1819–1821].” 34. Stockton, “‘Annis Stockton, 1819’ (cover Title), Bound Volume.” 35. On the commonness of marital separation in nineteenth-century America, see Hendrik Hartog, Man and Wife in America : A History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 29–39. Hartog suggests that separation was considered a morally acceptable option for wives of alcoholic husbands (37). 36. John Pintard, Letters from John Pintard to His Daughter, Eliza Noel Pintard David- son, 1816–1833, ed. Dorothy C. Barck (New York: New-York Historical Society, 1940), v. 2, 349. 37. William R. Rotch, “Letter from William Rodman Rotch to Caroline Stockton,” March 8, 1820, Vault A, Box 35, Folder 6, Newport Historical Society. 38. The source for these quotations was a short-lived South Carolina periodical called The Omnium Gatherum (The Omnium Gatherum, n. 1 [1821], 11). The Stockton sisters also transcribed a poem entitled “Lines to a Daughter,” discussed below, from the same source. On the Omnium Gatherum’s brief history, see Sam G. Riley, Magazines of the American South (New York: Greenwood Press, 1986), 157–59. 39. Mary Stockton Harrison, “Letter from Mary Stockton Harrison to Caroline Stockton Rotch,” June 3, 1840, Vault A, Box 35, Folder 7, Newport Historical Society. 40. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry.” 41. Mary Stockton Harrison, “Diary of Mary Stockton Harrison, 1843,” 1843, March 16, Stockton Family Papers MS 58, Box 12, folder 11, Historical Society of Princeton. 42. Kate Hunter Dunn, “Transcript of Letter to the Harvard Alumni Association,” March 11, 1910, Vault A, Box 90, Folder 8, Newport Historical Society. 43. Rotch, “Index Rerum.” 44. John McVey, “John Todd | Index Rerum,” Jmcvey.net, sections 3–4, accessed July 1, 2010, http://www.jmcvey.net/rerum/essay.htm. 45. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow held the Smith Professorship of Modern Languages at Harvard beginning in 1836. Whether or not Horatio Rotch studied with him is unclear. 46. Dunn, “Transcript of Letter to the Harvard Alumni Association.” 47. Horatio Rotch, “Letter from Horatio Rotch to Caroline Stockton Rotch,” July 29, 1849, Vault A, Box 35, Folder 7, Newport Historical Society. 48. Charles W. Morgan, “Diary, 1850 Feb 24 - 1851 Jun 7” (New Bedford, MA, 1850), 90, 95, 97, Charles W. Morgan Collection, G. W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport, http:// library.mysticseaport.org/Manuscripts/CVolImage.cfm?BibID=35077&Volume=4. 49. William J. Rotch, “Transcript of Letter from William J. Rotch to Joanna Rotch,” September 30, 1850, Vault A, Box 90, Folder 8, Newport Historical Society. 50. A fourth Stockton sister, Julia, was born in 1793 and married Dr. John Rhinelander of New York (Bill and Greiff, A House Called Morven, 82). I have only located one commonplace book belonging to her (Julia Stockton Rhinelander, “Commonplace Book of Julia Stockton Rhinelander,” n.d., Stockton Family Papers MS 58, Box 12, folder 23, Historical Society of Princeton). It contains primarily jokes, riddles, and short humorous verses. Four epigrams from Mary’s collection also appear in Julia’s commonplace book; otherwise, Julia seems not to have shared her sisters’ fondness for the family’s favorite poems. 51. This calculation includes quotations from longer works, such as Pope’s An Essay on Man, Byron’s The Corsair and Don Juan, and Shakespeare’s plays, from which the sisters did not always cull the same passages. Even when non-shared passages from these longer works are removed from the count, shared poems still account for 34% of Mary’s quotations, 52% of Annis’s, and 60% of Caroline’s. 52. “A Farewell to Morven” appeared in at least two periodicals in April 1829, The Ariel and The Washington Whig. (“Farewell to Morven,” The Washington Whig, April 18, 1829; “Farewell to Morven,” The Ariel: A Literary Gazette, April 18, 1829.) Book History132 53. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry”; Rotch, “Commonplace Book, [ca. 1819– 1821]”; Greiff and Gunning, Morven, 104; Bill and Greiff, A House Called Morven, 88–144. 54. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry.” 55. “Richard Stockton,” Northern Monthly Magazine, September 1867, 431. 56. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry”; Stockton, “‘Annis Stockton, 1819’ (cover Title), Bound Volume”; Rotch, “Commonplace Book, [ca. 1819–1821].” 57. “Lines to a Daughter, Who Devoted Herself Wholly to the Care of a Sick and Aged Mother (Imitated from the French),” The Omnium Gatherum, 1821, 32–33. 58. This poem appears in Caroline’s New Bedford commonplace book in a different hand, which bears a strong resemblance to one of the hands that appear in Mary’s collection. 59. Rotch, “Index Rerum.” 60. Each of the family members transcribed numerous poems whose authorship is anony- mous or unknown (63 in Mary’s book, 22 in Annis’s, 9 and 23 in Caroline’s two collections, and 13 in Horatio’s). 61. Catherine Robson, Heart Beats: Everyday Life and the Memorized Poem (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), 191–218; St Clair, The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period, 226–28; Allan, Commonplace Books and Reading, 209–10. 62. Allan, Commonplace Books and Reading, 184–96, 196–202, 205–06. For Byron’s popularity in the United States during the 1810s and 1820s, see William Ellery Leonard, Byron and Byronism in America (New York: Gordian Press, 1965), 19–35. 63. On the predominance of British texts in the American book market from the colonial period to the early nineteenth century, see St Clair, The Reading Nation in the Romantic Pe- riod, 374–83. 64. Frank Luther Mott, A History of American Magazines (New York: D. Appleton, 1930), v. 1, 130–31. 65. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry.” 66. Rotch, “Index Rerum.” 67. Meredith L. McGill, American Literature and the Culture of Reprinting, 1834–1853, Material Texts (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 1–5. On recirculation with attribution to other periodicals, see Garvey, Writing with Scissors, 40–41. 68. Leah Price, “George Eliot and the Production of Consumers,” NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction 30, no. 2 (January 1, 1997): 157–58. 69. Ellen Gruber Garvey, “Anonymity, Authorship, and Recirculation: A Civil War Epi- sode,” Book History 9, no. 1 (2006): 159–61. 70. Harrison, “Commonplace Book of Poetry.” 71. Rotch, “Index Rerum”; Samuel Kettell, Specimens of American Poetry with Critical and Biographical Notices, in Three Volumes (Boston: S.G. Goodrich, 1829), v. 3, 218; Rotch, “Index Rerum,” 113. 72. Intergenerational transfer of commonplace books was common in Great Britain; see, for example, Smyth, “Commonplace Book Culture,” 107–08. For an American example of a woman bequeathing her commonplace book to her granddaughter, see Mary Kelley, Learning to Stand & Speak: Women, Education, and Public Life in America’s Republic (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 181–82. 73. On sentimentality in nineteenth-century American poetry, see Joanne Dobson, “Re- claiming Sentimental Literature,” American Literature 69, no. 2 (June 1997): 263–88; Chris- toph Irmscher, “Longfellow’s Sentimentality,” Soundings: An Interdisciplinary Journal 93, no. 3/4 (October 1, 2010): 249–80; Mary Louise Kete, Sentimental Collaborations: Mourning and Middle-Class Identity in Nineteenth-Century America (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000). 74. Catherine E. Kelly, In the New England Fashion: Reshaping Women’s Lives in the Nineteenth Century (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999), 79–81. Anya Jabour has ob- Shared Reading at a Distance 133 served similar tendencies in young women’s friendship albums from Virginia (Jabour, “Albums of Affection”). For a counterpoint to this argument, see Armstrong, “A Mental and Moral Feast.” Armstrong finds that African-American women in Philadelphia used their albums to maintain “a network of friends and acquaintances that would not be dismantled, but rather nurtured” (97). 75. Kete, Sentimental Collaborations, 17. 76. Robert Field Stockton, “Letter from Robert Field Stockton to Caroline Stockton,” October 1, 1820, Vault A, Box 35, Folder 6, Newport Historical Society. 77. Mary Stockton Harrison, “Letter from Mary Stockton Harrison to Caroline Rotch,” November 19, 1826, Vault A, Box 35, Folder 6, Newport Historical Society. 
work_4lmpgx4bpvdjplozoeocl6t2pi	----	Feminine Preoccupations: English at the Seven Sisters Modern Language Studies Feminine Preoccupations: English at the Seven Sisters Author(s): Mary Dockray-Miller Source: Modern Language Studies, Vol. 27, No. 3/4 (Autumn - Winter, 1997), pp. 139-157 Published by: Modern Language Studies Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3195398 Accessed: 17-02-2017 01:32 UTC JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org. Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at http://about.jstor.org/terms Modern Language Studies is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to Modern Language Studies This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms Feminine Preoccupations: English at The Seven Sisters MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER History and Women's History. Basketball and Women's Basketball. The Norton Anthology of English Literature and The Norton Anthology of Liter- ature by Women. Despite tremendous gains of women in the public sphere-as I write these words, Madeline Albright has just been named Secretary of State-our history and activities are still considered marked as "women's" and hence in some way unusual. My own field of English Studies has been engaged in examining and discussing its own history for the past ten or fifteen years. More general books like Gerald Graff's Professing Literature and James Berlin's Rhetoric and Reality share the shelf with more specifically focused texts like Allen Frantzen's Desire for Origins, a history of Anglo-Saxon Studies in America. And yet the female component of this history has, by and large, been elid- ed. With a thick black magic marker, I retitled Graff's book Men Professing Literature, for with the exception of a paragraph on Wellesley's Vida Scud- der (84) and a reference to Wellesley's introductory literature class (102), women scholars and students are absent from the first parts of Graff's book (which deal with the nineteenth century and the early parts of the twentieth century). Graff's text, enlightening and important as it is, is ac- tually a history of men. But "men's history" is not yet a section in our li- braries. Histories of English in American universities and colleges like Graff's and Berlin's tend to ignore or marginalize the field of women's higher ed- ucation and to assume that women's colleges were simply smaller, female versions of the (mostly all male) universities like Harvard or Princeton usually cited as examples. The female institutions have been almost exclu- sively viewed as lagging a bit behind and struggling to keep up with their Modern Language Studies 27.3, 4 @NortheastModernLanguageAssociation This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 140 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS brothers. Such scholarship has failed to acknowledge aspects of women's English education-specifically at the Seven Sisters colleges before the First World War-that made the Sister colleges not only different from but also, in some critical ways, educationally superior to and more progres- sive than their male counterparts. Rather than neglect the female side of our discipline's history, the En- glish profession today can look to our female-and feminine-predeces- sors as we grapple with our discipline's conflicts in the 1990s. The departmental divides keep growing: between those who practice theory and those who don't; between those who "have to" teach composition and those who don't; between those who do more research than teaching and those who don't; between those who are tenured and tenurable and those who are not. The English departments of the pre-WWI Seven Sisters can provide guidance, in both philosophy and practice, as we struggle to ac- knowledge and close those gaps. The Seven Sisters-Mount Holyoke, Smith, Wellesley, Radcliffe, Bar- nard, Vassar, and Bryn Mawr-were founded throughout the nineteenth century to provide education for women at the same level that Harvard, Yale, and Princeton provided it for men. Holyoke, the oldest of the sisters, opened as a seminary, not a college, in 1837; Barnard opened last in 1889. All seven offered courses of study similar, in some respects, to those of the Ivy League colleges, and all seven were decried by critics as radical and superfluous institutions that would (and of course did) encourage women to look beyond their prescribed station in life as wife and mother. The sister colleges did differ from their male counterparts in overall philosophy and curriculum, and these differences were reflected in the English curriculum. There were, of course, obvious similarities between the Seven Sisters and the Ivy League, most notably the initial dedication to a classical education. The standard college curriculum in the first half of the nineteenth century included Greek, Latin, mathematics, history, logic, theology, natural science, and moral philosophy.1 Graff determines that women's colleges chose "classical courses of study" because of the "neces- sity to prove that women could undertake a serious course of study" (37). This imitation of the men's curriculum was most apparent at Barnard and Radcliffe, where women students paid Columbia or Harvard professors to duplicate the lectures they gave to the men. 1 While electives in English and modern languages may have been offered, most students could not take them; the study of Greek and Latin comprised up to half of a student's course work. Greek and Latin were supposedly literary courses, but actually focused on grammar, etymology, memorization, and philology (Graff 22 and 28). This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 141 However, such imitation was not universal, as Graff and others like him assume. While the Seven Sister schools did offer the requisite Latin and Greek, the classical focus was not as sharp; the curriculum emphasis ranged from the arts (Smith and Wellesley) to the natural sciences (Vas- sar). Holyoke's elective system for juniors and seniors enabled a student to choose her own curricular focus in an educational environment that had "created free electives and new majors while the men's colleges were still clinging to the academic guidelines established by puritan clergymen" (Kendall 175). At Bryn Mawr, the classical curriculum was taught in an in- terdisciplinary manner that belied the Latin and Greek stuffiness de- scribed in the traditional histories of colleges: Bryn Mawr students went on archeological digs with professors whose stated faculty philosophy was that the students were junior colleagues (Vermeule 171) rather than vessels to be passively filled with the professor's knowledge. On the sur- face, Bryn Mawr may have looked like a little Yale; yet underneath, it was engaged in a unique and revolutionary intellectual dialogue between stu- dent and professor in the classical disciplines. These larger philosophical and curricular differences were mirrored in the English departments of the Seven Sisters and their male counterparts until the First World War. English studies at men's colleges and universi- ties were an outgrowth of the Greek and Latin curricula, emphasizing et- ymology, syntax, and rhetoric rather than examining the meanings of the works (Graff 39). An excellent example of such a curriculum is all-male Bowdoin College's 1880 "English Literature" class, required of all third term sophomores. Bowdoin students read Milton's Areopagitica, Bacon's Essays, and "Masterpieces of Burke and [Daniel] Webster" (1880-81 Cata- logue 4). These nonfiction prose works, mostly essays or revised speeches about politics or philosophy, were studied as rhetorical examples. Bowdo- in students also attended unspecified "Rhetoricals" every Wednesday af- ternoon through most of the 1880s and 1890s. Fiction and poetry written in English are not to be found. The challenge for early English professors was to make English as dif- ficult as Latin and Greek, and attention to philology ensured that the "mental discipline" provided by study of the classics would be found in English as well (Graff 70). Early English teachers taught rhetoric or com- position classes; English literature was not originally part of the depart- ment's scope (Berlin 20). The typical writing curriculum included narration, description, exposition and argument (Berlin 55); professors emphasized theme writing and declamation, not literature (Graff 41). All-male Haverford College is a typical example of this departmental structure. Until 1900, Haverford required "scripture and themes" from ev- ery student every term. In 1875, Haverford students took "English Litera- ture" in their freshmen year, using Cleveland's Compendium and Hart's This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 142 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS Rhetoric as their texts. While the Compendium does contain poetry and fic- tion, essays and memoirs comprise the bulk of its pages. The entry on Mat- thew Arnold is typical: it contains an essay on quality of translations of Homer, an essay on the relationship between Homer and Milton, and Ar- nold's poem "Desire," to which Cleveland adds a footnote that it could be called a prayer (Cleveland 758). While no syllabus from the 1875 English Literature class exists, the two text books and the content of the "reader" suggest that very little fiction or poetry was being read in the class. The ti- tles of later courses bear out this suggestion: sophomore students took "The Philological Study of the English Language"; juniors had separate courses in Anglo-Saxon and Rhetoric; and seniors studied Philology, us- ing Whitney's Science of Language as a text (1875 Catalogue 14-16). No cours- es focused on literature until 1890. At most schools, when literature was in the classroom, it was simply used as an example for philological or structural analysis (Graff 41), as perhaps it was in Haverford's freshman class. What James Berlin, in Rhet- oric and Reality, terms current-traditional rhetoric-an emphasis on the grammar, structure, and mechanics of a language that relates a pre-exist- ing reality-was the dominant form of composition teaching throughout the nineteenth century (and the twentieth, for that matter); it was perfectly suited to the new middle-class business-oriented students pouring into the universities (Berlin 35). The Seven Sisters subscribed to a great extent to this current-traditional philosophy of teaching writing. Barnard and Radcliffe offered the same current traditional courses and methods that Harvard and Columbia did; in Cambridge and New York City, men and women learned to write in ba- sically the same way. Since "Harvard at this time led academic thought in the matter of teaching English" (Miller 40), both Barnard and Radcliffe women took daily theme courses like those offered at Harvard in the 1890s. Barnard women had to take two years of writing courses to gradu- ate (Miller 67). Wellesley and Smith relied on current-traditional rhetoric as well; both had separate departments of English Language and English Literature well into the nineties (Smith's two departments finally merged in 1904) and at Smith, students not enrolled in English Language courses still were required to submit essays to the department "for criticism" (Seelye 124). More current-traditional rhetoric was practiced across the mountain at Mount Holyoke, where students wrote every Saturday on a specific topic like nature or female education; the themes were then read aloud to the whole section (Cole 59). Students at Mount Holyoke took writing-oriented courses every year, from the seminary students in 1837 who studied "Log- ic and Rhetoric" to the four year students of 1860 enrolled in "Composi- tion and Analysis of the English Language" to "Composition" taken by the This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 143 students of 1879 (1837 Annual 8, 1860 Annual 18, 1879 Annual 21). Holyoke offered a spelling class to which the unfortunates who committed three spelling errors in a theme were banished; even penmanship was part of the composition classes (Cole 58). Similarly, at Bryn Mawr, students took two full years of writing from the day the college opened, with the addi- tion of a required course in Aristotelian rhetoric in 1898 (1898 Program 107). Bryn Mawr had a variety of names for its writing course, like "Essay Work," "English Prose," and "Essay Section," but all these courses em- braced current traditional rhetoric with emphasis on weekly or biweekly papers and mechanical correctness. Vassar, too, followed the current traditional model. Students at Vassar took writing-intensive courses every semester for four years from 1865, the year the college opened, until 1875; the writing requirement gradually dwindled to one full-year freshmen writing course in 1905 (Catalogues). According to the 1875 catalogue, the mission of the Vassar English depart- ment was to teach the student a good style of writing, reading, and speaking the English language, by assiduous exercise in the writing of themes and in silent readings and recitations; and lastly, to introduce her to English literature. (1875 Catalogue 19) In all these instances, the Seven Sisters fall perfectly into traditional mod- els of the ascendence of composition and of current traditional rhetoric in the early English department. Naturally, the women's colleges wanted to be considered equal to the Ivy League men's schools and offered similar courses with similar teaching methods. However, there were some impor- tant differences that point to a distinctly female teaching and learning ex- perience. The first dissimilarity is clear in the 1844 Mount Holyoke Seminary An- nual, which reads, "all members of the school attend regularly to compo- sition, reading, and calisthenics" (11). While historians depict the struggle to give English studies the legitimacy of Greek and Latin, at Mount Holy- oke it was simply listed with the jumping jacks. That same year Mount Ho- lyoke seniors read Paradise Lost in a course separate from the rhetoric (and calisthenics) course, although Graff and others contend that literature was not in the classroom yet except as a style-example. Haverford College had such a typical curriculum with no distinctly literary offerings. At Haver- ford, there were no electives for English Literature until 1891, and the phi- losophy of the 1875 "Rhetoric and English Literature" department focused on the effort "to stimulate thought, and train the mind to exactness and vigor." Knowledge of literature was preferred rather than required: "throughout the course, the study of the history and structure of the En- glish Language, and of English and American Literature, will be encour- This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 144 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS aged" (1875 Catalogue 31). While literature was "encouraged," it was certainly not generally available until 1891. In 1880, seniors took "Philolo- gy, etc." during the first half of the year and both Anglo-Saxon and English during the second half-the course description for "English" is "Philolog- ical study; themes" (1880 Catalogue 23). Thirty-six years earlier, Mount Ho- lyoke students were reading Paradise Lost in a course by itself. Another notable Seven Sisters practice is the private conference with the composition teacher at Vassar, now standard practice at most univer- sities. These conferences were highlighted in the course descriptions every year, so it would seem they were exceptional and worth emphasizing. While Harvard's writing class in the late nineteenth century also included conferences (Berlin 38), twenty teachers were responsible for 2000 stu- dents (Berlin 22), substantially reducing the possibility of intimacy and thoroughness. In contrast, the Vasssar conferences in the Rhetoric classes of the junior year included discussion of the student's work of the past two years as well as of the current year, thus providing a sense of development of the student's writing for both the teacher and the student (1890 Cata- logue 38). While a student at Vassar endured the usual public recitation common to other schools, she also had the advantage of conferences that dispensed with the possibility of public humiliation. The catalogue de- scription emphasized the private nature of these conferences: "The faults of each student are corrected in private interviews with her teacher" (1870 Catalogue 19). The conferences are also called "personal interviews" (1890 Catalogue 37). This could be considered a distinctly "feminine" educational method, choosing mutuality and nurturance over fear and hierarchy as in- centive to learn. At Vassar, then, faults were not exposed in public but discussed in pri- vate. In 1875, the catalogue reads: "The criticisms are minute, personal, and free, being made in private interviews between the teacher and the students individually" (1875 Catalogue 19). The word "free" is most inter- esting here; it assumes a rapport between the two parties, an ease of rela- tionship that requires mutual respect. The word "free" is used again in the 1890 sophomore class description, wherein "free class-room discussion is made an important feature of the work" (1890 Catalogue 38). Again, the cat- alogue conveys a sense of mutuality in the classroom; the Vassar students were not perceived as passive recipients of a professor's lectured knowl- edge. Bowdoin College provides a contrast to these descriptions; Bowdoin catalogues emphasize the number of hours spent in public declamation and "practical rhetoric." The first one-on-one conferences listed in the Bowdoin Catalogue, in 1900, do not emphasize privacy and freedom. In- This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 145 stead, the description makes the "conference" seem more like a lecture where there is only one listener. The course is called "Themes" and I quote the description in full: Four themes of not less than four hundred words each are required of all Juniors in each term. Subjects for themes are posted two weeks or more before the themes are due. Each theme is carefully read, the mistakes are marked, and a general criticism is written on the out- side. The instructor then meets each student, hears him read his theme, points out the faults and merits of his writing, and suggests lines of profitable reading (1900 Catalogue 39). This course description is an exercise in impersonality. The assignments are posted; there is no opportunity to ask questions when the assignment is initially given. The use of the passive voice (the theme is read, a criticism is written) adds to the aura of austerity. This is not a free and private ex- change. Most innovative of all was Bryn Mawr's writing class. Writing across the curriculum, all in vogue in the 1990s, was already in place at Bryn Mawr in the 1890s, when faculty members included writing instruction in a variety of non-English courses. Writing was a component of classes in the philosophy or archeology departments as well as English (LaBalme 161). Students were exposed to a variety of disciplines in such classes; they learned that writing is necessary outside of the English classroom. As col- leges today struggle to implement "Writing Across the Curriculum" pro- grams, a look to Bryn Mawr might be helpful-teachers made writing an integral part of an archaeology or Latin course, not something "added" to fulfill bureaucratic requirements. As such, these professors modelled the necessity of mastering this cross-disciplinary skill. Bryn Mawr students in the nineteenth century did not graduate think- ing that writing was done only in English class, or (even worse) that style and structure are important in writing done in English class but not any- where else. How many professors of archeology today feel qualified to teach writing? How many even want to try? Perhaps such innovation was easier in institutions that were in themselves experiments; since universi- ty-level education for women was a new idea anyway, it may have been easier to break away from current traditional rhetoric in a women's college than a men's college. Like other schools, the women's colleges were moving gradually to an emphasis on literature rather than composition. However, we must note an exception to this progression. While most colleges in the first decade of the twentieth century privileged literature and required only a full year writing course (Berlin 55-56), Mount Holyoke offered a complete under- This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 146 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS graduate major in rhetoric. Holyoke was almost reactionary in its loyalty to its rhetoric courses; it kept up the practice of teaching rhetoric even after other schools had switched to a more literary focus. Holyoke divided its department of English from its department of En- glish Language and Literature. While the requirements in English (writing and rhetoric) gradually dwindled from four year-long courses in 1874 to two in 1904 to one in 1909 (Annuals), the number of courses available for majors increased to 20 by 1909. These included a daily theme course (prob- ably much like the ones at the Harvards of the 1870s); verse and drama composition; argument and journalism; and even a course for students who intended to become teachers of writing (1909 Annual 48-49). This is not to say that Mount Holyoke remained mired in the past, resistant to the philosophical changes in other English departments. However, Holyoke managed to continue to expand upon the collegiate tradition of writing and rhetoric while at the same time responding to the growth of the disci- pline of literature. Just as the experimental nature of the women's college had enabled some of the sister colleges to choose a curricular focus that was not wholly classical, that same nature allowed the department at Mount Holyoke to continue its own tradition of teaching rhetoric without slavishly imitating the trends at the men's schools. As a result, the students at Mount Holyoke had a choice of majoring in literature or in rhetoric, a choice that was not available to the majority of male college students at the beginning of the twentieth century.2 This undergraduate major in rhetoric at Mount Holy- oke is not even mentioned in Nan Johnson's Nineteenth Century Rhetoric in North America; although the catalogues from forty colleges are listed in her bibliography, with a geographical range from Massachusetts to Wyoming, there are no women's colleges included (301-303). Johnson, like other his- torians before her, assumes that women students were doing the same things in the same way that men students did. She misses an opportunity to explore diversification in the history of the field. Literature was another subject where the women's colleges were de- cidedly divergent from the men's. While literature was regarded as extra- curricular, too easy, or effeminate at the men's colleges through most of the nineteenth century, the women's colleges capitalized on that "effemi- nacy" and included literary study long before the men's colleges did, as it was considered an eminently suitable subject for young ladies to study. 2 For instance, by 1914 English majors at Bowdoin College took a variety of lit- erature courses but there was no major in the department of rhetoric and oratory, which furnished the required writing and public speaking classes for freshmen as well as some electives (1914 Bulletin 66). This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 147 This phenomenon was later parallelled in England, where extensive En- glish studies appeared first at the new women's colleges and at adult-ed- ucation establishments called Working Men's Colleges (Baldick 61).3 Middle-class men and upper-class women were initially the "consumers" of English studies in England while the men of Oxford and Cambridge continued to focus on Latin and Greek, for the most part scorning English literary study. Similarly, in the United States English literature was pre- sumed to be a "natural" subject for the inferior feminine mind. Previously, historians have asserted that literary study roughly in the form that we know it today-reading literature for its meaning, not to ex- amine its philological roots-came into the mainstream in the late 1880s and 1890s, as those known as the "generalists" were struggling with phi- lologists who wanted to make English as hard as Greek (Graff 67). How- ever, the literature curriculum of the women's colleges has been ignored in the histories of literary study. Bryn Mawr required a year-long Survey of English Literature course in 1886, when courses like this "were rare or were complete innovations" (Meigs 41). Meanwhile, in 1875 at Vassar, sophomores were required to take a year-long course entitled "History of English Literature from Beowulf to Swift"; the course requirements state that students wrote "long critical essays" about the literature (1875 Cata- logue 9). Even earlier, in 1863, Mount Holyoke required two years of the History of English Literature (1863 Annual 20) and one full year in 1859 (1859 Annual 12). The sexism that assumed that the aesthetic nature of lit- erature was a natural female concern actually gave the Seven Sisters an edge and allowed them to develop serious critical literature courses before the supposedly more advanced men's schools did. An aesthetic approach to literature investigates emotion and beauty- two concepts usually associated with "the feminine." Such an aesthetic, feminine approach to a poem, a play, or a novel emphasizes the text's emo- tional appeal, the development of its characters, and the beauty of its lan- guage. Female college students were using just this approach (something we in the English departments of the 1990s do as a matter of course, re- gardless of gender) in the 1860s and 1870s while their male counterparts were defining structure, deriving etymology, and discovering sources. Histories that ignore these course offerings and continue to insist that lit- erature did not truly enter the mainstream curriculum until the end of the 3 The Cambridge women's colleges of Girton and Newnham were founded in 1869 and 1876, respectively; Lady Margaret Hall at Oxford was founded in 1878. It is important to note, however, that women were not accorded full status at Cam- bridge until 1948 and at Oxford until 1960, although women received Oxford de- grees after 1920 (Brooke 319). Women's higher education is one field where the British have followed an American lead. This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 148 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS nineteenth century present male intellectual history as human intellectual history, dismissing contradictory evidence from the female side as irrele- vant or not worth investigating. The ascendancy of literature over composition began with the applica- tion of philology to the English language. Since English had been consid- ered too easy for a college subject (Graff 28) and a "second-class undertaking" (Berlin 20), it needed the scientific method of the philolo- gists to give it legitimacy in the academy. The philologists used literature as a teaching tool for philological study, not as the focus of the course (Graff 68). What is currently the stuff of most undergraduate literature courses-reading literature and discussing its "meaning"-was largely relegated to the colleges' literary societies until the end of the nineteenth century. Colleges usually had a number of societies, dedicated to the study of "extracurricular modem subjects as science, English, history, music, art, literature, and contemporary fiction" (Graff 45). The Seven Sisters had their versions of these clubs-Philalethis at Vassar (Horowitz 63), Black- stick at Holyoke (Cole 305), the Barnard Bear (Miller 131) and the Lewis Carroll-inspired Reeling and Writhing at Bryn Mawr, whose publication was the first to publish Marianne Moore and HD (Meigs 234). However, the prevalence of literature classes at the women's schools shows that these clubs were not a substitute for literature classes as they were at the men's schools but a supplement to an already lively literary environment. Most academics at the end of the nineteenth century felt that philology was too difficult or too manly for women to study. In an attack on philol- ogists, Irving Babbitt accused them of "assert[ing] their manhood by phil- ological research," showing the equation of philology with virility (Graff 88). In 1883, H.C.G. Brandt said that if literature was one of the "final touches to be put on young ladies in their seminaries," of course it would be too easy; he recommended that "English" should actually mean "the historical scientific study of the language, Beowulf and Chaucer" (Graff 73), which would presumably exclude the aforementioned young ladies. Jo McMurtry, who does include very short blurbs about three of the Seven Sisters in English Language, English Literature, states that a more belletristic approach to literature was considered appropriate for women: Throughout much of the middle class, women were allowed the role of guardians of culture, in charge generally of the menfolk's rest and recreation with a dose of moral responsibility thrown in...English literature fit in as an appropriate pursuit. As a hobby it was quiet, it required no expensive equipment, it had moral overtones (if one ex- cised the eighteenth-century novel, that is; many men refused to let their wives read Fielding), and it was intellectually accessible in that it did not require learning an ancient language. (11) This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 149 Modem literature was just a "feminine preoccupation" (Graff 37) while phi- lology (which usually required more than one ancient language) was not. It is interesting to note the oppositions that come into play in such a dis- cussion. Feminist theorists since Simone de Beauvoir have shown how masculinity defines itself through opposition to femininity. In nineteenth- century English studies, "modem" is opposed to "classical" as the weaker and less desirable of the two; "feminine" and "accessible" become similarly opposed to "masculine" and "rigorous." The challenge and discipline re- quired by classical philology allowed men to prove their etymological ath- leticism and oppose their intellectual feats to those of the weaker sex, who were not "in shape" to study philology. Modem teachers usually consider accessibility of curricular materials a desirable feature; the nineteenth-cen- tury masculine philologists disdained such womanish ease. Harvard pro- fessor Bliss Perry simply refused to teach philology to Radcliffe women (Kendall 154). The exception to these oppositional pairs was Bryn Mawr, which chal- lenged men's sole possession of the philological tradition, practicing phi- lology with a classical vengeance that made Bryn Mawr as "rigorous" as any men's philology program of the day. Bryn Mawr's department was led by M. Carey Thomas, Dean and later President of the college. Thomas wrote her very traditional doctoral dissertation on Sir Gawain at Zurich; no American insitution except Johns Hopkins would accept a woman who wished to study graduate level philology. After accepting Thomas, Johns Hopkins prohibited her from attending classes with the male students, though she was welcome to pay the fees and take the exams (Meigs 70). Thomas's traditional training is evident in the structure and require- ments of the Bryn Mawr English department. In keeping with the fear that English was too easy, until WWI Bryn Mawr required an English major to be half of a double major, paired with a major in another language or in philosophy (1886-1917 Programs). In 1886 the English major took the four full year writing courses and the one full year literature survey required of every student; she also took "Historical Study of the English Language" for a year, focussing on Anglo-Saxon and early English texts; a semester of Shakespeare and Chaucer; and a semester of independent study (1886 Pro- gram 23-24). The Bryn Mawr innovation of seminars with students as "junior col- leagues" is especially important in the senior year of the English major, which by 1894 had been left completely open-ended as "a year of semi- nary-work (sic) and essay writing" agreed upon by the students and pro- fessors (1894 Program 68). The contrast between the "masculine" object of study and the more "feminine" approach to that study, wherein the stu- This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 150 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS dent gives respected input to the choice of subject matter, exemplifies the pedagogical innovations developed by the Seven Sisters, although at Bryn Mawr the content of the curriculum was very traditional. By the late 1890s, Bryn Mawr had relaxed its philological grasp to the point where one elective in Victorian poetry was offered (1899 Program 154), but Bryn Mawr's English program consistently remained more clas- sical and more philologically oriented than any of its sisters'. The Bryn Mawr philosophy about English was that "there is...no modem literature, of which the study may not be fitly preceded, or supplemented, by the study of Latin and Greek" (Vermeule 162). Bryn Mawr's "unusual integra- tion of literature, history, and archeology" (Vermeule 167) showed the overwhelmingly male philological establishment that women were more than capable of scientific examination of the language in a rigorous aca- demic curriculum. Graff contends, however, that throughout the 1890s and 1900s, the philological establishment was assimilating and compromising with the more humanist generalists, marking out turf boundaries, and confirming a tenuous peace between the two camps. This peace has led to an uneasy separation in the department. Throughout the twentieth century, the In- troduction to Literature course has grown less philological and more hu- manistic. Graff argues that the philologists and their more modem counterparts, historical researchers, have basically ceded the undergradu- ate curriculum to the generalist/humanists; instead, they focus on gradu- ate teaching, research, and publication (Graff 91-101). While historical research gradually replaced philological research, the privileging of re- search and publication over teaching began as early as the 1890s (Graff 62) and continues to the present day, when at most schools the number of publications is a more important factor in tenure decisions than teaching ability.4 Self examination and conscious choice seem to have led the Seven Sis- ters to some sort of resolution of this conflict between generalists and phi- lologists. These resolutions, in philosophy and practice, could be instructive today as we in the profession seek to resolve our own conflicts, some of which I mentioned at the beginning of this essay. Before I turn to more contemporary issues, however, I wish to show that the distinctly feminine, experimental nature of the Seven Sisters English departments 4 This division in the departments of the late nineteenth century is the first of Graff's examples that work towards his overriding conclusion, that members of the English studies profession must "teach the conflict." The fragmentation be- tween the researchers and the teachers is the most prominent of these conflicts in the first half of Graff's book. This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 151 led those departments to a relatively harmonious resolution to the re- search/teaching conflict. Graff argues that at the end of the nineteenth century, bored students had no sense of the development of English liter- ature, taught by a fragmented, philosophically divided department (Graff 177-188). If this was the case at Harvard and Columbia, then it was also true at Radcliffe and Barnard, which had the same curriculum. Indeed, all of Barnard's literature classes were elective (Miller 42), so the probability of a student having a fragmented vision of the history of English literature was high. However, the other Seven Sisters had two distinct advantages over the men's colleges: they did not have graduate programs (except for Bryn Mawr, which had only one or two students a year) and they had the tradi- tion of female aestheticism. While it would be naive and incorrect to state that the generalist/philologist divide did not exist at all in departments at women's colleges, examination of course offerings and departmental phi- losophy statements reveals that the divide and the fragmentation were much less severe. Wellesley, Smith, Mount Holyoke, and Vassar can pro- vide an alternative history that presents solutions to this problem. Wellesley and Smith solved the philology/generalist dispute by siding almost wholly with the generalist side, immersing themselves in the aes- theticism that had always been considered a "feminine preoccupation." Wellesley English majors took philology and Anglo-Saxon as part of their course requirements, but non-majors took a general English literature sur- vey that had a humanist, not scientific slant (Graff 102). The department philosophy was primarily aesthetic: At a time when the study of literature threatened to become, almost universally, an exercise in the dry rot of philological terms, in the cataloguing of sources, or in the analyzing of literary forms, the de- partment at Wellesley continued unswervingly to make use of phi- losophy, sources, and even art forms as a means to an end; that end was the interpretation of literary epochs, the illumination of intel- lectual and spiritual values in literary masterpieces, the revelation of the soul of the poet, dramatist, essayist, novelist. (Converse 138- 139) This rejection of philology could occur because as females (the Wellesley English department consisted of four women in the late 1890s) in a male- dominated profession, the Wellesley professors were most likely bound by neither of the expectations of male-defined professional success: re- search and publishing. A thorough survey of the institutional affiliations of the authors of the articles in the first twenty volumes of PMLA (1885- This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 152 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS 1905) reveals only one Wellesley affiliation; in 1904 Martha Hale Shack- ford published "A Definition of the Pastoral Idyll" (583-592). In contrast, six authors in the 1901 volume were affiliated with Harvard. Perhaps in the larger academic community these women would be pa- tronized as unpublished generalists who taught undergraduates (under- graduate women, for that matter); however, in their specific professional environment that was irrelevant. Patricia Palmieri has documented what she calls "the family culture of the faculty" at Wellesley at the turn of the century, wherein the all-female professorate developed an insular com- munity of emotional and intellectual bonds (57-76). The Wellesley English department could be viewed as a few women teaching a few other women in a feminine aesthetic tradition; it could also be viewed as a viable alter- native to the type of professional evaluation that undervalues teaching for the glory of publication and research. Obviously, some members of the male establishment respected Wellesley enough to visit it in the last quar- ter of the nineteenth century: John Greenleaf Whittier, Matthew Arnold, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow all spoke at Wellesley (Kendall 121). Smith, too, chose aestheticism in the research/humanist debate: it did not have a graduate program and it had been virtually ordered into a fe- male aesthetic philosophy by Sophia Smith, its founder. In her will, she di- rected that "higher culture in the English language and literature be given in said college" (Hanscom 116); accordingly, the first circular advertising Smith read, "Probably more attention will be paid in this than in other col- leges to the English Language and Literature, to criticism on the standard English authors, and to the writing of original essays" (Hanscom 118). While it could be argued that Smith and Wellesley were ignoring, not teaching, the conflict, evidence suggests that they had examined the con- flict and made a conscious decision. Bryn Mawr was available for female students interested in philology; there were probably not enough such stu- dents to fill English departments at all seven colleges anyway. Women teaching undergraduates at all-female colleges were most likely under much less, if any, pressure to publish than their male counterparts at the big universities.5 Smith and Wellesley-and Bryn Mawr too, for that mat- 5 Seven Sisters professors who published in PMLA were, by and large, male faculty practicing Germanic philology at Bryn Mawr: J. James Stuerzing (1885), Hermann Collitz (1887 and 1901), J. Douglas Bruce (1894 and 1898), Albert Haas (1902), Albert Schinz (1903), and Gordon Hall Gerould (1904). Gerould seems to have parleyed his publication record into a higher-status position; by the time he publishes again in PMLA, in 1905, he is affiliated with Princeton. The notable ex- ception is Smith's Mary Augusta Scott, who published five times (1895, 1896, 1898, 1899, and 1901) on Elizabethan translations from Italian. This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 153 ter-chose one side of the research/humanism divide and stuck with it, rather than trying to practice both and ending up with bored students and a fragmented department. Like Smith and Wellesley, Vassar focussed on the aesthetic and hu- manist aspects of the tradition, although as a larger school it offered more philological electives. Interestingly enough, Vassar seems to have had more male faculty members as well, although none of the faculty pub- lished in PMLA's first twenty volumes. The course on Anglo-Saxon, al- most undoubtedly philologically based, was always an available elective. Where philology was privileged in the men's schools, at Vassar it was op- tional. Seniors had a choice between two electives in 1880, three electives in 1890, and thirty-four electives (after a huge growth in the student body) in 1910; Anglo-Saxon was always available but never required. The objec- tives of the English department at Vassar continued to focus on proficien- cy of student writing, "general acquaintance with English literature," and a deeper knowledge of authors or periods selected by the student (1895 Catalogue 36). Freshmen and sophomores took required rhetoric and liter- ature courses, with an "emphasis on the relation between the courses" (1890 Catalogue 37); the students wrote in rhetoric class about the literature they read in literature class. The 1890 Catalogue reads: "These two courses are correlated, and conducted so that one shall illustrate the other..." (37). While it is impossible to determine exactly what happened in the class- room over one hundred years ago, the Vassar catalogues indicate that the faculty collaborated to teach complementary classes that developed differ- ent skills while focusing on the same subject matter. The complementary courses in rhetoric and literature at Vassar offer a plausible, immediately implementable solution to the composition/litera- ture divide that so many colleges are facing today. This innovative and im- portant departmental philosophy and course structure can serve as a model for English departments over one hundred years later. It calls for an emphasis on teaching rather than research, and requires collaboration be- tween faculty members. Such collaboration should be instructive for the English studies profes- sion as we struggle with the conflicts I outlined in the beginning of this es- say. Collaboration between composition and literature teachers is only one of a host of interdisciplinary and intradepartmental collaborative possibil- ities. Colleges could offer cooperative classes in postmodern literature and postmodern theory, in philosophy and literature, in history and literature, in art or art history and writing, in any academic subject and writing, in literature and philosophy-this list is limited only by the imaginations, in- tellects, and flexibility of the teachers and students involved. Such collab- oration will cause administrative hassle, will entail more preparation time, and will detract from research opportunity. But such collaboration will This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 154 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS also enrich the educations of the students and the teachers involved in the class, and make a start towards resolution of the conflicts that are current- ly leading us a down a road of division, of acrimony, and of reduced col- legiality and intellectual exchange. Our own history shows us a way to begin to close the gaps. In these curricular and pedagogical decisions, the Seven Sisters colleg- es point the way to explicitly defined choices about what kind of institu- tions they wanted to be. They set an example, perhaps an overly austere one, of departmental self definition. While many departments today seem to try to "cover" everything from writing to literature (all fields) to theory to multiculturalism to film and media studies, the Seven Sisters remind us of the value of doing a few things thoroughly. I am not suggesting we re- turn to the sparse electives of the nineteenth century; I am suggesting some self-analysis and questions about each department's priorities. If teaching is important, why do prospective employers read an applicant's published (or unpublished) scholarly work instead of traveling to the ap- plicant's insitution to see him or her teach? If research is important, why are junior faculty commonly innundated with high maintenance classes like composition and the introduction to literature? While each depart- ment will have vastly different answers to these questions, and vastly dif- ferent choices and priorities, I argue that each department should ask those questions and make those choices. When recent historians left women's education out of their histories of the English department, they merely repeated what male historians have done for generations: marginalized and ignored the female. Scholars have assumed that the Seven Sisters colleges simply followed along in the steps of their older Ivy League brothers. While superficially the similarities are definitely there, the differences must not be ignored. Criticized for provid- ing education for women, the Seven Sisters set out to prove that they were just as good as the men's schools, but "just as good as" does not mean "the same." Bryn Mawr's department offered a curriculum more classical and more research-oriented than those at many of the men's schools, while the other sisters firmly supported the aesthetic tradition that had been their fe- male heritage but is now claimed by the mainstream of the discipline. While Barnard and Radcliffe were less differentiated from their affiliated male schools than the other colleges, they shared the Seven Sisters advan- tages of small classes in intimate settings. All of these differences point to English departments at Seven Sisters colleges before the First World War that were less fragmented, more co- herent, and more personal than those at the men's schools they were sup- posedly imitating. Many of the educational practices that are valued in the university today-independent study, seminar classes, accessible materi- als, private student/teacher conferences, interdisciplinary team-teaching, This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 155 and writing across the curriculum-were firmly in place at the women's colleges at the turn of the century. The women's colleges were less bound by tradition and the pressure of professional academia than their male counterparts, and thus were free to experiment with innovative curricula and methods. The Seven Sisters were not by any means perfect educational institu- tions, but they did manage to copy or borrow what they wished from the traditional male educational establishment while adding experimental and "feminine" features that gave their English departments fewer con- flicts and battlefields than the departments of the male schools which have received so much more critical and historical attention. Vassar, Barnard, Wellesley, Mount Holyoke, Radcliffe, Smith, and Bryn Mawr have all made significant contributions to the growth and diversity of the disci- pline. Those contributions can no longer be marginalized. College and university English departments today face many divisions and conflicts similar to the splits experienced in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. We grapple with the status of adjunct faculty, the place of theory in the classroom, the expansion of the canon, and the continuing deterioration of the writing skills of our students. Departments at the women's colleges actually implemented solutions to their problems, solutions that could provide us guidance as we try to solve ours; their ex- amples of decisive choice in self-definition, of faculty-student interaction, of collegiality, collaboration, and personal attention can serve as guides for us as we come to the close of the twentieth century. THE COLLEGE OF ADVANCING STUDIES AT BOSTON COLLEGE This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms 156 FEMININE PREOCCUPATIONS Works Cited Annual Catalogue of Bowdoin College, for the Academical Year 1880-81. Brunswick: Bowdoin College, 1880. Annual of Mount Holyoke College. South Hadley: Mount Holyoke College, 1894, 1904, 1909. Annual of Mount Holyoke Seminary. South Hadley: Mount Holyoke Semi- nary, 1837, 1844, 1859, 1860, 1863, 1879. Annual of Mount Holyoke Seminary and College. South Hadley: Mount Holy- oke Seminary and College, 1888. Baldick, Chris. The Social Mission of English Criticism. Oxford: Clarendon, 1983. Berlin, James. Rhetoric and Reality: Writing Instruction in American Colleges 1900-1985. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1987. Bowdoin College Bulletin, 1914-15. Brunswick: Bowdoin College, 1914. Brooke, Christopher, and Roger Highfield. Oxford and Cambridge. Cam- bridge: Cambridge UP, 1988. Bryn Mawr College Program. Philadelphia: Sherman, 1886, 1894, 1898, 1899. Catalogue of Bowdoin College and the Medical School of Maine. Brunswick: Bowdoin College, 1900. Cleveland, Charles Dexter, ed. English Literature of the Nineteenth Century: On the Plan of the Author's Compendium of Literature. New York: A.S. Barnes, 1866. Cole, Arthur C. A Hundred Years of Mount Holyoke College. New Haven: Yale UP, 1940 Converse, Florence. The Story of Wellesley. Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1915. Graff, Gerald. Professing Literature: An Institutional History. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1987. Hanscom, Elizabeth D. and Helen French Greene. Sophia Smith and the Be- ginnings of Smith College. Northhampton: Smith College, 1926. Haverford College Catalogue. Haverford: Haverford College, 1875, 1880. This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms MARY DOCKRAY-MILLER 157 Horowitz, Helen Lefkowitz. Alma Mater: Design and Experience in the Wom- en's Colleges from their 19th Century Beginnings to the 1930s. New York: Knopf, 1984. Johnson, Nan. Nineteenth Century Rhetoric in North America. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1991. Kendall, Elaine. Peculiar Institutions: An Informal History of the Seven Sisters Colleges. New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1975. LaBalme, Patricia Hochschild, ed. A Century Recalled: Essays in Honor of Bryn Mawr College. Bryn Mawr: Bryn Mawr College Library, 1987. McMurty, Jo. English Literature, English Language: The Creation of an Aca- demic Discipline. Connecticut: Archon Books, 1985. Meigs, Cornelia. What Makes a College?: A History of Bryn Mawr. New York: MacMillan, 1956. Miller, Alice D. Barnard College: The First 50 Years. New York: Columbia UP, 1939. Neal, Heather, and Judith Hammerschmidt. A Preposterous Extravagance. Bryn Mawr: The Baldwin School, 1988. Palmieri, Patricia Ann. In Adamless Eden: The Community of Women Faculty at Wellesley. New Haven: Yale UP, 1995. Publications of the Modern Language Association, vols 1-20. Baltimore, 1885- 1905. Seelye, L. Clark. The Early History of Smith College. Boston: Houghton Mif- flin, 1923. Vassar College Catalogue. Poughkeepsie: Vassar College, 1865, 1870, 1875, 1890, 1895, 1905. Vermeule, Emily Townsend. "The Key to the Fields: The Classics at Bryn Mawr." LaBalme 161-172. This content downloaded from 108.49.191.51 on Fri, 17 Feb 2017 01:32:40 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms Contents p. [139] p. 140 p. 141 p. 142 p. 143 p. 144 p. 145 p. 146 p. 147 p. 148 p. 149 p. 150 p. 151 p. 152 p. 153 p. 154 p. 155 p. 156 p. 157 Issue Table of Contents Modern Language Studies, Vol. 27, No. 3/4 (Autumn - Winter, 1997) pp. 1-232 Front Matter Introduction to Victorian Women Writers: Journals and Letters [pp. 1-2] Victorian Women Writers The Angel in the Envelope: The Letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle [pp. 3-18] Recollecting Nature: George Eliot's "Ilfracombe Journal" and Victorian Women's Natural History Writing [pp. 19-36] "The Life of Charlotte Brontë" and Some Letters of Elizabeth Gaskell [pp. 37-46] Seeing Jane Plain: Recovering the Art of Welsh Carlyle [pp. 47-65] Introduction to (His)tory (Her)story [pp. 67-68] (His)tory (Her)story Women and the Revolution in Cristina García's "Dreaming in Cuban" [pp. 69-91] Challenging Political Corruption: The Liberated Feminist in "Juice of Mango" [pp. 93-100] Herstorical Memory in "The Violet Hour" by Montserrat Roig: The Memory of Silence [pp. 101-111] From Cortes to MacKinnon The Means and Ends of Empire in Hernán Cortés's "Cartas de relación" [pp. 113-137] Feminine Preoccupations: English at the Seven Sisters [pp. 139-157] Parody in the Postmodernist Novel: "Se unanotte d'inverno un viaggiatore" [pp. 159-173] Reclaiming Masculinist Texts for Feminist Readers: Sarah Woodruff's "The French Lieutenant's Woman" [pp. 175-195] Protean Travelogue in Nicole Brossard's "Picture Theory": Feminist Desire and Narrative Form [pp. 197-211] From Theory to Practice: Catharine MacKinnon, Pornography, and Canadian Law [pp. 213-230] Back Matter [pp. 231-232] 
work_4zkv566inzctfmkduz2u5w5vvu	----	Uncle Tom on the Ballet Stage: Italy's Barbarous America, 18501900 Uncle Tom on the Ballet Stage: Italy's Barbarous America, 1850–1900 Author(s): By Axel Körner Reviewed work(s): Source: The Journal of Modern History, Vol. 83, No. 4 (December 2011), pp. 721-752 Published by: The University of Chicago Press Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/662218 . Accessed: 16/05/2012 04:33 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org. The University of Chicago Press is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Journal of Modern History. http://www.jstor.org http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=ucpress http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/662218?origin=JSTOR-pdf http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp Uncle Tom on the Ballet Stage: Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900* Axel Körner University College London UNCLE TOM ON STAGE Giacomo Puccini’s Fanciulla del West (1908), which featured the Californian gold fever of 1849, and Giuseppe Verdi’s Un ballo in maschera (1859), set in seventeenth-century Boston, are today probably the most famous Italian representations of America on stage. Although very different in character, both operas present American life as a mixture of exoticism, vice, and violence, far from the idea of a society founded on the high principles of the European Enlightenment.1 But it is another stage work that arguably had a more lasting effect on how Italians discussed life in the United States. In 1853 Milan’s Teatro alla Scala staged what was to become one of the greatest success stories in the history of Italian ballet: Bianchi e Neri, Giuseppe Rota’s adaptation of Stowe’s epochal novel of 1852, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.2 Although * This article is based on research for an Arts and Humanities Research Council– funded project on “The American Way of Life: Images of the United States in Nineteenth-Century Europe and Latin-America” at University College London. Part of the research was completed while I was a member at the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton, and I am grateful for its financial support and its help with the location of primary sources. I also would like to thank the Remarque Institute of New York University for supporting my work with a fellowship and the New York Public Library of the Arts at Lincoln Center for helping to locate primary sources. Katharina Rietzler and Federico Mazzini assisted with bibliographic research in London and at the Casa della Musica in Parma. Ivan Polancec polished my prose. This article owes a lot to comments and criticism I received from my colleagues on the AHRC project and those who attended the presentation of an earlier version of this article at the Institute of Historical Research in London, especially Maurizio Isabella, Nicola Miller, Roger Parker, Maike Thier, and Lucy Riall. 1 Originally Verdi had intended to write an opera set in Sweden, based on the assassination of Gustaf III. The censors insisted on changes to the libretto and Verdi decided to move the plot across the Atlantic. 2 Giuseppe Rota (music by Paolo Giorza), Bianchi e Neri (Milan, 1853), New York Public Library (NYPL), Walter Toscanini Collection (WTC), Libretti da Ballo (LdB), nos. 809 and 939. The ballet was also performed under the titles La Capanna di Tom (Bologna) or I Bianchi e I Negri (Turin). For a synopsis of the novel see Linda Williams, Playing the Race Card: Melodramas of Black and White from Uncle Tom to O. J. Simpson (Princeton, NJ, 2001), 47. The Journal of Modern History 83 (December 2011): 721–752 © 2011 by The University of Chicago. 0022-2801/2011/8304-0001$10.00 All rights reserved. rather a free adaptation of the novel in not more than six or seven scenes, the ballet presents the dehumanizing brutality of a slaveholding society with unfailing clarity. This article argues that the performance of Bianchi e Neri in most major theaters of the Italian peninsula became the starting point for a critical assessment of life in the United States, in contrast to the many earlier representations of America as a land of liberty and opportunities. Bianchi e Neri transformed the ways in which Italians discussed and imagined life in the New World. Unlike the British and the French, who were fully aware of the extent of slavery in the New World and had participated in debates over abolition for several decades, Italians during the mid-nineteenth century had only limited experience of colonization, the slave trade, or the slave economy. In 1833, in an article on U.S. tariffs, Cattaneo had condemned the institution of slavery as an “offence against the laws of humanity,” and in 1846 Mazzini wrote a poem expressing his hopes that the American Republic would put an end to this evil.3 However, for most Italians slavery was an issue either associated with ancient Rome or discussed in orientalizing images of non- European societies, a discourse to which stage representations of slavery contributed during the nineteenth century. Slavery, for Italians, was a world very different from their own. As an early review of Rota’s Bianchi e Neri argues, “slavery is a regrettable crime of remote countries, and has nothing to do with us, where before the law everybody is the same.”4 In Italy’s political and religious debates or in literary depictions of life in the New World, the problem had not received the same attention as it had in Britain, France, or Germany. In this respect Italy also differed from the experiences of Spain, Cuba, or Brazil, where throughout the nineteenth century abolition was at the center of political debates. However, during the years leading up to the American Civil War, Italian awareness of slavery changed dramatically, with striking effects on the ways in which Italians imagined America. Bianchi e Neri prepared the ground for this change in perception and had a powerful effect on how Italians discussed political and social realities across the Atlantic, especially during and after the American Civil War. This article 3 See Giuseppe Mazzini’s poem “Prière a Dieu pour les planteurs par un exilé,” quoted in Leopoldo Ramanzini, Una lettera di Garibaldi ad Abramo Lincoln (Vicenza, 1970), 10; Carlo Cattaneo, “Notizia sulla questione delle tariffe daziarie negli Stati Uniti d’America desunta da documenti officiali” (1833), in Cattaneo, Scritti economici, ed. Alberto Bertolino (Florence, 1956), 1:11–55, 30. The article was first published in the Milanese Annali Universali di Statistica. Another reflection on slavery is Catta- neo’s passionate review of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807– 82): Carlo Cattaneo, “Il poeta americano Longfellow,” in his Scritti Letterari, ed. Piero Treves (Florence, 1981), 1:461–73, 462. 4 La Fama del 1853: Rassegna di Scienze, Lettere, Arti, Industria e Teatri, Novem- ber 14, 1853. 722 Körner will first examine the history of Bianchi e Neri in connection with the Italian reception of Stowe’s novel. Then the article will contextualize the ballet’s role within wider Italian debates about life in the United States up to the turn of the century. Along with established images of the United States as the epitome of a positively defined modernity, as a model republic, and as a land of opportu- nities, Italians also discussed America as a wild and barbarous country, as the negation of its own cultural values.5 In this context barbarism can take the form of brutality associated with daily life in the United States, but it often also appears as the absence of civilization in a frontier society. Unlike modern stereotypes of anti-Americanism, perhaps this negative image of the United States was the product of a long and often painful process of learning and disillusionment. Originally positive images of the United States, still predom- inant during the earlier years of the Italian Risorgimento, were increasingly tainted by the idea that America’s republican federalism did not necessarily work as a solution to Italy’s own constitutional problems and that the United States had little in common with the ways in which a European Kulturnation defines itself. Confronted with these doubts about life in the New World, it is probably more than a coincidence that strong philosophical prejudice against America originated in Italy with the thought of the reactionary Savoyard Joseph de Maistre, although his attitude toward the United States was cer- tainly not representative of North Italian intellectuals as a whole.6 Historiographical conceptions of the apparent appeal of the United States to Italians are often based on the historians’ rather limited chronological scope of research. A vast literature on early Italian responses to the American War of Independence and the American Constitution during the first decades of the Risorgimento should not lead to the assumption that these ideas about the United States remained unchallenged throughout the Risorgimento and the decades after Unification. Likewise, fascination with the modernity of the American lifestyle only started toward the end of the nineteenth century, when larger numbers of Italians arrived in the United States not just as emigrants but also as travelers, with the specific aim of experiencing the modernity of the New World. Through travel writing and journalism, ideas about the United States’ modernity then increasingly infiltrated Italy’s cultural sphere during the late 5 For the origins of this debate, see Philippe Roger, who demonstrates how certain philosophers considered the New World unfit for civilization due to its natural con- ditions: “Aufklärer gegen Amerika,” in Amerika und Europa—Mars und Venus? Das Bild Amerikas in Europa, ed. Rudolf von Thadden and Alexandre Escudier (Göttingen, 2004), 16 –34. 6 Philippe Roger, The American Enemy: A Story of French Anti-Americanism (2002) (Chicago, 2005), 45. During the French Revolution Savoy was taken by France. De Maistre then worked in the service of the king of Sardinia. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 723 nineteenth century. However, in historiographical terms it is important also to analyze perceptions of America during the first years after Unification, coin- ciding with the traumatic events of the American Civil War and the period of Reconstruction. During this crucial period it was not only positive images, such as those of the American Constitution and the War of Independence, but also slavery, the Civil War, and later political corruption during the Recon- struction, that provoked debate over American affairs among Italians;7 and even during the later part of the nineteenth century, when illustrated maga- zines and the world fairs started to praise American consumer goods, Italy’s intellectual embrace of German Idealism contrasted with the perceived ma- terialism and positivism of the United States, and the supposed grossness and vulgarity of its citizens. Rota’s ballet, along with the translation of Stowe’s novel, represented the starting point for a serious reexamination of what Italians thought they knew about the United States. While the Milanese literary review La Fama argued in 1853 that the ballet’s painful representation of human barbarity made it almost impossible to enjoy the performance,8 its unparalleled success and the debates it generated pay tribute to the impact the ballet had on the ways Italians engaged with the subject of slavery in the United States. Almost a decade later, for the Gazzetta Musicale di Napoli Rota’s work was still more than a ballet: “you could easily call it a drama without words.” Commenting on the ballet’s Neapolitan staging of December 1862, at the height of the American Civil War, one could hardly imagine a timelier program for a theater.9 Although initially it was not necessarily read in the same political or ideological terms we associate with Stowe’s novel today, Bianchi e Neri was certainly more than just an entertaining dance show anticipating the twentieth- century commercial musical. Regarding its specific theatrical genre, Bianchi e Neri was what Italians referred to as ballo storico or eroico, usually performed at the leading theaters in conjunction with opera seria and financed through subscription by the theaters’ box owners and by public subsidies.10 7 Since 1864 the American War of Independence was part of the curriculum on which future Italian diplomats were examined: Monitore di Bologna, December 20, 1864. 8 La Fama del 1853: Rassegna di Scienze, Lettere, Arti, Industria e Teatri, Novem- ber 14, 1853. L’Italia Musicale speaks of “ferocious” scenes demonstrating the “degradation of human nature,” “the more disgusting the closer they are to the truth” (November 12, 1853). 9 Gazzetta Musicale di Napoli, December 7, 1862. 10 On the role of ballet in Italian theaters, see Axel Körner, Politics of Culture in Liberal Italy: From Unification to Fascism (New York, 2009), chap. 2. Also José Sasportes, “La parola contro il corpo ovvero il melodramma nemico del ballo,” La Danza Italiana 1 (Fall 1984): 21– 42. 724 Körner Therefore it would be misleading to compare Bianchi e Neri with, for in- stance, the popular “Uncle Tom shows” staged all over Europe and America during the second half of the nineteenth century. For nineteenth-century Italian audiences, this particular genre of ballet was as important as opera itself, and the two genres, opera and ballet, often influenced one other.11 Early stagings of Bianchi e Neri at La Scala coincided with the premieres of some of the greatest works in the history of Italian opera, notably Verdi’s trilogy, Rigoletto, Il Trovatore, and La Traviata. However, Bianchi e Neri was often more successful than the opera with which it was staged. In 1862 Naples scheduled Bianchi e Neri with Verdi’s Un ballo in maschera. While the opera was a spectacular fiasco, the audience received Rota’s ballet with great enthusiasm.12 Theater was at the center of municipal structures of sociability in Italy, and more than anywhere else in Europe, theater helped Italians to identify them- selves as a Kulturnation.13 The repercussions of this art form reached well beyond the social elites who owned or rented the private boxes in the peninsula’s most famous opera houses, the San Carlo in Naples, the Comunale in Bologna, or at La Scala in Milan. The loggione in the upper floors of these theaters were usually populated by an audience that was more mixed socially. Sheet music with piano or guitar arrangements of the current repertoire constituted an important aspect of the publishers’ commercial strategy, while organ players and municipal bands carried the most important tunes of the current program into the piazza, appreciated by those sections of society who would not be able to afford to go to the theater. For many Italians these potpourris of popular tunes were the only music they ever heard performed. Italian society in the nineteenth century was fractured not only along social divisions but also regionally. Inhabitants of the Papal States had little in common with people from Tuscany or Piedmont, and the majority of Sicilians or Calabresi knew little about people from Lombardy or the Veneto. Thanks 11 For example, in 1838 the Teatro alla Scala had staged Antonio Cortesi’s ballo storico, Nabuccodonosor, which became the model for Verdi’s first great success, the opera Nabucco of 1842, NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 432. There is a short reference to the ballo in Carlo Gatti, Il Teatro alla Scala nella storia e nell’arte (1778 –1963) (Milan, 1964), 117. See also the introduction by Roger Parker in The Works of Giuseppe Verdi, ser. 1, operas, vol. 3 (Giuseppe Verdi, Nabucodonosor: Dramma lirico in four parts), ed. Roger Parker (Chicago and Milan, 1987), xi–xxvi. 12 Gazzetta Musicale di Napoli, November 16 and 23, 1862; La Fama del 1862: Rassegna di Scienze, Lettere, Arti, Industria e Teatri, November 25, 1862. On negative responses to Verdi, see Axel Körner, “Music of the Future: Italian Theatres and the European Experience of Modernity between Unification and World War One,” Euro- pean History Quarterly 41, no. 2 (April 2011): 189 –212. 13 Carlotta Sorba, Teatri: L’Italia del Melodramma nell’età del Risorgimento (Bo- logna, 2001). Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 725 to the activities of the impresari, opera and ballet were among the few cultural industries that toured the entire peninsula, spreading from some of the world’s finest theaters in Milan, Venice, or Naples to countless municipal theaters in smaller cities and staging performances at markets and trade fairs.14 Re- sponses may have differed regionally, but the same art was shared across the peninsula. Due to the limited availability of sources and the difficulties involved in interpreting these, writing the history of the reception of opera and ballet across different sections of Italian society constitutes a particular meth- odological challenge.15 Meanwhile, the fact that the same works were usually performed from north to south (often including the islands) makes theater a particularly interesting subject for research into nineteenth-century Italian culture. The musical press, with its network of correspondents all over the peninsula, contributed to spreading news about the current season of Italy’s countless theaters, including—in the case of Rota’s ballet— heated debates over slavery in the United States.16 This is the cultural and social context in which we have to imagine the performance of Bianchi e Neri: an event of Italian high culture, but one whose echoes reached well beyond the noble boxes of Italy’s famous theaters, and one which certainly represents more than a curious episode in the history of Italian dance. As early as 1854, just two years after the original publication of the novel, countless translations of Uncle Tom’s Cabin existed, including translations into many “minor languages” such as Armenian, Slovenian, and Welsh.17 Soon stage adaptations started to appear. Although one needs to be careful in granting Stowe authorship of the numerous dramatizations of the novel,18 these adaptations are almost as old as the novel itself and represent a well- studied aspect of the Stowe phenomenon.19 American newspapers referred to 14 John Rosselli, The Opera Industry in Italy from Cimarosa to Verdi: The Role of the Impresario (Cambridge, 1987), and Rosselli, Music and Musicians in 19th Century Italy (London, 1991); Marcello De Angelis, Le carte dell’impresario: Melodrama e costume teatrale nell’ottocento (Florence, 1982); also Sorba, Teatri. 15 On methodological issues, see Axel Körner, “The Risorgimento’s Literary Canon and the Aesthetics of Reception: Some Methodological Considerations,” Nations and Nationalism 15, no. 3 (July 2009): 410 –18. 16 Along with other sources and further periodicals, the main musical periodicals used for this article are L’Arpa (Bologna); La Fama: Rassegna di Scienze, Lettere, Arti, Industria e Teatri (Milan); Gazzetta Musicale di Milano (Milan); Gazzetta Musicale di Napoli (Naples); L’Italia Musicale (Milan); Il Trovatore. Giornale Let- terario, Artistico, Teatrale con Illustrazioni (Turin). 17 John MacKay, “The First Years of Uncle Tom’s Cabin in Russia,” in Transat- lantic Stowe: Harriet Beecher Stowe and European Culture, ed. Denise Kohn, Sarah Meer, and Emily B. Todd (Iowa City, IA, 2006), 67– 88, 69. 18 Sarah Robbins, The Cambridge Introduction to Harriet Beecher Stowe (Cam- bridge, 2007), 76. An exception would be her Christian Slave play. 19 Stowe’s other abolitionist and more radical novel, Dred, was also dramatized: 726 Körner the traveling shows economically as “U.T.C. companies” (Uncle Tom’s Cabin companies).20 They were generally regarded as mediocre but often attracted even more spectators than the later Buffalo Bill shows. In Naples alone three theaters presented different stage adaptations of the novel in May 1853, including a version in local dialect.21 As Henry James noted, “the fate of Mrs. Stowe’s picture was conclusive: it simply sat down wherever it lighted and made itself at home.”22 Often presenting white actors with black faces in a mix of comical and sentimental emotions, stage adaptations of Uncle Tom’s Cabin can be read in many different ways, and not all of them were necessarily understood as abolitionist, with some of them even taking a proslavery position.23 However, Rota’s Italian ballet represents more than just a casual attempt to make money from the success of a literary model. Within the genre of historical ballet, the choreographer was usually his own librettist.24 The Scala in Milan commis- sioned the work from one of the most celebrated stars of Italian ballet, the young dancer and choreographer Giuseppe Rota (b. Venice, 1823; d. Turin, 1865), described by the influential literary magazine Il Trovatore as “il Verdi della coreografia.”25 The music for the ballet was written by the successful theater composer Paolo Giorza. After its premiere in Milan, the ballet had thirty-five performances at Genoa’s Carlo Felice in 1856, followed by another fifteen performances there in 1857 and a further twenty-two in 1861, becom- Judie Newman, “Staging Black Insurrection: Dred on Stage,” in The Cambridge Companion to Harriet Beecher Stowe, ed. Cindy Weinstein (Cambridge, 2004), 113– 30. It should be noted that most scholars have treated Uncle Tom as an American phenomenon, neglecting the novel’s transatlantic dimension: Denise Kohn, Sarah Meer, and Emily B. Todd, “Reading Stowe as a Transatlantic Writer,” in Transatlantic Stowe, xi–xxxi. 20 Harry Birdoff, The World’s Greatest Hit: Uncle Tom’s Cabin (New York, 1947), 6. 21 Joseph Rossi, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Protestantism in Italy,” American Quar- terly 11, no. 3 (Autumn 1959): 416 –24, 418. 22 Quoted in Williams, Playing the Race Card, 45. 23 Birdoff, The World’s Greatest Hit, 24 –28; Robbins, The Cambridge Introduction to Harriet Beecher Stowe, 78 –79. For an Italian equivalent of the Uncle Tom shows, see the periodical publication Il Teatro drammatico Napolitano di Luigi de Lise, which since 1855 issued every month a short piece of theater. In February 1856 appeared the fascicolo 13, La famiglia dello zio Tom. 24 Selma Jeanne Cohen, “Feme di Gelosia! Italian Ballet Librettos, 1766 –1865,” Bulletin of the New York Public Library 67 (November 1963): 9, 555– 64, 556. For the historian, ballet libretti constitute an interesting source because they offer a synopsis with commentary of all scenes, unlike opera libretti, which consist mainly of dialogues. 25 Il Trovatore: Giornale Letterario, Artistico, Teatrale, January 6, 1858. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 727 ing one of Genoa’s most successful ballets of the whole nineteenth century.26 An important center of the slave trade during the Middle Ages and the city of Christopher Columbus, Genoa was particularly interested in the ballet. In 1858 Bianchi e Neri was on schedule in Rome, Turin, and Bologna. Naples’s San Carlo gave a total of thirty-seven performances in 1862/1863, before the ballet returned to Milan in 1863, and to Turin’s Teatro Regio in 1873 and 1875, after the choreographer’s death.27 Within a decade the ballet had appeared on the stages of all of Italy’s major theaters. In the history of Italian dance Giuseppe Rota is remembered for his own virtuosity as a ballerino, but also for having revived the Italian tradition of dramatic pantomime as a choreographer.28 The remarkable success of Bianchi e Neri was certainly based on the popularity of its literary source,29 but Rota also knew how to enliven the action through the skillful addition of ensemble scenes and brilliant pas de deux, starring Augusta Maywood, the first Amer- ican dancer to win a place among the top-ranking ballerinas of Europe, a fact perceived as giving the plot additional authenticity.30 The reviews suggest that 26 G. B. Valebona, Il Teatro Carlo Felice: Cronistoria di un secolo, 1828 –1928 (Genoa, 1928), 348 –57. The number of performances was usually not scheduled in advance, but depended on the work’s success. For the continuing appreciation of the audience in Genoa, see Il Trovatore, May 21, 1856. 27 Carlo Gatti, Il Teatro alla Scala nella Storia e nell’arte: Cronologia (Milan, 1964), 195, 200; Carlo Marinelli Roscioni, ed., Il Teatro di San Carlo (Naples, 1988), 2:361. The fact that smaller theaters in medium-sized cities did not stage the piece had more to do with the fact that its cast of several hundred participants was too expensive for the smaller houses. Even at the San Carlo the role of ballet diminished during the second half of the century, and most productions were retakes from successful pro- ductions of La Scala. José Sasportes, “La Danza, 1737–1900,” in Il Teatro di San Carlo, ed. Raffaele Ajello et al. (Naples, 1988), 1:365–96, 395. 28 On the Italian mimo-drama (historical themes performed in several acts), see Edwin Binney, “Sixty Years of Italian Dance Prints,” Dance Perspectives 53 (Spring 1973): 8 – 60, 17. 29 The importance accorded to the literary source in this genre of ballet goes back to the eighteenth century and was not uncontroversial: Sasportes, “La parola contro il corpo,” 22. 30 Maywood (b. New York, 1825; d. Lemberg/Lvov, 1876) began her career as a child prodigy in the United States, the first American to become prima ballerina assoluta in Europe, spending many years in Italy, where she was the first ballerina to found her own touring company, complete with managers, soloists, corps de ballet, sets, and costumes. Susan Au, “Augusta Maywood,” and Claudia Celi, “Giuseppe Rota,” in International Encyclopedia of Dance (Oxford, 1998), 4:338 –39 and 5:408 –9; “Maywood, Augusta,” in Mary Clarke and David Vaughan, eds., The En- cyclopedia of Dance and Ballet (London, 1977), 231; Ivor Guest, “Balli presentati tra il 1845 e il 1854,” La danza italiana, nos. 8 –9 (Autumn 1990): 17–26, 23. For an 1851 picture of Maywood in dancing pose, see Binney, “Sixty Years of Italian Dance Prints,” 22. Dancers crossed the Atlantic in both directions. During the 1860s Italian ballerinas also performed in American western and Buffalo Bill shows. See Concetta 728 Körner audiences not only responded well to the ballet’s literary source, but that they were particularly appreciative of the optical effects and the way Rota choreo- graphed his ballabiles.31 Turin used for its performance the same sets as for Meyerbeer’s grand opera Le Prophète, giving us an idea of the splendor with which the ballet was staged. However, for the authorities as well as for some critics, the Turin staging appeared to have been rather too advanced in its natural exhibition of the female slaves, with the police suspending a number of ballerinas and causing the famous theater critic Francesco d’Arcais to complain that the production evoked the “whore of Babylon.”32 Notwithstand- ing similar moments of crisis, the success of Bianchi e Neri lasted for several decades and established Rota as one of the leading choreographers of his time and an important innovator of the genre. His productions dominated Italian stages for more than a generation, and many of his original works were regularly restaged by other choreographers, even during the years when ballet became too expensive for many Italian theaters and developments within the operatic genre left little space for ballet productions.33 Considering the reputation of a choreographer like Rota, we should not attempt to explain the extraordinary success of Bianchi e Neri only with reference to concerns over the fate of American slaves. However, at the time Italian ballets often chose the victory of virtue and true love as their theme, and an emphasis on social justice was common in the genre.34 Hence Italians associated certain expectations with this genre, which the choreographer had to take into consideration when proposing a libro da ballo, the libretto with the synopsis of the work. Moreover, the reception of the work changed with the specific context of its performances. During the second round of perfor- mances in 1863, at the height of the American Civil War, the ballet made an important impact on Milanese audiences because it was read as a direct commentary on an issue of international politics that was closely covered in the newspapers—the first time that American politics played a major part in the Italian press. While Italy had just been unified, the American Union Lo Iacono, “Manzotti & Marenco: Il diritto di due autori,” Nuova Rivista Musicale Italiana 3 (July–September 1987): 421– 46, 443. 31 La Fama del 1853: Rassegna di Scienze, Lettere, Arti, Industria e Teatri, No- vember 14, 1853. 32 Alberto Basso, Storia del Teatro Regio di Torino, vol. 2, Il teatro della città (Turin, 1976), 295; Mercedes Viale Ferrero, Storia del Teatro di Torino, vol. 3, La scenografia (Turin, 1980), 418. 33 On the financial constraints, see Körner, Politics of Culture, chap. 2. Rota and Giorza continued their collaboration, including the ballets La Maschera o Le notti di Venezia and Cleopatra, both presented at La Scala in 1865, NYPL, WTC, LdB, nos. 849 and 850. 34 Cohen, “Feme di Gelosia!” 555– 64. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 729 seemed about to fall apart. The performance had also been a success ten years earlier, but then the piece was presented in rather a different context, that of the struggle for national independence, as a story about liberation: for the scene of the slave rebellion Rota had asked the composer to introduce four bars of the Marseillaise into the score. When the Milanese audience exploded into applause during this scene, the Austrian police suspended the perfor- mance.35 Hence even if the work’s reception changed with the context of its performance history, its success was more than just the consequence of the choreographer’s own popularity or of his tear-jerking subject. From the very beginning Bianchi e Neri was read politically. In the context of the ballet’s performance, America was compared to and put on equal terms with the despotism of the ancien régime, very much in contrast to the idea of a country based on Enlightenment ideals. IMAGINING SLAVERY The success of Uncle Tom made Stowe “the most internationally visible American writer of her time,”36 and arguably her novel had a more important impact on images of the United States than De Tocqueville’s writings, for instance, or even those of Cooper. The novel was the focus for a general critique of American society, and Uncle Tom became a household name, regularly referred to in Italy’s illustrated magazines, academic treaties on slavery, and in more general writings on the United States.37 When in 1858 Bianchi e Neri was first performed in Turin, the reviewer for L’Italia Musicale informed readers that “the ballet is nothing other than La Capanna dello Zio Tom,” assuming that readers knew the book.38 The Italian reception of the novel set the scene for subsequent coverage of the Civil War. Along with general consternation over the brutality of the bloodshed, in the context of 35 Note by Walter Toscanini in NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 809. The bibliophile, collector, and ballet scholar Walter Toscanini was the son of the conductor Arturo Toscanini and husband of the famous dancer Cia Fornaroli. Marian Eames, When All the World Was Dancing: Rare and Curious Books from the Cia Fornaroli Collection (New York, 1957). On the uses of the Marseillaise, see Axel Körner, Das Lied von einer anderen Welt: Kulturelle Praxis im französischen und deutschen Arbeitermilieu, 1840 –1890 (Frankfurt, 1997). 36 Kohn, Meer, and Todd, “Reading Stowe,” xi. 37 For an assessment of press reactions to the novel, see Frederick H. Jackson, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin in Italy,” Symposium 7 (1953): 323–32, and Rossi, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Protestantism in Italy,” 419. Long after the novel’s first publication the Italian press continued to write about Stowe. See, e.g., L’Universo Illustrato 1, no. 23 (March 1867): 303. For references to Stowe in academic treaties on slavery, see Luigi Cibrario, Della Schiavitù e del servaggio e specialmente dei servi agricoltori (Milan, 1868), 1:326. 38 L’Italia Musicale, January 4, 1858. 730 Körner Italy’s recent Unification the excesses of the Civil War seemed to confirm both the impracticality of federalism, which for a long time had been dis- cussed as a possible solution to Italy’s own constitutional problems, and the need to control a disparate country from the center through military force. As Raymond Grew has argued, “a nation torn by civil war was an awkward model of federalism; and the newspaper of the Italian National Society warned that federalism had proved to be the American Union’s “germ of death.”39 The first Italian translation of Uncle Tom appeared in the year of the original American publication, 1852, only a year before Rota’s ballet.40 Within a few months various cheap editions of the novel were available in all the capital cities of the peninsula, with the noticeable exception of Rome, where the Papal censors were concerned about the book’s positive depiction of Quakers and Methodists, and the fact that all over the world Stowe was praised as a Protestant hero.41 Another Italian translation was published the following year in Switzerland, and a further version appeared in 1898.42 Both Il Mediterraneo in Genoa and Il Risorgimento in Turin serialized the novel. Censorship permitting, the Turin papers were especially widely read all over Italy.43 The fact that in 1858, for the second round of stagings, Rota’s ballet was performed as La Capanna di Tom, making direct reference to the novel’s title, suggests that the book was by then widely known. Still, at times it must have been difficult getting hold of the book, and copies were passed on between families. The penal reformer and moderate member of parliament for Parma Giovanni Minghelli Vaini borrowed a copy from Verdi’s wife, Gi- useppina Strepponi, whose own interest was sparked by the fact that Verdi’s new opera, Una ballo in maschera, was often staged together with Bianchi e Neri.44 The transnational development of the book trade should not lead one to make assumptions about the homogeneity of the novel’s reception on both sides of the Atlantic. There existed more than just one Uncle Tom in the minds 39 Quoted in Raymond Grew, “One Nation Barely Visible: The United States as Seen by Nineteenth-Century Italy’s Liberal Leaders,” in The American Constitution as a Symbol and Reality for Italy, ed. Emiliana P. Noether (Lewiston, NY, 1989), 119 –34, 121. 40 La capanna dello zio Tomaso o la schiavitù, Nuovissimo romanzo di Enrichetta Beecher Stowe, 4 vols. (Milan, 1852). 41 Rossi, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Protestantism in Italy,” 418, 421–22. 42 La capanna dello zio Tommaso ossia La vita dei negri in America (Lugano, 1853); La Capanna dello zio Tom. Raconto di Enrichetta Beecher Stowe. Nuova Versione (Milan, 1898). 43 Robert Forrest Wilson, Crusader in Crinoline: The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe (1941; Westport, CT, 1972), 329. 44 Minghelli Vaini to Verdi, 09/01/61, in Gaetano Cesari and Alessandro Luzio, eds., I Copialettere di Giuseppe Verdi (Milan, 1913), 587. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 731 of the novel’s readers.45 Moreover, we cannot take it for granted that Stowe’s book had a direct impact on societal ideas and political events—along the lines of Lincoln’s dictum that the Civil War was indeed Mrs. Stowe’s war. Instead, the historian must investigate the specific political messages that readers in different parts of the world took from the novel, leading to the question of why Uncle Tom’s story had an impact at all.46 The fact that the novel was adapted for the stage indicates its popularity, but tells us little about the ways in which it was read. If the “crossracial recognition of virtue”47 was at the core of the story for American audiences (Mrs. Shelby weeping with Tom’s family; or Eva, the white, and Tom, the black, both dying as a consequence of slavery), this was not necessarily the case for Italians, who did not have direct exposure to racial diversity. If Toni Morrison shows how stories such as Uncle Tom helped “reveal the meaning of whiteness,”48 then for Italians the novel was mostly a way to learn about America in general. One has to look at what readers knew about its subject, beyond the text of the novel or the libretto itself, in order to reconstruct Uncle Tom’s possible impact. The preface to the Italian translation includes a detailed commentary by the French critic Jean Lemoine that discusses the problem of slavery and points readers to the role that women like Stowe played in public debates on this issue. As with the American and English editions, the Italian version also presents the story of Uncle Tom as more than just a piece of compassionate literature. It was this kind of information, rather than the plot itself, to which the press often referred, including in reviews of the ballet. Stowe’s own “key” to the novel was translated as a two-volume commentary on Uncle Tom’s Cabin and published in Italy in 1853; it reconstructed the facts on which her work was based and helped Italians to contextualize the work within wider political developments in the United States.49 For Italians the “key” opened a window on a largely foreign society, which was perceived to be profoundly different from anything known on the Italian peninsula. While we have no figures for how many Italians read the “key,” literary critics who wrote about Stowe regularly referred to the factual information it offered and used it in reviews of the novel and of the ballet. The detailed and well-documented volumes of the “key” offered proof that the novel was more than a piece of fiction and that it delivered an authentic image of American society. With its “oral histories,” its rich quotations from original documents, correspondence, 45 Beniamino Placido, Le Due Schiavitù: Per un’analisi dell’immiganizaione amer- icana (Turin, 1975), 7. 46 Ibid., 9. 47 Williams, Playing the Race Card, 47– 48. 48 Ibid., 70. 49 La chiave della capanna dello zio Tomaso contenente i fatti e i documenti originali sopra cui è fonadato il romanzo colle note giustificative (Milan, 1853). 732 Körner legislation, and newspapers, the Chiave became one of the first social- anthropological studies of American life accessible to Italian readers in their own language.50 The novel itself also made it sufficiently clear that the story constituted an authentic account of life in America. In the last chapter of the final volume, Stowe explains the background to the plot, which was based on a careful character study of people living in a slaveholder society either as victims or as perpetrators. Referring to the original description of the person who became the model for the slave trader Legree, her postface underlines once more the barbarity of the slave economy: “He actually made me feel his fist, which was like a blacksmith’s hammer, or a nodule of iron, telling me that it was calloused with knocking down niggers.” Situating the narrative in a realistic account of life in the United States, she continues that “this injustice is an inherent one in the slave system,—it cannot exist without it.”51 For anybody not used to debates over the experience of slavery, as would be the case for the majority of Italian readers, the consequences of the slave trade for the individuals involved were almost inconceivable: The writer has given only a faint shadow, a dim picture, of the anguish and despair that are, at this very moment, riving thousands of hearts, shattering thousands of families, and driving a helpless and sensitive race to frenzy and despair. There are those living who know the mothers whom this accursed traffic has driven to the murder of their children; and themselves seeking in death a shelter from woes more dreaded than death. Nothing of tragedy can be written, can be spoken, can be conceived, that equals the frightful reality of scenes daily and hourly acting on our shores, beneath the shadow of American law, and the shadow of the cross of Christ.52 The fact that these passages are included in foreign translations of the novel is important because it suggests that Uncle Tom could not be read as mere fiction, not even in countries that were at the time largely unaffected by political or religious debates over slavery. The documentary passages of the novel had an especially important impact on the construction of an image of America in Italy because, compared to Britain or France, economic and 50 Another book about the United States which by that time was widely read among Italians was the 1856 edition of Carlo Botta’s Storia della guerra dell indipendenza degli Stati Uniti d’America (Florence, 1856). Originally published in 1809, the new edition in two handy volumes made the work more widely accessible. However, unlike Stowe (and apart from descriptions of landscape), Botta offered little insight into contemporary life in America, concentrating his narrative on military events and leaders during the War of Independence. 51 La capanna dello zio Tomaso o la schiavitù, Nuovissimo romanzo di Enrichetta Beecher Stowe, 4 vols. (Milano, 1852), 4:192; quoted after the American edition of Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin (New York, 2003), 506. 52 Ibid., 197–98 (American ed., 509). Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 733 diplomatic relations with the United States still played only a minor role, with the consequence that the circulation of information about the United States was limited. Also, emigration from Italy to the United States presented only a subsidiary phenomenon until the turn of the century: at the time, the preferred destinations for Italian emigrants were other countries in Europe or Brazil and Argentina.53 Compared to Britain, which maintained a close rela- tionship with the United States and a wide range of information readily available via periodicals, in Italy Uncle Tom played a comparatively more important role in the construction of an image of the United States because it represented a rare example of detailed documentation at a time when America was still terra incognita for many Italians. Loosely based on selected scenes of the novel, Rota’s ballet underlines the story’s exotic aspect through the introduction of allegorical scenes that are not to be found in the original novel.54 During the prelude to the ballet, nature deposits on earth two children, one white, one black, reminding both of them that they are brothers. Anger leads the white boy to suppress the black, subsequently making him his slave. In the original version (1853), the first scene that follows features a party at the house of Thompson, the English envoy to Washington, who is a member of a society for the emancipation of 53 The United States established diplomatic relations with the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies in 1816, with Sardinia in 1840, and with the Papal States in 1848. After the execution of the patriotic priest Ugo Bassi in August 1849, the Pontiff’s legate to the United States was expulsed. Roland Sarti, “La democrazia radicale: Uno sguardo reciproco tra Stati Uniti e Italia,” in La democrazia radicale nell’ottocento europeo, ed. Maurizio Ridolfi (Annali Fondazione Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, 39) (Milan, 2005), 133–57, 137, 144 – 45. During the decade 1861–70 only 21,768 Italians migrated to a non-European country, compared to 99,272 Italians who migrated within Europe. In the decade 1881–90, 24,487 immigrated to the United States, but more than twice as many preferred Argentina or Brazil as their country of destination. The huge wave of migration to the United States started only during the first decade of the twentieth century, with a total number of 232,945. Istituto Centrale di Statistica, Sommario di Statistiche Storiche dell’Italia, 1861–1975 (Rome, 1976), 34 –35. For a general over- view, see Anna Maria Martellone, “Italian Mass Emigration to the United States, 1876 –1930: A Historical Survey,” Perspectives in American History 1 (1984): 379 – 423. On the preference for countries other than the United States, see also Maria Giovanna Pierattini, “Vien via, si va in America, si parte”: Un secolo di emigrazione pistoiese; Storia e storie, itinerari e mestieri (Pistoia, 2002), 59. 54 This summary synthesizes the following version of the libretto: I Bianchi ed i negri. Azione storica-allegorica in tre quadri e sette scene del coreografo Giuseppe Rota. Riprodotta dal Coreografo Ferdinando Pratesi nel Regio Teatro della Scala nell autunno 1863. Milan: Luigi di Giacomo Pirola (NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 809). The original version staged in Milan in 1853 is similar to that presented in Bologna in 1858 and in Milan in 1863. The versions presented in Rome in 1858 and in Turin in 1875 contain further variations. As was the case for opera, it was common that individual theaters would add or cut parts of a work, according to the disposition and the requests of local artists. See, e.g., L’Arpa, October 18, 1858. 734 Körner Negroes. Unexpectedly, the fugitive slave George enters the room. He had been freed by Thompson and now hopes to liberate those who still share his former fate as slaves. Humanity provides George with guidance in the form of a book, the Code of Truth. In the second scene, George starts his mission on Legree’s plantation, offering himself to the master as a new supervisor for his slaves. Legree makes indecent advances to the slave Dellay, but is interrupted by the arrival of his daughter, Angelina. In order to break Dellay’s resistance and isolate her from her family, Legree decides to sell her father (Uncle Tom), her husband (Sab), and their young son (Henry) to the slave trader Christie. Angelina promises to protect the family from her father’s evil intentions. Next, Legree discovers Dellay’s husband, Sab, with a book and punishes him for intending to instruct himself. When Legree makes another attempt to conquer Dellay, Sab intervenes. Legree orders George to beat him. George refuses and is made to leave. Legree sells the three male members of the family to Christie. While Tom obeys, the rest of the family decide to escape. In the fourth scene, the family is hiding at the property of the merchant Gordon, whose life Sab had once saved. For a sum of money Gordon reveals the hiding place to Christie. While George helps Dellay and Henry to escape, Sab is caught in a fight. When he shoots Gordon he is arrested. In the penultimate scene, George convinces the incarcerated slaves to pray for God’s help. When Legree enters the prison to retrieve his slaves they suddenly find the strength to oppose him. The ballet concludes with another allegorical scene, set in the Temple of Truth, where the Genius of Humanity ends centuries of racial division and unites blacks and whites forevermore. Every libretto is no more than a loose adaptation of its literary source. While ballet makes it almost impossible to represent the narrative structure of a novel closely, Rota’s allegorical scenes at the start and the end of the ballet serve the purpose of integrating the humanist intentions and religious motives of Stowe’s novel. The fact that some of the ballet’s first reviews criticized Rota for these additions to the novel’s narrative demonstrates how closely audiences and critics associated the ballet with the novel.55 In his libro da ballo, Rota decided to conflate scenes from the two narratives of Stowe’s novel: the story of Eliza (becoming Dellay in the ballet), heading north for freedom, and the story of Tom, sold south and dying under even more terrible conditions. There are some important variations between the different stagings of the ballet. In the 1858 version Angelina becomes Erichetta, a name read as 55 La Fama del 1853: Rassegna di Scienze, Lettere, Arti, Industria e Teatri, No- vember 14, 1853. L’Italia Musicale, January 4, 1858, opined that the literary source did not adapt itself to ballet. Much more positive was Il Trovatore: Giornale Letterario, Artistico, Teatrale, January 6, 1858. The caricatures reproduced in the issue of January 20, 1858, do not seem to criticize Rota’s ballet but the management of Turin’s Teatro Regio and the simultaneous performance of Rigoletto. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 735 an Italian version of Harriet. In the later stagings the Book of Truth of the 1853 version becomes the Bible. Uncle Tom himself plays a secondary role in all versions, but the novel also refers to him only in some sections. Despite these alterations to the plot, the choreography takes up many central elements of the novel, on which Stowe also commented in the “key”: the devastation of family structures as a consequence of the slave trade, the sexual implications of the relationship between the master and his female slaves, the physical brutality of slaveholders and traders, the role of education and religion in the life of slaves. It is these themes that allowed Italians to catch up with the debates in countries like Britain, where over the past decades abolition had played a more important public role. In addition to commenting on general issues of the novel’s adaptation and on the choreography itself, most reviews of the ballet go into detail in describing the narrative’s sad and brutal content.56 Stowe became a star in Italy and was well known beyond circles of educated Italians. Visiting Rome in 1857, she would have disturbed those Americans in Rome who held Southern sympathies, but she certainly found admirers among the Italian people. Visiting the Castellani sculpture workshop and observing one of the two brothers carving the head of an Egyptian slave in onyx, she was recognized and greeted with the words: “Madam, we know what you have been to the poor slave. We ourselves are but poor slaves still in Italy; you feel for us; will you keep this gem as a slight recognition for what you have done?”57 As inappropriate as the comparison between American slaves and Italians in the Papal States might seem, one of the reasons for Uncle Tom’s popularity was the fact that Italians were able to compare their own fate to that of the oppressed slaves. Stowe was read and discussed in the context of general humanitarian concerns and ideas of liberation. In 1859, on her second visit to Italy, Stowe attended the meeting of the Tuscan Assembly at which the adherence of Tuscany to Piedmont was declared, which subse- quently gave rise to the Unification of Italy58— clearly a symbol of connec- tions between Uncle Tom and the liberation of Italy. Despite the novel’s role in Italian debates on America, certainly one should not overemphasize possible political readings of the ballet. In many respects the production fit in perfectly with the choreographer’s more general interest 56 See in particular L’Arpa, October 18, 1858. The more critical reviews had less to do with the ballet’s content than with the performance of individual dancers. 57 Quoted in Van Wyck Brooks, The Dream of Arcadia: American Writers and Artists in Italy, 1760 –1915 (New York, 1958), 129. On her visit to Italy, see also Nathalia Wright, American Novelists in Italy. The Discoverers: Allston to James (Philadelphia, 1965), 87– 89, although the author’s discussion of Stowe’s evaluation of the Catholic Church seems questionable. 58 Wright, American Novelists in Italy, 88 – 89. 736 Körner in foreign and exotic topics.59 Moreover, when Rota presented his Bianchi e Neri slavery was not a new topic for the stage, at least if one includes the representation of slaves in the orientalizing genre of ballet and opera. Here slavery usually served to depict despotism and cruelty within cultures de- scribed as uncivilized or unenlightened, often in the form of humorist parody for the carnival season.60 Intellectually, the association between slavery and oscurantismo reflected Montesquieu’s belief that it had been Christianity that led to the abolition of slavery in Europe, despite the fact that other enlightened philosophers, such as the Abbé Raynal, were fully aware that the discovery of the New World was intrinsically linked to the beginning of the transatlantic slave trade.61 However, by the time that nineteenth-century Italian ballets discussed slavery, even in most countries of the New World the problem had disappeared, with the notable exceptions of Cuba, Brazil—and the United States. In addition to his Uncle Tom ballet, Giuseppe Rota treated slavery in several other pieces, for instance, in his Indian Elda e Dielma at the Roman Apollo Theater in 1861.62 Probably the most spectacular example contrasting slavery and civilization on stage was Luigi Manzotti’s ballet Excelsior, which premiered in Milan in 1881 and employed more than five hundred dancers.63 Although by that time even the United States had ended slavery and was represented through images of the Brooklyn Bridge as a force of progress, 59 In 1862 Rota presented a Chinese ballet at the Pergola in Florence, Lo spirito maligno, NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 799. 60 During the carnival of 1867 the famous choreographer Paolo Taglioni presented the ballet Thea o la Fata dei Fiori at La Scala, featuring slaves from Africa and the Near East. NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 868. A few years later both La Scala and the Regio in Turin staged Pasquale Borri’s Nephte o il figliol prodigo, also including Arab and African slaves. NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 883 (Turin, 1869), no. 923 (Milan, 1873). In many of these pieces slavery was presented as an aspect of Orientalism. Paul Gilroy argues that slavery was at the center of the Enlightenment debates on the concept of modernity: The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, MA, 1993). 61 David Brion Davis, The Problem of Slavery in Western Culture (1966) (Oxford, 1988), 14 –15. A powerful and widely circulated example of the Enlightenment view on slavery is also provided by Voltaire’s Candide. 62 Elda e Dielma, Apollo Theater, Rome, in 1861, featuring slaves in India: NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 787. See also Antonio Pallerini’s L’Anello infernale ossia Folgore: Ballo fantastico in sei parti, set in Cadice during the sixteenth century and performed at La Scala during the autumn of 1862: NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 795. 63 Luigi Manzotti, Excelsior (Milan, 1881); Carol Lee, Ballet in Western Culture: A History of Its Origins and Evolution (New York, 2002), 176; “Excelsior,” in The Encyclopedia of Dance and Ballet, ed. Mary Clarke and David Vaughan (London, 1977), 134; Alberto Testa, Storia della danza e del balletto (Rome, 1994), 78; Jutta Toelle, Bühne der Stadt: Mailand und das Teatro della Scala zwischen Risorgimento und Fin-De-Siècle (Vienna, 2009), 120 –22. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 737 Manzotti still refers the spectator back to the theme of Rota’s Bianchi e Neri, first staged almost thirty years earlier. One of the images in Excelsior de- scribes the opening of the Suez Canal, presenting Suez as a brotherhood of peoples, a land of utopian promise for all races living together under the authority of the Khedive.64 Through Verdi’s Aida, premiered ten years earlier in Cairo in connection with the opening of the canal, Italians could easily engage with the setting. Central to Manzotti’s scene is the liberation of the slaves (scene 8), presented in the form of a pas de deux featuring “Civilisa- tion” and “the Slave.”65 The similarity to Rota’s pas de deux in Bianchi e Neri, together with the fact that Rota and Manzotti were known for having worked together closely on a number of productions, suggests that audiences made a connection between the two works. In the context of any ballet the pas de deux was of central importance, and it was usually anticipated impatiently by the audience, making it the focal point of the work. The slave in Excelsior, with his extravagant jumps, became the star of the ballet. Excelsior soon conquered all the major theaters of the world. Its first staging in 1881 reached a total of 103 performances, followed by productions at the San Carlo, the Regio in Turin, Trieste, Bologna, the Politeama in Florence, as well as stagings in both Americas (with 100 performances at Niblo’s Garden in New York), at the Victoria in Berlin, the Zarzuela in Madrid, as well as at the Eden in Paris, where the 300 performances made a profit of 2,100,000 francs.66 The two most important Italian choreographers of the nineteenth century, Rota and Man- zotti, made their names through stagings that featured the end of slavery. Theater continued to influence Italians’ ideas of the New World. Musical representations of America included, among the more famous works, Doni- zetti’s cantata Cristoforo Colombo o sia la scoperta dell’America, Verdi’s Un ballo, mentioned above, and Franchetti’s Cristoforo Colombo.67 Travel and 64 Claudia Celli, “Manzotti and the Theatre of Memory of the Nineteenth Century,” in Excelsior: Documenti e Saggi, ed. Flavia Pappacena (Rome, 1998), 209 –26, 221. 65 Flavia Pappacena questions the ideological and political importance of the abo- lition scene in Excelsior, which also served as a pretext to introduce the obligatory pas de deux into a narrative otherwise dominated by mass scenes: ibid., “An analysis of the Ballet Structure,” 269 – 81, 271–72. 66 Flavia Pappacena, “The Transcription of the Ballet Excelsior and the Manuscript of the Theatre Museum at La Scala,” in Pappacena, ed., Excelsior, 249 – 68, 249. Stagings abroad were usually produced by local directors and adapted with local sets. 67 Paologiovanni Maione and Francesca Seller, “Cristoforo Colombo o sia la scoperta dell’America di Donizetti,” Studi Musicali 34 (2005): 2, 421– 49. For an overview of operas on the discovery of the New World, see Thomas F. Heck, “Toward a Bibliography of Operas on Columbus,” Notes 49, no. 2 (December 1992): 474 –97; see also his “The Operatic Christopher Columbus: Three Hundred Years of Musical Mythology,” Annali d’italianistica 10 (1992): 236 –78. The most important work on representations of America in Italian opera is Pierpaolo Polzonetti, Italian Opera in the Age of the American Revolution (Cambridge, 2011). For a general overview, see 738 Körner discovery also provided popular topics in ballet.68 The composer of Bianchi e Neri, Paolo Giorza, established himself as an expert on the American theme: a few years after Bianchi e Neri he composed the music for Monplaisir’s Colombo, a real hit on the Italian stages.69 In these exotic ballets America was not just a new but a different world, treated in a rather monolithic fashion and often emphasizing its natural otherness. The enlightened humanism of West- ern civilization contrasts with the character of the bon savage in the New World or the despotism of noncivilized peoples. Reading Bianchi e Neri within the context and the history of this genre, it is striking that in staged representations the United States is portrayed as lacking the values and the culture that characterized the Europe of the Enlightenment. What Stowe’s America seemed to represent was a particularly brutalized form of what until now had characterized non-European societies. It is exactly this aspect—slavery contradicting the ideals of civilization and progress—that references to the United States in the reviews of Bianchi e Neri underline. On the occasion of the ballet’s 1863 revival, the Milanese literary journal La Fama describes William Wilberforce’s early nineteenth-century movement against the transatlantic slave trade. It had been widely assumed that the “trade of human flesh” would disappear from the globe as a conse- quence of the movement’s success: “Unfortunately, one did not consider the indomitable tenacity of the Anglo-Saxon race in the Southern United States. They are united around an antisocial principle, based on the pure reason of force: that the white man owns the black, a principle sanctioned by laws, Jürgen Maehder, “The Representation of the Discovery on the Opera Stage,” in Musical Repercussions of 1492, ed. Carol E. Robertson (Washington, DC, 1992), 257– 83; Franchetti’s Cristoforo Colombo, on a libretto by Luigi Illica, was commis- sioned by the city of Genoa and premiered under Mancinelli in 1892, followed by presentations in Treviso and at Bologna’s Comunale under Toscanini. For contempo- rary pictorial representations see, e.g., Palagio Palagi’s Columbus scenes in Claudio Poppi, ed., L’ombra di core: Disegni dal fondo Palagi della Biblioteca dell’Archiginasio (Bologna, 1989), 37–39; probably more influential was the monument by Vincenzo Vela (“Colombo e l’America”) for the World Exhibition of 1867, presenting Columbus gener- ously protecting a female Native American nude: see illustration in L’Universo Illustrato 2, no. 8 (November 1867): 129 –30. 68 For American themes in ballet, see also Raimondo Fidanza’s Colombo, ossia La Scoperta del Nuovo Mondo (Genoa, 1802); Cohen, “Feme di Gelosia!” 558; Colombo all’isola di Cuba, azione mimica di mezzo carattere in Quattro parti di Antonio Monticini, represented at La Scala in the autumn 1832 and again at the Regio in Turin in 1838: NYPL, WTC, LdB, nos. 332 and 431. 69 NYPL, WTC, LdB, no. 819. Along with Colombo and his celebrated ballet Brahma, Ippolito Monplaisir created L’Isola degli Amori, a ballo fantastico about Vasco da Gama, performed in 1861 at La Scala in Milan as well as the Teatro Apollo in Rome. NYPL, WTC, LdB, nos. 785 and 793. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 739 which treat these men as simple objects, to be exploited and commercialized like wild beasts.”70 Not only is it remarkable that the review of a ballet would engage in debates about this wider historical and social context of slavery; the author also presents his readers with a condemning judgment on U.S. society. The article goes on to outline the implications of slavery for the United States’ constitutional system, leading to the causes of the current Civil War, “the most horrible massacre in the history of humankind.”71 In Italy the review of a ballet could cover wide territory. TWO UNIFICATIONS When Bianchi e Neri first toured Italy in the 1850s, slavery represented only one image among many that Italians associated with America. These images were largely determined by the particular circumstances and the perspective of the observer. For instance, the American War of Independence almost coin- cided with the awakening of national sentiment in Italy, leading later gener- ations of Italian patriots to look across the Atlantic for lessons.72 When in the middle of the following century Stowe pointed to the Christian motives behind the fight for abolition, this seemed to confirm that freedom of religion, as practiced in the United States, encouraged political liberation. This could not go unnoticed in Italy, where until 1848 popular religion played an important role in creating a mass basis for the national movement. Meanwhile, national liberation was also understood as liberation from Papal dominion and as the end of a theocratic system of government. As a matter of fact, in 1863 the Republican almanac L’amico di casa saw no difference “between Jews in the Papal States and Negroes in America.”73 Apart from her admiration for the Catholic Church’s symbolism and its spirituality, Stowe echoed the condemnations by Italian patriots of the Church’s tyranny and made the Pope’s “perverted religion” the topic of another, less known novel, Agnes of Sorrento.74 Italian 70 La Fama del 1863, September 29, 1863. 71 Ibid. 72 Botta’s History of the War of the Independence is certainly of interest here, but certain claims regarding these connections need further investigation. See, in this context, Carlo Dionisotti, Vita di Carlo Botta (Turin, 1867); Jordan D. Fioere, “Carlo Botta: An Italian Historian of the American Revolution,” Italica 28, no. 3 (September 1951): 155–71; more recently Luciano Canfora and Ugo Cardinale, eds., Il Giacobino Pentito: Carlo Botta fra Napoleone e Washington (Rome, 2010). 73 L’Amico di Casa: Almanacco Popolare Illustrato. 1863 (Turin, 1862). 74 The novel was written in the winter of 1859 – 60 during her second visit to Italy. During the trip she visited Florence, Rome, and Naples, as well as Como, Milan, Verona, and Venice. William L. Vance, America’s Rome (New Haven, CT, 1989), 2:22; Wright, American Novelists in Italy, 88, 90 –103. On the Catholic reaction to Uncle Tom, see Rossi, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Protestantism in Italy.” 740 Körner anticlericals found a willing supporter in the first American minister to the Kingdom of Italy, George Perkins Marsh, who “indulged in anti-Papal dia- tribes” and regarded the Catholic Church as an institutionalization of “tyr- anny, reaction and superstition.”75 Meanwhile, the narrative of a “racialized Christlike passion,”76 with the devout Uncle Tom being beaten to death by his master, responded to a religious sentiment that was also shared by many Italian anticlericals. All this facilitated the Italian response to Stowe’s mission and to Uncle Tom in particular. As can be seen from reactions to Uncle Tom and to Bianchi e Neri, the relationship between the Risorgimento and the United States went beyond widespread admiration for America’s practice of religious freedom. The United States had been a mecca for European exiles not just after 1848 but as early as 1835 when, on his accession to the Austrian throne, Ferdinand I had issued an imperial rescript granting to Italian prisoners a commutation of sentence on condition that they agreed to be deported to America. However, while some accepted the condition, others preferred to serve out their sen- tences in prison.77 European revolutionaries knew that public opinion in the United States was not unanimous in its support for their uprisings, that many Americans feared radical socialism and the negative consequences of revo- lution for their business relations with the old continent. Despite the fact that a number of American envoys to Italy supported the process of Unification, officially the government of the United States adopted a policy of strict neutrality.78 Catholic Americans condemned Italian patriots for their treatment of the Pope.79 Despite the fact that Garibaldi’s arrival in the United States had 75 Mary Philip Trauth, Italo-American Diplomatic Relations, 1861–1882: The Mis- sion of George Perkins Marsh, First American Minister to the Kingdom of Italy (Washington, DC, 1958), xv; David Lowenthal, George Perkins Marsh: Versatile Vermonter (New York, 1958). 76 Williams, Playing the Race Card, 47. 77 Rossi, The Image of America in Mazzini’s Writings, 13; Marco Sioli, “Se non c’è il conquibus si muore come cani: Luigi Tinelli a New York (1851–1873),” in Fiorentini and Sanfilippo, eds., Gli Stati Uniti e l’Unità d’Italia, 141–50, 141. 78 Daniele Fiorentino, “La politica estera degli Stati Uniti e l’unità d’Italia,” in Fiorentini and Sanfilippo, eds, Gli Stati Uniti e l’Unità d’Italia, 45– 81. See also Riall, Garibaldi, 113, 166. When Americans supported the Risorgimento it was often not out of idealism but anticipating future economic benefits from a potential market for American products. See Paola Gemme, Domesticating Foreign Struggles: The Italian Risorgimento and Antebellum American Identity (Athens, GA, 2005), 6. 79 Giuseppe Monsagrati, “Gli intellettuali americani e il processo di unificazione italiana,” in Fiorentini and Sanfilippo, eds., Gli Stati Uniti e l’Unità d’Italia, 17– 44, 18; Vance, America’s Rome, 2:122–24, 129. See also Leonardo Buonomo, Backward Glances: Exploring Italy, Reinterpreting America (1831–1866) (Teaneck, NJ, 1996), as well as the essays in Robert K. Martin and Leland S. Person, eds., Roman Holidays: American Writers and Artists in Nineteenth-Century Italy (Iowa City, 2002). Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 741 been greeted with a great deal of anticipation, and he was frequently compared to General Washington, widely read accounts of his life did not present a rosy picture of his experiences in the United States.80 One of the first Italian novels of emigration, published by the Mazzinian Antonio Caccia just after 1848, presented the unpleasant image of an American nativist who resented “the daily arrival of hungry Europeans.”81 Much of this was known to Italian observers and influenced the construction of a rather ambivalent image of the United States. For some Italians the United States’ federal constitution seemed to offer a blueprint for political Unification.82 However, even the federalist Carlo Cat- taneo was aware of differences in political traditions and geopolitical circum- stances between the New and the Old World and often looked for federal models elsewhere, in Switzerland or in Italy’s own history.83 For others there was something fundamentally wrong with the American understanding of 80 The fact that he is so very brief on his period in New York speaks for itself. Giuseppe Garibaldi, Memorie Autobiografiche (Florence, 1888), 264 ff.; Jessie White Mario, Garibaldi e i suoi tempi (Milan, 1884), 364 – 65. See also Lucy Riall, Gari- baldi: Invention of a Hero (New Haven, CT, 2007), 107 ff.; Alfonso Scirocco, Garibaldi: Citizen of the World (Princeton, NJ, 2007), 192, 193. For comparisons between Garibaldi and Washington, see Francesco Bertolini, Garibaldi e la nuova Italia (Naples, 1882), 6, 9. For further examples, see also Dennis Mack Smith, Garibaldi (London, 1957), 69. 81 Antonio Caccia, Europa ed America (1850). The two protagonists of the novel were surprised how little interest Americans had in their revolution. Emilio Franzina, Dall’Arcadia in America: Attività letteraria ed emigrazione transoceanica in Italia (Turin, 1996), 43. On criminalizing southern Italians in America, see also Anthony V. Margavio, “The Reaction of the Press to the Italian-American in New Orleans, 1880 –1920,” Italian Americana 4, no. 1 (Fall/Winter 1978): 72– 83. 82 Sarti, “La democrazia radicale,” 137. See also Pierangelo Schiera, “Centralismo e federalismo nell’unificazione statal-nazionale italiana e tedesca,” in Centralismo e federalismo tra Otto e Novecento: Italia e Germania a confronto, ed. Oliver Janz, Pierangelo Schiera, and Hannes Siegrist (Bologna, 1997), 21– 46; Marco Meriggi, “Centralismo e federalismo in Italia: Le aspettative preunitarie,” in ibid., 49 – 63; Ernesto Ragionieri, Politica e amministrazione nella storia dell’Italia unita (Rome, 1979), 97; Don H. Doyle, Nations Divided: America, Italy, and the Southern Question (Athens, GA, 2002), 29; Maurizio Isabella, Risorgimento in Exile: Italian Émigrés and the Liberal International in the Post-Napoleonic Era (Oxford, 2009), 60 – 62. In the context of these debates the Italian reception of de Tocqueville obviously played a role, even if after 1849 he was widely perceived as the French foreign minister responsible for the end of the Roman Republic. Maurizio Ridolfo, “La Démocratie en Amérique di Tocqueville e la sua ricezione nell’Italia del Risorgimento,” in Fiorentini and Sanfilippo, eds., Gli Stati Uniti e l’Unità d’Italia, 133–39. 83 The most important study on this topic is Filippo Sabetti, “Cattaneo e il modello americano: Per una scienza politica nuova,” in Carlo Cattaneo: I temi e le sfide, ed. Arturo Colombo, Franco della Peruta, and Carlo G. Lacaita (Milan, 2004), 345– 66; also Filippo Sabetti, Civilization and Self-Government: The Political Thought of Carlo Cattaneo (Lanham, MD, 2010). 742 Körner freedom. Mazzini criticized America’s republican thought for stifling “the principle of association under the omnipotence of the individual . . . and enthron[ing] selfish interests and materialism.” With reference to the United States’ federal constitution, in 1838 he confessed his “cordial antipathy for the very name of that country.”84 Mazzini considered the federal model a great risk for the future of his movement, favoring instead the Republican central- ism of the French revolutionary tradition.85 The Italian reviews of Rota’s ballet pointed to the fact that it was federalism that enabled American slave- holders to oppose abolition.86 The Civil War proved those voices that had questioned the practicality of federalism altogether to be right. These constitutional debates notwithstanding, and even after Unification, for a surprisingly large number of Italians America did not mean much at all or was simply a nonentity. As Leonardo Buonomo has pointed out, “its citizens were commonly called inglesi [English], a frequent cause of irritation for U.S. travelers and an actual disadvantage: among all foreign visitors of Italy, the least popular were precisely those from England.”87 Even Italians who were well read in political geography, like Carlo Cattaneo, included the American people among the stirpe britannica, and Prime Minister Baron Bettino Ricasoli spoke about the “glory of the razza Anglo-Sassone in the two hemispheres.”88 For many Italians the distinction between the United States and South America was also far from obvious, and frequently one notices their confusion about which territories of the New World actually formed part of the northern Republic. As mentioned earlier, this was also because ideas of America were often based on a very limited acquaintance with literature on the New World. Even a fervent reader such as Mazzini knew hardly more than the works of James Fenimore Cooper.89 This changed with the reception of Stowe; and after the American Civil War Italian periodicals started writing in more detail about events and political developments across the Atlantic, presenting a shockingly brutal image of life in the war-torn society. 84 Quoted in Rossi, The Image of America in Mazzini’s Writings, 5, 14. See also Dennis Mack Smith, Italy: A Modern History, new ed. (Ann Arbor, MI, 1969), 13–14. See in this context also the monarchical-federal pamphlet by Alessandro Luigi Bar- gani, Progetto di costituzione dei Regni Uniti d’Italia offerto ai circoli politici e federativi degli Stati italiani da un cittadino degli Stati Uniti d’America (Turin, 1848). 85 Rossi, The Image of America in Mazzini’s Writings, 6 –7; Sarti, “La democrazia radicale,” 139, 147. 86 La Fama del 1863, September 29, 1863. 87 Buonomo, Backward Glances, 18. 88 Carlo Cattaneo, “Di alcuni stati moderni” (1842), in Cattaneo, Scritti storici e geografici, ed. Gaetano Salvemini and Ernesto Sestan (Florence, 1957), 1:255–301, 272–73. For Ricasoli: La Nazione, March 29, 1862. 89 Rossi, The Image of America in Mazzini’s Writings, 2–3. On the appeal of Cooper to emigrants from Europe, see also Andrew Rolle, The Immigrant Upraised: Italian Adventurers and Colonists in an Expanding America (Norman, OK, 1968), 26, 59. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 743 The 1860s were also the years in which novels about emigration as well as about life and travel in America became increasingly popular and were translated into Italian, often transmitting the idea of a rough and uncivilized society.90 Although certainly not prejudiced against Americans, Giovanni Capellini, the future rector of Bologna’s university, included in his travel account numerous episodes illustrating the contrasting manners of the New and the Old World. He was shocked by the cultural realities of a society that denied the “natural distinction” between social classes. He presented disturb- ing images of those areas directly affected by the battles of the Civil War. In the hotels where he stayed he had to keep a Colt under his pillow, while mice danced on his blanket and happily ran across his face!91 Even for Capellini, a traveler with ample experience of the Italian South, America was hard to take in. While these ambivalent representations of the United States contrasted with the earlier image of the United States as the realization of Enlightenment ideals, they seemed to confirm the brutality alluded to in Stowe’s novel and Rota’s ballet. ITALIAN LESSONS FROM THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR Lincoln became president of the United States just ten days before Vittorio Emanuele was proclaimed king of Italy; the United States was the first country to recognize the Kingdom of Italy. Despite the recent secession of the Southern states, Americans continued to follow events in Italy, and in January 1861 La Nazione reported on a meeting in New York that brought together more than three thousand people in support of Garibaldi.92 Likewise, while Italians had reason enough to concentrate on their own Civil War, they followed the news about the escalating conflict across the Atlantic closely. When Ricasoli voiced his support for the constitutional authorities of the North, he did this also in the awareness of the secessionist ambitions of Papal and Southern legitimists in Italy. However, the Italian response to the Amer- ican Civil War went beyond a shared concern for the integrity of the nation- state. Because of their close engagement with Stowe and Rota, Italians were able to engage with this conflict on a much more personal and emotional basis, and references to Uncle Tom in general debates about America suggest that 90 Franzina, Dall’Arcadia in America, 76. Gerstaecker, whose stories also appeared in the periodical press, often presented Americans as uncivilized and bold: L’Universo Illustrato 1, no. 8 (November 1866): 122–24. Italians were particularly taken by Poe’s stories, but also by what they knew about his own life: Gustavo Tirinelli, “Edgardo Allan Poe,” Nuova Antologia, 2nd ser. 4, no. 4 (April 1877): 731– 62. 91 Giovanni Capellini, Ricordi di un viaggio scientifico nell’America settentrionale nel 1863 (Bologna, 1867), 20 –21. 92 La Nazione, January 10, 1861. See, for similar campaigns, Riall, Garibaldi, 296. 744 Körner the reception of the novel played an important part in making American slavery and the Civil War an issue of public concern in Italy. Many Italian patriots saw their own national Unification and the abolition of slavery in America as “one single cause”: a struggle for the good of humankind as a whole.93 However, the path toward this insight was not straightforward. Historically, the Italian Democrats had close relations with the Democratic Party in the United States and were hesitant in declaring themselves for Lincoln. Their attitude changed relatively late, only after the Emancipation Declaration. Meanwhile, as an international champion of free- dom, Mazzini was popular in American antislavery circles, and his concern over the dangers of the federal system shared common ground with the political intentions of the American Republicans.94 Mazzini knew Stowe’s family, including her husband, and Henry Ward Beecher, the most famous Congregationalist preacher of his time, supported Italian Republicans in exile, such as Jessie White Mario. Lincoln offered Garibaldi a commission as major general in the Union Army and a Garibaldi Brigade of 350 men, of which about fifty were Italians, fought for the North. Many individual units included experienced Italian officers, among them the later director of the Metropolitan Museum, Luigi Palma di Cesnola. However, there were also about 500 Italians fighting for the South. The American administration itself saw the Redshirts largely as a wild bunch of adventurers seeking American-paid transportation to the New World.95 The decision not to recognize the Con- federacy, despite the fact that the Italian cotton mills depended on raw material from the South, was one of the few issues on which Italian democrats and moderates were able to agree.96 In this respect the policy of the Holy See was less clear; the American South tried to capitalize on the fact that the Pope 93 Enrico Dal Lago, “Radicalism and Nationalism: Northern ‘Liberators’ and South- ern Labourers in the USA and Italy, 1830 – 60,” in Dal Lago and Rick Halpern, eds., The American South and the Italian Mezzogiorno: Essays in Comparative History (Basingstoke, 2002), 197–214, 197; Sarti, “La democrazia radicale,” 145– 48; Leopoldo Ramanzini, Una lettera di Garibaldi ad Abramo Lincoln (Vicenza, 1970). Also David A. J. Richards, Italian American: The Racializing of an Ethnic Identity (New York, 1999), 118. 94 Timothy M. Roberts, “The Relevance of Giuseppe Mazzini’s Ideas of Insurgency to the American Slavery Crisis of the 1850s,” in Giuseppe Mazzini and the Globali- zation of Democratic Nationalism, 1830 –1920, ed. Christopher A. Bayly and Eugenio F. Biagini (Oxford, 2008), 311–20. In 1872 Lincoln’s “esequie ferroviarie” and his embalming became the model for Mazzini’s funeral: Sergio Luzzatto, La mummia della repubblica: Storia di Mazzini imbalsamato, 1872–946 (Milan, 2001), 35–36. 95 Rossi, The Image of America in Mazzini’s Writings, 162; Trauth, Italo-American Diplomatic Relations, 8 –34. See also Valentino J. Belfiglio, “Italians and the Amer- ican Civil War,” Italian Americana 4, no. 2 (Spring/Summer 1978): 163–75. 96 Trauth, Italo-American Diplomatic Relations, 1. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 745 maintained correspondence with the Confederate President, Jefferson Davis.97 The Church questioned the legitimacy of the United States on the same basis that it questioned the Kingdom of Italy: “While Italy constitutes itself as one, which it has never been, . . . in the United States they dissolve their union, because for some of them unity is such an unbearable condition that a war seems justified.”98 The impact of the Church on the formation of an Italian image of America is not to be neglected. In terms of readership, Civiltà Cattolica was still the peninsula’s most influential periodical, and even in Piedmont it had more subscribers than any of the liberal periodicals.99 How- ever, even the Church was unable to defend the slave economy in the South. Although not against slavery in principle, it took the view that under the paternal protection of the Church “the master becomes father, and the slave almost a son. But in America things are different: there slavery results in tyranny, a monstrosity.”100 Here, the Church’s depictions of slavery did not sound too different from those of Stowe and Rota, despite Rome’s earlier opposition to Uncle Tom. What overshadowed Italy’s widespread enthusiasm for the North’s cause was the coverage of the Civil War’s unimaginable brutality. Italian newspa- pers were filled with detail describing how the bloodshed penetrated every corner of American society. One of the early Italian commentators on the American Civil War described the conflict as the “devil’s war,” showing particular concern at the circulation of weapons among the civilian popula- tion.101 La Nazione used the term “terrorism” to describe the policies of the South, but it also shed doubts on Lincoln’s integrity: “for him the negroes are just a means to go to war against the whites.” Here, the Italian paper ignored the extent to which abolitionism had become a religiously and politically motivated mass movement in the United States.102 Although this sort of attack against the president was rare, the Italian paper almost seemed to echo the personalized campaigns of the pro-Southern members of the British parlia- 97 For the Catholic Church’s ambiguous position, see “Il concetto morale della schiavitù,” Civiltà Cattolica (February 1865): 427– 45; Donaldson Jordan and Edwin J. Pratt, Europe and the American Civil War (Boston and New York, 1931), 194. Later, however, the Papal States fully collaborated with the prosecution of one of the alleged accomplices to Lincoln’s assassination. Trauth, Italo-American Diplomatic Relations, 36. For a recent study of the problem, see Matteo Sanfilippo, L’affermazione del cattolicesimo nel Nord America: Elite, emigranti e chiesa cattolica negli Stati Uniti e in Canada, 1750 –1920 (Viterbo, 2003), 97 ff. 98 “La Disunione negli Stati Uniti,” Civiltà Cattolica (February 1861): 312–24, 312. 99 See “La stampa cattolica in Italia,” Civiltà Cattolica (January 1865): 43–59, 44. 100 “La Disunione negli Stati Uniti,” Civiltà Cattolica (February 1861): 312–24, 322. 101 Capellini, Ricordi di un viaggio scientifico, 72, 144. 102 La Nazione, May 11, 1861, and October 13, 1862. On the growth of the abolitionist movement in antebellum America, see Smith, The American Civil War, 12–13. 746 Körner ment around the Saturday Review, which caricatured Lincoln as a rude frontiersman, the opposite of Jefferson Davis’s image as “an able adminis- trator and calm statesman.”103 For the Catholic press, the North’s regime during the civil war was “a kind of military dictatorship,” likened to the political situation of “occupied” Sicily, which the Church openly condemned. Suddenly discovering a concern for the treatment of prisoners and for the freedom of the press, the Catholic paper also noted that Lincoln’s regime no longer respected the law of habeas corpus. It reported how numerous news- papers were banned, “following exactly the same practice as the Neapolitan Garibaldini in the service of Piedmont.”104 Again, as the quotation shows, Italians interpreted the events of the Civil War within their own terms of reference. While Catholic papers questioned the motives of the Union, the liberal press pointed to the desperate actions of the Confederates, “burning their own cities, devastating their fields, prepared to suffer deprivations of any kind.”105 Apart from their respective political sympathies, Liberals and Cath- olics seemed to agree that “a lot of blood and violence could be spared. A war pursued with such levels of accanimento has to have the most horrific consequences.”106 Confronted with these impressions of the Civil War and the political realities of the United States, the former “model republic” increasingly lost its appeal for Italians. Life in the United States could not even be compared to conditions in Europe. Thus, reports on the Civil War echoed the earlier images of the United States in Rota’s ballet, which contrasted American slavery with the values of the civilized world.107 As the liberal Nuova Antologia maintained in 1867, political life in the United States “had become extremely corrupted and violent. If one would implement this model of society and government in one of our states, it would collapse within a week.”108 More specifically, the example of the United States seemed to confirm the views of those who feared the negative consequences of democratic advances without the progress of political education. In the American South, “the honest, virtuous and well-off 103 Quoted in Gabor S. Boritt, Mark E. Neely Jr., and Harold Holzer, “The European Image of Abraham Lincoln,” Winterthur Portfolio 21, nos. 2/3 (Summer–Autumn 1986): 153– 83, 153. 104 “Cronaca Contemporanea,” Civiltà Cattolica (October 1861): 249 –56. 105 Monitore di Bologna, April 28, 1865. 106 Gazzetta delle Romagne, March 12, 1865. 107 See, e.g., the review of Histoire de la guerre civile en Amérique by M. le Comte de Paris, in Nuova Antologia, March 1876, Bollettino bibliografico, 703– 4. This assessment was shared by the Catholic press: “La Disunione negli Stati Uniti,” Civiltà Cattolica (February 1861): 312–24. For a much more positive evaluation of the United States after the Civil War, see Aurelio Saffi, “Lezioni d’oltre l’Atlantico” (1865), in Ricordi e Scritti di Aurelio Saffi, ed. Municipio di Forlì (Florence, 1902), 3:213–302. 108 “Rassegna Politica,” Nuova Antologia (August 1867): 820 – 42, 840. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 747 classes retire from political life, feeling unable to give direction or to influence decisions. They leave matters to the country’s least educated and least dis- tinguished strata. Thus, democracy seems ochlocracy, where the government of the people becomes the government of the plebs. The Congress of the United States has today the reputation of being the most corrupted assembly of the entire world.”109 In assessing the views of this influential periodical it is interesting to note that, originally, Antologia had advocated the federaliza- tion of Italy, but experience taught America’s former supporters a different lesson. Observing political developments across the Atlantic, Republicanism in general lost its appeal. While Mazzinians and radical democrats continued to see a link between prosperity and Republicanism, the Italian Liberals compared developments in the United States with those in Britain, coming to the conclusion that progress did not depend on the form of government.110 What a country is this, where elections are won “by means of tumultuous meetings and the use of Colts?” commented Liberal as well as Catholic papers.111 News about Andrew Johnson’s conflict with Congress seemed to confirm that the American Constitution simply did not provide the stability that was needed to steer the country out of its self-incurred crisis.112 BEYOND THE “GOOD” UNCLE TOM Many Italian news stories on life in the United States fit the image of American society that had emerged from Stowe’s novel. Illustrated magazines reported the excesses of gambling and the violence related to this particularly crude form of making money.113 Italians agreed that America had to react with determination against organized crime, but as a country of influential penal reformers they were also concerned about the frequent application of the death 109 Ibid. The article partly follows Mazzini’s argument that it was due to geograph- ical differences that the American federal model was not applicable to Italy. Rossi, The Image of America in Mazzini’s Writings, 10. In this respect it is interesting to note that just a year earlier the same periodical had offered a much more positive prospect of the United States’ future: “Rassegna Politica,” Nuova Antologia (January 1866): 187–201, 200 –201. For a more nuanced assessment, see Leonida Carpi, “Rivista politica,” Rivista Bolognese di scienze, lettere, arti e scuole 1, no. 3 (March 15, 1867): 344 – 48. 110 Almanacco Repubblicano. 1871, ed. Enrico Bignami (Lodi, 1870); “Rassegna Politica,” Nuova Antologia (January 1866): 187–201, 200 –201. Also “Rassegna Po- litica,” Nuova Antologia (June 1868): 421– 40, 433–34. 111 Civiltà Cattolica (August 1868): 498 –512, 502; also L’Universo Illustrato 3, no. 2 (October 1868): 20. 112 The president’s conciliatory policies toward the South were opposed by the Radical Republicans who gained control of Congress in 1866. “Rassegna Politica,” Nuova Antologia (December 1866): 840 – 49, 846; Civiltà Cattolica (August 1868): 498 –512. 113 L’Universo Illustrato 1 (November 8, 1866): 122–24. 748 Körner penalty and surprised that different states did not apply it in the same way.114 From early on the Italian press was aware of the Ku Klux Klan, which was understood as a legacy of the country’s history of racial segregation.115 Meanwhile, Italian Liberals expressed concern at “a policy which results in allowing Negroes to occupy the same level in the administration of the State as Whites, who become the servants of their former slaves,”116 another prob- lem that went back to the Civil War. Even provincial papers such as the Giornale di Sicilia reported tensions between white soldiers and black vol- unteers during the war, and wrote about protests against black suffrage.117 In 1867 L’Universo Illustrato maintained that most Negroes “never proved to possess any of the virtues for which they were praised in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”118 Italians started questioning the racial categories they had received from the debates about Stowe’s novel. Cesare Lombroso, the Italian father of criminal anthropology, maintained that “race shapes criminal organisations,” and he was convinced that the emancipation of slaves had not helped the United States to improve its general societal conditions.119 Between the 1870s and the 1890s, America, along with the Italian South, became the basis for Lombroso’s theories of degeneration and of the “born criminal,” widely read in England and with followers around the world. In his book Sex and Character, which he dedicated to Lombroso, Otto Weininger maintained that “there has probably never been a genius among Negroes, and their morality is generally so low that the Americans . . . are beginning to fear that it was an ill-considered move to emancipate them.”120 This new form of biologically informed racism contributed considerably to negative views of the United States, in Italy and across Europe. The assassination of President Garfield in 1881 offered an opportunity to reflect again on the death of Lincoln, and the event was still explained as the consequence of the country’s material and moral devastation during the Civil War.121 What impressed Europeans even more, and Italians in particular, was the fact that numerous anarchists, including the assassin of the Italian King 114 Gazzetta delle Romagne, March 7, 1865, “La Pena di Morte.” 115 “Rassegna Politica,” Nuova Antologia (October 1868): 413–27. 116 Ibid., 421–32, 431. 117 Giornale di Sicilia, August 22, 1865. 118 L’Universo Illustrato 1 (March 23, 1867): 303. 119 Cesare Lombroso, Criminal Man (1876 –97), 1st and 3rd eds. (Durham, NC, 2006), 90, 128; Suzanne Stewart-Steinberg, The Pinocchio Effect: On Making Italians, 1860 –1920 (Chicago, 2007), chap. 7. 120 Otto Weininger, Sex and Character: An Investigation of Fundamental Principles (Bloomington, IN, 2005), 273. There existed similar concern over the capacity of East Asian immigrants to assimilate. See, e.g., Gaetano Mosca, The Ruling Class: Elementi di Scienza Politica (New York, 1939), 477. 121 G. Boglietti, “Il Presidente Garfield,” Nuova Antologia (October 1881): 181–207. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 749 Umberto I, had learned their trade in the United States.122 Errico Malatesta explained their actions as a consequence of the “infamous persecutions” and the “social injustice” they had had to endure in the United States. The Italians in particular, Malatesta claimed, were treated as “an inferior race just a little above the negroes,” using an image Italians were familiar with since their first encounter with Stowe. The fact that Italian immigrants were usually also Catholics made their situation even more difficult.123 These reports overshad- owed the myths about emigration as a solution to the hopeless fate of Italian peasants and workers at home. As a proverb from Basilicata says, “L’America a ci acconza e a ci uasta” (America accommodates some and ruins others); similarly popular was the simple phrase “Managgia l’America!” (Damn America!).124 Why then did the new century bring a wave of mass emigration to the United States, when for the first time Italian emigration to the United States outnumbered other destinations?125 As the work of Emilio Franzina has dem- onstrated, “la smania di andarsene,” especially among village people, became 122 According to Bologna’s Resto del Carlino, anarchist circles in the United States had spent months planning the assassination of the Italian king: August 1, 1900. Lombroso argued that crime rates in the United States were particularly high in cities of high Italian and Irish immigration: Lombroso, Criminal Man, 317–18. On the connection between Italian and American anarchism, see in particular Nunzio Perni- cone, “Luigi Galleani and Italian Anarchist Terrorism in the United States,” Studi Emigrazione/Etudes Migrations 30, no. 111 (1993): 469 – 89. 123 Cesare Causa, Giovanni Passanante condannato a morte per avere attentato alla vita di S. M. Umberto I Re d’Italia (Florence, 1879), 86 – 87; Errico Malatesta, “Anarchia e Violenza,” in Malatesta, Scritti (4 vols.), vol. 3, Penseiro e volontà (Geneva, 1936; repr., 1975), 108; Errico Malatesta, “Gli Italiani all’estero,” in ibid., 1:251. While Malatesta might represent an extreme view, less radical voices, as well as the government, also pointed regularly to the sad fate of Italian immigrants in the United States. See, e.g., “The Immigration from Italy for the United States,” Italia: A Monthly Magazine 8 (August 1888): 50 –53; Vincenzo Grossi, “L’Emigrazione Italiana in America,” Nuova Antologia, 3rd ser., 55 (1895): 740 –57. For a more literary account, see the impressions of the writer Giuseppe Giacosa, “Gli Italiani a New York ed a Chicago,” Nuova Antologia, 3rd ser., 40 (1892): 619 – 40, 625. See also Claudia Dall’Osso, Voglia d’America, 32 ff. On the militant and often xenophobic aversion to Catholics migrants, see Giorgio Spini, Risorgimento e Protestanti (Naples, 1956), 221. 124 Michael La Sorte, Images of Italian Greenhorn Experience (Philadelphia, 1985), 195; Andrew Rolle, The Italian Americans: Troubled Roots (New York, 1980), 29; Max Paul Friedman, “Beyond ‘Voting with the Feet’: Toward a Conceptual History of ‘America’ in European Migrant Sending Communities, 1860s to 1914,” Journal of Social History 40, no. 3 (Spring 2007): 557–75, 562. On images of America in migrant communities, see Emilio Franzina, L’immaginario degli emigranti: Miti e raffigura- zioni dell’esperienza italiana all’estero fra due secoli (Paese, 1992). 125 During the first decade of the twentieth century, 232,945 Italians immigrated to the United States. Istituto Centrale di Statistica, Sommario di Statistiche Storiche dell’Italia, 1861–1975, 34 –35. 750 Körner a contaminating folly, where entire communities decided to leave for America without any realistic expectation of what the future would hold for them.126 In 1901 the mayor of the small town of Moliterno in Carlo Levi’s Lucania presented the Italian prime minister Zanardelli with the greetings of “8,000 citizens, 3,000 of which were in America, soon to be followed by the remaining 5,000.”127 Depressing social and economic conditions at home, combined with reports about the United States’ material prosperity, convinced hundreds of thousands of Europeans to cross the Atlantic permanently. Depictions of life in the United States in the press, literature, and political debate suggest that the emigrants were fully aware that the land they sought had little in common with the idealized image of the model republic held up by the revolutionaries of the 1830s and 1840s. A famous enquiry of the Società Bibliografica Italiana among working-class readers in 1906 revealed that at least forty-nine out of 459 Italian workers had read De Amicis’s classic emigration novel, Sull’Oceano, which depicted the fate of migrants with grim realism.128 However, what emigration seemed to offer was an economic opportunity. The United States was able to offer work. Therefore, emigration was less the fulfillment of a dream than the outcome of a balancing of risks. And many returned after having taken a closer look, especially once steam- ships lowered the cost of transatlantic travel: 58 percent of Italo-Americans returned once they had made enough money to buy land at home.129 When the wave of mass Italian migration to the United States started, Rota’s ballet and other shows based on Uncle Tom’s Cabin were still in performance in several Italian cities (though less so in those rural areas most affected by migration). If the outcome of the Civil War had solved the problem of slavery,130 this did not mean that Bianchi e Neri became a historical ballet. The treatment of black Americans, as depicted by Stowe, still resonated in the reports of returning labor migrants, American news items in the Italian press, and articles in illustrated magazines. The fact that many of these articles traced America’s problems back to the trauma of the Civil War suggested that the conflict had left Americans in a state of moral decline, which affected society as a whole—men, women, and children. The great Italian philosopher and liberal historian Benedetto Croce listed Stowe’s novel among the key works of nineteenth-century literature. But he spoke less favorably about the United States as a country. The United States 126 “The folly of leaving.” See Franzia, Dall’Arcadia in America, 69. 127 Quoted in Antonio Margariti, America! America! (Salerno, 1980), 7. 128 Franzina, L’immaginario degli emigranti, 30 ff., 81. 129 Friedman, “Beyond ‘Voting with Their Feet,’ ” 558 (figures for the years after 1908). 130 As argued, for instance, by Giovanni Boglietti, “Repubblicani e Democratici negli Stati-Uniti d’America,” Nuova Antologia (August 1868): 766 – 88. Italy’s Barbarous America, 1850 –1900 751 had once been “the typical country of democracy.” However, it then became paralyzed by “the conflict between advocates and opponents of slavery,” an issue Europe had overcome “a millennium and a half ago” and which it was now “rooting out in her colonies.” Immersed in what was basically a conflict of economic interests, the country fell out of step with the great struggle between liberalism and democracy, which characterized the progressive coun- tries of Europe.131 While Italy’s conflict in the South was often described as a Civil War in its own right, the idea of a war between brothers that cost the lives of 600,000 men remained inconceivable for a nation that had constructed the idea of its own national resurgence on the concepts of brotherhood and kinship.132 131 Benedetto Croce, History of Europe in the Nineteenth Century (London, 1934), 146 – 47, 152–53. 132 Alberto M. Banti, La nazione del Risorgimento (Turin, 2001). See, on this particular aspect, Capellini’s comment: Capellini, Ricordi di un viaggio, 148. 752 Körner 
work_4zz7clek3jbxnguwloplbncv6y	----	Archibald_Iperstoria14_2019 Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 43 Diana C. Archibald * MANY KINDS OF PRISONS: CHARLES DICKENS ON AMERICAN INCARCERATION AND SLAVERY Prisons appear in all of Dickens’s major works, and much scholarship has already been published on the subject, including works by Philip Collins, Jeremy Tambling, Sean Grass, Jan Alber, and scores of others. In light of recent events in America—the mass incarceration of people of color on an unprecedented scale in private and public penitentiaries, and concentration camps filled with migrants, refugees, and asylum seekers of color—this essay takes a fresh look at the subject in relation to current developments. Dickens wrote a great deal about American imprisonment in his 1842 travel book, American Notes for General Circulation, published at the end of the first wave of penal reform in the US. By the time of Dickens’s second visit to America in 1867-1868, just after the Civil War ended, the second period of penal reform had not quite started, but within a few decades, the abolition of slavery would lead to a new form of imprisonment for African Americans. As scholars have noted, incarceration in that period, especially in the South, picked up where slavery left off, with African American men routinely rounded up and pressed into prison gangs performing manual labor. Michelle Alexander, for example, demonstrates in The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (2012) that the hugely disproportionate numbers of people of color in prison today is a result of a new version of Jim Crow, the systematic oppression of African Americans that has been occurring for generations. I contend markers that point toward the 20th- and 21st-century future of mass incarceration are present in American Notes. David Wilson argues that Dickens’s “ambivalence towards America […] can, in part, be traced back to his views about how the republic treated those whom it imprisoned” (2009, 281). While Dickens does not make overt claims linking slavery and penitentiaries, he does portray America in ways that are steeped in the language of containment, and he highlights the hypocrisy of inhumane forms of imprisonment in a republic which was, at least constitutionally and rhetorically, built on principles of freedom and justice. 1 Further, we see him taking active stances on controversial issues of the time, apparently trying to exercise influence over hot debates. 2 This essay uncovers elements in Dickens’s text that point to his understanding of the problems of containment in this so-called land of the free, and it offers an analysis of several details, which, taken together, show Dickens’s keen understanding of the dark side of American exceptionalism. As noted in the introduction to the new, Universitas Press edition of American Notes, when Dickens toured the United States in 1842, this republic, founded on Enlightenment liberalism, was still quite young and considered an experiment. America was “an exception, and its exceptionalism was either touted as a beacon for the world or lamented as the dangerous waywardness of a prodigal nation […]. America was founded on […] radicalism really, with anti-state values and a love of individualism and freedom from restraint” (Archibald 2018, xxi). 3 Dickens remarked in his 1850 preface: “No visitor can ever have set foot on those shores, with a stronger faith in the Republic than I had” (AN, 278). 4 I contend that this faith in the Republic sprang from his “strong belief in American exceptionalism—not merely the fact of American uniqueness but also its great potential for human good,” and I argue his disappointment with most of the country came from how far off the * Diana Archibald is Professor of English at the University of Massachusetts Lowell. She has published pieces and presented internationally on the Victorian novel, Charles Dickens, and Anglo-American transatlantic studies, particularly 19th-century immigration. Her latest (co-edited) book is Dickens and Massachusetts: The Lasting Legacy of the Commonwealth Visits (University of Massachussetts Press, 2015). Her most recent article, “Language in Place: A Computational Analysis of American Notes,” in Nineteenth-Century Prose (Spring 2019), utilizes corpus linguistics to continue her examination of Dickens’s travel literature. 1 See Archibald for a corpus linguistics analysis of this language of containment in the book (2019, 160). 2 Rothman even goes so far as to claim that Americans debated prison reform almost as much as slavery (1990, 106; noted in Wilson 2009, 282). 3 See also Lipset (1996). 4 All quotations from American Notes in this essay, including front and back matter and notes, unless otherwise stated, are taken from the Penguin edition and will be abbreviated within the essay as AN. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 44 mark they actually were in achieving that potential. “Clearly, Dickens admired the American ideals espoused by the Declaration of Independence and Constitution and was eager to witness and convey how they were made manifest in the New World,” but “Dickens’s portrayal […] is damning. The crux of the matter for him is hypocrisy, the failure of America to uphold its highest ideals” (Archibald 2018, xxii). Dickens’s crusade against hypocrisy is the key to understanding his portrait of imprisonment in American Notes. He was certainly not against restraint; he understood the criminal mind and recognized the need for laws to be upheld and justice done. But what irks him is inhumane imprisonment, especially in a country so vocal about its supposed freedom and equality. America had the chance to be a model of progressive reform and humane treatment, to build a “city upon a hill,” but only New England lives up to that promise. Despite its bravado, the rest of the young nation fails miserably, and American Notes records that failure. Dickens exposes and chastises the country in order to prick its conscience and urge a change. 1. Inhumane incarceration: American jails and prisons When Dickens arrived in North America in 1842, he was able to examine the effects of its first wave of penal reform and prison building and offered several eye-witness accounts of a range of American incarceration practices. Dickens first describes a juvenile detention center in Boston with nearly unequivocal praise. The design and object of this Institution is to reclaim the youthful criminal by firm but kind and judicious treatment; to make his prison a place of purification and improvement, not of demoralisation and corruption; to impress upon him that there is but one path, and that one sober industry, which can ever lead him to happiness; to teach him how it may be trodden, if his footsteps have never yet been led that way; and to lure him back to it if they have strayed: in a word, to snatch him from destruction, and restore him to society a penitent and useful member. (AN 59) This prison uses positive inducement rather than corporal punishment to reform the young criminals, offering rewards for improvement. Further, the boys are not segregated by race. 5 Although Dickens paints this as an ideal prison, he slips in one minor criticism: the “offenders” must sing “a chorus in praise of Liberty,” an exercise that highlights American adoration of the ideal of freedom, in theory, and blindness to contradictions in reality. It is a passing comment in a chapter otherwise filled with high praise for Boston’s enlightened institution; nevertheless, this comment presages a criticism that will repeatedly appear with increasing bitterness throughout the rest of the text. Dickens next discusses an adult penitentiary that operated under the Auburn System (also called the Congregate System); he writes very favorably of Boston’s “House of Correction for the State [of Massachusetts], where silence is strictly maintained, but where the prisoners have the comfort and mental relief of seeing each other, and of working together” (AN, 59). Yet Dickens wonders if the American practice of letting its prisoners complete useful work, or as he calls it, “ordinary labour,” is actually such a good idea, given the “disadvantage” to “free labour” who must compete with forced labor. Dickens is commenting here on a controversy that was being debated at the time. The Auburn System was originally based on Puritan views of the depravity of human nature, asserting that criminals could not be reformed but rather must be tamed by harsh and complete containment, that is, hard labor, “unrelenting discipline, and corporal punishment” (Roberts 1985, 108). The unintended effect of this system was to create a skilled workforce that competed with the non-incarcerated workforce. The issue of prison labor had been the subject of American public debate for decades, but it was only when labor began to organize effectively that there was enough pressure to do something about it. In 1835 as well as in the year Dickens visited, 1842, the state of New York “passed laws protecting free labor’s interests,” but while these laws did “regulat[e] prison industries,” they did not entirely abolish “prison slave labor” (Roberts 1985, 109). Dickens takes a stance on the controversy and sides with those who aimed to protect “free labour.” As Sean Grass notes, “Dickens always remained reluctant to take the work of the lowest classes—who had no 5 I use the term “race” deliberately here despite the problematic nature of the term. In the American context, especially when Dickens travelled to America, people of color were considered a separate race from whites. The integration of prisoners in this institution is thus particularly significant. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 45 homes, no food, no good clothing—and give it to the prisoners, who already had their basic needs provided by the state” (Grass 2000, 59 note 25). While he was certainly an advocate for the working poor, it appears that through his position he was also taking sides in an important debate of the day, an issue that would only intensify during the remainder of the Antebellum Period. A few years later, in the run-up to the 1848 national election, in fact, the Free-Soil Party was formed, with the motto “free soil, free speech, free labor, and free men,” essentially claiming that free labor was a morally, economically, and socially superior system and that slaves unfairly competed against free labor. 6 No matter whether prisons or plantations, forced labor unfairly undercut the laboring poor. Dickens points out that in “America, as a new and not yet over-populated country,” the effort to employ prisoners in useful work is understandable though problematic (AN, 59). He notes the “many opponents” to prison industry “whose number is not likely to diminish with access of years” (AN, 60). Nevertheless, his aim in this passage seems to be less about pointing out the unfair competition against ‘free labour’ and more about objecting to the effect of prison industry on prisoners themselves. If prisoners complete meaningful work, he contends, it might slow down their reformation, and he cites English prisons as superior in this regard because the work that prisoners do there is silent and meaningless and thus a true punishment. Dickens seems to imply that it is only through stern punishment that reformation is possible. The Auburn System was originally designed to improve upon the strict solitary confinement of the Eastern (or Separate) System, by allowing inmates to sit together (i.e. congregate) silently during the day as they worked. When native New Englander Elam Lynds was named as governor of the reorganized Auburn Prison in New York in 1823, he applied his Puritan views, namely the idea of “depraved human nature,” to the running of this institution. The goal was not so much to reform criminals on a personal or spiritual level as to control them and turn them into effective workers by breaking their spirits (Roberts 1985, 108). The Congregate System institutions that Dickens visits in Boston, however, seem to institute significantly more humane treatment. Dickens praises their compassion in the running of the prison in many cases but wonders in regard to prison industry if the Bostonians are being too compassionate and thus ineffectual. He argues that prisoners should never be allowed to forget that they are anywhere except in prison. Fellow prisoners ought to be doing tiring and meaningless work to emphasize that they are all “marked and degraded” as “only […] felons in jails” can be (AN, 60). He adds that “in an American state prison or house of correction, I found it difficult at first to persuade myself that I was really in a jail: a place of ignominious punishment and endurance. And to this hour I very much question whether the humane boast that it is not like one, has its root in the true wisdom or philosophy of the matter” (AN, 60). For Dickens, thus, prison industry is doubly wrong—it unfairly competes with the private sector economy, and it may hamper the reformation of inmates because it gives them something meaningful to do while incarcerated and thus may weaken the deterrence of imprisonment. Notice also the wording here: “humane boast.” Throughout the book, Dickens draws attention to American boasting, and he lambasts the hypocrisy he encounters. While he recognizes the Bostonians are attempting to be humane—a quality he generally values—they do so in a manner which he finds troubling. While he questions the “wisdom” of this particular part of their system, however, he does praise New England penal reform in general, and he firmly establishes himself as a proponent of the relatively new Congregate System. Indeed, Dickens offers many pages of praise for the Boston House of Correction, even going so far as to say that he hoped its “admirable” arrangement would be copied in “the next new prison we erect in England” (AN, 63). He reports that “in this prison no swords or fire-arms, or even cudgels, are kept” and the prisoners are appealed to “as members of the great human family” to reform their ways, guided by “the strong Heart, and not by the strong (though immeasurably weaker) Hand.” In other words, corporal punishment has been replaced by more humane means of control. Despite his concerns about prison industry, then, Dickens indicates that he is generally satisfied with what he observed of this Congregate System institution, saying: 6 See Eric Foner for a fascinating discussion of the distinction between free and forced labor, from an initially huge proportion of indentured servants (half the British immigrants coming to America as late as the early 1770s) that muddled the difference between free and enslaved, to an increasingly sharp divide based on race (1995, ix-xxxix). Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 46 At the same time, I know, as all men do or should, that the subject of Prison Discipline is one of the highest importance to any community; and that in her sweeping reform and bright example to other countries on this head, America has shown great wisdom, great benevolence, and exalted policy. (AN, 61) …at least in the America he encountered in Boston. The notorious penal institutions Dickens visited in New York and Pennsylvania, on the other hand, attracted some of Dickens’s strongest satiric condemnation. The New York Halls of Justice and House of Detention, nicknamed The Tombs, built in 1838 on a severely polluted pond that had been improperly filled, was already sinking when Dickens visited. About 300 prisoners were kept in this unsanitary building in the Five Points slum district of New York City, and the municipal jail continued for decades to house convicts as well as those accused of crimes who were awaiting trial (Gilfoyle 2003, 525-554). The Tombs description in American Notes is filled with evidence of inhumanity, so it is not surprising that Dickens’s tone is one of bitter sarcasm. He is outraged by what he encounters in this foul jail, the human misery and horrific conditions he witnesses. But his greatest ire is toward the casually cruel prison official who gives him the tour. Notably, unlike in Boston, in this facility inmates are segregated by race, and the worst conditions are reserved for African Americans who are kept in the lower level—wet and foul- smelling, oozing with slime and sewage—“unwholesome” pits of despair (AN, 94). Inmates throughout the prison were deprived of necessities such as exercise and sunlight. In a chilling scene, the guide opens a cell containing a sixty-year-old man accused of murdering his wife. He has been waiting for a trial for a month and will wait for yet another month in the foul den. Dickens remarks: “In England, if a man be under sentence of death, even he has air and exercise at certain periods of the day.” “Possible?” With what stupendous and untranslatable coolness he says this, and how loungingly he leads on to the [next location]: making, as he goes, a kind of iron castanet of the key and the stair-rail! (AN, 95) As if withholding such basic necessities were not bad enough, Dickens next reveals the depth of the family tragedy in the following lines: For what offence can that lonely child, of ten or twelve years old, be shut up here? Oh! that boy? He is the son of the prisoner we saw just now; is a witness against his father; and is detained here for safe keeping, until the trial; that’s all. But it is a dreadful place for the child to pass the long days and nights in. This is rather hard treatment for a young witness, is it not? [...] “Well, it ain’t a very rowdy life, and that’s a fact!” Again he clinks his metal castanet, and leads us leisurely away […]. Dickens focuses his outrage on the inhumanity of the jailers themselves. How can the guards see an innocent child such as this boy “detained” in prison to bear witness against his father (who will surely be hanged on his evidence) and be so casually cruel? A child who has also lost his mother, remember, and is locked away with no one to comfort him. Or note the guard’s nonchalant reference to the many suicides in the jail: “When they had hooks they would hang themselves” (AN, 96). We might well ask where the “untranslatable coolness” of the guard comes from—does it stem from corruption, complacency, or something worse? Hypocrisy and injustice go hand in hand. In example after example, Dickens exposes the inhumanity of the jail conditions and behavior of the guards. When Dickens and his guide walk on to another part of the Tombs, the “city watch-house,” for those awaiting an initial hearing, Dickens exclaims What! Do you thrust your common offenders […] into such holes as these? Do men and women, against whom no crime is proved, lie here all night in perfect darkness, surrounded by the noisome vapours which encircle that flagging lamp you light us with, and breathing this filthy and Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 47 offensive stench! Why, such indecent and disgusting dungeons as these cells, would bring disgrace upon the most despotic empire in the world! (AN, 102) Dickens employs his skill and expends his cultural capital to illuminate the hypocrisy and injustice of American incarceration. He could be speaking to us today—to our shame. America was founded on high ideals of human rights, and Dickens reminds readers of broken promises. As bad as the notorious New York jail was, Dickens found just as much fault with the well-intentioned Quaker-run Eastern Penitentiary, where unnatural solitude led to madness. Many scholars have written about Dickens’s visit to the Philadelphia Eastern Penitentiary, noting the reputation of this most famous American prison as a progressive institution and the young author’s interest in visiting after reading other travel writers’ accounts. 7 On the face of it, the Pennsylvania (or Separate) System, upon which the Eastern Penitentiary was run, seemed more ethical. Established by Quakers who believed in the essential goodness of human beings, the prison was designed to separate prisoners from bad influences and give them an opportunity for self-reflection and spiritual transformation. Unlike the Congregate System, then, the Separate System saw the goal of incarceration primarily as reformation rather than social control. Unfortunately, the proponents of this system did not recognize that for most inmates, total solitary confinement was a form of ‘mental torture’ that led many to madness. Human beings are social creatures; Dickens understood this and saw that for all its good intentions, the Eastern Penitentiary was actually more dangerous and inhumane than the Auburn System’s harsher controls. He writes: In its intention, I am well convinced that it is kind, humane, and meant for reformation; but I am persuaded that those who devised this system of Prison Discipline, and those benevolent gentlemen who carry it into execution, do not know what it is that they are doing. I believe that very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of torture and agony which this dreadful punishment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers; and in guessing at it myself, and in reasoning from what I have seen written upon their faces, […] I am only the more convinced that there is a depth of terrible endurance in it which none but the sufferers themselves can fathom, and which no man has a right to inflict upon his fellow-creature. I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain, to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body: and because its ghastly signs and tokens are not so palpable to the eye and sense of touch as scars upon the flesh; because its wounds are not upon the surface, and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear; therefore I the more denounce it, as a secret punishment which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay. (AN, 111-112) Torture of the brain is worse than torture of the body, he contends, because mental anguish is hidden from view and thus harder for the public to decry. It is ‘secret’ suffering, the destruction of the thing that makes us most human––the mind itself. Dickens’s approach to revealing the profound inhumanity of solitary confinement at the Eastern Penitentiary was measured in tone, yet perhaps even more powerful than his description of The Tombs. Sean Grass argues that Dickens writes with a combination of factual reportage and novelistic imaginings, saying: “The entire account of Eastern Penitentiary becomes a curious mixture of fact and fiction, with the latter taking precedence where facts are unavailable” (Grass 2000, 63). It may be more accurate to see Dickens’s efforts as falling into the category of creative nonfiction, also called literary journalism. The distinction is, perhaps, hair-splitting, but the creative nonfiction label seems more fitting. Dickens is trying to be truthful. Using his creative tools and imagination to expose the truth is not the same as fabricating a realistic fiction. The imagined life of a solitary prisoner in this chapter is true, even if not a fact. Research on the effects of solitary confinement on the mind demonstrates that Dickens’s portrait is a remarkably accurate rendering of the lived experience of many solitary prisoners. 8 As is usually the case with this meticulous observer, Dickens 7 See, for instance, Collins 1994, Meckier 2014, Wilson 2009, and Grass 2000. 8 For example, see Metzner and Fellner: “Isolation can be psychologically harmful to any prisoner, with the nature and severity of the impact depending on the individual, the duration, and particular conditions (e.g., Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 48 portrays physical reactions of inmates that point to the profound damage solitary confinement causes to the human psyche. 9 Recent researchers have concluded that solitary [confinement] can cause a specific psychiatric syndrome, characterized by hallucinations; panic attacks; overt paranoia; diminished impulse control; hypersensitivity to external stimuli; and difficulties with thinking, concentration and memory. Some inmates lose the ability to maintain a state of alertness, while others develop crippling obsessions. (Breslow) Dickens’s descriptions include examples of almost all of these effects, thus adding to his credibility as an eye-witness. Note, for instance, the frequency with which he mentions trembling and shaking, a common symptom of anxiety. He writes of the first inmate, “I saw that his lip trembled, and could have counted the beating of his heart” (AN, 114). Then he describes the “German” (probably Pennsylvania Dutch) who tries to detain the jailer, “his trembling hands nervously clutching at his coat” (AN, 115). Or there is his description of the “strange kind of pause” of one prisoner every time he answered a question—typical of an inability to think clearly, brought on by depression and anxiety. Dickens describes this man as “reckless in [his] hopelessness” (AN, 114). Then there is the case of the “dejected, heart-broken, wretched creature” who makes a bed in the center of his cell, “with exquisite neatness” indicative of an obsessive compulsion. Of this man, Dickens writes, “I never saw such a picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind. My heart bled for him. […] [T]he spectacle was really too painful to witness. I never saw or heard of any kind of misery that impressed me more than the wretchedness of this man” (AN, 114-115). Or there is the prisoner who is allowed to keep rabbits. When he steps out of his cell to talk to Dickens and the guide, he “stood shading his haggard face in the unwonted sunlight of the great window, looking as wan and unearthly as if he had been summoned from the grave” (AN, 115). He can’t bear the stimuli of sunlight. Perhaps one of the most upsetting examples is the sailor who had been in solitary confinement for eleven years and who has become non-responsive. He says “nothing” and instead “stare[s] at his hands, and pick[s] the flesh upon his fingers, and raise[s] his eyes for an instant, every now and then” (AN, 116). This inmate is thoroughly broken; “he has lost all care for everything,” having lost his humanity. Is it any wonder that Dickens said, “nothing wholesome or good has ever had its growth in such unnatural solitude, and that even a dog or any of the more intelligent among beasts, would pine, and mope, and rust away, beneath its influence, would be in itself a sufficient argument against this system” (AN, 122-123)? Beyond the basic inhumanity of solitary confinement, Dickens also notes once more the specter of America’s institutionalized racism when he remarks: “Sitting upon the stairs, engaged in some slight work, was a pretty coloured boy. ‘Is there no refuge for young criminals in Philadelphia, then?’ said I. ‘Yes, but only for white children.’ Noble aristocracy in crime!” (AN, 116). This penitentiary, which claims to be a humane institution, is really no better than the notorious Tombs of New York, and it is a world away from the integrated juvenile reformatory of Boston. Only white children are treated like children in Philadelphia; black children are subject to the full brunt of adult punishment. As demonstrated above, Dickens was certainly not soft on crime. He believed punishment needed to be firm to be sufficiently corrective, but he thought correction was also for the good of the criminal, as well. Above all he seemed at this point in his career to value the sanctity of the human spirit and sympathy for fellow human beings. Both as a young writer and as a citizen of the world, he was a proponent of the humane, that is, “sympathy with and consideration for others; feeling or showing compassion,” and being “benevolent [and] kind.” 10 Certainly the administrators and jailers of the Tombs showed no compassion or kindness to the African Americans in those foul basement cells or the child witness bereft of all comfort in a terrifying cell. But neither, ultimately, did the well-intentioned Quakers, who demonstrated no understanding of the mental torture inmates were enduring at their hands; they showed no compassion for the anguish of those in their care. In both cases, the root of the inhumanity seems to be a particularly irksome kind of pride that Dickens access to natural light, books, or radio). Psychological effects can include anxiety, depression, anger, cognitive disturbances, perceptual distortions, obsessive thoughts, paranoia, and psychosis” (2010, 104). 9 See, for instance, Kirsten Weir’s explanation of those effects of solitary confinement. 10 Oxford English Dictionary, “humane, adj.” definition 1.a. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 49 found in America, perhaps a pride born of the young country’s exceptionalism, perhaps stemming from a tendency towards individualistic rather than communal values, or perhaps a result of sheer greed bred in a land marred by materialism and worship of the almighty dollar. Dickens makes it clear that he condemns both of these institutions. It is effect, not intent, that matters to him. Dickens repeatedly exposed inhumane treatment and hypocrisy in American Notes. He knows Americans could do better. After all, they were better in Boston. That was the “republic of [his] imagination,” but the rest of the country fell far short of its potential, and he dedicates much of his book to exposing these shortcomings. 11 2. Many kinds of prisons: the containment of people of color The greatest hypocrisy and injustice of all was the institution of slavery in the so-called land of the free. Dickens points this out in an especially sharp passage in the Washington D.C. chapter when he mentions the recent debates in Congress about censuring John Quincy Adams. 12 Only two days after Dickens arrived in the United States, he would have begun hearing and reading about Adams’s latest tactics to evade the congressional gag rule prohibiting discussion of abolitionist petitions on the floor of the House of Representatives. Adams felt strongly that the right to petition Congress was guaranteed by the First Amendment of the Constitution, and he was well known for having brought countless petitions regarding slavery to the House floor, where members repeatedly refused to discuss them. It was Adams (or his supporters) and not his enemies, historians now believe, who fabricated a Georgian petition to remove Adams from his chairmanship of the Foreign Affairs Committee. This petition allowed him to take the floor in his own defense, and he used his time to speak passionately for days about the evils of slavery and the slave trade. His enemies took the bait, and slavery was debated in Congress for two weeks until on February 7, Dickens’s 30th birthday, they voted to drop the motion to censure Adams, who, as a former President with strong support from his Massachusetts constituents, had too much power to be thrown out of the House of Representatives—despite the bitter enmity he provoked in the slave-holding faction of Congress. While we don’t know for sure how much Dickens’s Bostonian friends discussed the Adams situation in Washington with their famous visitor while he was in New England, we can surmise that the likes of Charles Sumner, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and William Ellery Channing, at least, would all have been supporters of the Massachusetts representative, and the topic likely came up during Dickens’s time with them. Undoubtedly, Dickens would have also sympathized with Adams both for his bold championing of a just cause and for his adherence to the spirit of the First Amendment, which guarantees the right of Americans to petition their government to address injustice and inequity. Adams believed in America’s promise and its highest ideals and was surely a compelling figure for the young, idealistic author. Dickens’s reaction to this controversy and decision to include it in American Notes are particularly interesting in that he reminds readers that the attempted censure of this honorable public servant happened in the same city that proudly displays “the Unanimous Declaration of The Thirteen United States of America, which solemnly declares that All Men are created Equal; and are endowed by their Creator with the Inalienable Rights of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness!” (AN, 132). Patricia Ingham contends in her introduction to American Notes, “This satiric use of a quotation from the Declaration of Independence as a part of Dickens’s attack on slavery was extremely offensive to Americans” (2000, 298 note 17). One can understand the way this kind of attack by an outsider—a beloved author, in fact—would sting. Yet there is more to the reaction to this passage than this mere affront. John Quincy Adams was a hugely divisive figure, one who had repeatedly used language from the US Constitution to justify his efforts to undermine unjust congressional rules and the institution of slavery that Congress was protecting. By alluding to Adams, even though he is not named, Dickens is stirring up trouble. By doing so while quoting from a revered American document, he is adopting the same tactics as Adams—recalling Americans to their highest ideals and castigating them for their injustice and hypocrisy, ignoring customary social niceties and speaking that which makes people uncomfortable. Examining the passage further, once more the theme of the hypocrisy of containment emerges. For Dickens, this is perhaps the Americans’ biggest offense. He remarks how the Declaration of Independence is “publicly 11 Dickens wrote to his friend William Macready from Baltimore, Maryland, 22 March 1842, that America was “not the Republic of my imagination” (Dickens 1974, 156). 12 See “A Motion to Censure” for a good overview of the censure debates about Adams. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 50 exhibited […], hung up for general admiration; shown to strangers not with shame, but pride” (AN, 132). Again, the reader sees that it is American pride that so irks Dickens. To “turn” the document’s face “towards the wall” or take it down and “burn” it would be more honest, he claims, more in keeping with American abandonment of their values and ideals. Instead, however, they continue to boast with blind hypocrisy. They tout their exceptionalism but use it to abuse the vulnerable, showing little to no compassion and kindness towards their fellow human beings. Indeed, there is evidence in the book that many Americans did not see some of their citizens as human beings in the first place, thus they would not qualify for the freedoms guaranteed by the constitution. African Americans, whether enslaved or free, American Indians, whether held on reservations or not—these were not worthy of compassion, it seemed. 13 At best they must be contained, and at worst, also exploited, brutalized, or killed. From Dickens’s perspective, as an Englishman living in a nation that had abolished slavery on its soil seventy years before, it must have seemed like he had stepped back in time when he encountered enslaved people in America. 14 Of course, he knew slavery was still practiced there, but seeing it in person and allowing himself to be waited on by slaves did not sit well with the young Radical. He writes, “To those who are happily unaccustomed to them, the countenances in the streets and laboring places, too, are shocking” (AN, 153) and even changed his travel plans by leaving the South and heading to the Midwest instead, “with a grateful heart that [he] was not doomed” to have his “senses blunted” to slavery’s “wrongs and horrors” by being raised “in a slave-rocked cradle” (AN, 154). Throughout much of American Notes he mentions slavery whenever opportunity presents itself, even adding a whole chapter on the topic, largely consisting of slave advertisements taken from an abolitionist pamphlet. 15 What bothers Dickens most seems to be the buying and selling of slaves and their violent mistreatment. He seems less disturbed by slavery that has been embedded in a family estate, though he does not condone it. For instance, he refers to a slave-owning Virginian as a “gentleman [who] is a considerate and excellent master” because he “inherited his fifty slaves, and is neither a buyer nor a seller of human stock” (AN, 153). But this is a lesser of two evils, not a good. He does also resort to racist stereotypes sometimes when describing slaves, as in the case when he refers to the “black drivers” who “are chattering” to the horses “like so many monkeys” (AN, 147). While Dickens was a man of his times and did not hold to every enlightened opinion one might wish, he did highlight some of the most unjust and inhumane imprisonment practices in America at the time of his first visit, including both the obvious form of penal incarceration as well as the deeply rooted practice of institutionalized chattel slavery. For Dickens, it was the cold-hearted commodification and the abuse of human flesh in the “land of liberty” that prompted his bitterest prose. Despite the fact that Dickens did not write much of his chapter on slavery himself, he did curate the selections he chose to use, and his choices demonstrate an interest in highlighting the injustice and hypocrisy of slavery. He repeatedly includes descriptions of runaway slaves with scars caused by the brutality of masters; these marks form an embodied text of cruelty. He references gun violence against slaves repeatedly, as well, signaling how far from civilized the country actually is. And he includes several instances of the buying and selling of human flesh, emphasizing the inhumanity of separating parents and children for profit. In addition to the advertisements, he adds his own commentary, and it is much in keeping with what he has said elsewhere about American hypocrisy. Most pointedly, he writes, 13 Dickens describes an encounter with a Native American, “Pitchlynn, a chief of the Choctaw tribe of Indians […] a remarkably handsome man, […] as stately and complete a gentleman of Nature’s making, as ever I beheld,” who told Dickens that unless the native people try to “assimilate themselves to their conquerors, they must be swept away” (AN, 185). 14 As I stated in a previous work: In 1772, the ruling in Somerset’s Case found that slavery was unsupported by English law and thus could not be upheld on British soil. The slave trade was abolished in 1807, though slavery persisted where it was already established in the British colonies until the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833 when, with a few exceptions, slavery was banned in the British Empire. Britain had been actively engaged in public discourse about slavery for generations by the time Dickens visited the US in 1842. (Archibald 2018, xxiv) 15 On Dickens’s plagiarism of Theodore Dwight Weld’s abolitionist pamphlet in American Notes, see Johnson (1943) and Brattin (2015). Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 51 When knives are drawn […] in conflict let it be said and known: “[…] These are the weapons of Freedom. With sharp points and edges such as these, Liberty in America doth hew and hack her slaves; or, failing that pursuit, her sons devote them to better use, and turn them on each other.” (AN, 265) As this passage shows, for Dickens it is not just the fact of the oppression but also the claim to exceptionalism, to moral superiority, that goes along with this cruel and unjust practice, that enrages him. Lady Liberty hewing and hacking slaves is a powerful image. 3. America, the carceral state When Dickens returned to America in 1867, those slaves would be free, at least theoretically. Unfortunately, “[t]he backlash against the gains of African Americans in the Reconstruction Era was swift and severe. As African Americans obtained political power and began the long march toward great social and economic equality, whites reacted with panic and outrage” and found many ways to curtail the newly won freedoms of people of color (Alexander 2012, 30). Interestingly, Dickens included in American Notes an example of a tactic used both during and after slavery to ensure people of color remained suppressed. The passage shows the connection between incarceration and slavery in a vagrancy law in Washington D.C. that enabled any justice of the peace [to] bind with fetters any negro passing down the street and thrust him into jail: no offense on the black man’s part is necessary. The justice says, “I choose to think this man is a runaway:” and locks him up. Public opinion impowers [sic] the man of law when this is done, to advertise the negro in the newspapers, warning his owner to come and claim him, or he will be sold to pay the jail fees. But supposing he is a free black […] he is sold to recompense his jailer. […] This seems incredible, even of America, but it is the law. (AN, 253) During Reconstruction, these sorts of “vagrancy laws and other laws defining activities such as ‘mischief’ and ‘insulting gestures’ as crimes were enforced vigorously against blacks. The aggressive enforcement of these criminal offenses opened up an enormous market for convict leasing, in which prisoners were contracted out as laborers to the highest private bidder” (Alexander 2012, 31). The issue of forced labor and prison industry thus emerged once more in this period, inextricably interwoven with the legacy of chattel slavery. Michelle Alexander reminds us, “Convicts had no meaningful legal rights at this time and no effective redress. They were understood, quite literally, to be slaves of the state. […] In a landmark decision by the Virginia Supreme Court, Ruffin v. Commonwealth, issued at the height of Southern Redemption, the court put to rest any notion that convicts were legally distinguishable from slaves” (Alexander 2012, 31). Predictably, the prison population grew rapidly in the decades that followed, with the passage of unjust laws meant to round up as many former slaves as possible and incarcerate them, thus returning them to forced labor. To be clear—slavery still exists today. Penal labor is involuntary servitude, a type of slavery expressly allowed by the 13th Amendment of the US Constitution. This form of legal slavery is only allowed when used as punishment for committing a crime. The 13th Amendment states that “neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for a crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.” So America still has slaves—they are just living in penitentiaries instead of plantations, and a disproportionate number of them are people of color. 16 And now, convict leasing is on the rise again, after it was prohibited for most of the 20th century. “As current anti-immigrant policies diminish the supply of migrant workers, […] [p]rison inmates are picking fruits and vegetables at a rate not seen since Jim Crow” (Rice 2019). The mass incarceration of people of color for committing oftentimes minor infractions is a part of our system of penal slavery. Since parolees “can be stopped and searched by the police for any reason—or no reason at all—and returned to prison for the most minor of infractions,” a steady supply of prison labor is secure (Alexander 2012, 141). 16 “African Americans are incarcerated at more than five times the rate of whites” (“Criminal Justice” NAACP). Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 52 Today, the United States incarcerates “a higher proportion of its people than any other country. The United States has built a carceral state that is unprecedented among industrialized countries and in US history” (Gottschalk 2014, 289). This system is “distinctive not only for its hyperincarceration of certain groups but also for its enthusiastic embrace of harsh and degrading punishments that would be unthinkable in most industrialized countries […] boot camps, chain gangs, and widespread use of solitary confinement.” When Dickens wrote about America in 1842, using the language of containment to draw attention to the hypocrisy of unjust and brutal incarceration and slavery, he was elucidating a fundamental problem with which we are still grappling today. Dickens saw the carceral state in the making, and he issued a dire warning to America not to turn its back on its most cherished values. Works cited Alber, Jan. Narrating the Prison: Role and Representation in Charles Dickens’ Novels, Twentieth-Century Fiction, and Film. Youngstown, NY: Cambria Press, 2007. Alexander, Michelle. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. New York: The New Press, 2012. “A Motion to Censure Representative John Quincy Adams of Massachusetts.” History, Art & Archives: US House of Representatives. https://history.house.gov/Historical-Highlights/1800-1850/A-motion-to- censure-Representative-John-Quincy-Adams-of-Massachusetts/. All websites last visited December 12, 2019. Archibald, Diana C. “Introduction.” American Notes for General Circulation. By Charles Dickens. Montreal: Universitas Press, 2018. ---. “Language in Place: A Computational Analysis of Dickens’ ‘American Notes.’” Nineteenth-Century Prose 46.1 (Spring 2019): 149-184. Brattin, Joel J. “Slavery in Dickens’s Manuscript of American Notes for General Circulation.” Dickens and Massachusetts: The Lasting Legacy of the Commonwealth Visits. Eds. Diana C. Archibald and Joel J. Brattin. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2015. 147-162. Breslow, Jason M. “What Does Solitary Confinement Do to Your Mind?” Frontline 22 April 2014. https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/article/what-does-solitary-confinement-do-to-your-mind/. Collins, Philip. Dickens and Crime. New York: St. Martin’s, 1994. “Criminal Justice Fact Sheet.” NAACP. https://www.naacp.org/criminal-justice-fact-sheet/. Dickens, Charles. American Notes for General Circulation. 1842. Ed. with introduction by Patricia Ingham. London: Penguin, 2000. ---. The Letters of Charles Dickens. Vol. 3. Eds. Madeline House Graham Storey and Kathleen Tillotson. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974. Foner, Eric. Free Soil, Free Labor, Free Men: The Ideology of the Republican Party before the Civil War. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Johnson, Louise H. “The Source of the Chapter on Slavery in Dickens’ American Notes.” American Literature 14.4 (January 1943): 427-30. Gilfoyle, Timothy J. “‘America's Greatest Criminal Barracks:’ The Tombs and the Experience of Criminal Justice in New York City, 1838–1897." Journal of Urban History 29.5 (2003): 525–554. Gottschalk, Marie. “Democracy and the Carceral State in America.” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 651 (January 2014): 288-295. Grass, Sean. “Narrating the Cell: Dickens on the American Prisons.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 99.1 (January 2000): 50-70. ---. The Self in the Cell: Narrating the Victorian Prisoner. New York: Routledge, 2013. Lipset, Seymour Martin. American Exceptionalism: A Double-Edged Sword. New York: W. W. Norton, 1996. Meckier, Jerome. “Dickens and Tocqueville: Chapter 7 of American Notes.” Dickens Studies Annual 45 (2014): 113-123. Metzner, Jeffrey L. and Jamie Fellner. “Solitary Confinement and Mental Illness in U.S. Prisons: A Challenge for Medical Ethics.” Journal of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law Online 38.1 (March 2010): 104-108. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 14 – Fall/Winter 2019 53 Rice, Stian. “How Anti-immigration Policies Are Leading Prisons to Lease Convicts as Field Laborers.” Pacific Standard 7 June 2019. https://psmag.com/social-justice/anti-immigrant-policies-are-returning- prisoners-to-the-fields. Roberts, Leonard H. “The Historic Roots of American Prison Reform: A Story of Progress and Failure.” Journal of Correctional Education 36.3 (September 1985): 106-109. Rothman, David. The Discovery of the Asylum: Social Order and Disorder in the New Republic. Boston: Little Brown, 1990. Tambling, Jeremy. Dickens, Violence and the Modern State: Dreams of the Scaffold. Houndsmills: Macmillian, 1995. Weir, Kirsten. “Alone in ‘the Hole’: Psychologists Probe the Mental Health Effects of Solitary Confinement.” American Psychological Association 43.5 (May 2012). https://www.apa.org/monitor/2012/05/solitary. Wilson, David. “Testing a Civilisation: Charles Dickens on the American Penitentiary System.” Howard: Journal of Criminal Justice 48.3 (2009): 280-296. 
work_55glcbv4lffhhploaxjgmfqlyy	----	Birth Trauma Canada- RV Detailing - RV Detailing Los Angeles - RV Detailing San Diego - Mobile Car Detailing - San Diego Mobile Car Detailing Los Angeles Blog About us Terms and Conditions Privacy Policy Contact us Select Page Blog Latest News How to Prevent Car Paint Oxidation by birthtraumacanada | Mar 29, 2021 | Car Detailing It’s always beautiful to look at the dazzling gloss and shine of your car. Unfortunately, it’s probably an indication of oxidation damage if your joy and pride are beginning to look a bit faded and dull.   This is called paint oxidation. This will cause the paint to lose its sheen. On severe occasions, car paint can have a cloudy or chalky look.  Aside from looking unappealing, paint oxidation will also greatly lower the resale value of your car.   Fortunately, we’re here to help. Aside from regular mobile car detailing Los Angeles, here are several tips you can follow to prevent car paint oxidation.  Choose High-quality Paintwork  You can make a lot of difference to your car if you have high-quality paintwork. It’s always a wise move to check out durable waterborne coating solutions. For those who don’t know, waterborne paints tend to have an excellent gloss level when it comes to overall quality and finishes. In addition to that, there’s less possibility for paint flaws. It also has excellent coverage. This improves the overall aesthetic appeal.  Avoid Using Harsh Car Cleaning Products  You should be careful of what car cleaning products you utilize if you’re wondering what causes paint oxidation. A couple of abrasive and stronger cleaners aren’t always kind to the paint surface of your vehicle. Thus, it is a wise move to switch to environmentally-friendly cleaning products. Typically, they’re gentle on car paintwork. In addition to that, you’re also helping the environment.   If you hire a professional to clean your car, make sure you look for an eco-friendly car detailing company.   Maintain Your Car Regularly  One of the main reasons why paint oxidation happens is the lack of car care. Unluckily, a lot of individuals don’t have the time to commit to routine car care.   If you do wash your car yourself, you can maintain it by waxing it after washing. You can also utilize a unique paint protectant. You can always hire a professional car detailing company if you do not have the time to do it on your own.   Avoid Accumulation of Contaminants  Accumulation of contaminants will affect the smooth look and shine of your car’s paintwork. You can easily avoid this from happening if you regularly wash your car. Car washing will help get rid of particles and pollution on the car’s surface. It is crucial to get rid of oxidation from car paint immediately if the paintwork is beginning to feel bumpy and rough.   Park in the Shade  Do you always park your vehicle outdoors? Street parking might be your only choice if you don’t have a driveway or garage. However, you need to park your car in the shade if you want to avoid paint oxidation. This is particularly true during the summer season where the rays of the sun are stronger.   If you can’t find shade in your area, you can invest in a car cover to protect the paintwork. You might have to leave car paint correction to the experts if serious UV damage has already caused paint oxidation.   Difference Between Detailing an Old and New Car by birthtraumacanada | Mar 26, 2021 | Car Detailing Aside from being a mode of transportation, your cars also serve as personal statements about who you are. Car owners with well-maintained vehicles are socially recognized as tasteful, detail-oriented, and responsible.   It does not matter if you’ve got an old or new car. It’s your job to maintain it as much as possible. Luckily, you can easily achieve this thanks to the advancements in car detailing technology and techniques.   Today, we’re going to share with you the differences between detailing an old and new car with the help of a mobile car detailing San Diego company.  Waxing  Most professionals suggest applying a coat of wax after polishing your car. This will help avoid corrosion from other substances like hot drinks, tree sap, and bird droppings, water spots, and sun damage.   Waxing includes the application of wax over the exterior of the car, letting it harden, and then buffing it out using a polisher or towel. Though the procedure for waxing old and new cars might look the same, the difference is in the forms of wax used.   Despite being long-lasting, the rubbing compound is abrasive. Thus, it’s not appropriate for an old car since most of its protective layers are gone. Typically, professionals prefer using liquid wax when detailing an old car since it’s an excellent filling agent to smooth out inconsistencies in the surface.   Polishing  Old cars have higher possibilities of suffering from paint oxidation since they’ve been braved in the rain, wind, and sun. Also, old cars typically have more scratches, swirls, and dents. Thus, they need more complex and lengthy polishing methods.   Before starting the process, a professional detailer needs to personalize their car polishing procedure depending on the car’s condition. When they are servicing an old vehicle, they need to spot test areas. This will help them figure out:  The speed combinations they need to use for the polisher  The forms of motions they need to use  The amount of pressure they have to use on the surface  How aggressive the products they need to use  Claying  It does not matter if you are detailing a new car or an old one. The first thing you’ve got to do is to wash it. Once you’re done washing the car, then the next thing you have to do is to clay it. First, a professional detailer will knead the clay bar into a soft malleable tool. They will utilize this tool to pick up tiny contaminants from the surface of the car. Therefore, this will help make the paint feel smoother and return to its original look.  Unfortunately, it is much more complex to clay an old vehicle. The reason for this is that older vehicles have higher possibilities of gathering more debris. Thus, it takes more materials to avoid the abrasion of the paint surface. The clay bar lubricant is one of these materials. Usually, they’re included if you purchase a high-quality car wash kit. This clay bar lubricant will help avoid the debris from damaging the paint coat of your old car.       Knowing the Basics of RV Detailing by birthtraumacanada | Mar 24, 2021 | Car Detailing If you want to maintain the excellent condition of your RV, the best thing you can do is to regularly detail its interior and exterior. Unfortunately, RV detailing is not as easy as it might appear to be. There are a couple of things you have to consider first before you can proceed with the task.   Detailing an RV is a process of cleaning thoroughly the exterior and interior of the vehicle to maintain and improve its look. The task is called “detailing” because it is all about perfecting the small details of your car. Because of this, there are a lot of steps included.   You can make your life easier if you hire a professional RV detailing San Diego company. However, if you want to do it yourself, here are several things you should know:  Interior Detailing  Usually, interior RV detailing includes at least a couple of tasks, such as odor removal, vent cleaning, crevice and dash cleaning, cup holder cleaning, seat cleaning, carpet cleaning, and much more.   Exterior Waxing  Once you are done cleaning thoroughly the exterior of your RV, you can wax it. You can either go for a simple spray–on and wipe–off form of wax or a wipe-on and buff–off form of wax. It depends on your preferences.   Tire Cleaning  Cleaning the tires of your RV should be the final step in the exterior cleaning process. The reason for this is that you have to work from top to bottom.  Awnings  You might have to utilize a cleaning product made specifically for RV awnings. This will help you deep clean the awning of your RV. Keep in mind that you need something that’s gentle on the fabric and paint.  Bug Removal  Getting rid of bug splatter will become much harder if you wait a long period to remove it from the front of your car. You can utilize a chemical bug remover or a car washing kit to get rid of bug splatters. However, you can also create your own solution using water and dryer sheets. You can easily avoid hard-to-remove bug splatters in the future if you wax and maintain the front of your RV.  Overall Exterior Washing  There are a couple of techniques when it comes to washing your RV. Some are wet and some are dry. Make sure you clean and dry full sections at a time if you are wet washing. This will help prevent streaks. Typically, you can utilize a regular RV washing soap. However, you still have to examine that you are utilizing the correct product for your form of RV siding.   Roof Cleaning  Typically, detailing goes from top to bottom. The ideal cleaning methods and products for your RV roof differ on whether you’ve got a rubber membrane-type roof, a fiberglass roof, or another form of roof. Thus, make sure you consider this. Fiberglass roofs are vulnerable to oxidation. You might require a strong cleaner if they look ashy or chalky. If you’re afraid of damaging the roof, you can always hire a detailer to do the job.  Tips for Detailing Your RV by birthtraumacanada | Mar 22, 2021 | Car Detailing Whenever you’re washing an RV, there are a couple of things you have to remember. It does not matter if you’re simply an RV owner that needs some recommendations or you’re an expert detailer trying to add RVs to your services.   Washing and detailing an RV is not the same as detailing a normal car. RVs are big and they’ve got a couple of components that are different from regular vehicles.   Lucky for you, we’re here to help. Here are several tips you can follow for RV detailing Los Angeles.  Take Your Time  As an RV owner or detailer, you’ve got to understand that detailing and washing an RV thoroughly will take around 6 to 8 hours. This is particularly true if you’re doing it alone. Thus, try to work in the shade as much as possible. Also, prepare some cold drinks if it’s hot. Don’t forget to take breaks as well.   Also, you should expect to pay more for RV detailing services as opposed to a regular car wash if you’re planning to hire a professional.   Know How to Clean the Roof of Your RV  Unlike regular vehicles, the roof of your RV is usually made out of some form of rubber. Typically, it’s white. It is also the dirtiest area of an RV. Thus, need a lot of care and attention. When cleaning the roof standing up, you’ve got to be very cautious. If possible, use kneepads when handwashing.   A lot of individuals will utilize normal dish soap when cleaning the roof. Unfortunately, it is not recommended for plastics. Dish soaps typically include degreasers. This can dry out plastic and rubber over time. Eventually, it will cause cracks. Perhaps you want to buy a jug of RV rubber roof cleaner when cleaning the roof. These cleaners are designed to protect and clean the roof of your RV.  Buy the Right Tools for RV Detailing  If you are detailing bigger cars, such as an RV, one of the most important tools to have is a high-quality pressure washer.   Typically, almost every professional detailer out there recommends buying a gas-powered pressure washer with wheels.   Aside from the pressure washer, there are several other tools you need to have as well. This includes:  Water deionizer to avoid water spots  Foam cannon for your pressure washer  5-gallon bucket for roof cannon  Cleaner wax for protection  Gel gloss for finishes  Huge water tanks for mobile detailing  Gas-powered pressure washer  If you’ve got a pressure washer, you can easily make the job faster and more efficient. This is particularly true since you are dealing with a quite tall car. However, you’ve got to ensure you use the right pressure. You might end up damaging your car if you use too much pressure.   Avoid Scratches by Using Lamb’s Wool  A lot of RV manufacturers suggest using lamb’s wool when cleaning RVs. In general, lamb’s wool is an ideal option for any type of vehicle. Keep in mind that RVs get dirty quite often. If you use a stiff-bristled brush, you might end up scratching the surface of your RV.     How to Detail Your RV by birthtraumacanada | Mar 19, 2021 | Car Detailing The spring season is already here and summer is simply creeping in the corner. If you’re a person who loves beach parties, reunions, and nature trips, it is perhaps time to give your RV good detailing. Of course, you and your loved ones would love to travel in comfort and style in a detailed and clean RV, right?  A couple of individuals believe that simply vacuuming the interior and hosing the exterior of their RV is clean enough. Unluckily, this type of cleaning method won’t remove any microorganisms, oil, grime, and dirt that can damage the interior and exterior of your RV.   A mobile RV detailing can get rid of these things. Aside from cleaning your car’s interior and exterior, you can also clean the under chassis and engine of your RV.   Here are several tips you can follow when you want to detail your RV:   Clean the Water System  Have you tried cleaning your car’s interior but still notice a musty odor inside? Well, you’ve got to examine the water system. It might contain water from your past trips. Thus, you have to drain the tank, water lines, and water heater. Fill the tank with water and apply several drops of bleach. Let the solution sit for a couple of minutes. This will guarantee that your water system is clean. After several minutes, drain the water and turn on the faucets and pump. This will get rid of the bleach from the system. Before you refill the tank with clean water, make sure you leave the system for 12 hours.   Keep Every Detailing Product Close  If you want to lower your detailing mistakes, there are a couple of things you need. This includes:  Car wax  Towels for drying  Brush with a long handle  Squeegee  Rubber gloves   A long garden hose  Wheel cleaner  Glass cleaner  Car wash soap  Tar remover  Bug remover  You can try moving the cleaning solutions in tiny containers and properly label them. Then, you can place these small containers in a basket or small bag that you can place put around your waste. With this, you can save a lot of time from walking around.   Cover Sensitive Spots When Detailing  Utilize plastic to cover the filter, electrical wirings, spark plugs, air intake, and alternator. With this, you can avoid oil and water remover from seeping in and causing damage to your vehicle.   Think About the Weather and Time  It’s preferable to detail your car before 8 am. This is typically a warm morning to do the job. Keep in mind that your RV is probably huge. You’ve got to complete the task before the sun gets too hot. Else, water spots might form or the cleaning solution may dry up. You need to avoid these things since they can damage your car’s exterior paint.   If you think that detailing your RV is too much work, don’t worry. You can always hire a professional car detailing company to detail your RV. Oftentimes, they’ll offer steam cleaning that makes the whole process more efficient and faster.   Recent Posts How to Prevent Car Paint Oxidation Difference Between Detailing an Old and New Car Knowing the Basics of RV Detailing Tips for Detailing Your RV How to Detail Your RV Search for: Recent Comments Birth Trauma Canada How to Prevent Car Paint Oxidation March 29, 2021It’s always beautiful to look at the dazzling gloss and shine of your car. Unfortunately, it’s probably an indication of oxidation damage if your joy and pride are beginning to look a bit faded and dull.   This is called paint oxidation. This will cause the paint to lose its sheen. On severe occasions, car paint can have […] birthtraumacanada Difference Between Detailing an Old and New Car March 26, 2021Aside from being a mode of transportation, your cars also serve as personal statements about who you are. Car owners with well-maintained vehicles are socially recognized as tasteful, detail-oriented, and responsible.   It does not matter if you’ve got an old or new car. It’s your job to maintain it as much as possible. Luckily, you […] birthtraumacanada Knowing the Basics of RV Detailing March 24, 2021If you want to maintain the excellent condition of your RV, the best thing you can do is to regularly detail its interior and exterior. Unfortunately, RV detailing is not as easy as it might appear to be. There are a couple of things you have to consider first before you can proceed with the […] birthtraumacanada Tips for Detailing Your RV March 22, 2021Whenever you’re washing an RV, there are a couple of things you have to remember. It does not matter if you’re simply an RV owner that needs some recommendations or you’re an expert detailer trying to add RVs to your services.   Washing and detailing an RV is not the same as detailing a normal car. […] birthtraumacanada How to Detail Your RV March 19, 2021The spring season is already here and summer is simply creeping in the corner. If you’re a person who loves beach parties, reunions, and nature trips, it is perhaps time to give your RV good detailing. Of course, you and your loved ones would love to travel in comfort and style in a detailed and […] birthtraumacanada Categories Car Detailing Archives March 2021 
work_5ap4zyeg5bephizbdz7chrlske	----	Microsoft Word - 3. RDirks [revised].docx INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES Issue 1 Spring 2018 Hierophants of Decadence: Bliss Carman and Arthur Symons Rita Dirks ISSN: 2515-0073 Date of Acceptance: 1 June 2018 Date of Publication: 21 June 2018 Citation: Rita Dirks, ‘Hierophants of Decadence: Bliss Carman and Arthur Symons’, Volupté: Interdisciplinary Journal of Decadence Studies, 1 (2018), 35-55. volupte.gold.ac.uk This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- ShareAlike 4.0 International License. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 35 Hierophants of Decadence: Bliss Carman and Arthur Symons Rita Dirks Ambrose University Canada has never produced a major man of letters whose work gave a violent shock to the sensibilities of Puritans. There was some worry about Carman, who had certain qualities of the fin de siècle poet, but how mildly he expressed his queer longings! (E. K. Brown) Decadence came to Canada softly, almost imperceptibly, in the 1880s, when the Confederation poet Bliss Carman published his first poems and met the English chronicler and leading poet of Decadence, Arthur Symons. The event of Decadence has gone largely unnoticed in Canada; there is no equivalent to David Weir’s Decadent Culture in the United States: Art and Literature Against the American Grain (2008), as perhaps has been the fate of Decadence elsewhere. As a literary movement it has been, until a recent slew of publications on British Decadence, relegated to a transitional or threshold period. As Jason David Hall and Alex Murray write: ‘It is common practice to read [...] decadence as an interstitial moment in literary history, the initial “falling away” from high Victorian literary values and forms before the bona fide novelty of modernism asserted itself’.1 This article is, in part, an attempt to bring Canadian Decadence into focus out of its liminal state/space, and to establish Bliss Carman as the representative Canadian Decadent. To begin with, I situate the fin de siècle in Canada and examine the fruitful literary connection between Carman and Symons; then I read Carman’s poem ‘The Eavesdropper’ through a Decadent lens and continue toward an articulation of a distinctly Canadian Decadence. For the major part, I desire nothing less than to secure a foothold for Carman as the Father of Canadian Decadence. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 36 Oh Decadent Canada: The Confederation Poets and the Fin de Siècle in Canada The event of Decadence is underexplored in Canada; much of literary criticism on the fin de siècle in Canada tends to focus primarily on the emergence of a national literature during the Confederation period. There is no book-length study bearing the title Canadian Decadence; Brian Trehearne’s Aestheticism and the Canadian Modernists: Aspects of A Poetic Influence (1989) is a notable exception, yet Trehearne does not discuss Carman. Before I continue, I must clarify that the purpose of my study here is Canadian literature written in English. Francophone literature, situated mostly in Quebec, has its own history of literary developments, and, in 1895, formed its École littéraire de Montréal that followed French Parnassian and Decadent models, with Émile Nelligan, perhaps the École’s best representative, who shows his indebtedness to Charles Baudelaire and Paul Verlaine.2 Predominantly for historical reasons, and especially before the fin de siècle, there was little if any conversation between English Canadian and French Canadian writers. Bentley’s literary history of the last twenty years of the nineteenth century in Canada, The Confederation Group of Canadian Poets, 1880-1897 (2004), offers a contextualized study of the six English Canadian poets: Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943), Archibald Lampman (1861-1899), Bliss Carman (1861-1929), William Wilfred Campbell (1860- 1918), Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947), and Frederick George Scott (1861-1944). They were the ‘The Confederation Group of Canadian Poets’ or Confederation poets, so named because these poets were born in the 1860s, in the decade when Canada became a nation (1867). But only three of them, Roberts, Carman, and Campbell Scott, ‘show[ed] evidence of contact with [...] [European] avatars of the symboliste aesthetic’ in the 1890s.3 Bentley continues, Lampman, Campbell, and Frederick George Scott held themselves aloof from the aesthetic- decadent movement that hosted symbolisme before it entered the literary mainstream en route to becoming a major component of Modernism, but the other three members of the group all drank deep of the symboliste spring and thus also of the esoteric or occult beliefs with which it was associated.4 Here I focus on one of the three members who did not hold himself ‘aloof’ from Decadence/Symbolism but rather ‘drank deep[ly]’ from it, namely, Bliss Carman. In 1882, before Carman and Symons met in London in 1896, Wilde toured America to lecture on aesthetic taste and VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 37 visited Canada, briefly meeting up with Carman at Roberts’s house. Wilde must have at least provided some curiosity, if not inspiration, for the twenty-one-year-old Carman. Aside from that brief acquaintance, in October, Wilde also lectured at the City Hall in Fredericton, the capital of New Brunswick (eastern Canada, where most Confederation poets lived). Wilde’s influence notwithstanding, Terry Whalen describes ‘a “strange aesthetic ferment” in the last two decades of the nineteenth century’, in line with Decadent, Symbolist, and Aesthetic stirrings in France and England.5 Those Confederation poets ‘who drank deep of the symboliste spring’ follow similar developments as their European counterparts, yet with some of their own unique ways. It is my heuristic argument that at least some of the Confederation poets could be classified as Decadents, keeping in mind, as Murray observes, that ‘[i]dentifying practitioners [of Decadence] is notoriously difficult; it is near impossible to find a self-described Decadent writer’.6 Certainly, Carman did not bear the label, as did many a Decadent or Symbolist writer; I hope to establish that Carman is such a one, not the least through his association with Symons. Symons and Carman: Friendship and First Contact via Letters Although Carman initially encountered Wilde in 1882, eighteen years later a much closer connection developed between Carman and Arthur Symons, more so than between any other Canadian and British Decadents. The friendship between Carman, the Canadian poet who lived and worked in New York and Boston for most of his adult life, and Symons, who was four years younger and had just moved to London, began when Symons sent two letters, one posted 4 July 1890, and the next, 5 December 1890, with two of his early poems, requesting that Carman, who was editor between 1890-92 of the New York weekly the Independent, publish them. At that time the Independent ‘had a large general readership and a history of literary publication, especially poetry [E. B. Browning, Thomas Hardy, A. C. Swinburne, and W. B. Yeats, among others]’.7 It was nearly impossible for Carman and other Canadian poets of new verse to get published at home at the end of the nineteenth century; for the most part, between 1820-80, ‘Canadian publishers of imaginative literature were VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 38 content to keep the lucrative field of reprinting well-known British and American authors’.8 Not so in New York and the United States in general, with its larger reading public and demand for ‘new writing’. James Doyle avers that, in the 1890s, American ‘monthly periodicals’ ‘flourish[ed]’, while in Canada ‘the publishing industry struggled’.9 Possibly, Symons also took advantage of the ‘American periodical boom of the 1880s and 1890s’ as an opportunity to publish some of his early poems and his own ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ in Harper's New Monthly Magazine in 1893, with the very real purpose of disseminating Decadence across the Atlantic.10 Tragically, the poems that Symons sent to Carman in 1890 have been lost, and those issues of the Independent have not been preserved; the digitized version of the paper shows a gap between July- December 1890 to December 1895, just the years that would interest us the most here. However, we may surmise. In the letter posted on 4 July 1890, Symons refers to ‘[s]ome verses (written at Dieppe on my way back’ from France, so we can probably guess that this might be a poem or all poems from his ‘At Dieppe’ sextuple (‘After Sunset’, ‘On the Beach’, ‘Rain on the Down’, ‘Before the Squall’, ‘Under the Cliffs’, and ‘Requies’), first published in his upcoming Silhouettes collection in 1892, after Symons returned from his trip to Paris with Havelock Ellis in June 1890. Tracy Ware writes: ‘Because a poem by Symons appeared in the Independent shortly after each letter and at no other time during Carman’s tenure there, we can be reasonably certain of the identity of the poems he enclosed (now lost)’.11 According to Ware, Symons’s letter dated 5 December 1890 includes ‘probably “Love in Dreams”, which appeared in the Independent, XLII, No. 2207 (March 19, 1891)’.12 In his first letter, with the request to publish his own poems, Symons praises Carman’s early work: ‘I so much admire what I have seen of your own poems. [...] There is something delightfully fresh in them – a lyric April. I hope you will soon collect them into a book’.13 Carman did publish Symons’s poems and followed up with a few collections of his own poetry. It seems the two young poets found much in common; as Ware states, ‘the letters reveal an affinity between two young men’.14 This affinity created enough interest for the two to meet in person. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 39 1896: Carman’s Visit to London, and Symons Reviews Carman Carman must have read at least some of Symons’s early poems to garner enough interest to visit Symons in London in 1896. After their initial epistolary acquaintance, the two poets met in person in London in 1896, where discussions about directions of modern poetry also included Yeats. In a letter to his friend Louise Imogen Guiney, who was in Nova Scotia at the time, Carman wrote on 2 September of the same year: ‘O I had a gay time in your London. [...] Arthur Symons, whom I ran to earth in Fountain Court, Temple, took me to Yeats’ new abode’.15 In 1893, before Carman and Symons actually met, Symons reviewed Carman’s first volume of poetry Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics (1893), and subsequently the Canadian poet’s three following books: Songs from Vagabondia (1894, with the American poet Richard Hovey), Behind the Arras: A Book of the Unseen (1895), and More Songs from Vagabondia (1896, with Hovey). In 1896 Symons also published Carman’s poem ‘In Scituate’ in The Savoy. Symons ‘played a key role in the growth of Carman’s reputation’.16 In the 1890s, both vagabonds, Canadian and British, were keen on publishing and promoting each other’s work and the work of other Decadents. Certainly, Carman’s movements between Eastern Canada and New York partly reflect his desire to introduce and publish Canadian writers in the United States. In a similar way, Symons not only brought French Symbolist or Decadent writers to the English reading public by way of his publications, but also established connections with Carman. After his sojourn in London in 1896, Carman travelled to Paris where he landed ‘in the heart of the Symboliste movement’.17 To be sure, Carman shared some of Symons’s enthusiasm regarding Paris and the French Symbolists: ‘Since Carman’s return from abroad, there had been several articles connecting him with the French Symbolistes and the British Aesthetes’.18 Furthermore, in the 1890s, ‘Carman was dubbed the “American High Priest of Symbolism” by a New York newspaper [The New World]’.19 Carman’s poetry espouses the influence of both English and French nineteenth- century Decadents. Before he travelled to meet Symons in London, the Canadian poet had spent a year at Oxford and the University of Edinburgh (1882-83) and then a year at Harvard (1885). In his early years, he was influenced by D. G. Rossetti and Swinburne, and, with the encouragement of VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 40 Hovey, read and translated Paul Verlaine. As with Symons, some of the French Symbolist influence is evident in Carman’s poetry. I am inspired by all of Carman’s connections to British, French, and American nineteenth-century authors; these are but little-examined and happily require the space of at least one future book. I must quench my zeal, for now, with establishing Carman as a progenitor of Canadian Decadence, and this article must not exceed the boundary of a prolegomenon. Carman’s Poetry as Canadian Decadence More than one critic in Canada has declared the strangeness of Carman’s poetry, both in the damning and praiseworthy sense. Odell Shepard, the American poet and writer, published the first significant book on Carman’s work: Bliss Carman: A Study of His Poetry (1923). Shepard praises Carman for his ‘mastery of verse technic’, his ‘“tone color”’, and ‘pure unimpeded’ musical quality.20 Shepard insists that Carman’s poems ‘must be read slowly, as an epicure savours an ancient wine, with a special lingering upon the clear vowel sounds’.21 At the same time, the American critic writes that Carman was ‘save[d] from the poisonous heresy of “art for art’s sake”’.22 Seemingly, as an admirer and editor of Henry David Thoreau and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Shepard could not endure the literature of the fin de siècle; however, we would not be wrong to associate Carman with the American Transcendentalists, especially Ralph Waldo Emerson. In the late 1950s, when Carl F. Klinck began to compile the first Literary History of Canada: Canadian Literature in English (1965), some of his contributors did not know what to do with Carman. For example, Roy Daniells, while writing his entry on ‘Confederation to the First World War’, laments in a letter to Klinck in 1961, ‘I find that both Roberts and Carman distressing people to deal with, […] they evoke either pity or anger and not much else’.23 Reginald Watters, who with Klinck, undertook to publish a Canadian anthology in the 1950s, also wrote to ask his co-author, ‘How fond are you of Carman and Roberts? […] Both leave me pretty unmoved. […] I found it difficult to discover more than 400 lines by each that I would want’.24 Lorne Pearce, editor of Ryerson Press in the 1920s, and Carman’s literary executor, told Klinck that he was ‘greatly worried VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 41 about [publishing] Carman’s unconventional love letters, of which he had trunks full’.25 Carman never married, was quite attractive, witty and intelligent, with celebrated beautiful locks of hair, and ‘seems to have sought safety in numbers’ in his relationships with women; unusual for his milieu, he led the lifestyle of a vagabond poet.26 In 1990, a much-awaited collection of essays on Carman appeared, edited by Gerald Lynch. Appropriately subtitled A Reappraisal, it restored Carman, somewhat, to worthy literary status within the shrine of Canadian literature; Bliss Carman: A Reappraisal was published with a suitably yellow cover. Feasibly, one needs to read Carman through a Decadent lens. ‘The Eavesdropper’ (reproduced in its entirety at the end of this article) from his first collection, Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics (1893), a volume that Symons also reviewed, will serve us well here as an instance of Canadian Decadent poetry. Carman’s poem of nine quatrains and written in iambic dimeter, is one of suggestion and impression rather than thought. It is a poem that ushers the reader into a subjective world of immediate experience, yet, at the same time, offers nothing definitive. It begins in the realm of decline, in the autumn of the year, with ‘the paling autumn-tide’. As Brian Trehearne finds, if a Decadent poet writes ‘poems of nature’, and nature is strongly present, even personified in Carman’s poem, ‘Autumn, the “failure” of the year, emerges as a typical Decadent setting’.27 However, this change in seasons is more than a setting; just as Symons’s city in his London poems is not just a ‘background’ to the ‘clandestine’ and ‘shadowy’ spaces, neither is the outside world in ‘The Eavesdropper’.28 We learn next to nothing about the lovers in the poem who lie in repose, inside ‘a still room’, ‘side by side’, ‘all the swarthy afternoon’. But nature teems with colours and sounds and movements: ‘The livelong day the elvish leaves | Danced with their shadows on the floor’ and ‘The great deliberate sun | Walk[ed] through the crimson hazy world, | Counting his hilltops one by one’; then, ‘purple twilight came | And touched the vines along our eaves’, while the lovers, inside the room, ‘heard’, ‘watched’, and ‘saw’. Nature, albeit with its summer’s strength waning, is the actor still, even with its fallen leaves that are ‘The lost children of the wind | went straying by our door’; by contrast, human energies are spent, after VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 42 the lush months of spring and summer are behind them. The lovers observe, almost passively, as the yellow and/or fallen leaves ‘stir’, make a ‘tiny multitudinous sound’, ‘rustle’, ‘dance[d]’, ‘stray[ing]’, and behave like ‘elvish’ children. Maurice Maeterlinck’s influence upon Carman, through Hovey, is perhaps evident here. In ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, when Symons speaks of the ‘symbolistic and impressionistic’ dramas of Maeterlinck, notably L’Intruse, L’Aveugles, and Les Sept Princesses, he remarks that in the former two plays ‘the scene is stationary, the action but reflected upon the stage, as if from another plane’, and, in the latter, ‘the action, such as it is, […] is literally, in great part, seen through a window’.29 The motionless couple in ‘The Eavesdropper’ watch the goings-on outside, as if in a (dare I say) languid state, through ‘the open door’. Instead of revealing situational details about the two lovers, Carman foregrounds colours, shades, and edges, outside of the ‘still room’: ‘the yellow maple tree’, ‘the silvery blue’, ‘crimsoned hazy world’, ‘gray wind’, and ‘black’, forming an impressionistic palette. Interpolated with colours, Carman’s poem also abounds in edges, liminal spaces, and boundaries, some metaphoric: ‘our door’, ‘the eaves’, ‘my Love’s lips’, ‘[t]he maze of dream’, and ‘the verge of western sky’. The voluminous colours speak for the abundance and activity of nature; the borders signify limitations and transgressions, mirroring the lovers’ plight. For instance, the dual agency of the ‘purple twilight’, registering the in-between stage after day ends and before nightfall, touching ‘the vines along our eaves’, and the eaves, the perimeter that overhangs the walls of a house, providing an extended edge to the roof, forges a space where nature again takes the active role while allowing Carman to continue to not to name, but hint at, the outlines, the peripheral and the hidden. D. G. Jones writes that Carman ‘is not concerned to articulate things […] The typical event is transitional, like a change in the weather or the season, or it is a brief epiphany’.30 Kostas Boyiopoulos similarly observes that in Symons’s London poems ‘the city’s disjoined settings mirror the fragmented subjective states of mind in Symons’s poetic speakers’.31 In Carman’s poetry, and specifically in ‘The Eavesdropper’, we might observe such a correspondence between stirrings in nature and the subjective states of the lovers as well. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 43 Some of the words and sentiments in ‘The Eavesdropper’ will sound familiar to a Decadent ear. The fixation on the woman’s hair, for example, reveals, albeit vaguely and indirectly, more about the situation of the lovers than the rest of the poem. The use of transferred epithet, ‘memories of reluctant night | Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair’, adds to the sense of the imprecise. It is not clear if it is the night that is reluctant to leave because the ‘hush of dawn’ has arrived or if the woman is reluctant to face the day, or if she has regrets about the days and night(s) she spent, albeit reluctantly, with her lover (but, one thing is clear – if I were to choose the decidedly beautiful quintessential Decadent line or two from Carman’s poetry, these would be the ones). Through another fixation on the woman’s eyes, namely, the repetition of the Lover’s ‘earth-brow eyes’ and then ‘her great brown eyes’, Carman conveys the abrupt change in mood, from ‘glad’ to then ‘veiled and sad’. In ‘The Eavesdropper’, the ‘blue dusk of her hair’ and the arrival of the ‘Shadow’ are pivotal epiphanic moments. The arrival of another ‘One’ from elsewhere signals the decided change in the lover’s mood from within, pointing to the protective isolating edge around the female Love, and threatening the cozy, albeit troubled, hermetic seclusion of the couple. The ‘Another Shadow’ from ‘without’, the ‘One’ (who?) that is not part of nature, but ‘gloom[s]’ and ‘loom[s] over’ the other ‘shadows on the floor’, is an unnatural, menacing shadow, a shattering, foreboding presence. This stranger ‘gloomed the dancing of the leaves’, and, once the speaker ‘hurr[ied] to the open door’, […] saw retreating on the hills, Looming and sinister and black, The stealthy figure swift and huge Of one who strode and looked not back. Because secrecy abounds in this mysterious poem, once more, it is not clear who the Shadow or the One is: the speaker’s Lover’s husband, her guilty conscience, death, a foreboding, a malevolent force; the identity of the eavesdropper remains unknown. Once again, even these last lines are remarkably reminiscent of Maeterlinck’s L’Intruse, where Death, or an intruder, initially unseen or invisible, comes unobserved through an open door.32 The Shadow or the One or the eavesdropper VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 44 brings about the grandiose, lethal change in the fate of the lovers, although, even before he appears, an overall sense of something lost, imperceptibly yet progressively, prevails in this poem of failure. ‘The “Shadow” is but the inexplicable presence that reminds the lovers of something they already knew to be true within themselves; as Trehearne reminds us of Decadent writing, an awareness of the ‘transience of beauty’, ‘love’, and ‘inescapable decay’ is imminent.33 In this regard, I also cannot help but think of Symons’s first lines from his ‘Prologue: Before the Curtain’ (1895): ‘We are puppets of a shadow play’, that also ring true in this Canadian Decadent poem. How did Symons react to Carman’s poetry? To my mind, it is evident from this poem alone why Symons encouraged Carman to write more, to publish a collection of poetry. In ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ Symons praises Verlaine’s ability to express ‘exquisite troubled beauty’ of verse, and, ‘to express the inexpressible[,] he [Verlaine] speaks of beautiful eyes behind a veil’.34 Carman had certainly read Verlaine, but it is as if he had read Symons’s essay as well (both Low Tide on Grand Pré and ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ were published in 1893, which makes it impossible to say). Carman’s ‘earth-brown eyes’ and ‘great brown eyes’ that ‘were veiled’ speak of the unspeakable, the secret, the insight, the epiphany, the truth. The resemblance between Symons’s praise of Verlaine’s verse for the French poet’s renderings of ‘the palpitating sunlight of noon’ and ‘a cool autumn sky’ again uncannily resonates with Carman’s ‘deliberate sun’ and ‘silvery blue’ and ‘paling autumn-tide’. In the comparison between Verlaine’s poetry from Romances sans Paroles, which Symons calls ‘The poetry of sensation, of evocation; poetry which paints as well as sings, and which paints as Whistler paints, seeming to think the colours and outlines upon the canvas’, we are reminded once more of the subtle unspoken painterly impressionistic descriptions of Carman, full of colours and hues and shadows and edges in ‘The Eavesdropper’, as analyzed above.35 According to Tracy Ware, Symons, in his review in the Athenæum (14 April 1894), provides ‘measured praise’ for Low Tide on Grand Pré and ‘tries to combine his sincere approval with a suggestion for improvement’.36 Symons comments: ‘The whole book is an expression of passionate delight in the beauty of the outward world. […] [I]t deals with certain vague ardours, vivid longings VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 45 after the indefinite in nature’.37 Symons commends Carman for his expressions of ‘a delicate consciousness of mystery which lies about the deeper reaches […] [and] is the very key-note of Mr. Carman’s work’ in his review of Grand Pré.38 But, at times, according to Symons, Carman’s expression is too vague: Mr. Carman is, in general, subtle in the expression of fine shades, though his phraseology— rich, coloured, suggestive at its best, and with an elusive touch of natural magic—does sometimes become a mere coloured mist. He can express fine shades, but it is doubtful if can express anything else. […] The only question is whether he does not sometimes allow himself to use words too loosely, for the sake of their suggestive quality, which, after all, is not always a matter to be relied upon.39 It seems a little ironic that the promulgator of Decadence would criticize Carman for his vagueness and suggestive expression of fine shades. I am inclined to think that Symons did not read all the poems in Carman’s first volume, due in part to his innumerable writerly responsibilities in the early 1890s. Certainly, he makes no mention of ‘The Eavesdropper’ in his review, although he does praise ‘Afoot’ for its remarkable rendering of vagabond sensations. Also, perhaps by 1894 Symons had outgrown the style ‘in the direction of simplicity’ of his own poetry in Silhouettes (1892) or indeed the poetry he had submitted to the Independent, most likely in ‘At Dieppe’, in 1890.40 What I find remarkable is the rendering of colours and sensations in Symons’s ‘At Dieppe’ sextuple, using the same evocative vocabulary as Carman in his representative poem. For example, in ‘On the Beach’ Symons employs ‘grey sky’, ‘tide’, ‘stealthy night’; in ‘Rain on the Down’, ‘veil’, and ‘her hair’; and, perhaps the most telling similarities between Carman’s and his language occurs in ‘Under the Cliffs’, where we find ‘the white sun walk across the sea, | This pallid afternoon’ and ‘I see | The footsteps of another voyager’, along with the word ‘shadows’ repeated twice.41 The similarity between the ‘speaking voice’ in Symons’s second volume of poetry and that of Carman’s in Low Tide on Grand Pré, with ‘The Eavesdropper’ as an effective example, is striking, for, as Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick have noted, the voice ‘is often located in a scene, but otherwise carries no burdens of circumstance, history, or “character”’ and ‘speaks for a painterly “eye”’.42 The similarities do not end here; if we were to compare colours and outlines and otherworldly beings, we would have multiple VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 46 parallel passages. For now, I must leave the comparative study between Symons’s and Carman’s early poetry for another day. Instead, I will refer again to Symons’s later critical writings on Verlaine as a guide to his evaluation of Decadent verse. In Colour Studies in Paris (1918), Symons consistently praises Verlaine’s artistic virtues: the French poet’s ‘is a twilight art, full of reticence, or perfumed shadows, of hushed melodies. It suggests, gives impressions, with a subtle avoidance of anything definite’.43 According to Symons, Verlaine’s ‘Art poétique’ ‘express[es] the inexpressible[;] he speaks of beautiful eyes behind a veil, of the full palpitating sunlight at noon, of the blue swarm of clear stars in a cool autumn sky’.44 Verlaine’s language in ‘Art poétique’ neatly aligns with Carman’s; for example, the lines ‘des beaux yeux derrière des voiles’ [beautiful eyes behind veils] and ‘un ciel d’automne attiédi’ [a tepid autumn sky] recall Carman’s ‘[h]er great brown eyes were veiled’ and ‘paling autumn-tide’ in ‘the silvery blue’, albeit without the effulgent sun.45 Earlier, in his high praise for Verlaine, Symons, in The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1899), observes that ‘only with Verlaine, the thing itself, the affection or regret, is everything; there is no room for meditation over destiny, or search for a problematical consolation’.46 We have observed the same in Carman. In ‘The Eavesdropper’ the moments of reluctance or regret overshadow any details about the lovers’ lives, personality, thoughts, or a resolution. Carman’s poem is one of suggestion and impression, rather than thought, a poem of some shades of colour and outlines. In a conclusive way, I must maintain, inasmuch as one cannot speak of the totalizing classification of Decadent poetry that would amount to the relegation of all Decadents’ styles to a few, that Carman’s poetry meets the standards of Decadence set out by Symons himself. The Distinct Nature of Canadian Decadence What is Canadian Decadence? At the risk of defining or naming and possibly destroying all enjoyment, I will venture to say that this article contains but preliminary work towards identifying the event in Canada. Because of its distinct literary history alone, factors and conditions contributing VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 47 to the rise and development of Decadence in Canada will not be the same as in French or British or American Decadence. Weir argues (and Symons would agree) that one needed a literary tradition or a civilization to rebel against, or at least to realize that one’s civilization has come to end, in order to devolve into Decadence. For example, Weir writes that ‘[in] America, the cultural conditions that produced the possibility of decadence in Europe simply did not exist’.47 Notable exceptions were New York and Boston; otherwise, as he proclaims, ‘there was no local grain to go against’.48 At the end of the nineteenth century, (English and French) Canada was just beginning to behave as a nation. In Canada, there is, as Symons writes in ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, no equivalent to a ‘disease of form’ arising from ‘a civilization grown over-luxurious, over-inquiring, too languid for the relief of action’.49 Canadian settlers were just beginning to shape a new civilization (in their own eyes, First Nations culture notwithstanding) and, frankly, as Virginia Durksen comments, ‘the energy and focus of the largely rural population may well have been spent on practical considerations of survival’.50 English Canada, just to limit this discussion to the nineteenth century, had perceived itself without its own civilization and with an imported Victorian literature. However, it developed its own settler literature alongside it, albeit one that attempted, initially, to write back to its parent country. Victorian novels served as models for at least some of nineteenth-century English Canadian literature, like Catharine Parr Trail’s The Backwoods in Canada (1836) and Susanna Moodie’s Roughing It in the Bush (1852). These were written with a British audience in mind; both sister-writers were born in England and were sending notes home, as it were. The novels of Parr Traill and Moodie, along with other ‘canonical narratives of settlement’, were meant to ‘entice emigrants from the British Isles to the New World’.51 For the most part, an imported Victorianism, or a second-to- Victorianism sentiment reigned in Canada between 1820-80. Yet, English Canada, with its imported, inherited British literature, was also beginning to sprout some locally inspired seedlings of its own. Towards Confederation, literature was beginning to seek its own national identity, and, with the Confederation poets, a distinctly Canadian literature VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 48 began; writing about Canadian landscapes and experiences, they were no longer writing back to England. D. G. Jones, writing about Carman’s poetry, says that ‘[u]nlike events of a pioneer narrative, […] it settles nothing, establishes no stable centre’.52 Roberts, in his essay ‘A Note on Modernism’ (1931), states that the Confederation poets ‘had already initiated a departure, a partial departure, from the Victorian tradition of poetry, years before the movement [Modernism] began in England’, arguing for Canada’s own domestic early Decadence-into-Modernism movement.53 It is perhaps ironic that, for Carman and other Confederation poets, the beginnings of a national Canadian literature, in published form, appeared in the United States. For reasons already stated above, Carman and his associates had a hard time getting published in their native land. While at the Independent, in his role of assistant editor, Carman not only saw that ‘various young American’ poets got into print, but also ‘promot[ed] the work of Canadian friends, including Archibald Lampman, Duncan Campbell Scott, Charles G. D. Roberts, Wilfred Campbell, and Gilbert Parker.54 The rich literary milieu of Boston offered some degenerative growth, even producing some Decadent short-lived journals: The Knight Errant (1892-94) and The Mahogany Tree (1892), which survived for only six months, sadly, for it was ‘one of the first forums for decadent-aesthetic ideas in the United States’.55 In the first volume of the Knight Errant, Carman is published alongside Hovey and Louise Imogen Guiney, all included among others whose ‘names […] come up again and again in the context of medievalism, decadentism, and aestheticism’.56 Although not listed as its editor, the Independent named Carman as associate editor of the Knight Errant, with Ralph Adams Cram as its chief editor.57 Of the Knight Errant, a New York magazine, Current Literature: A Magazine of Record and Review (1888-1925), writes in 1892: The Knight Errant, a new quarterly, has […] at length appeared. It is devoted to art in wherever its many phases, dealing in its first number with its own peculiar aims—which are to make war against naturalism wherever it shows its head.58 Cram and Carman, as stated in the ‘Apology’ of the first issue of the Knight Errant, waged a ‘war against […] realism in art’, as represented by the likes of the American Realist novelist William Dean Howells (1837-1920), and sought to restore ‘the inner world of the imagination as the proper focus VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 49 of art’.59 In 1894, Carman also became editor of the first four issues of Chap-Book (1894-98), a magazine which Doyle compares with The Yellow Book which appeared but a month earlier in 1894.60 Both magazines were inspired by ‘the periodicals of France devoted to the new symbolist poetry’.61 Again, Carman made sure his fellow Confederation poets were published in the Chap-Book: Roberts, Lampman, and others appeared on its pages along with Beerbohm and Yeats.62 In a way, Symons’s efforts in publishing French poets in English journals, and his promotion of Decadence/Symbolism, correspond to Carman’s determination to publish the work of international, and especially Canadian, poets. Both were active promoters of Decadence, on both sides of the Atlantic. Carman dipped into some of the Decadent stirrings in New York and Boston but not at the expense of writing his own brand of vagabond and mystical poetry. As Doyle states, Carman, and other young Canadian writers hoped to participate in what they perceived as the new international wave of modernism which they felt would yield new opportunities for unique self-expression and experimentation. The kind of writing they envisaged included a substantial degree of nationalistic self-awareness, just as American writing did, and focused on the descriptive details of the northern landscape.63 Carman’s poetry, especially his early poetry, remained deeply connected to the maritime landscape, the place of his birth. The Confederation poets, on the whole, wrote specifically about the Canadian landscape and wilderness experiences. Something that does set Canadian Decadence apart from English, French, and American Decadences is its attitude towards nature, already begun with the settler narratives. Carman’s life as a vagabond, an explorer of nature, sets him, and in turn Canadian Decadence, apart from his European and American counterparts. As we have observed in ‘The Eavesdropper’, nature takes an active role in Carman’s poem. Canadian Decadence does not share the à rebours, or against nature, characteristic with its European counterparts. What I have in mind here is Huysmans’s designation of nature as tedious in ‘the summa of decadence’, as Matei Calinescu refers to À rebours.64 According to Des Esseintes, through whom Huysmans is speaking, in part against Naturalism but also referring to trees and mountains, ‘[n]ature […] has had her day’; the Duc VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 50 speaks of ‘the revolting uniformity of her landscapes and skyscapes’, with ‘a monotonous store of meadows and trees’.65 In Huysmans’s novel, artifice is the ultimate goal in all aesthetic endeavours; Des Esseintes ‘wanted some natural flowers that looked like fakes’ and cultivates bizarre specimens of ‘fleurs du mal’, thus paying homage to Baudelaire who also pronounced nature and the natural world as ugly in his ‘Salon of 1859’. With Baudelaire, Huysmans recoils against Naturalism in France, ‘a time when verse no longer served any purpose except to depict the external appearance of things’, yet Baudelaire, ‘had succeeded in expressing the inexpressible’.66 Wilde, in ‘The Decay of Lying’ also decries Naturalism and Zola’s work, specifically his L’Assommoir, as ‘unimaginative realism’.67 In Canada, nature is not tiresome but new. It is, even in the twenty-first century, much untouched, grandiose, but little explored, mysterious, and magical. By comparison, nature in the Britain, for example, is comparably familiar and limited in space; Northrop Frye believes that European poets ‘see nature in terms of a settled order which the mind can interpret’.68 A Canadian poet cannot avoid nature, nor rebel against it, nor grow tired of it because much of it is still unfamiliar. In Canada, nature has not become tiresome; presently, due to a harsh climate, in part, and its vast geography, man/woman still has not set foot on many a terrain. In works of fiction, such as Michael Ondaatje’s In the Skin of a Lion (1987), it was still possible, in the early twentieth century in Canada, to be ‘born into a region which did not appear on a map until 1910’, and ‘the place’ still appeared ‘[i]n the school atlas’ as ‘pale green and nameless’.69 Obviously, the spaces which we occupy have not necessarily become places with names, and that relationship to the land will affect our perceptions of self and production of writing. Carman may have been influenced by Romantic, Victorian, and Transcendentalist poets, but it is the Canadian landscape that formed the primary consciousness, as he woke up to it every morning and wandered through it as an adult. In Carman’s writings on nature, as in his collection of essays, The Kinship of Nature (1903), nature is not familiar to the point of contempt as in Huysmans, but more like a ‘friend’ before whom ‘you will stand astonished’: ‘You have been surprised again by nature’, he writes.70 There is no reason to go against nature; if anything, Canadian Decadent poets went into nature as an act of rebellion, VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 51 and some, like Carman, became nature’s best vagabonds. In Canada, nature is venerated as a container of strange sensations, a compendium to be explored, feared, and revered. There is just so much literature, as evinced by Carman’s ‘The Eavesdropper’, wherein it takes centre stage. One simply does not act out against nature; the absolute size of it is outrageous. For example, when the Imagist T. E. Hulme worked and studied in Canada in 1906 for a few months, it ‘appears that the sheer size of the Canadian prairies challenged Hulme’s previously confident belief that the world could be explained in terms of mathematical principles’.71 Oliver Tearle writes that ‘once again, the vastness of nature resists any easy categorization or ordering on the part of humanity’; after his visit to Canada, Hulme wrote in his ‘Cinders’, a posthumously published collection of observation and notes about art, that ‘[t]he flats of Canada are incomprehensible to any single theory’.72And, to revert to the Confederation poets again, Roberts, in ‘A Note on Modernism’, also points to a distinctly Canadian Decadence, ‘more immediately in contact with nature’.73 In Canada, Decadence is not so much a falling away from high Victorian values, or civilization, but a falling into nature, with Carman as its best representative. Towards a Conclusion (but, really, this is just the beginning) As a relatively unnoticed phenomenon, Canadian Decadence demands much more exploration, but, here, Carman gets the last word; Canadian Decadence must begin with Carman. I have introduced the only slightly documented, literary friendship between Carman and Symons with the purpose of establishing Carman as Canada’s quintessential Decadent. Both Symons and Carman, as poets, essayists, and editors, embarked on a comparable mission: they published each other’s poetry and reviews, made personal connections with each other in their travels, and also with other Decadents, Aesthetes, and Symbolistes. They promoted and published Decadent poetry. Carman’s ‘The Eavesdropper’ is one such poem. To be sure, Canadian Decadence is more than its inherited legacy via France and England; Carman promoted a distinctly Canadian Decadence, with its borrowed models, without upholding artifice against nature. In this preliminary sketch I have demonstrated VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 52 that Carman is the best representative of Decadence in Canada, and hopefully I have laid some groundwork as the beginning of a larger work on Canadian Decadence. * * * The Eavesdropper In a still room at hush of dawn, My Love and I lay side by side And heard the roaming forest wind Stir in the paling autumn tide. I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad Because the round day was so fair; While memories of reluctant night Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair. Outside, a yellow maple tree, Shifting upon the silvery blue With tiny multitudinous sound, Rustled to let the sunlight through. The livelong day the elvish leaves Danced with their shadows on the floor; And the lost children of the wind Went straying homeward by our door. And all the swarthy afternoon We watched the great deliberate sun Walk through the crimsoned hazy world, Counting the hilltops one by one. Then as the purple twilight came And touched the vines along the eaves, Another Shadow stood without And gloomed the dancing of the leaves. The silence fell on my Love’s lips; Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad With pondering some maze of dream, Though all the splendid year was glad. Restless and vague as a gray wind Her heart had grown, she knew not why. But hurrying to the open door, Against the verge of western sky VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 53 I saw retreating on the hills, Looming and sinister and black, The stealthy figure swift and huge Of One who strode and looked not back. 1 Jason David Hall and Alex Murray, ‘Introduction: Decadent Poetics’, in Decadent Poetics: Literature and Form at the British Fin de Siècle, ed. by Jason David Hall and Alex Murray (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 1-25 (p. 5). See, for example, Decadence: An Annotated Anthology, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012); Decadent Poetics: Literature and Form at the British Fin de Siècle, ed. by Jason David Hall and Alex Murray; Kostas Boyiopoulos, The Decadent Image: The Poetry of Wilde, Symons and Dowson (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015); and Alex Murray, Landscapes of Decadence: Literature and Place at the Fin de Siècle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 2 E. D. Blodgett, ‘Francophone Writing’, in The Cambridge Companion to Canadian Literature, ed. by Eva-Marie Kröller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 49-69 (p. 56). In his earlier work, Configuration: Essays in Canadian Literature (Downsview: ECW Press, 1982), Blodgett makes an even stronger point: ‘Canada is not a unified country in either a political or cultural sense, and therefore to seek some common thread in its literatures is a vain enterprise indeed’ (p. 8). 3 D. M. R. Bentley, The Confederation Group of Canadian Poets, 1880-1897 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), p. 22. 4 Ibid. 5 Terry Whalen, ‘Charles G. D. Roberts (1869-1943)’, in Canadian Writers and Their Works, ed. by Robert Lecker, Jack David, and Ellen Quigley, 2 vols (Toronto: ECW Press, 1989), II, pp. 159-214 (p. 160). 6 Murray, Landscapes of Decadence, p. 5. 7 Nick Mount, When Canadian Literature Moved to New York (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), p. 70. 8 Ibid., p. 22. 9 James Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit: Walter Blackburn Harte and the American/Canadian Literary Milieu of the 1890s (Toronto: ECW Press, 1995), p. 9. 10 Ibid., p. 40. 11 Tracy Ware, ‘Two Unpublished Letters from Arthur Symons to Bliss Carman’, English Language Notes, 28 (March 1991), 42-46 (p. 42). 12 Ibid., p. 46, n. 12. 13 Ibid., p. 43. 14 Ibid., p. 42. 15 Bliss Carman, letter to Louise Imogen Guiney (2 September 1896), in Letters of Bliss Carman, ed. by H. Pearson Gundy (Kingston & Montreal: McGill Queen’s University Press, 1981), p. 109. Gundy examines the relationship between Carman and Guiney more closely in his ‘Flourishes and Cadences: Letters of Bliss Carman and Louise Imogen Guiney, Dalhousie Review, 55 (1975), 205-26. For a discussion on Guiney as representative of the fin de siècle, see also Alex Murray, Landscapes of Decadence. Born in the same year, Carman and Guiney both lived and moved between Britain, Canada, and America. 16 Arthur Symons, ‘Arthur Symons’ Reviews of Bliss Carman’, Poetry Criticism, ed. by Elisabeth Gellert, 34 (Detroit: Gale, 2002), <http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/H1420036373/LitRC?u=ucalgary&sid=LitRC &xid=bc4c27a8> [accessed 9 May 2018]. Originally published in Canadian Poetry, 3 (Winter 1995), 100-13. 17 Muriel Miller, Bliss Carman: Quest and Revolt (St. John’s: Jesperson Press, 1985), p. 151. 18 Ibid., p. 154. 19 Ibid. 20 Odell Shepard, Bliss Carman: A Study of His Poetry (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Publishers, 1923), p. 95. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid., p. 117. Interestingly, Donna Bennett does not hold Shepard’s book in high esteem: She considers it ‘neither a cultural biography nor a detailed analysis of Carman’s life and work’, but rather ‘impressionistic’ and an exemplar of ‘the hostility towards modernism […] prevalent in Canadian criticism at the time’ (‘Criticism in English’ in The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, Second Edition, edited by Eugene Benson & William Toye (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1997), pp. 242-67, p. 243). 23 Karl F. Klinck, Giving Canada a Literary History: A Memoir, ed. and intro. by Sandra Djwa (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1991), p. 123. 24 Ibid., p. 29. 25 Ibid., p. 38. 26 Gundy, ‘Flourishes and Cadences’, p. 220. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 54 27 Brian Trehearne, Aestheticism and the Canadian Modernists: Aspects of A Poetic Influence (Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1989), p. 15. 28 Boyiopoulos, The Decadent Image, p. 80. 29 Arthur Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, in Aesthetes and Decadents of the 1890s: An Anthology of British Poetry and Prose, ed. and intro. by Karl Beckson, rev. edn (Chicago: Academy Chicago Publishers, 1993) pp. 134-51 (p. 145). Originally published in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, 87 (November 1893) 858-67. 30 D. G. Jones, ‘Carman: Animula vagula blandula’, in Bliss Carman: A Reappraisal, ed. by Gerald Lynch (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 1990), pp. 33-42 (p. 34). 31 Boyiopoulos, The Decadent Image, p. 84. 32 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement’, p. 145. 33 Trehearne, Aestheticism and the Canadian Modernists, p. 15. 34 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement’, p. 139. 35 Ibid., p. 140. 36 Tracy Ware, ‘An Introduction to “Arthur Symon’ Reviews of Bliss Carman”’, Poetry Criticism, ed. by Elisabeth Gellert, 34 (Gale, 2002), Literature Resource Center, <http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/H1420036379/LitRC?u=ucalgary &sid =LitRC&xid=8fdddf4f> [accessed 9 May 2018]. Originally published in Canadian Poetry, 37 (Winter 1995), 100-102. 37 Symons, ‘Arthur Symons’ Reviews of Bliss Carman’, no pagination. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick, ‘Introduction’, in Arthur Symons: Selected Early Poems, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick (Cambridge: Modern Humanities Research Association, 2017), p. 8. 41 Arthur Symons, ‘On the Beach’, ‘Rain on the Down’, and ‘Under the Cliffs’, in Silhouettes, Second Edition (London: Leonard Smithers, 1896), pp. 4, 5, 7. 42 Desmarais and Baldick, Arthur Symons: Selected Early Poems, p. 8. 43 Arthur Symons, Colour Studies in Paris (New York: E. P. Dutton & Company, 1918), p. 200. 44 Ibid., p. 207. 45 Paul Verlaine, ‘Art poétique’, in Jadis et Naguère (Paris: Léon Vanier, 1884), pp. 23-25 (p. 23). 46 Arthur Symons, The Symbolist Movement in Literature (London: William Heinemann, 1899), p. 96. 47 David Weir, Decadent Culture in the United States: Art and Literature against the American Grain, 1890-1926 (New York: State University of New York Press, 2008), p. 1. 48 Ibid., p. 50. 49 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement’, p. 136. 50 Virginia Durksen, ‘The Literary Garland: Preliminary Research’. An unpublished paper submitted to E. D. Blodgett for the Canadian Literature Workshop Project, 1988, annotated and revised in 2018, 16 pp. Permission from author granted; p. 3. 51 Carole Gerson, ‘Literature of Settlement’ in The Cambridge History of Canadian Literature, ed. by Coral Ann Howells and Eva-Marie Kröller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 87-103 (p. 87). 52 Jones, ‘Carman: Animula vagula blandula’, p. 34. 53 Sir Charles G. D. Roberts, ‘A Note on Modernism’ (1931), in An English Canadian Poetic: Vol 1. The Confederation Poets, ed. by Robert Hogg (Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2009), pp. 139-42 (p. 141). 54 Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit, p. 38. 55 Ibid., p. 52. 56 Weir, Decadent Culture in the United States, p. 52. 57 Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit, p. 41. 58 Current Literature: A Magazine of Record and Review, X (May-August, 1892), p. 275. 59 Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit, pp. 43, 44. 60 Ibid., p. 83. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid., pp. 84, 85. 63 Ibid., p. 39. 64 Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism (Durham: Duke University Press, 1987), p. 172. 65 J.-K. Huysmans, Against Nature, trans. by Robert Baldick (London: Penguin, 1959), p. 36. 66 Ibid., p. 148. 67 Oscar Wilde, ‘The Decay of Lying’ in Intentions (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2004), pp. 1-55 (p. 17). 68 Northrop Frye, ‘The Narrative Tradition in English Canadian Poetry’ (Winter 1946), in Northrop Frye in Canada, ed. by Jean O’Grady and David Staines, XII (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003), pp. 55-63 (p. 56). 69 Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion (1987; Toronto: Penguin Books, 1988), pp. 10-11. 70 Bliss Carman, The Kinship of Nature (Boston: L. C. Page & Company, 1903), p. 195. 71 Rebecca Beasley, quoted in Oliver Tearle, T. E. Hulme and Modernism (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), pp. 34-35. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 55 72 Tearle, T. E. Hulme and Modernism, p. 35; Hulme quoted in Tearle, p. 35. 73 Roberts, ‘A Note on Modernism’, p. 141. 
work_5fvvzls6ufbthft4bs4jyyqs4e	----	03. Marber 43 Colum. J.L. & Arts 85 (2019) SINCLAIRE DEVEREUX MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 85 Bloody Foundation? Ethical and Legal Implications of (Not) Removing the Equestrian Statue of Theodore Roosevelt at the American Museum of Natural History Sinclaire Devereux Marber* “Now the statue is bleeding. We did not make it bleed. It is bloody at its very foundation.”1 INTRODUCTION On October 26, 2017, protestors calling themselves the Monument Removal Brigade (“MRB”) splashed red paint on the base of a statue of Theodore Roosevelt outside the American Museum of Natural History (“AMNH,” “Museum,” or “Natural History Museum”) in New York City as a form of public protest art.2 This 1939 sculpture by American artist James Earle Fraser (the “Equestrian Statue of Theodore Roosevelt” or “Equestrian Statue”) portrays the twenty-sixth president of the United States sitting upon a horse, flanked on either side by a standing African man and Native American man intended to represent their respective continents.3 On its anonymous blog, MRB called for the statue’s removal and claimed, “[t]he true damage lies with patriarchy, white supremacy, and settler-colonialism embodied by the statue.”4 The Mayoral Advisory Commission on City Art, Monuments, and * Sinclaire Marber is a litigation Associate at White & Case LLP, New York. She received her LL.M. in Intellectual Property from the London School of Economics, J.D. from Columbia Law School, ALM in Museum Studies from Harvard, and B.A. in the History of Art from Yale. She was previously an Articles Editor for the Columbia Journal of Law & the Arts. The author would like to thank Professor Tatiana Flessas for her supervision of the dissertation on which this article is based, and dedicate this article to her late grandfather, the sculptor William Klapp. Any views expressed in this article are strictly those of the author and should not be attributed in any way to White & Case LLP. White & Case means the international legal practice comprising White & Case LLP, a New York State registered limited liability partnership, and all other affiliated partnerships, companies and entities. This Article is prepared for the general information of interested persons. It is not, and does not attempt to be, comprehensive in nature. Due to the general nature of its content, it should not be regarded as legal advice. 1. Prelude to the Removal of a Monument, MONUMENT REMOVAL BRIGADE (Oct. 26, 2017), https://perma.cc/3ULA-HQBE. 2. Colin Moynihan, Protesters Deface Roosevelt Statue Outside Natural History Museum, N.Y. TIMES (Oct. 26, 2017), https://perma.cc/F7TZ-2FCT. 3. A.L. FREUNDLICH, THE SCULPTURE OF JAMES EARLE FRASER 123 (2001); MAYORAL ADVISORY COMM’N ON CITY ART, MONUMENTS, & MARKERS, REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK (Jan. 2018), https://perma.cc/F63H-GSFN [hereinafter REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK]. 4. MONUMENT REMOVAL BRIGADE, supra note 1. © 2019 Sinclaire Marber. This is an open access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives License, which permits noncommercial use, distribution, and reproduction, provided the original author and source MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 86 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 Markers (the “Commission”) conducted a study of controversial monuments on public land in New York City and was unable to agree on an appropriate fate for the AMNH statue; for this reason, it has remained in place for the time being.5 In July of 2019, the AMNH opened a special exhibition entitled Addressing the Statue.6 This AMNH protest occurred within a larger national conversation about the place of public monuments, especially those commemorating leaders of the Confederacy.7 But the current debate often lacks scholarly rigor, with little consideration of the history, intention, or artistic merit of the monuments in question, or the federal, state, local, and administrative laws governing their removal or modification. This Article draws upon the disciplines of art history, museum studies, and the law to contextualize the AMNH Equestrian Statue and expand upon the Commission’s and AMNH’s analyses to develop a suggested framework for considering controversial monuments in the future. I. THEODORE ROOSEVELT (1858–1919): HERO TALE OR AMERICAN PROBLEM?8 There is an abundance of literature on Theodore Roosevelt and far too much information to summarize here.9 Therefore, this Part is limited to the aspects of Roosevelt’s life most salient to the Article, namely his connection to the American Museum of Natural History and his theories on race. Familiar aspects of Roosevelt’s personality and activities may seem highly contradictory to a modern reader— scientist and eugenicist, hunter and conservationist, progressive and imperialist. However, Roosevelt grew up and came to power at a time when these attitudes were considered part of a coherent, rational worldview. This is not to shield his distasteful ideas from criticism, but rather to anchor them in a complex period of American history when the post-Civil War United States was struggling to come to terms with its violent treatment of formerly-enslaved and indigenous peoples. Museums and public monuments became an important tool to rationalize the past and create a positive sense of national identity going into the twentieth century.10 Today, are credited. 5. REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK, supra note 3. See also, e.g., Holland Cotter, Half- Measures Won’t Erase the Painful Past of Our Monuments, N.Y. TIMES (Jan. 12, 2018), https://perma.cc/ NQG5-P2MT. 6. Nancy Coleman, Angered by This Roosevelt Statue? A Museum Wants Visitors to Weigh In, N.Y. TIMES (July 15, 2019), https://perma.cc/7J7K-HBZG; Addressing the Statue, AM. MUSEUM NAT. HIST., https://perma.cc/T7G4-5YPH (last visited Oct. 3, 2019). 7. See, e.g., Jacey Fortin, The Statue at the Center of Charlottesville’s Storm, N.Y. TIMES (Aug. 13, 2017), https://perma.cc/C8JC-FMCC; Liam Stack, Charlottesville Confederate Statues Are Protected by State Law, Judge Rules, N.Y. TIMES (May 1, 2019), https://perma.cc/RD88-YPLD. 8. This subtitle is derived from the titles of two books: HENRY CABOT LODGE & THEODORE ROOSEVELT, HERO TALES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY (1895); THEODORE ROOSEVELT, AMERICAN PROBLEMS (1910). 9. For the most comprehensive account of Roosevelt, see Edmund Morris’s three-volume biography, the first book of which was awarded both a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award. EDMUND MORRIS, THE RISE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT (rev. ed. 2010); THEODORE REX (rev. ed. 2010); COLONEL ROOSEVELT (rev. ed. 2010). 10. See generally KIRK SAVAGE, STANDING SOLDIERS, KNEELING SLAVES: RACE, WAR, AND MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 87 however, the historical narrative embodied by these museums and monuments is being challenged—or defended—from many sides of an increasingly polarized and activist public, as evidenced by the controversy over the Equestrian Statue of Theodore Roosevelt. A. THE BORN NATURALIST The Equestrian Statue is the focal point of the larger Theodore Roosevelt Memorial, which forms the entrance to the American Museum of Natural History. After Roosevelt died in 1919, the New York State Legislature formed a Memorial Association, which determined that the most suitable location to honor the late president was the AMNH.11 It is no exaggeration to say that Theodore Roosevelt grew up alongside the Museum, and he remained involved with the institution throughout his life. His affluent father was able to avoid service in the Civil War and instead focused on philanthropic endeavors in Manhattan, including the founding of museums. Indeed, the AMNH Charter was signed in the Roosevelt home on April 8, 1869.12 As a sickly child, Roosevelt spent many hours poring over natural history books, and when he was able to, he explored the outdoors at the family summer home. Biographer Edmund Morris writes that, “[e]ven in these early years, [Roosevelt’s] knowledge of natural history was abnormal.”13 At the age of seven, “Teedie” began what he and his cousins christened the “Roosevelt Museum of Natural History,” composed of any specimens that he could find.14 In 1872, the AMNH acquired the first of many donations from Theodore: “one bat, twelve mice, a turtle, the skull of a red squirrel, and four bird eggs presented by TR, then a teenager active in taxidermy and collecting.”15 In the following years, Roosevelt pursued natural history at Harvard University and began writing on the subject.16 B. FROM CABINETS OF CURIOSITY TO NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUMS The heyday of American natural history museums and ethnographic collecting occurred during the second half of the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth centuries—a period encompassing Roosevelt’s entire life.17 As described in a recent International Council of Museums publication, early museums were “the physical MONUMENT IN NINETEENTH-CENTURY AMERICA (1997). 11. LANDMARKS PRES. COMM’N, AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY, MEMORIAL HALL, THEODORE ROOSEVELT MEMORIAL BUILDING, LP-0889 (July 22, 1975) [hereinafter AMNH LANDMARK DESIGNATION]. 12. John A. Gable, Theodore Roosevelt and the American Museum of Natural History, 8 THEODORE ROOSEVELT ASS’N J., Summer 1982, at 2, 2. 13. MORRIS, THE RISE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT, supra note 9, at 17. 14. Id. at 17–18. 15. Gable, supra note 12, at 2. 16. Id. 17. Anthony Alan Shelton, Museums and Anthropologies: Practices and Narratives, in A COMPANION TO MUSEUM STUDIES 64, 64–65 (Sharon Macdonald ed., 2011); see also Christopher A. Norris, The Future of Natural History Collections, in THE FUTURE OF NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUMS 13, 14 (Eric Dorfman ed., 2018). MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 88 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 manifestation of our species’ attempt to integrate rational thought with the understanding of the natural and cultural worlds.”18 Scholars identify many precursors to the modern museum, but most apt for this Article are the “cabinets of curiosity” that began appearing during the Age of Discovery.19 From approximately the sixteenth to seventeenth centuries, wealthy collectors arranged exotic natural specimens, art, and ethnographic material from around the world together in special display rooms.20 It was not until the Enlightenment, when there was a newfound interest in creating rational systems by which to organize objects, that modern museological distinctions began to emerge.21 As eclectic “cabinets of curiosity” gradually developed and stratified into natural history museums, ethnographic museums, zoos, botanical gardens, and art museums, the classification and placement of indigenous cultural property became laden with ideology.22 In particular, the decision to display “non-Western” material culture as “artifacts” or “specimens” in natural history museums instead of as “art” in art museums both reflects and conveys attitudes about the value and standing of certain cultures over others.23 American natural history museums, including the AMNH, have tended to contain both scientific and ethnographic or artistic collections. The early AMNH promoted a theory of cultural evolution; that is, “an illustrative method by which external and internal colonial ideologies based on notions of tutelage over so-called inferior races could be legitimated.”24 A young Roosevelt read Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859), and in later life, was untroubled by the transfer of the scientific theory of evolution to the sociopolitical arena.25 Although the theory of cultural evolution largely has been discarded as archaic pseudoscience, during Roosevelt’s life “such racially based theories were not considered outside the scientific mainstream.”26 18. Kirk Johnson, Foreword to THE FUTURE OF NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUMS, supra note 17, at xviii. 19. Anna Omedes & Ernesto Páramo, The Evolution of Natural History Museums and Science Centers, in THE FUTURE OF NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUMS, supra note 17, at 168, 169–70. The Age of Discovery, a period during which explorers sought new routes to foreign lands, extended from the mid- fifteenth to the mid-sixteenth century. Jean Brown Mitchell, The Age of Discovery, ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, https://perma.cc/W8JG-RCRF (last visited Sept. 19, 2019). 20. Omedes & Páramo, supra note 19, at 168, 169–70. 21. The Enlightenment spanned the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Brian Duignan, Enlightenment, ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, https://perma.cc/WCJ9-D83C (last visited Oct. 20, 2019). 22. Omedes & Páramo, supra note 19, at 170–72; Shelton, supra note 17, at 65. 23. See, e.g., THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF ART: A READER (Howard Morphy & Morgan Perkins eds., 2006). 24. Shelton, supra note 17, at 69. The participation of museums like the AMNH in rampant “expeditions” to collect objects from outside of (and subsequently display within) Europe and the United States embodied such theories, in that they indicated a perceived dominance on the museums’ part. See id. at 67. 25. Merriam-Webster dates the term “social Darwinism” to 1877 and defines it as “an extension of Darwinism to social phenomena; specifically: a sociological theory that sociocultural advance is the product of intergroup conflict and competition and the socially elite classes . . . possess biological superiority in the struggle for existence.” Social Darwinism, MERRIAM-WEBSTER, https://perma.cc/ 6P3Y-STU2 (last visited Sept. 19, 2019). See also DARRIN LUNDE, THE NATURALIST: THEODORE ROOSEVELT, A LIFETIME OF EXPLORATION, AND THE TRIUMPH OF AMERICAN NATURAL HISTORY 113 (2016). 26. Norris, supra note 17, at 14. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 89 Arguably, these attitudes are still embodied by the AMNH, which, in addition to scientific exhibitions, maintains “Human Origins and Cultural Halls,” including a “Hall of African Peoples” and “Hall of Plains Indians.”27 This context is particularly important when considering protests against the Equestrian Statue outside, which, as discussed infra, depicts African and Native American men below Roosevelt. Natural history museums in their modern form were an outgrowth of not only “cabinets of curiosity,” but also nineteenth-century World’s Fairs, and often became permanent homes for the fairs’ temporary exhibitions.28 The first international exposition was the 1851 Crystal Palace in London, which served as an opportunity for Britain to showcase its technological advancement as well as its colonial domination. In the United States, World’s Fairs became an important marker of continued progress in the wake of the Civil War.29 These venues also housed the most disturbing exhibitions on record: human zoos. As described by the Musée du Quai Branly in Paris, which mounted a 2011 exhibition on the topic: “[W]omen, men and children [were] brought from Africa, Asia, Oceania and America to be exhibited in the Western world during circus shows, theatre or cabaret performances, fairs, zoos, parades, reconstructed villages or international and colonial fairs.”30 The AMNH was complicit in this heinous practice. In 1904, Ota Benga, a Congolese pygmy, was brought to participate in a living anthropology exhibit at the St. Louis World Fair and then transferred to live in the AMNH.31 The inhumanity and cruelty of living exhibitions would be unthinkable in a museum today, but these exhibitions demonstrate a strange combination of subjugation and Enlightenment desire to preserve for study a way of life perceived to be endangered by cultural evolution and the “inevitable” dominance of white, Western societies.32 C. CONSERVATION THROUGH DESTRUCTION Roosevelt’s interest in natural history was tied to hunting and westward expansion. Roosevelt had traveled to the Dakota Territory in the early 1880s to start a cattle ranch. Although the endeavor failed, it stoked Roosevelt’s lifelong interest in the region and inspired him to write Winning of the West, an ode to Manifest 27. Permanent Exhibitions—Human Origins and Cultural Halls, AM. MUSEUM NAT. HIST., https:/ /perma.cc/89RQ-AA64 (last visited Sept. 19, 2019). AMNH has recently taken a new approach to at least one problematic diorama in the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall by overlaying the glass with text urging visitors to “reconsider[] this scene.” See Ana Fota, What’s Wrong With This Diorama? You Can Read All About It, N.Y. TIMES (Mar. 20, 2019), https://perma.cc/9GHZ-EMSW. 28. Robert W. Rydell, World Fairs and Museums, in A COMPANION TO MUSEUM STUDIES, supra note 17, at 136. 29. Id. at 135. 30. Human Zoos: The Invention of the Savage, MUSÉE DU QUAI BRANLY, https://perma.cc/D8AX- BHSM (last visited Sept. 19, 2019). 31. PHILIP DRAY, THE FAIR CHASE: THE EPIC STORY OF HUNTING IN AMERICA 277–78 (2018); Rydell, supra note 28, at 147–48. See also PHILLIPS VERNER BRADFORD & HARVEY BLUME, OTA BENGA: THE PYGMY IN THE ZOO (1992); PAMELA NEWKIRK, SPECTACLE: THE ASTONISHING LIFE OF OTA BENGA (2016). 32. Shelton, supra note 17, at 69. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 90 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 Destiny and his own experience on the frontier.33 Upon returning to New York, Roosevelt formed the Boone & Crockett Club, a lobbying organization for the preservation of wild game. Although today hunting is often considered the antithesis of conservation, for Roosevelt and his fellow naturalists, the collecting and taxidermy of specimens were methods by which they could preserve and invoke national pride in the environment.34 For some Club members, such philosophies also extended “to irresponsible pseudo-scientific speculation about the alleged inferiority of racial and ethnic categories of humans.”35 Native Americans and formerly enslaved peoples were often perceived to be closer to a state of nature and thus superior hunters, and many served as guides for eager white sportsmen like Roosevelt. Morris describes Roosevelt’s attitude toward African Americans as “enlightened” for his time,36 and, in fact, Roosevelt explicitly characterized the transport of African slaves to the United States as a “crime” in Winning of the West.37 However, after his presidential terms, Roosevelt set out on an expedition to Africa in order to hunt big game for the AMNH and was reported to have treated his local guides with condescension—even as he was wholly dependent on them for his safety.38 Participating in the Boone & Crockett Club was, in a sense, Roosevelt’s first foray into politics. Thereafter, he helped establish the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., and pass the Forest Reserve Act.39 During his tenure as president from 1901 to 1909, Roosevelt created five national parks, established the National Forest Service, and passed the Antiquities Act of 1906, which “obligates federal agencies . . . to preserve for present and future generations the historic, scientific, commemorative, and cultural values of the archaeological and historic sites and structures on these lands . . . [and] authorizes the President to protect landmarks, structures, and objects of historic or scientific interest . . . .”40 Many consider the Antiquities Act the first step in a series of laws culminating with the Native American Graves and Repatriation Act of 1990, a landmark piece of legislation attempting to support indigenous communities.41 Roosevelt’s beliefs regarding Native Americans changed over the course of his 33. THEODORE ROOSEVELT, WINNING OF THE WEST: FROM THE ALLEGHENIES TO THE MISSISSIPPI (1889). Manifest Destiny refers to the “supposed inevitability of the continued territorial expansion of the boundaries of the United States . . . .” Jeanne T. Heidler & David S. Heidler, Manifest Destiny, ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, https://perma.cc/3932-NN7H (last visited Sept. 19, 2019). 34. LUNDE, supra note 25, at 5–6, 106, 184, 226; MORRIS, THE RISE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT, supra note 9, at 388. 35. DRAY, supra note 31, at 7. 36. MORRIS, THE RISE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT, supra note 9, at 466. 37. ROOSEVELT, WINNING OF THE WEST, supra note 33, at 8. 38. DRAY, supra note 31, at 268. 39. MORRIS, THE RISE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT, supra note 9, at 387–89. 40. American Antiquities Act of 1906, NAT’L PARK SERV., https://perma.cc/6K6B-LLN9 (last visited Oct. 20, 2019). 41. See generally Lindee R. Grabouski, Thesis, Smoke and Mirrors: A History of NAGPRA and the Evolving U.S. View of the American Indian 1, 5 (May 2011) (unpublished M.A. thesis, University of Nebraska – Lincoln) (on file with the History Department, University of Nebraska – Lincoln), https:// perma.cc/FD8Z-G6ZJ. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 91 lifetime. As a rancher in the Dakotas, his attitude was, as Morris describes, “no more tolerant than that of any cowboy.”42 His historical studies for Winning of the West appear to have transformed intolerance into paternalism: “[H]e looked on the red man not as an adversary but as a ward of the state, whom it was his duty to protect.”43 What much scholarship has failed to point out, however, is that this view was deeply enmeshed with contemporaneous scientific and museological theories which were coopted in the creation of an American national identity in the wake of the Civil War. Morris characterizes Roosevelt’s philosophy thusly: “Once civilization was established, the aborigine must be raised and refined as quickly as possible, so that he may partake of every opportunity available to the master race—in other words, become master of himself, free to challenge and beat the white man in any field of endeavor.”44 In short, Roosevelt adhered to the theory of cultural evolution; while he professed to believe in the inherent capacity of all races, he also believed that whites were farther along on the road of human development, in part due to their subjugation of others. The desire to document the “progress” of humanity was not unique to Roosevelt nor the United States, as is reflected in the ossified cases of ethnographic, anthropological, and natural history museums around the world. Theodore Roosevelt left a complicated legacy, in his writings and his actions, of both preservation and exploitation that has not been resolved to this day. He can be seen as either a villain or a hero depending on the lens through which his impact on the American story is viewed. II. JAMES EARLE FRASER (1876–1953): “THE MOST FAMOUS UNKNOWN SCULPTOR”45 James Earle Fraser is hardly a household name, although students may have unknowingly come across reproductions of his oeuvre in history textbooks. Unlike Theodore Roosevelt, who has generated enormous amounts of scholarly and popular material, there is only one recent biography on Fraser and a few articles published during his lifetime. Yet Fraser was one of the most important American sculptors in the first half of the twentieth century. His work bridges the figurative monument tradition prominent in the decades after the Civil War, which promoted public sculpture to “uplift Americans,” and the modernist movement that arose in the wake of World War I.46 In addition to securing numerous government commissions during his life—including some of the most well-known monuments in Washington, D.C.— Fraser was a teacher at, founder of, and contributor to many central arts organizations of the time.47 Today, Fraser’s most familiar works include two representations of 42. MORRIS, RISE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT, supra note 9, at 304. 43. Id. at 466. 44. Id. at 477. 45. JAMES A. PERCOCO, SUMMERS WITH LINCOLN: LOOKING FOR THE MAN IN THE MONUMENTS 170 (1st ed. 2008). 46. FREUNDLICH, supra note 3, at 99. 47. Joan M. Marter, James Earle Fraser, in 2 AMERICAN SCULPTURE IN THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART: A CATALOGUE OF WORKS BY ARTISTS BORN BETWEEN 1865 AND 1885, at 596 (Thayer Tolles ed., 2001). MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 92 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 Native Americans: the sculpture The End of the Trail and the Indian-Buffalo nickel.48 In current discussions about the place of public monuments, Fraser serves as a reminder that sculptures were created by artists who brought to the process their own contexts and agendas, which were often lost over time or overshadowed by controversial subjects. A. BORN ON THE FRONTIER Fraser was born in Winona, Minnesota, on November 4, 1876. Shortly thereafter, his father moved the family to the Dakota Territory to oversee the expansion of railroads. “Jimmy” spent the first decade of his life on wide open land, amongst local frontier characters, wildlife, and Sioux populations. As his biographer A.L. Freundlich writes, Fraser always maintained “romantic longings [of] Indians of his youth,” and his childhood experiences would prove a significant artistic influence.49 In 1890, the Frasers moved to Chicago, Illinois. At only thirteen, James apprenticed with a well-known sculptor working on commissions for the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. Romanticized representations of the West and American progress further inspired Fraser, and in 1897, he set off to France, capital of the art world, to pursue a career in sculpture.50 Although late-nineteenth century Paris was at the forefront of artistic innovation, Fraser took a more conservative path. Following academic tradition, he studied classical sculpture and the history of Western art. Nevertheless, exposure to such pioneers as Auguste Rodin would lead Fraser to imbue his subjects with more naturalism than the typical academic sculptor. In 1898, he was awarded the Wanamaker Prize at the American Art Association of Paris by James McNeil Whistler and Augustus Saint-Gaudens.51 Saint-Gaudens invited the young Fraser to remain in Paris and assist with his last monumental commission, an equestrian portrait of Union hero William Tecumseh Sherman. When Saint-Gaudens was diagnosed with cancer and had to return to the United States, Fraser became chief assistant in the master’s New Hampshire studio. Among Saint-Gaudens’ last projects was a redesign of the ten- and twenty-dollar gold pieces by President Theodore Roosevelt, with whom he had been friends since at least the late 1880s.52 B. A SCULPTOR OF PRESIDENTS No doubt Saint-Gaudens’s relationship with Roosevelt gave unusual access to Fraser, who considered the president a friend and sculpted him on more than one occasion. Even after moving to New York in 1902 to begin an independent career, Fraser remained loyally in touch with Saint-Gaudens until his mentor’s death in 48. FREUNDLICH, supra note 3, at vii. 49. Id. at 6. 50. Id. at 4–6; Marter, supra note 47, at 596. 51. FREUNDLICH, supra note 3, at 13–20. 52. Thayer Tolles, Augustus Saint-Gaudens (1848–1907), METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART (Oct. 2004), https://perma.cc/DQ3H-4B6C. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 93 1907. When Saint-Gaudens had to give up the opportunity to sculpt Roosevelt for the Senate in 1906, he passed the job on to his favorite apprentice. It was at this time that Roosevelt and Fraser became acquainted, which led to additional portraits. After sculpting Roosevelt, Fraser gained other prominent public commissions around the country, especially in Washington, D.C. and New York. He sculpted figures like Thomas Edison, Benjamin Franklin (unveiled by Roosevelt), Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamilton. Perhaps the crowning achievement of his career was the sixty- one-foot temporary sculpture of George Washington created for the New York World’s Fair in 1939.53 Before he became a giant among artists, Fraser set up a modest studio on MacDougal Alley, which backed up to Washington Square mansions. The original servants’ quarters and carriage houses became what one writer at the time called an “artists’ colony”—and this was the beginning of Greenwich Village as it is known today.54 Fraser’s neighbors included Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, a loyal patron who would later create the Whitney Museum of American Art. Her husband, Henry Payne Whitney, was also a philanthropist of the AMNH. Fraser made a celebrated bas-relief portrait of their children (their daughter Flora would grow up to be engaged to Roosevelt’s son Quentin).55 Social connections were extremely important for an emerging sculptor. For the first decade of his career in New York, Fraser made his living from portraits of prominent families. Among these subjects was Morris Ketchum Jessup, president of the AMNH.56 Private portraits paid the bills, and the resulting contacts opened doors to more prestigious commissions. C. THE EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT Fraser was a natural choice for the sculptor of the New York State Roosevelt Memorial. Yet Fraser had less artistic license than one might imagine for an artist of his stature. The Memorial Association, AMNH Board of Trustees (which included Roosevelt’s family), and New York State Legislature dictated the subject matter: “an equestrian statue of Roosevelt with two accompanying figures on foot, one an American Indian and the other a native African representing his gun bearers and suggestive of Roosevelt’s interest in the original peoples of these widely separated countries.”57 The inclusion of a black African in the Equestrian Statue is particularly striking given the fact that black Americans were conspicuously absent from monuments after the Civil War (Native Americans were more common); the sculpture bypasses the issue of slavery by returning to a classicized allegorical 53. FREUNDLICH, supra note 3, at 20–23, 84, 132; Marter, supra note 47, at 596; see also C.L.J., The Memorial to Ben Franklin, 46 SCI. MONTHLY 484, 485 (1938). 54. Marter, supra note 47, at 596; Value Conflicts, in GERALD W. MCFARLAND, INSIDE GREENWICH VILLAGE: A NEW YORK CITY NEIGHBORHOOD 1898-1918, at 171 (2001); Helen Christine Bennett, James Earle Fraser, Sculptor, 1 ARTS & DECORATION 375, 375–76 (1911). 55. Bennett, supra note 54, at 375–76. 56. FREUNDLICH, supra note 3, at 33–36. 57. Id. at 123; George N. Pindar, The New York State Roosevelt Memorial, 42 SCI. MONTHLY 280, 280–84 (1936). MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 94 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 figure.58 The architect John Russell Pope simultaneously designed a new façade for the museum reminiscent of a classical triumphal arch, through which the sculpture of Roosevelt would appear to ride like a Roman emperor.59 Once the design was finalized, sculpting and casting was a multi-year process that, in this case, took so long (a decade from its commission) that the State threatened to withdraw funding. Fraser was involved with each step: the small-scale clay model, subsequent enlargements, full-sized plaster model, expensive bronze casting in Rhode Island, and finally the transferring of heavy pieces to Manhattan. Once there, the sculpture was assembled, and engineers had to ensure the piece could securely rest above an underground subway.60 Despite the constraints inherent in commissioned public sculpture, Fraser imbued the figures with his own combination of classicism and naturalism. He had a long history of equestrian portraiture from which to draw inspiration. Placement of the central figure on a horse elevates the subject above the crowds and demonstrates power to subdue those below him. Consequently, one can very easily read into the pyramidal composition of the Equestrian Statue a hierarchy of racial authority. The practice of representing countries by using allegorical figures is, however, also a common trope in public monuments. For example, the corners of the Albert Memorial in London have four figures with symbolic attributes representing Africa, America, Asia, and Europe (Africa, the Camel; America, the Buffalo).61 It should be noted that others, including members of the Mayoral Advisory Commission on City Art, Monuments, and Markers, proffered the alternate interpretation that the Equestrian Statue “was meant to represent Roosevelt’s belief in the unity of the races.”62 As a memorial erected in remembrance of Theodore Roosevelt, the Equestrian Statue is by definition a monument. But monument also means “a lasting evidence,” which aptly describes the goal of many artists representing Native Americans in the late nineteenth century.63 During this period, there was a widespread perception that indigenous populations were dying out, a myth that lent itself to Romantic representations with varying degrees of offensiveness.64 An 1855 New York Times review of the poem “Hiawatha,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, illustrates the more egregious views: [“Hiawatha” embalms] pleasantly enough the monstrous traditions of an uninteresting 58. See SAVAGE, supra note 10, at 5, 10 (“Slavery could hardly even be acknowledged in public space without exploding the myth of a democratically unified people from the very outset.”). 59. AMNH LANDMARK DESIGNATION, supra note 11. 60. FREUNDLICH, supra note 3, at 125–27. 61. The Albert Memorial, ROYAL PARKS, https://perma.cc/GK5T-YPAJ (last visited Nov. 8, 2019). 62. REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK, supra note 3, at 25. 63. Monument, MERRIAM-WEBSTER, https://perma.cc/N52X-PUW9 (last visited Aug. 22, 2018). 64. See Brian W. Dippie, This Bold but Wasting Race: Stereotypes and American Indian Policy, MONT.: MAG. W. HIST., Winter 1973, at 2, 4 (“Although anthropologists, statisticians, government officials and a myriad of Indian experts have been denying the theory of the Vanishing Race since the middle of the nineteenth century, its principal tenets are deeply engrained in American thought and remain potent to this day in popular culture.”). MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 95 and, one may almost say, a justly exterminated race . . . . Indian legends, like Indian arrow-heads, are well enough to hang up in cabinets for the delectation of the curious . . . [but] are too clumsy, too monstrous, too unnatural to be touched by the Poet.65 As described above, Fraser is best known for his sculpture The End of the Trail, which depicts a weary Native American atop a horse, spear and head pointing down.66 In Fraser’s own words, the pushing of the Indians farther West and destruction of the wild buffalo population were the “tragedy” of his boyhood. Although Fraser does not portray indigenous peoples in as pejorative a manner as many of his contemporaries, his work still betrays a naïve paternalism that took hold in the nineteenth century, lamenting the perceived loss of a people who represented a simpler way of life—a stereotype at the heart of the AMNH protests. Just as this Article does not seek to defend the racial views of Theodore Roosevelt, it does not argue that the work of James Earle Fraser illustrates an enlightened view of cultural diversity: Both men evidently believed in white dominance as natural order. However, Roosevelt and Fraser also had sincere, if paternalistic, admiration for indigenous cultures and a desire to preserve images and artifacts in what was, for the time, a relatively respectful manner.67 Additionally, it is undeniable that the Equestrian Statue has inherent artistic and art historical merit. While protesters focusing on the optics of the sculpture are rightly concerned with the narrative it conveys to Museum visitors and passersby, the historical context of the subject and artist cannot be forgotten when considering demands to remove, destroy, or alter any public monument. III. NEW YORK’S MEMORY WARS68 A. STATUE SUITS The 1924 bronze equestrian Statue of Robert E. Lee (the “Lee Statue”) in Charlottesville, Virginia, has been considered problematic for years. In 2015, protestors spray-painted its base with the words “Black Lives Matter.”69 One year later, a high school student petitioned the Charlottesville City Council (the “Council”) to take down the Confederate monument; the Council considered relocating or adding historical information before voting to remove it altogether. Opponents of removal promptly sued Charlottesville, asserting that war memorials are protected under Virginia law and are not within the power of the Council to 65. Longfellow’s Poem, N.Y. TIMES (Dec. 28, 1855), https://perma.cc/J36F-48ZJ. 66. Dippie, supra note 64, at 11. 67. See, e.g., Nicholas Lemann, What to Do with Monuments Whose History We’ve Forgotten, NEW YORKER (Nov. 26, 2017), https://perma.cc/6LC5-CCYV (“Ideas about the biologically determined ordering of the races were almost universal among the gentry of the day, and those who held them thought of themselves as benign in their intentions.”). 68. The phrase “memory wars” is taken from debates about France’s colonial past. See, e.g., DAVID RIEFF, IN PRAISE OF FORGETTING: HISTORICAL MEMORY AND ITS IRONIES 12 (2016). 69. Fortin, supra note 7. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 96 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 alter.70 The statue remained in place. But on Friday, August 11, 2017, white nationalists marched upon Charlottesville to protest the potential removal and were met by determined counterdemonstrators. The rally turned violent; one person was killed, and many others were injured. In May 2019, Judge Richard Moore issued a letter concluding that the statue was a war “monument or memorial” under Virginia law, but declined to rule on other issues still pending in the case.71 In the wake of the Charlottesville protest, other American cities have revisited their controversial monuments. In Baltimore, Maryland, for example, the mayor ordered the removal of four Confederate memorials, two of which had already been protested against in the form of red paint and the words “Black Lives Matter.” The mayor argued she had authority to remove the monuments “under her power to safeguard the public.”72 The Maryland Historical Trust (“MHT”), a state agency, disputed the mayor’s claim, citing a 1984 contract with the city authorizing MHT to make final decisions on changes to monuments. However, MHT has announced no plans to compel restoration, nor initiated legal action against the mayor or Baltimore.73 A year after the removal, MHT was still working with the city to determine where best to place the memorials.74 The cases of Charlottesville and Baltimore illustrate that, although legal structures governing removal decisions may vary from state to state, the problem of what to do with controversial public monuments is complex and rarely more heated than when the Civil War is involved. As described by Kirk Savage in Standing Soldiers, Kneeling Slaves, the “history of slavery and its violent end was told in public space—specifically in the sculptural monuments . . . . Public monuments were at the center of this highly abstract, and yet terrifying, conflict—a conflict that lasted long after Reconstruction’s official demise.”75 The primary philosophical divide embodied by post-Civil War monuments is the competing stories of North and South, which often chose to honor different historic figures. Robert E. Lee embodied the Confederate “Lost Cause” while Abraham Lincoln represented the victorious Union—these figures inevitably meant different things to those on either side of the war (and today mean different things to persons in different regions of the country). For those arguing Confederate memorials cannot—at the very least—remain as they are without added historical 70. See, e.g., Lawsuit to Stop Charlottesville from Moving Lee Statue Allowed to Go Forward, WHSV (Oct. 4, 2017), https://perma.cc/4GTX-U4HP; Charlottesville Judge: Council Members Don’t Have Immunity in Statue Lawsuits, WHSV (June 15, 2018), https://perma.cc/69YY-H3YA. 71. Letter from Judge Richard Moore Ruling on Motion for Partial Summary Judgment, Payne v. City of Charlottesville (No. 17–145) (Va. Cir. Ct. Apr. 25, 2019); see also Letter from Judge Moore Ruling on Immunity and Revisiting Damages Issue, Payne v. City of Charlottesville (No. 17–145) (Va. Cir. Ct. June 13, 2018). 72. Ian Duncan, Baltimore Lacked Authority To Take Down Confederate Statues, and State Says It Could—But Won’t—Order Them Restored, BALTIMORE SUN (Oct. 26, 2017), https://perma.cc/VC6N- 9CKW. 73. Id. 74. Jean Marbella, One Year Since Baltimore’s Confederate Monuments were Removed in the Night, the Issues They Raised Remain, BALTIMORE SUN (Aug. 16, 2018), https://perma.cc/7ZC7-Y39Q. 75. SAVAGE, supra note 10, at 3–4. “Reconstruction” refers to the decade of political changes after the Civil War. See, e.g., Eric Foner, Reconstruction, ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, https://perma.cc/MD89-TH24 (last visited Oct. 23, 2019). MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 97 context, such monuments heroize those who fought to maintain slavery and are an attack on egalitarian principles the country ought to embody.76 To those who want to maintain the status quo, the sculptures are part of a history that should not be destroyed.77 President Donald Trump falls in the latter camp, according to a series of tweets: “Sad to see the history and culture of our great country being ripped apart with the removal of our beautiful statues and monuments,” and, “Robert E [sic] Lee, Stonewall Jackson—who’s next, Washington, Jefferson?”78 While President Trump is not renowned for his subtle analysis of complex problems, he does raise an interesting question regarding whether there is a bright line between acceptable and unacceptable subjects for public monuments. Few would equate Lee and Washington, but it must be acknowledged that the first president of the United States, pillar of democratic ideals, owned hundreds of slaves.79 As Nicholas Lemann noted in the New Yorker: “The problem is that almost no long-ago white Americans’ views on race pass muster today.”80 When do the positive contributions of a historic figure outweigh the negative, and who gets to decide? B. SYMBOLS OF HATE In response to the events in Charlottesville, New York City mayor Bill de Blasio announced via Twitter on August 16, 2017, that the City would be “conduct[ing] a 90-day review of all symbols of hate on city property.”81 He followed a minute later with another tweet: “The commemoration for Nazi collaborator Philippe Pétain . . . will be one of the first we remove.”82 De Blasio quickly backtracked from the latter statement, clarifying that a new commission would determine which monuments would be subject to review.83 The Mayoral Advisory Commission on City Art, Monuments, and Markers (“Commission”) was formed officially in September 2017, composed of members with experience in “history, art and antiquities, public art and public space, preservation, cultural heritage, diversity and inclusion, and education.”84 City agencies provided additional expertise, although no lawyers are specifically mentioned—a notable omission considering the legal difficulties encountered by Charlottesville and Baltimore.85 Before addressing the methods of 76. See Anna Dubenko, Right and Left on Removal of Confederate Statues, N.Y. TIMES (Aug. 18, 2017), https://perma.cc/2FTD-SF5W. 77. See id. 78. Jeremy Diamond, Trump Calls Removal of Confederate Monuments ‘So Foolish,’ CNN (Aug. 17, 2017), https://perma.cc/7LHY-SJC9. 79. Slavery, GEORGE WASHINGTON’S MOUNT VERNON, https://perma.cc/6NL2-E9N9 (last visited July 27, 2018). 80. Lemann, supra note 67. 81. Bill de Blasio (@NYCMayor), TWITTER (Aug. 16, 2017, 2:02 PM), https://perma.cc/B2K3- 8SKZ. 82. Bill de Blasio (@NYCMayor), TWITTER (Aug. 16, 2017, 2:03 PM), https://perma.cc/VM97- 8WA7. 83. William Neuman, Ordering Review of Statues Puts de Blasio in Tricky Spot, N.Y. TIMES (Aug. 30, 2017), https://perma.cc/559D-DYE9. 84. REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK, supra note 3, at 4. 85. Id. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 98 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 the Commission in more detail, it is worth reproducing parts of the introductory statement from its January 2018 report, which encapsulates well the competing interests of diverse stakeholders: New York City’s current collection of monuments and markers celebrates some histories and erases others. Redressing this issue should be a process that moves beyond an all-or-nothing choice between keeping or removing monuments. We recognize that public dialogue, opportunities for engagement, and debate about history are essential for democracy . . . this report contemplates confronting or removing monuments . . . sometimes the best option will be to add new works of public art or new educational opportunities.86 The Commission proceeded to operate in a three-part process: (1) internal discussions to develop general principles and procedures for conducting monument reviews; (2) public hearings in each of the five boroughs affording residents the opportunity to testify orally and in writing (with additional online surveys); and (3) publication of recommendations to Mayor de Blasio.87 In addition to suggestions for creating new content for the landscape of the city that would foster community engagement and give voice to previously underrepresented communities, the Commission laid out a three-step framework for assessing existing monuments on City property in preparation for recommendations to the mayor. The Commission’s first task was identifying monuments to prioritize for assessment, a process dependent on sustained community opposition.88 The second and third parts of the review process involved conducting comprehensive historical reviews about the life of the subject and “time of memorialization” (including legal analysis of ownership or deed restrictions from that time), and then discussing the present and future based on public input.89 For the Commission’s first report, it applied these four steps to the Dr. J. Marion Sims Monument and Christopher Columbus Monument in addition to the Pétain Marker and Equestrian Statue.90 The Equestrian Statue was an appropriate subject for Commission review, as it has been protested for nearly fifty years. The first protest occurred on June 14, 1971, when “[s]ix young American Indians were arrested . . . and accused of defacing the state’s memorial to President Theodore Roosevelt with several buckets of red paint.”91 In 2016, the organization Decolonize This Place (“DTP”) published an open letter arguing not only for the renaming of Columbus Day, but for the removal of the Equestrian Statue.92 DTP distributed over 200 free tickets to visitors that day in order to provide tours of the AMNH emphasizing “the history of white supremacy 86. Id. at 2. 87. Id. at 5. 88. Id. at 13. 89. Id. at 14. 90. Id. at 19. 91. Lesley Oelsner, Six Indians Accused of Defacing Theodore Roosevelt Statue Here, N.Y. TIMES (June 15, 1971), https://perma.cc/8VB5-MVNG. 92. Open Letter on Indigenous Peoples’ Day, DECOLONIZE THIS PLACE (Oct. 10, 2016), https:// perma.cc/E92W-AJJD. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 99 and colonialism in the institution’s history and displays.”93 The tours culminated in a rally outside the museum, focused on the Equestrian Statue, which DTP describes as “the most hated monument in New York City.”94 The event was repeated in 2017, followed shortly by the MRB protest.95 C. RECOGNITION OF DISCORD96 Debate among Commission members regarding the Equestrian Statue inevitably centered on Roosevelt’s aforementioned problematic legacy regarding race and, more specifically, the fact that the sculpture might be said to physically embody that ideology. Most would likely agree that Robert E. Lee is the more egregious historical figure of the two, but if one removed knowledge of the identity of the central figure in the Lee Statue, the sculpture is simply a man on a horse. Conversely, even if one did not know that the rider of the Equestrian Statue was Theodore Roosevelt, its iconography still reads as racial hierarchy. In that sense, the artistic and compositional choices made by the Memorial Association and Fraser hold much more power in this sculpture than in other controversial monuments, which become problematic only when one knows the history of the main subject. The Committee claims this area of contention requires further research, but the Equestrian Statue visually embodies problems inherent to memorializing Roosevelt. Despite the admirable goal to avoid an “all-or-nothing choice,” the Committee has perpetuated equivocation on the issue—the Memorial will remain in its current location for the time being without indication of if, when, and how future review might take place.97 The Commission’s report did not address the issue of legal relationships between the Equestrian Statue, American Museum of Natural History, and City of New York. The Commission investigated the place of the sculpture within its larger artistic and architectural scheme, and some advocated for relocating the sculpture, either within the Museum, at a less prominent public location, or in another “historic collection, preferably on City property.”98 A smaller group advocated for “additional context on-site through signage and/or artist-led interventions that can offer multiple interpretations of the sculpture.”99 Yet the Commission failed to address in its report whether such changes could be made legally to the Equestrian Statue. As demonstrated by Charlottesville and Baltimore, that question is not one New York 93. Hrag Vartanian, #DecolonizeThisPlace Demands Removal of Natural History Museum’s Roosevelt Statue, HYPERALLERGIC (Oct. 10, 2016), https://perma.cc/77KJ-W9MB. 94. Open Letter on Indigenous Peoples’ Day, supra note 92. 95. Elena Goukassian, Anti-Columbus Day Tour Attended by Hundreds at the American Museum of Natural History, HYPERALLERGIC (Oct. 10, 2017), https://perma.cc/D437-2SK3. 96. For the source of this subtitle, see REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK, supra note 3, at 26 (“The debate stems from the recognition of discord between the significance of Roosevelt as a major figure in American history—a military leader, expansionist, New York State governor, environmentalist (founder of the United States Forest Service), Nobel Prize winner and US president—and the physical representation of the figures in the sculpture at the entrance of AMNH.”). 97. REPORT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK, supra note 3, at 25–27. 98. Id. at 27. 99. Id. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 100 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 City can ignore. The mundane property laws that govern alterations to controversial monuments often are overlooked in the heated debates taking place across the United States— but nothing can be (legally) accomplished without understanding these statutes. When Theodore Roosevelt Senior and his partners founded the AMNH, they developed what was, at the time, a unique public-private partnership. New York State allowed New York City to “construct a facility for the new [AMNH], and provided use of the City-owned property to the private nonprofit organization.”100 Consequently, although the government does not operate the AMNH, the Museum rests upon City-owned land.101 Additionally, the AMNH is a tax-exempt organization that receives city, state, and federal grants.102 Any alterations to the Memorial therefore likely implicate local landmark laws. The Landmarks Preservation Commission of New York City (“LPC”) was founded in 1965 and “is the largest municipal preservation agency” in the United States, tasked with safeguarding historically significant structures.103 The LPC both designates landmarks and decides whether they may be altered, reconstructed, or demolished—subject to public hearings and consultation with relevant city agencies.104 The law is primarily concerned with maintaining visual coherence of landmarks, and there are criminal and civil penalties for negligence or making such changes without LPC approval.105 The Roosevelt Memorial Building at the AMNH was designated a Landmark Site in 1975. The Designation Report mentions the Equestrian Statue as an integral part of the Memorial but does not specify whether the sculpture itself constitutes an independent landmark or is part of the larger site.106 Indeed, John Russell Pope included a description of the sculpture in his design submission to the Memorial Association. The New York City Administrative Code seems to indicate the Equestrian Statue is a “landscape feature” of the landmark site.107 Thus, any changes would have to be submitted and reviewed by LPC. The primary question is whether alteration, relocation, or removal of the Equestrian Statue undermines the aesthetic and historic coherence of the Roosevelt Memorial, and the answer does not necessarily involve the content of the sculpture.108 100. Funding and Initiatives for Cultural Organizations: City-Owned Institutions, N.Y.C. DEP’T CULTURAL AFF., https://perma.cc/VBA4-KXXV (last visited Sept. 16, 2019). 101. Id. 102. See I.R.C. § 501(c)(3) (2017); Annual Report 2018, AM. MUSEUM NAT. HIST., https://perma.cc/ U77S-5V9W (last visited Sept. 16, 2019). 103. About LPC, LANDMARKS PRES. COMM’N, https://perma.cc/FKA7-D8XL (last visited Oct. 23, 2019). 104. See generally NEW YORK CITY, N.Y., ADMIN. CODE §§ 25-301 to 25-322 (2019). 105. See generally id. 106. AMNH LANDMARK DESIGNATION, supra note 11. A “landmark site” is “[a]n improvement parcel or part thereof on which is situated a landmark and any abutting improvement parcel or part thereof used as and constituting part of the premises on which the landmark is situated, and which has been designated as a landmark site pursuant to the provisions of this chapter.” NEW YORK CITY, N.Y., ADMIN. CODE § 25-302 (2019). 107. NEW YORK CITY, N.Y., ADMIN CODE § 25-302 (2019) (defining “landscape feature” to include “any . . . sculpture or other form of natural or artificial landscaping”). 108. It is beyond the scope of this Article to extensively address the question of moral rights as they MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 101 IV. A NEW FRAMEWORK For centuries, public discourse has focused on either keeping or removing controversial monuments. Indeed, the sanctioned removal and destruction of public monuments has its roots in ancient Rome. By a process modern scholars call damnatio memoriae, senators could issue legal sanctions to erase an individual— generally an ousted emperor—from collective memory and direct the public to assist in the effort.109 Erasure took the form of destroying images, excising names from public documents, burning books written by the condemned, and more. Similar processes have been repeated across the world over the centuries, into the modern era. We need only look to colonial statuary toppled in India and Angola and monuments to Lenin and Stalin torn down after the fall of the Soviet Union.110 April 2018 marked the fifteenth anniversary of the destruction of the statue of Saddam Hussein at the hands of liberated Iraqis.111 In his 2016 book, In Praise of Forgetting, David Rieff controversially posits that society will forget most events in the long term and that short-term memory creates more violence. He argues against the age-old adage, “those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it,” and instead asks, “[w]hat if, over the long term, forgetfulness is inevitable, while even in the comparatively short term the memory of an instance of radical evil . . . does nothing to protect society from future instances of it?”112 He further argues that “collective historical memory” can be misused politically, citing the Reconstruction South as an instance when memories of the Civil War were recast from a battle over slavery into one over states’ rights (allowing the heroization of figures like Lee).113 The purposeful removal or destruction of monuments antithetical to their current communities’ beliefs proves a cathartic and often effective method for erasing controversial figures from the public eye. Although protestors and scholars alike put forth strong arguments in favor of removing controversial sculptures from the public eye, the process of removal is far from simple in the case of most monuments. It seems unlikely the City or AMNH could demolish the Equestrian Statue without implicating landmark laws, even if that were what they wanted. Because the Memorial was designed to include the Equestrian Statue, the LPC would require a strong justification for permanently undermining the integrity of the façade. Moreover, the LPC is charged with would apply to the Equestrian Statue. Nevertheless, clarification is in order given that a recent New York Law Journal article questions whether moral rights exist in the alteration of Confederate monuments. Jana S. Farmer & Adam Bialek, Where Moral Rights May Conflict With The Removal of Confederate Statues, N.Y.L.J. (Dec. 12, 2017), https://perma.cc/Z8XW-P6LQ. The Visual Artists Rights Act of 1990 applies only during the lifetime of the artist. 17 U.S.C. § 106A(d)(1) (2018). None of the creators of the monuments discussed heretofore are living, and so there can be no violation of moral rights under American copyright law. 109. ERIC VARNER, MUTILATION AND TRANSFORMATION: DAMNATIO MEMORIAE AND ROMAN IMPERIAL PORTRAITURE 4 (Brill 2004). 110. RIEFF, supra note 68, at 51–52. 111. Andrea Miller, 15 Years Ago, Iraqis Rejoiced by Toppling Saddam Statue, ABC NEWS (Apr. 9, 2018), https://perma.cc/DR4J-ET9C. 112. RIEFF, supra note 68, at 56. 113. Id. at 39. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 102 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 preservation, and there is inherent artistic and historical value to Fraser’s sculpture that would prevent its destruction.114 However, we cannot afford to leave controversial monuments in their current state, as demonstrated by the violence in Charlottesville. Often it is by creative interaction with such monuments that society can begin to redress historical wrongs. Based in part upon the Commission’s recommendations and the responsive AMNH exhibition (described in further detail below), this Part outlines four methods for lawfully addressing controversial monuments and expands upon the philosophical justifications and legal requirements of each method, in addition to providing examples. These methodologies include: (1) explanatory material to provide context; (2) relocation; (3) addition of new permanent monuments; and (4) temporary, artistic interventions. This new framework discourages binary thinking about these monuments, and instead encourages dialogue about the nuances inherent in a sculpture like the Equestrian Statue while taking into account the practical legal implications of such measures. A. PASSIVE CONTEXTUALIZATION: EXPLANATORY MATERIALS The provision of explanatory materials, whether in a museum, in a government building, or even online, is the easiest and most-cost effective method of addressing controversial monuments, but also the least impactful. Such materials provide “passive context” to those who take the time to seek additional information about monuments but do not change a viewer’s visual perception of a monument. Nevertheless, passive contextualization should be the minimum step for those institutions in possession of controversial monuments. In response to the controversy over the Equestrian Statue, the AMNH has engaged in three forms of passive contextualization: (1) placing placards on the base of the monument; (2) creating an exhibition inside the Museum; and (3) providing more information on its website.115 The small, laminated white placards placed by the AMNH on the base of the Equestrian Statue read: “This statue was unveiled to the public in 1940, as part of a larger New York State memorial to former N.Y. governor and U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt. Today, some see the statue as a heroic group; others, as a symbol of racial hierarchy. You can learn more about this statue inside the Museum and [online].” Although a succinct description of the controversy, the placards demonstrate the primary failing of passive contextualization, as they do not necessitate engagement. A passerby on the other side of the street could still see the Equestrian Statue without seeing these placards. Moreover, one cannot help but notice that these placards look temporary and out of place. A bronze plaque, for 114. See NEW YORK CITY, N.Y., ADMIN CODE § 25-301 (2019) (charging the LPC with protecting landscape features of “special historical or aesthetic interest”). Note that legal destruction is distinct from unsanctioned vandalism. AMNH protesters have only temporarily damaged the sculpture; nevertheless, if an individual was caught doing this in New York City, he or she could be criminally convicted, imprisoned, put on probation, and fined. See N.Y. Penal Law § 145.00. 115. The following observations are based on the Author’s visit to the AMNH on August 22, 2019. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 103 example, would more strongly represent the museum’s acknowledgement of the problematic nature of the Equestrian Statue (and likely interfere less with the visual integrity of the façade). In addition to this external explanatory material, the AMNH also installed an exhibition entitled Addressing the Statue in the summer of 2019. After passing by the Equestrian Statue, one enters the Museum through Roosevelt Memorial Hall, to which the AMNH has made no changes despite the fact that the hall unabashedly celebrates Roosevelt and is adorned with similarly problematic murals and quotations. Addressing the Statue is installed in a back hallway of the first floor of the Museum. As with the exterior placards, the exhibition has an air of impermanence, as if after the debate dies down, the AMNH could quietly remove it. That being said, Addressing the Statue does successfully capture the debate over the Equestrian Statue from both a historical perspective and the viewpoints of modern stakeholders. The exhibition consists of wall text, images, and video interviews with members of the Commission, artists, and museum visitors. The conclusion of Addressing the Statue comprises wall text and graphics under the header “What Should Happen To The Statue.” The AMNH lists only three options for handling the sculpture: (1) “Keep It Up”; (2) “Take It Down”; and (3) “Provide Context.” As described above, “Keep It Up” and “Take It Down” are not viable options for legal and ethical reasons. Although the AMNH properly installed placards and Addressing the Museum to “provide context” to the Equestrian Statue, there are more effective ways to engage with controversial monuments. B. RELOCATION In the context of “take it down,” the AMNH does not explicitly discuss relocation, which in some cases may be a viable alternative to the outright destruction or removal from public view of a monument. The same Commission that decided to leave the Equestrian Statue in place also decided to move the Dr. J. Marion Sims Monument in Central Park. Sims was “a pioneer in the field of gynecology . . . [whose legacy has been reassessed] because of his exploitation of female slaves, who he operated on without anesthesia.”116 The exterior structure of the monument was removed, and the statue was transferred to the cemetery where Sims is buried. The sculpture was not destroyed; rather, relocation “de-heroized” a problematic historical figure.117 As evidenced by the Baltimore case, removing and relocating enormous monuments intended for outdoor display is not as easy as the Sims case might make it seem. Even museums with enough space appear to be hesitant to take such sculptures.118 In the AMNH case, the obvious choice for relocation would be within the Museum, specifically the large interior Roosevelt Hall, where there are already other tributes to the twenty-sixth president. This would seem to be an effective compromise; the Museum could still honor Roosevelt’s contributions, but a blatant 116. William Neuman, City Orders Sims Statue Removed from Central Park, N.Y. TIMES (Apr. 16, 2018), https://perma.cc/US2P-SRVK. 117. Id. 118. Duncan, supra note 72. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 104 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 symbol of racial hierarchy would not be visible to passersby on the street without context. Nevertheless, this is likely an expensive undertaking, and it is unclear who would bear the cost. Additionally, relocation raises the same landmark issues as removal.119 C. ADDITION OF NEW PERMANENT MONUMENTS The permanent addition of new monuments in conversation with older ones may be a successful way to re-contextualize controversial public statues and honor previously underrepresented persons. This has been discussed in connection to Monument Avenue, a residential street in Richmond, Virginia, that is lined with Confederate memorials. In 1996, a sculpture of “black tennis hero Arthur Ashe, a Richmond native, was added . . . provoking a nationally publicized and racially charged dispute.”120 In 2017, as in New York, the mayor of Richmond formed a commission (the “Monument Avenue Commission” or “MAC”) to address these controversial public sculptures. One of the specific “recommended options and opportunities” published in the July 2018 MAC Report was to commission a new monument dedicated to soldiers of the United States Colored Troops, formerly enslaved men who made up more than ten percent of the Union Army and twenty-five percent of the Union Navy.121 The proposal seeks to create a powerful juxtaposition.122 As in the case of Charlottesville and New York City, the alteration of landmark sites does require permission by the appropriate government agency. Despite the appeal of this option—as demonstrated by testimony from interviewed artists and museum visitors included in the AMNH exhibition123—it would be difficult to add new monuments without drastically and permanently changing the front of the AMNH and thus would require LPC approval, just as removal or relocation would. D. ACTIVE RECONTEXTUALIZATION: TEMPORARY ARTISTIC INTERVENTION Given the fact that any permanent changes to the Roosevelt Memorial would require LPC permission and perhaps unavailable funding, the most promising option is temporary interventions that give voice to other communities and provide a means for questioning, reinterpreting, and challenging the Equestrian Statue. As described by critical museologist Anthony Shelton, “[a]rtist interventions in ethnographic museums to expose their paradoxes, contradictions, and parodies have, with Fred 119. See supra note 114 and accompanying text. 120. Sarah Rankin, Richmond Panel Urges Removal of 1 Confederate Monument, BUS. INSIDER (July 2, 2018), https://perma.cc/E6JA-ZLEN. 121. CHRISTY S. COLEMAN & GREGG D. KIMBALL, MONUMENT AVENUE COMMISSION REPORT 33 (2018), https://perma.cc/24Y2-43ZS; USCT History, AFR. AM. CIV. WAR MEMORIAL MUSEUM, https:// perma.cc/YUL5-H8HG (last visited Aug. 22, 2019). 122. COLEMAN & KIMBALL, supra note 121, at 33. 123. Perspectives on the Statue, AM. MUSEUM NAT. HIST., https://perma.cc/5R3X-F645 (last visited Nov. 8, 2019). MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 2019] BLOODY FOUNDATION? 105 Wilson [and others] . . . become almost commonplace.”124 Indeed, a 2012 installation by American artist Fred Wilson (b. 1954) serves as a prime example of creative reinterpretation of racially charged museum material. In his installation Liberty/Liberté at the New York Historical Society (just one block from the AMNH), Wilson selected specific pieces from the collection and juxtaposed them by the museum entrance: [T]wo sculptures of George Washington . . . a cigar-store figurine of an African- American man holding a red French liberty cap; a bust of Napoleon Bonaparte; a miniature portrait of Haitian liberator Toussaint L’Ouverture; a wrought-iron balustrade from Federal Hall in New York, where Washington was sworn in as the first President; chains, shackles and slave badges (the metal tags that were used to label enslaved African Americans with the crafts they practiced); and a tag bearing Sojourner Truth’s famous question, “Ain’t I a woman?”125 The installation used existing and problematic historical materials already at the Historical Society to promote dialogue.126 Perhaps more akin to what an artistic intervention would be at the AMNH was Discovering Columbus, by Japanese artist Tatzu Nishi (b. 1960). In 2012, the Public Art Fund sponsored a temporary project surrounding the Christopher Columbus Monument in New York (also reviewed by the Commission). The thirteen-foot statue stands atop a seventy-five-foot column. Nishi created an “American” living room to surround the sculpture, and visitors could take an elevator up to the top of the column and interact with the Columbus Monument in a way never before possible.127 Although not overtly political in the way of Wilson’s intervention, Nishi’s project demonstrated new ways by which the public can interact with and question monuments. Moreover, the temporary nature of such artistic interventions allows for the inclusion of a multitude of ever-changing perspectives to counter the monolithic one embodied by the Equestrian Statue. V. CONCLUSION: “HISTORY IS NOT A MENU”128 Protests about the Equestrian Statue of Theodore Roosevelt by James Earle Fraser at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City are part of a larger historical reckoning requiring a new framework for interacting with controversial monuments in the United States. It is no longer intellectually or ethically responsible to celebrate controversial American figures without also acknowledging their more troubling qualities. The Mayoral Advisory Commission on City Art, Monuments, and Markers did not reach a definitive answer as to what to do with the Equestrian 124. Shelton, supra note 17, at 64–65. 125. Louise Mirrer, What “Liberty/Liberté” Tells Us About Slavery, Black History, and Raw Nerves, HUFFINGTON POST (Feb. 8, 2012, updated Dec. 6, 2017), https://perma.cc/XP7S-SDJE. 126. Id. 127. The Public Art Fund also oversaw conservation of the Christopher Columbus Monument in conjunction with the exhibition. Tatzu Nishi: Discovering Columbus, PUB. ART FUND, https://perma.cc/ WJ5K-663N (last visited Aug. 22, 2019). 128. RIEFF, supra note 68, at 39. MARBER, BLOODY FOUNDATION?, 43 COLUM. J.L. & ARTS 85 (2019) 106 COLUMBIA JOURNAL OF LAW & THE ARTS [43:1 Statue, nor did it provide to the public adequate legal analyses of available options. The AMNH has thus far primarily addressed the statue inside the museum, yet it is the public-facing nature of the monument that renders it so problematic. This Article has provided new and relevant research to this debate and has proposed that, given the artistic value and legal status of the Equestrian Statue, the most effective and likely method for handling the sculpture is reinterpretation through the addition of artist-led temporary interventions. 
work_5k63w5dcgrcy7fvpvohjxmemly	----	General anaesthesia in dentistry 328 Les brbrs et les enfants porteurs de maladie cardiaque congrnitale et sprcialement les l~sions obstrnctives (strnose aortique, strnose pulmonaire) mrritent un commentaire: ils tol~rent real la tachy- cardie qui accompagne l'atropinisation. Cependant, il faut remarquer que chez tes tout jeunes enfants la C A N A D I A N A N A E S T H E T I S T S ' SOCIETY J O U R N A L rEponse-tachyeardie est beaucoup moins marqu6e que chez les patients plus ages, Autre remarque, les patients avec maladie cardiaque cengEnitale se- raient de bons candidats ~t ce rrgime it condition que l'on suive scrupuleusement les recommandations de Blanc et ses collaborateurs. Eric Webb MD ~CP(C), W.E. Spoerel Me race(c) General anaesthesia in dentistry The present day anaesthetist has seemingly forgot- ten, or chooses to ignore, that he owes his position in the medical world to two dentists, Horace Wells, who inhaled nitrous oxide for the painless extrac- tion of an infected tooth and William Morton, who introduced anaesthesia with his demonstration that the inhalation of diethyl-ether allowed pain-free surgery. The first use of ether for the painless extraction of a tooth was recorded in 1842 in Rochester, New York. Dr. Elijah Pope removed a tooth for a Miss Hobbie who had been given ether on a towel. The anaesthetist was a chemistry student, William Clarke, who had gained his experience by arranging ether frolics.~ Nathan Colley Keep, later Dean of Dentistry of Harvard, gave on April 7, 1848, intermittent ether inhalations to the wife of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for her first delivery; this was the first recorded obstetrical anaesthesia in North America. 2 The specialty of anaesthesia owes a great debt historically to the dental profession. In the 139 years since Horace Wells first inhaled nitrous oxide, an independent medical specialty has emerged and millions of patients every year benefit from surgical operations without pain. Many advances in technology, pharmacology and phy- From the Department of Anaesthesia, University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario. Address correspondence to: Dr. W.E. Spoerel, Department of Anaesthesia, University Hospital, P.O. Box 5339, Postal Station "A", London, Ontario, Ca- nada N6A 5A5. siology have since expanded anaesthesia but we are still relying on the discovery of the dentist from Hartford, Connecticut. Unhappily, anaesthetists in turn have not shown much gratitude to the dental profession. Dental anaesthesia does not rank very high in the esteem of most anaesthetists and has little glamour. Much of the blame must go to tradition which has as- signed irrationally the oral cavity to one profes- sion and given the rest of the body to another. The medical profession has concentrated in hospitals where equipment and help are provided and, for the surgical patient, the required anaesthesia is also included at public expense. Dentistry in its surgical and restorative aspect is almost entirely based on office practice. It is relatively recent that selected oral surgeons have gained access to the operating theatre where they are tolerated somewhat reluctantly. However, the vast majority of dentists have no access to hospitals and consequently are cut-off from the hospital based anaesthetist. In his office the dentist is using his own equip- ment and has trained his office personnel to suit his style of practice. Dentists have developed their own approach to anaesthesia and employ regional anaes- thesia and techniques of sedation with great skill. A few dentists have obtained training in giving gen- eral anaesthesia, but the dentist-anaesthetist has no official status amongst the medical anaesthetists. The result is that the patient who can readily get a safe general anaesthetic for a minor plastic surgical procedure, has to suffer through a much dreaded and more taxing and painful dental procedure E D I T , D R I A L S 329 without this benefit. The need for general anaesthe- sia in dentistry undoubtedly exists and if it were available, many more patients would request it. Not only would this relieve stress and anguish, particu- larly in children, but it would produce better working conditions for the dentist and allow exten- sive restorative and peridontal procedures to be carried out in one sitting, thus reducing the cost to the patient. How can dental patients get better access to general anaesthesia? The dentist is reluctant to leave the comfort o f his office where he can do good work with his own equipment in familiar surroundings. Likewise, the anaesthetist is unwilling to venture from the hospital operating room where he feels comfortable and safe amongst the complex technol- ogy he has assembled. Economic considerations favour this separation: the state will not provide for anaesthetic equipment outside the hospital nor equip special operating rooms inside the hospital to accommodate dentists. One practical answer may be a dental office designed and equipped for the administration of general anaesthesia. Such offices have been pro- vided by practicing dentists or groups of dentists; they have also been set up by dental anaesthetists who then invite other dentists to bring their patients to such an office for dental procedures under general anaesthesia. This solution requires considerable capital expenditure and enterprise if both the dentist and the anaesthetist are to be satisfied with the working conditions, The specialist anaesthetist who ventures from the operating room into an office will ask himself the question, is it safe to do this and should I be seen doing it? With this question in mind, we learned of Dr. Kay's practice which represents yet another ap- proach; general anaesthesia is provided in practi- cally any dental office with the anaesthetist's own portable equipment. In this issue, Dr. Kay describes the organization of his practice, his selection of patients, anaesthetic technique, postoperative care and follow-up. Since he has practiced this approach to office anaesthesia successfully and safely, we encouraged him to report it in our Journal. We believe anaesthetists have an obligation to provide dental anaesthesia. In our opinion, this paper reports an uncommon but successful and therefore possible approach which we hope will provoke reflection and constructive discussion. References 1 Keys TE. The History of Surgical Anaesthesia, Dover Publieatmns Inc., New York. 1963. 2 Notation: Boston Medical and Surgical Journal, April 14, 1848. Anesthdsie gdndrale en m dicine dentaire Les anesth~sistes contemporains semblent avoir oublir, ou prrfrrent oublier, qu'ils doivent leur situation dam le monde m~dical ~ deux dentistes: Horace Wells, qui a inhal6 du protoxidc d'azme lois de l'extraction sans douleur d'une dent infectre et William Morton, qui a ouvert la vole h l'anesthrsie en d~montrant que I'iuhalafion d'~ther di~thylique permettait une chirurgie sans douleur. La premirre administration d'6ther pour extrac- tion dentaire sans douleur d'une dent remonte ~t 1842 ~t Rochester, New York. Le Dr. Elijah Pope a alors extrait une dent d'une Mile Hobble qui avait prralablement re~u de l'rther imbib6 sur une servi- ette. L'anesthrsiste 6tait un 6tudiant en chimie, William Clarke, qui avait drift acquis une certaine e x # r i e n e e darts le domaine. Nathan Colley Keep, plus tard doyen de la facult~ de mrdecine dentaire b. Harvard, a administr6 des inhalations interrnittentes d'4ther, le sept avril 1848 h l'4pouse de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lors de son premier accou- chement. C'est le premier exemple d'anesthrsie obstrtricale jamais enregistr~ en Am~rique du Nord. Historiquement, la discipline de l'anesthrsie dolt beaueoup ~ la profession dentaire. Durant les 139 ans qui ont suivi la premiere inhalation de protoxide d'azote par Horace Wells, une nouvelle discipline ind~pendante est apparue et des millions de patients profitent chaque annre d'op&ations chirurgicales sans douleur. L'anesthrsie s'est de- puis d r v e l o p l ~ grace aux progr~ de la technologic, de la pharmacologic et de la physiologic mais nous remonterons toujours ~ la d~couverte du dentiste de Hartford au Connecticut. Malheureusement, les anesthrsistes n'ont pas d~montr6 beaaeoup de gratitude h l'rgard de la 
work_5ngxvtnp6ne3bpfmkydmrhbbai	----	"Here, I Could Rove at Will": Harriet Martineau, Sartain's Union Magazine, and Freedom in the Transatlantic Periodical Press "Here, I Could Rove at Will": Harriet Martineau, Sartain's Union Magazine , and Freedom in the Transatlantic Periodical Press Amanda Adams Victorian Periodicals Review, Volume 51, Number 1, Spring 2018, pp. 121-137 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ Access provided at 6 Apr 2021 02:01 GMT from Carnegie Mellon University ] https://doi.org/10.1353/vpr.2018.0005 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/690227 https://doi.org/10.1353/vpr.2018.0005 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/690227 ©2018 The Research Society for Victorian Periodicals “Here, I Could Rove at Will”: Harriet Martineau, Sartain’s Union Magazine, and Freedom in the Transatlantic Periodical Press AMANDA ADAMS Given her prodigious periodical legacy, it is no surprise that Harriet Martineau has received consistent critical attention in periodical studies, especially for her writing on slavery, women’s issues, and the industrial economy. Her work in the 1850s—a decade in which she commented on all of these subjects and more—has been well mined. Still, her Lake District writings of the same period have received less scrutiny. A group of writings that focus their attention on natural scenery and tourist sites, they might at first seem far removed from the issues of the day with which Martineau was so often engaged and as such have engendered few critical investiga- tions. Alexis Easley constitutes the major exception with her treatment of Martineau in Literary Celebrity, Gender, and Victorian Authorship, 1850– 1914. Easley links Martineau’s Lake District writings to the fraught issue of women’s celebrity, illuminating how Martineau was able to carve out an authorial position that “provided a model of how women could capitalize on the emerging industry of literary tourism as a way of enhancing their status as literary celebrities.”1 This essay focuses on one such Lake District writing—a series of articles published in the Philadelphia-based Sartain’s Union Magazine of Literature and Art. Conceived of as “A Year at Ambleside,” the articles purported to describe Martineau’s seasonal life from month to month in the English Lake District.2 Like Easley, I am interested in the ways that these writings reveal a gendered cultural context. However, I focus on the transatlantic political theater in which Martineau was writing. As Bob Nicholson argues in his recent overview of the transatlantic periodical press, technological developments over the course of the nineteenth century “allowed news- Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018122 papers and periodicals to become the nineteenth century’s most pervasive ‘contact zone’ between British and American culture, a channel through which words, texts, people, and ideas from one country entered the cul- tural bloodstream of the other.”3 Indeed, “A Year at Ambleside” functions as a transatlantic channel designed to capitalize on American interest in the storied environment and culture of the English Lake District. Viewed from this perspective, Martineau’s writings appear to be a Victorian version of Wordsworth’s writings aimed at an American audience: genial, tourist- minded accounts meant to celebrate the beauty, wildness, and literary heri- tage of the Lake District. Although the series was published in the United States during a particularly contentious year in the political struggles lead- ing up to the Civil War—a year that included the Compromise of 1850 and, as part of it, a stronger Fugitive Slave Law—the articles at first seem disengaged from a transatlantic political context. However, a closer look reveals that the series is not as apolitical as it at first seems to be, especially when carefully situated within a transatlantic context. As Paul Giles points out, British and American works can shift in meaning and “are apt chameleonically to change their shape when refracted through a spectrum of alternative cultural traditions.”4 Indeed, a transat- lantic reading of Martineau’s series reveals secondary subjects beyond the apparent focus on Lake District tourist sites of interest. Throughout the series, I argue, Martineau’s purported subject gives way in key moments to another topic: the freedom of embodied mobility that such a landscape offers to women like herself. The “freedom” she explicitly claims for her- self can and should be read in the context of the concurrent American debate about freedom and its counterpart, slavery. Indeed, slavery and freedom were clearly on Martineau’s mind as she wrote her monthly essays and would continue to preoccupy her thoughts for years to come. In fact, Martineau not only donated some of her earnings from the series to two American anti-slavery publications but also obliquely engaged with the issue of slavery by focusing on women’s bodily liberation and making indi- rect references to American slavery. Freedom, in other words, is at once a political goal and a rhetorical theme in the series. The question of slavery is never directly raised in the text, but it can be brought into focus through contextual analysis and Martineau’s direct commentary on the freedom the Lake District afforded to women like herself. Thus, a seemingly innocuous description of a local place is actually engaged, directly and indirectly, with the transatlantic political debate about slavery. Sartain’s Union Magazine of Philadelphia was a counter-intuitive choice of venue for such a project given its nationalistic and apolitical reputation. Working in collaboration with William Sloanaker, British publisher John Sartain purchased the Union Magazine of Literature and Art in 1848 and added his name to the title. He then moved the magazine from New York 123Amanda Adams to Philadelphia and printed the first issue in January 1849. Sartain was already well known for his steel engravings and mezzotinto methods, and Sloanaker had been a business manager at Graham’s Magazine, so both came to the project with experience in periodical publishing.5 They hired John Hart and writer Caroline Kirkland (a future correspondent of Mar- tineau’s) as co-editors. The magazine lasted until 1852 and at its height boasted a circulation of fifty thousand.6 Not unlike many periodicals of the time, Sartain’s sought to publish relatively noncontroversial articles on arts and culture with a distinctive nationalistic undertone. As Heidi L. Nichols points out, “Sartain’s served to promote a distinctly American literature and art, often wrestling with ways to embrace, yet distance itself from, its European and especially English cultural heritage, as well as from the social and economic underpinnings reflected in foreign work.”7 Sartain’s pursued its nationalist agenda by printing mostly American authors, such as Edgar Allan Poe, Catherine Sedgwick, and Henry Wadsworth Longfel- low. Its commitment to American authorship was not exclusive, however, as it also printed Martineau’s work and other non-American contributions. As Jennifer Phegley has argued in her study of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, the American reprinting of British works (or, we might add, British-themed works) wasn’t necessarily at odds with a periodical’s desire to fulfill a nationalist vision. Rather, in the case of Harper’s, the “editors theorized that by providing the public with these examples of ‘excellent’ high culture texts, the magazine would raise the standards of American readers and, in turn, raise the quality of American literature.”8 Thus, the mission of instilling literary taste, even for British literature, could be con- strued as nationalistic. The lack of copyright protection for British authors meant that peri- odicals could reprint their work less expensively than the contributions of American authors. Nevertheless, Sartain’s was willing to pay for origi- nal work from American authors so as to enable them “to pursue their craft as full-time employment.”9 Sartain himself critiqued magazines that wouldn’t publish well-known American writers because of high rates of payment, and he took pride in publishing works by American authors. He wrote, “We mean not to disparage the literary merit of the material of these periodicals, but, if we are to have a national literature, and compete proudly and successfully with Britain in the great rivalry of intellect, it is assuredly time that our native authors receive adequate compensation for their labours, and not be driven from the field, as it were, merely by the cheapness with which transatlantic productions can be obtained.”10 Sar- tain’s, like other American periodicals, thus saw its mission as celebrating American culture and subject matter while also paying for contributions from British authors. Still, due to the tendency of American publishers to reprint British texts without payment, writers like Martineau entered into the American literary marketplace with some trepidation.11 Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018124 The fact that an American publication saw Martineau’s descriptive account of the Lake District as worthy of cultivating American taste and interest suggests that the region had a cachet that made it attractive to readers. An American audience for Lake District travel literature was only possible because of longstanding interest in the Lakeland poetry of Word- sworth and Coleridge and the consequent status of the district as a tourist destination. Indeed, as Nicola J. Watson points out, the nineteenth cen- tury was the “period [which] saw the practice of visiting places associated with particular books in order to savour text, place and their interrelations grow into a commercially significant phenomenon.”12 While in 1850 there were fewer American tourists in the Lake District than there would be later in the century, tourists were visiting its literary haunts in increasing numbers.13 There was simultaneously a robust American audience for the British Romantics’ writing about the area.14 In 1839, for example, editor Henry Reed wrote of Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes, “It may not be uninteresting to you to learn that a volume so purely local in its nature should afford so much value to a distant reader as I have drawn from it. I have found it a guide to the mind in kindred scenes and that it cultivates a taste for landscape which finds its indulgence in the worthy admiration of regions that are accessible to us.”15 Americans, it seems, were not only interested in the Lake District but also in the apparatus Wordsworth pro- vided for appreciating its natural beauty. Martineau’s descriptive account of her home in England was also well suited to Sartain’s mission of culti- vating American taste. As part of its nationalistic agenda, Sartain’s sought to avoid politically controversial topics such as slavery,16 instead focusing on the seemingly apolitical topics of arts and culture.17 In publishing Martineau’s series, however, Sartain’s inadvertently entered into Martineau’s abolitionist proj- ect. Unbeknownst to American readers, Martineau had asked for most of the proceeds from her series to be given to two anti-slavery publications in the United States, the Liberator and the Anti-Slavery Standard.18 Mar- tineau wrote to her friend Ellis Loring Gray about her payment from the Sartain’s series, asking if he would “be so kind as to receive this sum [20 pounds], & to pay half of it to Mr. Garrison for the benefit of ‘the Libera- tor,’ & the other half to ‘the Anti-Slavery Standard.’”19 She explained that it was precisely because of the magazine’s apolitical stance that she needed Gray to serve as her go-between: “I impose the trouble on you merely because Messrs Sartain might not (possibly) relish paying money directly to such heretical papers; & it may be prudent to make all easy to them.”20 In her hope of raising money for a just cause, Martineau was savvy in her choice of Sartain’s. By the 1850s, it had a wide audience which included men and women of the rising middle classes in all regions of the country.21 125Amanda Adams Thus, if Martineau wanted to reach women and men in the North and South, Sartain’s was an optimal choice.22 As Martineau’s donations suggest, “A Year at Ambleside” was more tethered to political concerns than first meets the eye. The series indirectly broaches the issue of slavery by foregrounding the issue of freedom from bodily confinement. Martineau casts the Lake District as a welcoming place for women like herself who enjoy freely walking in rural locales. She opens “January” by contrasting her previous state of confinement to her newly awakened freedom of movement. She remembers how in Tynemouth, “after a long illness, during which I never saw a tree in leaf for upwards of five years, and passed my life between my bed and my sofa,” she was eventually restored to health.23 First she “crept” outside, then “extended [her] rambles to a fine beach three miles from home,” and finally moved to the Lake District to live, write, and walk.24 She writes in the February installment, “There was no reason why I should not live where I pleased. . . . I was free to choose how to begin life afresh.”25 Here Martineau invokes the discourse of freedom to underscore her new-found mobility and self- determination, rights women—and slaves—were denied in the 1850s. The fells around Ambleside provided ample opportunity for women like Martineau to walk, partly because there were so few men looking on. She explains that “in this valley, the gentlemen soon grow tired. They go off somewhere to find something to do,—some business, or foreign travel, or hunting.”26 In fact, Martineau writes, the Lake District “society becomes, in some sort, Amazonian.”27 During the Victorian era, the Amazonian archetype constituted a challenge to male-female dichotomies (as well as racial binaries).28 Maeve E. Adams writes that in Victorian culture, “rep- resentations of the Amazon do not consistently or strictly adhere to the ways in which colonial ideology divided up the world into the powerful (white men) and the powerless (everyone else). The Amazon is a mobile archetype that appears, at times, to challenge the fixity of those boundar- ies.”29 For Martineau, to be among the Amazonians was to claim unfet- tered movement and to express independent agency. However, the trope’s implicit deconstruction of racial hierarchies also proves relevant as Martin- eau writes, however indirectly, in the context of black slavery. In each installment, Martineau generally begins in a domestic space but then quickly leaves it on foot. Of her newfound home in Ambleside, she writes, “Here, I could write in serenest repose; here, I could rove at will; here, I could rest.”30 The idea of wandering “at will” emphasizes self-deter- mination and freedom from a constricting masculine gaze. Each monthly installment in the series is, for the most part, structured according to a walking path or direction. In “May,” she opens with “What a morning it is! My early walk shall be to Stockghyll Force.”31 Later, in “June,” she Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018126 walks to Bowness, deciding that the “walk will not be half a mile further, and that it will be much pleasanter, if we leave the highroad, and go up Wansfell. . . . It is a toilsome ascent at first,—stony and hot and close; but by the time that we come out upon the brook, a sweet air blows upon us from the lake.”32 She keeps the reader’s eye tightly focused on natu- ral details as together they “rove” freely through the landscape. The free- dom of movement Martineau performs in these pieces is striking precisely because she is a middle-class woman, a status so often associated with domestic confinement. The appeal of “wildness” is undeniable—it is the reward for her being “free to choose how to begin life afresh.” As Stacey Alaimo notes, many nineteenth-century women writers “looked outward toward a natural realm precisely because this space was . . . not replete with the domestic values that many women wished to escape. Nature, then, is undomesticated both in the sense that it figures as a space apart from the domestic and in the sense that it is untamed and thus serves as a model for female insurgency.”33 Martineau celebrates her domestic life and her walks as parts of a multi- faceted life, thus deconstructing the dichotomy between domestic life and professional work.34 She, like many other women authors, felt pressure to maintain a domestic image even as she pursued a public role, whether by walking out alone or working in the public sphere. Certainly, as Eas- ley points out, Martineau was keenly aware of domestic ideology, and in “A Year at Ambleside” she devotes many pages to describing the literal construction of her domestic space.35 But rather than reifying a gendered public-private dichotomy, she destabilizes it by focusing alternately on the development of her home and the process of launching off from it. Indeed, she emphasizes the link between domesticity and nature by gather- ing plants on her walks that she can cultivate in her garden. In March, for example, she describes removing “heather from an enclosure which is sort of a heather preserve” and finds that “one trowel [is] small enough to take the ferns clean out of the crevices of the walls” to transplant in her own yard.36 In other words, for Martineau, there is no clear separation between walking in the fells and leading a rich domestic life. In fact, each feeds and develops the other. As part of her project to disengage domesticity from images of con- finement, Martineau unequivocally insists on the importance of bodily freedom for women, whether by walking in the fells, planting ferns, or sitting at a writing desk. Her insistence on freedom being anchored in the body was also at the heart of her ongoing interest in abolitionism. While Martineau never mentions the word “slave” or “slavery” in “A Year at Ambleside,” the nineteenth-century concept of freedom, as Toni Morrison reminds us, “has no meaning . . . without the specter of enslavement, the anodyne to individualism; the yardstick of absolute power over the life of 127Amanda Adams another; the signed, marked, informing, and mutating presence of a black slave.”37 While Morrison is referring to American literary tradition, her insight holds true for Britain, which had only recently outlawed slavery and was still engaged in less official forms of forced labor in its imperial holdings. Martineau’s references to freedom in “A Year at Ambleside” thus resonated with the “specter of enslavement,” not only because she donated her earnings to the abolitionist cause but also because she was dedicated to the mission of ending slavery throughout her career and explicity linked the experiences of women and slaves in many of her writings. Her aboli- tionism began before her visit to the United States but her experiences there deepened her dedication to the cause. While in America, she received death threats because of her outspokenness on abolition, but this only sparked her further engagement with the issue in leaders for the London Daily News and other newspapers and periodicals in the 1850s and early 1860s. For Martineau, the issues of slavery and women’s freedom were entwined. In Society in America, for example, she repeatedly ties American women’s lack of political standing to the position of slaves, as both are excluded from the claim in the Declaration of Independence that the gov- ernment derives its powers “from the consent of the governed.”38 White men claim to represent their interests, despite evidence to the contrary. She writes, “The Georgia planter perceives the hardship that freedom would be to his slaves. And the best friends of half the human race peremptorily decide for them as to their rights, their duties, their feelings, their pow- ers.”39 As Lesa Scholl has written of this section, “Both [white women and slaves are] in a similar bondage to the Law, . . . both held by the whim of Law, deprived of will and right.”40 White women and black slaves, in other words, both suffer at the hands of those who falsely claim to represent them. More pointedly, Martineau cites Thomas Jefferson’s correspondence in which he yearns for a “pure democracy” that he concedes must exclude both women and slaves.41 Women must be disenfranchised because they would face a “depravation of morals” if they entered the public sphere and slaves, because they exist in an “unfortunate state of things with us [which] takes away the rights of will and of property.”42 Martineau suggests that if the disqualification he claims for slaves (in other words, the lack of rights of will and property) were applied to women, it “would be nearer the truth than as it now stands.”43 “By using the metaphor of women and slaves,” Caroline Roberts notes, “Martineau’s discourse participates in a tradition of women’s abolitionist rhetoric in England that began in the late seventeenth century, when women writers projected their anxieties about their own subordination onto their representations of slaves.”44 Indeed, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women often did make this connec- tion, including Mary Wollstonecraft, whose Vindication of the Rights of Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018128 Women is replete with the analogy. It is, of course, a fraught comparison, rife with questions of privilege and overstatement; nevertheless, it was a common analogy that, at least for Martineau, reflected a compassionate concern for both groups.45 Roberts argues that in fact “Martineau’s use of the metaphor identifying women and slaves does not cause her to detract from the horrors of slavery or from the aims of abolitionism. Instead, Mar- tineau unravels the metaphor at the same time she evokes it. She identifies two separate systems of oppression that are alike, but independent.”46 Society in America, where these analogies appear, was published in 1837 after Martineau’s American visit. I suggest that the two identities—slave and woman—remained roughly analogous for Martineau in 1850 when she wrote “A Year at Ambleside.” In this instance, however, she cloaks her abolitionist message in a vision of freedom for middle-class British women—as a celebration of mobility and self-determination, the freedom to traverse the static categories of public and private domains. This vision of freedom implicitly stands in contrast to enslavement. Freedom, for Mar- tineau, is not just an abstraction; it is linked explicitly to bodily freedom or literal freedom of movement. This, too, was a point of focus in all of Martineau’s work regarding slavery but especially during the years just before and after “A Year at Ambleside.” In her other writing of the period, she discusses the lack of bodily freedom for female slaves in the Middle East and Africa—the members of the harem—and her esteem for the heroic mobility exhibited by runaway slaves. Her treatment of harem women is especially pertinent given intersec- tional considerations of race and gender. In a letter published in the Ameri- can Liberty Bell in 1848, just two years before “A Year at Ambleside,” Martineau writes of her visit to a harem and draws attention to one partic- ular woman who suffers from the bodily confinement inherent in slavery: “There can hardly be a day when she does not sigh . . . to be again under the broad sky of her own land, working with her mother at the guhern, or driving the ox with her little brother”; instead, she is “imprisoned for life behind the curtains of the women’s abode.”47 Her concern for the Eastern slave echoes her denunciations of the American slave system. Indeed, she begins another letter to the Liberty Bell by drawing an explicit connection between the slavery she witnesses in Egypt and that which she had seen in the United States, saying that “when I left your country, I thought I had seen the last I should ever see of slavery. . . . But I have been to the East, and have seen slavery again.”48 Likewise, in her fuller treatment of the trip in Eastern Life, also published in 1848, she contrasts women’s physical liberty in Europe with the women of the harem: “Everywhere they pit- ied us European women heartily, that we had to go about traveling, and appearing in the streets without being properly taken care of,—that is, watched. They think us strangely neglected in being left so free, and boast 129Amanda Adams of their spy system and imprisonment as tokens of the value in which they are held.”49 Martineau’s celebration of her own embodied freedom in the Lake District two years later stands in stark contrast to these images of imprisonment and subjugation. Feminist materialism, articulated compel- lingly by Alaimo, in fact places women’s physical experience at the center of questions of agency. In doing so, Alaimo and others theorize what Mar- tineau had already recounted in “Ambleside” and elsewhere. Similarly, Martineau had a long-standing respect for the physical daring exhibited by runaway slaves, dating back to her visit to the United States in the 1830s. In Retrospect of Western Travel, published after her trip in 1838, she includes a chapter titled “Restless Slaves.” She expresses admira- tion for them but is careful not to give away any details that may endanger them or future escapees. She does learn from the ferryman crossing the Niagara that the “leap ashore of an escaped slave is a sight unlike any other that can be seen.”50 John Ernest notes that this moment is extraor- dinary for a travel narrative since the “conventionally sublime portrait of Niagara Falls gives way to the ultimately sublime portrait of the fugitive slave’s leap for freedom from the United States to Canada.”51 Likewise, just one year after “A Year at Ambleside,” Martineau hosted fugitive slaves William Wells Brown and William and Ellen Craft in her Lakeland home. In his memoir of touring Europe, Brown recounts how Martineau “was much pleased with Ellen Craft, and appeared delighted with the story of herself and husband’s escape from slavery, as related by the latter—during recital of which I several times saw the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and which she tried in vain to hide from us. When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, ‘I would that every woman in British Empire, could hear the tale as I have, so that they might know how their own sex was treated in that boasted land of liberty.’”52 In this anecdote, not only is Martineau deeply moved by the tale of escape but succeeds in identifying Victorian white women with a slave, Ellen Craft. Finally, in 1864, in her overview of the abolitionist movement written for the Edinburgh Review, Martineau again hails the runaway slave—and the freedom of movement such narra- tives capture: “There can hardly be a stronger test, both of the force of the desire of liberty and of the personal heroism of certain negro slaves, than the mode of escape adventured by some few of them when the Fugitive Slave Law rendered the old methods too hazardous.”53 She celebrates those who “have thrown themselves into the broad Ohio or Potomac, preferring to drown within sight of the free shore to being caught by the horsemen who are shouting behind.”54 These celebrations of the runaway slave, stretching from the 1830s to the 1860s, bookend her celebration of her own physical freedom in “A Year at Ambleside.” These works demonstrate Martineau’s consistent admiration of runaway slaves, who often serve as powerful symbols of the Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018130 fight against slavery in general. Self-directed movement under duress offers an important symbolic contrast to the imprisonment of slavery she decries in her description of the harem women. Indeed, as Roberts observes, “For Martineau, the body is the site where feminist and abolitionist agendas converge.”55 Likewise, Ernest, in focusing on William Wells Brown’s fugi- tive statues, notes Martineau’s mentorship of the writer and calls them both “fugitive tourists”: “They are fugitive tourists because they have stepped out of an assigned social position, a transgression that is liberat- ing but that comes at a price.”56 He adds that “ultimately, Martineau and Brown present a choreographic rendering of a world in which instability and movement are the only consistent characteristics, in which the fugitive is the only reliable guide, and in which strategic negotiations of the laws of mobility become the means by which authority can be crafted in a nar- rative performance.”57 Thus, their mutual rejection of white patriarchal society is grounded in the importance of mobility and movement—a theme clearly picked up by Martineau in her meditation on freedom for middle- class women in “A Year at Ambleside.” American slavery, then, exists in the subtext of “A Year at Ambleside,” an allusion which is available to those who might be familiar, then and now, with Martineau’s full canon on the topic. There are, however, a few more direct allusions to slavery in the series. Aware of her American audi- ence, Martineau occasionally compares the Lakeland scenery to that of the United States, as she does in the April installment when discussing Lake Windermere, “which you Americans say, is so like their North River, near West Point.”58 But more pointedly, in describing a restful moment she enjoys with her friend Fredrika Meyer in June, she writes, “The hours slip by as we lie couched among the ferns, reading our newspapers, or amusing each other by narratives of our wide travels. If F. M. tells me of the Pyre- nees or the Danube, I tell her of the Mississippi, or Pharpar and Abana, the rivers of Damascus, or of adventures in Nubia.”59 Here Martineau brings up the Mississippi, with its unquestionable associations with slavery (and Nubia, which is the setting of her visit to the harem in her previously pub- lished Eastern Life). This invocation of the primary artery of the internal slave trade is directly contrasted with her own freedom, as she immediately follows this reference by returning to their perambulations: “And then we walk round the island, which is a mile in circuit.”60 In the November installment, we again see the specter of slavery in Mar- tineau’s discussion of Martinmas, a tradition in rural England: “The grand spectacle of the season is the Martinmas hiring—the half-yearly engage- ment of farm-servants, both lads and lasses. Those who wish to be hired, stand about the market-cross, with a sprig of green, or a straw in their mouths.”61 Her description of the hirings sounds vaguely like a descrip- tion of a slave auction, which reflects broader concerns about the practice. 131Amanda Adams For example, a writer some fifty years later mused upon the irony of the town Pocklington being both the birthplace of William Wilberforce and the host of the region’s Martinmas hirings. He writes of the “widespread boorish (dis)organisation known as the Martinmas Hirings. The slave- market! where men and girls, in spite of the ransom procured for them by William Wilberforce, held themselves willing slaves to their own peculiar love of change, and their consistent patronage of an ancient custom which required them to act as cattle or slaves to be hired or sold in the market- place!”62 Ironically, it is partly their status as migrant workers that makes them seem like slaves, but the act of putting their physical bodies up to be scrutinized and chosen by random employers is what seems to define them as chattel. The Martinmas hirings are the focal point of Martineau’s November installment, which distinguishes it from the other monthly articles that emphasize particular walks. In discussing the revelry that follows the actual hirings, Martineau describes how those locals who have broken social codes are subject to “punishment by lynch-law,” which is “a ter- rible sight.”63 Here, Martineau compares the mob justice of a rural people to lynching in the United States, which she had written about in the past and would continue to write about in the near future. In an 1856 leader for the London Daily News, for example, she writes about lynch law in rural England but grounds its history in the American battle over slavery: “We need not recite the mobbings that have taken place in the United States within the last five-and-twenty years, from the time when the Slavery question became the recognized difficulty of the Republic. It is enough to point to the results of the extension of the practice in the barbaric temper of the Southern States.”64 The issue was personal to her, as she recounts in her Autobiography, because she herself had almost been lynched over her controversial comments on abolition. As she headed down the Ohio River following her public comments to the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society, her friend Loring had warned her, “‘I must tell you what they mean to do. They mean to lynch you.’ And he proceeded to detail the plan. The intention was to hang me on the wharf before the respectable inhabitants could rescue me.”65 In other words, “lynch-law” had a specific association with slavery for Martineau that was no doubt echoed in American readers’ minds. Martineau’s account of the rural English Martinmas celebration, with its attending imagery of the slave auction and mob lynchings, would have resonated with American audiences, who regularly read about such horrors in daily newspapers. The freedom to “rove at will” among the beauty of the Lake District was, of course, denied to slaves and to many women less privileged than Martineau. It is tempting, then, to dismiss “A Year at Ambleside” as an aesthetic or purely literary endeavor that was simply consumed by a Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018132 transatlantic audience hungry for all things Lakeland. Doing so, however, not only ignores the radical vision of freedom for women that Martin- eau evokes—one that is embodied and that challenges and dissolves the restricting boundaries of the domestic—but also ignores that other vision of freedom, abolition, which occupied Martineau’s thoughts throughout the 1850s. The fight for freedom for American slaves haunts the series, through indirect allusion and an evocative discourse of embodied liberty; this subtext comes into focus when we consider the transatlantic context in which it was written and read. It certainly haunted Martineau as she wrote, thus prompting her to donate the proceeds to the abolitionist cause. Reading it in this way reflects recent developments in the field of ecocriti- cism, which reveal how seemingly apolitical works on nature are indirectly engaged in political discourse. Jonathan Bate, for example, takes issue with readings of nature writing that view it “as an escape from, or even an active suppression of, socio-political reality.”66 Martineau’s accounts of walks into obscure locations around the Lake District cannot be separated from the transatlantic political issues she and so many others found press- ing. The series also reminds us how the periodical press—in this case, Sar- tain’s—functions as a platform for poly-vocal intellectual exchange. It exemplifies and reflects the ways in which the press could exploit or pro- mote American interest in British culture; publish British writers as part of a mission to cultivate American taste; act as a medium for abolitionism, however subtle that support might be registered; and provide a platform for an image of female embodied agency with all of its thematic extensions. In “A Year at Ambleside,” the Lakeland region, as represented in the pages of Sartain’s Magazine, becomes an overdetermined site, as much a concep- tual place as a geographical one. The body of the woman and the specter of the body of the slave march through this real and symbolic geography, guided by an author for whom freedom was a central value. Muskingum University NOTES I would like to thank Jennifer Phegley and the participants in the Transatlantic Periodical Press seminar at the 2016 Midwest Victorian Studies Association conference for their helpful feedback on an early draft of this paper. 1. Easley, Literary Celebrity, 70. 2. In Sartain’s, each article appears in the month corresponding to the title, except “March” and “April,” which appear together in the April issue of the magazine for an unknown reason. 3. Nicholson, “Transatlantic Connections,” 165. 133Amanda Adams 4. Giles, Transatlantic Insurrections, 1. 5. As explained by Heidi L. Nichols, this method involved “scraping and bur- nishing plates to create enhanced light and shadow in the resulting prints. The quality of John Sartain’s artwork exceeded that of most artists who were his contemporaries.” Nichols, Fashioning of Middle-Class America, 11–12. 6. Quoted in Schultz, “Editor’s Desk,” 92. 7. Nichols, Fashioning of Middle-Class America, 7. 8. Phegley, “Literary Piracy,” 64. 9. Nichols, Fashioning of Middle-Class America, 16. 10. Quoted in Nichols, Fashioning of Middle-Class America, 20. 11. From Martineau’s point of view, American publications were unreliable in their payment of British authors. Writing privately about her agreement with Sartain’s, she notes, “It is so rare a thing to us English authors to get any money from American publishers, that I shall not feel sure till the thing is done” (Martineau to Ellis Loring Gray, October, 23, 1850, in Collected Letters, 171). In another letter, she writes, “I have no reason to doubt their doing their duty by me. It is only that, somehow or other, such payments seldom come in” (Martineau to W. L. Garrison, October 23, 1850, in Col- lected Letters, 173). There was, then, both a tremendous interdependency and some scepticism in the relationship between British writers and Ameri- can publishers. 12. Watson, Literary Tourism, 1. 13. While Wordsworth’s home, Dove Cottage, didn’t open as a public museum until 1890, the story of how it came to be a literary shrine “revolves around the desire of Victorian admirers of Wordsworth to keep something of him in the world after his death; tangible, and, crucially, something transferable.” Atkin, “Ghosting Grasmere,” 85. 14. Meredith L. McGill, in her introduction to The Traffic in Poems, suggests that “for British poets, American readers represented not only potentially vast, unrealizable profits, but also—because this field of reception was for- eign, unpredictable, and fundamentally ungovernable—something like a present-tense index of future fame” (4–5). 15. Henry Reed to William Wordsworth, January 3, 1839, in Reed, Word- sworth and Reed, 6. 16. Sartain, on a personal level, was deeply sympathetic to abolitionism. He later wrote, “I, as an Englishman and as a sufferer for conscience’s sake, have a claim to speak. It is highly discreditable to human nature that as the North for years sided generally with the slave-power, all for the greed of gain, so for the same motive England, after goading Americans inces- santly with irritating sneers about the disgrace of slavery, sided with slavery against freedom as soon as the conflict began.” Sartain, Reminiscences, 230. Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018134 17. The magazine did, however, give some space to women’s issues, providing “significant, though not profuse, commentary” on them (Nichols, Fashion- ing of Middle-Class America, 139). Sartain’s was also known for paying female authors fairly, and, of course, Caroline Kirkland served as co-editor. 18. Michael R. Hill, who edited Martineau’s Lake District writings, briefly men- tions in his introduction that by donating the money she earned to anti-slav- ery causes, she “actively linked the Lake District to her vigorous support of abolition in the United States” (47). 19. Harriet Martineau to Ellis Loring Gray, October, 23, 1850, in Collected Letters, 171. 20. Ibid. 21. Patterson, Art for the Middle Classes, 11. 22. Martineau was strategic in the way she thought about transatlantic audi- ences. In 1838, she wrote to Fanny Wedgewood that she was anxious to get her book on Toussaint L’Ouverture published in the Penny Magazine because her “chief object [was] to get at the Southern States, where they reprint the P.M. fearlessly, and will never dream of meeting me.” Harriet Martineau to Fanny Wedgewood, February 20, 1838, in Harriet Martin- eau’s Letters to Fanny Wedgewood, 11. 23. Martineau, “Year at Ambleside,” 6:38. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid., 6:141. 26. Ibid., 6:139. 27. Ibid. 28. See also Elizabeth Gaskell’s references to Amazonians in Cranford (3). 29. Adams, “Amazon Warrior Woman,” n.p. 30. Martineau, “Year at Ambleside,” 6:141. 31. Ibid., 6:355. 32. Ibid., 6:382. 33. Alaimo, Undomesticated Ground, 16. 34. In a letter to Elizabeth Barrett four years prior, Martineau made the case for a balanced life, combining what we traditionally think of as domestic work with professional work and connecting both to her life in the Lake District. She writes, “It is my desire to keep up that union of practical domestic life with literary labour wh has been such a blessing to me ever since I held the pen: but I feel pretty confident that much work (authorship) of a kind very serious & important to myself will be done on that spot where I so lately sat on the grass, & resolved there to pitch my tent. I have a horror of mere booklife;—or a life of books & society. I like & need to have some express & daily share in somebody’s comfort: & I trust to find much peace & satisfaction as a housekeeper, in making my maids happy, & perhaps a little wiser,—in receivg overworked or delicate friends & relations to rest in my paradise, & in that sort of strenuous handwork wh I like better than 135Amanda Adams authorship.” Harriet Martineau to Elizabeth Barrett, February 8, 1846, in Harriet Martineau: Further Letters, 154. 35. In fact, just before proclaiming her desire to “rove at will,” she notes that “every woman requires for her happiness some domestic occupation and responsibility,—to have one’s daily happiness to cherish.” Martineau, “Year at Ambleside,” 6:141. Indeed, given her lifelong writing on this subject, it is clear that she was genuinely committed to this concept. 36. Ibid., 6:292. 37. Morrison, Playing in the Dark, 56. 38. Quoted in Martineau, Society in America, 148. 39. Martineau, Society in America, 151. 40. Scholl, “Mediation and Expansion,” 830–31. 41. Quoted in Martineau, Society in America, 149. 42. Ibid. 43. Martineau, Society in America, 150. 44. Roberts, Woman and the Hour, 42. 45. For an important analysis of this analogy, see Zonana’s “The Sultan and the Slave.” In her study of “oriental feminism” in Jane Eyre and other Victo- rian texts, Zonana argues that during the nineteenth century, many women writers were “turning to images of oriental life—and specifically the ‘Maho- metan’ and ‘Arabian’ Harem—in order to articulate their critiques of the life of women in the West” (594). 46. Roberts, Woman and the Hour, 43. 47. Martineau, “Incidents of Travel,” 80. 48. Martineau, “Letter,” 45. 49. Martineau, Eastern Life, 263. 50. Martineau, Retrospect, 251. 51. Ernest, Chaotic Justice, 169. 52. Brown, Three Years in Europe, 200. 53. Martineau, “Negro Race,” 109. 54. Ibid. 55. Roberts, Woman and the Hour, 48. 56. Ernest, Chaotic Justice, 165. 57. Ibid., 166. 58. Martineau, “Year at Ambleside,” 6:298. 59. Ibid., 6:384. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid., 7:268. 62. Brierley, “North-Country Market,” 2. 63. Martineau, “Year at Ambleside, 7:268–69. 64. Martineau, Leader, 4. 65. Martineau, Autobiography, 2:48. 66. Bate, Romantic Ecology, 54. Victorian Periodicals Review 51:1 Spring 2018136 BIBLIOGRAPHY Adams, Maeve E. “The Amazon Warrior Woman and the De/Construction of Gendered Imperial Authority in Nineteenth-Century Colonial Literature.” Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies 6, no. 1 (2010). http://www.ncgsjournal. com. Alaimo, Stacey. Undomesticated Ground: Recasting Nature as a Feminist Space. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000. Atkin, Polly. “Ghosting Grasmere: The Musealisation of Dove Cottage.” In Lit- erary Tourism and Nineteenth-Century Culture, edited by Nicola Watson, 84–94. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Bate, Jonathan. Romantic Ecology: Wordsworth and the Environmental Tradi- tion. New York: Routledge, 1990. Brierley, Harwood. “A North-Country Market.” Newcastle Courant, November 11, 1899, 2. Brown, W. Wells. Three Years in Europe: or, Places I Have Seen and People I Have Met. London: Charles Gilpin, 1852. Easley, Alexis. Literary Celebrity, Gender, and Victorian Authorship, 1850–1914. Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2013. Ernest, John. Chaotic Justice: Rethinking African American Literary History. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009. Gaskell, Elizabeth. Cranford. Edited by Elizabeth Porges Watson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Giles, Paul. Transatlantic Insurrections: British Culture and the Formation of American Literature, 1730–1860. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001. Hill, Michael R. “An Introduction to Harriet Martineau’s Lake District Writ- ings.” In An Independent Woman’s Lake District Writings, by Harriet Martin- eau, 25–54. Amherst: Humanity Books, 2004. Martineau, Harriet. Autobiography. 2 vols. London: Virago, 1983. ———. 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Scholl, Lesa. “Mediation and Expansion: Harriet Martineau’s Travels in Amer- ica.” Women’s History Review 18, no. 5 (2009): 819–33. Schultz, Heidi M. “The Editor’s Desk at Sartain’s Magazine: 1849–1851.” Ameri- can Periodicals 6 (1996): 92–134. Watson, Nicola J. Introduction. Literary Tourism and Nineteenth-Century Cul- ture, 1–12. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Wollstonecraft, Mary. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. 2nd ed. Edited by Carol H. Poston. New York: Norton, 1988. Zonana, Joyce. “The Sultan and the Slave: Feminist Orientalism and the Structure of Jane Eyre.” Signs 18, no. 3 (1993): 592–617. 
work_62wd3u4dxne2hozfiqzooygsgy	----	Anatomy of the Image of the Nurse: Dissonant and Ideal Models* Beatrice J. Kalisch, Ed.D., R.N., F.A.A.N., and Philip A. Kalisch, Ph.D. All professions, including nursing, rest on a cultural base. Berger and Luckman argue that the sociology of knowledge concerns itself more with common sense than with theoretical abstractions.3 Everyone must exist within some kind of structure, some kind of ordered world, and so people create a "reality" for themselves about nurses and nursing which is based on things they "know," regardless of the ultimate validity or inaccurateness of their "knowledge." The cultural lag implicit in current public 'knowledge" about nursing will exist until, and unless, it is directly challenged by new "knowledge." For example, the generally accepted "knowledge" of male/ female interaction of the 1950s has become unacceptable to the culture of the 1980s; a new "knowledge" has replaced the old, perhaps only substitut- ing one set of stereotypes for another, but definitely altering the tone. Socialization, the process of learning basic values and orientations that prepare individuals to fit into their cultural milieu, contributes to the cognitive system a collection of interrelated items of knowledge and beliefs about the profession of nursing. A predominant consistency between the knowledge, ideas, and beliefs about nurses and the actual role, work, and nature of nursing yield an ideal or consonant image. The absence of such consistency and the ensuing internal contradictions provide a cognitively dissonant image of nursing. When this theoretical model is applied to a perceived incongruity between a person's attitudes and his or her behavior, there is evidence that people tend to reduce such dissonance by making ap- propriate changes in their attitudes and beliefs.2 The mass media are instrumental in the image formation process. Originally, mass media research did not put much stress on the socialization function, because it was thought that this was primarily performed by parents and the schools. Studies conducted in the 1970s finally put the spotlight on the media as a primary factor in socialization, showing that a Beatrice Kalisch is Titus Distinguished Professor of Nursing and chairperson, Parent-Child Nursing, School of Nursing, University of Michigan. Ann Arbor. Philip Kalisch is interim director, Center for Nursing Research, and professor of history, politics, and economics of nursing. School of Nursing. University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. *This paper is based partly upon studies supported by research grant NU 00579 from the Divi- sion of Nursing, Bureau of Health Professions, Health Resources Administration. U.S. Depart- ment of Health and Human Services. Co-investigators of the image of Nursing in the Mass Media Project are Beatrice [. Kalisch and Philip A. Kalisch, . large proportion of information that children acquire about the nature of their world comes from the mass media. It reaches them either directly through exposure to the electronic and print media, or indirectly through mass media exposure of their families, teachers, acquaintances, and peers. This information presents specific facts as well as general values. The media indicate the elements which make for power, success, and happiness in society and provide models for behavior.3 Public opinion polls show that most of the new orientations and beliefs that adults acquire during their lifetime also are based on information sup- plied by the mass media.4 People do not necessarily adopt the precise at- titudes and opinions that may be suggested by the media, but the informa- tion provides the ingredients they use to adjust their existing attitudes and opinions to keep pace with a changing world.5 One must therefore credit the mass media with a sizeable share of continuing socialization and resocializa- tion about all aspects of life including nurses and nursing. The media have an enormous impact on the formation of images. Ken- neth Boulding names the basis for human behavior the "image" in order to emphasize that it is a subjective knowledge structure, not necessarily reflec- ting actuality in all of its components. Images are mental representations that influence how people see allaspects of life, including nurses and nurs- ing; they help people in achieving tangible goals, making judgments, and expressing themselves. Public images are the basic bond of any society and are produced by sharing messages. Persons exchange images between each other by using symbols in both interpersonal and mass communication. Ac- cording to Boulding, behavior depends on the image; and in his view, messages change images, which in turn account for changes in individual behavior patterns.6 Social construction of reality is a result of the process of image forma- tion, stimulated by messages transmitted by various forms of communica- tion. In effect, the entire public perception of truth about nursing is a paradigm based on a socially created legitimacy. When used as tools for ad- vancing interests, public images create and reinforce distinctions between groups. As evaluative standards, public images create and reinforce distinc- tions in occupational prestige and entitlement to certain scarce resources. When nurses are constantly portrayed in negatively stereotyped ways, these images affect their lives and their aspirations as well as delimit the scope of their work. Mass media products seethe with myths and heros. They guide deci- sions, inform perceptions, and provide examples of appropriate behavior. For example, most Americans' current image of health care owes its origins to the heroic and self-perpetuating media messages about the miracles of modern medicine of the 1930s and 1940s, in which any health problem could be cured if only the victim could get the assistance of "doctors" at some place like the Mayo Clinic. This general belief was reinforced by the miracles of medical intervention; broken bones were mended, eyesight restored, infections cured, and miraculous surgery performed. Nurses, however, are well aware (even though the public is not) that rates of mor- bidity and mortality have little relationship to the quality and quantity of the amount spent on health care. Life expectancy is not the longest in the country with the most advanced bio-medical research or even in the coun- try with the greatest per capita expenditures on health care. Instead, a grow- ing part of the health care community has come to conclude that general health, morbidity rates, and life expectancy are more influenced by genetic heritage, life style habits, and environmental factors, which receive far fewer dollars. We initiated the study of the image of the nurse in the mass media in search of the evolving social perception of the nurse and the accompanying symbolic system that expresses the implicit concepts of what nursing means. We have regarded the products of mass media as cultural indicators of the commonly accepted themes, symbols, concepts, styles, and sentiments associated with nursing in the mass society of the past century. In in- vestigating the treatment of the nurse within the context of mass culture, the concept of genre provided the best point of departure. It refers to a central organizing conceptual category by which all media representations of a similar form, type, structure, function, kind, or style may be grouped for comparison, contrast, evaluation, or study. The generic mass media trad- tion of nursing, therefore, consists of all those media products which display conventions, themes, motifs, stereotypes, or archetypes pertaining to nurses and their work. The resultant study of the meaning of the various images within the social context yields the "iconography of nursing."8 Tracking the somtimes fugitive mass media products of the past cen- tury and a half that pertain to nursing yielded evidence from the print media (200 novels, 143 magazine short stories, poems, and articles, and 20,000 newspaper clippings) as well as the newer non-print media (204 motion pic- tures, 122 radio programs, and 320 television episodes). Both quantitative and qualitative methods were employed in a content analysis of the data which facilitated the reduction of this evidence into five dominant image types that are fundamentally characteristic of the five successive periods of time—(1) the Angel of Mercy [1854-1919], (2) the Girl Friday [1920-1929], (3) the Heroine (1930-19451, (4) the Mother [1946-1965], and (5) the Sex Ob- ject [1966-1982].9 These images epitomize the mode of thought and feeling about nurses that was inherent in the prevailing mass media entertainment and information messages of the day and as such constitute the nurse stereotypes fundamentally characteristic of their particular periods. As iconographical indicators, these nurse image types fall at several intervals within the range from "ideal" to "dissonant" and proved to be of varying ef- fectiveness for their particular eras in molding popular conceptions about nurses and nursing within their unique cultural milieus. I. Angel of Mercy, 1854-1919 In the mid-nineteenth century, two opposing conceptions of the nurse image were epitomized by two media-created "nurses": Satry Gamp, the alcoholic hag immortalized by Charles Dickens in Martin Chuzzlewit and Florence Nightingale, the real-life heroine immortalized by newsman William Howard Russell in his articles in the London Times. Indeed, both figures contributed to the rapid revision of nursing's public image of the 1850s; Miss Nightingale's service to the profession is self-evident, but the caricature of Mrs. Gamp helped to clear the way for Nightingale's seminal contribution to nursing. S. Squire Sprigge, a physician author of Dickens' own day, noted that: With regard to the nurses. Dickens . . . helped in a very pronounced degree to rescue society from the ministration of the hopeless class into whose hands the calling of nursing was committed. Society owes Dickens a double debt, for having buried the nurse-hag under indistinguishable laughter." Sairy Gamp embodied the nurses of the day who lived and worked in appalling surroundings; whose work was considered a particularly repug- nant form of domestic service for which little or no education and special training were necessary; and whose living was meager indeed. Young ladies of the middle classes were revolted by the idea of becoming nurses, a reac- tion easily understood in view of the conditions of the time. The major transformation in the new image of the nurse was of course due to the work of Florence Nightingale. No other nurse—perhaps no other woman—has so quickened the imagination and gratitude of a people as did Nightingale. Her achievements at Scutari Hospital were astounding, and her later career, though somewhat less dramatic, was no less innovative or significant for the fields of nursing, health, and hospital planning. Her effect upon the profession of nursing was immeasurable; indeed, for decades the names were, and in many ways still are, synonymous. Nightingale gave to the nursing profession both an unprecendented degree of public respect and acceptance and a new and abiding symbol of excellence. Unsurprisingly, she often found herself a subject for creative artists, and poets in particular drew inspiration from her work. Most of these poets wrote specifically of Miss Nightingale; yet her influence was so pervasive that one invariably finds a close correspondence between the direct poetic image of Nightingale and the generally more implicit image of nursing. In 1857, American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote a personalized tribute to Nightingale in his well-known poem 'Santa Filomena,' published in the Atlantic Monthly. Here the poet speaks explicitly of the "lady with a lamp," and, by identifying her with Saint Filomena, Longfellow makes use of the popular conception of Nightingale as the "saint of the Crimea." The poem opens with a statement of the inspiriting and enlightening quality of "noble" deeds and thoughts. The presence, real or imagined, of "deeper souls" lifts the spirit from mean notions and superficial cares. This seraphic imagery is emphasized by the reenactment of a scene which had been popularized for British readers through a celebrated newspaper ac- count of Scutari Hospital: And slow, as in a dream of bliss The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. We are told here that she passed like a vision, as if a "door to heaven," left momentarily ajar, were suddenly shut. Longfellow calls Nightingale "A no- ble type of good, Heroic womanhood"—a woman fit to carry the symbols once borne by Saint Filomena: the palm of peace, the lily of Christian love and mercy, and the spear of courage and determination. Longfellow's sym- bols of saintliness serve to reiterate the metaphors of nobility, heroism, and self-sacrifice.11 Modern nursing owes its origins to Florence Nightingale's work and the attendant "Angel of Mercy" media image which provided an effective ideal in garnering public support for the first nurse training school at London's St. Thomas' Hospital in 1859. The Saturday Review of January 21, 1860, for example, expressed undiluted praise for Nightingale's Notes on Nursing ("it is prevaded by power and wisdom and true goodness"), for her nursing work (her expedition to Scutari is called "the single bright spot in one of our gloomiest national reminiscences"), and for Miss Nightingale's character (as readers are told that Englishmen will always remember "with pride and gratitude how the exigencies of a great crisis were bravely and successfully met by her genius, experience, and resolution").11 Nightingale's struggles to define the nursing profession took place against the background of intense mid-nineteenth century debate over the position, rights, and potential of women. Victorian women were ex- emplified by what has been called the cult of 'True Womanhood": this so- called Victorian code drew upon the almost universal conviction that women were weaker than men physically, emotionally, and intellectually, and were dependent on males for social position, security, and direction. Many a daughter of a Victorian family, however, covertly scorned the domestic docility of her mother and, in her own quest for freedom and ex- citement, secretly envied and identified with men. Thus at a time when the masculine professions were all but closed to women, entry into the profes- sion of nursing itself represented an attractive step toward emancipation from the confinement of the domestic sphere and well-intentioned but often ineffectual "good works." Once Florence Nightingale brought respectability to the nursing profes- sion, a new image of the nurse began to appear. Nurses were portrayed as noble, moral, religious, virginal, ritualistic, and self-sacrificing. A majority of late 19th century authors contrasted the newer "trained nurse' with the discredited and older familiar "Sairy Gamp" type of nurse. For example, in St. Bernard's: The Romance of a Medical Student by Edward Bersoe (1887), the refined and sensitive nurse heroine is contrasted with a thoroughly igno- rant and weak-willed nurse who unashamedly persuades her patients into going through the tortures of amputations and other surgery they do not need in order to give the medical students the opportunity to practice their skills. The heroine is depicted by the author as one of those "gentlewomen who have adopted the noble profession of nursing from the love of God and their neighbor." Her innate sensibility eventually forces her to leave this hospital, but she goes on to establish a Nightingale School of Nursing.13 Between the early 1890s and the First World War, the durable but adaptive nature of the "Angel of Mercy" nurse image was successfully in- corporated into a major shift in the feminine image of the day. This "New Woman" was typified by the popular "Gibson Girl," the creation of the ar- tist Charles Dana Gibson in a series of drawings in Life magazine in the 1890s. That the Gibson Girl was the image of women which captured the imagination of a generation of Americans is evidenced by the proliferation of artifacts, plays, and songs which accompanied her popularity in Life magazine. Staring cooly into the distance, only rarely gazing at her reader or pictorial admirer, she conveyed a mysterious elegance. Physically, her presence not only dominated Gibson's drawings, but she literally dwarfed her male counterparts. Statuesque, long-limbed and long-necked, her physical bearing conveyed authority; her thrown-back, upright carriage and lowered eyelids projected power and control over self and others. Nursing was the only occupation identified with this lofty female ideal (as based on our visual analysis of several hundred of Gibson's still extant drawings), attesting to the acceptability of the profession for well-bred women in a time when women working outside of the home was viewed negatively and solely for "misfortunates" who did not have a man to take care of them. Positive imagery surrounding "trained nurses" contributed to the rapid growth of the profession as the census bureau found that the 1,500 professional nurses of 1880 rose to 4,600 in 1890, climbed to 11,800 in 1900, and soared to 82,000 in 1910. The characterization of nursing during this era emphasized the noble, self-sacrificing angel of mercy component of nur- sing's image and its expression of the quintessence of femininity. World War I saw the last glorious outpouring of the "Angel of Mercy" imagery that had persisted as the predominant mold since the time of Nightingale. The nurse was the envy of all American women as rampant media-inspired patriotism instilled the desire to play an active role near the fighting front. Hundreds of society women sought to pressure Congress to allow them to go overseas to serve as nursing aides at their own expense. In the media, nurses were consistently presented as noble and heroic. An in- spirational, saintly, other-worldly aspect of nursing the wounded was seen in countless portrayals. Tor example, several recruitment posters and 8 magazine covers featured nurses imposing themselves between recumbent, wounded soldiers and the threatening, robed figure of Death lurking in the foreground. A typical drawing, inscribed "The Angel of Life in the Valley of Death," featured an ethereal, illuminated nursing figure standing and poin- ting the way for a group of fallen soldiers in no-man's land. Nurse Edith Cavell, executed by a German firing squad on October 12, 1915, became the first popular martyr of World War I. Canonization occur- red not through the time-consuming Roman curia, but more immediately, through the press and the several films Hollywood quickly made about her life and death. Not incidentally, Cavell's media fame created so strong an impression on the popular imagination that her sacrifice strongly influenced the many fictional accounts of heroic nurses in war-theme films. In many ways, the Cavell case reinvigorated the "Angel of Mercy" image with a heavy dose of "moral purity" symbolism. So powerful was the moral aura surrounding the work of the nurse that many vamps and other fallen women characters depicted in the entertainment media of the day regained their virtue by becoming nurses. The typical World War I film told of how a young American male volunteered for service in the war, how his nurse sweetheart joined up to be near him, and how, fortuitously, the hero was wounded and found by his sweetheart-nurse who restored him to health. Furthermore, the strong pro- pagandistic attitudes of filmmakers usually guaranteed that there would be a few scenes of a brutal and animalistic German officer threatening to rape the nurse. In these World War I media portrayals, a model of an "Angel of Mercy" with new values was depicted. The nursing identification provided one effective way to mask the novelty of female independence with tradi- tional female values. These nurse portrayals gave the viewing public the needed encouragement to accept an expanded sphere of female efforts. Nurse characters demonstrated, countless times, that women could provide enormous wartime support and make their own decisions, without jeopar- dizing the pre-war social arrangements. They prefigured a transformation that was to take place for American women as a whole. Almost all the nurse characters came from sheltered, prosperous backgrounds; and the decision to become a nurse emerged consciously. Perhaps the greatest change in female standards to be observed in these portrayals was a consistent devaluation of other women who were providing no useful war service. II. Girl Friday, 1920-1929 The 1920s proved to be a transitory period in the reshaping of the public image of the nurse. World War I had made it possible for women to enter new areas of activity, and 1919 brought the passage of the Woman Suffrage Amendment in the United States. By 1920 the number of working women had virtually doubled since the turn of the century so that women represented more than one-fifth of the total working population. A quest for private fulfillment, motivated by the new advertising industry and na- tional prosperity yielded an upheaval in social mores, often called "The Flapper's Revolution." The shedding of Victorian inhibitions led women to abandon clothing taboos and proscriptions on social behavior as the female ideal of the 1920s, popularly known as the "Flapper," wore bobbed hair, decorative cosmetics, and short-skirted, shapeless clothing. This woman was so drastically different from her predecessors that she seemed practic- ally new-born. She was delineated as one who enjoyed all kinds of sports, who danced regardless of her age, who dieted to maintain the slim figure currently in fashion, who sometimes smoked cigarettes, and who went to beauty parlors regularly. In opposition to much of the Flapper's values, the public image of the nurse and of nurse training in general suffered considerable deterioration during the 1920s. From the time of Nightingale up through World War I, nursing was popularly regarded as a select occupation of noble proportions, strongly imbued with military-religious traditions and distinctive rituals. Increasingly, in the twenties, standards in nursing education declined as far too many hospitals opened and expanded schools, ruthlessly exploited stu- dent labor as a means of staffing their wards at the lowest possible cost, and generated a flurry of negative newspaper and magazine articles on the poor working conditions surrounding nurse training. Accompanying this deprofessionalization in nursing was the shift in American social ideology from one that was rural, homogeneous, fun- damentalist, and traditional in point of view, to one that was urban, cosmopolitan, heterogeneous, and adventuresome in viewpoint. Nursing was slow in adapting to the mass ideology and its popular image drifted into a dissonant state vis-a-vis the new female ideal of the "Flapper." The dominant public image of the 1920s media nurse was the "Girl Fri- day" type, a transitory representation that grew out of the interface bet- ween the variable changes operative in nursing as well as society's moral climate and values. The emphasis was on the nurse as a reliable working woman whose career lasted only until her wedding day as her nursing duties were primarily used to showcase an on the job romance with her future hus- band. Prince Charming was often her employing physician (as in Sinclair Lewis' 1926 Pulitzer Prize winning novel Arrowsmith and Mary Roberts Rinehart's 1924 film version of K—The Unknown) or the son of a million- naire who happened to be momentarily in need of a nurse, as was true in such films as The Glorious Fool (1929) and Why Worry? (1923). As work- ing girl companions, these nurses were single and often emanated from a lower class background. For the most part, they were faithful, dependent, cooperative, long suffering, and subservient Girls Friday. The 1920s, then, saw two female image systems struggle for supremacy and public adherence. Nursing became the victim, willingly or unwillingly, of the image molders of an older set of values that had become increasingly rigid and sour in the face of powerful challenges to their survival as the dominant, even if ineffectual, communicators to the public. The "Girl Fri- day" image of the 1920s promoted nurses' professional inequality and sought easy, optimistic resolutions to any personal or professional pro- blems their fictions treated. They were subservient, cooperative, methodical, dedicated, modest, and loyal. But a handful of media products simultaneously reflected, unconsciously or otherwise, the malaise of this role along with the untenably narrow boundaries of the handmaiden nurse role, and also offered a glimpse of a new recommitment to the profession that was just on the horizon. III. Heroine, 1930-1945 During the abysmal days of the 1930s, an economic paralysis spread, snuffing out the jobs of one quarter of the labor force. Despite this low point in American economic history, the public image of the nurse was in the process of being elevated to an all time high in the embodiment of the heroine representation. The mass media recognized nursing as a true profes- sion which required education and the development of skills and knowledge for its practice. Nurses were depicted as brave, rational, dedicated, decisive, humanistic, and autonomous. The most powerful medium of the 1930s and 1940s was the motion pic- ture, which held unchallenged sway over the national imagination as 85 million Americans went to 17,000 theatres each week to see the depiction of things lost or things desired. The positive imagery created-about nursing by this medium is evidenced by the fact that one of the few nursing films ever to be nominated for the Academy Award for Best Picture was The White Parade, a 1934 motion picture based on Rian James' 1932 novel. A reviewer for the journal Trained Nurse documented the film's effectiveness as both a work of entertainment and a communicator of accurate information about nursing: This interpretation of nursing catches the feeling of altruism so characteristic of youth and gives it wings in a form that is harnessed to practical service. Moreover it breaks down the thin wall between comedy and tragedy that is so present in reality until smiles and tears chase across the film and the audience feels itself a part of this life within hospital walls.14 A similarly positive contribution to the heroine image was A.J. Cronin's popular novel, Vigil in the Night, which was quickly made into a movie starring Carole Lombard. This motion picture emphasized the vir- tues of courage, self-sacrifice, dedication, and compassion. Reminiscent of the scenes of Florence Nightingale in the Crimea, the nurse heroine takes the initiative of creating a children's isolation ward for victims of a highly con- tagious and virulent disease against the hospital administrator's wishes. Stories of such nurse heroines as Florence Nightingale, Edith Cavell, and Sister Kenney became the subjects of extensive biographical treatment. For example, in 1936, Kay Francis, then the most popular star under Warner Brothers contract, played Miss Nightingale in The White Angel. The audience was brought to a full awareness of the colossal demands Nightingale and her nurses faced, and how they were successful in sur- mounting the obstacles that were placed in their way by unappreciate physi- cians. In The White Angel, a woman and nurse is portrayed as a heroic crusader who successfully defeats the forces of convention, and the nursing profession is associated with the highest level of humanitarianism. Another unique role, the "private duty nurse as a detective," made an impressive debut in numerous magazine short stories, mystery novels, and feature films. In film the popular Hollywood actresses of the new decade who played nurse-detectives were bolder and brassier than the actresses that had portrayed the movie nurses of the 1920s. Starring as nurse-detectives were Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Blondell, Ann Sheridan, and Aline Mac- Mahon, among others. These women were strong-willed, independent types who used their professional abilities with intelligence. Two other popular themes which often involved nurse characters in media of the 1930s were adventure dramas about airplane or ship travel. Novelists and filmmakers apparently believed that any crisis, danger, or romance occurring on land would be twice as exciting if it happened in mid- air or in the middle of an ocean. Hence, for a decade, the creative arts com- munity presented numerous films, novels, and short stories with titles such as "Ship's Nurse," "Mercy Plane," "Flight Angel," and "Air Hostess." The fact that the airlines actually hired graduate nurses to augment the pilot and copilot as stewardesses in the early years of commercial flying led to a number of daringly adventurous portrayals of nurses in the media. Most people in the 1930s audience were unfamiliar with air travel, so it is impor- tant to consider how these nurse characters must have appeared to the public at that time. There they were, brave women who not only dared to go up in those dangerous flying machines but also handled any emergency that seemed (inevitably) to arise. They delivered babies in mid-air and assisted at emergency operations. If the pilots were disabled, the nurse would land the plane safely. Only slightly less heroic were the ships' nurses who also displayed the same kind of courage, resourcefulness, and romantic attractiveness as they performed emergency surgery and fought raging cholera epidemics. Like other 1930s media portrayals, these representations depicted the nurse as a brave, adventurous, romantic figure, a power for good and an inspiration to others. On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and attacked U.S. troops in the Phillipines. The nation mobilized, and as a consequence, the lifestyles of American women were jolted considerably, largely because 11 12 extensive new employment opportunities opened up for them. Women were encouraged to fulfill their patriotic duty and enter occupations which before had been considered for men only. As a result, the female labor force in- creased 57 percent during the war years, boosting the proportion of women in the labor force from 25 percent in 1940 to 37 percent in 1945. This in- crease was greater than that of the previous four decades combined. The coming of the Second World War and its social effects both inten- sified the heroic propensities of the nursing profession and subtly altered the way in which nurses were presented. The popular image of wartime nursing was markedly less sentimental during World War II than had been the case in World War I. Recruitment posters pictured nurses in dignified, serious poses, wearing the much admired uniforms of their profession and the military service. Striking recruitment posters such as one featuring a young nurse in a fatigue uniform with a rifle and I.V. bottle in the background, gave clear recognition of the nurses' essential role and proximity to the fighting front. Publicity given to real life heroism such as that of the nurses trapped on Bataan and Corregidor brought the public to accept the notion of active, physically courageous women, standing side-by-side with the fighting men. Hollywood accurately captured the sense of the nurse's dangerous work in several memorable films produced during the war. Most famous were the star-studded, fictionalized accounts of nurses trapped in the Philippines. One example is So Proudly We Hail released in 1943, which starred Claudette Colbert, Paulette Goddard, Veronica Lake, and Barbara Britton as Army nurses who endured massive military defeat on Bataan and Corregidor before a last-minute evacuation. The highlights of the film showcased a group of female nurses adjusting to combat situations with equanimity, maintaining their own discipline, providing needed leadership in many situations, and performing feats of physical bravery. The sound of bombs exploding accompanied all the main action. One nurse saved the lives of her fellow nurses by carrying a live grenade in her surrender to the enemy. Another nurse refused to seek shelter during a raid, remaining by the side of the surgeon during an operation; she was killed by enemy fire. Yet a third received severe burns when she tried to rescue a friend: with burned hands she paddled her way out into the bay to take her friend to the evacuation boat. Through it all, the nurses remained confident and op- timistic as they took care of their patients. The same heroic nurse image was broadcast via the newly powerful medium of radio which during the 1930s and early 1940s, provided the in- timate, in-home information and entertainment functions now replaced by the television. One of the most durable programs was NBC's One Man's Family, a Norman Rockwell creation heard in 28 million homes on Wednesdays at 8 p.m. The announcer always began by declaring that the show was "dedicated to the mothers and fathers of the younger generation and to their bewildering off-spring." Between the time that it went on the air for the first time in 1932 to the final broadcast twenty-seven years later. One Man's Family helped idealize the nursing profession by incorporating it into the lives of two members of the extended Barbour family, one of whom was a World War II Cadet Nurse who subsequently joined the Army Nurse Corps. Through such mass media portrayals, the real work and physical stamina evidenced by military nurses during the Second World War did reach the consciousness of the American people, and the public found no difficulty in accepting these women as heroines. IV. Mother, 1945-1965 Nothing about the late 1940s, the decade of the 1950s, and the early 1960s was more paradoxical than the role women played in it. After sharing the camaraderie of the fighting services and the hardships of the war on equal terms, surely women would not go meekly back home to function solely as wife and mother? But they did, with a fervor that would have amazed the feminists of their grandmothers' generation. Birth rates soared and career women sank in prestige to the level of drop-outs in the great breeding stakes. In the two years following the termination of hostilities, the number of females in the labor force declined by about two million, or from 37 percent of all women in 1945 to 32 percent in 1950. For married women, opportunity meant not working in the marketplace. Since the family was credited with being the most important institution in a democratic society, women's caretaking functions were seen to demand their full attention, offering a pleasurable and important role to the wife and mother as well as a benefit to the husband-father and an invest- ment to society. In the early years, the baby boom carried aimo5t all women before it. The vogue for large families—for third, fourth, even fifth and sixth babies—spread. Not since before 1914 had such large families been typical. As a consequence, the United States population increased by twenty-eight million in ten years, at a rate even raster than India's. The mar- riage age steadily dropped until half of American brides married by the time they were twenty. Why was this? Partly because the Happy Housewife beamed at the world from countless advertisements, looking out of her gadget-lined nest. But more important was the fact that the social climate was imbued with a new Puritan ethic, not the work ethic but the breeding ethic. This was even true for the college educated woman, since the most important task to which a woman's higher education could be put was, by wide agreement, raising the next generation. By the mid-fifties more than half the women at American universities were dropping out of college in order to marry and help their husbands to get through. It is interesting to note that unlike the post-World War I era, nursing remained a high status occupation for women after World War II. The April 1948 issue of the Personnel and Guidance journal rcported a study which was conducted to determine the social status of twenty-nine women's oc- cupations. Responses to questionnaires asking what occupation is "most looked up to," which is second, and so on, were obtained from two groups of high school students and two groups of college students. The tabulated results showed that in median rank order the professional nurse was second; the physician had first place and the teacher, sixth.15 Reinforcing the regressed role of women were the new fashions of the day. According to fashion publicists, after two decades of the 'American Look," marked by slim hips, casual appearance, and reasonably short skirts, Paris couturier Christian Dior brought onto the stage what he called the "New Look"—the long skirted, hourglass fashion. By the early 1950s, these fashions reached their height in the "baby doll" look. It was characterized by a cinched-in waist, a full bosom, and long bouffant skirts held out by crinoline petticoats. Not since the Victorian era had women's fashions been so confining. On the popular level, the new emphasis on domesticity was everywhere apparent. By the end of the 1940s, most female heroines in the mass media were again happy housewives. Epitomizing society's belief that women functioned best as sweethearts, sirens, or wives, most female film stars of the 1950s were sweet, innocent, and characterless, like Debbie Reynolds and Doris Day. By the mid-1950s, television, which was begin- ning to beam its message into countless American homes, also portrayed the woman as a contented homebody, often flighty and irresponsible. The em- phasis on domesticity was pronounced in long-running, popular television shows, like "I Love Lucy" and "Father Knows Best." Nurse characters in most television dramas of the 1950s, while never intentionally distorted, more often than not were portrayed as sympathetic as women and dependent as nurses. The qualities lauded almost always came from the traditional womanly treasurehouse of virtue: good nurses were maternal, nurturing, sympathetic, passive, expressive, and domestic. Although occasional references were made to a nurse's education, the actual nurses depicted exhibited very little knowledge and skill. Nurses were never portrayed as uneducated or inarticulate, but neither were they admired for their intellectual competence or professional qualifications. Ann Talbot, of Dr. Hudson, appeared to be a thoughtful woman, but her value consisted mainly in her ability to be supportive of the doctor's temperament. Donna Stone of The Donna Reed Show and Martha Hale of Hennessey manipulated their menfolk with feminine charm and guile and operated on emotional reactions rather than objective assessments. The nurse chosen to personify the profession in Medic's 1955 tribute to nursing exemplified the importance of self-sacrifice and generosity required of a truly successful nurse. School nurse Nancy Remington of Mr. Peepers, admirable as a young woman, was never shown doing any nursing. As a sin of omission, producers rarely presented real portraits of up-to- date nursing practice. Lines of authority between nurses never emerged; for example, on Dr. Hudson, reference was made to a nursing director, but Hudson himself appeared to make the real decisions regarding the nursing staff—authorizing transfers, arranging for nurses to quit, disciplining nurses, etc. Nurse characters always gave up their profession for marriage and family. The viewer knew that Ann Talbot loved Dr. Hudson and, had she married him, would have been expected to quit nursing in order to be a full-time mother to his young daughter Kathy. Even without marriage, she performed many domestic, motherly functions for Dr. Hudson. Similarly, Donna Stone had left nursing after marriage, Martha Hale exited the profes- sion after marrying Chick Hennessey, and marriage spelled the end of Nancy Remington's career as a school nurse. The long-suffering "mother" image of the nurse continued to dominate television images of nursing into the early 1960s. The introduction of Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey on television in 1961, which began a national craze for things medical, established certain conventions for health care drama that have never been successfully challenged. The depiction of nursing in these shows gave a grossly distorted view of the work of nurses. The nurses largely carried out menial tasks (e.g., running errands, answering the phones, delivering messages, and pushing carts), while the physician characters were shown doing the nursing care (e.g., the administration of drugs, the monitoring of seriously ill patients, and the provision of psychosocial support). Miss Wills of Ben Casey personified the typical TV nurse of the 1960s. She was motherly, expressive, sympathetic, and ever- ready to do the doctor's bidding. While she performed no skilled nursing tasks, she did answer the telephone and gave Dr. Casey his messages in a most maternal manner. She also lent enormous support to Dr. Casey's brilliant work. Among the motion pictures appearing between 1946 and 1965 that strongly equated nurses with the maternal role were such blockbusters as Jolson Sings Again (1950), With a Song in My Heart (1952), Magnificent Obsession (1954), Not As a Stranger (1955), South Pacific {1958), Opera- tion Petticoat (1959), Exodus (1960), and Captain Newman, M.D. (1963). In all these major features as well as scores of minor films, the dominant nurse image was that of "mother" to a man, a husband, or children. Evidence of any professional expertise associated with nursing was almost non-existent in the American cinema of this era. An ideal preparation for marriage and motherhood was popularly ascribed to nursing in the period 1946-1965. For example, among popular magazines, Hygeia promised in 1947 that ''the girl who is trained as a nurse has several advantages over girls in other occupations when it comes to con- tact with the susceptible male."16 The following year the Ladies Home Jour- nal asked, "Who Has Heard the Nightingale?"" In 1953 and 1954, the Satur- day Evening Post announced in one major feature story that "Nurses Are Lucky Girls!," claiming that "nurses have the best chances of marrying" of any professionals,18 and subsequently ran another story about a maternity 15 nurse entitled "I've Had a Thousand Babies."19 In 1956. Charm told readers that the "piteous cry of Nurse" brought "to the hospital bedside a trim, effi- cient, sympathetic woman,"20 A shift in imagery was in the making by 1962 when The Reporter called nurses "Medicines Forgotten Women"21 and In 1965 when Science Newsletter ran an article declaring "More Glamor, Pay, Glory, Needed to Attract Nurses."22 The "mother" image declined in importance during the mid-1960s. Women, in general, were sensing as never before that they had capabilities far greater than were being used entirely in the traditional feminine role, A major contribution to this development of a modern philosophy of women's role was The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir, first appearing in transla- tion in the United States in 1952 but belatedly becoming popular in 1961 and 1962. Women were now inspired by her most famous statement, "One is not born a woman, one becomes one," to conclude that the inferior status of the "second sex" was not a natural phenomenon but a man-made one.23 Once the contraceptive pill became available and accepted and made any further baby boom unlikely, years of frustrated and dammed-up feminism were ready to burst in the new wave of women's liberation. In 1963, Betty Friedan published The Feminine Mystique, a journalistic polemic which dealt with "the problem that has no name"; and while it was not, strictly speaking, a book about liberation and equality, it discussed the discontent and dead-endism that an increasing number of women were ex- periencing and started the wheels turning in many women's heads. To Betty Friedan, the American home, filled with its creature comforts, was a gilded ghetto, a velvet concentration camp. She wrote: "A baked potato is not as big as the world, and vacuuming the living room floor—with or without makeup—is not work that takes enough thought or energy to challenge a woman's full capacity."24i By 1966 millions of women and thousands of nurses had been changed by the movement, but nurses seemed left behind in media accounts of these developments. V. Sex Object, 1966 to date As the "mother" image of the nurse declined in the mid-1960s, the vacuum that it left was filled by the most negative media image since Charles Dickens' pre-Nightingale character Sairy Gamp—the nurse as a sex object. In the majority of media portrayals from the mid-1960s to the pre- sent time, an obsession with nurses' sex lives has dominated ail other thematic elements and yielded a representation of the nursing profession which is often blurred and twisted to fit bizarre objectives. In these por- trayals, nurses are depicted as sensual, romantic, hedonistic, frivolous, ir- responsible, and promiscuous. And, unfortunately, the more the nurse is presented as a sex object, the less she is shown being engaged in actual pro- fessional nursing work. The primary plot development in these stereotypical depictions has the nurse becoming emotionally and sexually involved with her patients. A pa- tient's welfare becomes the nurses private mission, and in the process of aiding his physical and psychological recovery, she readily becomes his sex- ual partner. Another common representation involves the portrayal of sex- ual liaisons between nurses and physicians. These almost always cast the nurse in a subordinate and usually demeaning role. For instance, in order to assure that the head nurse will not learn of her medication error, a nurse agrees to have sex with a young physician; another nurse allows a psychiatrist to talk her into believing that she is potentially deviant, and then is seduced by him in the name of a cure. The nurse as a sex object is the pervasive theme throughout novels and motion pictures of the period 1966-1982. Even the origins of the most durable "nurse" of the entertainment media world of the past generation. Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan! originated as a sex object role in the 1968 novel and the 1970 motion picture M*A*S*H. Hawkeye sums up his reac- tion to the nurse's views when he informs her, patronizingly, that because of her being a Regular Army Clown, he will not favor her with an invitation to his bed. To elaborate their distaste for her prudery and military manner and in an effort to destroy the last of Hot Lips' self-confidence, the physi- cians stage the humiliating shower scene. The other nurses join in the fun, sharing the physicians' delight in witnessing the head nurse's downfall. The attractive nurse found in bed with the commanding officer epitomizes the concept of what a good nurse should be—sexually attractive and willing to sacrifice herself to a good cause. The depiction of nurses as the sexual mascots for the medical team recurs again and again throughout the period 1966-1982. At the "sexploita- tion film " level, nursing has been the most frequent occupational identifica- tion utilized in film titles since the mid-sixties. Of 91 R- and X-rated films with occupationally linked titles, "nurse" has been used in 21 % of the cases, followed by wife (16%), hooker/prostitute (12%), cheerleader (8%), and stewardess (8%). Furthermore, the word "nurse" in the titles of such films as The Sensuous Nurse (1980), Night Call Nurses (1972), Nurses for Sale (1977), Head Nurse (1979), and Naughty Nurses (1973) needlessly degrades the profession's image. Nurses have also been largely portrayed as sex objects on the television entertainment programing of the past decade. For example, early episodes of M * A * S * H featured nurses as off-duty sexual playmates while Operation Petticoat and Black Sheep Squadron similarly featured military nurses. All these series emphasized the sexual attractiveness of the nurse characters. The nurses of Black Sheep Squadron were a gratuitous device designed to provide sexual interest as they were all shapely and young and seemed out of place at a front-line air field devoid of medical officers or hospital. Trap- per John, one of the more successful current series, continues this imagery with nurse "Ripples." Emphasis on the nurse as a sex object would not be so damaging to the image of nursing if there were countervailing images of nurses as true professionals. But the quantity of nurse characters incor- porated into the mass media products each year has continued to decline in the late 1970s and early 1980s as female physicians and other women profes- sionals are now accorded all the glamour and heroic proportions that once were accorded media nurses. Unlike the sex object depiction of nurses, the media entertainment roles accorded other women did improve in the late 1970s and early 1980s. The films Julia, The Turning Point, An Unmarried Woman, and Norma Rae opened within twelve months of each other, and the media exultantly dub- bed it 'The Year of the Woman." A year later the New York Times declared that after "long neglect, Hollywood is fascinated with women—their careers, their individual destinies, their relationships with each other, their passions, and, of course (but no longer exclusively), their relationships with men." By the early 1980s, even television was portraying a few intelligent and independent women in other professions, such as public defender Joyce Davenport on Hill Street Blues. VI. The Careerist—An Ideal Image of the 1980s and 1990s The fabrication of a more ideal nurse image of the 1980s, the careerist, is essential to persuade the public (as well as many nurses) that how things are is not how they ought to be and that the place provided for nurses in the media is much less than the place nurses ought to have. Let us accept the fact that, for better or worse, mass communications about nursing are a necessary form of social exchange that interact with the environment sup- porting it. The pragmatic concern of this paper has been with how com- munication has created nurse images and the values ascribed to these im- ages. Nurse images are a part of the mind-affected world where values, meanings, and purposes are realized or made manifest. To the extent that the mass media serve an agenda-setting function, we are calling for their conscious employment in effecting a transformation of the image of the nurse which emphasises equality, commitment to career, and renunciation of nursing as a physician-dominated occupation demanding an impossible degree of obedience. Substitution of androgyny for traditional rigid female imagery in media nurse representations would effectively provide alter- native role models that would begin to open nursing up as a strong career option for both sexes. The image implications of the popular opinion that equates the nurse with the quintessence of traditional womanhood has come to the fore largely as the result of the women's movement. A parallel assumption exists that since women have traditionally been subordinated to men, the principal sign of the "new woman's" emancipation is entrance into the "male" world of work. Public support through acceptance of appropriate imagery has helped promote impressive gains; women in 1981 comprised one-third of the first year medical students, one-third of all business students, and the percentage of female engineering graduates has soared from 1 percent to 1970 to 10 in 1981. Meanwhile the number of school of nursing applicants and graduates continues to decline despite widespread career opportunities. Before the turn of the century and during the first half of this century, a woman's decision to become a nurse represented a blow for independence: but for a woman of today, entrance into the nursing profession is too often regarded as one more surrender to the narrowing of personal ambition and an unadventurous acceptance of the stricture of sex role specialization. This negative effect is due to the perpetuation of the outmoded occupational stereotype that the ideal nurse is dependent and ineffectual in her attempts to direct her own destiny. Such stereotypes deter prospective nurses from entering the field, as well as limiting the aspirations and opportunities available to professional nurses, since employers, patients, other health care providers, and nurses themselves are all influenced by media images. The dearth of viable role models of progressive media nurses serves to perpetuate the traditional images of nurses as angels of mercy, girls Friday, mothers, and sex objects while at the same time quietly disposing of nursing's heroine connotation. The transition to a careerist nurse image will necessarily be a time of conflict and contradiction, as well as growth and change. When outmoded images begin to shatter, both old and new alternatives compete for ascen- dancy. As millions of women have moved out of the home into the labor force to comprise a figure of 53 percent of all adult women (up from 31 per- cent in 1950) and total 43 percent of the total American work force (up from 28 percent in 1950), they have been accompanied by the creation and diffu- sion of new female imagery. One aspect of that new imagery has been pro- vided by a host of new magazines. Six of these—New Woman, Savvy, Self, Spring, Working Mother, and Working Woman—set growth records for woman's magazines. It took several years to develop appropriate images tor the new working woman. For example, the first issue of Working Woman (1976) had not one but nine working women on the cover. How did one stereotype a working woman? With a steno pad? With coveralls? In a uniform? Carrying a briefcase? A housewife-type with horn-rimmed glasses? By the end of the 1970s, however, most of the magazines for work- ing women had settled on an idealized image of a dauntless, attractive business executive in a tailored suit, string tie, and feminine-looking brief- case. Little of this idealized image is appropriate for registered nurses, who comprise the nation's second largest profession. We have seen, if only through a glass darkly, the fragmented vision of five images of American nursing. Most of us who have experienced socialization as nurses can readily identify parts of ourselves and our social conditioning in these images. We have all played the Angel of Mercy,' the "Girl Friday," the "Heroine," the "Mother." and the "Sex Object." We've been living with definitions of ourselves and assigned cultural roles in which we have had no hand, yet we have offered amazingly little resistance. Why? This is the real question. At least part of the answer lies in the self-fulfilling nature of stereotypes. Research shows us that members of a group which are stereotyped often subscribe to the stereotype's expectations. Thus nurses, perhaps on an unconscious level, have contributed to the maintenance of dysfunctional stereotypes. It is perhaps a commentary, however, on our lack of professional self-identity and self-esteem that we have so readily adapted our "selves" to images that are so strongly derivative of outmoded military, religious, and female ascribed values. What is needed now is to create a new ideal nurse image for the 1980s and 1990s—the Careerist—an intelligent, logical, progressive, sophisticated, empathic, and assertive woman or man who is committed to attaining higher and higher standards of health care for the American public. References 1. Berger L., and T. Luckmann. The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge. Garden City, New York; Doubleday and Co.. 1966. 2. Festinger, L. A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance. Stanford: Stanford University Press 1962. 3. Davison, W.P., et al. Allies Media: Systems and Effects. New York: Praeger, 1976; M. Defleur and S. Ball-Kokeach, Theories of Mass Communication, New York: David McKay Company, 1975; D.A. Goslin (ed). Handbook of Socialization Theory and Research. Chicago: Rand McNally, 1969: L. Gross and S. Jeffries-Fox. What Do Your Want to Be When You Crown Up Little Girl In G. Tuchman, A.K. Daniels, and J. Benet (eds,). Hearth and Home: Images of Women in the Mass Media. New York: Oxford University Press, 1978: J-T. Klapper. The Effects of Mass Communication. New York: Free Press, 1960: M. Guttentag and H. Bray. Undoing Sex Stereotypes. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976: E.E. Maccoby and W.C. Wilson. Identification and Observational Learning From Films, Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology 55 (1957), 76-87; S.L. O'Bryant and C.R. Corder-Bolz. The Effects of Television on Children's Stereotyping of Women's Work Roles, Journal of Vocational Behavior 12 (1978), 233-244: S. Pingree. The Effects of Nonsexist Television Commercials and Perceptions of Reality on Children's Attitudes about Women, Psychology of Women Quarterly 2 (1978). 262-277; U.S. Civil Rights Commission. Window Dressing on the Set: Women and Minorities in Television. Washington, D.C.; U.S. Government Printing Office, 1977. i. U.S. Public Health Service, Alcohol Drug Abuse and Mental Health Administration. Na- tional Institute of Mental Health. Television and Behavior: Ten Years of Scientific Pro- gress and Implications for the Eighties. Washington: Government Printing Office. 1982, 54-66; G.H, Brady, Z. Stoneman and A.K. Sanders. Effects of Television on Family In- teractions: An Observational Study. Family Relations, 29 (1980), 216-220: P.C. Rosenblatt and M.R. Cunningham. Television Watching and Family Tension. Journal of Marriage and the Family (1976), 38. 105-11: J. Lull. The Social Uses of Television, Human Communication Research o (1980). 197-209; J. Lull. Family Communication Patterns and the Social Uses of Television. Communications Research 7 (1980). 319-334. 5. Gerbner, G., L. Gross, M. Morgan, and N. Signorielli. Health and Medicine on Televi- sion. New England Journal of Medicine 305 (1981), 901-904. 6. Boulding, K. The lmage. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1956. p.15. 7. Very little research has been conducted on the image of the nurse in the mass media. Several interesting articles that provided useful insights are: E.E. Beletz. Is Nursing's Public Image Up to Date? Nursing Outlook 22 (1974), 432-435; L.W. Simmons. Past and Potential Images of the Nurse. Nursing Forum 1 (1962), 19; E.P. Lewis. So Many Images, So Many Voices. Nursing Outlook 2] (1973) 439; Editor. Nursing and the Popular Press, American Journal of Nursing 58 (1958), 1665: L. Bernstein. The Relationship Between Masculine/Feminine Personality Characteristics and Image of Professional Nursing. Unpublished dissertation, Florida Institute of Technology, 1981; J, Hott. Updating Cherry Ames. American journal of Nursing 77 (1977), 1581-1583: A. Woolley, Nursings Image on Campus. Nursing Outlook 29 (1981), 460-466. L, Richter and E. Richter. Nurses in Fiction. American journal of Nursing 74 (1974), 1280-1281: D. Versteeg. The Fictional Nurse: Is She For Real? Nursing Outlook 16 (1968), 20-25: D. Collins and L. Joel. The Image of Nursing is Not Changing. Nursing Outlook 19 (1971), 456-459. 8. Shils, E. and H.A. Finch. Max Weber on the Methodology of the Social Sciences. Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1949, 9. A discussion of the study methodology and specific study findings can be found in the Following references: P. Kalisch and B. Kalisch, Perspectives on Improving Nursing's Public Image. Nursing and Health Care 11 (1980), 10-15; B. Kalisch. P. Kalisch, and J. Clinton. How the Public Sees Nurse-Mid wives; 1978 News Coverage of Nurse-Midwifery in the Nation's Press, Journal of Nurse-Midwifery 26 (1980), 31-39: P. Kalisch, B, Kalisch, and E. Livesay. The Angel of Death Case: The Anatomy of 19S0's Major News Story. Nursing forum 21:3 (1980), 212-241: B. Kalisch. P, Kalisch, and M. McHugh. Content Analysis of Film Stereotypes of Nurses. International Journal of Women's Studies 3:6 (1980), 531-558: B, Kalisch, P. Kalisch, and 1. Clinton. Minority Nurses in the News. Nursing Outlook 29:1 (1981), 49-65; B. Kalisch and P. Kalisch. Communicating Clinical Nursing Issues to the Public Through the Mass Media. Nursing Research 30:3 (1981), 132-138; B. Kalisch, P. Kalisch, and M. Scobey. Reflection; on a Television Image- The Nurses 1962-1965. Nursing and Health Care 2:5 (1981). 248-255; B. Kalisch. P. Kalisch, and J. Clinton An Analysis of News Flow on the Nation's Nurse Shortage. Medical Care 19:9 (1981), 938-950: P. Kalisch and B. Kalisch. The Image of the Psychiatric Nurse in Motion Pictures. Perspectives in Psychiatric Care 19:3-4, (1981). 116-129; P. Kalisch and 13, Kalisch. When Nurses Were National Heroines: Images of Nursing in American Flm. Nursing Forum 20:1 (1981), 15-61; P. Kalisch, B. Kalisch. and M. Scobey. Nurses on Television. New York: Springer, in press; P. Kalisch and B. Kalisch. Nurses on Prime time Television, American Journal of Nursing 82 (1982) 264-270; P. Kalisch and B. Kalisch. The Image of the Nurse in Motion Pictures. American Journal of Nursing 82 (1982) 605-611; P. Kalisch and B. Kalisch. The Image of the Nurse in Novels. American journal of Nursing 82 (19821 1220-1224; B. Kalisch. P. Kalisch. and M. McHugh. The Nurse as A Sex Object in Motion Pictures, 1930 to 1980. Research in Nursing and Health, September 1982: P, Kalisch and B. Kalisch. Sex Role Stereotyping of Nurses and Physicians on Prime Time Television: A Dichotomy of Occupational Por- trayals. Sex Rales, in press; P. Kalisch, B. Kalisch. and J. Clinton. World of Nursing on Prime Time Television. 1950-1980. Nursing Research, in press; B. Kalisch and P. Kalisch, An Analysis of the Impact of Authorship on the image of the Nurse Presented in Novels. Research in Nursing and Health, in press: P. Kalisch and B. Kalisch. When Nurses Had a Positive Screen Image: The Nurse-Detective in American Film. Nursing and Health Care 2 (1982), 146-153; B, Kalisch, P. Kalisch, and R. Young. Television News Coverage of Nurse Strikes: A Resource Management Perspective. Nursing Research, in press: B. Kalisch, E. Livesay, and P. Kalisch. The Deadly Balance: News Coverage of Nurses Charged with Patients' Deaths. Nursing Life, in press. 10. Sprigge, S. Squire. The Medicine of Dickens. The Cornhill Magazine 35 (1877), 258-267. 11. Longfellow, H.W. Santa Filomenna. Atlantic Monthly 1 (1857), 22-23. 12. Notes on Nursing, Saturday Review 2 (1860) 84-85. 21 22 13. Bersoe, E. St. Bernards: The Romance of a Medical Student. London: Swan, Son- ncrschein, Lowery and Co., 1887. 14. The White Parade. Trained Nurse and Hospital Review 93 (1934) 563-565. 15. Baudler, L., and D.G. Patterson. Social Status of Women's Occupations, Occupations 26 (1948) 421-424. 16. Fishbem. M. Nursing as A Career. Hygeia 25 (1947), 915 17. Who Has Heard the Nightingale? Ladies Home Journal 65 (1948). 11. 18. Perry, G.S. Nurses Are Lucky Girls. Saturday Evening Post 226 (1954). 24-25. 19. Ellison, J . C , I've Had a Thousand Babies, Saturday Evening Post 225, (1953), 22-23. 20. McClare, M. A Nurse Leaves A Human Life. Charm 10 (1956), 67-68, 21. Carter, 8. Medicine's Forgotten Women. Reporter 26 (1962), 35-37. 22. More Glamor, Pay, Glory Needed to Attract Nurses. Science Newsletter 88 (1965), 89. 23. Beauvior. The Second Sex. New York: Bantam Books, 1953. 24. Friedan, The Feminine Mystique. New York: Dell, 1963, 227. 23 
work_63cn76oh65bsva7es5tlqqei4q	----	rev medchile jun2011.indd 807 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 Florence Nightingale (1820-1910), a 101 años de su fallecimiento PABLO YOUNG1, VERÓNICA HORTIS DE SMITHa, MARÍA C. CHAMBIb, BÁRBARA C. FINN1 Florence Nightingale (1820-1910), 101 years after her death We herein describe Florence Nightingale’s life and work. She is considered one of the pioneers in nursing practice. Her greatest success was during the Crimean war when, along with 38 voluntary nurses, she cleaned and refurbished the hospital in Scutari and reduced the mortality rate from 40 to 2%. She used to make rounds at night in the wards under the light of a lamp, and therefore she was named “The Lady with the Lamp”. Queen Victory gave her the Royal Red Cross and she was the fi rst woman who was honored with the Order of Merit in 1907. She had solid knowledge on Statistics and Mathematics which were useful for her nursing job. (Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813). Key words: Crimean war; History of Nursing; Nursing, practical. 1Servicio de Clínica Médica, Hospital Británico de Buenos Aires. aMatron. bEnfermera. Recibido el 5 de octubre de 2010, aceptado el 9 de mayo de 2011. Correspondencia a: Pablo Young Hospital Británico. Perdriel 74 (1280) Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tel: 5411 43096400 Fax: 5411 43043393 E-mail: pabloyoung2003@ yahoo.com.ar Perspectiva histórica F lorence Nightingale (Figura 1) nació en Florencia, Italia, el 12 de mayo de 1820 y es considerada una de las pioneras en la prác- tica de la enfermería. Se le considera la madre de la enfermería moderna y verdadera creadora de una fi losofía en la enfermería1-3. La fi losofía de la enfermería explica el sig- nifi cado de los fenómenos observados a través del análisis, el razonamiento y la argumentación lógica. Así pues, en esta categoría se han incluido los primeros trabajos que precedieron o conduje- ron a la construcción de los modelos teóricos y al desarrollo de los conocimientos en esta disciplina defi niendo las bases de los futuros trabajos. En cambio los modelos conceptuales (estructuración de ideas y teorías) comprenden los trabajos de las llamadas grandes teorías o pioneras en el campo de la enfermería. O sea un modelo conceptual ofrece un marco de referencia para sus seguidores. La mayoría de los autores entienden que la obra de Nightingale está estrechamente relacionada con su orientación fi losófi ca sobre la interacción paciente- entorno y los principios y reglas sobre los que sustentó su ejercicio profesional más que con el desarrollo de un modelo conceptual, aunque esto es todavía motivo de controversia4,5. Ella defi nía la enfermedad como el camino que utiliza la naturaleza para desembarazarse de los efectos o condiciones que han interferido en la salud. Y defi nía salud diciendo que la salud es no solamente estar bien sino ser capaz de usar bien toda la energía que poseemos. La enfermería, entonces, es tanto ayudar al paciente que sufre una enfermedad a vivir, como poder o mantener el organismo del niño sano o del adulto en un estado tal que no padezca enfermedad6. Sostenía que para mantener una atención sanitaria adecuada era necesario disponer de un entorno saludable (aire puro, agua pura, alcantarillado efi caz, limpieza y luz) componentes que siguen teniendo vigencia al día de la fecha. Y son sustentados en el concepto de enfermería del Consejo Internacional de Enfer- meras (CIE) cuando defi nen “la enfermería abarca los cuidados autónomos y en colaboración, que se presta a personas de todas las edades, grupos y comunidades, enfermos o sanos, en todos los contextos, e incluye la promoción de la salud, la prevención de la enfermedad, y los cuidados de 808 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA los enfermos, discapacitados, y personas mori- bundas. Funciones esenciales de la enfermería son la defensa, el fomento de un entorno seguro, la investigación, la participación en la política de salud y en la gestión de los pacientes y los sistemas de salud, y la formación”6. Se rebeló contra los prejuicios de su época y contra su destino de mujer, que debía permanecer en el hogar, y eligió la profesión de enfermera. Su mayor éxito fue su participación en la guerra de Crimea. Un informe suyo acerca de las condiciones de vida de los soldados heridos impulsó al secreta- rio de Guerra Sidney Herbert a enviarla al campo de batalla. Ella y sus compañeras reformaron y limpiaron el hospital, e hicieron caer la tasa de mortalidad de 40% al 2%. Logró realizar su sueño de asistir a los enfermos después de enfrentarse a sus padres y familiares. Su madre Emily y su padre William se oponían a que su hija fuera enfermera, ya que estaba mal visto que una mujer perteneciente a una clase social alta desempeñara una tarea tan “denigrante”; la mujer debía casarse, formar y cuidar su familia. Sin embargo, Florence recibió ayuda de su abuelo materno, quien entendió su vocación por esta pro- fesión, y por otro lado ella misma buscó el apoyo de un amigo de la familia Nightingale, Samuel, médico de profesión. Nunca se casó; dedicó su vida al servicio del prójimo y de aquellos que más lo necesitaban, buscando la forma de mejorar su salud y en otros casos de hacer más llevaderos sus últimos días7. Florence Nightingale es recordada sobre todo por su trabajo como enfermera durante la guerra de Crimea y por su contribución a la reforma de las condiciones sanitarias en los hospitales mili- tares de campo. Su familia y estudios Nightingale lleva el nombre de la ciudad don- de nació, Florencia. Sus padres, William Edward Nightingale y su esposa Frances Smith, viajaron por Europa durante los primeros dos años de su matrimonio. La hermana mayor de Florence había nacido un año antes en Nápoles. William Nightingale se apellidaba en verdad Shore, cambia su apellido por Nightingale después de heredar a un pariente rico, Peter Nightingale de Lea, cerca de Matlock, Derbyshire. Las niñas crecieron en el campo y pasaban mucho tiempo en Lea Hurst en Derbyshire. Cuando Florence tenía unos cinco años su padre compró una casa llamada Embley cerca de Romsey en Hampshire. Con esto la familia pasaba los veranos en Derbys- hire y el resto del año en Embley. Al viajar entre estos lugares visitaban Londres, y la Isla de Wight7,8. En un principio, la educación de las niñas estuvo en manos de una institutriz, después su padre, educado en Cambridge, asumió esa respon- sabilidad. A Florence le encantaban sus lecciones y tenía una habilidad natural para estudiar. Bajo la infl uencia de su padre se familiarizó con los clási- cos, Euclides, Aristóteles, la Biblia y temas políticos. En 1840 suplicó a sus padres que la dejaran estudiar matemáticas en vez de trabajo de estam- bre y practicar las cuadrillas, pero su madre no aprobaba esta idea. Aunque William Nightingale amaba las matemáticas y había legado ese amor a su hija, la obligó a que siguiera estudiando temas más apropiados para una mujer. Después de muchas batallas emocionales, sus padres fi - nalmente cedieron y comenzó su aprendizaje de matemáticas. Entre sus tutores estuvo Sylvester, quien desarrolló la teoría de invariantes junto con Figura 1. Florence Nightingale. Florence Nightingale - P. Young et al Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 809 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA Cayley. Se dice que fue la alumna más destacada de Sylvester. Las lecciones incluían aritmética, geo- metría y álgebra. Una de las personas que también infl uyeron en ella fue el científi co belga Quetelet. Él había aplicado métodos estadísticos a datos de varios campos, incluyendo las estadísticas morales o ciencias sociales9. La religión jugó un papel importante en su vida. Aunque sus padres crecieron en la Iglesia Unitaria, Frances Nightingale prefi rió una de- nominación más convencional y a las niñas las criaron en la fe anglicana. La alianza entre Florence y Charles Dickens tuvo una indudable infl uencia como factor de- terminante en su defi nición de la enfermería y la atención sanitaria. Diálogos semejantes con otros intelectuales y reformadores sociales de aquellos días, como John Stuart Mill, Benjamin Jowett y Harriet Marineau, contribuyeron al desarrollo del pensamiento fi losófi co y lógico de Nightingale, que se trasluce de forma notoria en sus apreciaciones sobre la práctica de la enfermería. Florence Nightingale y la enfermería Nightingale desarrolló interés por los temas sociales de su época, pero en 1845 su familia se oponía fi rmemente a la idea de que ella trabajara en un hospital. Hasta ese entonces, el único trabajo de enfermería que había hecho había sido cuidar de parientes y amigos enfermos. Mientras estaba de viaje por Europa y Egipto en 1849, tuvo la oportunidad de estudiar los distintos sistemas hospitalarios. A principios de 1850, inició su entrenamiento como enfermera en el Instituto de San Vicente de Paul en Alejandría, Egipto, que era un hospital perteneciente a la Iglesia Católica. Nightingale visitó el hospital del Pastor Theodor Fliedner en Kaiserwerth, cerca de Dusseldorf, Ale- mania en julio de 1850 y regresó a esa ciudad en 1851 para entrenarse como enfermera durante tres meses en el Instituto para Diaconisas Protestantes; y luego de Alemania se trasladó a un hospital en Saint Germain, cerca de París, dirigido por las Hermanas de la Caridad. A su regreso a Londres en 1853, tomó el puesto ad-honoren de Superin- tendente en el Establecimiento para damas en el número 1 de la calle Harley9,10. Marzo de 1854 trajo consigo el inicio de la Guerra de Crimea que comenzó cuando Rusia invadió Turquía, este último en alianza con In- glaterra y Francia. La guerra fi nalizó en 1856. La mayor parte del confl icto tuvo lugar en la península de Crimea en el Mar Negro11. Aunque los rusos fueron derrotados en la batalla del río Alma, el 20 de septiembre de 1854, el periódico The Times criticó duramente las instalaciones médicas británicas. En respuesta a ello, Sidney Herbert, le pidió a Nightingale que se desempeñe como enfermera administradora para supervisar la introducción de enfermeras en los hospitales militares. Su título ofi cial era Superintendente del Sistema de Enfermeras de los Hospitales Generales Ingleses en Turquía. Nightingale llegó a Escutari, un suburbio asiático de Constantinopla (hoy Es- tambul) con 38 enfermeras, el 4 de noviembre de 1854. Firme e infatigable se ocupaba de su trabajo con tal criterio, sacrifi cio, valor, ternura y todo ello con una actitud tranquila y sin ostentación, que se ganaba los corazones de todos aquellos a quienes sus prejuicios de ofi ciales no les impedían apreciar la nobleza de su trabajo y de su carácter”12. En la organización de los servicios hospitalarios, en dos semanas logró montar una cocina para preparar la comida de 800 hombres; una lavandería en donde se desinfectaba la ropa de los pacientes, además dotó a los heridos y enfermos de 10 mil camisas compradas con los donativos que conseguía y de su propio dinero. “La dama de la lámpara”, fue la denominación que le dieron a Florence los hospi- talizados, debido a que por las noches recorría las salas con una lámpara (Figuras 2 y 3)11,13. Aunque ser mujer implicaba que tenía que luchar contra las autoridades militares, fue refor- mando el sistema hospitalario. Bajo condiciones indignas con soldados depositados sobre el suelo y con operaciones poco higiénicas, no sorprende que en Escutari enfermedades como el cólera y el tifus sucumbieran los hospitales. Esto implicaba que los soldados heridos tuvieran una probabili- dad siete veces mayor de morir en el hospital que en el frente de batalla14,15. Mientras estuvo en Tur- quía, recolectó datos y organizó un sistema para llevar registro; esta información fue usada después como herramienta para mejorar los hospitales militares y de las ciudades. Sus conocimientos matemáticos se volvieron evidentes cuando usó los datos que había recolectado para calcular la tasa de mortalidad en el hospital. Estos cálculos demostraron que una mejora en los métodos sa- nitarios empleados, produciría una disminución Florence Nightingale - P. Young et al Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 810 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA en el número de muertes. Para febrero de 1855 la tasa de mortalidad había caído de 60% al 42,7%. Mediante el establecimiento de una fuente de agua potable, así como usando su propio dinero para comprar fruta, vegetales y equipamiento hospi- talario, para la primavera siguiente la tasa había decrecido otro 2,2%15. Nightingale usó esta información estadística para crear su Diagrama de Área Polar. Estos fueron usados para dar una representación gráfi ca de las cifras de mortalidad durante la Guerra de Crimea. Las muertes en los hospitales de campo británicos alcanzaron su máximo en enero de 1855, cuando 2.761 soldados murieron por enfermedades con- tagiosas, 83 por heridas y 324 por otras causas, con un total de 3.168 muertes. El promedio de hombres en la armada ese mes fue de 32.393. Usando esta información, calculó una tasa de mortalidad de 1.174 por cada 10.000, de los cuales 1.023 de cada 10.000 se debían a enfermedades infecciosas. De haber continuado así y sin la sustitución frecuente de tropas, entonces las enfermedades por sí mis- mas habrían acabado totalmente con el ejército británico en Crimea. Sin embargo, estas condiciones insalubres no se limitaban a los hospitales militares. Al volver a Londres en agosto de 1856, cuatro meses después de la fi rma del tratado de paz, descubrió que en época de paz, los soldados de entre 20 y 35 años de edad tenían una tasa de mortalidad del doble de la de los civiles. Usando sus estadísticas, ilustró la necesidad de una reforma sanitaria en todos los hospitales militares. Al impulsar su causa, consi- guió llamar la atención de la Reina Victoria y el Príncipe Alberto así como la del Primer Ministro, Lord Palmeston. Sus deseos de llevar a cabo inves- tigación formal le fueron concedidos en mayo de 1857 y llevaron al establecimiento de la Comisión Real para la Salud del Ejército. Nightingale dejo de lado la atención pública y empezó a preocuparse por las tropas apostadas en la India16. Fue pionera en la revolucionaria idea de que los fenómenos sociales pueden medirse y someterse al análisis matemático. Ella supo que cuando los valores individuales o profesionales entran en con- fl icto con los valores sociales, surge una posibilidad de inducir cambios en la sociedad y así lo hizo. Aunque sus escritos se defi nen y analizan como una teoría, no contienen la complejidad y la verifi cabilidad propias de las modernas teorías de la enfermería. Así, en su enfoque no emanan investigaciones que pueden utilizarse para con- trastar los aportes teóricos actuales. Por otra parte, Figura 4. Monu- mento de Crimea, en Waterloo Place. Figura 2. Florence Nightingale: “La Dama de la Lámpara”. Figura 3. La Lámpara. Florence Nightingale - P. Young et al Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 811 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA los conceptos identifi cados por ella han servido como base de las teorías e investigaciones actuales, generando los modelos que se añaden a la ciencia y a la práctica moderna de la enfermería. Este poema de Henry Wadsworth Longfe- llow (quien estuvo muy próximo a ella por su participación en la guerra) condensa la historia casi legendaria de Florence Nightingale y su obra maravillosa como enfermera durante la guerra de Crimea7. Los heridos en la batalla, en lúgubres hospitales de dolor; los tristes corredores, los fríos suelos de piedra. ¡Mirad! En aquella casa de afl icción Veo una dama con una lámpara. Pasa a través de las vacilantes tinieblas y se desliza de sala en sala. Y lentamente, como en un sueño de felicidad, el mudo paciente se vuelve a besar su sombra, cuando se proyecta en las obscuras paredes. Florence Nightingale y la Escuela de Enfermería En 1860 abrió la Escuela de Entrenamiento y Hogar Nightingale para Enfermeras en el hospital de St. Thomas en Londres, con 10 estudiantes6-10. Era fi nanciada por medio del Fondo Nightingale, un fondo de contribuciones públicas establecido en la época en que estuvo en Crimea. La escuela se basaba en dos principios. El primero, que las enfermeras debían adquirir experiencia práctica en hospitales organizados especialmente con ese propósito. El otro era que las enfermeras debían vivir en un hogar adecuado para formar una vida moral y disciplinada. Con la fundación de esta es- cuela había logrado transformar la mala fama de la enfermería en el pasado en una carrera respetable. Nightingale respondió a la petición de la ofi cina de guerra británica y aconsejo sobre los cuidados médicos para el ejército en Canadá y también fue consultora del gobierno de los Estados Unidos sobre salud del ejército durante la Guerra Civil estadounidense. Casi durante el resto de su vida estuvo postra- da en cama debido a una enfermedad contraída en Crimea (para algunos brucelosis, para otros fi ebre tifoidea o fi ebre de Crimea), que le impidió continuar con su trabajo como enfermera1. No obstante, la enfermedad no la detuvo de hacer campaña para mejorar los estándares de salud; publicó aproximadamente 150 libros. Uno de ellos se tituló “Notas sobre enfermería” (1860). Este fue el primer libro para uso específi co en la enseñanza de la enfermería y fue traducido a muchos idiomas. Otras obras publicadas incluyen “Notas sobre los hospitales” (1859) y “Notas sobre la enfermería para las clases trabajadoras” (1861). En 1874 se convirtió en miembro honorífi co de la American Statistical Association y en 1883 la Reina Victoria le otorgó la Cruz Roja Real por su labor. También fue la primera mujer en recibir la Orden al Mérito de mano de Eduardo VII en 19076-10. Nightingale falleció en Londres, Inglaterra, el 13 de agosto de 1910 a los 90 años17. Está enterrada en la Iglesia de St. Margaret, en East Wellow, cerca de Embley Park. El Monumento de Crimea, fue erigido en 1915 en Waterloo Place, Londres, para honrar la contribución que hizo Florence Nightin- gale a esa guerra y a la salud del ejército (Figura 4). Aportes a la enfermería Sus aportes dentro de la enfermería se con- sideran en dos niveles, en el ámbito general de la disciplina inició la búsqueda de un cuerpo de conocimiento propio, organizó la enseñanza y la educación de la profesión, inició la investigación en enfermería y fue la primera en escribir sobre la disciplina; y en el ámbito particular organizó la enfermería militar y fue la primera en utilizar la estadística, y el concepto de higiene dentro de la profesión18,19. Además se considera esencial de la reforma Nightingale que la dirección de las escuelas debía estar en manos de una enfermera y no de un médico; había que seleccionar a las candidatas de acuerdo a sus aptitudes morales e intelectuales; y de impartir una enseñanza metódica en vez de ocasional, por medio de la práctica19,20. Su aporte a la organización de los servicios de enfermería fueron su genio organizador y un ciento por ciento de efi cacia. No habría sido nunca la dama de la lámpara, si no hubiera sido también la dama con un propósito y con capacidad11. Florence Nightingale - P. Young et al Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 812 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA Florence Nightingale marcó un hito en enfer- mería e inscribió para todas las generaciones de enfermeras el concepto de “cuidar de uno mismo, del entorno y al paciente”, a través de toda su obra. Teniendo en cuenta sus declaraciones sobre los deberes de las enfermeras en 1893, una comisión del Colegio Farrand del Hospital Harper de De- troit, redactó en reconocimiento a su trayectoria el Juramento de Florence Nightingale, el cual ha sido adoptado y adaptado, por la mayoría de Escuelas de Enfermería para tomar el juramento sus los egresados, dice así: Juro ante Dios y teniendo por testigos a los aquí presentes, ayudar a las personas a desarrollar su capacidad de alcanzar una vida plena, ya sea promoviendo la salud o ayudando a restaurarla. Juro brindar mis servicios situada en una visión integral del hombre, abarcando por igual su dignidad y su derecho al bienestar. Juro no transgredir el derecho de mis pacientes, a su privacidad y confi dencialidad, reconociendo que la intimidad del ser humano constituye uno de sus valores más preciados. En el desempeño de mi profesión, me abstendré de todo tipo de discriminación, referente a ideología, religión o creencia, raza o nacionalidad, sexo, enfermedad o minusvalía de las personas. Juro poner todo mi esfuerzo y conocimiento en brindar cuidados de la más alta calidad, en las distintas etapas de la vida de mis pacientes, hasta en sus últimos días. Si leemos sus cuadernos de notas, encontra- remos el secreto de aquel celo con que consagró su vida a los demás, porque su extraordinaria inteligencia se alimentó en el constante estudio del misticismo cristiano, y su vida fue, manifi es- tamente, la expresión de sus creencias religiosas. He aquí una nota, que la representa típicamente: “El camino para vivir con Dios es vivir con las ideas, no meramente pensar sobre los ideales, sino actuar y sufrir por ellos. Los que tienen que trabajar como hombres y mujeres deben sobre todas las cosas tener un ideal espiritual, que es su fi nalidad, siempre presente. El estado místico es la esencia del sentido común”16, 21, 22. A Florence Nightingale se la considera por todo lo antedicho la precursora de la enfermería moderna, y la fecha de su nacimiento se ha desig- nado como el día internacional de la enfermería22. La Escuela de Enfermería en Argentina y en nuestro hospital En 1904 se realizó el Segundo Congreso Latino- americano de Medicina, y la Dra. Cecilia Grierson (1859-1934) (primera médica Argentina) apro- vechó para dirigirse a sus colegas del continente, “lo que nosotros, los médicos latinoamericanos estamos discutiendo y poniendo sobre votación en los Congresos, está resuelto y puesto en práctica en Europa. No hay hospital sin escuela de enfer- mería”. En 1886, fundó la Escuela de Enfermeras del Círculo Médico Argentino, primera Escuela de Enfermería de Argentina, la que dirigió hasta 1913 y que desde 1934 lleva su nombre23. El Hospital Británico de Buenos Aires es funda- do por el Reverendo Barton Lodge en el año 184424. La Escuela de Enfermería del Hospital Británico de Buenos Aires (segunda del país) comenzó a funcionar en el año 1890, bajo el Sistema Nightin- gale, con una formación sistemática de tres años, capacitando a mujeres allegadas a la colectividad inglesa, para ejercer con mayores conocimientos una tarea singular. En sus comienzos funcionó como un servicio a la comunidad, las clases se da- ban en inglés, y la mayoría de los pacientes también tenían esa misma lengua18. En 1882 se contrató a la Srta. E. Taylor quien viajó desde Inglaterra para ocupar el cargo de Jefa de Enfermeras den- tro del Hospital y en el año 1889 llegaron cuatro enfermeras egresadas del St. Thomas Hospital de Londres alumnas directas de Florence Nightinga- le18,20,24. Una de ellas fue la Sta. Ana Eammes (del resto no existen registros de sus nombres) quien en 1905 es nombrada Matron, y a la vez fue la primera que ocupó el cargo como Directora de Enfermería porque sólo se dedicó a la supervisión de sus enfermeras, dado que las anteriores tenían una actuación más relacionada con lo doméstico. En 1908 se adoptó la malla curricular formativa de la Escuela del Hospital Santo Tomás de Londres Florence Nightingale - P. Young et al Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 813 HISTORIA DE LA MEDICINA con un plan de estudios y prácticas. En el año 1964 es reconocida ofi cialmente por el Ministerio de Salud Pública de la Nación. En 1994, se asocia a la Escuela de Enfermería de la Facultad de Medicina de la Universidad de Buenos Aires, incorporándose como Unidad Docente de Enfermería. Desde su creación y de manera ininterrumpida todos los años asistimos a la graduación de las enfermeras mejor formadas de nuestro país, con- tinuando con la mística de Florence Nightingale. En Argentina la formación en enfermería se desarrolla en el nivel superior de enseñanza en establecimientos universitarios y terciarios no universitarios. Existen 43 escuelas de enfermería universitarias, de las cuales 30 corresponden a universidades nacionales públicas (como la de nuestro hospital) y 13 a universidades o institutos universitarios privados25. Vaya este trabajo con dedicación al rol de la Enfermería dentro de la actividad del hospital por cuanto es el que permanece al lado del paciente día y noche para atender sus requerimientos y asistirlo durante la recuperación de su salud. De su respuesta efi caz depende la mayoría de las veces el pronóstico y la efectividad del tratamiento. Agradecemos a la Licenciada Zulma Silva, actual Directora de la Escuela de Enfermería por la lectura crítica del manuscrito. Referencias 1. Young DAB. Florence Nightingale’s fever. Br Med J 1995; 311: 1711-4. 2. Raile Alligood M, Chog Choi E. Evolución del desarrollo de las teorías de enfermería. En: Marrimer Tomey A, Raile Alligood M, Editores. Modelos y teorías en enfer- mería. Madrid, España: Editorial Harcourt Brace; 4º Ed; 1999. p. 3-15. 3. Pfettscher SA, de Graaf KR, Marriner Tomey A, Mossman CL, Slebodnik M. Florence Nightingale. La enfermería moderna. En: Marrimer Tomey A, Raile Alligood M, Editores. Modelos y teorías en enfermería. Madrid, España: Editorial Harcourt Brace; 4º Ed; 1999. p. 69-85. 4. Fawcett J. Analysis and evaluation of contemporary nursing knowledge: models and theories. Philadelphia: Editorial Davis Company; 2000. p. 9-24. 5. Monty EJ, Tingen MS. Multiple paradigms of nursing science. Adv Nurs Sci 1999; 21: 64-80. 6. Monteiro LA. Florence Nightingale on Public Health Nursing. Am J Public Health 1985; 75: 181-6. 7. Tan SY, Holland P. Florence Nightingale (1820-1910): founder of modern nursing. Singapore Med J 2006; 47: 185-6. 8. Dossey BM. Florence Nightingale: a 19th-century mystic. J Holist Nurs 2010; 28: 10-35. 9. Miracle VA. The life and impact of Florence Nightingale. Dimens Crit Care Nurs 2008; 27: 21-3. 10. Stanley D, Sherratt A. Lamp light on leadership: clinical leadership and Florence Nightingale. J Nurs Manag 2010; 18: 115-21. 11. Stanley D. Lights in the shadows: Florence Nightingale and others who made their mark. Contemp Nurse 2007; 24: 45-51. 12. Jackson B. Florence Nightingale and the Crimean War. Trans Med Soc Lond 2002; 118: 31-6. 13. Olshansky E. In celebration of Florence Nightingale: 2010 as the year of the nurse. J Prof Nurs 2010; 26: 197- 8. 14. Fee E, Garofalo ME. Florence Nightingale and the Cri- mean War. Am J Public Health 2010; 100: 1591. 15. Dossey BM. Florence Nightingale: her Crimean fever and chronic illness. J Holist Nurs 2010; 28: 38-53. 16. Ellis H. Florence Nightingale: nurse and public health pioneer. Br J Hosp Med (Lond) 2010; 71: 51. 17. Florence Nightingale. California State Journal of Medi- cine 1910; 8: 289-90. 18. Salamendi de Cattaneo V. Escuela de Enfermería del Hospital Británico de Buenos Aires. Revista Temas de Enfermería 1994; 10: 27-35. 19. Attewell A. Florence Nightingale (1820 - 1910). Perspec- tivas 1998; 1: 173-189. 20. Molina TM. Historia de la Enfermería. Editorial Intera- mericana. Buenos Aires, 1973. 21. Nightingale F. Notas sobre enfermería: Qué es y qué no es. Barcelona, España: Editorial Salvat; 1990. p. 1-138. 22. Burgos Moreno M, Paravic Klijn T. Enfermería como profesión. Revista Index de Enfermería 2007; 16: 65-69. Disponible en: www.scielo.cl [Consultado el 11 de abril de 2011]. 23. Zuckerberg C. Cecilia Grierson (1859-1934). Medicina (B Aires) 2005; 65: 557-8. 24. Warneford-Thomson HF. The British Hospital of Buenos Aires. A History 1844-2000. Colin Sharp editors. 2001. p. 3-177. 25. González A, Castro C, Moreira S, Cerino S, Correa Rojas MDV, Atzemian R, et al. Situación de la formación en las escuelas de enfermería terciarias no universitarias de la República Argentina, 2007. Rev Argent Salud Pública 2010; 1: 28-32. Florence Nightingale - P. Young et al Rev Med Chile 2011; 139: 807-813 
work_63dd56qhpncrdnkviai2quix2q	----	The Challenge of American Folklore to the Humanities humanities Article The Challenge of American Folklore to the Humanities Simon J. Bronner School of Humanities, American Studies Program, The Pennsylvania State University, Middletown, PA 17057-4898, USA; sbronner@psu.edu Received: 16 November 2017; Accepted: 16 February 2018; Published: 17 February 2018 Abstract: American Folklore consists of traditional knowledge and cultural practices engaged by inhabitants of the United States below Canada and above Mexico. American folklorists were influenced by nineteenth-century European humanistic scholarship that identified in traditional stories, songs, and speech among lower class peasants an artistic quality and claim to cultural nationalism. The United States, however, appeared to lack a peasant class and shared racial and ethnic stock associated in European perceptions with the production of folklore. The United States was a relatively young nation, compared to the ancient legacies of European kingdoms, and geographically the country’s boundaries had moved since its inception to include an assortment of landscapes and peoples. Popularly, folklore in the United States is rhetorically used to refer to the veracity, and significance, of cultural knowledge in an uncertain, rapidly changing, individualistic society. It frequently refers to the expressions of this knowledge in story, song, speech, custom, and craft as meaningful for what it conveys and enacts about tradition in a future-oriented country. The essay provides the argument that folklore studies in the United States challenge Euro-centered humanistic legacies by emphasizing patterns associated with the American experience that are (1) democratic, (2) vernacular, and (3) incipient. Keywords: folklore; folklorist; folkloristics; tradition; folktale; folksong; legend; joke; narrative; performance; practice theory; speech; ritual; rites of passage; internet; romantic nationalism; United States 1. Introduction and Thesis In 1889, an international cast of folklorists including many from the United States descended upon London for the second International Folk-Lore Congress, thus institutionalizing the term describing the broad subject area of traditional knowledge and practices as “folklore” (Cocchiara 1971, pp. 77–94). The Americans faced a problem having their stories and songs accepted by their European colleagues as bona fide folklore worthy of aesthetic appreciation and scholarly analysis. The Americans did not boast a corpus of marvelous tales comparable to the Grimms’ Märchen, poetic work measuring up to the grand epics and sagas celebrated in Scandinavia, or ancient myths in the classical tradition of the Greeks and Romans. To be sure, the young Republic had a diverse indigenous population who were credited with possessing myths and distinct belief systems. Yet American scholars working to justify a national identity struggled to show that a national culture composed of settlers from various Old World cultures was more than a diluted derivative of European immigration. By the end of the nineteenth century, that immigration reached massive proportions and appeared to transform the nation into a multi-lingual industrial, multi-racial, urban power. Nonetheless, the United States purportedly lacked a peasant class and homogeneous racial and ethnic stock associated in European perceptions with the production of folklore. The United States was a relatively young nation, compared to the ancient legacies of European kingdoms, and geographically the country’s boundaries had moved since its inception to include an assortment of landscapes and peoples. Humanities 2018, 7, 17; doi:10.3390/h7010017 www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities http://www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities http://www.mdpi.com http://dx.doi.org/10.3390/h7010017 http://www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities Humanities 2018, 7, 17 2 of 31 If the Americans felt that their grassroots traditions had been belittled by the representatives of older cultural legacies of Europe and the civilizations further east of India and China, they also faced derision for their relative lack of fine arts. Europeans portrayed Americans as boorish and in need of European refinement with help from tastes for romantic literature, poetry, drama, and painting. The few institutions of higher learning and academies for advancement of the arts in North America paled in comparison to revered centers of learning such as Oxford, Cambridge, Paris, and Berlin. Indeed, American historian Daniel Boorstin has claimed that the United States began as a “modern culture which skipped the aristocratic phase.” He wrote that “we have been without that deep bifurcation into high and low, which was the starting point of the national cultures of Western Europe” that set the tone for humanistic study (Boorstin 1956, p. 139). Related to the idea of a class-based bifurcation of culture in Western Europe where ideas of folklore arose is a geography of urban centers featuring a vibrant intellectual life. “Almost every [European] country has had its Paris, its mecca of culture, where one could sit and be at the center of things,” Boorstin (1956, p. 142) observed. In the United States, however, emerging scholars often searched for ideas in the vernacular experience of the everyman and woman on the move. They brought various traditions with them from the Old World and hybridized them with other sources to create a distinctive New World mix. If not lodged in ivory towers of renowned academies, the American scholar sought wisdom from the pragmatic experience of establishing a new nation, and attendant culture, characterized by regional and ethnic diversity at the grassroots. Writers looking for cultural revelations were forced to see practices in action across paths of migration from various ports of entry into broad inland regions. These writers, many of whom called themselves folklorists, provided challenges to the predominant elitist conceptualizations of the humanities, and the cultures of which they were a part. In this essay, I trace the challenge of folklore studies to the Eurocentric concept humanities from the nineteenth century to the present. I argue that the significant patterns of American humanistic thought informed by folklore through the period of scholarly development from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first century have been: 1. Democratic. In keeping with the ideal of the United States as the first modern democracy, folklore-minded humanists established a cultural study that would be diverse, rather than seeking romantic nationalism, by representing the participation in national culture of various groups. That is not to say that Americans thought all these groups to be equal, and a task for many folklore-minded humanists was to recognize inequities by giving attention to groups facing domination or not given credit for their artistic, and therefore intellectual, capabilities. Folklorists showed artistry and tradition, and therefore claims to cultural integration, in the traditions of often marginalized groups. In the absence of a peasant class, the “American concept of folklore” that emerged by the mid-twentieth century featured an elastic, plural notion of group (Dundes 1966). 2. Vernacular. Because of attention by leading American folklorists to the separation, interaction, and hybridization of various groups in the production of practices viewed, and heard, as “tradition,” folklore studies emphasized the “folk,” or social aspect, in folklore. It was vernacular in the sense of often being localized, even if connected to apparently global, antecedent traditions. As studies evolved, the goal of identifying community with folkloric evidence extended to different situations as mobile social frames for the emergence of folklore (Bronner 1986, pp. 94–130). The separation of the humanities from social sciences therefore often came into question, since folklorists were concerned for social contexts as well as texts of culture. Those texts in a vernacular-centered perspective were analyzed for connections to everyday culture rather than a canon of work known by a learned or refined person. 3. Incipient. The European humanistic tradition was built upon reverence for ancient civilization and learning of the classics. To be sure, American higher education emphasized this tradition to the mid-twentieth century, but affecting scholarship was a movement of American studies reflecting a developing “modern” American culture. As the United States proclaimed itself a new Humanities 2018, 7, 17 3 of 31 nation that diverged from its sources in Europe and Africa, so did folklore presented as American reflect an incipient contemporaneous quality. It was in process. That is, it was developing and constantly being created anew, theory held, in the context of peculiar historical and geographic conditions. American folklorists certainly found evidence of intact transplanted customs but they specially pointed to traditions that emerged with American characteristics. Folklorists challenged the ancient foundation of the humanities by noting how American traditions observed as they were practiced reflected a forward-looking, inventive nation. 2. The Social Grounding and Organization of American Folklore From the organization of the American Folklore Society in 1888, folklorists in the United States in answer to their European colleagues defined their purview along ethnic lines: surviving “Old English” ballads, tales, and speech; African American traditions in the South; Native American myths and tales; and border material from French Canada and Mexico (Newell 1888b; see also (Abrahams 1988; Bell 1973; Bronner 2002, pp. 15–19)). As with their European colleagues, they imagined that folklore in the wake of mass industrialization and urbanization needed documentation before disappearing. The organizer of the Society William Wells Newell defined folklore by its “character of oral tradition” rather than by its nationalistic roots. As he explained, “Lore must be understood as the complement of literature, as embracing all human knowledge handed down by word of mouth and preserved without the use of writing” (Newell 1888a). Newell’s rhetoric along ethnic lines of “folklore in America” avoided the issue of the emergence of national lore that would have been signified by “American folklore.” His delineation of groups implied at once the dominance of the British inheritance and the multiple racial-geographical influences on the formation of the United States. Following the evolutionary thinking inspired by Charles Darwin that “higher forms can only be comprehended by the help of the lower forms, out of which they grew,” Newell posed basic questions as to whether lore in America arose independently from Old World and native sources or from emerging streams of tradition in the New World: “What is the reason of the many coincidences between Old World mythologies and the legends of the New World? Do they result from the common procedure of human imagination? Or did the currents of an early tradition flow also through the American continent?” (Newell 1889, p. 2). The distinctions for investigation on the continent were racial or historical; the task of collection was to recover literary remnants surviving in North America. The analysis he suggested was oriented toward reconstructing a natural history of civilization that could explain the evolution of cultural forms from savage to civilized society. Newell’s push for America as a setting for collecting “fast-vanishing remains” of ethnic expressions did not go far enough to chart a national culture for his fellow Cambridge, Massachusetts, product Charles Montgomery Skinner (1852–1907). Skinner was one of a rising generation of Americanists who connected the protection of culture with the conservation of nature. Other prominent figures included George Bird Grinnell (editor of Forest and Stream and author of Pawnee Hero Stories and Folk-Tales [1889] 1961) and Henry Wharton Shoemaker (newspaper editor, author of Pennsylvania Mountain Stories [1911], and later the nation’s first official state folklorist), and both of them had literary as well as progressive political interests. They shared a view of the Americanizing influences of the land; mixing and living in the awe-inspiring environment, diverse settlers were certain to gain a new identity called American. Even if America lacked an ancient mythopoeic age, they argued, the distinctive, diverse landscape—its wilderness, plains, rivers, and mountains—inspires legend and a spiritual connection of Americans to their natural Edenic environment (Bronner 1996; Evans 1996; Grinnell [1889] 1961). The threat to this link was unrestrained industrialization, and Skinner witnessed its effect as a journalist for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle in the late nineteenth century. He read in legends of the land a cultural grounding for Americans, a common bond among them despite their social diversity. Mining printed sources, he called his first popular collection Myths and Legends of Our Own Land (Skinner 1896) (see also Dorson 1971b). The addition of “own” created a double meaning of the land as nature and nation. Although he included aboriginal legends as part of Humanities 2018, 7, 17 4 of 31 “our . . . land,” his volumes implied that the indigenous lore had been channeled into the cultural identity of a new composite American. The folkloristic Americanists had as a supporting voice President Theodore Roosevelt (1858–1919) who believed that the soil, and the grounding it represented for the flowering of American civilization, were nowhere more evident than in folklore. Enamored with the West and the hardy rejuvenating values it generated, Roosevelt while in the White House (1901–1909) was especially taken with the effort of Texas folklorist John Lomax (1867–1948) to collect cowboy songs (Porterfield 1996, pp. 130, 150–52). The president became excited at the prospect of the material being elevated to the status of the ancient European sagas he admired so much as a student of classics (Roosevelt 1926a). He also was astute in realizing that these sagas became national symbols as well as sources of literature as they persisted through oral tradition. As a nationalist political leader, he had been looking for a mythology for America that would be “different from all of the peoples of Europe, but akin to all” (Roosevelt 1926b, p. 330). Although noting the special connection of the United States to England because of a shared language, he considered American culture to be unique because of “new surroundings, and the new [racial and ethnic] strains in our blood interact on one another in such fashion that our national type must certainly be new” (Roosevelt 1926b, p. 330). The pioneer experience in the expanse of the West, he thought, loosened old ethnic and regional ties and reconstructed them into a “medley” sounding an enlivened American identity. In the oral tradition of cowboy songs resonating with high mountains, grand rivers, and vast plains of the frontier and rugged characters on bold adventures, Roosevelt heard keynotes stirring his robust national type. More than the pietistic New England Puritan or the passive Midland yeoman farmer, the cowboy represented the legacy of the frontiersman who in Roosevelt’s eyes was the exemplary heroic figure responsible for the racial triumph of subduing the inferior “savage red man.” He called the conquest of the Indians in the West “the great epic feat in the history of our race” (Roosevelt 1906, p. 16; see also (Gerstle 1999, p. 1283)). Reacting to the perception of cowboy songs by ballad professors and public alike as crude and valueless, Lomax originally wanted to call his book Cowboy Songs of the Mexican Border to raise connections to Sir Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802) (Porterfield 1996, p. 147). One can read the epic comparison in Lomax’s romantic characterization of the cowboy as a literary folk type: “Dauntless, reckless, without the unearthly purity of Sir Galahad though as gentle to a pure woman as King Arthur, he is truly a knight of the twentieth century.” (Lomax 1934, p. xxxix). In response to those in “so-called polite society” who were repelled by the American cowboy’s crudity, Lomax claimed a “Homeric” quality to the frontiersman’s unfettered poetic style. He admired the cowboy’s democratic freedom of expression, his earthy artistry, his unabashed outspokenness from the “impulses of his heart” (Lomax 1934, p. xxx). Intoning the American soil, Lomax declared that the songs “sprung up as quietly and mysteriously as does the grass on the plains” (Lomax 1934, p. xxv). Roosevelt helped romanticize the image of the cowboy as America’s folk hero with an endorsement of “the real importance to preserve permanently this unwritten ballad literature of the back country and the frontier” as representing “our own national soul” (Lomax 1934, pp. vii-viii). Again sounding the nationalistic keynote of “our own,” Roosevelt extolled the “appeal to the people of all our country” from the example of expressive and earthy cowboy lore, if not a poetic peasant class. Taking this cue, Lomax called his second volume of American ballads and folk songs Our Singing Country (Lomax and Lomax 1941). It included material from lumberjacks, teamsters, railroaders, hobos, miners, and southern farmers in addition to cowboys and with its subtitle of American Ballads and Folk Songs described the living traditions collectively as distinctively American rather than “vanishing remains” of folklore found in America. Other Americanists resisted taking a path of touting the gritty lore of the frontier experience to follow in the footsteps of European romantic nationalism. In Philadelphia, a chapter of the American Folklore Society appeared more concerned with charting America’s multicultural mix and the emergence of new community traditions. Reflecting the spirit of William Penn’s “Holy Experiment” of pluralism and tolerance, the Philadelphia society’s guide to local collectors stressed folklore more broadly than relics of “oral tradition” and viewed it as more representative of America’s Humanities 2018, 7, 17 5 of 31 diverse contemporary cultural tapestry than the academic evidence of classical history and literature. The guide offered folklore as “the collective sum of the knowledge, beliefs, stories, customs, manners, dialects, expressions, and usages of a community which are peculiar to itself, and which, taken together, constitute its individuality when compared with other communities.” Its approach was to consider the separation of “every community . . . from its neighbors by numerous peculiarities, which, though they may at first seem trivial, exert in their mass a powerful influence on the life of the individual and the history of people in the aggregate, or the ‘folk’” (Philadelphia Chapter of the American Folklore Society [1890] 1987, p. 71). The communities that it charted for collection were the “Anglo-American,” “Africo-American,” and “Local Foreign,” comprising the Chinese “quarter,” Italian “quarter,” German “quarter,” international sailors, and “Gipsies.” The chapter sketched out its driving principle of explaining how these separate communities maintained their distinctiveness while having a national identity. Folklore was to them “an aid to the just appreciation of the various elements which go to make up a nation” (Philadelphia Chapter of the American Folklore Society [1890] 1987, p. 71). Along these lines, Lee J. Vance writing before the start of the twentieth century in the popular magazine Forum on “The Study of Folklore,” argued that the United States diverged from other national humanistic legacies by providing a living laboratory for investigating multicultural progress. “Our folk-lore is highly composite,” he wrote, “resulting from the great tides of immigration which have rolled over our shores and formed our present strange commingling of races” (Vance 1896–1897, p. 251; see also (Dundes 1964)). Later social movements beyond immigration spurred folklorists to further atomize the use of folklore as adaptation to myriad social situations that one encounters in modern life. In so doing, folklore was not restricted to a lower level, past epoch of society, or oral communication. Folklore in this view resulted from social interactions in which practices—including gestural and material–identified a connection among participants and provided them a sense of tradition. The emphasis on identity gained from social interaction and expressed through folklore meant that mobile individuals could belong to many groups simultaneously and those groups were not limited to certain types associated with an ideal community. Indeed, a research question that American folklorists were particularly interested in was how folklore created the group rather than merely reflecting it. Folklorists such as Alan Dundes, Jay Mechling, Michael Owen Jones, and Elliott Oring presented corporate secretaries, organized Boy Scouts, factory and office workers, and friends and couples as folk groups in the midst of mass society, respectively, to represent American folklore as much as romanticized, isolated cowboys (Dundes and Pagter 1978; Mechling 2001; Jones 1987; Oring 2012). These folklorists designated social categories involving folkloric production that can be temporary, overlapping, and emergent in someone’s life. Folklore in this view is continually emergent, and collection is therefore not about recovery of perishable, canonical texts but instead involves recording the processes by which folk practices arise in a variety of changing contexts. Although often downplaying the “essential” Americanness of this behavior, the approach developed largely in the United States built on the openness and mobility of American capitalist society, the image of a vast diversity of settings and groups in city as well as country (and suburbs), and the perception of individual freedom of expression and movement in a modern democracy. In the remainder of this essay, I chart in more detail the different avenues for representing folklore of the United States: (1) Folklore as a Reflection of Native and Indigenous Cultures, (2) Folklore as a Sign of Transplantation and Adaptation from the Old World, (3) Folklore as a Force in the Development of City, State, Region, and Nation, and (4) Folklore as Process in Everyday and Ceremonial Life. The sequence follows an historical outline of American folklore scholarship. It reflects the centrality of the main questions or problems posed beginning in the seventeenth century. In each of these sections, I discuss the ways that the main issues folklorists took up affected the content and categories of folklore as “American” as well as informed the explanations for folklore’s role and function within American scenes. I contend that these issues and the growing disciplinary identity of folklorists through the twentieth century posed profound challenges to prevailing elitist trends of the classical Humanities 2018, 7, 17 6 of 31 humanities and influenced the evolving democratization of expressive culture and its scholarship in the twenty-first century. 2.1. Folklore as a Reflection of Native and Indigenous Cultures Probably the first public realization of folklore in what is now the United States came after distribution of Roger Williams’s A Key into the Language of America (1643). His title implied that the natives were American by their indigeneity and they were folkloric because of the difference they exotically displayed from the European settlers, who Williams assumed constituted a normative culture. Conceived as a dictionary to foster communication with the Narragansett natives surrounding the Puritan settlement after he left the colony to form the Providence Plantation in 1636, Williams added to a translation of terms observations of the use of phrases and terms in customs and rituals. For example, to the word Kíhtuckquaw for a marriageable virgin, Williams noted that the natives identify them “by a bashfull falling downe of their haire over their eyes” (Williams 1643, p. 29). He indicates the general name they call themselves translating to what he calls “Folke” or broadly “people” (Williams 1643, p. 8). As to the question of the natives’ origin, Williams gives a belief narrative in their own words of having “sprung and growne up in that very place, like the very trees of the wildernesse” (Williams 1643, p. 9). He reports mythological beliefs comparable, he writes, to the English narratives of Adam and Noah and refers to origin myths of earth’s creation by the “Great God Cawtantowwit” (Williams 1643, p. 9). Although asserting that the natives were indigenous to the region, he contemplated the etymological legend held by settlers that the Narragansett were one of the lost tribes of Israel by noting that they possess words “to hold affinitie with the Hebrew. Secondly, they constantly anoint their heads as the Jewes did. Thirdly, they give Dowries for their wives, as the Jewes did” (Williams 1643, p. 6). Furthering the biblical metaphor, he considered the English Gentiles dwelling in the tents of Shem (the Jews) and therefore the English should be sympathetic and morally respect their civil rights (Williams 1643, p. 13). In writing of their “religion, customes, manners, etc.,” he found their lore to be complex and worthy of respect.1 Curiosity about native languages sparked considerations of their use in narratives and songs into the nineteenth century. The uncovering of myths, songs, and tales by non-native collectors was important in American society because of its suggestion of an oral artistry tied to complex religious systems (see Heckewelder [1818] 2016). Prominent among such figures presenting native lore to the American public was Henry Rowe Schoolcraft (1793–1864). While serving as a United States Indian agent in Michigan in 1822, he married Jane Johnston, a woman of Ojibwa background who came to be known as the first known Native American literary writer, and learned the native language. Captivated by her native culture, he gathered folk songs and stories in the original language from his wife’s family and then expanded beyond them to collect material on numerous tribes. The Schoolcrafts established as an outlet for this material the magazine The Muzziniegan or Literary Voyager (1826–1829), often considered the first serial publication in America of ethnological and folkloristic material (Bremer 1987; Clements 1996). Disrupting views of the natives as savage and backward, Schoolcraft wrote that native “oral stories are, generally, very extravagant, often of an allegorical character, and sometimes they even aim at instruction. They are the true presentments of the Indian mind, and show more than any other species of inquiry, or research, their opinions and beliefs on life, death and immortality” (Schoolcraft [1859] 1986, p. 56). Famed American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) took notice of Schoolcraft’s sources and composed “The Song of Hiawatha” (1855) based upon stories of an Ojibwa trickster figure Manabozho (or Nanabozho) (Thompson 1922; Schramm 1932; Osborn and Osborn 1942; Davis 1957). While Longfellow envisioned the story as an epic for America, lacking among the literature 1 The long subtitle of his book with a reference to customs and manners was, Or, An help to the Language of the Natives in that part of AMERICA, called NEW-ENGLAND. Together, with briefe Observations of the Customes, Manners and Whorships, etc. of the aforesaid Natives, in Peace and Warre, in Life and Death. On all which are added Spirituall Observations, Generall and Particular by the Authour, of chiefe and special use upon (upon all occasions,) to all the English Inhabiting those parts; yet pleasant and profitable to the view of all men. Humanities 2018, 7, 17 7 of 31 of the European settlers, Schoolcraft referred to the Ojibwa narratives more modestly as part of native “cabin lore” consisting of songs, tales, and myth told in domestic rather than ritual settings. Schoolcraft noticed aspects of a folk hero cycle in the figure’s miraculous birth and performance of what he called “the most extravagant and heroic feats” (Schoolcraft [1839] 1992, p. 134). For example, he related the belief that Manabozho came from mythical parentage. His grandmother was reputedly the daughter of the moon. A rival tricked her toward a grapevine swing by a lake, and then pitched her into the water and she fell through to the earth (Schoolcraft [1839] 1992, p. 135). Schoolcraft noticed similarities in other tribes, and although he noted “peculiarities” of customs in each group, he posited a cultural connection among native Americans as a result of migrations and interchanges from the Southwest to the Northeast. Other observers thought a more likely source was in Asia from migrations across the Bering Strait and down into the continent (Schoolcraft [1839] 1992, pp. 21–26. See also (Brownell 1864, pp. 15–18; Kennedy 1856)). They looked for evidence of similarities to southwestern folklore in narratives and customs collected from groups such as the Chukchi of northeastern Asia and Chinese further south (Dixon 1993; Ives 1956; Laughlin 1977; MacCurdy 1915). In this view, the European settlers constituted the latest migration of people and culture into the huge, mysterious expanse known as North America and they had as much right to the land, if not more so, as the previous inhabitants. The status of Native American lore claimed by some folklorists as indigenous, unique among the world’s mythologies, and as worthy of social and literary adulation entered earlier into debates among American leaders about the representation of the New Republic. Some members of the revolutionary generation thought that the lack of a mythology, and a distancing from the native culture of Indians, was a virtue for a country seeking in historian Richard Slotkin’s words, “to be liberated from the dead hand of the past and become the scene of a new departure in human affairs” (Slotkin 1973, p. 3). Other early nationalists advocated for Native American lore to be integrated into the symbolism of the United States as a sign of its distinctive cultural legacy, and future manifest destiny (Fleming 1965). Conceived by writer James Fenimore Cooper as a vernacular “leatherstocking” or pioneer figure, the new American incorporating folklore of the native idealized harmony with nature and an adventurous free spirit (Smith 1970, pp. 59–70). Indeed, even before the revolution until the early nineteenth century, the image of the “Indian princess” graced illustrations of the emerging country, before transforming into a Greek goddess representative of a new classical civilization (Fleming 1967). Although folklorists and writers reveled in the newfound mythology of Native Americans, detractors such as classicist Hubert M. Skinner (1855–1916) argued that “The mythology of ancient America is meager, and is generally of little importance in its relation to literature and art [especially to classical Roman and Greek works], though it possesses considerable interest in connection with geographical names and local traditions” (Skinner 1893, p. 15). Another argument since the outbreak of “Indian wars” in colonial New England in the second half of the seventeenth century was waged in emergent folk narratives. Colonists published legendary accounts of women captured by bloodthirsty “pagan savages” that stirred hatred, and elimination, of the natives, while tracts by travelers noted their spiritual, benevolent nature evident in elaborate songs and stories. The colonists’ tracts followed different mythological references before and after the wars (Slotkin 1973, pp. 94–145). Previously, writers depicted English colonization following the plot of the biblical Exodus story with the New World emerging as the Promised Land. The captivity narratives used the “lost people” legend of Babylonian captivity with exile from a corrupted England in place of the land of Israel. In these new narratives, the Indians as natural beings were depraved creatures who could not be turned to God or government. French writer Alexis de Tocqueville in his major tome Democracy in America (Tocqueville [1835] 1966) noted that the narratives influenced settlers to hold natives in an “inferior position in the land where they dwell” and have them suffer “the effects of tyranny” (Tocqueville [1835] 1966, p. 317). Horatio Hale, who followed Schoolcraft with folkloristic studies of native myths, vouched for Native American morality by arguing that the Indians were no more war-like than the Europeans. Humanities 2018, 7, 17 8 of 31 He wrote “The persistent desire for peace, pursued for centuries in federal union, and in alliances and treaties with other nations, has been manifested by few as steadily as by the countrymen of Hiawatha.” (Hale 1881, p. 20) He even drew comparisons to the deeply spiritual as well as artistic renderings of their mythology by affirming that “The sentiment of universal brotherhood, which directed their polity, has never been so fully developed in any branch of the Aryan race, unless it may be found incorporated in the religious quietism of Buddha and his followers” (Hale 1881, p. 20). For some writers, the connection of mythology to an ancient history made a claim for Native Americans as an ethical civilization. An important text from the viewpoint of a Native American was David Cusick’s Sketches of Ancient History of the Six Nations (1828) written by Tuscarora artist David Cusick (c. 1780–c.1831). It included edifying myths for the creation of the universe and the “Great Island, now North America” (Cusick 2006, p. 5). Cusick referred to the northeast Iroquois confederacy with familiar terms of civilization such as “kingdom” and “nations” (see Kalter 2002). Francis La Flesche (1857–1932) became the first professional Native American folklorist in the Bureau of American Ethnology at the Smithsonian Institution (Alexander 1933; Alexander 1982; Parins and Littlefield 1995). Working closely with president of the American Folklore Society (AFS) Alice C. Fletcher (1838–1923, president of the AFS in 1905), on the Omaha culture into which he was born on a reservation, he focused on the distinctive aspects of rituals, songs, and stories within the tribe (La Flesche 2013; Fletcher and Flesche 1911). He dispelled notions of natives as simple children of nature and illuminated the highly complex systems of tradition at work. He and Fletcher argued for the diversity rather than unity of Native American cultures in the United States, as was evident in comparative fieldwork they conducted with the nearby Osage. In an essay, “Who Was the Medicine Man?” for the Journal of American Folklore in 1905, he criticized missionaries many of whom wrote on the folklore of the Native Americans by declaring “the idea commonly entertained by the white race that they alone possess the knowledge of a God has influenced the mind of all those of that race who have come in contact with the Indians . . . So, when they happened to see the Indians worshipping according to their own peculiar customs , using forms, ceremonies, and symbols that were strange, they said, ‘Poor creatures, they are worshipping the devil!’ when in truth the Indians never knew a personal devil until he was solemnly and religiously introduced by the teachers” (1905, 269). He also railed against many white ethnologists, who presented the myths and rituals they collected appear “childish or as foolish” (La Flesche 1905, p. 270). These were principles that Franz Boas as mentor to many budding folklorists and anthropologists at Columbia University and editor of the Journal of American Folklore applied in insisting on the historical particularism of each group and understanding of narratives in the language in which it is performed (Boas 1915; Boas 1938. See also (Darnell 1973)). In the twentieth century, a governmentally sponsored salvage project was apparent to record stories, songs, crafts, and rituals from Native Americans because of the assumption that tribal culture had largely vanished. The Bureau of American Ethnology in the Smithsonian Institution assigned fieldworkers to record remnants of folk tales and songs from native elders. More interventionist were Indian boarding schools established by the Bureau of Indian Affairs to “Americanize” native children. In addition, missionaries continued to convert Indians to Christianity and discourage native folk practices that presented rival folk religious beliefs. Thus anthropologist Alfred Kroeber of the University of California, Berkeley, created a national sensation when he declared a member of the Yahi tribe he named Ishi (for “man” in the Yana language) the “last wild Indian” in America. He recorded folk stories and songs from him with the implication that all subsequent collections of folklore represented the dominance of Euro-American culture (Kroeber 1961; Sackman 2010). However, folklorists such as Barre Toelken, adopted by a Navajo family in 1955, found a persistence of folklore and adaptation of new traditions that he analyzed in terms of identity maintenance within, and apart, from a larger American society (Toelken 2003). In addition to recording texts comparable to those in nineteenth-century anthologies usually amassed from elders, folklorists also considered uses by children of belief systems of social control such as the “skin-walker” (a witch-like figure who shift into animal form), performance styles and structured communication Humanities 2018, 7, 17 9 of 31 (such as the reliance on four episodes rather than three in European narratives) underlying emergent lore such as jokes and legends, and pan-Indian expressions and contexts for folkloric practice such as powwows (Brady 1984; Browner 2002; Cunningham 1992; Green 1996; Jackson 2003). In these studies, scholars reminded readers that Native American lore remained in the living tradition of the United States. Reversing the lens on white society, folklorists also drew attention to rhetorical uses of Native American figures and supposed “Indian legends” in contemporary contexts such as college campuses that supposedly were built upon hunting or burial grounds of Indians and summer camps that drew upon the natural metaphor of Indians to connect campers to awareness of non-technological life (Green 1975; Tucker 2007a, pp. 153–81). A post-modern phenomenon also attracting scrutiny with implications for American cultural identity breaking with the oppressive or colonial past was the appropriation by Euro-Americans of Native American folklore to shape hybrid spiritual traditions within religious movements variously called New Age, New Religion, and neo-Shamanism (Wernitznig 2003). Folklorists note the influence of popular texts such as Black Elk Speaks (1932) written by a non-Native concerning an Oglala Lakota medicine man and The Teachings of Don Juan (1968) concerning an apprentice’s experience with a Yaqui shaman (Black Elk [1932] 1988; Castaneda 1968). In both cases, folklorists questioned the authentic textualization of the narratives integrated into New Age movements and opened up anew issues of presentation (and translation) raised by the Grimms (DeMallie 1993; Mille 1980; Junquera 2005; on textualization, see (Clements 1996, pp. 17–30; Honko 2000)). Biographical approaches to active contemporary bearers of tradition such as Barre Toelken’s “consultant” (rather than the more passive, and less authoritarian sounding noun “informant” used by many fieldworkers) supplemented earlier campaigns to inventory native texts with life-story recording (Francis 2016; Radin [1920] 1963; Toelken 1998; see also (Titon 1980; Workman 1992)). The movements tend to emphasize universal symbols evident in Native American mythologies, although folklorists typically examine the localized cultural contexts in which they appear. Rather than dismiss the New Age movements, however, several folklorists have considered the application of Native American folklore in social movements as evidence of a long process of cultural exchange and appropriation since Roger Williams’s dictionary appeared and drew attention to the complex political relationships between natives and settlers. 2.2. Folklore as a Sign of Transplantation and Adaptation from the Old World While Americans of European descent understood through various popular anthologies the association of Indians with indigenous tradition, in the rising cities of New York and Philadelphia they primarily mused on the creation of a national culture out of the mix of various immigrant groups from Europe. Influential on this development was John Fanning Watson (1779–1860). In Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania in the Olden Time (1830), Watson found what he called “traditionary lore” (including local legends, customs, and beliefs) that in his view arose from the settlement experience rather from transplantation from Europe (Watson [1846] 2009, p. 368; Watson 1857, 2:12). Even the Germans who came in large numbers to Philadelphia in the eighteenth century, and formed their own communities, Watson observed, created a New World hybrid in a dialect and lore that was distinct from their roots in Germany while blacks showed little evidence of their African tribal origins (Watson 1857, 1:254–58). His comments were part of an ongoing debate not only to issues of an Americanizing process out of the mixing of different national ancestries abut also about the resistance to enslavement and oppression of African Americans through the retention of their traditional practices. Instead of arguing for turning back industrialization, Watson’s hope was for maintaining continuity with the spiritual values of the past as American society underwent material changes (Watson 1857, 1:261–64, see also (Vaux et al. 1974)). Fearing for the loss of this oral tradition in the wake of further modernization, he called for its immediate recovery and for creating for America what Sir Walter Scott had accomplished for Scotland with his folklore collections and the literature it inspired (Watson 1857, 1:10–12). Understandably, Washington Irving, who was tapping the lode of Humanities 2018, 7, 17 10 of 31 folklore around his upstate New York home to produce an American literature, applauded Watson’s call. Irving invoked a grounding metaphor to support him: “He is doing an important service to his country, by multiplying the local association of ideas, and the strong but invisible ties of the mind and of the heart which bind the native to the paternal soil” (Watson 1857, 1:vi–vii). The “native” for Irving, however, was the European settler. Watson’s argument for applying the techniques of Scott to a new environment such as the United States was that America had gone through as many changes in a generation as Europe had in hundreds of years. He wrote, “A single life in this rapidly growing country witnesses such changes in the progress of society, and in the embellishments of the arts, as would require a term of centuries to witness in full grown Europe” (Watson 1857, pp. vi–vii). Sharing the stage with Schoolcraft at a ceremony in Philadelphia to honor William Penn’s establishment of religious tolerance in his “Holy Experiment,” Watson related stories handed down to European-American residents of Philadelphia about long-gone, ghostly Indians. He could not find myths to equal those in Schoolcraft’s collection, but he offered beliefs, sayings, and stories that he said represented the formation of a new society out of the mixed multitude of immigrants who came to Philadelphia. He felt he had to defend this material, since to his eye, and ear, it lacked the exoticism, artistry, or antiquity of European folk literature, especially its fairy tales and epics. The Americanness of folklore was most evident in the response of legendry for historic personages and the diverse flora, fauna, and landscape features of the country (Watson 1857, 1:2). For the founder of the American Folklore Society William Wells Newell (1839–1907), dominance of the “Old English” inheritance in the United States was especially evident in children’s games. His thesis was that while these traditional games were disappearing in the British Isles, they thrived in the environment of the United States and came to characterize American play. He explained that “The influence of print is here practically nothing; and a rhyme used in the sports of American children almost always varies from the form of the same game in Great Britain, when such now exists” (Newell [1884] 1992, p. 2). Aware of the great influx of immigrants from eastern and southern Europe, he observed that they assimilated to the English-based normative culture. He wrote that “the children of these immigrants attend the public school, that might engine of equalization; their language has seldom more than a trace of accent, and they adopt from schoolmates local formulas for games, differing more or less from those which their parents used on the other side of the sea” (Newell [1884] 1992, p. 2). He referred to immigrant children who speak German in their homes, and play games from “the Fatherland” among themselves, but in contact with English-speaking children, they resort to a common repertoire of English-derived games, including “London Bridge is Falling Down,” “Follow the Leader,” and “Ring around the Rosie” (Newell [1884] 1992, p. 2). Challenging this view, children’s folklore specialists pointed out strong non-English traditions in African-American ring and clapping games (“Loop de Loo,” “There’s a Brown Girl in the Ring,” “Hambone,” “Juba”), Pennsylvania-German ball games (‘corner ball”), and Chinese divination and gambling games (dominoes, backgammon, dice) (Brown 1974; Culin 1890; Culin 1891; Jones and Hawes 1972). Yet these were ethnic groups that had been isolated either because of segregation or settlement patterns. A similar thesis held for balladry. Folklorists maintained that British folk ballads persisted longer and showed wider variation in the United States than in the British Isles, especially in isolated mountain regions such as the Appalachians and the Ozarks primarily populated by settlers of British background. American-born Olive Dame Campbell (1882–1954) and Englishman Cecil Sharp (1859–1924) sparked a song-collecting fervor to uncover this hidden trove with the publication of English Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians (1917). Campbell and Sharp reported ballads performed widely in the Appalachian region such as “Barbara Allen,” “Lord Randall,” and “Fair Margaret and Sweet William” that Harvard professor Francis James Child had assumed were extinct (Sharp and Campbell [1932] 1966). There were differences in the American corpus, however. Repertoires tended to take away aristocratic references and singers tended to downplay supernatural content. The existence of the British ballads, collectors found, was not just an Appalachia and Ozark Humanities 2018, 7, 17 11 of 31 mountain regional phenomenon. “Child ballads” so named after the delineation of 305 types in the literature professor’s The English and Scottish Popular Ballads (Child [1882–1898] 1965, 5 vols.) were reported from Maine to Florida and New York to California in the twentieth century.2 A number of twentieth-century folklore projects sought, on the one hand, to document non-English folksong repertoires to demonstrate the persistence of ethnic cultures in America and, on the other, identify songs that emerged on American soil to show that the American folk repertoire was not all derivative. Among the emergent singing traditions that indicated cultural resistance to assimilation were Mexican corridos in the Southwest, Pennsylvania German secular songs, Creole and Cajun songs of Louisiana, and Yiddish folk songs (Rubin 1973; Buffington 1974; Paredes 1976; Spottswood 1990; Vernon 1995; Saxe 1997; Mlotek and Slobin 2007; Sánchez 2006). Folklorist George Malcolm Laws (1919–1994) devised an index of “native American ballads” including Lomax’s cowboy songs (Laws A4 “Cowboy’s Lament”and B9 “Sweet Betsy from Pike”) and war sagas (Laws A4 “Paul Jones’s Victory” and “Brave Wolfe,” Laws A7 “Battle of New Orleans”) (Laws 1964). He added other robust categories for ballads of lumberjacks, sailors, outlaws, murder, and disasters. The only ethnic category was for African Americans. It included distinctive American folk songs, many of which entered into popular culture, such as “Stagolee” (or “Stackolee”), “John Henry,” and “Railroad Bill”. The significance of the index beyond its classification system was the announcement of a large body of incipient traditions that could be called distinctively American. This body of work was relative to the emphasis in folksong scholarship on the older British corpus of song. Laws often took sides in arguments over the identification of some songs as American or British. An example is the song “Little Mohea” (H8) about a sailor who is tempted by the lure of Mohea, an “Indian lass.” He tells her that he is committed to his “true love” across the sea. Upon his arrival he finds that this love has been unfaithful and he longs for Mohea (also Mohee). Laws lists it as an American ballad, citing Philips Barry’s theory that it was originally a story of romance between a frontiersman and a native maiden and then the scene changed when it became a sea song with the Hawaiian island of Maui (cf. Mohea) as a setting. Laws acknowledges folklorist George Lyman Kittredge’s assertion that the song derived from a British broadside with the presumption that the print source predated the American version, but Barry argued that the American ballad inspired the British broadside (Laws 1964, p. 224).3 Beyond the academic argument over the song’s genesis are the stakes in the debate of legitimizing a distinct rather than derivative folk tradition that arose from the peculiar conditions of the American experience. If Child ballads could thrive in American settings, American folklorists asked, could there also be a related trove of Old World Märchen waiting to be unearthed? Folklorists indeed found versions in Appalachia and the Ozarks of well-known European tale types such as “Bluebeard’s Hidden Chamber” (ATU 312) and “The Youth Who Wanted to Learn What Fear Is” (ATU 326).4 The wonder-tale material could also be heard beyond the isolated mountaineer homes, however. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (ATU 325) and Snow White (ATU 709) headed a collection of stories taken from Pennsylvania Germans in the 1940s (Brendle and Troxell 1944, pp. 15–22). Folklorists excitedly reported a variant of Snow White as “Snow Bella” among Louisiana Cajuns, and in New England and New York they located Old World stories of fairies and “little people” from descendant of Irish immigrants (McCarthy 2007, pp. 173–80, 376–86). Out west, folklorists recorded narratives incorporating “The Princess Who Cannot Solve the Riddle” (ATU 851) from Mexican-Americans, and “The Dragon Slayer” (ATU 300) and “The Clever Precepts” (ATU 910) from settlers of old European stock (De Caro 2009, pp. 60–63, 116–20). 2 For surveys of the British folk ballad in North America, see (Coffin 1977; Dugaw 1995; Laws 1957; Pound 1922; Scarborough 1937). For historiography of the ballad collecting movement, see (Spencer 2012; Wilgus 1959). 3 The song is also indexed in Robert Waltz’s ballad index as LH08 and he lists an extensive list of sources: http://www. fresnostate.edu/folklore/ballads/LH08.html. The Roud Folksong Index lists it as no. 275: http://www.vwml.org/search/ search-roud-indexes. See also (Fife and Redden 1954); “Little Mohea” is discussed on pp. 382–84. 4 ATU (Aarne-Thompson-Uther) numbers refer to the standard reference used by folklorists to designate international tale types: (Uther 2004). For versions from Appalachia and the Ozarks, see ““How Toodie Fixed Old Grunt” (ATU 312 Bluebeard) and “The Boy That Never Seen a Fraid” (ATU 326 The Youth Who Never Learned Fear) in (De Caro 2009, pp. 63–65, 88–89). http://www.fresnostate.edu/folklore/ballads/LH08.html http://www.fresnostate.edu/folklore/ballads/LH08.html http://www.vwml.org/search/search-roud-indexes http://www.vwml.org/search/search-roud-indexes Humanities 2018, 7, 17 12 of 31 The most noticeable catch in the American folklorist’s net was a slew of “Jack tales,” many provided by the Hicks and Harmon families in North Carolina called by folklorist Carl Lindahl, “the nation’s most celebrated storytelling family” (Lindahl 2004, pp. 1–58; see also (Isbell 1996; McCarthy 1994)). The Hickses came from England and the Harmons from Germany in the eighteenth century. In subsequent generations into the twenty-first century, the stories of a boy-hero named Jack who outwits giants, witches, and demons were among the most memorable and lasting. In the twentieth century, a number of popular books such as Richard Chase’s The Jack Tales (1943) and complementary recordings spread notice of the tales as an American expression primarily associated with white southerners (Chase 1943; Chase 1950; Shipley 1982; Davis 1992; Haley 1992; Perdue 1987; Perdue 2001). Although the story of “Jack and the Beanstalk (Giant)” (ATU 328A) is most popularly known, a great number of variations spun around the character emerged. A story attached to the performance of Ray Hicks (1922–2003), called by Lindahl “the most famous traditional storyteller in America,” went by the name of “Jack and the Robbers” (ATU 1525A). It involved a boy who confronted by robbers who want to kill him has his life spared by pointing out to the robbers that “I ain’t got nothing, all my little rags is all. I’m just a poor little humble boy” (Lindahl 2004, p. 135). The robbers offer to let him go if he steals three animals, which he does, and then gets paid by the thieves. Unlike European narratives in which the boy’s test is stealing from an aristocrat, in Hicks’s version it is a farmer. Although coming from European tradition, the indigent, scrappy Jack became an American stock figure and a Hicks favorite because of his overcoming challenges out on his own. He appeared to epitomize the rugged, resourceful individual who triumphs over larger forces that challenge doubt him (Lindahl 2004, pp. 131–38). Another set of narratives, sometimes set as marvel tales, sometimes as legends, center on the search for treasure (De Caro 2009, pp. 287–93; Dobie 1931; Granger 1977; Moore 1986). Whether hidden because of fabled pirates, eccentric misers, or lost mines, the stories frequently end with the treasure eluding the seekers. Sometimes the treasure has a curse attached or disaster befalls the treasure-hunters. Folklorist Alan Dundes drew a contrast between treasure narratives in the United States and those reported in Mexico to make a point about the way that stories reflected, or reinforced, American values (Dundes 2007; see also (Foster 1964)). He noted that Mexican collections had an outcome of the treasure being found, often to explain the source of a community member’s rise in social status. Dundes posited that these patterns could be called “folk ideas” that constitute different worldviews. The Mexican pattern indicates an “image of limited good,” an outlook of fatalism related to the lack of social mobility. If someone is able to rise in status, community members imagine that it was as a result of coming into good fortune through luck. Dundes interpreted the American narrative of not finding treasure reflects as an “image of unlimited good.” This folk idea expresses the individualistic, optimistic view that wealth is expandable and therefore people can increase their social status by working for it. An American proverb that expresses this idea is “work hard and you shall be rewarded.” Seeking the treasure, or hoping for luck, in this American worldview, is discouraged; individuals should be able, expressed proverbially, to “pick themselves up by their own bootstraps,” “if at first they don’t succeed, try, try, again,” and “the more practice they have, the luckier they get.” The pattern of finding of treasure in folktales of the United States did not mean that supposedly pragmatic Americans did not value, or have beliefs about, luck. The pervasiveness of lucky numbers such as 7, and the unlucky 13, in contrast to fortune attributed to eight in Chinese culture (but four is considered unlucky in Chinese because it is homophonous with the word for “death”), for example, attest to the persistence of distinctive Western-derived belief systems in the United States. Considering the rise of customs surrounding mid-life crisis at the age of forty in the United States in the twentieth century, anthropologist Stanley Brandes (1985) thought that the idea of forty as a significant quantity representing the end of life, had roots in biblical religions of the Middle East which set 40 as the number of years wandering in the wilderness and number of days and nights during the great flood, among other references. The number, or age of forty, was not statistically a mid-life point in the United States but had been culturally constructed as a special number multiplying four with its symbolism of being more than enough (three represented completeness) and ten as an official quantity. Alan Dundes Humanities 2018, 7, 17 13 of 31 also viewed a special status of the number three in American culture, not only in folktales for the typical number of episodes, but also in folk speech (“third time’s a charm,” “three Rs,: reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic,” and “three on a match”) and as a basis of design (aba, or bilateral symmetry in British-American houses and gravestones) (Dundes 1980, pp. 134–59). He found that this base concept was not universal; the morphology of many Native American narratives featured four episodes, and Asian tales featured five. One interpretation of the emphasis on trichotomy in American culture is that it reflects the human body (head and shoulders) with the implication of expansive human dominion in contrast to the symbolism of four as all the cardinal points (Asian cosmology adds a fifth location in the self) (Bronner 2007, pp. 7–8). An American belief in expansiveness is evident in the association of “tall tales” (known colloquially as whoppers, windies, or lyin’ tales) with oral and visual traditions in the United States (Baughman and Holaday 1944; Blair 1944; Clough 1947; De Caro 2009, pp. 174–85; Dorson 1982; Lindahl 2004, pp. 461–86; Loomis 1945; Siporin 2000). A European tradition of comical tales referred to hyperbolic feats of a Baron Munchausen as sportsman and soldier (see Bynum 1988; Kareem 2012). In the United States, tall tales include stories of ordinary folks who because they live on the frontier describe astounding phenomena matter-of-factly, provide exaggerated accounts of fishing and hunting exploits, serve up anecdotes of “real characters” who fool their gullible audience, and relate narratives of comical demigods associated with intrepid enterprises in the expanding West. In some localities, this recognizable form of storytelling, as well as its associated attributes, are celebrated in “liars’ contests” (Biebuyck-Goetz 1977; Kahn 1960; Lindahl 2004, pp. 466–70). Sometimes stories might be told using the contest to frame a competitive streak, characteristic of, or mocking, an American “nothing is impossible” attitude (and emphasis on speed in doing it). For example, folklorist Herbert Halpert reported a story from a young warrant officer who set up the story by saying “Well, there were two men arguing about how fast they were and to prove his point one of them said he went out to the well to draw a bucket of water.” The trouble was that “as he started away from the well, the bottom of the bucket dropped out.” “No problem,” he said unaffectedly. “He ran to his house, got another bucket and caught the water before it hit the ground.” And the other fellow? He said that he had been out hunting. The narrator explained that “he shot a deer and skinned and dressed it and had it hanging up in his meat house at home before the bullet left the end of the gun” (De Caro 2009, p. 181). Performance of the stories often appear humorous and suggest a literalization of the phrase “the sky’s the limit.” They also can belie the hardscrabble conditions of settlers who had giant aspirations but struggled mightily. When visualized, the tall tale style is evident in doctored postcards and posters that show a giant vegetable, fish, or insect being carried by ordinary farmers with the caption “How we do things around here” (Rubin and Williams 1990; Welsch 1976). Or fantastic creatures such as the jackalope (a jackrabbit with antelope horns) would be pictured and occasionally mounted as a joke in restaurants and hotels. Its imagery often invites a story along the lines of a tall tale or a “practical joke” (colloquially known as the “put-on”) (Dorson 1982, pp. 50–54; Marsh 2015, pp. 22–23). Such fantastic chimerical beasts in “these here parts,” cueing folk speech, announce that the western environment produces strange, unprecedented sights and the dominant image of hybridization in the animal is typical of the social process for human residents. Americans often festooned heroes with tall tales in addition to miraculous origin legends. Folklorist Richard Dorson claimed that the real-life Davy Crockett (1786–1836) set the stage for the irreverent character of ringtailed roarers who were admired in tall tales and composed an American mythopoeic “heroic age” during America’s westward expansion into the frontier (Dorson 1942; see also (Dorson 1939)). Exaggerated as “half bear, half alligator,” Crockett supposedly bragged that with a smile he could charm a raccoon down from a tree, but on one occasion he mistook a knothole for the creature’s eye and grinned all the bark off (Dorson 1977, p. 204). Tellers of Crockett tall tales often spun the stigmatized vernacular of the backwoodsman into a positive, even celebrated trait, and in the process perhaps satirized the attitude of snooty Europeans or stuffy Easterners toward the Humanities 2018, 7, 17 14 of 31 crude American everyman. Crockett was revered for emerging victorious in a wrestling match with a mammoth bear and loving his faithful dog Teazer, who could throw a buffalo (Dorson 1977, p. 211). In the twentieth century, characters from the worlds of industry, sport, music, crime, and military displaced the pioneer subjects of tall tales. Texas oil drillers heralded Gib Morgan (1842–1909) a modern-day Munchausen who performed miraculous feats of drilling and displayed a lust for life (Boatright 1945; Dorson 1982, pp. 126–39). Texas folklorist Mody Boatright documented at least fifty distinct tale types attributed to Morgan, including his account of patching up a dog who was split by charging into a sapling splinter. Morgan put him back together with two legs up and two legs down which thrilled the hound no end because he could outrun any rabbit in the valley by turning cartwheels (Boatright 1945, pp. 95–97; see also (Dorson 1977, p. 229)). The twentieth century was also the era of literary folk heroes who might have a basis in folk tradition but who took a popular culture turn in newspaper columns, books, comics, and advertisements. Dorson dismissed the national rage for stories of lumbering titan Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe as “fakelore” invented by logging company writers and used during World War II in propaganda to stir militaristic nationalism (Bronner 2013; Dorson 1971a, pp. 3–14; Dorson 1976, pp. 1–30; Fox 1980; Stekert 1986). Questions have also arisen for others of his ilk such as Pecos Bill (remarkable southwest Texas cowboy), Joe Magarac (extraordinary Pittsburgh steelworker), and Febold Feboldson (giant Swedish American sodbuster) (Fishwick 1959; Gilley and Burnett 1998; Sheviak and Anderson 1969). Yet a case has been made into the twenty-first century for legendary strongmen and strongwomen attached to locally known characters who provide the material for humorous tall tales and awe-inspiring legends with themes of the extent of human limitations in a technological world (Bronner 2012b). Renowned in both song and story, the African-American hero John Henry (Laws I 1; Roud Folksong no. 790) is a study in the projection of anxieties about machines replacing humans in addition to undertones of the racialized, and therefore stigmatized, laborer expressed in American folklore in addition to projecting the often stereotyped image of the hypermasculine black man. Other larger-than-life African American figures such as John Hardy (Laws I 2; Roud Folksong no. 3262), Bad Lee Brown (Laws I 8; Roud Folksong no. 780), and Stagolee (Laws I 15; Roud Folksong no. 4183) were narrated as anti-hero badmen (Bryant 2003; Roberts 1989). Their motifs of confident defiance, fatalism, and resignation to violence appeared in narrative poetry identified by African-American tellers as toasts that purportedly inspired rap and hip-hop lyrics of the twenty-first century (Bronner 2006; Orejuela 2014, pp. 46–50). According to many music historians, Stagolee (also known as Stagger Lee and Stackolee) in toast, story, and song is especially influential (Brown 2003; Middleton 2007; Polenberg 2015). With considerable bravado, performers relate his story of an unrepentant badman who shoots his old friend Billy Lyons because he beat him in a gambling game. Cecil Brown claims that as a secular oral performance of the streets contrasting with the black preacher, “Stagolee has influenced a new art form in rap music and hip-hop. As an invisible hero, Stagolee is an image of a man who can find dignity in his own country, which seeks to disgrace him” (Brown 2003, p. 225; Middleton 2007). Brown adds the theme of human limitation in an industrial world by observing “He is an allegory of the oral black man who traveled from the mechanical world and now lives in an electronic information world” (Brown 2003, p. 225). Often related in the first person, Stag (raising images of an independent “buck”) is sure to fall but before he does lashes out violently at Billy and everyone else: “Yeah, I’m Stagger Lee, and you better get down on your knees and slobber my head/’Cause if you don’t you’re sure to be dead/Billy dropped down and slobbered on his head, But Stag filled him full of lead” (Brown 2003, p. 225; Wepman et al. 1976, pp. 134–37). The badman figure is a contrast to, or evolution from, the African-American trickster tales made famous by white journalist Joel Chandler Harris in the nineteenth century (Bickley 1981; Bickley 1987; Brookes 1950; Chase 1955; Bickley and Keenan 1997; Brasch 2000). After the popularization of his stories related by a fictional southern plantation storyteller Uncle Remus, folklorists found evidence of Brer Rabbit trickster tales throughout the black South along with cognate figures such as Aunt Nancy and traced them to African antecedents (Light 1975; Baer 1980). Besides inviting interpretations of the tales as animal parables indicating the use of cunning by the oppressed rabbit to escape, the animal Humanities 2018, 7, 17 15 of 31 stories raised questions about the evidence of the tales of Africanisms persisting in the South despite the suppression of African culture. Folklorists made connections of the stories with West African trickster tales of Anansi the Spider (probably the antecedent of the homophonous “Aunt Nancy” character in black folktales of the Caribbean and Carolina coast) (Backus 1898; Piersen 1971; Bascom 1981; Roberts 1988). Attracting close attention was the iconic “tar baby story” (ATU 175) involving a baby doll composed of tar made by Brer Fox who is antagonistic to the rabbit (Baer 1980, pp. 29–31). The rabbit approaches the tar-baby, and angered on hearing no response, punches and kicks the doll. The rabbit gets stuck and is helpless before the fox who grabs him. The trickster rabbit uses reverse psychology on the fox by pleading with him not to fling him into the briar patch. Convinced by the rabbit that landing in the briar patch is the most painful option for the rabbit, the fox heaves him there, only to find that the rabbit is at home in thickets and is able to escape. Although most studies cite an African origin, folklorists have also hypothesized a genesis in India and Iran, and possible influences from Cherokee, Meso-American, and Caribbean narratives (Baer 1980, pp. 30–31. See also (Cline 1930; Espinosa 1943; Nickels 1981; Taylor 1944)). Regardless of its derivation, the animal stories were associated with southern African-American culture and the black trickster character made appearances in later jests on the theme of “John and ole Marster” and toasts such as “Shine and the Titanic” and the “Signifying Monkey” (Abrahams 1970, pp. 97–172; Dorson 2015, pp. 124–70; Jackson 1974, pp. 161–96; Oster 1968; Roberts 1989, pp. 17–64). Similar questions about the persistence of ethnic folk forms addressing relationships of the minority with the majority population in the United States have swirled around the Mexican-American norteño corrido (northern ballad). Often traced to medieval romances set in ballad form, corridos about folk heroes and legendary events with political overtones in the contested border region of the American Southwest circulated widely in oral tradition among Mexican-Americans. Mexican-American folklorist Américo Paredes found special significance to songs and stories of Gregorio Cortez (1875–1916) born on the Mexican side of the border but raised in Texas (Paredes 1958). “El Corrido de Gregorio Cortez” first circulated orally in the early twentieth century and continued to be sung into the twenty-first century. According to the legend that inspired the ballad, Cortez was unjustly accused of horse theft by a gringo sheriff and violence erupted when the law moved in to arrest him. A long chase ensued that added to Cortez’s mystique as possessing extraordinary strength and perseverance. Stories circulated that he had walked 100 miles, ridden more than 400, all the while being pursued by posses of 300 men. Eventually Cortez was caught and put on trial. He was acquitted for the murder of one sheriff but not the other. He was sentenced to life in prison, but when pardoned by the governor, his Mexican-American admirers interpreted the events as a triumph of justice for oppressed Mexicans at the hands of gringos in the border region. Indeed, the corrido form calls for a moral lesson and farewell from the singer after giving a salutation and relating the story. Although corridos became commercialized by recording companies and broadcast on television and radio, many folklorists point out that the folk process is still evident in an evolution of the folk hero corrido into the “narcocorrido” (McDowell 2012; Morrison 2008; Wald 2001). Emerging in the 1970s, the narcocorrido features the traditional tripartite corrido structure of salutation, description of events, and moral lesson to relate legends of fabled drug smugglers and dealers and their brazen exploits. Folklorists listen for circulating motifs in the lyrical content within the context of shared folk performance styles. For example, in 2015 when drug lord Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman escaped from Mexico’s most secure prison, songs quickly circulated outside of media outlets that portrayed him as a Robin-Hood figure, rags to riches mythology, his braggadocio in declaring that the authorities could not keep him, and his vanity, or cunning, in escaping without messing up his hair (Martinez et al. 2015). Ambivalence could be heard in the moralizing typical of the genre, including questioning the power, and obsession, with having more money than one could possibly use. As with other popular expressions of ethnic groups with a persistent community presence, folk aspects are couched within an older tradition and the content compared with earlier themes, often to bring out the resistance to assimilation and hybridization with other traditions within the massified American experience. Humanities 2018, 7, 17 16 of 31 2.3. Folklore as a Force in the Development of City, State, Region, and Nation A folkloristic challenge to the humanistic idea that the United States epitomizes a unified mass culture marked by the mobility of residents and a social placelessness is in its persistent, evolving regional and community traditions. With advances in communication and transportation technology in the late nineteenth century, many industrialists predicted dissipation of regional differences in favor of a national homogeneity with a standard language and lore. Some historians thought that American cultural, if not ethical, standards in the post-Civil-War era emanated from New England with its attendant Puritan values. Others believed that rapid urbanization in the late nineteenth century suggested a national cosmopolitanism that pushed out folk cultures from America’s rural heartlands and embraced novelty rather than tradition. Yet another movement protested the cultural politics implied in the analogy of folk is to rural as popular is to urban. Cities, they argued, harbor distinctive expressive traditions and attachments to neighborhood cultural identities that increasingly defined the populist spirit of the United States through the twentieth century. A major approach to America’s cultural identity rooted in diverse paths of diffusion was folklorist MacEdward Leach’s historico-geographic thesis that American folk cultural regions arose from colonial settlement in major eastern ports of entry (Leach 2002). He delineated “five centers of folk culture” that resulted from European colonization: New England, with Boston at the center; the New York region with New York City at the center; Pennsylvania-Delaware with Philadelphia at the center; the Tidewater South with Baltimore and Charleston at the center; and the Deep South and River country with New Orleans at the center” (Leach 2002, p. 192). In each of these places, different ethnic influences combined to form a cultural hybrid that differed from its separate Old World sources. He used the examples of localized slang and dialect that writers drew upon to create “local color” literature as evidence of attachment to folk regional identity. Folklorist Henry Glassie elaborated upon this idea by tracing the diffusion of rural folk architecture on the landscape of the eastern United States to provide evidence of the cultural significance of American regions (Glassie 1968). Although Pennsylvania constituted the last “cultural hearth” to form, he thought it was the most important because it fanned north and south, as well as west, and greatly influenced with its diverse roots of English, German, and Irish traditions the formation of the great expanse of the Midwest. He attributed the iconic American “log cabin” to German construction techniques and its rapid spread in the South and Midwest to adaptation to the wooded American landscape and the migration from Pennsylvania down into Appalachia. With regional formation, residents recognized a constellation of traditions representing distinctive identities, and often outlooks. Glassie and others suggested that southern and New England, or Yankee, social affiliations are particularly strong, and concern for folk cultural continuity and preservation are as a result also prevalent in those locations (Zelinsky 1973; Gastil 1975; Meinig 1986; Fischer 1989). Folk cultural boundaries become less clear past the Mississippi River, but nonetheless community and regional traditions give residents what folklorists refer to as a “sense of place,” or belonging to a community, in contrast to feelings of placelessness in a mass culture. To be sure, ideas of space in the vast West differed from the cultural landscapes in the East. Migration patterns changed as settlers were discouraged by the rough conditions of the arid and mountainous West (Meinig 1971; Meinig 1993). Besides the identification of a Southwest border region heavily influenced by Hispanic and Native American culture, folklorists and cultural geographers have also recognized the “Mormon Culture Region” centered in Utah and covering parts of surrounding states (Dorson 2013; Eliason 2006; Francaviglia 2013; Meinig 1965; Yorgason 2003). Its name reflects the predominant population in the area belonging to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but non-religious cultural practices have been considered as indicative of regional folklore. An example is “creative dating” involving elaborate invitations for dates and creative responses in kind. The invitations often use clever puns and other folk speech play and jokes (Eliason 2006; Young 2013). Another is the celebration of Pioneer Day on 24 July. It is an official state holiday in Utah on the occasion of the entrance of Brigham Young and his Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. In modern day practice, the holiday observed Humanities 2018, 7, 17 17 of 31 inside and outside of Utah includes parades (involving the re-enactment of entering the region by handcart), rodeos, historical pageants, and fireworks displays aligning the region as the heart of the West (Eliason 1997; Olsen 1996). Festivals showcasing local traditions are especially important in marking claims of cities, and their neighborhood communities, to distinctiveness. New Orleans’s Mardi Gras festival dating at least to the eighteenth century might be best known nationally. Related to the Catholic Shrovetide practice of a public carnival, the New Orleans Mardi Gras has evolved into a multicultural tourist event that with parades and balls, and especially the “Meeting of the Courts” between the “krewes” of Rex and Comus (social clubs that work all year round to produce costumes, parades, and balls for Carnival season), represents a distinctive creolized cosmopolitan identity (Abrahams 2006; Kinser 1990; Lindahl and Ware 2011; Roberts 2006; Spitzer 2011; Stanonis 2006, pp. 170–94; Turner 2003). Festivals do not need to be centuries old to serve this function. In Baltimore, Maryland, a grassroots movement in the Hamden section of the city created HonFest in 1994 to celebrate folk speech and image associated with the area that many writers, and civic leaders, had stigmatized. The slang term “Hon” (short for “honey”), organizers declared, is a traditional term of endearment in the working-class “Bawlmer” dialect of the city. It also epitomized a comical folk type associated with big hair, teardrop eyeglasses, and excessive cosmetics and costume jewelry. The urban festival has been a way for residents to spill into the streets and display their collective culture. Although festivals are not restricted to urban areas, in the United States, many events that involve reveling and parading, organized and spontaneous, have been associated with cities (Puglia 2015). Many traditional festivals such as New York City’s annual Feast of San Gennaro (staged since 1926), known colloquially as the Little Italy Festival, and Chicago’s St. Patrick’s Day festival when the Chicago River turns an emerald green (begun officially in 1956), have ethnic connections and develop into citywide celebrations (Ford et al. 2008; Kennedy 2010; Malpezzi and Clements 1992, pp. 99–109). The festivals typically incorporate traditional foods, music, and games associated with the group and by extension is emblematic of the city. The expressive genre that in folk parlance is most associated with the American city is the “urban legend.” Many folklorists prefer terms such as “contemporary,” “modern,” or “belief” legend to indicate that the settings for, and content of, legend telling are not solely an urban phenomenon (Mullen 1972; Brunvand 1981; Bennett and Smith 1989; Ellis 1990; Tangherlini 1990; Pettit 1995; Dégh 2001; Brunvand 2004; Brunvand 2012; De Vos 2012). Yet in addition to general categorizations of this kind of legend to include cautionary stories of danger (AIDS Mary and Harry stories warning of the consequences of casual sex) and reports of strange events (a hitchhiker who mysteriously disappears and is found to be a young woman who died on the night the driver picks her up), tellers of urban legends often refer to phenomena relating anxiety over modernization that is epitomized by the city (Bennett and Smith 2007; Fine 1980). Most definitions include references to stories set in the present or recent past, and relate unusual, shocking, or mysterious occurrences, with the added feature of sounding, or having been reported, as true. More than offering a report of something that happened, many legend performances invite commentary about the story’s verisimilitude and often, an implicit troubling ethical or social issue. Although these contemporary legends have been shown to be globally diffused, many belief legends have been associated with peculiar American circumstances. Iconic is the legend of menacing alligators or mutating super-alligators overtaking New York City’s dark sewers as a result of residents flushing down a toilet the animals they originally obtained as small cuddly pets (Bennett and Smith 2007; Brunvand 1981, pp. 90–98; Coleman 1979; Ingemark 2008). The story can be interpreted as a projection of anxiety about animals representing an ancient species being brought into the unnatural city. Sometimes the telling can be a commentary on the deleterious effects of tourism and the commodification of animals (cf. the “Mexican Pet” legend of a tourist in Mexico who brings home to the United States what she thinks is a small dog, but turns out to be a dying sewer rat), or symbolically associating the city with its sewers as a location of rot and danger beneath the glitzy surface (cf., belief that there are as many rats as people in Humanities 2018, 7, 17 18 of 31 a city, or ten cockroaches for every person) (Bennett and Smith 2007; Brunvand 1986; Mikkelson 2014). New York City as a historic, iconic city renowned for both the lights of Broadway and allure of arts as well as notorious for crime and filth is the most frequent setting for the story, although folklorists have also found similar stories told about Paris (Bennett and Smith 2007, pp. 2–3; see also (Cody 2005; Wachs 1988)). These different settings for similar plots raise questions about whether the stories arose independently or are connected as migratory, transnational narratives. In the latter case, folklorists identify the local variations as “oikotypes” (from the Greek oikos for ecology) that respond to particular environments (Abrahams 1963; Clements 1997; Cochrane 1987; Sydow 1948). Folklorist Richard Dorson hypothesized that legends, especially more historic ones, are important in inculcating national identity in a nation-state such as the United States that had been formed relatively recently compared to the kingdoms of Europe with their ancient legacies (Dorson 1971a, pp. 94–107). He argued that while community and regional folklore roots many residents in their localities, their connection to one another across these spaces is maintained through legendry that concerns, in his words, “the special historical conditions” of the United States broadly as a nation-state. He identified themes around which nationalistic historical legends arise: colonization, westward movement, aborigines and slaves, patriotism and democracy, immigration, industrialization, and mass culture. That is not to say that the United States is unique in possessing these themes, but its frontier experience, rapidity of its immigration and industrialization during the post-Civil-War period, and revolutionary legacy combine in folklore to suggest a distinctive, even exceptional, national identity (Dorson 1971a, pp. 15–77). He cited the legend of Casey Jones, for example, as a classic heroic narrative attached to railroading and the industrial period in the United States (Dorson 1973, pp. 235–42; see also (Cohen 1973)). The image of the railroad fits the conceptualization of the United States as expansive. Further, the creation of a transcontinental railroad with a historic meeting of railroad tracks from East and West in Utah conveys a sense of its importance to nationalism, and even the folk idea of Manifest Destiny (divinely inspired for the nation to stretch as an empire from the Atlantic to the Pacific) (Dorson 1971a, pp. 35–38). The Casey Jones legend, expressed in song as well as narrative by blacks and whites, is based on the real-life events of railroad engineer Jonathan Luther Jones (1863–1900) who early on the foggy morning of April 30, 1900, outside Canton, Mississippi, sacrificed his life for his crew and passengers by alertly grabbing for the brakes before his Cannonball Express slammed into the caboose of a stalled freight train. Headlines about his heroism and conflicting reports about the causes of the wreck and Jones’s death fueled legends and songs about the incident that passed on into oral tradition. Perhaps best known is “The Ballad of Casey Jones” (Roud Folksong no. 3247) credited to African American engine-wiper Wallace Saunders who befriended Jones. Found in many variations, the song follows a familiar ballad structure with a “come all ye” opening: “Come all you rounders if you want to hear, The story of a brave engineer, Casey Jones was the rounder’s name” (Dorson 1973, p. 241). Devoted to the rails, Casey Jones is immortalized with his last words: “Casey said just before he died, ‘There are two more roads I would like to ride, The Northern Pacific and the Santa Fe.” In addition to exemplifying devotion to duty and the quick bold thinking of the railroad engineer, the song, according to Dorson, transcends regional loyalties through the railroad and venerates the industrial future of the nation (Dorson 1973, p. 236; see also (Cohen 2000)). One indication of the nationalist industrial symbolism that the song assumed is an often-performed parody credited to renowned labor activist Joe Hill who contributed “Casey Jones—the Union Scab.” It reinterpreted the legendary events in the context of a nationwide walkout of railway employees in the Illinois Central shopmen’s strike of 1911 and was sung as a union folk song for years to come: The workers said to Casey, “Won’t you help us win this strike?” But Casey said, “Let me alone, you’d better take a hike” Well Casey’s wheezy engine ran right off the worn out track And Casey hit the river with an awful crack. (Alderson 1942) Humanities 2018, 7, 17 19 of 31 The union song brings out another frequent pattern in American culture of folklore not only offering voices of unity but also cries of dissent. Folklorist John Greenway pointed out strategies for symbolically using traditional content familiar to listeners to draw attention to social protest movements (Greenway 1953). During the civil rights movement, black spirituals were used rhetorically to express powerful statements of social change. Greenway observed that in the South, union songs often changed the lyrics of gospel hymns with “I” to “We” and “God” to “CIO” (Congress of Industrial Organizations) (Greenway 1953, p. 12). Parodies of popular songs and children’s rhymes frequently enter into folklore and on picket lines signs alter proverbs to show a different spin on conventional wisdom (Greenway 1953, pp. 13–19; Orr and Ohno 1981). This tradition of dissenting alteration has extended into digital communication in visual as well as verbal forms. Although social media is associated with global communication, many of the folklorized messages (also referred to as “memes”) invoke nationalistic references set against digitally altered photographs of historic national icons Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and more contemporary figures such as Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, and Barack Obama (Blank 2012; Bronner 2009; Duffy et al. 2012; Oring 2014). 2.4. Folklore as Processes in Everyday Life In another challenge to the prevalent “classical” textual perspective of the humanities, many American folklorists contemplating the effects of technology and modernization on tradition considered paramount the documentation of the process by which cultural expressions were produced. With the realization that people in their social interactions produce new folklore as well as invoke it in different forms—material and written as well as oral—folklorists sought to identify folklore in new realities of modern everyday life marked by technological mediation. In this theoretical perspective, individuals encounter multiple situations in the course of a day and relate to the setting and people in it with “performances” that engage folk behavior. Saying the greeting “how are you?” is standard in social encounters in the United States. It might appear routine (characterized with the folk term of “small talk”), but the responses of “hunky dory,” “Just ducky (peachy, dandy),” “Fair to middling, mostly middling,” “couldn’t be better,” “can’t complain,” “still among the living,” “still breathing (standing, living),” “fine as a frog’s hair,” “fine as a frog’s hair and twice as fuzzy,” “not dead yet,” and “old enough to know better, And you?” often ritually signal a special social connection between the speakers/texters. Further the practice contextualizes connotative meaning characteristic of a folkloric frame of action (such as reference to aging, anxiety/”troubles,” lifestyle choices, medical inquiries, friendship or family relations, and insider, localized knowledge) (Coupland et al. 1992; Coupland et al. 1994; Rings 1994; Wright 1989). People learn what kinds of performances are appropriate by understanding the different contexts or frames that contain social interaction. In line with this ethnographic shift, folklorist Dan Ben-Amos called for replacing previous definitions of folklore as oral tradition or the knowledge of semi-literate or rural isolated societies with the social interactional concept of “artistic communication in small groups” (Ben-Amos 1972). Ben-Amos’s definition emphasized in keeping with an American concept of folklore the malleable, emergent nature of traditions according to the manifold social situations of daily life. Thus questions of ethnic, regional, and national folklore shifted from the characteristic genres and types within those rubrics to the situations that foster folklore and the individuals who are likely to create folklore in those frames (Paredes and Bauman [1972] 2000). In the United States, examples of such contexts that signal distinctive folk processes include college campuses, summer camps, and slumber parties. College campuses might appear surprising as a folkloric context because students typically reside there for a short time (four years as a period that is symbolically abundant) and are involved in academic learning.5 With a lack of rites of passage from youth to adulthood in American society, 5 As discussed earlier in this essay, Roger Williams’s dictionary inspired folkloristic work on Native Americans (see, for example, Heckewelder [1818] 2016), and so, too, did an early guide to college student slang produce commentaries on the Humanities 2018, 7, 17 20 of 31 the college experience is often viewed as a transitional status, as well as age, from childhood to adulthood. As a result, the identity of the student appears to be total, socially communitarian in dormitory complexes, and confined to a distinct landscape. The cultural challenge in this environment is often to create social bonds among students arriving from diverse backgrounds. On many campuses, the process begins with rituals that strip first-year students of their “home” identities and integrate them into campus culture. At small colleges, there may be events that pit one class against another in competition. At Hope College in Holland, Michigan, for example, the “Pull” is a tug-of-war between first and second-year students, tugging a six-hundred-foot, twelve-hundred-pound hawser rope. The experience encourages bonding with one’s class and engagement in a task collaboratively. Students learn slang and customs of the campus that they associate with a cultural identity. The social relationships might lead to sharing of legends typical of college students nationwide about anxieties of coming of age, including sexual choices, effects of drugs and alcohol, and dealing independently with authority (Bronner 2012a, pp. 142–44). With more than 12,000 day and resident camps attended by over eleven million children in the United States, the summer camp is a frequent context for folkloric performances before students get to college (Mechling 1999). Often emphasizing an experience with nature as a reaction to modern technology and urbanization, the camps frequently have legends of a bogey-man kind of figure lurking in the woods. The name and origin of the figure vary; it might include ghosts of Native American chiefs because of the association with the first inhabitants of the woods, monstrous chimerical animals, or deranged hulking men. The process of creation appears similar in this context; tellers caution listeners to stay out of the woods or surroundings or else this figure will take them away. The cautionary tales have an obvious connection to “boogie-men” who lurk in the dark and serve to keep children from straying away from home. The stories of camp are more elaborate but serve similar functions of social control (Leary 1973; Widdowson 1977; Green 1980; Ellis 1982; Furst 1998). The slumber party is often considered a special American context appealing to preteen and adolescent girls. Attendees spend the night at a host’s house with minimal parental intervention. Typical events in this social frame are legendary exchanges and participation in supernatural rituals or games. Although younger children are thought to be more “superstitious” because of a lack of rational awareness, older youths usually engage in folk magical practices and show interest in ghosts and supernatural phenomena. Folklorists have theorized that these practices result from questioning during adolescence of the boundaries between life and death (Freed 1993; Tucker 1984; Tucker 2005). Adolescents feel invulnerable and vulnerable at the same time and their awareness of death, despite possessing youthful vitality, is apparent. They became aware of teen suicide and use narratives to question motivations for such extreme responses to stress. At parties they might summon the dead through the use of Ouija boards and séances (Bronner 1988, pp. 166–67; Freed 1993; Ellis 2000, pp. 62–86; Ellis 2004, pp. 174–96). They might also test their youthful powers by levitating their friends, often with the chant “light as a feather, stiff as a board” (Tucker 1984; Tucker 2007b). Performances of modern legends about bizarre occurrences frequently conclude with invitations to listeners to comment and discuss through the folkloric frame their veracity and the age-related issues of being alone and independent, dealing with mortal danger, and engaging in sex (Brunvand 1993, pp. 109–12; Fine 1992; Greenberg 1973; Whatley and Henken 2000). A context that emerges after youth begin driving automobiles is “legend trips” to verify supernatural legends, often in isolated locations. A frequent phenomenon to test is of “gravity hills” that push a car upward even though the brake is on (Baker 1982, p. 200; Lindahl 2005). They might go as a group to settings of “spook lights” and creepy cemeteries to dare one another to overcome their fears (Bird 1994; Ellis 1989; Ellis 1996; Meley 1990; Prizer 2004; Tucker 2007a, pp. 182–210). In the folklore of students as a special folk group: Benjamin Homer Hall, A Collection of College Words and Customs, originally published in 1856 (see Hall [1856] 1968). (1856 rpt., Detroit: Gale, 1968). See also (Dorson 1949; Baker 1983; Toelken 1986; Tucker 2007a; Tucker 2008). Humanities 2018, 7, 17 21 of 31 digital era, youths take videos of their adventures and post them for others to comment on the core of belief (Kinsella 2014; Tucker 2011; Tucker 2012). They engage in telling what folklorists call “personal narratives” that relate individual experiences within American structural and stylistic expectations of the “good story.” Often events that spark the personal narrative as a folkloric frame are family sagas, workplace dramas, scary situations, social faux pas, supernatural or miraculous experiences (“memorates” in folkloristic terminology), and sexual encounters (Boatright 1958; Braid 1996; De Caro 2013; Dégh and Vázsonyi 1974; Fine 1987; Honko 1964; Pentikainen 1973; Robinson 1981; Sebba-Elran 2003; Stahl 1977; Sweterlitsch 1996; Tucker 1992; Wilson 1991; Zeitlin et al. 1982). Because much of digital communication in the twenty-first century is not “face to face interaction” characteristic of what analog folklorists referred to as a performative frame of folklore, many analysts reserved performance analysis for communication of verbal art in small group situations, and referred more broadly to folk practices to cover the kinds of expressive processes that could be called traditional (Bronner 2016, 2017). The folkloristic finding was that the Internet as a symbol of mass culture does not displace folk culture. Instead, as a user-driven medium it provided new platforms for folkloric exchange and in many cases mediation of traditional knowledge into social networks rather than face-to-face groups. These platforms are often assumed to be global in reach, but they often make use of traditional knowledge and social conduits that are concentrated in the United States. In addition to finding unique manifestations of folk behavior in cyber-environments such as hackers injecting legendary characters (e.g., “The White Lady of Perion” in MapleStory video games based upon “White Lady” lovers’ lane legends), “creepypastas” and collective creations (horror-related legends posted around the Internet such as the Slender Man and Ted the Caver), virus hoaxes ( e.g., Goodtimes, Dance of the Pope, and An Internet Flower for You), viral “memes” (Grumpy Cat, U Mad Bro, But That’s None of My Business), the comparative microfunctions of communicative topics in analog and digital culture provide material for analysis of joking, legend tripping, and ritualizing off- and on-line (Frank 2011; Kinsella 2014; Ellis 2012; Blank 2013; Boyer 2013; Chess and Newsom 2015; Peck 2015; Henriksen 2016). With these expressions in mind, a revised definition of folklore emerged to cover analog and digital as well as historic and contemporary culture of “traditional knowledge put into, and drawing from, practice” (Bronner 2016). Knowledge or lore is perceived or constructed as traditional, characteristically through its repetition and variation, and connotative evocation of precedent. It can be viewed as distinct from, although, sometimes integrated into, the notion of popular culture as fixed in form and commercialized (folklore can also be “popular” and broad-based beyond the small group or subculture). Reference to the actions of “put into and drawing from” suggests the framing of connotative, purposeful enactments as an adaptation from precedent or an outcome of repeatable behavior. This outcome can be material and social as well as verbal. It can be constructed by and enacted for the individual. Popularly, folklore in the United States can be rhetorically used to refer to the verisimilitude, and significance, of cultural knowledge in an uncertain, individualistic world. Indeed, a folklore-centered humanities breaks down divisions between high and low, local and global, and individual and society. Continuing to challenge versions of the humanities in classical terms, folklore refers to the expressions of this knowledge in story, song, speech, custom, and craft as meaningful for what it conveys and enacts about tradition in a future-oriented society. That tradition in the United States is old and new, national and regional, transnational and ethnic, persistent and vanishing, continuous and changing, special and everyday, and always expressive and connotative. Conflicts of Interest: The author declares no conflict of interest. References Abrahams, Roger D. 1963. Folklore in Culture: Notes Toward an Analytic Method. Texas Studies in Literature and Language 5: 98–110. 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Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. © 2018 by the author. Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland. This article is an open access article distributed under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). http://dx.doi.org/10.2307/1500044 http://dx.doi.org/10.2307/1499647 http://dx.doi.org/10.2307/1318428 http://creativecommons.org/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/. Introduction and Thesis The Social Grounding and Organization of American Folklore Folklore as a Reflection of Native and Indigenous Cultures Folklore as a Sign of Transplantation and Adaptation from the Old World Folklore as a Force in the Development of City, State, Region, and Nation Folklore as Processes in Everyday Life References 
work_63mo5cf4uvfe3kc5vkvgstywsq	----	The Death and Second Life of the Harpsichord Occidental College From the SelectedWorks of Edmond Johnson Spring 2013 The Death and Second Life of the Harpsichord Edmond Johnson, Occidental College Available at: https://works.bepress.com/edmond_johnson/2/ http://www.oxy.edu https://works.bepress.com/edmond_johnson/ https://works.bepress.com/edmond_johnson/2/ The Death and Second Life of the Harpsichord E D M O N D J O H N S O N But nobody, save perhaps an antiquarian or two, thought of summoning to action the harpsichord . . . . Had any temerarious musician seriously advanced the claims of the antiquated relic a contemptuous majority would have dismissed it at once as outmoded, feeble, merely quaint. —Pitts Sanborn Writing for the Nation in 1925, the American music critic Pitts Sanborn did not have to look very far into the past to recall a time when the harpsichord was widely dismissed as being ‘‘out- moded, feeble, merely quaint.’’ Indeed, the instrument had spent much of the previous century as the silent denizen of storerooms, attics, and museum galleries, and very few of the ‘‘contemptuous majority’’ would have been able to claim any real familiarity with its sound. It was only around the turn of the twentieth century—and with the advent of a gen- eration of fervent early music advocates and enthusiasts—that the instru- ment began to attract the attention and support that would eventually allow it once again to take a prominent place within the contemporary musical landscape. Over the course of a few short decades the harpsi- chord underwent a remarkable transformation: no longer the ‘‘anti- quated relic’’ of the nineteenth century, it once again became, as Sanborn put it, ‘‘an instrument with a vivid independent life of its own.’’1 The choice of words is telling. Whereas it might seem strange to speak of an instrument as having acquired an ‘‘independent life,’’ the harpsichord’s peculiar history had long attracted similar patterns of 1 Pitts Sanborn, ‘‘Landowska’s Contribution,’’ The Nation 121 (5 August 1925): 175. 180 The Journal of Musicology, Vol. 30, Issue 2, pp. 180–214, ISSN 0277-9269, electronic ISSN 1533-8347. © 2013 by the Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved. Please direct all requests for permis- sion to photocopy or reproduce article content through the University of California Press’s Rights and Permissions website, http://www.ucpressjournals.com/reprintInfo.asp. DOI: 10.1525/JM.2013.30.2.180 speech. As far back as the middle of the nineteenth century the instru- ment’s abandonment was described in terms of death or even extinction, and during its subsequent revival the harpsichord’s modern history has been written with terms borrowed liberally from the lexicon of rebirth and resurrection. Indeed, the last two centuries have seen the instrument widely represented, both verbally and pictorially, with figurations that invoke either life or death.2 To expand on the conceit put forward by the title of this article, it might be said that the harpsichord has had three lives and one (impermanent) death. The instrument’s first life, of course, would encompass its prime, a time roughly spanning the six- teenth through eighteenth centuries. Near the end of this period the harpsichord came to its figurative demise, struck down, it is tempting to say, by the hammer blow of the ascendant pianoforte. Following the same figurative logic, the harpsichord’s resurgence near the turn of the twenti- eth century would represent a sort of second life, whereas the dramatic and nearly wholesale adoption of more historically based models arguably constitutes a third (and current) existence for the instrument, a renais- sance begun in the decades following World War II by such luminaries as Hugh Gough, Frank Hubbard, and William Dowd. Though far from being the only historical instrument to receive renewed attention during the decades surrounding the turn of the twen- tieth century, the harpsichord holds a special place in the history of the early music revival. No other instrument played as visible—or, perhaps, as controversial—a role in popularizing musical activities related to the revival. Having, as it does, a large and visually distinctive presence, the harpsichord has a tendency to garner attention wherever it appears, whether in a museum case or on the concert hall stage.3 In this study I 2 In a 1923 history of the instrument, Norman Wilkinson wrote that ‘‘far from being laid up in lavender, [harpsichords] have, as often as not, been pushed carelessly into the outhouse or hayloft . . . and there have died an unheeded death.’’ Norman Wilkinson, ‘‘A Note on the Clavichord and the Harpsichord,’’ Music and Letters 4, no. 2 (April 1923): 162–69, esp. 162. Similarly, Wanda Landowska once described her agenda in reviving the harpsichord in vitalizing terms: her object was to ‘‘make it live again, to give it jubilant or pathetic accents, to evoke polyphonic purity, to make the coupled keyboards resound, to sing with lingering tones the amorous cantilenas.’’ Wanda Landowska, Landowska on Music, ed. and trans. Denise Restout (New York: Stein and Day, 1965), 11. 3 As Sheridan Germann noted in her treatise on harpsichord decoration, ‘‘[A]n oboist or violinist need not worry whether his instrument’s decoration is appropriate to his repertoire, but a harpsichord is too large and dominant not to be part of an audience’s visual experience of a concert.’’ Sheridan Germann, Harpsichord Decoration: A Conspectus, vol. 4 of The Historical Harpsichord, ed. Howard Schott et al. (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2002), 92. In a 1922 essay the harpsichordist Nellie Chaplin recalled how her instruments had attracted ‘‘a great deal of interest’’ during the extensive run of Frederic Austin’s popular revival of The Beggar’s Opera, reporting that ‘‘hundreds of people’’ had asked about her instrument. See Nellie Chaplin, ‘‘The Harpsichord,’’ Music and Letters 3, no. 3 (July 1922): 269–73, esp. 270. j o h n s o n 181 explore the harpsichord’s nineteenth-century ‘‘death’’ and its subse- quent revival—the two periods of its history that have been most ne- glected. By reexamining the ways in which the harpsichord was portrayed in both words and images I shall show that the instrument’s eventual acceptance in the twentieth century was far from a fait accompli but depended largely on an extensive and deliberate renegotiation of both its image and cultural identity. In the first section I explore the harpsichord’s nineteenth-century existence as an evocative emblem of a vanished past: an instrument turned relic that was frequently laden with supernatural literary tropes and ghostly imagery. In the second section I move on to the instrument’s revival, focusing on the ways in which the harpsichord was brought before modern audiences in a form that was ultimately heavily reengineered and reconfigured. Indeed, in its journey from museum piece to modern musical instrument the harpsichord underwent a marked transformation of both form and character. The process involved a gradual rejection of much of the cultural baggage that the harpsichord had accrued during its long dormancy in the nineteenth century and resulted in a transformation that ultimately won it a place in the modern musical world. The Death of the Harpsichord In truth, the harpsichord never quite disappeared. Noting that the instrument had appeared at Ignaz Moscheles’s concerts historiques as early (or, perhaps, as late) as the 1830s, Howard Schott observed that ‘‘in a narrow technical sense it is probably correct that the harpsichord never really became extinct in the same sense as the dodo bird.’’4 It is reason- able to conclude that the vast majority of plucked keyboards were aban- doned when instrumental fashions changed around the turn of the nineteenth century, but a few old instruments were inevitably retained by their owners. Some were kept as treasured antiques, and others served as historical curios. A select few even saw regular use for decades after the piano had become the dominant keyboard instrument.5 But if a few specimens remained in the hands of collectors and devoted musical antiquarians, for the most part the harpsichord existed during this 4 Howard Schott, ‘‘The Harpsichord Revival,’’ Early Music 2, no. 2 (April 1974): 85–95, esp. 85. 5 Edward Kottick has noted that both Gioacchino Rossini and Giuseppe Verdi were taught to play the harpsichord as children, despite their growing up at a time when the instrument was already seen as outmoded. Edward Kottick, A History of the Harpsichord (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2003), 396. For the most detailed account of harpsichord making and performance during the early part of the nineteenth century, see ibid., 391–406. For a broader history of the interest in early music during the first half of the nineteenth century, see Harry Haskell, The Early Music Revival: A History (London: Thames and Hudson, 1988), 13–25. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 182 period not as a tangible musical object but as a fanciful idea residing in the collective imagination. Though rarely encountered by the gen- eral public during most of the nineteenth century, the harpsichord was far from forgotten: it lived on in the poetry and prose of the time, maintaining a sort of shadowy belletristic afterlife that contin- ued long after most of the physical relics—all that wood, quill, leather, and ivory—had been relegated to the silent indignity of the rubbish heap.6 Literary Hauntings By the middle of the nineteenth century the piano had reached near ubiquity in the parlors and concert rooms of the Western world, and the old keyboards that had held reign in previous centuries had been reduced to little more than evocative names—mere emblems of a past age. An example of this new role can be found in Robert Browning’s celebrated poem ‘‘A Toccata of Galuppi’s’’ (1855), one of the earliest instances in which an antiquated keyboard is explicitly employed as a symbol of antiquity. To be sure, in this poem Browning invokes not the harpsichord but its cousin the clavichord, but, as Larry Palmer has observed, nineteenth-century writers frequently took the names of early keyboards to be interchangeable.7 Indeed, with little awareness of their histories and mechanisms, the harpsichord, virginal, spinet, and clavi- chord were generally conflated under a common umbrella of instrumen- tal obsolescence.8 More important than the specific genus Browning assigned to it is the way he treated the antique instrument, using it as the central poetic device in an imagined transhistorical dialogue with the 6 For instance, in Thomas Haynes Bayly’s ‘‘My Great-Grandmother’s Harpsichord,’’ a short story that achieved some popularity in the 1830s, a father concerned with the musical education of his daughters (but reluctant to purchase an expensive new piano) seeks to restore a large harpsichord that had languished for three generations in his attic, only to conclude that the instrument is fit only for firewood (a fate that it ultimately suffers). Thomas Haynes Bayly, ‘‘My Great-Grandmother’s Harpsichord,’’ in Forget-Me- Not: A Christmas, New Year’s and Birthday Present for 1831, ed. Frederic Shoberl (London: R. Ackermann, 1831), 263–70. 7 Larry Palmer, ‘‘Some Literary References to the Harpsichord and Clavichord, 1855– 1923,’’ Diapason 74 (September 1983): 18. 8 This conflation sometimes spread to early pianos, the appearance of which did not always differentiate them from other early keyboards. While touring Italy in 1897, Arnold Dolmetsch was shown an instrument that was reported to be the clavichord that had inspired Browning’s poem; upon closer inspection, however, Dolmetsch discovered that the instrument was in fact a small square piano. See Mabel Dolmetsch, Personal Recollections of Arnold Dolmetsch (1958; New York: Da Capo Press, 1980), 27. Another example of con- fused taxonomy can be seen in figure 4 of this article: an engraving of a large harpsichord by Andreas Ruckers that was printed in an 1887 issue of Art Amateur with a caption that described it as a ‘‘clavichord.’’ j o h n s o n 183 eighteenth-century Italian composer Baldassare Galuppi. The poem takes as its subject the rich world of Settecento Venice, using music as the evocative connection between the present and the past: the narrator, upon hearing the tones of the titular toccata, is transported to the time and place where Galuppi himself ‘‘sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord.’’9 Though leaving the details of the toccata (the mere agent of the poem’s historical evocation) mostly to the reader’s imag- ination, Browning does provide a sort of poetic harmonic analysis, in which pitch content mingles freely with mournful voices from the imag- ined past: What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—‘‘Must we die?’’ Those commiserating sevenths—‘‘Life might last! We can but try!’’10 The poem continues with a rhapsodic catalog of the glories of this earlier age, before gradually adopting, in the tenth through twelfth stan- zas, the somber tones of a meditation on mortality: Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, While I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve, In you come with your cold music till I creep thro’ every nerve. Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: ‘‘Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.’’11 The beauties of the past have given way to images of their ruination, and the long dead composer—that ‘‘ghostly cricket’’—has provided the key- hole through which the decaying spirit of this long vanished age can still be glimpsed. That Browning cast the clavichord as a prime character in his historical fantasy speaks to how potent the instrument’s associations with the past were by the middle of the nineteenth century. It makes little difference that Galuppi never wrote a single toccata, or that the 9 Robert Browning, ‘‘A Toccata of Galuppi’s,’’ in The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning, Cambridge Edition (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1895), 175. The poem was first printed in Browning’s collection Men and Women (1855). For a brief overview of Browning’s musical connections, see R. W. S. Mendl, ‘‘Robert Browning, the Poet-Musician,’’ Music and Letters 42, no. 2 (April 1961): 142–50. 10 Browning, ‘‘A Toccata of Galuppi’s,’’ 175. 11 Ibid. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 184 clavichord was hardly a major presence in eighteenth-century Italy. As a literary device the instrument’s role is unambiguous: it functions as an evocative emblem of a time long past. A similarly uncanny use of an old keyboard instrument comes to us from the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In the prelude to his famous 1863 cycle of poems Tales of a Wayside Inn a mysterious sound, straining the boundaries of verbal description, emerges from an un- played harpsichord just after a violinist has finished performing for the assembled crowd: And from the harpsichord there came A ghostly murmur of acclaim, A sound like that sent down at night By birds of passage in their flight, From the remotest distance heard.12 The harpsichord serves no other function in the poem’s narrative than to add a sort of supernatural resonance to the moment. Subsequent literary references are often even more explicit in asso- ciating the harpsichord with the specters of the past. Lewis Morris’s episodic poem ‘‘Pictures—I,’’ first published in 1883, is structured in twenty-one quatrains, each of which amounts to a free-standing vignette: little slices of life ranging in mood from sunny to profound and mourn- ful. In one of the darkest stanzas we find a harpsichord placed at the center of a morbid scene: Around a harpsichord, a blue-eyed throng Of long-dead children, rapt in sounds devout, In some old grange, while on that silent song The sabbath twilight fades, and stars come out.13 Two similarly macabre accounts of the instrument come from the other side of the Atlantic, penned by the prolific American poet Madison Julius Cawein, a native of Louisville, Kentucky. In his 1896 poem ‘‘Haunted,’’ Cawein’s sentences heave with Romantic imagery as they exposit a mysterious scenario: The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof; From hall to hall and stealthy stair to stair, 12 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, Tales of a Wayside Inn (London: Bell and Daldy, 1867), 10. 13 Lewis Morris, ‘‘Pictures—I,’’ in The Works of Lewis Morris (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1891), 316–18. Lewis Morris (1833–1907) was born in Wales, though he lived most of his life in England. He was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1895 in recognition of his literary accomplishments. j o h n s o n 185 Through all the house, a dread that drags me toward The ancient dusk of that avoided room, Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair, And eyes that gaze beyond her soul’s sad doom, Bending above an unreal harpsichord.14 In a variation on this poem that Cawein wrote some years later (entitled ‘‘Præterita’’), the poet elaborated on the harpsichord’s supernatural disposition, concluding the verse with the image of a golden-haired woman ‘‘Waking the Ghost of that old harpsichord.’’15 A more benign apparition is conjured in an unusual prose sketch published in 1889 by the French writer and artist George Auriol. In his ‘‘Le clavecin de Yeddo,’’ Auriol emphasized the harpsichord’s perceived otherness by placing it within the context of an imagined Orient: Upon an old harpsichord of the time of Marie Antoinette—that has found its way, no one knows how, to the country of the Mikados—the frivolous Lou-Laou-Ti plays a love song. Perched upon the unsteady stool, like a doll upon a stand, with head thrown back, the young girl sings softly. Her delicate fingers dance madly upon the yellowed ivory, then sweep very gravely over the keys of ebony, and recommence to flutter distractedly hither and thither. The harpsichord, with its clear and caressing voice, seems, under the witchery of the little fairy, to find in its old heart shudders, murmurs, and vibrations long forgotten. And that puffed dress of blue, flowered with roses, is it not of a marquise?16 Auriol’s miniature story capitalizes on the compound exoticism of a sub- ject that is foreign in both time and place. Given the work’s publication in June 1889 it is tempting to connect it with the Exposition Universelle, which had opened in Paris only a month earlier and offered a diverse display of cultural and historical objects.17 (Indeed, the mention of Marie Antoin- ette in the opening sentence is particularly suggestive, as a harpsichord 14 Madison Julius Cawein, ‘‘Haunted,’’ in The Garden of Dreams (Louisville, KY: John P. Morton, 1896), 114. 15 Madison Julius Cawein, ‘‘Præterita,’’ in The Poems of Madison Cawein (Boston: Small, Maynard, 1908), 85–86. 16 George Auriol, ‘‘The Harpsichord of Yeddo,’’ in From the French: Pastels in Prose, trans. Stuart Merrill (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1890), 81–83. Originally published in French as ‘‘Le clavecin de Yeddo,’’ in La Plume 1, no. 5 (15 June 1889): 49. Auriol’s poem was a popular example of French prose poetry, and the English version was subsequently anthologized in a number of early twentieth-century textbooks. ‘‘Yeddo’’ is a variant roman- ization of ‘‘Edo,’’ a historical name for the city of Tokyo. 17 In her work on the music of the 1889 exposition, Annegret Fauser has noted that the ‘‘discovery of new sonorities in early music shows parallels to the sonic discovery of ‘other’ music at the Exposition Universelle, whether the gamelan or opera transmitted through the telephone.’’ Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005), 41–42. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 186 that had formerly been in her possession was displayed at the exposition.) The story might also reflect Auriol’s exposure to one of the many historical instruments that were adorned with scenes of life in an imagined Orient, a mode of décor that reflected a widespread European vogue for the exotic East in the decades surrounding the turn of the eighteenth century.18 When ‘‘Le clavecin de Yeddo’’ was reprinted the following year in an American anthology of French prose poetry, the text of the opening page was artfully set around a fanciful engraving by Henry W. McVickar (fig. 1).19 As if in an effort to invert the historical modes of chinoiserie, McVickar showed the European instrument and its player, here clothed in Western dress, alongside imagery commonly associated with Japan. McVickar’s ‘‘harpsichord’’ is of an imaginative design that conjoins a small keyboard to an upright harp, an overly literal interpretation of the word that may suggest that the artist was unfamiliar with the instrument he was asked to depict.20 Like Robert Browning’s clavichord in ‘‘A Toccata of Galuppi’s,’’ the harpsichord here is portrayed by Auriol as a powerful evocator capable of carrying its listeners to another time and another place. As Lou-Laou-Ti continues to play (a powdered wig suddenly gracing her head), the accoutrements of her Japanese world are swiftly substituted for those from an imagined European past: And suddenly all the statuettes change into graceful groups of pale Saxe, and bands of monkeys embroidered upon the silk screens become groups of rosy cupids that might have been painted by Boucher himself. And the black hair of Lou-Laou-Ti seems covered with a vapory snow.21 Perhaps one of the surest indicators that the harpsichord had emerged from the nineteenth century with a heavy freight of ghostly associations comes in the form of a satirical short story entitled ‘‘The Haunted Harpsichord,’’ published by James Huneker in 1905.22 18 At least one harpsichord on display at the 1889 Exposition, a 1728 instrument by Christian Zell of Hamburg, had a case painted in an Orientalist style, though the scenes were not of Japan but of China. This instrument is now in the collection of the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg. For a list of instruments displayed at the Exposition Uni- verselle, see the Catalogue général officiel: Section II, Arts libéraux exposition rétrospective du travail et des sciences anthropologiques (Lille: L. Danel, 1889), 74–90. 19 George Auriol, ‘‘The Harpsichord of Yeddo,’’ 81. 20 Fanciful as it might be, the form of McVickar’s imaginary instrument is not entirely lacking historical precedent: a 1641 painting by Andrea Sacchi, for instance, shows a more elaborate open-framed clavicytherium (sometimes called a ‘‘keyed harp’’) that is being played by the Italian castrato Marc’Antonio Pasqualini (Marcantonio Pasqualini Crowned by Apollo, in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art). This painting is discussed and reproduced in Kottick, A History of the Harpsichord, 24, and pl. 2. 21 George Auriol, ‘‘The Harpsichord of Yeddo,’’ 83. 22 James Huneker, ‘‘The Haunted Harpsichord,’’ in Visionaries (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1905), 188–202. j o h n s o n 187 Huneker, who is remembered today mainly as a music critic for the Musical Courier and the New York Times, set his story in an intentionally indeterminate era that combines elements of the Middle Ages and the eighteenth century. The story begins with two men speeding across the French countryside, hot in pursuit of a fugitive vassal. Stopping to rest at an unassuming roadside inn not far from the town of Amboise, the men listen as the innkeeper regales them with a tale redolent with the hall- marks of Gothic fiction. In this story within a story we are told that the inn stands before the ruins of a chateau that was burned to the ground in the years following the French revolution and that spirits from the ancien regime have not entirely vacated the premises. It is at this point that the narrative suddenly engages in a fantastic reinvention of the musical past. The innkeeper tells of a duchess who made a frequent habit of hosting the composer Christoph Willibald Gluck during periods when her husband was away. One night, while the duchess and the famous composer of Alceste were playing a duet on the figure 1. First page of ‘‘The Harpsichord of Yeddo,’’ a prose poem by George Auriol; reprinted in From the French: Pastels in Prose, trans. Stuart Merrill (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1890), 81–83 t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 188 harpsichord, the duke discovered the pair and in a fit of jealous rage murdered them as they sat before the keyboard. Ever since, the inn- keeper says, the place has been haunted by the sounds of a ghostly harp- sichord. At the conclusion of this ghost story the boundary between the inner and outer narratives is suddenly blurred by a spectral appearance outside the inn: Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard. It came with the wind in little sobs, and then silence settled upon us. ‘‘It’s the Chevalier Gluck, and he is playing to his duchess out in the fields. See, I will open the door and show you,’’ whispered the fat landlord. Just then the moonlight was blackened by a big cloud, and we heard the tinkling music of a harpsichord again, but could see naught. The sounds were plainer now, and presently resolved into the rhythmic accents of a gavotte. But it seemed far away and very plaintive! ‘‘Hark,’’ said Michael, in a hoarse voice. ‘‘That’s the gavotte from Pagliacci. Listen! Don’t you remember it?’’ ‘‘Pshaw!’’ I said roughly, for my nerves were all astir. ‘‘It’s the Alceste music of Gluck.’’ ‘‘Look, look, gentlemen!’’ called our host, and as the moon glowed again in the blue we saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw it, I swear, although it vanished at once and the music ceased.23 In spinning together such an incongruous assortment of historical details, Huneker in effect gave his readers a knowing wink.24 (Indeed, he went so far as to provide the story with a parenthetical subtitle, ‘‘In the Style of Mock-Mediæval Fiction,’’ lest anyone miss the point.) But if the ‘‘Haunted Harpsichord’’ is unabashed parody, it is certainly not without object. The confused and convoluted historical details are a jab at the sort of cultural conflation in which history is casually compressed (or even radically skewed), represented here by an anachronistic scenario in which Pagliacci, the 1892 verismo opera, and Alceste, Gluck’s hit from 1767, can somehow coexist in a common pseudo-historical space. At the very core of this epoch-blurring tale is the ‘‘haunted harpsichord’’ itself, an instrument whose supernaturally charged historical associations were still potent enough at the turn of the twentieth century to make it an appealing centerpiece for a satire on the romanticization of the musical past. 23 Ibid., 197–98. 24 Huneker’s use of the term ‘‘Chevalier’’ is likely a reference to a historical fantasy story by E. T. A. Hoffmann entitled ‘‘Ritter Gluck’’ (later published in French as ‘‘Chevalier Gluck’’). The story—Hoffman’s earliest publication—first appeared in Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung 11, no. 20 (15 February 1809). j o h n s o n 189 The Silence of ‘‘Antiquated Relics’’ For much of the nineteenth century the harpsichord existed more as an idea than as an actual physical entity. Whereas it may have appeared with some frequency in the poetry and prose of the time, actual sightings remained rare, and those antique instruments that had avoided destruc- tion remained mostly confined to private collections and were rarely accessible to the public at large.25 This situation began to change around the last quarter of the century with the advent of a series of high-profile exhibitions that presented historical musical instruments, typically on loan from both public and private collections.26 The first of these exhibi- tions was the Special Exhibition of Ancient Musical Instruments, which opened on 1 June 1872 at London’s South Kensington Museum (later the Victoria and Albert).27 The organizing committee for the exhibition was chaired by Queen Victoria’s second son, Alfred (later to become the Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha), and curatorial direction was provided by Carl Engel, the German-born musicologist and instrument collector who had since the 1840s made his home in London and established himself as one of the country’s leading organological authorities.28 In the months leading up to the exhibition’s opening the organizing committee actively sought out instruments that had been long hidden from view, seeking out possessors of ‘‘instruments noted for their deco- rative, archaeological, ethnological, or intrinsic technical merits’’ and encouraging them to share their treasures with the public at large.29 The result was an impressive display of several hundred historic instru- ments—lent by collectors from across the United Kingdom and conti- nental Europe—that was heralded as an unprecedented opportunity to 25 The rarity of encountering such instruments was noted by Carl Engel, who wrote in 1874: ‘‘It is surprising how soon musical instruments become scarce when they are no longer in popular demand. How seldom is a harpsichord now seen! Yet it was still in favor as recently as the beginning of the present century.’’ Carl Engel, ed., A Descriptive Catalogue of the Musical Instruments in the South Kensington Museum (London: George E. Eyre and William Spottiswoode, 1874), 346. 26 For a broad overview of these exhibitions see Malou Haine, ‘‘Expositions d’in- struments anciens dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle,’’ Revue Belge de Musicologie 42 (1988): 223–40. 27 The South Kensington Museum, founded in 1852 in the wake of the previous year’s Great Exhibition, was rededicated as the Victoria and Albert Museum in May 1899. 28 Engel, who wrote the catalog to the 1872 exhibition and was also the South Ken- sington Museum’s principal advisor on instruments, provided a brief account of the ex- hibition’s origins and planning process in an appendix to a catalog of the South Kensington Museum’s permanent collection of musical instruments. See Engel, ed., A Descriptive Catalogue of the Musical Instruments in the South Kensington Museum, 347–49. 29 See ‘‘Special Loan Exhibition of Ancient Musical Instruments at the South Ken- sington Museum,’’ Journal of the Society of Arts 20, no. 1005 (23 February 1872): 279; and ‘‘Exhibition of Ancient Musical Instruments,’’ Journal of the Society of Arts 20, no. 1015 (3 May 1872): 511. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 190 view little-seen relics from the musical past. In an article published in the Pall Mall Gazette, for instance, the novelist Charles Reade implored the public to visit the exhibition, specifically noting the rarity of the instru- ments and the unlikelihood that they would again be seen together: On the first of June the South Kensington Museum opened a special exhibition of ancient musical instruments. They have been obtained on loan from all quarters; money, powerful as it is, could not buy the greater part; and every man and woman, who loves music, or possesses a mind, should study them before the unique opportunity runs away, and this multitude of gems is dispersed for ever.30 The public seems to have heeded Reade’s words. The venture, which stayed open through the end of September, was deemed a huge success and subsequently laid the way for similar loan exhibitions that were held in major cities throughout Europe and the United States in the decades that followed.31 The thirty years that followed saw no fewer than sixteen major ex- hibitions of historical musical instruments, often held in conjunction with a larger exposition or world’s fair (table 1). In cities like Vienna, Paris, Milan, and Brussels, crowds flocked to see long-neglected instru- ments of the past, with antique keyboards frequently receiving top bill- ing. But if such exhibitions provided the public with the opportunity once again to see harpsichords, virginals, and spinets, they only rarely provided an opportunity to hear them.32 Whereas some exhibitions offered the occasional historical concert or lecture recital, for the most part the objects on display were treated more as silent historical relics 30 Charles Reade, ‘‘Ancient Musical Instruments,’’ reprinted in English Mechanic and World of Science 15, no. 377 (14 June 1872): 324. This article also appeared in Dwight’s Journal of Music 32, no. 8 (13 July 1872): 266. 31 In a 1910 dictionary entry on ‘‘Musical Loan Exhibitions’’ Francis W. Galpin spe- cifically credited the South Kensington exhibition with setting a model for all those that followed: ‘‘The idea of bringing before the public the art treasures of private collectors under the form of a loan exhibition is essentially English, the Special Exhibition of Ancient Musical Instruments held at South Kensington in 1872 being acknowledged as the prototype of the many similar collections which have since been made in Europe and America.’’ Francis W. Galpin, ‘‘Musical Loan Exhibitions,’’ in Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, vol. 3, ed. J. A. Fuller Maitland (New York: Macmillan, 1907), 338. 32 For example, whereas the 1885 Music Loan Exhibition (held in the upper galleries of the Royal Albert Hall) was generally well received, the limited opportunity for visitors to hear any of the antique instruments on display was noted bitterly by the press. An unsigned critic of the Musical Times and Singing Class Circular wrote, ‘‘The errors and omissions of the executives of the International Inventions Exhibition with regard to the nature and quality of the musical performances provided for the entertainment of visitors have been com- mented upon in severe terms, not only in our own columns, but in the ordinary press.’’ The writer, however, made positive mention of the handful of historical concerts that had been offered. Unsigned review, ‘‘Historic Concerts at the Inventions Exhibition,’’ Musical Times and Singing Class Circular 26, no. 510 (1 August 1885): 477–79, esp. 477–78. j o h n s o n 191 than as musical instruments. Cordoned-off on platforms or confined within glass-walled vitrines, the instruments maintained a mute existence and their observers were left to imagine their sound. In an 1882 article in All the Year Round, a literary journal founded by Charles Dickens, an unsigned writer laments the silence of the instru- ments exhibited at the South Kensington Museum: Some fine specimens of spinets and harpsichords are among the old musical instruments at South Kensington. One may walk round the T A B L E 1 . Major exhibitions of musical instruments in Europe and North America held between 1872 and 1904 Year Location Exhibition details 1872 London Special Exhibition of Ancient Musical Instruments (South Kensington Museum) 1873 Vienna Part of the 1873 Weltausstellung 1878 Paris Part of the 1878 Exposition Universelle 1880 Brussels Part of the 1880 Exposition Nationale, celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Belgium’s independence from the Netherlands 1881 Milan 1885 London Part of the 1885 International Inventions Exhibition 1888 Brussels Part of the 1888 Grand Concours International des Sciences et de l’Industrie 1888 Bologna 1889 Paris Part of the 1889 Exposition Universelle 1890 London Part of the 1890 Royal Military Exhibition 1892 Vienna Part of the 1892 Internationale Ausstellung für Musik- und Theaterwesen 1893 Chicago Part of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition 1894 Edinburgh Loan Exhibition of the Society of Musicians 1900 London International Loan Exhibition of Musical Instruments (Crystal Palace, Sydenham) 1900 Paris Part of the 1900 Exposition Universelle 1902 Boston Historical Musical Exhibition, held at the Horticultural Hall and sponsored by Chickering and Sons 1904 London Special Loan Exhibition of Musical Instruments, Manuscripts, Books, Portraits, and other Mementoes, celebrating the tercentenary of the Worshipful Company of Musicians (Fishmonger’s Hall) t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 192 glass-case which isolates each, and see the whole wire-arrangement and key-board; but the tone is a tantalising secret to be preserved for the curiosity of other ages than ours.33 Seven years later a writer reviewing the vast musical offerings of the 1889 Exposition Universelle for Le Petit Journal would note the startling contrast between the hush of the historical gallery and the clamorous piano-filled pavilion (a division labeled ‘‘Class 13’’) in which modern instrument makers displayed their wares: While the venerable musical instruments shown in the galleries of the Histoire du Travail are mute, while no sound escapes the Italian clavi- chords from 1547, the harpsichords from 1678 and the piano of Marie- Antoinette, what a racket, in contrast, in Class 13, where the modern instruments roar!34 Given the enforced silence of the museum display, it is understand- able that historical keyboards would be seen primarily in terms of their visual and historical value—as precious relics from the past rather than as useful musical tools. Indeed, the exhibitions of the nineteenth century generally privileged the historical over the musical, often featuring in- struments that were closely connected with famous figures from the past. Reviews of instrument exhibits further reflected the bias of the visual over the musical. A passage from an 1872 report in the English Mechanic and World of Science is telling: Then there are Italian spinets, one of which ought to interest the ladies; for it has nineteen hundred and twenty-eight precious stones outside it, and very little music inside. There is Handel’s harpsichord. He had more harpsichords than Cromwell skulls. But this time there really is a tidy pedigree made out.35 Here, as with many other accounts of such exhibitions, the harpsichord is valued primarily for two qualities: its decorative appeal and its histor- ical provenance—the elements that most strongly connected it with the 33 ‘‘The Pianoforte Family,’’ All the Year Round: A Weekly Journal 29 (27 May 1882): 353–56, esp. 354. 34 ‘‘Les Instruments de Musique,’’ Le Petit Journal (5 July 1889): 1; quoted in Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair, 26. 35 Charles Reade, ‘‘Ancient Musical Instruments,’’ 324. The instrument with ‘‘nine- teen hundred and twenty eight precious stones’’ was, in fact, a 1577 spinet made in Milan by Annibale dei Rossi. Its elaborate pietre dure case made it a star of several nineteenth-century exhibits. It was purchased by the South Kensington Museum in 1867 for the then enormous sum of £1200 and remains in the collection of the Victoria and Albert Museum. See Howard Schott and Anthony Baines, Catalogue of Musical Instruments in the Victoria and Albert Museum (London: V and A Publications, 1998), 35–39. j o h n s o n 193 past.36 Furthermore, the writer’s quip about George Frideric Handel’s apparently prodigious number of harpsichords is an indication of the prevalence with which displayed instruments were claimed to have been played or owned by prominent historical figures, though such claims were frequently based on scant or dubious historical evidence. This emphasis on history and appearance can also be found in Alfred J. Hipkins’s beautifully illustrated volume Musical Instruments, His- toric, Rare and Unique, published in 1888.37 Though Hipkins was a serious and knowledgeable scholar of early keyboard instruments, Musical Instru- ments, with its oversized pages and colorful lithograph plates (mostly of instruments that were displayed as part of London’s International Inven- tions Exposition of 1885) served primarily as a lavishly illustrated Victorian coffee table book, valued as much for its high production values as for the knowledge it contained.38 Among the instruments described and depicted in Hipkins’s book is what may well have been the most famous antique keyboard of the time, a late sixteenth-century spinet that con- tinues to be one of the treasures of the Victoria and Albert Museum’s collection (fig. 2). Though the instrument’s origins are almost certainly Italian (its specific history prior to 1798 is a mystery to this day), the spinet was famous to the nineteenth-century public as ‘‘Queen Elizabeth’s Virginal.’’39 Indeed, its position as a historical marker and artifact was particularly emphasized at the 1885 exhibition, where the instrument was used as the star attraction of a recreated Tudor room complete with period furnishing and contemporary works of art.40 What makes all of this even more remarkable is that the instrument’s connec- tion with the famous virgin queen appears to have been almost entirely speculative, based solely on the existence of a small crest on the front of 36 Reade reports of having been able to hear the sound of one of the harpsichords, played by Carl Engel, the first curator of musical instruments at the South Kensington Museum, which Reade described as being ‘‘full of sweetness and tenderness, yet not defi- cient in grandeur.’’ Reade, ‘‘Ancient Musical Instruments,’’ 324. 37 Hipkins, Alfred] J. Musical Instruments, Historic, Rare and Unique (Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black, 1888). 38 A contemporary reviewer praised the book as being ‘‘among the most beautiful examples of printing it is possible to obtain.’’ Unsigned review of Musical Instruments: Historic, Rare, and Unique, by Alfred J. Hipkins, Musical Times and Singing Class Circular 29, no. 539 (1 January 1888): 45. On Hipkins’s considerable contribution to the revival of early keyboard instruments, see the unsigned article ‘‘Alfred James Hipkins,’’ Musical Times and Singing Class Circular 39, no. 667 (1 September 1898): 581–86. 39 Hipkins, Musical Instruments. The pages of Hipkins’s book are not numbered; the illustration of ‘‘Queen Elizabeth’s Virginal’’ is listed as plate 7 and followed by a brief description. 40 International Inventions Exhibition, Guide to the Loan Collection and List of Musical Instruments, Manuscripts, Books, Paintings, and Engravings, Exhibited in the Gallery and Lower Rooms of the Albert Hall (London: William Clowes and Sons, 1885), 110. The sixteenth- century Tudor room also featured several Italian lutes, as well as ‘‘furniture, paneling, and other fittings’’ arranged and lent by Mr. George Donaldson. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 194 the case that was most likely added centuries later. Although nineteenth- century historians appear to have been aware of the instrument’s ques- tionable provenance, the potency of the myth was enough to cement its place in the popular historical imagination.41 Many other keyboard in- struments were similarly displayed bearing pedigrees that included hav- ing been played by a famous figure from the past. In France, Marie Antoinette’s spirit loomed large over a harpsichord she was said to have once owned; this instrument garnered much attention when it was dis- played as part of the 1889 Exposition Universelle.42 It is worth noting, too, that figure 2. ‘‘Queen Elizabeth’s Virginal’’; illustration from Alfred J. Hipkins, Musical Instruments, Historic, Rare and Unique (Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black, 1888) 41 The most comprehensive modern assessment of this instrument can be found in Schott and Baines, Catalogue of Musical Instruments in the Victoria and Albert Museum, 29–31. The later discovery of a tiny date—1594—inscribed in the instrument’s elaborate sgraffito case further complicates its history. If the instrument was in fact ever owned by Queen Elizabeth I (1533–1603) she could only have possessed it in her last years. See Nanke Schellmann, ‘‘The Queen Elizabeth’s Virginal Scribbles, Scratches and Sgraffito,’’ V and A Conservation Journal 42 (Autumn 2002): 9–11, www.vam.ac.uk/content/journals/conser- vation-journal/issue-42/the-queen-elizabeths-virginal-scribbles,-scratches-and-sgraffito/. 42 Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair, 33. j o h n s o n 195 the veneration accorded historically important instruments for their bio- graphical associations extended well into the inner confines of the music world. Franz Liszt, for example, some years after he had already acquired one of Beethoven’s fortepianos, was reported to have purchased a harpsi- chord that in 1853 was claimed to have been Mozart’s.43 Hauntings in the Musical Museum An intriguing connection between the public exhibition of early musical instruments and their ‘‘hauntings’’ in the literature of the age comes in the form of an anonymous poem published in Chambers’s Journal of Pop- ular Literature, Science and Art. The poem, titled ‘‘On an Old Harpsi- chord,’’ appeared on 8 June 1872, one week after the opening of the 1872 Special Exhibition of Ancient Musical Instruments in South Kensington. The unsigned poet begins by linking the worn musical object with the age of its creation: Its varnish cracked, its paintings scarred, Its dainty gilding sadly marred, And turned to dingy umber, It stands forlorn, a waif or stray Of glories long since passed away, An ancient piece of lumber. What more? And yet how rich it is, This harpsichord, in memories And quaint associations, Recalling that far time, when still High birth and title had their will, And kings were more than nations.44 43 ‘‘Mozart’s Old Harpsichord, offered for sale at Weimar, has been purchased by Franz Liszt. The instrument played on by Beethoven is also in the possession of the cele- brated pianist.’’ Unsigned review, ‘‘Brief Chronicle of the Last Month,’’ Musical Times and Singing Class Circular 5, no. 107 (1 April 1853): 173. 44 ‘‘On an Old Harpsichord,’’ Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art 441 (8 June 1872): 368. The identity of the poem’s author remains unclear, but when it was subsequently reprinted in the text of James Payn’s novel The Heir of the Ages, Payn (the editor of Chamber’s Journal at the time the poem was first published) provided the following prefatory note: ‘‘The two poems, entitled ‘The Children’ and ‘On an Old Harpsichord,’ ascribed to [the character] Matthey Meyrick in this novel, were written by a lad who died many years ago of consumption, before he attained his majority. I never knew him per- sonally—our relation being only that of editor and contributor—but judging from his letters, no less than his verses, I am well convinced that in him his country lost a genius. The poems in question were written, I believe, in his nineteenth year.’’ James Payn, The Heir of the Ages, rev. ed. (London: Smith, Elder, 1888). t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 196 The poem, which spans ten six-line stanzas, encompasses nearly every trope that was commonly associated with the harpsichord. Above all, the decaying instrument calls forth a distant age. And it is perhaps not sur- prising that the touch of a key suddenly fills the room with apparitions: I touch the keys—the startled chord Can scarce a weak response afford That wakes a low vibration Among the slackened, palsied strings: A feeble spell, and yet it brings a magic transformation. An antique aspect veils the place, A weird, oppressive, ghostly grace That almost makes one tremble; A mystic light pervades the air, Faint footfalls gather on the stair— The belles and beaux assemble. The belles and beaux? Alas, the ghosts! Thin shadows of once-reigning toasts, And heroes of the duel. They smile, they chatter, they parade, They rustle in superb brocade, They shine with many a jewel.45 The poem concludes with the sudden disappearance of the spirits. In fact, they stroll into the ether to the strains of Gluck’s ‘‘Che farò senza Euridice?’’ leaving the harpsichord once more a mere relic: The lights go out; the voices die; Among the strings strange tremors fly, That slowly sink to slumber; The harpsichord remains alone, A monument of glories done, An ancient piece of lumber.46 A similarly mystical tone pervades an article that appeared in Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly in February 1894.47 Aptly titled ‘‘Musical Ghosts,’’ it surveys the predecessors of the modern piano, focusing on the efforts of the prominent nineteenth-century instrument collector Morris Steinert.48 45 ‘‘On an Old Harpsichord.’’ 46 Ibid. 47 L. D. Mayland, ‘‘Musical Ghosts: Being a Research into the Ancestry of the Pianoforte,’’ Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly 37 (February 1894): 245–55. 48 Morris Steinert would later give his significant collection to Yale University, where it remains today. Many of the details in Mayland’s article come directly from Steinert’s book j o h n s o n 197 The article’s author, L. D. Mayland, describes the old keyboards as being ‘‘scattered over the world in dark garrets, where they are regarded as merely pieces of obsolete furniture,’’ and he describes Steinert’s efforts to recover them: [U]p under the red-tiled roofs, he found old clavichords which had been hidden there for years in the obligato society of disused furniture, dust and spiders. Sometimes it was to the astonishment of the house- holder that he revealed these treasures, so long forgotten; oftentimes he was met with vigorous protests of their absolute non-existence and peremptory refusals of the privilege of search; but a glass of beer or a cigar generally obtained willing consent.49 In breathless tones Mayland described the moments when Steinert uncov- ered an instrument hidden in the musty attics of southern Germany: It was a veritable treasure quest, and he frequently philosophized over his dusty instruments in the garrets where light was admitted by remov- ing a tile. Strange and poetical fancies hover over these relics, to which the makers had modestly refrained from affixing names or dates. What had caused their retirement to these shades? Whose fingers had lin- gered upon their ancient keys? Why had music become so lost an art where such instruments still existed to tempt the yearning, poetic soul of the Bavarian to give it expression on those tuneful strings?50 In the silent context of the museum display (or, for that matter, the hush of the dusty garret), historical and visual qualities inevitably take precedence over the musical, and it is not surprising to find that harp- sichords so presented should become largely defined through their asso- ciation with the figures of the past who had once played upon them—or, at any rate, were imagined to have done so. For the most part such instruments existed primarily as historical relics, objects used either to exemplify the virtues of period style, or alternately offered up for vener- ation in connection with whichever famous figure was thought to have once ‘‘lingered upon their ancient keys.’’ In many ways the real story of the harpsichord in the nineteenth century is one not of dormancy, death, or even abandonment but of a transformation from musical tool into visual and historical artifact; in the words of the anonymous author - The M. Steinert Collection of Keyed and Stringed Instruments, with Various Treatises on the History of these Instruments, the Method of Playing Them, and Their Influence on Musical Art (New York: Charles F. Tretbar, 1893). Additional information about Steinert can be found in Larry Palmer, Harpsichord in America: A Twentieth-Century Revival (Bloomington: Indiana Univer- sity Press, 1989), 8–13. 49 Mayland, ‘‘Musical Ghosts,’’ 246. 50 Ibid. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 198 of ‘‘On an Old Harpsichord,’’ the instrument had become ‘‘a monument to glories done, an ancient piece of lumber.’’ The Harpsichord’s Second Life By the end of the nineteenth-century the harpsichord was indeed haunted—if not by actual spirits, at least by persistent associations with an abandoned musical past. From the otherworldly noises imagined to be emerging from its case to the specters envisioned in its midst, the supposedly ‘‘dead’’ instrument was in fact alive with the ghosts of its fancifully imagined history. Ironically, the very elements that made the harpsichord an object of fascination to nineteenth-century poets and museumgoers alike posed significant challenges for those who wanted to bring the instrument onto the modern concert stage. Although its evocative appearance and potent historical associations had done much to establish it as a venerable musical relic, this same reputation did little to help make the case for its acceptance as a serious instrument in an era preoccupied with its own modernity. How could an instrument so long viewed as being creaky and quaint possibly be received by audiences as anything other than a historical curiosity? How could a symbol of an archaic musical culture be accepted as a modern musical tool? Such ques- tions loomed large for the first generation of revivalists, who had to care- fully balance the appeal of the harpsichord’s evocative history with the practical requirements of modern concert halls and the aural expectations of audiences weaned on a musical diet rich in Wagner and Brahms. If there was a pivot point in the harpsichord’s modern ‘‘rebirth’’ it would have to be placed somewhere between 1889 and 1912. During this period of rapid musical and societal change a series of events critical to the instrument’s revival took place: the construction of the first modern- day harpsichords in 1889 (by the French firms Pleyel and Erard and the instrument restorer Louis Tomasini); the growing success of the musical activities of Arnold Dolmetsch, who built his first harpsichord in 1896; the public harpsichord debut, in 1903, of Wanda Landowska, later the instrument’s most tireless and successful advocate; and, finally, the appearance in 1912 of the Pleyel Grand Modèle de Concert harpsichord, which would dominate much of the professional early music scene for nearly a half century after. Where prior to 1889 the harpsichord had been little more than a historical curiosity, by 1912 the instrument was well on its way to a full-scale cultural reentrenchment. The early decades of the harpsichord revival can be seen as an informal campaign to counteract the way the instrument had been portrayed during the preceding century. Those who wished to perform early keyboard music j o h n s o n 199 ‘‘on the instrument for which it was written’’ (to use the preferred revivalist rhetoric of the day) had to contend with a range of negative biases, ranging from objections to its appearance and tone to questions regarding its relevance in the modern music world. In an age steeped in teleological rhetoric it was easy to dismiss the harpsichord as a sort of paleolithic piano: a knuckle-dragging ancestor whose very existence had been obviated two hundred years earlier by Bartolomeo Cristofori. The physical appearance of the historical harpsichord was a signifi- cant liability when it came to the instrument’s revival. There were the lid paintings and the often highly decorative casework, which had done much to make it a symbol of antiquity in the preceding century. And even the instrument’s shape and size flagged it as an anachronism.51 Although at the end of the eighteenth century the form of the average piano was not so very different from that of its plucked-string relations (wood-framed, narrow-compassed), by the middle of the nineteenth century a widening morphological gap had formed between the piano’s increasingly robust construction and that of the harpsichord, which by comparison must have appeared more and more like a frail vestige of a quaint yesteryear.52 In an age of factory-built pianos, the harpsichord’s hand-crafted and wood-framed construction instantly marked it as an atavistic intruder from the preindustrial past. This was not lost on the critics. When Wanda Landowska presented a concert in April 1905 at the Queen’s Hall in London, on which she performed not only on harpsichord but also on a modern piano and a fortepiano, a writer for the Bystander found the ‘‘clavecin’’ an incon- gruous presence on the concert platform: Sitting quietly in Queen’s Hall, and waiting for Miss Landowska to make her appearance, one reflected that there was a tremendous advance in mechanism from the long, thin somewhat anaemic-looking harpsichord to the substantial, modern piano, which, if it has any self-respect (and a self-playing attachment), will, nowadays, even play its own notes.53 51 In an unsigned 1910 article on the harpsichords designed for the Chickering Piano Company, Arnold Dolmetsch called attention to the instrument’s relatively diminutive size, declaring that the ‘‘magnificent’’ modern pianos were the ‘‘gigantic descendants of the ancient claviers.’’ See ‘‘Busoni at the Harpsichord,’’ Music Trade Review 51, no. 10 (3 Sep- tember 1910): 18, http://mtr.arcade-museum.com/MTR-1910-51-10/18/. 52 Writing in 1837, the novelist Thomas Love Peacock noted the dramatic change between the contemporary piano and the instruments he saw while growing up in the 1790s. Recalling the harpsichords of his childhood, he wrote: ‘‘Over what a gulph of time this name alone looks back! What a stride from the harpsichord to one of Broadwood’s last grand pianos!’’ Thomas Love Peacock, ‘‘Recollections of Childhood,’’ Bentley’s Miscellany 1, no. 2 (February 1837): 189. 53 Unsigned review, ‘‘Matters Musical,’’ Bystander 6, no. 73 (26 April 1905): 194. Explaining the harpsichord’s presence on the modern stage, the reviewer wrote: ‘‘It is fashionable now to choose one’s furniture and surroundings from the oldest models, and t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 200 At the time Landowska was performing on an instrument that was a descendant of the harpsichords the Pleyel-Wolff-Lyon Piano Company had built sixteen years earlier for the Paris exposition. Although large by historical standards, it still retained many of the hallmarks of traditional harpsichord design. And although Pleyel had dispensed with the elabo- rate case paintings found on its 1889 instruments, the ornamentation of their newer instruments was at least historically suggestive.54 The Bystander reviewer was also skeptical of the instrument’s tone, the quality of which was described as being ‘‘thin and qualified by the scratching of the plectra’’: And when one actually heard the clavecin, it was apparent that as great an advance has taken place from the musical point of view [as from that of design]. One felt for Louis XIV, who, if he desired music in the salon, was limited to the twanky utterances of this certainly elegant instrument.55 Two years earlier Landowska had received a letter from Charles Bordes, the director of the Schola Cantorum in Paris. Although Bordes enthusi- astically endorsed Landowska’s interest in championing the keyboard music of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, he entreated her not to perform such music on the harpsichord, complaining that the instru- ment—‘‘that cage for flies,’’ as he called it—reduces ‘‘superb and often large-scale works to the size of its tiny, spindly legs.’’56 Moreover, there remained a lingering sense that the instrument served little purpose beyond providing historical set dressing. This men- tality can be seen in the instrument’s inclusion in a French dictionary of furnishings, Dictionnaire de l’ameublement, first published in 1887.57 Here we are presented with the harpsichord not so much as musical instrument but instead as ornate furnishing and object d’art. Although the dictionary explains the basic mechanism of the instrument and provides a brief over- view of its history, the emphasis is firmly on issues of appearance, historical provenance, and monetary value. Even the treatment of the particular - something of the same spirit may have been responsible for the two recitals of old harp- sichord music recently given by Miss Wanda Landowska at Queen’s Hall.’’ The reference to the self-playing piano reflects that instrument’s burgeoning popularity in both America and Europe only a decade following the introduction of the Pianola, the first practical pneumatic piano player. 54 See Jean-Claude Battault, ‘‘Les clavecins Pleyel, Érard et Gaveau, 1889–1970,’’ in Music Ancienne: Instruments et Imagination, ed. Michael Latcham (Bern: Peter Lang, 2006), 193–206. 55 ‘‘Matters Musical,’’ 194. 56 Letter dated 31 July 1903, quoted in Landowska, Landowska on Music, 10. 57 Henry Harvard, Dictionnaire de l’ameublement et de la décoration depuis le XIIIe siècle jusqu’á nos jours, vol. 1 (Paris: May and Motteroz, 1887–1890), 870–76. j o h n s o n 201 instrument featured in the accompanying illustration is revealing (fig. 3). That instrument, which today resides in the collection of the Musée de la Musique in Paris, was constructed by Andreas Ruckers in 1646, followed by an overhaul at the hands of the similarly renowned Pascal Taskins in 1780. Despite this venerable pedigree the Dictionnaire only described it as ‘‘cla- vecin décoré de grotesques.’’58 Interestingly, the Eudel Ruckers (named after one of its owners, Paul Eudel) appeared in print a second time in 1887, this time in the pages of a periodical called the Art Amateur (fig. 4).59 Here the instrument is shown in what appears to be a drawing room filled figure 3. Illustration of a ‘‘clavecin décoré de grotesques’’ from Henry Harvard, Dictionnaire de l’ameublement (Paris: May and Motteroz, 1887); though not disclosed in the Dictionnaire, the instrument was a Ruckers harpsichord owned by Paul Eudel 58 For more information and modern photographs of the 1646 Ruckers in the Musée de la Musique, see http://mediatheque.cite-musique.fr/masc/play.asp?ID¼0162260. In 1887, when the Dictionnaire de l’ameublement was published, the instrument was privately owned by Paul Eudel. It subsequently passed through the collection of Geneviève Thibault de Chambure before being purchased by the museum in 1964. 59 I encountered this engraving only after it was (unfortunately) excised from its parent journal and sold as a print. I was therefore not able to ascertain the date and page number of the original publication. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 202 with rococo furnishings, accompanied by a label that erroneously de- scribes it as a ‘‘clavichord.’’ Perhaps this emphasis is understandable in works dedicated to fur- nishings and art, but the same bias has cropped up in more music-centric sources as well. One of the earliest articles to speak explicitly of a ‘‘harp- sichord revival’’ appeared in August 1901, in the unlikely pages of The Girl’s Own Paper. The article’s author, Frederick J. Crowest, who was known at the time for several books on music history aimed at a general readership, described the growing interest in old keyboard instruments as being part of what he poetically termed ‘‘the pause we make, betimes, to look back a little through the vista into the past.’’60 Crowest was particularly laudatory about the recent use of the harpsichord as a his- torically accurate prop in the staging of plays set in the past: Only recently have there been pieces produced, in which, to perfect the ensemble, an actual harpsichord of last century date and make has been brought upon the stage, with most interesting and artistic effect. That figure 4. Illustration from Art Amateur (1887) labeled ‘‘Clavichord [sic] of André Ruckers (1646)’’; in the collection of Paul Eudel 60 Frederick J. Crowest, ‘‘The Harpsichord Revival,’’ The Girl’s Own Paper 22 (August 1901): 744–46. j o h n s o n 203 this ‘‘actuality,’’ instead of its offshoot the modern ‘‘grand,’’ should have been produced is not only an indication of the lengths to which managers go to command success, but it gives the audience an oppor- tunity of learning more about the qualities and capacities of the instru- ment than would the reading of dozens of histories of music or treatises on musical instruments.61 Although Crowest was certainly enthusiastic about the reappearance of the harpsichord, for him its value was less as a serious musical instrument than as a tool for the curious musical time traveler: ‘‘Of course, no one wishes to see a harpsichord in the place of every pianoforte, even if that were possible. None the less it and its music furnish a delightful field for those lovers of music who feel betimes a longing for an excursion into the far-off musical past.’’62 Among many critics there was a sense that the harpsichord was sim- ply not up to the rigors of performing ‘‘serious’’ music. In a December 1907 review of Louis Diémer’s playing a ‘‘programme historique’’ in Liège, Belgium, the critic for L’Art Moderne sounded ambivalent about the instrument. He noted that Diémer performed ‘‘with his usual mas- tery,’’ but he found the harpsichord itself to be ‘‘archaic and too limited,’’ declaring it only successful when performing ‘‘the puerile and ravishing evocations of a purely descriptive and picturesque art.’’63 That same year a writer for the German periodical Konzert came to a similar conclusion while reviewing a recital given by Landowska at the Hôtel de Prusse in Leipzig. Discussing a program that included works by Bach ‘‘and his Italian and French contemporaries,’’ the writer noted: Her harpsichord demonstrations provided us with proof that certain ancient compositions of a playful character (for instance, ‘‘L’Hirondelle’’ and ‘‘Le Coucou’’ by Daquin, or ‘‘Le Dodo’’ by Fr. Couperin) can achieve a certain charm from the sound of the harpsichord. But works in which the composer has set forth a weightier argument (such as Bach’s Italian Concerto and, to a lesser degree, even Couperin’s ‘‘Folies françaises’’), require a power, weight, and the singing character far beyond the expressive capabilities of the harpsichord.64 61 Ibid., 744. When Crowest spoke of a harpsichord ‘‘of last century date and make’’ he was, though writing in 1901, presumably referring to the eighteenth century. 62 Ibid., 746. 63 ‘‘Certes le clavecin reste archaı̈que et de moyens trop limités, mais il se prête à ravir à ces évocations puériles et ravissantes d’un art purement pittoresques et descriptif.’’ Unsigned review, ‘‘La Musique à Liége,’’ L’Art Moderne 27, no. 52 (29 Dec. 1907): 411. The program under review also contained symphonic works by Pergolesi, Stamitz, and Gossec, with Diémer playing harpsichord continuo. Translation is mine. 64 ‘‘Ihre Cembalovorträge erbrachten für uns auch den Beweis, daß gewisse alte Kompositionen spielerischen Charakters (so L’Hirondelle und Le Coucou von Daquin, oder Le Dodo von Fr. Couperin) erst durch Klangfarben des Cembalo ihren eigenen Reiz t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 204 This critic clearly felt that the harpsichord might suffice for playing the occasional historic trifle, but that it is inadequate for weighty masterpieces. The famous aphorism credited to the British conductor Sir Thomas Beecham is typical of the regard in which the harpsichord was held in the early twentieth century. ‘‘The harpsichord,’’ Beecham is once said to have quipped, ‘‘sounds like two skeletons copulating on a corrugated tin roof.’’65 Whether Beecham made this proclamation or not, the sentiment expressed clearly resonated with many, and it quickly became a popular catchphrase among those who found the harpsi- chord’s tone to be inadequate (perhaps, it is tempting to suggest, due to an absence of timbral flesh).66 This aphorism encapsulates the dif- ficulties of the harpsichord’s struggles for acceptance in the early twen- tieth century. The image of skeletons (those consummate symbols of mortality) making love in a world of metal roofs and industrial cor- rugation would instantly have punctured the vaporous romanticism of the literary fantasies quoted earlier in this article. And beneath the surface of witty scorn, the image suggests a deeper critique: just as skeletons (frisky or otherwise) have no place on modern corrugated roofs, so too does the antiquated harpsichord have no place in the modern concert hall. The Introduction of the ‘‘Modern’’ Harpsichord The first new instruments to be constructed after the harpsichord’s nineteenth-century hiatus were a group of three harpsichords produced around 1889 and displayed that year at the Exposition Universelle in Paris.67 - gewinnen. Andere und bedeutendere der von ihr vorgetragenen Kompositionen (so teil- weise Bachs italienisches Konzert und zum geringeren Teile auch Couperins Folies fran- çaises) gingen aber in ihren Anforderungen an die Kraft, die Wucht und den Gesangscharakter des Tones weit über die Ausdrucksmöglichkeiten des Cembalo hinaus.’’ Quoted in Detlev Schultz, ‘‘Dur und Moll: Leipzig,’’ Signale für die Musikalische Welt 65, no. 35–36 (8 May 1907): 592. The recital was held on 1 May 1907. Translation is mine. 65 Quoted in Harold Atkins and Archie Newman, eds., Beecham Stories: Anecdotes, Sayings and Impressions of Sir Thomas Beecham (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 34. 66 Jonathan Sterne has noted that a similar turn of phrase was used in a magazine parody of the advertisements promoting Victor’s Orthophonic Victrola phonograph: ‘‘Every instrument sounds like a skeleton’s Charleston on a tin roof.’’ Jonathan Sterne, The Audible Past: Cultural Origins of Sound Reproduction (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 272. Although Sterne does not date his source material, the term ‘‘orthophonic’’ was introduced in 1925 and it seems likely that the quotation comes from the second half of the 1920s, when the technology was still a novelty, possibly suggesting an earlier coinage. 67 For a detailed account of the early musical activities at the 1889 Exposition Uni- verselle, see Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair. For more details about the harpsichords newly constructed for the event, see Kottick, The History of the Harpsichord, 409–14. j o h n s o n 205 Two of these harpsichords were the products of leading Parisian piano firms—Pleyel-Wolff-Lyon and Erard et Cie—and the third was built by the instrument restorer Louis Tomasini. Each approached the challenge of constructing new ‘‘old’’ instruments in a different way. Tomasini’s approach was the most historical. At the Exposition Universelle he exhib- ited two instruments side by side: the first was a genuine antique by Henri Hemsch (built around 1755), beside which Tomasini displayed a new instrument in which he had meticulously copied every detail of the mech- anism and decoration of the original. Both Erard and Pleyel took more liberties with their first creations. Each firm based its instrument on a his- torical model—Erard on a 1779 instrument built by the firm’s founder, Sébastien Érard, and Pleyel on a 1769 Pascal Taskin harpsichord—but adopted modes of decoration that were modern reinterpretations of the past.68 Whereas the Erard instrument featured a relatively restrained scheme of garlands and floral sprigs (not far out of step with the aesthetics of the nascent art nouveau movement), the decorators at Pleyel went for a full-scale historical fantasy of splayed cabriole legs and resplendent vi- gnettes painted in a style vaguely reminiscent of Watteau or Fragonard.69 But although the Pleyel harpsichord looked like it might be an escapee from the museum case, there was more to the instrument than was suggested by its historicist exterior. On the inside it employed some of the same developments Pleyel used on its modern pianos, most evi- dent in the battery of six pedals that allowed for seamless changes in registration. As Martin Elste has observed, the Pleyel harpsichord was no mere historical replica but an instrument that combined the late nineteenth-century nostalgia for the musical past with an open embrace of contemporary technology: The outer instrument stood for nostalgia, but two keyboards and the action with several registers and a variety of pedals operated with the feet in order to change registers as quickly and as smoothly as possi- ble—the action represents progress and mechanization, the very topic of the world expositions.70 68 Schott, ‘‘The Harpsichord Revival,’’ 85–86. The Taskin instrument, which now resides in the Russell Collection of Musical Instruments in Edinburgh, had come to prominence as the harpsichord used in public performances and demonstrations by Louis Diémer. Both the Erard and Pleyel firms studied it in preparation for building their own new instruments. The 1779 Sébastian Erard harpsichord is now in the collection of the Musée de la Musique in Paris. See also Sidney Newman and Peter Williams, eds., The Russell Collection and other Early Keyboard Instruments in Saint Cecilia’s Hall, Edinburgh (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1968), 32–35. 69 Battault, ‘‘Les clavecins Pleyel, Érard et Gaveau,’’ 194. 70 Martin Elste, ‘‘The Interaction of Visual Appearance and Sound: The Case of Harpsichordist Wanda Landowska’’ (paper presented at the thirty-ninth annual meeting of the American Musical Instrument Society, Library of Congress, 27–29 May 2010). t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 206 The instruments produced by Pleyel, Erard, and Tommasini in 1889 were not the only new harpsichords to be built in the closing years of the late nineteenth century. Seven years later Arnold Dolmetsch constructed his first harpsichord, the now famous Green harpsichord. Named for the verdant shade of its exterior paint, the Green harpsichord has often been described in the scholarly literature as being historically modeled. In truth its design reflected both Dolmetsch’s desire to be innovative and his perception of what was required in an instrument that would be used in a modern concert hall. Having been engaged to perform the continuo for performances of Don Giovanni and Le Nozze di Figaro at the Royal Opera House Covent Garden, Dolmetsch was keen on building an instrument that could be heard in a venue capable of seating more than two thousand.71 In an attempt to improve the instrument’s power, Dolmetsch produced a novel design in which the strings pass over a second soundboard placed in front of the jacks. Like the 1889 Pleyel, Dolmetsch’s instrument also featured pedals for changing registration and, in an attempt to provide the player with expressive control of dynamics, an innovative knee lever that could instantly change the plucking depth. Landowska’s Pleyel The most famous of all modern harpsichords made its debut at the 1912 Bach Festival in Breslau. This was Pleyel’s Grand Modèle de Concert, which was designed at the behest of Wanda Landowska, who had been exclusively playing on the company’s harpsichords since 1903. Having grown unhappy with the instruments at her disposal, Landowska re- quested a larger model that she would be able to use for her increasingly prominent recitals. In preparation for its design, she toured several col- lections of historic instruments with Pleyel’s chief engineer, M. Lamy, ostensibly to gather ideas and inspiration from the instrumental achieve- ments of the past.72 The final design, however, spoke more of the needs of the present than of fantasies of the past (fig. 5). The new instrument was nearly a wholesale reengineering of the harpsichord from the inside out: a glance under the hood reveals a vast array of moving parts, includ- ing a damping system of unprecedented complexity; an innovative (if ultimately unsuccessful) double-pinned tuning system (which caused the instrument to be widely loathed by those called upon to keep it in tune); 71 For more on the history of the Green harpsichord, see Edmond Johnson, ‘‘Revival and Antiquation: Modernism’s Musical Pasts’’ (PhD diss., University of California, Santa Barbara, 2011), 149–62. 72 See Landowska, Landowska on Music, 11. j o h n s o n 207 a simple decorative scheme; a solid piano-like construction, with cut- aways on the sides of the keywell (which allow audiences to see the performers hands on the two manuals); and, perhaps most notably, a sixteen-foot register.73 Like its historic forebearers, the Pleyel was figure 5. Wanda Landowska and her Pleyel harpsichord; undated photograph, most likely taken in the 1930s; from the Library of Congress’s George Grantham Bain Collection 73 A description of several of Landowska’s instruments, including the 1912 Pleyel, can be found in Michael Latcham, ‘‘Don Quixote and Wanda Landowska: Bells and Pleyels,’’ t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 208 initially still wood framed, but it now wielded a formidable arsenal of tonal options: two sets of strings at pitch, another an octave above, and one an octave below; lute and buff stops; and the ability to couple the keyboards together—all instantly changeable through the deft manipulation of its seven radiating pedals.74 Though the 1912 Pleyel was not completely with- out ornament—ironically, the ‘‘spindly legs,’’ about which Bordes had complained a decade earlier, were one of the few decorative touches to remain intact—its design was a far cry from the historically evocative instruments that had so affected the nineteenth-century imagination. Although the 1912 Pleyel did not look like a museum piece, it was not completely lacking in historical justification. Had anyone questioned either the size of the instrument or the presence of the sixteen-foot register, Landowska could have pointed to the so-called Bach harpsi- chord, an instrument that had been acquired by the Prussian state in 1888 after it was certified by the German scholar Philipp Spitta as having belonged to J. S. Bach. Beyond the obvious appeal of an instrument with such a prestigious provenance—however spurious it might be—the in- strument’s large size, plain appearance, and plentiful tonal resources made it a convenient historical antidote to the prevailing image of a quaint and feeble-voiced antique.75 Likening it to ‘‘a harpsichord on steroids,’’ Edward Kottick has noted that nearly all the instruments sub- sequently modeled on the Bach harpsichord featured ‘‘heavy cases, beefy framing, thick and heavily barred soundboards, open bottoms, leather plectra, pedals, and half hitches.’’76 - Early Music 34, no. 1 (February 2006): 95–109. According to Latcham, the tonal resources on the 1912 Pleyel included ‘‘a 16’ stop, an 8’ stop, and an octave [4’ stop] on the lower keyboard and on the upper keyboard an 8’ stop or alternatively the nasal lute stop, also at 8’ pitch.’’ Ibid., 99. 74 Wolfgang Zuckermann has written about the difficulties involved with the Pleyel harpsichord’s complicated tuning mechanism: ‘‘Pleyels are blessed with a fine-tuning sys- tem which is feared by professional tuners. This complicated system works something like a fine-tuning peg on a cello, where many turns produce only a small change in pitch. Neither the metal frame nor the tuning system does much to keep Pleyels in tune, but changing a string becomes a chore, and I find that tuning Pleyels takes at least twice as long as ordinary harpsichords.’’ Wolfgang Zuckermann, The Modern Harpsichord: Twentieth- Century Instruments and Their Makers (New York: October House, 1969), 164–65. Several excellent photographs and diagrams of the Pleyel harpsichord can be found in Claude Mercier-Ythier, Les Clavecins (Paris: Éditions Vecteurs, 1990). 75 Kottick, A History of the Harpsichord, 414–18. For more on the history of the so-called Bach Harpsichord, see Dieter Krickeberg and Horst Rage, ‘‘Einige Beobachtungen zur Baugeschichte des ‘Bach-Cembalos,’’’ Jahrbuch des Staatlichen Instituts für Musikforschung Preußischer Kulturbesitz (1987/88), 184–97; and Grove Music Online, s.v. ‘‘Bach harpsichord,’’ by Martin Elste, accessed 10 January 2013, www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/arti- cle/grove/music/41101. 76 Kottick, A History of the Harpsichord, 415–16. Other makers who produced modern instruments inspired by the spurious Bach Harpsichord included Georg Steingraeber and Karl Maendler. j o h n s o n 209 And so Landowska’s famous Pleyel began what would be nearly a half century of dominance. During this time the instruments also became equipped with a heavy iron frame, which Landowska requested to help her instruments withstand the rigors of touring.77 Although harpsi- chords by other makers were available, by the 1920s the Pleyel Grand Modèle de Concert was undoubtedly the most commonly used instru- ment among professional harpsichordists throughout the world— including, in addition to Wanda Landowska, Alice Ehlers, Putnam Aldrich, the duo of Philip Manuel and Gavin Williamson, and countless others.78 Manuel de Falla used this instrument when he performed his Harpsichord Concerto, and it was the instrument used in the debut of the 1926 version of Ezra Pound’s Le Testament. At over eight feet long, and weighing not far shy of five hundred pounds, the Pleyel was the harpsichord reimagined for the modern age. In an interview published in 1949 in the Saturday Review of Literature, Landowska described the challenges she had faced in reviving her chosen instrument: ‘‘Some people are under the impression,’’ she told us, ‘‘that I rediscov- ered the harpsichord, and that until I appeared on the scene the instru- ment had been only a museum piece. This is only partly true. Arnold Dolmetsch had already constructed harpsichords for Chickering in Boston and Gaveau in Paris, while the French firms of Erard and Pleyel had also brought out contemporary models of the instrument. But these harpsichords, if I may say so, were only . . . ,’’ Mme. Wanda closed her eyes groping for the right description, ‘‘well ‘toys’ is really not quite accurate, but it will do until we think of a more appropriate word. You see, these harpsichords did not exploit the grandeur and richness which one finds in the masterpieces written for the instrument. Wealthy amateurs would install them in their homes for the performances of easy gavottes and minuets. That is all. The harpsichord then manufac- tured was a quaint plaything, not a musical instrument in the truest sense.’’79 In deeming the first generation of modern harpsichords instru- ments to be little more than ‘‘quaint playthings,’’ Landowska seems to have suggested that their historically evocative appearances posed 77 For the specifications of the later metal-framed Pleyel harpsichords, see Denise Restout, ‘‘The Pleyel Harpsichord,’’ Diapason 70 (July 1979): 16. According to Restout, the full metal frame of the instrument ‘‘was added to Pleyel harpsichords in 1923 at the request of Wanda Landowska (prior to her first concert tour in America) to strengthen the outer case of the instrument, so it can withstand rough handlings and changes of climate.’’ Ibid. 78 See the chapter ‘‘Landowska’s American Circle’’ in Palmer, Harpsichord in America, 68–82. 79 Roland Gelatt, ‘‘A Landmark for Landowska,’’ Saturday Review of Literature 32 (25 June 1949): 49–50, 61, esp. 49. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 210 a problem for the serious performer. Whereas ‘‘quaintness’’ was a desir- able trait for both the museum display and the bourgeois parlor, it proved to be a liability in the concert hall. Indeed, surveying the harpsi- chords constructed in the decades surrounding the turn of the twentieth century, we find a striking rupture in the evolution of their design: by 1915 almost none of the instruments being built were decorated with anything approaching the level of ornamentation given the laureates of the 1889 exposition.80 This is surprising, given the historically inspired custom casework available for many contemporary pianos. As Michael Latcham has noted, Pleyel was offering several pianos during this time that ‘‘looked more or less like historical harpsichords, with their exter- iors painted in what appears today to be a pastiche of 18th-century French taste.’’81 The firm was clearly capable of manufacturing instru- ments replete with period details, but Latcham suggested that such lavish ornamentation may have been far from desirable for a musician like Landowska, who focused specifically on providing a ‘‘modern interpre- tation of the past.’’82 Musical instruments live complicated lives. They are not just tools for music making but inevitably exist within a framework of political, social, and historical associations.83 The harpsichord is no exception. Its mod- ern revival was particularly fraught because of the need to renegotiate the instrument’s identity: at once to take into account its evocative his- tories—both real and imagined—and to present it to modern audiences in a way that would allow it to be taken seriously not just as a reliquary of the musical past but as a functional musical instrument. In the end the successful reintroduction of the harpsichord in the early decades of the twentieth century relied on a sort of instrumental exorcism—a move beyond the literary hauntings and historical confabulations of the nine- teenth century toward a more sober conception of the instrument’s identity and the adoption of a more vital and pragmatic approach to its 80 Exceptions to this rule can be found in a few of the instruments produced by Ar- nold Dolmetsch that were generally closer to historical models than other instruments of the time. Even Dolmetsch’s instruments, however, generally favored more restrained decoration and often featured some modern appendages such as registration pedals. See the illustrated catalogue Arnold Dolmetsch and His Instruments (Haslemere, UK: A. Dolmetsch, 1930), 1–6, 8–11. 81 Latcham, ‘‘Don Quixote and Wanda Landowska,’’ 99. 82 Ibid. 83 The instrument most studied for its social and cultural position is undoubtedly the piano. The classic work in this area is Arthur Loesser’s Men, Women and Pianos: A Social History (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1954). A more recent contribution is the collection of essays edited by James Parakilas, Piano Roles: Three Hundred Years of Life with the Piano (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000). j o h n s o n 211 performance. By the 1920s the instrument could legitimately be claimed to belong to the modern world. The harpsichord had also become a very different instrument from the fragile antiques of the previous century. The following poetic extract reflects the distance the instrument had come, both mechanically and culturally. On a late night in 1924 a watchman at New York’s Steinway Hall (credited only as ‘‘A. Bunte’’) was inspired to pen a short poem after having watched Landowska practicing on stage on her massive Pleyel: One evening I hear a knock on the door. It was somebody I never seen before: Madam Landowska with her harpsichord. Of this instrument the Madam is very proud! Because it is wonderful and the latest out. The Madam herself is full of art: And she certainly knows how to play her part. With her energie [sic] and all her might, She studies late into the night. Please do not forget her worthy address— As we all hope and wish her the best success.84 Gone are the spirits of composers past, or the images of distant times and far-off lands. This modest verse, preserved in the pages of the Music Trade Review, betrays none of the antiquating tropes so popular in the nine- teenth century, concentrating instead on Landowska’s ‘‘energie’’ and ‘‘might,’’ and making a special note that the Polish virtuoso’s instrument is ‘‘the latest out.’’ The generation of revivalists that came to maturity after World War II reacted strongly against what they perceived as a lack of historical fidelity in such instruments, reserving their choicest vitriol for Landowska’s Pleyel. In a 1971 interview the preeminent builder William Dowd went so far as to refer to the Pleyel as ‘‘the chief anti-Christ’’ of all modern harpsichords.85 Joel Cohen and Herb Schnitzer, writing in 1985, effec- tively articulated the postwar consensus: While the Dolmetschniks proselytized among amateur musicians and literary-artistic circles, Landowska was giving solo recitals in the same halls, and for the same audiences, as the famous violinists and pianist of those times. Not for her the timid tinkle of some antique keyboard: the harpsichords she played . . . were robust, metal-cast contraptions. The 84 A. Bunte, ‘‘Music’s Inspiration Stirs Steinway and Sons Watchman: Night Guardian of Steinway Hall Waxes Poetic After Hearing Madam Landowska Practice Her Art During the Still Hours of the Evening,’’ Music Trade Review 78, no. 1 (5 January 1924): 16, http:// mtr.arcade-museum.com/MTR-1924-78-1/16/. 85 Harold Haney, ‘‘Portrait of a Builder,’’ Harpsichord 4, no. 1 (1971): 8–19, esp. 13. t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 212 Pleyels she made famous through concerts and recordings were meant to fill large halls with plenty of noise; built inside with modern piano technology, they also contained almost as many oddball voicing con- traptions as the Japanese electrical keyboards now invading our department stores.86 Cohen and Schnitzer concluded that the Pleyel (the ‘‘metal monster,’’ as they unaffectionately call it) ‘‘wasn’t really a harpsichord,’’ and they end their diatribe with a parting shot: ‘‘The Pleyels boomed in the bass and boinked in the treble like the true pieces of late Victoriana that they were.’’87 Whether or not the Pleyel harpsichords ever actually ‘‘boomed’’ or ‘‘boinked,’’ they were anything but Victoriana. Asked late in life about the historical veracity of her chosen instrument, Landowska provided an astute answer: ‘‘I cannot sign a guarantee that this is how Bach wanted it. But I feel it to be so. You know, there were no factories in Bach’s day, and no standard harpsichord existed. I built mine as a ‘symbol’ of the early eighteenth-century instrument. To the best of my knowledge it is a faith- ful re-creation.’’88 In speaking of her harpsichord as a ‘‘symbol’’ and a ‘‘re-creation,’’ Landowska seems to acknowledge, however tacitly, that the instrument she had been playing exclusively for four decades was not in fact Bach’s harpsichord—or that of any other eighteenth-century com- poser—but instead a necessary and ingenious compromise, a representa- tion of the musical past that had been reinforced and redesigned for the audiences of the present. Occidental College ABSTRACT Though far from being the only historical instrument to receive renewed attention during the decades surrounding the turn of the twentieth century, the harpsichord holds a special place in the history of the early music revival. No other instrument played as visible—or, per- haps, as controversial—a role in popularizing musical activities during the revival. As a large and visually distinctive presence, the harpsichord has a tendency to garner attention wherever it appears, whether in a museum case or on the concert hall stage. In this article I explore the harpsichord’s nineteenth-century ‘‘death’’ and its subsequent revival— 86 Joel Cohen and Herb Snitzer, Reprise: The Extraordinary Revival of Early Music (Boston: Little, Brown, 1985), 25. 87 Ibid. 88 Gelatt, ‘‘A Landmark for Landowska,’’ 50. j o h n s o n 213 the two periods of its history that have been most neglected. By reexa- mining the ways in which the harpsichord was portrayed in both words and images, I show that the instrument’s eventual acceptance in the twentieth century was far from being a fait accompli but depended largely on an extensive and deliberate renegotiation of both its image and its cultural identity. In the first half of the article I explore the harpsichord’s nineteenth- century existence as an evocative emblem of a vanished past: an instru- ment turned relic that was frequently laden with supernatural literary tropes and ghostly imagery. In the second section I examine the instru- ment’s revival, focusing on the ways in which the harpsichord was brought before modern audiences, ultimately in a form that was heavily reengineered and reconfigured. Indeed, in its journey from museum piece to modern musical instrument the harpsichord underwent a marked transformation of both form and character. The process involved a gradual rejection of much of the cultural baggage the harp- sichord had accrued during its long dormancy in the nineteenth century and resulted in a transformation that ultimately won it a place in the modern musical world. Keywords: early music revival, harpsichord, Wanda Landowska, organ- ology t h e j o u r n a l o f m u s i c o l o g y 214 Occidental College From the SelectedWorks of Edmond Johnson Spring 2013 The Death and Second Life of the Harpsichord JM3002_02_Johnson 180..214 
work_6asicjuhk5bgtorqv5ckh5oism	----	European journal of American studies, 9-3 | 2014 European journal of American studies 9-3 | 2014 Special Issue: Transnational Approaches to North American Regionalism Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales Mathilde Köstler Electronic version URL: http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/10421 DOI: 10.4000/ejas.10421 ISSN: 1991-9336 Publisher European Association for American Studies Electronic reference Mathilde Köstler, « Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales », European journal of American studies [Online], 9-3 | 2014, document 7, Online since 23 December 2014, connection on 21 April 2019. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/10421 ; DOI : 10.4000/ejas.10421 This text was automatically generated on 21 April 2019. Creative Commons License http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/10421 Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales Mathilde Köstler 1. Introduction 1 The history of the Cajuns, the French-speaking minority living in Cajun Country,i or Acadiana, in southwest Louisiana, is a story about transnational migration which reaches 400 years into the past. Eighteenth-century Acadian history, especially, features prominently in the Cajuns’ collective consciousness today. In Cajun Country, local legend has it that when the Cajuns’ ancestors, the seventeenth-century French colonists called Acadians, were expelled from their homeland Acadia on the east coast of Canada in 1755 by British and New England forces, a swarm of lobsters accompanied them into exile and later to Louisiana. Boarded on ships bound for the New England colonies, France, and the Caribbean, the deportees were scattered along the Atlantic seaboard. According to the legend, the miserable conditions during the so-called Grand Dérangement(“Great Upheaval” in English) took such a toll on the lobsters that by the time they arrived in Louisiana, they had shrunk to the size of crawfish (Gutierrez 106). The origin of the legend remains unknown, but its first written evidence appeared in the 1970s when the Cajun Renaissance, an ethnic grassroots movement, was in full swing.ii With the booming tourist industry in Louisiana promoting Cajun culture, the legend was printed on souvenirs and restaurant menus, and started to circulate around southwest Louisiana (Gutierrez 106). 2 In contemporary Louisiana, the lobster-turned-crawfish legend is still very much present as attests L’histoire de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard dans le grand Nord (2007), the second tale in a trilogy by Cajun poet and singer-songwriter Zachary Richard, which also includes Conte cajun: L’histoire de Télesphore et de ‘Tit Edvard (1999) and Les aventures de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard au Vieux Pays (2010). iii Likewise, Cajun culture and French in Louisiana seem very much alive, for the tales are written in French with Cajun idioms and indicate a Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 1 distinct Cajun perspective. They contribute to the littérature cadienne,iv a francophone Cajun literary genre which emerged in the 1980s, succeeding the Cajun oral tradition and continuing the French Creole literary tradition which flourished in nineteenth-century Louisiana. The majority of those new francophone texts, however, are published in Montreal, Quebec, not in Louisiana. This also applies to Zachary Richard’s tales, which deal with the adventures of ‘Tit Edvard, a crawfish, and Télesphore, a turtle, from Louisiana who experience various displacements and go through many adverse conditions before finding their way home. 3 In focusing on Richard’s three Cajun tales, this article explores the interrelation of Cajun culture and the transnational space Richard creates in his tales. After a brief outline of the genesis of the Cajuns and the state of francophone literature in Louisiana, I will focus on the multiple representations of migration in the tales. First, I will analyze how such elements as landscape, language, and the past contribute to a Cajun sense of place and belonging. Significantly, two characteristics determine the Cajuns’ lives today: self-assertion in a dominant society which is markedly different and a memory of the past. In emphasizing the singularity of Cajun culture, the Cajuns distance themselves from the omnipresent American mainstream culture. Indeed, the alien surroundings and unfamiliar creatures that ‘Tit Edvard and Télesphore face evoke a sense of Otherness. Also, Richard’s multiple allegorical representations of the Grand Dérangement mirror the Cajuns’ strong connection to the past and turn the tragic event into a leitmotif. I will then explore the transnational outlook of the tales. Precisely because the Cajuns’ experience has been one of expulsion and migration, place, culture, and the past play a crucial role as means of orientation and carriers of memory in the Cajuns’ collective consciousness. At the same time, though, the characters’ exemplary tolerant attitude and adaptability convey the image of a permeable culture, a culture which blends with other cultures through a process of osmosis and relies on transnational exchanges. This is particularly evident in intertextual references to Native American and African mythologies, to French literature, as well as in allusions to decisive historical events. This borrowing from both the cultural memory as well as the “memory of literature” (Lachmann 301) of other cultures in Richard’s tales provide a good illustration of Astrid Erll’s concept of “traveling memories.” A specific feature of “transcultural memory,” which is “a certain research perspective… directed towards mnemonic processes unfolding across and beyond cultures” (Erll 9),v it draws on James Clifford’s concept of “traveling cultures” to describe how memory processes are always in flux and transgress boundaries of time and space. For the purpose of this article, I propose the concept of “migrating literature.” In Richard’s tales, the interrelation of literature and migration is visible on several levels: first, the texts literally “migrated” to Montreal for publication purposes; second, the tales are literature about migration; and third, other “foreign” literary texts and allusions to historical events “migrated” into the tales. Thus, Richard’s three animal tales are a prime example of “migrating literature” and of a transnational exchange. They bring together different regions, respacializing the Acadian diaspora in a geo-cultural imaginary space and undergirding the transnational connection. 4 In reorienting the tale’s Cajun space towards other countries and fixing his vision in a written form, Richard ensures the continuing existence of Cajun culture. I argue that this new outlook transcends general assumptions about Cajun culture—engendered by its folklorization—and creates a transnational space. Richard, extending the Cajun space to Canada and France, shows that a dynamic and evolving culture is necessary for the Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 2 preservation of Cajun culture. Most important, he deems the establishment and maintenance of the connection to the francophone world as essential for the survival of Cajun culture. 2. Stories of Migration 5 The Cajuns can look back on an eventful history of wandering around the Western hemisphere. This transnational migration actually started in the early seventeenth century, when French colonists from the Centre-Ouest region traveled to the east coast of Canada, settled along the Bay of Fundy, and founded the colony of Acadie in what is today New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward Island. Far removed from the world affairs for most of the century, they eventually became pawns in the French and Indian Wars between the two imperial powers Great Britain and France. While the French largely neglected the colony in North America, the British, despising the Acadians for their French background and Catholicism, coveted the fertile lands the Acadians had gained from their arduous dike building. Repeatedly, the Acadians refused to swear an unconditional oath of allegiance to the British King, emphasizing their wish to remain neutral. This noncommittal stance earned them the name of French Neutrals and finally contributed to their fateful dispersal, the Grand Dérangement. In 1755, an order was issued to deport the Acadians to the New England colonies, France, and the Caribbean. Between that year and 1763, thousands of Acadians were expelled from their homeland, separated from their families, and subjected to inhuman conditions on the deportation ships and in their lands of exile. Despite the widespread scattering, the Acadians’ strong communal ties kept small communities together. Around 1765 a group of Acadians, hearing of a land to settle where French was spoken, traveled to Louisiana by way of Saint Domingue (today Haiti) to build a new Acadia. They settled along the bayous of the Mississippi River and, by and by, were joined by other refuge-seeking Acadians (cf. Brasseaux, Founding). In intermingling with other ethnic groups, they assimilated various cultural traditions of their neighbors. By the end of the nineteenth century, the Acadians had become the Cajuns, an ethnic group with a distinct hybrid character exemplifying the constant exchanges between the various cultures existing in Louisiana for over two centuries. Today, Cajun culture boasts influences of French Creoles (French colonists born in Louisiana), Spanish, Native Americans, African and Caribbean slaves, Anglo-Americans, Germans, and Italians.vi 6 Up to the middle of the twentieth century, most Americans knew the story of the Acadians thanks to Evangeline, an Acadian literary heroine who became an American icon. The epic poem Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie (1847),written by New England poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, describes the separation of the two lovers Evangeline Bellefontaine and Gabriel Lajeunesse from Grand-Pré on their wedding day by British and New England forces. Evangeline’s subsequent search for Gabriel leads her to Louisiana, to the Acadians’ nouvelle Acadie. The story ends with Evangeline, aged and a Sister of Mercy, at Gabriel’s deathbed in Philadelphia. This Acadian saga became an immediate success in both the United States and Canada, and the wretched Acadians, symbolizing fortitude and endurance, entered the American collective memory.vii Its success notwithstanding, Longfellow’s poem is anything but a truthful account of Acadian history as it contains numerous inaccuracies and dissimulates historical details. And yet, this rose-colored account not only contributed to the strengthening of the Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 3 American national sentiment of the time; the Cajuns, for want of a founding myth, also readily accepted the New England poet’s retelling of the Grand Dérangement and appropriated it as their own foundational story.viii Apart from the attraction that the virtuous and strong Acadians and saintly Evangeline exercised on the American public, the myth also offered the Cajuns the opportunity to distance themselves from the American foundational myth of the Pilgrim Fathers. 7 And yet, with the turn of the twentieth century, the growing Americanization movement began to greatly affect Cajun culture. The law of 1921, which had prohibited French in public schools, the two World Wars, the discovery of oil in Jennings, Louisiana, and the progressive construction of an infrastructure in Louisiana all contributed to the Americanization of Cajun Country and were the main causes for the demise of French in Louisiana. Unable to resist the lure of the American mainstream and with it the English language, the Cajuns gradually abandoned their French heritage. 8 However, encroaching Americanization was slowed down by the Cajun Renaissance, which coincided with other ethnic revivals in the 1960s. This emancipation process epitomizes the Cajuns’ growing awareness of their threatened culture. The positive echo Cajun music received at the Newport Festival in 1964 was followed by a growing academic interest in Cajun culture and cultural preservation efforts (cf. Bernard).ix Thanks to revisionist works concerning Cajun history by scholars of Cajun origin at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette, attention was drawn to the culture’s uniqueness and especially to the real events surrounding the expulsion of the Acadians.x To counter untruthful and stereotypical depictions of the Cajuns, historians started debunking the Evangeline myth—to the profit of other myths cropping up in Cajun Country. 9 Against this backdrop, the lobster-turned-crawfish legend and Richard’s tales can be considered not just counternarratives to the American myth of the Pilgrim Fathers, but also to the Evangeline myth, invented by a New Englander who had never been to either Nova Scotia or Louisiana. By appropriating the counternarratives as their founding myth, the Cajuns distanced themselves from American mainstream culture even further and strengthened their links to francophone Canada through academic exchanges and the establishment of the Acadian World Congress, held for the first time in 1994. At the same time, Louisiana witnessed the emergence of such Cajun poets and storytellers as the prolific Cajun singer-songwriter and poet Zachary Richard, who engendered a literary tradition which renewed that of the nineteenth-century created by French Creole authors such as Sidonie de la Houssaye, Alfred Mercier, and Adrien Rouquette. As a matter of fact, although Richard’s original Cajun tales have strangely been bypassed by scholars, they testify to the vitality of Cajun culture. 3. (Re)Locating Cajun Culture 10 Clearly, the legend mentioned in the introduction reflects the Cajuns’ identification with the region of Acadiana:xi the crawfish functions as the link between the place and the people. It comes as no surprise that the metaphorical solidarity between the Cajuns and the crawfish culminated in the adoption of the crawfish as the Cajuns’ very own mascot, symbolizing both Cajun power and ethnic pride.xii Similarly, Richard’s tales are grounded in Cajun space: the crawfish, representing the Cajuns, and the yellow-bellied turtle are typical creatures of southwest Louisiana’s fauna. Set in a predominantly natural environment, the tales are inscribed in the genre of regionalism as they present places Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 4 that have “‘escaped’ the dubious improvements of a stronger and more integrated urban society” (Foote 3).xiii The frequent references to such identity markers as landscape, language, and the past create an unmistakably regionalist tone which is accentuated with the change of settings to foreign places. Significantly, it is the transnational wanderings and the experience of foreign cultures which help locate Cajun culture. As suggested by their titles (Conte cajun: L’histoire de Télesphore et de ‘Tit Edvard, L’histoire de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard dans le grand Nord, and Les aventures de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard au Vieux Pays), the tales seem to trace the Cajuns’ roots back to their origins: Louisiana, Canada, and France are the featured destinations and create a geo-cultural triangle. Considering the meaningful settings as well as the overarching themes of displacement and migration, there is no doubt that the tales allegorize the Cajuns’ history. Besides the attachment to place, the legend and the tales stress the importance today’s Cajuns ascribe to the past. The forceful dissolution of the Acadian community, in particular, is one of the most prominent characteristics of the collective memory of the Cajuns today. 11 It is important to note that Acadia as a region ceased to exist after the break-up of the Acadian community in the mid-eighteenth century, and remains absent from official maps. Still, Acadia has not disappeared from discourse: through literary references and ongoing memory work such as commemorative celebrations, it has become an imaginary space—and another site of memory which connects all Acadians scattered around the world. Although an abstract geographical space, Acadia seems to exemplify Douglas Reichert Powell’s statement concerning “sense of place”: ‘senses’ of place and region are not so much essential qualities, imparted by singular events, practices, or topographical features, as they are ongoing debates and discourses that coalesce around particular geographical spaces. Furthermore, it is by looking at those features of a place that seem, at least superficially, to be the permanent stable markers of its identity that we can begin to see the dynamic, evolving, and rhetorical qualities that create and sustain what has often been taken (reductively) to be an ineffable or ethereal, sensory property: the ‘sense of place.’ (14) 12 Acadia today exists in Cajun Country and in Maine in the United States; in New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward Island in Canada; in South America and the Falkland Islands (Hodson 4). It is the Acadian diaspora, commemorating the Grand Dérangement and celebrating Acadia’s imaginary continuity. xiv The “dynamic, evolving, and rhetorical qualities” Powell mentions are most evident in the depiction of the expulsion in Richard’s tales: the allusions to the Grand Dérangement and Acadia develop with each unfolding tale, in different locations, from a symbolic reference to an explicit reenactment of the event. 3.1. Conte cajun: L’histoire de Télesphore et de ‘Tit Edvard (1999) 13 In Richard’s first tale the two protagonists Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard are brought together during a hurricane.xv Unfortunately, little, helpless ‘Tit Edvard has not only lost his parents, but he has also lost one of his claws. Télesphore promises ‘Tit Edvard to help him get the claw back. They start out on an uncertain journey during which they are joined by four frogs—Jean, Jacques, Pierre, and Paul—and two grasshoppers—Henri and Madame La Sauterelle. They find themselves in a number of dangerous situations, but are helped by other friendly animals crossing their path, such as the spider l’Araignée Arc-en-ciel and the alligator Monsieur Le Coteau Qui Parle, a name the group gives to Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 5 what they think at first sight is a “speaking hill.” Their encounter with l’Araignée Arc- en-ciel, the spider with magical powers who is supposed to solve the problem of the missing claw, is the tale’s climax. Unfortunately, the spider cannot help them and the group understands that ‘Tit Edvard’s claw is lost for good. Having failed at their endeavor, the companions return home, but not without realizing, with the help of the alligator’s wise words, that their journey has also had some benefits: not only have they forged individual identities, but they now possess a collective memory with which they can identify as a group. 14 The regionalist tone of this first tale results from allusions to Louisiana and, more specifically, Cajun culture, which help construct a Cajun sense of place. Richard’s animal characters are inhabitants of the Wetlands, the coastal marsh and swamp region in South Louisiana. Despite the scarce information about the exact setting, it is possible to identify the space the companions are traveling through. Landscape specificities such as cheniers xvi or bayous, emblematic features of Louisiana and very often linked with Cajun culture, function as geo-cultural codes and give a visual picture of the spatial setting of the tale. The animals’ northward journey to find l’Araignée Arc-en-ciel clearly hints at an invisible force driving them to a home, distant in time and space. The direction the companions follow roughly corresponds to the direction to Acadia. Acadian author Antonine Maillet wrote about the perilous journey back to Acadia in her novel Pélagie-la- charette, which won the Prix Goncourt in 1979. The novel’s heroine, Pélagie Bourg dite Le Blanc, is deported to Georgia from where, after years of misery, she travels all the way back to Acadia with her cart. Not so the eight companions in Richard’s tale: their northward journey remains incomplete. Although it is not their intention to go back to the lands of their ancestors, they have a similar goal: to look for something lost. Indeed, the cast-out Acadians had lost their land and possessions, and went on a journey to find what they had lost. Some of them, like Pélagie, went back to Canada after years of exile in the New England colonies and rebuilt their homes. Others arrived in Louisiana and founded a new Acadia there. Similarly, when the companions come back, they build Edvardville. This allusion to Acadian history, though slight, lays the foundation for the retellings of the Grand Dérangement in the other two tales. 3.2. L’histoire de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard dans le grand Nord (2007) 15 The second tale is set in the “big North,” in Quebec and New Brunswick, a territory unknown to Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard. As in the first tale, their adventure starts with a tragic event: on a peaceful fall afternoon, Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard are resting in the sugar cane fields when they are suddenly picked up by a harvester and catapulted on a hay bale into the atmosphere. Their attempt at jumping off the bale at the right time fails, and they end up somewhere in Quebec, instead of Louisiana. Fortunately, they are taken in by a hospitable beaver couple, Mario and Maria, who introduce them to the country’s—surprisingly familiar—culture. However, Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard feel the pull of home. With the help of René le Raton, a raccoon, and Louise L’Orignal, a moose, the two companions reach a city where they hope a snowplow will propel them back to Louisiana. The experiment fails: Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard land a little further south, in New Brunswick. Once more, help is nearby: Rose La baleine, a whale, leads them into “Homardie,” the land of the lobsters, who reveal to ‘Tit Edvard the ancestral connection between the crawfish and the lobsters. The lobsters, unfortunately, cannot help the two Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 6 friends, but a swarm of ravens, on their south-bound journey, finally bring them back to Louisiana. 16 In Canada, Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard are struck by the different climate and unfamiliar creatures. The beaver, Canada’s national symbol, the moose, and the lobsters contribute to the construction of a Canadian space which contrasts with the culture of the two friends. Most upsetting to them is the feeling of Otherness and the fact that nothing looks familiar. ‘Tit Edvard does not recognize the trees. All the leaves have fallen, leaving the branches naked. Moreover, there are no green oak trees and no magnolias which give the Louisiana landscape a touch of greenness even in the midst of winter. Instead, ‘Tit Edvard sees black spruces and pine trees which do not resemble the big white pines of the Louisiana forests. (Richard, L’histoire 23) 17 No wonder that the first snow comes as a shock to them, who are used to heat and humidity. When they encounter the beaver couple Mario and Maria, the two friends notice a similarity to the muskrat in Louisiana, although they are bigger and their tail looks different. However, soon enough the four animals bond and compare the fauna, flora, and cultural specificities of their respective countries. ‘Tit Edvard’s and Télesphore’s Canadian experience not only strengthens their sense of Cajun, or Louisiana identity, it also expands their horizons of knowledge. 18 The pull north alluded to in the first tale is concretized in the second tale. Set in the “big North,” the sequel focuses especially on Acadian history. After the failed attempt to reach Louisiana with the snowplow, ‘Tit Edvard and Télesphore land in Homardie, the land of the lobsters, which echoes the former Acadie thanks to its homonymous ending and comparable setting, for it is located in New Brunswick. Hermance le Homard, the chief of the lobsters, enlightens ‘Tit Edvard about his past: he is a descendant of the French lobsters! Just like the Acadians, who left France to live a better life in Canada, the lobsters left France and arrived on the banks of northeast Canada. There follows a detailed history of the lobsters, a perfect allegory of the Acadian deportation—the legend of the lobsters turning into crawfish. It is worth noting that Hermance calls the incident “Grand Déplacement” which undoubtedly constitutes a reference to the historical Grand Dérangement of the Acadians. xvii Like Acadia, Homardie has ceased to exist for the lobsters: “Today, here… is not Homardie anymore, except for in our hearts” (Richard, L’histoire 71). The tale then presents a double displacement: ‘Tit Edvard’s and Télesphore’s own displacement and the reference to the dispersal of the lobsters, which parallels the Grand Dérangement. 3.3. Les aventures de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard au Vieux Pays (2010) 19 The third installment resumes the narrative about Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard. Transferring the setting to Europe—more precisely, to France—Richard makes the transatlantic connection—Louisiana, Canada, and France—come full circle. The story opens with a tragically familiar scene: Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard, enjoying the first sunny days of the approaching spring in the waters of a rice field, are caught by a fishing boat and taken to France. In contrast to the previous tales, the two friends are not the only victims: they find themselves amidst a swarm of crawfish with whom they will go through a number of afflictions. Jammed in the dark and foul-smelling bilge, with no food or water, the captives endure both a distressing and emotional oversea trip. After Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 7 landing in La Rochelle, on the west coast of France, they manage to escape with the help of Jacques Cocorichaud, a rooster from the region of Bresse. Sadly, in the big commotion Télesphore is left behind. The group of crawfish and Jacques start an errant life in the woods until they are arrested by the “patrouille sauvage,” a wildlife patrol controlling the border between the world of the domestic animals and the world of the wild animals. The rooster is returned to the world inhabited by the domestic animals, but the crawfish have to remain in what resembles a refugee camp. They are visited by an assigned counsel, Claude Tomate de la Beletterie, a weasel, who declares that she will find a solution to free them. Since she cannot understand the crawfish, she is helped by an interpreter who turns out to be Télesphore, now a political refugee and free. With her legal training, Claude issues a request to have the crawfish also recognized as political refugees. In order to succeed, it is necessary to prove that the crawfish are the descendants of a group of crawfish who mysteriously disappeared from France in 1632. Télesphore goes on a long quest to find the documentation needed and returns successfully. The crawfish are finally offered sanctuary. 20 Although the group from Louisiana grapples with the different cultural habits they encounter as, for example, the French custom of cheek kissing (Richard, Les aventures 78), it is the seemingly strange language of the French animals which disconcerts them most. Of course, apart from landscape and cultural habits, language is another major identity marker which contributes to creating a sense of identity. ‘Tit Edvard’s and Télésphore’s linguistic experiences recall the debate about which French is to be promoted in Louisiana: Standard French or vernacular French, i.e. Cajun or Creole French, or other dialects? Already in Canada, the two animals notice the slight differences in vocabulary and accent when they hear the beavers speak French. The most notable scene, however, occurs in the third tale when the captive crawfish and Télesphore, upon landing in La Rochelle, meet the rooster Jacques Cocorichaud, representing France. An arrogant and self-centered know-it-all, he treats his fellow animals haughtily and without respect, especially when they speak French improperly. For him, there is only one correct way to speak French. In contrast, wise Télesphore, a polyglot, notices that Jacques’ French resembles the spoken language of the fowl in Louisiana and that there is a marked difference of accents. As to the rooster, he makes no secret of his contempt for the Louisiana French accent: with a disdainful look he interrupts Télesphore and impertinently corrects his articulation. The turtle, who tries to contain his anger, cannot help making a statement in real Louisiana dialect: “Si tout quelqu’un causé pareil, li moun vini ben moins intéressant” (Richard, Les aventures 33). Jacques is at a complete loss as to what this means and Télesphore readily provides a translation: “If everybody spoke the same way, the world would be less interesting” (33).xviii 21 The discussion between Jacques and Télesphore reproduces the controversy about the French language in Louisiana. Of course, it echoes Zachary Richard’s own view of Cajun French and Cajun culture. Cultures, and languages for that matter, are in constant flux and foreign influences are a means for rejuvenation. Considering the precarious state of French—Cajun French is slowly, but surely disappearing—Richard shows that French is alive in Louisiana and that it must be preserved. Richard’s narrator uses Standard French, arguably to reach a wider audience, but includes such Cajun idioms as “ouaouaron” or “plantin,” which are explained in a glossary at the end of each tale. Richard’s tales thus present seemingly disparate cultures, for although Canada and France represent difference and function as foils for Louisiana, they are also mirrors Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 8 showing similarities with Louisiana. Stephanie Foote notes that “[b]ecause it is a form that works to preserve local customs, local accents, and local communities, regional writing is a form about the presentation of difference” (4; emphasis original). With each displacement, ‘Tit Edvard and Télesphore face different cultures, but are reoriented by familiar cultural elements, as for instance the French language or animals. 22 Ultimately, the third tale develops the diasporic leitmotif even further, for it is a veritable reenactment of the Acadian tragedy: together with other crawfish, ‘Tit Edvard and Telesphore are captured and put on board a ship bound for France. They experience their very own dérangement. Yet, the deportation does not exactly correspond to the real Grand Dérangement, for although Acadian families were transported to France, they were not captured in Louisiana. The reenactment of the dispersal is accompanied by the reiteration of the lobsters’ tragic fate ‘Tit Edvard learned from Hermance in the second tale: the little crawfish uses every opportunity to tell his ancestor’s story. Furthermore, the tales explore the French origins of the Acadians. 1632 functions as a key date, for in that year the lobsters are said to have disappeared from France. In reality, 1632 refers to the departure of the first colonists to Canada. 23 What unites the three tales is the entangled histories of Louisiana, Canada, and France. A journey back in time and to the origins of the community, the narrated displacements become redemptive moments, moments for the recovery of roots. As literary texts, they “exemplify the fact that memorial dynamics do not just work in a linear or accumulative way. Instead they progress through all sorts of loopings back to cultural products that are not simply media of memory (relay stations and catalysts) but also objects of recall and revision” (Rigney 352). Interestingly, the stories still revolve around Cajun culture, with Louisiana acting as an anchor, but the change of settings in the tales and the historical diasporic element add a distinct transnational note. 4. Transnational Trajectories in Richard’s Tales 24 Migration not only strengthens the link to the home culture through the memory of landscape, language, and the past. It transforms a culture as foreign elements are incorporated. While Richard’s tales are portrayals of transnational migrations, they also reveal influences from other cultures. Transnationalism, according to Rocío Davis, is a “creative practice” which exemplifies “how cultures circulate through particular products… and become emblems of evolving ways of perceiving the United States and its cultures from within and outside the country” (1). Considering that Cajun culture is primarily based on oral tradition, there is a lack of original written models Cajun authors could turn to: there has been no Cajun novel in French to this day. It was only in 1980 that a group of young Cajun authors published the bilingual poetry collection Cris sur le bayou: naissance d’une poésie cadienne. Today, this collection stands for the birth of littérature cadienne. The poems express the authors’ awareness and alarm concerning the demise of French and, by extension, Cajun culture. Still, the collection was not published in Louisiana, but in Montreal, Canada, as were Zachary Richard’s works. The fact that even Richard’s most recent tale of 2010 was not published in Louisiana, but in Montreal, shows how hard it is for the French voice to be heard in Louisiana. Without doubt, the emerging genre of littérature cadienne, despite—or rather because of—the detour via Canada, has become an important motor in the fight for Cajun culture. The establishment of the University of Louisiana at Lafayette Press (1973) and Éditions Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 9 Tintamarre at Centenary College (2003-2004), which promote the publication of French works in Louisiana, was another great step towards the dissemination and preservation of French Louisiana literature within the state.xix The lack of a written tradition notwithstanding Cajun authors have been inspired by French and American literature and have used familiar works as templates (Leroy and Ancelet x-ix). Also, given that Louisiana presents a rich transcultural reservoir of various folktale traditions such as animal tales, magical tales, or supernatural tales (Ancelet xxv), it is not surprising that Richard’s tales display a certain affinity for the folktale. An innovative literary mixture, the tales disclose a transnational Cajun voice. 25 This is nowhere more evident than in the use of intertextual references. Borrowings from European literary traditions, from African or Native American mythologies, or allusions to particular historical events, identify the tales as transnational—and transcultural—tales. The animal characters, who speak and think like humans, inevitably recall the canonical fables by Aesop (sixth century B.C.) or Jean de la Fontaine (seventeenth century). Although not immediately related to “The Ant and the Grasshopper,” the character of the cicada in the first tale is a distant echo of that fable. The almost blind and slightly hard-of-hearing cicada whom the companions meet, shrugs them off with an impolite and indifferent: “I can’t help you, even if I could, I don’t want to.… Leave me alone. Get you gone!” (Richard, Conte cajun 22). His tendency to trade, as we know from the fable, shines through when Télesphore offers his eyes in return for showing them the way out of the oak forest. 26 Other elements recall the philosophical tale. “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly” (Richard, Conte cajun 38) is one of Télesphore’s profound observations about life and human nature. Strikingly, his statement resembles the fox’s words in Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Petit Prince which have become familiar all over the world. Conte cajun resembles this latter tale in many ways, which also conveys a philosophical message, has speaking animals, and fantastic elements. With ‘Tit Edvard sitting high up on Télesphore’s back during the whole journey, ‘Tit Edvard is like the little Prince on his small planet. Yet, Conte cajun is more than an intertextual mixture of European tales: it includes references to tales of other ethnic origins as well. This hybrid nature is especially visible in the choice of characters as they unite characteristics of African and Native American folktales. Télesphore, for instance, can be considered a universal animal symbol since the turtle figures in mythologies of many other peoples. The turtle plays a fundamental role in Native American mythology, especially in creation myths. The very beginning of Conte cajun resembles such a myth when Télesphore appears from the waters and takes ‘Tit Edvard on his back. Famous in Europe thanks to Aesop’s fable “The Tortoise and the Hare,” the turtle is also reminiscent of Uncle Remus’s tales, of African origin and published by Joel Chandler Harris in 1881, in which Brer Terrapin, the trickster, outwits other animal characters. Interestingly, the spider, an important character in African and Caribbean oral traditions, holds an exceptional position in the tale. For, despite French Louisiana’s obvious cultural connection with the West Indies, the spider, called Anansi, is unknown among Cajun folktales (Ancelet, Edwards, and Pitre 185). 27 Finally, Richard interweaves his narrative with events and references from other nations and cultures, which, at first glance, cannot be directly associated with Cajun culture. It is especially his third tale which reveals such transnational allusions, for instance to the French context: after their escape, the group of crawfish and the rooster Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 10 live in the “maquis,” a term which, in World War II, referred to a remote place where the résistants to the German occupation gathered (“Maquis”). Like the maquisards, the animals hide in the woods, traveling only during the night and avoiding farms. When they are caught by a wildlife patrol and brought to a refugee camp, the password one of the guards utters to enter the camp is “Jean Moulin.” Jean Moulin, a French politician during the first half of the twentieth century, entered the French national memory because of his activities as the chief of the Conseil national de la Résistance (“Jean Moulin”). It is not without reason that Richard refers to World War II: it was then that the American army realized the crucial asset of the Cajuns’ linguistic abilities. In the last decades, scholars have shown a growing interest in the role of Cajun GIs in World War II. They served in France, Belgium, North Africa, and Southeast Asia; others joined the resistance movement against Germany. As Cajun historian Carl Brasseaux observes: “Cajun translators were as important to the American war effort as the much-acclaimed Native American Code Talkers” (Brasseaux qtd. in Engelbrecht). Similarly, Télesphore’s abilities as interpreter—he knows both the animal and human languages—are crucial to the tale’s positive outcome, and identify him as the tales’ code talker. Thus, Richard highlights bilingualism as the Cajuns’ consequential resource and as important identity marker. 28 Other allusions situate the tales in a postcolonial context. The very promising “A suivre...” at the end of the third tale indicates that this is not ‘Tit Edvard’s and Télésphore’s last adventure. The crawfish and the two friends pine for their home in Louisiana, but the return trip via ship in winter would prove too hazardous. It is Jacques Cocorichaud who presents them with a solution: the ringdoves are getting ready for their migration to Africa and they are willing to take the company with them. Will there be a forth tale set in Africa, exploring the African influence in Cajun culture? In any case, the African trajectory already exists subliminally in the trilogy, but the postcolonial context is most apparent in the last tale. Indeed, ‘Tit Edward’s and Télesphore’s wanderings from America to Europe, and for that matter the Cajuns’ wanderings between Europe and America, are portrayals of, to use Paul Gilroy’s term, transatlantic routes (cf. Gilroy). More specifically, the crawfish company’s passage to France on the ship does not only revisit the Acadian deportation: the scene of the animals jammed in the bilge of the ship is reminiscent of the middle passage of the slave trade: On the bottom of the metal cage, they [the crawfish] are on top of each other. As to Télesphore, he is stuck, his shell immobilized because the ceiling of the cage is so low. The silence is incommensurable. Only the breathing sound of the crawfish is to be heard. This little, almost inaudible noise amplifies until it becomes immense, the sound echoes from the metallic walls of the cage and finally transforms itself into an enormous cacophony like the fracas of a stone avalanche. (Richard, Les aventures 18) 29 Additionally, the cruel treatment, the heat, and the lack of fresh air contribute to the parallel. Regarding the Acadians and the African slaves, the circumstances of the capture, the transitional state during the passage, as well as their subsequent mistreatment suggest a comparison. In the tale, then, there is two-way traffic between the past—the Grand Dérangement and the middle passage—and the present—the capture of Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard. Furthermore, when the company of crawfish escapes prison in La Rochelle and takes to the woods, they start to live a “vie marron” (Richard, Les aventures 48). Marron, Maroon in English, comes from cimarròn, a Spanish expression for “feral animal,” a domestic animal which has returned to the wild. By extension, it Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 11 was used to refer to fugitive slaves during the colonial period in the American South. Today, the French expression means “to live like a vagabond” (Richard, Les aventures 154). As a matter of fact, Richard aligns himself with postcolonial writers such as Aimé Césaire (Richard, “Biography”). During his years of militancy in the 1970s, he and other young Cajuns advocated what was called Cadienitude, in the style of Césaire’s term négritude.xxOn the one hand, Cadienitude stood for the preservation of the history, language, and culture of the Cajuns and the sharing of the heritage of the Acadian diaspora (Waggoner 162). On the other hand, it was a protest against the stereotyping and discrimination the Cajuns had been subjected to since the end of the Civil War. The concept aimed at rehabilitating the Cajuns’ self-image and advocated the self-affirmation of the Cajuns in order to develop a Cajun identity.xxi The postcolonial background serves, then, to assert Cajun identity with its francophone heritage in the midst of a dominant Anglo-American society. Considering the third tale’s ending, one thing seems certain: the Cajun-Acadian-French connection will be complemented by the African connection, offering an even more comprehensive picture of Cajun culture. ‘Tit Edvard and Télesphore will discover a new country with francophone cultures and continue to spread their knowledge about Cajun culture in their function as cultural ambassadors. 5. Conclusion 30 It has been stated that [t]he most consistent element in Cajun County may well be an uncanny ability to swim in the mainstream. The Cajuns seem to have an innate understanding that culture is an ongoing process, and appear willing constantly to reinvent and renegotiate their cultural affairs on their own terms. (Ancelet, Edwards, and Pitre xviii) 31 This malleability of Cajun culture is clearly visible in Richard’s three tales. Each tale reinvents the expulsion story and re-enacts the Grand Dérangement, and the multiple migrations and transgressions of national boundaries show the circular dynamics of both literature and memory. Considering the characters’ own displacements and the references to, or mise en abîme of, an event which bears a striking resemblance to the Grand Dérangement, there is no doubt that the tales allegorize the Acadians’ expulsion and that they are a good example of “palimpsestic itineraries of migration” (Davis 3). With Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard, the reader travels both to different places—from Louisiana, to Canada, to France—and also back in time—from the contemporary setting to the eighteenth and seventeenth centuries. In reenacting the past, Richard’s three tales portray a geo-cultural space where the cultures of the Cajuns, the French-Canadians, and the French meet and display “regional writing’s strategy of protecting local identities by preserving them in literature” (Foote 4). In this imaginary Acadian triangle of Acadiana- Acadia-France, the Acadian diaspora is reunited. Considering that “[r]egions are not so much places themselves but ways of describing relationships among places” (Powell 10), the concept of “migrating literature,” as explored in Zachary Richard’s three tales, highlights the contemporary interplay of the regional and transnational. 32 It becomes clear that Richard’s notion of Francophonie is more than just the preservation of the French language and francophone culture. Richard propounds a universal, humanist ideology, allowing for solving today’s social problems. This transnational humanism is also present in his Cajun tales and was most recently officially Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 12 acknowledged by the Cercle Senghor Richelieu which awarded Richard the annual Prix du Cercle Senghor Richelieu de Paris in March 2014 (“Le Prix du Cercle”). xxiii The tales express the necessity of turning towards the wider francophone world for the preservation of Cajun culture, as the links established with Canada and France show. Even if the connection to the local is never lost, the transnational becomes more apparent with each tale. As the tales progress, there is a certain realignment, a shift away from southwest Louisiana to other places which turn out to be important because of their historical and cultural connections to Cajun culture. In reinventing the tragedy of the Acadians from a Cajun perspective and including the lobster-turned-crawfish legend, Richard participates in the dissemination and preservation of the Acadian memory, and thus in the endurance of imaginary Acadia. In crossing multiple boundaries, Zachary Richard not only strengthens the link between the two Acadias, l’Acadie du nord and l’Acadie du sud, and France; he also creates a francophone Cajun prose narrative: the echo of the tales, coming from the allegedly silent voice of francophone Cajun Country, bounces off Canada back to Louisiana. In Richard’s eyes, dislocation and foreign influences are not purely unfavorable; they also entail a gain of other cultural traditions. Indeed, Cajun culture can only benefit from preserving its transnational outlook. BIBLIOGRAPHY “2013 American Community Survey.” U.S. Census Bureau – American FactFinder. Web. 18 October 2014. <http://factfinder2.census.gov/faces/tableservices/jsf/pages/productview.xhtml? pid=ACS_13_1YR_B16001&prodType=table>. Ancelet, Barry J. Cajun and Creole Folktales: The French Oral Tradition of South Louisiana. New York: Garland Publishing, 1994. Print. Ancelet, Barry J., Jay Edwards, and Glen Pitre. Cajun Country. Jackson: U of Mississippi P, 1991. Print. Brasseaux, Carl A. The Founding of New Acadia: The Beginnings of Acadian Life in Louisiana, 1765-1803. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 1987. Print. —. Acadian to Cajun: Transformation of a People, 1803-1877. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 1992. Print. Bernard, Shane K. The Cajuns: Americanization of a People. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2003. Print. Davis, Rocío G. The Transnationalism of American Culture: Literature, Film, and Music. New York: Routledge, 2012. Print. Engelbrecht, Marsha. “Vintage Virtuoso.” Pat Mire Films. Web. 26 November 2013. <http:// patmire.com/press/vintage-virtuoso/>. Erll, Astrid. “Travelling Memory.” Parallax 17.4 (2011): 4-18. Print. Foote, Stephanie. Regional Fictions: Culture and Identity in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. Madison: The U of Wisconsin P, 2001. Print. Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 13 Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1993. Print. Gutierrez, C. Paige. Cajun Foodways. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 1992. Print. Henry, Jacques M., and Carl L. Bankston. Blue Collar Bayou: Louisiana Cajuns in the New Economy of Ethnicity. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers, 2002. Print. Hodson, Christoper. Acadian Diasporas: An Eighteenth-Century History. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2012. Print. “Jean Moulin.” Larousse. Web. 26 November 2013. <http://www.larousse.fr/encyclopedie/ personnage/Jean_Moulin/126779>. Lachmann, Renate. “Mnemonic and Intertextual Aspects of Literature.” Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook. Ed. Astrid Erll, Ansgar Nünning, and Sara B. Young. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008. 301-10. Print. “Le Prix du Cercle.” Le Cercle Richelieu Senghor. Web. 11 March 2014. <http://www.cercle- richelieu-senghor.org/le-prix-richelieu-senghor.html>. Leroy, Fabrice, and Barry J. Ancelet. Tout Bec Doux: The Complete Cajun Comics of Ken Meaux and Earl Comeaux. Lafayette, LA: U of Louisiana at Lafayette P, 2011. Print. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie. Boston: William D. Ticknor & Co., 1847. Print. Maillet, Antonine. Pélagie-la-charette. Ottawa: Leméac, 1979. Print. “Maquis.” Larousse. Web. 26 November 2013. <http://www.larousse.fr/encyclopedie/divers/ maquis/187399>. Powell, Douglas Reichert. Critical Regionalism: Connecting Politics and Culture in the American Landscape. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 2007. Print. Richard, Zachary. “La Francophonie selon Zachary Richard.” Forum Avant-garde Québec. Jean Lapointe. Yahoo! Groupes Québec. 2001. Web. 17 March 2013. <https://cf.groups.yahoo.com/neo/ groups/avant-garde_quebec/conversations/topics/19904>. —. “Biography.” Zachary Richard. 2014. Web. 20 June 2014. <http://www.zacharyrichard.com/ english/biography.php> —. Conte cajun: L’histoire de Télesphore et de ‘Tit Edvard. Montréal: Éditions des intouchables, 1999. Print. —. L’histoire de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard dans le grand Nord. Montréal: Éditions des intouchables, 2007. Print. —. Les aventures de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard au Vieux Pays. Montréal: Éditions des intouchables, 2010. Print. Rigney, Ann. “The Dynamics of Remembrance: Texts Between Monumentality and Morphing.” Companion to Cultural Memory Studies. Ed. Astrid Erll and Ansgar Nünning. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010. 345-353. Print. Waggoner, May Rush Gwin. “Separate but Equal: État présent des recherches sur la littérature francophone louisianaise.” Études Francophones 21.1/2 (2006): 158-171. Print. Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 14 NOTES i. “Cajun” is an Anglo-American corruption of “Acadian,” or Acadien in French, and developed in Louisiana at the end of the nineteenth century through Americanization. According to the American Community Survey of 2013, about 100,000 Louisiana residents claim to speak French, including Cajun French (“2013 American Community Survey”). In contrast, the 1970 Census produced estimates of over 500,000 French-speaking persons in Louisiana, while the 2000 Census listed 250,000 persons proficient in French. Both the disappearance of the French-speaking generation as well as a new selective sampling method of the U.S. Census Bureau issued in 2000 are the causes of the wide discrepancy (Henry and Bankston 5-6). ii. The participation of Cajun musicians at the Newport Festival (1964-1967) brought Cajun music to national attention. The resulting triumph instigated the Cajun Renaissance which is regarded as a watershed in the cultural emancipation of the Cajuns. iii. The titles’ English translations are: A Cajun Tale: The Story of Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard, The Story of Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard in the Big North, and The Adventures of Télesphore and ‘Tit Edvard in the Old Country. Since Richard’s three Cajun tales have not yet been translated, all translated quotations are mine. iv. Several academic studies dealing with francophone texts by Cajun authors use the term from the 1990s onward. v. Erll proposes to use “‘transcultural’ as an umbrella term for what in other academic contexts might be described with concepts of the transnational, diasporic, hybrid, syncretistic, postcolonial, translocal, creolized, global, or cosmopolitan” (9). Considering this issue’s transnational focus, and the transnational crossings in the tales, I opt for the use of “transnational.” I will use “transcultural” only when referring to cultural exchanges within a delimited territory, e.g. within Louisiana. vi. This hybridization complicates any attempt at defining the Cajun identity. Generally, Acadian ancestry, a Catholic belief, and, to a lesser extent these days, knowledge of French, identify somebody as a Cajun. vii. Adaptations of Evangeline and the Grand Dérangement proliferated in the United States, Canada, and even France. In Canada, the French translation of Evangeline in 1865 by French- Canadian Pamphile Le May was even more influential: it turned Evangeline into a francophone founding myth for the Quebecois and the Canadian-Acadians. viii. Especially the Genteel Acadians venerated the Acadian heroine (Brasseaux, Acadian 153). In Louisiana Pouponne et Balthazar: nouvelle acadienne (1888), which is a retelling of Evangeline with a happier ending by the French Creole writer Sidonie de la Houssaye, and Acadian Reminiscences: The True Story of Evangeline (1907), by Felix Voorhies, consolidated the myth. ix. The Cajun Renaissance engendered the development of the academic field of Cajun Studies in the 1970s. Pioneers of the study of Cajun history and culture include Carl A. Brasseaux, Barry J. Ancelet, and Shane K. Bernard. x. Considerable support also came from Quebec, where historians and sociologists became interested in their “cousins” and started the Louisiana Project in 1976. xi. Acadiana is the official name given in 1972 to the 22 Louisiana parishes boasting mainly francophone environs. It aims at distinguishing the uniqueness of Cajun culture from the Anglo- American mainstream. xii. Although the crawfish constitutes one of the best-known emblems of Cajun culture today, it has even come to figure as the state crustacean of Louisiana since 1983, a necessary consequence of the increasing international popularity of Cajun culture. Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 15 xiii. The tales remain vague about the exact locations and time: they are set in the present, somewhere in Louisiana, Canada, and France. xiv. The Acadian Memorial in St. Martinville, the Acadian Museum in Erath, the Acadian Village in Lafayette as well as gatherings such as the annual Festivals Acadiens et Créoles in Lafayette, the annual International Acadian Festival in Plaquemine, and the quinquennial Acadian World Congress commemorate the Acadian heritage. xv. Hurricanes are deeply ingrained in the Louisiana memory and littérature cadienne includes numerous references to hurricanes. xvi. Chênière in French, derived from chêne, meaning “oak.” The Cajuns themselves consider the cheniers a symbol of the fight for their culture: the forests of oak trees growing on sand ridges along the Gulf coast have to face terrible hurricanes, and devastation is not an uncommon event. xvii. Déplacement is less strong than Dérangement. Richard might have had “displacement” in mind when writing Grand Déplacement. xviii. Interestingly, Richard’s translation into Standard French reads: “Si tout le monde parlait de la même façon, la culture serait appauvrie.” Note the change from “moun,” meaning “world,” to “culture.” xix. French Immersion Programs and other such contemporary francophone writers as Jean Arceneaux, Beverly Matherne, Kirby Jambon, and David Cheramie, all committed to the preservation of Cajun culture and the French language, further strengthened this development. xx. The Négritude movement was initiated in Paris in the 1930s by a group of French-speaking African and Caribbean students, notably Léopold Sédar Senghor, Aimé Césaire, and Léon Gontran Damas. They championed anti-colonialism, anti-racism, the return to the roots, and a renewed pride in African heritage. xxi. Cajun identity became a source of pride and gradually received a positive connotation. However, this rehabilitation was largely the result of the less radical Cajun Renaissance. As to Cadienitude, the movement soon declined and has not been rekindled. xxii. Francophonie refers to a group of countries sharing, fully or in part, the use of the French language. They are members of the International Organisation of La Francophonie. xxiii. This award, established in 1987, is presented to “a person whose actions have made outstanding contributions to the international influence of the French language” (“Le Prix du Cercle”). ABSTRACTS Focusing on three Cajun tales by Zachary Richard, this article explores the interrelation of Cajun culture and the transnational space through the lens of “migrating literature.” The interrelation of literature and migration is visible on several levels: first, the texts literally “migrated” to Montreal, Quebec, for publication purposes; second, the tales are literature about migration; and third, other “foreign” literary texts and allusions to historical events “migrated” into the tales. Considering the meaningful settings—Louisiana, Canada, France—as well as the overarching themes of displacement and migration, the tales reveal themselves as allegories of the Cajuns’ history. Bringing together different regions, the tales respatialize the Acadian diaspora in a geo- cultural imaginary space and undergird the transnational connection. Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 16 INDEX Keywords: Acadian, Cajun, diaspora, francophone, memory, migrating literature, regionalism, transnationalism AUTHOR MATHILDE KÖSTLER JGU Mainz Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales European journal of American studies, Vol 9, No 3 | 2014 17 Migrating Literature: Zachary Richard’s Cajun Tales 1. Introduction 2. Stories of Migration 3. (Re)Locating Cajun Culture 3.1. Conte cajun: L’histoire de Télesphore et de ‘Tit Edvard (1999) 3.2. L’histoire de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard dans le grand Nord (2007) 3.3. Les aventures de Télesphore et ‘Tit Edvard au Vieux Pays (2010) 4. Transnational Trajectories in Richard’s Tales 5. Conclusion 
work_6nynhejzvberzln7i6ppnkltoq	----	http://jbs.sagepub.com/ Journal of Black Studies http://jbs.sagepub.com/content/33/6/761 The online version of this article can be found at: DOI: 10.1177/0021934703033006003 2003 33: 761Journal of Black Studies Bradley Skelcher Apartheid and the Removal of Black Spots from Lake Bhangazi in Kwazulu-Natal, South Africa Published by: http://www.sagepublications.com can be found at:Journal of Black StudiesAdditional services and information for http://jbs.sagepub.com/cgi/alertsEmail Alerts: http://jbs.sagepub.com/subscriptionsSubscriptions: http://www.sagepub.com/journalsReprints.navReprints: http://www.sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.navPermissions: http://jbs.sagepub.com/content/33/6/761.refs.htmlCitations: What is This? - Jul 1, 2003Version of Record >> at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ http://jbs.sagepub.com/content/33/6/761 http://www.sagepublications.com http://jbs.sagepub.com/cgi/alerts http://jbs.sagepub.com/subscriptions http://www.sagepub.com/journalsReprints.nav http://www.sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.nav http://jbs.sagepub.com/content/33/6/761.refs.html http://jbs.sagepub.com/content/33/6/761.full.pdf http://online.sagepub.com/site/sphelp/vorhelp.xhtml http://jbs.sagepub.com/ 10.1177/0021934703252152 ARTICLEJOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS FROM LAKE BHANGAZI IN KWAZULU-NATAL, SOUTH AFRICA BRADLEY SKELCHER Delaware State University Clearly, the forced removal of Africans from White-designated areas dur- ing apartheid in South Africa is not unique to world history. So, what can be learned from studying a group of rural Africans living in a communal arrangement for 1,000 years or more? By investigating the case of the removal of African people from the Lake Bhangazi area within Greater St. Lucia Wetland Park in South Africa from 1956 through 1974, light can be shed on one aspect of forced migration. This may lead to an understand- ing of other forced movements of people throughout world history. It may also provide a better understanding of the rural phase of forced removals during apartheid. Most South African studies have focused on urban removals. The following article is the story of the people from Lake Bhangazi in KwaZulu-Natal set within the broad context of South African apartheid and “black spot” removal. Keywords: black spot removal; South Africa; apartheid The GGs came 8:00 one morning without warning. They forced us onto the trucks. We gathered whatever we could. Men from the [Natal] Parks Board drove us to the other side and dumped us along the road. We had no place to go and had no food. It was terrible. —Grace Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to July 2001 761 AUTHOR’S NOTE: The research for this article was made possible by the Alli- ance International Research for Minority Scholars, which sponsored this research project in KwaZulu-Natal to assist in the development of a cultural heritage center at Lake Bhangazi during the summer of 2001. JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES, Vol. 33 No. 6, July 2003 761-783 DOI: 10.1177/0021934703252152 © 2003 Sage Publications at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ Almost everyone who could remember the forced removal of the people from Lake Bhangazi recalled similar memories as these of Grace Mbuyazi. Now in her 80s, Grace broke down into tears as she recalled this fateful day almost as if it were yesterday when it hap- pened. Crying, Grace said that her people now live in poverty and are sick from eating “White man’s” food. She remembered an idyl- lic life at Lake Bhangazi where there was plenty of food. “People were not sick” (G. Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to July 2001). Although they lived a subsistence-farming lifestyle, everyone, when asked, acknowledged that they were healthy. People ate tradi- tional food, not White food, which kept them healthy, according to G. Mbuyazi. One old man longingly remembered, “[we] could plant anything and it would grow and we would eat.” Domenic Dunn (1948), a descendant of the White Zulu chief John Dunn, described the people from the Lake St. Lucia area as “men attracted by food.” Many longed to return to their homeland where they recalled families living together in paradise along the Indian Ocean within the Greater St. Lucia Wetland Park (GSLWP) in the prov- ince of KwaZulu-Natal (KZN). The idyllic life at Lake Bhangazi was a communal life of farm- ing, grazing cattle, hunting, and gathering. The men speared fish from the freshwater of Lake Bhangazi and harvested the Indian Ocean. Men smoked tobacco or sniffed it as snuff. They also smoked hemp—insangu or dagga. Men and women gathered fruits and nuts while young boys tended the cattle, which were a measure of wealth and power. Men needed the cattle also for lobola or the bride price. Using ox-drawn plows or iron-forged hoes, the women planted sweet potatoes, peanuts, maize, millet, pumpkins, cala- bashes, idumbe (potato-like food), and cabbage. Women harvested materials such as incema to weave baskets and mats. Without potter wheels, women made clay pots by hand. Painstakingly, women har- vested just the right materials to construct musical instruments. The land provided for their every need (Aitchison, 1917; F. Mhlanga, personal interview, July 2001; Silverston, n.d.; Sparks, n.d.; Stuart & Malcolm, 1950). The people from Lake Bhangazi understood the need to con- serve natural resources and developed complex sustainable conser- 762 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ vation practices. Generally, the inkhosi (chief) or induna (headman) was responsible for managing the natural resources within a ward or chiefdom. Fakazi Mhlanga, in an oral history interview, recalled hunting as a young man at Lake Bhangazi. He said that the induna decided when the members of his ward would go off to hunt. There were celebrations signaling this momentous time. They also could hunt only certain game animals. Some game animals, like hippo- potamus, were taboo to their diets (F. Mhlanga, personal interview, July 2001). Lake Bhangazi sustained physical and spiritual needs, which were often the same. Inyangas (traditional healers) gathered their Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 763 Figure 1: Map of South Africa SOURCE: CIA World Factbook, 1999. at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ medicines from the forest and the sea, which contained a plentiful supply. Sangomas (diviners) diagnosed people’s spiritual and physical ailments. With the introduction of Christianity, faith heal- ers preached the gospel. All drank the cleansing salt water of the Indian Ocean for physical and spiritual health. The most promi- nent physical features are the sand dunes that border the Indian Ocean and serve to filter water into Lake Bhangazi, providing fresh drinking water: These dunes are the tallest in the world and rich in titanium. While at Lake Bhangazi, the people lived a truly self- sufficient life (Lubombo Spatial Development Initiative Plan, 2000; Mama G. Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to July 2001). Then one day in 1974, without notice, government trucks or GGs (Government Garage), as people called them, from the Natal Con- servation Service (NCS) came, ending this idyllic life. The people living around Lake Bhangazi had no time to collect their belong- ings. One person reported, “When we were removed from Bhangazi at gunpoint, we ran away leaving most of our belongings behind. . . . We want back Bhangazi!” (Minutes of St. Lucia/Eastern Shores Land and Claim Meeting, 1988, n.p.). Few were allowed to transport their cattle or other livestock. Because they lost many of their cattle, it became difficult for young men lacking lobola (bride’s price paid in cattle) to marry unless they found employ- ment to help them purchase the required number. In 1981, a speaker in the KwaZulu Legislative Assembly compared GGs to “the cattle trucks of Nazi Germany” (Unterhalter, 1987, p. 108). Dumping them alongside the road on the western shores of nearby Lake St. Lucia, the NCS forced people to wander about in search of family members separated during the removal. People remained separated for months. Some, who were not at their home- steads when the trucks came, were left behind, forcing them to wander by foot in search of their families. The NCS dumped them on overcrowded reserves under the control of different inkosi forc- ing them to beg for land so they could build new homesteads or kraals. Most lived lives as refugees longing for the day of their return to Lake Bhangazi (D. Mbuyazi, personal interview, July 2001; Mama G. Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to July 2001; 764 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ F. Mhlanga, personal interview, July 2001). An old man during a meeting in Mtubatuba Town Hall near Lake St. Lucia said, Awu! It was long ago. . . . The Parks Board (NCS) accused us of burning the veld and killing the government’s animals. Then the Abakwamahlathini (Department of Forestry) said we were burning their trees . . . finally we were kicked out. We hope that God will give the KwaZulu government power to help us once again suck the breast of the land that nourished us. (as cited in Moloi, 1993/1994, pp. 4-5) Most longed for the day when they could at least move their ancestral spirits to their new homesteads. This was the most devas- tating aspect of their removal from Lake Bhangazi. The abrupt removal of the people left them no time to conduct proper rituals for their ancestors’ spirits. This involved the family sending a delega- tion with a thorny branch from an acacia tree to fetch the spirit. The branch would absorb the spirit. When done, they could return to their home. A designated person would carry the branch and talk to the spirit along the way, providing directions to the new homestead. When there, they would place the branch in the cattle enclosure. Cattle would then eat the branch, absorbing the soul. Each home- stead has a hut, or an iQukwane, for the ancestors called indlu yangehla, or ancestors’ house, where they could find sustenance like Zulu beer and food (M. Zondi, personal interview, June to July 2001). This is the story of the forced removal of the people from Lake Bhangazi in present day KZN between 1956 and 1974 during the height of apartheid under the Nationalist Party regime in South Africa. It is also about their struggle to return. The removal of the people from Lake Bhangazi, in many ways, reflected the removal of other “black spots” within White-designated areas throughout rural South Africa. Through oral history interviews, their story unfolded in their own words, providing insight as to the meaning of place. From the trauma, many now wonder whom they are, having lost their connection to their homeland and ancestral spirits for such a long time. Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 765 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ In 1994, the new South African government passed legislation allowing dispossessed people to file land claims for the return of their homelands. The people from Lake Bhangazi responded by fil- ing a suit for the return of their land. Before this, many had little information about the Bhangazi people and their plight. Many gov- ernment officials did not believe that the people from Lake Bhangazi had ever lived in the area. This forced the Bhangazi people to devise elaborate methods of research to prove their case. Through oral histories and archeological evidence, the people from Lake Bhangazi managed to prove their existence and won their case. This experience led many to ask questions about themselves and their heritage. The forced removal of people was not new to South Africa. It seems as if the history of European colonization was one of removal, evoking the poetic words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from Evangeline, in which the main character searched for her lover, Gabriel, after their separation following the British removal of Acadians from Nova Scotia in 1755 (Longfellow, 1847/1999). The United States has a bleak history of forced removals dating to the “Trail of Tears” and the forced removal of Native Americans from the southeast in 1838. In the 1950s and 1960s, many described urban renewal in the United States as “Negro removal.” More recently, Serbs attempted forced removals of people in their ethnic cleansing program. Clearly, apartheid and black spot removal was an unfortunate part of the continuum of forced removals that have occurred throughout world history. This attempt to understand the situation at Lake Bhangazi may shed light on others who suffered from the same apartheid policy of black spot removal in South Africa. THE PEOPLE OF LAKE BHANGAZI The natural resources from the land and sea first attracted people to the Lake Bhangazi area. About 1700 years ago, people began set- tling along the shores of the Indian Ocean around St. Lucia and Lake Bhangazi. About 1500 years ago, a different linguistic group 766 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ appeared within the St. Lucia area, extending to the Lubombo Mountains. The Tekela Nguni people were apparently the first Africans to reach the area around St. Lucia when they migrated south along the coast of East Africa. The language group was isiThembe-Thonga in Bantu, which is a subfamily of the Niger- Congo family language (G. Anderson, personal interview, August 2001; Lubombo Spatial Development Initiative Plan, 2000; Ross, 1999; Stuart & Malcolm, 1950). The Portuguese were the first Europeans to reach the area around St. Lucia. In 1554, the San Bento, a Portuguese slave ship, wrecked off the coast of St. Lucia on its way to the trading center at Delagoa Bay in Mozambique. The Thonga people came to their aid. This accidental contact led to a lucrative trade with the Portuguese. They traded glass beads, brass, copper, and dungaree cloth for gold and ivory from sea cow and elephant (Lubombo Spatial Development Initiative Plan, 2000; Silverston, n.d.; Stuart & Malcolm, 1950). The plentiful wildlife around Lake St. Lucia attracted European hunters and adventurers also. They slaughtered many of the species of wildlife living in the St. Lucia area. William Charles Baldwin (1894) left a written account of his travels in the St. Lucia area in his book titled African Hunting and Adventure: From Natal to the Zambesi. He arrived in South Africa in 1854 and traveled to St. Lucia to shoot sea cows. Baldwin and other hunters almost wiped out the animal life in the area, causing the government to begin reg- ulating the game hunts. Hunters did succeed in exterminating the elephants. Eventually, the Natal Parliament declared St. Lucia a game reserve in 1897, enlarging it to include the entire lake system in 1939, and encircling it with a half-mile barrier in 1944. In 1971, South Africa signed the RAMSAR international treaty designating Lake St. Lucia as a protected wetland. The United Nations Educa- tional, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) declared it a World Heritage Site in the 1990s (World Heritage Convention Act 49, 1999). In the early 1990s, mining companies discovered titanium in the towering sand dunes along the shores of the Indian Ocean, stretch- ing from Richard’s Bay to the border of Mozambique. In the late 19th century, Sigurd Silverston described this vast mineral wealth Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 767 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ around Lake St. Lucia, writing that the minerals included gold, gelina, copper, tin, nickel molydenite, asbestos, mica, and coal (n.d.). This mineral-resource-rich area has attracted mining inter- ests’ attention, leading the South African government to declare the area a protected site and making it the GSLWP in hopes of protect- ing it from mining. The rich agricultural lands, however, attracted most attention during the days of apartheid under the Nationalist Party regime. During the 1950s, NCS introduced gum tree and pine tree planta- tions. The government also sold land to private sugar cane growers. Agricultural demands motivated the Natal government to remove by force the people living around Lake St. Lucia under the pretext of natural resources conservation (Pretorius, 1994). REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS IS THE HISTORY OF ZULULAND AND SOUTH AFRICA Seemingly, the history of Zululand is a history of removals result- ing from conquest or dynastic struggles. The losers fled in search of safe sanctuary, which they often found in the St. Lucia area. From the time of Shaka in the early 19th century through the 1970s, the geographical area of Zululand has experienced the forced removal of people. The result has been the creation of a diaspora of various families and tribes still in search of their historical roots. European penetration into Zululand came after the conclusion of the Anglo-Zulu War in 1879 and the subsequent civil war between the Zulus. These led to the destruction and subsequent reorientation of Zulu traditional settlement patterns. British colonial interest in Zululand initially focused on labor resources needed in the newly discovered gold and diamond regions during the 1850s. To accom- plish this, British authorities devised schemes to disrupt the Zulu people’s “relationship between the homestead and the natural envi- ronment” (MacKinnon, 1990, p. 5). The Zulu homestead required unencumbered access to natural resources. By denying them access to natural resources, the Zulu no longer could sustain themselves thus forcing them into a growing pool of labor for mining and agri- 768 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ culture. The British accomplished this by imposing a hut tax and demanded labor from inkhosis (Guy, 1982). At the beginning of the 20th century, the government in Natal began the process of creating a pool of labor by removing Zulu peo- ple from their homesteads to create and to expand game reserves. At the same time, the government granted Whites access to forests and other resources. Natal officials created a pretext for the removal of Zulus. They pointed to Zulu cattle herding as creating large-scale damage to the Crown forests and restricted their access to timber for housing and fencing for their cattle (MacKinnon, 1990). There- after, the colonial government passed forest and game regulations. The Natal government restricted Zulus to cutting only certain trees for the wood to use in their houses; the Zulus had to pay for this privilege. The first of the game preserves was in the Hlabisa District. One of the new preserves was St. Lucia Lake. During the Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902), forest rangers allowed Zulus to move into for- ests. Then they complained that the Zulu trampled paths in search of wood for building materials. They also feared that they would denude the forests. Rangers accused them of burning off too much land for their gardens and farm plots. Following the war, regula- tions tightened on forest conservation (MacKinnon, 1990). In 1902, the colonial government of Natal established the Joint Imperial-Colonial Zululand Lands Delimitation Commission. It completed its work in 1904, which called for the segregation of African and White lands. Natal threw open coastal lands from St. Lucia to Richard’s Bay for White occupation and sugar cane pro- duction. Any Africans living within these delimitated areas for White occupation were subject to removal. The Commission iden- tified these areas as “black spots” or badly situated areas within White-designated areas. The technical difference between the two is that the latter areas were not African land freeholds, but frag- ments of communal lands under appointed chiefs located within White-owned land (Unterhalter, 1987). The Commission also established a series of reserves for the Zulus for their relocation after removal from White land. The Commission justified this by Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 769 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ claiming the need to conserve natural resources (Bundy, 1992; MacKinnon, 1990). The Delimitation Commission laid the foundation for the Natives Land Act of 1913, passed following the formation of the Union of South Africa in 1910. This Act laid the statutory basis of territorial segregation, dividing the whole of South Africa into reserves where Africans could own land and the rest where they could not. Reserves made up 8% of the land with provisions to increase it to 13%. It also abolished cash tenants and sharecroppers, reducing them to labor tenants or wage laborers. The Natives Land Act of 1913 led to the removal of millions of Africans and their relocation to reserves. The law also prohibited Whites and Africans from “entering into any agreement for the hire or other acquisi- tion . . . of any such land [designated for White occupation]” (Debates in the House of Commons, 1913). Reverend Mtimkulu from Zululand criticized the 1913 Act by saying, Many natives . . . have already been removed from the farms on account of this Act. . . . There are others who have farms, but titles are refused them by the Government. . . . This Act therefore seems to us like a one-edged knife—it cuts a big piece off the native and is very gentle with the European. (Bundy, 1992, p. 7) The Natives Land Act opened the floodgate for more legislation that solidified the segregation of Black and White South Africans. In 1936, the government passed the Native Trust and Land Act, (later called the Development Trust and Land Act). The Act increased the percentage of land for Africans to 13% as promised in the 1913 Act. It also allowed the South African Development Trust to relocate Africans to scheduled land in reserves. G. H. Nicholls, member of the Senate from Zululand, spoke before the South Afri- can Parliament in 1936 on the pending bill: “This Bill has become necessary . . . to create a contented and prosperous native peasantry in our reserves, who will become consumers. . . . Our civilized labour policy . . . depends entirely upon this measure which goes to the very root of our national economy” (Union of South Africa, 770 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ 1936, pp. 2897-2898). By the 1940s, removed people caused over- crowding in the reserves where few could eke out a living on increasingly less land. The reserves, therefore, became reservoirs of migrant labor. When the Nationalist Party came to power in 1948, the new gov- ernment continued the policy of segregation first established by the British colonial officials in Natal in the name of apartheid, or sepa- rate development. In 1950, the Nationalist Party passed the Group Areas Act, which restricted Black people from owning White land. The Act also did not recognize tribal tenure as a substitute for a recorded deed with the Office of Registrar of Deeds. This presented problems for people, such as the ones from Lake Bhangazi, who had not secured title to their land. Even if they had, however, the government most likely would not have recognized ownership, because the government had designated much of the land for White occupation. This led to alienation of people from their land through stepped-up forced removals (Group Areas Act 41, 1950; Torres, 1994). The Nationalist Party government added more laws attempt- ing to establish independent Black African states to control the movement of people in a better and more systematic fashion. The Bantu Authorities Act of 1951 allowed for the administration of Bantustans by placing them within Bantu Tribal, Regional, and Territorial authorities. In 1954, T. L. Tomlinson, chair of the Tomlinson Commission, provided the ideological framework for apartheid, or separate devel- opment, laying out the foundation for forced segregation and removals to follow. Clearly, removals accelerated following the release of his report despite some resistance from local authorities (Verkyul, 1973). Passage of the Native (Prohibition of Interdicts) Act in 1956 prevented local authorities from seeking court action to prevent removals by eliminating judicial authority in such matters. The Surplus People Project reported the subsequent removal of 3.5 million people between 1960 and 1980. This left 15 million Africans owning only 13.7% of the land, in comparison with 3.5 million Whites owning 86.3% of the land (Unterhalter, 1987). Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 771 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ REMOVAL FROM LAKE BHANGAZI Unfortunately, the removal of people from Lake Bhangazi between 1956 and 1974 was not an aberration. Unterhalter (1987) argued that during the 1950s, increased mechanization of farms with the emergence of capitalist commercial agriculture in South Africa led to the surplus of Black labor and their subsequent removal. She added, “Long-established peasant subsistence communities have been uprooted and forced to move to make way for highly subsi- dized commercial farmers with ready access to credit, marketing boards and mechanical inputs through [government] development plans” (p. 93). Undoubtedly, this prompted government action to accelerate the removal of black spots, or “surplus people,” to make way for commercial farming. Social engineers within the South African government planned the evictions under the pretext of betterment schemes to improve farm production for subsistence African farmers that had actually already begun in the 1940s (Unterhalter, 1987). Unterhalter (1987) pointed out that government agencies carried out the first removals in the 1950s. GG transport moved the mass of people to dumping grounds on South African Bantu Trust land, later called South African Development Trust. Reduced to one- quarter-acre plots, they could keep no livestock and could barely produce enough food to subsist. Cosmos Desmond visited a settle- ment at Mpungamhlope in Natal in the 1960s and reported, “The whole place had a general air of shabbiness with a number of over- grown, empty plots . . . [and] very poor, dilapidated houses. Ragged, hungry-looking children surrounded the few [water] taps that were installed in the ‘streets’ ” (1971, pp. 50-51). The removal of black spots slowed during the late 1950s because of fragmented reserves and scarcity of land on the reserves in KwaZululand. This may have led to the decision not to remove peo- ple entirely from the Lake St. Lucia area during the 1950s and 1960s. Still, the demand for natural resources increased. The Natal Parks Board had plans to develop the St. Lucia area for gum tree plantations. Mining operations demanded large numbers of har- vested trees for shoring materials. Before this could begin, the gov- 772 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ ernment needed to remove people living there. With overcrowded reserves, the government decided to move the people throughout Lake St. Lucia, concentrating them around Lake Bhangazi near the homestead of Lokothwayo Mbuyazi beginning in 1956. Jotham Mfeka recalled, In 1956 when the Forestry Company wanted to remove us, Njojela Mbuyazi went to Durban to try and negotiate about this. I accompa- nied him to see Cowen Cow. Cowen . . . told us that the land did belong to the government then. However, . . . because there were people in that land they would not be moved. (Minutes of St. Lucia/ Eastern Shores Land and Claim Meeting, 1988, p. 1) Cowen convinced authorities to divide the land and let the people settle near Lake Bhangazi where there were no trees planted yet (Minutes of St. Lucia/Eastern Shores Land and Claim Meeting, 1988). The removal of black spots was at its height in 1969 when M. C. Botha was Minister of Bantu Administration and Development (BAD) (Platzky & Walker, 1985). Botha explained that no force was required, “We get their co-operation in all cases voluntarily. . . . Sometimes it is necessary to do quite a lot of persuasion, but we do get them anyway” (Unterhalter, 1987, pp. 110-111). In reality, the government “got them” through intimidation and selective use of violence. In 1968, G. F. van L. Froneman, deputy chairman of the Bantu Affairs Commission, said, “When all these ‘Black spots’ and isolated scheduled and released areas are once removed, the chess board pattern of Bantu Areas and White Areas in South Africa will also to a great extent be eliminated” (as cited in Desmond, 1971, p. 20). The BAD reported that Natal had the largest number of peo- ple removed. Between 1957 and 1959, Natal government removed 40,000 Africans. During the 1960s, it forcibly removed about 400,000 Africans and another 400,000 in the 1970s (Unterhalter, 1987). To control the African population more efficiently, the National- ist regime moved to establish independent Bantustans. The idea was to remove Africans from black spots and to relocate them on these Bantustans. Each African would then become a citizen of Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 773 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ these Bantustans and would carry a passbook as identification while traveling through White areas of South Africa. This process accelerated in the 1970s. In 1970, the South African government established the Zululand Territorial Authority with Chief Mangosuthu Gatsha Buthelezi as chief executive officer. In 1972, it became the KwaZulu Legislative Assembly, with Buthelezi serving as the chief minister of the Assembly. In 1977, the South African government declared KwaZulu to be a self-governing Bantustan. Not coincidental, these changes came at a time when there was an upsurge in removals. The Bantu Laws Amendment Act of 1973 opened the way for a resur- gence of black spot removals with no prior consultation, even if there was opposition (Unterhalter, 1987). In 1973, Buthelezi publicly complained about the increase in removals. He criticized the government by saying, “We have said before that we are not prepared to co-operate with the removal of people. We don’t want to be party to the misery of our people” (as cited in Unterhalter, 1987, p. 109). His chief complaint was that there was not enough reserve land to accommodate the increasing number of people moving into them. He complained: “The first of these [promises], which I consider a priority, is for the Government to give the Zulu nation more territory, for without more territory our scheme will not make sense” (as cited in Desmond, 1971, p. 219). Some have said that the scheme was to cooperate secretly with authorities in the removals to increase Buthelezi’s political power through an increased population and treasury for his government. The final removals from Lake Bhangazi occurred in 1974. The last leader of resistance to removals was Lokothwayo Mbuyazi. Some claimed that he was inkosi for the Lake Bhangazi area. Oth- ers identified him as induna whose allegiance was to the inkosi in nearby Mtubatuba (D. Mbuyazi, personal interview, July 2001; F. Mhlanga, personal interview, July 2001). How did he manage to resist removal for more than a decade? Even though there were con- flicting memories about Lokothwayo, he nonetheless has reached mythical proportions since his death. One said that Lokothwayo managed to resist removal for so long because of his traditional healing powers. He recalled that Lokothwayo slaughtered a white 774 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ cow and prayed to his ancestors. As a result, when the White people came to remove them, they all suddenly fell asleep while approach- ing his kraal. When they awoke, the people had disappeared (Mama G. Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to July 2001). Clearly, Lokothwayo was able to use the legal system to delay what now appears to have been the inevitable. Daniel Mbuyazi, his son, recalled that he had filed for an injunction against the removal plans in 1973 with the magistrate in nearby Mtubatuba. The magis- trate delayed government action for a year despite the 1973 amend- ment to the Bantu laws. Lokothwayo died in 1974, and removals followed shortly thereafter (J. Mbuyazi, personal interview, July 2001). The circumstances surrounding his death remain clouded. Fakazi Mhlanga remembered him as the hero of the resistance. Despite this, he reported that many enemies had cast evil spells and poisoned him, making him sick. He reportedly recovered using his traditional healing powers (F. Mhlanga, personal interview, July 2001). Still, others reported that he may have died from this poison- ing in 1974. Thus without a leader, the people were vulnerable to removal. Still, the question remained, why did the government suddenly decide to focus attention on the people from Lake Bhangazi? The government had not designated area surrounding Lokothwayo Mbuyazi for commercial agriculture. Jiakonia Mhlanga, a former resident of Lake Bhangazi, offered a plausible explanation. He said that the government removed them because of a terrorist threat. The government feared that terrorists might land on the nearby shores of the Indian Ocean and use the Lake Bhangazi area as a base for their operations. They feared that guerillas would blend into the African villages along the Indian Ocean (J. Mhlanga, personal interview, June to August 2001). Mozambique gained independence in 1975, following a success- ful leftist military coup in Portugal in 1974. Following the coup, the new government withdrew from the colony. Subsequently, a strug- gle followed between the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (Frente de Liberta vão de Mozambique) (FRELIMO), the national liberation movement, and the South African and Rhodesian-backed opposition named Mozambican National Resistance (Resistëcia Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 775 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ Nacional Moçambicana) (RENAMO). Umkhonto we Sizwe, the military arm of the African National Congress (ANC), backed FRELIMO and used Mozambique to launch guerrilla attacks into South Africa. Umkhonto we Sizwe also supported Zimbabwe Peo- ple’s Revolution Army (ZIPRA) and their efforts to liberate Rhode- sia. To stem the spread of revolution in southern Africa, military forces from South Africa invaded Namibia following the outbreak of fighting in Angola. Surrounded by revolution, the South African government’s fear of terrorist or guerrilla attacks intensified, lead- ing to heightened security along its vulnerable borders. In 1974, Premier Balthazar Johannes Vorster believed that if African states support the liberation movements sweeping throughout the region, South Africa would then face a “catastrophe too ghastly to contem- plate” (Ross, 1999; Unterhalter, 1987). To be sure, the government removed people throughout the Lake St. Lucia area in an effort to increase security. Platzky and Walker (1985) pointed out, “At Lake St. Lucia, more than 3400 Africans were moved off reserve land occupied by them for hundreds of years . . . from 1974 to 1979 . . . barely recorded in the press” (p. 47). The GGs also removed 1,500 people from an area demarcated for a missile testing range at Fenias Island on the western shores of Lake St. Lucia in Sodwana State Forest. The government conducted the removal and dumping of 700 people as “full-scale army maneu- vers, complete with code names” (Platzky & Walker, 1985, p. 147). Cheryl Walker, KZN commissioner, commented, “The history of the removal is not very well documented. What we know is that it was handled as a military operation” (as cited in Salgado, 1999b, par. 7). Like others, they had to leave crops and livestock behind as they watched the government burn their homes. After the comple- tion of Nhlozi Military Base, soldiers shelled their school to test artillery ordinance. Following their removal, the people suffered from malnutrition and had to travel long distances to fetch water from “bilharzias-infected streams” (Platzky & Walker, 1985, p. 349). During the 1970s, some estimates showed about 400,000 people removed from black spots in KwaZulu with a planned removal of an additional 1 million in the following decade. Oscar Dhlomo, 776 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ secretary-general of the Inkatha Freedom Party, in 1981 said, “The population removals in Natal involve persons displaced or removed from so-called ‘black spots’ . . . Kwazulu government is . . . [not] . . . consulted . . . about such removals . . . and we have no option but to countenance the resettlement . . . on humanitarian grounds” (as cited in Unterhalter, 1987, p. 109). He went on to say, “We could not turn people away who would otherwise be homeless” (as cited in Unterhalter, 1987, p. 109). In 1984, the threat of removal in KwaNgema and Mogopa led the people to resist through the courts. They also used the international press to tell the story of their pending plight. Their success may have stopped the removal of about 1 million people living in black spots. Increasingly, the international community stepped up pres- sure against South Africa to end apartheid, culminating with the U.S. sanctions in 1986. Slowly, apartheid began to crumble. During the final days of apartheid, Africans—who the govern- ment had removed from black spots—began to speak out demand- ing the return of their land. On February 2, 1990, President F. W. DeKlerk responded to these claims trying to soften the outward appearance of apartheid. He admitted that the government had forc- ibly removed Africans from their homesteads. Without any recourse, they had to comply. Representatives from six communi- ties in Natal asked the government for their land back after hearing his speech. They asked for compensation in the form of land restitu- tion, loss of earnings, and other losses associated with the removals such as destroyed houses and loss of livestock. They also wanted their title deeds restored, complete with mineral rights and com- pensation for what had been mined (Minnaar, 1994). By March 1991, throughout South Africa, dispossessed people demanded their land back. Some even went as far as to reoccupy their dispossessed land. This characterized the situation in Natal. In Roosboom, people began negotiating for the return of their land. While awaiting the results of their negotiations, they reoccupied the land they had claimed. Problems did arise over titles to the land. The government claimed the people had no title. Thus, they had no ownership rights. ANC party leaders responded to the Nationalist’s position by demanding them to “listen to people’s history about Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 777 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ their claim for land” (Torres, 1994, p. 35). They argued that the gov- ernment should not only look at title but also should look at the inheritance, forced relocations, historical claims, and ancestral gravesites. During their reoccupation campaign—which led to trespassing charges in Machaviestad (Matlaong)—people cried, “Our forefathers’graves are our title deeds” (Minnaar, 1994, p. 38). In 1993, Richard’s Bay Mineral Company sought permission to begin mining operations on the sand dunes at Lake St. Lucia. This prompted a public hearing in nearby Mtubatuba. Many families from Lake Bhangazi had already begun to organize to reclaim their lost land. The proposed mining operations made it critical to accel- erate their efforts to reclaim their land and to protect their ancestors’ burial sites in the sand dunes (Moloi, 1993/1994). This mining proposal set off a struggle between two rival groups. Fineas Mbuyazi, son of Lokothwayo, led the group that opposed the mining operation. Mbuyazi said, “I don’t want them to dig the earth and scatter the bones of our fathers around!” (Moloi, 1993/ 1994, p. 5). Alpheus Mnguni from the National Union of Mine- workers agreed. He outlined the union opposition to the proposal from Richard’s Bay Mineral Company. He said that they had not kept promises to provide a living wage for the workers. Therefore, the people should not believe them when they promise not to dis- rupt burial sites (Moloi, 1993/1994). Chief Mineus Mkhwanazi represented the faction in favor of mining. As king, Mkhwanazi claimed the eastern shores of Lake St. Lucia as a part of his historic jurisdiction. Mkhwanazi argued, It will be a mistake if I, as the king, say that I am against conserva- tion. But, the conservation of nature must not deny my people an opportunity for development. Wealth creation will only affect a small part of St. Lucia. (as cited in Moloi, 1993/1994, p. 5) Mbuyazi refused to meet with Mkhwanazi. He accused Mkhwanazi of not struggling for the land like the Mbuyazi people. He said, “I dislike the mixing of people with different kings” (Moloi, 1993/1994, p. 5). Essentially, Mbuyazi questioned the validity of his power over the area surrounding Lake Bhangazi and the right to negotiate with the mining company. He said, “He (Mkhwanazi) 778 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ claims to be king because King Shaka was Inkosi Ymakhosi (King of Kings). King Goodwill Zwelithini [of the Zulus] now occupies this position [not Mkhwanazi] ” (as cited in Moloi, 1993/1994, p. 5). This dispute spilled over to their official land claim that they filed the following year and continues to simmer through the present. Under the new South African Constitution of 1994, the govern- ment passed the Restitution of Land Rights Act. This Act allowed people to file claims for the recovery of lost land resulting from the removals of black spots going back to 1913. On September 27, 1995, Phineas Mbuyazi initiated a land restoration claim on behalf of the Mbuyazi clan and the people from Lake Bhangazi. Mineus Mkhwanazi followed on October 11, 1995 with a similar claim on behalf of the Mpukunyoni Tribal Authority (Restitution Claim, 1995). There were, however, questions as to the validity of their claims. Many questioned whether they had actually lived on the land that they claimed. Andrew Spiegel, an anthropologist at University of Cape Town, led the way in proving that people actually lived at Lake Bhangazi. Essentially, he re-created the community based on interviews. From the interviews, he began searching for material evidence. The most convincing evidence was the existence of a cat- tle dip tank built in the late 1930s by the government in an effort to eradicate an infestation of ticks. Mama Grace Mbuyazi recalled the White man who was in charge of the cattle dip. He had lived with her family while staying at Lake Bhangazi. She even remembered that he liked to eat. This, along with other evidence, convinced the Land Claims Commission that people actually lived at Lake Bhangazi until NCS evicted them. Still more challenges faced peo- ple in their quest for the return of their land (Mama G. Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to July 2001; J. Mhlanga, personal inter- view, June to August 2001). In 1995, the Regional Land Claims Commission along with T. Swanepoel, Department of Land Affairs (DLA), met with Mbuyazi and representatives of Mkhwanazi in Empangeni. The government officials outlined possible options for the people reclaiming their land at Lake Bhangazi. Swanepoel said that they would have problems relocating to Lake Bhangazi because it lay Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 779 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ within the GSLWP. Instead, he said they could choose sites in nearby Mtubatuba to build houses or could choose sites north of St. Lucia town. The DLA could also identify farms and assist claim- ants interested in buying these farms. The people could also harvest medicinal plants, natural resources, and vegetables in controlled access areas at Lake Bhangazi. The agreement additionally gave them access to ancestor gravesites. They could also share in the profits from culled animals within the park. In addition, the DLA could financially assist those claimants who wanted to buy urban stands in Durban, Richard’s Bay, and elsewhere. They could also receive cash compensation based on the valuation of the land. Finally, they could share in the revenues generated from GSLWP. Both factions agreed (Restitution Claim, 1995) It took 4 years to complete the land claim. In 1997, the Land Claims Commission determined that they would validate only one claim from the former residents of the Lake St. Lucia area. The Mbuyazi family and the Mpukunyoni Tribal Authority agreed to form one committee naming it the Bhangazi Land Claims Commit- tee (BLCC). With this, DLA finalized an agreement with the newly constituted body in December 1997. The final settlement between NCS and BLCC came in 1999. The government agreed that the dis- possessed people from Lake Bhangazi could claim portions of the land around Lake St. Lucia, totaling 26,360 hectares of land. It veri- fied that they had lost these rights because of racially discrimina- tory laws and practices leading to their dispossession between 1956 to 1974 (Salgado, 1999a). The government, however, renegotiated the terms of the settle- ment refusing to allow their return to their former homeland at Lake Bhangazi citing that it had been recently designated a World Heri- tage Site by UNESCO. Instead, they received a restitution award of R$17 million, or about $2 million. Each of the 556 beneficiary fam- ilies received R$30,000, or about $5,000. The total amount was placed in a trust account under the control of BLCC attorney John Wills. The trust was to manage the fund for the education and bene- fit of the community. Through the 1999 agreement, they also received 80% of the revenue generated by the GSLWP. They also received 5 hectares of land at Lake Bhangazi for a heritage center. 780 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ On the surface, it appeared that the story of the people from Lake Bhangazi ended with their successful land claim. Still seething, however, the two groups remained divided over the agreement. In 2001, the direct descendants of Lokothwayo sued for representa- tion on BLCC. They argued that the deal negotiated with the gov- ernment was a corrupt one benefiting only a few committee mem- bers and their attorney, John Wills. They filed suit with DLA for title to their lost land and its return for settlement. Fineas Mbuyazi supported them, which resulted in his forced exile into Swaziland because he was fearing for his life. He claimed that assassins attempted to murder him (J. Mbuyazi, personal interview, June to August 2001). In 2000, the Lubombo Spatial Development Initiative (SDI) was created to provide economic development in KZN, Swaziland, and Mozambique. The aim was to use ecotourism for economic devel- opment of the region. Lake St. Lucia fell within the SDI along with Lake Bhangazi. Andrew Zaloumis, SDI project manager, summed up the SDI stating, “Without economic benefits [of ecotourism] to the people of the region, the whole area is at risk” (as cited in Salgado, 1999c, n.p.). Zaloumis opposed reoccupation claiming that it would destroy the delicate environment. Gordon Forrest of the NCS agreed. He even said that it would be better to allow min- ing of the sand dunes, because at least they could rehabilitate the land. Because of this, the government has denied them access to Lake Bhangazi without first securing permits. This was just one of many failed promises (Moloi, 1993/1994). Seemingly, government authorities have resorted to age-old arguments used against the Zulu people claiming that they cannot conserve the environment. In reality, many argued that this policy is a continuation of apartheid, preserving the environment for the benefit of White tourists at the cost of the people who had inhabited Lake Bhangazi for centuries. Ian Porter, warden of St. Lucia, found the government’s position absurd. He said, It would be stupid not to accept people as part of the ecology. People in this area have been harvesting incema, tapping ilala palms and using the other natural resources for thousands of years. Their pres- Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 781 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ ence has shaped the ecological balance.” (as cited in Munnik, 1991/ 1992, p. 12) The people from Lake Bhangazi continue to struggle for the return of their land. This struggle continues under the new African regime that in some respects resembles the old regime. In July 2001, NCS released elephants at GSLWP, which served as a sym- bolic reclaiming of the land by the Zulu people. The irony of this event was revealed in the numerous speeches delivered. In his speech at the ceremonies, King Zwelethini told the Zulu people that they could not return to their homelands, because the site is a World Heritage Site. Many saw the irony. Makondo KaDhlovu summed up the people’s concerns when he said almost a century ago, “Let that land which is government land appear and let us black people build and dwell thereon and enjoy some rest” (as cited in MacKinnon, 1990, p. 178). REFERENCES Aitchison, S. G. G. (1917). Native social life: A short sketch of the home life, religion, arts, and crafts, manners, customs, superstitions, and folk lore of some of the native tribes of South Africa. Durban, South Africa: Josiah Jones Ltd. Baldwin, W. C. (1894). African hunting and adventure: From Natal to the Zambesi. London: Richard Bentley & Son. Bantu Authorities Act No. 68 (1951). Bantu Laws Amendment Act (1973). Bundy, C. (1992, Winter). Land, law and power in rural South Africa. New Ground, 8, 6-8. Debates in the House of Commons. (1913). Parliament, South Africa. Desmond, C. (1971). The discarded people. Baltimore: Penguin. Dunn, Domenic. (1948). John Dunn. Unpublished manuscript, John Dunn Papers. File 2. Killie Campbell Africana Library. University of Natal at Durban, South Africa. Group Areas Act No. 41 (1950). Guy, J. (1982). The destruction of the Zulu kingdom. Braamfontein, South Africa: Ravan Press. Longfellow, H. W. (1999). Evangeline. New York: Pelican Publishing. (Original work pub- lished 1847) Lubombo Spatial Development Initiative Plan. (2000). KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. MacKinnon, A. S. (1990). The impact of European land delimitations and expropriations on Zululand, 1880-1920. Master’s thesis, University of Natal at Durban, South Africa. Minnaar, A. (1994). The dynamics of land in rural areas: 1990 and Onwards. In A. Minnaar (Ed.), Access to and affordability of land in South Africa: The challenge of land reform in the 1990s (pp. 27-60). Pretoria, South Africa: Human Sciences Research Council. 782 JOURNAL OF BLACK STUDIES / JULY 2003 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ Minutes of St. Lucia/Eastern Shores Land and Claim meeting held at Natal Park Board Audi- torium. (1998, March 28). St. Lucia, South Africa. Moloi, Dudley. (1993/1994, summer). Let’s get political. New Ground, 14, 4-5. Munnik, V. (1991-1992, summer). Incema is money: Transforming tradition. New Ground, 6, 12-13. Native Prohibition of Interdicts Act No. 64 (1956). Native Trust and Land Act No. 18 (1936). Natives Land Act No. 27 (1913). Platzky, L., & Walker, C. (1985). The surplus people: Forced removals in South Africa. Johannesburg, South Africa: Ravan Press. Pretorius, S. (1994). Conserve it or use it? The Dukuduku forest. In A. Minnaar (Ed.), Access to and affordability of land in South Africa: The challenge of land reform in the 1990s (pp. 153-156). Pretoria, South Africa: Human Sciences Research Council. The Restitution Claim of Eastern Shores/Bhangazi in Hlasbisa District, KwaZulu-Natal. (1995). South Africa. Restitution of Land Rights Act No. 22 (1994). Ross, R. (1999). A concise history of South Africa. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Salgado, I. (1999a, September 12). Win-Win deal for St. Lucia. Sunday Times. Retrieved June 10, 2002 from www.sundaytimes.co.za/1999/9/12/insight/in02.htm Salgado, I. (1999b, November 21). Land of treasures and sorrow. Sunday Times. Retrieved June 9, 2002, from www.sundaytimes.co.za/1999/11/21/insight/in02.htm Salgado, I. (1999c, December 5). Hitting the heritage trail. Sunday Times. Retrieved June 9, 2002, from www.sundaytimes.co.za/1999/12/05/travel/travel01.htm Silverston, S. (n. d.) A chat about Zululand and the Zulus. Unpublished manuscript. Contem- porary account of John Dunn. John Dunn Papers. File 2. Killie Campbell Africana Library. University of Natal at Durban, South Africa. Sparks, Colonel. Reminiscences of John Dunn. Unpublished manuscript. John Dunn Papers. File 2. Killie Campbell Africana Library. University of Natal at Durban, South Africa. Stuart, J., & Malcolm, D. McK. (Eds.). (1950). The diary of Henry Francis Fynn. Pieter- maritzburg, South Africa: Shuter & Shooter. Torres, S. (1994). Land: A question of historical inheritance or legal right. In A. Minnaar (Ed.), Access to and affordability of land in South Africa: The challenge of land reform in the 1990s (pp. 13-25). Pretoria, South Africa: Human Sciences Research Council. UNESCO World Heritage Convention Act 49 (1999, December). Union of South Africa. (1936, May 4-17). House of Assembly Debates. Vol. 27. 4th Session 7th Parliament. Unterhalter, E. (1987). Forced removal: The division, segregation and control of the people of South Africa. London: Canon Collins House. Verkyul, J. (1973). Break down the walls. Grand Rapids, MI: Erdmans Publishing. Bradley Skelcher is a professor of history and director of the graduate degree pro- gram in historic preservation at Delaware State University. He teaches courses in African American history from the colonial era through the end of the Civil War and African American heritage preservation. His current interests are heritage preserva- tion and the Underground Railroad. He has also published books on African Ameri- can education, demonstrating its importance in heritage preservation. Skelcher / APARTHEID AND THE REMOVAL OF BLACK SPOTS 783 at DELAWARE STATE UNIV LIBRARY on April 14, 2012jbs.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://jbs.sagepub.com/ 
work_7ma5dhs32bepdknrxzmznuguxm	----	Microsoft Word - LMana SanHilario-openaccess.doc Full metadata for this item is available in Research@StAndrews:FullText at: http://research- repository.st-andrews.ac.uk/ “The ‘Ars vivendi’ of Laura Mañà’s Morir en San Hilario /To Die in San Hilario (2005)” BERNARD P. E. BENTLEY Date of deposit 10.05.2013 Version This is an author version of this work. Access rights © This item is protected by original copyright. This work is made available online in accordance with publisher policies. This is an author version of this work which may vary slightly from the published version. To see the final definitive version of this paper please visit the publisher’s website. Citation for published version BENTLEY, BERNARD P. E. (2012). “The ‘Ars vivendi’ of Laura Mañà’s Morir en San Hilario/To Die in San Hilario (2005)”. Studies in European Cinema, 9(1): pp7-22 Link to published version http://dx.doi.org/10.1386/seci.9.1.7_1 http://research-repository.st-andrews.ac.uk/ http://research-repository.st-andrews.ac.uk/ http://dx.doi.org/10.1386/seci.9.1.7_1 Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 BERNARD P. E. BENTLEY The University of St Andrews The ‘Ars vivendi’ of Laura Mañà’s Morir en San Hilario/To Die in San Hilario (2005) ABSTRACT Over the past decade Spanish-language cinema has established itself beside Spanish and Latin American cinema, and Morir en San Hilario is a good example of these new flexible collaborations rather than strict transnational co-productions. Billed as a comedy, the film could also be described as a variation on the road film, a circular journey to utopia, a Spanish village/pueblo film and a twenty-first-century ‘Ars moriendi’ developing the topos of homo viator. This is not a frequent combination to be found on cinema screens, and Laura Mañà’s gamble was to integrate all these ingredients and create a fable which reflects on life and death. She does this through comedy, exaggerations, parody and a narrative style identified as magic realism. Her originality, however, overlaps with the lasting legacy of the fifteenth-century Castilian soldier-poet Jorge Manrique (c. 1440–1479) and his ‘Stanzas Written upon the Death of His Father’, a landmark of Spanish literature. [Author’s note: Studies in European Cinema’s editorial policy is to publish quotations in English, if necessary placing original quotations in footnotes. Keywords - Laura Mañà - Morir en San Hilario - road film - homo viator - Jorge Manrique - meditation on death - magical realism On 15 August 2006, The Observer film critic wrote, Laura Mana’s To Die in San Hilario is a heavy-handed Spanish comedy in which the inhabitants of an impoverished small town, famous for its beautiful cemetery, prepare to receive a rich, elderly painter who plans to be buried there. Unfortunately, he croaks on the train two stations up the line and, through a series of misunderstandings, his place is taken by a fugitive gangster with a sackful of loot. The costumes and the steam train suggest the setting is some time between 1930 and 1970, but there's no hint of anything troubling going on elsewhere in the country. (French 2006: n.p., original formatting) This was the week of the film’s UK release when a similar review was published in The Guardian two days previously (Bradshaw 2006: n.p.), but there is much more to this film than being a Spanish comedy, whether failed or not. The film actually transcends national boundaries and specificities through its locations, collaborators and the issues it raises. 1 It also transcends genres and could be described as a variation on the road film, a circular journey to Utopia, a Spanish village/pueblo film and a twenty- 1 This film is an excellent example of Spanish-language cinema/Cine en Español, as identified in Bentley (2008: 313–14, 349–51). For the production details of this Spanish-language film funded by Spanish organizations and filmed in north-west Argentina, see Jaafar (2006: 82), and IMDb title: Morir en San Hilario. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 first-century ‘Ars moriendi’. This contribution aims to go one step further and suggest how Laura Mañà presents her spectators with an original fable and meditation based on traditional reflections on the human condition. As a genre the ‘road film’ needs no introduction, but one can be found in the work of Laderman (2002: 1–42). The ‘pueblo’ or village film, however, is important to Spanish cinema as a recurring location significant for its spectators because the rural setting also functions as a psychological space, usually characterized by stubborn traditional and conservative values. In Spain the pueblo film has acquired generic status and under this label can be found melodramas, thrillers, horror and mostly comedies from the 1960s and early 1970s (Bentley 2008: 11–13, 39–40, 231–32, 337– 38); it has currently a strong nostalgic appeal, as evoked in recent Almodóvar’s films like Volver/To Return (2006). Integrated into the pueblo film and its values is the comic stereotype of the ‘paleto’, the country bumpkin, usually contrasted with the more sophisticated city dweller (Bentley 2008: 144–45, 168–69, 203–04). The ‘Ars moriendi’, on the other hand, is a topic that flourished in fifteenth- and sixteenth- century Europe to provide advice on dying well (see for instance Eire 1995: 24–34). Death and, by implication, the purpose of life are the two major existential questions for which world religions have attempted to provide comforting answers. These themes have also been recently explored in Spanish cinema, for instance by Isabel Coixet in My Life Without Me (2003) or Alejandro Amenábar’s Mar adentro/The Sea Within (2004). The bold stroke of the director and screenwriter Laura Mañà was to explore the themes through a fable that exploits comedy, parody and a narrative style, or rather mode, identified as magic realism: ‘In the magical realism text […] the supernatural is not a simple or obvious matter, but it is an ordinary matter, an everyday occurrence – admitted, accepted, and integrated into the rationality and materiality of literary realism’ (Zamora and Faris 1995: 3, original emphasis). The brief pre-credit sequence introduces all the above directly with a close- up on the chairman of a village council, meeting in a hall in an unspecified location in the second quarter of the twentieth century – nothing more can be identified. The council is delighted that it has, after ten years without, received a written booking for one of its famous funeral celebrations from an ageing painter, Germán Cortés (Italo Damiano), who intends to die on 25 October and wants to be buried on the 26. The council chairman, who is the village doctor (Ulises Dumont), subsequently clarifies that people no longer anticipate death the way they use to: they now prefer home, accident and life insurance, perhaps make arrangements with a funeral parlour for their last rite and then place thoughts of their own mortality out of mind, avoiding to recall the inevitable, in order to get on with their daily minutiae and commitments (see for instance Ariès 1977: ch. 6). It is for this reason that the village’s economy has been in decline and, with no customers during the decade, the residents are now lacking confidence to organize another of their unforgettable celebrations. It is repeated later on a few occasions that the village, or small town, grew around a cemetery in a plain that cannot be located on any map, or the map in any country or continent. The predominant accents may be Argentine, but there are important Spanish voices in the village, for instance the Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 two central characters el Piernas (Lluís Homar) or Esther (Ana Fernández), and Cándido the carpenter (Eric Bonicatto) does not hide his French intonation. The October ceremony may evoke the autumn to some, so does the landscape and vegetation, but if it were meant to be Argentina rather than an unspecified location, the trees would be covered with their spring blossom. Mañà has preferred the objective correlative of the end of the natural annual cycle and to emphasize this poetic trope in order to locate her fable through the pathetic fallacy. After the contextualizing prologue there follows the initial credits with the title at first projected above a steam train travelling across a vast plain bordered in the far distance by high mountains (Figure 1). Following the discussion on death as an irrevocable fact of life, this credit sequence brings to mind the road film journey as a metaphor for the journey of life, which is here circular, opening and concluding in the village which is literally nowhere, a utopia. This ‘nowhere’ is first humorously presented and confirmed when the villagers congregate on the side of the railway tracks holding up a portable station sign ‘San Hilario’ below a clock, that has stopped at noon and is mounted on a telegraph pole, in order to halt the train. The town is not on the map because, as explained by the endearing ‘paleto’ Teodoro (Ferrán Rañé), it is just a cemetery. 2 To come to the village willingly, rather than fortuitously like the fugitive gangster el Piernas (Lluís Homar), is to accept one’s mortality as part of the natural cycle and not with the painful or sorrowful anticipation that it is the negation of life. The train journey and the forthcoming deaths are, in fact, the two topics that are repeated and clearly emphasized by the original trailer included on the DVD release. Figure 1 – Title. 2 For the factual record there is a town of San Hilario in the Province of Formosa in northern Argentina which, according to the Wikipedia, had 630 inhabitants in 1991. There was also a Saint Hilarius, Pope from 461 to 468. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 The Journey, evoked by the steam train’s progress below the title shot, is a familiar metaphor for Life which has had important oral, visual and written universal manifestations, and is probably part of the collective subconscious. 3 Each individual is seen as a traveller or pilgrim on the journey of life, a stranger in exile, homo viator (Holloway 1987: 5–6). Two cinematographic examples representing this topos, albeit separated by half a century, could be Det Sjunde Inseglet/The Seventh Seal (Bergman 1957) and Niwemang/Half Moon (Ghobadi 2006). La Strada/The Road (Fellini 1954) could also be included although not so closely focused on coming to terms with death as with one’s own potential or limitations starting and concluding by the sea, like Morte a Venezia/Death in Venice (Visconti 1971) or Bertrand Blier’s most recent film Le Bruit des glaçons/The Clink of Ice (2010). Life as a path is a topos shared by many cultural traditions and is universal, in no way limited to the western tradition. However, to remain close to the present context and by way of limited examples, one can recall, starting with the Classical tradition, Seneca’s letter ‘De brevitate vitae’: Even as conversation or reading or deep meditation on some subject beguiles the traveller, and he finds that he has reached the end of his journey before he was aware that he was approaching it, just so with this unceasing and most swift journey of life, which we make at the same pace whether waking or sleeping; those who are engrossed become aware of it only at the end. (Basore 1932: 315) Or one can recall the ironical formulation from Juvenal’s Satire 10: Though you’re carrying only a few cups of plain silver when you set out on a journey at night, you’ll be terrified of swords and sticks, and you’ll panic at the twitch of a reed’s shadow in the moonlight. A traveller who is empty- handed can sing in the mugger’s face. (Braund 2004: 367–69) There are also plenty of examples from the Hebrew tradition. Quoting from the King James version, Cain was cursed ‘a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth’ (Genesis 4:12), the Psalmist sings, ‘I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were’ (Psalm 39:12) and David expands, ‘For we are all strangers before thee, and sojourners as were all our fathers: our days on earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding’ (I Chronicles 29:15), or ‘For the good man is not at home, he is gone a long journey’ (Proverbs 7:19). The topos was adopted by the Christian tradition. For instance Hebrews 11:9–16 is a gloss on Genesis 23:4, Matthew 7:13–14 develops the topos of the gates at the end of each of the two mutually exclusive paths evoked by Jeremiah 21:8 and it was John’s Gospel that 3 Surprisingly, a monograph that explores this important universal tradition is still to be identified as a single reference, hence this rather lengthy introduction. From the perspective of Christianity complementary definitions can be found, for instance, in the works of Holloway (1987: 1–18) and Edwards (2005: 11–23, 205–12), who distinguishes the literal terrestrial pilgrim visiting a shrine from the one on the journey of life or on a personal quest into the self; see also Elsner and Rubiés (1999: especially 1–56). Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 gave a new twist to the metaphor: ‘Then Jesus saith unto him: I am the way, the truth and the life: no man cometh unto the father, but by me’ (John 14:6), as Jesus himself becomes the path to tread and follow. The metaphor of life as a journey, the topos of homo viator, develops further through the following millennium (see for instance Ladner 1967: 233–41). Two powerful examples are Boethius’s echo of Juvenal, ‘You are shuddering now at the thought of a club or knife, but if you had set out on the path of life with empty pockets, you would whistle past any highway man’ (Watts 1969: 68), and Dante’s Divina commedia, the Inferno: canto 1:1–3, opens with: In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost. (Durling 1996: 26–27) Another example, in English, might be John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, whose full title proceeds From This World to That Which Is to Come, Delivered Under the Similitude of a Dream (1684). In the Spanish cultural tradition the topos is nationally encapsulated by the fifteenth-century soldier-poet Jorge Manrique (c.1440–1479) in his famous ‘Coplas a/por/sobre la muerte de su padre’/‘Stanzas on the Death of His Father’, a landmark of Spanish literature: ‘This world of ours is the pathway | that leads us to the next, our | heavenly home [literally: a dwelling place without sorrow]’ (Grossman 2006: 8–9, stanza 5). 4 In the poem this image is contrasted with another image of life: ‘Our lives are the rivers | that empty into the sea | that is our dying’ (Grossman 2006: 6–7, stanza 3). This evocation of the sea where all rivers necessarily flow, where any individuality is lost and annihilated, is used to evoke the topos of ‘Death the Leveller’ (see for instance Eire 1995: 73–75). It is a negative image which Manrique’s poem rejects but which, as an image, has had a much more enduring presence in Spanish culture, alluded to even in Luis Buñuel’s documentary Las Hurdes. Tierra sin pan/Land Without Bread (produced by Ramón Acín 1933). Without contextualization a rapidly flowing river is included in one very brief shot at a crucial turning point towards the end of Morir en San Hilario, and yet it figures prominently in el Piernas’s final mural. As an image it is one of Heraclitus’s attributed aphorisms on the theme of universal flux, that one can never step twice in the same river for other waters are continuously flowing on, thus conveying the swift passage of time with no turning back (Wheelwright 1959: 29–36, 29). An important conclusion from this brief description of the topos that life is a path and journey for homo viator, rather than a river which links up more negatively with Charon and the Styx, is the emphasis that there is not so much a polarity or antithesis between life and death but a continuity: life has a purpose even if this cannot be apprehended without faith or belief. Mañà’s film does not, however, speculate on the particular beliefs to be accepted. In the film, Roman Catholic rites, 4 In 1833 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow also published a free translation of the poem as the ‘Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique’, printed in Boston by Allen and Ticknor. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 physically represented by the church building, are the ideological references questioned by the priest’s own doubt. Indeed, two-third of the way through when in the church, as Father Antonio (Juan Echanove) and Teodoro try to comment politely on the first sketch of el Piernas’s mural they call it an abstract, adding that this perhaps reflects more clearly the nature of God in the modern world: an abstraction. To return to the film’s initial credit sequence, after projecting the title and cutting briefly to the breathing difficulties of an elderly passenger inside one of the carriages, the actors’ names appear and the parodic mode is introduced. This is created through rapid montage, beginning with a straight cut to a high angle shot on a car arriving in an open space which cuts again onto the wheels of the car. The name of Lluís Homar, the presumed protagonist, is shown in the bottom right-hand corner and the credits continue with the close-up of a shoe and spats stepping out of the car, more shoes follow as often happens to create suspense. Although journeys can be made on foot or by any other means of transport, the car is iconic to the road film and is another generic pointer for the spectator (Laderman 2002: 13). This car and the spats locate the action in the possible late 1930s or early 1940s. The costumes, ambush, cries of betrayal, the shoot out, together with the facial close-ups on the fugitive gangster, el Piernas, all enhanced by the non-diegetic sound-track, quickly build up the impression that this is a parody of the ‘prohibition’ gangster movie, where the outlaw on the run and the quest overlap with road films (Laderman 2002: 20, 27ff.). The narrative will concentrate on el Piernas’s personal journey and transformation within the secluded village of San Hilario but, to build up suspense and remind the spectator of the ‘real’ contrasting criminal world and parody, the narrative will periodically return to the police investigation and the exaggerated stereotypes of the gangsters attempting to recover the stolen money. In calling one of the gangsters ‘Cráter’ (Carlos Bermejo), one wonders if the parody is not further enhanced through a playful reference to and inversion of the other more competent criminal Jack Carter, as represented by Michael Cain in Get Carter (Hodges 1971) or by Sylvester Stallone in, the other remake of Ted Lewis’s novel, Get Carter (Kay 2000), themselves being playful inversions of Nick Carter, the pulp fiction detective who triumphed in the 1930s and of whom a few films were made, as well as many 5¢ comics quoted visually in this film. Back to el Piernas’s establishing shot, his initial characterization sets him up as the loser and idiot of the plot among the mobsters controlled by el Gordo (i.e. Fatso (Oscar Alegre)). In his gangster setting, el Piernas parallels the fool, the inept and clumsy ‘paleto’, as confirmed by his telephone calls to Cráter, but in San Hilario he becomes the more sophisticated and respected city man amongst the other innocent and naive fools, as he tries to run away down the street shouting that they are all mad! For those in the real and sane world he will grow into the fool who according to mediaeval tradition can nonetheless offer wisdom though irony (see for instance Welsford 1935: xi–xviv, 314–23). After his attempted escape, at first albeit in spite of himself and then reluctantly, el Piernas does become the literal and allegorical ‘homo viator’, the ‘stranger’ in San Hilario, an ‘exile’ in a world so different from his own Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 and from the spectators, and a ‘criminal’ who finds ‘redemption through his pilgrimage’ (Holloway 1987, 5–6). He will discover and demonstrate ‘that Truth sits in your heart’ (Edwards 2005: 8–17, 11). This identification as homo viator is playfully confirmed by his name ‘el Piernas’, which literally translates as ‘Legs’, always on the run, since in Spanish the use of the definite article indicates a nickname. The name Germán Cortés that he is given in the village, albeit a case of mistaken identity, is another joke echoing the Conquistador Hernán Cortés, who came across unknown lands, as explained in the film. In this film many of the situations and events represented, both plausible and those implausible, which can be identified as examples of magical realism, can also be understood with reference to the topos of the allegorical homo viator in general and more specifically to the argument and imagery used and elaborated in Jorge Manrique’s poem, including the briefly evoked river. 5 Manrique’s poem presents structured reflections on life and death, formulated as a eulogy and tribute to his father Don Rodrigo Manrique, who died on 11 November 1476 at the age of 70 with a probable facial cancer growth (Domínguez 1988: 10, 157, n. 22). Manrique and Laura Mañà’s reflections are separated by more than five centuries and exploit two different artistic genres, so it is not the present intention to argue that Morir en San Hilario is an adaptation of Manrique’s ‘Coplas’/‘Stanzas’ but to point out ideological echoes, inescapable for one who knows both works. Laura Mañà presents her own meditation, updating the enduring traditional topoi, and thus also combining ‘originality with tradition’, which is the title and argument of Pedro Salinas’s study of the poem (Salinas 1947). For instance the universal ubi sunt topos, developed by Manrique with reference to recent political figures and other individuals with the lengthy anaphora ‘Where now is […]’ and ‘Where now are […]’ rounded off with ‘Where shall we go to find them? | What were they but fleeting dewdrops | in the fields’ (Grossman 2006: 18–23, stanza 16–19), is paralleled in the film through the presence of framed photographs commemorating past funerals, hanging on the hotel walls. It is also echoed through the visual reference to the more contemporary song ‘Where have all the flowers gone? | Long time passing […]’ (Pete Seeger 1955) by introducing Berta (Rita Terranova), who looks after the Good Hope Hotel, Hotel Buena Esperanza, and whose tears, as they fall on the ground or by the graves in the cemetery, bring forth flowers the next morning. This is a good example of magical realism: because no one weeps at a happy San Hilario funeral, Berta’s tears are shown on three occasions metamorphosed from dewdrops into flowers for the dead. Teodoro claims there is nothing depressing in helping others to be happy when they die and their life is fulfilled. The two meditations begin by establishing the fear of dying as a consequence of perceiving death as the negation of life. This is true especially for those who live perilously by violence and thus engrossed in the minutiae of surviving, as Seneca put it (Basore 1932: 315), enduring the anxieties experienced 5 Manrique’s poem has inspired many commentaries; two fundamental accounts are by the poet Pedro Salinas (1947) and the academic Nicholas Round (1985). Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 by the soldiers in Manrique’s poem: ‘What is the use? | When you, Death, arrive with rage, | and strike to pierce neatly through all | with your arrow’ (Alda Tesán 1977: 156, vv. 285–88). 6 So it is for el Piernas as he runs away from the opening ambush and stows away on the train seen during the initial credit sequence, in a freight wagon appropriately carrying pigs, which get the better of him even though they are being sent to the slaughter house; at first he fears greatly for his life, as Manrique puts it, Tell me, Death, where do you hide | and move them to? | And their glorious deeds | achieved in wars | and at peace, | when you, cruel, rip loose | and with force bring them down | to be destroyed. (Alda Tesán 1977: 155, vv. 269–76) 7 Too busy checking over his shoulder to protect his back and his US dollars, el Piernas is on the run, living the life of fear, full of threats and dangers, pursued by the police and his own criminal mob whose headquarters are concealed behind the cold storage room of a slaughter house. This is the setting evoked in Manrique’s stanza 13, full of ambushes and traps: The glittering grand life that | we live here, | what are they but speeding racers | and death the snare, the ambush | where we fall? | Not thinking of traps, of danger, | we run as fast as we can, | without pause; | but when we see the deception | and want to change our course, it | is too late. (Grossman 2006: 16–17, stanza 13) 8 Set on this course, hiding in the village to protect his life, el Piernas is at first oblivious of the fact that it is his funeral that is being prepared, consequence of the mistaken identity with the expected painter, Germán Cortés, who died on the train making its way to San Hilario at the beginning of the film. This generates the humorous situational and verbal irony that permeates el Piernas’s exchanges with the villagers, who take it for granted that he had actually planned to come to them in order to die. A third into the film, awaiting his rescue and feeling a little safer on his second day in San Hilario, outside the bar-café el Piernas finally sees the notice that Germán Cortés has thirteen days left until his death. The realization that it is his own funeral that is being organized leads him to start fearing again and he runs back to the hotel to telephone Cráter and el Gordo to bring forward his getaway. Until transport arrives and he is rescued from this impossible situation, ‘You live in an incredible town!’ which Teodoro takes as a compliment, el Piernas will temporarily exploit the situation and mistaken identity as a means of cover from the police, who are also after him and the stolen money. 9 6 This stanza 24 omitted by Grossman is my own translation from the original (Alda Tesán 1977: 156), and it should be noted that the poem develops military images to suggest the perils of life, but these references are not always so evident in the translation. 7 This original stanza 23 (Alda Tesán 1977: 155) is also omitted from Grossman’s translation. 8 The ‘speeding racers’/corredores are in fact the scouts in the vanguard that precede the troops. 9 The translations are those of the DVD’s subtitle. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 However, remaining in San Hilario gradually leads to changing priorities for el Piernas, and he slowly begins to reflect attitudes also highlighted and valued in Jorge Manrique’s poem. Firstly there is the slow appreciation that worldly goods and material wealth, his sack full of US dollars, are of no real use. This is humorously demonstrated when he plays poker late into the night with his new friends, and he realizes no one is worried by the rules of the game or actually concerned because they are loosing money; they are gambling as if with Monopoly money. He will gradually stop worrying, hiding and caring about his dollars, as he eventually realizes that, according to Manrique’s verses, ‘See what little value | lies in the things we strive for | and pursue, | for in this world of deceit, | even before we perish | they are lost […]’ (Grossman 2006: 10–11, stanza 8). So that at the end, as his relationship develops with Esther, the village seamstress (Ana Fernández), he returns the money without any regrets but gets shot in the back when he makes his way back on foot to the village. Prompted by Teodoro, he also comes to appreciate that other things matter more: for instance finding a purpose for his life, a goal, and living every moment to the full, aware that it may be the last. For the people of San Hilario this goal and purpose is preparing a memorable funeral to celebrate a life not to be forgotten; for el Piernas this goal becomes painting the mural in the village church, which was the true Germán Cortés’s last wish. At first it was only to keep up the deception that he is the painter, and thus continue to hide in the village; later he accepts the mural as his own personal goal and teleology. He concludes with a mural that celebrates the village and its own teleology, including within its frame his own most recent fulfilling experiences. In Manrique’s poem the importance of finding a purpose in life is established with reference to his own fifteenth-century values, being a good Christian soldier: ‘He was an Aurelius Severus Alexander | in his discipline and application | in war’ (vv. 331–37, my translation), ‘He did not leave vast treasures | he did not achieve great riches, | immense wealth, | but he waged wars against Moors’ (Grossman 2006: 26–27, stanza 28–29). For el Piernas this required a total change of attitude and to recreate himself. In San Hilario he also learns the value of friendship, first with Teodoro, and then with the other villagers, sealed after the drunken poker game in the bar, as Manrique writes, ‘What a friend he was to friends!’ (Grossman 2006: 24–25, stanza 26). The all important catalyst to this change was falling in love and finding his Platonic Lady, the woman who motivates and inspires. Teodoro describes Esther as she who hears the last secrets of the dying, thus accompanying them to their death and transformation. From the first moment that el Piernas sees Esther, coinciding with his first arrival at the church to start on the mural, the non-diegetic soundtrack, the extended medium shots and the reverse shots establish that he has felt something, fallen in love, and that she too has been affected in a situation that occurs twice. At first he misunderstands their mutual attraction and tries to seduce her, a moment that affects their relationship and greatly upsets Esther’s son (Milton de la Canal). Through his persevering and more caring involvement with Esther, he gradually comes to appreciate the difference between chasing an object of sexual Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 desire and genuine personal relationships. 10 Furthermore as he gets to know her son Pablo and shares activities with him, el Piernas learns to think beyond his own self-interest. He first tries to teach Pablo to defend himself on his callipers and then makes him a pair of stilts (!) so that Pablo can be accepted by the other children rather than be the object of their bullying. This allows the threesome to enjoy each other’s company on their own among the hills, beyond the confines of the village, as well as to remember Pablo’s deceased father, in visual compositions that recall the Holy Family (76 mm; Figure 2). 11 The importance of the family, whether traditional or reconstructed in the case of Esther and Pablo, is also glorified at the end of the Manrique poem: ‘And so with this understanding, | and with all human senses | still preserved, | surrounded by his wife, | his children, brothers, sisters, | and his servants, | he gave up his soul to the One’ (Grossman 2006: 34–35, stanza 40). 12 Figure 3: El Piernas, Pablo and Esther. The evolution of the mural acts as a useful objective correlative with el Piernas’s journey, his development, transformation and self-fulfilment. When he first takes on the task, as mentioned above in order to protect his false identity, he 10 The relationship as viewed from Esther’s perspective makes a very interesting narrative: her profession as seamstress like a modern Penelope awaiting for an Odysseus to return, her possible necrophiliac tendencies and her own scars, physical and allegorical, another example of magical realism, concealing a difficult past only alluded to in the film. 11 This is an image and device also used by Bergman in The Seventh Seal. In Mañà’s film Pablo even wears angel wings, which he then lends to el Piernas. 12 See Rutherford’s (2010) Ph.D. thesis, which examines and discusses the various family structures possible since Spain recovered its democracy. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 does not even know what a mural is. He has, furthermore, no personal memories that he can draw upon for his painting except perhaps how el Flaco, Skinny, was disposed of by el Gordo’s men. Rummaging through Germán Cortés’s trunk and belongings, he discovers a sketch book with drawings of houses which the painter had done as a 6-year-old. He also leafs through one of Germán’s books, Pintores inolvidables/Unforgettable Painters, where he sees the reproduction of an impressionist’s self-portrait beside his easel and wearing a large beret. The next morning to make his start on the mural, and thus preserve his false identity, el Piernas shaves his moustache and changes his clothes. Furthermore he also puts on a beret like the painter’s, and thus matches Teodoro, who wears his own beret – so the two consolidate their friendship with a conspiratorial shot/reverse shot. His first attempt is to paint a house, so badly that Teodoro and Father Antonio called it an abstract painting to spare his feelings, but these brush strokes are significant because he may have been subconsciously trying to paint what was really missing from his life: a home and a family. The second time he returns to the mural, there is still no genuine commitment on his part and Teodoro takes over the painting until Esther walks back into the church, but the two friends have held an important conversation about life and its relationship to death. El Piernas attitude is changing, and the third time the mural is shown, he has completed three abstract compositions reminiscent of Joan Miró’s style, perhaps as a means of attracting Esther’s attention. 13 However, this third attempt is being blotted out by the angry and disappointed Pablo after he has seen el Piernas force himself on his mother. El Piernas subsequently obliterates these compositions, this time with determination and purpose, and again with a blue wash, as if washing the wall clean. During his last few days in San Hilario as his relationship with Esther and her son blossoms he builds up happy memories to inspire his mural. Following the fireworks rehearsal for his funeral, he makes a completely new start to what will be the definitive version: a mother with baby in arms, to which he adds a large tear below the mother’s right eye, and then a young boy with angel wings holding the mother’s hand, again representing his unspoken aspirations and dreams. The style of the new mural appears to be influenced by Teodoro’s own paintings, which in turn can be identified as reflecting Franz Roh’s definition of visual Magic Realism as explained by Irene Guenther (Zamora and Faris 1995: 15– 73). Intercut with el Piernas’s brush strokes is a shot of a happy Pablo now the centre of attention on his new stilts, and of a very moved Esther praying in church, moving closer and closer to the mural. From there on the mural will be filled with visual reminders of el Piernas’s most recent fulfilling experiences in the village and even anticipate his own cortège (Figure 3). As el Piernas looks round from his mural to look at Esther, who has by now moved from the altar to pray in front of the painter and his work, the low-key light on the side of el Piernas’s face close to his 13 Ms Beatriz Tadeo Fuica has a persuasive interpretation linking el Piernas’s experimental mural with Joan Miró’s paintings, which she identified as ‘Vuelo de pájaros’ (1941) and ‘La luna verde’ (1972). It is to be hoped that she will find time to write up and publish her hypothesis. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 ‘mother and children’, together with the deep focus and selective lighting on the two-dimensional painting behind him, makes him very much part of his mural. Figure 3 – The Mural. After his silent meditation by the flowing river, reflecting on his own mortality, painting the mural has become personally meaningful for him; it is no longer a cover for his criminal identity but a celebration of his new attitude to life. Hence the ‘holy family’ sequence in the hills dissolves into the mural being painted. He has accepted Teodoro’s obvious reflection on life: ‘Everyone has to die. Dying is hereditary’, so why deny or fear it? By this stage he has also stopped living engrossed in his own immediate preoccupations (Basore 1932: 315), and when Esther measures him for his funeral suit he has learnt that one need no longer fear to be surprised by Death, recalling the ‘I don’t want death to surprise me’ from the pre-initial-credit sequence. He has accepted death as part of the natural cycle, not a negation but one of the different stages of a meaningful life, as Manrique advises, ‘Do not think of it as bitter, | the dreadful, dire battle | that awaits you’ (Grossman 2006: 30–31, stanza 35). A death should be celebrated and remembered, not to be wasted. El Piernas has found time and the conviction to do something worthwhile and of quality, that does not necessarily bring with it material rewards, whereas before his attitude exemplified another of Teodoro’s paradoxes that the fear of death prevents us from achieving as much. Teodoro is the eternal optimist who has so much still to do that he must keep putting off his suicide, as he adds new items to his list of things to do in order to fulfil himself. 14 Teodoro evokes others who also came to San Hilario to fulfil themselves and their dreams, like Pablo’s father, Esther’s husband, the aviator with angel wings. The aviator’s wings are those of an 14 As Dr Belén Vidal pointed out, the ‘list of things to do’ is also important to Coixet’s My Life Without Me (2003), and implicit in Laura Mañà’s recent comedy La vida empieza hoy/Life Begins Today (2010), where the Town Council puts on free sexual education classes for its senior citizens. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 angel on Pablo, and become those of a fallen angel for el Piernas with the possible threat of becoming Icarus wings. All have left memories, and el Piernas will be remembered by his mural, the work of art that transcends mortality. The completed mural is never shown in the film, but this is not important. The mural was a means to Piernas’s transformation and acceptance of death, not an end itself. As for homo viator, in this phenomenological world the conscious journey matters more than its destination; it is the quality of life that matters, not its length. Another important overlap between Jorge Manrique and Laura Mañà is the depiction of the swift passage of time. For Jorge Manrique this is achieved by the manipulation of verb tenses: If we look upon the present | and see how in a moment | it is done, | […] we will deem the yet-to-come | as past and gone. | Oh, let no man be deceived | and think that what he hopes for | will endure | longer than what has gone by, | for all things are bound to pass | as they did before. (Grossman 2006: 4–5, stanza 2) Laura Mañà and Bernat Vilaplana, the film’s editor, convey this through the use of fades to black and dissolves, repeating brief links of el Piernas going to bed or waking up, and the use of five rising orange suns to identify five different days, each time showing the sun in a slightly higher position on the horizon, then increasing briefer sequences as the narrative develops, with rapid editing, parallel montage, slightly dislocating and syncopating the chronology in the last 30 minutes of the film, which logically cover a number of days so that the funeral can take place on day 14 of the film’s narrative. Examples of other strategies are the broken clock and the lack of radio news or news papers, since information is brought to the bar on bicycle by the postman Rafael (Martín Pavlosky). The swift passage of time is balanced in both works by the important value placed on memory: ‘These old stories of his | which he defined with his strong arm | in his youth, | with other new victories | he now renewed | in his old age’ (Alda Tesán 1977: 159, vv. 361–64). 15 The village lives with the memory of those for whom the celebrations were organized and, as already mentioned, on the hotel walls hang numerous framed photographs of previous commemorations. Esther and her son stroll through the cemetery talking about the departed, and she tells Pablo that ‘the dead live [on] in our memories’, and so she helps him recall their achievements and their funeral. El Piernas will also transcend his brief stay in San Hilario through Art with his mural on the church wall, thus recalling the title of Germán Cortés’s book found in the trunk. 16 Memories are also a consolation for Jorge Manrique’s family, ‘Though he is dead, | his memory lives on to | comfort us’ (Grossman 2006: 36–37, stanza 40). 15 Also omitted from Grossman, this is my own translation of stanza 31 from the original (Alda Tesán 1977: 159). 16 ‘So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, | So long lives this and this gives life to thee’ (Shakespeare’s Sonnet XVIII). Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 Since the cemetery is the origin and heart of the village, in the Hotel Buena Esperanza the room in which el Piernas is lodged, which is number 13, is the best because of its view over the cemetery. The cemetery is the perfect memento mori which urges us to live a full life and, as Berta states in the same scene, the cemetery ‘is our past, our present, and our future’. Within it, all the crosses are the same, the opportunity to espouse this attitude is available to all and any. This also brings to mind the topos of ‘Death the Leveller’: citizen, artist or criminal, all receive the same care, attention and cross, in San Hilario. As Doña Rosita (María Elena Rua), who runs the café-bar, pleads when they share the money purloined by Mariano from the gangsters’ sack, in this town the dead are all equal, neither rich nor poor. 17 This is echoed by Mariano when the police want to prevent the celebration of el Piernas’s funeral and he states that death wipes out all injustices and it is the same for all, rich, poor, intellectuals or idiots. Jorge Manrique expressed the same topos through his metaphor that our lives are rivers that flow to the sea: ‘There flow the mightiest rivers, | and the others, tributaries | and lesser streams, | joined together and equal | are those who live by their labor | and wealthy men’ (Grossman 2006: 6–7, stanza 3, and consider as well stanzas 14–24, pp. 16–24). Death is the great leveller of differences. The narrative is divided into three parts: the flight of the gangster and his hiding in San Hilario. A third of the way through, el Piernas realizes that the villagers are preparing for his funeral in thirteen days’ time and this shatters his confidence as the film now builds up his fear of death. With the third dawn, almost two-third through the film, the transformation of the fool begins as he finally decides on a suitable subject for his mural, thus accepting and appreciating his situation. In fact el Piernas gradually acknowledges his fate in very different circumstances but with the same resignation and equanimity as Don Rodrigo Manrique’s ‘and I consent to my dying | and submit to a desire | bright and pure; | it is madness for a man | to wish to live when God wishes | him to die’ (Grossman 2006: 32–35, stanza 38). Subsequently, el Piernas receives his last phone call – Cráter will finally pick him up the following night at kilometre 24. This time he is hesitant and indeed reluctant to leave the village in order to return to the ‘real’ world, the parody of the gangster movie. He considers his situation and options by the river, whose rapid flow is accentuated by the loud soundtrack. He finds it difficult to write his farewell message to Esther before he puts on his gangster outfit. The body of the real Germán Cortés has arrived as el Piernas leaves clutching his jute sack, as if an echo of the sack that keeps recurring in Luis Buñuel’s films, as if containing all sorts of worries and emotional problems. The new relationships el Piernas has just established are too strong and have affected him greatly, so he plans to leave the money with Cráter and return to the village. He does not, however, know that Mariano has replaced the dollars with strips of paper. When el Piernas leaves the sack in Cráter’s car and walks away, Cráter checks the contents and concludes that 17 In keeping with the film’s humour, this democratic statement is balanced with humour as the scene in question echoes the venality of the islanders in Whisky Galore (MacKendrick 1949) or ¡Bienvenido Mister Marshall!/Welcome Mr Marshall (Berlanga 1953). Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 he has been double-crossed. As el Piernas resolutely and fearlessly walks back towards San Hilario, Cráter shoots him in the back. El Piernas makes it to his hotel room and, his wound bandaged, he receives Extreme Unction from Father Antonio, but ironically it is he who offers comfort to the doubting priest. Meanwhile Esther is distraught when she finds el Piernas’s discarded message and concludes that until the day before she loved a man who left her to carry on with his life, thinking he is running away and not facing up to his commitments. The pathetic fallacy then asserts itself as a storm breaks when Esther arrives to dress him for his funeral procession and undresses to lie down beside him. The close-up on el Piernas’s face, wearing a gentle smile, then dissolves to show him walk alone and naked through the cemetery into the redemptive rain, as if it were washing him free of all his imperfections. 18 The scene suggests that his soul is leaving his body behind, and is also consistent as a dream or vision within the magical-realist narrative, thus making no actual assertion as to what really lies beyond this moment. There is peace on el Piernas’s face, as if echoing the resignation implicit in Jorge Manrique’s simple statements, in contrast to the tropes and rhetoric of the whole poem, introducing his father’s last moments: ‘After his memorable feats, | his memorable deeds, too many | to recount, | on his estate in Ocaña | Death came for him, Death came knocking | on his door’ (Grossman 2006: 28–29, stanza 33). This is a statement of el Piernas’s transformation from life into death. The spectators are not shown how or when he closes his eyes beside Esther, but the screen fades to black, the final credits run and the soundtrack carries on playing the celebrations of his funeral with humour and the exaggerations expected from the magical-realist mode, concluding with the announcement that the following week the real Germán Cortés’s life will also be commemorated with a similar fanfare and more fireworks, in order to leave more good memories behind with the audience’s chuckle at the dialogue over the credits on a black screen. Morir en San Hilario is a reflective film with a universal appeal. The present contribution does not claim that it was inspired by a fifteenth-century poem, rather that with their overlaps Mañà and Manrique are both reiterating, each for their own age and each with great originality, basic human anxieties discussed long before they each started thinking about them. Pedro Salinas’s shrewd study of Jorge Manrique’s poem ‘Tradition and Originality’ can be seen to apply just as well to Laura Mañà: traditional values are presented in an engaging and original manner. Secularized and displaced, el Piernas journey follows ‘the mediaeval conception of homo viator, of the wayfarer in a strange world, who is also a pilgrim towards the divine order’ (Ladner 1967: 256). A good ‘Ars moriendi’ should in fact be an ‘Ars vivendi’. El Piernas’s journey offers those spectators who are willing to see it 18 Professor Evans reminded me of the similar redemptive scene at the end of The Shawshank Redemption (Darabont 1994). The spiritually cleansing power of water is, like the journey, another universal symbol evident for instance from Asian New Year celebrations, the river Ganges and Christian baptism; or in the words of the final chapter of The Revelations of St John the Divine: ‘And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb’ (22: 1). Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 reflections on living well, making a good journey whatever the destination. It is not the length of our life but its quality that matters, the fulfilment of a worthwhile ambition. 19 El Piernas comforts the Priest with the optimistic, and yet ironic, aphorism that ‘what awaits after death must be wonderful, that’s why no one comes back’. 20 The journey begins where it concludes, in an unidentified village built around a cemetery; in that sense the journey is circular and death at the centre. However, as well as the present serious meditation on the subject of life and death, it is imperative to recall the humorous tone of the film, its delicate use of irony, its witty script, its visual gags, the balanced understated acting and the farce, the subtle visual conclusion, and the narrative mode of magical realism, exaggerations and excess. But then there is no point in spelling out the obvious: the spectator is to accept all the optimism expected from a comedy’s conclusion to enhance its reflections. Author’s note Studies in European Cinema’s editorial policy is to publish quotations in English, if necessary placing original quotations in footnotes. Acknowledgements Dr H. Partzsch, Dr B. Vidal and Professor O. Evans for their suggestions after reading draft typescripts. Castelao Producciones SL/Filmax for copyright permission to include the three stills. References Alda Tesán, J. M. (ed.) (1977), Jorge Manrique, Poesía, Madrid: Cátedra (Letras Hispánicas 38). Almodóvar, P. (dir.) (2006), Volver/To Return, El Deseo. Amenábar, A. (dir.) (2004), Mar adentro/The Sea Within, Sogepaq. Ariès, P. (1977), L’Homme devant la mort/The Hour of Our Death, Paris: Seuil (trans. H. Weaver [1983], Harmondsworth: Penguin). Basore, J. W. (ed. and trans.) (1932), Seneca. Moral Essays, vol. II, Loeb Classical Library 254, London: Heinemann. Bentley, B. P. E. (2008), A Companion to Spanish Cinema, Woodbridge: Tamesis. Berlanga, L. G. (dir.) (1953), ¡Bienvenido Mister Marshall!/Welcome Mr Marshall, UNINCI. Bergman, I. (dir.) (1957), Det Sjunde Inseglet/The Seventh Seal, Svensk Filmindustri. 19 As Professor Nigel Dennis and Dr Gustavo San Román commented, the values highlighted above are not that different from those put forward by the Humanist Association, http://www.humanism.org.uk/about. Accessed 11 December 2010. 20 The last version of the mural shown includes a black figure in the sky which my colleague Dr David Martin Jones interprets as an icon of Death, the Grim Reaper; my reading is that it represents Father Antonio realizing his dream of resolving his doubts. Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 Bible, King James Version (n.d., rpt.) Oxford University Press. Blier, B. (dir.) (2010), Le Bruit des glaçons/The Clink of Ice, Thelma Films. Bradshaw, P. (2006), ‘To die in San Hilario’, The Guardian online, Friday 11 August 2006, http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2006/aug/11/comedy.worldcinema. Accessed 10 May 2010. Braund, S. M. (ed. and trans.) (2004), Juvenal and Persius, Loeb Classical Library 91, Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Bunyan, J. ([1678] 1684), The Pilgrim’s Progress (ed. R. Pooley [2008]), Harmondsworth: Penguin Classics. Buñuel, L. (dir.) (1933), Las Hurdes. Tierra sin pan/Land Without Bread, Ramón Acín. Coixet, I. (dir.) (2003), My Life Without Me, El Deseo and Milestones Productions. Darabont, F. (dir.) (1994) The Shawshank Redemption, Castle Rock Entertainment. Domínguez, F. A. (1988), Love and Remembrance: The Poetry of Jorge Manrique, Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. Durling, R. M. (ed. and trans.) (1996), The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Inferno, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Edwards, P. (2005), Pilgrimage and Literary Tradition, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Eire, C. M. N. (1995), From Madrid to Purgatory: The Art and Craft of Dying in Sixteenth-century Spain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Elsner, J. and Rubiés, J.-P. (eds) (1999), Voyages & Visions. Towards a Cultural History of Travel, London: Reaktion Book. Fellini, F. (dir.) (1954), La Strada/The Road, Ponti-De Laurentiis Cinematografica. French, P. (2006), ‘To die in San Hilario’, The Observer online, Sunday 13 August 2006, http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2006/aug/13/worldcinema.comedy. Accessed 10 May 2010. Ghobadi, B. (dir.) (2006), Niwemang/Half Moon, Mij Film Co, New Crowned Hope and Silkroad Production. Grossman, E. (ed. and trans.) (2006), The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance, New York: Norton. Hodges, M. (dir.) (1971), Get Carter, MGM-EMI. Holloway, J. B. (1987), The Pilgrim and the Book: A Study of Dante, Langland, and Chaucer, New York: Peter Lang. International Movie Database (2005), Morir en San Hilario, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0442353/. Accessed 10 May 2010. Jaafar, A. (September 2006), ‘Review: To Die in San Hilario’, Sight & Sound, 16: 9, p. 82. Kay, S. (dir.) (2000), Get Carter, Morgan Creek and Franchise Productions. Laderman, D. (2002), Driving Visions: Exploring the Road Movie, Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Ladner, G. B. (1967), ‘Homo Viator: Medieval ideas on alienation and order’, Speculum, 42: 2, pp. 233–59. Mañà, L. (dir.) (2005), Morir en San Hilario, Castelao Producciones S.A.: DVD distributed by Filmax. - - - (dir.) (2010), La vida empieza hoy/Life Begins Today, Ovídeo. http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2006/aug/13/worldcinema.comedy http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0442353/ Studies in European Cinema, Volume 9 Number 1, pages 7-22 © 2012 Intellect Ltd Article. English language doi: 10/1386/seci.9.17_1 MacKendrick, A. (dir.) (1949), Whisky Galore, Ealing Studios. Round, N. G. (1985), ‘Formal integration in Jorge Manrique’s Coplas por la muerte de su padre’, in N. G. Round and D. G. Walters (eds.), Readings in Spanish and Portuguese Poetry for Geoffrey Connell, Glasgow: University of Glasgow, Department of Hispanic Studies, pp. 205–21. Rutherford, J. R. (2010), ‘Sites of struggle: Representations of family in Spanish film (1996–2004)’, Ph.D. thesis, University of St Andrews. Salinas, P. ([1947] 1974), Jorge Manrique, o tradición y originalidad, Barcelona: Seix Barral. Seeger, P. (1955) ‘Where have all the Flowers gone’, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1y2SIIeqy34. Accessed 6 October 2012. Visconti, L. (dir.) (1971), Morte a Venezia/Death in Venice, Alfa Cinematografica. Watts, V. E. (ed. and trans.) (1969), Boethius: The Consolation of Philosophy, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Wheelwright, P. (1959), Heraclitus, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Welsford, E. ([1935] 1968), The Fool. His Social and Literary History, London: Faber and Faber. Zamora, L. P. and Faris, W. B. (eds.) (1995), Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Suggested citation Bentley, B. P. E. (2012), ‘The “Ars vivendi” of Laura Mañà’s Morir en San Hilario/To Die in San Hilario (2005)’, Studies in European Cinema, 9: 1, pp. 7–22, doi: 10.1386/seci.9.1.7_1 Contributor details Bernard P. E. Bentley is Senior Lecturer and Chairman of the Spanish Department in the School of Modern Languages at the University of St Andrews. He teaches and lectures on the Spanish language and translation, Golden Age literature with a special interest in seventeenth-century drama, and Spanish cinema with a specific interest in narratology and film semantics. He recently authored A Companion to Spanish Cinema (Woodbridge: Tamesis 2008). More information is available at http://www.st-andrews.ac.uk/modlangs/People/Spanish/Bentley/ Contact: Bernard P. E. Bentley, Department of Spanish, School of Modern Languages, The University of St Andrews, St Andrews, Fife, KY16 9AL, UK. E-mail: bpeb@st-andrews.ac.ik</UIP> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1y2SIIeqy34 http://www.st-andrews.ac.uk/modlangs/People/Spanish/Bentley/ mailto:bpeb@st-andrews.ac.ik%3C/UIP 
work_7qtwemkh5vfw5njs7ts4je7yxy	----	1 volume 7 issue 14/2018 F I N G A L ’ S C A V E : T H E I N T E G R AT I O N O F R E A L - T I M E A U R A L I S AT I O N A N D 3 D M O D E L S Shona Kirsty Noble The Glasgow School of Art 167 Renfrew St Glasgow G3 6RQ United Kingdom s.noble@gsa.ac.uk Abstract: Fingal’s Cave: an Audiovisual Experience is an immersive virtual reality application that combines 3D models, a narrative soundscape and interactive auralisation in a recreation of a visit to Fingal’s Cave. This research explores the importance of audio in heritage visualisations and its practical implementation. Fingal’s Cave is a sea cave on the Isle of Staffa off the west coast of Scotland revered for its extraordinary acoustics. Audio is extremely important in the history and culture of Fingal’s Cave and it has long been romanticised, inspiring countless folklore, art, poetry and music. The visualisation is designed to encourage viewers to become a part of the cultural narrative and explore the cave for themselves, move around and speak to hear their voice auralised as it would be inside the cave. This is the first time the acoustic characteristics of a heritage site have been included in a visualisation in this interactive manner. This paper reviews whether auralisation is effective and meaningful and supports a creative response to heritage sites. The impact of the visualisation in terms of engaging with communities of interest and in the field of audio in heritage visualisation is discussed. The research suggests it is necessary that audio be included in heritage visualisations to give a full and complete understanding of how people experience it. Keywords: Real-time Auralisation, Virtual Reality, Heritage Visualisation, Acoustic Response, Fingal’s Cave, Staffa, Intangible Heritage, Audiovisual Data I n t r o d u c t i o n Fingal’s Cave: An Audiovisual Experience is a practical demonstration of the integration of auralised audio with a 3D model. In this research, the 3D model forms a representation of the visual elements of the example heritage site, Fingal’s cave, while the auralised audio forms a representation of the acoustic properties. While there is an extensive body of research into the importance of aurality and its inclusion in studies of cultural heritage mailto:s.noble@gsa.ac.uk S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 2 (especially works by Foka & Arvidsson1, Mattern2 and Sterne3), and similarly in aural reproduction using digital technologies (see works by Brereton4, Guthrie5 and Laird6), there is further research needed that fully addresses the intersection between them. This means that key issues relating to engagement and how dissemination modes ultimately influence our perception of heritage sites could benefit from applying the principles of the prototypes in this research. The very ephemeral nature of sound makes it one of the most intangible forms of heritage, but through full acoustic analysis, it can be further understood and replicated. This research aligns with the work of Betts7 and Veitch8, in that it advocates moving away from a focus on vision as the sense that best describes an experience of a place, and instead invoking full embodiment. The application developed is a multisensory exploration featuring real-time auralisation to create an immersive experience that recreates the effects on sound of Fingal’s Cave. There is an interactive aspect which allows a participant to speak into a microphone and hear their own voice as if inside the cave. This draws upon research into virtual stage acoustics and involves real-time auralisation generated from an impulse response captured inside Fingal’s Cave. As well as application of real-time auralisations to the users’ voice, the virtual experience also has a narrative soundscape featuring readings of poetry written about the cave, quotes from its historical visitors and ambient wave recordings. The output is implemented in Unity, a free to use game development software, and viewed through a virtual reality Head Mounted Display (HMD). This work supports the ongoing research of the Historical Archaeological Research Project on Staffa (HARPS)9 which is a collaboration between the Glasgow School of Art’s School of Simulation and Visualisation and the National Trust for Scotland. HARPS is adopting a new multi-disciplinary approach to recording and exploring the historical archaeological potential of the island. Work includes excavation, Reflectance Transformation Imaging (RTI) of tourist graffiti in Fingal’s Cave, and laser scan, audio and photogrammetric surveys.10 HARPS is the source of the base data sets used in this project, specifically the laser scan and audio sound sweep data of Fingal’s Cave, as well as photogrammetric data of Staffa. Now a national nature reserve, the current owners of Staffa, The National Trust for 1 Anna Foka and Viktor Arvidsson, ‘Experiential Analogies: A Sonic Digital Ekphrasis as a Digital Humanities Project’, DHQ: Digital Humanities Quarterly 10, no. 2, 2016, http://www.diva-portal.org/smash/get/diva2:938475/FULLTEXT01.pdf. 2 Shannon Mattern, ‘Ear to the Wire: Listening to Historic Urban Infrastructures’, Amodern 2, no. October, 2013, 1–24, http://amodern.net/article/ ear-to-the-wire/. 3 Jonathan Sterne, The Audible Past, Duke University Press, 2003, https://culturetechnologypolitics.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/jonathan- sterne-the-audible-past-intro.pdf. 4 Jude S Brereton, Damian T Murphy and David M Howard, ‘The Virtual Singing Studio: A Loudspeaker-Based Room Acoustics Simulation for Real-Time Musical Performance’, Joint Baltic-Nordic Acoustic Meeting, Odense, Denmark, 2012, 1–8. 5 A Guthrie et al., ‘Using Ambisonics for Stage Acoustics Research’, International Symposium on Room Acoustics, 2013, 1–10, ftp:// s00275-s00279.cisti.nrc.ca/outgoing/ISRA2013/CD_ISRA2013/Papers/P117.pdf; Anne Guthrie, ‘Stage Acoustics for Musicians: A Multidimensional Approach Using 3D Ambisonic Technology’, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, 2014, http://www.fraufraulein.com/anne/ AnneGuthrie_2014_05_07_Dissertation_FinalSmall.pdf. 6 Iain Laird, Damian Murphy and Paul Chapman, ‘Comparison of Spatial Audio Techniques for Use in Stage Acoustics Laboratory Experiments’, EAA Joint Symposium on Auralization and Ambisonics, Berlin, Germany, 2014, 140–46, http://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/85334/; Iain Laird, Damian Murphy, and Paul Chapman, ‘Energy-Based Calibration of Virtual Performance Systems’, C15th International Conference on Digital Audio Effects, York, 2012, 15–18, http://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/75125/; Iain Laird, Damian Murphy, and Paul Chapman, ‘Spatialisation Accuracy of a Virtual Performance System’, Joint Baltic-Nordic Acoustics Meeting, Odense, Denmark, 2012; Iain Laird et al., ‘Development of a Virtual Performance Studio with Application of Virtual Acoustic Recording Methods’, Audio Engineering Society 130th Convention, London, 2011, 1–12. 7 Eleanor Betts, Towards a Multisensory Experience of Movement in the City of Rome’, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space, Ray Laurence and David J Newsome, eds, Oxford University Press, 2011, 118–32, https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:osobl/9780199583126.001.0001; Eleanor Betts, ‘The Multivalency of Sensory Artifacts in the City of Rome’, Senses of the Empire Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, Eleanor Betts, ed, 1st ed., Routledge, 2017, 23–38; Eleanor Betts, ‘The Sacred Landscape of Picenum (900-100 BC): Towards a Phenomenology of Cult Places’, Inhabiting Symbols: Symbol and Image in the Ancient Mediterranean, Edward Wilkins, John B. and Herring, Accordia S, eds, Accordia Research Institute, University of London, 2003, 101–20. 8 Jeffrey Veitch, ‘Soundscape of the Street: Architectural Acoustics at Ostia’, Senses of Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, Eleanor Betts, ed, 1st ed., Routledge, 2017, 54–70. 9 HARPS, ‘The Historical Archaeology Research Project on Staffa (HARPS) | Society of Antiquaries of Scotland’, 2017, http://www.socantscot. org/research-project/the-historical-archaeology-research-project-on-staffa/. 10 Ibid. http://www.diva-portal.org/smash/get/diva2 http://amodern.net/article/ear-to-the-wire/ http://amodern.net/article/ear-to-the-wire/ https://culturetechnologypolitics.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/jonathan-sterne-the-audible-past-intro.pdf https://culturetechnologypolitics.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/jonathan-sterne-the-audible-past-intro.pdf ftp://s00275-s00279.cisti.nrc.ca/outgoing/ISRA2013/CD_ISRA2013/Papers/P117.pdf ftp://s00275-s00279.cisti.nrc.ca/outgoing/ISRA2013/CD_ISRA2013/Papers/P117.pdf http://www.fraufraulein.com/anne/AnneGuthrie_2014_05_07_Dissertation_FinalSmall.pdf http://www.fraufraulein.com/anne/AnneGuthrie_2014_05_07_Dissertation_FinalSmall.pdf http://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/85334/ http://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/75125/ https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof http://www.socantscot.org/research-project/the-historical-archaeology-research-project-on-staffa/ http://www.socantscot.org/research-project/the-historical-archaeology-research-project-on-staffa/ S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 3 Scotland, want to attract people to visit the site11. However, there are several barriers to experiencing the island such as physical access issues (including cost), weather, and the conservation needs of the reserve. Using HARPS datasets, this paper discusses the benefits and problems of integrating auralised audio and 3D models in heritage visualisations. This aligns directly with the HARPS project’s objective, which is not to attempt to somehow replicate the experience of the cave in VR but to create a parallel, but affective immersive experience of Fingal’s Cave for those that are unable to visit the site in person. 1 F i n g a l ’ s C a v e : C u l t u r a l a n d H i s t o r i c a l C o n t e x t Fingal’s cave is a sea cave on the Isle of Staffa, one of the Inner Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland. It is to the west of Mull, between Iona and Gometra, as shown in Figure 1. Figure 1. Staffa is located to the west of the Isle of Mull, Scotland. Courtesy Google Maps.12 The name, Staffa, comes from the Norse ‘stafr,’ meaning ‘staff’ and is so named because of its distinctive columnar basalt structure13. The prismatic basalt columns and quasi-hexagonal pattern were formed upon the rapid cooling and hardening of volcanic material, at which time an enormous amount of tension builds up. The most economical way to release this tension is thought to be through hexagonal cracks in the rock14. The island is about one mile long by half a mile across, but features at least twelve prominent sea caves, the most famous of which is Fingal’s cave, shown to the right of Figure 2.15 11 National Trust for Scotland, ‘Staffa - Visit’, 2017, https://www.nts.org.uk/Visit/Staffa/. 12 Google Maps, ‘Staffa - Google Maps’, 2017, https://www.google.co.uk/maps/place/Staffa/@56.2504164,-6.0093908,8z/ data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x488b9652da67fd3f:0x13ff4b51d9ae3d31!8m2!3d56.4355675!4d-6.341756. 13 Donald B. MacCulloch, Staffa, 4th ed., David & Charles, 1975). 14 Philip Ball, ‘Pattern Formation in Nature: Physical Constraints and Self-Organising Characteristics.’, Architectural Design 82, no. 2, 2012, 22–27, http://www.philipball.co.uk/images/stories/docs/pdf/ADMC_Ball_final2.pdf. 15 John Patterson MacLean, An Historical, Archaeological and Geological Examination of Fingal’s Cave in the Island of Staffa, Rewritten, ULAN Press, 1887. https://www.nts.org.uk/Visit/Staffa/ https://www.google.co.uk/maps/place/Staffa/ http://www.philipball.co.uk/images/stories/docs/pdf/ADMC_Ball_final2.pdf S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 4 Figure 2. Fingal’s Cave on the Isle of Staffa. Image © the author, 2017. The route from the landing place to the cave mouth is treacherous with its sea spray soaked stone, as can be seen in Figure 3, but the effort is rewarded, not only through its striking visuals, but through its extraordinary acoustics. The many surfaces of the cave create a uniquely resonant space: when a sound wave is emitted into a space, it reflects off surfaces in the space and these reflections attenuate over a certain amount of time. This reduction is a result of being absorbed by the walls of the space and the speed at which it reduces depends on the material and size of the space. This attenuation is known as the reverberance of the space16. The hard basalt rock columns are reflective and angular creating a diffuse reverberant field meaning sound is reflected in multiple different directions. Depending on the weather this may be pleasing to the ear or unsettling; under certain conditions, the caves of the island make a loud ‘booming’ noise, which was said to terrify inhabitants of the Island. 16 Springer, Springer Handbook of Acoustics, Thomas D. Rossing, ed, 2nd ed., Springer-Verlag New York, 2014, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1- 4939-0755-7; Laird, Murphy, and Chapman, ‘Spatialisation Accuracy of a Virtual Performance System’. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4939-0755-7 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4939-0755-7 S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 5 Figure 3. The access causeway for Fingal’s Cave. Image © the author, 2017. Sound is particularly culturally important to the identity of Scotland, and there is a long tradition of music, poetry and oral history being inspired by the landscape. Fingal’s cave and its acoustics is a major contributor to this, with many historical references noting its evocative acoustic qualities. The influence of this natural geological feature is widespread and can be seen through the depth of artistic responses to Staffa and Fingal’s Cave throughout the last two and a half centuries. Its many layers of engagement and creative responses began with the botanist, Joseph Banks’ visit in 177217. Banks made the connection between Fingal’s Cave and James Macpherson’s translation of Ossian’s poem, “Fingal” from the 18th century18. Although its authenticity is widely doubted, the ‘translation’ nonetheless brought Staffa and Fingal’s Cave further into the public view19. Since then, it has inspired countless poets, including Wordsworth, Hogg, Scott and Keats; musicians, most famously Mendelssohn, and more recently Pink Floyd; 17 Ralph Crane and Lisa Fletcher, ‘Inspiration and Spectacle: The Case of Fingal’s Cave in Nineteenth-Century Art and Literature’, Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment 22, no. 4, 2015, 778–800, https://doi.org/10.1093/isle/isv052. 18 Jennifer Davis Michael, ‘Ocean Meets Ossian: Staffa as Romantic Symbol’, Romanticism 13, no. 1, 2007, 1–14, https://muse.jhu.edu/ article/214802; Hugh Blair, ‘The Poetical Works of Ossian by James Macpherson with a Critical Dissertation by Hugh Blair’, 2009, http://www. exclassics.com/. 19 Nigel Leask, ‘Fingalian Topographies: Ossian and the Highland Tour, 1760 - 1805’, Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, 39, no. 2, 2016. https://doi.org/10.1093/isle/isv052 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/214802 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/214802 http://www.exclassics.com/ http://www.exclassics.com/ S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 6 artists, including Turner20; and literature by the likes of Verne, among many others. The cave also features in multiple Gaelic and Irish legends, most famously in the story of Fionn MacCoul (Fingal), who built a causeway of stepping stones from Northern Ireland to Scotland to confront his rival Benandonner. The Giants Causeway in Northern Ireland and Fingal’s Cave on Staffa are said to be the last remaining pillars of this causeway21. These romanticized interpretations marked a change in worldview of Scotland from a place to be feared to somewhere much revered and sparked a surge in ‘geotourism’22. In modern times, these romanticized views are largely forgotten: Fingal’s Cave is seen primarily as a geological feature. Gordon23 proposes that reconnecting with the ‘voices’ of the stones of Scotland’s natural geodiversity will: “link people today with their cultural roots and sense of place”24. Dynamic engagement with landscape and its past romanticism may open further opportunities to connect with the past, present and future of our natural heritage. 2 A u d i o a n d H e r i t a g e Archaeoacoustics, the study of acoustics in relation to archaeological and heritage sites, is critical if we are to fully understand the impact and importance of a heritage site. This is particularly true in the case of Fingal’s cave as a lot of the engagement with this site surrounds its acoustic as much as its visual properties, which is attested to by the numerous references to sound in the creative works inspired by it (see examples below). Archaeological research in the last couple of decades has taken a much stronger interest in the specific relationships between artificial archaeological structures; stone circles, standing stones, chambered tombs, and churches, and the role that acoustics may have played in their design and even on their psychological impact. For examples of this see works by Diaz-Andreu25, Mattern26, Murphy27 and Watson and Keating28. Bradley’s work on the archaeological significance of natural places is also relevant29, and Green30 and Murphy and Shelley31 have curated useful repositories of impulse responses recorded at heritage sites across Scotland and beyond. Despite this, there remains much less focus on the acoustics of natural places and the impact that this may have had on earlier people, although Till32, who studied the sound archaeology of the natural caves of Altamira, Spain, suggests acoustics play a strong role in their contextualisation and their construction as significant places in the past. Something which the HARPS project argues also occurs at Fingal’s Cave. 20 Yale Center For British Art, ‘Staffa, Fingal’s Cave’, 2017, http://collections.britishart.yale.edu/vufind/Record/1669251. 21 Visit Scotland, ‘Scottish Folklore - Ghosts, Myths and Legends | VisitScotland — Phantom Piper, Fingals Cave, Corryvreckan Whirlpool’, 2016, http://ebooks.visitscotland.com/ghosts-myths-legends/phantom-piper-corryvreckan/. 22 S Schama, Landscape and Memory, Fontana Press, 1996. 23 John E Gordon, ‘Engaging with Geodiversity: ‘Stone Voices’, Creativity and Cultural Landscapes in Scotland’, Scottish Geographical Journal 128, no. 3–4, 2012, 240–265. 24 Ibid., 1. 25 Margarita Díaz-Andreu, ‘Archaeoacoustics of Rock Art: Quantitative Approaches to the Acoustics and Soundscape of Rock Art’, CAA2015. Keep The Revolution Going: Proceedings of the 43rd Annual Conference on Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology, Stefano Campana et al., eds, Archaeopress, 2015, 1049–58, https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Julio_Del_Hoyo-Melendez/publication/304793402_ Colour_and_Space_in_Cultural_Heritage_in_6Ds_the_Interdisciplinary_Connections/links/577b916808ae355e74f153de.pdf - page=1065. 26 Shannon Mattern, ‘Sonic Archaeologies’, The Routledge Companion to Sound Studies, Michael Bull, ed, 1st ed., Routledge, 2018, 222–30, http://wordsinspace.net/shannon/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/mattern_sonicarchaeologies_routledge_uneditedproofs.pdf. 27 Damian Murphy et al., ‘Acoustic Heritage and Audio Creativity: The Creative Application of Sound in the Representation, Understanding and Experience of Past Environments’, Internet Archaeology, no. 44, March 30, 2017, https://doi.org/10.11141/ia.44.12. 28 Aaron Watson and David Keating, ‘Architecture and Sound: An Acoustic Analysis of Megalithic Monuments in Prehistoric Britain’, Antiquity 73, no. 280, 1999, 325–336, https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003598X00088281. 29 Richard Bradley, An Archaeology of Natural Places, Routledge, 2000. 30 ‘Archaeoacoustics Scotland - Home’, 2017, http://www.archaeoacousticsscotland.com/. 31 Damian Murphy and Simon Shelley, ‘OpenAIR | The Open Acoustic Impulse Response Library’, 2017, http://www.openairlib.net/. 32 Rupert Till, ‘Sound Archaeology: Terminology, Palaeolithic Cave Art and the Soundscape’, World Archaeology 46, no. 3, 2014, 292–304, https:// doi.org/10.1080/00438243.2014.909106. http://collections.britishart.yale.edu/vufind/Record/1669251 http://ebooks.visitscotland.com/ghosts-myths-legends/phantom-piper-corryvreckan/ https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Julio_Del_Hoyo-Melendez/publication/304793402_Colour_and_Space_in_Cultural_Heritage_in_6Ds_the_Interdisciplinary_Connections/links/577b916808ae355e74f153de.pdf https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Julio_Del_Hoyo-Melendez/publication/304793402_Colour_and_Space_in_Cultural_Heritage_in_6Ds_the_Interdisciplinary_Connections/links/577b916808ae355e74f153de.pdf http://wordsinspace.net/shannon/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/mattern_sonicarchaeologies_routledge_uneditedproofs.pdf https://doi.org/10.11141/ia.44.12 https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003598X00088281 http://www.archaeoacousticsscotland.com/ http://www.openairlib.net/ https://doi.org/10.1080/00438243.2014.909106 https://doi.org/10.1080/00438243.2014.909106 S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 7 Many historic cathedrals are noted for their acoustic qualities and this is important as Fingal’s Cave has often been referred to as a ‘cathedral’ and a ‘temple’. For example, the poem ‘Staffa, the Island / Fingal’s Cave’ by John Keats likens it to a church organ and cathedral: “…This was architectured thus By the great Oceanus! — Here his mighty waters play Hollow organs all the day; Here, by turns, his dolphins all, Finny palmers, great and small, Come to pay devotion due, — Each a mouth of pearls must strew! Many a mortal of these days Dares to pass our sacred ways; Dares to touch, audaciously, This cathedral of the sea! ...”33 Pentcheva’s34 study into the aural architecture of Hagia Sofia draws connections between the effect of both poetry, and the polymorphic materials used in the construction of the church have on the human brain. It may be supposed that the similar effects of the natural structure of Fingal’s cave sparked poetic imagination. Poetry moves beyond dryly descriptive language to conjure a dynamic and emotive vision of a subject, as in the following verse by James Hogg: “Dark Staffa! in thy grotto wild, How my wrapt soul is tought to feel! Oh! well becomes it Nature’s child Now in her stateliest shrine to kneel! Thou art no fiends’ nor giants’ home - Thy piles of dark and dismal grain, Bespeak thee, dread and sacred dome, Great temple of the Western Main! ...”35 Pentcheva’s research suggests that such ekphratic descriptions of a space can integrate “a direct response to sensual materiality of the space and uncovers in it a metaphysical dimension”36. This is reflected in its descriptive language; for example, sound is often described in a physical way as ‘piercing’ or ‘thumping’ as it has a direct effect on the body. This notion allows understanding of the importance of a space to past visitors. They were so taken by a space, visually, aurally and corporally, that they were compelled to write poetry or in the case of Mendelssohn and Fingal’s Cave, compose an overture. Though the name, Fingal’s Cave, comes from the mythical Celtic hero; the Gaelic name is ‘An Uamh Bhinn’37 which means the melodious cave. One early visitor, Pancoucke, noted the effects on his wife’s voice when singing inside the cave: “… Her voice vibrated throughout the columns, becoming fuller and more powerful, the tones seemed to take on a new life, the held notes became stronger; the religious majesty of the location infused these harmonies with something beautiful and grandiose. Everyone applauded and it seemed that even the gods of this enchanted place echoed this applause in the air.”38. 33 Bartleby, ‘Fingal’s Cave. John Keats (1795-1821). Staffa, the Island. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Ed. 1876-79. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes. Scotland: Vols. VI-VIII’, 2017, http://www.bartleby.com/270/3/341.html. 34 Bisserra V. Pentcheva, ‘Hagia Sophia and Multisensory Aesthetics’, Gesta International Centre of Medieval Art, 50/2, 2011, 93–111, http:// iconsofsound.stanford.edu/Pentcheva.Gesta 2011.Hagia Sophia.pdf. 35 Donald B. MacCulloch quoting Hogg (entry in visitor book in Ulva), Staffa, 4th ed., David & Charles, 1975, 148. 36 Pentcheva, ‘Hagia Sophia and Multisensory Aesthetics’, 96. 37 MacCulloch, Staffa, 110. 38 Translated extracts from Ibid. http://www.bartleby.com/270/3/341.html http://iconsofsound.stanford.edu/Pentcheva.Gesta 2011.Hagia Sophia.pdf http://iconsofsound.stanford.edu/Pentcheva.Gesta 2011.Hagia Sophia.pdf S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 8 Pentcheva39 notes the ‘performative’ characteristics of the space when the acoustics work together with the visuals, an insight this research draws upon. One visitor to Fingal’s Cave, Queen Victoria, noticed that “the rocks under water were all colours, pink, blue, green, which had the most wonderful effect”40. The sea-soaked basalt pillars and shifting seas bounce light creating extraordinary effects. This coupled with the colours of the algae on the rocks and misty sea spray work to create an opalescent effect, shown in Figure 4. Figure 4. The effects of light in Fingal’s Cave. Image © the author, 2017. The presence of light on the natural rock formations can be compared to the importance of light in churches. Pentcheva41, observes that the built materials of Hagia Sofia “become animate in the shifting natural light, and these transient manifestations trigger the spectator’s memory and imagination to conjure up images”42. Perhaps these visual qualities, together with the dominance of wave sounds within the cave, are why Fingal’s Cave leaves such an impression on its visitors. 3 A u d i o a n d V i s u a l i s a t i o n Real-time auralisation is used frequently in stage acoustics research which explores the relation that spatial distribution of sound has on a musician’s experience in varying performance spaces such as concert halls. It is 39 Pentcheva, ‘Hagia Sophia and Multisensory Aesthetics’. 40 Eve Eckstein quoting Queen Victoria (Diary Entry 1847), Historic Visitors to Mull, Iona and Staffa, Excalibur Press of London, 1992, 156. 41 Pentcheva, ‘Hagia Sophia and Multisensory Aesthetics’. 42 Ibid., 93. S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 9 pertinent to clarify some terms here, most importantly an impulse response, which is thought of as the ‘acoustic fingerprint’ of a space. They can be created by deconvolving a sine sweep recorded in that space to extract a known signal to discern the effects the space had on that signal43. An auralisation is the resultant audio after an impulse response has been applied, representative of how a voice or other audio would sound within the physical space in which the impulse response was recorded. Laird et al.44 developed a Virtual Performance Studio in which a musician can “practice in a virtual version of a real performance space in order to acclimatise to the acoustic feedback received on stage before physically performing there”45. Brereton implemented a Virtual Acoustic Environment, in which participants can physically move around the virtual space and when they speak they hear their acoustics change depending on their position within the space46. The acoustically rendered environments uses real-time convolution with ambisonic impulse responses. Ambisonic audio gives an impression of sound within the full sphere: an array of speakers (minimum of 4 for first-order ambisonics) are placed around a sweet-spot from which a spatial reproduction of a sound field can be experienced47. Real-time auralisation, derived from impulse responses captured within the cave, allows participants to hear themselves as if immersed in the reverb of the cave. This is achieved by first capturing an impulse response, recorded inside Fingal’s Cave, which is a short, sharp, clean sound representative of the acoustic ‘fingerprint’ of the space. It is then applied to, or convolved with, live speech to simulate the reverberation of the space where the impulse response was recorded. Where this project takes things one step further is to include a 3D recreation of Fingal’s Cave, tracked in 3D space and rendered in real-time depending on the position of the viewer’s head. In this way the 3D model is married with the live auralisations; what the user hears matches what they see. The visuals of the VR environment and the 3D sound work together in unison, creating a highly immersive, multisensory experience. As discussed, there is a strong case for including sound in digital reconstructions of heritage sites, but further to this, VR can be considered a platform for including kinaesthesia. As Slaney, Foka and Bocksberger make the case for in their forthcoming article, kinaesthesia can help with fully understanding physicalities of the space and “contribute to formulating conceptions of the ancient past”48. With virtual reality, the user can explore the virtual environment and interact with their surroundings and, as Forte notes, “what really changes our capacities of digital/virtual perception is the experience, a cultural presence in a situated environment”49. The use of VR is particularly appropriate in the case of Fingal’s cave as much engagement with this site surrounds its experiential as much as its visual properties. However, Jeffrey argues that a significant barrier to interaction with digital objects and spaces in VR is their ‘immateriality’50, and that digital ‘recreations’ struggle to carry the same signs of use that a physical artefact would51. The digital object is impervious to its visitors or users’ mark, therefore making it difficult to imagine it has a past steeped in use and reuse. 43 Francis Stevens, ‘Creswell Crags - Recording Report’, York, 2016, https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7uX0JAxlCzKUWx3N3RLa2ZaYm8/view. 44 Laird et al., ‘Development of a Virtual Performance Studio with Application of Virtual Acoustic Recording Methods’. 45 Ibid. 46 Brereton, Murphy, and Howard, ‘The Virtual Singing Studio: A Loudspeaker-Based Room Acoustics Simulation for Real-Time Musical Performance’. 47 Springer, Springer Handbook of Acoustics, 814. 48 Helen Slaney, Anna Foka, and Sophie Bocksberger, ‘‘Ghosts in the Machine: Experiencing Animation,’’ Forthcoming 2019, 1. 49 Maurizio Forte, ‘Virtual Reality, Cyberarchaeology, Teleimmersive Archaeology’, Fabio Remondino and Stefano Campana, eds, 3D Recording and Modelling in Archaeology and Cultural Heritage: Theory and Best Practices, 2598, 2014, 113, https://vle.gsa.ac.uk/bbcswebdav/pid-230927- dt-content-rid-634603_1/courses/ACPG_IHV_1617/Virtual_Reality_Cyberaerchaeology_Teleim.pdf. 50 Stuart Jeffrey, ‘Digital Heritage Objects, Authorship, Ownership and Engagement’, Authenticity and Cultural Heritage in the Age of 3D Digital Reproductions, Paola Di Giuseppantonio DI Franco, Fabrizio Galeazzi, and Valentina Vassallo, eds, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, 2018, 51, https://www.repository.cam.ac.uk/bitstream/handle/1810/279673/Authenticity_chapter4.pdf?sequence=1. 51 Stuart Jeffrey, ‘Challenging Heritage Visualisation: Beauty, Aura and Democratisation’, Open Archaeology, 1, 2015, 144–52, https://doi. org/10.1515/opar-2015-0008. https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7uX0JAxlCzKUWx3N3RLa2ZaYm8/view https://vle.gsa.ac.uk/bbcswebdav/pid-230927-dt-content-rid-634603_1/courses/ACPG_IHV_1617/Virtual_Reality_Cyberaerchaeology_Teleim.pdf https://vle.gsa.ac.uk/bbcswebdav/pid-230927-dt-content-rid-634603_1/courses/ACPG_IHV_1617/Virtual_Reality_Cyberaerchaeology_Teleim.pdf https://www.repository.cam.ac.uk/bitstream/handle/1810/279673/Authenticity_chapter4.pdf?sequence=1 https://doi.org/10.1515/opar-2015-0008 https://doi.org/10.1515/opar-2015-0008 S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 10 4 T e c h n i c a l I m p l e m e n t a t i o n 4 . 1 C a p t u r i n g t h e S o u n d Staffa and Fingal’s cave as heritage sites present a multitude of potential problems when it comes to data capture and processing. The methodological approach becomes an assault course in dealing with issues with field recording and ways to overcome them. For auralisation, I used an ambisonic impulse response that was recorded in 2014 inside Fingal’s Cave as part of the HARPS project. Since the cave has an extremely high noise floor due to waves and wind, the acoustic characteristics were captured using a swept sine wave with the receiver positioned mid-way through the cave. An exponential sine sweep is a computer-generated signal composed of sine waves increasing in frequency exponentially from 20Hz to 20kHz which are emitted into a space, reverberate around the space and are captured by a microphone and storage medium52. Laird et al.53 have shown this method of auralisation can create a ‘reasonably accurate simulation’ of the reverberation of a space. The high noise level experienced when recording the impulse responses is masked by including the ambient noise of the cave in the soundscape. For the purposes of this project, allowances must be made as to the quality of the auralisation, since, as this is designed for use in tourism, the auralisation will be directly affected by the acoustic response of the space in which it is exhibited. The sine sweep was deconvolved using MatLab54 via a bespoke procedure written by Iain Laird. This procedure extracts the original emitted signal in order to discern the effects the space had on that signal55. Ronan Breslin, lecturer at the School of Simulation and Visualisation at the Glasgow School of Art, reduced audio distortions on the impulse response and applied it to the voice recordings in Reaper56 to simulate the cave’s reverberation. Audioclip 1 and Audioclip 2 show the effect the auralisation has on the recorded speech: Audioclip 1. An example voice recording before the impulse response is applied. Courtesy the author, 2017. 52 Angela Farina, ‘Simultaneous Measurement of Impulse Response and Distortion with a Swept-Sine Technique’, Proc. AES 108th Conv, Paris, France, no. I, 2000, 1–15, https://doi.org/10.1109/ASPAA.1999.810884; Angelo Farina, ‘Advancements in Impulse Response Measurements by Sine Sweeps’, The 122nd Convention of the Audio Engineering Society, Audio Engineering Society, 2007, http://pcfarina.eng.unipr.it/Public/ Papers/226-AES122.pdf. 53 Laird, Murphy, and Chapman, ‘Spatialisation Accuracy of a Virtual Performance System’. 54 MathWorks, ‘MATLAB - MathWorks’, 2017, https://uk.mathworks.com/products/matlab.html?s_tid=hp_products_matlab. 55 Stevens, ‘Creswell Crags - Recording Report’. 56 Reaper, ‘REAPER | Digital Audio Workstation: Audio Production Without Limits’, 2017, https://www.reaper.fm/. https://soundcloud.com/shonaknoble/before https://doi.org/10.1109/ASPAA.1999.810884 http://pcfarina.eng.unipr.it/Public/Papers/226-AES122.pdf http://pcfarina.eng.unipr.it/Public/Papers/226-AES122.pdf https://uk.mathworks.com/products/matlab.html?s_tid=hp_products_matlab https://www.reaper.fm/ S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 11 Audioclip 2. An example voice recording after the impulse response is applied. Courtesy the author, 2017. The latest version of Unity, 2017.1, supports importation of ambisonic audio57. The pre-auralised audio files are AmbiX (WAV b-format) and require 4 audio channels which Unity decodes. The Oculus Spatialiser plugin supports ambisonic audio in virtual reality58. It uses an array of eight virtual speakers surrounding the viewer to decode and spatialise audio, which means it gives an impression of sound within a 3D environment59. It is designed for use with ‘broadband’ audio such as wind and wave sounds which feature highly in this soundscape. When 4-channel AmbiX format audio files are placed in the scene, this plugin makes use of the highly receptive head tracking mentioned above to alter the ambisonic orientation of the audio source with the movement and rotation of the HMD60. The Oculus Spatialiser, together with the HMD technology ensures the 3D modelled scene works in unison with the audio and means that what the viewer sees matches what they hear. They can physically move around the space and turn their head and both the scene and the audio update accordingly. Video 1 demonstrates how the speaker’s voice changes with the orientation of the user’s head as they move around the space: Video 1. Screen-grab video of Fingal’s Cave: an Audiovisual Experience in use, courtesy the author, 2017. 57 Unity, Unity - Game Engine’, 2017, https://unity3d.com/. 58 Oculus, ‘Playing Ambisonic Audio in Unity 2017.1 (Beta)’, 2017, https://developer.oculus.com/documentation/audiosdk/latest/concepts/ ospnative-unity-ambisonic/. 59 Madeline Carson et al., “Surround Sound Impulse Response Measurement with the Exponential Sine Sweep; Application in Convolution Reverb” (Univeristy of Victoria, 2009), http://arqen.com/wp-content/docs/Surround-Sound-Impulse-Response.pdf. 60 Oculus, “Playing Ambisonic Audio in Unity 2017.1 (Beta).” https://soundcloud.com/shonaknoble/voice-recording-after-auralisation https://vimeo.com/255942898 https://unity3d.com/ https://developer.oculus.com/documentation/audiosdk/latest/concepts/ospnative-unity-ambisonic/ https://developer.oculus.com/documentation/audiosdk/latest/concepts/ospnative-unity-ambisonic/ http://arqen.com/wp-content/docs/Surround-Sound-Impulse-Response.pdf S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 12 4 . 2 N a r r a t i v e S o u n d s c a p e This research will afford engagement with and understanding of multiple layers of the cave’s history, encompassing multiple viewpoints, to enable people to write their own experience with the site as much as possible. Voice recordings are layered with ambient wave noise and Mendelssohn’s overture61 to tell the story of the cave’s romanticised history through an abstract narrative. The ambient wave and wind recordings were captured in Fingal’s Cave as part of the HARPS project and the script features folklore, poetry and descriptions of the cave. It introduces the cave in multiple languages; French, Gaelic and English. The voice audio was recorded in a studio environment to reduce room presence on the recordings as much as possible. Folkloric elements were included in the narrative and these tell of a rivalry between the Giants Fionn MacCoul and Benandonner and how Staffa and the Giants Causeway were made and unmade via their interactions62. For the cultural narrative, poetry was chosen for its imagery of experiences within the cave. Much of it describes the acoustics and comes from a time when recording the sounds in reality was simply not possible. John Keats seems in awe and has a thoroughly spiritual experience in his poem Staffa, the Island/Fingal’s Cave63. He cites ‘organs’, a ‘spirit’ and compares the cave to a cathedral. James Hogg also compares the cave to a spiritual space, referring to it as a ‘temple’64. However, Hogg’s experience seems entirely different; his imagery conveys a much darker experience and illustrates the sheer power of the space. The wave audio had to be layered carefully as it tends to sound like undifferentiated white noise. Inspired by the work of Tim Neilson in the animated film Moana65, the idea was to give character to the wave noise and create the feeling that although the ocean is ever present within the cave, it also ‘speaks’ to the cave’s visitors, inspiring poetry and leaving a lasting impression. To this end, the wave audio grows stronger at meaningful points in the narrative. This is coupled with evocative poetry by Sir Walter Scott66 which reinforces the strength and character of the presence of the ocean within Fingal’s cave. Audioclip 3. The full narrative soundscape courtesy the author, 2017. Featuring quotes by C.L.F. Pancoucke, Queen Victoria, D.B. MacCulloch, M. Faujas and Sir Robert Peel. Folklore retold from Visit Scotland and The Gaelic Otherworld (J.G. Campbell). Music: The Hebrides (Fingal’s Cave), Op. 26, Felix Mendelssohn, from MusOpen. Poetry: The Lord Of The Isles: Canto Iv, Sir Walter Scott 1857; Staffa, the Island/Fingal’s Cave, John Keats 1876-79; and Untitled (Entry in the visitor’s book at Ulva), James Hogg 1975. Voice Over Artists: Norman Mackay, Robbie Noble and Shona Noble. 61 MusOpen, ‘The Hebrides (Fingal’s Cave), Op. 26 | Free Music’, 2017, https://musopen.org/music/1570/felix-mendelssohn/the-hebrides-fingals-cave- op-26/; Creative Commons, ‘Public Domain Mark - Creative Commons’, 2017, https://creativecommons.org/share-your-work/public-domain/pdm. 62 Visit Scotland, ‘Scottish Folklore - Ghosts, Myths and Legends | VisitScotland — Phantom Piper, Fingals Cave, Corryvreckan Whirlpool’. 63 Bartleby, ‘Fingal’s Cave. John Keats (1795-1821). Staffa, the Island. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Ed. 1876-79. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes. Scotland: Vols. VI-VIII’, 2017, originally published by James R. Osgood & Co., Boston, 1876–79, http://www.bartleby.com/270/3/341.html. 64 Donald B. MacCulloch quoting Hogg (entry in visitor book in Ulva), Staffa, 4th ed., David & Charles, 1975, 148. 65 Tim Neilsen, ‘How Tim Nielsen and Team Made ‘Moana / Vaiana’ Sound So Good | A Sound Effect’, Interview by Jennifer Walden for A Sound Effect, 2016, https://www.asoundeffect.com/moana-sound/. 66 PoemHunter, ‘The Lord Of The Isles: Canto Iv. Poem by Sir Walter Scott - Poem Hunter’, 2017, originally published by Adam and Charles Black, Edinburgh, 1857, https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lord-of-the-isles-canto-iv/. https://soundcloud.com/shonaknoble/narrative-soundscape https://musopen.org/music/1570/felix-mendelssohn/the-hebrides-fingals-cave-op-26/ https://musopen.org/music/1570/felix-mendelssohn/the-hebrides-fingals-cave-op-26/ https://creativecommons.org/share-your-work/public-domain/pdm http://www.bartleby.com/270/3/341.html https://www.asoundeffect.com/moana-sound/ https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lord-of-the-isles-canto-iv/ S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 13 The final quote is from Sir Robert Peel: “I have stood on the shores of Staffa; I have seen the ‘temple not made with hands’”67. It is read in multiple voices, which are layered and desynchronized. This final notion is intended to draw to mind the ghosts of the past visitors to Fingal’s Cave and to inspire people to explore the cave for themselves. 4 . 3 L i v e A u r a l i s a t i o n To be able to speak within the VR experience and hear your own voice reverberated in the same way as it would be in the cave, live auralisation is required. Since it is not possible to perform real-time auralisation within Unity as it is not supported, it is implemented via external software and delivered as an adjunct to the core Unity experience. Drawing again from stage acoustics research, the real-time auralisation is implemented using a headset microphone for participants to speak into. This live audio is then routed from the microphone via a soundcard to the Reaper Digital Audio Workstation68 where a single ReaVerb69 (a powerful reverberation plugin) is applied each of the w, x, y, z audio channels (the four channels work together to give an impression of sound within the full sphere). Each ReaVerb instance is loaded with an impulse response corresponding to w, x, y, z of the impulse response that was recorded in the cave. The w, x y, z channels are then routed to an ambisonic binaural decoder for headphone playback70. The decoder used was the Ambisonic Toolkit71. It is then fed to headphones via the soundcard output. This is the same process as with the pre-auralised audio, except that the convolution is performed in real-time as the participants are speaking. Consequently, some processing latency is present which causes the speech to sound delayed. Latency was reduced by reducing the recording buffer size, adjusting the sound resolution of the reverb (called the Fast Fourier Transform) and changing the Head Related Transfer Function (HRTF) in the decoder. This is an iterative process and is achieved by experimenting with the settings to keep unwanted feedback at bay while reducing processing latency as much as possible. This ensures responsiveness within the space72. In order to make applying the acoustic characteristics of the cave to live speech suitable for mobile dissemination, the reverberation could have been approximated using the built in Unity Audio Source component73. This takes input from the microphone and applies reverberation which is mocked up by ear, listening and tweaking until the desired effect is achieved. Although this is a viable option, for this project external software performs the live auralisation to make use of the impulse responses recorded inside the cave, as these gave an authentic representation of the acoustic response, rather than a generic, or synthesised one. The cave has a unique acoustic response and since the impulse response was recorded in-situ, it is a more convincing and authentic representation, which is important if the visualisation is to give a considerate understanding of an experience within Fingal’s Cave74. 67 Donald B. MacCulloch quoting Sir Robert Peel (speech delivered in Glasgow 1837), Staffa, 4th ed., David & Charles, 1975, 162. 68 Reaper, ‘REAPER | Digital Audio Workstation: Audio Production Without Limits’. 69 Geoffrey Francis, ‘Supplement to REAPER User Guide The REAPER Cockos Effects Summary Guide’, 2016, 32, https://www.reaper.fm/ guides/ReaEffectsGuide.pdf. 70 Ronan Breslin, ‘Pers. Comm.’, July 24, 2017. 71 Ambisonic Toolkit, ‘ATK for Reaper’, 2017, http://www.ambisonictoolkit.net/documentation/reaper/. 72 Iain Laird, ‘Pers. Comm.’, July 19, 2017. 73 Unity, ‘Unity - Manual: Audio Source’, 2017, https://docs.unity3d.com/Manual/class-AudioSource.html. 74 Laird, ‘Pers. Comm’. https://www.reaper.fm/guides/ReaEffectsGuide.pdf https://www.reaper.fm/guides/ReaEffectsGuide.pdf http://www.ambisonictoolkit.net/documentation/reaper/ https://docs.unity3d.com/Manual/class-AudioSource.html S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 14 4 . 4 A u d i o v i s u a l I m p l e m e n t a t i o n With the individual elements of the visualisation processed and ready to be brought together, the final stage of implementation of the project was to ensure that the 3D space and auralisation worked together in a coherent and meaningful way. A Unity VR environment is where the 3D model and the pre-auralised narrative soundscape were brought together. Generated as part of the HARPS project, SimVis holds laser survey data of Fingal’s cave which was used for the 3D digital model. For use in Unity, the model was simplified while keeping the optimal level of detail. Figure 5. Point cloud data of Fingal’s Cave, captured by HARPS.75 Screenshot from Cyclone.76 Figure 6. The original mesh of Fingal’s Cave. Screenshot from 3DReshaper.77 75 HARPS, ‘The Historical Archaeology Research Project on Staffa (HARPS) | Society of Antiquaries of Scotland’. 76 Leica Geosystems, ‘Leica Cyclone - 3D Point Cloud Processing Software - Leica Geosystems - HDS’, 2017, http://hds.leica-geosystems.com/ en/leica-cyclone_6515.htm. 77 3DReshaper, ‘3DReshaper | 3DReshaper’, 2017, http://www.3dreshaper.com/en/. http://hds.leica-geosystems.com/en/leica-cyclone_6515.htm http://hds.leica-geosystems.com/en/leica-cyclone_6515.htm http://dreshaper.com/en/ S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 15 Figure 7. The processed mesh of Fingal’s Cave. Screenshot from 3DS Max.78 It was not possible to use the original texture of the cave captured by the laser scanner due to gaps in the original dataset, so this was created within Unity. The final stage was to scale the model so that it shows in the visualisation at 1:1 scale. To contextualise Fingal’s cave within its positioning on the Isle of Staffa, a 3D digital model of Staffa was created from photogrammetry data also captured as part of the HARPS project and processed using Agisoft Photoscan79. Figure 8. Digital Mesh of the Isle of Staffa from photogrammetry data. Screenshot from Photoscan.80 Figure 9. Textured model of the Isle of Staffa. Screenshot from Photoscan.81 78 Autodesk, ‘3ds Max | 3D Modelling, Animation &amp; Rendering Software | Autodesk’, 2017, https://www.autodesk.co.uk/products/3ds-max/ overview. 79 Agisoft, ‘PhotoScan’, 2017, http://www.agisoft.com/. 80 Ibid. 81 Ibid. https://www.autodesk.co.uk/products/3ds-max/overview https://www.autodesk.co.uk/products/3ds-max/overview http://www.agisoft.com/ S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 16 The visualisation is experienced in virtual reality (VR) through a head mounted display and head tracking system (an HTC Vive82). This offers a highly immersive experience and gives a good sensation of being surrounded by the virtual environment. The user is tracked in position and orientation, using highly receptive head tracking, ensuring head movement and rendering of the virtual environment are synchronised83. It uses stereoscopic display which means the viewer can perceive depth which in turn informs interactivity. On entering the unity application, the viewer is dropped into a scene where they can see Staffa and Fingal’s Cave and ambient audio surrounds them. The narrative audio plays (this is a linear, 3-minute-long track), and as participants move around and explore their surroundings, the reverberation of the audio changes with their position and the direction they are facing (movements are tracked by the HMD and reverberation is controlled by the Oculus Spatialiser). Once the narrative soundscape finishes, the ambient soundscape continues to play (for a further 7 minutes before looping) and participants are invited to interact with the acoustics and speak to hear their voice auralised. Through use of interactive virtual reality, the exploration afforded in the virtual site surpasses the breadth of exploration available at the actual site. In this digital recreation, viewers can move all around the cave, from front to back and left to right, they are only constrained to the plane of the ocean, compared with being constrained to a narrow causeway on the right side of the cave that stops half-way inside of the real cave. This is designed to increase the ‘otherworldly’ nature of the experience and allow participants to feel like they are ‘walking on water’. Although the nature of the site made recording of both the laser scan data and ambisonic impulse responses difficult, there were workarounds in post processing available to prepare both for public consumption. The reasons for making recording tough, namely limited access and difficult conditions, directly contribute to the reasoning behind the creation of this visualisation. They further add to the allure of the cave, as not everyone will have the opportunity to visit. 5 I m p a c t One aim of this project was to demonstrate that 3D models and interactive real-time auralisation can come together in a meaningful way. This research has proved their integration possible, but what is the impact of the visualisation in terms of engaging with communities of interest and in the field of audio in heritage visualisation? The main interpretive aspect of the experience is the narrative soundscape, designed to give a sense of the different cultures and experiences of the many visitors to Fingal’s Cave throughout history. It is intended to afford engagement with and understanding of multiple layers of histories and meanings; a reflection of the intangible side to its heritage. It is purposefully abstract to allow for personalisation; everyone should take something different from it depending on their own knowledge and experiences. As Ioannidis et al. suggest: “if digital storytelling used the right combination of interest to focus attention, empathy to make visitors feel they are part of the story world and imagination to let them fantasise alternative realities, then it could constitute a successful entertainment experience”84. By its very definition, folklore tells the stories of a community passed by word of mouth through generations. Its inclusion in the immersive experience means that the stories, traditions and beliefs of a community are woven into 82 HTC, ‘VIVE | Discover Virtual Reality Beyond Imagination’, 2017, https://www.vive.com/uk/. 83 Steven LaValle, Virtual Reality, Cambridge University Press, 2017, http://vr.cs.uiuc.edu/. 84 Yannis Ioannidis et al., ‘One Object Many Stories: Introducing ICT in Museums and Collections through Digital Storytelling’, Digital Heritage International Congress (DigitalHeritage) \ IEEE 1, 2013, 422, http://www.madgik.di.uoa.gr/sites/default/files/digitalheritage2013_401_ ioannidisetal_1.pdf. https://www.vive.com/uk/ http://vr.cs.uiuc.edu/ http://www.madgik.di.uoa.gr/sites/default/files/digitalheritage2013_401_ioannidisetal_1.pdf http://www.madgik.di.uoa.gr/sites/default/files/digitalheritage2013_401_ioannidisetal_1.pdf S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 17 the narrative. The poetry was chosen for its differing imagery of experiences within the cave. The use of poetry, storytelling and voice give it cultural presence, as do the sea sound samples running underneath. Storytelling through an abstract narrative soundscape brings the human experience to an otherwise inanimate visualisation. It is designed to make people want to visit the site, but equally, provide an authentic experience for those who cannot, hence enhancing virtual engagement off site and supporting communities of interest in their continuing interaction with the heritage site. In terms of accessibility, the experience works as an interactive installation and is suitable for dissemination as an exhibit in art galleries, museums and heritage centres. The institution would need a PC with Reaper installed, a Vive and a space large enough to house the Vive. An optional extra would be a screen that shows what the person wearing the HMD is seeing, making for a more inclusive experience. This 3D tool has the potential to maximise visitor usage, for all internal, external, local and international audiences (it could be packaged for download from the internet). The core concept of the visualisation has been designed around contextualising and increasing understanding of the heritage site, both on and off-site. It goes beyond a static 3D model of the site, bringing visuals together with exploration and interactivity. 6 F u t u r e D i r e c t i o n s This research has determined a prototype for a visualisation that acts as a profoundly immersive representation of a heritage site; highlighting the importance of including audio, as well as visual characteristics, in heritage visualisations if they are to give a more authentic and deeply engaging understanding of the site. The next stage in the development of this project would be to engage in a full-scale evaluation. A possible evaluation methodology might follow the work of Pujol-Tost and rate the visualisation for the following factors, outlined as critical for achieving cultural presence: “1) Realistic behaviour and scientific/cultural reliability of the virtual environment; 2) Distinctive cultural elements (place, material culture, everyday life, people’s aspect); 3) Presence of realistic, autonomous human characters; and 4) Communicational aspects of technology (visual realism, affordances for interaction in environment; intuitiveness of interaction in devices)”85 The {LEAP] project86 postulates that Cultural Presence, the sensation of ‘being there’, is determined by narrative and can boost social significance and understanding87. Participants should be recruited in 2 groups – those who have visited the cave and could provide feedback on the application’s success at recreating this experience; and those who have not visited the cave and could provide feedback on the application’s success at inspiring them to visit. Both groups should be asked whether they draw any significance from the experience in terms of engaging with the cave’s heritage. The ‘voices’ of participants could be harnessed as a dataset that captures responses to the cave of people who are unable to visit it in person, allowing them to become part of the ongoing cultural narrative surrounding it. 85 Laia Pujol-Tost, ‘Being There and Then. Cultural Presence for Archaeological Virtual Environments’, EuroVR International Conference 2016, Unpublished, 2016, 2, https://www.upf.edu/documents/3622658/3623728/EuroVR_2016Poster_CameraReady.pdf/24bdae2b-2c0c-0796-5f33- 66744e522a62. 86 Pujol-Tost, ‘Being There and Then. Cultural Presence for Archaeological Virtual Environments’. 87 Forte, ‘Virtual Reality, Cyberarchaeology, Teleimmersive Archaeology’. https://www.upf.edu/documents/3622658/3623728/EuroVR_2016Poster_CameraReady.pdf/24bdae2b-2c0c-0796-5f33-66744e522a62 https://www.upf.edu/documents/3622658/3623728/EuroVR_2016Poster_CameraReady.pdf/24bdae2b-2c0c-0796-5f33-66744e522a62 S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 18 Through the technical implementation of this project, some areas of further development have arisen. Although this visualisation serves as a demonstration of the core concept, it should be considered a prototype for which the following developments could be made in the future. Critically, the prototype requires the implementation of more impulse responses. Since an impulse response measures the acoustic response of a space from the exact position from which it was measured, it is specific to that point. Indeed, as Sterne affirms, “a single impulse response no more captures the motion of sound in a room over time than a photograph of a person walking captures his or her route”88. So, to truly represent the cave’s acoustics, many more impulse responses measured all around the cave would be needed. This requires further field work on Staffa to record impulse responses from multiple positions to survey the full acoustic footprint of the cave, something the HARPS project intend to do in future field seasons. Though the project makes use of free and open access software wherever possible, more work is needed to design integrated digital infrastructures for experience-based sensory representation that ease financial pressures on both the initial purchase and maintenance89. This research has highlighted a demand for live auralisation to be supported in game development engines such as Unity. Ideally, multiple impulse responses could be loaded into the game engine and the convolution linked to the position of the participant within the virtual scene. There would need to be some experimentation with regards to applying a cross-fade between impulse response positions. The implementation of the impulse responses into the core Unity application would allow an application such as this one to be self-contained and consequently be widely disseminated through heritage organisations to reach new audiences, expanding engagement with the site. This research has determined a prototype for a visualisation that dynamically integrates 3D models and auralisation so that they work in unison in a highly responsive, multisensory virtual experience. It also champions the capturing of the cultural and intangible side to its heritage, moving people to want to visit the cave and equally to conserve it. A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s Sincerest thanks go to Stuart Jeffrey and the Glasgow School of Art for support throughout this project, as well as Ronan Breslin, Victor Portela, Mike Marriott, Matthieu Poyade, Brian Loranger, Daniel Livingstone and Jessica Argo. Special thanks also go to Iain Laird and Nick Green for their expertise regarding auralisation. Thanks indeed to Helen Slaney for sharing your forthcoming article with Anna Foka and Sophie Bocksberger. Finally, thank you to the VIEW Journal editors and the anonymous reviewers for your constructive criticism and guidance. B i o g r a p h y Shona Noble holds a Master’s Degree in International Heritage Visualisation from the Glasgow School of Art. She is passionate about telling the stories of past people and cultures, conveying many layers of meaning of arts and heritage through compelling narratives and visuals. Her specialisms include researching and creating audience- focussed digital experiences using futuristic technologies, and developing interactive digital content for the arts and cultural heritage. 88 Jonathan Sterne, ‘Space within Space: Artificial Reverb and the Detachable Echo’, Grey Room, 60, 2015, 125, http://sterneworks.org/ reverb--sterne.pdf. 89 Anna Foka et al., ‘Beyond Humanities qua Digital: Spatial and Material Development for Digital Research Infrastructures in HumlabX,’ Digital Scholarship in the Humanities 33, no. 2, 2018, 264–78, https://doi.org/10.1093/llc/fqx008. http://sterneworks.org/reverb--sterne.pdf http://sterneworks.org/reverb--sterne.pdf https://doi.org/10.1093/llc/fqx008 S. K. Noble, Fingal’s Cave: The Integration of Real-Time Auralisation and 3D Models 19 VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture Vol. 7, 14, 2018 DOI: 10.18146/2213-0969.2018.jethc150 Publisher: Netherlands Institute for Sound and Vision in collaboration with Utrecht University, University of Luxembourg and Royal Holloway University of London. Copyright: The text of this article has been published under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Netherlands License. This license does not apply to the media referenced in the article, which is subject to the individual rights owner’s terms. Her most recent research focussed on the integration of audio in heritage visualisation and culminated in a virtual reality project that presented an audiovisual exploration of Fingal’s Cave, demonstrating the Isle of Staffa’s cave’s extraordinary acoustics. This project features real-time photorealistic visualisation and is designed to be entirely immersive, allowing uninterrupted exploration of the digitally recreated cave. It includes an innovative interactive element in which a viewer can speak into a microphone and hear their voice auralised as it would be inside the cave, a first in heritage visualisation. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/nl/deed.en_GB http://dx.doi.org/10.18146/2213-0969.2018.jethc150 _Hlk534987600 _Hlk534889623 
work_afdag7o6sbdwnee5fmlyau6ram	----	Claude H. Organ, Jr, MD, as Resident Advisor sity in Cincinnati, Ohio. The sec- ond involves Dr Organ’s lifelong fas- cination with Charles R. Drew, MD, one of his heroes who could have passed for white but insisted on wearing his true color as a badge of honor. Dr Organ always insisted that you had to “stand for something” and that others should know that quality in you. He was enthralled by the life and times of Dr Drew and how he was able to accomplish what he did as a surgeon/scientist when segregation was the order of the day. In fact, Dr Drew refused to join the American College of Surgeons be- cause it refused to admit other well- qualified black surgeons, most of whom he had trained at Howard University. Dr Organ surely must have shared some of Dr Drew’s pain for the remainder of his life after his Texas experience. Several years ago, Dr Organ gave one of the named lec- tures at the opening ceremonies of the American College of Surgeons of which he was president the last year of his life. His topic was “Charles R. Drew: A Doyen of American Sur- gery.” I think that Dr Organ would have been thrilled to have been a contemporary of Dr Drew. His presi- dential address before the Society of Black Academic Surgeons several years ago was entitled “Dr Charles R. Drew: Died Too Soon.” And so did Dr Organ: another surgical doyen who died too soon. Dr Organ would always tell us that he did not want us to be as good as he was; we had to be better than him. We knew that this was impos- sible but it drove us to perhaps be better than we otherwise might have been. He insisted that it all started with hard work, preparation, and persistence. I have often com- mented that I spoke to Dr Organ more than I did my father and was not sure whether that made me a bad son or not. My mother died when I was flying home in August of 2001 from the final planning session for the Organ dinner, and my father died 2 weeks before the dinner. So for the next 4 years, Dr Organ was more than just a mentor. I shall miss him terribly forever, but I will always re- member everything that he taught me and try diligently to live up to his high standards and to pass his teach- ings on to future generations of sur- geons. Accepted for Publication: August 31, 2005. Correspondence: Eddie L. Hoover, MD, State University of New York at Buffalo, 3495 Bailey Ave, Buf- falo, NY (eddie.hoover@med.va .gov). In Memory: Claude H. Organ, Jr, MD The Reassuring Voice of Optimism Across the San Francisco Bay Haile T. Debas, MD One of the great privileges of my aca- demic life has been to have Claude as a close and inspiring friend and colleague. I know others will write about his enormous contributions to American and world surgery. I have, therefore, decided to write more per- sonally and speak to what his pres- ence in Oakland, Calif, meant to me—the reassuring voice of opti- mism across the San Francisco Bay. I will miss the frequent tele- phone calls we exchanged across the San Francisco Bay, sharing our suc- cesses and our challenges. We con- fided in each other problems of the moment, and from my dealings with him, I learned that nothing is more important than having a trusted friend with whom you can share your happy and sad moments. Al- most always, I got off the telephone with Claude with a smile on my face and with the belief in my heart that everything would turn out for the better. And often I got off the tele- phone laughing uncontrollably be- cause, as only Claude could, he had shared a very funny joke that was just appropriate for the occasion. An attribute of Claude that never ceased to inspire me was his uncom- promising commitment to the ca- reer and well-being of his trainees. The calls from the East Bay were of- ten about his trainees and about his plans for their research training. They obviously gave him a great joy and constituted an important part of his academic life. Given all the aca- demic and municipal politics at the time, no one could have been able to establish the stellar general sur- gery residency that Claude created in the East Bay. He had a gift for identifying and recruiting trainees with potential. Once he did, he was totally committed to them as a teacher, mentor, and loving father figure. He made sure that his resi- dents had access to training in the best research laboratories in the best universities in the country. Charac- teristically, even when these resi- dents were away during their re- search training, he kept in close touch with the students and with their supervisors and assured that, at all times and in every way, they were well taken care of profession- ally and personally. I mention these details to indicate how Claude made his trainees his everyday concern. He loved them and was fiercely proud of their accomplishments. Claude was a giant among men, a hero and inspiration to his train- ees and to all minority academic sur- Author Affiliations: Global Health Sciences, School of Medicine, University of California, San Francisco. (REPRINTED) ARCH SURG/ VOL 140, NOV 2005 WWW.ARCHSURG.COM 1037 ©2005 American Medical Association. All rights reserved. Downloaded From: https://jamanetwork.com/ by a Carnegie Mellon University User on 04/05/2021 geons. He was a giant in American surgery and one of the most signifi- cant American academic surgeons of the 20th century. He will be sorely missed for these and all the many other attributes that are described by others in this special edition of the ARCHIVES. But in my personal world, it is that reassuring voice of opti- mism and friendship that fre- quently came on the telephone lines from across the San Francisco Bay that I will miss. Accepted for Publication: August 31, 2005. Correspondence: Haile T. Debas, MD, Global Health Sciences, Uni- versity of California, San Fran- cisco, School of Medicine, 3333 Cali- fornia St, 285, San Francisco, CA 94143-0443 (hdebas@globalhealth .ucsf.edu). West African College of Surgeons Bids Farewell to Claude H. Organ, Jr, MD, MS(Surg), FACS, FRCSSA, FRACS, FRCS(Ed), FWACS(Hon) Samuel A. Adebonojo, MD, FCCP, FWACS Lives of great men all remind us, We can make our lives sublime; And departing leave behind us, Footprints on the sand of time A Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The death of Dr Claude H. Organ, Jr, has left a gigantic footprint on the sand of the surgical world that is too big for many of us to step into. He was a distinguished and renowned African American surgeon who was well known and respected for his hu- manitarian work all over the world. Dr Organ first came into the West African surgical arena early in 2001 when he was nominated for an hon- orary fellowship of the West Afri- can College of Surgeons (WACS). Prior to that, Dr Organ had been working on building the “bridge of international collegiality” between surgeons in West Africa and our sis- ter colleges in the United States, es- pecially with the Society of Black Academic Surgeons and the Ameri- can College of Surgeons. On January 28, 2003, the WACS conferred Dr Claude Organ with an honorary fellowship during its 43rd Annual Scientific Conference in Abuja, Nigeria, in recognition of his love for Africa, his basic character, and his academic and professional contributions to the development of the science and art of surgery in black Africa. Fellows and members of the governing council of the WACS were also cognizant of his contributions to medical education and certification; his love for the West African surgical personality; and his commitment to merit, eq- uity, and justice. It was heartwarm- ing to fellows of the WACS to see that Dr Organ came to Nigeria to ac- cept the award in person and to de- liver a lecture on the myths sur- rounding the death of Dr Charles Drew. Dr Organ was a loyal and de- voted friend of his students, resi- dents, and colleagues. He was an extremely pleasant person who Prof E. Goudote, Republic of Benin; Prof Osato Giwa-Osagie, Pres, West African College of Surgeons; Dr Samuel A. Adebonojo; and Dr Claude H. Organ. Author Affiliations: Department of Surgery, Wright State University School of Medicine, Dayton, Ohio; and Chief, Surgical Service, Dayton VA Medical Center, Dayton. (REPRINTED) ARCH SURG/ VOL 140, NOV 2005 WWW.ARCHSURG.COM 1038 ©2005 American Medical Association. All rights reserved. Downloaded From: https://jamanetwork.com/ by a Carnegie Mellon University User on 04/05/2021 
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work_77r7tcvd5jeknnxkzfu4vox3qq	----	Progress towards ultra-cold ensembles of rubidium and lithium by Swati Singh, B.Sc., McMaster University, 2004 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF Master of Science in The Faculty of Graduate Studies (Physics) The University of British Columbia April, 2007 © Swati Singh, 2007 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my depart- ment or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. (Signature) Department of Physics and Astronomy The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date ii Abstract The work described in this thesis is related to various projects that I worked on to- wards the production of ultra-cold ensembles of 85Rb, 87Rb and fermionic 6Li. In the past few years, ultra-cold atomic gases have evolved into a mature field of research, driving various theoretical and experimental groups towards new possibilities. This thesis starts with an overview of the research direction of the field and the lab in particular, to use ultra-cold fermionic atoms as quantum simulators for several con- densed matter problems. It discusses the experimental route to quantum degeneracy in a sample of ultra-cold atoms and techniques to get there. The rest of the thesis primarily discusses the first step to degeneracy- production of ultra-cold ensembles of rubidium and lithium. It starts with the theoretical concepts that enable laser cooling and trapping. The interaction between light and atoms and how it leads to a decrease in temperature of the ensemble is discussed. The limits of different cooling mecha- nism with relevance of the atoms of interest are described. The starting point for all laser cooling experiments is an atomic source, the details of the requirements and efficiency of different atomic sources is discussed, emphasizing our choice of sources for the two atoms. Other technical details such as the vacuum system and the con- trol system for the experiment are briefly discussed. Preliminary data from our first ensembles of ultra-cold lithium and rubidium is shown. At the end, the planning and progress of the first experiments that we aim to achieve with these ultra-cold atoms- namely looking for Feshbach resonances and studying the effect of DC electric fields on them, and studies with ultra-cold lithium atoms in optical lattices, is discussed. iii Contents Abstract . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii Contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iii List of Tables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi List of Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix 1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1.1 Phase space density . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1.2 Bosons and Fermions- The statistics of identical particles . . . . . . . 2 1.3 Motivation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 1.4 The experimental route . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 1.5 Outline of this thesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 2 Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective . . . . . . . 7 2.1 The Dipole Force . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 2.1.1 Classical Oscillator Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 2.1.2 A more quantum view . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 2.2 The Scattering Force . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 2.3 Optical Molasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 2.4 Magneto-Optical Trap (MOT) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 2.5 Cooling Mechanisms and their limitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 2.5.1 Doppler cooling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 2.5.2 Polarization Gradient cooling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 2.5.3 Recoil limit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 2.6 The macroscopic picture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 3 Getting the light- The laser system for experiment . . . . . . . . . 19 3.1 Requirements for the laser system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 3.1.1 Lithium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 3.1.2 Rubidium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 3.2 Semiconductor lasers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 3.3 External Cavity Diode Lasers- the Master laser system . . . . . . . . 23 3.3.1 Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 3.3.2 Nuts and Bolts: putting together a master laser . . . . . . . . 26 3.4 Locking the laser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Contents iv 3.4.1 Saturated Absorption Spectroscopy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 3.4.2 Frequency modulation locking scheme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 3.5 Amplification at the right frequency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 3.5.1 Injection locking- the Master-Slave relationship . . . . . . . . 32 3.5.2 Acousto-optical modulators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 3.5.3 Fiber network for diagnostics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 3.6 More technical details . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 3.6.1 Details of the rubidium setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 3.6.2 Details of the lithium laser system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 4 In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 4.1 Loading a MOT from atomic vapour . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 4.1.1 A note about desorption . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 4.2 Loading a MOT from an effusive atomic beam . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 4.2.1 Collimation issue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 4.2.2 Background collisions with Rubidium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 4.3 Slowing an atomic beam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 4.3.1 Shifting, chirping or broadening the laser frequency . . . . . . 46 4.3.2 Filtering the high velocity atoms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 4.3.3 Zeeman slower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 4.4 Our choice of sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 4.4.1 Rubidium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 4.4.2 Lithium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 5 More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 50 5.1 Vacuum system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 5.1.1 Initial considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 5.1.2 Vacuum pumps and their limitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 5.1.3 Vacuum bakeout procedure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 5.2 Computer Control System . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 5.2.1 Initial considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 5.2.2 Hierarchy of components . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 5.2.3 The flow of instructions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 5.2.4 Control software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 5.3 THEN the MOT works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 5.3.1 Preliminary fluorescence data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 5.3.2 Analysis of loading rate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 6 Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 61 6.1 Miniature Atom Trap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 6.2 Ultra-cold heteronuclear molecules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 6.3 Feshbach resonances . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 6.3.1 Experimental Strategy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 6.4 Electric-field-induced Feshbach resonances . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 6.4.1 Experimental Strategy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 6.5 Quantum Degenerate Gases as quantum simulators . . . . . . . . . . 65 Contents v 6.5.1 The Fermionic Hubbard Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 6.5.2 Experimental Strategy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 A Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Real- ity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 A.1 Homogeneous and Inhomogeneous mechanisms . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 A.2 Natural line-width . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 A.3 Doppler broadening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 A.4 Pressure broadening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 A.5 Power broadening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 A.6 Transit time broadening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 A.7 Laser line-width . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 A.8 Second order Doppler effect . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 A.9 Other mechanisms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 B Laser System Details . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 vi List of Tables 1.1 Different systems exhibiting quantum degenerate behaviour. . . . . . 3 1.2 Differences between Bosons and Fermions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1.3 Increase in phase-space density during various stages of the experiment. 5 3.1 Table of all the diode lasers used in the lab, and their characteristics. 23 3.2 Table of the different transitions at which the master lasers are locked,and the frequency shift of the pump beams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 3.3 List of all the AOMs being used for the experiment and their frequency shifts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 4.1 Difference between the velocity profiles of a gas and a beam. . . . . . 41 5.1 Information about the different vacuum pumps . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 vii List of Figures 1.1 Density- Temperature relationship, showing regions governed by clas- sical and quantum mechanics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2.1 AC stark shift for a 2-level atom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 2.2 Schematic diagram showing optical molasses in one-dimension . . . . 11 2.3 Atomic energy levels in the presence of a magnetic field . . . . . . . . 13 2.4 Demonstration of polarization gradient cooling mechanism . . . . . . 16 3.1 Energy levels of lithium-6 and lithium-7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 3.2 Energy levels of rubidium 85 and 87 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 3.3 Semi-conductor diode laser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 3.4 LI curve of one of the master lasers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 3.5 Schematic diagram an a photo of a master laser system . . . . . . . . 25 3.6 Graph showing acoustic resonance frequencies of a master . . . . . . . 26 3.7 Schematic diagram illustrating hole burning mechanism in saturated absorption . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 3.8 Schematic of a three level atoms, with two ground and one excited state. The figure also shows how the moving atom sees light at two resonances from one that is at a wavelength between the two reso- nances in the lab frame. This doppler shifted light leads to cross-over resonances. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 3.9 Graph showing the absorption spectrum of lithium-6 with the satu- rated absorption peaks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 3.10 Zoomed in view of the absorption spectrum for lithium-6 showing the saturated absorption peaks. Also shown on the graph is the error signal obtained by the lock box for that signal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 3.11 Flowchart summarizing the the optical procedure to create light to enable rubidium’s laser cooling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 3.12 Flowchart summarizing the the optical procedure to create light to enable lithium’s laser cooling. The diagrams and pictures of the optical setup is shown ahead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 4.1 The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 4.2 The calculated loading rate for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source. . . . . . . . . . 42 List of Figures viii 4.3 The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source. We can see an approximately 100-fold increase from a vapour cell MOT. 43 4.4 The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source. We can see an increase in the Nss at all temperatures just by a small collimation of the atomic beam. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 4.5 The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source in the presence of a background of rubidium atoms. We can see a decrease in the Nss due to enhanced collisional losses. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 4.6 Picture of the vacuum system electric feed-through showing the 1/4” support support rods on which the atomic sources to be used for the experiments are screwed on. There are two rubidium dispensers on the top and bottom, and a collimated effusive atomic beam source for lithium is shown in the center. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 5.1 Pressure during the bakeout procedure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 5.2 Solidworks drawing of the experimental arrangement for Feshbach ex- periment. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 5.3 Flowchart showing the control sequence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 5.4 Loading curve for Rb-87 MOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 5.5 Picture of rubidium-87 MOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 6.1 Schematic diagram showing the short and long term objectives of the experimental effort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 6.2 Schematic diagram explaining a Feshbach resonance . . . . . . . . . . 63 6.3 Picture of the high-voltage electrodes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 A.1 Temperature dependence of atomic spectra: doppler broadening at different temperatures for Li-6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 A.2 Line-width of the master lasers as obtained by beating two locked master lasers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 B.1 Rubidium-87 trap light frequency setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 B.2 Rubidium-87 repump light frequency setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 B.3 Rubidium-85 trap light frequency setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 B.4 Rubidium-85 repump light frequency setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 B.5 Lithium-6 frequency setup to generate both trap and repump light . . 85 B.6 Details of the actual optical setup to generate lithium MOT light. . . 85 B.7 Optical setup for the amplification stage on the feshbach table before the MOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 ix Acknowledgements This thesis is a testament to the progress made in our Quantum Degenerate Gases Lab. To claim it as my work would be simply incorrect. I would like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to the people I have met. First and foremost, I am indebted to Prof. Kirk Madison for giving me the opportunity to work in his group. Kirk has always had the time to answer my innumerable whys, all of which were not confined to the experiment. As I write this section and reflect, I realize how enriching those interactions have been. This thesis would not be what it is if it wasn’t for my second reader Prof. John Behr, who turned his comments and suggestions into a scientific discussion at times, for which I am grateful. I think everyone in the lab can attest to the fact that our lab is completely dysfunc- tional without Dr. Bruce Klappauf. He comes to our rescue when we are willing to give up and inspires us with his remarkable dedication and knowledge. I have wit- nessed my fellow graduate students Janelle van Dongen and Keith Ladouceur absorb new ideas and quickly master them. Thanks to Janelle for constantly reminding me to keep faith and helping me with things- I owe her over a hundred cookies. Keith has answered many silly computer control questions patiently and is fun to work with. Thanks to Tao for LaTeX and machining help, and for letting me beat him in arm wrestling. Our lab has been very fortunate to have dedicated undergrads and exchange students. Sylvain Hermelin and Paul Lebel had to be kicked out at times. Sylvain-tight optics is a lab standard and Paul has been named Magneto because of his work on the magnetic coils. Thanks also to Friedrich, Nina and Bastian for their input on exper- iments, this thesis and my hopeless German. The machine shop and the electronics shop guys have also been very helpful. I have been fortunate to have a great support network of friends. Anand, Arvind, Sibyl and JonBen would be remembered for food and stimulating conversations- es- pecially Anand. Thanks also to Sasha for her sanity checks and Thilo for smiles. Most of all, my immense gratitude goes to my family, especially my mother for either believing in me or giving up on me- whatever it was. Last, but definitely not the least, thanks to Abhyudai, now my husband, for being, according to him, a constant source of distraction during this work. As usual I disagree with him and look forward to both silly and intellectual arguments- and a lot more. 1 Chapter 1 Introduction TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. A Psalm of Life : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1.1 Phase space density Classically, the phase space density of an ensemble ρ(−→r , −→p , t) can be defined as the probability that a single particle is at position −→r and has momentum −→p at some time t. In classical mechanics it is possible to know simultaneously the position and momentum of a single particle with certainty. These six components span the phase space of the particle. The phase space density for a system of N particles is the sum of the single-particle phase space densities of all the particles in the system divided by N . Since the phase space density is a probability, it is always positive and can be normalized over the 6N -dimensional phase space spanned by the position and momentum vectors. The quantum mechanical description of a gas of atoms is that of wave-packets in- terfering with each other. While is it convenient to picture them as billiard balls at high temperatures, specific quantum effects must be taken into account at lower temperatures, as the wave-packets spread and begin to overlap. The spatial extent of the wave-packet is characterized by its de Broglie wavelength, λdB = h/p0, where p0 is the average momentum of the particle [25]. For a gas at temperature T , the average velocity is simply v0 = √ 3kBT m (1.1) which gives us the corresponding wavelength scale: λ = h√ 3mkBT (1.2) One must remember that since the spatial and momentum spread must satisfy the uncertainty relation, the above expression for λ is an estimate of the degree of spatial localization. Now, for an ensemble of atoms to be treated classically, the inter-particle spacing Chapter 1. Introduction 2 must be much greater than the spatial extent of the wave-packets. Quantum effects become important when the particles tend to overlap, meaning nλ3 ≈ 1 (1.3) (onset of Quantum effects). Here, n is the number density of the ensemble being considered. Figure 1.1 shows the two regimes. The following table gives us an idea of the density and temperature T em pe ra tu re number density, n n =1 Quantum region Classical region Figure 1.1: Classical and Quantum regimes in the temperature-density space. The rough demarcation between the two is given by nλ3 = 1, where λ is the deBroglie wavelength. values for which quantum degeneracy is achieved in various systems [44]. T0 is the temperature associated with Equation 1.3. It is important to emphasize here that quantum mechanics is not exclusively the physics of small things, as can be seen in Figure 1.1 and the table below. The quantum mechanical behaviour becomes domi- nant when the density is high enough so that each particle’s wave-function overlaps with its neighbour. The following sections describe briefly how quantum degeneracy is realized in a system of ultra-cold atoms. The tentative approach of our research group is described thereafter. 1.2 Bosons and Fermions- The statistics of identical particles If two particles are identical, mathematically it means that the Hamiltonian of the two-particle system is invariant under a permutation of their co-ordinates. This leads Chapter 1. Introduction 3 Table 1.1: Different systems exhibiting quantum degenerate behaviour. System Density (in cm−3) T0(in K) Neutron star 1037 108 Electrons in metal 1022 104 Liquid 4He 2 × 1022 2 H2 gas 2 × 1019 5 × 10−2 87Rb BEC 2 × 1012 1 × 10−7 Table 1.2: Differences between bosons and fermions Bosons Fermions integer spin half-integer spin Symmetric wave-function anti-symmetric wave-function occupation number, ni = Nstates e²i/kB T −1 occupation number, ni = Nstates e²i/kB T +1 Exhibit Bose enhancement Exhibit Pauli blockade Examples: photons, gluons, 87Rb,23 Na,7 Li Examples: electrons, protons,40K,6 Li to an interesting observation in quantum mechanics. Let us define the permutation operation such that: P Ψ(r1, r2) = Ψ(r2, r1) (1.4) here, Ψ is an eigenket of the Hamiltonian. There are two key observations about this operator, P . 1. P 2 = 1, which means by applying the operator twice we recover the original state. 2. Since the Hamiltonian is invariant under permutation, we can find a simultaneous set of eigenkets to describe the system. After some linear algebraic manipulation (refer to section 8.2 in ref. [44]), we realize that Ψ and P Ψ must describe the same state, and since P 2 = 1, they can only differ by a normalization factor = ±1. Hence, Ψ(r1, r2) = ±Ψ(r2, r1) (1.5) This means that the wave-functions must be symmetric or anti-symmetric under exchange. Particles with the symmetric property are said to obey Bose statistics, and hence are called bosons. Particles with the anti-symmetric property obey Fermi- Dirac statistics, and hence are called fermions. Some of their striking differences have been summarized in the following table. An atom is said to be a boson if the sum of its spins is a whole integer, and fermion if it is a half-integer. As the phase space density is increased and quantum mechanical behavior is revealed, we observe that bosonic atoms tend to group together and occupy the low-lying states of the system, eventually forming a Bose-Einstein Condensate which is described as macroscopic occupation of the ground state of the system- BEC) as ρ goes over 2.612 [22, 44]). The phase space density, ρ = nλ3, is the dimensionless quantity that signifies the number of particles in a box of volume equal to the cube of the de Broglie wavelength. Chapter 1. Introduction 4 The phenomenon of Bose-Einstein condensation is quite unique. It is perhaps the only thermodynamic phase transition that is driven purely by particle statistics and has nothing to do with their interactions. At a phase transition, all thermodynamical variables undergo an abrupt change. This characterizes a critical temperature, Tc. Analogous to a liquid-gas phase transition, the particles can co-exist in two states at the critical temperature. However, below the critical temperature, the gaseous vapour condenses to liquid droplets. Similarly, below the critical temperature, the gaseous bosons condense into a BEC. But unlike normal particles, its not their separation in space, but in momentum space that defines this transition. The condensed particles of a BEC all occupy a single quantum state of zero momentum, while normal particles have a distribution of finite momenta [7]. For fermionic atoms, things are different. The Pauli exclusion principle prohibits them from occupying the same state, so as the temperature decreases, they start occupying the low-lying levels of the system. Since only one particle can occupy a state, not all can be in the ground state and they start occupying the next-available energy state. Thus, in the quantum-degenerate regime, all states below some energy (called the Fermi energy) are filled, giving us a fermi sea. It is this filling of lower energy levels that gives rise to fermi pressure. As a gas of atoms increases its phase space density and enters the quantum degenerate regime, we notice that its momentum distribution spreads even more than what would be expected for a classical Maxwell distribution. This differentiates fermions from classical particles or bosons (since bosons have a much narrower momentum distribution eventually leading to a BEC). In fact it this fermi pressure that is responsible not just for identifying ultra-cold fermionic atomic gases [1], but also for the gravitational stability of massive compact celestial objects like white dwarfs and neutron stars [71]. In this thesis, we shall concern ourselves with three atomic species: 87Rb and 85Rb - which are bosons, and 6Li, which is a fermion. 1.3 Motivation Before delving into the details of this thesis, it is important to discuss briefly the motivation for realizing quantum degenerate gases in a system of ultra-cold atoms. Due to its low densities, the interaction between constituent atoms is minimal. In fact, it has been shown that this interaction can be tuned from being highly repulsive to attractive by way of Feshbach resonances (for example [63]). Excellent control over the laser and magnetic fields involved gives us the ability to perform very pre- cise measurements on such quantum systems. This precision and tunability makes these experimentally realized quantum systems prime candidates for being quantum simulators. As Feynman pointed out [37], the ability to store and process superpositions of num- bers gives immense parallel computing powers to a quantum computer. A highly controllable quantum system made of a quantum degenerate gas (QDG) of ultra-cold atoms can be used to simulate other more complicated quantum systems, for example electrons in a material. While QDGs might not be the best candidate for factoring large numbers, they are strong contenders to realizing several interesting condensed Chapter 1. Introduction 5 Table 1.3: Increase in phase-space density during various stages of a BEC experiment Stage Temperature Phase space density Atomic source 3000C 10−17 Slowing 30mK 10−12 Cooling 1mK 10−9 Trapping 1mK 10−6 Evaporation 100nK > 1 matter hamiltonians, for example, the Bose-Hubbard Hamiltonian [58]. The ample interesting physics that remains to be explored is driving several research programs in the area. 1.4 The experimental route As a result of Liouville’s theorem [80], the application of conservative forces cannot change the volume that the ensemble occupies in phase space. Hence, in order to change the phase space density, we have to apply a non-conservative force on the atoms. Such a force is applied by lasers while laser cooling and trapping, and can change the phase space density by over eight orders of magnitude to about 10−6. The details of how this works theoretically and experimentally constitute the bulk of this thesis and are explained in later chapters. The basic idea is that lasers enable laser cooling provide a force that is proportional to the atomic velocity and its direction is opposite to the atomic motion, hence providing a damping mechanism which slows the atom down, ultimately cooling the ensemble. The final six orders of magnitude are spanned by evaporative/sympathetic cooling [50], where the atoms are loaded into optical or magnetic traps and the hotter ones are allowed to escape by lowering the trap depth. As the remaining atoms thermalize, the ensemble gets colder, and eventually reaches the quantum degenerate regime. The following table shows order-of-magnitude values for different stages of a typical experiment that produces quantum degenerate gases [80]. Ever since the production of the first BEC in 1995[33], and fermi degenerate gas in 1999[26] the basic structure of the route to degeneracy has not changed by much. Techniques with laser cooling, for example polarization gradient cooling or Raman cooling schemes [48],[21] have enabled experiments to reach a higher phase space density before the evaporative cooling phase of the experiment. Minimizing losses in the evaporative cooling phase requires starting with a colder, denser sample. Proposals for novel schemes to achieve this are constantly being devised. 1.5 Outline of this thesis This thesis primarily discusses the first step to degeneracy- production of ultra-cold ensembles of rubidium and lithium. It starts with the theoretical details of laser cooling and trapping in chapter 2. The next chapter (chapter 3) contains all the Chapter 1. Introduction 6 details of the experimental requirement and the laser setup that was built in our lab to enable us to cool two bosonic species, 85Rb and 87Rb and fermionic 6Li. Chapter 4 deals with summarizing the details of a atomic source for lithium-6. Chapter 5 describes the vacuum system and the control system for the experiment, and recently added preliminary data from our first ensembles of ultra-cold lithium and rubidium. Chapter 6 deals with the planning and progress of the first experiments that we aim to achieve with these ultra-cold atoms- namely looking for feshbach resonances and studying the effect of DC electric fields on them. Finally some more technical and theoretical details such as spectral broadening mech- anisms and details of the laser setup are explained in the Appendix. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. A Psalm of Life : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 7 Chapter 2 Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective There’s a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes. Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are. There’s a certain slant of light: Emily Dickinson This chapter presents a theoretical picture of the mechanisms underlying laser cooling and trapping. The interaction of photons with atoms can be classified into two types: the coherent interaction (corresponding to stimulated scattering), and the incoherent interaction (corresponding to spontaneous scattering events). The coherent interaction generates the dipole potential that is used for optical trapping of atoms and is described in section 1. The (near-resonance) incoherent interaction leads to laser cooling and trapping and will be described in subsequent sections. The interaction of a simple two-level atom with near-resonant light, and the force it experiences due to scattering photons will be considered in section 2. Atoms experience a laser light below the atomic resonance frequency experience a dissipative force retarding its motion, similar to a viscous force, which is explained in section 3. By extending the same geometry to three dimensions, we can slow down an ensemble of atoms in all three directions of motion. However, the slow atoms are not trapped. In order to trap the atoms, magnetic fields are introduced to create a magneto-optical trap, as explained in section 4. It was discovered that several different mechanisms were responsible for cooling of the atoms below the expected temperature limits, and they are discussed in section 5. To conclude this chapter, we will branch off from a single atom picture and look at the effect of laser cooling on the ensemble at large, discussing temperature and entropy changes in the last section. 2.1 The Dipole Force 2.1.1 Classical Oscillator Model An atom in a light field −→ E has an induced dipole moment that oscillates with fre- quency ω. This dipole moment is given by: −→ d = α −→ E (2.1) Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 8 where α is the polarizability given by [65]: α = 6π²0c 3 Γ/ω 2 0 ω20 − ω2 − i(ω2/ω20)3Γ (2.2) Here, ω0 is the frequency of the transition (classically, the natural frequency of the oscillator), and Γ is the line-width of the transition. The interaction potential of the induced dipole moment with the driving field −→ E is simply Udip = − 1 2 −→ d . −→ E = −1 2 ²0cRe(α)I (2.3) The Dipole Force is the conservative force that results from the gradient of this interaction potential. Fdip = −∇Udip = 1 2²0c Re(α)∇I(r) (2.4) The scattering rate corresponding to absorption and spontaneous re-emission of pho- tons is given by: Γsc(r) = 1 h̄²0c Im(α)I(r) (2.5) Substituting the expression for polarizability and implementing the rotating wave approximation (which is valid for large de-tunings |δ| = |ω − ω0| << ω0), gives the following expressions for the energy and scattering rate: Udip(r) = 3πc2 2ω30 Γ δ I(r) (2.6) Γsc(r) = 3πc2 2h̄ω30 ( Γ δ )2I(r) (2.7) 2.1.2 A more quantum view The effect of electric fields on atomic levels can be treated as a second order pertur- bation (Stark effect) with the interaction Hamiltonian given by: H = −−→d .−→E (2.8) and the energy levels given by [70] δEi = Σj 6=i | < j|H|i > |2 Ei − Ej (2.9) Note that the change in energy of an atomic level depends on the coupling between the different states- or what is generally known as a dipole matrix element. To describe the system quantum mechanically, we apply the dressed state picture [59] in which both the atom (∆E = h̄ω0)and the photons (E = h̄ω) are quantized. For a two-level Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 9 h v0 h v Field on Field off (a) (b) ∆Eshift Figure 2.1: Schematic diagram showing the effect of an electric field on a two level atom. (a) The energy levels are moved in opposite directions if the field is red de-tuned to the resonance. (b) In case of a spatially in homogeneous field, such a Gaussian laser beam, the shifted energy levels create an energy minima in which atoms can be trapped. system, diagonalizing the 2 × 2 matrix of the interaction Hamiltonian [59] gives the energy shifts to be: E(ground/excited) = ± 3πc2 2ω30 Γ δ I (2.10) This is remarkably similar to the classical treatment of the dipole potential (Equa- tion 2.6). This induced energy shift is commonly known as the light shift or ac stark shift. It is this ac stark shift in the energy levels that is used to form a trap for atoms. If δ < 0, then the trap is red de-tuned and atoms are attracted to the minima of the trap, and vice versa for a blue de-tuned trap. The interference of laser beams produces a periodic intensity pattern, and hence a periodic energy shift that is used to make an optical lattice. 2.2 The Scattering Force Photons have momentum, meaning if a beam of photons scatters off of a target, it must exert some force on the target due to the change in momentum of the photons. To better understand the origin of this force, consider a microscopic picture consisting of one atom and a beam of photons. Each time an atom absorbs a resonant photon, it receives a momentum kick of h̄k in the direction of the incoming photon. The absorbed photon is then spontaneously emitted in a random direction, and after many absorptions, the average of the momentum vectors of the emitted photons goes to zero. Atoms absorbing counter-propagating photons would be slowed down over time. This provides a force that slows down atomic motion. For one-dimensional motion, this scattering force would be given by: Fscatt = photon momentum × scattering rate (2.11) Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 10 The scattering rate is given by Γρ, where Γ is the spontaneous decay rate of the upper level, and the co-efficient ρ is the fraction of the population in the upper level. Solving the optical Bloch equations for a two-level atom in the presence of an oscillating electric field, gives the steady-state population of level 2 (the upper level) to be [64]: ρ = Ω2/4 δ20 + Ω 2/2 + Γ2/4 (2.12) Here, Ω is the Rabi frequency (the oscillation frequency between the ground and excited state in the presence of resonant light). The Rabi frequency and the saturation intensity are related by the following expression: I Isat = 2Ω2 Γ2 (2.13) Here, Isat = πhc/3λ 3τ by definition, with τ being the decay time for the transition. Combining these definitions gives the following expression for the scattering force: Fscatt = h̄kΓ 2 I/Isat 1 + I/Isat + 4δ 2 0/Γ 2 (2.14) We can see that for high intensities, the maximum limiting value of this force is Fmax = h̄kΓ/2, which is supported by the fact that for high intensities the steady state population of the upper level approaches 1/2. This maximum force is employed in slowing of atoms (see Zeeman slowing mechanism in Chapter 4). 2.3 Optical Molasses From the previous section we see that an atom received a momentum kick in the direction of the incoming photon. If the atom has some velocity v in the direction of the incoming photon, it would see the light Doppler shifted to a lower frequency, and hence a de-tuning of δ = δ0 − kv, where k is the wave-vector, k = 2π/λ. This gives us a force, F+ (assuming the photon is coming in the +x direction), where: F+ = h̄kΓ 2 I/Isat 1 + I/Isat + 4(δ0 − kv)2/Γ2 (2.15) If we add another laser beam in the -x direction (counter-propagating with respect to the previous beam), then the force on the atom due to this second laser beam would be: F− = − h̄kΓ 2 I/Isat 1 + I/Isat + 4(δ0 + kv)2/Γ2 (2.16) Intuitively, one would think that if two laser beams with the exact same characteristics are incident on an atom in opposite directions, the forces induced by them on the atom would cancel in each other out. This is true for an atom at rest, but for a moving atom F+ and F− do not cancel. In the approximation that the velocity of Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 11 the atom is small, such that |kv| << Γ and |kv| << |δ0|, we obtain the following expression for the total force [34, 38]: Fmolasses = 4h̄k 2 I I0 v(2δΓ) [1 + (2δ/Γ)2]2 (2.17) Figure 2.2 depicts the process in a schematic diagram. For red de-tuned light (δ < 0), |1> |1> |2> |2> w w w - kv w + kv On resonance F = - αv Laboratory frame Atom’s rest frame Figure 2.2: Schematic diagram showing the effect of counter propagating beams below resonance frequency on an atom. [Left] 2 beams are not absorbed by an atom at rest. [Right] If the atom is moving in a particular direction, it sees the laser in the opposing direction doppler shifted to the resonance frequency, and gets a momentum kick in the opposite direction to its motion. the force described in Equation 2.17 would be opposite to the direction of propagation of the atom, and can be thought of as a damping force Fmolasses = −αv (2.18) Here alpha is the damping co-efficient whose value can be determined from equation 2.17. We can see, therefore that light exerts a damping, frictional force on the atom. An analogy of this damping force is the viscous drag force experienced by a particle in a viscous fluid, and hence the name “optical molasses”. It is important to note that this simple treatment to explain optical molasses only works for I << Isat. A more detailed description of the different mechanisms that contribute to the actual phenomenon is explained in reference [34]. The simple one-dimensional picture of an atom in the presence of counter-propagating laser beams can easily be extended to three-dimensions. This eventually leads to slow, cold atoms at the intersection of the six counter-propagating laser beams. While the atoms get slowed down and accumulate at the center of the orthogonal intersecting Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 12 beams, they do not remain trapped in the region. Since the spontaneous emission of the photons is in random directions, the atomic velocities become randomized and the atoms execute a random walk, and eventually can diffuse out of the region of intersection of the laser beams. It is quite appealing to think that a trap for neutral atoms can be created that is based solely on absorption and spontaneous emission. However, this idea has a fun- damental flaw that was pointed out using the Optical Earnshaw theorem [9]. By analogy to the Earnshaw theorem in electrostatics (which states that it is impossi- ble to trap a charged particle with static electric fields), it can be shown that it is impossible to trap a small dielectric particle at a point of stable equilibrium in free space by using only the scattering force of radiation pressure. If the scattering force is proportional to the photon intensity (as is the case for optical molasses), it will have zero divergence, and would correspond to an unstable trap [4]. However, if some external field alters this proportionality in a position dependent way, a stable trap can be formed. By maximizing the gradient of this scattering force, the trap could be made deeper. 2.4 Magneto-Optical Trap (MOT) By a clever choice of laser polarization and presence of magnetic fields, the molasses region can easily be converted to a trap for cold-atoms. The most widely used trap for ultra-cold neutral atoms employs such a combination of optical and magnetic fields, and hence is called a magneto-optical trap (MOT). Originally proposed by J. Dalibard, the first such trap was successfully demonstrated in 1987 [29]. This simple and robust technique employs external fields in order to change the scattering force in a position dependent way (as discussed in the previous section) resulting in MOTs being the most successful example of atom traps. To understand the trapping mechanism of a MOT, let us begin by considering a two- level atom constrained to move along in one dimension with two counter-propagating laser fields. Furthermore, consider the two levels of the atom to contain magnetic sub-levels. This time the two levels of the atom contain magnetic sub-levels. Let the ground state be a J = 0 state (only one mJ = 0), and the excited state be a J = 1 state (three possible magnetic sub-levels, mJ = 0, ±1). In the presence of a magnetic field, the excited state levels split into three different energy levels due to the Zeeman effect, with the energy depending on the strength of the magnetic field. This is illustrated in Figure 2.3. Such an inhomogeneous magnetic field is produced by two parallel current carry- ing coils with current flowing in opposite directions. This configuration generates a quadrupole magnetic field. The field is zero at the center of the coils and increases approximately linearly for small displacements around zero. To provide cooling, the counter-propagating laser beams are de-tuned below resonance. The beams propagat- ing in the ±z direction have σ± polarization and thus drive the mJ = ±1 transitions respectively. An atom in the +z-direction is resonant with the σ− beam that drives the mJ = −1 transition. Now that the atom preferentially absorbs one of the laser beams, it undergoes momentum kicks in the direction opposite to its motion, and Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 13 z E B B MJ = -1 MJ = 0 MJ = 1 J = 1 J = 0 De-tuning δ Figure 2.3: Schematic showing the energy levels of a two level atom in the presence of a magnetic field with J=1 being the upper state. hence is pushed towards the center of the cooling region. Due to the symmetry of the setup, the beams in all six directions (along with cooling the atoms) provide a force on the atom that is directed towards the center of the cooling region. This means that in addition to the frictional force discussed in the previous section, the atom also experiences a position dependent restoring force, F = −κz. The spring constant κ is determined to be [4]: κ = αgeµB∇B h̄k (2.19) Here, α is determined by Equation 2.18, ge is the g-factor for the atom and µB is the Bohr magneton. MOTs have come a long way since J. Dalibard’s proposal and Bell Labs demonstration of the first MOT with sodium atoms in 1987 [29]. This robust trap is used for studies of quantum optics, chaos and precision measurement, along with being the first step towards quantum degeneracy (as it increases the phase space density by about 12 orders of magnitude). The one-dimensional picture and the explanation described above is an over-simplified one. In subsequent sections we shall consider the different cooling mechanisms inside a MOT, and also the loss mechanisms that determine the atom number and the temperature of an ensemble of trapped ultra-cold atoms. 2.5 Cooling Mechanisms and their limitations In the simplified picture of laser cooling, we have not considered what determines the final temperature of the ensemble. Different cooling and heating mechanisms that occur inside the trap and their limitations set the final temperature of the atom Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 14 cloud. In this section, we shall discuss some of the relevant mechanisms that cause both heating and cooling- how they work, and the cooling limits imposed by them. 2.5.1 Doppler cooling The details of the Doppler cooling process are explained in detail in references [22, 38, 59]. Looking at the microscopic picture, the force from a single laser beam (along the z-direction) on an atom can be described as: F = Fabs + δFabs + Fspont + δFspont (2.20) Here, Fabs, the force due to absorption is the same as the scattering force discussed in Section 1. The force due to spontaneous emission, Fspont averages to zero, since the photons are emitted in random directions. In order to find the sources of heating in the ensemble, consider the fluctuations, δFabs and δFspont. Each absorption (or emission) changes the atomic velocity by vr, the recoil velocity, where vr = h̄k m , and k is the wave-vector of the photon absorbed. Since the scattering process is completely random, it causes the photon’s velocity to execute a random walk, with each step size being vr. We can assume that the velocity distribution follows Poisson statistics. This randomness causes the mean-square velocity in the time interval t, to increase as: v2abs = v 2 r Rscattt (2.21) due to absorption, and v2spont = ηv 2 r Rscattt (2.22) due to spontaneous emission. Here, Rscatt is the scattering rate. The factor η =< cos2θ > is the average over the angular spread of velocities, vr−z = h̄kcosθ/m. Adding up the forces due to contribution of all these affects, and employing Newton’s second law gives: d dt ( 1 2 mv2) = d dt 1 2 m[v2abs + v2spont + v2scatt] (2.23) Substituting, the values of the mean-square velocities from the two previous equations leads to d dt ( 1 2 mv2) = [ 1 2 mv2r Rscatt + 1 2 mηv2r Rscatt + 1 2 m2vscatt d dt v] (2.24) Now, if we add the other counter-propagating beam, the scattering rate doubles, and we have one-dimensional molasses. In that case, we already know the force due to scattering from Equation 2.18, and the equation reduces to: d dt ( 1 2 mv2) = [ 1 2 mv2r (1 + η)2Rscatt + vFmolasses] (2.25) Extending the case to all three dimensions would give us the value of η = 1. Substi- tuting in η = 1, and the value for the molasses force, we arrive at: d dt ( 1 2 mv2) = [ 1 2 mv2r 4Rscatt − αv2] (2.26) Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 15 For the equilibrium condition, the sum of all the forces must be zero. Using this fact in the equation, and solving for v2 gives: v2 = 1 2 mv2r 4Rscatt α (2.27) Substituting the values of the friction co-efficient, α, and the scattering rate, Rscatt that we computed earlier in 2.18 and 2.7 respectively, we can get an expression for v2 in terms of frequencies. To relate this to temperature, we could use the equipartition theorem that equates kinetic energy to temperature by the relation 1 2 mv2 = 1 2 kBT . After making these substitutions, we finally arrive at an expression for temperature of the form: kBT = h̄Γ 4 1 + (2δ/Γ)2 −2δ/Γ (2.28) The minima of this function occurs at a red de-tuning of half the natural line-width, or δ = −Γ/2, and defines a minimum temperature of TD = h̄Γ 2kB (2.29) This is the Doppler Cooling limit. It gives the lowest temperature that can be achieved in an optical molasses for a simple two-level atom. Since this heating is due to spontaneous emission, which is an integral part of the laser cooling process, it cannot be avoided. The Doppler limit for cold rubidium is 144µK, and for lithium is around 140µK [80]. However, experimental measurements of temperature of a cloud in optical molasses gave results that were much different and colder than this tem- perature. An analysis of the mechanisms that were responsible for this is addressed in the subsequent subsections. 2.5.2 Polarization Gradient cooling This cooling scheme relies on different couplings of a multi-level atom with light. Let us start with an atom in the ground state with Jground = 1/2 and Jexcited = 3/2 and these levels be further split into magnetic sub-levels (as shown in Figure 2.4). When counter-propagating laser beams of orthogonal polarizations shine on the atom, they interfere to form a spatially inhomogeneous pattern as shown in Figure 2.4 for σ+ − σ− light and two orthogonal linear polarizations. As discussed in Section 1, atoms in a light field are subjected to an ac stark shift that depends on the coupling between the different states. The mF sub-levels are coupled differently to the excited state depending on the polarization of light- thus creating a spatially inhomogeneous potential for (orthogonally) linearly polarized light, but a constant potential for circularly polarized light. In case of linearly polarized beams, an atom with sufficient kinetic energy climbs the potential hill only to be optically pumped to the bottom of the hill for another mF state. This process occurs continually until the atom has lost enough kinetic energy that it is not even be able to climb the potential energy curves of the mF states. This cooling process is called Sisyphus cooling [23]. Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 16 Figure 2.4: Schematic diagram showing the energy levels of a multi-level atom, with J=1 being the lower state, in the presence of counter-propagating laser beams. Because the resultant polarization is differs as a function of distance (as demonstrated in (a) for σ+ − σ− configuration and in (b) for 2 orthogonal linear polarizations), the energy levels are shifted appropriately (as demonstrated in (c) and (d)) leading to novel cooling mechanisms [figure from [23]]. However for the case of a MOT, with orthogonal circularly polarized light, the energy levels simply shift by the same amount for all the mF states, and no Sisyphus cooling takes place. A more subtle mechanism is responsible for sub-doppler cooling in this case. When the atom starts to move, the symmetry of the atom-photon interaction is broken. An atom moving towards a σ+ beam sees it to be closer to resonance and gets optically pumped (eventually) to the highest mF state. The scattering rates are altered due to this re-distribution of the population as the atom moves. This leads to a much stronger scattering force (compared to the one that causes doppler cooling)[23]. An estimate of the equilibrium sub-doppler temperature is characterized by the ac stark shift induced by the light, and an approximate expression (assuming δ >> Γ) is given by [4]: kBT = h̄Γ2 4|δ| I Isat (2.30) This analysis of sub-doppler cooling breaks down when the atomic momentum approaches the momentum from a single photon kick- when the de Broglie wavelength is comparable to the laser wavelength and a full quantum treatment of the problem is required. Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 17 2.5.3 Recoil limit As mentioned earlier, the recoil velocity corresponds to the momentum kick that the atom gets in a single spontaneous emission process. Since this process is of stochastic nature, it would lead to a heating affect. The temperature scale corresponding to this kinetic energy is called the recoil temperature limit kBTr = (h̄k)2 2M (2.31) The recoil limit temperature for cold rubidium is 370 nK, and for lithium is aproxi- mately 6µK [80]. The final temperature of a MOT was proposed to be around a few times this recoil temperature mostly because of two convincing arguments [53]. First, as mentioned before, the last photon for the cooling process would leave the atom with at least one h̄k momentum, and since this momentum is in a random direction, it would contribute to heating. Second, the polarization gradient cooling mechanism requires the atom to be localized within approximately λ/2π in order to be subjected to only a single polarization in the spatially varying electric field. The uncertainty principle requires the atom to have a momentum uncertainty of around h̄k. Thus the recoil limit sets the lower limit for temperature in the presence of light, and to get colder than that, the laser fields have to be switched off. 2.6 The macroscopic picture The discussion so far in this chapter about temperature has been only for a single atom. Intuitively, this contradicts the very definition of temperature, which is actually a statistical property of the entire ensemble. Nevertheless, it is convenient (and now the norm) to describe the kinetic energy of an atom in terms of (absolute) temperature units by the simple conversion in one dimension: 1 2 mv2 = 1 2 kBT (2.32) The other very important reason why the idea of temperature adopted in laser cool- ing in scientifically inappropriate is due to the fact that the system (atoms + pho- tons), although in its steady state, cannot be called in thermal equilibrium [59]. It is interesting to think of temperature in terms of the entropy of the system. The well-collimated beam of photons interacts with the matter and gets spontaneously emitted in a random direction. Since there are numerous choices for the frequency, polarization and direction of the out-going photon, the change in entropy of the pho- ton due to absorption and spontaneous emission is enormous. When compared to the entropy change in the atomic ensemble, we are led to realize how inefficient this cooling scheme is. In other words, laser cooling makes a very inefficient refrigerator for atoms [18]. Laser cooling is a demonstration of how light is able to create order in matter. In fact it is a more interesting observation of the fact that the bulk entropy of matter is lower than the thermal equilibrium for matter (in a stationary state). Of course, the second law of thermodynamics ensures that the photon entropy is Chapter 2. Laser cooling and trapping - A theoretical perspective 18 increased. A particularly interesting calculation of entropy change and the efficiency of different kinetic effects of resonant light on matter are considered in reference [75]. Here, mat- ter entropy is given the standard Boltzmann treatment (the sum of entropies of the excited and non-excited particles), and the photon entropy is calculated using Bose statistics. Using Hänsch and Schowlow’s original proposal [42] for laser cooling, and assuming a temperature change by a factor of 2500 using laser cooling, the ratio of entropy change in the atomic beam and the entropy change in the photon beam was calculated to be 10−5. In spite of being an inefficient process, laser cooling is remarkable with respect to dramatically narrowing the phase space density of the atomic ensemble, owing to the fact that lasers can be used both for velocity spread narrowing and spatial confine- ment. It is important to note here that the velocity distribution must be narrowed to enable cooling, and it is this narrowing (and hence change in phase space density) that distinguishes cooling from a velocity-selection process. None may teach it anything, ’Tis the seal, despair,- An imperial affliction Sent us of the air. When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, ’t is like the distance On the look of death.. There’s a certain slant of light: Emily Dickinson 19 Chapter 3 Getting the light- The laser system for experiment It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth,among these barren crags, Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. Ulysses: Alfred Tennyson In the last chapter, we discussed the theory of what enables laser cooling. For an experimental demonstration of it, the emphasis is on different things. The stability, accuracy and tunability of the laser system are some of the experimental challenges that will be addressed in this chapter. It gives an overview of the theoretical con- siderations during design of the laser system that just stems out of the atomic level structure in section 1. The rest of the chapter is about how to implement the desired laser system. In section 2, we give a brief introduction to semi-conductor diode lasers that are the workhorse for the experiment. In section 3, we describe why and how diode lasers are modified to form a tunable external cavity laser. Section 4 deals with how to make the lasers accurate (using saturated absorption spectroscopy) and stable (using fre- quency modulation locking technique). Section 5 discusses how the light is amplified at the desired frequency (using slave lasers and acousto-optical modulators). The last section (section 6) gives all the technical details, including the optical setup and various settings for the entire optical setup that enables laser cooling and trapping of all three species 6Li, 87Rb and 85Rb. 3.1 Requirements for the laser system From the theoretical study of laser cooling, the following salient points are reiterated. Multi-level atomic structure Even simple alkali atoms that have only one electron in their outer shell, have a much more complicated level structure than those discussed in the previous chapter. This leads to an increase in the number of energy levels the excited electron could decay to. If an atom undergoing cooling due to repeated absorption and spontaneous re-emission decays to another energy level which is not on resonance with the lasers, it gets lost from the ensemble being cooled. This leads to the use of more lasers to have a ‘closed’ cooling transition, ensuring that the atoms don’t get lost from laser cooling transition. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 20 Frequency of the laser cooling light As discussed in the previous chapter, the laser light must be red de-tuned by a few natural line-widths to the resonance frequency of the cooling transition. Since laser frequency is of the range 1014 Hz and the line-width 106 Hz, it requires the laser frequency to be very accurate and also stable for the duration of the experiment. Not just that, the ability to tune laser frequency closer or farther from resonance during the experiment is also required to enable efficient cooling. With that in mind, let us start with a look at the atomic energy levels of the atoms of interest. 3.1.1 Lithium We start with 6Li. With only three electrons, it is the alkali atom that seems closest to hydrogen with respect to electronic structure. Due to its light mass, the splitting in energy levels due to the fine and hyperfine interaction are small compared to all other alkali atoms. The existence of two hyperfine ground states makes it necessary to have two frequencies present in the light to laser cool lithium. One is for the transition that actually enables cooling due to fast absorption and spontaneous emission cycles (F=3/2 to the 2P3/2 manifold)- hence called cycling or cooling transition laser. The other laser frequency (tuned to F=1/2 to the 2P3/2 manifold) pumps the atoms that decay into the other hyperfine transition back to the cycling transition, and hence called re-pumper. Figure 3.1 shows the energy level diagram of lithium with the relevant transitions that are used for laser cooling. Since the ground state hyperfine splitting is only 228 MHz- the re-pump light can easily be attained by frequency shifting some light using acousto-optical modulators instead of having a different frequency stabilized laser system. However, because the cooling transition light, which is near the F=3/2 to F’=5/2 transition, can very easily off resonantly excite a transition from F=3/2 to F’=3/2 (only 2 MHz away) and this state can decay to the lower ground state, the atom is very quickly pumped out of the upper ground state. This de-pumping happens much more quickly than in Rubidium where the hyperfine splitting in the excited state is much larger than the atomic line-width and implies that much more re-pump light is required to keep the atoms trapped in the case of Lithium. In addition, because the number of re- pump photons scattered is on the same order as the number of cooling transition photons, the re-pump light should ideally also have the correct polarization to also contribute to trapping in the MOT. It also makes sub-doppler cooling inefficient, since the multiple transitions spoil the polarization gradient. Another important thing to note is the hyperfine splitting of the excited state, 2 P3/2, is just 4.4 MHz- which is even smaller than the natural line-width of the transition ( 6 MHz). This means that all spectral features due to this hyperfine splitting would be washed out and we can think of it as a single energy level. This enables us to approximate lithium atom as a three-level system with two ground, and one excited state, instead of a much more complicated multi-level atomic structure. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 21 F=1/2 F=3/2 F’=1/2 F’=3/2 F’=1/2 F’=3/2 F’=5/2 F=1 F=2 F’=1 F’=2 F’=3 F’=2 F’=1 F’=0 2 2S1/2 2 2P1/2 2 2P3/2 2 2S1/2 2 2P1/2 2 2P3/2 6Li 7Li 2.88 MHz 152.14 MHz 10.053 GHz 10.052 GHz 18 MHz 92 MHz 804 MHz 670.776 nm 670.776 nm D1 line D2 line D1 line D2 line 76.07 MHz 8.69 MHz 17.37 MHz 1.17 MHz 1.74 MHz 10.53 GHz COOLING RE-PUMP Figure 3.1: Schematic of lithium energy level diagram with the laser cooling and re- pump light shown for 6Li. 7Li energy levels are shown for comparison- and also since they overlap with some 6Li transitions. Refer to [47] for more accurate frequencies. 3.1.2 Rubidium Unlike lithium, the hyperfine splitting in rubidium are much bigger, as shown is Figure 3.2. It cannot to approximated as having a single excited state. First, the ground state hyperfine splitting for rubidium isotopes is in the GHz range, which is too large to be spanned by an acousto-optical modulator. So, different lasers are required for cooling and re-pump transitions. Second, the excited state hyperfine splitting is wide enough for the corresponding spectral features to be far apart. The advantage is that since the corresponding de-pump transition (F=2 to F’=2 and F=3 to F’=3 for 87 and 85Rb respectively) is many line-widths away from the cycling transition, the probability of an atom decaying out of the cycling transition is much lower and the re-pumper beam does not have to be strong. In fact, a weak beam in just one direction works well enough. 3.2 Semiconductor lasers All the laser light needed for the experiment is generated by semi-conductor diode lasers. This section provides a brief introduction to them. For a more complete discussion, please refer to [84] or [76]. The principle of operation of semi-conductor Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 22 F=1 F=2 F’=2 F’=1 F’=0 5 2S1/2 5 2P3/2 87Rb 85Rb 72.22 MHz 4.271 GHz 780.241 nm D2 line 2.563 GHz 193.7 MHz 156.9 MHz COOLING RE-PUMP 72.91 MHz F’=3 F=2 F=3 F’=3 F’=2 F’=1 5 2S1/2 5 2P3/2 113.2 MHz 1.771 GHz 780.241 nm D2 line 1.265 GHz 100.3 MHz 83.87 MHz COOLING RE-PUMP 20.49 MHz F’=4 Figure 3.2: Schematic of rubidium energy level diagram with the laser cooling and re- pump light shown for both 87Rb and 85Rb. Refer to [28] for more accurate frequencies. lasers is similar to light-emitting diodes (LEDs) in the sense that light is produced by radiative recombination of electrons and holes at a p-n junction. If we forward bias a heavily doped p-n junction diode, this radiation can stimulate the radiative re-combination process, hence realizing laser action (if amplification exceeds the loss- rate) [64]. Figure 3.3 gives a schematic diagram of a simple semi-conductor diode. The lasing action is initiated by the injection current [20]. Due to the structure of laser cavity, the output beam is diverging and astigmatic. This is corrected by using collimation lenses and a cylindrical lens pair (or anamorphic prism pair) respectively. Figure 3.4 is a graph of injection current vs. optical output from one of the laser diodes being used in the lab. It clearly shows the onset of lasing action at a threshold current around 30 mA. Diode lasers usually do not employ mirrors for feedback. This is because the re- fractive index at the semiconductor-air interface is large enough to give considerable reflection. In fact, higher power (over 50mW) diodes are usually coated with a high reflectance material at the back surface and reduced reflectance coating on the output facet [20]. However, since the diode itself makes the laser cavity, the laser is highly susceptible to temperature changes. The laser emission wavelength is determined by the band-gap of the semi-conductor material. Hence, we use two different types of lasing materials to give us light for Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 23 Figure 3.3: Schematic of a simple p-n junction laser. from [76]. The ellipsoidal mode inside the p-n junction results in the diverging, astigmatic radiation pattern we see. Table 3.1: Table of all the diode lasers being used in the lab and their characteristics. Property Rb Masters Rb Slaves Li Master Li Slaves Laser GH0781JA2c MLD780100S5P RLT6720MG HL6535MG Manufacturer SHARP Intelite Roithner Opnext Polarity cathode gnd. cathode gnd. anode gnd. cathode gnd. Th. current 29 mA 30 mA 30 mA 55 mA Op. current 73-84 mA 80-100 mA 67 mA 163-168 mA Op. temperature 18 0C 18 0C 30 0C 78 0C Spec. wavelength 784 nm 780 nm 670 nm 658 nm Op. wavelength 780 nm 780 nm 671 nm 671 nm Spec. out. power 50 mW 100 mW 10 mW 90 mW Actual out. power 50 mW 70 mW 6 mW 35 mW rubidium (780nm) and lithium (671nm). Details of these lasers is given Table 3.1. For spectrometry purposes we require tunability of the laser wavelength and sta- bility. This is accomplished by making an external cavity that can be fine-tuned to the right frequency, or modulated as required. 3.3 External Cavity Diode Lasers- the Master laser system The master laser system is the primary laser system that is the source of the ultra- stable, well-collimated light required for laser cooling. The following subsections describe the different components that constitute the external cavity of the master laser system, and how they provide the required tunability. For a more detailed study of External Cavity Diode Lasers, a recent book about them [85] is highly Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 24 30 32 34 36 38 40 42 44 46 0 1 2 3 4 5 O ut pu t P ow er ( m W ) Injection current (mA) 20 degC 45 degC LI curve for a diode laser (MLD 780-100S5P) at two different temperatures Figure 3.4: Graph showing the output power of the laser beam versus injection current for a Rb master laser for two different temperatures. We can clearly see the transition from LED to Laser mode, and how this threshold behavior is affected by the temperature of the lasing cavity. recommended. 3.3.1 Theory To build an external cavity, it is important to have an anti-reflection coating on at least one of the facets of the diode laser, so that its operation is purely conducted by the cavity we build. However, due to the technical expertise required [32], we decided to not AR coat our lasers and see their performance first. Apart from the occasional mode-hops, our master lasers work just fine. An external cavity diode laser (ECDL) uses frequency selective feedback to provide the user with narrow bandwidth and tunability, something that is desired by several atomic physics experimentalists. This wavelength selective feedback is provided by an inexpensive frequency selective optical element, for example, a grating or etalon. Two popular optical configurations exist that employ diffraction gratings: Littrow [8] and Littman- Metcalf [43]. We chose the simpler Littrow configuration for our master lasers. In the Littrow arrangement, first-order diffraction from the grating is coupled back into the laser diode and the directly reflected light forms the output beam. The back facet of the diode laser chip (which has a high reflective coating) forms the other reflective surface for the cavity. In the Littrow configuration, the output frequency is controlled by the angle of the grating and therefore the center frequency of the optical feedback provided by the diffraction from the grating. The disadvantage of the Littrow configuration over the Littman-Metcalf configuration is that the output Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 25 beam angle is coupled to the output frequency since it is also determined by the grating angle. The addition of a turning mirror parallel to the grating transforms this angular shift into a simple translation of the beam which helps to circumvent this problem [13]. Figure 3.5 shows a schematic of this modified Littrow configuration, and a picture of the inside of our master laser- which is based on this modified Littrow configuration. Apart from the optical setup, there are temperature and current controllers for the diode laser system, and a simple protection circuit inside the box. The masters are further acoustically isolated by a rectangular enclosure lined with one inch thick sheets of lead-lined foam lead-lined foam (Soundcoat- product number EL510HP1) to further reduce vibrations. Figure 3.5: Top: Schematic of the master laser setup using littrow configuration ECDL from [13]. Bottom: Picture of a master laser for Rb trapping Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 26 3.3.2 Nuts and Bolts: putting together a master laser The technical details of putting together a master laser have already been described in great detail in an earlier lab report [2]. Here I would outline the things that we discovered about our lasers that were implemented later in the design. First, the importance of getting rid of low frequency acoustic resonances should be emphasized. The reason is that a couple of master lasers for rubidium showed strong acoustic resonances at frequencies of less than 1kHz, the range of normal speaking frequencies. This made it very hard to lock the laser while people were talking. Even otherwise, it would pick up a lot of acoustic noise. We got rid of it by stretching the springs in the mirror mount(which increases the spring constant, pushing resonance frequencies higher), and inserting small pieces of sorbathane in it to dampen them. The effect of this is demonstrated in Figure 3.6, which shows the acoustic resonances before and after this modification. The method used to determine the acoustic resonances was simple. A program was written in LabVIEW to automate a function generator and acquire data from an oscillosope. A sinusoidal signal was sent frequencies to a speaker kept next to the master. A zoomed in view of an absorption spectra (on the side, so as to see maximum effect of amplitude change). Due to the speaker, there was some sinusoidal feature that appeared on the absorption spectra. The plot shown is a linear graph of this peak-to-peak voltage of that noise feature as a function of frequency. an enhancement of that Vpp indicates an acoustic resonance. In principle, a change in the phase of the sinusoidal signal would have indicated a resonance better. However, it as hard to obtain, since the laser kept fluctuating a bit in frequency during the course of one such measurement. 400 600 800 1000 1200 1400 1600 -0.005 0.000 0.005 0.010 0.015 0.020 0.025 A m pl itu de ( ar b. u ni ts ) Frequency (Hz) After damping the springs Before damping the springs Acoustic resonances of a master laser as a function of frequency Figure 3.6: Graph showing the effect of stretching and damping the mirror mount springs. The acoustic resonances become less prominent and also shift to higher frequencies. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 27 Another observation was rather stumbled upon by accident. When forced to adapt a grating mount machined for a lithium system for a rubidium laser, we noticed that instead of getting multiple positions through optical alignment where the threshold current lowered by a few mA, and one moderately good one; there was a single broad region of very good injection, where the threshold current lowered by a few mA. This laser also scanned all four absorption lines for rubidium beautifully, while some others showed a lot of mode hops. After careful observations, it was noticed that the angle of the reflected light (used as feedback for injection) was not well aligned with the output of the laser in the previous configuration. The diffraction grating was tilted horizontally in one direction using additional washers on the grating mount. This led to the the incoming feedback light being aligned with the laser diode output, and hence a more stable feedback cavity. 3.4 Locking the laser The laser system requires not only tunability over a relatively longer range (few tens of GHz) to identify spectral features, but also control of a frequency within a few MHz precision while laser cooling atoms. This is accomplished by a frequency modulation locking scheme described below. A semi-conductor diode laser has a gain profile that spans several nanometers. By making an ECDL, the wavelength can be tuned (but not mode-hop free) over a range of about 5 nm by the rotation of the grating alone, and over a wider range with suitable temperature adjustment. The PZT transducer allows electronic adjustment of the cavity length, enabling tunability of over 20 GHz by ramping the voltage on it. However, for laser cooling experiments we want to be spanning a few natural line-widths (MHz range) close to the transition. So, first, the laser frequency must be more sharply defined, both absolutely, and in terms of the laser band-width. The former is achieved via saturated absorption spectroscopy that gives us an absolute frequency reference to compare our lasers to. By deriving an error signal from our spectrum, and locking to it, we can narrow the band-width of our lasers to within 5 MHz. These methods will be discussed in this section. 3.4.1 Saturated Absorption Spectroscopy As is pointed out in the appendix A, Doppler broadening is the dominant contri- bution to the width of atomic spectral lines. It occurs because atoms are moving around randomly in the measurement vapour cell, and have a distribution of veloci- ties, and hence they see the frequency of the light beam doppler-shifted by an amount depending on the velocity. This leads to an inhomogeneous broadening of the spec- trum (because each atom interacts differently with the light [refer to Appendix A for details]). There are several ways to get around the problem- some of them being crossing the laser beam with respect to the atomic beam, doing two-photon transi- tions and saturated absorption spectroscopy. The last of these methods is the most preferred method for laser cooling experiments- mostly due to its simplicity. In this subsection we shall discuss how saturation absorption spectroscopy works Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 28 starting with the basic idea in a simple two-level atom picture, and moving on to explaining the spectra obtained in the lab. Parts of the explanation are based on chapter 8 of [38], and can be consulted for a much more detailed explanation. Two-level atom: the simple picture Let us start with a two-level atom for simplicity. Let N1 be the number-density of atoms in the lower level, and N2 in the higher energy level. The atoms have a broad temperature-dependent Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution of velocities. We define ∫ ∞ −∞ N1(v)dv = N1 (3.1) And similarly, ∫ ∞ −∞ N2(v)dv = N2 (3.2) The total number density, N = N1 + N2 always remains conserved. In a simple saturated absorption setup, a strong pump beam and a relatively weak probe beam are passed through the atomic vapour cell in counter-propagating direction. The pump (being stronger) interacts with atoms with velocity v = ω−ω0 k , where ω is the frequency of the laser, ω0 is the atomic resonance frequency, and k is the wave vector (k = 2π/λ). It ends up putting the atoms it addresses due to their Doppler shift into the upper state, hence N2 increases, thus burning a “hole” in the population of the ground state. Refer to Figure 3.7 for a schematic diagram explaining this effect. As mentioned above, this hole is burnt at a certain velocity, the doppler shift of which corresponds to the resonance frequency of the transition. The width of the hole is given by the familiar equation from any laser textbook describing such phenomenon. ∆ωhole = Γ(1 + I Isat )1/2 (3.3) When the pump and probe lasers are far away from the atomic resonance, they address atoms of velocities in opposite directions. However, at the atomic resonance, they both address the v = 0 atoms. The atoms preferentially absorb the pump beam, since it is stronger. This leads to a reduction in probe absorption, which is measured on a photodiode. We can clearly observe the “saturation effect” caused by the presence of the pump beam in probe’s absorption profile. Extension to multi-level alkali atoms This simple picture can easily be extended to a more realistic, multi-level atomic system like that of the alkali atoms that we use. These would have several saturated absorption peaks- each corresponding to transition from one of the hyperfine ground states to an excited hyperfine ground state that is allowed by the transition rules. In addition to these saturated absorption peaks, we also observe additional features referred to as cross-over resonances. To explain this effect, we will consider a three- level system- with two ground, and one excited state, as shown below. (In fact, owing Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 29 Velocity, v Velocity, v Ground state population Excited state population N1(v) N2(v) w Figure 3.7: Schematic diagram illustrating the hole burning mechanism in saturated absorption spectroscopy. A hole is burnt in the ground state population for a certain velocity class due to the pump beam that leads to a decrease in the probe absorption. Figure from [38]. to the splitting in lithium’s energy levels, it can be approximated as such a three level system). When the incident light is between the two resonances, an atom moving at a certain velocity v, such that kv is equal to half of the energy difference between the resonance energies, hν1 and hν2, sees the light doppler shifted to an atomic res- onance. This is illustrated in the figure 3.8. If the atom is moving towards the incoming photons, it would see the frequency blue-shifted to the more energetic res- onance frequency- in our case ν1, and if it is moving away from the photons, it would see it red-shifted by the same amount- which would correspond to the second reso- nance frequency ν2. This leads to the presence of an additional saturated absorption peak exactly in between the two resonances. Since most atoms have a quite a few resonances, we observe not only plenty of saturated absorption peaks corresponding to a particular transition, but also additional cross-over peaks that occur exactly between the two resonance frequencies. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 30 G = 6MHz State g2 State g1 Excited states ν1 ν2 h(ν1 +ν2 )/2 kv=h(ν1 -ν2)/2 kv=0 hν2 Lab frame Atom’s rest frame h(ν1 +ν2 )/2 hν1 Figure 3.8: Schematic of a three level atoms, with two ground and one excited state. The figure also shows how the moving atom sees light at two resonances from one that is at a wavelength between the two resonances in the lab frame. This doppler shifted light leads to cross-over resonances. 3.4.2 Frequency modulation locking scheme A technique like saturated absorption spectroscopy provides us with an absolute measure of the frequency of the laser by comparing it with the resonance in the atoms. After we have this frequency, we need to ensure that the laser stays ”locked” to this frequency by some sort of an electronic feedback loop. This is accomplished by a frequency modulation locking scheme that I shall describe below. For detailed theoretical description please refer to reference[11]. To use this technique we modulate the light frequency ν by a small amount δν such that the light frequency is now given by ν = ν0 + δνsinωt. This modulation is achieved by sending the pump through an acousto-optical modulator that shifts and modulates the frequency by a few MHz. Consequently, the absorption signal (or more precisely, the saturated absorption signal)will also be modulated and can be expanded around ν0 to get: I(ν) = I(ν0) + dI dν |ν0 (δν sin ωt) + d2I dν2 |ν0 (δν sin ωt)2 + O(δν)3 (3.4) This signal is sent to a home-built circuit, the lock-box, that has a phase-sensitive amplifier, and proportional and integral feedback stages. Here the signal is first multiplied by the sine wave of the same frequency and then time-averaged in order to improve signal-to-noise. The phase between the photo-diode signal and the reference sine wave (φ) can be adjusted to give the maximal output signal. So, the output of the amplifier becomes: Output Amplitude = 1 T ∫ T 0 I(ν). sin(ωt + φ) ∝ dI dν |ν0 δν (3.5) Hence, we achieve a signal that is proportional to the derivative of the absorption signal. This provides us with the error signal for our feedback controller. As the Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 31 -0.010 -0.005 0.000 0.005 0.010 0.015 -0.16 -0.14 -0.12 -0.10 -0.08 -0.06 -0.04 -0.02 0.00 0.02 0.04 0.06 0.08 0.10 0.12 0.14 0.16 0.18 0.20 0.22 V ol ta ge ( V ) wavelength (arb. u. ) Ramp PD signal Lithium-6 saturated absorption spectrum D1 D2 Figure 3.9: Graph showing the absorption spectrum of lithium-6 with the saturated absorption peaks. Table 3.2: Table of the different transitions at which the master lasers are locked and the frequency shift of the pump beam due to the AOM. Master laser Pump freq. offset Lock transition Rb-85 cooling 2 × +120MHz F’=3-F’=4 x-over Rb-87 cooling +94 MHz F’=2-F’=3 x-over Lithium +102 MHz F=3/2-excited states Rb-87 re-pump 2 × +101MHz F’=1-F’=2 x-over Rb-85 re-pump 2 × +103MHz F’=1-F’=2 x-over laser drifts in frequency (due to fluctuations in injection current or slow drift of room temperature), the absorption peak also drifts to one side of the previous maxima or another. In order to correct for it, we need a signal that is different on the two sides of the signal. The Lorentzian absorption profile is symmetric on both sides of the resonance, but its derivative is not. It changes signs around the resonance- giving us our locking signal. By using a standard proportional-integral stage feedback loop, with this error signal as the input, we can frequency stabilize our laser to a few MHz. There are two outputs from the lock-box: a slow correction, that changes the PZT voltage, hence changing the length of the laser cavity in order to correct for slow temperature drifts, and a fast correction, that changes the injection current in order to achieve a fast feedback to small fluctuations. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 32 -0.015 -0.010 -0.005 0.000 0.005 -0.8 -0.6 -0.4 -0.2 0.0 0.2 0.4 0.6 0.8 V ol ta ge ( V ) Wavelength (arb. units) Error signal Ramp SAS peaks Lithium error signal Figure 3.10: Zoomed in view of the absorption spectrum for lithium-6 showing the saturated absorption peaks. Also shown on the graph is the error signal obtained by the lock box for that signal. 3.5 Amplification at the right frequency While the Master lasers are frequency-stabilized, they do not have enough optical power to do the experiment. Also, due to the acousto-optical modulator in the locking scheme, the laser are locked to a frequency offset from the resonance. Besides, we also need tunability in our frequency shift from resonance of our trapping light. All this is accomplished by a series of optical components that are described in the following subsections. 3.5.1 Injection locking- the Master-Slave relationship As pointed out before, the masters don’t generate enough power to do the experi- ment. So, we use additional diode lasers acting as amplifiers to generate more light at the desired frequencies. This amplification stage consists of high power lasers typ- ically running (longitudinally) multi-mode around the desired frequency. They are frequency stabilized using the method of optical injection locking. For more informa- tion on this scheme, please refer to [41]. Basically, some of the frequency-stabilized master light is sent back into the slave, which drives the multi-mode laser to lase at that particular mode (hence the master-slave name scheme). If the injected light is in the gain profile of the slave laser, which can be tuned by the current and temper- ature of the slave diode lasers, and is spatially mode-matched, it will enhance that particular spectrally narrow mode. So, the power coming out of the laser does not Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 33 Table 3.3: Table showing all the AOMs being used for the experiment. AOM name Location Purpose Frequency Rb-85 lock SP* Master table Freq. mod. lock +120 MHz Rb-87 lock SP Master table Freq. mod. lock +94 MHz Lithium lock SP Master table Freq. mod. lock +102 MHz Rb-87 re-pump lock SP* Master table Freq. mod. lock +101 MHz Rb85 re-pump lock SP* Master table Freq. mod. lock +103 MHz Lithium DP1 Master table Tune around resonance -100 MHz Lithium DP2 Master table Shift to re-pump +114 MHz Rb-87 re-pump DP Feshbach table Tune around resonance +80 MHz Rb-87 pump SP Feshbach table Tune around resonance -86 MHz Rb-87 trap DP Feshbach table Tune around resonance +80 MHz Rb-85 re-pump DP Feshbach table Tune around resonance +80 MHz Rb-85 pump SP Feshbach table Tune around resonance +59 MHz Rb-85 trap DP Feshbach table Tune around resonance +80 MHz * = pick second order increase (contrary to a naive presumed and completely wrong understanding), it is just that the power at that particular frequency that increases sharply. The principle of this feedback mechanism is the same as that of the grating stabilized feedback lasers being used as masters. The only difference being that in this case the optical feedback is provided by another laser and not from the reflection from the grating. 3.5.2 Acousto-optical modulators Acousto-optical modulators are used in atom trapping experiments for several pur- poses: as frequency shifters, modulators or fast shutters. We use them for frequency modulation (for locking the master lasers) of light, and also for shifting. The principle of operation is simply based on a crystal whose index of refraction changes sharply with density. When a high-power acoustic wave is sent to the crys- tal, it travels through it as a longitudinal sound wave creating regions of high and low density. This turns the crystal effectively into a diffraction grating. This is the effect which leads to the diffraction pattern that we observe when we send light through the crystal. The key difference being that since the diffraction grating itself is moving at sound velocity, the diffraction orders are also frequency shifted. The zeroth order is unaffected by the frequency of the acoustic wave, while the different orders of dif- fraction are frequency shifted, and their angular separation (understandably) varies as the frequency of the input acoustic wave. The following table lists all the AOMs used for laser cooling purposes and some of their characteristics. Further details are described in Appendix B. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 34 3.5.3 Fiber network for diagnostics In order to ensure that all the slave lasers are injected and running at the right frequency (i.e. still injected and injected at the right frequency), some light from each slave is coupled into a diagnostics fiber. These are 1550 nm telecom fibers that were donated to UBC from JDS Uniphase. All these fibers goto a N-input: 1-output fiber switcher box. The output light from the switcher comes to the diagnostic setup. For each rubidium and lithium light, a Fabry-Perot interferometer and a vapour cell (in case of lithium, light is sent through the heat pipe being used to get the lock signal) constitute the diagnostics set-up. Light out of the fiber is split into these two components. They give us information about the frequency characteristics of the laser. Besides, we can always sweep the master laser, and watch the slave follow (or not follow, as is mostly the case). This diagnostic setup has provided us with an effective tool for trouble-shooting by enabling us to identify which laser is not working properly. 3.6 More technical details Through the previous sections, we presented a step-by-step picture of the optical setup for experiments. Since my project primarily included the feshbach resonances experiment, most of the experimental details are relevant for that experiment. How- ever, the same locked masters (after being amplified) also feed light to two (one in case of lithium) more experiments- the miniature atom trap and photo-association. Details of the objectives of these experiments would be explained in chapter 6. In this section, all the optical components discussed before are combined to describe the big picture- the optical setup for laser cooling and trapping. First, specific details for the rubidium and lithium are presented separately and then we explain the combined setup to make a triple species MOT. Further details are presented in Appendix B. 3.6.1 Details of the rubidium setup A flowchart like diagram explaining the light flow for a typical rubidium setup is shown in Figure 3.11. On the master table, every laser (cooling and re-pump lights for both isotopes) is locked using appropriate saturated absorption signals, and then amplified so that enough light goes through the fiber-optics cables to the three ex- periments. A point to note about the master table setup is that wherever double passing though the AOM was required for frequency shifting- that was replaced by picking the second order of the diffracted beam. This was due to the fact that we had a lot of light com- ing out of the master laser. It wasn’t just more than sufficient for spectroscopy and injecting the slave laser- in fact stray back reflections from the slave laser and the double-pass setup were partly responsible for frequency instability of the masters. Since the back reflected powers were considerably large (mostly due to ineffective polarization optics), we realized that even the 35 dB of isolation provided by the optical isolator was not sufficient to attenuate this light to an insignificant power. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 35 Using a single-pass setup not only got rid of some of the frequency noise on the error signal, but also saved quite a bit of optical components. The interference due to back-reflection, and the aligning beam from the slave laser was solved by inserting a neutral density filter in the path of the injection beam. On the Feshbach experiment RUBIDIUM MASTER TABLE SETUP RUBIDIUM MOT AMPLIFIER SAS lock Slave Amplifier Fiber network To miniature Atom-trap exp. Slave amplifier Shift + Tune DP AOM RB DIAGNOSTICS SET-UP RUBIDIUM RE-PUMP Shift + Tune DP AOM Rb vapour cell Fabry- Perot interferometer Slave amplifier Tune SP AOM OPTICAL PUMP MOT chamber Master laser TRAPPING PROBE RE- PUMP To photo-association Experiment LOCKED LIGHT PRODUCTION FESHBACH TABLE SETUP FOR RUBIDIUM Electronic Fiber-optic Optical Figure 3.11: Flowchart summarizing the the optical procedure to create light to enable rubidium’s laser cooling. table, while there is enough light after appropriate frequency shifting for re-pump laser beam (recall from section 1 that there is not much light required for rubidium re-pumping), the trapping light has to be amplified in order to have enough power for cooling and trapping and also for detection. Details of the actual setup including the frequency of various lasers for trapping are explained in the appendix B. 3.6.2 Details of the lithium laser system Lithium laser system is designed a bit different than that of rubidium, as can be seen in Figure 3.12. This is primarily because of the requirement of a strong re-pump beam that is close to the cycling transition. It employs a single master laser that is locked and then frequency shifted (after being amplified) to inject a slave that gives Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 36 cooling light to both experiments. This AOM can be tuned in order to adjust the fre- quency de-tuning of both trapping and re-pump light- since the output of this AOM forms both the trapping and (after being shifted 228 MHz) re-pump light. Additional tunability is provided by independently tuning the AOM that shifts the laser from cooling to re-pump transition. LITHIUM MASTER TABLE SETUP LITHIUM MOT AMPLIFIER Slave Amplifier Fiber network Slave amplifier trap light Shift + Tune DP AOM LI DIAGNOSTICS SET-UP LITHIUM FESHBACH TABLE SET-UP Fabry- Perot interferometer Slave amplifier OPTICAL PUMP MOT chamber Master laser TRAPPING PROBE RE- PUMP To photo-association Experiment LOCKED LIGHT PRODUCTION Electronic Fiber-optic Optical Lithium Heat-pipe Shift (114ä2)MHz DP AOM Slave amplifier re-pump LITHIUM RE-PUMP AMPLIFIER Slave amplifier OPTICAL PUMP PROBE Figure 3.12: Flowchart summarizing the the optical procedure to create light to enable lithium’s laser cooling. The diagrams and pictures of the optical setup is shown ahead. There are no AOMs on the experimental tables for lithium light. So, the Feshbach table setup is pretty simple. The light from the fiber-optic cable is simply amplified to get the required power of the two frequency lights for laser cooling and trapping. An important technical problem was encountered on the master table that could be taken into consideration for future experiments. The distance between the lithium master and slave was around 1.3m. Such a long distance led to alignment problems while injecting the slave, and making it get out of the injection frequently. Since the master table was floating on a foam, with the slave being significantly far away, any small vibrations on the master table led to significant misalignment of the slave beam, and the slave got out of lock very frequently. This problem was temporarily fixed with mode-matching the injection beam with the slave output, and precise alignment. However, it remains a problem. So, it is important to keep in mind that if any of the slaves don’t appear to be injected, it would be a wise idea to check the first slave, because it goes out of injection most frequently. Chapter 3. Getting the light- The laser system for experiment 37 Another important technical detail to keep in mind is that the AOM don’t appear to be as efficient for the same focussing for lithium as they are for rubidium. This is because lithium light, having a smaller wavelength, is focussed a lot tighter making the diffraction in efficient. This can be overcome by either using a longer focal length lens or by creating a small divergence by using a 1:1 diverging lens telescope centered around the AOM. More details of the actual setup, including the actual table setup and the frequency of various lasers are explained in appendix B. Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Ulysses: Alfred Tennyson 38 Chapter 4 In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. The Road Not Taken : Robert Frost Here I shall elaborate on the various standard ways of loading atoms into a Magneto-optical trap (MOT) and comment on the efficiency of different procedures. While the calculations and comments in this section are for lithium atoms, simi- lar calculations can be done for any other atom. Due to the significantly different vapour pressure of lithium as a function of temperature, certain techniques prove to be not very efficient (for example loading from background vapour). However, these techniques could be optimal and in fact are widely used in case of other atoms (for example rubidium and cesium are typically loaded from a background vapour). An optimal design for the atomic source is important since it limits the number of trapped atoms. Since I spent a significant amount of time designing the atomic sources for multiple experiments, I shall briefly describe the loading mechanism for different types of sources and the various considerations to keep in mind while design- ing the source. At the end of the chapter, I shall conclude by justifying the choices for atomic sources that were made. Hopefully these calculations and the conclusions drawn can provide some guidance during the design of atomic sources for ultra-cold atom experiments. 4.1 Loading a MOT from atomic vapour Atomic background vapour loading is by far the simplest way to load a MOT. Atoms from a background gas with velocities below the maximum capture velocity of the MOT are trapped in the middle of the intersecting beams. An ensemble of atoms in a dilute vapour has a standard Maxwellian distribution of velocities that is dependent on temperature, and a MOT captures the low-velocity tail end of the distribution. The losses are mostly due to trapped atoms colliding with the more energetic un- trapped atoms. Of course, other density dependent losses in a MOT come into effect as well. But we shall just consider this as the loss mechanism to get an order- of-magnitude estimate for the number of atoms that would get trapped in such a configuration.The treatment shown here is based on reference [14], and further details Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 39 can be found there or in reference [69]. The calculations I show here have been modified for our experimental setup of lithium atoms. However, they can be extended to any atomic vapour. The rate at which atoms would be trapped in a MOT is given by some loss rate (γN , where γ is the loss-coefficient, and N is the number of trapped atoms) subtracted from the loading rate (R). Ṅ = R − γN (4.1) Solving this differential equation, we get: N (t) = R γ (1 − e−γt) (4.2) The loading rate is given by [14]: R = nV 2/3v4c 2v3mp (4.3) Here, n is the density of atoms, V is the trapping volume, which is around 4.2 cm3 for 2cm diameter laser beams. vc is the maximum capture velocity of the MOT. The stopping force on the atom is provided by the two counter-propagating lasers, and decreases rapidly with velocity. Let us assume that the laser is typically one line-width towards the red away from the resonance frequency. So, the atom would be captured and cooled if the doppler shifted light that it sees is within a line-width from the resonance. Equating the two, we get vc ≈ Γλ, which for our transition (D2 line for6Li, Γ/2π = 5.9MHz [65]), corresponds to a velocity of around 25 m/s. I shall use this estimate for the capture velocity for the rest of my calculations. The most probable velocity, vmp can be defined as (from any thermodynamics textbook): vmp = √ 2kBT m (4.4) As mentioned earlier, the loss-mechanism we consider is collisions with background, un-trapped atoms. For simplicity, let us assume that the colliding atoms are at the most probable velocity for simplicity. This gives us the loss coefficient of: γ ≈ nσvmp (4.5) The collisional cross-section σ is assumed to be 6.3 × 10−13cm2 [69]. This is an under- estimate for the loss rate because it assumes the background contains only lithium, but gives us some idea. Combining the above equations, we can determine the steady- state number of trapped atoms, Nss: Nss = R γ = V 2/3 2σ ( vc vmp )4 (4.6) Figure 4.1 shows a graph of the steady state number Nss as a function of temperature. The number of trapped atoms in such a lithium MOT is much smaller than the steady Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 40 state number for most other atom MOTs. This has to do with the fact that lithium has a small mass and a very small vapour pressure. However, for some other atoms like cesium, around 3.6×1010 atoms have been trapped in a vapour cell loaded MOT [49]. In fact loading from a vapour cell MOT remains the standard method for ultra- cold experiments with Cs, and usually Rb and K as well. Since the experimental signal is proportional to the number of trapped atoms, it is desirable to have a much bigger number of trapped atoms in the MOT. Also, since any cooling scheme that may be implemented to cool this ensemble further would also lead to losses, we have to start with a much bigger ensemble from the beginning. Hence other techniques must be implemented to increase the number of trapped lithium atoms. 200 250 300 350 400 450 500 TemperatureHCL200000250000300000 350000 400000 450000 ss N HsmotaL Steadystatenumber vs. T Figure 4.1: The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature. 4.1.1 A note about desorption It has been experimentally demonstrated that in the presence of intense UV or broad- band light, the number of trapped atoms from certain alkali-metal atomic vapour can be significantly increased [6, 35]. This is due to light-induced atomic desorption (LIAD). When light is incident on the inner surface of the vacuum chamber, the alkali atoms that have coated the inner walls quickly get desorbed and the vapour pressure increases significantly. This leads to a higher number of trapped atoms. Since this light source can be turned on and off fast, the background vacuum can be maintained at low pressures, and the alkali atoms can also be recycled. While this technique has been demonstrated to produce optically thick rubidium, sodium and potassium atomic vapour, the effect of light induced desorption still remains un- explored in lithium and might provide a way for a simple and efficient MOT loading mechanism. Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 41 Table 4.1: Difference between the velocity profile of background gas and a beam Property Gas Beam Distribution v2exp(−v 2 v2mp ) v3exp(−v 2 v2mp ) Most probable v √ 2kB T m √ 3kB T m Root-mean-square v √ 3kB T m √ 4kB T m Average velocity v √ 8kB T πm 3 4 √ 2πkB T m 4.2 Loading a MOT from an effusive atomic beam Let us consider atoms effusing through a small hole of area As. The characteristic velocities of such atoms would differ from a Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution of atoms, as outlined in reference[38]. The faster atoms are more likely to pass through the hole and hence the thermal distribution of velocities differs from that of a standard Maxwell-Boltzmann. Table 4.1 shows some key differences (reproduced from [38], pg 152). vmp is the most probable velocity given by equation 4.4 The number of atoms flying out of such a source per second (or the dissipation rate)is simply given by: dN dt = nvAs 4 (4.7) We can calculate the loading rate of such a MOT by simply integrating the distrib- ution of velocities up to the capture velocity of the MOT. Following the calculations shown in Savard’s thesis[69], we can get the following expression for the rate at which atoms are effusing from the oven: dN dt = 2nAs π1/2v3mp vre −v2r v2mp vze −v2z v2mp dvzdvr (4.8) To find the number of atoms for the loading rate calculations, we need to consider appropriate limits on the velocities in radial and axial directions. Let the axial upper limit be the capture velocity of our MOT. To calculate the radial velocity, we find the velocity that the atoms would have so that after traveling a distance d to the MOT with axial velocity being the capture velocity of the MOT, the atom has spread radially only so much that it is still in the trapping region. Thus, the maximum radial velocity is given by: vrmax = vc d rc (4.9) For our experiment, rc is 1 cm, and d is 15 cm. Integrating over this velocity range, we can get an expression for the loading rate of the MOT. R = nvAs 4 (1 − e −v2c v2mp )(1 − e −v2rmax v2mp ) (4.10) In order to calculate the steady state number, we need to consider the losses. Let us Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 42 200 300 400 500 600 TemperatureHCL1100 10000 1.µ1061.µ108 R HsmotaêsL LoadingRate vs.Temperature Figure 4.2: The calculated loading rate for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source. consider a maximum velocity, vzmax = 1000 × vc. We can integrate our distribution up to these maximum velocities to get an approximate value for the total number of lithium atoms coming out in the MOT capture area. Ṅtotal = nvAs 4 (1 − e −v2zmax v2mp )(1 − e −v2rmax v2mp ) (4.11) This gives the loss rate of: γ = σ Ṅtotal π(d vrmax√ 3/2vmp )2 (4.12) Here, the denominator being an estimation of the area suspended by the solid angle of the collimated beam. The factor √ 3/2 is due to the difference in the velocity profile between a background gas and beam, as discussed earlier. While we are on a more realistic path, we could include collisions with background vapour of different impurities (not just the hot atoms effusing out of the source), at a pressure of around 10−10torr as a possible loss mechanism. For simplicity with respect to coliisional cross-sections, we assume this background to consist of just lithium. Adding that in our loss rate, we can get a more realistic expression for our losses. By dividing the loading and loss rate, we can get the steady-state number of trapped atoms. Figure 4.3 is a graph of the steady state number of atoms as a function of oven temperature. 4.2.1 Collimation issue So far we have considered atoms effusing from a hole with no well-defined collimation of the atomic beam. However, we can greatly reduce the angular distribution of our Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 43 300 400 500 600 700 800 TemperatureHCL02µ1084µ1086µ10 8 8µ1081µ1091.2µ109 ss N HsmotaL Steadystatenumber vs. T Figure 4.3: The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source. We can see an approximately 100-fold increase from a vapour cell MOT. atomic beam just by making the beam effuse through long channels. The pressure is chosen such that the atoms do not collide with each-other inside the channel. Of course, this decreases the number of atoms coming out of the channel walls. This reduction is implemented in the dissipation rate equation, and the modified equation 4.7 looks like: dN dt = ξ nvAs 4 (4.13) Here, ξ is called the reduction co-efficient. For a cylindrical geometry (which is usually considered), a circular tube with diameter(d) much smaller than the total length(l), the reduction co-efficient is given by [74]: ξ = 4d 3l (4.14) Carefully chosen geometries enhance the MOT steady-state number primarily due to three reasons: 1. The flux of atoms is collimated so that more atoms actually arrive at the MOT capture area. 2. The transverse spread of velocities in atoms is decreased, since atoms with high radial velocities do not get out of the channel. 3. Due to the presence of a narrow channel, differential pumping takes place- the ex- perimental chamber is pumped at a much faster rate than the rate at which the source chamber introduces particles. This makes it possible to maintain the experimental chamber at a much lower pressure than in the source (which is orders of magnitude higher due to the partial pressure of hot lithium atoms). A lower background pres- sure suppresses loss mechanisms due to background collisions thereby increasing the steady state number and the lifetime of trapped atoms. Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 44 Figure 4.4 is another graph of the steady state number of atoms for a lithium MOT with the same source, but this time using just a 1/4” thick tube for collimation (hole diameter- 0.03”, length- 0.25”). We can see that the steady state number increases for all temperatures. We can thus choose the geometry of the collimator such that the solid angle imposed by the tube covers the MOT area. This increases efficiency of our trapped atoms. Also, longer channels make it easier to maintain the experimental vacuum chamber at a much lower pressure than the source chamber. 300 400 500 600 700 800 TemperatureHCL02µ1084µ1086µ1088µ10 8 1µ1091.2µ109 ss N HsmotaL Steadystatenumber vs.T Figure 4.4: The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source. We can see an increase in the Nss at all temperatures just by a small collimation of the atomic beam. 4.2.2 Background collisions with Rubidium In the experiment, we plan to have MOTs of two different species running at the same time. It is therefore important to consider the loading of a lithium MOT in the presence of rubidium vapour. Unlike that of lithium, the vapour pressure of rubidium is high enough to enable loading of rubidium from background vapour at room temperature. The number density of rubidium atoms is given by the ideal gas law: nrb = Pvacuum kBT (4.15) where P is th epartial pressure of rubidium at room temperature (around 10−8torr). This gives the loss-rate of: γrb = nrbσ √ 2kBT mrb (4.16) Since the collisional cross-section of lithium-rubidium atoms is unknown, we as- sume it to be the same as the one we considered for lithium-lithium collisions- 6.3 × 10−13cm−2 (which is probably a good order-of-magnitude estimate). We add Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 45 this loss rate to the total loss-rate expression that becomes the sum of three different loss mechanisms, namely loss due to background lithium and rubidium vapour and the loss due to the hot atoms in the lithium atomic beam. This is plotted in Figure 4.5. It is important to note here that rubidium would not be the only contaminant in 400 500 600 700 800 900 TemperatureHCL02µ108 4µ1086µ1088µ108 1µ109 ss N HsmotaL Steadystatenumber vs. T wê rbinbkgndwêorbbkgnd Figure 4.5: The calculated steady state number for trapped atoms in a lithium MOT as a function of temperature for an atomic beam source in the presence of a background of rubidium atoms. We can see a decrease in the Nss due to enhanced collisional losses. the MOT. There would be background vapour of atmospheric gases and other out- gassing materials that would contribute to the loss-rate. However, this calculation was done in order to provide a rough estimate and hence the other loss-mechanisms (that would be treated in a similar manner) are being ignored here. 4.3 Slowing an atomic beam The calculations described above give us an over-simplified view of the number of atoms that can be loaded into a magneto-optical trap. There are other loss mech- anisms that have not been considered in this picture: for example, fine-structure changing collisions in case of lithium (and rubidium) and three-body collision, light assisted collisional losses and heating losses. Overall, it would not be pessimistic to say that the real steady-state number of atoms would be lower than the estimate that we have calculated (especially because with the experimental chamber vacuum pressure is currently much higher than 10−10torr). Since the the number of atoms is our signal, we need to maximize it. Also, in order to reach degeneracy we need to have additional stages of cooling. At each of these stages, we would be losing atoms. for example, loading into an optical or magnetic trap always leads to loss of some atoms due to heating. Needless to say that there is evaporative cooling as well. In order to increase the number of trapped atoms, we need to have more atoms below Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 46 the capture velocity of the MOT. This can be done by starting with a colder atomic beam. Due to partial pressure of lithium as a function of temperature considerations, which is responsible for the atomic oven being run at around 400 0C, we cannot have a cold beam of lithium vapour coming out of the atomic source. But additional mechanisms can be used in order to cool the atomic beam in order to make loading more efficient. One thing to keep in mind is that for ultra-cold experiments, atoms only interact with electric and magnetic fields, because they are suspended in the middle of the vacuum chamber in a magnetic (or optical) bowl. So, any cryogenic technique can- not be implemented. Buffer-gas cooling or stark deceleration has been widely used as universal techniques in chemistry to cool many species. However, these techniques are rather complicated and so far no one has tried them. Moreover, buffer gas cool- ing usually needs rather high pressures of the cold buffer gas, which would be hard to make compatible with a MOT. There can be simpler ways to cool alkali atoms using magnetic fields or laser light. In this section, I shall summarize some such experimental approaches in this section. 4.3.1 Shifting, chirping or broadening the laser frequency The loading rate of a MOT is highly sensitive to the capture velocity. As discussed above, the capture velocity depends on the de-tuning of the laser beams from the resonance frequency. So, in order to increase the capture velocity and maximize the number of trapped atoms, the lasers can be further red de-tuned from the atomic resonance. However, this just makes the laser talk to a different velocity class of atoms that are more abundant in the atomic beam. If the red de-tuned laser beam shines opposite to the atomic beam, then it would slow the atoms down by radiation pressure. By carefully choosing the de-tuning frequency, the number of trapped atoms can be enhanced. Such a set-up has been described in reference [19], where the steady state number was increased by five-fold by using a single 115 MHz red de-tuned, circularly polarized slower beam opposite the atomic beam of 7Li atoms. The major drawback of this cooling scheme is that as atoms slow down, they go out of resonance from the laser light. So, if there is a compensating mechanism for the decreasing doppler width, the loading rate can be increased. This can be accomplished by either chirping the laser frequency (details can be found in reference [77]), or by using Zeeman effect (as shall be explained later). By chirping the frequency of the counter-propagating laser beam being used for slowing the atoms, a pulsed source of cold atoms can be produced. However, a pulsed source might not be ideal for most experiments. If the frequency spectrum of the laser cooling beams is broadened by for example, generating side-bands using an electro-optical modulator, the number of trapped atoms can be increased by over 20 fold. Details of such an experimental scheme for 7Li atoms is described in [5]. The side-bands thus created enable the laser to talk to a broader range of velocities, and also (for higher trap-depths) re-capture the decay products of fine-structure changing collisions- thus building up the number of trapped atoms. Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 47 4.3.2 Filtering the high velocity atoms One of the major contribution to trapped atom losses is the collisions of cold atoms with the hotter ones coming from the atomic beam. This could be minimized using two general ways. First, by placing a small beam block in between the source and MOT so that the mostly high velocity atoms don’t hit the MOT. The atoms even- tually diffuse around and have a smaller average velocity. Also, since the MOT is not in the path of atom beam anymore, the losses due to the high momentum atoms knocking out the cold ones is greatly reduced. This technique is implemented in the photo-association experiment that is being setup in our lab. An example of a beam block placed in front of a source that was very close to the trapping region is given in the experimental setup of [5]. For that particular geometry, loading rates of 107 atoms/s were obtained. However, since the source was so close to the MOT, the trap life-time was reduced. Another possible mechanism relies on the interaction of atoms with high magnetic fields to make a laser-free slow atom source. The atoms are transported through a curved tube that has a octupole magnetic guiding field produced by permanent mag- nets. Slow, low-field seeking atoms can follow the curved trajectory of the skimmer source, while all other atoms hit the walls of the magnetic guide and are lost. Thus the magnetic guide acts as a low-velocity filter and can lead to around 108 atoms in a lithium MOT [31]. 4.3.3 Zeeman slower While these methods described above sacrifice loading rates, they could produce higher steady state numbers. In order to load a high number of atoms quickly (up to 1011 atoms/s [79]), a zeeman slower is usually implemented. It uses both interaction with laser and magnetic fields to decelerate an atomic beam to velocities comparable to the capture velocity of the MOT. The following is a simple explanation of the underlying physics. Detailed analysis of the experimental design are described in several Ph.D. theses, including [69]. It is to be noted here that we decided not employ a Zeeman slower, at least initially, because of the technical demands of the slower. However, its working is being briefly described here for completeness. For a high intensity laser beam, the scattering force on the atom can expressed as [22]: Fmax = h̄k Γ 2 (4.17) A laser that is counter-propagating to the incoming atomic beam would provide a force that would decelerate the atoms. A moving atom sees the red de-tuned laser beam Doppler shifted to the resonance and absorbs and emits it, eventually losing forward momentum, and slowing down. However, as the atom slows down, the doppler shift changes and it eventually gets out of resonance. So, we add a compensating magnetic field to provide a spatially varying de-tuning that ensures that the laser remains on resonance with the slowing atom beam. The de-tuning Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 48 experienced by the atom can expressed as: ∆ = ∆laser + v λ − ∆B (4.18) where the first term in the sum corresponds to the de-tuning of the slower laser, the second is the doppler shift and the third corresponds to the de-tuning due to the magnetic field. This de-tuning is given by: ∆B = µBB h (4.19) To ensure that the atom is resonant with the laser, the magnetic field should be such that: B = h µB (∆laser + v(z) λ ) (4.20) This magnetic field is provided by a series of current carrying coils, with increasing number of turns to get a tapering magnetic field with distance to offset for the decreasing doppler shift of the atoms. The magnetic field is chosen so that atoms from a certain velocity onwards get slowed down. A region of magnetic field works for a certain velocity class of atoms- slowing them a bit. So, a tapering magnetic field moves atoms from one velocity class to lower and lower velocities, and by the time the atoms reach the trapping region, all the atoms below a certain velocity (usually the most probably velocity for the atomic beam) have been slowed to much slower velocities comparable to the capture velocity of the MOT. This greatly enhances the loading rate, since the distribution of velocities is not a broad Maxwellian any more, instead it has a sharp peak around the capture velocity (or the slowed velocity for the slower). However, atoms above the upper-bound of the slower remain unaffected by the Zeeman beam, since they are never resonant with it, and lead to losses in the trapped atoms by colliding with them. In spite of this, Zeeman slowing appears to be the most popular choice for efficient lithium laser cooling. 4.4 Our choice of sources To conclude the discussion of several types of sources begin used for ultra-cold atom experiments, we shall discuss the ones we chose for our atoms and why. 4.4.1 Rubidium Alkali metal dispensers seem to be the most popular choice for rubidium source. These are little metal oven containing a salt of the alkali metal required (in our case rubidium), and a strong reducing agent. The reducing agent used in commercial dispensers from SAES getters is SAES St101 (Zr 84%-Al 16%) getter alloy. In addi- tion to reducing the alkali back to its metallic state, St101 also absorbs chemically reactive gases from the device, preventing them from contaminating the alkali metal vapor. By switching the current through the dispensers off, the emission of atomic vapour can be stopped rapidly. Also, they are compact, reliable and cheap- which Chapter 4. In Search of an Efficient Atomic Source 49 Figure 4.6: Picture of the vacuum system electric feed-through showing the 1/4” support support rods on which the atomic sources to be used for the experiments are screwed on. There are two rubidium dispensers on the top and bottom, and a collimated effusive atomic beam source for lithium is shown in the center. also contributes to their popularity. In fact loading rates from alkali metal dispensers have been extensively studied [67]. We decided to use these dispensers in conjunction with light-induced atomic desorption as demonstrated in [35]. 4.4.2 Lithium Since naturally occurring lithium has only 7.5% 6Li, the rest being 7Li, we got an en- riched (95%) source of 6Li, since 7Li would be an impurity, and an unnecessary source of contaminant for our experiment. That also ruled out an alkali metal dispenser as an atomic source. The low vapour pressure of lithium at room temperature left us with no choice other than to build an effusive atomic beam source. So, we have a collimated atomic beam source, combined with a mechanical beam block. A similar scheme has been demonstrated in lithium already [5]. The technical complexity, and space considerations associated with a Zeeman slower discouraged us from building it - however depending on the performance of this source, it might be re-considered. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I– I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. The Road Not Taken: Robert Frost 50 Chapter 5 More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.. If: Rudyard Kipling This chapter is divided into three parts. The first two describe the vacuum and con- trol system respectively. These are two crucial technical aspects of the experiment that have not been addressed so far in this thesis. The third part was added very recently- and shows preliminary data from our Rb and Li MOT. All experiments with ultra-cold atoms are done in an ultra-high vacuum chamber so that the collision with background gases at room temperature are minimized. Ultra- high vacuum is characterized by pressures lower than 10−7 pascal, or 10−9 torr. At these temperatures the mean free path of a gas molecule is approximately 40km. So, the chance of collisions is very low. Low vacuum is extremely important for the life- time of the experiment. Quantum degenerate gases won’t survive collisions with high momentum residual gas molecules. Also, the steady state number of trapped atoms in a MOT (the starting point of experiments) would be affected by the collisions with background atoms. In the first part of this chapter we shall describe how such a vacuum is obtained in the lab. Also all experiments with ultra-cold atoms require precise and fast control of the ex- perimental variables. For example turning light off using mechanical shutters, taking images or performing evaporative cooling are some things that require very precise timing, and are performed in time scales of milli-seconds, or even micro-seconds. This prohibits any manual control of the experimental sequence, so an automated control system becomes a necessity. The second part of the chapter describes the most promi- nent features of the computer control system- the details of it are described in [40] and a future thesis [Keith Ladouceur’s masters thesis]. Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 51 5.1 Vacuum system 5.1.1 Initial considerations Extreme measures are taken to reach this regime in low pressure. All the assembly is done with proper gloves in order to minimize contaminating the chamber. All materials to be used in vacuum chamber are chosen such that they have very low vapour pressure. This minimizes outgassing from materials, and helps to keep the pressure inside the chamber low. Another source of outgassing is air absorbed on the surface of the vacuum components. A material at room temperature is like a sponge, and many different components of the surrounding air (mostly water vapour) get adsorbed on their surface. When inside the vacuum chamber, these adsorbed materials slowly degas forming what could be thought of as a virtual leak. In order to drive out these impurities, mostly water and hydrocarbons, all the chamber is assembled and then heated up to as high temperature as possible (somewhere between 200 − 450 0C) while the chamber is being pumped so that the outgassing materials (including evaporated water) are pumped out. 5.1.2 Vacuum pumps and their limitations The ultimate pressure attained in a vacuum system depends on the influx of gas as well as the pumping of the gas. The equilibrium pressure is given by the expression [80] p = Q × (S−1p + S−1i ) (5.1) Here, Q is the total gas load due to leaks, gassing and connection to other systems, Sp is the speed of the pump (given in liters/second) and Si is the throughput of the connections of the vacuum system to the pump. The gas influx can be greatly reduced by a careful choice of materials and optimal design of the vacuum system, the pumping speed is more constricted. Since the volume begin pumped is small (less than 10 liters), modest size commercial pumps with a reasonable pumping speeds are used to attain ultra-high vacuum. It is these connections that generally form the limiting factor for the pressure, and not the pumping speed. Since there is no cost-effective pump covering the whole pressure range from ultra-high to vacuum[82], a combination of pumps is implemented. We use a turbo pump for the initial pumping during bakeout, followed with an ion pump and a non-evaporable getter (NEG) pump that remain attached to experimental chamber. Here, we shall summarize the different pumps used to get the chamber down to ultra-high vacuum pressures. Turbo Molecular Pump A Turbo molecular pump works on the principle that particles can be given momen- tum in a desired direction by repeated collisions with a moving solid surface For these collisions, it implements a high speed turbine rotor with angles blades such that the Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 52 colliding gas molecules are preferentially pumped out of the system creating a vac- uum environment [82]. Since its introduction in 1957 [10], turbo molecular pumps have quickly evolved into the workhorse for vacuum technology. The pumping speed for the turbo pump used (Varian V70) is 70 l/s and it performs at typically 80,000 rev/min. We use the turbo pumps during bakeout when very high pumping speed is required to drive out all the degassing materials. After the system is baked, a combination of ion and NEG pump is attached to the experimental chamber. Ion Pump The ion pump works in two ways: it removes reactive gases by enabling them to react with freshly deposited reactive metal (such as titanium) and it removes noble gases by ionizing them and then burying the accelerated (by magnetic fields from a permanent magnet) ions on the cathode surfaces. They are best suited for pressures lower than 10−5 torr range and are thus turned on after initial pumping by turbo pumps. First commercial ion pumps followed after the pioneering work done at University of Wisconsin [24]. The commercial system used on the experiment is a Varian Starcell pump with a pumping speed of 20 l/s. There are two major disadvantages of ion pumps. First, they house strong permanent magnets. Even though they are shielded for most pumps- there is still stray magnetic fields and so it is not advisable to house them very close to the experiment. The other disadvantage is its inefficiency to pump out materials with low chemical reactivity, for example the noble gases and some hydrocarbons like methane. Non-Evaporable Getter A non-evaporable getter pump seems to overcome some of the problems with ion pumps in order to achieve low pressure. After being activated by heating, the highly reactive getter material (usually some commercial alloy) adsorbs active gas molecules on its surface by chemical reactions. Heating the getter in vacuum diffuses the passive layer into the bulk of the getter material, thus re-activating it. Since it is devoid of any vibrating or high magnetic field parts, it can be put arbitrarily close to the experimental chamber. Also such getter pumps are efficient in pumping water and hydrogen (typically over 100 l/s)- two of the major contaminants in most vacuum systems. Our experimental chamber employs a SAES getter CapaciTorr pump. Table 5.1 summarizes some of the important features of the three pumps being used. Table 5.1: Information about the different vacuum pumps being used. Pump Manufacturer/Model Principle of operation Pumping speed Turbo Varian Turbo V70 high speed turbine rotor 70 l/s Ion Varian StarCell getter + ionization 20 l/s NEG SAES CapaciTorr activated getter material >100 l/s for H, H2O Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 53 5.1.3 Vacuum bakeout procedure The importance of baking the entire vacuum chamber It can be shown that a temperature change of 20 0C may be expected to increase the pressure of condensed or adsorbed molecules by a factor of 10 [81]. By changing the temperature of the the vacuum system by about 200 0C, the partial pressures increase by a factor of 105. From this it may be concurred that pumping for a second at this high temperature would remove as much gases from the system as pumping for a whole day at room temperature. However, this is not entirely true since there are limitations imposed by the pumping speed of the vacuum pumps involved. However, prolonged baking at high temperatures of the entire vacuum system ensures that we get rid of all the contaminants much faster. It is important to bake the entire vacuum system together because otherwise the molecules condense on the colder parts of the system, and remain as a slowly outgassing source. Figure 5.1 shows the effect of an increase in temperature over pressure of the vacuum system. It can be seen that the pressure first increases, and then over time decreases to a much smaller value. 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 1E-8 1E-7 1E-6 P re ss ur e (t or r) Time (hrs) Standard Bakeout pressure change Initial pumping Increase Temperature Final pumping cooling Figure 5.1: Figure illustrating part of the actual lab bakeout procedure. During an increase in temperature, the pressure increases considerably, but over a period of time, the impurities are pumped out, and the base pressure actually decreases considerably after cooling. The standard procedure for bakeout followed in the lab is being described here. Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 54 This could serve as a guideline for future experiments. Cleaning procedure The following is the lab standard cleaning procedure for ultra-high vacuum compo- nents: 1. 30min in the ultrasonic with detergent (alconox) 2. 15min (once or twice) in the ultrasonic in distilled water for rinsing 3. 15min (once or twice) in the ultrasonic in methanol 4. 15min (once or twice) in the ultrasonic in acetone It is noteworthy that acetone the highest vapor pressure (compared to other often used organic solvents), so if any of it is left over it will evaporate more quickly. High temperature air bake All stainless steel components (including mounting components) are laid separately and baked in the home-built oven up to 400 − 450 0C for 3-4 days in order to drive out all the impurities, mainly consisting hydrocarbons. This is to ensure that most of the impurities have been driven off the surfaces. Assemble and check parts After the air bake, the vacuum components are then carefully assembled together (without the still unbaked glass parts and valves), and checked for any leaks by inserting helium gas and looking at a Residual Gas Analyzer (SRS-200 RGA). Any leaking components are replaced. Preliminary bake The assembled vacuum system (including the atomic sources, but without the glass cell and NEG pump) is baked at 200 0C for a few (5-10) days. At this point, the atomic sources are turned on and checked. This process also degasses them. Final bake With all the pumps connected, and the glass cell on, the entire system is baked at around 200 0C for over a week. The final pressure obtained for the photo-association chamber, that was baked using these guidelines was better than 10−8torr. Our ion gauge (the pressure measurement device) is not so efficient at these pressures. However, measurements of lifetime of trapped atoms can give a better indication of the vacuum pressure, but they have not been done yet. Figure 5.2 shows a schematic diagram of the experimental setup, indicating the place- ment of various components. Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 55 For NEG pump Ion pump To Turbo pump station Compensation coils MOT coils Water cooling for MOT coils Figure 5.2: Solidworks drawing of the experimental arrangement for Feshbach ex- periment showing the vacuum system and placement of some optics. 5.2 Computer Control System 5.2.1 Initial considerations The linear sequence of events that occur while performing experiments with ultra- cold atoms can be automated using standard data acquisition systems. The objective of the effort in our lab is to create a platform independent (independent of operating system) control system that would only require a network connection. This would enable us to do experiments while not really being in the lab. Another important motivation for such a system is the ability to automate optimization of experimental configuration as part of a feedback system, for example, dynamically change de- tuning of an AOM till the ultra-cold sample has the maximum number of atoms. This saves the experimentalist a lot of time and effort that is put in optimizing the data obtained for every experiment. In the following subsection, I shall give an overview of the components that form part of the computer control system, and the up-to-date progress made on the project. Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 56 5.2.2 Hierarchy of components Base Level Devices These are the devices that are actually programmed to execute a certain set of in- structions. For example the Data Acquisition Card (DAQ). We have a DAQ from National Instruments (NI). Intermediate Level Devices These devices are used to convert the input instructions to actual input signals for the instrument in question. For example, a Direct Digital Synthesizer (DDS) is used to get an arbitrary sine wave for input to an AOM. Analog and Digital Output devices that are used to turn the shutter or camera on or off are further examples of such devices. High Level Devices These are the devices that perform the actual task during the experiment, for exam- ple AOM or optical shutters, or a CCD camera. 5.2.3 The flow of instructions The experimental recipe is written in python. The user interacts with a graphical user interface to change the experimental sequence as desired. This recipe is converted in to byte code that goes into the NI-DAQ driver buffer. The buffer ensures that the card has information at the right time. This byte sequence is sent to the the UT bus driver that basically changes the 64 pin input from the NI-DAQ card to a 50 pin output. The output of the UT bus goes to the intermediate level instruments like the DDS or Digital output box. These then generate signals for the instruments. It is to be kept in mind that the UT bus can only talk to one instrument at a time, so the time delay in signals should be kept in mind. Figure 5.3 shows the flow of instructions in a flowchart format. 5.2.4 Control software The software for encoding the NI-DAQ is being written in python and is still under construction. The user shall interact with the graphical user interface of a python script and input the experiment recipe. The python script would code the user commands in to the NI-DAQ input- just a string of 0s and 1s. From here it goes in to the UT bus and then to the devices. The control sequence so far has been a write only sequence with no inputs being taken. However, one could envision the program to be easily modified to read some input from an oscilloscope, for example over GPIB, and accordingly modify the input control sequence, thus forming a feedback system to optimize certain experimental parameters. Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 57 Python script NI-DAQ card UT bus driver Analog Output Digital Output DDS AOM Shutter RF evaporation CCD camera Coil current change High level devices Intermediate level devices Base level devices Byte code 32 general purpose lines 8 address 16 data 1 strobe line 64 pin 50 pin Figure 5.3: Flowchart showing the the sequence in which control instructions are transmitted through the various devices. 5.3 THEN the MOT works 5.3.1 Preliminary fluorescence data In order to measure the fluorescence of the MOT, we need to consider three quantities: the solid angle of the detector and the scattering rates of the photo-diode and atoms. The number of atoms can be expressed as: N = ΓP D ΓM OT η (5.2) Here, Γ are the rate of photon emission from a single atom in a MOT (ΓM OT ) and the photo-diode detection rate (ΓP D), and η defines the ratio of the fluorescence incident on the detection optics. We shall discuss each one of them separately. Since this calculation estimates the number of atoms roughly, we shall not consider the errors in order to get this ball-park number of atoms. η is the ratio of the area of the sphere of radius being the distance between detector lens and MOT, and the area of the circular lens. η = πa2 4πD2 (5.3) Here, a is the radius of the lens and D is the distance between the MOT and the lens. We determined it to be 0.0272 for our geometry. After making sure that the detector is in the linear regime of operation, we calibrated Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 58 the detector to get the optical power detected for the corresponding voltage. The expression was found to be: P ower(nW ) = − V 0.038 (5.4) Here, V is the negative voltage detected by the photodiode. A background voltage may be added to this expression depending on the value of background during an experiment. Dividing this power by the the energy of each photon (hc/λ), we get the number of photons detected per second. We also take into account 4% losses at the glass surfaces of the uncoated MOT cell and lens. Adding all these, we get the following expression for the photon detection rate. ΓP D = 1.21 × 1011(−V ) (5.5) It is necessary to subtract the background voltage from the quantity in parenthesis in order to get non-negative number of atoms. The MOT scattering rate, ΓM OT is the number of photons scattering by a single atom in a MOT. As explained in chapter 2, it can be expressed as: ΓM OT = Γ 2 I/Isat 1 + I/Isat + ( 2δ Γ )2 (5.6) Here, Γ is the natural line-width. For rubidium, it is equal to 2π 5.9 MHz. The saturation intensity of for rubidium MOT transition is 3.58 mW/cm2. For 2 mW in each of the six MOT beams with a beam waist of 1 cm, the total intensity at the center of the MOT is 15.3 mW. The ratio of incident intensity to the saturation intensity, also known as the saturation parameter, was thus found to be 4.268. The de-tuning was measured to be δ = 9 MHz for this set of measurements. Putting in all these values, we get the ΓM OT to be 1.435 × 107 photons/s. This leads to a formula to convert the photodiode voltage to the number of trapped atoms. N = 3.11 × 105(−V ) (5.7) Here B is the background voltage. Figure 5.4 shows a typical loading curve- the number of trapped atoms as a function of time under these parameters for a 87Rb MOT. 5.3.2 Analysis of loading rate In this sub-section, we shall analyze the loading curve shown in Figure 5.4 to get information about the lifetime and vacuum of the system. The data is fitted to a function of the form: N = A(1 − e−k(t−t0)) (5.8) By comparing the fitting function to the expression for loading from a background vapour as mentioned in chapter 4, we see that A is the ratio of loading rate (R) and loss rate (γ). Also, k in the exponential gives the loss rate γ. The trap life-time is Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 59 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 0 500000 1000000 1500000 2000000 2500000 Model: y = A*( 1 - exp(-k*(x-xc)) ) A 2111901.4734 ±7066.94933 xc 0.62341 ±0.01271 k 1.30376 ±0.0346 N um be r of a to m s Time (s) Fluor. MOT beam off resonance MOT loading as a function of time Figure 5.4: Loading rate as a function of time for Rb-87 MOT. Injection to a slave beam was blocked in order to get the background due to non-resonant light. Once unblocked, the light was on resonance, and the MOT started loading. just the inverse of loss rate, τ = 0.79 s. From the loss rate, the density of background gas can be extracted. n = γ σvmp (5.9) For a gas of rubidium atoms at room temperature, and collisional cross-section of 6.3 × 10−13cm2, we get density n to be 8.35 × 107atoms/cm3. From ideal gas law, we get the corresponding pressure to be 2.6 × 10−9 torr. It is an interesting exercise to use the value of number density we obtained to calculate the loading rate of the MOT from background vappour and compare it to our model’s loading rate. The expression for loading rate is given by: R = nV 2/3v4c 2v3mp (5.10) Using our experimental parameters (de-tuning, which gives the capture velocity, vc and the MOT area, V), we get the loading rate to be 7.67 × 104 atoms/s. This is significantly lower than the loading rate obtained from fitting the data to our model, which gives us a loading rate of 1.68 × 106. This is because our atomic source is actu- ally an effusive source, the alkali dispenser, and not just background vapour. These measurements were obtained shortly after turned the dispensers off, and that is the reason for the higher loading rate. It is important to note that the loss rate determined here only considers collisional Chapter 5. More IFs: The Vacuum and Control system, and THEN a MOT 60 losses with background rubidium. There are other loss mechanisms. For example, there are losses due to collision with other atoms as well as light assisted collisional losses that is not being considered here. So, the number of atoms is an over-estimate. Figure 5.5 is a picture of another 87Rb MOT. Around 109 were trapped in this first MOT. Since the detectors have not yet been calibrated for lithium, and the num- ber of atoms is being optimized, no useful data has been obtained on the lithium MOT. However work is under progress, and useful measurements characterizing the performance of the MOT are under way. ~1 cm Figure 5.5: Picture of around 109 fluorescing 87Rb atoms in a MOT taken on April 13th, 2007. The lithium atom also works, however, it needs more calibration and optimization. If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son! If: Rudyard Kipling 61 Chapter 6 Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases Old Walt Whitman Went finding and seeking, Finding less than sought Seeking more than found, Every detail minding Of the seeking or the finding Old Walt : Langston Hughes This chapter describes the research goals of the group. Currently there are three experiments with ultra-cold atoms. Figure 6.1 shows a schematic diagram with the major technical and scientific goals of these experimental initiatives. This chap- ter briefly describes the different experiments being built, the motivation and their progress. Since the work of this thesis was primarily done on building the feshbach resonances and quantum degenerate gases experiment, it will be emphasized. 6.1 Miniature Atom Trap The primary goal of this experiment is to develop techniques to enable miniaturiza- tion and portability of atom-chip based devices. Ultra-cold atoms have led to several advancements in precision measurements- for example the development of atomic fountain clocks and precise measurements of atom-surface interactions. However, since the experimental chamber is not portable and small, it prohibits larger scale development of this technology. Portable ultra-high vacuum chambers have already been demonstrated [39]. Trap- ping atoms using magnetic fields from wires on a silicon surface close to the atomic cloud has also been demonstrated in several laboratories [66]. By combining these techniques and developing a few others, a miniature chip package that is robust and portable can be envisioned. This is the primary goal of this experiment, which is being done in collaboration with Dr. James Booth from British Columbia Institute of Technology. 6.2 Ultra-cold heteronuclear molecules As eluded to in the first chapter of this thesis, atomic physics is moving beyond ultra- cold atoms towards observation of many-body phenomenon that is characterized by Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 62 Locked Master Lasers Amplifier Stage Amplifier Stage Amplifier Stage Vacuum system Feshbach electrodes Time-of-flight spectrometer Rb MOT Rb+ Li MOT Rb + Li MOT Photo-Association studies Feshbach Resonances studies Atom chip Dipole trap Coherent control of dipolar molecules Optical lattice Quantum degenerate gases in optical lattice Laser system to form molecules Investigate portability issues Vacuum system Vacuum system PHOTO- ASSOCIATION EXPERIMENT MINIATURE ATOM-TRAP EXPERIMENT QUANTUM DEGENERATE GASES EXPERIMENT Figure 6.1: Schematic diagram showing the objectives of the experimental effort. The dashed boxes are technical goals that have already been accomplished. The filled dark boxes represent the short and long term research goals. strong interactions between atoms. The creation of an ultra-cold sample of mole- cules with an intrinsic dipole moment, such as alkali dimers of two different atoms, provides a sample with anisotropic interactions. Combined with the precise control and tunability provided by techniques of ultra-cold experiments, these may lead to advancement of current efforts in several fields including quantum computing [27] or BEC of dipolar gases [46] to name a few. Perhaps even more interesting is the unex- plored physics that awaits- for example, topological quantum states[78], super-solid order[12] or phase separation [60]. There is also the possibility of occurance of new phenomena that has not yet been anticipated. So far, there are two demonstrated methods for creating ultra-cold polar molecules from ultra-cold atoms. First is via photo-association, where a laser beam excites atoms to form a hetero-nuclear molecule in its electronically excited state (for exam- ple see [61]). These molecules eventually decay into the ground state. The goal of the photo-association experiment is to create molecules using this method and then investigate schemes to drive them into their lowest ro-vibrational state using Raman transitions. Ultra-cold molecules in their absolute ground state are required to ob- serve several of the phenomenon referred to in the previous paragraph. The details Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 63 of this experiment would be described in a future thesis [Nina Rauhut and Bastian Schuster diploma thesis]. Another method to create ultra-cold molecules involves the use of Feshbach resonances. This approach will be described in detail in the following sections. 6.3 Feshbach resonances The properties of a gas of ultra-cold atoms are described in terms of a very important parameter, the s-wave scattering length as. At ultra-cold temperatures, when the two- body collision processes dominate the dynamics of the atomic sample, both elastic and inelastic collisions depend on the singlet and triplet channel’s s-wave scattering length.[83] This parameter a determines the thermalization rate, stability and mean- field energy of a quantum-degenerate gas[22]. In the recent years, we have seen a revolution in atomic physics, which is lead by the observation of Feshbach resonances in ultra-cold alkali atoms. Feshbach resonances provide the experimental knob to tune the interactions in these atomic samples from positive infinity to negative infinity. The scattering length, as, can be tuned using magnetic fields. The resonance occurs when a bound state in a higher energy “closed” molecular channel becomes degenerate with the collision energy along the “open” inter-atomic channel, as shown in Figure 6.2. Figure 6.2: Schematic diagram explaining a feshbach resonance. The upper bound state gets degenerate with the collision energy of the input channel.(Figure from [57]) Since the first observation of feshbach resonances in a BEC [36], these resonances have been used to enable controlled collapse of a BEC [62], ultra-cold diatomic molecules[30] and the realization of the BEC-BCS crossover in the ultra-cold neu- tral atom system[16] to name a few phenomenon. On a more relevant note, Feshbach spectroscopy can be used to precisely determine the interatomic interaction potential, Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 64 often to an unprecedented level of accuracy, and molecular structure near dissociation [17]. Determination of lithium-rubidium interatomic potential via photo-association and feshbach spectroscopy is one of the primary scientific goals of the laboratory. While Feshbach resonances in homonuclear molecules have been studied exten- sively, not much work has been done (either experimentally or theoretically) on Fesh- bach resonances between two different atomic species. Nevertheless, such resonances have been observed in a 6Li−23 N a system [17] and 40K −87 Rb system[68]. But there are several other atomic species that remain unexplored. The goal of this research project is to estimate the location and widths of such s-wave Feshbach resonances in 6Li −87 Rb system. In comparison to homonuclear molecules, the Feshbach spectrum of heteronu- clear molecules is richer. This is because the hyperfine constants are unequal for the two atoms and there are four rather than three zero-field collision asymptotes[57]. Also, these two-species feshbach resonances are the first step towards the study of a Bose-Fermi mixture with tunable interactions, a field that could lead to another revolution in ultra-cold physics. Some of the predicted possibilities include the for- mation of ultra-cold polar molecules with phase-space densities much higher than that obtained by photo-association, which might lead to interesting physics in the quantum degenerate regime. 6.3.1 Experimental Strategy A dual species MOT will be created to trap both 6Li and bosonic Rubidium isotopes, 85Rb or 87Rb. Here the magnetic coils are set to produce a quadrupole magnetic field by using inverse current in the upper and lower coils. The current flow is about 2A which can provide a 10 Gauss/cm magnetic field gradient for our dual species MOT. Once the atoms are cooled by the dual species MOT, an optical tweezer will be used to trap these atoms for later Feshbach resonance experiment. The optical tweezer is created by a 10 mW CW Yb Fiber laser with center wavelength 1064 nm and linewidth <100kHz, after amplified by the Yb Fiber amplifier, it will give a 20W CW saturated output power. A resonance cavity will be used to enhance the optical dipole trap [3]. After the atoms are trapped by the optical tweezer, the magnetic coils are changed to Helmholtz coils, which provides a uniform magnetic field between the coils. The current here will be 10 A to 25 A and will produce a uniform magnetic field between 500 and 1000 gauss. After allowing the ensemble to evolve for some time at a specific magnetic field, the temperature and the number of trapped atoms will be measured by shining Lithium and Rubidium resonant lasers into the optical trap after extin- guishing the external field. As described before, the presence of a Feshbach resonance is characterized by loss in the number of atoms due to formation of molecules and a divergence in the collisional cross-section, and hence faster thermalization rates. By checking the relationship be- tween the decay rate of the number of trapped atoms with corresponding magnetic field intensity, the hetero-nuclear Feshbach Resonances between Lithium and Rubid- ium can be found. A hetero-nuclear Feshbach resonance would be characterized by Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 65 losses in the number of both rubidium and lithium atoms. 6.4 Electric-field-induced Feshbach resonances So far collisions of ultra-cold atoms have been controlled either by magnetic fields using feshbach resonances, or by lasers using near-resonant light, raman transitions or optical lattices. However, recent theoretical proposals exhibit control of interactions between atoms of two species by tuning DC electric fields [51, 55]. When two different atoms collide, they form a collision complex with an instanta- neous dipole moment. This dipole moment function is peaked around the equilibrium distance of the diatomic molecule in its ground vibrational state. The dipole moment enables the collision complex to interact with an external electric field. Electric fields induce couplings between different angular momentum states due to the interaction of the instantaneous dipole moment of the collision pair with external electric fields. Addition of an external electric field hence provides a mechanism to couple the in- coming open channel to bound states (closed channel) of different orbital momentum (as opposed to only s-wave bound states provided by feshbach resonances), hence opening a new genre of controlled interactions called electric field induced feshbach resonances. Also, it has been proposed that the electric field couplings could induce new feshbach resonances and shift the position of s-wave magnetic resonances [55]. 6.4.1 Experimental Strategy such resonances have not yet been observed experimentally. Progress is being made to insert DC electrodes providing the desired electric fields of around 100kV/cm (see Figure 6.3) and make an optically trapped sample of atoms interact with it. The optical trap would be made from the 1064 nm CW Yb fiber laser, as described in the previous section. The key here is to position the tweezer using two galvos. in order to optically trap mixture of rubidium and lithium in the presence of the electric field, and then observe losses via absorption spectroscopy in order to detect the presence of Feshbach resonances. 6.5 Quantum Degenerate Gases as quantum simulators Recent technological developments have made it possible to study rich many body physics using ultra-cold atomic gases trapped in periodic optical potentials as quan- tum simulators for strongly correlated quantum systems. For example, the Bose- Hubbard model was recently realized with a Rubidium BEC in an optical lattice [58]. The primary goal of the proposed research project is to build an apparatus to pre- pare an ultra-cold sample of fermionic lithium atoms, trap the atoms efficiently in an optical lattice potential formed by the interference of intersecting laser beams, and measure the properties of the confined gas. The preliminary step is to build a Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 66 Figure 6.3: A picture of the high DC voltage electrodes attached to a 1.33” vacuum CF flange electrical feedthrough before being inserted in the vacuum chamber. The spacing between the electrodes at the curved end, where the cold atoms would be inserted is around 1.3 mm. magneto-optical trap for laser cooling and trapping of the atomic sample and this is currently being carried out as this master’s thesis project. After this important step, lithium will be further cooled by elastic collisions with ultra-cold rubidium atoms in order to reach the quantum degenerate regime, where all the experiments will be carried out. Evaporative cooling of spin polarized fermions is hindered because s-wave collisions (the dominant collision channel at ultra-cold temperatures) are not allowed due to Pauli Exclusion Principle. Hence another ultra-cold atomic species is introduced to lower the temperature of the lithium ensemble. Lithium is a spin 1/2 system in its ground state and it is therefore a natural atomic system for being a quantum simulator for electrons in a lattice. Once the experi- mental machine is built, several model Hamiltonians of spin 1/2 systems could be studied. In particular, the quantum phases of the so-called Hubbard lattice model [78] will be explored in detail. 6.5.1 The Fermionic Hubbard Model The Hubbard model was introduced in 1963 to study electron correlations in narrow energy bands [45]. It is the sum of two different hamiltonians, both of which will be described separately here. The first part of the Hubbard hamiltonian is the hopping term, Hhop, which describes the quantum mechanical tunneling of electrons between lattice sites. In second quan- tized notation, it can be expressed as: Hhop = ∑ x,y²Λ ∑ σ=↑,↓ tc†x,σcy,σ (6.1) Here, ↑, ↓ denote the two spins, Λ denotes the set of all the lattice sites with x and y being two neighbouring lattice sites, and t is the tunneling amplitude. c† is the particle creation and c is the annihilation operator. From elementary quantum mechanics knowledge, one can make an assumption that the ground state wavefunction of this hamiltonian is obtained by filling up the lowest Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 67 energy levels by ↑ and ↓ electrons. This is indeed correct. An important observation would be that the system has a total spin of zero and exhibits no long range order. The electrons simply behave as waves. The second term in the Hubbard hamiltonian comes from the repulsive interaction between electrons at a lattice site (a simplified version of coulomb energy, which is actually long-range). In second quantized notation, it can be expressed as: Hint = ∑ x²Λ uxnx,↑nx,↓ (6.2) If the number of electrons is less than the number of lattice sites, the ground state would simply be described by each electron at a different lattice site, being completely oblivious to the presence of another electron, such that the total energy is zero. Again, there is no long-range order and the electrons would fit a simple particle-like descrip- tion. The Hubbard model is a simplified description of an interacting fermionic system. It corresponds to the sum of two non-commuting representations- the wave-like picture (demonstrated by Hhop) and the particle-like picture (Hint) of electrons. However, just like quantum mechanics is enriched by the wave-particle dualism, so is the Hubbard model. Even though each of its constituent hamiltonians do not show any long range order, the Hubbard hamiltonian is believed to generate various non-trivial phenom- enon including the metal-insulator transition, anti-ferromagnetism, ferromagnetism and even superconductivity [56, 73]. The search of this model’s parameter space continues to be a challenging problem for mathematicians and physicists alike. Several distinct mean-field solutions exist at most points in the model’s parameter space. It is possible and even likely that states occur which are not even anticipated at present. Experimental study of many- body fermionic atom systems appears to be the best strategy, at the present time, to decipher the riddles of the fermionic Hubbard model. Using quantum degenerate lithium atoms in an optical lattice as a quantum simulator, this complex many body problem could be addressed, if not solved. The potential impact of this experimental research on both physics and mathematics is immense. 6.5.2 Experimental Strategy Sympathetic cooling of 6Li in the presence of an evaporatively cooled sample of 87Rb has been demonstrated in a magnetic trap [15]. The inter-species s-wave scattering length was estimated to be |as| = 20+9−6aB, where aB is the Bohr radius. The small value of the inter-species scattering length means that sympathetic cooling dynamics of the mixture is slow. The collision rate is given by the familiar equation: γcoll = σmixvnmix (6.3) Here, the collisional cross-section is given by σmix = 4πa 2 s, v is the mean thermal velocity of the ensemble and nmix is the the overlap density of the two atomic clouds. The thermalization rate is given by [15]: γtherm = ξγcoll/2.7 (6.4) Chapter 6. Towards hetero-nuclear molecules and Quantum Degenerate Gases 68 Here, ξ is the reduction factor due to the unequal masses of the two species, and is given by: ξ = 4m6m87 (m6 + m87)2 (6.5) The temperature difference between the two clouds evolves as: d dt (∆T ) = −γtherm∆T (6.6) As the rubidium cloud is cooled evaporatively, the lithium cloud also decreases in temperature due to this thermalization. It is to be noted that the inter-species scat- tering length plays an important role in the time-scales associated with this process. 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Russell The following is a discussion of different kinds of mechanisms that are responsible for the broad spectral line shapes that we observe in the lab. It is important to understand their origin and how much they affect the spectrum, i.e. what is the frequency broadening of the transition caused by them. The elimination, or at least suppression of certain broadening mechanisms will also be discussed. A beam of N photons (or any particle for that matter) propagating along z in a scattering medium will lose particles as dN (z) = −N (z)p(z)dz (A.1) where p(z) is the probability per unit length of a scattering event and is given by p(z)dz = n0σdz (A.2) where n0 is the spatial density of scatterers and σdz is the cross-sectional volume sweeped out by the moving particle. Since the probability of absorption is equal to the fraction of intensity lost during absorption, we can think of this intensity fraction as dI I = −n0σ∆z (A.3) Attenuation of a beam per unit distance can be described as: dI dz = −n0σI (A.4) let us define a quantity that characterizes absorption and call it absorption coefficient, a, such that dI dz = −a(ω)I (A.5) Integrating the expression, we get the exponential decay in intensity as a function of distance. I(ω, z) = I(ω, 0) exp −a(ω)z (A.6) Appendix A. Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Reality 74 for a two-level system in the presence of intense laser radiation, stimulated emission must be taken into account Thus, n0 gets replaced by (n1 − n2), where n1 and n2 are the population densities of the ground and excited state respectively. This difference in population densities can be re-written as [38] n1 − n2 = n0 1 + I/Is (A.7) where Is is the saturation intensity defines as: Is = h̄ωA21 2σ(ω) (A.8) Here, A21 is the spontaneous emission rate for the two level atom. Substituting these results, we get an expression for the absorption coefficient. a = N σ(ω) 1 + (I/Is) (A.9) This part of the thesis discusses the different mechanisms that contribute to this absorption coefficient, and how it leads to broadening the absorption spectrum. A.1 Homogeneous and Inhomogeneous mechanisms Different broadening mechanisms can be classified into two categories: homogeneous broadening, and inhomogeneous broadening. If each atom in the ensemble gets af- fected the exact same way by the broadening mechanism, it is called homogeneous broadening. Examples of such broadening include natural line width and laser line- width. If each atom is affected differently by the broadening mechanism, it is called inhomogeneous. A perfect example if this would be Doppler broadening where each atom is affected differently, depending on its velocity. An extensive discussion of the different mechanisms can be found in most laser textbooks, for example, [64]. In the following sections, we shall discuss the different relavant mechanisms that contribute to broadening of our atomic spectra. A.2 Natural line-width The idea behind this mechanism is a simple one, and there is a classical analog of this radiative broadening mechanism that I shall mention here (refer to [72] for details). A radiative system loses energy, so free oscillations of such a system must be damped (here comes the damped electron oscillator). But a damped system is not monochromatic, and contains a set of frequencies, and this leads to broadening of spectral lines. From classical electrodynamics, the distribution of intensity in the emission spectrum of an oscillator is described by the dispersion formula: I(ω) = I γ 2π dω (ω − ω0)2 + ( γ2 )2 (A.10) Appendix A. Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Reality 75 where γ is the damping constant. This leads to the line-width that we observe. Since, we are not scared of quantum mechanics, lets have a closer look at what deter- mines the probability of a photon getting scattered by the atom (Equation A.2).For a photon in an atomic vapor, the absorption cross-section is frequency dependent and given by σ = σ0 Γ2/4 δ2 + Γ2/4 (A.11) where Γ = 2π/τ is the atomic line width (τ the excited state lifetime), σ0 = λ 2/2π is the resonant cross section, and δ = ω − ωatom is the frequency de-tuning of the incident photon from the atomic resonance. The natural line-width is due to the radiation process itself. If we think of a two- level atomic system, its classical analog can be the damped electron oscillator, and this line-width will be associated with the line width of the oscillator at resonance (this can clearly be seen by comparing equation A.11 to that of a classical oscillator). This classical picture provides a sufficient approximation to the process, especially for the strong S-P transition of alkali atoms. For a more complete treatment of the topic, please refer to reference [52] or [72]. A.3 Doppler broadening If the atom is moving at a velocity v then it would see the light Doppler-shifted by an amount kLvz where kL = 2π/λ is the wavevector and vz is the component of the velocity along the photon beam axis. At a given temperature, an ensemble of atoms have a standard Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution of velocities. n(vz) ∝ n0e−β 1 2 mvz 2 . (A.12) If we ignore the natural line-width of the transition (which is negligible compared to this effect anyways), then we would expect the absorption profile to emulate this Maxwellian distribution, and this is what is precisely observed experimentally. Con- sider that the laser is on resonance and has a negligible line width so that the detuning is simply δ = kLvz, and so the density can be written as a function of the velocity dependent detuning as n(δ) = n0 σδ √ 2π e − δ2 2σ2 δ (A.13) where now n(δ) is normalized to n0 and the thermal broadening is given by σ2δ = k2L mβ . (A.14) Now the attenuation factor, Eq. (A.9), can be calculated by integrating over all detunings (velocities) and over the path of length L giving a = −L ∫ +∞ −∞ n(δ)σ(δ)dδ. (A.15) Appendix A. Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Reality 76 Since the typical atomic line width Γ ∼ 10 MHz is much smaller than the doppler broadening width σδ ∼ 1 GHz, we can approximate σ(δ) with a dirac delta function with the same area σ(δ) ≈ σ0 Γ 2 πδ(δ) (A.16) so that the integral is easily evaluated and we have a = −L n0 σδ √ 2π σ0 Γ 2 π. (A.17) -0.01 0.00 0.01 0.02 0.00 0.05 0.10 0.15 0.20 0.25 0.30 A bs or pt io n S ig na l ( V ) Frequency (arb. units) Temp380 Temp400 Temp440 Temp470 Temp500 Absorption through lithium heat pipe at various temperatures Figure A.1: The following graph shows a series of absorption spectrum measurements for lithium-6 at different heat-pipe temperatures. The D2 line is on the right side, and the D1 line is on the left side. We can clearly see the broadening of spectra as we increase the temperature. Also, absorption increases since optical density increases with temperature, and ultimately we see the saturation effect due to very high optical density disabling any light to come out of the cell. (Note: the temperature value noted here might not be the actual temperature of lithium atoms). It is worthwhile to observe the following three things: 1.σδ ∼∝ 1/λ The smaller the wavelength, the greater the effect of doppler broaden- ing. 2.σδ ∼∝ √ T At higher temperatures, the effect due to doppler broadening is more pronounced. 3. σδ ∼∝ 1/m The smaller the mass of the atom, the wider the doppler profile. Appendix A. Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Reality 77 All these three are responsible for much larger Doppler broadening of lithium spec- trum (around 6GHz) compared to Rb spectrum (around 1GHz). To get rid of Doppler broadening, we simply use saturated absorption spectroscopy. Details of the scheme are given in chapter 3 of the thesis. A.4 Pressure broadening The atom at resonance also interacts with the background particles, and this also affects its spectrum in a complicated way. The theoretical model for this interaction deals with collisions between the atoms and other particles- hence short-range inter- actions, and how they would affect the unperturbed wave-packet traveling in space. If the collisions in our atomic sample are such that the average time between collisions τc is shorter than the excited state lifetime, τ , we can think of these excitations as small square waves in time. Fourier analysis of this gives us a standard Fraunhofer diffraction pattern. However, since this square wave is not periodic, the secondary maxima get smeared out, and we are left with a single, central peak in frequency do- main. The rigorous theoretical treatment of this picture is similar to that of natural line-width but the lifetime now is replaced by Γ + τc/2. See [52] for details. In a simple treatment, the homogeneous width of a transition whose natural width is Γ can be expressed as [38]: ∆ωp = Γ + 2 τc = Γ + 2n0σv (A.18) where σ is again the collision cross-section, and v is the mean relative velocity. We calculated the pressure broadening of lithium at 475 0C, 2 torr of pressure to be around 4 MHz. That is why the heat-pipe is pumped down in order to reduce the pressure, and hence collisional broadening such that the dominant broadening mechanism is the natural line width. A.5 Power broadening For a detailed quantum-mechanical treatment of the problem, refer to chapter 7 of [54]. We start with equation A.9. Here we note that the absorption coefficient has two expressions that are a function of frequency, I and σ, their frequency depen- dence given by Equation A.10 and Equation A.11 respectively. Substituting those expressions and simplifying, we are left with a = N σ0 Γ2/4 (ω − ω0)2 + 14 Γ2(1 + I/Is) (A.19) This expression has a Lorentzian line-shape with a full width at half maxima of ∆ω = Γ(1 + I Is )1/2 (A.20) We can clearly see that this line-width depends on the intensity of the incoming beam. This effect is called power broadening. It occurs because saturation reduces the absorption near the resonance while absorption changes little far from resonance. Appendix A. Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Reality 78 A.6 Transit time broadening This has to do with the fact that in the transverse dimension, the beams are not uniform or infinitely wide. The atom whizzing in the transverse direction sees the laser beam for a finite amount of time, lets say τtransit = w v0 where w is the beam waist, and v0 is the average velocity of the thermal distribution. This corresponds to a width Γtransit = 1 2πτtransit (A.21) For normal spectroscopy parameters used in our lab, this broadening is much less than a MHz (for example its around 500 kHz for lithium heat pipe spectroscopy parameters), and hence not of much concern. A.7 Laser line-width In all these calculations, we have been assuming that the laser has a well defined frequency of ω. However, in spite of frequency locking mechanism, that is not the case. As shown in the measurements done by beating two locked lasers (see Figure A.2), we can see the master lasers used for the experiment have a line-width of around 3 MHz. This is another source of homogeneous broadening. A.8 Second order Doppler effect Saturated absorption spectroscopy eliminates the first order Doppler shift in fre- quency. However, there is the second order shift in frequency that is attributed to relativity. It depends on v2, and hence is independent of the direction of velocity. The time dilation corresponding to this effect is approximately given by: ∆f ≈ v 2 c2 f0 (A.22) Substituting the lithium heat pipe, we get a second order shift of 13 kHz. Although due to the distribution of velocities, this also leads to a broadening mechanism, it can easily be ignored of the atoms are not moving very fast. A.9 Other mechanisms There are several other mechanisms that also lead to broadening of atomic spectra, for example inhomogeneities in the electric and magnetic field in the environment. Also, in case of saturated absorption, if the beams are not exactly over-lapping, there is a residual doppler effect. However, the contributions of all these mechanisms are insignificant for our particular experiment and shall not be discussed. Appendix A. Broadening Mechanisms in Atomic spectra: Appearance and Reality 79 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 0 0.2 0.4 0.6 0.8 1 1.2 1.4 x 10 -3 B eat Frequency between Br and DB master lasers Frequenc y (MHz) S ig n a l ( a rb .) Centre Frequenc y = 72.01 MHz FW HM = 4.02 MHz Figure A.2: Line-width of the master lasers as obtained by beating two locked master lasers. Assuming un-correlated errors, the line-width of our lasers is 4.0 MHz/Sqrt(2) = 2.8 MHz.] 80 Appendix B Laser System Details ..the principle of induction, while necessary to the validity of all arguments based on experience, is itself not capable of being proved by experience, and yet is unhesitatingly believed by every one, at least in all its concrete applications. Chapter 7- “On Our Knowledge of General Principles” The Problems of Philosophy: B. Russell The details of the laser setup are being provided here. This is an extension of chapter 3, that discusses the generation of laser cooling and trapping light. In the following figures, the details of the frequency shifts of various lights and the optical setup details will be explained. The generation of trapping and re-pump light frequencies via the use of AOMs is being described in the following figures. The zero of frequency corresponds to the trapping or re-pump transition of interest. At the moment, both trapping and re- pump light are set 20 MHz below resonance. However, this is expected to change depending on the efficiency of our recently acquired MOT. The broken arrows represent the frequency range covered through an AOM. The details of all the AOMs used in the experiment is described in chapter 3, and will not be reproduced here. The black vertical lines represent the transition frequencies for different hyperfine transitions and also cross-over frequencies (represented as X i-f’). The longer grey lines represent the frequency of actual lasers. The last two figures show the actual table layout of the lithium master table optical setup, and the amplification stage optics on the feshbach table before the MOT. Similar details for the rubidium setup on the master table are not shown because it is very simple, consisting of a saturated absorption setup with an AOM in the pump beam, and a slave injection setup. On the feshbach table, the EOS crystal between two Glan-Thompson polarizers was initially decided to be used as a fast on-off switch for light, since the DC voltage required to change the polarization of the light going through the EOS crystal can be switched from one state to another very easily. However, the idea is still under consideration and refinement, as the crystals do not perform efficiently mainly due to their inherent spatially inhomogeneous birefringence. Appendix B. Laser System Details 81 87Rb trap/pump/probe Master pump Trap DP Feshbach table 0 MHz Lock -133 MHz -266 MHz -20 MHz -180 MHz Master probe -86 MHz Pump SP Feshbach table MOT/probe Op. Pump X 2’->3’ 2->2’ 2->3’ Lock to this feature Figure B.1: Details of the frequency setup to generate light for cycling transition of 87Rb. It also produces light required for optical pumping and imaging measurement. Appendix B. Laser System Details 82 87Rb repump Increasing freq. -180 MHz Master probe Master pump Slave 1 DP-1 Feshbach table 0 MHz Repump 1->2’ 1->1’ X 1’->2’ Lock -79 MHz -157 MHz -20 MHz +22 MHz Lock to this feature Figure B.2: Details of the frequency setup to generate light for repump transition of 87Rb. Appendix B. Laser System Details 83 85Rb trap/pump/probe Master pump Trap DP Feshbach table Lock -60.5 MHz -184 MHz -20 MHz -180 MHz Master probe +60 MHz Pump SP Feshbach table MOT/probe Op. Pump X 3’->4’ 3->4’ 3->3’ 3->2’ X 2’->4’ X 2’->3’ -153 MHz -121 MHz -92 MHz 0 MHz Lock to this feature Figure B.3: Details of the frequency setup to generate light for cycling transition of 85Rb. It also produces light required for optical pumping and imaging measurement. Appendix B. Laser System Details 84 85Rb repump 0 MHz -20 MHz -31.5 MHz -46 MHz -63 MHz -77 MHz -92 MHz -180 MHz +26 MHz 2->2’ 2->1’ 2->3’ X 1’-2’ X 1’-3’ X 2’-3’ Repump Increasing freq. Master pump Master probe Slave 1 Lock DP-1 Feshabach table Lock to this feature Figure B.4: Details of the frequency setup to generate light for re-pump transition of 85Rb MOT. Appendix B. Laser System Details 85 F=3/2-> P F=1/2-> P 0 MHz -23 MHz 177 MHz 205 MHz 228 MHz 279 MHz Master probe + Slave 1 MOT Master pump Re-pump Slave 2 Slave 3 6Li Increasing freq. Lock DP-1 DP-2 Lock to this feature Figure B.5: Details of the frequency setup for the lithium MOT. �� �� �� �� � periscope. � � Slave � �� �� � �� AP �� � � �� �� H ea t- p ip e �� �� � � �� �� ���� �� � �� �� �� � � �� �� �� ��� �� �� � � trap repump Repump light Cooling light D PA D D FF PA F a br y- P er o t photodetector Fiber input OI AOM half waveplate quarter waveplate PBSC lens mirror � F = To Feshbach table PA = To Photo-Association Table D= Diagnostics input DO = Diagnostics output DO probe pump Diag. Diag. DP1 DP2 lock SP Figure B.6: Details of the actual optical setup for lithium-6 on the Master table. Appendix B. Laser System Details 86 ���� L i r e p u m p �� �� � �� Feshbach Table MOT Setup EOS�� �� �� Li repump �� �� �� �� EOS S2 �� �� � repump master�� �� �� �� �� EOS MOT light S2 �� �� �� MOT master � probe repump master �� repump mechanical shutter R ub id iu m S la ve s et up �� �� �� MOT light �� �� �� �� �� � � EOS �� MOT master pump probe S1 S2S2 � mechanical shutter �� � �repump master� repump Li MOT M O T (8 5 |8 7 |L i) {h o ri zo n ta l t ra p } �� pump M O T (8 5 |8 7 |L i) {v e rt ic a l t ra p } �� �� �� �� Li probe � �� o r 2 p er is co pe s S2 S1 �� � � �� S1 2.450"�� �� �� � EOS re p u m p ( 8 7 |8 5 ) Figure B.7: Details of the amplification stage before the Feshbach table MOT. 
work_6cxmwop5d5b55bclq3wtnkwq6i	----	Durham E-Theses LFTOP: An LF based approach to domain speci�c reasoning Pang, Jianmin How to cite: Pang, Jianmin (2006) LFTOP: An LF based approach to domain speci�c reasoning, Durham theses, Durham University. Available at Durham E-Theses Online: http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/2372/ Use policy The full-text may be used and/or reproduced, and given to third parties in any format or medium, without prior permission or charge, for personal research or study, educational, or not-for-pro�t purposes provided that: • a full bibliographic reference is made to the original source • a link is made to the metadata record in Durham E-Theses • the full-text is not changed in any way The full-text must not be sold in any format or medium without the formal permission of the copyright holders. Please consult the full Durham E-Theses policy for further details. Academic Support O�ce, Durham University, University O�ce, Old Elvet, Durham DH1 3HP e-mail: e-theses.admin@dur.ac.uk Tel: +44 0191 334 6107 http://etheses.dur.ac.uk http://www.dur.ac.uk http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/2372/ http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/2372/ http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/policies/ http://etheses.dur.ac.uk LFTOP: AN LF BASED APPROACH TO DOMAIN SPECIFIC REASONING by Jianmin P a ng The copyright of this th99le rests with the author or the university to which It was submitted , No quotation from It, or Information derived from It may be published without the prior written consent of the author or university, and any Information de rived f rom It should be acknowledged. Submitted in conformity with the req uirements fo r t he deg ree of Ph .D Department of Computer Science Un iversity of Durha m Copyright © 2006 by Jianm in P ang - 5 FEB 2007 Abstract Specialized vocabulary, notations and inference rules tailored for the description, analysis and reasoning of a domain is very important for the domain. For domain-specific issues researchers focus mainly on the design and implementation of domain-specific languages (DSL) and pay little attention to the reasoning aspects. We believe that domain-specific reasoning is very important to help the proofs of some properties of the domains and should be more concise, more reusable and more believable. It deserves to be investigated in an engineering way. Type theory provides good support for generic reasoning and verification. Many type theorists want to extend uses of type theory to more domains, and believe that the methods, ideas, and technology of type theory can have a beneficial effect for computer assisted reasoning in many domains. Proof assistants based on type theory are well known as effective tools to support reasoning. But these proof assistants have focused primarily on generic notations for representation of problems and are oriented towards helping expert type theorists build proofs efficiently. They are successful in this goal, but they are less suitable for use by non-specialists. In other words, one of the big barriers to limit the use of type theory and proof assistant in domain-specific areas is that it requires significant expertise to use it effectively. We present LFTOP - a new approach to domain-specific reasoning that is based on a type-theoretic logical framework (LF) but does not require the user to be an expert in type theory. In this approach, users work on a domain-specific interface that is familiar to them. The interface presents a reasoning system of the domain through a user-oriented syntax. A middle layer provides translation between the user syntax and LF, and allows additional support for reasoning (e.g. model checking). Thus, the complexity of the logical framework is hidden but we also retain the benefits of using type theory and its related tools, such as precision and machine-checkable proofs. The approach is being investigated through a number of case studies. In each case study, the relevant domain-specific specification languages and logic are formalized in Plastic. The relevant reasoning system is designed and customized for the users of the corresponding specific domain. The corresponding lemmas are proved in Plastic. We analyze the advantages and shortcomings of this approach, define some new concepts related to the approach, especially discuss issues arising from the translation between the different levels. A prototype implementation is developed. We illustrate the approach through many concrete examples in the prototype implementation. The study of this thesis shows that the approach is feasible and promising, the relevant methods and technologies are useful and effective. Acknowledgements I would like to thank everyone who has helped me with my research. In particular, I am very grateful to my supervisors Paul Callaghan and Zhaohui Luo. They have provided a great many suggestions for research topics, and without the foundation of their works on computer assisted reasoning my thesis would have been very different. They also gave me many support when I met problems in research and life. I missed the discussions while we had barbecues in your backyard. I would like to thank my Ph.D proposal examiners, Professor Malcolm Munro and Dr. Alex Coddington, for their valuable advice in the beginning of my research. Thanks also go to James McKinna, Steven Bradley, Conor McBride, Yang Luo, Xingyuan Zhang, Edwin Brady, Robert Pollack and all other members of the CARG Group, Durham. You are all great! I would like to thank my elder sister, Ying Pang, and the rest of my family who have provided encouragement, love, and support throughout. Finally, my greatest thanks go to my wife, Bin Wang. She takes care of my daily life and my lovely daughter so that I can focus on my research. Without her love, encouragement, and confidence in me, the ups and downs of the research would have been a harder ride. This thesis is dedicated to her with all my love. Thanks also to Durham University and the Department of Computer Science for the financial support through the Durham University Studentship. ii Declaration I declare that this thesis was composed by myself, and the work reported herein is my own unless explicitly declared otherwise. Some parts of the work have already been published in [Pang et al., 2005a; Callaghan et al., 2001; Pang et al., 2005b; Pang and Zhao, 2005; Pang et al., 2006a; Pang et al., 2006b]. Copyright Notice The copyright of this thesis rests with the author. No quotation from it should be published without their prior written consent and information dervied from it should be acknowledged. iii Contents 1 Introduction 1.1 Domain-specific reasoning . . . 1.2 Type theory, LF and generic reasoning . 1.3 Motivation of this thesis 1.4 The major contribution 1.5 Related work ... 1.5.1 Theorem prover based approach 1.5.2 Non theorem prover based approach 1.6 The structure of the thesis . 2 Statement of problem 2.1 Aim 1: The analysis of requirements of domain-specific reasoning 1 1 2 2 3 4 4 5 5 7 7 2.1.1 Basic assumptions of our research . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 2.1.2 Aims of the LF based domain-specific reasoning approach 8 2.2 Aim 2: The analysis of LF and Plastic as a basis to support domain-specific reasoning .................... . 2.3 Aim 3: The theoretical aspects of the approach 3 Preliminaries 3.1 Typed Lambda-calculus 3.2 Type theory ...... . 3.2.1 Objects, types, and rules 3.2.2 The principle of propositions-as-types 3.3 The Logical Framework and its application 3.3.1 Logical Framework (LF) .... 3.3.2 Specifying type theories in LF 3.3.3 The type theory UTT . . . . . 3.3.3.1 Internal logic SOL and definition of IT 3.3.3.2 Inductive types . 3.3.3.3 Universes .... iv 9 9 10 10 11 11 12 13 13 14 16 17 18 18 3.3.4 Distinction between dependent product kind and IT-types 3.3.5 A new version of Logical Framework PAL+ 3.4 Implementations of type theory 19 19 20 21 22 23 23 23 24 24 25 26 26 27 28 29 32 34 3.5 Model checking . . . . . . . . . 3.6 Theorem proving . . . . . . . . 3. 7 Some basic concepts formalized in LF 3.8 3.7.1 A brief introduction to Plastic 3.7.1.1 The syntax of Plastic 3.7.1.2 Syntactic Sugar in Plastic . 3.7.1.3 Coercive subtyping implementation in Plastic. 3.7.1.4 Modules ............... . 3.7.1.5 Inductive type and family in Plastic 3.7.1.6 Inductive Relations ........ . 3.7.1.7 Inductive Relations with Large Elimination 3.7.1.8 Development of proofs in Plastic 3.7.2 Sets and relevant constants and operators 3.7.3 Fix points and their properties Summary ......... . 4 The outline of the approach 35 35 36 37 37 38 38 39 4.1 Our approach .............. . 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.1.1 An architecture of the approach 4.1.2 A methodology ......... . The techniques we use in this approach The common things for different domains in this approach The role of type theory and its framework Discussion . . . . . . . . 5 Case study: concurrency 40 5.1 Domain analysis . . . . 40 5.1.1 Process algebra . 40 5.1.2 CCS: Calculus for Communicating System. 42 5.1.3 LTS: Labelled Transition System 43 5.1.4 t-t-calculus . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 5.1.4.1 Previous logics . . . . . 44 5.1.4.2 A brief introduction to t-t-calculus 46 5.1.4.3 A positive version of t-t-calculus with tagging fixed points 47 5.1.4.4 Semantics of t-t-calculus : 47 5.2 Congruences and Reasoning in CCS 48 5.2.1 Congruences for CCS 48 v 5.2.1.1 5.2.1.2 5.2.1.3 Trace Equivalence . . . . Bisimulation Equivalence Observational Equivalence for CCS 5.3 Formalization of the domain . 5.3.1 Formalization of CCS 5.3.2 Formalization of 11-calculus 5.4 User level reasoning system .... 5.4.1 Rules that do not involve the process operators. 5.4.2 Rules for the process operators. 5.5 User level syntax ......... . 5.6 Translation between different levels 5.6.1 The translation from user level to LF level 5.6.1.1 The translation of CCS concepts 5.6.1.2 The translation of LTS concepts 5.6.1.3 The translation of jj-calculus concepts 5.6.2 The translation from LF level to user level 5. 7 Some examples . . . 5.7.1 Ticking clock 5.7.2 Simple communication protocol 5.7.3 Example with infinite state space . 5.7.4 Some observations from the examples 5.8 Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 49 50 52 52 55 56 56 57 57 58 58 59 59 59 59 59 60 60 63 68 68 6 Case study: Verification of semantic properties of LAZY-PCF+SHAR 70 6.1 The need for explicit substitutions 72 6.2 Capture of sharing 72 6.3 Domain analysis . 6.3.1 Syntax of the language . 6.3.2 Operational semantics of the language 6.4 Special features of this domain . . . . . . . . 6.5 An implementation of LAZY-PCF +SHAR in LF 6.5.1 Translation from LAZY-PCF+SHAR expressions and types to LF expressions 6.5.1.1 Inductive definition of the syntax of LAZY-PCF+SHAR 6.5.1.2 Translation of operational semantics rules . 6.5.2 An example 6.6 Discussion ..... vi 73 74 74 76 76 76 76 77 81 83 7 The interface 7.1 Design principle . 7.1.1 General principle for designing domain user interface . 7.1.2 Principle for designing a reasoning interface based on LF 85 85 85 86 7.2 ULPIP: a protocol for communications between user-level and Plastic-level 88 7.2.1 Usage of eXtensible Markup Language (XML) 89 7.2.2 DTD for XML documents 89 7.2.3 DTD for the protocol .. 7.3 Implementation issues in our design 7.4 7.3.1 Some considerations on the implementation issues 7.3.2 An interface in Proof General style Discussion . . . 8 Translation issues 8.1 Some problems in translations ....... . 8.2 The translation from user level to LF level 8.2.1 The case of concurrency ...... . 8.2.1.1 The translation of the predefined actions 8.2.1.2 The translation of the list of hidden actions . 8.2.1.3 The translation of the list of relabelling 8.2.1.4 The translation of processes 8.2.1.5 The translation of 1-L-calculus 8.2.1.6 The translation of propositions 8.2.1.7 The translation of CCS and 1-L-calculus rules 8.2.2 The translation of definitions . 8.2.3 The translation of declaration . 8.3 The translation from LF level to user level 8.3.1 The case of concurrency ...... . 8.3.1.1 The translation of actions . 8.3.1.2 The translation of processes 8.3.2 The translation of some forms of propositions 8.4 The properties of the translations . . 8.5 The proof of the adequacy property 8.6 Discussion . . . . . . . . . . 9 Conclusion and Future Work 9.1 Stocktaking .. 9.2 Evaluation ... 9.3 Future research A The proofs of the Subject Reduction theorem vii 90 94 94 94 94 97 97 98 98 98 99 99 99 100 101 102 102 102 102 102 102 103 103 103 104 109 110 110 111 112 114 List of Figures 3.1 The inference rules of LF from [Luo, 1994]. . ....... . 15 3.2 The correspondence of LF syntax and Plastic syntax from [Callaghan and Luo, 2001] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 4.1 The architecture implied by the approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 6.1 call-by-name and call-by-value 6.2 The Syntax of LAZY-PCF+SHAR 6.3 Type rules ............ . 6.4 The operational semantics of LAZY-PCF+SHAR . 7.1 A screenshot of the interface in Proof General style . 72 74 74 75 95 8.1 Mapping between domain-specific object language and a subset of LF 98 viii List of Tables 5.1 Proof procedure for ticking clock (part I) 61 5.2 Proof procedure for ticking clock (part II) 62 5.3 Proof procedure for simple protocol (part I) 64 5.4 Proof procedure for simple protocol (part II) 65 5.5 Proof procedure for Counter's property 67 ix Chapter 1 Introduction The last thing one knows in constructing a work is what to put first. -BLAISE PASCAL, FRENCH THINKER, MATHEMATICIAN, AND SCIENTIST 1.1 Domain-specific reasoning Specialised vocabulary, notations and inference rules tailored for the description, analysis and reasoning of a domain is very important for the domain. First, the role of notations and rules is cognitive in nature as they provide support for basic describing and reasoning tasks. Second, notations also have an important social role as communication interfaces between different, and possibly diverse, technical specialities involved in the domain. In addition to using specialised vocabulary and notations for description and analysis, reasoning tasks are becoming prominent tasks in some domains. The domain users hope that computer can be used not only for computing and editing, but also for reasoning. There are many common characteristics in the aspect of reasoning even for different domains. Based on the common characteristics a good engineering approach is required for supporting domain- specific reasoning. For users who do reasoning and verification work in their domain, a good computer- supported reasoning system should be powerful and convenient, i.e. the system should be domain oriented, easy to learn and use, can do all things which can be done by domain users with pen and paper, and a lot more that they can't. It should also be 'believable' in the sense that developments are rigorously checked by machine. This is especially important in domains where safety or security are key properties. Till now, for domain-specific issues researchers focus mainly on the design and implemen- tation of domain-specific languages (DSL) and pay little attention to the reasoning aspects. We believe that domain-specific reasoning is very important to help the proofs of some prop- erties of the domains and should be more concise, more reusable and more believable. It 1 CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION 2 deserves to be investigated in an engineering way. 1.2 Type theory, LF and generic reasoning Type theory provides good support for generic reasoning and verification. Many type the- orists want to extend uses of type theory to more domains, and believe that the methods, ideas, and technologies of type theory can have a beneficial effect for computer assisted rea- soning in many domains. Proof assistants based on type theory are well known as effective tools to support reasoning. But these proof assistants have focused primarily on generic no- tations for representation of problems and are oriented towards helping expert type theorists build proofs efficiently. They are successful in this goal, but they are less suitable for use by non-specialists. There are many model checkers which do not support reasoning strongly (such as Edinburgh Concurrency Workbench) applied in domain-specific areas, while the development of domain-specific reasoning techniques in the area of proof assistant has been remarkably slow. But we can't require that all domain users (e.g. potential users in domains which could benefit from type-theory based reasoning) are expert type theorists or that they should learn type theory first. i.e. one of the big barriers to limit the use of type theory and proof assistant in domain-specific areas is that it requires significant expertise to use it effectively. LF is a simple type theory which allows particular type theories to be specified clearly in it. The version of LF we use is presented in [Luo, 1994], which introduces the type theory UTT by specifying it in LF. (Note: this kind of LF is different from Edinburgh LF [Harper eta!., 1987].) LF provides a definition mechanism and the four basic concepts required in a type theory: types, objects in types, families of types, and objects of families of types. It makes a distinction between the types, which are required for a specific application, and kinds, which are part of the framework. LF is extended by declaring new constants and computation rules involving those constants. For example, inductive types can be added by declaring a type name, constructors, an elimination operator, and rules for computation. Luo [Luo, 1994] gives a schema which allows the addition of a large class of inductive types. These features allow LF as a suitable framework to be based on. 1.3 Motivation of this thesis We believe that reasoning systems can be built using type theory technology as a framework, but which can be used via a domain-specific interface. Such an interface would provide functionality recognizable to an expert in the domain, and would support reasoning work in that domain. But the correctness of the functionality would be supported by the underlying type theory technology. In particular, we propose that this kind of system can be developed with a general purpose 'framework' type theory, in which the domain is first formalized (by CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION 3 an expert) and an interface built on top of it. So in reasoning of domain-specific properties a hidden underlying support from a proof assistant (which is an implementation of the 'framework' type theory) is available and does not put extra burden on domain users, i.e. we envisage the following scenario: an implementation of a logical framework (LF) provides the core reasoning functionality and works as a server. A type theory expert encodes the type theory needed for an application domain in LF, formalizes the domain in the type theory, and gives a mapping between LF syntax and a concrete syntax for the application domain. A domain user who is an non-expert in type theory can then use the resulting system by working in the new interface which operates as a client, whilst being exposed to the minimum amount of details about the underlying type theory system. We advocate the use of this approach to provide a composition mechanism that retains the benefits of both domain-specific and generic proof assistants approaches. This is one of the motivations of our research. LF has been implemented in Plastic [Callaghan and Luo, 200Gb], a form of a proof assistant. But there is no big application based on the LF based proof assistant till now. Is it suitable to big applications? This is another one of the motivations of the research of this thesis. 1.4 The major contribution The major contribution of this thesis is that we present and investigate a sound and practical approach to domain-specific reasoning based on LF, achieving this through theoretical work, actual implementation and evaluation. The following are some major steps which lead to the substantiation of this claim. 1. The presentation of the approach • The description of the approach • The methodology about the approach • The structure of the approach 2. The prototyping implementation of the approach • The interface design • The design of the protocol for the communications between user-level and Plastic- level. 3. The case studies • The case study on concurrency. The formalisation of the relevant concepts of concurrency in LF. The formal proving of related axioms, inference rules, lemmas and theorems. CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION 4 - The prototyping implementation of the domain-specific interface. • The case study on LAZY-PCF+SHAR 1 . The formalisation of the relevant concepts of LAZY-PCF+SHAR in LF. The formal proving of related axioms, inference rules, lemmas and theorems. The description of the reason why we use Plastic directly other than to design a new interface. • The whole work can be seen as an experiment with use of a restricted type theory (here we mean LF). 1.5 Related work For the computer assisted verification of domain-specific properties, there are two main approaches, distinguished by their use (or not) of a theorem prover. 1.5.1 Theorem prover based approach As its name, theorem prover based approach is an approach which is based on a theorem prover. The following is a list of the major systems which belong to this kind of approach. • Isabelle [Paulson, 1994] [Paulson, 2005] provides a theorem prover based approach for users to specify concrete theory by providing a few declarations of abstract and concrete syntax, primitive proof rules and the support to user defined macros and translation functions in ML. Isabelle/Isar [Wenzel, 2002] aims to a versatile envi- ronment for human-readable formal proof documents, but doesn't explicitly consider domain-specific issues. Our approach is different from this approach by using a concise but powerful type theoretic logical framework LF and by constructing an interface for the domain users. Our approach presents both support to user convenience and strict type theoretic style correctness. • In fact, users can use type theoretic proof assistants such as Coq [Project, 2004] and Lego [Pollack, 2005] to construct their proof directly by embedding the domain con- cepts in them. The syntax extensions mechanism of Coq can help users to set up their favorite syntax, but in my opinion, this mechanism is mainly a syntax sugar or abbre- viation mechanism, the user level command is limited to tactics of Coq, so it cannot use the theorems and lemmas of the domain in a natural way. Meanwhile Coq or Lego theory may include extra features that the domain does not have, e.g. universes. 1 LAZY-PCF+SHAR is a lazy version of the functional language PCF(Programming language for Com- putable Functions) extended by adding explicit substitution in order to formalize the semantics of lazy evaluation. CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION 5 • Yu [Yu, 1999; Yu and Luo, 1997] takes a hybrid approach, investigating the integra- tion of model checker and proof assistant (Lego) in a number of domains. However, the relation between the model checker and proof assistant is loose, because domain users operate on Lego directly, in a way which does not reflect domain-specific proof procedure. • PVS[Owre et al., 1997] allows to specify and to verify systems using higher-order logic and presents an integration of tables, types and model checking. A relevant tool TAME [Archer and Heitmeyer, 1997] is designed to support "human-style" reasoning in a particular mathematical model (Lynch-V aandrager timed automata) through an appropriate mechanism from top layer to PVS. It concentrated on how to design the underlying theorem proving support for it, rather than a high-level interface. In other words, TAME focused on developing PVS strategies for proof steps that closely resemble the steps in hand proofs and not concern about the forms of the expressions in user layer. • Z/EVES [Saaltink, 1997] is an interactive system which can be used to develop or analyze a Z specification. It is based on the EVES system, and uses the EVES prover to carry out its proof steps, but without the knowledge of EVES or its language (Verdi). Z/EVES has focus on the Z-interface implementation above EVES, not focus on the generic way of building domain-specific interfaces as our LFTOP approach. Z/EVES cannot guarantees that any result on EVES can be translated back to Z. But some restrictions are imposed to operations to ensure that the result can be translated back to Z. [Saaltink, 1997] page 29. 1.5.2 Non theorem prover based approach Most systems of this approach are based on model checkers, and used in a single domain. For example, the system Truth (Truth/SLC) [Leucker and Noll, 2000] is a design and verification platform for concurrent systems. Its aim is to offer a modular verification system which can be easily adjusted to different settings. It is implemented in Haskell directly and does not depend on any existing theorem prover. It presents some level of user convenience, but loses the support from theorem prover. In our opinion, the proof which is done under this system is less convincing than a proof which is done under a theorem prover or proof assistant with the power of proof term generation. For example, soundness depends on a large body of code, which is infeasible to check for errors. 1.6 The structure of the thesis This thesis is divided into nine chapters. The present chapter introduces the material of this thesis, provides some background concepts and presents the motivations of the thesis. CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION 6 The rest of the thesis makes extensive use of the logical framework LF and its imple- mentation Plastic. Chapter 2 concentrates on the statement of problem, the aims of the thesis and the preestablished criteria for the aims. Chapter 3 introduces the preliminary concepts, relevant theories, their implementations and some basic concepts formalized in LF. In chapter 4 we give the outline of the system supporting domain specific reasoning. Architectures, methodologies, techniques and the common things for reasoning in different domains are studied in this chapter. In chapter 5 we present a case study in concurrency. We first analyze the domain, choose CCS as the specification language, LTS as the semantic model, J..t-calculus as the specification logic and formalize them in LF. Then we design the user level syntax for the reasoning system for the domain, i.e. design and implement the rules and the user level interface. In chapter 6 we present another case study in LAZY-PCF +SHAR. A similar but concise discussion is provided in this chapter. The main difference of this case study from the case study in chapter 5 is that we use the interface of Plastic directly. This is due to the observation on the suitability of the direct application of Plastic to this domain. In chapter 7 we study the issues about interface. We focus on the aspects of the design principle, the protocol and implementations. Especially we design a protocol called ULPIP for the communications between user-level and Plastic-level. In chapter 8 we discuss translation issues in this thesis. We study the translation between different levels, prove some properties of the translations. Finally in chapter 9 we conclude our work and review the work left open by this thesis. Chapter 2 Statement of problem The important thing in life is to have a great azm, and the determination to attain it. -JoHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE, GERMAN POET AND DRAMATIST This chapter presents the problems and aims of this thesis. Some criteria for their achievement are outlined also. 2.1 Aim 1: The analysis of requirements of domain- specific reasoning 2.1.1 Basic assumptions of our research As indicated in chapter 1, reasoning tasks are becoming prominent tasks in some domains. The domain users hope that computer can be used not only for computation, but also for reasoning. There are many different ways to support the reasoning work in many domains by computer system. For example, a lot of specific reasoning tools which are direct imple- mentations of formal systems of specific domains and generic reasoning tools such as proof assistants are already used for reasoning. We present a new approach and want to investi- gate the approach to support the domain-specific reasoning under some assumptions. The basic assumptions for our research are: • We want to benefit from the research results of type theory, so we use a type theory based proof assistant for the underlying reasoning instead of design a domain-specific reasoning system from scratch for each domain. • We want domain users to work in their domain-oriented way with familiar syntax and semantics instead of being a type theory expert first. 7 CHAPTER 2. STATEMENT OF PROBLEM 8 • We do not exclude using type theory directly by some domain users, because type theory is exactly suitable for some domains. Of course the use is through an interface which we recommend Proof General. • The requirements of domain users who want to do the domain-specific reasoning are different from the requirements of type theory experts with more general interests; so it doesn't follow that we need the same techniques for both of them. From above we can see that this isn't a matter of providing forms of sugaring for expert users, but a serious attempt to study and understand the issues behind producing computer assisted reasoning tools in a variety of domains, which will in time lead to well-engineered systems and a methodology for producing them. 2.1.2 Aims of the LF based domain-specific reasoning approach Under the above assumptions, we present an LF based approach. We are interested in the following problems: • Is it a feasible approach? • What should we do in this approach in order to realize our intention? In fact, this is one of the motivations of the research of this thesis. vVe summarize the aims as follows: 1. To analyze the characteristics of domain-specific reasoning. 2. To get better understanding on the issues behind producing computer assisted reason- ing tools in a variety of domains. 3. To provide an architecture of the presented approach and investigate the feasibility of this approach. 4. To provide a relevant methodology (i.e. methods, process etc.) of the approach. 5. Based on the above architecture and methodology, to do case studies in some domains and implement a prototype system based on the case studies. 6. Through the case studies, to investigate the suitability of the approach and analyze the advantages and disadvantages of this approach. The criteria for above aims are as follows : 1. An analysis of the characteristics of domain-specific reasoning which includes domain- specific notation, higher-level abstraction, design reuse etc. 2. To have learnt from the case studies some of the issues behind producing domain- specific computer assisted reasoning tools. CHAPTER 2. STATEMENT OF PROBLEM g 3. An architecture of the approach and the analysis of feasibility of it. 4. The existence and suitability of a relevant methodology and process. 5. Some case studies for concrete domains including the work of formalization, parser, communication protocols and translations between different levels; implementations of the prototype systems based on the case studies. 6. An analysis of suitability of the approach and the validation of it through case studies. 2.2 Aim 2: The analysis of LF and Plastic as a basis to support domain-specific reasoning LF has been implemented in Plastic [Callaghan and Luo, 2000b], a form of a proof assistant. But there are no big applications based on the LF based proof assistant till now. Is it suitable for big applications? This is another one of the motivations of the research of this thesis. So we have these aims to complete: 1. To analyze the issues of LF as an underlying basis for domain-specific reasoning. 2. 'fry to implement some big applications to make sure that this kind of system is suitable for big applications. 3. 'fry to get feedback from direct application of this system to answer the questions such as which are the theoretical and practical benefits and defects of using it instead of other proof assistants. The criteria for the above aims may be as follows: 1. An analysis of LF's suitability related to be an underlying reasoning basis. 2. Some big applications implemented in the system as a proof of the capability of the system. 3. A summary about the benefits and defects of using LF. But these works can be seen as the formalization works in Aiml for some domains. Especially the case study in Chapter 6 can be seen as the proof of the capability of LF and Plastic. So there are no strict separation between Aiml and Aim2. 2.3 Aim 3: The theoretical aspects of the approach There will be some theoretical aspects related to the approach and these will be studied during the work. The criteria for this aim is the relevant presentations of the corresponding analysis and proofs. Chapter 3 Preliminaries Histories make men wise; poems witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philoso- phy deep ; moral grave ; logic and rhetoric able to contend . - FRANCIS BACON , BRITISH PHILOSOPHER The main purpose of this chapter is to introduce the notations used throughout the thesis, and make the thesis more self-contained. 3.1 Typed Lambda-calculus As presented in [Barendregt, 1990], the lambda calculus was originally conceived by Church [Church, 1932] as part of a general theory of functions and logic, intended as a foundation for mathematics. Although the entire system turned out to be inconsistent, as pointed out in Kleene and Rosser [Kleene and Rosser, 1935], the subsystem dealing with functions only became a successful model for computable functions. This system is called now the lambda calculus. Representing computable functions as >.-terms, i.e. as expressions in the lambda calculus, gives rise to so-called functional programming. There are also typed versions of the lambda calculus. Curry [Curry, 1934] introduced a typed variant of the lambda calculus, called combinatory logic. Church [Church, 1940] gave his formulation of the simple theory of types. The two original papers of Curry and Church introducing typed versions of the lambda calculus give rise to two different families of systems. In the typed lambda calculi a la Curry terms are those of the type-free theory. Each term has a set of possible types. In the system a la Church the terms are annotated versions of the type-free terms. Each that is derivable from the way the term is annotated. The Curry and Church approaches to typed lambda calculus correspond to two paradigms in programming. In many important systems, especially those a la Church, it is the case that terms that do have a type always possess a normal form. By the unsolvability of the halting problem this implies that not all computable functions can be represented by a typed term [Barendregt, 1990]. 10 CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 11 The >.-calculus with its ,8-reduction rule is very useful for formalizing mathematics and computing expression. It is also a useful tool for expressing semantics of programming language. And ,8-reduction satisfies the Church-Rosser (diamond) property. However, for untyped (or type-free) >.-terms, some of them cannot be reduced to normal forms, this means they have infinite reduction sequence [S0rensen and Urzyczyn, 1998]. This is one reason why we need simply typed >.-calculus. In simply typed A-calculus system (i.e. >. ---> ), the properties such as Church-Rosser, Subject Reduction, and Strong Normalization hold [S0rensen and Urzyczyn, 1998]. This means every well-typed A-term can be reduced to a normal form, keep its type, and reduce to the same normal form no matter which way it is reduced. Therefore we can easily figure out whether two typable terms are ,8-equal by just reducing the terms to their respective normal forms and comparing them. 3. 2 Type theory Type theory is designed originally as a basis for formalising constructive mathematics. But scientists have found a lot of applications of it in computer science. Type theory offers a coherent treatment of two related but different fundamental notions in computer science: Computation and logical inference. This makes it possible for one to program, to understand and to reason about programs in a single formalism. Meanwhile type theory can provide nice abstraction mechanisms which support conceptually clear development of specifications, programs, and proofs. The gap in other specification languages between the programming language and the specifications vanished. So we can say that type theory is a very use- ful theory to support the technology for computer assisted reasoning, such as formalized mathematics or program verification. Our description here is based on the work of Martin-Lof, in particular Martin-Lof's book [Martin-Lof, 1984] and Nordstrom, Petersson and Smith's book [Nordstrom et al., 1990]. But we call the entities "types" where Martin-Lof calls the entities in his theory "sets". 3.2.1 Objects, types, and rules Type theory can be viewed as a formal language based on a conceptual organization of objects. A type is a collection of objects with some common property or structure. In type theory we are interested in the validity of some property or whether some object has a property. We are also interested in whether different expressions denote the same object in a type. Type theory contains rules for making judgements of the following four forms: • A is a type. • A and B are equal types. • a is an object of the type A. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 12 • a1 and a2 are equal objects of the type A. Among the objects of a type, some are called canonical objects, which are the values of objects of the type under computation. A canonical object is in a form that the outermost constructor is an introduction constant. This form is called canonical form. The notion of computation is a basic concept in type theory, which generates an equivalence relation, the computational equality between the basic expressions in the language of type theory. In order to guarantee the harmony between the different uses of the entities in the type theory, the computation should have the property that every object has a unique value under computation and the objects which are computationally equal have the same value. There is a common pattern in the rules for introducing types in type theory. Each type will be defined by giving rules in each of four general categories: • The formation rules for A describe under which conditions we may infer that A is a type and when two types A and B are equal. • The introduction rules define the type A in that they prescribe how the canonical objects are formed and when two canonical objects are equal. The constructors for the type are introduced in these rules. • The elimination rules are a kind of structural induction rules. They allow us to define functions or programs on the type. The function, which is a primitive non- canonical constant associated with the type, is introduced in this kind of rule. It is the function which makes it possible to do pattern-matching and primitive recursion over the objects in the type. • The equality rules describe the equalities which are introduced by the computation rules for the function associated with the type. They relate the introduction and elimination rules. They show how the function defined by the elimination rule behaves on the canonical objects of the type. 3.2.2 The principle of propositions-as-types The principle of propositions as types is based on the observation by Curry and Howard [Curry and Feys, 1958] [Howard, 1980] of the close correspondence between systems of natural deduction for intuitionistic logical inference and type systems. It can be viewed as a fundamental idea in the justification of type theory as a foundation for constructive mathematics or as a basis for specification and verification of programs. The basic idea of this principle is that any proposition P corresponds to a type Prf(P), the type of its proofs, and a proof of P corresponds to an object of type Prf(P). Furthermore, one can assert a proposition to be true if and only if one has a proof of the proposition, that is, an object of the type of its proofs. So the truth of a proposition is understood by the inhabitance of the type of proofs of the proposition. The notion of canonical objects for type CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 13 Prf(P) gives a notion of canonical or direct proofs of proposition P, while the non-canonical objects of type Prf(P) may be called indirect pmofs of proposition P. There is a fundamental distinction between propositions which are formulas describing properties and facts, and judgements, which are assertions of whether formulas are true. On the basis of this distinction, a type theory with sufficient logical type structures has an internal logic and presents a logical language rather different from that of set theory or that of logic programming. The system studied by Curry and Howard were systems for which there was an equiv- alence between propositions and types. This equivalence holds for various logics and type theories: for example, an extension of the simply typed lambda calculus corresponds to full intuitionistic first-order propositional logic, as developed by Howard [Howard, 1980]; and System F corresponds to second-order propositional logic, as the former type theory and the equivalence were studied by Girard [Girard, 1972]. For this reason the propositions-as- types principle is also referred to as an isomorphism. According to the propositions-as-types principle, we have mapped proofs of a proposition to objects of the type of proofs of the proposition. The judgements of type theory must therefore be decidable, so that we can tell from the form of a judgement M : A that M is indeed an object of the type A. An alternative view is that although type theory provides a framework in which to understand both logical inference and computation, we need not identify these two things. We can treat propositions as types, but not vice versa. Zhaohui Luo [Luo, 1994] lists several reasons for viewing the identification of propositions and types as unnatural: Firstly, the logic of our system should be independent of the objects studied in it; secondly, certain types such as the natural numbers do not intuitively correspond to propositions; thirdly, type theory is often considered open to the addition of new types representing new computational or mathematical objects, but the addition of these objects should not change the way we reason in the logic. FUrthermore, results about the conservativity of type theories which identify propositions and types over their related logic [Berardi, 1990; Luo, 199Gb] show that this identification does not correspond to the traditional way of formulating logics. 3.3 The Logical Framework and its application 3.3.1 Logical Framework (LF) A logical framework may be used in various ways. The Edinburgh Logical Framework [Harper et a!., 1987] has been studied for formalisation of logical systems based on the idea of judgements-as-types. Martin-Lof's logical framework(see Part III of [Nordstrom et a!., 1990]) has been proposed by Martin-Lof to present his intensional type theory. The logical framework (LF) which we are interested here is Martin-Lof's LF with type labels on all binders (i.e.,[x : K]k rather than [x]k). The extra type labels ensure that type checking is decidable for this LF, where as for Martin-Lof's LF it is only decidable for a subset of terms CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 14 [Barthe and S0rensen, 2000][Callaghan and Luo, 2000b]. We can use LF as a meta-language to specify type theories. LF is a simple type system with terms of the following forms: • Type • El(A) • (x: K)K' • [x: K]k' • f(k) where the free occurrences of variable x in K' and k' are bound by the binding operators (x : K) and [x : K], respectively. There are five forms of judgements in LF: • r valid, which asserts that r is a valid context; • r 1- K kind, which asserts that K is a kind; • r 1- k: K, which asserts that k is an object of kind K; • r 1- k = k' : K, which asserts that k and k' are equal objects of kind K; and • r 1- K = I(, which asserts that K and K' are equal kinds The rules in LF are given in figure 3.1. We can use it to customize a specific type theory, or use it as a small type theory directly. There are several reasons to be interested in LF. • Theoretically, it allows a clearer and more satisfactory presentation. Specifically, there is a clear distinction between an object language (to be used for reasoning and program- ming) and the meta-level mechanisms which are used to define the object language. • As LF itself is a concise type theory, so its implementation system (Plastic) does not have much inherent properties which are not easy to be waived. Luo introduces LF as a meta-language for specifying a type theory (e.g. UTT(Unified Type Theory)) 3.3.2 Specifying type theories in LF To specify a type theory we just need to do two kinds of things. Firstly, we should declare new constants. Secondly, we should give computation rules(usually about the new constants). Formally, declaring a new constant k of kind K by writing k:K, is to extend the type theory(specified by means of LF) to which the constant is introduced by the following inference rule: CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES Contexts and assumptions r f- K kind X if_ FV(r) r, x:K, r' valid () valid r,x:K valid r,x:K,r' f- X: K General equality rules r f- K kind r f- K = K' r f- K = K' r f- K' = K" r f- K = K r f- K' = K r f- K = K" r f- k : K r f- k = k' : K r f- k = k' : K r f- k' = k" : K r f- k = k : K r f- k' = k : K r f- k = k" : K Equality typing rules r f- k : K r f- K = K' r f- k = k' : K r f- K = K' r f- k: K' r f- k = k': K' Substitution rules r, x:K, r' valid r f- k: K r, [k/x]r' valid r,x:K,r' f- K' kind r f- k: K r, [k/x]r' f- [kjx]K' kind r,x:K,r' f- K' kind r f- k = k': K r, [k/x]r' f- [kjx]I<' = [k' jx]K' r, x:K, r' f- k' : K' r f- k: K r, x:K, r' f- k': K' r f- k1 = k2 : K r, [k/x]r' f- [kjx]k': [kjx]K' r, [kl/x]r' f- [kl/x]k' = [k 2 jx]k': [kl/x]K' r,x:K,r' f- K' = K" r f- k: K r,x:K,r' f- k' = k": K' r f- k: K r, [k/x]r' f- [kjx]K' = [k/x]K" r, [kjx]r' f- [kjx]k' = [kjx]k" : [kjx]K' The kind Type r valid r f- Type kind r f-A: Type r f- El(A) kind r f- A = B : Type r f- El(A) = El(B) Dependent product kinds r f- K kind r,x:K f- K' kind r f- (x:K)K' kind r f- K1 = K2 r,x:K1 f- K~ = K~ r f- (x:K!)Ki = (x:K2)K~ r,x:K f- k: K' rf-K1=K2 r,x:K1f-k1=k2:K (~) r f- [x:K1]k1 = [x:K2]k2 : (x:K!)K r f- [x:K]k : (x:K)K' r f- ! : (x:K)K' r f- k : K r f- f(k): [k/x]K' r,x:K f- k': K' r f- k: K ((3) r f- ([x:K]k')(k) = [kjx]k' : [kjx]K' r f- ! = !' : (x:K)K' r f- k1 = k2 : K r f- f(kl) = J'(k2) : [kl/x]K' (TJ) r f- f: (x:K)K' X if_ FV(f) r f- [x:K]f(x) = f: (x:K)K' Figure 3.1: The inference rules of LF from [Luo, 1994]. 15 CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES r valid fl--k:K 16 and, for a kind K which is either Type or of the form El(A), asserting a computation rule by writing k = k':K for ki:Ki(i = 1, ... ,n), is to extend the type theory by the following equality inference rule, r 1-- ki:Ki(i = 1, ... , n) r 1-- k:K r 1-- k':K r 1-- k = k':K The special kind Type in LF corresponds to the conceptual universe of types in the type theory to be specified. Let T be any type theory specified in LF. Then, aT- context is a context of the form x1:El(A 1), ... , xn:El(An), and T has the following five forms of judgements (where r is any T- context): • r valid, which asserts that r is a valid T- context; • r 1-- A:Type, which asserts that A is a type; • r 1-- a:El(A), which asserts that a is an object of type A; • r 1-- a= b:El(A), which asserts that a and bare computationally equal objects of type A in the sense that they compute to the same value; and • r 1-- A = B:Type, which asserts that A and B are equal types in the sense that they have the same objects. A judgement in a type theory specified in LF is derivable if it is derivable in the system of LF extended by the constants and computation rules specifying the type theory. Once a type theory is specified, the user uses the type theory rather than the LF language, except that he may use LF as a definitional mechanism which may be implemented in a proof development system, e.g. Plastic. In such a use of logical framework as a meta- language, one does not use the meta-logic embedded in LF to reason about objects in the type theory, but should use the internal logic in the specified type theory for reasoning. An inductive schema is introduced to LF. The essential idea is that each finite sequence of inductive schemata specifies a collection of introduction rules (each schema in the sequence determines one of them) and hence generates an inductive data type whose meaning is given by the introduction rules, the associated elimination and computation rules. We use LFe to express the LF with inductive schema. 3.3.3 The type theory UTT The type theory UTT is specified in LFe. It consists of an internal logic, a large class of inductive data types, and universes. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 17 3.3.3.1 Internal logic SOL and definition of II The internal logic( called SOL) consists of a universe Prop of logical propositions and their proof types. The logical universe Prop is impredicative since universal quantification can be formed for any type A and (meta-level)predicate P over A. Similar to ECC [Luo, 1990a], many of the usual logical operators can be defined by means of the impredicative universal quantification. However, the internal logic SOL of UTT by itself is only a second-order logic (hence the name). There are no types of internal predicates or internal relations in SOL over which universal quantification may be possible. The internal logic is introduced by declaring the following constants: Prop Type Prf (Prop)Type V (A:Type)((A)Pmp)Prop A (A:Type)(P:(A)Prop)((x:A)Prf(P(x)))Prf(V(A, P)) Ev (A:Type)(P:(A)Prop)(R:(Prf(V(A, P)))Prop) ((g:(x:A)Prf(P(x)))Prf(R(A(A, P, g)))) (z:Prf(V(A, P)))Prf(R(z)) and asserting the following computation rule: Ev(A, P, R, j, A( A, P, g))= f(g):Prf(R(A(A, P, g))). Then, the usual application operator can be defined as App =df [A:Type][P:(A)Prop][F:Prf(V(A, P))][a:A] Ev(A, P, [G:Prf(V(A, P))]P(a), [g:(x:A)Prf(P(x))]g(a), F), which satisfies the equality (the ,B-rule for A and App ): App(A, P, A( A, P, g), a)= g(a):Prf(P(a)). In LF, we can introduce dependent product types by declaring the following constants: II : (A:Type)((A)Type)Type >.: (A:Type)(B:(A)Type)((x:A)B(x))II(A, B) CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES En : (A:Type)(B:(A)Type)(C:(IT(A, B))Type) ( (g:(x:A)B(x) )C(>.(A, B, g))) (z:IT(A, B) )C(z) and asserting the following computation rule: En(A,B,C,j,>..(A,B,g)) = f(g): C(>.(A,B,g)). For IT-types, the application operator can be defined as follows: app =dt [A:Type][B:(A)Type][F:IT(A, B)J[a:A] En(A, B, [G:IT(A, B)]B(a), [g:(x:A)B(x)Jg(a), F) 18 SOL together with the IT-types is essentially a formulation of the Calculus of Constructions [Coquand and Huet, 1988] in LF. 3.3.3.2 Inductive types Inductive types in UTT are based on the notion of inductive schemata. Any finite sequence of inductive schemata specifies a collection of introduction rules( each schema in the sequence determines one of them) and hence generates an inductive type whose meaning is given by the introduction rules ( and the associated elimination and computation rules). The similar idea has been considered by Gentzen [Gentzen, 1935], Prawitz [Prawitz, 1973; Prawitz, 1974], etc. for traditional logical systems, and by Martin-Li:if[Martin-Li:if, 1984], Backhouse [Backhouse, 1988], Dybjer [Dybjer, 1991], and Coquand and Mohring [Coquand and Paulin- Mohring, 1990] for type theories. For example, a type Nat of natural numbers can be defined as Nat =df M[8], where 8 represents the kinds of the constructors- in this case, kinds X and X -> X where X is a placeholder for the name of the inductive type. The associated introduction operator are zero =dt ~t[8]:N at and succ =dt ~2[8]:N at -> Nat. The elimination operator and computation rules are as the following: ENat =df E[GJ : (C:Nat-> Type)(c:C(zero)) (f:(x:Nat)C(x)-> C(succ(x)))(n:Nat)C(n), ENat(C, c, j, zero)= c ENat(C, c,j, succ(x)) = f(x, ENat(C, c, f, x)). 3.3.3.3 Universes The universes in UTT are the impredicative universe Prop and the predicative universes Type;(i E w) in Tarski style. In this style types in universes are represented by codes (i.e., names) and a decoding function which maps such names to appropriate types. This is contrasted against Russell style, where codes and the types they represent are identified. The theory ECC contains a hierarchy of universes in Russell style. A typical example of using universe is to prove the distinctness of constructors of in- ductive types [Smith, 1988]. Callaghan gave a proof in Plastic for the boolean type, i.e. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 19 true f=Bool false; see section 4.5.2 of [Callaghan and Luo, 2000b] for details. Such distinct- ness cannot be proved without universes [Smith, 1988]. UTT also has the nice meta-theoretic properties such as subject reduction and strong normalisation. Goguen had proved these properties in his Ph.D. thesis [Goguen, 1994]. 3.3.4 Distinction between dependent product kind and IT-types Dependent product kind and IT-types are two different notions which often cause confusion. We can list the following differences between dependent product kind and IT-type: o The notion of dependent product kind is one in the meta-framework, while IT-type is a notion of some object type theories. • The dependent product kind provides parameterisation mechanisms which can be used to define a type theory, while a IT-type is an inductively defined construct representing the type of dependent function in an object language. o An important difference is that there is a notion of elimination for IT-types but not for dependent product kinds. For example, an object of dependent product kind 1 (A:Type)(B:(x:A)Type)Type is a family of types parameterised by a type A and a family of types B indexed by objects of type A. Representing such a family by means of an "internal" IT-type is inappropriate and leads to possible misunderstandings in use of type theory. 3.3.5 A new version of Logical Framework PAL+ In fact, a clearer explanation for distinguishing meta and object concepts is from a new version of Logical Framework PAL+[Luo, 2003] . PAL+ is a lambda-free logical frame- work which takes parameterisation and definitions as the basic notions to provide schematic mechanisms for specification of type theories and their use in practice. It is also a logi- cal framework for specification and implementation of type theories, such as Martin-Lof's type theory or UTT. As in Martin-Lof's logical framework [Nordstrom et al., 1990] and the above LF, computational rules can be introduced and are used to give meanings to the declared constants. However, PAL+ only allows one to talk about the concepts that are intuitively in the object type theories: types and their objects, and families of types and families of objects of types. In particular, in PAL+, one cannot directly represent families of families of entities, which could be done in other logical frameworks by means of lambda abstraction. Just as implied in its name, PAL+ can be seen as a successor of de Bruijn's PAL for Automath [de Bruijn, 1980]. Compared with PAL, PAL+ allows one to represent 1 In fact n is declared as a constant of this kind in UTT CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 20 parametric concepts such as families of types and families of non-parametric objects, which can be used by themselves as totalities as well as when they are fully instantiated. Such parametric objects are represented by local definitions (let-expressions). PAL+ is a correct meta-language for specifying type theories (e.g., dependent type theories), as it has the advantage of exactly capturing the intuitive concepts in object type theories, and that its implementation realises the actual use of type theories in practice. Luo [Luo, 2003] studies the meta-theory of PAL+ by developing its typed operational semantics and shows that it has nice meta-theoretic properties. As a complete implementation of PAL+ has not been done yet, so we still use LF and its implementation system Plastic as the basis of our research. 3.4 Implementations of type theory Several systems which are based on type theories have been implemented. An early im- plementation of type theory with many important contributions is de Bruijn's Automath project [de Bruijn, 1980].In this project de Bruijn introduced the idea of using type theory as a system which can serve as a framework for implementing logics, by giving a system which formalizes the underlying principles which mathematicians agree upon. Lego [Luo and Pollack, 1992] implements several different type theories: The Edinburgh Logical Framework [Harper et al., 1987]; ECC [Luo, 1990a] and the Pure Calculus of Con- structions [Coquand and Huet, 1988]. Coq [Project, 2004] is a Proof Assistant based on the Calculus of Inductive Construc- tions. ALF [Magnusson and Nordstrom, 1994] is a structure editor for Martin-Li:if's type theory in the Logical Framework, including a window-based user interface. Nuprl [Con- stable et al., 1986] implements a variant of Martin-Lof's polymorphic and extensional type theory, and unlike some other type theories, type checking in Nuprl is not decidable, so the elements of propositional types should not be interpreted as proofs but merely represents the computational contents of the associated proposition. Isabelle [Paulson, 1999] is an interactive theorem prover that supports a variety of logics, such as higher order logic (HOL), Zermelo Fraenkel set theory (ZF), and constructive type theory ( CTT). Plastic [Callaghan and Luo, 2000b] is an implementation of typed LF with coercive subtyping and universes. It is different from Lego and Coq because it is not intended to be used directly by expert users but as the underlying layer for other systems. Our further study will be based upon Plastic. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 21 3.5 Model checking A model checking problem is a problem of checking whether a given model satisfies a given property: M f= 1/J where, the model NI represents a design, and the property 1/J represents its correctness criteria. In general, as a popular automatic verification technique, model checking has focused on automatic decision procedures for solving its verification problem. The basic idea is to determine whether a model satisfies a property expressed as a temporal logic formula by searching the state space of the model thoroughly. Therefore, to guarantee the termination, the model is often restricted to a finite state system, and properties are expressed in a propositional temporal logic like CTL or LTL, for which finite-state model checking is known to be decidable. The main obstacle encountered by model checking is the so-called state explosion problem that the size of the state transition graph grows exponentially while the size of the system grows linearly. But it is important to understand that model checking problem is not limited to finite state systems or propositional logics, symbolic model checking [McMillan, 1992; McMillan, 2005] can be used to deal with the state explosion problem. ACM awarded the 1998 ACM Kanellakis Award for Theory and Practice to Randal E. Bryant, Edmund M. Clarke, Jr., E. Allen Emerson, and Kenneth L. McMillan for their invention of "symbolic model checking", a method of formally checking system designs widely used in the computer hardware industry. The technique has shown significant promise when used for software verification and in other areas. Symbolic model checking is one of the most important formal techniques used in the computer and semiconductor industries today, and the SMV program, originally developed by Kenneth McMillan as part of his Ph.D. program, is one of the most widely used verifi- cation tools. These industries face a complexity explosion of near-crisis proportions, with six-month design cycles in which products of unprecedented complexity have to be "right" the first time for companies to survive. Symbolic model checking offers design teams shorter time to market and increased product integrity, which explains the rapid adoption of this technology by all leading semiconductor companies. Model checking is a technique for verifying finite state concurrent systems such as se- quential circuit designs and communication protocols. It has a number of advantages over traditional approaches that are based on simulation, testing, and deductive reasoning. In particular, model checking is automatic and usually quite fast. Also, if the design contains an error, model checking will produce a counterexample that can be used to pinpoint the source of the error. The method has been used successfully in practice to verify real indus- trial designs, and many companies are beginning to market commercial model checkers. We want to include model checking technology in our approach to deal with some suitable domain-specific problems. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 22 3.6 Theorem proving Unlike model checking, theorem proving utilizes the proof inference technique in some proof system for solving the general validity of a problem. DeBruijn's Automath project was an early and influential investigation into techniques for mechanically proof-checking mathematics [de Bruijn, 1980]. Van Jutting [Jutting, 1977] formalized all of a foundational text on elementary analysis- Landau's "Grundlagen" - in Automath. Recently, more mathematics has been formalized in the MIZAR system [Try- bulec, 2005].MIZAR is based on classical first-order predicate logic, extended with second order schema, and Tarski-Grothendieck set theory. Roughly speaking, this set theory is like Zermelo-Fraenkel set theory, extended with uncountably many inaccessible cardinals. Till July 2005, over two thousands of definitions of mathematical concepts and thirty thousands of theorems are included in the Mizar database. All work done in Mizar is grouped into articles. Articles are published in a Journal of Formalized Mathematics which is largely au- tomatically type-set from information in the MIZAR database. The subjects of the articles have been mostly in the fields of analysis, topology and algebra (including some universal algebra and category theory). I think that the keys to MIZAR's success are as follows: • It started with a set theoretic framework which is known to be theoretically adequate for all of mathematics, including category theory. • A rich type theory was layered on top of the set theory. The type theory allows for the definition of subtypes and parameterized types, and has a structure facility for the definition of algebraic classes. The system copes automatically with set subtyping relationships between elements of classes that have different underlying signatures. • Much effort has been put into the organization of articles in the MIZAR database to ease and speed cross-referencing between articles. In terms of applying theorem provers to hardware and software verification, the NQTHM system of Boyer and Moore [Boyer and J S. Moore, 1979; Boyer and J S. Moore, 1997] is fruitful. Accomplishments include the checking the RSA public key encryption algorithm [Boyer and Moore, 1984] and the verification of microprocessor designs [Hunt et al., 1992]. NQTHM has also been used to formalize Godel incompleteness theorem [Shankar, 1986]. The generation of proofs in NQTHM is highly automated. The user commonly only guides proofs by perhaps giving a few high level hints and suggesting useful lemmas. NQTHM automatically guesses how to do inductions and how to prove the subgoals of inductions. NQTHM also has a linear arithmetic decision procedure tightly integrated in with the the prover program. But NQTHM's logic is weak: it is quantifier free and includes a theory of recursive functions over Lisp like S-expressions. Its strength is roughly that of Primitive Recursive Arithmetic (PRA). This logic is too weak for abstract algebra: there is no way to CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 23 define algebraic classes of objects and reason with them in ways common in algebra, though 'functional instantiation' extensions do allow some basic algebraic reasoning. The HOL system [Gordon and Melham, 1993a]is a tactic based interactive theorem prover with a classical logic similar to Church's simple theory of types [Church, 1940] but with the addition of a type polymorphism scheme similar to that found in the ML functional programming language. This theory is slightly weaker than ZF set theory. HOL has mostly been used in domains related to hardware and software verification, though its foundational theories are quite general purpose and some success has been had with more abstract math- ematics. Recently, many works about formalization of network protocols in HOL have been done [Steve Bishop and eta!., 2005]. We pay more attention to the theorem provers which are based on intuitionistic type theory and using "proposition as type" principle. They include Alf [Magnusson and Nord- strom, 1994], LEGO [Luo and Pollack, 1992] [Pollack, 2005], Coq [Project, 2004] and Plastic [Callaghan and Luo, 200Gb] etc. Alf is a proof editor based on Martin-Li:if's type theory and explicit substitution. Coq uses the Calculus of Constructions [Coquand and Huet, 1988]. Lego uses ECC [Luo, 1990a] and Plastic uses LF. They are LCF-style theorem provers [Gordon et a!., 1979]. Usually the problem itself is represented as a sequent. The sequent used in natural deduction is in the form of r f- F. We say a sequent holds when it satisfies its intended semantics. In general, theorem provers cannot prove theorem without guidance of users, i.e. they are interactive system and only experienced experts can use them effectively. From now on we'll focus on the applications of Plastic. 3. 7 Some basic concepts formalized in LF 3. 7.1 A brief introduction to Plastic Plastic is an implementation of LF with inductive types, universes and coercive subtyping. It is a proof assistant with a similar style as Lego and Coq. Plastic is implemented in functional language Haskell. It is best used with Aspinall's Proof General interface for xemacs. Currently Plastic uses a script-based model of interaction. 3.7.1.1 The syntax of Plastic The following Figure 3.2 shows the correspondence of LF syntax and Plastic syntax. Currently Plastic maintains a simple linear context. Its context may contain hypotheses (or assumptions), declarations of inductive types, and global definitions. Plastic provides a form of meta-variable to fill in information which is inferrable with simple unification techniques. New meta-variables may be added to the context at any time by claiming a name of a given type. Fresh meta-variables can appear in a term as either named (e.g. ?lemma1, where CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 24 LF syntax Plastic syntax Explanation (x:K)K' (x:K)K' dependent products K---+K' K -> K' non-dependent products [x:K]k [x :K] k .-\-abstractions f(a, b) f a b function application v FA universal quantification A LL a constructor, which builds proofs of quantifications over propositions. Ev E...FA the elimination operator of V Figure 3.2: The correspondence of LF syntax and Plastic syntax from [Callaghan and Luo, 2001] lemma1 is a name chosen by the user) or unnamed (e.g. symbol ?). If the meta-variables are not solved by constraints within the term, then they are added to the relevant context. 3.7.1.2 Syntactic Sugar in Plastic Binders in specified type theories (eg SOL) are not easy to use, so a few things are imple- mented in Plastic to make it more palatable. There are three forms: By Arrow regard an arrow as an infix operator between two terms, which produces a non- dependent binding. Converted to an application of a non-dependent binder to the two terms. Ega -> b By Symbol follow the general pattern left_bracket id : term right_bracket term. A selection of bracketing symbols is available. Eg { x :A} B By Identifier look like a functional operation binding except the opening square bracket is preceded by the name of the binder. Eg FA [x: A] B For example, tautology can be written as below. Braces denote "for all" binding, and => denotes propositional implication. tautology {p:Prop}p => p tautology FA [p:Prop] Imp p p tautology FA Prop([p:Prop] Imp p p) --expanded version. 3.7.1.3 Coercive subtyping implementation in Plastic The notion of Coercive Subtyping is first inducted into LF in [Luo, 1999]. Since then many studies on it are done in [Luo and Soloviev, 1999; Luo, 2004]. Coercive Subtyping is viewed as a mechanism of abbreviation of the meta-language (LF), not a part of a particular object CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 25 type theory. The mechanism of subtyping is expressed as a fundamental part of LF. So object type theories can make use of it by virtue of their definition in LF. A coercion is a function c:K -> K', which lifts an object of kind K to kind K'. The coercive definition rule is as follows: f:(x:K)K' ko:Ko Ko <c K f(ko) = f(c(ko)):[c(ko)/x]K' The rule says that, iff is a functional operation with domain K, ko is an object of K 0 , and cis a coercion from Ko to K, then f(ko) abbreviates f(c(ko)) and is equal to f(c(ko)) by definition. Z.Luo has extended the framework LF with subtyping relations represented by the fol- lowing kinds of coercions [Luo, 2004]: • Simple coercion: it represents subtyping between two types. For example Even is a subtype of Nat. • Parameterised coercions: it represents subtyping (or subfamily relation) between two families of types indexed by objects of the same type. For example each vector type Vec(A, n) can be taken as a subtype of that of lists List(A), parameterised by the index n, where the coercion would map a vector < a1, ... , an > to the list [a1, ... , an]. • Coercion between parameterised inductive types: General schematic rules are provided to represent natural propagation of the basic coercions to other structured (or param- eterised) inductive types. For example, I::( A, B) is a subtype of E(A', B') if A is a subtype of A' and B is a subfamily of B'. Plastic can be used to test ideas on coercive subtyping. Plastic implements parameterised and dependant coercions, non-dependent subkinding, and the lifting of coercions over induc- tive types [Callaghan and Luo, 2001]. The coercions are implemented by coercion insertion during type checking. It is justified by the coercion completion results [Soloviev and Luo, 2000]. The relevant parameters are calculated by using the meta-variable mechanism. 3.7.1.4 Modules A Plastic program consists of a collection of modules. Its form is as follows: > module Modulename where; > import importedmodule1; > import importedmodulen; %%declarations, definitions and proof scripts CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 26 Technically speaking, a module is a sequence of declarations, definitions and proof scripts which begins with the keyword module. Concrete examples can be seen in the following subsections. 3.7.1.5 Inductive type and family in Plastic The syntax for definition of simple inductive type is as follows: > Inductive [D:Type] > Constructors > [C1 :M1] > [Cn:Mn] Where D is the name of the new defined type and Mi (i=1, ... n) is a term in the form of (xi: N1) ... (xm: Nm) D or D. N1, ... Nm are existed types or D itself. We can see that the syntax is similar to Lego. For example, natural number type Nat is introduced like this: > Inductive [Nat:Type] > Constructors > [zero: Nat] > [succ: (n:Nat)Nat] The constants Nat, zero, and succ are declared in the current context, and the elimina- tion rule E_Nat is defined as per Luo's scheme. Inductive families are introduced similarly, with dependent product kinds instead of just Type: > Inductive > <parameters> > [Vec:(n:Nat)Type] > <flags> > Constructors > [vnil:Vec(zero)] > [vcons:(m:Nat)(x:A)(l:Vec(m))Vec(succ(m))] <flags> are options which affect what is generated for the inductive family. <parameters> are declarations which are in force for the inductive family, and (by default) discharged after it is created. 3. 7 .1.6 Inductive Relations Plastic supplies Lego-style inductive relations. To define an inductive relation the Relation flag in the declaration is needed. The only difference in handling from conventional inductive CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 27 types is that Prf must be included everywhere it is required and a Prop is yielded for the relation. For example: for natural numbers, the "less than or equal" relation: >Inductive [le:(x,y:El Nat)El Prop] Relation > Constructors > > [leO [leS (m:El Nat)Prf(le zero m)] (m,n:El Nat)(ih:Prf(le m n))Prf(le (succ m) (succ n))]; Because there is no syntactic sugar for handling Props, so Prf must be added explicitly. The resulting elimination operator is this (El is omitted in this output): Hyp E_le : (C_le:Nat -> Nat -> Prop) ((m:Nat)(Prf (C_le zero m))) -> ((m:Nat) (n: Nat) (Prf (le m n)) -> (Prf (C_le m n)) -> (Prf (C_le (succ m) (succ n)))) -> (x: Nat) (y: Nat) (Prf (le x y)) -> (Prf (C_le x y)) 3.7.1.7 Inductive Relations with Large Elimination As an extension to the above, relations may be given large elimination, that is: instead of producing Props, it may produce (larger) Types. It is triggered with the flag Relation_LE (replacing the plain Relation flag). This follows what Lego does, and allows equality to be defined as an inductive relation with more useful elimination behavior, as shown below. > Inductive [A:Type] > [Eq : (x,y:El A)El Prop] > Relation_LE > Constructors > [eqr:(a:El A)Prf(Eq a a)]; Hence the elimination operator is this: E_Eq : (A :Type) (C_Eq:El A -> El A -> Type) ((a:El A)El (C_Eq a a)) -> (x:El A)(y:El A)El (Prf (Eq Ax y)) -> El (C_Eq x y) CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 28 3.7.1.8 Development of proofs in Plastic In the style of Lego and Coq a goal-directed proof state controls which subgoals the user must prove next. Expert users like this style. Plastic used a more flexible model, where user can work on any unsolved meta-variable in the current linear context. Further, user need not completely solve a meta-variable before attempting another meta-variable. This flexibility is identified as being useful to applications like Mathematical Vernacular [Callaghan and Luo, 1998]. Meta-variables are the central notion: proof is the process of developing instantiations for them. A Claim for the kind which represents the goal is the first line for a proof. The proof commands may act on that claimed meta-variable, which could introduce further meta-variables (i.e. sub-goals). The following are some of the main commands: Refine t: this is a command similar to Lego's corresponding command. It computes a term t to instantiate a meta-variable (e.g. M) of known type. It is implemented in terms of the meta-variable preprocessor. Cut is applied to M using the computed term t, and any new meta-variables arising (i.e. sub-goals) are inserted in the context immediately before M. In other words, the evaluation of a refinement command of the form Refine t proceeds as follows: • First, the system tries to check whether the term t is well-typed in the current context. If it is not well-typed, the system should report error message, Otherwise do the next step. • Second, the system tries to unify the current goal with the type of the refinement term t. There are several possibilities: 1. the unification succeeds: that means the current goal is proved. 2. the unification fails: then, the system tries to specialize the refinement term t by applying it to a new meta-variable of the right type. There are two possibilities: if the specialization succeeds, then several new goals are gener- ated in order to prove the current goal. If the specialization fails, then the refinement step fails. Intros: when used on a meta-variable M:(x:K)K', the context appearing after and includ- ing M is replaced with a hypothesis x:K and a new meta-variable !vf':K'. This creates a branch in the context. Return: it marks closure of an Intros, i.e. all meta-variables introduced by (and since) the Intros have been solved. The action is to abstract the solution for M' by x:K and cut the result into the context existing prior to the corresponding Intros command. ReturnAll: It closed all opened lntros, namely, all meta-variables introduced by all Intros have been solved. It releases all hypotheses. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 29 We shall give some concrete proofs and examples of applications in following sections and chapters. 3. 7.2 Sets and relevant constants and operators Set theory and the theorem of fixed points are very useful to give a clear semantic interpreta- tion of formal systems. There are different representations of set. We use logical predicates to represent set in this thesis. Although there are many papers which pay more attention to setoids [Barthe et al., 2003], which are more suitable to support extensional concepts such as quotients and subsets, but we don't want to use setoids here and we think that a simple treatment to set is enough. At first, we define some special sets and operators in >.-notation as follows: Pred Full set Emptyset Meet Union Not Minus Subset Eqset Single >.A:Type.A -> Prop >.A:Type.>.x:A.tautology >.A:Type.>.x:A.absurd >.A:Type.>.B, C:Pred(A).>.x:A.(B(x) and C(x)) >.A:Type.>.B,C:Pred(A).>.x:A.(B(x) or C(x)) >.A:Type.>.B:Pred(A).>.x:A.(not B(x)) >.A:Type.>.B, C:Pred(A).Meet A B (Not A C) >.A:Type.>.B, C:Pred(A).'v'x:A(B(x)-> C(x)) >.A:Type.>.B, C:Pred(A).and (Subset A B C)(Subset A C B) >.A:Type.>.x:A.Eq x Then, we give some relevant predefined elements (Pi_, La_, ap_ ) which are defined in a system module called Function in Plastic. The following is an episode for the definitions: %---------------------------------------------------------------- > module Function where; Function spaces (non-dependent) > Inductive > [ A,B: Type ] > [Pi_ : Type ] > Constructors > [ La_ : (f: (x:El A) El B) Pi_]; Now, the means to use a Pi type. >Claim ap_ : (A,B:Type)(f:Pi_ A B) -> (_:A)B; CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES > Intros A B pi a; >Refine E_Pi_ ? ? ([_:Pi_ A B]B) ? pi; > Intros f; > Refine f a; > ReturnAll; %---------------------------------------------------------------- In addition, tautology and absurd are defined in Higher-Order logic as follows: P =;- Q =dt V x: Prf(P).Q tautology =dt V P :Prop. P =} P absurd =dt V P :Prop. P 30 In Plastic they are defined in a system module (called SoLBasics) for Second-Order logic, the following is an episode for the definitions : %---------------------------------------------------------------- > module Sol_Basics Yhere; Definitions of Common Logical Constants > import Sol; %---------------------------------------------------------------- Tautology. > [tautology= {P:Prop}P=>P :Prop]; > Claim prf_tautology : Prf tautology; > Refine LL; > Intros P· . > Refine LL; > Intros p; > Refine p; > ReturnAll; %---------------------------------------------------------------- Absurd. > [absurd = {A:Prop}A : Prop ] ; > > [not [A:Prop]A =>absurd Prop-> Prop]; CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES >Claim E_absurd Prf (absurd=> {N:Prop}N); > Refine LL; > Intros x; > Refine x; > ReturnAll; %---------------------------------------------------------------- Finally, We can define set and related constants and operators in Plastic as follows: %---------------------------------------------------------------- > [Pred = [A:Type](Pi_ A Prop)]; > [Fullset = [A:Type](La_ A Prop [x:A]tautology)]; > [Emptyset = [A:Type](La_ A Prop [x:A]absurd)]; > [Meet= [A:Type] [B:(Pred A)] [C:(Pred A)](La_ A Prop > [x:A](and (ap_ A Prop B x) (ap_ A Prop C x)))]; > [Union= [A:Type] [B:(Pred A)] [C:(Pred A)](La_ A Prop > [x:A] (or (ap_ A Prop B x) (ap_ A Prop C x)))]; > [Pnot = [A:Type] [B:(Pred A)](La_ A Prop > [x:A](not (ap_ A Prop B x)))]; > [Minus= [A:Type] [B:(Pred A)] [C:(Pred A)] > > [Subset > > [Eqset > > [Single Meet A B (Pnot A C)]; [A:Type] [B:(Pred A)] [C:(Pred A)](FA A [x:A]((ap_ A Prop B x) => (ap_ A Prop C x)))]; [A:Type] [B:(Pred A)] [C:(Pred A)]( and (Subset ABC) (Subset A C B))]; [A :Type] [x: A]( La_ A Prop ([y: A](Eq Ax y)))]; %---------------------------------------------------------------- 31 From the above definitions we can see that the definitions are longer than the corre- sponding definitions in Lego. The reason is that Plastic has no !ego-like implicit syntax and thus requires most things to be made explicit. CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 32 3.7.3 Fix points and their properties The theory of fixed points is very useful for giving denotational semantics of programming languages. It can also be used in program analysis and verification of program properties, etc. In this subsection, based on the above definitions, we give some formalization of the theory and theorems which are formally proved in Plastic. In the following definitions we assume that ¢> is a monotonic function from power set of E to power set of E. Definition 1 (Prefixed point.) A subset S ~ E is a prefixed point of¢> if ¢>(S) ~ S Definition 2 (Postfixed point.) A subsetS~ E is a postfixed point of¢> if S ~ ¢>(S) Definition 3 {Fixed point:) A subset S ~ E is a fixed point of¢> if S is both a prefixed point and a postfixed point of¢>. Definition 4 (Greatest Fixed point:) A subset S ~ E is a greatest fixed point of¢> if S is a fixed point and for any fixed point T of¢>, T ~ S. Definition 5 (Least Fixed point:) A subset S ~ E is a least fixed point of¢> if S is a fixed point and for any fixed point T of¢>, S ~ T. The following are main formal definitions related to the above definitions: > [Mono = [A:Type] [F: Pi_ (Pred A) (Pred A)] [C,D: (Pred A)] > (( Subset A C D) => (Subset A (ap_ (Pred A) (Pred A) F C) > (ap_ (Pred A) (Pred A) F D)))]; > [F_Mono:(A:Type)(F: Pi (Pred A) (Pred A)) > (C,D: (Pred A))( Prf(Mono A F CD))]; > [prefixp = [A:Type] [F:(Pi_ (Pred A)) (Pred A))] [P: Pred A] > ( Subset A (ap_ (Pred A)) (Pred A) F P) P)]; > [postfixp = [A:Type] [F:(Pi_ (Pred A) (Pred A))] [P: Pred A] > ( Subset A P (ap_ (Pred A) (Pred A) F P))]; > [lfixp [A:Type] [F:(Pi_ (Pred A) (Pred A))] (La_ A Prop [x:A] > ({P: (Pred A)}((prefixp A F P) => (ap_ A Prop P x))))]; > [gfixp [A:Type] [F:(Pi_ (Pred A) (Pred A))](La_ A Prop [x:A](Ex (Pred A) > ( [P: (Pred A)] (and (postfixp A F P) (ap_ A Prop P x))))) ] ; CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 33 We have proved the relevant properties of set and fixed points using Plastic. These form our bases for defining J.L- calculus. The following are main theorems related to fixed points we have proved, but we just show a proof of one theorem: • Theorem 3. 7.1 (Tarski(Tarski, 1955/)Let E be a set, P(E) be the power set of E and il>:P(E) -+ P(E) be a monotonic function (i.e. VS, S' E P(E)(S ~ S' ---> il>(S) ~ il>(S'))), Then i1> has a least fixed point J.LS.il>(S) and a greatest fixed point vS.il>(S) given by J.LS.il>(S) = n{S' ~ Elil>(S') ~ S'} vS.il>(S) = u{S' ~ EIS' ~ il>(S')} J.LS.il>(S) is the least prefixed point since it is the meet of all the prefixed points. vS.il>(S) is the greatest postfixed point since it is the union of all the postfixed points. • Theorem 3.7.2 For every prefixed point P, least fixed point is a subset of P,i.e.: VP.prefp(F, P)-+ lfp(F) ~ P • Theorem 3. 7.3 Least fixed point is a prefixed point, i.e.: prefp(F, lfp(F)) Proof The following is our proof of this theorem in Plastic: %---------------------------------------------------------------- Least fixpoint is a prefixed point >Claim lfixp_isprefixp: (Fi:(Pi_(Pred(A)) (Pred(A)))) > (Prf(prefixp Fi (lfixp Fi))); > Intros Fi; > Refine LL; > Intros x; > Refine LL; > Intros H· ' > Refine LL; > Intros xi; > Refine LL; > Intros Hi; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? Hi); >Refine App?? ( App?? (App?? (F_Mono A Fi (lfixp Fi) xi)) x); > 2 Refine App ? ? lfixp_lessp; > 2 Refine Hi; > Refine H; > ReturnAll; CHAPTER 3. PRELIMINARIES 34 > lfixp_isprefixp; %---------------------------------------------------------------- Q.E.D. The reason why we give this example here is to show the reasoning style of Plastic in this area, other theorems can be proved similarly. • Theorem 3.7.4 Least fixed point is a postfixed point, i.e.: postfp(F, lfp(F)) • Theorem 3. 7.5 Every post fixed point P is a subset of greatest fixed point, i.e.: VP.postfp(F, P)--> P <;;; gfp(F) • Theorem 3.7.6 Greatest fixed point is a prefixed point, i.e.: prefp(F, gfp(F)) • Theorem 3.7.7 Greatest fixed point is a postfixed point, i.e.: postfp(F, gfp(F)) • Theorem 3.7.8 (Reduction lemma (Kazen, 1983; Winskel, 1989]} VP.P <;;; gfp(F) <--> P <;;; F(gfp(>.Q.(P u F(Q)))) • Theorem 3.7.9 (Least fix point fold and unfold) VP.P <;;; lfp(F) <--> P <;;; F(lfp(F) uP) • Theorem 3.7.10 (Greatest fix point base) VP.P <;;; P'--> P <;;; gfp(>.Q.(P' u F(Q))) • Theorem 3.7.11 (Greatest fix point fold and unfold) VP.P <;;; gfp(F) <--> P <;;; F(gfp(F) uP) 3.8 Summary We present preliminaries of the thesis in this chapter. Based on these basic concepts we can expand our study on the goals of the thesis. Higher order logic and inductive data type are two important features in LF (compared with some non-theorem prover approach) which help us to formalise the required concepts very easily. From the above we can see that the power of expressive higher order logic simplifies the encoding of several concepts such as set, predicate and fixed points. We can also see that the inductive data type is very useful to formalise data types. Their concrete application will be discussed in following chapters of the thesis. Chapter 4 The outline of the approach Something attempted, something done. -HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, AMERICAN POET This chapter presents the outline of our approach. We emphasize the difference of our approach and other approaches from architectures, the underlying theories and methodolo- gies. 4.1 Our approach For the computer assisted domain-specific reasoning, there are two main approaches, dis- tinguished by their use (or not) of a theorem prover. We know that theorem prover based approaches lack strong support for domain-specific syntax and proof style; systems of the non theorem prover based approaches lack the certainty of proof and genericity. Our ap- proach aims to reduce the weakness of the above approaches and help the domain users who are not type theoretic experts to do proof in a familiar syntax, and with the support of an exactly customized type theory. It aims at a balance between user convenience and certainty of proof. There are new advantages too, since type theory provides clear methods, useful tools and good ideas about how to do computer assisted formal proof. In particular, induction is an important and powerful technique in type theory. We expect that providing reasoning tools which offer good support for induction, via the underlying type theory basis, will lead to a better appreciation of proofs and to wider use of such tools in many domains. The key feature of our approach is its use of LF and its associated reasoning techniques to formalize a problem domain and to present a domain-oriented interface suitable for use by people who aren't experts in type theory. We just need to do some work for formalizations, translations and communications to implement a reasoning system for each domain. That 35 CHAPTER 4. THE OUTLINE OF THE APPROACH Formalized In Plaslk: Plastic syntax or Proor term Plastic Fonnallzed In Plastic SERVER Figure 4.1: The architecture implied by the approach 36 saves much work. i.e. the formalization and translation work are the main work in this approach other than the concrete reasoning system. 4.1.1 An architecture of the approach An architecture implied by the approach is shown in figure 4.1. It is a client-server structure, where the implementation of LF is a 'server' which handles the important reasoning steps. Clients use this reasoning functionality, and present a simplified version of it to users. There are three layers: • The upper layer is a domain oriented interface which is operated by the domain user. For a specific domain, it gives access to the domain language, specification logic, semantic model and the reasoning system by using notations which are familiar to the domain users. These notations are customized in our new interface (Called LFTOP), so domain users need not use the underlying LF notations directly. • In the bottom layer, every component in the upper layer is represented by its corre- sponding formalization in LF. Because we use Plastic [Callaghan and Luo, 2000b] as the implementation of LF. So the format of the formalization follows Plastic (See Chapter 7 for more details). • The middle layer provides a bridge between the upper layer and the bottom layer. It includes tools such as parsers and translators. These tools implement the automatic transformation from domain-specific syntax and proof terms to Plastic syntax and proof terms. Following Aspinall [Aspinall, 2000], we have designed an XML-based protocol ULPIP for communications between the various layers. This encodes the dialogues that can occur between the various layers. This may be extended with domain-specific features. CHAPTER 4. THE OUTLINE OF THE APPROACH 37 4.1.2 A methodology Using this approach for each specific domain we should do all or some of the following steps: • Formalize the domain-specific specification language, logic and semantic model in LF. • Compare the original syntax and the formalized syntax. Implement parsers and trans- lators to do the translation automatically. • Design the reasoning system and commands which can be used by domain users in the interface. • Find the corresponding command, group of commands or prove new lemmas in Plastic to simulate the effect of each user command in the interface. • Implement the translations of user level commands to Plastic commands. • Design and implement a concise protocol for communications between user level inter- face and the underlying Plastic system. • Design and implement GUI related issues. We shall follow the above steps in our case studies of Chapter 5 and 6. We can see them as the applications of this methodology. 4.2 The techniques we use in this approach Many technologies should be used in this approach. We list them as follows: • Functional programming technology: We use functional programming language Haskell to implement our system. We get a lot of benefit from the features of high order, list comprehension and lazy evaluation [Pang and Zhao, 2005; Pang et al., 2005b; Pang et al., 2006b] in it. As Plastic is implemented in Haskell, so the combination of our implementation and Plastic implementation is convenient. • Parser technology: We use Happy [Gill and Marlow, 2005] as a generator of the Parser. We just need to present the BNF format of the domain specific language, Happy can generate the corresponding Haskell modules as the Parser. • Translation technology: Using Grammar-directed translation technology the work of translation and parsing is done at the same time. The translations are clear for un- derstanding. • Model checking technology: We intend to use model checking technology to solve some subproblems which have finite states. But this was not attempted in this thesis. CHAPTER 4. THE OUTLINE OF THE APPROACH 38 • Communication technology: How to deal with the problem of communications between the layers? We can design some protocols for communication. We can also use the framework of Proof General [Aspinall, 2005a]. • LF based computer assisted reasoning technology: We use LF based computer assisted reasoning technology in the bottom layer. A lot of benefits are gotten in a way which domain users need not have the knowledge of LF in detail. We use the above technologies in our approach. The details will be given in the following chapters. 4.3 The common things for different domains in this approach There are many common things even for different domains in this approach. The following are the main common things. • The communication protocols: Different domain can use same communication proto- cols. We design communication protocols called ULPIP for this purpose. We describe these protocols in HaXML. Meanwhile the framework of Proof General can be used directly. • The underlying type system: In our approach we use Plastic (the implementation of LF) as the underlying type system for all domains. • The similar translation modules: We use Grammar-directed translation technology, the translation modules are similar both in skeleton and strategy. The reuse of the above items provides a good way for us to implement the relevant things. 4.4 The role of type theory and its framework Type theory and the relevant logical framework (LF) are the basis of this approach. The formal reasoning is carried out in a system (here we mean Plastic) which is an implementation of the logical framework. The benefits from type theory and the logical framework can be obtained naturally. Research results from type theory (such as proof assistants) can be used without any difficulty. Especially, the correctness guaranteed by type theory increases the credibility of the work done in the approach. In fact, we can view the approach as programming the formal system in a better programming language (ie, writing the key parts in type theory rather than inC/Java/Haskell). CHAPTER 4. THE OUTLINE OF THE APPROACH 39 4.5 Discussion In this chapter we give an outline of our approach. The approach tries to inherit all the advantages over non-type-theory based approach from type theory based approach in a way where the users need not have a lot of knowledge of type theory. In our design we use three layers of the interface to attain this effect. For example, it can inherit the proof terms which is one of the major differences between type theory based theorem provers with other non- type-theory based theorem provers and automatic verifiers. Proof terms are A.-terms of which the correctness can be checked by type checking algorithms implemented in a type theory based proof assistant. Therefore proof terms give us more confidence on the proof. The proof checking of Plastic helps to ensure the correctness of the reasoning in our approach in a way that is not noticed by domain users. All these features are benefit from the structure of the approach. However the structure of this approach is more complicated than most other approaches. But this should be balanced against the positive features, and we believe the balance is in our favor. For this kind of system, the overheads in a multi-layer approach are relatively small, so 'efficiency' is not a big problem here. Chapter 5 Case study: concurrency If you want to understand today, you have to search yesterday. -PEARL BUCK, AMERICAN FEMALE WRITER This chapter presents a specific domain -concurrency- as a domain for the case study. Building on Yu's work in Lego [Yu, 1999; Yu and Luo, 1997], we choose concurrency as the domain of interest for this case study. This domain is relatively complex, requiring the interaction of three formal systems, hence a demanding case study. Some issues of this work has been published in [Pang et a!., 2005a]. Firstly, this chapter introduces the basic relevant concepts of concurrency and then we give a deep study of it. 5.1 Domain analysis Concurrent systems are quite different from ordinary sequential systems. Instead of focus- ing on input-output behavior and termination of the sequential systems, they focus on the interactions and communications between components. Usually the interactions and com- munications are described by competing for access to shared resources which is corresponding to shared variable model or exchanging messages which is corresponding to message pass- ing model. Process algebra represents a mathematically rigorous framework for modelling concurrent systems of interacting processes. 5.1.1 Process algebra The term process algebra includes a collection of theories that support mathematically rig- orous (in)equational reasoning about systems consisting of concurrent, interacting processes. The field grew out of a seminal book due to Milner [Milner, 1980] and has been an active area of research since then. In particular, researchers have developed a number of different 40 CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 41 process algebraic theories in order to capture different aspects of system behavior; however, each such formalism generally includes the following characteristics: 1. A language, or algebra, is defined for describing systems. 2. A behavioral equivalence is introduced that is intended to relate systems whose be- havior is indistinguishable to an external observer. 3. Equational rules, or axioms, are developed that permit proofs of equivalences between systems to be conducted in a syntax driven manner. Some formalisms include a refinement ordering, in this case, the theories allow one to determine if a system is "greater than or equal to" (i.e. refines) another. The relevant literature typically refers to each theory as a process algebra; so the field of process alge- bra contains many process algebras. Process algebras derive their motivation from the fact that a system design often consists of several different descriptions of the system involving different levels of detail. The behavioral equivalence or refinement relation provided by a process algebra may be used to determine whether these different descriptions conform to one another. More specifically, higher-level descriptions of system behavior may be related to lower-level ones using the equivalence or refinement ordering supplied by the algebra. Related systems may be used interchangeably inside larger system descriptions; this facili- tates compositional system verification, since low-level designs of system components may be checked in isolation against their high-level designs. This section surveys some of the main features of process algebra. The next subsection introduces CCS, the process algebra that we use throughout the chapter to illustrate the principles we cover in the case study. Calculus for Communicating Systems (CCS) is a good example of the message passing model. The application of the approach LFTOP in this domain involves three formal systems and their associated technology. These are: • Specification language: The state system under consideration is described in a spec- ification language which usually is a kind of process algebra, such as Calculus for Communicating Systems (CCS), or Communicating Sequential Processes (CSP). We choose CCS as our specification language and focus on Pure CCS [Milner, 1989] in this chapter. • Semantics: The specification is transformed into a representation which is a semantic model, e.g. LTS (Labelled Transition System),or Timed Automata. We use LTS as the semantic model to give the relevant operational semantics. • Logic: Properties to be checked are given as formulas of a specification logic, such as J.L-calculus, Propositional Linear Temporal Logic (PLTL), or Computation Tree Logic (CTL). We choose J.L-calculus as the logic here: it is sufficiently powerful for our purposes, and other temporal logics can be defined as abbreviations of J.L-calculus. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 42 5.1.2 CCS: Calculus for Communicating System The Calculus for Communicating System is an algebraic theory intended to describe commu- nications between, and computations of, abstract processes. It is an algebra for specifying and reasoning about concurrent systems. As an algebra, CCS provides a set of terms, op- erators and axioms that can be used to write and manipulate algebraic expressions. The expressions define the elements of a concurrent system and the manipulations of these ex- pressions reveal how the system behaves. The operators in the set may be used to construct system descriptions from definitions of subsystems. The basic building blocks of these descriptions and system definitions in all existing process algebras are actions. Intuitively, actions represent atomic, uninterrupted execution steps, with some actions denoting internal execution and others representing po- tential interactions with its environment that the system may engage in. In CCS, both communication and computation are abstractly represented by actions. In other words, ac- tions represent either inputs/outputs on ports or internal computation steps. The former are sometimes called external, as they require interaction from the environment. To formalize these intuitions, let A = L U { T} be a set of actions, T be a distinguished action called 'silent' action which models internal or invisible or idling actions. L is a set of labels having two disjoint subset: L + is a set of names, and L- is a set of co-names. We let a, b, c range over names, a, b, c range over co-names, and a, f3 range over A. If l E L, then its complement action l E L, and we have l = l. Then an action in CCS has one of the following three forms. • a, where a E L +, represents the act of receiving a signal on port a. • a, where a E L +, in other words, a E L- , represents the act of emitting a signal on port a. • T is a distinguished action called 'silent' action which models internal or invisible or idling actions. The syntax of the pure CCS version can be expressed as follows: E:: =Nil I X I a.E I E1 + E2 I E1IE2 I E\L I E[f]lrec X.E where • Nil (called empty process) represents stopped or deadlocked computation, so it cannot perform any actions. • X is a process variable. • a.E (called prefix) can perform action a and then behave as E. • E1 + E2 (called summation) represents choice- the process can evolve either as E 1 or as E2. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 43 • E1IE2 (called parallel composition) represents the parallel independent performing of Et and E2 or communicating through complement actions of them. • E\L (called restriction) represents a process which behaves like E but cannot perform actions in L or their complement actions. • E[f] (called relabelling) behaves like E, but the actions are renamed by a bijection f:L ---> L, where f has the property that f(Z) = f(l); we can extend the domain off to A and let f(r) = T. o rec X.E (called recursion) represents a recursive process which behaves like the process E applied to rec X.E. Value-passing CCS is a process calculus in which actions consist of sending and receiv- ing values through communication ports, and the transmitted data can be tested using a conditional construct. The syntax form of the value-passing version is as follows: E:: =Nil I X I p(x).E I p'(e).E I T.E I Et +E2 I E1IE2I E\L I E[f]l if b then E I Rec X.E We just need to describe the different expressions from pure CCS as follows: • p(x).E (called input prefix) behaves as a process which can receive a value, say v, over channel p, and bind the result to a variable x, binding results in substitution [v jx] of the formal parameter x by the actual parameter v; • p'(e) (called output prefix) behaves as a process which send value e over channel p; • if b then E behaves as E when b is true, otherwise no action is done. 5.1.3 LTS: Labelled Transition System Labelled Transition System (LTS) is very useful in representing operational semantics of formal systems such as CCS. Its definition is as follows. Definition 6 A labelled transition system T is a triple (S, L,--->), where Sis a set of states, L is a set of transition labels and ---><:;; S x L x S is a transition relation. Normally we writes~ s' for (s,a,s') E--->, and~ for the relation {(s,s')ls ~ s'}. When LTS is used to describe the operational semantics of concurrent systems the labels are interpreted as actions which can take place in the system. The system is considered as being in one particular state at any given time, changing states by performing actions in accordance with the transition relation. In an LTS, if we set a state as a start state, then the LTS is called rooted LTS. It is a quadruple (S, L, --->,p), where p is the start state (also be called root), the others are the same as in the above triple. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 44 5.1.4 J.L-calculus 5.1.4.1 Previous logics For previous logics J. Bradfield and C. Stirling gave a good introduction in [Bradfield and Stirling, 2003]. Many explanations in the following paragraphs are extracted from theirs for self-containment of this thesis. Hennessy-Milner Logic(HML) [Hennessy and Milner, 1980] is a primitive modal logic of actions. In addition to the boolean operators the syntax of HML has a modality < a > ¢, where a is a process action. A structure for the logic is a labelled transition system. The constants tt and f f are two atomic formulas of the logic. The meaning of < a > ¢ is "it is possible to do an a-action to a state where¢ holds". By inductively defining when a state (a process) of a transition system has a property, the formal semantics are given; for example, E I= < a > <P iff 3F.E .!!:. F 1\ F I= ¢. Some notions of variable or atomic proposition to the logic are added, in this case we provide a valuation which maps a variable to the set of states at which it holds. The expressive power of HML in this form is quite limited: a given HML formula can only make statements about a given finite number of steps into the future. In fact, we can say that HML was introduced not so much as a language to express properties, but rather as an aid to understanding process equivalence: two (image-finite) processes are equivalent iff they satisfy the same HML formulae exactly. In order to obtain the expressivity desired in practice, stronger logics are needed. The logic Propositional Dynamic Logic (PDL) [Fischer and Ladner, 1979] [Pratt, 1976] is both a development of modal logics and a development of Floyd- Hoare style logics. PDL enriches the labels in the modalities of HML. Although it is not widely used these days, but it is worth presenting it briefly for historical reasons. PDL is an extension of HML in the circumstance that the action set has some structure. Computation Tree Logic (CTL) [Clarke and Emerson, 1981] is an alternative exten- sion of HML, with some extra "temporal" operators which permit expression of liveness and safety properties, i.e. it includes further modalities. For the semantics, we need to consider "runs" of a process. A run of Eo is a sequence Eo ~ E 1 ~ E2 ~ ... which may have finite or infinite length; if it has finite length then its final process is a "sink" process which has no transitions. A run Eo ~ E 1 ~ E2 ~ ... has the property <jJU'IjJ, "¢ until 1/J", if there is an i ~ 0 such that E; I= 1/J and for all j:O :S j < i, Ei I= ¢. Eo ~ E1 ~ E;-I a~, E; ~ I= I= I= I= <P <P <P 1/J The formula F¢ = (ttU¢) means "¢eventually holds" and G¢ = •(ttU-.¢) means "¢ always holds". For each "temporal" operator such as U there are two modal variants, a strong variant ranging over all runs of a process and a weak variant ranging over some run of a process. We present a strong version with 1:/ and a weak version with 3. If HML is extended with the two kinds of until operator, the resulting logic is a slight but inessential CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 45 variant of CTL. By inductively defining when a state (process) has a property the formal semantics are given. For instance E t= V[¢U"Ij)] iff every run of E has the property ¢U"lj). Some variants and enrichments of CTL appear to allow free mixing of path operators and quantifiers. CTL* [Emerson and Lei, 1986] and ECTL* [Vardi and Wolper, 1983] are two representatives. The CTL* formula V[P U 3FQ] is also a CTL formula, but V[P U FQ] is not, because the F is not immediately governed by a quantifier. Hence traditional temporal logics as advocated by Manna and Pnueli [Manna and Pnueli, 1981] and others are also covered by the extensions. In these logics, time is a linear sequence of instants, corresponding to the states of just one execution path through the program. One can define a logic on paths which has operators 0¢ "in the next instant (on this path) ¢is true", and ¢U"lj) "¢ holds until "lj) holds (on this path)"; and then a system satisfies a formula if all execution paths satisfy the formula. We are interested in the following aspects: 1. The small model property: Many modal logics have a very good property - the small model property; that is if a formula is satisfiable, then it is satisfiable by a small model of some bounded size. Provided that model-checking is decidable, which is the case for almost all temporal logics, this gives decidability of satisfiability for the logic immediately, as one need simply check every transition system up to the size bound. The technique used to establish the small model property for PDL (and hence HML) is a classical technique in modal logic, that of filtration. Let E be a possibly infinite-state process with the property ¢, and let T be its transition system. Let r be the set of all subformulas of¢ and their negations: in the case of PDL one also counts < n > "lj) and < f3 > "lj) as subformulas of < n U f3 > "lj), < f3 > "lj) as a subformula of < n; f3 > "lj); and < n > "lj) as subformula of< n* > "lj). The size of r is proportional to I<PI (the length of ¢). One then filters T through r by defining an equivalence relation on the states ofT, E = F iff \f"lj) E r.E F "lj) {=} F F "lj). We define the filtered model to have states T I = and with atomic action relations given by [E] ~ [F] iff 3E' E [E], F' E [F].E' ~ F'. The number of equivalence classes is at most 2lrl and so is 0(21<1>1). It shows that the filtered model is indeed a model, in that [E] f= "lj) iff E f= "lj) for "lj) E r. Consequently if ¢is a satisfiable PDL formula, then it has a model with size 0(21<1>1), and in fact 21<1>1 suffices- see [Fischer and Ladner, 1979] for more details. Although CTL, CTL* and modal ~-t-calculus all have the finite model property, the filtration technique does not apply. If one filters T through a finite set r containing \fFQ unintended loops may be added. For example if Tis E; ~ Ei+ 1 for 1 :=::; i < n and Q is only true at state En then E; f= \fFQ for each i. But when n is large enough the filtered model will have at least one transition Ej ~ E; when i :=::; j < n , with the consequence that E; ¥ \f FQ . The initial approach to showing the finite model property utilises semantic tableaux where one explicitly builds a model for a satisfiable formula with small size. But this technique is very particular, and subsequent more CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 46 sophisticated methods based on automata are used for optimal results. 2. CTL model-checking: Apart from the common things, CTL has some obvious differ- ences from PDL. At first, although it is a state-based logic, but it uses path operators internally- evaluating the formula V[¢>U7/I] at a state involves considering all paths from that state. Thus, at first glance, one might expect to lose the obvious exponential upper bound on model-checking. However, this turns out not to happen, and in fact CTL is not difficult to model-check. This was shown in [Clarke et al., 1986] by a direct construction; it also follows from the fact that CTL is a simple fragment of the modal p.-calculus. The model-checking procedure of [Clarke et al., 1986] is an example of a global technique. This procedure proceeds by model-checking subformulas from the bottom up, doing a full pass over the state space for subformulas before considering the superformula. Here is an English outline of the algorithm in the original paper: • to check tt, -.¢>, ¢> 1 /\¢>2, check the subformulas and perform the boolean operation; • to check < a > ¢>, [a]¢, check the subformula ¢>, and then apply the semantic definitions; • to check 3[¢>U 1/JJ, check the subformulas, then find the states at which 1/1 holds, and trace backwards along paths on which ¢> holds; • to check V[¢>U7/IJ, check the subformulas, then make a depth-first traversal of the system, doing the following: if a state satisfies 1/J, mark it as satisfying V[¢>U 1/JJ; otherwise, if it fails ¢>, mark it as failing V[¢>U1/J]; otherwise, after processing the successors, mark it as satisfying V[¢>U1/J] iff all its successors do. In fact, CTL can be translated into modal p.-calculus. The relevant algorithms include global, backward-looking model-checking algorithms, and local forward-looking algorithms. From today's perspective, it is interesting to see that this previous CTL algorithm has elements of both: the code for 3[¢>U1/J] is doing exactly the computation by approximation of the p.-calculus translation; but the code for V[¢>U7/I] is doing tableau model-checking. 5.1.4.2 A brief introduction to p.-calculus The use of fixedpoint operators is an important defining feature of p.-calculus. Using them in program logics goes back at least to D. Park [Park, 1969]. However, using them in modal logics of programs dates from work of Pratt, Emerson, Clarke and Kozen. Pratt's version [Pratt, 1982] used a fixedpoint operator like the minimization operator of recursion theory, and this has not been studied further. Fixedpoint operators were added by Emerson and Clarke to a temporal logic to capture fairness and other correctness properties [Emerson and Clarke, 1980]. Kozen [Kozen, 1983] introduced the modal p.-calculus which we still use today, and established a lot of basic results. The expressive power of modal p.-calculus is intimately connected to finite-state automata on infinite trees [Vardi and Wolper, 1986]. Classically, CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 47 a J.t-formula denotes a predicate on states. Typical properties to be expressed and analyzed are safety and liveness assertions. The formula vx. < a > x, for example, denotes the set of all states allowing for an infinite sequence of a-actions. Especially, the modal operator < a > (for action a) constructs a property of the actual state from a property of a next state. Thus, it relates present to a (possibly infinite) future. For detailed explanation of various modal (and temporal) logics consult, e.g., Colin Stirling in [Stirling, 1992]. 5.1.4.3 A positive version of J.t-calculus with tagging fixed points Considering that we are based on an intuitionistic type theory, we choose a positive version of J.t-calculus with tagging fixed points [Winskel, 1989]. It is enough to express all the temporal properties we need. Because formulas with negation operators can be transformed to some normal forms with negation operators occurring only before atomic formulas [Walukiewicz, 1995]. The data irrelevant version of the tagged J.t-calculus is as follows: cl>:: = Z I cl>Vcl> I cl>Acl> I <K> ci> I [K]ci> I J.lZ.Uci> I vZ.Uci> where U is a tag which is a subset of states, K ranges over subset of labels and Z ranges over a set of assertion variables. The tag-free fixed points J.lZ.ci> and vZ.ci> are special cases with empty tag. The formula true is defined as tt =def vZ.Z, and the formula false is defined as ff =def J.lZ.Z. 5.1.4.4 Semantics of J.t-calculus : We use labelled transition system ( S, L, { _!_. :l E L}) to give the operational semantics of J.t-calculus. Here S is a set of states, L is a set of transition labels, and for each l E L a transition relation_!_. is a subset of S x S, i.e. _!_.~ S x S. The semantics of formula¢> is repre- sented by [¢>~p (where [¢>~p ~ S) and it is given by induction on the structure of¢> as follows. [Z~P [ci> v \[J~p [ci> 1\ \[J~p [< K > ci>~P [[K]ci>~P [J.tZ.Uci>~P [vZ.Uci>~p p(Z) [ci>~p u [w~p [ci>~P n [w~P {s E Sl3o: E K.3s' E S.s ~ s' and s' E [cl>~p} {s E SIVa: E K.Vs' E S.s ~ s' implies s' E [cl>~p} {s E SIVP ~ S.[ci>[PjZ]~pjU ~ P implies s E P} {s E SI3P ~ S.P ~ [ci>[P/Z]~p U U and s E P} where the environment p assigning a subset of S to each assertion variable Z. Properties of concurrent system are usually represented by assertions which are formulas of J.t-calculus. The judgement that a state s satisfies a property ci> is now defined by : s f- ci> iff s E [ci>~P for all p. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 48 5.2 Congruences and Reasoning in CCS 5.2.1 Congruences for CCS A congruence for an algebra is an equivalence relation with the following extra substitution property: equivalent systems can be used interchangeably inside any larger system. We can explain this property formally. Define a context C[] to be a system description with a "hole", [ ]; given a system description PI, then, C[p1] represents the system obtained by "filling" the hole with Pl· Then an equivalence ~ is a congruence for a language, if whenever p 1 ~ P2, then C[p1] ~ C[p2] for any context C[] built using operators in the language. From the above description we can see that relations that are congruences for some languages maybe not for others. Congruence is an important concept in analysis of the relevant systems. In process algebras a notion of behavioral congruence [Cleaveland and Smolka, 1999] often be used as a basis for system analysis. In this subsection we define a relation that relates systems with respect to their "observable" behavior and study congruences for CCS. We first define an equivalence relation on states in an arbitrary LTS in each case; since CCS may be viewed as an LTS, these relations may then be used to link CCS system descriptions. The suitability of the equivalence from the standpoint of the observable behavior is considered. Furthermore whether or not the relation is a congruence for CCS is studied. 5.2.1.1 '!race Equivalence Language equivalence is a well-studied equivalence in state machine theory, where two ma- chines are equivalent if they accept the same sequences of symbols. Individual CCS system descriptions may be converted into rooted LTS's. But rooted LTS does not contain accepting states, and consequently we cannot use the notion of language equivalence from finite-state machine theory directly. However, if every state in a rooted LTS is accepting state, then the language of the machine contains the execution sequences, or traces, that a machine may engage in. So, to relate two descriptions of a system exactly when the machines for them have the same traces might be a reasonable attempt at defining a behavioral equivalence for CCS. Definition 7 Let (P, A,->) be a LTS. 1. Let s = ao ... an-1 E A* be a sequence of actions. Then p .!... p' if there are states Po, ... ,pn such that p = po,p; ~ Pi+l for 0 ~ i < n, and p' = Pn . 2. s is a strong trace of p if there exists p' such that p .!... p1 • We use S(p) to represent the set of all strong traces of p. 3. p ~s q exactly when S(p) = S(q). CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 49 The reason to use the term strong traces is that the definition given above does not distinguish between internal and external actions (i.e. all may appear in a strong trace). In contrast, T action is treated in a special manner in the traditional definition of traces. Since CCS is an LTS whose states are system descriptions, so the definition of ;:.:-;s might be used to CCS systems. Unfortunately, since CCS permits the definition of nondeterministic systems, ;::.:-; 8 suffers from severe deficiencies which is illustrates as in the following examples. 1. Let PI =df a.pi and P2 =df a.p2 + a.Nil. Then PI ;:.:-;s P2, however P2 can reach a "deadlocked" state (i.e. Nil) after an a-transition while PI cannot. 2. Let p be a.b.Nil+a.c.Nil and q be a.(b.Nil+c.Nil). Then S(p) = S(q) = {e, a, ab, ac}, Sop ;::.:-; 8 q. However, after an a-transition q can perform both a b and a c, whereas p must reject one or the other of these possibilities. From the above examples we can see that even though two nondeterministic systems have the same traces, they may go through inequivalent states in performing them I. In particular, trace equivalent systems can have different deadlocking behavior. So this kind of trace equivalence is not adequacy for nondeterministic systems such as CCS. 5.2.1.2 Bisimulation Equivalence The observation in the previous paragraph suggests that a nondeterministic system such as CCS needs an equivalence which has a recursive flavor: execution sequences for equiva- lent systems ought to pass through equivalent states. This intuition leads the definition of bisimulation, or strong equivalence. Definition 8 Let (S, A,-->) be an LTS. A relation R ~ S x S is a bisimulation if, whenever < p, q > E R, then the following conditions hold for any a E A and p', q' E S. 1. if p ~ p', then q ~ q' for some q' such that< p', q' >E R, 2. if q ~ q', then p ~ p1 for some p' such that < p', q' > E R. From the above definition we can see that if two systems are related by a bisimulation, then it is possible for each to simulate the other's behavior. For a relation to be a bisimu- lation, related states must be able to match transitions of each other by moving to related states. Next we shall give bisimulation equivalent for two states. Two states are bisimulation equivalent exactly when a bisimulation relating them is found. Definition 9 Systems p and q are bisimulation equivalent, or bisimilar, if there exists a bisimulation R containing< p, q >. We write p,..., q whenever p and q are bisimilar. As CCS may be viewed as an LTS, so we can use ,..., to relate CCS processes. The following examples show some differences of bisimulation equivalent with trace equivalent. 1This situation cannot occur in deterministic systems. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 50 2. a.b.Nil + a.c.Nil ""a.(b.Nil + c.Nil) 3. a.b.Nil + a.b.Nil,..... a.b.Nil Bisimulation equivalence has a lot of pleasing properties. 1. For any LTS it is indeed an equivalence; i.e. the relation ,..... is reflexive, symmetric and transitive. 2. "' implies ';:::',s and if the LTS is deterministic in the sense that every state has at most one outgoing transition per action, then ,..... coincides with ';:::',s. 3. It can be shown in a precise sense that two equivalent systems must have the same deadlock potential. 4. "' is a congruence for CCS, in other words, if p "' q, then p and q may be used interchangeably inside any larger system. However, for the process algebras which allow asynchronous execution such as CCS, ,..... does suffer from a major flaw: it is too sensitive to internal computation. In particular, the definition does not take account of the speciality of the action T. For example, the systems a.r.b.Nil and a.b.Nil are not bisimulation equivalent, even though an external observer cannot detect the difference between them. Nevertheless, ,..... has been studied extensively in many literatures, and for process algebras in which internal computation in one component can affect the behavior of other components indeed, it is a reasonable basis for verification. But this flaw is an inducement to consider other equivalence to suit CCS. 5.2.1.3 Observational Equivalence for CCS From above subsubsection we can see that bisimulation is too sensitive to internal computa- tion. This subsubsection presents a coarsening of bisimulation equivalence that is intended to relax the sensitivity of the former to internal computation. The introduction of weak transitions starts a further progress in new equivalent relations. Definition 10 Let (P, A,--->) be an LTS with T E A, and let p E P. 1. if s E A •, then s E (A - { T}) * represents the action sequence obtained by deleting all occurrences ofT from s. 2. Let s E (A - { T} )*' then p ~ p' if there exists s' such that p ~ p' and s = s' From the above definition we can see that s returns the visible content (i.e. non-r el- ements) of sequences; in particular, if a= T then a= c; if a E A- {r} then a= a. In addition, if a sequence of r-transitions leads from p top' then p ~ p'. We now define weak bisimulations as follows. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 51 Definition 11 Let (P, A,->) be an LTS with T E A, then a relation R c::;; P x P is a weak bisimulation if, whenever < p, q >E R, then the following hold for all a E A and p', q' E P: 1. if p ~ p', then q ~ q' for some q' such that< p1 , q1 >E R 2. if q ~ q', then p ~ p' for some p' such that< p', q' >E R States p and q are observationally equivalent, or weakly bisimilar, or weakly equivalent, if there exists a weak bisimulation R containing < p, q >. In this case we write p ~ q As CCS is an LTS whose action set contains T, the definition of~ may be used to relate CCS system descriptions. We have the following observations. 1. for any process p, T.p ~ p 2. a.r.b.r.Nil ~ a.b.Nil Consequently weakly bisimilar would appear to be a viable candidate for relating CCS system descriptions. But unfortunately it is not a congruence for CCS. To see the reason, consider the context C[ J given by [ J + b.Nil. Let p be r.a.Nil, q be a.Nil, then we know that p ~ q. However, C[p] ';f C[q]. To see this, note that C[p] 2. a.Nil. This transition must be matched by a weak e:-labelled transition from C[q]. But the only such transition C[q] is C[q] ~ C[q]. However, a.Nil ';f C[q], since the latter can engage in a b-labelled transition that cannot be matched by the former. This shortage of ~ arises from the interplay between + and the initial internal com- putation that a system might engage in, in particular, the only CCS operator that breaks the congruence-hood of~ is +. Milner [Milner, 1980; Milner, 1989] solved this problem by adopting a way which is to focus on finding the largest CCS congruence ~L that implies~. Such a largest congruence is guaranteed to exist [Hennessy and Milner, 1985]. Definition 12 Let (P, A,->) be an LTS with T E A, and let p, q E P, then p ~L q if the following hold for all a E A and p1 , q' E P. 1. if p ~ p', then q ~ q' for some q' such that p1 ~ q'. 2. if q ~ q', then p ~ p1 for some p' such that p1 ~ q'. We have the following remarks about the above definition. 1. It should be noted that for p ~L q to hold, any r-transition of p must be matched by a =*-transition of q. In particular, this weak transition must consist of a non-empty sequence of r-transitions. 2. The definition is not recursive; the targets of initial matching transitions need only be related by ~. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 52 3. ~L is a congruence for CCS indeed and is the largest CCS congruence entailing ~, i.e. p ~L q implies p ~ q, and for any other congruence R such that pRq implies p ~ q, pRq also implies p ~L q. Consider the following examples. 1. T.a.Nil r:j:JL a.Nil, since the 2. transition of the former cannot be matched by a ~ transition of the latter. 2. a.T.b.Nil ~L a.b.Nil 3. For any p,q, if p ~ q, then r.p ~L r.q. 5.3 Formalization of the domain 5.3.1 Formalization of CCS The formalization is based on the system Plastic which is an implementation of LF. The Plastic system is a concise system with very few predefined types. We use the predefined type Nat as the basic type to help us in the formalization of actions. The formalization of actions is as follows: > [Base= Nat]; > Inductive > [Actb:Type] > Constructors > [base:(b:El Base)Actb] > [comp:(b:El Base)Actb]; > Inductive > [Act: Type] > Constructors > [tau:Act] > [act:(a:El Actb)Act]; > [Comp = [x:El Actb] E_Actb ([b:El Actb] Actb) ([a:El Base](comp a)) > ([al:El Base](base al)) x:El Actb -> El Actb]; We formalise processes in an inductive type like the following: > [Var = Nat] ; CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 53 > Inductive > [Process:Type] > Constructors > [Nil:Process] > [var:(v:El Var)Process] > [dot:(a:El Act)(E: Process)Process] > [choice:(E1: Process)(E2: Process)Process] > [par:(E1: Process)(E2: Process)Process] > [hide:(E: Process)(L:El (List Actb))Process] > [ren:(E: Process)(£: El (List (Pair Base Base)))Process] > [rec: (E: Process)Process]; The operational semantics of CCS processes can be given by a labelled transition system with S to be the set of process, L to be the set of actions and the transition relations to be defined by the following transition rules: Dot: a a.E-> E E2 ~E' ChoiceR: -------,-- Et +E2 ~ E' E2 ~E' ParR: ------ EtiE2 ~ EtiE' Et ~ E~ E2 ~ E~ Tau2: EtiE2 .!... E~ IE~ HideT: E .!... E' E\L.!... E'\L E[(rec x.E)/x] ~ E' Rec: rec x.E ~ E' Et ~E' ChoiceL: ------,::--- Et +E2 ~ E' Et~E' ParL: ---=---- EtiE2 ~ E'IE2 Taul: Hide: Et ~ E~ E2 ~ E~ E1IE2.!... E~IE~ E~E' I E\L ~ E'\L (a, a ¢. L) E~E' Rename: E[/] /~) E'[!] We define the transition relation as an inductive relation with large elimination. The above rules are corresponding to the constructors of the inductive relation. > Inductive > [TRANS:(a:El Act)(E1:El Process)(E2:El Process)El Prop] Relation_LE > Constructors > [Dot:(a:El Act)(p:El Process) Prf( TRANS a (dot a p) p)] CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 54 > [Chol:(a:El Act)(p:El Process)(pi:El Process)(p2:El Process) > (t:Prf(TRANS a pi p))Prf(TRANS a (choice pi p2) p)] > [Chor:(a:El Act)(p:El Process)(pi:El Process)(p2:El Process) > (t:Prf(TRANS a p2 p))Prf(TRANS a (choice pi p2) p)] > [Parl:(a:El Act)(p,pi,p2:El Process)(t:Prf(TRANS a pip)) > Prf(TRANS a (par pi p2) (par p p2))] > [Parr:(a:El Act)(p,pi,p2:El Process)(t:Prf(TRANS a p2 p)) > Prf(TRANS a (par pi p2) (par pi p))] > [Taui:(n:El Base)(pi,p2,qi,q2:El Process) > (ti:Prf(TRANS (act (base n)) pi qi)) > (t2:Prf(TRANS (act (comp n)) p2 q2)) > Prf(TRANS tau (par pi p2) (par qi q2))] > [Tau2:(n:El Base)(pi,p2,qi,q2:El Process) > (ti:Prf(TRANS (act (comp n)) pi qi)) > (t2:Prf(TRANS (act (base n)) p2 q2)) > Prf(TRANS tau (par pi p2) (par qi q2))] > [Hide:(a:El Actb)(p,q:El Process)(L:El (List Actb)) > (t:Prf(TRANS (act a) p q)) > (pi:El (Prf(is_false (Or (member (Actb) Eq_Actb a L) > (member (Actb) Eq_Actb (Comp a) L))))) > Prf(TRANS (act a) (hide p L) (hide q L))] > [Hidet:(p,q:El Process)(L:El (List Actb)) > (t:Prf(TRANS tau p q)) > Prf(TRANS tau (hide p L)(hide q L))] > [Ren:(a:El Act)(p,q:El Process)(£: El (List (Pair Base Base))) > (t:Prf(TRANS a p q)) > Prf(TRANS (rename f a )(ren p f)(ren q f))] > [Rec: (a: El Act)(pi,p2: El Process) > (t: Prf(TRANS a (subst pi (succ zero) Cree pi)) p2)) > Prf(TRANS a Cree pi) p2)] CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 55 Where (subst t n s) means to replace the variables in term t which are equal ton with s, i.e. we use de Bruijn's index for expressing substitutions. So (subst pl (succ zero) (rec pl)) is pl[(rec pl)/x]. This method to express substitutions bring some difficulties in translation issues. We shall do more explanation in section 5.7.4. It is dangerous if we use inductive relation with large elimination without careful con- sideration about avoiding paradox. Adams [Adams, 2004] pointed out that using large elimination without limitation may lead to paradox 2 . But our formalization is safe, be- cause we did not use the dangerous features. Meanwhile, in order to make sure its safety we have used the corresponding formalization of this transition (i.e. the above TRANS) in Lego with ordinary inductive relation. There is no such kind of paradox in Lego, because there is no universe Type which is its own type. 5.3.2 Formalization of M-calculus We use Plastic's second order logic to formalize It-calculus with the help of our previous formalization and proof of properties of set and fixed point. The details are as follows: > [Label = Act :Type]; > Inductive > [Modality :Type] > Constructors > [Modal: (L:El (List Label))Modality] > [Nmodal: (L:El (List Label))Modality]; > [State = Process] ; > [MTRANS > [K: Modality] [sl: State] [s2 : State](Ex Label ([a: Label] (and (Eq Bool (Modal_check a K) true) (TRANS a sl s2))))]; > [ Form = Pred State] ; > [ Tag = Pred State ] ; > [MuvarF Pi_ Var Form] ; > [MuOr = [A,B: Form] (Union State A B)]; 2 Dr. Callaghan will issue his modified version of Plastic to avoid this kind of paradoxes. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY > [MuAnd [A,B: Form] (Meet State A B)]; > [MuDia = [K: Modality] [F: Form]( La_ State Prop ([s: State](Ex State > ( [s 1 : State] (and (MTRANS K s s 1 ) (ap_ State Prop F s 1 ))))))] ; > [MuBox > [K: Modality] [F: Form] (La_ State Prop ([s: State](FA State ([s 1 : State] ((MTRANS K s s 1 ) => (ap_ State Prop F s 1 ))))))]; > [MuTagnu = [T: Tag] [F: (Pi_ Form Form)]( La_ State Prop ([s: State] > (Ex Form ([P: Form] (and (Subset State P (Union State > (ap_ Form Form F P) T ))(ap_ State PropPs))))))]; > [MuTagmu = [T: Tag] [F: (Pi_ Form Form)]( La_ State Prop ([s: State] > (FA Form ([P: Form] ((Subset State (Minus State > (ap_ Form Form F P) T ) P) => (ap_ State Prop P s))))))]; 56 The above formalization of syntax and semantics give us a basis for representing the domain concepts and properties. On LF level we can prove some useful lemmas which are corresponding to the rules on the user level. Meanwhile these give an another way to validate that the rules are correct. 5.4 User level reasoning system The basic reasoning steps which a user can make are given by a user-level reasoning system. This can be described via several groups of rules, derived from the standard rules of J-L- calculus and CCS, and augmented with several useful lemmas. We divide the rules into the following groups. 5.4.1 Rules that do not involve the process operators. These rules do not depend on CCS components. • Rules related to basic logic: This is a simple logic including the basic operators for and(/\), or(V) etc. They are mainly used to express and prove the side conditions which appear in some of the CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 57 p,-calculus rules and combined assumptions. Here we just list the and-relevant rules as follows: cf> 1\ w Fst: cf> cf> 1\ w Snd: W • Rules related to set: These are basic rules which deal with set membership. Singlein: --{-} a E a • Rules related to p,-calculus: s E V Inr: U V s E U s E U Inl: sE UuV The following show a subset of the rules related to tagged p,-calculus. True:-,- s r tt a 1 s-+s Exintro with a: -K-(a E K) s ---+ s' Dia with s': 81 f- cf> (s.!!.. s') sf-<K>cf> ., ld sf-cl>[vZ.(Uu{s})cf>/Z](sdU) v_un.o : sf- vZ.U cf> l" where notation s ~ s' means (s, s') in the transition relation ~ and s !!.., s' means ::Ja E Ks~s'. 5.4.2 Rules for the process operators. The following are a subset of the rules for pure CCS. The rules with prefix lnv _ are not standard rules in CCS, but are lemmas added to the reasoning system for user convenience. Dot: a.E~E R E[(rec X.E)/X] ~ E' ec· · recX.E~ E' I rec X.EJ ~ E2 nv_rec: a E![rec X.EI/ X] -+ E2 Inv_dot: a.E1 ~ E2 Users can apply commands which are corresponding to the above rules in the system to prove relevant properties. 5.5 User level syntax We design the user level syntax of the concepts of this domain by trying to keep their original form. The following is the description of the syntax of the user level in BNF: CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY ids .. letter .. - digit .. quasiletter .. - nontauact .. act .. - topcmd .. proc .. muform .. - K .. - Tag .. cmd .. - letter quasiletter* a I ... I z I A I ... I Z o I ... 19 letter I digit I - I ' ids I ids- nontauact I tau ids : process '1-' muform I ids : process - act - > process I ids : Allnat act proc Nil I ids I act . proc I proc + proc I proc 'I' proc I proc \ {nontauact, ... ,nontauact} I proc [nontauactjnontauact, ... ,nontauactjnontauact] I Rec ids proc ids I muform 'II' muform I muform & muform I < K > muform I [K] muform I Mu ids.Tag muform I Nu ids.Tag muform - I {act, ... ,act} I -{act, ... ,act} {-} I {ids, ... ,ids} Fst ids I Snd ids I RDia ids I RRec I RDot I RPair I RSinglein I RTrue I RExintro ids I Rend I RNuunfold I Rvpair I Rbox ids ids I RNubase I Rinr I Rinl I Rhypchange ids ids ids I Rinverdotl ids ids I Rinverrec ids ids ids ids I Rinverchoi ids ids ids ids I Rinverpar ids ids ids idsl Req I RModule ids I Rlmport ids I RUndo I RChol I RChor I RParl I RParr I RTaul ids I RTau2 ids I RHide I RHidet I RRen I Rlndn act proc ids I RHyp ids 58 In the above BNF description, "act" represents act of CCS, "topcmd" represents target or goal we want to prove, "proc" represents process of CCS, "muform" represents the formula of J.L-calculus, "K" represents a set of acts, "Tag" represents Tags of the J.L-calculus and "cmd" represents commands which user can use in the interface. In addition, the quoted parts by ' ' (such as '1-' and 'II') are used for distinguishing them from the meta-symbols. Users will use the above syntax to define their concurrent system and prove the properties of this system. Obviously the syntax is very similar to the domain users. 5.6 Translation between different levels The translation between different levels is very important in this approach. It realizes an important step of the implicit support of the proof assistant Plastic. Using grammar-directed technology, the translation can be implemented automatically. 5.6.1 The translation from user level to LF level To implement the translation from user level to LF level is to implement the transformation from the user level grammar to LF level grammar. We just present the outline of the CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 59 translation in this chapter, concrete discussions will be given in chapter 8. 5.6.1.1 The translation of CCS concepts The translation of CCS concepts includes the translation of the CCS grammar of the concepts to the corresponding formalised parts of them in LF. This work is fulfilled by the parser and translator of the CCS automatically. We just need to customise the parser and the translator. The concrete parts of them, especially the translation of the relevant parts, will be given in chapter 8. 5.6.1.2 The translation of LTS concepts The translation of LTS concepts includes the translation of the LTS grammar of the concepts to the corresponding formalised parts of them in LF. This work is fulfilled by the parser and translator of the LTS automatically also. We just need to customise the parser and the translator. The concrete parts of them, especially the translation of the transition relation, will be given in chapter 8. 5.6.1.3 The translation of JJ.-calculus concepts The translation of JJ.-calculus concepts includes the translation of the JJ.-calculus grammar of the concepts to the corresponding formalised parts of them in LF. This work is fulfilled by the parser and translator of the JJ.-calculus automatically also. We just need to customize the parser and the translator. The concrete parts of them, especially the translation of the relevant parts, will be given in chapter 8. 5.6.2 The translation from LF level to user level The translation from LF level to user level is the reverse process of the the translation from user level to LF level. More details please to refer to chapter 8. In fact, we may not do this translation thoroughly, as when we use commands on user level, from the view of domain users, it just needs to do the transformation on user level. We can keep this transformation and then translate the result of the transformation to LF level, furthermore check the result to see whether this is consistent with the result of the LF level. 5. 7 Some examples The following examples have been chosen to illustrate the approach and issues that arise from it, in particular for translation, rather than to show new functionality enabled by the approach. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 60 5.7.1 Ticking clock Firstly, we use an example of ticking clock to show the basic aspects of this approach. This example also shows a translation problem which we'll discuss in detail in chapter 8. This example was taken from [Stirling, 1992; Yu, 1999] and discussed in [Pang eta!., 2002]. Cl =def tick.Cl This process can just perform only one action tick and it will tick forever. We can use the CCS syntax rec x. tick.x to express the process 3 . The ticking clock process has a simple property: the clock is able to tick. We can express the goal of proving this property in the following form: Abletick: Cl 1- < {tick} > tt where the judgement p: s 1- <I> means that we want to prove that process s satisfies the property <I> and use the name p to memorize the property. The table 5.1 and table 5.2 show our proof on the two different levels. The rows with Goal in the first column show the relevant parts of the proof state, and rows with CMD show the command issued by the user. The User-level column shows what the user should expect to see, whilst the Plastic column shows the corresponding LF form or the equivalent command sequence for Plastic. In our prototype, we can complete the proof by issuing just the user-level commands, and the prototype is able to translate the more complex LF terms back to their simple user-level forms. From table 5.1 and table 5.2 we can see that the goals and commands on the user-level are more concise and user oriented, one step on the user-level proof usually corresponds to several steps in Plastic. On the user-level steps some information about the real parameters should be given for translating the interface command to Plastic commands. In fact, the Plastic level proof can be hidden from the user and the group of commands in Plastic which corresponding to one command on user-level is linked by tactical. 5.7.2 Simple communication protocol Now we use an example of a simple communication protocol, taken from [Cleaveland et al., 1993] and discussed in [Pang et a!., 2005a]. The protocol specification can be formalized as the parallel combination of three basic processes: a sender, a receiver and a medium that connects sender and receiver. The sender initially waits for a message to send, after which it passes the message to the medium using the channel from and then awaits an acknowledgement on the channel ack_to. When the medium receives a message along its channel from it makes it available on its channel to, and when it receives an acknowledgement on its channel ack_from it makes it available on its channel ack_to. When the receiver gets a message on channel to, it announces that 3 in [Milner, 1989], this process should be expressed by fix(X = tick.X), so the CCS syntax here is a little bit different from it. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 61 User Level Plastic Level Goal Abletick: Claim Abletick: Cl 1- < {tick}> tt Prf ( ap_ Process Prop (MuDia (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label))) Mutt) Cl) CMD Rule Dia Cl Refine App ? ? (lemma_dia_ccs ? ? ? Cl ? ) ; Goal ?2 Cl {tick} Cl ? m2 Prf( -> : MTRANS (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label))) Cl Cl) ?1 Cl 1- tt ? m1 : Prf( ap_ State Prop Mutt Cl) CMD Rule True Refine lemma_true; Goal ?2 Cl {tick} Cl ? m2 Prf( -> : MTRANS (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label))) Cl Cl) CMD Rule Exintro tick Refine LL; Intros -· Refine LL; Intros H; Refine App ? ? (App ? ? H tick); Goal ?3 (tick in {tick}) ? m3 : Prf( and 1\ (Cl t~ Cl) (Eq Bool (ModaLcheck tick (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label)))) true) (TRANS tick Cl Cl)) CMD Rule Pair Refine App ? ? (App ? ? p_pair ?); Goal ?s tick in {tick} ? m5 : Prf( Eq Bool (ModaLcheck tick (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label)))) true) ? Cl tick ·4 -> Cl ? m4 : Prf(TRANS tick Cl Cl) CMD Rule Rec Refine Rec; Table 5.1: Proof procedure for ticking clock (part I) CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 62 User Level Plastic Level Goal ?5 tick in {tick} ? m5 : Prf( Eq Bool (ModaLcheck tick (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label)))) true) ?6 tick .Cl tick Cl ? m6 Prf ( --> : TRANS tick (subst (dot tick (var one)) (succ zero) (rec (dot tick (var one)))) Cl) CMD Rule Dot Refine Dot; Goal ?5 tick in {tick} ? m5 : Prf ( Eq Bool (Modal_check tick (Modal (cons Label tick (nil Label)))) true) CMD Rule Singlein Refine App ? ? Eq...refl; Goal (no new goal) (no new goal) CMD Rule end ReturnAll; Table 5.2: Proof procedure for ticking clock (part II) the message is available for receipt and then sends an acknowledgement along the channel ack_from. The corresponding and assistant processes in the interface are defined as follows: SENDER= rec X (send.from-.ack_to.X); MEDIUM= rec X (from.to-.X + ack_from.ack_to-.X); RECEIVER rec X (to.receive-.ack_from-.X); PROTOCOL = (SENDER I MEDIUM I RECEIVER) \{from,to,ack_from,ack_to}; SENDER!= from-.ack_to.(rec X send.from-.ack_to.X); PROTOCOL! = (SENDER! I MEDIUM I RECEIVER)\{from,to,ack_from,ack_to}; The following are the translations of the above definitions in LF: %--------------------------------------------------------------------------- Def SERVICE = rec (dot send (dot receive (var one))) : El Process Def SENDER = rec (dot send (dot from' (dot ack_to (var one)))) : El Process Def SENDER! = dot from' (dot ack_to SENDER) : El Process Def MEDIUM = rec (choice (dot from (dot to' (var one))) (dot ack_from (dot ack_to' (var one)))) : El Process Def RECEIVER CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY = rec (dot to (dot receive' (dot ack_from' (var one)))) Def PROTOCOL hide (par (par SENDER MEDIUM) RECEIVER) (cons Actb fromb El Process (cons Actb ack_tob (cons Actb tob (cons Actb ack_fromb (nil Actb))))) : El Process Def PROTOCOL! hide (par (par SENDER! MEDIUM) RECEIVER) (cons Actb fromb (cons Actb ack_tob (cons Actb tob (cons Actb ack_fromb (nil Actb))))) : El Process 63 %--------------------------------------------------------------------------- The PROTOCOL process has a simple property: it is able to send. We can express the goal of proving this property in the following form: Abletosend: PROTOCOL f- <{send}> tt Table 5.3 (continued in table 5.4) shows a proof of this property on two different levels. It is easy to see that the forms on user level are much simpler than those on LF level. 5. 7.3 Example with infinite state space Now we consider some examples with infinite state space. We choose an example from [Dam, 1995]. This example presents a counter and its property "a counter can count forever". In this thesis we want to prove that the counter is always able to perform up. Use CCS notation, the counter can be expressed in the following form: Cnt = rec x.up.(xldown.Nil) The corresponding processes in our interface are defined as the following: Cnt = rec X up.(X I (down. Nil)); CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 64 User Level Plastic Level Goal Abletosend: Claim Abletosend: PROTOCOL 1- < {send}> tt Prf ( ap_ Process Prop (MuDia (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label))) Mutt) PROTOCOL) CMD Rule Dia PROTOCOL! Refine App ? ? (lemma_dia_ccs ? ? ? PROTOCOL! ? ) ; Goal ?2 PROTOCOL {send} PROTOCOL! ? m2 : Prf( MTRANS (Modal (cons -> Label send (nil Label))) PROTOCOL PROTOCOL!) ?1 PROTOCOL! 1- tt ? m1 : Prf( ap_ State Prop Mutt PROTOCOL!) CMD Rule True Refine lemma_true; Goal ?2 PROTOCOL {send} PROTOCOL! ? m2 Prf( MTRANS (Modal (cons -> : Label send (nil Label))) PROTOCOL PROTOCOL!) CMD Rule Exintro send Refine lemmaJExintro ? ? ? send Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) ? 3 PROTOCOL s~d PROTOCOL! ? m3 : Prf(TRANS send PROTOCOL PROTOCOL!) CMD Rule Hide Refine Hide; Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) ?5 (SENDER I MEDIUM I RECEIVER) ? m5 : Prf ( TRANS send send (par (par SENDER MEDIUM) RECEIVER) -> (SENDER! I MEDIUM I RECEIVER) (par (par SENDER! MEDIUM) RECEIVER))) ?6 not (send in {from,ack_to, ? m6 : Prf ( to,ack..from} V send-in is..false (Or (member Actb Eq-Actb {from,ack_to,to,ack..from}) sendb (cons Actb fromb (cons Actb ack_tob (cons Actb tob (cons Actb ack..fromb (nil Actb)))))) (member Actb Eq-Actb (Comp sendb) (cons Actb fromb (cons Actb ack_tob (cons Actb tob (cons Actb ack..fromb (nil Actb)))))) CMD Rule Hyp Distinct Refine Distinct; Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) ?5 (SENDER I MEDIUM I RECEIVER) ? m5 : Prf ( TRANS send send (par (par SENDER MEDIUM) RECEIVER) -> (SENDER! I MEDIUM I RECEIVER) (par (par SENDER! MEDIUM) RECEIVER))) Table 5.3: Proof procedure for simple protocol (part I) CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 65 User Level Plastic Level CMD Rule Parl Refine Parl; Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) ?7 (SENDER I MEDIUM ) s~d ? m7 : Prf ( TRANS send (SENDER! I MEDIUM ) (par SENDER MEDIUM) (par SENDER! MEDIUM))) CMD Rule Parl Refine Parl; Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) ?s SENDER send SENDER! ? mB Prf ( -> : TRANS send SENDER SENDER!)) CMD Rule Rec Refine Rec; Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) ?g send .SENDER! send ? m9 Prf ( TRANS send -> : SENDER! (subst (dot send (dot from-(dot ack_to (var one)))) (succ zero) (rec (dot send (dot from-(dot ack_to (var one)))))) SENDER!)) CMD Rule Dot Refine Dot; Goal ?4 send in {send} ? m4 : Prf( Eq Bool (Modal_check send (Modal (cons Label send (nil Label)))) true) CMD Rule Singlein Refine App ? ? Eq_refl; Goal (no new goal) (no new goal) CMD Rule end ReturnAll; Table 5.4: Proof procedure for simple protocol (part II) The following is the translation of the above definition in LF: %-------------------------------------------------------------- Def Cnt = Cree (dot up (par (var (succ (zero))) (dot down Nil)))) ; %-------------------------------------------------------------- This is an example with infinite state space. Systems which based on model checker technology are hard to prove properties of the counter. But in our approach to prove this property is not difficult. The property "Always able to perform up" can be expressed in CCS as the following form: CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 66 v X. < up > ttl\ [-]X. So "counter has this property" can be expressed as follows: Cnt 1- v X. < up > ttl\ [-]X. According to the semantics of v operator, this goal can be split to the following sub-goals: 3S.S ~(<up> tt 1\ [-]S) (5.1) and Cnt E S (5.2) We take the infinite set { cnt(i) li E Nat } as this S, where cnt(O)=Cnt, cnt(l)=Cnt I (down.Nil), ... ,cnt(i+1)=cnt(i) I down. Nil). In other word, Scan be defined as: to: S ""df).. s: Process 3 n:Nat. Eq s cnt(n) . We can split (5.1) to two separate sub-goals: S ~< up > tt (5.3) and S ~ [-]S (5.4) Sub-goal (5.2) can be proved by the membership of S. Sub-goal (5.3) can be split to and V s E S 3s1 • s ~ s' s' E tt by the semantics of<> operator. Takes' ass ldown.Nil, the two sub-goals are changed \:Is E S.s ~ sidown.Nil (5.5) and sidown.Nil E tt (5.6) Sub-goal (5.6) is proved easily. Sub-goal (5.5) can be proved by induction on natural number. Table 5.5 shows a proof of (5.5) on two different levels. It is easy to see that the forms on user level are similar to standard CCS notation and much simpler than those on LF level. By the semantics of [ ] operator, sub-goal (5.4) is: \:Is E S Vs' 3a.s ~ s' implies s' E S It can be proved by induction on natural number also. So we get the proofs by means of the semantics of 11-calculus formulas and induction. The above example shows that infinite state space is no problem for this approach. We can list the reason as follows: • First, Plastic is not limited to finite state system. It relies on the techniques such as structural induction to prove properties in infinite domains. • Second, CCS is not limited to finite state system. CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 67 User Level Plastic Level Goal Alwaysup: Claim Alway sup: Allnat zero Cntn (n: Nat) Prf (TRANS up (Cntn n) (Cntn (succ n) )) CMD Rule Rindn zero Cntn H Refine E...Nat ([nl:Nat]Prf(TRANS up (Cntn n1) (Cntn (succ n1)))); Intros n H ; Goal ?t (Cntn zero) ~ ? m1 : Prf (TRANS up (Cntn (succ zero)) (Cntn zero) (Cntn (succ zero))) ?2 (Cntn (succ n)) ~ ? m2 : El (Prf (TRANS up (Cntn (succ (succ n))) (Cntn (succ n))(Cntn (succ (succ n))))) CMD Rule Parl Refine Parl; Goal ?1 ( Cntn zero) ~ ? m1 : Prf (TRANS up (Cntn (succ zero)) (Cntn zero) (Cntn (succ zero))) ?3 (Cntn n) ~ ? m3 : El (Prf (TRANS up (Cntn (succ n)) (E...Nat ( [n1: El Nat] State) Cnt ([nl:El Nat] [S:El State] par S (dot down Nil)) n) (E...Nat ( [n1: El Nat] State) Cnt ([nl:El Nat] [S:El State] parS (dot down Nil)) (succ n)))) CMD Rule Hyp H Refine H; Goal ?I (Cntn zero) up ? m1 Prf (TRANS up -+ : (Cntn (succ zero)) (Cntn zero) (Cntn (succ zero))) CMD Rule Rec Refine Rec ; Goal ?4 up.((Cntn (succ zero)) ? m4 : El (Prf (TRANS up I down.Nil) (subst (dot up up ((Cntn (succ zero)) (par (var (succ zero)) (dot down Nil))) -+ I down.Nil) (succ zero) (rec (dot up (par (var (succ zero)) (dot down Nil))))) (Cntn (succ zero)))) CMD Rule Dot Refine Dot; Goal (no new goal) (no new goal) CMD Rule end ReturnAll; Table 5.5: Proof procedure for Counter's property CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 68 • Third, J-t-calculus is not limited to finite state system. In the process of finding a proof, however, users often gain invaluable insight into the system or the property being proved. 5.7.4 Some observations from the examples From the above examples, we make some observations: • Automatic translation between user level and LF level is feasible. This translation is a superset of the implicit syntax mechanisms provided by most proof assistants. Although this example is simple, it already demonstrates several non-trivial features. • Consider the translation of subgoal ?m6 in the example of ticking clock: the user level form is significantly simpler than the LF version. In particular, the LF form uses the term operator subst, which has been programmed as part of the formalization. There is currently no user-level indication or representation of subst: we treat it as an inherent mechanism of the formalization, and hence one that does not need to be shown. The user is interested in concrete processes, not hypothetical ones which are subject to substitution. Hence, uses of subst must be normalised away, to show the term after substitution. Plastic now implements a normalization operation which removes the obvious use of a set of operations by computation. We shall return to this issue in chapter 8. • Almost all rules on the user level correspond to lemmas on LF level. This keeps the correspondence between the two levels explicit and implies that we need not translate every concepts on LF level to the user level, but just those which have some clear user level correspondence. This also makes the translation from LF level to user level feasible. 5.8 Discussion In this chapter, to the domain of concurrency, we have analyzed the characteristics of domain-specific reasoning, formalized the notations of CCS, LTS and J-t-calculus in LF. While we do the formalization we get a better understanding not just on the issues behind producing domain-specific computer assisted reasoning tools, but also on the knowledge of the domain. The architecture, methodology and process of the approach presented in Chapter 4 led us to carry out the case study. Meanwhile this case study enriched them in many aspects. We get the following feedback: • The formalization of a domain may include many aspects such as: CHAPTER 5. CASE STUDY: CONCURRENCY 69 The notations of the domain which is corresponding to the notations of CCS for the domain of concurrency. The set of rules on user level which is a very important part in the case study and affects the usefulness and convenience of the ultimate system. The notations for the description of semantics which is corresponding to the notations of LTS of the case study. The notations for the description of logic properties which is corresponding to the notations of J.L-calculus of the case study. • The formalization or its skeleton is not just limited to this case study. For example, the skeleton of the formalization of LTS and J.L-calculus can be used in other domains. This gives a kind of reusability of the formalizations. We have demonstrated how our approach is used to prove properties of concurrency through some simple examples. Although some of them have infinite state space, their structures are very simple and therefore can be handled by CCS. The case study shows that our approach combines induction, semantic reasoning, domain-specific interface, abstraction and composition methods with LFTOP to verify the properties of domain specific systems. All of the lemmas and inference rules based by the domain-specific reasoning system are for- mally proved in Plastic and therefore a coherent system which firmly ensures the correctness of proofs on that level is constructed. This case study also shows that LF is suitable to be an underlying reasoning basis. Although the structure is complicated, but domain user can get benefit without noticing the complexity of the structure. Although the formalization Work is intended to be done by some experts of type theory. We find that to allow users to develop their own lemmas (i.e. to extend the formalization rather than just to work inside it) is useful. Other things such as how to improve the under- standability of proofs( e.g. representing traces of computation and using Natural Language to explain proof steps) are also important. As the size of examples increases, we may also need to study techniques to help users organize their proofs and developments, such as al- lowing multiple contexts for reasoning. These issues are also listed in our future work in chapter 9. Chapter 6 Case study: Verification of semantic properties of LAZY-PCF+SHAR Human felicity is produced not so much by great pieces of good fortune that seldom happen, as by little advantages that occur every day. - BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, AMERICAN PRESIDENT As another case study, in this chapter we use the approach to verify some semantic properties of a functional programming language LAZY-PCF+SHAR [Seaman and Iyer, 1996]. In [Seaman and Iyer, 1996] the authors present a very good explanation of the need of sharing. We extract some explanations from [Seaman and lyer, 1996] here to show the basic notations and problems in this case study. From a theoretical view, functional languages are easy to reason about, especially within the framework of call-by-name or call-by-value evaluation. But implementing a functional language strictly according to call-by-name causes a lot of problems, especially the problem of efficiency, this is due to the fact that arguments that are referred to more than once are copied and possibly re-evaluated each time they are needed. However, functional languages should have the referential transparency, so this value will always be the same. In practice the unnecessary re-evaluation is usually avoided by sharing the argument among each of its references so that there is only one copy of the argument at any time. When the value of the argument is first needed, the argument is evaluated and the original copy of the argument is replaced by its value. This value is the one used for later references to the argument. So sharing can be characterised by a lack of duplication of the argument and by updating the original copy of the argument when it is evaluated. This method of evaluation is referred 70 CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 71 to as call-by-need usually. It provides the same resulting values as call-by-name, but has different behavior due to the reduction of unnecessary re-evaluation. For the call-by-need implementation additional improvements may be made in the usual way by analyzing the behavior of given programs in the implementation and performing some program transfor- mations which improve the behavior of the program without affecting its results. Since the behavior of a program is often depended on by many optimisations, the sharing involved in implementing lazy evaluation must be taken into consideration. Thus an operational model of the call-by-need implementation which is easy to reason with is essential for us to carry out analysis of the programs. In [Seaman and lyer, 1996] such a model is presented as an operational semantics of lazy evaluation with sharing, this semantics is also proven to yield the same results as the call-by-name semantics. We know that a substitution is an operation defined externally to the semantics rules. And the fact that function application is defined in terms of substitution is one of the main factor to lead the simplicity of call-by-name and call-by-value semantics. But substitution is the operation that allows an argument to be duplicated. This point makes it unsuitable for formalizing sharing. Thus in order to avoid duplication an operational model of lazy evaluation with sharing must be able to explicitly determine when and how an argument is substituted. By incorporating the actions which carry out substitution explicitly in the semantics rules this can be done. Fortunately, in papers such as [Abadi eta!., 1991] [Field, 1990] much work has already been done on explicit substitutions. In these papers the reduction system Aa is considered. Aa includes some syntax and rules which can carry out substitution explicitly. However, the sharing occurring in lazy evaluation implementations is not captured by this system, because it duplicates arguments and does not update them upon evaluation. In other words, these papers present studies of the reduction system with emphasis on optimality of reduction strategies, while the goal in paper [Seaman and lyer, 1996] is to more closely model the sharing found in implementations in order to have a more accurate model for analysis. The paper [Seaman and lyer, 1996] fixes the reduction strategy by the operational seman- tics and emphasizes the suitability of the system for reasoning about sharing. That's why we followed Seaman's work in Coq [Seaman and Felty, 1993], and choose verification of proper- ties of the operational semantics of a lazy functional language (called LAZY-PCF+SHAR) as an another domain of interest for case study. Since this domain uses the concept of explicit substitution to deal with the problem of substitution, so it is very different from our previous case study for concurrency. Because the proof technique of this domain is very similar to the technique of LF in Plastic, we can use Plastic directly and need not design a new interface for this domain. This tells us that for some domains we need not define new interfaces, the interface for Plastic is useful for them. Another reason of studying this kind of domain is to check the power of Plastic which is an implementation of LF, to see whether or not the style of explicit substitution in LAZY-PCF +SHAR affects the reasoning in Plastic greatly. CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 72 e[e'jx]!v call-by-name: ( ( .XX:t.e )e') ! v ll b l . (e'! v') 1\ (e[v' jx] ! v) ca - y-va ue. ((, . ) ') ! AX.t.e e v Figure 6.1: call-by-name and call-by-value 6.1 The need for explicit substitutions Substitution can be used in explaining the call-by-name and call-by-value methods. The following shows the process. In order to evaluate the term ((-Xx:t.e)e') by call-by-name order, just substitute the term e' for x in e and evaluate. For evaluating the term ((-Xx:t.e)e') by call-by-value order, first evaluate e' to v', then substitute v' for x in e and evaluate. An inference rule may be used to describe the formal semantics of application. In order to conclude what is below the line, the premise above the line must be true. Also, if evaluating a term e results in a term v, this is denoted as e ! v. Then formally the rules for the evaluation of application can be described as figure 6.1: From the Figure 6.1 we can see that, this definition of substitution simplifies the formal- ization of these evaluation orders. But it is still not clear how this definition of substitution could be used to describe call-by-need evaluation. The original argument, e', should be substituted for the occurrence of x which will be accessed first, and the result of evaluating e' should be substituted for any remaining occurrences. However, before the program is run it is not known which occurrence of x will be evaluated first. And the argument e' should be evaluated only if it is needed. The reason is that the details of the actual process of substi- tuting a term for a variable in another term are abstracted away. So, in order to implement lazy-evaluation the suitable semantics needs to be able to control the substitution process so that the substitution and evaluation of arguments can take place while the function body is being evaluated. Fortunately, in [Abadi et al., 1991] [Field, 1990] explicit substitutions are introduced to implement the idea of incorporating rules into the semantics which directly carry out substitution. They are used to define systems of rewrite rules for the lambda calculus with no prescribed evaluation strategy. Unfortunately, these rules do not capture sharing, though they incorporate explicit rules to carry out substitution. In spite of this, explicit substitution provides a mechanism for a relatively simple formalization of lazy evaluation. Paper [Abadi et al., 1991] gave an example of a system called -Xa by using explicit substitutions. This calculus evaluates A-terms which may include unevaluated substitutions. 6.2 Capture of sharing Though the operational semantics for call-by-need have some similarity to the -Xa-calculus, they differ from explicit substitutions in the following ways in order to capture sharing. CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 73 o Substitutions are not allowed to occur within an expression by the syntax of the terms of the language. Instead, a term is evaluated with respect to a single substitution at the outermost level, called the operational semantics environment. This environment is a list of variable bound to expressions which corresponds to an explicit substitution. • Not as in app rule of the ..\a-calculus, which destroys sharing, in function application environments are not duplicated and distributed to subexpressions. This is the second difference which captures the first characterisation of sharing. • The expression that a variable points to in the environment may be replaced by the value that it evaluates to. This is the third difference which captures the second characterisation of sharing. So the original copy of an argument is allowed to be replaced by its evaluated value. Not as in the ..\a-calculus, environments are not eliminated upon reaching a value, but are maintained throughout the evaluation. This ensures that the value can be used later. Thus a relation between expression-environment pairs can be used to express an evalu- ation. This pair of an expression with an environment is called a configuration. A configu- ration for an expression e and an environment A is denoted as < e, A >. A list of binding of typed variable to expressions gives the structure of an environment. It can be formally described as the following form: A::= [ ]l[x:t >---> e]A For convenience, if an environment containing more than one binding, the bindings will be separated by commas instead of square brackets. The evaluation relation between a program and its final value in terms of inferences and axioms is defined as a natural semantics [Plotkin, 1981] [Kahn, 1987]. This natural semantics can be used to define the operational semantics of LAZY-PCF +SHAR. In this framework, since an expression is evaluated directly to its final value, so this style of semantics is often referred to as "big-step" or "one step" semantics. Properties or theorems about the evaluation relation defined with these semantics can be proved by induction on the height of the proof justifying the evaluation relation. 6.3 Domain analysis LAZY-PCF+SHAR is a lazy version of the functional language PCF(Programming language for Computable Functions) extended by adding explicit substitution in order to formalize the semantics of lazy evaluation. Its semantics are defined as inference rules in the style of natural operational semantics [Kahn, 1987] or "big step" semantics which is called deduc- tively defined systems. Usually the verification of this kind of properties is done by hand or on paper, but recent years the work can be done by interactive theorem provers. We try this for the case study in this chapter to show that Plastic is powerful enough to be this CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 74 kind of theorem provers. Meanwhile we shall get more information about the merits and shortcomings in doing reasoning by using Plastic. We also want to compare the style and characterization of Plastic with those of Coq and Lego. 6.3.1 Syntax of the language Types: t Expressions: e 0 I true I false I x I succ(e) I pred(e) I iszero(e) I if(et, e2, e3) I )..x:t.e I e1 e2 I J.lX:t.e I < e, [x:t ,__, et] > Figure 6.2: The Syntax of LAZY-PCF+SHAR The syntax of LAZY-PCF +SHAR is shown in Figure 6.2. It includes constants, variables, the conditional, lambda abstraction, primitive functions, function application, J.l operator and closure which acts as the syntactic vehicle for implementation of lazy evaluation. 6.3.2 Operational semantics of the language The type judgement rules of this language are listed in figure 6.3 where r is a type envi- ronment which is a mapping of variables to types. r[s/x] denotes a perturbed environment which respects r on all variables other than x, and binds x to type s. We say that an expression e has type t in type environment r if r f- e:t can be justified by inferences based on the type judgement rules. CO: -- CT: :---:---:--""7 f- O:nat f- true:bool CF: VAR: f- false:bool r[t/x] f- x:t CS: r f- e:nat CP: r f- e:nat r f- succ(e):nat r f- pred(e):nat CZ: r f- e:nat COND: r f- e 1 :bool r f- e2 :t r f- e3 :t r f- iszem(e):bool r f- if(et, e2, e3):t ABS: r[s/x] f- e:t APP: r f- e1:s-+ t r f- e2:s r f- >.x:s.e:s-+ t r f- ete2:t REC: r[t/x] f- e:t CLO: r f- e1:s r[s/x] f- e:t f f- J.lX:t.e:t f f-< e, [x:s ,__, et] > :t Figure 6.3: Type rules CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF +SHAR 75 OS_CO: OS_CT: ------,,.--------,-----~ < 0, A > 1 < 0, A > < true, A > 1 < true, A > OS_CF: OS__L: -:------:-------,---.,.---- < false, A> 1 < false, A > < >..x:t.e, A> 1 < >..x:t.e, A > os_po: . < e, A> 1 < 0, A' > OS_P: < e, A > 1 < succ(e'), A' > < pred(e), A> 1 < 0, A'> < pred(e), A> 1 < e', A'> < e,A > 1 < O,A' > OS_ZF·. < e,A > 1 < succ(e'),A' > OS_ZT: ( ) ( ) < iszero e ,A> 1 < true,A' > < iszero e ,A> l <false, A'> OS_S: < e,A > 1 < e',A' > < succ(e), A> 1 < succ(e'), A'> < e, A> l < e', A'> OS_Varl: [ I [ I < x, x:t >---> e A > l < e', x:t >---> e' A' > < y, A> l < e', A'> 1\y ¢. x OS_Var2: [ I [ I <y, x:t>--->eA> l <e', x:t>--->eA'> < e1, A> 1 < >..x:s.e, A'> < e[nxjx], [nx:s >---> e2IA' > l < e', A"> OS_Appl: ) <(e1e2,A> l <e',A"> Ifl'r < e1,A > l <true, A'> < e2,A' > l < e',A" > ue: --~--~~-~~~~~-~~-~-­ < if(et,e2,ea),A > l < e',A" > I L'r.\ 1 < e1,A > l <false, A'> < ea,A' > l < e',A" > trase· ------~--~~-~-~~----- . < if(et,e2,ea),A > l < e',A" > R < e[nxjx], [nx:s >---> JlX:t.eiA > 1 < e',A' > oc: A 1 'A' < JlX:t.e, > < e , > CL: < e, [x:t >---> et]B > 1 < e', [x:t >---> e~IB' >, e' is neither nat nor bool << e, [x:t >---> e1l >, B > 1 << e', [x:t >---> e~l >, B' > CL': < e, [x:t >---> etiB > 1 < e', [x:t >---> e~IB' >, e' is nat or bool << e, [x:t >---> e1l >, B > 1 < e', B' > Figure 6.4: The operational semantics of LAZY-PCF+SHAR CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 76 The rules in Figure 6.4 are rules to reflect the operational semantics of the language. There is a set N F of expressions which represents the normal form of expressions in the language. It is as follows: N F = 0 I true I false I succn(o) I F F = >..x:t.e I < F, [x:t ,..... e1] > 6.4 Special features of this domain One special feature of this domain is the logic for proving properties. In this domain the rules for operational semantics are not enough to reflect the requirement of the proving of properties. How to design the tool for this kind of domain specific reasoning? We know that many domains have not clear logic for proving properties. Domain users usually use an informal logic for their reasoning. In fact, LF and UTT themselves are good candidate for being a logic. For this kind of domains, we discuss the representation mainly, and let the logic to be the logic of that of LF or UTT. So we use Plastic directly in this domain by using Plastic's interface (i.e. the interface customized in Proof General). Therefore the main work for this kind of domains is the formalization work. 6.5 An implementation of LAZY-PCF+SHAR in LF We use LF as the meta-language to represent expressions of the object language LAZY- PCF +SHAR. In our encoding here, we focus on the reflection of the explicit substitution. 6.5.1 Translation from LAZY-PCF+SHAR expressions and types to LF expressions 6.5.1.1 Inductive definition of the syntax of LAZY-PCF+SHAR The following module Syntax is our inductive definition of the syntax of LAZY-PCF +SHAR in LF. > module Syntax where; (****************************************************************************) (* syntax.lf: Inductive definition of the syntax (* of LAZY-PCF+SHAR (* Includes types, variables and terms (****************************************************************************) > import Pi; > import Nat; CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 77 > Inductive > [Ty : Type] > Constructors nat_Ty : Ty] [ bool_Ty : Ty] > > > [ arr: (e1: Ty)(e2: Ty)Ty]; > Inductive > [Vari : Type] > Constructors > [X : (i: El Nat)Vari] ; > Inductive > [Tm : Type] > Constructors > > > > > > > > > > > > : : (tm1 (tm1 (v : (tm1 (tm1 Tm)(tm2 : Tm)(tm2 : El Vari)Tm] Tm)Tm] Tm)Tm] Tm)Tm] Tm)(tm3 natural numbers boolean values function types zero true false lambda abstractions function applications if e1 then e2 else e3 variables successor predecessor zero test fixed point operator Tm)Tm] ; > --closure, <x,[x:t->e]> 6.5.1.2 Translation of operational semantics rules The following module OSrules expresses the operational semantics rules in LF. > module OSrules where; (****************************************************************************) ( * OSrules .lf (* CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 78 (* This file contains the definition of the operational (* semantics rules for LAZV-PCF+SHAR, as well as a definition (* of the Ap function and some related properties. (****************************************************************************) > import Typecheck; > import Rename; (************************************************) (* OScons (abbrev.) (OScons v t e A) (cons VTT <VT,tm>(<vari,ty>(v,t),e) A) (************************************************) > [OScons = [v: El Vari] [t : El Ty] [e : El Tm] [A: El OS_env] > cons VTT (pair VT Tm (pair Vari Ty v t) e) A] ; (********************************************************) (* Ap: (* (* (* (* (* (* (* *) Inductively defines the relation characterised by *) the Ap function. *) *) (Ap a FA F' n t) <--> Ap(F,a)=<F',[n:t->a]> *) New variables may not come from *) the Domain of OS env A. *) *) (********************************************************) > Inductive > [Ap : (ptml,ptm2: El Tm)(pose: El OS_env)(ptm3: El Tm) > (pv: El Vari)(pt: El Ty) El Prop] > Relation_LE > Constructors > [Ap_abs: (nv,v:El Vari)(t: El Ty)(a,e,ne: El Tm)(A: El OS_env) > (pl: El (Prf(not (member Vari nv (OS_Dom A))))) > (p2: El (Prf(Rename nv v e ne))) > > > > [Ap_clos: Prf( Ap a Cabs v t e) A ne nv t)] (n,v:El Vari)(s,t: El Ty)(a,e,ne,el: (pl: Prf (Ap a e (OScons v s el A) Prf (Ap a (clos e v s el) A (clos El Tm)(A: El OS_env) ne n t)) ne v s el) n t)]; CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+Sl-IAR 79 (****************************************) (* OSrules *) (* *) (* Definition of Operational Semantics *) (* *) (* <e,A> -> <e' ,A'> *) (* *) (****************************************) > Inductive > [OSred : (confl:El Config)(conf2: El Config)El Prop] > Relation_LE > Constructors > [OS_CO: (A: El OS_env)Prf(OSred (cfg o A) (cfg o A))] > [OS_CT: (A: El OS_env)Prf(OSred (cfg ttt A) (cfg ttt A))] > [OS_CF: (A: El OS_env)Prf(OSred (cfg fff A) (cfg fff A))] > [OS_L: (A: El OS_env)(e : El Tm)(t: El Ty)(x: El Vari) > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > [OS_PO: [OS_P: [OS_ZT: [OS_ZF: [OS_S: Prf(OSred (cfg (abs x t e) A) (cfg (abs x t e) (A,A1: El OS_env)(e: El Tm) (p1: Prf(OSred (cfg e A) (cfg o A1))) Prf(OSred (cfg (prd e) A) (cfg o Al))] (A,Al: El OS_env)(e,el: El Tm) (pl: Prf(OSred (cfg e A) (cfg (sue e1) A1))) Prf(OSred (cfg (prd e) A) (cfg e1 Al))] (A,A1: El OS_env)(e: El Tm) (p1: Prf(OSred (cfg e A) (cfg o Al))) Prf(OSred (cfg (is_o e) A) (cfg ttt Al))] (A,A1: El OS_env)(e,el: El Tm) (p1: Prf(OSred (cfg e A) (cfg (sue el) A1))) Prf(OSred (cfg (is_o e) A) (cfg fff Al))] (A,Al: El OS_env)(e,el: El Tm) (p1: Prf(OSred (cfg e A) (cfg e1 Al))) > Prf(OSred (cfg (sue e) A) (cfg (sue el) A1))] A))] > [OS_Var1: (A,Al: El OS_env)(e,el: El Tm)(t:El Ty)(x: El Vari) > (pl: El (Prf(not (member Vari x (OS_Dom A))))) > (p2: Prf(OSred (cfg e A) (cfg el Al))) > Prf(OSred (cfg (var x) (OScons x t e A)) > (cfg el (OScons x t e1 A1)))] > [OS_Var2: (A,Al: El OS_env)(e,el: El Tm)(t:El Ty)(x,y: El Vari) > (pl : El (Prf (not (Eq Vari x y)))) CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF +SHAR 80 > (p2: El (Prf(not (member Vari x (OS_Dom A))))) > (p3: Prf(OSred (cfg (var y) A) (cfg ei Ai))) > Prf(OSred (cfg (var y) (OScons x t e A)) > (cfg ei (OScons x t e Ai)))] > [OS_Appl: (A,Ai,A2: El OS_env)(ei,e2,eni,en2,enf: El Tm) > (t:El Ty)(n: El Vari) > (pi : Prf (OSred (cfg ei A) (cfg eni Ai))) > (p2: El (Prf(Ap e2 eni A en2 n t))) > (p3: Prf(OSred (cfg (clos en2 n t e2) Ai) (cfg enf A2))) > Prf(DSred (cfg (appl ei e2) A) (cfg enf A2))] > [DS_IfTrue: (A,Ai,A2: El OS_env)(ei,e2,e3,en: El Tm) > (pi : Prf (OSred (cfg ei A) (cfg ttt Ai))) > (p2 : Prf (OSred (cfg e2 Ai) (cfg en A2))) > Prf(DSred (cfg (cond ei e2 e3) A) (cfg en A2))] > [OS_IfFalse: (A,Ai,A2: El OS_env)(ei,e2,e3,en: El Tm) > (pi : Prf (OSred (cfg ei A) (cfg fff Ai))) > (p2 : Prf (OSred (cfg e3 Ai) (cfg en A2))) > Prf(OSred (cfg (cond ei e2 e3) A) (cfg en A2))] > [OS_Fix: (A,Ai: El OS_env)(e,ei,en: El Tm)(t:El Ty)(x,nx: El Vari) > (pi: El (Prf(not (member Vari nx (OS_Dom A))))) > (p2: El (Prf (Rename nx x e ei))) > (p3: Prf(OSred (cfg (clos ei nx t (fix x t e)) A) > (cfg en Ai))) > Prf(OSred (cfg (fix x t e ) A) (cfg en Ai))] > [OS_CL: (A,A1: El OS_env)(e,e1,en,e2: El Tm)(s,t:El Ty)(x: El Vari) > (p1: Prf(OSred (cfg e (OScons x t e1 A)) > (cfg en (OScons x t e2 A1)))) > (p2: El (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x t e1 A)) en s))) > (p3: El (Prf (not (or (Eq Ty s nat_Ty) (Eq Ty s bool_Ty))))) > Prf(DSred (cfg (clos e x t ei ) A) (cfg (clos en x t e2) A1))] > [OS_CL': (A,Ai: El OS_env)(e,e1,en,e2: El Tm)(s,t:El Ty)(x: El Vari) > (p1: Prf(OSred (cfg e (OScons x t ei A)) > (cfg en (OScons x t e2 A1)))) > (p2: El (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x t e1 A)) ens))) > (p3: El (Prf (or (Eq Ty s nat_Ty) (Eq Ty s bool_Ty)))) > Prf(DSred (cfg (clos e x t e1 ) A) (cfg en A1))]; CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR81 6.5.2 An example Using the above definition we can prove semantic properties of LAZY-PCF+SHAR. We have proved many properties related to LAZY-PCF +SHAR. The successful proofs of these properties reflect the power and suitability of Plastic as the reasoning tool for this domain. To show these, we introduce some definitions firstly. Definition 13 (Type Context of an Environment) Context([ ]) =l_ Context([x:t >--+ e]A) = Context(A)[t/x] where l_ is the mapping that is undefined for each variable. Definition 14 (Dom) Dom(H) is used to denote the domain of a context Hand Dom( A) is used to denote the set of variables which have bindings in the operational semantics environment A. Definition 15 (Context extension) 1. H is an extension of H; 2. if H' is an extension of Hand x '/. Dom(H'), then H'[t/x] is an extension of H. We can also define this more formally as: 1. HI-H 2. if H' 1- H and x '/. Dom(H'), then H'[t/x]l- H. The following is a semantic property described in LF: Ap(a, fun, A) =< b, [n:t >--+a] > -> n '/. Dom(A) This property shows the following fact: while applying a function fun to an expression a if the environment variable n is used to represent the expression a, then n should not be in the environment before the applying. We give this property a name "ApNewVar", and present a proof in Plastic as the following. The motivation of showing this code here is just to let reader know the profile of the proof. For further understanding please refer to the manual of Plastic [Callaghan, 2000a]. >Claim ApNewVar : (a,fun,b: El Tm)(A: El OS_env)(n : El Vari)(t: El Ty) > (pl: El (Prf (Ap a fun A b n t))) > Prf (not (member Varin (OS_Dom A))); > Intros a fun b A n t pl; > Refine E_Ap ([a,fun:El Tm] [A: El OS_env] [b:El Tm] [n: El Vari] [t:El Ty] > Prf(not (member Vari n (OS_Dom A)))) ? ? a fun A b n t pl; > 2 Intros nv; CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR82 > Intros v t1 tm1 e ne A1 pr1 pr2; > Refine pr1; > ReturnAll; > Intros n1 v s t1 a1 e ne e1 A1 pr1 pr2; > Refine LL; > Intros H; > Refine App ? ? pr2 ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_inr ? ? ) ?• . ' > Refine H; > ReturnAll ; > ApNewVar; Now we discuss the proof of a main theorem- Subject Reduction theorem. First, we need to give some necessary definitions and lemmas. Definition 16 (Valid environments) 1. [ J is a valid environment. 2. If A is a valid environment and Context(A) 1- e:t, then [x:t,...... e]A is a valid environ- ment. This definition implies that the free variables of an expression bound in a valid environ- ment must be bound in the remainder of the environment. This is due to the fact that if an expression has a type in some type context then the free variables of that expression occur in the domain of the type context. The definition of valid environments can be extended to configurations by requiring that the environment of a configuration is valid and that the expression of the configuration has some type in the type context of the environment. Definition 17 (Valid configumtions) If A is a valid environment and for some t, Context( A) 1- e:t, then < e, A > is a valid configumtion. This concept is very important. Because the operational semantics are designed to yield meaningful results only when they are applied to valid configurations. Lemma 6.5.1 If< e,A >!< e',A' >,then Context(A') 1- Context(A). Proof The proof is by induction on the height of the inference justifying < e,A >!< e',A' >. Q.E.D. This lemma shows that if one configuration evaluates to another configuration, then the type context of the second environment extends the type context of the first environment. CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR83 Theorem 6.5.1 (Subject Reduction Theorem) JfContext(A) f- e:t, A is valid, and< e,A >l< e',A' >,then Context(A') f- e':t, and A' is valid. Proof The proof is carried out by case analysis on the inference justifying < e, A > 1 < e', A' > and relevant inductions. The proof is very big, please refer to the appendix A for further details. Q.E.D. The theorem shows that the evaluation preserves the type. In other words the type of an expression is the same as the type of its normal form. 6.6 Discussion Generally speaking, we have done the following tasks in the case study for this domain. • An analysis on the concepts of the domain, especially on the features of functional programming and explicit substitution; • A formalization of the concepts of the domain, this includes the definitions of the relevant concepts in LF, the proofs of the relevant lemmas etc. • An explanation of how to do reasoning in this domain, this includes the proofs of many relevant domain properties. This case study also gives us a deep understanding of the application of proof assistant Plastic. We learn a lot of features of Plastic in doing domain-specific reasoning. • The case study shows that proof assistants are suitable to some domains directly. Our approach does not exclude this direct use. For this kind of domains, the suitability of our approach is depended on the power and suitability of the underlying proof assistant (here is Plastic). Our conclusion is: the Plastic system is qualified to be an underlying system. • The case study can also be seen as a big application of Plastic. Because it includes a lot of formalization work and proof work. • The metavariable mechanism provided by Plastic is very useful in doing proofs. It gives us a very flexible means when we want to conquer difficult problems. For example, using this mechanism we can prove some temporary lemmas in the environment of the proof procedure of the main property. This concords with the reasoning habit of human being. CHAPTER 6. CASE STUDY: VERIFICATION OF SEMANTIC PROPERTIES OF LAZY-PCF+SHAR 84 • Compare with proofs by hand, doing proofs in Plastic is stricter and more convincing. But the proofs in Plastic are not as understandable as the proofs by hand. But for this domain this shortcoming can be relieved by using a well defined formalization of the domain. For the domain such as we discussed in chapter 5 this shortcoming can be relieved by using a well defined domain specific interface. • Compare with Coq and Lego, doing proof in Plastic is overloaded with details. The reason is that Plastic is a concise implementation of LF. There are no many modules accompanied Plastic inherently. But this is also a merit of Plastic, because it forces its user to customize a fitted one for his application. This avoids users from using extra properties inherited from the proof assistant. Chapter 7 The interface Only those who have the patience to do simple things perfectly ever acquire the skill to do difficult things easily. -FRIEDRICH SCHILLER, GERMAN DRAMATIST AND POET. In this chapter we investigate the aspects of interface related to this approach. We focus on the principle of the design and implementation. 7.1 Design principle 7.1.1 General principle for designing domain user interface Jakob Nielsen [Nielsen, 2005] presented ten general principles for design of user interface. They are called "heuristics" because they are more in the nature of rules of thumb than specific usability guidelines. The following are the ten general principles. • Visibility of system status: The system should always keep users informed about what is going on, through appropriate feedback within reasonable time. • Match between system and the real world: The system should speak the users' lan- guage, with words, phrases and concepts familiar to the user, rather than system- oriented terms. Follow real-world conventions, making information appear in a natural and logical order. • User control and freedom: Users often choose system functions by mistake and will need a clearly marked "emergency exit" to leave the unwanted state without having to go through an extended dialogue. Support undo and redo. • Consistency and standards: Users should not have to wonder whether different words, situations, or actions mean the same thing. Follow platform conventions. 85 CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 86 • Error prevention: Even better than good error messages is a careful design which prevents a problem from occurring in the first place. • Recognition rather than recall: Make objects, actions, and options visible. The user should not have to remember information from one part of the dialogue to another. Instructions for use of the system should be visible or easily retrievable whenever appropriate. • Flexibility and efficiency of use: Accelerators - unseen by the novice user - may often speed up the interaction for the expert user such that the system can cater to both inexperienced and experienced users. Allow users to tailor frequent actions. • Aesthetic and minimalist design: Dialogues should not contain information which is irrelevant or rarely needed. Every extra unit of information in a dialogue competes with the relevant units of information and diminishes their relative visibility. • Help users recognize, diagnose, and recover from errors: Error messages should be ex- pressed in plain language (no codes), precisely indicate the problem, and constructively suggest a solution. • Help and documentation: Even though it is better if the system can be used without documentation, it may be necessary to provide help and documentation. Any such information should be easy to search, focused on the user's task, list concrete steps to be carried out, and not be too large. The above ten principles give us a good guide to design general interface. But for different domains and different kind of users the relevant interfaces should have their own principles. 7.1.2 Principle for designing a reasoning interface based on LF We follow the above principles and consider the speciality of our system. The design of an interface to help LF based reasoning depends on the intended users. Novices need some way to define the goal, to view the result of the reasoning and to provide reasoning guidance. They want a simple interface with limited functionality, so that they do not become confused and/or issue instructions at variance with their intentions. More experienced users may also require ways to define new theories, to browse through libraries of theorems, definitions, etc and to switch between one part of a proof attempt and another. System developers want access to the underlying system. They want multiple views onto the underlying system and reasoning process and want a rich functionality. So different focus leads to different style of interface. But in general a good interface must: assist users to understand the current reasoning attempt; provide mechanisms for them to interact with the reasoning process; avoid bewildering them with too much information, while providing what is required; and help them explore their options without imposing too high a cognitive load. For our design of the domain-specific interface, we focus on the following issues: CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 87 • Use LF as the underlying meta-theory. • Provide domain-specific user-friendly notations and reasoning with no acquaintance with the underlying meta-theory. • Can be customized to many domains. So, the major design principles of LFTOP are as follows: • Suitable to several domain-specific reasoning system without many changes of their code. • Support communications between different levels. • Reuse of customizing steps. • High level user level language with automated translation into the underlying meta- language. • Support a variety of user interfaces (GUI, command line). • Multiple views: Different views make different information and manipulation of infor- mation explicit and easy to understand. A declarative representation of a proof, such as a proof term, can have advantages over a procedural representation of a proof, such as a list of tactics. Representing a proof at a high level of abstraction may make its structure clearer. Domain-specific proof support may extend as far as providing views which visualize objects at the level of domain users. More concretely, we are interested in the following principles: Principle 1: There should be a number of complementary views of the proof construction and the user should be able to choose to see any number of the views simultaneously. Principle 2: Within any view the user should be able to invoke operations that are meaningful in that view. Principle 3: For multiple-part commands the interface should provide defaults for any variables that the user does not specify. Principle 4: If there is a choice for the default values then the option which results in the simplest proof step and the easiest to undo should be chosen. Principle 5: There should be a high level of flexibility in which the user can articulate commands to the prover. Principle 6: The user interface should support the user by displaying only infor- mation that is relevant in the current state. Principle 7: The user interface should support several concurrent proof construc- tions. CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 88 We can divide these to the following three levels: • At first, most immediate level, an interface should be designed to make the customary interactions with the theorem prover as convenient as possible. • Secondly, somewhat deeper level, an interface should provide supplementary services in the theorem prover itself. • Thirdly, even deeper level, an interface should provide derived proof rules that allow the user to reason in familiar ways, e.g., using its favorite logic and syntax. In order to implement a useful interface, we have done the following: • The translation from the user level domain-specific language to LF. • The translation from the user level commands to Plastic commands, tacticals or proved lemmas. • The maintenance of the correspondences between the two levels. These include map- pings between the rules, definitions, and induction schemas used by both levels, as well as the correspondences between explicit terms used in the proofs performed by both levels. • The communication protocols between the two· levels, Our design of the interface is implemented in Haskell and through two different ways. One is using Proof General as the based tool, the other is implemented directly in Java. 7.2 ULPIP: a protocol for communications between user-level and Plastic-level Communications between user-level and Plastic-level need a protocol. We have designed a protocol called ULPIP for conducting the User-Level to Plastic-level Interactive Proof. A proof using this protocol may have the following parts: • Proof begins by issuing a target claim 1 • Proof proceeds by successive proof steps • Proofs in different levels keep correspondence. This protocol should have a good extensibility to different domains. Our case studies try to confirm this point. 1on different level the claim has different form CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 89 7.2.1 Usage of eXtensible Markup Language (XML) XML is a descriptive markup language. It is used popularly in the area of data exchange and memory. Now it is one of the main tools for publishing and assembling information in the internet. XML provides both programmers and authors of document with a friendly environment. XML's rigid set of rules helps make documents more readable to both humans and machines. XML is extensible. It allows developers to create their own DTDs[Laurent, 1999] which create extensible tag sets and can be used for many applications. This presents us a clear flexible means to represent and understand a protocol. Meanwhile Aspinall's work [Aspinall, 2000] [Aspinall and Liith, 2003] inspired us to use XML to do this. In fact, the main reason why we use XML to describe the protocol is that it can offer the following properties we want: • Platform independent: XML is platform independent. If there is an XML parser available on the system, the XML description can be used. If there is no suitable XML parser available for your target platform, XML is so simple that writing your own parser is fairly easy; • Consistent: through the usage of DTD, XML can be consistent. A DTD specifies a set of rules for the XML file to follow; • Rapid prototyping: using a stylesheet the results can be seen immediately in a browser; • Constraint definitions: XML can contain constraint definitions; as well for the form of the XML itself, as for external resources we can add constraint definitions; • Easily extensible: because XML is a metalanguage, it is by nature an extensible lan- guage; • Reusability: it is relatively easy to fit an existing piece of XML into another. 7.2.2 DTD for XML documents The basic unit of XML documents is element. An element consists of a start tag, contents and an end tag. The start tag is at the beginning of the element with the form < tag- name>. The end tag is at the end of the element with the form < jtag- name>. An element can be nested defined. Document type definition (DTD) is usually used to present a set of constraint rules for an XML document. A constraint rule is called a declaration of an element. A DTD of an XML document will indicate the legal elements, the correct order of the elements and some constraint rules which the elements should satisfy. A declaration of an element consists of the parts which are quoted by "<>", "!ELEMENT" is followed by the name of the element. The structure of an XML document can be represented by a tree. The root note is the root element of the DTD, the other notes are the other elements of the DTD, the leaves of CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 90 the tree are of the basic element types (#PCDATA or #CDATA 2 ). We created our DTDs for the definition of the protocol. DTDs present a clear picture of the protocol syntax, and, especially with a validating parser, can enforce very precise syntactic requirements. Flexibility in adding or changing a protocol is particularly important when designing new functions. This is an area where the XML approach really stands out. It is very simple matter to modify the DTDs, change a dispatch table in the code, and test a new feature or command; it is certainly much easier than modifying ad hoc parsing code. In fact, this flexibility invites software re-use as well. 7.2.3 DTD for the protocol We benefited from XML and HaXml (a Haskell package for XML) in our protocol design and implementation. Using a DTD file the messages can be divided into several classes. But they can be distinguished in two parts: those sent to Plastic and those originating from Plastic. Messages sent to Plastic include configuration commands, actual proof commands and commands for inspecting various aspects of Plastic state( e.g. the Entity %reqcmd in the following DTD file). Messages sent from Plastic consist of error dialogues or status display and messages to configure user-level components( e.g. the Entity %respcmd in the following DTD file). The following is part of the DTD file for our simple protocol: <?xml version= 11 1.0 11 encoding= 11 UTF-8 11 ?> <!-- DTD for ULPIP, the protocol for User Level system and Plastic --> <!ENTITY %reqcmd 11 setmodule I setimport setdef I setg I getng I getst I getccxt I runtact I undo I end 11 > <!ENTITY %respcmd 11 ng I ok I err I cctxt 11 > <!ENTITY %plasticmsg 11 askulpmlver I askprefset I resetpref I setpref I getpref 11 > <!ENTITY %ulmsg 11 tellulpmlver I tellprefset I tellprefval 11 > <!ELEMENT ulpip ( %reqcmd; I %respcmd; I %plasticmsg; I %ulmsg; )* > <!ATTLIST ulpip version CDATA #IMPLIED 2 PCDATA stands for "parsed character data" and CDATA stands for "character data" that contains no mark-up. PCDATA is used for entity element content and CDATA is used for attributes CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE receiver CDATA #REQUIRED origin CDATA #IMPLIED systemid CDATA #IMPLIED> <!-- request command message --> <!ELEMENT setmodule EMPTY > <!ATTLIST setmodule name CDATA #REQUIRED > <!ELEMENT setimport EMPTY > <!ATTLIST setimport name CDATA #REQUIRED > <!ELEMENT setdef (#PCDATA) > <!ATTLIST setdef name CDATA #REQUIRED > <!ELEMENT setg (#PCDATA) > <!ATTLIST setg name CDATA #REQUIRED > <!ELEMENT getng EMPTY> <!ELEMENT getst EMPTY> <!ELEMENT getccxt EMPTY> <!ELEMENT runtact (#PCDATA) > <!ELEMENT undo EMPTY> <!ELEMENT end EMPTY> <!-- response command message --> <!ELEMENT ng (goal)*> <!ELEMENT goal (#PCDATA)> <!ATTLIST goal name CDATA #IMPLIED > 91 CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 92 <!ELEMENT ok EMPTY> <!ELEMENT err (#PCDATA)> <!ATTLIST err code CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT cctxt (newctxt, lostctxt)> <!ELEMENT newctxt (defctxt I hypctxt I goalctxt )*> <!ELEMENT defctxt (defname, defterm, deftype)> <!ELEMENT hypctxt (hypname, hyptype)> <!ELEMENT goalctxt (goalname, goal type)> <!ELEMENT defname (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT defterm (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT deftype (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT hypname (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT hyptype (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT goalname (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT goaltype (#PCDATA)> <!ELEMENT lostctxt (defctxt I hypctxt I goalctxt )*> <!-- configuration message --> <!ELEMENT askulpmlver EMPTY> <!ELEMENT askprefset EMPTY> <!ATTLIST askprefset class CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT resetpref EMPTY> <!ATTLIST resetpref CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE class CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT setpref (#PCDATA)> <!ATTLIST setpref name CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT getpref EMPTY> <!ATTLIST getpref name CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT tellulpmlver EMPTY> <!ATTLIST tellulpmlver version CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT tellprefset EMPTY> <!ATTLIST tellprefset type CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT tellprefval EMPTY> <!ATTLIST tellprefval name CDATA #REQUIRED> <!ELEMENT br EMPTY> 93 The reason why we include DTD's in XML documents, is that the DTD is a vocabulary of the XML elements that we use. It lets us do validation in our XML document and it also describes what kind of element for example the 'goalname' element is (e.g. is it PCDATA ?) . From the contents of the DTD file we can see that this design has some advantages in readability of code both to human being and machine. This provides a good foundation to the concrete implementation. To model our protocol faithfully in Haskell, the tool HaXML is used. From the above DTD file, HaXML generates a series of Haskell datetypes, one for each element, along with functions to read and write XML. So the type security given by the DTD extends into our program, detecting the reception of invalid XML immediately and making it nearly impossible to send messages containing invalid XML. CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 94 7.3 Implementation issues in our design 7.3.1 Some considerations on the implementation issues We have the following considerations on the implementation issues: • We should remember the user proof in the interface other than forget it. • The construction of a proof is often a trial-and-error process, and keeping track of the current partial proof helps the step back and redo certain parts of it as the proof is being constructed. • Proof editing and maintenance is an important feature of an interface. Could we use Proof General in our interface? The answer is yes. We have implemented the interface in two different ways, one is using JAVA and Haskell, the other is using Haskell and Proof General. The first way is more complex than the second one, but it's more specific. The implementation of the second way is simple, it provides a unified Proof General style interface. 7.3.2 An interface in Proof General style Figure 7.1 is a screenshot of our prototype of the interface in Proof General style: From the figure 7.1 we can see that LFTOP can be used directly as a domain-specific reasoning tool by domain users. In this figure we show two different windows, one is a window of definitions and commands for domain users, the other is an information window for showing the corresponding information on Plastic level. So, if domain users really care about the process of the underlying reasoning, it is very easy from this window. This provides a convenient means to learn how to do reasoning directly in Plastic . 7.4 Discussion We have so far presented the principles which we follow in the design of our interface and some issues of implementation. The main idea is to reflect our view of the approach. Our prototype of implementation is based on the above principles. XML presents us a platform independent extendible language for representing protocols. It is easier both to human being and machine to understand the protocol. This can get a more accurate implementation. We are inspired by Aspinall's work for Proof General Kit [Aspinall, 2005b]. But our focus is different from his work. Our purpose is to facilitate different specific domains to one proof assistant, not like Proof General Kit which tries to provide facilities to many different proof assistant other than different domains. Through the study of this chapter, we got the following results: 1. An analysis of the issues related to design of interface; CHAPTER 7. THE I NTERFACE 1~ <(l:ero)>(lfu I {-JZ) 1 (nil Labol))) Prop (llt1'8gnu (EIIptyaet State) (La_ rora roB (JS :El rora)l))) PIIOTOCOL1)) Figure 7.1: A screenshot of the interface in Proof General style 95 CHAPTER 7. THE INTERFACE 96 2. A better understanding on the issues of the interface; 3. A protocol for communications between user level and Plastic level. Our implementation is just a simple prototype and is in a preliminary stage. Many improvements are needed. For example, from the domain user's point of view: 1. There is no easy way for interoperability with other tools. 2. Not enough domain-specific options are provided. 3. There is no mechanism for domain users to customize their favorite style and commands of reasoning. 4. The output from Plastic has not been well organised and decorated yet. We hope that the protocols and components will be improved in stages by successive generalization to more specific domains. Chapter 8 Translation • Issues Eternal truths will be neither true nor eternal unless they have fresh meaning for every new social situation. - FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT, AMERICAN PRESIDENT Translation between different levels in this approach is very important. How to guarantee the successful forward and backward translation is one of the main problems which should be solved in the approach. A good correspondence between these levels is a critical issue. 8.1 Some problems in translations One interesting question is the effect of computation on the translation. Originally, we intended that the translation is a bi-directional map between the object language and a subset LFr of the framework language LF. It was suggested that manipulation of terms in LFr results in further terms in LFr, e.g. that LFr is closed under computation. In fact it is incorrect. We found a counter-example as mentioned in [Pang et a!., 2002], that is the subst problem. Our revised model is shown in figure 8.1, where a superset LFM of LFr contains terms which can result from manipulations of terms in LFr, either by computation or by appear- ing as a sub-goal after a rule application, but that LFM can be mapped back to LFr by computation involving a distinguished set of operators. Such operators will be elements of the formalization whose purpose is to explain manipulations on terms, but don't correspond to observable phenomena in the domain, hence should not necessarily be shown to users. The aforementioned subst fits this pattern. Dr. Callaghan had studied this problem and found a way to solve it. This idea was embodied in the new version of Plastic. Plastic now implements a normalization operation which removes the obvious use of a set of operations by computation. So the above subst is removed in the relevant terms after this kind of 97 CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 98 Object Language Subset L~ as a middle area Subset LFr used in translation Figure 8.1: Mapping between domain-specific object language and a subset of LF normalization operation. This feature of Plastic presents a good method to keep the corre- spondence between the user level and LF level. Using this feature and forcing the use of lemmas or tactics relevant to domains, the results are guaranteed to be in terms of LFr. 8.2 The translation from user level to LF level We use [ (r, -)] to express the translation map in the context r. For translations which are not dependent on the context, we omit the context item. The translation is implemented by parsing and translating in our Haskell and Happy program. Next we'll discuss the case of concurrency mainly. Of course, for the case of Chapter 6, as there is no distinction of the LF layer and user layer, the translations are not needed. 8.2.1 The case of concurrency In this subsection we discuss the translations of the relevant elements in concurrency. 8.2.1.1 The translation of the predefined actions The actions in CC S on the user level have three different forms: • tau which express the idling or internal action; • string which is not ended with - to express base action; • string which is ended with - to express complement action. We have the predefined actions named by one, two, ... ,ten; and one-,two-, ... ,ten-on the user level for convenience. These actions can be used without declaration. In fact we can expand the predefined actions by giving the definition of the same string on the LF level. CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES We use the following types to express actions on LF level. > [Base = Nat] ; > Inductive > [Actb:Type] > Constructors > [base : (b: El Base)Actb] > [comp: (b :El Base)Actb]; > Inductive > [Act:Type] > Constructors > [tau:Act] > [act:(a:El Actb)Act]; The translation is: { if [a] = ::~ (base a) if act (comp b) if a is tau; a is not ended with -; a is b-; 8.2.1.2 The translation of the list of hidden actions gg For the list of hidden actions (They should be base actions), we have a quite direct translation as follows: [] = (nil Actb) [a, A]= (cons Actb (base a) [A]) where (nil Actb) is the empty list of type Actb on the level of LF. 8.2.1.3 The translation of the list of relabelling For the list of relabelling (it is needed to consider just base actions ), we have a quite direct translation as follows: []=(nil (Pair Base Base)) [a/b, A]= (cons (Pair Base Base) (pair Base Base a b) [A]) 8.2.1.4 The translation of processes We use inductive type on LF level to formalize the basic concepts for CCS. For the following CCS syntax: E:: =Nil I X I a.E I El + E2 I EliE2 I E\L I E[f] I rec X.E Its formalization is like this: CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 100 > Inductive > [Process:Type] > Constructors > [Nil:Process] > [var:(v:El Var)Process] > [dot:(a:El Act)(E: Process)Process] > [choice:(El: Process)(E2: Process)Process] > [par:(El: Process)(E2: Process)Process] > [hide:(E: Process)(L:El (List Actb))Process] > [ren:(E: Process)(f: El (List (Pair Base Base)))Process] > [rae: (E: Process)Process]; The translation is: • [(r, Nil)D =Nil • [(r,X)] = { var n if X is the nth item in r, here n is a natural number on LF level to reflect deBruijn index; var X if X is not in r. • [(r,a.E)] =dot [a] [(f,E)] • [(r, El + E2)] =choice [(r, El)] [(r, E2)] • [(r,EliE2)] =par [(r,El)] [(r,E2)] • [(r, E\L)] =hide [(r, E)] [L] • [(r,E[J])] = ren [(r,E)] [!] • [(r, Rec X.E)] = rec [(X:r, E)] where X:f express putting X as the first element of the context. 8.2.1.5 The translation of p,-calculus The form of p,-calculus formula on the user level is like the following: F:: =A I FIIF I F&F I < K > F I [K]F I Mu Z.UF I Nu Z.UF where K is range over subsets of labels, U is a tag which is a subset of states. A is an assertion variable. For the form of p,-calculus formula on the user level, we have the corresponding definition on LF level as follows: CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES > [Pred = [A:Type](Pi_ A Prop)]; > [Form = Pred State]; > [Tag= Pred State]; > [VarF : Form]; > [MuOr = [A,B: Form] (Union State A B)]; > [MuAnd = [A,B: Form] (Meet State A B)]; > [MuDia = [K: Modality] [F: Form]( La_ State Prop ([s: State](Ex State > ([s': State] (and (MTRANS K s s') (ap_ State Prop F s'))))))]; > [MuBox = [K: Modality] [F: Form]( La_ State Prop ([s: State](FA State > ([s': State] ((MTRANS K s s') => (ap_ State Prop F s'))))))]; 101 > [MuTagnu = [T: Tag] [F: (Pi_ Form Form)]( La_ State Prop ([s: State](Ex Form > ([P: Form] (and (Subset State P (Union State (ap_ Form Form F P) T )) > (ap_ State PropPs))))))]; > [MuTagmu = [T: Tag] [F: (Pi_ Form Form)]( La_ State Prop ([s: State](FA Form > ([P: Form] ((Subset State (Minus State (ap_ Form Form F P) T) P) > => (ap_ State Prop P s))))))]; The translation is: • [VarFD = VarF • [fl&f2D = MuAnd [flD [f2D • [flllf2D = MuOr [fq [f2D • [[klfD = MuBox [kD [JD • [< k > !] = MuDia [kD [JD • [Mus st fD = MuTagnu [st] (La_ Form Form ([s:Form] [JD )) • [Nus st f] = NuTagnu [stD (La_ Form Form ([s:Form] [JD )) 8.2.1.6 The translation of propositions The claim to prove that a process has some property on the user level can be translated to a claim to prove a proposition on LF level. For the claim of the following form: pname: P 1- F where P is a process, F is a JJ-calculus formula and pname is a string as the name for this proof. We have: [pname: P 1- FD = Claim pname: Prf (ap_ State Prop [F] [([ ],P)D) where [ ] expresses the empty context. CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 102 8.2.1. 7 The translation of CC S and JL-calculus rules The CCS and JL-Calculus rules which are corresponding to the commands on the user level are translated to lemmas on LF level. There is a "one to one correspondence" between these commands on user level and lemmas on LF level. For example, if we want to use the rule Dia with s'· ~(s & s') • si-<K>'l> on the user level, we use the command "Rule Dia s' ", this is corresponding to the LF level lemma called lemma_dia_ccs, so the translation is: [Rule Dia s'D = Refine App ? ? (lemma_dia_ccs ? ? ? s' ?) ? where s' is a name of a definition for a process which we keep the same name on the two levels, ? is a place holder(i.e. an unnamed metavariable in Plastic). 8.2.2 The translation of definitions The definitions on user level are translated to the definitions on LF level. For example, for the process definition SENDER= P, we do the following translation: [SENDER= PD = [ SENDER = [([], P)] ] 8.2.3 The translation of declaration The declarations on user level are translated to the hypothesis on LF level. For example, for the declaration Act a,b ; we do the following translation: [Act a,bD = [ a,b: Act] 8.3 The translation from LF level to user level We use L- j to express this converse translation. Next we'll discuss the case of concurrency mainly. 8.3.1 The case of concurrency 8.3.1.1 The translation of actions For actions the translation is as follows: • L tau j = tau • L act (base i) j = i • L act (comp i) j = i- CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 8.3.1.2 The translation of processes For process, the translation is as follows: • l (r, Nil) J = Nil • l (r, var v) J = { ~ if X is the vth element in r; otherwise. • l (r, dot a p )J = laJ . l (r, p) J • l (r, choice pl p2 )J = l (r, pl) J + l (r, p2 )J • l (r, par pl p2) J = l (r, pi) J ll (r, p2) J • l (r, hide p L )J = l (r, p) J \ lLJ • l (r, ren p f) J = l (r, p )J [ l f J ] • l (r, rec p) J = rec X. l (X:r, p) J where X is a fresh symbol which is different from the elements of r. 8.3.2 The translation of some forms of propositions 103 For some forms of propositions, we recognize these forms and translate them back to the user level. Some of the forms and the corresponding translations are as follows: • l Prf (ap_ State Prop F P) J = l ([- ],P) J f- l F J • l Prf ( and pl p2 ) J = l pl J & l p2 J • l Prf ( MTRANS m pl p2 )J = l pl J - l m J -> l p2 J • l Prf ( TRANS a pl p2 )J = l pl J - l a J -> l p2 J In my mind, the rules, definitions and declarations need not be translated back. Because users already know them and type them by themselves. 8.4 The properties of the translations Lemma 8.4.1 The translations[-] and l- J satisfy the following property: for a user level action a, l [a] J = a. Proof Using the definitions of the translations, the proof proceeds by case analysis on the structure of action. Q.E.D. CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 104 Lemma 8.4.2 The translations [-] and l - J satisfy the following property: for a user level process p and context r, l [(r,p)] J = (r,p). Proof Using the definitions of the translations, the proof proceeds by induction on the structure of process. Q.E.D. Lemma 8.4.3 The translations [-] and l - J satisfy the following property: for a user level J.L-calculus formula F, l [F] J = F. Proof Using the definition of the translations, the proof proceeds by induction on the structure of J.L-calculus formula. Q.E.D. Lemma 8.4.4 The translations [-] and l - J satisfy the following property: for a user level proposition P, l [P] J = P. Proof Using the definition of the translations, the proof proceeds by induction on the structure of proposition. Q.E.D. 8.5 The proof of the adequacy property Theorem 8.5.1 Our translations[-] and l - J are adequate, i.e. they satisfy the following adequacy condition for inference: If G is a goal on the user level under assumptions A1. A2, ... Am; we use a command 8 on this goal and get G1, G2, ... , Gn as the subgoals on the user level. Then [G] is a goal on the LF level under assumptions [AI], [A2], ... [Am] , and after apply [8], we get G}, G2, ... , G~ as the subgoals, and l c: J = G;, [G;] = c: fori= 1,2, ... n. Where= express the syntactical equal under a conversion. Proof We prove this theorem by case analysis on the commands: • For the command "Fst h", we have [Fst h] =Refine App? ? p_fst h . The h must be a name for a hypothesis of the form "p & q" and the goal on the user level is p. After applying this command, the goal is solved (i.e. there is no subgoal). On the LF level, the goal is [p] and h is a name for a hypothesis of the form [p & q], After applying "Refine App ? ? p_fst h", the goal is solved; so the theorem holds for this case. A similar proof can be used to the command "Snd h". CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES • For the command "RDia s' " (i.e. Rule Dia s'), we have [RDia 81] = Refine App ? ? (lemma_dia_ccs ? ? ? s' ? ) ?. 105 The goal on the user level must be in the form of 8 I-< K > F. After applying this K command, the subgoals are: 81 I- F and 8 ---+ 81 • The goal on the LF level is: Prf ( ap_ Process Prop ( [<K> F]) [8]); after applying the corresponding command: "Refine App ? ? (lemma_dia_ccs? ? ? s' ? ) ?", the subgoals are : (Prf (ap_ State Prop [F] [8'] )) and (Prf (MTRANS [K] [8] [8'])), according to the definition of the translation L - J, we can see that: L (Prf (ap_ State Prop [F] [8'] )) J = 8 1 I-F, and L (Prf (MTRANS [K] [8] [8'])) J = 8 ~ 8 1 • By the definition of the translation [-],we know that: [81 I-F] = Prf (ap_ State Prop [F] [8'] ) and [8 ~ 8 1] = Prf (MTRANS [K] [8] [8']) So the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "RRec" (i.e. Rule Rec), we have [RRec] = Refine Rec, the goal on the user level must be in the form of (rec X.pl) ~ p2. After applying this command, the subgoal is: pl[(rec X.pl)/X] ~ p2. The goal on the LF level is: (Prf(TRANS [a] [rec X.pl] [p2])); after applying the corresponding command "Refine Rec", the subgoal is: (Prf(TRANS [a](8ub8t [pl] one (rec [pl])) [p2])). By our definition of L - J, we can see that: L (Prf (TRANS [a] (subst [pl] one (rec [pl])) [p2]) J = L ( L subst J [pl] one (rec [pl])) J ~ p2 = pl[(rec X.pl)/X] ~ p2. By our definition of[-] , we can see that: [pl[(rec X.pl)/X] ~ p2] = (Prf(TRANS [a](8ub8t [pl] one (rec [pl])) [p2]). So the theorem holds for this case. Remark: If the above (rec X.pl) are predefined using a name, then after using this command, the predefined name for this will be changed to (rec X.pl). • Consider the command "RDot" (i.e. Rule Dot), we have [RDot] = Refine Dot, the goal on the user level must be in the form of a.p ~ p. After applying this command, the goal is solved. The goal on the LF level is: (Prf(TRANS [a] [a.p] [p])); after applying the corresponding command "Refine Dot", the goal is solved. So the theorem holds for this case. • For the command "RTrue" (i.e. Rule True), we have [RTrue] = Refine lemma_true, the goal on the user level must be in the form of 8 I- tt. After applying this command, CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 106 the goal is solved. The goal on the LF level is: (Prf(ap_ State Prop Mutts)); after applying the corresponding command "Refine lemma_true", the goal is solved. So the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "RPair" (i.e. Rule Pair), we have [RPair] =Refine App? ? (App? ? p_pair ?) ?, the goal on the user level must be in the form of pl & p2. After applying this command, the subgoals are pl and p2. The goal on the LF level is: (Prf (and [pl]' [p2]')). where [pl] = (Prf ([pl]')) and [p2] = (Prf ([p2]')) ; after applying the corresponding command "Refine App ? ? (App ? ? p_pair ?) ?", the subgoals are (Prf ([pl]')) and (Prf ([p2]')). By the definition of[-], l- J and lemma 8.4.4, the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "RChol" (i.e. Rule Chol), we have [RChol] = Refine Chol, the goal on the user level must be in the form of: pl + p2 ~ q. After applying this command, the subgoal is: pl ~ q. The goal on the LF level is: (Prf (TRANS [a] [pl + p2] [q])); after applying the corresponding command "Refine Chol'', the subgoal is: (Prf (TRANS [a] [pl] [q])). By our definition of l- J, we can see that: l (Prf (TRANS [a] [pl] [q])) J = pl ~ q. By our definition of[-], we can see that: [pl ~ q] = (Prf (TRANS [a] [pl] [q])). So the theorem holds for this case. We can use the similar proof to the commands RChor, RParl, RParr, RHide, RHidet and RRen. • Consider the command RTaul n (i.e. Rule Taul n), we have [RTaul n] =Refine Taul n, the goal on the user level must be in the form of (pllp2) ~~ (qllq2). After applying this command, the subgoals are: pl ~ ql and p2 ~ q2. The goal on the LF level is : (Prf (TRANS [tau] [pllp2] [qllq2])); after applying the corresponding command "Refine Taul n", the subgoals are: (Prf (TRANS [n] [pl] [ql])) and (Prf (TRANS [n-] [p2] [q2])). By our definition of l - J, we can see that : l (Prf (TRANS [n] [pl] [ql])) J = pl ~ ql and l (Prf (TRANS [n-] [p2] [q2])) J = p2 ~ q2. By our definition of[-], we can see that: [pl ~ ql] = (Prf (TRANS [n] [pl] [ql])) and [p2 ~ q2] = (Prf (TRANS [n-] [p2] [q2])). So the theorem holds for this case. We can use the similar proof to the commands RTau2 n. CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES • Consider the command "RSinglein" (i.e. Rule Singlein), we have: [RSinglein~ =Refine App? ? Eq_refi ?, 107 the goal on the user level must be in the form of "s E { s }". After applying this command, the goal is solved. The goal on the LF level is : (Prf (Eq Bool (ModaLcheck s (Modal (cons Labels (nil Label)))) true)), after applying the corresponding command "Refine App ? ? Eq_refi ?", the goal is solved. So the theorem holds for this case. • For the command "RExintro a", we have: [RExintro a~ =Refine lemma_Exintro? ? ? a, the goal on the user level must be in the form of pl ~ p2. After applying this command, the subgoals are: "a E m" and "pl ~ p2". The goal on the LF level is: (Prf (MTRANS [m~ [pl~ [p2~)), after applying the corresponding command : "Refine lemma_Exintro ? ? ? a", the subgoals are: (Prf (Eq Bool (ModaLcheck [a~ [m~ ) true)) and (Prf (TRANS [a~ [pl~ [p2~)). By the definitions of l- J and [-~, we can see the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "Rend" (i.e. Rule end), because this rule does not be used to any goals, so the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "RHyp s" (i.e. Rule Hyp s), we have [RHyp s~ = Refines. The form of the goal on the user level depends on the hypothesis named by s. After using this command, the goal is solved. The form of the goal on LF level depends on the corresponding hypothesis of the same name s. After applying the corresponding command "Refine s", the goal is solved. So the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "RNuunfold" (i.e. Rule Nuunfold), we have: [RNuunfold] =Refine App? ? Nu_unfold ?. The goal on the user level must be in a form of "s 1- Nu x t f". After using this command, the subgoal is in a form of "s 1- f[(Nu x (tU{s}) f)/x]". The form of the goal on LF level is like (Prf (ap_ State Prop [NuX t n [sD)). After using the corresponding command "Refine App ? ? Nu_unfold ?", the subgoal is in a form of : "(Prf (ap_ State Prop (ap_ Form Form (La_ Form Form ([Z:EI Form] [f~ ) [(Nu x (tu{s}) fD))) [s~)) ". By the definitions of l - J and [-~ , we can see the theorem holds for this case. • Consider the command "RNubase" (i.e. Rule Nubase), we have: [RNubase~ = Refine App? ? Nu_base ?. The goal on the user level must be in a form of "s 1- Nu x t f". After using this command, the subgoal is in a form of "s E t". The form of the goal on LF level is like: CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 108 (Prf (ap_ State Prop [NuX t n [sm. After using the corresponding command "Refine App ? ? Nu_base ?", the subgoal is in a form of (Prf (ap_ State Prop [t] [s] )). By the definitions of l- J and[-], we can see the theorem holds for this case. e For the command "Rinr", we have [Rinr] =Refine App? ? p_inr ?. The goal on the user level must be in a form of "s E U + V". After using this command, the subgoal is in a form of "s E V". The form of the goal on LF level is like: (Prf (ap_ State Prop [U + V] [s])). After using the corresponding command "Refine App? ? p_inr ?", the subgoal is in a form of: (Prf (ap_ State Prop [V] [s] )). By the definition of l- J and [-],we can see the theorem holds for this case. We can use the similar proof for the command "Rinl". • For the command "Rbox s' h" (i.e. Rule box s' h), there is no corresponding lemma on the LF level, but a tactical which includes a relevant lemma. [Rbox s' h] = Refine lemma_box_ccs' Then_T (Intros s') Then_T (Intros h). The goal on the user level must be in a form of "s f- [K] F" . After applying this command, the subgoal is in a form of "s' f- F" with a hypothesis "s !5.. s' " named by h. The form of the goal on LF level is like (Prf (ap_ State Prop [[K] F] [s])). After applying the corresponding tactical, the subgoal is in a form of: (Prf (ap_ State Prop [F] [s'])) with a hypothesis (Prf (MTRANS [K] [s] [s'])) named by h. By the definitions of l- J and [-],we can see the theorem holds for this case. • For the command "Rinverdotl al a2" (i.e. Rule inverdotl al a2), we have: [Rinverdotl al a2] = Refine lemma_dot_eq_p' a2 al. The goal on the user level must be in a form of "pl = p2". After applying this command, the subgoal is in a form of "al.pl ~ p2". The form of the goal on LF level is like (Prf (Eq Process pl p2)). After applying the corresponding command, the subgoal is in a form of (Prf (TRANS [a2] [al.pl] [p2])). By the definitions of l- J and [-],we can see the theorem holds for this case. The similar proof can be used to the commands "Rinverrec a p pl p2", "Rinverchoi a pl p2 p " and "Rinverpar a pl p2 p". • For the command "Rvpair", we have [Rvpair]= Refine lemma_vpair. The goal on the user level must be in a form of "s f- Fl & F2". After applying this command, the subgoals are "s f- Fl" and "s f- F2". The form of the goal on LF level is like (Prf (ap_ State Prop [Fl&F2] [sm. After applying the corresponding command, the subgoals are (Prf (ap_ State Prop [Fl] [s])) and (Prf (ap_ State Prop [F2] [s])). By the definition of l - J and [-], we can see the theorem holds for this case. CHAPTER 8. TRANSLATION ISSUES 109 • For the command "Rhypchange h1 h2 h3", there is no corresponding lemma on the LF level, but a tactical: [Rhypchange hl h2 h3] = Refine App ? ? (App ? ? h1 ? ) Then_T (Refine LL Then_ T (lntros h2 Then_ T ( Refine LL Then_ T ( Intros h3 ) ) ) ) . This command just changes the hypothesis and does not affect the goal. So the theorem holds for this case. • For commands such as "RModule n" and "Rim port n", because there is no goal when these commands are used, so the theorem holds for these cases. • For the command "Req", we have [Req] = Refine App ? ? Eq_refl ?. The goal on the user level must be in a form of a1 = a2. After applying this command, the goal is solved. The form of the goal on LF level is like (Prf (Eq A a1 a2)). After applying the corresponding command "Refine App ? ? Eq_refl ?", the goal is solved. So the theorem holds for this case. • For the command "Rindn a p h", we have: [Rlndn a ph] = Refine E..Nat ([nl:Nat]Prf(TRANS [a] ( [p] nl) ( [p] (succ nl)))) Then_T (Intros n h). The goal on the user level must be in a form of "Allnat a p". After applying this command, the subgoal is like: "p (n + 1) ~ p ((n + 1) + 1)" with a hypothesis "p n ~ p (n + 1)" named by h. The goal on the LF level is like (n:El Nat)El (Prf (TRANS [a] ( [p] n) ( [p] (succ n)))). After applying the corresponding command, the subgoal is (Prf (TRANS [a] ( [p] (succ n)) ( [p] (succ (succ n))))) with a hypothesis "(Prf (TRANS [a] ( [p] n) ([p] (succ n))))". By the definitions of l - J and [-], we can see the theorem holds for this case. 8.6 Discussion Q.E.D. From the above description we can see that how to guarantee the forward and backward translation successfully is one of the main problem which should be solved in the approach. In this chapter we give a revised model for this problem and a concrete proof of an important theorem. We have proven the relevant lemmas and properties. The study of this chapter shows that the translations and the relevant methods and technologies are suitable to our purpose. Chapter 9 Conclusion and Future Work If you wish to succeed, you should use persistence as your good friend, experience as your reference, prudence as your brother and hope as your sentry. - THOMAS EDISON, AMERICAN INVENTOR This thesis has presented an approach to domain specific reasoning. The case studies in above chapters demonstrate the success of this approach. More specifically, the case studies demonstrate Plastic's capabilities for reasoning with many different domains. Further, they show how the capabilities can be used by presenting user friendly interfaces. The work in this thesis also lays the ground for further research into domain specific reasoning based on LF and its implementation. 9.1 Stocktaking This thesis has concentrated on showing how the approach can provide a good way for domain specific reasoning. We have seen how the approach works. Our approach has the following features: • User convenience: The approach is different from the pure proof assistant approach, the user can use an interface in their familiar way to do the verification, i.e. we provide a bridge between the domain and the underlying formalization. • Generality: Compared to automatic model checkers, this approach can handle verifica- tions of more complex properties, since it does not have the limitations of model check- ers to finite state problems. Furthermore, by providing a simple reasoning framework where problems can be correctly decomposed and model checking used as a decision procedure on feasible sub-problems, the approach could support wider use of model checking technology. 110 CHAPTER 9. CONCLUSION AND FUTURE WORK 111 • More convincing: Because the approach is based on a type theoretic proof assistant, a proof in our approach is a constructive proof, so it is more convincing than one arising from a model checker or from a directly programmed system. The trusted code-base is smaller (i.e. the type-checker), and the formalization will have been developed more rigorously. Plus, it is simple to obtain independent and automatic verification of results. e Structural complexity: However, the structure of this approach is more complicated than most other approaches. But this should be balanced against the positive features, and we believe the balance is in our favor. For this kind of system, the overheads in a multi-layer approach are relatively small, so 'efficiency' there is not a concern. One may also view LF as a better (i.e. more precise or articulate) programming language for implementing such formal systems, so this use of LF is a strong advantage. e Scalability: The examples of chapter 5 were deliberately kept simple, in order to make certain points about feasibility and translation, but the question remains of how this approach will work with larger and more realistic examples, such as security protocols. Given the generality of the underlying formalization and the result of chapter 5 and chapter 6, it appears that the only limit on trying larger examples is the performance of the underlying tools. Type theory proof assistants have been used for significant proofs, including that of the Fundamental Theorem of Algebra [Barendregt, 2005], and research is ongoing to improve the performance of the technology, so we do not envisage problems. Note indeed that this approach is more complicated than most of other approaches and we are in a preliminary step for this approach. Another contribution of this thesis is that we do all proofs in our case studies mechani- cally. We successfully generated Plastic proofs for the following theories and components: • Set theory and fix-point theory. • J.L-calculus related theory. • CCS related theory. • LAZY-PCF+SHAR related theory 9.2 Evaluation • Evaluation related to aim 1: In Chapter 2 we declare that the Aim 1 of the thesis is to give an analysis of requirements of domain-specific reasoning and give some cri- teria. Through case studies, we give a more detailed analysis of the characteristics of CHAPTER 9. CONCLUSION AND FUTURE WORK 112 domain-specific reasoning. We find that domain-specific notations and higher-level ab- stractions can be used directly by domain users and their corresponding translations to LF level can be done automatically. The design reuse is highly appreciated for different domains. From the case studies we also learn a lot of knowledge about how to produce domain-specific computer assisted reasoning tools. For the new approach we design the relevant architecture and construct the corresponding components, study the fea- sibility of it through several case studies. The relevant methodology and process are also presented and investigated. The case studies concretize the work of formalization, parser, communication protocols, translation between different levels and interfaces. They provide a good support to the suitability of the approach. • Evaluation related to aim 2: The aim 2 we indicated in Chapter 2 is the analysis of LF and Plastic as a basis to support domain-specific reasoning. Our case studies suggest that LF is a suitable framework as an underlying basis for domain-specific reasoning and Plastic is a suitable system to support underlying reasoning. As indi- cated in the above section the theoretical and practical benefits and defects of using LF and Plastic instead of other proof assistants are also investigated in this thesis. The case studies in Chapter 5 and Chapter 6 show that LF and Plastic are powerful enough to support big applications. • Evaluation related to aim 3: Many of the theoretical aspects of the approach such as the theorem of the adequacy property in Chapter 8 are proved. • Evaluation related to the principles in Chapter 7: For Jakob Nielsen's ten general principles, to judge which points are reached by our interface, we use the following criteria: 1. Do we follow the principles when we design the interface? 2. Does the interface satisfy the main points of the principles? 3. Does the interface show the main points naturally? According to the above criteria, our implementation of the interface accomplished most of the points of the ten principles. But we need to do more in the following aspects: User control and freedom Flexibility and efficiency of usage Help and documentation 9.3 Future research The work in this thesis creates a number of opportunities for future work. The most inter- esting are the following: CHAPTER 9. CONCLUSION AND FUTURE WORK 113 • Studying more complex examples and looking at more issues of supporting GUis in which user commands can be more diverse, or even more powerful, such as proof-by- pointing [Bertot et a!., 1997b]. • Studying the application of coercive subtyping in domain specific reasoning. o Trying to combine model checker with our approach smoothly. o Other issues to study include how to allow users to develop their own lemmas (i.e. to extend the formalization rather than just to work inside it), and how to improve the understandability of proofs, e.g. representing traces of computation and using Natural Language to explain proof steps. o As the size of examples increases, we may also need to study techniques to help users organize their proofs and developments, such as allowing multiple contexts for reason- ing. • Do more case studies in dissimilar domains. Appendix A The proofs of the Subject Reduction theorem Subject Reduction theorem is a very important theorem in the case study of Chapter 6. The successful proof of it in Plastic shows the power of Plastic. The proof of Subject Reduction theorem is divided to two individual proofs of the subject reduction theorem (Theorem 1.) and normal form characterization theorem (Theorem 2.). Lemma 1 and Lemma 2 are specific lemmas for supporting the proofs of Theorem 1 and Theorem 2. The following are proofs which are in our module Subjrnf. Note that the symbol ? in the following proof is a place holder(i.e. an unnamed metavariable in Plastic). > module Subjrnf where; (**************************************************************) (* (* Subjrfn.lf *) This file contains the main theorem,*) (* subjr_NF, which combines the subject reduction (Theorem 1.)*) (* and normal form characterization theorems (Theorem 2.) *) (* The combination is necessary in order for the induction to *) (* go through. This proof is followed by individual proofs of *) (* the subject reduction theorem and normal form (* characterization theorem. (**************************************************************) > import ApTypes; > import Envprops; > import NFprops; > import Valid; 114 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM (**************************************************************) (* Subject Reduction + NF *) (* <<e,A>> -> <<e',A'>>---> Valid(A)--->Domt(A)I- e:t ---> *) (* Valid(A') /\ Domt(A')I- e':t /\ (NF e') *) (* *) (**************************************************************) (**************************************************************) (* lemma i. (* (**************************************************************) >Claim subjr_NFPi: (c,c': El Config)(pi: El (Prf (OSred c c'))) > El (Pi_ (Prf (Valid_env (cfgenv c))) > (Pi[t:Ty] (Pi_ (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty (cfgenv c)) (cfgexp c) t)) 115 > (Prf (and (and (Valid_env (cfgenv c')) (TC (DS_Dom_ty (cfgenv c')) > (cfgexp c') t)) (NF (cfgexp c'))))))); > Intros c c' pi; > show E_OSred; >Refine E_OSred ([c,c': El Config](Pi_ (Prf (Valid_env (cfgenv c))) > (Pi[t:Ty] (Pi_ (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty (cfgenv c)) (cfgexp c) t)) > (Prf (and (and (Valid_env (cfgenv c')) (TC (OS_Dom_ty (cfgenv c')) > (cfgexp c') t))(NF (cfgexp c')))))))); > Refine pi; > Intros A Ai e ei en e2 s t x pri pr2 pr3 pr4; > Refine La_; > Intros pr5; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?• . ' > Claim NFen: El (Prf (NF (cfgexp (cfg en Ai)))); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi) ? ); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t ei A ? ?; > Refine pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > ReturnAll; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine NFen; > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; 116 > Refine p_Eq_subst Ty_env (append VT (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty A1)) (OS_Dom_ty A1) > ([H: Ty_env](TC Hen xl)); > 2 Refine App ? ? (Eq_refl ?) ?; > Refine TEp_inv_nfvExt (OS_Dom_ty (OS cons x t e2 Al)) en xl t x > (App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) (ap_ ? ? (ap > (ap_ ? ? pr4 ?) xl) ? ))) ? (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) > Refine App ? ? (Eq_refl ?) ?· . , > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? pr3 ?) ?) ?· . , > 2 Refine LL; > 2 Intros PH!; > Refine Snoe_notFVe en ? x; ? ? ? ; > Refine NFenat_Snoe en ? (cons VT (pair Vari Ty x t) (OS_Dom_ty A)) ?· . , >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty s nat_Ty ([nat_Ty: Ty](TC (cons VT (pair Vari Ty x t) > (OS_Dom_ty A)) en nat_Ty)); > Refine pr2; > Refine PH!; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xl) ? ); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl e e1 x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t el A ? ?; > Refine pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t x1 eel x pr6); > ReturnAll; > Refine LL; > Intros PH!; >Claim eneqtttorfff: Prf (or (Eq Tm en ttt) (Eq Tm en fff)); > show NFebool_TF; > Refine ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? ( NFebool_TF en ? ) (cons VT (pair Vari Ty x t) > (OS_Dom_ty A))) ?; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty s bool_Ty ([bool_Ty: Ty](TC (cons VT (pair Vari Ty x t) > (OS_Dom_ty A)) en bool_Ty)); > Refine pr2; > Refine PH1; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xl) ? ); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl e e1 x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t el A ? ?; > Refine pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl eel x pr6); CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? eneqtttorfff ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros PH2; >Refine p_Eq_subst Tm fff en ([en: Tm](not (FV x en))); > Refine inv_FV_fff x; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) PH2; > ReturnAll; > Refine LL; > Intros PH2; >Refine p_Eq_subst Tm ttt en ([en: Tm](not (FV x en))); > Refine inv_FV_ttt x; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) PH2; > ReturnAll; 117 >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t el A ? pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (DS_Dom_ty A) t xi eel x pr6); >Claim validconsai: Prf (Valid_env (cfgenv (cfg en (OScons x t e2 Ai)))); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xl) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl e ei x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t ei A ? ?; > Refine pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl e ei x pr6); > ReturnAll; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_valid_cons x t e2 Ai validconsal); > ReturnAll; (* CL *) > Intros A Al e ei en e2 s t x prl pr2 pr3 pr4; > Refine La_; > Intros pr5; > Refine La; > Intros xl; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine NF_F (clos en x t e2) ?; > Refine F_clos en e2 x t ?; > Refine NFe_Fe en ? (cons VT (pair Vari Ty x t) (OS_Dom_ty A)) s ? ?; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM 118 > Refine pr3; > Refine pr2; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi)?); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t ei A ? ?; > Refine pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?• . ' > Refine TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty Ai) X en e2 t xi ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr4 ?) xi) ? ) ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t ei A ? ?· . ' > Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi e ei x pr6); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? (inv_valid_cons X t e2 Ai ?) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? (App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr4 ?) xi) ? ) ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl eel x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t ei A ? ?· . ' > Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl e ei x pr6); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (inv_valid_cons X t e2 Ai ?) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr4 ?) xl) ? ) ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi eel x pr6); > Refine Valid_cons x t el A ? ?; > Refine pr5; >Refine App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) t xl e ei x pr6); > ReturnAll; (* fix *) > Intros A Al e ei en t x nx prl pr2 pr3 pr4; > Refine La_; > Intros pr5; > Refine La; > Intros xl; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· . ' > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr4 ?) xi) ? ) ; > Refine TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) nx e1 (fix x t e) t xi ? ?· . ' > Refine TEp_RenExp nx x e e1 ? ? ? ? ? ?• . ' > 3 Refine pr2; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_fix (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi ex?); > Refine pr6; 119 > 2 Refine p_Eq_subst Ty xi t ([tt:Ty] (TC (OS_Dom_ty A) (fix x t e) tt)) ? ?; > 2 Refine pr6; > 2 Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_fix (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi ex?)); > 2 Refine pr6; > 2 Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Xmidvar nx x) ?) ?) ?; > 2 Refine LL; > 2 Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_inl ? ?) ?; > Refine PH!; > ReturnAll; > Refine LL; > Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_inr ? ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros PH2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? pr1 ?) ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Vari nx xx)) ? ?; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) (fix x t e) xi pr6 nx ?; > Refine FV_fix nx e PH2 x t PH!; > ReturnAll ; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ? ) ?) ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi)?)); > Refine TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) nx e1 (fix x t e) t xi ? ?; > Refine TEp_RenExp nx x e e1 ? ? ? ? ? ?; > 3 Refine pr2; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_fix (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi ex?); > Refine pr6; > 2 Refine p_Eq_subst Ty xi t ([tt:Ty] (TC (OS_Dom_ty A) (fix x t e) tt)) ? ?; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > 2 Refine pr6; > 2 Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_fix (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi ex?)); > 2 Refine pr6; > 2 Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Xmidvar nx x) ?) ?) ?; > 2 Refine LL; > 2 Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_inl ? ?) ?; > Refine PH!; > ReturnAll; > Refine LL; > Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_inr ? ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros PH2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? pr1 ?) ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Vari nx xx)) ? ?; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) (fix x t e) xi pr6 nx ?; > Refine FV_fix nx e PH2 x t PH!; > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi) ? )); > Refine TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty A) nx e1 (fix x t e) t xi ? ?; > Refine TEp_RenExp nx x e e1 ? ? ? ? ? ?; > 3 Refine pr2; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_fix (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi ex?); > Refine pr6; 120 > 2 Refine p_Eq_subst Ty xi t ([tt:Ty] (TC (OS_Dom_ty A) (fix x t e) tt)) ? ?; > 2 Refine pr6; > 2 Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_fix (OS_Dom_ty A) t xi ex?)); > 2 Refine pr6; > 2 Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Xmidvar nx x) ?) ?) ?; > 2 Refine LL; > 2 Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_inl ? ?) ?; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine PHi; > ReturnAll; > Refine LL; > Intros PHi ; > Refine App ? ? (p_inr ? ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros PH2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? pri ?) ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Vari nx xx)) ? ?; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) (fix x t e) xi pr6 nx ?; > Refine FV_fix nx e PH2 x t PHi; > ReturnAll; ( * IfFalse *) > Intros A Ai A2 ei e2 e3 en pri pr2 pr3 pr4; > Refine La_; > Intros prS; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi) ? ); > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt (cfgexp (cfg e3 Ai)) xi)) ? ?; 121 >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6); > Refine Dom_pres (cfg ei A) (cfg fff Ai) pri; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) bool_Ty) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi) ? )); > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt (cfgexp (cfg e3 Ai)) xi)) ? ?· .. ' >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6); CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM 122 > Refine Dom_pres (cfg ei A) (cfg fff Ai) pri; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) bool_Ty) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi) ? )); > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) > ( [tt: (List VT)] (TC tt (cfgexp (cfg e3 Ai)) xi)) ? ?· . ' >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6); > Refine Dom_pres (cfg ei A) (cfg fff Ai) pri; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) bool_Ty) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine pr5; > ReturnAll; (* IfTrue *) > Intros A Ai A2 ei e2 e3 en pri pr2 pr3 pr4; > Refine La_; > Intros pr5; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xi) ? ); > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt (cfgexp (cfg e2 Ai)) xi)) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine Dom_pres (cfg ei A) (cfg ttt Ai) pri; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) bool_Ty) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine pr5; >Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) x1)? )); > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty A1) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt (cfgexp (cfg e2 A1)) x1)) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) x1 e1 e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine Dom_pres (cfg e1 A) (cfg ttt A1) pr1; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr3 ?) bool_Ty) ? ) ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) x1 e1 e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine pr5; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) x1) ? )); > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty A1) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt (cfgexp (cfg e2 A1)) x1)) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) x1 e1 e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine Dom_pres (cfg e1 A) (cfg ttt A1) pr1; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) bool_Ty) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (inv_TC_cond (OS_Dom_ty A) x1 e1 e2 e3 pr6)); > Refine pr5; > ReturnAll; (* Appl *) > Intros A A1 A2 e1 e2 en1 en2 enf t n pr1 pr2 pr3 pr4 pr5; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; > Refine La; > Intros x1; > Refine La_; > Intros pr7; > Refine App ? ? > Refine App ? ? > Refine TC_clos > Refine App ? ? > Refine LL; > Intros r; (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr5 ?) x1) ? ); (OS_Dom_ty A1) n en2 e2 t x1 ? ?; (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) x1 e1 e2 ?) ?) ?; 123 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? > (DS_Dom_ty A1) r > Refine App ? ? > (ap_ ? ? > Refine App ? > Refine pr6; > Refine La; > Intros x; > Refine La_; > Intros PH2; ? (p_snd ? (ap ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (TEp_Ap e2 en1 en2 A n t pr2 ? x1 ?); ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r x1)) ? )); ?) PH1; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Varix xx)) ? ?; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) en1 (arr r x1) ? x PH2; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A1) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt en1 (arr r x1)))? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r x1)) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ? ) ? ) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg e1 A) (cfg en1 A1) pr1); > ReturnAll ; > Refine pr7; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) x1 e1 e2 ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros r; > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty r t ([t: Ty](TC (DS_Dom_ty A1) e2 t)) ? ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty A1) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt e2 r))? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ?) PH1; > Refine Dom_pres (cfg e1 A) (cfg en1 A1) pr1; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (TEp_Ap e2 en1 en2 A n t pr2 ? > (OS_Dom_ty A1) r x1 ?); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r x1))? )); 124 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > Refine La; > Intros x; > Refine La_; > Intros PH2; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Varix xx)) ? ?; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) enl (arr r xl) ? x PH2; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt enl (arr r xl))) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xl))? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ? ) ? ) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg el A) (cfg enl Al) prl); > ReturnAll; > Refine pr7; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) xl el e2 ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros r· . > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; > Refine App ? ? > (ap_ ? ? > Refine App ? > Refine pr6; > ReturnAll; > Refine pr7; ? (p_fst (ap ? (p_fst ? ? ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xl))? )); ?) PH1; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ? ) ?) ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr5 ?) xl) > Refine TC_clos (DS_Dom_ty Al) n en2 e2 t xl ? ? ) ? ) ) ; ? ?· ... > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) xl el e2 ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros r· . > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; 125 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (TEp_Ap e2 eni en2 A n t pr2 ? > (OS_Dom_ty Ai) r xi?); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xi))?)); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PHi; > Refine pr6; > Refine La; > Intros x; > Refine La_; > Intros PH2; > Refine P~Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Varix xx)) ? ?; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (DS_Dom_ty A) eni (arr r xi) ? x PH2; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ( [tt: (List VT)] (TC tt eni (arr r xi))) ? ? ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) Carr r xi))?)); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PHi; > Refine pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ? ) ? ) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg ei A) (cfg eni Ai) pri); > ReturnAll; > Refine pr7; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) xi ei e2 ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros r; > Refine LL; > Intros PHi; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty r t ([t: Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty Ai) e2 t)) ? ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt e2 r))? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ?) PHi; > Refine Dom_pres (cfg ei A) (cfg eni Ai) pri; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (TEp_Ap e2 eni en2 A n t pr2 ? > (OS_Dom_ty Ai) r xi?); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xi))?)); >Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PHi; > Refine pr6; 126 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine La; > Intros x; > Refine La_; > Intros PH2; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Vari x xx)) ? ?; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) enl Carr r xl) ? x PH2; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt enl Carr r xl))) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) Carr r xl))? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH!; > Refine pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ? ) ? ) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg el A) (cfg enl Al) prl); > ReturnAll; > Refine pr7; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) xl el e2 ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros r; > Refine LL; > Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xl))? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH!; > Refine pr6; > ReturnAll; > Refine pr7; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (inv_TC_appl (OS_Dom_ty A) xl el e2 ?) ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros r; > Refine LL; > Intros PH!; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr5 ?) xl) ? ) ) ; > Refine TC_clos (OS_Dom_ty Al) n en2 e2 t xl ? ?• . ' > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (TEp_Ap e2 enl en2 A n t pr2 ? > (OS_Dom_ty Al) r xl ?); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? 127 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xi)) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PHi; > Refine pr6; > Refine La; > Intros x; > Refine La_; > Intros PH2; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Vari x xx)) ? ?; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) eni (arr r x1) ? x PH2; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt en1 (arr r x1)))? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r x1)) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ? ) ? ) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg e1 A) (cfg en1 A1) pr1); > ReturnAll; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty r t ([t: Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty A1) e2 t)) ? ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty A1) > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt e2 r))? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ?) PH1; > Refine Dom_pres (cfg el A) (cfg en1 A1) prl; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (TEp_Ap e2 eni en2 A n t pr2 ? > (OS_Dom_ty A1) r xi?); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r x1)) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > Refine La; > Intros x; > Refine La_; > Intros PH2; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Varix xx)) ? ?; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) en1 Carr r x1) ? x PH2; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Ai) (OS_Dom_ty A) 128 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > ([tt: (List VT)] (TC tt enl (arr r xl))) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xl)) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ? ) ? ) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg el A) (cfg enl Al) prl); > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) (arr r xl)) ? )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) PH1; > Refine pr6; > ReturnAll; > Refine pr7; > ReturnAll; (* Var2 *) > Intros A Al e el t x y prl pr2 pr3 pr4; > Refine La -· > Intros pr5; > Refine La; > Intros xl; > Refine La_; > Intros pr6; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr4 > Refine TC_var (OS_Dom_ty A) y xl ?; > Refine Mp_inv_nfvExt y x xl t (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) ? > (inv_TC_var (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x teA)) xl y pr6); > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? prl ?) ?; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) PH1; > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr5); > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; ?) xl) ? ) ; > Refine TEp_nfvExt (append VT (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al)) el xl t x ? ? > (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) ?; > Refine App ? ? (Eq_refl ?) ?; > Refine LL; 129 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM 130 > Intros PHi; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? pr2 ?) ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Vari x xx)) ? ?; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) ei xl ? x PH!; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ([xx: (List VT)] (TC xx el xi)) ? ?; > 2 Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg (vary) A) (cfg ei Ai) pr3); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xl) ? )); > Refine TC_var (OS_Dom_ty A) y xi ?; > Refine Mp_inv_nfvExt y x xl t (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) ? > (inv_TC_var (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x teA)) xi y pr6); > Refine LL; > Intros PHi; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? prl ?) ?; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) PH2; > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? (inv_valid_cons x teA pr5 ); > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xl) ? )); > Refine TC_var (OS_Dom_ty A) y xl ?; > Refine Mp_inv_nfvExt y x xl t (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) ? > (inv_TC_var (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x teA)) xl y pr6); > Refine LL; > Intros PHi; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? prl ?) ?· . ' > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) PHi; > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (inv_valid_cons x t e A pr5 ) ; > ReturnAll; > Refine Valid_cons x t e Ai ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr4 ?) xl) ? )); > Refine TC_var (OS_Dom_ty A) y xl ?; > Refine Mp_inv_nfvExt y x xi t (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) ? > (inv_TC_var (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x teA)) xl y pr6); CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? prl ?) ?; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) PH1; > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst??) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr5 ); > ReturnAll; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty A) (OS_Dom_ty Al) > ([xx: (List VT)] (TC xx e t)) ? ?; > 2 Refine Dom_pres (cfg (var y) A) (cfg el Al) pr3; >Refine App?? (p_snd? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr5 ); > ReturnAll; (* Varl *) > Intros A Al e el t x prl pr2 pr3 > Refine La_; > Intros pr4; > Refine La; > Intros xl; > Refine La_; > Intros pr5; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) t) ? ); >Refine App?? (p_snd? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); >Refine App?? (p_fst? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine TEp_nfvExt (append VT (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al)) el xl t x ? ? > (nil VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) ?; > Refine App ? ? (Eq_refl ?) ?; > Refine LL; > Intros PH1; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? prl ?) ?; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List Vari) (TE_Dom (OS_Dom_ty A)) (OS_Dom A) > ([xx: (List Vari)] (member Varix xx)) ? ?; > 2 Refine TEDomDomty_OSDom A; > Refine TCHet_FVeinDomH (OS_Dom_ty A) el xl ? x PH1; > Refine p_Eq_subst (List VT) (OS_Dom_ty Al) (OS_Dom_ty A) > ([xx: (List VT)] (TC xx el xl)) ? ?; > 2 Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (Dom_pres (cfg e A) (cfg el Al) pr2); 131 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) xl)? )); >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty t xl ([tl: Ty](TC (OS_Dom~ty A) e tl))? ?; >Refine App?? (p_snd? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); 132 > Refine If_T ? ? ? (inv_TC_var (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x t e A)) xl x pr5) ?; > Refine App ? ? (Eq_refl ? ) ?; >Refine App?? (p_fst? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); > ReturnAll; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr3 ?) xl) ? )); >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty t xl ([tl: Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty A) e tl))? ?; >Refine App?? (p_snd? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); > Refine If_T ? ? ? (inv_TC_var (OS_Dom_ty (OScons x t e A)) xl x pr5) ?; > Refine App ? ? (Eq_refl ? ) ?; >Refine App?? (p_fst? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); > ReturnAll; > Refine Valid_cons x t el Al ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr3 ?) t) ? ) ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ?) (inv_valid_cons x t e A pr4 ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) (inv_valid_cons x t e A pr4 ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_?? pr3 ?) t) ? )); > Refine App ? > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? (p_fst ? ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); ?) (inv_valid_cons x teA pr4 ); > ReturnAll; > Intros A Al e el prl pr2 > Refine La_; > Intros pr3; > Refine La; > Intros xl; > Refine La_; > Intros pr4; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· . , > Refine NF_Sno (sue el); > Refine Sno_s el; > Refine NFenat_Snoe el ? (OS_Dom_ty Al) ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM 133 > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_suc (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? (ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? ) ; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? (inv_TC_suc (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty nat_Ty xl ([xl:Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty Al) (sue el) xl)) ? ?; > Refine TC_suc ? ? ( App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? ))); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_suc (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? > (inv_TC_suc (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_suc (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > ReturnAll; (* ZF *) > Intros A Al e e1 prl pr2 > Refine La_; > Intros pr3; > Refine La; > Intros xl; > Refine La_; > Intros pr4; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine NF_fff; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty bool_Ty xl ([xl:Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty Al) fff xi)) ? ?; > Refine TC_fff (OS_Dom_ty A1) > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_is_o (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty)? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_is_o (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > ReturnAll; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM (* ZT *) > Intros A Ai e pri pr2 > Refine La_; > Intros pr3; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr4; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine NF_ttt; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; 134 >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty bool_Ty xi ([xi:Ty](TC (DS_Dom_ty Ai) ttt xi))??; > Refine TC_ttt (DS_Dom_ty Ai) ; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_is_o (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_is_o (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > ReturnAll; > Intros A Ai e ei pri pr2 > Refine La_; > Intros pr3; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr4; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine NF_Sno ei; > Refine inv_Sno_s ei; > Refine inv_NF_Sno ei; >Refine App?? (p_snd?? (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty)? ); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty nat_Ty xi ([xi:Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty Ai) e1 xi)) ? ?; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ?) (inv_TC_suc ? ? ? CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > (App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )))); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xl e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > ReturnAll; (* PO *) > Intros A Ai > Refine La -· > Intros pr3; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr4; e pri pr2 > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; 135 >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? ); >Refine App?? (p_snd?? (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; >Refine p_Eq_subst Ty nat_Ty xi ([xi:Ty](TC (OS_Dom_ty Ai) o xi))??; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? ) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (App ? ? (Eq_sym ?) ?) ?) > (App?? (p_fst??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 )); > Refine App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) (App ? ? (p_fst ? ? ) > (ap_?? (ap?? (ap_?? pr2 ?) nat_Ty) ? )); >Refine App?? (p_snd??) (inv_TC_prd (OS_Dom_ty A) xi e pr4 ); > Refine pr3; > ReturnAll; > Intros A e t x; > Refine La_; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM 136 > Intros pri; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine NF_F; > Refine F_abs; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine pr2; > Refine pri; > ReturnAll; > Intros A ; > Refine La -· > Intros pri; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine NF_fff; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine pr2; > Refine pri; > ReturnAll; > Intros A ; > Refine La_; > Intros pri; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine NF_ttt; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine pr2; > Refine pri; > ReturnAll; CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > Intros A ; > Refine La_; > Intros pri; > Refine La; > Intros xi; > Refine La_; > Intros pr2; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?; > Refine NF_Sno; > Refine Sno_o; > Refine App ? ? (App ? ? (p_pair ? ?) ?) ?· .. > Refine pr2; > Refine pri; > ReturnAll; (**************************************************************) (* lemma 2. (* (**************************************************************) >Claim subjr_NF: (c,c': El Config)(pi: El (Prf (OSred c c'))) > (p2: El (Prf (Valid_env (cfgenv c)))) > (t:Ty) (p3: El (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty (cfgenv c)) (cfgexp c) t))) > El (Prf (and (and (Valid_env (cfgenv c')) > (TC (OS_Dom_ty (cfgenv c')) (cfgexp c') t)) > (NF (cfgexp c')))); > Intros c c' pi p2 t p3; > Refine ap_ ? ? (ap ? ? (ap_ ? ? (subjr_NFPi c c' pi) p2) t) p3; > ReturnAll; (**************************************************************) (* Theorem 1. *) (* Subject Reduction *) (* <<e,A>> -> <<e',A'>>---> Valid(A)---> Domt(A)I- e:t ---> *) (* Domt(A')I- e' :t *) (**************************************************************) > Claim subjr_red (e,e': El Tm)(A,A': El OS_env) 137 CHAPTER A. THE PROOFS OF THE SUBJECT REDUCTION THEOREM > (pi: El (Prf (OSred (cfg e A) (cfg e' A')))) > (p2: El (Prf (Valid_env A)))(t: El Ty) > (p3: El (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty A) e t))) > El (Prf (TC (OS_Dom_ty A') e' t)); > Intros e e' A A' pi p2 t p3; > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ?) ( App ? ? (p_fst ? ?) > (subjr_NF (cfg e A) (cfg e' A') pi p2 t p3)); > ReturnAll; (**************************************************************) (* Theorem 2. ( * Normal Forms (* <<e,A>> -> <<e',A'>>--->Valid<<e,A>>---> e' in NF (**************************************************************) >Claim NormalForms : (e,e': El Tm)(A,A': El OS_env) > (pi: El (Prf (OSred (cfg e A) (cfg e' A')))) > (p2 : El (Prf (Valid_config (cfg e A)))) > El (Prf (NF e')); > Intros e e' A A' pi p2; >Claim PH!: (Prf (Ex Ty ([t:Ty] TC (OS_Dom_ty (cfgenv (cfg e A))) > (cfgexp (cfg e A)) t))); > Refine App ? ? (p_snd ? ? > ReturnAll; > Refine (App ? ? 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Sci., pages 322-331, Cambridge. [Vardi and Wolper, 1983] Vardi, M. Y. and Wolper, P. (1983). Yet another process logic. LNCS, 164:501-512. [Victor, 1994] Victor, B. (1994). A Verification Tool for the Polyadic 1r-Calculus. Licentiate thesis, Department of Computer Systems, Uppsala University, Sweden. Available as report DoCS 94/50. [Walukiewicz, 1993] Walukiewicz, I. (1993). A Complete Deductive System for the I-t- Calculus. PhD thesis, Warsaw University. [Walukiewicz, 1995] Walukiewicz, I. (1995). Notes on the propositional I-t-calculus: Com- pleteness and related results. Technical Report NS-95-1, BRICS, Dept. of Computer Science, Univ. of Arhus, Denmark. [Wenzel, 2002] Wenzel, M. M. (2002). Isabellejlsar - a versatile environment for human- readable formal proof documents. PhD thesis, TU Mi.inchen. [Wiedijk, 2001] Wiedijk, F. (2001). Mizar light for HOL light. Lecture Notes in Computer Science, 2152:378-393. [Winskel, 1989] Winskel, G. (1989). A note on model checking the modal nu-calculus. In Ausiello, G., Dezani-Ciancaglini, M., and Rocca, S. R. D., editors, Automata, Languages and Programming, 16th International Colloquium, volume 372 of Lecture Notes in Com- puter Science, pages 761-772, Stresa, Italy. Springer-Verlag. [Yu, 1999] Yu, S. (1999). Verification of Concurrent Programs Based on Type Theory. PhD thesis, University of Durham. [Yu and Luo, 1997] Yu, S. and Luo, Z. (1997). Implementing a model checker for LEGO. In Fitzgerald, J., Jones, C. B., and Lucas, P., editors, FME'97: Industrial Applications and Strengthened Foundations of Formal Methods (Proc. 4th Intl. Symposium of Formal Meth- ods Europe, Graz, Austria, September 1997), volume 1313 of Lecture Notes in Computer Science, pages 442-458. Springer-Verlag. ISBN 3-540-63533-5. Index JL-calculus, 46 LAZY-PCF+SHAR, 70 ALF, 20 Automath, 20 bisimulation, 49 ccs, 41 congruence, 48 Coq, 4, 20 DSL, 1 ECC, 23 HML, 44 HOL, 23 Isabelle, 4, 20 lsabellejlsar, 4 Lego, 4, 20 LF, 2 LTS, 41 MIZAR, 22 Nuprl, 20 PDL, 44 Plastic, 20 Proof General, 38 TAME, 5 Truth, 5 XML, 89 Z/EVES, 5 154 
work_an6pxn4uxzfvhltuxzqvj3gg4i	----	Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 Études photographiques 30 | 2012 Paul Strand / Kodak / Robert Taft versus Beaumont Newhall Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Difficile dialogue entre deux histoires américaines de la photographie Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow: A Difficult Dialogue between Two American Histories of Photography François Brunet Traducteur : Jean-François Allain Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3327 ISSN : 1777-5302 Éditeur Société française de photographie Édition imprimée Date de publication : 20 décembre 2012 ISBN : 9782911961304 ISSN : 1270-9050 Référence électronique François Brunet, « Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall », Études photographiques [En ligne], 30 | 2012, mis en ligne le 12 février 2014, consulté le 22 avril 2019. URL : http:// journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3327 Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 22 avril 2019. Propriété intellectuelle http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3327 Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Difficile dialogue entre deux histoires américaines de la photographie Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow: A Difficult Dialogue between Two American Histories of Photography François Brunet Traduction : Jean-François Allain Une version du présent article a été présentée à la conférence “American Art and the Mass Media”, INHA/Terra Foundation for American Art, 2-3 mai 2012. Je remercie les organisateurs, Jason Hill et Elisa Schaar, de m’avoir fait part de leurs commentaires et de m’avoir autorisé à publier cet essai. « [Mon] livre allait paraître quand on m’a demandé de lire un manuscrit envoyé par un homme dont je n’avais jamais entendu parler : Robert Taft, professeur de chimie à l’université du Kansas. Le titre était : Photography and the American Scene. J’ai lu le manuscrit avec avidité. J’ai constaté qu’il couvrait le même champ que le mien et qu’il parvenait, dans de nombreux cas, aux mêmes conclusions. Je me suis senti obligé de demander à l’éditeur, Macmillan, de me confirmer que le manuscrit m’avait été adressé après que mon livre fut parti chez l’imprimeur. J’ai envoyé un rapport positif, et le livre, devenu entre-temps un classique, a paru en 1938. C’était, en fait, un livre différent de celui que j’avais écrit. J’ai opposé des objections à certaines de ses conclusions esthétiques, qui, sur ma proposition, ont été abandonnées. Peut-être un étudiant trouverait-il intéressant de frapper à la porte de l’université du Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 1 Kansas, où les archives du professeur Taft ont été déposées après sa mort, pour voir si l’on ne pourrait pas réexaminer les portions coupées de ce vieux manuscrit, qui, il y a quarante ans, ne me paraissaient pas mériter d’être publiées. » Beaumont Newhall, “Toward the New Histories of Photography”, 1983 1 Les deux premières grandes histoires américaines de la photographie du XXe siècle arrivèrent au Copyright Office des États-Unis le même jour : le 12 octobre 1938. Le premier ouvrage, Photography : A Short Critical History (ci-après PSCH), de Beaumont Newhall, enregistré le 24 août, était publié par le Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) ; c’était une version légèrement révisée du catalogue précédemment paru sous le titre Photography, 1839-1937 (ci-après P 1839-1937) et enregistré au Copyright Office le 15 mars 1937. Le second était Photography and the American Scene : A Social History, 1839-1889 (ci- après PAS) de Robert Taft, publié par Macmillan et enregistré moins de deux mois plus tard, le 11 octobre 19381. 2 Cette coïncidence inaugurait la postérité longue mais divergente des deux ouvrages, encore disponibles aujourd’hui, en 2012. Celui de Newhall, PSCH, a été totalement réécrit pour l’édition de 1949, révisé ensuite à deux reprises (1964, 1982) et traduit en plusieurs langues ; en 1982, c’était devenu le texte de référence sur l’histoire artistique internationale du médium. Le livre de Taft a été réédité d’abord par Macmillan, puis en format de poche par Dover à partir de 1964 et, plus récemment, dans une édition numérique (ACLS Humanities E-Book), mais il n’a jamais été traduit et sa notoriété ne dépasse guère le cercle des historiens et collectionneurs de la photographie américaine du XIXe siècle. 3 La coïncidence des deux parutions en 1937-1938, le réseau d’interactions – jusqu’ici passé inaperçu – qui les relie, et l’émergence dans les années 1930 non pas d’une mais de deux histoires américaines de la photographie forment l’objet du présent article. Jusqu’ici, le sujet n’a été abordé que du point de vue de l’histoire de l’art ; autrement dit, on s’est intéressé à la manière dont la photographie a fini par être intégrée dans l’histoire de l’art et à entrer dans les musées de beaux-arts, et au rôle joué en ce sens par Beaumont Newhall (1908-1993) et le MoMA. Le présent article s’intègre dans une enquête différente et plus vaste, qui vise à évaluer comment, entre les années 1880 et les années 1930, la photographie et les images photographiques ont été associées – aux États-Unis comme ailleurs – à la mémoire publique, à la recherche historique et à l’écriture de l’histoire, et à ce qu’Elizabeth Edwards appelle « l’imagination historique2 ». Un objet central de cette enquête est le travail de Robert Taft (1894-1955) – professeur de chimie à l’université du Kansas, collectionneur d’art de l’Ouest américain et historien de la photographie américaine – et son livre PAS. La rédaction de cet ouvrage fut précédée de recherches monumentales (dans les archives et auprès de multiples témoins), qui occupèrent l’auteur durant une dizaine d’années et qui se reflètent dans quelque cinq cents notes de bas de page, ainsi que dans le fonds d’archives conservé à la Kansas Historical Society (KHS), à Topeka, dont une partie – celle relative aux recherches de Taft sur la photographie – a été récemment numérisée et mise en ligne3. Ces documents apportent un éclairage très intéressant sur l’entreprise de Taft et son contexte, et en particulier sur son dialogue peu connu avec Beaumont Newhall en 1937-1938. Le but de cet article n’est donc pas simplement d’étudier le discours historiographique qui sous-tend le livre de Taft, comme Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 2 je l’ai fait ailleurs4, ni de tenter une interprétation nouvelle du texte bien connu de Beaumont Newhall, mais plutôt de cartographier le contexte plus vaste dans lequel sont apparues ces deux histoires américaines de la photographie – au même moment mais avec leurs divergences – et de mettre en évidence, par l’étude du dialogue instauré entre les deux historiens, les différences stratégiques – et les points communs – entre leurs deux histoires. Et pour commencer, je soulignerai les destinées historiographiques très divergentes de ces deux textes fondateurs de l’histoire de la photographie américaine. Deux destinées divergentes 4 L’ouvrage de Newhall avait acquis, au moment de sa dernière édition en 1982, le statut de classique de l’histoire de l’art sur la photographie ; il définissait un canon. Au même moment, il devenait la cible d’attaques qui dénonçaient une approche sélective du sujet, privilégiant une conception moderniste du médium (vu comme forme d’expression autodéterminante) et un choix particulier parmi les maîtres de la photographie. Cette critique a trouvé son expression la plus percutante dans un article fameux de Christopher Phillips, paru dans October5, et qui visait la domination croissante du MoMA – de Newhall à John Szarkowski – sur les conceptions de la photographie. Cette critique était si pertinente, dans le contexte des déconstructions du nouveau « canon » de la photographie, qu’elle est elle-même devenue rapidement canonique6. Elle a, à son tour, été revisitée récemment, notamment par Marta Braun7, Christine Y. Hahn8 et, dernièrement, Sophie Hackett9. Si cette « histoire de l’histoire » se concentre en grande partie sur l’exposition de 1937 au MoMA et les stratégies institutionnelles qu’elle reflète (plutôt que sur le texte de Newhall à proprement parler), les choix et les concepts de Newhall constituent aujourd’hui un chapitre classique de l’histoire de la photographie, envisagée globalement en tant qu’histoire des idées esthétiques. 5 Le livre de Robert Taft, par contre, souffre encore, soixante-quinze ans après sa première parution, d’une sorte d’absence de statut. Pendant des années, il a été la seule histoire générale de la photographie américaine au XIXe siècle, et il n’a cessé d’être réédité par Dover. Dans la mesure où il se présente comme « une accumulation de faits » (PAS, p. vii), et où la notion d’« histoire sociale » qu’il défend peut être considérée comme « amateur » ou « populaire », PAS se rattache vaguement à la lignée – ultérieurement prolifique – de monographies, expositions et recueils sur la photographie américaine du XIXe siècle, c’est- à-dire à une historiographie en partie non universitaire dans laquelle Taft reste une référence tout à fait pertinente, même si beaucoup de ses « faits » ont été corrigés ou complétés10. En dehors du domaine des spécialistes, le livre de Taft a été – et demeure – pour les journalistes et les historiens un trésor de faits, de citations, de références et d’anecdotes11. Pour autant, on ne peut y voir un « récit-maître » à la Newhall, comme le montre le fait que ce livre et la formidable enquête qui l’a précédé n’ont – jusqu’ici et contrairement au livre de Newhall – pratiquement jamais donné lieu à une appréciation critique. En 1997, le magazine History of Photography réalisait un numéro spécial sur l’historiographie de la photographie, dans lequel Taft était à peine mentionné. Le dossier spécial récemment consacré par le magazine American Art aux « American Histories of Photography » (sous la direction d’Anthony W. Lee) ne contient que quelques références rapides au livre de Taft. Michael Kammen se contente de le mentionner en parlant d’ouvrage « classique12 ». Alan Trachtenberg, qui est le commentateur le plus incisif du lien entre photographie et histoire aux États-Unis, semble n’avoir jamais manifesté qu’un Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 3 intérêt passager pour l’entreprise de Taft, si ce n’est pour moquer gentiment son orientation nationaliste13. Dans son article de 2005 sur l’historiographie de la photographie en langue anglaise, Marta Braun est l’une des seules, parmi les historiens contemporains de la photographie, à accorder une certaine attention à Taft et à sa relation avec Newhall14. Autrement dit, l’entreprise monumentale de Taft a servi jusqu’ici de source primaire plutôt que d’histoire. Cela revient-il à rejeter la prétention du livre à fonder une « histoire sociale » ? Faut-il reconnaître au seul ouvrage de Newhall le double statut de texte fondateur et de travail historique conceptuellement important ? Nous aborderons cette double question en comparant brièvement les récits de ces deux histoires américaines de la photographie. Récits contradictoires / Histoires parallèles 6 On connaît l’argument critique de Beaumont Newhall sur l’histoire de la photographie, et l’on se contentera ici de le rappeler en citant les premières lignes de la préface de PSCH. Newhall entendait poser les « fondements » esthétiques de l’histoire de la photographie, et il se fixait comme mission principale de « remédier » à la « confusion » originelle entre la photographie et les autres arts graphiques : « L’objectif de cet ouvrage est de poser des fondements qui permettent de mieux comprendre l’importance de la photographie en tant que médium esthétique […] La confusion avec les autres formes d’art graphique auxquelles elle ressemble superficiellement est en germe dans les origines même de la photographie ; pour remédier à cette confusion dommageable, il convient d’examiner la relation qu’a entretenue la photographie avec les autres arts durant son histoire brève mais riche en événements » (PSCH, p. 9). 7 En revanche, l’approche de « l’histoire sociale » de Taft est moins connue des lecteurs d’aujourd’hui. Sans entrer dans les détails, elle repose sur ce que Taft appelle, par opposition à une appréciation « artistique », la « valeur historique » des photographies. Bien que l’auteur évite en règle générale toute théorisation, on peut rattacher sa notion de « valeur historique » à deux grandes rubriques : l’image comme document et l’image comme événement. D’un côté, Taft cherche à aborder l’image photographique en tant que document historique, approche qu’il oppose explicitement au « système d’esthétique photographique » de Beaumont Newhall dans le principal passage « théorique » de son livre (p. 314-321), au milieu du chapitre 16 (« The Cabinet Photograph ») : « De toute évidence, l’historien social ne peut répondre à cette question [de savoir si la photographie est un art], et ce n’est pas non plus sa fonction. La question demeure controversée, mais il semble que se développe actuellement un système d’esthétique satisfaisant et logique reposant sur les traits distinctifs de la photographie [note de bas de page : l’analyse pénétrante récente du problème par Beaumont Newhall, qui au moins esquisse un système d’esthétique photographique, mérite d’être soigneusement examinée par toute personne cherchant une réponse à cette question.] Cependant, l’historien social s’intéresse à une question qui, dans une certaine mesure, est liée à la question ci-dessus, à savoir “les photographies sont-elles des documents historiques ?” Cette question peut trouver une réponse » ( PAS, p. 316-317). 8 Taft est d’ailleurs, aux États-Unis, l’un des tout premiers auteurs à attirer l’attention du public et des historiens sur la photographie en tant que moyen de connaissance historique, et il invite ses lecteurs à collecter et à « documenter » les photographies anciennes en tant qu’éléments constitutifs d’histoires familiales et locales. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 4 « Documenter » des photographies signifie évaluer leur véracité, et les accompagner de dates, de légendes et de commentaires permettant de les utiliser comme documents historiques (PAS, p. 319-320)15. 9 D’un autre côté, Taft est très conscient du rôle que joue l’image-événement dans une « histoire sociale » plus large, c’est-à-dire une histoire de « l’influence » ou de l’« impact » de la photographie dans l’histoire américaine. Il isole quelques images « qui font date » (les portraits de Lincoln par Mathew Brady, les premières photographies de la région du parc de Yellowstone par William H. Jackson) et qui, pour lui, « font l’histoire », là encore par opposition à la visée artistique : « Il peut être intéressant aussi de noter que, si une photographie peut être appréciée pour sa valeur historique, un autre facteur d’évaluation peut entrer en jeu […] Si, par exemple, je peux montrer un portrait et dire “Cette photographie a joué un rôle important dans l’élection d’Abraham Lincoln à la présidence des États- Unis”, ne devons-nous pas attribuer à cette photographie une valeur plus grande qu’à d’autres portraits de la même époque et d’un même mérite artistique ? » (PAS, p. 321). Ces deux préoccupations fusionnent en une sorte d’histoire visuelle populaire, que défend assez ouvertement le professeur de l’université du Kansas en tant que forme de culture démocratique16. Les paragraphes d’introduction et de conclusion du livre sont en effet tout à fait explicites quant à cette mission populaire et presque politique de la photographie : « La photographie touche aujourd’hui la vie des individus à tel point qu’il est difficile d’en énumérer tous les usages. Non seulement elle conserve pour nous les portraits des êtres chers, mais elle illustre nos journaux, nos magazines, nos livres […] Elle a enregistré le passé, éduqué notre jeunesse et, surtout, elle nous a donné la forme la plus populaire de divertissement jamais conçue » (PAS, p. vii). « Quels que puissent être les défauts et insuffisances de la presse illustrée, il est probable que l’humanité peut trouver en elle l’une des armes les plus puissantes dans le combat en faveur de l’abolition de la guerre, la lutte contre l’ignorance et la maladie, et la recherche de la justice sociale. Grâce à ce médium, il devrait être possible d’atteindre plus rapidement un but recherché de longue date : la fraternité entre les hommes » (PAS, p. 450). 10 Comme d’autres aspects du livre de Taft, ces visions « populistes » et utopistes font écho à des idées du XIXe siècle que Newhall, pour sa part, préfère éviter d’aborder. Taft utilise des notions de progrès et d’agentivité historique qui sont empruntées à l’histoire « whig », et il s’appuie sur une vision de l’histoire américaine (que l’on peut qualifier en substance de « turnérienne ») dont le moteur serait la conquête de l’Ouest17. Son récit, généralement écrit dans un style « populaire », facile à lire, ne fait aucune référence aux auteurs en vogue dans les années 1930. Comme le montre la citation ci-dessus, Taft veille à ne pas dépasser les frontières de « l’histoire sociale » pour ne pas entrer dans des discussions sur l’art, domaine dans lequel – plusieurs passages de son livre le montrent – il se sent mal à l’aise18. Concernant Newhall, si ses influences et ses choix ont donné lieu à des débats, il n’en reste pas moins que son texte et sa vision sont ancrés – comme il le fait lui-même remarquer dans diverses réminiscences ultérieures – dans l’histoire et l’expertise européennes de l’art, associées à une esthétique moderniste et à la stratégie défendue par Alfred Barr pour le Museum of Modern Art19. Pour simplifier, on pourrait dire que le récit « social » de Taft fonctionne comme une histoire « populaire », alors que celui de Newhall est « savant », critique, esthétique et intellectualisant, ou encore que l’histoire de Taft parle d’une Amérique « profonde » (et s’intéresse même plus spécifiquement à l’Ouest et au Midwest), alors que Newhall s’adresse à un lectorat new-yorkais et transatlantique. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 5 11 L’histoire de Newhall tourne autour du concept central de photographie en tant que « médium » (esthétique), concept construit sur la rencontre d’une lignée photographique « noble » (Peter Henry Emerson, Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand) et de l’histoire de l’art allemande. Le médium photographique y est défini à partir d’un cœur technologique et sémiologique qui permet de le distinguer des autres arts graphiques et de mesurer une qualité artistique purement photographique. Taft, par contre, n’élabore pas de concepts théoriques, mais son livre comprend au moins un passage théorique important, qui commence par poser la question de la « valeur » artistique – ou historique – de la photographie, et qui distingue ensuite les valeurs historiques respectives de « l’image- document » et de « l’image-événement ». En combinant ces deux notions, Taft se rapproche d’une conceptualisation de la photographie comme moyen de communication de masse, bien qu’il n’emploie jamais l’expression mass media. Ainsi les grandes différences conceptuelles entre le récit de Newhall et celui de Taft apparaissent-elles avec évidence : médium vs mass media ; art ou esthétique vs information ou histoire ; intérêt pour les expériences formelles vs intérêt pour le portrait commercial ; intérêt pour le « pictorialisme » (Newhall) vs intérêt pour la « presse illustrée » [pictorial press] (Taft). 12 Une autre différence évidente entre ces deux histoires réside dans le terrain ou le corpus qu’elles prennent en considération. Taft se limite strictement à la photographie américaine et, d’une façon générale, évite de se prononcer sur les inventions ou les évolutions de la photographie en Europe. Avec ses deux catégories de la « valeur historique » – celle de « l’image-document » et celle de « l’image-événement » –, son récit oscille entre la réalité ordinaire et l’épopée, entre l’exploration quotidienne de la « scène américaine » et la grandiose histoire de l’Amérique20. De plus, il se limite à la période comprise entre l’annonce aux États-Unis des résultats obtenus par Daguerre, à l’automne 1839, et le lancement du Kodak en 1888-1889. Plus, peut-être, qu’une histoire « nationaliste », on peut donc y voir une histoire de l’américanisation de la photographie. En revanche, le récit de Newhall se présente en 1937-1938 comme international, voire internationaliste, même s’il se concentre essentiellement sur la France, la Grande- Bretagne et les États-Unis. Les éditions qui se succéderont jusqu’en 1982 élargiront ce propos international. 13 Cependant, dans le choix du corpus comme par d’autres aspects fondamentaux, les deux histoires présentent d’importants points communs. Dans ses éditions successives, celle de Newhall accorde toujours beaucoup de place aux photographes et inventeurs américains. Comme Taft, Newhall isole – dès 1937 et 1938 – certains moments américains, notamment Mathew Brady et la Guerre civile, l’apparition des appareils à main (hand-held) et le Kodak 21. Pour les deux auteurs, le photographe américain Mathew B. Brady est une figure centrale, soit comme pionnier de la photographie « pure » – la straight photography –, soit comme premier « historien photographique22 ». Une autre base commune est la structure technologique des deux histoires, héritée de Josef Maria Eder et, plus encore, de Georges Potonniée. Enfin, et c’est peut-être l’élément le plus significatif, les deux textes expriment une même préoccupation pour le développement de la photographie et de la presse illustrée dans les années 1930, phénomène qui justifie – plus implicitement chez Newhall et plus explicitement chez Taft – que l’on en écrive l’histoire. Dans leurs commentaires parallèles sur la « photographie de presse » (Newhall) et la « presse illustrée » (Taft), les deux auteurs accordent une grande place à ce domaine, et ce pour des raisons en partie similaires (à savoir l’ubiquité de la photographie et l’écho qu’elle a), bien que Taft voie dans la presse illustrée une « arme » pour parvenir à « la fraternité entre les hommes » ( Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 6 PAS, p. 450, cité plus haut), alors que Newhall entend isoler le genre de photographie de presse qui « transcende l’éphémère et devient un grand document23 ». 14 En résumé, les deux histoires sont à la fois conceptuellement opposées et historiquement parallèles. Tandis que « l’histoire critique » très élaborée de Newhall configure la photographie en tant que moyen d’expression esthétique, l’histoire sociale incomplètement conceptualisée de Taft envisage la photographie américaine comme un moyen de communication de masse (une fenêtre sur le passé et une force sociale). Cette distinction fondamentale oppose de manière durable les deux ouvrages. Par ailleurs, cependant, les deux approches ont plus d’une chose en commun, indépendamment même de leur appréciation et de leur revalorisation de la photographie américaine. Toutes deux sont motivées, quoique à un degré différent, par une attention – typique du milieu du XXe siècle – accordée au pouvoir de communication de la photographie. Bien que Beaumont Newhall, en 1938, soit moins concerné par cette dimension sociale que Robert Taft, les deux histoires sont très conscientes de l’importance de la photographie dans l’Amérique des années 1930 et de la nécessité d’évaluer cette importance dans une perspective historique plus vaste. En ce sens, toutes deux sont le produit d’un contexte américain plus général qui conduit dans les années 1930 à réévaluer la photographie24. Et, comme je le suggère en dernière partie de cet article, la réception initiale des deux livres en 1937-1938 semble corroborer l’intérêt que porte le public à l’historicisation de la photographie et confirmer l’attrait complémentaire qu’ont exercé ces deux ouvrages. Mais d’abord, j’aimerais évoquer les interactions – jusqu’ici passées inaperçues – entre Taft et Newhall au stade de l’écriture de leurs livres respectifs. Comme nous le verrons, la dichotomie apparemment radicale entre ces deux histoires exige d’être repensée à la lumière de la collaboration relativement intense qui s’est instaurée entre leurs auteurs. Adversaires ou collaborateurs ? Le témoignage des sources imprimées 15 Nous avons aujourd’hui beaucoup d’informations sur la préparation de l’exposition de Beaumont Newhall au MoMA et sur l’élaboration de son livre, ceci grâce à la masse de souvenirs publiés de l’auteur, et même s’il reste à entreprendre une étude systématique de ses archives25. Comme l’explique Newhall dans divers entretiens, ses idées sur la photographie mûrirent entre son entrée à Harvard en 1926, le début de sa thèse de doctorat en 1932-1933 et la mission que lui confia Alfred Barr d’organiser une exposition de photographies au MoMA en 1936. Au-delà des diverses influences qui ont pu le marquer, ou qu’il a pu revendiquer, son objectif était clairement de fonder une approche critique de la photographie. Il semble que l’exposition au MoMA ait été préparée à la hâte entre le printemps 1936 et l’hiver 1936-1937. Elle ouvrit ses portes le 17 mars 1937 et, nous l’avons vu, le catalogue fut publié deux jours plus tôt en trois mille exemplaires ; l’édition révisée paraît avoir été préparée au premier semestre de 1938 (la préface est datée du 7 juin). 16 D’après les sources publiées – nous laissons de côté, pour le moment, les archives Taft –, nous avons beaucoup moins d’informations sur le livre de Taft, en dehors des aperçus que nous offrent ses notes de bas de page sur l’importante correspondance liée à ses recherches, et du fait que le chimiste y travaillait depuis au moins le début des années 1930, période à laquelle il mena des recherches sur les débuts de la photographie Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 7 au Kansas et dans l’Ouest26, mais aussi sur Mathew Brady et « l’ère du daguerréotype27 ». Le livre fut enregistré au Copyright Office le 11 octobre 1938, Macmillan étant l’éditeur. Si la coïncidence des dates avec la seconde édition de Newhall paraît accidentelle, certains détails dans les deux livres montrent que le dialogue entre leurs auteurs s’est engagé dès 1937. 17 Si le catalogue de Newhall P 1839-1937 ne mentionne pas Robert Taft, sa préface au PSCH de 1938 le mentionne bien parmi un petit groupe de collègues remerciés pour leur aide dans la « révision du texte » et la « constitution de l’index biographique28 ». Globalement, cette révision du texte se réduit à peu de chose. Dans un exemple intéressant – un passage sur l’attribution et l’appréciation des photographies de la Guerre civile réalisées par Mathew Brady et ses « assistants » –, il est probable que le texte ou les conseils de Robert Taft aient inspiré des modifications, et en particulier la suppression d’une phrase qui, dans le texte de 1937, laissait penser qu’Alexander Gardner aurait pu « voler certains négatifs de Brady29 ». Dans son texte, Robert Taft avait bien insisté sur le fait que « le travail réel de photographier la guerre a été effectué par Brady et par beaucoup d’autres ». Dans le même passage, le chimiste ironisait sur les « apprentis critiques de ces dernières années qui ont analysé en détail les mérites artistiques de beaucoup de photographies de guerre de Brady, photographies qui, en réalité, ne furent sans doute pas prises par Brady mais par certains de ses assistants ». « Il est tout à fait justifié, précise Taft, d’attribuer à Brady le mérite qui lui revient, mais la critique artistique doit se limiter aux œuvres que l’on sait être de lui, et de lui seul. C’est un principe que les apprentis critiques ont totalement ignoré30 ». 18 La principale addition au texte de Newhall de 1938 était l’index biographique des photographes – qui occupe vingt-cinq pages –, et il est vraisemblable que le texte et les notes de Taft furent utilisés pour certaines biographies d’Américains, comme Newhall le reconnaît dans l’article sur Brady31. Newhall mentionne le livre de Taft dans sa bibliographie, où il constitue le seul ajout dans la rubrique « Histoires » (sur un total de trois ajouts dans l’ensemble de la bibliographie), et il l’accompagne du commentaire suivant : « […] une importante histoire du développement de la photographie dans ce pays, axée notamment sur la relation entre ce développement et notre histoire sociale32 ». Signalons ici qu’après 1938, lors de l’organisation et de la réorganisation du département de photographie du MoMA, Robert Taft devait être régulièrement considéré comme l’un des rares historiens spécialisés dans la photographie aux États-Unis ; il fut même nommé membre du comité consultatif du département33. 19 D’après ses souvenirs, il semble que Newhall ait pris conscience du travail de Taft entre les deux éditions de son livre. Dans un entretien de 1986, il explique que le manuscrit de Taft lui fut transmis par le spécialiste de la photographie et traducteur Edward Epstean, à qui l’on avait demandé de faire un rapport de lecture pour l’éditeur Macmillan (probablement vers le milieu ou la fin de 1937)34. Newhall se souvenait d’avoir été frappé par les similitudes entre les conclusions de Taft et les siennes, au point de demander à Macmillan de certifier que le manuscrit de Taft avait bien été envoyé à Epstean après la publication de son propre catalogue en 193735. Dans une réminiscence de 1983, reproduit en exergue du présent article, Newhall précise que, dans son rapport sur le manuscrit de Taft, il avait demandé le retrait de certains commentaires sur l’esthétique de la photographie et émis la suggestion qu’un futur « étudiant » consulte un jour les archives de Robert Taft au Kansas pour « réexaminer » la valeur des passages supprimés. Quoique Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 8 adepte de la « bonne fortune » comme méthode de recherche, Beaumont Newhall savait aussi se montrer prudent36. 20 De même, le livre de Taft montre que son auteur eut connaissance de l’exposition et du livre de Newhall au cours de l’année 1937, c’est-à-dire à un moment où il mettait la dernière main à son manuscrit. En page 94, il reproduit un daguerréotype du Metropolitan Museum of Art « photographié par Beaumont Newhall, juillet 1937 » (une mention surprenante dans un livre où la plupart des reproductions sont données sans crédits). Dans son passage théorique (PAS, p. 314-321), Taft fait référence à la recherche d’un « système d’esthétique satisfaisant et logique fondé sur les traits distinctifs de la photographie », renvoyant en note à « l’analyse pénétrante » de Newhall, puis rattachant à cette note de bas de page une note de fin de texte (numérotée 341), qui cite P 1839-1937, ainsi que plusieurs propos de « chefs de file de la photographie américaine » sur la question de la photographie en tant qu’art. Cette note 341 cite des extraits de propos publiés d’Alfred Stieglitz et d’Edward Steichen, qui défendent tous deux la straight photography, et mentionne des lettres de confirmation demandées par Taft aux deux « chefs de file ». La réponse de Stieglitz est datée du 17 novembre 1937, celle de Steichen du 18 janvier 193837. Peut-être pouvons-nous rejoindre Geoffrey Batchen quand il écrit, sur la base de cette association du travail de Newhall avec Stieglitz et Steichen, que « la relation étroite entre la méthode historique adoptée par Newhall et les vues de Stieglitz est explicitée dans ce que Taft appelle “l’histoire sociale38” ». Mais ce qui semble plus tangible encore d’après les dates de ces lettres (deux des sources les plus tardives utilisées dans le livre39), de même que dans la rédaction complexe de cette page, avec ses notes à deux étages, c’est que les remarques très brèves que Taft consacre à l’esthétique, voire l’ensemble de son passage théorique, ont dû être non seulement inspirées, mais provoquées, par le rapport de Newhall à Macmillan. 21 Cette hypothèse, si l’on pouvait la vérifier, expliquerait le sentiment étrange que ressent le lecteur de Taft quand il arrive à ce passage théorique, empreint d’un effort marqué pour distinguer les historiens « artistiques » et les historiens « sociaux ». Dans d’autres passages, nous l’avons vu, Taft ne cache pas son scepticisme à l’égard des spéculations « artistiques » et des « apprentis critiques ». On ne sait pas si ces piques visaient Beaumont Newhall – ou, à travers lui, les « vues de Stieglitz » – ou si elles s’adressaient à d’autres auteurs, ou encore s’il s’agissait de vestiges d’un état antérieur de la rédaction du texte. D’une façon générale, il est difficile de savoir si et comment la rencontre des deux historiens put avoir des incidences sur la coïncidence de la publication de leurs ouvrages en 1938. Cependant, les indices contenus dans les deux livres laissent clairement penser qu’il y eut entre eux un dialogue, et même une collaboration, mais aussi un affrontement latent. Les archives de Robert Taft que j’ai pu consulter ne permettent pas encore de confirmer pleinement cette hypothèse, car certains documents majeurs manquent, et notamment le manuscrit original de Taft, le rapport de Newhall à Macmillan et la plus grande partie de la correspondance entre Taft et son éditeur. Néanmoins, la documentation disponible apporte des éclairages puissants sur la relation entre les deux historiens. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 9 Dialogue en coulisses : le témoignage de la correspondance de Taft sur la photographie 22 Il ne semble pas que les archives de Robert Taft conservées à la Kansas Historical Society (KHS)40 aient été étudiées par les historiens de la photographie. La numérisation récente d’une partie de ces archives – la correspondance sur la photographie, aujourd’hui accessible en ligne – est une bénédiction pour les chercheurs41. Dans cette partie du présent article, nous nous limiterons à un examen préliminaire de cette correspondance, en nous concentrant sur le dialogue Taft-Newhall. Notons toutefois que ce dialogue n’est qu’un petit aspect de la correspondance sur la photographie, qui n’est elle-même qu’une petite partie des archives de Taft à la KHS. En 1936, Taft estimait avoir écrit depuis 1930 « largement plus de deux mille lettres pour réunir la documentation » (2 mars 1936, à Fannie Huntington Morriss). Dans l’ensemble, cette correspondance livre une richesse d’informations fascinante sur l’entreprise de Taft, son évolution et sa lente progression vers la publication (en mars 1937, Taft était encore en quête d’un éditeur, et Macmillan n’était pas son premier choix42), sur la variété des thèmes qu’elle aborde43, et sur le large écho qu’elle reçut à la fin des années 1930 et au début des années 1940. Cet écho laisse imaginer un vaste réseau de correspondants concernés par l’histoire de la photographie – parmi lesquels des descendants des pionniers, des archivistes et des bibliothécaires, des historiens locaux et amateurs, des photographes professionnels, des éditeurs et des directeurs de publication, des représentants de diverses entreprises commerciales et quelques correspondants étrangers –, réseau qui est nettement différent de ceux que l’on a l’habitude d’associer à l’élaboration de l’histoire de Newhall et qui mérite assurément d’être étudié plus en détail. 23 Le 10 mai 1937, une lettre de John Tennant (de Tennant and Ward, éditeurs de livres sur la photographie et du American Annual of Photography) fait part du grand intérêt de l’éditeur d’apprendre « que vous avez achevé votre histoire » et son espoir « que Macmillan l’acceptera pour publication ». Tennant, qui annonçait la publication des histoires de Potonniée et d’Eder, traduites par Edward Epstean, servit peut-être de lien avec Macmillan. Quoi qu’il en soit, le passage suivant ne put manquer de frapper Robert Taft : « Avez-vous vu “Photography 1839-1937” de Beaumont Newhall ? C’est un catalogue détaillé de la récente exposition historique qui s’est tenue au Museum of Modern Art, dont il est le bibliothécaire, mais qui comporte en introduction une brève histoire de la photographie. Je crois comprendre que celle-ci fait partie d’une histoire plus complète qu’il prépare pour publication. Telle qu’elle est faite, elle est très bien faite ! » (Tennant à Taft, 10 mai 1937). 24 Dans la mesure où il n’y avait eu jusque-là aucune mention de Newhall ou de son exposition dans la correspondance, il se pourrait que Robert Taft ait découvert l’information par cette lettre. Cependant, la correspondance ne nous dit rien sur sa réaction initiale, à cause d’une lacune dans le dossier entre le 13 mai et le 12 octobre 1937. La correspondance conservée reprend avec des lettres qui montrent que le livre de Taft, désormais intitulé Photography and the American Scene, doit « être publié par Macmillan l’an prochain » (Taft à Ellsworth Ingalls, 14 octobre 1937) et dans lesquelles intervient bientôt Beaumont Newhall. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 10 25 La correspondance entre Taft et Newhall conservée à la KHS commence par une lettre datée du 16 octobre 1937 dans laquelle Taft remercie Newhall pour ses « suggestions et critiques » de PAS « telles qu’elles ont été relayées par M. Latham de Macmillan ». Ces remarques, poursuit Taft, sont « bien vues », car elles pointent à juste titre « quelques- unes des faiblesses [du livre] ». Il reste, comme je l’ai dit, à retrouver dans les archives le rapport de Newhall, le manuscrit original de Taft et sa correspondance avec Macmillan. Curieusement, toutefois, après ces remerciements, Taft change de sujet et sollicite l’aide de Newhall pour des illustrations (une épreuve du portrait de Julia Cameron par John Herschel et « une copie d’un daguerréotype ou d’un ferrotype qui montre clairement l’inversion droite-gauche, c’est-à-dire une image où l’on voit du texte imprimé »). Newhall répond dès le 18 octobre 1937 ; il fait des propositions d’illustrations44, mais exprime surtout, dans ce qui paraît être sa première lettre personnelle au « professeur Taft », son « ravissement » d’apprendre « que Macmillan publie enfin son livre », le « plaisir » et le « privilège de lire le manuscrit », et sa frustration jusque-là d’avoir freiné un « désir naturel de lui écrire [à Taft] plus longuement », compte tenu du fait qu’ils étaient arrivés « tous deux indépendamment à des conclusions similaires ». Promettant d’envoyer sa « petite contribution à l’histoire de la photographie », Newhall fait ensuite des compliments sur plusieurs passages précis de l’ouvrage de Taft (par exemple : « votre histoire [your dope] sur l’arrivée de la nouvelle de la daguerréotypie est épique »). Le récit par Taft de la présence de la photographie dans le bâtiment des chemins de fer transcontinentaux est « entièrement nouveau » et « extrêmement important », souligne Newhall qui, en même temps, lui demande s’il pourrait inclure des vues stéréoscopiques des chemins de fer cités par Taft dans une petite présentation de la photographie américaine qu’il prépare pour une exposition sur l’art américain au musée du Jeu de paume, à Paris, en 193845. L’historien de l’art loue également ce qu’écrit le chimiste sur Mathew Brady (« qui demeure pour moi une énigme », écrit Newhall, s’avouant « totalement perdu dans les attributions correctes de nombreuses vues de la Guerre civile », sujet qu’il qualifie d’un « des temps forts de l’histoire de la photographie américaine »). Il conclut en invitant Taft à venir à New York, invitation qui ne semble pas s’être concrétisée. 26 Ce premier échange donne le ton d’une grande partie de la correspondance qui suit. Dans l’édition en ligne, celle-ci comprend vingt et une lettres de Newhall à Taft et dix de Taft à Newhall – avec des lacunes évidentes –, et elle est concentrée sur la période entre octobre 1937 et mai 193846. Le dialogue Taft-Newhall, que l’on ne peut que résumer ici, paraît avoir immédiatement fonctionné à plusieurs niveaux et à plusieurs fins, pas toutes également explicites, et reflétant, au-delà des demandes réciproques de services, une certaine divergence entre les desseins et les statuts des deux auteurs. En 1937-1938, Taft requiert régulièrement l’aide de Newhall pour demander des illustrations à des musées ou des bibliothèques de New York, et il fait peut-être appel à son entremise pour obtenir les lettres de Stieglitz et de Steichen (voir plus haut), sollicitées après que Newhall eut écrit son rapport et avec sa bénédiction. À la même époque, mais aussi plus tard, Newhall demande souvent à Taft des informations sur des collections historiques ou des conseils sur des questions historiographiques (pour l’index de photographes de son PSCH de 1938 et pour divers autres projets47). Cependant, la raison initiale de cet échange et son principal objet au départ est l’opinion critique de Newhall sur l’analyse esthétique développée par Taft dans le manuscrit sur lequel il devait rapporter pour Macmillan. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 11 27 L’absence du rapport de Newhall et du manuscrit original ne nous permet pas, pour le moment, d’entreprendre une analyse approfondie des échanges entre les deux hommes. Nous savons toutefois, d’après les archives, que Taft retravailla le passage sur l’esthétique, peut-être à la demande de Macmillan, et en vain – nous le verrons ci-après – puisque le jugement final de Newhall sur la deuxième version devait être à nouveau négatif. Mais il est important de souligner qu’à travers cet échange difficile, Taft semble avoir été amené à affiner l’argument théorique de son livre, et même à le recentrer autour de l’histoire plutôt que de l’esthétique. Tout se passe comme si c’était le besoin ressenti par Taft, à la suite du rapport de Newhall, de retravailler la partie « défaillante » sur l’esthétique qui l’avait conduit à élaborer, dans une sorte de réaction de contradiction, son opposition à toute réflexion esthétique, perçue comme un fardeau ou une simple mode, et à développer, comme alternative à l’esthétique, la question de la « valeur historique » des photographies. 28 Le 29 octobre 1938, Taft remercie Newhall pour le catalogue du MoMA et note que « ce que vous dites sur l’esthétique photographique sera particulièrement intéressant pour moi quand j’essaierai de réécrire ma partie sur la relation entre l’art et la photographie ». Cette partie, ajoute Taft, était « insuffisante » dans la première version, essentiellement parce que lui-même « s’intéressait peu à la question » et qu’il s’était seulement senti obligé de la mentionner parce que « la question a été soulevée si fréquemment ». Dans les paragraphes qui suivent, Taft développe avec force un aspect central de son livre qui, pense-t-il peut-être, n’avait pas été suffisamment clarifié dans son manuscrit : « La question qui m’a paru la plus importante et la plus intéressante, je ne l’ai posée qu’indirectement, et essentiellement dans les illustrations et dans le titre ; c’est celle-ci : “De quelle valeur est la photographie en tant que document historique ?” Ma réponse est que c’est le témoignage le plus vivant et l’un des plus importants, à condition d’être correctement documenté, dont nous disposions pour compléter les témoignages écrits. Vous l’avez dit, la grande différence psychologique entre la photographie et le produit final de n’importe quel autre art graphique réside dans notre croyance – fondée ou non – que la photographie recrée la scène originale avec une absolue fidélité et nous donne un aperçu du passé. L’utilisation de la photographie et son importance dans cette reconstitution du passé ont été, me semble-t-il, largement ignorées – notamment avant la période de la similigravure (pre-helf-tone period) – période durant laquelle la “straight photography” était la règle, en grande partie par nécessité. La grande exception est naturellement la Photographic History of the Civil War – que, soit dit en passant, j’ai eu l’occasion de maudire parfois longuement et amèrement –, mais il faut bien admettre que si la méthode photographique est importante pour enregistrer la vie anormale, elle est tout aussi importante pour enregistrer la vie normale. Une histoire photographique des années 1860 serait tout aussi importante et intéressante [que l’histoire de la guerre], et aurait probablement plus de valeur. Je suis fermement convaincu qu’il subsiste des milliers de photographies de cette période qui restent inconnues et qui, si elles étaient collectées et correctement documentées, constitueraient un panorama véritablement étonnant et fidèle de la scène américaine du passé. Cependant, si l’histoire est importante et intéressante dans les photographies, l’aspect le plus significatif de l’histoire photographique est le rôle, ou l’influence, que la photographie a joué en déterminant l’histoire. Retracer cette évolution est un véritable problème, car il est difficile de recueillir des données factuelles. J’ai néanmoins tenté l’entreprise et, si mon manuscrit présente un intérêt, c’est, je pense, en grande partie en ce qu’il montre que la photographie a influencé la vie sociale, politique et artistique de l’Amérique » (Taft à Newhall, 29 octobre 1937). Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 12 29 En l’absence du manuscrit original, il est difficile de dire dans quelle mesure, avant octobre 1937, Taft avait élaboré son argument théorique sur la valeur historique des photographies. Toutefois, les propos ci-dessus ressemblent non pas à une préfiguration mais à une condensation radicale du passage théorique que l’on trouve dans les pages 314 à 321 de PAS. En outre, Taft fait ici deux remarques qui ne figurent pas dans PAS, à savoir que la straight photography « était la règle » dans la période d’avant le half-tone, et que la photographie est « aussi importante pour enregistrer la vie normale » qu’elle l’est pour enregistrer la « vie anormale », en l’occurrence la guerre. 30 Ces deux remarques, qui peuvent frapper le lecteur de 2012 par leur finesse, auraient mérité d’être davantage commentées ; il est possible qu’elles n’aient pas été conservées dans le manuscrit final de PAS à cause des objections prévisibles que leur opposa Beaumont Newhall. Bien que nous n’ayons pas dans leur intégralité les deux développements successifs de Taft sur l’esthétique de la photographie, on peut raisonnablement supposer qu’une des objections de Newhall portait précisément sur cette affirmation selon laquelle la photographie du XIXe siècle en général était « straight ». Comme l’écrit l’historien de l’art dans sa réponse, datée du 3 novembre 1937 : « La raison pour laquelle je pense qu’une discussion esthétique est indiquée dans une histoire de la photographie est que, parmi les milliers et les milliers de photographies qui existent, certaines sont meilleures que d’autres. Je pense que cela s’explique par une compétence esthétique plutôt que technique. L’esthétique de la photographie a très peu à voir avec celle des autres branches de l’art ; elle commence tout juste à être étudiée. Je me demande si la photographie avant la période de la similigravure était aussi « straight » que vous semblez l’indiquer dans votre lettre. Que dire de H. P. Robinson et de tout le mouvement pictorial ? Parfois, je pense que la similigravure elle-même a apporté une nouvelle appréciation de la straight photography à cause du grand intérêt qu’elle a suscité et de l’avènement de la photographie de presse » (Newhall à Taft, 3 novembre 1937). 31 L’« influence » omniprésente de la photographie en tant que moyen d’information est une question qui a toute sa pertinence dans la discussion entre les deux historiens. Ce même hiver 1937-1938, la correspondance de Taft sur la photographie est remplie de questionnaires envoyés à des directeurs de magazine concernant les fonctions et les règles passées et présentes de la presse illustrée moderne, dont les réponses ont alimenté les chapitres de PAS sur la « Pictorial Press ». Ces questionnaires et ces échanges avec les directeurs de magazine de l’époque (parmi lesquels Henry Luce, de Life) mériteraient également d’être analysés de près. Cependant, Newhall ne cessera d’affirmer que certaines photographies « sont meilleures que d’autres ». D’après le dialogue Taft- Newhall, il apparaît d’une façon plus générale que le chimiste a pris conscience, du fait même de l’insistance de Newhall, de sa propre aversion pour la question – alors à la mode – de l’esthétique photographique, et que, néanmoins, les réflexions nées de cette discussion l’ont aidé à définir une position théorique plus générale sur la photographie, l’histoire et la société. 32 Taft réécrivit, comme on le lui demandait, la partie sur l’esthétique, mais seulement pour se heurter à un autre refus vif – et cette fois décisif – de la part de Newhall. Le 12 décembre 1937, celui-ci adresse à Taft une lettre assez longue qui commence curieusement sur un ton familier, voire vexant, par un « Cher Taft », que Newhall reprendra dans ses lettres de 1938. Ce courrier contient une critique détaillée de la partie retravaillée par Taft sur l’esthétique, accompagnée de son brouillon annoté et du Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 13 programme d’une conférence de Newhall sur l’esthétique photographique « présentée à Harvard jeudi dernier ». Après quelques préliminaires polis, la critique de Newhall commence par ce jugement assez sévère : « Après beaucoup d’étude et de réflexion, j’ai le très grand regret de vous dire que, à mon avis, [la partie retravaillée sur l’esthétique] est confuse et peu satisfaisante. Je vous recommande fortement d’abandonner toute considération esthétique dans votre excellent texte. Comme vous le dites vous-même : “Elle [l’esthétique] n’est pas l’un des intérêts premiers de l’historien social.” Pour les personnes qui souhaitent approfondir la question, vous pourriez faire référence à mon livre qui, je pense, esquisse les grandes lignes sur lesquelles pourrait être construite une esthétique de la photographie » (Newhall à Taft, 12 décembre 1937). 33 De fait, la seconde version du manuscrit de Taft – qu’il n’est pas intéressant d’analyser ici en détail en l’absence de la première version – comprenait une référence très nette aux arguments de Beaumont Newhall sur la distinction entre photographie et arts graphiques et sur sa contribution à un « système satisfaisant » d’esthétique (tout en contestant indirectement la pertinence esthétique de cette distinction, remarque qui semble avoir fortement déplu à Newhall). Dans la version publiée de PAS, le développement de Taft sur l’esthétique se limitait effectivement à un renvoi à l’autorité de Newhall ; comme l’expliquait Taft à Newhall le 12 janvier 1938, après avoir envoyé son texte définitif à Macmillan, il avait décidé d’omettre « les quelques pages qui prêtent à controverse » sur l’esthétique et d’inclure les paragraphes sur « la valeur historique », décision qui, selon lui, était un retour à son « intention initiale ». Cette décision était déjà dans l’esprit de Taft le 18 décembre 1937, quand il adressait sa première réponse à la sévère missive du 12 décembre : « Je n’ai pas encore eu le temps d’assimiler complètement toutes vos critiques. Depuis que je vous ai envoyé la première mouture de mon texte, j’ai été occupé à remodeler et réécrire le dernier chapitre de mon livre. Je pense qu’il est considérablement amélioré. Sur votre suggestion, je l’ai rebaptisé “Photography and the Pictorial Press”. Les vacances de Noël viennent de commencer et, en principe, j’aurai du temps pour moi. J’espère reprendre la rédaction finale de la partie sur la pseudo-esthétique la semaine prochaine et je vous réécrirai alors » (Taft à Newhall, 18 décembre 1937). 34 La « rédaction finale de la partie sur la pseudo-esthétique » correspond certainement au passage théorique de PAS, pages 314-321. « Pseudo-esthétique » est un terme approprié pour un débat qui, pour l’essentiel, élimine l’esthétique en faveur d’une méthodologie de l’histoire. Il ne paraît donc pas exagéré de conclure que le rapport de Newhall et l’échange qui s’ensuit ont aidé Taft à reformuler son analyse « peu satisfaisante » de l’esthétique et à développer en une argumentation approfondie sur la valeur « historique » des photographies – leurs conditions de fidélité et les protocoles de documentation requis pour en faire un usage historique –, section dont Newhall faisait l’éloge dans sa lettre et qui, aujourd’hui, est sans doute l’une des grandes réussites de PAS 48. En outre, Taft donne une définition plus précise du pouvoir « social » des photographies, thème qui imprègne d’ailleurs le dernier chapitre de PAS et les réflexions de conclusion sur la photographie et la presse illustrée comme arme au service de la « fraternité entre les hommes » (PAS, p. 450, cité plus haut). Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 14 « Le Siècle de l’appareil photo » : notes sur la réception initiale des ouvrages de Newhall et de Taft 35 Marta Braun fait remarquer à juste titre que « l’élan narratif » du livre de Newhall finit par éclipser les autres ouvrages consacrés à l’histoire de la photographie : celui de Taft, mais aussi les traductions par Epstean des livres d’Eder et de Potonniée (publiées en 1945) 49. Toutefois, cette remarque fait référence à l’édition de 1949 du livre de Newhall, qui est une version totalement réécrite du texte de 1937-193850. Un examen des archives du New York Times (NYT) pour les années 1937-1939 montre que l’exposition de Newhall et le livre de Taft firent tous deux forte impression sur les critiques de presse. Si l’exposition du MoMA s’attire quelques critiques dans les milieux artistiques51, elle « bénéficie d’une attention considérable dans la presse locale aussi bien que nationale », écrit Christine Y. Hahn, en citant cinq recensions dans le NYT avant l’inauguration et un « grand article » dans le New York Herald qui témoigne du « succès considérable 52 » de l’exposition. Le catalogue de Newhall, P 1839-1937, est également bien accueilli en tant que livre, comme l’atteste en particulier un article non signé, intitulé “The Camera’s Century”, paru le 27 juin 1937. Pour le journaliste, si la photographie a été jusqu’ici « confondue avec tous les autres procédés graphiques », « cette confusion est désormais levée et, dans ce livre très riche en informations, la photographie est examinée à la lumière de ses propres principes » – « un très beau livre ». Ce lecteur, bien que manifestement convaincu par la méthode de Newhall, évalue le mérite du livre d’une manière plutôt éclectique : « Dans ces pages, l’auteur retrace pas à pas depuis ses débuts semi-embryonnaires l’évolution scientifique de la photographie, mais le commun des mortels sera probablement intéressé d’abord par le rappel des photographies de la Guerre civile par Brady – ces remarquables vues prises à l’aide d’une chambre “à plaque humide” difficile à manier […] Cependant, c’est en tant qu’art que la photographie présente le plus d’intérêt […] Cet ouvrage est complet tout en étant concis ; et même si ses textes étaient beaucoup moins éclairants qu’ils ne le sont, c’est un livre qu’il vaudrait la peine d’avoir et de conserver pour les photographies qu’il contient53. » 36 Néanmoins, l’exposition et le catalogue du MoMA ne monopolisent pas l’attention des New-Yorkais amateurs de photographie, que beaucoup d’autres événements sollicitent en 193754. Et l’année suivante, à la fin de 1938, PAS de Robert Taft reçoit dans le NYT plus d’attention que le livre de Beaumont Newhall, quoique moins que l’exposition de 1937. Entre le 11 octobre et Noël 1938, le quotidien publie trois critiques assez longues du livre de Taft, soulignant son approche de la photographie en tant qu’outil pour l’étude de l’histoire. Dans le premier de deux articles, Ralph Thompson (qui écrit régulièrement dans le NYT, y compris sur la littérature, de Virginia Woolf à Ernest Hemingway) estime « que la photographie est la plus merveilleuse des inventions humaines ». Notant que certains se raccrochent à un goût « allemand » pour les appareils photo de type Leica, et que d’autres « considèrent la prise de vue comme un des beaux-arts, une vocation ou une profession », le critique ajoute, en rendant explicitement hommage à la méthode de Taft : « La photographie est indéniablement tout cela, mais elle est aussi – et c’est là, me semble-t-il, que réside sa véritable grandeur – une méthode d’histoire, un moyen superbe et sans égal de conserver le souvenir des hommes et des événements. Cela peut paraître évident, mais tout le monde n’en a pas conscience. Par exemple, parmi ceux qui ont été “fascinés” et “terriblement intéressés” par les romans récents sur la Guerre civile, combien savent que l’histoire de cette même guerre a été couchée sur le papier d’une façon mille fois plus graphique que ne pourrait Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 15 espérer le faire une Margaret Mitchell au sommet de son art ? Or, combien de gens ont même entendu parler de la Photographic History of the Civil War, ouvrage en dix volumes paru en 1911 ? » 37 « C’est un livre long et solide, conclut Thompson, le genre de livre que certains d’entre nous attendons depuis longtemps […] Mais bien que solide, il n’est pas solennel55. » Dans son second article, qui célèbre « une année faste pour les livres d’images ou sur les images », il évoque également American Photographs de Walker Evans et Adventures of America, 1857-1900 : A Pictorial Record from Harper’s Weekly de John Kouwenhoven, et il renouvelle ses éloges sur le livre de Taft, « pas seulement pour le texte, qui est indéniablement la meilleure histoire que nous ayons sur le sujet […] la plus intelligente, érudite et complète, mais aussi pour les illustrations, au nombre d’environ trois cents56 ». Enfin, le numéro du NYT de Noël comprend un article signé S. T. Williamson, qui cherche à clarifier la nature « sociale » de l’histoire de Taft. Le critique fait écho à la thèse de l’auteur, celle de « l’influence » de la photographie sur l’histoire américaine (« On apprend comment les photographies de Jackson ont inspiré la création du Parc national de Yellowstone et comment une photographie a conduit Henry Wadsworth Longfellow à écrire Hiawatha. ») Cette influence, dit Williamson, ne doit pas être comprise comme une simple « liste » d’événements importants mais comme une « histoire » et l’objet d’un effort volontaire et continu pour « préserver et classifier », autre allusion explicite à l’appel de Taft encourageant à collecter, préserver et documenter les vieilles photographies en tant que témoignages du passé visible de l’Amérique57 : « En dépit de la valeur de la photographie comme témoignage historique, personne ne s’est soucié d’apprécier la signification sociale de la photographie ni de retracer le sens de son développement pour la vie quotidienne et les habitudes des habitants de ce pays. Personne, du moins jusqu’au professeur Taft […] qui a mis suffisamment d’éléments en lumière pour montrer que la prochaine étape doit être la préservation et la classification de ces témoignages historiques visuels. L’histoire des cent dernières années pourrait être racontée en photographies. Son élaboration sera un processus lourd et coûteux, mais le travail mérite amplement d’être entrepris, et il faudrait s’y mettre avant que le temps ne fasse de nouveaux ravages dans les tirages et les négatifs58. » 38 En 1937-1938, le NYT accordait une place comparable à l’exposition de Newhall au MoMA et au livre de Robert Taft, ce qui témoigne du grand intérêt que l’on accordait alors à l’histoire de la photographie59. Cependant, les deux ouvrages étaient analysés par des critiques différents et sur des tons différents. Les catégories distinctes de « l’art » (ou de « l’histoire de l’art ») et de « l’histoire » (ou de « l’histoire sociale ») sont déjà bien posées dans leurs comptes rendus, qui ne mélangent pas les deux ouvrages. On peut toutefois avoir le sentiment qu’à cette époque, les deux histoires appartiennent encore à un même domaine, quand bien même celui-ci serait défini comme « livre d’images » et apprécié pour son iconographie plus que pour son texte. 39 Cette proximité ambiguë est perceptible dans le NYT jusqu’en 1964 ; cette année-là, le spécialiste de la photographie au journal, le critique Jacob Deschin, rend compte de la nouvelle édition de l’histoire de Newhall – « un ouvrage qui est plus que jamais le guide le plus lisible sur le sujet60 » –, avant de rendre hommage, dans un autre article consacré à la moisson de livres de l’année sur l’histoire de la photographie, à la réédition par Dover du livre de Taft, « un récit long, aisément et éminemment lisible […] publié pour la première fois en 1938 ». Faisant preuve de déférence plus peut-être que de véritable esprit critique, Deschin accorde la première place à cette réédition, qui rend un « précieux service », tout en décrivant PAS dans un langage où se mêlent la distance et la curiosité : Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 16 « L’ouvrage offre ce que l’auteur appelle en sous-titre “une histoire sociale” de la photographie américaine entre 1839 et 1889. Les faits concrets se mêlent aux anecdotes révélatrices et à un style d’écriture facile qui maintient l’attention du lecteur en alerte de bout en bout. Cette association est rarement aussi réussie que dans ce panorama absolument passionnant61. » 40 La formulation de Deschin laisse penser qu’en 1964 le livre de Taft, en dépit de son intérêt comme « panorama », était déjà considéré comme une relique ; et cette réédition attira moins l’attention que la nouvelle édition de Newhall. Néanmoins, Deschin place Taft sur un pied d’égalité avec Newhall dans l’histoire de la photographie américaine, et il semble considérer ces deux histoires comme complémentaires plus qu’opposées ou inégales. Rappelons que Robert Taft est mort en 1955, peu de temps après la publication de son panorama de l’histoire de l’illustration du Far West, intitulé Artists and Illustrators of the Old West (1953) 62, et que c’est surtout après la mort de Taft que Beaumont Newhall se consacre à la photo-histoire de la « scène américaine », avec The Daguerreotype in America (publié pour la première fois en 1961)63, ainsi qu’à d’innombrables articles et plusieurs rééditions de textes américains du XIXe siècle. Ceci explique peut-être pourquoi on retrouve dans les articles de Deschin le mélange de proximité et de différence que l’on observait déjà dans les critiques des ouvrages de Newhall et de Taft en 1937-1938. En 1964, pour Deschin comme pour beaucoup de spécialistes ultérieurs de la photographie américaine, le livre de Taft a encore toute sa place dans l’histoire de la photographie américaine. 41 Ces réflexions me conduisent à suggérer que le livre de Taft n’est « sorti des écrans radar » de la critique (et des études américaines) que plus tard, entre 1965 et 1980. Dans ce scénario, l’explication première de la désaffection pour le livre serait d’y voir un effet collatéral de la prééminence accordée au modèle d’histoire de Newhall et à son institutionnalisation dans les grands musées d’art et sur le marché de l’art. Mais il pourrait s’expliquer par un autre phénomène que l’on observe aux États-Unis à cette période, à savoir la fragmentation croissante de la critique, de l’histoire de la photographie et de l’enseignement de la photographie. La reconfiguration de l’histoire de la photographie, notamment américaine, qui résulte des efforts divergents et malgré tout cumulatifs de John Szarkowski au MoMA, de Nathan Lyons au Visual Studies Workshop à Rochester, de Peter Bunnell à la chaire de photographie de Princeton, d’Alan Trachtenberg au département d’anglais de Yale, et de la critique « postmoderniste » émergente alimentée par Alan Sekula, Douglas Crimp et Rosalind Krauss autour du magazine October, est retracée de façon frappante dans le récit très innovant de la photographie américaine publié par Jonathan Green en 1984, première « histoire critique » depuis celle de Newhall64. La « lutte pour le sens » [contest of meaning] – pour reprendre l’expression de Richard Bolton – qui caractérise la compréhension culturelle et historique de la photographie (américaine) autour de 1980 a de moins en moins l’usage de l’histoire telle que la conçoit Taft, comme « accumulation de faits », sauf à utiliser ces faits comme munitions pour déconstruire la vision « moderniste » de l’histoire. Cependant, comme le prophétisait Beaumont Newhall, le temps devait venir de réexaminer sous une lumière nouvelle, avec de nouvelles idées et de nouveaux moyens, le moment d’« imagination historique » qui s’incarne dans Photography and the American Scene. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 17 NOTES 1. L’épigraphe est de Beaumont NEWHALL, “Toward the New Histories of Photography”, Exposure, no 4, 1983, p. 7, cité dans Marta BRAUN, “Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone”, Études photographiques, no 16, mai 2005, p. 19-31, note 15. Je remercie Marta Braun et Rachel Stuhlman (George Eastman House) de m’avoir communiqué une copie de cet article. B. NEWHALL, Photography : A Short Critical History ( PSCH), New York, MoMA, 1938 ; B. NEWHALL, Photography, 1839-1937 ( P 1839-1937), New York, MoMA, 1937 ; Robert TAFT, Photography and the American Scene : A Social History, 1839-1889 ( PAS), New York, Macmillan, 1938. Pour la documentation sur le copyright, voir Catalog of Copyright Entries, respectivement : Part 1, Books, Group 1, New Series, vol. 36, pour l’année 1939, nos 1-12, Washington, Government Printing Office, 1940, p. 816 ; vol. 34, pour l’année 1937, nos 1-112, Washington, Government Printing Office, 1938, p. 803 ; vol. 35, pour l’année 1938, nos 1-112, Washington, Government Printing Office, 1939, p. 626. 2. Elizabeth EDWARDS, The Camera as Historian, Amateur Photographers and Historical Imagination, 1885-1918, Durham, Duke University Press, 2012. Voir aussi la série en cours L’Œil de l’Histoire de Georges DIDI-HUBERMAN, et notamment Atlas ou le gai savoir inquiet. L’Œil de l’Histoire , 3, Paris, Minuit, 2011. 3. Robert Taft Collection, Kansas Historical Society (KHS), Topeka. La partie de la collection récemment mise en ligne est la correspondance sur la photographie, dont je parle en partie 4 de cet essai. Je n’ai pris connaissance de cette nouvelle source qu’après avoir terminé et présenté la première version de cet article, et je remercie April Watson et Jane Aspinwall (Kansas City, Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art) de l’avoir portée à mon attention. La correspondance de Taft sur la photographie a été numérisée en 2010 par une équipe de la KHS qui comprenait Michael A. Church (coordinateur et responsable de la collection), Teresa Coble (responsable adjointe), ainsi que Steve Wood (imagerie), et mise en ligne au début de 2011 par le portail Kansas Memory. Je remercie chaleureusement Michael A. Church, coordinateur des projets numériques à la KHS, de m’avoir guidé dans cette correspondance et de m’avoir fourni des informations complémentaires. Dans un courriel du 10 juillet 2012, Church m’informe que de nouvelles parties de la collection seront peut-être numérisées à une date ultérieure, en fonction des réactions à la première partie de l’opération. 4. François BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft (Photography and the American Scene, 1938)”, E-rea, no 8.3, 2011, http://erea.revues.org/17772011. 5. Christopher PHILLIPS, “The Judgment Seat of Photography”, October, no 22, 1982, p. 27-63 ; reproduit dans Annette MICHELSON et al. (dir.), October, The First Decade, 1976-1986, Cambridge / Londres, MIT Press, 1987, p. 257-293. 6. Avec Mary Warner MARIEN, “What Shall We Tell the Children ? Photography and its Text (Books)”, Afterimage, 13, no 9, avril 1986, p. 4-7. Cf. aussi Richard BOLTON (dir.), The Contest of Meaning : Critical Histories of Photography, Cambridge / Londres, MIT Press, 1989. 7. M. BRAUN, “Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone”, art. cit. Dans cette note, Braun donne une bibliographie complète de “l’histoire de l’histoire” ; voir en particulier le numéro spécial de History of Photography, “Why Historiography ?”, 21, no 2, été 1997, avec les articles d’Allison BERTRAND, “Beaumont Newhall’s ‘Photography 1839-1937’ : Making History”, p. 137-147 ; et Anne MCCAULEY, “Writing Photography’s History before Newhall”, p. 87-102. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 18 8. Christine Y. HAHN, “Exhibition as Archive : Beaumont Newhall, Photography 1839-1937, and the Museum of Modern Art”, Visual Resources : An International Journal of Documentation, numéro spécial “Following the Archival Turn : Photography, the Museum, and the Archive”, 18, no 2, 2002, p. 145-152. Selon Hahn, Newhall a évité de proposer une esthétique de la photographie et a été influencé par les théories artistiques globalisantes d’Alois Riegl et la fascination de l’époque pour la machine. 9. Sophie HACKETT, “Beaumont Newhall, le commissaire et la machine. Exposer la photographie au MoMA en 1937”, Études photographiques, no 23, mai 2009, p. 150-176. Hackett souligne aussi le culte de la machine comme source de l’art moderne tel que promu notamment par Alfred Barr et Paul Strand, et le choix très étendu de l’iconographie de Newhall. Dans le même numéro, voir aussi l’article de Matthew S. WITKOV KSY, “Circa 1930 : Histoire de l’art et nouvelle photographie”, p. 116-138. 10. Cf. F. BRUNET, “Samuel Morse, ‘père de la photographie américaine’”, Études photographiques, no 15, novembre 2004, p. 4 et note 2. Concernant les recherches de Taft sur l’époque des daguerréotypes, voir les analyses de Cliff KRAINIK, et en particulier son réexamen de l’article de Robert Taft sur “John Plumbe, America’s First Nationally Known Photographer” (American Photography, 30, janvier 1936, p. 1-12), Daguerreian Annual, 1994, p. 48-57. 11. Cf. par exemple Daniel J. BOORSTIN, The Americans, vol. 3, The Democratic Experience, New York, Vintage Books, 1974, p. 658 ; Michael SCHUDSON, Discovering the News : A Social History of American Newspapers, New York, Basic Books, 1978, p. 95. Une recherche sur Google Books confirme que l’ouvrage de Taft est couramment consulté aujourd’hui encore. 12. Michael KAMMEN, “Photography and the Discipline of American Studies”, American Art, 21, no 3, automne 2007, p. 13-18. Cf. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit. 13. Cf. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit. Il est assez courant de lire que l’ouvrage de Taft est inspiré par une perspective nationaliste, mais il s’agit probablement d’une simplification (voir partie 2 du présent article). 14. Cf. M. BRAUN, “Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone”, art. cit. J’approfondis la question dans le présent article ; voir ci-dessous les commentaires de Geoffrey BATCHEN, partie 3 et note 38. Pour Douglas Nickel, il ne semble pas que le livre de Taft « ait eu une influence » sur celui de Newhall, et Nickel rappelle que ce dernier était le lecteur externe de Macmillan : Douglas R. NICKEL, “History of Photography : The State of Research”, The Art Bulletin, 83, no 3, 2001, p. 557. 15. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 18-22. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., p. 2-4. 18. .Pour plus de détails, voir partie 3 et notes 29 et 30. 19. C. PHILLIPS, “The Judgment Seat of Photography” art. cit. ; S. HACKETT, “Beaumont Newhall, le commissaire et la machine...”, art. cit. Parmi les souvenirs publiés de Beaumont Newhall, citons B. NEWHALL, “Toward the New Histories of Photography”, art. cit. ; entretien avec Beaumont NEWHALL de mars 1975, in Paul HILL et Thomas COOPER (dir.), Dialogue with Photography, New York, Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, 1979, p. 377-412 ; B. NEWHALL, “The Challenge of Photography to this Art Historian”, in Peter WALCH et Thomas BARROW (dir.), Perspectives on Photography, Albuquerque, University of New Mexico Press, 1986, p. 1-7 ; B. NEWHALL, Focus : Memoirs of a Life in Photography, New York, Bulfinch, 1993. D’importantes archives de Beaumont et Nancy Newhall sont conservées au MoMA (MoMA Archives), au Getty Museum (Getty Research Institute) et au Center for Creative Photography à Tucson, Arizona. 20. Cf. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 13-22. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 19 21. Sur Mathew Brady et les photographies de la Guerre civile, il est intéressant de comparer B. NEWHALL, PSCH, op. cit., p. 48-50 (un chapitre à part est consacré à “Brady : Documentation of the Civil War”, entre “Ambrotypes” et “Photographic Realism”) et R. TAFT, PAS, op. cit., chapitre 13 (“Civil War Photographers”, p. 223-247). Sur les appareils photo légers et le Kodak, cf. PSCH, p. 59-61 et PAS, chapitres 18 (“A New Age”, p. 361-383) et 19 (“The Flexible Film”, p. 384-404). 22. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 23-25. 23. Comparer B. NEWHALL, PSCH, op. cit., p. 76-80 (“News Photography”, où l’historien de l’art tente de distinguer entre l’« interprétation photographique » et la simple « sensation »), et R. TAFT, PAS , op. cit., chapitre 21 (“Photography and the Pictorial Press”, p. 419-451, qui s’intéresse beaucoup plus à l’évolution technologique, et notamment à l’invention de l’impression en demi-teinte, et à l’« impact » social). Dans un entretien de 1975, Newhall déclare que les « choses excitantes » qu’a connues la photographie dans les années 1930 sont le travail de la FSA et la straight photography, la photographie expérimentale et le photojournalisme. Entretien avec Beaumont NEWHALL de mars 1975, op. cit., p. 383. Cette « excitation » est liée, à la fin des années 1930, à l’émergence de la « photographie documentaire » (cf. Olivier LUGON, Le Style documentaire : d’August Sander à Walker Evans, 1920-1945, Paris, Macula, 2001). 24. Ce contexte, qui mériterait d’être étudié plus en détail, a été abordé par les commentateurs intéressés par l’élaboration de l’histoire de Beaumont Newhall. Cf. les références données en notes 5 à 9, et F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 4-6. 25. Pour les références des souvenirs publiés de l’historien de l’art, voir note 19. 26. Cf. R. TAFT, “A Photographic History of Early Kansas”, Kansas Historical Quarterly, 3, no 1, février 1934, p. 3-14, http://www.kancoll.org/khq/1934/34_1_taft.htm. 27. Cf. R. TAFT, “M. B. Brady and the Daguerreotype Era”, American Photography, 29, nos 8 et 9, 1935, p. 486-498, 548-560. 28. En même temps que René Auvillain, secrétaire de la Société française de photographie ; H. H. Blacklock, secrétaire, et J. Dudley Johnston, conservateur de la Royal Photographic Society of Great Britain ; Lewis Mumford ; Georgia O’Keeffe ; Louis Walton Sipley ; et Monroe Wheeler (B. NEWHALL, PSCH, op. cit., p. 10). 29. Cf. B. NEWHALL, P 1839-1937, op. cit., p. 50 et PSCH, op. cit., p. 49-50. 30. R. TAFT, PAS, op. cit., p. 229-230. Dans le texte de Taft, cette critique laconique ne semble pas destinée à diminuer le mérite artistique ou autre de Brady, mais à servir de mise en garde contre les excès spéculatifs de la « critique artistique ». Plus loin dans le même chapitre, Taft donne sur la carrière d’Alexander Gardner et sur l’aventure qu’il poursuit à partir de 1863 (ibid., p. 230-231) des détails que l’on ne trouve pas chez Newhall. 31. B. NEWHALL, PSCH, op. cit., p. 194. 32. Ibid., p. 219. 33. Cf. Erin Kathleen O’TOOLE, “No Democracy in Quality : Ansel Adams, Beaumont and Nancy Newhall, and the Founding of the Department of Photographs at the Museum of Modern Art”, thèse de doctorat, University of Arizona, 2010, p. 288-289. O’Toole cite également une lettre de James Soby à Dick Abbott, datée du 26 juin 1944, où – faisant référence à la réorganisation du département de photographie du MoMA – Soby opte à contrecœur pour l’approche « stieglitzienne des beaux-arts » et pour la « photographie professionnelle par opposition à commerciale », ajoutant : « Et là-dessus, Nancy Newhall en sait plus que n’importe qui à l’exception de Beaumont, Hyatt Mayor et [Robert] Taft, mais aucun d’eux n’est disponible » (ibid., p. 263), http ://arizona.openrepository.com/arizona/bitstream/ 10150/204109/1/ azu_etd_10947_sip1_m.pdf. 34. B. NEWHALL, “The Challenge of Photography to this Art Historian”, art. cit., p. 6. Edward EPSTEAN (1868-1945) s’intéressa à l’histoire de la photographie avant 1900, à l’époque où il Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 20 travaillait dans la photogravure. Traducteur de nombreuses publications françaises et allemandes sur la photographie, notamment des histoires de Josef Maria Eder et de Georges Potonniée, il publia également plusieurs ouvrages historiques sous sa signature, et en particulier Daguerreotype in Europe and the United States, 1839-1853 (avec John A. Tennant, s. n., 1934), et The Centenary of Photography and The Motion Picture (s. n., reproduit du Journal of the Society of Motion Picture Engineers, 1939). 35. B. NEWHALL, “The Challenge of Photography to this Art Historian”, art. cit., p. 6 : « J’étais fasciné de constater que cet auteur inconnu avait traité en grande partie le même territoire que moi, et qu’il était parvenu à des conclusions semblables aux miennes. En fait, j’ai été si surpris que j’ai demandé une lettre certifiant que le manuscrit avait été envoyé à Epstean après la publication de mon livre. J’ai chaleureusement recommandé la publication du livre de Taft, qui, comme vous le savez sans doute tous, est devenu un classique et a été réédité deux fois. » 36. Dans d’autres propos, cependant, Newhall ne mentionne pas Taft parmi ses pairs dans l’histoire de la photographie de cette époque ; cf. par exemple l’entretien avec Beaumont NEWHALL de mars 1975, op. cit., p. 387. 37. R. TAFT, PAS, op. cit., p. 496-497. 38. Geoffrey BATCHEN, Each Wild Idea : Wri ting, Photography, History, Cambridge, MIT Press, 2002, p. 211, note 45. À ma connaissance, Batchen est le seul critique à avoir commenté l’étrange note de Taft (note de fin 341), mais, curieusement, il affirme, après la phrase citée, que Taft « ajoute ensuite une note de fin qui donne des détails sur le catalogue de Newhall pour le MoMA, et il poursuit immédiatement en citant les opinions de Stieglitz, telles que publiées dans le New York Times en 1934 ». En fait, la note de Taft ne donne pas de détails sur le catalogue de Newhall mais se contente de le citer ; en revanche, il cite bien les opinions des « chefs de file de la photographie américaine », car, explique-t-il, « elles [le] confortent sur la question soulevée dans le texte ». Le problème est que ce commentaire étant inséré dans une note de fin, elle-même rattachée à une note de bas de page renvoyant au « système » de Newhall, « la question soulevée dans le texte » est difficile à identifier, à moins qu’il ne s’agisse de la déclaration prudente selon laquelle « il semble se développer actuellement un système esthétique satisfaisant et logique reposant sur les traits distinctifs de la photographie », à laquelle renvoie la note de bas de page. La citation de Stieglitz est une défense de la straight photography, et la lettre ne fait que réaffirmer cette position. Les propos cités de Steichen, extraits d’un entretien accordé en 1923 au New York Times, vont dans le même sens (« M. Steichen prône un retour aux images nettes et fait l’éloge de la “précision méticuleuse de l’appareil photo” »). Il est intéressant de noter aussi que la lettre de Steichen adressée à Taft, qui lui demandait confirmation de ces propos, a un air de reniement (« dans le détail, ils ne peuvent être exacts ») et d’autojustification rétrospective (« à cette époque, je profitais de toutes les occasions qui se présentaient pour inciter à l’abandon du flou et quelques autres caprices qui avaient cours […] J’avais été l’un des meneurs dans la production de ces aberrations techniques »), R. TAFT, PAS, op. cit., p. 497. 39. Aucune des références que j’ai relevées dans les notes de fin de Taft ne semble postérieure à janvier 1938. 40. Robert Taft Collection, KHS, op. cit. La collection comprend cinquante-six boîtes, décrites dans une aide de recherche en ligne : http ://www.kshs.org/p/robert-taft-collection/14128. 41. Robert Taft Collection, KHS, op. cit., boîtes 10-12, accessibles par un outil de sélection de la page : http ://www.kansasmemory.org/item/221204/page/1. La correspondance sur la photographie couvre la période de 1926 à 1955. Dans les notes qui suivent, je ferai référence aux lettres citées en indiquant uniquement le nom de l’auteur et la date. 42. Taft est d’abord indécis quant à la portée qu’il veut donner à son livre, hésitant entre un sujet limité, auquel il donne le titre “The Early Use of Photography in the Explorations of the West” (19 janvier 1933 à A. J. Olmstead), et une approche plus ambitieuse (“A history of American Photography in the Period 1839 to 1880”, 5 mai 1933 à Horace W. Davis ; “A Popular History of Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 21 American Photography in the Period 1839-1880”, 13 juin 1933 à Agnes Rogers Allen). Dès 1935, il affirme que son projet « approche de son terme » (19 avril 1935 à K. D. Metcalf). À la fin de 1935, il se met en quête d’un éditeur, tout en publiant des portions ou des premières versions de son livre, notamment sur Mathew Brady, dans une série d’articles pour American Photography (voir R. TAFT, “M. B. Brady and the Daguerreotype Era”, art. cit.). Le 19 novembre 1935, il sollicite Houghton, Mifflin Co., indiquant qu’il a « achevé la première version » d’un livre qui traite de la photographie américaine envisagée « comme une phase de l’histoire sociale américaine plutôt que comme une histoire technique et, à ce titre, elle devrait présenter un intérêt beaucoup plus grand pour le public en général », et proposant comme titre “An American Sun Shines Brighter” ; la réponse est apparemment négative. En juin 1936, Taft exprime l’espoir « d’envoyer [le livre] à l’éditeur à la fin de l’été » (17 juin 1936, à L. W. Sipley) ; à partir de 1936, il semble surtout occupé à réunir l’iconographie, mais il procédera encore à d’importantes révisions sur le texte. Le 15 janvier 1937, toujours en quête d’éditeur, il se renseigne auprès d’Edward Epstean sur les « deux livres annoncés par Tennant and Ward et que vous avez traduits sur l’histoire de la photographie » (c’est-à-dire les histoires de Potonniée et de Eder, qui ne paraîtront qu’en 1945). D’après une lettre conservée dans sa correspondance générale (je remercie Michael Church de me l’avoir communiquée), on apprend une chose importante : le 11 mars 1937, Robert Taft prend contact avec l’éditeur Little, Brown & Co., qui lui adresse en retour une lettre de refus le 18 mars (Robert Taft Papers, Kansas Historical Society, Coll. 172, Box 1, General Correspondence, Folder 1937). Il est donc probable que les négociations avec Macmillan n’aient commencé qu’après cette date, ce qui ne pourra être confirmé que si l’on retrouve les échanges de correspondance entre Taft et Macmillan. Michael Church m’assure que l’on n’a pas encore trouvé trace de cette correspondance dans les archives Taft. 43. Par exemple, la lettre de Taft à Epstean citée dans la note précédente est le point de départ d’un échange autour de la question, soulevée par Epstean dans sa lettre du 22 janvier 1937 à Taft, de savoir « à quel moment le mot “photographie”, en tant que nom, adjectif ou autre a été utilisé pour la première fois, et par qui » ; ce à quoi Taft répond en faisant référence à des sources allemandes et anglaises (en particulier à la lettre de John F. W. Herschel à Talbot du 19 février 1839, proposant de substituer le mot « photographic » au « photogenic » de Talbot), qui ne figurent pas dans PAS. 44. Newhall conseille à Taft d’utiliser la reproduction du portrait d’Herschel de Camera Work (suggestion retenue par Taft, cf. R. TAFT, PAS, op. cit., p. 106), et il lui envoie une copie d’une vue d’une rue de Boston par Southworth et Hawes, qui est la source de l’illustration, déjà mentionnée, de l’inversion de droite à gauche qui figure, avec crédit à Newhall, à la page 94 du livre de Taft. 45. Sur cette exposition et son relatif échec, cf. Laetitia BARRÈRE, “Influence culturelle ? Les usages diplomatiques de la photographie américaine en France durant la guerre froide”, Études photographiques, no 21, décembre 2007, p. 44-45 et notes 8 et 9. Newhall décrit les projets pour cette exposition dans une lettre à Taft datée du 23 février 1938. 46. La dernière lettre ou copie de lettre de Taft à Newhall dans le dossier est datée du 7 mars 1938. Ensuite, il y a encore deux lettres de Newhall à Taft en mars et en mai 1938. Après cela, la correspondance ne comprend plus que cinq lettres de Newhall à Taft (entre janvier 1939 et mars 1943), et une de Nancy Newhall, qui assure l’intérim de Beaumont au MoMA en 1942. Dans l’ensemble de la correspondance, il semble qu’il manque plusieurs lettres de Taft à Newhall. 47. Concernant, par exemple, Alexander Gardner et la photographie de la construction des chemins de fer dans l’Ouest (Newhall à Taft, 11 novembre 1937), les daguerréotypes de la guerre du Mexique (Taft à Newhall, 30 novembre 1937), les documents de W. H. F. Talbot en possession de Robert Taft (Newhall à Taft, 2 décembre 1937 ; Taft à Newhall, 7 déc. 1937), etc. 48. Cf. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 20-22. 49. M. BRAUN, “Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone”, art. cit., p. 30. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 22 50. Sous le nouveau titre The History of Photography from 1839 to the Present Day ; sur la réécriture, avec l’aide du scénariste d’Hollywood Ferdinand Reyher, cf. l’entretien avec Beaumont NEWHALL de mars 1975, op. cit., p. 407-408 ; M. BRAUN, “Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone”, art. cit., p. 26. 51. Cf. S. HACKETT, “Beaumont Newhall, le commissaire et la machine…”, art. cit., p. 150-152. 52. C. Y. HAHN, “Exhibition as Archive...”, art. cit., p. 146-147. Les mentions de l’exposition du MoMA trouvées sur les archives en ligne du NYT ont paru le 5 mars 1937, le 14 mars 1937, le 17 mars 1937, le 21 mars 1937, le 4 avril 1937 (sous la signature H.D. : « [....] l’art de la photographie est décidément sur le devant de la scène actuellement, avec assez d’expositions pour plaire à tous les goûts et occuper pendant un moment les adeptes de l’appareil photo ») ; 14 avril 1937, l’auteur faisant remarquer que le MoMA a ajouté à son exposition un groupe de daguerréotypes de 1847 sur la guerre du Mexique. Dans son livre, Robert Taft commente abondamment ces images de guerre récemment redécouvertes (R. TAFT, PAS, op. cit., p. 223-224 et note de fin 246a). 53. NYT, 27 juin 1937, “Miscellaneous Brief Reviews of Recent Non-Fiction”, article non signé intitulé “The Camera’s Century”. 54. .Le 7 octobre 1937, le NYT consacre un article élogieux au salon annuel de l’appareil photo (US Camera Salon) sous le titre “Camera Show To Have 700 Prints”. Un article sur “The New Books on Photography”, par Edward Fitch HALL ( NYT, 31 octobre 1937), consacré en grande partie aux ouvrages techniques ou populaires, ne mentionne pas le catalogue de Newhall. 55. Ralph THOMPSON, “Books of the Times : A Method of History, Pictures and Text, A Broad View”, NYT, 11 oct. 1938. Cf. Francis Trevelyan MILLER (dir.), The Photographic History of the Civil War , 10 vol., New York, The Review of Reviews, 1911 ; et F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 5. 56. R. THOMPSON, “Books of the Times ; Walker Evans and Others Cartoons to Comic Strips from Harper’s Weekly”, NYT, 29 novembre 1938. 57. Cf. F. BRUNET, “L’histoire photographique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft…”, art. cit., p. 20-23. 58. S. T. WILLIAMSON, “Early American Photography ; Mr. Taft Writes a Social History of the Camera’s First Fifty Years in this Country”, NYT, 25 décembre 1938. 59. Le livre de Taft a droit à un certain nombre de recensions en dehors de celles du NYT, pas toutes favorables (cf. The Saturday Review, 17 décembre 1938, p. 6). PAS est même mentionné dans le numéro du magazine Life du 5 juin 1939, où le livre et ses illustrations semblent avoir été la principale source de l’article illustré intitulé “American Yesterdays, Nearly a Century of National History Has Been Recorded by the Camera” ; l’auteur estime que, depuis la guerre du Mexique de 1849, « en Amérique, la photographie en tant qu’art vient en seconde place après la photographie comme moyen d’enregistrer l’histoire » (auteur non identifié, Life, 5 juin 1939, p. 24, 29-40). Cf. aussi Robert Taft à Elmo Scott Watson, 14 octobre 1938, Robert Taft Collection, KHS, correspondance sur la photographie. 60. Jacob DESCHIN, “History Updated : Newhall Book Appears in a New Edition”, NYT, 8 novembre 1964. 61. J. DESCHIN, “History Speaks Volumes”, NYT, 27 juin 1965, section X, p. 24. 62. R. TAFT, Artists and Illustrators of the Old West, 1850-1900, New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953. 63. B. NEWHALL, The Daguerreotype in America, New York, Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1961 ; réimpression Dover, 1976. 64. Jonathan GREEN, American Photography : A Critical History 1945 to the Present, New York, Harry N. Abrams, 1984. Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 23 RÉSUMÉS Le présent article examine la coïncidence historique, les différences conceptuelles et le dialogue constitutif qui relient les deux récits du premier siècle de la photographie, récits publiés simultanément par les historiens américains Beaumont Newhall et Robert Taft. Si le catalogue de Newhall pour l’exposition du MoMA en 1937 et son History of Photography qui paraît ensuite ont longtemps été considérés comme les éléments fondateurs d’une interprétation esthétique de la photographie, l’ouvrage de Taft, Photography and the American Scene, de 1938, a peu retenu l’attention de la critique malgré sa prétention légitime à être une « histoire sociale » de la photographie américaine et de sa fonction en tant que support de la mémoire et de l’histoire nationales. Après une comparaison entre les deux textes, cet article éclaire la relation de travail – généralement passée inaperçue – qui s’est instaurée entre les deux historiens et analyse l’accueil initial réservé à leurs ouvrages respectifs. This paper examines the historical coincidence, conceptual difference, and generative dialogue linking the two accounts of photography’s first century, created simultaneously by the American historians Beaumont Newhall and Robert Taft. Whereas Newhall’s catalogue to the 1937 MoMA exhibition and subsequent History of Photography have long been considered foundational documents for the aesthetic interpretation of photography, Taft’s 1938 Photography and the American Scene has been given very little critical attention, in spite of its plausible claim to serve as a ‘social history’ of American photography and of its function as a medium of national memory and history. In addition to comparing the two texts, the paper sheds light on the generally unnoticed working relationship between the two historians and the initial reception of their work. AUTEURS FRANÇOIS BRUNET François Brunet est historien des images et de la culture américaine. Enseignant à l’université Paris Diderot, il est également membre de l’Institut universitaire de France. Il a publié La Naissance de l’idée de photo graphie (nouvelle édition, Paris PUF, 2011), Photography and Literature (Londres, Reaktion Books, 2009) et l’anthologie Agissements du rayon solaire (Pau, Presses de l’université de Pau, 2009). Il a été co-commissaire de l’exposition “Images of the West” (musée d’Art américain de Giverny, 2007). Il est directeur de publication pour un ouvrage à venir sur l’histoire et la culture des images aux États-Unis (Paris, Hazan/université Paris Diderot, 2013). François Brunet is a historian of images and American culture ; he teaches at Université Paris Diderot and is a fellow of the Institut universitaire de France. He has published La Naissance de l’idée de photographie photographie (new ed. PUF, 2011), Photography and Literature (Reaktion Books, 2009) and the anthology Agissements du rayon solaire (Presses de l’Université de Pau, 2009). He has cocurated the exhibition Images of the West (Musée d’art américain de Giverny, 2007). He is the chief editor of a forthcoming book on the history and culture of images in the United States (Hazan/University Paris Diderot, 2013). Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 24 Robert Taft dans l’ombre de Beaumont Newhall Deux destinées divergentes Récits contradictoires / Histoires parallèles Adversaires ou collaborateurs ? Le témoignage des sources imprimées Dialogue en coulisses : le témoignage de la correspondance de Taft sur la photographie « Le Siècle de l’appareil photo » : notes sur la réception initiale des ouvrages de Newhall et de Taft 
work_72wwjr2ywzbivmm6lrx4huyg5a	----	Microsoft Word - TEST_obj - Tobi Chemical Looping Reactor System Design Double Loop Circulating Fluidized Bed (DLCFB) Thesis for the degree of Philosophiae Doctor Trondheim, May 2012 Norwegian University of Science and Technology Faculty of Engineering Science and Technology Department of Energy and Process Engineering Aldo Bischi NTNU Norwegian University of Science and Technology Thesis for the degree of Philosophiae Doctor Faculty of Engineering Science and Technology Department of Energy and Process Engineering © Aldo Bischi ISBN 978-82-471-3591-4 (printed ver.) ISBN 978-82-471-3592-1 (electronic ver.) ISSN 1503-8181 Doctoral theses at NTNU, 2012:152 Printed by NTNU-trykk I Preface The thesis is submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of philosophiae doctor (Ph.D.) at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU). The work was carried out at the Department of Energy and Process Engineering at the Faculty of Engineering Science and Technology. Professor Olav Bolland has been the academic supervisor. The Ph.D. thesis forms a part of the BIGCO2 project, performed under the strategic Norwegian research program Climit. It was founded by the partners: Statoil, GE Global Research, Statkraft, Aker Clean Carbon, Shell, TOTAL, ConocoPhillips, ALSTOM, the Research Council of Norway (178004/I30 and 176059/I30) and Gassnova (182070). II Abstract Chemical looping combustion (CLC) is continuously gaining more importance among the carbon capture and storage (CCS) technologies. It is an unmixed combustion process which takes place in two steps. An effective way to realize CLC is to use two interconnected fluidized beds and a metallic powder circulating among them, acting as oxygen carrier. The metallic powder oxidizes at high temperature in one of the two reactors, the air reactor (AR). It reacts in a highly exothermic reaction with the oxygen of the injected fluidizing air. Afterwards the particles are sent to the other reactor where the fuel is injected, the fuel reactor (FR). There, they transport heat and oxygen necessary for the reaction with the injected fuel to take place. At high temperatures, the particle’s oxygen reacts with the fuel producing CO2 and steam, and the particles are ready to start the loop again. The overall reaction, the sum of the enthalpy changes of the oxygen carrier oxidation and reduction reactions, is the same as for the conventional combustion. Two are the key features, which make CLC promising both for costs and capture efficiency. First, the high inherent irreversibility of the conventional combustion is avoided because the energy is utilized stepwise. Second, the CO2 is intrinsically separated within the process; so there is in principle no need either of extra carbon capture devices or of expensive air separation units to produce oxygen for oxy-combustion. A lot of effort is taking place worldwide on the development of new chemical looping oxygen carrier particles, reactor systems and processes. The current work is focused on the reactor system: a new design is presented, for the construction of an atmospheric 150kWth prototype working with gaseous fuel and possibly with inexpensive oxygen carriers derived from industrial by-products or natural minerals. It consists of two circulating fluidized beds capable to operate in fast fluidization regime; this will increase the particles concentration in the upper section of the reactors, thus the gas solids contact. They are interconnected by means of two pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals and a bottom extraction/lift. The system is designed to be as compact as possible, to help up-scaling and enclosure into a pressurized vessel, aiming pressurization in a second phase. In addition several industrial solutions have been utilized, from highly loaded cyclones to several levels of secondary air injections. III The divided loop-seals are capable to internally re-circulate part of the entrained solids, uncoupling the solids entrainment from the solids exchange. This will provide a better control on the process increasing its flexibility and helping to fulfil downstream requirements. No mechanical valves are utilized, but gas injections. The bottom extraction compensates the lower entrainment of the FR which has less fluidizing gas availability and smaller cross section than the AR. The lift allows adjusting the reactors bottom inventories, thus the pressures in the bottom sections of the reactors. In this way the divided loop-seals are not exposed to large pressure unbalances and the whole system is hydrodynamically more robust. The proposed design was finally validated by means of a full scale cold flow model (CFM), without chemical reactions. A thorough evaluation of the scaling state-of-the-art in fluidization engineering has been done; two are the approaches. One consists of building a small scale model which resembles the hydrodynamics of the bigger hot setup, by keeping constant a set of dimensionless numbers. The other is based on the construction of a full scale model, being careful to be in the same fluidization regime and to utilize particles with the same fluidization properties as the hot setup. In this way the surface to volume ratio is kept the same as that one of the hot rig. The idea presented in this work combines those two strategies, building a full scale CFM. In this way, it can be used for the hot rig design debugging and it is at the same time the hydrodynamic small scale model of a ten times larger industrial application. The adopted scaling strategy and design brought to the construction of one of the world biggest and more complex fluidized bed cold flow model reactor systems. The air and fuel reactor have a height of 5 m and a diameter of respectively 0.230 and 0.144 m. The selected particles are fine and heavy being classifiable as high density Geldart A; there is almost no published literature regarding those particles utilization in circulating fluidized beds. Extensive test campaigns have been performed to hydrodynamically validate the proposed designs. It was possible to understand and evaluate the operational window, the sensitivity to the input parameters and the key design details performance. Control strategies were qualitatively developed. The presented double loop architecture design showed good stability and flexibility at the same time, so that can also suit the requirements of other chemical processes based on two complementary reactions taking place simultaneously and continuously. V A mia nonna Maria. VI Acknowledgments First of all, I would like to thank my supervisor Prof. Olav Bolland giving me the opportunity to work with such interesting and challenging topic, to advise me along the whole Ph.D. and to believe in me. I would like to express my gratitude to Prof. Gernot Krammer, Dr. Rahul Anantharaman, Dr. Lars Olof Nord, Mr. Jean Xavier Morin and Mr. Øyvind Langørgen. Each of these gentlemen has de facto co-supervised a phase of my work. Many of the Ph.D. fellows that I got to know have been very important for me, as well as the master and bachelor students that I had the chance to supervise. We shared our challenges, we learnt from each other and supported each-other. I also would like to thank the administrative staff at the Department of Energy and Process Engineering of NTNU to provide me excellent working conditions. The TU Wien “Chemical Process Engineering and Energy Technology” Research Division in Austria deserves my gratitude, they hosted me for some months in the more complex time of my Ph.D. and they introduced me to Chemical Engineering. I would like to thank all the friends I made during this “travel”; people coming from all over the word in such welcoming country, Norway. I got to know so many cultures and things and I had really good time. I thank my family and my friends in Italy, they have always been present. The Ph.D. thesis forms a part of the BIGCO2 project, performed under the strategic Norwegian research program Climit. The author acknowledges the partners: Statoil, GE Global Research, Statkraft, Aker Clean Carbon, Shell, TOTAL, ConocoPhillips, ALSTOM, the Research Council of Norway (178004/I30 and 176059/I30) and Gassnova (182070) for their support. VII Contents Nomenclature…………………………………………………………………………….. IX 1. Ph.D. Thesis organization…………………………………………………………….. 2 1.1. Project overview………………………………………………………………. 2 1.2. Ph.D. thesis objectives.......................................................................... 3 1.3. Structure and contents summary…………………………………………….. 4 1.4. Papers list…………….………………………………………………………... 5 1.5. Scientific contribution………….……………………………………………... 9 2. Chemical looping technologies and fluidization engineering………………………. 10 2.1. Global warming and energy scenario………………………………………. 10 2.2. Carbon dioxide capture and storage……………………………………….. 12 2.3. Chemical looping processes…………………………………………………. 15 2.4. Chemical looping technologies……………………………………………… 18 2.5. Oxygen carrier and particles characterization……………………………. 20 2.6. Chemical looping fluidized bed reactor systems…………………………. 25 3. 150kWth chemical looping reactor system design and cold flow model validation.. 30 3.1. Preliminary reactor system design………………………………………….. 30 3.2. Double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) reactor system…….….. 32 3.3. Cold flow model scaling strategy and design……………………………… 37 3.4. Health safety and environmental evaluation of the cold flow model, with focus on the utilized particles………………………………………….. 41 3.5. Cold flow model commissioning…………………………………………….. 44 3.6. Hydrodynamic validation of chemical looping processes……………….. 50 VIII 3.7. Procedure to operate the cold flow model according to the hot process requirements.…………………………………………....................…………. 53 4. Double loop circulating fluidized bed design evaluation and finalization………… 57 4.1. Design evaluation and improvement suggestions…………………………. 57 4.2. Improved design performance……………………………………………….. 66 5. Conclusions & future work…………………………………………………………... 73 5.1. Conclusions…………………………………………………………………..... 73 5.2. Future work…………………………………………………………………….. 75 References………………………………………………………………………………... 79 Paper I Paper II Paper III Paper IV IX Nomenclature Roman letters d50 [ m] mass median particle diameter D [m] reactor diameter Gs [kg·m-2·s-1] solids flux g [m·s-2] gravitational acceleration h [W·m-2·K-1] heat transfer coefficient L [m] reactor height MeO oxidized metal oxide MeO -1 reduced metal oxide P [Pa], [mbar] pressure PM1 all the particles having a d50 of 1 m or less PM10 all the particles having a d50 of 10 m or less ppmv parts per million by volume R0 [kg·kg-1] theoretical amount of oxygen that the oxygen carrier can take up R [-] coefficient of determination T [ºC] temperature toe tonne of oil equivalent u0 [m·s-1] superficial gas velocity umf [m·s-1] particles minimum fluidization velocity ut [m·s-1] particles terminal velocity Vcyc_entr [m·s-1] gas velocity at the cyclone entrance, at the inlet duct exit wt% [-] weight per cent X [-] degree of oxidation or conversion Y year Greek letters P [mbar] pressure variation X [-] conversion difference or exploitation of the maximum oxygen capacity [-] excess air ratio [Pa·s] dynamic viscosity [kg·m-3] density [-] particles sphericity X Subscripts g gas p particles Dimensionless numbers Ar [-] Archimedes number d503· g·( p- g)·g· -2 Fr [-] Froude number u02·g-1·D-1 Rep [-] particles Reynolds number g·u0·d50· -1 [-] density ratio p g-1 [-] dimensionless flux Gs· p-1·u0-1 [-] geometric similarity L D-1 [-] superficial gas velocity/ minimum fluidization velocity ratio uo·umf-1 XI Acronyms AD anno domini AR air reactor ARLS air reactor loop-seal ASTM American Society of Testing Materials ASU air separation units CAD computer aided design CCS carbon capture and storage CFB circulating fluidized bed CFD computational fluid dynamics CFM cold flow model CLC chemical looping combustion CLG chemical looping gasification CLOU chemical looping with oxygen uncoupling CLR chemical looping reforming CSIC Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas DLCFB double loop circulating fluidized bed EPICA European Project for Ice Coring in Antarctica FCC fluidized catalytic cracking FR fuel reactor FRLS fuel reactor loop-seal GDP gross domestic product GT gas turbine HSE health safety environment IEA International Energy Agency IGCC integrated gasification combined cycle IPCC Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change KIER Korean Institute of Energy Research NTNU Norges Teknisk-Naturvitenskapelige Universitet OC oxygen carrier OEL occupational exposure limit R&D research and development PDU process development unit PSD particle size distribution SEM scanning electron microscope TGA thermogravimetric analysis TSI total solids inventory VDI Verein Deutscher Ingenieure 1 "O frati", dissi, "che per cento milia perigli siete giunti a l’occidente, a questa tanto picciola vigilia d’i nostri sensi ch’è del rimanente non vogliate negar l’esperïenza, di retro al sol, del mondo sanza gente. Considerate la vostra semenza: fatti non foste a viver come bruti, ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza". (Dante Alighieri, Divina Commedia - Inferno, Canto XXVI, vv 112-120) “O brothers, who amid a hundred thousand perils,” I said, “have come unto the West, to this so inconsiderable vigil which is remaining of your senses still be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge, following the sun, of the unpeopled world. Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang; ye were not made to live like unto brutes, but for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.” (Translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) 2 1. Ph.D. Thesis organization 1.1. Project overview The Ph.D. thesis is part of a project called BIGCLC, which was a subproject related to the BIGCO2 research and development (R&D) platform. Since 2011 the BIGCLC project was included in the BIGCCS research centre. The 150kWth chemical looping combustion (CLC) reactor system design, object of the Ph.D. thesis, has been developed within the BIGCO2 R&D platform. BIGCCS will provide the funding to build and commission the 150kWth CLC setup in 2012-2013. The BIGCLC project consists of several working packages. The main focus is on the construction and commissioning of an innovative reactor system design and the development of new oxygen carriers (OC). In addition, effort is invested also on system simulation and process control, power cycles integration and technological, economical and environmental benchmarking. BIGCLC wanted the reactor system to make a step forward concerning the CLC state of the art, focusing on thermal load, pressurization and utilization of cheap oxygen carriers based on Norwegian ores or industrial by-products. The design presented in the Ph.D. thesis tries to address the above-mentioned project objectives. It has been developed in a cooperation between SINTEF Energy and Research, the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) and the consulting company CO2-H2 Eurl. A thermal load of 150kW has been chosen, because at the time the project started (2007) there were no existing setups of that size. It was decided to develop the project in three steps. First, a design suitable for a 150kWth atmospheric reactor system was defined. Operational flexibility and compactness have been a design priority as well as the utilization of industrial solutions. The OC particles considered in the design phase are those ones under development within the BIGCLC project. SINTEF Materials and Chemistry is in charge of this task and the work is still ongoing; for this reason just preliminary results were utilized to finalize the reactors design, in parallel with published literature from other research groups. The hydrodynamic validation of the design was done by means of the full-scale cold flow model (CFM) test campaigns. The second step consists of the construction, commissioning and testing of the hot 150kWth rig, possibly utilizing the OC developed within the BIGCLC project. The third step consists of re-engineering the presented design to upgrade it for pressurized conditions and test it. 3 Several pressurization issues have been considered during the reactor system design phase. One of those is the compactness, to be capable to enclose the reactor into a pressurized vessel. Others are the flexibility and robustness of the hydrodynamics, so that the system can better handle pressure unbalances which are bigger than those ones experienced at atmospheric conditions. The Ph.D. thesis work represents the first of the above-mentioned three steps: the 150kWth design development and the CFM reactor system design, construction and testing; fundamental for the 150kWth design validation and improvement. The work has been carried out in cooperation with SINTEF Energy and Research scientists and a CO2-H2 Eurl consultant. In addition NTNU master students and laboratory technicians have been involved; the first in the execution of the CFM sensitivity tests, the latter in the reactor system maintenance, modifications, control and measurement (both with the National Instrument Corporation system design software LabVIEW and hardware installation and calibration). The polycarbonate CFM has been built by the French company CONCEPT PLAST SARL and the powder provided by the South African company DMS Powders. The NTNU Panel for Mineral Production and Health Safety and Environment, has been involved in all the aspects related to the particles handling: from the particles sieving, representative sampling and size distribution measurement to the health safety and environment (HSE) evaluations. The powder explosivity tests have been carried out by the Norwegian company GexCon. 1.2. Ph.D. thesis objectives Consistently with the above-mentioned BIGCLC project objectives, the Ph.D. thesis aims to develop a reactor system design which can represent a step forward with respect to the state of the art for CLC of gaseous fuels. This is especially related to the reactor system operational flexibility and hydrodynamic robustness in order to better integrate it into a power system, including off-design operation and fuel conversion optimization. In addition, the development of a design leading towards chemical looping industrialization has been a thesis objective. Towards this respect the design compactness has been always kept into consideration together with a scaling strategy aiming for bigger sizes, as well as the usage of industrial solutions, whenever possible. These design characteristics have also the long term objective to serve as a basis for 4 other chemical looping and fluidized beds based technologies which deal with similar issues as well as for pressurized CLC. 1.3. Structure and contents summary The Ph.D. thesis is structured as a paper collection. Chapter 2 presents the background where the thesis is inserted. First the global warming and the world energy scenario are described, to introduce the importance of carbon capture and storage as greenhouse effect mitigation tool. Afterwards the chemical looping processes are discussed, with main focus on combustion. Currently, chemical looping technologies rely mainly on fluidization engineering, as the presented design does. For this reason, an overview of the OC particles and fluidized bed reactor systems state of the art is provided. Afterwards an overview of the Ph.D. work has been provided in Chapter 3. It starts from the design and cold flow setup existing before the Ph.D. project began and tested during its first phase. The work behind the four papers is summarized together with the achieved results. In Chapter 4 the suggested design improvements, when it comes to design and particle size distribution, have been summarized and experimental results of the improved design are presented. Finally the thesis conclusions are drawn in Chapter 5, together with the recommended future work. An overview of the four papers constituting the Ph.D. thesis is provided, Figure 1.1. Paper I defines the double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) design of the proposed 150kWth chemical looping combustion reactor system. A CFM without chemical reactions has been built and commissioned to debug the hot rig design. It is a full-scale model to reduce the Figure 1.1: Summary of the four papers presented in the thesis with a list of the main issues addressed in each of them. Double loop circulating fluidized bed reactor system design study • Chemical Looping Combustion state of the art improvement • Addressing industrialization issues (flexibility, compactness, etc.) • Design methodology Cold flow model • Commissioning • Measurement techniques • Stable operation Hydrodynamic validation of chemical looping processes: • Scaling strategy • Hydrodynamic bases in accordance with thermodynamic needs (qualitatively): Off-design, Chemical Looping Reforming, Gas turbine combustion chamber Key features development • Pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals • Bottom extraction/lift • Solids entrainment dependencies Paper I Paper II Paper III Paper IV 5 wall effects. The debugging, from the flux measurement techniques to the separated and coupled operation1, is presented in Paper II. Paper III is focused on the adopted scaling strategy as well as on the hydrodynamic viability of large-scale chemical looping processes. Finally Paper IV presents a deep analysis of the reactor system operational window as a function of the independent inputs. It assesses the reactors key features performance and suggests improvements which need to be implemented to improve the design presented in Paper I. The Ph.D. thesis summarizes a wide work, which major focus has been on the cold flow model construction, operation and improvement. Its main achievements, listed in Section 1.5, have been thoroughly addressed and presented. On the other hand the work has been multidisciplinary, touching many of the engineering aspects related to the experimental setup: from carbon capture and storage to the large amount of existing chemical looping processes, from the reactor system integration into power generation processes to its potential application in fluidized beds based technologies other than CLC, from semi-empirical mathematical modelling to fluidization engineering fundamentals, from project management issues to fine powder handling with its health safety and environment impact understanding. 1.4. Papers list Paper I: “Design study of a 150kWth double loop circulating fluidized bed reactor system for chemical looping combustion with focus on industrial applicability and pressurization”, International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control (2011), Vol. 5, No. 3, pp. 467-474. doi:10.1016/j.ijggc.2010.09.005. Lab-scale feasibility of the chemical looping combustion technology has been proven. Research now is mainly focused on the development of innovative chemical looping processes, on a continuous improvement of the oxygen carriers and on the technology industrialization. A design for a 150kWth chemical looping combustion reactor system is proposed, trying to address design requirements that need to be fulfilled to make this technology applicable at industrial scale. In the base case it is supposed to work with gaseous fuels and inexpensive oxygen carriers derived from industrial by-products or natural minerals. It is a double loop circulating fluidized 1 In the CFM, the air and fuel reactor can be operated separately, by re-circulating internally the solids that each of them entrains (e.g. for debugging purposes), or can be coupled exchanging mass between each other as it should be for the hot reactor system. 6 bed where both the air reactor and the fuel reactor are capable to work in the fast fluidization regime in order to increase the gas solids contact along the whole reactor body. They are interconnected by means of divided loop-seals, capable to re-circulate back to the reactor of origin the entrained solids, and a bottom extraction/lift, bringing solids from the fuel reactor to the air reactor. High operational flexibility is aimed, in this way it will be possible to run with different fuels and oxygen carriers as well as in different operating conditions. Compactness is a major goal in order to reduce the required solid material and possibly to enclose the reactor body into a pressurized vessel to investigate the chemical looping combustion under pressurized conditions. The design methodology summarizing all the key decisions taken during the process is presented. Author contribution: Aldo Bischi is one of the contributors to the proposed 150kWth chemical looping combustion design led by SINTEF. Aldo Bischi contributed to the cold flow model construction and commissioning and he performed the majority of the cold flow model experimental tests and made the result data processing and analysis. Aldo Bischi conceived and wrote the paper with input and comments from other authors. Paper II: “Performance analysis of the cold flow model of a second generation chemical looping combustion reactor system”, Energy Procedia (2011), Vol. 4, pp. 449-456. doi:10.1016/j.egypro.2011.01.074. A scaled cold flow model of the proposed design has been constructed and commissioned to validate the hydrodynamics of the design solutions. First the nozzles design and the share of gas kinetic losses were verified, as well as the solids inventory control and its influence on the reactor performance. Solids flow/flux measurement techniques, a direct and an indirect one, were defined and their reliability evaluated. The air reactor and fuel reactor were first tested separately monitoring their entrainment capabilities and pressure/particles distribution, with main focus on finding the best way of operating the divided loop-seals and testing the protruding cooling panel effect on hydrodynamics. The overall reactor system, combining air and fuel reactor, was also tested. It gave satisfactory results, but the internal return legs of the divided loop-seals were sealed off to avoid back-flow of gas coming from the high pressure reactors bottom sections. Some encouraging results were also achieved reducing primary air and increasing the secondary air height, to reduce the pressure at the reactors bottom sections. 7 Author contribution: Aldo Bischi is one of the contributors to the cold flow model setup construction. He had a main role in the cold flow model commissioning; including auxiliary devices, health, safety and environmental evaluation and powder handling. Aldo Bischi planned the experimental tests in co-operation with other authors and he led the test execution (done by master students) on a daily basis. Aldo Bischi made all the data analysis and interpreted the results. He made the conclusions in co-operation with other authors. Aldo Bischi conceived and wrote the paper with input and comments from other authors. Paper III: “Hydrodynamic viability of chemical looping processes by means of cold flow model investigation”, Applied Energy (2012), Article in press. doi:10.1016/J.apenergy.2011.12.051. The cold flow model already built and commissioned, can be considered as a platform to study the hydrodynamics of chemical looping processes. A state-of-the-art evaluation within cold flow model testing and scaling criteria was done. The choice of having a full-scale (i.e. 1:1) cold model of the 150kWth hot rig design was done, on one hand, to reduce the wall-effects which have considerably larger influence at smaller reactor diameters than on larger ones. On the other hand it can be considered the small scale hydrodynamic copy of an industrial prototype about 10 times bigger. The cold flow model was extensively tested and experimental results are presented. The aimed design condition, mirroring a chemical looping combustion process adapted to steam generation, was achieved successfully and in a stable way. The performance of the reactor system was further tested in off-design conditions to define operational guidelines for the hot operation. In addition, attempts were done to resemble other chemical looping processes (e.g. gas turbine combustion and chemical looping reforming), to get some understanding of how the actual reactor system may behave and consequently provide solid hydrodynamic basis to improve the design for those applications. In all cases, it was possible to find operational conditions capable to satisfy the cold flow model hydrodynamic requirements consistently with the actual high temperature processes. Author contribution: Aldo Bischi planned the experimental tests in co-operation with other authors and he led the test execution (done by master students) on a daily basis. Aldo Bischi made all the data analysis. He interpreted the results and made conclusions and suggestions for 8 new tests in co-operation with other authors. Aldo Bischi conceived and wrote the paper with input and comments from other authors. Paper IV: “Double Loop Circulating Fluidized Bed reactor system for two reactions processes based on pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals and bottom extraction/lift”, Powder Technology (submitted). Many industrial processes are based on two reactions: a primary one related to the achievement of the main process objective and a secondary one which is necessary to continuously run the process. Those can be performed simultaneously and continuously by means of two interconnected fluidized beds; the design object of this study is a possible answer to the needs of those processes, especially compactness, flexibility and higher particles concentration in the upper section. The key components of the reactor system are the pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals and the bottom extraction/lift. The divided loop-seals can re-circulate back to the reactor of origin part of the entrained solids. This means that the solids flow that one reactor exchanges with the other one can be smaller than the solids flow entrained by the reactor. The lift compensates the lower entrainment capability of that one of the reactors with less fluidizing gas available and smaller cross-section. Those two features allow to uncouple the solids exchange from the solids entrainment, thus from the reactor fluidization regime. The aim of this paper is to further improve the presented design by means of an intensive test campaign finalized to better understand its operational window size and limits. It was concluded that the design can be further improved by reducing the cyclones’ pressure drop due to too high gas velocity at their inlet. Another option towards this respect, is the particle size distribution reduction, this allows going down in gas velocity without reducing the solids entrainment. An increase of the loop-seal overflow height is required to increase its bottom section pressure and improve its stability. The return legs heights can be lifted up to reduce the pressure the loop-seals are exposed to. Finally some interesting dependencies of the entrained solids flux have been found (e.g. cyclone pressure drop), looking at an indirect way to monitor it on-line. Author contribution: Aldo Bischi planned the experimental tests in co-operation with other authors and he led the test execution (done by master students) on a daily basis. Aldo Bischi made all the data analysis. He interpreted the results and made conclusions and suggestions for 9 design improvements in co-operation with other authors. Aldo Bischi conceived and wrote the paper with input and comments from other authors. 1.5. Scientific contribution Development of a chemical looping reactor system design aiming to address open issues such as conversion optimization, operational flexibility, industrialization and compactness. Hydrodynamic validation and performance analysis of double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) reactor system based on pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals and bottom extraction/lift. State-of-the-art comprehensive overview of cold flow modelling scaling strategies. Subsequent synthesis of the two most common scaling approaches strengths into one. Construction, commissioning and operation of one of the world biggest cold flow models finalized to the hydrodynamic study of two interconnected fluidized beds. Usage of high density fine particles (high density Geldart A) in circulating fluidized bed reactors. Finding of promising dependencies of the entrained solids flux from cyclones pressure drop and inlet gas velocities, in order to monitor the solids flux indirectly. 10 2. Chemical looping technologies and fluidization engineering 2.1. Global warming and energy scenario At the beginning of the 19th century, Joseph Fourier understood the role played by the gases present in the atmosphere with respect to the thermal equilibrium of the planet [1]; nowadays this role is known as atmospheric greenhouse effect. At the end of the century, Svante Arrhenius [2] saw that an increase of carbon dioxide concentration, including the manmade one due to fossil fuel combustion, may lead to an increase of the average global temperature. The global average temperatures of air and ocean have unequivocally increased since mid 20th century. It is confirmed by observational climate data as shown for example in Figure 2.1, where a multi proxy calibrated reconstruction of the temperature in the Northern Hemisphere is presented (red and blues) together with measured data (green) [3]. At the same time also the concentration of anthropogenic greenhouse gases in the atmosphere has been increasing. Those gases are mainly four: carbon dioxide (CO2), methane (CH4), nitrous oxide (N2O) and the halocarbons. All those gases have increased their atmospheric concentration during the industrial era, but carbon dioxide has, by far, the strongest impact, comparing all of them in terms of CO2 equivalent3 [4]. The analysis of air bubbles trapped in ice, allowed to evaluate the CO2 concentration in the far past back to 600000 years ago; in Figure 2.2 the measurements of the ice cores sampled at the Antarctic stations of Vostok and EPICA (European Project for Ice Coring in Antarctica) [5]. The direct measurements of CO2 concentrations during the last decades are shown in the last part of the graph, whose dramatic increase is represented by the quasi-vertical 2 Temperature anomaly is calculated with respect to the 1961-1990 average. 3 CO2-eq describes, given a greenhouse gas, the amount of CO2 that would have the same effect towards global warming. Figure 2.1: Multi proxy reconstruction (red and blues) and instrumental measurements (green) of the Northern Hemisphere mean temperature variation2 [3]. T em pe ra tu re a no m al y [° C ] Year [AD] T em pe ra tu re a no m al y [° C ] Year [AD] 11 red line. CO2 concentration went from the pre industrial value of 280ppmv4 up to an average value of about 390ppmv, measured at 2011 in the observatory of Mauna Loa, Hawaii (USA) [6]. Nowadays the scientific community widely agrees on the fact that the temperatures increases are very likely6 a consequence of the observed increase of anthropogenic green house gases concentration in the atmosphere. In addition it acknowledges that the anthropogenic warming is likely to have a discernible influence on many physical and biological systems. This means that there will be a strong impact on the frequencies and intensities of extreme weather, climate and sea-level events and they are expected to have mostly adverse consequences on natural and human systems. For those reasons it will be of utmost importance to reduce greenhouse gas emissions in order to avoid their effects and whether not possible to mitigate it [7]. The path of the world primary energy demand, in Mtoe7, by fuel and region, for the last years up to 2008 is shown in Figure 2.3 [8]. Those data give an idea of the fossil fuels share of the total energy needs (a). Looking at the regional perspectives, the share of the coal intensive economies of United States and China (b) is impressive. When it comes to the CO2 emissions by economic sector, about 41% of the total comes from the power sector, 23% from the transport, 16% from the industry and 12% from residential and services. About 50% of the current man made emissions are coming from large stationary CO2 sources like power plants, refineries or cement and iron industries [9]. In addition there are other values to keep into consideration for each region, like the population growth, gross domestic product (GDP), debt accumulation, energy intensity8 trends. 4 Parts per million by volume. 5 On this time scale, the 50 years of measurements span is less than the thickness of the line, so it appears vertical. 6 Very likely and likely assess a probability of occurrence respectively above the 90% and 66% [7]. 7 toe is tonne of oil equivalent. 8 Energy intensity is a way of measuring the economy energy efficiency. It is calculated as units of energy per unit of gross domestic product (GDP). Figure 2.2: CO2 concentrations derived from EPICA and Vostok ice cores [5]. The red bar at the side indicates the evolution of the Mauna Loa measurements5. 600 500 400 300 200 100 0 Year [kY before present] 400 200 0C on ce nt ra tio n [p pm v] EPICA Vostok Mauna Loa, 2011 400 200 0 600 500 400 300 200 100 0 Year [kY before present] 400 200 0C on ce nt ra tio n [p pm v] EPICA Vostok Mauna Loa, 2011 400 200 0 12 Data about future scenarios are intentionally not presented, because they may differ rather much depending on the underlying assumptions. Anyhow looking at the actual energy scenario it is possible to understand that in the forthcoming years the fossil fuels will still be the predominant world source of primary energy. The International Energy Agency (IEA), in its World Energy Outlook 2010 [8] presented updated possible scenarios for the upcoming decades. The fossil fuels are well above 50% of the world primary fuel mix by 2035 for all of them, including the “best case scenario”. The IEA presents such a kind of study on yearly bases and gives analogous outlooks with respect to fossil fuels. All the factors affecting the primary energy demand are carefully addressed for each different country, from the global economical situation to the technology state of the art, including deployment of technologies that are now approaching the commercialization phase e.g. carbon capture and storage, concentrating solar power and smart grids. It should be mentioned in addition that no completely new technologies, beyond those already known today, are assumed deployable before the end of the projection period. a) b) Figure 2.3: World primary energy demand by fuel a) and by region b), updated at 2008, according to the International Energy Agency (IEA) [8]. 2.2. Carbon dioxide capture and storage “Carbon dioxide capture and storage (CCS) or carbon sequestration is a family of methods for capturing and permanently isolating CO2 that otherwise would be emitted to the atmosphere and could contribute to global climate change” [9]. CCS implementation in correspondence of the big stationary emission sources, can have a crucial role in the next decades 1980 1990 2000 2008 M to e 0 1000 2000 3000 4000 5000 1980 1990 2000 20081980 1990 2000 2008 M to e 0 1000 2000 3000 4000 5000 M to e 0 6000 8000 12000 16000 18000 14000 10000 4000 2000 1990 1995 2000 2005 2008 M to e 0 6000 8000 12000 16000 18000 14000 10000 4000 2000 1990 1995 2000 2005 2008 13 mitigation strategies. It can act as bridging technology, “gaining time” to allow renewable energies development up to total fulfilment of the world energy requirements. This is especially true considering the above-mentioned role of coal in the world primary energy demand: coal is responsible for no less than 40% of global CO2 emissions, and each year 100GW of new coal- fired power capacity is built [10]. In addition the combination of CCS and biomass combustion, can contribute to negative emissions, reducing the CO2 concentration in the atmosphere. Once captured, the CO2 has to be compressed up to a high pressure and relatively low temperatures. The aim is to have it as a supercritical liquid, in order to transport it and inject it into an underground long term storage site. It can be stored into depleted oil and gas reservoirs, coal formations and saline formations; the last one has by far the largest capacity potential. According to the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Changes (IPCC) [11], it is likely that 99% or more of such stored CO2 will be retained for 1000 years. The aim of this work is neither to find an answer to the sustainable development nor to understand to which extent carbon capture and storage is one of the solutions to global warming. Those are among the most complex challenges humanity is facing and for sure there will not be just one solution. The intention here is to develop further one of the most promising CCS technologies. In this way an additional piece of information is provided to the scientific community and consequently to policy makers, to help taking more aware strategic decisions. When it comes to the costs of CCS there is still a lot of uncertainty, but they are by far related to the capture, while the transport and storage are minor ones. For this reason the ongoing research activities are mainly aiming to achieve a substantial capture cost reduction and energy penalty reduction. The capture technologies are normally classified in three families: post- combustion, pre-combustion and oxy-fuel combustion. The post-combustion is applied to conventional power generation, it is based on processing the exhaust gases in order to chemically or physically remove the CO2. It is attractive for the existing power plants, as long as it is the best option when it comes to retrofitting. Its main drawback is related to the energy penalty of processing large amounts of flue gases at almost ambient pressure. In fact, the CO2 is diluted, mainly in the air N2, being about the 4% of the processed gas with natural gas and 14% with coal combustion. 14 The pre-combustion consists of a first reforming step or gasification step aiming the production of synthesis gas (syngas) ideally made of CO, H2, H2O and CO2. The reforming reactions options are several e.g. auto-thermal reforming obtained with a partial combustion of the fuel or steam reforming decomposing the methane by steam and external heat. Afterwards a water gas shift reaction may convert the residual CO in H2 and CO2, and the gas flow can be processed to capture the CO2 and having pure H2 to use in the combustion process as fuel. In this case the amount of gas flow that needs to be processed is reduced, CO2 rich and pressurized. In addition some power cycles based on solid fuels gasification, like the integrated gasification combined cycle (IGCC), are already intrinsically realizing part of the pre-combustion capture process. It is expected to be more expensive than the post-combustion techniques because of its complexity and the necessity of dedicated gas turbines. In addition, the combustion of H2 rich fuel is more exposed to the risk of NOx formation. The third carbon capture family is the oxy-fuel one. It utilizes pure oxygen instead of air in the combustion process, giving ideally just CO2 and water vapour as exhausts. The H2O can be easily separated by condensation and the carbon dioxide needs just to be compressed to be sent to storage. One of the drawbacks is the high temperature of such kind of combustion, thus energy losses and NOx emission, which is handled by means of CO2 re-circulation (up to 70%) or steam/water injection. The costs of producing such high quantities of oxygen are high. The required amount is about three times more than that one required by pre-combustion techniques. It is done either by means of expensive cryogenic air separation units (ASU) or by means of complex chemical, adsorption or membrane processes. Each of the above-mentioned carbon dioxide capture methods is capable to reach high capture efficiencies and all their components are currently utilized in some commercial process [12]. The high costs represent the major drawback for all of them to be deployed at gigaton scale. They require high investments and especially the high energy penalties related to operation contribute to high costs. The thermal efficiency penalty for CO2 capture is about 10% points, few points more or less depending on the technology. This implies the need of focusing in research and development to propose breakthrough technologies aiming to less energy penalty [13]. One of these promising technologies is the chemical looping combustion (CLC). 15 2.3. Chemical looping processes All the above-mentioned “conventional” ways of controlling greenhouse gases emissions by capturing CO2 are inherently related to direct combustion processes, where about 1/3 of the chemical energy of the fuel is destroyed while producing thermal energy [14]. Conventional fossil fuel combustion is highly irreversible because its thermodynamic equilibrium is reached at temperatures much higher than those ones that the materials enclosing the reaction can withstand [15]. The high difference between the energy donor and acceptor will persist even if the combustor and gas turbine (GT) will be improved, making them capable to handle higher temperatures [16]. On the top of it there is the above-mentioned energy penalty related to the capture technology. Those two are the fundamental reasons of the high energetic, thus economic, penalty of the CCS technologies. The above-mentioned issues can be tackled following new chemical routes which innovate the combustion process in a way that utilizes stepwise the fuel chemical energy no matter the carbon capture, but in addition it separates intrinsically the combustion products streams [13]. These combustion requirements can be fulfilled by means of chemical looping processes. A chemical looping process occurs when its underlying chemical reaction takes place following a reacting scheme consisting of multiple sub-reactions. These sub-reactions make use of chemical intermediates which react and regenerate in a cyclic manner. This allows designing the chemical looping processes sub-reactions to reduce the exergy losses as well as to produce CO2 in a different stream, easy to separate [17]. Several processes can be developed relying on this principle: from the chemical looping combustion which is the core interest of this work to the chemical looping reforming (CLR) and gasification (CLG) respectively focused on power generation and on hydrogen and syngas production. Chemical looping conversion of carbonaceous fuels was considered first to produce syngas or pure carbon dioxide [18 and 19], then to reduce the exergy loss of a conventional combustion process [15 and 16]. The combination of these two features makes chemical looping processes of strategic importance with respect to CCS. Chemical looping combustion takes place in two steps (Figure 2.4), where a metal working as Oxygen Carrier (OC), gets oxidized and reduced in a cyclic manner, carrying the oxygen from one reactor to the other. First the OC has a strong exothermic reaction with the oxygen of the air injected in the air reactor (AR), from MeO 1 to MeO . The air heated up and depleted of the oxygen can be utilized for example to 16 produce steam or to expand in a turbine if the above-mentioned reaction takes place in a pressurized environment. Afterwards the oxidized OC is sent into the fuel reactor (FR) and its oxygen reacts with the fuel, being reduced from MeO to MeO 1. The reduction reaction is endothermic or slightly exothermic, depending on the OC material and fuel used, and it generates an almost pure stream of CO2 and steam. The heat required by the endothermic reaction is carried by the OC, which can determine almost the same temperature in the two reactors when high circulation is achieved. The water vapour can be removed by condensation leaving the CO2 available for storage, after being cooled and pressurized up to supercritical conditions. The overall reaction obtained summing the oxidation and reduction of the OC is equivalent to the conventional combustion of the fuel and releases exactly the same amount of energy. These are the oxidation and reduction reactions for a generic OC defined as MeO -1 reacting with a generic hydrocarbon CxHy: 1 2 1 2 MeO O MeO , (2.1) 2 2 12 22 2 2x y y y y C H x MeO xCO H O x MeO . (2.2) The overall reaction obtained summing the above-mentioned ones is equivalent to the conventional combustion one and produces exactly the same amount of energy: 2 2 24 2x y y y C H x O xCO H O . (2.3) Auto-thermal reforming can be executed with the same system. This happen whether the amount of oxidized oxygen carrier sent to the fuel reactor is reduced down to a level where the carried oxygen is below the stoichiometric one, required having complete fuel combustion. It also Figure 2.4: Schema of the chemical looping combustion (CLC). The oxygen carrier MeO /MeO -1 is oxidized exothermically in the air reactor (AR) and reduced endothermically or slightly exothermically in the fuel reactor (FR). Air Fuel Oxygen depleted air CO2 + H2O AR FR MeO MeO -1 Air Fuel Oxygen depleted air CO2 + H2O AR FR MeO MeO -1 AR FRAR FR MeO MeO -1 17 brings heat and acts as catalyst; in those cases it is important that the selected OC has good catalytic properties towards steam reforming of natural gas like the Ni-based ones [20]. In this case the reaction in the AR is the same as in the combustion case, while in the FR the partially oxidized fuel generates synthesis gas (CO and H2): 2 12x y y C H xMeO xCO H xMeO . (2.4) Syngas is also generated by the strongly endothermic steam methane reforming reaction injecting also steam in the FR: 2 22x y y C H xH O xCO x H . (2.5) Obviously the amount of heat generated in the AR, which needs to be extracted from the system to keep the thermal balance, reduces in correspondence of oxygen transport reduction and steam injection. In this way it can be reduced down to a level where the process is auto-thermal. It has been proven that chemical looping combustion is one of the most promising technologies when it comes to net power efficiencies [21, 22 and 23] and capture costs [24]. The best performance is expected when integrated into a combined cycle, with the CLC reactor system tacking the place of the gas turbine combustor. In this way it can drive a GT with the depleted air and the hot exhausts can be used to generate steam for a bottoming Rankine cycle. In some configurations additional integration is proposed. A CO2 turbine can be added to the process as well as another gas turbine after a post combustion process of the depleted air. In fact the oxygen depleted air still contains enough oxygen to combust extra fuel, but some CO2 emission has to be tolerated in this case. Several are the first and second law studies showing the high efficiencies [21, 22 and 23] that can be reached in this way with gaseous fuel; some studies also highlight low costs in addition to the high efficiencies [24]. The main challenges are substantially the feasibility of a pressurized system and the capability of the oxygen carrier to withstand red-ox cycles at a temperature going above 900°C. The chemical looping reforming of gaseous fuels has been evaluated promising as well; a thorough evaluation of the advantages in comparison to methane steam reforming has been done by Pröll et al. [25]. In addition it is especially competitive whether pressurized, in this way the energy penalty of the H2 pressurization after production is avoided [26 and 27]. 18 Atmospheric chemical looping combustion of gaseous fuels is a promising option for heat generation (e.g. steam production for industrial processes) with CO2 capture. Up to a certain size, this is an interesting option as well for combined heat and power generation and for power generation with CO2 capture. Whether not pressurized, the chemical looping combustion of gaseous fuels for large-scale power generation has to compete with the high efficiencies of combined cycles, which compensate the efficiency losses induced by the introduction of “conventional” capture technologies. For those reasons many of the CLC research activities, at this stage of technology development, are related to solid fuels combustion, like coal [17, 28]. Those cheaper fuels are utilized for steam cycles without being capable to reach the combined cycles high temperatures and efficiencies, not even for the more efficient ultra-supercritical steam cycles. Another option to utilize solid fuels is using a gasification process which provides gaseous fuel to utilize in combined cycles, like in the IGCC process. The lower efficiencies, compared to combined cycles, and the energy penalty of the “conventional” carbon dioxide capture technologies integration, make atmospheric CLC potentially competitive for solid fuels both in combustion and gasification processes. Focus of the current work is on the chemical looping combustion of gaseous fuels. The experimental device is designed to validate an atmospheric CLC design for steam generation. Some reforming issues are also addressed as well as some of the needs of pressurization/GT application have been considered. The long term objective is to develop a design architecture that can be hydrodynamically flexible and stable, so suitable also for other chemical looping processes. The setup object of this work is designed for combustion, as shown in Figure 2.4, by keeping stationary the reactors and circulating the OC: AR and FR are two fluidized bed reactors exchanging metallic particles acting as oxygen and heat carriers. 2.4. Chemical looping technologies A brief overview of the approaches proposed worldwide to realize the chemical looping processes is provided in this section. The use of interconnected fluidized beds is by far the most common, it has already been tested on experimental basis and it is the chosen approach for the work presented in this thesis. In Section 2.5 and 2.6 it will be carefully addressed from particles and reactor system side, respectively. 19 Another option consists of alternating the gas streams and keeping stationary the reactor containing the metal oxide. It is based on packed bed technology where several reactors are operated dynamically. In this way the reactors are alternatively exposed to reducing and oxidizing conditions in a frequency that allows continuous feeding of the downstream apparatus e.g. heat exchangers or gas turbine for pressurized conditions. The main advantage is to avoid the challenge of separating particles and gas. This is especially important to avoid gas turbines blades damages. In addition it is aiming higher compactness and better utilization of the OC, optimizing its degree of oxidation. Such packed bed chemical looping reactors still present challenges for large-scale deployment. The necessity to deal with high temperature and high flow rate in a gas switching system is problematic. At the same time the bed particles replacement can be costly, so they need to be mechanically, chemically and thermally stable [29 and 30]. For the time being, the principle has been proved experimentally in a lab-scale device by Noorman et al. [31]. Also onboard hydrogen production for cars based on micro packed bed reactors has been proposed. Its goal is to tackle the hydrogen storage problem either with the possibility to regenerate the spent particles in external fuel stations fuelling the engine with water [17] or absorb on board the CO2 generated fuelling the engine with methane [32]. A further concept which has been proposed to realize chemical looping combustion is the rotating reactor. It consists of a doughnut-shaped fixed bed rotating between the two gas streams: air and fuel. It is interesting because of compactness and higher flexibility compared to the stationary fixed beds mentioned previously. It does not require complex valving systems and the gas exits from the system radially, in a way that the increasing reactor volume can fit, expanding it, the gas volumetric flow which increase due to reactions and heating. In addition, large-scale experience comes from rotating heat exchangers used to preheat air streams e.g. Ljungström® regenerative air preheaters [33]. The particle fragmentation can be an issue here as well as in the above-mentioned case. The main challenge for the time being seems to be the gas mixing between the two separate gas streams. The concept has been widely tested on a lab-scale experimental set up by SINTEF Material and Chemistry [34] and important information has been collected to improve the design. Other interesting chemical looping innovative ideas have been proposed. One is the usage of coal particles both as fuel and oxygen carriers from fuel to air reactor without the need of an intermediate OC. It uses the coal property of up taking oxygen atoms at its surface 20 (chemisorption) at moderate temperatures, about 500°C, and desorbe it at higher temperatures, about 700°C, in an oxygen-free atmosphere. It has been tested in a thermogravimetric discontinuous process [35]. Also the usage of direct combustion of liquid metal has been proposed and thoroughly studied in its thermodynamics. The purpose is to use different metals in liquid and gas phases both as OCs and turbine working fluid [36]. 2.5. Oxygen carrier and particle characterization The oxygen carrier is playing a crucial role in the chemical looping processes performance. R&D activities for improved OC are fundamental in order to achieve commercial success of CLC. The chemical looping reactor proposed in the thesis is a fluidized bed system, consequently the oxygen carrier is a powder which will circulate between the air and fuel reactor, being continuously oxidized and reduced. The particles used for such kind of interconnected fluidized bed system usually have a density and size distribution which make them belong to group B or A of the Geldart classification [37], Figure 2.5. In this work, Group A particles were selected, which means fine particles like for the well known and mature fluid catalytic cracking (FCC) processes. FCC was the first fine powder application in fluidization engineering [38]. The Geldart group and more specifically the density and particles size distribution (PSD) within the same group are chosen in order to fulfil the design requirements. Fine A particles means higher surface available for the reactions to take place. This is beneficial also for the heat transfer coefficient, which is larger for smaller particles. At the same time the heat transfer coefficient increases with the particles suspension density, which depends on the fluidization regime; an example of both the dependencies is shown in Figure 2.6 [39]. Also the fluidization regimes hydrodynamics depend rather much on the particles size and material density. As shown in this thesis, those particles properties have to be selected consistently with the required hydrodynamic performance and design constraints e.g. finer or lighter particles bring more entrainment for the same superficial gas velocity. On the other hand, particles should not be too small, because it will lead to Geldart group C particles which means cohesive and difficult to fluidize because of interparticle forces. Too small particles will also be more difficult to handle within the process (e.g. cyclone efficiency) and from the health safety and environment (HSE) point of view. 21 The OC production methods are several and they affect the oxygen carrier performance. For solid fuel combustion, minerals and industrial wastes have been tested as OC. Usually after a preliminary screening the most promising candidates are carefully characterized by means of thermogravimetric analysis (TGA). A second step is testing the particles, in a cyclic manner, in batch fluidized bed reactors. In both cases the particles are exposed alternatively to air and fuel, the aim is to study their reactivity, conversion and mechanical strength. Afterwards they are tested continuously in fluidized bed systems, to resemble the same kind of environment as in a CLC reactor, like in Chalmers University of Technology and Instituto de Carboquímica-CSIC of Zaragoza, where small reactor systems are used extensively to accomplish this task [40 and 41]. The oxygen carrier composition is usually based on a transition metal, such as Fe, Mn, Cu and Ni. This is setting the theoretical amount of oxygen that the oxygen carrier can take up (R0). The addition of an inert material is required to gain mechanical strength; it is also believed to increase the porosity and reactivity of the particles. This means also that the share of active material will be less; the amount of inert is a parameter that can be varied, within certain limits, while designing the OC for a certain process. Actually, part of the active material content can change during operation either because of changes in the particles structure or because located too deep in the particle structure to be capable to participate to the reactions; Kolbitsch et al. [42], Figure 2.5: Geldart particles classification [37]. Points characterizing the particles utilized later on in the thesis are shown in the graph: the CFM design particles and available particles and the 150kWth hot rig particles. Figure 2.6: Comparison of heat transfer coefficients, h, as function of the suspension density, and particles diameter, dp [39]. Particles concentration [kg/m3] H ea t t ra ns fe r co ef fic ie nt [ W /m 2 K ] D en si ty d iff er en ce , ( p- g) [k g/ m 3 ] Mean particle size, d50 [ m] 150kWth rig Cold flow model (CFM) design available D en si ty d iff er en ce , ( p- g) [k g/ m 3 ] Mean particle size, d50 [ m] 150kWth rig Cold flow model (CFM) design available 22 during experiments, found about 35 wt% of active material in an OC having a theoretical value of active material equal to 40 wt%. The material reactivity is important to fully characterize the OC performance. It provides an understanding of how much of the transport capability of the material can be actually used. An example is shown in Figure 2.7; it is a zoom of the reduction and oxidation curves, once stabilized, presented by Fossdal et al [43]. Those tests were done by 30s oxidation and 30s reduction, with 30s of flushing with nitrogen in between. This Mn ore is that one originally utilized for the design of the presented set up. The tests were done in a thermogravimetric balance, but in the interconnected fluidized bed system, the particles will not have so much time available to complete the reactions, which means that just part of the theoretical R0 will be exploited. Such kind of experimental data help to gain an understanding of the exploitation of the oxygen capacity ( X) and take a qualified guess in order to design the reactor in a conservative way. Figure 2.7 shows also how the oxidation reaction is faster compared to the reduction one, this is a typical issue related to CLC. The reduction reaction actually continues during the flushing. The reaction rate usually depends also on the OCs conversion during the oxidation and reduction reaction, being quicker at the beginning of the reactions when the OC is fully reduced, for the oxidation reaction, or fully oxidized, for the reduction reaction. This can be noticed looking at the gradients of the reduction oxidation curves of the batch-wise tests like the presented ones. The reason is that the gas reacts first with those parts of solid particles easier to access while afterwards it is increasingly more difficult with respect to mass transfer. Studies have been done on OC samples taken from continuously operating systems, to understand more Figure 2.7: Behaviour of the measured oxygen capacity, in weight percentage, during cyclic reduction and oxidation of Mn ore at 1000ºC, those are the data utilized for the design [43]. -6 -5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 0 100 200 300 400 500 600 Time [10s] A va ila bl e ox yg en [w t% ] Oxidation Reduction Time [s] -6 -5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 0 100 200 300 400 500 600 Time [10s] A va ila bl e ox yg en [w t% ] Oxidation Reduction Time [s] 23 realistically the impact of this phenomenon. Those have proven that, no matter which is the oxidation state of the particles entering the reduction reactor, they will behave as fully oxidized, in terms of reaction rate. This means a faster reaction rate which helps to achieve a better fuel conversion [44]. The amount of oxygen the oxygen carrier can take and its oxidation and reduction rate are used to conservatively estimate the required solids circulation and required residence time necessary to have full fuel conversion. Depending on the kind of fuel utilized it is necessary to know how the OC behaves with respect to the presence of impurities, like sulphur compounds. The knowledge of mechanical properties of the particles is important in order to make life and cost estimates and to set the maximum temperature the OC can operate without sintering. The temperature will change the kinetics which usually improves for higher temperatures. As already mentioned, also the particles size influences the reactions rate, which gets higher for smaller particles. Up to 2010 more than 700 materials have been produced and tested. Interesting and comprehensive overviews have been given by Professor Lyngfelt [45 and 46] and Professor Adánez [47] in their keynote lectures at the “1st international conference on chemical looping”. Table 2.1, is summarizing the most important characteristics of the materials. Ni- based materials are the more reactive and having high oxygen transport capability, but at the same time those ones which cannot give full conversion of the fuel, maximum 99-99.5% with methane because of thermodynamic restriction. Ni-based OCs are the more expensive and also the more harmful, but there is a lot of large-scale experience because of the importance of Ni in catalysis. Cu- based materials have a high reactivity and can reach full methane conversion. They have both the reactions exothermic; also the reduction reaction is slightly exothermic, leading to a more uniform heat distribution between the reactors. It has the drawback of having lower melting temperature compared to the other materials. In addition it should be mentioned that some Mn- and Cu- Fe Mn Cu Ni Oxygen transport capability (R0) - - + + Reactivity with CH4 * - + + + Purity CO2 + + + - Melting point + + - + Cost + + + - Health and environment + + + - *Significantly higher reactivity with CO and H2. Table 2.1: Summary of the most important characteristics of different oxygen carrier materials [47]. 24 based oxygen carriers have the property to release gaseous oxygen at high temperature. This means that the released oxygen will react directly with the fuel giving better combustion, which is especially important in the case of solid fuels. Ideally the need of a carbon stripper step separating the unreacted char particles from the OC may be avoided, thus avoiding the char going from FR to AR. This phenomenon has been called the CLOU effect, chemical looping with oxygen uncoupling [48]. Some experimental studies have been performed to evaluate the OC behaviour under pressurization. García-Labiano et al. [49] and Abad et al. [50] assessed by thermogravimetric analysis that pressurization had a negative effect on the reaction rate for all the materials (Cu-, Fe- and Ni- based) tested. CO and H2 were used as fuels. They speculate that it may be a consequence of changes in the internal structure of OC at high pressures. Siriwardane et al. [51] tested under pressure a packed bed of Ni- based material. In this case, there was a performance improvement with a significant reduction of the time required for conversion. Ortiz et al. [52] tested a Ni- based material under chemical looping reforming conditions, semicontinuously in a fluidized bed. Tests were done for different reaction temperatures and OC to fuel molar ratios, without giving negative effects when it comes to the distribution of the process gas product. Xiao et al. [53] studied coal combustion and found an improvement of the reduction reaction of their iron ore based material, both with respect to fuel conversion and OC reduction rate. This was the consequence of an improvement of the gasification rate of the coal as first step which led to the combustion reaction rate improvement accordingly. The performance peak is at about 5bar, while it is worsening going higher in pressure. Summarizing, on one hand the pressure effects are very much depending on several case specific factors like the type of oxygen carrier, fuel and pressure range. This means that specific tests need to be carried on the selected material at the same pressure the reactor will be operated. On the other hand it is possible to conclude that it will have important consequences from a reactor system point of view. In fact, x times higher pressure brings about x times higher density of gas, in case of ideal gas assumption. This means that, keeping the same thermal load, the volume flow of gas available to fluidize the reactors will be x times smaller, while the mass of reactants in the reactors will be the same. So the challenge is to provide the same amount of solids exchange between the reactors in order to accomplish the reactions with just 1/x of the volumetric gas flow available. In fact, in many fluidized bed systems the volumetric gas available 25 is also utilized to control the solids exchange, as partially done in the design presented in this thesis. In this way, it will not be possible to simply keep the same design as the atmospheric case and just increase x times the mass flows of gases to have the same volumetric flow as before, thus the same gas velocities. This will most likely provide the same solids exchange as in the atmospheric case, but the solids capacity of transporting and releasing oxygen, as we have seen, will not be enough to react with the higher amount of fuel because the oxygen carrier performance does not necessary improve for high pressures. The issues highlighted in this paragraph need to be kept in mind while designing chemical looping processes for pressurized applications. 2.6. Chemical looping fluidized bed reactor systems Fluidized beds systems have been applied for decades in a wide range of industrial processes [38], from combustion or gasification of solid fuels [54 and 55] to hydrocarbon cracking with more than 400 units in operation worldwide [56]. They operate continuously, provide a homogeneous temperature inside the reactors and tolerate a wide spectrum of PSD. In addition some of those deal with complex processes consisting of two reactions taking place simultaneously. The FCC is a good example; one reactor is cracking endothermically heavy hydrocarbons by means of catalytic metallic particles used also as heat carrier, while the other reactor regenerates the metallic particles from carbon deposition and produces the heat required by the process. The usage of fluidized beds systems is, for the time being, the best option for the industrial development of chemical looping technologies. Above 4000h of operational experience for CLC have been achieved all over the world, utilizing different fuels, oxygen carriers and fluidized bed systems. More than 700 materials based on Ni, Co, Fe, Cu and Mn have been used in several facilities with a thermal load in the range of 0.3 and 140kW. This proved that almost 100% conversion can be reached together with 100% of CO2 capture as summarized by Prof. Anders Lyngfelt in a wide overview [46]. Looking at those CLC setups it is possible to notice how the reactors design has evolved. The main objective of the first CLC reactors, such as the 10 kWth units, developed at Chalmers University of Technology [57] and at the Instituto de Carboquímica - CSIC [58] was to demonstrate the feasibility of this technology and it was done with natural gas. After this first step, research 26 started to be focused towards the solution of other more specific problems. The 10kWth prototype built and operated by IFP Energies nouvelles and Total, has among its main objectives a good control of the solids flow exchanged between the reactors. This is realized by means of bottom extraction/lifts utilized to exchange the solids among air and fuel reactors, both bubbling beds [59]. A second 10kWth reactor has been built and operated at Chalmers University of Technology to utilize solid fuel: petroleum coke and bituminous coal. The solid fuel CLC concept was proved and the separation of unreacted coal particles from the oxygen carrier was addressed by means of a carbon stripper after the bubbling bed FR [28]. The 10kWth reactor of Southeast University tested coal and biomass as fuel, having a spouted bed as FR [60]. The Alstom 15kWth prototype has a high integrated design which utilizes loop-seals with double exits to be capable to re- circulate part of the solids back to the reactor of origin, reaching 99% of methane conversion with Ni based oxygen carrier [45]. The Korean institute of energy research (KIER) had an earlier 50kWth prototype with a bubbling bed FR connected to the circulating fluidized bed (CFB) AR with a slide valve [61]. Recently KIER presented a new design with the same thermal load; here both the reactors are bubbling beds and act as well as loop-seal because the downcomers are immersed in the beds. The aim of this setup is to be pressurized up to 6 bar [62]. Other small sized setups exist like the Chalmers 300W [40] and the Instituto de Carboquímica - CSIC [41] 500W ones. Those are usually utilized to validate, with continuous reduction/oxidation operation, the performance of the OCs resulted more promising during the batch-wise tests (Section 2.5). The 120/140kWth reactor system of Vienna University of Technology [42, 44 and 63] is the experimental set up which reached, for the time being, the biggest thermal load and addressed the most scale-up issues. It is compact, because it utilizes a turbulent circulating fluidized bed as FR instead of a bubbling bed. Bubbling beds require big dimensions and inventory to go up in scale, in this way the gas velocities can be low and gas slip is avoided. This design, shown in Figure 2.8 a), has proven to be intrinsically stable from hydrodynamic point of view. The bottom loop-seal creates a hydraulic link between the two reactors, therefore a variation of solids entrainment from the AR is automatically compensated by the mass, thus weight, accumulating in the FR which pushes as a consequence more or less solids back to the AR. This design has proven to be capable to reach high solids exchange and to control the solids circulation, while at the same time the FR operation can be tuned to optimize the fuel conversion utilizing the FR internal re-circulation. This flexibility, including part load, is fundamental to integrate the reactor 27 system into a power cycle [63]. In addition this setup was also used as auto-thermal reformer, reducing the solids, thus oxygen, exchange [25]. The compactness, stability and flexibility of this configuration are a milestone for the chemical loping reactor system development and scalability. In fact, as an example, it is currently used as basis to develop a FR capable to combust solid fuels by means of some FR modifications, Figure 2.8 b). The FR is divided into several vertical sections after cross section reductions and its fluidization velocity is reduced, this implies counter-current flow inside the reactor body as well as high particles density for each of the above-mentioned vertical sections [64]. In addition also an up-scaling of the original design, for gaseous fuels, up to 10MWth demonstration plant is ongoing. The project has been presented and a scaled model without chemical reactions is under construction to validate it [65]. As mentioned in the chemical looping processes Section 2.3, pressurization has a primary importance. It is essential to make the chemical looping combustion and reforming of gaseous fuels competitive. Up to now, no experimental fluidized beds reactor systems for pressurized chemical looping processes have been built and operated successfully. Just batch-wise tests were a) b) Figure 2.8: Principle setup of the dual circulating fluidized bed reactor system of Vienna University of Technology [63] a). On the right, b), a zoom is shown of the fuel reactor body after internals were added. Qualitative pressure drop, pressure gradient and solids volume fraction are illustrated [64]. 28 done under pressurization; Section 2.5 provided a short overview of the results which have shown to be case specific, anyhow big kinetics improvement should not be expected. When it comes to the reactor system, just few authors tried to address the challenges that can be expected. In fact, pressurized circulating fluidized bed is not a mature technology; there were a lot of research activities going on early nineties which led to construction of some pilot plants in order to integrate coal combustion with gas turbines [66]. Their problematic performance together with the higher efficiency of supercritical steam boilers, reduced rather much the interest for that technology. One of the main concerns related to pressurized CFBs, was the low availability of the plant both because of the higher incidence of breakages due to complexity and longer procedure to shut down and depressurize the system in order to do maintenance [67]. Few are the studies about how the pressure increase will affect the solids flow patterns inside the reactor body. According to Richtberg et al. [68] it will actually lead to a more homogenous axial and radial solids distribution. While the gases will increase their density linearly with the pressure, the particles concentration in the reactors and their oxygen uptake will not change so much. In addition the chemical looping processes consist of two reactors whose difference in pressure may create a challenge to the overall reactor system operability. At pressurized conditions the pressure unbalance will be amplified, making bigger the challenges faced at atmospheric conditions, like those ones described in the thesis (Paper II, III and IV). All these facts do not make the atmospheric CLC designs directly utilizable under pressurized conditions, but a re-engineering is required. The research groups previously mentioned as well as other ones are increasing their effort in chemical looping combustion, presenting new reactor systems and configurations. Many of them have focus on coal combustion [69 and 70] as well as liquid fuels [69], gasification [17] and hydrogen production [71]. Some of them combine, for gasification and H2 production purposes, the chemical looping process based on metallic oxygen carriers either with their capability of having more than two oxidation levels or with the CO2 capture capability of limestone typical of post-combustion carbonation/calcination loops [17, 71 and 72]. There are also other ongoing industrial projects aiming to go up in scale, reaching the MW size, like Alberta Innovates- Technology Futures [73], Bertsch Energy together with Vienna University of Technology [65 and 74], Total together with IFP Energies nouvelles [75] and Alstom [76]. The latter is now commissioning a 1 MWth coal-based setup at the Darmstadt University of Technology [77] as 29 well as a 3 MWth limestone unit. The calcium is used instead of the metallic OC because of its capability of reacting with CO2 and O2, thus carrying them. Ca and CaS give CaCO3 and CaSO4, respectively, with the exothermic reactions. 30 3. 150kWth chemical looping reactor system design and cold flow model validation Several experimental setups worldwide have successfully proven the lab-scale feasibility of atmospheric chemical looping combustion (CLC). The aim, at this stage, is to bring the chemical looping combustion stepwise towards commercialization being capable to develop configurations suitable for industrial applications. At the same time, processes with a higher degree of complexity are under development for hydrogen production, liquid and solid fuels combustion, gasification as well as pressurized applications for combined cycles. The majority of the ongoing studies, existing setups and up-scaling plans, are based on fluidized bed systems, with special focus both on oxygen carriers and reactor system development. The overview provided in the previous Chapter represents the chemical looping state-of- the-art where this thesis is put into a context. The aim here is to develop a reactor system design which can be at the same time hydrodynamically flexible and robust, in a way that can manage high fuel conversion and good off-design performance while fulfilling the system downstream requirements. Considering that such kind of fluidized bed processes cannot be scaled linearly [78, 79 and 80], also a step forward with respect to reactor size is aimed. 3.1. Preliminary reactor system design. A small-scale cold flow model (CFM) was built by SINTEF Energy and Research in order to verify the hydrodynamics of a proposed CLC design with 100kW of thermal load. A drawing and a picture of the Lexan® model are shown respectively in Figure 3.1 a) and b). The air reactor (AR) was made of a wider bottom section and an upper riser with smaller cross section. The fuel reactor (FR) was a bubbling bed in order to get lower superficial gas velocities because of the slower oxygen carrier (OC) reduction kinetics. This was the same design architecture of the first successful chemical looping combustion setup, the Chalmers University of Technology 10kWth [57], but linearly9 extended at a larger size. The utilized particles were based on polystyrene having a density of about 1050 kg·m-3 and a mass median diameter, d50, of 140 m; they belong to the Geldart group A. The CFM design was meant to be a smaller scale of the hot setup, without following any specific scaling strategy. 9 Linear scaling refers to the same design architecture re-proposition at a bigger size. It does not mean that the 10 kWth prototype dimensions or design solutions have been taken and linearly increased by a scale of 10 up to 100 kWth. 31 Many of the preliminary design solutions are not suitable for industrial applications. For example the usage of perforated plates instead of nozzles may determine uneven fluidization and increase the back-sifting risk. In addition the selected seal pots and especially their return legs are not capable to circulate and control high solids flows e.g. they have a too small cross section and too long horizontal extension, which does not allow operational flexibility. The cyclone, a conventional air cleaning one, is not capable to handle high AR solids entrainment and the inlet duct is too long which implies the formation of particles dunes. In addition the FR will need a filter system or a cyclone to collect the elutriated fines. A preliminary test campaign with this device was done facing many challenges. A thorough analysis of all those challenges was carried on, component by component, together with a deep analysis of the chemical looping and fluidization literature to understand the experienced a) b) Figure 3.1: Drawing a) and picture b) of the cold flow model (CFM) utilized to validate the hydrodynamics of a preliminary design of the chemical looping combustion reactor system object of the presented work. Air Cyclone Distributor plate Air reactor Bottom section Air Distributor plate Air reactor Riser section Fuel reactor Gas lock Gas lock Air outlet Air outlet 32 phenomena and the chemical looping technologies needs. It was concluded to radically modify the single components and the reactor system architecture as well as the adopted scaling strategy. 3.2. Double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) reactor system. The proposed design architecture is based on two circulating fluidized beds interconnected by means of pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals and bottom extraction/lift, Figure 3.2. It is compact compared to the existing chemical looping setups and many design solutions are taken from industry. One of the most promising Manganese-based oxygen carriers developed by SINTEF Materials and Chemistry was utilized as design basis for the presented design. An example of its oxidation-reduction curves has already been shown in Section 2.5, Figure 2.7 [43]. The design is sized to be used with gaseous fuel and work as steam boiler; methane in the specific case. Anyhow such kind of architecture is meant to be flexible with respect to OCs and to be extrapolated to other chemical looping applications. The thermal load, 150kW, was chosen to go higher in size compare to the state of the art at the project start up. The reactor system is meant to be cooled by means of the insertion of protruding cooling panels in the AR body and eventually also in the FR. The double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) design features are described in Paper I [81]. Figure 3.2 shows that both the air reactor and the fuel reactor are circulating fluidized beds (CFB), capable to work in the fast fluidization regime in order to increase the gas solids contact along the whole reactor body. High operational flexibility is aimed at utilizing the above-mentioned divided loop-seals and bottom extraction/lift. Both the air and fuel reactor divided loop-seals (ARLS and FRLS) are fluidized by means of three bubble caps (central, external and internal) to exert a control over the solids direction. In this way it will be possible to re-circulate back to the reactor of origin part of the solids each reactor is entraining. In addition, there is a lateral injection in the downcomer to avoid particle de-fluidization; deep Geldart A particles beds are more exposed to the risk of partial defluidization and consequent gas bypassing. The above-mentioned divided loop-seal details are shown in Figure 3.2, where an example of air reactor loop-seal operation is presented. The AR loop-seal is there circulating solids just through the external return leg without any internal re- circulation of solids; in this specific case the internal return leg is not in use10. In the loop-seal 10 The term return leg “not in use”, is not referred to a specific loop-seal return leg, but to that one, if any, of each loop-seal return legs which is not utilized during a specific test. This happen whenever a loop-seal is utilized to circulate the solids 100% on one side (Figure 3.2), the return leg facing the other side is “not in use”. 33 F ig ur e 3. 2: T he d ou bl e lo op c ir cu la ti ng f lu id iz ed b ed r ea ct or s ys te m d es ig n. T he b lu e ar ro w s re pr es en t th e ga s in je ct io ns . T he lo ca ti on is s ho w n, o f th e 32 d if fe re nt ia l pr es su re t ra ns m it te rs u ti liz ed i n th e co ld f lo w m od el , as w el l as t he l oc at io n of t he p ro tr ud in g co ol in g pa ne ls a nd t he l oc at io n of t he fl an ge s w he re r ub be r se al s ca n be in se rt ed t o bl oc k it in a n ai rt ig ht w ay . O n th e ri gh t, a zo om o f th e ai r re ac to r lo op -s ea l i s sh ow n, it s im ul at es s ol id s ci rc ul at io n 10 0% o n th e ex te rn al r et ur n le g. B o tto m ex tr ac tio n /li ft A R FR A R LS FR LS P 16 P 29 P 18 P 23 P 26 P 1 P 27 P 2 P 5 P 10 P 13 P 22 P 21 P 20 P 19 P 17 P 14 P 3 P 4 P 31P 32 P 12 P 25 P 11 P 24 P 30 P 28 P 6 P 7 P 8 P 9 P ro tr ud in g co o lin g p an el s F re q ue nc y co nt ro lle d f an F la p v al ve s P rim ar y ai r i nj ec tio n P rim ar y ai r i nj ec tio n P rim ar y ai r i nj ec tio n S ec o nd ar y ai r i nj ec tio n S ec o nd ar y ai r i nj ec tio n o ne S ec o nd ar y ai r i nj ec tio n tw o S ec o nd ar y ai r i nj ec tio n tw o S ec o nd ar y ai r i nj ec tio n o ne F la ng es f o r ru b b er s ea l in se rt io n R et ur n p o in t f o r t he F R lo o p -s ea l i nt er na l re tu rn l eg R et ur n p o in t f o r t he A R lo o p -s ea l e xt er na l r et ur n le g (P 1+ P 2) /2 , r et ur n p o in t f o r b o th th e: A R lo o p -s ea l i nt er na l re tu rn l eg F R lo o p -s ea l e xt er na l re tu rn l eg P 15 P re ss ur e fa ce d b y th e re tu rn le g in u se (s o lid s ci rc ul at io n) O ve rf lo w he ig ht Downcomer solids height B ub b le c ap n o zz le La te ra l in je ct io n In te rn al C en tr al E xt er na l S o lid s ci rc ul at io n P re ss ur e fa ce d b y th e re tu rn le g n ot in u se (n o s o lid s ci rc ul at io n) F la ng es f o r ru b b er s ea l in se rt io n R ec yc le ch am b er s A R lo op -s ea lz oo m , 10 0% s o lid s ex ch an g e 34 zoom is also highlighted the overflow height of the recycle chamber which has shown to have a big impact on the maximum pressure achievable in the bottom section of the loop-seal (Chapter 4). The lift is utilized to shift mass from the reactor with less entrainment capability, the FR, to the other one, AR. In fact in the hot process the volumetric flow of gas available to fluidize the FR is less than that one available for the AR, so the FR was designed with a smaller cross section in order to have superficial gas velocities capable to give fast fluidization regime. The less gas available and the smaller cross section make the FR entraining less solids compare to the AR. In this way, the lift allows fulfilling the overall mass balance requirements maintaining steady-state operation and allows controlling the inventory, thus bottom pressure, inside the reactors. The latter is very important to fulfil the reactor system pressure balance and to not expose the divided loop-seals to high pressure unbalances. Further solids entrainment control is exerted by means of the availability of three gas injection points each reactor, primary, secondary one and secondary two, highlighted in Figure 3.2. These features should allow running with different fuels and oxygen carriers as well as different operating conditions such as variation in air excess, complying with the downstream requirements. Compactness is also a major goal in order to reduce the required solids inventory and possibly to enclose the reactor body into a pressurized vessel (highlighted in Figure 3.6, b) to investigate the chemical looping combustion under pressurized conditions. All the main actions and decisions undertaken along the design path have been summarized in Paper I. First, input parameters needed to be established according to the project requirements and resources available. Mass and heat balances, design and hydrodynamic calculations were performed. All the missing parameters were assessed iteratively in order to achieve a reactor with the above-mentioned characteristics. A key step of the design procedure has been the hydrodynamic validation; it is necessary before constructing any hot setup in order to tackle eventual shortcomings and find the best operational window. According to the chosen strategy, first a preliminary evaluation was done of the fluidization regime, both by means of comparison to similar cases in the published literature and by means of the empirical Grace classification [82]. J.R. Grace developed an empirical diagram where it is possible to have an understanding whether the selected superficial gas velocity and particles are giving the desired reactor fluidization regime. Afterwards, the proposed design hydrodynamics have been validated by means of the construction of a scaled polycarbonate model, whose scaling strategy is 35 described in the upcoming Section 3.3. The cold flow model construction, commissioning and deep test campaign are described in the thesis, being the core of the work. Another option could have been the 150kWth design validation by means of mathematical modelling. Anyhow, the scientific community still does not feel confident of using modelling alone, to scale up a new process [55 and 79]. The existing mathematical models can be roughly divided into two categories, the empirical models and the computational fluid dynamics (CFD) models. The empirical models are more engineering oriented and they utilize experimental results by means of data fitting in order to overcome the discrepancies between theory and real reactors performance [55]. The CFD tries to keep into account all the physical correlations down to micro-scale phenomena. It is acknowledged to have a great potential, but still it is not considered reliable as the basis for construction of an experimental fluidized bed-type setup [79]. Anyhow, some attempts were done to investigate more thoroughly the reactors hydrodynamics by means of simulations. This was done in an early stage before the construction of the cold flow model in order to preliminarily verify the feasibility of the required values of solids entrainment and reactors exit concentration. It was also possible to carry out evaluations of the particles concentration along the reactors height and estimate the mass of particles present in the AR and FR. The simulations were performed just for the reactor bodies without developing a model for the whole reactor system. Several design solutions are innovative, like the bottom extraction, the pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals, the three injection points in the reactors and the heavy loaded cyclones which adopt more than one specific solution e.g. sharp inlet duct cross section restriction, eccentric and diverging vortex finder. For this reason, it is not possible to find in published literature mathematical models or correlations describing exactly those features. The development of a mathematical model including those solutions would have cost a big effort and, at the same time, it is not sure that it would have predicted with sufficient accuracy the hot rig performance. For the above-mentioned reasons the Levenspiel [83] “$10 approach” was followed: it means that to predict/interpret such complex phenomena it is worth to start always with the simplest model and then adding complexity on it according to the requirements. Some reactors hydrodynamic studies were done relying on the models of Kunii-Levenspiel [84 and 85], Adanez et al. [86], Davison [87] and Pallares et al. [88]. All those models are based on the solids 36 concentration exponential decay. The missing parameters which are necessary to describe the concentration decay were “borrowed” from literature cases; anyhow none of those was precisely fulfilling the reactor specific features. In addition the same job was done by means of the commercial software Ergun [89] which utilizes the empirical flow pattern models of Berruti [90] and Horio [91]. Figure 3.3 shows the pressure profiles obtained with the latter models, directly validated with the experimental results measured after the CFM commissioning. The presented test is a design case11 with air and fuel reactor operated separately. The inventories and superficial gas velocities were respectively 45kg and 1.9 m·s-1 for the AR and 50kg and 2.2 m·s-1 for the FR. It is possible to see that the two empirical models can tackle the reactor behaviour from order of magnitude and trend point of view, but there are big discrepancies especially in the bottom section, which has fundamental importance in order to understand the pressure unbalance faced by the two divided loop-seals return legs. This figure is interesting to show how it may be misleading to rely just on such kind of models for complex fluidized bed reactor system design. In addition those tests were done with separated reactors, considerably reducing the possible inputs and interdependencies. 11 The design test cases presented in Figure 3.3 are the same presented in Paper I for the reactors separate operation. a) b) Figure 3.3: The solid lines show the reactors pressure measurements for design case separate operation. The two dotted lines represent the simulations results obtained with the Berruti [90] and Horio [91] empirical models. With a) and b) are labelled respectively the air and fuel reactor. 0 1 2 3 4 5 0 25 50 75 100 125 150 175 200 Pressure relative to ambient pressure [mbar] R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] Experimental Berruti simulation Horio simulation 0 1 2 3 4 5 0 25 50 75 100 125 150 175 200 Pressure relative to ambient pressure [mbar] R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] Experimental Berruti simulation Horio simulation 37 It was concluded necessary to validate the design hydrodynamics by means of a cold flow model. Anyhow, such kind of modelling has big importance in a second phase when the experimental setup already exists and works, to describe its behaviour and interpret the physics behind it. 3.3. Cold flow model scaling strategy and design The hydrodynamic validation is a key step in order to finalize the proposed design. In fluidization engineering this is usually done by means of the construction of a scaled model of the actual reactor system, without chemical reactions: cold flow model. A successful cold flow modelling validation with deep understanding of hydrodynamics is necessary before moving further on and constructing a hot rig. The scaling strategy adopted to design the CFM of the presented reactor system is thoroughly addressed in Paper III; it tries to combine two existing scaling approaches. The first scaling strategy is more academic and consists of building a small scale atmospheric copy of the hot reactor system keeping constant a set of dimensionless numbers derived by non-dimensionalizing the equations of motion for particles and fluid. The most known sets of scaling relationships are that of Glicksman, full [92] and simplified sets [93]. This strategy has several limitations, like the risk of ending up into a fluidization regime different from that one under investigation and the utilization of particles belonging to a different Geldart group (Figure 2.5), with different fluidization properties. In addition, the inter-particle forces are not considered. Often it is not even possible to achieve a full match of the dimensionless numbers, because of practical limitations. The other approach consists of building a full-scale CFM, keeping the same particles size and density as would be the case with chemical reactions and high temperatures. This is common approach within the industrial world. In this way the difference in surface to volume ratio between the CFM and the hot setup will be reduced, thus the wall effect. A larger model leads to a smaller surface to volume ratio reducing the wall friction effects, which play a big role in the hydrodynamics of fluidized bed systems. In fact, it is proven that over a certain reactor diameter size, the rate of change of hydrodynamic parameters as function of the reactor diameter reduces 38 its value levelling off to an almost constant value (Figure 3.4). This means that for bigger reactor sizes, hydrodynamic parameters, like the solids hold up, will change less and in an almost linear way with the reactor diameter [79]. Summarizing, the scaling strategy of the current work tried to combine the above-mentioned two approaches. On one hand the model is built at full-scale, having the same dimension as the 150kWth reactor system; this helps trouble shooting the actual hot rig, developing process control methodologies and understanding the sensitivity of the reactor system to several design and operational parameters. Ideally the particle size distribution (PSD) and density, p, are kept the same as the hot rig, but it was not possible in the case under investigation because the cyclone designs have been frozen for finer PSD, thus smaller superficial gas velocities. Anyhow the particles were selected belonging to the same Geldart group A (shown in Figure 2.5, the upper blue points represent the two sets of particles utilized in the CFM and the lower red point represents the hot rig particles) and also the fluidization regime of the reactors was the same according to the Grace [82] empirical classification. On the other hand the superficial gas velocity, the particle size and density were selected in order to fulfil the simplified Glicksman criteria of similarity with an industrial application/prototype plant of about 15MW thermal load. The cyclones were sized according to those values, so that a radical change in gas velocity and particles determines the need of cyclone re-design. In this way the CFM can be also used to resemble the hydrodynamics of a reactor system about 10 times bigger. Concluding the hot 150kWth rig, once built, can be utilized as a process development unit (PDU) for the industrial application/prototype plant in order to address some industrial concerns. This means that in this way the cold and hot models can provide together a solid basis to scale up the proposed design. Figure 3.5 is summarizing the scaling strategy highlighting the reasons behind each connection. Figure 3.4. Hydrodynamic parameter variation (e.g. bubble size, solids hold-up) as function of the reactor diameter, for different particles groups [79]. 39 The full-scale cold flow model was built according to the design presented in Paper I and according to the scaling strategy summarized in this section and carefully addressed in Paper III. The setup is shown in Figure 3.6, a) with a picture and b) with the computer aided design (CAD) drawing. Both the reactors have 5 m height and a diameter of 0.230 and 0.144 m, respectively for the air and fuel reactor. The downcomers, return legs and the bottom extraction/lift have the same size of 0.102 m. The fluidizing air is injected in 16 independent injection points highlighted in Figure 3.2 and controlled by means of Brooks® Smart Mass Flow Controllers, model 5853. Those provide the injected air flow in Normal conditions which correspond to atmospheric pressure and 0°C, for this reason also the temperature of the injected air is measured in order to derive each time the actual air flow. A filter box located on a scale in the basement below the rig is utilized to collect and quantify the particle losses on-line. This allows keeping track of the total solids inventory (TSI) which needs to be systematically refilled in order to do not affect the system performance, as shown in Paper II. It also allows making an evaluation of the cyclones performance, by means of rough collection efficiency estimations. In addition, a frequency controlled fan in the filter box is utilized together with two flap valves located downstream each Figure 3.5: Schema summarizing the correlations between the cold flow model (CFM), the large-scale industrial application/prototype plant and the 150kWth hot rig/ process development unit (PDU). Resemble ind. app. Hydrodynamics: • Residence time studies (solids & gases) • Pressure/particles concentration profile • Solids exchange • Gas bypassing Hot Rig/PDUFull scale CFM Industrial Application/Prototype plant • Trouble shooting, operating guidelines & operators training • Process control methodologies • Reliable ways to predict the gas/solid behaviour • Operational sensitivity to the design (system & components) and PSD Address industrial concerns: • Start-up & shutdown procedures, • Long period operation and equipment reliability • Particles attritiond50~34 m p~7000kg/m3 d50~100 m p~2000kg/m3 Resemble ind. app. Hydrodynamics: • Residence time studies (solids & gases) • Pressure/particles concentration profile • Solids exchange • Gas bypassing Hot Rig/PDUFull scale CFM Industrial Application/Prototype plant • Trouble shooting, operating guidelines & operators training • Process control methodologies • Reliable ways to predict the gas/solid behaviour • Operational sensitivity to the design (system & components) and PSD Address industrial concerns: • Start-up & shutdown procedures, • Long period operation and equipment reliability • Particles attritiond50~34 m p~7000kg/m3 d50~100 m p~2000kg/m3 40 a) b) F ig ur e 3. 6: T he c ol d fl ow m od el o bj ec t (C F M ) of t hi s st ud y is s ho w n w it h a pi ct ur e a) a nd w it h a co m pu te r ai de d de si gn ( C A D ) dr aw in g b) . T he se f ig ur es h el p to u nd er st an d ho w h ig h an d co m pa ct is t he r ea ct or s ys te m . T hr ee a re t he le ve ls : gr ou nd w it h th e bo tt om s ec ti on a nd t he co nt ro l st at io n ba se d on t he N at io na l In st ru m en t C or po ra ti on s ys te m d es ig n so ft w ar e L ab V IE W , i nt er m ed ia te w it h th e lo op -s ea ls , r ef ill in g an d en tr ai nm en t m ea su re m en t po in ts , u pp er w it h th e cy cl on es . T he C A D d es ig n b) h ig hl ig ht s ho w t he r ea ct or s ys te m c an id ea lly b e en cl os ed in a c yl in de r w it h th e di am et er s lig ht ly a bo ve 1 m . 41 cyclone to set the required backpressure, usually kept equal to zero. The pressure is monitored on-line by means of 32 differential pressure transmitters. Those are Fuji FCX-AII having an accuracy of ±0.065% of the calibrated span (320mbar). The conventional location of the pressure transmitters is shown in Figure 3.2. Plastic hoses connect the transmitters to the taps on the reactor system walls; they are inclined downwards and periodically flushed with air in order to avoid particles back-flow, this have shown to affect the pressure measurements in several circumstances, giving values higher than the actual ones. The air and fuel reactor transmitters are differential: the air reactor ones are referenced to the AR exit pressure P10, while this is referenced to the atmospheric pressure. The FR pressure transmitters are referenced to P23, which is referenced to the atmospheric pressure. This way of measuring the static pressure is expected to better buffer the impact of hydrodynamic perturbations propagating through the reactor bodies. 3.4. Health safety and environmental evaluation of the cold flow model, with focus on the utilized particles. Once the reactor system has been designed, an important task before starting with the CFM test campaigns was to assess the health, safety and environmental risks (HSE). Main HSE focus has been on the air quality and dust explosion risk; both are consequences of the fine particles utilized. The adopted scaling strategy guided towards particles with a mass median diameter, d50, of about 25 m and density of about 7000 kg·m-3. Such high density can be achieved with a metal which has also the advantage of reducing the static electricity usually generated in cold flow models. A Fe-Si alloy with about 80% Iron was chosen. It was not possible to find in open literature circulating fluidized beds utilizing such fine and heavy particles in order to gain knowledge about their behaviour and benchmark the results of the experimental campaign, but just some fluidization studies which labelled it as high density Geldart A [94]. This combination of density and PSD in first instance was not found, so the adopted particles size was bigger compared to the above-mentioned 25 m. Atomized Ferrosilicon powder with a d50 of 34 m was utilized; it is produced by the company DMS Powders [95]. PSD is shown in Figure 3.7 and about ten percent of it is below 10 m. On one hand, during operation the powder may fraction 42 and get even finer. This has to be kept in mind for HSE reasons as long as fines are the easier to lose through the cyclones and will concentrate in the filter box. On the other hand this process of fines losses will imply bigger PSD inside the reactor system as shown in Paper IV. The samples to measure the PSD were taken according to the American Society for Testing and Materials (ASTM) standards B 215 [96] and measured by means of a laser diffraction particle size analyzer Beckman Coulter LS230 [97] which provides a volume based PSD. Figure 3.8 is a picture taken with the scanning electron microscope (SEM); it shows the rounded irregular shape of the particles. The particles sphericity, , was estimated to be about 0.75, relying on two-dimensional studies performed on the same DMS Powders particles by de Vos et al. [94]. The calculated minimum fluidization velocity, umf, and terminal velocity, ut, are respectively 0.0014 m·s-1 and 0.11 m·s-1 for the particles having a d50 of 25 m. The 34 m ones have higher values of umf and ut respectively equal to 0.0026 m·s-1 and 0.19 m·s-1. The presented values have been calculated by means of empirical correlations [80]. This shows how finer particles are easier to fluidize. In fact the fluidization onset achievement requires smaller velocity, umf. Also the particles shape irregularity plays a role: lower sphericity implies a smaller umf because the particles are easier to fluidize and a smaller ut because of the bigger drag. Figure 3.7: Particle Size Distribution (PSD) of the Fe-Si Powder used in the Cold Flow Model (CFM) experiments (without any sieving to obtain the design PSD). Figure 3.8: Image of the Fe-Si sample (unsieved), taken in a scanning electron microscope (SEM). 0 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 0.1 1 10 100 1000 Particle Size ( m) C um ul at iv e V ol um e (% ) 0 2 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 20 V ol um e F re qu en cy ( % ) Cumulative Volume Volume Frequency 50 m 50 m 43 The PSD influence on the circulating fluidized beds (CFB) solids entrainment has been confirmed by experimental studies. Mastellone et al. [98] had a clear increase of solids entrainment with finer particles. The same study evaluated also the influence of the particles density showing how high density particles determine higher solids concentration in correspondence of the reactor bottom section; this is consistent with the high bottom densities experienced for the high density Geldart A particles utilized in the present work. Basu et al. [99] in addition to the entrainment increase, showed how a finer PSD determines higher pressure in correspondence of the loop-seal bottom section; this fact will improve the divided loop-seal stability with respect to pressure unbalances. Considering the air quality, studies were done to evaluate continuously the particle concentration in several points at the experimental setup [100]. Measurements were done together with the NTNU Panel for Mineral Production and Health, Safety and Environment by means of a light-scattering laser photometer that provides real-time aerosol mass readings: DustTrakTM DRX Aerosol Monitor, model 8533 [101]. The sampling points were located where usually the operators are, during a period corresponding to a full working day. Each of the measured concentrations was utilized together with the chemical composition of the Fe-Si alloy to be compared with the substance exposure limits. The measured concentrations of particles from PM1 up to PM1012 showed a risk classified as low. The average particles concentration was about one tenth of the Norwegian occupational exposure limit (OEL) [102], which is equal to one fourth of the value provided by the manufacturer in the safety data sheet, 10 mg·m-3, which means 2.5 mg·m-3. The concentration measured during the procedure of inventory refilling was higher than that one measured during standard operation, it increased for a period of about 30 minutes reaching pikes from 0.5 mg·m-3 of the PM1 up to 0.9 mg·m-3 of the PM10. For this reason it was decided to install two suction arms that can be placed just above the emission points, during particle handling. Those are connected directly with a dedicated filter box as long as the finest particles were not retained, by “conventional” vacuum cleaners utilized in first instance for this scope. After a preliminary evaluation of the dust explosion risk it was not possible to exclude the likelihood that an accident could happen. Fine metallic particles can theoretically oxidise exothermically reacting with the oxygen present in the air. The finer the PSD is, the bigger the 12 PM10 are all the particles measuring 10 m or less and PM1 are all the particles measuring 1 m or less. 44 surface area for unit of mass is: this means that the particles offer a wider surface to the contact with O2 and the hazard is bigger. The free energy of formation of the Iron oxides and Silicon oxides is negative therefore the oxidation reaction is spontaneous from a thermodynamically point of view. The particles and oxidant are for sure well mixed in the reactor system; the particle concentration may be too high to be explosive. Anyhow, the different particles/oxidant combinations within the reactor are many, depending on the fluidization regime under testing. This means that the explosible concentration range is likely to be achieved. In addition, it happens in a confined environment, the reactor system, so that it may determine a smaller primary explosion. The blast wave of the primary explosion can for example entrain the particles lying on the floor around the reactor, disperse and ignite the larger quantity of dust into a dramatic secondary explosion. The static electricity generated due to the contact between particles and reactor body is partially reduced using metallic particles and reactor system metallic components connected with some copper wires to the ground. Some static electricity is still present. The finest particles stick to the walls of polycarbonate and sometimes electric sparks are generated. Those sparks provide the potential ignition source to dust explosions [103-106]. For those reasons a particle sample was sieved, to have a finer size approaching the original d50 requirements slightly above 20 m. This was sent to the company GexCon AS, which performed an explosibility test trying to ignite the sample according to the Association of German Engineers (VDI) standard procedure [107]. The powder was found not explosive. Both the air quality and the dust explosion risk have been carefully evaluated and excluded. Those issues are a direct consequence of the fineness of the PSD adopted together with the large size of the experimental setup. This implies the usage of large amounts of fine particles (hundreds of kg) with all the difficulties to handle it safely. 3.5. Cold flow model commissioning The operational and measurement procedures definition has been the first commissioning step. In this paragraph some of the most important procedures are listed. Safe start-up and shut down procedures were defined as well as the way to systematically collect, quantify and refill the mass losses in order to keep the total solids inventory constant and do not affect the reactor system performance. It was defined how to take reliable direct measurements of entrained solids flux and how to place and flush the pressure transmitters in order to avoid dust plugging. Those 45 issues have been continuously updated during the whole test campaign period. In this way it has been possible to improve the procedures both to better accomplish the demanded tasks and to fit to the changes in design or operation. Before operation, the nozzles design was verified with empty reactor computing their pressure loss. The mass inventory was quantified in two ways. One way was to measure the solids level in the reactor system when it was shut down, thus calculating the volume occupied by the particles. The density of a packed bed of particles was evaluated separately, just putting the particles into a known volume and weighting it, obtaining about 4000 kg·m-3. The other way consists of deriving the mass present inside the reactors during operation by pressure measurements [108]. It is called active mass because it is that one actively participating at the reactions in the hot case vs. the parasitic which is that one in the downcomers, loop-seals, and lift. The solids flow/flux measurement techniques reliability was object of studies as well. The conventional direct technique consists of measuring the height of the column of particles accumulated in the downcomer after a sharp loop-seal fluidization shut down. An indirect technique was also tested, it consists of closing a perforated flap valve placed in the downcomer [109]. In this way, the gas coming from below fluidizes the amount of powder which accumulates on the flap-valve, once closed. The entrained solids flux value is proportional to the gradient of the pressure drop measured across the flap valve/fluidized bed as function of the time. This is true if minimum fluidization conditions are achieved for the particles above the flap valve. Several tests were done to understand the reliability of the solids flow/flux measurements together with a simplified error assessment [110]. These operations have been described in Paper II. The air reactor and fuel reactor were then operated separately monitoring their entrainment capabilities and pressure/particles distribution (Paper I). They were isolated from each other by means of a rubber seals in the interconnection pipes; the cold flow model pipes have five flanges where it is possible to insert the rubber seals whether required (Figure 3.2). Air and fuel reactors were tested for different inventories, exit13 superficial gas velocities and primary/secondary air injection combinations. Also the divided loop-seal performance was studied thoroughly (Paper II), to understand the best way of operating it with respect to solids 13 Superficial gas velocity at the reactor exit; in this way the superficial gas velocity value depends neither on the primary/secondary air combination nor on the reactor geometry which has constant diameter at the exit. All the reactor superficial gas velocities in the thesis refer to the exit velocity unless specified otherwise. 46 flow/flux circulation increase. During the separate operation just the internal return leg was utilized being the loop-seal fluidized with the central and internal bubble cap nozzles (loop-seal described in Section 3.2, Figure 3.2). The lateral air injection was utilized as well, in order to keep fluidized the particles in the downcomer; this is especially useful in case of high columns of Geldart A particles. The possible combinations were explored to find the highest solids circulation together with a stable fluidization regime in the loop-seal, avoiding large pressure fluctuations and a slugging fluidization regime. It was concluded that the solids circulation increases with the increase of each of the above-mentioned gas injections. This is true up to a certain volumetric gas flow injection rate in the central bubble cap nozzle; above this value the system is not sensitive any more to the gas fluidization and the solids fluctuations get bigger together with the measured pressure fluctuations. The loop-seal has always been capable to adjust the pressure in correspondence of its bottom section to the pressure of the reactor in correspondence of the point where the return leg in use merges. P28 adjusts to (P1+P2)/2 and P30 adjusts to P14 (Figure 3.2), being this the case of internal re-circulation of solids. This means that the pressure drop across the solids accumulated in the downcomer varied according to the pressure faced by the return leg in use. This is both a consequence of the amount of solids accumulated in the downcomer and of the velocity of the gas relative to the solids flowing downwards. The last one has always to be directed upwards and can be adjusted by tuning the loop-seal fluidization [99]. The solids circulation upper limit for reactors separate operation was achieved as consequence of reactors inventory and/or superficial gas velocity increases. The average downcomer particle level increased with the solids entrainment up to a point where the accumulated solids were abruptly reducing their level and then increasing it again in a cyclic manner. This affects the active inventory inside the reactor body and the pressure measured in the bottom section of the loop-seal increases its fluctuations up to the unusual values of ± 25mbar. In addition, also the insertion of dummy panels was tested (Figure 3.2), they represent the 150kWth reactor system cooling devices, necessary to fulfill the heat balance. The insertion of heat transfer surfaces is also utilized in industrial boilers to better control the furnace temperature. The boilers height usually is not increased above 40m due to economic considerations; this means that high thermal loads can be handled with the help of cooling panels insertion [111]. Here it is tested how those insertions influence the reactor hydrodynamics testing different configuration. No big change was experienced looking at the solids entrainment. Figure 3.9 47 shows how the particles concentration behaves in the air reactor upper section (4 m) for the different cooling panels combinations; the set of tests is that one described in Paper II and the cooling panes location is shown qualitatively in Figure 3.2. The concentration increases in correspondence of the panels insertion; this happen also for the upper panel, but with a smaller magnitude. The concentration is directly derived from the pressure measurements neglecting friction and acceleration, especially because those are located in the upper 4m above the end of the conical bottom section, where the flow is fully developed. The higher pressure drop being measured may also depend on the turbulences and friction induced on the flow by the panels rather than being the consequence of solids concentration increase. Further tests need to be done in order to measure the local concentration by means of non-isokinetic suction probes [112-114]. a) b) c) d) Figure 3.9: Solids concentration in the upper section (upper 4 meters) of the air reactor in correspondence of four different combinations of the dummy cooling panels insertion. Those are the cases studied and described inside Paper II [110]. Cases a), b) and c) represent tests done with one cooling panel inserted in the bottom, middle and upper position of the reactor upper section, while two cooling panels are inserted for the case d). 1,0 1,5 2,0 2,5 3,0 3,5 4,0 4,5 5,0 0 0,01 0,02 0,03 R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] Solids concentration [m3sol/m3tot] 0 cooling panel 1 cooling panel, bottom 1,0 1,5 2,0 2,5 3,0 3,5 4,0 4,5 5,0 0 0,01 0,02 0,03 R ea ct or h ei gh t [m ] Solids concentration [m3sol/m3tot] 0 cooling panel 1 cooling panel, middle 1,0 1,5 2,0 2,5 3,0 3,5 4,0 4,5 5,0 0 0,01 0,02 0,03 R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] Solids concentration [m3sol/m3tot] 0 cooling panel 1 cooling panel, upper 1,0 1,5 2,0 2,5 3,0 3,5 4,0 4,5 5,0 0 0,01 0,02 0,03 R ea ct or h ei gh t [m ] Solids concentration [m3sol/m3tot] 0 cooling panel 2 cooling panels, bottom & middle 48 This will help to understand if the pressure increase is effectively determined by a solids concentration increase. It was not possible to assess it by visual observation, because of finer particles sticking to the reactor walls due to static electricity and because the phenomenon is not so big. Afterwards the rubber seals between air and fuel reactor were removed and the overall reactor system was tested in coupled operation, with the solids being exchanged among the reactors through the external loop-seals return legs, fluidized by the external bubble cap nozzles (as in the AR loop-seal zoom of Figure 3.2). The divided loop-seals also in this case automatically adjusted their bottom pressure to the pressure of the point where their return leg in use merges, the external one for these tests. The air reactor loop-seal was adjusting its pressure to the point of the fuel reactor where its external return leg merges (P28 adjusts to P15, Figure 3.2). At the same time the fuel reactor loop-seal adjusted its bottom pressure in order to be capable to be higher than the pressure at the point where its external return leg merges with the air reactor (P30 adjusts to (P1+P2)/2, Figure 3.2). The challenge of the system operation has been related to the high pressure unbalance that the divided loop-seal may experience between its two return legs. This is especially true for the above-mentioned cases of full solids exchange between the two reactors. It may happen that the pressure which the return leg not in use faces is higher than the pressure experienced by the return leg in use. As previously said, the pressure in correspondence of the bottom section of the loop-seal, has proven to fit to the pressure of the return leg in use, reaching values somehow higher than this in order to ensure solids circulation. This means that one of the loop-seals may be exposed, through the return leg not in use, to a pressure higher than the pressure reached at its bottom section. In this case there is a gas back-flow through the downcomer, which determines a dramatic loss of particles through the cyclone. For the actual design, this phenomenon usually happened for the fuel reactor loop-seal where P30 automatically adjusts its value above that one of (P1+P2)/2, when the fuel reactor exchanges 100% of the entrained solids with the air reactor. P14 is the pressure experienced by the FR loop-seal internal return leg, when it is not sealed off by means of the rubber seal insertion, and it can be higher than P30. This is also the consequence of the internal FR loop-seal return leg merging the very bottom section of the FR and facing P14 where the pressure is the maximum the FR can reach, instead of P15. At the same time the other loop-seal is operating safely because it faces the high pressure with the return leg in use, so the 49 pressure of its bottom section adjusts to it (P15, Figure 3.2) and the low pressure of the return leg not in use is not creating any problem. With the actual design, it was possible to operate the reactor system inserting a valve in the return legs not in use. Seals were introduced, as if it was a cone valve fully closed, and smooth performance was achieved according to design needs of 2 kg·s-1 exchange. If no valves are used, it is required to carefully control the bottom pressures of the reactors and avoid a big difference between them. Ideally, according to the measured values, a difference of 30 mbar between the two return points of air and fuel reactor for each loop-seal should not be exceeded to be sure to operate safely. Those points are located in correspondence of (P1+P2)/2 and P14 for the FR loop-seal and (P1+P2)/2 and P15 for the AR loop-seal, Figure 3.2. In this way the divided loop-seal facing a high pressure with the not in use return leg, will not be harmed. The options to control the bottom pressures without reactor system design modifications are several. For example the total solids inventory can be reduced, the primary air injection can be reduced or the secondary air height can be increased14. Those ways of controlling the bottom pressure impose limitations to the maximum amount of solids which is possible to circulate. The bottom extraction/lift usage has proven to be the best operational way to equalize the bottom pressures. The lift can compensate the higher solids entrainment arriving from the air reactor to the fuel reactor. In addition it can reduce the FR inventory down to a level where its bottom pressure is not determining back-flow risks. In fact the internal return leg of the fuel reactor in the actual design is the critical one because it merges the reactor body in the very bottom (Figure 3.2), thus encountering the highest pressure. This is obtained utilizing the lift as turbulent bed while it was previously utilized as bubbling bed just relying on the gravity, to transport the particles from FR to AR. Its overflow height is too high so it cannot be used as a loop-seal, in that way immobilizes a high amount of mass and determines a too high pressure in the FR bottom. All those issues are described in Paper II, Paper IV and partly in Paper III. 14 The secondary air heights presented in Figure 3.2 are those ones utilized for the majority of the tests. Tests were also performed with the fuel reactor secondary one air injection located at a higher position in the reactor, 0.40 m vs. the 0.17 m qualitatively shown in the figure. 50 3.6. Hydrodynamic validation of chemical looping processes A good understanding about how to reach stabile operation with the actual design has been achieved in the commissioning phase, Section 3.5. The share of total solids inventory inside each reactor body can be controlled by means of the lift fluidization. This means controlling the pressure in the reactors bottom section, thus the pressure difference between the divided loop- seals return legs. Once this knowledge was achieved, the targeted design conditions were reached; their performance was stable and repeatable in terms of solids exchange and fluidization regimes. Afterwards, the reactor system has been object of an experimental campaign to verify and to study its hydrodynamics while resembling off-design conditions and other chemical looping processes conditions. All the results of this experimental campaign have been summarized in this section and carefully presented in Paper III. As already mentioned the reactor system at design conditions resembles the hydrodynamics of an atmospheric boiler utilized for steam production. The example shown in Figure 3.10, a) shows the general arrangement for a typical circulating fluidized bed boiler [54]. At industrial scale, the CLC reactor system is supposed to replace it, being integrated in the steam cycle in a similar manner according to the case specific circumstances. The cold flow model was operated to resemble the steam boiler hydrodynamics at off-design conditions. Attempts were done to increase the fuel reactor solids concentration, in the upper section. The idea was to increase the gas particles contact all-over the reactor body having less mass in the bottom section and more in the upper one; at the same time a big share of the entrained solids was re-circulated internally to increase the FR solids residence time. This should help to improve the fuel conversion and more in general to have more options to control the FR fluidization regime according to the oxygen carrier and the fuel. Part-load conditions were successfully tested; resembling the hydrodynamics of a hot rig with a fuel input down to about 70% and 50% compared to the design case. The load was also increased up to an input of about 115% of the design case. The last step was to try to address the hydrodynamic viability of other kind of chemical looping processes: the gas turbine (GT) combustion and the chemical looping reforming. In the gas turbine case the chemical looping combustion hot rig would go to take the place of the combustion chamber of a gas turbine, as shown in Figure 3.10, b), being inserted into a pressurized vessel as already suggested by Xiao et al. [116] and Wolf [117]. Pressurization is 51 a) b) Figure 3.10: Examples of chemical looping combustion reactor system integration. Figure a), taken from Basu [54], shows the typical arrangement for a circulating fluidized bed steam boiler. Figure b) shows the usage of the CLC as a combined cycle gas turbine combustor [115]. 52 challenging, especially for the system availability and control of two interconnected pressurized reactors. Looking at the hot process as a whole, two main changes are expected in the GT case: a higher overall excess air ratio, , and a high pressure. The first will determine an increase of air reactor volumetric gas flow keeping constant the FR one. This will also imply a reduction of the cooling duties in favour of the higher exhaust stream exiting from the AR. The second, as explained in Section 2.5, determines a gas density increase linearly with the pressure increase, while the density and most likely the performance of the solids OC will be the same. Keeping the same design implies that fuel injection increase (as the pressure increase) is required to keep the same volumetric flow as before. This implies the need of more OC circulation, roughly it increases linearly with the pressure increase, unless part of the required fuel to keep the same volumetric gas flow is compensated with CO2 re-circulation or the oxygen needs are partially compensated with O2 injection directly in the FR. For the CFM, this means an increase of AR fluidization and solids entrainment/exchange, while keeping the FR with the same superficial gas velocity or less and balancing with the bottom extraction. In this way it is possible to explore to which extent the actual, atmospheric, design can handle the pressurized requirements. Chemical looping reforming (CLR) resembles the hydrodynamics of a hot rig used to produce a syngas by supplying less oxidized solids to the FR, less than the stoichiometric amount. In the CFM tests this was done in two ways; either reducing the AR solids entrainment or increasing the AR internal re-circulation while reducing the external exchange. Also in this process, as for the gas turbine case, it would be beneficial to pressurize the reactor system to increase the net plant efficiency. The availability and control challenges of pressurized processes are the same as in the chemical looping combustion case. As explained in the last paragraph of Section 2.5, the OC may not be capable to fulfil the FR oxygen requirements for a full combustion under pressurized conditions. In fact, the OC performance may be about the same as the OC performance for the atmospheric combustion or slightly better, while the amount of fuel injected will need to be increased in order to keep the same volumetric gas flow as in the atmospheric case. Same volumetric gas flow allows to keep the same fluidization regime in the reactor without radically changing the reactor system design. This “incomplete combustion” is beneficial for the reforming reaction, instead of being a challenge as for the pressurized combustion. It goes towards the process requirements direction; in fact the goal of CLR is a partial combustion. 53 3.7. Procedure to operate the cold flow model according to the hot process requirements. The procedure followed to operate the cold flow model is presented in this section. The aim is to have the CFM working both in a stable manner and consistently with the expected hot process requirements from a qualitative point of view. It is summarized in the flow-sheet of Figure 3.11 and it was utilized for the cases presented in the previous Section 3.6. First of all, the reactor system design has to be defined. In the above-mentioned cases no design changes are considered; anyhow in the gas turbine case a smaller fuel reactor cross section can be an option to achieve the aimed fast fluidization regime reducing the requirements of fuel injection increase and exhaust re-circulation. The oxygen carrier performance is as well defined at a design stage; this is important because it is used to determine the amount of solids exchange theoretically required for a specific application. Together with the OC performance, also the thermal load15 of the case studied is fundamental: to determine the oxygen, thus the solids exchange, required, to determine the system cooling duties and consequently design the cooling system and to know the amount of fluidizing gas available in the fuel reactor. Finally it is required to know how the reactor is integrated within the system; in fact it is necessary to design the heat exchangers and determine the exhaust gas flow rates and temperature requirements for downstream applications. With those inputs it is possible to determine the amount of gas which can be utilized to fluidize the FR. In addition it is possible to play with the primary/secondary fuel injection, steam injection and re-circulate part of the exhaust CO2 to be capable to tune the solids concentration within the FR body and solids entrainment in order to find the best fluidization regime according to the process objectives. A further degree of freedom is given by the divided loop-seal which allows to internally re-circulate part or all the entrained solids. This is important both to tune the reactor fluidization regime and, together with the usage of the lift, to uncouple the solids entrainment from the solids exchange. In this way downstream requirements can be met. This can also be done utilizing the bottom lift to exchange the solids while the reactor and loop-seal operation can be focused on the desired fluidization regime or vice versa exchanging solids by the loop-seal and reducing the lift exchange to vary the fluidization regime; it will affect rather 15 This term and other ones like steam, excess air ratio, CO2 re-circulation etc. refer to the hot process. The variations of these parameters mentioned along in the section correspond to variations of air injection in the cold flow model operation. 54 much the bottom inventory in first instance. The loop-seal has to be properly fluidized avoiding circumstances like particles defluidization in the downcomer or like slugging fluidization regime which determines pressure fluctuations and gas leakages, and possibly maximizing the pressure drop across the solids column in the downcomer exerting a control over the gas velocity [99]. Based on the system input, it is possible to determine the amount of solids to circulate in order to provide the necessary oxygen to the FR. Afterwards it is possible to determine the amount of fluidizing air to utilize for the AR fluidization, this has to be capable to entrain the required amount of solids consistently with the excess air ratio appropriated for the application. The solids entrainment is the first process requirement. It is especially important to be capable to fulfil the upper limit, the AR has to be capable to entrain at least as many solids as required to be exchanged. As well as for the previous case the primary/secondary share can be used to tune the solids concentration and entrainment. The entrainment can be uncoupled from the solids exchange by means of the divided loop-seal usage. This will offer a degree of freedom more to have sharp control over the solids exchange according to the process requirements. In addition it will also allow exerting some control over the solids distribution in the reactor body for heat exchange needs as well as some control over the volumetric flow and temperature of the exhaust gasses according to downstream needs. This is especially true for the AR rather than the FR, because here the highly exothermic reaction takes place. The idea is to set the priority among these options according to the process integration requirements, which are case specific. An example to clarify the idea is whether lowering the solids exchange by entrainment reduction or by internal re-circulation; the latter means higher gas flow with its impact on the reactor system heat balance. The oxidation reaction for chemical looping processes has quick kinetics, so that the AR fluidization regime has secondary importance in comparison with the required entrainment, fundamental for the FR fuel conversion. Finally the lift fluidization has to be utilized firstly to balance the reactors bottom pressures and avoid that a too big pressure unbalance may damage the loop-seal performance. The pressure difference allowed is not an absolute value, for the actual design it will be better to have it below 30mbar, anyhow it depends on the loop-seal design, on the height where the return legs merge with the reactors (thus the pressure they face in the reactors) and on the operational conditions e.g. pressure fluctuations have proven to be higher for higher solids circulation. In addition the lift has to fulfil the mass balance being capable to transport, together with the solids 55 going through the FR loop-seal to the AR the same amount of solids coming from the AR loop- seal to the FR, to reach steady state conditions. Finally if possible it can be utilized to help the achievement of the required fluidization regimes in the reactors as well. Last step consists of the achievement of an overall equilibrium of all these parallel operations, of FR tuning to achieve the best fluidization regime, AR tuning to exchange the required amount of solids exchange with possibly the downstream requirements fulfilment and lift tuning to be capable to balance the situation. The tested chemical looping configurations provided useful information, especially from qualitative point of view both to improve the actual design and to understand how to combine the hydrodynamic and thermodynamic reactor system needs. The reactor system has been modified to address design limitations found out during the test campaign and to widen its operational window, those modifications have been presented in the following chapter. Anyhow the defined procedure about how to operate such double loop circulating fluidized bed reactor system design is methodologically valuable also for the final design. Process simulations of the industrial application/prototype plant, including heat and mass balances, should be carried on in the future to be capable to provide also some quantitative figures of the hot process requirements. Those can be hydrodynamically validated while working in parallel with the improved rector system CFM according to the presented procedure. 56 F ig ur e 3. 11 : F lo w s he et r ep re se nt in g th e pr oc ed ur e fo llo w ed t o op er at e th e co ld f lo w m od el i n a w ay i t co ul d w or k bo th i n a st ab le m an ne r an d be co ns is te nt w it h th e ho t p ro ce ss r eq ui re m en ts k ee pi ng it s ne ed s in to c on si de ra ti on fr om q ua lit at iv e po in t o f v ie w . N o Y es N o Y es Y es N o 57 4. Double loop circulating fluidized bed design evaluation and finalization 4.1. Design evaluation and improvement suggestions In addition to the above-mentioned chemical looping processes of combustion and reforming, many are the industrial processes based on two reactions that can be performed continuously by means of two interconnected fluidized beds. Examples are: the fluidized catalytic cracking, biomass gasification, gasification with selective transport of CO2, the carbonation/calcination post-combustion CO2 capture and the sorption-enhanced reforming. All those processes have a primary reaction related to the achievement of the main process objective and a secondary one which is necessary to continuously run the process. The proposed design is sized for a 150kWth atmospheric chemical looping combustion reactor system for steam generation (Paper I). The double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) reactor system idea can be utilized also to fulfil the requirements of such kind of processes, especially when it comes to compactness for scale-up purposes and increase of gas-solids contact in the reactor upper section [118]. A cold flow model (CFM), without chemical reactions, has been dimensioned utilizing the scaling laws described in Section 3.3, built and tested to validate the hot rig hydrodynamics before construction. The performance of the DLCFB cold flow model during the experimental campaign has been studied in order to find its operational window and limits, to understand the key input parameters and to propose design improvements which will get it intrinsically more stable. Those results, summarized in this section are presented in the Paper IV of the thesis. Long term operational stability tests as well as repeatability tests have been successfully performed, with the system showing good robustness to external perturbations. In this way it was possible to define a design condition based both on the hot rig design requirements and on the achievement of cold flow model hydrodynamic stability. Once the design condition was set, the superficial gas velocity has been varied separately in each of the two reactors, air and fuel reactor, and in the bottom extraction/lift (Figure 3.2). This was done without taking any compensating action, to re-equilibrate the reactor system hydrodynamics. In this way, it was possible to monitor how the reactor system reacts to each of these superficial gas velocity changes and to which extent it is capable to keep on working before instability onset. The reactor system showed a bigger equilibrium margin towards the fuel reactor (FR) superficial gas velocity 58 sensitivity; in fact the FR has a smaller section than the air reactor (AR). On the other hand, an AR superficial gas velocity increase of few decimals of meters per second (e.g. from 2.4 to 2.8 m·s-1) determines a large increase of solids flux entrainment from the AR (e.g. from 40 to 60 kg·m-2·s-1). This obliges to take action in the rest of the system to continue running it and to avoid all the mass shifting from the AR to the FR. The lift limitation is related to the lower superficial gas velocity limit. As mentioned in the commissioning Section 3.5, a too small value of lift superficial gas velocity gives mass accumulation in the FR body leading to a too high pressure in the FR bottom section. This reduces the margin of the divided loop-seals pneumatic control; it can be reduced down to the point where gas back-flows from the FR through the FR loop-seal return leg which is not in use, causing large mass losses through the cyclone. The same problem was encountered increasing the total solids inventory with the same reactor system fluidization conditions. A too high inventory gives a too high pressure in the FR bottom section with gas back-flow through the divided loop-seal return leg not in use and causes cyclone efficiency collapse. A deep understanding of the divided loop-seal was achieved by means of the above- mentioned experiments, analyzing its behaviour in each of the operating conditions tested. In this way, it was possible to identify which operating conditions are critical for the loop-seal performance, determining an exposure to a large pressure unbalance till gas back-flow onset. Dedicated tests were done to better evaluate those critical operating conditions, just operating the air reactor alone, internally re-circulating the entrained flux of solids (Figure 4.1). In this way the solids were passing through the internal return leg of the air reactor loop-seal, which merges in the AR body. Air was not injected through the external bubble cap nozzle of the air reactor loop- seal, so that the external return leg merging the fuel reactor body was not in use. The other reactor was utilized as a pressure chamber to set an increasing pressure in correspondence of P15 which is faced by the return leg not in use. In this manner it has been possible to test the divided loop-seal keeping the same conditions on one side, with the return leg in use facing the pressure (P1+P2)/2, and varying the pressure on the other side, with the return leg not in use facing pressure P15. 59 The results tell that, with the actual design, it was possible to reach safely in the return leg not in use an average16 pressure of 10mbar lower than that one of the loop-seal bottom section. When this difference has been reduced to zero, the particles losses become about the triple; this is due to the pressure fluctuations in correspondence of the loop-seal bottom section which, in this specific case, reached the value of maximum ± 5 mbar, because of the lower solids circulation compared to design case conditions. Going higher in value with the pressure of the return leg not in use, the mass losses increased exponentially. Keeping the pressure in correspondence of the loop-seal bottom section (P28 in the example of Figure 4.1) at least 20mbar higher than that one of the return leg not in use (P15) seems a safe solution. In this way 5 to 10mbar are kept as safety margin, based on the usual pressure fluctuations in correspondence of the bottom section of the loop-seal from ±10 to 15 mbar. 16 All the pressure measurements presented are average values. The pressure values fluctuate across the average value with amplitude depending on the value itself and depending on the fluidization regime. The fluctuations of the pressure measured in correspondence of the loop-seal bottom sections are among the highest and can easily reach values between ± 10 and ± 15 mbar during stable operation. The higher values are usually reached for higher solids fluxes being processed by the loop-seals, so usually the AR loop-seal has somehow higher pressure fluctuations. Those ones in correspondence of the reactor bottom sections are among the smallest. Paper IV brings examples of pressure fluctuations (Figure 5, Figure 6 and Figure 9, a 3) and b 3). Figure 4.1: Configuration of the dedicated tests aiming to study the air reactor loop-seal critical operation due to pressure unbalance. Bottom extraction/lift AR FR ARLS FRLS P15 P1 P2 P28 Slight air injection to control P15 Rubber seals inserted Bubble cap nozzles External Central Internal Solids circulationARLS internal return leg (in use) Flap valve partially closed to control P15 ARLS external return leg (not in use) Overflow height Loop-seal pressure unbalance Potential gas leakages going up to the cyclone 60 Ideally the reactors bottom pressure can be controlled also by reactors fluidization, one way of doing it, is to increase the superficial gas velocity, which will reduce the mass in the reactor body, thus the pressure in the bottom section. Anyhow, this fact gives an increase of the cyclones pressure drop which shifts the pressure measured inside the fuel reactor body towards higher values (Figure 8 of Paper IV), somehow neutralizing the effect of the mass reduction with respect to the pressure value measured at the reactor bottom. The reactors cyclones were designed to have a certain inlet gas velocity between 20÷25 m·s-1, to be achieved with superficial gas velocities lower than those ones utilized in the test campaign: below 2 m·s-1. The available solids inventory particles size was bigger than the design one, with a d50 from 34 to about 50 m. Bigger size of the available particles means that higher velocities were necessary to entrain the aimed solids flow. This information tells how important is the cyclone design, not only to have high efficiency and low erosion, but also towards the pressure balance of the overall system. Superficial gas velocities and particle size distributions (PSD) different respect to the design ones can determine a different cyclone pressure drop which affects rather much the overall system performance. For this reason the actual cold flow model should be operated with a finer PSD, as planned during the design phase. In Figure 4.2 the required PSD is shown; the d50 is about 25 m and the distribution is narrower compared to the original coarser powder provided by DMS Powders [95] (Figure 3.7). The latter was sieved obtaining the volume based values presented in Figure 4.2 which were also measure a by means of a laser diffraction particle size analyzer Beckman Coulter LS230 [97]. This has been a demanding procedure because hundreds of kilograms are required. Few tests were done with the finer particles and are presented in Section 4.2. The pressure measured in correspondence of the loop- seals bottom section (PB, Figure 4.2. Particle size distribution (PSD), of the Fe-Si Powder batch which was sieved to obtain a smaller mass median diameter, d50, of about 25 m and narrower distribution. 61 Figure 4.3) has proven to easily fit to the pressure of the point where the return leg in use is merging with the reactor (PA, Figure 4.3). If both the return legs are in use, the bottom section value (PB) is fitting to the higher of the two pressure experienced. During the experimental campaign, the pressure measured in the bottom section of the loop-seals (PB) has reached a value which is usually at least 50 mbar higher than that one in the return point (PA). This pressure difference depends on the operating conditions and has reached the maximum value of about 80 mbar in the AR loop-seal during the highest solids circulation achieved. Those values of the bottom section of the loop-seals are average values, because the measured pressure can easily fluctuate up to about 10÷15 mbar across the average value, depending on the solids flux circulating through the divided loop-seal. The return leg not in use faces a value PC depending on pressure in correspondence of the reactor point where it merges, which has proven to fluctuate maximum about ±5 mbar. Unless an automatic feedback control system is developed relying on this information, it is recommended, for the actual design, to keep the two return point pressures at maximum about 30 mbar of difference between each other, |PA-PC|. This is assessed considering the minimum pressure difference experienced, PB-PA, of about 50mbar, which determines the pressure in correspondence of the bottom section of the loop-seal (PB), and considering its fluctuations which can easily reach ± 10÷15mbar. In this way, it is possible to be confident that there will be a safety margin between the lowest values reached by PB during its fluctuations and the value of PC. Figure 4.3. Schema of a divided loop-seal exchanging 100% of solids on one return leg (in use), with overview of the pressures experienced during stable reactor system operation and their interdependencies. Bubble cap nozzle Internal Central External Overflow height Solids circulation (A) PA Pressure faced by the return leg in use, (depending on the merging point) (C) PC Pressure faced by the return leg not in use, up to a value which does not have overlaps with the lowest PB fluctuation pikes (depending on the merging point, fluctuations up to about ±5mbar) (B) Pressure in the bottom section of the loop-seal PB 50 ÷ 80 mbar above PA (fluctuations up to about ±10÷15mbar, during stable system operation) Downcomer Recycle chamber 62 Two design modifications were proposed, in order to increase the system stability without the need to rely so much on the bottom lift capability of shifting the mass from one reactor to the other. The first is related to the internal return leg of the FR divided loop-seal, which needs to merge the fuel reactor body at a higher level than the very bottom (Figure 4.4). 0.2 m is enough to experience big pressure reductions inside the reactor body, so in correspondence of the point where the loop-seal return leg merges. About 30 mbar is a typical value for the actual design conditions of total solids inventory (120kg) and fluidization velocities (about 2.6 m·s-1). The bottom section of the reactor system is shown in Figure 4.4. On the left side, the air and fuel reactor are represented together with the bottom extraction, after the modification implementation. In light blue, the return leg position is shown, before the modification of having it 0.2 m higher. On the right side there is a picture taken at the same bottom section before modifications. It is possible to distinguish clearly just the fuel reactor and the lift, while the air reactor is behind and difficult to see. The blue arrows represent all the potential gas flows coming from injection points and the main gas streams directions. The height increase of the point where the return leg merges, reduces the risk of gas back-flow because the pressure experienced at higher height is much lower, for the same solids inventory and fluidization regime. The previous return leg location was about doubling the reactor cross section at that height, which results in a big reduction ( 50%) of the actual superficial gas velocity, thus entrainment capabilities. In addition the primary bubble cap nozzle and the lower location of the “secondary air injection one” nozzles were just facing the return leg section. This increased the risk of having gas back- flow because the nozzles were injecting straight into the return leg opening. Second of the proposed modifications is the increase of the air and fuel reactor loop-seal recycle chamber overflow height, for both the return legs of the two loop-seals (shown in Figure 4.5). This determines an increase of the solids columns accumulated in the return leg recycle chambers. An increase of 0.2 m was implemented; this value is almost doubling the overflow height with an expected doubling of the pressure drop between the loop-seal bottom section and the point where the return leg in use merges (PB-PA, Figure 4.3). 63 F ig ur e 4. 4: S ch em a (l ef t si de ) an d pi ct ur e (r ig ht s id e) o f th e re ac to r sy st em b ot to m s ec ti on , sh ow in g th e fu el r ea ct or ( F R ), ai r re ac to r (A R ), bo tt om ex tr ac ti on /li ft , ai r in je ct io ns a nd r et ur n le g lo ca ti on s be fo re ( lig ht b lu e on t he l ef t dr aw in g, b la ck x o n th e ri gh t pi ct ur e) a nd a ft er t he d es ig n im pr ov em en t. A R LS P rim ar y ai r in je ct io n P rim ar y ai r in je ct io n S ec on da ry a ir in je ct io n S ec on da ry a ir in je ct io n on e, lo w er lo ca tio n (u su al ly u til iz ed ) S ec on da ry a ir in je ct io n on e, h ig h er lo ca tio n (u su al ly n ot u til iz ed ) S ec on da ry a ir in je ct io n tw o ~ 0. 2m , F R LS in te rn al re tu rn le g h ei gh t i n cr ea se Li ft flu id iz at io n le ak in g to th e A R Li ft flu id iz at io n le ak in g to th e F R (M in or s h ar e) FR LS FR A R A R LS B ot to m e xt ra ct io n/ Li ft P rim ar y ai r in je ct io n S ec on da ry a ir in je ct io n tw o S ec on da ry a ir in je ct io n on e FR LS FR A ir ex pa n di n g in th e vo lu m e of th e or ig in al re tu rn le g: • V el oc ity re du ct io n to a bo u t h al f • A ir le ak ag es to th e F R LS re tu rn le g B ot to m e xt ra ct io n/ Li ft A R LS FR LS 64 In Figure 4.5 the new loop-seal design is shown, on the left side with a schema while on the right side a CAD drawing shows the old one. The first one represents with purple arrows the solids circulation and with the light blue arrows the gas flow paths. The case shown is that one with full solids exchange and no internal re-circulation of solids, in fact the internal bubble cap nozzle is not fluidized. The fluidization regime in the loop-seal downcomer and in the recycle chambers have to be better understood, especially because it depends very much on the operating conditions which determine the overall pressure balance. As an example the gas direction in the downcomer is not known, and it has fundamental importance influencing the pressure drop across the downcomer particles together with the particles column height, as mentioned in Section 3.5 [99]. The gas dragged down with the solids circulating is going downwards while the gas injected from the nozzles goes partially upwards. These uncertainties related to the gas flows, thus the superficial gas velocities for each loop-seal section, have been the biggest obstacle to a deep characterization of the fluidization regimes for each loop-seal component. This is especially true because during the test campaign presented in this thesis a good understanding of the reactor system and the divided loop-seals operation had to be achieved and their design, thus hydrodynamic robustness, had to be improved. A sensitivity analysis with the usage of tracer gas Figure 4.5: Schema (left side) showing the divided loop seal after the design improvement and CAD drawing showing it before the design improvement. The first one is also showing the solids flow and the air injections and stream directions during design case operation, without solids re-circulation in the internal return leg, which is not in use. Recycle chamber Bubble cap nozzle Lateral injection Internal Central External ? ? Recycle chamber Solids flow Solids flow Return leg not in use (no solids circulation) Return leg in use (solids circulation) Overflow height increase 0.2m Overflow height increase 0.2m 65 injections needs to be done, now that those issues have been addressed. It will provide a complete understanding of the loop-seals fluidization regimes. The successful tests involving the whole reactor system, coupling air and fuel reactor, were collected and analyzed to find possible dependencies between the reactors solids entrainment and other parameters: both measured parameters and input parameters like the superficial gas velocity at the reactor exit, the primary/secondary air share, the total solids inventory. For each reactor, a clear dependency of the solids entrainment was found, both from the superficial gas velocity at the reactor exit and from the pressure drop measured at the reactor upper section. The key has been to look for components or regions of the reactor system which pressure drops are sensitive to small changes in solids flux and gas velocities, as suggested by Patience et al. [119]. The pressure drop in the cyclones has proved to be very much depending on both the superficial gas velocity (Vcyc_entr) and the solids flux (Gs), achieving a fit with a coefficient of determination, R2, of about 0.9. The air and fuel reactors cyclones’ pressure drop correspond respectively to P10-P12 and P23-P25 looking at the numbering of Figure 3.2. Those dependencies are shown in Figure 4.6 a) and b). All the utilized tests were originally performed to understand the reactor system behaviour and design limitations. This means that they were not systematically carried out to map those dependencies; in fact the operational conditions were differing rather much. Nevertheless, it was possible to find such high fit, isolating the entrained solids flux as function of the pressure drop that it generates through the cyclone. In addition, the results tell that also the superficial gas velocity entering the cyclone should be kept into account because it contributes to generate the cyclone pressure drop; both directly due to gas pressure losses and indirectly influencing the entrainment increase. In fact this is the reason why in Figure 4.6, a) the FR cyclone pressure drop is much higher than the AR one. Looking at Figure 4.6, b) it is possible to see how the FR velocities are higher than the AR ones and how much this affects the pressure drop. The intention is to develop a correlation that can be utilized to monitor on-line the entrained solids flux also for hot conditions. This indirect solids entrainment evaluation will ease the control of the overall system and especially in off-design conditions, when the amount of solids exchanged has to be varied according to the process requirements as explained in Section 3.7. Now that a good understanding of the way to operate the reactor system has been reached and the design has been improved, the promising dependencies of the cyclone pressure drop both on the solids entrainment and on the gas velocity at the exit of the inlet duct will have to be 66 systematically studied, as a further work, and combined together to derive an accurate Gs prediction. 4.2. Improved design performance The design improvements proposed in the previous section have been implemented. The fuel reactor loop-seal internal return leg has been lifted of 0.2 m and now it merges in the FR body at the same height as the return leg coming from the air reactor loop-seal, according to the drawing of Figure 4.4. Both the loop-seals overflow heights were lifted of 0.2 m as in Figure 4.5. So it was possible to perform a few tests to make an evaluation of how they affect the reactor system performance. In addition a particle size distribution according to Figure 4.2 was utilized; in this way the superficial gas velocity required to exchange the same solids flow as with the coarser particles is lower. Information regarding the performance of the reactor system design case before the design modification and particles change is presented in Paper III and Paper IV. Figure 4.7 represents the pressure profile of a test performed after all the modifications were implemented and protruding cooling panes were inserted both in the air and fuel reactor, in a) b) Figure 4.6: Overall cyclones pressure drop ( P) dependency on the entrained solids flux, Gs, a) and on the superficial gas velocity at the cyclones entrance, just after the inlet duct acceleration Vcyc_entr b). PFR = 0.6442 Gs 1.195 R2 = 0.8974 PAR = 1.4421 Gs 0.8147 R2 = 0.909 0 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 0 10 20 30 40 50 60 Solids flux, Gs [kg/m 2s] O ve ra ll cy cl on e P [m ba r] AR FR PFR = 0.074 Vcyc_entr 1.9352 R2 = 0.8774 PAR = 0.0134 Vcyc_entr 2.4511 R2 = 0.8434 0 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 0 10 20 30 40 50 Gas velocity at cyclone entrance, Vcyc_entr [m/s] O ve ra ll cy cl on e P [m ba r] AR FR 67 the way shown in Figure 4.8. The cooling panels, three in the AR and two in the FR, were located at the heights shown in Figure 4.9 a) and b) and qualitatively in Figure 3.2. The improved design showed a higher stability allowing the achievement of a solids circulation of almost 3 kg·s-1 (almost 70 kg·m-2·s-1). It was done with a superficial gas velocity in the AR of just 1.5 m·s-1, including the air injected in the lift. The 3 kg·s-1 entrained from the AR were all sent to the fuel reactor, which was capable to entrain back 1.7 kg·s-1 (about 103 kg·m-2·s-1) with a superficial gas velocity of 1.6 m·s-1 basically doubling the maximum FR solids flow achieved with the previous design. The higher solids entrainments are the consequence of the finer particles, easier to fluidize, and the increase in total solids inventory (TSI) up to 170 kg (vs. 120 kg). The higher solids inventory was in first place required to fill the higher overflow heights of the loop-seals, which allow gaining in system stability, but contribute to reduce the inventory share inside the reactors. The latter corresponds to the inventory that would actively participate in Figure 4.7: Pressure profile measured in the reactor system, after reactor improvement operated with finer particles and cooling panels inserted. Secondary air location and return points height to the air reactor (AR) and fuel reactor (FR) are highlighted. Figure 4.8: Protruding cooling panel zoom. -0.5 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 2.5 3 3.5 4 4.5 5 5.5 -10 40 90 140 190 240 290 Pressure relative to ambient pressure [mbar] R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] AR reactor body ~2.9kg/s (70~kg/m2s) FR reactor body ~1.7kg/s (103~kg/m2s) AR cyclone & loop-seal FR cyclone & loop-seal Bottom extraction/lift Return point FR AR Bottom Loop-seal Sec. Air 68 the reactions in a hot setup. The active inventories estimated in the reactor bodies by means of pressure measurements, are lower compared to those estimated before the design change: about 28kg for the AR and 10 for the FR vs. 31 and 13kg of the design case condition before modification. They are slightly lower looking at the absolute number, but considering the TSI increase from 120 to 170kg they correspond to a large active mass reduction. The smaller active inventory (from 37% to 22% of the TSI) is mainly due to a big reduction of the mass in the reactors bottom sections, as confirmed by the concentration curves of Figure 4.9. At the same time the shift towards faster fluidization regimes determined a concentration increase in the upper section. The solids concentration in the reactors upper section is equal to about 1% of the reactor volume and sometimes even above this value till the reactor exit. Before the modification, it was dropping dramatically from the height of 2 m till the reactor exit (Figure 5 in Paper III). This is especially true for the FR, which in fact entrains a higher solids flux of about 100 kg·m-2·s-1 vs. 70 kg·m-2·s-1 of the AR. As a consequence of the reactors faster fluidization regimes and higher entrainment, the solids fluxes through the connecting ducts are much higher: the fluxes in the AR and FR a) b) Figure 4.9: Concentration profile in the air reactor a), and fuel reactor b) bodies for the improved design test, with finer particles. The cooling panels and secondary air injections location are provided. 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 2.5 3 3.5 4 4.5 5 0 0.1 0.2 0.3 0.4 Solids concentration [m3sol/m 3 tot] R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] 0 0.01 0.02 Secondary Air 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 2.5 3 3.5 4 4.5 5 0 0.1 0.2 0.3 0.4 Solids concentration [m3sol/m 3 tot] R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] 0 0.01 0.02 Secondary Air 69 downcomers are about 360 and 200 kg·m-2·s-1, respectively about 50% and 100% increase compared to the design case before modification. The moving packed bed solids level height in the AR downcomer slightly increased up to about 0.7m and the FR one increased up to 0.6m, compared to the previous design values of about 0.6 and slightly above 0.4m, respectively for air and fuel reactor. No clogging was noticed and the loop-seal appeared smoothly fluidized with eventually small bubbles rising from the bottom nozzles. The fluidizing air injected was about the same as before the modifications, despite the higher solids circulation to deal with: it was 5, 30 and 100 Nl·min-1 for the lateral, central and external air injections respectively for both the reactors. As long as the downcomers solids level heights were measured to be about the same, the loop-seal fluidization was kept the same for those few tests. The lift gas velocity was kept at 1.5 m·s-1, as for the design case before modification. This shifted anyhow the lift fluidization regime towards faster fluidization, thus entrainment, because of the finer PSD. The higher lift entrainment is therefore another reason of the high solids circulation. The pressure drop of both the cyclones did not vary so much, because the smaller superficial gas velocities reduced it, but the higher solids flows increased it. The solids flows almost doubled for the FR and increased of 50% for the AR. The gas velocities at cyclones inlet were about 14 and 17 m·s-1, respectively for the air and fuel reactor. The cyclones efficiencies were measured to be about 99.9%, it is slightly below the value of 99.95% reached before the modifications discussed in this section. To this respect, it has to be considered that the cyclones inlet velocities should have been somehow higher, typical values for circulating fluidized beds are above 20 m·s-1 [120]. This means that the PSD reduction, down to such fine d50, did not affect so much the cyclones performance confirming the good quality of their design whose key features are mentioned in Paper I. It was not possible to find similar high density Geldart A particles to benchmark the cyclone performance. It was compared with the efficiency of high loaded cyclones operating with Geldart A fluid catalytic cracking (FCC) particles, showing to be promisingly higher [121]. A secondary cyclone to take care of this 0.1% of fine losses needs to be installed, even if it will cost in terms of extra pressure drop and extra components. Especially in hot conditions, it will help to reduce the refilling frequency, to avoid damaging the downstream equipments and it will also be important for health safety and environment (HSE) reasons. A systematic test campaign should be performed to map the cyclones efficiency according to the operating conditions and possibly each of them should be connected to a 70 separated filter box and scale. In this way it will be possible both to monitor the cyclones’ efficiency on-line and also to analyze the PSD of the losses. In addition also the erosion problems need to be addressed; it hurt the design17, especially in correspondence of the points where the particles stream was impacting the FR cylindrical body. It has to be understood if it is enough to reduce the superficial gas velocity at cyclone inlet, as it has been done with the finer PSD. Another option is to re-think the cyclone design, which has a tangential inlet, going to a volute inlet [122]. The latter is supposed to provide more space to the particles, which enter the cyclone already with an angle after having experienced the centrifugal force. This means that they take a circular trajectory before impacting the cyclone wall, reducing the risk of hitting it straight at their maximum velocity. The vortex finder was saved from the erosion problem by its eccentricity; in this way it was not in the particle trajectory. The insertion of dummy cooling panels, did not affect so much the reactor performance. The panels have been tested already in the AR during the separate operation/debugging phase confirming this impression, as discussed in Paper II and in Section 3.5. The main cooling panels influence on the reactor system performance was a slight solids concentration increase in correspondence of their presence (Figure 4.9, a) and b). It happened also in other circumstances, especially for higher solids concentrations, to experience a concentration increase which was not the consequence of cooling panels insertion. Anyhow, this concentration increase is located exactly in correspondence of the panels location and is also confirmed by the above-mentioned AR tests done in the debugging phase, Figure 3.9. The panels presence is creating an obstacle to the flow resulting in a local pressure drop. Part of it is just the consequence of higher friction due to local turbulences and gas acceleration. The panels induce a cross-section area reduction which increases locally the superficial gas velocity from 1.5 m·s-1 and 1.6 m·s-1 up to 1.9 m·s-1 and 2.4 m·s-1, respectively for air and fuel reactor. What needs to be understood is, how much of the measured pressure drop is really due to the higher solids concentration. It can be done, as further work, sampling the particles concentration inside the reactor by means of non-isokinetic suction probes [112-114] or more advanced systems like optical and capacitance probes [112 and 123]. The pressure difference between the loop-seals bottom sections (PB, Figure 4.3) and the reactors points where the return legs in use merge (PA, Figure 4.3), had a big increase as a 17 Design before the change in PSD, when it comes to the finer particles, too little tests have been performed in order to evaluate erosion phenomena. 71 consequence of the 0.2 m increase of the recycle chamber overflow height. The pressure difference PB-PA, (Figure 4.3) in this case is about 100mbar, slightly higher for the AR loop-seal and slightly lower for the FR one. The pressure difference experienced in the AR loop-seal was higher than the FR one before the design modifications as well; it could reach maximum values of about 80 mbar for the higher solids fluxes, while the FR was at about 50 mbar (Paper IV describes these issues for the design before the modifications were implemented). This was most likely a consequence of the higher solids flux passing through the AR downcomer and loop-seal, usually more than the double that of the FR one. The new pressure values can be noticed in Figure 4.7 and are clearly shown in Figure 4.10 a) and b), where the pressures in correspondence of the loop-seals bottom sections (P28 and P30 for air and fuel reactor respectively, Figure 3.2) are plotted together with the pressures measured in correspondence of the return points. Those are, for this operational conditions: P15, faced by the return leg in use of the AR loop-seal and by the return leg not in use for the FR loop-seal, and (P1+P2)/2, faced by the return leg in use of the FR loop-seal and by the return leg not in use of the AR loop-seal. The presented case study cannot be directly compared with the results of the previous test campaign, because two crucial components have been modified and the PSD have been changed. In addition the protruding cooling panels have been inserted and several inputs have been changed like the TSI increase and superficial gas velocity reduction. Ideally would have been a) b) Figure 4.10: Continuous pressure measurements of the air reactor (AR), a), and fuel reactor (FR), b), loop- seals bottom pressures. Those are compared with the pressure measurements in correspondence of the points of the reactor bodies where the return legs merge: (P1+P2)/2 and P15 (Figure 3.2). 0 50 100 150 200 250 0 30 60 90 120 150 180 210 240 Time [5s] P re ss ur e [m ba r] AR loop-seal bottom (P1+P2)/2 P15 0 50 100 150 200 250 0 30 60 90 120 150 180 210 240 Time [5s] P re ss ur e [m ba r] FR loop-seal bottom (P1+P2)/2 P15 72 interesting to implement the design modifications separately to better isolate their influence on the whole system performance. The great impact of the PSD reduction is evident because of the large increase of reactors solids entrainment, which has also the consequence of reducing the pressure at the reactors bottom section. At the same time the higher loop-seals recycle chambers overflow heights gave more stability to the system. This determined the achievement of much higher pressures in the bottom section of the loop-seals, up to above 200mbar. It made the circulation of higher amounts of solids smoother and reduced the back-flow risk, both reducing the pressure fluctuations in correspondence of the bottom section of the loop-seals, PB (Figure 4.3), and increasing the pressure unbalance that can be achieved safely between the two loop-seal return legs, |PA-PC| (Figure 4.3). According to those preliminary tests the pressure fluctuations went to about ± 10÷15mbar to ±5mbar (Figure 4.10) and the |PA-PC| value can be estimated to be at least about 70÷80 mbar, from the previous 30. Those facts also indirectly helped to increase the solids circulation. In addition, such high pressure (PB, Figure 4.3) makes easier to pneumatically control the re-circulation of entrained particles, because it is easier to win the resistance of the return point pressure were the return leg in use is merging (PA, Figure 4.3), gaining in flexibility. The increased height of the return leg is an important improvement, but its contribution was in essence not utilized because of such high loop-seals bottom pressure and because of the reduction of the pressure at the lower section of the reactors. The increase in solids entrainment and the improvement of solids distribution control is fundamental to be capable to run the reactor system with a high variety of oxygen carriers and off-design according to the methodology presented in Section 3.7. In addition this will help the fulfillment of higher oxygen requirements, thus solids circulation e.g. partly addressing the pressurized conditions challenges. 73 5. Conclusions & future work 5.1. Conclusions The design for a 150kWth chemical looping combustion reactor system has been proposed and its hydrodynamics validated by means of a full scale, non-reactive, cold flow model (CFM). It consists of a double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB), meant to address several issues which are still open with respect to the technology state-of-the-art. Both the air and fuel reactor are capable to operate in fast fluidization regime increasing the gas solids contact, especially to improve the reactions taking place in the fuel reactor, thus fuel conversion. Industrial solutions are used e.g. heavy loaded cyclones, bubble cap nozzles, two levels of secondary air injection and protruding cooling panels. Operation flexibility is aimed in order to have accurate control of the solids exchanged between the reactors and to better control the reactor performance according to the specific application requirements in terms of reactors fluidization regimes, solids exchange and gas streams flow and temperature. Compactness has also been a priority both for design up-scaling and future upgrading to pressurized conditions; this way it can be easily inserted into a pressurized vessel. The key features of the actual design can in general be utilized for fluidized bed processes based on two reactions taking place simultaneously in two different reactors which continuously exchange the bed material, thus reactants and heat, being interconnected. These have been validated from hydrodynamic point of view: an understanding of their performance as well as the best way to operate the reactor system has been reached. One is the pneumatically controlled divided loop-seal, which allows re-circulating back to the reactor of origin part of the entrained solids, uncoupling the solids exchange from the solids entrainment. This represents a solids exchange control parameter in addition to the “conventional” ones: superficial gas velocity, primary/secondary air injection shares and solids inventory. It increases the freedom to operate the reactors just focusing on the fluidization regime, which is ideal for the reactions and/or for the downstream needs in terms of heat load. From a fluidization engineering point of view the loop-seal design presents several unique features. Each of its two return legs is connected to a different reactor, one to the air reactor and the other to the fuel reactor. This means that each of the two return legs faces a different pressure in correspondence of the points where it merges with the reactors. 74 The conventional pneumatically controlled loop-seals have just one return leg or two merging at the same height of the same reactor, thus facing the same pressure. The control over the solids split and over the above-mentioned pressure unbalance, due to the different pressures experienced by the two return legs, is not exerted using mechanical valves, but utilizing gas injections in a number of points. The other key feature is the usage of the bottom extraction/lift, which has a great potential in such kind of two-reactor configuration. It allows controlling the inventory distribution among the reactors, shifting mass from one to the other. This is a quick and effective way to control the reactors bottom pressures, which is the place where the above- mentioned loop-seals return legs merge. For this reason, it means pneumatic control over the pressure unbalance which the divided loop-seals are exposed to. This also exerts an extra control over the reactors fluidization regimes and solids entrainment. Finally, it is necessary to fulfil the mass balance especially if one reactor has smaller cross-section and/or have less fluidizing gas availability, than the other. The method to better combine the above-mentioned two design features has been found and the reactor system has shown to be flexible and stable. They have to be operated in a way that the pressure unbalance across the loop-seals does not go above the maximum value allowed by its design: by the loop-seal recycle chamber overflow height. This task becomes more challenging when the return legs are facing higher pressures both because of reactors operation and design constraints. Reactor operation means that the aimed reactors fluidization regimes imply high pressure or means a high total solids inventory. Design constraints are related to a too high cyclone pressure drop for certain superficial gas velocities and/or a too low height of the point where the return legs merge into the reactor bodies. An overview of the two most common cold flow modelling scaling strategies is provided: the small scale models resembling the hot rig hydrodynamics and the full-scale models, keeping the same surface to volume ratios. The first being common in academia and the second in the industry. The innovative idea was to combine those two into a triangular correlation. The full- scale cold flow model is used to debug the 150kWth hot rig design as the industry does, but at the same time the particle size distribution and superficial gas velocity are selected in a way 75 that the cold flow model represents the small scale hydrodynamic model of an industrial application. The usage of such fine particle size distribution of a so high density material represents a solution which is not easy to find in published fluidization literature, in particular for circulating fluidized beds. In the present work a high density Geldart group A powder with a d50 of about 34 m and density of 7000 kg·m-3 was used. The handling of such fine particles is complex both for health, safety and environment point of view and also from a process point of view. The latter is an issue when it comes to the cyclone performance. The highly load cyclones showed a good performance, managing to have an efficiency of above 99.9%, even for the smaller particle size distribution tested of about 25 m. The usage of such finer d50 of 25 m compare to the first one of 34 m, allowed to reach the same solids entrainment with smaller superficial gas velocity. The evaluation of its impact on such complex reactor system showed how the usage of different particle size distributions can be used as effective control factor for the overall system performance and equilibrium. Promising correlations linking the solids entrainment to the cyclone pressure drop and inlet gas velocity have been found. Those can be utilized as a starting point to develop a way to estimate on-line the solids entrainment. An indirect estimation, without the need for direct measurements, has fundamental importance in the overall system control, especially to control the off-design operation and the transients. 5.2. Future work As discussed in Section 5.1, an innovative design for chemical looping processes has been presented in the Ph.D. thesis; afterwards it has been validated by means of cold flow modelling and improved after an analysis of its key components performance. Those issues which deserve a further investigation are: The improved design has shown promising preliminary results; though a more comprehensive test campaign is needed. The superficial gas velocities of air and fuel reactor and bottom extraction need to be varied as well as the loop-seals fluidization. This has to be done for several total solids inventories. In this way it will be possible to find the reactor system best operational conditions and more accurately the operational 76 window, understanding its flexibility margins with main focus on the circulation capability and pressure unbalance the loop-seal can withstand. The design improvements should be investigated one by one. Their separate implementation will provide important information to understand to which extent they affect the overall system performance. Further variations of those design details can be tested increasing more the return leg height and the loop-seal recycle chamber overflow height. At the same time new design changes can be implemented like other internals insertions to study different cooling configurations or devices (e.g. bayonet) as well as cyclones design modifications impact or secondary cyclones insertion downstream and their impact on the overall pressure drop. Promising dependencies of reactors solids entrainment with input and measured parameters have been found. The most promising is the dependency of the cyclone pressure drop both on the solids entrainment and on the cyclone inlet gas velocity. Dedicated tests should be done, with the improved design following a test matrix to define according to the acquired understanding. The objective should be to map those dependencies accurately and derive empirical mathematical correlations. This will allow on-line indirect quantification of the solids entrainment, fundamental for the reactor system control. A more accurate analysis of the hydrodynamic phenomena will be of utmost importance. As an example, local measurements of the particles concentration by means of non- isokinetic suction probes can be cited. Those will help to verify the assumptions done to derive the solids concentration profiles from the pressure measurements and will also help to evaluate the local impact of internals and primary/secondary air injection shares on the particles concentration. The understanding of the fluidization regime inside the divided loop-seals is another open question. The unknown downcomer gas velocity and direction has big impact on its behaviour, so that gas tracer tests for different operational conditions will help to address it. More in general also gas tracer experiments will be fundamental to understand if there are gas leakages from one reactor to the exhausts of the other one. This is a kind of test that should be performed for each of the reactor system case studies. 77 A control strategy needs to be further developed, with main focus on operational transients. First the off-design cases as well as other kind of chemical looping applications, need to be simulated by means of process design software. In this way it will be possible to have an accurate evaluation of the cycle requirements to fulfil in terms of mass and heat flows, both between the reactor system and the overall process up and down-stream requirements and between the air and fuel reactor to optimize the reactions. Second step consists of verifying if the design can fulfil those requirements from hydrodynamic point of view. This can be done starting from the hydrodynamic lessons learnt and presented in this work. Among those identified as key control parameters there are: the pressure differences between the loop-seals bottom sections and the points where their return legs merge in the reactors, including the pressure fluctuations, the two reactors and lift pressure drops, thus inventories and the solids entrainment to monitor the exchanged mass. This kind of job has been done qualitatively in the thesis because it was in parallel with the ongoing design development. Now that the design has been finalized and is more robust hydrodynamically those studies need to be done also quantitatively: first at steady state and afterwards in transient conditions. The latter will help the understanding the details of how the reactor system reacts to operational changes until new equilibrium conditions achievement. All these points represent a further evaluation of the performance of the cold flow model improved design, continuing with the work done in the Ph.D. thesis. The reactor system design has already proved to be robust, but those tests will provide a deeper knowledge especially with respect to the reactor system operation optimization and physics understanding. This will help to face unexpected situations in hot operation and eventually to further improve the design especially for operational sets located on the border of the operational window. Once these points will be addressed the hot 150kWth design will be ready to be built. In addition to the above-mentioned further cold flow model testing, the future work to do in a longer term period, once also the hot 150kWth reactor system will be built, commissioned and evaluated is: The possibility of pressurizing the chemical looping reactor is of utmost importance both for natural gas combustion and reforming. The actual work tried to figure out some of the 78 challenges and address them: the possibility to increase the excess air ratio up to gas turbine cycles requirements, the compactness to enclose the reactor system into a pressurized vessel and the high flexibility and stability in operation, especially for high solids circulation. The next step should be to reengineer the actual design to tackle the pressurization open questions. One is the accurate pressure control at reactors gas stream exit; a pressure unbalance there will strongly affect the divided loop-seals operation. The pressurized conditions may easily generate a pressure unbalance which cannot be tackled simply by increasing the overflow height of the loop-seals recycle chambers. Another open issue is consequence of the fact that under pressurized conditions the gas density increases linearly with the pressure while the solids density and performance of the oxygen carrier are about the same. The reactor system design has to be modified in the direction of higher solids circulation to provide the required oxygen with the same fluidizing gas availability. The fuel reactor design can be modified to be capable to still have a circulating fluidized bed regime with less fluidizing gas availability e.g. cross- section reduction. The oxygen requirements of the fuel reactor can be reduced utilizing CO2 re-circulation instead of part of the fuel to keep the same fluidization regime. All those ideas may be necessary at the same time, being careful to the way they affect the heat balance. Simulation work can be done especially regarding computational fluid dynamics (CFD) utilizing the measured results to validate the developed models. The cold flow model results and the hot 150kWth results can be utilized to design and build an industrial application based on the presented double loop circulating fluidized bed. 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International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 Contents lists available at ScienceDirect International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control j o u r n a l h o m e p a g e : w w w . e l s e v i e r . c o m / l o c a t e / i j g g c Design study of a 150kWth double loop circulating fluidized bed reactor system for chemical looping combustion with focus on industrial applicability and pressurization A. Bischia,∗, Ø. Langørgenb, I. Saanumb, J. Bakkenb, M. Seljeskogb, M. Bysveenb, J.-X. Morinc, O. Bollanda a Department of Energy and Process Engineering, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, NO-7491 Trondheim, Norway b SINTEF Energy Research, NO-7465 Trondheim, Norway c CO2-H2 Eurl, 45170 Neuville aux Bois, France a r t i c l e i n f o Article history: Received 29 October 2009 Received in revised form 10 September 2010 Accepted 18 September 2010 Available online 2 November 2010 Keywords: CO2 capture Chemical looping combustion Double loop circulating fluidized bed Industrial solution Pressurization a b s t r a c t Nowadays the lab scale feasibility of the chemical looping combustion technology has been proved. This article deals with many of the design requirements that need to be fulfilled to make this technology applicable at industrial scale. A design for a 150kWth chemical looping combustion reactor system is proposed. In the base case it is supposed to work with gaseous fuels and inexpensive oxygen carriers derived from industrial by-products or natural minerals. More specifically the fuel will be methane and a manganese ore will be the basis for the oxygen carrier. It is a double loop circulating fluidized bed where both the air reactor and the fuel reactor are capable to work in the fast fluidization regime in order to increase the gas solids contact along the reactor body. High operational flexibility is aimed, in this way it will be possible to run with different fuels and oxygen carriers as well as different operating conditionssuchasvariationinairexcess.Compactnessisamajorgoalinordertoreducetherequiredsolid material and possibly to enclose the reactor body into a pressurized vessel to investigate the chemical looping combustion under pressurized conditions. The mass and heat balance are described, as well as the hydrodynamic investigations performed. Most design solutions presented are taken from industrial standards as one main objective is to meet commercial requirements. © 2010 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved. 1. Introduction 1.1. Chemical looping combustion Chemical looping combustion (CLC) is one of the most promis- ing CO2 capture technologies when it comes to capture costs and netpowergenerationefficiencies(ENCAP,2009).Theideastanding behind CLC was first introduced by Lewis and Gilliland (1946) in a patenttoproduceagasmixtureofhydrogenandcarbonmonoxide. Later Richter and Knoche (1983) and Ishida et al. (1987) proposed the CLC principle to reduce the exergy loss of a conventional com- bustion process. CLC has since then revealed to be interesting also when it comes to CO2 capture. In fact it is an unmixed combus- tion process intrinsically capable of separating the CO2 from the exhaust. Nowadays the most effective way to realize the CLC is done in two separate steps that take place in two distinct flu- idizedbedsreactors interconnectedbymeansofametallicpowder actingasoxygencarrier(OC).Theprinciplethatdescribestheafore- ∗ Corresponding author. Tel.: +47 73550449; fax: +47 73593580. E-mail address: aldo.bischi@ntnu.no (A. Bischi). mentioned system is shown in Fig. 1. In the air reactor (AR) the oxygen of the air is strongly exothermically reacting with the OC (from MeO˛−1 to MeO˛). The air heated up and depleted of the oxygen can be utilized either to produce steam or to expand in a turbineiftheabovementionedreactiontakesplaceinapressurized environment. The metal oxide generated is then transported into thefuelreactor(FR).Hereitreactswiththefuelbeingreducedfrom MeO˛ toMeO˛−1 inanendothermicorslightlyexothermicreaction depending on the type of fuel and the type of OC material (Adánez, 2010). The reaction between fuel and oxygen produces an exhaust stream consisting principally of only CO2 and water vapour. The water vapour can be removed by condensation leaving the CO2 available for storage. The overall reaction obtained summing the oxidation and reduction of the OC is equivalent to the conven- tionalcombustionofthefuelandreleasesexactlythesameamount of energy. The CLC acts as an oxy-combustion capture technique without the need for the expensive cryogenic air separation unit. 1.2. CLC reactor systems LookingatthedevelopmentoftheCLCtechnologyfromitsearly beginning until now it is possible to notice how the design of the 1750-5836/$ – see front matter © 2010 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved. doi:10.1016/j.ijggc.2010.09.005 468 A. Bischi et al. / International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 Nomenclature AR air reactor CFB circulating fluidized bed CFM cold flow model CLC chemical looping combustion CLG chemical looping gasification CLR chemical looping reforming CP cooling panels DLCFB double loop circulating fluidized bed FR fuel reactor GT gas turbine HSE health, safety and environment LHV lower heating value LS loop-seal OC oxygen carrier TGA thermo gravimetric analysis TSI total solids inventory Ar Archimedes number [−] d50 mass median particle diameter [�m] Gs solids flux [kgm −2 s−1] �H enthalpy change of a chemical reaction [kJmol−1] MeO˛ oxidized metal oxide MeO˛−1 reduced metal oxide MOC molar mass of the oxygen carrier [gmol −1] R0 oxygen ratio [−] Re Reynolds number [−] �g·U0·d50·�−1 U0 superficial gas velocity [ms −1] X degree of oxidation [−] �X conversion difference or exploitation of the maxi- mum oxygen capacity [−] Bottom actual actual value in entering the reactor out exiting the reactor ox oxidized red reduced p particle g gas Greek letters � excess air ratio [−] � density [kgm−3] � dynamic viscosity [Pas] reactors has changed. The main objective of the first CLC reactors, suchasthe10kWth onesdevelopedatChalmersUniversityofTech- nology (Lyngfelt et al., 2005) and at the Instituto de Carboquímica (CSIC) (Adánez et al., 2006; de Diego et al., 2007) was to demon- stratethefeasibilityofthistechnology.Ontheothersidethedesign ofthemostrecentCLCreactor,the120kWth ofViennaUniversityof Technology(Kolbitschetal.,2009), facedmanyscale-upissues like the requirement of a cooling system for the AR and the difficulty in using a bubbling bed as FR because of dimensional constraints. Followingthispath SINTEF EnergyResearch and the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) have worked on the design of a new 150kWth CLC reactor. It has among its main goals theuseofindustrialsolutionsmakingeasierthestepfromlab-scale to industrial prototype and commercialization. In this respect fuel conversion efficiency is important and needs to be high (Lyngfelt, 2010).Thusthedesignchoicesarebasedonthepossibilitytohavea homogeneous OC concentration throughout the reactor volume as wellasahighOCcirculationratewiththeoptionofinternalrecircu- Air Fuel Oxygen depleted air CO2 + H2O AR FR MeOα MeOα-1 AR FR -1 AR FRAR FR Fig. 1. The principle of chemical looping combustion. The oxygen carrier MeO˛/MeO˛−1 is oxidized exothermically in the air reactor (AR) and reduced endothermically or slightly exothermically in the fuel reactor (FR). lation within each reactor. The arrangement should be as compact as possible to export the system into an industrial context. High compactness results in less “parasitic” OC in the connecting ducts i.e. material not actively participating in the reactions. It means a reduction in the OC costs, both the amount of material required and its handling. Furthermore it is easier to place the arrangement into a vessel for pressurized operation to integrate the CLC reactor intoagasturbine(GT)powercycle,aprocessexpectedtoreachthe highest efficiencies (Naqvi and Bolland, 2007). Auto-thermal reforming can be realized by means of a chemi- cal looping process reducing the amount of oxygen, thus excess air ratio (�), to a value smaller than stoichiometric. Such a chemical looping reforming (CLR) system will have its higher efficiency val- ues in a pressurized process (Rydén and Lyngfelt, 2005) and the same is expected for the chemical looping gasification (CLG) as mentioned by Xiao et al. (2010). For these reasons much stress is posed on the compactness, even if the CLC reactor system design proposed in this paper is atmospheric. Overview figures of excess airandpressurefordifferentapplicationsofCLC/CLR/CLGprocesses are depicted in Fig. 2. 2. Mass and heat balance One of the main challenges of the CLC technology is the development of the oxygen carriers (OC). In fact it must provide appropriate oxygen transport and reaction kinetics on which the reactor design is based. The ideal OC will depend on the type of Excess air ratio, λ [-] Pressure [atm] 1 32 ~1 15÷30 CLC Steam Cycle CLC Combined Cycle CLR/CLG Fig. 2. Overviewofoperationalpressureandexcessair (�) forsomepossiblechem- ical looping applications: chemical looping combustion, reforming and gasification (CLC/CLR/CLG). A. Bischi et al. / International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 469 fuel used. Moreover the material must show good performance for a high number of reduction/oxidation cycles without substantial mechanical or chemical degradation in order to avoid fragmenta- tion, agglomeration and loss of reactivity. In order for CLC to reach an industrial scale the OC needs to be inexpensive, available in large quantities and to meet stringent health, safety and environ- ment (HSE) standards (Johansson et al., 2008). For these reasons Fossdal et al. (2011) at SINTEF Materials and Chemistry have performed a survey on industrial tailings and by-products as basis for producing a suitable reference OC for the CLC reactor system object of this study. From an initial screening of oxygen capacity and oxidation/reduction kinetics by means of thermo gravimetric analysis (TGA) a specific manganese ore was selected as the most promising material. The reduction and oxidation reactions for manganese oxide at the design temperature of 1000◦C will be between MnO and Mn3O4, while for lower temperature they will be between MnO and Mn2O3. Using methane as the reference fuel for the MnO/Mn3O4 equilibrium, the oxidation reaction within the AR and the reduction reaction in the FR are, respectively, O2 +6MnO = 2Mn3O4 (�H = −452.3kJ per mol O2) (1) and 1 2 CH4 +2Mn3O4 = H2O+ 1 2 CO2 +6MnO (�H = 51.2kJ per mol O2) (2) where �H is the enthalpy change of the reaction calculated using the chemical thermodynamic software FactSage (Bale et al., 2009). The overall reaction, as in a conventional combustion, is equal to: O2 + 1 2 CH4 = H2O+ 1 2 CO2 (�H = −401.1kJ per mol O2) (3) According to Lyngfelt et al. (2001) the OC can be characterized by means of two properties; firstly the oxygen ratio, R0, defined as the ratio of the mass of oxygen in the fully oxidized carrier to its total mass: R0 = MOC,ox − MOC,red MOC,ox (4) MOC,ox and MOC,red are respectively the molar mass of the fully oxidized and fully reduced OC. This parameter quantifies the max- imumamountofoxygenthattheOCtheoreticallycantakeupfrom the air. For the pure MnO/Mn3O4 reaction R0 has a value of 0.07 [−].Frommechanicalstrengthconsiderationsthemanganeseoxide willbemixedwithaninertsupportmaterialsuchasaluminaAl2O3. The amount of active manganese oxide is considered to be about 40–45% on a weight basis, thus reducing the oxygen ratio to about 0.03 [−]. ThesecondparametercharacterizingtheOCisthedegreeofoxi- dation,orconversion X, of theOC.This isdefinedastheactualmass of oxygen in the OC divided by the maximum amount of oxygen in the fully oxidized state: X = MOC,actual − MOC,red MOC,ox − MOC,red (5) The degree of oxidation can be used to describe the difference between the conversion at the entrance of one reactor and at its exit, �X, which becomes a measure of the exploitation of the max- imum oxygen capacity. From TGA cycling tests by Fossdal et al. (2011) the OC reduction process in the FR is shown to be the lim- iting step, being slower than the OC oxidation reaction in the AR. Theexploitationof theoxygencapacity intheFRcanbewrittenas: �XFR = Xin,FR − Xout,FR (6) In this case �X is estimated to be about 0.2 [−], based on the mea- sured reversible oxygen capacity of the manganese ore (without Table 1 Main design parameters of the CLC reactor system. Design parameters Value Unit Fuel thermal input 150 [kWth] Excess air ratio (�) 1.2 [−] Fuel LHV (methane) 50.01 [MJkg−1] Reactors design temperature 1000 [◦C] Oxygen carrier oxygen ratio R0 0.03 [−] Oxygen carrier conversion �XFR 0.2 [−] Oxygen carrier circulation rate 2 [kgs−1] Heat release AR (Eq. (1)) 169 kW Heat release FR (Eq. (2)) −19 kW any inert support) and on the residence time of the OC particles in theFR.Thelastoneisconservativelyassessedtobeabout8swhich has been confirmed by cold flow model (CFM) results (see Section 3.4). The R0 and the �X fix the needed OC mass flow between the reactors at a given fuel input. At 150kWth (3gs −1 methane, based on LHV), 12gs−1 of oxygen are needed to fully oxidize the fuel. Exploiting 20% of the maximum oxygen ratio R0 of 3%, the OC mass flow needed is 2kgs−1. A heat balance was performed to be able to dimension the heat exchangers needed to control the process. At a reactors tempera- ture of 1000◦C and with the enthalpy changes of the oxidation and reduction reactions (Eqs. (1) and (2)), the heat release is 169.1kW intheARand−19.1kWintheFRasthereductionreaction(Eq. (2)) is slightly endothermic. However, the cooling effect of the colder inlet gases compared to the reactor temperature will reduce these values of about 28kW and 13kW for the AR and FR, respectively. Themaindesignparametersrelatedtothemassandenergybalance are summarized in Table 1. It should be noted that the phase transition between MnO/Mn3O4 willcauseadiscretedensitychangeof14.9%thatmay cause stress and a brittle material. Addition of calcium in order to obtain perovskite phases will improve mechanical stability. Such calcium manganite materials were prepared and tested by Fossdal etal. (2011).Eventhoughthetheoreticaloxygenratio R0 isreduced to 0.056 the reversible cyclic capacity and the kinetics as obtained by TGA are still almost equal to the pure manganese ore. The AR oxidationat1000◦Cwillbesomewhatlessexothermicthantheref- erenceinEq.(1)(�H =−330kJmol−1 O2)andtheFRwillbeslightly exothermic (�H =−71kJmol−1 O2 with methane as fuel). To gain a better understanding of the OC candidates behaviour it is important to test them, in addition to the TGA analysis, with multicyclesinbatchfluidizedbedreactorsaswellaswithacontin- uous CLC unit (Abad et al., 2006; Gayán et al., 2010). On the other hand Vienna University of Technology (Kolbitsch, 2009) tested the performance of the OCs in the 120kWth CLC unit, finding higher reaction rates than that ones predicted from the batch tests. It means that the oxygen capacity exploitation, assumed relying on the TGA analysis can be considered conservative, thus the 2kgs−1 ofmassexchangebetweenreactors.Suchamassflowwillalsopro- vide the required heat at the reduction reaction, if endothermic as in the MnO/Mn3O4 case, and ensure a temperature in the FR with almost the same value of the AR one. 3. Results and discussions 3.1. Reactor concept The concept for the CLC reactor system developed by SINTEF Energy Research/NTNU in Trondheim is schematically represented in Fig. 3. Both the AR and FR are circulating fluidized beds (CFB) and the system is therefore called a double loop circulating flu- idized bed reactor system (DLCFB). It is adopting a configuration 470 A. Bischi et al. / International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 SteamAir Cooling flow Cooling flow CO2 and Steam CP CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction P r e s s u r i z e d v e s s e l SteamAir Cooling flow Cooling flow CO2 and Steam CP CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction P r e s s u r i z e d v e s s e l SteamAir Cooling flow Cooling flow CO2 and Steam CP CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction P r e s s u r i z e d v e s e l Fig. 3. Process diagram of the double loop circulating fluidized bed reactor system concept. The fluid streams for both the air reactor (AR) and fuel reactor (FR) are represented as well as the pressurized vessel, the cooling panels (CP) and divided loop-seals (LS). with two loops architecture realized with divided loop-seals (LS) and with the FR meant to operate in fast fluidization regime. The fastfluidizationregimeintheFRhastheobjectiveofraisingthefuel conversion with a better utilization of the upper part of the reactor increasing the gas–solids contact, despite the reduction of particle and gas residence time due to the increase of superficial gas veloc- ity and particles entrainment. In the fast fluidization regime there is a higher particle concentration in the upper part of the reactor andasmallerbottomzonecomparedtoaturbulentbed, indicating a more homogeneous particle distribution (Kunii and Levenspiel, 1997). The goal is to maximize the fuel conversion and the solids concentration at the reactor exit as well as to reduce the particles concentration in the bottom zone having a steep, but not a vertical concentrationprofile(whichbecomespneumaticconveying)along theFR.Thisobjectivecanbereachedutilizingafastreactorforboth the FR and AR playing with the mass inventory, the secondary air injections and the loop-seals. In this way it will be possible to tune the solids concentration versus reactor height toward the desired one. Grace (1990) proved that this factor affects pretty much the conversion for fast reactions. Pröll et al. (2009a) came to the very sameconclusionswiththeirCLCset-up:theyincreasedtheconver- sionofmethaneincreasingtheFRfuelload.Thiswaytheyincreased the fluidizing velocity of the turbulent CFB towards fast fluidiza- tion regime. Anyhow these results were reached with Ni-based OC which has high reactivity; while they experienced better conver- sion at lower loads utilizing natural ilmenite (low reactivity OC), concluding that the optimal FR fluidization regime depends on the OC reactivity. The two LSs in Fig. 3 will have the conventional tasks of closing thepressure loopandavoidinggasmixingbetweenthereactors. In addition, their divided configuration will allow recirculating part of theentrainedparticles intothereactoroforiginenablingcontrol of the mass exchange and the particle residence time (two loops architecture).Thereisalsoabottomextraction/liftintheFRtobring part of the solids flow to the AR through this connection. This is required to achieve the full design circulation rate and give higher degree of operational flexibility, e.g. it will allow operating the rig with the FR in turbulent regime. In the FR a minimum amount of steamwillbe introducedinthebottomtoguaranteefluidization in case of emergency, during shut down and to tune the fluidization regime. Table 2 Main particle and reactor dimensions. Design parameters Value Unit Particle diameter, d50 70 [�m] Particle density 2000 [kgm−3] Particle sphericity ∼1 [−] AR diameter 0.25 [m] FR diameter 0.15 [m] Reactor height 5 [m] The value of � at design conditions is between 1.1 and 1.2 as for industrial CFB boilers. On the other hand, the reactor system is intendedtohavetheneededflexibilitytooperateatreducedexcess air (reforming conditions), as well as higher excess air with � up to 3 and above as this would be necessary for GT applications (Fig. 2). Thiswillgiveasaconsequenceahighersolidsentrainmentwhichis planned to be compensated by means of the internal recirculation in the AR through the divided loop-seal. 3.2. Hydrodynamics The main reactor dimensions must fit the requirements given by the chosen fluidization regime discussed in Section 3.1 and the mass and heat balances from Section 2. Particles size, density and sphericity are fundamental parameters with respect to flu- idization regime. The particles selected for the reference case are approximatelysphericalwitha d50 equal to70 �mandadensityof 2000kgm−3. A powder with such characteristics is in the group A of the Geldart (1973) classification, i.e. a typical catalyst standard, it will eventually ease the OC production. The AR must reach a fast CFB regime entraining the required amount of 2kgs−1 of OC by means of the gas flow of air. The main calculated figures for the AR are given in Table 2. They lead to the aimed CFB flow regime according to the dimensionless Grace diagramasqualitativelyshowninFig.4(Limetal.,1995).Thesolids flux, Gs, to reach at the AR exit is equal to almost 40kgm −2 s−1 and the particle concentration that will allow such high particles entrainment is at least around 12kgm−3. A similar approach was followedfor thedesignof theFR;oncetheamountoffluidizinggas available from the 150kWth of thermal load was calculated, the dimensions were set to have fast CFB regime in design conditions. Tra ns po rt Bu bb lin g 1 10 210 CFB Tu rbu len t 10-1 Tra ns po rt Bu bb lin g 10-2 10-3 10 1 CFB Tu rbu len t R e · A r -1 /3 AR 150kWth FR 150kWth Ar 1/3 Fig. 4. Qualitative representation of the fluidization regimes of the air reactor (AR) and fuel reactor (FR) according to the classification of Grace (Lim et al., 1995). A. Bischi et al. / International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 471 AscanbeseenfromFig.4alsothesodimensionedFRisintheaimed regime. It should give a solids flux of almost 45kgm−2 s−1 and a concentration of at least 13kgm−3 in the upper part of the reactor. Inthiswayabouthalfof the2kgs−1 solidsflowisexchangedwhile the rest will be handled by means of the bottom extraction/lift. Thesearevaluescalculatedconsideringthepresenceof thecooling panels(CP)andwithouttakinginaccounttheparticlesbackflow.In the literature it is proven that such exit particles flux values can be easily reached, in fact flux values even higher than 175kgm−2 s−1 were reached in the work performed by Nicolai (1995). The same can be stated for the particles suspension in the upper part of the reactor: according to Basu (2005) concentration values up to 100kgm−3 can be reached. The reactors hydrodynamics were investigated more thor- oughly by means of simulations in order to verify the feasibility of the required values of entrained OC and reactors exit con- centrations. It was also possible to carry out evaluation of the pressure/particlesconcentrationbehaviouralongthereactorsbod- ies as well as of the total particle mass in the AR and FR. The simulations were performed with the commercial software Ergun (2009) utilizing both the Berruti’s flow pattern model (Pugsley and Berruti,1996)andtheHorioone(LeiandHorio,1998).Suchkindsof models are characterized by an empirical nature. This fact in addi- tion to the complexity and peculiarity of the reactor system made the authorsopt for the CFM testing described in Section 3.4 further below. 3.3. System design The goals of the present CLC reactor system have already been explained, as well as the concept developed for their achievement. Some of the design requirements and solutions adopted for their fulfilment are described here more thoroughly. Thegasfeedsystemcontrolsthefluidizationandhydrodynamic behaviour once the OC particles and reactor dimensions have been chosen. The main intention is the achievement of a CFB mode hav- ing as much control as possible on the behaviour of the particles along the reactor body as described in Section 3.1. It is done by a balanced use of the primary bottom injection plus two levels of secondary ones along the bottom part of the reactor. The volume flow of fluidizing gas injected in the FR (CH4) will triple inside the reactor body because of the reaction described in Eq. (2). A tapered sectionwillsmooththeassociatedvelocity increaseandreducethe friction losses. It will increase the gas velocity in the bottom of the reactors, both AR and FR, helping to prevent the agglomeration of particles (Grace, 1990; Legros et al., 1991). It will also give a uni- form superficial gas velocity (U0) profile across the secondary air injections (Basu, 2005) allowing a more even acceleration of the solids up to the conditions of fully developed flow. The bottom gas injection of the AR and FR is done by means of bubble cap nozzles designedaccordingtoVGBPowerTech(1994).Thenozzleshape,the distance towards the reactor walls and suitable velocities of the air jets were chosen relying also on the good performance shown by thesolutionsexperimentedinthecompanyRheinbraun(Lambertz et al., 1993). Thereactorcooling isan important issue,especially forreactors being as compact as possible. The adopted solution is industrial withcoolingpanels(CP)asshowninFig.3.Foraproperfluidization theyshouldnotbeallocatedtoolowinthereactorheighttoachieve a full development of the solid flux. At the same time they should not be located too close to the reactor exit disturbing the particles entrainment. Furthermore their presence will reduce the section available for the gas flow, thus increasing the gas velocity. The cal- culatednumberofpanelsisbasedonthenecessarycoolingdutyand a heat transfer coefficient estimated to 120Wm−2 K−1. Among the values presented by Basu (2005) this is considered realistic on the conservative side in order to match the solids suspension densities expected in the design case. The performance of the loop-seals will be crucial for the over- all system behaviour as mentioned in Section 3.1. In the present reactor design it is intended to control the OC flux, with possibil- ity of internal recycle, without the use of mechanical valves such as a cone valve. The industrial solution according to an Ahlstrom patent(KostamoandPuhakka,1988)meetsthisrequirement.Even though a mechanical valve is not a part of the proposed design it is planned for possible installation in case the external and inter- nal circulation is not easily controlled without. The fluidization of the loop-seal is executed by means of nozzles in principle equal to the primary nozzles of the AR and FR. This solution reduces the complexity by standardizing the nozzles. To help the fluidization lateral air injections are placed in the bottom part of the down- comers, just above the loop-seals. It has proved to be effective as a meanstoenhanceloop-sealsolidcirculationrate(Kimetal.,2001). The last reactor component that deserves special care in the design phase is the heavy load cyclone. Its performance has funda- mental importance to avoid particle losses. High cyclone efficiency is necessary to help satisfy particle emissions requirements and to reduce the OC refilling and the related costs. Furthermore it is essential for GT applications in which the GT working fluid must fulfil strict requirements with respect to particle concentration and particle size (Lippert and Newby, 1995; Loud and Slaterpryce, 1991). In addition the cyclones required in this case have to handle efficiently a high flux of particles in a very compact configuration. It is proven that the heavy loaded cyclones reach the best effi- ciency by means of a downward inclined inlet duct that intensifies the cluster formation (Hugi and Reh, 1998, 2000) and a converg- ing section that increases the inlet gas velocity (Muschelknautz and Muschelknautz, 1996). A sharp cross section reduction may improvetheperformanceasshowninresults fromtheboilerof the coal power station of Goldenberg (Krohmer et al., 2006). Accord- ing to Muschelknautz and Muschelknautz (1996) the gas exit tube should be placed eccentric in the cyclone in order to raise the sep- aration efficiency. This solution was also proven in large scale, as well as the downward declination of the inlet duct, in the boiler in Zeran,Poland(Lalaketal.,2003).Thevortexfindermaybearranged with an increase of its cross section in the direction of the gas flow exiting the cyclone. Such a diverging vortex finder is an industrial solution used by the Electricité de France (EdF) coal power plant in Gardanne (France) (Frydrychwski-Horvatin and Vostan, 1997). Based on the above considerations, a detailed system and com- ponentdesignhasbeencarriedout. Inordertohaveamostrealistic verificationoftheperformanceofall thesesolutions, togetherwith the reactors hydrodynamics as already mentioned, a full scale CFM has been built and is in operation as described in the next section. 3.4. Cold flow model verification Cold flow model (CFM) validation is a common approach for testingthereactordesignbeforebuildingahotrig.Thiskindofval- idation has been used, e.g. by Chalmers (Kronberger et al., 2005) and Vienna (Pröll et al., 2009b) Universities of Technology operat- ing CFMs that are smaller down-scaled versions of the intended hot rig. However, in the present work a full scale (1:1) CFM of the 150kWth rig design has been built as in the industrial practice in order to reduce wall effects and establish even more realistic design verification. The CFM is built in transparent polycarbon- ate material and all component details are equal to the hot rig design. The values of gas velocity and particles characteristics (d50 equal to 34 �m and material density equal to 7000kgm−3) were selected in order to end up in the same fluidization regime. The complete CFM results and related mapping of the overall stable operational window of the reactor system is out of scope of this 472 A. Bischi et al. / International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 2000 2750 3500 4250 Air Flow [Nl/min] ( Air Velocity at 20ºC [m/s]) )]s² m/ gk[ x ul F s dil o S( ]s/ gk[ w ol F s dil o S 35kg (100%-0%-0%) 35kg (40%-30%-30%) 45kg (100%-0%-0%) 45kg (40%-30%-30%) 0 (0) 2 (48.1) 1.5 (36.1) 1 (24.1) 0.5 (12) 2000 (0.86) 3000 (1.29) 3750 (1.61) 4500 (1.94) TSI (Prim-Sec1-Sec2) Fig. 5. Solids flow (flux) achieved in the cold flow model of the air reactor (AR) as a function of the fluidizing air flow for two different total solids inventory (TSI) and different air staging between primary, secondary 1 and secondary 2. paper and still under investigation. Here some key results will be shown, related to the performance of the AR and FR operated sep- arately. Fig. 5 shows how the solids flow experienced in the AR loop increases with the air flow and the total solids inventory (TSI) up to the achievement of almost 2kgs−1 entrainment. At the same time it is possible also to tune the entrained flux with the air stag- ing: increasing the secondary air share will reduce it. The same behaviour isshownbytheFRinFig.6uptoaflowof1.1kgs−1.The results obtained with the lower FR inventory of 35kg are shown for sake of completeness, but these tests were performed before gaining full control on the inventory in the reactor system which then was not always the same. In addition the pressure behaviour along the AR body corresponding to the 2kgs−1 flow exchange, for aTSIof45kgandsuperficialgasvelocity U0 of1.9ms −1 isshownby the continuous line in Fig. 7. The AR pressure profile confirms the fast CFB behaviour and it was used to derive the amount of mass present in the reactor, neglecting friction and acceleration forces as done by Issangya et al. (1999) and Pröll et al. (2009a). The cal- culated active mass in the AR was almost 28kg which divided by the flux of 2kgs−1 gives a conservative estimation of the OC resi- dence time in the AR equal to 14s. In addition it is also shown, in the same figure, the sensitivity of the pressure to the TSI and air staging keeping constant the superficial gas velocity. A reduction 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 1500 1750 2000 Air Flow [Nl/min] ( Air Velocity at 20ºC [m/s]) )]s² m/ gk[ x ul F s dil o S( ]s/ gk[ w ol F s dil o S 35kg (75%-25%) 35kg (25%-75%) 50kg (75%-25%) 50kg (25%-75%) 0 (0) 2 (122.8) 1.5 (92.1) 1 (61.4) 0.5 (30.7) 1500 (1.65) 1750 (1.92) 2000 (2.2) TSI (Prim-Sec) Fig. 6. Solids flow (flux) achieved in the cold flow model of the fuel reactor (FR) as a function of the fluidizing air flow for two different total solids inventory (TSI) and different air staging between primary and secondary. 0 1 2 3 4 5 0 20 40 60 80 100 120 140 Pressure relative to ambient pressure [mbar] R e a ct o r h e ig h t [m ] 100%Primary, TSI=45kg 40%Primary, 30%Secondary1, 30%Secondary2, TSI=45kg 100%Primary, TSI=35kg Fig. 7. Pressure profiles along the air reactor (AR) for a fixed amount of fluidizing air giving 1.9ms−1 of superficial gas velocity. Three different cases are analyzed: a total solids inventory (TSI) of 45kg and all the fluidization air introduced at the primary level, the same TSI introducing just 40% of the air at the primary level and an inventory of 35kg with all the air at primary level. of the primary air down to 40% keeping the TSI constant (dotted line with triangles) shifts the pressure curve down to lower values and decreases the entrained flow (Fig. 5). The dotted line with cir- clesshowshowthepressureprofileisaffectedbyareductionofthe TSI:thebottompressure/inventoryisreducedandtheoverallcurve is shifted towards smaller values. In a similar manner Fig. 8 shows withthecontinuouslinethepressurealongtheFRbodyforaveloc- ity of 2.2ms−1 and an inventory of 50kg. It leads to 1.1kgs−1 of solids entrainment and a calculated 16kg inventory of active mass inside the FR. It means a particles residence time of about 8s tak- ing into account also the mass that should be transported through the bottom extraction/lift to achieve, at steady state, a total solids exchangeof2kgs−1.Theexperimentalresultsconfirmthattheflu- 0 1 2 3 4 5 0 20 40 60 80 100 120 140 Pressure relative to ambient pressure [mbar] R e a ct o r h e ig h t [m ] 100%Primary, TSI=50kg 25%Primary, 75%Secondary, TSI=50kg 100%Primary, TSI=35kg Fig. 8. Pressure profiles along the fuel reactor (FR) for a fixed amount of fluidizing air giving 2.2ms−1 of superficial gas velocity. Three different cases are analyzed: a total solids inventory (TSI) of 50kg and all the fluidization air introduced at the primary level, the same TSI introducing just 25% of the air at the primary level and an inventory of 35kg with all the air at primary level. A. Bischi et al. / International Journal of Greenhouse Gas Control 5 (2011) 467–474 473 Thermal input, Excess air ratio (λ), Fuel & OC composition Mass and Heat balance Required solids exchange Available gases flows Hydrodynamic investigation Mathematical and/or Cold Flow Model Appropriate DLCFB Reactor system final design Reactors & OC characteristics YES Oxidation/Reduction kinetics Fluidization regime (Pressure profiles/Solids concentration, Achieved solids exchange, Particles residence time) Design solution (Heavy load cyclones, Return legs, Divided loop- seals, Fluidizing nozzles) OC conversion (ΔX) assesment NO Fig. 9. Flow-sheet of the design methodology used/developed to achieve the actual design of the double loop circulating fluidized bed (DLCFB) chemical looping com- bustion atmospheric pilot rig of SINTEF Energy Research/NTNU in Trondheim. idizationregime, thesolidsentrainmentandthepressure/particles concentration behaviour are affected, and thus can be regulated, by the pre-set particles inventory and by the fluidizing gas staging as well as by other factors, e.g. the fluidization of the loop-seals andthereactorsbackpressure.FurtherextensiveCFMstudiesneed to be done in order to find the best way to couple the reactors togetherandoperateaccordingtothedifferentoperationalmodes, and to generate results in order to derive correlations that can be used to fit the semi-empirical mathematical models to the actual set-up. 4. Conclusions The design of a chemical looping combustion reactor system of 150kWth fuel input is presented. It consists of two intercon- nectedcirculatingfluidizedbedoperatinginfastfluidizationmode, in design case, and interconnected by means of a “two loops archi- tecture”(DLCFB).Togetherwiththemultipleinjectionsfluidization system it will increase the operational flexibility. In this way the reactor system is expected to be operated in the way that will bring higher fuel conversion efficiency according to the selected fuel and oxides. The overall system is compact in order to reduce theamountofsolidmaterialandtohavethepossibilitytobeintro- ducedintoapressurizedvessel. Inadditionthedesignismakinguse of many industrial solutions which will lead the chemical looping technologies further towards possible commercialization. Among the achievements of this paper there is also the devel- opment of a design methodology which is shown in Fig. 9. It starts establishing some parameters according to the project require- ments and resources available. Mass and heat balances, design and hydrodynamic calculations are performed. The hydrodynam- icstogetherwiththeproposeddesignsolutionsarecurrentlybeing tested in a cold flow model mirroring the actual reactor system. In this way it will be possible to tackle eventual shortcomings and find the best operational window. All the missing parameters are assessed iteratively in order to achieve a reactor with the above- mentioned characteristics. Concluding, this design methodology summarizes all the main actions and decisions undertaken along the design path and presents them in a modular way. Acknowledgments This publication forms a part of the BIGCO2 project, per- formed under the strategic Norwegian research program Climit. Theauthorsacknowledgethepartners:Statoil,GEGlobalResearch, Statkraft,AkerCleanCarbon,Shell,TOTAL,ConocoPhillips,ALSTOM, the Research Council of Norway (178004/I30 and 176059/I30) and Gassnova (182070) for their support. In addition the valuable help of Mr. S. 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Available online at www.sciencedirect.com Energy Procedia 00 (2010) 000–000 Energy Procedia www.elsevier.com/locate/XXX GHGT-10 Performance analysis of the cold flow model of a second generation chemical looping combustion reactor system Aldo Bischi a,1 , Øyvind Langørgen b , Jean-Xavier Morin c , Jørn Bakken b , Masoud Ghorbaniyan a , Marie Bysveen b , Olav Bolland a aDepartment of Energy and Process Engineering, NTNU, Kolbjørn Hejes vei 1A, Trondheim NO-7491, Norway bSINTEF Energy Research, Sem Saelends vei 11, Trondheim NO-7465, Norway cCO2-H2 Eurl, 41 rue du Cas Rouge Marchandon, Neuville aux Bois 45170, France Elsevier use only: Received date here; revised date here; accepted date here Abstract A 150kWth second generation chemical looping combustion reactor system has been designed. It is a double loop circulating fluidized bed meant to achieve high solids circulation and be flexible in operation. Attention was also focused on the usage of industrial solutions and compactness, to go towards commercialization and pressurization as a further step. Both its hydrodynamic behaviour and design solutions were investigated by means of a full scale cold flow model. First the design of the nozzles and the share of kinetic losses were verified, together with the solids flow/flux measurements reliability. The air reactor and fuel reactor were then tested separately monitoring their entrainment capabilities and pressure/particles distribution, with main focus on finding the best way of operating the loop-seals and cooling panel configuration. The overall reactor system (combining air and fuel reactor) was tested achieving results close to the design values. Finally, some solutions to further improve its performance are proposed. © 2010 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved Keywords: Chemical Looping Combustion, Double Loop Circulating Fluidized Bed, Cold Flow Model, Industrial solution, Pressurization 1. Introduction Within the CO2 capture technologies the Chemical Looping Combustion (CLC) is one of the most promising both for costs and net efficiencies [1]. It is an unmixed combustion process with inherent CO2 separation, commonly realized by means of two interconnected fluidized bed reactors. It takes place in two steps where a metal powder, working as a solid Oxygen Carrier (OC), gets cyclically oxidized and reduced carrying the oxygen from one reactor to the other. First the OC has a strong exothermic reaction with the oxygen of the fluidizing air in the Air Reactor (AR). Afterwards the oxidized OC is sent into the Fuel Reactor (FR) and its oxygen reacts with the fuel, endothermically or slightly exothermically, depending on the OC material and fuel used, generating an almost pure stream of CO2 and steam. SINTEF Energy Research and the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) have designed a 150kWth atmospheric CLC reactor system. The chosen design solutions are aiming at high operational flexibility and fuel conversion as well as compactness for the prospective of pressurizing the reactor as a further step. It consists of 1 Corresponding author. Tel.: +47 73550449; fax: +47 73593580. E-mail address: aldo.bischi@ntnu.no c© 2011 Published by Elsevier Ltd. Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 www.elsevier.com/locate/procedia doi:10.1016/j.egypro.2011.01.074 two Circulating Fluidized Beds (CFB) interconnected by means of a bottom extraction/lift and divided Loop-Seals (LS) in a two loops architecture: Double Loop CFB (DLCFB) shown in Figure 1. The AR is meant to operate in fast fluidization regime while the FR both in turbulent and fast fluidization. The abovementioned loop-seals are designed as double loop-seals. The purpose is both to avoid the gas mixing between the two reactors and to lead the flow of solids entrained by one reactor into the other one or re- circulate it back to the reactor of origin. They are fluidized by means of three bubble cap nozzles: one below the downcomer (central), one just below the internal return leg (to lead the mass back to the reactor of origin) and one below the external return leg (to lead the entrained mass to the other reactor). In addition there will be lateral steam injections in the downcomers, just above the loop-seals (Figure 1). Because of the smaller amount of fluidizing gas available in the FR, compared to the AR, the bottom extraction will compensate the fact that the FR is not capable to entrain the same amount of solids as the AR. The system is cooled by means of lateral protruding Cooling Panels (CP) inserted into the AR body. The DLCFB design and the way it faces industrial and scale up issues, as the latest (second) generation of CLC reactors does, has already been described in a detailed way by Bischi et al. [2]. In order to achieve the aforementioned objectives, the hydrodynamics as well as many of the design solutions of such CLC reactor system, need to be qualitatively tested in a Cold Flow Model (CFM) without chemical reactions [3]. 2. Experimental set up and procedure A polycarbonate CFM has been built and commissioned. It is a full scale (1:1) exact copy of the 150kWth hot rig design. In this way it was possible to reduce the wall effects to get more reliable design verification [4]. The two reactors are 5 meters high; the AR has a diameter of 0.23 m while the FR 0.144 m. In addition the powder characteristics as well as the operating conditions were chosen in order to end up in the same fluidization regime as the hot rig, i.e. fast CFB regime according to the empirical classification of Grace [5]. The selected material representing the oxygen carrier is a Ferro-Silicon alloy with a density of almost 7000 kg m -3 and a d50 of 34 micrometers and rounded irregular shape. These particles end up in the group A of the Geldart diagram and because of their high density are very close to the boundary with the group B [6]. An important share (above 20%) of the particle size distribution used in the tests has a diameter smaller than the foreseen critical one where the Van der Waals cohesion forces start to play a decisive role into fluidization properties [7, 8]. Anyhow, as long as the main interest for such fine particles is in the catalyst applications (thus lighter) it is quite rare to find information about high density Geldart A particles in open literature. The fluidizing gas is air and the nominal flows are selected to give a velocity of 2.2 m s -1 in the reactor bodies. Details of the scaling strategy can be found in Bischi et al. [9]. The rig is equipped with differential pressure transmitters distributed along the reactor bodies, cyclones and bottom of the loop-seals. At the reactor exit there is one common filter box with a frequency controlled fan so it is possible to obtain the desired backpressure, which will be the same for both the AR and the FR unless the valves at the cyclones exit are used to differentiate them. The filter box is also used to collect the powder losses and in this way monitor the cyclones efficiency and the inventory in the system. The solids entrainment is measured in two ways: a visual and an indirect way. The first one is relying on a visual measurement of the mass accumulation in the downcomer once the loop-seal fluidization is shut down. The indirect measurement is based on a perforated flap Figure 1. Process diagram of the Double Loop Circulating Fluidized Bed (DLCFB) reactor system concept [2]. Cooling flow SteamAir CO2 and Steam CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction/ lift P r e s s u r i z e d v e s s e l Cooling flow SteamAir CO2 and Steam CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction/ lift P r e s s u r i z e d v e s s e l Cooling flow SteamAir CO2 and Steam CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction/ lift P r e s s u r i z e d v e s s e l SteamAir CO2 and Steam CP FuelAir Steam Steam Steam Depleted Air LS LS AR FR Bottom extraction/ lift P r e s s u r i z e d v e s s e l 450 A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 valve located in the downcomer. This way the gas coming from below fluidizes the amount of powder accumulating on the flap valve, when closed. If the minimum fluidization condition is reached, the entrained solids flux, thus flow, can be derived from the gradient of the pressure drop (�P) across the flap valve due to the mass accumulated [10]: 1 downcomer s riser Ad P G dt g A � � � � . (1) All the pressure measurements used to evaluate the reactors performance are an average value of ten minutes steady state operation. In addition the pressure in the more sensitive points (e.g. bottom loop-seal) was constantly monitored and experiments with too high pressure fluctuations (above 40 mbar) were labelled as unstable. The solids flows/fluxes were measured at least two times and an average value was presented. In case of a standard deviation of the measurements bigger than the 10% of the average a third measurement was taken. 3. Results and discussion The CFM was first tested without particles to check the fluidizing nozzles design and the share of kinetic pressure losses. The pressure losses across the nozzles were measured as a function of the gas flow injected through the nozzles. In this way it was possible to evaluate if the �P of each nozzle is in the proper range: above 20% [11] of the respective overall reactor body pressure drop in the operational design point. These values were compared with the overall reactor �P measured during actual operation, with solids, showing a satisfactory match both for AR and FR. The recorded pressure values along the empty reactor bodies were small due to the low design velocities (up to 2.4 m s -1 ). The maximum values of pressure difference between the bottom of the reactors and their top was found to be in the order of magnitude of 1 mbar. This means that the kinetic pressure losses have little influence on the pressure measured along the reactor bodies during operation. Anyhow it needs to be kept in mind that the lower pressure transmitter is placed at a height of 14 cm from the reactor bottom; the bottom pressure is expected to be higher. Another preliminary test campaign was finalized to check the reliability of the indirect solids flow/flux calculation realized by means of the pressure gradient measurements (Eq.1). The so determined solids flux was compared with the visual measurements of mass accumulation. It was of great interest for the project, in order to be capable to make use of this technique also in the 150kWth hot rig, where it will not be so straightforward to have a visual measurement. The two measurement techniques matched when an auxiliary air injection below the perforated flap valve was tuned on purpose in order to achieve minimum fluidization conditions of the accumulated mass of particles. In addition, the agreement was mainly for the lower part of the solids flux range tested. In fact the momentum of the free falling solids was proven to affect strongly the fluidization of the accumulated powder in the downcomer [12]. A wide range of solids fluxes are going to be tested and they can’t be foreseen in detail because of their dependency on many independent parameters. It means that we can’t know in advance what the exact amount of auxiliary air will be. From these findings, and supported by literature [13], it was possible to deduct that this approach is very much depending on the operator ability of reaching the right fluidization conditions above the perforated flap valve. Thus it can’t be used by itself for the hot rig and another solution applicable to high temperature conditions needs to be found. It was noticed that it is difficult to obtain exactly the same solids flow/flux when the same experiments are not performed continuously; while they are very much consistent when executed continuously without changing settings and stopping the system. This fact shows that the “roughness” of the experimental technique used to measure the solids flow can not be the main reason for the variations in the results. The way the solids inventory distributes in the system in order to achieve steady state conditions do also play a role. A third issue affecting the solid flow is the Total Solids Inventory (TSI) control. It is closely related to the cyclones efficiency, evaluated to be very high and often above 99.9%. This is a good performance for such fine powder as can be seen in Fluid Catalytic Cracking (FCC) literature which is dealing with this kind of particle size distribution, but much lighter material [14]. Nevertheless it is worth to mention that for example in the case of a solid flow of 1 kg s -1 a cyclone efficiency of “just” 99.9% will mean 3.6 kg of losses in one hour. Such loss of mass will substantially affect the TSI and consequently the reactor performance. This information is of fundamental importance for the interpretation of the experimental results. The same set of tests was repeated twice for the AR with a TSI of 65kg and different refilling time of the lost mass. The results show that the 20 minutes refilling gave in average about 4% higher solids flow A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 451 than the 60 minutes one (for a set of data of 20 points of which 8 are shown in Figure 2). Also, the consistent behaviour of the larger downcomer height confirms the indication that the solids flow difference is caused by an actual change in the reactor overall mass and mass distribution. Next, the AR was run alone re-circulating internally through the divided loop-seal all the entrained solids. It was tested from part load, turbulent fluidization regime, up to an air flow corresponding to the fast CFB design flow regime. The solids flow/flux and the pressure profile along the reactor body were measured and the cyclone efficiency estimated. The TSI within the reactor system was varied as well as the combinations of primary and secondary air. The measured flow of solids was found to be clearly dependent on the TSI and the air flow, increasing with them up to 2 kg s -1 (flux of 48 kg m -2 s -1 ). At the same time also the pressure behaviour showed its dependency from the TSI and air staging, shifting towards higher values for higher amount of solids and higher primary air share. In addition higher values of pressure gradient, thus mass, in the lower part of the reactor body are recorded, as expected [15], for turbulent regime, while the particle concentration in the upper part of the reactor increases when increasing the fluidization velocities. The same set of experiments was performed for the FR showing the same behaviour when it comes to solids entrainment and pressure behaviour. It was possible to entrain in a stable way a flow of particles up to almost half of the AR one, which is in accordance with the design. In average the bottom pressures of the two reactors running separately were shown to be on the same order of magnitude, slightly higher for the FR, picking the right operational conditions. This is an important parameter for the coupled operation control because this is the pressure where the return legs of the divided loop-seals merge into the reactor bodies. More details about the performance of the reactors operated separately can be found in Bischi et al. [2 and 9]. The way the loop-seal is operated affects quite a lot the performance of a CFB, and especially the solids entrainment [16 and 17]. For this reason the effect of the loop-seal fluidization was thoroughly investigated, varying the amount of fluidizing air injected in the central and internal nozzles for several lateral injections (that ones located in the downcomer just above the loop-seal). The aim was to understand the best way to operate the loop-seal for the actual reactor design. It means achieving high solids circulation with a stable fluidization regime in the downcomer (between minimum fluidization and minimum bubbling). For economical reasons this has to be done using a small amount of fluidizing gas because it will be steam in the hot rig. Figure 3 shows one detailed test matrix executed for a constant TSI of 55 kg in the AR operated separately (internal recirculation) and with a fluidizing air flow of 5000 Nl min -1 , equivalent to a superficial gas velocity of 2.2 m s -1 , and with an air split of 70% primary air, 15% secondary air 1 and 15% secondary air 2. The AR loop-seal will be the more heavily loaded according to the design. Each group of four points in the graph corresponds to a different value of the central nozzle fluidization (5 to 120 Nl min -1 ) and for each of the groups the four points go from the value of 80 Nl min -1 up to 190 Nl min -1 of internal nozzle fluidization. Each different symbol (diamond, circle, and asterisk) refers to a different value of lateral air injection from 2.5 Nl min -1 up to 10 Nl min -1 . The blue points show (scale on the left) the measured solids flow/flux, while the red points show the measured height of solids in the downcomer. This is an important parameter to monitor in order to know how much of the mass is in the loop-seal downcomer rather than in the reactor body. It is possible to notice that the entrained flow of solids is appreciably increasing with the internal nozzle fluidization for the lower central fluidizations while above 40 Nl min -1 of central fluidization it stabilizes loosing its dependencies on the internal and central nozzles. For central nozzle fluidizations above 40 Nl min -1 it is not possible to distinguish clear trends, not even dependency from the lateral air injection amount. The downcomer height is consistently reduced with the increase of solids flow because, for a fixed TSI and reactor fluidization, a smoother loop-seal fluidization provides better solids circulation, thus more mass inside the reactor body, thus higher �P 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 S ol id s F lo w [k g s- 1 ] ( S ol id s F lu x [k g m -2 s -1 ]) 0 50 100 150 200 D ow nc om er h ei gh t [ cm ] 60' Refilling 20' Refilling 60' Refilling 20' Refilling (48.1) (36.1) (12) (24.1) 0 (0) Figure 2. Set of tests performed twice with the same conditions, but with 60’ and 20’ refilling. 452 A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 across the reactor and higher entrainment. On the other hand the higher pressure fluctuations experienced in the bottom of the loop-seal in correspondence with higher fluidizing air, e.g. central nozzle above 40 Nl min -1 , means that the reactor is exposed to higher risks of gas leakages and cyclone perturbations. A similar set of experiments was performed for the AR keeping the same air flows in the reactor and loop-seal, but increasing the TSI up to 65 kg. The increase of mass reduced the dependencies highlighted previously as well as increased the solids flow together with the amount of mass in the downcomer. The increase of the downcomer solids height is necessary in order to close the pressure loop; because more mass in the system gives a higher value of pressure in the reactor bottom exactly where the return leg is merging, thus higher pressure in the loop-seal is required to balance it. The loop-seal results are not following clear trends as in the cited literature [16 and 17] most likely because both the high density Geldart A particles and the fluidizing nozzles of the present set-up represent solutions differing from the majority of the published laboratory loop-seal studies. Therefore modifications of the loop-seal fluidizing system are under investigation in order to gain better control on the solids circulation, especially to tackle circumstances where the two solids streams exiting from the loop-seal are facing different pressures, as in the coupled operation. 0 0.5 1 1.5 2 0 40 S ol id s flo w [k g s- 1 ] ( S ol id s flu x [k g m -2 s -1 ]) 0 50 100 150 200 D ow nc om er h ei gh t [ cm ] 2.5 Nl/min lateral injection 5 Nl/min lateral injection 10 Nl/min lateral injection 2.5 Nl/min lateral injection 5 Nl/min lateral injection 10 Nl/min lateral injection Internal Nozzle: 80, 120, 160, 190 [Nl min-1] Central Nozzle: 5Nl/min 10Nl/min 40Nl/min 80Nl/min 120Nl/min (48.1) (36.1) (12) (24.1) (0) Figure 3. Set of experiments finalized to understand the air reactor dependency on the loop-seal operation (internal, central and lateral air injection) for a total solids inventory of 55 kg and air flow of 5000 Nl min -1 . In this experimental campaign also the cooling panels influence on the AR performance was evaluated. Figure 4 shows the results of a test campaign conduced with a TSI of 65 kg, a total air flow going from 4000 to 5000 Nl min -1 and constant loop-seal fluidization. Tests were done with no cooling panels, with the lower (bott.), the middle (mid.) and the upper (up) panel separately and with the lower and middle together. The solids flow/flux was not significantly affected by panel insertion, location and number. The same applies for the measured average pressure values in the reactor body, while the pressure oscillations measured in the loop-seal bottom were in general higher for the two-panel configuration, e.g. above 20 mbar vs. 10 mbar. The test done with 100% of flow in the primary air (100%-0%-0%) showed a higher solids flow entrainment compared to the use of secondary air for the same amount of fluidizing air (50%-25%-25%). The use of only primary air was limited to 4000 Nl min -1 because further increase of flow generated pressure pulsations that made the system vibrating too much to operate it safely (test done just in A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 453 the two panels case). It may be related to the inventory which needs to be reduced for such operational mode; further tests to proof it need to be carried out. All the abovementioned tests were executed running the AR and FR separately. In this way it was possible to have an accurate mapping of their operational window and choose the best way to couple them together as a DLCFB reactor system. A test campaign with the two reactors coupled was performed but the results were not as expected. A high difference of pressure between the lower sections of the reactors was experienced: the FR bottom pressure ended up being much higher. It means that each divided loop-seal was exposed to a pressure unbalance having one return leg facing a pressure much higher than the other one. This fact sums up to the abovementioned loop-seal solids flux control challenges. The combination of these two circumstances created a disturbance because of gas flowing through the internal leg of the FR loop-seal, which is not in use during coupled operation with 100% solids exchange. It also generated a high pressure in the AR loop-seal external return leg, thus a high accumulation of particles in the AR downcomer capable to push the powder flow from the AR to the FR and very likely causing unwanted gas leakages from the FR to the AR. In addition it affected the cyclones efficiency causing mass losses and resulted in a loss of control of the system performance. An attempt to operate the system was done sealing the internal return legs of the loop-seals, without exposing them to the mentioned pressure unbalance. In this way the DLCFB reactor system reached automatically a stable configuration, showing good margins of operability. Afterwards the FR fluidizing system was modified, shifting the secondary air injections to a higher position. In this way the FR bottom pressure was reduced making the overall system more easily operable and the sealing of the internal return legs of the loops-seals could be removed. An example of the obtained pressure profiles are shown in Figure 5 and are between turbulent and fast CFB fluidization regimes. In the test shown in Figure 5 the TSI in the system was approximately 120kg while the mass inventories in the AR and FR were 19 kg and 15 kg, respectively. The mass in the reactor bodies was estimated by means of the measured pressure profiles, neglecting frictional and acceleration losses [18]. A solids flow of 1.65kg s -1 (corresponding to a flux of 40 kg m -2 s -1 ) was entrained by the AR with a superficial gas velocity of 2.1 m s -1 while the FR entrained 0.85 kg s -1 (corresponding to a flux of 51 kg m -2 s -1 ) with a superficial gas velocity of 2.2 m s -1 . The remaining 0.8 kg s -1 of particles flow necessary to achieve steady state were sent to the AR by means of the bottom lift/extraction operated with turbulent fluidization at 1 m s -1 of superficial gas velocity and a solids flux corresponding to 100 kg m -2 s -1 . More experiments to partially equilibrate 0 0.2 0.4 0.6 0.8 1 1.2 1.4 1.6 1 2 3 4 5 Cooling Panels S ol id s F lo w [k g s- 1 ] ( S ol id s F lu x [k g m 2 s- 1 ] ) 4000Nl/min (100%-0%-0%) 4000Nl/min (50%-25%-25%) 4500Nl/min (50%-25%-25%) 5000Nl/min (70%-15%-15%) 0 1(bott.) 1(mid.) 1(up) 2(bott.+mid.) 0 (0) 1.4 (33.7) 1 (24.1) 0.8 (19.2) 0.6 (14.4) 1.6 (38.5) 1.2 (28.9) 0.4 (9.6) 0.2 (4.8) 0 1 2 3 4 5 -10 40 90 140 Pressure relative to ambient pressure [mbar] R ea ct or h ei gh t [ m ] AR, ~1.65kg/s FR, ~0.85kg/s 50 100 1500 Figure 4. Solids flow/flux measurements with cooling panels insertions in different configurations. Figure 5. Pressure profiles measurement, coupled operation of Air Reactor (AR) and Fuel Reactor (FR). 454 A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 the pressures between the lower sections of the reactors are on going. One of them is a reduction of the TSI which will decrease the pressures in the lower sections of the reactors. Another one is the utilization of the backpressure valves located at the cyclones exit in order to increase the AR backpressure, thus the pressure at the AR bottom. This solution will not be so straightforward because of all the interconnections between the AR and FR bodies, thus the pressure changes in one of them will affect to some extent also the other. Among the possible modifications of the loop-seals the introduction of a cone valve in each of their internal leg has proven to be an effective solution in order to face pressure difference between reactors. In fact the operation with a sealing can be considered equivalent to a cone valve fully closed. On the other hand, operating the DLCFB reactor system in a way which doesn’t rely too much on active control (e.g. backpressure valves or cone valves) is more in line with the original design basis of the reactor system. Therefore the height where the loop-seals return legs, both the internal and external, are merging with the reactors can be lifted to a value where the pressure in the reactor bodies is decreased enough to make the system more easily operable with a wider stable operational window. This may cause residence time reduction and increase the risk of leakages of gas carried by the entrained solids from one reactor to the other [19], but will for sure increase the intrinsic stability of the system. Conclusions and outlook The full scale cold flow model of a second generation chemical looping combustion reactor system was commissioned and its performance with high density Geldart A particles was tested at a wide range of operating conditions. The fluidizing system design was verified as well as the fraction of the kinetic losses on the overall reactor pressure drop. The suitability of an indirect measurement technique of the solids flow/flux entrainment was evaluated and compared to a more conventional direct one based on visual measurement of mass accumulation. A simplified error assessment of the direct solids flow/flux measurement was done, and the influence of the total solids inventory control and distribution on the measured values was highlighted. The cyclone efficiency was also estimated together with its influence on the abovementioned solids inventory control. A comprehensive understanding of the stable operational window of the air and fuel reactor systems tested separately was obtained. The solids flow/flux entrainment and the pressure profiles along the air reactor and the fuel reactor were analyzed as well as their sensitivity to the parameters: superficial gas velocity, secondary air injection, solids inventory and loop-seal fluidization. Especially the way the loop-seal affects the reactors performance was systematically analyzed in order to find the best combination of air flow to the central, internal and lateral air injections. The loop-seals showed the capability of circulating the required solid flow, even if a clear trend was not found on how they ideally should be operated in order to attain a sharp and exact control. Therefore the fluidizing system of the loop-seals needs to be improved. Furthermore, the overall double loop circulating fluidized bed reactor system performance was verified. A pressure difference was experienced between the lower sections of the two reactors, thus between the two loop-seals return legs. This made the operation of the overall system difficult. Better control was obtained sealing the internal legs of the divided loop-seals, as if a cone valve, 100% closed, was inserted. Finally, by modifying the FR secondary fluidization positions and changing the fluidizing air distribution it was possible to reduce the pressure unbalance and establish a stable solids exchange between the reactors. To that respect the system showed to be flexible and automatically adjusted the amount of solids in the downcomers to fulfil the overall pressure balance requirements. Acknowledgments This publication forms a part of the BIGCO2 project, performed under the strategic Norwegian research program Climit. The authors acknowledge the partners: Statoil, GE Global Research, Statkraft, Aker Clean Carbon, Shell, TOTAL, ConocoPhillips, ALSTOM, the Research Council of Norway (178004/I30 and 176059/I30) and Gassnova (182070) for their support. A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 455 References [1] ENCAP Deliverable D1.2.6, 2009. Power systems evaluation and benchmarking – Public version, URL: www.encapco2.org. [2] Bischi, A., Langørgen, Ø, Saanum, I., Bakken, J., Seljeskog, M., Bysveen, M., Morin, J.-X., Bolland, O., 2010. Design study of a 150kWth Double Loop Circulating Fluidized Bed reactor system for Chemical Looping Combustion with focus on industrial applicability and pressurization. Int. J. Greenhouse Gas Control., doi:10.1016/j.ijggc.2010.09.005. [3] Pröll, T., Ruspanovits, K., Kolbitsch, P., Bolhàr-Nordenkampf, J., Hofbauer, H., 2009. Cold flow model study on a dual circulating fluidized bed system for chemical looping processes. Chem. Eng. Technol. 32 (3), 418- 424. [4] Knowlton, T.M., Karri, S.B.R., Issangya, A., 2005. Scale-up of fluidized-bed hydrodynamics. Powder Technol. 150 (2), 72-77. [5] Lim, K.S., Zhu, J.X., Grace, J.R., 1995. Hydrodynamics of gas-solid fluidization. Int. J. Multiphase Flow. 21 (Suppl. 1), 141-193. [6] Geldart, D., 1973. Types of gas fluidization. Powder Technol. 7 (5), 285-292. [7] Baeyens, J., Geldart, D., Wu, S.Y., 1992. Elutriation of fines from gas fluidized beds of Geldart A-type powders – effect of adding superfines. Powder Technol. 71 (1), 71-80. [8] de Vos, W., Nicol, W., du Toit, E., 2009. Entrainment behaviour of high-density Geldart A powders with different shapes. Powder Technol. 190 (3), 297-303. [9] Bischi, A., Langørgen, Ø., Morin, J.-X., Bakken, J., Bysveen, M., Bolland, O., 2010. Design and performance of a full scale cold flow model of an innovative chemical looping combustion reactor system. In: 1 st International Conference on Chemical Looping, Lyon, France, http://www.ifp.com/actualites/evenements/congres-et-conferences/organises-par-ifp-energies nouvelles/rs- chemical-looping. [10] Nicolai, R., 1995. Experimentelle Untersuchungen zur Strömungsmechanik in einer hochexpandierten zirkulierenden Gas/Feststoff-Wirbelschicht. Ph.D. thesis, Eidigenössischen Technischen Hochschule (ETH), Zürich, Switzerland. [11] VGB PowerTech, 1994. Gas Distributor Plates in Fluidized Bed Systems. In: VGB PowerTech Service GmbH. Essen, Germany. [12] Shi, D., 1996. Fluiddynamik und Wärmeübergang in einer zirkulierenden Wirbeschicht. Ph.D. thesis, Eidigenössischen Technischen Hochschule (ETH), Zürich, Switzerland. [13] Goedicke, F., 1992. Strömungsmechanik und Wärmeübergang in zirkulierenden Wirbeschichten. Ph.D. thesis. Eidigenössischen Technischen Hochschule (ETH), Zürich, Switzerland. [14] Fassani, F.L., Goldstain, L.J., 2000. A study of the effect of high inlet solids loading on a cyclone separator pressure drop and collection efficiency. Powder Technol. 107 (1-2), 60-65. [15] Kunii, D., Levenspiel, O., 1997. Circulating fluidized-bed reactors. Chem. Eng. Sci. 52 (15), 2471-2482. [16] Basu, P., Butler, J., 2009. Studies on the operation of loop-seal in circulating fluidized bed boilers. Applied Energy. 86 (9), 1723-1731. [17] Kim, S.W., Namkung, W., Kim, S.D., 2001. Solid recycle characteristics of loop-seals in a circulating fluidized bed. Chem. Eng. Technol. 24 (8), 843-849. [18] Issangya, A.S., Bai, D., Bi, H.T., Lim, K.S., Zhu, J., Grace, J.R., 1999. Suspension densities in a high-density circulating fluidized bed riser. Chem. Eng Science. 54 (22), 5451-5460. [19] Geldart, D., Broodryk, N., Kerdoncuff, A., 1993. Studies on the flow of solids down cyclone diplegs. Powder Technol. 76 (2), 175-183. 456 A. Bischi et al. / Energy Procedia 4 (2011) 449–456 Paper III “Hydrodynamic viability of chemical looping processes by means of cold flow model investigation”, Applied Energy (2012), Article in press. doi:10.1016/J.apenergy.2011.12.051. Is not included due to copyright Paper IV “Double Loop Circulating Fluidized Bed reactor system for two reactions processes based on pneumatically controlled divided loop-seals and bottom extraction/lift”, Powder Technology (submitted). Is not included due to copyright 
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work_au2xz4oonbcljp5plqbqtuog3y	----	Microsoft Word - ubc_2011_spring_couture_selena.doc MARGO KANE’S CREATIVE AND COMMUNITY WORK: MOVING TOWARDS SOCIAL CHANGE by Selena Marie Couture Bachelor of Arts (Honours), Queen’s University 1990 Bachelor of Education, Queen’s University 1991 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in The Faculty of Graduate Studies (Theatre) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) April 2011 © Selena Marie Couture 2011 ii ABSTRACT This is a study of Margo Kane’s creative work – Memories Springing/Waters Singing, Moonlodge and Confessions of an Indian Cowboy – as well as her Vancouver- based community work – Full Circle First Nations Performance Company and their annual Talking Stick Festival. I examine how Kane’s creative and community work can be understood in terms of postcolonial theory of performance while also further illuminating that theory. I apply Emmanuel Levinas’ philosophical concepts of Totality and Infinity and the Saying and the Said to the content of her creative work as well as its publication. I use Édouard Glissant’s poetics of relation to explain her administrative style and creative choices, particularly in Confessions of an Indian Cowboy. Postcolonial theatrical concepts including Jacqueline Lo and Helen Gilbert’s model for interculturalism and Christopher Balme’s syncretic theatre lead to an investigation of the numerous forms of movement that Kane’s work demonstrates. Through analysis of the multiple published texts of her performances as well as of an interview I conducted with Kane on the founding and continuing administration of her company and the festival, I determine how the importance of movement in her work can help the shift from a colonial to a postcolonial society. iii PREFACE The UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Board – Human Ethics has approved this research. Certificate of Approval number: H10-01468. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT................................................................................................................................................... ii PREFACE......................................................................................................................................................iii TABLE OF CONTENTS........................................................................................................................... iv LIST OF TABLES.........................................................................................................................................v LIST OF FIGURES.....................................................................................................................................vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.........................................................................................................................vii DEDICATION ...........................................................................................................................................viii INTRODUCTION: Why/How Margo Kane and Postcolonial/Theatre?.............................1 CHAPTER ONE: Introducing Margo Kane....................................................................................11 CHAPTER TWO: Journeying to the Moonlodge ........................................................................17 CHAPTER THREE: Being on the Edge of a New Frontier: Confessions of an Indian Cowboy .........................................................................................................................................................32 CHAPTER FOUR: Speaking of Full Circle First Nations Performance and the Talking Stick Festival..............................................................................................................................................47 CONCLUSION: Spinning Back............................................................................................................66 WORKS CITED .........................................................................................................................................72 APPENDIX ONE: Kane Interview Script........................................................................................77 v LIST OF TABLES Table 1: Full Circle Federal Funding 2004-2009 ...........................................................................54 vi LIST OF FIGURES Figure 1: Lo and Gilbert's Proposed Model for Interculturalism..........................................8 vii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First, I would like to state my appreciation to Margo Kane, both for her inspirational work as well as her willingness to take time to engage in conversation with me. I would like to thank the faculty of the UBC Department of Theatre and Film for their encouragement and support, specifically the wisdom and guidance of Dr. Jerry Wasserman and the ready attention of Dr. Kirsty Johnston. I would also like to thank Dr. Sherrill Grace of the UBC English Department; although she did not work with me directly on this thesis she has been very supportive of my academic work. viii DEDICATION To my families… …my parents, Janet and Daniel Couture for a solid foundation on which to grow. …my Island family for their acceptance and unwavering support. …my chosen family of friends in Vancouver, particularly Verity Rolfe who talked me through seeing myself as a student again. …and to my dear partner, Matt, and daughters, Sadie and Daisy, always a steady source of love, curiousity and fun to bring me back to shore after swimming in a sea of ideas. 1 INTRODUCTION: Why/How Margo Kane and Postcolonial/Theatre? In 2006, when I returned to academic work after almost twenty years of teaching, I had not been following scholarly debates after the culture wars of the 1980s and ‘90s. I finished my undergraduate degree and had been busy working to create alternative learning environments for students within the public school system. The first course I took was Women in Theatre and Film at UBC, taught by Michelle La Flamme. She introduced me to the academic work that had been done to move past the political impasse that had arisen in the culture wars era: theorists like Trinh Minh-Ha who wrote of “Speaking Nearby”1 and Homi Bhabha’s conception of the third space of hybridity. As part of her course, we read Confessions of an Indian Cowboy by Margo Kane [Cree/Saulteaux]2. I investigated more of Kane’s work and found that she had been running a festival of contemporary aboriginal performing arts in Vancouver for a few years. I found the work to be compelling and a welcome remedy for the awkwardness I felt at being the recipient of displays of ‘traditional’ art for the touristic gaze. I felt that the importance of a festival of aboriginal art responded so well to Minh-Ha’s statement that “only in poetic language can one deal with meaning in a revolutionary way…as the stereotyped is not a false representation, but rather an arrested representation of a changing reality” (Chen 86). This understanding has led me to volunteer for the festival, research Kane’s career and eventually interview her. Among the things I have discovered, and the primary argument I want to make in this thesis, is that the 1 “[S]peaking that does not objectify, does not point to an object as if it is distant from the speaking subject or absent from the speaking place. A speaking that reflects on itself and can come very close to a subject without, however, seizing or claiming it. A speaking in brief, whose closures are only moments of transition opening up to other possible moments of transition” (Chen 87). 2 When an aboriginal person is mentioned for the first time, I will note his or her tribal affiliation in square brackets. 2 connecting thread through all of Kane’s work is movement: her creative process through physical movement of the body, movement between audience and performer, movement of meaning through textual instability and movement through social change. This thesis demonstrates how the importance of movement in her work can help develop the shift from a colonial to a postcolonial society. Before I discuss Kane’s work, however, I will explain what I mean by “postcolonial.” Canada’s place in the postcolonial discourse is not always assumed, nor is it clear why Kane’s work would be particularly linked with any notion of postcolonialism or theory developed by theatrical scholars. The postcolonial theoretical base I will be using is comprised of ethical philosophy by Emmanuel Levinas, the poetics of relation by Édouard Glissant, as well as Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo’s charting of cross-cultural theatrical encounters, and observations about syncretic theatre by Christopher Balme. The aim of my approach is, in the end, to illuminate both postcolonial theatre theory and the work of Margo Kane. In Postcolonial Studies, Canada is considered, along with Australia and New Zealand, a settler nation. Helen Gilbert, in her introduction to Postcolonial Plays, explains her inclusion of both settler and indigenous plays from Canada by saying that the indigenous plays “might be examined as products of dispossessed minorities in various stages of struggle to attain agency within ‘Western’ settler cultures,” that settler works that engage with imperialism are valuable for understanding the field, and “to exclude these texts would be to suggest that colonial relations impact only on the dispossessed” (2-3). Christopher Balme in his influential work Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-Colonial Drama also assumes the inclusion of North American and “Fourth World” indigenous cultures in the study of postcolonial theatre (2). 3 First, I will examine the larger field of postcolonial philosophy, then move to literary theory and finally address theory regarding postcolonial theatre. Emmanuel Levinas (1906-1995) was a Lithuanian-born French Jewish philosopher who endured the Nazi regime of World War II and much of his philosophy is about making sense of ethics in the post-holocaust world. In Totality and Infinity (1961) he argues that the belief in mastery or totality of understanding is the cause of violence. The acknowledgement of the infinite unknowability of the Other (or, as Levinas terms it, Infinity) and respect for it regardless of that unknown is the basis for ethical behaviour (Levinas 213). Jane Hiddleston asserts in Understanding Postcolonialism that Levinasian ethics are the basis for postcolonial ethics: “An awareness or acceptance of this overflow or excess at the moment of encounter is, for Levinas, the definition of ethics: it does not tell us how to be or act, but describes the fundamentally ethical nature of human encounter” (17). In Otherwise than Being (1974) Levinas discusses language, examining concepts that he calls the Said and the Saying. Hiddleston explains: The Saying is the excess of language, its openess and resistance to a single and restricted set of meaning. The Said, on the other hand, is the expression of an essence, a theme or content…Levinas argues that Western philosophy has traditionally been preoccupied with the Said…In privileging the Said, however, philosophy has chosen to ignore the omnipresent excess of the Saying…[which] constantly expands the potentially reductive and oppressive boundaries of the Said: “the Saying is both an affirmation and a retraction of the Said” (Levinas 1981: 44 in Hiddleston 19). Levinasian concepts of Totality and Infinity as well as the Said and the Saying are not in opposition to each other. Instead, “the ethical insistence on Infinity, or the Saying, is conceived alongside the apparent security of Totality or the Said. In both formulations, openess to excess is 4 the start of an ethical relation” (Hiddleston 19). This ethical philosophical stance can be used to support postcolonial thought about how to move forward in relation to others who are so different than oneself, particularly after a rupture or trauma brought on by the violence of the colonial project. Édouard Glissant’s poetry, fiction and essays have recently begun to be influential in postcolonial discourse. His work is acknowledged to be deeply about place and also, more recently, concerned with a “poetics of relating” that responds to the chaos of the modern world. Important concepts from Glissant’s works, as translated by J. Michael Dash, include the “root identity” that corresponds with Levinas’s Totality and the “rhizome identity” that can be considered similar to Infinity and the understanding of a constant work-in-progress (179). Glissant acknowledges that Deleuze and Guattari’s “rhizomatic thought is the principle behind what I call the Poetics of Relation,” noting that they “extol nomadism, which supposedly liberates Being” (Poetics of Relation 11). He goes on to argue that there are different types of nomadism, one which he calls “arrowlike,” which is not open to Otherness and is “a devastating desire for settlement” (12). In Celia Britton’s Édouard Glissant and postcolonial theory: strategies of language and resistance, she notes that in his work Le discours antillais Glissant criticizes Deleuze’s concept of the rhizome for ignoring the importance of otherness (Britton 187). In considering Glissant’s development of the rhizome concept, it is important to place his work in the Caribbean where the brutality of colonialism led to the genocide of the indigenous people and the importing of African slaves for labour. This trauma, while not replicated exactly in the Canadian aboriginal context, resonates nevertheless and makes Glissant’s formation of the poetics of relation with its emphasis on the Other and Opacity a better fit for my work with Kane than Deleuze and Guattari’s original work. Dash interprets “opacité/alterité” as “the give and 5 take of self-denial and self-affirmation and recognition of the other” (180). In Understanding Postcolonialism, Hiddleston comments on his particular addition to the postcolonial discourse: “Where Glissant can be seen to be unrivalled, however, is in the dynamism and expansiveness of his poetics and his conception of the value of that poetics independent of the political requirements of the (post)colony” (136). His focus on poetics as a freeing of the imagination as a precursor to political change can be useful in understanding Margo Kane’s work in the arts: her performances as well as her community work focusing on the creation of space for aboriginal people to work aesthetically. The form of cultural production recommended in Glissant’s Poetics of Relation is one that includes opacity and a straining against boundaries. It is also rhizomatic in form, privileging relationality, questioning the possession of territory and is open- ended in exploration. Glissant has written poetry and essays about theatre and he also acknowledges in his poetics of relation the importance of orality. He proposes, “the written is the universalizing influence of Sameness, whereas the oral would be the organized manifestation of Diversity” (Glissant 1989: 100). His conception of orality allows for a spontaneity in relation with the listener, a response. This makes his work valuable in the consideration of live theatre. There are many connections to be explored between Glissant’s thought and Kane’s work. His concern with grounding in a specific place, his conception of an intercultural experience, the understanding of creative work as always in process, the importance of orality and his recognition of the political in his poetics of relation all make his theoretical work relevant to my study of Kane. I now turn to considerations of postcolonial studies in theatre. My focus on Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo’s essay, “Toward a Topography of Cross-Cultural Theatre Praxis” (2002), will help to explain how Margo Kane’s work can be considered postcolonial intercultural syncretic 6 theatre. I will also outline the theory of postcolonial syncretic theatre production discussed by Christopher Balme in Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-Colonial Drama (1999). Jacqueline Lo and Helen Gilbert’s essay maps out a framework for consideration of cross-cultural theatre. They begin by dividing the category of cross-cultural theatre into three sub-categories: multicultural can be a state-sponsored or grassroots effort to respond to the plurality of culture; it also often fetishizes the authentic and is used to gain cultural capital and recognition by disenfranchised groups (33); postcolonial includes particular textual or performative features and questions “cultural hegemony that underlies imperial systems of governance, education, social and economic organization, and representation” (35); intercultural concerns itself mainly with the aesthetics of cultural transfer (44). Where does Margot Kane’s work fit into the framework that Lo and Gilbert have structured in their essay? Their description of multicultural theatre which is not cross-cultural does in some ways seem to fit with Kane’s work and audience: “[it] tends to be monocultural; it is staged for and by a specific ethnic community… [and] tend[s] to focus on narratives about origin and loss” (34). They also define community theatre as engaged with social concerns of specific communities resistant to the dominant culture. The constitution of the performance group and the subject matter may be organized around common interests (such as gender, ethnicity, or shared social experiences) or defined in terms of geographical location. Multicultural community theatre generally incorporates a range of languages and cultural resources, including performing traditions, drawn from the community. Community arts workers are often employed to facilitate the work and the performances are typically presented back to the community as well as to “outsiders.” 7 Cross-cultural negotiations therefore occur at a number of levels in this type of theatre. (34-5) Both of these descriptions could be seen as applicable to Kane’s performances as well as her community work. But I think that her work fits better with Lo and Gilbert’s description of postcolonial syncretic theatre that “aims to retain the cultural integrity of the specific materials used while forging new texts and theatre practices…[and] tends to highlight rather than disguise shifts in the meaning, function, and value of cultural fragments as they are moved from their traditional contexts” (35-6). Lo and Gilbert assert that this is a common strategy of aboriginal theatre artists in their “larger agenda of cultural recuperation” (36). Lo and Gilbert also offer a critique of Patrice Pavis’ hourglass model of intercultural theatre from Theatre at the Crossroads of Culture as too unidirectional. The downward flow from source culture to target culture does not adequately take into account the back and forth of a cross-cultural exchange (43). They propose instead a model that is horizontal and includes two source cultures on either side of a disc called the “Process for Target Culture” which spins both centrifugally and centripetally on the sociopolitical strings attaching it to the source cultures (45) (see Fig. 1). This model is a better representation (than Pavis’) of a collaborative exchange that happens between cultures rather than an imperialistic exchange that results in cultural appropriation and further domination. 8 Figure 1: Lo and Gilbert's Proposed Model for Interculturalism Source: Jacqueline Lo and Helen Gilbert, “Toward a Topography of Cross-Cultural Theatre Praxis”, (The Drama Review 46:3, 2002) 45. Lo and Gilbert also emphasize the importance of a postcolonial stance in intercultural work, such that questions about individual and collective power can be addressed. They propose asking questions such as, “Whose economic and/or political interests are being served? How is the working process represented to the target audience, and why? Who is the target audience and how can differences be addressed within this constituency? How does a specific intercultural event impact on the wider sociopolitical environment?” (44). The most relevant question for this study is regarding the intercultural event and its impact on the sociopolitical environment. 9 In their discussion of postcolonial theatre, Lo and Gilbert cite Christopher Balme as a key theorist on syncretic theatre (36, 50). Balme defines the term “syncretic theatre” as an aesthetic phenomenon that takes place during a time of cultural interaction and change. It is different from theatre that appropriates from a source culture because of its respect for the cultural text and its maintenance of a precisely defined cultural meaning (3-5). Balme uses the term ‘dominant code’ -- the assumed code by which a spectator generates meaning. He asserts that in syncretic theatre one should watch for shifting of the dominant code, e.g., dialogic (or spoken words) in a drama becoming kinesic (or movement-based), and then examine why and when the shift took place and how it affects meaning-making (6). He also explains the importance of didascalia – everything in the written text that is not spoken by the performer. Balme notes this is present in much post-colonial writing as the author/playwright attempts to make the cultural text less strange. In a dramatic text or performance this includes much more than the stage directions: it can also be the glossaries, footnotes, forewords or culturally specific explanations (7). Balme contextualizes his use of the concept of syncretism by explaining that it was once considered the creation of impure, less valuable work (or spirituality when applied to religious thinking) that needed to be guarded against. Now it is considered a creative process of global cultural exchange, akin to Mikhail Bakhtin’s ‘heteroglossia’. In the postcolonial world, there is no longer a clear separation of cultures with an original, authentic culture to be reified. Syncretization can be considered similar to Glissant’s ‘creolization’ or Bhabha’s ‘hybridity’ which “recogniz[es] the fundamentally hybrid constitution of self and culture” (Balme 12). 10 Balme identifies syncretic theatre’s specific recurring elements: ritualization – the use of ritual, the interruption of it and/or the use of the liminal space around a ritual3; strategies of language use – the use of multiple languages translated and un-translated, relexification by the playwright (writing/thinking in one language and then changing to another for the script or performance), creolization; the use of the actor’s body – through dance, movement, masking; music; and experiments with performance space. His interest in analysing syncretic theatre is both to document what he considers an important movement in twentieth century theatre and to examine the ways in which syncretic theatre “questions some fundamental principles of Western theatre aesthetics” (23-4). In consideration of Kane’s performance and community work, I will be using concepts from Levinas – Totality and Infinity, the Saying and the Said – as well as Glissant’s poetics of relation that are rhizomatic in form and privilege relationality. Balme’s observations about the dominant shift, didascalia, ritual, use of language, and body in postcolonial theatre will also be useful in examining Kane’s performance work. I will also consider Lo and Gilbert’s questions of power relations and their model for interculturalism. My study includes her work both on and off stage; therefore it is important that I look at more than just postcolonial theories of performance, I must also consider her work in the larger sociopolitical context of late 20th and early 21st century Canada. 3 Activities or dialogue that occur at the same time as a ritual, which can then create a new context for it. 11 CHAPTER ONE: Introducing Margo Kane In 1982, Prairie Theatre Exchange in Winnipeg mounted the first staging of the Canadian play The Ecstasy of Rita Joe that utilized an all-aboriginal cast; Margo Kane played Rita Joe (Charlesbois np). Twenty-six years later, in 2008, Margo Kane won a Jessie Richardson Award for best supporting actress (“Dynamic and Diverse”) for her performance as June in Where the Blood Mixes by Kevin Loring [Nlakapmux]4. The play went on to win multiple awards in 2009– in Vancouver, a Jessie Richardson Award for Outstanding Original Script and the Sydney J. Risk Prize for Outstanding Original Script by an Emerging Playwright, and nationally, the Governor General’s Literary Award for Drama (“Where the Blood Mixes”). In the years between these two significant events in Canadian aboriginal theatre history, Kane has created and performed acclaimed solo shows Moonlodge (1990) and Confessions of an Indian Cowboy (1998). She has also been instrumental in the production of aboriginal contemporary arts through her company Full Circle First Nations Performance (FCFNP), established in Vancouver in 1992, and its annual Talking Stick Festival (TSF), established in 2001 (“Talking Stick Festival – History”). Kane was born in Edmonton, Alberta in 1951, adopted into a white family and raised without connection to her aboriginal heritage. She studied at Edmonton’s Grant MacEwan College for Performing Arts, Banff School of Fine Arts and Circle in the Square Theater in New York City. Her career has spanned over forty years and she continues to be respected as an important figure in Canadian aboriginal theatre: she has long-term connections with Native Earth Performing Arts in Toronto, which staged Moonlodge in 1990, and was one of a number of aboriginal theatre artists who established the Indigenous Performing Arts Alliance in 2004 4 The play opened in Vancouver on the same night as the historic apology from the government of Canada to aboriginal people for residential schools. 12 (“IPPA – History”). She is also influential in Vancouver: The Georgia Straight, a local alternative weekly, consulted her in a 2008 interview on the state of the arts in Vancouver, along with only two others: Robert Kerr (program director for the Cultural Olympiad, former director of Coastal Jazz and Blues society) and Kathleen Bartel (director of the Vancouver Art Gallery) (Lynch and Werb). In his 2009 essay in Canadian Theatre Review, “Poetry, Remnants and Ruins: Aboriginal Theatre in Canada,” Floyd Favel5, a well-established Cree/Saulteaux theatre artist and writer, describes his despair regarding the ongoing work of creating an aboriginal theatre within the middle class Canadian theatre scene (32-3). He opens the essay, however, by describing his experience watching a performance at the 2009 Talking Stick Festival, where he was “brought back to one of the reasons I went into theatre, to express our culture and the beauty of our people.” This experience inspires him to write about theatre again (31). Kane’s work on stage had an important influence on the beginnings of American aboriginal theatre in the late 1980’s: Marcie Rendon [White Earth/Anishnabe], a theatre artist working in Minneapolis-Saint Paul, in an essay published in Performing Worlds into Being: Native American Women’s Theater (2009), describes seeing Margo Kane perform: this was the first time she saw a Native woman on stage and it compelled her to pursue theatre-making in communities. Rendon then explains the importance of members of the Native community viewing performers like themselves in order to find their own voices (138-40). These are a few of the most recent references to Kane’s work on stage and in the aboriginal theatre community by colleagues and media. They help reinforce the influence of her work nationally, internationally and locally. 5 Over his career, Floyd Favel is sometimes referred to as Floyd Favel-Starr. His most recent publication uses the surname Favel, which I will as well to avoid confusion. 13 To begin this study of Kane’s work and to begin to contextualize it within the broader analysis of postcolonial aesthetics, I will first focus on a performance art piece that she created in Banff in August 1992, Memories Springing/Waters Singing. The piece is recorded through Joane Cardinal-Schubert’s reflections on the performance (as requested by Kane) which was part of a series in Banff called As Public as Race. Cardinal-Schubert had worked with Kane on a forum in Vancouver about the appropriation of aboriginal art and voice. She starts with a biography of Kane and explains Kane’s practice of inviting First Nations people from the area where she is performing to participate in the work as well. The performance at Banff included a videotaped search for a source of water up a mountain to a glacier in Banff National Park, which she then developed and edited to be displayed on four video monitors placed on the floor of a lodge with lodgepole pines overhead. Viewers interact with the space and view the videos and then Kane enters as an old woman carrying sticks, puts them down and then returns with a stick and a pail of elk dung. She empties the pail and stirs it with the stick, focuses on it. She then leaves, coming back a few minutes later with a pail of water that she empties. She enters again later, pulling a travois, and sits among the audience members. Duane Mark, a member of the Stoney tribe located in the Banff area, enters with a drum and eagle whistle. He speaks in English and Stoney and eventually says that the camp needs to be moved. The audience members then dismantle the lodge, each picking up a piece of it and carrying it outside to a clearing where it is reassembled. Cardinal-Schubert comments on the humour of the work and the lack of laughter from the audience: “out of fear of seeming disrespectful. They have forgotten, perhaps, that this is a performance piece and not a ceremonial cultural ritual” (Kane and Cardinal-Schubert 16). Once the lodge is reassembled, Mark sings and Kane, crowned with roots and wearing a buffalo robe, enters the area, responding in song. She removes the robe and begins to drum and 14 sing. All audience members are asked to drink water from a pail passed clockwise, acknowledging the water. Kane then tells stories of her childhood, her aunt buying her an Indian doll, driving a station wagon like her father’s. She explains her connections with the Stoney people and her creative process at Banff, during which she reconnected with the land and brought pieces of it inside to her studio. She drums, sings and then pulls items out of her bag and gives them to people who have contributed to her work. The audience members then also give and receive items while Kane sings. The performance ends with a feast of smoked salmon, fruit and bread. It is essential to note that this text is an account by an audience member, albeit one who is in a privileged position as a colleague of Kane’s, but nevertheless a viewer of the performance. Therefore this cannot be considered a fixed text of the script of the performance but instead a response to the experience. Cardinal-Schubert explains the methods of Kane’s work: Margo Kane’s relentless search for the beginning of the glacier might serve as a metaphor for her search for self – a metaphor she transfers to each viewer. They then singularly participate in the struggle to understand from their position as viewer, fellow performer and partner, the shared ritualistic ceremonialism of deconstruction and reconstruction represented in the symbolic tearing down and rebuilding of both perceived reality and imposed reality of the experience. (6) Kane’s performance art piece is a little known work, preserved through the museum’s publication of Cardinal-Schubert’s reflections. I am intrigued by the way this piece exemplifies Balme’s observations about the use of ritual in syncretic theatre, particularly the interruption of it and the use of the liminal space beside the ritual. I also find an interesting resonance with lines in 15 Glissant’s poem, “Movement, Far From Shores: Theater”: “The rain/Having scolded just as at the moment of the curtain/Begins its dialogue with earth, of water” (Collected Poems 49); both pieces focus on the use of water as enabling dialogue between distinct elements. This dialogue starts at the moment when Mark announces that the camp needs to be moved and the audience must work together to dismantle and reassemble the lodge structure, surprising and possibly even disturbing the audience in it suddenness. This is a performance art piece, and so less constrained by the conventions of theatre but this part of the performance not only breaks the fourth wall but also expects the audience to pick up the theatrical staging and move it. This is a clear example of Kane’s aesthetic use of movement to change audience expectations and perceptions. In introducing Margo Kane, I have established her current status as a senior artist in aboriginal performance in Canada and considered her work in Banff for its connection to the larger theme of movement I will trace throughout this thesis. Although Kane’s work has generated significant academic discussion, this overarching theme has yet to be fully considered, This is in part, I believe, due to a focus thus far on her performances over her off-stage work. In the next two chapters I will be examining some significant academic discussion concerning her work, which frames it as either postcolonial “writing back”, discusses it in semiotic terms as a discursive shifting of the gaze or considers the importance of her “soma text” in terms of hybridity theory. Missing from the academic discussion is a documentation and analysis of the infrastructure creation, community support and aboriginal ensemble theatre training that Kane has done since establishing Full Circle First Nations Performance in 1992. Chapters two and three will discuss the reverberations of Levinasian ethics, Glissant’s poetics of relation and Balme’s syncretic theatre while tracing the concept of movement in her creative work. Connections between Lo and Gilbert’s theory of intercultural theatre and Kane’s community 16 work that can be considered an artistic movement for social change will be the topic of chapter four. 17 CHAPTER TWO: Journeying to the Moonlodge In Kane’s published plays, Moonlodge and Confessions of an Indian Cowboy, as well as in her performance art piece, Memories Springing, Waters Singing, she performs alone, embodying multiple characters, incorporating song, dance and movement. Solo works are not unusual in Canadian theatre – the small size of the production makes it easier and less expensive to stage and therefore makes sense in a country of such vast size and limited cultural spending. Yet the solo nature of her shows cannot be simply understood as expedient. She is a woman performing alone, physically shifting between characters and giving voice to their perspectives. This is an example of Levinas’ concept of infinity – the multiple and unending perspectives that exist in the world. In her plays, she also makes great use of humour, not just to share the pleasure of laughter with her audience but to invite them into the stories she is presenting. This is one of the ways the works can also be considered in terms of Glissant’s relational identity. Moonlodge, in particular, is a description of a search for identity, which in the end is created through the connections between women. Moonlodge premiered at the Women in View festival in Vancouver in 1990 and then opened Toronto’s Native Earth Performing Arts 1990-91 season (Kane “From the Centre” 27, 29). It has subsequently been performed across the US, Canada, Europe and Australia (“Full Circle - Performances”). The play opens with the sounds of women talking and laughing in Cree and English. Agnes, the main character, speaks about first being invited into the lodge by a woman named Millie. She then flashes back to her childhood and remembers trying to get a bird out of the house with her mother. She embodies her mother, father and herself as a child, helping to make frybread for a family party. Her father speaks about resistance to the state and is taken away. Agnes is then also removed from the family in a scene depicting a frightening struggle: 18 there is a horrible image of Agnes beating against the car window as she is taken away – with movement to mimic the trapped bird earlier in the scene. The dominant code shifts from spoken drama or dialogue to silent movement, indicating the lack of words to express the pain. Sometimes, if something is not spoken or cannot be spoken, then it cannot be communicated to others and therefore people can pretend it did not happen. Agnes’ silent movement at this moment gives more power to the horror and trauma of the incident and heightens the communication. Agnes moves from foster home to foster home until a woman named Aunt Sophie takes her in. Aunt Sophie is a no-nonsense, outspoken woman who embarrasses Agnes as she talks to people in the town yet also cares for her until she graduates high school. With Aunt Sophie Kane introduces humour, as Sophie compares Agnes joining Brownies to her learning about her tribal heritage. The Brownies and the “Indian” songs sung are the introduction to cultural stereotypes of aboriginal people. Agnes sings, in quick succession, Girl Guide songs “My Paddle” and “Land of the Silver Birch,” Hank Williams’ “Kaw-Liga” and Johnny Preston’s 1960 hit “Running Bear.” She brings attention and a critique couched in humour to the stereotypes of aboriginal women as savage, tragic, subservient and sexy. She says she prefers sexy. She talks about not knowing any Indian people growing up, having a crush on a boy from a reserve who drops out of school. Once she graduates from high school, she decides to go to California – it is the 60s and that is where all the action is. She tells Aunt Sophie that she loves her and leaves. Agnes gets into trouble on the road hitchhiking. She manages to get out of the first creepy ride without harm. The second encounter shows her romantic youth and naivety by having her get involved with a guy because of his shiny expensive motorbike. She is expecting love but gets raped. The rape scene is performed while the Agnes character sings “in a high soprano” the 19 romantic song from My Fair Lady, “On the Street Where You Live”. The juxtaposition of the young woman enamored of the muscular biker thinking they will have some loving physical contact and the brutal rape as she sings verses of this song is a powerful and poignant illustration of the loss of innocence. It can be seen as an indictment of the concept of romantic love as promoted by cultural norms that do not prepare women for reality. The song also makes the violent act being committed seem even more horrible. After the rape scene she simply says, “Somehow I made it to Santa Fe,” as she crawls away (Kane 1994 97). In Santa Fe she meets Indians selling their artwork. She follows a man in blue cowboy boots who turns out to be an Indian activist named Lance. In discussing his political views, Lance echoes her father’s words right before he was taken away. Lance is on his way to a powwow and takes Agnes along. She is welcomed and dances. She meets a woman named Millie who gives her an eagle plume and helps her understand the importance of finding her family. The play ends with Agnes telling of a dream that she has had of driving in a car with a bird trapped in it. She stops the car and then wraps the bird up and cradles it like a baby. The bird could be considered a metaphor for her sense of self – delicate, easily broken, frightened when caged but able to fly if free. The final image is of her comforting herself, holding herself close. An examination of the publications of the text of Moonlodge highlights the ongoing nature of Kane’s work. The first published version of the play is in the 1992 An Anthology of Canadian Native Literature in English, edited by Daniel David Moses [Delaware] and Terry Goldie. Published by Oxford University Press, the anthology is a scholarly text and includes forty-three writers dating from 1742 to 1992 as well as some undated traditional songs and orature. There is no introduction to Moonlodge in this edition but there is a short biography of Kane in the “Notes on Authors” section. In it she is described as an “actor, singer, 20 choreographer, director and teacher” and it lists some of her work, including playing the title role in The Ecstasy of Rita Joe (378). The next edition of the anthology, published in 1998, includes fifty-nine writers. The text of the play is unchanged but her biography is expanded to include a short introduction to her work as a multidisciplinary artist, and quotes her explaining her creative process: I wanted to perform scripts that spoke to my humanity both as a Native contemporary woman and as an artist. I began experimenting with style and technique using storytelling methods learned from formal Western theatre and drawing on my experiences of story telling in the Native community, formal and informal events. (Kane 1998 507) The biography ends by emphasizing that she performs in rural and urban Native communities and that her work is “socially relevant” and “empowering” (507). In the third edition of the anthology, published in 2005 and slightly expanded to include sixty writers, the text still remains unchanged but the biography of Kane which was at the end of the anthology, in the “Notes on Authors” section, is now included as an introduction to the play, making much more of a presence of her voice in explaining the context of her work. That there has been no change in the text of the play over the thirteen years since the first edition of the anthology makes it seem a fixed, static text, although, as an examination of another version shows, this is not so. Moonlodge was also published in a collection called Singular Voices: Plays in Monologue Form, edited by Tony Hamill (1994). The introduction to the play includes a biography of Margo Kane, which describes her work traveling to rural and urban Native communities in Canada. It also mentions her initiation of a forum in Vancouver, “Telling Our Own Story: Appropriation and Indigenous Writers/Artists,” as well as her work on the Racial Equality and First People’s Advisory Committees for Canada Council. It highlights the recent 21 formation of her company, Full Circle: First Nations Performance, and The River-Home video/performance installation. It notes that her work is to be included in the Smithsonian Institute’s inaugural exhibition for the new National Museum of the American Indian. This version includes a playwright’s preface to the play explaining the Children’s Aid practice of “scooping” children and the importance to many Native people of finding their “way home” (79). “It is hoped that Moonlodge will be a part of the healing of our people. We have survived tremendous losses with a sense of humour, dignity and honour. We are capable of determining our own future and that of our children” (80). The biographical introduction also includes a description of the creative process that led to the development of the script: mainly, that it was an oral story performed many times with input from multiple directors before it was finally scripted in 1990 for the Native Earth Performing Arts Festival in Toronto. Kane describes it as a joyful and traumatic experience. I never considered myself a writer before this experience. I was a storyteller, animator, actor, cultural worker; so the challenge of writing and clarifying the intention of the work evolved through the years of performing it…asking ‘how many stories can you possibly tell at once?’ (81) She then describes Moonlodge as a “living, breathing piece of work” (81). The script in the 1994 version is longer – the opening moment includes more women in the moonlodge and explains that it is a place where only women come for their moontime (menstrual period). This script moves into the bird incident with her mother through references to a ‘eating like a bird’ and a branch fluttering against the teepee. It is changed from the earlier version’s more humourous entrance where Agnes awkwardly enters, excusing herself, looking for Millie, and where Millie’s hands are described as busy like a fluttering bird. 22 In the scene where Agnes leaves home, Aunt Sophie catches her before she can go and Agnes must speak directly to her. In the first version she leaves a note and calls from the road. This makes some sense because if Aunt Sophie is being portrayed as a powerful pushy woman, it is unlikely that she would let Agnes go easily. Changing the scene to have Agnes say her goodbye in person significantly changes the dynamic between the two women and the characterization of Agnes. The leave-taking in person is more respectful to Aunt Sophie, giving her a chance to try to influence Agnes’ decision and also accept it. In the end this strengthens the bond between them, making it possible for Agnes to return to Sophie’s home someday. The scene also strengthens Agnes’ character, showing her standing up to a powerful woman to get what she wants. There are also a few changes in the songs being sung in different places – “Kaw-Liga” now follows the “Running Bear” song. Kane has also added John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” right after Agnes leaves Aunt Sophie, giving a bit more of a sense that she is somewhat sad to go. The stage directions now say, “AGNES gets her suitcase and begins to sing, trying to decide what to do” (Kane 1994 93). When she gets picked up by Lance and asks him about the eagle feather on his rearview mirror, the line in the first published text was: “Then Lance tells me it was given to him. You can’t buy eagle feathers. They have to be given to you. The eagle is a very sacred bird, a messenger. You can’t go out and shoot an eagle for its feathers. The eagle will leave them for you” (Kane 1992 345). In the second version, she notes the eagle feather and says, “I thought I’d sure like to have an eagle feather like that someday” (Kane 1994 99). This cut makes the eagle feather a subtler dramatic symbol and then when Millie gives her the plume at the end, it is more about a personal connection rather than a traditional ritual. This change is interesting. It perhaps 23 indicates Kane’s stepping away from explaining traditional symbols and assuming that the audience that already knows about such things will understand the significance of the eagle feather gift and the audience that does not know will have a different experience. When she goes to sleep in the back of Lance’s truck after dancing at the powwow, in the second version she is afraid of him: “She lays down facing DS, afraid of him” and “She lays with eyes open listening for his every move” (101). She falls asleep only after he has left the truck. In the first version Lance leaves her alone in the truck. I noticed when reading the first version that Agnes did not seem to be afraid of Lance, even though the biker had just raped her. It seemed strange to me, but I decided it was meant to show that either Lance was a good man or that she felt safe at the powwow. Leaving out the fear does make the rape seem like it is not resonating with the character – or that she is in denial about it. In this second version, having the character feel afraid even while enjoying herself at the powwow is a more subtle portrayal of the gender dynamics within aboriginal communities. It also shows Agnes learning from her experiences when Lance invites her to another powwow but she declines (Kane 1994 105). The final scene in the moonlodge in the second version is more like the opening in the first version, with her awkwardly entering the lodge and looking for Millie. She does still share her dream about the trapped bird but the last lines are changed. There is an addition of some description of the moonlodge and Millie’s welcoming line happens at the end instead of before her dream. In the first version, having the dream speech at the end keeps the focus on Agnes’ reconnection with her fragile self. In the second version, Agnes recounts her dream with much more description and awareness of the women surrounding her in the lodge. The play then ends with Millie saying, “Welcome my girl. Welcome to the circle” (Kane 1994 107), cutting the line “We are grateful and thank the Higher Power that you are here” (Kane 1992 291). This change 24 brings focus on Agnes’ development of self as a part of a community of women and allows for a non-religious reading of the circle. In Birgit Däwes’ book Native North American Theater in a Global Age: Sites of Identity Construction and Transdifference (2007), she proposes in her discussion of Kane’s Moonlodge that the lack of specific time and place in the moonlodge “transcend[s] various borderlines of ethnic, national, tribal, and pan-tribal communities…extending the temporal dimension into present, past and timelessness” (229). She acknowledges that it is possible to read the moonlodge as a place of gender construction and the sharing of gender-related knowledge (234- 35), yet she also proposes that while at first glance Moonlodge seems to replace the boundaries of tribal affiliation with a gender-oriented circle coded as traditionally indigenous, its structural and semiotic inclusiveness and the multiplicity of its meanings simultaneously subvert such exceptionalism. Instead Agnes’ identity is presented as an ongoing process of negotiation and dialogue…However the boundaries of this community are drawn much less by social and political labels, entities and institutions than by the performative choices of its members. It is the sharing of one’s stories rather than ethnic or tribal ties that widens the circle. (Däwes 239) I disagree with her assertion that the membership in the circle is open to anyone who is willing to share stories. I do agree with her that Kane’s lack of specificity in time and space makes the moonlodge into a metaphor, but I think that, particularly in light of the revisions to the script in 1994, Kane’s focus is on women supporting each other in forming community. The second version is more focused on the women’s community and also portrays the male characters as more dangerous. The first version is more clearly about Agnes’ development 25 as a person. The second has her developing within the context of the important women in her life, specifically: making the leave-taking with Aunt Sophie more tender, changing the way she tells Millie about being taken away from her family when she first meets her, and then having her joining an existing circle of women at the end. Kane’s changes to her script reflect an important theme in postcolonial philosophy. Many works developed for the stage go through multiple versions usually indicating that the work is still in process. Kane’s changes to Moonlodge show the development of the work. I also believe that these differences between the published texts can be linked with Levinas’ concepts of the Saying and the Said. A published script is an example of the Said in that it has the stability of text – particularly the scholarly Oxford University Press anthology. Once the works are compiled, if the editors do not re-engage with the playwright, they may not be changed in a subsequent edition. The text gains status as original, unchanging and in some ways as a piece of history. A live performance is more ephemeral and much more responsive in the present. This trace of the responsive, enabling readers to see the changes in the text, is an indication of the present and ‘sayingness’ of Kane’s Moonlodge, and its status, as she says in the preface to the 1994 edition, as “a living breathing piece of work” (81). Not only does Kane respond to her audience by revising her creative work, but she also has engaged in a dialogue with the critical community writing about her work. In Monique Mojica’s introduction to the 1991 special issue of Canadian Theatre Review dedicated to Native Theatre in the Americas, she explains that the articles have been commissioned from within the Native theatre community, “in the firm belief that we are articulate enough to talk about our own work, analyze our own trends, and interpret our own symbols” (3). Kane contributed to this special issue and was also active at this time in advocating for the re-centering of aboriginal 26 people in their own work as described in Terrie Hamazaki’s article for Kinesis, “Women in View: Who’s telling whose story?” in March 1990. The article covers a panel on cultural appropriation that is part of the 1990 Women in View festival. It discusses “orientalizing”, “othering”, and quotes qualitative studies about visible and audible minorities on Canadian television and the Vancouver Arts Club stage. Hamazaki then quotes Kane directly: Native actor Margo Kane asked, ‘who’s telling whose story?’ She described how her life experiences had given her ‘fuel-for-fire’ to risk making changes and related an instance when a non-native woman who had been more successful at getting the role of a Native character asked Kane, as her understudy, to teach her to play this role. “I’m angry…I can’t articulate my anger…we have to do our own representation…and tell our own stories in our own ways,” said Kane. She added that Native communities wanted solidarity rather than help from others in their struggles to achieve self-determination. (16) Clearly Kane is working both creatively and politically to engage with discussions of how to make changes so that intercultural work can happen without further damage to aboriginal people. Kane’s contribution to Mojica’s Canadian Theatre Review issue was “From the Centre of the Circle the Story Emerges,” a description of the process she used to create and perform Moonlodge. In it she explains the importance of her relationships with women: It was the women at the centre of the Native community, strong and enduring women, who provided me with answers to questions not yet formulated and ones that plagued my senses. They showed me it was possible to survive genocidal attempts on their lives with dignity and sensitivity and humour. (27) 27 She explains that Moonlodge was created from improvisation workshops with Floyd Favel and then re-worked and directed numerous times before being written down as a script. She also explains the importance of oral storytelling: “Without a written script, I told the story over and over… It was a method not without its trauma. I loved to improvise, yet I didn’t have the trust in myself as yet to think I could really hold an audience for an hour all by myself” (27). She defines the play clearly as a provocative performance rather than a polemic: “Moonlodge is not about providing answers. It reveals no secrets of ancient rites of passage. It doesn’t tell all! It is performance, a demonstration of survival” (29). She also identifies the spirit in which she offers the work and how she believes it should be accepted: Sitting around a fire in the high desert mountains, watching for shooting stars, is a perfect time for storytelling. It can be a sober time when people release those stories they have held close to their chest for a long time. It is not a time for prying for more juicy details, for questions that bore deep into another’s personal vulnerability at their expense. It is a time to listen with awe and respect to mysteries of ancestors and dreams that challenge one’s intellect. It is a time to listen with your entire being, especially your heart. It is a time to feel privileged that they want to share with you… You may not understand but you respect the effort it has taken the storytellers to reveal themselves to you. (29 italics mine) What strikes me most about this article is how Kane is willing to be vulnerable in describing the process. She mentions her fears, explains that the creation of the play was an oral process and that she had anxiety about her writing. She credits the people who helped her process the work to the point that she could write it. She wants the story to be recognized as an offering of a 28 vulnerable self – given in reciprocation for other stories offered and with the hope of inspiring confidence in others to speak. Kane’s “From the Centre the Story Emerges” has since been republished and quoted in works about her and Moonlodge, most recently in the 2006 books Feminist Theatre and Performance and Theatre in British Columbia, both part of the Critical Perspectives in Canadian Theatre series published by Playwrights Canada Press. Susan Bennett in her essay “Diversity and Voice: A Celebration of Canadian Women Writing for Performance” includes a description of Margo Kane’s Moonlodge in the section of the essay on “Performing Women.” She notes that the piece has been performed in theatres in Toronto, Banff and Vancouver but also in Native and Inuit communities across Canada. She also includes the lengthy quote from Kane describing the experience of sitting with people in a circle, each person offering something of themselves. Bennett describes Kane’s work as an “invitation to listen – a contract from which we might learn much” (89). There is a difference in her handling of Kane’s work in this article compared to the analysis she offers of other women writers. She limits her analysis and mainly quotes Kane’s article – clearly indicating that she wishes to allow Kane to speak for herself. The largest quote in the article is the one I have just cited from Kane’s description of her work and Bennett’s only comment is: “Notions of land and place are so crucial to Native beliefs and practice, and Kane’s Moonlodge marks those connections as a powerful performative, one that is offered as a gift to her nation” (87). Kane’s article and the quotes from her used to introduce Moonlodge in the different anthologies and in the critical works are examples of her efforts to place her work in a specific sociopolitical environment – that of a postcolonial indigenous woman who is both a creative artist and a critic. She is clearly concerned with “cultural hegemony that underlies imperial 29 systems of governance, education, social and economic organization, and representation” (Lo and Gilbert 35). In some ways her work is targeted at an audience with shared concerns of gender, ethnicity and resistance to the dominant culture. Moonlodge does, however, highlight rather than disguise shifts in traditional meaning, function and the value of cultural fragments – as in the moments of cultural appropriation at the powwow by what Lance calls the “Wannabee” tribe or when Agnes represents the various stereotypes of Indians based on misunderstood cultural fragments. The reclaiming of cultural fragments is also noticed by Renate Eigenbrod in her discussion of Moonlodge in “Evangeline, Hiawatha and a Jewish Cemetery: Hi/stories of Interconnected and Multiple Displacements,” published in 2002 in the Journal of Postcolonial Writing. She seeks to understand “the complex relationship between the material reality of displacements in the hi/story of …Acadians, Aboriginal people of North America and Jewish people – and their discursive significance in the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow” by identifying a “sentimental racism” and an “extinction discourse” in Longfellow’s work (101). She uses Kane’s Moonlodge as an example of “writing back” to Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha. Eigenbrod contextualizes Kane’s play about the search for identity, explaining that colonization led to a “double displacement,” meaning the loss of land as well as the removal of children from families (110). She recognizes the importance of a single actor performing all the characters as emphasizing the complex identity construction of Agnes, the main character (110). Kane, she says, [e]xposes the phoniness of depictions of “Indians” in imaginary constructs by writers like Longfellow and, at the same time, she accepts all of these as part of her story and history…[This] all-inclusive identity construction in [her] narrative may be considered 30 another strategy of ‘writing back’, re-framing disempowering and fragmenting experiences of colonization in a world view of interrelatedness. (111) In this critical analysis of Longfellow, it is not enough to identify the racism of his work, but also the effects of his well circulated writing which promoted an “extinction discourse” (101) as well as the colonialist fantasy of “auto-genocide” (Brantlinger in Eigenbrod 107). Eigenbrod explains, using the contemporary artistic voices of colonized people, that although the scholar can identify this problem, these artists have already responded in their own ways. I find her focus on Kane’s accepting of history and the inclusive nature of her identity-construction to be useful in understanding the nuances of the play, with its one actor playing several characters in order to explore and appropriate, using humour and sarcasm, pervasive stereotypes of First Nations people. I consider Eigenbrod’s article an example of a literary analysis of Kane’s text, which through a close reading finds a complexity to respect while considering her work in a postcolonial context. Eigenbrod’s analysis of the acceptance of all the types of identity also fits in with Levinas’ theory of Totality and Infinity – they are not opposed and exclusive of each other but co-exist. In “Making Relations Visible in Native Canadian Performance,” an essay published in Siting the Other: Re-visions of Marginality in Australian and English-Canadian Drama (2001), Rob Appleford is much more focused on the theatricality of dramatic works. He argues, “by making the relations between performer, story and audience visible, Native playwrights and performance artists articulate a sense of self that is at once multivalent and grounded, both destabilizing passive definitions of identity and championing active subjectivity” (235). He considers the “sites of reception” to be crucial to the understanding of Native performance and wants to examine the “desires and ideologies that influence how non-Natives perceive Native 31 theatre” (235). To discuss these ideas, Appleford uses Kane’s Moonlodge, Daniel David Moses’ Almighty Voice and His Wife and Floyd Favel’s Lady of Silence. His analysis of Kane’s play focuses on the sections where she embodies Agnes’ efforts to find identity – the Hollywood Indians and Brownie songs. He also points out how the miming of a scream “the audience is not permitted to hear” when the character Agnes is taken away from her parents denies the audience inclusion in the character’s pain/self (236-7). This connects with Glissant’s proposal of the importance of opacity in postcolonial relations. Some things are private and not to be shared. Appleford uses a modern form of semiotics that is informed by reception theory and a feminist use of Lacan’s concept of the gaze to understand the changing representation of identity that can occur in aboriginal theatre. This reading/viewing of aboriginal performance and the purposeful evasion of a fixed gaze definitely makes sense when considering Kane’s plays. By examining the various published versions of the text of Moonlodge, Kane’s comments on her creative process and her sociopolitical intentions as well as critical response to it, we can begin to see how Kane’s work can be considered postcolonial and why it is important to understand it in this way. Because of her sharp focus on the importance of women in community as well as the inclusion of the theme that Lo and Gilbert have identified as the narrative of origin and loss in this play, her work could be ghettoized as women’s or ethnic theatre. Instead, it is clear that Kane has an intention of ‘writing back’. She is aware of the power of the cultural fragments that have been appropriated and re-writes them. She is also aware of what she is willing to share in an intercultural setting while she creates new texts and theatre practices. Most importantly though, it is clear that in the orality and constantly developing responsive nature of her work she is resistant to the dominant cultural impulse to claim total understanding and authority. 32 CHAPTER THREE: Being on the Edge of a New Frontier: Confessions of an Indian Cowboy As discussed in the previous section focusing on Kane’s Moonlodge, her published creative work evades a fixed form by using multiple characterizations performed by the single actor avoiding rigid meanings. In this section I will move on to Kane’s next published work, Confessions of an Indian Cowboy, which is again available in two differing print versions. This play shifts away from the focus on identity creation and aboriginal women in community displayed in Moonlodge, yet still features the work-in-process, open-ended style. It further explores the results of intercultural relations. After examining the two published versions, I will explore the elements of music, humour and movement in the work as they elucidate Glissant’s concepts of relational identity and rhizomatic form. Confessions of an Indian Cowboy is a family story. All the main characters represented are related by birth or marriage – we have Kokum and Old Man as the grandparents of Ruby who is the result of an intercultural relationship between Rodeo Princess Mom and Cowboy Dad. There is also a character called Indian Cowboy who is identified as an Uncle in the first version but, as I will explain, is a more malleable character in the second version. Each character tells fragments of the story and their versions of how Ruby’s parents got together, and what happens after her mother dies. The emphasis in the play is on Ruby’s life and status as a mixture of Cowboy and Indian. She is at times portrayed as a wild pony that eventually gets tamed by a cowboy. Having two different versions of the script to work with -- one published much more recently than the other – I am tempted to validate the latest version. However, I will examine and comment on the differences between the two versions considering both as valid texts that offer remnants of performance. 33 The first version, in Dramétis: Three Métis Plays, edited by Greg Young-Ing [Cree] and Leanne Flett Kruger [Cree/ Métis], was published by Theytus Books in Penticton BC in 2001.6 The introduction calls the play a work in progress, and describes its production history – first produced in 2000 at Main Dance in Vancouver and the En-owkin Centre in Penticton and then in Whistler in 2001. Significantly, the text is preceded by three pages of production photos, unlike the other two plays in the anthology. I think this may be the editor’s indication that the text of the performance is not enough to explain the work. Extensive editorial notes precede the script: The evolution of this script is still on going. This version will undergo more drafts. It is the nature of Margo’s works to begin in an experimental state first …Her work is rooted in Oral Storytelling traditions and therefore improvisation is at the heart of her work. The story remains the same but the way it is told varies slightly with every telling…She likes to use audience response as part of the show as a stand-up comedian might…The style of this piece was developed from Margo’s way of script development that begins in the body as improvisation, with and without voice, with and without text. The extended movement is often non-literal and subsequently the movement for Ruby is her text; just as the other characters use a hybrid of Aboriginal storytelling and commedia ‘del Arte clown characters to share their perspectives. (Kane 2001 278) This introductory note touches on many important aspects of Kane’s work. First, the idea that, although this is a published text, the work will still change; second, the nature of the development of her work, which is through movement of the body and third, the importance of movement for a central character in the play. 6 Theytus Books is Canada’s oldest publisher of indigenous books and is First Nations owned and operated. 34 The first version of the play opens with the Kokum/Old Man, who is “one and the same character,” entering through the audience and visiting with them (2001 281). The character then sings and chants a song about walking the long Red Road. Kane then changes costume to become Ruby who is “moving throughout” as she takes a drink and then explains that she does not know which path to take. She then starts running back and forth becoming a wild pony (2001 283-84). The pony runs through forests and hills, through fields to the edge of town and then the edge of a dark canyon where she stands. The canyon is a dark place of internal judgment and criticism, externally symbolized by a battle between “Cowboys and Indians”. The music shifts and there is the sound of a telephone ringing, while Kane becomes the Indian Cowboy who speaks about land as a place for production and “moving from job to job until I got a hankerin’ for settlin’ down” (2001 286). Old Man/Kokum then returns and talks about being pushed out; some people agreed to take pieces of land allotted in treaties while others kept moving, eventually squatting in road allowances (2001 287). Kokum then speaks about her husband’s work to support the family and tells a joke about two cowboys seeing an Indian from far away. The older one tells the younger one not to shoot at first, when he is far away and only visible as a small figure. Once he gets close enough, and the older cowboy gives the younger one permission to shoot, he cannot do it, because he has known the Indian since he was small (2001 288-89). Ruby then returns, remembering childhood times playing in the mud and dressing up in her mother’s fancy clothes, which leads to a brief cameo of the Rodeo Princess/Mom character winning her crown. She makes a speech to her fans – undercutting the fluffy tone with a political view: “I see how large our communities have grown and how we can take over this fair land that was always ours anyways. Oops” (2001 290). Kokum and Ruby then introduce Cowboy Dad, who describes working, and dancing with the Rodeo Princess at the bar. 35 The play then moves into Kokum/Old Man disapproving of the match and Ruby wondering about her family tree. Kokum says, “We don’t have a family tree. We got family bushes” (2001 293), and proceeds to describe the various mixing that has happened in their family between Cree, Saulteaux, Chinese, French, and English. Ruby is distressed by her apparent lack of belonging and Old Man offers to fight. Ruby then starts feeling like she is sinking in mud. The first act ends with the Indian Cowboy capturing a wild pony. Act two opens again with a comic scene: Old Man/Kokum hosts a community radio show, giving lessons on how to be an Indian. The scene ends with Old Man dancing a jig and then moves into a somber scene discussing the death of the Rodeo Princess. Ruby talks about her mother’s death and then tries to outrun it, turning into a pony and describing how she wanted to be a cowboy. She then changes into her father who talks about moving to where the work is, and reads a passage from a Louis L’Amour novel while the musicians play Ennio Morricone’s score from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly”. Cowboy Dad gives Ruby a ride on a carousel and then he is gone. Kokum says he is off in search of another frontier and sings Hank Williams’ song, “Mama Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys”. Ruby feels lost, stumbling around, tired of being in the middle of a battle. The stage directions then call for Kokum/Rodeo Princess/Ruby to sing John Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery” (2001 306). After the song Kokum/Old Man grieves the losses of people, buffalo and land and wonders who will be left to remember once everything is gone. Ruby then describes the mix of music her ancestors have given her. Kokum reinforces the mixing that has happened for so many years and the Indian Cowboy decides to move on – wondering what to bring and what to leave behind. In Ruby’s final speech she describes being in a field: first she is running (like a wild pony), then she changes the verb to riding (as a human on a horse). The change in verb indicates an acceptance 36 of humanity (both her own and others) (2001 309). The play then ends with a reel and Ruby singing Cher’s song “Halfbreed” with the band. The first version of the play is split up into two acts comprised of thirty-six sections. Fifteen of the sections are Ruby speaking, fourteen Kokum/Old Man and the remainder split up between the other characters. Kane has one woman play her ancestors, changing costumes and characters onstage in full view of the audience. They are all in her, parts of her to be revealed. The combination of the wild pony/girl character works well to represent youth and vitality. The portrayal of this mixed character running and exploring and then being caught is both beautiful and sad. The comedy invites the audience in and gives the play a warmth. As she moves between characters, Kane draws attention to the theatricality and performativity of both race and gender. It is interesting to consider the frontier, which is constantly being renewed by economically motivated movement, as Homi Bhabha’s third space where cultures come together. Ruby expresses both the pain and the promise of the hybrid in the third space. A hybrid person must manage the battles within family, friends and self, yet mutual acceptance can lead to action and creativity. The second version of the text was published in 2009 in volume two of Staging Coyote’s Dream: An Anthology of First Nations Drama in English, edited by Ric Knowles and Monique Mojica. Kane’s introductory note is left out, as are the photos, and instead Knowles and Mojica describe Kane’s career and the production history of the play, and include a short analysis of some of the themes: “a history of encounter, of loss, of pleasure and of pain” (2009 207). This script skips the first three pages of the Kokum/Old Man introduction and instead gives a quick introduction of each of the characters, starting with the Indian Cowboy, then Kokum/Old Man, Ruby, and finally the Rodeo Princess. 37 Music is still integrated into the show; it now opens and closes with the folk song “Red River Valley” (2009 209). Also included is the Eagles’ “Witchy Woman” (2009 210), the spiritual “Golden Slippers” (2009 211) and Cher’s “Halfbreed” sung by Kokum midway through the play, after her speech about cultural purity (2009 215). “Angel from Montgomery” (2009 220) is still sung, but after the death of Rodeo Princess and by Kokum alone. The Rodeo Princess’ death comes shortly after the Pony Capture sequence and Ruby’s pony riding. Ruby changes her riding rope into a noose, possibly indicating that the death is a suicide. Kokum/Old Man then talks of loss. From this scene of mourning, the play then moves into the humour of the radio show. The play now opens and closes with the Indian Cowboy character talking about “Movin’ Camp”. He says, “It’s like being on the edge of a new frontier. Havin’ to move out into new territory. Movin’ camp. Whadda ya take with you? Whadda ya leave behind? It’s never easy” (2009 209). At the conclusion he adds “But you know there’ll be new stories to share around the campfire. Learnin’ new songs. Makin’ new songs together. It’s the sharin’ of the journey together that’s gonna make the journey easier” (2009 222). Half of the thirty sections of the second version are titled for Ruby and the Indian Cowboy, twelve are now Kokum/Old Man and the other three are the Cowboy Dad and the Rodeo Princess. At the end of the play, Ruby and the Indian Cowboy merge into one character – before she speaks, the stage directions say: “Picks up INDIAN COWBOY’s hat” (2009 222). She then talks about a world that wants to categorize her and she identifies herself: “I am an Indian Cowboy. A living treaty” (2009 222). There are no stage directions for movement or a change in costume. Then the Indian Cowboy speaks about leaving, and learning new stories and making new songs. 38 The 2009 version is much more concise and has a more clear plot line involving the coming together of cultures and the capturing of the pony. There is loss with the death of the Rodeo Princess, then resilience and carrying on. It ends with hope of making new songs and sharing a journey. The difference between the two versions is significant. Much of the same material is included, but cut down by about fifteen per cent. The order of the scenes is different, and now there are two characters made up of male and female: Kokum/Old Man and Ruby/Indian Cowboy. In Knowles and Mojica’s introduction, they list four more productions since 2001, including a 2006 tour in Australia for the Dreaming International Indigenous Performing Arts Festival (2009 207). Kane continues to develop the performance as she engages with new artists and audiences. She responds to her audiences’ reactions as a performer in the midst of a production, and then further responds as she changes the text of the play that represents the performance. It is clear that she is continually open to dialogue and is still Saying her piece in a Levinasian formulation. At this point, a more thorough examination of Glissant’s poetics of relation will be of help in understanding the role of music, humour and movement in the play. J. Michael Dash translates and interprets Glissant’s poetics of relation to mean an “emphasis on proliferation, excess, exuberance, becom[ing] naturalized in a world of uncertainty and indeterminacy. The ideal text then becomes a kind of hyper-text which is not unidirectional or fixed but a web of segments that are interactive and polyvocal” (178). This is a very good description of Kane’s Confessions of an Indian Cowboy. Further, he explains that identity needs to be re-imagined: “The old mechanisms of identity, the traditional process of recognition and delineation, can no longer be maintained in a situation of cultural chaos. Identity is no longer stable and becomes threatened by otherness” (179). Instead, Glissant explains a new way of considering 39 identity: “ ‘Root identity’ is typified by a central, predatory downward-growing shaft. ‘Rhizome identity’ is characterised by horizontal encounter, not depth” (179). At the beginning of this play, Ruby is bewildered by her choices. She has many paths that she can take, her connections to multiple characters are staged and, as noted above, when she asks her Kokum “Where do family trees grow? Do we have one?” the response is: “No, we don’t have a family tree. We got family bushes, bramble bushes, tangled overgrown bramble bushes” (2001 293). Birgit Däwes also quotes this section of the play when she is commenting on genealogy and family in Native North American Theatre: “These differentiations of family are particularly relevant for the context of Native North American identity during a long history of intercultural encounters…This non- linear, heterogeneous notion of kinship is also phrased metaphorically by Margo Kane in her play Confessions of an Indian Cowboy (2001)” (176). The rhizomatic form is clearly identified in this play, and recognized by Däwes, as an element of Native North American theatre. Music in the play is a representation of this kind of growing network of connections. Kane is in one way performing solo but at the same time she is on stage with three musicians: a fiddler dressed as a Métis voyageur, a guitarist dressed as a cowboy and a percussionist dressed as an Indian (2001 281:2009 209). These musicians provide original music composed for the dance/movement segments as well as to underscore some of the monologues. As the first version of the play ends, the music becomes more of a focus: Kokum sings Ed and Patsy Bruce’s song (popularized by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson) “Mama Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys” (2001 303), then Kokum/Rodeo Princess/Ruby – three generations singing in one body -- sing “Angel from Montgomery” (2001 306). The show ends with two songs, first a reel, “Smash the Window,” and then “Halfbreed”, which the Ruby character sings (2001 309). The progression of the music is an indication of the increase in harmony between the characters, 40 a heightening of pleasure and the confidence shown when a character belts out a song. The second version of the play also has a focus on the songs, sometimes given to a different character to sing, but in this version they match the mood more closely: e.g., Kokum sings “Halfbreed” after she talks about cultural purity (2009 215) “Angel From Montgomery” is sung after the death of the Rodeo Princess (2009 220); and, as stated above, the play opens and closes with the music of “Red River Valley,” a melancholy song about leave-taking (2009 209, 222). The connection between music and intercultural mixing is most clear in Ruby’s final speech in the first version. She is talking of the confusion and tension of being expected to declare an allegiance to one side or another but not being able to choose because of the cultural mixing in her blood, which she compares to a river flowing over stones: (MUSIC: drumbeat) smooth round stones bouncing along with currents as old as the canyons along which they speed, currents that carve pathways through soft sedentary rock, rock that is varied in its mineral content, as varied as the kinds of life it supports, the blood is as varied as…the music (MUSIC: add fiddle and guitar) which my father’s father carried with him from his Irish Scot’s homelands, that mingled with the drum and chant from my mother’s people, the Cree and Saulteaux. The dance which was shared around cold winter nights, the camps alive with their frolicking, camps alive with camaraderie despite their differences. This is what I want to remember. (2001 307-08) In the second version, this speech is shortened but the sense of cultural mixing through the sharing of music is still present (2009 222). The importance of the music is clear at this climax of the play. Ruby declares her decision not to choose an allegiance while the matching of the 41 meaning of the words to the sounds of the music emphasizes the connection of the musical code along with the dialogic. Another, perhaps less evident, use of Glissant’s concept of rhizomatic identity and horizontal growth is Kane’s use of humour throughout the play. One way that humour works is by identifying something that the audience also recognizes and then shifting it. This could be considered as looking at something from the perspective of one node of the rhizome and then shifting to another, still connected but separate space and re-looking from that perspective. The first version of the play has more humour. It opens with humour right away as Kokum/Old Man work the audience. One of the lines is: “that forest you call Stanley Park. We call it woejdojfkjfoflk;lskpfapoelfmsm! Why do you have to rename everything?” (2001 282). Public discourse about the renaming of indigenous lands is a political issue and by mentioning it she connects with the audience and then makes the joke about the unpronounceable names. She shifts the tone; her humour is about altering perspective and surprise. Kane is self-deprecating at a time when there is great awareness about not being disrespectful to aboriginal culture, using her position as an insider to make the jokes. In the first version she also has Old Man chant in his opening song: “All creation and all its creatures know me/I run with the buffalo/I dance with the deer/I play with the antelope/I burrow with the groundhog” (2001 282). A few scenes later she makes the Buffalo Bill Joke about killing an Indian (2001 288-89). These lighter moments are cut from the second version, definitely changing the tone from a bit of a stand-up comedy act to more of a cohesive play. There are some funny moments included in both versions: Rodeo Princess speaking to her admirers about “taking back the land that was always ours anyway” (2001 290-91: 2009 211); the “How to be an Indian” lessons and Radio Show (2001 297-99: 2009 220-21); and, although the order has been changed, the irresistible singing of Cher’s 42 “Halfbreed” (2001 309: 2009 215). Kane appropriates this bizarre 70s pop culture iconography, and then by changing the perspective heightens its ridiculous nature. I contend that the humour in the play, along with the music, can be considered the connections between the developing nodes of the rhizome. The perspectives are different, but through music and humour, audiences are encouraged to move back and forth between them. As music and humour allow movement between perspectives that Kane offers in the play, it is also essential to examine the role of physical movement of the body. As Kane explains in her opening notes to the first version, her creative process first comes from movement and “the movement for Ruby is her text” (2001 278). We can find traces of the movement by reading the didascalia, exemplified in this description of the Ruby character first appearing on stage: Ruby removes Kokum’s skirt and shawl, scarf slides around neck. Places them reverently over fence, memories of her family and their stories rise to the surface of her mind. She crosses to campfire, crosses to water pail, drinks from the dipper, then lets the rest of water dribble into the pail. Looks around. (2001 283) Descriptions of movement are also found in the details of costume/character shifting, as from Old Man to Kokum: “Costume – Old Man removes coat revealing Kokum who takes scarf from around neck and covers her head, tying it under her chin. Kokum moves cross stage to sit on stump at campfire. She drinks from tin cup and stares off for a while before speaking (2001 287). These movements are key to understanding the co-existence of the characters. Movement defines Ruby’s character. She is unsure of which way to turn at the beginning of the play and then later becomes a wild pony, running to the edge of a canyon. The physical movement of Ruby’s character in particular and the moving between characters through Kane’s shifting of her body, voice and costume help to create meaning in the play. In Michelle La 43 Flamme’s PhD dissertation, “Living, Writing and Staging Racial Hybridity” (UBC 2006), she uses both Kane’s Moonlodge and Confessions of an Indian Cowboy to analyze the performance of a hybrid soma text body as one which signifies hybridity. La Flamme developed the term soma text to draw attention to the range of visual clues that are based on the whole body of the mixed race person...Together these two words signify the ways in which the ambiguous signifiers of a racially hybrid body are "read," like a text, given specific ideological value and acquire different meaning in diverse sites. (11) Her research is focused on determining the centrality of embodiment in hybrid narratives in Canadian literature as well as drama. La Flamme both cites and agrees with Appleford’s argument that avoiding a fixed gaze and making visible the looking relations in an intercultural performance are essential to understanding these types of plays. Although Kane’s Moonlodge is about the search for identity rather than a biracial experience, La Flamme uses it in her thesis because Appleford’s theorizing about Kane’s reversal of the gaze supports her theories regarding the discursive power available in the embodied soma text on stage (224-5). In her analysis of Confessions of an Indian Cowboy, La Flamme explains that “Kane is literally placing her biracial soma text on stage and inviting the audience's racialized gaze to witness her transformation as her persona comes to embrace a third space paradigm that is both ‘Cowboy’ and ‘Indian’ ” (250). Kane performs multiple characters in this play as she does in Moonlodge; in contrast however, the topic of this play is the hybrid identity and all of the characters played are related to each other. Part of the brilliance of the play is this physical representation of all of the people who make up one person. Helen Gilbert and Joanne Tompkins in Post Colonial Drama: Theory, Practice, Politics, 44 also note the significance of one actor playing multiple roles, and how the fluid movement and role changes “emphasize the performativity of the body and thus frustrate viewers’ desire for a fixed and unitary subject” (234). They further explain how this type of performance makes the body more malleable and stretching of the borders of corporeality not only claims theatrical and, by implication, cultural space for the post-colonial subject, but also expresses his/her expansive and flexible identities. The strategic use of form emphasizes the manipulations of the body on stage, as simultaneously split and multiple subjectivities develop into sites that disrupt the colonizer/colonized binary. (235) As these writers point out, the physical body of the performer enacting the multiple characters is a structural use of movement that complicates the audience members’ viewing and understanding of the experience. In the first version of the play, Ruby’s last speech has her describing being in a field. First she says she is running (like a wild pony), and then the verb changes to riding (as a human on a horse). The change in verb indicates an acceptance of humanity (both her own and others): “I imagine running, no riding across…Riding like the wind. These lands. Full of all us creatures breathing and feeding and growing...crawling and walking…sailing…jigging and reeling!” (2001 309). This listing of verbs, signifying movement, further strengthens the focus on change and process. At the end of her speech the fiddler plays a reel – which is music that almost involuntarily causes movement. The movement in the play is also a physical manifestation of the importance of travel, or moving on in frontier-style cowboy culture or nomadic aboriginal culture. Old Man, who talks about moving because the settlers kept coming, refers to this in the play: “Mostly they just 45 moved west to continue their way of life. Travel where the game was. It was west and more west. The country was being developed and finally many people ended up livin’ in the road allowances” (2001 287: 2009 216). Cowboy Dad, who moves on after the Rodeo Princess dies, also demonstrates the essential nature of movement in cowboy culture. If we return to Glissant’s Poetics of Relation, we can see that he defines “the experience of relation… expressed as créolisation… in terms of the accidental, the unpredictable… ‘an unprecedented dimension which allows each one to be here and elsewhere, rooted and open’” (Dash 181). This is a concept essential to Confessions of an Indian Cowboy. Ruby is a hybrid character, eventually in the second version even merging with the Indian Cowboy. Her identity is unpredictable and needs to be created through connections both here and elsewhere, rooted and open. In the final speech in the second version, when Ruby/Indian Cowboy talks of moving on, asking, “Whadda you take with you? Whadda you leave behind?” he/she is talking about rootedness. Then, when she/he says “there will be new stories to share around the campfire. Learnin’ new songs, makin’ new songs together,” the emphasis is on the openess (2009 222). My analysis of the two versions of Confessions of an Indian Cowboy presents another example of Kane’s method of continual response and revision, which I argue is evidence of the open nature of her creative process. This second one-woman multi-character performance is also an excellent example of a form that utilizes multiple perspectives that are linked and communicating, through music, humour and movement. Celia Britton, in Édouard Glissant and postcolonial theory: strategies of language and resistance, explains the concept of relation in this way: “relation is, among other things, a principle of narration: what is ‘related’ is what is told. And it is also what is relayed from one person to another, forming a chain or network of narrative ‘relations’ ” (164). In thinking of this, one can consider Confessions of an Indian 46 Cowboy as a play that is related orally by a number of relations, and just like traditional orature, can change with each telling. In my next chapter, I continue to explore the importance of movement in Kane’s work, but in the context of her efforts to establish a horizontally organized aboriginal performing arts infrastructure in Vancouver. She continues to move audiences but now she is also working to move performers, institutions and even government bureaucracies. 47 CHAPTER FOUR: Speaking of Full Circle First Nations Performance and the Talking Stick Festival In February 2009, I began volunteering for Full Circle First Nation’s annual Talking Stick Festival. The experience started very easily, by my filling out a volunteer application online. Next I was invited to attend an “orientation/cultural gathering” at the Roundhouse. We sat in a circle as Kane spoke of the origins of the festival and the company. A man then welcomed us, drumming and singing a song. From the quick comings and goings of the staff, it was clear that they were very busy with preparations. Nevertheless, I felt acknowledged and in a space that had been created purposefully for welcoming newcomers. For the rest of the meeting, the volunteer coordinator explained the jobs to be done and what to expect as a volunteer. There were approximately twenty-five volunteers present. My first shift was the “AbOriginal Writers” storytelling series with tea and bannock at the First Nations House of Learning (FNHL) at UBC. It was a pay-what-you-can event and I worked the door, greeting people and making sure the donation can was visible. This was my introduction to both the FNHL and a Talking Stick Festival event; I felt welcome and like I could be of use. Having never been to a Talking Stick event before and also knowing very few people, I was glad to have a clear purpose. I did not feel like an out of place observer, but instead like a (very minor) support. I particularly loved the combination of storytelling and sharing of food. Despite the large space and the gathering of two hundred or so it felt friendly. Part of the performance experience was sharing tea brewed from local plants and served by ethnobotanist/media artist/educator and artist Cease Wyss [Skwx’u7mesh]. I volunteered for a few more events that year and in reflecting on that first festival, I realize that I felt welcome, but also, at times, uncomfortable. I was outside of my usual sphere. 48 There were many times when I was not sure what I was supposed to be doing. There were many occasions when I was experiencing something totally new and I had to be present and attentive at all times. As I come to the end of my thesis research on Kane and her community work, Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s statement, from Decolonizing Methodologies, that “indigenous research is a humble and humbling activity,” resonates with me (5). After volunteering in 2009, I felt like I had lots to learn, and was grateful for the inviting space. The Talking Stick Festival is not a bureaucratically manufactured educational or cross-cultural opportunity – the purpose is to create a social movement which will provide a space for contemporary aboriginal performing arts, healing the aboriginal community and helping to shift from an existence defined by colonial hierarchies to a self-defined postcolonial one. There is a need for support to make this happen. This need, as well as my interest in the larger project of postcolonial theatre, has led me to continue to volunteer. Thus far in this thesis, after outlining my purpose and the postcolonial theatrical context I am working within, I have given an overview of Kane’s career. I discussed the Sayingness or Infinity in the resistance to totality as exemplified in Moonlodge as a play, both through its publication in different editions and through Kane’s engagement in ongoing critical discussion around her work and cultural appropriation. I have outlined the ways in which Glissant’s rhizomatic/relational identity concept is useful in considering Confessions of an Indian Cowboy. Here I will continue considering the importance of the rhizomatic structure – but within the arts infrastructure organizing that Kane has been doing. This concept has proven valuable in my attempts to survey and understand Kane’s broader arts organizing and context. I will also further address the intercultural nature of her work, examining how it fits Lo and Gilbert’s proposed model and how that model fits with Deleuze’s concept of milieu (or middle) as articulated in his 49 work on Bene’s theatre. I will demonstrate how Kane’s method of organizing runs counter to the dominant cultural vision of a performing arts company or institution. She is organizing a network of performers and audiences to heal the aboriginal community, acknowledging the actuality of intercultural sharing and working to create a safer and more equal space that privileges the aboriginal performer and audience but welcomes the non-aboriginal ally. This leads to an understanding of contemporary aboriginal performance that is not mediated by the mainstream media but recognizes the creative originality of aboriginal artists while they work with their traditions and at the same time respond to the contemporary world. This is all complicated by the availability to the general public of a mix of interactive social media and web-based information, through the company’s Facebook page, Twitter account and website. However, before I go much further with my analysis of Full Circle and the Talking Stick Festival, based on my research through reading as well as through personal experience and interview, I need to establish my position. I came to this research topic after studying Kane’s play in an academic setting and volunteering at the Talking Stick Festival in 2009. My relationship with the company has been developing over three years, but in a very limited capacity. I have volunteered for approximately thirty hours over the three years, corresponded by email with various company members, known the TSF volunteer coordinator for over ten years, and spent about two hours with Margo Kane in an interview. In order to interview Kane for my thesis I had to pass a UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Review Board process and Kane signed an informed consent form. But as Linda Tuhiwai Smith explains, “Consent is not so much given for a project or specific set of questions, but for a person, for their credibility. Consent indicates trust and the assumption is that the trust will not only be reciprocated but constantly negotiated – a dynamic relationship rather than a static 50 decision” (136). I am a bit of a shy person, but not overly, yet I still feel unsure of my position when interacting with the company. The times when I was most comfortable were definitely when I’ve been a volunteer, clearly appreciated by the staff. I have felt very awkward in requesting time for my research specifically. I think this would be the case for me regardless of whose time I was asking for, but it is definitely heightened in this research situation where I am an outsider in various ways – not a theatre artist but an academic researcher, not aboriginal but of settler descent. I feel that I have built some relationships over the years – when I see some members of the company on the street, we stop and chat, but I am still very much getting to know the company and Kane. This is a process, still being negotiated and ongoing. What I present in this chapter is a reflection on my experiences thus far, with the acknowledgment that my perspective is limited. In order to acknowledge the multiple ways that Full Circle is working to build a social movement through its performance company, I would like to explain some of the main ways, beyond attending events, that the company invites community or audience interaction. First I will review some of the information that is available through the Full Circle First Nations website and then I will follow up with the results of the interview I did with Kane in January 2011. Kane established the performance company in 1992 after having worked in theatre, film, television and performance art for many years. “Full Circle speaks of many images: full gathering of people – all races, cultures, communities, perspectives; completeness, inclusiveness, wholeness; the completeness of a journey; unceasing movement – no beginning or ending” (“About Us” n.p.). It is not surprising to me that the company’s mission statement reflects the Levinasian concepts of Totality/Said (“completeness”) and Infinity/Sayingness (“unceasing movement”). The company documents also explain the importance of working with First Nations 51 traditions in the context of contemporary interdisciplinary techniques. The website is a useful site of information about the Full Circle company, its history and the Talking Stick Festival, offering opportunities for reading about and viewing their work. The website also includes some interactive elements: offering people opportunities to become a member of Full Circle (free), sign up for the newsletter, donate money or buy a ticket to a performance, as well as providing links to their Facebook page, Twitter feed and Youtube channel. The interactive parts are mainly to enable donations. The social media are used to offer more current (even daily or hourly) accounts of the company’s activities. While these things could be termed interactive in that they allow the user to choose images to view, posts to read and (on Facebook) a chance to post comments, they do not really foster interpersonal relationship building. They seem mainly like a more immediate way of presenting ongoing activities that are not filtered through another media source. I can imagine that if one already felt connected to members of the company, this would be a way of interacting (or perhaps if I had grown up in the online world, I would understand the more interactive possibilities of this sphere). The social media could also be considered a manifestation of the constant work in progress and Saying. After volunteering for various Talking Stick Festival events, reading Kane’s plays, briefly meeting with her when she was Artist-in-Residence at UBC in 2009-2010 as well as seeing her perform in Where the Blood Mixes, I requested an interview with her. I sent her the interview script that BREB had approved (see Appendix One) in advance, but when we spoke, we didn’t cover all of the topics that I originally outlined. This was a purposeful strategy – I wanted to introduce topics relevant to my research, but also let her speak without leading her to 52 only answer my questions7. We spoke for over an hour and she explained the work she has done over the last eighteen years to keep the company going, the reasons for the various projects and the future direction of the Talking Stick Festival as well as her own creative work. Of particular interest to my study were her thoughts on the structural form of the company necessary for working within a community and the challenges that has created for funding; on the shift towards embedding the Talking Stick Festival in a physical neighbourhood; on her experiences with intercultural performance; and on the necessity of creative work in the aboriginal community while acknowledging the sacrifice she has made in her own creative work to build this infrastructure. All of these points lead to a further understanding of her community work with which she intends to help move aboriginal culture towards a more dynamic relationship with contemporary postcolonial Canadian society. Kane began by speaking about the formation of the company. She explained that she thought she formed it rather late in her career – she was in her early forties -- and that she has wondered if she would ever see all of her work come to fruition. Initially, she focused her comments on the funding for the company and her frustrations with not being recognized for the work she was doing. “We’re just not a traditional theatre company per se and we’re much more…we’ve got a lot of different kinds of perspectives around creating work and creating audience and working with the community to inspire them to want to become part of what we’re doing.” She then went on to describe specifically the challenge that she faced with Canada Council theatre funding: 7 I directed the conversation to four topics: the founding of FCFNP; the invitation to participate that seems to be a theme running through her work; the necessary nature of creative work; and her experiences of cross‐cultural performance. 53 We weren’t being seen for the work we were doing. They expected us to do a season of work…in a certain fashion. And it didn’t matter what I explained. There’s a built-in bias, an automatic bias. … So we kind of had to get grants from all over the place. It was really exhausting actually…writing that many grants for your small programming. This statement is supported by the information available on federal government websites about grants allocated to Full Circle (see Figure 2). They received the largest amount of money ($370,000) in 2008 (which is also the year the company received the least number of separate grants). The types and number of grants that the administrators of the company have applied for and received over the years are extensive. According to the Canada Council reports, besides grants for Aboriginal Arts and for Theatre Organizations, Full Circle has received grants for Writing and Publishing (2006/2007); Music (2004/2005/2006); Audience and Market Development (2005); Director of the Arts (2003/2004) and Outreach (2001). In 2001 they began receiving small grants from Inter-Arts: $12,000 in 2001, increasing to $25,000 in 2006. Inter- Arts is a section of Canada Council that funds “integrated and contemporary circus arts professionals and arts organizations” (“Canada Council: Inter-Arts”). Canada Council defines integrated arts as “artistic activities with a singular artistic vision that combine art forms, or integrate existing art forms into its own distinct form” (“Inter-Arts Office: Guidelines and Application Form”). Integrated is a key word for the work that Full Circle does. It can be defined as the opposite of segregated and also as uniting or reuniting disparate entities. Integration also involves movement, change and the “forging [of] new texts and theatre practices” as described by Lo and Gilbert when they discuss postcolonial syncretic theatre. 54 Fiscal Year Canada Council Funding (Number of Grants) Canadian Heritage: Canada Arts Training Funds (Number of Grants) Total Federal Funding (Total Number of Grants) Average Worth of Grant 2009 $126,500 (4) $155,000 (3) $281,500 (7) $40, 214 2008 $120,000 (2) $250,000 (2) $370,000 (4) $92,500 2007 $82,950 (7) $110,000 (1) $190,950 (8) $23,868 2006 $146,000 (8) $140,000 (2) $160,000 (10) $16,000 2005 $133,500 (10) n/a $133,500 (10) $13,350 2004 $84,400 (7) n/a $84,400 (7) $12,000 Table 1: Full Circle Federal Funding 2004-2009 Sources: “Searchable Grants Listing,”Canada Council for the Arts, 23 March 2004, Web, 11 March 2011 and “Disclosure of Grant and Contribution Awards Over $25,000,” Canadian Heritage, 1 March 2011,Web, 16 March 2011. Kane explained that Full Circle moved the company over to Inter-Arts completely in 2009: We moved out of the theatre section, they weren’t supporting us because they couldn’t see…they couldn’t understand…they were just too traditional…I do different kind of work, process-related work. I worked in a lot of the performance art centres…And it was immediate, whereas to actually plan a theatrical show and all the funding and all the people that you need to make that happen it was just such a long journey. When you have no money and you’re trying to sustain a company…So I found that the company eventually, was better served in Inter-Arts and that was only in the last maybe three years or so that we’ve moved over, totally…And before that it was challenging because we could only get a certain amount of funding. Politically, I think, it’s partly because it’s 55 just an old model. I don’t know what the new model would look like but it’s a very closed system. Part of the challenge of being seen as a theatre company is the expectation that you will mount a season of work and tour. Kane’s goal of engagement with community runs counter to this. I did Confessions of an Indian Cowboy a couple of times and at one point I did it at the Roundhouse and we had decent crowds and decent revenue. I can’t do that all the time…I toured a lot, you know, I like to tour. Toured with that show as well. That was a little bit bigger show; there were five of us as opposed to two of us. It’s hard to sustain all of that activity and still build some kind of community base. This helps to explain the tension between a traditional theatre company that is expected to mount shows and tour and the community engagement and development that Kane values. Part of this tension comes from what Kane sees as the necessary structural rhizomatic form of the company working with a community. At the beginning she envisioned the company as a way to create an ensemble of aboriginal performing artists. As time has gone on though, this has become too difficult. The last show she developed was “The River Home”, which she started creating with the ensemble in 1994. The show has had five performances over eleven years, in Vancouver, Banff, Alberta and Harrison, BC (“About Us: Touring History”). She discussed her reasons for creating the ensemble and “The River Home”: I developed it…from being in the workroom with people for a month. But they still never had the full skills that they needed to have. I always stood out. I couldn’t have a full ensemble because I was way too experienced and everybody else had no experience. So that’s… not really a true ensemble, it’s really if you want to have people that work the 56 way you work, training them isn’t necessarily the way you’re going to find them. That was very disheartening for me, it was very disheartening. Because I really wanted to work with other people in the way that I wanted to work. So, I didn’t give up. While the ensemble training does continue, it is more projects-based and Kane has focused the company’s efforts on the Talking Stick Festival. “So we build a lot of partnerships with people and we try to develop a rapport with them so that they know they can come to the festival and be part of the festival.” This is one of the methods that I would consider a kind of rhizomatic growth. Kane talked about the need to build a very broad foundational base in order to reach everybody and how this takes the form of relationships with individuals: It comes down to the individual, really quite frankly…an individual within an organization that’s working on a great idea and is working with youth, and …we’ll give them space to be part of our festival. And over time, if they want to come again, we’re happy to…we take people’s ideas right up to almost the last minute, it’s a bit nutty actually, quite frankly. But it is what it is, and if we can accommodate you we’re happy to do so. So that’s the major way that we’ve been building those relationships is by engaging with people or inviting them to be part of the festival if they have an idea. It is clear from this statement that even though a more efficient organizing method would be to have deadlines and perhaps even commissioned work, the company puts greater value on their supportive relationship with individual artists and organizers. Kane sees the festival as a way to give hope and focus: Give the community of artists across disciplines, give them some hope, give them a little bit of audience. Give them a chance to share what they were doing with an audience. But 57 over a long term of course you need to build audience, you need to have things that the audience wants to come and see, you need to be able to have paying tickets, you need to have, you know, a structure that is going to support all of that, so that’s what the company has been basically trying to do for the last eighteen years. This is the struggle she has with the company: how to be flexible enough to support artists and at the same have a sound structure supported by a group of people who can plan and follow through, who have worked together long enough that they develop a common vocabulary. But with having a couple of interns here this year, we were able to do a bunch of outreach this summer, so that we send them out and they let people know about the festival, and just say hello and be at different events…and be seen. It’s pretty traditional kind of outreach you know, its getting to know people and being at their events. If they need stuff for fundraising, give them stuff for fundraising or... it’s just kind of being around, being part of the community. The interns that she is speaking about are paid with the training funds from Canadian Heritage (see Figure 2). Training interns to learn the skills of arts administration has helped spread out the responsibilities for running the company. The multiple people working administratively can also be considered, using the rhizome metaphor, as the links between the various nodes of the structure. The administrative team is very conscious of creating relationships with people and then staying connected: “it’s really hard to find those ones… that might be keen to join us. When we do find them, we just keep them engaged, we make sure we know where they are, we make sure we call them in.” This building of connections will eventually become part of the larger 58 structure that lasts. The company also uses the funds as seed money to support artists who work independently. Kane spoke of an example from this year: So we said OK, let’s give some money to them… And the other thing is [the artist] needs to learn too, she needs to put some effort into this too. We can’t just give away stuff to people. They need to actually want it and have to do the work, some of the work, some of the heavy lifting. So we gave her some money so she could do the heavy lifting. In this way, the company uses its structure to mentor other artists to produce their own work. During the Olympics, the festival had to find new venues because there was so much going on in the city. One result was that Talking Stick had events at the Britannia Community Centre site in the Grandview Woodlands neighbourhood. Kane spoke of this as a turning point in the festival’s history. Since they began, they have had venues all over the city, ranging from the UBC campus in West Point Grey, to downtown Vancouver at the Roundhouse, to the east side at the WISE Hall, to the city of West Vancouver at the Kay Meek Centre. After 2010, even though the events at Britannia were not necessarily well attended, the administrative team realized the potential in being more grounded in a particular area. The 2011 Talking Stick Festival had many more events in the neighbourhood; they still made use of the community centre and the hall, but there were also events at cafes and restaurants along Commercial Drive. Kane said, The concentration in the Britannia area is to make sure we get people in the neighbourhood coming out to things and it’s pay what you can…we’ll have to do a lot of outreach, but just...it’s exciting; you just feel it can fly in a very short period of time. 59 Kane is identifying here the creation of a site for the festival that can interact with an existing community of both urban aboriginal and non-aboriginal people. She hopes that the use of small businesses this year will inspire owners of other establishments to get involved as well. Two of the events this year, the spoken word night at Café Deux Soleils and the Salish Seas Writers Collective at The Pond Tapas Bar and Grill, were sold out. Street level storefront venues such as these make it more possible to have a milieu, as defined by Deleuze in “One Less Manifesto: Theater and its Critique” 8, with which it is possible to interact. Kane recognizes that people are only going to come to an event if they are engaged in a way that serves them, excites them. She is looking for ways to make the sharing mutual. She imagines a post-festival community meeting: “a gathering at the WISE hall and invite everybody in and say, let’s talk about the festival, let’s talk about next year, who’s doing what, who’s wants to do what.” In locating the festival in a particular urban space Kane sees an opportunity for more community engagement: it means that as more people then get engaged, then the whole community is excited by the possibility and it also means then you can plan for other events throughout the year, and people will come…We want our people, our families, and all ages to be able to see creative work by aboriginal artists and we want it to be affordable, we them to be able to come, so if they don’t have to take a bus, they just have to walk, that would be great. 8 “The milieu assumes a third figure here: it is no longer an interior or exterior milieu, even a relative one, not an intermediate milieu, but instead an annexed or associated milieu” (257). In this sense Deleuze is describing both a time and a place that draw upon existing elements. 60 It is interesting, given the importance of different forms of movement in her work, that she is attentive to how her audience is moving to an event. The creation of a human scaled9 physical site for the Talking Stick Festival also echoes the importance of physical movement in Kane’s creative process. The importance of the aboriginal community’s seeing aboriginal performers cannot be overstated in Kane’s vision. She has established her work within aboriginal communities very purposefully, based on her experiences as a performer in mainstream theatre and film. I wanted the work to actually influence society. And I can’t influence the dominant culture. I can’t by myself, I can’t do that. I need to influence and I need to inspire the people that I love and that I’ve grown up with and that I’m wanting to encourage the development of our own communities… repair our communities, inspire them and educate them, use our creativity for balancing out our communities. For the well being of our communities…the artistic and the creative voice needs to be part of that circle. This is a key concept for Kane, and it makes her seem uninterested in intercultural work. This is similarly the case when she explains: “it’s got to be my people that have seen that work because it’s great to have allies in the non-native community but really quite frankly…we have to do it for ourselves. We can certainly use help to do it but we ultimately…we need to see our children performing and creating, drawing or designing or writing.” As we were speaking, I described Lo and Gilbert’s model for intercultural work and asked her to respond. She said: 9 A site that can be accessed by people using their own energy, biking or walking rather than the mechanized energy of cars and transit. 61 I mean for a long time, in cultural conversations, political conversations, it’s been a really tough road… because you’re always in relation to a dominant culture, that has…that thinks their way of seeing and viewing and doing things is the world, is the way it is. And it is for them. It’s like…you don’t want to be the one who is always fighting to be understood, or you know whatever else. So I just gave up. I just…I walked away. It was…I don’t like to give up. I’m a fighter. I fight in other ways. When she says that she gave up and decided to fight in other ways, she is explaining that she has given up trying to share within a dominant culture setting. Instead, she has worked to create a more equal and safe setting for intercultural work. Her work has been intended to strengthen artistic interpretation of aboriginal culture, so that when, in Lo and Gilbert’s model, the disc is spun one way by the dominant culture, there can be some resistance and response, to send the disc spinning back the other way with force. She also considered her experiences as a performer in an intercultural setting, as an aboriginal performer, sometimes dealing with very agonizing issues in front of a non-aboriginal audience: So cross-culturally I don’t have the same problem on stage anymore. I still have a little bit of reticence, because I don’t want to [pause] … you know, I have my vulnerability too…I can overcome my insecurity a bit, cross-culturally…I have a certain amount of resentment for having been held back, in my life, by forces of the world. And I don’t want to take them out on people individually. I do sometimes, I’m not proud of it. But I know that I’m also, kind of, that our community is suffering, and suffered…has suffered and is suffering. And we have to get ourselves through it, but we need allies to do it... So culture plays a role, but it also needs at sometime to be kind of, um, permeable. Not 62 something that separates us, something the art can move back and forth across, you know. Kane’s reflective honesty and vulnerability as she wrestled with these thoughts is an indication of her willingness to move across the divide between the two of us as artist and researcher. It is also clear again that she is focused on culture as “permeable” and sees art as moving back and forth across cultures. She articulates her use of humour as a way across this divide. I don’t want to beat people over the head with stuff either; so I have a certain amount of humour in my own world, in my own self. So with a certain amount of compassion for people that they didn’t know, they don’t understand, or they’re or…and you know a certain amount of anger. All those feelings have a place in the right balance of things. People came to hear, they came to hear. And they were listening. It is clear from her comments that performing and organizing are not without ambivalence for her, on a personal as well as an organizational level. The frustrations of running an organization lead her to think that she would like to give up, and also make her think of the irony of trying to create a lasting entity in this way: This is the dominant culture way of thinking. And I say to myself, you know what, my peoples come from nomadic peoples, they travelled with what they could carry on their travois, on their horse, on their dog, on their back. That’s it! They knew the impermanence of those things and…there’s a wisdom there. Why do I have to build and build and build…and why does it have to be? And I got stuck in this kind of thing of having to build a system, a foundation and all this stuff because I wanted something that could withstand…that could serve many of us through the years. But buried into that, 63 entwined in that is a way of thinking that it’s gotta be this way and it’s gotta be bigger and it’s gotta have more funding, its gotta have more revenue, it’s gotta have more bums in seats. This is one of the contradictions with which she lives. Her way of organizing runs counter to that of the dominant culture, yet she has to find funding to support it through existing structures. She is critical of the existing expectations that are based on an ideal of permanence and unlimited growth. Her reflection on the wisdom of nomadic people whose lives are defined by movement is also a key to understanding her work. Another dilemma that she lives with, and that she proposes is true for many aboriginal people, is the personal drive to get up on stage. She talks of feeling reticent to perform in the Talking Stick Festival herself. “And I feel kind of apologetic…why don’t I just throw off this whatever…this reticence to be who I am on the stage? Partly…some of that maybe traditionally [what] we are struggling against. We’re struggling, you know our whole community is struggling that we don’t see each other on the stage.” Kane recognizes that the absence of visible creative artists from the aboriginal community is a serious problem. “Some of us didn’t make it and some of us still have the chance to make it. To make a full expression of ourselves. Some of our people, that are my age and younger than me, have gone, they’re dead. They didn’t get to be fully creative, they didn’t get to fully engage.” In her work with the company and with the festival she is trying to ensure that this doesn’t happen any longer. The sad irony, though, is that by dedicating herself to this work over the last eighteen years, she feels that she has limited her own creative productivity. She has carried the administrative weight – she repeatedly referred to her work as an administrator as “doing the heavy lifting” – for too long. She expressed hope that the administrative team that has been 64 growing has finally become experienced enough to do more of the work. She described being in the last third of her life and wanting to cut down the extraneous work she is doing and focus on creative work again. And I find that when I perform…it [is] a real natural place for me to just unburden myself and be who I am...it may take me a while to actually want to tell the truth or say what I mean or lay it on the line…and I find that I can do it. I can do that on stage… And there’s so much pleasure in being able to talk to people… and have them listen. There’s something about that, I think, that’s really important. Kane’s use of the metaphor of “heavy lifting” for administrative work and her description of performing as a place to “unburden herself” also fit with her thinking about change and impermanence among nomadic people. It is very hard to move or move far when you are carrying a heavy load. Yet at the same time, if you have the assistance either of a group of people or a structure to carry the load, then you can move and bring the important things with you. Kane hopes that she is now at the point where she has done enough of the structural organizing and fundraising for the company that she can find time to return to her creative work in earnest. Full Circle First Nations’ funding support from Inter-Arts as well as from Canadian Heritage for training arts administrators has helped to create a stable structure. They have been able to create a network of engagement between performers and community through the Talking Stick Festival. The plans to base the festival at the Britannia site are opening up new possibilities of community and physical engagement. All together these efforts have begun to show results in strengthening aboriginal culture and contemporary art. Kane summed up her work, saying, “the hope has been, that we would be able to create work and have an audience of 65 our own people and inspire them. It’s such a simple dream. But oh, my Lord, it’s huge. It feels like I’ve been at sea. In the middle of a sea.” I hope, for her sake, that landfall is in sight. 66 CONCLUSION: Spinning Back This study of Margo Kane’s work from 1990 to the present day has examined her performance art and plays as well as the administration of her company and performance festival. The connecting thread through all of Kane’s work is movement: of the body; between audience and performer; of meaning through textual instability; and of contemporary culture through social change. Her work is illuminated by and itself illuminates the larger considerations of postcolonial performance. The Levinasian concepts of Totality and Infinity as well as the Said and the Saying are particularly valuable in that Kane’s work both reflects the concepts and demonstrates how they are not in opposition to each other. Instead, as Hiddleston asserts, “the ethical insistence on Infinity, or the Saying, is conceived alongside the apparent security of Totality or the Said” (19). Glissant’s focus on poetics as a freeing of the imagination which serves as a precursor to inspire political change has been useful in understanding Kane’s conception of her performance company; his concern with both grounding in a specific place and openness in his poetics of relation also makes his theoretical work relevant to understanding Kane’s Confessions of an Indian Cowboy as well as the administrative structure of her company. Lo and Gilbert’s model for Interculturalism is key in identifying the constant movement of Kane’s work. Kane’s work also links to Balme’s theory of syncretic theatre. Her performance work evinces many of the elements he names -- particularly the interruption of ritual and the use of the liminal space around a ritual; creolization and the use of the actor’s body through dance, movement and music -- are clearly apparent. Memories Springing/Waters Singing exemplifies Balme’s observations about the use of ritual in syncretic theatre. It also uses water as a metaphor for enabling dialogue between distinct elements. In this work, Kane breaks the fourth wall and has her audience physically 67 disassemble, move and then reassemble the performing space, changing their expectations and perceptions. In Moonlodge, as a woman performing multiple characters alone, Kane enacts a physical demonstration of Levinas’ concept of infinity – the multiple and unending perspectives that exist in the world. She uses humour to build relations with an audience. Additionally, the different editions of the text function in terms of the concepts of Saying and Said. Kane is concerned, in this piece, specifically with the experience of aboriginal women. Kane’s critical writing about her creative work and the theatre in general is an example of her efforts to place her work in a specific sociopolitical environment – one that is actively working to decolonize the aboriginal community. The inclusive nature of Kane’s identity construction through Agnes in the play fits in with Levinas’ theory of Totality and Infinity – they are not opposed to and exclusive of each other but co-exist. Agnes’ miming of a scream as she is removed from her family is a purposeful evasion of a fixed gaze, akin to Glissant’s concept of opacity in postcolonial relations. It is through the orality and constantly developing responsive nature of Moonlodge that Kane resists the dominant cultural impulse to claim total understanding and authority. Kane continues with her work-in-process and openness of style in Confessions of an Indian Cowboy while further exploring the results of intercultural relations. In her discussion of this work, Kane identifies even more clearly the importance of movement in its development as well as in the expression of the character of Ruby. Again, one woman plays multiple characters, changing costumes and characters onstage in full view of the audience. As she moves among them, Kane draws attention to the theatricality and performativity of both race and gender. The concept of a constantly moving frontier is central to the play. Dual editions of the published play are evidence that Kane responds to her audiences’ reactions as a performer in the midst of a production, and then further responds as she changes the text of the play that represents the 68 performance. This is more evidence that she is continually open to dialogue and is still Saying her piece in a Levinasian formulation. The humour in the play and the music can be considered as connections between the developing nodes of the rhizome. The physical movement of Ruby’s character in the context of La Flamme’s concept of the soma text as she changes into other characters through Kane’s shifting of her body, voice and costume helps to demonstrate créolisation. Créolisation is used in the play as an essential concept to establish Ruby as a hybrid character, who eventually, in the second version, merges with the Indian Cowboy. This also resonates with Gilbert and Tompkins’ point that the physical body of the performer enacting the multiple characters is a structural use of movement that complicates the audience members’ viewing and understanding of the experience. Her identity is unpredictable and needs to be created through connections both “here and elsewhere”, “rooted and open”. The two versions of Confessions of an Indian Cowboy present another example of Kane’s method of continual response and revision, which is evidence of the open nature of her creative process. Confessions of an Indian Cowboy is a play that is related orally by a number of relations, and just like traditional orature, changes with each telling in order to honour the presence of the audience. The administration of Full Circle First Nations Performance and the Talking Stick Festival provides further examples of the importance of movement in Kane’s work. The social media connections presented by the Full Circle Company are an immediate way of presenting ongoing activities not filtered through another media source and also an interesting and new manifestation of the constant work in progress and ‘saying’. The company’s recent funding opportunities through Canada Council’s Inter-Arts program are related to integration involving movement, change and Lo and Gilbert’s identification of the “forging [of] new texts and theatre practices” (35-6). Rhizomatic growth is used in organizing the company: multiple administrative 69 assistants building relationships with individual artists and organizers and then supporting them in their work. The company’s move to the use of one main physical site for their Talking Stick Festival is a way to engage with a milieu on a human scale while privileging self-propelled movement. Kane’s description of the importance of creative work in the aboriginal community has given a new understanding to Lo and Gilbert’s model for intercultural performance as one where the work strengthens artistic interpretation of aboriginal culture in order to send the disc spinning back with strength. Kane reveals her ambivalence to the development of a permanent, always-growing theatre company as expected by the dominant culture, placing herself in the context of her nomadic ancestors who understood the importance of movement. My focus on Levinas’ philosophy and Glissant’s poetics illustrates how the concept of movement, which runs throughout Kane’s work, suggests its postcolonial nature. The theatre-specific postcolonial observations by Lo and Gilbert as well as Gilbert and Tompkins also suggest ways of understanding Kane’s work in a postcolonial context. Although some of Balme’s elements of syncretic theatre have been visible in my analysis of Kane’s work, I believe that I have demonstrated how movement should be considered as an element on its own – not just as a sub-category to the importance of the physical body. Kane’s work also illuminates these postcolonial theories. Levinas does not specifically mention movement but the constant dialogue between Totality and Infinity as well as the Said and the Saying in the textual instability of Kane’s work exemplifies how the openness to excess that he calls for engenders movement. Glissant’s poetics of relation are more specific in their structuring narration as moving through a chain. Kane’s characters, in Moonlodge and especially Confessions of an Indian Cowboy, embody this notion in ways that demonstrate this kind of relay or movement very clearly. Kane’s work also helps to focus attention on the spinning of the disc in Lo and Gilbert’s model. Their 70 construction involves almost constant movement, the moment of stasis only happening as the energy builds up to spin back. I also would like to assert, given the thematic connection I have traced through Kane’s performance and community work, that her work in creating an infrastructure for aboriginal performing arts has also been a creative act and should be considered equally important in the assessment of the legacy of her career as an artist. There are a number of limitations of this research. I have not been able to respond personally to Kane’s creative work in performance. My research is based entirely on the textual evidence of her performances and some video footage. Considering that I am discussing orality and sayingness, this has limited my ability to respond to her as a performer. This is partly due to the nature of her work in recent years; although I was able to see her perform in Kevin Loring’s play Where the Blood Mixes, she has not performed any of her own creative works since 2006. She has been busy with the administration of the company and the Talking Stick Festival. I have attempted to remedy this heavy reliance on the texts of her work by interviewing her. As explained above, the interview, while very helpful in beginning to gain an understanding of her work with the company, occurred under the conditions of a newly negotiated understanding of consent and trust. The strength of my research begins with the filling in of a gap in aboriginal performance literature by integrating the critical academic work that has thus far been using Kane’s work in discussion of other issues in postcolonial and aboriginal performance. My research goes further in the incorporation of her creative, critical and administrative work as one continual body of work. My proximity to her company, my personal experiences as a volunteer at the Talking Stick Festival as well as my time spent with Kane one on one have enhanced my ability to Speak 71 Nearby. Although my experiences are limited, they are also unique to this time and place, and can stand as a witness to the particular history of some of her work. My work to highlight Kane’s articulation of her difficulties with traditional funding structures could be of use in making policy at various levels of arts funding institutions. It could help with re-conceiving the expectations of an aboriginal arts organization’s infrastructure. This could apply not just to the federal level as discussed in this thesis but also perhaps to provincial, municipal and private foundations. I have also identified a significant oversight in Daniel David Moses and Terry Goldie’s second and third editions of An Anthology of Canadian Native Literature in English. They have not included any commentary on the fact that they have reproduced the first edition of Kane’s Moonlodge nor have they directed readers to the other version of it. I would recommend that in any subsequent edition, they either add such comments or communicate with Kane to publish a more recent version of the play – perhaps even one that has been revised since the 1994 edition in Singular Voices. As my final words at this time on Kane’s work, I would like to acknowledge that this has been the study of the movement of a creative artist over more than twenty years. As I have identified that a continual theme in her work is movement, and a constancy of change, I acknowledge that my academic research is a Said to her Saying, not functioning in opposition to each other, but as counterparts. This work is a scholarly interpretation of her efforts to decolonize aboriginal people’s lives and imaginations. I hope that it can be cross-culturally spun back out of the academic setting, and that the energy accumulated through my research be shared out into the culture of aboriginal performance in Canada. Echoing Kane’s description of the Full Circle Performance Company, I end my thesis as the completing of a journey while knowing that there is an unceasing movement to which there is no beginning or ending. 72 WORKS CITED “About Margo Kane.” Full Circle First Nations Performance. 2008. <http://www.fullcircleperformance.ca/content.asp?chapterID=5&subchapterID=47&page ID=136> 30 April 2010. “About Us.” Full Circle First Nations Performance. 2008. <http://www.fullcircleperformance.ca/content.asp?chapterID=5&subchapterID=60&page ID=149&portal=1 > 10 March 2010. Appleford, Rob. “Making Relations Visible in Native Canadian Performance.” Siting the Other: Re-visions of Marginality in Australian and English-Canadian Drama. Ed. Marc Maufort and Franca Bellarsi. Brussels: Presses Interuniversitaires Européennes, 2001. 231-46. Print. Balme, Christopher. Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-Colonial Drama. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999. Print. Bennett, Susan. “Diversity and Voice: A Celebration of Canadian Women Writing for Performance.” Feminist Theatre and Performance. Critical Perspectives on Canadian Theatre in English, Volume Four. Ed. Susan Bennett. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2006. 84-97. Print. Britton, Celia. Édouard Glissant and Postcolonial Theory: Strategies of Language and Resistance. Charlottesville, Va.: University Press of Virginia, 1999. Print. Charlesbois, Gaetan and Anne Nothof. “The Ecstasy of Rita Joe.” Canadian Theatre Encyclopedia. 15 September 2009. <http://www.canadiantheatre.com/dict.pl?term=The%20Ecstasy%20of%20Rita%20Joe> 1 May 2010. 73 Chen, Nancy. “ ‘Speaking Nearby’: A Conversation with Trinh T. Minh-ha.” Visual Anthropology Review 8.1 (1992): 82-91. Print. Dash, J. Michael. Édouard Glissant. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Print. Däwes, Birgit. Native North American Theater in a Global Age: Sites of Identity Construction and Transdifference. Germany: Heidelberg Winter, 2007. Print. “Disclosure of Grant and Contribution Awards Over $25,000.” Canadian Heritage. 1 March 2011. < http://www.pch.gc.ca/pc-ch/dp-pd/sc-gc/index-eng.cfm > 16 March 2011. “Dynamic and Diverse Theatre Community Celebrates the 27th Jessie Richardson Theatre Awards.” Jessie Richardson Theatre Award Society, 15 June 2009. <http://www.jessies.ca/press_release09.html > 24 April 2010. Deleuze, Gilles. “One Less Manifesto: Theater and its Critique.” Ed. Timothy Murray. Mimesis, Masochism & Mime: The Politics of Theatricality in Contemporary French Thought. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000. 239-58. Print. Eigenbrod, Renate. “Evangeline, Hiawatha and a Jewish Cemetery: Hi/stories of Interconnected and Multiple Displacements.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing 40.1 (2002): 101-14. Favel, Floyd. “Poetry, Remnants and Ruins: Aboriginal Theatre in Canada.” Intercultural Performance. Spec. Issue of Canadian Theatre Review 139 (2009): 31-35. Print. Gilbert, Helen and Joanne Tompkins. Post-Colonial Drama: Theory, Practice, Politics. New York: Routledge, 1996. Print. Glissant, Édouard. Caribbean Discourse: Selected Essays. Trans. J. Michael Dash. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1989. Print. ----- . The Collected Poems of Édouard Glissant. Trans. Jeff Humphries and Melissa Manolas. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005. Print. 74 Glissant, Édouard. Poetics of Relation. Trans. Betsy Wing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997. Print. Hamazaki, Terrie. “Women in View: Who’s telling whose story?” Kinesis. Vancouver: Vancouver Status of Women. March 1990. 16. Print. Hiddleston, Jane. Understanding Postcolonialism. Stocksfield, UK: Acumen, 2009. 126‐50. Print. “IPAA – History.” Indigenous Performing Arts Alliance, n.d. < http://ipaa.ca/about/history/ > 24 April 2010 “Inter-Arts Office: Guidelines and Application Form.” Canada Council for the Arts. March 2011. < http://www.canadacouncil.ca/NR/rdonlyres/A7BBC29A-56B7-48E0-8C9D- 4BEB7D495C4F/0/IAG8E0311.pdf > 22 March 2011. Kane, Margo. “Confessions of an Indian Cowboy.” DraMétis: Three Métis Plays. Ed. Greg Young-Ing and Leanne Flett Kruger. Penticton, BC: Theytus Books, 2001. Print. -----. “Confessions of an Indian Cowboy.” Staging Coyote’s Dream: An Anthology of First Nations Drama in English, Volume Two. Ed. Ric Knowles and Monique Mojica. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2009. 206-22. Print. -----. “From the Centre of the Circle the Story Emerges.” Native Theatre in the Americas. Spec. issue of Canadian Theatre Review 68 (1991): 26-29. Print. -----. Interview with the author. 12 January 2011. -----. “Moonlodge.” An Anthology of Canadian Native Literature in English, First Edition. Ed. Daniel David Moses and Terry Goldie. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 1992. 278-91. Print. 75 -----. “Moonlodge.” An Anthology of Canadian Native Literature in English, Second Edition. Ed. Daniel David Moses and Terry Goldie. Don Mills: Oxford University Press,1998. 326-40. Print. -----. “Moonlodge.” An Anthology of Canadian Native Literature in English, Third Edition. Ed. Daniel David Moses and Terry Goldie. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2005. 335-48. Print. -----. “Moonlodge.” Singular Voices: Plays in Monologue Form. Ed. Tony Hamill. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 1994. Print. ----- and Joane Cardinal-Schubert. Margo Kane: Memories Springing Waters Singing. Banff: Walter Phillips Gallery, 1993. Print. La Flamme, Lisa Michelle. “Living Writing and Staging Racial Hybridity.” Diss. UBC, 2006. Vancouver: UBC cIRcle. Print. Levinas, Emanuel. Totality and Infinity: an essay on exteriority. Trans. Alphonso Lingis. Dordrecht, NL: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1991. Print. Lo, Jacqueline and Helen Gilbert. “Toward a Topography of Cross-Cultural Theatre Praxis.” The Drama Review 46:3 (2002): 31-53. Print. Lynch, Brian and Jessica Werb. “State of the Arts.” Georgia Straight. Vancouver. 28 Feb. 2008: n.p.< http://www.straight.com/article-133954/state-of-the-arts?# > 26 April 2010. Mojica, Monique. “Theatrical Diversity on Turtle Island: A tool towards healing.” Native Theatre in the Americas. Spec. issue of Canadian Theatre Review 68 (1991): 3. Print. Ratsoy, Ginny. “Introduction: Locating Place.” Theatre in British Columbia: Critical Perspectives on Canadian Theatre in English, Volume Six. Ed. Ginny Ratsoy. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2006. vii-xxiv. Print. 76 Rendon, Marcie. “Theatre in the House/Raving Native Productions.” Performing Worlds into Being: Native American Women’s Theater. Eds. Ann Elizabeth Armstrong, Kelli Lyon Johnson and William A. Wortman. Oxford, Ohio: Miami University Press, 2009. 138- 42. Print. “Searchable Grants Listing.” Canada Council for the Arts. 23 March 2004 [sic]. <http://www.canadacouncil.ca/grants/recipients/ol127245536828281250.htm > 11 March 2011. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. Decolonizing Methodologies. New York: Zed Books, 1999. Print. “Talking Stick Festival – History.” Full Circle First Nations Performance. 2008. <http://www.fullcircleperformance.ca/content.asp?chapterID=2&subchapterID=73&page ID=188 > 25 April 2010. “Where the Blood Mixes.” TalonBooks.com. n.d. < http://www.talonbooks.com/books/where-the-blood-mixes > 30 April 2010. 77 APPENDIX ONE: Kane Interview Script The UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Board approved this interview script. I emailed it to Kane before we met for our interview. Margo Kane Interview Script Possible topics for discussion: 1. Could you describe the process that led to the formation of Full Circle First Nations Performance Company? Who was involved in the creation of the company? How has the company changed over the years since it has been established? 2. Could you describe the process that led to the formation of the Aboriginal Training Ensemble? Who was involved in the creation of the ensemble? How has it changed over the years since it has been established? What does the 2-year training currently entail? 3. Could you describe the process that led to the formation of the Talking Stick Festival? Who was involved in the creation of the festival? How has the festival changed over the years since it has been established? 4. Could you describe the process that led to the formation of the Indigenous Performing Arts Alliance? Who was involved in the creation of the organization? How has it changed over the years since it has been established? 5. Could you explain “The River Home” project and how it is connected to these other projects? 6. Could you consider how themes from your plays/performances of Moonlodge, Confessions of an Indian Cowboy and Memories Springing/Waters Singing may be connected to your organizational/community work? Version 1 July 5, 2010 
work_b6upgtmkmnczxbavjrwaay6hge	----	BIROn - Birkbeck Institutional Research Online Kaufmann, Eric P. (2001) Nativist cosmopolitans: institutional reflexivity and the decline of “double-consciousness” in American nationalist thought. The Journal of Historical Sociology 14 (1), pp. 47-78. ISSN 0952-1909. Downloaded from: http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/id/eprint/455/ Usage Guidelines: Please refer to usage guidelines at https://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/policies.html or alternatively contact lib-eprints@bbk.ac.uk. http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/id/eprint/455/ https://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/policies.html mailto:lib-eprints@bbk.ac.uk Birkbeck ePrints: an open access repository of the research output of Birkbeck College http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk Kaufmann, Eric (2001). Nativist cosmopolitans: institutional reflexivity and the decline of “double- consciousness” in American nationalist thought. The Journal of Historical Sociology 14 (1) 47–78. This is an author-produced version of a paper published in The Journal of Historical Sociology (ISSN 0952-1909). This version is a pre-print (pre- refereeing) and does not include the publisher proof corrections, published layout or pagination. The definitive version is available at: http://www.blackwell-synergy.com/doi/abs/10.1111/1467-6443.00134 All articles available through Birkbeck ePrints are protected by intellectual property law, including copyright law. Any use made of the contents should comply with the relevant law. Citation for this version: Kaufmann, Eric (2001). Nativist cosmopolitans: institutional reflexivity and the decline of “double-consciousness” in American nationalist thought. London: Birkbeck ePrints. Available at: http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/archive/00000455 Citation for the publisher’s version: Kaufmann, Eric (2001). Nativist cosmopolitans: institutional reflexivity and the decline of “double-consciousness” in American nationalist thought. The Journal of Historical Sociology 14 (1) 47–78. http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk Contact Birkbeck ePrints at lib-eprints@bbk.ac.uk http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/ http://www.blackwell-synergy.com/doi/abs/10.1111/1467-6443.00134 http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/archive/00000455 http://eprints.bbk.ac.uk/ mailto:lib-eprints@bbk.ac.uk 1 NATIVIST COSMOPOLITANS: INSTITUTIONAL REFLEXIVITY AND THE DECLINE OF "DOUBLE-CONSCIOUSNESS" IN AMERICAN NATIONALIST THOUGHT Ever since Tom Paine declared that "Europe, not England is the parent country of America," there has been a strong tendency for scholars to perceive the United States as the world's first universal nation, an entity formed without reference to a pre-modern ethnic core. (Kaufman 1982: 2) This argument tends to assert that the Anglo-Protestant elites who founded the United States assumed a liberal-universalist "cultural idiom" of nationhood.1 This exceptionalist view of the American nation came to be widely promulgated by the "consensus" school of historiography between the 1930's and the early 1960's. (Higham 1955; Solomon 1956; Kohn 1957; FitzGerald 1979: 79-80) Though its popularity has waned in recent decades, the exceptionalist argument underlies the work of many contemporary social thinkers. Recent examples include Seymour Martin Lipset ('Being American…is an ideological commitment'), Wilbur Zelinsky ('American nationalism has been international in character from the outset'), Liah Greenfeld ('the Ideal Nation') and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. ('the future was America'). (Zelinsky 1988; Greenfeld 1992: 438; Schlesinger 1993: 24; Lipset 1996: 31)2 Against the grain of the exceptionalist argument, a second avenue of historical- sociological investigation has appeared, predicated on the claim that American national discourse has been shaped by a hegemonic white, Anglo-Protestant cultural elite. This line of enquiry could first be detected just prior to World War I in the writings of 2 Pluralists like Horace Kallen or Randolph Bourne. (Bourne [1917] 1964: 108; Kallen 1924: 83, 104-5) It later attained popularity among "new political historians" like Lee Benson and Joel Silbey, or critical sociologists like C. Wright Mills and E. Digby Baltzell. (Benson 1961; Mills 1956; Baltzell 1964; Silbey 1985) More recently, David Roediger, Rogers Smith, Ashley Doane and Reginald Horsman, among others, have backed the contention that varieties of "ascriptive Americanism" have been used to safeguard the cultural, economic and political privileges of a dominant, "WASP" or white ethnic group. (Horsman 1981; Roediger 1991; R. Smith 1995; Doane 1997) This paper grants that both the exceptionalist and ethnoculturalist interpretations of American nationalism are well-supported by historical evidence. However, few players in this highly-charged debate have acknowledged the pervasive dualism which runs through the writings of most of the individuals cited in the historical literature. Fewer still have sought to investigate the nature of this paradox. The tradition established by Gunnar Myrdal's An American Dilemma (1944) provides no exception. That important work led to a fertile debate concerning the dissonance between white (and, to a far lesser extent, Anglo-Protestant) American thought and action on the race issue, but paid scant attention to the logical and rhetorical dualism present within dominant group discourse itself. This essay seeks to address this gap in the literature using historical evidence which illustrates that partisans from each side of the current debate often adopt discursive evidence from the same individuals. Our enterprise will therefore be one of clarification and analysis. Clarification, in that we shall present empirical evidence for a pattern of pervasive dualism in the historical record. This will be followed by an analysis which 3 unwinds and isolates the complex causal strands which gave rise to what Ralph Waldo Emerson referred to as American "double-consciousness." THE ADVENT OF "DOUBLE-CONSCIOUSNESS" The art of American double-consciousness, according to Emerson, lay in balancing notions of "race" and "rights," in other words, (Anglo-Protestant) ethnicity and universalist liberty. (Goldman 1992: 284) Even so, Emerson was clearly not the first practitioner of this cultural style, whose origins may be traced to the mid-eighteenth century. The Revolutionary Generation The pattern of dualism which is a hallmark of American thought on the question of nationality had already emerged prior to the American Revolution. Benjamin Franklin, for example, as early as 1751, explicitly defended the Englishness of the American colonies, emphasizing that it was hardly: Necessary to bring in Foreigners to fill up any occasional Vacancy in a Country; for such Vacancy...will soon be filled by natural Generation…And since Detachments of English from Britain sent to America, will have their places of Home so soon supply'd and increase so largely here; why should the Palatine Boors [Germans] be suffered to swarm into our Settlements, and by herding 4 together establish their Language and Manners to the Exclusion of ours? Why should Pennsylvania, founded by the English, become a colony of Aliens, who will shortly be so numerous as to Germanize us instead of our Anglifying them, and will never adopt our Language or Customs, any more than they can acquire our Complexion. (Franklin [1751] 1961: 232, 234) Franklin later added that "[Our] Land owners will have no cause to complain if English, Welsh and Protestant Irish are encouraged to come hither instead of Germans." (Kerman 1983: 24-5) Commenting on the same matter in 1753, Franklin continued to castigate the Germans, remarking that "Unless the stream of their importation could be turned from this to other colonies...they will soon outnumber us." However, at the conclusion of this very same passage, he appears to change his tune, suggesting that: I am not for refusing entirely to admit them into our Colonies: all that seems to be necessary is to distribute them more equally, mix them with the English, establish English Schools where they are now too thick settled...I say I am not against the Admission of Germans in general, for they have their Virtues, their industry and frugality is exemplary; They are excellent husbandmen and contribute greatly to the improvement of a Country. (Franklin [1753] 1961: 483, 485) 5 Thomas Jefferson concurred with this liberal view in 1817, writing that he wished to keep the doors of America open, so as to: Consecrate a sanctuary for those whom the misrule of Europe may compel to seek happiness in other climes. This refuge once known will produce reaction on the happiness even of those who remain there, by warning their taskmasters that when the evils of Egyptian oppression become heavier than those of the abandonment of country, another Canaan is open where their subjects will be received as brothers and secured against like oppression by a participation in the right of self- government. (Kohn 1957: 138) Jefferson was also known to exclaim: "I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past," or, in writing to Joseph Priestley in 1800, " [The] Gothic idea that we are to look backwards instead of forwards...and to recur to the annals of our ancestors for what is most perfect in government, in religion & in learning, is worthy of those bigots in religion & Government, by whom it has been recommended, & whose purposes it would answer." (Gossett 1963: 127; Kohn 1957: 150-51) Yet is precisely the force of Jefferson's futuristic liberalism that renders his Anglo-Saxonism so surprising. Here it may be seen that Jefferson's liberal cosmopolitanism was part of a dual consciousness shared with an American Anglo- Protestant nationalism. This is evident in his utterance: "Has not every restitution of the antient Saxon laws had happy effects? Is it not better now that we return at once into that 6 happy system of our ancestors, the wisest and most perfect ever yet devised by the wit of man, as it stood before the 8th century?" (Horsman 1981: 22) On the immigration question, he was also capable of sustaining a highly defensive argument, musing that European immigrants would infuse the American Republic with "their spirit, [and thereby] warp and bias its direction, and render it a heterogeneous, incoherent, distracted mass." (Spalding 1994: 40) The "race-rights" tension similarly did not escape Alexander Hamilton, another key founding father, who at once supported the civic nationalist idea of attracting respectable Europeans who "would be on a level with the First Citizens," while expressing his reservations about non-British immigration by comparing foreigners in America to foreigners in Rome: Among other instances, it is known that hardly anything contributed more to the downfall of Rome than the precipitate communication of the privileges of citizenship to the inhabitants of Italy at large....And how terribly was Syracuse scourged by perpetual seditions, when, after the overthrow of the tyrants, a great number of foreigners were suddenly admitted to the rights of citizenship. (Spalding 1994: 39; Jones 1992 [1960]: 68) Hamilton's ethno-cultural sentiments emerge yet again with his injunction for the powers that be "to render the people of this country as homogeneous as possible, [which] must lead as much as any circumstance to the permanency of their union and prosperity." (Knobel 1996: 16) 7 The Mid-Nineteenth Century Literati The literary phenomenon known as the "American Subversive Style," already in place by the 1820's, foregrounds the tension between dominant ethnicity and universalist liberalism which we have been discussing. (Reynolds 1988: 202) The new liberal- individualist spirit infused the work of mid-nineteenth century writers like Edgar Allan Poe, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Herman Melville and, later, the James brothers, Henry and William. Figures such as these, though they dealt with American themes, were attracted to self-exploration and technical experimentation. (Crunden 1994: 75, 165; Porsdam 1987) Poe, Melville, Longfellow and Thoreau, for instance, while interested in fostering an American literature3, were equally adamant about the need for a spiritual, individual- centred creative process, and were often ambiguous in their portrayal of American subject matter. (Marshall 1988: 394-96, 405-8) The introverted spirit of these writers gives us the first glimpse of the modernist anti-nationalism which would later be directed at Anglo-Saxon cultural hegemony. Perhaps Longfellow's character Churchill in the novel Kavanagh (1849) was clearest in this regard: "Nationality is a good thing to a certain extent," he says, "but universality is better." Accordingly, Churchill prefers "what is natural" to what is national. (Kammen 1991: 82; Marshall 1988: 392-3) The pseudo-modernist spirit in Longfellow led him to avoid a communally- oriented literature of collective representation, but any re-casting of America on purely cosmopolitan lines would have been unthinkable to Longfellow or virtually anyone else 8 in the nineteenth century.4 Henry James' cosmopolitan individualism, for example, had little impact on his disdain for the "vast contingent of aliens" whom he saw as debasing Anglo-American culture in the late nineteenth century. (Greenfeld 1992: 469) William Dean Howells, James' contemporary, expressed similar sentiments. (Glazer 1975 [1987]: 20) Their ambiguity on this subject comes across in the same kind of double- consciousness that the Founders displayed. For example, Herman Melville waxed poetic about Americans as "not a nation, so much as a world...the heirs of all time...On this Western Hemisphere all tribes and peoples are forming into one federated whole...." (Hollinger 1995: 88) Yet when Melville was in a less ebullient mood, he would retreat from futurism into a "gothic" nostalgia and look favourably upon No-Popery as an expression of popular culture. Walt Whitman displayed a similar ambiguity, speaking of America's universal humanism while admiring Maria Monk's No-Popery invectives and claiming to be influenced by its populist content. (Kohn 1957: 152; Reynolds 1988: 65, 142-3) In analagous fashion, the lineaments of double-consciousness were exposed by the debate over the roots of English. For example, Whitman, influenced by Anglo- Saxonist philology, wrote in Leaves of Grass (1855) that "the Anglo-Saxon stock of our language [is]… the most important part, the root and strong speech of the native English for many centuries," later adding that "I think the Saxon has an element no other language has." (Bernbrock 1961: 42, 190) These statements were in keeping with his 1840's query: "What has miserable inefficient Mexico...to do...with the great mission of peopling the New World with a noble race?" (Horsman 1981: 235) 9 Like so many others, however, Whitman could display a more generous, cosmopolitan frame of mind, as when he speculated about the evolution of the English language. "Like the American nation, it [English] gathers to itself the elements of power from the four corners of the globe," Whitman wrote. "The colonies of Plymouth-rock and Jamestown have grown into a mighty nation; and one of the forms of growth, has been the adoption of the citizens of other nations. So the Anglo-Saxon has grown into the present English by the free adoption of words from other languages." (Bernbrock 1961: 47) Horace Greeley, a contemporary of Whitman's who was both a Fourierite individualist and Republican radical, might be expected to have solidly backed a liberal- universalist position toward ethnic and racial minorities. He certainly gave indication of this when he pressed the Republican leadership in 1856 not to nominate a Know- Nothing, William Johnson, for vice-president - as this would alienate the foreign-born. Greeley also supported equal suffrage for New York's blacks in 1846 against the overwhelming majority of opinion both inside and outside his party. (Foner 1970: 248, 262-63) Even so, Greeley was still capable of expressing his opinion of the Irish as "deplorably clannish, misguided and prone to violence." He also fell into the practice of calling on northern blacks to prove themselves economically before devoting their energies toward securing political equality and criticized the activism of black political leaders. (Silbey 1985: 71; Foner 1970: 298) The same "restricted liberalism" characterized iconoclastic personalities like Charles Anderson. In addressing the New England Society of Cincinnatti in 1850, he combined his view that there was "an actual 10 greatness, perhaps decided superiority, in these British families of men" with the counter- opinion that "this idea of any 'Destiny,' or of any inborn or primitive superiority appertaining to ours, or to any other division of the human race, constitutes, in my judgment, a double error…." (Hall 1997: 136) Despite ample evidence of dualism on the "race-rights" question before his time, it is Ralph Waldo Emerson's pronouncements that provide us with the richest lode of evidence for the existence of double-consciousness (a term Emerson coined) in the Anglo-American psyche. With regard to immigration, for instance, Emerson is known to have remarked: How much more are men than nations....The office of America is to liberate, to abolish kingcraft, priestcraft, caste, monopoly, to pull down gallows, to burn up the bloody statute book, to take in the immigrant, to open the doors of the sea and the fields of the earth...This liberation appears in the power of invention, the freedom of thinking, in readiness for reforms. On the subject of the nation's identity, he was just as emphatic, calling the United States [in 1846] "the asylum of all nations...the energy of Irish, Germans, Swedes, Poles and Cossacks, and all the European tribes, of the Africans and Polynesians, will construct a new race...as vigorous as the new Europe which came out of the smelting pot of the Dark Ages." (Curti 1946: 202-3) Emerson's exuberance is noteworthy, especially in view of the fact that he wrote at about the same time that: 11 It cannot be maintained by any candid person that the African race have ever occupied or do promise ever to occupy any very high place in the human family...The Irish cannot; the American Indian cannot; the Chinese cannot. Before the energy of the Caucasian race all other races have quailed and done obeisance. A thorough reading of Emerson shows that these pronouncements were hardly exceptional in the ante-bellum period. The beginnings of this line of thought can be traced to 1822, when Emerson declared: I believe that nobody now regards the maxim 'that all men are created equal,' as any thing more than a convenient hypothesis or an extravagant declamation...for the reverse is true,--that all men are born unequal...The least knowledge of the natural history of man adds another important particular to these: namely, of what class of men he belongs to--European, Moor, Tartar, African? Because Nature has plainly assigned different degrees of intellect to these different races, and the barriers between are insurmountable...." (Goldman 1992: 242-44, emphasis added) Emerson's reaffirmation of the genealogical link between England and America continued into the 1850's, when he concisely argued that immigrants did not affect the ethnic composition of the United States: So far have British people predominated. Perhaps forty of these millions [in the Empire] are of British stock. Add the United States of America, which reckon (in 12 the same year), exclusive of slaves, 20,000,000 people...and in which the foreign element, however considerable, is rapidly assimilated, and you have a population of English descent and language of 60,000,000, and governing a population of 245,000,000 souls. (Emerson [1856] 1902: 25-6, emphasis added) What makes Emerson unique is less his contradictory beliefs (which were the norm in his day) than his valiant attempt to explain the contradiction, which gives us a unique window into the psyche of the nineteenth century American liberal elite. As Anita Goldman explains, Emerson often conflated race with culture and advocated liberal and ethnic nationalist theories in tandem: Although rights and race represent contradictory views of the self and nation, the two concepts are not at cross purposes in Emerson's writings. Neither rights nor race alone is sufficient to represent Emersonian double-consciousness, and the two concepts gain justification and force by the fact of their juxtaposition. The incessant elaboration upon this condition of double-consciousness in Emerson's writings--his affirmation of ties which are both distinctively racial and which express his commitment to liberal ideals--has clear applicability in the field of American nationalist thought, where the social significance of "race" has often gone unaccounted for in the compromised extension of rights. (Goldman 1992: 284) 13 The preceding discussion of secular double-consciousness in American thought during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries illustrates how Anglo-American thinkers expressed the latent tensions between their dominant ethnicity and their commitment to liberal-egalitarian principles. We shall now examine how the thinking of religious and secular figures in the latter half of the nineteenth century tended to run along the same dualistic paths that had been carved out by their predecessors. Double-Consciousness and American Organized Protestantism The conflation of "race" and "rights" in the prose of mid-nineteenth century literati also characterizes the writing of Anglo-Protestant religious elites. The arena of church-state relations illustrates this well: Protestant leaders of the late nineteenth century, especially Baptists and Methodists, continually rejected calls to write Protestant religiosity into the Constitution, yet they emphatically asserted that "the government of these United States [is] necessarily, rightfully, and lawfully Christian." (Handy 1991: 10) Here again we see the tension implicit in the pattern of double-consciousness: Anglo- Protestants wanted their tradition to be supreme, but their universalist liberal commitments would not countenance boundary-defending measures of legislative origin. Witness the lack of enthusiasm for the National Religious Association's Christian [constitutional] Amendment displayed by many prominent churchmen in the 1870's. Such a move would have been too explicit, smacking of both religious establishment, which evangelicals historically feared, and of a lack of faith in the power of the Gospel. However, though they rejected the efforts of the NRA, the American Protestant elite sympathized with their motive to make the United States a "Christian"5 nation. Beneath 14 the respect for a separation of church and state, therefore, was the undeniable zeal to transform the infidel into the (Protestant) Christian. To this end, Protestant leaders used every instrument at their disposal to ensure that social pressure was brought to bear on legislators and opinion-makers. In effect, a Protestant "voluntary establishment" was being unleashed, which led to conformity at the civic level, influenced political and legislative discourse and shaped practices in the nation's public schools.6 But, as Robert Handy explains, "the goal of a Protestant civilization was to be realized by persuasion only-so most Protestant leaders sincerely believed." (Handy 1971: 55; Handy 1991: 26; Goodheart 1991: 135-6 ) The emphasis on individualism and voluntarism that characterized the evangelical position on church-state relations also held with respect to the relationship between Anglo-Protestant ethnicity and the American nation. Immigrants, even if Catholic, should not be excluded by legislation, but rather were to be converted to "true" Christianity and transmuted into (Anglo) Americans by the new nation's liberal democracy, free land, public schools and Anglo-Protestant culture. The roots of this voluntarist posture were certainly in place by the 1840's, when large-scale Catholic immigration led to a strong spirit of cooperation among various Protestant denominations, as symbolized by the formation of the Evangelical Alliance for the United States in 1847. Protestant leaders, though vehemently opposed to Catholicism, nevertheless eschewed immigration restriction, their hands stayed by their liberal inheritance. Buoyed by a sense of divine election, these clergymen confidently predicted that they could effect a new reformation on American soil and convert the immigrants to the "American" faith. (Billington 1938: 280; Jordan 1982: 21-25) 15 The public school was assigned a leading role in the fight for the ethnic transmutation of the immigrant. Thus Samuel Bowles, in an editorial in the Springfield (Mass.) Republican, declared in 1866 that: "The only true and, in the end, effective engine against Popery is enlightened education. For the education of a well-balanced mind cannot be satisfied with the senseless forms, which go to make up all that Popery is." (Demerath & Williams 1992: 43; May [1949] 1967: 42) At the denominational level, evangelical Protestants maintained a similar optimism: the Catholic immigrant would see the light and convert to the "national" religion. (Moorhead 1994: 147) Protestant optimism flowed seamlessly into Anglo-Saxon optimism, for in the same manner as the "education" of Catholic immigrants would lead them to the true faith, it would subsume them in the Anglo-Saxon race. This was confirmed at a meeting of the Evangelical Alliance in 1887, when Samuel Harris, the Episcopal Bishop of Michigan proclaimed, to rapturous applause, that: The consistency of the divine purpose in establishing our evangelical civilization here is signally illustrated in the fact that it was primarily confided to the keeping of the Anglo-Saxon race…endowed with a certain race conservatism and a certain consistency of race type, it has sturdily maintained itself, even to the present time. Refusing to depart from its own type, it has compelled other people to conform to that type and constrained them to accept its institutions, to speak its language, to obey its laws. 16 In conclusion, Harris reinforced the pattern of liberal ethnicity that had come to be so firmly established by his time, writing that while "it has come to pass that…our nation is composite, it continues to be homogeneous, obeying the laws of Alfred and speaking the language of Shakespeare and Milton." (Handy 1971: 105-6, emphasis added) Harris was merely recycling thoughts brought to the fore by the Congregationalist leader Josiah Strong a few years earlier. Strong, alarmed at Catholic immigration, had insisted that, "During the last ten years [1875-85] we have suffered a peaceful invasion by an army more than four times as vast as the estimated number of Goths and Vandals that swept over Southern Europe and overwhelmed Rome." On the other hand, Strong reaffirmed the optimistic convention that "the Anglo-Saxon race is to be, is, indeed, already becoming, more effective here than in the mother country. The marked superiority of this race is due, in large measure, to its highly mixed origin." (Strong [1885] 1963: 42, 210) For other Protestant figures, the adaptability of the Anglo-Saxon ethnie to new environments and the universalist possibilities inherent in the English language made the Anglo-Americans Christianity's chosen servants: "In politics and morals," wrote O.B. Super in the Methodist Review in 1890, "the Anglo-Saxon, especially the American, seems destined to be the teacher of the world." (Moorhead 1994: 147) Here again, a universalist claim (universal possibilities of the English language) is balanced by a particularist one (Anglo-Saxons as teachers of the world), reinforcing an established pattern of duality A final pillar of traditional American Protestant ideology was that diverse immigration provided evidence of American election, and that the world's tribes would 17 gather in the United States for the new millennium. "In the gathering of all nations and races upon our shores," exclaimed Baptist Home Missionary Society superintendent Hubert C. Woods in 1889, "do we not witness the providential preparation for a second Pentecost that shall usher in the millennial glory?" (Davis 1973: 44-50) In making this triumphalist assertion, Woods was indulging an American Anglo-Protestant proclivity for millennial thinking - a rhetorical device that in no way precluded a deeper belief in the sanctity of the United States as an ethnic, Anglo-Saxon nation. This combination of cosmopolitan millennialism and dominant ethnicity thereby imparted a unique flavour to the Protestant clergy's variant of double-consciousness. Double-Consciousness and American Historiography The position of the clerical Anglo-Saxonists discussed above neatly harmonized with secular currents of thought ascendant at the time, illustrating how closely intertwined the two traditions were in American life. With regard to the latter, John Higham observed, The Anglo-Saxonists were pro rather than con. During an age of confidence almost no race-thinker directly challenged a tolerant and eclectic attitude toward other European groups. Instead, Anglo-Saxon and cosmopolitan nationalisms merged in a happy belief that the Anglo-Saxon has a marvelous capacity for assimilating kindred races, absorbing their valuable qualities, yet remaining essentially unchanged. (Higham 1955 [1986]: 33) 18 The early pages of Theodore Roosevelt's Winning of the West give us a sense of this optimistic, voluntarist, dominant ethnicity: "Some latter-day writers deplore the enormous immigration to our shores as making us a heterogeneous instead of a homogeneous people; but as a matter of fact we are less heterogeneous at the present day than we were at the outbreak of the Revolution. Our blood was as much mixed a century ago as it is now." (Roosevelt 1889I: 21) Historians like Roosevelt are important because they hold a key position in the community, responsible for creating its ethno-history, a narrative that tells a story, inspires the people and provides them with a sense of shared ancestry. (Smith 1986: 25-6) Such ethno-histories may employ universal techniques and theories, but tend to do so within the particularist framework of collective memory. The nature of Anglo-American historical narrative changed somewhat between 1875 and 1925, but it was not until the 1930's that a new generation of historians began to interpret the United States as a truly cosmopolitan melting pot. Historiography during the 1875-1925 period was therefore completely reflective of the "double-consciousness" paradigm.7 Hence, as Edward Saveth notes, the Anglo-Protestant historians who dominated the American academy combined the ethno-cultural belief "that the United States was essentially an Anglo-Saxon country and [must be] preserve[d]…as such" with "the [universalist] idea of the United States as a refuge for the oppressed of Europe…[and] a composite nation." (Saveth 1948: 13-14) To reiterate, it is necessary to understand that liberal and Anglo-Protestant attitudes were not opposing viewpoints, but part of the same myth-symbol complex of dualistic beliefs. (Higham [1955] 1986: 33, 133; R. Smith 1995: 238-39) 19 Double-Consciousness and the Frontier Thesis Elite narratives of American national identity in the late nineteenth century were centred around the Anglo-Saxon myth, an Anglo-American version of the Teutonic germ theory, which traced the origin of democracy and liberty to primitive tribes in the forests of Germany. Employing a mix of Teutonism and Social Darwinism, Herbert Baxter Adams, John Fiske, John W. Burgess and James K Hosmer drew parrallels between ancient Anglo-Saxon institutions and those of the village life of contemporary New England, such as the town meeting or "folk-mote." Meanwhile, the most popular nineteenth-century American historians, George Bancroft, William Prescott, John Motley and Francis Parkman, helped popularize the myth among a wider audience. (Ross 1984: 917) An indication of the theory's popularity in 1891 is the view of one observer that "so wide has been its acceptance, and so strongly installed is it in the minds both of students and readers that it may seem more bold than discreet to raise the question regarding the soundness of the theory." (Saveth 1948: 26) Anglo-Saxonist historians regularly blended both ethnocentric and universalist passages in their pronouncements on the matter of American identity. However, what is less well-known is that their environmentalist successors performed an identical cognitive feat. The key figure in this process, of course, was Frederick Jackson Turner. Drawing on the work of future presidents Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, Turner pushed the environmental interpretation to its conclusion and attempted to refute the Teutonic origins theory, thereby undermining a principal cornerstone of American 20 Anglo-Saxonism. According to Turner's new "frontier thesis" presented in 1893, "in the crucible of the frontier the immigrants were Americanized, liberated, and fused into a mixed race, English in neither nationality nor characteristics." He conceived of American society as a melting pot in which "all gave and all received and no element remained isolated." (Saveth 1948: 26) In large measure, though, Turner's pronouncements differed little from those of Emerson or any other proponent of double-consciousness. The best evidence for this lies in the specifics of Turner's writing. For instance, despite talk of Americans as a "new product which held the promise of universal brotherhood," Turner repeatedly singled out the Anglo-Saxon, Scotch-Irish and German elements as central to the national enterprise and the frontier experience. (Turner 1920: 23, 68, 92, 102-5, 164, 349, 351) In addition, Turner occasionally slipped into the habit of referring to the Anglo-Saxons as the "native stock," though Turner's definition of the nation had definitely expanded to include the previously marginalized Germans. Turner's work proved a major break in the paradigm shift from Anglo-America to Universalist America, but Turner himself did not successfully make that break, turning his back on the "large immigrations of the eighties" of southern/eastern Europeans to the cities. (Turner 1920: 351) Turner's inspiration was Western regionalism and his scientific tools were Lamarckianism and environmentalist theories of race formation. The desire to see a unique American ethnic type, different from the Briton and based on the Western experience, led Turner to interpret the frontier environment as a race-shaping one. However, Turner's lack of deeply felt liberal universalism meant that his cosmopolitan Americanism tended to evaporate in the light of its practical correlates. 21 For example, many of Turner's later writings indicate that he envisaged an essentially Anglo-Protestant, rural America, albeit with a more inclusive definition of dominant ethnicity than his Anglo-Saxonist colleagues. In many ways, therefore, Turner helped narrate the new distinction between the "old" stock, of northern and western Europe, and the "new" immigration. Hence, by 1900, he was explicitly criticizing the newer immigration, both for its diversity and its urbanity, claiming that the closing of the frontier and the new immigration had "effects upon American social well-being [that] are dangerous in the extreme" and deploring the "peaceful conquest of the old stock by an international army of workers." (Saveth 1948: 132, 134) Evidently, Turner had merely emphasized one part of his inherited American mythomoteur8 (frontier, liberty, agrarianism) without jettisoning the other symbols (Protestantism, Nordic whiteness). Indeed, as Turner's statements reveal, the Turnerian revolution should be viewed less as a victory for universalism than as a refinement of American dominant ethnicity, which rendered it a more native American product. Consequently, on the eve of the twentieth century, an established pattern of ethno-national/universalist-liberal duality, or "double-consciousness," operated as the prevalent idiom of nationalist discourse among the American cultural and political elite. The Twentieth Century: Age of Reckoning The vitality of the dualist juggernaut began to falter towards the end of the nineteenth century, a process which was substantially complete by the 1920's. Emerging from this process was a new well-defined split between ethno-nationalist and liberal- 22 universalist social actors. On the ethno-nationalist side of the ledger, one could count the foundation of the Immigration Restriction League in 1887, the near-passage of a literacy test for immigrants in 1897, the rise of the second Ku Klux Klan in the 1920's and the passage of the Johnson-Reed Act in 1924.9 (Higham [1955] 1986; King 2000) Similarly, liberal universalists coalesced behind the tenets of Liberal Progressivism after 1905, predicated on the beliefs of John Dewey and William James that the Anglo-Saxon element was merely one ingredient in a global, American melting- pot. (Lissak 1989: 141) From this point, in the first decade of the twentieth century, the contradictions inherent in American dualism were exposed, forcing individuals to take sides. No longer could one be both an ardent cosmopolitan and a romantic Anglo-Saxon nationalist. Instead, one either had to support the white, Anglo-conformist vision of the nation or a cosmopolitan, post-WASP variant of Americanism. Exactly what was the stake that had been driven into the heart of double-consciousness? This is the problem with which we shall next concern ourselves. INTERROGATING THE PHENOMENON OF DOUBLE-CONSCIOUSNESS The dualist cultural idiom employed by American elites in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries - which simultaneously extolled the virtues of American universalism while affirming a romantic Anglo-Protestant Americanism - and the subsequent decline of this dualist idiom, can only be sufficiently explained by employing a multi-causal strategy. 23 The most prominent explanations include the following: 1) The inclusive character of Anglo-American ethnic nationhood 2) The dualistic heritage of Anglo-American Protestantism 3) The changing degree of institutional reflexivity in the United States Let us consider each in turn. The Inclusive Character of Anglo-American Ethnic Nationhood The first explanation rests on the notion that Anglo-American elites were ethnic nationalists, but maintained a liberal posture toward immigration, provided it came from northwestern Europe. This generated an aura of universalism whose rhetorical stamina was as limited as the era of northwestern European immigration. Fredrik Barth's emphasis upon the importance of ethnic boundaries highlights the fact that ethnic groups are not hermetically sealed bagfulls of racial or cultural "stuff." Rather, ethnicity admits of a high degree of demographic permeability - so long as symbolic boundaries (including phenotype) are maintained over time. (Barth 1969: 20-25) Accordingly, we might imagine nineteenth-century Anglo-Protestant dominant ethnicity in the United States to be a highly assimilative construct which nevertheless maintained its symbolic exclusivity.10 Since nearly all American immigrants prior to the 1870's came from Canada or northern Europe, phenotype was not an issue.11 Instead, it is plausible that American elites sincerely believed that German, Irish and Scandinavian immigrants 24 would recombine into American Englishmen, just as Saxon, Celt and Norman had in the Old World. The correlate of this position holds that the contradictions between a liberal immigration policy and the maintenance of ethnic boundaries were exposed through praxis. Specifically, as soon as the supply of immigrants shifted away from the Nordic northwest of Europe toward the southeast of that continent and Asia, Anglo-American elites sensed a threat to their ethnic boundaries. The Chinese Exclusion Act (1882), and the train of immigration restrictionist socio-political ferment between 1885 and 1925 is therefore to be attributed to the greater social distance between Anglo-Protestants and the post-1880 immigrants. (Higham [1955] 1986: 64) There is a large measure of truth in this explanation, and it likely underlay the thought-process of many Anglo-American writers. Theodore Roosevelt made the connection between English and American social processes particularly explicit in the late 1880's when he compared the American assimilation of German and Celt to the English absorption of Saxon, Briton and Dane. (Roosevelt 1889I: 247) Emerson revealed the same sentiment when he gave thanks that the United States had been spared the "black eyes, the black drop, the Europe of Europe." (Higham [1955] 1986: 65) Even so, the logic of liberal, anglo-conformist assimilation only appears to account for a portion of "race-rights" dualism, there being numerous chinks in its armor. To begin with, such an explanation fails to properly account for variation in the timing of nativism during the supposedly uncontentious era of northwestern European immigration. For instance, there was considerable anti-Catholic agitation during 1840-1860, but less during 1860-80. (Higham 1955 [1986]; Knobel 1996) 25 More important, the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 was a labour-driven bill that was widely condemned by the leading Anglo-American cultural, political and economic voices, who wished to maintain a free flow of immigration from China. Hence a founder of the Connecticut Republican party declared in 1870, "With our flag over me, and the New Testament in my hand, I say Let them [Chinese] come!" (NY Tribune – 05/07/1870) A large part of their openness stemmed from the economic utility of the Chinese, but it was also rooted in the universalist belief that the coming of the Chinese represented God's will and confirmed the central role of the United States in world history. (Seward 1881: 254; Davis 1973: 19, 24-5; Gyory 1998: 249) Second, once this elite began to accept the need for restrictions to be placed on immigration (in the late 1880's), its arguments focused more strongly on the "old" immigration from Ireland and Germany than on the new. Namely, the Catholicism, intemperance and political acumen of many of the "old" immigrants and their children was perceived to be a more pressing affair than the racial exoticism of the southern/eastern European "new" immigrants. (Davis 1973: 86-7; Jones 1992 [1960]: 152-54; Knobel 1996: 195; Strong 1885 [1963]: 55) Large-scale Catholic immigration had been a fact of life since the 1830's. Consequently, we must explain why the volume of anti-Catholic rhetoric rose after 1885. This points to an internal (i.e. growth of institutional reflexivity), rather than external (i.e. new sources of immigrants) dynamic of elite attitude change. One other, more serious, objection to the "liberal, anglo-confomist" argument also bears mentioning. Namely, that Anglo-American elites' liberal attitude to pre-1880 immigration from northern Europe cannot conceivably explain the presence of numerous 26 universalist exhortations. These universalist pronouncements constitute the kernel of dualist discourse - embracing peoples from the "four corners of the world." Such utterances clearly fall outside the ambit of anglo-conformist assimilation, and cannot be woven into any story involving an analogy between England and the United States. To explain this universalism therefore requires an explanation which transcends the notion of assimilative ethnicity. We shall therefore have to entertain arguments which focus more narrowly on the cognitive structures which might have generated double- consciousness. The Dualistic Heritage of Anglo-American Protestantism. One such cognitive apparatus is religious. It is well-known that American Protestantism developed a more radical, decentralized, "low-church" structure than its British or Anglo-Canadian counterparts. (O' Toole 1996; Handy 1976) Though regionally diverse, American Protestants had been subject to New England's influence as a result of the two Great Awakenings (1725-50, 1780-1830) and through the growth of Protestant voluntary associations like the ecumenical Evangelical Alliance. Indeed, the vibrancy of this network of associations has led some to comment that there arose a Protestant "voluntary establishment" during the nineteenth century. (Hutchison 1989: 4, 303) And while it is undeniable that New England Protestantism had divested itself of Calvinism by the nineteenth century, this does not invalidate the contention that Calvinist cultural idioms had crystallized an important, dualistic, American habit of mind prior to that period. 27 This mental reflex can arguably be traced to the Old Testament, so central to the Calvinist tradition. For instance, the Old Testament tends to name the Jews as a people chosen by God: Now therefore, if ye will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all people: for all the earth is mine. And ye shall be unto me a kingdom of priests, and an holy nation. (Exodus 19:5-6). Yet, despite the predominantly ethnic tone, the selective reader can tease out some universalist passages, such as: Know ye therefore that they which are of faith, the same are the children of Abraham. And the scripture, foreseeing that God would justify the heathen through faith, preached before the Gospel unto Abraham saying, In thee shall all nations be blessed. So then they which be of faith are blessed with faithful Abraham (Gal. 3:6-9). (O'Brien 1988: 4-6) The New Testament is considerably more universalist in tone, and the combination of pre and post-Christian influences arguably reinforced the sense of double-consciousness on the "race/rights" question among nationalists in Christian nations. (Hastings 1997: 199- 200, 202) Anglo-American elites of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as heirs of 28 the free-church and Calvinist traditions, would be expected to display a particularly prominent form of this dualism. One relatively simple test of the aforementioned argument is to examine the writings of prominent writers on the matter of nationhood who hail from outside the American Protestant tradition. This tactic foregrounds the limitations inherent in our second, "low church" explanatory scheme. For example, a closer perusal of the writing of several French and English figures demonstrates that double-consciousness is clearly a broader, trans-Atlantic phenomenon. The French-born settler Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, for example, is often quoted to provide examples of America's cosmopolitan nationhood. This is unsurprising, for Crèvecoeur waxed eloquently in 1782 about Americans' "strange mixture of blood, which you will find in no other country." (Kohn 1957: 3) The archetypal American apparently left "behind him all his ancient prejudices and manners," while on American soil, "individuals of all races are melted into a new race of men, whose labours and posterity will one day cause great changes in the world." Notwithstanding the effusiveness of his rhetoric, Crèvecoeur's enthusiasm for the new mixed-origin American was a posture conditioned by both romantic millennialism and Crèvecoeur's outsider status in his adopted homeland.12 (Daniels 1998: 29-30) Behind the rhetoric, Crèvecoeur was only too well aware of the Anglo-Protestant nature of America. First of all, he employed the Anglo-Saxon pseudonym Hector St. John for his Letters, rather than his real name, Michael-Guillaume-Jean de Crèvecoeur, illustrating the anglo-conformist pressures prevalent at the time. We would likewise do well to remember that Crèvecoeur, according to Liah Greenfeld, "was as firmly 29 convinced of the Englishness of America as any American of British descent." Indeed, he remarked that an English traveler in America would feel pride that his fellow nationals "brought along with them [To America] their national genius, to which they [Americans] principally owe what liberty they enjoy and what substance they possess." (Greenfeld 1992: 408-9) Some fifty years later, another Frenchman, Alexis de Tocqueville, fell prey to the same kind of thinking. At times, Tocqueville appears to be exhorting his readership to behold a new futuristic nation: Imagine, my dear friend, if you can, a society formed of all the nations of the world...people having different languages, beliefs, opinions: in a word, a society without roots, without memories, without prejudices, without routines, without common ideas, without a national character, yet a hundred times happier than our own. However, in most other instances, we see a different side to Tocqueville's futuristic Americanism: There is hardly an American to be met with who does not claim some remote kindred with the first founders of the colonies; and as for the scions of the noble families of England, America seemed to be me to be covered with them. (Tocqueville 1835I: 173-74) 30 Tocqueville also repeatedly referred to the Americans as the "English race in America" or the "Anglo-Americans," indicating that, like Crèvecoeur, he felt the terms basically interchangeable. Like those before him and many after him, it seems Tocqueville's cosmopolitan view of America was merely a rhetorical tool used only in his more visionary moments. A similar pattern suffuses Lord Acton's oft-quoted essay, "Nationality," penned in 1862. In its pages, Acton, an Englishman, appears to champion the mixture of ethnic groups in one society: "Christianity rejoices at the mixture of races, as paganism identifies itself with their differences, because truth is universal and errors various and particular." Accordingly, nation-states "in which no mixture of races has occurred are imperfect; and those in which its [ethnic diversity's] effects have disappeared are decrepit." (Acton 1862 [1996]: 31, 36) However, several paragraphs later, Acton performs an apparent volte-face which makes it clear that ethnic mixture which is not territorially segregated results in an undesirable state of affairs: The vanity and peril of national claims founded on no political tradition, but on race alone, appear in Mexico. There the races are divided by blood, without being grouped together in different regions. It is, therefore, neither possible to unite them nor to convert them into the elements of an organized State. They are fluid, shapeless and unconnected, and cannot be precipitated, or formed into the basis of political institutions…. (Acton 1862 [1996]: 35) 31 Furthermore, Acton was quick to emphasize that his multiculturalist prescriptions should not be translated into a belief in the equality of cultures. On the contrary, in multi- national states, "inferior races are raised by living in political union with races intellectually superior…Nations in which the elements of organisation and the capacity for government have been lost...are restored and educated anew under the discipline of a stronger and less corrupted race." (Acton [1862] in Birch 1989: 28) Acton's contemporary, John Stuart Mill, was no less vexing in his dualism. Hence in 1860, Mill argued that a "feeling of nationality," which requires the effect of "race and descent," is necessary for the proper functioning of representative government. (Goldman 1992: 250) On the other hand, Mill famously declared that tradition and nation could serve as sources of stagnation. "Where, not the person's own character, but the traditions or customs of other people are the rule of conduct," Mill wrote, "there is wanting…the chief ingredient of individual and social progress…The despotism of custom is everywhere the standing hindrance to human advancement." (Mill [1859] 1974: 185, 200) Even Count Arthur de Gobineau, that apostle of Nordic superiority and race- thinking, had his dualistic moments, as in the 1850's, when he qualified his beliefs by adding that "It would be unjust to assert that every mixture is bad and harmful…Artistic genius, which is equally foreign to each of the three great [race] types arose only after the intermarriage of white and black....Although the whites are the most beautiful of the original races, the most beautiful people of all have come from the marriage of white and black." (Gossett 1963: 343-44) In summary, the claim that Americans were uniquely 32 prone to double-consciousness in matters of nationalism because of their low-church heritage of dualism, is at best a limited conclusion. The Role of Institutional Reflexivity The liberal nature of Anglo-American ethnic nationhood, and its subsequent collision with "unassimilable" newcomers, offers us some insight into the startlingly contradictory statements we have reviewed, and their gradual disappearance after 1885. Likewise, the dualistic "second language"13 of identity conferred upon Anglo-Americans by their brand of Protestantism sheds some light on the patterns observed. Nevertheless, having run the phenomenon of American double consciousness through the gauntlet of our first two paradigms, it is apparent that a significant portion of our documentary evidence remains unexplained by "native American" hypotheses. In order to bridge this gap, we require a macro-theory, that of reflexive modernization, that transcends the American context. According to Anthony Giddens, institutional reflexivity refers to the process whereby the analysis and discussion of society, situated in major societal institutions and often conducted by experts, in turn shapes that society. Methods of surveillance and record-keeping, which greatly developed during the nineteenth century, are integral to the effectiveness of institutional reflexivity. (Giddens 1991: 20-21, 149) As a corollary of his position, Giddens envisions institutional reflexivity as a diachronic process - the degree, or density of reflexivity increases over time.14 Specifically, we may isolate two ingredients in the development of institutional reflexivity: an improvement in 33 surveillance/information gathering and a growth in the efficacy of the rational bureaucratic structures that process this new data. One important site of growing reflexivity in the late nineteenth century was the academy. American universities were beginning to lose their reliance on religious sponsorship, beginning in the 1870's with nonsectarian, albeit Protestant, institutions like Cornell. (Kraut 1979: 96) The growth of academic professional associations, outside the orbit of organized religion, issued from the same social forces. (Persons 1987: 28-9; Bass 1989: 49-53; Jarausch 1983) These expanding secular networks helped broaden the bandwidth of scientific enquiry and intensify the rate with which academics could exchange information. The new critical mass of intellectual exchange helped sharpen conceptual boundaries, accentuate the degree of specialization, refine scientific techniques and hasten the spread of new ideas. The replacement of religious and romantically-inspired narrative histories with document-driven, "scientific history" in the late nineteenth century provides but one example of the effects of the reflexivity juggernaut. (Plumb 1969; Kennedy 1977; Ross 1984) In a similar manner, the reflexive feedback of scientific knowledge pervaded the influential institutional realm of American Protestantism. For example, the Social Gospel movement, which gained ground in the late 1880's, largely based its criticism of laissez- faire (including free immigration) on the findings of empirical social science. Unchecked capitalism, urbanism and expansion were singled out for criticism, as were traditional, individual-centred approaches to social improvement. One outcome of the Social Gospel's recognition of the importance of institutional solutions to social problems was a critique of the optimistic, pro-immigration, "divine providence" doctrine. This connection 34 appears most strongly in the persona of Josiah Strong, an important Social Gospel figure who influenced Protestant opinion in favour of immigration restriction in the 1880's and 1890's. For Strong, "political optimism" was singled out as "one of the vices of the American people....We deem ourselves a chosen people, and incline to the belief that the Almighty stands pledged to our prosperity…Such optimism is as senseless as pessimism is faithless." (Strong 1885 [1963]: 41-2; Gossett 1963: 196-97; Jordan 1982: 143-44, 168- 70) The impact of reflexive modernization registered an analagous influence in the province of the natural sciences. Its influence on the discipline of human biology is particularly germane to our discussion. Anglo-Americans had been able to indulge in both romantic ethno-nationalism and universalist liberalism partly because they conflated biological "race" and anthropological culture. (Higham [1955] 1986: 24). Since the laws of heredity had yet to be uncovered in the nineteenth century, it was often believed that cultural change could facilitate racial change. Accordingly, theories that set forth Christianity, Enlightenment education and climate as agents of racial "whitening" occupied a central place in eighteenth and nineteenth century race thinking in both Europe and the Americas.15 (Eze 1997: 24) These ideas were reflected in the prevailing discourse on American national identity. Lamarck's belief in the inheritance of acquired characteristics, for example, greatly influenced Frederick Jackson Turner's frontier thesis. (Billington 1971) Likewise, physician Benjamin Rush, signatory to the Declaration of Independence, believed that blackness was a disease, like leprosy, that could be cured with proper treatment. (Perea 1997: 159) Savannah doctor Eugene Corson subscribed to a similar theory, propounding 35 the idea, in 1877, that black Americans would throw off their "ill-adapted" skin colour with education, a process he likened to "the running of a dirty stream into a pellucid lake which eventually clears leaving no trace of mud." (Harper 1980: 215) Similar tendencies could be observed in turn-of-the-century Brazil, where, in an age in which genetics was in its infancy, "whitening" emerged as the paramount ideal of the intellectual elite. (Skidmore 1993: 46) The growth in sophistication of the discourse on race gained amplification and precision with the eugenics movement. The term eugenics was not coined until 1883, but by 1910, an American Eugenics Record Office had been established at Cold Spring Harbor, New York, under the directorship of biologist Charles Davenport, funded by both the Carnegie Institute and philanthropist Mrs. E. Harriman. (King 2000: 166) Eugenics rapidly became the common currency of discussion about race and nationality, and its findings directly impinged on the immigration policy debates of the 1910's and 1920's. For instance, Dr. Harry Laughlin of the Cold Spring Harbor laboratory established strong connections with the State Department and with Senator Albert Johnson, who co- sponsored the 1924 Johnson-Reed Act which instituted the national origins immigration quota system. President Calvin Coolidge similarly adopted the new scientific terminology, asserting that "biological laws tell us that certain divergent people will not mix or blend." (Gossett 1963: 297; King 2000: 169) It matters little that eugenics was based on shoddy science. What is important is that eugenic findings were legitimated by scientific methods and reflexively transmitted via the expanding print media toward the opinion-forming and policy-making centres of American society. Developments in biological science which fueled the eugenics 36 movement no more caused nativism than did the advances in social science which gave rise to Social Gospel Christianity. However, these forces constituted the debates of the day and forced apart the concepts of race and culture, eclipsing the ambiguous space in which double-consciousness had always existed. This compelled individuals to take sharply-defined sides as either ethnic nationalists or universalists. Such changes occurred rapidly - almost always in the ethno-nationalist direction - in the 1880's, and have often been misinterpreted as a 180-degree value shift, a historic betrayal of traditional American universalism.16 Far from being conjured out of thin air, however, fin de siècle nativism drew on underlying symbolic resources. Closer analysis thereby reveals that individuals did not simply switch from universalism to ethno- nationalism, as many seem to suggest. Instead, they merely placed the emphasis on the ethnic side of their inherited Anglo-American double-consciousness complex. For instance, in 1880, Boston statesman and future nativist senator Henry Cabot Lodge, flashing the cosmopolitan side of his dualistic Americanism, eagerly welcomed that year's influx of 700,000 immigrants and showered glowing praise on the American school system, "with its doors wide open to the children of all races and of every creed." Deriding "any political divisions resting on race and religion", he condemned attempts to "divide our people according to origin and extraction." However, just a few years later, Lodge, citing LeBon, registered his belief that there was a "limit to the capacity of any race for assimilating and elevating an inferior race." Similarly, as late as 1890, Dr. Richmond Mayo-Smith was outlining a definition of race that was more cultural than biological. Several years later, he restricted his definition to the biological realm and advocated eugenic measures. (Solomon 1956: 68, 114, 116, 37 151) Even Dwight Spencer, formulator of the concept of America's divine universal mission, like his Baptist missionary colleagues, changed his attitude from universalism to restrictionism between 1887 and 1895. (Davis 1973: 70, 85) To repeat: these individuals were not born-again nativists, but, under the impact of heightened reflexivity, found themselves forced to confront the duality of their inherited beliefs. In these cases, as in most, it was their ethnic, rather than universalist values which exercised a greater attraction. The linkage between scientific research and society, discussed above, was further accentuated by the increasing reflexivity of the American nation-state, which now provided better social data, available from a more centralized, bureaucratic infrastructure. The decennial census of 1880 was the first to compile data on the literacy of immigrants, and the 1890 census allowed statisticians to compute the proportion of the foreign-born population unable to speak English. (Easterlin 1982: 10-11) This not only aided ethnically-conscious Anglo-Protestant legislators, but actually helped to constitute their legislation, as with the first drive for a literacy test (1894-97) to limit immigration from "undesirable" sources. (Higham [1955] 1986: 74) The same pattern appears twenty years later with the Dillingham Commission's 47-volume report of 1911, which presented the first full-scale study of the ethnic characteristics of the American population. This report, which cost over a million dollars, helped lay the groundwork for more restrictive legislation constituted on the basis of ethnic origin, in 1921 and 1924. (King 2000: 58-9) Once again, new scientific findings fed directly into the reflexive demarcation of the nation's ethnic boundaries. 38 "There was very little of a national center in the first several decades of the Second American Republic," remarks Keith Fitzgerald of the post-1865 period. Only with the tightening of federal administration of immigration control through acts of 1894, 1895 and 1903 was this rectified. The result was a national, administrative focal point, which could be targeted by both liberal and nativist social movements. These in turn depended on the activities of newly-formed, national, voluntary associations. For the nativists, these included the Sons (1876) and Daughters (1890) of the American Revolution and the American Legion. For the liberal universalists, the Federal Council of Churches (1908)17 and Immigrant Protective Association (1908) figured prominently. (Zelinsky 1988: 105; Cavert 1968: 54-6; Fitzgerald 1987: 71, 87, 91, 95) As our theory would predict, this trend was not confined to the United States. Just as nation-states only developed sharp demarcations of their territorial boundaries after the late eighteenth century, the ethnic boundaries of their populations were only clearly defined in the early twentieth. (Brubaker 1992: 30; Giddens [1985] 1996: 90, 210) This explains why immigration to Britain, France, Canada, Switzerland and Germany remained essentially uncontrolled until the First World War, after which restrictions appeared in all these countries. (Hollifield 1994: 147; Martin 1994: 197; Jost 1986; Holmes 1988) Thus far, much has been mentioned about the way in which growing institutional reflexivity in the United States prompted the nation to pursue an ethno-nationalist course. The undoubted influence of the new scientific literature on America's restrictive immigration policy of the 1920's has led many to suggest that these forces generated a rise in nativism. However, a more plausible suggestion, given the evidence, is that 39 enhanced institutional reflexivity merely structured the debate by demarcating the lines of opposition between contending concepts, the pitch of nativism rising and falling for other reasons. Thus it is the case that the era of double consciousness did not give way to single-minded nativism, but rather bifurcated as modern reflexivity split the coin of dualism into its logically-consistent halves. Hence scientific arguments were employed by both the restrictionist majority and a liberal-cosmopolitan minority. The earliest figures to refine pure, cosmopolitan universalism from the rhetoric of double-consciousness were Felix Adler and William James. Adler, for example, first applied a rigorous logical framework to the formerly opaque tenets of Reform Judaism, whose form of double-consciousness had endorsed the twin ideas of Jews' universal mission and their Old Testament election. Thus Adler, himself a Jew, asserted in 1878 that once the Jews had brought their universal truth to the four corners of the globe (the providential result of their forced dispersion), they would lose their particularity within a universal humanity: The perpetuity of the Jewish race depends upon the perpetuity of the Jewish religion...So long as there shall be a reason of existence for Judaism, so long the individual Jews will keep apart and will do well to do so…when this process [of evangelization] is accomplished...the individual members of the Jewish race [will] look about them and perceive that there is as great and perhaps greater liberty in 40 religion beyond the pale of their race and will lose their peculiar idiosyncrasies, and their distinctiveness will fade. And eventually, the Jewish race will die. (Kraut 1979: 122-23) Adler's consistent, rigorous interpretation of Reform Jewish universality led him to be ostracized from the New York Jewish community, a consequence of his reflexive exchange with other American radical liberals. (Kraut 1979: 106) Nevertheless, his ideas found a fertile audience among fellow travelers like William James and John Dewey. In fact, it was Dewey's interpretation of Adler's ideas that resulted in the first consistent vision of America as a universal melting-pot in which the Anglo-Saxon is eclipsed while "all give and all receive." This ferment in turn shaped the thinking of Israel Zangwill, whose play, The Melting Pot (1908) exposed these ideas to a wider audience.18 (Lissak 1989: 146; Gleason 1992: 5-15) The reflexive tentacles of this newly refined cosmopolitanism, securely rooted in the Chicago-based Liberal-Progressive movement19 after 1905, first appeared on the political stage in the form of the Immigrant Protective Association, or IPA (1908). The IPA was an outgrowth of Liberal Progressivism which acted as a benevolent association for immigrants and was the first American organization to combine a thoroughgoing egalitarianism with a pro-immigration stance. Furthermore, the activity of the IPA had an immediate effect on the congressional debate because it legitimated (in Progressive terms) the legislative agenda of pro-immigration business interests. President Taft even claimed that the testimony of IPA spokesperson Grace Abbott, in 1912, convinced him to veto a bill advocating a literacy test for immigrants. (Davis 1967: 93) The Liberal 41 Progressive caucus was also represented within the ranks of federal Americanization committees, where its members, like Jane Addams, unsuccessfully attempted to counter the anglo-conformist tendencies of the Americanization project. (Lissak 1989: 58) The cosmopolitan paradigm likewise reached into the racist-dominated realm of human biology. In this field, its most illustrious exponent was Franz Boas, a German- Jewish immigrant and University of Chicago anthropologist whose work, like that of many eugenicists, was sponsored by the Dillingham Commission. Boas, however, was an early relativist who took issue with many of the eugenicists' central claims. (King 2000: 65-69) Boas' detailed cranial measurements showed that, due to environmental factors, the American-born children of immigrant parents physically diverged from their parents while converging with their native-born peers from other ethnic backgrounds. (Hyatt 1990: 110) Boas' relativist perspective had incubated in Liberal-Progressive circles, and the rising influence of this cosmopolitan "New Social Science"20 perspective was no less of a child of reflexive modernity than the eugenics movement. (Baltzell 1964: 161-3; Szasz 1982: 43; Bass 1989: 49) Cosmopolitan forces eventually gained the upper hand against their Anglo- Saxonist opponents for reasons other than those mentioned here.21 Accordingly, the period between 1945 and 1970 witnessed a relaxation of anglo-conformity, a repeal of the national origins quota immigration act, and the rise of more liberal attitudes toward race and ethnicity. This, however, has not eliminated the voice of ascriptive Americanism from the American pantheon.22 The two camps are now discrete entities firmly separated by a conceptual ocean. Hence, under the influence of institutional reflexivity, ethno- 42 nationalism and liberal universalism have broken from their dualistic embryo to serve as ideological polarities between which individuals can situate themselves. ENDNOTES 1 Reference to cultural idioms can be found in the work of Rogers Brubaker (1992) and Margaret Archer (1996). 2 Even those exceptionalists who have acknowledged the presence of American dominant ethnicity have tended to explain it as a transient phenomenon, present only as a series of brief "nativist" upsurges against a background of liberal openness, the result of economic deprivation or racist ideology. See Higham ([1955] 1986) or Kohn (1957) for the clearest exposition of this viewpoint. 3 Longfellow, for example, has been described by Michael Kammen, as "self-consciously and confidently" promoting American national myths and traditions. (Kammen 1991: 82) 4 Even William James, who was arguably the most progressive in this regard, spoke eloquently of "our Anglo-Saxon race" as late as 1881. (Hollinger 1985: 20) 5 "Christian," when used by Protestant writers, usually referred to Protestantism, which was considered the most pure form of Christianity, a standard against which the "papist" fell short. (Handy 1971: 18) 6 This subtle intertwining of church and state occurred most prominently at the state level, with 37 of 42 states acknowledging the authority of God in their constitutions. (Handy 1971: 26) 7 The term 'melting pot' was used prior to the 1930s, but usually referred to the melting of a limited number of northern and western European peoples in a one-way direction toward a ‘WASP' mould. Where the utterances were truly cosmopolitan, they were dualistic - thus affirming the retention of Anglo-Protestant purity. Mainstream American historiography did not propound a uniformly cosmopolitan variant until the 1930s, though Zangwill gave it expression as early as 1909. (Harper 1980; Gleason 1992) 8 John Armstrong first used the term in reference to the myth-symbol complex of territorialized ethnic groups in his Nations Before Nationalism. (Armstrong 1982: 8) For Anthony Smith, the term is used to denote the "constitutive myth of the ethnic polity." (Smith 1986) 43 9 The Johnson-Reed Act (1924) established a framework for immigration quotas directed toward the maintenance of the British and northern European-dominated ethnic composition of the American population. 10 This is exactly the argument put forth by Milton Gordon, who asserted that the United States functioned as an anglo-conformist "transmuting-pot" for ethnic assimilation. (Gordon 1964: 85) 11 Of course, pre-1880 nationalism was never as liberal as some have suggested. Thus neither the Founders, nor the most radical of antebellum Republicans (such as William Seward or William Lloyd Garrison) envisioned the marital assimilation of blacks. This therefore set an early limit to any universalist model of assimilation. (Foner 1970: 292, 295-6) Nominally Catholic nations, meanwhile, were viewed as a source of personnel, but never as a source of cultural influence. 12 A French nobleman who came to America to fight alongside Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham, Crèvecoeur settled in upstate New York and later joined the Loyalist cause. Having twice picked a losing side, and having been forced to flee by the victorious Patriots, Crèvecoeur penned his classic Letters From an American Farmer (1782) in 1780, which was well-received and abetted his return as French consul to the United States - where he lived for just seven more years before permanently joining his compatriots in France. 13 Robert Bellah speaks of self-reliant individualism as Americans' "first language", a discourse which is nevertheless accompanied by the "second languages" of Biblical and Republican communal narrative. (Bellah 1985: 154) 14 Giddens, however, envisions this as a discontinuous rather than evolutionary process. (Giddens [1985] 1996: 31) 15 Many eighteenth century enlightenment figures believed that racial differences were conditioned by climate, such that racial diversity within a particular climactic zone would tend to disappear over the generations. "There are many reasons for presuming," offered the Comte de Buffon, "that as…colour is originally the effect of a long continued heat, it will be gradually effaced by the temperature of a cold climate; and consequently, that if a colony of Negroes were transplanted into a northern province, their 44 descendants of the eighth, tenth, or twelfth generation would be much fairer, and perhaps as white as the natives of that climate." (Buffon [1748-1804], quoted in Eze 1997: 24) 16 The arguments of Gossett (1963) or Kohn (1957) most closely approximate this contention, though aspects of it also appear strongly in the writing of Higham (1955). 17 Originally a supporter of anti-Catholicism and immigration restriction, ecumenical Protestantism became neutral by 1908 and pro-immigrant by 1910. (Cavert 1968: 54-6) 18 Zangwill's connection to the Liberal Progressive reformers is demonstrated by the frequency with which Zangwill's ideas were employed by Settlement reformers at Chicago's Hull House. (Lissak 1989: 146) 19 This social movement emerged from the confluence of the ideas of Pluralist thinkers from the University of Chicago, notably John Dewey and W.I. Thomas, and Settlement reformers, particularly Jane Addams of Hull House in Chicago. 20 Adherents of what Digby Baltzell called the New Social Science, like Franz Boas in anthropology, John Dewey in philosophy, Thorstein Veblen in economics or Charles Horton Cooley in sociology, pushed a post-Darwinian set of ideas that were revolutionary for their day. Stressing the importance of environment over heredity and preaching a gospel of cultural relativism, these turn of the century thinkers paved the way for the decline of anglocentrism in America. (Baltzell 1964: 161-3) 21 Such forces include the institutionalization of universalist ideas in the social sciences (by 1930) and federal executive (by the 1940's) and the rise of mass university education in the 1950's and 1960's. 22 For more on ascriptive Americanism, see R. Smith 1997. 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work_7i7b3dcoozd5re5kf5gqpjoyoy	----	Microsoft Word - Stember MA Thesis.docx THE THE THE THE SHANGHAI SHANGHAI SHANGHAI SHANGHAI MANHUA MANHUA MANHUA MANHUA SOCIETY: A HISTORY OF EARLY CHINESE SOCIETY: A HISTORY OF EARLY CHINESE SOCIETY: A HISTORY OF EARLY CHINESE SOCIETY: A HISTORY OF EARLY CHINESE CARTOONISTSCARTOONISTSCARTOONISTSCARTOONISTS, 1918, 1918, 1918, 1918----1938193819381938 by Nick Stember B.A., Portland State University, 2010 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies (Asian Studies) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) December 2015 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Nick Stember, 2015 ii AbstractAbstractAbstractAbstract Towards the end of the 19th century, the first illustrated pictorials began to appear in China. Satirical cartoons found their way into Chinese newspapers and magazines over the following decades, as print technology gradually improved. By the 1910s illustrated pictorials began to proliferate, along with the first examples of humor magazines, a trend which would continue through the 1920s. By the early 1930s, China had over two dozen magazines dedicated to satirical comics, or manhua, as they came to be known. This study looks at the Manhua Society, a group of semi-professional cartoonists whose members were active in Shanghai from roughly 1918 to 1938. By pooling their resources and working under a common banner, the Manhua Society members were not only able to find employment, but also to step into the role of publishers themselves, financed by day jobs in advertising and education. This study reconstructs the history of the society using oral histories, academic studies, and primary source materials (translating many previously unavailable in English). It focuses on eight key members of the Manhua Society: Ye Qianyu, Ji Xiaobo, Ding Song, Zhang Guangyu, Lu Shaofei, Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, and Hu Xuguang. These men saw their careers transformed by a series of escalating military conflicts: the May 4 Movement of 1919, the Zhili-Anhui War of 1920, the first Zhili-Fengtian War of 1922, the Jiangsu-Zhejiang War and second Zhili-Fengtian War of 1924, the May 30 Movement of 1925, the Northern Expedition of 1926-1928, including the Shanghai Massacre of 1927, and the first Japanese invasions of Shanghai in 1932 and 1937. Their stories show how the history of Chinese comics was shaped by individuals, as well as organizations. Although this industry was crippled by the Japanese invasion of Shanghai in 1937, the same cartoonists would go on to work in the propaganda offices of World War II, the Chinese Civil War, and the Cold War. In tracing the origins of the Manhua Society, therefore, I argue that it influenced not only the development of cartooning and comics in the Republican era, but also the visual culture of the PRC. iii PrefacePrefacePrefacePreface This dissertation is original, unpublished, independent work by the author, Nick Stember. The research topic was developed with guidance from my advisor, Christopher G. Rea. Further feedback was provided by Sharalyn Orbaugh, Sara Wellington, Ben Whaley, and others at the Modern Japanese and East Asian Popular Culture Workshop on March 31, 2015. Portions of this thesis were presented at talk given at the Fourth Annual UBC Asian Studies Graduate Conference on April 11, 2015, titled, “The Manhua Society (1926-28).” iv Table of ContentsTable of ContentsTable of ContentsTable of Contents Abstract ................................................................................................................................................................................ ii Preface ................................................................................................................................................................................. iii Table of Contents ............................................................................................................................................................. iv List of Tables ..................................................................................................................................................................... vi List of Figures ................................................................................................................................................................... vii Acknowledgements ......................................................................................................................................................... viii Epigraph .............................................................................................................................................................................. ix Introduction ........................................................................................................................................................................ 1 Chapter 1 : War, What Is It Good For? ....................................................................................................................... 5 Ye Qianyu: The Student .............................................................................................................................................. 8 Ji Xiaobo: The Master .............................................................................................................................................. 13 Burnt Bridges and Bad Blood? ................................................................................................................................. 20 Chapter 2 : The Ties That Bind .................................................................................................................................. 22 Ding Song: The Grandfather ................................................................................................................................... 23 Zhang Guangyu: The Godfather ............................................................................................................................. 27 Lu Shaofei: The Portraitist’s Son ........................................................................................................................... 28 Chapter 3 : Wild Cards ................................................................................................................................................. 32 Wang Dunqing: The Boy Scout ............................................................................................................................. 33 Huang Wennong: The Missionary’s Son .............................................................................................................. 36 Hu Xuguang: The Lumberjack ............................................................................................................................... 39 Chapter 4 : Come Together ......................................................................................................................................... 41 The Shot Heard Round the Bund .......................................................................................................................... 41 An Unexpected Party ................................................................................................................................................ 45 The Northern Expedition ........................................................................................................................................ 51 Chapter 5 : The Breaking of the Fellowship ............................................................................................................. 58 Shanghai Sketch I ....................................................................................................................................................... 59 Dr. Fix-It and the Pioneer Syndicate...................................................................................................................... 63 Shanghai Sketch II ..................................................................................................................................................... 70 Chapter 6 : The Legacy .................................................................................................................................................. 76 Birth of the Modern .................................................................................................................................................. 77 The Manhua Boom .................................................................................................................................................... 87 v Censorship and War .................................................................................................................................................. 94 Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................................................ 98 Bibliography ................................................................................................................................................................... 106 Appendix ......................................................................................................................................................................... 117 Appendix A: Tables ................................................................................................................................................. 117 vi List of TablesList of TablesList of TablesList of Tables Table A.1 Major manhua artists and publishers by decade, 1884-1917 .................................................. 117 Table A.2 Cartoon periodicals published in Shanghai, by year founded, 1928-1937 ........................... 119 vii List of FigureList of FigureList of FigureList of Figuressss Figure 1.1 Three Friends Co. storefront on Nanjing Road, date unknown. ...................................................... 12 Figure 1.2 Ji Xiaobo “I always feel that life is so unreal!” 總覺得人生的虛無縹緲了！The Young Companion, Issue 1, February 15, 1926, 21. ............................................................................................................ 16 Figure 1.3 Ji Xiaobo “Warrior” 戰士 The Young Companion, Issue II, March 15, 1926. .................. 17 Figure 1.4 Ji Xiaobo “Fullness” 圓滿 The Young Companion, Issue 1I, March 15, 1926. ................. 17 Figure 2.1 Ding Song “Falling in Love” 戀愛 Shenzhou Pictorial神州畫報, January, 1918, 84. ..... 25 Figure 2.2 Lu Shaofei “Goals Youth Should Have” 青年應有之目的 Shenbao, October 17, 1921, 17. 29 Figure 3.1 Wang Yiliu [aka Wang Dunqing] “Founding of the League of Left-Wing Writers” 左联 作家联盟成立 Shoots萌芽, Issue 4, April 1930, 7. ........................................................................................... 35 Figure 3.2 Huang Wennong “Our Office Will Have a Meeting at One o’clock Today” 本公所定今 日下午一時開會 Shenbao Sunday, March 20, 1921, 18. .................................................................................. 38 Figure 3.3 Hu Xuguang “Candle in the Wind” 風中之燭, Shenbao, Thursday, January 6, 1921, 16. 40 Figure 4.1 Zhang Meisun “Emblem for the Manhua Association” 漫畫會會徽 November, 1927. .. 47 Figure 5.1 The first Dr. Fix-It 改造博士 Shenbao Sunday, January 1, 1928, 26. .................................. 64 Figure 5.2 The first Mr. Wang 王先生 Shanghai Sketch II, March 21, 1928 ................................................ 65 Figure 5.3 Huang Wennong “Jump on the Horse and Drop Anchor” 上馬及拋錨 Shanghai Sketch I, January 1, 1928, 3. .......................................................................................................................................................... 67 Figure 5.4 Ye Qianyu “Standard Sizes”大小標凖 Shanghai Sketch I, January 1, 1928, 2. .................. 67 Figure 5.5 The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Mao 毛郎艷史 Shenbao, June 1, 1928. ................................ 68 Figure 5.6 The Traveler 旅行家 Shenbao, August 8, 1928. ................................................................................ 68 Figure 5.7 Brother Tao 陶哥兒, Shenbao, September 14, 1928. ........................................................................ 69 Figure 5.8 Lu Liaoliao [aka Lu Shaofei] “The Destiny of Love” 愛的命運 Shanghai Sketch II, Issue #3, May 5, 1928. .................................................................................................................................................................... 73 Figure 5.9 Lu Liaoliao [aka Lu Shaofei] "Young Girl and Married Woman" 少女與婦女 Shanghai Sketch II, May 12, 1928. .............................................................................................................................................. 74 Figure 5.10 Lu Shaofei “New Styles for Early Summer” 初夏的新裝 June 2, 1928. ................................... 74 Figure 6.1 Logo of the Modern Press 時代印刷有限公司 designed by Zhang Guangyu in 1931........... 79 Figure 6.2 “Picture of Mr. Lu Xun Beating a [Drowning] Pug” 魯迅先生打叭兒狗圖 Lin Yutang, Peking Press Supplement 京報副刊, January 23, 1926. ....................................................................................... 84 Figure 6.3 Cover of the first issue of Modern Sketch by Zhang Guangyu, featuring the “Don Quixote of Manhua” 漫畫的堂吉訶德 by Zhang Guangyu, January 24, 1934 ................................................................. 88 Figure 6.4 “The Cry of Life,” 生活的呼號 Manhua Life, Issue 1, September 20, 1934. ............................ 91 Figure 6.5 “Heads of State” 元首, The Spectator, November 15, 1934. .......................................................... 93 viii AcknowledgementsAcknowledgementsAcknowledgementsAcknowledgements First and foremost, I would like to thank the Faculty of Arts at UBC and the Gregory Tso Memorial Scholarship in Asian Studies whose funding made this project possible. Secondly, I would like thank my advisor, Christopher G. Rea, for his guidance and, most of all, patience as this project made its way towards completion. His knowledge of the visual culture of 19th and 20th century China and willingness to share resources provided this study with an unparalleled foundation of support, as did his assistance with funding and grant applications. He is, in every sense of the word, a mensch. I would also like to thank Timothy Cheek and John A. Crespi for serving on my committee, and Jerry Schmidt for serving as chair. It is thanks to their close reading and incisive comments and questions that I have been able to shape something resembling an argument out of the crooked timber of my thesis. The remaining knots and splinters are, of course, my own. More generally, I would like to thank Catherine Swatek for sharing her expertise as both a sinologist and a friend, and Sharalyn Orbaugh for always encouraging me to dig a little bit deeper. Stefania Burk was a pillar of support during all manner of crises. Bruce Rusk provided invaluable advice on digital archives, and Ross King’s suggestion to focus on the founding rather than the failing of the Manhua Society turned out to be just the advice I needed. Additionally, Carla Nappi was always there with robot coffee when I really needed it, and Robert Hegel provided killer advice for an aspiring grad student, as did Maggie Greene. I also want to Brendan O’Kane for encouraging me to follow in his footsteps by studying abroad in China. I would like to thank my family and friends in Portland, Shanghai, Harbin, and now Vancouver, for putting up with my obsessions and encouraging my passions. Finally, I would like to thank my wife Ding, for her constant love and support. ix EpigraphEpigraphEpigraphEpigraph “They were always doing something. Quietly, without interruption, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred-and-one small things that made up their world.” ― Tove Jansson, Moominpappa at Sea, 1965, translated by Kingsley Hart 1 InInInIntroductiontroductiontroductiontroduction Over the last roughly 150 years China has undergone massive changes, going from absolute monarchy to semi-colony, and eventually to a pair of 21st century nation states, the Republic of China and the People’s Republic of China, with equally dramatic changes occurring in Chinese-language print culture. As new technologies introduced from abroad came to replace traditional methods of printing, new types of publications, such as newspapers and magazines, came into vogue. Although a long tradition of illustrated texts exists in China, going back to at least the Tang dynasty (618-907), it was not until the late 19th century that high fidelity illustrated texts could be reproduced quickly and cheaply, spurring an explosion in visual print culture for men and women, rich and poor alike. This democratization of information was unprecedented in Chinese history, and in turn spurred social changes that would transform China. By the 1920s, Shanghai, then China’s largest metropolis, was experiencing a publishing boom brought about through a confluence of two very different groups of intellectuals: those aligned with the politically-motivated New Culture movement, concerned with issues of language reform and national sovereignty, and those who catered to the tastes of public, through popular literature, music, films, and other forms of entertainment. Both groups sought to capture the attention (and dollars) of a growing audience of increasingly cosmopolitan readers. While New Culture critics disparaged popular writers as the “Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies” clique for their sentimentalism, symbolized by the romantic clichés of yuanyang (Mandarin Ducks, which mate for life) and hudie (butterflies, free flying denizens of the garden, a sexually charged space in traditional Chinese drama and literature), the line between the two groups was not as hard and fast as such appellation might suggest. Given the inherently subjective task of literary analysis, critics more often than not labeled writers based more on whom they associated with than on the actual content of their writing.1 Writers of all stripes, meanwhile, took a keen interest in the potential of the graphic arts, with the “Butterflies” gravitating towards entertainment, and the New Culture critics to propaganda. This thesis looks at a very small part of this much larger print boom phenomenon, namely, the emergence and afterlife of the Manhua Society 漫畫會, a group dedicated to the production of manhua (cartoon) periodicals whose members belonged to both sides of the great literary debate. First adopted in the mid-1920s, the Chinese term manhua refers to cartoons in a general sense, and was adopted by a 1 For examples of the differences in the language used by literary and popular writers, see William A. Lyell’s afterword to his translation of Zhang Henshui’s novel, Shanghai Express: A Thirties Novel, trans. William A. Lyell (Honolulu: Univ of Hawaii Pr, 1997). 2 specific group of artist-entrepreneurs to promote their own work. Rather than look at the aesthetic influences (particularly from the West) on their work, as Paul Bevan has done in his recently published monograph, this study is primarily concerned with using oral histories, academic studies, and primary source materials (translating many previously unavailable in English) to reconstruct the life and times of the members of the Manhua Society.2 The Manhua Society was formed in late 1926 and disbanded in in 1928, with scholars Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin later hailing it as “the first civil cartoon society in Chinese history” 漫畫會是我國歷 史最早出現的民間漫畫團體.3 This is probably an exaggeration, as the Manhua Society was likely only one of several “civil societies” dedicated to the making of cartoons which was formed in the 1920s.4 It was, however, one of the few to announce its activity with some regularity in the Shenbao and other publications, from its founding in late 1926 though to its apparent breakup in late 1927. Key members of this short-lived organization included Ye Qianyu 葉淺予 (1907-1995), Ji Xiaobo 季小波 (1901-2000), Zhang Guangyu 張光宇 (1900-1965, born Zhang Dengying 張登瀛) and his brother, Zhang Zhengyu 張正宇 (also known as Zhang Zhenyu 張振宇, 1904-1976), Ding Song 丁松 (courtesy name Ding Muqin 丁慕琴, 1891-1969? 1972?), Ye Qianyu 葉淺予 (1907-1995), Lu Shaofei 魯少飛 (1903-1995), Huang Wennong 黃文農 (1903-1934), and Wang Dunqing 王敦慶 (1899-1990). The Society and its various publications also sought to draw on the talents of a larger pool of cartoonists, and inspired in large part by the political turmoil of the late 1910s and 1920s, these artists turned entrepreneurs saw cartooning not only as an economic opportunity, but also as a moral necessity.5 In addition to publishing large numbers of political cartoons through various publications during the 1920s and 1930s, members such as 2 Paul Bevan, A Modern Miscellany: Shanghai Cartoon Artists, Shao Xunmei’s Circle and the Travels of Jack Chen, 1926-1938 (Brill, 2015). 3 Bi Keguan 畢克官 and Huang Yuanlin 黃遠林, Zhongguo Manhua Shi 中國漫畫史 [The History of Chinese Manhua] (文 化藝術出版社, 1986), 85. 4 Other informal groups almost certainly existed in Beijing and Guangzhou, given the existence of cartoon periodicals published in the latter, such as Fifty-cent Funnies 半角漫畫, and the presence of cartoonist and educator Wang Junyi 王君異 (1895- 1959) in the former. See Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Banjiao Manhua” 半角漫畫 [Fifty-Cent Funnies], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 598 and Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Wang Junyi” 王君異 [Wang Junyi], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 598. 5 Meeting notes for one gathering state that “…our group has adopted an open format and we welcome new comrades to join. There is no established procedure for soliciting new members, so interested parties are encouraged to contact us” 該會取公開 態度、歡迎同志加入、但無徵求會員之手續、願入會者、可與該會接洽云. “Ge tuanti xiaoxi” 各團體消息 [Society News], Shenbao 申報, June 8, 1927, 17. 3 Ye Qianyu, Zhang Guangyu, and Wang Dunqing devoted themselves almost exclusively to creating anti- Japanese propaganda after the outbreak of the second Sino-Japanese war in 1937. When considering the impact of the Manhua Society, however, it is equally important to note that through the diverse work of its members, manhua came to refer to a much larger creative sphere than simply “cartoons.” As Crespi argues, …the English word “cartoon” can be a misleading translation for the Chinese term manhua. Cognate with the Japanese word “manga,” Chinese magazines like Shanghai Sketch …and Modern Sketch…expanded the meaning of manhua to cover a diversity of graphic forms beyond what we normally think of as “cartoons.” Indeed, looking at the various cartoon periodicals published during the 1920s and 30s by members of the Manhua Society, it seems that manhua came to be understood as a general category of visual play, exemplified by the cartoon or caricature, but also encompassing photographs, fashion illustrations, advertisements, poster art, and wildly creative typography. To understand why a group of young men would dedicate themselves to drawing and publishing cartoons (and other works which combined art and humor) in Shanghai in the late 1910s and early 1920s, one must understand the development of the city in which they made their home. Science fiction author J.G. Ballard (who was born in the International Settlement in 1930 and lived in the city until he was 15) once described Shanghai of the early 20th century as …almost a 21st Century city - huge disparities of wealth and poverty, a multi-lingual media city with dozens of radio stations, dominated by advertising, befouled by disease and pollution, driven by money, populated by twenty different nations, the largest and most dynamic city of the Pacific rim, an important political battleground. In short, a portent of the world we inhabit today.6 Here, Ballard would seem to be echoing his cotemporary Marshall McLuhan, who argued that the technology of popular media and communication altered the way we think, not through the merits of the contents it carried, but through the immediacy of its delivery, allowing for a “…retribalizing process 6 J.G. Ballard, “Ballard Interviewed by Hans Ulrich Obrist in 2003,” interview by Hans Ulrich Obrist, 2003, http://www.jgballard.ca/media/2003_catalogue_for_beck’s_futures_art_exhibition.html (accessed November 22, 2015). 4 wrought by the electric media, which is turning the planet into a global village.”7 In this way, the illustrated magazines of 1910s and 1920s such as Vanity Fair and Vogue, which Manhua Society members such as Ye Qianyu recall having modelled their own publications on, can be argued to have been a portent of the 21st century media-sphere, marrying current events to trends in fashion and popular culture, foreshadowing television and, ultimately, the internet. Like the internet today, an exciting mix of both high and low culture could be found of the pages of manhua and other illustrated periodicals in Republican-era Shanghai, which struggled to stay afloat in the face of low profits and over-zealous censors. As media savvy consumers and interpreters of global culture, the Manhua Society and its members left an indelible mark on the visual culture of the Republican-era, which became the cultural heritage of the PRC after Mao Zedong and the communists came to power in 1949. To understand this cultural heritage, we must consider not only the artwork produced, but also the men who produced this artwork and the great sweltering paradox of a city which brought them together. 7 “The Playboy Interview | Next Nature Network,” n.d., https://www.nextnature.net/2009/12/the-playboy-interview- marshall-mcluhan/ (accessed November 24, 2015). 5 Chapter 1Chapter 1Chapter 1Chapter 1 : War, What Is I: War, What Is I: War, What Is I: War, What Is It t t t Good FGood FGood FGood For?or?or?or? Fittingly, given the role free trade agreements have played in the development of 21st century cities, Shanghai of the early 20th century, “portent of the modern world,” was made possible by the Treaty of Nanking in 1842 which designated Shanghai a ‘treaty port,’ becoming a casualty of the first Opium War between the rapidly expanding British Empire and the ailing Qing Empire.8 The Manchus had ruled China since overthrowing the ethnic Han Ming dynasty in 1644, overseeing a huge growth in population and territory. According to many scholars who have studied the era however, the Manchu reforms were primarily targeted at restoring rather than reforming political, economic, or social institutions which they inherited.9 Eventually, foreign aggression forced the imperial government to begin efforts toward Western- style modernization.10 The British treaty was soon followed by similar French and American treaties in 1844. Chinese entrepreneurs flocked to the foreign concessions to take advantage of the new economic opportunities they provided, while many others sought refuge from the political turmoil of the Taiping Rebellion of 1851 to 1864. Foreign products, most famously opium, but also English wool, Indian cotton, Russian furs, American ginseng, and silver bullion mined in Mexico were imported into China through the docks and godowns [warehouses] of the Huangpu, and while goods such as tea, silk, and porcelain were exported from the farms and villages of the Chinese countryside. Over time, a local manufacturing industry (of which printing presses were to form a large part) emerged, eventually overtaking the import-export business. 8 Former treaty port cities in China include Guangdong, Xiamen, Fuzhou, and Ningbo, among others. 9 See Frederic Wakeman, The Great Enterprise: The Manchu Reconstruction of Imperial Order in Seventeenth-Century China: Volume 1 (University of California Press, 1986) and The Great Enterprise: The Manchu Reconstruction of Imperial Order in Seventeenth-Century China: Volume 2 (University of California Press, 1986). 10 This is, of course, an extremely simple interpretation of the long and complex legacy of the Qing dynasty. As Frederic Wakeman and many others have pointed out, numerous attempts were made by reformers in the Imperial Court such as Kang Youwei 康有為 (1858-1927) and Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873-1929) in the late 19th century, who briefly succeeded during the Hundred Days’ Reform of 1896. Five years later in 1901, following the disasterious outcome of the Boxer Rebellion, which led to the occupation of the capital in Beijing, the Empress Dowager Cixi and her supporters instituted the New Policies which, like the Hundred Days’ Reform, was largely modeled on the Meiji Restoration of 1868 in Japan. Following her death in 1908, however, the reforms were once again rolled back by the conservative faction that came to power. William Rowe, meanwhile, has argued that one can see strands of reform in the activities of guilds and philanthropic organizations of the late Qing dynasty, an argument which Rowe builds on the concept of the “public sphere” introduced in Jürgen Habermas’ The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge: Polity, 1989). Although Rowe has faced criticism from Wakeman for overestimating the automony from the Manchu state that such organizations were able to achieve, it does suggest an interesting possibility for a re-assessement of the extent of social and political reforms achieved on the level of civil society during the Qing dynasty. See William T. Rowe, “The Public Sphere in Modern China,” Modern China 16, no. 3 (1990): 309–29, Frederic Wakeman, “The Civil Society and Public Sphere Debate: Western Reflections on Chinese Political Culture,” Modern China 19, no. 2 (1993): 108–38, and William T. Rowe, “The Problem of ‘Civil Society’ in Late Imperial China,” Modern China 19, no. 2 (1993): 139–57. 6 In 1895, the defeat of the Qing in the first Sino-Japanese War led to the Treaty of Shimonoseki, which created the first Japanese concessions in China while also establishing a legal precedent for foreign- owned manufacturers within China. At first, Chinese industrialists struggled to compete with the capital resources and more advanced manufacturing techniques of foreign-owned factories. Chinese firms quickly latched onto the idea of using the rhetoric of nationalism to sell their products, which often came at a higher or equivalent real cost, with a lower level of perceived quality. Anti-Japanese sentiment was stoked even further by the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905, when Japan seized additional concessions in the Liaodong peninsula 遼東半島, in the northeastern province of Liaoning 遼寧, which at the time was known as Fengtian 奉天. When the by then widely despised Qing government was finally overthrown in late 1911, the ensuing wave of nationalism help bring by Sun Yat-sen’s孫中山 (1866-1925) Kuomintang 國民黨 [Chinese Nationalist Party, KMT] to power, with the support of the leading Qing general, Yuan Shikai 袁 世凱 (1859-1916) and his modernized Beiyang Army. Meanwhile, business owners quickly realized the opportunity to seize market share from foreign imports with the establishment of the Chinese National Product Preservation Association 中華國貨維持會. Beyond simply promoting Chinese products, the CNPPA would go to organize numerous anti-Japanese boycotts from its headquarters in Shanghai, which were largely suppressed by the Republican government under pressure from the Japanese legation.11 When World War I broke out in August, 1914, Japan, which had been formally allied with England since the 1902 Anglo-Japanese Alliance, seized the German concession in Qingdao, Shandong province and proceeded to force the Yuan Shikai’s government, which had ejected Sun Yat-sen’s KMT the previous year, to accept a list of demands, including the recognition of the various Japanese territorial claims in China. In late 1915, Yuan reinstated the monarchy, declaring himself Emperor Hongxian of the Chinese Empire 中華帝國大皇帝洪宪, a controversial decision which led to the break-up of his government even before his death from kidney failure in 1916. Following Yuan’s death, the Beiyang Army split into warring factions, which coalesced into three main groups: the Anhui clique 皖系, the Zhili clique 直系, and the Fengtian clique奉系.12 At first, the 11 See Karl Gerth, China Made: Consumer Culture and the Creation of the Nation (Harvard Univ Asia Center, 2003). 12 For background on the warlord factions, I have relied heavily on Chi Hsi-sheng, Warlord Politics in China, 1916-1928 (Stanford, Calif: Stanford University Press, 1976). 7 most powerful of these was the Anhui clique, which controlled Beijing under the leadership of Duan Qirui 段祺瑞 (1865-1936), an Anhui native, with the support of the Japanese who provided loans in exchange for under-the-table territorial concessions. For similar reasons, the Japanese also supported the Fengtian clique, which was based in the far northeastern corner of the country above Korea, known as Manchuria, and led by Zhang Zuolin 張作霖 (1875-1928), with the support of Zhang Zongchang 張宗昌 (1881- 1932) and others. Hebei and its surroundings, meanwhile, were controlled by the Zhili clique, led by Cao Kun 曹錕 (1862-1938), in partnership with Wu Peifu吳佩孚 (1874-1939), Feng Yuxiang 馮玉祥 (1882-1948), and Sun Chuanfang 孫傳芳 (1885-1935). For much of the late 1910s and early 1920s, however, the province of Canton in the far south was largely controlled by the KMT under Sun Yat-sen’s leadership. Sun initially formed alliances with local warlords, in particular Chen Jiongming 陳炯明 (1878-1933), but found them to be unreliable allies in his quest to reunify China under KMT rule. In 1924, Sun founded the Whampoa Military Academy 黃埔軍 校 in Canton with support of the Soviet Union and the New Guangxi Clique 新桂系, which controlled neighboring Guangxi province, a major center of opium production.13 As part of the terms of support from the Bolsheviks, the KMT had formed an alliance with the Chinese Communist Party in 1923, known today as the First United Front of the Nationalists and Communists. In 1925, Chiang Kai-shek 蔣介石 (1887- 1975), commandant of the Whampoa Military Academy, drew on the graduates of Whampoa to found the National Revolutionary Army (NRA), a force which would ultimately retake the country for the KMT following Sun Yat-sen’s death in 1925. In was during these turbulent times that Ye Qianyu, today the most well-known member of the Manhua Society, grew up. Ye’s early life story is unique among his peers not so much in the particulars, but because we know a great deal about it, largely thanks to his autobiography which was published in the 1990s. Ye’s early life illustrates how the numerous military conflicts of the late 1910s and early 1920s shaped the lives and aspirations of the first generation of manhua artists in China. 13 Arthur Waldron’s From War to Nationalism: China’s Turning Point, 1924-1925 (Cambridge University Press, 2003) is an indispensable resource for helping to understand the complex military and political situation of the mid-1920s in China, in particular Chapter 7, “The war and society.” 8 Ye QianyuYe QianyuYe QianyuYe Qianyu: The Student: The Student: The Student: The Student Born in 1907 into a family of merchants in Tonglu county 桐廬縣, Zhejiang province, in the mountains to the southwest of Hangzhou at the confluence of the Fenshui and the Fuchun, at age seven Ye entered Baohua Primary School 葆華小學. After graduating in 1916 he enrolled at Zixiaoguan Advanced Primary 紫霄觀高等小學 where in addition to his other coursework he also studied traditional ink painting and handicrafts. He spent five years at Zixiaoguan before graduating in 1921.14 While Ye was in his third year Zixiaoguan, World War I ended with the Treaty of Versailles. Signed on June 28, 1919, due to secret territorial concessions granted by the various warlord cliques in exchange for loans and military equipment, this controversial document upheld Japanese claims over Qingdao and the Liaodong peninsula, despite China having contributed some 140,000 laborers to the Allied war effort. More than 800 miles to the north of Hangzhou, student protests against both the warlords and Japan took place in the capital of Beijing on May 4, 1919, quickly spreading to rest of the country. The “May Fourth” movement, as it came to be known, was a watershed moment for a new generation of Chinese intellectuals who increasingly came to advocate for the abandoning of “backward” Chinese tradition in favor of the modern ideals of “science and democracy.” Although he was only 12 when the May Fourth movement began, in his memoirs Ye recalls participating in student protests inspired by the May Fourth movement several years later while going to school in Hangzhou. 1n 1920, Ye applied to the Zhejiang Provincial Number One Teaching Training School 浙江省 立第一師範學校, a famous public school in Hangzhou, but failed the entrance exam. The next year he applied a second time to the same school, in addition to two more schools, Hangzhou Number One Middle School 杭州第一中學 and the more recently established Hangzhou Salt Works Middle School 杭州鹽務中學. Although he failed the entrance exam to Zhengjiang Number One a second time, Ye tested into both of the other schools. Despite wanting to attend Hangzhou Number One Middle School, in the end Ye decided to attend the Salt Works Middle School, apparently under pressure from his father. Although the other school would have given him the option of going on to university after graduation (and also would have had art classes), Salt Works Middle School had been established to train future employees in the 14 This, and other biographical information about Ye Qianyu’s life is drawn from his autobiography Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian 葉淺予自傳：細敘滄桑記流年 [The Autobiography of Ye Qianyu: Carefully Narrating the Changes of the Ages, Recording the Passing Years] (Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe 中國社會科學出版社, 2006). 9 government salt monopoly. For Ye’s father, whose business was struggling at the time, it likely seemed to be a better investment than the more nebulous promises of a well-rounded education. Tasked with providing war reparations to the Eight-Nations Alliance following the Boxer Rebellion of 1899-1901, the salt monopoly faced a shortage of staff fluent in foreign languages to deal with the representatives of the Eight-Nations Alliance. In light of his involvement in the May 4 Movement, Ye, was understandably less enamored with this career path. Along with his girlfriend, Wang Wenying 王文英, and three other classmates, Ye ran away from school in the summer of 1924, taking a passenger ferry to Xiamen where they attempted to gain early admittance to Xiamen University 廈門大學. Only one of the five friends managed to pass the exam, but the other four, including Ye and Wang, were allowed to stay on at the preparatory school for Xiamen University. They soon found themselves trapped in Xiamen, however, due to the outbreak of the Jiangsu- Zhejiang War 江浙戰爭 in September, 1924. Following the Zhili-Anhui War of 1920, when Duan Qirui’s Anhui clique had been defeated by Cao Kun and Wu Peifu’s Zhili clique, former Anhui clique generals, Yu Longxiang盧永祥 (1867-1933) and Qi Xieyuan 齊燮元 (1885-1946), who had sworn allegiance to the Zhili clique, continued to be rule over the provinces of Jiangsu (containing Shanghai), Anhui, and Zhejiang (containing Hangzhou). For the next two years, meanwhile, Beijing found itself nominally under the joint rule of the Zhili and Fengtian cliques. This partnership fell apart in 1922, with the advent of the First Zhili-Fengtian War, which saw the Fengtian Army routed, forcing Zhang Zuolin to retreat to Manchuria. The Jiangsu-Zhejiang War of 1924 which trapped Ye Qianyu and his friends in Xiamen began as a struggle between Lu and Qi for control of the Chinese districts of Shanghai, and quickly escalated into the Second Zhili-Fengtian War, for which Zhang had been enthusiastically preparing since his embarrassing defeat only two years earlier.15 To help overthrow Qi, Lu had partnered with He Fenglin 何豐林 (1873-1935), the Military Defense Commissioner of Shanghai, and Du Yuesheng杜月笙 (1888-1951), a powerful crime boss in the Green Gang 青幫, which controlled the opium trade in Shanghai. With the Zhili clique’s northern reserves forces tied up in skirmishes with the Fengtian Army, Sun Chuanfang 孫傳芳 (1885-1935), also of the Zhili clique, decided to step in to support Qi Xieyuan, leading his forces up from Fujian, where he had been stationed by Cao Kun and Wu Peifu in early 1923. 15 Wakeman Frederic, Policing Shanghai, 1927-1937 (University of California Press, 1995), 120. 10 By October, 1924, only one month after the Jiangsu-Zhejiang War had begun, it was already over. Sun Chuanfang and Qi Xieyuan had defeated Lu Yongxiong, who fled to Japan, with Sun replacing Lu as the military governor of Zhejiang. In response, the victorious Fengtian clique attempted to extend their influence into the Yangtze River delta region, with Zhang Zuolin sending Zhang Zongchang and Feng Yuxiang’s Guominjun 國民軍 [National Army] on the Anhui-Fengtian expedition to take the Chinese districts of Shanghai from Qi Xieyuan. After being quickly defeated in April, 1925, Qi Xieyuan was forced to flee to safety in Japan, and the Guominjun occupied the Chinese parts of the city. By the fall, however, Zhang Zongchang had been recalled to Shandong, allowing Sun Chuanfang to ultimately take control of Jiangsu, Anhui, and Jiangxi over the next three years, becoming one of the most powerful men in China. Ye Qianyu, meanwhile, was forced to stay in Xiamen for another five months, not having enough money to return home. While Ye was off trying to make a name for himself, the Ye family store had gone bankrupt, which meant that the family had been reduced to living off the income they received from renting out their property. Failing to gain admission to Xiamen University, in March of 1925, Ye was convinced to return home when his father took out a 100 yuan mortgage on their family property to bring his son back from Xiamen. Back in Tonglu, Ye’s father pleaded with him to return to the Hangzhou Salt Works Middle School to finish his degree. Ye resisted, and after running away and threatening to kill himself, he was able to convince his father to let him apply for an apprenticeship as a clerk in the retail department of the Three Friends Co. textile factory 三友商業社.16 One of the largest and most well-known Chinese-owned companies at the time, Three Friends Co. had been posting wanted ads in the Shenbao 申報, a prominent Shanghai newspaper with distribution throughout China. Founded by the English entrepreneur Ernest Major (1841-1908), the Shenbao was a pioneering Chinese language newspaper which played a key role in the development of the public sphere in Shanghai from when it was founded 1872 to when it finally shut its doors in 1949. It is not surprising, then, that it also played a critical role in the development of Chinese cartooning, launching the first illustrated magazine in China, the Dianshizhai Pictorial 點石齋畫報, and 16 Named after a famous saying attributed to Confucius: “Having three kinds of friends will be a source of personal improvement; having three other kinds of friends will be a source of personal injury. One stands to be improved by friends who are true, who make good on their word, and who are broadly informed; one stands to be injured by friends who are ingratiating, who feign compliance, and who are glib talkers” 益者三友，損者三友。友直，友諒，友多聞，益矣；友便闢，友善 柔，友便佞，損矣. Roger T. Ames, tran., The Analects of Confucius: A Philosophical Translation (Random House Publishing Group, 2010), 197. 11 providing employment to many of China’s first cartoonists, from Shen Bochen and Ding Song, to Lu Shaofei and Huang Wennong.17 After passing an interview with Wang Shuyang 王叔暘 (1903-1973) in the office of Three Friends Co. by demonstrating his drawing ability, Ye was hired as apprentice clerk selling cloth in the Three Friends department store on Nanjing Road, the bustling commercial thoroughfare of the British- American International Settlement (See Fig. 1.1).18 Located on the northwest bank of the Huangpu River, which runs diagonally through the Yangzte River Delta, the International Settlement was sandwiched between the long rectangle of the French Concession and the Chinese walled city, containing Yu Garden 豫園 and the City God Temple 城隍廟, to the south, and Suzhou Creek 蘇州河 to the north. This rough stretch of water, thick with effluents of the many tanners and dyers located along its banks, marked the border to the Chinese controlled district of Zhabei, with the terminus of the Nanjing-Shanghai Railroad and a large number of factories, including those of Three Friends Co. 17 For more on Ernest Major and the Shenbao, see Rudolf G. Wagner, ed., Joining the Global Public: Word, Image, and City in Early Chinese Newspapers, 1870-1910 (SUNY Press, 2012). 18 Wang Shuyang would later work as a distributor of The Young Companion and Shanghai Sketch II, among other magazines. See Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 69. 12 Figure 1.1 Three Friends Co. storefront on Nanjing Road, date unknown.19 Named after the former imperial capital of China, in Chinese it was often referred to as Main Road 大馬路, Nanjing Road ran east to west from the waterfront, known as the Bund, to the Shanghai Race Course (since razed by the communists and replaced with appropriately named People’s Park). For a young man from a small town in the Zhejiang hills like Ye, Nanjing Road was a heady place, a major economic artery, a mix of East and West, where the gathered multitudes of living, breathing things all started to affect my way of looking at things. I went from seeing things with the eyes of a peasant from the local county seat, to seeing things with the eyes of a Shanghaiese. My brain became filled with new and exciting things, seeing the changes in society; spending time on Nanjing Road, full of art and culture, I became aware of the things which I loved, the things 19 Jia Yan 賈彦, “Shangzhan yu Bingzhan: Naxie yu Sanjiao Maojin Youguan de Kangri Chuanqi” 商戰與兵戰:那些與“三角” 毛巾有關的抗日傳奇 [Retail Wars and Miltary Wars: All Those Stories About Three Triangle Towels During the War of Resistance], Lishi Pindao - Dongfangwang 歷史頻道-東方網, April 18, 2014, http://history.eastday.com/h/shlpp/u1a8040028.html (accessed December 30, 2015). 13 which I needed, and so I made a choice, then and there. This is probably why I gradually realized that I needed to change jobs, to spend time improving and absorbing and digesting these things. 一條經濟大動脈，華洋雜處，會公眾生，把我這帶點農民意識的小縣城的眼睛，逐 漸變成十裏洋場的眼睛，腦子裏也裝滿新鮮事物和社會新面貌；又接觸了布滿南京 路的文化藝術環境，使我對所愛的所需的有所認識，進而有所選擇。也許就是這個 原因，我逐漸意識到需要換一個工作環境，來充實和消化這些東西。 Soon thereafter Ye was promoted to the advertising department of Three Friends Co. where he met Ji Xiaobo, a twenty-five year old artist from Jiangsu who would provide a model of success for the ambitious Ye. Although largely forgotten today, Ji Xiaobo’s somewhat fraught relationship with Ye helps explain the likewise fraught formation of the Manhua Society. Ji XiaoboJi XiaoboJi XiaoboJi Xiaobo: The Master: The Master: The Master: The Master Born in 1901 in Xinzhuang Village 新庄鄉, Changshu county 常熱縣, Jiangsu 江蘇省, just south of the Yangtze River, in Ye Qianyu’s words, Ji “…had received a formal art education in Shanghai, and so he was familiar with foreign music. He told us that the Municipal Concert Hall had free seats on the third floor, open to the public, and that he could take us to check it out if we were interested” 在上海 受过正规美术教育，接触过外国音乐, 他告诉我们，市政厅音乐堂的三楼，有免费的座位， 可以自由出入，你们有兴趣，可以带你们去见识见识.20 At first Ye was unimpressed with the stiff formality of the classical orchestra, finding that it compared unfavorably with the spontaneity and liveliness of the folk music he had heard in amusement parks while growing up in the Zhejiang countryside, and one can easily imagine the older and more erudite Xiao lecturing the younger and more impetuous Ye about the fine points of Western music. Yet after repeated trips to the Municipal Concert Hall Ye recalls that he found himself gradually beginning to enjoy it. 20 Unless otherwise mentioned, information about Ye Qianyu is drawn from his autobiography. All other biographical information on Ji Xiaobo is based on a short essay and two encyclopedia entries: Bu Wuchen 步武塵, “Gaoshou manhuajia Ji Xiaobo” 高壽漫畫家季小波 [Long Lived Manhua Artist Ji Xiaobo], Suzhou Zazhi 蘇州雜志, February 2002, 11–12, Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “季小波” [Ji Xiaobo], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷 (Shanxi Renmin Meishu Chubanshe 陝西人民美術出版社, November 2000), 952 and Tang Fei 庸非, ed., “季小波” [Ji Xiaobo], Zhongguo Dangdai Manhua Jia Cidian 中國當代漫畫家辭典 (Jiangsu Renmin Chubanshe 浙江人民出版社, May 1997), 617. 14 Ye also recalls that Ji Xiaobo was responsible for finding a new dormitory to rent when the company outgrew the cramped quarters they had been living in. When they moved into the new dorm, Ji used his own money to buy a gramophone. After long hours at Three Friends, the interns would crowd around the turntable to listen to Peking opera recordings and take turns singing stanzas from their favorite performances. Ji’s generosity rekindled a childhood fascination with the theatre which was to last for rest of Ye’s life. Ji Xiaobo’s own career had begun nearly seven years earlier, in the summer of 1918, when Ji and his friend, Fan Zhixi 範志希 (n.d) were hired by the artist and entrepreneur Sun Xueni 孫雪泥 (1888- 1965) to edit his Shanghai Resident News 上海市民報. Sun Xueni had originally been employed as an art editor at The New World Daily 新世界日報, published by the New World Entertainment Hall 新 世界游樂場, before setting up his own press, Shengsheng Fine Arts Company 生生美術公司 a newspaper publisher which doubled as an advertising agency, producing illustrated ads for other newspapers. 21 Seventeen years old and just out of high school, Ji Xiaobo made fast friends with the eighteen year old Zhang Guangyu, who at the time was apprenticed to Ding Song (1891-1972), the editor of World Pictorial 世界畫報, a second publication also printed by Shengsheng.22 Less than ten years later, the three would collaborate with Ye Qianyu, among others, to form the Manhua Society. In the fall of 1919, Ji Xiaobo joined the first class of the Shanghai Teacher Training College of Art 上海藝術專科師範學校 which had just been established by two graduates of Zhejiang Provincial Number One Teacher Training School (the same school Ye Qianyu had failed the entrance exam to twice), the artist Wu Mengfei 吳夢非, Liu Zhiping 劉質平, who had also studied music in Japan. It is somewhat surprising that Ji would choose to enroll at this school, given that at the time Ding Song was a teacher and provost at the more established Shanghai Art Academy 上海美術院 . Perhaps cost was a concern, since tuition was almost certainly cheaper at the Teacher Training College of Art, which didn’t even make enough money to employ its teachers full time.23 21 See Huang Ke 黃可, “Sun Xueni yu Shengsheng Meishu Gongsi--jiushi huajia de shengcun zhi dao” 孫雪泥與生生美術公 司——舊時畫家的生存之道 [Sun Xueni and Shengsheng Fine Arts Company: How One Artist Survived], Yishu Zhongguo 藝術中國 (September 3, 2009), http://art.china.cn/huihua/2009-09/03/content_3110162.htm (accessed March 14, 2015). 22 Ma Liangchun 馬良春 and Li Futian 李福田, eds., “Youxi Zazhi” 游戲雜志 [The Pastime], Dictionary of Chinese Literature 中國文學大辭典 (Tianjin People’s Press 天津人民出版社, 1991), 5846. 23 Geremie Barmé, An Artistic Exile: A Life of Feng Zikai (1898-1975) (University of California Press, 2002), 47. 15 Whatever the reason, Ji Xiaobo’s decision would turn out to be a fortuitous one when Wu Mengfei and Liu Zhiping convinced their former classmate Feng Zikai 豐子愷 (1898-1975) to join the school. Although Feng Zikai would later become a famous cartoonist, at the time he was still struggling to develop the unique fusion of traditional Chinese painting and Western cartooning for which he would become known. Feng Zikai and his publisher, Zheng Zhenduo 鄭振鐸 (1898-1958) decided to call his iconoclastic cartoons manga 漫畫 [casual pictures], borrowing the Japanese term for cartoons and comics which Feng had picked up while studying in Tokyo. 24 The term, pronounced manhua in Mandarin, was quickly adopted by other Chinese cartoonists, in particular the future members of the Manhua Society, who were likely looking to replace the terms huajihua滑稽畫 [humorous drawings] or fengcihua 諷刺畫 [satirical drawings] while also suggesting an association with the drawings of Feng, which had become wildly popular following the publication of Feng Zikai’s Manhua 子愷漫畫 in Literature Weekly 文學週 報 in May, 1925.25 Because he does not seem to have contributed to Shanghai Sketch I or II in comparison to the other members of the Manhua Society, Ji Xiaobo is not particularly well-known for his cartoons today. He also does not seem to have be a very prolific artist. This may of course be because his advertising work for the Three Friends Co. is, of course, uncredited. It is also possible that he published under a penname for professional reasons, or that he was simply too busy with his work to spend much time making cartoons. Although earlier works likely exist, the earliest manhua by Ji that I have been able to uncover was published in The Young Companion in early 1926, over a year before he joined the Manhua Society. It depicts the swaying branches of a willow tree blowing in the wind, with what appears to be a junk on the water in the distance. The full moon lies just above the horizon line, reflected dimly in the water, while two swallows flit among the branches, barely distinguishable from the drifting leaves. In constrast with the thick, organic brushstrokes Ji has used to create the scene, three thin, straight lines intersect the top of the image, suggesting perhaps powerlines, or the beam of a pavillion. Beside his drawing, Ji has written, “I always feel that life is so unreal!” 總覺得人生的虛無縹緲了！ 24 Relying on Bi Keguan’s analysis, Feng’s biographer, Geremie Barmé suggests that the term manhua was chosen to distinguish Chinese cartoons from Western katong 卡通 (cartoons). In his biography of Feng, Barmé explains at length how Feng came to use this term, while also exploring the long historical legacy of the word manhua in both China and Japan. See Ibid., 89–97. 25 Barmé records that it took over two years for the Manhua Society to adopt the term, while in fact Ji Xiaobo was describing his cartoons as manhua as early as February, 1926, some seven months after the appearance of Feng Zikai’s Manhua. See Ibid., 93. 16 Figure 1.2 Ji Xiaobo “I always feel that life is so unreal!” 總覺得人生的虛無縹緲了！The Young Companion, Issue 1, February 15, 1926, 21. Apparently the image (clearly showing a strong debt of influence to the work of Feng Zikai) was well received by readers, because the next month two more manhua by Ji Xiaobo were published in the same magazine the next month. Both depict nude women striking defiant poses, drawn in a style similar to his first drawing. The first is titled “Warrior” 戰士, and shows a woman in profile, her right arm raised to sky holding a sword with a thin blade and ornate guard, probably a fencing foil. Her chin is raised upwards, and her long, light colored hair falls behind her almost touching the ground. A tall conifer stands in the background before an enormous full moon, duplicated three times, which fills half the page. In the second image, titled “Fullness” 圓滿, the woman has medium length jet black hair, but like the first woman, her chin points straight up into the air. Both arms are raised to the sky, framing two swallows. As with the previous two images, a full moon floats in the sky.26 26 As Christopher G. Rea points out, the title of this image a double entrendre, reflecting not only the satisfied mental state of the figure, but also the “fullness” moon. 17 Figure 1.3 Ji Xiaobo “Warrior” 戰士 The Young Companion, Issue II, March 15, 1926. Figure 1.4 Ji Xiaobo “Fullness” 圓滿 The Young Companion, Issue 1I, March 15, 1926. Ji’s time with Feng Zikai was brief, because in late 1920 or early 1921, the Shanghai Resident News fell afoul of a group of criminals (possibly Du Yuesheng’s Green Gang) forcing Ji to abandon his studies and leave Shanghai. Feng Zikai, meanwhile, left Shanghai in the spring of 1921 to study abroad in Japan. Thanks to Fan Zhixi, Ji was able to find a job at Zhengda Daily 正大日報 a newspaper in Suzhou, edited by Sun Yiwen 孫一文 (n.d.) under the management of Zhu Xiliang 朱錫梁 (1873-1932).27 Zhu Xilang was former member of the Tongmenghui 同盟會, Sun Yat-sen’s revolutionary organization which 27 It is also possible that Sun Yiwen is actually a penname of Zhu Xilang, who in addition to his courtesy name Liangren 梁任 and style name was 緯軍, also went by Junchou 君仇, Gongsun Junchou 公孫君仇, Huangdi zhi Cengceng Xiaozi 黃帝之曾 曾小子 (Great-great Grandson of Emperor Huangdi), and Guaigao Jushi 夬膏居士, among others. See Shi Xiaoping 施曉平, “[Zhuanzai] ‘Zhu Liangren Mu’ Wuzhong Qiren_Suzhou Ribao” [轉載]“朱梁任墓”吳中奇人_蘇州日報 [[Repost] “Zhu Liangren’s Tombstone” The Wonder of Wuzhong_Suzhou Daily], March 17, 2014, http://blog.sina.cn/dpool/blog/s/blog_4a3f841e0101jals.html (accessed November 21, 2015) which appears to have been based on an undated essay by Gan Lanjing 甘蘭經, “Zhu Liangren” 朱梁任 [Zhu Liangren], Zhongguo Renmin Zhengzhi Xieshang Huiyi Jiangsu Sheng Suzhou Shi Wujiang Qu Weiyuanhui 中國人民政治協商會議江蘇省蘇州市吳江區委員 會, n.d., www.wjzx.gov.cn/ (accessed November 21, 2015). 18 had help overthrow the Qing empire to establish the KMT and the Republic of China. It is not surprising, then, that he was deeply critical of the local warlord government which had usurped power from the militarily weak KMT.28 This paper was also shut down, this time by military police, forcing Ji to return to his hometown to evade arrest. While in his hometown, Ji got in trouble again by trying to organize a land reform movement, leading him to sneak back into Shanghai in early 1924,29 where he found a job editing the Three Friends Co. promotional periodical The Light of the Triangle 三角之光.30 Never one to forget a debt, Ji used his influence at Three Friends to publish new cartoons by Feng Zikai, who had by then returned to China and begun creating works in a new style heavily influenced by the casual sketches of the Japanese artist Takehisa Yumeji 竹久夢二 (1884-1934), in addition to two Chinese artists who created works of similar a style, Chen Shizeng 陳師曾(1876-1923) and Zeng Yandong (1750-1825) .31 It may seem curious that Feng Zikai never joined the Manhua Society, given his early passion for cartooning. He was least casually acquainted with Ji Xiaobo, and he likely knew other members of the group as well, particularly Ding Song and Wang Dunqing. The simple answer is that Feng Zikai operated in different social circles from the members of the Manhua Society, who were mostly self-taught, and employed in varying capacities in publishing and teaching. The tradition of literati painting, whose ingrained hierarchy and culture of connoisseurship has largely been duplicated by Chinese proponents of Western art, has welcomed Feng’s works in a way that members of the Manhua Society could never hope for. As Feng Zikai’s biographer, Geremie Barmé argues, By monopolizing the word manhua, along with all of its modern Japanese and commercial cultural associations, the members of the [Manhua Society] marked themselves off from an art scene that had no place for them, while occupying a viable niche in the commercial art and magazine market, 28 One biography of Ji Xiaobo records that the local warlord at the time was Sun Chuanfang. Sun however, did not take control of Suzhou until the fall of 1925. Ye Qianyu was born in March,1907, and remembers arriving in Shanghai when he was 18, meaning that he would have met Ji in 1925, making it more likely that the warlord who shut down Zhengda Daily was in fact Qi Xieyuan. 29 This is a rough estimate, given that his former employer Zhu Xilang at Zhengda Daily took up a new position as a professor at Nanjing Dongnan Daxue 南京東南大學 in 1924. See Gan Lanjing, “Zhu Liangren.” 30 Christopher G. Rea points out that 三角之光 can also be translated as “light from three angles,” a common lighting scheme used in photography and film. 31 For a thorough analysis of the development of Feng Zikai’s drawing style, see Chapter 2 of Geremie Barmé’s monograph, “Journey to the East” in An Artistic Exile. 19 which fed on sensationalism and topicality. In so doing, they also eclipsed the lineage of the manga as a term for describing Feng Zikai's equally unorthodox work.” 32 More importantly, perhaps, Feng had different goals from the members of the Manhua Society, who saw their purpose to either entertain (through either humor or titillation) or to convince (via political satire or outright propaganda). Feng, on the other hand, seems to have wanted his cartoons to enlighten his readers, to inspire stillness and reflection in an age of turmoil. Humorous manhua were not the only type of cartoon artwork to emerge in China during the first half of the 20th century. For example, a form of comics, closer in style to Western superhero comic books and pulp fiction, lianhuantuhua 連環圖畫 , or ‘linked picture books,’ also known as lianhuanhua 連環畫 and xiaoren shu 小人書 [kid’s books], were extremely popular 1920s as a form of cheap entertainment which could be rented on the street corners of Shanghai and other cities across China.33 Unlike the Manhua Society, however, early authors of lianhuantuhua were not feted by social critics and so left little behind to posterity, with most examples of surviving works dating from the post-1949 period, when the Chinese Communist Party began to promote illustrated stories as propaganda for the illiterate masses in the countryside.34 Likewise, other art forms related to the cartoon, such art deco, cubism, and Latin American- influenced portraiture all gained currency in Shanghai at this time, alongside manhua and lianhuantuhua. It not surprising then, that in his study of the aesthetic influences of manhua periodicals, Paul Bevan finds that elements of both art deco and cubism, in addition to art nouveau, surrealism, symbolism, and the English arts and crafts and decadent movements can be seen in the publications of the Manhua Society members from the late 1920s.35 32 Ibid., 94. 33 For an account of the early history of lianhuanhua, see Shen Kuiyi, “Lianhuanhua and Manhua--Picture Books and Comics in Old Shanghai,” in Illustrating Asia: Comics, Humor Magazines, and Picture Books, ed. John A. Lent (University of Hawaii Press, 2001), 100–120, https://www.academia.edu/11220556/Lianhuanhua_and_Manhua-- Picture_Books_and_Comics_in_Old_Shanghai (accessed October 5, 2015) and Nick Stember, “Chinese Lianhuanhua: A Century of Pirated Movies,” May 23, 2014, http://www.nickstember.com/chinese-lianhuanhua-century-of-pirated-movies/ (accessed October 5, 2015). 34 An excellent anecdotal account of use of lianhuanhua in the PRC is available in Gino Nebiolo’s “Introduction,” in The People’s Comic Book: Red Women’s Detachment, Hot on the Trail and Other Chinese Comics (Anchor Press, 1973). 35 Personal communication, November 11, 2015, Bevan, A Modern Miscellany, 29. 20 Burnt Bridges and Bad BloodBurnt Bridges and Bad BloodBurnt Bridges and Bad BloodBurnt Bridges and Bad Blood???? Ye Qianyu left Three Friends after one year, in 1926, and at first glance he does not seem to have had any hard feelings towards his former employer. In his autobiography he mentions that he can’t remember a specific reason for leaving, other than a general feeling that he wouldn’t have as many opportunities to develop his artistic abilities there as he had hoped for. Fortunately Ye was able to find a job at Central Plains Publishing House 中原書局 in Shanghai with the help of an unnamed friend, where he was tasked with illustrating textbooks. After working at the publishing house for a while, a former coworker from Three Friends (also unnamed) asked Ye to paint the backdrop for a theatre in his hometown of Changshu County. Ji Xiaobo is from Changshu County, so it seems highly likely that the former coworker was Ji. It seems curious, though, that he chooses not to name his benefactor, and could potentially indicate that Ji and Ye had some sort of falling out before or after he left his job at Three Friends, or that Ye felt that he should downplay his close relationship with Ji. Indeed, throughout his autobiography, Ye Qianyu impolitely refers to Ji Xiaobo as “that guy named Ji,” 那位性季的 rather than his full name, which he uses only once, when he passingly refers to him as “my old coworker from Three Friends, Ji Xiaobo” 三友社的老同事季小波. This is hardly the way one would expect Ye to refer to the man who helped him begin his career in publishing, and suggests the possibility of bad blood between the two cartoonists. The answer may lie in Ji Xiaobo’s political affiliations, which may have led Ye to burn his bridges with his former colleague after the founding of the PRC. In a 1938 article on Chinese cartoonists, left-wing journalist and cartoonist Jack Chen mentions that one of the founding members of the Manhua Society “joined the government and secured a job that kept him from doing embarrassing cartoons.” While Chen fails to elaborate on what exactly he meant by embarrassing, from the context is seems that Chen was implying that this individual, whoever he was, felt that drawing cartoons was less dignified than working for the government. Whether this is true or not, Chen may have also been channeling the feelings of his father, Eugene Chen 陳友仁 (1878-1944), a prominent overseas Chinese lawyer who served as a foreign affairs advisor and diplomat for Sun Yat-sen and the Nationalists in the 1920s.36 36 For an account of the last three generations of the Chen family, see Return to the Middle Kingdom: One Family, Three Revolutionaries, and the Birth of Modern China (Sterling Publishing Company, Inc., 2008), authored by Yuan-tsung Chen, Jack 21 Although Lu Shaofei went on to serve as a KMT official in Lanzhou during the war, acting as the director of the Lanzhou Municipal Social Services Department蘭州市社會服務處 until the defeat of the KMT in 1949, Lu didn’t actually start this job until 1941. Instead, Chen was almost certainly referring to Ji Xiaobo, who worked as a censor of the arts 美術視察 for the KMT-controlled Shanghai Department of Education 海市教育局 from 1929 to 1937. Following the communist takeover in 1949 Ji seems to have been able to successfully claim that he had been working uncover, but it was not until 1981 that he was able to find his way back in publishing, when he was appointed editor of Xuelin Press 學 林出版社. According to a newspaper article published in 2002, four years later he was completely rehabilitated and given an unspecified government position, not unlike those Ye Qianyu and Zhang Guangyu and many other cartoonists received directly after the war. 37 Even if Ji’s small number of published works and affiliation with the KMT might have limited his fame in later years, articles published under the title “Long Lived Manhua Artist Ji Xiaobo” indicate that Ji seems to have enjoyed playing the role of “master” cartoonist, as one of the founding members of the Manhua Society.38 It also undeniable that Ji Xiaobo did incredibly well for himself, given his humble origins, and that without him, his “student,” Ye, may never have had the opportunity to meet the other members of the Manhua Society and achieve the levels of success he later did. Chen’s wife. More recently, Paul Bevan has published his research on Jack Chen’s involvement in the manhua movement, which is explored in Chapter 5 of A Modern Miscellany. 37 Bu Wuchen, “Gaoshou manhuajia Ji Xiaobo,” 11. 38 Bu Wuchen, “Gaoshou manhuajia Ji Xiaobo.” 22 Chapter 2Chapter 2Chapter 2Chapter 2 : The : The : The : The TTTTies ies ies ies TTTThat hat hat hat BBBBindindindind Given Ji Xiaobo’s job as a censor for the Nationalist government in the 1930s, it is perhaps unsurprising that when Ye Qianyu wrote his autobiography in the late 1980s, he decided not to mention that Ji Xiaobo was an old acquaintance of two key founding members of the Manhua Society, Zhang Guangyu and Ding Song. Since Ji Xiaobo claims to have met both in 1917, while working Sun Xueni’s Shengsheng Fine Arts Press, it stands to reason that Ji Xiaobo would have introduced the two cartoonists to Ye Qianyu when the talented young artist was promoted to the advertising department of Three Friends in 1925. Instead, Ye recalls that he met Zhang Guangyu after submitting a cartoon to his tabloid, the China Camera News 三日畫報 in the summer of 1925, shortly after arriving in Shanghai.39 There may be an element of pride at work here as well, because according to Ye, Zhang was so impressed with his work that he asked to meet him in person. Or it may be that Ji never introduced them, and Ye resented him for not having done so. Regardless, it seems clear that Ye Qianyu and Zhang Guangyu hit it off almost immediately, with the younger Ye referring to Zhang as “the first of the older generation of manhua artists I met” 最早认识的老一辈漫画家. This, again, is curious, because Zhang, born in 1900, was only one year older than Ji Xiaobo. In comparison, Ye hardly mentions Ding Song. Given their respective ages, Ye Qianyu and Ji Xiaobo were likely much closer friends with Zhang Guangyu than they were with much older Ding Song. Nevertheless, Ding Song seems to have provided the group with a certain amount of guidance. Meeting notes for the society indicate that Ding Song was the chairperson of the group for the majority of 1927, stepping down in favor of Wang Dunqing in November, and he was a teacher and mentor to both Zhang Guangyu and Lu Shaofei. Most importantly perhaps, as the oldest member of the Manhua Society by nearly a decade, Ding Song is in many ways typical of the cartoonists who emerged in the first decade of the Republic prior to the formation of the Manhua Society. 39 Ye recalls that they met in 1926, while he was working at Central Plains Press. The first issue of Camera Daily News was published on August 2, 1925, and, reflecting the Chinese name of the paper [literally, ‘Three Day Pictorial’], was published every three days after that. Most likely, Ye got the dates mixed up, as he does in several other places in his autobiography. 23 Ding Song: The GrandfatherDing Song: The GrandfatherDing Song: The GrandfatherDing Song: The Grandfather Born in 1891 in Fengjingzhen 楓涇鎮, a small town in Jiashan county 嘉善 to the southwest of Shanghai, Ding Song’s parents both died when he was only 12. He spent his teen years at the Tushanwan 土山灣 orphanage in Xujiahui district, which had been founded by Jesuit missionaries in 1864.40 While at Tushanwan, Song studied Western religious and secular art with Zhou Xiang 周湘 (1871-1933) and Zhang Yuguang 張聿光 (1886-1968), in addition to learning how to operate a printing press. He quickly made a name for himself as an artist, and in 1913, Song was invited to serve as academic dean for the newly founded Shanghai Art Academy 上海美術院 , later being promoted to provost.41 It was around this time he became close friends with the prolific cartoonist Shen Bochen 沈泊塵 (born Shen Xueming 沈學明, 1889-1920), who had been hired as a staff cartoonist for the three-day tabloid The Crystal 晶報 in 1912.42 Under Shen’s encouragement, Ding Song to soon began drawing and publishing his own cartoons. In late 1913, Ding Song helped launch the monthly magazine Unfettered Magazine 自由雜誌, edited by Tong Ailou 童愛樓 (n.d.). 43 In December, Ding Song and others continued the magazine under a new name, The Pastime 游戲雜志, edited by Wang Dungen 王鈍根 and Chen Diexian 陳蝶仙. 40 The surviving buildings of the orphanage have since been turned into a museum which recreates the original structure and showcases the art of its former teachers and students. At the time of operation “Tushanwan” was romanized “Tou-se-we” to represent the pronunciation in Shanghai dialect. 41 From 1913-1920, the school was also sometimes referred to as Shanghai Tuhua Meishu Yuan 上海圖畫美術院 (Shanghai Painting Academy of Fine Art). In 1920, when Liu Haisu 劉海粟 (1896-1994) took over as director from Zhang Yuguang, the name of the school was changed to Shanghai Meishu Xuexiao 上海美術學校(Shanghai Fine Arts School). In 1930 it was changed again to Shanghai Meishu Zhuanke Xuexiao 上海美術專科學校 (Shanghai Professional Fine Arts School). Today it is commonly referred to as Shanghai Meizhuan 上海美專, an abbreviation of the final name for the school before it was merged with Disi Zhongshan Daxue Jiaoyu Xueyuan (The Fourth Zhongshan University, Education Academy), becoming the Yishu Jiaoyu Zhuanxiu Ke藝術教育專修科 (Department of Art Education). See Michael Sullivan, Modern Chinese Artists: A Biographical Dictionary (University of California Press, 2006), xix and Shanghai Municipal Archives Q258-1-153, p. 0012 cited in Julia Frances Andrews, “Pictorial Shanghai (Shanghai Huabao, 1925-1933) and Creation of Shanghai’s Modern Visual Culture,” Journal of Art Studies no. 12 (September 2013): 43–128. 42 Originally published as a supplement to The National Herald 神州日報 until being launched as a separate periodical in 1919, the first character of Chinese name of The Crystal, 晶 (literally ‘crystal’), is made up of the character for ‘day’ (or ‘sun’) 日 repeated three times, a play on the fact that the tabloid was printed every three days. See Sun Shusong 孫樹松 and Lin Ren 林 人, eds., “Jin Bao” 晶報 [The Crystal], Modern Chinese Compilation Studies Dictionary 中國現代編輯學辭典 (Heilongjiang People’s Press 黑龍江人民出版社, 1991), 229. 43 First issue September, 1913, second and last issue October, 1913. Originally published as supplement to the Shenbao under the name Unfettered Talk 自由談 , two issues Unfettered Magazine were published by Shenbaoguan 申報館 before it returned as a supplement to the Shenbao (where some 15 years later it would feature Ji Xiaobo et. all’s Dr. Fix-it under the editorship of Zhou Shoujuan). Wu Jie 伍傑 et al., eds., Zhongwen qikan da cidian 中文期刊大詞典 [Dictionary of Chinese Periodicals] (北京大学出版社, 2000). 24 Starting in 1914, Ding Song also became a regular contributor to The Saturday 禮拜六, drawing numerous full color covers for the magazine. As an artist, Ding Song excelled at drawing the human form, in particular intimate portraits of beautiful women. Much of the humor in his work, however, comes from the juxtaposition of grotesque caricature with ironic titles. For example a 1921 cartoon titled, “Falling in Love” 戀愛 depicts an obese, bald, and drooling woman with two pinhole eyes. A pigeon-toed man, presumably her husband or lover, stands behind her, holding her shoulders and gazing down at her affectionately.44 Beside them, an overweight dog ambles along on stubby legs, his vacant expression inviting comparison with the hideous woman. Years later, similar works by Shen Bochen would come under fire from the preeminent Republican-era author and critic, Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881-1936) who Geremie Barmé surmises found that his satirical drawings were an “essentially conservative and xenophobic populist art form” under its “flash Western exterior.”45 Writing in his particularly bombastic style in late 1924, Lu Xun concluded, While [the artist Shen Bochen] draws in style which is copied from the West, I am amazed that he is so antediluvian, and that he has such a vile personality. He is no better than a child who scribbles “so-and-so is my son” [sic] on nice white walls. Pity all things that come from abroad: once they cross our borders it is as if they have fallen into a vat of black dye, for they lose their original cast. Art is but one example of this. Even before we learn to draw nudes in proportion people busily set to work producing pornographic paintings; artists who have yet to grasp the principles of chiaroscuro when painting still lives churn out advertisements cheerfully. This is what happens when change is only superficial; at heart things are as of old. It is hardly surprising, then, that once introduced satirical paintings were immediately employed by people wanting to engage in character assassination. [沈泊塵] 的畫法，倒也模仿西洋；可是我很疑惑，何以思想如此頑固，人格如此卑 劣，竟同沒有教育的孩子只會在好好的白粉牆上寫幾個“某某是我兒子”一樣。可憐 外國 事物，一到中國，便如落在黑色染缸裏似的，無不失了顏色。美術也是其一： 學了體格還未勻稱的裸體畫，便畫猥褻畫；學了明暗還未分明的靜物畫，只能畫招 44 John A. Crespi suggests that this cartoon is criticizing young men who dote on wealthy older women to achieve wealth and official status, a common subject of satire in China during the 1910s. 45 Barmé, An Artistic Exile, 94. 25 牌。 皮毛改新，心思仍舊，結果便是如此。至於諷刺畫之變為人身攻擊的器具， 更是無足深怪了。46 Figure 2.1 Ding Song “Falling in Love” 戀愛 Shenzhou Pictorial 神州畫報, January, 1918, 84. Notwithstanding the future criticisms of Lu Xun, on September 1, 1918, Shen Bochen launched his own monthly bilingual humor periodical Shanghai Puck 上海潑克, passing his duties at The Crystal on to Ding Song.47 Ding would later hand this job off to Zhang Guangyu, who would in turn pass the 46 As translated by Geremie Barmé, with the exception of the two lines which I have changed: The first line has been amended to include the text “While [the artist Shen Bochen] draws in style which is copied from the West,“ [沈泊塵] 的畫法，倒也模 仿西洋, which Barmé chose to omit; and the second line (which seems to be a typo on the part of Lu Xun) has been corrected from the translation “I’m so-and-so’s son.” See Ibid. and Lu Xun 魯迅, “Sishi-san” 四十三 [Essay Forty-Three], in Re Feng 熱風 (Beixin Shuju 北新書局, 1925), 39. 47 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Shanghai Poke” 上海潑克 [Shanghai Puck], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術 卷, November 2000, 596. Shanghai Puck’s name was likely inspired by one or more pre-existing journals called Puck (in London, in St. Louis, and in New York). See Wu I-Wei, “Participating in Global Affairs: The Chinese Cartoon Monthly Shanghai Puck,” in Asian Punches: A Transcultural Affair, ed. Hans Harder (Springer Berlin Heidelberg, 2013), 365–87. Also not to be confused with Puck, or the Shanghai Charivari, a late 19th century cartoon periodical modeled on the successful British humor magazine, Punch, or the London Charivari. Written in English by colonists living in the foreign concessions was published from April, 1871, to November, 1872. Christopher G. Rea points out, however, that, “[this] little-examined [magazine is a] milestones in the history of the cartoon in China, not because of their influence on Chinese cartoonists, but as the earliest known examples of how foreigners brought literary humour and pictorial satire to bear on colonial society in China.” 26 torch to Huang Wennong in early 1925. With the help of Ding Song and other cartoonists, Shen and his brother, Shen Xueren 沈學仁, managed to publish three more issues of Shanghai Puck, also known as Shen’s Comic Pictorial 泊塵滑稽畫報 , before Shen succumbed to tuberculosis. Following Shen Bochen’s death on March 7, 1921, Shen Xueren held an exhibition of his work in his honor. Over the next several years, cartoon exhibitions would become an important method of promoting manhua artists and their publications. Around the same time as Shen Bochen began publishing Shanghai Puck, the first issue of World Pictorial appeared on August, 1918. Published by Sun Xueni’s Shengsheng Fine Arts Company, the first ten issues of World Pictorial were edited by Xueni and his assistant, Xu Yiou 許一鷗 (n.d.). Beginning with the eleventh issue, Xueni hired Ding Song to edit the magazine, who in turn brought Zhang Guangyu on as his assistant, which is where both men met Ji Xiaobo, who was working on Xueni’s newspaper, Shanghai Resident News. Both Ding Song and Zhang contributed a large number of humorous drawings and illustrations to the Xueni’s publications, and likely did much to inspire the younger Ji Xiaobo in his decision to become a cartoonist. Although illustrated magazines had been around since the 1880s, satirical cartoons had only become commonplace in China over the previous decade, with the social unrest of the 1910s fueling their popularity. Ding Song continued to work in cartoons after Shen Bochen’s death from tuberculosis in 1920. As an instructor at the Shanghai Art Academy, Ding Song made a point of introducing his students to a wide variety of Western-influenced artists through the Heavenly Horse Society 天馬會. Co-founded by Ding Song with and five other Shanghai Art Academy instructors in September, 1919, this group was incredibly influential in the world of modern art in Shanghai, with over 200 artists participating in its first exhibition. In 1921, Zhang Guangyu, Ji Xiaobo, Lu Shaofei joined a second artist’s association, the Aurora Art Club 晨光美術會, also founded by Shanghai Art Academy instructors. These organizations seem to have provided the young artists not only with opportunities to expand their social networks, but also a blueprint for the nascent Manhua Society.48 See Christopher G. Rea, “‘He’ll Roast All Subjects That May Need the Roasting’: Puck and Mr Punch in Nineteenth-Century China,” in Asian Punches: A Transcultural Affair, ed. Hans Harder (Springer Berlin Heidelberg, 2013), 389–422. 48 For more information on the Heavenly Horse Society, see Michael Sullivan’s entries on Liu Haisu 劉海粟 (1896-1994) on page 99 of Modern Chinese Artists and page 45 of Art and Artists of Twentieth-Century China (University of California Press, 1996). 27 Zhang GuangyuZhang GuangyuZhang GuangyuZhang Guangyu: The Godfa: The Godfa: The Godfa: The Godfatherthertherther If Ding Song was the “Grandfather” who provided the younger members of the Manhua Society with a ready role model, then Zhang Guangyu could be called the “Godfather,” for his role in bringing the group together and securing funds to bankroll their publications. Zhang could be seen as a more successful and talented version of Ji Xiaobo, who seems to have fallen out of favor with the group after becoming a government censor. Born into a family of doctors and herbalists in the city of Wuxi, Zhang Guangyu left home at 14 to apprentice in a shop in nearby Shanghai, soon to be followed by his younger brothers, Zhang Meiyu 張 美宇 (1902-1975)49 and Zhang Zhengyu.50 In his free time, Zhang met Zhang Yuguang 張聿光 (from whom Zhang seems to have adapted his pen name) a set painter and make-up artist for the New Stage 新 舞台, one of the first theatres in China to use Western lighting and sets to perform Chinese opera. Zhang Yuguang introduced Zhang Guangyu to his close friend Ding Song who was looking for an assistant to help out with the Shijie Huabao. One year later, Zhang Guangyu drew on this experience to partner with Yan Esheng 嚴鍔聲 and Qian Huafo 錢化佛 to publish the Comedy Pictorial 滑稽畫報, launched in October, 1919. Although Comedy Pictorial only lasted for two issues, it is notable for being Zhang’s first foray into publishing. In 1921 Ding Song left the Shanghai Art Academy to work in the advertising department of Shanghai-based multinational British-American Tobacco 英美煙草公司. Zhang Guangyu also continued to move up in the world, finding full time employment as an artist for the Chinese-owned Nanyang Brothers Tobacco Company 南洋兄弟煙草公司 in 1921, where he would work for the next four years. During this time he took advantage of his regular income to subsidize his various commercial and artistic 49 Better known as Cao Hanmei 曹涵美, the name he took after being adopted by a maternal uncle who was without male heirs. See Jiang Yihai 蔣義海, ed., “Cao Hanmei” 曹涵美 [Cao Hanmei], Manhua Zhishi Cidian 漫画知识辞典 (Nanjing Daxue Chubanshe 南京大学出版社, 1989), 337. 50 Compared to his older brother, considerably less has been written about Zhang Zhengyu. After attending private school in Wuxi, Zhang spent some time as an apprentice in a flour mill before following Zhang to Shanghai in 1921. Only 17 years old, Zhang, like his brother before him, studied set design under Zhang Yuguang, eventually branching out in commercial art work. Although he does not seem to have published any cartoons until the late 1920s, he quickly emerged as an important and prolific cartoonist, also playing an important role behind the scenes at the various publications launched by Zhang Guangyu. Later in life he became known for his calligraphy and drawings of cats and pandas, influenced by traditional Chinese painting and seal carving. See Yihai Jiang 蔣義海, ed., “Zhang Zhengyu” 張正宇 [Zhang Zhengyu], Manhua Zhishi Cidian 漫畫知識辭典 (Nanjing Daxue Chubanshe 南京大學出版社, 1989), 211–12. 28 ventures, the first of which was The Motion Picture Review 影戲雜誌, launched in December, 1921.51 Zhang co-edited this 80-page long magazine along with the actor and filmmaker Gu Kenfu 顧肯夫 (? – 1932) and translator Lu Jie陸潔 (1894-1967). The first two issues were co-published by the Chinese Motion Picture Research Society 中國影戲研究會, where Gu Kenfu worked, and the Motion Picture Review Press影戲雜誌出版社, while the third and final issue was published by Mingxing Film Company 明星影片公司. Although it ultimately failed to take off, The Motion Picture Review also holds the distinction of being the first Chinese movie periodical, and Lu Jie’s reviews of foreign films are said to have had a major impact on the lexicon of film terminology in Chinese.52 It also gave Zhang Guangyu the practical experience necessary to launch the Oriental Fine Art Press東方美術印刷公司 in 1923, although it is unclear what exactly this press was involved with printing or when or why it closed up shop. Never one to rest on his laurels, in 1924 Zhang co-founded the Chinese Art Photography Study Group 中國美術攝影學會 with Ding Song and Lu Shaofei (among others), a move that would prove prescient for the would-be publishers.53 Photographs would go on to form an important part of the Manhua Society’s members’ later publications, with artistic nudes proving to be a particularly popular feature. Lu ShaofeiLu ShaofeiLu ShaofeiLu Shaofei: The Portraitist’s Son : The Portraitist’s Son : The Portraitist’s Son : The Portraitist’s Son Aside from Zhang Guangyu, Ding Song had a second student who decided to follow him into the profession that Shen Bochen had introduced him in the early 1910s. Born in 1903, Lu was the sole native Shanghainese of the Manhua Society, having grown up near the City God Temple in Nanshi where his 51 Wang Guangxi 王廣西 and Zhou Guanwu 觀武 周, eds., “Yingxi Zazhi” 影戲雜志 [The Motion Picture Review], China Contemporary Literature and Art Dictionary 中國近現代文學藝術辭典 (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou Ancient Books Press 中 州古籍出版社, 1998), 1112–13, Zhengzhou. 52 The film scholar Wang Liu credits Lu Jie with having popularized the term daoyan 導演 (lit. “performance guide”) as a translation for “director,” among other film terminology that has since become standard. See Wang Liu 汪流, ed., “Lu Jie” 陸 潔 [Lu Jie], Dictionary of Sino-Foreign Film and Television 中外影視大辭典 (Beijing: China Broadcast Television Press 中 國廣播電視出版社, 2001), 311, Beijing. 53 Other members of this group included Hu Boxiang 胡伯翔 (who would later become a partner for Shanghai Sketch II), Ge Gongchen 戈公振, Wang Shouti 汪守惕 , Song Zhiqin 宋志欽, and Fu Yanchang 傅彥長. See “Tuanti Huiwen” 團體彙聞 [Organization News], Shenbao 申報, July 29, 1924, 20. 29 father earned his living as folk portraitist. Encouraging his son to pursue a career as an artist from an early age, the family was able to scrape together enough from their meager earnings to send Lu to the Shanghai Art Academy, where he almost certainly would have studied under Ding Song. Unfortunately, the burden of tuition proved to be too high, so Lu was eventually forced to drop out.54 His first cartoon in the Shenbao was published on October 17, 1921. Titled “Goals the Youth Should Have” 青年應有之目的, it depicts a narrow raised path that slopes gently upwards, labeled “The Road of Life” 生命之路. Two walls block the way, the second significantly higher than the first. A young man is poised in mid stride in front of the first wall, with a dotted eye-line extending to wall, which is labeled “Fight for: shelter, food, and clothing” 爭奪 住食衣. Figure 2.2 Lu Shaofei “Goals Youth Should Have” 青年應有之目的 Shenbao, October 17, 1921, 17. A second youth stands just beyond this first wall, gazing up at the second, which is labeled “A Fulfilled Life: Art, Science” 生活之圓滿 藝術 科學. Unlike the first youth, who is dressed in pants and long sleeve shirt, the seconds wears a Chinese-style tunic and jacket, perhaps indicating that he has achieved a higher level of material wealth, or simply that he is older. The title of the cartoon is written in thick brush strokes in the top right hand corner, along with the words “A work by Lu, inscribed by Yingbin 54 Bao Limin 包立民, “Ye Qianyu yu Lu Shaofei (shang)” 叶浅予与鲁少飞（上） [Ye Qianyu and Lu Shaofei (Part I)], Meishu zhi you 美术之友 no. 02 (1994): 23. 30 [Wang Yingbin 汪英賓 (1897-1971)]” 少飛作英賓題, while in the lower left hand corner Lu has written his name and the year with a pen. Two years later, in 1923, Lu Shaofei was hired to teach art at Liangjiang Women’s Physical Education Normal School 兩江女子體育師範學校.55 Founded two years earlier in 192156 by Lu Lihua 陸禮華 (1900-1997), an early proponent of women’s liberation and physical fitness for strengthening the nation, the first class only had 17 students and was housed in a private residence on Dengnaotuo Road 鄧 腦脫路. By the time Lu arrived, the school had over 100 students and was in the midst of expanding to include a middle school and elementary school, but the address had yet to change.57 Lu taught at Liangjiang for over a year before moving on to the Oriental Art Professional School 東方藝術專門學校 in the French concession. In 1924 Lu Shaofei was invited to teach Western-style art at the newly established Fengtian Art Academy 奉天美專 in Shenyang (then commonly referred to by its earlier Manchu name, Mukden). Founded that same year by Han Leran 韓樂然 (1898-1947), Leran had secretly joined Chinese Communist Party after graduating from the Shanghai Art Academy in 1923.58 While teaching in Shenyang, Lu began work on what would become Cartoon Travels in the North 北游漫畫. This book included sketches and cartoons dealing with his experiences living in Shenyang.59 By February 1925, Lu had returned 55 “Xuewu qianzai” 學務僉載 [School Affairs], Shenbao 申報, July 16, 1923. 56 In an interview conducted 1993-1995, Lu recalled that the school was founded in 1922. A 1934 article by Lu, however, records that the school was founded in 1921. Lu recalls that the school had over 30 students in its second year, but continued to struggle financially until the beginning of its third year. Given that the Shenbao notice mentions that Lu Shaofei was one of ten new teachers being hired, the earlier date makes more sense. See Chapter 4 of Wang Zheng, Women in the Chinese Enlightenment: Oral and Textual Histories (University of California Press, 1999) and Lu Lihua 陸禮華, “Fuxing houde liangjiang nuzi tiyu shifan xuexiao shi nian qian de huisu” 復興後的兩江女子體育師範學校十年前的洄溯 [Recollections of the Since Rejuvenated Liangjiang Women’s Physical Education Institute of Ten Years Ago], Qinfen tiyu yuebao 勤奮體育 月報 1, no. 10 (1934): 42–43. Chapter 3 of Yunxiang Gao’s Sporting Gender: Women Athletes and Celebrity-Making during China’s National Crisis, 1931-45 (UBC Press, 2013) is also dedicated to Lu Lihua and her school. 57 In 1937 the school changed names, becoming Shanghai Shili Tiyu Zhuanke Xuexiao 上海市立體育專科學校 (Shanghai Municipal Physical Education Professional School). 58 Shen Guangjie 沈廣傑, “Han Leran chuangban Fengtian Meizhuan” 韩乐然创办奉天美专 [The Founding of Fengtian Art Academy by Han Leran], Dangshi Zongheng 黨史縱橫 no. 05 (2012): 49–50. 59 Although Bi and Huang record that the first edition of Cartoon Travels in the North was published in 1924 or 1925 while Lu was living in Shenyang, the fact that the title includes the term ‘manhua’ is suspicious, given that the term did not become popular in China until the publication of Feng Zikai’s illustrations were published under that name in May, 1925. The earliest 31 to Shanghai where he contributed art work to the famous stationary company Lianyi Trading Co. 聯益貿 易公司.60 definitive date for publication is three years later in Shanghai on May 15, 1928. See Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Beiyou Manhua” 北游 漫画 [Cartoon Travels in the North], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷 (Shanxi Renmin Meishu Chubanshe 陝西人民美術出版社, November 2000), 651–52. 60 “Lianyi Jian Si Ban Faxing” 聯益箋四版發行 [Fourth Printing of Lianyi Stationary], Shenbao 申報, February 27, 1925, 19. 32 Chapter 3Chapter 3Chapter 3Chapter 3 : : : : Wild CardsWild CardsWild CardsWild Cards As we have seen, Ji Xiaobo, Ding Song, Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhengyu, and Lu Shaofei all met in the late 1910s, and found an affinity in their shared interest in cartooning, and also perhaps a sense of social exclusion, since all four men were born into a merchant or tradesmen families. Their relative lack of education stands in contrast with many Republican-era intellectuals and artists who came from wealthy families and were educated abroad. Although Ye Qianyu was given the benefit of a high school education, and was also somewhat younger, like the Zhang brothers and Ye Qianyu, he seems to have mostly forged his own path to becoming recognized as a professional artist. The remaining members of the Manhua Society are Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, Hu Xuguang, Zhang Meisun 張眉蓀 (1884-1975) and Cai Shudan 蔡輸丹 (n.d.). Of them, Zhang Meisun seems to have been an early acquaintance of Ding Song, having studied art together at Tushanwan orphanage while both men were in their teens, and Hu Xuguang a student of Ding Song, having studied at the Shanghai Art Academy. The rest, like Ye Qianyu, seem to have been wild cards, attracted to Manhua Society by chance encounters and shared interests. Some, like Zhang and Cai, don’t seem to have left any cartoons behind, with Zhang becoming a well-known painter of watercolors, and Cai working as an assistant to Ji Xiaobo.61 Ye Qianyu has mentioned that he first became interested in cartooning after seeing cartoons by Huang Wennong, who himself may have been influenced by Shen Bochen without ever meeting him. Wang Dunqing, meanwhile, quickly rose through the ranks of the Manhua Society, taking over the chair from Ding Song in November, 1927. He made fast friends with Ye Qianyu, but seems to have remained distant from many of the other members of the society. 61 Zhang Meisun’s watercolors have appeared at auctions in mainland China. See for example “Xidamochang jie shuicai zhiben paimaipin_jiage_miaoshu_jianshang_(shuicai) - Bobao Yishu Paimai Wang” 【西打磨廠街 水彩 紙本】 拍賣品_價格_ 圖片_描述_鑒賞_(水彩) -博寶藝術品拍賣網 [West Damochang Street Watercolor Paper Version Auction Item_Price_Picture_Description_Appreciation_(Watercolor) - Artxun Art Auction Net], 博寶拍賣網, n.d., http://auction.artxun.com/paimai-119504-597519148.shtml (accessed September 11, 2015). According to the short biography included on Artxun, Zhang’s work has also collected into a three volume set titled Meisun Shuicaihua Linben 眉蓀水 彩畫臨本 [An Overview of the Watercolors of Zhang Meisun] (Hebei Renmin Chuban She 河北人民出版社, 1963). 33 Wang DunqWang DunqWang DunqWang Dunqinginginging: The Boy: The Boy: The Boy: The Boy SSSScoutcoutcoutcout Born in 1899 in Wangjiangjing 王江涇鎮, a prosperous village near Jiaxing 嘉興 city, located to the south of Shanghai, Wang Dunqing is unique among the founding members of the Manhua Society for his high level of education, having earned a BA from the prestigious English-language St. John’s University 聖約翰大學. During his time at St. John’s Wang was an active member of the Boy Scouts 童子軍, while also serving as the club president of the Illustration Research Society 圖畫研究會. The former appears to have been under the influence of Donald Roberts, a professor of English and History who organized the St. John’s Boy Scouts troop in 1917. 62 Roberts, an avid collector of early Republican-era illustrated broadsheets, may have encouraged the young Wang to pursue his interests in cartooning. By the time he graduated with his BA in 1923, Wang was set on a career in the arts. Following a short stanza from Longfellow’s 1878 poem Kéramos,63 his yearbook biography modestly proclaims (in English): With a glance at the picture, you can immediately tell who he is. It is not strength, but his fine character and art that win the love and admiration of all his fellow students. As a friend, he is always sincere and ready to help without hesitation. As an athlete, he is noted for his fine college spirit. His beautiful verses in Chinese are depictable [sic] of humanity and true to nature. His clear perception with a firm, bold hand marks him a true artist of distinction. With such an intelligence, capacity and character, we are sure that a bright future awaits him.64 Following graduation, Wang prepared to go abroad for further study. His father’s sudden death interrupted these plans, however, forcing him to stay in Shanghai. In June, 1923 he was hired to teach 62 Donald Roberts graduated from Princeton in 1909 and was hired at St. John’s University in 1915 where he continued to teach until 1950. In 1917, in addition to organizing the Boy Scout troop at St. John’s, he also joined the Volunteer Corps of the Ministry of Works 工部局義勇軍. He attended Columbia during a sabbatical in 1919 and was eventually ordained an Episcopalian minister. See “The Alumni,” Princeton Alumni Weekly XX, no. 9 (1919): 210, “Lao zhaopian: shanghai sheng yuehan daxue xiaoyuan de shenyun” 老照片：上海圣约翰大学校园的神韵 [Old Photos: The Charm of Shanghai St. John’s University Campus], July 8, 2011, http://bbs.wenxuecity.com/memory/394958.html (accessed March 12, 2015). and “Block Prints of the Chinese Revolution - Princeton University Digital Library,” n.d., http://pudl.princeton.edu/collections/pudl0030 (accessed March 12, 2015). 63 “Art is the child of nature; yes / Her darling child in whom we trace / The features of the mother's face / Her aspect and her attitude.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Longfellow’s Poetical Works: Author’s Complete Copyright Edition (London: George Routledge & Sons, 1883), 609. Perhaps not coincidentally, this exact quote is also included under the heading of “Art” in the popular reference work The Cyclopæaedia of Practical Quotations (Funk & Wagnalls, 1886), 15. 64 “Wang Tung-Chung (Wang Tun-Chung) B.A. Chekiang,” Yuehan Niankan 約翰年刊 (1920): 70. 34 English at the Yaqiao Academy 亞喬書院, along with fellow Johannean Yang Deshou 楊德壽 (n.d.),65 a progressive institution which offered “half-off tuition to all female students for the sake of popularizing women’s education” 因普及女子敎育起見、凡女生來學者概收半費.66 By August a second notice announced that the school had enrolled more than 60 students and that placement exams would be conducted in September.67 Wang Dunqing seems to have been introduced to the Manhua Society by Lu Shaofei through their mutual friend, Wang Yingbin 汪英賓 (1897-1971), who provided the inspiration for Lu’s first cartoon in the Shenbao (see figure 3.1). Wang Yingbin had graduated with a diploma of college completion 大學畢 業學位證書 from the department of China Studies國學 at St. John’s University in 1920.68 While at St. John’s, in addition to his studies Yingbin worked as the illustration editor for the school yearbook, The Johannean 約翰年刊. That same year, Wang Dunqing also graduated with his diploma from the department of China Studies at St. John’s, and by virtue of their last names, both he and Yingbin were featured on the same page of the Chinese language supplement of that year’s yearbook.69 After graduating in 1920, Yingbin was hired as an art editor at Shenbao, becoming an important figure in the publishing world.70 Wang, meanwhile stayed on at St. John’s for another three years, earning his Bachelor of Arts in 1923. 71 65 BA in Economics in 1923. See “Yuehan daxue zuori zhi shenghui” 約翰大學昨日之盛會 [St. John’s University Ceremony Yesterday], Shenbao 申報, July 1, 1923. 66 “Xuewu congzai” 學務叢載 [Selection of School Affairs], Shenbao 申報, July 17, 1923. 67 “Xuewu congzai” 學務叢載 [Selection of School Affairs], Shenbao 申報, August 26, 1923. 68 “Yuehan daxue juxing biye liji” 約翰大學舉行畢業禮紀 [St. John’s University Holds Graduation Ceremony], Shenbao 申 報, June 28, 1920. 69 The historian Li Jie serendipitously includes this page of The Johnnean in an essay on Wang Yingbin. See Li Jie 李洁, “民国 报人汪英宾探微:兼及相关文献资料勘误” [Republican Journalist Wang Yingbin: An Investigation and Some Corrections to Errors in the Relevant Literature], Xinwen Chunqiu 新闻春秋 no. 03 (2014): 56–61 and “Zhongwen biyesheng xiaoxiang bing timing lu” 中文畢業生小像並題名錄 [Chinese Supplement: Pictures of Graduating Students and Biographical Information], Yuehan Niankan 約翰年刊 (1920): 24. 70 Wang Yingbin would go on study Journalism at the University of Missouri in 1922, later transferring to Columbia University where he earned a Masters of Science in Journalism. His thesis on the development of Chinese-language newspapers, Rise of the Native Press in China (New York : Columbia University, 1924), was the first in depth English-language study on this topic. 71 While his yearbook biography from 1923 doesn’t include his major, the Shenbao announcement indicates that he earned his BA 文科學士 from the school of liberal arts, meaning that he was undeclared. See “Yuehan daxue zuori zhi shenghui.” 35 While little of his work from the this time period has survived, by the late 1920s, Wang Dunqing had begun to publish cartoons under various pseudonyms, including Wang Yiliu王一榴, Wang Luzhen 王履箴, Huang Cilang 黃次郎, even using Wang Jiangjing 王江涇, the name of his hometown, as a pen name at one point. The purpose of these pseudonyms seems to have been to disguise his close association with the political left: one of the most well-known cartoons credited to Wang Yiliu depicts the first meeting of the League of Left-Wing Writers 中國左翼作家聯盟 (Left League 左聯) on March 2, 1930. Figure 3.1 Wang Yiliu [aka Wang Dunqing] “Founding of the League of Left-Wing Writers” 左联作家联盟成立 Shoots 萌芽, Issue 4, April 1930, 7. Organized at the behest of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and leading leftist social critic Lu Xun, the Left League was founded to promote socialist realism in Chinese art and literature. Other prominent members included the writers Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1892-1978), Mao Dun 矛盾 (1896- 1981), and Ding Ling 丁玲 (1904-1986) and the playwrights Tian Han 田漢 (1898-1968) and Xia Yan 夏衍 (1900-1995). Due to the influence of Lu Xun, the Left League included a number of woodcut artists. Although Wang Dunqing’s illustration of the founding of the Left League does not appear to have been made using a woodcut, the use of sharp, angular lines and solid blacks suggests a stylistic debt of inspiration. 36 As Paul Bevan points out (relying on the work of Wong Wang-chi), also present at the founding meeting of the Left League on March 2, 1930, was the cartoonist Huang Shiying 黄士英 (?-?). Huang would go on to launch a string of controversial manhua publications in the 1930s, beginning with Manhua Life 漫畫生活 in June, 1934.72 His first connection to manhua, however, can be traced back to this first meeting of the Left League, where he proposed the formation of the Chinese Manhua Research Society 中 國漫畫研究會 and the May Day Pictorial 五一畫報, likely with the encouragement of Wang Dunqing.73 Although the proposed pictorial never materialized, the Manhua Research Society did eventually hold their first meeting, one year later, on June 9, 1931.74 The Left League, meanwhile, was thrust into the limelight when five prominent members were arrested at a secret meeting of the CCP in the International Settlement and executed by firing squad at Longhua Prison by the KMT government on February 7, 1931. As a member of the Left League, Wang Dunqing contributed cartoons to their publications Shoots 萌芽 and Pioneer 拓荒者. Wang later claimed to have been forced to go into hiding for several years following the crackdown, but given his use of pseudonyms, he may simply have meant that he stopped publishing cartoons under his own name during this time. 75 HuHuHuHuang Wennongang Wennongang Wennongang Wennong: The : The : The : The Missionary’s SonMissionary’s SonMissionary’s SonMissionary’s Son Unlike Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong was born in a family of relatively humble means. Somewhat uniquely, however, his parents were converts to Christianity, working as missionaries in Songjiang county 松江, just to the south of Shanghai. In 1919, when he was just 16, Huang was 72 Bevan, A Modern Miscellany, 29 and Wong Wang-chi, Politics and Literature in Shanghai: The Chinese League of Left- Wing Writers, 1930-1936 (Manchester University Press, 1991), 62–63, 92. 73 Apparently unaware of Wang Dunqing’s use of the pseudonym Wang Yiliu, Bevan mistakingly claims that no members of the Manhua Society were present at the first meeting of the Left League. See A Modern Miscellany, 29. 74 “Zhongguo Manhua Yanjiu Hui Chengli” 中國漫畫研究會成立 [Chinese Manhua Research Society Founded], Shenbao 申報, June 9, 1931, 10; Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Manhua Shenghuo” 漫畫生活 [Manhua Life], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷 (Shanxi Renmin Meishu Chubanshe 陝西人民美術出版社, November 2000), 600–601. 75 Wang suggests as much to Jack Chen in his 1938 interview. Chen writes that Wang went in hiding directly after the 1927 split between the left-wing KMT in Wuhan and right-wing KMT under Chiang Kai-shek in Nanjing, I think he may be confusing this with falling out between Wang Dunqing and Zhang Zhengyu that led to him cutting ties with the Manhua Society from 1928 to 1931. 37 apprenticed to a copyist for the lithographic press of Chunghwa Book Company中華書局. Founded by former employees of the Commercial Press 商務印書館, the Chunghwa Book Company got its start printing textbooks for newly formed Republic of China following the fall of Qing dynasty in 1911 and went on to become one of Republican Shanghai’s “big three” publishing houses.76 Despite his lack of formal education, Huang proved to a quick study and within three years was promoted to working as an editor on the bimonthly children’s magazine Kids 小朋友, launched on April 6, 1922. Although most secondary sources record that Huang Wennong did not begin drawing cartoons until 1925, he actually seems to have begun drawing and publishing cartoons much earlier. It is likely that many of the illustrations in Kids are his work, although since they are, as a rule, uncredited it is hard to say to for sure. The earliest published cartoon I have been able to find that is credited Huang Wennong was published in the Shenbao on March 20, 1921. It depicts a vacant table, set with six high backed chairs. On the wall behind the table a large clock set into a hexagonal base displays the time: two o’ clock sharp. Just to the left of the clock a sign reads, “This public office will hold a meeting this afternoon at 1:00pm.” Even in this early cartoon one can see Huang’s satirical style starting to emerge. Unlike Ding Song, who found his humor in physical deformities, or Zhang Guangyu, who tended to rely on subtle allegories, Huang Wennong was surprisingly direct in his criticism of the government. 76 For more on the major publishing houses of Republican-era Shanghai, see Chapter 5 of Christopher A. Reed, Gutenberg in Shanghai: Chinese Print Capitalism, 1876-1937 (UBC Press, 2011). 38 Figure 3.2 Huang Wennong “Our Office Will Have a Meeting at One o’clock Today” 本公所定今日下午一時開 會 Shenbao Sunday, March 20, 1921, 18. Notices from the same year suggest that Huang was a regular contributor to the Shenbao, meaning that he would have meet Wang Yingbin, Hu Xuguang and likely Wang Dunqing around this time. It is also possible that his parents knew Ding Song through mutual acquaintances at the Tushanwan orphanage. In 1914, Ding Song, Liu Haisu, and Zhang Yuguang co-authored a best-selling how-to-draw book for the Chunghwa Book Company. Although Huang didn’t become an apprentice at the press until five years later, in 1919, he may have read a remaindered copy of the book as part of his informal training. In June, 1924, Huang formed the Chinese Painting Film Studio 中國畫片公司 with Li Yunchen 李允臣 and Shen Yanzhe 沈延哲 (n.d.).77 Within four months he had completed China’s first “moving cartoon” 活動滑稽畫 film, The Dog Entertains 狗請客, a 30-minute long mix of live action and hand drawn animation.78 Plans were made to complete further animated films, including an ambitious adaption 77 “Zhongguo huapian gongsi chengli” 中國畫片公司成立 [Chinese Painting Film Studio Established], Shenbao 申報, June 24, 1924, 22nd ed. 78 As far as I am aware, the film has not survived, although stills may exist in magazines or newspapers. I have not been able to find any however. 39 of Journey to the West 西遊記, but the Zhonghua Film Studio went bankrupt within the year and Huang was left trying to subsidize his film by creating cartoons for various periodicals.79 In early 1925 he took over the staff cartoonist position at The Crystal from Zhang Guangyu, which earliest definitive evidence that I have been unable to uncover of Huang Wennong collaborating with other Manhua Society members. Shortly thereafter Huang took on a similar position for the Commercial Press’ long-running flagship magazine, The Eastern Miscellany 東方雜志. While his cartooning career was clearly taking off, his animated films seem to have floundered due to a lack of funds. For Huang, then, cartooning may have represented the next best thing to creating animated films. One side effect of his earlier career, though, seems to have been a tendency to draw quickly, something which Ye Qianyu remembers being impressed by when they first met. Hu XuguangHu XuguangHu XuguangHu Xuguang: The Lumberjack: The Lumberjack: The Lumberjack: The Lumberjack In common with Huang Wennong, Hu Xuguang (pen name Ming Dong 明東) was also from Songjiang county. Born in 1901 in the town of Sijing泗涇鎮, his father, who worked in the lumber trade, died when he was only 14. After graduating from elementary school, he was apprenticed to a lumber trader in Xinzhuang 莘莊鎮, studying drawing and painting in his free time. His hobby attracted the attention of Fan Yichun 範亦純 (n.d.), the son of the lumber trader to whom he was apprenticed. Yichun convinced his father to fund Hu’s education in Shanghai, where he managed to test into the Shanghai Art Academy. Like Zhang Guangyu, his talent and hard work made a strong impression on Zhang Yuguang and Ding Song, who would become lifelong friends. After graduating in 1920, Hu worked as a commercial artist for a variety of businesses in Shanghai. He seems to have done well for himself, and by March, 1923, he had married Lu Jiezhen 陸潔貞 (n.d.) in a ceremony in the ballroom of the Zhenhua Hotel 振華旅館, with Zhang Yuguang (Ding Song’s close friend and Zhang Guangyu’s mentor) acting as witness and the journalist Hang Shijun 杭石君 acting as his best man. 80 79 Yin Fujun 殷福軍, “黃文農早期動畫創作研究” [Research into Huang Wennong’s Early Animations], Dianying Wenxue 電影文學 no. 09 (2010): 29–30. 80 “Hu Xuguang Zuori Jiehun” 胡旭光昨日結婚 [Hu Xuguang Got Married Yesterday], Shenbao, March 18, 1923, 1st ed., 18. 40 Figure 3.3 Hu Xuguang “Candle in the Wind” 風中之燭, Shenbao, Thursday, January 6, 1921, 16. Hu Xuguang was extremely active in the Shenbao during the early 1920s but seems to have disappeared following the dissolution of the Manhua Society in late 1927. As far as I can tell, he does not seem to have participated in the numerous manhua publications of the 1930s, or the anti-Japanese propaganda troupes of war period. This is curious, given the overt political messages of his cartoons from the early 1920s. For example, one representative cartoon from early 1921, titled “Candle in the Wind” shows a disembodied hand holding a candle labeled “Militarism” 軍國主義. The flame of the candle is nearly horizontal, sputtering in the wind which is labeled “Mainstream Spirit of the Times” 時代潮流. Cupped around the flame is a second disembodied hand labeled, “Warlords” 軍閥. Given that the warlords were not overthrown until the Northern Expedition, more than half a decade later, Hu Xuguang was clearly making full use of the extraterritorial protections afforded by Shanghai to express his discontent with the status quo. He was careful, however, not to call out a specific warlord or faction. 41 Chapter 4Chapter 4Chapter 4Chapter 4 : : : : Come TogetherCome TogetherCome TogetherCome Together While it is clear that the members of the Manhua Society were connected through a variety of social and professional institutions, it took them more than five years to form a society dedicated to the production and promotion of cartoons and comics in China. Initially, they may not have seen the need to organize, instead being satisfied to be paid to draw cartoons on a semi-regular basis for the Shenbao and other periodicals. For most of them, cartoons probably seemed like a hobby, or side-business, to their more lucrative work in advertising and teaching. The escalating political turmoil of the 1920s would seem to be obvious catalyst for the formation of the Manhua Society. On the other hand, cartoons and comics provided these young men with the means not only to speak out against foreign imperialism and government corruption, but also establish their respective careers and provide for their families. One event in particular has special significance for the formation of the Manhua Society, not simply because it spurred the Manhua Society members into action, but because it provided an opportunity for publishers (particually of pictorials) to capture the attention of readers. The Shot Heard Round the BundThe Shot Heard Round the BundThe Shot Heard Round the BundThe Shot Heard Round the Bund On May 30, 1925 policeman in the International Settlement opened fire on a crowd of Chinese protesters, many of them students, gathered outside the Laozha police station 老閘捕房, killing nine and injuring many more. The students had gathered to protest the trial of students who had been arrested performing a mock-funeral demonstration following the shooting of a Chinese worker in Japanese-owned cotton mill earlier in the month. Two days later, the tabloid Pictorial Shanghai 上海畫報 released its controversial first issue on June 6, 1925, featuring photographs of the bloody protests.81 Published by the popular noveist Bi Yihong 畢倚虹(born Bi Zhenda 畢振達, 1892-1926), who was associated with the Mandarin Ducks and 81 “Shanghai Huabao Zengsong Ming Jian” 上海畫報贈送名箋 [Shanghai Pictorial to Hand Out Free Name Brand Stationary], Shenbao 申報, October 6, 1925, 18. 42 Butterflies clique, the tabloid employed not only Zhang Guangyu and Ding Song, but also St. John’s graduate and future Manhua Society member, Wang Dunqing.82 Over the next month, a triple strike of merchants, students and workers organized by the KMT working in cooperation with Du Yuesheng and the Green Gang led to riots and more deaths, providing Pictorial Shanghai with enough sensational content to publish a new issue every three days.83 Clearly inspired, two months later on August 3, 1925 Zhang Guangyu launched his own three-day tabloid, the two-page broadsheet, China Camera News三日畫報. The May 30 Incident galvanized the young cartoonists into action, providing a ready market for their pointed political satire, and in addition to news and topical essays, the first issue also included satirical drawings諷刺畫 by four future members of the Manhua Society: Lu Shaofei, Huang Wennong, Ding Song, and Zhang himself.84 Lu Shaofei, who had returned from Shenyang some six months earlier, was also busy that summer putting together an exhibition for the fourth annual Aurora Art Club show 晨光美術會第四屆展覽會, held August 1-7 at the second campus of Iron Forge Creek Art University 打鐵浜藝術大學第二院, to the south of the French Concession in present day Jinshan. An preview published in the Shenbao the day before the show opened to the public makes it clear that this exhibition included the material which would published nearly three years later as Cartoon Travels in the North: “Mr. Lu Shaofei’s more than seventy sketches of his travels to the capital and Fengtian, featuring landscapes of the north, strange and bewildering to behold, without a set form, are especially impressive” 魯少飛君之旅京奉寫生約七十餘 件、北地風光、怪怪奇奇、不名一狀、尤為可觀云. 85 1926 was a period of growing ties between the members of the Manhua Society. In February, Lu Shaofei was hired as a set designer for 82 Sun Shusong 孫樹松 and Lin Ren 林人, eds., “Shanghai Huabao” 上海畫報 [Shanghai Pictorial], Modern Chinese Compilation Studies Dictionary 中國現代編輯學辭典 (Heilongjiang People’s Press 黑龍江人民出版社, 1991), 279. 83 According to the literature scholar Zhang Yongjiu, Bi Zhenda is said to have died from sexual exhaustion after spending two days and two nights with a prostitute. Pictorial Shanghai survived his death, however, with the last issue coming out in December 1932, having published over 500 issues by the end of its run. See Zhang Yongjiu 張永久, 鴛鴦蝴蝶派文人 [Literati of the Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies Clique] (ShowWe Press 秀威出版, 2011), 13 and Sun Shusong and Lin Ren, “Shanghai Huabao.” 84 “Sanri Huabao Di Yi Qi Chuban” 三日畫報第一期出版 [China Camera News Publishes the First Issue], Shenbao 申報, August 4, 1925, 17. 85 “Chenguang Meishu Hui Di Si Jie Zhanlanhui Yuzhi” 晨光美術會第四屆展覽會預誌 [Preview of the Fourth Annual Aurora Art Club Exhibition], Shenbao 申報 (Shanghai, July 30, 1925), 17. 43 Minxin Film Studio 民新影片公司, later recruiting Huang Wennong to work as the art director on the studio’s film magazine, Minxin Special Edition 民新特刊. 86 In March, Ji Xiaobo, riding high on his success of his Feng Zikai inspired manhua “I always feel that life is so unreal!” in the inaugural issue of Young Companion published in February, oversaw the printing of 20,000 copies of the first issue of the Three Friends Co. publication Light of the Triangle 三角之光.87 Featuring his own artwork on the theme “Sparrows in the Spring” 春天的燕子, Light of the Triangle not only showed his continued debt of inspiration to his former teacher, but also provide Ji with the clout to be included on the roster of cartoonists for the new pictorial The Shanghai Life (Illustrated) 上海生活, co-edited by journalist Zhao Junhao 趙君豪 (1900-?), Lu Shaofei, and Huang Wennong.88 Mostly forgotten today, thanks perhaps to the appearance of an unrelated magazine with an identical name, published 1937-41, other familiar contributors to The Shanghai Life (Illustrated), include Zhang Guangyu, Ye Qianyu, and Zhang Zhengyu. A notice offering 50 yuan and a free subscription in exchange for a logo design appeared in the Shenbao in early May, noting that the magazine would “...specialize in describing life in society, solving the three problems of clothing, food, and shelter.” 專描寫社會生活、解决衣食住三大問題 89 A second notice appeared later in the month requesting submissions noted that Shanghai was the cultural center of China, but that unlike London, New York, or Paris it still lacked a magazine devoted to the life and times of the city.90 Even given this relative level of success and name recognition, the future members of the Manhua Society were still struggling to fund their various projects. The first issue of The Shanghai Life (Illustrated), 86 Minxin Special Edition published seven issues between July 1, 1926 and September 1, 1927. Bi Keguan and Huan Yuanlin write that Lu Shaofei worked at Xinmin Film Studio 新民影片公司. This is almost certainly a mistake for Minxin Film Studio. 87 “Sanjiao zhi Guang Ding Qi Chuban” 三角之光定期出版 [Light of the Triangle to Be Published Regularly], Shenbao 申 報, March 29, 1926, 18. 88 “Shanghai Shenghuo Xuanshang Zhengqiu Shangbiao” 上海生活懸賞徵求商標 [Shanghai Life Offers Reward for Logo Design], Shenbao 申報, May 8, 1926, 25. Later notices mention that the printer for the Shanghai Life (Illustrated) was the Lianyi Trading Co., who Lu Shaofei had worked with in February, 1926. See “Shanghai Shenghuo Di Si Qi Chuban” “上海生 活”第四期出版 [“The Shanghai Life” Issue Four Published], Shenbao 申報, June 6, 1927, 11. 89 “Shanghai Shenghuo Xuanshang Zhengqiu Shangbiao.” 90 “Shanghai Shenghuo Hanqing Wenyi Jie Zhuangao” 上海生活函請文藝界撰稿 [Shanghai Life Requests Mailed In Submissions from the World of Art and Literature], Shenbao 申報, May 14, 1926, 21. 44 for example, appeared on newsstands until July 7, just under two months after the first announcement in the Shenbao, while the second issue appeared nearly four months later on November, 17. 91 Although the third issue was published on time, one month later, the fourth and final issue didn’t appear until June, 1927, citing a strike at the printer.92 Zhang Guangyu meanwhile, quit his job at Nanyang Brothers Tobacco in 1926, after launching China Camera News, and went to work as a designer for the Shanghai Mofan Factory 上海模範工廠.93 Founded in 1922, this large rubber factory in Jiangwanzhen was owned by the noted philanthropist Xu Qianlin 徐乾麟 (1863-1952). While there, Zhang designed advertisements for Mofan’s trademark Double-Ten rickshaw tires, in addition to rubber toys, soles for leather shoes, and other rubber products.94 Thanks perhaps to Zhang’s salary first at Nanyang Brothers Tobacco and later at Shanghai Mofan Factory, China Camera News managed to put out over 100 issues by early June, 1926, with an omnibus collection going on sale July 15.95 In March, 1927, a notice in the Shenbao carried the following announcement, titled “Relaunch of China Camera News” 三日畫報之刷新: Recently China Camera News has been undergoing a series of improvements. We are increasing the number of copperplates, selecting more precious photographs, drawn material, with a publishing date set for the first day of the second month of the lunar calendar [March 14]. Moreover we are preparing photographs of celebrities and collections of drawings by famous artists as gifts for our readers. 91 “Shanghai Shenghuo Jiang Chuban Dingqi Qi Yue Qi Ri” “上海生活”將出版 定期七月七日 [“The Shanghai Life” To Be Published: Date is Set for July 7], Shenbao 申報, July 1, 1926; “Shanghai Shenghuo Di Er Qi Chuban You Qi Shiqi Ri Chuban” 上海生活第二期出版有期 十七日出版 [Shanghai Life Issue Two to Be Published: Date is Set for 17th], Shenbao 申報, November 15, 1926. 92 “Chuban Jie Xiaoxi” 出版界消息 [News in the World of Publishing], Shenbao 申報, December 28, 1926, 18; “Shanghai Shenghuo Di Si Qi Chuban.” 93 Tang Wei 唐薇, “Zhang Guangyu Yishu Zuopin” 張光宇藝術作品 [Zhang Guangyu’s Art], Zhuangshi 裝飾 no. 01 (2007): 50. 94 Xie Lingling 謝玲玲, “Woguo jinxiandai zhuming cishanjia Xu Qianlin” 我國近現代著名慈善家徐乾麟 [Famous Modern Chinese Philanthropist Xu Qianlin], May 16, 2014, http://www.zx.yy.gov.cn/art/2014/5/16/art_53957_1450243.html (accessed February 24, 2015). 95 “Huabao Xiaoxi” 畫報消息 [Pictorial News], Shenbao 申報, June 29, 1926; “Sanri Huabao Bai Qi Huiji Fashou” 三日畫 報百期彙集發售 [China Camera News 100 Issue Collection Goes on Sale], Shenbao 申報, July 15, 1926, 22. 45 三日畫報近日從事改良編式、增加銅版、多選名貴照片、圖畫材料、刻定二月初 一日出版、并備有明星照片、及名人畫集、贈送定閱諸戶云、96 AAAAn Unexpected Partyn Unexpected Partyn Unexpected Partyn Unexpected Party In an interview conducted in the mid-1990s, Lu Shaofei recalls that he joined the Manhua Society entirely on accident: having just gotten back from a trip (perhaps scouting locations for a new Minxin film), Lu decided to pay a visit to his friend, Zhang Guangyu, at his house in Hengqing Alley 恆慶里, just off of Rue Admiral Bayle 貝勒路97. When he arrived, however, Zhang’s wife98 told him that Zhang and his brother, Zhang, were both at Ding Song’s house, just across the street in Tianxiang Alley 天祥里. Walking into the doorway of the house just as the Manhua Society was preparing to take a photograph for their inaugural meeting, Lu recalls that Zhang laughed and said, “It’s better to show up when the time is right, than to show up right on time” 来得早不如来得巧.99 Most second hand accounts provide a few names of the most well-known cartoonists, followed by the Chinese for ‘etc.’ 等, according to Ye Qianyu, the Manhua Society had seven founding members: himself, Lu Shaofei, Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhengyu, Huang Wennong, Wang Dunqing, and Ding Song. According to Lu Shaofei, however, there were four additional founding members: Ji Xiaobo, Zhang Meisun, Cai Shudan 蔡輸丹 (n.d.), and Wang Yisan 王益三 (n.d.). Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin largely agree with Lu Shaofei, although they substitute Hu Xuguang 胡旭光 (1901-1960) for Wang Yisan.100 96 “Chuban Jie Xiaoxi” 出版界消息 [News in the World of Publishing], Shenbao 申報, March 2, 1927, 18. 97 A minor street running north to south through the French Concession, it was originally given the name Rue Omnichan when it was built in 1901. It was renamed in 1906 after the French Commander-in-Chief of French Forces in the Far East, Admiral Charles-Jesse Bayle (1842-1918), while the section extending into the International Settlement to the north was known by the decidedly less prestigious name Mohawk Road. The two sections have since been renamed Huangpi Road South 黄陂南路 and Huangpi Road North 黄陂北路. See Paul French, The Old Shanghai A-Z (Hong Kong University Press, 2010). 98 Tang Suzhen 湯素貞 (1904-2002), married 1920. See Tang Wei, “Zhang Guangyu Yishu Zuopin,” 50. 99 Bao Limin, “Ye Qianyu yu Lu Shaofei (shang).” 100 Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, 83. Bao Limin also notices this discrepancy. See “Ye Qianyu yu Lu Shaofei (shang),” 23. 46 Relying on information provided by Wang Dunqing in May, 1938, Jack Chen, records that the original Manhua Society had ten members, but neglects to mention them by name.101 Given the lack of agreement who the Manhua Society was founded by, Chen’s decision to omit this information was probably not accidental. There is also another major discrepancy between these four accounts, regarding the date the date that the Manhua Society was founded. According to Ye Qianyu, the group was founded shortly after Ye, Wang Dunqing, and Huang Wennong’s failed broadsheet, Shanghai Sketch 上海漫畫 (hereafter Shanghai Sketch I), was relaunched by Zhang Guangyu as a monthly under the same name, Shanghai Sketch (hereafter, Shanghai Sketch II). Since the first issue of Shanghai Sketch II was published April 21, 1928, this would mean the summer or fall of that year. In support of Lu’s claim for the fall of 1927, his interviewer, Bao Limin, points out that Huang Wennong’s Collected Satirical Drawings 文農諷刺畫集, which was published in 1927, features the words “The first collection of the Manhua Society” 漫画会丛 书第一种, concluding that Ye’s memory must have failed him. This theory largely holds up: although several accounts record that Huang Wennong’s Collected Satirical Drawings was published in the fall 1927 (that the group must have been formed several months prior), in fact the cover features the emblem of the Manhua Society (See Fig. 4.1), which was not carved by Zhang Meisun until November, 1927, meaning that the group could very well have been formed in the fall of 1927. 101 Jack Chen, “China’s Militant Cartoonists,” ASIA Magazine, May 1938. 47 Figure 4.1 Zhang Meisun “Emblem for the Manhua Association” 漫畫會會徽 November, 1927. The emblem to be carved by Zhang Meisun depicts a tightly coiled dragon, facing the viewer head- on. Although it has little to remind one, immediately at least, of cartoons, Gan Xianfeng describes the emblem in stirring terms: Because the term ‘manhua’ was unknown to most people… [therefore] the artistry of the emblem was drawn from the special qualities of ancient Chinese brick engravings in roof tile end caps and pictographic seals, using a boldly exaggerated brushwork to create a ‘holy dragon of Chinese manhua.’ This suggests that the sleeping dragon of China was waking up, just as the dragon of manhua was also waking up. 由於"漫畫"這一名稱不為人知…[因此]會徽的藝術處理，吸取了中國古代磚刻瓦當 和肖形印藝術特色，以渾厚、樸茂、誇張的造型筆法塑造了一頭中國漫畫神龍，寓 意是中國這條睡龍正在覺醒，漫畫這條龍也正在覺醒. 102 Whether, indeed the term manhua was unknown to most people is a matter of debate, considering the apparent popularity of Feng Zikai’s work from as early as May, 1925, however Gan makes a good 102 Zhongguo manhua shi 中國漫畫史 [A History of Chinese Comics] (Shandong Huabao Chubanshe 山東畫報出版社, 2008), 109–10. 48 argument for the connection between the image of China as a sleeping dragon, and Chinese cartoonists as the agitators who saw themselves working to stir the dragon from its slumber.103 Gan finally found the smoking gun that reveals the actual founding date of the Manhua Society. Overlooked or perhaps forgotten by Lu Shaofei, Ye Qianyu, Wang Dunqing, etc, the following notice was posted in the Shenbao on December 7, 1926: MANHUA SOCIETY FOUNDED A number of artists with rich imaginations from Shanghai have formed a drawing club, for which they have chosen the name the “Manhua Society.” Regarding the nature of the club, it differs greatly from other drawing clubs. In the next few days a manifesto will be published. The members are (by stroke count in the character of the family name): Ding Song, Wang Dunqing, Hu Xuguang, Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhenyu, Huang Wennong, Ye Qianyu, [and] Lu Shaofei. The club address is Zhejiang Rd, Ningbo Rd, No. 65, Floor 3, No. 40. 漫畫會之成立 上海現有數位思想豐富之畫家組織一畫會、定名漫畫會、按漫畫會之性質、與其他 畫會逈異、不日將有宣言發表、發起人以姓氏筆劃為次、丁悚·王敦慶·胡旭光·張光 宇·張振宇·黃文農·葉淺予·魯少飛·會址浙江路寗波路六十五號三層樓第四十號。104 This date is also supported by a short essay by Huang Wennong, published in the third issue of The Shanghai Life (Illustrated), dated December 1, 1926, in which Huang mentions an informal meeting of the Manhua Society with Wang Dunqing, Ye Qianyu, and Zhang Zhengyu earlier that month: We drove out to Caojiadu, in the Western part of Shanghai, that colony of many square-miles in area north of the [Huangpu] River. 105 The way they live there is really different from us Shanghai 103 In personal communication, Timothy Cheek has compared this analogy to the work of historian John Fitzgerald, who argues that Chinese politics, and Sun Yat-sen and the KMT, “awoke” in a similar way during the 1920s. Cheek suggests that the Manhua Society might be seen as early example of mass mobilization, albeit in the world of commerce rather than politics, connected (as argued by Fitzgerald) through the League of Leftwing Writers. See John Fitzgerald, Awakening China: Politics, Culture, and Class in the Nationalist Revolution (Stanford University Press, 1998). 104 “Manhuahui zhi chengli” 漫畫繪製成立 [Manhua Society Founded], Shenbao 申報, December 7, 1926. 105 Caojiadu (literally, ‘Cao Family Ferry’) was famous for having a large number of older Western villas mixed in with newer industrial infrastructure. It was also close to St. John’s campus, located just north of Jessfield Park (today’s Zhongshan Park), on the banks of the Wusong River, and so would have been a familiar haunt for Wang Dunqing. See Lu Hanchao, Beyond the Neon Lights: Everyday Shanghai in the Early Twentieth Century (University of California Press, 1999), 279. 49 folk. We spent the better part of a day talking to them and after we got back home we elected Wang Dunqing to pick a topic to remember the day by, [while] I happily provided three casual illustrations, which we put up in the biggest Western-style restaurant in town. We also discussed some of the affairs of the ‘Manhua Society,’ It’s too bad our comrades weren’t there—Ding Song, Zhang, Hu, Lu, Ji—otherwise I would have a great deal of interesting news to report to our readers. 我們…坐了汽車到滬西的曹家渡, 那處數方里的江北殖民地, 他們生活, 絕對不和上 海人同化, 我們費了半天的光陰, 和他們交際, 回來公推王敦慶選一篇記事, 我很高興, 隨意繪了三方插畫, 並且在鎮上一家規模最宏大的番菜館裏, 議論一些「漫畫會」的 事情, 可惜尚有五位同志— 丁松, 光宇, 旭光, 少飛, 小波. —沒有同去. 否則還有許多 有趣味消息報告讀者呢.106 From this account, and the notice posted in the Shenbao, it seems clear that the driving forces behind the Manhua Society were Huang Wennong, Wang Dunqing, and Ye Qianyu, with the support of Ding Song, Zhang Guangyu, Hu Xuguang, Lu Shaofei, and Ji Xiaobo. This impression is further strengthened by the manifesto, published as promised, 14 days later on December 21, 1926: MANHUA SOCIETY PUBLISHES MANIFESTO On Saturday, in Shanghai, the Manhua Society convened an ad hoc meeting at their headquarters. On this day they discussed and passed the following resolutions, one by one: [1] within the year, this society should organize a formal founding meeting, and we recommend that Ding Song and Zhang Guangyu handle this matter [2] the manifesto drafted by Huang Wennong and Wang Dunqing has also already been approved by the entire body of the society, and is included herein: Recently, drawing clubs have been established like flower buds in the spring, like the surging tides in autumn. Does this mean that the future of art is bright? Or is it a case of making use of unity to cultivate a grand reputation for a given group? Nobody can say for sure, but in the case of our little group at least, we’ve come together purely out of mutual interests and ambitions. Each and every one of us must find a balance between our innate abilities, intelligence and experience. In our artwork, we must express our romanticism, for the sake of advancing the human mind. In other 106 Huang Wennong 黃文農, “Fa hua gao yihou” 發畫稿以後 [A Sketch After Submission], Shanghai Shenghuo 上海生活, December 1, 1926, 1. 50 words, we want to make this human society of ours into new soil for the tiller. Whether or not the products of our hearts and blood will able to be thought of as a labor of art, and whether or not it will measure up to our ideal goal is not a question that can be answered objectively. Although it is something which cannot be measured at present, it is our hope—and our pledge—is to work together to plant good seeds in this time of artistic immaturity. In the future, when it comes time to reap the fruits of our labors, probably not a single member of our group will be willing to go forth and enjoy them. 漫畫會發表宣言 上星期六日、漫畫會在會所內召集臨時會議、是日將章程逐條討論、並均通過、 又該會准於本年內、開正式成立大會、推定丁悚·張光宇·辦理其事、黃文農、王敦 慶·擬稿之宣言、亦經到會全體之認可、茲特錄載於次、近來畫會的創設、好像春 之花蓓蕾着、秋之潮澎湃着、這是繪畫藝術界前途的光明嗎、或是要假團結力的作 用來樹黨稱雄呢、誰也不能給我們一個透澈的定斷、可是我們幾個人的組合、完全 因為是志趣相投、就是我們之中的各個份子、都要全平自己的天性、智力和經騐、 在我們的藝術作品上表現、我們的浪漫主義、使人類的思想向上、換句話說、就是 要使這個人類社會、成為我們所開拓的新土地、然而我們的心與血的結果、能不能 够被認為藝術上的工作、和能不能够達到我們理想上的目的、那是一種客觀上的問 題不可、旦不能在此時量到、不過我們的願望、——也是我們的誓語、——是要在 這幼稚的繪畫藝術期間、同心努力、播下良好的種子、也許將來的收穫、我們沒有 一個份子情願去享受的。107 From this overtly apolitical manifesto (authored by the most political members of the society, Huang Wennong and Wang Dungqing), and in light of what we know about the Manhua Society members, it is fun to imagine an early gathering of the group: Ye Qianyu singing opera stanzas for the Zhang brothers and Ding Song, while Wang Dunqing and Ji Xiaobo, both dressed in equally bad suits, argue politics off in a corner. A small group of young children play on boxes of the latest issue of China Camera News piling in the corner, while their mothers stand close by, making small talk. At the table, 107 In addition to being printed in Shenbao on December 21, 1926, the Manhua Society Manifesto was also reprinted in Issue #157 of China Camera News on December 25, 1926. See “Manhuahui fabiao xuanyan” 漫畫會發表宣言 [Manhua Society Publishes Manifesto], Shenbao 申報, December 21, 1926. 51 Huang Wennong sits busily sketching away, oblivious to the food prepared by Tang Suzhen, Zhang Guangyu’s pretty young wife, and her mother. Meanwhile, the awkward Lu Shaofei introduces himself in Shanghai dialect to Hu Xuguang, who responds in the same. Later, Zhang Meisun and Ding Song reminiscence about their art classes at the the Tushanwan orphanage, and Ji jokes with Ye, saying, “Looks like the kid from Tonglu is all grown up now.” Ye rolls his eyes and looks at Huang Wennong, who just shrugs. The Northern ExpThe Northern ExpThe Northern ExpThe Northern Expeditioneditioneditionedition The arrival of the Northern Expedition in Shanghai on March 22, 1927, fundamentally changed the lives of the Manhua Society members. As Ye writes in his autobiography, his own opinion of the Northern Expedition was largely colored by the rising political awareness which followed the May 30 Movement Even though I didn’t directly participate in the “May 30” Movement, I experienced the anti- imperialist sentiment that it stirred up first hand. The lesson in patriotism and democracy that I learned really shook me to my core, and inspired my utmost support for the grand revolution of the Northern Expedition that was launched by the United Front [between the KMT and the Communist Party]. “五 卅”運動我雖未直接參加，可是由此引起的反帝革命情緒，我卻親身感受到。 這真是一次驚心動魄的愛國家、愛民族的教育，我由此而對國共合作興師北伐的大 革命產生了極大的同情。108 In Ye’s account, there is a palpable sense of not wanting to be left out of this once in a lifetime chance to become a part of history. Born too late to be May 4th radical, and too scared, perhaps to take part in the May 30th riots, the Northern Expedition was just the sort of opportunity an ambitious young man like Ye Qianyu would have been looking for to make his mark on the world as a cartoonist. Launched in June, 1926, just over a year after the events of May 30, 1925, the Northern Expedition was the culmination of Sun Yat-sen’s dream of re-unifying China under a single government. Backed by the Soviets, in mid-1926 the KMT found itself split into three rival factions: the left, led by 108 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 59. 52 Wang Jingwei 汪精衛 (1883-1944) who favored collaboration with the communists; the right, led by Lin Sen 林森 (1868-1943) and Hu Hanmin 胡漢民 (1879-1936), who advocated rather the opposite; and Chiang Kai-shek in the middle, in control of Whampoa Academy and the NRA. Although divided ideologically, they were united in their goal to take back China from the warlords and foreign powers. Rather than attacking Sun Chuanfang directly, the KMT had first gone north into Hubei via Hunan, attacking the forces of Chuanfang’s Zhili ally Wu Peifu in Wuhan. After the fall of Wuhan to the Northern Expedition Army in September, 1926, Chiang sent his troops south, to Nanchang, where they attacked and subdued the forces of Sun Chuanfang, taking the city on September 19. Managing to hold the city for only four days, they retreated north, into Hubei, and south, into Jiangxi. After arriving at the front in early October, Chiang led his forces into the city a second time on October 20, holding the city only briefly before retreating again. Finally, in early November Chiang managed to defeat Sun, taking Nanchang for the third and final time on November 8, 1926.109 Meanwhile, back in Wuhan, Wang Jingwei had been busy building a coalition government between the leadership of the KMT and that of the CCP, declaring Wuhan the new capital of the ROC on January 1, 1927. Initially, Chiang ignored the provocation, maintaining an outwardly neutral position between Jingwei on the left, and by Lin Sen and Hu Hanmin on the right. Working with undercover agents who enlisted the help of both the Green Gang and the CCP, Chiang and the United Front planned their takeover of Shanghai, with the city finally falling on March 22 following a series of general strikes and fierce fighting with holdouts of the Zhili clique. Shortly afterwards, under the scrutiny of the foreign powers, Chiang Kai-shek set up a rival capital with the support of the KMT’s right-wing faction in Nanjing. After Shanghai fell to the KMT in late March, Chiang wasted no time establishing a police force to govern the Chinese controlled portions of the city in cooperation with the Green Gang and the CCP. Taking their name from Wusong 吳淞, a strategically important port at the confluence of the Huangpu and the Yangtze, and the traditional abbreviation for Shanghai, Hu 滬, the Songhu Police Department 淞 109 According to Soviet accounts of the siege, Sun relied heavily on Soviet adviser, Vasily Blyukher (1889-1938) to help orchestrate the final assault on Nanchang. At one point, Sun was said to have been so distraught that he was threatening to kill himself. See Vera Vladimirovna Vishni ͡akova-Akimova, Two Years in Revolutionary China, 1925-1927 (Harvard Univ Asia Center, 1971), 250–52. 53 滬警察廳政治部, set up their headquarters in Yeshiyuan 也是園 [Also a Garden], a famous literati garden in the Chinese walled city just south of the International Settlement. Thanks no doubt to his fame as a political cartoonist for The Crystal and The Eastern Miscellany, Huang Wennong managed to obtain a position as head of the Art Department 藝術股長 in the propaganda department of the new KMT office, inviting the much younger Ye Qianyu, whom he had met one year earlier through Zhang Guangyu’s Camera News, to join him. 110 Shortly thereafter, Ji Xiaobo, relying perhaps on his connections with former Tongmenghui member turned anti-warlord publisher, Zhu Xilang, also took a position in the same department.111 After only three days in Yeshiyuan, Huang told Ye that he was planning to transfer to the political office of the Navy 海軍政治部 and that he wanted Ye to come with him. Ye recalls asking Huang if they should tell Ji Xiaobo and the others that they were leaving, but that for whatever reason, Huang told him to keep their transfer a secret. After transferring, they both received promotions, with Huang becoming a captain 上尉 and Ye becoming a lieutenant 中尉, something which may have rankled Ji Xiaobo.112 In the Navy they met Cai Shudan, another artist who had been assigned to their department. Meanwhile, on the basis of his experience working for the Minxin Film Company, Lu Shaofei had also secured employment in the KMT’s propaganda apparatus, finding a position the Political Office of Central Command 總司令部政治部 in Nanjing following the arrival of Chiang Kai-shek’s National Revolutionary Army on March 23, 1927.113 Looting and anti-imperialists riots (likely supported by the posters of Lu Shaofei) followed shortly thereafter, but were quickly suppressed by British and American gunships. 110 “Songhu Jingting Zhengzhibu Zhiyuanwei Ding” 淞滬警廳政治部職員委定 [Songhu Police Station Political Office Staff Set], Shenbao 申報, April 22, 1927. 111 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 60. 112 Ibid. 113 Some sources erroneously record that Lu joined the Guominjun 國民軍 (Nationalist Army) and not the Guomingjun 國命 軍 (National Revolutionary Army). While the Guominjun had in fact arrived in Nanjing at one point, it was in January, 1925, as part of the Guominjun Anhui-Fengtian Expedition under the leadership of Zhang Zongchang, driving out the warlord Qi Xieyuan, Lu was still in Shenyang at this time. Qi Xieyuan had captured Jiangsu province from Lu Yongxiang following the Jiangsu-Zhejiang War of late 1924, the same conflict which had trapped Ye Qianyu and his friends in Xiamen. By the fall of 1925 Sun Chuanfang had forced Zhang Zongchang and the Guominjun out of Shanghai and Nanjing. See Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, 113. 54 Less than a month after the NRA arrived in Shanghai, however, Chiang launched a bloody counter-offensive against the left-wing of the KMT and the CCP, with the help of Du Yuesheng and the Green Gang, whose predatory labor system of “bosses” and “disciples” was in direct competition with the communist labor unions. Dubbed the “April 12 Shanghai Massacre” by the CCP, some 5,000 to 10,000 communists and suspected communists were killed in Shanghai. At the time the city had a population of about 3 million, of which roughly 400,000 are estimated to have been factory workers.114 It is unclear when Lu Shaofei, Huang Wennong, Ye Qianyu, and Ji Xiaobo left the National Revolutionary Army. Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin indicate that all but Ji Xiaobo either resigned or were forced out directly after the Shanghai Massacre of April 12, 1927.115 This is directly contradicted by Ye Qianyu, who recalls that the Shanghai branch of the Political Office of the Navy was disbanded in August, 1927, due to Chiang Kai-shek’s concerns that it had been infiltrated by communists.116 Ye’s testimony is backed up by the historical record, with an April 22, 1927, announcement in the Shenbao noting that Huang Wennong and Ye Qianyu had joined the staff of the newly formed political office of the Songhu Police Station.117 Furthermore, meeting notes from the seventh meeting of the Manhua Society held June 7, 1927, note that Ye Qianyu was absent having been mobilized to join the 17th Army 十七軍 of the NRA in Fujian. 118 The closing of the political office in August would have spelled the end of Ye and Huang’s careers, but not Lu’s in Nanjing, or Ji, who was still working in the Songhu Police Department based in Yeshiyuan, and seems to have continued to work for the government, eventually joining the Department of Education as a censor in 1929.119 According to Ye, meanwhile, after the political office of the Navy disbanded, Huang transferred to the Political Office of Central Command in Nanjing to work with Lu, before both men returned to Shanghai in late 1927.120 Bi and Huang probably knew this, but included the erroneous 114 Brian G. Martin, The Shanghai Green Gang: Politics and Organized Crime, 1919-1937 (University of California Press, 1996), 82–85. 115 Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, 77, 114, 117. 116 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 60. 117 “Songhu Jingting Zhengzhibu Zhiyuanwei Ding.” 118 “Ge tuanti xiaoxi.” 119 Bu Wuchen, “Gaoshou manhuajia Ji Xiaobo.” 120 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 97. 55 information to protect the reputations of the Manhua Society members. For his part, Ye Qianyu obliquely dismisses his critics saying, “For guys like us, who only had a head for art and not politics, when we read the news in the newspaper and heard things on the grapevine, all that we could conclude was that revolution wasn’t as simple as we had thought.” 我們這些只懂藝術不懂政治的頭腦, 看了聽了報 上的河流傳的消息, 只覺得革命沒那麼簡單.121 While claims like this sound reasonable enough, they also suggest that Ye was practiced at making light of his association with the KMT after many years of living in politically dangerous climate of the PRC. Whatever bad blood existed between Ji Xiaobo and Ye Qianyu from their days as master and student seems not to have affected Ji’s willingness to publish the work of Ye’s friend and benefactor, Huang Wennong. According to Lu Shaofei, it was Ji’s connections at Glorify China Press 光華書店 that made it possible for the Manhua Society to publish their first publication, Huang Wennong’s Collected Satirical Cartoons.122 Lu’s account is supported by the meeting notes for the seventh meeting of the Manhua Society, held June 7, 1927, which mentions that two new members of the Manhua Society, Ji Xiaobo’s coworkers at the Songhu Police Station, Zhang Meisun and Cai Shudan, were said to be arranging the publication of Huang Wennong’s Collected Satirical Drawings.123 Although some sources report that this book was published in the fall of 1927, it doesn’t appear to have been published until December of 1927, since the cover features the Manhua Society emblem of a curled dragon (See Fig. 4.1), designed by Zhang Meisun in late November of that year, and the words “the first publication of the Manhua Society.” 124 Although Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin refer to Lu Shaofei’s Cartoon Travels in the North as the second publication of the Manhua Society, in fact this book of sketches (many of which had been the featured at the Fourth Annual Aurora Art Club Exhibition in August, 1925) was not published until May 121 Ibid., 60. 122 Bao Limin, “Ye Qianyu yu Lu Shaofei (shang),” 22. 123 “Ge tuanti xiaoxi.” 124 See Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, Picture Appendix, 61, and Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Wennong Fengci Huaji” 文農諷刺畫集 [Huang Wennong’s Collected Satirical Drawings], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫 藝術卷 (Shanxi Renmin Meishu Chubanshe 陝西人民美術出版社, November 2000), 651–52. 56 15, 1928.125 The last official meeting of the Manhua Society for which we have records, meanwhile, was held November 6, 1927: REGULAR MEETING NOTES FOR THE MANHUA SOCIETY The day before yesterday (the 6th), the Manhua Society held their fourteenth regular meeting at their club headquarters on Rue Admiral Bayle. Present at this meeting were Zhang Meisun, Ji Xiaobo, Lu Shaofei, Ding Song, Zhang Guangyu, Ye Qianyu, Wang Dunqing, Zhang [Zhang], Huang Wennong. Aside from auxiliary member Cai Shudan being in Ningbo, and Hu Xuguang taking an absence due to illness, all members arrived on time. First, chairperson Ding Song announced that he would be stepping down. After reporting the motions of the previous meeting, members began discussing various matters, regarding the development of the Manhua Society, with all members participating in a productive discussion. Zhang Meisun was encouraged to carve a club emblem and Wang Dunqing was appointed chairperson for the next meeting. Various members shared their latest work, of which there was relatively more than last time, and at around 5pm the meeting was concluded. 漫畫會常會紀 漫畫會前日（六號）於貝勒路三十號會所、開第十四次常會、到會者張眉孫·季小 波·魯少飛·丁悚·張光宇·葉淺予·王敦慶·張振宇·黃文農、除外埠會員蔡輪丹在寗、胡 旭光因病請假外、全體均准時到會、首由丁悚主席致開會辭、報告上屆議案後、開 始商議各種問題、關於會務發展、咸有切實之討論、又推張眉孫彫刻會徽、王敦慶 為下屆主席、各會員所交新作品、較上次更多、會議至五時始散。126 Two final notices appear in late December, 1927, announcing at the forthcoming January 1, 1928 publication of Shanghai Sketch by “Manhua Society members” Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, and Ye Qianyu, with assistance from Ding Song and Zhang Guangyu. To my knowledge, no further Manhua Society notices were published, leading me to conclude that although individual members of the Manhua 125 Bi and Huang also include a second collection of Huang Wennong’s work A Collection of Drawings for the New Year 初一 之畫集 (1929, publisher unknown) as having been published by the Manhua Society. See Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, 82, 85. 126 “Manhua hui chang hui ji” 漫畫會常會紀 [Regular Meeting Notes for the Manhua Society], Shenbao 申報, November 9, 1927, 15. 57 Society continued to work together on various publications, the organization itself informally disbanded shortly thereafter, in the spring of 1928. 58 Chapter 5Chapter 5Chapter 5Chapter 5 : : : : The Breaking of the FellowThe Breaking of the FellowThe Breaking of the FellowThe Breaking of the Fellowshipshipshipship Since no former member of the Manhua Society has gone on record to explain why the Manhua Society gradually drifted apart in late 1927 and early 1928, I looked at the evidence left behind and reconstruct a plausible sequence of events, like a crime scene investigator using various clues the perpetrators left behind. That no Manhua Society member has seen fit to comment on the dissolution of the group seems strange, given the importance placed on its formation as, in the words of Bi Keguan, “the first civil cartoon society in Chinese history.”127 From the evidence, it seems that at least in part an internal schism (or schisms) broke the group apart from the inside. For one, the checkered relationship between Ji Xiaobo and Ye Qianyu seems to have colored his interactions with the rest of the group.128 Lu Shaofei, on the other hand, seems to have had an especially close relationship with Ji up until late 1929, when the Ji seems to have mostly stopped publishing cartoons after being hired as a censor for the Ministry of Education.129 Huang Wang also withdrew from the group, and the cartooning world in general in the spring of 1928 after a falling out with Zhang Zhengyu, publishing leftist cartoons two years later under various pseudonyms, while Ding Song, meanwhile, seems to have distanced himself from the group following an obscenity trial in late 1928.130 Finally Hu Xuguang seems to have quit cartooning entirely in 1928, finding employment as set decorator in the film industry instead.131 127 Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, 85. 128 See Chapter 1. 129 “Shi Xuanchuan Bu Shisi Ci Buwu Huiwu” 市宣傳部十四次部務會務 [14th Meeting of the City Propaganda Department], Shenbao 申報, September 26, 1928, 13. 130 Ye Qianyu mentions both incidents in his autobiography. See Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 63， 67–68. The obscenity trial was also covered in the media, something which Ye credits as bringing new readers to the magazine. See “Shanghai Manhua Bei Kong” 上海漫畫被控 [Shanghai Sketch Accused], Shenbao 申報, October 5, 1928, 16; “Shanghai Manhua Bei Kong An Panjue Fayuan Xuanpan Wuzui Bufang Jiang Ti Shangsu” 上海漫畫被控案判决 法院宣判無罪 捕房將提上訴 [Shanghai Sketch Accusation Judgement: Court Rules Not Guilty, Concession Police Station to Appeal], 申報, October 17, 1928; Shanghai Manhua An Shangsu Kaishen 上海漫畫案上訴開審 [Appeal Heard for Shanghai Sketch Case], Shenbao 申報, November 16, 1928; “Shanghai Manhua Wuzui Bufang Shangsu Hou zhi Panjue” 上海漫畫無罪 捕房上訴 後之判决 [Shanghai Sketch Not Guilty: Followup on the Appeal at the Concession Police Station], Shenbao 申報, November 22, 1928. 131 In April, 1928, it was announced that he was making the sets for an adaption of Journey to the West, and in May Hu Xuguang was said to be working on a new film for the Great China Lily Film Company 大中華百合公司. See “Juchang Xiaoxi” 劇塲消息 [Theater News], Shenbao 申報, April 2, 1928, 18; “Juchang Xiaoxi” 劇塲消息 [Theater News], Shenbao 申報, May 8, 1928, 25. 59 At the same time, while it is true that four prominent members of the Manhua Society (Ji, Wang, Ding Song, and Hu) left the group to pursue other projects, as did other more minor members (Zhang Meisun and Cai Shudan), the bonds between the remaining five members of the Manhua Society (Ye, Huang, Zhang, Zhang, and Lu), however, seem to have grown even stronger throughout 1928, while at the same time allowing new collaborators to emerge. This reflects the fluid nature of membership in the Manhua Society that is attested to in their early meeting notes which note that, “…our group has adopted an open format and we welcome new comrades to join. There is no established procedure for soliciting new members, so interested parties are encouraged to contact us” 該會取公開態度、歡迎同志加入、但 無徵求會員之手續、願入會者、可與該會接洽云.132 Shanghai Sketch IShanghai Sketch IShanghai Sketch IShanghai Sketch I To understand the breakup of the Manhua Society, we need to go back to the summer of 1927, just after the arrival of the Northern Expedition in Shanghai that spring. Having spent June and July of 1927 in Fuzhou, the provincial capital of Fujian (some 250 kilometers north of Xiamen) Ye found himself without a job. In December, his former boss in the Political Office of the Navy recruited him to create an illustrated magazine mocking British imperialism in support of a trade union strike at British-American Tobacco. Ding Song and Zhang Guangyu were both working at BAT at the time, Zhang having left his job as an industrial designer at the Chinese-owned Shanghai Mofan Factory in early 1927. Ye recruited Wang Dunqing to help create content for the magazine, focusing on the Opium Wars. Although the protest was ultimately suppressed by BAT management, the first issue of their magazine (which ultimately took the form of a broadsheet) seems to have been a success. According to Ye, however, just as they were preparing to publish a second issue, however, the KMT government stepped in and shut them down. 133 This collaboration led to the creation of a new publication in late 1927, with the addition of the newly unemployed Huang Wennong, called Shanghai Sketch. “At the time, there were three of us working together: Huang Wennong provided the drawings, I was charge of doing all the odd jobs, and Wang Dunqing was in charging of editing.” 當時我們三人合伙，黃文農供畫，我管跑腿，王敦慶管編 132 “Ge tuanti xiaoxi.” 133 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 61. 60 務.134 ‘All the odd jobs’, in this case seems to mean taking care of printing and distribution. If one looks at the announcements posted in the Shenbao, and the actual publication itself, however, it is clear that Ye contributed a great deal of his own art, in addition to his other responsibilities: A DATE HAS BEEN SET FOR THE NEW PUBLICATION SHANGHAI SKETCH Manhua Society members, Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, Ye Qianyu, three united comrades from the world of art and literature, will be distributing a pictorial magazine that uses five-color rubber blanket offset printing. Every three days a new issue will be released under the name, “Shanghai Sketch.” The objectives of this periodical are to use words and pictographic art to encourage Chinese industry, beautify present day society, and conduct the revolutionary spirit. The contents of each issue will be one set of long-running humorous cartoons, and one set of short- running cartoons. The beautiful printing will include more than 20 satirical drawings, joke drawings, etc. while he text will include miscellaneous social commentary, short stories, interesting accounts, etc. Regarding the preparation of the pictographic materials and the selection of texts, there has already been over a year of preparation so the works we will publish are, without exception, vastly different from those published in normal pictorial magazines and three-day papers. This periodical will be published December 31, Year 16 [1927]. 新刊上海漫畫出版有期 漫畫會會員王敦慶·黃文農·葉淺予·三君、集合文藝界同志、將發行一種畫報、 以五彩橡皮版精印、每三日出版一期、命名“上海漫畫、”其宗旨在以文字及圖畫藝 術、主吹國內工業、美化現有社會、傳導革命精神、逐期內容、有長期及短期滑稽 活動畫各一套、美的裝束畫諷刺畫笑畫等約二十餘幀、文字方面、有社會雜評短篇 小說及富有趣味之記載等、對於圖畫材料之籌備、文字風格之揀選、已達一年之久、 故將來錄登作品、無不與尋常畫報及其他三日刊有所逈異、聞該報准定於十六年十 二月三十一日出版。135 134 Ibid., 62. 135 “Xin kan shanghai manhua chuban you qi” 新刊上海漫畫出版有期 [A Date Has Been Set for the New Publication Shanghai Sketch], Shenbao 申報, December 25, 1927, 本埠新聞二 section. 61 Five days later, the following notice appeared, which mentions that Ding Song and Zhang Guangyu were also attached to the project, in addition to the translators Wang Qixu 王啟煦 (pennames Wang Kangfu 王抗夫, Wang Yizhong 王藝鐘, Wang Jushi 王弆石, n.d.)136 and Ji Zanyu 季贊育 (n.d.), and the artists Chen Qiucao 陳秋草 (1906-1988) and Fang Xuegu 方雪鴣 (n.d.) : SHANGHAI SKETCH TO BE PUBLISHED REGULARLY The soon to appear five-color “Shanghai Sketch,” will be serialized by Manhua Society members, Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, Ye Qianyu, together with comrades of the art and literature world, such as Ding Song, Zhang Guangyu, Wang Qixu, Ji Zanyu, Chen Qiucao, Fang Xuegu, etc. writing and editing. The content of the first issue will include Huang Wennong’s “Get on the Horse and Drop Anchor,” Ye Qianyu’s “Standard Sizes”, and new fashion drawings; Wang Dunqing’s “Long Live the Tramp” and “That Girl Man Yu”; and Wu Handu’s marvelous explanation for “Why the Revolution Has Yet to Succeed”, etc. The textual and graphic content will be by and large humorous, with an eye to improving readers’ vision, and the warm approval of society at large. This publication will be published January 1, Year 17 [1928]. 上海漫畫定期出版 行將出世之五彩“上海漫畫”、係由漫畫會會員王敦慶黃文農葉淺予集合文藝界同志、 如丁悚張光宇王啟煦季贊育陳秋草方雪鴣等、執筆編輯、其第一期內容有黃文農之 上馬及拋錨、葉淺予之大小標凖及新裝畫、王孰慶之小癟三萬歲及曼瑜這姑娘、吳 厂獨之革命尚未成功之妙解等、文字與圖畫材料均以幽默為主體、想可調劑讀者之 眼光、而受社會熱烈之歡迎、該報准於十七年一月一日出版云。137 136 Under his various pennames, Wang Qixu translated major works of socialist literature including Hermynia Zur Mühlen’s 1925 collection Fairy Tales for Workers Children translated into English by Ida Dailes as Meigui Hua 玫瑰花(The Rose- bush), Shanghai Chunye Shudian 上海春野書店, 1928; Aino Kallas’ 1924 short story collection The White Ship translated into English by Alexander Matson, with a forward by John Galsworthy, as Dao Chengli Qu 到城裡去 (Into Town), Shanghai Nanqiang Shuju 上海南強書局, 1929; and Jack London’s 1908 novel The Iron Heel (Shanghai Taidong Tushuju 上海泰東 圖書局, 1929). Finally, in 1932, he edited Duan Pian Xiaoshuo Nian Xuan 短篇小說年選：1931 (Best Short Stories: 1931, Shanghai Nanqiang Shuju 上海南強書局). 137 “Shanghai manhua dingqi chuban” 上海漫畫定期出版 [Shanghai Sketch to Be Published Regularly], Shenbao 申報, December 30, 1927, 本埠新聞二 section. 62 Given what we know about the publication, which only managed to put out one issue and featuring the work of the three founders, this announcement seems to have been an attempt to drive up sales by cashing in on the name recognition of Ding Song and Zhang Guangyu. The others seem to have been friends of Wang Dunqing, and may have been included for similar reasons. The printing costs for the magazine were provided on credit, thanks to Wang Dunqing’s relationship with the printer. Printed as a single-side broadsheet designed to be folded into quarters, Ye Qianyu recalls that the publication was met with confusion by newspaper distributors who didn’t know how to market it.138 Although illustrated broadsheets were common during the 1910s and early 1920s in Shanghai, most were double-sided, rather than single-side like Shanghai Sketch. Given the quality of the work, however, combined with the name recognition of Huang Wennong, it seems suprising that it attracted so little interest on the part of newspaper sellers. According to a notice posted in the first issue of Shanghai Sketch, however, there was also a problem with the printer: NOTICE FROM THE EDITOR Daxin Printing Company, the press undertaking the printing of this publication, urgently requires the installation of new equipment. Therefore after publishing this issue, we must temporarily stop publication for one issue. We absolutely will not have further delays and hope that our readers can forgive us. 本社啟示 承印本報之大新印刷公司、因急於添裝新機、故於本期出版後，鬚暫停刊一期。絕 不延滯。望讀者原諒。139 A second notice explains that new long-running cartoon strip by Huang Wennong was originally intended to be serialized in this issue, but that they were unable to get the printer set up in time, so it would have be delayed until the next issue.140 Access to quality printing presses would continue to be a problem for the cash-poor members of the Manhua Society going forward into the future, forcing even the 138 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 62. 139 “Ben she qishi yi” 本社啟示 一 [Notice from the Editor (1)], Shanghai Manhua 上海漫畫, January 2, 1928, 2. 140 “Ben she qishi er” 本社啟示 二 [Notice from the Editor (2)], Shanghai Manhua 上海漫畫, January 2, 1928, 2. 63 most prolific and talented members to supplement their incomes as cartoonists with work in advertising, fashion, and commercial publishing. Perhaps due to these technical and financial difficulties, by all accounts the first issue of Shanghai Sketch was a commercial flop, and a second issue never appeared. In his autobiography, Ye Qianyu recalls being forced to recoup their losses by selling the entire print run to a paper recycler, and that Wang Dunqing likely provided the majority of the financial capital, since the two other partners were both unemployed.141 As a schoolteacher, Wang was relatively well off, but would have hardly been in the position to bankroll a periodical with no audience, as evidenced by his publishing the first issue of magazine on credit. Likewise, although about half of the four pages of the broadsheet are taken up by ads for Chinese-produced goods like Dog Head Brand silk stockings 狗頭牌絲襪 and Jade Lion cigarettes 玉 獅香煙, it seems unlikely they would have paid much to advertise in a small magazine with an unproven track record. Given their limited funds, therefore, it seems probable that the publisher cut Ye, Wang, and Huang off when the money earned from advertisers and recycling the first issue failed to cover the printing costs. Dr. FixDr. FixDr. FixDr. Fix----ItItItIt and the Pioneer Syndicateand the Pioneer Syndicateand the Pioneer Syndicateand the Pioneer Syndicate On the same day that Ye Qianyu, Wang Dunqing, and Huang Wennong’s venture was launched, a new daily four-panel cartoon strip, Dr. Fix-It改造博士 appeared in the Shenbao, featuring the eponymous Dr. Fix-it, an inventor who makes strange devices to solve everyday problems. Produced by the Pioneer Syndicate 中國第一畫社所制 for the long-running Shenbao supplement Unfettered Talk 自由 談 edited by Zhou Shoujuan 周瘦鵑 (1895-1968), Dr. Fix-It was the brainchild of Ji Xiaobo, and co- written by the famous comic writer Xu Zhuodai 徐卓呆 (1881-1958), with illustrations by Lu Shaofei.142 Although Lu had worked as a freelance cartoonist for the Shenbao throughout the early 1920s, Dr. Fix-It was his first regular feature for the newspaper. Zhang Meisun, another Manhua Society member and veteran Shenbao contributor, and Qin Lifan 秦立凡 (n.d.) were also involved with the project, drawing backgrounds and lettering the speech bubbles, respectively. The following words of explanation were included alongside the first strip of Dr. Fix-It, published January 1, 1928: 141 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 62. 142 Lu Yaodong 陸耀東, Dangbo Sun 孫黨伯, and Tang Dahui 唐達暉, eds., “Ziyou Tan” 自由談 [Unfettered Talk], Zhongguo Xiandai Wenxue Da Cidian 中國現代文學大辭典 (Gaodeng Jiaoyu Chubanshe 高等教育出版社, 1998), 441. 64 SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT FROM OUR PAPER Our office has recently been taking stock of the newspapers of our nation, with an eye to increasing the number of humorous drawings to catch the interest and improve the spirits of our readers. Previously, we provided relatively few drawings of this type. Therefore starting on January 1, Year 17 of the Republic [1928], we will include the humorous drawing of Dr. Fix-It, to be published daily in Casual Chat, a series produced by the Pioneer Picture Syndicate, with all rights retained by this publisher, and all credit owed to them. 本刊特別啟事 本館近鑒吾國報紙, 對於增加閱者興趣及愉快之滑稽畫,尚少提倡。爰自民國十七一 月一日起, 採用《改造博士》滑稽畫一種, 逐日刊登自由談, 系中國第一畫社所制, 所 權亦系該社所有, 特並聲明。143 Figure 5.1 The first Dr. Fix-It 改造博士 Shenbao Sunday, January 1, 1928, 26. According to Lu Shaofei, Ye may have held a grudge against Ji Xiaobo for arranging to have Dr. Fix-It published more than four months earlier than Ye Qianyu’s now famous Mr. Wang 王先生 (See 143 “Ben kan tebie qishi” 本刊特別啟事 [Special Announcement from Our Paper], Shenbao 申報, January 1, 1928. 65 Fig. 4.6), making Dr. Fix-It the first serialized cartoon strip in China.144 If Ji Xiaobo had approached the unemployed Ye Qianyu, instead of Lu Shaofei, then it is possible that Standard Sizes, or another strip, could have been launched four months earlier on the pages of the Shenbao and taken off there, rather than dying a quiet death on the pages of Shanghai Sketch I. This could explain why Ye Qianyu chooses not to mention Dr. Fix-It in his autobiography. I am somewhat skeptical, however, of Lu Shaofei’s claim that Dr. Fix-It was the first serialized Chinese cartoon strip. As early as 1926, for example, The Young Companion serialized a multi-issue comic strip, The Good Couple 一對好夫妻 credited to Kaixin 開心 [Happy], which was likely a pseudonym for more well-known artist.145 Figure 5.2 The first Mr. Wang 王先生 Shanghai Sketch II, March 21, 1928 144 Bao Limin, “Ye Qianyu yu Lu Shaofei (shang),” 24. 145 Christopher G. Rea points out that in the mid-1920s Xu Zhuodai co-founded a film company called the “Kaixin Film Company” 開心影片公司, and that first chapter of Lu Xun’s short story The True Story of Ah Q appeared in a column called Happy Talk 開心話. Seeing that Kaixin was then a common pseudonym for writers and cartoonists, it is also possible that Kaixin was a penname for Ji Xiaobo, since it appears that was the sole contributor of manhua to The Young Companion before the appearance of The Good Couple. Although the art style differs substantially from the few works which I have been able to uncover which are credited to Ji, like Dr. Fix-It, The Good Couple centers on the relationship between a husband and his wife. 66 Although Ye Qianyu, according to Lu Shaofei, didn’t find out about the cartoon until it had already been published, most of the other members of the Manhua Society were probably aware of the project early on. Aside from fellow Manhua Society members Lu Shaofei, Zhang Meisun, and Ji Xiaobo (the latter two also working in the same office as Ye and Huang Wennong), Xu Zhuodai also likely knew Ding Song and the Zhang brothers. Qin Lifan, meanwhile, had published cartoons by Zhang Guangyu, Huang Wennong and Lu Shaofei in the first issue of Pacific Pictorial 太平洋畫報, published four years earlier in 1925.146 Zhou Shoujuan, meanwhile, had worked closely with Ding Song in the 1910s, drawing a number of memorable covers for Shoujuan’s entertainment magazine The Saturday 禮拜六. To have had a project like this concealed from them, especially when it coincided with their own venture’s failure to launch, would have been hurtful at the very least. Coming at the hands of a colleague and (for Ye) mentor figure like Ji Xiaobo would have made it even worse. More fundamentally challenging to the group, perhaps, were the ideological differences which existed between the two publications. Whereas the domestic comedy of Dr. Fix-It was clearly meant to be taken as light-hearted entertainment, features such as Wang Dunqing’s essay, “Long Live the Tramp!” in Shanghai Sketch I seems to carry a darker note of subversion beneath the humor. Similarly, cartoons by both Huang Wennong and Ye Qianyu feature overt sexual innuendo: in Huang’s “Jump on the Horse and Drop Anchor,” a man waits in an open top car in the rain for his friend, who is busy romancing his young mistress (See Fig. 4.3); while in Ye’s “Standard Sizes,” a “little wife” (i.e. mistress) is compared to a “big wife” (See Fig. 4.4). This ribald humor is juxtaposed with drawings of attractive women in the latest fashions and even one artistic nude on the back cover, holding a lightbulb in an advertisement for Prosperity Electronics Supply 福來電料行. 146 “Taipingyang Huabao Chuban Yuwen” 太平洋畫報出版預聞 [Pacific Pictorial to Be Published], Shenbao 申報, May 27, 1926, 21. 67 Figure 5.3 Huang Wennong “Jump on the Horse and Drop Anchor” 上馬及拋錨 Shanghai Sketch I, January 1, 1928, 3. Figure 5.4 Ye Qianyu “Standard Sizes”大小標凖 Shanghai Sketch I, January 1, 1928, 2. 68 Later that year, almost certainly in response to the relaunch of their competitor, the Pioneer Syndicate launched a second strip, The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Mao 毛郎艷史, dealing with the romantic adventures of a young man in the big city (See Fig. 4.5). Eventually a two more strips were launched: The Traveler 旅行家, an apparent copy of Ye Qianyu’s Mr. Wang, the main character a tall, thin man dressed in a long gown, (See Fig 4.6), and Brother Tao 陶哥兒, starring a naughty child (See Fig. 4.7). This last strip would go to become their most popular after Dr. Fix-It, with both seeing reboots well into the 1930s. The pressure to create new material everyday seems to have pushed the Pioneer Syndicate to their limit, however, because by September, 1928, they were posting notices in Unfettered Talk seeking story ideas for new comic strips.147 Figure 5.5 The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Mao 毛郎艷史 Shenbao, June 1, 1928. Figure 5.6 The Traveler 旅行家 Shenbao, August 8, 1928. 147 “Zhongguo di yi hua she qiu tougao” 中國第一畫社徵求投稿 [Pioneer Syndicate Seeks Submissions], Shenbao 申報, September 19, 1928, 21. 69 Figure 5.7 Brother Tao 陶哥兒, Shenbao, September 14, 1928. A long column by Xu Zhuodai followed shortly thereafter, thanking readers for the apparent flood of letters while lamenting that the submissions were, by and large, useless.148 This notice reveals several important differences between Shanghai Sketch and the Pioneer Syndicate. First, and most obviously, Shanghai Sketch was clearly the more salacious of the two, relying more heavily on sexual innuendo and the female form to entice readers. (Even then, the first installment of Dr. Fix-It takes place in the master bedroom, with Dr. Fix-It installing a temperature sensitive blanket that automatically covers his shapely wife, who wears a short and tight-fitting Western style dress.) Secondly, Ji Xiaobo and Zhou Shoujian’s Pioneer Syndicate offered no credit to its young artists, Lu Shaofei, Qin Lifan, Zhang Meisun, or even the much older and more well-known Xu Zhuodai. This differed starkly with Shanghai Sketch, which listed the names of its artists and writers not only in notices in the Shenbao, but also throughout the publication itself, giving credit where credit was due. This was not, in fact, an innovation unique to the Shanghai Sketch, however. With the exception of illustrations for children’s magazines and advertisements, most artwork reprinted in magazines and periodicals during the 1920s and earlier gave credit to the artist via his chop or signature, at the very least. The Shenbao went even further, often including the name of the artist and title of the artwork in typeset characters alongside reproduced drawings and paintings, as is the case with Shanghai Sketch. If anything, Pioneer Syndicate was unique in choosing not to give credit. When combined with the sanitized humor, the choice to not give the artists and writers credit indicates that Ji Xiaobo and Zhou Shoujuan saw manhua not only as tool to boost sales, but also as a new form of entertainment which could be mass produced by a team of faceless artists and writers, “with all 148 Xu Zhuodai 徐卓呆, “Duiyu di yi she tougaozhe shuo ji ju hua” 對於第一畫社投稿者說幾句話 [A Few Words on the Submissions to the Pioneer Syndicate], Shenbao 申報, October 26, 1928. 70 rights retained by this publisher, and all credit owed to them.” 149 Given his long tenure at Unfettered Talk and other periodicals before that (where he had worked closely with Ding Song), seems likely that Zhou Shoujuan had learned that when artists and writers became well-known, they could begin to demand higher rates for their work. It is unclear whether or not Ji Xiaobo was still working at the Songhu Police Station in 1928, although it seems unlikely given that Ye, Huang, and Lu all left or were forced out of their various positions in late 1927. On the other hand, Ji’s joining of the censorship committee of the Department of Education in November, 1929, indicates he maintained close ties with his contacts in the KMT government.150 Around this same time Dr. Fix-It and the other Pioneer Syndicate strips were cancelled. Despite comments by Jack Chen (relying on information provided by a clearly embittered Wang Dunqing) to the contrary in 1937, however, Ji continued to produce humorous (but apolitical) cartoons well into the 1930s and 40s.151 Shanghai Sketch IIShanghai Sketch IIShanghai Sketch IIShanghai Sketch II In the spring of 1928, not long after the failed launch of Shanghai Sketch I, Zhang Guangyu and Zhang Zhengyu approached Huang, Wang and Ye about joining forces to relaunch their broadsheet as a full-fledged magazine. Taking what they had learned from both China Camera News and The Shanghai Life, the new and improved Shanghai Sketch II would include a mix of fashion, current events, and political commentary. Taking inspiration from Dr. Fix-It perhaps, and also the American comic strip Bringing Up Father, it would also feature a serial cartoon strip by Ye called Mr. Wang 王先生. Named after Wang Dunqing, who Ye claims rejected the title, Shanghainese 上海人, since it had been featured in Shanghai Sketch I, and was therefore unlucky.152 149 “Ben kan tebie qishi.” 150 Mentioned in Bu Wuchen, “Gaoshou manhuajia Ji Xiaobo.” See also “Shi Xuanchuan Bu Shisi Ci Buwu Huiwu.” 151 See Chen, “China’s Militant Cartoonists” and Bu Wuchen, “Gaoshou manhuajia Ji Xiaobo.” 152 No such cartoon or column appears in the Shanghai Sketch I, indicating that Ye’s memory may have failed him. Christopher G. Rea points out that Ye also relied a fair amount of Shanghai stereotypes, domestic humor, and stock humor, such as henpecked husbands, in addition to traditional Chinese joke books like the Expanded Treasury of Laughs 笑林廣記. See Christopher G. Rea, “A History of Laughter: Comic Culture in Early Twentieth-Century China” (Columbia University, 2008), 219; Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 64, 111. 71 In addition to the former Manhua Society members, the new magazine would feature three photographers: Lang Jingshan 郎静山 (1892-1995), an advertising agent for Tiger Balm who would go on to great fame as a photographer; Hu Boxiang 胡伯翔153 (1896-1989), an artist for British-American Tobacco, where Zhang Guangyu and Ding Song also worked; and Zhang Zhenhou 张珍侯 (? - ?), a successful businessman who worked in import and export.154 Given Wang’s radical political views, the mundane commercial nature of the new enterprise may have frustrated him, and he probably did not care much for the backgrounds of the three photographers who seem to have mostly been recruited due to their relatively large (at least by looking at their job titles) fiscal resources. Unhappy with the arrangement at Shanghai Sketch II, Wang Dunqing argued with Zhang Zhengyu, leaving after the first meeting of the magazine. Shortly thereafter the first issue of the new Shanghai Sketch II was published on April 21, 1928. Reinvented as a double-sided broadsheet printed on both sides and folded into quarters, it was only 8 pages long including the cover, illustrated by Zhang Guangyu. A modest success, new issues came out weekly thereafter, distributed every Saturday. According to Ye, Zhang gave him a position as assistant editor on the magazine, which was produced in the back room of an old church in Majiajuan 麥家圈, near the intersection of Fuzhou Road and Shandong Road.155 Located just north of the walled Chinese city centered around Yu Garden 豫園 and the City God Temple, where Lu Shaofei’s father plied his trade as a portraitist, Foochow Road was one of the most notorious thoroughfares in the International Settlement, 153 In his autobiography, Ye Qianyu misremembers Hu Boxiang as Hu Boxu 胡伯诩. See Chen Xueyong 陳學勇, “Shanghai manhua yu Shanghai Manhua” 上海漫畫會與《上海漫畫》 [Shanghai Manhua and Shanghai Manhua], Zhongguo Lunwen Wang 中國論文網, n.d., http://www.xzbu.com/5/view-4269506.htm (accessed February 24, 2015). 154 Chen Xuesheng 陳學聖, “Modeng Shanghai de Lang Jingshan” 摩登上海中的郎靜山 [Modern Shanghai’s Lang Jingshan], Zhongguo Meishu Guan 中國美術館, n.d., http://www.namoc.org/xwzx/zt/langjingshan/langjingshan5/langjingshan6/201405/t20140507_276688.htm (accessed September 12, 2015). 155 In his autobiography, Ye Qianyu misremembers the name of the area as Maijiayuan 麥加園. In fact the, area was named Maijiajuan 麥家圈 after the founder of the London Missionary Society Press 墨海書館, English protestant missionary Walter Henry Medhurst, whose Chinese name was Maidousi 麥都思. Mai 麥 refers to Medhurst, jia 家, meaning ‘family,’ acts as a possessive particle, and juan 圈 means ‘sty’ or ‘pen,’ apparently referring to the fact that Medhurst’s first press was powered by an ox. See Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 63; Zhang Zonghai 張宗海, “You Mohai Shuguan Er Xing de Lao Jie - Maijiajuan” 由墨海書館而興的老街——麥家圈 [An Old Street That Began with the London Missionary Society Press - Maijiajuan], 上海市地方志辦公室, n.d., http://www.shtong.gov.cn/node2/node71994/node71995/node72000/node72014/userobject1ai77393.html (accessed September 18, 2015); Zhang Xiantao, The Origins of the Modern Chinese Press: The Influence of the Protestant Missionary Press in Late Qing China (Routledge, 2007), 106–8. 72 with a large number of restaurants, teahouses, and theatres; it “was also traditionally home to bookstores (including the three biggest and most famous: Zhonghua, World, and Great East), whorehouses, and opium dens, as well as being home to the American Club, built in 1924 in American Georgian colonial style with bricks imported all the way from America.”156 The very second issue of Shanghai Sketch features a cover by Lu Shaofei, working under the (rather transparent) pseudonym, Lu Liaoliao 魯了了 (See Fig. 4.9). Lu would continue to be a regular contributor to the magazine throughout 1928, providing numerous drawings of fashionable women. Perhaps due to contractual obligations with the Pioneer Syndicate, or perhaps because of the sexually explicit nature of some of the work published under that name, he continued to use his pseudonym until June, with occasional cartoons under his name appearing in Shanghai Sketch II as early as the third issue.157 156 French, The Old Shanghai A-Z, 108. 157 Given that at least one notice in the Shenbao lists Lu Liaoliao and Lu Shaofei as separate artists, it seems more probable that Lu was more concerned about hurting his reputation than he was about offending Ji Xiaobo or Zhou Shoujuan. See “Chubanjie Xiaoxi” 出版界消息 [News in the World of Publishing], Shenbao 申報, April 30, 1928, 19. 73 Figure 5.8 Lu Liaoliao [aka Lu Shaofei] “The Destiny of Love” 愛的命運 Shanghai Sketch II, Issue #3, May 5, 1928. 74 Figure 5.9 Lu Liaoliao [aka Lu Shaofei] "Young Girl and Married Woman" 少女與婦女 Shanghai Sketch II, May 12, 1928. Figure 5.10 Lu Shaofei “New Styles for Early Summer” 初夏的新裝 June 2, 1928. Shanghai Sketch II is an important publication, not only because it represents one of the first truly successful projects by the members of the Manhua Society, but also because it introduced cartoons to a new generation of artists and writers, in a very real way passing on the torch of the previous generation of 75 cartoonists such as Shen Bochen and Ding Song. Among these artists were artists such as Xuan Wenjie 宣 文傑 (1916-1998), who worked as an assistant on Shanghai Sketch II and later publications, and Ding Song’s son, Ding Cong 丁聰 (1916-2009), who would go on to become a major cartoonist in his own right.158 158 Ye Qianyu mentions working with Xuan Wenjie in his autobiography, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 65. 76 Chapter 6Chapter 6Chapter 6Chapter 6 : The Legacy: The Legacy: The Legacy: The Legacy Over the years which followed its founding in 1926, the Manhua Society would come to be seen as forming an important part of the history of cartooning in China. Writing in the English language magazine ASIA Monthly some eight months after the outbreak of the second Sino-Japanese War in May, 1938, Jack Chen described the fate of the Manhua Society in vivid language: Since this was not a fair weather art, it did not attract those in search of fame or fortune. On the contrary, it offered poverty and hard knocks. The history of the first group of cartoonists is typical. Out of ten members, one died with enough money to pay for his funeral; one joined the government and secured a job that kept him from doing embarrassing cartoons, one disappeared after publishing a particularly pointed anti-Kuomintang cartoon, six managed to hold together, to be joined by a seventh who had been in hiding for four years during the bitterest persecution of Leftists: after the fall of the Wuhan government in 1927 and the split of the united front between the Communist Party and the Kuomintang. Their survivors met [in 1934] at the home of their dead friend, whither that all unknowingly come on the same mission–to give him a regular funeral. Of the seven, three had steady jobs that paid fifty dollars gold a month, and they earned perhaps fifty more by extra work. These are the best paid cartoonists in China. The rest scrape along as best they can, editing, teaching, doing odd jobs. And yet–making cartoon history.159 While it is easy to identify the first Manhua Society member mentioned as Huang Wennong, who died of ruptured stomach ulcer on June 21, 1934, the others are less obvious. Clearly, Ji Xiaobo is the most likely candidate for having joined the government, and the six who held together most likely refers to Ye Qianyu, Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhengyu, Lu Shaofei, Ding Song, and Hu Xuguang or Zhang Meisun. Huang Wang seems to have been the only out-and-out leftist in the group, although the dates for going into hiding seem wrong, since he was active throughout 1927 and early 1928, and again in 1930, with a four year period of inactivity from 1931 to 1934. This corresponds with the crackdown against the League of Left-Wing writers, of which he was a member, in February, 1931. The author of the pointed anti-KMT cartoon is more difficult to identify, but it may have been a younger member of the staff at Shanghai Sketch II, such as Xuan Wenjie, or someone less directly connected, such as Huang Shiying. 159 Chen, “China’s Militant Cartoonists,” 308. 77 Birth of the ModernBirth of the ModernBirth of the ModernBirth of the Modern Riding high on their success, on October 10, 1929, Shanghai Sketch Press上海漫畫社, Zhang Zhengyu convinced his older brother to rename their press the China Fine Arts Periodical Press中國美術 刋行社 and launch a second periodical, the monthly pictorial Modern Miscellany 時代畫報, to be co- edited by Zhang, and the modernist writer, Ye Lingfeng 葉靈鳳 (1905-1975).160 Designed to compete with the wildly successful pictorial Young Companion 良友畫報, the inspiration for Modern Miscellany came after the Singaporean distributer for both Shanghai Sketch and Young Companion lost distribution rights to the latter. The distributor’s representative in Shanghai, Wang Shuyang (who had met Ye in 1925, when he interviewed him for the job at Three Friends Co.), approached Ye Qianyu and Zhang Zhengyu with this business opportunity, and Zhang managed to convince his older brother against of the urgings of their three partners. Shortly thereafter, Lang Jingshan, Hu Boxiang, and Zhang Zhenhou withdrew from the partnership in protest, forcing them to move their office from the church to an alley near the intersection of Nanjing Road and Zhejiang Road, just minutes from the Bund.161 As a result, the second issue of Modern Miscellany was delayed until late February of the next year, and the third issue was not published until May. To solve their cash flow problems, Zhang Guangyu and company announced in the June 7, 1930, issue of Shanghai Sketch that the publication would be merging with Modern Miscellany and the publication schedule changed to bimonthly.162 On June 16, 1930, the first merged issue of Shanghai Sketch and Modern Miscellany was published, with the title shortened to Modern 時代.163 160 “Liang Da Kanwu zhi Fengxing” 兩大刋物之風行 [Two Popular Publications], Shenbao 申報, October 22, 1929, 16. 161 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 70. 162 “Yuezhe zhuyi ben kan zi xia qi qi yu Shidai Huabao hebing xiangqing qing yue di er ye!” 阅者注意 本刊自下起期起與 時代畫報合併為半月刊 詳情請閱第二頁! [Note to Our Readers: Starting with Our next Issue, this Magazine Will Join with Modern Miscellany and Be Published Bi-Monthly. See Page Two for More Details!], Shanghai Manhua 上海漫畫, June 7, 1930, 8. 163 Although he provides an overview of the transition from Shanghai Sketch to Modern Miscellany to Modern, Ye Qianyu is rather sketchy on the exact dates for when the various publications began and ended. Thankfully, in 2007 Wang Jingfang completed a dissertation on Shao Xunmei’s contributions to the publishing industry, providing more precise dates. See Wang Jingfang 王京芳, “Shao Xunmei he Ta de Chuban Shiye” 邵洵美和他的出版事業 [Shao Xunmei and His Publications] (Ph.D., East China Normal University 華東師範大學, 2007), 88. 78 Meanwhile, in 1930 Ji Xiaobo and Ye Qianyu seem to have made steps toward burying the hatchet when Ji Xiaobo convinced the owner of Chenbao 晨報 [Morning Post] to launch a pictorial supplement which would serialize Ye Qianyu’s popular cartoon, Mr. Wang. Despite already working full- time as an editor at the bimonthly Modern Miscellany, Ye agreed, receiving 100 yuan per month for his strips, and two pin-up advertisements which the publisher requested in exchange for publishing the cartoon.164 Despite Jack Chen’s sarcastic comment in late 1938 that “[Ji Xiaobo] joined the government and secured a job that kept him from doing embarrassing cartoons,” then, it seems possible that Manhua Society parted amicably, having served its purpose of launching the careers of its members. Publication problems with Modern continued to persist, but as luck would have it, China Fine Arts Periodical Press had attracted the attention of the wealthy socialite and erstwhile poet, Shao Xunmei 邵洵美 (1906-1968), who was looking for an investment to change the declining fortunes of his large and profligate family.165 In November, 1930 he officially joined the editorial staff of Modern, providing the necessary capital to have the magazine printed on the latest rotogravure presses rather than relying on the outdated copperplate etching that they had been using before.166 A notice in Modern Issue 12 (Vol 1) announced Improvement in Printing and Picture Plates Starting with Issue 1, Vol. 2, we will begin using photogravure, plus two-color plates, three-color plates, seven-color plates, etc. The paper we use will also be changed to specially produced foreign- made photogravure paper, in what could be called a pioneering step in China. 印刷及圖版之改良 164 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 72–73. 165 For an concise account of Shao Xunmei’s life and times, see Jonathan Hutt, “Monstre Sacré: The Decadent World of Sinmay Zau 邵洵美,” China Heritage Quarterly 22 (June 2010), http://www.chinaheritagequarterly.org/features.php?issue=022&searchterm=022_monstre.inc (accessed July 31, 2015). Throughout his essay Hutt refers to Modern as Epoch, a translation that does not seem to have been used by Zhang Zhengyu or the other publishers of the magazine. As John A. Crespi points out, “epoch” or “era” would be a much more literal translation of shidai in English. See “China’s Modern Sketch: The Golden Era of Cartooning 1934-1937,” MIT Visualizing Cultures, 2011, http://ocw.mit.edu/ans7870/21f/21f.027/modern_sketch/ms_essay01.html (accessed July 31, 2015). 166 Wang Jingfang records that Xunmei’s name first appears on the list of editors for Modern Issue 1 (Vol. 2), published November, 1930. See “Shao Xunmei he Ta de Chuban Shiye,” 90. 79 從二卷一期起改用影寫版印行並添加 雙色版、三色版、七色版等, 紙張亦改用特向 外洋定造之影寫版專用紙, 可稱國內獨步167 As promised, the next issue of Modern, published on November 16, 1930, featured a large number of photographs, with much better contrast and fine detail. Over the next year however, due to the limited number of rotogravure presses in Shanghai at the time, Modern continued to suffer from delays, and quality declined as well. Finally, in the summer of 1931, Shao Xunmei managed to buy his own German- made rotogravure press for $50,000 US dollars, which was to be the foundation of his new venture, the Modern Press時代印刷公司, and in the sixth issue (Vol. 2) of Modern, China Fine Arts Periodical Press announced that they would be taking a two month hiatus to set up their new press.168 Renting a factory on Pingliang Road平涼路 in Yangpu district, between the Japanese controlled Hongkou district and the Huangpu River, Shao soon found himself cut off from his investment when this part of the International Settlement was occupied by Japanese troops arriving via gunboat in January, 1932.169 Figure 6.1 Logo of the Modern Press 時代印刷有限公司 designed by Zhang Guangyu in 1931.170 167 “Yinshua ji tuban zhi gailiang” 印刷及圖版之改良 [Improvement in Printing and Picture Plates], Shidai 時代, October 1930, Issue 12 (Vol. 1). 168 “Bianwan yihou” 編完以後 [After Editing], Shidai 時代, August 1931, 26. 169 See Wang Jingfang, “Shao Xunmei he Ta de Chuban Shiye,” 89, and Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 71. 170 Zhang Guangyu 光宇 張, Jindai Gongyi Meishu 近代工藝美術 [Modern Commerical Art] (China Fine Arts Periodical Press 中國美術刋行社, 1932) cited in Crespi, “China’s Modern Sketch: The Golden Era of Cartooning 1934-1937.” For more on this important work, originally serialized in Modern, see Tang Wei 唐薇, “Zhang Guangyu Xiansheng yu Jindai Gongyi Meishu” 张光宇先生和《近代工艺美术》 [Mr. Zhang Guangyu and Modern Commercial Art], Zhuangshi 裝飾 (July 2, 2010), http://www.izhsh.com.cn/doc/9/689.html (accessed September 10, 2015). 80 At the time, Hongkou was known as “Little Japan,” due to its large number of Japanese residents who moved to the district following the establishment of a Japanese consulate there in 1873. In 1876, Japanese residents of Hongkou built a Buddhist temple in the district, further solidifying its status as a de facto Japanese concession.171 Directly to the north and west of Hongkou, meanwhile, lay the Chinese district of Zhabei. Containing the terminus to the Shanghai-Nanjing Railway, Zhabei proved to be an attractive location for industrialists, with one of the largest Chinese publishers, the Commercial Press, choosing to build their sprawling 80 acre campus there in 1907. By 1930, 29% of printing presses in Shanghai were based in Zhabei district, in addition to 42.6% of textile manufactures, 23% of the chemical industry, 22.4% of the food industry, and 16% of electromechanical manufacturers.172 On September 18, 1931 an explosion occurred near an important South Manchuria Railway line in the northeastern Chinese city of Shenyang. Later revealed to have been orchestrated by Japanese soldiers, the confusion provided the Kwantung Army with the necessary casus belli to order an invasion of Manchuria, claiming it was necessary for the protection of Japanese economic interests in the region. Ongoing Chinese boycotts of Japanese goods, in particular cotton, had been making it increasingly difficult for Japanese industrialists to operate in China, even with the protections afforded to them by numerous territorial concessions granted first by the Qing and later by successive warlord governments. Although Manchuria had been under the control of the Japanese-backed Fengtian clique for over two decades, economic collapse due to military overspending had left the clique weakened and unable to stand up against Chiang Kai-shek’s 蔣介石 Northern Expedition 北伐 of 1926-1928. Frustrated that their interests in Northern China were not being protected, the Imperial Japanese Army assassinated the leader of the Fengtian clique, Zhang Zuolin, later staging the “attack” in Shenyang when his son, Zhang Xueliang, surprised the world by pledging support to Chiang Kaishek and the Nationalists. As Manhua Society founding member Wang Dunqing explained six years later, in 1937, during the politicized period of the Second Sino-Japanese War (and in a strident paraphrase by noted anti- imperialist and leftist, Jack Chen), the outrage created by this conspiracy was integral to the formation of manhua periodicals: 171 Mo Yajun, “‘Little Japan’ in Hongkou: The Japanese Community in Shanghai, 1895-1932” (The Chinese University of Hong Kong, 2004), 35–36. 172 Christian Henriot, “A Neighbourhood under Storm Zhabei and Shanghai Wars,” European Journal of East Asian Studies 9, no. 2 (December 1, 2010): 293. 81 …the one event which had done the most to develop cartooning in China was the “Manchurian incident.” This was a tragic farce in the grand manner. Adequate comment on it was only possible in the form of caricature. For it meant simply that a vast territory containing thirty million people was occupied because a rail and two sleepers had been damaged by a grenade. The young revolutionary students reacted to this politically in their demonstrations, artistically in their cartoons. 173 The Mukden Incident occurred during a general boycott of Japanese goods that had begun in July, 1931, following the Wanpaoshan Incident, in which Chinese farmers had clashed with Korean immigrants in Manchuria, leading to violent anti-Chinese riots in Korea (at the time under Japanese colonial rule) and Japan.174 Although by no means the first anti-Japanese boycott, with strikes and protests ongoing from the May 30 Incident of 1925, it was the first to gain the overt support of the KMT government. The Mukden Incident in the fall added fuel to the fire of anti-Japanese sentiment, and by the end of the year it was estimated Japanese imports to China had declined by nearly a quarter.175 In Shanghai, the boycott was particularly fierce, with Time magazine providing the following account from October, 1931: In Shanghai such sniveling, furtive Chinese storekeepers as dared to offer Japanese goods for sale last week were roughly pounced upon by Chinese "police" of the self-appointed Anti-Japan Association and locked up in improvised jails. Gibbering with terror, the unpatriotic storekeepers were flung prostrate on the floor before Anti-Japan Association "judges," kowtowing and howling for mercy. The "judges" imposed and actually collected "fines" up to $10,000 Mex. ($2,500) for the "crime" of selling Japanese goods. Convicted shopkeepers who said they could not pay were kicked back into Anti-Japan Association jails, kept there on persuasive starvation rations. This queer kind of justice, flagrantly illegal in every way, was everywhere upheld by Chinese public opinion, the opinion of one-fourth of mankind.176 173 Chen, “China’s Militant Cartoonists.” 174 Ibid. 175 See “Memorandum on the Chinese Boycott of Japanese Goods,” Memorandum (Institute of Pacific Relations, American Council) 1, no. 4 (March 30, 1932): 1 and A Synopsis of the Boycott in China: The Chinese Government Encourages and Directs the Anti-Japanese Boycott. The Anti-Japanese Boycott by China is Tantamount to an Act of War. (The Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry, 1932). 176 “Boycott, Bloodshed & Puppetry,” Time 18, no. 17 (October 26, 1931): 22. 82 On January 18, 1932, a protest by Japanese Buddhist monks against the Chinese boycott was staged outside the main Three Friends Co. factory in Zhabei. According to later accounts, to create an incident, a Japanese intelligence officer by the name of Ryukichi Tanaka 田中隆吉(1896-1972) hired local Chinese thugs to attack the monks, one of whom died of his injuries. Two days later, a Japanese paramilitary group burned down two buildings at the Three Friends factory in retaliation. Meanwhile, Japanese residents of Shanghai were petitioning their government for military intervention, and the Japanese military began demanding that the mayor of Shanghai, Wu Tiecheng 吳鐵城 (1888-1953), oversee the suppression of anti-Japanese groups in Shanghai. Despite the mayor’s capitulation, the situation continued to escalate. Japanese residents were evacuated and the Japanese navy began to send marines into Hongkou where they were stationed in a local park. On the evening of January 28, 1932, the Japanese marines launched an offensive into Zhabei from their base in Hongkou, ostensibly to rescue Japanese residents still trapped in Zhabei, where they clashed with the 19th Route Army of the NRA. Originally from Canton, they had been stationed in the city by Sun Fo and Chiang Kai-shek to protect Chinese interests, but few expected them to last long in the face of the Japanese assault.177 In response to the surprisingly fierce resistance put up by the 19th Route Army, the Japanese military employed heavy aerial bombing and artillery shelling which was to destroy some 80% of the structures in Zhabei, including some 896 factories.178 Due to the turmoil of the so-called “Shanghai Incident” of 1932, which was concluded with a truce on March 3, the seventh issue (Vol. 2) of Modern did not come out until June, 1932, some ten months after the previous issue. Three months later, under Shao Xumei’s influence, China Fine Arts Periodical Press launched a new literary magazine, The Analects Fortnightly 論語半月刊, edited by the popular writer Lin Yutang 林語堂 (1895-1976). Lin Yutang was known for his advocacy of the use of humor to save the Chinese nation from totalitarianism, writing in 1937, It seems to me that the worst comment on dictatorships is that presidents of democracies can laugh, while dictators always look so serious—with a protruding jaw, a determined chin, and a pouched lower lip, as if they were doing something terribly important and the world could not be saved, except by them.179 177 For a detailed account of the Shanghai Incident of 1932, see Frederic, Policing Shanghai, 1927-1937, 187–94. 178 Henriot, “A Neighbourhood under Storm Zhabei and Shanghai Wars,” 310. 179 Lin Yutang, The Importance of Living (Reynal & Hitchcock, 1937), 78. 83 Lin’s visual sense, on good display in this passage, and his skewering of the serious politicians of the world would have put him in good company with Ye Qianyu and the other members of the Manhua Society. Like Wang Dunqing, he was fluent in both Chinese and English, having attended St. John’s for a time before going abroad to the US to study at Harvard. Like Huang Wennong, Ye Qianyu, Ji Xiaobo, Cai Shudan, and Zhang Meisun, meanwhile, Lin had worked for the Nationalist government following the Northern Expedition, but like most of the Manhua Society members he quickly became disillusioned with the KMT. Finally, much as the members of the Manhua Society eventually rejected the older term “satirical drawings” in favor of “manhua,” Lin Yutang famously promoted his own brand of comedy under the banner of youmo 幽默, a transliteration of the English word “humor.” 180 In the early 1930s, Lin found himself a target of criticism from Lu Xun, who found fault with his flippant xiaopin wen 小品文 or “little prose pieces,” to use the translation used by the leading English- language of scholar of the form, Charles Laughlin.181 Lu Xun disparaged Lin’s little prose pieces as “little decorations” 小擺設 or, to use Kirk Denton’s memorable translation, “bric-a-brac for the bourgeoisie.”182 Described most simply by Laughlin as “an essay genre…that emerged in the 1920s and reached the peak of its popularity shortly before the War Against Japan broke out in 1937,” xiaopin wen developed in parallel with manhua, which as we have seen also emerged in the 1920s and, coincidentally enough, would peak in popularity in the mid-1930s. It is perhaps not surprising then, that manhua pioneer Feng Zikai was a prominent author of xiaopin wen, for which he favored the term suibi 隨筆, or ‘casual essay,’ mirroring his use of the term manhua, or ‘casual drawing.’183 Lin Yutang, primarily a writer, also dabbled in cartooning, for example publishing a humorous illustration of Lu Xun beating a drowning pug in the Peking Press Supplement京報副刊 on January 23, 180 For a discussion of Lin Yutang and his concept of humor see Chapter 6 of see Christopher G. Rea’s The Age of Irreverence: A New History of Laughter in China (Oakland, California: University of California Press, 2015). 181 For an analysis of the xiaopin form, see Laughlin’s monograph The Literature of Leisure and Chinese Modernity (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2008). 182 Kirk A. Denton, “Lu Xun Biography,” MCLC Resource Center, 2002, http://u.osu.edu/mclc/online-series/lu-xun/ (accessed October 5, 2015). 183 Albeit at the suggestion of Zheng Zhengduo. See Barmé, An Artistic Exile, 89. 84 1926 (See Fig. 6.2).184 This somewhat incongruous image was apparently in response to series of back and forth essays between Lin and Lu Xun criticizing the academic Chen Yuan 陳垣 (1880-1971) for supporting the closure of the Women’s College in Beijing. When Lin urged his friend to show restraint by saying, ‘one shouldn’t beat a drowning dog,’ 不打落水狗 Lu Xun jokingly responded that Chen Yuan was a ‘pug,’ 叭儿狗 which “…were so smug they behaved more like cats than dogs, [so] it was necessary to push them into the water and also give them a sound beating.”185 Figure 6.2 “Picture of Mr. Lu Xun Beating a [Drowning] Pug” 魯迅先生打叭兒狗圖 Lin Yutang, Peking Press Supplement 京報副刊, January 23, 1926. One year later, Shao Xunmei launched a 10-day periodical, The Decameron 十日談, edited by Zhang Kebiao 章克標 (1900-2007), featuring political commentary by Shao Xunmei and others, with cartoons by Zhang Guangyu and other members of the original Manhua Society on the cover.186 According to Shao 184 Chen Zishan 陳子善, “Lin Yutang de Manhua” 林語堂的漫畫 [Lin Yutang’s Cartoons], Wenhuibao 文彙報, August 1, 2015, http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:7rNh0hwaOzgJ:whb.news365.com.cn/bh/201508/t20150801_210 9885.html+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us (accessed October 3, 2015); “Lu Xun Xiansheng Da Baergou Tu” 魯迅先生打 叭兒狗圖 [Picture of Mr. Lu Xun Beating a Pug], Peking Press Supplement 京報副刊, January 23, 1926. 185 Paraphrased by Gloria Davies in Lu Xun’s Revolution (Harvard University Press, 2013), 225. 186 Wang Jingfang records that the editor of Decameron was Yang Tiannan 楊天南. See “Shao Xunmei he Ta de Chuban Shiye,” 126 85 Xunmei’s daughter, The Decameron was meant to supplant Modern, which was often delayed due to publishing problems and therefore unable to comment on current events in a timely fashion.187 In November, 1934, Shao Xunmei and Zhang Guangyu’s younger brother, Cao Hanmei, each contributed 2000 yuan to purchase China Arts Periodical Press and found a new publisher, with Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhengyu, and Ye Qianyu all receiving an equal share in the new partnership.188 Using a similar name in English as his previous project, the goal of Modern Publications 時代圖書公司 are perhaps indicated their ambitions best through their Chinese name, which literally translates as “Modern Picture Book Company.”189 True to their name, Modern Publication would go on to publish a series of art books, including a reprint of Huang Wennong’s Collected Satirical Drawings and Things a Young Lady Must Know 小姐須 知 , a 1932 collaboration between Shao Xunmei, who supplied the text, and Zhang Guangyu, who provided matching illustrations of beautiful young women. Apparently something of a joke, Things a Young Lady Must Know was made up of a series of short lines such as, “If you wear this flower, you must know that this flower is beloved by all.” 您如戴這朵鮮花時，要知這鮮花是人人所愛的 and “When you talk to your lover in the cold of winter, it’s best to sit close to the stove, to make yourself appear more coy.” 您與情人談話時，在冬令，宜近火爐，可以增嬌羞之美. In the forward, meanwhile, Shao added a note stipulating that the book was only to be sold to young, unmarried women, and that male customers buying the book should provide the name and address of a young lady on whose behalf they were claiming to buy the book. 190 Other books published by Modern Publications include a 187 Xiao Hong 綃紅, “Cong Shi Ri Tan Kai Tianchuang Shuoqi” 從《十日談》開天窗說起 [On the Skylight Opened by The Decameron], Bolan Qunshu 博覽群書 (February 7, 2011), http://epaper.gmw.cn/blqs/html/2011- 02/07/nw.D110000blqs_20110207_4-04.htm?div=-1 (accessed October 3, 2015). 188 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 70. 189 Again, the most literal translation of shidai is actually “epoch.” For the context in which it is used here as the name of a series of companies and magazines with a different, and consistent official English translation for the word, however, “modern” is a more logical translation. 190 Yao Sufeng 姚蘇鳳 (1906-1974) is said to have written a parody of this book titled Things a Young Lad Must Know, which contains the line, “When you talk to a young lady, whatever you do, don’t let your Wuxi or Changzhou accent slip out.” 與小姐們交際時，千萬不可露無錫及常州宜興等處的土音. Zhang Guangyu was, of course, originally from Wuxi, and Shao Xunmei’s family originally hailed from Changzhou, See“Xiaojie Xu Zhi yu Xiaoye Xu Zhi” 《小姐須知》與《少爺須 知》 [Things a Young Lady Must Know and Things a Young Lad Must Know], Shafengjing Ji de Boke 煞風景集的博客, August 22, 2011, http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_5e8246090100tr3h.html (accessed October 2, 2015). 86 collection of Mr. Wang cartoons, and a series of travel drawings by Ye Qianyu, titled Ye’s Collected Quick Sketches 淺予速寫畫集.191 Much has been made of the fact that before partnering with the former members of the Manhua Society, Shao Xunmei was originally involved with the much more highbrow literary publication, the Crescent Moon Monthly 新月月刊 from 1928 to 1933. Originally founded with friend and fellow poet, Xu Zhimo 徐志摩 (1897-1931), regular contributors to the Crescent Moon Monthly included luminaries such as Hu Shi 胡適 (1891-1962), Liang Shiqiu 梁實秋 (1903-1987), and Shen Congwen 沈從文 (1902-1988), in addition to Lin Yutang. Jonathan Hutt argues that, Rather than catering to a limited number of friends and colleagues, Shao’s was now aiming at the city’s increasingly sophisticated petty-bourgeoisie hungry for entertainment and enlightenment. Publications such as The Young Companion had proven that a huge market existed for this particular brand of lifestyle publication and Shao was keen to capitalise on their success. In severe financial distress, Shao had but one option left open to him; kowtow to the vulgar.192 Wang Jingfang, however, argues that Shao Xunmei had much more noble goals in mind, citing a short essay by Xunmei titled, “The Cultural Status of Illustrated Magazines” 畫報在文化界的地位, published in the October, 1934, issue of Modern. Xunmei defends his choice to publish illustrated magazines by making the case that highbrow periodicals have failed to capture the attention of the vast majority of Chinese, not because they do not understand them, but because they serve no practical purpose. Illustrated magazines, according to Xunmei, had the advantage of attracting illiterate readers who, having enjoyed the pictures, would be enticed to learn to read the text as well.193 Wang further argues that Xunmei influenced Modern and the other China Fine Arts Periodical Press publications to become more cultured, by including essays and interviews with famous figures such as Lin Yutang, discussed previously, public intellectual Hu Shi 胡適, painter Lu Xiaoman 陸小曼, educator 191 Ye Qianyu also recalls that Zhang Guangyu’s groundbreaking 1935 collection Folk Love Songs 民間情歌 was published by the Modern Press. Although originally serialized in Modern, the collection seems to have been published by the Zhang brother’s Independent Press in 1935. See Tang Wei 唐薇, “Minjian Qingge Hua Ji Tan Yuan” 《民間情歌》畫集探源 [Exploring the Sources of Folk Love Songs], Baiyaxuan 百雅軒, n.d., http://baiyaxuan.com/longhair/show/tack-46-544.html (accessed October 2, 2015) and Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 72. 192 Hutt, “Monstre Sacré: The Decadent World of Sinmay Zau 邵洵美.” 193 Wang Jingfang, “Shao Xunmei he Ta de Chuban Shiye,” 99–100 87 Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培, and entrepreneur Wang Xiaolai 王曉籟. Additionally, aside from cartoonists, Shao convinced artists such Xu Beihong 徐悲鴻, Pan Xunqin 龐薰琴, An Ge’er 安格爾, Chang Yu 常玉 to contribute to his magazines.194 Whether these efforts were merely a smokescreen for Xunmei’s more mercantile interests, or examples of a genuine attempt to raise the level of popular discourse is of course debatable, but it is nevertheless interesting to consider the possibility that there was an element of altruism behind the co-author of Things a Young Lady Must Know. The Manhua BoomThe Manhua BoomThe Manhua BoomThe Manhua Boom On January 24, 1934, a new monthly Modern Publications manhua magazine, Modern Sketch 時 代漫畫 was launched with Lu Shaofei as the editor. Modern Sketch would prove to be one of the longer lived manhua periodicals, putting out 39 issues in the 42 months between its first issue on January 24, 1934 and its last on June 20, 1937, with each issue containing 32 pages of cartoons, photographs and essays, in addition to a full color front and back cover.195 194 Ibid., 106. 195 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Shidai Manhua (Shanghai)” 时代漫画 (上海) [Modern Sketch (Shanghai)], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 599–600. 88 Figure 6.3 Cover of the first issue of Modern Sketch by Zhang Guangyu, featuring the “Don Quixote of Manhua” 漫畫的堂 吉訶德 by Zhang Guangyu, January 24, 1934 To explain the cover of the first issue of the first issue of the new periodical (see Fig. 6.2) Lu included a short note titled “Editor’s Filler” 編者補白: On all sides a tense era surrounds us. As it is for the individual, so it is for our country and the world. Will things always be this way? I for one don’t know. But since the feeling won’t go away, one desires an answer, and the more one fails to find it, the more that desire grows. Our stance, our single responsibility, then, is to strive! As for the design on the cover of this first issue, it shall be our logo. Its meaning: Yield to None. 目下四圍環境緊張時代，個人如此，國家世界亦如此。永遠如此嗎？我就不知道。 但感覺不停，因此甚麼都想解決，越不能解決越會想應有解決。所以，需要努力！ 89 就是我們的態度。責任也只有如此。這一期的封面的圖案，以後用做我們地表示， 表明『威武不屈』的意思。196 Like Ye before him, Lu was also extremely productive, contributing a large number of his own cartoons and essays to his magazine. Modern Sketch was not without controversy however, running into a 3 month ban from the KMT government’s Central Office of Propaganda 中央宣傳部 February, 1936 for cartoons by Wang Dunqing which were said to “slander the government, damage international relations, and slander political leaders” 污蔑政府,、妨碍邦交、污辱领袖.197 The same month saw additional bans on Zhang Guangyu’s Oriental Puck 獨立漫畫 (launched in September, 1935, following the appearance of the Zhang brother’s new publishing house, Shanghai Oriental Puck Press 上海獨立出版), and Huang Shiying’s Manhua and Life 漫畫和生活.198 Manhua and Life was the latest iteration in a long string of manhua periodicals launched by Huang Shiying, beginning with the launch of the 32-page Manhua Life 漫畫生活 on September 20, 1934.199 Originally a spinoff of German-speaking social progressive Wu Langxi’s吳朗西 monthly art and literature journal Arts & Life 美術生活, Manhua Life was co-edited by Zhong Shanyin 鐘山隱,a Sichuanese landscape painter who also worked on Arts & Life, and the cartoonists Huang Ding 黃鼎, Zhang E張 諤.200 In addition to cartoons, thanks to Wu Langxi’s connections (much like how Zhang Guangyu was able to leverage Shao Xunmei’s social status for Modern), Huang Shiying was able to boost the prestige, and likely the sales, of Manhua Life by publishing essays from famous writers such as Lu Xun (who had 196 Lu Shaofei 魯少飛, “Bianzhe Bubai” 編者補白 [Editor’s Filler], Shidai Manhua 時代漫畫, January 1934, 38 translated by John A. Crespi in “China’s Modern Sketch: The Golden Era of Cartooning 1934-1937.” 197 Ding Xi, “Shidai Manhua (Shanghai).” 198 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Duli Manhua” 獨立漫畫 [Independant Manhua], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫 藝術卷, November 2000, 603; Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Manhua he Shenghuo” 漫畫和生活 [Manhua and Life], Meishu Cilin 美 術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 603–4. 199 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Manhua Shenghuo” 漫畫生活 [Manhua Life], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝 術卷, November 2000, 600–601. 200 Arts & Life was published from April 1, 1934 to August 1937, total of 41 issues, and originally published by either Three- One Press 三一印刷公司 or Three Person Press 三人印刷公司. One of founders of this company, Jin Youcheng 金有成, appears to have been the owner of a rubber shoe factory. I have not been able to find the profession of the other, Yu Xiangxian 俞象賢. Most sources record that Manhua Life was printed and distributed by 美术生活杂志社, so it seems likely that at some point this company took over from the original publisher. See 90 been fiercely critical of both Shen Bochen and Lin Yutang), Mao Dun 茅盾 (1896-1981), and Lao She 老舍 (1899-1966).201 Like Lu Shaofei and the cartoonists behind Modern Sketch, Huang Shiying and his staff had big ambitions for their little periodical, writing in the preface to their first issue: Life is a big stage. We are all playing roles in a tragicomedy, and, at the same time, we are the audience for a tragicomedy. Even though the program changes every day, it never departs from the tragicomic mode. Let us open today’s program and take a look: the chaos of war, unemployment, famine, starvation, all occupy the grand stage of this tumultuous era. The lives of the masses in this era really are too cruel. And yet, in another corner of the stage, there exists a small minority who dance for joy at the mouth of the volcano. Such are the contradictions which exist in the world unfolding before our eyes. But we believe that this discord should disappear, and that sooner or later it will disappear. 世 界是一個大舞臺。人人是扮演悲喜劇的角色，人人又是悲喜劇的觀眾。舞臺上 的節目雖然天天在變更，但總走不出悲喜劇的範圍。我們且翻開今天的節目來 看 看：戰亂、失業、災荒、飢餓的大悲劇占據了這動亂時代的大舞臺。生長在這個時 代的大眾的生活實在是太悲慘了。然而在舞臺的另一角卻有少數在這火山口上跳 舞享樂的人們。這樣展開在我們眼前的世界是充滿著何等的矛盾。不過我們相信這 不調和的現象是應該消滅的，遲早是會消滅的。202 Fittingly, the cover of the first issue of Manhua Life, titled “The Cry of Life,” 生活的呼號 featured an emaciated Chinese man on his knees in the ruins of a demolished city, hands raised into the air, with a mouth open so wide that it obscures the rest of his face. For contemporary readers, ruined city would have immediately brought to mind the devastation wrought by the 1932 Japanese bombings in Zhabei. The pointed critiques in Manhua Life were not overlooked by KMT censors, however, who began 201 Interestingly, Zheng Zhenduo, the original publisher of Feng Zikai, who is thought to have coined the term ‘manhua’ was also a contributor to the magazine. 202 Shiying Huang 黄士英, “Kaichangbai” 開場白 [Prologue], Manhua Shenghuo 漫畫生活, September 20, 1934. 91 removing content from the magazine as early as the second issue. To draw attention to the censorship, the editors choose to leave blank spaces where the three offending cartoons would have been printed. 203 Figure 6.4 “The Cry of Life,” 生活的呼號 Manhua Life, Issue 1, September 20, 1934. On June 21, 1934, Huang Wennong died of a ruptured stomach ulcer and the former Manhua Society members pooled together to pay for his funeral. Abandoned by his wife following the death of their child, Huang had drifted away from the cartooning world in the years prior to his death, with his last printed work being the Modern Publications reprint of his collected works.204 Huang’s spirit of satirical troublemaking was shown to alive and well, however, when a young cartoonist named Hu Kao 胡考(1912-1994) threw his hat into the ring five months later on November 15, 1934, with a new Modern Publications periodical titled The Spectator旁觀者, which was banned after its first issue.205 In addition to cartoons by Ye Qianyu and excerpts from founding Left League member Tian Han’s new musical, Storm on the Yangtze 揚子江的暴風雨, likely of particular interest to 203 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Manhua Shenghuo” 漫畫生活 [Manhua Life], Meishu cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝 術卷 (Shanxi Renmin Meishu Chuban She 陝西人民美術出版社, November 2000), 600–601. 204 Ye Qianyu, Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian, 97. 205 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Pangguanzhe” 旁觀者 [The Spectator], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 601–2. 92 censors was a two-page spread of famous faces creativity rendered in fruit and vegetables, titled “Heads of State” 元首 (See Fig. 6.5): Art is always so mundane, and yet always so miraculous! What materials are these depictions of our god-like head of states made of? It turns that Wu Zhihui is made of: an apple, mung bean sprouts, and dried soybeans. Zhang Xueliang is: a pomelo, watermelon seeds, and soybean hulls. Chiang Kai-shek is: a turnip head, grains, and watermelon seed shells. Hu Hanmin is: a pear, Liangxiang chestnuts, and watermelon seeds. Lin Sen is: a lemon, fava beans, red beans, and a corn tassel. Sun Ke is: a skinned water chestnut, and lotus seed pods. 藝 術是永遠的平凡，也是永遠的奇跡！這些神似元首的造像又是甚麼材料？ 原來 吳稚暉的是：蘋果，綠豆芽，黃豆。 張學良的是： 文旦，西瓜子，毛豆莢。蔣介 石的是：蘿卜頭，谷粒，西瓜子殼。 胡漢民的是： 洋梨，良鄉栗子，西瓜子。 林 森的是： 檸檬， 豆板，赤豆，玉蜀黍的鬚。 孫科的是：去皮的荸薺，蓮子。206 206 “Yuanshou” 元首 [Heads of State], 旁觀者, November 15, 1935. 93 Figure 6.5 “Heads of State” 元首, The Spectator, November 15, 1934. In February, 1935, the monthly Masses Manhua 群众漫畫, co-edited by Cao Juren 曹聚仁 and Wang Minqi 江毓祺 was launched.207 In April of the same year, Cai Ruohong 蔡若虹 and Zhuang Qidong 莊啟東 took over editorship of Manhua Life, with Cai also launching his own periodical in the same month, Manhua Manhua 漫畫漫話.208 Two more manhua periodicals were launched in April, 1935: Movies, Manhua 電影漫畫, co-edited by Gu Fengchang 顧逢昌 and Zhu Jinlou 朱金樓 (1913-1992); and Manhua Phenomenon 現象漫畫 edited by Wan Laiming 萬籟鳴, Zhou Hanming 周漢明, and Xue 207 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Qunzhong Manhua” 群众漫畫 [Masses Manhua], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫 藝術卷, November 2000, 602. 208 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Manhua Manhua” 漫畫漫話 [Manhua Manhua], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫 藝術卷, November 2000, 602. 94 Ping 薛萍.209 In May, 1935, Zhu Jinlou launched Chinese Manhua 中國漫畫 and that very same month, Wan Laiming and Xueping’s Manhua Phenomenon folded after putting out just two issues, along with the Cao Junren and Wang Minqi’s only slightly longer lived Masses Manhua, which published 3 issues in total.210 In July, 1935, Cai Ruohong’s Manhua Manhua folded, and Manhua Life folded two months later in September, 1935, having put out a total of 13 issues. Meanwhile, on September 25, 1935, Zhang Guangyu launched Independent Manhua 獨立漫 畫.211 Two more manhua periodicals were launched in October, 1935: Popular Manhua 大眾漫畫, edited by Zhang Hongfei 長鴻飛, and 新世代漫畫 New Era Manhua, co-edited by Chen Liufeng 陳柳鳳 and Chen Mingxun 陳明勛.212 Neither survived to put out a second issue. November saw one final periodical for 1935, 漫畫和生活 Manhua and Life, edited by Zhang E and Huang Shiying.213 CensorshipCensorshipCensorshipCensorship and Warand Warand Warand War In February, 1936, both Lu Shaofei’s Modern Sketch and Zhang Guangyu’s Independent Manhua were ordered to cease publication by the KMT government’s Central Office of Propaganda. Zhang E and Huang Shiying’s Manhua and Life ceased publication the same month, likely for the same reason. In April, 1936, Modern Sketch was temporarily replaced with Manhua World 漫畫界, edited by Wang Dunqing, while Huang Shiying and Liu Yongfu launched Life Manhua 生活漫畫.214 On May 7 of the same year, 209 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Dianying Manhua” 電影漫畫 [Movies, Manhua], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫 藝術卷, November 2000, 602; Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Xianxiang Manhua” 現象漫畫 [Manhua Phenomenon], Meishu Cilin 美 術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 602. 210 Yihai Jiang 蔣義海, ed., “Zhongguo Manhua” 中國漫畫 [Chinese Manhua], Manhua Zhishi Cidian 漫畫知識辭典 (Nanjing Daxue Chubanshe 南京大學出版社, 1989), 68–69. 211 Ding Xi, “Duli Manhua.” 212 While New Era Manhua is listed on the Chinese Manhua Database 中國漫畫專題庫 website sponsored by the National Digital Culture Network 全國文化信息資源共享工程 it does not appear to have made it any of the major Chinese art or publishing encyclopedias. See “[Zhongguo Manhua Zhuanti Ku] - Quanguo Wenhua Xinxi Ziyuan Gongxiang Gongcheng” [中 國漫畫專題庫]-全國文化信息資源共享工程 [[Chinese Manhua Database] - National Digital Culture Network], n.d., http://www.bjgxgc.cn/manhua/ (accessed October 2, 2015). 213 Ding Xi, “Manhua Shenghuo.” 214 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Shenghuo Manhua” 生活漫畫 [Life Manhua], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝 術卷, November 2000, 604. 95 Zhang Guangyu re-launched Shanghai Sketch as Shanghai Puck (in Chinese, however, the name was unchanged) to replace Oriental Puck which had managed to run for 9 issues.215 In June, Zhu Jinlou’s Chinese Manhua published its last issue, having put out a relatively impressive 14 issues. Huang Shiying and Liu Yongfu’s Life Manhua also put out its last issue in June 1936, having published 3 issues total. When Modern Sketch was re-launched by Lu Shaofei in June 20, 1936, Manhua World also continued to be published as a separate periodical. September 5, 1936 saw the launch of Huang Shiying’s Global Manhua 漫畫世界, which only lasted for a single issue, and on December 5, 1936 Wang Dunqing’s Manhua World published its last issue, for a total of 8 issues.216 Ironically, just as cartoons magazines were beginning to shut their doors, popular interest in the art form was hotter than ever, with the founding of the National Manhua Artist Association (NMAA) 中華 全國漫畫作家協會 in the spring of 1937. Founded by former Manhua Society members Wang Dunqing, Ye Qianyu, Zhang Guangyu, and Lu Shaofei, the NMAA included a large of younger manhua artists such as Cai Ruohong, Huang Miaozi 黃苗子, Liao Bingxiong 廖冰兄, Lu Zhixiang 陸志庠, and Hua Junwu 華君武. In an announcement, they pledged to “unite the cartoonists of the nation, promote manhua art, and make Chinese manhua into a tool for social education” 團結全體漫畫家、共同推進 漫畫藝術，使漫畫成為社會教育工具.217 Eventually, branches of NMAA would be founded in Guangzhou, Xian, Wenzhou, and Hong Kong, among other cities. In March, 1937, as one of the first activities sponsored by NMAA, Wang Dunqing launched Friends of Manhua 漫畫之友.218 Not to be outdone, Zhang Guangyu and Ye Qianyu published an extra large format manhua periodical Puck 潑克, while Huang Yao 黃堯 (1917-1987) and Zhang Leping 張 215 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Shanghai Manhua (Shanghai Banyuekan)” 上海漫畫(上海半月刊) [Shanghai Sketch (Shanghai Bimonthly)], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 604. 216 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Manhua Shijie (Shanghai)” 漫畫世界(上海) [Global Manhua (Shanghai)], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 604. 217 Zhang Shaosi 章紹嗣, “Zhonghua Quanguo Manhua Zuojia Xiehui” 中華全國漫畫作家協會 [National Manhua Artist Association], 中國現代社團辭典 (Wuhan: Hubei People’s Press 湖北人民出版社, 1994), 180–81, Wuhan. 218 Wei Qiao 魏橋 and Zhejiang Provincial Historical Figure Commitee 浙江省人物志編纂委員會, eds., “Wang Dunqing” 王敦慶 [Wang Dunqing], Zhejiang Historical Figures 浙江省人物志 (Hangzhou: 浙江人民出版社, 2005), 370–71, Hangzhou. 96 樂平 (1910-1992) launched Ox-head Manhua 牛頭漫畫 the same month.219 Although both Puck and Ox-head Manhua only lasted for single issue, Friends of Manhua was slightly longer lived, lasting for 4 issues before folding in May, 1937, the same month that Modern Publication’s long running flagship periodical, Modern finally threw in the towel. Shortly thereafter Modern Sketch put out its final issue on June 20, 1937, while Zhang Guangyu’s Shanghai Puck, finished its run on June 30, 1937, with a total of 13 issues.220 On July 7 of the same year, a clash between Japanese and Chinese soldiers on the Marco Polo Bridge outside of Beijing quickly led to a series of escalating battles between KMT forces and the Kwantung Army. Having amassed some 90,000 troops in Northern China and occupied Manchuria, ostensibly to protect Japanese railways and commercial interests, the Kwantung Army (and even more so the over half-million-strong Imperial Japanese Army, and rapidly expanding navy, both with separate air divisions) represented a serious challenge to the mostly rag tag troops in the National Revolutionary Army.221 With the exception of Chiang Kaishek’s German trained divisions, and graduates of the Whampoa Academy, who were mostly concentrated in the southern part of the country, the vast majority of the roughly 1.2 million troops that now made up the NRA were a mix of mercenaries and conscripts that had been brought into the military during the warlord conflicts of the early 1920s and the Northern Expedition of 1926-1928.222 Although China would not officially declare war on Japan until December 9, 1941, by the end of July, 1937, Chiang Kaishek and the Standing Committee of the KMT had voted in favor of launching an all-out “War of Resistance” against the Japanese forces in China.223 Shanghai was a logical choice to open 219 Ding Xi 丁西, ed., “Poke” 潑克 [Puck], Meishu Cilin 美術辭林, Manhua Yishu Juan 漫畫藝術卷, November 2000, 604; “1937 Nian 5 Yue 1 Ri： Niutou Manhua” 1937 年 5 月 1 日：《牛頭漫畫》 [May 1, 1937: Ox-Head Manhua], Huang Yao Foundation, n.d., http://www.huangyao.org/519.html (accessed October 3, 2015). 220 Ding Xi, “Shanghai Manhua (Shanghai Banyuekan).” 221 Hans J. Van de Ven, War and Nationalism in China 1925-1945, Routledge Studies in the Modern History of Asia (Routledge, 2003), 193. 222 This number is a rough estimate, based on a telegram sent by Chiang Kai-shek in November, 1941. See Ibid., 273–74. 223 The reason that China did not declare war on Japan in 1937 appears to have been to avoid running afoul of the Neutrality Acts of 1935, 1936, 1937, and 1939 which prevented the U.S. government from providing military or financial aid to belligerents, with the goal of preventing the U.S. from becoming involved in World War II. See “Neutrality Acts,” The Oxford Essential Dictionary of the U.S. Military (Oxford University Press, 2002), http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.library.ubc.ca/view/10.1093/acref/9780199891580.001.0001/acref- 9780199891580-e-5519 (accessed October 5, 2015) and Van de Ven, War and Nationalism in China 1925-1945, 196. 97 a second front in the conflict, given the large concentration of Chinese troops in the Chinese controlled parts of the city in light of the strategic importance of the city, but perhaps just as importantly, the presence of the foreign press. After a Japanese officer was killed in unclear circumstances at the hands of Chinese troops at Hongqiao airport to the west of the city, tensions began to escalate, with the NRA attacking Japanese positions in the city on August 13, 1937.224 The following day, the poorly trained Nationalist air force accidentally bombed Nanjing Road in the international settlement, killing 1,740 civilians and injuring another 1,873.225 Despite being greatly outnumbered, Japanese troops in Shanghai managed to hold out until IJA reinforcements began to arrive by sea in late August.226 In response to the Japanese invasion, on September 1, 1937, Wang Shuyang enlisted Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhenyu, and Ye Qianyu to became editors of the New Life Pictorial 新生畫報, soon changing the name to the Resist Japan Pictorial 抗日畫報.227 Wang Dunqing, Ye Qianyu, and the young cartoonists Te Wei 特偉 (1915-2010) and Zhang Leping 張樂平 (1910-1992) meanwhile, mobilized the National Manhua Artist Association to form the National Salvation Cartoon Propaganda Corps 漫畫 界救亡協會 (hereafter the Cartoon Corps) shortly thereafter, which launched its own propaganda periodical Save the Nation Manhua 救亡漫畫 on September 20. Pitched battles continued to be waged in and around Shanghai through September and October, with the NRA finally being forced to withdraw and cede the Chinese-controlled parts of the city center in late October. During the three month long conflict, the Zhang brothers managed to publish 15 issues of the Resist Japan Pictorial, before leaving for the relative safety of Hong Kong. The Cartoon Corps, meanwhile, put out 11 issues of Save the Nation Manhua, with a core contingent joining the Second United Front of the KMT and CCP in Wuhan in January, 1938. As members of the Third Bureau of the Military Affairs 224 “CLASH OF ARMIES. Nanking Force in Action NEAR PEIPING. Heavy Shelling. LONDON, Aug. 11.,” The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW, August 12, 1937), 9 225 Paul French, “Black Saturday – August 14, 1937,” China Rhyming, n.d., http://www.chinarhyming.com/2015/08/14/black-saturday-august-14-1937/ (accessed October 5, 2015); Carl Crow, Foreign Devils in the Flowery Kingdom (Earnshaw Books, 2007), 283–86. 226 For a detailed account of the Battle of Shanghai, see Van de Ven, War and Nationalism in China 1925-1945, 211–16. 227 Wei Qiao 魏橋 and Zhejiang Provincial Historical Figure Committee 浙江省人物志編纂委員會, eds., “Wang Shuyang” 王叔旸 [Wang Shuyang], Zhejiang Historical Figures 浙江省人物志 (Hangzhou: 浙江人民出版社, 2005), 370–71, Hangzhou. 98 Commission’s Political Affairs Department 軍事委員會政治部第三廳 under the leadership of Chinese Communist Party members Guo Moruo (also a founding member of the Left League) and Zhou Enlai 周 恩來 (1898-1976), the Cartoon Corps launched a new bimonthly periodical, Resistance Manhua 抗戰漫 畫, featuring denouncements of collaborators, exhortations to join the army, and graphic depictions of Japanese atrocities perpetrated on the bodies of Chinese women and children.228 Ultimately publishing 12 issues between January and July, 1938, Resistance Manhua was forced to shut down due to shelling and encirclement campaigns by Japanese forces during the Battle of Wuhan. Lasting nearly four months from June to October, 1938, the Battle of Wuhan set the stage for the long, protracted conflict which was to last until Japan’s surrender following the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by U.S. forces in 1945.229 Like the second Battle of Shanghai the previous year, it also demonstrated the fragility of even the most robust of publishing industries, with much of the propaganda efforts during the remainder of the war being forced to resort to public exhibitions and murals in the absence of the necessary printing presses, and at times even ink and paper. 230 ConclusionConclusionConclusionConclusion As we have seen, although the official Manhua Society ended about a year after it began in late 1926, many of the members remained close, and throughout the late 1920s and early 1930s they pooled their resources to fund several short-lived manhua periodicals for which they solicited submissions from amateur and professional artists alike, becoming not only editors, but also gatekeepers, teachers, and patrons for generation of cartoonists which followed, a somewhat ironic role given their relatively humble origins (with the exception of Wang Dunqing). Employed primarily in the advertising and fashion industries, members responded to the worsening of the conflict with Japan by becoming increasingly 228 For an analysis of role depictions of rape and mutilated bodies played in Resistance Manhua and other wartime cartoon propaganda see Louise Edwards, “Drawing Sexual Violence in Wartime China: Anti-Japanese Propaganda Cartoons,” The Journal of Asian Studies 72, no. 3 (August 2013): 563–86. 229 Van de Ven, War and Nationalism in China 1925-1945, 226–27. 230 For first-hand accounts of cartooning during the war, see John A. Lent and Xu Ying, “Cartooning and Wartime China: Part One — 1931-1945,” International Journal of Comic Art 10, no. 1 (April 15, 2008): 76–139. Good examples of the relatively poor quality of wartime printing can also be seen in Huang Yao’s collections from this time period, such as Houfang de Chongqing Er 後方的重慶二 [At the Backlines of Chongqing, Part II] (Iron Press 鐵社, 1938), available online at “August 1938: At the Backlines of Chongqing 2,” Huang Yao Foundation, n.d., http://www.huangyao.org/578.html (accessed October 5, 2015) and Chongqing Manhhua 重慶漫畫 [Chungking in Cartoons] (Guilin: Science Book Press 科學書店, 1943), available at “June 1943 Chongqing Cartoons,” Huang Yao Foundation, n.d., http://www.huangyao.org/776.html (accessed October 5, 2015). 99 political and in their manhua periodicals, one can see a marked shift from boys’ humor and light political satire into outright propaganda. Their example demonstrates that the link between art, commerce and politics in the 1920s and 1930s in Shanghai was a fluid one, with few hard and fast boundaries. English-language historians of modern Chinese visual culture such as Julia Andrews, Adam Cathcart, John Lent, Ellen Johnston Laing, Paul Pickowicz, Kuiyi Shen and others have examined the careers of various manhua artists. Many more scholars have used manhua illustrations to demonstrate the development of the public sphere in Republican China. Other scholars have looked at the political and literary groups of the time, building on the work of Michel Hockx and Kirk Denton.231 John A. Crespi, meanwhile, has published an illustrated introduction to the important manhua periodical Modern Sketch and is in the process of completing a study of selected Chinese pictorial satire magazines from the late 1910s to the 1950s.232 Likewise, Jonathan Hutt has written at length on the life and times of Shao Xunmei, touching upon Modern Press, and more recently, Paul Bevan has published an important monograph which places Shao Xunmei and the members of the Manhua Society and their later collaborators within the global discourse of modern art.233 While I have relied on their work to varying degrees in the course of my research, to my knowledge, however, this is the first English language study to provide a comprehensive account of the formation and immediate legacy of the Manhua Society. Cartoonist and scholar Bi Keguan’s 畢克官 pioneering 1986 Chinese-language studyThe History of Chinese Manhua 中國漫畫史, co-authored with Huang Yuanlin 黃遠林 was the first to highlight the historical importance of the Manhua Society. Thirty years later, this groundbreaking work remains unsurpassed as the most exhaustive and penetrating look at the history of Chinese cartooning. Beginning with a short look at proto-cartoons from the pre-modern period, Bi and Huang document the emergence 231 See Julia F. Andrews, Painters and Politics in the People’s Republic of China, 1949-1979 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), Adam Cathcart, “Chinese Nationalism in the Shadow of Japan, 1945--1950” (Ph.D., Ohio University, 2005), Ellen Johnston Laing, “Shanghai Manhua, the Neo-Sensationist School of Literature, and Scenes of Urban Life,” MCLC Resource Center (October 2010), http://u.osu.edu/mclc/online-series/shanghai-manhua/ (accessed December 15, 2014), Shen Kuiyi, “Lianhuanhua and Manhua--Picture Books and Comics in Old Shanghai”, Liangyou: Kaleidoscopic Modernity and the Shanghai Global Metropolis, 1926-1945 (Leiden: Brill Academic Pub, 2013), and Kirk A. Denton and Michel Hockx, eds., Literary Societies of Republican China (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2008). 232 Personal communication, in addition to Crespi, “China’s Modern Sketch: The Golden Era of Cartooning 1934-1937”; John A. Crespi, “Picturing the Purge: Chinese Cartoon Imagery from the 1930s to the 1950s,” EAP Speaker Series (Cornell University: Mario Einaudi Center for International Studies, March 12, 2013), Cornell University, http://video.mit.edu/watch/john-crespi-picturing-the-purge-chinese-cartoon-imagery-from-the-1930s-to-the-1950s-part-four- 12364/ (accessed July 31, 2015). 233 Hutt, “Monstre Sacré: The Decadent World of Sinmay Zau 邵洵美”; Bevan, A Modern Miscellany. 100 of humorous drawings 滑稽畫 in the newspapers and pictorials of the late Qing and early Republican period, looking at artists such as Shen Bochen and Ding Song. They show how these works informed the satirical cartoons 諷刺畫 of the politically tumultuous late 1910s, which Bi and Huang refer to as the Era of May 4th Movement五四運動時期. Although this movement began as a series of student protests against territorial concessions given to Japan, it eventually came to be seen as emblematic of a much larger cultural backlash against cultural and social conservatism. Further research is needed on why so many manhua publications were short lived. While we will probably never know for sure how exactly how many manhua periodicals were published, in Chapter 6 of this study I touch on a total of 25 magazines published after the (informal) founding of the Manhua Society in 1928 and before Shanghai fell to the Japanese in November, 1937 (see Appendices Table 0.2 for a complete list). Of these, only a handful were able to survive for 2 to 3 years, with the vast majority closing after 2 or 3 months. John A. Crespi has hypothesized that many magazines were launched with funding sufficient to cover the costs of only one or two issues, being forced to rely on the sales of these first issues to continue printing thereafter. At the same time, for every successful magazine there were any number of titles which failed to find an audience large enough to justify production costs.234 In common with Bi and Huang and many others, however, I believe that the sudden profusion of short-lived manhua periodicals also owes at least some debt to the Manhua Society, whose members would go on to launch nearly two-dozen periodicals. As Bi and Huang argue, the Manhua Society was a group like-minded hobbyists who would go on to become professional cartoonists, united not only by their desire to rid China of both warlords and the foreign imperialists who backed them, but also motivated to foster and develop manhua as an art form. It is productive to examine the Manhua Society artists to the “amateur ideal,” proposed by Joseph Levenson in his essay “The Amateur Ideal in Ming and Early Ch’ing Society: Evidence from Painting.”235 In his study of the post-1949 intellectual Deng Tuo, Timothy Cheek discusses 234 Personal communication. 235 The first draft of this paper was presented at the second meeting of the Committee on Chinese Thought in Newhampshire in 1954. A revised version was presented at the Colloquium Orientologicum at the University of California, Berkeley, in 1956, and the following it was published in John King Fairbank, ed., Chinese Thought and Institutions (University of Chicago Press, 1957). The year after that, Levenson included the essay in his collection Confucian China and Its Modern Fate: The Problem of Intellectual Continuity (University of California Press, 1958). See James Cahill, “Joseph Levenson’s Role In My Development As A Scholar And Writer,” n.d., http://jamescahill.info/the-writings-of-james-cahill/responses-a-reminiscences/197-75- joseph-levensons-role-in-my-development-as-a-scholar-and-writer (accessed January 2, 2016). 101 Deng’s work as an amateur poet and calligrapher as having been in line with the late-imperial literati ideal that men of letters also pursue hobbies in art and literature, writing that Deng clearly shared the eclecticism and connoisseurship of the Ming dynasty literati, but his aesthetic delight did not extend to their formalism and in no way impeded his commitment to modern values of science and rational bureaucratic organization, not to mention Communist revolution. Equally, Deng’s high cultural pursuits did not interfere with his commitment to help the great majority of Chinese people achieve a better economic and cultural life.236 While several members of the Manhua Society, such as Ye Qianyu and Zhang Guangyu, would go to become important members of the intelligentsia of post-1949 China, becoming calligraphers and artists more in line with the amateur ideal, my own research suggests that while political concerns were not absent from the minds of the founding members of the Manhua Society, these concerns co-existed with economic and financial considerations. The drawings and photographs of nude and semi-nude women, for example, indicates a concern with commercial viability as much as it does a pushing of aesthetic and social boundaries. I have shown that the Manhua Society members began their careers as cartoonists somewhat earlier than Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin state, in the early rather than mid- 1920s. By tracking the relationships between the various members of the Manhua Society, and finding links back to the League of Leftwing Writers (on the part of Wang Dunqing), I have also demonstrated that the formation of the Manhua Society was a far more complex process than Bi and Huang record. I first became aware of this discrepancy between the historical record and the accepted narrative, established by Bi and Huang, through the work of Gan Xianfeng. Unlike Bi and Huang, who had the good fortune of conducting long interviews with “living archives” Lu Shaofei and Ye Qianyu, who have since passed away, Gan relied on archival research. 237 In his 2008 popular history of Chinese cartooning (confusingly given the same title as Bi and Huang’s book, The History of Chinese Manhua 中國漫畫史), 236 Timothy Cheek, Propaganda and Culture in Mao’s China: Deng Tuo and the Intelligentsia (Clarendon Press, 1997), 154–55. 237 For an account of Bi Keguan’s research methodology, see Bi Keguan 畢克官, “Why I Research Chinese Cartoon History,” trans. Xu Ying, International Journal of Comic Art 10, no. 2 (October 15, 2008): 421–36. 102 Gan provides evidence from the Shanghai newspaper the Shenbao that the Manhua Society was founded not in the fall or summer of 1927, as commonly claimed, but in December, 1926.238 Like Gan, my own research throughout this study has been primarily based on archives, guided by the oral histories collected by Bi and others. Unlike Gan, however, I am interested primarily in the roughly ten year period leading up to the formation of the Manhua Society, from 1917-1927. For several prominent members of the Manhua Society, such as Ding Song, Ji Xiaobo, and Hu Xuguang, membership seems to have represented the culmination of their careers as cartoonists. I have relied heavily on Ye Qianyu’s autobiography, first published in abbreviated form in 1989, and drawn on Christopher G. Rea’s discussion of Ye in his PhD dissertation on early 20th century Chinese comedy. 239 Thanks in large part to his service as an anti-Japanese propagandist under Guo Moruo during Second Sino-Japanese War, Ye was able to have a long career as an artist and educator in the PRC. He is consequently a relatively well-known figure from the Republican era, as evidenced (and no doubt in part fueled) by the popularity of his autobiography.240 Lacking a bestselling memoir, Lu Shaofei, on the other hand, has suffered somewhat in comparison, despite Bi Keguan’s vote of confidence in his The History of Chinese Manhua. Having worked as a KMT government official during the war, Lu Shaofei seems to have been blacklisted for a time by the post-1949 PRC government, only becoming prominent again in the 1980s. My close reading of these oral histories, authored primarily in the 1980s and 1990s, shows that the historiography of Chinese cartooning in the 1920s and 1930s has been influenced by disagreements 238 Gan Xianfeng, Zhongguo manhua shi, 109. Gan also discusses this common misunderstanding in a 2010 article correcting a number of factual mistakes in an article on the history of manhua written by Wang Jizhong. See Gan Xianfeng 甘險峰, “Zhongguo Manhua De Ji Ge Shishi Wenti - Jian Yu Manhua Chuban Jieduan Zhi Zuozhe Shanque” 中国漫画的几个史实 问题——兼与《漫画出版阶段志》作者商榷 [Several Factual Errors in the History of Chinese Comics: To the Author of A History of Manhua Publishing], 國際新聞界 no. 12 (2010): 124–27. For Wang Jizhong’s original article, see “Manhua Chuban Jieduan Zhi” 漫畫出版階段志 [A History of Manhua Publishing], 編輯之友 no. 4 (2009): 79–80. 239 See Chapter 4 of Rea, “A History of Laughter: Comic Culture in Early Twentieth-Century China.” The first, 116 page edition of Ye Qianyu’s autobiography was titled 十年荒唐夢—— 葉淺予回憶錄 [Ten Years, An Absurd Dream: The Memoirs of Ye Qianyu] (Renmin Ribao Chuban She 人民日報出版社, 1989). Three years later an expanded 534 page edition was released, retitled Xixu cangsang ji liu nian: Ye Qianyu huiyilu 細敘滄桑記流年: 葉淺予回憶錄 [Carefully Narrating the Changes of the Ages, Recording the Passing Years: The Memoirs of Ye Qianyu] (Qunyan Chubanshe 群言出版 社, 1992). The most recent edition, which I relied on during my research, was published in 2006, and is apparently somewhat reduced from the 1992 version, at 407 pages. It was published under the new title Ye Qianyu zizhuan: Xixu cangsang ji liunian. 240 Ye Qianyu’s service as the leader of the National Salvation Cartoon Propaganda Corps 救亡漫畫宣傳隊 is detailed in Lent and Xu Ying, “Cartooning and Wartime China.” 103 between Ye and Lu, and between other members of the Manhua Society. In Chapter 1, I recounted the course of events which led a son of a humble merchant, Ye Qianyu, to choose a career as a cartoonist, focusing on Ji Xiaobo, Ye’s early mentor, whom scholars such as Bi Keguan have largely ignored. Likewise, in Chapter II I introduced Ding Song, Zhang Guangyu, Zhang Zhengyu, and Lu Shaofei, the patrons and (literally in the case of the much older Ding Song, and figuratively in the case of his students, the Zhang brothers and Lu) elder statesmen of the Manhua Society. In Chapter III I discussed the careers of Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, and Hu Xuguang, exposing part of the networks of economic and social capital in which the members of the Manhua Society operated. In Chapter IV I discussed the catalyzing influence of the May 30 movement, which had a profound impact on the formation of the Manhua Society, concluding with an account of the North Expedition, which directly proceeded and perhaps contributed to the departure of several key members in late 1927. In Chapter V, I outlined the partial breakup of the Manhua Society, while highlighting two publications which appeared in 1928: Shanghai Sketch and Dr. Fix-it, spearheaded by Ye Qianyu and Ji Xiaobo respectively. Touched on briefly by Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Dr. Fix-it is an early indicator of the strained relationship that would develop between Ye Qianyu and Lu Shaofei, who worked as the primary illustrator for Ji Xiaobo’s Dr. Fix-it. Although Bi and Huang find it lacking in comparison to Mr. Wang, both seem to have overlooked the fact that Dr. Fix-it appeared some four months before Ye Qianyu’s more well-known work. As I discuss in Chapter V, Shanghai Sketch emerged shortly after when the Manhua Society is commonly thought to have formed, so its editorial board is often conflated with the membership of the Manhua Society itself. For example, shortly after introducing the Manhua Society, Bi and Huang write: After a half year’s time spent in preparation, the full-size color publication Shanghai Manhua was published [by the Manhua Society]. Several key members of the Manhua Society invested almost an entirety of their energies on this project, with some among them investing their entire energies into the task of editing. After the magazine was published, the Manhua Society’s major activities centered around it. 經過半年多的籌備,在一九二八年四月出版了大型彩印漫畫刊物 《上海漫畫》. 畫會是幾個骨幹，幾乎一大部分精力投入這項工作，有的則把全部 精力投入了編輯任務。刊物出版之後，畫會的活動主要是圍繞刊物進行的。241 241 Bi Keguan and Huang Yuanlin, Zhongguo Manhua Shi, 85. 104 This passage is followed by a longer sub-chapter dedicated to the publication, in which it appears that Bi and Huang were not aware that two separate publications titled Shanghai Sketch appeared in 1928. Nor do Bi and Huang acknowledge that neither publication involved a full roster of the Manhua Society (which seems to have partially disbanded in late 1927), as I demonstrate in Chapter V. Particularly striking is that Bi and Huang overlook that the first iteration of Shanghai Sketch, which appeared in January, 1928, was mostly the work of just three members of the Manhua Society: Wang Dunqing, Huang Wennong, and Ye Qianyu. Neither Lu Shaofei nor Ji Xiaobo were involved in this first Shanghai Sketch either, with only Lu joining the second with any regularity after Wang Dunqing’s departure.242 In Chapter VI I looked at the various publications launched by the former Manhua Society members in an attempt to understand the Society’s legacy. One challenge I faced was the impossibility of giving equal weight to every publication that emerged between when Modern Miscellany was founded in 1930 and the outbreak of the second Sino-Japanese war. The enigmatic but influential patron of cartoonists, Shao Xunmei, I discuss only in passing. Chapter 6 gives only a general sketch of this tumultuous period.243 In conclusion, I find that the activities of the Manhua Society and its members had real historical impact on the development of Chinese cartooning, primarily because they brought together art and politics under the umbrella of a bewildering number of commercial ventures. As John A. Crespi, John Lent, Christopher G. Rea and many others have argued, the real golden age of Chinese cartooning did not occur until the 1930s, when the spread of modern, high-fidelity print technology in mainland China facilitated a publishing boom of high quality illustrated books and magazines. At the same time, as Jack Chen has emphasized, China also faced an existential threat from Japan and found itself in need of propaganda to demoralize and denigrate the enemy while bolstering nationalism and glorifying self-sacrifice.244 As this study has demonstrated, however, without the advantage of personal relationships and the sheer luck of 242 Ji Xiaobo did contribute art to issue #24 of Shanghai Sketch, published September 29, 1928. He does not appear to have been credited in the magazine itself, however. See “Shanghai Manhua Ershisi Qi Chuban” 上海漫畫二十四期出版 [Issue 24 of Shanghai Sketch Published], Shenbao 申報, September 29, 1928, 15. 243 Another area which I have, by necessity, overlooked is the role some Chinese cartoonists played as collaborators with the Japanese occupiers during the war years. For a fascinating look at this challenging topic, see Jeremy E. Taylor, “Cartoons and Collaboration in Wartime China The Mobilization of Chinese Cartoonists under Japanese Occupation,” Modern China (June 10, 2014), http://mcx.sagepub.com/content/early/2014/07/02/0097700414538386 (accessed October 5, 2015). 244 Chen, “China’s Militant Cartoonists,” 308. John Lent and Xu Ying have also done further research into the activities of manhua artists during this time period. See Lent and Xu Ying, “Cartooning and Wartime China.” 105 being in the right place at the right time it is unlikely that the Manhua Society and its members would have been able to succeed in their project to establish manhua as an art form. Future studies might look beyond the communist takeover of 1949 to explore how the different decisions made by manhua artists during the war years influenced how their legacies were preserved in the PRC, as well as how they were impacted by the Cultural Revolution of the mid-1960s, when the vast majority of the manhua artists found themselves being criticized as outmoded vestiges of the past. Chinese cartooning also flourished in the increasingly global context of the late 1970s and early 1980s; this is another period which would be rewarding to explore, as would the period of the mid-1990s to the present, which has seen the collapse and (stunted) rebirth of the domestic cartooning and animation industries within an increasingly competitive media and entertainment landscape. Given their fall from political favor, much biographical and historical work on manhua artists been concerned with redeeming the damaged or even forgotten reputations of this broken generation of writers and artists active in the 1920s and 1930s. While that is, in part, my intent with this study, I also hope that I have avoided the twin traps of hagiography and teleology which I would argue can be found in the sociological studies of Bi Keguan, Huang Yuanlin, and some of their successors. 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Shenbao 申報, May 8, 1928. “June 1943 Chongqing Cartoons.” Huang Yao Foundation, n.d. http://www.huangyao.org/776.html. “Lao zhaopian: shanghai sheng yuehan daxue xiaoyuan de shenyun” 老照片：上海圣约翰大学校园的 神韵 [Old Photos: The Charm of Shanghai St. John’s University Campus], July 8, 2011. http://bbs.wenxuecity.com/memory/394958.html. “Liang Da Kanwu zhi Fengxing” 兩大刋物之風行 [Two Popular Publications]. Shenbao 申報, October 22, 1929. Liangyou: Kaleidoscopic Modernity and the Shanghai Global Metropolis, 1926-1945. Leiden: Brill Academic Pub, 2013. 114 “Lianyi Jian Si Ban Faxing” 聯益箋四版發行 [Fourth Printing of Lianyi Stationary]. Shenbao 申報, February 27, 1925. “Lu Xun Xiansheng Da Baergou Tu” 魯迅先生打叭兒狗圖 [Picture of Mr. Lu Xun Beating a Pug]. Peking Press Supplement 京報副刊, January 23, 1926. “Manhua hui chang hui ji” 漫畫會常會紀 [Regular Meeting Notes for the Manhua Society]. Shenbao 申報, November 9, 1927. “Manhuahui fabiao xuanyan” 漫畫會發表宣言 [Manhua Society Publishes Manifesto]. Shenbao 申報, December 21, 1926. “Manhuahui zhi chengli” 漫畫繪製成立 [Manhua Society Founded]. Shenbao 申報, December 7, 1926. “Memorandum on the Chinese Boycott of Japanese Goods.” Memorandum (Institute of Pacific Relations, American Council) 1, no. 4 (March 30, 1932): 1–3. “Neutrality Acts.” The Oxford Essential Dictionary of the U.S. Military. Oxford University Press, 2002. http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.library.ubc.ca/view/10.1093/acref/9780199891580.0 01.0001/acref-9780199891580-e-5519. “Sanjiao zhi Guang Ding Qi Chuban” 三角之光定期出版 [Light of the Triangle to Be Published Regularly]. Shenbao 申報, March 29, 1926. “Sanri Huabao Bai Qi Huiji Fashou” 三日畫報百期彙集發售 [China Camera News 100 Issue Collection Goes on Sale]. Shenbao 申報, July 15, 1926. “Sanri Huabao Di Yi Qi Chuban” 三日畫報第一期出版 [China Camera News Publishes the First Issue]. Shenbao 申報, August 4, 1925. “Shanghai Huabao Zengsong Ming Jian” 上海畫報贈送名箋 [Shanghai Pictorial to Hand Out Free Name Brand Stationary]. Shenbao 申報, October 6, 1925. Shanghai Manhua An Shangsu Kaishen 上海漫畫案上訴開審 [Appeal Heard for Shanghai Sketch Case]. Shenbao 申報, November 16, 1928. “Shanghai Manhua Bei Kong” 上海漫畫被控 [Shanghai Sketch Accused]. Shenbao 申報, October 5, 1928. “Shanghai Manhua Bei Kong An Panjue Fayuan Xuanpan Wuzui Bufang Jiang Ti Shangsu” 上海漫畫被 控案判决 法院宣判無罪 捕房將提上訴 [Shanghai Sketch Accusation Judgement: Court Rules Not Guilty, Concession Police Station to Appeal]. 申報, October 17, 1928. “Shanghai manhua dingqi chuban” 上海漫畫定期出版 [Shanghai Sketch to Be Published Regularly]. Shenbao 申報, December 30, 1927, 本埠新聞二 section. “Shanghai Manhua Ershisi Qi Chuban” 上海漫畫二十四期出版 [Issue 24 of Shanghai Sketch Published]. Shenbao 申報, September 29, 1928. “Shanghai Manhua Wuzui Bufang Shangsu Hou zhi Panjue” 上海漫畫無罪 捕房上訴後之判决 [Shanghai Sketch Not Guilty: Followup on the Appeal at the Concession Police Station]. Shenbao 申報, November 22, 1928. “Shanghai Shenghuo Di Er Qi Chuban You Qi Shiqi Ri Chuban” 上海生活第二期出版有期 十七日 出版 [Shanghai Life Issue Two to Be Published: Date is Set for 17th]. Shenbao 申報, November 15, 1926. “Shanghai Shenghuo Di Si Qi Chuban” “上海生活”第四期出版 [“The Shanghai Life” Issue Four Published]. Shenbao 申報, June 6, 1927. 115 “Shanghai Shenghuo Hanqing Wenyi Jie Zhuangao” 上海生活函請文藝界撰稿 [Shanghai Life Requests Mailed In Submissions from the World of Art and Literature]. Shenbao 申報, May 14, 1926. “Shanghai Shenghuo Jiang Chuban Dingqi Qi Yue Qi Ri” “上海生活”將出版 定期七月七日 [“The Shanghai Life” To Be Published: Date is Set for July 7]. Shenbao 申報, July 1, 1926. “Shanghai Shenghuo Xuanshang Zhengqiu Shangbiao” 上海生活懸賞徵求商標 [Shanghai Life Offers Reward for Logo Design]. Shenbao 申報, May 8, 1926. “Shi Xuanchuan Bu Shisi Ci Buwu Huiwu” 市宣傳部十四次部務會務 [14th Meeting of the City Propaganda Department]. Shenbao 申報, September 26, 1928. “Songhu Jingting Zhengzhibu Zhiyuanwei Ding” 淞滬警廳政治部職員委定 [Songhu Police Station Political Office Staff Set]. Shenbao 申報, April 22, 1927. “Taipingyang Huabao Chuban Yuwen” 太平洋畫報出版預聞 [Pacific Pictorial to Be Published]. Shenbao 申報, May 27, 1926. “The Alumni.” Princeton Alumni Weekly XX, no. 9 (1919). The Cyclopæaedia of Practical Quotations. Funk & Wagnalls, 1886. “The Playboy Interview | Next Nature Network,” n.d. https://www.nextnature.net/2009/12/the- playboy-interview-marshall-mcluhan/. “Tuanti Huiwen” 團體彙聞 [Organization News]. Shenbao 申報, July 29, 1924. “Wang Tung-Chung (Wang Tun-Chung) B.A. Chekiang.” Yuehan Niankan 約翰年刊 (1920). “Xiaojie Xu Zhi yu Xiaoye Xu Zhi” 《小姐須知》與《少爺須知》 [Things a Young Lady Must Know and Things a Young Lad Must Know]. Shafengjing Ji de Boke 煞風景集的博客, August 22, 2011. http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_5e8246090100tr3h.html. “Xidamochang jie shuicai zhiben paimaipin_jiage_miaoshu_jianshang_(shuicai) - Bobao Yishu Paimai Wang” 【西打磨廠街 水彩 紙本】 拍賣品_價格_圖片_描述_鑒賞_(水彩) -博寶藝術 品拍賣網 [West Damochang Street Watercolor Paper Version Auction Item_Price_Picture_Description_Appreciation_(Watercolor) - Artxun Art Auction Net]. 博寶拍 賣網, n.d. http://auction.artxun.com/paimai-119504-597519148.shtml. “Xin kan shanghai manhua chuban you qi” 新刊上海漫畫出版有期 [A Date Has Been Set for the New Publication Shanghai Sketch]. Shenbao 申報, December 25, 1927, 本埠新聞二 section. “Xuewu congzai” 學務叢載 [Selection of School Affairs]. Shenbao 申報, July 17, 1923. “Xuewu congzai” 學務叢載 [Selection of School Affairs]. Shenbao 申報, August 26, 1923. “Xuewu qianzai” 學務僉載 [School Affairs]. Shenbao 申報, July 16, 1923. “Yinshua ji tuban zhi gailiang” 印刷及圖版之改良 [Improvement in Printing and Picture Plates]. Shidai 時代, October 1930. “Yuanshou” 元首 [Heads of State]. 旁觀者, November 15, 1935. “Yuehan daxue juxing biye liji” 約翰大學舉行畢業禮紀 [St. John’s University Holds Graduation Ceremony]. Shenbao 申報, June 28, 1920. “Yuehan daxue zuori zhi shenghui” 約翰大學昨日之盛會 [St. John’s University Ceremony Yesterday]. Shenbao 申報, July 1, 1923. “Yuezhe zhuyi ben kan zi xia qi qi yu Shidai Huabao hebing xiangqing qing yue di er ye!” 阅者注意 本 刊自下起期起與時代畫報合併為半月刊 詳情請閱第二頁! [Note to Our Readers: 116 Starting with Our next Issue, this Magazine Will Join with Modern Miscellany and Be Published Bi-Monthly. See Page Two for More Details!]. Shanghai Manhua 上海漫畫, June 7, 1930. “Zhongguo di yi hua she qiu tougao” 中國第一畫社徵求投稿 [Pioneer Syndicate Seeks Submissions]. Shenbao 申報, September 19, 1928. “Zhongguo huapian gongsi chengli” 中國畫片公司成立 [Chinese Painting Film Studio Established]. Shenbao 申報, June 24, 1924, 22nd ed. “Zhongguo Manhua Yanjiu Hui Chengli” 中國漫畫研究會成立 [Chinese Manhua Research Society Founded]. Shenbao 申報, June 9, 1931. “[Zhongguo Manhua Zhuanti Ku] - Quanguo Wenhua Xinxi Ziyuan Gongxiang Gongcheng” [中國漫畫 專題庫]-全國文化信息資源共享工程 [[Chinese Manhua Database] - National Digital Culture Network], n.d. http://www.bjgxgc.cn/manhua/. “Zhongwen biyesheng xiaoxiang bing timing lu” 中文畢業生小像並題名錄 [Chinese Supplement: Pictures of Graduating Students and Biographical Information]. Yuehan Niankan 約翰年刊 (1920). 117 AppendixAppendixAppendixAppendix Appendix A: Tables Appendix A: Tables Appendix A: Tables Appendix A: Tables Table A.1 Major manhua artists and publishers by decade, 1884-1917 Members of the 1926 Manhua Society are marked in bold.bold.bold.bold. Pre-1900 Zhang MeisunZhang MeisunZhang MeisunZhang Meisun 張眉孫張眉孫張眉孫張眉孫 (1884(1884(1884(1884----1975)1975)1975)1975) Sun Xueni 孫雪泥 (1888-1965) Shen Bochen 沈泊塵 (1889-1920) Ding SongDing SongDing SongDing Song 丁松丁松丁松丁松 (1891(1891(1891(1891----1972)1972)1972)1972) Zhou Shoujuan 周瘦鵑 (1895-1968) Feng Zikai 豐子愷 (1898-1975) Wang DunqingWang DunqingWang DunqingWang Dunqing 王敦慶王敦慶王敦慶王敦慶 (1899(1899(1899(1899----1990)1990)1990)1990) 1900-1910 Zhang GuangyuZhang GuangyuZhang GuangyuZhang Guangyu 張光宇張光宇張光宇張光宇 (1900(1900(1900(1900----1965)1965)1965)1965) Ji XiaoboJi XiaoboJi XiaoboJi Xiaobo 季小波季小波季小波季小波 (1901(1901(1901(1901----2000)2000)2000)2000) Hu XuguangHu XuguangHu XuguangHu Xuguang 胡旭光胡旭光胡旭光胡旭光 (1901(1901(1901(1901----1960)1960)1960)1960) Cao Hanmei 曹涵美 (1902-1975) Lu ShaofeiLu ShaofeiLu ShaofeiLu Shaofei 魯少飛魯少飛魯少飛魯少飛 (1903(1903(1903(1903----1995)1995)1995)1995) Huang WennongHuang WennongHuang WennongHuang Wennong 黃文農黃文農黃文農黃文農 (1903(1903(1903(1903----1934)1934)1934)1934) Zhang ZhengyuZhang ZhengyuZhang ZhengyuZhang Zhengyu 張正宇張正宇張正宇張正宇 (1904(1904(1904(1904----1976)1976)1976)1976) Shao Xunmei 邵洵美 (1906(1906(1906(1906----1968)1968)1968)1968) Ye QianyuYe QianyuYe QianyuYe Qianyu 葉淺予葉淺予葉淺予葉淺予 (1907(1907(1907(1907----1995)1995)1995)1995) Cai Shudan Cai Shudan Cai Shudan Cai Shudan 蔡輸丹蔡輸丹蔡輸丹蔡輸丹(n.d.)(n.d.)(n.d.)(n.d.) Huang Shiying 黄士英 (n.d.) 1910-1920 Zhang Leping 張樂平 (1910-92) Cai Ruohong 蔡若虹 (1910-?) Liang Baibo 梁白波 (1911?-1970) 118 1910-1920 (Cont.) Hu Kao 胡考 (1912-1994) Huang Miaozi 黃苗子 (1913-2012) Wang Zimei 汪子美 (1913-2002) Hua Junwu 華君武 (1915-2010) Te Wei 特偉 (1915-2010) Liao Bingxiong 廖冰兄（1915-2006） Ding Cong 丁聰 (1916-2009) Huang Yao 黃堯 (1917-1987) 119 Table A.2 Cartoon periodicals published in Shanghai, by year founded, 1928-1937 Year Publication 1912 The Crystal 晶報 1913 Unfettered Magazine 自由雜誌 The Pastime 游戲雜志 The Saturday 禮拜六 1918 Shanghai Puck 上海潑克 World Pictorial 世界畫報 1919 Comedy Pictorial 滑稽畫報 1925 China Camera News三日畫報 1928 Shanghai Sketch I 上海漫畫 Shanghai Sketch II上海漫畫 1929 Modern Miscellany 時代畫報 1934 Modern Sketch 時代漫畫 Manhua Life 漫畫生活 Observer 旁觀者 1935 Manhua Manhua 漫畫漫話 Movies and Manhua 電影漫畫 Manhua Phenomenon 現象漫畫 Chinese Manhua 中國漫畫 Oriental Puck 獨立漫畫 Popular Manhua 群眾漫畫 New Era Manhua 新時代漫畫 120 1935 (cont.) Manhua and Life 漫畫與生活 1936 Manhua World 漫畫界 Life Manhua 生活漫畫 Shanghai Puck 上海漫畫 Global Manhua 世界漫畫 1937 Puck 潑克 Friends of Manhua 漫畫之友 Ox-Head Manhua 牛頭漫畫 Resist Japan Pictorial 抗日畫報 Save the Nation Manhua 救亡漫畫 1938 Resistance Manhua 抗戰漫畫 
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work_bn7ucgznhffclnwqzacg65ers4	----	Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740. https://doi.org/10.3390/ijerph18052740 www.mdpi.com/journal/ijerph Article Dark Tourism in Southern Spain (Córdoba): An Analysis of the Demand María Genoveva Dancausa Millán 1,*, María Genoveva Millán Vázquez de la Torre 2 and Ricardo Hernández Rojas 3 1 Management, Economic Applied and Stadistics, Universidad de Córdoba, 14071 Córdoba, Spain 2 Quantitative Methods, Universidad Loyola Andalucía, 14004 Córdoba, Spain; gmillan@uloyola.es 3 Agricultural Economics, Finance and Accounting, Universidad de Córdoba, 14071 Córdoba, Spain; et2heror@uco.es * Correspondence: z62damim@uco.es; Tel.: +34-628420096 Abstract: In recent decades, there has been a change in tourists’ tastes; they want to experience something novel. To satisfy this demand, a new type of tourism, known as “dark tourism”, has arisen; it has various modalities, among which cemetery tourism and ghost tourism stand out, in addition to very different motivations from those of the cultural tourist. In this type of tourism, cemeteries are not visited to appreciate their architecture or heritage but to explore a morbid curi- osity about the people buried there; ghost tourism or paranormal tourism seizes on the desire to know the events that occurred there and tends to have macabre content. This study analyzes dark tourism in the province of Córdoba in southern Spain with the aim of knowing the profile of the tourist and his motivation. This study additionally will forecast the demand for this type of tourism, using autoregressive integrated moving average (ARIMA) models, which allow us to know this market’s evolution and whether any promotional action should be carried out to promote it. Keywords: dark tourism; thanatourism; ghost tourism; ARIMA models. 1. Introduction In recent years, tourists’ tastes have been changing in an observable way; they not only want to know the experiences of other people but are also looking for new and per- sonal experiences. Therefore, tourism has adapted to these changing tastes [1]. The appli- cation of new technologies provides a consumer with an extensive range of tourism modes at the touch of a button as well as the opinions and ratings of previous consumers. These reviews can provide a degree of confidence about the target destination, especially those with few visitors due to divisive themes or macabre or spiritual connotations. There is newly emerging tourism demand related to places where a tragedy has happened [2– 5]. Death, beyond the feeling of loss of a loved one, can be explored when the consumer has some emotional distance and the circumstances that have preceded death were ab- normal; such things include tragedies from which we must learn so as not to repeat them. Clear examples of this include genocide [6] and slavery [7]. Since ancient times, some people have enjoyed and been fascinated with the trap- pings of death; this can be considered the forebearer of death tourism, minus the tourism because this occurred at home and was a leisure activity. Thus, in the era of the gladiators, Romans observed how these gladiators fought for their lives against other gladiators or beasts as a form of entertainment. In the Middle Ages, many people came to witness exe- cutions (deaths at the stake or hanging) as a fact of everyday life [8]. Citation: Dancausa Millán, M.G..; Millán Vázquez de la Torre, M.G.; Hernandez Rojas, R. Dark Tourism in Southern Spain (Córdoba): An Analysis of the Demand. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740. https://doi.org/ 10.3390/ijerph18052740 Academic Editor: Paul Tchounwou Received: 19 January 2021 Accepted: 27 February 2021 Published: 8 March 2021 Publisher’s Note: MDPI stays neu- tral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and insti- tutional affiliations. Copyright: © 2021 by the authors. Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland. This article is an open access article distributed under the terms and con- ditions of the Creative Com-mons Attribution (CC BY) license (http://creativecommons.org/li- censes/by/4.0/). Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 2 of 19 Most dark tourism researchers acknowledge that people traveled to places associated with death before the modern era. Seaton [9] linked such practices to a thanatotic tradition, which was a part of Western religious and philosophical. However, it was during the 20th century that people begin to travel to visit places related to death but without the philosophical and spiritual connotation. These people visited rather from the point of view of curiosity or morbid curiosity; in the contemporary historical period (after the First World War), this became the origins of dark tourism, and its motivations are varied according to various death-related subsegments. In this work, we will analyze a subsegment of dark tourism and cemetery tourism in southern Spain. The main objective of this article is to provide knowledge in the field of dark tourism. Specifically, this study analyzes dark tourism in the province of Córdoba in southern Spain with the aim of knowing the profile of the tourist and his motivation. This study additionally will forecast the demand for this type of tourism, using autoregressive inte- grated moving average (ARIMA) models. This research deepens in this field which is not very studied, for this purpose first perform an academic definition and classification, then defines the so-called cemetery tourism and shows the results of a survey of this type of tourist in a specific case in the south of Spain. End discussions and conclusions. 2. Dark Tourism and Classification The tourism of death and suffering has had several names, such as morbid tourism [10], thanatourism [11], negative tourism [12], tragic tourism [13], grief tourism [14], milk- ing the macabre [15], difficult heritage [16], atrocity tourism [17] or dark tourism [18], the latter being the most widely used coinage today. For these researchers, “dark tourism” is the travel of visitors to places where deaths or disasters have occurred. They do not par- ticipate to commemorate family and friends but as leisure or recreation, marking a funda- mental change in the conception of how death, disaster and other atrocities are handled as associated tourist products. However, there are other definitions of this term, among which the Institute for Dark Tourism Research, University of Central Lancashire (Eng- land) stands out. Dark tourism is the act of travel and visitation to sites, attractions, and exhibitions that have real or recreated death, suffering or seemingly macabre as a main theme. Tourist visits to former battlefields, slavery-heritage attractions, prisons, cemeter- ies, particular museum exhibitions, Holocaust sites, or to disaster locations all constitute the broad realm of ”Dark Tourism” [19]. Biran et al., [20] indicates that this tourism has become a popular and emotive term that perhaps excessively simplifies a complex, multifaceted and multidimensional phe- nomenon; however, Lennon and Foley [18] indicate that dark tourism is the product of the circumstances of the modern world, where there is a change in the patterns of presen- tation and consumption of death in tourist destinations, which can vary depending on the place. According to Slade [21], tourists from Australia and New Zealand who visit Gallip- oli do so not so much for being a place where there was a battle that resulted in many deaths but rather see it as the birth of their nations; the motive is national identity rather than death. Dark tourism is increasingly in demand, but what drives people to do it? The reasons can be diverse, including the following: Desiring experiences or to have “holidays in hell” [22]. Needing to look death in the face, or having a mere interest in death and everything that relates it [23]. Having an interest both in history and in the heritage it has left behind or in education and memories of the past and the suffering it has caused [24]. This interest is combined with the desire to understand how people can survive catastrophes and the attempt to pay homage to the people who suffered, learning a lesson from the past so as not to repeat it [25]. Conserving both the heritage of a place and its history and therefore the identity of a collective [26]. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 3 of 19 Satisfying our curiosity [27]. Being challenged or changing the perception of mortality [28,29]. Stone [30] created a framework for classifying different types of “dark tourism”. Within this industry, different products corresponding to each of the types can be devel- oped by establishing seven categories, “Seven Dark Suppliers”, that could satisfy tourists’ motivations.  Dark Fun Factories. This refers to places to visit and attractions that are centered on entertainment and commercial values where events related to death or the macabre are real or fictitious.  Dark Exhibitions. This type offers products related to death and the macabre but with an air of commemoration and education. It is not simply fun or enjoyment, as in fun- fair factories; in this case, it is intended to teach something.  Dark Dungeons. This refers to attractions that show both old prisons and old justice palaces.  Dark Resting Places. This typology alludes to cemeteries as resting places and con- siders them as a potential product within “dark tourism”. It proposes using cemeter- ies as a mechanism to promote visiting areas and conserving the landscape and ar- chitecture, in addition to considering these locations as memorials.  Dark Shrines. These are places where remembrance and respect is paid to a recently deceased person.  Dark Conflict Sites. These are the activities, places and destinations that have a mili- tary conflict as their main motive. They have educational features but are, above all, commemorative and were at first not intentionally related to the concept of “dark tourism”.  Dark Camps of Genocide. Concentration camps represent the places where atrocities and genocides have taken place. Therefore, a tourist who participates in “dark tourism” can have different reasons for doing so and plan their trip according to their own wants. Europe, as an old continent, has many places to engage in dark tourism. In this research, we will focus on cemetery tourism in southern Europe, specifically in Andalusia. 3. Thanatourism: The European Cemeteries Route and Spain’s Unique Cemeteries Called “necrotourism,” or cemetery tourism, this practice is a subsegment of dark tourism that is becoming increasingly important. Necrotourism is where tourists can walk the corridors of graveyards to discover the artistic, architectural, historical and scenic her- itage treasured by cemeteries [31]. In the United States, the following cemeteries are note- worthy: the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York, where guided visits by local historians are conducted, and Arlington National Cemetery, which is doubtlessly the most famous military cemetery in the world. It was founded during the American Civil War, and highlights include the eternal flame on the grave of John F. Kennedy. Mount Auburn Cemetery in Massachusetts is one of the most beautiful “parks” in the United States and not only contains the tombs of numerous famous people such as Henry Wadsworth Long- fellow and Henry Cabot Lodge, which attract tourists, but is also populated by a variety of plants and birds. In Argentina, the Cementerio de la Recoleta in Buenos Aires, attracts visitors for its art embodied in sculptures and its stories. In Europe, London’s Highgate Cemetery stands out as a cemetery of the Victorian era; today it is a natural reserve, with flowery pantheons and no lack of fallen or half- fallen angels and late-Gothic imagery. Zentralfriedhof in Vienna is where some of the most important musicians of all time rest: Beethoven, Schubert, Strauss, Brahms. This cemetery also contains the monuments to the fallen of the First World War and the coun- try’s War of Independence. Père-Lachaise in Paris is one of the most visited cemeteries in the world [32], undoubtedly thanks to the number of famous people who rest in it, such Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 4 of 19 as Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Delacroix, Chopin and Jim Morrison. The Jewish Cemetery of Pra- gue is embedded among the centuries-old houses of the Jewish Quarter in Prague and is noted for the agglomeration of its tombs. According to the city’s archives, 100,000 people may be buried there, spread over 12,000 gravestones, data that speak to the little space that Prague granted to the Jewish ghetto at the time. In Spain, cemeteries are valued; actions to preserve this heritage include the registra- tion of approximately 20 Spanish cemeteries as points of cultural interest (bienes de interés cultural—BIC) or autonomous and/or local recognition (Goods of cultural interest (bienes de interés cultural—BIC) are understood as those that are registered and catalogued as such, while the recognition refers to those legal figures that lead to certain protection, such as the figure of cultural good of local interest of municipal scope). In recent years, cultural tourism has emerged as one of the main elements that stimulates heritage, and cemetery tourism is a part of this trend; therefore, cultural tourism favors the protection of cultural itineraries, i.e., conservation and valuation of both roads and the landscapes that accom- pany them. A cultural tourism itinerary highlights the monumental and historical-artistic aspect of the cemeteries, defining them as “open museums”, “open air museums”, “mi- crocosms” or “local heritage sites”, and they are presented as an alternative way of visiting and getting to know cities and their history and traditions. Since 1987, The Council of Europe has recognized 32 European Cultural Routes, of which 20 have part of their route in Spain. Among these is the European Cemeteries Route, which became part of the list in 2010 thanks to the momentum of the Association of Sig- nificant Cemeteries of Europe (ASCE). This route integrates 63 cemeteries in 56 cities in 20 European countries. The European Cemeteries Route has the presentation of European funerary heritage, tracing a polyphonic image in movement of customs, traditions and funeral art representative of the European continent in the last two centuries and present- ing a vision of recent history as its fundamental objective. However, it also seeks to pro- mote quality cultural tourism through the supply of new spaces while establishing trans- national cooperation links, promoting “the restoration of the funerary landscape, convert- ing these spaces into a tool of knowledge and continuous research and function with a clear educational vocation so that schools incorporate it into their cultural visits in a dy- namic and pedagogical way.” As a tourist product, the cemeteries route represents an alternative and/or a complement to the existing offer. Cemeteries are sacred and emotional spaces, but at the same time, they are witnesses to the local history of cities and towns. They are common to all cities and towns in Europe and therefore clearly reveal the cultural and religious identity of the city, forming part of the tangible heritage through their works, sculptures, engravings and even their urban planning. In the same way, cemeteries are part of the intangible heritage of our anthropo- logical reality, supporting the environment that surrounds the habits and practices related to death and providing unique scenarios where we can find part of our historical memo- ries. They are places to remember periods of local history that communities neither want to nor should forget and history that we have a duty to preserve and transmit to future generations, according to Dancausa et al. [32]. This route refers to cemeteries as places of life and environments that, as urban spaces, are directly linked to the history and culture of the community to which they be- long and where we will find many of our references. The importance of the European Cemeteries Route lies in its multicultural diversity, which occurs mainly through the in- teraction between its members more than the simple value of its individual components. In Spain, the most unique cemeteries are found in the regions of Andalusia, Catalonia, Cantabria, Valencia and Asturias. 4. Methodology In the treatment of information, a field study was carried out aimed at the population of tourists who visited a cemetery or “haunted” location in the province of Córdoba in Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 5 of 19 2019 (Table 1). To determine a profile and motivations for this, a questionnaire consisting of 24 questions divided into four sections was conducted. Table 1. Datasheet of the survey. Survey Characteristics Offered Survey Population People over the age of 16 who have carried out dark tourism (Cemeteries and ghosts) in Córdoba and Province Sample size 223 valid surveys Sample error +/− 4.05% Level of confidence 95% p = q = 0,5 Fieldwork dates January 2019–December 2019 Source: By authors. 1. The first block of the questionnaire collected personal information (age, gender, ed- ucational level, marital status, etc.); 2. The second block gathered information about the visit (Number of people who have come with you to complete the route, Has the visit met your expectations regarding the dark tourism route taken? Is the price paid in accordance with the route? How did you find out about the route?); 3. The third block questions about motivation to visit (How do you assess the current situation in terms of tourism management of places such as those you have visited? What do you think about the creation of a dark tourism route in the capital or in the province?); 4. The fourth block collected information questions about dark tourism locations re- garding value (From your point of view as a customer, what is the greatest barrier to the development of sites for dark tourism? Do you know that there are similar sites to those visited in the province?). Information was collected using a questionnaire directed at the population of tourist consumers visiting a cemetery or “haunted” location in the province of Córdoba. The ac- cess by the surveyors to the dark route (cemeteries, ghosts’ enclaves) and the conduct of interviews with tourists was authorized by the managing body and owner of the ceme- teries. Prior to the completion of the questionnaire, tourists were informed of academic pur- poses and anonymity in answering. Consent to take the questionnaire was verbal. At all times, the visitor’s anonymity to the dark route was guaranteed. With both qualitative and quantitative information extracted from the questionnaire, a univariate descriptive analysis was performed to determine the percentage of each cat- egory of the variable (percentage by gender, age, income level, etc.) and a bivariate anal- ysis was performed through contingency tables to analyze whether there is association or independence between two variables using the χ2 statistic. The initial population (tourists) was complex, and the distribution of the sample was a function of the tourists who visited the four selected enclaves (Faculty of Law and Busi- ness Administration, Faculty of Philosophy and Letters, Palace of Orive and Cemetery of Our Lady of Health). With the objective of analyzing the variables that influence visit sat- isfaction, a logit model has been developed that explained the probability of being satis- fied (Satisfaction) with the visit made to dark tourism places in Córdoba (dichotomous variable that takes the value of 1 if their satisfaction level with the visit is greater than 75% and 0 if it is not) with the aim of identifying the factors that influence satisfaction depend- ing on the tourist’s profile. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 6 of 19 Of all of the predetermined variables, the only ones that are significant to explain the probability of being satisfied with the visit are as follows: Age (Age); Family income (income); Academic level, which was divided into three variables to highlight the main catego- ries: university education (undergraduate, master, doctorate) (uni), intermediate ed- ucation (baccalaureate and vocational training) (ba), and not completed an education or has a basic high school education (ncs), the latter being the reference variable. An autoregressive integrated moving average (ARIMA) model [33,34], was also cre- ated to predict the demand for dark tourism in Córdoba, a province located in southern Spain. According to Gujarati [35], the facilitating factor of this prediction method is in an analysis of the probabilistic, or stochastic, properties of the economic time series (in this case, the number of dark tourists in Cordoba). In the time series models, the dark tourist variable can be explained over time by its past or lag values and by the stochastic error terms, giving ARIMA models an advantage of being less costly in data collection, as only historical observations of the data are required. In contrast, the main limitation of using univariate analysis is that it does not recognize any causal relationship with the behaviour of other endogenous variables or information related to the behaviour of other explana- tory variables. The SARIMA models (p,d,q) × (P,D,Q)s are described by the following ex- pressions: φ (B) Φ(B �) �� = θ (B) Θ(B � ) �� �� = (1 − �) � (1 − �� )� �(� where the operators introduced in the formulas are Yt (series observed, in our case, it is the gastronomic tourism demand, λ (represents the correction of the trend in variance of the series), Zt (series that is de-seasonalized and without a trend, that is, is stationary), B (lag operator), (1—B) (typical difference operator), Bs (seasonal lag operator, (1—Bs): sea- sonal difference operator). The difference operators and seasonal difference operators, in general, eliminate the trends and the seasonal components of the series, respectively. ϕ(B) is the autoregressive polynomial of order p, corresponding to the ordinary part of the se- ries; θ(B) is the polynomial of moving averages of order q, corresponding to the ordinary part of the series; Φ(Bs) is the p-order autoregressive polynomial, corresponding to the seasonal part of the series; Θ(Bs) is the polynomial of moving averages of order Q, corre- sponding to the seasonal part of the series; at is the disturbance of the model; and D is the number of times the seasonal difference operators and typical difference are applied to the original series to make it stationary. In the ARIMA models, the behavior of a time series is explained from the past obser- vations of the series itself and from the past forecasting errors. Several studies have shown how ARIMA models and their different variants obtain good results in forecasting tour- ism demand. 5. Results The results obtained can be divided into three groups according to the techniques used: 5.1. Univariate and Bivariate Analysis A descriptive analysis of the results shows that the profile of people who participate in dark tourism on the Andalusian cemeteries route is between 26 and 40 years old (59.4%) and with a university education (48.7%). These results are similar to those obtained by Carrión [33] in a study of the Yungay Cemetery in Peru. They are also single people (51.5%), mainly women (55.4%), who are attracted to the paranormal phenomena related to ghosts and want to know about tombs and everything related to the death of illustrious Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 7 of 19 people buried in the cemeteries of Córdoba [34,35]. As indicated by Korstanje [36], the sites of dark tourism function as instructive devices about trauma, which evokes mass death in conditions of vulnerability of others (Table 2). Also noteworthy is the 48.7% of these tourists who have a college education; there- fore, they are visitors with a high level of education, differing from the profile of other tourists such as those at the Museum of the Mummies of Guanajuato (Mexico), wherein superstition plays a fundamental role, which receives more than 600,000 tourists per year with an average educational level of primary or secondary education. People who visit dark tourism sites in Córdoba mostly come from the Autonomous Community of Andalusia (55.2%), demonstrating that this type of tourism can be further commercialized in the national and international markets. The Córdoba Cemeteries Route still attracts little foreign tourism (0.4%), far different from the profile of other cemeteries such as the Jewish Cemetery in Prague, where the percentage of foreign tourists exceeds 80%. It has been observed that 68.1% of tourists would be willing to repeat a route with an experience similar to the one they had, and a degree of satisfaction greater than 76% al- lows for the creation of a commercial tourism product with high fidelity, since 91.6% of respondents rated their experience very positively. Table 2. Profile of the tourist of dark tourism of Córdoba and Province. Block Question Classification Percentage D. Questions related to the characteristics of the dark tourist Age range 16 years to 17 years 0.9% 18 years to 25 years 17.3% 26 years to 40 years 59.4% Older than 40 years 22.4% Level of education No completed studies 0.6% High school 17.3% Baccalaureate 33.4% University 48.7% Gender Man 44.6% Woman 55.4% Marital status Single 51.5% Married 40.1% Divorced/separated 7.2% Other status 1.3% Monthly income level of the family unit Less than 1000 euros 29.3% 1001–1500 euros 39.4% 1501–2000 euros 10.6% 2001–2500 euros 9.3% More than 2500 euros 11.4% With whom did you experience the tour? Alone 3.6% Accompanied by my partner 43.1% With friends 37.4% With family 15.9% What is your origin? Cordovan 40.3% Rest of Andalusia (except Córdoba) 55.2% Other Autonomous Communities (except Andalusia) 4.1% Abroad 0.4% Would you repeat the experience with a similar route? Yes 68.1% No 31.9% Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 8 of 19 Satisfaction level of the visit Less than 25% 1.6% 25–50% 2.1% 51–75% 4.7% 76–99% 36.2% 100% 55.4% Source: By authors. (bold the largest percentages of variable). Table 3 shows that this type of tourism is mainly discovered through the internet or social networks (53.8%), though the dark tourism web still has a low percentage of attrac- tion compared to the demand for tourist information (13.5%). Additionally, it can be seen that dark tourism is not highly publicized in brochures or by tour operators; this behavior is similar to that observed in Malaysian research by Mohd et al. [37], who indicate that dark tourism, as a new tourist product, has a very low promotional effort made by tour operators until the demand increases. Table 3. Univariate results of the survey of people who participated in dark tourism. in Córdoba: Questions about the visit. Block Question Classification Percentage A. Questions about the visit Number of people who have come with you to complete the route 1 person 3.5% 2 to 4 people 72.1% More than 4 people 24.4% Has the visit met your expectations regarding the dark tourism route taken? Yes 93.2% No 6.8% What would you improve? Nothing 20.3% More audiovisual media 35.1% Delivery of written material on the route 25.2% Historical data 9.3% Other 10.1% Would you be interested in receiving more information after your visit? Yes, if it is free 52.1% Yes, in any case 28.3% I do not consider it necessary 19.6% Did you come specifically to carry out this route, or was it offered to you in Córdoba? I came expressly from my place of origin 55.2% It was circumstantial; they offered it to me 44.8% Is the price paid in accordance with the route? Yes 88.1% No 11.9% How did you find out about the route? Through the internet, on dark tourism websites 13.5% Through the internet, on social networks 53.8% From the recommendation of friends and family 22.3% Through printed brochures 3.6% Other means 6.8% Source: By authors. (bold the largest percentages of variable). If we compare the dark tourist in Córdoba with the profile of the cultural tourist in Spain from Soro et al. [38], it is clear they are different, although both have higher educa- tion levels; the age of the dark tourist is young, between 26 and 40 years, while the most common cultural tourist is between 46 and 55 years with a higher income level than dark Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 9 of 19 tourists in Córdoba. Dark tourists also tend to travel as a couple versus cultural tourists, who tend to travel with friends and family. Regarding tourists’ expectations about the route taken, 93.2% felt their expectations were met, indicating that the product offered is quality; however, this number could be improved by increasing audiovisual media (35.2%) or providing brochures explaining the visit (25.2%). It should be noted that 55.2% of the tourists who took the route (either the ghosts, tourism or cemetery trips) traveled from their place of origin to take this tour; 88.1% con- sidered the price appropriate when considering the product’s quality. The main motivation dark tourists have for participating in Córdoba is the constant search for new paranormal experiences (74.3%), one of the main motivations described by Carrasco et al. [39], since people need to escape from daily monotony [40]. (Table 4) Table 4. Univariate results of a survey of people who carried out dark tourism in Córdoba: Moti- vations. Block Question Classification Percentage C. Questions about motivation to visit What most motivates you to visit? To experience paranormal stories 74.3% Visit a cemetery to see its tombs, sculptures 23.1% See sites where battles have been held 2.9% How do you assess the current situation in terms of tourism management of places such as those you have visited? Good 64.1% Average 30.3% Bad 5.6% What do you think about the creation of a dark tourism route in the capital or in the province? I agree 97.2% I do not agree; I prefer to visit one site and not several 2.8% Source: By authors. (bold the largest percentages of variable). Table 5 shows the knowledge and opinions of tourists regarding dark tourism routes in Córdoba; 86.4% know that there are similar sites of dark tourism that differ from those in Córdoba, and 77.7% have visited them. These tourists also believe that dark tourism is a good reason to visit Córdoba and the province. This percentage so high because re- spondents include only dark tourists. According to the tourism observations in Córdoba in 2016, the main reasons for general tourists visiting the city was to experience its material heritage and then its gastronomy. Regarding the assessment of the tourism management of the places visited, 60.4% rated the management as good, and 93.2% thought that the route of cemeteries in Córdoba should be offered along with the route of ghosts or legendary places. Table 5. Univariate results of the survey of dark tourists in Córdoba: Questions about dark tourism locations. Block Question Classification Percentage B. Questions about dark tourism locations Do you know that there are similar sites to those visited in the province? Yes 86.4% No 13.6% Have you undertaken other dark tourism routes other than Córdoba? Yes 22.3% No 77.7% Do you think dark tourism is a good selling point to visit Córdoba and the province? Yes 88.3% No 7.1% I do not know; I cannot comment 4.6% Yes 93.2% Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 10 of 19 Would you carry out a combined route of Córdoba cemeteries and ghosts? No 6.8% From your point of view as a customer, what is the greatest barrier to the development of sites for dark tourism? Discoordination of actions between different public administrations 13.6% Disinterest of public bodies; they are not interested in dark tourism 60.4% Lack of local private initiative; there are no entrepreneurs who invest in this area 23.1% Other (indicate) 2.9% Source. By authors. (bold the largest percentages of variable). Based on the results of the univariate analysis, we can highlight that the dark tourist in Córdoba and the surrounding province is very satisfied with the tourism product, is knowledgeable about the topic and believes that combined products could be created; this tourist also appreciates the lack of coordination in tourism product management, partly due to the experience of having visited similar sites. Therefore, Córdoba has great market potential for this tourist niche, but adequate management and coordination between pub- lic and private entities is necessary to offer a quality product and increase the number of tourism offerings, especially at night. This will increase the number of overnight stays and the average spending of tourists, two handicaps that have been difficult to solve in Cór- doba as these actions are often performed individually and not coordinated (Table 6). With the aim of deepening the analysis between the different variables, a bivariate analysis was performed. There is a strong relationship between the tourist’s age and their degree of satisfaction with the route of cemeteries (χ2 = 34.3, p = 0.00). When the tourist is younger, he rates the route more positively. Age also influences how tourists discover the route (χ2 = 27.5, p = 0.00). Younger tourists use new technologies, the internet, social net- works and tourism websites, while older tourists use recommendations from friends and family. However, there is no relationship between the reason for the visit and age (χ2 = 0.24, p = 0.9997), gender (χ2 = 1.13, p = 0.5681) or income level (χ2 = 2.25, p = 0.9723). It is also observed that there is a relationship between the variables if the tourist has visited other dark tourism sites and their degree of satisfaction; thus, people who have not visited other dark tourism sites are more satisfied than those who have seen other places, because they make a comparison, and although the tourism product in Córdoba is good, its youth and lack of coordination do not match those of other places (χ2 = 32.3, p = 0.00). Additionally, level of education and degree of satisfaction are correlated. When the tourist has a higher level of education, their degree of satisfaction is somewhat lower, ei- ther because the historical explanations of the legendary sites are not very accurate or because they believe that audiovisual media are lacking. (χ2 = 25.1, p = 0.00). Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 11 of 19 Table 6. Results of the bivariate analysis of the demand for dark tourism in Córdoba. Associated Variables χ2 Df p-value Age of the tourist/degree of satisfaction with the dark tourism route completed 34.3 12 0.00060 Degree of satisfaction with the dark tourism route carried out/cultural level 32.3 4 0.00001 Age of the tourist/knowledge of the route 27.5 15 0.02491 Degree of satisfaction with the dark tourism route completed/cultural level 25.1 12 0.00004 χ2 Chi-square statistic. Correlated variables for α = 0.05, df = degrees of freedom. Source: By au- thors A logit regression model has been performed to calculate the probability that a tourist is satisfied with the visit made to the dark tourism place (cemetery or places with ghosts) and is attached to the final model where the variables are significant at 5%). Table 7. Estimation logit model. Dependent Variable: SATISFACTION Method: ML—Binary Logit (Quadratic Hill Climbing) Included Observations: 123 Variable Coefficient Std. Error z-Statistic Prob. C 3.393223 0.975454 3.478611 0.0005 EDAD −0.035456 0.016227 −2.085000 0.0376 INCOME −0.000355 0.000109 −3.256885 0.0012 UNI −1.248397 0.556890 −2.241729 0.0250 BA −0.437861 0.215638 −2.030537 0.0424 McFadden Rsquared 0.426777 Mean dependent var 0.707317 Source: By authors. From these estimate, we obtain the following results: All of the variables of the best logit model obtained negatively influence the proba- bility of being satisfied, with the most relevant variables being university academic level (−1.24). If the tourist has a university education, he/she is less satisfied with the visit than those who have not completed an education or have a basic education, corroborating the results of the contingency table. The level of income has a negative influence; as the visitor’s income increases, his/her satisfaction with the visit decreases. Tourists with higher income levels are generally those who have a university education. The age variable negatively influences the probability of being satisfied; older tour- ists have lower degrees of satisfaction. It should be noted that there are no significant differences between males’ or females’ probability of being satisfied, and this variable is not significant. Therefore, cemetery and ghost tourism is a niche market that is not sufficiently ex- ploited in Andalusia and, thus, has significant potential for development. When combined with other forms of dark tourism, such tourism could generate wealth and expand the cultural offerings in Andalusia and, specifically, in Córdoba. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 12 of 19 5.2. Arima Model for Forecasting Demand for Dark Tourism Dark tourism in Córdoba is a tourist segment little exploited due to its novelty but growing very slowly. To make it more dynamic, studies indicate evolution is needed, as are studies that apply the necessary marketing tools to make this tourism more dynamic and turn it into an attractive product for the cemeteries at the location has and places of legend. There are no studies on the potential demand for dark tourism in Córdoba, and this article is a novel contribution that covers this research gap. This absence of studies is mainly due to the difficulty of obtaining data on tourists, since the statistics held by com- panies dedicated to tourism are scarce. In this research, we have compiled the information from tourists who carried out different dark tourism routes. The majority of the tourists of this typology are concentrated using ARIMA models, widely used for the prediction of tourists [41–50]. Figure 1 shows a slight upward trend in the demand variable over the seven years analyzed (January 2013 to May 2019). It can also be seen that this variable has a tendency in variance, which has been corrected with the transformation of Box-Cox λ = 0.3, and a tendency in mean and in cycle that have been corrected with a differentiation in mean and cycle. Figure 1. Evolution of the demand for dark tourism in Córdoba (January 2013–May 2019). Source. By authors. The estimated monthly forecast model of demand for dark tourism being seasonal ARIMA (2,1,0) (1,1,0) 12 (Table 8) (1 + 0.089857��)(1 − 0.099307���) (1 − �)� (1 − ���)����������.� = �� ��� = −6.30199 ∗ ��� = −9.88241 ∗ *Significant parameters for α = 0.05 Table 8. Estimation of demand for dark tourism in Córdoba SARIMA (2,1,0) (1,1,0)12. Dependent Variable: D(TOURISTS^0.2,1,12). Sample (adjusted): 2015M04 2019M05 Variable Coefficient Std. Error t-Statistic Prob. AR(2) −0.898567 0.142585 −6.30199 0.00001 SAR(12) −0.099307 0.010048 −9.88241 0.00000 Source: By authors. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 13 of 19 Tables 9 and 10 show the different validation contrasts of the model, such as the Ljung-Box test, and verify that the null hypothesis of absence of autocorrelation is met, since the statistical probability is higher than the 1% significance level of the model (“Prob” column). Table 9. Statistical analysis of Ljung-Box. Autocorrelation Partial Correlation r AC PAC Q-Stat Prob **| . | **| . | 1 −0.293 −0.293 4.5398 | . | | . | 2 0.027 −0.064 4.5788 *| . | *| . | 3 −0.134 −0.159 5.5777 0.018 |*. | | . | 4 0.136 0.056 6.6285 0.036 | . | | . | 5 −0.028 0.024 6.6722 0.083 | . | | . | 6 −0.007 −0.017 6.6754 0.154 *| . | | . | 7 −0.075 −0.065 7.0113 0.220 | . | | . | 8 0.011 −0.046 7.0186 0.319 *| . | *| . | 9 −0.146 −0.190 8.3657 0.301 | . | *| . | 10 −0.017 −0.154 8.3843 0.397 |*. | | . | 11 0.100 0.048 9.0544 0.432 | . | |*. | 12 0.065 0.091 9.3452 0.500 | . | |*. | 13 0.016 0.105 9.3626 0.588 **| . | *| . | 14 −0.212 −0.173 12.620 0.397 |** | |*. | 15 0.230 0.115 16.553 0.221 **| . | **| . | 16 −0.210 −0.214 19.938 0.132 |*. | | . | 17 0.156 −0.013 21.853 0.112 *| . | *| . | 18 −0.160 −0.105 23.927 0.091 |*. | | . | 19 0.154 0.061 25.924 0.076 *| . | | . | 20 −0.143 −0.029 27.686 0.067 | . | *| . | 21 −0.015 −0.077 27.706 0.089 | . | | . | 22 −0.004 −0.001 27.708 0.117 |*. | | . | 23 0.148 0.017 29.814 0.096 *| . | | . | 24 −0.088 −0.038 30.586 0.105 * The * represent the values of the autocorrelation functions (AC) and Partial correlation. The autoregressive conditional heteroskedasticity (ARCH) statistic (Table 10) indi- cates that in the model, there is no conditional autoregression heteroskedasticity (null hy- pothesis), since the probability of a statistic 0.2045 above the level is 0.05. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 14 of 19 Table 10. ARCH test of heteroskedasticity. Heteroskedasticity Test: ARCH F-statistic 1.655546 Prob. F(1,47) 0.2045 Obs*R-squared 1.667266 Prob. Chi-Square(1) 0.1966 Source: by authors. * Indicates multiplication Table 11 shows the value of the extended Dickey Fuller statistic (−1.75), indicating that this value satisfies the null hypothesis of a unit root. Table 11. Dickey Fuller Test Null Hypothesis: TOURISTS Has a Unit Root Prob. Exogenous: Constant Lag Length: 11 (Automatic—based on SIC, maxlag = 11) Test t-Statistic Prob.* Augmented Dickey-Fuller test statistic −1.750661 0.4014 Test critical values: 1% level −3.534868 5% level −2.906923 10% level −2.591006 Source: by authors; * MacKinnon (1996) one-sided p-values. Table 12 shows that the month with the fewest visits is May (5730). This value is contradicted by the number of tourists that Córdoba receives, since May is the month with the greatest number of visitors by far, as it is when the Fiesta of the Patios (declared to be Intangible Cultural Heritage by UNESCO), the Wine Fest, the Crosses of May festival and the Fair of Our Lady of Health all take place. This finding indicates that the tourists that Córdoba receives are mainly day trippers and that they rarely stay overnight. Overnight stays and average spending are one of the weaknesses that should be solved by increasing complementary supply, especially nightlife; dark tourism fits in this segment, especially ghost activities, as it is mainly done at night. Dark tourism could be a good resource to encourage tourists to spend the night. This figure also shows the comparison of the months of June to December of 2018 and January to May of 2019. With respect to the predictions obtained in the SARIMA model from June to December 2019 and from January to May 2010, we see that in all months, there is a slight increase compared to the previous year, which indicates that this type of tourism is in the take-off or introduction phase, as is the case for all new products entering the market. This finding indicates slow growth, which could have a greater im- pact if the Córdoba City Council allowed visits for more days and the carrying out of activities related to the world of death and extended the opening hours of buildings of public bodies into the evening. A coordinated route of the two legend-rich cemeteries of Córdoba on the European Cemeteries Route should also be prepared. Right now, no companies or travel agencies have such a program. Tours should also be paired with food and drink products related to the time of the dead and the typical gastronomy of the area, and programs in cemeteries that are not focused on only historic age of the dead but also the cemetery’s historic and heritage value should be conducted year-round, as this would avoid the great seasonality that this tourist segment has. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 15 of 19 Table 12. Tourism demand predictions (Increase). Month June 2018–May 2019 June 2019–May 2020 Difference June 6.665 6.921 256 July 6.897 7.144 247 August 7.245 7.499 254 September 7.634 7.896 262 October 7.645 7.940 295 November 9.645 9.929 284 December 6.623 6.855 232 January 6.003 6.227 224 February 5.643 5.825 182 March 5.821 6.032 211 April 6.246 6.479 233 May 5.534 5.730 196 Total 81.601 84.477 2.876 Source: by authors. 6. Discussion Dark tourism is strongly related to culture and heritage tourism having history and tragedies as a vital part of it. The places of dark tourism in Córdoba are mainly visited by people between 26–40 years old, the profile coinciding with Niela's studies (House of Ter- ror museum Budapest) [51]. Dark tourism is a special type of tourism business which doesn't appeal to everyone, Visiting dark sites can induce both positive and negative experiences. Generally, the major attractions at dark tourism places raise negative emotional experiences like feelings of vengeance, fear, horror, depression, sadness, empathy etc. While tourists are in most cases motivated by a need for an educational experience, some 'have culture experience, coin- ciding with Stone's research [52]. The main motivations for doing so in Cordoba are to know paranormal stories and visit cemeteries, they want to know tragic deaths and not so much the architectural heritage of the tombs (motivations similar to tourists visiting the Jewish cemetery of Prague) [13]. The study that was carried out showed that many places in Córdoba are feasible for implementing so-called dark tourism, especially ghost activities, and routes can be linked between municipalities, which allows for experiential tourism because paranormal expe- riences are very special occurrences that transport consumers to “otherworldly” destina- tions and make for unforgettable, unfamiliar, and supremely shareable memories and sto- ries [53]. From this research it can be inferred that dark tourism in Cordoba has a very slight demand unlike other destinations of dark tourism as reflected in the studies of the Arlin- tong Cemetery in the USA [54,55] or Pére Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, being wasted this cultural offer. 7. Conclusions Dark tourism in Córdoba continues to be a minor segment compared to other seg- ments of cultural tourism, such as heritage or gastronomy tourism. To increase demand, it is essential to offer a product that meets the needs of the current consumer, so it is nec- essary to know their profile [47]. The routes of Dark Tourism in Córdoba are in the early stages of tourism manage- ment, with local tourism as the current market. Foreign tourism should be promoted, which would encourage spending the night in the city, increasing the average daily ex- penditure per tourist. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 16 of 19 Regarding cemetery tourism, the cemeteries of Córdoba have a large number of fu- nerary monuments that, due to their architectural beauty, landscape and botanical design, form part of the European Cemeteries Route. These unique Andalusian cemeteries, part of the route “Memories of Andalusia”, constitute a tourist attraction that is still to be ex- ploited in Córdoba. This is clear because there is no possibility of night visits or ghost tours (or paranormal phenomena). Ghost tours should be explored because there are many houses in Córdoba that have some legend or ghost that lingers in them and are therefore an attraction that has even been analyzed in specific television and radio programs, this may represent a novel mar- ket niche that can generate wealth, not only from the tickets paid to dark tourism compa- nies for tours of cemeteries or ghost locations but also for hotels, which would benefit because tourists would spend the night to attend these nocturnal tours. Bars and restau- rants where tourists eat and souvenir shops where they purchase memories of the places they visit would also benefit. Houran et al. [48] estimated that paranormal tourism gener- ates at least $100 million worldwide, with Córdoba and, thus, Spain being places where dark tourism can grow in the future. From the sites analyzed, it can be deduced that dark tourism, especially that of cem- eteries, is not configured as an attractive tourist product. A good strategic plan is needed to develop this tourism segment in a sustainable manner and become an all-season tourist draw for cultural tourism in the city, as is possible because of the high degree of satisfac- tion with the visit, similar to the studies of Moh et al. [37]. Uncertainty, charm, emotion, authenticity, and expectations of what may happen or be seen at a destination are varia- bles that make certain places that carry the legend of Córdoba destinations unique and attractive to a special tourist [49]. Proper professionalization of the sector could make the cemeteries of Córdoba a ref- erence point and draw thousands of foreign tourists, increasing this market share from almost zero in Córdoba (below 1%) to perhaps the level of other cemeteries such as the Prague Jewish Cemetery or Arlington in the U.S. The tourist profile of dark tourism participants in Córdoba is young, has a university education, seeks new experiences, is aware of dark tourism places through the Internet, shares positive and negative opinions of and experiences at those sites through the “elec- tronic word of mouth” (eWOM) network [50-51; 56-58], is very satisfied with the dark type of tourism, and would repeat the experience by visiting other cemetery routes. Therefore, this customer is a loyal tourist who is willing to pay for a quality product. Therefore, more studies are needed to analyze supply and demand, as one of the main difficulties encountered is the lack of information on this type of tourism broken down at the monthly level over several years. As seen when using the ARIMA model, there is a potential growing seasonal demand for celebrations of the dead, and this type of tourist is satisfied. However, the existing supply in the city and province should be made known. For such an effort, all of the agents involved must unite in order to match the results obtained in other European cemeteries; all agents should also promote and help old houses because rehabilitating them is very costly and they are emblematic houses of the city that vulnerable to destruction, losing the legends that accompany them. Dark Tourism can be an element that complements the nocturnal leisure activities that make the city of Córdoba a place to spend the night and provide education about the city’s heritage and the legends of different cultures that have formed a paranormal spec- trum that can generate economic activity in the city. Dark tourism is a new market niche with great potential in Córdoba that can be ex- trapolated to the rest of Spain because cities such as Toledo, Granada, and Barcelona are places where paranormal phenomena and violent deaths have occurred over the centu- ries, creating legends among the population. Through a good advertising campaign and by promoting dark tourism websites, these places could attract tourists who desire to have experiences of terror or death, thus satisfying their need to have macabre experiences. Int. J. Environ. Res. Public Health 2021, 18, 2740 17 of 19 This research has potential limitations, the first of which is the sample used. The data was only obtained from dark tourists in Cordoba, which could indicate that the collected data is only applicable to one unique tourist site. Another limitation of this studio is the ARIMA model. It was applied for lawsuits prior to the devastating effect of COVID-19 on tourism. Therefore, the demand forecast will be valid for when past tourist flows are re- established. Future lines of research could include other internal and external variables, as well as studying of the relationships between destiny, motivations and satisfaction. Author Contributions: Conceptualization, M.G.D.M. and R.H.R.; methodology, M.G.D.M.; soft- ware, R.H.R.; validation, M.G.M.V. de la T. and M.G.D.M.; formal analysis, M.G.M.V. de la T. and M.G.D.M.; investigation, all authors; resources, M.G.M.V. de la T. and R.H.R.; data curation, M.G.M.V. de la T. and M.G.D.M.; writing—original draft preparation, M.G.D.M.; writing—review and editing, M.G.M.V. de la T.; visualization, R.H.R.; supervision, M.G.M.V. de la T.; project ad- ministration, M.G.M.V. de la T.; funding acquisition, M.G.M. and R.H.R. All authors have read and agreed to the published version of the manuscript. Funding: This research received no external funding. Institutional Review Board Statement: Not applicable. Informed Consent Statement: Informed consent was obtained from all subjects involved in the study Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflict of interest. References 1. Fraiz, J.A. 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work_b6lm5bdl4vgsfbnub6h44zfk2a	----	Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology No. 6 August 2002Civil Justice Report Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology Lester Brickman C E N T E R F O R L E G A L P O L I C Y AAAAA T T H E M A N H AT T H E M A N H AT T H E M A N H AT T H E M A N H AT T H E M A N H A T TT TT TT TT T A N I N S T I T U T EA N I N S T I T U T EA N I N S T I T U T EA N I N S T I T U T EA N I N S T I T U T E C � P Civil Justice Report August 2002 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 TABLE OF CONTENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR .............................................................................................................. i EXECUTIVE SUMMARY .......................................................................................................... iii I. INTRODUCTION ............................................................................................................. 1 II. THE CLASS ACTION PHENOMENON ........................................................................... 4 III. CLASS ACTIONS: USES AND ABUSES ........................................................................... 4 IV. DOWN’S ENTERPRISES ................................................................................................ 12 A. Cease-and-Desist Orders ................................................................................. 14 B. The Criminal Prosecution ................................................................................. 15 V. THE INTERCLAIM GROUP ............................................................................................ 16 VI. THE CANADIAN LITIGATIONS ..................................................................................... 18 A. The Bankruptcy Action .................................................................................... 18 B. The Alberta Representative Action ................................................................. 21 C. The Asset Freezes ............................................................................................ 21 VII. THE ACTION MOVES TO THE UNITED STATES .......................................................... 23 A. The Interclaim–Ness Motley Retainer Agreement .......................................... 24 B. How Madison County Was Selected ............................................................... 24 C. The Temporary Restraining Order and the Initiation of Settlement Negotiations ................................................................................. 25 D. Settlement Context: The Interclaim-Down Relationship ................................ 26 E. The Settlement: An Abbreviated Version ........................................................ 28 F. The Form of the Settlement: A Settlement Class Action ................................ 28 G. The Motion to Intervene .................................................................................. 29 H. The Effect of the Negotiation of the Settlement on Ness Motley’s Fiduciary Obligation to Interclaim ............................................ 31 VIII. THE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT: IN DETAIL .............................................................. 33 A. The Adequacy of the Settlement ..................................................................... 34 B. The Reality of the Settlement .......................................................................... 37 C. Analysis of the Settlement ............................................................................... 38 1. Proof of Claim: The Documentary Requirement .................................................. 38 2. The Proof of Claim Form in Context .................................................................... 39 3. Notice to the Class ................................................................................................. 40 4. Limitations on the Class ....................................................................................... 43 5. The Letter Agreement ........................................................................................... 43 (a) Discussion of the Letter Agreement ......................................................... 45 6. Right to Object to the Settlement ......................................................................... 46 7. Ness Motley’s Fee .................................................................................................. 46 IX. SCHUPPERT V. DOWN: A CASE IN PROGRESS ........................................................... 47 X. CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................ 47 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 i ABOUT THE AUTHOR Professor Lester Brickman teaches at the Yeshiva University Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law. He is a leading expert on lawyers’ fees and, in particular, contingency fees. He has pub- lished articles on lawyers’ ethics, delivery of legal services, legal paraprofessionals, clinical legal education, nonrefundable retainers, fee arbitration, contingency fees and their effect on the tort system, attorney discipline, asbestos litigation, tobacco litigation fees, fiduciary obligation, tort reform and class actions. His published writings have been cited in treatises, casebooks, restate- ments of the law, scholarly journals and judicial opinions (including the United States Supreme Court, United States Circuit Courts of Appeals, state supreme courts and federal and state appel- late and trial courts). He is widely cited in the press and has published “op-eds” in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, and USA Today. His writings on nonrefund- able retainers have been instrumental in the banning of their use by several state supreme courts. A proposal that he co-authored to realign the contingency fee system with its policy roots and ethical underpinnings was the subject of a front page story in the New York Times and has re- ceived extensive coverage in both the media and scholarly publications. He has been a consultant to the U.S. Office of Education, the U.S. Civil Service Commis- sion, National Science Foundation, Ford Foundation, Administrative Conference of the United States, the American Bar Association, the U.S. Office of Legal Services, and others. Civil Justice Report August 2002ii Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 EXECUTIVE SUMMARY If per-capita class action filing rates were the same nationwide as they are in Madison County, Illinois, there would have been over 42,000 class action filings in 2000. One reason for the county’s popularity among class action lawyers is its reputation for the propensity of its judges to accommodate class action lawyers’ interests. In this monograph, I focus on a single class action (Schuppert et al. v. Down et al.) filed in Madison County on behalf of hundreds of thousands of mostly elderly Americans who were the victims of a vast mass-marketing scheme conducted by James Blair Down (“Down”), a Canadian citizen. Ironically, if not tragically, the elderly victims of the scheme appear poised to become victims a second time—of “class action” justice in Madison County. A provisional settlement agreement is so abusive of the class’s rights that it can only gain final judicial approbation from a court oblivious to the need to protect class members from self-interested behavior by its self-appointed class law- yers. Indeed, if there were an award for the most abusive class action settlement of the decade, if not the century, this settlement would be an odds-on favorite to gain the prize. The only possible im- pediment is a unique confluence of events that is permitting public scrutiny of the settlement— scrutiny that has already had some effect on the judicial proceedings in Madison County. The Facts Various of Down’s enterprises sold “prize award certificates” and interests in lottery pools, yielding gross receipts of upward of $150 million. Millions of direct mail solicitations were sent and tens of thousands of phone calls were made from boiler rooms in Barbados and Canada. Hun- dreds of thousands of victims were tricked into paying amounts up to hundreds of thousands of dollars—in some cases, their entire life savings. In June 1997, Down was indicted, and in August 1998, he pled guilty to a single count of criminal conspiracy to transport gaming paraphernalia in violation of the laws of the United States. Though he was imprisoned for a term of six months and forfeited $12 million in partial restitution to victims, he nonetheless struck an excellent bargain, knowing, in the words of a Canadian judge, that he would leave prison as a “very wealthy man.” The government’s failure to seek higher penalties and greater redress for Down’s victims reflected the difficulties it faced in investigating criminal activity intentionally fragmented by Down across national boundaries, the proceeds of which had been concealed in offshore asset-holding structures. Interclaim In June 1998, frustrated by its inability to recover even a modest percentage of the amount obtained from the victims, the F.B.I. and the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Seattle sought assistance from the Interclaim group of companies, a private asset-recovery group located in the Republic of Ireland, in obtaining fuller relief. Interclaim located over $100 million of Down’s assets scattered all over the world, commenced an intensive set of complex legal proceedings in Canada, obtained a freeze of Down’s assets, and incurred several million dollars in costs, which it hoped to recoup by sharing in the proceeds. Initially, it met with success, but when the complexity of the case turned the legal tide against Interclaim in Canada, it sought an American class action law firm to institute proceedings in the U.S. Ness Motley In February 2000, Interclaim entered into an agreement with the Charleston, South Caro- lina, law firm of Ness, Motley, Loadholt, Richardson & Poole (“Ness Motley”) to bring a class action proceeding on behalf of the victims of Down’s enterprises. Interclaim was instrumental in providing Ness Motley with essential information. Ness Motley selected Madison County to bring the action seeking certification of a nationwide class consisting of the victims of Down’s enter- prises. Shortly afterward, Down initiated settlement negotiations but made it a condition of any talks that Interclaim, and the victims who had been working with Interclaim in an attempt to iii Civil Justice Report August 2002 recover their losses, be excluded from the negotiations and from benefiting from any ensuing settlement. Although Ness Motley owed a fiduciary obligation to Interclaim and to the specific victims Interclaim had been working with, it agreed to Down’s conditions and reached a settle- ment with Down. The Settlement The settlement purports to amount to $6 million for the victims, a lawyers’ fee of $2 mil- lion, plus approximately $2 million in notice and administration costs—totaling approximately $10 million. This announced amount is woefully inadequate, given the compelling case against Down: his guilty plea, numerous cease-and-desist orders issued by U.S. Postal authorities, and the freezing of $100 million of his assets so that they could be reached by judicial process. The case had all the appearances of a “slam dunk.” Beyond “woefully inadequate,” the settlement is intentionally misleading as to the amount to be paid to victims of Down’s enterprises. In fact, instead of paying $6 million plus expenses, Down can actually expect to pay only a small fraction of that sum because of the way in which Ness Motley and Down structured the settlement. The Plan of Notice The provisionally approved plan to notify victims of the settlement is an elaborate ruse. It deliberately rejects using existing computerized lists containing the names and addresses of hun- dreds of thousands of “customers” who sent money to Down’s enterprises, including the amounts sent to directly notify victims by mail. Instead, the Plan of Notice provides for the use of newspa- per and television advertising that, according to empirical evidence, few victims have seen. The Proof of Claim Form The Proof of Claim Form contained in the settlement is simply a compendium of one oner- ous requirement piled on top of another, apparently for the purpose of further minimizing the number of successful claims. To successfully assert a claim, Down’s mostly elderly victims are required to provide credit-card receipts, money orders, postal receipts, or canceled checks in sup- port of their claim. But how many of the hundreds of thousands of mostly elderly victims who actually become aware of the settlement and take steps to obtain a claim form are likely to have retained receipts for transactions that took place five to ten years earlier? In addition, those who sent money to Down on multiple occasions, as many did, are required to correctly list each amount sent and the date of each such “purchase.” If a claimant correctly identifies four “purchases” but errs as to a fifth, his entire claim is subject to rejection. Also, claimants have to correctly identify the exact name of the lottery company or puzzle contest to which they sent money. Down had used 57 different company and trade names to do his dirty work. Once again, a mistake as to a single name could invalidate an entire claim, even if all the other names were correctly listed. It is hard to imagine a claiming process more deliberately designed to prevent filing of claims than this one. The Secret Letter Agreement The settlement includes a secret “Letter Agreement” that has been filed “under seal,” which allows for Down to defer paying valid claims for three years or more without having to provide any security. This bizarre and unique feature of the settlement appears designed to allow Down to avoid payment of most of the announced amount of the settlement. Ness Motley’s Fee The secret Letter Agreement also includes another unique feature: that Down does not have to pay Ness Motley’s $2 million fee (assuming court approval) upon conclusion of the settle- ment. Instead, Down can pay at some future unspecified time. And if Down fails to pay, Ness Motley would then have to bring an action against Down. To enforce that judgment, it would have to locate Down’s assets—seemingly reposed in complex structures in many countries. Anyone iv Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 who really believes that Ness Motley accepted a class action settlement in which payment of its fee could be delayed three years or more—and that requires it to rely on the unsecured promise of someone well versed in concealing his assets after he has obtained the benefit of a full release of liability from the underlying class—has obviously been standing out in the Madison County sun for too long. Whatever the reality is with regard to payment of Ness Motley’s fee, it is highly improbable that it is that which is set forth in the Letter Agreement. Right to Object to the Settlement As is typical in class action settlements, members of the settlement class are permitted to appear at the “fairness hearing” and object to the settlement and/or the application for legal fees. However, unlike in other class action settlements, in this class action, that right to object is condi- tioned on the prior provision of the very documentary evidence required for submission of a claim. In “Catch-22” fashion, class members who do not have such documentation and who wish to object to the requirement that to submit a claim, they have to produce one of the listed documents, are excluded from objecting to the settlement and fee request. Schuppert v. Down: A Case in Progress Madison County Judge Nicholas Byron’s preliminary approvals of the settlement have recently been the subject of critical media attention. Even though the media attention was mod- est, it was also unprecedented, and it apparently subjected the local class action bar and the court to unwanted scrutiny. Judge Byron thereafter ordered that, in addition to the newspaper and TV advertising, a postcard be mailed, using one of the lists of Down’s victims, to provide additional notice. In addition, new deadlines and dates have been set as follows for Schuppert v. Down: 1) class members objecting to the settlement must file notice with the court by August 2, 2002; 2) class members seeking to opt out of the settlement must so notice the court by August 2, 2002; 3) class members filing claims must submit them by September 6, 2002; and, most criti- cally, 4) the fairness hearing originally scheduled for June 7, 2002, has been rescheduled to Au- gust 14, 2002. On that date, August 14, 2002, approval by Judge Byron will cast the settlement, includ- ing the Plan of Notice, in concrete. It will be impervious to attack—except to direct appeal by an objecting class member to Illinois appellate courts, which have never heretofore disturbed a Madison County class action proceeding. Conclusion This monograph begins with a reference to the role of the “rule of law” in our economic system and concludes with the observation that in Madison County, the rule of law has been displaced by the “rule of class action lawyers.” Even more disturbing than the use of Plan of Notice and Proof of Claim processes de- signed to minimize the number and amount of claims is the fact that the settlement was agreed to by one of the leading class action law firms, apparently acting in full confidence that it owes no fiduciary obligation to the class members it has undertaken to represent. Moreover, Ness Motley’s filing of the action in Madison County appears to be an expression of confidence that the courts in that county will summarily approve a grossly abusive settlement and fee request, paying only lip service, at best, to the mantra that the court must be the guardian of the interests of class members. While the glare of publicity may subvert the subjecting of the elderly victims of Down’s mass- marketing schemes to a second victimhood—though that remains to be seen—such publicity rarely attends even the most abusive of class action settlements. Any solution to the lack of due process in state court class action claiming necessarily includes a facilitated process for removing class actions filed in state courts to federal courts. The analysis of the settlement in this monograph adds to the already substantial evidence that respect for the “rule of law” requires that defendants have the opportunity to bypass Madison County and other “class action magnet courts” that stand, like speed traps, astride the nation’s litigation highways. v Civil Justice Report August 2002 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 1 ANATOMY OF A MADISON COUNTY (ILLINOIS) CLASS ACTION: A STUDY OF PATHOLOGY I. INTRODUCTION The American market-based economy is the engine that powers the world’s economic progress. All successful market-based economies are underpinned by a “rule of law,” that is, a civil justice system that provides for a means of enforcement of certain investment-backed ex- pectations.1 We depend upon maintenance of a “rule of law” for our prosperity. We rely on the courts and the legal professionals to sustain it. The very essence of the “rule of law” is being undermined today by abusive class action litigation. Class actions are a phenomenon with which most Americans have some familiarity. Indeed, most everyone in the United States has been a member of a class action lawsuit. Indeed, virtually everyone who has flown commercially, used long-distance services or a cell phone, or purchased securities, insurance, car repair, or any of hundreds of other goods and services has been inducted into a class action. Class action settle- ments have generated billions of dollars in payments and fees for lawyers—and enormous con- troversy as to their social utility. Class action claiming presents unique opportunities for lawyers to engage in self-inter- ested actions, motivated in part by the practice of “courts routinely overcompensat[ing] attorneys in class actions.”2 One consequence of that overcompensation is that much class action litigation is purely fee-driven. While ostensibly seeking to capture ill-gotten gains and compensate large num- bers of victims, in reality, claims of wrongful conduct may often be pretextual and simply the vehicle for extracting a substantial wealth transfer. Certification of a class action by a court usually generates enormous pressures on defen- dants to settle, even if the class includes large numbers of claimants and even if the claims are of dubious merit. Moreover, class action settlements often reflect self-interested behavior on the part of the class lawyers at the expense of the class, particularly in so-called coupon settlements, as well as in settlements where onerous claim procedures are selected, thereby generating “unclaimed funds” that revert to the defendant (so-called reversionary settlements). Though class action filings have increased substantially in recent years, they are not evenly distributed throughout the country. Instead, class action claiming activity tends to center in a small number of jurisdictions. While some large population centers, such as Los Angeles County (Cali- fornia), Cook County (Illinois), and Dade County (Florida), are the locus for disproportionate num- bers of class action filings, other much smaller population centers have relatively higher volumes of class actions filings, including Madison County, Illinois; Jefferson County, Texas (comprising the cities of Beaumont and Port Arthur); and Palm Beach County, Florida (West Palm Beach, Boca Raton). Class action filings in these three counties increased sharply and disproportionately in recent years and were the subject of a study recently published by the Center for Legal Policy of 1. “There can be no doubt that all of the prosperous economies [in the world] are market economies, and those who understand these economies know that the market is, at the least, a major source of their prosperity….To realize all the gains from trade…there has to be a legal system and political order that enforces contracts, protects property rights, carries out mortgage agreements, provides for limited li- ability corporations, and facilitates a lasting and widely used capital market that makes the investments and loans more liquid than they would otherwise be.” Mancur Olson, POWER & PROSPERITY (2000), at 173. 2. In re Synthroid Marketing Litigation, 201 F. Supp. 2d 861, 872 n.6 (U.S.D.C. N.D. Ill. 2002). Civil Justice Report August 20022 the Manhattan Institute3 (“the Study”). Of these three counties, Madison County, bordering the Mississippi River in southwest Illinois, is the leading locus for class action filings in the United States on a population-equivalent basis.4 Madison County’s reputation for being disproportionately receptive to class action filings is well-deserved—50 were filed there in 2001 versus 39 in 2000, about 20 times the national average on a per capita basis5 . Moreover, no class action in recent memory has ever gone to trial.6 One reason for the county’s popularity among class action lawyers is its reputation for the propensity of its judges to accommodate class action lawyers’ interests. The importance of such an accommo- dating stance cannot be overstated. Lawyers who are denied class action status in one jurisdiction can, under our federalist system, simply try again and again to find a receptive judge in another jurisdiction. One judge in a jurisdiction such as Madison County can thus, in effect, “overrule” the decisions of numerous other judges throughout the country to deny certification of a suit seeking class action status.7 No study of the class action phenomenon can therefore ignore the jurisdictions that have experienced extremely high rates of successful filings. Indeed, no better candidate for study exists than Madison County. The Center for Legal Policy study focused on a number of class actions pending in Madison County, including those brought against such well-known businesses as Sears, MCI WorldCom, Sprint, Roto-Rooter, State Farm, Prudential, Mattel, Atlantic Richfield, Exxon, Mobil, and Chevron. While these actions involved tens of millions of consumers, only a tiny fraction were residents of Madison County.8 In criticizing the filing of class actions intended to have nationwide effect in state courts instead of in federal courts, the Study noted that “some state courts have…shown a tendency to approve settlements that generously compensate the class counsel while giving little or nothing to the people on whose behalf the action supposedly was brought—the unnamed class members.”9 This monograph seeks to supplement the Study by focusing on a single class action filed in Madison County on behalf of several hundred thousand mostly elderly Americans who were the victims of a vast mass-marketing scheme that yielded gross receipts of upward of $150 million. The swindle has been featured on CBS’s 60 Minutes,10 yet the case and the perpetrator of the crimi- nal activity at the heart of it, James Blair Down, have received only modest media scrutiny. Ironi- cally, if not tragically, the elderly victims of the scheme appear poised to become victims a second time of “class action” justice in Madison County. A settlement agreement has been entered into, ostensibly setting aside $10 million to reim- burse victims and pay expenses. In reality, however, few are likely to receive any funds. The prin- cipal beneficiaries of the settlement agreement appear to be the law firm representing the class and 3. The “Study” referenced here is by John H. Beisner and Jessica Davidson Miller, “They’re Making a Federal Case Out of It...in State Court,” Civil Justice Report, Center for Legal Policy at the Manhattan Institute (Sept. 2001). A follow-up study has been done, updating the Madison County class action filings. See John H. Beisner and Jessica Davidson Miller, “Class Action Magnet Courts: The Allure In- tensifies,” Civil Justice Report, Center for Legal Policy at the Manhattan Institute (June 2002). 4. The Study, id. at 7. The principal towns in Madison County are Granite City, population 31,301; and Alton, population 30,446. Id. at 12. 5. Noam Neusner, “The Judges of Madison County,” U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT, Dec. 17, 2001, at 39. 6. Id. 7. “Consider the case of Strasen v. Allstate Insurance. The case alleges that Allstate uses a faulty database to decide appropriate medical treatment and payment for certain kinds of claims. Similar cases have been filed across the country, all seeking nationwide class action status. None succeeded before, but in Madi- son [County], one did.” Id. 8. The Study, supra n. 3 at 12–19. 9. Id. at 5. 10. 60 Minutes segment entitled “Con Man,” by correspondent Mike Wallace, broadcast Nov. 7, 1999, on CBS. Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 3 the defendant, Mr. Down. The principal losers appear to be the victims of Down’s enterprises and an Ireland-based entrepreneurial asset-recovery firm, which set in motion the wheels of justice by expending considerable resources to locate Down’s assets and begin the invocation of legal pro- cess on behalf of the victims, first in Canada and later in the U.S. When the wheels reached Madi- son County, however, they went off the track. Since only a tiny fraction of the victims of Down’s enterprises lived in Madison County, selecting it as the venue for a class action would, at first blush, appear to be incongruous. How- ever, as the Study illustrates, this is characteristic of most class action claiming in Madison County: very few persons who are included in the class action actually live there. No doubt, plaintiff lawyers, who basically have a choice of filing a class action in virtually any jurisdiction in the U.S., select Madison County and other preferred venues because they an- ticipate receiving favorable treatment from local judges with regard to certification of the class and, if they ever do go to trial, from local juries as well. Even by that standard, however, selection of Madison County would still appear to have been a strange choice. As will be seen, the case against Down was compelling. He had pled guilty to engaging in an enterprise that violated fed- eral criminal law; as part of that illegal scheme, he appeared to have swindled hundreds of thou- sands of victims of tens of millions of dollars. In addition, he had been the subject of numerous cease-and-desist orders.11 The major issue to be adjudicated in the class action would have been the amount of damages to be assessed. An additional concern—whether Down’s extensively laun- dered assets could be located and preserved by means of judicial process—had been resolved by the efforts of the asset-recovery firm. The case had all the appearances of a “slam dunk.” However apparently unnecessary it may have appeared to select Madison County as the locus for this class action, the decision to bring the action there instead of in a venue where large numbers of victims resided may prove highly rewarding to the law firm representing the class. This is so because the settlement agreement that has been entered into provisionally is so abusive of the class’s rights that it could only gain final judicial approbation from a court oblivious to the need to protect class members from self-interested behavior by its self-appointed class lawyers. One feature of class action claiming that both promotes abuse and is protective of lawyers’ interests is the low visibility of most class action litigation. For each class action that gains press coverage, we have good reason to suspect that there may be many other class actions essentially hidden from view, in which collusive settlements that provide, at best, modest—if not mainly illusory—relief for class members are rubber-stamped by compliant, if not complicit, judges. The Down settlement, negotiated by a major class action law firm, fits that mold. But there is one critical difference: A unique confluence of events is permitting intensive public scrutiny of a settle- ment with terms so bizarre that if there were an award for the most abusive class action settlement of the decade, if not the century, this settlement would be an odds-on favorite to gain the prize. Such unprecedented and unwanted scrutiny has already had an effect on the judicial proceedings in Madison County by influencing the court to reconsider an earlier decision to certify the use of one of the least effective means possible for providing notice of the settlement to class members. This monograph is thus the result of an unparalleled opportunity to pluck an aggressively abusive settlement from its intended obscurity and fully expose it to public view. To set the stage for this up-close examination, this monograph will briefly survey the class action phenomenon, the potential coercive effects of such litigation, the perverse incentives it cre- ates, and the incidence of forum shopping as a core feature of class action claiming. Attention will then shift to the specific facts underlying the class action brought in Madison County: how the mass- marketing schemes were carried on; the efforts of an Irish company to recover some of the victims’ 11. Affidavit of Douglas O. Pulling, U.S. Postal Inspector, in U.S. v. All Funds…at Smith Barney et al., U.S. District Court, Western Dist., Washington, No. C97-093, May 30, 1997, filed with the court on June 6, 1997 (hereinafter, “Pulling Affidavit”). Civil Justice Report August 20024 money by bringing several complex legal actions in Canadian courts, where much of the property belonging to Down had been located; events leading up to the filing of a class action in Madison County, Illinois; the settlement of that action; and an intensive dissection of that settlement. II. THE CLASS ACTION PHENOMENON Class action claiming has increased dramatically over the past two decades. Most of the increases have taken place in state courts.12 Despite the fact that hundreds and perhaps thousands of civil actions seeking class action status are brought every year, we lack knowledge of how many actions are filed, where they are filed, the number of persons asserted to be members of the class, the number of persons ultimately determined to be eligible to receive benefits, the number who actually receive benefits, the quantum of the value of wealth transferred, the fees sought and the amounts approved, the number of hours of work for which class counsel claim compensation, the effective hourly rates being awarded by the courts, the amounts of money or other benefits that are ostensibly generated for class members, the quantum of the value actually received by class mem- bers, what proportionate share these amounts constitute of the amounts of damages initially claimed, and the proportion that the attorneys’ fees awarded represent of the value of the benefits actually received by the class. What we do know is that it is in the interests of those who generate substan- tial fees by filing class actions that as little information as possible be available for public scrutiny. While our dearth of knowledge is a function of inadequate state record keeping, it is not surprising that this gross imperfection in record keeping remains unremedied. Nothing short of federal ac- tion mandating uniform record keeping will succeed in closing this critical information gap. Adding to the effect of this enormous gap in our knowledge of the quantity of class actions is the fact that while it is readily apparent that tens of millions of claimants are inducted annually, for purposes of counting the number of tort actions filed annually in the United States, a certified class action, where there may be 50,000 or even 5 million or more class members, counts as one or two tort actions.13 This misleading counting system is an essential feature of the empirically based argument advanced by the opponents of tort reform, that there is no ongoing litigation explosion. If the number of class members inducted each year into the civil litigation system were to be counted in the annual totals of tort claims filed, then the use of the term “litigation explosion”14 would significantly understate the dimensions of the increases in tort claiming that have occurred in the past two decades. III. CLASS ACTIONS: USES AND ABUSES Class actions today may be likened to the little girl in the Longfellow poem who “when she was good, was very good indeed, but when she was bad she was horrid.”15 When properly 12. A survey done by the Federalist Society found that between 1988 and 1998, class action filings increased by 338 percent in federal courts, while the increase in state courts was more than 1,000 percent. See “Analysis: Class Action Litigation, a Federalist Society Survey,” CLASS ACTION WATCH (Federalist Society for Law & Public Policy Studies, Washington, D.C.) 1, no. 1 (1999), at 3. 13. One reason that class action filings are counted as only one or two civil cases when, in fact, the putative class consists of thousands and even millions of individuals is that, in most states, a filing fee must be paid for each civil case filing. Payment of the fee determines the number of civil case filings for statisti- cal purposes. Plaintiffs’ class action attorneys typically pay filing fees only for each named plaintiff. Accordingly, the class action counts for statistical purposes as one or perhaps two or three civil actions. In addition, most states do not count a civil action as filed until a jury or first witness is sworn at the commencement of a trial—events that very rarely occur in class actions. 14. See, generally, Walter Olson, THE LITIGATION EXPLOSION (1991). 15. There was a little girl/Who had a little curl/Right in the middle of her forehead/When she was good/She was very Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 5 done, class actions—one of several forms of aggregative litigation16 that provide economies of scale that can improve judicial efficiency by reducing repetitive litigation—perform a useful, if not essential, public purpose, including supplementing the law-enforcement efforts of the public sec- tor.17 However, certification of a class can also result in the sacrifice of both procedural and sub- stantive fairness. Moreover, all too often, abusive practices deprive class members of their rights and generate a horridly negative image not only of the legal profession but also of legal institu- tions. Public confidence in the legal profession is exceedingly low—at or near the bottom in most surveys, not least because too many lawyers are perceived as greedy and as acting in their own self-interest at the expense of their clients.18 Opinion surveys focusing on class actions indicate that the public believes that class members are, at best, incidental beneficiaries of class actions and that, overwhelmingly, the principal beneficiaries are class lawyers; the second most benefited cat- egory, according to an opinion survey, are lawyers who represent the defendant!19 Widespread class action abuses are destroying public respect for the legal system. It is essential for the integrity of the legal profession and for public confidence in the civil justice system that the abusive prac- tices be identified and rooted out by judicial and legislative action. Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 2320 provides that civil actions can be certified as class actions if (1) the class is so numerous that joinder of all members is impracticable, (2) there are questions of law or fact common to the class, (3) the claims or defenses of the named plaintiffs are typical of those of the class, and (4) the named plaintiffs will fairly and adequately protect the interests of the class.21 Prior to 1966, those seeking to be a part of a class action had to affirmatively opt-in to do so. In 1966, however, Rule 23 was amended to allow lawyers to seek certification of a good indeed/But when she was bad she was horrid.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 16. For an analysis of aggregative litigation, see Lester Brickman, “Lawyers’ Ethics and Fiduciary Obliga- tion in the Brave New World of Aggregative Litigation,” 26 WM. & MARY ENVTL. L. & POL. REV. (2001), at 243 (hereinafter, Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation”). 17. See Deborah R. Hensler et al., CLASS ACTION DILEMMAS: PURSUING PUBLIC GOALS FOR PRIVATE GAIN (2000), at 71. 18. In a recent survey of public confidence in various institutions, including the medical profession, the executive branch, the U.S. Supreme Court, lower federal courts, judges and the judiciary, and the Con- gress, the category of “legal profession/lawyers” placed second-lowest, with only 19 percent indicating that they were “extremely” or “very” confident in the profession. Only the news media placed lower, with 16 percent confidence. “Public Perceptions of Lawyers: Consumer Research Findings,” ABA Sec. of Litigation, Apr. 2002, at 6. In that same survey, 57 percent indicated that “lawyers are more con- cerned with their own self-promotion than their client’s best interests.” Id. at 7. “[T]he greatest number of complaints arise around lawyers’ fees….Consumers say that lawyers charge too much.” Id at 14. A U.S. News poll found that “69 percent of Americans believe lawyers are only sometimes honest or not usually honest and 56 percent say lawyers use the system to…enrich themselves.” Stephen Budiensky, “How Lawyers Abuse the Law,” U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT, Jan. 30, 1995, at 50, 51. 19. Class Action System Survey, U.S. Chamber of Commerce, Institute for Legal Reform, poll conducted on May 11–12, 2002. See www.litigationfairness.org, last consulted on June 27, 2002. In response to the question of who benefits most from the current class action lawsuit system, 45 percent answered, the lawyers who represent the alleged victims; 28 percent, the lawyers who represent the companies being sued; and only 5 percent answered, people who are part of the class action lawsuits. Id. at 4. The survey also asked: Who benefits least from the current class action system? The results were: 38 percent an- swered, consumers who buy the company’s products; and 30 percent answered, the people who are part of class action lawsuits. Id. at 5. Of the 45 percent who had received notices in the mail that they may be eligible to share in a class action settlement, 50 percent thought that the notice was unclear, and 69 percent said that they had not bothered to take steps required by the notice to share in the settlement; of those who did take such steps, 67 percent answered that they had not received something of mean- ingful value to them, considering their effort to comply with the notices. Id. at 3. 20. FED. R. CIV. P. 23. 21. FED. R. CIV. P. 23 (a). Civil Justice Report August 20026 class of claimants whose rights are then determined by the outcome of the litigation if the court certifies the class, unless they affirmatively choose to opt-out . This change has yielded profound— and, at least, as applicable to mass tort litigation—unintended consequences.22 Most consumers who receive notices that they have been conscripted into a class action have only a slight aware- ness of the nature of the proceedings. This is so because (1) the notices are written in unintelligible legalese and often omit precisely the kind of information that class members who are concerned that class actions are an abuse might find most objectionable; and (2) most of the conscriptees have only a very small stake in the litigation, and therefore fail to give the notices serious consider- ation.23 For these reasons, few people exercise their right to opt-out. Thus, the inherent inertial influences of the opt-out procedure strongly favor the interests of class action lawyers seeking to maximize the size of class memberships. Having very large numbers of claimants included in a class gives the lawyers who organize the class and obtain certification enormous leverage to com- pel defendants to settle claims, irrespective of their merits. Even if a defendant perceives that it has a substantial likelihood of prevailing, if the size of the class is large enough, a corporate CEO, motivated by the short-term consideration of avoid- ing bankruptcy, will often agree to settle such claims even if they have little merit and the long- term interests of the corporation are to litigate them fully. These considerations prevail when the aggregated claims, which usually include a demand for punitive damages, potentially exceed the combined assets of the corporation and any available insurance. The resulting “bet-the-com- pany” scenario is accentuated by the fact that if the claims are tried to verdict and yield a huge judgment, they become, in reality, essentially unappealable because of the typical requirement of having to post a cash bond of at least the amount of the verdict in order to stay execution of the judgment during appeal. Few companies, on short notice, have the liquidity to be able to write a check for a few billion dollars. Thus, plaintiff lawyers have an incentive to generate a number of claims sufficient to achieve a bet-the-company threat level that will compel settle- ment. This is often done by including, in the putative class, persons without any demonstrable injury or loss. Only relatively recently have many courts begun to comprehend the extortive effects of class action certification. In In re Rhone-Poulenc Rorer, Inc.24 and Szabo v. Bridgeport Machines, Inc.,25 Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals Judges Richard Posner and Frank Easterbrook, respectively, recognized that class certification creates a bet-the-company scenario that compels settlement, thus depriving defendants of the rights to contest a claim on its merits and of appealing the outcome of the litigation to an appellate court. Other jurists have also come to realize that certifying class actions, especially in the area of mass tort litigation, is often a perverse solution to crowded dockets in that it simply generates enormous financial incentives for plaintiffs’ lawyers to seek out new possibilities for class action claiming and engage in new recruitment efforts to seek out claimants. As a consequence, the pro- pensity of federal court judges to certify class actions has considerably diminished in recent years. Plaintiffs’ lawyers have countered this tendency, however, by forum shopping, that is, by filing their would-be class actions in state court jurisdictions where judges are known or believed to be likely to act favorably toward plaintiffs’ counsel and where juries have a high propensity for 22. For a history of the 1966 amendment and an analysis of its effects, intended and unintended, see Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at appendix (at 310). 23. See Reynolds v. Beneficial National Bank et al., 288 F. 3d 277 (2002), describing a notice of settlement sent to 17 million persons, “most of whom ignored them.” Id. at 282. 24. 51 F. 3d 1293 (7th Cir. 1995). For a discussion of the implications of Rhone-Poulenc, see Lester Brickman, “Class Action Reform: Beyond Rhone-Poulenc Rorer,” Research Memorandum 10, Manhattan Institute (Oct. 1995). 25. 249 F. 3d 672 (7th Cir. 2001). Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 7 favoring claimants over out-of-state “big business” defendants.26 While states’ venue laws typi- cally limit the bringing of civil actions in that state to the county where either the plaintiff or defendant resides or where the event giving rise to the cause of action arose, under federalized class action law, plaintiffs’ lawyers have the almost unfettered right to select any of the thousands of jurisdictions in the country in which to file an action against a major corporation. All that is required is that the lawyer locate a single resident of the chosen county who is a member of the putative class. The incentives to resort to such forum shopping are inordinately high, because no matter how many state or federal court judges have previously rejected plaintiffs’ lawyers’ at- tempts to seek class action status, a single state court judge, even one located in a county with a population only a small fraction of the size of the putative class, can, in effect, overrule all the other judges and certify a nationwide class action.27 State court class action claiming also benefits from a core feature of our constitutional scheme: that actions brought in one state’s courts must be given “full faith and credit” by the courts of other states. The underlying purpose of the requirement that each state must enforce the laws and judg- ments rendered by other states is to tie the states together into a federal entity while, at the same time, ensuring that each state shall be the master of its own policies and laws. This fundamental right of the states that was carefully protected in our Constitution is often degraded, if not utterly vitiated, by class action law. Under prevailing U.S. Supreme Court doctrine, a class action brought in one state court can have nationwide effect so long as there is an opt-out right, however chimerical in reality.28 Plaintiffs’ lawyers have availed themselves of this opportunity to bring class actions in one state based upon that state’s laws, which has the effect of nullifying the laws of other states pertaining to such issues as standards for fraud, choice of law, and punitive damages, applicable to the citizens of these other states swept up in the nationwide class. Thus, instead of allowing each state to decide upon its own laws and policies, a nationwide state court class action displaces the laws of many states and substitutes a uniformity of law in the same manner as if the Congress had enacted legisla- tion to that effect with the intent of preempting state law. Consider, for example, the case of Avery v. State Farm Mutual Automobile Ins. Co.,29 which effectively ordered State Farm to pay for original equipment manufacturer (OEM) replacement auto parts for its insureds involved in auto accidents, overruling State Farm’s implementation of the language in its policies to provide replacement parts “of like kind and quality,” by limiting payment usually to less expensive auto parts manufactured by non-original equipment manufacturers (non-OEM). While Congress has the authority to so require, it has not chosen to do so. Each state legislature and state insurance commission also has the 26. See Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 258–65. 27. State courts often certify class actions where federal courts, upon identical facts, have refused to do so. See in re Masonite Corp. Hardboard Siding Products Liability Litigation,170 F.R.D. 417 (E.D. La. 1997) and Naef v. Masonite Corp., No. CV-94-4033 (Cir. Ct., Mobile County, Ala.) (denial, and grant, of certifi- cation of identical nationwide classes of purchasers of allegedly defective home siding). Some state courts aid class action lawyers by certifying nationwide classes before the defendant is even served with process—so-called drive-by certification. See Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 260; Linda S. Mullenix, “Abandoning the Federal Class Action Ship: Is There Smoother Sailing for Class Actions in Gulf Waters?” 74 TUL. L. REV. (2000), at 1709, 1716; see also Sweet v. Ford Motor Co., No. L- 10463 (Cir. Ct., Blount County, Tenn.), order dated July 10, 1996; Davidson v. Bridgestone/Firestone, Inc., No. 00C2298 (8th Cir. Ct., 20th Jud. Dist. Nashville, Tenn.), order dated Aug. 18, 2000; Farkas v. Bridgestone/ Firestone, Inc., No. 00-CI-5263 (Cir. Ct., Jefferson County, Ky.), order dated Aug. 18, 2000. 28. Matsushita Electric Industrial Co., Ltd. v. Epstein, 616 U.S. 367, 116 S. Ct. 873 (1996). 29. 321 Ill. App. 3d 269, 746 N.E. 2d 1242 (Ill. App. 5 Dist. 2001). Civil Justice Report August 20028 authority to do so with regard to insureds residing in that state. None has so mandated.30 Indeed, some states specifically allow or even require that insurance companies mainly use non-OEM parts,31 because use of OEM parts increases the cost of accidents and therefore of auto insurance without any commensurate gain with regard to safety. For these reasons, most state legislatures and insurance regulators have largely consigned the issue of OEM versus non-OEM auto parts replacement to the highly competitive marketplace for auto insurance. Nonetheless, in Avery, a jury in a rural area of Illinois has displaced both the market and the laws and policies of all other states,32 including Illi- nois, by mandating the use of OEM auto parts. Such attempts to, in effect, federalize tort law through the use of nationwide class actions are being rejected when brought in federal court,33 but find fertile soil in many state courts. Paradoxically, even as plaintiffs’ lawyers have succeeded in many instances in thus effec- tively federalizing state tort law through forum shopping and the use of nationwide class actions, attempts to counter such abusive class action claiming through congressional legislation have been resisted on the grounds that such attempts would federalize state tort law. The ability of class action lawyers to forum-shop is materially augmented by several systemic abuses of federal civil procedure. Under the federal constitution, the judicial power of the federal courts extends to all cases in which there is a controversy “between citizens of different states”;34 this is re- ferred to as “diversity of citizenship.” This provision recognizes that litigants sued in one state who are domiciled in another state may be subjected to prejudicial treatment in the away-from-home state court. Federal law implementing this constitutional provision permits the removal of a case filed in state court to federal court on the grounds of diversity of citizenship, but only if the parties are “com- pletely” diverse, that is, where each and every defendant is not a citizen of the same state as one of the plaintiffs. In addition, for removal on the basis of diversity of citizenship, each plaintiff’s claim must be reasonably substantial; currently, that requirement is that it be in excess of $75,000.35 30. According to the court, “[f]ormer and current representatives of state insurance commissioners testified that the laws in many…states permit and in some cases encourage the use of non-OEM parts as an effort to encourage competitive price control.” Id. at 1254. The court, however, dismissed this evidence on the basis that the local jury had found that “inferior” aftermarket replacement parts had been used and that no state had sanctioned the use of “inferior” parts. Id. However, the court appears to be using “inferior” to mean “non-original equipment manufacturer parts” that therefore were not of “like kind and qual- ity” as State Farm had promised in its contracts of insurance. Id. at 1247. Accordingly, on the basis of this tautological legerdemain, use of non-OEM parts was, by definition, the use of “inferior” parts. 31. See Matthew J. Wald, “Suit Against Auto Insurer Could Affect Nearly All Drivers,” New York Times, Sept. 27, 1998, §1, at 29. 32. The court argued that, since the “of like kind and quality” language appeared in most of State Farm’s contracts nationwide, its interpretation of this contractual language was therefore consistent with the laws of all the states. The argument fails, however. The interpretation of a contract of insurance is a matter of state law. States interpreting the identical language in a contract and even in a statute can and do differ as to the meaning or effect of the words. It is also of note that a Maryland state court refused to certify a nearly identical class action brought against the Geico Corporation. See Snell et al. v. the Geico Corp. et al., 2001 WL 1085237 (Md. Cir. Ct., Aug. 14, 2001). Plaintiffs argued that the case they were bringing “is on all fours with [Avery],” id. at 7. The court basically concurred but found that certifying a nationwide class action could result in nullification of the laws and policies of other states with regard to the use of non-OEM parts. The court also rejected the Avery court’s reasoning set forth in supra n. 30. Id. at 10. 33. See the Matter of Bridgestone/Firestone, Inc. et al., Westlaw (7th Cir. May 2, 2002), at 9 (“Differences across states may be costly for courts and litigants alike, but they are a fundamental aspect of our fed- eral republic and must not be overridden in a quest to clear the queue in court”); see also BMW v. Gore, 517 U.S. 559, 568–73 (1996), Szabo v. Bridgeport Machines, Inc., 249 F. 3d 672 (7th Cir. 2001); Spence v. Glock, GmbH, 227 F. 3d 308 (5th Cir. 2000). 34. U.S. Const., Art. III, § 2. 35. 28 U.S.C. § 1332. Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 9 To thwart removal of a class action filed in state court to federal court, which is often a critical factor in the ability of the plaintiff lawyer to succeed in the litigation,36 class action lawyers use a number of strategies. One is to add a codefendant who is a citizen of the state in which the action is filed, thus destroying “complete” diversity. That codefendant can be, for example, a doctor or a pharmacy (in a suit against a drug company) or a local hardware store or other local retailer (in a suit against a product manufacturer).37 After the expiration of the one-year time limit on removal to federal court,38 that codefendant, who was never an intended target of the litigation, is dropped. Another device to preclude removal is to plead that each class member’s damages are $75,000 or less. Under the statute regulating removal, even if there is complete diversity of citizenship and the total amount of damages sought in the class action is in the billions of dollars, the case is not removable from state court unless damages sought are in excess of $75,000 per class member.39 More- over, if the complaint states that the damages sought for each class member is $75,000 or under and the class lawyers intend to later amend their pleadings to increase the damages claimed, after the expiration of the one-year period for removal to federal court—and actually do so—then that class action cannot thereafter be removed to federal court.40 In addition to the foregoing systemic abuses, class action claiming has created a new set of client abuses that current ethical rules are ill-equipped to address.41 Many of these abuses are a function of the financial incentives that motivate the litigation.42 For example, plaintiffs’ counsel have intrinsic incentives to seek excessive fees and at the time of settlement to compromise the interests of the class in exchange for a defendant’s agreement to support (or not to oppose) such a 36. The importance to plaintiff’s counsel of keeping a class action bottled up in state court is illustrated by the following litigation: plaintiff, seeking to institute a commercial litigation against a major interna- tional company, interviewed a number of law firms and selected one on the basis of that firm’s reputa- tion and its claimed ability to file the action in a small-county state court in one of the magnet states that attracts high numbers of class action filings. A complaint was filed, and the defendant removed the matter to federal district court. Plaintiff then withdrew its complaint. The same process was replicated a second time and a third time, each time with the same result. On the fourth try, plaintiff was able to get the federal district court to deny removal and to remand the case to state court. Once defendant faced the prospect of trying the case in a state court selected by plaintiff’s counsel, it sued for surrender. Shortly thereafter, a settlement was negotiated in which defendant agreed to provide plaintiff with very substantial compensation. It appears reasonably apparent that the key to plaintiff’s victory was its abil- ity to have the suit tried in state court rather than in federal court. (I was retained as an expert witness in this litigation, which is subject to an order of confidentiality.) 37. Among class actions currently being litigated in Madison County are four alleging that standard form contracts used by auto manufacturers offering extended warranty protection plans violate state con- sumer-fraud laws because the contracts do not make clear that the dealer receives compensation for selling the plan. To ensure that defendants cannot remove these cases to federal court, the class lawyers have included one Illinois car dealer in each case as a defendant. See Beisner and Miller, “Class Action Magnet Courts,” supra n. 3 at 4. 38. 28 U.S.C. § 1446 (b). 39. See, e.g., Davis v. Carl Cannon Chevrolet-Olds, Inc., 182 F. 3d 792, 793–94 (11 Cir. 1999); Farkas v. Bridgestone/ Firestone, Inc., 113 F. Supp. 2d 1107, 1112 (W.D. Ky. 2000). 40. See, e.g., Gilmer v. Walt Disney Co., 915 F. Supp. 1001, 1011 (W.D. Ark. 1996); Dupraz v. Aventis CropScience USA Holding, Inc., 153 F. Supp. 2d 1102, 1105 (D.S.D. 2001). 41. See Carrie Menkel-Meadow, “Ethics and the Settlements of Mass Torts: When the Rules Meet the Road,” 80 CORNELL L. REV. (1995), at 1159, 1189–90. 42. In class actions and other aggregative forms of litigation, there is a conflict between the financial inter- ests of the lawyers and the class they represent. MANUAL FOR COMPLEX LITIGATION (3d) (1995), § 23.24; Judith Resnick et al., “Individuals Within the Aggregate: Relationships, Representation and Fees,” 71 N.Y.U. L. REV. (1996), at 296, 300 (the economic benefits to lawyers of large-scale litigation are well documented); see also Charles C. Wolfram, “Mass Torts—Messy Ethics,” 80 CORNELL L. REV. (1995), at 1228, 1231 (stating “the class-action plaintiffs’ bar is driven by…easy money—a great deal of it”). Civil Justice Report August 200210 fee request.43 Lawyers may also structure a class action settlement in order to maximize their fees.44 Or they may seek to avoid the even meager quantum of attorneys’ fee superintendence, often provided by courts in class actions, by aggregating hundreds and even thousands of indi- vidual cases into a single proceeding and then settling those claims en masse. Lawyers are then able to charge retail prices—standard contingency fees of 33–40 percent and higher—against wholesale settlements, insulated from any ethical oversight.45 In addition to promoting systemic abuses and self-interested behavior, class actions invite large-scale deviations from the standards of care and conduct owed by the lawyer to the client, such as breaches of ethical duties,46 breaches of fiduciary obligation—including the duty not to represent clients with conflicting interests,47 and engaging in conduct that constitutes malpractice. While individual clients have the right to seek redress from their attorneys for such breaches, in class actions where the lawyer conscripts the client, such client rights have been effectively evis- cerated.48 Even class lawyers who engage in clear self-dealing at their clients expense are virtually immune from the traditional disciplinary systems.49 This is so because “[c]ourt approval of a settlement…insulates class counsel from collateral attack by clients aggrieved by an apparent sell- out of their claims by lawyers laden with conflicts of interest.”50 Clients who have had their pock- ets picked by their lawyers are thus denied the right, for example, to seek redress by invoking the same tort system that their ostensible lawyers are invoking to generate multimillion-dollar fees for themselves. The principal impetus for lawyers to bring actions seeking class certification and to en- gage in these various abuses are the fees.51 While courts have the duty to protect class members 43. See Jack B. Weinstein, INDIVIDUAL JUSTICE IN MASS TORT LITIGATION (1995), at 74–76 (stating that “plaintiffs’ attorneys in class and derivative cases…operate with nearly total freedom from traditional forms of client monitoring”). 44. See Sarah A. Toops, “Ethically Representing Thousands of Plaintiffs: Conflict Problems in Mass Toxic Harm Cases,” 67 DEF. COUN. J. (2000), at 462, 465–66. 45. See in re Polybutylene Plumbing Litig., 23 S.W. 3d 428 (Tex. App. 2000), where the appellate court gave its blessing to the enforcement of 37,100 individual fee contracts, most of them providing for a 40 per- cent contingency fee, totaling $88.8 million in attorneys’ fees, and reversing the district court’s treat- ment of the case as, in effect, a class action. The lower court also had reduced the fee total to 20 percent for the cases that did not go to trial, and awarded a total fee of $33.1 million (a $55.7 million reduction). 46. For a discussion of ethical issues raised by mass tort litigation, see, generally, Toops, supra n. 44. 47. For an example of concurrent conflicts of interest in class action claiming, see infra n. 102. 48. “We agree with those who argue that lawyer abuse in class actions is rampant and that the current system, far from keeping this abuse in check, is set up to shield lawyers from the consequences of their misdeeds.” Susan P. Koniak and George M. Cohen, “Under Cloak of Settlement,” 82 VA. L. REV. (1996), at 1051, 1056. 49. See Wolfram, supra n. 42, at 1228, 1233 (arguing that class action lawyers are beyond reform, especially given the lack of policing methods and stating that “[w]hat is badly broken, and what badly needs mending, is the basic class action and mass-litigation system of litigation. The only effective way to rid the judicial system of Willie Suttons is to take the profit out of robbing banks.”). 50. Paul C. Carrington and Derek P. Apanovitch, “The Constitutional Limits of Judicial Rulemaking: The Illegitimacy of Mass Tort Settlements Negotiated Under Federal Rule 23,” 39 ARIZ. L. REV. (1997), at 461, 469. See Kamilewicz v. Bank of Boston Corp., 92 F. 3d 506 (7th Cir. 1996), reh’g denied, 100 F. 3d 1348, cert. denied, 520 U.S. 1204 (1997); Epstein v. MCA, Inc. 179 F. 3d 641 (9th Cir. 1999); Thomas v. Albright, 77 F. Supp. 2d 114 (D.D.C. 1999); see also Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 298–300. 51. “[F]ee awards are one of the engines driving mass-tort litigation.” See ADVISORY COMM. ON CIVIL RULES & WORKING GROUP ON MASS TORTS, REPORT ON MASS TORT LITIGATION (Feb. 15, 1999), at 30. Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 11 from lawyers who put their pecuniary self-interest ahead of the interests of the class,52 in reality, they often fail to fulfill their self-imposed duty to act as fiduciary for the class with regard to approval of both the settlement and the class lawyers’ fee request.53 Instead, plaintiffs’ lawyers, charging contingency fees, are routinely overcompensated by courts54 and are often able to obtain substantial—indeed, enormous—fees, sometimes a product of inflating the number of hours claimed,55 which are rarely commensurate with the effort required, the risks assumed,56 or ethical limitations on the reasonableness of fees. These fees frequently amount to tens of thousands of dollars an hour and can be as much as hundreds of thousands of dollars an hour.57 Judges justify the fees awarded by noting that attorneys must be provided with sufficient compensation to yield the necessary incentives to undertake the risk of litigation in order to effectuate client rights in an era when legislatures are stymied by special interests and administrative agencies are shackled by budgetary constraints. Even if all elements of that proposition were accepted, the differences be- tween actual compensation and “sufficient compensation” remain disturbingly high. A principal 52. “[Courts have a] judicial duty to protect the members of a class in a class action from lawyers for the class who may, in derogation of their professional and fiduciary obligation, place their pecuniary self-inter- est ahead of that of the class.” Reynolds et al. v. Beneficial National Bank, 288 F. 3d 277, 279 (2002). “[I]inflated attorneys’ fees are an endemic problem in class action litigation.” Id. at 286. See also Culver v. City of Milwaukee, 277 F. 3d 908, 910 (7th Cir. 2002); Greisz v. Household Bank (Illinois), N.A., 176 F. 3d 1012, 1013 (7th Cir. 1999); Rand v. Monsanto Co., 926 F. 2d 596, 599 (7th Cir. 1991); Duhaime v. John Hancock Mutual Life Ins. Co., 183 F. 3d 1, 7 (1st Cir. 1999); John C. Coffee, Jr., “Class Action Accountability: Reconciling Exit, Voice, and Loyalty in Representative Litigation,” 100 COLUM. L. REV. (2000), at 370, 385–93; David L. Shapiro, “Class Actions: The Class as Party and Client,” 73 NOTRE DAME L. REV. (1998), at 913, 958–60 and n. 132. See also infra nn. 112–13. 53. See, generally, Susan P. Koniak and George M. Cohen, “In Hell There Will Be Lawyers Without Clients or Law,” 30 HOFSTRA L. REV. (2001), at 129. A particularly egregious example is Kamilewicz v. Bank of Boston Corp., No. 91-1880 (Ala. Cir. Ct., Jan. 24, 1994), where the court approved a method of calculating the class lawyers’ fees that was designed to and did defraud class members. For further discussion of this case, see Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 298–303. See also Reynolds et al. v. Ben- eficial National Bank, 288 F. 3d 277 (2002), where the appellate court overturned the lower court’s ap- proval of both the class settlement and the fee. With regard to the latter, the appellate court stated: “[T]he district judge encouraged the…[lawyers] to submit their fee applications in camera, lest the pau- city of the time they had devoted to the case (for which the judge awarded them more than $2 million in attorneys’ fees) be used as ammunition by objectors to the adequacy of the representation of the class. There was no sound basis for sealing the fee applications, let alone for sealing the number of hours each of the settlement class counsel had devoted to the case. The applications are not in the appellate record and we do not know what the total number of hours devoted by the class counsel to this litigation was, but apparently it was a small number. This is not surprising, since the lawyers’ efforts between the filing of the complaint and the settlement negotiations were singularly feeble, illustrated by their re- sponding to the…defendants’ motion to dismiss for lack of personal jurisdiction with a voluntary dis- missal of the claims against those defendants.” Id. at 284. 54. See supra n. 2; see also Robert G. Bone and David S. Evans, “Class Certification and the Substantive Merits,” 51 DUKE L.J. (2002), at 1179 (“Even in relatively routine cases, class action attorneys earn hun- dreds of thousands, and frequently millions, of dollars in fees.”). Id. at 1262. 55. See Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 306–7. 56. The thesis that very high fees are being routinely obtained in contingency-fee cases without meaningful risk, yielding what I have termed “windfall fees,” is one that I have previously advanced. See Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 245; see also Lester Brickman, “ABA Regulation of Contingency Fees: Money Talks, Ethics Walks,” 65 FORDHAM L. REV. 1179 (1996), at 1179; Lester Brickman, “Contin- gent Fees Without Contingencies: Hamlet Without the Prince of Denmark?” 37 UCLA L. REV. (1989), at 29, 92–93. 57. Cf. Bone and Evans, supra n. 54 at 1262. Civil Justice Report August 2002 consequence of such overcompensation is the proliferation of class action litigation, often irrespec- tive of merit and yielding net subtractions from social welfare.58 One of the more pernicious fee-setting devices that courts have permitted is the basing of the class action fee as a percentage of an artificially inflated settlement value when the reality is that the actual payments to the class will be a small fraction of the “announced” settlement value. This is what frequently occurs in the reversionary settlement (as opposed to the pro-rata), where, as noted earlier, any funds unclaimed by the class revert to the defendant. This provides an incentive to class counsel and defendant to act collusively to raise the stated amount of the settlement; the fee, which is usually a percentage of that amount, is thereby increased, thus paying off class counsel. In exchange, class counsel agrees to an especially arduous claiming process for class members in order to mini- mize the actual number of claims asserted against the notional value of the settlement fund, thereby maximizing the amount that will revert to the defendant.59 In such cases, class counsels’ fees can easily amount to 200 percent or more of the amount actually paid to class members.60 IV. DOWN’S ENTERPRISES Beginning at least as early as 1989 and continuing to about March 1998, James Blair Down (“Down”), a Canadian citizen, conducted numerous mass-marketing schemes from Canada and Barbados, aimed principally at swindling elderly American citizens.61 Using many different direct 58. See Fruchler v. Florida Progress Corp. et al., No. 99-6167C1-20 (Cir. Ct., Pinellas Cty., Fla.), March 20, 2002 (striking down a proposed settlement of a class action because it “provides nothing for the class mem- bers, while assuring Class Counsel of an unopposed opportunity to seek substantial fees”). Id. at 13. “This action appears to be the class action litigation equivalent of the ‘Squeegee boys’ who used to frequent major urban intersections and who would run up to a stopped car, splash soapy water on its perfectly clear windshield and expect payment for the unwanted service of wiping it off.” Id. at 15. 59. The reversionary nature of the settlement in the class action that is the subject of this monograph is discussed at Part VIII (B) infra. 60. See Motion for Leave to File Amici Curiae and Brief Amici Curiae in Support of Petition, Int’l Precious Metals Corp. v. Waters, 530 U.S. 1223 (2000) (in support of petition for certiorari, June 5, 2000). This was likely the case in Waters, where there was a $40 million reversionary fund settlement that provided that any amount of the fund not claimed by class members and not paid out as attorneys’ fees and expenses was to be returned to defendants. This agreement resulted in awarding class counsel $13,333,333 (one- third of the reversionary fund), whereas the distribution to the class plaintiffs only amounted to $6,485,362.15. In other words, the fee award allowed by the district court was more than twice the amount of the class’s recovery. Int’l Precious Metals, 530 U.S. 1223 (2000). Although the Court dismissed the petition for certiorari seeking to challenge the fee award, Justice Sandra Day O’Connor filed a concur- ring opinion, explaining her reason for denying the petition for a writ of certiorari. Justice O’Connor agreed that as a result of utilizing the reversionary settlement method, the award of attorneys’ fees was “extraordinary.” Id. at 1223. She also recognized that these settlements “potentially undermine the un- derlying purposes of class actions by providing defendants with a powerful means to enticing class counsel to settle lawsuits in a manner detrimental to the class [and]…encourage the filing of needless lawsuits.” Id. However, Justice O’Connor asserted that rehearing of this case did not provide a fitting opportunity to redress this injustice because of the existence of a “clear sailing” agreement, which pro- vided that the petitioners would not, “directly or indirectly, oppose [respondents’] application for fees.” Id. Indeed, “as a result of…[these ‘clear sailing’ agreements], courts often lack the information neces- sary to protect the interests of the class against the conflicts inherent in the settlement process.” Brief of Amici Curiae, id. at 9–10, Waters. Justice O’Connor’s shot across the bow, however, lands far short of doing damage to abusive reversionary settlements. So long as class counsel insist on “clear sailing” provisions, there may never be an opportunity, per Justice O’Connor’s condition, for the court to elimi- nate this clear abuse. 61. Unless otherwise indicated, the details and characterizations of Down’s enterprises are taken primarily 12 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 mail solicitation companies that he controlled and multiple names, Down targeted the elderly and other vulnerable groups with direct mail solicitations in the form of prize-award notices, some- times coupled with “puzzle contests,” designed to convince the addressees that they were entitled to receive a $10,000 prize, provided they sent in $5–20 as “administrative fees” for judging the puzzles. In fact, the mailings were misleading and deceptive; no such entitlements actually ex- isted, and little money was ever received by those who responded.62 Instead, consumers who responded were inundated with more mailings, promising larger prizes and soliciting additional amounts of money. Several of those solicited who responded positively became frequent targets, sending in dozens of checks amounting to hundreds of dollars. In addition to the “puzzle contest” enterprises, Down sold interests in “lottery pools” in Canadian and Australian lotteries, in contravention of U.S. law prohibiting the use of the mails to promote or market lotteries63 and anti-racketeering laws related to gambling.64 Down’s agents represented to potential customers that by participating in such pools, they would be receiving chances in foreign lotteries; moreover, by virtue of Down’s expertise in picking “special numbers” and the opportunity afforded to Down’s “customers” to buy larger shares in the pools, they were assured of a significant win. In fact, these claims were either misleading or false.65 The chance of winning any sum of money was very remote, and the chance of winning any large sum—as claimed in the marketing campaigns—was virtually nil.66 The lottery enterprise generated huge profits for Down because the prices charged to consumers greatly exceeded the actual costs of any lottery tickets purchased. The United States attempted to stop this activity by seizing the solicitations and other lottery materials. Down responded by frequently changing the names of his promotions, shifting part of his business from Canada to Barbados, disguising his mailings, and expanding his operations. In furtherance of his enterprise, Down sent out hundreds of mailings from various locations throughout the world, each consisting of 5,000 to 300,000 individual mail solicitations. In addition to mail solicitations, Down also undertook a deceptive and predatory telemarketing scheme to sell lottery participations to targeted victims and gain access to their credit-card numbers. Millions of letters were sent and thousands of calls were made to U.S. resi- dents from boiler rooms manned by approximately 500 telemarketers. The phone callers were insistent and persistent, gaining the confidence of the elderly victims by befriending them and calling again and again to procure additional checks and credit-card charges. Thousands of indi- viduals, many of them elderly,67 were tricked into paying out amounts ranging from hundreds of dollars to several hundred thousand dollars. In many cases, these sums represented the victims’ from three sources: (a) Pulling Affidavit, supra n. 11; (b) Affidavit of Joseph L. Byers, U.S. Postal Inspec- tor, in U.S. Postal Service and United States of America v. BAJ Marketing., Inc. [, Civil Action No. 98-880, U.S.D.C., District of New Jersey, Feb. 26, 1998; and (c) Plea Agreement between the United States of America and Down, Aug. 19, 1998. Although Down used scores of different names by which to market his enterprises, for the purpose of this narrative description, both the “puzzle” and “lottery” enter- prises, described infra, will be referred to as “Down’s enterprises.” 62. Affidavit of Robert B. Cialdini, Regent Professor of Psychology at Arizona State University, filed Dec. 15, 1998, in the Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down, Supreme Court of British Columbia in Bankruptcy, Vancouver Registry Action Nos. 188266VA98, 188277VA98, and 182268VA98 (hereinafter, “Cialdini Affidavit”). 63. Title 18, U.S. Code §§ 1301–2. 64. Title 18, U.S. Code §§ 1952–53, 1084. 65. See affidavit of Mark A. Cohen, formerly Economist and Statistician on Crime, Division of Consumer Protection, U.S. Federal Trade Commission (and now Professor of Economics, Vanderbilt University), filed Dec. 22, 1998, at 8, in the Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down et al., Supreme Court of British Columbia in Bankruptcy, supra n. 62. 66. Id. 67. See Cialdini Affidavit, supra n. 62 at ¶ 9. 13 Civil Justice Report August 2002 entire life savings. Among one group of 192 victims whose losses exceeded $10,000 each, the aver- age loss was over $50,000; one individual lost $329,000.68 Major victims, characterized as “VIP customers” by Down’s enterprises, were mollified by personal visits designed to demonstrate Down’s concern for their plight. These visits included presenting victims who had spent large sums of money (usually more than $100,000) with $5,000 in traveler’s checks or cash to reduce the likelihood that they would report the scheme to authorities. A. Cease-and-Desist Orders Between 1992 and 1996, Down’s enterprises were the subject of at least 22 different U.S. Postal Inspection Service enforcement proceedings.69 These enforcement efforts resulted in three agreements between Down and the postal authorities whereby Down agreed to “cease and desist” engaging in his lottery promotion enterprises.70 In one such consent order involving the lottery enterprises, Down, on behalf of himself and his marketing companies, agreed “to cease and desist immediately from falsely representing, directly or indirectly, in substance and effect, whether by affirmative statements, implications or omissions, that: (1) a lottery winning system has been devised; (2) an individual will win lotteries and become wealthy by using a lottery winning system; (3) individuals have become wealthy (e.g., millionaires) by using a lottery winning system; (4) an entity provides numbers of a combination of numbers that will win lotteries; (5) numbers or a combination of numbers were specially selected for an individual and/or will win the lottery for the individual; (6) an individual has won something of value; (7) an entity is in possession of something of value (i.e., lottery entries) on behalf of an individual; (8) an individual was especially selected to receive something of value; (9) an entity will obtain, process and validate lottery tickets for the consumer for free; (10) a fee solicited from consumers is merely an administrative fee to cover the costs of validation and processing; [and] (11) any fee solicited from consumers is not the purchase price of the product. Respondents are further ordered to cease and desist immediately from obtaining money or property through the mail for the purposes of conducting or participating in a lottery.”71 In addition, between April 1991 and September 1993, the U.S. Customs Service effected ten seizures of lottery tickets and other illegal material that Down caused to be mailed into the United States. Down’s “response to this enforcement activity was to continue and expand his illegal opera- tions by changing the names of his promotions and operating companies, by shifting the operation of 68. See Pulling Affidavit, supra n. 11 at ¶ 72. 69. Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down et al., 178 D.R.L (4th) 294, 66 B.C.L.R. (3d) 392 (1999), Slip Op. at ¶ 10. 70. See, e.g., the Matter of the Complaint Against Universal Network, Inc., P.S. Docket No. 39/56, Oct. 30, 1992; the Matter of the Complaint Against Universal Network, Inc., P.S. Docket No. 40/130, Apr. 12, 1993; the Matter of the Complaint Against Universal Network et al., P.S. Docket No. 40/130, Apr. 6, 1993. 71. In the Matter of the Complaint Against Universal Network, Inc. et al., Order, P.S. Docket No. 40/130, Apr. 12, 1993. 14 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 part of his business from Canada to Barbados, by disguising his mailings or using alternative couri- ers to avoid detection and by relying increasingly on telemarketing to avoid detection.”72 In 1998, Down was prosecuted by the U.S. Attorney and the U.S. Postal Service in a civil fraud action in New Jersey for operating an illegal direct mail marketing business that solicited money mainly from elderly Americans.73 The New Jersey civil proceedings were settled in December 1998 with a consent judgment compelling Down to forfeit $400,000 to repay victims of his enterprises. One of Down’s Barbados companies was also the subject of a consumer fraud complaint filed in 1997 by the Attorney General of Illinois, alleging that it had violated the Illinois Consumer Fraud and Deceptive Practices Act.74 This resulted in a consent judgment in which Down’s com- pany agreed to permanently discontinue its “prize” marketing scheme.75 B. The Criminal Prosecution In early 1992, the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Seattle, Washington, the U.S. Postal Inspection Service, and the U.S. Customs Office started a joint investigation into Down’s enterprises. In June 1997, Down was indicted by the United States for using the mails and other facilities in interstate and foreign commence to illegally sell chances in lotteries and to carry on an unlawful business enterprise involving gambling. In the indictment, it was alleged that $118,640,327 had been col- lected from victims and sent to Down in Canada.76 A more detailed and fuller estimate of the aggregate value of the proceeds of Down’s criminal enterprises pegs the total receipts from the puzzle contests and lottery sales between 1989 and 1998 as in excess of $150 million.77 On August 19, 1998, Down pled guilty to a single count of criminal conspiracy to transport gaming parapher- nalia in violation of the laws of the United States.78 As part of the Plea Agreement, Down admitted that he established, controlled, and directed entities forming the enterprise and that his criminal activity was the cause of the victims’ delivery of monies to his agents. He further agreed to forfeit any interest in funds that had been seized as part of the prosecution amounting to over $12 million, to be used primarily to make partial restitution to victims. Finally, Down agreed to incarceration and was imprisoned in Oregon for a term of six months. 72. Pulling Affidavit, supra n. 11 at 3. 73. U.S. Postal Service v. BAJ Mktg., Inc., supra n. 61. 74. People of Illinois v. Triple Eight Int’l Services, Inc., No. 97 CH 04123, Complaint for Injunctive and Other Relief (Cir. Ct., Cook Cty., Ill.), Apr. 3, 1997. 75. People of Illinois v. Triple Eight Int’l Services, Inc., Consent Judgment, Cir. Ct., Cook Cty., No. 97 CH 04123, Nov. 9, 1998. 76. U.S. v. James Blair Down et al., Second Superseding Indictment, No. CR97-199R, U.S. D.C., West. Dist. Washington, Oct. 17, 1997, p. 61, lines 9–13. 77. In addition to a total of $118 million generated by the lottery scam as stated in the indictment, Interclaim possesses a list of puzzle victims who remitted in excess of $28.5 million to Down, for a total of at least $147.5 million. See infra n. 83. There is evidence upon which to base a conclusion that the proceeds of Down’s illegal enterprises actually exceeded $200 million. In 1993, Down received $27 million in lottery sales; in 1994, $54 million was received, and in 1995, $70 million. Pulling Affidavit, supra n. 11 at ¶ 96. Adding the $28.5 million from the Merkle list of puzzle victims for the period 1997–98 brings the total to $180 million. This does not include the revenue received for the period 1989–92. In the Pulling Affidavit, Down’s income statement for the 12-month period ending May 1995 is summarized, indicating gross receipts of $70 million. Id. at ¶196. (Down continued to engage in the lottery marketing business until 1996.) Based upon that income statement, the monthly gross “take” was approximately $5.83 million. As Down continued to operate between the months of June and December, 1995, in that period an estimated $32.08 million was generated. Added to the $180 million already calculated, gross revenues of at least $212.5 million are apparent. 78. United States of America v. James Blair Down, No. 97-199R, U.S.D.C., West. Dist. Wash., Plea Agreement [hereinafter, “Plea Agreement”], Aug. 19, 1998. 15 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Nonetheless, Down struck an excellent bargain, knowing that, in the words of a Canadian judge, he would leave prison as a “very wealthy man.”79 He avoided up to 20 years incarceration under U.S. Bureau of Prison minimum mandatory sentencing guidelines and was forced to dis- gorge a very small percentage of the gross “take” of his criminal enterprises. The agreement by the U.S. government to settle for six months in a minimum-security prison and the forfeiture of $12 million reflected the difficulties faced by the government in investigating criminal activity inten- tionally fragmented by Down across national boundaries, the proceeds of which had been con- cealed in offshore asset holding structures. Frustrated by its inability to recover even a modest percentage of the amount obtained from the victims, in June 1998, representatives of the F.B.I. and the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Seattle sought assistance from the Interclaim group of companies, including Interclaim Holdings Limited, located in the Republic of Ireland, in obtaining fuller relief for Down’s victims. V. THE INTERCLAIM GROUP The Interclaim group (“Interclaim”) formed in 1996, consists of several related companies that are in the business of contracting with financial institutions, sovereign governments, and indi- viduals to locate illegally obtained or laundered assets worldwide and to acquire and enforce complex, multi-jurisdictional judgments, claims, and debts.80 Interclaim receives either fixed fees for its efforts or enters into contingency-fee agree- ments with the institutions or others that hired it to recover assets. Where it is impractical for Interclaim to enter into recovery agreements with each claim holder because of numerosity or the limited amount of individual claims, Interclaim makes innovative use of legal process to seek the recovery of assets. In response to the request from the F.B.I. and the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Interclaim, upon investigation, concluded that the $12 million that Down paid in restitution as part of the Plea Agreement represented only a small fraction of the proceeds of Down’s enterprises. It further 79. Re Down, 178 D.L.R. (4th) 294, 66 B.C.L.R. (3d) 392 (1999), at ¶ 14. 80. The Interclaim group (“Interclaim”) consists of Interclaim Holdings Limited (“IHL”), an Irish company that holds title to claims that another subsidiary of the corporate group enforces. It is a wholly owned subsidiary of Interclaim (Bermuda) Ltd. and sibling to Interclaim Recovery Limited, the corporate sub- sidiary that enforces claims that IHL acquires an interest in. Interclaim describes the services on its website as follows: “Interclaim identifies claims, judgments, or debts which have been abandoned by their owners, or which have not been enforced because their owners lack the financial or human capital necessary to conduct effective enforcement proceedings in multiple jurisdictions at the same time. Interclaim takes on the financial risks of claim enforcement by either purchasing such claims or estab- lishing joint ventures with the claim owners.” Generally, Interclaim acquires claims by either outright purchase or joint venture. It describes the meth- ods on its website as follows: “In an outright purchase, 100% of the title to particular claim is acquired in return for payment to the claim owner of either (a) cash or (b) a contingent payment payable upon the successful enforcement of the claim. When a claim is acquired through joint venture, Interclaim contrib- utes all human and financial capital necessary to enforce the claim, while the claim owner contributes only the title to the claim. In large-scale government corruption or cases where there are multiple, unre- lated and/or undercapitalized victims, Interclaim seeks a mandate to recover assets world-wide in re- turn for the payment of a contingent fee. Such fee is often adjusted on a sliding scale.” As quoted in the Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down et al., 178 D.L.R. (4th) 294, 66 B.C.L.R. (3d) 392 (1999), Supreme Court of British Columbia (Canada) in Bankruptcy, Reasons for Judgment of the Honorable Mr. Justice Brenner at 4 (hereinafter, “Bankruptcy Proceeding”). On Nov. 7, 2001, Interclaim Recovery Ltd. was placed into voluntary liquidation in Ireland. 16 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 concluded that it could profitably participate in securing additional redress for Down’s victims and, to that end, devised an entrepreneurial strategy to intervene on behalf of the victims. Interclaim, with the help of the U.S. Attorney’s Office,81 which introduced Interclaim to 18 victims who had expressed interest in having Interclaim help them recover their loss, devised a plan to locate and recover Down’s concealed assets. As a part of this plan, Interclaim sought to gain a legal basis to participate in several judicial proceedings that it contemplated instituting. It did so by entering into written agreements with 15 of the lottery-ticket purchasers, paying each between $2,500 and $5,000 from its own funds as a nonrefundable advance against any monies that Interclaim would recover from Down, in exchange for which these victims appointed Interclaim to be their attorney in fact to prosecute their claims against Down. To give it a further legally cognizable interest in pursuing Down, Interclaim bought up approximately $670,000 of outstanding trade debts of Down-owned enterprises, paying approxi- mately $87,500 to a printer, a data processor and mailer, and a telephone company that Down acquired services from in furtherance of his schemes but for which he had failed to pay.82 In the process, Interclaim acquired a list of 418,846 names and addresses of individuals who paid ap- proximately $28.5 million with regard to the “puzzle business” swindle operated by Down.83 81. In response to the invitation to assist the victims, after investigation, Interclaim wrote to the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Seattle on Aug. 20, 1998: “I hope you may be in a position to provide me with the names and contact details of victims whom you may have possibly interviewed and who may be willing to cooperate with Interclaim towards effecting a global recovery of assets currently under the control of Mr. Down (or his related entities and/or associates)….[M]y primary objective is to make contact with victims who may be willing to sell, at face value, their claim against Mr. Blair Down and his corporate structure. The acquisition of, say, two or more such claims would provide us with the requisite legal platform from which to launch our plan of multi-jurisdictional claim enforcement and recovery.” Bankruptcy Proceeding, id. at 11. A U.S. Attorney then “attached this letter to a letter sent to a number of the potential claimants for the $12 million restitution fund resulting from the plea agreement. He pro- vided a form to be ticked and returned if the potential claimant wanted to be contacted by Interclaim.” Id. The letter included the following: “We have received a letter from a company named “Interclaim” located in Dublin, Ireland, which de- scribes its business as “multi-jurisdictional claim acquisition and enforcement.” This company has ex- pressed an interest in purchasing the claims of several of the victims of the Down companies. Apparently, this company is considering instituting international litigation against Mr. Down and/or his companies and states it is interested in acquiring certain claims against him ‘at face value’ in order to provide a legal basis to pursue such litigation.” Bankruptcy Proceeding, id. 82. Id. at 15–17. 83. The list of 418,846 consisted of names and addresses of individuals who had paid money to Down’s enterprises between May 1996 and June 1998, in response to the puzzle enterprises. The list was pur- chased from Merkle Data Processing, Inc., which acted in that time period as the sole electronic data processor and principal mailer for Down’s enterprises conducted from Barbados. “The Merkle list sets forth (a) the names and addresses of certain persons who remitted value to the enterprise at least once during the last 6 months of the approximate May 1996 to June 1998—apparent life cycle of the Puzzle Business; (b) an indication of the amount conveyed by each person thus listed, totaling approximately US$28,512,837 in aggregate value; (c) the date that each amount was paid; (d) the method of payment; and (e) a code indicating the identity of the apparently deceptive solicitation that formed the reason for the sending of a particular sum of value.” Retainer Agreement between Ness, Motley, Loadholt, Richardson & Poole and Interclaim, Recital at 10, Feb. 14, 2000. 17 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Many, if not most, of these puzzle-contest participants were also solicited by Down’s lottery enter- prises and sent in monies to the latter.84 VI. THE CANADIAN LITIGATIONS A. The Bankruptcy Action Employing a novel and complex legal strategy, on December 22, 1998, Interclaim commenced a bankruptcy proceeding against Down in the Supreme Court of British Columbia, in its own name (as owner of Down-related trade debt) and in the names of 15 lottery-ticket purchasers as co-peti- tioners. Down’s liability was premised on the theory that, as the operator of an illegal enterprise (whose business was ostensibly involved in the unlawful resale of foreign lottery tickets), Down was not legally entitled to keep the proceeds of what were hundreds of thousands of illegal contracts. Accordingly, each and every one of Down’s “customers” or contractual counterparties was a credi- tor entitled to the return of whatever monies Down received from them. As such, Down was a debtor to each of these creditors in an amount equal to the liquidated sum received from his victims. Interclaim further alleged that: (a) Down had attempted to secrete his assets with the intent to defeat his credi- tors (Interclaim and the lottery-ticket purchasers); (b) Down was insolvent because his debts ex- ceeded his assets, thus creating a need for a process of ratably distributing his assets among the creditors; and (c) these facts and circumstances constituted acts of bankruptcy under Canadian law. However, merely petitioning Down into involuntary bankruptcy proceedings was in no way sufficient to ensure that Down’s creditors would be compensated. As a result of many years of evading and avoiding criminal prosecution from various law-enforcement agencies in the United States, Down had placed his assets beyond traditional means of recovery available to ordinary creditors, through the creation of complex asset protection mechanisms across multiple jurisdictions.85 Accordingly, merely placing Down into involuntary bankruptcy would not result in compensation to creditors. Rather, 84. In June 1999, Interclaim sent a questionnaire to 10,000 individuals randomly selected from the Merkle list. Approximately 82 percent of the 667 who responded indicated that in addition to the puzzle busi- ness, they had sent money to the lottery and telemarketing enterprises. Affidavit of Dr. Mark A. Cohen, filed Feb. 17, 2000, in the Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down et al., Supreme Court of British Columbia in Bankruptcy. The 7.1 percent response rate based upon delivered pieces of mail is “indica- tive of a significant population of customers who believe they have a valid claim.” Id. at 10. Moreover, because many of the recipients of the survey may have had difficulty in understanding it or did not believe that they could adequately document any losses and therefore did not respond, “the response rate is likely to considerably underestimate the true percentage of the 10,000 surveyed or in the database of 418,846 that believe they have a legitimate claim. Given the fact that the average age of respondents was significantly lower than the average age of individuals in the database, customers who did not respond to the survey but believe they have legitimate claims (or have subsequently passed away) are likely to be older (on average) than age 64.8 years [the average age of the respondents].” Id. at 8. 85. For example, according to the Court of Appeal for Alberta, Interclaim established a strong prima facie case that Down owned 26 office buildings and other commercial properties in Alberta, Canada, of an estimated value of CAD$100 million through 26 Alberta numbered companies; the cash equity and subordinated debt, all having derived from a Netherlands holding company, which, in turn, was wholly owned by a holding company domiciled in the Netherlands Antilles that was owned by Down. Each of the 26 numbered Alberta corporations, which held the title to the Alberta real estate, purported to be controlled and owned by Down’s brother and sister-in-law. Down owned a home on St. James Beach in Barbados that was listed by him for sale with Sotheby’s for $17.5 million, through a BVI international business corporation secretly controlled by a Channel Islands trust. Down had a secret Swiss bank account containing $4.5 million. Down also held a $5 million investment in a timber concession in Papua New Guinea through a Guernsey trust. See First Report of the Interim Receiver (Arthur Andersen, Inc.), in the Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down et al., Supreme Court of British Columbia in 18 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 Bankruptcy, Feb. 11, 1999 (hereinafter, “First Report of Interim Receiver”); Second Report of the Interim Receiver (Arthur Andersen, Inc.), March 30, 1999 (hereinafter, “Second Report of Interim Receiver”). The U.S. government in 1997 seized $12.3 million of Down’s cash held by two Cayman Islands compa- nies, which were further held by two Cayman Islands Trusts. See Plea Agreement, supra n. 78, support- ing documents attached. 86. Bankruptcy Proceedings, id. at 12–15. As described by Interclaim (referring to itself as IHL): “Moving forward with its efforts to secure restitution for the hundreds of thousands of victims of the criminal enterprise, and acting under the power of attorney agreements, IHL retained Canadian law firms to commence involuntary bankruptcy proceedings in Vancouver, British Columbia against the Down group, and a ‘representative proceeding’ (i.e., class action) in Calgary, Alberta on behalf of both [the] fifteen…individuals and all other victims of the criminal enterprise….[T]hese fifteen individual victims, who had executed power of attorney agreements with IHL, were potentially liable on CAD$4 million of bonds posted to facilitate the issuance of asset preservation orders associated with the proceedings in Alberta, as well as further potential (or contingent) adverse costs and damages liability to the Down group. On Dec. 22, 1998, IHL and the fifteen co-petitioners…commenced involuntary bankruptcy proceedings against Down and two of his co-conspirators in their home city of Vancouver, British Columbia. At Interclaim’s request, the bankruptcy court provisionally appointed Arthur Andersen, Inc. as Interim Receiver and approved an International Claims Enforcement Agreement (“ICEA”) between IRL and the Interim Receiver. Under that agreement, IRL was to (1) fund the operations of the Interim Receiver with up to CAD$3 million of cash and bonds and (2) provide the Interim Receiver with expert and special- ized services in identifying, locating and recovering the illicit proceeds worldwide. In return, IRL was to receive a return of its direct costs of up to $2 million, plus 50% of any assets recovered in the bank- ruptcy up to a maximum of 50% of the proven claims of creditors. Between Dec. 22, 1998, and Jan. 29, 1999, the Interim Receiver, with…[Interclaim’s] assistance, insti- tuted ex parte concealed asset discovery and preservation proceedings in seven jurisdictions, namely, (a) Alberta, (b) the British Virgin Islands, (c) Barbados, (d) the Bailiwick of Guernsey in the Channel Islands, (e) the Bailiwick of Jersey, (f) the U.S. Bankruptcy Court (Seattle), and (g) British Columbia), to attach and recover assets derived from the criminal enterprise. [Interclaim,] as the Interim Receiver’s agent, posted security for these proceedings in the aggregate amount of CAD$3.5 million. Through these efforts, [Interclaim] and the Interim Receiver preserved approximately CAD$100 million of the Down group’s assets worldwide (inclusive of the value of third-party mortgages). Such assets have an estimated net equity value of Can$50–60 million….” Interclaim Holdings Ltd. v. Ness, Motley, Loadholt, Richardson & Poole, Amended Complaint, U.S. D.C. N.D. Ill., E. Div., May 23, 2001, at ¶¶ 12–14 (5-6). Down’s laundering of the proceeds of his crime would merely frustrate those seeking restitution, as one could not expect Down to be forthright in the disclosure of his worldwide assets. To deal with the complexity of the issue, Interclaim conceived of a plan to allow for the orderly compensation of Down’s victims while at the same time earning a profit for itself. The plan was to: (1) locate Down’s assets; (2) collect evidence of the manner and means of ownership of those assets; (3) collect the evidence neces- sary to convince a court that these assets were truly owned by Down and that unless these assets were placed under the control of the court, they would be dissipated in order to frustrate creditors; and (4) simultaneously petition Down into involuntary bankruptcy and have the bankruptcy court appoint an interim receiver to seize Down’s assets, pending resolution of the issue of whether Down was a “debtor” and his victims “creditors” within the meaning of the Canadian Bankruptcy and Insolvency Act and, therefore, should be adjudicated a bankrupt. In furtherance of its plan, Interclaim had entered into an agreement with Arthur Andersen, Inc., whereby Andersen would, if appointed by the court, serve as interim receiver (“Interim Re- ceiver”) of Down’s assets and of the assets of two of Down’s former senior executives. In addition, Interclaim was authorized thereunder to search out Down’s assets and provide up to CAD$3 million of its own funds to do so, including posting any security for cross-undertakings in costs or damages required to preemptively freeze Down’s assets. Finally, the agreement provided that Interclaim was entitled to recover its outlays and 50 percent of any proved claims realized in bankruptcy.86 19 Civil Justice Report August 2002 At an ex parte hearing on December 18, 1998, the Bankruptcy Court approved the appoint- ment of the Interim Receiver and the marketing of an International Claims Enforcement Agreement between it and Interclaim, authorizing Interclaim to support the Interim Receiver’s efforts to locate and preserve assets of Down, in exchange for receiving payment of certain expenses plus a 50 per- cent share of the net proceeds of any recovery as its total compensation for its efforts. Interclaim then set about the task of assisting the Interim Receiver to commence extensive proceedings to locate and preserve assets acquired with the proceeds of Down’s enterprises, in bank accounts and investments in Switzerland, the Cayman Islands, the United States, the Bailiwicks of Jersey and Guernsey in the Channel Islands, the British Virgin Islands, Barbados, Papua New Guinea, and Canada. Acting as agent for the Interim Receiver, Interclaim located and assisted the Interim Re- ceiver in preserving approximately CAD$100 million of assets throughout the world that were ben- eficially owned by Down, of which it projected that $50–60 million would be recoverable under the bankruptcy proceeding. After extensive proceedings before the Canadian Bankruptcy Court, the judge, on August 4, 1999, expressed great sympathy for the victims of Down’s enterprises but held that Interclaim’s arrangements with the trade creditors and the 15 lottery victims violated the ancient proscription against champerty. Champerty occurs when one undertakes to carry on a litigation to which he is not a party, in exchange for a share of the proceeds of the litigation.87 The laws regarding cham- perty in the United States vary widely: some states never adopted the common law doctrine; some that did have repealed those laws; others that did have created specific exceptions such as for lawyers’ contingency fees, which are, by definition, champertous; and some few still maintain prohibitions against champerty.88 On the basis of that holding, Justice Brenner dismissed the bank- ruptcy petition on August 4, 1999.89 Justice Brenner’s conclusion that Interclaim’s agreements with the 15 lottery victims were champertous was wrong, both under American90 and Canadian law. In January 2001, the Court of Appeal for British Columbia overturned Justice Brenner’s dismissal based upon champerty (call- ing the issue a “red herring”), reinstated the bankruptcy petitions, and instructed the bankruptcy court to dispositively rule on the principal issue in the case—whether the liquidated claims of restitution of the victims of Down’s enterprises were “debts” under the Canadian Bankruptcy and Insolvency Act. The other issues before the bankruptcy court (with respect to Down’s interlocu- tory application to set aside the appointment of the Interim Receiver) had not been ruled upon in consequence of Justice Brenner’s August 4, 1999, finding of champerty.91 87. Black’s Law Dictionary (4th ed., 1957), at 292. 88. I was retained by Interclaim to provide written testimony on the issue of champerty under American law. See in the Court of Queen’s Bench of Alberta, Judicial Centre of Calgary, between Interclaim Hold- ings et al. and Down et al., Action No. 9901-10422, Affidavit of Professor Lester Brickman, Oct. 27, 1999 (hereinafter, “Brickman Affidavit”). 89. Bankruptcy Proceedings, id. at 38. The judge, concerned about the plight of the victims, invited the appellate court to create an exception to the rules regarding champerty so that the action could proceed. Id. at 38–39. 90. See Brickman Affidavit, supra n. 88, in which I examined the laws of the states of the 15 co-plaintiffs and concluded that since there had been no assignment of any legal or beneficial right of the co-plaintiff’s ownership of their respective claims to Interclaim, these agreements were not champertous. Id. at ¶¶s 28–98. See also ¶¶s 99–121 for a discussion of the applicability of the doctrine of maintenance. 91. Interclaim Holdings Ltd. v. Down, 2001 BCCA 65, 196 D.L.R. (4th) 114, 84 B.C.L.R. (3d) 1 (Ct. App. for British Columbia, Jan. 31, 2001). Previously, the Court of Appeal, in Dec. 1999, had directed the Bank- ruptcy Court to rule on the remaining interlocutory issues related to Down’s attack on the ex parte interim receivership order of Dec. 18, 1998. Chief Justice Brenner (as he had become), thus issued his supplemental findings on the remaining asset-preservation part of the case on July 28, 2000. These are discussed, infra, in Part VI (C), “The Asset Freezes.” 20 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 B. The Alberta Representative Action Shortly after the December 15, 1998, institution of the bankruptcy proceedings in Vancouver, British Columbia, Interclaim and the 15 individual co-petitioners to the bankruptcy proceeding commenced the Canadian form of a class action, known as a “representative action” in Calgary, Alberta, where much of Down’s wealth was held in the name of Down’s sister-in-law. This some- what duplicative action appears to have been motivated by a concern that the Alberta court might otherwise have some reluctance to “freeze” ex parte approximately 30 commercial properties lo- cated in Calgary that were on their face owned by corporations under the control of Down’s sister- in-law, who was not a debtor in the British Columbia bankruptcy proceedings. The commencement and prosecution of the representative action against Down and his brother and sister-in-law, as co- conspirators, gave the Alberta court a second and more “local” basis for “freezing” the title to these properties. Shortly after these assets were frozen by ex parte order on January 29, 1999,92 and after a fiercely contested hearing to dislodge the freeze order, the interim receivership was sub- stantially maintained in Alberta, and that court ordered Interclaim to post bonds totaling Can$4 million to secure the payment of Down’s costs and damages, if any.93 In November 1999, the Alberta court struck the class action portion of Interclaim’s repre- sentative proceeding.94 Though the court allowed the claim of the 16 co-plaintiffs to go forward, it declined to allow them to act as representatives on behalf on an estimated 800,000 to 1 million victims of Down’s criminal enterprises, holding that “Alberta does not have modern class action legislation.”95 The Alberta court’s November 23, 1999, decision in the Interclaim case is on appeal to the Court of Appeal for Alberta.96 C. The Asset Freezes From the very outset of its efforts to secure redress from Down’s victims and compensa- tion for its efforts if successful, Interclaim understood that, even if it won the litigation battles, it would still lose the war unless it could locate Down’s assets and prevent him from selling off those assets and putting the proceeds beyond reach. Accordingly, Interclaim devoted substantial re- sources and efforts first to locate and then to judicially enjoin Down and all relevant third parties from disposing of those assets. Initially, the efforts to “arrest, preserve, and protect” Down’s assets were undertaken un- der the terms of the agreement appointing Interclaim as agent of the Interim Receiver, as approved by the British Columbia Bankruptcy Court in December 1998. Assets belonging to Down, includ- ing over 200 bank accounts and 150 “shell” entities, were located in Switzerland, Jersey, Guernsey, Barbados, the British Virgin Islands, and Canada.97 Using the authority vested in the Interim Re- ceiver by the court, a number of these properties were made subject to the court’s jurisdiction. In 92. The Alberta “freeze” order thus resulted in the “double freezing” of the properties. 93. In addition to the CAD$4 million, Interclaim also was responsible for posting bonds of a value of $450,000 in Barbados and $200,000 in the British Virgin Islands. 94. Re Down, Court of Queen’s Bench of Alberta, 1999 ABQB, Nov. 23, 1999, Reasons for Judgment of the Honorable Madam Justice Kent. 95. Id. at 3. The court also found that for purposes of Rule 42 of the Rules of Court, a class of victims could not be defined, common issues of fact and law were not present, and the requirements of finality were not met. 96. The Supreme Court of Canada has since issued a decision in Western Canadian Shopping Centres, Inc. v. Dutton et al. (July 13, 2001), [2000] S.C.J. No. 63 (S.C.J.), holding that Alberta courts must fashion a class action rule that is akin to the modern class action legislation now extant in Ontario and British Colum- bia, thereby imposing a requirement for the reform of the law in Alberta, accordingly. 97. First Report of the Interim Receiver, supra n. 85. 21 Civil Justice Report August 2002 subsequent months, additional orders of protection were enforced against other properties that had been located.98 In March 1999, Down moved to set aside the various ex parte orders. Justice Brenner ordered Interclaim Holdings Limited, to either post a bond of CAD$400,000 or to deliver the undertaking of its corporate parent, Interclaim (Bermuda) Ltd., to guarantee payment of any adverse costs or damage awards. Interclaim elected to do the latter. On January 29, 1999, the Interim Receiver, with the assistance of Interclaim, froze over $100 million of Down’s assets located in eight jurisdictions. On April 1, 1999, Madam Justice Adel Kent of the Court of Queen’s Bench of Alberta held that 27 of 29 commercial properties previously frozen ex parte by Justice Hawco of the same court on January 29, 1999, were to remain frozen.99 However, after determining on November 23, 1999, that the representative action could not go forward, Justice Kent effectively released 27 of the 29 properties from the clutches of the Alberta representative action freeze order. Immediately thereafter, the Alberta Court of Appeal issued an order that 26 of the referenced 27 Alberta properties were to remain frozen, pending the outcome of the British Columbia bankruptcy proceeding and the representative action. On July 28, 2000, as directed to do so by the Court of Appeal, the British Columbia Bank- ruptcy Court issued supplementary interlocutory rulings on issues raised by Down regarding the December 18, 1988, ex parte interim receivership freeze order. Interclaim prevailed on all the mate- rial issues save one, but it was a crucial issue. The court ruled that since the litigants’ expert wit- nesses disagreed about a critical question of foreign law (i.e., the legal consequences to Down and the victims of his enterprises of the illegality of each of the contracts between them under U.S. law), the court could not conclude that the bankruptcy petitioners had made out a “strong prima facie” case that Down was a “debtor” and the victims of his enterprises, “creditors,” under the Canadian Bankruptcy Act. As a consequence, the chief justice ruled that the Interim Receivership should be dissolved and the assets unfrozen. In August 2000, the Court of Appeal refused to stay the bankruptcy judge’s order dissolving the asset freeze, pending hearing of the consolidated “cham- perty/debt” appeal in November 2000. The dissolution of most of the asset freezes posed a mortal danger to Interclaim’s strategy. Even if Interclaim on behalf of itself and its 29 represented victims were to prevail in the appeals in Canada, the victory would be a pyrrhic one. Assets with which to pay the claims would not be available. Indeed, it was a reasonable certainty that Down would take advantage of the unfreezing of his assets to reconceal them in ways that would render them unreachable. Interclaim therefore had to explore new avenues to effect recovery against the Down group on behalf of Interclaim, Interclaim’s 29 represented victims, and the victim class generally by, in particular, preserving or reinstituting asset freezes. Accordingly, Interclaim decided to retain counsel to commence class action proceedings in the United States with the goal of getting a judgment from an American court, filing it with the British Columbia bankruptcy court as an enforceable debt, facilitating the liquidation of Down’s assets for the benefit of the bankruptcy estate, securing the victim class members’ share by way of a “dividend” from the bankruptcy court, and returning this dividend to the American court to disburse the available funds to the victim class. As will be related below, an asset freeze was obtained from a U.S. court on August 7, 2000, prior to the disso- lution of the Canadian asset freezes. But would that be in time and sufficient to allow payment of the victims’ claims? 98. Second Report of the Interim Receiver, supra n. 85. 99. Mr. Justice Hawco’s Jan. 29, 1999, ex parte freeze was based upon a double-barreled foundation, inas- much as the 29 referenced properties were frozen on the basis of (a) a Request for Judicial Assistance from the Bankruptcy Court in British Columbia to Alberta courts to recognize the Interim Receiver’s asset preservation powers, and (b) the court’s jurisdiction to preserve assets in support of the indepen- dent Alberta representative action claim. See supra n. 92. 22 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 VII. THE ACTION MOVES TO THE UNITED STATES As noted, while the Canadian proceedings were ongoing and after Interclaim perceived its strategy to be in jeopardy, in December 1999, Interclaim opened discussions with, and on Feb- ruary 14, 2000, entered into an agreement with, the Charleston, South Carolina, law firm of Ness, Motley, Loadholt, Richardson & Poole (“Ness Motley”) to bring a class action proceeding on be- half of the victims of the criminal enterprise. Ness Motley has attained great fame and fortune, first in asbestos litigation and later as the lead law firm in the multistate actions against the tobacco industry. Its fees for the latter approximate $2 billion over a 25-year period.100 The firm has at- tained enormous political power and has used its dominance in asbestos litigation coupled with its political power to block proposed congressional legislation that would create an administrative alternative to asbestos litigation and limit compensation to only those who have suffered actual injury.101 In carrying on its activities, the firm has sometimes engaged in ethically dubious prac- tices. For example, its role as class counsel in two of the largest asbestos litigation settlements and its representation in individual and state tobacco litigations have exhibited a clear disregard for ethical rules governing concurrent conflicts of interests.102 100. See Daynard v. Ness, Motley, Loadholt, Richardson & Poole, P.A., 2002 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 4257 at *3. 101. For a description of Ness Motley’s role in turning back an effort to legislate an administrative solution for asbestos litigation, see Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 246 n. 13. 102. Model Rule 1.7(b) of the Model Rules of Professional Conduct provide that “[a] lawyer shall not represent a client if the representation of the client may be materially limited by the lawyer’s responsibilities to another client…unless (1) the lawyer reasonably believes the representation will not be adversely affected.” Ness Motley was class counsel in two of the largest asbestos litigation settlements. In Amchem Products, Inc. v. Windsor, 521 U.S. 591 (1997), the Supreme Court held that conflicts internal to a class consisting of currently injured persons and persons exposed to asbestos in the workplace for whom injury had not yet manifested, the so-called futures, required rejection of class certification. In Ortiz v. Fibreboard Corp., 119 S. Ct. 2295 (1999), decided two years later, the Supreme Court again rejected a massive settlement of asbestos claims because of the concurrent conflicts of interest created by class counsel’s settlement of present claims (“inventory claims”) on different terms from those provided for with regard to future claimants. These decisions implicitly hold that the firm engaged in simultaneous representation of clients with differing interests and that this conflict impaired the firm’s representation of future claimants. See Roger Cramton, “Lawyer Conduct in the ‘Tobacco Wars,’ ” 51 DEPAUL L. REV. (2001), at 435, 445–46. “Concurrent conflicts of interest continued once these plaintiffs’ lawyers moved into the tobacco field. First, they undertook to represent some individual smoking victims who were seeking compensatory and punitive damages against the tobacco companies. Second, after a failed effort to certify a class including all smoking victims nationwide they brought a number of cases involving statewide classes. These cases also sought both compensatory and punitive damages for smoking victims. Then the plaintiffs’ lawyers agreed to represent Mississippi and Florida in reimbursement actions brought by those states against the tobacco companies. These actions, later expanded to include 22 states, were settled in a June 1997 agree- ment that capped the liability of the tobacco companies to smoking victims and, when implemented by Congress, prohibited punitive damages. The lawyers abandoned the relief that they were claiming on behalf of individual claimants in negotiating the global settlement on behalf of the states. A lawyer vio- lates the concurrent representation conflict of interest rules when the claims of some clients (smoking victims) are subordinated to those of other clients (the states).” Id. at 446 (footnote omitted). An example of the conflict of interest generated by the representation of an individual smoking victim and the statewide tobacco class actions brought is Ness Motley’s representation of the widow of a bar- ber who died of lung cancer. See Estate of Butler v. Philip Morris, Inc., 94-5-53 (Miss. Cir. Ct., Jones Cty.). See also Milo Geyelin, “Tobacco Plaintiff Files Suit Against Her Ex-Attorney,” Wall Street Journal, Aug. 4, 1997, at B8; Bob Van Voris, “Tobacco Negotiations Created Sharp Client Conflicts,” NAT’L L.J., Aug. 4, 1997, at A8-A9. A subsequent story indicated that Ness Motley entered into a confidential settlement after Ms. Butler brought a $1.5 million damage action against the firm, alleging conflict-of-interest vio- lations. She alleged that the firm did not inform her of the conflicting interests, and she did not consent to them. See NAT’L L.J., Sept. 22, 1997, at A5. 23 Civil Justice Report August 2002 A. The Interclaim–Ness Motley Retainer Agreement The retainer agreement entered into in February 2000 with Ness Motley provided that: (1) Interclaim retained Ness Motley as attorney on its behalf and on behalf of the 29 specific victims who had entered into power-of-attorney agreements with Interclaim; (2) Ness Motley was to commence and prosecute to “final end,” legal proceedings against Down and others in whatever U.S. jurisdiction it considered appropriate to recover the damages suffered by the victims of Down’s criminal enterprise including the Interclaim victims; (3) Ness Motley was to advance costs of the litigation that it would seek to recover as part of the proceedings. Ness Motley estimated that the cost of mailing notices to the class of victims, which it undertook to pay for, would approximate $1 million; (4) In addition to whatever compensation Ness Motley would be awarded by a U.S. court, Interclaim would pay Ness Motley a fee equal to 25 percent of the net compensation that Interclaim received after expenses under the terms of the agreement with the Interim Receiver that the Canadian Bankruptcy Court had approved; (5) Prior to the payment of any compensation to either Ness Motley or Interclaim, independent counsel for the U.S. class of Down victims would be retained to evaluate the reasonableness of the compensation agreement between Interclaim and the Interim Receiver; and (6) Ness Motley agreed to keep all documents and information provided to it by Interclaim confidential except as required to be disclosed as part of the legal proceedings to be commenced.103 B. How Madison County Was Selected Under the terms of the retainer agreement, Ness Motley was to select the venue in which to bring the class action. Ness Motley asked Interclaim to identify potential class representatives for three jurisdictions: Madison County (Illinois), Brooklyn (New York), and Huntington (West Virginia).104 Ness Motley thereafter decided to file the class action in Madison County and asked Interclaim to provide the names and addresses of victims who resided in specific Madison County zip codes.105 Ness Motley then contacted those listed to enlist them as named plaintiffs in the class action it would bring. One such encounter is described in a news article as follows: Foster Frederick…was at home [in Madison County] watching TV one afternoon when a lawyer came from the city to see him. “He said I’d been cheated,” said Frederick, a retired Granite City steelworker. “I didn’t even know it until he told me.” Now Frederick is among the name plaintiffs in a lawsuit against a lottery company….The 2-year-old case is still pending, court records show, but Frederick didn’t know that. “I haven’t heard a word since that lawyer came over,” he said.106 103. Retainer Agreement between Ness Motley and Interclaim, Feb. 14, 2000. 104. Interclaim, utilizing the mailing list of 418,846 persons who had responded to puzzle-contest solicita- tions (see supra n. 83), was able to identify 72 of these individuals residing in Huntington, 2,239 in Brooklyn, and 334 in Madison County. Fax transmissions from Interclaim to a law firm affiliated with Ness Motley, March 2, 1999, and Dec. 2, 1999 (on file with the author). 105. Fax transmission from Interclaim to Ness Motley, Feb. 2, 2000 (on file with the author). 106. Christi Parsons, “Downstate County Is ‘Plaintiffs’ Paradise,’ ” Chicago Tribune, June 17, 2002, at 1. 24 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 On March 10, 2000, after having obtained the agreement of two others on the Interclaim list to serve as named plaintiffs, Ness Motley filed a class action complaint in Madison County on behalf of all persons residing in the United States who had sent money to one of Down’s enter- prises, listing three of the Madison County victims as lead plaintiffs.107 The complaint alleged that Down and others had unlawfully solicited monies as part of a deceptive scheme intended to de- fraud plaintiffs, in violation of the Illinois Consumer Fraud and Deceptive Business Practices Act.108 C. The Temporary Restraining Order and the Initiation of Settlement Negotiations As previously indicated, on July 28, 2000, the British Columbia bankruptcy court set aside its December 18, 1998, ex parte appointment of the Interim Receiver. This order was provi- sionally stayed, pending review by the Court of Appeal for British Columbia later during the month of August 2000. Given the very real possibility that the Court of Appeal might lift the provisional stay and thereby release the frozen Down group assets worldwide, on August 4, 2000, Interclaim and Ness Motley moved on an emergency basis in the Madison County court to secure those same assets through entry of a temporary restraining order (the “TRO”) against certain members of the Down group. The TRO sought was intended to enjoin Down and others listed, in part, as controllers of properties he owned from directly or indirectly transferring any interest in the assets previously frozen in connection with the Canadian bankruptcy proceed- ings. Based substantially on information and evidence provided by Interclaim to Ness Motley, Madison County Circuit Court Judge Nicholas Byron entered an order on August 7, 2000, direct- ing Down and three others not to directly or indirectly dispose of or transfer any interests they had in the assets previously frozen by the Interim Receiver in connection with the Canadian bankruptcy proceeding.109 That TRO was in place before the Canadian asset freeze was set aside. A hearing was scheduled for August 18, 2000, before Judge Byron to extend the August 7, 2000, TRO by converting it into a preliminary injunction, thereby extending the freeze to the trial of the matter. Interclaim, on behalf of the class, intended to present expert testimony on Down’s efforts to launder and conceal the proceeds of his criminal enterprises and thus support the assertion that, in the absence of a preliminary injunction continuing the asset freeze, there existed a high risk that Down would secrete his assets to make them unavailable to satisfy any judgment. At that point, the litigation took an unexpected turn, at least from Interclaim’s perspective. En route to the hear- ing, Interclaim learned on August 16, 2000, that Ness Motley and Down had postponed the pre- liminary injunction hearing. Upon inquiry, Interclaim learned that Down had initiated settlement negotiations with Ness Motley at some earlier period. On August 17, 2000, Down made it a condi- tion of any further negotiations that Interclaim not only be excluded from the negotiations but from access to knowledge of the substance of the negotiations as well. Ness Motley agreed to 107. Schuppert et al. v. Down et al., Class Action Complaint, 3d Judicial Cir., Madison Cty., Ill., No. 00-L-223 (March 10, 2000) (hereinafter, “Schuppert v. Down”). This was later superseded by Plaintiffs’ First Amended Class Action Complaint, filed June 19, 2001. 108. 815 Ill. C.S. 505/1 et seq. 109. Schuppert v. Down, Order of Aug. 7, 2001. 25 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Down’s conditions.110 These negotiations culminated in a settlement that will be analyzed in detail in Part VIII, infra. Before doing so, however, the Interclaim-Down relationship needs to be set out as necessary context. D. Settlement Context: The Interclaim-Down Relationship Most class actions are entrepreneurial undertakings by lawyers seeking substantial fees. Because of this intrinsic quality, opportunities for self-interested behavior in class actions abound. In particular, class counsel have substantial incentives to sell out the interests of the class by adopting a settlement strategy more consistent with their own financial self-interest than with that of the class.111 To counter these incentives, judges in class actions serve as fiduciaries to absent class members112 and, in theory, reject proposed settlements unless they are “fair, adequate and reasonable and…[are] not the product of collusion between the parties.”113 In fact, however, on the whole, the judiciary has failed to fulfill its role as fiduciary to the class.114 Thus, courts routinely approve fee requests that 110. This account of the actions of Interclaim and Ness Motley is drawn largely from Interclaim et al. v. Ness, Motley, Loadholt, Richardson & Poole, U.S. D.C., N.D. Ill. East. Div. No. 00C7620 (filed Dec. 4, 2000), Amended Complaint, filed May 23, 2001 (hereinafter, “Interclaim Amended Complaint”). The facts alleged in the Interclaim Amended Complaint were adopted for purposes of denying, in its entirety, Ness Motley’s motion to dismiss Interclaim’s suit for breach of fiduciary duty, misappropriation of confidential information, and breach of the retainer agreement. See Interclaim v. Ness Motley, U.S. Dist. Ct., N.D. Ill., East Div. No. 00C7620, Memorandum Opinion and Order, Oct. 29, 2001 (Hon. Rebecca R. Pallmeyer). In the Complaint, Interclaim alleged that, despite having entered secret negotiations with Down, Ness Motley continued to meet with Interclaim to obtain confidential information based on Interclaim’s unique knowledge of the concealed ownership, locations, and movement of Down’s assets, even as Ness Motley was deliberately withholding from Interclaim information about the settlement negotiations. As related by Interclaim: “Interclaim provided Ness Motley with summary and analytical materials it has generated regarding the Down group’s lottery sales and money laundering activities. The materials included a chart identi- fying the financial institutions used by the Down group as well as known account and transaction information specific to each institution. The materials also included a table of the Down group’s known assets (including a separate table setting out leads to other Down assets) and a chart tracking the global movement of moneys flowing from Down-operated businesses in the United States, Canada, and Bar- bados to and through numerous accounts around the world. Moreover, Interclaim produced confiden- tial written work product from its firm of forensic accountants in Calgary, Alberta [namely, the firm of Allen & Taylor,] who had analyzed thousands of documents pertaining to the ownership and finance of the Down group’s vast Alberta real estate holdings. Without these materials, Ness Motley lacked the detailed factual basis on which to conduct meaningful settlement talks.” Interclaim Amended Complaint, id. at ¶ 31. Interclaim maintains that by hiding its intent to exclude Interclaim from the settlement negotiations, Ness Motley exploited its privileged relationship with Interclaim in order to obtain information with which to respond to various of Down’s assertions, in- cluding that he was an “owner” of only a small portion of the frozen assets. Interclaim Amended Com- plaint, id. at ¶ 31. 111. MANUAL FOR COMPLEX LITIGATION (3d) (1995), 23.24. 112. See United States v. City of Miami, 614 F. 2d 1322, 1331 (5th Cir. 1980); Int’l Union of Elec. Workers v. Unisys Corp., 858 F. Supp. 1243, 1264 (E.D.N.Y. 1994), stating that the court “has the fiduciary responsibility of ensuring that the settlement is fair and not a product of collusion, and that the class members’ interests [are] represented adequately” (quoting in re Warner Communications Secs. Litig., 798 F. 2d 35, 37 [2d Cir. 1986]). See also supra n. 52. 113. Cotton v. Hinton, 559 F. 2d 1326, 1330 (5th Cir. 1977). 114. See, generally, Koniak and Cohen, supra n. 53. 26 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 substantially overcompensate lawyers,115 allowing them to appropriate to themselves more than a rightful and efficient share of the common fund, thus reducing the compensation provided to the class and the deterrence effect of the litigation. Other examples of such failures abound.116 In recent years, even as many federal courts have begun to more fully assume their statutory and fiduciary obligations, many state courts remain unduly receptive to class lawyers’ interests. While the incentive for plaintiffs’ lawyers to collude with defendants and their counsel exists in virtually all class actions, in the Madison County proceeding under review, there were additional incentives that need to be exposed to properly comprehend the resulting settlement agreement. In particular, Down’s motivations at the time of the August 7, 2000, class action TRO asset freeze need to be illuminated. It is not unusual for defendants in class actions to dispute the allegations of wrongful conduct; so, too, in this proceeding. But that hardly captures Down’s position. Over the course of ten years, Down had successfully amassed proceeds of $150 million or more by engaging in enter- prises directed against elderly Americans—enterprises that U.S. officials have labeled deceitful and fraudulent. In the process, Down repeatedly ignored consent orders he entered into to cease and desist from such activity. He did have to give up more than $12 million of his ill-gotten gains and serve six months in a federal minimum-security prison, but that appeared to be the maximum price he had to pay for becoming a centi-millionaire. The day following his first night in prison, Down awakened to find that approximately $100 million of his assets located in Switzerland, Bar- bados, the British Virgin Islands, the Channel Islands, Papua New Guinea, Canada, and the United States had been frozen by ex parte court orders at the behest of an entrepreneurial asset recovery firm, Interclaim. Prior to that point, he was probably unaware of Interclaim’s existence. Thereafter, Interclaim conducted vigorous litigation against Down in Canadian courts, at substantial expense to both Down and Interclaim. Interclaim, motivated by the prospect of sharing in a substantial recovery, may well have seen itself as the victims’ avenging angel. To Down, however, Interclaim must have appeared to be the devil incarnate. 115. In re Synthroid Marketing Litigation, 201 F. Supp. 2d 861, 872 n.6 (U.S.D.C. N.D. Ill., 2002) (stating that there is data suggesting that “courts routinely overcompensate attorneys in class actions”). 116. Most “coupon” settlements fall into this category. In a coupon settlement, class members receive a right to purchase defendant’s products or services at a discount while the class attorneys’ fees are to be paid in coin of the realm, not coupons. See, generally, Christopher R. Leslie, “A Market-Based Approach to Coupon Settlements in Antitrust and Consumer Class Action Litigation,” 49 UCLA L. REV. (2002), at 991. Usually, in such settlements, the notional value of the settlement vastly exceeds the aggregate fair market value of the discount right “coupons.” Moreover, where the coupon needs to be applied for by class members by filing a claim, the number of coupons projected to be issued as part of the settlement administration process typically is far in excess of the actual number applied for because many, if not most, class members do not consider it worth their while to submit com- pleted claim forms in order to obtain the coupons. See, e.g., Coordinated Class Action Lawsuits of Naevus Int’l, Inc. et al. v. AT&T Corp. and AT&T Wireless Services Inc., Notice of Proposed Settlement, Supreme Court, N.Y. Cty. (June 3, 2002), in which the allegation was that AT&T Wireless provided an inferior level of service to its customers than that promised in its advertisements. The proposed settle- ment provided for 80 minutes of additional air time to those having an active account with the com- pany, and a calling card with 240 pre-paid minutes or an entitlement to a 24 percent discount on wireless telephone equipment accessories for those not having an active account. The proposed fee, which the company agreed not to contest, was $5 million. A simple, if not elegant, resolution of the particular abuses that permeate coupon settlements would be to require that class counsel receive payment in the form of coupons that they can then market in order to monetize the coupons. Ironically, it appears that the principal reason that courts do not adopt such a strategy, apart from the strong opposition from class counsel, is that it is often exceedingly difficult to calculate the value of the coupons. At the same time, of course, courts are awarding class counsel sub- stantial fees based upon class counsel’s claims as to the value of the coupons. 27 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Even as the tide of litigation turned in Down’s favor, merely prevailing would likely have seemed to be insufficient. Under Canadian “loser pays” rules, if Down ultimately prevails in the Canadian litigations, he will no doubt seek reimbursement of attorney costs of several million dollars.117 In addition, he will likely seek payment from the approximately $3.5 million of bonds that Interclaim posted with regard to the frozen assets. To maximize his likelihood of prevailing in the Canadian litigations and imposing substantial costs on Interclaim, however, Down will have to resolve the Madison County class action in a manner not only consistent with his interests but so as not to represent an economic gain for Interclaim. Minimizing any payment to the class and also maximizing the infliction of harm on Interclaim, however, would be the diametric opposite of the objective of any U.S. lawyer that had entered into the Interclaim-Down retainer agreement118 to represent Interclaim and Down’s victims. That lawyer’s obligation would be to maximize the class’s recovery and, consistent therewith, fully protect the interests of its client, Interclaim. E. The Settlement: An Abbreviated Version The settlement between Ness Motley and Down (“the Settlement”) provided that Down would potentially make available a total of at least $6 million to pay compensation to victims of his enterprises who filed valid claims; $2 million to Ness Motley as an attorneys’ fee; and $2 million to pay the cost of notifying the victims of the Settlement. The Settlement specifically excluded Interclaim and the 29 victims who had entered into power-of-attorney relationships with Interclaim from the class, thereby excluding them from any recovery under the terms of the Settlement. The Settle- ment also detailed how, and in what form, notice was to be given to the victims of Down’s enter- prises as well as the proof-of-claim form that they would have to file. A more detailed discussion of the Settlement is set forth in Part VIII infra. F. The Form of the Settlement: A Settlement Class Action In proceeding to seek approval of their settlement, Ness Motley and Down decided to forgo a full evidentiary hearing regarding the class certification issue and to use instead the “settle- ment class action” method. Here, the parties stipulate to a temporary settlement class to facilitate settlement119 as a prelude to seeking certification of the class and settlement approval simulta- neously. The class so formulated may not necessarily meet the requirements for certification of a class and is recognized solely for the purpose of concluding a settlement. In furtherance of that strategy, the parties agreed to a settlement and stipulated to a temporary settlement class on June 19, 2001.120 They then sought and obtained the conditional certification of a settlement class from the Madison County court.121 The parties amended that 117. In fact, on Sept. 18, 2001, Chief Justice Brenner of the Supreme Court of British Columbia, in Bank- ruptcy, ordered Interclaim to pay approximately CAD$1.8 million in costs awarded to Down for his having successfully set aside the interim receivership order. Interclaim posted CAD$400,000 as security required to perfect its appeal of this costs award. The costs appeal is scheduled to be heard in Sept. 2002. On July 10, 2002, Chief Justice Brenner stayed Interclaim’s bankruptcy petition. 118. See supra Part VII (A). 119. Temporary settlement classes are generally used to facilitate settlement and avoid expenses attendant to a full evidentiary hearing regarding the class certification issue. See, e.g., in re Beef Industry Antitrust Litigation, 607 F. 2d 167 (5th Cir. 1979); Amchem Products, Inc. v. Windsor, 521 U.S. 591, 117 S. Ct. 2231, 138 L. Ed. 2d 689 (1997). 120. Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement, June 19, 2001, Schuppert et al. v. Down et al., No. 00-L-223, Cir. Ct., 3d Judicial Cir. of Ill., Madison Cty. 121. Order of Preliminary Approval, Schuppert v. Down, June 19, 2001. 28 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 stipulation and agreement in November 2001122 and jointly moved for preliminary approval, including a request for conditional certification of a settlement class. Judge Byron approved the motion,123 holding: In determining whether a settlement class should be conditionally certified for purposes of settlement only, and whether the terms of the Settlement are fair, adequate, and reasonable…the Court has fully considered the comprehensive terms of the Settlement, the statements of counsel, and all other matters of record brought to the Court’s atten- tion. Based thereon, the Court concludes that there is probable cause to believe that the Settlement is fair, adequate, and reasonable and that it falls within the range of possible approval. It is, therefore, Ordered as follows: 1. This court for settlement purposes only and based upon the well-pleaded facts, has jurisdiction over this case for purposes of settlement. The settlement is properly before this Court for preliminary approval…and preliminary approval is hereby GRANTED.124 In thus granting preliminary approval for both the constitution of the class and the terms of the settlement, Judge Byron gave his approbation to the various exclusions from the class of Interclaim and all those it represented as well as to the form of the proposed Notice of Settlement, the Proof of Claim, and the Plan of Notice that were part of the settlement. Pursuant thereto, he ordered that all members of the settlement class seeking to receive a distribution of funds had to provide their name and address to the Settlement Administrator on or before April 12, 2002, and had to return the Proof of Claim Form and other required documentation postmarked by June 28, 2002. Anyone included in the class wishing to object at the final settlement hearing had to file a notice with the clerk of the court on or before May 3, 2002.125 Finally, in November 2001, the settle- ment hearing to consider final approval was scheduled for June 6, 2002. (These dates have been superseded by later events.)126 The creation of a temporary settlement class by stipulated order does not relieve the court of its ultimate responsibility of determining the appropriateness of certifying the class and the choice of class representative according to the requirements set forth under Illinois law that paral- lel those set out in Federal Rule 23. Indeed, because the approval is sought jointly, the dynamics of adversarial litigation are absent at that point. Therefore, in a stipulated settlement class context, the court is required to take a more active role as the guardian of the interests of absent class members127 and to examine, with “undiluted, even heightened attention,” compliance with the certification rules.128 G. The Motion to Intervene After informing Interclaim in August 2000 that it had entered settlement negotiations with Down, Ness Motley excluded Interclaim from being present at the talks, at the insistence of Down. 122. Amended Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement, Nov. 20, 2001, Schuppert v. Down. 123. Second Order of Preliminary Approval, Schuppert v. Down, Nov. 2001. 124. Id. 125. Id. Only one victim of Down’s enterprises filed a Notice of Objection by this deadline. See infra n. 184. He is represented by counsel and has set out multiple grounds of objection to the terms of the proposed settlement. 126. See infra Part IX. 127. See John Macey and Geoffrey Miller, “The Plaintiffs’ Attorney’s Role in Class Action and Derivative Litigation: Economic Analysis and Recommendations for Reform,” 58 U. CHI. L. REV. (winter 1991), at 1. 128. Amchem, 521 U.S. at 620. 29 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Thereafter, Ness Motley appraised Interclaim of the broad parameters of the proposed settlement. Interclaim objected to the terms of the proposed settlement as being grossly unfair to the class and to Interclaim. Ness Motley also indicated that as a condition of the settlement, it had agreed that Interclaim would be excluded from recovering any portion of the proposed settlement and that it would with- hold the substance of any of the settlement discussions from Interclaim. One month later, on Septem- ber 19, 2000, Ness Motley wrote Interclaim to formally withdraw from representation of Interclaim.129 On September 29, 2000, Ness Motley agreed to dismiss with prejudice one of the named defendants in the Madison County proceeding who was the nominal owner or controller of many of the Down group’s assets.130 In the estimation of Interclaim, that dismissal was likely to have vitiated the effect of the TRO preserving Down’s assets previously entered by the Madison County court.131 Alarmed by these events and upon learning that a hearing was scheduled before the Madison County court to certify the class and preliminarily approve the settlement,132 Interclaim, in March 2001, on behalf of itself and the 29 victims of Down’s enterprises specifically excluded from the class under the terms of the Settlement, filed a motion to intervene in the class action proceeding, claiming that Ness Motley had not adequately represented their interests.133 Interclaim further alleged in its supporting memorandum that, by agreeing to dismiss claims against one of the Down defendants who was the nominal owner of properties that had been the subject of asset freezes and the TRO, and by virtue of the fact that several of those properties had recently been sold with the proceeds therefore no longer accessible to the class, the interests of all class members were being adversely affected. Illinois law provides for intervention as of right in the circum- stances set forth in Interclaim’s motion;134 nonetheless, Judge Byron denied the motion to inter- vene on the grounds that Interclaim would, the court concluded, be “disruptive” to the proceedings.135 Shortly thereafter, concerned about the ongoing dissipation of assets, Interclaim, 129. In the letter, Ness Motley stated that it felt compelled to do so “even if to the detriment of Interclaim.” Letter from Ness Motley to Interclaim, dated Sept. 18, 2000 (on file with the author). The letter attrib- uted Ness Motley’s withdrawal to the advice of ethics experts whom Ness Motley had consulted. 130. Interclaim Amended Complaint, id. at ¶ 41. 131. Indeed, by approximately March 29, 2001, six of the 12 remaining Down “frozen” commercial real- estate assets in Alberta, worth in excess of CAD$10 million, had been sold in apparent violation of the Madison County TRO. This appeared to have been facilitated by the dismissal of one of the named defendants. Id. 132. After Ness Motley formally withdrew from its representation of Interclaim, Interclaim hired local coun- sel in Madison County to monitor the proceedings. A weekly examination of the case file disclosed that a hearing was scheduled for March 2001, to preliminarily approve the settlement and provisionally certify the class. Interclaim then made a motion to intervene in the proceedings and requested that it be heard at the time scheduled for the preliminary approval of the settlement. Interclaim’s motion to inter- vene was heard and denied in March 2001, as detailed above in the text. Ness Motley and Down decided not to proceed with the hearing to preliminarily approve the settlement and certify the class while Interclaim’s counsel was present. That hearing did take place on June 19, 2001, at which Judge Byron preliminarily approved the settlement and certified the class. No notice was provided to Interclaim, which was not present at the June 19, 2001, hearing. Moreover, nothing appeared in the record of the case in the relevant time period to alert Interclaim or anyone else of the fact that such a hearing would take place on June 19, 2001. 133. Motion of Interclaim to Intervene, March 27, 2001, Schuppert v. Down. 134. Illinois law provides for intervention in a judicial proceeding as of right “when the representation of the applicant’s interest by existing parties is or may be inadequate and the applicant will or may be bound by an order or judgment in the action.” 735 Ill. C.S. § 5/2-408 (a)(2). That statute also provides for intervention as of right where the movants are “so situated as to be adversely affected by a distribution or other disposition of property in the custody or subject to the control or disposition of the court or a court officer.” § 2-408(a)(3). 135. Schuppert v. Down, Order of Apr. 3, 2001. The court did not explain how making Interclaim a party would be “disruptive.” 30 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 on behalf of itself and the 29 putative class members who were excluded from the Settlement, requested the court to permit an expedited appeal of the order denying intervention.136 This was denied, without comment, on July 6, 2001.137 Interclaim has brought suit against Ness Motley in U.S. District Court in Chicago, claim- ing breach of fiduciary duty, misappropriation of confidential information, and breach of con- tract.138 Ness Motley moved to dismiss the complaint, and a U.S. District Court, after extensively reviewing the facts pled, denied Ness Motley’s motion on October 29, 2001.139 H. The Effect of the Negotiation of the Settlement on Ness Motley’s Fiduciary Obligation to Interclaim As indicated,140 on December 4, 2000, Interclaim sued Ness Motley in U.S. District Court, claiming breach of fiduciary obligation, breach of contract, and misappropriation of confidential information. While that suit, which is ongoing, is not a subject of this article, elements of that litigation are germane to a discussion of the issues raised by the terms of the Settlement agree- ment. Moreover, the effect of the negotiation of the Settlement upon Ness Motley’s fiduciary obli- gation to Interclaim may be seen as relevant to an analysis of whether Ness Motley additionally breached its fiduciary obligation to its conscripted clients: the victims of Down’s enterprises. When Ness Motley and Down initiated settlement negotiations and Ness Motley acceded to Down’s demands that Interclaim be excluded from the negotiations, a conflict of interest arose between Ness Motley and Interclaim. Ness Motley sought to unburden itself of that conflict by terminating Interclaim as its client on September 18, 2000. Ness Motley contends that this action was not only justified but mandatory. In its view, when Down offered a fair settlement to the putative class but with the condition that Interclaim be excluded, that created a conflict of interest between Ness Motley and Interclaim. Ness Motley contends that it had the obligation to the putative class to consider the settlement on the basis of the class’s best interests and to withdraw from its representation of Interclaim.141 A brief examina- tion of the relevant rules of professional ethics and fiduciary obligation is therefore in order. When Ness Motley entered into an agreement with Interclaim to represent Interclaim and the victims of Down’s enterprises, it was governed by the following rules of professional ethics: Rule 1.7(a): A lawyer shall not represent a client if the representation of the client will be directly adverse to another client, unless: (1) the lawyer reasonably believes the representation 136. Schuppert v. Down, Intervenors’ Consolidated Motion for Entry of an Appealability Finding and Memo- randum in Support, May 3, 2001. Under Illinois law, an appeal of an order denying intervention can only take place after a final judgment is entered in the class action. However, under Illinois Supreme Court Rule 304(a), a court may make a special finding that there is no just reason for delaying an Intervenor’s appeal, allowing for immediate appeal therefore from the court’s order of Apr. 3, 2001, denying its Motion to Intervene. 137. Schuppert v. Down, Order of July 6, 2001. 138. See Interclaim Amended Complaint, id. 139. Memorandum Opinion and Order, supra n. 110. While that litigation, which is ongoing in U.S. District Court in Northern Illinois, is not a subject of this article, the pleadings have provided some information that has been incorporated into this monograph. 140. See supra nn. 110, 138. 141. See supra n. 129. 31 Civil Justice Report August 2002 will not adversely affect the relationship with the other client; and (2) each client con- sents after disclosure.142 Rule 1.7(b): A lawyer shall not represent a client if the representation of that client may be materially limited by the lawyer’s responsibilities to another client or to a third person by the lawyer’s own interests unless: (1) the lawyer reasonably believes the representation will not be adversely affected; and (2) the client consents after disclosure.143 When Down demanded that Interclaim be excluded from settlement negotiations, Ness Motley was obligated to determine whether such exclusion was in the interests of its clients. If it concluded, as it reasonably must have, that excluding Interclaim was adverse to the interests of Interclaim, it was obligated to secure Interclaim’s consent before proceeding. Even if Ness Motley concluded, in the face of the evidence discussed in this monograph, that excluding Interclaim was in the interests of the class144 that it was seeking to represent, it still had, under the rules set forth above, fiduciary and ethical obligations to Interclaim. If Interclaim had refused to waive its rights, Ness Motley would have had to reject the demand as adverse to the interests of the client, Interclaim. If Ness Motley believed that by rejecting the demand, it was injuring the interests of the class, then it had an obligation to withdraw from representing the class and to seek the appointment of other counsel to represent the class. What it could not do in apparent violation of Rule 1.7 is what it did do: withdraw from representing Interclaim and continue to represent the class. Once Ness Motley withdrew from representing Interclaim, Interclaim became a “former client” and therefore an additional ethical rule applied: Rule 1.9(a): A lawyer who has formerly represented a client in a matter shall not thereafter: (1) represent another person in the same or a substantially related matter in which that person’s interests are materially adverse to the interests of the former client, unless the former client consents after disclosure.145 After terminating its representation of Interclaim—and Interclaim having thus ascended to the rank of “former client”—Ness Motley’s continued representation of the class in the same matter became materially adverse to the interests of its former client. By failing to either obtain Interclaim’s approval or to withdraw from representing the class, Ness Motley appears to have therefore also violated Rule 1.9(a). 142. Illinois Rules of Professional Conduct, Rule 1.7(a); see also South Carolina Rules of Professional Con- duct, Rule 1.7(a), setting forth virtually the same requirement. The retainer agreement with Ness Mot- ley provided that the laws of South Carolina would govern the interpretation of the agreement. Because the alleged unethical conduct took place in Illinois, however, both Illinois’ and South Carolina’s rules of ethics may apply. For purposes of this brief analysis of the applicable rules of ethics, the ethics rules of both states will be considered. 143. Illinois Rules of Professional Conduct, Rule 1.7(b). Again, the South Carolina Rules are substantially identical. 144. Germane to the issue of whether excluding Interclaim was in the interest of the class is the conclusion of the ethics expert whom Ness Motley consulted at the time of the drafting of the retainer agreement with Interclaim, that Interclaim “seems clearly entitled to reasonable compensation since, but for its efforts, the class takes not a dime.” See letter from John P. Freeman, Esq., to Ness Motley, Jan. 11, 2000 (on file with the author). 145. Illinois Rules of Professional Conduct, Rule 1.9(a); South Carolina Rule 1.9(a) is virtually identical. 32 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 VIII. THE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT: IN DETAIL Under the terms of the settlement agreement,146 Down agreed to create two pools of money to compensate the victims: the first pool was $5.5 million; the second pool, $500,000. In addition, he agreed to pay Ness Motley $2 million plus expenses and to pay the costs of notifying class members. The first pool, $5.5 million, would be paid to claimants who could produce credit-card receipts, a money order, or canceled checks as evidence of payments to any of Down’s enterprises and who could otherwise satisfy the onerous claim qualification procedure. Any monies not claimed under these terms would not be paid out by Down. In the event that valid proofs of claim were filed exceeding $5.5 million but not exceeding $10 million, the $5.5 million would be shared rat- ably by the claimants. If the total of the valid proofs of claim exceeded $10 million, Down had the right either to pay $10 million and thereby satisfy all valid claims to the first pool, irrespective of the amount claimed in excess of $10 million, or to terminate the stipulation of settlement. The second pool, $500,000, was to be paid to claimants who submitted claims but did not provide the documents required to make a claim against the first pool. Any funds not paid out to claimants would be available to those claiming against the first pool and, if not successfully claimed, would revert to Down. Excluded from the class were the 29 victims who had entered power-of-attorney agree- ments with Interclaim, those victims who had claimed compensation from the funds seized by the U.S. government in connection with the prosecution of Down in Seattle, Washington (including those whose compensation did not fully reimburse them for their losses), Interclaim, and any per- son who had at any time entered into any contractual relationship with Interclaim for the collec- tion or recovery of funds on account of having been a victim of Down’s criminal enterprises. With regard to the deposit of funds with the court for payment to claimants, the agreement provided: “Pursuant to the Letter Agreement the defendant shall use its best efforts to liquidate real estate to pay the obligations under the Stipulation as soon as reasonably practicable, however, the Defendant shall have up to three years following the Final Judgment to fund his obligations under the Stipulation. Interest shall accrue on obligations arising under the Stipulation after January 1, 2001 at the rate of 8% per annum.”147 Class members were to be notified of the terms of the settlement by ads appearing in newspapers and on television that read: ATTENTION All persons who purchased Lottery or Puzzle Products on the telephone or through the mail. This Notice May Affect Your Legal Rights. Please Read It Carefully. You may be a potential class member in a settlement of a class action if you purchased a lottery, sweepstakes or puzzle game ticket for certain contests under various names including B.L.C. Services, Inc., BAJ Marketing, Inc., Marketing Inc. Winners [listing seven other names used by Down]…. IN ORDER TO PARTICIPATE IN THE SETTLEMENT, YOU MUST HAVE PROOF OF PAYMENT.148 146. See Amended Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement, Schuppert v. Down, dated Nov. 20, 2001, filed with the court on Nov. 29, 2001 (hereinafter, “Amended Stipulation”). 147. Id. at ¶26. 148. Id. at Summary Notice of Settlement, Exhibit G, Amended Stipulation (emphasis in original). 33 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Down was to pay the expenses of notifying the settlement class, thus relieving Ness Mot- ley of having to pay approximately $1 million for notice costs, which it had undertaken to do in the retainer agreement with Interclaim. The date for class members opting out or objecting to the settlement was set as May 3, 2002, and the fairness hearing, to give final approval to the settlement and the fee, was originally scheduled for June 7, 2002. As previously noted, these dates have been changed.149 Down was released from all liability. Any class member who did not affirmatively re- spond by opting out of the class would be bound by the settlement and would be unable to make claims against Down based upon participation in one of his enterprises. Ness Motley would apply to the court for an award of attorneys’ fees and reimbursement of costs. Down agreed to pay up to $2 million as a fee to Ness Motley plus expenses and agreed not to challenge such a fee request. A. The Adequacy of the Settlement The settlement purports to amount to $6 million for the victims, a lawyers’ fee of $2 million, plus approximately $2 million in notice and administration costs—totaling approxi- mately $10 million. Given the raw materials with which Ness Motley had to work, the $10 mil- lion (which, as will be indicated, is in reality only a fraction of that amount) was, at best, woefully inadequate. Down has pled guilty to conspiracy to soliciting monies through illegal activity using mass solicitations promoted through the use of fictitious names, and he agreed to provide a relatively small amount of restitution to the victims.150 As summarized by the Canadian bank- ruptcy judge: “The Down Organization particularly preyed on elderly Americans, many of whom were apparently so swayed by the promises of congenial telemarketers and convincing mailings that they paid thousands of dollars, sometimes their life savings, to the Down Organization.”151 To be sure, Down had not been charged with nor had he pled guilty to fraud. Therefore, it would have been necessary to prove that the operative provisions of the Illinois Consumer Fraud and Deceptive Practices Act, upon which the class action complaint was founded, prohib- iting the use of any “deception, fraud, false pretense, false promise, misrepresentation or the concealment, suppression or omission of any material fact…in the conduct of any trade or commerce…[which results in persons being] misled, deceived or damaged thereby,”152 had been violated. However, a review of Down’s Plea Agreement, the Plea Hearing Transcript, and the Superseding Information giving rise to the plea leads to the conclusion that certain facts and issues relating to the criminal conspiracy to which Mr. Down pled guilty were both stipulated to and judicially accepted after a full and fair hearing.153 Accordingly, the effect of the plea agree- 149. See infra Part IX. 150. See supra Part IV (B). 151. Bankruptcy Proceeding, supra n. 80. 152. 815 Ill. C.S. 505/2. 153. See Affidavit of Gary Klein, sworn to on Sept. 21, 1999, in Interclaim et al. v. Down et al., Action No. 9901- 01422 in the Court of Queens Bench, Alberta, Canada. Mr. Klein states that Down’s plea agreement results in the following facts being conclusively established as a matter of law: “(a) That “beginning at least as early as 1990, and continuing through on or about January, 1996,” James Blair Down knowingly and willfully conspired with others…to commit offenses against the United States by conducting an unlawful lottery marketing business from Canada and Barbados and know- ingly and willfully agreeing, among other things, to solicit remittances of monies from United States residents for the purchase of chances, shares and interests in lotteries; 34 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 (b) That in furtherance of the unlawful conspiracy, James Blair Down and his conspirators, acting from Canada, Barbados and elsewhere, individually and through the various business entities created by James Blair Down for such purposes,…all of which were under the direction of, and responsible to, James Blair Down, caused such unlawful solicitations to be sent by mass mailings signed and promoted through fictitious names, and seeking money from United States residents for participation in such lotteries; (c) That in furtherance of the unlawful conspiracy, James Blair Down, aided by his co-conspirators, also operated telephone rooms in Vancouver, British Columbia, Kelowna British Columbia, and Toronto, Ontario, from which telemarketers, many of whom used fictitious names, unlawfully solicited and ob- tained payment by United States residents for the purchase of, inter alia such chances and interests in lotteries conducted in Canada, Australia, Spain, Ireland and various States within the United States; (d) That it was a further part of the unlawful conspiracy that various trade names were established and used by the co-conspirators to promote and market the sale of lottery interests to United States resi- dents, including the trade names “Lottery Connections,” “Winners,” “New Eagle Network,” “Interna- tional Fortune Bureau” and “Project Rainbow”; (e) That it was also part of the unlawful conspiracy that James Blair Down and his co-conspirators, among other things, received remittances in Canada from United States residents for the purchase of interests in lotteries, despite being contacted by law enforcement agencies in the United States as early as 1992, and being advised that the use of the mails and facilities of interstate and foreign commerce to market and sell interests in such lotteries to United States residents and to receive remittances from United States residents, violated United States law, and furthermore despite receiving multiple notices from the United States Customs Service and the United States Postal Service that these activities vio- lated United States law; (f) That it was a further part of the unlawful conspiracy that James Blair Down established, operated, controlled and directed the various entities listed above in these unlawful activities, as part of his role in this criminal enterprise, and that he employed and paid his co-conspirators and directed their actions in identifying customers and unlawfully marketing lottery interests; and (g) That it was a further part of the unlawful conspiracy that James Blair Down and all of his co-con- spirators, acting from Canada and Barbados, engaged in activities designed to induce and cause United States residents to remit monies to them in Canada and elsewhere for the purchase of chances, shares and interests in lotteries in violation of United States law.” ¶ 35, pp. 28–30. 154. See Affidavit of Richard W. Brewster, former chief of the Criminal Division of the U.S. Attorney’s Office in the Eastern District of N.Y., Dec. 16, 1998, filed in the Matter of the Bankruptcy of James Blair Down, Supreme Court of British Columbia in Bankruptcy, asserting that the Canadian court “ought to find that [Down’s] guilty plea to be dispositive of…[certain] facts, thus precluding any attempt by the defendant to deny these same facts.” Id. at ¶ 30, including that as “part of the unlawful conspiracy that…Down and all of his co-conspirators, acting from Canada and Barbados, engaged in activities designed to in- duce and cause United States residents to remit monies to them in Canada and elsewhere for the pur- chase of chances, shares and interests in lotteries in violation of United States law.” Id. at ¶ 33(g). 155. Based upon his Canadian litigation posture, Down could argue that his Plea Agreement did not consti- tute an admission of violation of the Illinois Act. A principal premise for such an argument could be that all the victims of Down’s enterprises would need to have their narrative assessed on an individual basis before the court could conclude that when they sent money to Down’s enterprises, they were relying upon false or misleading statements made by those enterprises. However, the Illinois Act does not require a showing that each victim relied upon a false statement by Down’s enterprises in choosing to send money to that enterprise. ment in a civil action brought by victims of Mr. Down’s illegal conduct would be to preclude Mr. Down from re-litigating any of these facts or issues.154 While Down could certainly argue to the contrary,155 on the basis of the foregoing, it is nonetheless at least likely that Down’s illegal 35 Civil Justice Report August 2002 conduct would be found to constitute a violation of the Illinois Consumer Fraud and Deceptive Practices Act.156 It is of further note that one of Down’s enterprises, Triple Eight International Services, a Barbados company, had been the subject of a complaint for injunctive relief brought by the Illinois Attorney General’s Office in 1997.157 This complaint was settled by a consent order in which Down’s enterprise, “without trial or adjudication of any issue of fact or law, and without admission of any of the violations of the [Illinois Consumer Fraud and Deceptive Business Practices] Act alleged in the complaint, agreed to be permanently enjoined from engaging in his ‘prize’ enterprises in Illi- nois and to rescind all prior sales.”158 It is not known whether Down continued to market his enterprises in Illinois subsequent to entering into the consent order. If it was determined that he did so, that would be a violation of the Illinois Act. Assuming the contrary, then, though the consent judgment would have been admissible in the class action proceeding, it would not, in and of itself, be an acknowledgment of the commission of predicate acts that violated the Illinois Con- sumer Fraud and Deceptive Practices Act. Other evidence, however, existed that was strongly supportive of violations of the Illinois Act. For example, the affidavits of the two U.S. Postal In- spectors, previously referred to,159 extensively detail acts of “deception, fraud, false pretense, false promise [and] misrepresentation,” that resulted in great damage to tens of thousands of partici- pants in Down’s enterprises. In addition, the exhibits attached to one of the two affidavits provide substantial documentary evidence of deceptive practices and false promises that would appear to have resulted in documented losses of at least $28.5 million. Additional evidence in support of a violation of the Illinois Act would have been available in the form of the other cease-and-desist orders that Down had ignored and evidence of Down’s worldwide asset secretion efforts. In addition, the Madison County court had issued an order that Down turn over his business records and make himself immediately available for a deposition. Had Down been compelled to turn over his records, such as the various mailing lists he used,160 mail contact with the victims of his enterprises could have been established—a frightening pros- pect for Down, the significance of which will be further analyzed below in Part (C)(3), “Notice to the Class.” Had Down not provided his records or submitted to discovery, he could have faced a default judgment. Finally, in granting a TRO, Judge Byron had held that “a strong prima facie case 156. The plea and conviction also establish the legal conclusion that, in violation of United States criminal law, Down committed the offense of unlawfully, knowingly, and willfully conspiring to violate the provisions of 18 U.S.C. § 1953 with respect to the interstate transportation of gambling paraphernalia. Furthermore, these facts and conclusions could have been used offensively by the plaintiffs to pros- ecute a civil action on the following legal claims: (a) a common law action for “unjust enrichment”; and (b) a common law claim for “monies had and received.” Moreover, to the extent that plaintiffs remitted money to Down for the purpose of purchasing a share or chance in a lottery, such payments were made in accordance with the terms of a contract. Such contracts were “illegal on the ground that the acts of solicitation, formation and performance associated with each of them were contrary to U.S. law.” Affi- davit of Anthony Cabot, ¶ 59, Jan. 19, 2000, filed in the Matter of the Bankruptcies of James Blair Down et al., Supreme Court of British Columbia in Bankruptcy. On the assumption that the statutory scheme that rendered all of Down’s contracts with his “customers” illegal was enacted to afford protection to such class of persons, the plaintiffs would be entitled to restitution of their funds to the extent they have not been returned, and in order to obtain restitution, the court could impose a constructive trust on property held by third parties that can be traced to the schemes operated by Mr. Down and his co- conspirators. See id. at ¶¶ 60, 61, 64. 157. People v. Triple Eight Int’l Services, Inc., No. 97-CH 04123, Cir. Ct., Cook Cty., Apr., 3, 1997. 158. Illinois v. Triple Eight Int’l Services, Inc., No. 97-CH 04123, Consent judgment, Cir. Ct., Cook Cty., Nov. 9, 1998. 159. See supra nn. 11, 61. 160. See infra n. 184. 36 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 exists that the Defendants are indebted to the Plaintiffs and putative class members as a result of Defendants’ illegal activities” and that Plaintiff had “demonstrated a likelihood of success on the merits of its claims, both on the law and the facts.”161 For these reasons, it would have been highly unlikely that Schuppert et al. v. Down et al. would become the first class action lawsuit in living memory to have actually gone to trial in Madison County.162 Adding to the compelling circumstances of the action was the great likelihood of a huge verdict against Down if the case did go to trial. Consider the impact of elderly Americans testifying that they had been duped by boiler-room operations into paying over their entire life savings to Down, including such sums as $50,000, $100,000, $200,000, and more, leaving them bereft of assets and unable to pay their bills—and that many of the victims had been hit time and time again in a relentless assault that emptied their bank accounts and left some of them indebted for the rest of their lives. Of this scenario, plaintiff lawyers’ dreams are made. Had the right to bring the lawsuit and collect the proceeds been auctioned off to class action lawyers, and had the TRO remained in place freezing Down’s assets, a winning bid of at least $15 million seems not unlikely based upon a projection—reasonable in light of the evidence, circumstances, and amount of assets frozen—of obtaining a settlement or a jury verdict ranging from $50 million to $500 million. B. The Reality of the Settlement The settlement was not simply woefully inadequate; it was intentionally misleading as to the amount to be paid to victims of Down’s enterprises. In fact, instead of paying $6 million plus expenses, Down can actually expect to pay only a small fraction of that sum. The reasons for this discrepancy between the amount of the settlement as stated and the actual amount expected to be paid out is a function of the reversionary nature of the settlement. Generally, class action monetary settlements are of two types: pro-rata and reversionary. In a pro-rata settlement, any amount of the settlement not claimed by class members is redistrib- uted to the class members who file qualifying claims. As indicated above, however, in a reversion- ary settlement, any amount of a settlement not claimed by class members reverts to the defendant.163 The reversionary settlement is a technique employed by class action lawyers to obtain higher fees at the direct expense of class members and with the collusion of the defendant. Here, then, is how it works. Assume a class action lawyer and a defendant have come to a general agreement to settle the action for $20 million, and that this amounts to five cents on the dollar as a percentage of either class member losses or the value of their injuries. Out of this sum, the lawyer may anticipate that the court will allow him a fee of 25 percent of the recovery, or, as in this illustration, $5 million. Any settlement amounts not claimed will be paid out to remaining claimants, who then would end up with perhaps seven cents on the dollar instead of five. By colluding at the class’s expense, both the class lawyer and the defendant can improve their respective positions. Instead of a $20 million pro-rata settlement, the parties agree to a $40 million reversionary settlement. The lawyer thus increases his anticipated 25 percent fee to $10 million. To make it palatable to defendant, the defendant must be reasonably assured that in addition to paying the $10 million fee, he will not only not pay out an additional $30 million but, in fact, far less than $10 161. Schuppert v. Down, Order (Granting TRO), Aug. 7, 2000. 162. See supra n. 6. 163. For a discussion of the legal and policy issues raised by the reversionary settlement, see Motions for Leave to File Amici Curiae and Brief Amici Curiae in Support of Petition, Int’l Precious Metals Corp. v. Waters, 530 U.S. 1223 (2000) (in support of Petition for Certiorari, June 5, 2000), supra n. 60. 37 Civil Justice Report August 2002 million, so that his total payment will fall well below the $20 million pro-rata settlement. Because the class lawyer now has a significant financial incentive to self-deal at the class’s expense, he agrees to structure the notice process so that far fewer class members are put on actual notice of the settlement than would otherwise be the case. More important, he agrees to claim-filing require- ments that are so onerous that few will be able to file a claim or have the incentive to do so. So structured, it then becomes reasonably predictable that, at most, 20 percent of the claimants will actually file claims—a number consistent with the reality of many reversionary settlements. There- fore, of the $30 million available for payment to class members after a deduction for the lawyers’ fee (and ignoring expenses for purposes of this illustration), $6 million will actually be paid out to class members, for a total payment of $16 million. This constitutes a 25 percent savings for the defendant when compared with the cost of a pro-rata settlement, and a fee for the lawyer amount- ing to over 167 percent of the class’s actual recovery.164 Even this explanation, however, does not fully capture the effects of the Down settlement. C. ANALYSIS OF THE SETTLEMENT 1. Proof of Claim: The Documentary Requirement The Proof of Claim Form165 contained in the Settlement is simply a compendium of one onerous requirement piled on top of another, apparently for the purpose of minimizing the num- ber of successful claims. To begin, the form requires that evidence of the purchase of either Lottery Products or Puzzle Products had to be included “in the form of either [sic] credit card receipts, money orders or postal receipts, [or] canceled checks.”166 Failure to attach such evidence “may result in disallowance of this Proof of Claim.”167 The form further requires that the exact amount of each element of the claim be set out; if there is any error, the claim “may be disallowed in whole or in part.”168 It also requires that the claimant has to submit the actual and complete name of the lottery company or puzzle company to which he sent his money. Down had used 57 different company and trade names in pursuit of his enterprises.169 Once again, failure to do so may result in disallowance of the claim.170 Even more onerously, if claims were included with respect to lottery products sold by non-Down corpora- tions or “names,” then this could result in the disallowance of the entire claim, including claims for other purchases that were correctly listed on the form.171 And still more onerously, if Puzzle Prod- uct claims were included that were not one of the Puzzle Companies set forth in the Stipulated Settlement,172 then that would result in the disallowance of the entire claim.173 164. In the Int’l Precision Metals Corp. case, id., the fee was $13.3 million, one-third of the $40 million rever- sionary settlement, and class members received $6.5 million; so the lawyers’ fee was over 200 percent of the class’s recovery. 165. See Proof of Claim Form, Exhibit E, Amended Stipulation. 166. Id. at ¶¶ 3.5, 3.8. 167. Id. 168. Id. at ¶ 3.4. 169. See Lottery Companies, Puzzle Companies, and Trade Names, Exhibit K, Amended Stipulation. 170. Id. at ¶ 3.6. “(Note: Ensure the complete name of the Lottery Company is used otherwise this Proof of Claim may be disallowed)” (emphasis in original). 171. “(Note: The inclusion of claims in respect of Lottery Products sold by corporations which are not specified Lottery Companies or Puzzle Companies may result in the disallowance of the Proof of Claim in its entirety.)” Id. at ¶ 3.6 (emphasis in original). 172. See Exhibit K, supra n. 169. 173. Id. at ¶ 3.9. 38 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 Finally, a claimant who may have made multiple purchases is required to list each pur- chase separately, including the date of each purchase and the amount purchased on each such occasion. Any error in a listing submitted by a claimant is cause for disallowing the entire claim, including claims for which the purchase information is correctly listed.174 One additional feature of the claiming process bears mention. In order to submit the Proof of Claim Form that accompanied the Notice of Settlement, the form has to be notarized. Under Illinois law, class members can verify their claims by signing the claim form under penalty of perjury, thus having the same legal effect as if the form were notarized;175 indeed, the Proof of Claim Form so provided.176 The requirement of notarization is not one typically imposed on class members submitting proofs of claim. Its appearance here, especially in view of Illinois law and the extensive contemporaneous documentary evidence required for submitting a claim, appears to be to pose just one more barrier to successful claim filing. 2. The Proof of Claim Form in Context As noted, the Settlement primarily consists of two pools of money (in addition to Ness Motley’s fee): the first of $5.5 million; and the second, $500,000. In order to obtain payment from the first pool, the claimant would have to become aware of the Settlement, send for a claim form, fill it out, and include with it the required documents described above in order to obtain payment. Recall that Down’s lottery enterprises were conducted in the period from 1989 to about January 1996 and that many, if not most, of the victims were of advanced age. In the year 2002, five to ten years after having been defrauded, some out of their life savings, how many of the hundreds of thousands of victims who actually became aware of the settlement177 and took steps to obtain a claim form would be likely to have retained a credit-card statement, money-order receipt, or can- celed check? It is simply inconceivable that a lawyer representing the class of Down’s victims, given the circumstances here, would agree to such an onerous claim-submission procedure. The fact that any part of the $5.5 million left unclaimed would revert to Down, however, may be in- structive in explaining why, in this case, such a procedure was agreed to. It may be thought that even if the first pool of money was constituted to be mostly un- reachable, at least the second pool, though grossly inadequate—consisting of only $500,000—would at least be available to the class. Think again. The second pool is designated as being for payment to those who submitted claims but failed to supply the required documentation. However, the notice published in various newspapers in large bold type—indeed, the largest type in the ad— stated: “IN ORDER TO PARTICIPATE IN THE SETTLEMENT, YOU MUST HAVE PROOF OF PAYMENT.”178 Accordingly, anyone who was able to learn of the Settlement and who had not retained contemporaneous credit-card, canceled-check, or postal money-order records that went back five to ten years would not likely have sought the detailed Notice of Settlement from the claims admin- istrator.179 Here, again, it is simply inconceivable that a lawyer exercising his fiduciary obligation 174. See Proof of Claim Form, supra n. 165 at ¶ 3.6. 175. Sec.1-109, Ill. Code of Civil Procedure. 176. See Proof of Claim Form, Exhibit E, supra n. 165. 177. Empirical evidence exists that the actual number is minuscule. See infra n. 187. 178. See Abbreviated Notice of Settlement, Exhibit G, Amended Stipulation. 179. Had victims of Down’s enterprises seen, recognized, and responded to one of the ads—which only listed nine of Down’s 57 companies and trade names and did not list Down’s name—and obtained the six-page Notice of Settlement, written in dense legalese and small print, and been able to decipher it, they would have been able to learn that even if they did not have the required documentary evidence, they could still submit a claim against the second pool. 39 Civil Justice Report August 2002 to the class would agree to so restrictive a claiming process with regard to the second pool. The only reasonable conclusion to be drawn from the Proof of Claim Form requirement is that it was constructed to minimize the number of claims that would be eligible for payment. 3. Notice to the Class The use of a reversionary settlement and an onerous “Proof of Claim” process hardly exhausts the myriad ways in which the Ness Motley–Down Settlement is intended to minimize recovery by class members. Another elaborate ruse is the Plan of Notice.180 On its face, the Plan of Notice appears intended to promote the widest possible dissemination of notice of the Settlement, by providing for widespread advertising of a Summary Notice of Settlement previously described.181 Were there more effective means of notice? Recall that when Interclaim purchased certain trade debts of Down’s enterprises, it acquired a mailing list of 418,846 “Puzzle Contest” victims who had sent money to Down (the “Merkle” list).182 As previously indicated, a sampling of the list ap- peared to suggest that approximately 50 percent of the Puzzle Contest victims had also been vic- timized by the Lottery enterprises.183 In addition to the Merkle list, Down’s enterprises kept detailed, computerized records that contained the names, addresses, account numbers, phone numbers, order numbers, transaction dates, purchase amounts, and other contemporaneous data with re- gard to purchases from Down’s enterprises.184 Confirmation of the existence of such lists is con- tained in the Plan of Notice, which rejects the use of such lists (called “the data base in the possession of the Lottery Companies”) for the reasons set out below. Thus, by use either of the Merkle list or the apparently more complete lists that Down had in his possession or otherwise had access to, it would have been possible to mail actual notice of the settlement directly to a large percentage of the victims of Down’s enterprises. This strategy was specifically rejected in the Ness Motley–Down Settlement. As described in the Plan of Notice: The Settling Parties developed an approach designed to communicate the best notice practicable under all circumstances, having regard to a number of factors which included the following: (a) the fact that the data base in the possession of the Lottery Companies is said to be more than five years old and is unreliable to the extent that it has never been updated and obviously will contain incorrect addresses for anyone who has moved; (b) the data bases themselves were reportedly culled and therefore may reflect only a portion of the Members of the Settlement Class; (c) that the cost of direct notification and administration of claims of substantial numbers of the Members of the Settlement Class will likely be greater than the value of the purchase of the Lottery and Puzzle Product and as such it is not economically rational to incur notice costs greater than the amount of the claim; (d) the fact that a fund of almost $12,000,000.00 previously made available to persons who purchased lottery tickets from the Lottery Companies was not fully drawn 180. See Plan of Notice, Exhibit I, Amended Stipulation. 181. See supra n. 179. 182. See supra n. 83. 183. See supra n. 84. 184. See Notice of Intention to Appear, Proof of Class Membership, and Statement of Objections of John F. Holguin, a class member objector to the proposed settlement, May 3, 2002, filed in Schuppert v. Down, including Exhibit A, which contains supporting documentary evidence. 40 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 down by claims notwithstanding notification of same and as such, and for other reasons known to the Settling Parties, it is arguable that there is disinterest in potential Members of the Settlement Class to try to obtain any compensation; (e) the fact that the vast majority of the purchases of Lottery and Puzzle Products were for amounts of less than $75.00 and there is evidence to suggest that purchasers of the Lottery and Puzzle Products were aware of the nature of the purchases they were making and the risks associated with the purchase of such products; and (f) the fact that there is not an unlimited budget available for notification and it is in the interests of the Members of the Settlement Class, and the primary object of this settlement, that resources be applied to satisfaction of claims being advanced by Members of the Settlement Class as opposed to finding every person who could advance a claim no matter how trivial.185 The assertion in paragraph (c) above that direct notification “is not economically rational” because notice costs would exceed the amount of the claim is unsustainable. Notice costs using either the Merkle list or Down’s lists would approximate one dollar per name. The smallest docu- mented loss in the Merkle list was five dollars. Individual lottery losses were substantially higher, and, in any event, none appear to be less than the lowest amount lost in the Puzzle Prize contests. Finally, the Merkle list and Down’s lists could have been utilized in such a manner as to send direct notice only to those whose losses exceeded a certain sum, e.g., ten dollars. The assertion that the age of the database (“more than five years old”) made it unreliable is refuted in an affidavit from the head of two direct marketing services companies, who stated: Since every year in America millions of people move to another address or die, keeping current name and address files is a constant challenge. The direct marketing industry, cataloguers, retailers and others who sell products and services to the public by mail and telephone have developed computerized databases and techniques to deal with the problem. The government, the U.S. Postal Service and numerous companies have developed resources that make it possible to determine whether an address currently receives mail delivered by the U.S. Postal Service, whether an occupant has moved from one address and whether a person is now deceased. Every day, the United States Postal Service receives Change of Address (COA) data filed by relocating postal customers. These COAs submitted from individuals, families, businesses, and postal carriers are the source of the National Change of Address (NCOA) database and are transmitted daily from Computerized Forwarding Systems across the United States to the U.S. Postal Service National Customer Support Center (NCSC) in Memphis, Tennessee. Approximately 40 million of these COAs are filed annually. Records are retained on the NCOA file for a three-year period from the customer’s move-effective date, and on average, the NCOA file contains approximately 110 million permanent change-of- address (COA) records filed with the U.S. Postal Service. The NCOA database is up- dated every week. 185. Plan of Notice, Exhibit I, Amended Stipulation. 41 Civil Justice Report August 2002 Several private firms provide additional matching services against proprietary Change of Address files in cooperation with magazine publishers, catalog companies, insurance companies and others which can match postal customer moves for five years or more. Files of deceased individuals are also often available from the same sources. Also there are specialized “skip chasing” services offering to track down debtors who have moved to avoid creditors which can be used [sic] find others who cannot be otherwise located. It is my belief based on my experience and knowledge of the list maintenance tech- niques in common use in the direct marketing industry that a name and address file compiled in 1998 may be updated such that a majority and perhaps substantially higher percentage of the names and addresses may be contacted by mail. Further, it is my professional opinion that businesses in the ordinary course would rely [sic] such an updated list for commercial purposes.186 The conclusion is therefore inescapable that, though actual notice was quite feasible, it was rejected because it would have been too effective. In order to secure the objectives of the reversionary Settlement, it was necessary to use the least effective means of notice187 and the most arduous claim process.188 Judge Byron’s preliminary approvals of the Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement on June 19, 2001, and Amended Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement in November 2001 (includ- ing the Plan of Notice and the rejection of the use of actual mailing lists in favor of newspaper and TV advertisements) have recently been the subject of critical media attention.189 Even though the media attention was modest, it was also unprecedented, and it apparently subjected the local class action bar and the court to unwanted scrutiny. On May 24, 2002, Judge Byron ordered Ness Motley’s local counsel to review Interclaim’s Merkle list and report back to the court.190 On June 7, 2002, at a hearing before Judge Byron, local counsel reported that it had performed a statistical analysis 186. Declaration of John M. Simms, June 6, 2002, filed in Schuppert v. Down. 187. The Down–Ness Motley strategy of using the least effective means of notice is proving highly effective. During the last week of May 2002, Interclaim sent out a postcard to approximately 20,000 puzzle play- ers residing in Illinois and Missouri from its Merkle list of Down victims. The postcard notified the recipient of the impending settlement in Madison County and asked the recipient to phone a toll-free number to obtain more information. As of one week after the mailing was sent, 138 individuals re- sponded. Telephone interviews with the responders indicate that: (1) only one had seen any advertise- ments about the settlement; (2) virtually none had retained receipts for money remitted to Down; (3) of the 82 responders able to estimate their loss to a Down organization, their claims total approximately $294,000, for an average loss of $3,586; and (4) the remaining 56 responders could not estimate the amount they sent to Down’s enterprises (though, as indicated [see supra n. 184], Down has lists contain- ing just such information). See memo from Irving Cohen of Interclaim to Lester Brickman, July 12, 2002 (on file with the author). 188. Quite apart from omitting the various requirements that were apparently included to make the claim process as arduous as possible, a far more expeditious claim process was available. Since Down’s own lists contained all the information needed for a claimant to establish a claim (see supra n. 184), claimants contacted by direct mail who responded could have had their claims presented and certified by the claims administrator, using Down’s own computerized records. Under such a process, claimants would only have to supply their names in order to have their claims processed. 189. See Pamela Sherrid, “Class Action Crumbs,” U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT, March 25, 2002, at 24–26 (not- ing that “two [lists of potential claimants] exists [but] they aren’t being used”); Brian Brueggman, “Settle- ment Proposal in Madison County, Ill., Fraud Lawsuit Draws Criticism,” Belleville (Ill.) News-Democrat, May 26, 2002; also see Parsons, supra n. 106. 190. See Brueggman, id. 42 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 191. Transcript of Hearing before Hon. Nicholas G. Bryon, June 7, 2002, in Schuppert et al. v. Down et al. at 3 (statement of Mr. Tillery). 192. Id. at 16–17. 193. See Brueggman, supra n. 189. 194. See Interclaim et al. v. Ness Motley, USDC N.D. Ill., Amended Complaint, filed May 23, 2001, Exhibit A, indicating an estimated gross loss of the 29 victims of $1,517,197 and restitution previously received of $856,233. 195. See supra Part VII (H). 196. See Amchem Products, Inc. v. Windsor, 521 U.S. 511 (1997); Ortiz v. Fibreboard Corp., 527 U.S. 815 (1999) . 197. Schuppert v. Down, Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement, June 19, 2001. 198. Id. at ¶ 12.1. on the Merkle list, using a sample size indicating a confidence level of 95 percent, with the result that “68.7 percent of the addresses were still viable addresses….If you remove the impact of…deceased individuals from the analysis, the viable address percentage increased to 80.8 per- cent.”191 On the basis of local counsel’s report, Judge Byron ordered that a postcard be mailed to those listed in the Merkle list, summarizing the summary notice and listing a toll-free number to phone to obtain a complete notice from the claims administrator.192 Judge Byron also postponed the Settlement Fairness Hearing scheduled for June 7, 2002, until August 14, 2002. Local counsel for Ness Motley, apparently concerned that the media focus on Schuppert could pose a danger to the entire Madison County class action enterprise, was quoted as saying, “[I]f the settlement doesn’t look fair, he won’t ask the judge to approve it—even if that means disagreeing with the attorney who retained him on behalf of Ness Motley.”193 4. Limitations on the Class As noted, the Settlement Agreement excluded from the class: (1) the 15 victims who had granted Interclaim a power of attorney to pursue their claims and who were co-petitioners with Interclaim in the Canadian proceedings; (2) any other victims who had at any time formed a con- tractual relation with Interclaim for the pursuit of claims against Down; (3) all victims who had made claims against the fund created as part of the plea agreement entered into by Down in the civil and criminal proceedings brought in Seattle, Washington, irrespective of whether the amounts they obtained from the fund fully reimbursed their losses; and (4) Interclaim. By agreeing to exclude groups of victims without any apparent justification except that Down apparently so demanded, Ness Motley breached its fiduciary duty to those excluded class members, including the 29 victims specifically excluded who had suffered a net loss of $660,964 and who had specifically retained Ness Motley, through Interclaim, in the February 14, 2000, Re- tainer Agreement.194 Moreover, once it became known to Ness Motley that Down was insisting on excluding groups of victims without any substantive justification, it became incumbent on Ness Motley to inform the court and request the appointment of separate counsel to represent the inter- ests of those class members.195 The failure to have done so would appear to invalidate the Settle- ment under recent U.S. Supreme Court rulings.196 5. The Letter Agreement As a part of the initial Stipulated Settlement197 entered into on June 19, 2001, Down agreed to pay the notional settlement amount (the two pools amounting to $6 million) and Ness Motley’s fees and expenses of administering the claim process, in accordance with the terms of the Settle- ment and “[s]ubject to the terms of the Letter Agreement. ”198 The Letter Agreement is defined as 43 Civil Justice Report August 2002 199. Id. at ¶ 1.16. 200. Letter Agreement, Exhibit C, dated June 19, 2001, and filed in the Madison County court on the same date. “that agreement between Defendant’s Counsel and Plaintiff’s Counsel which will be filed under seal and attached as Exhibit ‘C’ hereto.”199 It provides: The terms of this Letter Agreement are to remain confidential and under seal of the Court and are to be disclosed to the Court but no other person shall have access to it without the prior approval of the Court on notice to James Blair Down by virtue of the confidential nature of the contents of this Letter Agreement. . . . By virtue of the nature of the assets of Mr. Down, substantial time may be required in order to realize the full value of the assets and to overcome the damaging effect of the false and misleading statements that were made by Interclaim in relation to the assets. While the parties recognize that it is in everyone’s best interests to discharge the obliga- tions under the Settlement Agreement as soon as possible, time may be required so as to satisfy the obligations that arise under the Settlement Agreement. You have agreed to dissolve by consent the Temporary Restraining Order granted in Madison County on August 7, 2000 as a term of the Order of Preliminary Approval. Pending approval and performance of the Settlement Agreement the parties have agreed to the following terms: [A]s soon as reasonably practicable after the preliminary approval of the Settlement Agreement and provided that there are no appeals or other proceedings, which might affect the validity of the Order of Preliminary Approval, Mr. Down will cause sufficient money to be paid into trust with this firm in order that the Plan of Notice approved by the court can be implemented for the term and on the conditions prescribed by the Court…. [I]n the event that dispositions of [property]…are such that proceeds are not readily available, Mr. Down shall have up to three years from the date of the Final Judgment or the final conclusion of any appeals therefrom or after any other court application has been finally concluded and all appeals therefrom are exhausted to discharge his obliga- tions to pay the amounts due to Members of the Settlement Class and fees awarded under a fee petition filed by the lawyers for Class Counsel. Obligations under the Settlement Agreement shall be paid in the following order of priority: first to Adminis- trative Costs and costs of notice, second to amounts due to Settlement Class Members on account of valid proven claims and third to fees and expenses of Class Counsel…. [I]n the event that Mr. Down is able to pay the amounts of proper proven claims of class members prior to the disposition of [certain]…[p]roperties…, such payments shall be sufficient to satisfy his obligations under the Settlement Agreement to the class members and the Settlement Agreement shall be deemed to be fully performed with respect to his obligations to the class members notwithstanding that sufficient monies are not available to satisfy the claims of Class Counsel. In such circumstance, Mr. Down shall be obligated to pay the fees of Class Counsel but the Settlement Agreement and the releases contem- plated thereby shall remain in full force and effect.200 44 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 (a) Discussion of the Letter Agreement Thus, contrary to what an informed reader of the Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement would conclude, the Settlement did not require Down to fund the two pools of money upon re- ceiving court approval of the Stipulated Settlement. Instead, Down would have at least three years and possibly far longer to do so. Moreover, he would not have to post security for his promise to fund the settlement pools three or more years thereafter. Such a provision in a class action settlement agreement is extremely unusual, if not unique. No class action settlement reported in case reports, journals, or the media has included a provi- sion that both allows defendant to defer payment and does not require security for defendant’s promise to pay into the settlement fund. Indeed, it is certainly possible, as the Settlement is structured, that under the terms of the Letter Agreement, Down will never have to fully fund both settlement pools. On the assumption that the dissemination of the Notice of Settlement will inform relatively few of the victims of Down’s enterprises and that the onerous Proof of Claim Form will preclude or dissuade many of those so informed from asserting claims or result in invalidation of claims filed, Down can reasonably expect to actually pay very little into the settle- ment funds. Moreover, because the Letter Agreement substantially varies the terms of the Settlement, if one of the victims of Down’s enterprises who filed a claim and provided the obligatory release201 later contested the Settlement on the grounds that it fraudulently omitted a material term, most courts would invalidate the Settlement on that basis. Such realization probably accounts for why the parties decided to amend the Stipulation of Settlement. Thus, on November 20, 2001, five months after the original Settlement, Down and class counsel amended their Settlement202 and added the following language to a paragraph pro- viding for the payment of the settlement monies into the court for distribution per the terms of the agreement: Funding of the obligations under the Stipulation is being carried out through the liquidation of real estate. Pursuant to the Letter Agreement the Defendant shall use its best efforts to liquidate real estate to pay the obligations under the Stipulation as soon as reasonably practicable, however, the Defendant shall have up to three years following the Final Judgment to fund his obligations under the Stipulation. Interest shall accrue on obligations arising under the Stipulation after January 1, 2001 at the rate of 8% per annum.203 Notwithstanding this apparent attempt to mitigate the risk of a prospective claim being brought by a victim of Down’s enterprises (who had submitted a claim and release, and who might assert that the release was obtained fraudulently), the Letter Agreement remains a bizarre feature of the Settlement. Despite the more detailed reference in the Amended Settlement, it re- mains filed “under seal.” No rational reason can be conjured up to explain this secrecy except possibly the desire to keep class members from learning the full details of the Letter Agreement or perhaps affording the court a modicum of protection for its anticipated approval of the settlement class and Stipulated Settlement by keeping the document secret. 201. See Release, Covenant Not to Sue, Indemnity and Assignment required for payment to any Settlement Class Member, Exhibit H, Amended Stipulation. 202. See Amended Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement, Nov. 20, 2001, filed with the Madison Cty. Cir. Ct. on Nov. 29, 2001. 203. Id. at ¶ 2.6 45 Civil Justice Report August 2002 6. Right to Object to the Settlement As is typical in class action settlements, members of the settlement class are permitted to appear at the Settlement Hearing, in person or by counsel, to be heard in opposition to the fairness and reasonableness of the Amended Stipulation of Settlement and/or the application for legal fees.204 However, unlike in other class action settlements, in Schuppert, that right to object is condi- tioned on the prior provision of “sworn evidence of the purchase of Lottery Products or Puzzle Products in the form of either credit card receipts, money order or postal receipts, cancelled checks or other evidence of payment.”205 Thus, all class members who do not have such documentation and who may wish to object to the requirement that, in order to submit a claim they would have to produce one of the listed documents, would be excluded from objecting to the Settlement and fee request (though, as noted, they could still participate in the second compensation pool). 7. Ness Motley’s Fee Under the terms of the Letter Agreement, Down’s obligations to class members shall be deemed fully performed, provided he: is able to pay the amounts of proper proven claims of class members notwithstanding that sufficient monies are not available to satisfy the claim of Class Counsel. In such circumstance, Mr. Down shall be obligated to pay the fees of Class Counsel but the Settlement Agreement and the releases contemplated thereby shall remain in full force and effect.206 On its face, the Letter Agreement thus provides that if Down fails to pay Ness Motley the agreed-upon $2 million fee (assuming court approval), the settlement with the class remains fully binding, provided Down has paid their “proper proven claims.” Moreover, Down’s promise to pay Ness Motley’s fee is unsecured. Thus, if Down fails to pay the fee, Ness Motley will have to bring an action against Down and will have to locate Down’s assets—seemingly reposed in com- plex structures in many countries—to collect on any judgment. No reported class action settlement allows the defendant to thus delay paying class counsel’s fee, let alone accept an unsecured promise to pay. For these reasons, it is appropriate to treat the arrangement entered into between Down and Ness Motley, as stated in the Letter Agreement, with considerable skepticism. Indeed, anyone who believes that Ness Motley accepted a settlement in which payment of its fee could be delayed three years or more—and that requires it to rely on the unsecured promise of someone well versed in concealing his assets after he has obtained the benefit of a full release of liability from the under- lying class—has obviously been standing out in the Madison County sun for too long. Whatever the reality is with regard to payment of Ness Motley’s fee, it is highly improbable that it is that which is set forth in the Letter Agreement.207 204. See Notice of Settlement, Exhibit F at 5, Amended Stipulation. 205. Id. This provision was not contained in the original Stipulation and Agreement of Settlement. It may have been added in anticipation of the possibility that publicity could lead to objectors appearing at the fairness hearing. 206. Letter Agreement, id. at ¶ (d) (emphasis added). 207. It is possible and perhaps even plausible that this bizarre fee-payment feature has some relationship to the suit for breaches of fiduciary obligation and of contract, brought by Interclaim against Ness Motley in U.S. District Court, which was filed on Dec. 4, 2000 (see supra n. 110). The filing of such an action against Ness Motley in Dec. 2000 took place at least six months before the apparent completion of nego- tiations leading to the execution of the Settlement Agreement and its presentation to the court. If it believed itself vulnerable to a claim of breach of fiduciary obligation and therefore possibly subject to 46 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 IX. SCHUPPERT V. DOWN: A CASE IN PROGRESS In the face of the undoubtedly unwanted publicity about the Settlement in Schuppert v. Down,208 the rapid progress that Ness Motley and Down were making in moving the class action though the judicial process, a hallmark of Madison County class action claiming, was interrupted. As of the writing of this monograph, new deadlines and dates have been set as follows for Schuppert v. Down: 1) class members objecting to the Settlement must file notice with the court by August 2, 2002; 2) class members seeking to opt-out of the Settlement must so notice the court by August 2, 2002; 3) class members filing claims must submit them by September 6, 2002; and, most critically; 4) the fairness hearing originally scheduled for June 7, 2002, has been rescheduled to August 14, 2002. On that date, August 14, 2002, approval by Judge Byron will cast the Settlement, includ- ing the Plan of Notice, in concrete. It will be impervious to attack209 —except to direct appeal by an objecting class member to Illinois appellate courts, which have never heretofore disturbed a Madison County class action proceeding. X. CONCLUSION This monograph began with a reference to the “rule of law” that subtends our economic system.210 It now concludes with the observation that in Madison County, the rule of law has been displaced by the “rule of class action lawyers.” Even more disturbing than the Plan of Notice and Proof of Claim—each designed appar- ently to minimize the number and amount of claims—is the fact that the settlement was agreed to by one of the leading class action law firms, which apparently had acted in full confidence that it owed no fiduciary obligation to the class members it had undertaken to represent. Moreover, that in bringing the action in Madison County, it was thereby expressing confidence that the courts in that county would summarily approve the settlement and fee request while paying only lip ser- vice, at best, to the mantra that the court must be the guardian of the interests of class members.211 While the glare of publicity may subvert the apparent intention to subject the elderly vic- tims of Down’s mass-marketing schemes to a second victimhood, such publicity rarely attends even the most abusive of class action settlements. A solution to the lack of due process in state court class claiming necessarily includes a facilitated process for removing class actions filed in state courts to federal courts. The analysis of the Settlement in this monograph adds to the already substantial evidence that respect for the rule of law requires that defendants have the opportunity to bypass the “class action magnet courts”212 that stand, like speed traps, astride the nation’s litigation highways. an order of disgorgement of fees received (see Arce v. Burrows, 958 S.W. 2d 239 [Tex. App. 1997]), Ness Motley may have sought to structure a fee that would not be subject to disgorgement. The Letter Agree- ment may be seen to be so constructed. 208. See supra 188. 209. See Brickman, “Aggregative Litigation,” supra n. 16 at 298. 210. See supra n. 1. 211. See supra nn. 52, 127–28. 212. See supra n. 3. 47 Civil Justice Report August 200248 Anatomy of a Madison County (Illinois) Class Action: A Study of Pathology August 2002 49 DIRECTOR Judyth W. Pendell Non-Profit Organization US Postage PAID Permit 04001 New York, NY DEPUTY DIRECTOR Paul Howard FELLOWS Peter W. Huber Walter K. Olson Would you prefer to receive this publication via e-mail? If so, please supply us with your e-mail address by contacting us at mi@manhattan-institute.org or 212-599-7000. Previous publications are also available. M A N H A T T A N I N S T I T U T E F O R P O L I C Y R E S E A R C H M 52 Vanderbilt Avenue • New York, NY 10017 www.manhattan-institute.org I The mission of the Center for Legal Policy (CLP) is to advance reform of the civil justice system through offering incisive, rigorous, and sound analysis of the problems, as well as effective, practical solutions. CLP sponsors a series of books written by senior fellows Peter Huber and Walter Olson, such as The Litigation Explosion, Judging Science, The Excuse Factory, and Hard Green. These interesting and accessible publications have established CLP fellows as leading national authorities who communicate as much to the layperson as to senior policy makers. In addition, the CLP hosts conferences, lectures, and luncheon forums designed to present critical legal reform issues to a prominent and diverse audience of legal scholars, attorneys, industry representatives, and media. The CLP publications are the Civil Justice Report, which publishes innovative legal research by prominent scholars, and the Civil Justice Forum, which publishes transcripts from CLP events. The Manhattan Institute is a 501(C)(3) nonprofit organization. Contributions are tax-deductible to the fullest extent of the law. EIN #13-2912529 
work_4lut7ttxrnhs7gpdmm45rx5iyu	----	TRANSNATIONAL TRANSLATION: FOREIGN LANGUAGE IN THE TRAVEL WRITING OF COOPER, MELVILLE, AND TWAIN A Dissertation Submitted to the Temple University Graduate Board In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY by Kate Huber May 2013 Examining Committee Members: Miles Orvell, Advisory Chair, English and American Studies James Salazar, English Michael Kaufmann, English David Waldstreicher, External Member, History, Temple University ii © Copyright by Kate Huber 2013 All Rights Reserved iii ABSTRACT This dissertation examines the representation of foreign language in nineteenth- century American travel writing, analyzing how authors conceptualize the act of translation as they address the multilingualism encountered abroad. The three major figures in this study—James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville, and Mark Twain—all use moments of cross-cultural contact and transference to theorize the permeability of the language barrier, seeking a mean between the oversimplification of the translator’s task and a capitulation to the utter incomprehensibility of the Other. These moments of translation contribute to a complex interplay of not only linguistic but also cultural and economic exchange. Charting the changes in American travel to both the “civilized” world of Europe and the “savage” lands of the Southern and Eastern hemispheres, this project will examine the attitudes of cosmopolitanism and colonialism that distinguished Western from non-Western travel at the beginning of the century and then demonstrate how the once distinct representations of European and non-European languages converge by the century’s end, with the result that all kinds of linguistic difference are viewed as either too easily translatable or utterly incomprehensible. Integrating the histories of cosmopolitanism and imperialism, my study of the representation of foreign language in travel writing demonstrates that both the compulsion to translate and a capitulation to incomprehensibility prove equally antagonistic to cultural difference. By mapping the changing conventions of translation through the representative narratives of three canonical figures, Transnational Translation traces a shift in American attitudes toward the foreign as the cosmopolitanism of Cooper and Melville transforms into Twain’s attitude of both cultural and linguistic nationalism. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ABSTRACT ....................................................................................................................... iii INTRODUCTION .............................................................................................................. v CHAPTER 1. JAMES FENIMORE COOPER’S LINGUISTIC COSMOPOLITANISM ................................................................... 1 2. EXPANSIONISM AND EXCHANGE IN COOPER’S LATER WORKS ......................................................................... 60 3. FRAUGHT TRANSLATION IN MELVILLE’S COLONIAL ENCOUNTERS ............................................... 114 4. FROM TRAVEL TO TOURISM: THE SHIFT AT MID-CENTURY ..................................................................... 182 5. MARK TWAIN, MASS TOURISM, AND AMERICAN NATIONALISM ................................................................. 240 CONCLUSION: THE NEW IMPERIALISTIC COSMOPOLITE ............................................................ 297 REFERENCES CITED ................................................................................................... 319 v INTRODUCTION Throughout the nineteenth century, the number of Americans traveling to all parts of the world increased dramatically, and many of those travelers chose to write about their encounters with foreign lands, peoples, and cultures. Regular transatlantic service began in 1818, and the growing numbers sailing to Europe included businessmen, clergy, students, scholars, writers, and, of course, the wealthy classes who could afford a European Grand Tour (Dulles 26-30). At the same time, as the United States’ military and commercial interests expanded, the number of American whalers, merchants, and scientists visiting the Pacific and other “exotic” places was also increasing. 1 While many American writers struggled to compete economically with the low cost of books pirated from England, travel writers could provide something unavailable from cheap British reprints—an American perspective on foreign locales (Melton 22). These travel writings included not only traditional, non-fictional accounts, but also novels dramatizing the experience of an American abroad, and all levels of fictionalized experience in-between. Indeed, as one scholar of the genre concludes, “there is no neat division between autobiographical and fictional narratives of travel” (Youngs 4). 2 But however truthful, the various forms of travel literature share a common interest in how Americans perceive the foreign, and how they reconcile their own cultural identity with the incommensurable differences encountered abroad. 1 The description of this non-European travel is often classified as a “sea narrative.” Hester Blum’s The View from the Masthead provides an excellent introduction to the significance of the genre. See also Robert Foulke’s The Sea Voyage Narrative. 2 Accordingly, I will follow Justin D. Edwards, who takes the broadest possible definition of travel literature, including three categories that define a spectrum of fact and fiction: “conventional travel narrative,” “hybrid travel text,” and “[t]ouristic fiction” (13). vi This project examines the representation, or, in other words, the treatment, of foreign language in texts set abroad, with emphasis on the works of James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville, and Mark Twain. An author need not be consciously fixated on the issue of language for evidence of his or her attitude toward linguistic difference to be evident in the text—although many of the authors I examine will prove to be quite interested in language. Encountering linguistic difference is a pervasive experience shared by travelers of all kinds. Whether facing an entirely foreign language, or only variations in accent or dialect, travel writers must decide both whether and how to represent this difference in their accounts. Moreover, most of the authors examined here engage in either some kind of translation or representation of translation. Because this transference, literally this “carrying across,” of meaning from one sign system to another requires that the translator negotiate not only linguistic but also cultural difference, both the practice and the concept of translation are concrete and yet particularly fertile subjects for examining an author’s ideas about the nature of language, the negotiation of difference, and the desirability, or even the feasibility, of cross-cultural exchange. The necessary decision to either translate the foreign into more familiar terms or to leave both foreign language and culture untranslated presents a new avenue for examining how nineteenth-century American authors viewed cultural difference and how they positioned their own nation in the world. Translation, Travel, and Cultural Difference The empirical subject of Transnational Translation is the way travel writers present foreign languages in their texts. Although no previous study has undertaken a comprehensive account of linguistic difference in nineteenth-century literature of travel, vii Lawrence Alan Rosenwald’s examination of how even literature set within the United States must account for a variety of dialects and languages provides a framework for examining the representation of multilingualism abroad. While some works may directly include languages other than standard English, allowing characters to speak just as they would in real life, other works use any number of representational methods to give the impression of multilingualism without relying on the linguistic knowledge of the reader, and still others ignore the existence of other languages entirely and present events as if they were occurring in a monolingual world. Rosenwald’s focus on works set within the United States not only provides a valuable reading of immigrant literatures, but also explores exceptions to the traditional vision of a monolingual America. My focus on American literature set outside of the country raises a complementary set of issues. In addition to clarifying Americans’ changing assessments of multiculturalism more broadly, the readings that compose this study reveal the way traveling Americans conceptualized the foreign and saw themselves in relation to other parts of the globe. This project will pay particular attention to both the act and the concept of translation, examining the many kinds of spatial and cultural transference they involve. While not all representations of multilingualism include an act of translation, either real or implied, many of them do. In his examination of translation in twentieth-century travel narratives, Michael Cronin outlines the varied forms of translation in which a traveler might engage: “meet[ing] fellow speakers of their language from a different country (intralingual), be[ing] able to communicate some ideas in the foreign language (interlingual) but, at other moments, be[ing] completely stymied and have to resort to gestures (intersemiotic)” (Across 4). All of these forms of translation make frequent viii occurrences the nineteenth-century travel literature I will examine. Furthermore, as Lawrence Venuti has shown in The Translator’s Invisibility, the way in which the act of translation and the figure of the translator are imagined can reveal much about the extent to which “foreignness” is valued in the target culture. Acts of translation, whether necessitated by the process of traveling, included within the travel literature itself, or undertaken as part of a more scholarly translational practice, are moments when an author’s valuation of foreign language and conceptualization of foreignness are laid bare for critical inquiry. Translation is also a fertile metaphor for theorizing both exchange and representation more broadly, including such transpositions as economic trade across incommensurable systems of value and the “translation” of reality into any linguistic utterance. When translation fails, when a foreign concept has no direct equivalent in the target language, the limits of cross-cultural transference can unsettle the seeming universality of one’s own language and culture. This is Homi Bhabha’s view when he describes how “[c]ultural translation desacralizes the transparent assumptions of cultural supremacy” (327). Because there is not always a one-to-one correspondence between words in different languages, translation reveals that the way language groups meaning into concepts can be arbitrary, and that one’s own cultural concepts, once taken for universals, are not so. The resulting unsettling of cultural authority, or undermining of linguistic certainty, can serve as a tool of resistance, as will be particularly evident in Melville’s descriptions of the South Seas. A frank exposure of the sometimes incommensurable difference of “savage” language and culture can expose the contingent ix arbitrariness of Western systems of knowing, although too strong a belief in the Other’s incomprehensibility can be another justification for oppression. The most comprehensive study of the figure of translation in the long nineteenth century is Colleen Glenney Boggs’s Transnationalism and American Literature. Boggs argues that, in contrast to the “monolingual ontology” she finds in the works of Hawthorne, writers she identifies as transnational “understood American literature as a form of writing that was always in translation” (6-7). She examines how these writers negotiate the relationship between America and the world through linguistic difference and exchange. 3 Boggs makes a persuasive argument for the pervasiveness and the theoretical importance of both the act and the concept of translation in American literature, but while she sees translation as a liberatory practice, Eric Cheyfitz reveals its darker side in another major study of translation and the Americas, The Poetics of Imperialism. Cheyfitz argues that “translation was, and still is, the central act of European colonization [and] imperialism in the Americas,” revealing how translation, particularly the translation of “savage” languages and cultures, need not involve a recognition and negotiation of cultural difference, but may instead be a means of effacing it (104). While Boggs and Cheyfitz have focused on the power of translation to either consolidate ideological power or to resist it, I am more interested in how authors conceive the act of translation than in the political uses to which translation is put. In other words, my primary subject is how writers and texts imagine the permeability of the language barrier. In their own ways, each of the authors included in this study responds to 3 I share Boggs’s interest in Margaret Fuller and Harriet Beecher Stowe (see my Chapter Four), but otherwise, she focuses on works set within the United States. x what Jacques Derrida describes as the implicit paradox generated by the story of Babel. Derrida examines “the origin of the confusion of tongues, the irreducible multiplicity of idioms, the necessary and impossible task of translation,” viewing “its necessity as impossibility” (171). In other words, the difference between languages is what requires translation, but it is also the very thing that ensures no translation ever can be perfect. Where exactly between perfection and impossibility the act of translation lies is a matter for debate. Examining the empirical evidence of how foreign language appears in works of travel literature allows American perspectives of foreignness to be compared on a fairly straightforward continuum of attitudes—a spectrum along which the mean lies somewhere between complete permeability and impermeability, between the perfection of translation and its impossibility. In my model, the assumptions of both permeability and impermeability each have two variations, one tending toward a prejudicial extreme and the other toward a more enlightened mean. If one sees the barrier between languages as permeable, this may result in the conviction that cultural differences are easily assimilated into one’s own monolithic viewpoint. Conversely, the assumption of permeability may lead to a desire for cross-cultural understanding and exchange. Likewise, imagining that the language barrier is less permeable may also result in two opposing attitudes. On one hand, the acknowledgement that any translation from one language to the next is less than straightforward can indicate an enlightened recognition of cultural difference. But on the other hand, the view that cross-cultural understanding is impossible can lead to a position of cultural isolationism. At either extreme lies cultural ignorance, one from capitulation to the utter incomprehensibility of the foreign and the other from the assumption of xi universality. The golden mean between these two points, or perhaps (in a Derridean sense) the supplementary acceptance of both positions at once, may be described as a kind of cosmopolitanism, as will be discussed below, but such an attitude always risks slipping into one prejudicial extreme or the other. Yet the linguistic, cultural, and monetary translations necessitated by both travel and travel writing require some negotiation of the language barrier, and the attitudes toward cultural difference this negotiation reveals will be the subject of the following chapters. Like the act of translation, travel too can put the previously monolithic authority of one’s own culture into conflict with foreign differences. The experience of foreign travel fosters the same experience of the “unheimlich” that Bhabha attributes to the “cultural authority” of colonialism (195). Bhabha explains: Culture is heimlich, with its disciplinary generalizations, its mimetic narratives, its homologous empty time, its seriality, its progress, its customs and coherence. But cultural authority is also unheimlich, for to be distinctive, significatory, influential and identifiable, it has to be translated, disseminated, differentiated, interdisciplinary, intertextual, international, inter-racial. (195) It may be easy to maintain both the primacy and the logical unity of one’s own culture at home, but in a foreign context (even in the seemingly powerful position of colonizer), contact with the Other disrupts the uncomplicated and homely unity of culture, making it uncanny and potentially threatening. This same feeling of the unheimlich occurs in the many forms of exchange occasioned by foreign travel: not only cross-cultural communication, but also economic exchange and, when the traveler is faced with new beliefs and customs, cultural exchange as well. The act of leaving home disrupts the hegemony of monolithic culture with the un-homely uncanniness of cultural difference. xii Indeed, James Clifford calls travel “an increasingly complex range of experiences: practices of crossing and interaction that [trouble] the localism of many common assumptions about culture” (3). The foreignness perceived by travel writers resists assimilation into the unitary language of monolithic cultural ideology. Whatever the traveler’s imagined or intended relationship to the differences encountered abroad, travel’s “translation” of the traveler’s body, language, and ideology turns the comforting certainty of the traveler’s own culture into something uncanny, uncomfortable, and uncertain. Many previous studies of travel literature have focused either on European travel, tracing the shift from Grand Tour to tourism, or on American imperialism and the travel to “uncivilized” parts of the globe that it has occasioned. Others have either examined how writers characterize particular locations (such as Italy, the Pacific, or the Levant), or have focused more generally on travel writing as a reflection of national identity. 4 In 4 Foundational studies of American travel writing include Cushing Strout’s The American Image of the Old World, Foster Rhea Dulles’s Americans Abroad: Two Centuries of European Travel, William W. Stowe’s Going Abroad: European Travel in Nineteenth- Century American Culture, Terry Caesar’s Forgiving the Boundaries: Home as Abroad in American Travel Writing, and Larzer Ziff’s Return Passages: Great American Travel Writing 1780-1910. Works that examine travel writing and American imperialism include Bruce A. Harvey’s American Geographics, Amy Kaplan’s The Anarchy of Empire in the Making of U.S. Culture, Christopher McBride’s The Colonizer Abroad, and Susan Castillo and David Seed’s collection, American Travel and Empire. Justin D. Edwards’s Exotic Journeys is one notable exception to the usual separation of European and non- European travel literature, as are the studies by Ziff and Caesar. Conversely, books that focus on a particular location are far more numerous. Helen Barolini, Leonardo Buonomo, Annamaria Formichella Elsden, and Nathalia Wright all examine travel to Italy. David Farrier, Paul Lyons (American), and Vanessa Smith study travel to the Pacific. Hilton Obenzinger and Brian Yothers (Romance) look at Americans in the Holy Land. Phyllis Cole examines England; Pere Gifra-Adroher, Spain; Osman Benchérif, Algiers; and Kim Fortuny, Istanbul. Studies of American travel writing that emphasize how travel writing consolidated national identity include those of Caesar (44), Harvey xiii contrast, because some kind of linguistic difference is a constant in all kinds of travel, the subject of language allows a broad examination of American travel to diverse parts of the world without effacing the differences of each kind of foreignness. In this way, my project will examine the inextricable relationship between a sense of self and the perception of both Western and non-Western otherness, connecting the differing attitudes Americans held toward what they perceived as “savage” and “civilized” cultures. Indeed, the constants of multilingualism and translation will demonstrate a convergence of Americans’ views of all kinds of foreignness later in the nineteenth century. A useful concept for examining a travel writer’s negotiation of self and other is Mary Louise Pratt’s idea of the “contact zone.” Pratt derives her idea of “contact” from the field of linguistics, likening the conflict and confusion of encountering radically different peoples to the “improvised” pidgin languages that develop in those situations, languages “commonly regarded as chaotic, barbarous, lacking in structure” (6). Despite this negative characterization, such pidgin languages often present the most viable compromise between too-easy translation and irreconcilable difference. They are a frank if imperfect mediation of linguistic, economic, and cultural systems that would otherwise prove incommensurable. By looking at specific moments of linguistic encounter as illustrative of broader issues of cultural and economic exchange, I will examine how self- identity is shaped through a dialectical relationship to otherness, and how a traveler’s sense of national identity varies with the foreign land to which he or she travels. (3), William Stowe (xi), Judith Hamera and Alfred Bendixen (1), Jeffrey Alan Melton (20), and Mark Simpson (xxvi). xiv In characterizing American views of the foreign, this project will trace three major attitudes toward cultural difference: colonialism/imperialism, nationalism, and cosmopolitanism. These terms, and the wide variety of views that might be gathered under them, all have specific if complex historical and geographical significances. While I will discuss many of these histories throughout the following chapters, the concepts are also useful for describing particular attitudes toward foreignness made apparent through the representation of language but falling outside of specific ideological movements. 5 The failure to recognize and respect the often incommensurable differences of the foreign is a hallmark of the West’s dark history of colonialism and imperialism. Although the United States grew increasingly imperialistic throughout the nineteenth century, Americans were rarely colonizers in the strictest sense. Nevertheless, the same chauvinistic attitudes toward cultural difference that underpin colonialism proper are often present in American accounts of “savage” difference. Paul Lyons calls such attitudes the “ignoring, disparaging, misappropriation of native knowledges, protocols, and basic definitions . . . the crude Orientalism in and through which colonialism grounds its claims and claims its grounds” (American 12). This same Orientalism can be found in the writings that document the United States’ expansion into the “uncivilized” world. 5 It would be unfair, however, to critique the oversimplified ideas of translation found in nineteenth-century travel writers without recognizing the difficulty of expressing the cultural difference that resists translation. Bhabha provides an indispensable description of the complexity, but also the potential power, of understanding cultural difference. While it is frequently clearest and most efficient to refer to a different “culture,” it is important to recognize Bhabha’s claim that “the meaning and symbols of culture have no primordial unity or fixity” (55). Cultural difference is often experienced as “the momentous, if momentary, extinction of the recognizable object of culture in the disturbed artifice of its signification, at the edge of experience” (179-80). Accordingly, the cultural difference that resists translation is what Melville might call an “ungraspable phantom,” a slippage of meaning that can be neither fixed nor contained. xv Indeed, as many critics have previously explored, travel writing plays a key role in consolidating the dichotomy between self and other on which the discourse of both colonialism and imperialism depends. 6 While I will most often use the terms “imperialist” or “expansionist” to describe such cultural chauvinism, these views often do not much differ from the attitudes of “colonialism” that postcolonial theory seeks to rewrite. Underpinning the Orientalism of American expansionist policies, as well as the attitudes of colonialism proper, is a dual, if paradoxical, desire to both emphasize difference and to efface it. Bhabha compares this duality to Freud’s description of the sexual fetish. For Bhabha, the encounter with cultural difference is like a Freudian child’s first apprehension of sexual difference; both experiences entail “a ‘play’ or vacillation between the archaic affirmation of wholeness/similarity . . . and the anxiety associated with lack and difference” (106-107). Racial stereotypes draw on the same drive to both assimilate and disavow the Other. David Spurr provides a similar description of the two contradictory attitudes of the “paradox of colonial discourse”: “the desire to efface difference and to gather the colonized into the fold of an all-embracing civilization” and “the desire to emphasize racial and cultural difference as a means of establishing superiority” (32). This description of the duality at the heart of racism (or Orientalism) is particularly illustrative of the moment of colonial encounter epitomized by Columbus, 6 For example, Gifra-Adroher, following Said, describes how “travel literature can contribute to discourse formation and the construction of the Other” (24). In the introduction to the collection Travel Writing, Form, and Empire, Paul Smethurst argues that “[t]ravel and travel writing, and the imaginative geographies they conjured, were crucial to the discursive formation of empire, especially by their insinuation and cementation of crude binaries such as the West/the Rest, attached to which were the clearly pejorative formulations of civilised/savage, scientific/superstitious, and so on” (1). xvi which is a central focus of the second chapter. The colonialist’s perplexing attempts to at once claim understanding of an unknown language and, at the same time, to deny that it is a language at all demonstrate the contradictory desires for both unity and dominance, and explains the typical recourse, in colonialist descriptions of unknown languages, to either an affirmation of pre-Babelian universality or the reduction of linguistic difference to animal noise. Imperialism’s lack of respect for the legitimacy and particularity of cultural difference is related to, but not necessary congruent with, a different kind of rejection of cultural difference—nationalism’s lack of interest in the foreign altogether. While colonialism and imperialism denigrate the Other for being “savage,” nationalism rejects difference for the sheer sake of being “not us.” My use of this term is further clarified by Pauline Kleingeld’s discussion of the shift from the “older tradition of republicanism,” in which “patriotism is the citizens’ commitment to or love for their shared political freedom and the institutions that sustain it,” to the nineteenth-century “nationalist manner” of viewing patriotism as “unconditional loyalty to one’s own national community (taken as a linguistic and/or cultural community)” (21-22). In its early form, American patriotism emphasized the political promise of the United States while still allowing that the more developed societies of Europe may be superior in other matters. In contrast, the later “nationalist” model of patriotism insisted on a preference for everything American, not just valuing the political promise of democracy, but preferring all of its cultural productions and, more significantly for the present study, maintaining the supremacy of American language. While Cooper’s attitudes toward his country follow the older, republican model of patriotism, later writers increasingly associated xvii nationalism with the preference for American language and culture, a trend that is epitomized by the travel writings of Twain. Throughout this project, I contrast the cultural chauvinism of both imperialism and nationalism with the acceptance or understanding of cultural difference that is often described as cosmopolitanism. 7 In her study of Kant’s idea of cosmopolitanism, Kleingeld describes what could be considered two aspects of the term, a practical attitude toward cultural difference and a political ideal. According to Kleingeld, Kant views Germans as “model cosmopolitans” because they “are hospitable toward foreigners, they easily recognize the merits of other peoples, they are modest in their dealings with others, and they readily learn foreign languages” (1). Kleingeld further defines Kant’s cosmopolitanism as “an attitude of recognition, respect, openness, interest, beneficence and concern toward other human individuals, cultures, and peoples as members of one global community” (1). It is not necessary to avow an articulated theory of cosmopolitanism to share this liberal attitude toward difference. Beyond this practical attitude of cosmopolitanism, Kant also subscribed to a political ideal, the goal of a universal “federation of states” (6). 8 As the authors examined in this study only rarely engage with the more theoretical and idealistic philosophy of cosmopolitanism, I use the 7 Thomas J. Schlereth defines cosmopolitanism as “an attitude of mind that attempted to transcend chauvinistic national loyalties or parochial prejudices in its intellectual interests and pursuits,” also characterized by “a readiness to borrow from other lands or civilizations in the formation of . . . intellectual, cultural, and artistic patterns” (xi). Steven Vertovec and Robin Cohen define cosmopolitanism as a “widening of consciousness and confrontation with alterity” (4). 8 Likewise, Robert Fine and Robin Cohen explain, “Kant argued that the idea of a cosmopolitan order required the institution of a league or federation of nations that would guarantee with its ‘united power’ the security and justice of even the smallest states as well as the basic rights of even the most downtrodden individuals” (140-41). xviii term, unless otherwise specified, to refer to a general attitude of openness to difference— whether on a truly global scale or only applied to a particular location of foreignness— rather than to the political objective. Yet, despite its apparent openness to cultural difference, some versions of cosmopolitanism tend to slip toward the colonialism or imperialism that such liberality might seem to counteract. As Craig Calhoun points out, the “European colonial projects” progressing concurrently with the Enlightenment “informed both the development of nationalism and that of cosmopolitanism,” and “[t]he cosmopolitan ideals of a global civil society can sound uncomfortably like those of the civilizing mission behind colonialism” (89, 92). The danger that lies behind many political theories of cosmopolitanism is most strongly demonstrated in the philosophy of Anacharsis Cloots, whose goal of “the abolition of all states and the establishment of a ‘Universal Republic’” required that oppressed peoples abroad be forced “into the world state” before they could “learn to recognize their true interests” (Kleingeld 6, 42). This is an important difference between Cloots’s aim of abolishing national boundaries and Kant’s ideal of a non- coercive federation of existing states (63-64). The acceptance of people of different cultures can likewise slip into a desire for all the world’s people to share a single culture and civilization. Because of this perpetual danger, it is not as oxymoronic as it might seem to use the term “cosmopolitan” as a description of open-mindedness toward Europe only. Indeed, it is exactly this shortsightedness of what a universal(ly Western) community might look like that causes cosmopolitanism to slip into imperialism. Few of the works examined in the following chapters address the question of universal governance directly—although Melville does reference Cloots in Moby-Dick (121), the xix idea of a universal republic in Redburn (169), and cosmopolitanism more broadly in The Confidence-Man, which is not examined here—but the tension between cosmopolitanism as an acceptance of difference and the drive for universal brotherhood that often effaces that difference will reoccur. By examining how nineteenth-century American travel writers position themselves, their culture, and their countries in relation to other parts of the world, the following chapters will examine the representation of foreign language in order to trace the shift from earlier attitudes of cosmopolitanism and imperialism to the end of the century’s overarching nationalism. Language in Nineteenth-Century America This project’s examination of foreign language and travel is part of a larger history of the study as well as the conceptualization of language in the United States. As Werner Sollors’s anthology Multilingual America demonstrates, North America has been the home of a vibrant and varied multilingualism since its first colonization, and indeed before. My focus, however, is on the acquisition of additional languages by native speakers of English. While most of the authors examined here will deal primarily if not exclusively with modern foreign languages, the history of language learning in America must begin with Latin and Greek. As Gerald Graff describes, classical languages were the mainstays of a college curriculum well into the nineteenth century (22). At lower levels of education, private schools designed to prepare young scholars for college followed this classical emphasis. 9 But the intensive focus on the classics did not accomplish its own 9 Siobhan Moroney, in “Latin, Greek and the American Schoolboy,” describes the divide between private schools, which taught Latin to boys whose well-off families expected them to attend college, and public schools, which focused on the English-language competency deemed more relevant to a practical profession (305-306). Likewise, L. xx aim, and “few students came out of it actually able to read Greek or Latin” (Graff 33). As evidenced by the shortcomings of classical education, formal schooling’s characteristic failure to instill any kind of real fluency is one reason Transnational Translation will focus on languages acquired either by private study or by immersion abroad. In his Autobiography, Benjamin Franklin critiques the traditional pedagogical preference for classical languages: We are told that it is proper to begin first with the Latin, and having acquir’d that it will be more easy to attain those modern Languages which are deriv’d from it . . . . It is true, that if you can clamber & get to the Top of a Stair-Case without using the Steps, you will more easily gain them in descending: but certainly if you begin with the lowest you will with more Ease ascend to the Top. . . . [And if students] should quit the study of Languages, & never arrive at the Latin, they would however have aquir’d another Tongue or two that being in modern Use might be serviceable to them in common Life. (97) Despite both the aptness of Franklin’s metaphor and the practicality of his priorities, such dissent from the traditional philosophy of formal schooling and higher education had little effect on educational policy. Calls for reform of higher education’s almost exclusive focus on Greek and Latin grammar were silenced by the 1828 Yale Report, which “reasserted the primacy of the classics in instilling ‘mental discipline’” (Graff 22). As Graff points out, secondary subjects such as modern languages “were frequently offered in the last two years [of college], but usually only as electives for which most students, preoccupied as they were with classical requirements, had little time” (22). In his study of Clark Keating explains that, while Eastern preparatory schools tended to imitate the colleges in language as in other aspects of the curriculum, “high schools took to languages slowly” and “the normal schools, agricultural and mechanical colleges, as well as the engineering schools, tended to affirm . . . that there were few reasons for offering their students an opportunity to study foreign languages” (37). See also Garrett E. Rickard’s “Establishment of Graded Schools in American Cities: I. The English Grammar School.” xxi college literary and debating societies in the nineteenth century, Thomas S. Harding mentions several examples of college societies and society libraries that emphasized foreign language works, but many were devoted to political or philosophical debates or to literature written in English (69-75). In general, it appears that such societies may have offered one avenue for the study of foreign language, but the subject was not widely pursued. Thus, with the intensity and difficulty of a classical education, foreign language and literature played only a small role in the life of a college student. As the century progressed, modern-language courses became increasingly prominent in higher education (Keating 37). Charles Hart Handschin’s The Teaching of Modern Languages in the United States provides a detailed history of the gradual growth of foreign language instruction. He names Amherst as “the first institution of learning in America to introduce a thoroughgoing modern language course, instruction in French and German there dating from 1824, and in Spanish from 1827” (17). French was taught at Harvard as early as 1735, although it did not become “a regular branch of instruction” until 1780 (21). Spanish was taught at the university level as early as 1780, and Spanish instruction became more frequent (along with Italian) in the 1820s and 30s (84-85). German instruction was given at both the University of Virginia and Harvard in 1825 (35). Despite these apparent gains, calls for educational reform at the beginning of the twentieth century suggest that the same grammatical emphasis that failed with the classics was equally ineffective for teaching modern languages. For example, in a 1916 book advocating “the direct method” of college language instruction, Carl A. Krause entreats the reader, “If you look back upon your own personal experience as students of xxii modern languages both in school and at college, you will realize that many students failed almost utterly to gain any mastery of the foreign language they were pursuing” (66). Indeed, college language requirements have been chronically unsuccessful at imparting any real competence in a second language, let alone fluency. Accordingly, colleges’ increased emphasis on modern languages near the end of the century suggests, more than anything else, that learning such languages had become as specialized and academic as studying Latin or Greek. Accordingly, I do not spend much time on foreign language instruction as part of a college curriculum, where it is isolated from spoken language and thus required, memorized by rote, and forgotten—a characterization of college language requirements that has remained strikingly consistent from Royall Tyler’s lampooning of his classical education to comedian Father Guido Sarducci’s “Five Minute University,” in which two years of college Spanish, after five years of forgetting, will yield only “Como está usted. Muy bien.” Yet the small role modern languages played in higher education does not mean that they were not learned at all. Graff explains that modern languages were not widely studied on an academic level because they “were considered mere social accomplishments” (37). Despite his deprecatory language, the importance such an accomplishment held for the country’s literary, political, and social elite must not be underestimated. In many cases, language instruction was imparted by private tutors. For example, Robert Francis Seybolt cites several advertisements for Spanish, French, and Italian instructors in colonial New York City (275-78). Modern languages were also parts xxiii of the curriculum at the secondary level, particularly at private academies. 10 Citing learned examples such as George Ticknor, Henry Longfellow, and James Russell Lowell, L. Clark Keating explains, “The second language, or even the third one, when acquired, was seen as a pleasant adjunct to an upper-class education, and its presence . . . found an adequate basis in purely aesthetic and intellectual considerations” (37). When James Fenimore Cooper studied European languages in the early nineteenth century, it was precisely in this context. Accordingly, by emphasizing the connection between foreign language learning and travel, this study will focus on foreign language acquired willingly as a mark of erudition or a vehicle for cross-cultural communication, not foreign language instruction when it is only an empty curricular requirement. Not unrelated to the history of linguistic instruction in America is the question of how American authors conceptualized language and the act of translation. A large part of this story will be fleshed out in the following chapters, but an overview of language theories not directly related to travel is useful here. In Transcendental Wordplay, Michael West gives a particularly valuable account of the theories of language most influential in nineteenth-century America. One central question for the European philosophers of language was the extent to which language was a natural expression of reality. John Locke, whose theories of language were perhaps the best known, remained somewhat 10 From the eighteenth century, French was taught in private academies and boarding schools (Handschin 13-14). Beginning in the mid-nineteenth century, French instruction became increasingly common at the high-school level (26). German was not as common as French, but played a major role in Moravian schools in Pennsylvania (51). Spanish appears to have been less commonly taught than French or German, but Handschin notes several institutions teaching the language in the mid-nineteenth century (83-84). xxiv ambivalent about the connection between words and things, but Étienne Bonnot de Condillac “postulated an innate language of gesture and facial expression,” a common, biological origin for all human communication (M. West 28-29). Charles de Brosses stressed the “‘basis of universal language’” even further, arguing that “the essence of all language is onomatopoetic imitation” (M. West 32). Thus, De Brosses posited not only that all human languages are related, but that they share an inherent connection to the reality they describe. While such philosophers often failed to find convincing evidence of these universal origins in European languages, they suggested that more “primitive” languages were closer to the shared and natural origin of speech and therefore would be inherently understandable. In the nineteenth century, the influential rhetorician Hugh Blair likewise asserted that, “however barren intellectually, primitive language was preeminently natural and poetical” (M. West 46). This romanticized view of “savage” language as natural and transparent informs many texts of colonialism and imperialism, but, as the following chapters will demonstrate, writers such as Cooper and, even more so, Melville will begin to question the inherent universality of “primitive” speech. These eighteenth-century theories of language also influenced the Transcendentalists. One of the most famous Transcendental theories of language appears in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Nature (1836). In that early tract, Emerson posits an inherent connection between words and “natural facts” (48), thus following earlier views that locate the origin of language in onomatopoetic imitation. Michael West, however, argues that Emerson later modified the extreme philosophy presented in Nature, finding speech to be “active, temporal, transitive, bipolar, and creative” rather than confined to natural representations (273). As West describes it, this shift served to emphasize the potential xxv for creativity within a single language, but Emerson’s later position still falls short of cultural relativity. While Emerson recognizes the poet’s creative power to shape language, his philosophy remains underpinned by an idealism that sees universal truths across all languages and cultures. This universalism is quite apparent in the essay “Books” from Society and Solitude (1870). There, Emerson asserts, “I do not hesitate to read . . . all good books, in translations. What is really best in any book is translatable,— any real insight or broad human sentiment” (182). Emerson thus overlooks and devalues any culturally specific content that translation might erase. Indeed, it is not this difference but only “broad human sentiment” that interests him. He further underestimates the creative work of the translator by comparing the act of translation to technology, writing that one series of translations “have done for literature what railroads have done for internal intercourse” and that he “should as soon think of swimming across Charles River when [he wishes] to go to Boston, as of reading all [his] books in originals” (182). Emerson imagines that the act of translation is just as efficient and mechanical as any human innovation. Once again taking for granted the universality of human experience and the unproblematic correspondence between language and reality, Emerson overlooks what is really lost through translation’s expediency. 11 When Melville uses the traveler’s 11 Similarly, in his reading of Walter Benjamin, Derrida connects the belief in translation to religious certainty: “Translation, the desire for translation, is not thinkable without this correspondence with a thought of God. In the text of 1916, which already accorded the task of the translator, his Aufgabe, with the response made to the gift of tongues and the gift of names . . . , Benjamin named God at this point, that of a correspondence between the languages engaged in translation. In this narrow context, there was also the matter of the relations between language of things and language of men, between the silent and the speaking, the anonymous and the nameable, but the axiom held, no doubt, for all translation: ‘the objectivity of this translation is guaranteed in God’” (182). Perfect translation is only possible if all human languages are derived from a single divine root, and if the names man assigns to nature are firmly affixed. xxvi encounter with foreign language to highlight the inherent difference of other cultures, his work clearly counteracts such idealistic philosophies of translation and universality, as well as the chauvinistic attitudes toward foreign differences they can so easily support. This interplay between universalism and cultural difference will be a persistent subject throughout Transnational Translation. American Cosmopolitanism in the Early Republic The texts examined in the following chapters also draw on a longer history of travel and of American attitudes toward the foreign. During the American Revolution, Benjamin Franklin was the figurehead of American cosmopolitanism. 12 Franklin’s views were cosmopolitan in both the political and the more general senses, as Thomas Schlereth demonstrates. In terms of “international law,” Franklin believed in the “protection of neutral and noncombatant rights and the idea of arbitration of international disputes,” but he also wished “to make himself as well as his fellow provincials ‘as intelligent as most Gentlemen from Other countries’” (Schlereth 121, 128). Thus Franklin not only believed in the international cooperation of states, but he was also cosmopolitan in his desire to elevate America to the cultural level of Europe. Far from the willful ignorance of foreign manners that Twain would flaunt at the end of the nineteenth-century, Franklin’s cosmopolitan outlook ensured his diplomatic success in France during the American Revolution. However, like Cooper, Franklin also balanced the worldliness necessary to 12 In his examination of the cosmopolitanism of another American writer from the period, J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, Edward Larkin also lists Franklin, Thomas Paine (who will be discussed below), and Thomas Jefferson as major cosmopolites of the American Revolution (53). Larkin further describes two primary ideas of eighteenth-century cosmopolitanism: “sympathy and commerce” (53). Both versions of involvement with foreign peoples will play a major role in the following chapters. xxvii achieve his diplomatic goals with a sense of distinctly American identity and a passionate current of patriotism. 13 In France, Franklin emphasized his Americanness while still endearing himself to the French nobility. Thus, at the end of the eighteenth century, Franklin demonstrated a political, philosophical, and cultural cosmopolitanism that was not incompatible with American patriotism. Franklin’s residence in France during the Revolution established one model for Americans abroad, but public opinion about the country’s international relations shifted radically in the following decades. The career of Tomas Paine, a second quintessentially cosmopolitan figure, illustrates this shift. Paine’s political beliefs encompassed what Thomas C. Walker calls “the most enduring strands of cosmopolitan thought in international relations: democratic governance, free trade, high degrees of interdependence, nonprovocative defense policies, a recognition that conquest cannot be profitable, and a universal respect for human rights” (52). Further, as Philipp Ziesche argues, Paine’s popularity in America and then France demonstrates the centrality of “cosmopolitan universalism” in both countries’ revolutions (3). However, public views of Paine, positive during the American Revolution but growing increasingly negative due to his support of the alarmingly radical and violent French Revolution, map a corresponding shift in public opinion as the initial cosmopolitanism of both American and French revolutionaries gave way to an increasing sense of nationalism (Schlereth 133; Ziesche 108). Yet, despite the backlash against Enlightenment cosmopolitanism at the turn of the 13 This duality in Franklin’s attitudes is one subject of Jonathan Dull’s article on Franklin’s diplomacy. Dull argues that “[b]eneath Franklin’s cosmopolitanism and charm lay the heart of a zealous patriot as uncompromising as Samuel Adams,” but Dull also emphasizes Franklin’s “public image, that of a simple Quaker in a fur cap” (349). xxviii nineteenth century, Ziesche also describes “a resilient tradition of revolutionary cosmopolitanism” that lasted through the general shift to nationalism, particularly for the private American citizens residing in France who continued to practice the “public diplomacy” of letters and pamphlets first mastered by Franklin, at least until such activities were outlawed by congress in 1799 (Ziesche 166, 116-33). Thus, although the widespread feelings of cosmopolitanism first epitomized by Franklin and his fellow revolutionaries decreased during the French Revolution and the ensuing wars, support of American participation in international politics and culture continued into Cooper’s day. The shifting values of cosmopolitanism and nationalism were also evident in debates over American language. In accordance with his other cosmopolitan attitudes, Franklin was quite interested in the possibility of “a universal language for use among the philosophes” (Schlereth 43). While he “especially welcomed French as the cosmopolite’s international language,” he also taught himself Spanish, Italian, German, and Latin (4). Franklin clearly valued communication across different nations and cultures, finding worth in the thoughts of those who speak foreign languages, at least European ones. But this cosmopolitan view of foreign language did not remain unchallenged. In sharp contrast to Franklin’s desire for international communication, the various proposals for a new American language sought to further separate the newly independent country from England. 14 The suggested candidates for an American language ranged from Noah 14 As Cushing Strout puts it, “Noah Webster . . . made an appeal for a national tongue because for America to adopt Old World standards would be to betray the bloom of youth” (16). One of the most extended treatments of language in early America is David Simpson’s The Politics of American English, 1776-1850, which demonstrates that the issue of language was one of “weighty cultural, political, and economic importance” (7). Thomas Gustafson’s Representative Words, Christopher Looby’s Voicing America, and Jay Fliegelman’s Declaring Independence also examine language in the Early Republic. xxix Webster’s drastic respelling of English, to ancient languages such as Hebrew or Greek, and even, in some accounts, to Algonquin (M. West 1-2; Shell, “Babel” 6). Often, such proposals were another manifestation of growing American nationalism. For example, one reason Noah Webster wanted drastic spelling reforms was to protect American printers, who would benefit from the business of “translating” all British books into the new American orthography (D. Simpson, Politics 53). Thus, not only would such plans distinguish the United States from England, but they would place a stronger linguistic barrier between American writers and the international community of thinkers. Nevertheless, some proposals for an American language were not so clearly uncosmopolitan. In 1829, James Ruggles submitted to congress a plan for a “universal language” that would solve the dual problems of “the inconvenience of a diversity of tongues and dialects, which obstruct a free intercourse of thought between persons of different countries,” and the fact that “the languages of all nations are more or less imperfect and incorrect” (Ruggles v). Accordingly, Ruggles devised “a philosophical language, more correct and simple than any one in use, . . . carrying with it to all nations, an inducement, arising from its intrinsic merit and ease of acquisition, which should lead to its universal adoption” (vi). Ruggles hoped that, if the United States adopted his language, other nations would follow suit—thus reversing the fragmentation and confusion caused by the curse of Babel. Michael West calls James Ruggles’s submission for a new American language “the first mixed universal language” of the ilk of Esperanto (3). Unfortunately for the cosmopolitan aim of universal understanding, his scheme—in which the phrase “They are in excellent health” would translate to “Konpis salzdxrp bonzmxn” (Ruggles 152)—was never adopted. Nevertheless, as examples like Ruggles xxx demonstrate, the debates over American language were yet another arena in which the battle between Americans’ participation in a cosmopolitan community and the calls for a narrower sense of nationalism was fought out. The complex balance between cosmopolitanism and nationalism during the early republic, as well as the relation of such principles to the representation of foreign language, are best illustrated by one popular writer of the period, Royall Tyler. Tyler’s most famous work, his play The Contrast, places the proper but unadorned speech of the hero Colonel Manly above both the amusing Yankeeisms of the bumpkin Jonathan and the affected and foreign-phrase-dropping speech of both the foppish Dimple and his pretentious servant Jessamy. The play thus aims to help early American audiences find a balance between utter provincialism and slavish attention to European conventions. Tyler is also a useful figure for bridging the gap between the Enlightenment ideal of cosmopolitanism espoused by Franklin and the modified combination of cosmopolitanism and nationalism that characterized the United States in the early decades of the nineteenth century. On one hand, Tyler demonstrates the desire for universal language and understanding that characterized Enlightenment cosmopolitanism. At the same time, he models the combination of cosmopolitanism and patriotism that will characterize Cooper’s writings several decades later. Although they are not as frequently read or anthologized as The Contrast, Tyler’s two fictional travel narratives, The Algerine Captive (1797) and The Yankey in London xxxi (1809), offer a valuable introduction to the works examined in the following chapters. 15 In The Algerine Captive, Tyler mocks the pretention of a classical education when used merely to impress a boorish and ignorant public, but the protagonist Updike Underhill’s experiences in captivity demonstrate that such a broad linguistic education can be useful to a world citizen. The brunt of the satire, then, is directed not at the classical pretentions of Underhill but at his countrymen’s provincial failure to appreciate advanced learning. The first half of Tyler’s bifurcated novel describes Underhill’s youth and early career in America. A local minister, who is more impressed by the loud volume of the boy’s recitation than its content, convinces Underhill’s parents to educate their son for college. Although the next four years find the youth “labouring incessantly at Greek and Latin,” he neglects the study of English grammar because, as Underhill reports, “my preceptor, knowing nothing of it himself, could communicate nothing to me” (25). Tyler suggests that, whatever benefits a classical education might provide, it should not be prioritized above speaking proper English. When the time comes for Underhill to attend college, however, his father is shocked to learn that his son’s Greek is only useful for obtaining additional unpractical education, and that “all that is useful in [Greek books] 15 The Algerine Captive is not often examined in detail, but several have rightly praised it as an early anti-slavery novel (see Benchérif 46; Blum, View 55). It is also mentioned as an early example of sea fiction, although most note that the maritime scenes are not treated with any significant amount of descriptive detail (see Clohessy; Wharton 56; T. Philbrick, James 31). Cathy N. Davidson reads the novel as an example of the picaresque genre in early American literature, and her description of the picaresque’s ability to “leap from one construction of reality to its inverse” is particularly helpful in unraveling the varied and seemingly contradictory references to language throughout the novel (242). Cooper praises The Algerine Captive in a 1822 review of A New-England Tale, calling it “Mr. Tyler’s forgotten, and we fear, lost narrative,” and he advises, “Any future collector of our national tales, would do well to snatch [it] from oblivion, and to give [it] that place among the memorials of other days, which is due to the early and authentic historians of a country” (“Art. V.” 336-37). xxxii . . . is already translated into English; and more of the sense and spirit may be imbibed, from translations, than most scholars would be able to extract, from the originals” (28). Although Underhill is initially “left . . . proud of [his] Greek,” he laments, “[t]he little advantage, this deceased language has since been to me” and he “regret[s] the mispense [sic] of time, in acquiring it” (29). The problem with learning Greek appears to be one of economy: it may be an impressive accomplishment, but a young American could better employ his time either perfecting his English grammar or performing useful labor on his father’s farm. While these early scenes might suggest that Tyler privileges parochial practicality over a more cosmopolitan involvement in international intellectual circles, later scenes prove Underhill’s education to be more useful than it first appeared. While Underhill’s pretentious Greek recitations are a liability in courtship and other social relations—one lady calls him “papish” after mistaking his Greek for French, and another is insulted when he compares her to “the ox eyed Juno” (33,46)—his languages are an asset in the study of medicine. Not only is Greek “some service to [him], in now and then finding the root of the labels cyphered on [their] gallipots,” but one practicing physician impresses and recruits his patients by quoting random phrases from Latin grammars (54, 68-69). This latter application may seem the most egregious misuse of classical learning, but unlike Underhill’s earlier pub recitations, it proves beneficial to all involved. Underhill had found no demand for his medical expertise in a town overpopulated by quacks, but his supposed apprenticeship to the Latin-quoting “learned doctor” allows the pair to administer sound treatments to willing patients. It even gives Underhill the opportunity to teach his “master” real medicine. xxxiii In the second half of Tyler’s novel, Underhill uses his skill with languages and his medical training to improve his position in Algiers, contrasting the spurious and pretentious learning of the first half to the real cosmopolitanism necessary for Underhill’s survival in captivity. When he leaves the hard labor of the Christian slaves for the luxury of the college, where the Mollah tries to convert him to Islam, the two converse in Latin (138). His Latin is further useful in learning the “Lingua Franca” of Algiers, which “contain[s] many Latin derivatives” (137). Underhill is initially critical of this pidgin mixture “of the shreds and clippings of all the tongues, dead and living, ever spoken since the creation” (137), but a continued inability to speak to his captors would have made life more difficult and his eventual escape less likely. In the end, just as Underhill’s prior linguistic knowledge helps him to adapt to the international community in Algiers, the experience of his captivity further expands his worldliness. 16 As Cathy N. Davidson argues, “For Underhill, to travel is to see different things, but, more important, to sojourn for six years in Algiers is to see things differently” (302). Thus, Tyler sets a precedent for Cooper in his complex assessment of the value of advanced education. While American 16 It is interesting to observe, however, that much of the use Underhill obtains from his classical education comes from his Latin, which is historically an international language of learning, rather than from his Greek, which is more truly a dead language. A parallel to this distinction can be seen in Cooper’s biography. When he first enrolled at Yale, the young Cooper had no trouble with Latin but continued to struggle with Greek after barely gleaning enough of that language from a private tutor to pass the entrance requirements (W. Franklin, Early Years 47). In The Pilot, Cooper might have been thinking of his own early expulsion from Yale, as well as his difficulty with Greek, when Barnstable proclaims: “Grif is a seaman; though I have heard him even read the testament in Greek! Thank God, I had the wisdom to run away from school the second day they undertook to teach me a strange tongue, and I believe I am the more honest man, and the better seaman, for my ignorance!” (322). Despite Barnstable’s skepticism of the value of a classical education, Griffith’s more measured decisions throughout The Pilot demonstrate, as Underhill discovers in Algiers, that there can be great benefits to such linguistic knowledge. xxxiv society does not require the high level of education that the spurious doctors feign, it is equally foolish to repudiate learning altogether, thereby cutting off all possibilities of meaningful intercourse with the world. Deciding what education to pursue may warrant attention to the practical realities of American life, but it should not use practicality as an excuse for provinciality. Tyler’s admiration for classical languages is even more apparent in his second fictitious travelogue, The Yankey in London, consisting of letters “Written by an American Youth, During Nine Month’s Residence in the City of London” on various aspects of English politics, life, and culture. When asked for his “opinion of the English language, taken in comparison with the various languages of Europe,” the American suggests using classical languages as a benchmark (171-73). He asserts that one can judge a modern language’s quality by seeing how well a sentiment expressed in Greek or Latin can be translated into that language. For Tyler, the ideas of Homer are perfectly expressed in Greek, and English can prove its quality by conveying those same ideas. Thus, Tyler esteems classical languages for their closeness to an ideal of universal language that might transcend national bias and cultural specificity. By holding perfect translatability as a paragon of linguistic virtue, Tyler reveals a cosmopolitan desire for communication between all peoples and the same linguistic idealism later espoused by Transcendentalism. As the example of Anacharsis Cloots demonstrates, however, this assumption of universality has a tendency to slip into both cultural and political imperialism. Tyler also critiques the charge that American language is provincial. He begins the letter on “Bite—bamboozle—all the rage—quiz—quizzical—bore—horrid bore—I xxxv owe you one—that’s a good one,” by criticizing what he calls “cant words, or quaint expressions” (101). Tyler’s complaint is the same timeless railing of the stickler that can be seen in Cooper’s The American Democrat (see Chapter One), in Twain’s famous lampooning of Cooper, and in the lessons of curmudgeonly English teachers everywhere. Things become more interesting however, when the letter writer recounts a discussion with an English friend. The American does not notice his own “repeated use” of the “verb guess” until the Englishman calls his attention to “this provincialism, as he styled it” (105). The American counters by pointing out that his friend’s use of “clever” or “clever fellow” is just as deviant from “modern English fine writing” (106). When the two decide to work together to rid themselves of such vulgar speech patterns, the expressions are no longer called “provincialisms” but “colloquialisms,” with their geographical and political implications removed (106). While the Englishman was quick to blame the American’s sub-standard word choice on his country’s provincialism, Tyler makes it clear that such linguistic faults can be found on both sides of the Atlantic. By applying the tolerance of cultural and linguistic difference that is the hallmark of cosmopolitanism onto the United States, Tyler highlights linguistic variety in order to collapse the hierarchy between the language of the provinces and of the metropole. Overall, in these letters, Tyler espouses a perspective of linguistic relativism. When he admits that an inherent bias toward one’s native tongue prevents a fair comparison between languages, his attitude is far from provincial. In contrast to the unreflecting nationalism that will become common at the end of the nineteenth century, Tyler recognizes that most linguistic judgments will be biased because the “language in which [one] can most readily convey his ideas, he will be prone to consider the best” xxxvi (172). Similarly, Tyler does not advocate a permanent idea of pure English, but acknowledges that all languages change over time, transitioning through “the incoherency and simplicity of youth, the vigour of manhood, and the decline and decrepitude of old age” (175). The American gives his opinion on the state of the English language, but admits he may be mistaken because “a nation can never judge of its own decline in language” (178). Alfred Bendixen has read Tyler’s fictitious travelogue as a work of chauvinistic nationalism (104), but this linguistic relativity indicates a greater degree of cosmopolitanism than Bendixen recognizes. Indeed, Caleb Crain also calls Tyler “a cosmopolitan who composed poems in the style of the Persian poet and mystic Hafez (whose name means ‘one who has memorized the Koran’)” (xxxii). Although he is deeply invested in giving his characters a particularly American identity, Tyler models the openness to foreign language and thought that will become increasingly absent from travel literature during the nineteenth century. Foreign Language Encounters in the Nineteenth Century The three major figures in this study—James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville, and Mark Twain—all confront the reality of foreign language and translation in their descriptions of travel to both the “civilized” world of Europe and the “savage” lands of the Southern and Eastern hemispheres. Tracing the representation of foreign language and the assessment of translatability in accounts of travel to both types of countries reveals these writers’ attitudes toward “otherness” and toward the possibility of bridging cultural differences. Whether a work encourages a cosmopolitan appreciation of foreign culture, or supports a nationalistic preference for only one’s own language and culture, the representation of linguistic difference raises deeper issues of economic and cultural xxxvii incommensurability and demonstrates how American writers conceive of and portray the United States’ place in the world. Cooper balances cosmopolitanism and patriotism by valuing national differences and the differences between languages. Melville extends Cooper’s linguistic cosmopolitanism to Western and non-Western languages alike, critiquing the views of “savage” language found in imperialist discourse. At the end of the century, however, Twain’s travel writings will suggest, not entirely in jest, that any communication outside of American English is ridiculous. This trajectory is elaborated in the five chapters that follow. The first chapter examines Cooper’s writings about travel to Europe, tracing his fusion of patriotism and cosmopolitanism from the representation of the Revolutionary War in The Pilot, through his own travels to Europe as documented in the five travelogues that constitute Gleanings in Europe, and concluding with a novel written after his return, Homeward Bound. Throughout these texts, it becomes clear that Cooper’s travel continues an older model of extended residence in European society and that it espouses a cosmopolitan resistance to translation. Cooper includes numerous passages of untranslated European language in his travel writing, thereby imagining and promoting a cosmopolitan readership with extensive linguistic education and appreciation for European culture. Although he does not dream of a universal language as did Tyler and the cosmopolites of the Enlightenment, Cooper seeks to counteract America’s perceived provincialism by speaking the languages of Europe, and he sees value in the distinct traits of each language—the inherent differences that resist translation. Cooper is also the central author in the second chapter, but here the focus shifts away from Europe. Scenes from Afloat and Ashore and Homeward Bound demonstrate xxxviii Cooper’s engagement with the imperialist representation of native languages in texts ranging from the discovery of Columbus through the United States Exploring Expedition of 1838-1842. Cooper’s works demonstrate the imperialist’s paradoxical desire to both emphasize difference and to efface it, to view “savage” language as both utterly incomprehensible and easily translatable. Cooper further explores this paradox in his own retelling of the Columbus story, Mercedes of Castile. Both this underappreciated novel and another later work, The Crater, also raise the issue of economic incommensurability, which proves to be yet another kind of cultural difference that resists translation. Cooper’s final assessment of American expansionism remains somewhat ambivalent, but the themes first introduced in his later works provide an invaluable framework for the examination of Melville in the following chapter. The third chapter builds on the historical and theoretical groundwork laid in Chapter Two by examining the representation of non-European languages in the works of Melville. It traces his developing theory of language and translation beginning in Typee; continuing through Omoo, Mardi, and parts of Moby-Dick; and concluding with Melville’s most pointed critique of translation in “Benito Cereno.” Inspired by his own experiences of linguistic encounter, Melville begins his literary career by portraying the complexities of cross-cultural communication with a level of nuance and sensitivity that is new to the tradition of colonial and imperialist texts he both critiques and builds upon. By paying increasing attention to the difficulties of translation and to the nature of language, Melville develops a theory of the inherent incommensurability of different languages and cultures, a theory that counters the universalizing tendencies not only of idealist views of natural language but also of imperialism’s will-to-power. xxxix Taking a slight step back in the chronology, the fourth chapter returns to European travel, picking up where the first chapter left off. By examining the more conventional travel writings of Bayard Taylor (Views A-Foot), Margaret Fuller (Tribune dispatches), and Harriet Beecher Stowe (Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands), it traces the gradual change from the extended residence epitomized by Cooper to the tourism boom after the Civil War. Increasingly, American travelers became less interested in learning foreign languages, and less interested in the real content of foreign culture, preferring instead the cultural capital acquired from the act of merely having been to or having seen the conventional stops of the tourist’s itinerary. This chapter also explores Melville’s engagement with these changes in American travel, examining the maritime alternative to tourism presented in Redburn as well as the eventual acquiescence to both tourism and translation evident in Clarel. Finally, the changes examined in Chapter Four culminate in the tourist age of the late nineteenth century, and in the archetypal American abroad found in the travel writings of Mark Twain. Twain’s two European travel narratives, Innocents Abroad and A Tramp Abroad, present a burlesque account of cross-cultural communication, lampooning Americans pretentious enough to flaunt their knowledge of European languages, and ultimately suggesting that such linguistic knowledge is both elusive and useless. While Samuel Clemens, the man behind the persona, may become increasingly cosmopolitan in the later decades of his life, Twain’s continuing jokes about the folly of translation fortify the United States’ intensifying attitudes of linguistic and cultural nationalism. The study concludes with an examination of Henry James’s The American, which, along with the examination of Following the Equator in Chapter Five, xl demonstrates that the once distinct representations of European and non-European languages converge by the end of the century, with the result that all linguistic difference is viewed with the imperialist’s combination of avoidance and disavowal. By examining the complex interplay of linguistic, cultural, and economic exchange in American travel to disparate parts of the globe with equally varied purposes, this study reveals a nineteenth-century version of what is often taken as a postmodern state of global exchange, what Bhabha describes as the “circulations of signs and commodities [that] are caught in the vicious circuits of surplus value that link First World capital to Third World labour markets” (30). In the nineteenth century, American travelers faced a similarly complex array of circulating signs and commodities, and one index of how they conceptualized these varied moments and modes of exchange is their representation of the translatability of linguistic difference. The “transnational turn” in American literary studies has uncovered countless examples of underappreciated authors writing from locations and in languages only newly included under the umbrella of “American literature.” This study offers a complementary vision of American transnationalism, finding in three of the most canonical American novelists an account of American identity that crosses the boundaries of both language and place. 1 CHAPTER 1 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER’S LINGUISTIC COSMOPOLITANISM The end of the Napoleonic Wars marked a resurgence in transatlantic travel. Gone were both the xenophobic nationalism inspired by the French Revolution and the military danger caused by the War of 1812. Americans began once again to revisit their cultural roots by traveling to the Old World. 1 This period also gave rise to one of the first major American novelists, and the first major figure in this study, James Fenimore Cooper. Cooper builds upon the cosmopolitan tradition of the American Revolution in many of his transatlantic works, and issues of language and translation are pervasive throughout his extensive writings. An overwhelming majority of the scholarship on Cooper has focused on the Leatherstocking Tales. One subset of this trend examines Cooper’s presentation of Native American speech supposedly “translated” into English, an admittedly interesting facet of Cooper’s engagement with language. But the emphasis on American settings also has given the misleading impression that Cooper was most, if not solely, interested in the themes of American exceptionalism and the frontier. 2 Moreover, in contrast to Cooper’s cosmopolitan engagement with foreign languages abroad, his treatment of Native 1 See Foster Rhea Dulles’s Americans Abroad for a detailed history of nineteenth-century American travel. 2 Luis Iglesias makes a similar distinction between Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales and his sea novels. He explains, “The maritime setting gives Copper [sic] license to explore new strategies for presenting American materials, open to a world of languages, customs, and encounters distinct from the epic western expansion with which the Leatherstocking novels are so persistently identified.” 2 American language tends toward the stereotypical. 3 Previous critics have rightly demonstrated Cooper’s attention to linguistic difference, but their limited focus has overemphasized his interest in the act of translation. 4 As the following argument will reveal, Cooper’s numerous works with foreign settings contain a different treatment of multilingualism. Shifting the focus away from the Leatherstocking Tales reveals that their author had a far more international outlook. Indeed, like his cosmopolitan predecessors, Cooper balanced pride in his American identity with an appreciation for foreign languages and cultures. This cosmopolitan attitude is revealed by the representation of European 3 Michael West, for example, explains how Cooper’s depiction of Native American language is stereotypically full of gesture and physical metaphors, and how Cooper thereby “insist[s] on the physicality of Indian languages” and invites “readers to imagine a primitive consciousness that had somehow avoided the Cartesian split between mind and body, word and world” (297-98). Eric Cheyfitz is even more critical of Cooper’s presentation of Native American languages as languages of metaphor, arguing that the author views “civilization as that state which distinguishes between the literal and the metaphoric” (“Literally” 79). 4 Colleen Glenney Boggs includes a reading of The Last of the Mohicans in her study of the theme of translation in nineteenth-century American literature. She argues that Cooper “theoriz[es] moments when translation fails or succeeds only partially,” thereby recognizing the “alterity that remains beyond the discursive reading of translation” (63). Cheyfitz reads acts of translation in The Pioneers as representative of the violence done to Native Americans by whites (“Literally” 75). Lawrence Alan Rosenwald calls attention to “Cooper’s scenes of magical translation,” in which statements in unknown languages are somehow easily understood (30). Michael Kowalewski notes in his reading of The Deerslayer that, whatever Cooper may have hoped to achieve with his “translated” scenes, they leave Cooper open to the “embarrassment” of his work’s obvious artificiality (73). Michael West comes closest to the conclusions that I will draw from the less- examined portion of Cooper’s works when he argues, “The Leatherstocking Tales are permeated with the conviction that verbal expression is radically ambiguous. The mute grandeur of Cooper’s wilderness is always menaced by a babel of languages, by diverse dialects and idiolects competing for center stage. Each undermines the others’ claims to represent the world truly” (297). Other readings of language and translation in Cooper include those of Stephen Blakemore (“Language” and “Strange”), Jeffrey Hotz (Divergent), and Andrew Newman. 3 language in The Pilot, Gleanings in Europe, and Homeward Bound. In these transatlantic encounters, Cooper does not pretend to translate foreign languages but rather avoids the act of translation whenever possible. He praises the figure of the cosmopolitan traveler who can speak and understand the languages of other countries and emphasizes the sophisticated perspective such a traveler gains by confronting the alterity that translation would have obscured. 5 The Meaning of “English” in The Pilot As examined in the Introduction, the American Revolution was a catalyst for a number of important changes in American attitudes toward foreign language: it fostered the cosmopolitanism of social contract theorists and foreign diplomats such as Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, and Benjamin Franklin; encouraged a greater emphasis on French language and culture; and incited a series of debates over the desirability of distinguishing the young republic from England in its language as well as its government and culture. Although the purer cosmopolitanism of the Enlightenment began to give way to a growing sense of nationalism in the early decades of the nineteenth century, Cooper, when compared to the later writers in this study, clearly values cosmopolitan multilingualism as an essential component of American travel. The history of cosmopolitanism in America plays a major role in one of Cooper’s Revolutionary novels, 5 Other critics who have recognized Cooper’s cosmopolitanism, although not necessarily in the context of language and translation, include Robert Daly and Alisa Marko Iannucci. Virgil Nemoianu describes Cooper’s “cultural relativism” and argues that “Cooper . . . reflected on the issue of what we nowadays call multiculturalism and the place of relativity in human culture” (28). Robert Lawson-Peebles (341) and Thomas Clark (189) both use the term “transatlantic” in describing how Cooper’s political perspective transcended national boundaries. 4 The Pilot (1823). 6 While Cooper’s early works about the American Revolution often have been viewed as nationalistic endeavors, a far more nuanced reading is possible when one takes into account the complexity of Cooper’s patriotism. 7 In The Pilot, although Cooper ardently supports the political innovation of a democratic republic, he continues to see value in the culture of the mother country and consequently rejects the need for an arbitrary linguistic separation. The cosmopolitanism of these political views is mirrored in his conception of language. Because human language is both imperfect and heterogeneous, one must learn, understand, and identify as many variations as possible to ensure the clearest and most efficient communication. For Cooper, this heterogeneity also makes it foolish to conflate a national with a linguistic community; true patriotism must 6 The Pilot is one of Cooper’s historical novels, but it is also considered Cooper’s first sea tale, a genre which scholars such as Ronald John Clohessy (n.p.) and Donald P. Wharton (58) have seen as an expression of nationalism. Indeed, Cooper is often said to have “[begun] the tradition of American sea fiction” (Foulke 20; see also W. Franklin, Early Years xxiii). As the later example of Melville will demonstrate, the literally international setting of sea literature makes it particularly relevant to the present study of plurilingualism and exchange in travel literature. Luis Iglesias summarizes this connection by arguing that “Cooper’s sea novels expose the complicated work of defining the nation in terms of its relation to international exchange.” Thus, while many readings of The Pilot have focused on Cooper’s vivid description of nautical scenes and his improvement on the unrealistic maritime description in Sir Walter Scott’s The Pirate, Cooper’s novel also lends itself to a reading of America’s place in the transatlantic world. 7 George Dekker takes the first perspective when he criticizes The Pilot for being “a schoolboyish novel, vitiated especially by an ingenuous and rather unsavoury patriotism” (114). In contrast, David Simpson calls “Cooper’s patriotism . . . complex and never hyperbolic” (Politics 149). H. Daniel Peck describes Cooper’s ambivalent position between the two sides of the Revolution and “the writer’s failure to commit himself either to the possibilities of freedom and the future or to the values of tradition and the past” (596). Jason Berger also examines “Cooper’s anxiety about the American Revolution and nationalism proper” (644); William P. Kelly notes that “The Pilot shares with The Spy an understanding of the American Revolution as a civil war” (114); and John P. McWilliams similarly describes how Cooper “[draws] no clear distinctions of merit between the British and American forces operating in the neutral ground” (Political 75). 5 distinguish between empty markers of national identity and national characteristics genuinely worth promoting. It might seem strange to begin a study of foreign language with a work set in England, but the issues of translation and equivalence that must be confronted when faced with a foreign language are never absent even in one’s own language. Indeed, as Michael Cronin argues, “The language of home becomes stranger and more labyrinthine in the mouths and minds of others who ostensibly speak the same language” (Across 3). 8 Cooper highlights the heterogeneity within English in order to negotiate the associations between national identity, language, and gentility. Indeed, The Pilot works against the idea of a unified language from its opening dialogue, in which laborers on shore discuss the arriving ships. Their conversation is rendered phonetically in Irish and Scottish dialects. While the rest of the novel will focus on the growing division between the Americans and the English, the dialects of these two minor characters fall outside of the American/English binary. They remind readers that the heterogeneity of the English language has a far deeper history than the American Revolution. Because of the many varieties of English, any simple one-to-one correspondence between language and nation becomes impossible. Although The Pilot ostensibly celebrates the American Revolution, it is clear from the opening scene that Cooper refuses to espouse any easy nationalism. Without a monolithic concept of “Englishness” to reject, citizens of the new republic 8 Cronin further suggests that “translation is more explicitly emphasised in intralingual travelling than in interlingual travelling. It is as if intralingual accounts ward off the threat of (language) sameness through the highlighting of (language) difference while interlingual accounts counter the menace of irreducible (language) difference through the reiteration of sameness (minimising or making invisible the transaction costs of translation)” (Across 10-11). 6 would have to consider what was valuable and different in the new country and what of the old should and must be maintained. The heterogeneity of English established in the opening sequence becomes even more prominent in Cooper’s treatment of the technical language of sailors. Cooper’s use of nautical jargon was groundbreaking, and it remains, accordingly, one of the most examined elements of Cooper’s first sea tale. A representative passage from The Pilot illustrates the key characteristics of Cooper’s nautical description: Griffith gave forth from his trumpet the command to “heave away!” Again the strains of the fife were followed by the tread of the men at the capstern. At the same time that the anchor was heaving up, the sails were loosened from the yards, and opened to invite the breeze. In effecting this duty, orders were thundered through the trumpet of the first lieutenant, and executed with the rapidity of thought. Men were to be seen, like spots in the dim light from the heavens, lying on every yard, or hanging as in air, while strange cries were heard issuing from every part of the rigging, and each spar of the vessel. “Ready the foreroyal,” cried a shrill voice, as if from the clouds; “ready the fore yard,” uttered the hoarser tones of a seaman beneath him; “all ready aft, sir,” cried a third, from another quarter; and in a few moments, the order was given to “let fall.” (43-44) Many critics have noted Cooper’s ability in such passages to incorporate technical language without totally obscuring the meaning for lay readers. 9 This example includes some specialized vocabulary, such as “capstern,” “foreroyal,”and “fore yard,” but the general action, if not the particular sails and masts of a frigate, is clear. By combining metaphorical description, such as comparing the sailors in the rigging to “spots in the dim 9 Both Thomas Philbrick (James 12) and Wayne Franklin (Early Years 409) note Cooper’s reluctance to employ overly technical language, although Cooper felt that some was necessary for his nautical subject matter. Hester Blum argues that “Cooper employs nautical vocabulary and knowledge” so that “the metaphorics . . . would be accessible to the reader who might not be familiar with its technicalities” (View 85). According to Dekker, Cooper was able “to combine vivid descriptive prose and technical nautical language so artfully that the latter, not baffling the lay reader too much, actually enhanced the realistic effect of the former” (114). 7 light from the heavens,” with the more abstruse technical terms, Cooper achieves a vivid effect even if the distinction between a “yard” and a “spar” is lost. Yet the purpose of such technical terminology is not merely maritime flavor. Cooper demonstrates how being conversant in multiple “languages” allows communication to be as precise as possible. David Simpson looks at a similar example of Cooper’s “sea diction” in Homeward Bound and contends that the “passage is intimidating to the average reader, but to the sailor it is totally intelligible and totally precise” (Politics 199). Simpson explains that, in nautical jargon as in other technical uses of language, “[e]very word refers to an unambiguous thing or describes an unambiguous act” (199). Thus, in the above scene, the technical orders are “executed with the rapidity of thought” because they require no interpretation. 10 Maintaining the technical specificity of nautical terms demonstrates a tendency of Cooper’s that will become more apparent in later works—leaving foreign languages untranslated. Cooper is unwilling to change or obscure the meaning of a passage by translating it into more standard English. But the precise meaning of jargon is only available to those readers with knowledge of nautical terms and the corresponding functions of a ship. In this way, Cooper’s nautical terminology points to the imperfection of human language. Either an avoidance of technical language (a “translation” of nautical actions into common terms) would decrease the specificity of the description, or an inclusion of jargon would obscure the action to lay readers. For this reason, Margaret Cohen’s assertion that such readers 10 Mary K. Edwards also notes the value of precise nautical jargon: “At sea, the specificity of sailor language is an absolute necessity for the safety of the ship and crew. The cry ‘Let fly fore t’gallant sheets. Haul clews!’ results in one direct action that may be crucial to keep the vessel from destruction” (31). 8 can “garner unfamiliar knowledge” from Cooper’s nautical scenes is particularly significant (489). It is only by gaining expertise in nautical language (or in foreign languages, as will later be the case) that readers can avoid ambiguity and maximize their comprehension. In another passage, the quintessential sailor Tom Coffin demonstrates the value of his technical expertise by reading the language of sea and sky to predict dangerous weather approaching. He says: “I showed you how to knot a reef-point, and pass a gasket, Captain Barnstable, nor do I believe you could even take two half hitches when you first came aboard of the Spalmacitty. These be things that a man is soon expart in, but it takes the time of his nat’ral life to larn to know the weather. There be streaked wind-galls in the offing, that speak as plainly, to all that see them, and know God’s language in the clouds, as ever you spoke through a trumpet, to shorten sail; besides, sir, don’t you hear the sea moaning, as if it knew the hour was at hand when it was to wake up from its sleep!” (25) Coffin’s speech, like that of Natty Bumppo or of the two laborers in the opening scene, is marked by non-standard pronunciations. Yet, while Coffin may not be “expart” in proper English, he displays two other levels of linguistic expertise. The first, his familiarity with “knotting a reef-point” and “passing a gasket,” exemplifies the technical language seen throughout Cooper’s sea tale. The second language, “God’s language in the clouds,” is like Simpson’s explanation of jargon in that the signs can “speak . . . plainly, to all that see them.” Such knowledge of weather indicators has obvious value, but Coffin emphasizes that “God’s language” takes a lifetime of practice to master. By including nautical jargon in his narration, Cooper encourages and assists the reader in acquiring knowledges like these. Cooper further demonstrates the value of Coffin’s expertise in the ensuing action. Coffin’s warning for the hero, Barnstable, to cut short his romantic 9 interview with his disguised fiancée, Katharine, leads to the exciting escape of the two American ships, aided, of course, by the technical knowledge and language of the Pilot himself. While nautical jargon is not exactly equivalent to an entirely foreign language, Cooper’s use of technical language demonstrates the position on language acquisition that he will develop in later works. By refusing to translate technical actions into common terms, Cooper maintains the cultural specificity of nautical language while encouraging the reader to gain linguistic knowledge and, consequently, a more cosmopolitan outlook. While the nautical portions of The Pilot prove the value of linguistic variety, the drawing-room scenes that further the novel’s romantic plot demonstrate how language’s flexibility and multiplicity can be used for deceitful purposes. 11 For example, Katharine’s letter to Barnstable repeatedly critiques the terminology of her loyalist guardian, Colonel Howard. She writes, “He used fifty opprobrious terms that I cannot remember, but among others were the beautiful epithets of ‘disorganizer,’ ‘leveller,’ ‘democrat,’ and ‘jacobin.’ (I hope he did not mean a monk!)” (67). Her complaint demonstrates the equivocality of such signifiers. The term “democrat” may be “opprobrious” to a loyalist, but an American revolutionary would claim it proudly. Likewise, “disorganizer” and “leveler” are only negative if one believes the status quo does not need to be disorganized or leveled. Language’s potential for misdirection is further highlighted by the anachronistic 11 Many previous readers have preferred the exciting and vivid scenes of nautical action to the novel’s “land scenes,” but in largely ignoring the latter, they have missed the many references to language that clarify Cooper’s ambivalent nationalism. For example, Cohen quickly discounts half of The Pilot saying, “From its publication, . . . readers agreed that the love plots on land took a backseat to the real dramatic energy of the novel which is offered by the exploits of the mysterious shadowy pilot, John Paul Jones, as he stages raids off Scotland during the American Revolution” (484). 10 use of “jacobin,” which references the French Revolution. 12 It is possible that this is merely Cooper’s error in chronology, but Katharine’s parenthetical “(I hope he did not mean a monk!)” makes a kind of metatextual linguistic joke. Katharine’s interjection calls attention to the only definition of “jacobin” available to her, but it is clear to the reader that the term’s most relevant definition, however anachronistic, is “a revolutionary with democratic principles.” Colonel Howard thus takes a word with a precise political and historical meaning out of context and uses it indiscriminately to signal the “enemy.” By highlighting how such “opprobrious epithets” have no fixed or simple meaning, Katharine demonstrates how easy it is for opposing viewpoints to be encapsulated with a disparaging term rather than addressed directly and examined thoughtfully. Katharine further critiques language’s potential for manipulation when she explains, “the rooms we inhabit are in the upper or third floor of a wing, that you may call a tower, if you are in a romantic mood, but which, in truth, is nothing but a wing” (68). Calling their section of St. Ruth’s a “tower” would conform to the standards of a romantic novel, but Katharine is quick to point out that this dramatic appellation is not entirely truthful. Here again, she calls attention to how an artful application of terminology can convey a connotation beyond what may be most factually accurate. Finally, Katharine gets to the root of the novel’s political conflict when she confides that the Americans are called “pirates” by her captors. She complains, “yes, that is the musical name they give you—and when their own people land, and plunder, and rob, and murder the men and insult the women, they are called heroes! It’s a fine thing to be able 12 According to the OED, the French political use of the term “jacobin” dates no earlier than 1789, and its general application to any political reformer comes into use around 1800 (“Jacobin, n. 1 and adj. 1 ”). 11 to invent names and make dictionaries” (69). Such names have more connection to the speaker’s feelings than to the reality they describe—and one mark of power is the ability to apply such terminology to one’s own advantage. The specificity of precise jargon is of no avail if it is not used in an accurate and straightforward way. Moreover, because there is no strong link between fallen human language and any divine or universal origin, words are only inadequate “inventions.” The precision made possible by linguistic variety may improve human communication, but it can never perfect it—there is always room for both inaccuracy and deceit. Katharine’s view of words conforms to one Cooper later expresses in The American Democrat (1838). 13 From its beginning, Cooper’s treatise emphasizes “the necessity of distinguishing between names and things in governments, as well as in other matters” (15). This critical view of language is particularly important when interpreting the Constitution. Cooper asserts that many of the “popular errors” in understanding that document “have arisen from mistaking the meaning of [its] language” (22). Cooper’s emphasis on the ambiguous language of the Constitution is not surprising in light of Thomas Gustafson’s analysis in Representative Words. Gustafson argues, “since the Constitution is written in a fundamentally imperfect human language, the text—and the political order it creates—possesses the fundamental imperfections of language itself” (273). 14 Yet Cooper does not doubt the existence of the “things” behind language’s 13 For further discussion of the importance of The American Democrat, see Steven Watts (65) and John P. McWilliams (“Cooper” 666; Political 197). 14 Gustafson goes on to point out that moments of “judicial resolutions of conflict” are interpretive decisions, “a selective choice from a range of competing political values,” rather than the “discoveries or revelations” we hope them to be (T. Gustafson 273). This description of interpreting the Constitution as choosing one of an array of ambiguous 12 “names.” He explains his perspective in The American Democrat chapter “On Language.” Introducing his complaint about Americans’ indiscriminate use of the word “gentleman,” Cooper writes, “Some changes of the language are to be regretted, as they lead to false inferences, and society is always a loser by mistaking names for things. Life is a fact, and it is seldom any good arises from a misapprehension of the real circumstances under which we exist” (120). Cooper believes in a fixed reality beyond language, but he recognizes that the connection between that reality and the various names it is given is far from perfect. For Cooper, it is essential that words signal as precise a meaning as possible, but he rejects the marshaling of excess meaning for the sake of manipulation and deception. Cooper further highlights linguistic variety’s potential for both precision and deception through Katharine’s signal system, a series of romantic messages she translates into flag signs for communicating with the Americans from her confinement. 15 Yet the meanings is very much like Lawrence Venuti’s definition of translation as “a process by which the chain of signifiers that constitutes the foreign text is replaced by a chain of signifiers in the translating language which the translator provides on the strength of an interpretation” (13). In law, as in translation, the original text is often ambiguous, but it is not always possible to allow this inherent ambiguity to remain ambiguous. When interpreting the Constitution, as when translating a text, it is impossible to achieve a perfectly “literal” translation. A judicial resolution, like any translation, must be based on an interpretation of the original; it can never be a scientific transfer of meaning. 15 Previous readings of this system have been mixed. Blum credits Katharine’s achievement by noting that “her flags do provide for crucial information to be transferred,” but she concludes by admitting that the heroine’s “employment of such skills—a flirtatious point of appeal for her lover—is more precious than practiced” (View 85). McWilliams cites the signal system as an example of how, unlike many of Cooper’s heroines, Katharine “proves to be a woman of action” (“More” 79). In light of Katharine’s critique of language use throughout the novel, however, it becomes clear that her signal system is more than a “precious” eccentricity or, as others have suggested, an indication of a potentially excellent captain’s wife. 13 first appearance of a flag comes before Katharine is even introduced. Cooper describes how the frigate accompanying the Ariel raises a “heavy ensign,” and, “a current of air opening, for a moment, its folds, the white field, and red cross, that distinguish the flag of England, [are] displayed to view” (15). The colors and shapes on the banner communicate that the ship is under British control. Like so many other instances of communication in the novel, however, this sign proves to be deceitful, as the ship actually contains the American revolutionaries who will be the heroes of the story. Thus, while Katharine’s signal language may seem laughable, it proves more reliable than the conventional display of a national flag, which is easily forged. In another example, Cooper emphasizes the importance of signal flags at sea when a soldier tells Griffith, “Why, they have shown him a yellow flag over a blue one, with a cornet, and that spells Ariel, in every signal-book we have; surely he can’t suspect the English of knowing how to read Yankee” (61). The flag systems are thus another example of the linguistic division between England and America as well as an opportunity to convey information securely. However, as Griffith notes in his reply, “I have known Yankees read more difficult English,” even these languages give opportunities for the interception and forgery of messages (61). Throughout the novel, signal language, like nautical jargon, proves to be an essential area of expertise, yet one that is not immune to miscommunication. Katharine has put quite a bit of ingenuity into developing her own signal language, and it is no small accomplishment. Even so, it is impossible not to smile at some of Katharine’s messages, what Griffith laughingly calls “a most judicious selection of phrases” including “‘No. 168. **** indelible;’ ‘169. **** end only with life;’ ‘170. **** I fear yours misleads me’” (84-85). More examples of Katharine’s phrases appear 14 when she puts her system to use. On one level, her signals are comical for their far- fetched long-sightedness: “White over black,” repeated Katherine, rapidly, to herself, as she turned the leaves of her book.—“‘My messenger: has he been seen?’—To that we must answer the unhappy truth. Here it is— yellow, white, and red— ‘he is a prisoner.’ How fortunate that I should have prepared such a question and answer. (314) Despite Katharine’s claim to be particularly “fortunate,” this exchange leads one to wonder how many signals she would have had to devise in order to have precisely these messages available. Her hurried page turning suggests that the result is somewhat cumbersome. The comedy reaches a climax when Katharine uses a signal that means, “When the Abbey clock strikes nine, come with care to the wicket, which opens, at the east side of the Paddock, on the road: until then, keep secret” (315). This detailed message is laughable compared to the efficient technical language actually employed on ships. But when Katharine explains, “I had prepared this very signal, in case an interview should be necessary,” she points out what is too easy to overlook—that the message proved necessary and was communicated without a problem (315). Katharine’s signs are comical not because they are ineffective, but because they combine two distinct registers of language. The phrases Katharine devises are necessary in the polite discourse of genteel courtship and romantic love plots, but they are alien to the utilitarian and military language of vessels engaged in war. The juxtaposition of the two languages may be comically incongruous, but both discourses are necessary and worthwhile in their own rights. Katharine’s romantic phrases seem silly when turned into a utilitarian signal language; however, she is not directing a ship but subtly manipulating her suitor to achieve her rescue without seeming to throw herself at him. Despite her 15 dramatic situation, she needs to maintain a lady’s polite language. More than an easy laugh at the heroine’s expense, Katharine’s incongruous signals demonstrate how even the strangest languages can serve a distinct purpose, and how the varieties of English are as numerous as the occasions for speech. At many other places in the novel, Cooper calls attention to the divisive and contested terminology at the heart of the Americans’ conflict with England. Colonel Howard tells Katharine, for example, “A young lady who ventures to compare rebels with gallant gentlemen engaged in their duty to their prince, cannot escape the imputation of possessing a misguided reason,” and he goes on to inveigh against “these disorganizers, who would destroy every thing that is sacred—these levellers, who would pull down the great, to exalt the little—these jacobins, who—who―” (115). It seems Katharine’s previous account of her guardian’s language was quite accurate. The “opprobrious epithets” in this diatribe are nearly identical to the ones Katharine lists in her letter. Instead of focusing on the facts of the conflict and addressing the legitimate grievances of the rebels, Colonel Howard has become caught up in a litany of names that have begun to misguide his own reason. Later in the same scene, Katharine again points out a manipulative use of language when she discovers that Colonel Howard’s prisoners are “seamen,” making it likely that her beau is among them. Teasing Dillon to cover her concern, she accuses him of whitewashing his real apprehensions in order to keep the ladies at ease. She quips, “I thank you, sir, for so gentle a term [as seamen], . . . the imagination of Mr. Dillon is so apt to conjure the worst, that he is entitled to our praise for so far humouring our weakness, as not to alarm us with the apprehensions of their being pirates” (118). Katharine once again calls attention to the manipulation of language 16 and shows her unwillingness to be influenced by judgmental connotations passing for unvarnished truth. This question of the proper application of “pirate” is echoed in the Pilot’s first interview with Alice Dunscombe. The incognito John Paul Jones laments, “how powerful is the breath of the slanderer,” and exclaims, “They call me pirate! If I have claim to the name, it was furnished more by the paltry outfit of my friends, than by any act towards my enemies!” (154, 156). A similar conflict occurs over the term “rebellious.” In a dialogue with the imprisoned Manual, Borroughcliffe applies the word nonpolitically to describe a soldier’s unwillingness to submit: “thy knee bendeth not; nay, I even doubt if the rebellious member bow in prayer” (162). Led to misinterpretation by his fear of being discovered as an American, Manual responds, “Rebellious member, indeed! These fellows will call the skies of America rebellious heavens shortly!” (162). He objects to the phrase “rebellious member” as another example of how “rebellious” has been applied beyond its proper signification. When Tom Coffin speaks with the English officer Captain Borroughcliffe, he assigns “rebel” a positive connotation saying, “Tell them, brother, that I’m a rebel, will ye? and ye’ll tell ’em no lie—one that has fou’t them since Manly’s time, in Boston bay, to this hour” (253). Coffin inverts the usual negative meaning of “rebel” by focusing on the loyalty he has shown to his own cause rather than on his lack of loyalty to the crown. Coffin’s new perspective on “rebellion” is similar to Robert A. Ferguson’s description of the contradictory feelings Americans had about the Benedict Arnold affair (which forms the backdrop for The Spy). Ferguson argues: Arnold found his own consistency in a Revolutionary American discrepancy. The self-confidence of his stance relied on culture-wide 17 slippage in conceptions of loyalty. . . . The eighteenth-century duty to one’s king was a concrete, fixed obligation that brooked little equivocation or room for disobedience. . . . Emerging nationalism would soon substitute a new emotional power, but in 1780 the Enlightenment code of honor and virtue reached for universal recognition and depended as much on the exaltation of reason as on mass appeals to the emotions or communal solidarity. (140-41) During the Revolution, the concept of “loyalty,” and its inverse “rebellion,” became unmoored from their accustomed and concrete meanings. This is the same conflict of terminology played out between Colonel Howard and the American patriots. Ferguson argues that such loyalty to the idea of republican virtue was later replaced by nationalism, but this late-eighteenth-century version of loyalty also resembles Cooper’s complex view of his country. Thus, Cooper’s cosmopolitanism does not mean that he repudiates America, but that he puts an “Enlightenment code of honor and virtue” before nationalism’s “mass appeals to the emotions or communal solidarity.” Instead of marking American difference, Cooper advocates a cosmopolitan appreciation of linguistic variation and, as will become even clearer in his travelogues, a broader understanding of the cultured languages of Europe. In light of Cooper’s critique of the politicized terminology of the Revolution, the repetition of the phrase “plain English” throughout the novel takes on a greater significance. Indeed, Cooper demonstrates that “plain English” does not exist, and the term “English” (in a linguistic, political, or cultural sense) can prove just as problematic as “rebel” or “traitor.” Such a complication of what “Englishness” might have meant to early Americans is the subject of Leonard Tennenhouse’s book The Importance of Feeling English. Tennenhouse’s argument merits quotation at length: After the War of Independence, there is every reason to believe that citizens of the new United States knew—and felt keenly—that they were 18 no longer subjects of Great Britain. But it does not necessarily follow from this that the colonists renounced their British identity in other respects simply because they rejected British government. Political separation did not in fact cancel out the importance of one’s having come to America from Great Britain. Indeed, the literary evidence indicates that the newly liberated colonists became if anything more intent on keeping the new homeland as much as possible like the old one in terms of its language, literature, and any number of cultural practices. (2) While the public at large may have felt increasingly nationalistic by the time Cooper began his career, evidence suggests that the author made the distinction Tennenhouse describes here between political and cultural “Englishness.” When Cooper writes in the first chapter of The Pilot that its setting is significant “not only because it was the birth- day of his nation, but because it was also the era when reason and common sense began to take the place of custom and feudal practices in the management of the affairs of nations” (11), he suggests that the real value of America lies in its democratic government, not in the sheer fact of its nationhood. For Cooper, an arbitrary linguistic separation (such as the proposal to adopt Greek as America’s official language) would have little significance in comparison to the important political difference between America and England. Accordingly, when knowing and speaking the languages of European monarchies does little symbolic harm, the citizens of the United States, as representatives of a better form of government, have everything to gain and to give in communication with the world. Cooper’s cosmopolitanism, then, encompasses not just the benefit to Americans of the richer cultural pasts of European countries, but also the political value that Americans can provide to Europe. Such a cosmopolitanism involves problematizing what “Englishness” might mean. Borroughcliffe often employs the term “plain English” to preface a restatement of something he has just expressed in a confusing mix of Latin and various circumlocutions. 19 For example, after repeatedly confusing Tom Coffin with veiled invitations to join the royal navy, Borroughcliffe concludes, “In plain English, enlist in my company, my fine fellow, and your life and liberty are both safe” (254). After regularly confusing his listeners, Borroughcliffe sees the necessity of “speaking plainly,” but the novel as a whole shows that there is no such thing. What is plain to one person or in one context may not be plain to another. In fact, in the above conversation, Tom Coffin has only just introduced himself in a way that demonstrates his own reliance on nonstandard, nautical language: “Coffin, . . . I’m called Tom, when there is any hurry, such as letting go the haulyards, or a sheet; long-Tom, when they want to get to windward of an old seaman, by fair weather; and long-Tom Coffin, when they wish to hail me, so that none of my cousins of the same name, about the islands, shall answer; for I believe the best man among them can’t measure much over a fathom, taking him from his head-works to his heel.” (251) As in the earlier examples of nautical language, this explanation of what Tom Coffin is called in various circumstances is confusing for a land-bound reader ignorant of “haulyards” and “head-works,” but it demonstrates precision, efficiency, and practicality for anyone versed in sea jargon. Still, the complexity of Coffin’s naming, as well as the admitted confusion between Tom and his “cousins of the same name,” shows that a lack of plainness in language can come in other forms than Borroughcliffe’s own pretentious quoting of Latin. Like Katharine’s signal language, the conversation presents another incongruous meeting of discourses, demonstrating that the many varieties of English make the language far from plain. And because there is no single “plain English,” only knowing and being conversant in a wide variety of dialects and registers can ensure one’s full understanding. 20 Cooper, like Royall Tyler before him, critiques the use of linguistic difference to distinguish “proper” Englishness from American provinciality, but he does not suggest that all language use is equal. Rather than emphasizing national difference, Cooper posits a different hierarchy of usage that transcends national borders. Unlike Tom Coffin’s technical language, Borroughcliffe’s use, and misuse, of Latin is portrayed quite critically. For example, the scene in which the young Merry enters St. Ruth disguised as a peddler illustrates Cooper’s idea of improper speech. When Borroughcliffe toasts “the statu quo ante bellum” and talks of exiting the abbey “sub silentio,” he uses Latin to appear more learned (300-301). Like Katharine—who quips, “And, Captain Borroughcliffe, as you appear to be forgetting the use of your own language, here is even a horn-book for you!” (303)—Cooper frowns on the deployment of linguistic difference as an empty sign of useless erudition rather than a utilization of real knowledge. At the same time, the captain is not solely a buffoon in this scene. It is he who unmasks Merry by revealing that the youth is proficient with nautical language but ignorant of a peddler’s wares. At the end of his examination, Borroughcliffe cries, “Enough, enough, . . . you have exhibited sufficient knowledge, to convince me that you do know something of your trade, and nothing of these articles” (305). Borroughcliffe’s pretentious use of Latin may be portrayed critically, but “plain English” is not the only language necessary. Borroughcliffe sees through Merry’s deception because the boy lacks the technical language of a peddler. But Borroughcliffe nonetheless approves of Merry’s nautical expertise. In this sense, Cooper’s view of proper speech and linguistic knowledge conforms to his analysis of the term “gentleman” in The American Democrat. Cooper writes, “To call a laborer, one who has neither education, manners, 21 accomplishments, tastes, associations, nor any one of the ordinary requisites, a gentleman, is just as absurd as to call one who is thus qualified, a fellow” (American Democrat 120). Cooper implies that a genuine gentleman is certainly better than a laboring fellow, but for a fellow to call oneself a gentleman is perhaps the worst position of all. True erudition in other languages, including technical terminology, is a virtue, but pretending to unwonted elevation is even worse than linguistic ignorance. 16 Although The Pilot deals only sparingly with what would commonly be called “foreign” language, the novel contains a thorough introduction to Cooper’s philosophy of linguistic difference. The multiplicity of dialects, jargons, and registers on display throughout the tale enables a high level of precision in the characters’ speech. It would hinder precise communication to replace this variety with a monolithic idea of “plain English.” But the same heterogeneity that allows for such precise communication also signals the imperfection of human language. As will become increasingly evident in the following readings, Cooper values broad linguistic knowledge as a way to compensate for the imperfect connection between names and things, between post-Babelian language and universal ideals. At the same time, The Pilot is also valuable for positioning Cooper’s general philosophy of language in the context of the American Revolution, and the repercussions that conflict had for American identity well into the nineteenth century. 16 Cooper’s critique of the term “gentleman” also conforms to his characteristic portrayal of gentility. Allan M. Axelrad argues that, “although [Cooper] grew increasingly embittered upon his return from Europe, he was a lifelong conservative, never placing much faith in the judgment of the average man. Instead he placed his faith in institutions, in authority, and in leadership by an elite. Political power should be exercised by those best equipped to make sound conservative judgments—the landed gentry” (19). Dekker notes that “Cooper himself was an aristocrat, or as nearly one as a patriotic American could well be, when in 1820 he began to work on The Spy” (20). The works discussed below demonstrate Cooper’s belief in natural hierarchy even more clearly. 22 Cooper critiques the connection between language and national identity, instead advocating a class-based hierarchy of linguistic knowledge and usage, as will become increasingly apparent in his later works. Cosmopolitan Travel in Cooper’s Gleanings While The Pilot establishes Cooper’s approach to foreign language and translation in the context of the United States’ revolutionary beginnings, Cooper’s more traditional travelogues demonstrate the place of foreign language in early-nineteenth-century American travel. In 1826, only two years after the publication of The Pilot, Cooper and his family left America for what became a seven-year stay in Europe. Like many elite Americans of the period, the Coopers were continuing the British tradition of the Grand Tour. The practice of undertaking a comprehensive tour of Continental Europe as the “obligatory finish to a gentleman’s upbringing” dates as far back as Sir Philip Sidney’s tour of the Continent in 1572 (Trease 2-3). 17 Foster Rhea Dulles examines American participation in this tradition “[a]s early as 1787,” when “two elegant young men from wealthy and distinguished families arrived [in Europe] with no other purpose than embarking on the traditional Grand Tour” (18). Although travel to Europe became increasingly less exclusive throughout the nineteenth century, Dulles reports that, at the 17 Trease connects this originally British tradition to the necessity of crossing a body of water, providing a “motive for attempting a once-for-all and comprehensive exploration” (3). He further notes that, as new modes of transportation such as the steamship and railroad made Continental travel easy enough for the British that it did not require such a comprehensive trip, these same technologies made European tours increasingly possible for Americans (4). Although a version of the Grand Tour was available to a wider range of English citizens than the gentlemen who undertook it as a means of finishing their education and manners, for Americans at the beginning of the nineteenth century, transatlantic travel required a far greater outlay of time and money (3-4). 23 beginning of the century, “the wealthy members of society’s more exclusive circles along the Atlantic seaboard probably accounted for the largest number of Americans visiting Europe” (28). Such privileged Americans continued the tradition of European travel for education and cultural capital. Cooper’s descriptions of his European tour, published after his return, present further evidence of the author’s linguistic cosmopolitanism. His series of travelogues, which modern editors call Gleanings in Europe (1836-38), is invaluable for understanding Cooper’s engagement with language. 18 By declining to replace the specificity of foreign terminology with an imperfect translation, Cooper emphasizes different languages’ potential for expressing varied nuances of meaning, encouraging the widest possible linguistic knowledge in order to foster the most precise and culturally sensitive communication. He thus rejects monolingualism as a marker of distinct national communities, focusing instead on how language indicates class. As a result, Cooper minimizes national borders and instead highlights the distinction between upper-class 18 Any study of Cooper’s five volumes of travel writings is complicated by a number of bibliographical peculiarities. First, Cooper published the books under different titles in America and Europe. For greater simplicity, twentieth-century scholarly editions have given all five volumes the main title of Gleanings in Europe, subtitling each volume with the relevant country. These are the titles that I will use in the following discussion. To make matters even more confusing, the original order of publication was not the order of Cooper’s actual travels, and, as Robert E. Spiller and James F. Beard’s introduction to the 1980 edition notes, while “some letters bear topical resemblances to actual letters,” it seems clear that the epistolary form is merely a device and that Cooper composed the volumes for publication after his return (ix). Because the attention to language in each of these volumes varies more consistently with the time Cooper had spent in Europe than with the original order of publication (as being immersed in a foreign language will be more striking in the early months of residence than after several years abroad), I will examine them on that timeline, progressing through what the modern editions of Gleanings in Europe subtitle France, England, Switzerland, Italy, and The Rhine, in that order. I abbreviate the title of each volume to Gleanings: France, Gleanings: England, etc. 24 cosmopolitanism and the common provinciality shared by the lower-classes of all countries. Cooper’s sea tales may have received less critical attention than his Leatherstocking series, but Cooper’s nonfiction travel writing has been even more widely ignored. When Alfred Bendixen mentions them briefly in the recent Cambridge Companion to American Travel Writing, he not only disregards the volumes as “lack[ing] any real sense of coherence,” and “often giv[ing] way to bad temper,” but he attributes these faults to his mistaken assumption that the books “[consist] largely of unrevised letters” (106-107). However, the few Cooper scholars who do take time to examine Gleanings are far more positive. In one of the few pieces that takes Cooper’s travel writing as a primary focus, J. Gerald Kennedy argues that Cooper’s Gleanings “reflect the evolution of a more complicated understanding of nationhood and nationality,” beginning “with an earnest desire to know Europe and to correct its misapprehensions about America” but evolving into “Cooper’s dismantling of his nation’s most cherished illusions about itself” (93). 19 As Kennedy also argues, Cooper’s travel writings negotiate a complex relationship between country and world; the following reading will demonstrate that this relationship is inseparable from the subject of language. Before turning more specifically to language, it is worthwhile to note that Cooper’s Gleanings also hold an interesting place in the evolving genre of travel 19 Other positive assessments include that of Thomas Philbrick, who calls Cooper’s achievement “travel writing which is both extraordinarily rich in ideas and coherent in point of view” (“Cooper in Europe”). Robert E. Spiller also highlights the interest the books hold for both readers and scholars, noting that they “contain some of his most pungent social criticism and his most brilliant natural description,” and that they replace the “pompousness of his formal style” with “a vital intimacy” (Fenimore 244). 25 literature and anti-touristic writing. Throughout the series, Cooper is critical both of the usual traveler and of the usual content of travel literature. Almost as soon as he sets foot in England after his transatlantic voyage, Cooper criticizes a couple “engaged in a lively discussion of the comparative merits of Cowes and Philadelphia,” a comparison he calls “absurd” (Gleanings: France 20). Cooper takes this couple as an example of a common fault of travelers everywhere, complaining, “This propensity to exaggerate the value of whatever is our own, and to depreciate that which is our neighbours’, a principle that is connected with the very ground-work of poor human nature, forms a material portion of the traveling equipage of nearly every one who quits the scenes of his own youth, to visit those of other people” (20). Not only does Cooper elevate himself over this general fault of the common rabble, but he further shows a cosmopolitan perspective by attributing the shortcoming to all people, not just to traveling Americans. This does not mean however, that Cooper defends his country at all times. When the grand duke of Florence observes that he has not seen so many Americans traveling recently, Cooper responds with a more critical view of his countrymen, saying that although “the number [of traveling Americans] had greatly increased within the last few years[,] . . . most of those who came to Europe knew little of courts, . . . did not give themselves time to see more than the commoner sights, and . . . were but indifferent courtiers” (Gleanings: Italy 80). Thus, while Cooper practices an older mode of travel where one stays for extended periods in high European society learning and speaking the language, he already begins to observe the kinds of tourists who will populate Twain’s travel writing. 26 As James Buzard explains in his study of tourism, Cooper’s elitist position was also, paradoxically, the norm. Buzard thus offers a valuable explanation of Cooper’s remarks: [A]fter the Napoleonic Wars, the exaggerated perception that the Continental tour was becoming more broadly accessible than ever before gave rise to new formulations about what constituted ‘authentic’ cultural experience (such as travel is supposed to provide) and new representations aimed at distinguishing authentic from spurious or merely repetitive experience. . . . Travel’s educative, acculturating function took on a newly competitive aspect, as travellers sought to distinguish themselves from the ‘mere tourists’ they saw or imagined around them. (6) While travel was nowhere near as accessible as it would become by the end of the century, the gradual shift away from the kind of extended stay in society that Cooper experiences led him to exaggerate the distinction between his family and other travelers presumably less interested in broadening their cultural horizons. Despite Cooper’s observations, however, the distinction between tourists and anti-tourists is never a clear one. Buzard examines both tourism and anti-tourism as part of the same practice, arguing that the anti-touristic perspective exemplified here by Cooper shares the same goal as tourism itself: “making the tour pay in cultural capital accepted by home society” (196- 97). Nevertheless, the reality of Cooper’s extended residence in Europe, in contrast to the briefer and more rushed visits that became increasingly common in Twain’s time, makes him a fitting example of the older model of cosmopolitan traveler. This mode of travel will fade from prominence through the century, although it will never disappear entirely. Cooper is by no means as critical of guidebooks and other typical travel writings as Twain will be, but he does not miss an opportunity to find fault when fault presents itself. In Switzerland for example, he caustically notes: 27 I owe an especial acknowledgement to M. Ebel, for the pleasures of a long walk, up a hill, under a hot sun, in order to see a linden (tilleul) which he has written down as being thirty-six feet in diameter. What will not a traveller come, in time, to believe! There we went, dragging our weary limbs after us, to discover that for “diamètre,” we ought to have read “circonférence.” I wish the erratum had been in his book, instead of mine. (236) The traveler may take some blame for his credulity and dependence on such guidebooks, but Cooper’s editorial eye balks at the misprint. If travelogues and guidebooks (a genre to which Cooper himself is contributing) are not to be blindly believed, Cooper at least highlights his own inclusion of the “erratum” and, as always, his meticulousness in applying the proper names to things. Moreover, by generalizing that “[t]ravellers are too much in the practice of describing under the influence of their early and home-bred impressions” (Gleanings: Italy 228), he implies that his own writing is an exception, an example of accurate reporting from an open-minded and cosmopolitan perspective. Kennedy even goes so far as to argue that Cooper’s Gleanings “anticipate the objectives of current transnational studies” in Cooper’s desire to “develop a global (or at least transatlantic) perspective to surmount the parochial nationalism of his American contemporaries” (92). As these examples have indicated, however, Cooper did not limit his charges of such “parochialism” to Americans alone, but criticized and at times sought to correct the narrow nationalistic views of Americans and Europeans alike. Thus, Robert E. Spiller argues that, “[n]ext to American pride in themselves, European ignorance of America was . . . the greatest obstacle against which the culture of [Cooper’s] nation had to contend” (Fenimore 142). Cooper’s cosmopolitanism, like the patriotism of the Enlightenment, was not recognition of Europe’s absolute superiority to America, but belief in the value of understanding each continent and recognizing both its merits and 28 deficits, valuing the older culture of Europe without betraying the political promise of American democracy. The first volume chronologically, Gleanings in Europe: France, contains the most concentrated attention to language, but it also introduces many of the topics to which Cooper will return throughout the series. One reappearing theme is the charge of provincialism, which Cooper seeks to deflect from Americans in particular onto the ill- bred people of all countries. In France, Cooper finds the practice of sending cards to be far superior to the American insistence on always visiting in person. He writes, “It is easy to trace these usages to their source, provincial habits and rustic manners, but towns with three hundred thousand inhabitants ought to be free from both” (194). Some American practices are provincial, but Cooper believes that American society has developed enough that such provincialisms can and ought to be dropped. Far from lampooning the lowness of his countrymen, however, Cooper attempts to present a balanced and accurate picture of America. He explains, “America, in my time, at least, has always had an active and swift communication with the rest of the world. As a people, we are, beyond a question, decidedly provincial, but our provincialism is not exactly one of external appearance” (22). Thus, while Americans do not have easy access to the more developed history and culture of Europe, they are also not walking around in buckskins all day, as many of the Europeans Cooper meets seem to expect. Instead, Americans prove even quicker to adopt French fashions than the English, a circumstance which (as Cooper is eager to report) has led some English travelers in America to label as backward what is really à la mode (23- 29 24). 20 Cooper values such openness to foreign culture, which even in this frivolous form is a marker of an international aesthetic of taste and class rather than a stubbornly provincial nationalism. Cooper displays his own cosmopolitanism by including many French words and phrases in his account, a practice he will continue in Homeward Bound. One letter describing a royal dinner serves as a good example of Cooper’s treatment of language throughout both the volume and the series. In the first six paragraphs of the letter, Cooper explains two French phrases: “the lord in waiting, or, as he is called here, ‘le premier gentilhomme de la chambre du roi, de service’” (158), and “grands courverts, as these dinners are called” (161). Cooper emphasizes the French versions with his explicit attention to what things are “called” and, in the first example, his use of quotation marks to highlight the French phrase. He implies that, when in France, it is important to use the French terminology. And while these examples offer more translation than is usual for Cooper, they still show no attempt to give a “literal,” word-for-word translation of the French terms. Presumably, readers can do that for themselves. Also in these paragraphs, the words “fête,” “salle,” “châtea,” and “gardes du corps” are left with no translation at all (158-59). These examples demonstrate that, while Cooper at times seeks to inform his 20 After giving an example of dancing formation, Cooper writes, “In this little anecdote we learn the great rapidity with which new fashions penetrate American usages, and the greater ductility of American society in visible and tangible things, at least; and the heedless manner with which even those who write in a good spirit of America jump to their conclusions. Had Captain Hall, or Mrs. Trollope, encountered this unlucky quadrille, they would probably have found some clever means of imputing the nez-à-nez tendencies of our dances to the spirit of democracy!” (Gleanings: France 24). 30 reader about the nomenclature of French society, he assumes there is no need to translate the French language itself. 21 Cooper further demonstrates his tendency to avoid translation by leaving dialogue in French without any English explanation. For example, in describing the women present at the dinner, Cooper reports: One, of great personal charms and quite young, was seated near me, and my neighbor, an old abbé, carried away by enthusiasm, suddenly exclaimed to me—“Quelle belle fortune! Monsieur, d’être jeune, jolie, et duchesse!” I dare say the lady had the same opinion of the matter. (167) French fluency may not be necessary to understand the gist of this anecdote, but some reading knowledge is required for full comprehension. By concluding this passage with his own dry punch line rather than offering any commentary on the meaning of the French remark, Cooper requires the reader to be conversant in the language in order to feel included in the joke. A second exchange with his neighbor offers another example of this characteristic treatment of dialogue: I asked my neighbor, the Abbé, what he thought of M. de Talleyrand. After looking up in my face distrustfully, he whispered—“Mais, Monsier, c’est un chat qui tombe toujours sur ses pieds,” a remark that was literally true to-night, for the old man was kept on his feet longer than could have been agreeable to the owner of two such gouty legs. (173) Once again, Cooper’s joke is nonsensical without enough knowledge of French to recognize the common saying. By not offering any translation, Cooper seems to assume that his reader is cosmopolitan enough to understand how the “remark . . . was literally true.” At least Cooper does not seem to care if he alienates a reader who is not. But 21 It is important to note, however, that it is not impossible to find fault with Cooper’s French, however proud the author appears to be of it. Spiller notes, for example, that “the French manuscripts of Cooper are improved, as Mark Twain has put it, by being retranslated back into their native tongue” (Fenimore 83). 31 perhaps such a feeling of being excluded might encourage the monolingual to improve their linguistic knowledge. Amid these far more numerous examples of untranslated French, Cooper occasionally does provide a translation, but only in cases where the translated meaning is of utmost importance. In one of the few examples of such translation, Cooper describes a noble family “who were content to bear the appellation of Sire, a word from which our own ‘Sir’ is derived, and which means, like Sir, the simplest term of courtesy that could be used” (164). Already in setting up his story, Cooper explains the French usage. He goes on to describe how the family demonstrate their “contempt for titles” in their motto, which Cooper sets off from the text as follows: “Je ne suis roi, ne prince, ne duc, ne comte aussi; Je suis le Sire de Coucy.” (165) To this, Cooper footnotes the translation, “I am neither king, nor prince, nor duke, nor even a count: I am M. de Coucy” (165). Even in this example, Cooper minimizes the obtrusiveness of the English translation by removing it from the main text and allowing readers to consult it or not, depending upon their linguistic knowledge. The significance of this motto, in comparison to the amusing but tangential comments of the Abbé, becomes clear when Cooper offers his own version, to be used by “our own ministers and citizens abroad” (165). Cooper advises: If any prince should inquire—“Who is this that approaches me, clad so simply that I may mistake him for a butler, or a groom of the chambers?” let him answer, “Je ne suis roi, ne prince, ne duc, ne comte aussi—I am the minister of the United States of Amerikey,” and leave the rest to the millions at home. (165) Cooper’s adaptation of the motto encapsulates the patriotic pride in American democracy that Cooper demonstrates throughout his travels, a pride which will only be soured upon 32 his eventual return home. Despite its provincial and often illogical usages, America’s lack of titles is not a mark of rusticity but a symbol of its political sophistication. By recognizing this distinction, Cooper once again emphasizes his republican patriotism, in contrast to the later nationalism of presumed cultural and linguistic superiority. And it is only the significance of this point that warrants the unusual instance of translation. 22 Cooper’s pride in knowing French further can be seen in his account of meeting Sir Walter Scott. Cooper describes how he encounters a stranger at the entrance of his building: “Est-ce Monsieur ——, que j’ai l’honneur de voir?” he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent. “Monsieur, je m’appele ——.” “Eh bien, donc—je suis Walter Scott.” (207) Despite Cooper’s apparent admiration for the writer, his account of Scott’s French is far from complimentary, both in Cooper’s overt comment about Scott’s “indifferent accent” and in the general stuttering quality he gives to Scott’s speech. Cooper heightens the sense of Scott’s linguistic incompetence with the following observation: All this time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in English. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said—“Well, here have I been parlez-vousing to you, in a way to surprise you no doubt; but these Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half forgotten my own language.” (208) 22 Another rare translation also appears for a French saying to which Cooper attaches much importance. Beforehand, Cooper complains of Americans’ “tendency to repel every suggestion of inferiority” and calls this “one of the surest signs of provincial habits” (236). He concludes his explanation (or rather, his lesson) with the statement: “The French have a clever and pithy saying, that of — ‘On peut tout dire, à un grand people.’ ‘One may tell all to a great nation.’” (236). In other words, America’s failure to take criticism with grace suggests its inferiority. Not only does Cooper feel quite strongly about this issue, as his lampooning of similar provincialism in Home as Found demonstrates, but the reader most in need of this advice would be one ignorant of French (if any such readers have remained to reach this point). 33 Here, Scott is doubly foolish. Not only does he lack Cooper’s apparent ease in switching between languages, but that failure exposes his lackluster French. And this is a subject that Cooper proves unwilling to drop throughout the letter. In another anecdote, Scott asks Cooper to decipher an invitation. Scott says, “you are a friend of the lady, and parlez-vous so much better than I, can you tell me whether this is for jeudi, or lundi, or mardi, or whether it means no day at all?” (212). As if to highlight how much better he does “parlez-vous,” Cooper drily follows this with the deadpan, “I told him the day of the week intended” (212). Only several pages later, Cooper again reports Scott’s linguistic failure: “He said, laughingly, that he spoke French with so much difficulty he was embarrassed to answer the compliments” (216). Again emphasizing the superiority of his own French, Cooper follows this with another anecdote in which, as in his description of the royal dinner, he leaves the French comments made to him untranslated, even at the risk of obscuring the central point of the story. Summarizing his opinion of Scott, Cooper writes, for a “man who had been so very much and so long courted by the great,” he sometimes demonstrates “a want of familiarity with the world,” but “after all, his life has been provincial” (213). Cooper never quite mocks or insults Scott in Gleanings, but he makes it abundantly clear that, while the Briton might surpass him in fame, it is the American who can converse in France without a problem. 23 For Cooper, literary merit is hollow without such cosmopolitan markers of class. Gleanings: France contains other, more overt statements of Cooper’s views of language. He says of the French, for example, “Like the people of all great nations, their 23 Stephen P. Harthorn’s paper “Truth and Consequences: James Fenimore Cooper on Scott, Columbus, Bumppo, and Professional Authorship” examines Cooper’s sometimes harsh criticism of Scott more broadly. 34 attention is drawn more to themselves than to others, and then the want of a knowledge of foreign languages has greatly contributed to their ignorance” (219). This deficit does not damn the French entirely for Cooper, but his disapproval is clear as he goes on to speak positively of how the younger generation is beginning to remedy the shortcoming. For Cooper, the French people’s ignorance of other languages is a key cause of their greater failings. He explains that “the limited powers of the language, and the rigid laws to which it has been subjected, contribute to render the French less acquainted with foreign nations, than they would otherwise be” (220). In describing this limitation, Cooper gives what amounts to a defense of his general policy on the inclusion of foreign languages in his own works. He explains: In all their translations, there is an effort to render the word, however peculiar may be its meaning, into the French tongue. Thus, “township,” and “city,” met with in an American book, would probably be rendered by “canton,” or “commune,” or “ville”; neither of which conveys an accurate idea of the thing intended. In an English or American book, we should introduce the French word at once, which would induce the reader to inquire into the differences that exist between the minor territorial division of his own country, and those of the country of which he is reading. In this manner is the door opened for further information, until both writers and readers come to find it easier and more agreeable to borrow words from others, than to curtain their ideas by their national vocabularies. The French, however, are beginning to feel their poverty in this respect, and some are already bold enough to resort to the natural cure. (220) Because of the importance the French put on their own language and culture, they avoid including any foreign words in their translations. As a result, Cooper argues, other cultures become indistinguishable from French culture, and thus the French people remain ignorant of other countries’ ways. Cooper, in contrast, not only emphasizes the cultural differences between nations, but insists that these differences be represented by using the proper words for things. Thus, the English word “township” would signify the 35 American concept better than any French equivalent could, and vice versa. By traversing the narrow bounds of linguistic nationalism, writers have access to more varied vocabulary to express their precise meanings. This practice, as I have argued, can be seen throughout Cooper’s travel writings, both fictional and nonfictional. What makes this passage even more significant, however, is Cooper’s account of his pedagogical rationale. He argues that including a French word in an English-language text will lead the reader to wonder about the differences between townships and villes, encouraging them to learn more about those differences and to acquire more foreign vocabulary. Cooper calls the lack of such linguistic and cultural knowledge “poverty,” and he clearly takes pains to avoid such a shortcoming in his own writing. 24 Cooper’s travels to England provide further opportunities to debunk the binary of American provinciality and European sophistication. Cooper is particularly critical of the English, so his observations take on a less favorable cast. Looking at Cooper’s references to linguistic difference in Gleanings in Europe: England, Spiller calls “Cooper’s main theme, a comparison of the cultures of the two countries in terms of the speech of the various social classes in each” (“Cooper’s Notes” 298). Indeed, throughout the work, Cooper provides observations on language supporting his view that there is a greater intranational difference between speakers of different classes than there is between 24 Kennedy similarly notes Cooper’s desire to educate his readers: “When he began Gleanings, Cooper fancied himself embarking on a new career as a cultural critic. He hoped his nonfiction writing would enjoy success, but above all he meant to combat ignorance at home and abroad, correcting American self-delusions and enlightening native readers about Europe while aiming (through foreign editions) to provide European readers with revealing views of the countries he had visited” (95-96). 36 speakers of equivalent classes on each side of the Atlantic. 25 As David Simpson argues about Cooper’s works more generally, “language is imagined as a symptom (and indeed a cause) of struggle and conflict within the social contract” (Politics 251). Language, for Cooper, thus serves as a marker of class rather than a divider of national communities. Early in Gleanings: England, Cooper describes a conversation between himself and three Englishmen. They discuss whether it is possible to determine if someone is American or English from that person’s speech: The two oldest gentlemen professed not to be able to discover any thing in my manner of speaking to betray me for a foreigner. But the young gentleman fancied otherwise. “He thought there was something peculiar— provincial—he did not know what exactly.” I could have helped him to the word—“something that was not cockney.” . . . The difference between the enunciation of Mr. Rogers and Mr. Cary and one of our educated men of the middle states, it is true, was scarcely perceptible, and required a nice ear and some familiarity with both countries to detect, but the young man could not utter a sentence, without showing his origin. (31) Cooper, who considers himself an expert on the differences between English and American language, can hear a difference in the speech of Roger and Cary, but their common high level of education makes such a difference extremely small. The young man, who apparently speaks with a “cockney” accent, a term Cooper uses throughout his travels to express contempt for things of a lower class, mistakenly believes that the lack of such an accent is “provincial.” But, as Cooper is quick to insist, his own educated American English is far more proper than the youth’s British English, and a sign of its 25 Numerous critics have sought to explain Cooper’s seemingly contradictory beliefs in democracy and in important distinctions of class, breeding, and merit. According to Ross J. Pudaloff, Cooper felt that “the great promise of America” was “the achievement of a hierarchical society and a democratic polity” (714). Likewise, McWilliams notes Cooper’s views that, “in a democracy, the gentry should be voted into power” and that “the gentry are usually the natural and social superiors of the common man” (Political 195). 37 correctness is the relative absence of national markers. Cooper seems to find something shameful in the young man’s “showing his origin” in every sentence, and prides himself that his own cosmopolitan correctness prevents such gauche disclosures. Similar observations can be found throughout the volume. At a dinner party hosted by Lord Grey, Cooper insists that the British company’s “manner of speaking is identically the same as our own,” adding “(I speak now of the gentlemen of the Middle States)” but also including “that portion of those in the Southern who live much in the towns” (121). For Cooper, the upper classes of both countries share the qualities of directness and simplicity in language because of their “[c]ommunion with the world” (121). Elsewhere in the text, Cooper complains of the “many abuses of the language, in the middling classes” in England (171). One such abuse is the pronunciation of “my.” Cooper asserts that “the polite way of pronouncing this word . . . [is] by a sort of elision—as ‘m’horse,’” and he concludes “that ‘my horse,’ ‘my dog,’ ‘my gun,’ the usual American mode, and ‘me horse,’ ‘me dog,’ ‘me gun,’ the English counterpart, are equally wrong; the first by an offensive egotism, and the last from offensive ignorance” (171). Thus, Cooper places the genteel and correct usage, which is shared by the “better sort” in both countries, above the common usages of each. In another conversation about language differences between England and America, Cooper explains, “I told him we had social castes in America, as in England, though they were less strongly marked than common; and that men, of course, betrayed their associations in nothing sooner than in their modes of speech” (289). For Cooper in this last as in the previous examples, language difference between countries is less significant than verbal distinctions of class. 38 By making this claim, Cooper elevates himself above the common, provincial American, placing himself on a plane with the best of Europe. Gleanings: Switzerland, the middle book chronologically (although the first published), holds an interesting position between the books on France and England and Cooper’s later travels. Cooper describes the difference in subject matter at the opening of the volume, rejoicing that “a commonplace converse with men was about to give place to a sublime communion with nature” (5). While Switzerland is more touristic than France, in which much of Cooper’s observations deal with his time residing in the country and moving in French society, it contains more examples of linguistic difference than Cooper’s even more touristic accounts of Italy and the Rhine. When Cooper encounters French in Gleanings: Switzerland, his treatment of the language is similar to that in Gleanings: France, but travel in Switzerland also presents a new linguistic challenge—German. At first, Cooper is optimistic about his ability to understand German. He explains, for example: The town on the Swiss side of the river is called Kaiserstuhl, or Emperor’s seat; the good Franz being called a Kaiser, a corruption of Cæsar, in the vernacular of his lieges. Stuhl speaks for itself; being pronounced like our own stool. They who speak English, by a little attention to sounds, can soon acquire a very respectable travelling German. (79) Even ignoring the issue of false cognates (the English and German versions of “gift” being one notorious example), Cooper’s implication that all German will be as easy to decipher as stuhl is overly optimistic. Such optimism is also indicative of Cooper’s cosmopolitan belief that he should be able to converse in any language. Despite this hopeful beginning, the volume contains numerous examples of misunderstandings brought about by a combination of the Coopers’ lack of skill with German and the 39 numerous and obscure dialects of the region. In the very next letter, the Coopers meet with “a serious difficulty” in Altstetten, a small town in which, Cooper writes, “we could not make ourselves understood” (91). He admits that part of the fault is his own and that his “German was by no means classical,” but he also lays some of the blame on the lack of worldliness of the town, writing, “English, Italian, and French, were all Hebrew to the good people of the inn” (91). Cooper admits some fault in not having mastered German, but he still continues to emphasize his own linguistic arsenal in comparison to the town’s provinciality. Further highlighting the fault of the townspeople, Cooper notes that, even though his coachman “spoke as pure a patois as heart could wish[,] . . . the patios of the district would own no fellowship with that of this linguist” (91). Even in the face of his own shortcomings (and he is the visitor, after all), Cooper continues to offset these difficulties by highlighting his linguistic cosmopolitanism. He overcomes this particular language difficulty, for example, by resorting to “the language of nature” and “crow[ing] like a cock” to indicate that his party would like something to eat, a tactic that succeeds in procuring “a broiled fowl, an omelette, and boiled eggs” as well as in entertaining all at the inn (91). Cooper’s onomatopoeia proves successful in addressing his needs, but it also lacks the precision of more specific terminology, procuring him a wider variety of chicken-related food than would have been necessary. Cooper is obviously capable of laughing at himself for the caper, but the anecdote also reveals no small pride in his ability to communicate despite the language barrier. When the local language is a dialect of French and not German, Cooper is even quicker to elevate his acquired but “proper” French over the native but “provincial” French of the people he encounters. One example is the following miscommunication: 40 I asked the waiter, who spoke French, for some pears. “Pois! des petits pois!” he roared; “why, monsir, the peas have been gone these six weeks.” “ I do not ask for ‘pois,’ but for ‘poires,’ ‘des poir-r-es,’ which are just in season.” One would think this explanation sufficient, and that I might have been quietly answered, yes or no;—not at all. My sturdy Swiss very coolly turned upon me, and gave me to understand that reason he had not comprehended me at first was my very bad pronunciation. “Fous n’abez bas un bon bronunciashun, Monsir; voilà, poirquoi je ne fous ai bas combris.” Certes, my French is any thing but faultless, though I have no reason to suppose it worse than that of my castigator, who made a most ludicrous appearance as he reproved me for calling a pear, peas; an offense, by-the-way, of which I was not at all guilty. (175) Cooper may have laughed along with the women of the inn when he was forced to resort to animal sounds to order food, but he obviously finds the effrontery of this waiter inexcusable. From his first “roared” response, the waiter behaves in a way that is both utterly uncivil and uncivilized, at least according to Cooper’s account of the confrontation. When Cooper responds by repeating and slowing down his words as if the waiter was the foreigner, it is no surprise that his “castigator” does not drop the issue but instead insults Cooper’s pronunciation. Unfortunately for the Swiss waiter, the writer has the power to print the last word, and not only does Cooper end the anecdote by claiming his own innocence (although we have nothing but his word to determine how faultless his pronunciation might have been), but he also wields the power of phonetic spelling to mark the waiter’s speech as nonstandard and incorrect. Whatever Cooper’s own linguistic faults may be, he never represents them by altering the spellings of his own speech. By the time Cooper reaches the “hamlet” of Disentis, remarking that “village” would be “too significant a word for this local capital,” he seems frustrated enough with these repeated communication difficulties to lay all of the blame on the provinciality of the inhabitants, “a people who spoke a patois known only to themselves” (202). Cooper describes how he is startled awake one night by a strange man at his bedside: 41 To all and each of my questions, however, nothing could be got out of him but the single word, “serviteur,” which he pronounced more and more deliberately each time. This ridiculous scene lasted several minutes before I began to suspect the truth. It would seem that the honest landlord, distressed at not being able to comprehend my wants, had sent for an interpreter, who happened to be the worthy and sententious individual in question. (204) Cooper concludes this amusing anecdote with what amounts to the joke that the people of Disentis are so provincial (how provincial are they?), that their greatest “linguist” knows “but one word of a foreign language, and that one, too, far from particularly well” (204). In his account of the next day, Cooper again contrasts his own linguistic prowess to that of the village. He describes exploring the abbey, “in hope of meeting a monk, with whom [he] might, at least, murder the little Latin that a busy and varied life has spared” (205). As in many of the previous examples, Cooper’s modesty about his “little Latin” is far from convincing. But his desire for conversation is thwarted again, and he laments, “the ‘serviteur’ of the linguist was the only intelligible word which had greeted my ear since I entered the place” (205). Despite his attempts at modesty, Cooper demonstrates a clear pattern of displaying his linguistic skills whenever possible and emphasizing, when he does experience communication difficulties, that the fault lies in the rusticity of the locals, not in his own shortcomings. Cooper’s account of his visit to Italy is the most properly touristic of all of his writings; as Kennedy notes, it “savors of guidebook notations, many of them happily invested with Cooper’s critical intelligence and unaffected delight” (116). Cooper admits near the end of the volume, “I have told you little in these letters of the Italians 42 themselves, and nothing of what may be called their society” (Gleanings: Italy 295). 26 His avoidance of Italian society gives him fewer opportunities to remark on the language of the country. When he does, the comments are similar to the more numerous examples from his earlier travels. He praises Florence, for example, by saying, “This is the age of cosmopolitanism, real or pretended; and Florence, just at this moment, is an epitome both of its spirit and of its representatives” (23). Cooper also derives much amusement from the speech of common people with local dialects. One example is a lad rowing a boat from Amalfi to Salerno who “amused [them] greatly with his patios” by pronouncing “Signore” as “snore” (157). Cooper notes his son’s “great delight” at the incident and concludes with the image of the more worldly American family laughing at the local lad’s provinciality. Finally, Cooper again demonstrates the significance of linguistic difference when he praises the speech of the “females of Rome,” particularly “[t]he manner in which they pronounce that beautiful and gracious word ‘grazie’” (230). He continues: A French woman’s “merci” is pretty, but it is mincing, and not at all equal to the Roman “thanks.” After all, as language is the medium of thought, and the link that connects all our sympathies, there is no more desirable accomplishment than a graceful utterance. (230) As Cooper demonstrates throughout his travel writings, it is worthwhile for a writer to print and a reader to understand foreign words because “thanks” in French is not exactly 26 Interestingly, Emilio Goggio’s explanation of this omission, that while “Cooper had lived among the Italians for a long time, he hesitated to pass judgment upon their character and nature for fear that his knowledge of them might not be sufficiently thorough to do so adequately” (70), further demonstrates the importance Cooper places on speaking the language and living in society for an extended residence. Even though his visit was longer than that of many who would not hesitate to comment freely, Cooper was unwilling to make judgments based on insufficient cultural knowledge. 43 equivalent to “thanks” in Italian. When both are translated into English, an important difference is lost. Because he believes “language is the medium of thought,” Cooper emphasizes the importance of “graceful utterance,” but he also implies here, as elsewhere, that the original language of the utterance conveys a greater precision of meaning than is possible with any translation. Perhaps because it documents the last chronological period of Cooper’s travels, Gleanings: The Rhine contains more observations of a long-time resident than of a traveler and thus fewer observations about language. The language anecdotes it does contain, as in the Italian volume, reinforce the argument for Cooper’s general interest in the subject. For example, Cooper takes time to comment on Flemish and finds, “So nearly does this language resemble the English, that I have repeatedly comprehended whole sentences, in passing through the streets” (96). Cooper also continues his subtle linguistic competition with Scott by noting that his colleague mistakenly has the people of Liége speak Flemish instead of the “impure French, which is the language of the whole region along this frontier” (106). Cooper ostensibly undercuts his criticism by concluding, “But for the complaints of the Liégeois, the error would not have been very generally known, however; certainly not by me, had I not visited the place” (107). But once again, this feigned modesty only further emphasizes the greater worldliness Cooper himself has gained through his extensive travels. In sum, Gleanings in Europe does much to illuminate Cooper’s opinions of language and of the relation between America and Europe. Like The Pilot, it also presents a complex mixture of patriotic pride and cosmopolitanism. Cooper demonstrates that cosmopolitanism is a trait of elite Americans and Europeans alike, and that provinciality 44 is a mark of the lower classes rather than a national characteristic. Cooper also seeks to vindicate his country from charges of provincialism by speaking the languages of Europe and by following each country’s social customs. He conveys this appreciation for linguistic and cultural difference by saturating his own writings with foreign language, not merely to add a meaningless patina of local color, but because he believes that language makes a difference and that the reader can be improved through exposure to that difference. Linguistic difference may cause difficulties for the traveler, but Cooper contends that it should be overcome through broad linguistic knowledge and education rather than elided through translation or ignored by shutting down opportunities for transnational communication. In his later fiction, Cooper will begin to draw an even greater distinction between his own cosmopolitanism and that of the average American, thereby alienating much of his former audience. Elite Cosmopolitanism in Homeward Bound When faced in Europe with negative views of America and of democracy, Cooper maintained the strong patriotism evident in his early Revolutionary novels. 27 But after his return to America in 1833, he found that the country he spent years defending had changed for the worse. As Robert S. Levine explains, “Various social controversies—the 27 As Dekker points out, because “the nation as a whole had accepted Jeffersonian Republicanism” and “(by 1827) Cooper had gone along with it,” he remained “far to the left of most of the governing powers of Europe” (109). Thus, it is important to keep in mind that, while Cooper was conservative by American standards, his general belief in his country’s mode of government put him on the left in Europe. Illustrating the complexity of Cooper’s views, Robert S. Levine argues that “Cooper’s early novels express an implicit pessimism about America’s prospects that he would not address openly and deliberately until after 1833,” but that, “during his European residence of 1826-33, he conceived of himself as a spokesman for the glorious possibilities of American republicanism” (69). 45 dispute over Three Mile Point, his legal battles with the press, his disdain for Anti- Rentism—led him to feel increasingly alienated from the very public he hoped would purchase and read his novels” (100). The process of compiling his recollections into Gleanings in Europe, moreover, may have fostered unfortunate comparisons between their subject and his home. As Robert Lawson-Peebles argues, Cooper’s travel writings allowed him to develop “a richer, more complex, and even more negative view of American society” (348). In 1838, after a three-year break from fiction writing, Cooper published another sea tale, Homeward Bound, which is set in Cooper’s present and describes the Effingham family’s own return from Europe. Homeward Bound demonstrates how Cooper’s experiences abroad developed the perspectives on language found in The Pilot. The later novel also amplifies the class consciousness found in Cooper’s earlier works, carefully distinguishing the cosmopolitanism of the Effinghams (and the Coopers) from the provincial views of the American rabble. Homeward Bound and its sequel, Home as Found, are often read as markers of Cooper’s changing political views. Marilla Battilana describes how, after his return from Europe, Cooper “became one of the loudest and most argumentative critics of U.S. things, government, people and culture,” and she describes the novels as “brimming with aristocratic feelings and distrust with American institutions” (220, 227). 28 Likewise, Ronald John Clohessy notes that Homeward Bound marks “a shift from a Jacksonian 28 Levine modifies the common perception that Cooper “suddenly became an inveterate social critic, perceiving little but demagoguery and commercialism all around him” (96). Instead, Levine argues that “the transformation was a political-rhetorical one, pivoting as it did on his changing attitude toward his democratic reading public. . . . According to Cooper, the subsequent decline of his contemporary reputation had everything to do with politics: Defending republican and democratic ideals, he was misunderstood in what Marvin Meyers has termed ‘the Age of Dodge and Bragg’” (99). 46 sense of democracy found in the early novels to a more Jeffersonian notion of an aristocracy of merit.” While many of Cooper’s critics found him to be unapologetically aristocratical, Clohessy’s more balanced perspective reveals that Cooper was not anti- American, as the newspapers portrayed him, but that he did believe a successful republic requires its citizens to discriminate between persons on the basis of quality. 29 John P. McWilliams, in perhaps the most nuanced interpretation of Cooper’s shifting political viewpoint, offers the following psychological reading of the Effingham brothers: Among Cooper’s novels only Homeward Bound and Home As Found divide the American gentleman into two characters who disagree with one another. Edward and John Effingham represent Cooper’s changeable feelings during the troubled years of the late thirties. . . . Benign, optimistic, and self-contained, Edward offers temperate and assuring statements which Cooper very much wished to believe. His angry cynical cousin utters denunciations which Cooper wished not to believe, but which were to recur in later writings. (Political 229) It does seem likely that the reason scholars disagree about Cooper’s politics, particularly during this critical period, is that Cooper’s beliefs were in conflict with his hopes for America. While Cooper’s allegiance may have been divided between the Effingham brothers, both men are admirable in their own rights, and the conflict between them can produce fruitful dialogue. The novel positions such polite and well-reasoned discussion as perhaps the only path to solving the problems Cooper observed upon his return from Europe, and the ability to engage in such discussion is one marker of Cooper’s natural and cosmopolitan aristocrat. As the following reading will make clear, the gentility required for balanced discourse is impossible without a cosmopolitan education, whether that education be 29 Likewise, McWilliams asserts, “In dealing with Cooper, one must separate his aristocratic social convictions from his republican political convictions” (Political 29). 47 formal or based on real-word experience. Both the benefit and the marker of such an education is knowledge of multiple languages. Cooper himself proudly displays such knowledge with the foreign phrases interspersed throughout the speech of the genteel characters and the narration itself, as well as in the more extended French of Mademoiselle Viefville. Cooper contrasts this linguistic cosmopolitanism with the ungentlemanly speech and behavior of the lower-class characters such as the maid Anne Sidley, who is unable to learn French and dislikes anything said by Eve she cannot understand, and the steward Saunders, whose speech is marked by comically incorrect foreign phrases and mispronunciations. 30 While it is in the sequel, Home as Found, that Cooper has the most opportunity to satirize everything he finds deficient upon his return to America, the characters aboard the Montauk frequently pass the time comparing the merits of America and Europe. As the narration notes, “the conflicts between American and British opinions, coupled with a difference in habits, are a prolific source of discontent in the cabins of packets” (I: 38). Indeed, the first sentence of the novel is a comparison of the coasts of England and America, and it favors the former for its “general appearance of civilisation” (I: 7). This comparison is continued in a conversation between Eve and her father. Edward Effingham muses, “We have seen nobler coasts, Eve, . . . but, after all, England will always be fair to American eyes” (I: 8). He further demonstrates his preference for Europe when he expresses pride that Eve is “educated beyond the reach of national 30 In a paper on Cooper’s use of Scots dialect, Signe O. Wegener similarly points out that “Cooper, always the novelist of manners, insists that the higher a person’s social rank, the more superior and less accented his or her use of the English language—and also their command of other languages. In his texts, language becomes an inescapable social marker.” 48 foibles” (I: 8). Indeed, Eve’s education has made her cosmopolitan, and she describes herself as “independent of prejudice” (I: 8). Her cousin, John Effingham, likewise praises her for being educated by “a congress of nations,” and he pays particular attention to Eve’s knowledge of languages, which will garner widespread admiration upon her return to America in Home as Found (I: 9). 31 These opening remarks set the tone for a novel that espouses cosmopolitan ideals and assumes a reader as cosmopolitan as its protagonists. Newspaperman Steadfast Dodge, in sharp contrast to the cosmopolitan Effinghams, is the emblem of everything that Cooper finds distasteful in 1830s America. Most readings of Cooper’s novel pay particular attention to his character, and there is little doubt what Cooper thought of this scurrilous figure. Daniel Marder calls Dodge an “ill-mannered, arrogant and ignorant usurper of republican virtues” (26). Dekker, likewise, calls the editor “a cowardly, sneaking, lying fictional descendent of Hiram Doolittle of The Pioneers, a ‘Man of the People’” (155). Others, such as Joel A. Johnson, connect Dodge to Cooper’s dislike of New Englanders. Johnson calls him “an ardent New England democrat . . . so devoted to equality and the rights of the people that he has difficulty thinking for himself” (138). Of more importance to the present argument is David Simpson’s reading of Dodge. Simpson argues that Dodge is an example of what 31 An extreme example of the recognition her linguistic knowledge receives is Mrs. Legend’s preparations for Eve’s appearance at one of the former’s “literary evenings”: “[I]t was known that Eve was skilled in most of the European tongues, and, the good lady, not feeling that such accomplishments are chiefly useful as a means, looked about her in order to collect a set, among whom our heroine might find some one with whom to converse in each of her dialects” (Cooper, Home as Found I: 92-93). Less admiringly, another minor character gossips, “Eve Effingham has lived so long in France, that she speaks nothing but broken English” (II: 18). 49 Cooper did not like about New Englanders who believed “everyone must conform to the New England standard” of language (Politics 187). Dodge’s hypocrisy on the subject of language is apparent in his own provincial speech. Simpson notes that, in the novel, “[w]hole pages are given over to the transcription of Dodge’s linguistic misdeeds, and the disdain they occasion in the truly polite characters” (187-88). Dodge’s provincial opinions about the English language are matched only by his provincial opinions of Europe. Cooper uses Dodge’s travel journal, which the newspaper editor already has sent back home for publication, to satirize the typical travel writings of American tourists who make snap judgments, fail to learn the language, and cannot see through their own prejudices. To the dismay of the Effinghams, Dodge begins to read from the journal of his visit to Paris: “‘Dejjuned at ten, as usual, an hour, that I find exceedingly unreasonable and improper, and one that would meet with general disapprobation in America. I do not wonder that a people gets to be immoral and depraved in their practices, who keep such improper hours. The mind acquires habits of impurity, and all the sensibilities become blunted, by taking the meals out of the natural seasons. I impute much of the corruption of France to the periods of the day in which the food is taken— ’” (I: 187) In a typical display of his excessively democratic ideas, Dodge disapproves of the French breakfast hour because it would be met “with general disapprobation in America” (emphasis added). Dodge further ignores the arbitrary relativity of cultural differences when he calls such timing not only unpopular but unnatural. And Dodge does not stop at disapproval of this single practice: he precipitously and illogically attributes the French breakfast hour to a generalization about the “corruption of France,” the same rhetorical move of which Cooper complains throughout his own travel memoirs. Cooper’s satire of travel writing in Homeward Bound is full of examples highlighting the distinction 50 between the cosmopolitanism of the Effinghams, Paul Powis, and Cooper and the provincial and chauvinist opinions of Dodge and his ilk. 32 Just as French phrases remain untranslated in Cooper’s own travel writing, Dodge’s remarks are punctuated by the responses of Mlle. Viefville in untranslated French. 33 Cooper thus aligns the anti-touristic sentiments of the genteel portion of Dodge’s audience with the cosmopolitan reader who can understand the Parisian’s rebuttals—and the cosmopolitan traveler who would understand the French spoken in Paris itself and make less prejudiced observations. Indeed, the higher-class listeners mock Dodge’s misuse of French as well as his misguided opinions. His bad pronunciations, in particular, mark him as one whose go-aheadism has prevented him from taking the time to learn the language properly. Mlle. Viefville, for example, is baffled by Dodge’s “Nully” until Eve clarifies, “Pour Neuilly, mademoiselle” (I: 188). Shortly after, when Captain Truck apologizes to the ladies for Dodge’s inclusion of a “naughty place,” Dodge himself clarifies, “To Notter Dam, Captain Truck, if you please, and I flatter myself that is pretty good French” (I: 189). Of course it is actually terrible French, and this is one of 32 If any more evidence of Cooper’s obvious alignment with the Effinghams were needed, it could be observed that, in both his confrontation with Dodge during this scene and his conversation with Eve afterwards, John Effingham voices many of the same views of American government found in The American Democrat, including the argument that if all men were equal, elections would be better held by lottery, and the declaration that the “[t]he character of the American government is to be sought in the characters of the state governments” (Homeward Bound I: 96, 99; see American Democrat 79, 25). 33 While a comparison of Cooper’s presentation of European languages with that of his more frequently studied Native American languages lies outside the scope of this project, Rosenwald makes just such a comparison in his reading of a similar scene of untranslated French in Last of the Mohicans. He contrasts Cooper’s idealistic and stereotypical portrayal of Native American languages with his more realistic depiction of French, concluding that the faults in Cooper’s portrayal of frontier multilingualism are evidence of his perspective on Native Americans, not his general views of language (30). 51 the greatest crimes in Dodge’s recitation as well as the most obvious marker of his worthless, provincial opinions. 34 While all of the Effinghams are cosmopolitan, the virtue is epitomized in the mysterious figure of Paul Blunt, whose “real” name is revealed to be Paul Powis later in the novel, but who we discover in the sequel actually to be Paul Effingham (son of John Effingham). 35 When Mr. Sharp first invites Blunt to discuss the situation of the pursuing Foam as an American to an Englishman, Blunt counters, “I do not know that it is at all necessary I should be an American to give an opinion on such a point . . . . For what is right, is right, quite independent of nationality” (I: 62). Similarly, Blunt shows his balanced view of his own country when he observes, “I do not think you Americans, Miss Effingham, at the head of civilisation, certainly, as so many of your own people fancy; nor yet at the bottom, as so many of those of Mademoiselle Viefville and Mr. Sharp so piously believe” (II: 50). As the antithesis of Dodge, Blunt seeks a level of truth beyond provincial biases. He even refers to himself as a “cosmopolite” (II: 49, 52), and his eventual match with Eve seems most fitting because she, too, “properly belongs” to neither side of the Atlantic (I: 128). 34 In Gleanings: France, Cooper describes another American with similarly terrible French, one who shares the poor pronunciation of “gullyteen” (Homeward I: 191; Gleanings: France 281). The real-life American, however, is an “eccentric, but really excellent-hearted and intelligent man” (Gleanings 280). This difference is perhaps an indication of Cooper’s greatly lowered opinions of his countrymen after his return to America, and/or the process by which real, complex people are simplified into satire. 35 Joel A. Johnson also notes that “Cooper’s ideal is embodied” in Blunt, but he frames this ideal in terms of Blunt’s compromise between the “self-confidence” of Captain Truck and the “deference” of Steadfast Dodge (139). 52 In addition to his balanced opinions of national differences, another marker of Blunt’s cosmopolitanism is his skill with languages. Describing her earlier acquaintance with Blunt in Germany, Eve recollects, “He made a good figure; was quite at his ease; speaks several languages almost as well as the natives of the different countries themselves” (I: 74). This facility with many languages keeps Blunt’s nationality a mystery. Eve further remarks of his uncertain origin, “this gentleman speaks three or four [languages] with almost equal readiness, and with no perceptible accent. I remember, at Vienna, many even believed him to be a German” (I: 75). Later, Mr. Sharp and Eve again debate Blunt’s nationality using the languages he speaks as evidence: “He is, then, an Englishman, after all!” said Mr. Sharp, in another aside. “Why not a German—or a Swiss—or even a Russian?” “His English is perfect; no continental could speak so fluently, with such a choice of words, so totally without an accent, without an effort. As Mademoiselle Viefville says, he does not speak well enough for a foreigner.” (I: 100) Blunt’s skill with European languages is so great that English is only identifiable as his native tongue for being less perfect. Whether his true nationality is discoverable or not, Blunt’s balanced and worldly opinions are clearly accompanied by an ability to converse like a native in almost any country of Europe. This connection is confirmed when Mlle. Viefville tells Blunt, “vous parlez trop bien Français not to love Paris,” and he responds, “I do love Paris, mademoiselle; and, what is more, I love Londres, or even la Nouvelle Yorck. As a cosmopolite, I claim this privilege, at least, though I can see defects in all” (II: 52). By seeing both good and bad, at home as abroad, Blunt epitomizes the intellectual benefits of the extended travel in Europe from which the Effinghams are just returning, and which the Coopers also experienced. 53 So far, all of these polite conversations in the Effinghams’ private rooms demonstrate how, in Homeward Bound, “the domestic novel becomes a sea novel” (H. Egan 78). 36 One of the common criticisms of the novel, however, is that this “sea-going drawing room,” as Stephen Railton calls it (172), is improbably disturbed by an extended sequence of action in which the packet is demasted in a storm, left defenseless when most of the men go to procure a new mast, and then beset by Arabs. 37 The first-class passengers escape in a launch and later reunite with the captain and crew. At this point, all of the able-bodied men, except the cowardly Dodge, attack the Arabs to retake the Montauk. After seeing the action from the perspective of the attackers, the reader is taken back in time to experience the battle with the women and older Effinghams hiding in the launch. In this second telling of the action sequence, Mlle. Viefville is the only one who can see what is going on. In response to the Effinghams’ eager questions, she gives a play-by-play of the battle presented only in untranslated French. The following passage is representative of the longer sequence: 36 Establishing the importance of Homeward Bound in Cooper’s body of work, Hugh Egan goes on to argue that the novel “unites the two opposing strains of Cooper’s earlier fiction, and in so doing establishes a tendency that will recur throughout the second half of Cooper’s career: the sea will not be considered a romantic world by itself so much as a lens through which to view a troubled contemporary world, a lens capable of isolating and focusing essentially continental dilemmas. His sea fictions, in short, become novels of critical principle rather than of patriotism” (78). Thus travel, for Cooper, is no longer a source of romance; it becomes a tool for critiquing the problems at home. 37 Robert Emmet Long remarks that Homeward Bound “is unsatisfactory in many important respects” and claims that the “adventures experienced in the course of the voyage . . . seem gratuitous and pointless” (James 105). Railton, in contrast, argues, “Far from being irrelevant, the action of this novel is in fact an emotional scenario, a transcript of Cooper’s state of mind,” and “the fight with the Arabs for possession of the Montauk . . . is an imaginative transmutation of the struggle over a piece of land in Cooperstown” (174). 54 “Voulez-vous avoir la complaisance, monsieur?” said Mademoiselle Viefville, taking the glass from the unresisting hand of Mr. Effingham. “Ha! le combat commence en effet!” ‘Is it the Arabs who now fire?” demanded Eve, unable, in spite of terror, to repress her interest. “Non, c’est cet admirable jeune homme, Monsieur Blunt, qui dévance tous les autres!” “And now, mademoiselle, that must surely be the barbarians?” “Du tout. Les sauvages fuient. C’est encore du bateau de Monsieur Blunt qu’on tire. Quel beau courage! son bateau est toujours des premiers!” (II: 137) For several pages, the lines in French almost outnumber those in English. As with Mlle. Viefville’s responses to Dodge’s travel journal, this choice of narration presumes a cosmopolitan reader. It is possible, of course, to pass over these impressions or to consult the earlier English narrative for clarification, but the exchange would be appreciated most by a bilingual reader. In such a climactic scene, Cooper does more than intersperse humorous French asides—he leaves exciting action that no reader would want to miss untranslated. In the next major action sequence, when the Montauk flees from the firing Arabs still on shore, it is not foreign language but technical jargon that might baffle the reader. As in The Pilot, much of the nautical language in Homeward Bound is either combined with metaphorical description or explained for lay readers, but some examples, like the following, are nearly impenetrable to those ignorant of sailing: By lowering the gaff the spanker was imperfectly bent; that is to say, it was bent on the upper leach. The boom was got in under cover of the hurricane-house, and of the bundle of the sail; the out-hauler was bent, the boom replaced, the sail being hoisted with a little and a hurried lacing to the luff. (II: 152) In his paper “Getting Under Way with James Fenimore Cooper,” Robert D. Madison decodes similarly technical passages. He notes that Cooper’s contemporary readers 55 would have been more knowledgeable of sailing than modern ones (having the equivalent of our general, but not particularly exact knowledge of airplanes), but the precise meaning of all of these technical terms would not have been obvious to everyone. It might seem unreasonable to expect a reader to be fluent in both nautical jargon and French, but the ideally cosmopolitan Blunt is an example of one gentleman who does know both, in addition to his impeccable English and numerous other European languages. Although he is only a passenger aboard the Montauk, Blunt’s nautical skill and expertise are essential for the escape and survival of his shipmates throughout their encounter with the Arabs. At the same time, Blunt’s ease with European languages makes him an appropriate companion for the refined Eve. For Cooper, there is benefit to knowledge of all kinds, and Blunt is an example of how even disparate knowledges can be combined in one supreme example of cosmopolitanism. After their series of close escapes, the international complement of passengers aboard the packet are drawn closer together, and the debate over the merits of England and America becomes less partisan. With a final show of his cosmopolitan impartiality, Blunt remarks how “it is the duty of the citizen to reform and improve the character of his country” (II: 172). He further explains Cooper’s own increasingly critical view of America by adding, “The American, of all others, it appears to me, should be the boldest in denouncing the common and national vices, since he is one of those who, by the institutions themselves, has the power to apply the remedy” (II: 172). Cooper demonstrates that the best American citizen is not blindly nationalistic, but instead is one who can solve the country’s worst problems through a cosmopolitan worldview and a willingness to criticize and improve. And just as Blunt has gained this impartiality from 56 his travels in Europe, John Effingham tells Mr. Sharp (actually Sir George Templemore) that the Englishman will gain a fairer perspective of America by extending his stay there. John Effingham predicts, “You have too much sense to travel through the country seeking for petty exceptions that may sustain your aristocratical prejudices, or opinions, if you like that better; but will be disposed to judge a nation, not according to preconceived notions, but according to visible facts” (II: 176). The virtues of the cosmopolitan society aboard the Montauk have also been observed by Thomas Philbrick. He writes: The ship, no longer the symbol of freedom from the responsibilities and restrictions of society, becomes a microcosm of that society. Into the Montauk is crowded “a congress of nations,” and the discipline of the ship serves as a lesson that might well be applied to governments on land. (James 123) The international society of the packet is removed from the prejudices of the nationalist societies on land, and from that vantage point, the passengers prove capable of discussing social issues in a balanced way. Society’s many problems can only be resolved from the cosmopolitan perspective cultivated by international travel. Shortly after this genteel conversation, Cooper reprises the satire of Dodge’s travel journal, thereby demonstrating how the wrong kind of travel can serve instead to strengthen prejudices: Mr. Dodge . . . turned over to one of his most elaborate strictures on the state of society in France, with all the self-complacency of besotted ignorance and provincial superciliousness. Searching out a place to his mind, this profound observer of men and manners, who had studied a foreign people, whose language when spoken was gibberish to him, by travelling five days in a public coach, and living four weeks in taverns and eating-houses, besides visiting three theatres, in which he did not understand a single word that was uttered, proceeded to lay before his auditors the results of his observations. (II: 202) 57 With this description, Cooper summarizes the three qualities that distinguish Dodge’s travel from that of the Effinghams or of Cooper himself. First, Dodge is provincial because he is “complacent” in his lack of knowledge about the places he visits. Just as he holds to public opinion instead of proper logic and morality, he seeks to confirm his opinions abroad rather than expanding his viewpoint. Second, the hurry that, for Cooper, characterizes American society prevents Dodge from remaining in Paris long enough to gain a true sense of Parisian culture. The shortness of Dodge’s stay is exacerbated by his tendency to remain only in the public places most visited by travelers, preventing him from experiencing the true lives of the locals in what little time he does spend in the country. Perhaps most importantly, Dodge’s travel does not result in greater cosmopolitanism because he does not understand the language. In fact, Cooper notes the shortcoming twice in this brief passage. Dodge acts entirely counter to Cooper’s own philosophy of travel, in which learning the language is a priority. 38 Cooper leaves so much French untranslated in his novel because he imagines a reader who, like himself, will be sufficiently worldly, and perhaps sufficiently well-traveled, to understand the language of Paris like a native. 38 This philosophy is further demonstrated by Cooper’s decision to hire “foreign servants” while abroad so that they would “be a great aid in acquiring the different languages” (Gleanings: France 2). Many biographers and critics have also noted the importance of language learning in Cooper’s travel plans. Nathalia Wright lists having “his children learn French and Italian” as a reason for Cooper’s trip to Europe (115); Kennedy notes that “[t]he desire to afford his daughters German language instruction prompted their departure for Dresden in May 1830” (94); Wayne Franklin describes the instruction in French and Spanish given to the Cooper family in preparation for their time abroad, calling it “part of an educational plan for the family,” and further explaining that “the long work in French was also part of a long-matured wish of Cooper and his wife to spend some time abroad” (Early Years 513-14). 58 The elite cosmopolitanism of Cooper’s ideal of traveling may be somewhat extreme, but it also represents an older mode of travel: an extended stay in Europe during which one learns the language and moves in society. Cooper thus exemplifies the tradition epitomized by Benjamin Franklin’s residence in France and represented, in the nineteenth century, by scholars and cultural icons such as George Ticknor, Edward Everett, George Bancroft, and Washington Irving. 39 Cooper is also a major contributor to the genre of the sea tale, and his inclusion of nautical language and maritime themes introduces the trope of seeing the world (and learning its many languages) from the forecastle, an attention to language that also can be seen in Dana’s Two Years before the Mast as well as in the works of Melville examined in Chapter Three. 40 In both travel narrative and sea tale, Cooper emphasizes how the experience of travel can open the 39 In his study of eighteenth-century travel literature, for example, Percy G. Adams describes a “long tradition of real and fictional traveled protagonists who learn of the diversity in the world, live happily or sadly abroad, acquire languages and impressions, and constantly make comparisons” (193). Dulles calls Franklin “the foremost American in Europe” and notes that he “completely bewitched Parisian society” (8). Dulles also describes how Ticknor spent “nearly four years in Europe, learning its languages, studying its cultures, absorbing everything” before taking the “specially created chair of modern languages” at Harvard (36). Rolena Adorno calls Irving “the first . . . to make use of Spanish as a tool of humanistic learning and research,” starting “a trend . . . to move beyond English-language perspectives on the Americas’ history” (52). Also, see Cushing Strout’s analysis of how “Europe was inevitably a training ground for literary, artistic, and scholarly development” (62), as well as Trease’s discussion of the literary Americans who undertook a Grand Tour in the first half of the nineteenth century (213-32). 40 Like Cooper’s sea tales, Dana’s Two Years is well known for introducing nautical language to lay readers. Blum even suggests, as I argue for Cooper’s novels, that Dana’s work “encourages the domestic reading community to assimilate technical nautical language and customs” (View 46). Dana’s book also demonstrates how the issues of linguistic cosmopolitanism developed in Cooper’s sea tales became staples of the genre. Throughout the narrative, Dana emphasizes the variety of nations encountered on a sailing voyage, the benefits of hearing such a mix of languages, and the pleasure of finding a common ground of understanding. He finds that learning the language of other peoples leads to a better understanding of their culture. 59 receptive mind of the cosmopolite to the experience of cultural difference. In contrast to the idealism that reduces this difference to universal commonality, Cooper emphasizes the remainder of cultural significance that eludes translation. For Cooper, the variety of human language can be both confusing and misleading, but leaving foreign and technical language untranslated gives the writer a broader choice for expressing a precise meaning. In contrast to the works of imperialism examined in the following chapter, and the touristic travel to Europe that characterizes the latter half of the century, Cooper’s travel involves learning different languages and terminology, balancing republican patriotism with a cosmopolitan respect for the value of national differences, at least when those differences are of European origin. How Cooper’s perspective on linguistic difference might change in reference to less “civilized” parts of the world is the subject of the next chapter. 60 CHAPTER 2 EXPANSIONISM AND EXCHANGE IN COOPER’S LATER WORKS After his return from Europe, and the various legal battles that followed it, James Fenimore Cooper expressed his growing frustration with the American rabble, particularly in contrast to the sophistication he had observed abroad. Whether aiming to critique America’s mercenary expansionist policies, or merely wishing to escape the country he now found so objectionable, Cooper more frequently set his later works outside of the familiar North American and transatlantic worlds of his earlier novels. 1 This shift in setting mirrors the United States’ increased interests beyond its own coasts, and it illuminates the shifting attitudes toward foreign language that accompanied such imperialist endeavors. Cooper’s cosmopolitan appreciation for European languages may have exemplified the views of early-nineteenth-century Americans in Europe, but the many Americans traveling to parts of the non-Western world expressed a very different attitude toward the foreign. In contrast to the esteem in which European culture was held, views of the “savage” peoples encountered in the course of American expansion tend toward two prejudicial extremes: the seemingly opposed, yet simultaneous beliefs that alien 1 Whether, as Robert S. Levine argues, Cooper’s “disillusionment” with America caused him to search out foreign settings in order to “relinquish borders, disencumbering himself, as it were, of America itself” (102), or whether his growing criticism of the United States extended to a critique of its expansionism in the form of what George Dekker calls voyages “made in pursuit of plunder and discovery” (195), Cooper’s later works demonstrate a greater engagement with non-Western settings. Sandra M. Gustafson finds a similar change, albeit an earlier one, in her observation that Cooper’s “critique of empire” in The Bravo is “far more direct” than in The Prairie (125). Hugh Egan examines Cooper’s desire to escape “the shoreline,” arguing that Cooper’s increasing attention to the “mysteries of the open oceans” produces “a sense of Melvillean uncertainty and hidden fate” (78). 61 cultures are both utterly incomprehensible and easily translatable into Western terms. 2 This paradox can be found in views of non-Western languages as well as in attitudes toward cultural and economic exchange. Cooper’s later works of travel beyond America and Europe clearly map these two varieties of cultural misunderstanding. But while Cooper critiques both extremes, his treatment of “savage” cultures never equals the cosmopolitan appreciation of difference found in his European writings. Nevertheless, Cooper’s later sea tales raise questions of cross-cultural exchange that are central to the power structure of American imperialism. This chapter will examine how language, cultural concepts, and economic value are parallel currencies of exchange, and how the imperialist’s failure to recognize incommensurability—and thus to commence the difficult task of negotiating that difference through greater knowledge and understanding—results in the paradoxical extremes of too easy translatability and utter unknowability. The first section of this chapter outlines the common tropes of imperialist discourse highlighted in Cooper’s later works, examining the relationship between linguistic exchange and cross-cultural understanding. The second section demonstrates Cooper’s engagement with imperialist misunderstandings of linguistic difference in his novel Mercedes of Castile. The third section extends the analysis of language to the analogous translation of economic exchange, demonstrating that, while Cooper’s recognition of linguistic incommensurability takes an important step in the 2 As discussed in the Introduction, David Spurr describes the two parts of this “paradox of colonial discourse” as “the desire to emphasize racial and cultural difference as a means of establishing superiority” and “the desire to efface difference and to gather the colonized into the fold of an all-embracing civilization” (32). 62 critique of American expansionism, his ultimate approval of America’s civilizing mission leaves his position both imperfect and ambivalent. Language and Cannibalism in Imperialist Discourse In the early decades of the nineteenth century, the United States, though by no means a colonial power, was beginning to expand its military and commercial reach into the Pacific. 3 The nature of this expansion is clearly illustrated by the United States Exploring Expedition of 1838-1842, which Cooper draws on for at least two of his later novels (N. Philbrick 339). Its official instructions claim that “[t]he Expedition is not for conquest, but discovery,” but its mission to “extend the empire of commerce and science” was not accomplished without some violence (Wilkes xxvii-xxix). 4 The expedition also epitomizes how blindness to cultural difference manifests in the expectation of easy and unproblematic word-for-word translation. A postscript to Wilkes’s instructions notes: The accompanying printed list of English words . . . are intended for Indian vocabularies, which can be filled up as circumstances permit, taking care that the same words be used in all of them. (Wilkes xxxi) 3 As John M. Belohlavek has noted in his study of Jacksonian foreign policy, the United States, though “not seeking colonies,” “did not hesitate to carve out her own commercial empire” (151). Stressing American expansionist policies even further, Paul Lyons argues that “[a] whole U.S.-Pacific system of commerce and settlement functioned on a broad scale throughout [Oceania] from 1812 through the Civil War around the whaling industry (along with sandalwooders, sealers, bêche-de-mer traders), involving agents, communication networks, a consular system, and state-sponsored military protection, along with the missionaries who trained Island missionaries who fanned out, spreading trade and establishing U.S. influence throughout the Islands” (American 29). 4 One major goal was to further the interests of American commercial endeavors by charting the dangerous waters of the Pacific and establishing safe ports (Wilkes xxv- xxvi). As Barry Alan Joyce demonstrates, however, protecting the interests of trade also depended upon the expedition’s “military purpose,” which was partly a response to the “perceived threats” of French and British warships in the Pacific, but also aimed “to send a message to the native inhabitants” (14). 63 In accordance with its scientific aims and methods, the expedition sought to expand the United States’ linguistic knowledge methodically, with the meticulousness and empiricism of any scientific enterprise. Accordingly, rather than learn each native language on its own terms, Wilkes’s instructions were to chart a rigid lexicon of equivalent vocabulary, to find a corresponding term in each of the new languages encountered for a series of predetermined English words. These instructions assume not only that all languages will have the same words, with no change in or overlapping of concepts, but also that their words will correspond perfectly to the shopping list of English words prepared in advance. Thus, the “accompanying printed list of English words” assumes that there is a universal dictionary of concepts to which the terminology of every human language must correspond. As radically different cultures are never quite this commensurable, either such a plan is doomed to failure, or, worse, by forcing such artificial and misguided correspondence onto a newly encountered language, imperialist discourse will erase cultural difference in the translation of the subaltern tongue. 5 At times, Cooper seems complicit with imperialism’s tendency to erase a “savage” language through the extremes of disavowal or assimilation: the accusation of animality or the assumption of too easy translation. An example of the first position occurs in the novel Afloat and Ashore (1844), a first-person narrative in which Miles Wallingford chronicles his extensive and exciting career sailing throughout the globe on various merchant voyages. Although Cooper’s hero travels to many strange lands, the language of the savage Other plays little role in the text. Yet one exception to this rule 5 Eric Cheyfitz’s The Poetics of Imperialism studies how translation was used as a tool of cultural and linguistic domination throughout the history of colonialism and imperialism in the Americas. 64 warrants particular attention. While on a trading voyage in the Pacific, Wallingford describes a native language as “the uncouth sounds of the still more uncouth savages of that distant region” (180). These “uncouth savages” are like the Greeks’ idea of “barbarians,” so called because of their inability to speak properly (Spurr 102-103). The whites do not even take the time to ascertain the real names of these people, and instead call them things like “Smudge” and “Dipper.” This belittlement of their language accompanies other derogatory comments portraying the natives as little better than animals. For example, Wallingford calls Smudge “semi-human” and compares him to “baboons and monkeys” (182). It is obvious that the whites can barely understand these “savages,” but rather than admit their own failure to communicate, they imagine Smudge to be “almost without ideas” and to have “the air of downright insensibility” (182). Cooper, or his narrator, treats the speech of Smudge and his companions, unintelligible to the Americans, as hardly more advanced than animal grunts. Instead of admitting their inability to understand, the Americans recast the incommensurability of the alien language as inherent unintelligibility. Cooper begins to question these prejudices, however, when the seemingly “insensible” Smudge organizes the capture of the ship. Wallingford is forced to concede that “savages” have more sagacity than he previously thought, but he still uses language to outsmart them. He retakes control of the ship by speaking to the men below in a more complex style than Smudge, who possesses only a limited knowledge of English, can comprehend. In the end, it is difficult to determine what distance Cooper might have placed between the young Wallingford’s opinions and his own. Thomas Philbrick has pointed out that the “stoical dignity” of Smudge as he is hanged following the ship’s 65 recapture represents “the revolution that occurs in Miles’s judgment of the relative worth of the Indians and the whites” (James 140-42). Indeed, it is tempting to read the rebellion as a kind of forerunner to Melville’s “Benito Cereno.” Still, the apparent ease with which Wallingford outsmarts the entire band of natives seems to corroborate the whites’ linguistic and technological superiority. In either case, Cooper’s characterization of Smudge demonstrates how the radically foreign languages of non-white peoples are denigrated by the accusation of utter intelligibility, and the assumption that such incomprehensibility cannot be ranked with human speech. 6 Cooper also engages with the seemingly impenetrable speech of the non-white Other in Homeward Bound, after the Montauk encounters hostile Arabs along the coast of Africa. As examined previously, the novel privileges foreign language when it is a marker of a cosmopolitan education in Europe. In contrast to its large sections of 6 This trope is more famously employed by Poe in his depiction of the jabbering natives of Tsalal in The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. Like several of Cooper’s later works, including Afloat and Ashore, Poe’s novel responds to “the popular excitement which the preparations for the United States Exploring Expedition had stirred” (T. Philbrick, James 175). The racist stereotypes employed in Poe’s characterization of the Tsalalians as black and large-lipped are too obvious to deny. Critics seek instead to explain Poe’s purpose in including them. Mark Simpson, for example, argues that Poe invests in racism as “a viable discursive commodity” in order to “reinvest in authors the agency to shape the discriminations people make” (38). Focusing on language, Michael West argues that “[t]he strange speech of the Tsalalians sounds like aggressive baby talk” (312). Likewise, Scott Bradfield remarks, “The blacks in Too-Wit’s village possess no real language, only crazed ‘jabbering’” (79). The characterization of savages as language-less animals is also literalized in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” where the brutal murder of two women turns out to have been committed by an orangutan. As John Carlos Rowe aptly puts it, “The razor-wielding, imitative, ferocious, and prodigiously strong orangutan of ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ acts out a racist fantasy regarding civilized women—Mme and Mlle L’Espanaye—brutalized by ‘savages’ incapable of ‘proper speech,’ lacking the linguistic competency of those ‘Caucasians’ classified by Cuvier as the group that ‘has the most highly civilised nations’” (Literary 73). 66 untranslated French, the Arab language is never presented directly for the reader. However, it is clear that Cooper goes beyond the most unproblematically stereotypical portrayals of savage language. While he falls short of giving true voice to the Other, his treatment of non-verbal signs and of the threat of cannibalism encapsulates an archetypal scene of failed communication found in both the Columbus story and the contemporary record of American expansionism. Cooper’s portrayal of cross-cultural communication in Homeward Bound questions the imperialist use of translation for the erasure of cultural difference. The cosmopolitan assembly aboard the Montauk is defined by its combination of American, English, and European nationalities, but the passengers’ first encounter with radical difference occurs along the coast of Africa. After the ship is incapacitated by a storm, Captain Truck takes his men to procure a new mast from a wrecked Danish ship. That night, Captain Truck and his first mate Mr. Leach hear a noise on shore, sneak onto the beach, and capture the Arab man they find there. At first this stranger, like the natives in Afloat and Ashore, is described in animalistic terms. When knocked unconscious by the captain, he “[falls] like a slaughtered ox” (II: 14). Shortly afterward, Truck looks over the captive, “commenting on his points very much as he might have done had the captive been any other animal of the desert” (II: 15). The man is subsequently described has having “the whip-cord meagreness and rigidity of a racer” (II: 15). The Arab may be portrayed as something less than human in these offhand comments, but the ensuing scene undercuts any superiority the two Americans might feel. When the two mariners shine a light on their prisoner’s face, it is “sufficiently apparent that he fancied a very serious misfortune had befallen him” (II: 16). They 67 accordingly attempt to communicate that they mean him no physical harm. Cooper explains: “As any verbal communication was out of the question, some abortive attempts were essayed by the two mariners to make themselves understood by signs, which, like some men’s reasoning, produced results exactly contrary to what had been expected” (II: 16). Partly because of the comical lowness of these characters, but also because of the inherent difficulty of communication between radically different cultures, the attempted reassurances make the Arab prisoner fearful of even greater danger. Seeing the unwanted results, the captain guesses that “the poor fellow fancies we mean to eat him” and begins a more focused effort to “let the miserable wretch understand, at least, that we are not cannibals” (II: 16). Despite these efforts, the prisoner’s increasingly alarmed expression makes it clear that he does expect of Truck and Leach what Westerners often consider the most savage and repulsive practice of an unknown culture—in short, he expects they will eat him. Whether or not the Arab was the first to take the mental leap to cannibalism, Truck and Leach do nothing but make the situation worse: Hereupon the mate commenced an expressive pantomime, which described, with sufficient clearness, the process of skinning, cutting up, cooking, and eating the carcass of the Arab, with the humane intention of throwing a negative over the whole proceeding, by a strong sign of dissent at the close; but there are no proper substitutes for the little monosyllables of “yes” and “no,” and the meaning of the interpreter got to be so confounded that the captain himself was mystified. (II: 16) Despite Leach’s best intentions, and the clarity he obviously seeks to achieve in establishing the noun of “cannibalism,” his non-verbal signs cannot match the more sophisticated grammar of speech and thus fail to communicate the most important element of the message: that the Americans do not intend to roast and eat their captive. 68 Truck can see Leach’s error, but when he attempts to pantomime the same message, the result is the same. Truck deals with his failure by “ascrib[ing it] to anybody but himself” and deciding that “this fellow is too stupid for a spy or a scout” (II: 17). In the end, they set the man free rather than suffer him to remain in fear of becoming their breakfast. This comedy of non-verbal communication raises an important issue for both the Western conceptualization of language and the ramifications of that theory for colonized peoples. The apparent primitiveness of gesture seems to support the idea that all human language might share some universal origin. And belief in the inherent unity of human language, whether its origin is divine or natural, might further support an ideal of universal understanding, like Anacharsis Cloots’s cosmopolitan plans to abolish national boundaries. In practice, however, the assumption of some primordial, universal language more often leads to the imposition of Western norms and religious concepts onto less powerful peoples, whose differences are not indications of a “primitive” state destined to progress into Western civilization, but markers of their own legitimate culture with a different set of norms entirely. Some gestures, undoubtedly, mimic biological realities sufficiently for their meaning to be understood by even the most widely divided cultures. For example, all humans must eat by putting food in their mouths, chewing, and swallowing, so a pantomime of this sort may convey particular and basic messages, although, as Cooper describes in Homeward Bound, even this simple a message may be greatly misconstrued. 7 7 In his analysis of the connections between speech and gesture, Adam Kendon describes several kinds of mimetic or illustrative gestures including “enactment . . . , the use of body parts as models of things . . . , and the use of moving hands as if they are sketching diagrams or shapes in the air,” as well as “point[ing] to things, persons, or locations as a way of bringing these in as referents” (112). 69 Similarly, some people may be able to mimic animal or other sounds in a way recognizable to anyone familiar with the original source. From such examples, many eighteenth- and nineteenth-century language theorists extrapolated that all human language was derived from natural and universal origins. However, for every one of these genuine universals (or at least global or species-wide truths), many more gestural or onomatopoeic signs seem universal when they are not so. Gestures that are conventionalized rather than illustrative vary greatly from culture to culture (Kendon 118; Archer 80). For example, as sociologist Dane Archer points out, the “thumbs up” sign conveys “a very aggressive ‘screw you’ message” in Iran (80-81). Even seemingly mimetic gestures can prove less universal than a traveler might hope, as the American gesture of tipping a bottle to request a drink is quite close to the “an obscene gesture for ‘homosexuality’ found in a slightly permuted form in many societies” (80). The same may be true of onomatopoeia. For example, the sound a rooster makes varies worldwide from “cock-a-doodle-doo” to “cocorico,” “kiao kiao,” and “kikeriki” (Bredin 558). Sounds and gestures can be used to imitate reality, but more often, culturally specific signs and gestures are incorrectly taken for natural representations. Thus, to borrow Cooper’s example from Gleanings in Europe: Switzerland (91; see Chapter One), a traveler can imitate the sound of a rooster and possibly be understood, but to believe that it says “cock-a-doodle-doo” instead of “kikeriki” is the same kind of cultural misunderstanding that leads imperialists to mistake their own culturally specific concepts for universals. Thus, while recourse to gesture and sound may be the only option for communication in a foreign land, and may have some degree of success, these forms of communication can too easily foster the impression that all messages are equally 70 universal, and this assumption leads to misunderstanding, mistaken meaning, rather than the absence of understanding altogether. And it is misunderstanding that often proves to be the most dangerous and misleading failure of communication. In Homeward Bound, the first miscommunication with the captured Arab could be attributed to the ignorance of the two American mariners, but a second encounter with the Arabs suggests that non-verbal communication between radically different cultures is not as straightforward as universalist theories of human language would assume. When a larger party of Arabs appears on shore, Mr. Monday offers to go negotiate a peace with them, aided by a case of liquor. The cowardly Dodge accompanies him so as not to endanger anyone who would actually prove willing to fight should violence become necessary. The two ambassadors are received with hospitality, and all goes tolerably well until the Arab captured the night before reappears. Here, Cooper notes that the “inhabitants of the desert, in the course of ages, had gleaned certain accounts of mariners eating their shipmates, from their different captives, and vague traditions to that effect existed among them, which the tale of this man had revived” (II: 32-33). 8 Although Cooper falls short of directly portraying the Arab language, this shift in perspective provides readers a more sympathetic view of the Montauk’s enemies than is common in imperialist discourse. Moreover, by revealing that the Arabs have the same kind of alarming rumors about the “savage” behavior of the whites as the whites do about 8 Interestingly, Cooper further comments, “Had the sheik kept a journal, like Mr. Dodge, the result of these inquiries would probably have been some entries concerning the customs and characters of the Americans, that were quite as original as those of the editor of the Active Inquirer concerning the different nations he had visited” (II: 33). 71 “savages,” Cooper demonstrates how the failure to recognize and respect cultural difference can lead to ignorant assumptions of barbaric otherness. Cooper gives one final example of the failure of communication by signs, and of the disavowal of difference that attributes unthinkable acts to foreign peoples. The previously captured Arab undertakes a “pantomime . . . to explain the disposition of Captain Truck to make a barbecue of him” (II: 33). In this case, it is the Americans’ turn to misinterpret. Mr. Monday construes the communication as an invitation to dinner (which is exactly what the bon vivant would most desire). Even more tellingly, Dodge, “with a conformity of opinion that really said something in favour of the science of signs, . . . arrived at the same conclusion as the poor Arab himself—with the material difference, that he fancied that the Arabs were disposed to make a meal of himself” (II: 33). Comically, yet perceptively, Cooper presents a bumbling array of characters, who, with an ironic “conformity of opinion,” all convert an incomprehensible message into the most extreme form of barbarity and inhuman Otherness—the threat of the great taboo of cannibalism. Although previous critics have disregarded these paired scenes of misinterpretation in Homeward Bound as comic interludes in an already superfluous adventure sequence, Cooper’s repeated and pointed commentary on non-verbal communication as well as on cannibalism directly references many narratives of exploration in which whites encounter radical and unthinkable cultural and linguistic difference. 9 Indeed, Geoffrey Sanborn’s extensive research in The Sign of the Cannibal 9 Stephen Arch, one of the few critics who mention these scenes at all, relegates them to the “comic end” of the “line or ornamentation in the plot that diverges from the known or 72 demonstrates that accusations of cannibalism are a perpetual and an almost defining feature of any encounter with a radically different culture. Richard Slotkin has noted, for example, that “[c]annibalism had traditionally been associated with the Indians of America since the discovery of the New World by the men of the Renaissance,” and stories of cannibalistic acts continued through the time of the Puritans (90). Ted Motohashi calls cannibalism “one of the most powerful terms in the written literature of conquest,” one that is “circulated as a normative representation of the transgressive Other” (85). This tradition of attributing cannibalism to unknown people extended to America’s trade and exploration in the Pacific. For example, when the Wilkes expedition surveyed its first group of Pacific Islands (The Tuamotu Group), the Americans were quick to assume the natives were cannibals. As Nathaniel Philbrick notes, “The natives in this region had a reputation for cannibalism, and [one member of the expedition] claimed that their gestures suggested that if the white men should come ashore ‘they would certainly be made a meal of’” (123). This is the same conclusion made by both the Arabs and the Americans in Cooper’s novel. In light of the repeated appearance of cannibalism in the history of colonialism and conquest, Cooper’s use of it in Homeward Bound proves to be more than incidental—it references an extensive history of imperialist encounters. Consequently, the association of an unknown culture with the equally incomprehensible act of cannibalism is far from random. Another form of disavowal, the accusation of this unspeakable crime is the equivalent of comparing the language of the expected journey to place the passengers quite literally on the margins of the Arab world.” 73 Other to animal noise. 10 As has been demonstrated previously, imperialist perceptions of “savage” language often resort simultaneously to two opposite extremes. On the one hand, native languages are presumed to reference universal concepts and hence to be readily translatable. On the other, what cannot be so readily understood in the “savage” language is characterized as inhuman. As Cooper will demonstrate at length in Mercedes of Castile, the same binary exists on the level of culture. On the one hand, the assumption that “savages” are in a “state of nature” assumes that cultural difference is only an earlier stage of a universal progression of human civilization. At the same time, colonialist discourse wards off the incommensurable differences inevitably found within such radically foreign cultures with an accusation of utter inhumanity, and this accusation frequently takes the form of one of the most profound human taboos, the act of cannibalism. Not only is the discourse of cannibalism a commonplace in the archive of colonialism dating back to the age of discovery, but even the term itself derives from an archetypal moment of imperialism, Columbus’s description of the New World. The word “cannibal” is traditionally associated with the Carib tribe, but it is unclear whether it comes from the Caribs’ own language or from the language of their enemies, the 10 Mary K. Edwards makes this point in her discussion of “cannibal talk”: “The term ‘cannibal’ has been applied to almost all groups of people at one time or another. Humans generally consider the eating of another human an anathema. Cannibalism, like incest or necrophilia, is the boundary beyond which we cannot stray and remain fully human. Those who do eat people are monstrous—animals, savages, witches, nonhumans. To label a group of people cannibals is a way to gain power over them and to control them. It has also served as the justification for often horrific acts of violence” (61). Likewise, Otter argues that, for many imperialists and explorers, “cannibalism is the ultimate sign of the unnatural and the uncivilized. Cannibal interruptions register the writer’s ambivalence toward ‘savage’ cultures” (Melville’s 14). 74 Arawaks, who are the source of Columbus’s belief that the Caribs were man eaters (Cheyfitz, Poetics 41-42). Hence, the term originates in linguistic uncertainty. Cheyfitz even questions whether Columbus’s “cannibals” actually ate human flesh, raising many of the same issues found in Cooper’s scene of cannibal pantomime: [Columbus] did not have any empirical evidence, and his assertion that the Arawaks themselves told him is contradicted by Columbus’s own admission that neither the Indians nor the Europeans knew the other’s language. If we try to imagine the use of gestures in this case, we have not gotten around the problem of translation, but only embedded ourselves more deeply in it. For gestures are already translations of the culturally specific signs that compose linguistic phenomena, although Columbus and the European voyagers who later followed him appear to have believed from moment to moment in the power of a universal gestural language to transcend the frontiers of translation that frustrated their efforts to communicate. (42) By pointing out that gestures can be just as culturally specific as language, Cheyfitz locates the same failures of communication Cooper describes in Homeward Bound at the moment of European conquest. Although presented comically, Cooper’s depiction of how seemingly universal and transparent signs can inadvertently signify horrible acts of cannibalism is not farfetched—instead, it echoes the very origin of the term. The similarities between Cooper’s scene of misunderstood cannibalism and the history of colonialism are made even more significant by the importance of Columbus, and of Spain more generally, during the later decades of Cooper’s career. Indeed, the figure of Columbus resonated with the United States’ own goals of expanding its influence and territories. In the 1820s, there was a surge of interest in Spain as Americans such as William H. Prescott and Washington Irving traveled there for study. Iván Jaksić argues that these Americans studied Spain in order to “contribute to the shaping of their own country’s national identity,” because “the story of the rise and fall of Spain 75 contained lessons of great relevance to the fledgling United States” (1-2). 11 Pere Gifra- Adroher argues that, by 1830, “the Columbian myth was totally engrafted in American letters” (54). Although the Spanish Conquest was most often seen as an example of an unnecessarily violent imperialism, the “heroic Columbus,” according to Eric Wertheimer, was often contrasted to the cruelty of later conquistadors; Columbus was admired for “discovering a New World reminiscent of the Protestant Eden or Arcadia” and meaning only “to bring Christianity to the benighted” (20). 12 The primary source of the Columbus legend for English-speaking Americans was Irving’s History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (1828). 13 Further demonstrating the significance of the figure of Columbus, Rolena Adorno argues that “Washington Irving, as Prescott and others would do after him, turned the Spanish adventure in the New World into a remarkable Anglo-American story” and “created a nineteenth-century Columbus on the verge of discovery—and opportunity” (61). Thus, Columbus, and the Spanish conquest he began, were more than mere subjects of interest for nineteenth-century Americans, they encapsulated the spirit of discovery that was 11 María DeGuzmán’s Spain’s Long Shadow also analyzes how “the construction of Anglo-American identity as ‘American’ has been dependent on figures of Spain (xii). 12 Spain’s alleged cruelty to the native civilizations it conquered generated the widespread “Black Legend,” whose “implicit denigration of the contemporary Spanish Americas,” according to Anna Brickhouse, “conveniently gave rhetorical support to a variety of US political positions toward Latin America” (75), and, as Richard L. Kagan argues, allowed “early nineteenth-century promoters of American exceptionalism . . . to see Spain as an example of what would happen to a country whose fundamental values were antithetical to those of the United States” (22). 13 Irving originally intended to translate the historical archive that had recently been compiled by Martín Fernández de Navarrete, but he instead decided to write a unified narrative history that combined information from the various Spanish documents. 76 beginning to drive American expansionism while warning of the dangers that such expansion might present. The signs of cannibalism in Homeward Bound may or may not be a direct reference to Columbus, but they clearly outline a defining feature of cross- cultural contact—how the assumption of universality leads to vast misunderstanding. These issues will reappear, with far greater detail, in Cooper’s own version of the Columbus story. Discoveries of Incommensurability in Mercedes of Castile Cooper engages with the Spanish predecessor to American expansionism in his often-ignored novel Mercedes of Castile (1840). His retelling of Columbus’s first voyage highlights the colonialist assumptions about non-Western language that lead to radical misunderstanding. In the nineteenth century, Columbus was seen as a quintessentially American figure with the “self-reliance” necessary to ignore all who doubted the possibility of his plan and to push westward beyond the bounds of contemporary understanding. Furthermore, Columbus’s discovery of previously unknown continents and peoples, with the expansion of both territory and trade that it provided for Spain, epitomizes the ideal behind expansionist projects like the U.S. Exploring Expedition, which even sought to discover the “New World” of Antarctica. Cooper, indeed, makes the connection between Spain and America explicit when he notes in Mercedes of Castile that the date the Moors relinquished Granada to the Christian monarchs, November 25, was the same date the British “reluctantly yielded their last foothold on the coast of the republic” (I: 51). Despite the correspondence between Cooper’s version of the Columbus 77 story and American expansionism, Mercedes of Castile has been largely ignored and generally condemned when mentioned. 14 Most critics have found Cooper’s novel to be overly reliant on the historical record. However, Lawrence H. Klibbe, whose article appears in Spanish, offers one of the most positive, and consequently most interesting, readings of Cooper’s historical novel. The primary focuses of his study are Cooper’s representation of Spain and the many elements of Don Quixote in the book, but Klibbe also draws an important parallel between Spain’s Golden Age and Cooper’s America. He concludes: The mysterious forces of historical progress bring with them an inevitable battle between two civilizations, one primitive and one modern, and the violent disappearance of the one that is less advanced. Cooper confronts this moral contradiction within his country as well as in Mercedes: the victory of domination leads to a sense of responsibility and of decline. All of these influences and ideas call for a more just recognition of Mercedes of Castile. (1327, my translation) Thus, Klibbe recognizes that Mercedes of Castile is more than a history trying in vain to be a novel. Instead, Cooper uses the Columbus story to confront issues of imperialism 14 For example, Dekker writes, “Nobody, I believe, has ever maintained that Mercedes is anything but a very bad book” (194). Wayne Franklin mentions in passing that “Cooper admittedly faltered in Mercedes of Castile” (“Brief Biography” 51). Many other critics take the tactic of Robert Emmet Long’s generally comprehensive overview of Cooper’s works and avoid discussing the novel entirely (James). In one of the very few articles about the novel, Donald M. Goodfellow admits, “For its many literary faults Mercedes of Castile has suffered well-deserved neglect” (318). Even when Goodfellow does conclude that the novel “is of considerable interest” to “the student of . . . the American historical novel,” the chief interest it would hold is still only its “unique . . . method” of combining source materials (328). Yet what Goodfellow sees as the novel’s principal area of interest, Robert D. Madison blames for its failure, focusing his essay on the “irrelevance” of the lengthy exposition on Spanish history and the saturation of the novel with historical details (“Cooper’s Columbus”). Stephen Harthorn joins Madison in this criticism, complaining, “The novel (a perfect example of oneupsmanship gone wrong in Cooper’s attempt to best Irving’s Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus) has been rightly criticized for its plodding pace and excessive dialogue, and especially for being ‘source-bound,’ leaving little room for an appealing story to develop.” 78 that were anything but distant history for the United States in 1840. When read with an understanding of Cooper’s career-long engagement with language, as well as his increasing interest in questions of territorial and commercial expansion, this underappreciated novel reveals an exciting commentary on the misunderstanding produced by encounters with radical otherness. Although previous scholars have criticized the novel’s disproportionate organization, which devotes nearly half its length to events in Spain before Columbus even departs, each of the novel’s three phases illustrates an important aspect of the imperialist’s encounter with cultural difference. In the opening section, the focus on the strict social codes and mores of Spain demonstrates the relatively unproblematic interpretations that occur within a single cultural context. In a society where cultural norms are taken for universals, and all dissenters, such as the Moors or the Jews, are expelled, most messages among members of that monolithic culture can be conveyed with little to no misunderstanding. The ease with which Spanish society interprets actions through the lens of its own culturally specific relations puts the misunderstandings and uncertainties of the later parts of the novel into greater contrast. Moreover, while many commentators have criticized the novel’s clumsy combination of historical fact and romantic plot, there is an important thematic connection between the fictional story, featured primarily in the last third of the novel, and the historical account of Columbus’s voyage that occupies the middle section. 15 Throughout both the transatlantic voyage and the initial exploration of the Caribbean, 15 Dekker, for example, calls the novel “a narrative of Columbus’s first voyage to the New World on to which Cooper has soldered an absurd and puerile love story” (194). 79 Columbus and his crew engage in repeated misinterpretations, first by misreading signs of land and then by incorrectly translating the gestures and speech of the Caribbean natives. In both cases, the Spaniards see what they want to see. Columbus believes he can translate the communication of the natives because he takes his own cultural assumptions for universals, viewing as a prelapsarian state of innocence what is really a distinctly different culture. Columbus not only fails to communicate (an absence of understanding) but also more actively misunderstands the natives. His universalizing assumptions lead him to believe that communication has taken place when it has not. Columbus’s historical misunderstanding of the New World and the people he found there is mirrored in the novel’s romantic plot, in which Cooper’s hero Luis becomes infatuated with the beautiful indigenous “princess” Ozema. Luis eventually discovers that, like all the people encountered by Columbus, Ozema already possesses a culture of her own, and the incompatibility of her culture and Spanish culture leads to chronic misunderstanding. Throughout the novel, Cooper’s parallel examinations of both linguistic and cultural misunderstanding demonstrate the same willful ignorance seen in the U.S. Exploring Expedition’s shopping list of vocabulary. The assumption of too easy translatability results in the effacement of native culture. The first section of Cooper’s novel, which draws heavily on Prescott’s history of the Spanish monarchs (Goodfellow 319-24), depicts a series of nuanced negotiations in Spain. These include the courtship of Ferdinand and Isabella, discussions about whether the romantic hero and known rover Luis de Bobadilla is worthy of the hand of Mercedes de Valverde, and bargaining for terms for the voyage that would recognize the audacity 80 of Columbus’s undertaking while preserving the dignity of the monarchs. Each decision and each formal treaty is balanced between competing considerations of social standing, duty, and honor. For example, Isabella discusses her upcoming marriage with full knowledge of this complex web of responsibilities: “We are not to think principally of ourselves in entering upon this engagement,” continued Isabella, earnestly—“for that would be supplanting the duties of princes by the feelings of the lover. . . . If I may have seemed to thee exacting in some particulars, . . . it is because the duties of a sovereign may not be overlooked. Thou knowest, moreover, Fernando, the influence that the husband is wont to acquire over the wife, and wilt feel the necessity of my protecting my Castilians, in the fullest manner, against my own weaknesses.” (I: 46-47) The future queen will not agree to marry Ferdinand without considering the culturally specific relationships both of ruler to subject and of husband to wife. Likewise, when the novel jumps forward to the events of 1492, Luis is judged unworthy of marrying Mercedes because his previous actions are deemed unseemly for the husband of a noble lady of Isabella’s court. In another passage rife with various social obligations, Mercedes recounts her promise not to marry without Isabella’s consent: “She spoke to me, Luis, of our duties as Christians, of our duties as females, and, most of all, of the solemn obligations that we contract in wedlock, and of the many pains that, at best, attend that honoured condition. When she had melted me to tears, by an affection that equalled a mother’s love, she made me promise—and I confirmed it with a respectful vow—that I would never appear at the altar, while she lived, without her being present to approve of my nuptials; or, if prevented by disease or duty, at least not without a consent given under her royal signature.” (I: 84) Playing the roles of both mother and monarch, Isabella reminds Mercedes of the responsibilities of Christian, woman, wife, and daughter. And these passages are just two of the many possible examples illustrating the web of social relations that any Spanish citizen must interpret and apply to major decisions as well as to daily actions. Such 81 examples create a “control” case of unproblematic communication within a monolingual culture against which the interpretive problems of the later sections of the novel will show in sharper contrast. In the middle section of the novel, Cooper’s narration stays very close to the historical record of Columbus’s voyage and landing, including the Spaniards’ innumerable assumptions and misinterpretations. Through this account, Cooper highlights the importance of proper interpretation while examining the causes of interpretive error. In recent years, many analyses of the Columbus story have pointed out how little the Spaniards must have understood of the native peoples they encountered. 16 Tzvetan Todorov’s analysis of the journal reconstructed by Las Casas contains a particularly insightful reading of Columbus’s repeated misinterpretations. As Todorov notes, it is not surprising that Columbus could not understand the Caribbean natives, but it is strange that he so often insists communication has taken place (31). Todorov suggests that “Columbus performs a ‘finalist’ strategy of interpretation, in the same manner in which the Church Fathers interpreted the Bible: the ultimate meaning is given 16 Gesa Mackenthun, for example, notes numerous inconsistencies in the various extant documents related to when, how, and whether the Spaniards understood the native peoples they conquered and argues, “someone who does not understand a word of what is spoken and who is unfamiliar with the body language of a foreign culture may easily assign wrong interpretations to the signs he encounters” (Metaphors 74-76). Cheyfitz further asserts, “Columbus’s European paradigm of what a language was, and hence of what a human was, must have been challenged. But rather than consciously questioning his culture’s centrality, a question that would have threatened terrific anxiety by raising doubts about his grasp of the situation, he represses the question by projecting it onto the Indians; the result is Columbus’s hallucinatory attempts to domesticate the far-fetched in his recurring fantasy that he understands the Indians’ language” (Poetics 110). This last argument will prove particularly relevant to my reading of Cooper’s novel, as it is such an unwillingness to rethink his own “culture’s centrality” that causes Luis to inadvertently mislead Ozema. 82 from the start . . . ; what is sought is the path linking the initial meaning (the apparent signification of the words of the biblical text) with this ultimate meaning” (17). In other words, Columbus is so confident in what he expects to find that he twists all signs to point back to this expectation. As a consequence, as Todorov aptly summarizes, “At sea, all the signs indicate land’s proximity, since that is Columbus’s desire. On land, all the signs reveal the presence of gold: here, too, his conviction is determined far in advance” (20). Columbus’s misinterpretations are not simply failures to understand; they indicate the far more pernicious practice of imposing one’s expected meaning onto alien sign systems. Todorov links Columbus’s misinterpretation of the natives’ language to his misinterpretation of other signs throughout the voyage, and both kinds of misreading appear in Cooper’s retelling, where the short-sighted assumptions underlying such misinterpretations are brought to the fore. Although neither Todorov’s analysis, nor the original Spanish documents, would have been available to Cooper, the same record of misinterpretation observed by Todorov is quite clear in Cooper’s main source, Washington Irving’s history of the voyage. For example, Irving writes, “It is evident that a great part of this fancied intelligence was the mere construction of the hopes and wishes of Columbus; for he was under a spell of the imagination, which gave its own shapes and colours to every object” (248). 17 In Cooper’s novel, as well as in the Columbus journal 17 Irving goes on to describe Columbus’s persistent belief that he was in Asia, and his tendency to interpret all communication as pointing to that foregone conclusion. Likewise, Irving notes, “Columbus looked in vain for bracelets and anklets of gold, or for any other precious articles: they had been either fictions of his Indian guides, or his own misinterpretations” (253-54). Later, he muses, “It is curious to observe how ingeniously the imagination of Columbus deceived him at every step, and how he wove every thing into a uniform web of false conclusions” (279). With particular attention to the 83 and in Irving’s history, the mariners are preoccupied with a series of omens, portents, and signs as they cross the uncharted ocean: an erupting volcano (I: 230-31), a meteor (II: 18- 19), and innumerable signs of land. 18 In Cooper’s version, the most superstitious interpretations are attributed to the common sailors, while the heroic Columbus provides more rational, if anachronistically scientific, explanations. Despite Cooper’s characteristic distinction between common men and the natural aristocrat, these historical misreadings highlight the act of interpretation as a key theme of the novel and foreshadow the Spaniards’ equally mistaken interpretation of Caribbean language and culture. Accordingly, in Cooper’s novel as in the historical voyage, the repeated misinterpretation of signs of land mirrors the misinterpretation of the gestures and language of the natives once the Spaniards reach the New World. Cooper does not describe Columbus’s passage among the Caribbean islands in as much detail as he describes the voyage, but he does cast some doubt on the amount the Spaniards could have understood. He describes, for example, how “Columbus proceeded to other islands, difficulties of communication with the natives, Irving reports, “The misapprehension of these, and other words, was a source of perpetual error to Columbus” (290). He concludes, “[T]he vague accounts collected through the medium of signs and imperfect interpretations, filled the mind of Columbus with magnificent ideas of the wealth which must exist in the interior of this island” (347). 18 Cooper reports that a large “field of sea-weed” is interpreted as “a sign of the vicinity of land” in mid-September, even though Columbus will not reach San Salvador until October 12 (II: 20). Several days later, still in the middle of the Atlantic, the Spaniards find a crab that they believe is “never known to go farther than some eighty leagues from the land” and “one of the white tropic birds, which, it is said, never sleep on the water” (II: 30). Cooper further highlights the madness of these hopes when he describes how, after seeing these supposed signs of land, the crew taste the ocean’s water and, “so general was the infatuation, that every man declared the sea far less salt than usual” (II: 30). 84 led on by curiosity, and guided by real or fancied reports of the natives” (II: 88). He later states the fallibility of Columbus’s interpretations more forcibly when noting that the “adventurers” were “following directions that were ill comprehended, but which, it was fancied, pointed to mines of gold” (II: 89). Finally, and most strongly indicating Columbus’s pervasive misinterpretation, Cooper summarizes, “The delusion of being in the Indies was general, and every intimation that fell from those untutored beings, whether by word or sign, was supposed to have some reference to the riches of the east” (II: 89). Even after the strongly negative choice of the word “delusion,” Cooper does not quite proclaim, as Irving does, that the Spaniards were flat wrong in their interpretations. On one hand, such a denunciation would work against Cooper’s overwhelmingly positive and heroic portrayal of Columbus. 19 On the other hand, by understating Columbus’s misinterpretations of the natives, Cooper invites the reader to make the same assumptions, heightening the effect when the plot finally reveals their fallibility. In other seemingly apologetic moments, it is possible that Cooper is merely extending his cosmopolitan understanding of cultural difference to the Spaniards’ own assumptions. For example, he summarizes Columbus’s activities: All this time, there had been as much communication as circumstances would allow, with the aborigines, the Spaniards making friends wherever they went, as a consequence of the humane and prudent measures of the admiral. It is true that violence had been done, in a few instances, by seizing half a dozen individuals in order to carry them to Spain, as offerings to Doña Isabella; but this act was easily reconcilable to usage in that age, equally on account of the deference that was paid to the kingly authority, and on the ground that the seizures were for the good of the captives’ souls. (II: 92) 19 Indeed, Robert Foulke mentions Mercedes as an example of how “flattering portraits of Columbus became a sign of patriotism” (76). 85 While Cooper casts some doubt on the justice of the Spaniards’ actions with his odd conjunction of violent “seizures” and the claim that the Spaniards were “making friends wherever they went,” he invites his readers to understand the goodness of Columbus in the context of the admiral’s historical limitations, to see his actions as “easily reconcilable to the usage in that age.” The ability to put Columbus’s actions in the context of his own cultural norms is a virtue of the cosmopolitan reader Cooper imagines for many of his works. While this empathy for the man who initiated centuries of colonial atrocities might seem to ally Cooper with the United States’ own imperialist policies, Cooper’s romantic plot contains an extensive play with the interpretation of native language that works against such a narrow condemnation. As the following reading will demonstrate, the novel’s conclusion suggests that Cooper recognizes and even values cultural and linguistic difference in a way that surpasses the prejudices of his contemporaries. In the final section of the novel, which breaks away from the historical record to further the romantic plot, Cooper most fully explores the failures of communication between the Europeans and the native peoples they encountered. After the preliminary descriptions of the Spaniards’ activities in the Caribbean, Luis and his Cervantean sidekick Sancho Mundo travel to stay with a local cacique, Mattinao, and his tribe. At first, cultural symbols seem easily comprehensible: Mattinao drew from under a light cotton robe, that he occasionally wore, a thin circlet of pure gold, which he placed upon his head, in the manner of a coronet. This Luis knew was a token that he was a cacique, one of those who were tributary to Guacanagari, and he arose to salute him at this evidence of his rank, an act that was imitated by all of the Haytians also. From this assumption of state, Luis rightly imagined that Mattinao had 86 now entered within the limits of a territory that acknowledged his will. (II: 96) 20 Amazingly, Luis can understand the symbols of rank among the Haytians as easily as in any court of Europe. The symbol of leadership is a crown, and the proper sign of respect, as at home, is to rise in salute (although one might wonder whether the Haytians stand because it is their usual practice or only in imitation of Luis). Furthermore, the narration does not leave the reader to guess at the accuracy of Luis’s suppositions, but declares outright that Luis “rightly imagined.” Like Cooper’s sympathetic portrayal of Columbus’s errors, this statement firmly places the reader in a position to make cultural assumptions, dramatizing the failure to recognize cultural difference and heightening the effect of the reversal that will follow. Almost immediately following these observations, Cooper begins to undercut such interpretive confidence as Luis makes another, less accurate assumption: [Mattinao] attempted to converse with his guest in the best manner their imperfect means of communication would allow. He often pronounced the word, Ozema, and Luis inferred from the manner in which he used it, that it was the name of a favourite wife, it having been already ascertained by the Spaniards, or at least it was thought to be ascertained, that the caciques indulged in polygamy, while they rigidly restricted their subjects to one wife. (II: 96) In contrast to the previous example, Cooper modifies the confident phrase “already ascertained” with the less sure “thought to be ascertained.” Indeed, Luis’s inference about Ozema proves incorrect, as she is actually Mattinao’s sister. The misunderstanding appears to have arisen, at least in part, from a cultural difference between the rulers of Spain and of Hayti. As Cooper explains, “According to the laws of Hayti, the authority of 20 Cooper refers to this people and their country as Haytians and Hayti, and I will use his terminology and spelling in the following analysis. 87 a cacique was transmitted through females, and a son of Ozema was looked forward to, as the heir of his uncle” (II: 99-100). Luis is correct in assuming from Mattinao’s tone that Ozema will be the mother of his heir, but an incongruity of cultural concepts makes his interpretation unreliable. The Haytian concept for such a woman is not congruent with the Spanish one, so neither “wife” nor “sister,” nor any Spanish or English word, fully conveys the precise position Ozema occupies in her own society. Luis misinterprets Ozema’s position because the concept for her status fails to translate directly into European language. Todorov quotes a passage from the Columbus journals that mirrors this kind of misunderstanding. In it, Columbus wonders if “cacique” signifies “king or governor,” and whether another term means “hidalgo or governor or judge.” Todorov offers the following analysis: having learned the Indian word cacique, [Columbus] is less concerned to know what it signifies in the Indians’ conventional and relative hierarchy than to see to just which Spanish word it corresponds, as if it followed of itself that the Indians establish the same distinctions as the Spaniards, as if the Spanish usage were not one convention among others, but rather the natural state of things. (29) By assuming that “wife” or “sister,” like “governor” or “judge,” are universal categories rather than culturally specific and constructed terms (like the complex social-tie system found in Spain), both Luis and Columbus ignore the possibility that the Haytians have their own radically different culture. They instead expect a one-to-one correspondence of vocabulary, just like the predetermined list of vocabulary sought by the Wilkes expedition. This error is a methodological error of translation. Like the important difference between ville and township Cooper emphasizes in Gleanings in Europe, a difference lost when the terms are translated (see Chapter One), the Spaniards’ blindness 88 to the fact that culturally specific categories may not align perfectly across different languages leads to a more profound misunderstanding than simply not knowing the Haytians’ word for “wife.” Luis, who is bred to value the meticulous refinement of the Spanish court, invites such profound misunderstanding again and again as he proves unable to accept the radical difference of Hayti and instead seeks equivalents for the cultural norms of Spain. Admiring the scenery as he is rowed off to the village, he incongruously combines the natural beauty of the island with the courtly polish of his Spanish love: Luis saw fifty sites where he thought he could be content to pass his life, provided, always, that it might possess the advantage of Mercedes’s presence. It is scarcely necessary to add, too, that in all these scenes he fancied his mistress attired in the velvets and laces that were then so much used by high-born dames, and that he saw her natural grace, embellished by the courtly ease and polished accessaries [sic] of one who lived daily, if not hourly, in the presence of her royal mistress. (II: 96) In addition to reminding the reader of the romantic plot, largely abandoned since the departure from Spain, Luis’s daydream of his future life with Mercedes serves to contrast her fussy attire and “polished accessories” with the natural grace he will soon find in Ozema, foreshadowing the difficulties Luis will have reconciling his previous admiration of “high-born dames” to the seemingly less artificial beauty he finds in the New World. Making the comparison even more explicit, Luis finds an uncanny resemblance between Ozema and his Spanish fiancée, Mercedes: Luis bowed to this Indian beauty, as profoundly as he could have made his reverence to a high-born damsel of Spain; then, recovering himself, he fastened one long steady look of admiration on the face of the curious but half-frightened young creature who stood before him, and exclaimed, in such tones as only indicate rapture, admiration, and astonishment mingled— “Mercedes!” 89 The young cacique repeated this name in the best manner he could, evidently mistaking it for a Spanish term to express admiration, or satisfaction; while the trembling young thing, who was the subject of all this wonder, shrunk back a step, blushed, laughed, and muttered in her soft low musical voice, “Mercedes,” as the innocent take up and renew any source of their harmless pleasures. (II: 99) Presuming, even before he sees her, that a noble woman in Haiti will be somehow equivalent to one in Spain, Luis first addresses Ozema with a deep bow. When he looks up, he is shocked to find that the “half-frightened young creature” (a description antithetical to the courtly demeanor of Mercedes) looks to him just like his Spanish lady. In his surprise, Luis utters Mercedes’s name, which, like “Ozema” in the previous scene, is misunderstood. The cacique and his sister believe the exclamation to be a general term of great approval, a misconception that Ozema retains throughout the novel. If the doubling of Mercedes and Ozema represents Luis’s conflation of Spanish culture with universality, it remains unclear how identical these bizarre doppelgangers really are. At times it seems that any resemblance is only the wishful thinking of the lovesick Luis, like seeing signs of gold and land when gold and land are the things most desired. The two women’s similarities are first called “a decided and accidental resemblance,” but this is amended by the admission that, “[c]ould the two have been placed together, it would have been easy to detect marked points of difference between them” (II: 101). Indeed, when Ozema does live for a time in the apartments of Mercedes, it seems that no one notices the resemblance. From Luis’s perspective, the clearest distinction between the two is the divide between civilization and savagery, or to put it more in Ozema’s favor, between artificial refinement and natural charms. The initial descriptions of the “Indian beauty” as a “curious but half-frightened young creature” and a blushing and laughing “trembling young thing” make it easy to “fancy Eve such a 90 creature, when she first appeared to Adam, fresh from the hands of her divine creator, modest, artless, timid, and perfect” (II: 100). Instead of correctly seeing that Ozema is part of a radically different culture, Luis imagines she lives in a state of nature, and imposes a Christian concept of prelapsarian innocence onto her as if it were a universal fact. And instead of understanding how concepts like “wife” or “sister” might differ for her people, Luis mistakes his own versions of such concepts for universals. To see Ozema and Mercedes as nearly identical, differing only in that one is cultured while the other is innocent and childlike, is to replicate Columbus’s own misunderstanding of the people he has discovered as lacking all language and culture. 21 Cooper’s commentary on such a mistake becomes more evident as the romantic plot unfolds. As Luis begins to converse with Ozema, the possibilities for misunderstanding multiply, even as the prospects for meaningful communication ostensibly increase: To Ozema, then, Luis put most of his questions; and ere the day had passed, this quick-witted and attentive girl had made greater progress in opening an intelligible understanding between the adventurers and her countrymen, than had been accomplished by the communications of the two previous months. She caught the Spanish words with a readiness that seemed instinctive, pronouncing them with an accent that only rendered them prettier and softer to the ear. (II: 104) 21 Irving describes how Columbus “imagined that the Indians had no system of religion, but a disposition to receive its impressions” (291-92). An ambiguous comment in the reconstructed journal that Columbus took several Indians back to Spain so they could “learn to talk” provides more fodder for critical commentary (Cheyfitz, Poetics 109). Todorov argues, “Columbus’s failure to recognize the diversity of languages permits him, when he confronts a foreign tongue, only two possible, and complementary, forms of behavior: to acknowledge it as a language but to refuse to believe it is different; or to acknowledge its difference but to refuse to admit it is a language” (30). Cheyfitz does not take the mysterious statement quite as literally, and argues, “Perhaps what is troubling Columbus throughout his journal is not the question of whether the Indians possess a language, but the question of whether he possesses one, that is, the question of what a language is” (Poetics 110). 91 Despite some of Cooper’s earlier descriptions, he now makes it clear how unsuccessful the Spaniards’ attempts to communicate with the natives have been. This failure undercuts Luis’s optimistic expectations about how much information he and the lovely Ozema have been able to exchange without error or misunderstanding. Luis even imagines that Ozema can instinctively learn Spanish as if it were a natural rather than a culturally relative language. Luis reflects: The admiral had also enjoined on him the importance of ascertaining, if possible, the position of the mines, and he had actually succeeded in making Ozema comprehend his questions on a subject that was all- engrossing with most of the Spaniards. Her answers were less intelligible, but Luis thought they never could be sufficiently full; flattering himself, the whole time, that he was only labouring to comply with the wishes of Columbus. (II: 105) If her answers are “less intelligible,” it is unclear how Luis can be sure that he has “actually succeeded” in making Ozema understand his questions. Moreover, Cooper goes on to strongly hint that the infatuated Luis is deceiving himself about his motives for spending so much time with the beautiful Haytian, making it equally possible that he is deceiving himself about how much he has communicated with her at all. In one of the last scenes before the ships leave for Europe with Ozema aboard, Luis gratifies his desire to play the lover when he protects Ozema from the attack of “Caonabo,” an evil Carib chief. As the Haytian princess practically falls into his arms with fear, Luis “[hears] her murmuring— ‘Caonabo—no—no—no!’” and “[understands] this exclamation to express her strong disinclination to become a wife of the Carib chief” (II: 111). However accurate this implicit “understanding” might be, Luis, as surely as Columbus finding signs of land and gold wherever he looks, turns the situation into that for which he might most hope. Like a knight errant of old, the young soldier protects a 92 beautiful lady in distress, who from apparent affection for her protector does not wish to marry another. Ironically, Ozema’s exclamations, like all of the ensuing communication between Luis, Ozema, and Caonabo, are the same kind of noun-only exchanges that cause so much trouble in Homeward Bound. And if “Caonabo,” a chief of the tribe that supposedly lent its name to man-eating, sounds like an infantile pronunciation of “cannibal,” it serves only to make Cooper’s clues of misunderstanding and misinterpretation even stronger. In the confined spaces of the ship on the long voyage back to Spain, Luis and Ozema appear to reach new levels of understanding. Ozema’s “progress in Spanish” is “such as to astonish even her teacher,” and Luis has “acquired nearly as many words of her native tongue, as he [has] taught her of his own” (II: 141). Even so, the following scene will demonstrate that this exchange of words is not enough to ensure mutual understanding. As a fearful storm threatens the lives of all aboard the ships, Cooper introduces a pivotal dialogue explaining, “they conversed, resorting to both dialects for terms, as necessity dictated. We shall give a free translation of what was said, endeavoring, at the same time, to render the dialogue characteristic and graphic” (II: 141). Even though Cooper claims that both characters speak in a combination of their native and a foreign language, when “translated” for his English readers, Ozema’s speech is infantile and broken while Luis’s is elevated, just as he would speak in pure Spanish. It is likely this choice reveals Cooper’s own failure to recognize that Ozema’s seemingly primitive state may really be only a different kind of equally developed civilization, but it also invites the reader to participate in Luis’s assumption that the only difficulty lies in 93 understanding the broken speech of Ozema, while his communication must be perfectly clear. This assumption helps conceal a gross communication error that, although not explained at the time, will return to put Luis’s marriage to Mercedes in jeopardy. Fearing that the lovely girl might die in her “benighted” state, Luis gives her the jeweled cross that Mercedes had given him before he left Spain: The young man wore the parting gift of Mercedes near his heart, and raising a hand he withdrew the small jewel, pressed it to his own lips with pious fervour, and then offered it to the Indian girl. “See”—he said—“this is a cross; we Spaniards revere and bless it. It is our pledge of happiness.” “That Luis’ God?” enquired Ozema, in a little surprise. “Not so, my poor benighted girl”— “What benighted?” interrupted the quick-witted Haytian, eagerly, for no term that the young man could or did apply to her, fell unheeded on her vigilant and attentive ear. “Benighted means those who have never heard of the cross, or of its endless mercies.” “Ozema no benighted now,” exclaimed the other, pressing the bauble to her bosom. “Got cross—keep cross—no benighted again, never. Cross, Mercedes”—for, by one of those mistakes that are not unfrequent in the commencement of all communications between those who speak different tongues, the young Indian had caught the notion, from many of Luis’s involuntary exclamations, that “Mercedes” meant all that was excellent. (II: 142-43) Examined carefully, there are many warnings in this exchange that Ozema is susceptible to misunderstanding. First, she is guilty of idolatry in thinking the cross might be Luis’s God instead of just a symbol (although Cooper’s Protestant readers would likely think that the Catholic Luis is a bit idolatrous here, too). Ozema’s interruption to ask the meaning of “benighted” seems to bode well for her acquisition of Spanish, but it also serves as a reminder of how much she does not yet know. Then, by calling the cross a “bauble,” Cooper suggests that it may be less significant than is believed by either party. 94 Finally, Ozema’s understanding is called into question by her persistent misinterpretation of Mercedes’s name. Not only does this indicate an error in Ozema’s Spanish vocabulary that Luis is either unable or strangely unwilling to correct, but it also suggests how ignorant Ozema remains of his romantic history and, consequently, of his possible intentions toward herself. By ignoring these many indications that Ozema’s cultural differences have led her to misinterpretation, Luis has failed to realize that this conversation means something different to her than it does to him. As will be revealed at the end of the novel, Ozema has mistakenly interpreted this exchange as a marriage ceremony. Despite the ferocity of the storm, Columbus and company do, of course, survive the passage home. After another section of historical description, the romantic plot is furthered when Sancho Mundo arrives at the court as a messenger from Columbus. Appearing before Isabella and Mercedes, Sancho quite understandably incites the latter’s jealousy when he describes “Doña Ozema” as under Luis’s particular attention, wearing Mercedes’s cross, and as one of “these Haytian dames” who “are simpler than our Spanish nobles, half of them thinking clothes of no great use, in that mild climate” (II: 162). The trouble caused by this initial account deepens when Isabella questions Ozema. The girl declares, “Ozema now Luis’ wife. Luis marry Ozema, already” (II: 187). After repeated questioning, Isabella is certain that Ozema is not lying, so she concludes that Luis “hath already wedded the Indian, and she is, at this moment, his lawful wife” (II: 187). Isabella adds, “But there can be no mistake. I have questioned the princess closely, and no doubt remaineth in my mind, that the nuptials have been solemnized by religious rites” (II: 188). Like Columbus and Luis, Isabella does not recognize that Ozema may 95 understand the word marriage and yet still misinterpret the Spanish concept. Seeing correctly that the girl is not lying, she jumps to the conclusion that, if Ozema considers herself to be Luis’s wife, she must be his “lawful wife” with “the nuptials . . . solemnized by religious rights.” When investigating the matter further, Isabella shows a similar blindness to cultural difference in the matter of Ozema’s status. Columbus tries to explain that he “consider[s] the rank of the lady Ozema to be less than royal, and more than noble, if our opinions will allow us to imagine a condition between the two,” but Isabella will not accept such a difference, declaring “station is station, and the rights of birth are not impaired by the condition of a country” (II: 195). This example continues Cooper’s positive portrayal of Columbus, as the admiral calls attention to the same nuance of cultural difference that the historical Columbus ignored in his desire to find a literal translation for “cacique.” Isabella, in contrast, insists that matters of nobility are universal and that Ozema’s rank be made to translate, demonstrating the imperialist attitude that assimilates all cultural differences into the dominant power’s own system of meaning. Finally, the conflict comes to a head when Isabella summons Luis before her to explain himself, and the queen’s rage almost threatens his execution. She first gives him two possibilities to which he may confess: either he has “cruelly deceived, by a feigned marriage, this uninstructed and confiding Indian princess,” or he has “insolently braved [his] sovereign with the professions of a desire to wed another, with [his] faith actually plighted at the altar, to another” (II: 198). Of course both of these interpretations are based on the assumption that Ozema has participated in Spanish versions of “lawful” and “religious nuptials.” Luis denies any wrongdoing, and the accusations continue for what 96 seems like a ridiculously long time. At last, the queen asks Ozema, “When and where didst thou meet him before a priest?” and the truth is finally revealed: Ozema understood Luis’s gift of the cross as a marriage ceremony (II: 201). Ozema may have learned the Spanish terms for husband and wife with ease, but she did not understand the full concepts. The misunderstanding was exacerbated by the Spaniards’ assumption that their own cultural conventions were universals. Because they viewed Spanish ceremonies and social codes as the only options, they proved unwilling or unable to see the differences in Haytian rituals and concepts. Instead, they imagined the Haytian people in a state of nature easily understood in Christian terms. Just as in Wilkes’s instructions for collecting native vocabularies, Cooper’s Spaniards mistakenly believed that translation between the Old and New World could be accomplished by a simple, one-to-one change in terminology. Yet Cooper’s own summary of the mistake leaves the question of how fully he embraces such an explanation uncertain: The result showed how naturally and cruelly the young Indian beauty had deceived herself. Ardent, confiding, and accustomed to be considered the object of general admiration among her own people, Ozema had fancied that her own inclinations had been fully answered by the young man. . . . The very want of language in words, by compelling a substitution of one in looks and acts, contributed to the mistake . . . . The false signification she attached to the word “Mercedes,” largely aided in the delusion, and it was completed by the manly tenderness and care with which our hero treated her on all occasions. (II: 203-204) Cooper seems to back away from the most insightful explanation of the incident in suggesting that Ozema has, like any love-sick girl, “deceived herself,” He places the burden of error on the native girl’s misunderstanding of the Spanish instead of the Spaniards’ misunderstanding of her. He does admit, however, that the problem was 97 exacerbated by communication difficulties. Cooper comes tantalizingly close to what might be a more modern reading of the events, but he still holds human weakness at fault rather than the irreconcilable differences between the two cultures. Although the misunderstanding between Luis, Ozema, and Mercedes does not cancel out all of the times Cooper presents communication between Europeans and Native Americans as unproblematic, or the latter as innocent and untouched by civilization, Cooper’s extended engagement with cross-cultural communication reinforces the valuation of linguistic difference made more apparent in his European travel writing. His emphasis on the specific cultural meaning of foreign terminology—difference that resists translation— counteracts the imperialist tendency to see the language of the “savage” Other as either utterly incomprehensible or too easily translatable. Instead, his treatment of miscommunication in the colonial contact zone reveals the danger of these archetypal assumptions. Thus, Cooper begins in his later writings to raise some of the questions that will become the focus of works like Herman Melville’s Typee. Cooper is skeptical of the Spaniards’ wishful-thinking interpretation of both natural signs and native languages, but he believes in a universal and unambiguous reality behind language, even if the imperfection of language often hinders the expression of that reality. 22 In contrast, 22 This emphasis on a fixed reality beneath language is also apparent in the rational explanations Columbus provides for the omens and portents observed throughout the voyage, and the dedication to the laws of nature that these explanations reveal. For example, when the crew voice their fears about the erupting volcano, Columbus “[proceeds] to give his people an explanation of the causes of volcanoes” and “[tells] them that he look[s] upon this little eruption as merely a natural occurrence” (I: 231). Likewise, Cooper insists that Columbus “did not believe the sudden rising of the seas, on this occasion, was owing to a direct miracle, as some of the historians and biographers 98 Melville’s treatment of the inherent ambiguity in language suggests an underlying ambiguity in reality itself. The distinction is apparent in a resonance between the Columbus story and Moby-Dick. When a devotee of American literature reads of Columbus’s first voyage in Cooper’s novel, Irving’s history, or the reconstructed journal, the alternately hopeful and hopeless sailors seeking their reward for the first sight of land seem eerily reminiscent of the crew of the Pequod, tempted by Ahab’s doubloon into a mad search for the white whale. Both groups are driven by a single-minded captain, and both must accomplish the mission of their commander to ever see home again. But there is a difference between Ahab’s drive for revenge and Columbus’s certainty that he will find land by sailing west. Ahab’s misplaced monomania will lead only to destruction, but Columbus’s monomania proves genuinely prophetic, or so it seems in any retrospective history, because readers know that he will discover the New World. While Ahab’s failure demonstrates the limits of what William V. Spanos calls “the transcendentalist-inspired discourse of ‘self-reliance’” (Errant 45), Columbus’s success, as retold by Irving and Cooper, is the origin of such an exceptionalist American identity. 23 Thus, as observed in the cosmopolitan philosophy of the Enlightenment, Cooper’s belief in a single ontological reality and a single ideological good can slip toward the universalizing assumptions that underwrite the discourse of imperialism, but his recognition of the seem inclined to believe; but rather to a providential interference of Divine Power, through natural means” (II: 46). 23 Similarly, Robert Tally argues, “By positing an inhuman force of infinite extension over the finite American Adam, by subverting the foundations of individualism (the individual subject and its agency), and by evacuating the myth of God’s mandate, of His power to reward or punish, Moby-Dick effectively dismantles the dominant American ideological system undergirding such notions as manifest destiny” (84). 99 inevitability of cross-cultural misunderstanding, and his resistance to the idea of easy translatability, work against this universalizing assumption, leading him to present a critique of imperialism through language that often anticipates, if it does not quite match, the later works of Melville. Incommensurable Economics in Mercedes and The Crater As Mercedes of Castile demonstrates, the representation of linguistic difference is a good indicator of Cooper’s attitudes toward non-Western cultures, but language was not the only arena in which the battle for cultural dominance and survival was played out. Rather, it is only one example of a variety of epistemological systems at stake in the cross-cultural encounters of American expansionism. The incommensurability of concepts that caused Columbus, and Cooper’s Luis, such problems communicating with the strange peoples of the New World has a strong parallel in the similar incompatibility of value systems. As in the colonizer’s attempts at linguistic translation, the problem is not merely finding which terms are equivalent—matching “one” to “uno” or “eins”—but that, in many cases, the concepts the words name do not align, just as “cacique” does not match any Spanish title. Analogously, economic exchange requires more than a conversion of dollars to pounds or yen, because the entire system of value may be incompatible, just as Western currencies are not directly translatable into a gift-based economy. 24 Thus, Todorov argues, “Nor more than in the case of languages does Columbus understand that values are conventional, that gold is not more precious than glass ‘in itself,’ but only in the European system of exchange” (38). Just as Columbus 24 See Marcel Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies. 100 cannot comprehend that “savage” cultures may have different concepts than Europe, he does not understand that the hawk’s-bells and other trinkets given to the natives are not inherently less valuable than the gold sought by the Spaniards. And just as Columbus views the natives he encounters as lacking a real language, he also deems them childish or irrational for the trades they are willing to make rather than recognizing their equally valid yet radically different system of value. Before turning to the issue of economic incommensurability in both Mercedes of Castile and The Crater, it is useful to take a brief look at the theoretical and historical concept of the “fetish” in order to clarify the connection such incommensurability has to language. Although there are obvious differences between the native peoples of the Americas and the people encountered by the Portuguese on the coast of Africa, the concept of the fetish that arose from the latter encounter offers valuable insight into both cultural clashes. In a series of articles about “the problem of the fetish,” William Pietz argues that the fetish “not only originated from, but remains specific to, the problematic of the social value of material objects as revealed in situations formed by the encounter of radically heterogeneous social systems” (“Fetish, I” 7). 25 In other words, European 25 Pietz’s primary focus is the history of the “fetish” as it “originated in the cross-cultural spaces” of the African coast, developed into a theory of religious “fetishism” by 1800, and was then adopted into numerous theoretical models throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, such as those of Marx and Freud (“Fetish, I” 5; “Fetish, II” 23). The term “fetish” itself may be tangential to the study of imperialism in Cooper, but the disconnect in value systems that produces it, and the inextricability of such problems of exchange from problems of language, illuminate an important connection between the play with linguistic sign systems evident in Mercedes of Castile (as well as in Homeward Bound or even in Katharine’s signal language in The Pilot) and the critique of U.S. expansionary trade policy and missionary activity found in The Crater. With or without the particular discourse of “fetishism,” an encounter with radically different cultures will produce this disconnection of value, this untranslatability. 101 traders found African value systems incompatible not only with European terminology for the use and worth of objects but also with their prior understanding of how objects could be used and valued. Just as the Africans’ valuation of objects was incompatible with European systems of value, the concepts Europeans had for ceremonial objects, such as the idol, were incompatible with the Africans’ concepts of the culturally particular objects classed together under the term “fetish.” The kind of object-use found in Africa was simply untranslatable into European language. The traders responded to this utter incompatibility with a new term for a new idea, one which served as a kind of stopgap for this radical incommensurability but which never resolved into easy understandability. Moreover, the word “fetish,” which Pietz describes as both “the failed translation of various African terms” and “a novel word responsive to an unprecedented type of situation,” came into being to explain the problems of trade as well as to fill a gap in European terminology (“Fetish, I” 6). Just as the incongruity of concepts prevented a simple one-to-one translation, the radical incompatibility of value systems prevented a straightforward exchange of commodities. One example Pietz offers of the incompatibility of value systems is the “category of the trifling,” the tendency of “European traders [to remark] on the trinkets and trifles they traded for objects of real value” (“Fetish, I” 9). As Pietz explains, “While it was precisely such ‘false’ estimation of the value of things that provided the desired huge profit rates of early European traders, it also evoked a contempt for a people who valued ‘trifles’ and ‘trash’” ( “Fetish, II” 41). In Mercedes of Castile, Sancho Mundo is the master of the exchange of trifles. Never “forgetful of his duty on the subject of searching for gold,” he eschews any attempt at linguistic communication, having “neither acquired 102 a single word of the Haytian language, nor taught a syllable of Spanish to even one of the laughing nymphs who surrounded him,” and instead “[decorates] the persons of many of them with hawk’s-bells, and [contrives] to abstract from them, in return, every ornament that resembled the precious metal, which they possessed” (II: 107). Greedy for gold, Sancho is quick to gain the most profit possible in his exchange of trifles for treasure. Cooper criticizes Sancho’s principles of “free trade” because they “[maintain] that trade is merely an exchange of equivalents; overlooking all the adverse circumstances which may happen, just at the moment, to determine the standard of value” (II: 107). In other words, Cooper denies that the items are “equivalent” at the going rate of exchange, just as he elsewhere insists that translations of a word are never precisely “equivalent” to the original. He suggests that allowing the free market to determine value might compromise other moral considerations. Cooper’s ethical issues with free trade become clearer when Sancho shows Luis his acquired gold and exclaims: “Double that, Señor Conde; just double that; and all for the price of some seventeen hawk’s-bells, that cost but a handful of maravedis. By the mass! this is a most just and holy trade, and such as it becomes us Christians to carry on. Here are these savages, they think no more of gold than your excellency thinks of a dead Moor, and to be revenged on them, I hold a hawk’s-bell just as cheap. Let them think as poorly as they please of their ornaments and yellow dust, they will find me just as willing to part with the twenty hawk’s-bells that remain. Let them barter away, they will find me as ready as they possibly can be, to give nothing for nothing.” (II: 107) While it is clear that Cooper does not condone Sancho’s actions, he gives the early capitalist a sophisticated defense. Sancho rightly observes that the “savages” care as little for their gold as the Spaniard does for his bells, making the trade one of “nothing for nothing.” Yet the invocation of “a dead Moor” emphasizes the other atrocities undertaken 103 by the Spanish in the name of the Catholic Church, suggesting that such arguments are a poor excuse for the injustices resulting from “free trade.” This objection is voiced by Luis, who questions whether such trade is “quite honest” and suggests, “Remember thou art a Castilian, and henceforth give two hawk’s-bells, where thou hast hitherto given but one” (II: 108). With “a nobleman’s contempt for commerce,” Luis then reasons, “If it be honest to profit by the ignorance of another . . . then it is just to deceive the child and the idiot” (II: 108). While Sancho advocates the capitalist’s ruthless drive to make as much money as possible, however unjust the means, Luis’s “noble” solution is that those with the lion’s share of power and money be just a bit more charitable. In the process, Luis equates the less fortunate with other dependents incapable of making their own rational decisions, and such paternalism can be just as dangerous as Sancho’s ruthless acquisitiveness. In his characterization of Sancho and Luis, Cooper presents two equally problematic extremes. The free market might allow for the most equitable exchange of goods when all other factors are equal and everyone is playing by the same rules, but when two radically different cultures clash, commodities not only have different values, but they are valued differently—a difference that is not only quantitative but qualitative. When colliding systems of value prove incommensurable, the “free” market can easily become distorted by the party with the most power. This is the problem with Sancho Mundo’s exploitative trade practices. On the other hand, Luis’s aristocratic solution of philanthropy is problematic as well. Rather than attempt to understand and negotiate the differences in value systems, Luis’s philosophy places the “savage” in a dependent position, showing greater kindness than Sancho’s cutthroat capitalism, but affording no 104 greater respect for cultural difference. This divide mirrors the imperialist’s paradoxical desire to see radical difference as either too easily translatable (convertible into Western economics) or utterly unknowable (and thus unworthy of respect or preservation). Thus, in terms of economic exchange as with language and culture, Cooper maps out both extremes, but while he criticizes some unjust practices, he seems unable to imagine the middle ground of cultural relativism that he advocates so strongly in his European writings. This division between exploitation and the West’s civilizing mission is even more obvious in The Crater (1847), which shows the continuation of Sancho’s trading practices into the expansionary policies of Cooper’s present. One of Cooper’s last novels, The Crater depicts the rise and downfall of a society due to the kind of democratic excesses that Cooper criticizes in many of his later works, and it engages directly with America’s expansionary policies. 26 Cooper was personally acquainted with Charles Wilkes, head of the U.S. Exploring Expedition, and it is clear that Cooper drew on 26 Several critics have equated the novel to Thomas Cole’s famous series of paintings, The Course of Empire (T. Philbrick, James 234-35; Axelrad, 4-5). According to John P. McWilliams, “Cooper’s obliteration of the Crater republic can only be viewed as the outgrowth of years of brooding about the inability of a republic to resist the powers of demagoguery” (Political 347). George J. Becker argues that the novel “serves as a warning against the contemporary tendencies which are about to bring down the whole edifice of society” (332). More specifically, Dekker describes how the novel illustrates, “how ‘the people’ are easily duped and how they abuse their freedoms, victimizing Cooper’s genteel, well-heeled heroes and heroines” (245). Although earlier critics of The Crater ignore the particulars of its setting, seeing the Pacific as “a blank slate” for a largely allegorical story (Motley qtd. C. Adams 204; see also McWilliams, Political 370; or Scudder 116), more recent work has shifted the focus to Cooper’s treatment of the United States’ Pacific expansion (Gentry; Suzuki). Among the many who read The Crater in its geographical context, Lisa West Norwood notes the somewhat surprising fact that Cooper published the novel after Melville’s Typee, arguing that “these authors have a moment when they are engaged with similar subjects and issues at the same time” including “American presence in the Pacific.” 105 Wilkes’s narrative for his novel of Pacific colonization. 27 While the protagonist Mark Woolston’s failed colony ultimately offers few solutions, Cooper’s presentation of both sides of economic imperialism questions the proper attitude toward all kinds of cultural difference, religious and economic as well as linguistic. Cooper critiques the most obvious injustices of American policy, yet he ultimately fails to unmask the equally insidious cultural conquest of the West’s civilizing mission. Cooper’s novel depicts the expansion of trade into the Pacific that motivated Wilkes’s expedition, trade fueled in part by the high prices goods such as sandalwood and sea-otter pelts would bring on the Chinese market (N. Philbrick 13). It is on such a trading voyage, “to proceed to some of the islands of the Pacific, in quest of a cargo of sandal-wood and bêche-lê-mar, for the Chinese market” (I: 29), that Mark and his companion Bob Betts are first marooned on a barren reef. And mirroring the Expedition’s military purpose, their ship “[t]he Rancocus carried several guns, an armament prepared to repel the savages of the sandal-wood islands” (I: 57). Commerce in sandalwood, though dangerous, was lucrative because it capitalized on discrepancies in economic and cultural value systems. When American traders exchanged worthless (by Western standards) trifles for this valuable commodity, they, like Columbus and the African-coast traders described by Pietz, reaped extreme profits from a society with a radically different economic system. These American traders could then profit further from the ceremonial value placed on sandalwood by the Chinese, another cultural difference that translated into major financial gains. 27 The connection between Cooper and Wilkes was first noted in W. B. Gates’s source study (243-45), and it was more recently examined by Charles H. Adams as a reason for exploring Cooper’s engagement with “American expansionism” (205). 106 Such trading missions were so lucrative because they exploited the incommensurable economies of the islands where sandalwood grew. Like Native Americans or sixteenth-century West Africans, these natives seemed content to exchange valuable commodities for mere trifles. Cooper emphasizes the worthlessness of the items intended for trade when he explains, “The cargo of the Rancocus was of no great extent, and of little value in a civilized country,” and “[t]he beads and coarse trinkets with which it had been intended to trade with the savages, were of no use whatever” (I: 90). These “coarse trinkets” are the same kind of trifles used by Sancho Mundo to trade for gold, and like his hawk’s-bells, they are not worth much by Western standards. Cooper more clearly criticizes what he sees as an exploitative practice when he reiterates, “Of real cargo, indeed, she had very little, the commerce between the civilized man and the savage being ordinarily on those great principles of Free Trade . . . which usually give the lion’s share of the profit to them who need it least” (I: 97). As Rochelle Raineri Zuck argues, Cooper’s comments on the evils of “Free Trade” suggest that “commercial exchange with Native people is . . . another means of taking advantage of them” (75). The Americans involved in Pacific trade take this advantage whenever they can, never inquiring why the island natives might value the “trifling” trinkets they are willing to take in exchange for “valuable” sandalwood, and for Cooper, this is the worst kind of exploitation. Yet this exploitative trade, which capitalizes on cultural differences without understanding or appreciating them, is not the only way in which Americans approached the Pacific and its inhabitants. In The Crater, Cooper opposes free trade to a more charitable alternative, which he seems to endorse, but which can be just as damaging to 107 native cultures. While describing the contents of the Rancocus, which are the only resources Mark has on his reef, Cooper explains the ship owner’s misgivings about the sandalwood trade: The provision of tools was very ample, and, in some respects, a little exaggerated in the way of Friend White’s expectations of civilizing the people of Fejee. . . . Now, sandal-wood was supposed to be used for the purposes of idolatry, being said to be burned before the gods of that heathenish people. Idolatry being one of the chiefest of all sins, Friend Abraham White had many compunctions and misgivings of conscience touching the propriety of embarking in the trade at all. It was true, that our knowledge of the Chinese customs did not extend far enough to render it certain that the wood was used for the purpose of burning before idols, some pretending it was made into ornamental furniture; but Friend Abraham White had heard the first, and was disposed to provide a set-off, in the event of the report’s being true, by endeavouring to do something towards the civilization of the heathen. . . . It is true that he expected to make many thousands of dollars by the voyage, and doubtless would so have done, had not the accident befallen the ship, . . . but the investment in tools, seeds, pigs, wheelbarrows, and other matters, honestly intended to better the condition of the natives of Vanua Levu and Viti Levu, did not amount to a single cent less than one thousand dollars, lawful money of the republic. (I: 102-103) The profit potential of sandalwood is high because of its religious value in China, but for Friend Abraham, taking advantage of its value makes one an accessory to idolatry. To offset this potential sin, Abraham plans to provide the Pacific Islanders with useful material goods—commodities carefully calculated to be not “a single cent less than one thousand dollars, lawful money of the republic.” Yet, as with Luis’s suggestion to give two hawk’s-bells instead of one, the small portion of the voyage’s potential profits spent on such tools seems hardly to address the moral problem. Even more disturbingly, this “provision of tools” will prove valuable to the natives only so far as they adopt Western forms of agriculture. Despite Friend Abraham’s amusing rationalization, Cooper presents the ship’s vast store of seeds and other 108 instruments of civilization in a positive light. They allow Mark not only to survive on the reef, but also to literally plant the seeds of a colony that will eventually support hundreds of settlers. Thus, Cooper’s novel mirrors another aim of the U.S. Exploring Expedition, to “make such arrangements as will insure a supply of fruits, vegetables, and fresh provisions, to vessels visiting it hereafter, teaching the natives the modes of cultivation, and encouraging them to raise hogs in greater abundance” (Wilkes xxvii). Although the instructions suggest that the expedition “neither interfere, nor permit any wanton interference with the customs, habits, manners, or prejudices, of the natives of such countries or islands as [it] may visit” (xxviii), they appear to overlook the cultural and ecological changes that new crops, livestock, and farming techniques will inevitably bring. The Americans designing the expedition are so blind to the culture of these islands, that they do not consider how teaching the inhabitants Western modes of cultivation might interfere with their native modes of subsistence—not to mention how American trade itself might upset the native economy. Wilkes further demonstrates the drive to Americanize foreign cultures when he boasts, “I have reason to rejoice that I have been enabled to carry the moral influence of our country to every quarter of the globe where our flag has waved” (xxii-xxiii). Despite its superficial intentions of observing native culture without interference, the result of the expedition, and of the increased trade it made possible, was the erosion of native culture alongside the extinction of “valuable commodities” like seals and sandalwood. Yet for most of The Crater, Mark’s project of “civilizing” the island in order to grow crops and support livestock is depicted as a noble one, and his reef becomes the kind of hospitable port that the U.S. Exploring Expedition sought to create. 109 The U.S. government desired the Pacific Islanders to learn more advanced farming techniques so that they would have a surplus of food with which to supply the whalers and other commercial vessels seeking port in the Pacific. Another requirement for the security of Pacific commerce was that the native inhabitants respect Western ideas of property. The government’s instructions warn Wilkes: Among savage nations, unacquainted with, or possessing but vague ideas of the rights of property, the most common cause of collision with civilized visitors, is the offence and punishment of theft. You will therefore adopt every possible precaution against this practice, and in the recovery of the stolen property, as well as in punishing the offender, use all due moderation and forbearance. (xxviii) Thus, property appears as a key distinction between civilization and savagery. The tendency of this economic incommensurability to lead to violence is one reason that the Rancocus is also supplied with a store of weapons. Despite the advice of “forbearance” in the above passage, the belief that the “civilized” idea of property should hold precedence even in foreign lands is clear, as is the smug disregard for the possibility that the Americans might do something considered equally unacceptable by the local culture, or that these offenses might be just as disruptive as native theft. In The Crater as in his other writings, Cooper maintains the importance of property, as numerous critics have noted. 28 As soon as Mark progresses beyond the initial 28 Steven Watts argues that, for Cooper, “[p]roperty . . . was the basis of all civilization and its protection was critical to social improvement” (70). Robert Lawson-Peebles’s argument is particularly relevant to the changing economy of the Crater colony when he describes how Cooper’s political beliefs are dependent upon an idea of property that was quickly becoming out of date as an agrarian system was replaced by a business-oriented one (341-42). Rochelle Raineri Zuck (65) and Daniel Marder (36) also note the importance of private property. In contrast to these views, however, Charles O’Donnell argues that Cooper had “an ambivalent attitude toward property,” one in which the “inevitable initial action” of claiming the land “is the start of a chain of evil linking father and son” (404). 110 steps of cultivating his islands, and after he is joined by other colonists, he divides the land and gives each resident his own private property. Cooper explains that this decision will increase the productivity of the society because, “[s]o long as a man toiled for himself and those nearest and dearest to him, society had a security for his doing much, that would be wanting where the proceeds of the entire community were to be shared in common” (II: 93-94). Thus, Cooper is particularly careful to separate Mark’s colony from communal experiments like the one at Brook Farm. In addition to protecting each individual’s private land, Mark also takes great pains to protect the entire colony, the new white colonists’ property, from being invaded and looted by the hostile natives nearby. In the repeated efforts to keep the villainous Waally away from his own group of islands, Mark enacts the U.S. Exploring Expedition’s policing of theft. Both policies result in the killing of large numbers of natives. The dual projects of cultivating the land and establishing private property are demonstrated on a smaller scale by the “success story” of one of Cooper’s “good Indians,” Unus. If this Pacific Islander’s name seems reminiscent of The Last of the Mohicans’s Uncas, there is little difference between the characters other than the much smaller part Unus has to play in his novel’s plot. After greatly aiding the colonists in one of the conflicts with his tribe, Unus marries Juno, a former slave of Mark’s wife, Bridget. The newly converted “Indian” is thus united to an earlier conquest of the West’s civilizing mission. Cooper reports of this happy couple: We may add here, that Unus and Juno were united before the ship sailed. They took up land on the Peak, where Unus erected for himself a very neat cabin. Bridget set the young couple up, giving the furniture, a pig, some fowls, and other necessaries. (II: 60) 111 Thus, the couple’s success, almost a fairy-tale ending, is defined by their ownership of property and their ability to raise livestock. Unus has been properly civilized. Eventually, after a minister joins the colony, the two are given a Christian marriage ceremony, “the governor considering it proper that regard to appearances and all decent observances, should be paid, as comported with their situation” (II: 91). In this additional concession to Western culture, Unus and Juno are joined by a similarly mixed couple, and another success story of civilization, “Peters and his Indian wife” (II: 91). The white Peters originally met his wife, Unus’s sister, while living with her tribe after being shipwrecked, but the two make the “proper” decision and join Mark’s civilization as soon as they are able. Although Peters joins these native siblings in acting as interpreters for the colony, the presumably difficult process by which Peters would have learned the language of the nearby natives is not a part of Cooper’s novel, although similar encounters will be the focus of many of Melville’s works. The value of such bilingualism and the genuine cross- cultural communication it permits may seem like a glimmer of hope for achieving a more balanced cultural intercourse, but these interpreters serve little purpose besides hastening the progress of Western values. With all religious formalities duly observed, the exemplary products of Mark’s civilizing project slip into the background of the novel and would seem to live happily ever after, at least until the entire colony is swallowed by the ocean. From one perspective, then, it appears that Cooper’s only solution to Sancho’s exploitative trading practices, like the solution of extreme cosmopolite Anacharsis Cloots to worldwide oppression and violence, is to gather all peoples under a single system of civilization. Supporting this critical view of Cooper’s own imperialist tendencies, Paul 112 Lyons gives an excellent summary of the various encounters with natives in the novel: “Cooper’s allegory is specific and unambivalent. Those neighboring Islanders who assent to the colonial authority are treated with paternalistic kindness; those who resist are rolled over militarily” (American 69). Thus Lyons argues that “Cooper sees Oceanians being integrated into the world system to the degree that they adopt Euroamerican trading protocols and form nation-states” (71). Cooper does not necessarily wish to see these Pacific “Indians” vanish like the native peoples of North America, but he does not see a place for their native value systems in a global economy. Such an apparent preference for Western civilization is undercut, however, by the novel’s cataclysmic ending. If the result of any civilization’s rapid progress is its speedier decline, are the Pacific natives best left alone to advance toward the inevitable downfall at their own gradual pace? Cooper’s conclusion only begins to answer this question: Let those who would substitute the voice of the created for that of the Creator, who shout “the people, the people,” instead of hymning the praises of their God, who vainly imagine that the masses are sufficient for all things, remember their insignificance and tremble. They are but mites amid millions of other mites, that the goodness of providence has produced for its own wise ends; their boasted countries, with their vaunted climates and productions, have temporary possessions of but small portions of a globe that floats, a point, in space, following the course pointed out by an invisible finger, and which will one day be suddenly struck out of its orbit, as it was originally put there, by the hand that made it. Let that dread Being, then, be never made to act a second part in human affairs, or the rebellious vanity of our race imagine that either numbers, or capacity, or success, or power in arms, is aught more than a short-lived gift of His beneficence, to be resumed when His purposes are accomplished. (II: 227) On one hand, the hubris that causes the colony’s downfall, its trust in the power of “numbers,” “capacity,” “success,” and “arms,” seems to point the accusing finger at the arrogance of imperialists who would presume to exert their creative power over the less 113 powerful or worse endowed. At the same time, Cooper’s invocation of such an apparently Christian higher power cannot be reconciled with a plea for cultural relativism. It seems that Cooper, like America’s more tolerant Puritan settlers, believes there is a universal right, but that it is never the place of mere mortals to impose that right onto others. In the end, Cooper’s critique of imperialist discourse, and his plea to treat others with greater sympathy and kindness, stops short of recognizing that different approaches to life may be equally valid. Cooper comes closest to this ideal in his portrayal of language, recognizing the incommensurability of cultural concepts that resists easy translation, but he does not fully question his own assumptions about cultural and economic value. 29 While Cooper begins to examine the problems of cross-cultural exchange, he never quite arrives at the realization that there is no proper set of concepts or attitudes, instead suggesting that all the world’s peoples be assimilated into Western civilization. As examined in the following chapter, Melville will take Cooper’s critique of language encounters further, not only depicting the paradoxical extremes of utter incomprehensibility and too easy translation, but actively seeking out a more liberatory middle ground. 29 The greater cultural relativism of which Cooper falls short is not a modern construct. A nineteenth-century version can be found in Walden, in which Thoreau weighs the costs and advantages of “civilized” and “savage” life and seeks a way to “live as to secure all the advantage without suffering any of the disadvantage” (74). Thoreau’s project of stripping away one’s own cultural assumptions in order to choose what is really most advantageous from the many ways of approaching life mirrors Cooper’s own approach to European difference, and may be a solution to the contentious contact of native and imperialist Cooper explores in his later works. 114 CHAPTER 3 FRAUGHT TRANSLATION IN MELVILLE’S COLONIAL ENCOUNTERS In the middle decades of the nineteenth century, the United States was expanding its commercial, political, and military interests beyond the boundaries of North America, and the wide network of whalers, merchants, explorers, scientists, and other sailors who drove this change traveled throughout the Eastern and Southern hemispheres. In works like The Crater and Afloat and Ashore, James Fenimore Cooper comments on his country’s Pacific expansion from afar. But at the same time that Cooper was writing his final sea tales, the young Herman Melville was experiencing such voyages firsthand, gathering materials for a literary career that would extend Cooper’s critique of imperialist discourse even further. Cooper’s cosmopolitan approach to European language transfers at least partially to his portrayal of colonial language encounters, but Melville comes far closer to a cosmopolitan appreciation of non-white cultures and the languages they speak. This chapter will examine how the language encounters Melville experienced in his Pacific travels led to a career-long engagement with the limits of translation and the failures of communication they cause. By connecting Melville’s semiotic critique of language to the lived experiences of translation and cross-cultural encounter, I will combine the previous approaches of poststructuralism and postcolonialism, demonstrating how Melville’s decentered approach to language and reality derives from the experience of travel. 1 Over time, Melville shifts the target of his critique from 1 Addressing Melville’s treatment of language through a poststructuralist lens, Maurice S. Lee argues that “Moby-Dick offers a kind of proto-deconstructionist critique—one in which intertextuality, self-reference, and parody turn language on itself” (“Language” 405). Similarly, William Spanos connects the linguistic decentering of Melville in Moby- Dick to the discourse of American exceptionalism when he contrasts “Captain Ahab’s 115 imperialist views of “savage” speech to all universalist theories of language, thereby questioning the positivist vision of Truth that underpins such universalism. Like Cooper, Melville also exposes and negotiates the double-bind of imperialist discourse, the paradoxical desire to both emphasize difference and to efface it. The first error can be seen in the U.S. Exploring Expedition’s expectation that the words of new languages will correspond perfectly to Western concepts. Eric Cheyfitz summarizes such linguistic blindness when he argues, “The imperialist believes that, literally, everything can be translated into his terms; indeed, that everything always already exists in these terms and is only waiting to be liberated” (Poetics 195). This connection between the will-to-power of colonialist discourse and the assumption of easy and “literal” translatability suffuses the literature of exploration and conquest that Melville uses as the source for his own books. By assuming that the language, culture, and value systems of New World discourse of self-reliance” with “Ishmael/Melville,” who “call[s] language as naming into question” (Errant 123, 175). Other critics who have taken a poststructuralist approach include Nancy Fredricks, who argues that “Ishmael circumvents the totalizing thrust of teleological structures” and “directs attention to the limits of representation” (52); Bernhard Radloff, who calls “Melville’s thought . . . a confrontation with modernity understood as the program of humanist rationalism” (1); and Sam Whitsitt, who examines Melville’s treatment of the nineteenth century’s “naïve sense of the relation . . . between language and being” (59). Other readings have focused on the importance of travel in the development of Melville’s cosmopolitan or global perspective. For example, both Paul Giles (56) and Malcolm Bradbury (138) emphasize the centrality of travel in Melville’s body of work, and Thomas Farel Heffernan examines Melville’s interest in travel literature (35). Sanford Marovitz calls Melville “among the most widely traveled of American authors” (19), and Christopher Sten describes him as “America’s most cosmopolitan writer of his time—the most widely traveled, with the broadest cultural experience and the most carefully considered views on . . . colonialism and cultural imperialism” (“Melville’s” 38). Charles Waugh finds in Melville’s writings “a global consciousness at work” (205), and both Mary K. Edwards (xii-xiii) and Paul Lyons (“Global” 56) connect this global perspective to Melville’s own experience in America’s Pacific expansion. Peter Gibian perhaps best summarizes this connection when he argues that Melville “continually focuses attention on the dynamics of cross-cultural encounter and the question of intercultural mediation” (20-21). 116 the Other can translate seamlessly into English, American imperialists erase cultural difference while granting their own beliefs and practices universal status. But the opposite extreme, described by David Spurr as the “rhetorical tradition in which non- Western peoples are essentially denied the power of language and are represented as mute or incoherent” (104), can be equally dangerous, and the ideal mean between these two prejudicial extremes can be difficult to achieve. Accordingly, my argument that Melville explores the limits of translation must recognize that a too-easy capitulation to the incomprehensibility of difference risks sliding into a refusal to recognize the speech of the Other—a refusal to allow the Other a voice both in a political sense and as part of recognizing his or her humanity. One alternative to these dual forms of linguistic prejudice would be the kind of fluency that occurs only after one begins to think in a new language, fluency that makes the act of translation unnecessary. A parallel cultural fluency would likewise require understanding a new culture’s beliefs and practices on its own terms. In the situations Melville depicts, however, such fluency is impossible for the traveler who has only recently arrived in a foreign land. In this contact zone of linguistic encounter, the only solution to the paradox of imperialist discourse is an ongoing struggle for mutual comprehension. It is out of such a contact zone that pidgin languages develop—linguistic compromises that facilitate the exchange of both ideas and goods. More often, simply recognizing the inherent difficulties of cross-cultural communication is the only alternative to the imperialist extremes of utter incomprehension and universalizing translation. To escape this prejudicial binary, it is necessary to understand that translation is only a linguistic compromise, not a substitute for real fluency. 117 In his earlier works portraying cross-cultural encounters in the Pacific, Melville, like Cooper, maps out a middle ground between the oversimplification of the translator’s task and a capitulation to the utter incomprehensibility of the Other. In later works, Melville combines the influence of his own sailing experiences with broader philosophical inquiries, increasingly portraying the lack of cross-cultural understanding as inherent incommensurability. He thus develops his earlier examination of linguistic encounter into the realization that all language is a pidgin compromise between incomprehensibility and the universalist beliefs that justify imperialism’s civilizing mission. The Portrayal of “Savage” Language in Typee’s Imperialist Sources A thorough examination of Melville’s early works as travel literature must begin with the sources that shaped his writing. David Porter’s Journal of a Cruise Made to the Pacific Ocean (1815) and C. S. Stewart’s A Visit to the South Seas (1831) are two well- established sources of Typee. 2 John Samson argues that Melville’s narrators dramatize the role narratives such as those of Porter and Stewart have played in the creation of imperialist stereotypes and the maintenance of American ideology (213). 3 In his 2 The links between Melville’s writings and earlier, imperialist accounts do not end here. Amasa Delano’s A Narrative of Voyages and Travels in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres is the obvious source of “Benito Cereno, ” and many critics have also seen connections between Melville’s work and Charles Wilkes’s Narrative of the United States Exploring Expedition (Lyons, American 73, 96; Madison, “Literature” 287; Heflin 175), as well as Edgar Allan Poe’s fictional account, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket (Martin 27; Fanning 162; Renker 14; M. Berthold, “Portentous” 560; Brodhead 34). See Chapter Two for discussions of Wilkes and Poe. 3 John Bryant further describes Melville’s complicated relationship with the narratives of Porter and Stewart. Although Melville critiques their more imperialist attitudes, these sources also demonstrate “a certain Hobbesian rationalism” (Porter) and a “half-baked 118 representation of colonial language encounters, Melville directly addresses the failures of cross-cultural communication previous works of exploration would seek to conceal. Examining the narratives of Porter and Stewart, it becomes clear that Melville’s predecessors emphasize the savagery of native language while, paradoxically, minimizing the difficulties of translation. In other words, in Porter and Stewart, as in Columbus and Wilkes, the language of the Other either presents no interpretive difficulties or appears as animal noise not worthy of translation. The narratives of Porter and Stewart also represent two sides of American influence in the Pacific. Porter’s attempt to annex the Marquesas for the United States makes his narrative the more obviously imperialist. 4 Christopher McBride connects Porter to the history of U.S. imperialism when he describes how “Porter’s claim established [the Marquesas] in the American imagination as a possible site for overseas expansion and trade” (“Americans” 165). Stewart, on the other hand, is a missionary like those Melville critiques in Typee and Omoo. His narrative emphasizes both religion and science, echoing the militaristic imperialism of Porter with the parallel goals of expanding Western culture and ways of knowing. Both sources contain the stereotype of primitive and childlike natives found in the writings of Columbus and critiqued by Cooper in Mercedes of Castile, and both extend liberalism” (Stewart) that Melville draws on to develop his own “more radical anti- imperialism” (Bryant, Unfolding 236). In contrast, Justin D. Edwards argues that Melville could not break away from the “imperial frame of reference” of his sources, leading to “Typee’s reinscription of the same colonizing attitudes that Melville claimed to be critiquing” (23). 4 Porter also renamed the islands the Washington Group, mirroring Columbus by replacing native designations with his own language. 119 this stereotype to the denigration of native language. Porter belittles Marquesan culture generally when he asserts, “In religion these people are mere children; their morais are their baby-houses, and their gods are their dolls” (II: 119). He similarly devalues native language when he writes, “We had but little opportunity of gaining a knowledge of their language while we remained among them; but from the little we became acquainted with, we are satisfied that it is not copious; few words serve to express all they wish to say; and one word has many significations” (II: 49). In addition to the implication that the primitive Marquesans have little to say, the arrogance of thus presuming to judge the extent of a language that is only partially understood demonstrates the little esteem Porter holds for Marquesan culture. Lawrence Alan Rosenwald has called the creation of such a “value-hierarchy of languages . . . an error” and the “linguistic form of racism” (18). A more extreme version of such racism is “denying that a particular language is a language at all” (18), and this belittlement can occur not only through direct statements but also through the general characterization of supposedly savage speech. One example of this more subtle linguistic racism occurs in Stewart’s description of his arrival on Nukuhiva: 5 “The reveillé had scarce been beaten this morning, before the Vincennes was surrounded by the noise, loud talking, hallooing, and various rude merriment of the islanders” (I: 207). Stewart thus depicts the incomprehensibility of the natives’ language as obstreperous and “rude” noise rather than proper speech. At the same time, both Porter and Stewart minimize the difficulties of cross- cultural communication and interpretation. When Porter first arrives at what he soon renames the “Washington Islands,” he glosses over the possibility of misunderstanding or 5 In the interest of consistency, I will adopt Melville’s spellings of Marquesan names. 120 misinterpretation. He says of the natives, “They frequently repeated to us the word taya, which signifies friend, and invited us to shore, where they assured us, by the most expressive gesticulations, that the vahienas, or women, were entirely at our service” (II: 10). Both native terms in this passage are immediately translated into English, and even the Marquesans’ gestures are said to be instantly understood. Whatever the accuracy of these translations, they clearly ignore any cultural differences that might complicate Porter’s instantaneous, word-for-word translation, such as the island’s specific codes of friendship or the class of women that “vahienas” might indicate. At the same time, Porter’s interpretation of the Marquesans’ meaning optimistically expects that the natives will bow down before the advance of civilization. A similar minimization of cultural difference can be observed in Porter’s brief discussion of the complicated cultural code of the taboo, which Typee will examine in depth. When Porter writes, “The word taboo signifies an interdiction, an embargo, or restraint; and the restrictions during the period of their existence may be compared to the lent of the catholics” (II: 42), he easily translates the term while equating it to a known Western standard. In all of these examples, the act of translation is ignored or erased. Porter’s general disregard for the difficulties of cross-cultural communication and understanding is facilitated by Wilson, a white beachcomber figure “gone native” who acts as the captain’s interpreter. Porter explains: His knowledge of the people, and the ease with which he spoke their language, removed all difficulties in our intercourse with them; and it must be understood, in all relations of future interviews and conversations, which took place between me and the natives, that Wilson is the organ of communication and the means by which we are enabled to understand each other: I shall, therefore, in future, deem it unnecessary to say, I was assisted by an interpreter, it must always be understood that I had one. (II: 21) 121 It is likely that Wilson’s understanding of the people and their language surpassed that of Porter, but Porter’s assertion that Wilson “removed all difficulties” of communication seems both too extreme to be entirely accurate and also too indicative of the imperialist ideology described by Cheyfitz to be taken at face value. In any case, by letting his translator remain “invisible,” to use Lawrence Venuti’s terminology, Porter downplays the significance of cross-cultural interpretation and understanding, falling short of Melville’s far more nuanced depiction of linguistic encounter. Stewart also minimizes the acts of translation and interpretation. Even more than in Porter, the language difference between missionaries and Pacific Islanders remains invisible and unproblematic. One rare instance where interpretation is discussed at all is Stewart’s description of a “Worship Ceremony at Hido” observed during his visit to Hawaii. After noting, “I had not, in my long absence, so entirely forgotten the native language, as not to understand much that was said,” Stewart presents the speech of the congregation rendered in English (II: 77). The discussion that follows indicates how Stewart derives a theory of seamless translation from his religious convictions: Could I be deceived in the interpretation of this case? Could I be mistaken in the causes and the nature of those varied emotions, under the circumstances in which they were beheld; and in one, of whom I had never heard, and whom I had never before seen? No I could not: and if so—what is the language they speak? They plainly say that this poor woman, grown gray in the ignorance and varied degradation of heathenism . . . sees herself to be a sinner . . . . The simple appearance and every deportment of that obscure congregation, whom I had once known, and at no remote period, only as a set of rude, licentious, and wild pagans, did more to rivet the conviction of the divine origin of the Bible, and of the holy influences by which it is accompanied to the hearts of men, than all the arguments, and apologies, and defences [sic] of Christianity I ever read. (II: 76-77) Despite his admittedly limited understanding of native Hawaiian, Stewart presents a fluid translation into English. He then follows this seemingly unproblematic translation with 122 exclamations over the unambiguous language of Calvinist conversion. Because he believes his own religion to be universal truth, he has absolute faith in the accuracy of his interpretation of the Hawaiians’ religious convictions. This is a perfect example of the imperialist’s belief that “everything can be translated into his terms” (Cheyfitz, Poetics 195). More provocatively, when Stewart references the “divine origin of the Bible,” he recalls the universalizing, monologic voice of God. Such an ideal of unified, prelapsarian speech is the religious analogue of the transcendentalist idea that language represents universal truth, a view which Melville will critique throughout his career. Stewart is driven by science as well as religion, and the unproblematic universality he attributes to the language of conversion is mirrored in his incorporation of scientific discourse, particularly his use of Latin names to indicate the plants he encounters throughout the Pacific. His emphasis on the names of concrete and easily classifiable flora skews his treatment of language to emphasize cases where words are a clearer index of reality, where language most closely takes the form of Adamic naming. One of the many possible examples demonstrates the capacity of Latin names to conceal linguistic uncertainty. Stewart describes “a few small trees of ironwood (casuarina), here called koa” (I: 256). This immediate and unproblematic translation between three languages subtly suggests that all translation will be just as clear-cut. Of course, translation does seem easier when the referent is a physical object, but as Todorov’s analysis of the Columbus journals has demonstrated, an unbalanced reliance on the names of things, on “that sector of language which serves . . . only to designate nature,” can mask deeper misunderstanding (Todorov 28-29). Stewart’s use of scientific terminology is also an example of what Mary Louise Pratt calls “planetary 123 consciousness,” which includes “the construction of global-scale meaning through the descriptive apparatuses of natural history,” as when Linnaeus uses “Latin for his nomenclature precisely because it was nobody’s national language,” demonstrating “the continental, transnational aspirations of European science” (15, 25). Pratt argues that such “systematization of nature coincides with the height of the slave trade, the plantation system, [and] colonial genocide in North America and South Africa” (36). Through science as well as language and religion, then, Stewart universalizes and systematizes Western modes of “truth,” thereby justifying the analogous “systematization of human life” that grounds the atrocities of colonialism and imperialism (36). Conversely, when Melville’s problematization of translation and cross-cultural exchange reveals the lack of a universal, monologic truth, he undercuts these colonial systems. The following reading of Melville’s early, Pacific novels will focus on Melville’s decentering of colonial discourse in scenes of linguistic encounter. Typee and the Perils of Cross-Cultural Communication In Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life (1846), Melville demonstrates a thorough engagement with the tradition of colonial language encounter. As its subtitle suggests, Typee was originally marketed as an account of Melville’s own experiences on Nukuhiva, although some readers were always skeptical of the truth of his narrative. It has been long established that Melville’s supposed four-month stay on the island could have lasted no more than four weeks (C. Anderson 70). Robert C. Suggs finds factual errors and impossibilities in Melville’s account of Nukuhiva and argues, “whatever realistic elements there are in Typee, it remains first and foremost a literary romance” (83). Still, as Typee is the only source of information about Melville’s experiences in the 124 Marquesas available to scholars, the temptation remains to read it as autobiography (Heflin 137; Kelley, Herman 5). 6 In the present study, however, it is useful to distinguish between the realism of Melville’s account and its literal truth. The first relates to the question of Melville’s engagement with issues of colonialism and race, the second, though integral to works of biography, is of less value here. It is beyond doubt that the encounter between white Americans and exotic Pacific Islanders is a central concern of Typee, but Melville’s position on the issues of colonialism and imperialism raised by such an encounter is a subject of much debate (G. Thompson 19). 7 My reading of native language in Typee will follow those who focus on 6 The question of truthfulness or accuracy also affects Typee’s classification as a travelogue or novel. Janet Giltrow (18), Robert K. Martin (19), and James Jubak (133) all emphasize the importance of reading Typee as a travel narrative. Geoffrey Sanborn insists that, whether the work is “a reliable record of travel or an unreliable record of adventures[,] . . . Melville’s foregrounding of that question does not transform the book from a travel narrative into a novel” (“Purple” 132). Wyn Kelley describes Typee as an ingenious combination of genres including “travel account, captivity narrative, anthropological study, escapist fantasy, [and] maritime yarn” (Herman 28-29). Indeed, those who argue that Typee is more than a travelogue seem to differ only in their judgment of how much philosophical errancy the genre can contain (see Springer and Robillard 128; Maloney 17; Dimock 38). 7 Many readings, particularly early ones, have viewed Typee as either “a whole-hearted defense of the Noble Savage” (C. Anderson 178; also see Wenke 252), or what Sanborn calls “a humanistic recognition of the identity of self and other” (Sign 134; see Herbert 172; Firebaugh 115). Others approach the issue of savagery more critically and directly: Anna Krauthammer argues that “Melville . . . uses the white savage motif in an examination of the dichotomy between savagism and civilization as it applies to non- white others in the South Seas” (28). Mitchell Breitwieser argues that, when Tommo’s “rhetorical primitive encounters the actual primitive[,] . . . Tommo’s narrative falls into a bewildered vacillation between portraits of the Typees as nobly innocent victims of colonialism and portraits of them as happy perpetrators of an appalling depravity” (398). Not surprisingly, more recent critics have read such primitivism as complicit in colonial stereotypes (Banerjee 212; J. Edwards 32; Ka‘imipono Kaiwi; Kelleter 200; Maddox 58; S. Thomson 61-69). As Charlene Avallone righty argues, “Too often critical claims assume Melville’s humanistic or anticolonial intent without the support of convincing textual or biographical evidence” (44). On the other hand, many critics have read Typee 125 the unknowability of the exotic other in Melville’s portrayal of encounter. 8 Like Cooper in Mercedes of Castile, Melville does the most justice to Typee culture when he portrays the difficulties of both linguistic and cultural translation. The following reading will argue that Melville demonstrates a pervasive engagement with the difficulties of cross- cultural communication encountered by an American in the Pacific, that he critiques the depictions of language in his imperialist sources, and that he begins to explore the ways as a decidedly anticolonial text (Robertson-Lorant 11; Greenberg 10; Grejda 23-26; Milder 11; D. Berthold 59; Otter, Melville’s 10; Ivison 115-16; Kardux 270). Others, including John Carlos Rowe (“Melville’s”), Nicholas Lawrence, and Robert Roripaugh, have connected Typee to domestic concerns like slavery or the Western frontier. The most persuasive arguments, however, recognize that, despite Melville’s clear objection to the injustices of both American and European imperialism, his anticolonialism is limited both ideologically, by the unavoidable prejudices of his age, and economically, by the desires and demands of his readership (Sanborn, Sign 77, 122; Sanborn, “Motive” 368; P. West 142). Likewise, Christopher McBride (“Americans” 165; Colonizer 12), Jeffrey Hotz (Divergent 250, 256), and Malini Johar Schueller have all noted that Melville simultaneously questions and enacts colonialist, imperialist, and racist discourse. 8 For example, Rowe argues that “Typee rejects the prevailing ethnographic models of its time” by “destabiliz[ing] our very processes of understanding other peoples” (Literary 80). Likewise, Bruce A. Harvey argues that, “in Typee, the natives will be most real when they are least understood” (62). A number of critics also focus on the centrality of moments of encounter. T. Walter Herbert, Jr., contends that Melville “shifts the emphasis” from the travel writings of missionaries and other travelers “so that it rests upon the encounter, the experience of contact, rather than upon the Marquesans as a thing observed” (158). Gibian argues that “Typee turns on the failure of contact between its narrator and the foreign world he travels through, a failure based in the narrator’s continued attachment to the conventional thinking of his home culture” (23). According to John Evelev, “The object of representation of Typee is, above all, primitivism: the encounter of civilization with the exotic primitive” (19). Lyons examines how “Melville begins in Typee to refigure the multiple fears brought about by intercultural encounter— fears about boundaries, or, rather, their porousness” (American 78). David Farrier argues that “Typee is concerned less with writing encounter as with defining it,” and he describes how the narrative “plays with operations of difference, drawing parallels between apparently diverse cultures and offering unsettling conclusions” (8, 117). Ian S. Maloney examines the representation of monuments in Typee, arguing that “contact with memorials emphasizes the space and distance between cultures” (17). 126 translation exposes the inherent inadequacy of all language, a theory he will continue to elaborate throughout his career. Although Melville’s engagement with the experience of being immersed in an exotic and unknown language is a major focus of the novel, the seriousness with which Melville treats foreign language has long been concealed by the tradition of mistrusting his Polynesian. In his travelogue In the South Seas, Robert Louis Stevenson famously criticizes Melville’s bad ear. He calls Melville’s “Hapar” for “Hapaa” a “grotesque misspelling” and imagines that Melville was gifted with the abilities to “see,” “tell,” and “charm,” but that he was not “able to hear” (23). 9 Despite Melville’s own claim in Typee’s preface to have transcribed Polynesian words in the “form of orthography . . . which might be supposed most easily to convey their sound to a stranger” (xiv), many critics have agreed with Stevenson’s negative assessment. For example, Suggs notes that Melville’s “Marquesan vocabulary includes many non-Marquesan or nonsense words” and that “his place names and tribal names are also often erroneous” (48-49). A few, however, have looked beyond the tradition of maligning Melville’s Polynesian. Elizabeth Renker quite persuasively argues that any shortcomings in Melville’s transliterations result from his poor spelling of standard English rather than from any inability to properly hear or speak Polynesian (5-7). In his study of a recently discovered section of the Typee manuscript, however, John Bryant traces editorial changes in Melville’s spelling of Polynesian words and finds that they “indicate (contra Stevenson) that 9 See Vanessa Smith’s Literary Culture and the Pacific for a more detailed discussion of Stevenson’s comment (111). 127 [Melville] heard Polynesian well and initially transcribed the sounds with an informed (although not always consistent) sense of the conventional transliteration of Polynesian printed in Melville’s day” (Unfolding 193). Bryant also notes that “Typee exhibits a Polynesian and Hawaiian vocabulary of at least 102 words, names, and place-names, most of which are accompanied with translations” (241). One scholar in the field of linguistics has done even more to recover the value of Melville’s Polynesian. Emanuel J. Drechsel points out that the majority of the Typee language in the work could be classified as “Maritime Polynesian Pidgin,” which he defines as “a major linguistic compromise of the indigenous population with newcomers, who had willy-nilly attempted to learn indigenous languages, if only reluctantly and incompletely” (“Maritime Polynesian” 235-36). Unlike Pidgin English, which would commonly be considered “broken English,” Maritime Polynesian Pidgin is the “broken Polynesian” of sailors like Melville who attempted to speak the native language. This classification highlights Tommo’s capitulation to the language of his captors—his willingness to learn the native tongue instead of insisting that the natives, Squanto-like, must learn his own. Drechsel defends Melville’s use of this pidgin language and concludes, “In spite of their Anglophone spellings, Melville’s attestations of Maritime Polynesian Pidgin are reconstitutable by comparative evidence from Polynesian source languages, and deserve recognition for their accuracy” (253). Although I cannot claim Drechsel’s technical knowledge of the language Melville depicts, the following reading will demonstrate Melville’s interest in what actually happens when a white, European- language speaker is immersed in an exotic language and culture. Whatever Typee’s relation to Melville’s own experiences on Nukuhiva, and despite the inevitable 128 limitations of his Polynesian, Melville’s portrayal of linguistic encounter counteracts stereotypical portrayals of exotic languages by enabling readers to understand the lived experience of fraught cross-cultural communication. 10 Melville’s attention to language is also part of a larger engagement with previous narratives of exploration and encounter. Like Columbus, Tommo initially views Typee valley as a kind of Eden, but as Milton R. Stern observes in his examination of Melville’s “struggle with the possibility that multiple signification is the product of a fallen world,” “Tommo’s language fail[s] him as society turn[s] out to be something other than he had foreseen in his expectations of paradise” (444, 452). Thus, while Melville does occasionally depict Typee valley as a kind of paradise, he does not repeat the mistakes of earlier explorers and assume that the seemingly innocent and childlike natives living there will share a universal language and culture with their colonizers. Instead, Melville 10 Indeed, this is not the first study to call attention to the importance of language in Typee. Farrier analyzes Pacific missionaries’ difficulty with Polynesian language and argues that the Typees in Melville’s work deliberately “use ambiguity to deflect attention away from the centre of Typee culture” thereby “preventing their textualization by another culture by maintaining their status as fundamentally ambiguous in all modes of discourse” (85-86, 120). Michael C. Berthold argues that the Typee language “force[s] upon Tommo [a] new, unsettling knowledge of the fluidity of speech” (“Portentous” 555- 56). Hans-Georg Erney has asserted that “the crucial battleground on which Typee is fought is that of language” (144), but his primary focus is on how Melville/Tommo uses the English language to make sense of his experiences. Finally, with a focus most closely related to my own, Herbert notes how “Melville’s gift for language . . . enables Melville to convey impressions of the ways in which various schemes of interpretation make sense, make nonsense, and wreak havoc in Polynesia” (159). In contrast, Winston Weathers’s reading of “communication problems” in Typee demonstrates exactly the prejudiced denigration of supposedly “savage” language that Melville critiques. Weathers contends: “A second obstacle to communication is a far too heavy reliance upon subverbal and non-lexical media among the natives. On the verbal level, the Typee language is essentially a matter of ‘chatter, chatter, chatter’ . . . . Like babies and children, the Typees communicate by signs . . . . Even if Tommo were to learn the Typee language thoroughly, he would be faced with the problem of a language inadequate for communication” (74). 129 critiques the typical narrative of encounter by highlighting the inherent incommensurability of translation. From the first encounter between the runaway sailors and two native children, Melville is careful to distinguish his narrative from the prototypical scenes of conquest he evokes. Tommo recalls, “I then uttered a few words of their language with which I was acquainted, scarcely expecting that they would understand me, but to show that we had not dropped from the clouds upon them” (68). Melville separates Tommo from figures like Columbus or Cortés in that Tommo does not want to give the impression that the white men are some kind of gods. Likewise, the Typees are not merely perceived as childlike, as in the typical narrative of encounter—they are actual children. Indeed, as the Typees lead the Americans back to their valley, Melville makes it clear that he is not interested in simply reproducing the norms of the linguistic encounters depicted in his sources. Although it first appears that the two Typee children do not understand the white men, it quickly becomes obvious that they are deliberately feigning ignorance. Tommo describes how, in response to his repetition of “Typee” and “Happar”: They repeated the words after me again and again, but without giving any peculiar emphasis to either, so that I was completely at a loss to understand them; for a couple of wilier young things than we afterwards found them to have been on this particular occasion never probably fell in any traveller’s way. (69) The native children pretend not to understand Tommo’s questions in order to trick the men into following them back to their village. By giving the Typees such agency, Melville plays with the stereotypical encounter of mutual incomprehension. 130 The pivotal moment when Tommo discovers that Marnoo understands English further demonstrates Melville’s engagement with the complex multilingualism of Nukuhiva: [A]s soon as our palms met, he bent towards me, and murmured in musical accents,—“How you do?” How long you been in this bay?” “You like this bay?” Had I been pierced simultaneously by three Happar spears, I could not have started more than I did at hearing these simple questions! (139) Tommo describes Marnoo’s speech as “musical accents” and “simple questions,” but he does not find it necessary to specify that Marnoo is speaking in English, which is the reason for Tommo’s happy surprise. In many works of linguistic encounter, as in Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales, dialogue meant to be spoken in native languages is written in English for the reader’s benefit. This practice would have made it necessary to indicate, in contrast to previous “translations,” that these were Marnoo’s exact words in English. That Melville does not use such a marker highlights the fact that all previous speech either has been transcribed in its proper language, paraphrased, or presented with a translation in parentheses. 11 By thus representing the true multilingualism of Typee valley, Melville avoids the seamless and silent translations that characterize more stereotypical literature of encounter. Just as Tommo constantly would be faced with his unsettlingly limited knowledge of Polynesian, Melville does not let the reader forget that the Typees’ speech and actions are never immediately comprehensible. At the same time, by including a character who does speak English, Melville avoids the opposite extreme of 11 Analysis of such a scene is greatly aided by Rosenwald’s framework for classifying the representation of multilingualism (1-3; also see my Introduction). Tagging dialogue with the language in which it is spoken is a way to “translate” all foreign language for the reader without completely effacing the multilingual reality the author means to depict. 131 total incomprehensibility, demonstrating that some cross-cultural communication is already occurring in the contact zone between whites and Polynesians. The nuance in Melville’s depiction of fraught communication is perhaps best demonstrated by the vastly different impressions previous critics have had of how well Tommo can understand the Typees’ speech. 12 Closer attention demonstrates, however, that Tommo’s level of understanding is neither falsely asserted by himself nor unrealistically depicted by Melville. Readings of Tommo’s level of proficiency vary so widely only because Melville avoids the easily classifiable extremes of seamless translation and irreconcilable difference. Because the Polynesian vocabulary presented in Typee is internally consistent, it is frequently possible for a reader to learn the meaning of a word such as “mortarkee” and then use that understanding to interpret a later phrase. By thus initiating the reader into his own partial knowledge of Polynesian, Melville illustrates how Tommo uses his limited vocabulary to make rudimentary translations and acquire new Polynesian words. If, even without the benefit of immersion in the language, the reader can begin to understand simple statements, it is not impossible to imagine how Tommo might acquire the same understanding. At the same time, as common experience 12 While Daneen Wardrop (148) and Jeffrey Hotz (Divergent 260) both suggest that Tommo understands the language little if at all, McBride asserts that any lack of comprehension is feigned (Colonizer 18; “I Saw” 26). Similarly, J. Kerry Grant notes that “Tommo’s deepest perplexity is rarely a function of his inability to understand the language of his captors” and that “[h]e very rapidly demonstrates his ability to communicate with the islanders at an effective if rudimentary level and in his ramblings about the valley he is not often hindered by the irritations of the ordinary tourist who has lost his phrasebook” (65). Far more skeptical of Tommo’s ability with Polynesian, Bryant asserts, “Real, imagined, or falsely asserted, [Tommo’s] linguistic proficiency is as baffling to us as Polynesian is baffling, and finally horrific, to him,” but he concludes that “Melville needed to establish that Marquesan is translatable enough for him to appreciate certain Marquesan moments but not enough to explain its horrors and allow him to stay” (“A Work” 91-92). 132 can easily show, there is a great difference between rudimentary understanding and fluency, and thus it is only reasonable that, of the Typees’ “thousand questions” that first night in the valley, Tommo and Toby “could understand nothing more than that they had reference to the recent movements of the French” and other occasional “indistinct idea[s] of their meaning” (75). Even as Tommo’s understanding of the language increases, Melville is still careful to distinguish between basic phrases such as “‘Happar poo arva!—Happar poo arva!’ (the cowards had fled),” which give Tommo little difficulty, and Kory-Kory’s “vehement harangue,” which Tommo can only paraphrase with the disclaimer, “so far as I understood it” (13). Tommo, like Melville, understands a limited amount of Polynesian from the combination of a whaler’s previous knowledge and his stay on Nukuhiva, but it would be wrong to extrapolate a total understanding from such basic phrases, as some critics would wish to do, or to assume, conversely, that a lack of total comprehension is evidence of no understanding at all. In contrast to his predecessors, Melville avoids the extremes of too-easy translation and utter incomprehensibility, presenting his reader with a depiction of cross-cultural encounter that is as credible as it is respectful of cultural difference. Melville’s own experiences on Nukuhiva contribute a level of complexity and sophistication to the linguistic encounters in Typee, but Melville also responds to the stereotypical portrayals of “savage” language found in previous narratives. From the beginning of Typee, he critiques the traditional ethnographical practice of using language to denigrate a supposedly savage people. After using quotation marks to highlight and distinguish Polynesian words, Melville employs the same typographical markings to 133 imply a message of cultural relativism when he describes Porter’s violent actions and the islanders’ just retaliation: Thus it is that they whom we denominate “savages” are made to deserve the title. When the inhabitants of some sequestered island first descry the “big canoe” of the European rolling through the blue waters towards their shores, they rush down to the beach in crowds, and with open arms ready to embrace the strangers. (26) By placing quotation marks around both “savages” and “big canoe,” and thus visually and typographically aligning the terms, Melville shows how labeling an unfamiliar culture “savage” is akin to the seemingly less proper application of “big canoe” to a ship likewise outside of the other culture’s comprehension. The inappropriateness or inadequacy of both terms derives from a lack of cross-cultural understanding. Melville’s following statement, “How often is the term ‘savages’ incorrectly applied” (27), which he borrows nearly verbatim from Porter’s insufficient defense of the Marquesans (Porter II: 62), is proof of Melville’s desire to rewrite the most limited colonial perspectives. 13 Not 13 A similar sentiment is repeated much later in the book: “The term ‘Savage’ is, I conceive, often misapplied” (125). However, as Bryant suggests in his analysis of the relative frequency with which the terms “savage,” “islander,” and “native” occur in Typee, such apparent anticolonialism has its limits, and “Melville is reserving the use of savage, despite his own advanced ideology, for the shock the word will induce in readers” (Unfolding 167-68). Bryant expresses Melville’s ambivalent anticolonialism more broadly when he concludes from his analysis of Melville’s revision: “But the deeper irony of his revisions is that while Melville was revising his text, on the one hand, to assert his personal, imperial dominance over the various colonized sexual identities he projected onto Typee, he was also revising, on the other hand, so as to castigate imperialism in the Pacific, and in particular his imperialistic predecessors” (Unfolding 60). Hotz offers another reading of Melville’s use of “savage” when he argues: “The slippery connotations of ‘savage’ throughout the narrative reflect Tommo’s ironic stance toward the Typees. The ironic voice of the narrator perhaps masks his uncertainties in addressing what he sees as the conceptual problem posed by the Typees: the incongruities in their not being conventionally ‘savage’ and yet the burden of writing an adventure narrative that would appeal to a wide readership with this very notion of ‘savage’” (Divergent 258). 134 only does the conjunction of “savage” with “big canoe” reinforce a message of cultural relativism, but it also demonstrates a link between Melville’s critique of ethnographic prejudice and his engagement with issues of how language contains and communicates meaning. Melville also critiques the use of linguistic ethnography to label other languages—and thus other cultures—as inferior. He writes: I once heard it given as an instance of the frightful depravity of a certain tribe in the Pacific, that they had no word in their language to express the idea of virtue. The assertion was unfounded; but were it otherwise, it might be met by stating that their language is almost entirely destitute of terms to express the delightful ideas conveyed by our endless catalogue of civilized crimes. (126) Melville criticizes such linguistic prejudice on two levels. On the one hand, by rejecting the tribe’s supposed lack of vocabulary, he suggests that such claims are often fabricated to serve an ideological purpose. At the same time, Melville points out how ostensibly true statements can be equally deceptive when they reveal only one side of the issue. For example, a popular bit of trivia asserts that the Inuit have many words for snow. While their language does have a significant number, linguists have demonstrated that English contains just as many. 14 Though presented as science, such linguistic trivia more often distort the truth than reveal it. Despite the potential for superficiality in Melville’s literal denunciations of colonialism, he makes a deeper critique of the classification of “savageness” in his depiction of non-verbal communication. At first glance, however, Melville seems to echo 14 For proof of this, see Anthony C. Woodbury’s “Counting Eskimo Words for Snow: A Citizen’s Guide.” 135 the presentation of gesture in his sources. The following anecdote, for example, contains many elements of the typical imperialist language encounter: The natives of Nukuheva would frequently recount in pantomime to our ship’s company [the Typees’] terrible feats . . . . It was quite amusing, too, to see with what earnestness they disclaimed all cannibal propensities on their own part, while they denounced their enemies—the Typees—as inveterate gormandizers of human flesh[.] (25) As in earlier accounts, the whalers and Nukuhevans resort to gesture to communicate in the absence of a mutual language. This passage is also reminiscent of the origin of the term “cannibal.” As with the Caribs and the Arawaks, the white men only hear about the cannibalism of the Typees from their enemies. 15 Unlike his predecessors, however, Melville makes it clear that the information received from these pantomimed accounts is doubly doubtful, first, because it is communicated in the imperfect medium of gesture, and, second, because it comes from the biased perspective of a situation of mutual enmity, us vs. them. Toby’s attempts to communicate with the two Typee children using gesture further question the possibility of cross-cultural communication in the absence of a shared language: The frightened pair now stood still, whilst we endeavored to make them comprehend the nature of our wants. In doing this Toby went through with a complete series of pantomimic illustrations—opening his mouth from ear to ear, and thrusting his fingers down his throat, gnashing his teeth and rolling his eyes about, till I verily believe the poor creatures took us for a couple of white cannibals who were about to make a meal of them. (69) 15 Samuel Otter has similarly pointed out that the repetition of “Typee or Happar?” “echoes the founding European trope of colonial encounter in the Caribbean: Carib or Arawak? Fierce cannibal or noble savage?” (Melville’s 11). Alex Calder also has argued that Typee “is now generally thought to unravel the binary [of “cannibal or friend”]. Neither version of Polynesia is at all adequate to the reality of Tommo’s experience” (“Pacific” 99). 136 This scene recalls an extremely similar one in Cooper’s Homeward Bound, in which a white character fails to communicate his good intentions to a captured Arab (see Chapter Two). In Homeward Bound, the white man’s gestures “described, with sufficient clearness, the process of skinning, cutting up, cooking, and eating the carcass of the Arab, with the humane intention of throwing a negative over the whole proceeding, by a strong sign of dissent at the close,” but the gestures have the reverse effect and convince the captive that he is about to be cooked and eaten (II: 16). Likewise, Toby’s attempts at non- verbal communication show how easily an intended meaning can be reversed. And it is the American character who is the butt of the joke, not the racial Others with whom he is attempting to communicate. Similarly, during Mehevi’s inspection of Tommo’s mysteriously afflicted leg, Tommo describes how Toby, “throwing himself into all the attitudes of a posture-master, vainly endeavored to expostulate with the natives by signs and gestures” (80). Comically exaggerating Toby’s ridiculousness, Tommo even remarks, “one would have thought that he was the deaf and dumb alphabet incarnated” (80). These passages exemplify Toby’s mode of communication with the Typees. In addition to their comedic value, such scenes balance similarly comic descriptions of the Typees’ communication by making a white character equally laughable, a fact that is too often overlooked by those who most harshly criticize Melville’s portrayal of native Marquesans. Thus, Toby’s comic gesturing balances a scene that appears to mock Kory-Kory’s speech, a passage which Bryant analyzes in Melville’s manuscript of Typee. Even in the final version, the native’s “harangue” gives Tommo “the headache for the rest of the day” (Melville, Typee 103), but Bryant describes how “in manuscript Melville derides Kory- 137 Kory’s ‘eloquence,’ stating that the native would have used the standard rhetorical signposts (firstly, secondly, etc.) ‘had he been anything other than the illiterate barbarian that he was’” (Repose 154). 16 Comparing this scene with the above descriptions of Toby, however, reveals that what is notable about such comical linguistic displays is not that they are given by a “savage,” but rather that they are attempts to make oneself understood to a foreigner. For example, when Kory-Kory first attempts to inform Tommo that he is to be the invalid’s mode of transportation, Tommo describes how “Kory-Kory, leaping from the pi-pi, and then backing himself up against it, like a porter in readiness to shoulder a trunk, with loud vociferations and a superabundance of gestures, gave me to understand that I was to mount upon his back” (89). It would be easy to read this behavior as a bit of endearingly childish and savage silliness, but in comparison to Toby’s similar displays, it becomes clear that Kory-Kory is only gesturing so comically because Tommo would not understand if he spoke normally. In the very scene that Bryant describes, in which Kory-Kory lectures Tommo about the depravity of the Happars, Melville also makes it patently clear that the extremity of Kory-Kory’s behavior is motivated by his desire to be understood: Kory-Kory seemed to experience so heartfelt a desire to infuse into our minds proper views on these subjects, that, assisted in his endeavors by the little knowledge of the language we had acquired, he actually succeeded in making us comprehend a considerable part of what he said. . . . [H]e explained himself by a variety of gestures, during the performance of which he would dart out of the house, and point abhorrently towards the 16 Bryant concludes from Melville’s deletion of a passage that “further mocks Kory- Kory’s ‘gibberish’” that, “[i]n toning down the burlesque, Melville preserves our growing regard for the island culture” (Repose 155). Corroborating my own emphasis on language, Bryant further argues, “If these ‘amiable epicures’ are worth emulating socially and morally, then their language merits serious attention. It deserves objective translation, not ridicule” (155). 138 Happar valley; running in to us again and with a rapidity that showed he was fearful we would lose one part of his meaning before he could complete the other; and continuing his illustrations by seizing the fleshy part of my arm in his teeth, intimating by the operation that the people who lived over in that direction would like nothing better than to treat me in that manner. (102-103) Undoubtedly, this method of communication is comically ridiculous, but I would argue that, in light of the example of Toby and the similar scenes in Cooper, the genre of Kory- Kory’s performance is not “savage inability to communicate in a civilized manner” but “the lengths a person of any race will go to be understood by someone who speaks a different language.” As Bryant points out, Tommo is quick to judge Kory-Kory for the excessive heavy-handedness of his gestures, but the earlier examples of Toby’s failed pantomimes demonstrate that Tommo is wrong in assuming non-verbal communication to be so transparent that less elaborate gesturing would suffice. In light of this shortsightedness, it would appear that Tommo is far from an authorial mouthpiece when he goes on to mock Kory-Kory’s headache-inducing “strain of unintelligible and stunning gibberish” (103). After all, it is Tommo who does not fully understand the language, and if Kory-Kory’s “harangue” were not so unintelligible to a foreigner, his ludicrous display of gestures would not have been necessary. In contrast, the positive example of “native oratory” that Tommo finds in Marnoo differs from Kory-Kory’s “harangue” in that its audience are the Typees themselves, not foreigners who can understand only rudimentary Polynesian. Tommo states, “Little as I understood the language, yet from his animated gestures and the varying expression of his features—reflected as from so many mirrors in the countenances around him, I could easily discover the nature of those passions which he sought to arouse” (137). At first this scene might seem to mirror Stewart’s worship ceremony, but Tommo does not presume 139 to translate Marnoo’s speech into English. Tommo goes on to explain how he can understand part of the address from some familiar words, but not all of it. That Marnoo’s gestures, though “animated,” are far from comical, demonstrates what was earlier implied: the Typee language and mode of communication is neither puerile nor primitive, but any attempt to communicate across a language barrier easily can become ridiculous. Melville further connects the example of Marnoo’s speech to Kory-Kory’s diatribe by calling it a “vehement harangue” (138), but Tommo still remains unqualifiedly positive about Marnoo’s skill and eloquence. 17 Thus, Melville uses the example of Marnoo, in contrast to the ridiculous gesturing and enunciation of both Toby and Kory-Kory, to highlight the difference between attempts to make oneself understood to a foreigner and monolingual communication. Melville’s depiction of foreign language encounters in Typee introduces the problems of linguistic and cultural translation that will concern him throughout his career. Like Cooper in Mercedes of Castile, Melville also uses such encounters to highlight the importance of recognizing cultural difference. Although Tommo seems to understand some cultural practices with ease while others remain mysterious, I disagree with those who read this variation as an inconsistent portrayal of Tommo’s knowledge of the Typee language. 18 Many of Typee’s ethnographic descriptions consist of details that 17 Bryant (Repose 184) and Gibian (26) have both read Marnoo as not only a positive but also a decidedly cosmopolitan character. 18 Bryant, for example, has asserted that “Tommo plays fast and loose with the language, choosing to know it and not know it to fit his rhetorical needs,” because “Melville needed to establish that Marquesan is translatable enough for him to appreciate certain 140 could be gleaned from careful observation and clarified with basic vocabulary. A total understanding of the Typee language would not be necessary, for example, to explain how a bundle of tappa is “laid in the bed of some running stream, with a heavy stone placed over it, to prevent its being swept away” (47). In the cases of more complex cultural concepts, however, Tommo does not claim as thorough an understanding as when he describes the physical customs of dress or food. When Kory-Kory shows Tommo a “remarkable pyramidical structure” in the Taboo Groves, Tommo admits he can offer the reader no explanation of the monument (160). He writes, “My cicerone perceived the astonishment with which I gazed at this monument of savage crockery, and immediately addressed himself to the task of enlightening me: but all in vain; and to this hour the nature of the monument remains a complete mystery to me” (160). Tommo’s dramatic and humorous tone, developed from Melville’s own entertaining stories of his adventures abroad, does not refrain from poking fun at the outlandishness of this “savage crockery.” Still, while Melville’s depiction of the Typees is not free from prejudice and does not shy away from comic deprecation, it is a testament to his open-mindedness that he does not presume to understand their culture at a glance but confesses when some practice remains a mystery, when communication proves impossible. Likewise, Tommo says of the tattoo, “Although convinced that tattooing was a religious observance, still the nature of the connection between it and the superstitious idolatry of the people was a point upon which I could never obtain any information. Like the still more important system of the ‘Taboo,’ it always appeared inexplicable to me” Marquesan moments but not so translatable that Marquesan horrors might be explained away” (Unfolding 242). 141 (221). Once again, the disapproval implied in “superstitious idolatry”—and the possibility of being tattooed is one area where even Melville’s most ardent apologists admit that Tommo balks from full acceptance of the island’s culture—is undercut by Tommo’s admission that he has not been able to obtain sufficient information about the practice. As with the “Taboo,” the otherness of which is clearly marked by its capitalization and enclosure in quotation marks, the rationale of the Typees’ tattoos will not translate. Thus Melville does not fall into the common trap of imposing his own explanations onto the Typees. He does not, like Porter, claim the “taboo” is somehow equivalent to lent. Insistence on the utter unknowability of the Other would be prejudice of the opposite extreme, but at the early point of contact represented in Typee, true understanding of such complex cultural beliefs and practices is impossible. By admitting when something is incomprehensible, Tommo/Melville recognizes the barrier to easy translation imposed by cultural difference. Melville also begins in Typee to examine the importance of the act of translation itself. In his discussion of Kory-Kory’s harangue, Bryant calls attention to a textual crux that represents the heart of this issue. Melville writes that he will give either a “literal” or a “liberal” interpretation of Kory-Kory’s speech, but the narrator’s handwriting makes it impossible to determine which he intended (Bryant, Repose 155). The word appears as “literally” in both British and American first editions, but “liberally” in the Revised American edition, and it is impossible to know for certain whether “liberally” is a correction back to Melville’s original intention, Melville’s deliberate revision, or a misprint of what should have been “literally” all along (156). Bryant argues in Melville 142 and Repose that “‘literally’ is the better word” (156). In the more recent Melville Unfolding, however, Bryant’s discussion of the crux becomes more nuanced: Not only are the two words virtual antonyms, especially in the context of linguistic translation, but the two uses of the “L-word” come at a moment of cultural ambivalence in the narrative metonymically represented by this very lexical conclusion. Does Tommo wish to treat Typeean language and culture with objectivity and anthropological respect? Then he would opt to interpret Kory-Kory “literally,” if such a thing could be done. Does Tommo wish to deride Typeean language and culture with comic expansions of alien-sounding words into loose linguistic parallels? Then he would opt to interpret Kory-Kory “liberally,” perhaps (of course) as only any translation can be performed. (182) Clearly, this ambiguity raises a question of cultural transference that gets to the heart of Melville’s treatment of linguistic encounter. Bryant gestures at the possibility that all translations must necessarily be “liberal,” but he does not fully explore the implications of such insight. This failure leads him to undervalue the potential significance of a claim to give a “liberal” translation and leads him to conclude, erroneously, that “literal” produces the more emancipatory reading. The analysis of cross-cultural communication in Typee, read in the context of the history of colonial linguistic encounter, works to debunk Bryant’s equation of attempting a “literal” translation and treating a foreign “language and culture with objectivity and anthropological respect.” Whatever word Melville intended, the idea that no translation can be purely “literal” is borne out by an examination of his treatment of translation in Typee. Melville follows Cooper in demonstrating that, in the absence of true fluency, it is often more respectful to allow a foreign culture the difference and complexity of not being so readily translatable. By tracing Melville’s other references to the act of translation in Typee, it becomes clear that, whatever word Melville intended at whatever stage of the writing process, he begins to demonstrate that a literally “literal” translation is indeed impossible. 143 Nevertheless, in order to convey his basic knowledge of Polynesian to the reader, Tommo/Melville must include some translations of Polynesian vocabulary. Often, this transference of meaning seems straightforward enough, as in “‘whihenies’ (young girls)” (14). During his initial encounter with the Typees, Tommo calls attention to the transference of meaning between languages that such translations entail when he explains, “I now threw together in the form a question the words ‘Happar’ and ‘Mortarkee,’ the latter being equivalent to the word ‘good’” (69, emphasis added). Throughout the book, Melville is similarly meticulous in marking his translations, designating that a thing is “called by the natives a ‘pi-pi’” or “denominated in the language of the natives the ‘Ti’” (81, 92). In one case, Melville takes this fastidiousness to a comic extreme when he writes, “‘Marnoo pemi!’ which being interpreted, implied that an individual by the name of Marnoo was approaching” (135). This verbose deviation from the more common form of “native term” (English translation) calls attention to a process of interpretation that is neither instantaneous nor seamless. Such play with the act of translation makes Tommo/Melville seem far from optimistic about the ease of transferring meaning from the Typee language into English. In several footnotes, Melville is even more careful to explain the complex nuances of Polynesian terms, demonstrating that they are never exactly “equivalent” to their English translations. For example, in a footnote for the term “tabooed Kannaka” (another interpreter), Melville explains: The word “Kannaka” is at the present day universally used in the South Seas by Europeans to designate the Islanders. In the various dialects of the principal groups it is simply a sexual designation applied to the males; but it is now used by the natives in their intercourse with foreigners in the same sense in which the latter employ it. 144 A “Tabooed Kannaka” is an islander whose person has been made to a certain extent sacred by the operation of a singular custom hereafter to be explained. (74) By explaining how “Kannaka” is “used” by certain people to “designate” a particular thing, Melville calls attention to the practical function of words instead of attributing to them any kind of universal or inherent meaning. He further highlights the fluidity of meaning that makes any “literal” translation impossible when he notes how the natives adopted a new definition from the foreigners’ mistranslation. In the second paragraph, the phrases “to a certain extent sacred” and “singular custom” again demonstrate how there can be no literal, word-for-word translation of “tabooed Kannaka” because it has no strict English equivalent. Melville provides a similar footnoted explanation for the translation of “Arva Wai”: “I presume this might be translated into ‘Strong Waters.’ Arva is the name bestowed upon a root the properties of which are both inebriating and medicinal. ‘Wai’ is the Marquesan word for water” (153). While the translation of “wai” presents few difficulties (although making even this claim has led me to imagine the numerous cultural connotations and distinctions that might complicate the seemingly easy translation of “water,” such as bottled water, salt water, running water, ice, etc.), “arva,” which Melville translates as “strong” in the aggregate phrase, is not an equivalent adjective for “strong” at all, but rather a particularly strong medicinal herb. Taken together, such examples call attention to the process of translation while demonstrating that the transference of meaning from one language to another is rarely accomplished without complications. 145 A final example illustrates the difference between Melville’s treatment of translation and that of his predecessors. When Tommo visits the “effigy of a dead warrior” with Kory-Kory, Melville departs from his usual practice by translating a bit of supposedly Polynesian dialogue directly into English: “A very pleasant place,” Kory-Kory said it was; “but after all, not much pleasanter, he thought than Typee.” “Did he not then,” I asked him, “wish to accompany the warrior?” “Oh no: he was very happy where he was; but supposed that some time or other he would go in his own canoe.” (172-73) At first it might seem that this seamless translation (similar to those found in Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales) deviates from Melville’s usual foregrounding of the difficulties of cross-cultural communication. However, Tommo quickly erases this impression of linguistic transparency with the following observations: Thus far, I think, I clearly comprehended Kory-Kory. But there was a singular expression he made use of at the time, enforced by as singular a gesture, the meaning of which I would have given much to penetrate. I am inclined to believe it must have been a proverb he uttered . . . . Could it have been then . . . he answered by saying something equivalent to our old adage—“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?” (173) Thus, Tommo’s initially clear comprehension is undercut by the possibility that Kory- Kory’s remark is not meant “literally,” but that it is a proverb, a culturally situated statement whose literal meaning is, by definition, not its actual meaning. By referencing this well-known translation challenge, and by enacting its conventional solution of finding an “equivalent” proverb in the target language (“A bird in the hand . . .”), Melville once again highlights the process of translation, thereby reinforcing language encounter as a major theme of his work while questioning the reliability of cross-cultural communication. 146 Typee offers such a wide array of linguistic examples because it is centrally concerned with issues of cross-cultural exchange across a language barrier. While novels such as Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales use conventional devices to sidestep the difficulties of a multilingual environment, as when Cooper tags English dialogue as a “translation” of Delaware speech, Melville confronts such multilingualism directly. Although his knowledge of pidgin Polynesian is limited, Melville incorporates the words he does know directly into his work, and his representation of what speech Tommo could not have fully understood engages the reader in a credible scene of linguistic encounter. At the same time, Melville undercuts the stereotypical portrayals of savage language found in his sources while also examining and beginning to deconstruct the act of translation itself. This extensive treatment of linguistic encounter establishes a set of concerns that will reappear throughout Melville’s later works. Language and Translation in Omoo, Mardi, and Moby-Dick While issues of language and communication play some role throughout most of Melville’s literary career, the nature of his focus on language varies across his Pacific writings. Typee’s nuanced treatment of foreign language is rooted in Melville’s engagement with the genre of travel writing, and even at this early stage of his career, Melville already surpasses Cooper, not only in his recognition of cross-cultural communication’s difficulties, but also in the respect and attention he devotes to native language and customs. Melville’s next Pacific narrative, Omoo, presents a view of Polynesian language at a later stage of imperialism, continuing the emphasis on the limits of translation begun in Typee. Mardi and Moby-Dick also follow the experiences of whalers in the Pacific, but as Melville’s fiction becomes more figurative and 147 philosophical, so too does his treatment of language. The following section will look briefly at language in Omoo, Mardi, and parts of Moby-Dick before the focus shifts, in the final section of this chapter, to one of Melville’s most significant treatments of translation, “Benito Cereno.” At first glance, Omoo (1847) seems to present the same smattering of Polynesian words and phrases as Typee. Drechsel, however, notes a key difference between the speech of the Pacific Islanders in Melville’s first two works. While Drechsel praises Melville’s accurate presentation of Maritime Polynesian Pidgin in Typee, he finds that the majority of language in Omoo is “Pidgin English, spiked with Polynesian terms for color” (“Pidgin English” 59). Drechsel argues that Melville thus takes “literary license for dramatic effects” (59), a view which is seconded by Mary K. Edwards, who finds that “[d]ialect and pidgin, typical of the American humorist writing of the period, sharpen and illuminate Melville’s characterizations” (148). While this use of “broken English” appears on the surface to relegate its speakers to the position of low, comic figures, the shift from Polynesian to English pidgin is not a change from accuracy to literary effect, as previous critics have asserted. It is a change in focus from the beginnings of colonial/imperial encounter to a much later stage. Melville has been criticized for his anachronistic presentation of the Typees as a civilization yet untouched by white colonialism, but, as Alex Calder has argued, he thereby “deliberately introduces details that telescope the full history of the European encounter with the Pacific into a single adventure” (“Mapping” 118). Thus, the subject of Typee is the initial encounter between Westerners and a largely untouched civilization. The travels of the narrator of Omoo, however, occur along coasts already frequented by American and European whalers, 148 traders, and missionaries. A regular intercourse with the inhabitants of those islands has been well established, so, while some cultural misunderstandings still persist, pathways of basic communication already have been opened. Drechsel unintentionally suggests this historical reading of Melville’s shift to Pidgin English when he explains why he believes Maritime Polynesian Pidgin would have been the more accurate choice. Drechsel argues, “Sociolinguistically and politically, Pidgin English simply does not fit as a major medium in a Polynesian environment in which Europeans, especially English-speaking ones, had not yet consolidated their power over the indigenous population” (“Pidgin English” 61). If Melville stretched the truth in Typee to focus on the beginnings of colonial encounter, it is no surprise that Omoo stretches the truth in the other direction to demonstrate the eventual consequences of imperialism. Indeed, when Melville describes the Tahitians as “mournfully watching their doom,” “all that is corrupt in barbarism and civilization unite,” and, “like other uncivilized beings, brought into contact with Europeans, . . . [remaining] stationary until utterly extinct,” he clearly indicates this final stage of colonial contact (192). 19 In Omoo as in Typee, Melville uses language to characterize the trajectory of imperial encounter in the Pacific. Calder’s reading of the shift from Typee to Omoo further addresses both the changing representation of foreign language in Melville’s works and the changing nature of American travel. Calder argues, “When Typee’s narrator-as-anthropologist becomes 19 Bryan Short has also found that rarely in Omoo does “language [form] a significant barrier to understanding,” and he offers the similar explanation that, “[b]ecause the intentions of Typee and Long Ghost, and indeed of Euro-American culture in Polynesia, are rudimentary and exploitative, the natives understand and anticipate their desires at every turn. Not much linguistic sophistication is called for” (“Plagiarizing” 103). 149 Omoo’s narrator-as-tourist, the problem is no longer ‘too many signs I can’t read’ but ‘so many signs that seem familiar’” (“Pacific” 107). Thus, Typee represents not only an early stage of colonialism but also an early stage of travel. Like Cooper and the other American travelers at the beginning of the nineteenth century, Tommo must learn the language and culture of the foreign land he visits, and he is often faced with the uncertainty of not understanding the locals. As Calder so brilliantly notes, Omoo marks a shift away from this early mode of travel. Like the tourists discussed more fully in the following chapters, the narrator of Omoo is faced not with incomprehensibility but with an already established system of communication, an infrastructure that obviates the need to learn a foreign country’s language and discourages any inquiries into native culture beyond what is covered in the standard tour. The distinction between Tommo as traveler and Omoo’s narrator as tourist also calls attention to the new balance of linguistic knowledge and, consequently, of linguistic power represented in the later book. For the most part, the whites in Omoo do not need to learn Polynesian because the natives already speak a form of English. This pidgin English is by definition a market language, and its purpose is to enable the exchange of both ideas and goods across a cultural barrier. Thus, the islanders’ “broken English” in Omoo is not an object of ridicule—it is evidence of their mastery of the market language, their capability within the system of colonial exchange. They use the language of power for their own benefit and even, as Eric J. Sundquist and Gavin Jones will argue of the slaves in “Benito Cereno,” for the subversive purpose of reclaiming economic if not political power from their colonizers. Despite previous critics’ characterization of pidgin English as demeaning dialect, the pidgin spoken in Omoo can be read as a sign of empowerment. 150 Moreover, beneath Omoo’s surface of seemingly comic “broken English,” Melville also scrutinizes the act of translation, marking its potential for linguistic subversion while continuing Typee’s analysis of the inherent incommensurability of cross-cultural exchange. One example echoes the play with nautical jargon found in Cooper’s sea tales. When the “shore doctor” visits the sailors incarcerated on Tahiti, he inquires after one’s health, but he is unable to understand the nautical answer. First, the sailor in question replies, “‘I’m afeard, doctor, I’ll soon be losing the number of my mess!’ (a sea phrase, for departing this life)” (134). Then, the doctor’s appeal for clarification gets only this unhelpful response: “Why,” exclaimed Flash Jack, who volunteered as interpreter, “he means he’s going to croak” (die). (134) Only after further explanation does the shore doctor finally understand. By placing translations of these nautical phrases in parentheses, and implying that they require an interpreter, Melville follows Cooper in equating the sailor’s jargon with foreign language. And the implication that even versions of English might require a kind of translation makes the possibility of perfect cross-cultural communication seem even more remote. Another example of translation is the sermon the narrator hears at the “Church of the Cocoa-Nuts,” a scene that recalls the worship service observed by Stewart. Unlike Stewart, the narrator is unwilling to trust in the universality of religious sentiment as illuminated by his own rudimentary Polynesian, so he has the native language interpreted for him by “an intelligent Hawaiian sailor” whom he asks to “hear every word, and tell me what you can, as the missionary goes on” (173). Before continuing with the content of the sermon, the narrator further notes: 151 Jack’s was not, perhaps, a critical version of the discourse; and, at the time, I took no notes of what he said. Nevertheless, I will here venture to give what I remember of it; and, as far as possible, in Jack’s phraseology, so as to lose nothing by a double translation. (173) These comments indicate that the narrator does not fully trust either the original translation or his own transcription of it. Although the sermon’s pidgin English seems comic, and Melville uses the episode to make offensive generalizations about the materiality of the Tahitian people, this comment about translation prefigures the inclusion of similarly translated accounts in Moby-Dick and “Benito Cereno.” Mary K. Edwards sums up the subversive potential of translation in this scene when she asks, “With all these layers, how can we trust any words of the sermon as we read it in Omoo, and even more importantly, how can we trust any of its words at all?” (110). It would be disingenuous to argue that the sermon’s multiple translations can entirely erase the negative characterization of the Tahitians it contains, or that they can erase all of the other stereotypical characterizations that have made Omoo a far less common subject of postcolonial readings than Typee. Still, it is important to note that this undercutting of official speech through its translation sets a precedent for Melville’s unquestionably subversive treatment of the translated deposition that ends “Benito Cereno.” In a final example of translation, Melville more pointedly critiques the Christian missionaries. A minor character is introduced as “Ereemear Po-Po; or, to render the Christian name back again into English—Jeremiah Po-Po” (277). Like many of the odd habits and various vices of the natives, such “curious combinations of names” are produced by white civilization and by the missionaries who “insist upon changing to something else whatever is objectionable” in the patronymic (277). Consequently, the narrator explains, “when Jeremiah came to the font, and gave his name as Narmo-Nana 152 Po-Po (something equivalent to The-Darer-of-Devils-by-Night), the reverend gentleman officiating told him, that such a heathenish appellation would never do” (277). Just as the missionary likely misinterprets the significance of Jeremiah’s original name, his new Biblical appellation also gets altered in its translation, as do “Adamo (Adam), Nooar (Noah), Daveedar (David), Earcobar (James), Eorna (John), Patoora (Peter), Ereemear (Jeremiah), &c.” (277). With a final joke about the futility of such practices, Melville concludes, “And thus did he come to be named Jeremiah Po-Po; or, Jeremiah-in-the- Dark—which he certainly was, I fancy, as to the ridiculousness of his new cognomen” (277). The ridiculousness of the name derives from its repeated translation between English and Tahitian. Each translation is accompanied by a loss of original meaning until only nonsense remains. These moments of problematic translation contribute to an aspect of Omoo that is too easily overlooked in favor of the novel’s frequent recourse to comic stereotypes: an enlightened critique of cross-cultural communication approaching the middle ground of true understanding that proved so elusive in Typee. For example, when Doctor Long Ghost dreams of staying in Tamai, he outlines the following outrageous plans: I’ll put up a banana-leaf as a physician from London—deliver lectures on Polynesian antiquities—teach English in five lessons, of one hour each— establish power-looms for the manufacture of tappa—lay out a public park in the middle of the village, and found a festival in honour of Captain Cook! (245) As with Melville’s earlier condemnation of European interference in Tahitian culture, these plans, however well intentioned, will likely serve only to corrupt the village the Doctor finds so pleasing. And, indicative of the short-sightedness and superficiality of such proposals, the plan to teach English in a mere five hours demonstrates once again 153 the characteristic failure of white colonizers to recognize the difficulties of cross-cultural communication. Whatever amount of English could be taught in such a short period of time could only produce a dialogue as superficial as the Doctor’s proposed festival. And such a limited knowledge of standard English would likely leave any natives so briefly instructed babbling both comically and incomprehensibly. Another example that undercuts a reading of Omoo’s pidgin English as simply demeaning is the seemingly deaf and dumb hermit, called by the chapter heading “A Dealer in the Contraband” (271). When the narrator and Doctor Long Ghost come upon the old man, they report: “with a variety of uncouth gestures, he soon made us welcome; informing us, by the same means, that he was both deaf and dumb; he then motioned us into his dwelling” (271-72). At first, the hermit seems to be participating in the same comically barbaric gesturing that often serves to degrade racial others. He attempts “to make himself understood by signs; most of which were so excessively ludicrous, that we made no doubt he was perpetrating a series of pantomimic jokes” (272). It is soon revealed, however, that this stereotype is actually a ruse. When the hermit does break his silence to berate the narrator and Doctor for not appreciating his liquor, the man exclaims, “‘Ah, karhowree sabbee lee-lee, ena arva tee maitai!’ in other words, what a blockhead of a white man! this is the real stuff!” (272). As the night progresses, Melville depicts the Doctor and his host in a scene of comic fellowship that anticipates Queequeg and Ishmael at the Spouter Inn: Fancy Varvy and the doctor, then; lovingly tippling, and brimming over with a desire to become better acquainted; the doctor politely bent upon carrying on the conversation in the language of his host, and the old hermit persisting in trying to talk English. The result was, that between the two, they made such a fricassee of vowels and consonants, that it was enough to turn one’s brain. (274) 154 Melville first used the phrase “fricassee of vowels and consonants” in the deleted passage describing Kory-Kory’s “eloquence” (see Bryant, Unfolding 385), but the humor here does not truly denigrate either the Doctor or Varvy. Such linguistic confusion is the natural result of the language barrier between them. In this idyllic scene, the barrier need not be a cause for dislike or aggression. Moreover, by attempting to meet each other halfway linguistically, Varvy and the Doctor enact the creation of a pidgin language. In this scene, which begins with Varvy’s subversive misrepresentation of his ability to speak, Melville posits an alternative to the decay of native culture represented elsewhere in Omoo. Instead of one dominating the other, the Doctor and Varvy represent an ideal of fellowship and equal, if imperfect, communication. Such moments may not entirely offset the work’s many stereotypes, but they provide a solution, a pidgin compromise, to the imperialist extremes of incomprehensibility and assimilation. Melville’s next book, Mardi (1849), marks a shift away from the more realistic representations of cross-cultural encounter in the semi-autobiographical works that preceded it. But as Melville’s focus on the linguistic exchanges of colonialism and imperialism begins to break down, he extends his earlier critiques of translation to a critique of language’s power to convey a fixed and certain meaning. As the concrete depictions of colonial language encounters found in Typee and Omoo fall away in the midst of Mardi’s elaborate allegory, Melville begins to theorize language’s inadequacy as an index of truth, thus suggesting an inherent fallibility in all aspects of human speech. Nevertheless, as Russ Pottle rightly observes, in Mardi, in contrast to Typee, “verbal communication presents no problem” and “[t]he language barrier is oddly done 155 away with, simply evaporates . . . and islanders begin to speak with a pseudo-Elizabethan syntax favored by the narrator during rhetorical flights” (147). This observation is accurate for the vast majority of the novel, but it is interesting to note that a shift in Melville’s treatment of multilingualism accompanies Mardi’s infamous shift in genre from sea adventure to philosophical allegory. 20 In the scenes before Taji begins his voyage around the archipelago, Melville still gives some attention to the actual languages being spoken. For example, Samoa says “Look there:—Annatoo!” in what is identified as “broken English” (66). Indeed, Merrell R. Davis suggests that Melville may have added the character of Samoa for his ability to “act as interpreter among the Kingsmill islanders” (58). When the party first lands in Mardi, Samoa does interpret the speech of the islanders for Taji and Jarl (Melville, Mardi 164). When Taji and Jarl meet with the priest Aleema, it is also clear that they do not understand his language, as Aleema communicates with “a significant sign” (132). Instead of quoting him directly, Taji indicates that the priest “gave [them] to know” (132). Likewise, Taji’s party “[make] signs of amity” in the absence of a shared language (134, emphasis added). 21 All of these 20 For an extremely thorough discussion of Melville’s process of writing Mardi and the novel’s various shifts in focus, see Merrell R. Davis’s book Melville’s Mardi: A Chartless Voyage. Watson Branch makes an interesting and persuasive argument for a modification of Davis’s chronology, locating the addition of Yillah and Hautia’s flower messengers at the final stage of Mardi’s composition. I would argue, however, that Melville’s attention to language in the first meetings with Yillah suggests that these scenes were part of the original, more realistic plan of the book, and not added in the final stages of composition. Both Davis and Branch agree that the opening sequences of the novel belong to a version of Mardi that would have been more like a continuation of Typee and Omoo than the final product. 21 The most concentrated attention to multilingualism occurs in the first interaction between Taji and Yillah. First, Taji notes, “unconsciously, I addressed her in my own tongue” (137). When Yillah replies, she “slowly chant[s] to herself several musical words, unlike those of the Islanders” (137). Then, Taji tries speaking Polynesian. Yillah 156 examples suggest that Melville originally intended Mardi to depict the same kind of linguistic encounter found in Typee and Omoo. Shortly after Taji arrives on the Mardian archipelago, however, such attention to multilingualism abruptly disappears, and no more is said of the difficulty communicating with the islanders Taji presumably would have had. It is never mentioned that the dialogue throughout most of the book, though presented in English, would really have been spoken in some dialect of Polynesian (or whatever Melville would have the inhabitants of Mardi speak). At the same time, while the linguistic encounter of Taji and the Mardians is not Melville’s focus in the way that communication between Tommo and the Nukuhivans was in Typee, Melville does address the incommensurability of translation, as well as the incommensurability of cultural and economic exchange, on a more theoretical level. For example, “Champollion Mohi” translates the hieroglyphics on Vivenza’s arch: “In-this- re-publi-can-land-all-men-are-born-free-and-equal” and “Except-the-tribe-of-Hamo” (512-13). On one hand, these hieroglyphics appear to translate seamlessly to English, just as the country of Vivenza must “translate” into America for Mardi’s allegory to signify. But the translation is certainly not effortless, as evidenced when Mohi interprets the strange and sometimes small characters “slowly” and with “much screwing of his eyes (512-13). Michael C. Berthold has even noted that this message, though written in stone, is “self-disintegrating, as in the syllabification of ‘re-publi-can’” (“Born” 19). Another gestures that he should speak English again, but realizing that she does not understand him, Taji returns to speaking Polynesian and in this way elicits a “[b]roken” account of her history (137). Yillah’s strange affinity for English hints at her true origin—the daughter of murdered missionaries. That her first language, though forgotten, might affect her pronunciation of Polynesian is a bit of linguistic realism similar to that found throughout Typee. The difficulty Taji has communicating with Yillah also serves to heighten the mystery surrounding her character. 157 example of Melville’s play with translation is the flower language of Hautia’s messengers, which Melville borrowed from the numerous books on the subject popular at the time (Kelley, Herman 46; Finkelstein 217; Davis 59). Hautia’s heralds appear throughout Mardi waving various blossoms, and Yoomy attempts to interpret their meaning for Taji. Although Yoomy does not appear to struggle with these translations, the messages themselves remain vague. As Media remarks, “Was ever queen more enigmatical?” (268). Maxine Moore even points out an example where Yoomy’s translation is incorrect, arguing that “Yoomy’s interpretation of the flower messages is not to be trusted” (167, 184). 22 Finally, Melville casts further doubt on language in general when he describes the naming of the Pontiffs of Maramma. Because the “the leading sound in [the Pontiff’s] name was banned to ordinary uses[,] . . . the language of Maramma was incessantly fluctuating; and had become so full of jargonings, that the birds in the groves were greatly puzzled; not knowing where lay the virtue of sounds, so incoherent” (108). In Melville’s subsequent digression about the inability of men and birds to understand each other, the conclusion of both that “it was impossible [the other] could be holding intelligent discourse” mirrors the kind of ethnographic disparagement born of linguistic misunderstanding that characterizes most colonial encounters (108). One of the most interesting examples of cultural exchange is the maker of idols. He describes his trade: “When I cut down the trees for my idols,” said he, “they are nothing but logs; when upon those logs, I chalk out the figures of my images, they yet 22 Moore further argues, somewhat less persuasively, that “[t]he reader is expected to recognize Yoomy’s error of interpretation and to inform himself by referring to one of the many books of flower symbolism so popular in Melville’s day” (167-69). Her book also contains a detailed chart of the flowers’ interpretations (168). 158 remain logs; when the chisel is applied, logs they are still; and when all complete, I at last stand them up in my studio, even then they are logs. Nevertheless, when I handle the pay, they are as prime gods, as ever were turned out in Maramma.” (114) David Simpson has argued of this scene: With the insight that some people are making a healthy living out of fashioning images for others to worship, Melville touches on what I shall argue to be a dominant concern in nineteenth-century inquiries into the ethics of representation. In his conflation of the primitive with the civilized, and the implied ubiquity of the forgers of images, he seems to speak for a world in which there is no remaining recourse to a purer alternative. (Fetishism 9) In light of Simpson’s reading, Melville’s critique of such a “[forger] of images” resonates with the argument that trading sandalwood is immoral because it makes one an accessory to idolatry, a charge which Cooper explores in The Crater. Simpson’s argument highlights the uneasy conflation of religion and capitalism, as well as the seeming inevitability of that connection in both savage and civilized cultures. Read alongside the absurd Mardian practice of using teeth as currency, the idol maker’s admission also shows the arbitrariness of value. Just as it is only convention that makes teeth function as money instead of gold, paper, or even the trifles discussed in the previous chapter, it is only the buyer’s belief that a log is an idol, represented by the purchase of said log, that makes it so. Moreover, as demonstrated in Melville’s footnote explaining the term “tabooed Kannaka,” only common usage and convention give a word any particular signification. Thus, the idol maker’s recognition that his logs are not inherently or universally gods, but only become gods when their buyers accept them as such mirrors the recognition that words have no inherent meaning and that the concepts they designate are not universal categories but only sets of particularities grouped by cultural convention. Melville, like Cooper in Mercedes of Castile and The Crater, augments his 159 play with systems of linguistic meaning with an examination of the analogous systems of economic and religious value, simultaneously tying all to the history of colonial encounter. But in contrast to Cooper, whose more conventional views of trade ultimately reinforced the West’s civilizing mission, Melville’s economic critique comes far closer to suggesting that any system of value, or any way of life, could be equally valid. In Moby-Dick (1851) as in Mardi, Melville’s earlier engagement with linguistic encounter in a colonial context develops into a more theoretical approach to the nature of language itself. Melville reacts not only to the expectations of easy translation found in the literature of imperialism, but also to the idealism that assumes one’s own cultural concepts are universal truths that must translate easily into any human tongue. It is by similarly appealing to universality that the wish for a cosmopolitan brotherhood can slip into a coercive imperialism. 23 In nineteenth-century America, the most visible form of this idealism was the philosophy of the Transcendentalists. As Richard Hardack argues, “For the American transcendentalist, all languages and all human cultures are translated facets of One thing,” and, as a result, “Emerson believe[s] that through boundless space and time, all physical forces and human languages and customs are translatable” (64-65). Emerson’s comments on translation, particularly his statement that he does not “hesitate to read . . . all good books, in translations” because “what is really best in any book is translatable” (Society 182), demonstrate the same assumption of universal truth that fuels 23 This slippage from cosmopolitanism to imperialism is most evident in the ideas of Anacharsis Cloots, as discussed in the Introduction. 160 the imperialist’s disregard for cultural difference. 24 As Melville transitions away from the concrete depiction of colonial language encounter found in his early narratives, he continues to examine the inherent incommensurability revealed by translation, positing this incommensurability as an alternative to Transcendentalist universalism. A brief examination of several key sections of Moby-Dick demonstrates Melville’s increased theoretical interest in the nature of language and translation. From its beginning section, “Etymology,” Moby-Dick demonstrates deep engagement with linguistic difference. 25 At first, the presentation of the word for whale in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Anglo-Saxon, Danish, Dutch, Swedish, Icelandic, English, French, Spanish, Fegee, and Erromangoan would seem to indicate its easy translatability (xvi). Indeed, all of the languages in the list except Hebrew look or sound like at least one other, showing the relation of words across different tongues and the presumable ease of understanding and translating these related languages. This linguistic certainty cannot survive further scrutiny, however. First, the entire “Etymology” section is undercut by the bathetic figure of the “Late Consumptive Usher . . . threadbare in coat, heart, body, and brain” (xv). Moreover, readers of Typee or Omoo might recognize that the Fegee version of “whale,” “PEKEE-NUEE-NUEE” (xvi), might be translated more literally as “big-big-fish,” revealing a different understanding of the creature that, like the “big canoe” in Typee, undercuts the fixity of any cross-linguistic equivalence. 26 Indeed, Yunte Huang calls 24 See the Introduction for further discussion of Emerson’s views of language. 25 Robert T. Tally, Jr. (59), Paul Lyons (“Global” 53), and Mark Bauerlein (24) all suggest that “Etymology” introduces and prefigures the variety of perspectives that characterize the novel as a whole. 26 Indeed, it could be translated with even less syntactic “liberality” as “fish-big-big.” 161 attention to the way the list seems to promise a chronology of languages but offers only “structural incoherence,” which “suggests above all the failure of language to denominate the whale successfully” (76). One of the most perplexing aspects of the section is the following quote from Richard Hakluyt: “While you take in hand to school others, and to teach them by what name a whale-fish is to be called in our tongue, leaving out, through ignorance, the letter H, which almost alone maketh up the signification of the word, you deliver that which is not true.” (xv) Previous critics have noted that this comment on the significance of the letter “H” is accompanied by errors in the Hebrew and Greek words for whale, where each alphabet’s equivalent of “H” is substituted for the proper letter. 27 Gordon V. Boudreau provides an excellent survey of the many explanations that have been given for this passage and concludes that, for Melville, “‘whale’ was not a dead word in a dusty library’s antiquated lexicons, but a living word articulated by aspiration, the breath of life” (6). Doubtless, Melville makes Hakluyt’s claim for the significance of “H” intentionally enigmatic by extracting it from its original context. A closer examination of the section of Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations from which the passages originates reveals that the quotation resonates with the issues of cross-cultural communication found in Melville’s earlier works. In his discussion of Iceland, Hakluyt critiques an earlier historian, Sebastian Munster, for reporting that mariners had weighed anchor on the backs of whales, thinking 27 See, for example, Dorothee Metlitzki’s “The Letter ‘H’ in Melville’s Whale.” According to Michael West, “the Hebrew characters Melville supplied form the word not for whale but for grace” (333). 162 them to be land (567). Hakluyt also critiques Munster’s claim that “[t]hey are called in their tongue Trollwal Tuffelwalen, that is to say, the deuilish Whale” (568). The passage quoted by Melville is followed by this explanation: for val in our language signifieth not a Whale, but chusing or choise of the verbe Eg vel, that is to say, I chuse, or I make choise, from whence val is deriued, &c. But a Whale is called Hualur with vs, & therefore you ought to haue written Trollhualur. Neither doeth Troll signifie the deuill, as you interprete it, but certaine Giants that liue in mountaines. You see therefore (and no maruel) how you erre in the whole word. (568) In Melville’s source, then, the significance of the letter “H” is that, without it, the word means something else entirely. Hakluyt further criticizes Munster’s translation of “troll,” which obviously (to a speaker of English) does not have the same meaning as “devil.” Supported by these observations, Hakluyt explains the dangers of writing about a land without fully understanding its language, the same fault that Melville could find in the sources of Typee. Thus the true significance of “H” is how easily the meaning of a word can be lost, particularly when translating between strange languages, which is exactly what the pale Usher attempts in assembling this “Etymology.” The multiplicity of languages in “Etymology” is mirrored much later in the novel by the multiple interpretations given to the iconic doubloon. In the chapter of that name, the crew of the Pequod all examine the coin Ahab has set as the reward for sighting the white whale. As John T. Matteson notes, “As each crew member passes before this emblem, it acquires a new wealth of interpretation” (180). Mark Bauerlein lists these readings as “an image of self, a Christian icon, a pagan biography, an exchange value, and a demonic emblem” (25). Like the dental currency and the idol carver in Mardi, “The Doubloon” is another playful example of how the arbitrariness of value can be analogous to the arbitrariness of linguistic meaning. Accordingly, Flask calculates that one gold 163 doubloon is “worth sixteen dollars” and is thus equivalent to “nine hundred and sixty cigars” (433). But the coin is also an emblem of translation, as when Starbuck compares the coin to “Belshazzar’s awful writing,” from Daniel 5, an archetypal message requiring interpretation (432). The famous writing on the wall refers to units of weight and, like the doubloon, corresponding measures of value. At the same time, the coin has its own historical significance. Gesa Mackenthun examines the various appearances of Spanish doubloons throughout Melville’s works and argues that the sailors’ interpretations in this chapter mask the “historical realities of the colonial system” that the coin represents (“Postcolonial” 539). As demonstrated in the previous chapter, such colonial systems are built upon the exploitation of native economies’ incommensurability. Finally, when Pip offers his own commentary on the doubloon’s many interpretations and interpreters with the “too crazy-witty” conjugation of “I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look” (434-35), he connects the various significations of the coin back to language. But language presented as conjugation is far from the transcendental view of language as divine naming. 28 Pip’s attention to grammar demonstrates the arbitrariness of language’s construction. Just as the coin itself is only conventionally rather than universally valuable, the rules of grammar have very little connection to actual things. Neither language nor currency points back to any transcendental truth. Furthermore, Ishmael’s response to Pip, “Caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! Ain’t I a crow?” (434), reduces the already arbitrary grammar to animal noise. 28 Nina Baym describes Melville’s developing sense of the arbitrariness of language through Moby-Dick and Pierre when she argues, “given Melville’s Emerson-derived notion of language as proceeding from a divine Author or Namer, the loss of belief in an Absolute entailed the loss not only of truth in the universe but also of coherence and meaning in language” (910). 164 Thus, in “The Doubloon,” Melville provocatively connects the incommensurability of various systems of meaning, particularly economic ones, to the arbitrariness of language, undercutting any perceived universality of either monetary or linguistic sign systems. A final section of Moby-Dick that speaks to the issue of translation is the “Town- Ho’s Story,” which recounts a sailors’ rebellion aboard the Town-Ho and the vessel’s deadly encounter with Moby Dick. The chapter’s framing and narration is quite unusual. Before commencing his story, Ishmael explains, “For my humor’s sake, I shall preserve the style in which I once narrated it at Lima, to a lounging circle of my Spanish friends, one saint’s eve, smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the Golden Inn” (243). The tale is then punctuated by Ishmael’s digressive answers to the questions of his Peruvian audience. Although many critics have offered an explanation of this framing device, Robert T. Tally, Jr., is one of the few who acknowledges that Ishmael’s original Peruvian telling of the story would “presumably” have been in Spanish (63). 29 Thus, within the fiction of the frame as described, the “Town-Ho’s Story” included in Moby-Dick would have to be a kind of English translation of Ishmael’s original telling. True to his ongoing focus on the unreliability of translation, Melville complicates the versions of the tale with numerous retellings until, as in the popular children’s game, it seems impossible that the first whisperings could contain the same message as the final account. First, Ishmael explains that there are two levels of information circulating 29 Philip J. Egan (345), Heinz Kosok (54), and Mary K. Edwards (46-47) all read the framing in terms of Ishmael’s narrative art. Wyn Kelley and Amy Kaplan, on the other hand, focus on the geographical and political significance of Lima, interpreting the frame as commentary on colonialism (Kelley, “Style” 68) and as a “transnational [circuit] of knowledge” that “reinforce[s] the imagined truth of national character” (Kaplan, “Transnational” 44-45). 165 aboard the Pequod: The official version, known to all, was communicated in a “short gam” that included “strong news of Moby Dick” (242). There is also a “secret part of the tragedy,” unknown to the captain of either ship, that was told to Tashtego by “three confederate white seamen” and then recounted again to the common sailors, partly when Tashtego “rambled in his sleep”—not the most reliable method of communication (242). Ishmael reports that his own tale will combine these various versions. At the end of the story, moreover, Ishmael assures his listeners of the truth of his account by claiming, “I have seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney” (259). Therefore, the various versions of the “Town-Ho’s Story” circulated aboard the Pequod are complicated further by yet another retelling Ishmael heard after the ship’s destruction. Just as Ishmael’s Spanish telling is translated into English, these various versions are, in a sense, “translated” into one narrative. The tale itself can thus be read as a kind of double translation. A similar play with translation appears in the court documents at the end of “Benito Cereno,” another story of rebellion recounted in Lima, and there the emphasis on the unreliability of translation is both clearer and more deliberate. 30 Uncertain Translation in “Benito Cereno” “Benito Cereno” (1855) is well known as a story of slave insurrection and as an adept treatment of the power struggle between master and slave. 31 Such readings 30 I am indebted to Donald Pease for his comments and invaluable feedback regarding “The Doubloon” and “The Town-Ho’s Story” during the conference Shifting Tides, Anxious Borders at Binghamton University, April 20 to 21, 2012. 31 Sundquist, for example, has emphasized “Melville’s invocation of Caribbean revolution” and “the historical dimensions of his masquerade of rebellion” (147). Carolyn L. Karcher, in contrast, asserts that “Benito Cereno” is not “primarily a dramatization of slave revolt . . . but rather an exploration of the white racist mind and how it reacts in the 166 understandably focus on Melville’s treatment of domestic slavery, and indeed this is a valid and valuable interpretation of the tale. But reading the events aboard the San Dominick in the tradition of the literature of travel and exploration reveals a linguistic context that has as much in common with Columbus as with Nat Turner. 32 As the following reading will demonstrate, Melville’s earlier engagement with colonial language encounters culminates in the extensive play with translation contained within “Benito Cereno.” Ultimately, the inherent difficulties of the translator’s task—translation’s inability to fully revoke the curse of Babel and unite the globe’s multiplicity of languages—decenters any account of a fixed and universal truth, critiquing the Transcendentalist universalism that can too easily slip into the imperialist mission of converting all cultural difference to Western standards. As Maurice S. Lee has argued, the most “provocative” interpretations of “Benito Cereno” treat it as a story about language (“Melville’s” 497), but it is necessary to view the work’s play with language in the context of colonial encounter to understand its full significance. 33 The story’s combination of colonial and linguistic themes is signaled, as face of a slave insurrection” (Shadow 128). Similarly, Joseph Schiffman also views Delano as “a microcosm of American attitudes of the time toward Negroes” (33). Other readings focus on Delano’s status as a typical “American” (see Spanos, Herman 108-109; McWilliams, Hawthorne 179). 32 Indeed, with its references both to the largest successful slave rebellion and to the first Caribbean island colonized by the Spanish, the name San Dominick suggests both. 33 There have been a number of insightful readings of Melville’s treatment of language in “Benito Cereno.” For example, Laura Barrett focuses on “[t]he novella’s linguistic uncanniness” (405). Reinhold J. Dooley argues that, “by problematizing race, ‘Benito Cereno’ presents Melville’s uneasiness concerning the indeterminateness of language and ultimately of meaning itself” (41). For Cesare Casarino, “Benito Cereno” “investigate[s] blockages of communication, representational impasses, [and] narrative conundrums” (56). Likewise, Jon Hauss focuses on the importance of language in the text and argues 167 Hester Blum (“Atlantic” 121), Darryl Hattenhauer (9), and Markus Heide (49) have all noted, when we learn in the concluding documents that “the ship’s proper figurehead” is “the image of Christopher Colon, the discoverer of the New World” (Melville, “Benito” 107). 34 The entire drama of the figurehead is Melville’s addition, so neither the reference to Columbus nor the mixed spelling of his name originates in the source text. Dominique Marçais notes that “Benito Cereno” is the only work in which Melville refers to the famous navigator as “Christopher Colon,” and argues that “[t]he pun on Columbus / Colon / colonization stresses the oppressive and negative aspects of [Columbus’s] whole enterprise” (55). Marçais uses Melville’s strange combination of the English and Spanish spellings of Columbus’s name, as well as the mixed French and English in “San Dominick,” to argue that the tale’s multilingualism “undoubtedly connects and indicts both the Old and the New World” (56). As the following reading will demonstrate, the partial translation of the name “Christopher Colon,” and the history of linguistic encounter that the man epitomizes, are but a small part of Melville’s treatment of the failure of imperialist translation in this renowned story. that “the central form of masquerade examined by, and ultimately dominating, the text is linguistic” (5). Others have augmented readings of slavery and slave insurrection with interpretations that relate Melville’s story to “U.S. imperial history” (Doolen 189), “American expansionism” (Emery 54), “the expansionist effort at Manifest Destiny” (Goddard 235), and a “literary Pan-Americanism” that “illuminates colonial and postcolonial history” (Heide 53). 34 Sanborn has even connected Melville’s Columbus reference to the history of the discourse of cannibalism. Sanborn argues, “By juxtaposing the skeleton of the slaveholder with the figurehead of Columbus on a ship named the San Dominick, [Melville] offers the legions of readers who were familiar with the history of Columbus’s voyages an indirect but emphatic warning: If you conclude on the basis of bones that a group of people are cannibals, you will be repeating Columbus’s monumentally self- interested mistake” (Sign 184). 168 “Benito Cereno” is also a kind of mystery, and as in any mystery, the beginning of the story is best understood in light of its end. After the climactic unmasking of the slave rebellion aboard the San Dominick, Melville, following A Narrative of Voyages and Travels in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres by the real Amasa Delano, includes a lengthy section of legal documents, translated transcriptions of the depositions held to investigate the events aboard the unfortunate ship. Several critics have already acknowledged the significance of the tale’s seemingly tedious denouement, but it deserves closer attention for the additional level of unreliability Melville introduces to the supposedly official documents. 35 Unlike Melville’s main narration, which greatly expands upon Delano’s account, the translated deposition could be more aptly described as “revised” than “rewritten.” In the original version, the historical Delano gives the documents this introduction: The following Documents were officially translated, and are inserted without alteration, from the original papers. . . . My deposition and that of Mr. Luther, were communicated through a bad linguist, who could not speak the English language so well as I could the Spanish . . . . The Spanish captain’s deposition, together with my Mr. Luther’s and my own, were translated into English again, as now inserted; having thus undergone two translations. These circumstances, will, we hope, be a sufficient apology for any thing which may appear to the reader not to be perfectly consistent, one declaration with another; and for any impropriety of expression. (331) Such authorial modesty was by no means rare, but the convoluted history of the documents, which resembles the provenance of the “Town-Ho’s Story,” certainly leaves 35 Spanos, for example, argues that, “in confirming [Delano’s] epiphany in the story proper, the poststory deposition precipitates its deconstruction” (Herman 124). Similarly, Mark C. Anderson (75), Joyce Sparer Adler (80), and Marvin Fisher (“Narrative” 449) also focus on how the deposition fails to provide the closure it seems to promise. 169 room to question their accuracy. 36 But Melville does not stop at the unreliability inherent in the original dual translation as described by Delano. As Susan Weiner has also demonstrated (3-4), a close comparison of Melville’s version and its source reveals a series of deliberate alterations that highlight and then increase the untrustworthiness of the original transcripts. One way Melville casts doubt on the translated deposition is by creating the impression that details have been omitted. Unlike Delano, who claims the “[d]ocuments were officially translated, and [were] inserted without alteration” (331), Melville states that his transcripts were “selected, from among many others, for partial translation” (103, emphasis added). While “partial” might mean that only part of the transcripts were translated, it also carries the second meaning of an only partial transference from one language to another—perhaps the partial translation is made only somewhat intelligible to the reader. When comparing Melville’s version with his source, however, it becomes clear that Benito Cereno’s deposition is not abridged as its introduction suggests, but reproduced almost in its entirety and then expanded considerably. Melville often replaces simple passages with more embellished versions. For example, the source’s dry statement, “warning him that they would kill all the Spaniards, if they saw them speak, or plot any thing against them” (Delano 337), is replaced by Melville’s verbose version, “warning him and all of them that they should, soul and body, go the way of Don Alexandro if he saw them (the Spaniards) speak or plot anything against them (the 36 Warner Berthoff also describes the ambiguity inherent in Delano’s original narrative and argues, “Melville’s leading impulse in working out the sequence of his retelling was to capitalize on just this material ambiguity, and on the delayed double-exposure it results in” (152). 170 negroes)” (108). Because the suggestion that Melville has abridged and condensed the deposition is quite clearly false (as comparison demonstrates, it is actually elaborated and expanded), Melville’s claim appears to be a deliberate attempt to cast doubt on the “partial” translation provided to the reader, inventing cause to suspect its insufficiency or its suppression of potentially crucial details. Throughout the text of the deposition, Melville makes the translated documents seem even more incomplete. Unlike its source, Melville’s version of Cereno’s deposition is punctuated by lines of asterisks. Like ellipses, these asterisks suggest that something is missing, that, somewhere in the dual transference of transcription and translation, some possibly valuable or essential information has been left out. But even on the rare occasions when parts of the source transcript are actually omitted, their length is only a fraction of that of the detailed passages Melville has inserted to replace and supposedly summarize them. The effect of these asterisks is compounded by the bracketed descriptions Melville inserts to describe the omitted material, such as: [And so the deposition goes on, circumstantially recounting the fictitious story dictated to the deponent by Babo, and through the deponent imposed upon Captain Delano; and also recounting the friendly offers of Captain Delano, with other things, but all of which is here omitted. After the fictitious, strange story, etc., the deposition proceeds:] (110) Part of this abridgement would seem to spare the reader from a repetition of events already detailed in the story proper, but the vague “with other things” and “etc.” imply that other details, perhaps unknown to the reader and perhaps important, may be withheld. In other cases, too, not only has nothing been omitted, but the descriptions themselves serve to cast further doubt on the documents. For example, Melville describes an alleged deletion as “many expressions of ‘eternal gratitude’ to the ‘generous Captain 171 Amasa Delano’” (111), making parts of the document seem superfluous while characterizing Cereno, its source, as a fawning fool. The next bracketed comment claims to take the place of “various random disclosures referring to various periods of time” (112), unnecessary details that make the deposition seem disorganized and pointless. Both Susan Weiner (4) and Carolyn L. Karcher (“Riddle” 214-15) have argued that the apparent imperfections of the court documents indicate the failures of law and of due process, particularly in such cases of slave rebellion. 37 In light of Melville’s ongoing interest in language and translation, however, it is easy to recognize that the unreliability of the testimony is also caused by the language differences between the parties involved, and by the variations in meaning and connotation inevitably introduced by their translation. Taking these translated transcripts as the starting point for a reading of language encounter in “Benito Cereno,” it becomes clear that a pervasive trope of translation supports the tale’s argument for the unreliability of cross-cultural communication. The importance of language and translation in “Benito Cereno” is first signaled by the message on the prow of the San Dominick, which is reproduced in Spanish followed by its English translation: “‘Seguid vuestro jefe,’ (follow your leader)” (49). This motto— 37 Brook Thomas (120) and Bruce L. Grenberg (164) also call attention to the legal documents’ failure to bring the certainty and closure that they seem to promise. Leonard Tennenhouse discusses how Melville “use[s] the court documents to think his way toward a kind of resolution of a historically intractable problem that was beyond the cultural scope of the novelistic imagination” (124). He concludes, “Because Melville asserts power similar to that of the court over the materials of the story that is set in type, Benito Cereno provides a stark example of how one diasporic group achieves and maintains its hegemony in relation to others” (125). Likewise, Peter West argues that “Cereno’s deposition provides Melville with a link between his story’s fictional narration and the rhetoric of factual writing that submerges the former mode’s complexities and indeterminacies” (178). 172 and its threat that colonial power and domination will only lead to death, violence, and insurrection—has been a major focus of criticism, but the motto’s linguistic significance has received less attention. Typographically, the contrast between italics in quotation marks and roman type in parentheses establishes the contrast between the original and its translation, while emphasizing the dominance of the Spanish version. Moreover, someone familiar with Spanish would note that even this short translation is not a perfect equivalent of the original. The Spanish “vosotros” form of second person used in the command is informal and plural. The English “you” distinguishes neither number nor formality, so the nuances of the Spanish version are lost. There are also nuances in the translation not present in the original. While “leader” means both an authority figure and a spatial director, the Spanish “jefe” carries only the first denotation, meaning “boss” but not “guide.” Finally, the game “follow the leader,” which predates Melville’s story and which the translated motto invokes, is called in Spanish “jugar a lo que haga el rey” (roughly, to play at what the king does), not as “seguid vuestro jefe” (“Follow”; “Follow- my-leader”). Thus, the typographical and linguistic differences between the juxtaposed versions serve to introduce the recurring themes of translation and of the unreliability of language. Interestingly, however, when the skeleton figurehead that accompanies the motto is revealed at the end of the story, the words are given only as “Follow your leader” (99), as if the unmasking of the actual state of things aboard the ship has translated the foreign language. Such emphasis on translation is only part of Melville’s general treatment of colonial language. For Delano, boarding the ship is like arriving in a foreign land. He is “at once surrounded by a clamorous throng of whites and blacks” (49), echoing Stewart’s 173 description of the Nukuhivans’ “noise, loud talking, hallooing, and various rude merriment” (6), as well as the countless similar arrivals in the archive of exploration and conquest. Delano’s position as traveler is reinforced by the comparison between boarding the ship and “entering a strange house with strange inmates in a strange land” (Melville, “Benito” 50). Arriving on such a ship, the narration claims, is even stranger, immersing the visitor even more precipitously in the foreign: “The ship seems unreal; these strange costumes, gestures, and faces, but a shadowy tableau just emerged from the deep” (50). Much has been made of the gothic and supernatural description of the San Dominick, but the analogy to a foreign land is of equal importance. Like a traveler to an exotic country, Delano attempts to make sense of the strange behavior he observes there, but by assuming the actions and words of the “natives” can be easily interpreted, he misses the heart of their “culture.” As in Typee and Omoo, Melville pays close attention to the languages spoken aboard the San Dominick. Shortly after the theme of translation is introduced with the chalked motto, it becomes clear that most of the ensuing dialogue will also be a “translation” of things actually said in Spanish: “Captain Delano . . . [feels] no small satisfaction that, with persons in their condition he could—thanks to his frequent voyages along the Spanish main—converse with some freedom in their native tongue” (51). Delano is overly optimistic in this expectation of easy understanding, as he proves totally incapable of interpreting the real meaning and motive of the Spaniards’ speech. Later in his visit, Delano again exhibits pride in his linguistic ability when he “with a free step . . . advanced to the forward edge of the poop, issuing his orders in his best Spanish” (92). Delano’s seeming linguistic mastery is immediately undercut, however, by his belief that 174 the “few sailors and many negros” who obey him are “all equally pleased” (92). In truth, there is little equality in the positions of the Spaniards and Africans, and neither group is exactly “pleased” by Delano’s actions. Delano’s optimistic pride in his mastery of the Spanish language is matched by his appraisal of the speech of both the whites and the blacks on the San Dominick as he steps aboard: “But, in one language, and as with one voice, all poured out a common tale of suffering” (49). Despite his hopeful impression, the speech of the ship’s passengers is anything but monologic. The complexities of speech, both within and across languages, prevent the kind of total understanding that Delano naively expects. Delano’s original impression that everyone on the ship is speaking together in one language is made possible by his blindness to the true meanings of the rebelling slaves’ speech and actions. Like Columbus in Cooper’s Mercedes of Castile, Delano imagines the blacks live in a state of nature. Thus, when he sees “a slumbering negress” with her “wide-awake fawn, stark naked,” Delano muses, “There’s naked nature, now” (73). Laura Barrett points out, however, that “[b]y associating the wind [also described in the passage] with the child . . . Melville reminds us that the absence of language is not an indication of simplicity, nature, purity, and docility, but of duplicity, ambiguity, untranslatability” (415). More generally, Bernhard Radloff has also argued that such “motifs of the natural man. . . [function] parodically . . . because the seemingly unreflective slaves are ultimately exposed as authors of conspiracy and deception” (120). 38 By aligning Delano’s impressions with the typical racism of colonial encounter, 38 Edward S. Grejda has also examined the use of animal imagery to characterize the blacks aboard the San Dominick, but he points out that “[t]he animal images associated with the slaves likewise characterize the whites” and concludes that “[t]he similarity of 175 Melville highlights the failure of both to account for the real complexities of other cultures and peoples. As in much imperialist literature, Delano also finds the native language of the slaves incomprehensible, but instead of seeking to learn it and understand them, he discounts non-white speech as not worth understanding. The oakum-pickers are described as producing a “continuous, low, monotonous chant; droning and druling away like so many gray-headed bag-pipers playing a funeral march” (50). Whatever they may be saying in their native language does not seem to warrant a translation. Similarly, the general background noise on the ship is a “hubbub of voices” (51), again without meaning. The speech of the blacks is further described as “noisy indocility” (52) and “noisy confusion” (54). Like his vision of mother and child as untutored nature, Delano’s perception of the slaves’ language as pure noise conceals their true threat. In contrast to Delano’s underestimation of the blacks’ speech, Sundquist has examined the links between the clashing of the hatchet polishers and Ashanti drum language (166-67). Jones disagrees with Sundquist’s assumption that all of the slaves would speak the same African language, but he uses their lack of a common African language as an argument for Melville’s depiction of “an active and adaptable community capable of breaking through the barrier of tribal division by assuming the language of colonial power” (49). Either way, the true state of things aboard the ship indicates that the “noisy indocility” of the slaves is a mask for linguistically capable insurrection. Thus, Jon Hauss concludes from the deposition’s assertion that Babo “understands well the Spanish” that, images attached to both blacks and whites can hardly lead to a precise dichotomy of evil and good” (142-43). 176 “[c]ontriving and enforcing a usage that shields a revolutionary restructuring of Spanish society, Babo turns the Spaniards’ own language against them” (9). Because Delano underestimates the speech of the rebelling slaves, he remains ignorant of their true power. Furthermore, Melville’s illustration of the blindness produced by cultural stereotypes extends beyond Delano’s most obviously racist attitudes. Delano’s underestimation of the Africans is mirrored by his inability to look beyond Spanish stereotypes to analyze Benito Cereno’s strange behavior. 39 Delano decides that, “to the Spaniard’s black-letter text, it was best, for awhile, to leave open margin” (65). Not only does Delano equate the captain with language requiring interpretation (however postponed), but, by referencing a “black-letter text” in particular, he also invokes a type of print that is emblematically dark and arcane. Furthermore, while musing over all of the strange things he has witnessed, Delano discounts Cereno’s “capricious” behavior by thinking, “But as a nation . . . these Spaniards are all an odd set; the very word Spaniard has a curious, conspirator, Guy-Fawkish twang to it” (79). Because he is so quick to attribute any of Cereno’s oddities to his Spanishness, Delano fails to realize that something is truly amiss. Despite his reliance on stereotypes, however, Delano also collapses all cultural difference. He muses, “Spaniards in the main are as good folks as any in Duxbury, Massachusetts” (79). This is the same kind of paradoxical attitude that 39 Thus, Peter West has argued that Melville highlights the “slipperiness of ‘Spanish’ as a racial and national signifier” (176). Further emphasizing the importance of Spain, Sundquist argues, “The aura of ruin and decay that links Benito Cereno and his ship to Charles V and his empire points forward as well to the contemporary demise of Spanish power in the New World and the role of slave unrest in its revolutionary decline” (137). María DeGuzmán calls Melville’s tale “an allegorical history painting about the historical relations of the imperial powers of Spain and the United States and their respective involvement with slavery” (54). See also Iván Jaksić’s argument for the significance of Spain in nineteenth-century America, which includes a reading of “Benito Cereno.” 177 allows explorers and colonizers to perceive native language both as incomprehensible noise and as a series of easily translatable universals. Both extremes refuse to recognize that other cultures have legitimate differences that can only be understood after careful and extended attention. By comparing the Spanish people both to Americans and to British conspirators, Delano erases all cultural distinction, the better discernment of which might have allowed him to apprehend the true political implications of the events aboard the ship. As Sundquist, Jones, and Hauss have all demonstrated, “Benito Cereno” recounts the implications of underestimating the language of the racial Other. In addition to these overt examples of linguistic encounter, the entire masquerade acted out before Delano is an allegory for the failure to interpret. As Sanborn aptly puts it, Melville makes his readers “recognize that the seemingly natural links between signs and meanings are in fact arbitrary” (Sign 191). 40 Thus, in “Benito Cereno,” Melville expands Typee’s treatment of colonial language into a full-fledged critique of semiotics. While on board, Delano is constantly involved in the act of interpretation as he observes one peculiar occurrence after another. After seeing a white boy hit by a black one, “Captain Delano inquire[s] what this meant” (59). When the American first observes the “prisoner” Atufal, the African lowers his head “as much as to say, ‘no, I am content’” (62, emphasis added). Then, Delano sees the key around Cereno’s neck and, “from the servant’s muttered syllables diving the key’s purpose,” says, “So, Don Benito—padlock and key— significant symbols, truly” (63). The narration then calls further attention to Delano’s 40 Robert Foulke (25) and Anna Krauthammer (17) also point toward the ways Melville dramatizes acts of interpretation. 178 failures of interpretation by noting that he is “a man of such native simplicity as to be incapable of satire or irony” (63). Later, as Delano observes some of the Spanish sailors, he thinks “that one or two of them returned [his] glance and with a sort of meaning” (71). Still, their intended meaning remains unclear. Delano misinterprets all of these clues. He fails to translate the language of the deception until Cereno and his supposedly trusty servant are struggling at his feet. 41 The most famous of Delano’s failed interpretations occurs with an old sailor tying a complicated knot. Robert E. Burkholder calls the scene “a focal point for the criticism of Melville’s ‘Benito Cereno’” and “a pivotal cipher for the stratified meanings of the story as a whole” (1). Likewise, Radloff asserts that the knot is “clearly emblematic of Delano’s own entanglement in undecipherable events, and of these events themselves” (168). If this incident is emblematic of “Benito Cereno” as a whole, it is also one of the tale’s most sustained plays with language. The man throws the knot at Delano “saying in broken English,—the first heard in the ship,—something to this effect—‘Undo it, cut it, quick’” (76). The reader is thus reminded that everything prior has been said in Spanish, but even this first bit of English is also translated into “something to this effect.” The sailor’s “broken English” is not totally comprehensible, so the dialogue given is only an approximation. Similarly, the “elderly negro” who then takes the knot speaks in only “tolerable Spanish” (76), again emphasizing the inconsistency and unreliability of speech 41 In an interesting corollary to Melville’s depiction of absurd and perplexing gestures in Typee, Radloff examines how, in “Benito Cereno” too, “gesture, which the text frequently foregrounds as an index of meaningfulness, is no less ambiguous and inherently enigmatic than ‘conventional’ signs” (169). He concludes, “Once the opposition between the conventional (language) and the natural (the body’s comportment; the gesture) has collapsed, both semiotic systems appear as representational schemata posited by human subjectivity” (174). 179 even when both parties speak the same language. Finally, the “negro” who throws the knot overboard does it “with some African word, equivalent to pshaw” (76). The word “equivalent” heightens the phrase’s ambiguity, suggesting either that the African word had the same meaning as “pshaw,” or that it only sounded like “pshaw” with some other meaning unknown to either Delano or the reader. Either way, this is yet another example of unreliable translation and of the arbitrariness of linguistic signification. As his benevolent racism proves impervious to the many hints the Spaniards are desperately trying to communicate, Delano’s continuous acts of misinterpretation result in an utter failure of language. As Lee succinctly puts it, “in ‘Benito Cereno’ no one understands anyone” (“Language” 511). Delano perceives Cereno as “apathetic and mute” (Melville, “Benito” 53), “too much overcome to speak” (97), talking in “tones so frenzied, that none in the boat could understand him” (98), and falling into a “speechless faint” (99). The old Spanish sailor splicing cable is unable to communicate the situation to Delano because, “as [the negroes] became talkative, he by degrees became mute” (72). When trying to broach the subject of payment for help, Delano says to Cereno, “‘pardon me, but there is an interference with the full expression of what I have to say to you’” (90). Shortly afterward, the narrator states: “After this, nothing more could be said” (91). Later, the reader learns that “Captain Delano had intended communicating to Don Benito the smaller details” of his assistance, but he decides against it based on Cereno’s behavior (95, emphasis added). Throughout Delano’s visit to the San Dominick, Melville sustains a trope of troubled and unreliable translation to dramatize how speech fails when cultural stereotypes get in the way of perceiving reality. 180 At first glance, the “gray, surreal world of stasis, non-events, uncertain meanings, and dead-end clues,” which Bruce L. Grenberg describes as the setting of “Benito Cereno” (158), may seem like an odd addition to a study of travel literature, a genre usually associated with vibrant scenery and varied adventure. But Amasa Delano’s Narrative clearly belongs to a textual tradition of travel and exploration, and, as Heide notes, its “descriptions of commercial relations . . . reflect the United States’ economic and imperial interests” (47). Moreover, in its “direct engagement with the destructive histories of imperial Spanish America” (Wertheimer 139), “Benito Cereno” continues the treatment of colonial linguistic encounters begun in Typee, culminating Melville’s critique of translation. Delano’s failed interpretation of nearly everything aboard the San Dominick illustrates the danger of assuming an alien culture’s easy translatability. Offering a broader critique of Transcendentalism and similar forms of idealism, Melville demonstrates the error of viewing language as an index of universal truth. Of all of the authors examined in this project, Melville is the only one to consistently take the cosmopolitan appreciation of linguistic difference that characterized early-nineteenth-century travel to Europe and extend that respect for linguistic difference to the non-white, non-Western cultures victimized by American expansionism and other forms of European colonialism and imperialism. Typee and Omoo demonstrate how the lived experience of linguistic encounter can lead to a recognition of the inherent difficulties of cross-cultural communication, at least when undertaken with an open mind instead of the imperialist drive of explorers like Columbus. This recognition is the essential first step in finding a golden mean between the extremes of too easy 181 translatability and utter incomprehensibility. As his works become increasingly philosophical, Melville develops his critique of cross-cultural communication into a demonstration of the inherent incommensurability of language. Finally, in “Benito Cereno,” Melville takes the theoretical investigations of language in Mardi and Moby- Dick and reapplies them to the kind of colonial encounter that was the subject of Typee, using the trope of translation to critique U.S. imperialism. For Melville, translation generally, but particularly translation in the contexts of colonialism and imperialism, reveals the incommensurability of concepts across different languages and cultures, and this incommensurability highlights the ideological tint, subjective distortion, and downright opacity inherent in language. Thus, Melville’s treatment of language not only undermines the discourse of colonialism, it undermines the stability of language more generally. Melville decenters linguistic certainty by dramatizing the failures of translation endemic to cross-cultural encounter, going beyond a critique of linguistic stereotypes to collapse the universal idealism that justifies imperialism’s entire project. By criticizing the typical colonialist move of negating the language of the other through the assumption of transparent translation, Melville deconstructs the human dependence on sign systems, a move that transcends any “us vs. them” dichotomy. 182 CHAPTER 4 FROM TRAVEL TO TOURISM: THE SHIFT AT MID-CENTURY In the 1840s, as the United States was expanding its influence throughout the Pacific, and Herman Melville was portraying the sailors who made that expansion possible, traveling Americans were also crossing the Atlantic Ocean in ever-increasing numbers. Although it would not fully materialize until after the Civil War, the first signs of the tourist boom were appearing as new technologies of travel made Europe accessible to more than the wealthiest and most culturally elite. The cosmopolitan appreciation of European culture evidenced in the works of James Fenimore Cooper began to erode as the motivation for and the nature of travel changed. Leisure and depth were being replaced by speed and superficiality. These changes were often subtle and gradual, and it is impossible to date the rise of tourism at any particular moment. 1 Instead, this chapter will trace the incremental shift from cosmopolitans such as Cooper, who valued European languages, to the later generations of “ugly American” tourists who would find learning other languages unnecessary, or even undesirable. Since the American Revolution, travel’s most frequent purposes had been education, business, and politics (W. Stowe 76; Blanton 3). By the end of the nineteenth century, however, vastly increased numbers of Americans were traveling for pleasure and to acquire the cultural capital of having seen the sights of 1 The history of American travel and travel literature is the subject of a number of insightful and comprehensive studies. For more detail than can be covered here, see in particular William W. Stowe’s Going Abroad, James Buzard’s The Beaten Track, Foster Rhea Dulles’s Americans Abroad, and Larzer Ziff’s Return Passages. These studies differ in the dates they give for the rise of mass tourism, but all trace a similar shift in nineteenth-century travel to Europe. 183 Europe (Dulles 1). The new technology and infrastructure of tourism—faster and less expensive transportation, pervasive guides and guidebooks, fixed tours and itineraries, and more numerous establishments catering to English-only speakers—made travel more accessible, more standardized, and more efficient. This change in the practice of travel both encouraged and was encouraged by a change in motive. In contrast to the older tradition of the Grand Tour, which promised academic, cultural, and social edification, the increasingly common reason for travel was not to gain substantive knowledge and experience, but to acquire the cultural capital of merely having been there. As the following readings will demonstrate, both the extent to which travel literature values foreign language and the way it presents translation are more than indicators of this cultural shift. Rather, the traveler’s degree of engagement with foreign language contributes to the changing attitudes toward cultural difference in direct and significant ways. Michael Cronin offers a succinct but insightful account of this connection. He explains, “If travel in the first stage was to facilitate national and international relations by making contacts and learning foreign languages, the second stage saw a marked preference for the eye over the ear and the increasing predominance of sightseeing” (Across 118). This important shift from the ear to the eye, from listening to what foreign people have to say to viewing their monuments and quickly moving on, puts more emphasis on sight than on understanding. And not only is the failure of travelers to speak and understand the local language both a cause and an effect of the increasing superficiality of tourism, but it also contributes to how Americans perceived the foreign on a more conceptual level. Earlier American travelers went to Europe with the expectation of learning something from the differences encountered abroad, but later 184 travelers’ inability to hear and understand made the foreign land all that more intimidating and strange. Isolated by linguistic ignorance, the tourist began to feel more like an outsider in an alien world. Rather than seeing Europe as part of America’s cultural heritage to be understood and appreciated, European differences became increasingly threatening. Moreover, the traveler’s natural defense against the discomfort of the uncanny foreign (the fear of the incomprehensible), is to further exalt the customs of home. This increased preference for the language and culture of one’s own national community makes the traveler less likely to learn the language abroad, further heightening the feeling of isolation. This chapter will argue that, as European travel became more accessible to the middle class, and the numbers of Americans traveling to Europe grew, travelers increasingly saw the differences encountered abroad as inferior, and this lack of interest in the cultural content of Europe manifested in an increased emphasis on translation, and in the loss of cultural specificity that translation entails. To better illustrate the nuances of the shift in both travel and travel writing, I will examine several works of Melville alongside a broader selection of authors. The first section will argue that the figure of the guidebook, as exemplified by Bayard Taylor’s Views A-Foot and dramatized in Melville’s Redburn, illuminates the changing nature of European travel while revealing how one writer’s experience can model a new set of values for future travelers. In the next section, the contrast between Margaret Fuller, who most thoroughly continues the cosmopolitan tradition of Cooper, and Harriet Beecher Stowe, who represents the new attitudes of tourism, demonstrates how the changes in popular travel epitomized and encouraged by Bayard Taylor affected the experiences of even the United States’ most 185 celebrated authors. The final section, which examines Melville’s 1856-57 tour of Europe and the Levant and the epic poem Clarel inspired by that experience, argues that even Melville was not immune from the rise of tourism. Taken together, these writers illustrate the varied positions toward linguistic and cultural difference that occurred in the transitional period at mid-century, as well as the incremental shift from cosmopolitanism to cultural chauvinism that occurred in the progression from travelogue to traveler to future guidebooks and to ever-increasing numbers of traveling Americans. The Role of the Guidebook in Bayard Taylor and Redburn The shifting characteristics of American travel writing in the nineteenth century are best illustrated through an examination of one of its most successful authors. Bayard Taylor is a perfect example of the new comparative affordability of European travel. Views A-Foot (1846), his first and most famous travelogue, also demonstrates how, even when less wealthy travelers aspire to the literary elite, their failure to penetrate European society becomes the model for future travelers, gradually lowering the expectation of and desire for genuine cultural involvement. This gap between Taylor’s aspirations and his actual mode of travel exemplifies the incremental decline of cosmopolitanism from text to traveler to text. Although he is largely unknown today, Bayard Taylor enjoyed immense popularity during his extensive career. Despite his aspirations to be considered a great poet and author in the ranks of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Washington Irving, Taylor never could escape the public image of a travel writer (Wermuth 30, 157). He published nineteen volumes about travel as well as innumerable other works of literature and scholarship (see Wermuth 189-91), but none would surpass the popularity of Views 186 A-Foot. The book documents Taylor’s two-year stay in Europe, and at first glance, his route does not seem to differ much from Cooper’s. Taylor first visits England, Ireland, and Scotland, travels through Belgium and Heidelberg, and then resides in Frankfurt for nearly a year. Taylor’s time in Frankfurt, particularly his account of visiting the university students, comes closest to the cosmopolitan experiences of Taylor’s predecessors, but the pedestrian tour of Germany, Bohemia, Switzerland, Italy, and France that follows, occupying roughly two thirds of the book, is a touristic progression of inns, and sights, and scenery. 2 Not only was the volume one of the most famous examples of the genre in the mid-nineteenth century, but it is also a particularly representative example, so much so that Paul C. Wermuth calls it “the quintessence of the average” (35). In fact, Bruce A. Harvey writes that “Taylor quite likely comes the closest to being the most unexceptional travel author of his period” (21). Compared with Cooper’s Gleanings in Europe and other earlier writings, Views A-Foot marks the beginning of a shift from cosmopolitanism to tourism both in the travelogue genre and in the nature of American travel to Europe. In 1844, Taylor was only a young man of nineteen when he developed a plan to fund a tour of Europe by sending an account of his travels to the New York Tribune. In contrast to the previous genteel travelers he sought to imitate, Taylor could afford neither a typical Grand Tour nor the college education his extended trip to Europe would replace (Wermuth 17). Indeed, as Wermuth reports, Taylor “had, in the best American tradition, 2 Wermuth is critical of both portions of the trip, noting that, despite Taylor’s “mode of travel, he didn’t comment much on the life of ordinary Germans, though he remarked about inns, food, or people he met,” and further asserting, “he stayed in Germany a full year, and his observations there were not significantly better than elsewhere” (33, 37). 187 earned the trip all by himself” (29). In this way, Taylor represents the greater accessibility of European travel, and indeed, Views A-Foot became one of the original accounts of how to do Europe “on the cheap.” Unlike the wealthier classes who had been touring Europe for years, Taylor had to earn his money as he traveled and economize whenever he could. Lacking both status and means, Taylor was cut off from the high society Cooper enjoyed abroad, apparently to his chagrin. Considering himself “an intellectual and a literary man who deserved better,” as Wermuth explains, Taylor was “frequently annoyed that his lack of money forced him to live mainly with the lower class” (35-36). His walking tour of Europe, punctuated with thrifty meals, second-class passages, and inexpensive lodgings, rarely penetrated very far into the culture and society that was the previous focus of the Grand Tour’s cosmopolitan education. Taylor’s situation thus illustrates his transitional status in the changing nature of American travel to Europe. On one hand, Taylor’s literary aspirations reflect his desire to tour Europe like the cultured and relatively wealthy gentlemen authors of the previous decades, who called on European society and visited with major literary and political figures. Although Taylor succeeded at least partially in establishing himself as a major author, an image he would continue to craft after his return to the U.S. (Wermuth 19), his lack of both money and status prevented him from participating in high society as his predecessors had done. Instead, he frequently took a spectator’s approach to local culture, anticipating the kind of tourism that would dominate after the Civil War. Taylor’s less wealthy childhood also limited his linguistic education before the trip. He eventually learns German, but his lack of previous education makes his initial experience abroad one of linguistic isolation. Although Taylor valued foreign language and culture more than 188 most of the tourists who follow him, his travelogue records his experiences rather than his aspirations. Taylor did not necessarily esteem European culture and language less than earlier figures, but his narrative places less emphasis on those things, minimizing their importance for the future travelers who would use Views A-Foot as a guidebook. Although Taylor’s walking tour was ostensibly more leisurely than the increasingly common travel by railroad and steamer, he often passed through places too quickly to establish any significant intercourse with the locals, or to observe their culture on more than a superficial level. He admits, for example, “With the rapidity usual to Americans we have already finished seeing Milan, and shall start to-morrow morning on a walk to Genoa” (246). Many previous critics, unintentionally mirroring Cooper’s criticism of Dodge’s travel journal in Homeward Bound, have charged Taylor’s account with superficiality. Alfred Bendixen, for example, writes that Taylor’s European travelogues “are not very good books” and “offer little more than superficial description along with the conventional patriotic and anti-Catholic assessments” (118). Likewise, Larzer Ziff asserts that “[t]he information he supplies about art and architecture, the foreign words he intrudes, the costumes and the manners that catch his eye, do not so much accumulate into a picture of European culture as they do into the portrait of a young man from rural America validating the culture he had acquired from books read by lamplight and dreamed about by day” (Return 125). Taylor’s description of a village on his trek through Bohemia and Moravia offers a representative example: The third night of our journey we stopped at the little village of Stecken, and the next morning, after three hours’ walk over the ridgy heights, reached the old Moravian city of Iglau, built on a hill. It happened to be Corpus Christi day, and the peasants of the neighborhood were hastening there in their gayest dresses. The young women wore a crimson scarf around the head, with long fringed and embroidered ends hanging over the 189 shoulders, or falling in one smooth fold from the back of the head. They were attired in black velvet vests, with full white sleeves and skirts of some gay color, which were short enough to show to advantage their red stockings and polished shoe-buckles. Many of them were not deficient in personal beauty—there was a gipsy-like wildness in their eyes, that combined with their rich hair and graceful costume, reminded me of the Italian maidens. The towns too, with their open squares and arched passages, have quite a southern look; but the damp, gloomy weather was enough to dispel any illusion of this kind. (151) As Ziff’s analysis suggests, such descriptions of scenery, climate, and dress seem to offer readers an experience of seeing these foreign lands, but this vision rarely penetrates below the surface, and the content rarely moves beyond amusing curiosities and charming bits of local color. Like the typical tourist, Taylor not only sees rather than understands, but he often sees only what he has come expecting to see, doing little to challenge his own expectations or to change the preconceived notions of his readers. Another marker of Americans’ changing attitudes toward cultural difference is Taylor’s treatment of American letters. Taylor’s literary aspirations may align him with earlier, cosmopolitan figures, but he proves more interested in elevating the status of his own culture than in learning from the experience of being abroad. He emphasizes his interest in American literature by repeatedly alluding to the fame American authors have gained in Europe. For example, Taylor describes a publisher in Leipsic, Otto Wigan, who “has already published Prescott and Bancroft, and . . . intends giving out shortly, translations from some of our poets and novelists,” as well as a “young German author” who is “well versed in our literature” and “is now engaged in translating American works” (128). In addition to Taylor’s clear interest in the progress of American letters and their reception in Europe, another example of the writer’s literary aspirations can be found in his meeting with “Freiligrath, the poet, who was lately banished from Germany 190 on account of the liberal principles his last volume contains” (224). Taylor reports that they “conversed much upon American literature” and describes Freiligrath as “a warm admirer of Bryant and Longfellow [who] has translated many of their poems into German” (224). On one hand, this literary meeting echoes Cooper’s encounters with Sir Walter Scott, although Taylor lacks the degree of fame enjoyed by the earlier figures, and he needed a letter from Nathaniel Parker Willis to obtain the meeting (225). At the same time, by turning the conversation to American literature instead of learning more about Freiligrath’s German poetry and politics, Taylor shows that he is more invested in furthering the esteem of his own country’s cultural production than in learning about Europe. Rather than aiming to become a member of a cosmopolitan intellectual community in order to learn from its foreign members, Taylor proves more interested in staking a claim for his own country, changing foreign views of America instead of his own views of the foreign. Taylor’s nationalistic leanings are bolstered by his initial ignorance of foreign languages. First arriving on the continent, he describes an “agreeable and yet a painful sense of novelty to stand for the first time in the midst of a people whose language and manners are different from one’s own” (46). Despite Taylor’s excitement at the prospect of finally exploring Europe, with its “old buildings . . . linked with many a stirring association of past history,” he admits that “the want of a communication with the living world about, walls one up with a sense of loneliness he could not before have conceived” (46). Like Cooper and previous American travelers, Taylor stands in awe of Europe’s deeper cultural history, but his lack of linguistic education prevents him from becoming a part of the scene he admires. Perhaps to minimize the isolation caused by his own 191 linguistic inadequacy, Taylor turns to observations of “the endless sound of wooden shoes clattering over the rough pavements, and people talking in that most unmusical of all languages, low Dutch” (47). Rather than dwelling on his own inability to fully understand and experience Europe’s deeper culture and history, Taylor thus turns both local language and custom into anecdotal and quaint local color. Further anticipating the later mode of touristic travel, Taylor must hire a guide, “engaged because he spoke a few words of English” (48). Because of his monolingualism, Taylor’s first view of the continent is through the eyes of a tourist. 3 In Heidelberg, Taylor begins to reduce his initial isolation from European culture by learning the language. At first, he once again presents foreign language as local color when he describes his “polite and talkative landlady,” who “much amused” Taylor and his travel companion with “her endeavors to make [them] understand” (61). Taylor adds, “As if to convey her meaning plainer, she raises both thumbs and forefingers to her mouth and pulls out the words like a long string; her tongue goes so fast that it keeps my mind always on a painful stretch to comprehend an idea here and there” (61). This almost grotesque description of the woman pulling a string of words out of her mouth, tongue wagging at lightning speed, makes speaking German seem more like a carnival trick than an intellectual pursuit. Nevertheless, Taylor demonstrates his legitimate interest in learning German by taking formal lessons (61). And, as Ziff notes, Taylor’s extended residence in Germany does lead to his eventual mastery of the language and life-long 3 Nevertheless, Buzard finds that most travelers seek to differentiate themselves from the common rabble of superficial tourists to which they inevitably belong (6), and Taylor is no exception. Thus, despite Taylor’s own reliance upon guides and guidebooks, he criticizes “[t]he English tourists” who “sat and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely lifting their eyes to the real scenes” (Taylor 54). 192 study of its literature (Return 123), although this seriousness is far more evident across a broad consideration of Taylor’s career than in Views A-Foot. After his initial “tough grapple” with the German language, Taylor demonstrates his dedication when he reports, “I am just beginning to master the language, and it seems so necessary to devote every minute to study, that I would rather undergo some privation, than neglect turning these fleeting hours into gold” (89). Despite his cosmopolitan motives, the metaphor Taylor uses here suggests the general shift in American attitudes toward travel. The decision to learn a language has become an economic one, and Taylor demonstrates his monetary preoccupation by describing linguistic education as a conversion of time to gold. Over time, the initially practical decision to avoid the expense of foreign language education would grow into an aversion on principle. Even after learning German, Taylor does not seem to enjoy the experience of immersion in a foreign language, and he portrays it as an unpleasant necessity rather than an invaluable opportunity. In his account of listening to “Strauss’s band” in Vienna, Taylor describes how the Viennese “talked and laughed sociably together between the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys” (161-62). He reports, “We walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends, and the language our mother tongue!” (162-63). Although Taylor is experiencing some of the best of European culture, and he can speak German well enough for a passport inspector to mistake him for an Austrian (169), he would still prefer the company of his countrymen, and even more tellingly, the sound of his native language. Such homesickness is certainly understandable, but the frequency with which Taylor notes his sense of isolation 193 bespeaks a far lesser degree of comfort abroad than earlier writers describe. Other foreign languages seem even more daunting than German. Throughout the account, Taylor mentions his difficulties with Bohemian (145), Italian (238), Provençal (347), and French (348). These frequent complaints convey to his readers a sense of discomfort with both foreign language and culture that becomes ingrained in the model experience. Upon returning to England at the end of his continental tour, Taylor rejoices, “my tongue would now be freed from the difficult bondage of foreign languages, and my ears be rejoiced with the music of my own” (375). Despite his developing skill with German, foreign language ranks, for Taylor, among the annoyances of travel. And its inconvenience looms far larger than any intellectual or cultural edification that being immersed in the foreign might provide. Although Taylor achieves the older ideal of cosmopolitan travel at least in part, he constructs his own text so that it will guide future travelers further down the path to tourism and linguistic isolationism. The success of Views A-Foot was not diminished by “the sheer superficiality of its observations,” but as Wermuth suggests, Taylor’s practice of “never penetrat[ing] very far into anything” may have attributed to its popularity (37). Indeed, the volume became a guidebook for subsequent tourists, and Taylor increased its value as a manual by appending “Advice and Information for Pedestrians” to its eighth edition (Wermuth 35). Taylor furthers the progress of tourism when he suggests “[t]raveling with a vetturino” so that “the tourist is freed from the annoyance of quarrelling with cheating landlords” (315). After engaging such a guide to make all of the arrangements for food and lodging, the tourist need not worry about learning enough Italian to procure these necessities for himself. Consequently, not only does Taylor offer 194 readers a comparatively superficial account of his own travels, but he advises them to seek even more efficiency abroad, encouraging convenience and the added superficiality that such convenience brings. As if further promoting the removal of all foreign language from travel, Taylor goes on to state that “[a] translation of our written contract, will best explain this mode of traveling” (315). Like the vetturino he recommends, Taylor seeks to ease the difficulties of travel for the reader by eliminating the need to understand the local language. In fact, with its greater accessibility to the less wealthy and consequently less educated, the democratization of European travel mirrors both the act of translation and the way that any travelogue “translates” the foreign into a text that can be perused from one’s own parlor. On one hand, the increased access to the foreign provided by less expensive travel, literary translation, and travel writing seems to broaden America’s cultural horizons, and for the many who would have had no access otherwise, this is at least partially the case. But on the other hand, as Cooper emphasizes in his own travel writing, the act of translation tends to dilute the cultural content of the foreign text, eliding difference and homogenizing human experience. In much the same way, Taylor’s travel writing, as well as the translations it contains, provides access to more people, but only in a diluted form. And over time, as those who use Taylor’s writing as a guide mistake this mediation for the full experience, the aims of travel constrict, decreasing the level of cultural involvement future generations both desire and achieve. The vetturino contract is one in a series of translations of poems and other texts throughout Taylor’s account. For example, Taylor presents his readers with his translation of one of Freiligrath’s poems, “as a specimen of the spirit in which they are 195 written” (80). While Taylor explicitly marks the act of translation in this example, he over-optimistically suggests that his own version could replicate the German’s “spirit” of the original. When Taylor describes a gathering of German students singing the “‘Landsfather’ or consecration song,” he presents the text in English without mentioning that the lyrics must have been translated (84-86). The English verses, interspersed with Taylor’s matter-of-fact explanations of the ceremony of drinking, clashing swords, and piercing caps, give the illusion of fully explaining everything, translating the ritual for readers so that they will not have to learn enough to decipher such a scene themselves. Similarly, in his description of the Austrian Alps, Taylor includes a translation of the ballad “The Mountain Boy.” The first stanza gives a sense of the piece’s general tone: A herd-boy on the mountain’s brow, I see the castles all below. The sunbeam here is earliest cast And by my side it lingers last— I am the boy of the mountain! (188) As in the previous examples, Taylor presents translation as both desirable and unproblematic. In all of these cases, Taylor positions himself as the gatekeeper of foreign language. Just as he suggests to readers that a good guidebook can replace a courier (391), Taylor acts as a translator of local language and culture so that his readers need not develop more than a passing acquaintance with them. Moreover, Taylor’s later study of German literature (see Wermuth 20), and his translation of Goethe’s Faust, further demonstrate how Taylor discourages readers from learning foreign languages by acting as their cultural mediator and “guide” to the foreign. In his Faust, Taylor attempts to replicate both the content and versification of Goethe’s original, believing that there are “few difficulties in the way of a nearly literal yet 196 thoroughly rhythmical version of Faust” (Taylor qtd. Haskell 22). As Juliana Haskell demonstrates, however, because German words tend to be longer than English ones (in addition to other intrinsic differences between the languages), register suffers when content and form are held equivalent, and Taylor is forced to pad his lines with superfluous syllables (Haskell 38-41). The result is what one contemporary review called “Latinized words and literary phrases,” which deviate from the direct simplicity of Goethe’s German (Andrews qtd. Haskell 39). Taylor’s translation thus gives the appearance of a perfect substitute for the original when it is really an inferior version. Just as in the discourse of imperialism examined in the previous chapters, Taylor assumes that translation can be more straightforward than is possible, demonstrating a failure to understand and appreciate the original language and culture. The impression of equivalence is heightened further by one of Taylor’s stated principles of translation, the “abnegation of the translator’s personality through which alone the original author can receive justice” (Taylor qtd. Haskell 19). Taylor’s aim of concealing the translator’s work lulls the reader into thinking that this is Goethe in English. Not only does the mediation of translation lose some of the qualities of the original, but that loss is concealed from the reader. 4 Of course no translation is perfect, but Taylor’s exaggerated claims of equivalence present his Faust as a perfect substitute for the original rather than a 4 Such a practice would lead to Emerson’s claim to not “hesitate to read . . . all good books, in translations” because “what is really best in any book is translatable” (Society 182). 197 compromise between content and accessibility. 5 Haskell highlights this fault when she concludes that Taylor’s Faust fails to “perform that higher office of a good translation, so potently to suggest the charm of the original as to win readers for Goethe in the German” (89). Because no person can learn all of the world’s languages, translation is a necessary and culturally valuable method of bringing new literatures to those who cannot read the originals. Nevertheless, Taylor’s fault, in his travel writing as in his translation, is that his translations of both culture and text do not encourage readers to learn more or to experience the originals directly. Instead, Taylor subtly but pervasively discourages readers from stepping outside their monolingual world. For example, a description of Taylor from the New York Evening Post explains, “As a journalist it was his business to make his learning vicarious; he observed and studied that other men might know” (qtd. Haskell 83). By extension, although Taylor modeled his travel on his cosmopolitan, literary predecessors, he learned German so that his readers would not have to. Wermuth’s analysis of Taylor’s popular German literature lectures in the 1870s also demonstrates how the erudite writer encouraged monolingualism in his readers and students by making his subject seem too accessible. 6 While Taylor unquestionably provided more knowledge of German culture to his audiences than they might otherwise 5 Wermuth defends the Faust translation, even calling it “Taylor’s most important work,” and he disagrees with Haskell’s overwhelmingly negative conclusions, if not the particular faults she analyzes (156-60). 6 According to Wermuth, these lectures, which usually included a summary of the author’s life and work accompanied by translations of “some passages to give the flavor,” were so popular because “such was Taylor’s skill that he was able to make these early essays interesting to those who knew little of German literature. Taylor had the ability, from his journalistic experience, to pick out the salient features of material and to eliminate the rest” (168-69). 198 have had, he simultaneously gave the impression that this was all there was to know, implicitly discouraging further study. In much the same way, although a lifetime of study converted the ignorant youth who first landed in Liverpool into a scholar of German language and literature, both his travel writing and his translation mediate his own knowledge and experience for a popular audience, implicitly discouraging readers from deeper cultural experiences abroad while concealing that any cultural content may be missing. Melville addresses the increasing superficiality of travel encouraged by Taylor in Redburn (1849), a novel conspicuously missing from the previous chapter’s account of Melville’s early career. Typee, Omoo, Mardi, and Moby-Dick all draw on the author’s Pacific whaling experiences from 1841 to 1844 (Heflin xxiii). In contrast, Redburn, Melville’s fourth novel, is loosely based on his first voyage, a trip between New York and Liverpool on the merchant vessel St. Lawrence in 1839 (Heflin 4-5). In the novel, the young and inexperienced Wellingborough Redburn fulfills his longing to go to sea by enlisting on a similar transatlantic voyage—blundering over the customs and responsibilities of a sailor, seeing a bit of Liverpool, and making a strange nocturnal trip to London with his English friend Harry Bolton before returning home. While many critics have taken Melville’s claim to have written Redburn for the money as a reason to disregard it, several have recognized its significance. 7 Some of the most interesting 7 William H. Gilman, for example, defends the novel against those who “look upon it as mere apprenticeship,” and he includes among its “merits” a “tender and varied depiction of the woes of a disappointed adolescent” and “a penetrating psychological realism and a true pathos” (247). Gilman’s reading is an example of those that focus on the 199 readings view the novel as a critique of America. Marvin Fisher argues that “Melville was already a subversive writer in Redburn,” and that the targets of his critique included not only religious and economic systems but “those qualities in the American character that abetted moral hypocrisy and an impoverished imagination” (49-50). Paul Giles calls Redburn “the most straightforward example of cross-cultural critique” in Melville’s works and examines how “stereotypes are dismantled and Liverpool comes to seem more like New York than Redburn has supposed” (56-57). Such readings recognize that Redburn participates in travel literature’s common purpose of giving new context to domestic issues through the experience of the foreign. Redburn’s experiences, those of a common sailor rather than a tourist, provide an interesting counterpoint to the superficial, guidebook-dependent travel of Taylor and his successors. Wellingborough Redburn and Bayard Taylor share the common experience of leaving America at an early age, dependent upon themselves for support, to see first-hand a land they have only dreamed about and studied in books. But for Redburn, the experience of travel also brings a new understanding of linguistic and cultural difference. 8 Redburn initially views linguistic difference as a mark of foreign exoticism. As a child, when he fantasizes about his father’s travels, he thinks, “And who could be going to Bremen? No one but foreigners, doubtless; men of dark complexions and jet-black psychological and biographical implications of Melville’s characterization of Wellingborough Redburn. 8 The similarity of Taylor’s motives to Redburn’s youthful fantasies is apparent in the opening chapter to Views A-Foot: Taylor explains his childhood dreams of visiting Europe to “behold the scenes, among which [his] fancy had so long wandered,” and despite his “want of means” admits, “I could not content myself to wait until I had slowly accumulated so large a sum as tourists usually spend on their travels” (1). 200 whiskers, who talked French” (4). For young Redburn, not only is speaking French akin to the surface differences of complexion and facial hair, but these men “talked” not “spoke” French. The youth does not care for the content of their speech, it is only meaningless talk with the same effect as exotic mustaches. 9 Similarly, Redburn describes his wish to read one of his father’s French books: “I wondered what a great man I would be, if by foreign travel I should ever be able to read straight along without stopping, out of that book, which now was a riddle to every one in the house but my father” (7). The possibility of learning the language at home does not seem to cross his mind because French only interests him as a marker of having been to Europe, as just another souvenir. 10 For young Redburn, knowing French has value only as evidence of being well-traveled. In contrast to these early fantasies of foreign language as a symbol of the cultural capital of having been to foreign lands, Redburn’s experiences as a sailor give him a new perspective on linguistic alterity. When he first boards the Highlander, Redburn finds himself puzzled, not by the exciting European languages he fantasized about as a child, but by strange varieties of English. Melville thus continues the exploration of nautical jargon found in Cooper’s sea tales. When the first sailor Redburn meets asks, “have you got your traps aboard?” the youth, confused, reveals his ignorance by replying that he 9 In his discussion of Redburn’s growing understanding of alterity, Emory Elliott similarly examines how Redburn’s childhood daydreaming “reveals his inherent sense that the cultural ‘other’ will be linguistically and racially exotic and mysterious” (22). 10 That Redburn is more interested in what being able to read French represents than in the content of the French book is also suggested by Peter J. Bellis’s psychological reading, in which both Redburn’s father’s travel and his knowledge of French symbolize “[t]he father’s authority” (56). 201 “didn’t know there were any rats in the ship, and hadn’t brought any ‘trap’” (24). Shortly after, Redburn hears a “curious language . . . half English and half gibberish,” whose speaker turns out to be only “an English boy, from Lancashire” (26). As Melville will make even clearer as the novel progresses, the disorienting yet enriching experience of linguistic alterity is not had through the superficial kind of travel Redburn fantasized about as a child, the travel sought and described by Taylor, but through the genuinely cosmopolitan experience of shipboard life. The voyage to Liverpool is filled with similar misunderstandings as Redburn slowly learns the business of sailing and its accompanying terminology. Redburn explains of the “puzzling and confounding” experience of sailing for the first time: It must be like going into a barbarous country, where they speak a strange dialect, and dress in strange clothes, and live in strange houses. For sailors have their own names, even for things that are familiar ashore; and if you call a thing by its shore name, you are laughed at for an ignoramus and a land-lubber. (65) Still uninitiated in the complexities of a sailor’s work, Redburn has the same lack of appreciation for nautical terminology that he does for foreign languages. Redburn’s comparison of sailors’ jargon to “a strange dialect,” like his later observation of “outlandish Dutch gibberish” (76), reduces foreign speech to content-less unintelligibility. As he gains sailing experience, however, Redburn learns the same lesson demonstrated in Cooper’s The Pilot. As Peter J. Bellis notes, “Where the boy’s father had mastered French, he must now learn the ‘Greek’ of sailing terminology,” and “learning this new language is equated with learning the skills the words describe” (58). Strange words, such as the obscure nautical jargon of his ship, are valuable for the meaning they convey; they are more than colorful aspects of foreign scenery. Redburn begins to 202 demonstrate this growing awareness when he notes that “the mere knowing of the names of the ropes, and familiarizing yourself with their places” are but “things which a beginner of ordinary capacity soon masters,” while “[t]he business of a thorough-bred sailor is a special calling” that demands much “adroitness” and “versatility of talent” (120). As Redburn gains some of his first worldly experience, he begins to recognize the extraordinary skill required to manage a ship. Redburn further learns that the sailors’ technical terminology is not superfluous obfuscation but, as David Simpson argued of Cooper’s nautical language, it is a precise system for designating particular and indispensable actions while avoiding the delay a more extensive explanation in land- English would cause (Politics 199). Nautical jargon is not, as Redburn first believed of his father’s French, difference for difference’s sake, but a legitimate language conveying specific and vital information. In addition to his growing appreciation for the value of linguistic difference, Redburn gains a more mature perspective on his childhood fantasies through his disillusionment with his father’s guidebook, The Picture of Liverpool. 11 This sequence is one of Melville’s most pointed critiques of the growing practice of tourism. Melville 11 Critics have read the guidebook as a symbol of Redburn’s disillusionment with his father (Sten, Weaver 107), of his youthful religious faith (L. Thompson 84; M. Smith 32), and of his naive trust in textuality (Weinstein 379). Lawrence Buell focuses particularly on Redburn’s travel to England when he describes Redburn’s disillusionment with the guidebook as part of “Redburn’s attempt to decolonize himself, to shake off the inbred genteel Anglophilia that initially makes him a maladroit sailor and leads to a pathetically naive pilgrimage in his father’s footsteps through Liverpool” (“Question” 222). Phyllis Cole likewise describes how Melville replaces the tradition of travel to “picturesque England” with an image of “an England closer to the negative image of the democratic nationalistic tradition” (297, 317). Ian S. Maloney makes a connection between travel and language when he compares the guidebook to Redburn’s father’s equally “useless” volumes in French (79). 203 signals his clear condemnation of Redburn’s obsession with the book in the chapter heading “Redburn Grows Intolerably Flat and Stupid over Some Outlandish Old Guide- Books” (141). Although Redburn assiduously studies the minutest details of the book that guided his father through Liverpool, printed fifty years before, all of the landmarks he seeks are gone. On one hand, as Redburn’s experiences emphasize the passage of time— he laments, for example, that the book is “nearly half a century behind the age! and no more fit to guide me about the town, than the map of Pompeii” (157)—Melville calls attention to the changes in travel to Europe. At the same time, Melville implies that all guidebooks are inherently unfit and that a traveler is better served experiencing a place anew instead of cleaving to old texts. Redburn tells himself: And, Wellingborough, as your father’s guide-book is no guide for you, neither would yours (could you afford to buy a modern one to-day) be a true guide to those who come after you. Guide-books, Wellingborough, are the least reliable books in all literature; and nearly all literature, in one sense, is made up of guide-books. (157) As Taylor observed of the “European tourists” who barely see the sights because of their absorption by guidebooks (see note 3), and as Tommo experiences on Nukuhiva, an over- reliance on past texts prevents a real engagement with the world. 12 Guidebook in hand, one can tour the globe without becoming a jot more worldly. John Samson adds an interesting economic aspect to this analysis of the failed guidebook when he argues that Redburn’s “dreams of following the footsteps of genteel travelers to Europe” are “subverted . . . by the reality of a laissez-faire economic system that recognizes no superiority but financial” (9). Samson thus joins Benjamin S. West 12 John Samson also connects Redburn with Tommo in that both “narrator[s have] been reading misleading narratives” (9). 204 (165) and Jeffrey Hotz (“Out” 118) in reading in Redburn what West calls “Melville’s Critique of Capitalism.” Indeed, the novel’s economic criticism is linked to its critique of tourism. Phyllis Cole describes the resentment Melville held for the easy success of Bayard Taylor, that “Taylor is able to do everything he wants, to see the whole Continent and lack ‘no necessary comfort,’ whereas Melville’s hero is really poor and therefore trapped for six weeks in Liverpool” (320-21). While travelers such as Taylor seem to be participating in the democratization of an activity that was once the exclusive domain of the very rich, Melville offers a truly democratized alternative, pointing out that the middle class to which Taylor belongs is far more privileged than the majority of people Redburn encounters. Moreover, by critiquing the poor conditions of industrialized England, Melville further emphasizes the superficiality of the pleasant and picturesque sights visited by tourists. As Shirley Foster explains, the “horrific sight of urban squalor and deprivation” found in Redburn is off of the “well-worn tourist paths” to which most travelers confined themselves (“Confusion” 131). Even as tourism makes European travel more accessible to the middle class, it still remains a leisure activity available only to the privileged minority, and the pervasive poverty produced by the same system of capitalism that sustains tourism is too often eclipsed by tourism’s superficial attention to quaint local color. Melville’s ongoing critique of the system of transnational exchange that supports this inequity— evidenced in Mardi’s maker of idols and further explored through Moby- Dick’s doubloon— continues in his account of Redburn’s merchant voyage. One scene that particularly emphasizes economic incommensurability is Redburn’s nightmarish visit to a London gambling house with Harry Bolton. Bellis offers this fascinating reading: 205 Chips are substitutes for money, which is itself a substitute for real goods; and these signifiers, doubly removed from their referents, are then surrendered to the play of chance. Gambling, in this sense, represents a fundamental dissolution of the signifying order, and Harry, as a compulsive gambler, embodies this instability. (89) Harry’s gambling mirrors the larger-scale speculation of international trade, and both allow participants to play with conventions of equivalence for monetary gain, often at the expense of the unwary. In Redburn as in Mardi and Moby-Dick, Melville’s play with the slippery signification of language accompanies a similar examination of the inherent incommensurability of economic systems and of the injustice caused when one party takes advantage of the imperfect translation of value across countries and cultures. Despite the failure of his guidebook, Redburn’s travels do make him more worldly, but Melville is careful to show that Redburn does not gain his newfound cosmopolitanism through sight-seeing and the usual itinerary of a tourist. Instead, Redburn’s experiences demonstrate that the benefits of speaking to a variety of people, such as the sailors found at the Liverpool docks, far surpass any worldliness gained from seeing the notable sights. At first, Redburn despairs that his “prospects of seeing the world as a sailor [are], after all, but very doubtful,” because sailors “would dream as little of traveling inland to see Kenilworth, or Blenheim Castle, as they would of sending a car overland to the Pope, when they touched at Naples” (133-34). Redburn initially views a sailor’s travels as “go[ing] round the world, without going into it” (133), but he learns from his experience with the guidebook that seeing such sights can be far more superficial than he imagined, that touring is not really “going into” the world at all. At the same time, after returning to the docks from his failed touring, Redburn realizes that there is more of the world there than he previously thought: 206 Surrounded by its broad belt of masonry, each Liverpool dock is a walled town, full of life and commotion; or rather, it is a small archipelago, an epitome of the world, where all the nations of Christendom, and even those of Heathendom, are represented. For, in itself, each ship is an island, a floating colony of the tribe to which it belongs. (165) 13 While tourists like Taylor can travel a continent without experiencing much of the true nature or daily life of its inhabitants, a common sailor can more fully experience international differences when diverse people are drawn together in the varied microcosm of shipboard life. Redburn learns that speaking with such people is a better way to experience the world than following the “beaten track” of a tourist’s itinerary, thus providing a counter-example to the ongoing replacement of understanding with sight. Strolling along the docks, Redburn encounters a ship from Bombay. He first describes its sailors as “chattering like magpies in Hindostanee” (171), but when he takes time to converse with one who “spoke good English, and was quite communicative” (172), Redburn realizes that these chattering Asians might have something to say: So instructive was his discourse, that when we parted, I had considerably added to my stock of knowledge. . . . If you want to learn romance, or gain an insight into things quaint, curious, and marvelous, drop your books of travel, and take a stroll along the docks of a great commercial port. Ten to one, you will encounter Crusoe himself among the crowds of mariners from all parts of the globe. (172) Here, Melville clearly contrasts the false worldliness Redburn thought he could gain from guidebooks and tourism to the real cosmopolitanism of a sailor’s life. While Redburn’s initial impressions of the multilingualism of the ship led him to belittle any language 13 Robert T. Tally, Jr., calls Redburn’s view of the Liverpool docks “a figure for internationalism and even postnationalism” and argues that, although “Melville utters his most famous comment about the specifically American nationality . . . , he rejects that there is such a thing, arguing that the national identity of the United States can only be viewed in its fundamentally multinational character” (37). 207 difference that was not a mark of having traveled, the young sailor learns by the return voyage that the multilingual ship-board environment represents a truer cosmopolitan ideal than he could gain from superficial touring. As these examples demonstrate, Melville’s appreciation of foreign language in Redburn does not differ drastically from his treatment of language difference discussed in the previous chapter, but the change of setting allows his focus to shift from a critique of imperialism to a critique of the rise of tourism. As in his Pacific writings, Melville once again maintains his unusually cosmopolitan attitude toward “savage” cultures as well as toward the foreign cultures of Europe. Unfortunately, this openness to difference remains the exception. In later decades, the cultures and languages of Europe increasingly are treated with the level of disrespect previously reserved for non-Western peoples. Travel and Translation in Fuller and Stowe Thus far, my study of American travel has focused regrettably, if necessarily, on male authors, but by mid-century, women were traveling to Europe with increased frequency, and many wrote about their travels in some form (S. Wright). There have already been a number of studies of women’s travel writing, much of which either remained in private journals and correspondence or was originally written as such and then published later. 14 While Taylor and Redburn (and the young Melville on whom Redburn is loosely based) traveled with a level of anonymity typical for most Americans 14 See, for example, Helen Barolini’s Their Other Side, Annamaria Formichella Elsden’s Roman Fever, Cheryl J. Fish’s Black and White Women’s Travel Narratives, Sara Mills’s Discourses of Difference, Susan L. Roberson’s Antebellum American Women Writers and the Road, Mary Suzanne Schriber’s Writing Home, and Jennifer Bernhardt Steadman’s Traveling Economies. 208 abroad, this section will return to the travels of more famed and established authors by examining two writers who eagerly accepted a more public persona, Margaret Fuller and Harriet Beecher Stowe. Although these women traveled to Europe within a decade of each other, Fuller between 1846 and 1850 and Stowe in 1853, their published travel writings demonstrate how the changes epitomized and encouraged by travelogues and guides like Views A-Foot affected the European travel of more famous American authors. When examined in contrast to Fuller, who continues the tradition of literary cosmopolites like Cooper and Washington Irving, Stowe demonstrates how the shift from cultured traveler to tourist influenced even the most renowned literary celebrities, a class that was once the core of American cosmopolitanism. Margaret Fuller is easily one of the most cosmopolitan figures of the antebellum period. From a very young age, she received extensive education in both modern and classical languages, and she could read Latin, Greek, French, and Italian by the age of eight (Durning 56). Like Taylor, but to a greater extent, Fuller was also a translator. Her first two published books were translations of Johann Peter Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe and “Bettina von Arnim’s correspondence with the poet Karoline von Günderode” (Durning 20-21). Fuller also translated Goethe’s Torquanto Tasso, although it was not published until after her death (101). Indeed, Russell E. Durning’s book Margaret Fuller, Citizen of the World is dedicated to analyzing Fuller’s engagement with the languages and literatures of Europe and her role “in making European literature known in America” (14). Charles Capper, too, calls Fuller “one of America’s first truly 209 cosmopolitan intellectuals” (xiii). 15 Not surprisingly, when offered the opportunity to travel to Europe with friends in 1846, Fuller eagerly embraced the opportunity (Murray 281). Like Taylor, Fuller funded her travels, in part, by writing letters for the New York Tribune. 16 She began her trip in England, visited Paris, and then remained in Italy until 1850, witnessing the unsuccessful Italian revolution of 1847-48. 17 Harriet Beecher Stowe traveled to Europe for the first time in 1853, after the record-breaking success of Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Hedrick 233). She spent the first part of the trip in England and Scotland, where she toured antislavery societies. Due to what Joan D. Hedrick calls “women’s enforced retirement from public speech,” Stowe herself did not speak at these meetings, but her husband (Calvin) or her brother (Charles) delivered speeches she had written, and sometimes Calvin composed his own (Hedrick 15 Bell Gale Chevigny describes Fuller’s shifting balance between nationalism and cosmopolitanism, arguing that, at first, Fuller’s “growing Italianization deepened and sharpened her Americanness[,]. . . enabl[ing] her to discover how Italian and American concerns were actually married, and to better identify America’s peculiar needs” (107). However, Chevigny argues that Fuller’s focus on American concerns shifted as Fuller rejected the “myth of America’s unique destiny” and “urged instead an egalitarian cosmopolitanism, which would reposition America morally as one nation among many” (110). 16 After her death, Fuller’s brother Arthur B. Fuller collected much of her travel writing in At Home and Abroad; or, Things and Thoughts in America and Europe (1856). I will use the modern and more complete edition of Fuller’s Tribune letters, “These Sad but Glorious Days”: Dispatches from Europe, 1846-1850 (Yale UP, 1991). 17 Famously, during these years in Italy, Fuller also became involved with Giovanni Angelo Ossoli, conceived a child, and likely married the Italian in secret. When they finally decided to return to America, their ship was wrecked less than a mile away from Fire Island, New York. Fuller refused to attempt to swim to shore, and the entire family drowned. This fascinating personal history can be found in Fuller’s private correspondence, but it plays little role in the Tribune dispatches, which are the subject of my reading. See Meg McGavran Murray’s biography, Margaret Fuller: Wandering Pilgrim, for more details of Fuller’s dramatic final years. 210 242; Foster, “Construction” 151-52). The result of this arrangement was that Stowe’s husband drew all negative criticism in the partisan world of antislavery societies, while “the public could attribute its most cherished views to [Harriet] without any evidence to contradict them” (Hedrick 242). Exhausted by the constant criticism, Stowe’s husband returned to the states while his wife continued with the rest of her party to tour the continent. After returning home, Stowe collected, edited, or composed a series of “letters” which she combined with sections of her brother’s journal and transcripts of the various speeches given in her honor; the result is Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands (1854) (Foster, “Construction” 152-53). Like Views A-Foot, Stowe’s travelogue became a guidebook for large numbers of traveling Americans (S. Wright). Comparing Fuller’s Tribune dispatches with Sunny Memories reveals a clear decrease in cultural involvement from Fuller to Stowe, a difference which is indicative of the general, if gradual, shift from Cooper’s travel to Twain’s tourism. Fuller helps illustrate this change when she outlines what she sees as the three types of American travelers. In contrast to the extremes of the “servile American,” who without reflection puts whatever is fashionable in Europe above anything at home, and the “conceited American,” who finds nothing worthwhile abroad in comparison to his own provincial tastes, Fuller praises “[t]he thinking American—a man who, recognizing the immense advantage of being born to a new world and on a virgin soil, yet does not wish one seed from the Past to be lost” (162-63). Fuller’s ideal relation to Europe is an appreciation of what is valuable both in the future of America and in the European past, the golden mean of this spectrum, and a fair description of Cooper’s cosmopolitanism. All three positions might exist at any point in the history of American travel, but while early travelers tended 211 to be more in awe of European culture (often without sacrificing a concurrent sense of patriotism), later travelers had more culture to be proud of at home and felt less indebted to European history and monuments. Fuller’s and Stowe’s relative images abroad illustrate this gradual change. One factor that both accompanied and influenced traveling Americans’ decreased involvement in European culture was the United States’ changing cultural status. In her first letter, Fuller notes modest increases in the prominence of American writing in Europe including passages from the Bostonian Dial included in an address by the Director of the Liverpool Institute and extracts of American writers in Bradshaw’s Railway Guide (42-43). Fuller’s own moderate fame as an American author allows her to meet with literary and cultural figures to which the average traveler would not have had access, including William Wordsworth and Thomas Carlyle (53, 100). In private correspondence, Fuller reports “that an English edition of her Papers on Literature and Art had ‘been courteously greeted in the London journals’ and that Woman in the Nineteenth Century ‘has been read and prized by many,’ including Mazzini” (Murray 300). It is clear, however, that Fuller was primarily known only in select intellectual circles and was not familiar to the general populace of Europe. Stowe, on the other hand, was undeniably a celebrity in Europe as in the United States. Her biographer describes how Stowe’s “receptions swelled in size and enthusiasm as Stowe made her triumphant tour of Great Britain, where the sales of Uncle Tom’s Cabin were more than triple the already phenomenal figures of the United States, 212 reaching a million and a half in the first year” (Hedrick 233). 18 Stowe’s prominence is made clear in one of the speeches given in her honor, a speech she includes in Sunny Memories. The Rev. C.M. Birrell describes how Uncle Tom’s Cabin is “going forth over the whole earth” and remarks on editions circulated in Belgium, published by the “priests of the church of Rome,” and, in St. Petersburg, even “translated into the Russian tongue” (I: xxi). 19 Stowe travels in part to see the famous sights of Europe, but she also finds hundreds of Europeans flocking to see her (S. Wright). Throughout her travels, Stowe discovers that a Scottish family (I: 138), a musician at a French salon (II: 176-77), and Italian schoolchildren (II: 278), among others, are all familiar with her work. In a secluded village in the Alps, the villagers entreat the bestselling author, “O, madam, do write another! Remember, our winter nights here are very long!” (II: 198). Stowe may not have raised the value of American literature in European eyes singlehandedly, but another passage from a speech given in Stowe’s honor suggests the great difference Uncle Tom had made: Let us hear no more of the poverty of American brains, or the barrenness of American literature. Had it produced only Uncle Tom’s Cabin, it had evaded contempt just as certainly as Don Quixote, had there been no other product of the Spanish mind, would have rendered it forever illustrious. (I: xxxviii) 18 With an interesting correspondence to the commercialization of tourism, Whitney Womack Smith describes how, during Stowe’s visit to England, the popularity of Uncle Tom’s Cabin “spawned an early example of a merchandising tie-in; abolitionist groups and English shopkeepers sold mass-produced ‘Uncle Tom’ goods, including almanacs, cups, picture books, card games, stationery, handkerchiefs, and dolls with likenesses of characters like Uncle Tom and Little Eva” (90). 19 Indeed, Denise Kohn, Sarah Meer, and Emily B. Todd note that “by 1853 the novel had been translated into French, Italian, Welsh, German, Portuguese, Spanish, Norwegian, and Slovenian, among other languages” (xviii). 213 This increased fame and recognition of American literature in Europe contributed to a growing sense of America’s own cultural value and, consequently for many travelers, a decline in their appreciation of the European culture previously viewed as superior. 20 Unlike the trips of many of their female contemporaries, Fuller’s and Stowe’s experiences abroad are remarkable for their engagement in politics, Fuller in the 1848 Italian revolution and Stowe in the antislavery movement. In this sense, the travel writings of both show greater depth than Taylor’s focus on local color and idle amusements. Apart from this similarity, however, Fuller’s Tribune dispatches and Stowe’s Sunny Memories represent a shift in the nature of travel from cultural participation to tourism. Fuller’s dispatches describe the changing technology of travel that contributes to the rise of tourism. For example, she recommends taking passage, as she did, on a steamer rather than on an older sailing ship. The increased accessibility, speed, and convenience of steamers would set the tone for the new, shorter tour made more accessible to middle-class travelers (Sides 12). Yet, while Fuller praises the steamer, she calls the railroad “that convenient but most unprofitable and stupid way of traveling” (50). Speed and convenience make tourism pleasant and efficient, but, as with Taylor’s vetturino, they prevent a more active engagement with the land and its people. 20 Kohn, Meer, and Todd observe a similar change in the relative respect given to American culture abroad: “Oddly juxtaposing accounts of Stowe’s literary pilgrimages (typical of an Old World tour) and her reception in Britain (crowds gathering to greet her train), Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands illustrates the beginnings of a cultural shift in British and American relations” (xxv). Taking this argument a step further, Schriber calls Sunny Memories “Stowe’s declaration of independence from the Old World” and argues that Stowe “thinks it imperative that Americans free themselves culturally and stand on their own two feet” (181). 214 At the same time, Fuller is careful to distinguish her travel from what was already a growing trend of superficial tourism. This critique is made apparent when she writes: The traveler passing along the beaten track, vetturinoed from inn to inn, ciceroned from gallery to gallery, thrown, through indolence, want of tact, or ignorance of the language, too much into the society of his compatriots, sees the least possible of the country. (131-32) The conveniences of tourism’s various guides, its standard itinerary of sights, and the ignorance of local languages such infrastructure allows all contribute to the superficiality of this new trend of European travel. Although Fuller’s initial travels in England and France follow a touristic model (Roberson 153), and she admits, “Like others, I went through the painful process of sight-seeing, so unnatural everywhere, so counter to the healthful methods and true life of the mind,” she is glad to report, “I now really live in Rome, and I begin to see and feel the real Rome” (Fuller 167-68). Beyond the usual practice of criticizing mere tourists, a ubiquitous trope which, as James Buzard argues, is as much a part of the “beaten track” of travel writing as any ciceroned gallery (153, 196- 97), Fuller’s thoughts on tourism, as well as her legitimate participation in Italian politics and society, demonstrate a clear allegiance to the earlier mode of European travel. 21 In Great Britain, Stowe’s fame and political activism may have separated her from the usual tourist, but her British sightseeing, her later tour of the Continent, and her 21 A number of critics have also examined Fuller’s relationship to tourism and anti- tourism. Leonardo Buonomo emphasizes how Fuller “repeatedly expressed aspiration to be a part of the scene, a scene made of people to meet, places to explore, and historical incidents of great import” (31). John Paul Russo also asserts that “Fuller did not fall victim to the ‘tourist gaze,’” but instead “stresses the need to see things slowly” (139-40). Taking a somewhat more complex view, Heidi Kolk describes Fuller’s “‘dialogic’ negotiation with travel narrative” and her recognition of “a certain dissonance—between her real experiences and her provisional power as travel correspondent, between her status as leisure traveler and her vicarious participation in the revolution, between her identities as intellectual and as woman” (381, 403). 215 account of those travels in Sunny Memories all participate in and support exactly the kind of travel “along the beaten track” that Fuller critiques. Particularly in the Continental sections of the trip, Stowe’s travel is essentially touristic (Roberson 141-43; Hedrick 250; S. Wright). Like her fellow tourists, Stowe does not seek new and potentially enlightening experiences, but visits sights which are “already imaginatively familiar” in order to “confirm what [she] already believe[s]” (Roberson 143). 22 The lack of depth in Stowe’s impressions comes across in one of her concluding discussions of national character. She writes: I liked the English and the Scotch as well as I could like any thing. And now, I equally like the French. . . . So I regard nations as parts of a great common body, and national differences as necessary to a common humanity. I thought, when in English society, that it was as perfect and delightful as it could be. There was worth of character, strength of principle, true sincerity, and friendship, charmingly expressed. I have found all these, too, among the French, and besides them, something which charms me the more, because it is peculiar to the French, and of a kind wholly different 22 In contrast, some critics have emphasized the significance of Stowe’s travel and travel writing beyond the merely touristic. Donald Ross, for example, argues that Stowe aimed “to capitalize on the publicity that her trip had created in order to bring together the American and British antislavery movements and mend fences among their factions” (132). While this may be a nobler goal than pure tourism, it still shows a lack of real concern for experiencing the culture of Europe. Instead, Stowe focuses on showcasing herself and using her position to help an American cause. She is touring as much to be seen as to see the sights of Britain. In an even more extreme attempt to recover the value of Stowe’s travel writing, Foster argues that Stowe presented herself in a self-consciously ironic way that “prefigures the multivocalism of Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad and A Tramp Abroad, especially in its use of self-reflexive irony, with both writers exploiting the relationship between a public, representative persona and a more private, individualistic observer” (“Construction” 153-56). While Stowe may have had the ironic view of her position as tourist that Foster describes, it is too subtly (if at all) conveyed in Sunny Memories, so that even most modern readers have taken her position at face value. My purpose is neither to defend Stowe’s self-awareness nor to condemn her superficiality. For the purposes of the chronology of travel I am describing, the surface position most clearly avowed by Stowe has greater influence on her readers than whatever private views she might have held. 216 from any I have ever had an experience of before. There is an iris-like variety and versatility of nature . . . which is very captivating. (II: 406- 407) True to the sunniness her title promises, Stowe finds such national differences “perfect and delightful as . . . could be.” Beyond her enjoyment of regional idiosyncrasies, however, there is little substance to her observations. She is as pleased with varieties of character as any tourist is pleased with sights. For such a tourist, galleries and old buildings may be “delightful” in their minor differences, but little is gained from such observation. Not surprisingly, Fuller’s and Stowe’s differing emphases on the actual culture and daily life of Europe—in contrast to its guidebook sights—corresponds to their understanding of local languages. As previously noted, Fuller left the United States with an already extensive linguistic education, and her immersion in European society gave her ample opportunity to become fluent in both French and Italian. 23 Indeed, when Fuller first met her future lover Ossoli, he spoke no English, so their growing relationship depended upon her own Italian (see Barolini 27; Murray 315). Fuller criticizes the kind of American tourist Stowe will become when she writes, “the American, on many points, becomes more ignorant for coming abroad, because he attaches some value to his crude impressions and frequent blunders,” adding, “It is necessary to speak the language of these countries and know personally some of their inhabitants in order to form any accurate impressions” (258). For Fuller, speaking the local language is an essential part of worthwhile travel. 23 According to Durning, Fuller had some difficulty keeping up with French conversation in Paris, but during her residence in Italy, she became fluent in French as well as Italian (68). 217 In contrast, Stowe had only a limited understanding of foreign languages throughout her 1853 trip to Europe. While Fuller’s prior education and dedication to improving her fluency allowed her to enjoy a true residence in Italy, Stowe, despite her fame, could never move deeper into European society than the company of those who knew English. In Sunny Memories, as Stowe tours the sights, this language barrier hampers her appreciation for what she is seeing. When the party goes to see the Luther relics, for example, they first have difficulty communicating what they want, and then, when a guide does arrive, she is “a little woman who spoke no English, whom, guide book in hand, we followed” (II: 362). Similarly led by a non-English-speaking guide in the vaults of the Pantheon, Stowe reports, “we were marched to a place where our guide made a long speech about a stone in the floor—very instructive, doubtless, if I had known what it was” (II: 398). Stowe’s appreciation for what she tours is inevitably diminished when she cannot understand what she is seeing. Eventually, as the numbers of such monolingual travelers increased, hotels and other businesses of the tourist industry began to compensate for their linguistic limitations. Stowe already reports, “In every hotel of each large city, there is a man who speaks English. The English language is slowly and surely creeping through Europe; already it rivals the universality of the French” (II: 320- 21). The problem with such accommodation, however, is that it encourages and supports the growing number of tourists who never learn more than a smattering of the local language. Taylor, like Stowe, arrived in Europe with little foreign language education, but he was forced to learn to communicate abroad. As the century progressed, and the numbers of English-speaking tourists increased, learning the local language became less and less of a necessity. 218 Another aspect of Fuller’s and Stowe’s disparate relations to linguistic difference is the role of translation in their travel writing and in their careers. Of all of the writers examined in this study, Fuller has been given by far the most attention as a professional translator. Durning is critical of Fuller’s early translation of Goethe’s Tasso, but finds a “progressive improvement” in her subsequent translations (Durning 103-105, 120). His analysis of this development, particularly of Fuller’s realization that translation is more challenging than she might have first thought, suggests that Fuller developed an increasingly nuanced understanding of the nature of translation throughout her career. 24 Taking a more theoretical approach, Christina Zwarg uses Fuller’s translations to examine “the way in which ‘feminist’ issues are often enmeshed and perhaps even articulated through the task of the translator” (463). Colleen Glenney Boggs devotes an entire chapter to Fuller’s translations, arguing that Fuller “developed a strategy of fragmentation and suture that brings into being an American literature that is domestically and globally transnational—or, we might say, translational” (92). As evocative as arguments of the type made by Boggs and Zwarg can be, they seem somewhat too easily to find in Fuller’s work all that is recognized as positive by modern transnational, postcolonial, feminist (and so on) theory, rather than examining Fuller’s translations in a more historical context. Nevertheless, Fuller’s role as a translator is central to understanding her relationship to Europe. 24 Karen A. English similarly describes how Fuller is “initially mistaken about the ease of translating . . . noncanonical works of conversation and correspondence,” but how, over time, she develops a more sophisticated theory of translation in her recognition “that different kinds of writing require different kinds of translation strategies” (133). After Fuller discovers that it requires six months’ residence in Italy to become fluent in Italian, her understanding of the difficulties of bilingualism and translation develops even further (English 142). 219 Karen A. English is alone in devoting much attention to the translations embedded within Fuller’s Tribune dispatches. She calls Fuller “an interpreter of Italian politics and culture for American newspaper readers” and counts “twenty-seven translated texts” in Fuller’s dispatches (143). In contrast to Cooper’s practice of leaving foreign language untranslated, Fuller’s inclusion of these translations could be read as another aspect of the touristic apparatus encouraging monolingualism. However, in contrast to Taylor, Fuller does not aim to obviate further study of Italian language and culture. Joseph C. Schöpp confirms this difference when he argues that “Fuller regarded translation as more than just ‘an act of simple importation,’” and that her translations “were meant to initiate a dialogue between cultures” (32). Further, Durning describes how Fuller desired her readers to learn foreign language, and how “she was eager to acquaint her readers with the proper tools and methods for acquiring their own knowledge of the German language so that they would not have to depend upon translations of its masterpieces” (129). While Taylor clearly intended his Faust to be a substitute for the original, Fuller translates documents of the Italian revolution in order to draw her readers into further engagement with Italian politics and culture. Indeed, wanting more than merely to “initiate a dialogue,” Fuller translated documents of the 1848 revolution as part of a call to action. In the winter of 1847-48, she writes, “I earnestly hope some expression of sympathy from my country toward Italy. Take a good chance and do something” (160). The following summer, in one of her last dispatches, Fuller emphases her call to action even further by writing, “I see you have meetings, where you speak of the Italians, the Hungarians. I pray you do something; let it not end in a mere cry of sentiment” (311). As English argues, “By making her readers 220 privy (through translation and publication) to the complex flow of historical documents and events marking the political upheavals of the Italian revolution, Fuller draws them into the circle of her personal experience and provides them with perspectives that transcend national boundaries and language barriers” (145). While Taylor’s translations gave readers linguistically picturesque tidbits of European verse for superficial enjoyment and local color, Fuller presents her translations of political documents with a sense of urgency. For example, Fuller introduces her translation of letters “from the Milanese Government . . . to the Germans at large and the countries under the dominion of Austria” by noting that she translates them, “thinking they may not in other form reach America” (217). Fuller sees such documents as politically essential yet ephemeral, and takes advantage of her residence in Italy at such an important historical moment to bring information to her American readers that they otherwise might not receive. In striking contrast to Fuller, Stowe is unable to understand or translate much of the language of Europe, but she herself has been widely translated. For Stowe, all communication with Europe occurs at a remove. Because of the period’s protocols of female propriety, Stowe does not deliver her own speeches in Britain, and many of the Europeans she meets have read her novel in translation. While touring the Continent, Stowe also relies on her brother to translate much of what she cannot understand. When telling her brother to be careful of avalanches she says, only half in jest, “I could not spare you; first, because I have not learned French enough yet; and next, because I don’t know how to make change” (II: 235). 25 Indeed, the men in Stowe’s life act as mediators 25 Stowe’s correlation of linguistic and economic exchange in this comic warning have echoes in Twain’s similar complaints about foreign language and money in Innocents Abroad. 221 throughout the entire tour—not only do they deliver speeches, translate conversations, and broker commercial transactions, but Stowe even allows her brother to speak for her in her own travelogue by including large sections of his journal with minimal alterations (Foster, “Construction” 153-54). An anecdote described by Boggs epitomizes Stowe’s touristic view of European language. As Boggs reports, “on her first trip to Europe, [Stowe] hired a native speaker to instruct her by reading ‘several pages from Uncle Tom in French’” (131). Thus, even when she does attempt to learn some of the local language, Stowe misses the opportunity to receive European cultural content at the same time and instead, with a hint of megalomania, listens to a translation of her own novel. Like Fuller, Stowe also receives her own chapter in Boggs’s study of translation in nineteenth-century American literature, but not for undertaking any of her own translations. Instead, translation lies at the center of a lawsuit Stowe fought shortly before leaving for her tour. In 1852, Stowe sued F. W. Thomas for infringing on her copyright of Uncle Tom’s Cabin with an unauthorized German translation published in America, Stowe herself having commissioned her own German translation (Boggs 127-29). In claiming that a translation should be subject to the same copyright laws as a reprinting, Stowe’s suit treats a translation as an exact copy of the original. As Boggs has examined in depth, the suit consequently raises the important issue of whether the act of translation requires sufficient creativity and invention to make it the translator’s own intellectual property. As interesting as these debates may be, Stowe’s varied remarks about translation throughout Sunny Memories make it unlikely that she has contemplated it in these terms. For example, as Boggs also notes, the argument for Stowe’s side of the litigation appears 222 to contradict her praise of Madame Belloc’s French translation of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which was published in France. Stowe writes in Sunny Memories: [Madame Belloc’s] translation of Uncle Tom has to me all the merit and all the interest of an original composition. In perusing it I enjoy the pleasure of reading the story with scarce any consciousness of its ever having been mine. (II: 395) Comparing this statement with the rationale of the lawsuit, Boggs argues that “Stowe distinguishes between translation as an international and an intranational practice” (131). 26 Although Boggs’s subsequent analysis of the lawsuit provides a fascinating account of different contemporary views of translation, copyright, and authorship, her conclusion is not entirely convincing because it ignores the more obvious financial motive for Stowe’s apparent double standard—the desire to secure as much royalty money as possible. Moreover, Sunny Memories contains yet another seemingly contradictory statement about translation: Hamlet in French—just think of it. One never feels the national difference so much as in thinking of Shakespeare in French! Madame de Stael says of translation, that music written for one instrument cannot be played upon another. (II: 279) While Stowe implies that the unauthorized German translation of Uncle Tom is an exact copy, and calls the French translation an original composition, she suggests here that a translation of Shakespeare should not even be attempted. To me, the most likely explanation for such inconsistency is that Stowe has not theorized the practice of translation much at all, and so her ideas about what it entails are subordinate in any given statement to other social, cultural, or economic factors. In the case of Stowe’s lawsuit, 26 Boggs further explains, “In international contexts, [Stowe] thinks of translation as a new composition, yet wishes for translation within the American context to be an exact copy of the original” (131). 223 treating a translation as its own work hurts her financially, so she wants it covered under her own copyright. When complimenting Belloc’s French translation, Stowe is being gracious to a woman who has hosted her in Paris while praising a work that can only increase her fame in a country where there is no possibility of holding a copyright. Because Stowe accedes to Shakespeare’s conventional status as an icon of English literature, her passing remarks on Hamlet in French fall into the “translator, traitor” school. It is clear that Stowe has not thought enough about the nature of translation to form any firm opinions about it. By extension, it is likely that she willingly accepts her mediated involvement in European society because she has not fully considered what might be lost in such a translation. For all that Fuller and Stowe have in common—their interest in politics, their gender, their prominence as writers, and the closeness of their trips chronologically—a comparison of the roles that foreign language and translation play in their European travel writing illustrates how the general shift in American travel was also occurring in the travel of famed American authors. Like her cosmopolitan literary predecessors, Fuller spoke many foreign languages, and although she translated extensively to bring foreign literature and philosophy to American readers, she also demonstrated a clear desire for those readers to learn the original languages. Stowe’s own writing was already extensively translated and reprinted, so she enjoyed greater fame upon her arrival in Europe than any of her American predecessors. But Stowe did not speak the languages of Europe, and so she relied upon interpreters while on the Continent. As technology made travel to Europe more accessible to Americans outside of the elite intellectual and wealthy classes, going abroad became less about participating in the cultural life of 224 Europe, with the knowledge of foreign languages such participation entailed. Despite her fame and access to European society, Stowe, like many other American travelers at mid- century, focused on seeing the sights along a beaten track—insulated from the necessity of communicating across language barriers and hence removed from any real cultural involvement. Thus, while writers such as Cooper and Irving, or Ben Franklin and Thomas Paine before them, were once the most cosmopolitan of American travelers, Stowe demonstrates how the decreased cultural depth of tourism—initiated by middle-class Americans with less access to wealth, education, and status—began to affect how even the more famed American authors approached their time abroad. As this new mode of touring grew in prominence, even Melville was not immune to its influence. Melville on Tour Before beginning his literary career, Melville traveled the world as a sailor, and the works inspired by those years depict travel as an occupation rather than a pastime. In 1856, however, Melville visited Europe and the Levant for a more touristic purpose. Although this study has previously drawn a clear distinction between travel to Europe and to parts of the non-Western world, Melville’s tour of the Holy Land is a fitting conclusion to this chapter for two reasons. First, because Melville had always afforded “savage” languages a degree of cosmopolitan respect— incorporating Polynesian words in his texts in the same way that Cooper included French—a change in his treatment of any language marks a personal shift in the treatment of linguistic difference, a departure from the same kind of cosmopolitan appreciation with which Cooper and his contemporaries viewed European languages. Second, and perhaps more importantly, the inclusion of the Levant in a sightseeing tour bespeaks the general expansion of touristic 225 travel beyond Europe, foreshadowing the conflation of all linguistic difference by century’s end. In this way, Clarel is an obvious precursor to Twain’s Innocents Abroad. The once essential distinction between Western and non-Western language will become far less important in the following discussions. In his introduction to Melville’s journal of the trip, Howard C. Horsford contends that the author’s visit to the Levant is much like those of “hundreds of accounts written by travelers,” and that Melville’s subsequent movements in Europe “followed tracks beaten wide and deep by English and American tourists” (10). 27 Melville’s journal entry about his visit to Frankfurt is indicative of his largely touristic itinerary: “After dinner Smythe invited us to ride about town.—Goethe’s statue. Faust’s. Cathedral. Luther’s preaching place. River side. Park. Jews quarter. Rothschilds home. &c &c &c” (252-53). It is important to note that these jottings differ from the other works examined here in that they are not finished and published prose. They are what Franklin Walker calls “the sort of account kept by a writer who intends to draw on it later for literary work,” including primarily “day-by-day items of observation or sentences of reflection on these observations” (111). Still, Melville’s abbreviated descriptions indicate a mode of travel primarily concerned with seeing the notable sights, checking off boxes in the tourist’s typical itinerary. While Laurie Robertson-Lorant praises Melville’s journal as having nearly “the depth and intensity of his best prose fiction” (13), in conjunction with Clarel, 27 Other critics seek to distinguish Melville’s travel from the usual mode of tourism. For example, Vincent Kenny insists that Melville’s “religious pilgrimage” distinguishes itself from the superficiality of most travelers of the period (Herman 45). However, Kenny also notes that “Melville became more the tourist after [his] disheartening experience” in the Holy Land (“Clarel” 377). 226 it exemplifies a final shift in Melville’s writing from an engagement with multilingualism to the circumvention of linguistic difference. In spite of Redburn’s realization that he can see more of the world at the Liverpool docks than by visiting the sights of England, Melville’s own trip is full of both guides and guidebooks. Horsford notes that, “like most English and American tourists, [Melville] almost unquestionably carried a good supply of the various Handbooks for Travellers issued by John Murray of London” (10). Melville also frequently reports his use of a personal guide, including while in Constantinople (78), Smyrna (106), Jerusalem (124-25), Rome (212), and Venice (228). Martyn Smith, too, notes the discrepancy between Melville’s own experience with guidebooks and that of his character Redburn, arguing that, “[t]raveling without the advantage of unlimited funds, [Melville] clearly understood the utility of these inexpensive guidebooks” (34). In Constantinople, Melville emphasizes this economic aspect of touristic travel when he notes, “Breakfast at 10 A.M. Took guide ($1.25 per day) and started a tour” (79). As part of the middle class to which travel was becoming increasingly accessible, Melville cannot engage in the kind of extended stay in society enjoyed by Cooper. Instead, he must use the convenience of guided travel to maximize what he can see and do on a limited budget. In addition to his typically touristic reliance on guides, the quality of Melville’s travel is also affected by the new technologies Fuller observed. For example, at the beginning of January 1857, Melville complains, “It racks me, that I can only spend one day in Cairo, owing to the steamer,” and he notes shortly after, “Steamer for Jaffa will not sail till tomorrow, so that I am wearied to death with two days in Alexandria which might have been delightfully spent in Cairo” (114). Although Melville would like to 227 follow his own itinerary according to his intellectual pursuits, he is forced to conform to the apparatuses of tourism. Melville similarly describes how the railroad, another technology of more convenient tourism, has the potential for further drawing the traveler out of any real engagement with his destination. Melville notes in his descriptions of the Cairo railroad, “From the car (1 st class) you seem in England. All else Egypt” (122). Those who can afford to travel with the most luxury and convenience also remove themselves from any genuine experience of the foreign. Melville thus is both an observer and a participant in the increasingly touristic nature of American travel. True to his presentation of foreign language in earlier works, however, Melville still demonstrates an interest in the experience of multilingualism, even if new technology and the availability of English-speaking guides lessen the impact of foreign language on the traveler. At first, Melville seems overwhelmed by the multiplicity of languages he hears at a steamer landing in Greece. As Kim Fortuny insightfully observes, “Diversity and dilapidation come hand in hand in the paragraphs, and Melville’s attraction to the first never seems tempered by his discomfort with the latter” (4). Melville describes: “Great uproar of the porters & contention for luggage. Imagine an immense accumulation of the rags of all nations, & all colors rained down on a dense mob all struggling for huge bales & bundles of rags, gesturing with all gestures & wrangling in all tongues” (73). With each person struggling with the logistics of travel, the multiplicity of languages and nationalities leads to chaos, and it is impossible to derive anything but further confusion from the hubbub. Melville describes a similar experience in Constantinople: Great crowds of all nations—money changers—coins of all nations circulate—Placards in four or five languages; [(Turkish, French, Greek, 228 Armenian) Lottery.] advertisements of boats the same. You feel you are among the nations. Great curse that of Babel; not being able to talk to a fellow being, &c.—Have to beware of your pockets. (84-85, brackets in original) Once again, Melville couples linguistic difference with monetary exchange as the currency of one economic system is translated into another. In this multinational environment, there is no single accepted currency, but all parties must struggle to make different systems commensurable as “coins of all nations circulate.” Likewise, vendors use multiple languages to advertise what may be bought. Melville seems to relish the internationalism of the scene, but, while his respect of native language in Typee followed Cooper in its valuation of linguistic difference, Melville wishes here, as he imagines in Redburn, that the “curse of Babel be revoked.” Still, he does not, like Twain’s exaggerated American persona, shun the foreign altogether. Melville still recognizes the value of communication and exchange with other cultures, longing for a universal language that would make such communication less problematic. Nevertheless, it is important to recognize, as discussed in the Introduction, that this extreme form of cosmopolitanism has a tendency to slide into imperialistic coercion, forcing seemingly “inferior” cultures to lose their own sense of identity as they join a universal(ly Western) brotherhood. Moreover, Melville’s yearning for the global fellowship a universal language would provide is undercut by his apparent fear of theft. Just as the various lottery signs invite all nationalities to gamble their money away, the scene of international exchange becomes one of foreign threat as the confusion of multilingualism makes travelers easy marks for pickpockets. 28 28 In this sense, the scene in Greece bears a marked resemblance to The Confidence-Man, the manuscript of which Melville had carried to London on the first leg of his journey, 229 The journal contains a number of such passages emphasizing the multilingualism of travel and the potential chaos of international exchange. Years later, however, when Melville used the impressions of his 1856-57 trip as inspiration for the epic poem Clarel (1876), much of this multilingualism was effaced. As Brian Yothers describes, Melville shaped the raw material of his journal into “a massive narrative poem” that “struggles to achieve a truthful reconstruction of the Holy Land precisely by using the latitude provided by fiction and poetry” (Romance 111). The majority of Clarel comprises the characters’ inner monologs and philosophical discussions, and those who have examined it in depth accordingly focus on the nature and possibility of religious belief instead of reading Clarel as a kind of travelogue. Vincent Kenny argues that Clarel’s “journey through the Holy Land is to be his initiation into the awful mystery of tragic existence” (Herman 71), and William Potter calls the work “nothing less than a hugely conceived study of the very nature of all belief” (xiii). 29 In contrast to more pedestrian works of travel literature (no pun intended), Clarel has a complex relationship to its place. On the one hand, as numerous critics have pointed out, the profound significance of the Holy Land inevitably shapes the philosophical content of the work, and Melville’s own and which was published in both New York and London while he was in Italy (Horsford 4-13). 29 Focusing on the centrality of philosophical discussion, Buell calls Clarel “a semi- omnisciently orchestrated dialogue among contending participant-observers” (“Poet” 146). Robert Milder also sees the work as “Melville’s attempt to sift the range of intellectual and emotional responses to the later nineteenth-century crisis of belief” (195). Stan Goldman represents an even more specifically religious reading in his discussion of what he calls Melville’s “‘protest theism’: a paradoxical combination and coalescence of both protest and love based on the need that the unsatisfied heart has for God” (4). 230 pilgrimage occurred at a moment of personal turmoil that influenced his impressions of the place (see Jonik 73; Kenny, Herman 221; Yothers, Romance 110). On the other hand, what Harvey calls the “[e]xceptionally cosmopolitan . . . pilgrim group” fosters a variety of intellectual issues that transcend the locality of their pilgrimage (134). 30 Clarel cannot be ignored in a study of Melville’s engagement with travel, although the issues I will examine here admittedly comprise only a small fraction of the poem’s depth. To some extent, Clarel does continue Melville’s previous treatment of the nature of travel. At first, as in Redburn, Melville sets up a contrast between the youthful dreams inspired by books and the reality of actual travel. In the opening canto, Clarel muses, “Needs be my soul, / Purged by the desert’s subtle air / From bookish vapors” (I.1.66- 68). Further comparing the reality of seeing the Levant to what he has read, Clarel reflects: “The books, the books not all have told” (I.1.84). This contrast between traveling and reading about foreign lands is accompanied by what Shirley M. Dettlaff calls the “Pilgrim/Tourist dichotomy” (201). According to Dettlaff, Melville contrasts “the Hebraic pilgrim, who realizes that the journey is a spiritual one like those taken by the great saints” with “the sightseeing trip taken by a Hellenic tourist,” and, as Dettlaff 30 Several others have likewise emphasized Clarel’s cosmopolitanism. Dennis Berthold argues that “Clarel is not just about the author’s experiences, American politics, or Palestine; rather, it is a cosmopolitan epic whose manifold ideologies demand a transnational perspective” (232). Wyn Kelley argues that “Clarel provides a rich canvas of teeming human activity, within which people from every conceivable region, religious background, and racial and cultural identity converge at the world’s most cosmopolitan city, lending it the diversity of their many voices and opinions” (Herman 152). For Amy Kaplan, Melville depicts in Clarel a “polyglot world” that “represents an extraordinary interaction of peoples and cultures as they circulate through cities of the Levant” (“Transnational” 51). As the following reading will demonstrate, however, this potential multilingualism may be implied, but it is not depicted in the same way as the foreign languages in Melville’s earlier works. 231 argues, Clarel’s “journey into the desert begins as the pseudo-quest of a mere traveler, since he still does not understand the nature of the true pilgrimage” (201, 210). The contrasts between tourist and pilgrim and between books and reality come into focus in Clarel’s encounter with the tract dispenser Nehemiah. On the surface, “the elder” man seems to inspire Clarel to become a religious pilgrim instead of a touristic and superficial traveler: A strain Of trouble seamed the elder brow: “A pilgrim art thou? pilgrim thou?” Words simple, which in Clarel bred More than the simple saint divined; And, thinking of vocation fled, Himself he asked: or do I rave, Or have I left now far behind The student of the sacred lore? Direct he then this answer gave: “I am a traveler—no more.” (I.9.18-28) In his reflections and his response, Clarel renounces the identity (shared with Redburn) of a youthful student of books traveling to see his dreams made real. The object of Clarel’s study will become the land itself rather than the “sacred lore” he has read about it. If Nehemiah is Clarel’s model of a pilgrim, however, he is an exemplar of religious and psychological depth but not of linguistic diversity. Nehemiah is one in a series of Americans that Clarel meets in the Holy Land, coming from “[h]is home by Narragansett’s marge” (I.8.5). Thus the meeting represents not an encounter with the foreign but a displaced form of the domestic, much like the expatriate communities traveling Americans found in increasing numbers toward the end of the century. Just as Nehemiah addresses Clarel in unproblematically understandable English, Melville associates his tracts with the curse of Babel’s reversal: “His tracts all fluttering like 232 tongues / The fire-flakes of the Pentecost” (I.8.42-43). When the apostles began speaking in tongues, their speech was both the polyglot babble described by Melville in his journal and a model of universal comprehensibility. Nehemiah represents this transcendence of linguistic difference. The journal’s description of a similar tract dispenser is even more cynical: “The old Connecticut man wandering about with tracts &c — knew not the language — hopelessness of it — his lonely batchelor rooms [sic]” (142-43). Here, the Pentecostal hope of the curse of Babel’s reversal is undercut by the Connecticut man’s linguistic ignorance (see Horsford’s footnote 142-43n8). Although the tract dispenser’s religious propaganda may aim to overcome the curse of Babel, his ignorance of the local language prevents him from achieving a more practical level of understanding. He is a hopelessly lonely figure, cut off from real intercourse with his fellow men. Clarel’s early encounter with the American Nehemiah is part of a larger trend throughout the work. In sharp contrast to the experiences of Tommo on Nukuhiva, Clarel meets more fellow pilgrims and travelers than locals, and, consequently, he has little need to understand languages other than English. Lawrence Buell emphasizes Clarel’s “medley of culturally disparate individuals,” but he admits that “America is disproportionately represented, most of the featured pilgrims being American expatriates or wanderers” (“Question” 230). In addition to Clarel and Nehemiah, two other central characters, Rolfe and Vine, are American. Derwent, Mortmain, and Glaucon are also visitors to the Holy Land, although they are from Europe. When the pilgrims are joined by three others after leaving Mar Saba, one of them, Ungar, is again an American. Tim Wood goes so far as to argue that the setting of Clarel “obscures an underlying American geography,” which he further describes as the “Puritan transplantation of a biblical 233 landscape” (86). Even critics who emphasize the diversity of Melville’s characters focus on extra-national characteristics such as religious belief (Potter 18), or, even more extremely, the work’s “catalogue of depersonalizations in which the landscape presses on characters and effaces boundaries of the individual and the human” (Jonik 72). The pilgrims may be cosmopolitan, but the effect of this diversity is not the broadening of Clarel’s cultural horizons but the discussion’s removal to a level beyond national difference. While Tommo found himself to be the rare foreigner among native Polynesians, Clarel remains in a substantial company of countrymen, and the vast majority of people he meets are travelers rather than locals. The various nationalities represented by Clarel’s party could have provided an opportunity for multilingualism, but all conversation occurs unproblematically in English. While Typee and Omoo are interspersed with Polynesian in an effort to represent the multilingualism of the South Pacific, Clarel, despite the Babelian confusion Melville describes in his journal, contains only a smattering of foreign words. The few examples of such occurrences, notable for their rarity, include “‘Resurget’—faintly Derwent there. / ‘In pace’—Vine” (II.39.68-69); “ELOI LAMA SABACHTHANI” (III.7.1); and “Vented a resonant, ‘Bismillah!’ / Strange answer which pealed from on high— / ‘Dies iræ, dies illa!’” (III.19.171-73). Even these examples are all religious and ceremonial language, not the every-day foreign language that would indicate any real engagement with the present life of the Holy Land. When the “New-Comer” Don Hannibal Rohon Del Aquaviva appears late in the poem, his interspersed and easily understood Spanish— which includes “Hidalgos” (IV.19.12), “reformado” (IV.19.42), and “Good, excellenza— excellent!” (IV.19.151)—is still a language of the New World (and Western Europe) and 234 not of the ancient Near East that Clarel is visiting. Just as often, the narration states that something is either read or heard in a foreign language, but little of the experience of linguistic diversity is conveyed to the reader. One such example is the description of the “Paynim” arms held in Mar Saba: Upon one serpent-curving blade Love-motto beamed from Antar’s rhyme In Arabic. A second said (A scimiter the Turk had made, And likely, it had clove a skull) IN NAME OF GOD THE MERCIFUL! A third was given suspended place, And as in salutation waved, And in old Greek was finely graved With this: HAIL, MARY, FULL OF GRACE! (III.12.15-24) These inscriptions suggest the diverse linguistic history of the region, but their multilingualism is denoted rather than performed. All translations are given directly and unproblematically, as if all were written in one universal tongue. Thus, while Melville occasionally describes the Levant as polyglot, he does not portray that multilingualism directly. Indeed, while Typee demonstrates a genuine attempt to depict the complex linguistic situation on Nukuhiva, all of Clarel is essentially a translation—not only of the polyglot Levant into English, but of natural speech into verse. Most readings of Clarel spend some time examining the poem’s Hudibrastic, and often sing-song, prosody. Cody Marrs argues that “Melville’s crooked sentences, meters, and rhymes continually draw attention to the poem’s form” (111). Similarly noting the obtrusiveness of Melville’s extremely constricting verse form, Robert Milder calls the language of Clarel “cadences 235 removed at once from natural speech and mellifluent epical speech” (195). 31 The constraints of Melville’s prosodic choices do not necessarily lead to an inferior product, of course. Samuel Otter, defending Melville against the more negative readings of his verse, argues that Clarel’s “meter and syntax often convey a divided spiritual, political, and sexual condition” (“How” 473). For my purposes, the important point is not what artistic or philosophical merits Melville’s metrical choices may have, but simply that Clarel’s language is doubly removed from the potential linguistic verisimilitude of the novel or the travelogue genres: not only is it verse rather than prose, but its particular prosody is less natural than most verse forms. In essence, Melville translates all language into this constricting doggerel. Occasionally, when the main narration introduces a character’s history, the fact of Clarel’s pervasive intralingual translation becomes even more apparent. One such example is the preface to Nehemiah’s account of Nathan: No willing haste The mentor showed; awhile he fed On anxious thoughts; then grievingly The story gave—a tangled thread, Which, cleared from snarl and ordered so, Follows transferred, with interflow Of much Nehemiah scarce might add. (I.16.198-204) 31 Bryan Short gives an excellent explanation of why tetrameter sounds more sing-song than pentameter. He takes Northrop Frye’s assertion that “English epic verse naturally tends to a four-beat line” and argues that “the longer line of the English epic tradition— from alliterative to blank verse—permits four accentual stresses to appear in a line less frequently than every other syllable, thus providing a hedge against strict metrics” (“Form” 559-60). Conversely, Melville’s tetrameter, though not unique among other long poems, is more obtrusively metrical than the blank verse of Shakespeare or Milton, and its frequent rhyme takes the language even further away from natural speech. 236 Just as Nehemiah must transfer his own thoughts into his story, the “tangled thread” of his narrative is ostensibly converted into the regular verse of the poem. The story of “Arculf and Adamnan” is similarly introduced: “But let the page / The narrator’s rambling way forget, / And make to run in even flow / His interrupted tale” (I.34.75-78). Once again, while the original narrative of these stories is irregular and inflected, the reader gets only the smooth and unblemished verse translation. A final example is the introduction to Agath’s backstory: But, more of clearness to confer— Less dimly to express the thing Rude outlined by this mariner, License is claimed in rendering; And tones he felt but scarce might give, The verse essays to interweave. (IV.3.229-34) The verse translation orders what was once chaotic, while simultaneously professing to reveal what was meant but not fully expressed. In all of these examples, the verisimilitude and polyglotism that characterize a novel (as well as a travel narrative) are subsumed into the regularity of Melville’s verse. Just as the pilgrims are traveling to behold religious history and not to experience local culture, the poem is not concerned with the everyday speech or the reality of present life in the Levant. Rather, the stories of the characters and the setting of the work are means to the end of presenting philosophical debates occurring on a level above language. Accordingly, while Melville as “pilgrim” may be less superficial than his touristic counterparts, he is equally uninterested in experiencing the real life of the places he visits. The character of the dragoman, the party’s guide, is one area where the pilgrims’ sheltering from linguistic difference can be directly connected to the changing nature of travel. According to Ada Lonni, the dragoman in nineteenth-century Jerusalem was the 237 ultimate cultural mediator, one who “interprets, translates, and transposes words and ideas from one language to another, from one culture to another” (42). Yet this role changed with the emergence of mass tourism in the Holy Land, particularly as organized by Thomas Cook: [E]verything would be easier: the travelers—whether tourists, pilgrims or scholars—were under protection, travelling without much risk, with a minimum of inconvenience. But also without any chance of fully experiencing the local atmosphere and its peculiarities. (Lonni 46) Lonni describes how, in the wake of these changes, the dragoman was converted into a mere tour guide as Cook’s standardization of the tourists’ experience obviated the responsibilities of his previous position as cultural mediator (46-47). The dragoman’s new role is suggested by Melville’s depiction of the Druze’s isolation from the other characters: “Exiled, cut off, in friendless state, / The Druze maintained an air sedate; / Without the sacrifice of pride, / Sagacious still he earned his bread” (II.7.21-24). He may play an essential role for Clarel and his fellow pilgrims, but he does so quietly and without calling attention to the necessity of his office. After all, the logistics of the tour are far from the central concern of the poem. Clarel’s experience may not have the extreme standardization of Twain’s, but the limited attention given to what would have been the Druze’s traditional role of translator forecasts the lack of cultural exchange that will result from the convenience of modern travel. Clarel thus serves as an interesting transitional example between the main body of Melville’s work and the representations of tourism found in, and largely espoused by, the travel writings of Mark Twain. It is easy to claim that Melville was more deeply concerned with philosophy and spirituality than Twain, but this greater philosophical depth does not continue the profound attention to linguistic and cultural diversity found 238 in Melville’s earlier travel writings. Indeed, despite its setting and premise, Clarel is not so much about visiting the Holy Land as it is about the Holy Land’s failure to provide the religious and ontological answers that Clarel and Melville both seek. Melville’s travel in the Holy Land may differ drastically from Twain’s in this philosophical profundity, but the monolingual expatriate community that Clarel finds there prefigures the travel and travel writing that will come to dominate in the last decades of the nineteenth century. The four authors examined in this chapter illustrate the many changes in American travel to Europe and the extension of European modes of touring beyond the continent. Although Bayard Taylor’s idea of travel derives from his predecessors, genteel and cosmopolitan figures like Cooper who spoke the languages of Europe and moved in society, Taylor was unable to achieve those ideals. The apparatuses of tourism were not so developed in the mid-1840s that Taylor could avoid learning new languages entirely, but Views A-Foot expands the transformation Taylor was already experiencing by encouraging future travelers to seek further linguistic isolation. Fuller’s inarguable cosmopolitanism demonstrates that such changes in travel were neither total nor immediate, but a comparison of her Tribune dispatches to Stowe’s Sunny Memories further illustrates the rise of tourism, demonstrating how the experiences of literary figures also became increasingly mediated, even as Europe’s valuation of American culture rose. Although Melville remained critical of the growing superficiality epitomized by both Taylor and Stowe in his fictional retelling of his earlier experiences as a merchant sailor, when he visited Europe and the Levant later in life, he too was influenced by the increasingly touristic nature of American travel. 239 Thus Melville, like Taylor and Stowe, and even Fuller to a lesser extent, demonstrates the gradual extension of superficial, touristic travel into the formerly cosmopolitan literary sphere. The lack of attention to local language and culture—which began, for travelers like Bayard Taylor, with an unavoidable lack of capital, education, and status—developed from an effect of the democratization of European travel into an ideological preference. As travelogues like Views A-Foot and Sunny Memories fixed the limited cultural experiences of their authors as a model to be followed, future travelers were not only less able to move in society as did Franklin or Cooper, but less interested in doing so. The reason for European travel had shifted, and rather than a mind-broadening means of exposure to different languages and cultures, it became an empty commodity, stripped of all engagement with meaningful cultural difference. Indeed, as the writings of Twain and James will demonstrate, European language and culture seemed no more valuable to many late-nineteenth-century Americans than the cannibal cultures of the South Seas. 240 CHAPTER 5 MARK TWAIN, MASS TOURISM, AND AMERICAN NATIONALISM After the Civil War, the increased convenience and superficiality of European travel developed into a full-blown age of tourism. 1 In the 1840s and 50s, travelers like Bayard Taylor, Margaret Fuller, and Herman Melville had either observed with scorn or taken advantage of the new technologies of travel that streamlined Americans’ movement through Europe, shortening trips, lowering expenses, and decreasing the traveler’s engagement with anything resembling local culture or society. In the decades after the Civil War, these technologies defined American travel abroad even more than before. Trains and steamers allowed for faster travel from point to point, eliminating all substantial engagement with the real life occurring between. At the same time, a growing network of English-speaking guides and couriers obviated interaction with people outside of the tourist industry, making it unnecessary to learn the local language. In the last decades of the century, developments like the Kodak camera and American Express travelers checks streamlined travel and its documentation even further (F. Walker 25). 2 And for many American tourists, less difficulty meant less effort, and ultimately, less engagement with foreign culture and society. 1 As Jeffrey Alan Melton describes it, “Americans were ‘on the move’ in unprecedented numbers . . . . For the first time in history, tourism was beginning to become the norm for a significantly broader segment of the population” (17). Foster Rhea Dulles also summarizes the rise of this new age of tourism: “In the latter half of the nineteenth century, a series of developments made travel more comfortable, and at least relatively less expensive. There were faster steamships, improved means of transportation on the continent, and new tourist services smoothing the way for bewildered Americans faced with unfamiliar customs and unintelligible languages” (102). 2 James Buzard also highlights the economic aspect of tourism, noting the importance of “refinements made in instruments of finance, enabling tourists to change currency and replenish their purses while on tour” (79). 241 In his study of the tourist phenomenon, Dean MacCannell emphasizes the inauthenticity of the tourist experience and argues that tourists, unlike travelers, are commonly “reproached for being satisfied with superficial experiences of other peoples and other places” (10). While the divide between tourists and anti-tourists is never straightforward—with most travelers at least attempting to differentiate themselves from the superficial masses—by the end of the nineteenth-century, American travel had attained a degree of superficiality, speed, and emphasis on consumer culture that had never before been reached. 3 As Cushing Strout has put it, rather than traveling for “truth or beauty,” Americans were going abroad for less elevated reasons including “pleasure, health, novelty, social prestige, or escape from the cares of dull routine” (111). The cachet of European travel remained a constant motivator, but while earlier travelers gained that cultural capital by experiencing European life and society, tourism’s goal became the distinction of having seen Europe, with an increased emphasis on sight rather than on understanding (Cronin, Across 118). However amorphous the designation of “tourist” might be, there is little doubt that the characteristics of the late-nineteenth-century American abroad are epitomized in the travel writing of Mark Twain. Twain captures the essence of the American tourist 3 Buzard explains how the word “tourist” gradually changed from a straightforward synonym for traveler into a negative distinction, indicating one who “is the dupe of fashion, following blindly where authentic travellers have gone with open eyes and free spirits” (1). However, both tourists and anti-tourists shared the common “aim of making the tour pay in cultural capital accepted by home society” (197). Terry Caesar also cautions against being overly concerned with “locating . . . the precise moment when tourism can be distinguished from travel” (25). Although disparaging comments about American tourists “multiplied, often with added harshness, as American access to Europe became easier in the last third of the century” (Buzard 217), such disparagements were nothing new, and “[t]he ‘ugly American’ syndrome is virtually coterminous with the American travel text’s very origins” (Caesar 38). 242 through a combination of his fellow traveling companions and his own narrative persona. 4 Although Twain often satirizes the typical traveling American, continuing the same tradition as Cooper’s critique of Steadfast Dodge in Homeward Bound (see Chapter One), his semi-fictional travelogues celebrate other aspects of the American “innocent” abroad. Both Cooper and Twain critique pretention without substance. But instead of Cooper’s nuanced appreciation of the relative strengths and weaknesses of both American and European culture, Twain champions a recourse to American simplicity. Similarly, Twain’s comic misuse of foreign language echoes Dodge’s linguistic foibles. But while Cooper demonstrates a nuanced understanding of linguistic difference, Twain presents translation as either doomed to failure or too easily made literal and transparent, the same attitude that characterizes the views of “savage” languages in imperialist discourse. Moreover, Twain had a lifelong obsession with money and speculation (Dolmetsch 213), and he blurred the line between literature and commodity by publishing his travelogues as subscription books (Cook 151-52). This capitalistic emphasis illustrates another aspect of the tourist age: the commodification of travel empties the foreign of any real meaning, replacing previously mind- and character-altering experiences with souvenirs and snapshots. 5 Just as what Karl Marx identifies as “a 4 As Melton points out, “For readers in the late nineteenth century, Mark Twain was first and foremost a travel writer instead of a novelist,” and both “The Innocents Abroad and A Tramp Abroad make ideal travel-book companions, both books capturing the vagaries of the Tourist Age” (1, 59). 5 G. Llewellyn Watson and Joseph P. Kopachevsky, in their study of the commoditization of tourism, examine how “cheap, . . . mass-produced” souvenirs “symbolize the tourists’ experience” (290). 243 fetishism of . . . commodities” severs the connection between “the commodity-form” and “the physical nature of the commodity and the material [dinglich] relations arising out of this” (164), such mass-produced representations of experience empty any meaning from the experience itself. Although Twain is not entirely earnest in the presentation of these touristic values, his satire is sufficiently open-ended so that it invites the reader to agree with many of the views he might seem to critique. This chapter will argue that, without a clear condemnation of touristic superficiality, Twain turns cultural difference into an empty sign resembling Marx’s commodity fetish. In his three accounts of foreign travel, Innocents Abroad, A Tramp Abroad, and Following the Equator, Twain infuses the travelogue genre with the characteristics of mass tourism. Although his eventual status of literary celebrity and his extensive international travel gave Twain the opportunity to pursue the high-brow European experience enjoyed by Cooper—an experience eagerly, if only partially, emulated by later expatriate figures such as Henry James—Twain maintains the qualities of low-brow, popular literature in his accounts, appealing to the common American rather than to the literary elite. Furthermore, instead of learning European language, Twain suggests that the foreign is often not worth understanding. When he does attempt a translation, his mechanical and overly literal transference of meaning turns linguistic difference into absurd gibberish. As a result, Twain’s works embrace tourism in both content and form, denouncing the once-admired culture of Europe in favor of the tourist’s bric-a-brac of superficial impressions and asserting a nationalistic and exclusive preference for American culture and language. 244 Mark Twain’s Enshrined Innocence Twain’s first published travelogue, Innocents Abroad (1869), offers a perfect illustration of the changes in European travel after the Civil War. Its subject is the steamship Quaker City’s 1867 tour of Europe and the Holy Land, which thanks in no small part to its immortalization in Innocents Abroad, is widely considered to be both the beginning and the archetype of the tourist boom. 6 Indeed, the Quaker City excursion was “the first luxury cruise” (Ganzel 6). Innocents Abroad was also an innovation in the genre of travel literature, a satirical hybrid that is less reverent than its more serious predecessors, but whose humorous descriptions are also too earnest to be written off as pure mockery. 7 Not only does Twain’s book mark the birth of the tourist age, but, as several studies of Twain’s publishing practices help demonstrate, it also contributes to the rise of mass culture more generally. In her examination of how Innocents Abroad was shaped by its publication as a subscription book, Nancy Cook describes Twain’s publisher’s emphasis on “what ‘sells’” and his instructions “not that Mark Twain write a book but that he ‘make’ one,” resulting in “a process of compilation and revamping, even commanding material, rather than one of composing” (153-54). This attitude, and the 6 As Jeffrey Steinbrink argues, the voyage “not only signaled the beginning of middle- class American tourism but also gave rise to a book in which even the present-day American tourist can recognize something of himself” (284). 7 Franklin R. Rogers, for example, describes how Twain went beyond the typical conventions of burlesque travel literature that he had employed in an earlier series of letters from Hawaii to the Alta California newspaper by shaping those “conventions to his own artistic purposes” (38). Others have noted how the book skillfully combines the genre of travel literature with journalism, autobiography, and even fiction (Canby 90; Cook 170; Ganzel 68; H. Smith 22). 245 market for subscription books that encouraged it, made the volume more like a commodity than a high-brow work of art. Twain’s decision to publish all his travelogues as subscription books demonstrates his abiding interest in popular literature and his emphasis on the conventional attitudes that sold best in the literary marketplace. Richard S. Lowry goes so far as to connect this low-brow aesthetic to tourism itself, calling Twain’s artistic values “an aesthetics of mass culture, an aesthetics potentially outside the realm of taste, dramatized by the blissfully ignorant tourist vandalizing the hierarchies of culture” (25). While Bayard Taylor’s travel writings aspired to the older model of cosmopolitan, literary travel, even as they served as guidebooks for the rising numbers of American tourists, Twain’s Innocents Abroad is avowedly touristic through and through. One thing that separated the Quaker City pleasure cruise from the extended tours of earlier travelers was its ambitious itinerary. This was no residence in European society but a comprehensively scheduled tour of all of the Old World’s obligatory sights. 8 Although the Quaker City cruise was a luxury only available to the very wealthy (or famous), its passengers did not enjoy the relaxed Grand Tour of their earlier counterparts. The itinerary of exciting places that opens the book is so extensive that, even though the cruise is to last several months, the party will spend no more than several days in most places. In fact, the phrase “a stay of one or two days” is repeated almost like a refrain 8 As Lawrence I. Berkove notes, “Wherever the Americans went, they had to cope with the frustration of ‘doing’ a place on a tight schedule” (192). Twain summarizes the appeal this program had for the Quaker City passengers: “Paris, England, Scotland, Switzerland, Italy—Garibaldi! The Grecian archipelago! Vesuvius! Constantinople! Smyrna! The Holy Land! Egypt and “our friends the Bermudians”! People in Europe desiring to join the Excursion—contagious sickness to be avoided—boating at the expense of the ship—physician on board—the circuit of the globe to be made if the passengers unanimously desired it” (23). 246 throughout the program, emphasizing that the pilgrims will arrive at each location, check off the main sights in their guidebooks, and then be quickly shuttled along to the next point of interest. Another feature of a luxury cruise is that travelers need not bother themselves with the small details of navigating the culture and customs of each place they visit. As the excursion’s program states, “The ship will at all times be a home, where the excursionists, if sick, will be surrounded by kind friends, and have all possible comfort and sympathy,” and “[p]assengers can remain on board of the steamer, at all ports, if they desire, without additional expense” (22-23). A vetturino lessens the need for negotiating the local language to procure food and lodgings, but a pleasure cruise makes it unnecessary even to stay within many of the cities visited. The travelers will never truly be away from home because their floating home aboard the Quaker City will be an American oasis of familiarity in the midst of the potential strangeness of Europe. As his time abroad increases, even Twain realizes how restrictive such rapid and preordained touring can be. 9 While visiting Russia nearly three months into the trip, Twain reports, “we consulted the guide-books and were rejoiced to know that there were no sights in Odessa to see; and so we had one good, untrammeled holyday on our hands, with nothing to do but idle about the city and enjoy ourselves” (388). Of course, this jab at touring fits Twain’s lazy and sacrilegious persona, but it also suggests how such a stringent itinerary can prevent the traveler from appreciating the opportunity to simply be 9 Melton summarizes Twain’s disillusionment: “Twain marvels in his first exposure to the foreign, but his enthusiasm quickly wanes and his subsequent struggles between the beauty of his expectations and the too-often dismal reality mimic the struggle of tourists at large to reconcile the contrasts between the ‘authentic’ pictures in front of them and the delicately crafted images in their minds” (66). 247 in a new place. In all likelihood, their form of idling, which includes “saunter[ing] through the markets,” “criticis[ing] the fearful and wonderful costumes from the back country,” and “examin[ing] the populace as far as eyes could do it” incorporates more actual observation of foreign culture than the meaningless parade of galleries, churches, and statuary that otherwise occupies the pilgrims’ time (388). Continuing the trend examined in the previous chapter, foreign language in Innocents Abroad is no longer a valuable conveyor of cultural content but a comical source of annoyance and confusion. But luckily for Twain and his traveling companions, the rise of tourism makes learning new languages unnecessary. Indeed, when moving from country to country at such a rapid pace, speaking every local language would be nearly impossible. 10 Although Twain often satirizes American tourists, there is no indication in Innocents Abroad that he finds the linguistic skill of earlier travelers at all admirable or desirable. Previous travelers like Taylor aspired to the status of cosmopolites well versed in the languages of Europe, even if they did not achieve it. Although Twain spends much time calling attention to the language barrier and to amusing anecdotes of miscommunication, his work lacks the conviction that, whatever difficulties foreign language might present, there is inherent worth in multilingualism. 10 As Larzer Ziff argues, Twain’s lack of interest in language acquisition is part of the shift from older modes of travel to tourism: “The tour was laid out in advance and Twain embarked on it because everything had been prepared for him. He didn’t know the language of any country he visited and his foreign acquaintanceship was limited to guides, hoteliers, waiters, and shopkeepers. At no point did he pretend otherwise or wish to alter this condition” (Return 185). 248 One target of Twain’s comic treatment of foreign language in Innocents Abroad is the Americans’ failed attempts to communicate in the local languages. As David R. Sewell notes, “The ‘innocence’ Twain examines in The Innocents Abroad is in part linguistic incompetence. The Americans cannot speak a comprehensible sentence in any of the languages they encounter” (59-60). For example, the party’s excursion to Paris inspires many jokes about the pretention of American travelers attempting and failing to speak French. One French boatman is apparently unable to understand the Americans’ butchered version of his own language. Twain jokes, “He appeared to be very ignorant of French” (93). A similar scene occurs with a French waitress: The doctor said: “Avez vous du vin?” The dame looked perplexed. The doctor said again, with elaborate distinctness of articulation: “Avez-vous du—vin!” The dame looked more perplexed than before. I said: “Doctor, there is a flaw in your pronunciation somewhere. Let me try her. Madame, avez-vous du vin?—It isn't any use, doctor—take the witness.” “Madame, avez-vous du vin—ou fromage—pain—pickled pigs’ feet—beurre—des œufs—du beuf—horse-radish, sour-crout, hog and hominy—any thing, any thing in the world that can stay a Christian stomach!” She said: “Bless you, why didn’t you speak English before?—I don’t know any thing about your plagued French!” (94) The joke itself is hardly original, but this scene differs from previous jabs at uncultured Americans in that there is nothing obviously wrong with the French as printed. This is not Cooper’s critique of “Nully” or “Notter Dam” (Homeward Bound I: 188-89). Instead, Twain indicates that even the basic, conversational French that should be recognizable to most readers is so hopelessly mangled as to be incomprehensible to a Parisian. (After all, “Avez vous du vin?” is a phrase anyone but the most stringent advocate of temperance 249 would learn before traveling to France.) Garbling the French in some way would place the doctor and Twain below the level of an even marginally cultured reader, making the American tourists objects of scorn for their excessive innocence. But, by suggesting that there is something wrong with a tolerable and apparently correct attempt to speak French, Twain questions the worth of learning the most basic phrases in a foreign country. Even readers who might understand the French in this exchange are placed on the same level as Twain’s doctor. Rather than lament the futility of communication with the locals, Twain further suggests that meaningful exchange is not really the point of travel anyway. Throughout the section, one traveler, Dan, is subjected to the derision of his party for preferring English over attempts at French. Twain, in contrast, favors the romance of speaking terrible French, even at the expense of useful information: We never did succeed in making any body understand just exactly what we wanted, and neither did we ever succeed in comprehending just exactly what they said in reply—but then they always pointed—they always did that, and we bowed politely and said, “Merci, Monsieur,” and so it was a blighting triumph over the disaffected member [Dan], any way. (95-96) The French language is part of the atmosphere the pilgrims have come to experience, and they are unwilling to forego using it, even if it leaves them wandering aimlessly through the streets. And Dan’s alternative does not entail speaking the local language, either. He simply prefers that they take advantage of the innumerable Parisians who can speak English. Twain offers no ideal of foreign language acquisition—only the choice between insensible ambience or a retreat to monolingualism. Later, Twain’s multi-edged satire cuts back against the pretention of attempting to speak the languages of Europe when he mocks traveling Americans who “have actually 250 forgotten their mother tongue in three months” and “can not even write their address in English in a hotel register” (233). He provides the following example of such effrontery: “John P. Whitcomb, Etats Unis. “Wm. L. Ainsworth, travailleur (he meant traveler, I suppose,) Etats Unis. “George P. Morton et fils, d’Amerique. . . . . . I love this sort of people. A lady passenger of ours tells of a fellow- citizen of hers who spent eight weeks in Paris and then returned home and addressed his dearest old bosom friend Herbert as Mr. “Er-bare!” (233-34) While Twain may understand the desire to experience the local language as romantic ambience, he has no sympathy for those who wear their new-found linguistic ability as a badge of pride. Making mistakes with European language is amiably comic, but the linguistic pretention of using French when English will serve deserves true derision. For Twain, it is an even greater sin than the behavior typically attributed to “ugly Americans.” He asserts, “It is not pleasant to see an American thrusting his nationality forward obtrusively in a foreign land, but Oh, it is pitiable to see him making of himself . . . a poor, miserable, hermaphrodite Frenchman!” (234-35). However, Twain departs from Cooper’s critique of Dodge’s similar pretention by neither distinguishing between good and bad French, nor suggesting that there could be any legitimate reason to use a foreign term instead of an English one. There seems to be no possibility of effective yet unpretentious language learning. Any attempts at speaking French, or any European language, are either comically incomprehensible or utterly obnoxious. 11 11 Of course, jokes like the passages quoted above require some rudimentary knowledge of French to understand, but Twain once again differs from Cooper in degree. Not only is Twain’s “broken French” accessible without a particularly thorough or correct understanding of the language, but Twain also fails to offer the reader a model of real linguistic skill such as Paul Powis, Eve Effingham, or Cooper himself. In Twain, there is 251 Not only does it seem futile for American travelers to attempt to learn European languages, but Europeans’ attempts at speaking or writing English are doomed to equal failure. One such example follows a Franglish note Twain’s comic sidekick, Blucher, writes to a Parisian landlord, including lines such as “Monsieur le Landlord—Sir: Pourquoi don't you mettez some savon in your bed-chambers? Est-ce que vous pensez I will steal it?” (189). 12 Immediately afterward, Twain provides a specimen of the mangled English of Italy: “NOTISH.” “This hotel which the best it is in Italy and most superb, is handsome locate on the best situation of the lake, with the most splendid view near the Villas Melzy, to the King of Belgian, and Serbelloni. This hotel have recently enlarge, do offer all commodities on moderate price, at the strangers gentlemen who whish spend the seasons on the Lake Come.” How is that, for a specimen? In the hotel is a handsome little chapel where an English clergyman is employed to preach to such of the guests of the house as hail from England and America, and this fact is also set forth in barbarous English in the same advertisement. Wouldn’t you have supposed that the adventurous linguist who framed the card would have known enough to submit it to that clergyman before he sent it to the printer? (189-90) no contrast of proper and improper use of foreign language; it is always laughable or pretentious. 12 Dewey Ganzel describes how the figure of Blucher grew out of Twain’s earlier comic sidekick, Brown, and explains, “Brown-Blucher was, in fact, a caricature of Clemens himself, or at least that part of him which was still neophyte, and as such a means— through contrast—for making the other projection of Clemens, the persona ‘Mark Twain,’ appear more sophisticated” (72). But while “Mark Twain” may be more intelligent and urbane than Brown-Blucher, he is not considerably more worldly. Twain may be able to understand the differences of Europe and comport himself with a higher degree of polish, but he is far from cosmopolitan, and comes no closer to seeing any sense in the foreign than his ignorant sidekick. As William W. Stowe argues, Twain represents “a middling range of American men, neither boors nor aesthetes, neither plutocrats nor workers, but common-sense middle-class democrats determined to see and judge the Old World for themselves and to act out their senses of themselves and of their place in their society and culture” (129). 252 The basic content of this advertisement is understandable, but only by a slim margin. The juxtaposition of these two documents makes it clear that Twain criticizes all attempts at multilingualism. He thus avoids the common, narrow-minded assumption that foreigners should be under a greater obligation to speak proper English than Americans are to speak other languages. For Twain, all attempts to speak in a foreign language are liable to produce “barbarous” nonsense. Twain also uses these examples to highlight foreign grammar as a major source of linguistic confusion. Sewell finds that, despite Twain’s frequent jokes about the subject, he demonstrates a clear “allegiance to prescriptive grammar,” and “his deep respect for the authority of grammar, even when he kicks against it, leads him to an implicit formulation . . . : grammar is power” (16, 35). In varieties of American English as well as second languages, proper grammar (or the lack thereof) is a mark of class and regional belonging. A non-native speaker’s grammatical mistakes thus emphasize how language marks the boundaries of a national community, just as the dialects in Twain’s fiction are markers of both region and class. Perhaps some of the errors in the Italian advertisement could have been corrected by the English-speaking priest, but Twain implies that all attempts to speak a second language will indelibly mark one’s origin. In Innocents Abroad, in contrast to earlier works like Cooper’s Homeward Bound, there is little chance of being mistaken for a native speaker. One may perhaps peek over the linguistic barrier, but it can never fully be breached. For Twain, as will become increasingly clear, this failure is at least partially desirable because it strengthens the boundaries between nations. 253 Most significantly, Innocents Abroad demonstrates how, when European language is stripped of all content and significance, the American tourist begins to view European culture with the disregard previously reserved for “savage” peoples. For example, rather than learn the languages of Europe, Twain resorts to renaming the unintelligible and unpronounceable, as in the running joke of calling all foreign guides “Ferguson.” Twain begins this practice in France, when one guide’s actual name, “Billfinger,” like Dan’s unromantic yet efficacious English, does not seem French enough (120). Later in the trip, however, Twain discusses a guide in Constantinople who, “[a]fter he has gotten himself up regardless of expense, in showy, baggy trowsers, yellow, pointed slippers, fiery fez, silken jacket of blue . . . considers it an unspeakable humiliation to be called Ferguson” (381). The pretension of such an ostentatious costume would be reason enough to mock the guide by renaming him Ferguson, but Twain further explains, “It can not be helped. All guides are Fergusons to us. We can not master their dreadful foreign names” (381). Twain implies that foreign words and names are not only difficult to learn and to comprehend, but that they are somehow inherently awful. Similarly, when Twain and his companions camp near “Temnin-el-Foka,” they rename it “Jacksonville,” which Twain admits “sounds a little strangely, here in the Valley of Lebanon, but it has the merit of being easier to remember than the Arabic name” (438). Twain’s rampant renaming effaces all trace of the local language and culture. Like Columbus in the Caribbean, Twain christens people and places anew at his own convenience, showing no respect for their native designations. 13 13 Caesar also calls attention to the importance of this trope, but he sees it as a representation of Twain’s authorial power: “The guides are all re-named Ferguson, rather as a comic trope for the fact that Twain re-names himself as an American. . . . [H]e re- 254 Indeed, just as Columbus failed to recognize the speech of the native Caribbeans as a legitimate language, Twain implies that anything other than American English is at least slightly ridiculous. For example, he jokes, “(They spell it Vinci and pronounce it Vinchy; foreigners always spell better than they pronounce)” (185). Here, as elsewhere, it is obvious that such a comment is not entirely in earnest, but the joke implies, nevertheless, that foreign rules of pronunciation are somehow less valid than those of English, and particularly those of American English. Similarly, Twain describes how “distances in the East are measured by hours, not miles” (525), and complains of the trouble this new system of measurement gives him: This method of computation is bothersome and annoying; and until one gets thoroughly accustomed to it, it carries no intelligence to his mind until he has stopped and translated the pagan hours into Christian miles, just as people do with the spoken words of a foreign language they are acquainted with, but not familiarly enough to catch the meaning in a moment. (525) Making a clear analogy to linguistic translation, Twain calls attention to the difficulty of converting one system of meaning into another, the inherent incommensurability of cross-cultural exchange. Twain also implies that his own system of measurement is both more natural and simply better by joking, “I can not be positive about it, but I think that there, when a man orders a pair of pantaloons, he says he wants them a quarter of a minute in the legs and nine seconds around the waist” (525). Once again, Twain not only describes the difficulty of adapting to foreign language and customs, but he also uses such incongruous switching of sign systems to subtly convince readers that foreign customs are inherently ridiculous. tropes himself—in part by seizing the power of those who would guide him and by reducing them all to the same figure, thus restoring his own power” (35). 255 Similar play with incommensurability can be seen in Twain’s reactions to different systems of currency. When the party first arrives in the Azores, for example, Blucher throws a lavish dinner and then becomes mortified at the check. Twain exclaims, “‘TOTAL, TWENTY-ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED REIS!’ The suffering Moses!—there ain’t money enough in the ship to pay that bill!” (52). The punch line of the joke, of course, is that such a large number translates into a mere 21.70 in American dollars. Later in Tangier, Twain sends up a similarly unbalanced exchange rate by describing how one passenger, by attempting to change a napoleon, had “swamped the bank; had bought eleven quarts of coin, and the head of the firm had gone on the street to negotiate for the balance of the change” (81). Twain then remarks that he “bought nearly half a pint of their money for a shilling” (81). Once again, the humor of these anecdotes comes from the incongruity of replacing one system of measurement with another, volume for amount or time for distance. Twain makes the foreign seem both carnivalesque and silly by up- ending what Americans perceive as the “normal” ways of measuring things. Of course all of these examples have been couched as jokes rather than earnest deprecations of foreign language and custom, but the aggregate effect of these jokes has a subtle, or not so subtle, effect of positioning what is American as normal and logical in contrast to the absurdity of the foreign. Twain’s constant belittling of the foreign also results in an elevation of the domestic. Thus, not only does Twain’s “innocent” perspective embrace the linguistic isolationism that would declare unblushingly, “‘Hotel d’Europe!’ . . . was all the Italian I knew, and I was not certain whether that was Italian or French” (248), but it also results in a more pervasive if more subtle argument for American exceptionalism and cultural 256 centrism. There is little self-deprecating irony, for example, in Twain’s litany of the American traveler’s complaints: We are getting foreignized rapidly, and with facility. We are getting reconciled to halls and bed-chambers with unhomelike stone floors and no carpets—floors that ring to the tread of one’s heels with a sharpness that is death to sentimental musing. . . . We are getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst, also, of parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking. We are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles—the only kind of ice they have here. We are getting used to all these things; but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap. (98) Twain calls getting used to such things “getting foreignized,” but his supposed tolerance is accompanied by the constant recognition that European customs are in many ways inferior to what the Americans are used to at home. Moreover, the one thing Twain says they cannot tolerate, the lack of soap, becomes another running joke at the expense of the foreign. Again and again, Twain plays on Europeans’ ignorance of soap, saying of the Marseillaise, for example, that “they make half the fancy toilet soap we consume in America, but . . . only have a vague theoretical idea of its use, which they have obtained from books of travel, just as they have acquired an uncertain notion of clean shirts, and the peculiarities of the gorilla, and other curious matters” (189). Beneath this recurring joke more than any other is an undercurrent of American superiority—a cleanliness close to Godliness. It is no surprise, then, that the repeated calls for soap often occur in mutilated bits of European language such as “Here, cospetto! corpo di Bacco! Sacramento! Solferino!—Soap, you son of a gun!” (188). Americans may lack linguistic competence, but at least they have adequate ideas of hygiene. 14 Indeed, such stereotypes 14 As David W. Levy argues, “the Europe that Twain presented to his readers and held up to derision was degenerate, superstitious, degraded, and filthy; its best days were behind 257 continue to this day as justification for American tourists’ feelings of superiority, despite their comparative linguistic ignorance. In the end, what is most significant about Innocents Abroad is not the touristic travel necessitated by the Quaker City’s ambitious itinerary, but how the persona of Mark Twain enshrines the shortcomings tourism encourages into an ideal of linguistic and cultural ignorance. As implied by Twain’s avowed purpose, “to suggest to the reader how he would be likely to see Europe and the East if he looked at them with his own eyes instead of the eyes of those who travelled in those countries before him” (v), the author does not write from a position of greater culture and cosmopolitanism than his readers, as James Fenimore Cooper or Margaret Fuller had done. Instead, he gives untraveled readers the same uncultured impressions that they would have if they were abroad, nationalistically affirming everything American in contrast to the absurdities of the foreign. 15 Twain does not, therefore, proclaim to have gained significant elevation by his extensive travel—experience and wisdom worth sharing with readers at home. He instead experiences each sight anew as an “innocent” fresh from the American frontier. Twain’s critiques of European language and culture may be humorous, but his claim to represent it. Americans had no cause to drop their eyes and blush at comparisons between their country and the Old World” (92). 15 As Malcolm Bradbury describes, Twain “presumes that very little in Europe will match America’s natural wonder and democratic splendour,” and in this “comedy of assumed innocence” everything he experiences is “sifted through the filter of his simple Western vision” (167). For J.D. Stahl, the “complicated and troublesome character of Mark Twain’s stance” lies in his “implicit claim to representativeness” (Culture 29). John C. McCloskey takes a more ambivalent, if not totally contradictory view, arguing that “Twain admires and gawks like any other tourist, and when he makes negative judgments it is often on far different grounds from the assumed ignorance of a coonskin Jacksonian catering to the ignorance of the mob” (141). 258 the vision of any one of his countrymen suggests that no American should take foreign culture any more seriously than he does. Peter Messent attributes the popularity of Innocents Abroad to this narrow perspective, describing “the very assertive and new sense of American national identity which it, in part, promotes” (Cambridge 42). Manfred Pütz offers an even more critical perspective of the book’s hegemonic power: While Innocents Abroad looks on the surface like a harmless, humorous description of early American tourist experiences, the book also reveals itself on another level as a potentially explosive mixture of aggressive culture bashing and cultural nationalism, American debunking and American self-celebration, similar to what fuelled the fantasies of proponents of American imperialism on a political plane. (220) Twain’s satire targets both the fraudulent grandeur of the Old World’s famous sights and the sanctimonious pretention of American tourists, but his moments of self-deprecation ultimately fail to deflate the dangerous nationalism that Pütz describes, just as his satire of American tourists proves no less touristic than the travelers it targets. 16 Likewise, 16 Berkove summarizes this dual satire: “While Innocents Abroad was mainly appreciated for its refreshingly humorous and sceptical view of the Old World, also present in the book is its cold undercurrent of criticism of the tourists for their sanctimoniousness, hypocrisy and small-mindedness, and of Americans as well as Old World people for their common venality and parochialism” (193). Nevertheless, Brian Yothers describes how the dichotomy between Twain’s own persona and the American travelers he criticizes collapses: “Twain undermines the dichotomy between deluded pilgrims who read their own meanings into the landscape and the plainspoken American Everyman who relates the experience of Holy Land travel to his readers in the precise form that they themselves would use for their own accounts. Twain’s persona is seen to be reliant on the very accounts that he exposes as utterly ridiculous, and his reader is able to see that the ultimate distinction between Twain and previous travelers is one of degree rather than kind” (Romance 105). Similarly, Forrest G. Robinson argues, “Mark Twain is impatient with inflated travel writing, but indulges himself at intervals in the very style he deplores. He is critical of other tourists for their blind surrender to romantic impressions, yet cannot conceal the fact that historical melodramas, not to mention popular travel books, have influenced his own expectations and responses” ( “Innocent” 30). 259 although Twain follows Cooper in his critique of linguistic pretention, and, as a humorist, Twain finds absurdity everywhere, he offers no cosmopolitan counter-example of using linguistic difference to express precise cultural meanings. Learning a language is difficult, speaking it like a native is impossible, and there is little benefit to accomplishing either. Thus, while earlier generations of Americans still looked on European culture with respect, even while placing themselves far above the “savage” peoples encountered in the nation’s expansion, Innocents Abroad depicts a growing attitude that, in comparison to American attributes like simplicity, cleanliness, and efficiency, Europeans can be just as barbarous as South Sea savages. Twain critiques the pretentious display of European language and culture as an empty sign of cultural superiority, but he does little to differentiate fetishized cultural commodities from the real cultural value of Europe. Indeed, it is uncertain if he even believes the latter to exist. Awful European Language in A Tramp Abroad Twain’s second book of European travel, A Tramp Abroad (1880), goes beyond the burlesque of tourism found in Innocents Abroad to look deeper at issues of language and translation. From 1878 to 1879, Clemens and his family once again traveled to Europe, visiting Germany, Italy, and France (Baetzhold 35). The primary purpose of the trip was to write a new travel book, and Clemens had a contract with publisher Frank Bliss to do so (Hellwig 80). 17 However, the account of the trip published in A Tramp 17 Most commentators are critical of the resulting narrative’s lack of coherence, agreeing with Everett Emerson’s assessment that “nothing holds the book together except the binding” (115). Many critics also join Richard Bridgman in characterizing the book as an “uneven performance” (70). Harold H. Hellwig calls it “notable for its flights of greatness and its moments of tedium,” adding, “Structurally it is weak, . . . lack[ing] one clear focus” (83). Similarly, Berkove concludes, “A mixture of the ludicrous and the factual, A 260 Abroad is even more fictionalized than that of Innocents Abroad. As Harold H. Hellwig points out, “the narrator seems to be a bachelor who wishes to learn German, and to study art” (81), a sharp contrast to the married writer traveling for material. But like his fictional persona, Clemens also aimed to learn German. 18 A Tramp Abroad contains several admissions of his increased, though limited, knowledge. For example, at the Mannheim opera, Twain notes that, while he “understood nothing that was uttered on the distant stage,” he did understand two women speaking privately nearby (87). Elsewhere he explains, “I can understand German as well as the maniac that invented it, but I talk it best through an interpreter” (125). While there is some debate over Clemens’s degree of success with the language, most agree that he was unable to master it. 19 Although Tramp Abroad is entertaining but not gripping. Its organization is loose to begin with and is further weakened by individual episodes having little or nothing to do with the pedestrian tour” (198). Peter Messent (Cambridge 46-47) and Robert Sattelmeyer (262), however, find more value in the work. 18 Clemens began his lifelong study of German in his youth (Krumpelmann 1), and his wife began to learn the language in 1871 (Kersten 203). In preparation for his 1878 trip, moreover, Clemens “hired a German nurse named Rosina Hay, and the whole family began to study the German language” (Scott 91). 19 Arthur L. Scott goes on to note that, although Clemens “strewed German words and phrases throughout his notebooks,” eventually he found that “[h]e just could not write and study at the same time, so he dropped German” (91). John T. Krumpelmann concludes that “Mark Twain was really acquiring an ability to read German,” but admits that “[w]ith the spoken word he made less progress” (4-5). Interestingly, Robert Sattelmeyer compares Twain’s interest in learning German to his literary predecessors: “It was this language and this learning, broadly conceived, which had nourished the generation of Harvard-educated New England writers and intellectuals whom Twain had burlesqued in his Whittier birthday speech, and which was still exerting a powerful influence on American intellectual life a half century later. Moving to Heidelberg and taking up the study of German not only replicated the actions of several generations of American students but also paid a peculiar homage to the New England literary culture to which Mark Twain stood in such clear contrast” (267). Twain generally turns against this older tradition, but his interest in German is one counterexample. 261 Clemens devoted much time to his project of learning German, he could never gain the fluency of travelers like Cooper, Taylor, or Fuller. In spite of this progress in foreign language education, A Tramp Abroad contains many of the same jokes about cross-cultural communication found in Innocents. When Twain goes to see “‘King Lear’ played in German,” for example, he claims: “It was a mistake. We sat in our seats three whole hours and never understood anything but the thunder and lightning; and even that was reversed to suit German ideas, for the thunder came first and the lightning followed after” (83). Not only does this complaint mirror Harriet Beecher Stowe’s comments about the impossibility of translating Shakespeare into any other language, but the joke about the reversed lightning and thunder echoes Twain’s numerous jabs at German grammar, making the entire production seem both incomprehensible and ridiculous. A Tramp Abroad also reprises the Innocents joke that Europeans can understand English better than they can understand Twain’s terrible renditions of their native languages. For example, Harris warns, “Speak in German,— these Germans may understand English” (103). Another familiar joke is the bad English of foreign materials designed for tourists. Reproducing “A Catalogue of Pictures in the Old Pinacotek,” Twain comments about the word choice of “‘Susan bathing, surprised by the two old man. In the background the lapidation of the condemned’” (148). Parenthetically, Twain adds, “‘Lapidation’ is good; it is much more elegant than ‘stoning.’” (148). In addition to its bad grammar, this “peculiar kind of English” commits the cardinal sin, for Twain, of making pretentious what could be said simply and more 262 eloquently (148). 20 Clearly, A Tramp Abroad continues many of the linguistic jokes found throughout Twain’s first travelogue. Moreover, Twain is again quite critical of European customs. For example, he complains of the rudeness of Baden-Baden shopkeepers, “especially,” as “an English gentleman who had been living there several years” reports, “to ladies of your nationality and mine” (200). One frequent target of true scorn is foreign food. After an exaggerated lambasting of European fare, particularly of cream and coffee, Twain reports, “There is here and there an American who will say he can remember rising from a European table d’ hôte perfectly satisfied; but we must not overlook the fact that there is also here and there an American who will lie” (573). Underlying all such examples is the strong sense of nationalism expressed in the book’s conclusion: On the whole, I think that short visits to Europe are better for us than long ones. The former preserve us from becoming Europeanized; they keep our pride of country intact, and at the same time they intensify our affection for our country and our people; whereas long visits have the effect of dulling those feelings,—at least in the majority of cases. (580) While Cooper’s travels in Europe caused him to return to America with a sharpened eye for his own country’s shortcomings, albeit with an accompanying desire to see those shortcomings remedied, Twain advocates travel for the purpose of making all the 20 At times, the jokes seem even more familiar, as in an encounter with another boatman. Twain’s terrible German is incomprehensible while his companion’s English (“Can man boat get here?”) is easily understood, partly because it contains so many German cognates (163). 263 customs of home seem even more dear—making them seem all the more like the only rational practices in an insane world. 21 As in his previous travelogue, Twain in A Tramp Abroad is what Jeffrey Alan Melton calls the “consummate leisured tourist, a man of his gilded age” (83). 22 In contrast to earlier travelers such as Cooper, who highly valued the history and culture of Europe, as well as transitional figures such as Taylor, who, if failing to achieve the true cosmopolitanism of their predecessors, still aspired to the older model of literary world citizen, Twain mocks those who find the culture of Europe worthy of admiration and emulation. Moreover, the true target of Twain’s critique is not necessarily the particulars of European culture, but the act of imitation itself, and, in a way, this is what makes his attitude toward linguistic and cultural difference even more isolationist. Rather than Cooper’s cosmopolitan, but still patriotic, desire to find the best of both sides of the Atlantic, Twain adheres to what Pauline Kleingeld describes as the “nationalist manner” of viewing patriotism as “unconditional loyalty to one’s own national community (taken as a linguistic and/or cultural community)” (21-22). As Twain implies throughout A Tramp Abroad, this loyalty requires a kind of Emersonian self-reliance on national attitudes, as expressed in the national language. There is no need to speak to foreigners 21 As Scott argues, Twain is an example of Fuller’s “conceited American,” rejecting any insight that visiting Europe could provide in favor of an overbearing pride in all things American (66). 22 Moreover, as Messent argues, “Mass tourism and Twain’s own status as tourist . . . have even greater emphasis in this text than in Innocents Abroad. Here, he explicitly mocks the sensitive traveller—with her or his delicate awareness of the education to be gained from a foreign culture . . . and the elitist tendencies that accompany the separation from the general tourist mass” (Cambridge 47). 264 while dashing from sight to sight on the beaten track because all valuable ideas come from within and at home. One important difference from Innocents Abroad, however, is that A Tramp Abroad pays more attention to foreign language, if only to show its ludicrousness. Just as he mocked the American travelers who turned themselves into “hermaphrodite Frenchmen,” Twain lampoons travel writers who include bits of untranslated foreign language in their works. He does not mention any particular authors, but this practice could easily be listed as one of James Fenimore Cooper’s “literary offenses.” When Twain does not wish to travel to the “Furka Region” of the Alps, he sends his agent Harris, who makes an official report peppered with foreign words and phrases (312). 23 Harris begins normally enough by describing his arrival “at the maison on the Furka in a little under quatre hours,” but quickly devolves into such nonsense as, “we formed a large xhvloj as we descended the steg which winds round the shoulder of a mountain toward the Rhone Glacier” (312). After nearly a hundred of such foreign inclusions, some of them recognizable French and German, others obvious gibberish, Twain criticizes the document for being “much too learned” (320). When Harris explains, “Dingblatter is a Fiji word meaning ‘degrees,’” Twain counters, “You knew the English of it, then?” (320). Twain repeatedly complains that Harris’s foreign words express the same concepts as their English equivalents. Such inclusions may be pretentious, but Twain, in contrast to Cooper and Melville, can imagine no conceptual nuance that might be more precisely 23 David M. Wrobel identifies this scenario as satire of “the entire travel/adventure writing genre,” making the book “an anti-travel narrative of sorts” (23). 265 expressed with a foreign term. Unlike the Polynesian “taboo,” which, as Melville makes clear, cannot be translated literally into an English equivalent, it is always possible for Harris to “[know] the English of it.” As in Redburn’s youthful daydreams of travel, linguistic difference becomes an empty sign of foreignness when it conveys no substantive conceptual difference; the rare phrase of foreign language acquired from travel is just as substance-less as any cheap and mass-produced souvenir. In the diatribe that follows Harris’s account, Twain criticizes authors who include untranslated foreign phrases, both those whose genuine erudition eclipses the understanding of most readers, and those who insert such phrases not because they better express a concept but because they lend the text a false air of cosmopolitanism. For Twain, anything foreign should be immediately translated, or better yet, languages other than English should be avoided altogether. As Twain says elsewhere: I have a prejudice against people who print things in a foreign language and add no translation. When I am the reader, and the author considers me able to do the translating myself, he pays me quite a nice compliment,— but if he would do the translating for me I would try to get along without the compliment. (146) Twain implies that he, like many American readers, is neither comfortable with reading foreign languages nor interested in becoming so. It is the job of the author to provide his reader with a translation so that no advanced knowledge of other languages is necessary and no further learning is encouraged. 24 Once again, this preference contrasts sharply with the practice of Cooper and his contemporaries, who recognized a cultural content to 24 To prove his point, Twain undertakes his own translation of “The Lorelei” in order “to give the un-German young girl a jingle of words to hang the tune on until she can get hold of a good version” (146). Despite this disclaimer, Twain’s translation is, according to Scott, “smooth, poetic, and readily singable” (104). 266 foreign language that resisted translation, a remainder of meaning lost in the transfer between languages. Rather than viewing translation as a stopgap measure and a gateway to further study, ideally with some foreign words still included to convey culturally specific concepts (as Cooper argues of “township” and “ville” in Gleanings in Europe), Twain sees translation as an adequate substitute for the foreign, with no loss of any meaning that might be valuable to an American audience. Another way to view Twain’s more extensive treatment of foreign language in A Tramp Abroad is through the parallel goals the narrator gives for his parody of a typical European tour. Within a few paragraphs, Twain describes his plans to “undertake a journey through Europe on foot,” “to study art,” and “to learn the German language” (1). 25 His seriousness in these undertakings is immediately undermined, however, by the failure of his pedestrian aspirations. In this first iteration of a joke repeated throughout the narrative, the travelers make “preparations for a long pedestrian trip . . . but at the last moment [change] the program, for private reasons, and [take] the express train” (17). Larzer Ziff calls this “running gag” an “apparent allusion” to Taylor’s Views A-Foot (Return 202). 26 Even Taylor’s pedestrian tour showed evidence of the increasingly touristic nature of American travel, but Twain takes Taylor’s lack of engagement with 25 According to Everett Emerson, these “three themes” are the only constants that “provide some unity” to the otherwise disjointed narrative (115). While I am not so quick to criticize Twain’s work as a whole, Emerson’s verdict does suggest that the commentary on learning German in A Tramp Abroad is best understood in the context of Twain’s other goals. 26 Scott (112) and Melton (81) both examine the personal connection between Twain and Taylor. Krumpelmann describes a letter in German that Twain wrote to Taylor, who, as described in the previous chapter, was well known as a scholar of German language and literature (2). 267 local culture even further. The new forms of transportation to which Twain switches at every opportunity are at least partially responsible for the tourist boom. Moreover, as James Buzard argues, the concept of “place” fostered by such rapid transportation distinguishes tourism from travel on an ideological level, encouraging tourists to “impose fixed limits on accustomed attractions and stops, and to imagine the areas between them as somehow ‘empty,’ as unworthy of attention” (34). 27 By jumping on a passenger car to get from point A to point B, Twain similarly compartmentalizes the attractions of Europe, focusing on a series of itinerary stops instead of on the real cultural life in-between. Twain’s jesting with European art also highlights many of the key themes raised by foreign language, including issues of representation and the conventions of travel literature. Twain contributes several examples of his artistic “progress” to the illustrations of the book, including sketches of “a military tower, 115 feet high” with a disproportionate man sitting atop it, a “Etruscan tear-jug,” and an “Henri II. plate” (104, 185). In his book Traveling in Mark Twain, Richard Bridgman seems utterly unable to offer any explanation for Twain’s various drawings, stating that “none of them seems particularly amusing, and most are not only technically crude but also virtually meaningless” (92). What Bridgman seems to miss, however, is that these sketches play with the conventions of illustrated volumes of travel writing. Indeed, the sales of Twain’s travelogues were particularly driven by their illustrations because they were published as subscription books, and the advance sales of such books depended as much on the quality of their binding and the quantity of their illustrations as on their content (Messent, 27 Buzard contrasts such tourists with genuine travelers who, particularly when “walking and climbing,” know that they “travel every step of the way” (34). 268 Cambridge 47). This is made patently clear on the first edition’s title page, where billing for the book’s many illustrations takes the place of a subtitle: ILLUSTRATED BY W. FR. BROWN, TRUE WILLIAMS, B. DAY AND OTHER ARTISTS—WITH ALSO THREE OR FOUR PICTURES MADE BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK, WITHOUT OUTSIDE HELP; IN ALL THREE HUNDERED AND TWENTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS. ([i]) Twain’s own “artistic” contributions comprise only a part of the book’s many illustrations, which were often copied from other sources (David 4, 7). 28 Such illustrations serve a primarily financial purpose, but they still cannot escape the playfulness of Twain’s burlesque. They are part of his constant satirizing of the genre of travel literature itself. On another level, the “awfulness” of Twain’s artistic skill parallels his bad German. In describing one “study” of “Götz von Berlichingen’s horse and cab,” Twain includes among its “several blemishes” the flaws that “the wagon is not traveling as fast as the horse is” and that “there seems to be a wheel missing” (122). Further, the verisimilitude of the sketch is so poor that its creator must explain that one “thing flying out behind is not a flag, it is a curtain,” and that he is not sure whether a particular scribble “is a haystack or a woman” (122-23). Part of the fun of this passage is Twain’s usual self-deprecation, but his closing note—that “[t]his study was exhibited in the Paris 28 Beverly R. David’s analysis of the images “borrowed” from Whymper’s Scrambles Amongst the Alps provides another example of Twain’s playful approach to the illustrations of A Tramp Abroad: “The most peculiar of the Whymper engravings found in A Tramp Abroad involves a collaboration between Whymper and Twain. Mark Twain took the alleged Whymper original of THE MATTERHORN, FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THEODULE PASS and superimposed his own crude cut-out of a donkey over the scene” (4). 269 Salon of 1879, but did not take any medal; they do not give medals for studies” (123)— shifts the target of satire from Twain’s own lack of artistic skill to the pretention of traveling artists who make equally uninspired, if somewhat more realistic, “studies.” Thus, Twain mocks the desire to see and experience the foreign through travel writing and its accompanying illustrations. Both text and illustrations leave the reader uninitiated into the world of the foreign and, ultimately, unmoved. Beyond this satire of travel literature’s conventions—and Twain’s jab at readers who purchase books based on the number of their illustrations rather than the quality of either illustrations or writing—many of these jokes about perspective and verisimilitude suggest a playful approach to the idea of representation in general. For example, Twain provides a “life-size” image of a broken dueling sword by “tracing a line around it with [his] pen, to show the width of the weapon” (68). Bridgman remarks of this description, “That being approximately what it appears to be, and no more, the source of humor remains obscure” (94). From a semiotic perspective, however, the sword fragment, as an “index,” should be a closer representation of reality than the average drawing, a more “literal” transcription of its subject. But, as Bridgman apparently found, this attempted verisimilitude fails to make the practice of dueling any more vivid. In light of Twain’s preoccupation with the way travel writing substitutes words for actual experience, the “source of humor” here appears to be a parallel failure of artistic representation. Thus, by parodying the artistic representations found in conventional travel writing, Twain follows both Cooper and Melville in lampooning the mediated view of Europe such accounts provide, but his version lacks the earlier authors’ accompanying arguments to seek less 270 mediated access to the foreign and to go experience the world more directly. For Twain, travel is all fun, with no possibility of true erudition. Continuing this play with language and representation, Twain most famously lampoons the process of learning a second language in one of the several appendices to A Tramp Abroad, “The Awful German Language.” While many praise the comedic quality of this sketch, and indeed it was so popular that Twain continued to deliver a version of the essay throughout his lecturing career, others take its critique of German more seriously. 29 For Josef Raab, “Twain complains of the complexity of German in a wonderfully exaggerated manner in order to underline for his non-German-speaking American readers the alien nature of this language and the mentality behind it” (387). It is precisely this emphasis on the alienness of the foreign that distinguishes tourists from earlier cosmopolitans. Even more astutely, Sewell argues that “[t]he tacit assumption of the essay is that there is, or ought to be, a language that expresses thought naturally, logically, and independently of troublesome categories of grammar” (75). 30 Apparently 29 Ziff represents the typically positive assessments of the piece when he argues, “Strikingly, two of the six appendices that were added to make up the book’s required length are actually better reading than any section of comparable length within the narrative proper: ‘The Awful German Language’ is an amusing yet perspicacious account of the perplexities that language presents to the eager learner” (Return 206). Everett Emerson, who rather harshly criticizes A Tramp Abroad as a whole, writes that the sketch “proved that Mark Twain was still alive and conscious” (117). 30 Nevertheless, Sewell suggests that much of Twain’s ire is aimed, not at the German language in particular, but at the ridiculousness of grammar in general, which can prove challenging for native and non-native speakers of any language. Supporting this more forgiving reading of Twain’s critique, Norbert Hedderich points to moments in the essay when Twain praises German, usually at the expense of English or language in general. He notes, “At the end of the essay we find ‘The Virtues of the Language’ . . . . It is a quite short, but important and often overlooked section. Despite all his criticism, some aspects 271 put on the defensive by his own difficulties with linguistic difference, Twain longs for a language that transcends the practicalities of grammar and syntax in order to express a natural or universal truth. This desire is much like the attitude of Columbus and other imperialists, as Gabrielle M. Patty finds when she connects Twain’s sketch to the kind of ethnographic appeal that presents the reader with supposedly logical and empirical evidence to support its prejudiced opinions (435-36). Prejudice masquerading as common sense is always a dangerous formula, and this is exactly what “The Awful German Language” presents to the unwary and uncultured reader. As the following readings will demonstrate, Twain’s attempts at translation in this sketch and elsewhere are like his “innocent” portrayal of Europe: while claiming to offer an unmediated, unpretentious, and no-nonsense perspective, they ignore any genuine value or interest the foreign might hold. Twain begins the sketch complaining about his difficulties learning German. He explains, “Harris and I had been hard at work on our German during several weeks . . . , and although we had made good progress, it had been accomplished under great difficulty and annoyance, for three of our teachers had died in the meantime” (601). After bemoaning German’s “slip-shod and systemless” grammar, and its perplexing number of exceptions, Twain launches into a parody of a phrasebook example: “a certain bird” that is “waiting in the blacksmith shop on account of the rain” (601-602). Already the German language is made ridiculous by the distance between real speech and the sample sentences of a textbook, which “is always inquiring after things which are of no sort of no of German clearly fascinated him. It is the one section of the essay that is without satire” (32). 272 consequence to anybody” (602). In this example, Twain’s particular complaint is about the complex rules for determining the gender and case of “the rain,” deciding if it is “simply in the quiescent state of being mentioned,” “lying around, in a kind of a general way on the ground,” or “doing something actively” (602). Unfortunately, all of this analysis is for naught, as Twain eventually learns that the rain must always be in a fourth case. For Twain, such complex rules and exceptions, which seem to add no real meaning to the sentence (which was absurd from the start), illustrate the needless frustration caused by German’s alien grammar. 31 As Sewell notes, the sketch “gives occasional evidence of a hostility that is not simply exaggerated for comic effect” (77). It betrays not only a genuine frustration but also a more decisive antipathy toward the language and its foreign constructions. “The Awful German Language” also exemplifies a common thread through many of Twain’s linguistic farces. Twain heightens the alienness of foreign language through a willful misunderstanding of translation. When transferring meaning between one language and another, even at the most basic level, it is not enough to mechanically translate each word as it appears in order. The syntax must also be translated into the rules of the target language. By performing what he calls “a perfectly literal translation,” ignoring the necessary changes of syntax and rendering each word in order, Twain produces a ridiculously strange English translation that is supposed to convey the “awfulness” of the German original (603). For example, he “translates” one sentence, “But when he, upon the street, the (in-satin-and-silk-covered-now-very-unconstrainedly- 31 Interestingly, Holger Kersten further connects language and tourism in his argument that, “In the same way other tourists collect bric-a-brac, Twain seems to have intently collected the curiosities of the German language” (202). 273 after-the-newest-fashioned-dressed) government counsellor’s wife met” (603-604). Twain presents this series of parenthetical phrases and interminable compounds as empirical evidence of German’s cumbersome construction. But the evidence is unfair. It replicates for the English-speaking reader the experience not of German as read by a fluent speaker, but of German frozen in a state of early language acquisition, when everything seems inherently foreign and strange. Twain creates a similarly jarring effect by translating the gender of German pronouns literally, referring to a “Fishwife” as “it,” “One of the Fishes” as “he,” and a “Scale” as “she” (608-609). In the resulting “Tale of the Fishwife and Its Sad Fate,” Twain’s unconventionally “literal” translation of German grammar is inherently confusing because English and German gender their antecedents differently (608-609). By presenting a mix of English vocabulary and German grammar that belongs to neither language, Twain uses the pretense of “literal translation” to ossify the strangeness of a new system of grammar, implying that the grammar of German is inherently “awful” when its rules are merely different. The effect of this distorted version of “literal” translation is similar to Twain’s tracing of the dueling sword. Twain seems to present the most accurate version of German possible, but by too closely “tracing” the original, he replicates the shape but loses the true experience of German for a German speaker. A similar treatment of translation can be found in another linguistic burlesque that Twain wrote during the period, “The ‘Jumping Frog.’ In English. Then in French. Then Clawed Back into a Civilized Language Once More by Patient, Unremunerated Toil” (1875). As the lengthy title suggests, the piece consists of three versions of Twain’s famous story “The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County”: the original, a 274 translation into French, and Twain’s own “translation” of that French version back into English. The target of Twain’s satire is a review of his works in the French periodical Revue des Deux Mondes, which was accompanied by a French translation of “Jumping Frog,” both composed by Marie-Thérèse Blanc under the penname “Th. Bentzon” (Wilson 538). 32 In the brief explanation that introduces his collection of “Jumping Frog” versions, Twain bristles that, although “Jumping Frog is a funny story, [Bentzon] can’t see why it should ever really convulse anyone with laughter” (29). Twain is indignant that the translated tale offered as proof of this lukewarm praise is “not translated . . . at all,” but that Bentzon “has simply mixed it all up” (29). Following these complaints, Twain offers the reader a reprinting of the French version as “proof” of his grievance. He further explains, so “that even the unlettered may know my injury and give me their compassion, I have been at infinite pains and trouble to re-translate this French version back into English” (29). Although Twain admits that his spoken French is poor, and that the retranslation required great effort, he also claims he “can translate very well” and implicitly suggests that his back-translation will be a more accurate representation of the French version than the French version was of the original (29). While Twain’s scathing reaction to Bentzon’s translation may be attributed to his general dislike of the French (see Scott 115, 249), or to the inherent difficulty of translating either humor or dialect literature (see Halliday 84), several have also read it as a critique of translation more 32 In his response, Twain assumes Bentzon is male. Mark K. Wilson and Marc Shell (“Prized”) both provide interesting analyses of Bentzon’s review and her general views of international literature. 275 generally. 33 In any case, the piece offers little hope of worthwhile or effective cross- cultural communication. Whatever his motive, Twain uses the same deliberate misunderstanding of what translation entails that is found in “The Awful German Language” to demonstrate to his “unlettered” readers that Bentzon’s French translation is a failure. As Sewell explains: Twain’s retranslation is not “fair” because he does not limit himself to parodying the formal diction and grammar of Bentzon’s translation. Instead, he mocks the French language itself, . . . confusing tenses and pronoun genders and cognates . . . and perversely translating idioms word for word so as to make nonsense of them. (69-70) Like any translator, Bentzon made a series of difficult choices in rendering Twain’s American idiom into French. But Twain’s critique is not limited to the shortcomings of such artistic choices. Instead, he retranslates French idioms, which sound natural and make perfect sense in French, in an overly literal way. In the first version of the tale, for example, Simon Wheeler begins: “well, there was a feller here once by the name of Jim 33 Sewell suggests that “[t]he most important general implication of the sketch is that Simon Wheeler—and therefore Mark Twain—cannot exist in French, because direct discourse can never be preserved in translation” (69). Accordingly, the piece not only joins “The Awful German Language” in lampooning the oddities of foreign expression, but it also indicates a deeper distrust in the potential of translation to bridge the language gap, casting doubt on the possibility of any cross-cultural understanding. Similarly, Shell argues, “Twain hints that good translation—an accurate ‘exchange’—is an impossibility” (“Prized” 511). Sewell also argues that Twain’s play with the French translation and English “retranslation” continue and complicate the “problematic of framing, translation, and quotation that figures in” the original tale (68). Supporting such a view, James E. Caron reads the original story as a play with narration: “Simon Wheeler’s garrulity produces the marvelously humorous and exquisitely absurd spectacle of a man drifting serenely through his ‘queer yarn without ever smiling’” (255). In addition, Twain continues this play with various versions in “Private History of the ‘Jumping Frog’ Story” by comparing his own tale to an ancient Greek story eerily similar in all particulars. He explains the similarity by concluding, “I think it must be the case of history actually repeating itself, and not a case of a good story floating down the ages and surviving” (447-48). 276 Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or may be it was the spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly” (30). Bentzon’s version begins: “—Il y avait une fois ici un individu connu sous le nom de Jim Smiley: c’était dans l’hiver de 49, peut-être bien au printemps de 50, je ne me rappelle pas exactement” (35). As in any translation, there are choices here worth discussing, such as “individu” for “feller,” but Twain’s retranslation does not focus on such disputable preferences. Instead, he back-translates the French in a ludicrously literal fashion: “It there was one time here an individual known under the name of Jim Smiley; it was in the winter of ’49, possibly well at the spring of ’50, I no me recollect not exactly” (39). Rather than making even the most basic grammatical changes in order to follow the rules of the target language, Twain translates the idiomatic construction “Il y avait,” the preposition “sous,” and the reflexive verb “me rappelle” word for word, rendering them awkward and nearly nonsensical in English. His “clawed back” translation is full of such examples. When examined from the perspective of what translation actually entails, Twain’s comic rendering of the French “Jumping Frog” is too exaggeratedly terrible to be taken as any kind of serious evidence of Bentzon’s failure. Portraying Twain’s ridiculous translation in the most complimentary light, Sewell argues that, “by making us stumble over the manifold awkwardnesses in an overliteral French-to-English translation, Twain forces us to ask whether authentic translation is ever possible” (70). Supporting this argument for Twain’s critical intentions, several moments in A Tramp Abroad demonstrate deeper understanding of what real translation requires, Twain’s fairly 277 successful translation of “The Lorelei” not least among them (146). 34 Such examples indicate that Twain’s strategic use of poor translation in “The Awful German Language” and “The Jumping Frog . . .” must be somewhat tongue in cheek. Still, the extent of Twain’s vitriol makes it too easy to laugh at Bentzon. The spurious empiricism of offering these parallel versions as “proof” of her failure—the same empiricism found in “The Awful German Language”—can trick the reader into believing that Twain’s translation accurately portrays the French version. Indeed, the case of Harriet Beecher Stowe demonstrates that growing numbers of Americans both at home and abroad were becoming more linguistically isolated and, as a consequence, less likely to think seriously about what translation actually entails. As Lawrence Venuti demonstrates, translators have a history of “invisibility” that has made both readers and scholars alike underappreciate and misunderstand the complex nature of translation and the difficult choices any translator must face (12-13). In light of this widespread ignorance, it seems likely that many of Twain’s readers would not have understood the violence his overly literal translation was doing to the French version, and hence may not have recognized the unfairness of his supposedly empirical evidence. Missing the potential nuances of 34 Another notable translation of Twain’s is the German children’s book Der Struwwelpeter, which Twain translated as “Slovenly Peter.” As Everett Emerson describes, “In the fall [of 1891] the Clemenses settled in Berlin, where the writer devoted three days and nights to the translation of Der Struwwelpeter, which he called ‘the most celebrated child’s book in Europe,’” and which, despite the author’s apparent intentions, was not published until 1935 (188). While recognizing the various flaws and liberties of Twain’s translation, Susanna Ashton and Amy Jean Petersen call it “a work of energy and wit that may have better reflected the tenor of the original Hoffmann poems than did many of the more widely published translations” (36). Stahl’s article “Mark Twain’s ‘Slovenly Peter’ in the Context of Twain and German Culture” also provides an interesting reading of Twain’s translation, which, Stahl argues, “is more indebted to the American experiences of the frontier than to the German ‘Kultur der Zurückhaltung’ or ‘culture of restraint’” (211). 278 Twain’s play with translation, it seems likely that many would have merely laughed at the absurdity of the French language. Moreover, even when Twain is most critical of translation as an artificial mediation akin to pretentious travel accounts, he differs from his predecessors in offering no alternative model of cross-cultural understanding. For Twain, translation is imperfect not because some untranslated words convey meaning better—Cooper’s cosmopolitan perspective—but because foreign sentiments often cannot be understood, or are not even worth understanding. Although Twain critiques the imperfect mediation of translation just as he critiques the superficiality of guides and guidebooks, he fails to offer any hope of real cross-cultural understanding. His only solution to mediation and miscommunication is a no-nonsense disregard for European culture. Twain’s treatment of translation thus exemplifies the frequent disparity between the most critical reading of his satire and the more prejudiced or nationalist readings it often invites. As the following examination of the author’s later career reveals, this gap widened over time. Despite the attitudes toward cultural difference presented in his works, Samuel Clemens continued in his desire to learn European language. As Cooper might have predicted, this continued study, as well as his extensive time abroad, broadened Clemens’s personal views of the foreign, although it did not quite change his public persona. The Growing Cosmopolitanism of Samuel Clemens This project has illustrated a gradual change in American attitudes toward other parts of the world as reflected in American travel and travel writing. But just as countries change, so, of course, do individual people, if on a shorter timeline. Thus, the Mark Twain of 1867 epitomizes the rise of tourism, but the man at century’s end, modified by 279 age and experience, does not so perfectly mirror the collective attitude of his nation. This natural, personal change is complicated, however, by the complex relationship between Mark Twain and Samuel Clemens. Both Innocents Abroad and A Tramp Abroad uphold a nationalistic ideal of linguistic and cultural superiority that is exemplified by the persona of Mark Twain, but this provincialism does not necessarily correspond to the attitudes of Samuel Clemens, who demonstrates a growing cosmopolitanism toward the end of his life. Thus, the divide between Twain’s “innocent” persona and the increasingly international outlook of his creator widens throughout Twain’s later career. Clemens adopted the pseudonym “Mark Twain” in his early years as a newspaper reporter when, according to James E. Caron, he began using the name to signal pieces containing “comic disruptions of journalistic norms” (137). During his 1866 visit to Hawaii as a travel correspondent for the newspaper Alta California, Clemens signed Mark Twain to his published letters, adapting the persona to the genre of burlesque travel narrative, but he used his given name while traveling around the islands (Rogers 38-39; Frear 18). During the Quaker City cruise, however, things became less clear as, in an oft- cited example, Clemens began to occasionally sign letters (including one to his mother) “Mark” (Ganzel 69; Caron 389). 35 These facts have led to widespread disagreement over what to call the author of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. While some critics advocate the one extreme of treating “Mark Twain” as a purely fictional character (see Robinson, “Mark” 16), others agree with Ziff in asserting, that for all intents and purposes, “by the close of the century the Sam Clemens who in 1863 had created Mark Twain had turned 35 As Caron points out, “Signing a letter or an inscription to one’s mother with a pseudonym obviously indicates a complex sense of identity” (389). 280 into him” (Mark 9). 36 As Caron argues, however, the relation between Mark Twain and Samuel Clemens is more complicated than this, and “‘Mark Twain’ therefore does not just indicate a pseudonym, but neither does it exactly signify a comic character wholly separate from its author” (12). 37 Mark Twain was a complex persona that Clemens could and did embody, but the figure of Mark Twain does not fully encompass or represent all of the thoughts and opinions that the man could have held. The disparity between the views of foreign language expressed in Twain’s published works and the real experiences of Samuel Clemens is only one of many areas that highlight this complex relationship. Even though the distinction is never clear-cut, the divide between Twain and Clemens is quite useful in clarifying his changing views of American identity and nationalism. While Clemens’s cosmopolitanism grew, and a degree of his worldly experience inevitably bled through into the writings he signed Mark Twain, the views openly professed by his authorial persona more frequently belong to the common tourist 36 Baetzhold, however, cautions against eliding the two figures: “Many studies run aground because they take at face value some of the views expressed in ostensibly autobiographical works like The Innocents Abroad and Roughing It. . . . [I]t is important to separate the man Samuel Clemens from the many ‘poses’ of the writer Mark Twain” (xii). James M. Cox presents an opposing view: “For Samuel Clemens, Mark Twain became the means of realizing himself. The pseudonym neither concealed, obliterated, nor narrowed his identity, but exposed and freed it” (20). 37 With further relevance to the issues of mass tourism, Ann M. Ryan reads the figure of “Mark Twain” as a model of modernity: “For if the celebrity persona of ‘Mark Twain’ represents one of the important byproducts of urbanity—he is in many ways an artificial person, an amalgam of imagination, industry, and technology—Samuel Clemens, the author of that mask, narrates the impoverished truths that frequently make this artifice such a powerful commodity. Twain anticipates American modernism: the intractability of race and nation, the tyrannies of industrialism and religion, and the promise, as well as the illusion, of a transnational, transhistorical, transcendent individuality. His narrative insights also resonate uncannily with the literary and political theories of a postmodern and postcolonial world” (2). 281 he once epitomized than to the international traveler he had become. Thus, Twain becomes useful for demonstrating one final change in American travel at the turn of the twentieth century. Previously, in an age in which only the comparatively wealthy and cultured could travel, Cooper could adequately represent the majority of Americans abroad. With the growing accessibility of international travel, however, the attitudes of American travelers in Europe began to correspond to the concurrent division of high- brow and low-brow literature. While Clemens, the traveling, and well-traveled, dignitary began to mirror the expatriate literati epitomized by Cooper—and later, but with important differences, by James—Clemens’s authorial persona, Mark Twain, continued to emulate the low-brow and classless “ugly American.” Despite its overwhelmingly touristic leanings, A Tramp Abroad reveals the beginnings of Clemens’s increasingly cosmopolitan outlook. For example, while commenting on the broad appeal of “low-grade music” in comparison to music of the more elevated sort, “which requires a higher faculty, a faculty which must be assisted and developed by teaching” (102), Twain shifts to a parallel discussion of the inaccessibility of high-brow works of art. He then writes of painter Joseph. M. W. Turner: A Boston newspaper reporter went and took a look at the Slave Ship floundering about in that fierce conflagration of reds and yellows, and said it reminded him of a tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes. In my then uneducated state, that went home to my non-cultivation, and I thought here is a man with an unobstructed eye. [sic] Mr. Ruskin would have said: This person is an ass. That is what I would say, now. (102) The Boston reporter’s comic image exemplifies the irreverent humor of Mark Twain as it would have been presented without blush or retraction in Innocents Abroad. But here, Twain calls this no-nonsense view the opinion of an uncultured ass. It is a rare glimpse of how Twain’s provincialism becomes moderated by Clemens’s own growing 282 cosmopolitanism. Despite its offhand inclusion, this admission of an increased appreciation of fine art, a target of repeated derision in Innocents Abroad, suggests that Clemens has been influenced by the culture of Europe. This same open-mindedness is evidenced by Clemens’s ongoing study of the German language, despite the criticisms Twain expresses so strongly in print. The Clemens family prepared for their 1878 trip to Europe by studying foreign language, and Clemens continued his study of German for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, some critics show reserve in assessing Clemens’s proficiency. According to Richard H. Cracroft, “Twain was, in fact, bedeviled by the German language, and his journals and notebooks reveal increasing frustration and complaints about the ‘perplexing’ tongue” (12). 38 Still, as Carl Dolmetsch chronicles in great detail in his study of Clemens’s extended residence in Vienna, Samuel Clemens’s respectable German allowed him to cut a far more cosmopolitan figure than Mark Twain would allow readers to believe possible. The Samuel Clemens who traveled on the Quaker City was to a large extent, like Mark Twain, an American innocent, but as the author spent more and more time abroad, 38 John B. Hoben argues that the humor of Twain’s critiques of German was “all the richer because it flowed from one who, in spite of his self-depreciation, was fond of it and sufficiently skilled to lecture in it and translate it with audacity, if not proficiency” (164). Further, Scott describes how “Mark Twain’s interest in the German language continued to show itself both in his notebooks and in his private correspondence,” in which the author “lapsed into German[,] . . . copied lines of German poetry[,] and made lists of German words and expressions” (132). Raab also comments on Clemens’s interest in German: “Mark Twain was very familiar with Germany; he spoke German fairly well, and he assessed Germany in a number of his writings” (381). In contrast, Ursula Thomas demonstrates how the “uncritical judgment of Mark Twain’s prowess in learning languages” encouraged by his private notebooks “is offset by his daughter Clara’s much later assessment” that her father could sometimes speak German, but “‘other times he would make no attempt to speak anything but English, and if Viennese ladies and gentlemen who called were unable to speak anything but German, great misunderstandings took place as to what the topic of conversation really was’” (135-36). 283 it would have become impossible to maintain the same level of naive provincialism. 39 Everett Emerson describes how, in June 1891, Clemens began a decade of “obligatory mobility,” primarily for his wife’s health, but also because of the decreased expense of living abroad: During these years Clemens visited America frequently on business; in 1893-94, one stay lasted nine months. But his residence was in Europe, in Aix-les-Bains, Marienbad, Berlin, Bad Nauheim, Florence, Munich, Paris, London, Lucerne, Vienna, and elsewhere, with a full year occupied with a round-the-world lecture tour. The retreat was symbolic of his state of mind. He was an American writer who had virtually lost his once inimitable voice and was groping now even for his identity. (185) Messent calls Twain, “virtually an expatriate” during this period (Cambridge 7), and such expatriation had unavoidable consequences for his world outlook. 40 If an appreciation for foreign language is one important mark of cosmopolitanism, as the past chapters have demonstrated, then these worldly views would appear to be in direct contrast to the narrowly provincial attitudes expressed in “The Awful German Language” or “The ‘Jumping Frog’ . . . Clawed Back.” While the Mark Twain persona continued to support a position of linguistic nationalism, Samuel Clemens became increasingly cosmopolitan in his recognition of the validity, but also of the inherent incommensurability, of different 39 Scott makes a similar argument: “From its inception A Tramp Abroad had no chance of approximating the bubbling spontaneity of its predecessor. Gone from Mark Twain’s nature was the untutored Americanism, half-amused but bristling, of 1867. Twelve years of associating almost exclusively with people of culture in the East and abroad had cost him much of the charming innocence which had animated his first travel book. The chasm between Mark Twain and the Old World was contracting. On this latest excursion, for example, he even brought home foreign furnishings and bric-a-brac worth well over five thousand dollars” (121). 40 As Scott argues, “He had not become global in his fame without becoming global in his thinking as well” (vii). Carl Dolmetsch (6), Janice McIntire-Strasburg (232), Peter Messent (“Not” 202), and Ann M. Ryan (2) all support these arguments, calling Twain a cosmopolitan and a transnational figure. 284 languages and cultures—although he never matched Cooper or Melville in his ability to reach a golden mean of cross-cultural understanding between assimilation and incomprehensibility. Twain’s growing ambivalence toward foreign language and culture becomes evident in his last major piece of travel writing, Following the Equator (1897), in which he on one hand continues many of the linguistic jokes of Innocents and A Tramp Abroad, but on the other hand treats the issues of colonialism and imperialism with far greater seriousness. In 1895, Clemens, accompanied by his wife and one of his three daughters, began a lecture tour around the world in order to repay his extensive debts (R. Cooper 1). 41 After lecturing east to west across the United States, Twain visited Australasia, India, and South Africa, making numerous other stops along the way. After returning to London, the family was to be joined by Clemens’s two other daughters, but one died before they could be reunited (R. Cooper 314). As Scott describes, Clemens had difficulty “mask[ing] the despair in his soul” after this family tragedy (224), and it may have contributed to the increased seriousness and pessimism most critics find in Following the Equator. 42 Because Twain was living in England at the time of its 41 Robert Cooper’s Around the World with Mark Twain provides a fascinating look at this trip as well as an account of Cooper’s own experiences recreating it one hundred years later. 42 Bridgman writes that “signs of unmitigated and even invented pessimism [permeate] the book” (128). Daniel J. Philippon argues, even more critically, “Taken as a whole, Following the Equator is not Twain at his best. He is often dull and uninspired; too frequently he relies on his notes, sometimes inserting them with little or no alteration into the text; and, when excessive, his quotation from the works of other writers can become tiresome” (6). Others connect the book’s seriousness to Twain’s critique of imperialism. For example, Robinson asserts, “Its humorous interludes notwithstanding, the book is 285 composition and publishing, it is not very surprising that many scholars have chosen the British edition of the work, entitled More Tramps Abroad, as the text better representative of the author’s intention. Not only does it contain fewer deletions than the American version, but it was set from Twain’s manuscript, and he read the proofs (E. Emerson 226; Shillingsburg xi). In the following reading, I will use the British edition of More Tramps Abroad and refer to it by that name. The British title indicates continuity with Twain’s previous foreign travelogues, and indeed, More Tramps Abroad does reiterate many of the linguistic jokes of its predecessors. For example, the section about India is full of criticism for the faulty English of Twain’s servants and guides. Describing one, Twain writes, “Where he gets his English is his own secret. There is nothing like it elsewhere in the earth; or even in paradise perhaps, but the other place is probably full of it” (245). Criticizing the poor English of foreigners is, of course, a typical offense of the “ugly American.” More interestingly, Twain intensifies his previous mockery of cross-cultural exchange to outright linguistic snobbery when he reverses an old joke. This time, when his servant begins to speak incomprehensibly, Twain says, “I can’t understand Hindostani,” only to get the reply, “Not Hindostani, master—English” (248). This time, it is not his own, but the foreigner’s (or more properly, the local’s) language that is deficient to the point of unrecognizability. Also continuing a previous running gag, Twain renames his Indian guides, not as “Ferguson” but, even more problematically, as “Satan.” One reason, he explains, is that Indian names are so long. And once again, the traveling American cannot first and foremost a troubled, often angry report on the misery wrought by Western imperialism along the equatorial black belt” (“Innocent” 43). 286 be bothered to learn the alien appellations of foreigners. 43 In More Tramps Abroad, as in his earlier works and the lectures about language he continued to deliver throughout the trip, linguistic difference is merely something to laugh at. 44 As the foregoing examples suggest, Twain is most critical of language in the section about India. He mocks both the unwieldy native languages and the Indians’ use of English. When Twain describes a letter from a “Hindoo youth,” he most clearly reveals his ideal of what foreign English should be like: “The handwriting was excellent, and the wording was English—English, and yet not exactly English. The style was easy and smooth and flowing, yet there was something subtly foreign about it—something tropically ornate and sentimental and rhetorical” (412). There are two salient aspects to this youth’s use of English, and Twain seems enamored with both of them. On the one hand, both the neat penmanship and general clarity of the piece show a fastidious concern for preserving the integrity of the English language, and they minimize any difficulties that Twain may have in understanding the message. These virtues prevent two of Twain’s most frequent criticisms: incomprehensibility and the massacre of English grammar. On the other hand, once any barriers to understanding are removed, Twain appreciates the 43 He jokes of another man, for example, “We named him Barney for short; we couldn’t use his real name, there wasn’t time” (278). After yet another rant on the subject, Twain connects this criticism to his previous jabs at foreign language. He says of a name with “fifty eight letters in it”: “This removes the long German words from competition; they are permanently out of the race” (351). Illustrating the break between such Twainian jokes and Clemens’s personal views, however, it is interesting to note that the author’s journals of the trip refer to one servant only as “Mousa” or “Mouza,” never “Satan” (R. Cooper 200). 44 Robert Cooper gives one example of Twain’s continued delivery of “The Awful German Language” (52). Miriam Jones Shillingsburg also provides extensive descriptions of the content of Twain’s lectures in Australia. Her index contains an extensive entry for the subheading “German Language” under “Stories” (239). 287 “tropically ornate” foreignness of the man’s English. His assessment reveals not only a latent preference for picturesque primitivism, but also the suggestion that it would not be fitting for an Indian man to speak or write English as if he were a white American or Englishman. Although Twain values the ease of communication made possible by the Indian’s clear English writing, he suggests that evidence of the writer’s foreignness is desirable or even necessary to mark him as manifestly “other.” Once again, linguistic difference is valued not for broadening provincial perspectives but for its ability to demarcate national boundaries. Despite its treatment of cross-cultural communication in India, More Tramps Abroad does depart from the thorough provincialism of Twain’s previous works. In sharp contrast to earlier travel writings, even Twain’s narrative persona tours the world not as a callow tourist but as the famous author and lecturer. Indeed, the work begins by highlighting this new, cosmopolitan status. Twain writes, “The starting-point of this lecturing trip around the world was Paris, where we had been living a year or two” (1). The trip begins with a cross-country lecture tour in the United States, but the Clemens family must first “[sail] for America” (1). Although the details of Clemens’s expatriate status are not elaborated in the narrative, this opening reveals that he is no longer the typical American citizen and resident. He is no longer an American “innocent.” The most significant sign of Twain’s worldlier outlook is his critique of imperialism. In the years after the publication of More Tramps Abroad, Twain would become active in the American Anti-imperialist league, declaring his membership in 288 1900 (Zwick 3). 45 While traveling in 1895, however, Twain already expresses great sympathy for native populations. As Ziff argues, the “pages dealing with the dignity of native peoples and the despicable mendacity of their colonial exploiters foreshadow the social critic who was to become increasingly vehement in his attacks on imperialism” (Mark 54). Nevertheless, while it is necessary to recognize Twain’s obvious distaste for the injustices of imperialism, one cannot do so without also acknowledging his more subtly racist attitudes. 46 Still, More Tramps Abroad contains many passages expressing Twain’s clear disapproval of colonial and imperial practices. For instance, he exposes the trickery and injustice of “French and English recruiting crews” who practically snatch Pacific natives from their homes to be transported to Australia (45). He concludes, “Thus exile to Queenslande—with the opportunity to acquire civilization, an umbrella, and a pretty poor 45 Both Jim Zwick and Amy Kaplan offer extensive analysis of Twain’s avowed anti- imperialism. Kaplan connects his views to the experience gained from a life of traveling: “In his anti-imperialist writing from his last dark decade, Twain brought lessons to bear from his earliest writing and worldwide travels. As a writer, the power—and limits—of his critique can be found less in a summary of his political ideas than in the way he wielded language as a weapon against injustice” (“Conquest” 69). Further, John Carlos Rowe argues, “The scholarly identification of Twain’s ideological limitations, at least by today’s standards, should in no way trivialize the great achievement of his critique of European and emerging U.S. imperialisms” (Literary 139). 46 Yothers suggests that “Mark Twain uses exoticism both to condemn racism and reinforce certain strands of racialism” (“Facing” 115). Hellwig seems to highlight this ambivalence unintentionally: “This is a common theme in Following the Equator, that the civilized, European, and white ethnicities have become anti–Christian and barbaric in their dealings with the native populations of the countries that they rape and pillage. The white has become a savage, more savage than the traditional ‘savages’ of the world, supposedly uncivilized and uneducated, and justifiably ruled by the superior white savage” (129). While this reading makes Twain’s obvious criticism of colonial practices clear, it also reveals that he does little to think beyond the received dichotomy of civilization and savagery. 289 quality of profanity—is twelve times as deadly for [the Kanaka] as war. Common Christian charity, common humanity, does seem to require, not only that these people be returned to their homes, but that war, pestilence, and famine be introduced among them for their preservation” (50). With typically facetious humor, Twain decries the supposed “benefits” of civilization that such “recruits” would acquire, and the near inevitable death and misfortune to which this abduction will subject them. Twain expands upon this critique by ironically praising a mass-poisoning of Australian aborigines in contrast to the more common and less criticized injustices of other colonizers. He lists a series of less human offenses including (most relevantly for the United States): “In many countries we have taken the savage’s land from him, and made him our slave, and lashed him every day, and broken his pride, and made death his only friend, and overworked him till he dropped in his tracks; and this we do not care for, because custom has inured us to it, yet a quick death by poison is loving-kindness to it” (137). Compared to such lengthy torture, Twain suggests that genocide by poison may be a mercy. Despite Howard G. Baetzhold’s perceptive observation that Twain “almost invariably . . . directed his criticisms not at Britain but at human nature generally” (182), such examples show an increasing degree of sympathy toward foreign peoples. Twain is somewhat more subtle when critiquing the “benefits” white civilization has conferred upon Hawaii. Even though his scheduled lecture there had to be canceled because of a cholera outbreak, Twain takes the occasion of sailing by the islands to reflect on his 1866 trip. In his early letters to the Alta California, as Amy Kaplan contends, Twain “satirized the missionaries’ effort to ‘civilize’ the natives, yet he also saw Hawaiians through the gaze of the colonizer as childlike, primitive, and inferior” 290 (“Conquest” 69). 47 In his final travelogue, however, Twain is more critical of the white occupation of Hawaii, as when he describes the precipitous drop in “native population” since the first white contact. He concludes: “All intelligent people praise Kamehameha I. and Liholiho for conferring upon their people the great boon of civilization. I would do it myself, but my intelligence is out of repair now from overwork” (23). While popular opinion insists that the occupation and annexation of Hawaii have benefited the once- savage society, Twain cannot reconcile such received wisdom with the near destruction of the native population. One of the most interesting points about Hawaii, and one which reoccurs in Twain’s writings, is the figure of the translator Ragsdale. In his 1866 letters, Twain describes Ragsdale with a combination of respect and anxiety. He first introduces him as “Bill Ragsdale, a ‘half white’ (half white and half Kanaka), who translated [an official document] and clattered it off in Kanaka with a volubility that was calculated to make a slow-spoken man like me distressingly nervous” (Letters 110). But it is not only the speed of the foreign language that makes Twain uneasy. Despite praising Ragsdale for his ability to translate in both directions, his “turning every Kanaka speech into English and every English speech into Kanaka, with a readiness and felicity of language that are remarkable,” Twain admits that there is “a spice of deviltry in the fellow’s nature” that will drive him to “drop in a little voluntary contribution occasionally in the way of a word or two that will make the gravest speech utterly ridiculous” (111). Twain obviously 47 Christopher McBride even further connects Twain with America’s expansionist practices by explaining that, by “[a]rguing for commercial expansion into the Pacific, he discovered a colonial stance upon which most of his audience could agree” (Colonizer 65). 291 admires this “rascal” for doing just what Twain himself does when playing with the act of translation, twisting the transference of meaning to create humor. At the same time, Twain does not seem entirely comfortable with the power this man of mixed race gains from the position of translator. 48 Still, Ragsdale continued to be a powerful figure in the mind of Twain, who even planned to write a novel about him. 49 Following this continued fascination, Twain’s description of Ragsdale in More Tramps Abroad is less ambivalent in its praise. Twain calls him “a brilliant young fellow” who “[a]s an interpreter . . . would have been hard to match anywhere” (30). In contrast to his earlier emphasis on Ragsdale’s deceitful streak, Twain describes how, after discovering an early sign of leprosy that he easily could have concealed from his fiancée, Ragsdale “would not be treacherous to the girl that loved him” and “would not marry her to a doom like his” (30). The figure of Ragsdale adds yet another wrinkle to Twain’s complex relationship with translation. Although, in Twain’s youth, the “half-caste” man may have symbolized both the power of the translator and the danger of such cultural mixing, Twain’s continued interest in him reveals a deeper appreciation of translation than can be found in the majority of the author’s public works. 48 Kaplan, too, connects Ragsdale’s translation to Twain’s own satire: “Twain is intrigued by Ragsdale’s facility at translation from Kanaka to English. Part of this fluency gives him the power of a trickster or parodist, like Twain himself” (“Imperial” 246; also see Anarchy 87). McBride takes a more critical position when he argues that Twain is “intent on disparaging this man who possesses more foreign language skill than he does” (Colonizer 75). 49 Baetzhold speculates that the planned novel “would have presented a contrast between the old and new civilizations in the islands, with the proponents of the old superstitions resisting the efforts of the Christian missionaries” (98-99). 292 Ragsdale’s positive portrayal in More Tramps Abroad marks Clemens’s increasingly inclusive and cosmopolitan outlook. Both the growth and the limits of Twain’s cosmopolitanism are perhaps best illustrated by one of the larger sections of More Tramps Abroad, Twain’s account of his visit to Australia. Twain departs from his previous narrow-minded nationalism in his frank regard for Australian culture. For example, Twain demonstrates a relish for Australian language. He admires some examples of slang, calling them “expressive ones,” and describing his first time hearing “the immortal ‘My word!’” as “positively thrilling” (147). Likewise, instead of disparaging “the curious names of Australasian towns” as he had done with German words and Indian names, Twain appears to get great enjoyment from their strangeness. As Miriam Jones Shillingsburg recounts, one running joke of Twain’s Australian lectures was his attempt to put the names of both animals and towns into doggerel verse (45-46). The fruit of these labors as it appears in More Tramps Abroad is a forty-eight-line poem in rhymed quatrains that uses sixty-six of the eighty- one “curious names” Twain lists (226-27). Here is one stanza: The Murriwillumbo complaineth in song For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo, And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo; (227) The poem is undeniably silly, but it also betrays an enjoyment of linguistic difference untainted by harsh mockery or satire. Yet, despite this clear broadening of horizons, Twain’s affinity for Australia may derive from the country’s resemblance to the United States. Shillingsburg describes the virtues Twain found that Australians and Americans had in common, including “fast lifts and tall buildings” as well as a nature that was “unself-conscious, frank, open, unreserved, independent, and not exclusive” (76). Twain 293 can thus admire Australia’s particularities while still emphasizing the underlying beliefs and priorities of American culture. Moreover, the linguistic difference of Australia, like English in India, is of the most comforting kind for Twain: it is readily comprehensible, but not without markers of a distinct national community. Despite Twain’s undeniably expanded horizons, the ambivalent depiction of cultural difference in More Tramps Abroad also betrays a belief in the inevitable dominance of the English language. In a discussion of the various names of constellations, Twain concludes, “In a little while now—I cannot tell exactly how long it will be—the globe will belong to the English-speaking race, and, of course, the skies also. Then the constellations will be reorganized and polished up, and renamed” (43). Most obviously, this ominous pronouncement could be classed with Twain’s other critiques of the British Empire. But if disapproving of Britain’s growing influence, Twain does not suggest that anything could be done to stop it. Whether this dominance would be benevolent or not, Twain predicts (more or less accurately) that all the world’s peoples will eventually need to speak English. 50 The nuances of Twain’s prediction are further suggested in the entry from Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar that introduces the book’s conclusion: “I have travelled more than anyone else, and I have noticed that even the angels speak English with an accent” (484). On one hand, this motto suggests that Twain’s extensive travels have taught him that there is no “standard” or ideal form of a language, and linguistic difference is a fact of human existence, not a mark of 50 John Carlos Rowe also finds that, “[d]espite frequently expressed sympathies with native peoples throughout his travels on his global lecturing tour, Twain also appears to acknowledge the inevitability of Euro-American hegemony over the modern world” (Literary 122). 294 blameworthy otherness. In this way, the motto contrasts with the typically provincial and linguistically isolated outlook that imagines one’s own speech is accent-less, just as only “foreigners” may seem to have an “ethnicity.” 51 At the same time, the maxim suggests that the reach of Anglophone culture extends even as far as heaven. But in lieu of a homogeneous monolingual community of cosmopolitan brotherhood, national differences are still clearly marked by accents, just like the ideal foreign English of the “Hindoo youth.” Indeed, Twain’s presentation of Anglophone imperialism is much like the “vanishing Indian” trope of Cooper and other American writers. Twain is against the erosion of native language and culture on principle, but he appears at least partly relieved at the logistical problems such a disappearance will alleviate. By the end of the nineteenth century, the American tourist, whether visiting Europe or more exotic locations, is rarely unable to find someone who speaks his or her language. Twain is able to “follow the equator” all of the way around the globe filling auditoriums with those eager to hear him speak in English, and even the Indian “god” who visits him has read Huck Finn (251). Thus, in contrast to the previous divide between “civilized” and “savage” language, Twain is able to equally mock German and Hindustani because neither can live up to his standard of American English, and it is equally unnecessary for a tourist to learn either. An extensive knowledge of foreign language is no longer a requirement or even a goal of cosmopolitanism. Instead, it is best confined to the impressive tricks of two ancillary figures who bracket the text: “the Maharaja of Mysore,” who can memorize random sentences in a patchwork of languages 51 Werner Sollors examines the ideology of ethnicity in depth in his book Beyond Ethnicity: Consent and Descent in American Culture. 295 (9), and Helen Keller, whose passing of Harvard University’s language examinations is a monument to overcoming adversity rather than a mark of usable skill (417). In light of such anecdotes, speaking a foreign language is about as impressive as juggling—and about as practical, too. In the end, the increased cosmopolitanism of the mature Samuel Clemens is offset in two ways: not only is the changing outlook of the man overshadowed by the provincialism of his persona, but the increased prevalence of the English language in all parts of the globe makes the linguistic proficiency of Clemens’s predecessors less and less necessary, even for a traveling literary celebrity. In the end, there can be no simple statement of Clemens/Twain’s views of foreign language and culture, but at best a two-dimensional chart with the blurred distinction between author and persona on one axis and the timeline of his career on the other. Nevertheless, some things remain clear. Twain, like both Cooper and Melville before him, repeatedly addresses the value of linguistic difference, the permeability of the language barrier, and the nature of translation. In many ways, he continues the critiques of his predecessors, calling attention to the dangers of mediation and the folly of those who flaunt linguistic or cultural knowledge as an empty sign of pretention. Yet, in comparison to the travel writing of Cooper and Melville, Twain’s works lack any viable alternative to the mediation of travel literature or the commodification of tourism. In many cases, he presents learning foreign language as an impossibility. Even when one accomplishes this difficult task, linguistic difference serves primarily as a marker of national belonging (or not belonging), and foreign terminology does little to convey any potentially enlightening cultural content. At times, Twain uses translation as a kind of 296 window into foreign speech, but by willfully misunderstanding the complicated transference of meaning that translation entails, his assumed linguistic innocence misconveys the experience, heightening the alienness of the foreign and ultimately suggesting that there is something inherently ridiculous in both foreign language and culture. Travel and translation are good jokes, but bad instructors. Near the end of his career, Twain becomes a strong advocate for anti-imperialism, but he never extends his critique to imperialist views of language. The health and safety of indigenous people should be preserved, but there seems to be little value in speaking to them, at least not in their native languages. But these views are not based in white supremacy. In contrast to the double standard for Western and non-Western culture at mid-century, Twain and his traveling American contemporaries apply the same cultural and linguistic nationalism to “civilized” Europeans and “primitive” savages alike. 297 CONCLUSION THE NEW IMPERIALISTIC COSMOPOLITE The travel writings of James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville, Mark Twain, and their contemporaries demonstrate a strong connection between the representation of foreign language and the portrayal of cross-cultural exchange. Examining these writers in turn has also traced a trajectory of American travel that both responds to and defines America’s relationships with Europe and with the “uncivilized” world. Although it was published before a number of Twain’s own travel books, Henry James’s novel The American (1877) represents the endpoint of this trajectory—the new figure of the expatriate American. 1 Reading the novel as part of the tradition of linguistic encounter elaborated in this project offers a final example of the theoretical relationships between linguistic, cultural, and economic exchange, demonstrating the value of foreign language as a lens for examining the way American authors position the United States in the world. Indeed, if this study of traveling Americans stopped short of the work of Henry James, it would be a strange omission. James’s early education abroad gave him a particularly worldly perspective, fostering an interest in travel and tourism that would continue throughout his career. There have been countless studies of James’s “international theme,” although opinions of how James balanced his cosmopolitanism 1 It is the consensus of critics that James’s 1907 revision of The American constitutes a different book than the original version. Because I am less interested in the changing views of James across his career than in the state of American travel in the last decades of the nineteenth century, I will confine my discussion to the text as originally written and published in the 1870s. 298 with a sense of nationalism differ. 2 Like previous travel writing, James’s international fiction also engages with issues of multilingualism. Daniel Katz even connects James’s “international theme” to the idea of translation: The scene of translation abounds in James; not, of course, in the most literal sense of the word, but certainly in a more extended one: James continually, even obsessively, presents the trauma of the encounter with the radically foreign, and the resulting need to transpose that foreign into the comprehensible terms of the domestic[,] . . . the attempts on the part of characters to hear differently the meanings of their actions within a different system of exchange. (15) As this project has demonstrated, the need to translate foreign systems of meaning, culture, and value into one’s own terms is a perpetual element of travel and travel writing. But in the case of The American, the “scene of translation” is not confined to the “extended” sense of the term as Katz describes it. Rather, Christopher Newman’s moments of cultural and economic exchange frequently occur alongside moments of linguistic transposition. 3 2 Sara Blair highlights the various forms of exchange involved in James’s “international theme” when she describes James as “one who engages in sometimes tense if fluent exchange with the shifting currency of nation and race, and who variously and contextually works to construct a cultural subject . . . liberated into a problematically, peculiarly ‘internationalist’ or ‘cosmopolitan’ state of reception and response” (9). Andrew Taylor calls James “a cosmopolitan figure in the tradition of Washington Irving and Margaret Fuller” (13). For Roslyn Jolly, “Henry James without travel is inconceivable” (343). Adeline R. Tintner finds in James’s work “a kind of cosmopolitanism only possible to an American who has been reared and educated in Europe” (2). See Robert Emmet Long for a description of James’s early education abroad (Henry 3-4). Annick Duperray (3) and John Carlos Rowe (“Politics” 69) both discuss James’s relation to nationalism. 3 With a similar focus, Cheryl B. Torsney argues, “At the heart of The American is Newman’s narrative of himself as a successful American translator with a birthright to raid the resources and markets of the Old World in his desire to extend his empire of self. . . . The American can be described as an imperial fiction with a fiction of translation at its core, as a novel of disappointed cultural imperialism resulting from a failure of translation” (41). Edwin Sill Fussell also describes James’s engagement with the foreign 299 Previous studies have also noted strong connections between The American and Twain’s Innocents Abroad. For example, Robert Emmet Long asserts that “The Innocents Abroad makes Newman plausible as he appears at the opening in the Louvre, preferring copies of the old masterpieces to their originals” (Henry 49). Cheryl L. Ware makes an extensive comparison between the two works, examining their approaches to the opposition of America and Europe and how “both authors explore the nature of the typical American and the quality of innocence they both saw as peculiarly American” (50-51). 4 But in spite of these connections, the tradition of foreign language encounters in American travel literature reveals several key distinctions between Newman and Twain’s traveling Americans. In Twain’s travel writing, foreign language is inscrutable and unimportant. The Quaker City pilgrims are content to be, as Margaret Fuller puts it in her description of the growing tourist culture, “ciceroned” from sight to sight without any engagement with the culture of Europe (131). At first glance, Newman seems to conform to this model. Mrs. Tristram accuses Newman of being “the great Western Barbarian,” and he earns the title in terms of language: “the Henry James who so obviously took pleasure in talking to himself in French is the same Henry James who shook the American dust from his feet in favor of the Old World and then shook the dust of England from his feet as often as possible in favor of the continent and its romanticism of many languages” (20-21). 4 There are countless other examples. Henry Seidel Canby’s Turn West, Turn East examines the lives and careers of Twain and James in tandem. Jeffrey Steinbrink also compares Newman to “Twain’s fellow Pilgrims,” asserting that both “conscientiously humble themselves before masterpieces of painting, architecture, and sculpture throughout their vagabondizing” (281). Hilton Obenzinger connects both to economics, arguing that “[l]ike Christopher Newman in James’s The American . . . Twain’s acculturation is bound by the cash nexus” (168). In their discussions of Twain’s travel writing, James M. Cox (17), Franklin R. Rogers (47), and Peter Messent (Cambridge 43) all reference Christopher Newman or The American, and Armin Paul Frank calls The American “James’s most Twainian romance-novel” (30). 300 in the opening Louvre scene with such gauche lapses of taste as “often admir[ing] the copy much more than the original” and “the damning fault . . . of confounding the merit of the artist with that of his work” (42, 17, 19). Yet, as the following reading will reveal, Newman has more in common with his cosmopolitan creator than Twain’s gauche persona does. Indeed, far from the “conceited American” identified by Fuller and epitomized by Twain’s travelers (see Scott 66), Christopher Newman falls closer to Fuller’s golden mean, seeking value in Europe while not becoming entirely subservient to European culture. Newman certainly lacks the genteel polish of Cooper’s natural aristocrats, but his desire to acquire the best of Europe is a model of the new American cosmopolitanism. Nevertheless, most readers of The American have taken James at his word when he explains that Newman “had certain practical instincts which served him excellently in his trade of a tourist” (65). Armin Paul Frank calls Newman “an American tourist by the book” (30). John Carlos Rowe similarly describes Newman “as a caricature of the American tourist, exhausted by his efforts to comprehend the artistic sublimity of the Louvre[, m]arking his Baedeker, buying bad copies of masterpieces, counting the churches he has visited” (“Politics” 70-71). Edwin Sill Fussell even characterizes the genre of The American as “Tourist Fiction” (10-11). Indeed, when we learn that, to Newman, “[t]he world . . . was a great bazaar, where one might stroll about and purchase handsome things” (66), it is not difficult to imagine him as the epitome of the acquisitive American tourist, checking itinerary boxes and chipping bits of rock off of priceless monuments. Because Newman is a thoroughly “commercial person,” his European travel illustrates the growing connection between mass tourism and the culture of 301 consumerism. 5 William W. Stowe uses the terminology of Jean-Christophe Agnew to call this conjunction between travel and economics “acquisitive cognition, the accumulation of cultural, aesthetic, and spiritual capital” (168). As depicted in Innocents Abroad, the tourist takes what can be easily acquired and leaves the rest uncomprehended. On a level of economic exchange, Newman indeed epitomizes the tourist age. He clearly aspires to one goal William Stowe attributes to late-nineteenth-century American travelers—to gain “a sense of cultural legitimacy, an opportunity to turn economic power into cultural power, to run dollars through the machinery of the tourist infrastructure and convert them into cultural capital” (162). But as this study has demonstrated, just as the limits of linguistic translation are both caused and predicted by the difficulties of cultural and economic exchange in the contact zone between cultures, converting between systems of culture and currency is never straightforward. James explores this incommensurability in the opening scene of his novel, when the invaluable high culture of the museum, and of Europe more broadly, is brought into the marketplace as Newman commences bargaining for Noémie’s copy. James further explores the relation between artworks and commodities when Newman discusses his purchase with Mr. Tristram: “Bought a picture?” said Mr. Tristram, looking vaguely round at the walls. “Why, do they sell them?” “I mean a copy.” “Oh, I see. These,” said Mr. Tristram, nodding at the Titians and Vandykes, “these, I suppose, are originals?” 5 Several critics have noted the importance of economics in James. For example, Jessica Berman argues that “the notion of the cosmopolitan for James . . . is always bound up with the conflict between local and global affiliations as well as with the problem of commerce” (140). Miranda El-Rayess further describes James’s complex relationship with consumerism, asserting that “[h]is skilful [sic] appropriations of the structure and devices of the shop window reflect his understanding of, and susceptibility to, the pervasive influence of contemporary consumer culture” (136). 302 “I hope so,” cried Newman. “I don’t want a copy of a copy.” (27) Thus, Newman adheres to some desire for “authenticity,” but only at a remove. Moreover, by asking his initial, naive question, Tristram raises the possibility that the previously priceless artworks may indeed be available for purchase, at least if the price is set correctly. Michael Cronin’s comparison of translation to forgery adds an interesting dimension to this scene. Cronin explains that translators are often encouraged conceal the act of translation so that “[t]he text [reads] like an original” or “a successful forgery,” and further, that “poor translations resemble nothing more than sloppy reproductions” (“History” 40). Noémie’s own “sloppy reproduction,” both of the paintings she copies and of the deportment of a true lady like Claire de Cintré (C. Porter 109), parallels the novel’s many examples of translation. Thus, the novel’s plot can be read as a series of attempted exchanges between language, culture, and currency, although such translations never achieve perfect equivalency. 6 But closer examination reveals that Newman is not quite the typical tourist. Despite his acquisitive nature, or perhaps because of it, Newman demonstrates a far stronger desire to make the most of his travels than the average American abroad. While 6 This play with various systems of value has been observed before. Focusing on the exchange of women, Carolyn Porter argues, “[Newman’s] desire is unfulfillable. For the transcendent value he seeks to possess is by definition untranslatable into money. In seeking to marry Claire de Cintré, Newman wishes to acquire the unacquirable. If he were to succeed, she would have become acquirable” (104). Further comparing the women in the novel to artworks, Porter continues, “In short, the painting’s transcendent value as an aesthetic object depends upon its being priceless, upon its being removed from circulation in the art market and placed beyond the reach of money. The difference between an original and a copy, then, . . . depends upon its distinction from an economic order of value. In short, the aesthetic value of an object is designated by the sign ‘not for sale’” (107). Mark Seltzer’s reading of The American also examines how “aesthetic and sexual matters are not outside of or opposed to the economic, but rather are bound up with it, through and through and from the start” (134). 303 Mr. Tristram admits to never having been to the Louvre in six years of Parisian residence, Newman insists that he “should have come here once a week” (29). Newman further claims he wants to “get the best out of [Europe he] can” and insists, “I want the biggest kind of entertainment a man can get. People, places, art, nature, everything! I want to see the tallest mountains, and the bluest lakes, and the finest pictures, and the handsomest churches, and the most celebrated men, and the most beautiful women” (35). Newman’s desire for the superlatives of Europe may be arrogant and acquisitive, but it also reveals a genuine interest in the best rather than the most famous, an interest that is far from the usual touristic attitude. James also endows his American with a genuine desire for intellectual growth, suggesting that, at least in some ways, Newman’s travel antithesizes the lack of cultural engagement characteristic of the beaten track: He had always hated to hurry to catch railroad trains, and yet he had always caught them; and just so an undue solicitude for “culture” seemed a sort of silly dawdling at the station, a proceeding properly confined to women, foreigners, and other unpractical persons. All this admitted, Newman enjoyed his journey, when once he had fairly entered the current, as profoundly as the most zealous dilettante. One’s theories, after all, matter little; it is one’s humor that is the great thing. Our friend was intelligent, and he could not help that. He lounged through Belgium and Holland and the Rhineland, through Switzerland and Northern Italy, planning about nothing, but seeing everything. (67) In Views A-Foot, Bayard Taylor described “English tourists” who were so engrossed in their guidebooks that “they sat and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely lifting their eyes to the real scenes” (54). This is far from Newman’s approach. James’s American has an outward disdain for a traveler’s “undue solicitude for ‘culture,’” for the fixation on what one is supposed to appreciate that replaces real experience with the words of guidebooks. What Newman dislikes is not the culture itself 304 but the act of “dawdling” about during its supposed acquisition. Rather than dwelling on the process of sight-seeing, Newman wants everything to have been seen. Yet he does not, like the typical tourist, wish only to have the cultural capital of having been there. Instead, Newman wants to acquire the best of everywhere with the least effort. Achieving this aim, he manages to acquire the cultural content of Europe without dwelling on the acts of touring and traveling. Newman is both the consummate tourist and its antithesis. His uncanny intelligence and capacity for observation allow him to see everything without becoming mired in the touristic apparatus that, in attempting to facilitate the seeing of Europe, risks replacing genuine experience with an empty pantomime of travel. Newman’s unusual ability to engage in real “travel” while following the beaten track of tourism is mirrored in his relation to the French language. Just as Newman desires to see the best that Europe has to offer, he also wants to learn French. Before M. Nioche offers to give Newman lessons, the thought that he could learn the language had not crossed the American’s mind. “But isn’t it awfully difficult,” Newman asks, and he admits, “Hang me if I should ever have thought of it! I took for granted it was impossible” (24-25). And yet, once Newman believes it would be possible to learn a foreign language, the idea instantly appeals to him. He remarks, “I suppose that the more a man knows the better,” and “I suppose it would help me a great deal, knocking about Paris, to know the language” (24). Just like Cooper and other earlier travelers, Newman regards language acquisition as an aid to worthwhile travel and an intellectual improvement. Nevertheless, it appears that Newman’s lofty aims will be foiled by his own naiveté and by the duplicity of the Nioches. Noémie’s father has never taught French before, and “[i]t never occurred to Newman to ask him for a guarantee of his skill in 305 imparting instruction” (24). The reader is thus led to believe that, due to the American’s innocence in such worldly matters, the quality of Newman’s French instruction will be no better than that of the odious copy he has just purchased. Despite this flaw in Newman’s instruction, he appears peculiarly successful in his plan to learn French. 7 Even before the lessons begin, Newman is able to ask a local woman a question because “[h]e had begun to learn French” (51). Later, Noémie’s praise of Newman’s progress may not be entirely trustworthy, but the American responds to her banter with an apropos French phrase, “proving that he had learned more French than he admitted” (62). Indeed, M. Nioche’s instruction must be better than either man could have hoped, for by the end of the novel, Newman is able to “translate poor M. de Bellegarde’s French” for Mrs. Bread, who has lived in France for decades (268). Later, when Newman meets Urbain’s wife outside of the convent, they appear to have a complex and detailed conversation in French. At the end of a long paragraph of Madame de Bellegarde’s speech, James adds, “‘You know’—this was said in English—‘we have a plan for a little amusement’” (279). If, as this interjection seems to indicate, the rest of the conversation was in French, Newman has attained a degree of fluency to rival that of James himself. Thus, while Newman’s commercialism and his provincial behavior in the Louvre seem to mark him as the crass epitome of the ugly American tourist, this initial characterization is undermined as the novel progresses by his apparent facility with linguistic and cultural acquisition, demonstrating how the tourism revolution can result in a new kind of cosmopolitanism. 7 Fussell even suggests, “If The American had a subtitle it might be Learning French” (49). He also argues that Newman’s gradual acquisition of French is central to his “progressive characterization” (44). 306 Nevertheless, James’s treatment of French, though radically different from Twain’s views of foreign language, is also a significant departure from earlier models of linguistic cosmopolitanism. While Cooper called attention to the inherent differences of language, often leaving foreign language untranslated for that reason, James presents the translation between English and French as effortless and transparent. When Newman and Noémie first meet, they have an entire conversation without a common language. “Combien,” which James labels as “the single word which constituted the strength of [Newman’s] French vocabulary,” may be sufficient to indicate that the American wishes to purchase Noémie’s execrable copy, but their exchange is saturated with further interpretive leaps (19). When Noémie remarks, “It’s a very beautiful subject,” Newman is able to reply, “The Madonna, yes” (19-20). When Noémie justifies her exorbitant price by saying, “But my copy has remarkable qualities; it is worth nothing less,” James explains Newman’s uncanny comprehension only so far as to remark that the American “apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman’s phrase” (20). In the exchange that follows, James ingeniously ends each statement with an English-French cognate—finish, delicate, address, constant, capricious—implying that each interlocutor has caught this final word and used its likely translation to guess the entire statement’s meaning. For example, when Newman insists, “I am very faithful, I am very constant. Comprenez?” Noémie is able to reply, “Monsieur is constant. I understand perfectly” (21). Despite the obvious help of shared vocabulary, such partial understanding can be just as faulty as total incomprehension, as Cooper’s treatment of imperfect cross-cultural communication has demonstrated. But Newman and Noémie are remarkable for their 307 ability to bypass any difficulties of grammar or variations in pronunciation. James makes some effort to explain this half-magical understanding as a combination of intuition and being a person “upon whom nothing is lost” (cf. James’s “House of Fiction”), but the ease, accuracy, and frequency with which Newman makes such guesses combine to create the impression that the “language barrier” between the Americans and the French is so permeable as to be hardly a barrier at all. Indeed, Christopher Newman’s encounter with the Old World has as much in common with Cooper’s presentation of Columbus as with the earlier author’s European travels. When Columbus encountered the natives of the Caribbean, he marveled at the utter alienness of their language and culture, but at the same time laid claim to an almost supernatural perception of their meaning, at least when such meaning suited his purposes. At the time of Cooper’s career, the Americans involved in the United States’ own exploration and expansion shared Columbus’s Orientalist approach to cultural difference and his expectation of transparent translation. In contrast, Americans traveling to Europe in the same period tended to value both the languages and the cultures they encountered in the Old World. In The American, however, James presents an encounter with French that mirrors Columbus’s reaction to the native Caribbean languages rather than Cooper’s travel to Europe. Following the exchange of cognates just cited, Newman and Noémie discuss his namesake: “Droll?” said Mr. Newman, laughing too. “Did you ever hear of Christopher Columbus?” “Bien sûr! He invented America; a very great man. And he is your patron?” “My patron?” “Your patron-saint, in the calendar.” 308 “Oh, exactly, my parents named me for him.” “Monsieur is American?” “Don’t you see it?” monsieur inquired. “And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?” and she explained her phrase with a gesture. (21). Newman echoes Columbus by crossing the Atlantic to find “a new world” (35). But he also shares the admiral’s claimed ability to understand the various signs and gestures of the people he meets in that foreign land with little doubt or difficulty. Newman and Noémie’s mutual understanding may be believable, but only barely. When describing Newman’s touristic acumen later in the novel, James summarizes his faculty of seamless interpretation: “he emerged from dialogues in foreign tongues, of which he had, formally, not understood a word, in full possession of the particular fact he had desired to ascertain” (66). Like Columbus searching for signs of land, gold, or the Great Kahn, Newman always seems able to comprehend the information he seeks, possessing it as fully as Columbus claimed to possess the New World for Spain. At the same time, Newman also mirrors Columbus in his condescending bemusement with the differences of the country he visits. When Valentin warns Newman that his family are “a very strange people,” the American responds, “Very good . . . that’s the sort of thing I came to Europe for. You come into my programme” (109). This paradoxical combination of incomprehensible exoticism and easy translatability mirrors perfectly the attitudes not only of Columbus but of most Americans and Europeans in colonial or imperial encounters. As Sara Blair has argued at length, James’s work shares numerous affinities with the genre of ethnography, although Blair argues that it is the “American ‘national 309 type’” that is “comparatively ‘savage’” (15). 8 In contrast, the several parallels between Newman and Columbus suggest, as Rowe observes, that Newman is as much imperialist as “barbarian” (“Henry” 231; “Nationalism” 253). In The American, the ethnographer’s view of foreignness has been translated from savage others to the previously admired culture of Europe. Moreover, as in Mercedes of Castile, in which Cooper juxtaposes issues of linguistic translation with the similar incommensurability of economic exchange between cultures, Newman’s lessons in French, though framed as gentlemanly conversation, are perpetually imbricated in the marketplace of economic exchange. From the beginning, not only does Noémie suggest the lessons as yet another way to open the American’s pocketbook, but her father admits that he has learned English from “a great commerçant” who got the young Nioche a position at “a counting-house in England” (25). This influence on Nioche’s English partially explains why one benefit of the lessons for Newman is “an interest in French thriftiness” and “a lively admiration for Parisian economics” (56). Moreover, the lessons commence as part of the bargain for several additional copies that Newman will purchase to help pay Noémie’s dowry—her own price, although not the one she ends up accepting. Newman’s French is thus one more commodity in a marketplace including culture, knowledge, and women (see note 6). A later description of the lessons further heightens this connection between language and economics. James writes, “The shrunken little capitalist repeated his visit more than once. He seemed oppressed by a humiliating sense of having been overpaid, and wished 8 Similarly, in her study of the novel of manners, Nancy Bentley compares James and several other writers to ethnographers (4). 310 apparently to redeem his debt by offer of grammatical and statistical information in small installments” (128-29). Although the initial bargain was made with the promise of real Parisian conversation and without setting a price, Nioche’s visits are purely economic endeavors. For him, language is a commodity that he can use to offset Newman’s previous generosity. He balances the need for a kind of ethical solvency with the desire for monetary gain. Thus, James follows both Cooper and Melville in portraying the transference of translation as one of the many exchanges of goods and meaning across different cultures. When Newman is rejected by the Bellegardes for such interest in commerce, however, he again takes the position of Columbus, devaluing as trifles the currency of a system of exchange he cannot understand. Some time after the blow of losing Claire, Newman observes the “stream of carriages” in Hyde Park: Newman, as usual, marveled at the strange dingy figures which he saw taking the air in some of the stateliest vehicles. They reminded him of what he had read of eastern and southern countries, in which grotesque idols and fetiches were sometimes taken out of their temples and carried abroad in golden chariots to be displayed to the multitude. (295-96) Not only does Newman reject the value of the ancient and noble heritage that has made such figures so “dingy,” but, like any American imperialist, he labels as “fetish” and “grotesque” what he cannot understand. Although her focus is on James’s later work, Nancy Bentley has closely examined the affinity between “[t]he fetishizing descriptions of furniture and art that we see in the pages of James or Veblen” and the genre of ethnography (126). She explains that, while “[t]he fetish was a sign for the unreal or irrational value, . . . the sign itself had acquired a new reality from the museum and from the shared public discourse through which a solid world of commodities was named” 311 (127). In The American, too, James questions the value of the nobility he seems to fetishize, but this labeling of the foreign as incomprehensible can indicate a rejection of difference as well as the enlightened critique of commodity culture Bentley suggests. 9 In the end, this correspondence with imperialist depictions of cross-cultural exchange confirms Rowe’s suggestion that “The American may well be a subtle warning to James’s readers, as well as to James’s own literary ambitions, that the international destiny of the self-reliant American may have more in common with the imperial claimants of [Europe] than we in our democratic enthusiasm are willing to admit” (“Politics” 93). Reading the economic exchanges in the novel alongside the history of linguistic encounters in American travel writing reveals the growing similarity between America’s relations to its imperial possessions and its attitudes toward the rest of the “civilized” world. Indeed, the suggestion of fetishism in Newman’s relation to the culture of Paris illustrates an important difference between Cooper’s cosmopolitan view of European cultural difference and the new cosmopolitanism of the late nineteenth century. Looking at James’s work more broadly, Katz describes how the “cosmopolite,” James’s archetype of the worldly expatriate, has a “tendency to reify others into nothing but sheer embodiments of a totalized cultural practice,” and that this “reification can move not only in the direction of prejudice, but also in what might seem the opposite: that of mystified adoration” (34). Whether the new American abroad scorns European difference or 9 James Buzard offers yet another perspective on James’s presentation of European culture: “the urge to ‘take part’ in a foreign culture is chiefly demonstrable by ‘taking a part’ of the culture—that is by actual or imaginary acts of what James called ‘appropriation.’ The question he repeatedly confronted, though, was whether an attempt to show that one has successfully appropriated a culture does not ultimately place one in complicity with the ‘touristic’ forces that are charged with bastardizing and commodifying the culture” (216). 312 fetishizes it, the blurred distinctions between the national and the foreign emphasized by Cooper solidify into an “us vs. them” mentality, supporting the most rigid sense of national boundaries. So even when the new cosmopolite becomes American expatriate, the barrier of cultural and linguistic difference remains just as solid as the division between civilization and savagery. As the preceding reading might suggest, it is extremely difficult to present a unified interpretation of Newman’s position in relation to both French language and culture. On the one hand, he seems to be the perfect model of Twain’s provincial American abroad, but on the other, his dedication to learning French, and to making the most out of his travels intellectually—instead of merely following the outer forms of tourism in order to acquire superficial cultural capital—suggest an affinity with an earlier model of cosmopolitanism. At the same time, and despite James’s own multilingualism, the difficulties of language difference and translation are not given the careful attention in The American that they receive in the European travel writing of Cooper and his contemporaries. Rather than feeling an admiration of foreign culture, James’s American approaches Europe with the assumption of easy translatability and cultural superiority that was once the purview of imperialist endeavors. It is not surprising, however, that James’s novel should contain such contradictions, because there is a radical disjuncture within the genre and plot of the novel itself. As the work shifts from novel of manners to revenge plot, the subtle play with the themes of culture, exchange, and tourism that characterizes the opening chapters is replaced by what several critics have identified as melodrama (Brooks 55; Tuttleton 104). 313 As the novel approaches its conclusion, Newman discovers that the Bellegardes’ old English housekeeper Mrs. Bread possesses a mysterious deathbed letter from the late Marquis that might implicate his widow in some horrible crime. Mrs. Bread claims not to have read the letter she kept for so many years because it was written in French, but several critics have doubted the plausibility of this story. Frank, for example, questions Mrs. Bread’s claim “that she does not know enough French ever to have read the note,” particularly “after a lifetime spent in a French household,” and further points out that if she in fact did not know what the note said, she would have shown more eagerness for Newman to translate it for her (56). 10 However plausible it might be that Mrs. Bread cannot read French after so long a residence in the country—it is difficult to comprehend, but it seems equally difficult for a fully literate person to imagine being able to read but not to write—her lack of curiosity about the letter can be explained by her belief that she already knows what it contains. 11 She tells Newman: “I believe it was this way. He had a fit of his great pain, and he asked her for his medicine. Instead of giving it to him she went and poured it away, before his eyes. Then he saw what she meant, and, weak and helpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified. ‘You want to kill me,’ he said. ‘Yes, M. le Marquis, I want to kill you,’ says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him. You know my lady’s eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him; it was with the terrible strong will she put into them.” (267) 10 John A. Clair further suggests that James “deliberately draws Mrs. Bread as a scheming woman intent upon blackmailing the Bellegardes through Newman—or Newman himself, if necessary—to effect a financially secure existence for life” (615). 11 Fussell explains: “She speaks both English and French; she can read English only; she can write neither tongue” (53). 314 This scenario is undeniably melodramatic, and it is entirely understandable that Mrs. Bread’s certainty about what occurred should cast doubt on her story, suggesting that she might have played a larger role in the drama than she is inclined to admit. Yet, when compared to Newman’s experience of linguistic encounter, Mrs. Bread’s extrapolation of Madame de Bellegarde’s involvement from what little she claims to know is no less credible than the other moments of near-telepathic translation that occur throughout the novel. In fact, Mrs. Bread’s uncanny interpretation of the letter she supposedly cannot read is remarkably similar to the leaps of interpretation Newman and Noémie take in the opening scene. In all such examples, language difference is a non-issue. Meaning is available for easy appropriation in the same way that, for the ideal tourist at least, European culture is to be had for the taking. For the enterprising American, the once contrasting “civilized” culture of Europe and “savage” culture of the rest of the world are equally accessible and, more tellingly, equally obtainable. The real disjunction of the novel is not the drastic shift to melodrama, but the way the new American cosmopolitanism slips into a kind of cultural and linguistic imperialism. Taken as a whole, the plot seems to suggest that European difference is ultimately untranslatable— Newman can never truly fathom why the Bellegardes are unable to accept a “commercial person.” But Newman’s inability to translate the Bellegardes’ objections into values his American mind can understand is offset by the apparent ease with which he acquired the French language and his uncanny knack for understanding complex French conversation after only a few months of causal study. 315 In the end, despite Newman’s regret to not have frightened the Bellegardes as much as he had hoped, the novel concludes with apparent admiration for what Mrs. Tristram calls his “remarkable good nature,” a defining characteristic of this representative American (309). Perhaps, then, James means the reader to think that Newman is better off not understanding the obscure values of the old aristocracy. In contrast to Twain’s linguistic difficulties, for James, most of European language and culture is easily acquired, and what remains—including the antique notions of honor that cause both Newman’s rejection and Valentin’s death—are not worth understanding. This conclusion is likely influenced by James’s own experiences in Paris while composing the novel. As Long describes: In one respect, James’s stay in Paris had something in common with Christopher Newman’s experience of it in the novel. After crossing the Atlantic, he proclaimed to his family: “I take possession of the old world—I inhale it—I appropriate it!” Yet in his letters of that year, he complains of his limited access to Parisian life, his failure to penetrate very far beyond the city’s small, enclosed American colony; and his columns to the Tribune continually suggest a spectator-outsider. (Henry 46) 12 Peter Brooks further suggests that “it may have been James’s very cosmopolitanism that doomed him to outsider status” because his works did not fit into the cannon of the particularly French writers of Paris (48-49). Despite his usually cosmopolitan image, James’s early experiences in Paris reveal an impermeable barrier between American and 12 Peter Brooks comments on similar feelings, explaining how, despite the fact that James “had the requisite command both of the French language and of French culture, and he had been admitted to the most exclusive literary circle in France[,] . . . he felt excluded and lonely” (48). Likewise Martha Banta describes how “[t]he twelve months that had launched the story of Christopher Newman’s confrontation with the ‘walls’ of Parisian society marked a difficult period during which James himself had had to come to terms with those elements—internal as well as external—that seemed to prevent him from becoming the cosmopolitan man he urgently desired to be” (7). 316 European society. Mirroring his author’s failure, Newman’s plans to join the Bellegarde family are also frustrated by the incommensurability of French culture, despite the frequent ease of linguistic translation. Yet the cultural values that Newman finds so incomprehensible are ultimately deemed worthless both by the rejected American and by his equally rejected and defensive author. The American, then, depicts a world of rigid national boundaries that cannot fully be crossed, even by those who might wish to do so. Newman may be more cosmopolite than tourist, but the new cosmopolitanism of both the character and his author proves far more narrowly nationalistic than the cosmopolitanism of earlier periods. Like the imperialism of Columbus, it combines an underestimation of translation’s difficulties with a strict dichotomy between one’s own culture and the unknowable Other. James’s novel is a fitting conclusion for this study because it presents a new dialectic of cosmopolitanism and nationalism. On one hand, James and the many American expatriates who followed him might seem to contrast sharply with the provinciality of Twain’s nationalistic attitudes and with the popular views of the American tourists Twain depicts. When viewed through the lens of translation and imperialist discourse, however, James’s new approach to foreign language and culture presents a different kind of cosmopolitanism than that found in Cooper. Cooper’s desire to negotiate the value of both European history and American innovation was based in a respect for the nuances of cultural difference. While James shares Cooper’s root desire to take what is valuable from Europe without denying American principles, he limits what he considers valuable to that which is easily translatable—both easily understood and 317 unproblematically converted to dollars and cents (or, indeed, that which easily translates into both dollars and sense). Anything that will not translate is not worth understanding on its own terms, but should be rejected outright. Despite James’s own extensive acquisition of European language and culture, then, his work affirms what can be seen throughout Twain’s travel writings—the new rigidity of national boundaries and the failure of the Enlightenment’s cosmopolitan ideal. As the United States moved more firmly into the position of world power in the final decades of the nineteenth century, it began to view the cultural and linguistic differences of Europe with the prejudice previously reserved for non-Western lands. The changing nature of American travel to Europe is but one aspect of this shift to American prominence. However, as attention to the representation of foreign language reveals, the “ugly American” tourist depicted by both Twain and James is the product not only of the mass culture of tourism, but also of the expansionist and imperialist policies of the United States on a global scale. Newman’s fetishization of European culture thus represents a new kind of Orientalism that could be called, unmelodiously, Old World-ism. Whether admired or scored, European differences are reified, even by the new breed of cosmopolitan expatriates that James describes. Accordingly, while the acceptance of Western and non-Western difference found in Cooper and Melville represents the continuation of Enlightenment cosmopolitanism in the first half of the nineteenth century, Twain and James depict two new attitudes toward cultural difference arising from the United States’ increased prominence on the international stage. The “ugly American” tourists Twain describes are the precursors to the countless ignorant and xenophobic travelers who continued to depart America’s 318 shores well into the twentieth century. Yet the high-brow bastions of culture are not immune to the same nationalistic trend, as the example of James demonstrates. 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work_bw37el6ryracpdbvz2rd4zakwm	----	A Proposal for Legalising Small-Scale Physical Copyright Piracy Book Publishing, Video Films and Music in Developing Countries1 Volker Grassmuck vgrass@rz.hu-berlin.de – RFC Draft – Berlin, 27 May 2008 minor edits on 1 November 2009 http://www.vgrass.de/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/08-05_Acta-Media_Piracy.pdf Abstract The paper looks at the formative phase of media systems particularly in developing nations. It finds that copyright piracy in those situations serves a purpose not only in providing access to knowledge and creative works to audiences who would otherwise be excluded but also as the original accumulation of media infrastructures, know-how and capital that over time leads to the establishment of original forms of creative expression and legal media industries. Looking at the examples of the publishing of books by foreign authors in 19th century USA, the emergence of the video film industry in Nigeria and briefly at the popular dance music in northern Brazil it shows the beneficial effects of piracy. From a public policy point of view, the paper then considers the benefits of copyright piracy and its harms, the most severe ones of which are caused by its illegality. In order to balance benefits and harms, it concludes by proposing to legalise small-scale physical copyright piracy in developing nations. Keywords piracy, copyright law, informal copyrights, access to knowledge, book publishing in 19th century USA, Nollywood, Tecnobrega 1 The research for this paper was conducted in the framework of the project “Bild, Schrift, Zahl in der Turing Galaxis” (2004–2007) at Humboldt University Berlin and received a grant from Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. 1 Table of Contents Prelude: Piracy in Paradise.........................................................................................................3 Piracy..........................................................................................................................................4 Pirate Nations............................................................................................................................. 7 The United States of America: Books................................................................................... 8 Strategies in markets for creative goods in the absence of copyright...............................9 Nigeria: Video Films............................................................................................................14 Origin of Nollywood.......................................................................................................17 Strategies in markets for creative goods in the absence of copyright.............................21 Why in Nigeria?.............................................................................................................. 24 Brazil: Tecnobrega............................................................................................................... 25 Legalising small-scale physical copyright piracy.................................................................... 27 Could it be justified?............................................................................................................31 Bibliography............................................................................................................................. 35 2 Prelude: Piracy in Paradise A tree to be desired to make one wise. (Genesis 3.6) When the Christian god commanded Adam and Eve not to eat the apples of a certain tree in the Garden of Eden, he imposed the first knowledge regulation. The fruits contained knowledge to which its owner claimed exclusive rights and did not give permission to anyone to make use of. Being god, one would think he could have devised some access and copy protection technology to make sure his will was not disobeyed, but obviously not even a god can change the inherently public nature of information. With the storage medium in clear sight and nothing but the human‘s obedience between them and the wisdom it contained, along came the serpent, the first middleman and forefather of all marketing, and lured Eve with the promise of the apple of knowledge: your eyes shall be opened and you shall have the same knowledge as he who claims exclusive rights to it. Eve took it without the permission of its owner and shared it with Adam. And they knew that they were naked, and they made themselves a cover from fig leaves, after, one may assume, finding out what those parts they had noticed for the first time were good for. Thus the original sin of piracy was not only the necessary prerequisite for knowing good and evil, it also immediately led to the invention of sex, apparel and therefore culture. They vilify us, the scoundrels do, when there is only this difference, they rob the poor under the cover of law, forsooth, and we plunder the rich under the protection of our own courage. (Captain Bellamy) In „Das Kapital“ Marx addresses an economic hen-and-egg problem: money is transformed into capital which produces surplus value which is again transformed into capital. However, accumulation of capital presupposes surplus value which presupposes capitalist production which requires the presence of large masses of capital and labour power in the hands of producers. „This whole movement,“ he writes, „seems to turn around in an erroneous circle from which we can only escape by assuming an 'original' accumulation ('previous accumulation' in Adam Smith) that precedes capitalist accumulation, an accumulation, which is not the result of the capitalist mode of production but its starting point. „This original accumulation plays roughly the same role in political economy as the Original Fall in theology. Adam bit into the apple, and thus sin came onto humankind. Its origin is explained by telling it as anecdote from the past.”2 The original accumulation takes two distinct forms. In the bourgeois struggle against the old feudal system it refers to the separation of the producer from the means of production, the expropriation of the farmers from their means of subsistence. In the process that takes its classical form in England large masses of people were suddenly and forcefully torn from the land and thrown onto the labour market as 'free' proletarians. 'Free' very much in the sense of 2 Marx, 1867: 741 (my translation) 3 Janis Joplin of nothing left to loose, of having nothing left to sell but their own skin. The second form started with the colonisation of the globe. „The discovery of gold and silver in America, the extirpation, enslavement and entombment in mines of the aboriginal population, the beginning of the conquest and looting of the East Indies, the turning of Africa into a warren for the commercial hunting of black-skins, signalised the rosy dawn of the era of capitalist production. These idyllic proceedings are the chief moments of original accumulation.“3 In our post-colonial times one might assume that these are anecdotes of the past. A look at a world map teaches us that certainly with respect to intellectual capital the process is still ongoing. The map based on estimated data from 2002 shows earnings from copyrights and patents.4 It dramatically visualises the unequal distribution of the benefits of the global “intellectual property” system. Over half (53%, US$ 44 billion) of the value of all royalty and license fees paid in 2002 were received in one territory: the United States. Large proportions of these fees were also received in Western European countries and in Japan. This does not mean, of course, that no music, art or medical knowledge is being created in Latin America or Africa. It does mean that the profits from the exploitation of this creativity flow to the North. Piracy While the phenomenon might be as old as humankind, the word is not. Before certain illicit acts with respect to knowledge came to be called ‚piracy,‘ techniques of seafaring had to be 3 Ibid.: 779 4 http://www.worldmapper.org/display.php?selected=168. #Permission pending. 4 Illustration 1: worldmapper.org: world by royalties. Territory size shows the proportion of worldwide earnings (in purchasing power parity) from royalties and license fees that are earned there. invented. We owe the word, like so many other things, to the Greeks (peirates, peiratikos).5 Through Latin ‚pirata, piraticus‘ it entered the Roman languages. In the 13th century ‚pirate‘ was used for a kind of ship. By the 17th century the word firmly connoted a robber at sea, a free-booting bandit, an outlaw and a rebel, also a kind of guerilla fighting for his or her 6 country with somewhat less gentlemanly methods than the etiquette of warfare demanded, privateers plundering the enemy‘s lands with or without the approval of their worldly and otherworldly lords and at their own profit. Etymology points to a number of words in close proximity, like ‚buccaneer,‘ ‚corsair,‘ ‚filibuster‘ and 'yankee.' Pirates played a role in plundering the colonies, especially those of other powers. In the 19 th century the word also took on an anti-colonial meaning. A key document is Jose Rizal‘s anti- nation-forming novel El Filibusterismo (1891). In the introduction to his 1961 translation into English, Leon Ma. Guerrero quotes from a letter by Rizal to his friend, the Austrian anthropologist Blumentritt: „The word Filibusterismo is very little known in the Philippines. The masses do not know it yet. I heard is for the first time in 1872 when the tragic executions took place. I still remember the panic that this word evoked. Our father forbade us to say it... The Manila Newspapers and the Spaniards use this word to describe those whom they want to render suspect of revolutionary activities. The educated Filipinos fear its scope: It does not have the meaning of pirate; it means rather a dangerous patriot who will soon be on the gallows, or else a conceited fellow.“7 Guerrero adds that it seemed to him that the title of the novel Filibusterismo „can only be translated for the present generation as ‚subversion‘ if it is to be correctly understood as a non-conformist attitude of mind, as an overt attempt to overthrow an established order of society.“8 Before one could speak of ‚copyright piracy,‘ obviously, copyright had to be invented in the first place. But when it was it did not take long, in fact, it seems that ‚copyright‘ and ‚piracy‘ emerged simultaneously. A dictionary from 1755 gives as the first meaning the conventional ‚sea-robber‘ and in second place: „Any robber; particularly a bookseller who seizes the copies of other men.“9 In this sense, for example, David Hume, in his letter on the law of copyright in 1774, speaks of a possible „pyrated Edition“ of his essays.10 A recent addition to the phenomenology of piracy is biopiracy. It refers to the taking and exploitation of the knowledge of natural resources of indigenous peoples of the South by 5 S. various historical dictionaries on piracy: http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Garden/5213/english.htm 6 Not to forget the famous female pirates (see http://www.beaglebay.com/womenpirateslist.htm). 7 Rizal 2006: xi. The „tragic executions“ that took place in February of 1872, was that of three priests for their alleged role in the anti-cololinal uprising in Cavete. 8 Ibid. 9 A Dictionary of the English Language by Samuel Johnson, A.M. - London: W. Strahan, 1755, http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Garden/5213/english.htm 10 Hume 1774. 5 pharmaceutical corporations in the North. Today the historic pirates at sea and, through appropriation by their contemporary descendants in the digital age, also the data-pirates and hackers have taken on a positive image, signifying the power of the underdog, using superior skills to turning techniques and technologies developed by the rich and mighty against them, communities of outlaws taking from the rich sharing equally among themselves, living risky, celebrating wild parties, having fun, dying young.11 Pirates are a popular model of identification for the forces of contestation.12 They are so popular indeed, that Disney regularly cashes in on them, thereby reinforcing the power of the image. The movie „Pirates of the Caribbean 2“ helped the corporation double its earnings in the first quarter of the business year 2005/06. The movie was a success in spite of massive interventions by studio bosses in order to minimise risks. For their idea of family wholesomeness and mass-compatibility, what director Gore Verbinski and anti-star Johnny Depp were creating was a figure too stinking dirty, gay and alcoholic. Depp threatened to quit over these interferences into his creative work but the studio did not dare fire him because the first sequel had earned them 650 million US$.13 The movie was, as a matter of course, immediately available from street-vendors across the globe and on the net. This did not prevent Disney from increasing its annual profits by 33 percent to 3.4 billion US$. One may then ask how much harm piracy actually caused and how much it contributed to the success of the “Pirates.” The same corporations that on-screen teach the young that pirates are cool, in the press and in the political arena depict copyright piracy as the worst evil of our age. Now that „piracy“ has become an ambivalent, somewhat old-fashioned, even cute kind of metaphor, the copyrights industry mobilises stronger images. They increasingly evoke a linkage between copyright infringement and organised crime and even terrorism.14 11 Hakim Bey (1985) aka Peter Lamborn Wilson emphatically wrote about „Pirate Utopias,“ „Islands in the Net“ (after Bruce Sterling‘s novel) or, most famously „Temporary Autonomous Zones“. The Chaos Computer Club (http://www.ccc.de) that had seen the light of the public one year before Bey‘s text is waving a flag with the signé of the German then still public post and telecom service, a postal horn, subtly altered into skull and crossbones (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bild:Ccc2003PirateTent.jpg). Hackers and data-pirates were the heroes formulated in the cyberpunk SiFi novels of Sterling, William Gibson and Neal Stephenson. 12 For a current mix of Robin Hood, rebellion, outcasts and copyright infringement, see e.g. the Pyrate Punx: http://www.pyratepunx.net. See also the Kingdom of Piracy: http://kop.fact.co.uk 13 Der Gegendarsteller, Die Weltwoche, Ausgabe 30/06, http://www.weltwoche.ch/artikel/? AssetID=14527&CategoryID=82 14 Talking about imminent dangers of terrorism in South America, Frank C. Urbancic, Principal Deputy Co- ordinator for Counterterrorism in the U.S. Department of State, said in the Committee on International Relations of the U.S. House of Representatives in September 2006: „Hizballah supporters and sympathisers are also involved in a number of illegal activities, including smuggling, drug and arms trafficking, money laundering, fraud, intellectual property piracy, and other transnational crime.“ (http://commdocs.house.gov/committees/intlrel/hfa30143.000/hfa30143_0.HTM#33, p. 33.) Terrorist link to copyright piracy alleged. Counterfeit DVDs and cigarettes may be funding terrorists, CNET, May 27, 2005, http://news.com.com/Terrorist+link+to+copyright+piracy+alleged/2100-1028_3- 5722835.html; Terrorism by Copyright Infringement?, September 29th, 2006, http://interactionlaw.com/wordpress/2006/09/29/terrorism-by-copyright-infringement/; Course materials for „Political Economy of Terrorism“ at Northern Arizona University, http://dana.ucc.nau.edu/~lmo5/politicalEconomy/PoliticalEconomyTerrorism.htm 6 Piracy thus appears to be the dark side of media economy. It is parasitic to creativity and supposedly harms industry, creative people and consumers alike. On a national level it refers to a state of not yet being fully civilised. But is the reverse side of things, is the parasite, the noise,15 the garbage,16 the pirate really a desideratum of order, its exception, something not yet quite cleaned up, not quite under control of the system, or is it one of its constitutive genetic forces, asks philosopher and historian of science Michel Serres. His answer: „No system without parasite.“17 In Serres‘ seminal analysis the parasite operates on the lines of communications and transportation. He intercepts goods and information. He establishes himself as an intermediary wherever he finds an incline of either. For the system he fulfils a productive function by opening channels between regions that are not linked otherwise. He brings information to audiences who are excluded from it. He also takes his toll, although, how much harm to economic interests he actually causes is contested. 18 He sets up a temporary autonomous zone in the interstices of power. „The producer is concerned with content, the parasite with position. He who cares about position will always beat him who cares about content.”19 To sum up: Communication systems and parasite, shipping and naval piracy, copyright and its infringement are systemically, intrinsically linked. They cannot be separated. From a public policy point of view therefore eradication of piracy (just as that of drugs) cannot be a meaningful goal. It must rather strive to strike a balance between its benefits and its harms. The public debate is dominated by the arguments for its harm. This paper therefore focusses on the benefits of piracy. Pirate Nations If copyright pirates are indeed part and parcel of any market for creative goods, what is their function? Can their distribution networks be utilised for legitimate content? Can pirates turn into creators? Can a situation of systematic piracy be sustained at all? Would creativity not simply cease or go elsewhere? In the absence of legal copyrights what strategies do creatives and the exploiters of their works develop to protect their interests? In order to approach these questions we will look at three cases. First we will look at the United States of America during the 19th century during which the systematic illegal importation of technologies and the reprinting of foreign books that only received copyright protection in 1891 played a crucial role in turning it from a developing country into the leading industrial and culture industry nation. In the second case, the Nigerian film industry provides us with one of the most fascinating 15 Larkin 2004: 307 16 Volker Grassmuck & Christian Unverzagt, Das Müll-System, Suhrkamp, FfM 1991 17 Serres 1981: 26 18 E.g. that there is no negative effect by file-sharing on sales of music has been shown consistently by independent empirical academic research starting from Oberholzer and Strumpf‘s paper in 2004 to Bhattacharjee et al.‘s study on the dynamics of music album life-cycle in 2007. 19 Serres 1981: 63 7 from-piracy-rags-to-popular-culture-riches stories of our times. Piracy here functions as a crucial factor in the original accumulation of capital, infrastructure and skills for legitimate media business. In the 1990s, it kick-started a film industry that today is considered to be the third-largest after Hollywood and Bollywood. And finally we will take a brief look at Tecnobrega, a genre of popular dance music in the north of Brazil that by utilising the pirate infrastructure of duplication facilities, distributors and street vendors has also created an impressive media market. The United States of America: Books After declaring itself independent from the English colonial motherland, the USA was a poor underdeveloped country on the periphery of the world. During the 19th century it transformed itself into a leading industrial power. How did the USA do it, asks Fordham University historian Doron Ben-Atar, and he points to the phrase “Yankee ingenuity.” "Yankee" originates from the Flemish word “Janke” for smuggler, pirate.20 In his ground-breaking study Trade Secrets Ben-Atar shows how the USA laid the foundation for its success by systematically resorting to piracy. „In the span of seventy years an agricultural republic with some household manufactures that had more in common with the Middle Ages than with the industrial world transformed itself into a world leader of cutting-edge industrial technology. American machines and the ‚American system of manufacturing,‘ as the British press called it, became models for worldwide imitation. Like modern developing nations, early in its history the United States violated intellectual property laws of rivals in order to catch up technologically. Integration into the international community required that the government of the United States distance itself from such rogue operations. In the process the United States had come full circle. The fledgling republic, once committed to technology piracy, had become the primary technology exporter in the world. The years of piracy upon which the new status was founded, however, were erased from the national memory. The intellectual debt to imported and pirated technology did not turn the United States into the champion of free exchange of mechanical know-how. As the technology began to flow eastward across the Atlantic, the United States emerged as the world‘s foremost advocate of extending intellectual property to the international sphere.“21 Ben-Atar's piracy study focusses on technology, a field in which the U.S. early on was internationally competitive, leading to a strong domestic patent system and to the U.S. taking a leadership role in international patent conventions.22 The piracy strategy is even more pronounced in copyright where domestic laws were weak and the U.S. did not join the core international treaty until more than one hundred years after its promulgation. In the 18th century, Massachusetts was the only American province that gave some recognition to the principle of copyright.23 In January 1783 Connecticut‘s General Assembly enacted a copyright law stating that „every author should be secured in receiving the profits that may 20 http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=Yankee 21 Ben-Atar 2004: 214 22 The first international patent convention was held in Austria in 1873, at the suggestion of the United States which at the time was already granting equal rights to foreign patentees. 23 Ibid.: 32 8 arise from the sale of his works, and such security may encourage men of learning.“ On its urging, the Continental Congress established a committee on this matter that led to Congress in May of that year recommending that the states pass copyright laws granting a fourteen- year ownership of books written by citizens of the United States. „The resolution explicitly denied protection to foreign authors, thus encouraging the unauthorised reprinting of mostly British authors in North America.“24 It was only in 1891 that the USA allowed foreign authors to obtain copyright protection if they met certain conditions. 25 Economist Zorina Khan conducted empirical research on the effects of this policy. Her conclusion: “The results suggest that the United States benefited from copyright piracy and that its intellectual property regime was endogenous to the level of economic development.”26 Khan cites several researchers who argue that laws and enforcement mechanisms for the protection of intellectual property rights are relevant to the needs of already developed countries, “whereas newly industrialising societies (at least initially) may not benefit from their adoption or may need to tailor patent and copyright polices to fit their own specific circumstances.”27 To approach this issue one would have to estimate, says Khan, both static welfare gains from infringement in developing societies versus the costs to the owners of copyright, as well as dynamic effects of infringements in these countries. The latter would have to consider the costs of imitation and of adapting pirated material to a different environment, the role of learning by doing and the extent to which comparative advantage builds on cumulative innovation.28 Reliable current data on piracy dynamics for such an estimation are not available. Instead Khan takes the key era of protectionist U.S. American economic growth, from 1790 through 1891 when federal copyright statutes explicitly condoned piracy of foreign works, as a natural experiment, basing her research on copyright registrations, biographical information on authors, market data of publishing companies and copyright lawsuits. Let us now look at the media environment she describes from the viewpoints of the different parties involved. “The reading public appears to have gained from the lack of copyright which increased access to foreign works. American authors and the public were able to obtain foreign books at prices that were lower than in European markets, and this aided the expansion of a mass market and economies of scale in publishing in the United States.”29 In other words, piracy was instrumental in originally establishing the infrastructure on top of which later on a legitimate media market for both domestic and foreign works developed. Strategies in markets for creative goods in the absence of copyright The way publishers of foreign authors dealt with the situation is most instructive because 24 Ibid.: 125 f. 25 For the “manufacturing clauses” on which protection was conditioned see Khan 2004: 10. 26 Kahn 2007: 2 27 Referring to work by C. Fink and K. E. Maskus, W. P. Alford and S. Vaidhyanathan (Khan 2007: 3). 28 Ibid.: 6 29 Ibid.: 28 9 today's copyright maximalists would make us believe that in the absence of copyright protection no sustainable market could develop. A publisher, even if he does not have to pay royalties, needs to make a large fixed investment that he cannot recouped if the sales of the book are low due to competing publishers printing the same book. Unrestricted competition would also lead us to expect prices to be driven down to marginal cost. To avoid such ruinous competition publishers developed several strategies such as being first in the market, forming cartels and fixing prices, price discrimination and informal customs- based copyrights. “The first producer could saturate the market and others would suffer from their excess inventories. In the early years of the nineteenth century firms engaged in publication races in order to be the first in the market with popular books such as the works of Sir Walter Scott. A Waverley novel could be reprinted within twenty four hours through a gang system where the book was divided among as many as a dozen printers working at full capacity.”30 A consequence of such races was poor quality and a greater likelihood of mistakes and deliberate alterations. Sloppy proof-reading, printing and binding, abridgements and errata not included seem to have been common.31 In this sense piracy harmed the readers. But Khan notes that this tendency was countered by publishers building a reputation for quality. On an increasingly demanding market price discrimination by quality became an option that outweighed speed.32 But speed did remain crucial. In order to get new titles from England first, publishers employed agents to send them to the U.S. They also started to buy early proof sheets to get an advantage over competitors. In order to secure early sheets, publishers made significant payments to foreign authors in the form of royalties or lump sums.33 E.g. the publishing firm Ticknor and Fields (the precursor of Houghton Mifflin) sent several unsolicited payments over the years to Tennyson out of profits on his poetry reprints. “Such payments ... were recognised by reputable publishers as 'copyrights,'” even though they were not enforceable at law. In this way foreign authors did get remunerated by the pirates. They also resorted to mobilising the public opinion against piracy of their books. E.g. Charles Dickens during his lectures and readings in the U.S. bitterly complained about the practice. Challenging their reputation might have been another incentive for U.S. publishers to obtain authorisation. Dickens in fact, was very skilful in playing U.S. publishers off against each other, with as many as four companies paying him large sums for the claim to be his sole U.S. representative.”34 Collusion among competitors was another strategy employed by the publishers to reduce risk and establish what Khan calls artificial or synthetic copyrights. In England publishers of works in the public domain, such as those by Shakespeare and Fielding, had formed strictly 30 Ibid.: 21 31 E.g. Carey & Lea’s edition of Sir Walter Scott's The Pirate (orig. 1821) omitted an entire chapter (Ibid.: 21 f.) 32 ibid.: 22 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid.: 27 10 regulated cartels in order to share the risk of recouping investments.35 “The unstable publication races in the United States similarly settled down during the 1840s to collusive standards that were termed 'trade custom' or 'courtesy of the trade.' Publishing houses were acknowledged to have the exclusive right to reprint specific authors. ... In the case of new authors, the first publisher to receive the item or the first to list the work in a trade publication was deemed to have the right to exclude other reprinters. Firms that violated these rules were punished or at least threatened with punishment.”36 What that punishment consisted of does not become clear. Khan cites Thackeray who after the rights to his books were adopted by Harper’s publishing company in New York declared that “there's no danger now of their being pirated in this Country [the United States], the Harper's being the chief buccaneers, & the perfect terror of all their brethren in these seas.”37 These 'synthetic copyrights' were transferred and sold among booksellers and publishers through contracts that were honoured even in the absence of legal protection. Khan cites a court case between two publishing firms over such synthetic right to Charles Dickens' works that indicates how vested a right it had become. The court denied the claim arguing that this custom is very far from a property title which courts can protect from invasion. “It may be an advantage to the party enjoying it for the time being, but its protection rests in the voluntary and unconstrained forbearance of the trade.”38 “The trade,” one may assume, was not as rigid a social formation as the medieval guild but as a community of producers it was nevertheless able to enforce contractual rights of exclusion through soft law mechanisms such as public ostracism. Thus, these informal copyrights decreased uncertainty, enabled publishers to recoup their fixed costs and avoided wasteful duplication. Khan concludes: “In short, publishers were able to achieve some degree of appropriation through industry structure rather than through government-mandated monopolies. ” This extra-legal system ensured payments to foreign authors as well. They also directly and indirectly benefited from the original accumulation of media infrastructure through piracy, i.e. the expansion of the market and increase in the literary and academic population in the USA. They discovered that they could turn their piracy-aided popularity into astonishing earnings from lectures and readings.39 This shift from a product- to a service-based economy can be seen in many areas where copyright law plays no or only a marginal role, such as in free software, free music or, as we shall see, in Nigerian video films. If copyright-free foreign authors and their U.S. publishers were able to establish a beneficial and sustainable media environment for themselves and U.S. readers, what about native U.S. 35 “The congers created divisible property in books that they traded, such as a one hundred and sixtieth share in Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary that was sold for £23 in 1805.” (Ibid.: 23) 36 ibid.: 23 f. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid.: 25 39 “Dickens was able to parlay his popularity among readers of his pirated works into a heightened demand for complementary fee-based lectures. His U.S. reading tour of 1867-68 comprised 76 appearances that earned the author the astonishing sum of $228,000 in total receipts.” (ibid.: 27 f.) 11 authors? Those most strongly in favour of protecting foreign copyrights in the USA argued that dumping and unfair competition by cheap foreign works harmed the development of domestic literature and deterred U.S. citizens from choosing authorship as a career in the first place. The key issue here is the limited substitutability of information goods. Non-fiction books had to be adapted or completely rewritten to be appropriate for an American market. Thus from an early period on geology, geography, history, grammars, readers, schoolbooks and juvenile texts were predominantly written by U.S. authors.40 Fiction was indeed at first dominated by foreign authors. Between 1790 and 1829, two thirds of all authors of fiction best-sellers were foreign. This changed after the 1830s with the entrance of such authors as James Fenimore Cooper, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne and R. H. Dana. The category of fiction writers grew from 6.4 percent before 1830 to 26.4 percent by the 1870s.41 If cheap foreign books indeed had had the claimed harmful effect on native authors one would expect a marked increase in U.S. authorship only after 1891. Instead Khan finds a rather gradual decline of foreign authorship until by the early twentieth century Americans comprised the majority of best-selling authors in this country. In fact, the assumption that books by foreign authors without copyright protection were cheaper than those by protected U.S. authors could not be supported by Khan's research. Her “results suggest that, after controlling for the type of publication, the cost of the work, and other objective factors, the prices of American books were lower than prices of foreign books.”42 She explains this by publishers perceiving U.S. books to be of lower quality and demand therefore being less. This is again an effect of imperfect substitutability between foreign and local products. Did U.S. authors gain any advantage from the fact that they in contrast to foreign authors could enforce their copyrights in court? ”The growth in actual litigation was minimal until the 1880s, suggesting that infringement of domestic authors was within manageable proportions.”43 One can assume that again the informal norms of the trade discussed above were more important than the law. Also authors' bargaining position vis-à-vis publishers depends only marginally on the law. Many of the earlier books were published at author’s risk, or on commission. “In the 1840s, reputable authors received an average of 10 percent, and between 10 to 20 percent. However, there was wide variation in contracts for unknown authors.”44 Thus the economic position of authors was not much different from today where there is much stronger protection. If there was significant benefit and no objectifiable harm, the question arrises why the USA in 1891 implemented foreign copyright protection at all. Ben-Atar sees the strive for legitimacy as a crucial factor. There was widespread international condemnation of the U.S. refusal to recognise copyrights of foreigners. The movement toward reciprocal recognition of 40 Ibid.: 16 41 Ibid.: 18 42 ibid.: 14 43 Ibid.: 20 44 Ibid.: 12 12 copyrights led to the Bern Convention of 1886 that accorded national treatment to foreign copyright holders. The USA did not join the debate, did not sign the Berne Convention until more than one hundred years later and even encouraged the widespread appropriation of European literature by imposing tariffs on imported books that ranged as high as 25 percent. 45 The century-long struggle for reciprocal copyright inside the USA was driven by U.S. authors with international reputation, by some universities and by European authors like Charles Dickens. On the opposing side were publishers, printers, typographers, bookbinders, and paper producers.46 In Khan's analysis the decisive factor for the change of law was the gradual evolution of U.S. culture that resulted in internationally competitive literary products and shifted the trade balance. “Once the U.S. had developed its own native stock of literary and cultural capital that was valued in the market place, it voluntarily had an incentive to recognise international copyrights.”47 Khan's conclusion: “In sum, the U.S. experience during the nineteenth century suggests that appropriate intellectual property institutions are not independent of the level of economic and social development.”48 Taking a broader look at media history one has to add that the state of development of a given media technology is another decisive factor. Lawrence Lessig draws the line of original accumulation of media infrastructure through piracy on into the 20 th century. „If ‚piracy‘ means using the creative property of others without their permission – if ‚if value, then right‘ is true – then the history of the content industry is a history of piracy. Every important sector of ‚big media‘ today – film, records, radio, and cable TV – was born of a kind of piracy so defined.“49 After the phonograph had been invented the record companies took the music from its composers; when radio started the stations in turn took the music recordings; and when cable TV started its operators took television programmes, in all three cases without permission or payment. In all theses cases, as Lessig recounts, eventually a legal solution was found: compulsory licenses for music recordings and cable TV, and collective management for radio. At this point the USA was not a developing nation any longer, nevertheless each emerging media system benefited from an original period of piracy that in the case of cable TV lasted for almost thirty years. As Ben-Atar had remarked, the United States has now come full circle: from pirate nation to primary exporter of IP with 53% of global copyright and patent revenues being realised there and foreign sales of the U.S. copyright industries larger than that of any other industry sector.50 After originally not recognising copyrights of other countries' citizens it is now the driving force in compelling developing countries to adopt its own level of copyright regulations through WIPO, WTO, bilateral trade agreements and unilateral measures under Special 301.51 45 Ibid.: 9 46 Ibid.: 8 47 Ibid.: 30 48 Ibid. 49 Lessig 2004: 53 50 According to Stephen E. Siwek, Copyright Industries in the U.S. Economy: The 2006 Report, commissioned by the International Intellectual Property Alliance (IIPA), http://www.iipa.com/pdf/2006_siwek_full.pdf 51 After the U.S. copyright industry in the early 1990s failed to establish new copyright legislation for the 13 Nigeria: Video Films In many parts of the world, media piracy is not a pathology of the circulation of media forms but its prerequisite. In many places, piracy is the only means by which certain media -- usually foreign -- are available. And in countries like Nigeria, the technological constraints that fuel pirate media provide the industrial template through which other, nonpirate media are reproduced, disseminated, and consumed. (Brian Larkin52) With the exception of a few early Yoruba- and Hausa-videos, in all three production centres most of the capital needed for this industry as well as the professional expertise was accumulated during the oil boom with the illicit mass importation of foreign films in the framework of a complex system based on trust and international trade networks. ... Out of something looking at first glance rather destructive can thus grow something new and creative. (Daniel Künzler53) Nigeria gained independence from Great Britain in 1960. Movies had been introduced during colonial rule (1901-1960). British and U.S. American companies were projecting them at first from trucks, then building cinemas, and shooting films in Nigeria as well. Native film- making was pioneered in the 1960s by theatre directors like Hubert Ogunde and Ola Balogun. In contrast to the French policy that nurtured cultural production in its former colonies in West Africa, there was no support by the U.K. for film-making in Nigeria. The cinemas were dominated by movies from the USA, UK, India, China and Japan. Government tried to build a domestic movie industry, but the Nigerian Film Corporation (NFC),54 a national institution under the Information Ministry established in 1979 by the administration of General Olusegun Obasanjo became an personal fiefdom of bureaucrats.55 Cost-intensive celluloid production remained minimal.56 The first television station in all of Africa was established in Nigeria in the late 1950s. 57 The postcolonial government bore the large and controversial investment in TV stations as a digital realm at home, it went to WIPO initiating the WIPO Internet Treaties of 1996 that were then implemented in the USA as the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. Since WIPO does not have an enforcement mechanism, the U.S. then forum-shifted to the WTO. (Sell 2003) 52 Larkin 2004: 309 53 Künzler 2006: 14 54 http://www.nigfilmcorp.org/ 55 Nathan 2002 56 By the mid-1980s fewer than 200 titles had been produced (Adesanya in Haynes 2000: 41). There is to this day a small number of African art-house directors whose movies are shown almost exclusively at international festivals but not on the continent itself (Larkin 2001). 57 Ch. Igwe 2006: 2 and Aluko's timeline (http://www.ngex.com/personalities/voices/baluko1950.htm) mention 1957, Africine gives 1959 as the year of the first TV signal (http://www.africine.org/? menu=fichedist&no=2596). 14 symbolic means to establish its authority. In 1977 the Nigerian Television Authority was established and a single federal system was formed out of the regional networks.58 Producing TV series on 35 mm film was expensive. Legal regulations limited foreign content. This encouraged the televising of theatre productions. In the 1980s when there was a station in every Nigerian state, television properly began. The second generation of filmmakers like Amaka Igwe, Tunde Kelani, and Zeb and Chico Ejiro were already shooting on video. Still, most of what was shown on TV was U.S. American fare. „By 1993 when the National Film Festival was held for the first time our film industry score sheet was moderate – about 25 English films, five Hausa films, 50 Yoruba and one Igbo film.“59 While the early celluloid film tradition had all but disappeared, 60 a lively culture of story- telling, travelling theatre61 and popular literature as well as television became formative factors in the video film industry of the 1990s. Another crucial ingredient was the reproduction and distribution infrastructure of piracy. In support of the anti-apartheid struggle in South-Africa, the Nigerian government exerted pressure on foreign companies that had relationships with the apartheid regime. This went together with an attempt to gain Nigerian control over the country‘s assets and infrastructure which led to the Indigenisation Decree of 1972. Among other foreign assets, about 300 cinema houses under foreign ownership were nationalised.62 Because assets of members of the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) had been expropriated, MPAA stopped the legal distribution of Hollywood films to Nigeria in 1981. After this exclusion from official distribution, the availability of Hollywood films in Nigeria actually increased thanks to piracy.63 The oil crisis of 1973 came to the aid of Nigeria which was then the fifth largest oil producer in the world. The country and some of its consumers became wealthy. When in 1976 Victor Company of Japan introduced the analogue VHS technology, video cassette recorders became a widely desired status symbol. Also television stations started to produce their programmes on Beta-cam video at about that time.64 By 1979, the oil-boom was over, the economy collapsed, the currency was devalued. Under the regimes that followed, the security situation deteriorated so that people did not dare go out at night and came to prefer home-bound entertainment. As a consequence, the cinemas had to close, many of them were converted into Christian churches. Sales and rental of pirated video films filled the gap. There was a copyright law modelled after that of the U.K. 65 but essentially no enforcement. When the International Monetary Fund (IMF) came to the 58 http://www.africine.org/?menu=fichedist&no=2596 59 Aderinokun 2004 60 Haynes in Haynes 2000: 12 61 During the 1970s travelling theatre troupes started using film projections to visualise effects of magic. Performances were also broadcast on TV. During the economic crisis, filmed performances came to replace live stage shows. With the emergence of video technology, this came to replace the expensive 35mm film. In 1988, Travelling Theatre groups started to sell video films of their performances for private consumption as well. At that time video productions became independent of theatre plays. (Künzler 2006: 1-2) 62 Aderinokun 2004 63 Larkin 2004: 294 f. 64 Igwe 2006: 3 f.; Künzler 2006: 2 65 The first Copyright Act was issued in 1970. It was repealed by the Copyright Decree of 1988 (http://www.wipo.int/clea/docs_new/en/ng/ng001en.html) 15 rescue it imposed a Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP) that came into effect in 1986 and involved, as usually, removing subsidies from public services, devaluing the Naira, and privatising public infrastructure, including that of the Television Authority. This policy increased the level of poverty throughout the country. „SAP introduced a pervasive social dislocation which hasn't been fully accounted for, such that film-making, film exhibition, in fact, the entire system of cultural production – music, live theatre, book publishing, and so on – totally collapsed.“66 Multinational advertisers and investors started to dominate TV production.67 It was during that time that the duplication and distribution infrastructure for pirated movies and music was fully established, and it was as a direct result of the IMF policy. At this point Nigeria was disconnected from the official global economy and turned into an important node in the equally global, parallel network of the unofficial economy, allegedly becoming the largest market for pirated goods in Africa.68 Information on piracy is, of course, inveterately unreliable, but the research by cultural anthropologist Brian Larkin on the video culture in northern Nigeria reveals some of its workings. The source copies of Hollywood and Bollywood movies usually originate from inside the industry. They are sent to Asia or the Middle East where they are subtitled and duplicated onto VHS cassettes, VCDs and recently onto DVDs which are then distributed mainly within the developing world. In the 1990s films from India and the USA came to Kano, the economic centre of northern Nigeria, through Dubai and Beirut with subtitles in Arabic and English and openly displaying advertising for the companies doing the copying. With the emergence of the VCD the duplication business shifted to optical disc plants in Pakistan and China. Often within days after – and sometimes even before – the film‘s official release in its home market, master copies are shipped to Kano in the Islamic north or Lagos in the predominantly Christian south where they are copied onto the cassettes to be sold.69 Being excluded from official distribution, piracy thus allows Nigerians to participate in global audio-visual culture. In the Kano market Indian and Hollywood films, Hausa TV dramas and Islamic religious cassettes are the most popular items, the latter supposedly sold with the consent of the artists, so that legal and illegal copying takes place in the same facilities. In Kano, wholesalers buy their supplies that they sell in other cities in northern Nigeria and in neighbouring countries with Hausa-speaking populations.70 At the end of the chain are itinerant peddlers selling the tapes in the streets, reaching even the nomads.71 As a communications channel these video and audio cassettes reach further than broadcast media, therefore both government uses it at times to spread political messages as well as contestational voices who use these small media to escape government censorship.72 The main buyers of video films are married women from the middle class who watch them at 66 New Nigerian Cinema: An Interview with Akin Adesokan, January, 2006, http://www.indiana.edu/~bfca/events/akininterview.html 67 Künzler 2006: 2; Igwe 2006: 3 68 Larkin (2004: 297) cites the U.S. State Department as source, mentioning an estimate that suggests that up to 70 percent of the Nigerian GDP is derived from this shadow economy, making it, in percentage terms, the largest such economy in the world, matched only by Thailand. 69 Larkin 2004: 293, 295 ff. 70 Chad, Cameroon, Benin, Ghana and the Sudan. 71 Larkin 2004: 295 72 Larkin in Haynes 2000: 223 16 home. This creates what Larkin calls a ‚privatised public sphere‘ that is particularly important for women in the Islamic north who are excluded from public screenings.73 Videos can also be rented. People who cannot afford VCRs or VCD players frequent video clubs where films are shown on TV sets or video projectors. The first generation of digital consumer technology for movies came to the market in 1993 with the Video-CD that became especially popular in Asia, followed by the DVD in 1996. Digital discs replaced VHS in the developed markets. As an indirect effect of the digital revolution the previous generation of analogue VHS technology was pushed down to a level affordable to the world‘s poor. On the production side, analogue and then consumer-grade DV cameras and PCs with pirated editing software likewise dramatically reduced costs compared to producing on celluloid. By the early 1990s piracy had achieved the original accumulation of media capital and infrastructure. The groundwork was laid for the emergence of a video film industry that was termed Nollywood and today is supposed to be the third largest in the world after Hollywood and Nollywood. Origin of Nollywood Most sources name the consumer electronics retailer Kenneth Nnebue in Onitsha and director Chris Obi-Rapu as the founding fathers of Nollywood.74 In 1991, Nnebue had produced a Yoruba video for a mere 2,000 Naira (ca. € 30) earning him a fortune.75 A year later, as urban legend has it, he was faced with a large stock of blank video cassettes that he had bought in Taiwan. He figured that he could significantly increase sales if he recorded something onto them. So he reinvested the profits from his first movie and produced another one called Living in Bondage.76 It is the story of a man in Lagos who is promised great wealth by a magic cult if he sacrifices his wife. After the ritual murder he begins to prosper. But the spirit of his wife haunts him and drives him mad.77 This story is not only instructive for the cultural universe of Nigeria with its tension between village and city life, the hope for a magic shortcut to wealth and the final exorcism in a Pentecostal church, but also rich in implications for the industry that this pioneering movie has spawned. Shot in Igbo, Living in Bondage sold 20,000 copies within days. It was later subtitled in English and eventually sold around 750,000 copies. From then on Nnebue continued 73 Larkin 2004: 302; Künzler 2006: 5 74 The claim is not uncontested (s. I Started Nollywood. Interview with Alade Aromire, September 29, 2007, http://nigeriamovies.net/news/news186.php). Even the Nigerian Television Authority also claims „its place as the initiator and forerunner of Nollywood.“ (http://www.bobtvinteractive.com/portal/2007/? cmd=news&id=32) While there were earlier film productions, it is safe to say that the success of Living in Bondage triggered many to try to repeat it (s. I am the father of Nollywood. Interview with Chris Obi- Rapu, Friday, June 10, 2005, http://www.sunnewsonline.com/webpages/features/showtime/2005/june/10/showtime-10-06-2005- 003.htm). 75 Aje Ni Iya Mi (Künzler 2006: 7; Haynes and Okome in Haynes 2000: 55) 76 Künzler 2006: 7; Igwe 2006: 4 77 For a more extensive synopsis s. Haynes and Okome in Haynes 2000: 79 17 producing video films in English and most Igbo producers followed suit opening a much wider market than that for Yoruba and Hausa productions. Markets for consumer electronics in Lagos and Onitsha emerged as the centres for Igbo video production. While it is evident that it is easier to sell value-added, pre-recorded cassettes than blank ones, it is less clear why Nnebue did not simply copy popular foreign movies onto them. What made him switch sides from film pirate to film producer and inadvertently to midwife of Nollywood? Was it the urge to foster national culture or more selfish economic incentives? Was the profit margin on his 1991 movie so phenomenal that he could hope to earn more from creating an original work than from copying that of others? Charles Igwe is a banker by training and now a film-producer. Together with his wife Amaka Igwe he runs the African Film and Television Program Market,78 he provides financial consultations for parties interested in investing in the motion picture industry, runs a replication plant, and one of the biggest distribution companies in Nigeria. His explanation for the success of Living in Bondage: „It was a story being told by our people to our people. That was key!“79 Igwe implies that an audience starved for local cultural expressions made the returns on investment into an original Nigerian film larger than that into a master-copy of an Indian or U.S. American movie. Duplication and marketing costs are the same for both, but while foreign films are still readily available 15 years after the start of Nollywood, their relative market share has dropped due to the massive popularity of Nigerian products. Living in Bondage had demonstrated a huge untapped demand. Nollywood filmmaking started out fast and cheap. Most feature-length films are shot in less than two weeks and with a budget starting from several hundred Euros. After 2000 budgets escalated to several million Naira (several ten thousand Euro) but market saturation led to a decrease. Today the average is estimated at between €8,000 and €80,000.80 There are no bank loans available for filmmakers. Often merchants of VCRs and cassettes imported from Taiwan or Korea put up the money to increase the attractiveness of their goods. After the start-up phase, producers now often finance their next film with revenues from previous productions. Producers also ask marketers to advance them loans on the next product.81 Increasingly money is also coming in through sponsoring and product placements. Swiss sociologist Daniel Künzler assumes that there is also some money-laundering by drug dealers, advanced fee-fraudsters and other dubious businessmen.82 Films are shot directly on video, in the beginning on analogue Beta-cam, then on DV. With the capital accumulated, producers today can afford the same high-definition equipment that their colleagues in the West are using.83 The material is then edited and mastered on PC-based 78 Best of the Best Television Programmes Market (BOBTV), held annually in the Nigerian capital Abuja (http://www.bobtvinteractive.com/). 79 Igwe 2006: 5 80 Künzler (2006: 12) gives an average of two million Naira (€13,000) in 2006. 81 Ukpabio 2007: 14 82 Künzler 2006: 9. Both Larkin and Künzler call advanced fee fraud aka Nigerian scam one of Nigeria‘s main currency earners (Künzler 2006: 15; Larkin 2004: 293) 83 Igwe 2006: 5 18 systems. Scriptwriters, actors, cameramen are all paid up-front. Once the product is finished, everybody in the creative process has been paid. The finished movie is then transferred onto VHS cassettes84 which are sold for €1.60. An estimated breakdown of the price shows that two thirds is for the blank tape, 22 percent for the film production, leaving a net profit of €0.20. Recently the market has started to shift to optical discs with players spreading among the urban middle-class. For producers, this entails a more expensive process and greater risk. If a retailer copied a movie onto 100,000 VHS tapes and sold only half of them, he would simply record another film onto the left-over tapes until all had gone. But VCDs are not reusable in case a retailer had overestimated demand. 85 A set of two VCDs is needed to hold a ninety minute movie which costs €0.35 to produce and retails for €2.50.86 All figures relating to Nollywood are unreliable87 but various sources based on the number of films reviewed by the National Film and Video Censors Board (NFVCB) indicate that production has been rising explosively. Allegedly in 1995, 205 Nigerian films were reviewed by the NFVCB. In 2000 the number was 712 and in 2005 more than 1,700 films produced in Nigeria were submitted to the NFVCB, compared to 934 produced that year in India and 611 in the USA.88 New movies are released every Monday in the four principle wholesale markets Lagos, Onitsha, Aba and Kano. A few weeks earlier, the producer has put the trailers of the new releases onto national TV so audience demand has been created when the product arrives in the the shops and market stalls. For the largest market in Lagos, a number of sixty new titles per week is given for 2003.89 One third of the sales price goes to the producer, one third to the distributor and the final third covers the marketing costs.90 Producers make their money during the initial sale before the pirates fill in the remaining demand. The buyers come from all over the country. Typically they are still consumer electronics dealers with offices in all the main markets. They serve as wholesalers from whom retailers across the country come to buy. From the retail points, sellers take the tapes in baskets to the 84 Even with the spread of optical disc players VHS is still the widely preferred medium because a defective tape will have dropouts but still play, whereas a VCD with a scratch will often not play at all. 85 Igwe 2006: 6 86 Igwe 2006: 12 87 Larkin (2004: 298) calls statistics on Nigeria „simulacral.“ The size of the GDP or even of the population is simply not known. 88 http://www.nfvcb.gov.ng/statistics.php; Künzler 2006. The actual number is higher because not all movies produced in Nigeria are submitted for review. Numbers for India and USA from Cahiers du Cinéma, Atlas du Cinéma, 2005. 89 Igwe 2006: 7 90 Nathan 2002 19 streets peddling them to people in their cars during the perpetual traffic jam of the big cities. Sales figures vary widely. While for the early 1990s average figures of 100,000 copies were given, ten years later due to market saturation and increased competition including by pirates, an average film is said to sell 30,000 to 50,000 copies, and a top seller several hundred thousand.91 Igbo films produced in English or with English subtitles have the largest circulation, while Yoruba and Hausa produce primarily for their language audiences. 92 For 2005 these figures would yield revenues of between €100,000 and several million Euro per film. According to Igwe the value of the local core-market in 2005 was four billion Dollars, excluding business in the West, and excluding business related to Nollywood magazines and music.93 The Economist estimated the value of the films sold outside the wholesale centres at about the same as the legal sales. This money and that from films sold in other African countries mostly goes to pirates.94 Igwe added that that should be multiplied by twenty taking into account the „supply problem“, i.e. piracy.95 The television market is another source of revenue for Nollywood producers. The South- African direct satellite network MultiChoice established a channel dedicated to Africa called Africa Magic. It started out with exclusively Nigerian content. Within three months it was the most watched channel in Africa.96 This in turn creates demand by terrestrial TV stations. „African television stations didn’t have much of a choice. To run a TV station you had to go to Paramount and buy content. It was the only place to buy content in the world. Then this Nigerian thing showed up and people love it, and it’s cheaper than everything else. It is culturally relevant, and they are not endangering their culture by watching Nigerian movies because we share commonalities, we share value systems.“97 The early boom period of Nollywood is over. The market is consolidating and professionalising. In the beginning, very few people in the industry had formal training. Often the same person would write the script, produce, direct and play one of the roles in the movie. From 2003, task specialisation and training increased.98 Professional associations for film producers, directors, camera-men and distributors like the Kano Cassette Sellers Recording and Co-operative Society Ltd. have been established. There are a number of specialised video magazines, festivals like the Abuja International Film Festival 99 and the African Movie Academy Awards (AMAA),100 and trade fairs like the annual Best of the Best African Film 91 Haynes and Okome in Haynes 2000: 69 92 Künzler 2006: 12. 93 2006: 5 f. 94 Nollywood dreams. Nigeria's film industry, The Economist, 27 July 2006, http://www.economist.com/displaystory.cfm?story_id=E1_SNNGDDJ 95 Igwe 2006: 13 96 http://www.africamagic.co.za/; Igwe 2006: 11. Aderinokun (2004) indicates the number of subscribers in March 2004 at 1.5 million in Africa, Europe and the Middle East. Rupert Murdoch‘s British pay-television BSkyB followed with Nigerian programming. 97 Igwe 2006: 11 98 Künzler 2006: 7 99 http://www.nffo.org/ 100 http://www.ama-awards.com/ The African Movie Academy that is presumably behind the award was founded by lawyer Peace Anyiam-Fiberesima exclusively to stage the glamorous award ceremony (s. Dorothee Wenner who was a member of the jury of the AMAA in 2005, Das andere Afrika, Tagesspiegel 20 and TV Programmes Market.101 The international recognition is increasing as well. In 2004, Nollywood was featured at international film festivals like the ones in Berlin and in Rotterdam. Politics is starting to recognise the potential of the film industry for the country. Nigeria's president Olusegun Obasanjo mentioned the film industry in his 2004 budget speech and in 2006 appointed a panel to devise ways to intervene in the industry to help it grow further.102 The hope is that as a job creator and income earner it could one day match the oil industry, and as a cultural ambassador it could project an image of Nigeria that attracts tourists. According to the NFVCB, about a million people are working in the Nigerian film industry, half of them in production, half in distribution, which would make it the second largest employer in the country after agriculture and before the oil industry. 103 Whatever that actual production, sales and employment figures, it is evident that Nollywood has become a major industry. Strategies in markets for creative goods in the absence of copyright A film industry that has its roots in piracy must itself expect to fall victim to it. „After a start- up financing by people involved in media piracy, the production is now mainly financed by the revenues generated.“104 Domestic video producers now have something to lose. One of the main culprits mentioned by most people in the business are the video clubs. In the beginning of Nollywood consumer electronics retailers who were either themselves film producers or kept business ties with them were the main outlets for video films. Igwe mentions that they had not responded fast enough to a changing market. The video clubs have taken over as the main outlets for pirate sales and rentals of copies they themselves produce. „This has created a lot of stress in the distribution system in Nigeria.“105 „Piracy is an ambivalent phenomenon in countries like Nigeria. It is widely feared by indigenous film- and music makers as destructive of the small profits they make by way of intellectual property. It has had disastrous effects on indigenous music makers and contributes substantially to the erosion of the industry as a whole. Yet at the same time, many of these same people consume pirate media both privately and professionally.“ 106 The Nigerian video film industry employes many of the same strategies as the book industry 5.07.2005, http://archiv.tagesspiegel.de/archiv/05.07.2005/1915524.asp). 101 http://www.bobtvinteractive.com/ 102 The Economist, op. cit. 103 Künzler calls that figure exaggerated (2006: 12). A French film festival that in 2001 featured Nollywood gave a figure of 3,250 people working in the sector (21. Festival International du Film D‘Amiens 2001, http://www.filmfestamiens.org/archives/2001_PANO_Nigeria.html) 104 Künzler 2006: 12 105 Igwe 2006: 6 106 Larkin 2004: 297 21 in 19th century USA to deal with a market for creative goods in the absence of copyright. The main strategy is speed in distribution. New films earn their money in the first few days until the pirates catch up. Hence Igwe calls piracy „a supply problem.“ Demand has been created for a new movie, but if not enough copies are available or not at an affordable price, the pirates fill the gap. The response of the industry is to expand duplication capacities in order to be able to release new products in numbers that fill the demand, and to decentralise distribution so that new releases are available everywhere across the country. The shift from VHS to optical discs and from CD burners to pressing plants is considered crucial by Igwe for this strategy. According to him in mid-2006, there were 24 optical disc plants in Nigeria, and he expected the number to rise to seventy plants by the end of that year. 107 In order to gain control of the retail sector, Igwe together with his wife, film producer and director Amaka Igwe, set up Tmc BoxOffice to supply and distribute movies and music on discs through several thousand branded shops across Nigeria and beyond.108 According to their market estimate out of a population of 150 million, about 20% have the economic resources to purchase and enjoy Nigerian movies and music. While long-term relations with retail stores might indeed improve returns on the products supplied to them, with 80% of the population not able to afford Nollywood movies, there remains a huge potential for continued piracy. What the Igwes are doing on their own might also be achieved by cartellisation of the industry. This requires a trade community that honours nonlegal contracts and agreements. This exists to a degree in the Islamic north. Transactions between producers and marketers here are made on a commission basis. While in the wholesale markets in the south, the distributor pays the film producer up-front for the copies he takes, in Kano according to Larkin no money is paid to the producer until the film has been sold.109 This leads him to speak of „a complex balance of credit and trust.“110 It was also here that one of the first trade associations was formed. After the promulgation of Shari‘a in Kano State in 2000, a ban of videos was discussed. In response filmmakers organised in the Kano State Filmmakers Association in order to negotiate with the government as an interest group. Also the Kano Cassette Sellers Co-operative attempts a self- regulation, e.g. by restricting the number of films released per month.111 In other parts of the country cartellisation is less successful. When producers‘ associations in the south tried to deal with glut by limiting output for a time they found that it did not work because „copy cats make this self-limitation impossible to work.“112 Also filmmaker Ukpabio complains: “Bringing people to form a particular professional body is very difficult here. There are always breakaways.”113 107 Igwe 2006: 12. In comparison, in South Africa there were five CDs plants in operation. Production facilities for DVDs were being built as well, among others by Igwe himself. 108 http://www.bobtvinteractive.com/tmc/ 109 Larkin 2004: 301 110 Larkin 2004: 295 111 Larkin 2004: 301 112 Künzler 2006: 11 113 Ukpabio 2007: 8 22 The video film industry is characterised between an uneasy relation between the producers and the distributors who control the market.114 There have been struggles over their respective share of risk and profit. Larkin mentions that on at least one occasion, producers organised in the Kano State Filmmakers Association threatened to boycott distributors in order to increase the price of their products.115 In other cases producers try to cut out the middlemen altogether and get control of more of the chain of exploitation. The large distributors like Infinity Merchants often invest in the production of the films they carry, thereby claiming the copyright on the finished product.116 Says Igwe: „A company like mine, we own all of our system. So from everything we produce, we are guaranteed that we’ll receive 60 or 70% of our revenues all the way down. The thing is to keep control of what you are doing.“117 Price discrimination by added value and quality is another important strategy employed. Producers shrink-wrap cassettes and discs to prove it is an original copy, thus allowing them to build a reputation among consumers who may then decide whether to go for the cheaper but possibly defective pirate product or the original quality copy. They also include raffle tickets to encourage people to buy the genuine product.118 A peculiar system has emerged in several Nigerian markets where producers do not sell the finished products to wholesalers but a master copy of the film and several thousand printed covers for the tapes. The distributor then replicates the copies to be sold. The high quality of the original jacket prints make the products distinguishable at first glance from low-quality pirate reprints. Says filmmaker Ukpabio: “I carefully select where I print my jackets. I make an agreement with the man in charge, and after that anywhere I see the jackets of my video films, I hold him responsible. ... And I also allow him keep the photo-films that we use in producing the jackets because without the original photo-films, pirates may find it difficult to do a good job of pirating the video film covers.”119 „Intellectual property is vested not so much in the tape, which is the prerogative of the distributor, but in the jacket, which is created and controlled by the filmmakers themselves.“120 This is a remarkable case where the older, Gutenbergian media technology is less piracy-prone than the electronic, analogue or digital, carrier of the actual information. We have seen that foreign authors in 19th century USA earned significant amounts from readings and lectures. Similarly Nigerian film producers shift from product to performance. Larkin mentionsthat “videomakers often try to recoupe their expenses by arranging screenings at cinema halls all over the north before releasing the video for general sale.” 121 The remaining cinema halls in Nigeria have become unsavoury places. With the success of Nollywood there is now a movement to restore them and build new ones. Up to 50 new halls were expected to operate in 2007.122 These high-priced multiplexes constructed by a 114 Ibid.: 5 115 Larkin 2004: 301 116 Nathan 2002 117 Igwe 2006: 8 118 Nathan 2002 119 Ukpabio 2007: 17 120 Larkin 2004: 301 121 Larkin in Haynes 2000: 230 122 The Economist, op. cit.; Haynes and Okome in Haynes 2000: 70. 23 multinational corporation cater primarily to the elites preferring imported films. 123 In this way also foreign film companies that had ceased distribution to Nigeria now benefit from the Nigerian film boom that piracy has helped to create. Finally just as in the U.S. example, the Nigerian video film industry increasingly calls on government to increase copyright enforcement. „We have possession of our markets now and I think the government has now come to realize that there is real value in protecting that body of work and providing a system that allows who creates things to exploit what they have created profitably.“124 The Nigerian Copyright Commission is the key government agency in this area. It employs ‚awareness raising‘ by creating slogans like "Pirates, Pack and Go" (PPG) and producing anti-piracy trailers showing special squads arresting pirates that are screened in video parlours and cinemas.125 In 2005 President Olusegun Obasanjo himself launched the Strategic Action Against Piracy (STRAP) as a demonstration of this administration's commitment to the eradication of piracy.126 In January of 2006, Loretta Njoku, then acting director general of the NCC mentioned a number of raids conducted mostly in Lagos, leading to the confiscation of DVDs, CDs, software and books worth several hundred million Naira each. But she also said that the pirates have become more sophisticated and their locations more prestigious, implying that people in high social strata are involved which makes them difficult to touch. 127 This clearly indicates that piracy is not going to go away soon. Why in Nigeria? Pirated foreign movies created the demand for VCRs and television sets. This led to the original accumulation of capital by electronics dealers like Nnebue that they could invest in film production. Piracy also established the networks of duplication and distribution that the Nigerian video film producers could then use. And it developed a market in the most populous African country with the economy of scale that was ready to soak up domestic video films. In a country where a third of the population is illiterate, films provide an important bridge between oral culture and contemporary media culture. This situation, of course, is not unlike that in most developing countries. The question then arises why Nigeria is one of the rare cases to have brought forth a strong domestic film industry. Bollywood developed at the beginning of the 20th century in synch with the Western film industry. The audio-visual production in countries like Brazil and Egypt is based on television. In Ghana, in fact, video film production started even earlier than in Nigeria, in the late 1980s. The circumstances were very similar to the ones on Nigeria, with a strong theatre tradition and an extensive pirate market. Films produced in Ghana are in English allowing a wide circulation, and they were so popular as to replace foreign films. Different from Nigeria, government has even been promoting the industry. Censorship seems to be stricter in Ghana, 123 Künzler 2006: 15. See e.g. Silverbird Cinemas in a fashionable shopping-mall in Lagos (http://www.silverbirdcinemas.com/aboutus.php) 124 Igwe 2006: 11 125 Künzler 2006: 11 126 http://www.nigcopyright.org/strap.htm 127 Justin Akpovi-Esade, Pirates, pack and go! Copyright commission sign [sic] new song, Online Nigeria Daily News, January 22, 2006, http://nm.onlinenigeria.com/templates/?a=6739&z=3 24 but not so strict as to explain why a „Ghollywood“ has not yet emerged.128 One preliminary explanation is that the Ghanaian production seems to have been overwhelmed by the flood- tide of Nigerian films. From about two dozen Ghanaian producers, making about fifty films a year, by 2002 there were only about ten active producers left. Even import restrictions against Nigerian films were attempted but failed.129 According to Jonathan Haynes, the decisive factor for the Nigerian success was the same that led to the rise of Hollywood after World War I: economies of scale. „Like America, Nigeria has a huge domestic market. (Nigerian producers complain that their average sales have fallen to 20,000 copies, but Ghanaians sell a quarter as many.) A relatively large market permits relatively large budgets, which lead to relatively higher production values – better equipment, better acting from more professional actors, fancier sets and special effects, etc. Relatively higher production values mean it is easier to export, which leads to more profits and still higher production values, and soon one film industry can afford car chases while the other is stuck with domestic melodramas filmed in modest homes. What originally was a minor difference in quality becomes an unbridgeable gulf.“130 Another important factor was the nearly complete lack of local audio-visual production. In other countries with a similar mix of ingredients there is an existing if small film and TV industry with film schools, public funding, international co-productions, film-festivals, professional organisations, and an active presence of production companies from the global north. To some degree this meets the hunger for local creative expressions. Pirates therefore have no incentive to invest in filmmaking. Filmmakers experience the same empowerment by digital technology to produce low-budget works as their colleagues in Nigeria but they have less of an incentive to try to ‚reform‘ the pirate infrastructure so as to yield returns because they have a chance of income from the official market, public funding, the art circuit and niches like the NGO market. Media-technological timing certainly also played a role. All other factors being equal, without the historic shift from 35 mm celluloid to lower-cost video production equipment the development of a native Nigerian film industry would have been unthinkable. While the emergence of Nollywood remains somewhat of a mystery, the unique combination of a pirate-based technical infrastructure for film distribution and consumption, economy of scale and the nearly complete lack of native content decisively set Nigeria apart from other developing countries. Brazil: Tecnobrega As a last example for the beneficial effects of piracy on creative production we now take a brief look at a music culture in Belém, the capital of the North-Brazilian state of Pará. Tecnobrega is electronic dance music that just like Reggae and Hiphop has emerged from the periphery of society and traditional market. In the beginning it was excluded from radio and 128 Künzler 2006: 14 129 Wenner 2005 130 Jonathan Haynes, "Nollywood": What's in a Name?, The Guardian, July 3, 2005, http://www.odili.net/news/source/2005/jul/3/49.html 25 still has no chance to ever get produced by a major record company. Thus it had to find a distribution channel open to this music innovation: street vendors who otherwise sell pirate music or video CDs. Tecnobrega is dance music played at aparelhagens, sound system parties taking place in the poor outskirts of Belém, the biggest of which attract more than five thousand people every weekend. “Aparelhagem” refers to the sound system equipment, the group of musicians and DJs operating it and the party itself. Technology is at the core of the aparelhagem phenomenon. They started in the 1950s. Rubi from the largest aparelhagem Tupinamba who is approaching 60 and is still with the scene says the parties were always huge with lots of lighting. In the 1980s, TV walls were the main attraction. In the 1990s technology escalated. The bass speakers became so strong that vinyl and even CD players would jump so the DJs had to switch to laptops. Today a party without lasers, hydraulic stage, smoke machines and other special effects will simply not attract an audience. There are about 400 aparelhagens of all sizes in Belem. The small ones play in bars or in the streets. Sometimes businessmen invest in the creation of a new sound-system.131 The Tecnobrega musicians record their music in a studio. The genre mixes a 1980s drum box beat with elements of the cheesy popular music of Pará called Brega and with pretty much any other kind of music past and present that the musician happens to like. It goes without saying that the rights for these samples are not cleared with their owners. In many cases the same person composes and records the music and performs it as a DJ during the party. He then gives the master recording to the street vendors, either directly or to intermediaries who compile collections of songs, replicate the discs and then provide the street vendors with their goods. Legitimate and illegal music CDs are equally sold at R$3 (€1). No revenues from sales are flowing back to the artists. Composers and musicians do not explicitly release their works under a free license, but wide distribution is welcome as advertising for the live performances where Tecnobrega artists earn their living. The relation between musicians and vendors is genuinely convivial. The Party organisers hire the aparelhagens who set up their own equipment and play the show. Organisers make their money from the entrance fee and from selling drinks and merchandise like T-shirts. The bands also sell their own CDs and DVDs at the parties, sometimes also live recordings of the set the audience has just heard, at a premium price. More than 400 new CDs are released in that way every year writes Ronaldo Lemos, the director of the Center for Technology & Society at the Fundação Getulio Vargas Law School in Rio de Janeiro.132 „During the interviews conducted by the Open Business project, some artists mentioned that they had previously tried to market their music through traditional channels, and they know that it has become impossible to make money through recording contracts and CD sales in today’s market. The Open Business tecnobrega research indicates that 88% of all artists on the scene have never had any contact with record companies.“ 133 Tecnobrega has become a significant economic factor in the poor state of Pará, moving about 131 Personal communication, November 2005. 132 Lemos 2007: 36 133 Lemos 2007: 40 26 US$5 million a month through Belem's economy, according to the study directed by Lemos.134 The main strategy of dealing with an environment without copyright enforcement in this case is performance over product. This is complemented by price discrimination where the discs sold at the parties by the bands themselves have a added experience value over comparable products sold by the pirates. Legalising small-scale physical copyright piracy The point is not to give the people in the Third World more but to steal less from them. (Jean Ziegler, Empire of Shame) To summarise my arguments so far: I started from the premise that copyright piracy is intrinsically linked with media markets and that therefore public policy must strive to strike a balance between its benefits and its harms. My goal was then to work out the beneficial effects of piracy for various parties involved. As the examples of book publishing of foreign woks in 19th century USA, of the development of the Nigerian video film industry and the north Brazilian dance music sector have shown the benefits are significant. Piracy allows audiences who are reached by advertising for global culture products but cannot afford them to participate in the global information society. The buyers are not ideological. If their options are to see a movie through pirate means or not see it at all, the choice will be easy. Readers in the U.S. got access to foreign books, viewers in Nigeria to foreign films, listeners in Brazil to a wide range of music, and all eventually were able to perceive a wealth of native expressions whose emergence was aided by piracy. Publishers and producers were able to benefit from the original accumulation of media capital, infrastructure and market achieved by piracy. They managed to create a market for creative goods in the absence of (enforceable) copyright law. The strategies they employed include a race to be first on the market, price discrimination by quality and added value, cartellisation and trade rules, and performance over product. Such mechanisms of informal copyright have recently gained considerable interest in the academic debate. 135 Native authors as well benefit from the infrastructure and the economy of scale achieved by piracy. The connection between reception and creation of cultural works is worth further exploration. While the link between reading and writing any media format is obvious in the 134 'Brega' sound turning industry on its ear, CNN, 19 October 2007, http://edition.cnn.com/2007/TECH/10/19/brazil.tecnobrega.ap/index.html?eref=ib_technology 135 Fauchart & von Hippel 2006, Loshin 2007. Another example is television formats which in Germany are not protectable by copyright but are nevertheless traded as if they were property (see BGH, Urteil vom 26.06.2003; ger. Az.: - I ZR 176/01, http://juris.bundesgerichtshof.de/cgi-bin/rechtsprechung/document.py? Gericht=bgh&Art=en&nr=26713&pos=4&anz=18; press release on this decision: http://juris.bundesgerichtshof.de/cgi-bin/rechtsprechung/document.py? Gericht=bgh&Art=en&anz=18&pos=4&nr=26381&linked=pm&Blank=1. It is also remarkable in this context that the highest profit margins in book publishing today are derived from reprints of out-of- copyright classics. 27 process of enculturation in general, more empirical evidence is needed in the context of piracy. Lawrence Liang, head of the Alternative Law Forum Bangalore, has observed that the changing dynamics in pirate markets in China and India has recently led to the availability of films not only from Hollywood but from other cultures, independent films, art-house, documentaries and experimental films. This in turn has inspired thousands of people in China to line up to join art schools. He cites a Chinese curator saying: “When you can buy Tarkovsky for a dollar, you will obviously produce many more artists”. Liang's conclusion: “It is only a matter of time before young people inspired by the new cinema that they see via the grey market fancy taking a shot at becoming the next Jonathan Caouette.” 136 This is, in fact, was has happened in Nigeria. Both creatives and audiences have a desire for local cultural expressions that is excluded from official media. As Charles Igwe had explained the success of the first Nollywood movie: It was a story „being told by our people to our people. ... What is most important is that movies aren’t just business, they are cultural expression.“137 The observation of the crucial role of local demand for local expression disproves the idea of a global levelling of differences through dispersion of hegemonic culture industry products. There is certainly a flow of U.S. American, Indian, European, Japanese, and Chinese movies and music that reaches the most remote corners of the planet. But it leaves something to be desired. There is a genius loci, that cannot be absorbed in globality, a linkage of place, language, ethnicity, religion, stories, songs that is permeable to outside influences but creates a density of interactions out of which new cultural forms are born, forms for which there is no space either in multinational culture industry nor in its pirate double and that are able to bring forth and sustain a local environment for cultural expression. Foreign authors were able to obtain payments from the U.S. printers. Foreign film companies are now able to derive profits from Nigeria after multiplexes for the middle-class are emerging from the film boom that Nollywood has created. Foreign bands playing in Brazil could, just as their Tecnobrega colleagues, utilize the street vendor networks for advertising their shows. For the pirates themselves, of course, piracy is profitable. Pirates are not ideological. They are business people like any others. They take whatever opportunity arises to match demand with supply, following a purely economic logic.138 They could not care less whether they are selling Hollywood or Nollywood movies, Microsoft or free software. If street vendors were not marginalised by illegality cooperations could develop for the distribution of Wikipedia, AIDS information and other educational materials.139 From a public policy perspective, nurturing cultural innovation and diversity is a value by itself. Major economic growthh approaching that of the largest industry – in Nigeria 136 Liang 2006 137 Igwe 2006: 5 138 What they do not do is marketing. They do not create demand beyond the immediate presentation of what they have to offer. They do not have to. The original provider of the information has always already done that. 139 Media activists in Sao Paulo were talking to street vendors to get them to sell free software (personal communication, Alexandre Freire, 6/2005). In Ethopia there was a campaign launched by musicians who are harmed by piracy to get street vendors to differentiate between foreign and domestic content playing out nationalist sentiments (personal communication, Eddan Katz, 11/2007). 28 Nollywood is said to be second to the oil industry, in Belèm Tecnobrega is said to be second to the rubber industry – is anotherpositivee factor. Piracy itself and the original creative expression it supports creates jobs, and even if the pirate do not pay taxes, by spending their earnings they do contribute to the overall economy. On the negative side of piracy the main problems arise from the fact that the activity is illegal, and therefore more profitable than if it were not. The claim that piracy attracts organised crime seems plausible. This means that people in money laundering, the trade in arms, drugs and trafficking in human beings get involved in copyright infringement. This introduces a culture of violence and sets up new forms of serfdom, especially of the street vendors. Illegality draws police repression onto piracy. The street vendors are the most exposed and vulnerable link in the system. They are most affected by the raids. If they receive their goods from organised crime groups on commission, confiscating their goods only serves to drive them further into slavery. They are also the most dispensable for the piracy trade. Even if they are imprisoned, there are numerous others to fill their place. The big guys in the big business of piracy, just like in any other business, rarely if ever get caught. If copyright piracy has such significant advantages for access to knowledge and creative works as well as for creativity and innovation, and the negative sides arise from its illegality – why not simply legalise it? A remarkable precedent of drawing a line between activities deemed tolerable by society and those that cause serious harm is the de facto if not de jure legalisation of soft drugs in the Netherlands. The pragmatic policy rational behind it is that when a wide-spread practice cannot be eradicated it should be permitted and controlled rather than continuing attempts to suppress it. Where it ever was the case that hard and soft drugs were dealt in the same scene, the official sanctioning of marihuana (plus a realistic and meaningful policy towards users and importers of hard drugs) effectively served to separate the two.140 It also creates legal and taxed jobs in coffee shops and youth centres and, not the least, a tourist attraction. The same can be seen with respect to prostitution. Where it is legal, sex service work is removed from the culture of violence and slavery that illegality breeds and becomes a regular profession with rights and entitlements and duties like paying taxes. „In fact, the easier it is to copy music, the less of a threat piracy will become. When piracy gets easier, professional pirates have less to offer. The only ‚pirates‘ left will be fans. The real question should not be, ‚How can I keep my fans from hearing my music for free?‘ It should be, ‚How can I best make money from my fans?‘“ (Jaron Lanier, Piracy is Your Friend, 1999) Legalising small-scale physical reproduction and sales of works without permission from and compensation to their creators would have the same beneficial effects. If anybody who can afford consumer-grade copying equipment would be permitted to sell copies, piracy would become unattractive to organised crime. Especially if there is the slightest chance of some 140 Drug Policy Alliance: The Netherlands, http://www.drugpolicy.org/global/drugpolicyby/westerneurop/thenetherlan/ 29 truth to the claim that copyright infringement funds terrorism then certainly drastic and novel measures like legalising piracy are called for. It would remove power relations and violence in the business. It would create respectable jobs, offering a real service to audiences, even if street vendors would not start keeping books and paying taxes overnight. One could imagine people taking out Grameen-style micro-loans to buy two VCRs or a CD burner and start a family replication business. Their micro- marketing would reach audiences who have never been served with information and culture goods before, taking them as far as no commercial distribution network was able to or cared to reach. It would be in their self-interest to do micro-market research to ensure that their information services would meet the needs of their local customers, again something no commercial mass marketing could ever achieve. Most of all such a replication and distribution infrastructure would provide a fertile ground for the emergence of new original forms of creative expression. As Khan and Lessig have indicated the relation between pirate and non-pirate business models depends on economic and social development and the state of development of a given media technology. One can therefore expect de-criminalised piracy to be naturally transitional. With a growing middle-class the number of people who can afford books, music and movies at a price that includes remuneration of the artists and their service-providers rises. If not out of respect for the creatives, they would buy the official product because they want the full set of features that burned VCDs lack, they will want a booklet and not just a photocopied cover, and rather than in the streets they will want to buy in the stylish atmosphere of a shopping mall. This self-selection by consumers is at the base of the price- discrimination by quality, reputation and added value found in all three cases discussed. Furthermore, once original forms of creative expression arise aided by the infrastructure of legalised piracy their actors will likely start calling for a meaningful level of copyright protection. This was the case in both in the U.S. and the Nigerian examples but so far there is no indication for such calls from the Brazilian Tecnobrega world where money is earned not by sales of product but purely by performances. If creators feel that they are harmed by one form of piracy or other they voluntarily have an incentive to call for and recognize an adequate level of copyright. This situation would be very different from today where strong copyright rules are imposed on developing countries from outside.141 It is also possible that a stable situation arises where the poor by means of legalised piracy serve the poor while the middle- and upper-class sustain the production of creative works. You will have noticed that the proposal for legalising piracy does not imply abolishing copyright altogether and it contains three caveats. It refers to copyright matter only. Needless to emphasise that the issues are very different for medicine, car parts and other forms of non- copyright counterfeit products. Second, it refers to physical piracy in the form of books, analogue tapes and optical discs that can be replicated with readily available technology and that is a relevant means for providing access to knowledge until the Internet becomes widely available. With the Internet the issues become quit different and call for different solutions 141 Alford (1995) argues that Taiwan has successfully integrated international intellectual property laws because these rules were endogenously adopted as a result of internally-generated domestic political and economic changes. He contrasts these policies to China, where Western institutions were externally imposed with little regard for the local culture and conditions. 30 outside the scope of this paper.142 The third caveat is that legalisation should be restricted to small-scale piracy. Where to draw the line between small and not so small-scale? For optical discs there is a clear difference between burning and pressing. While the former uses consumer technology the latter requires industrial plants and capital investments on an industrial scale attracting organised crime. While there are millions of burners in Nigeria there are only four mastering facilities and 15 optical disc plants.143 These should be fairly easy to control. Also cleanroom technology, stampers and raw materials required for the process could be controlled at source. Could it be justified? Assuming that legalising small-scale physical copyright piracy would be beneficial could it be justified? Lessig has clearly pointed out that the record industry, radio and cable TV originated in piracy. But when discussing commercial piracy he unambiguously opposes it. While in case of those forms of piracy he finds defendable he devotes several pages exploring origins and individual cases, weighting arguments of both sides, here he spends not even seven lines on laying out what commercial piracy is. He refers to businesses especially in Asia and Eastern Europe that without permission take other people‘s copyright protected content, copy it and sell it, and he simply quotes the recording and the movie industry with the billions of Dollars they claim to be losing that way every year. He does not differentiate between small- and large-scale piracy and summarily declares: „This piracy is wrong.“ 144 He does make somewhat of an attempt to discuss three justifications offered in defence of piracy. „We could, for example, remind ourselves that for the first one hundred years of the American Republic, America did not honour foreign copyrights.We were born, in this sense, a pirate nation. It might therefore seem hypocritical for us to insist so strongly that other developing nations treat as wrong what we, for the first hundred years of our existence, treated as right.“145 This observation is crucial to every debate on copyrights and development but strangely enough Lessig‘s refutation is strictly formalistic. Technically, he writes, the American law at that time did not ban the taking of foreign works while the laws in Asian countries do ban it today. He even goes on: „True, these local rules have, in effect, been imposed upon these countries.“ Again, a fact that every realistic evaluation of the copyright environment has to critically take into account. Lessig has been involved in law reforms in East European countries after the end of the Cold War, so he has seen first hand the forms of coercion applied to sovereign states. Still his response is strictly formalistic: „If a country is to be treated as a sovereign, however, then its laws are its laws regardless of their source.“146 He does mention the flexibilities in international copyright law, and writes: „In my view, 142 Lessig suggests that “we should be securing income to artists while we allow the market to secure the most efficient way to promote and distribute content.” (2004: 78). For a proposal on a flat-rate compensation for legalised peer-to-peer file-sharing see also Grassmuck 2008. 143 According to the IIPA 2008 report on Nigeria, http://www.iipa.com/rbc/2008/2008SPEC301NIGERIA.pdf 144 Lessig 2004: 63 145 Ibid. 146 Ibid.: 64 31 more developing nations should take advantage of that opportunity,“ but only to continue: „but when they don’t, then their laws should be respected.“147 International treaties like TRIPs do grant some small manoeuvring space to developing and least developed nations but Lessig makes it very clear that in his opinion „local rules“ may not deviate too far from the global, one-size-fits-all rules imposed by his nation: „No country can be part of the world economy and choose not to protect copyright internationally.We may have been born a pirate nation, but we will not allow any other nation to have a similar childhood.“ 148 Ben-Atar said this on this issue: „When I say, America is the first original pirate of technology, ... they say: but there were no international agreements then, so it was OK. These are good arguments to lawyers, but they sound disingenuous to me. It's like the immigrant who comes off the boat and says those after me are really bad, let's not allow them in.“149 The second argument in defence of piracy Lessig discusses is that it does not harm the copyright industry. „The Chinese who get access to American CDs at 50 cents a copy are not people who would have bought those American CDs at $15 a copy. So no one really has any less money than they otherwise would have had.“150 He does grant some truth to this statement but again wipes it off with a formal argument: „However, although copyright is a property right of a very special sort, it is a property right.“ And as with every property right, the owner gets to decide. Therefore piracy is wrong „even if the wrong does no harm.“ He even mentions the principle of balance in property rights but at this point only in the form of a condition: „If we have a property system, and that system is properly balanced to the technology of a time, then it is wrong to take property without the permission of a property owner. That is exactly what ‚property‘ means.“151 What exactly ‚property‘ means and what constitutes this evasive quality of a 'proper balance' is at the heart of Lessig‘s work. But here he does not raise the questions and takes the dogmatic answers of the law for granted. The final argument he discusses is that piracy actually helps the copyright owner. Chinese stealing Windows become dependent on Microsoft and over time will buy the software. Economic research provides quite a bit of evidence to support this rational. Lessig‘s response is the same as to the previous argument: It is property and therefore only Microsoft gets to decide. Lessig‘s conclusion on commercial piracy opens the way for other forms of infringement that he does find defensible: „This kind of piracy is rampant and just plain wrong. It doesn’t transform the content it steals; it doesn’t transform the market it competes in. It merely gives someone access to something that the law says he should not have.“152 At this he moves on to the „many kinds of ‚piracy‘ [that] are useful and productive.“ His foremost example of this „piracy“ (now placed in between quotation marks) is peer-to-peer sharing. His approach here is very different than in his discussion of commercial piracy. „We must determine whether and how much peer-to-peer sharing harms before we know how 147 Ibid. 148 Ibid.: 63 f. 149 Ben-Atar, personal communication, 23.11.2005. 150 Ibid.: 64 151 Ibid.: 65, emphasis added 152 Ibid.: 66 32 strongly the law should seek to either prevent it or find an alternative to assure the author of his profit.“153 Where before he did not admit economic arguments – actual harm is irrelevant because property is property –, here he takes it as his starting point.154 Where before he took the law and its balancedness as given in order to condemn piracy, here he asks what the law should do in order to strike the right balance. „For (1) like the original Hollywood, peer-to-peer sharing escapes an overly controlling industry; and (2) like the original recording industry, it simply exploits a new way of distributing content; but (3) unlike cable TV, no one is selling the content that is shared on peer-to-peer services. These differences distinguish peer-to-peer sharing from true piracy. They should push us to find a way to protect artists while enabling this sharing to survive.“155 Let us test our three example cases against these criteria: (1) The MPAA had stopped all legal distribution to Nigeria. Even if consumers were ready and able to pay the price they would have asked, Hollywood movies were simply not available. Therefore piracy clearly served to escape an overly controlling industry. The same argument holds that Lessig gives for works shared in peer-to-peer networks that are no longer sold by their rights holders: „This is still technically a violation of copyright, though because the copyright owner is not selling the content anymore, the economic harm is zero.“156 (2) Dubbing VHS tapes and selling them in the streets might not have been a new way of distributing content per se but it was certainly new for Nigeria, and it brought content to people that was not accessible otherwise. Different from peer-to-peer sharing one could not even argue that a copy bought in the street is a lost sale in the store. More important, the infrastructure for distributing pirate videos created the incentive to produce new works, not transformed works like fan dubs or mash-ups, but original works, a whole new genre and a whole new industry. Does this positive cultural and economic effect justify the original sin of piracy from which it was born? (3) Like cable TV, the VHS cassettes available in the streets of Lagos and the Tecnobrega recordings in Belém are indeed sold. But is it really the content that is sold or rather the service of duplicating and making it available? Competition drives prices in pirate markets down close to marginal cost, i.e. to little more than the price of a blank tape. In Germany, beneficiaries of the private copying exception can ask a library to make copies for them, for which the library copy shop asks a fee. It does not sell the content, it sells the service. Indeed, cable TV operators argued that they were not selling the content but the service of making content available. Lessig himself mentions used book and record stores that do make money 153 Ibid.: 66 f. 154 Compare e.g. this statement to the arguments in principle that Lessig brought against commercial piracy: „If the record companies sold more records through sampling than they lost through substitution, then sharing networks would actually benefit music companies on balance. They would therefore have little static reason to resist them.“ (Ibid.: 70) 155 Ibid.: 66 156 Ibid.: 68 33 from the content they sell without paying the author. And also some providers of peer-to-peer services are making money, either through advertising or through subscriptions. True, the bulk of transfers in peer-to-peer networks is done not by commercial enterprises but by individuals who contribute their own resources (hardware, bandwidth). The same can be said of small-scale piracy, i.e. individuals who own two VHS recorders or a disc burner with which they produce a small number of copies that they sell for the price of the recordable medium plus a fee for their service. „Thus, consistent with the tradition that gave us Hollywood, radio, the recording industry, and cable TV, the question we should be asking about file sharing is how best to preserve its benefits while minimizing (to the extent possible) the wrongful harm it causes artists. The question is one of balance. The law should seek that balance, and that balance will be found only with time.“157 While agreeing with Lessig on industrial-scale piracy, this paper is attempting to find answers to theses questions with respect to small-scale piracy. The main arguments in its favour have already been presented. Two questions remain to asked. Why should authors or rather the copyright industries from the North be made to pay this kind of development assistance? This raises the counter question: Why should their products be treated any different than local creative works like Tecnobrega music or Nollywood movies? The national treatment principle stipulated in the Berne Convention 158 should mean that Robby Williams must compete with Tupinamba in the same national environment on local terms. In fact it is made to mean that U.S. national law is forced onto every sovereign state on the planet. One could point to the U.S. itself that until 1891 by not recognising foreign copyrights unilaterally claimed development assistance from European nations. In the mid-19 th century Britain officially instituted an expropriation of its domestic authors as a form of intellectual development help for its colonies.159 One could generally mention the centuries‘ long plunder of the South, a guilt for which the North is now repaying with the best (and unfortunately also the worst) it has to offer: information, knowledge, culture. In fact, those who are screaming the loudest likely have the least to lose. As our examples have shown: people in the U.S. most of all wanted to read U.S. authors, people in Nigeria primarily want to watch Nigerian movies, people in Brazil primarily want to listen to music rooted in their own culture. And finally: could it be done? No and yes. Most countries have bound themselves to international instruments like the Berne Convention and TRIPS that would prevent them from permitting piracy.160 The Dutch example again points to a solution. The Netherlands are 157 Lessig 2004: 73 158 „Works originating in one of the contracting States (that is, works the author of which is a national of such a State or works which were first published in such a State) must be given the same protection in each of the other contracting States as the latter grants to the works of its own nationals (principle of "national treatment")“ http://www.wipo.int/treaties/en/ip/berne/summary_berne.html 159 “Britain administered a two-tiered international intellectual property system that attempted to address the needs of its colonies. In 1847 Britain passed the Foreign Reprints Act which allowed colonies to import the works of British authors without copyright protection, and also allowed legal price discrimination with significantly lower prices for overseas editions.” (Khan 2007: 30) 160 The Berne Convention in its appendix does contain special provisions regarding developing. Under narrowly confined conditions it grants exceptions to the rights of reproduction and translation of literary works and audio-visual fixations but only for use in connection with systematic instructional activities and providing a just compensation to the owner of those rights 34 member of the international drug control treaties. Therefore it keeps its anti-drug laws on the books while limiting enforcement to certain offences. Technically cannabis is still illegal but factually the country benefits from its decriminalisation. A similar arrangement could be found for de-criminalising small-scale piracy. The comparison to drugs remains instructive. In March 2007 the Bolivian Coca Commission that was deliberating proposals for the new Bolivian constitution decided to seek a ban on the use of the word ‚coca‘ by a multinational soft-drink company. Bolivia is not allowed to market its leaves and herbal teas. Bolivian coca farmers were pointing to national cultural tradition, a principle that is carrying much weight in the debate over global harmonisation of copyrights. Bolivians use coca as medicine and in religious ceremonies and want to have the significance of the holy leaf written into the constitution as a „renewable, economic and strategical crop resource.“ Bolivia‘s President Evo Morales had already announced that coca growing will be extended in 2007 from 12,000 to 20,000 hectares. For the former head of the union of coca farmers, cocaine consumption is a problem of the industrialised nations, and that is where it should be solved. „For us, coca is part of the culture and the national identity.“161 In the same sense every current and former developing country could convincingly argue that piracy is part of its tradition and the problem that industrialised nations have with it should be solved there. 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Intellectual Piracy and the Origins of American Industrial Power, Yale University Press, 2004 Bey, Hakim, The Temporary Autonomous Zone, 1985, http://www.hermetic.com/bey/taz3.html (http://www.wipo.int/treaties/en/ip/berne/trtdocs_wo001.html) 161 Coca quandary for hard-up Bolivia, BBC, 14 April 2006, http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4902192.stm 35 Bhattacharjee, Sudip, Ram D. Gopal, Kaveepan Lertwachara and James R. Marsden, Stochastic dynamics of music album lifecycle: An analysis of the new market landscape, International Journal of Human-Computer Studies archive, Vol. 65, (1), January 2007, Fauchart, Emmanuelle and Eric von Hippel, Norms-based intellectual property systems: the case of French chefs, MIT Sloan Working Paper 4576-06, January 2006, http://ssrn.com/abstract=881781 Grassmuck, Volker, Recent Copyright Trends on the Internet, InterCommunication Magazine Tokyo 2008, http://waste.informatik.hu-berlin.de/Grassmuck/Texts/08-04-05_ICC- Mag_Flatrate.pdf Haynes, Jonathan (ed.), Nigerian Video Films, Ohio University Center for International Studies 2000 Hume, David, Letter LXXIII. The Law of Copyright, Spring of 1774, http://oll.libertyfund.org/Texts/Hume0129/LettersToStrahan/HTMLs/1223_Pt05_Letters4.ht ml#LF-BK1223lt73 Igwe, Charles, The Nigerian Film Industry, presentation at the seminar „The Rise of People‘s Cinema, 11 May 2006, CTS of FGV, Rio de Janeiro, p. 2, http://www.culturalivre.org.br/images/stories/nigerianfilmsctslink%20%283%29.pdf Khan, B. Zorina, “Does Copyright Piracy Pay? The Effects of U.S. International Copyright Laws on the Market for Books, 1790-1920", Department of Economics, Bowdoin College, and National Bureau of Economic Research, 2007 https://www.law.ucla.edu/docs/khan__copyright_piracy_jle_2007.pdf Künzler, Daniel, The Nigerian video industry as an example of import substitution. Paper presented at the Sociological Institute of the University of Bergen (Norway), October 30, 2006, http://www.suz.unizh.ch/kuenzler/grey/Bergen1.pdf Lanier, Jaron, Piracy is Your Friend, The New York Times, May 9, 1999, reprinted in: Sarai Reader 01: Public Domain, Larkin, Brian, Video Awudjo! Popular Video Film in the AFF/NY 2001 Festival, 2001, http://www.africanfilmny.org/network/news/Rlarkin.html Larkin, Brian, Degraded Images, Distorted Sounds: Nigerian Video and the Infrastructure of Piracy, in: Public Culture 2004, 16 (2): 289–314, Duke University Press Lemos, Ronaldo, From Legal Commons to Social Commons: Brazil and the Cultural Industry in the 21st Century, Centre for Brazilian Studies, University of Oxford, Working Paper 80, 2007, http://www.brazil.ox.ac.uk/workingpapers/R.%20Lemos80.pdf Lessig, Lawrence, Free Culture, The Penguin Press, New York, 2004 Liang, Lawrence, Pirate Aesthetics, in: Magazine of the Steirischer Herbst Festival, Graz 36 2006, http://www.altlawforum.org/PUBLICATIONS/pirate Loshin, Jacob, Secrets Revealed: How Magicians Protect Intellectual Property without Law, Yale Law School, July 25, 2007, http://papers.ssrn.com/abstract_id=1005564 Marx, Karl, Das Kapital, Bd. I, Siebenter Abschnitt, vierundzwanzigestes Kapitel: Die sogenannte ursprüngliche Akkumulation, London 1867, http://www.mlwerke.de/me/me23/me23_741.htm Nathan, Jeremy, No-Budget Nigeria, Filmmaker Magazine, Fall 2002, http://www.filmmakermagazine.com/fall2002/features/no_budget_nigeria.php Oberholzer, Felix and Koleman Strumpf, The Effect of File Sharing on Record Sales An Empirical Analysis, March 2004, http://www.unc.edu/~cigar/papers/FileSharing_March2004.pdf Rizal, Jose, El Filibusterismo, Guerrero Publishing, Manila 2006 Sell, Susan K., Private Power, Public Law. The Globalization of Intellectual Property Rights, Cambridge University Press 2003 Serres, Michel, Der Parasit, Suhrkamp, Franfurt/M. 1981 Ukpabio, Helen, interview by Onookome Okome, Postcolonial Text, Nollywood: West African Cinema, Vol 3, No 2 (2007) http://journals.sfu.ca/pocol/index.php/pct/article/view/750/419 Ziegler, Jean, Empire of Shame, Editions Fayard, Paris and Bertelsmann, Munich 2005 37 Prelude: Piracy in Paradise Piracy Pirate Nations The United States of America: Books Strategies in markets for creative goods in the absence of copyright Nigeria: Video Films Origin of Nollywood Strategies in markets for creative goods in the absence of copyright Why in Nigeria? Brazil: Tecnobrega Legalising small-scale physical copyright piracy Could it be justified? Bibliography 
work_chli756bmzc6fa7t3smqguojja	----	1 Comparative American Studies, Vol. 12 No. 4, December 2014, 264–81 ‘It Does Not Mean Me, But a Supposed Person’: Browning, Dickinson, and the Dramatic Lyric University of Portsmouth, UK Abstract: Although scholars have explored the importance of the works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Emily Dickinson, very little research exists on the implications of her admiration for Robert Browning. Within the context of Browning’s nineteenth-century US reception, this essay considers the profound and seminal effect this writer had on Dickinson’s vocation as a poet and her understanding of poetry. Focusing in particular on Dickinson’s reading and response to Browning’s Men and Women (1855), it explores connections between Browning’s dramatic lyrics and Dickinson’s creation of dramatic speakers and situations. Developing earlier scholarship on Dickinson’s use of personae and the influence of drama and performance on her works, this essay argues that Dickinson found in Browning’s poetry distancing strategies that complicated the notion of the lyric as a form of personal address and/or biographical revelation. Rather than granting the reader access to the poet’s interiority or corporeal presence, Dickinson, like Browning, creates ‘supposed persons’ who speak in a confidential, intimate manner about particular events and incidents. Following Browning, Dickinson constructs speakers whose identities are divided, contradictory, and fragmented, and, in so doing, she further impersonalizes the personal lyric by creating the possibility of a difference between what her speakers say and what her poems mean. 2 In the early 1860s, Emily Dickinson wrote some of her greatest and most original poetry, drawing on the innovations and inventions of contemporary poets. She also began a twenty-four-year correspondence with the essayist Thomas Wentworth Higginson. In 1862, the first year of their epistolary exchange, she revealed much about her conception of the role of the poet and the nature of poetry, and even listed the poets she most admired. On 25 April, for example, in her second letter to him and responding to his inquiry about her books, she told him: ‘For Poets - I have Keats - and Mr and Mrs Browning’ (Dickinson, 1986: 404; L261).1 Despite Dickinson’s comment and her many subsequent epistolary references to Browning, only piecemeal attention has been given to her reading of and response to his works (Capps, 1966: 87–91, 168; Howe, 1985: 69– 74; Phillips, 1988: 115–24). While the publication of Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh (1856) and her death on 29 June 1861 are often taken by critics as being highly significant for Dickinson’s creative output, this essay makes the case for the profound and seminal effect of Browning’s dramatic lyrics, in particular those found in his collection entitled Men and Women (1855), on how and what Dickinson wrote. Reading Dickinson’s 1862 letters to Higginson in the context of Browning’s US reception and Higginson’s own great admiration for Browning, this essay focuses on intimations which suggest that Higginson, on some level, recognized Dickinson was writing in an obscure, disjointed style similar to Browning’s, and that Dickinson declared her first-person poems used ‘supposed persons’ with the expectation that Higginson would interpret her as following Browning’s dramatic method. Her poems, like Browning’s, are not offering readers access to her mental or emotional state or corporeal presence, but those of fictional characters who describe in a confidential, intimate manner their states of 3 consciousness and experiences at particular moments. Focusing on the poems that she sent Higginson in 1862, this essay tests Dickinson’s claim to be using Browning’s dramatic technique to complicate the lyric’s association with personal address, sincerity, authenticity, and biographical revelation, while maintaining its function in the communication and exploration of interiority and subjectivity. It argues that her creation of dramatic speakers and situations replicates, and even intensifies, Browning’s experimental representations of self-divided subjectivities and personal identity as provisional, fragmented, illusionary, and precarious. The ‘divided consciousness’ in her poems, as in his, can be read as signifying the reader’s obligation to posit and accept the poem’s fraudulent division between ‘the speaking “I” and the poet’s “I”’ (Sinfield, 1977: 32); moreover, her poems, like his, can be interpreted as sites of irony, disjunction, and contradiction that position the poet and reader in a hermeneutic alliance against a limited, flawed speaker. Browning’s reception in the US In 1861, a year before Dickinson declared that Browning was one of her favourite poets, his wife, Barrett Browning, told his sister Sarianna of Robert’s treatment in England owing to what she called ‘[the] infamy of that public’. To illustrate her point, she mentions ‘an English lady of rank’, who asked an American minister: ‘whether “Robert was not an American”’. The minister answered: ‘is it possible that you ask me this? Why, there is not so poor a village in the United States, where they would not tell you that Robert Browning was an Englishman, and that they were sorry he was not an American’ (Orr, 1908: 233). Commenting on this, Barrett Browning adds: Very pretty of the American minister, was it not? -and literally true besides [. . .] to you I may say, that the blindness, deafness and stupidity of the English public 4 to Robert are amazing [. . .] While, in America he is a power, a writer, a poet -he is read -he lives in the hearts of the people. ‘Browning readings’ here in Boston - ‘Browning evenings’ there. (Orr, 1908: 233–34) Barrett Browning accurately captures her husband’s reception in Britain, where his works were described as perplexing, incomprehensible, and even unreadable, and where he was criticized for his coarse subject matter and unrefined style, which were explained by his lack of a formal education and his middle-class, non-conformist background (Woolford & Karlin, 1996: 240–41). While her comments do reflect the fact that her husband was admired earlier and read more widely and intensely in America than in Britain, they exaggerate his popular appeal at this time and ignore the American reviewers who also criticized the inaccessibility, immortality, and irregularity of his writings (Greer, 1952: 22–23, 76–77, 81–82). However, Barrett Browning prophetically envisions the incorporation of Browning into ‘the hearts of the [American] people’ through the transmission and dissemination of his works in various media (Prins, 2008) and the flourishing of Browning societies across America from the late 1870s onwards; these societies were made up of Men and Women, academic and non-academic members, all dedicated to reading his poems aloud and interpreting them (Glazener, 2014: 185). Browning’s positive US reception in the 1860s was the result of the enthusiastic praise lavished on his works from the 1840s onwards by highly influential cultural figures, such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, George William Curtis, Rufus Griswold, James T. Fields, and Richard Grant White, who encouraged Americans to see themselves as rising, unlike their British counterparts, to the challenge of this poet’s obscure, unconventional, and controversial works. Higginson was one of the most committed of these American Browningites: he first read Browning in 1841 and subscribed to all 5 eight parts of Browning’s Bell and Pomegranates series (1841–46). He was also one of the leading members of the Boston Browning Society, founded in 1885 (Higginson, 1896: 767). In one of the Society’s publications, Higginson wrote an essay entitled ‘The Biography of Browning’s Fame’ (1897), which confirms that Americans were the first to recognize Browning’s importance, noting positive early reviews by Margaret Fuller, in 1843, and James Russell Lowell, in 1848, as well as underlining the appreciative reception of the first American reprint of his works, Poems by Robert Browning (1849) (Higginson, 1897a: 1–6). There is a real sense in his essay that the hostility of British and American traditionalists only increased the enthusiasm of Browning’s early American admirers, all of whom were of the poet’s generation or the next. In an earlier April 1862 Atlantic Monthly essay, ‘Letter to a Young Contributor’, which inspired Dickinson to initiate their epistolary relationship, Higginson declared that American literature was now ‘thoroughly out of leading-strings’ and ‘the nation which supplied the first appreciative audience for Carlyle, Tennyson, and the Brownings can certainly trust its own literary instincts’ (Higginson, 1862: 406). Connecting incisive literary judgements with looming creative powers, Higginson goes on to promise his readers that ‘this American literature of ours will be just as classic a thing, if we do our part, as any which the past has treasured’ (Higginson, 1862: 409). If appreciating these British writers was a mark of the intelligence, cultivation, and taste of his fellow countrymen and women and a sign that they were fine-tuning their creative powers, then their admiration of Browning’s demanding works indicated America’s cultural maturity and even its implicit superiority. Writers such as Higginson did not merely promote and popularize the reading of contemporary British poetry, they created a context in which Americans saw themselves as taking the lead in its definition and categorization. In fact, with the 6 publication of his book Victorian Poets (1875), the American critic Edmund Clarence Stedman invented this field of study and made the ‘transatlantic interdependence of nineteenth-century poetry [. . .] the ground on which to articulate the various national poetic fields’ (Cohen, 2005: 166). His conceptualization of British poetry was, for Stedman, the necessary first step in his attempt to determine the features that made contemporary American poetry distinctive and unique. While acknowledging Browning as the founder of a dramatic school of poetry, Stedman criticized his formal eccentricities and continued abstruseness. In contrast, other American reviewers argued that it was the challenging nature of Browning’s work that appealed to Americans because it required their active participation; this point was emphasized by contemporary reviewers, one of whom noted that Browning’s poems were ‘not easy reading’, but that ‘He brings you meaning, if you bring him mind’ (Atlantic Monthly, 1864b: 641). Such comments reiterate Browning’s statement in his preface to Paracelsus (1835) that his poetry ‘depends more immediately on the intelligence and sympathy of the reader for its success’ and on the ‘co-operating fancy’ of the reader in the construction of meaning (Browning, 1991: I, 114). Browning’s demand for the cooperation of his reader tapped into American protocols of reading that favoured a more equal, co-productive, and democratic relationship between author and reader (McGill, 2003: 14–16, 84–86). By declaring Browning to be one of her favourite poets, Dickinson is telling Higginson that she is an active participant in her culture’s veneration of this poet and is someone sufficiently knowledgeable to understand his cerebral poems, which were regarded as engaging with issues of morality and faith, and controversially exploring all aspects of human nature, both virtuous and vicious (Conway, 1869: 256–59). She is communicating to him what she most enjoyed about 7 reading Browning, which was that his works required and facilitated her imaginative engagement and, by implication, stimulated her own poetic powers. Reading Men and Women Dickinson’s high opinion of Browning most likely derives from her reading of his most recent collection, Men and Women. The contents page of her 1856 copy of this work, now in the Special Collections at Amherst College’s Frost Library, has marks beside the following poems: ‘Evelyn Hope’, ‘In Three Days’, and ‘One Way of Love’. In 1871, she told Higginson that it was ‘a broad Book’ (Dickinson, 1986: 491; L368) and in other letters she alludes to or quotes from five of its poems, ‘In Three Days’ (Dickinson, 1986: 607; L547), ‘Evelyn Hope’ (Dickinson, 1986: 677; L669), ‘Love Among the Ruins’ (Dickinson, 1986: 817; L891), ‘By the Fireside’ (Dickinson, 1986: 859; L966), and ‘The Last Ride Together’ (Dickinson, 1986: 889; L1015), making it the contemporary collection of poetry to which she most frequently refers. These references, which derive from the last fifteen years of her life, offer some indication of the significance of this collection to her. Her initial reading of this book in the late 1850s coincides with the period in which she began writing poems in a concerted way and assembling them into fascicles. By 1862, Dickinson had been reading this collection for, at the very least, six years and presumably had incorporated its innovations into her poetic productions. In fact, the complexity and difficulty of the poems in this collection necessitated just such a careful and ongoing response. Recognizing the demands of Men and Women, American reviewers sought to make their readers the type of ‘cooperating’ ones that Browning required. One reviewer advised that Browning’s ‘poems are not to be tossed off with a glance’: 8 They have an essential value -a profound thought -a startling intensity of passion - and not an easy exterior grace. His poems are the life of a man of most catholic mind and subtle sympathy, put into verse. They seem entirely obscure and rugged when you first try them, but they finally yield a wonderful music and a profound coherency. (Putnam’s, 1855: 656) There is a strong suggestion that reading Browning’s elliptical, profound, intense, and musically diverse poetry at this time offered Dickinson a model for her own, which similarly required readers ‘to change their reading habits radically’ and ‘cooperate actively’ in the construction of meaning (Hagenbüchle, 1993: 25). Particularly in Britain, reviewers of Men and Women connected the effects created by Browning’s deliberate perplexity with the worst features of the ‘spasmodic school’ of poetry, which was derided by its opponents for its popularization of extreme subjectivity, stylistic intensity, and syntactical irregularity (Martens, 2011: 251–52). A reviewer in the English Literary Gazette found in this volume ‘all that complication of crudeness, obscurity, and disorder, by which the mystical and spasmodic school of poetry is [known]’ (as quoted by Watkins, 1958: 57). In contrast, many American reviewers attempted to defend Browning against such an association; one reviewer suggested that Browning’s ‘individuality is not a spasmodic use of words for thoughts; but it is the exquisite perception of a strong and rich mind, using words with a delicate skill and an inward music’ (Putnam’s, 1856: 381). Readers are advised that the spasmodic features of Browning’s verse, which meant that ‘as you read [some of the poems], you shudder’, are the result of the fact Browning ‘boldly aims to express what is, in its nature, so evanescent and shadowy -to put into words processes of thought and feeling, so delicately inwrought and fluctuating, that only sharp self-observers and students of human character can pursue them’ (Putnam’s, 1856: 374, 375). This defence of 9 Browning’s syntactical and structural irregularity confirms Cristanne Miller’s demonstration that, in antebellum America, there was an active acceptance of innovative, inventive, and experimental poetic practices that deviated from traditional poetic forms (Miller, 2012: 32–34). However, others remained wary of the effects of Browning’s style. In a letter to Lucy Larcom, dated 1855, the American poet John Greenleaf Whittier equated reading Men and Women with the experience of an electric shock, while noting that his wife’s sensibility was more adapted to Browning’s spasmodic style: Elizabeth has been reading Browning’s poem (‘Men and Women’), and she tells me it is great. I have only dipped into it, here and there, but it is not exactly comfortable reading. It seems to me like a galvanic battery in full play -its spasmodic utterances and intense passion make me feel as if I had been taking a bath among electric eels. But I have not read enough to criticize. (Pickard, 1907: I, 370) These warnings about the side effects of reading this collection provocatively evoke Dickinson’s own understanding of great poetry as having the power to stun readers with ‘Bolts -of Melody’ (Dickinson, 1998: 374; Fr348).2 Perhaps with Browning’s work in mind, in August 1870, she told Higginson: ‘If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire ever can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way’ (Dickinson, 1986: 473–74; L342a). In his second letter to her, Higginson characterized Dickinson’s poems as sharing features of the ‘spasmodic school’; she responded: ‘You think my gait “spasmodic” - I am in danger - Sir - You think me “uncontrolled” - I have no Tribunal’ (Dickinson, 1986: 409; L265). In his response to her, he discusses Browning’s career. Perhaps fearing his label has offended, he may have 10 reminded her that Browning and Keats were regarded as precursors of the spasmodics (Martens, 2011: 251), and that her other favourite poet, Barrett Browning, was also given this appellation (Faas, 1988: 139). He may have even told her, as he would later tell the Browning Society, that he had been reading Browning’s poems since 1841 and knew them by heart, and ‘the earlier poems of Browning, “Paracelsus”, “Sordello”, “Bells and Pomegranates” -to which last [he] was among the original subscribers -appear just as rich a mine as ever; [and that he] read[s] them over and over, never quite reaching the end of them’ (Higginson, 1897a: 5). What is clear is that Higginson mentioned the verse drama Pippa Passes (1841), which is the first volume of Bells and Pomegranates, for in her reply, dated July 1862, Dickinson states: ‘You spoke of Pippa Passes - I never heard anybody speak of Pippa Passes - before. You see my posture is benighted’ (Dickinson, 1986: 412; L268). Here, Dickinson fears her confession that she has not heard of this work exposes her admiration for Browning as merely a posture. This exchange implies that the man she wrote to for literary guidance was sympathetic to the challenging nature of Browning’s poems, both their spasmodic form and controversial content, and someone with whom she could speak of Browning. Higginson was, however, more critical of Dickinson’s enigmatic, eccentric style than he was of Browning’s: while he suggested she rectify her poetics and delay to publish, when he met Browning in London, in 1878, Higginson reprimanded him for revising his earlier poems to placate obtuse readers (Higginson, 1897b: 753, 758). Despite the fact Dickinson’s poems left him ‘somewhat bewildered’ (Higginson, 1891: 445), he came to admire what he described as the ‘strange power’ of her writing (Dickinson, 1986: 461; L330a), a power to fascinate and frustrate that he had long admired in Browning’s. 11 Dramatizing ‘imaginary persons’ Until the 1860s, for British readers the difficulty of Browning’s poetry was exacerbated by his, at the time unconventional, decision to write first-person poems from the perspective of a range of different speakers, varying the diction and sentence structure of his poems to suit their speech patterns (Martens, 2011: 9–10). This poetic innovation caused so much confusion that, from 1842, he began including the following definition in which he explained that his poems were ‘Dramatic Pieces, being, though for the most part Lyric in expression, always Dramatic in principle, and so many utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine’ (Browning, 1991: II, 345). In the same July letter to Higginson, Dickinson echoed Browning’s well-known definition, indicating that she too was an artist who transcended her personality to get inside the minds of other s: ‘When I state myself, as the Representative of the Verse - it does not mean - me - but a supposed person’ (Dickinson, 1986: 412; L268). These words may represent a statement, either reactionary or anticipatory, to prevent Higginson from following the convention of reading first-person poems, especially those by women, as personally expressive, or from assuming that, as a ‘spasmodic’ poet, she was presenting her unmediated subjectivity. In light of the fact she was addressing a Browningite and her subsequent allusion to Pippa Passes and her ‘posture’, her manifesto invites Higginson to connect and compare her ‘supposed persons’ to Browning’s ‘imaginary persons’. There is no evidence that Higginson took up her invitation. While most critics have abandoned the naive assumption that Dickinson’s poems are unmediated expressions of her thoughts and emotions, few have explored the idea of Dickinson as a skilled crafter of characters who disappears behind her creations. Eberwein and Phillips, for example, have examined Dickinson’s use of diverse personae and noted the way Victorian poetry facilitated her adoption of ‘the voices of imagined characters’, her entering ‘vicariously 12 into situations remote from her own life’ and bringing of ‘a substantial measure of dramatic objectivity into her apparently subjective verse’ (Eberwein, 1985: 95; Phillips, 1988). Her claim to be writing lyrics à la Browning, however, has been ignored. Typically, scholars agree with Richard Sewall that, although Dickinson ‘found encouragement in Browning’s distinctive form. Her themes or preoccupations were different from his, her tone was habitually more lyric, and she had very little of his interest in creating characters’ (Sewall, 1974: 716). Such an assessment rests on a twentieth-century understanding of the type of poetry Browning was writing, namely, that he was the innovative practitioner of dramatic monologues rather than the composer of dramatic lyrics. Yet, although the term ‘dramatic monologue’ was first used in the mid-nineteenth century, it was not fully defined until 1908, when the American critic Samuel Silas Curry classified it as: [O]ne end of a conversation. A definite speaker is conceived in a definite, dramatic situation. Usually we find also a well-defined listener, though his character is understood entirely from the impression he produces upon the speaker. We feel that this listener has said something and that his presence and character influence the speaker’s thought, words, and manner. The conversation does not consist of abstract remarks, but takes place in a definite situation as part of human life. (Curry, 1908: 7) Tellingly, many of Browning’s own poems do not always conform to this or later stricter definitions of the genre, and his own previously mentioned formulation is closer to Alan Sinfield’s more inclusive definition of the dramatic monologue as ‘a poem in the first person spoken by, or almost entirely by, someone who is indicted not to be the poet’ (Sinfield, 1977: 23). 13 Dickinson and her American contemporaries were less concerned with establishing a definition of the genre and instead interpreted Browning’s poems as psychological portraits: [In his poems] men and women are men and women, and not Mr Browning masquerading in different-colored dominos. We implied as much when we said that he was an artist. For the artist-period begins precisely at the point where the pleasure of expressing self ends, and the poet becomes sensible that his highest duty is to give voice to the myriad forms of nature, which, wanting him, were dumb. (North American Review, 1848: 374–75) American reviewers saw Browning as a self-transcending, sympathetic fashioner of a range of personalities. Browning ‘impersonates dramatically’, as one contemporary reviewer puts it, creating ‘persons, not mere figures labelled with a thought’, who ‘are discovered in rare exalted or peculiar moments’; his readers ‘silently observe [each person’s] secret passion’ ‘in all its frankness’ (Atlantic Monthly, 1864a: 644, 645). Building on these ideas, Stedman, in 1874, declared that Browning was the founder of a dramatic school of poetry and the ‘poet of psychology’ who explored: [T]hose secret regions which generate the forces whose outward phenomena it is for the playwrights to illustrate. He has opened a new field for the display of emotional power -founding [. . .] a sub-dramatic school of poetry, whose office is to follow the workings of the mind, to discover the impalpable elements of which human motives and passions are composed [. . . he is the] modern genius [who] chooses to seek for the undercurrents of the soul rather than to depict acts and situations. (Stedman, 1874: 168) Here, Stedman reflects commonplace ideas about Browning’s work and influence, but also evokes Browning’s own idea of drama, from his original preface to his 1837 play 14 Stafford, as ‘Action in Character, rather than Character in Action’ (as quoted by Woolford, 1988: 61). His poetry was understood as centring on the communication of the inner drama of ‘imaginary persons’ who expressed themselves at specific, often decisive, points in time (see Harper’s, 1859: 270–71). Higginson too praised Browning’s ‘dramatic attitude’, connecting it with his ability to describe a range of mental conditions that were not his own and to ‘sound the depths of all human emotion’ (Higginson, 1870: 59; 1871: 88). Browning’s poems appealed to Americans such as Dickinson for the same reasons that Shakespeare’s plays did: Americans were schooled in rhetoric and declamation, enjoyed public readings and theatre, and were especially drawn to literature that explored psychological complexity (Glazener, 2014: 173–75). Unsurprisingly, then, America’s leading Shakespearean Richard Grant White declared that Men and Women showed ‘Browning was the greatest dramatic poet in English literature since Shakespeare’s time’ (as quoted by Greer, 1952: 79–80). Other commentators concurred, suggesting that Browning, like Shakespeare, presented ‘stock- figures of humanity’, who ‘had love that maddened and grief that shattered, murdering ambition, humorous weakness’ (Atlantic Monthly, 1864b: 641); and that Browning was ‘the most purely dramatic genius in English literature since the great dramatic days’ (Putnam’s, 1856: 372). Steeped in Shakespeare and influenced by the fledging dramatic lyrics of the poets Felicia Hemans and Letitia Landon, published in the 1820s, and by Browning’s and Tennyson’s subsequent development and dissemination of this form, from the 1830s onwards, leading American poets of the day experimented with this genre. Citing examples from the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, John Pierpont, Richard Henry Wilde, Edward Coote Pinkney, Lydia Maria Child, William Cullen, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William Wetmore Story, James Russell Lowell, 15 and Julia Ward Howe, Paula Bernat Bennett concludes: ‘nineteenth-century American poetry is replete with dramatic lyrics’ (Bennett, 2013). Americans turned to this genre, as their British contemporaries did, for its aesthetic diversity and flexibility, but also because, as Bennett explains, ‘the dramatic lyric was an inherently pluralistic and even democratizing form’ that allowed poets to cross gender, racial, and class lines (Bennett, 2013). The frequent use of dramatic lyrics by American women poets such as Lydia Huntley Sigourney, Hannah Flagg Gould, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Frances Sargent Osgood, E. Paula Johnson, and Sarah Piatt (Bennett, 2003: 29–37, 105–07; Bennett, 2013) confirms that women poets on both sides of the Atlantic were attracted to this form as a means of critiquing gender conventions and social norms and unsettling the identification of the ‘female poet with the category of the personal’ (Byron, 2003: 61; see Armstrong, 1993: 318–80;). It seems that women poets were attracted to Browning’s specific technique because it located speakers in a specific historical and/or social context in order to establish an often-fraught relationship between identity and environment. In turn, these women used his dramatic method to give voice to the psychological complexities of marginalized figures or victims of oppressive external forces; engage with a variety of social issues and ideas in contestatory and satirical ways; and cross boundaries and categories in order to unsettle such regulatory distinctions (Byron, 2003: 61–69). Using this genre, women poets could maintain their allegiance to codes of feminine decorum, reticence, and reserve, while experimenting with alternative identities and imaginative and liberating possibilities; they could also differentiate their carefully crafted poems from a sentimental feminine variation of the first-person Romantic lyric (see Jackson, 2005: 212-19) associated with artless sentiment and the outpourings of raw emotion. Reflecting on the possibilities afforded by the genre and its frequent use by poets at this time, the British poet and dramatic 16 monologist Augusta Webster, in an essay entitled ‘Poets and Personal Pronouns’ (1879), declares: Turn over the pages of any dozen poets now living, Men and Women [. . . and] suppose the first personal pronoun not artistically vicarious but standing for the writer’s substantive self; what an appalling dozen of persons! [. . .] [H]ow do they preserve their reason through such a conflicting variety of emotions, sonnet by sonnet and stanza by stanza? We have only to try to imagine what, if I meant I, must be the mental state of these writers of many emotions, to see, in the fact of their being able to correct their proofs and get their books through press, consoling evidence that, as a rule, I does not mean I. (Webster, 1879: 153–54) Webster’s essay, like Dickinson’s statement to Higginson, however, not only underlines the similarity between personally expressive lyrics and dramatic ones, but also highlights the opportunity it afforded women poets to masquerade self-protectively behind the ‘invented speaker[s] voice’, creating intimacy, immediacy, and sincerity, but also deploying hyperbolic and dramatic strategies in the service of social critique (Sinfield, 1977: 25). Self-divided ‘imaginary persons’ Browning’s speakers reveal their mental and existential states, often unintentionally, presenting perspectives which are flawed or incomplete, as well as demonstrating their fallibilities, iniquities, deluded perceptions, and even pathological tendencies (Faas, 1988). The focus, as suggested in Men and Women’s ‘Bishop Blougram’s Apology’, is on self-appraising figures who ‘catch a thing within a thing, / See more in a truth than the truth’s simple self, / Confuse themselves’; and what interests is: 17 the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superstitious atheist [. . .] We watch while these in equilibrium keep The giddy line midway: one step aside, They’re classed and done with. (Browning, 1995: 95–96) Browning’s readers are offered unique access to such figures who experience self- conflict, self-contradiction, or a psychological crisis brought on by the discrepancy between a private inner identity and a public outer one. They typically know more than these figures, foregrounding the irony that the poems and speakers are expressing different meanings (Bristow, 1991: 57). Clarifying such self-mutability and self-conflict, Henry Jones in his 1893 lecture, ‘Browning as a Dramatic Poet’, told the Boston Browning Society that character in Browning’s work: [I]s a living process, an endlessly varying movement, a continuous new creation. The unity of character is never broken, but it is never fixed. Nothing can be said to be, but all is becoming. There is nowhere a static element; amidst all the doing there is nothing done [. . .] Character thus presents itself at each moment as made up of latent potencies capable of being awakened by the clash with outward circumstances, and of taking ever a new form in the conflicts by which it maintains itself. (Jones, 1897: 206–07) It was just such features that made Browning’s poetry exemplary of Victorian poetry’s rejection of Romanticism’s autonomous, unified, authoritative, and stable first-person speakers (Bristow, 1991: 26–27) in favour of the representation of selfhood as a site of contradiction and division rather than one of revelation and authenticity (Armstrong, 18 1993; Slinn, 1991). The early and sustained appeal of Browning in America was because his dramatic lyrics allowed writers to respond to an increasingly complex and socially diverse American nation entangled in competing and contradictory ideas and ideals and ‘cognitive dissonances’ (Bennett, 2013). Moreover, this genre spoke of a ‘culture rife with contradiction and opposition’ and attracted critics, readers, and poets because it encouraged the adoption of a variety of ‘performative identities’, which were emerging as a quintessential component of American literature, present in contemporary texts that were replete with dramatizations of self-invention, reinvention, and self-division (Bennett, 2014: 128). Browning’s dramatic lyrics became paradigms for Dickinson and her contemporaries of how to transfer the power and energy of public speaking and drama, especially Shakespearean, into the private and more concise space of the lyric; and how to make identity so fluid that it is often impossible to discover a definite self, or a performer behind the performances. The daily inner drama of just such an unsolidified selfhood is what Dickinson regarded as the ‘Vitallest’ type of performance, which is ‘infinite[ly]’ enacted ‘In the Human Heart - / Only Theatre recorded / Owner cannot shut -’ (Dickinson, 1998: 731; F776) and far superior to Shakespeare’s plays which perish in recitation. It is this kind of internal stage show that each of Dickinson’s ‘supposed persons’ vocalizes. Action with supposed persons Men and Women offered Dickinson two basic types of dramatic lyric. Poems of the first type, such as ‘Fra Lippo Lippi’, ‘Andrea del Sarto’, and ‘Bishop Blougram’s Apology’, are spoken by a named character, often a historical one, who describes at length his or her past and present life; while poems of the second type, such as ‘A Lovers’ Quarrel’, ‘Any Wife to Any Husband’, and ‘A Woman’s Last Word’, are shorter and spoken by an 19 unnamed individual who offers a fleeting glimpse of his or her consciousness and existential state at a specific moment. If, in the former type, ‘the reader must imagine the speaker as an outward presence, as we in our bodies register others in their bodies, from the outside in’, then, in the latter, readers are ‘imaginatively conflated with the speaker, understanding him from the inside out, seeing with his eyes and speaking with his voice as if on our behalf’ and witness ‘an outward scene that he is understood as seeing, with the camera implicitly taken as our eyes’ (Rader, 1984: 104). Many of Dickinson’s first-person poems correspond to the dramatic lyrics of the second type in which speakers give clues as to their personalities, circumstances, feelings, and thoughts, but the situation of the utterance remains ambiguous and often names and geographical or historical locators are not given. By not providing titles, though, Dickinson makes it difficult to identify and individuate her speakers, or differentiate them from each other, or tell whether they are male or female, and, in so doing, she intensifies Browning’s trademark obscurity. In 1862, Dickinson sent Higginson a representative sample of the types of poems she wrote: definition poems (Dickinson, 1998: 146-47, 299, 325; Fr112, Fr282, Fr304); poems about the natural world (Dickinson, 1998: 137, 236, 358; Fr98, Fr204, Fr334); poems that explore aspects of human experience (Dickinson, 1998: 163, 266, 351-52; Fr124, F243, Fr328), and first-person poems (Dickinson, 1998: 259-60, 347, 361-62, 406-07, 441-42;Fr236, 325, 336, 381, 418). Her unequivocal announcement in her third letter that she used ‘supposed persons’ may have responded to an implicit or explicit connection Higginson made between the personal information she disclosed in her second letter — about the death of her tutor, her abandonment by another companion, and her religious scepticism—and the first-person poem enclosed therein: ‘There came a Day at Summer’s full’ (Dickinson, 1998: 347; Fr325). By enclosing similar poems, 20 ‘Your Riches, taught me, poverty - ’ (Dickinson, 1998: 441-42; Fr418) and ‘Some keep the Sabbath going to Church - ’ (Dickinson, 1998: 260; Fr236), in her third letter -poems which might also be interpreted in light of the biographical information she has given him -she is challenging Higginson to interpret such poems as he would Browning’s dramatic lyrics. He is asked to distinguish between her subjective, autobiographical construction in her letters and a similar construction in her poems, while underlining her freedom to ‘pose’ in both (Sewall, 1974: 538). Higginson’s challenge, which is taken up in this essay’s final section, is all the more difficult for contemporary Dickinson scholars who do not usually interpret these as stand-alone dramatic poems. For example, ‘There came a Day at Summer’s full - ’ is usually interpreted as part of a group of poems that employ bridal and crucifixion imagery to represent the postponement of a transgressive earthly love until an otherworldly reunion in heaven (Eberwein, 1985: 103–08). In a similar manner, ‘Your Riches, taught me, poverty - ’, which was sent to her sister-in-law, is typically read as a biographical poem that charts their passionate relationship and Sue’s transition from being Dickinson’s girlhood friend to becoming the wife of the poet’s brother, Austin (Sewall, 1974: 163–65). These two first-person love poems respond to Men and Women’s central themes of love and loss: the attempt of human beings to make eternal the transitory ‘good minute’ of romantic unions and of a love ‘more than tongues can speak’ (Browning, 1995: 196; see Woolford & Karlin, 1996). Although it does not deal with human love, ‘Some keep the Sabbath going to Church’ does present the idea of making the good moment an everlasting experience; it rejects conventional churchgoing and the idea of eventually journeying to heaven in favour of making the worship of God and the worship of nature identical. Rather than postponing the experience of heaven, it becomes something enjoyed on earth: ‘So instead of getting to Heaven, at last / I’m going, all along’ (Dickinson, 1998: 260; Fr236). 21 In the love poems, however, the speakers recall an earlier moment of bliss and plenitude, which they would have made eternal, from a later time of despair and deprivation. Bringing together ideas from the poems in Men and Women to which she alluded in her letters, Dickinson’s poems evoke the existence of an incomparable human passion or unparalleled lover that eclipses civilization’s ‘triumphs and [. . .] glories and the rest’ (Browning, 1995: 5), and the longing for and yet impossibility of preserving such a love or lover (Browning, 1995: 80). In ‘Your Riches, taught me, poverty - ’, the millionaire speaker looks back on her initial relationship with and subsequent loss of a childhood friend whose incomparable personal worth, like Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, ‘beggars’ all description. The speaker is transformed into an impoverished millionaire and the economic, exotic, and aristocratic terms and objects used to approximate this treasured person are similarly inadequate. Living in the aftermath of loss, the speaker infinitely chastises herself for allowing this ‘Pearl’ to slip through her inexperienced fingers. In a similar manner, in ‘There came a Day at Summer’s full -’, the speaker describes the joy of an amorous union with just such an unrivalled being, and then the lovers’ forcible separation. The speaker equates their tryst with religious enactment of Christ’s last supper and makes their severance from each other equivalent to Christ’s suffering on the cross: Each was to each the Sealed Church, Permitted to commune this - time - Lest we too awkward show At supper of the Lamb (Dickinson, 1998: 347: Fr325). Having shared his comparable fate, the lovers, like Christ, will also defeat death: Sufficient Troth, that we shall rise - Deposed - at length, the Grave - 22 To that new Marriage, Justified - through Calvaries - of Love - Surpassing the treatment of prohibited love in Men and Women’s ‘In a Balcony’, ‘The Statue and the Bust’, and ‘Respectability’, Dickinson’s poem ends with the idea of a ‘new Marriage’ between the lovers, which by implication is more powerful than traditional human matrimony or the symbolic marriage between Christ and a human soul. The speaker of ‘Some keep the Sabbath going to Church - ’, unlike the speakers of the above poems, lacks mental complexity; he/she is one of Dickinson’s natural and uninhibited rustic speakers, who are at once naive and astute, simple and yet logical, and, as Cristanne Miller demonstrates, derive from Dickinson’s engagement with the ballad tradition (Miller, 2012: 88–92). The impoverished millionaire of ‘Your Riches, taught me, poverty -’ and blasphemous Christ impersonator of ‘There came a Day at Summer’s full’, however, are, like Browning’s speakers, complex, self-contradictory figures. Rather than living in the present and public world of things they possess, these speakers are trapped in their private preoccupations with what is absent and lost, and, respectively, with the elegiac reliving of a moment of careless loss or the idea of a future otherworldly reunion; they are psychologically self-divided owing to the ‘infinite passion and the pain / Of finite hearts that yearn’ (Browning, 1995: 196). Although both speakers exist at the intersection point of competing discourses, this is particularly true of the speaker of ‘There came a Day at Summer’s full’, whose belief in the heavenly reunion of transgressive lovers represents a misunderstanding of religion and the arrogant delusion that human idolatry and the blasphemous appropriation of religious ideas will be divinely rewarded. The speaker is not only unaware of contradictions within his/her thought process, but also of an inability to control the situation described. Treating the poem as a dramatic lyric would mean detecting the difference 23 between what the speaker says and what the poem means, namely, it allows us to suggest that Dickinson’s poem critiques rather than subscribes to the sentimental literary tradition which popularized the notion that loved ones separated on earth would be reunited in heaven (St Armand, 1984: 117–52). In the final letter Dickinson sent to Higginson in 1862, she enclosed ‘Before I got my eye put out’ (Dickinson, 1998: 361-62; Fr336) and ‘I cannot dance opon my Toes - ’ (Dickinson, 1998: 406-07; Fr381), first-person poems in which the circumstances of the utterances are incredibly vague, as both speakers have retreated from interactions with the world of things and other people into the cerebral realm of thoughts and ideas. Dickinson’s psychological portraits of these supposed persons intensify the levels of identity contradiction in the love poems. In ‘Before I got my eye put out’, the imaginary person contrasts an earlier experience of the natural world prior to losing his/her eyesight with their current position of engaging with the environment through intuition and supposition. While implying that the beauty of nature is overwhelming, particularly for someone who has been shut out from it, the speaker clearly prefers the unreality and possibility of blindness to the accuracy and certainty of sight. Blindness becomes a way of rectifying, while also identifying, a level of self-division that derives from a conflict between an inner or ideal conception of reality and the actual or outer state of affairs; sight would mean the ‘Heart / Would split’. What Dickinson is exploring is a familiar characteristic of Browning’s speakers: their intransigency and preference for their often idiosyncratic perspective, for a vision gained by the ‘soul [rather than the eyes] open the Window pane’ (Dickinson, 1998: 362; Fr336). Just as this blind visionary contrasts him or herself with ‘other creatures, that have eyes -/ and know no other way’, the speaker of ‘I cannot dance opon my Toes -’ opposes her position as an invisible, unknown performer with that of the acclaimed 24 ballerina. Recalling Browning’s ‘Popularity’, which contrasts a great poet at whom ‘few or none [. . .] watch and wonder’ with a successful one whose works are ‘priced and sellable’ (Browning, 1995: 190), Dickinson’s poem presents a speaker who is psychologically divided between a reality in which she is an uninstructed, hidden, natural, and even rebellious artist and her fantasy of having a ballerina’s cultural visibility, acclaim, skill, knowledge, costume, and self-display: I cannot dance opon my Toes - No Man instructed me - But oftentimes, among my mind A Glee possesseth me That had I Ballet knowledge - Would put itself abroad In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe - Or lay a Prima - mad – (Dickinson, 1998: 406; Fr381) The poem ends with the suggestion that the speaker ‘knows’ the ‘art’ of the ballerina, and can imagine herself publicly enacting it, even though her more innate ability remains hidden within the private realm; her talent is all the more powerful for being secret: Nor any know I know the Art I mention easy - Here - Nor any Placard boast me It’s full as Opera - 25 In a manner similar to a dramatic lyricist, the speaker creates an alternative reality in which she imagines being a successful dancer, whose identity is acknowledged and whose abilities are esteemed. The suggestion is that the speaker can envision not only being a ballerina, but also experiencing the ‘Glee’ of internally and vicariously putting on a one-woman opera. Dickinson’s Browningesque speaker has the art, she ‘mention[s] easy -Here’, to imagine, verbalize, or poeticize a performance involving many different voices and characters, and, by implication, to perceive the world from many different perspectives. Going even further, Dickinson’s poem blurs the line between the self who has no practical ballet knowledge and the self who can easily fantasize that she has such skill; it also highlights that identity and circumstances within dramatic lyrics are fictions which give the false impression of having substance and truth. Her description of this fantasy performatively creates the world and self that are described, drawing attention to the fact that the lyrical selfhood, whether dramatic or otherwise, is always an illusion of language. The poem evokes other Browning poems such as ‘Fra Lippo Lippi’ in which the figure of a female performer is used to thematize divided subjectivity. The monk- painter Fra Lippo associates the sensual dancing of Salome with the type of unrestrictive corporeal art that he wishes to create: Why can’t a painter lift each foot in turn, Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? (Browning, 1995: 20) For Fra Lippo, Salome’s dancing body is indistinguishable from her female identity; her liberated, unified, and albeit subversive selfhood is used by the monk as a counterpoint to a psychological duality that, for this lusty monk and iconoclastic painter, is the 26 privilege and curse of men like himself. Dickinson’s poem also calls to mind those by Browning written from a female perspective. In one such poem, ‘A Woman’s Last Word’, female self-division is comparable with, if not more acute than, its male equivalent; the speaker implies that behind the prescribed performance of submissive femininity lies not merely ‘sorrow’ and ‘weep[ing]’, but proscribed thoughts and feelings, and a buried self (Browning, 1995: 14). Dickinson’s speaker displays the intellectual and imaginative component that is denied to women by men such as Fra Lippo, and hints at the psychological and creative breadth, scope, and variety that a woman, such as the speaker of ‘A Woman’s Last Word’, must curtail to perform the unified role of a woman on the domestic or professional stage. However, as in the other dramatic lyrics that Dickinson sent to Higginson, she draws attention to a disparity between what her supposed persons say and what her poems might mean. Dickinson’s poem implies that its speaker is a fantasist who, in her retreat to a realm of privacy, possibility, and power, has become a self-absorbed, self-closed, and hackneyed version of the nineteenth- century poet who is excluded or has excluded herself from the world. To transcend stereotypes of compliant or defiant women, the speaker has, the poem implies, moved beyond classification and become a disembodied voice, a ghostly imagination and the antithesis of Fra Lippo’s dancing Salome. Trapped within and yet attempting to evade discourses of female ability, public performance, and renown, she is another of Dickinson’s self-divided, self-contradictory characters trapped in a self-generated contradiction. Conclusion Had Dickinson published her work in the 1870s and 1880s, reviewers, especially if 27 they were aware of her love of Browning and her comment about writing from the perspectives of ‘supposed persons’, might have viewed some of her poems as dramatic lyrics akin to Browning’s; moreover, her obscure and ‘spasmodic’ style might have been characterized as Browningesque. Dickinson’s contemporary Sarah Piatt was criticised for her decision in her recently published collections to follow Browning into obscurity and eccentricity. William Dean Howells, for instance, suggested in his 1877 Atlantic Monthly review of her collection That New World and Other Poems (1877): ‘Our geniuses are not so many that we can afford to have any of them fall a prey to eccentricity or self- conceit -that way, madness and Browningism lie’ (as quoted by Bennett, 2001: xxx). A reviewer of her next volume, Dramatic Persons and Moods (1880), writing in Scribner’s Monthly in 1880, worried that the subtly of Piatt’s psychological portraits would not be appreciated by her readers because her ‘method is a profound one, in that it works from within outward, and a faulty one, in that it implies more sympathy than she is likely to obtain, and more intelligence than is possessed by one reader in a hundred’ (as quoted by Bennett, 2001: xxx). If these comments echo those made about Browning’s dramatic method, then the reviewer’s remarks about Piatt’s style - that it is ‘wayward, abrupt, enigmatic, and prolific in hints and innuendoes, and questions it neglects to answer’ - could easily be made about Browning’s (as quoted by Bennett, 2001: xxxi). Would the same criticisms have been levelled against Dickinson? When her poems were published in the 1890s, however, it was to Robert Browning -‘the decade’s darling’ - rather than to Barrett Browning that her work was most frequently compared (Buckingham, 1989: xvii). Dickinson’s reviewers, unlike Piatt’s, celebrated the fact that Dickinson’s work showed Browning’s ‘influence’, were written in his ‘spirit’, and were ‘worthy’ of him (Buckingham, 1989: 561, 244, 17–19). Critics made continual connections between her poems and his (Buckingham, 1989: 32, 39, 121, 124, 411, 428, 532); one reviewer even 28 dared to ask ‘could Browning himself have bettered this?’ (Buckingham, 1989: 487). Like Browning’s, her poems are not ‘readily understood’ and are ‘as enigmatical and mystical as anything in Browning’; as a result, they are ‘read aloud in fashionable gatherings and discussed with only less awe and acumen than are brought to bear upon the works of Browning himself’ (Buckingham, 1989: 520, 134, 152). Moreover, just as one reviewer claims she has ‘a soul akin’ to Browning’s (Buckingham, 1989: 100), another predicts that her writings with their ‘abnormal straining after epigrammatic effect’, ‘disjointed appearance’, and ‘utter subjectiveness’, ‘are just the sort of stuff of which cults are made’ and: [O]ught to attract the Browning cranks who have tired of the old fad and have not yet found a new one. In fact, this Amherst recluse appears to have been a feminine Amiel trying to express herself in Browningese. (Buckingham, 1989: 390) That Piatt and Dickinson were associated in different ways with Browning underlines his centrality in American culture and the joys, pleasures, and pitfalls of reading or attempting to imitate his cerebral and perplexing poetry. This essay has demonstrated the importance of Browning’s influence on Dickinson’s writings and on nineteenth- century American poetry more generally, pointing to the necessity of examining the dramatic lyric as a nineteenth-century transatlantic phenomenon. It stresses the need to take seriously the way Dickinson and her contemporaries created a range of ‘supposed persons’ with thoughts and feelings, often deliberately different from their own, and characterized these personae as figures of self-conflict and self-contradiction who articulate a clash between an inner and outer identity. Finally, this essay opens up a critical space in which to explore the possibility that Dickinson and other nineteenth- century American poets, like their British counterparts, followed Browning in 29 foregrounding a distinction between the meaning of a poem and the utterance of its speaker. Acknowledgements My thanks to Paula Bernat Bennett and Britta Martens for their help with this essay. Notes 1. All references to Dickinson's letters cite the letter number from Johnson and Ward's edition and are given in the text following the abbreviation “L”. 2. All references to Dickinson's poetry cite the poem number from Franklin's edition and are given in the text following the abbreviation “Fr”. References Armstrong, I. 1993. Victorian Poetry: Poetry, Poetics and Politics. London: Routledge. Atlantic Monthly. 1864a. Reviews and Literary Notices: Browning’s Dramatis Personae. The Atlantic Monthly, 14(85): 644–48. Atlantic Monthly. 1864b. Reviews and Literary Notices: Browning’s Sordello, Strafford, Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day. The Atlantic Monthly, 13(79): 639–42. Bennett, P.B. ed. 2001. Palace-Burner: The Selected Poetry of Sarah Piatt. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Bennett, P.B. 2003. Poets in the Public Sphere: The Emancipatory Project of American Women’s Poetry, 1800–1900. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 30 Bennett, P.B. 2013. 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Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. 32 Jones, H. 1897. Browning as a Dramatic Poet. In: Boston Browning Society Papers 1886– 1897. New York: Macmillan, pp. 203–20. Martens, B. 2011. Browning, Victorian Poetics and the Romantic Legacy: Challenging the Personal Voice. Farnham: Ashgate. McGill, M. 2003. American Literature and the Culture of Reprinting 1834–1853. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Miller, C. 2012. Reading in Time: Emily Dickinson in the Nineteenth Century. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press. North American Review. 1848. Browning’s Plays and Poems. The North American Review, 66(139): 357–400. Orr, A. 1908. Life and Letters of Robert Browning. London: Smith, Elder & Co. Phillips, E. 1988. Emily Dickinson: Personae and Performance. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Pickhard, S. T. 1907. Life and Letters of John Greenleaf Whittier. 2 vols. New York: Haskell House Publishing Ltd. Prins, Y. 2008. Robert Browning, Transported by Meter. In: M. McGill, ed. The Traffic in Poems: Nineteenth-Century Poetry and Transatlantic Exchange. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 205–30. Putnam’s. 1855. Editorial Notes. Putnam’s Monthly Magazine, 6(36): 655–56. Putnam’s. 1856. Robert Browning. Putnam’s Monthly Magazine, 7(40): 372–82. Rader, R.W. 1984. Notes on Some Structural Varieties and Variations in Dramatic ‘I’ Poems and Their Theoretical Implications. Victorian Poetry, 22(2): 103–20. Sewall, R.B. 1974. The Life of Emily Dickinson. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sinfield, A. 1977. The Dramatic Monologue. London: Methuen. 33 Slinn, E.W. 1991. The Discourse of Self in Victorian Poetry. Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press. St Armand, B.L. 1984. Emily Dickinson’s: The Soul’s Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stedman, E.C. 1874. Robert Browning. Scribner’s Monthly, 9(2): 167–83. Watkins, C.C. 1958. Robert Browning’s Men and Women and the Spasmodic School. Journal of English and German Philology, 57(1): 57–59. Webster, A. 1879. Poets and Personal Pronouns. In: A Housewife’s Opinions. London: Macmillan. Woolford, J. & Karlin, D. 1996. Robert Browning. Harlow: Longmans. Woolford, J. 1988. Browning: The Revisionary. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Notes on contributor Páraic Finnerty is a Reader in English and American Literature at the University of Portsmouth. He is the author of Emily Dickinson’s Shakespeare (2006) and the co-author of Victorian Celebrity Culture and Tennyson’s Circle (2013). He is currently working on his second monograph, Dickinson and Her British Contemporaries. Correspondence to: Páraic Finnerty, University of Portsmouth, UK. Email: paraic.finnerty@port.ac.uk 
work_cudsljsb2jamhf5cdr4kkb4jcm	----	The Genders of Waves The MIT Faculty has made this article openly available. Please share how this access benefits you. Your story matters. Citation Helmreich, Stefan. “The Genders of Waves.” WSQ: Women’s Studies Quarterly, vol. 45, no. 1–2, 2017, pp. 29–51. As Published http://dx.doi.org/10.1353/WSQ.2017.0015 Publisher Johns Hopkins University Press Version Author's final manuscript Citable link http://hdl.handle.net/1721.1/114218 Terms of Use Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike Detailed Terms http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/ https://libraries.mit.edu/forms/dspace-oa-articles.html http://hdl.handle.net/1721.1/114218 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/ 29 Abstract: Seeing the sea as a feminine force and flux has a long history in the crosscurrents of Judeo-Christian thought, Enlightenment philosophy, and natural scientific epistemology. This essay examines how ocean waves have been similarly gendered female, and also flips that inquiry, asking how women’s collective agency has been figured through wave metaphors, notably in discussions of U.S. feminism. I examine how such depictions of waves have called upon and naturalized a gendered symbolism but may these days—particularly in the age of attention to the “nonhuman”—be coming undone, rendering gender newly “at sea.” Seeing the sea as a feminine force and flux has a storied history in the crosscurrents of Judeo-Christian thought, Enlightenment philosophy, and natural scientific epistemology. The ocean has been motherly amnion, fluid matrix, seductive siren, and unruly tide, with these castings opposing such putatively heteromasculine principles as monogenetic procreative power, ordering rationality, self-securing independence, and dominion over the biophysical world (see Bachelard 1983; Irigaray 1985; Theweleit 1987; Grosz 1994). At other moments, the ocean has been masculine, the embodiment of Poseidon or Yahweh, or of the virile power of storms and vigorous hydrotherapy. This essay examines how ocean waves—icons of rhythmic and predictable motion as well as of chaos and destruction— have been similarly gendered, and asks particularly after descriptions of waves as women. It also flips that inquiry, questioning not only the gyno- (and anthro- and zoo-) morphism of wave symbolism but also how the wave metaphor has configured narrations of women’s social history, espe- The Genders of Waves Stefan Helmreich WSQ: Women’s Studies Quarterly 45: 1 & 2 (Spring/Summer 2017) © 2017 by Stefan Helmreich. All rights reserved. WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 29 3/3/17 1:24 PM 30 Stefan Helmreich cially in the case of waves of feminism in the United States. I suggest that rhetorical relays between “waves” and “women” have animated and natu- ralized a shifting store of gendered symbolisms. I revisit the gendering of waves at a moment when the humanities have turned toward the material world in hopes of making sense of the domains of the “posthuman,” “multispecies,” “nonhuman,” and “inhuman” (Barad 2008; Wolfe 2009; Braidotti 2013; Kirksey 2014; Grusin 2015; Cohen 2015). With the arrival of “new materialisms” (Coole and Frost 2010) tuned to “vibrant matter” (Bennett 2010), the ocean has become a site of “wet ontologies,” a zone of “three-dimensional and turbulent materiality” (Steinberg and Peters 2015, 247). Traces and fragments of the “human” still haunt such ahumanisms, particularly as geologists come to call our time the Anthropocene (Crutzen and Stoermer 2000), tagging the pres- ent epoch as indelibly marked by the environmental damage wrought by human enterprise. Timothy Morton (2013) calls Anthropocenic objects such as the globe and climate “hyperobjects”—phenomena that exist on massive scales; he describes such objects as viscous, nonlocal, temporally undulating, and phasing. The scales and registers at which hyperobjects operate—and ocean waves are nothing if not viscous, nonlocal, temporally undulating, and phasing—would seem far from arenas in which gender is relevant. But, as Judith Butler observed in Bodies that Matter (1993), the very notion of “matter,” at least in languages tangled up with Latin, has been densely figured as female, as matrix, mater, and more—an inheritance difficult to fully escape. The swell of today’s new materialisms must not forget the du- rability of gender as a semiotic force. That said, gendered castings of the sea and waves have always been unstable and may be, increasingly, coming undone (on “undoing gender,” see Butler 2004). Gender is a concept created “to contest the naturaliza- tion of sexual difference” (Haraway 1991, 131) and employed, in concert with race, class, and other analytics, to decode how inequalities manifest across human bodies and selves. But it may also be adapted to discern and upturn the assignation of sex, sexuality, and other genres of difference to nonhuman entities, including the sea. The present essay, allying with “An- thropocene feminism” (Alaimo 2016) and queer critical-race accounts of the “animacies” of metals and toxins (Chen 2012), follows waves as ma- terial-formal entities whose descriptions have been shaped and reshaped by rhetorics of gender. In this essay’s two sections—one on ocean waves WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 30 3/3/17 1:24 PM The Genders of Waves 31 (mostly) gendered as women, and the other on women’s collective agency described using wave metaphors—I wind through Judeo-Christian imag- ery as well as Euro-American mythology, and also examine turns in U.S. women’s history. Theoretical attention toward the nonhuman or aggregate human does not on its own escape gender symbolisms—though, in put- ting such analytics into turbulence, it may render them newly unsteady.1 Read this way, today’s gender-bent and -rent waves might be signs of how the analytic of gender may itself be viscous, undulating, and phasing: at sea. Waves as Women . . . and Sometimes Men and Animals Essayist Jonathan Raban writes, “Of all natural symbols, the breaking wave is the most laden with suggestive meanings. For several thousand years, the waves have been talking power and sex and death to us” (2010, 159). It may therefore not be a surprise that waves—at least in the West, the parochial focus of this section—have spoken in symbolisms of gender. In Male Fantasies, Klaus Theweleit offers examples of how invocations of wa- tery flow have been filtered through masculinist anxieties, forms that have made waves into a curl of subaltern feminine imagery: A river without end, enormous and wide, flows through the world’s literatures. Over and over again: the women-in-the-water; woman as water, as a stormy, cavorting, cooling ocean, a raging stream, a waterfall; as a limitless body of water that ships pass through .  .  . woman as the enticing (or perilous) deep; as a cup of bubbling body fluids; the vagina as wave, as foam . . . love as the foam from the collision of two waves, as a sea voyage. (1987, 283) Tara Rodgers, in her dazzling work on the gendering of sound waves (2016), argues that waveform inscriptions, which purify waves into cur- vilinear forms, tame what Elizabeth Grosz names as “a formlessness that engulfs all form, a disorder that threatens all order” (1994, 203). Drawing on Luce Irigaray, who observes that “historically the properties of fluids have been abandoned to the feminine” (1985, 116), Rodgers suggests that natural philosophy ideologies in the West have had “waves [as] . . . both form-giving . . . and perpetually in excess of formal representation” (2016, 202–203).2 Where to begin an historical investigation of the gendering of waves? Perhaps, following feminist theologian Catherine Keller, with the Bible. In WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 31 3/3/17 1:24 PM The Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming (2003), Keller argues that pa- tristic Christian readings of Genesis have interpreted the void introduced in verse 1:2, “And the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep,” as either a nothingness from which God created the cosmos ex nihilo or as a chaotic, fluid, and maternal principle tamed by a monogenetic masculine God. The “deep,” tehom in Hebrew, Keller ob- serves, derives from Tiamat, the Babylonian goddess of the ocean, a moth- erly principle subsumed into the syncretic Biblical creation tale. “What happened,” asks Keller, “to the chaos of Genesis 1:2? . . . Was it murdered? Was it a ‘she’?” Keller writes, “The void evinces fullness, its water’s vis- cosity . . . the second verse sends a mysterious tremor through the whole narrative of creation” (2003, 9). For early Christian writers, the “tehomic alterity which has been relegated to the outer darkness threatens to flow back monstrously: the flux, repressed, returns as the flood” (10; empha- sis in original). Keller attends to the wave as a figure of disavowed origin: “While Augustine struggles against the mortal materiality of his maternal bond, the oceanic imaginary deluges the text: ‘I fought against the wave of sorrow and for a while it receded but then it swept upon me again with full force’” (72). Noah’s flood survives as the excess of Creation, with waves the echoing substance of that inundation, a flood that God keeps at bay. In Job, Yahweh declares His power over the seas: “Here you may come, but no farther, here your proud waves break” (130). Fourth-century bishop Basil of Caesarea wrote that at the moment when the sea meets the land, it “withdraws out of respect, bowing its waves, as if to worship the Lord who has appointed its limits” (quoted in Corbin 1995, 26–27). Waves are at one moment defiant agents of disorder and at another pious believers, their agency oscillating. Waves gather an explicitly gendered agency in another tradition of thinking through the supernatural. In Old Norse mythology, the nine daughters of Ægir, the god of the sea, and Rán, the goddess of the drowned, are ocean waves, and each manifests a different wavy form (fig. 1). In the Prose Edda, by Icelandic poet Snorri Sturluson and compiled around 1200, these daughters are named: Himinglæva, “that through which one can see the heaven”; Dúfa, “the pitching one”; Blódughadda, “bloody hair”; He- fring, “riser”; Udr, “frothing wave”; Hrönn,  “welling wave”; Bylgja, “bil- low”; Bára, “foam fleck”; and Kolga, “the cool one.” In Norse stories, these “wave maidens” afflict seafarers by embodying their father’s force and their mother’s mercilessness. Judy Quinn writes 32 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 32 3/3/17 1:24 PM that in Edda stanzas in which “names are deployed, the personified wave is ascribed agency, and often rather willful agency . . . female personifications of the sea [are] imagined as nubile, alluring, self-willed, determined, and destructive” (2014, 90–94). Quinn gives a sample in which wave maidens vex male sailors: Who are those brides who go along in the surf-skerries and have their journey along the fjord? They have a hard bed, the white-hooded ones, and they play little in the calm. . . . Who are those women who go around together? Seldom are they gentle with the band of men, and they are awakened in the wind. . . . They have pale hair, the white-hooded ones, and those women do not have husbands. (2014, 94) These are wild, scary women. To Barbara Ehrenreich in her foreword to Theweleit’s Male Fantasies, such manifestations give body to a masculinist dread of “a nameless [feminine] force that seeks to engulf—described over and over as a ‘flood,’ a ‘tide,’ a threat that comes in ‘waves’” (1987, xv).3 In a later tale, the wave women are mothers of Heimdallr, a Norse god who keeps watch for Ragnarök, the world-ending battle among the gods FIG. 1. Rán and the Wave Girls, 1831, from Alkuna: Nordische und nordslawische Mythologie. The Genders of Waves 33 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 33 3/3/17 1:24 PM in Eddic eschatology (fig. 2). Some scholars offer that Heimdallr was the child of Odin and one maiden, while others suggest the wave maidens col- lectively generated Heimdallr (Lindow 2001). W. G. Collingwood’s 1908 woodcut, Heimdal and His Nine Mothers, envisions the maidens as embod- ied water. The wave maidens move from stern temptresses to maternal, protective figures. Their whiteness seems to be echoed in an 1885 poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in which he poses waves as delicate car- riers of mournful news about the evanescence of life: The little waves, with their soft, white hands Efface the footprints in the sands. And the tide rises, the tide falls (1885, 289) Waves here offer a durable deliquescence—one supported by a whiteness that may also animate a racialized femininity. Compare this to Hortense Spillers on one oceanic trajectory for the making of blackness, in which “African persons in the ‘Middle Passage’ were literally suspended in the ‘oceanic,’” captured in an “undifferentiated identity” that made of them “ungendered flesh” (1987, 72, 68). For audiences at the turn of the twen- tieth century, the whiteness of wave women may have gone hand in glove with their anthropomorphization. FIG. 2. W. G. Collingwood, Heimdal and His Nine Mothers. Woodcut, 1908. 34 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 34 3/3/17 1:24 PM Waves, like genders, are malleable things. The defiance of waves gathers a secular cast in Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Gay Science ([1882] 1974)— that book in which he states “God is dead”—in which they become em- issaries of unrepentant modernity: “How greedily this wave approaches, as if it were after something! How it crawls with terrifying haste into the inmost nooks of this labyrinthine cliff ! .  .  . But already another wave is approaching, still more greedily and savagely than the first, and its soul, too, seems to be full of secrets and the lust to dig up treasures. Thus live waves—thus live we who will” (247). Eugene Victor Wolfenstein (2000) argues that these waves embody a Nietzschian valorization of a masculine will to power. Nietzsche’s waves have an affinity, too, with Greek mytho- logical renderings of waves as horses. As Tamra Andrews writes, “white crests resembled the horses’ billowing manes. Breakers, or particularly strong waves, were sometimes referred to as wild bulls” (1998, 223). Wave horses are usually masculine and white, but not always. In Vir- ginia Woolf ’s novel The Waves, becoming-animal waves are described thus: “The waves drummed on the shore, like turbaned warriors, like turbaned men with poisoned assegais who, whirling their arms on high, advance upon the feeding flocks, the white sheep. They fell with a regular thud. They fell with the concussion of horses’ hooves on the turf ” (1931, 75). Robin Hackett argues that this moment in Woolf should be read as an anti-imperialist parody of colonial fantasies about precious white wom- anhood coming under threat from dark alterity: “the words ‘assegais’ and ‘turbaned’ mark these figures as dark-skinned others; the use of warriors as opposed to soldiers primitivizes them” (2004, 69). Waves become dark, animal, masculine—other to a domestic, imperiled, sheepish white femininity. Where might this itinerary from Genesis to the humanimalization of waves arrive? Many places. But let me return to Keller’s theological proj- ect, tuned to recapturing, remaking, the “face of the deep”—not as es- sentialist feminine energy, nor as the reanimation of Tiamat, but rather as what Keller calls, with a nod to Donna Haraway, a “trickster matrix” (2003, 193). Committed to a “queer, postcolonial, polymorphous and possibly perverse feminism” (34), Keller writes of a reimagined tehom: “As the wave rolls into realization, it may with an uncomfortable passion fold its relations into the future: the relations, the waves of our possibility, comprise the real potentiality from which we emerge” (236). Keller moves waves into an animal idiom, now calling not upon the equine, but upon the The Genders of Waves 35 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 35 3/3/17 1:24 PM cetacean: “We are drops of an oceanic impersonality. We arch like waves, like porpoises” (218). This swerve to porpoises may spiral back to old- school gender symbolisms, since these creatures are sometimes described as distillations of hydrodynamic femininity (see Bryld 1996). But it may also open up a different becoming-animate materiality. Keller writes, too, that “waves . . . [are] membranes of energy from which matter forms and stabilizes” (2003, 232). Waves transition between states of energy, operat- ing across matter, gender, and species. Mel Chen’s writings on transgender theory suggest a fresh reading of the prefix trans-: “trans- is not a linear space of mediation between two monolithic, autonomous poles . . . I wish to highlight a prefixal trans- not primarily limited to gender” (2012, 136–37; emphasis in original). Think- ing of waves’ entanglement with gender and animality, we might call waves “tranimals,” adapting a term defined by Lindsay Kelley to describe species-, sexuality-, and semiosis-crossing creatures. If attention to the materiality of the nonhuman world—including minerals, toxins, and water—may be key to novel accounts of the animacy of the world, then waves exhibit a kind of tranimacy, becoming tranimate objects. Astrida Neimanis suggests in “Hydrofeminism: Or, On Becoming a Body of Water” that feminist analyses of water politics should step away from essentialist identifications of women with water but not ignore such sex/gender/water eddies as the travel of chemical estrogens through oceans and bodies or, to take an allied example, that “North American breast milk . . . likely harbors DDT, PCBs, dioxin, trichloroethylene” (2012, 94).4 The waves of tehom may turn out to be good for thinking with and against gender. In “Has the Queer Ever Been Human?” Dana Luciano and Chen offer the following: The encounter with the inhuman expands the term queer past its con- ventional resonance as a container for human sexual nonnormativities, forcing us to ask, once again, what “sex” and “gender” might look like apart from the anthropocentric forms with which we have become per- haps too familiar. (2015, 189; emphasis in original) Thinking about “sex” and “gender” as they are assigned and undone with respect to nonhumans—as chaotic nature, trickster God, waves, flows of marine toxins—might render the analytic of gender freshly “at sea,” as Mother Ocean becomes Other Ocean. 36 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 36 3/3/17 1:24 PM Women and/in Waves Not only have waves been represented through symbolisms that often gen- der them as women, but wave imagery has also contoured sociohistorical accounts of the collective lives and politics of women, particularly in the United States. I am inspired to this connection by Nancy Hewitt’s 2010 edited volume, No Permanent Waves: Recasting Histories of U.S. Feminism, which unwinds the metaphor of “waves of feminism.” This section is an experiment in making explicit the paratactical and discursive connections hinted at by the cover of Hewitt’s book, which offers an elaborate visual pun that features ocean waves, a waving hand, radio waves, and a perma- nent wave hairstyle. What happens when ocean waves as material-formal watery things are left behind, manifesting rather as mobile metaphors for thinking about social agency? Do gendered castings from other contexts follow them, or are these undone and redone? Let’s start with hair. In the wake of World War I, many white Ameri- can and European middle-class women found their lives transformed as new social possibilities emerged, many a result of the shortage of male labor after the war. On the path to a new independence supported by well-paid office jobs and a sense of the imminent possibility of suffrage, many women signaled their modern status with shorter hairstyles, such as the bob, legible as at once practical and radical. But “simple haircuts for FIG. 3. No Permanent Waves, edited by Nancy Hewitt. Book cover, 2010. Reproduced with permission of Rutgers University Press. The Genders of Waves 37 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 37 3/3/17 1:24 PM women never gained acceptance in the 1920s, at least among the men and women who publicly expressed their opinions” (Søland 2000, 38). Com- mentators worried that short hair risked blurring the differences between the sexes, masculinizing women, who were disparaged as “boyish.” But in the late 1920s, a new technology emerged to offer “feminine and graceful styles with curls and waves” to short hair (quoted in Søland 2000, 38). The “permanent wave,” delivering “new curlier versions of bobbed hair . . . marked the reestablishment of gender distinctions in fashionable self-pre- sentation” (Søland 2000, 40). Wavy short hair refeminized white women. A 1926 joke in a farmer’s magazine quipped, “The ocean must be feminine. Anyway, it early adopted the permanent wave” (Northwest Poultry Journal 1926, 34).5 While the era around World War I in the United States inaugurated important shifts in the role of women in modern public life, World War II saw a fully state-led rescripting of women’s possible identities in line with the figure of the soldier-citizen. During World War II, with many young men away at the front, the military establishment turned to women to fill jobs as engineers, doctors, attorneys, cryptographers, and clerical work- ers—and also to serve as military officers. In 1942 the U.S. Navy founded Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service (WAVES), placing women into shoreside naval jobs so men in these positions might be sent to sea. FIG. 4. “First Prize won at the Hairdressing Fashion Show London, 1935, using an Icall permanent-waving machine.” An ocean wave is evoked by a portion of the hair, on top, that was colored blue. 38 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 38 3/3/17 1:24 PM FIG. 5. Recruitment poster for the WAVES, 1940s. Reproduced with permission of Getty Images. The Genders of Waves 39 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 39 3/3/17 1:24 PM How did the organization come to be called the WAVES? A professor at Barnard, Elisabeth Reynard, who became the unit’s assistant director, created the acronym: I realized that there were two letters which had to be in it: W for women and V for volunteer, because the Navy wants to make it clear that this is a voluntary service and not a drafted service. So I played with those two letters and the idea of the sea and finally came up with Women Ac- cepted for Volunteer Emergency Service—WAVES. I figured the word Emergency would comfort the older admirals because it implies that we’re only a temporary crisis and won’t be around for keeps. (quoted in Hancock 1972, 61) The association of waves with evanescence and femininity would not have been lost on many publics. But WAVES also summoned the image of a wave of attack, a more battle-ready meaning. WAVES, then, called up symbolism feminine and masculine. Indeed, women in this organization were meant, in the most controlled, heteronormative way, to be both fem- inine and masculine. They were idealized as “trim girls in the smart navy blue uniform, with its mixture of the romantic and functional” (Ross 1943, 1). The WAVES, numbering around eighty-six thousand at war’s end, were overwhelmingly white, meant to stand as a vanguard for traditional Amer- ican femininity—though also, at moments, for sea changes in gender rela- tions. As Nancy Wilson Ross wrote in her 1943 book on the organization, No one can write about the WAVES .  .  . without dealing to some ex- tent with their thinking and feeling in this emergency period when the relationship of women to society, and women to men, is so obviously changing. . . . It would be a bold prophet indeed who attempted to chart these changes, but it would be a blind human being who pretended not to see their shadows cast on the wall. (2) The WAVES were meant to operate within state institutions and hew to bounded notions of women’s status as helpmates to men. But the forma- tion of the organization pointed to transformations in understanding and inhabiting gender, particularly in connection with work and economic in- dependence, transformations that would become the animating concerns of “waves of feminism.”6 When did the notion of “waves” of feminism take shape? A canonical articulation arrived in a 1968 New York Times Magazine article by Marsha 40 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 40 3/3/17 1:24 PM Weinman Lear, who wrote, “feminism, which one might have supposed as dead as the Polish Question, is again an issue. Proponents call it the Sec- ond Feminist Wave, the first having ebbed after the glorious victory of suf- frage” (quoted in Henry 2004, 58).7 In Not My Mother’s Sister: Generational Conflict and Third-Wave Feminism, Astrid Henry notes, “the metaphor of the wave as it was deployed by feminists in the late 1960s . . . legitimated feminism as a serious and ongoing political struggle with a history while simultaneously granting the second wave a means by which to posit them- selves as a vanguard” (2004, 58). It may have had earlier precedents, as figure 6 suggests.8 By the 1960s, the wave metaphor was seaborne as well as soldierly, echoing and radicalizing the resonances of the U.S. Navy’s WAVES—with feminists forming sequenced fronts of change in a longue durée political movement. In the U.S. context where wave imagery gathers force, the first wave came to refer to suffrage movements, the second to 1960s women’s liberation, and the third to 1980s and 1990s women-of-color and queer feminism. But soon after “third-wave feminism” was named, critics pointed to FIG. 6. Ernestine Mills, The New Mrs. Partington, 1905–1914. Reproduced with permission of Getty Images. The Genders of Waves 41 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 41 3/3/17 1:24 PM limitations of the wave metaphor. Jane Spencer offered that “waves” might usefully render inheritance collective but also warned that positing clean generations erased demographic difference: “essentialism,” she wrote, “foams up in all feminist waves” (2007, 300). In 1997, Deborah Siegel coined “feminist oceanography” to describe the possibilities and perils of the “wave” metaphor. The oceanic metaphor under interrogation is not one that has waves as directionless disorder, but one that poses waves as lines of organized energy. In 2004, Lynn Spigel, building on Siegel, wrote: With both its oceanic and avant-garde connotations, the waves thesis works to place old feminists on the beach—washed up like fish on the shore. Meanwhile, as in all teleological narratives, the “new” feminist (regardless of her age) is . . . fully refreshed by the sea change and out- fitted in new feminist swimsuit styles. Having been there and done that, the third-waver rolls past the past, and while she might pay her respect to the waves before her, somehow prior feminisms are represented as something we have “overcome.” (2004, 1211–12; see Ahmed 2014 and Slovic 2016) Ednie Kaeh Garrison took the critique further in 2005, arguing that the wave narrative homogenizes women, linearizes movement, and posits times of lulls, which mismeasures histories of activism: “In the United States the wave metaphor as an analogy for ocean waves constructs certain FIG. 7. Third Wave Feminism, edited by Stacy Gillis, Gillian Howie, and Rebecca Munford. Book cover, 2007. Reproduced with permission of Macmillan Science and Education. 42 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 42 3/3/17 1:24 PM kinds of historical narratives of women’s movements and feminism, nar- ratives which continue to reproduce exclusions and obfuscations” (239; and see Bailey 1997). Ula Taylor (1998) described black feminist waves as differently phased from dominant (white) waves, with different stops and starts of liberation and critique, and Aalya Ahmad (2015) has recent- ly reported that indigenous feminisms, keyed to unceasing resistance to settler colonialism, should be called “no wave feminisms.” Agnieszka Graff (2003), looking at Polish feminisms, has suggested that second- and third- wave characterizations incorrectly mapped the unfolding of socialist and postsocialist time, which shifted from ideologically egalitarian claims about women in public life to newly surfaced inscriptions of gender in- equality. Even on their own terms, of course, third-wave feminisms rup- ture any stability around the category of “women”—or, indeed, “gender.” The third wave renders gender a gnarly knot of performances, sexualities, labor hierarchies, racial formations, vectors of desire, and more, with no definitive foundation. Garrison has suggested abandoning the metaphor of the ocean wave: I want to think about the waves in “third wave feminism” as radio waves. . . . [C]onceptualizing multiple waves existing at the same time—some- times fading and dissolving, other times interrupted or appropriated or colonized, other times overlooked because we can’t hear or perceive a signal we haven’t got an ear for—disrupts the chronologically and evo- lutionarily rendered narratives of feminist movements. (2005, 244; see also Hewitt 2010) Alison Wylie counters that there are still possibilities in the water wave metaphor, and calls for repurposing these, writing that waves do not so much overtake and succeed/supersede one another as rise and fall again and again in the same place, transmitting energy in complicated ways. .  .  . [W]aves propagate and interact even in the simplest of circumstances. . . . [W]aves are generated in many different ways: by river or tidal currents, by snags and obstructions under water, by wind and traffic on the surface, and, on rare and catastrophic occa- sion, by grinding shifts in tectonic plates. (2006, 173) What is notable about Garrison and Wylie’s interventions is their dive into scientific imagery; they are recuperative moves not unlike Keller’s call upon the idioms of physics to take waves as trickster mixes of matter The Genders of Waves 43 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 43 3/3/17 1:24 PM and form.9 Rodgers, drawing in part on Woolf ’s The Waves (see also Beer 2014), has also offered a recuperation of “waves” as “the contingencies of mutual contact rather than a disturbance or medium of conquest” (2016, 208). This makes waves something like a matrix of succession and disrup- tion that is neither linearly repetitive nor chaotic. Such rereadings, drawing upon scientific language (compare to Roosth and Schrader 2012), might, to borrow a theoretical intervention from Kath Weston, “unsex” waves. Weston writes that to unsex is to create a space in which exists “a tempo- rary suspension of gender” (2002, 29). “Unsexed,” she writes, “unsettles the presumption that discussions of gender must ultimately refer back to genders” (40). This can be the case not only with gender as it pertains to humans, but also as it is summoned to describe nonhumans (such as waves) as well as suprahuman collectives (such as waves of social change). Conclusion Canonical analytics of gender—as both “a concept developed to contest the naturalization of sexual difference” (Haraway 1991, 131) and as “a sys- tem of social, symbolic, and psychic relations” (143, paraphrasing Evelyn Fox Keller)—have been crucial for decoding the gendering not only of human bodies, but also of animals (see Schiebinger 1993 on “why mam- mals are called mammals”), plants (see Hustak and Myers’s 2012 critique of “sexual deception” in orchids), commodities, gods, materials, concepts (see Lutz 1995 on “the gender of theory”), and of places, spaces, and sub- stances, including the sea. Such analytics, particularly combined with crit- ical race theory and queer theory, have unwound the doubling oppositions that have aligned gender with male and/or female. They have also tangled notions of a “continuum” between two sexes, deforming linear accounts of third, fourth, and fifth genders, intersex, and various interstitial trans- genders (Weston 2002). Such denaturalizing moves have also fed a more “diffractive” model of difference (see Haraway 1997) of the sort enunci- ated by Karen Barad, who offers that “diffraction does not fix what is the object and what is the subject in advance” (2008, 30). Drawing on wave imagery, Barad writes, “Diffraction can occur with any kind of wave: for example, water waves, sound waves, and light waves. . . . The ocean waves are thus diffracted as they pass through the barrier; the barrier serves as a diffraction apparatus for ocean waves” (74). As difference engines, dif- fracted waves may or may not produce those forms we have come to know 44 Stefan Helmreich WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 44 3/3/17 1:24 PM as “gender.”10 At the same time, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, when social scientific and humanistic theory draws toward the posthuman and inhuman, analytics of gender, race, and class do not become obsolete. The turn to materiality, to empiricity, and in some cases to scientific lan- guage, does not banish older genderings and racializations of the sea. Still, such analytics as gender, sexuality, and/or queerness are no longer fully attached, if ever they were, only to “the human” (Luciano and Chen 2015), a fact that places them freshly at sea, wavering, and, perhaps, available to new kinds of gender trouble and turbulence. Acknowledgments I thank Elizabeth DeLoughrey, Eva Hayward, Melody Jue, Jia-Hui Lee, Heather Paxson, and Sophia Roosth for comments. I also thank editors of this issue of WSQ and the two reviewers. Stefan Helmreich is professor of anthropology at MIT. He is the author of Alien Ocean: Anthropological Voyages in Microbial Seas and Sounding the Limits of Life: Essays in the Anthropology of Biology and Beyond. Readers may contact Helmreich at sgh2@ mit.edu. Notes 1. No surprise. In Shipwreck Modernity, Steve Mentz writes that, “history as we encounter it in texts and representations is shot through with multiple tem- poralities . . . a productive and disorienting swirl” (2015, x). 2. A more thorough treatment would examine mathematical descriptions of waves (see Helmreich 2015). It would also investigate rhetoric in surfing, which has also seen waves gendered—often, by straight male surfers, as lovers/mothers. 3. In Octavio Paz’s 1949 short story, “My Life with the Wave,” a male protago- nist succumbs to a wave as a tempestuous seductress, but then domesticates and dissolves “her,” in a mermasculine heterosexual conquest. What to make of nineteenth-century paintings of nude white women with waves? In these images waves are sexualized, though ambiguously (see Ortberg 2016). Are they male lovers? Euro-Romantic Sapphic adjuncts to their companion women? 4. Eva Hayward, writing of “transxenoestrogenesis,” observes that “polar bears, The Genders of Waves 45 WSQ_AT_SEA_Interior_v3.indd 45 3/3/17 1:24 PM alligators, frogs, mollusks, fish, and birds are numbered among more than two hundred animal species around the world that are indeed already re- sponding physically to hormone-altering xenoestrogenic pollutants in their environments” (2014, 257). Hayward suggests that such putatively “natural” indicators of “sex” as hormones have been redone by oceanic flows of pollu- tion (see also Ah-King and Hayward 2014). J. K. Gibson-Graham (2011), pointing to environmental justice movements, writes of how water distribu- tion channels and complicates shoreside hierarchies of gender, race, class, and sexuality. 5. African American women employed the same heating technology behind permanent wave machines to straighten their hair. For white women, in a racially segregated milieu, a permanent wave was perhaps the safest way for white women to transgress forbidden racial barriers. If the sym- bolic importance of hair texture—its straightness or “kinkiness”—is in- deed crucial in constructing notions of racial categorization, then white women’s desire to “friz” their hair must be understood in terms of their ambivalence surrounding racial identities . . . perming one’s hair, like other forms of racial cross-dressing, allowed white women to flaunt a sense of recklessness yet ultimately retain their own notions of respectability. (Willet 2000, 49–50) 6. In 1999 Dutch physician Rebecca Gomperts founded Women on Waves (WoW) as a service providing non-surgical abortion on a ship, that, flying a Dutch flag, can operate in international waters, serving as an island of Dutch reproductive law (Skinner 2007). 7. Hewitt points to a use in 1884, by Frances Power Cobbe, who suggested that social movements “resemble the tides of the Ocean” (xiii), and that women’s movements in particular have “rolled in separate waves” (xiv). 8. See Delap 2011 on maritime imagery in UK suffrage movements. 9. Writing of a possible “fourth-wave” feminism, Evans and Chamberlain em- ploy a hydromolecular simile to suggest that “the wave could be most useful when considered as a surface cohesion” (2015, 401). 10. Or, for that matter, “race,” which Weheliye (2014) has theorized as a viscous form, emerging in assemblage with corporeal, social, and economic forces. Works Cited Ah-King, Malin, and Eva Hayward. 2014. “Toxic Sexes: Perverting Pollution and Queering Hormone Disruption.” O-Zone: A Journal of Object-Oriented Studies 1: 1–12. 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work_3fbzqbhhbnamzmuzzzew6wblgm	----	The Fragility of Manhood T h e O h i O S T a T e U n i v e r S i T y P r e S S · C O l U m b U S hawThOrne, FreUd, and The POliTiCS OF Gender The Fragility of Manhood David Greven Copyright © 2012 by The Ohio State University. All rights reserved. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Greven, David. The fragility of manhood : Hawthorne, Freud, and the politics of gender / David Greven. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8142-1200-4 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8142-9301-0 (cd) 1. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804–1864—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Psychological fic- tion, American—History and criticism. 3. Psychology in literature. 4. Narcissism in litera- ture. 5. Masculinity in literature. I. Title. PS1892.P74G74 2012 813'.3—dc23 2012021599 Cover design by Judith Arisman Text design by Juliet Williams Type set in Adobe Garamond Pro Printed by Thomson-Shore, Inc. The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials. ANSI Z39.48-1992. 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Acknowledgments vii IntroductIon The Paradox of Desire 1 chapter 1 Paradise Lost: Hawthorne’s Traumatic Narcissism 24 chapter 2 As His Mother Loved Him: “The Gentle Boy” and Freud’s Theory of Male Homosexuality 40 chapter 3 Revising the Oedipal Hawthorne: Criticism and the Forms of Narcissism 69 chapter 4 Struck by the Mask: Narcissism, Shame, Masculinity, and the Dread of the Visual 91 chapter 5 In a Pig’s Eye: Masculinity, Mastery, and the Returned Gaze of The Blithedale Romance 114 chapter 6 The Gaze in the Garden: Femininity, Fetishism, and Tradition in “Rappaccini’s Daughter” 141 c o n t e n t s v i • C O n T e n T S chapter 7 Visual Identity: Hawthorne, Melville, and Classical Male Beauty 180 chapter 8 A Certain Dark Beauty: Narcissism, Form, and Race in Hawthorne’s Late Work 210 epIlogue The Haunted Verge: Aesthetics, Desire, History 243 Notes 255 Bibliography 292 Index 306 It took more than one Hawthorne conference to turn me into the author of this book. Numerous scholars have nurtured and emboldened my work on Hawthorne. While many deserve acknowledgment here, I especially want to thank, for early and generous encouragement, Robert K. Martin, Mil- licent Bell, Nina Baym, Brenda Wineapple, Fred Newberry, Alison Easton, Sam Coale, Magnus Ullén, Richard Millington, Lee Person, Wyn Kelley, Monika Elbert, David Diamond, Roberta Weldon, and Jana Argersinger. I have been fortunate to meet and to learn from so many Hawthorne schol- ars from around the world, and I happily salute the emergence of a global Hawthorne scholarly community. Jane J. Benardete’s seminar on Hawthorne and James at Hunter College was a crucial one for my intellectual develop- ment. As ever, I thank my friend and mentor Timo Gilmore, my disserta- tion advisor at Brandeis, for his unceasing guidance. My debt to Timo is inexpressible, as are the depths of my admiration. I also thank John Burt and Wai Chee Dimock for their support and friendship. Tim Dean’s gen- erosity and guidance at a crucial stage in my intellectual development and early immersion in psychoanalytic thinking were deeply helpful. His work exemplifies the best qualities of psychoanalytic theory. Both for their galva- nizing example and for their support, I also thank David Leverenz and the late Robin Wood. I gratefully acknowledge two scholarly journals for allowing me to republish, in revised, chapter form, previously published articles. An ear- lier version of chapter 2 was published as “Rereading Narcissism: Freud’s Theory of Male Homosexuality and Hawthorne’s ‘The Gentle Boy’” in Mod- a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s vii v i i i • a C k n O w l e d G m e n T S ern Psychoanalysis 34, no. 2 (2009). This article was the winner of a Phyllis W. Meadow Award for Excellence in Psychoanalytic Writing, 2007 (Hon- orable Mention). An earlier version of chapter 5 was published as “In a Pig’s Eye: Masculinity, Mastery, and the Returned Gaze in The Blithedale Romance,” Studies in American Fiction, 34, no. 2 (2006): 131–59. Some of the language in chapter 4 regarding Ora Gannett Sedgwick is lifted from my review of Richard Millington’s 2011 Norton Critical Edition of The Blithe- dale Romance published in The Nathaniel Hawthorne Review, vol. 37, no. 2 (Fall 2011): 148–53. I also humbly and gratefully thank the two anonymous readers of the manuscript for The Ohio State University Press, who provided me with crit- ical feedback that was as penetratingly insightful as it was emboldening. These readers have truly helped me to write a better book, and I offer them my thanks. I also profusely thank my wonderful editor at OSU Press, Sandy Crooms, for her unfailingly warm, thoughtful, and scrupulous support of the project, and the accomplished staff at the press. And, as ever, I thank Alex Beecroft for being so much more than my friend of friends forever. i n t r o d u c t i o n 1 A y o u n g m a n stares into a pool and sees his own reflection. At first, his reflection appears to be another person, endowed with great beauty. Enflamed with desire, the young man reaches out to the image in the pool, which dissolves at his touch. Gradually, he comes to understand that this image is just that, an image, and moreover a reflection of himself. Recognition brings with it neither relief nor release; this self-encounter leads to frustration, sorrow, and, ultimately, death. The myth of Narcissus has played a central role in understandings of the self, its predicaments and potential dangers, throughout the Western tradition. Despite the avid interest in classical myth exemplified by his two collections of Greek myths rewritten for children, Nathaniel Hawthorne never mentions Narcissus in print.1 Yet the figure of Narcissus and the the- matic concerns of his myth suffuse Hawthorne’s writings. Belying the textual absence of his naming, the myth of Narcissus informs several Hawthorne works, sometimes fairly obviously, as in the tellingly titled “Monsieur du Miroir” (1837), but more often, and more subtly, in the stories that promi- nently feature a young man. What Hawthorne’s youthful male characters share with Narcissus is a male identity intricately, if not entirely, bound to the power and the demands of the eye. This relationship to vision is deeply conflictual, acts of seeing and responses to being seen fraught with anx- iety, aggressivity, and even terror. The young man’s conflict over his own image is one of the most consistently developed themes in Hawthorne’s oeu- vre. Young Goodman Brown, Minister Hooper, Robin Molineux, Giovanni The Paradox of Desire 2 • i n T r O d U C T i O n Guasconti, Arthur Dimmesdale, Holgrave, Coverdale, Donatello: all of these immediately recognizable male characters are, as I will show, depicted in ways that emphasize their relationship to vision, a relationship always rendered in highly ambivalent terms. Moreover, Hawthorne’s male characters are particu- larly provocative extensions of the symbolic meanings of the figure of Nar- cissus because, in addition to their conflict with their own image, they are at once physically beautiful and morally dubious. A brief tour of the beautiful young men that recur in Hawthorne’s pages conveys his wide-ranging interests in this figure: following the trope of “handsome,” we find descriptions such as Coverdale’s of Westervelt in The Blithedale Romance: “He was still young, seemingly a little under thirty, of a tall and well-developed figure, and as handsome a man as ever I beheld” (3: 92); of Fanshawe, the protagonist of Hawthorne’s first novel, whose iden- tity as a scholar is apparently augmented by his personal attractiveness: “The stranger could scarcely have attained his twentieth year, and was possessed of a face and form, such as Nature bestows on none but her favorites” (3: 346); of Donatello in The Marble Faun as being so “full of animal life as he was, so joyous in his deportment, so handsome, so physically well developed, he made no impression of incompleteness, of maimed or stinted nature” (4: 14); of the English soldier in Hawthorne’s late, unfinished masterpiece Septi- mius Felton as “A young officer, a petulant boy, extremely handsome, and of gay and buoyant deportment” (13: 21). What is especially noteworthy is the license this ostentatious male attractiveness gives women to wield the sexually appraising gaze. In the early story “David Swan,” a pretty young woman sees the titular young man, sleeping, like Narcissus’s double, Endymion, beneath her eyes: blushingly, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air [a bee]. “He is handsome!” thought she, and blushed redder yet. (9: 187) Many of Hawthorne’s men are “striking,” such as the guilt-wracked Dim- mesdale, “a person of very striking aspect, with a white, lofty, and impend- ing brow, large, brown, melancholy eyes”; that Dimmesdale’s mouth, “unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and a vast power of self-restraint,” tellingly reveals the emotional tensions that simmer beneath a striking aspect, and the authorial disposition toward these attributes (1: 66). Beneath Dimmesdale’s beauty, tormenting feelings of self-doubt and self-disdain seethe; his hypocrisy ren- ders his outward beauty especially problematic, for it defies the Victorian T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 3 assumption that outer beauty reveals inner goodness. Most often in Haw- thorne, the beauty of men masks an inner depravity, to the extent that this beauty seems the hallmark of this depravity rather than a contrast to it. Or male beauty causes great discomfort. Coverdale’s apprehension of Wester- velt’s attractiveness seems only to deepen Coverdale’s distaste toward the mesmerist: “The style of his beauty, however, though a masculine style, did not at all commend itself to my taste. . . . he had no fineness of nature; there was in his eyes (although they might have artifice enough of another sort) the naked exposure of something that ought not to be left prominent” (3: 86). Though his face and form reveal him to be a favorite of Nature, Fan- shawe is besieged by “a blight, of which his thin, pale cheek and the bright- ness of his eye were alike proofs, [and that] seemed to have come over him ere his maturity” (3: 346). Hawthorne appears to have needed to put a beautiful man on the page. The question to which we will repeatedly return is why he took such a consis- tently skeptical view of this attractive figure. Beatrice Rappaccini, the victim of her scientist-father’s genetic experiments on her body, poses a question to the handsome and callow man who has voyeuristically spied on her as she tends to the poison plants whose DNA she shares. Her question to this young man, Giovanni Guasconti—“O, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?” (10: 91)— can be restated this way: Having had a father who interfused my blood with that of his poisonous plants, I have a literal reason for the poison in my system. What accounts for the poison coursing through yours? His most consistent themes indicate that Hawthorne asks this question along with Beatrice. Yet Hawthorne also views beautiful young men with empathy: he shares with them an empathetic fearfulness at the power of the gaze—not an avaricious desire to wield it but rather a desire to avoid falling under it. The theme of painful, violent, and violating looking informs Hawthorne’s work. The dubious desire to look and possess by looking in works such as “Wakefield,” “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” and The Blithedale Romance and the encounter with a troubling and even terrifying mirror image in stories such as “Feathertop” and longer works such as The Scarlet Letter together provide an apposite model for what Sándor Ferenczi diagnosed as “spectrophobia,” “the dread of catching sight of one’s own face in a mirror.”2 Hawthorne’s work plumbs spectrophobia for all of its ethical, aesthetic, and emotional depth, consistently thematizing traumatic seeing and being seen. It is lit- tle wonder that by his last complete novel, The Marble Faun, Hawthorne depicts a look that kills, Miriam’s blinding glare that impels Donatello to kill the Model. 4 • i n T r O d U C T i O n hawthorne, Freud, and lacan Freudian theory is the theoretical foundation of this study. Through Freud and his extraordinarily and enduringly provocative insights into the difficul- ties of gender and sexual identity, I make the case that Hawthorne’s represen- tation of male subjectivity defies and even at times transcends the normative demands of hegemonic masculinity. As a methodology, however, Freudian theory must undergo stringent revision, given that many of Freud’s positions and conclusions are often in deep need of updating. Jacques Lacan’s refor- mulation of Freud’s theory of narcissism is especially helpful to one of our central themes, the relationship between gender and vision. Lacan’s theory of the mirror stage is very familiar by now, but it retains a revelatory power for Hawthorne’s work.3 Lacan theorized that there are three “orders” of existence (the Imaginary, the Symbolic, and the Real).4 The mirror stage is the key component of the Imaginary order, in which the ego is formed through a narcissistic fascination with one’s own image. Before the mirror stage, the very young child is a body in pieces (le corps morcelé). One sense, the visual, is more advanced than any other. When the child stares at his image in the mirror, he mistakes the image of wholeness in the mirror for an actual, authentic wholeness. This profound misrecognition (méconnaissance) is the basis from which a self is formed. Our mesmerizing and seductive counterpart in the mirror, what Lacan calls the “small other,” seizes us (captation), holding us its captive always. Lacan, intertextually competing with Freud, transforms the Narcissus myth into the narrative of subjectivity. He associates narcissism with the aggressivity, rivalry, strife, and even suicidal despair that all stem from this primary encounter with one’s own image. In that it is formed through iden- tification with an image, the ego’s foundations are fragile and tenuous. That the ego emerges from the mirror stage and the Imaginary order is a crucial aspect of Lacanian theory, which opposes ego-psychology and its constitutive belief in the reconstruction of the “healthy” ego. In completely destabilizing the concept of the ego, Lacan renders any psychoanalytic effort to restore it inherently suspect. Also of importance, the mirror stage incorporates the social and the gaze. The child, apprehending its own seemingly complete and mesmeriz- ing image, turns around to look at its mother looking at the child as it looks at and “recognizes” itself. The formation of our own subjectivity depends on the mother’s approving, knowing nod of recognition. An awareness of and dependence on visual affirmation of one’s own existence—existence as a visual subject—is a fundamental aspect of the formation of subjectivity. As T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 5 I will be arguing, Hawthorne’s work elaborates endlessly on these dynamics, especially the implications of visuality’s centrality both for the subject and for all social relations, (relations between the mother and child, as I will show in chapter 2, being the template for these). For Lacan, narcissism is pathological because it is a subjectivity based on a mirage. Yet, as Lacan lays out his theories, all subjectivity and libidinal attachments would appear to derive from the same evanescent sources. The Lacanian theorist Joan Copjec discusses Lacan’s understanding of narcissism within a larger discussion of Lacan’s theory. For Copjec, Lacan’s theory of the gaze differs both from Foucault’s theory of the panoptical gaze and from film theory’s uses of Lacan. For Foucault, power is invested in monitoring the subject, hence its deployment of a panoptical gaze and hence the feeling subjects unceasingly have that they are being watched, whether or not they are, indeed, being watched. For film theory, the gaze defines the spectator, which is presented as a stable heterosexual male subject. In Copjec’s view, Lacan’s theory of the gaze is distinct from these other theories because, for Lacan, the gaze does not define, and certainly does not monitor, the subject, but is, rather, quite indifferent to it. I will return to film theory’s treatment of Lacan in chapter 1. For now, I want to draw on Copjec’s reading of Lacan, in which she offers a particularly insightful summary of the Lacanian revision of Freud’s theories of narcissism, which will be considered at greater length in chapters 1 and 2. As Copjec puts it, Narcissism, too, takes on a different meaning in Lacan, one more in accord with Freud’s own. Since something always appears to be missing from any representation, narcissism cannot consist in finding satisfaction in one’s own visual image. It must, rather, consist in the belief that one’s own being exceeds the imperfections of the image. Narcissism, then, seeks the self beyond the self-image, with which the subject constantly finds fault and in which it constantly fails to recognize itself. What one loves in one’s image is something more than the image (“in you more than you”). Thus is narcis- sism the source of the malevolence with which the subject regards its image, the aggressivity it unleashes on all its own representations. And thus does the subject come into being as a transgression of, rather than in conformity to, the law. It is not the law, but the fault in the law—the desire that the law cannot ultimately conceal—that is assumed by the subject as its own. The subject, in taking up the burden of the law’s guilt, goes beyond the law.5 In Copjec’s reading of Lacan, narcissism emerges as a kind of malevolent defensiveness against a simultaneously held and urgent set of disappoint- 6 • i n T r O d U C T i O n ments and desires. One of the sources of the aggression within narcissism is a dissatisfaction with one’s visual image and the insistent corollary belief that one is more than this image, more resplendently beautiful and complete. Hawthorne offers an analogous treatment of these themes. He is a Freud- ian-Lacanian theorist of the visual and its relationship to gender who sees gender as unintelligible without the visual, and both gender and the visual as fundamentally imbricated. The visual is also what constricts, wounds, and unceasingly antagonizes the gendered subject in his work. At the same time, Hawthorne, so obsessively an explorer of the guilty subject’s agonized rela- tionship to the law, presages Foucault’s understanding of the panoptical gaze, as exemplified by Rappaccini’s invasive, controlling, and totalizing surveil- lance of the young lovers in one of Hawthorne’s greatest tales. Hawthorne, however, does not view, as Foucault does, the law as positive and nonrepres- sive, as inciting desire, but as the force that represses desire, and with dire consequences. Hawthorne’s psychoanalytic sensibility, therefore, emerges from his acute sense of profound discrepancies between a subject’s desires and the law’s dictates. One of the means of registering these discrepancies is narcissism, which memorializes a subject’s state of oneness, however illusory and evanes- cent, before the inevitable process of socialization. It is within what Lacan describes as the Symbolic order, the domain of the father’s language and law, that this socialization occurs. Which is to say, we acquire and achieve subjec- tivity through a rebirth into language and the inscriptions of the law and the name of the father. Narcissism, imbued with plangent urgency and fueled by malevolent anger, memorializes the Imaginary and the mirror stage. Narcissism can be understood as the subject’s experience of being unceas- ingly haunted by its own mesmerizing image before the onset of subjectivity. Narcissism memorializes what “belonged” to the subject before it became a Symbolic entity: its ties to nature and the Real, and the heady state of one- ness and connection that Freud theorized as the “oceanic feeling,” a pro- found feeling of unity in which the infant’s and the mother’s bodies were indistinguishable. (The infant has no idea, for example, that the breast is the mother’s breast, a bodily zone separate from his own body.) A violent disrup- tion of mother–child bonds links Freudian oedipal theory and Lacan’s the- ory of the passage from the Imaginary to the Symbolic order, both of which are narratives of identification with the “Father.” Narcissism memorializes not just the subject’s indescribable feeling of a prior oneness—for the subject is irreducibly a split subject after its formation through language—but also the connection to the mother, which must be forsaken for Symbolic social- T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 7 ization. Narcissism retains a power to resist and stall this socialization, even as it is incorporated into a “properly oedipalized,” male-dominated social order. Little wonder, then, that the properly functioning subject—properly functioning because it believes itself to be a subject—is always already a haunted, wandering subject, forever estranged from itself. What I call Haw- thorne’s “traumatic narcissism” relates to this haunted disposition: a sense of being fundamentally bereft while imagining a prior state of fulfillment and connection to which the subject can never return but that haunts and on some fundamental level continues to shape the present. Narcissism marks the points of disparity between one’s fantasies and experiential realities; it is precisely its ability to link and even to embody these gulfs that makes narcis- sism a useful, indeed provocatively vivid, index of anxieties, hostilities, and wishes. Narcissism has profound implications for sexual as well as gendered iden- tity. In his difficult, exasperating, and undeniably compelling No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive, Lee Edelman argues against the soci- etal valuation of the Child, which he views as the linchpin of a heterosexist emphasis on reproductive futurity that queer sexuality not only nobly resists but must, self-consciously embodying the death drive, actively oppose. Edel- man cites some of this same penetratingly insightful passage from his fel- low Lacanian Copjec.6 I do not share Edelman’s philosophical positions, especially about queer sexuality’s proper value (as the apparently resistant embodiment of the death drive), and I therefore do not follow him in his subsequent conclusion that what Lacan and Copjec are theorizing is narcis- sism’s chief significance as a “life-denying economy.”7 But, as I will show in the first two chapters especially, the fates of narcissism and homosexual- ity have been intimately, if not inextricably, intertwined in psychoanalytic theory and also in popular receptions of it. Certainly, within this gay male imaginary, homosexuality is seen as life-denying, a quality linked to the per- ceived nullity of narcissism. As I will be attempting to show in my Janus- faced book—which has one eye on traditional close readings of a canonical author, the other on revising literary studies, psychoanalytic theory, and the related topic of Freud studies through queer theory—narcissism is a potentially resistant mode of affectional attachment and response. What Hawthorne, Freud, and Lacan evoke so movingly is the anguish within nar- cissism, its contested nature and the struggles it suggests over identity and self-knowledge, qualities that in their irreducibility to any one stagnant view pointedly deny life-denial. 8 • i n T r O d U C T i O n narcIssIsm and Its dIscontents Apart from an excellent 1983 essay by Shernaz Mollinger and an expansive and thoughtful dissertation by MaryHelen Cleverley Harmon, the impor- tance of narcissistic themes in Hawthorne has been largely overlooked. In an important essay, Joseph Adamson does discuss the subject, but places narcis- sism within the larger context of shame in Hawthorne’s work, arguing that narcissism functions as a defense against shame. Christopher Castiglia also discusses the central role of shame in the “queer sociality” of Hawthorne’s work, especially in The House of the Seven Gables (1851), and makes quite bracingly novel uses of shame as a force that can trigger and undergird pro- gressive new social arrangements.8 Shame is, as I will have frequent occasion to discuss, undoubtedly one of the chief affects in Hawthorne. But, follow- ing Andrew Morrison’s theory of shame as the “underside” of narcissism, I argue that in Hawthorne’s work shame proceeds from a larger framework of narcissism. In order to understand the full importance of Hawthorne’s uses of the Narcissus myth, it will be helpful to this analysis to chart some of the trends in the myth’s reception, which has been historically prohibitive and phobic. In her feminist study The American Narcissus, Joyce W. Warren takes canonical American literature before the Civil War to the severest task, argu- ing that, in its focus on male individualism, it is narcissistic in the most pathological sense of the word. Emerson and Cooper come under particu- larly critical scrutiny. Interestingly enough, however, Hawthorne is spared the most stringent of Warren’s analyses, emerging as an exception to the gen- eral narcissistic male rule. He escapes Warren’s judgment precisely because, unlike his contemporaries, and “despite personal and cultural inhibitions,” Hawthorne “was acutely aware of the personhood of the female other and was able to create female characters who stand out in American literature as women of substance and individuality.”9 Though writing in 1984, War- ren articulates a view with a sturdy provenance, the term “narcissistic” still able to cast its pejorative light on any subject. While I agree with Warren about the salutary qualities of Hawthorne’s still controversial representation of women, I argue that Hawthorne’s depictions of male sexuality are also a crucial aspect of the ways in which his work resists normative structures of gendered and sexual identities. Hawthorne’s modulations of the myth of Narcissus throughout his work allowed him to develop a resistant atti- tude toward patriarchal constructions of masculinity, which in turn was an important dimension of his overall critique of gendered power in the United T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 9 States, a project that culminates in his extraordinary late, unfinished Septi- mius Felton/Norton manuscripts. In order to make a case for the political value of the Narcissus theme in Hawthorne, it is necessary to establish the legitimacy of narcissism as an erotic and social economy. In most contexts, narcissism connotes a self- regard unseemly in its excessiveness, an egotism run amok; transatlantic Romanticism seems especially rife with such monstrous egotism. For Lil- lian R. Furst, the crux of the Romantic hero’s tragedy is that “his egotism is such as to pervert all his feelings inwards on to himself till everything and everyone is evaluated only in relationship to that precious self, the focus of his entire energy,” the result being that “no genuine, let alone altruistic love is possible.”10 Furst’s view of the “blatant egotism” of the Romantic writer emblematizes the general view of Romantic male authorship.11 The “egotism” of which some critics accuse Hawthorne stems from this larger accusation of solipsism in transatlantic Romanticism.12 In addition to being framed as the bastion of white male privilege (Mulvey, Warren), narcissism has also been a pathological medical condition in several areas of psychoanalytic thought, including Freud’s, a problematic history which this study reexamines. Perhaps a good place to start in our challenge to broad understandings of narcissism as pathological egotism is with the Romantics, whose work deeply influenced Hawthorne and other American writers of the nineteenth century. Percy Bysshe Shelley’s description of the titular phenomenon of his essay On Love goes directly to the heart of narcissistic self-representation: Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves. . . . If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another’s; if we feel, we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood. This is Love.13 For Shelley, desire for another person is desire for self-likeness. While a long- standing tradition in the West has taken a similar view, it has done so in terms of the misogynistic construction of “woman” as the reflection of man, who sees in woman’s eyes the mirror image of his own beauty, physical and intellectual at once. Shelley, who was very much like the young Hawthorne a cynosure of the eye, was perhaps personally guilty of taking this view of 1 0 • i n T r O d U C T i O n women in life. But in any event, in this essay his evocation of a desire for someone whose “nerves should vibrate to our own” resonantly evokes the intimacy of narcissism, or, more properly, the desire for intimacy of a par- ticularly intense kind within narcissism. Moreover, it exposes the narcissistic core of desire, which, as Freud put it, has neither aim nor object, but, on the other hand, proceeds from the basis of a desire to replicate and rediscover the self. There is, too, an inherent vulnerability in narcissistic desire, a need for some kind of affirmation of one’s own worth on emotional and physical levels that is given through complementary resemblance. Male subjectivity is always figured as border-patrolled, as locked-down. Writers such as Shelley and Hawthorne suggest the porousness and fluidity of the male subject as well as the fragility of its constitution, the intense effort needed to maintain its surface logic of coherence and stability. If psychoanalysis, as I will show, has no less consistently than the West- ern tradition put forth the view of narcissism as pathological, it can also be used provocatively to explore the centrality rather than the retrogressive role narcissism plays in desire.14 As psychoanalyst Wilhelm Stekel wrote: Virtually every auto-erotic act is a manifestation of narcissism. For the plea- sure is derived from one’s own body. Moreover, close psychologic scrutiny of human love relations discloses that every human being seeks his self, or his self-reflecting image, in others, and that every love, in a certain sense, is love of self. We but love ourselves in others and hate ourselves through our hatred of others.15 Stekel provides a psychoanalytic version of Shelley’s desire for reassuring like- ness. By adding the factor of autoeroticism, Stekel also reminds us of the sexual dimensions of self-fascination. I will discuss the distinctions between autoeroticism and narcissism in the first chapter, but let me establish here that, in Hawthorne’s own time, autoeroticism was a very troubling concept to many people. Broadly understood, it was, if anything, a more publicly denounced form of sexual expressiveness than homoeroticism. Autoeroticism was embodied negatively in the figure of the onanist, or masturbator. (From a psychoanalytic perspective, just as autoeroticism and narcissism are distinct from one another, autoeroticism cannot simply be reduced to onanistic prac- tice; each has its own psychic characteristics.16) The voluminous antebellum literature on the dangers of onanism, linked with same-sex sexual practices by such high-profile health reformers as John Todd, Sylvester Graham, and Mary Gove Nichols, classified autoerotic desire as no less pernicious than T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 1 1 same-sex desire, a bane to the emotional, spiritual, and physical integrity of the normative body.17 As Stephen Nissenbaum observed in his penetrating study of the Jacksonian era’s reformers, Sex, Diet, and Debility, Hawthorne’s work has much in common with themes in Graham’s tracts, especially.18 Yet Hawthorne’s work also challenges the reformers’ uniformly phobic disdain for the autoerotic. He floods the concept of solitary pleasure with the free-floating urgency of phantasy. A prime example of his sensibility is the almost nakedly autobiographical story “The Haunted Mind” (1835), about the nighttime reveries of a young man on the verge of sleep (9: 304–9). As a phalanx of phantasms invade his drowsy mind, Hawthorne’s young man fitfully responds to each oneiric visitation, ranging from the intimidating, stern, masculine figure of “Fatality,” a demon that “touches” the “sore place” of the young man’s heart and embodies “Shame,” to a female presence whose “tenderer bosom” and softer breathing would be, the narrator “whispers,” such a pleasant addition to these “night solitudes.” By the last paragraph, the drowsy young man seems to achieve some form of climax: “the knell of a temporary death.” This work implies that the self is an ample and suitable site of erotic contemplation. Adding to this idea is Hawthorne’s rare use of the second person in the narrator’s description of these nighttime reveries. Addressing both his sleepy and contemplative protagonist and, implicitly, the reader as “You,” Hawthorne’s narrator maintains an emotional distance from both that is also redolent of spectatorial fascination. Mirror images, or more properly a chain of mirror images, narrator, protagonist, and reader reflect and double one another, simultaneously inciting desire, delaying cli- mactic release, and then collectively experiencing this little death and its dreamlike, floating bodilessness. Hawthorne’s work generally both supports and troubles the idea of soli- tary pleasure—supports by suggesting its possibility repeatedly, troubles by rendering the idea ominous. Giovanni Guasconti’s onanistic reveries in “Rap- paccini’s Daughter” seem fueled as much by his own self-fixation as they do by the disturbing beauty of the story’s titular figure, but these reveries are harbingers of his own doom. Coverdale in The Blithedale Romance onanis- tically forereckons “the abundance of my vintage” high up in his inviolate bower, but he uses this vantage point to facilitate his obsessive voyeurism, as if to repudiate knowledge of his own onanistic desires. There is in Haw- thorne a constant struggle between conflicted modes—empathy and scorn, desire and revulsion, respectful distance and invasive intrusion, and so on. Narcissism emerges as the chief site of these affectional and social struggles, their conductor and psychic source. 1 2 • i n T r O d U C T i O n JacksonIan amerIca and hawthorne’s VIew oF masculInIty Before proceeding to a further clarification of my psychoanalytic method here, I want to establish my understanding of what makes Hawthorne, on balance, a radical writer—however many conservative tendencies inform his work at times—of the antebellum period. Critical treatments of Hawthorne, especially those written by prominent critics such as Sacvan Bercovitch, Jon- athan Arac, and John Carlos Rowe, from the early 1990s to the present have framed him as a racist and a misogynistic writer, or, at best, a writer who failed to make his politics sufficiently active, decisive, visible, or resistant.19 Or, Hawthorne has been framed as a writer who couched his own quite ada- mant conservative politics in a coy rhetorical pose of political indifference. In my view, these critiques have at times misrepresented Hawthorne’s poli- tics and art; more troublingly, they have stemmed from a larger critique of Hawthorne’s suspect “inaction” or passivity. While matters remain unsettled in terms of making sense of Hawthorne’s admittedly conflicted and often frustrating politics, Larry Reynolds in Devils and Rebels has done a salutary job of providing new cultural contexts for them. The themes of inaction and passivity, whatever they may have meant for Hawthorne as a member of his northern abolitionist community, emerge as central to his fiction. It is pre- cisely in the strange passivity of Hawthorne’s men that the radicalism of his treatment of masculinity lies. Hawthorne evinces a career-long willingness to acknowledge the unspeakable and culturally silenced vulnerability in Ameri- can manhood; moreover, he insists on viewing hegemonic masculinity from a skeptical perspective that emerges as a critique. Unsilencing the strictures of what T. Walter Herbert identifies as code masculinity, which demands a stoic reserve that kills off the range of human feeling in males, and offering a valuable, anguished, sometimes even angry critique of it, Hawthorne man- aged to resist the normative gendered standards of his era while also illumi- nating their pressures and effects.20 This book attempts to show just how illuminating Hawthorne’s work remains. Building on the work of historians such as David G. Pugh, Michael Kim- mel, E. Anthony Rotundo, and Andrew Burstein, I argued in my 2005 study Men Beyond Desire: Manhood, Sex, and Violation in American Literature that Jacksonian America produced a recognizably modern version of American manhood that privileged male competitiveness and physical strength and targeted nonnormative masculine behaviors—effeminacy, especially—as threats to the gendered stability of the nation.21 The diverse discursive forces at work in antebellum America, sometimes with wildly competing interests T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 1 3 and agendas—ideologies of self-made manhood and Jacksonian man-on-the- make market competiveness; religious reformers and temperance advocates; medical, health, and sexual reformers—united in the focus of their recon- structive programs: the young white male and his often errant, volatile body as well as spirit. Male sexuality—controlling, regulating, harnessing, and properly directing it—emerged as the chief battleground of these ideologi- cal battles. The particular form of male sexuality that emerged in antebellum literature—the figure that I call the inviolate male—was a reaction not only to the intensity of programs that sought to control male sexuality but also to the sheer incommensurability of their competing demands. Hawthorne’s work teems with emotionally, physically, and sexually invio- late male figures who reject both female and male companionship, who are in flight from marriage and other men. The formation of homosocial bonds, or what I call compulsory fraternity, was (and, I would argue, remains) no less a normative demand for the subject than marriage. At the same time, if broadly speaking the gendered protocols of Jacksonian America demanded phallic aggression and relentless ambition from its competitive, enterpris- ing male subjects (and, from its female subjects, conformity to a new model of female passionlessness and domesticity embodied by the emergent Cult of True Womanhood), Hawthorne’s work abounds with men, particularly young men, who eschew these market-driven models and attitudes. Haw- thorne’s male characters retreat when they might be expected to drive ahead, hide when others unceasingly seek. The passivity of Hawthorne’s males, reflected in key patterns of his own life, especially in his politics, may reflect an unwillingness to pursue proper (and prescribed) political values. But their secretive, sensual slinking to the sidelines also refuses the gendered dictates of Hawthorne’s own era, which, on so many levels, demanded maximal vis- ibility from its male subjects. Hawthorne, born in 1804, came of age in an America being shaped by the masculinist and anti-European cult of Andrew Jackson. Though elected in 1828 and re-elected four years later, Jackson had, in many ways, a three- term presidency. Although John Quincy Adams, in what Richard Hof- stadter, in his classic study Anti-Intellectualism in American Life, describes as “a freakish four-way election,” defeated Jackson the first time he ran for office in 1824, “Jackson was by far the more popular candidate.”22 The Battle of New Orleans in 1815 was a decisive moment for both Jackson and the nation’s self-definition. The famous battle—in which Jackson was celebrated for having defeated the British, as if single-handedly—established him as a military hero throughout the nation and solidified the American distrust of and distaste for its own substantive European heritage. As an embodi- 1 4 • i n T r O d U C T i O n ment of European values and valences, John Quincy Adams only managed to maintain a tenuous, unsteady hold on his own presidency. As Hofstadter describes, Adams’s administration was the test case for the unsuitability of the intel- lectual temperament for political leadership in early nineteenth-century America. . . . Adams became the symbol of the old order and the chief vic- tim of the reaction against the learned man. . . . As Adams embodied the old style, Andrew Jackson embodied the new. . . . In headlong rebellion against the European past, Americans thought of “decadent” Europe as more bar- barous than “natural” America; they feared their own advancing civilization was “artificial” and might estrange them from Nature . . . [In Jackson] was a man of action, “educated in Nature’s schools,” who was “artificial in noth- ing” . . . Against a primitivist hero [like Jackson] . . . who brought wisdom straight out of the forest, Adams . . . seemed artificial . . . . [When Jackson challenged Adams again in 1828], Adams was outdone in every section of the country but New England.23 As Hofstadter put it, the terms of the election that resulted in Andrew Jack- son’s 1828 presidency could be viewed as a battle between, in the words of a popular couplet of the time, “John Quincy Adams who can write / And Andrew Jackson who can fight” (159).24 Rather than put up a fight, Hawthorne’s men forfeit their roles as social and sexual contenders and instead focus intensely on the self. This focus on the self was, in Hawthorne’s treatment, a parody of the cult of self-made manhood that ran the gamut from Jacksonian market-values to the loft- ier principles of Emerson-Thoreauvian Transcendentalism, with its focus on self-reliance and self-culture. Self-focus in Hawthorne promises subversively pleasurable possibilities while threatening to immure the subject in the nar- row confines of solipsism. Passivity emerges as a strategy for allowing for these potential pleasures while staving off an impending obsolescence. A great deal more work needs to be done on the schism between Haw- thorne’s publicly avowed love not only for Jackson but for the very aggres- sive purposefulness he embodied, not just generally but in Hawthorne’s own view, and the thoroughgoing critique of masculinist power in Hawthorne’s work. Hawthorne offers scabrous critiques of men such as Judge Pyn- cheon in The House of the Seven Gables and Westervelt, Hollingsworth, Old Moodie, and even the narrator, Coverdale, in The Blithedale Romance, men who principally wield their power against those whose disadvantages leave them ill-equipped for a fight (the fragile elderly brother and sister Clifford T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 1 5 and Hepzibah in Gables; wan and withdrawn Priscilla as the Veiled Lady in Blithedale; that novel’s general populace subjected to Coverdale’s rapaciously voyeuristic gaze).25 While there are certainly masculinist attitudes in Haw- thorne’s life and work, Hawthorne consistently strives to undermine the stability from which hegemonic masculinity proceeds to wield its various forms of power. As I will attempt to show in this book, Hawthorne was a resistant critic of the increasing masculinism of his culture in ways that have not always been apparent to his critics. the purpose oF psychoanalytIc crItIcIsm To return to the question of method: in speaking of psychoanalytic theory and of myth in relation to Hawthorne, I am both recalling earlier, no longer favored approaches to literary art and making a new, updated case for these approaches. While providing valuable insights distinctively its own, the his- torical approach to literature currently favored by Americanists cannot tell the full story of literature’s effects on readers nor of readers’ investments in literature. Though I believe that literary criticism must be sensitive to mat- ters of history, I also believe that psychoanalytic theory is acutely adept at treating the affectional aspects of literary experience. One of my goals in this book is to make a case for the relevance, usefulness, and complementarity of psychoanalytic theory to historical studies of literature. I return to the question of the relationship between Americanist literary studies and psy- choanalysis in chapter 3. While I will have several occasions to establish, anew, why I feel that psy- choanalytic theory is a useful means of studying Hawthorne’s work, I want to take a moment both to situate myself within a psychoanalytic literary studies framework and to explain why my approach also stands apart from this framework as well as from historical approaches to nineteenth-century literature. In his 1968 The Dynamics of Literary Response, once a well-known work, Norman N. Holland summarizes the elements of psychoanalytic liter- ary criticism in chapters on fantasy, “form as defense,” displacement, char- acter, affect, and related topics. Some of his comments in the 1975 edition seem to me enduringly apt: [As] readers, you and I bring certain characteristic expectations to a literary work and defend against or adapt the text to suit them. As I accept the text through my characteristic defenses, I project my preferred fantasies into it and transform those fantasies, using the text as absorbed, into a meaning 1 6 • i n T r O d U C T i O n and coherence that matters to me. You do the same for you. The literary experience is the transformation described in Dynamics, but it takes place within each of us differently, because we each transform the resources the work offers us so as to express our different identity themes.26 Writing before identity politics, Holland presciently includes the idea of “identity themes.” While I am not writing from a standard identity-politics position, which focuses on positive images and an affirming group identity, my personal identity certainly shapes my politics and therefore my work. Writing as a multiracial gay man about a white and presumably heterosexual author, and writing very much from a presentist position while also striving to be historically scrupulous, I am quite self-consciously creating my own versions of Hawthorne and his work here which, while they may bear resem- blances to the authentic manifestations of these, are very much shaped by my own sensibility. Certainly, I will concur with Holland that I am project- ing my preferred fantasies into Hawthorne’s work and transforming those fantasies, using the text as absorbed, into a meaning and coherence that matters to me. (For Holland, “the reader introjects a process of psychologi- cal transformation [from unconscious fantasy toward conscious significance] that is embodied in the literary work.”) In so doing, I genuinely hope to speak to something that is authentically and independently alive and vital in Hawthorne’s work. But it is no more “explained” by psychoanalytic theory than it is by a scrupulous historical study—no more, that is, explained away by either. Because of Hawthorne’s genius as a thinker as well as prose styl- ist, his work not only withstands but also exceeds critical analysis. Yet criti- cal analysis also has a life—a consecration, if you will—of its own, and its own meanings and reasons for existence. What I hope happens throughout this study is that my own identity themes and Hawthorne’s work as well as Freud’s can converge in ways that produce new meanings and readings of value. As Stanley J. Coen writes in his fine study Between Author and Reader, psychoanalytic criticism is ill-advised to attempt to reconstruct the biograph- ical author, as it did in the past (and as, it should be noted, many con- temporary and decidedly nonpsychoanalytic approaches continue to do). “Beginning with a careful literary analysis, we must then demonstrate that a psychoanalytic perspective does indeed add something further to clarifying and enhancing multiple meanings and perspectives for enriching our read- ing experience of the text. Often the value in psychoanalytic literary criticism is not the psychoanalytic perspective or language but simply that it is good criticism.”27 I agree with Coen, and certainly hope to have produced good T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 1 7 criticism. But at the same time, psychoanalytic theory is not indistinguish- able from other critical approaches. My commitment to it, which involves extensive revision of it from within, has a great deal to do with my political stances but also my own sensibility. Psychoanalytic theory, to my mind, takes the best aspects of New Crit- icism—which, as has been amply shown, had many inherent flaws and ideological blindnesses—to a new level of theoretical sophistication, spe- cifically in the belief in the importance and efficacy of close reading that both approaches share. But beyond this, psychoanalytic theory is particularly responsive, or at least can be made to be, to the emotional and other kinds of experiential aspects of gender and sexuality and also, though this area needs much more development within the discipline, racial identity. When informed by feminism, queer theory, and race theory, psychoanalysis can be a profoundly empathetic and suggestive means of developing enhanced, broad, and intimate understandings of identity and its implications. For Hawthorne, writing in a literary era that placed severe restrictions on content, especially in matters of sexuality, and that, from the presidency of Andrew Jackson forward, set severe limits on gendered behavior for both men and women, literature was a means of expressing often taboo subjects in life as well as art. In my view, Hawthorne problematizes and even under- mines normative gender and sexual roles (which is not to suggest that he does so with entire consistency or that a real conservatism in this and other regards is not also present in Hawthorne, only that it is not preponderant). But because Hawthorne does so, as he did just about everything, enigmat- ically, psychoanalytic theory, with its avowed interest in the unconscious and with parapraxis, slips of the tongue and other unintended revelations of unconscious thoughts and dynamics, becomes particularly useful for decod- ing his messages. Hawthorne’s work remains deliberately, constitutionally enigmatic in ways that simultaneously resist and beckon interpretation. Psychoanalytic theory should be more than a figural attempt to pry open locked boxes with beguiling patterns on their surfaces. Instead, its own difficulties and its own biases as well as capacity for insight dynamically interact and intersect with the textual object to which the theoretical methodology is applied. My effort is not to apply psychoanalytic theory to Hawthorne’s work, but rather to compare both as modes of inquiry while letting each discover the other. What motivates me to study Hawthorne at length—beyond my belief that he is the greatest American writer of the nineteenth century—is that, in my view, Hawthorne is a radical theorist of gender, sexuality, and American mas- culinity. However many inherent and varied critical and literary dangers lurk 1 8 • i n T r O d U C T i O n within such a treatment of an author, the allure of engagement and insight surpasses the fears they produce. In the end, any critical project is a work in progress to be, if not completed, at least extended and enlarged by the reader. As Meredith Anne Skura writes in The Literary Use of the Psychoanalytic Process, Using the psychoanalytic process as a model for literary texts does not imply that all conventions, all literal meanings, or all ordinary functions in a text are there only to be questioned. But it does provide a reminder that the questions are always there and that the uncertainty they pro- duce is part of what the text conveys, even if this uncertainty is slight and finally resolved. Texts are more unstable than we might think; they are less fixed than simpler models that merely look for “hidden material” might indicate.28 Psychoanalytic theory is a complex model for the study of literature—com- plex both because it produces problems of its own that must be dealt with and because of the density and range of its invaluable insights. To use a Skura term, what psychoanalytic theory illuminates for us is “discrepancy”: the tension between what a work ostensibly strives to achieve and what it does achieve, the indications it gives that, on the way to its idiosyncratic achievement, the work has encountered numerous forks in the road, that numerous fissures have developed. There are tantalizing discrepancies in Hawthorne’s work, ways in which he undermines the surface agendas of his narratives. Yet, at the same time, Hawthorne takes the very idea of narrative as an opportunity to subvert, to stage malevolent and upsetting fun and games. Moreover, as I have been sug- gesting, a genuine anguish courses through his witty menace. Psychoanalytic theory holds as a central premise that all is not what it seems, that all has not been made clear, in other words, that the unconscious has a powerful place in our lives that we struggle to understand. As I attempt to make use of it in this book, psychoanalytic theory can help us more fully and empa- thetically to understand the sources of Hawthorne’s anguish—in life, to a certain extent, but more importantly and expansively within the realms of his art. While my specific subject is the startling discrepancy between the nineteenth-century American model of hegemonic or code masculinity and Hawthorne’s representation of it, this focus leads to a broader set of reflec- tions on the nature, or perhaps we should say the cultures, of gendered identity. T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 1 9 chapter summarIes The book takes the following trajectory. In chapter 1, I discuss, in relation to Hawthorne’s work, both the Narcissus myth and the psychoanalytic treat- ment of narcissism as an early stage in human development that provokes a sense of “paradise lost” in the nostalgic adult subject. This nostalgia relates to the concept I develop of “traumatic narcissism.” I use this concept to inter- pret emotional patterns that recur in Hawthorne’s fiction—its deep senses of loss, anger, betrayal, cruelty, and sorrow. The discussion turns to the valences among narcissism and male homosexuality in Freud’s thought, the Ovidian version of the Narcissus myth, and Hawthorne’s particular uses of it. I then establish the terms whereby one of the most important areas of inquiry in the study—visuality and the sense of vision, related to shame and sadistic forms of looking such as voyeurism—will be discussed. Looking at Jacques Lacan’s and Laura Mulvey’s revisions of Freudian visual theory (the mirror stage and the gaze, and the male gaze, respectively), I discuss how their work helps us to understand the potential uses that can be made of Freud as well as certain pervasive themes in Hawthorne, in particular the confrontation with his own image on the part of the figure of the young man. In chapter 2, I take these propositions further. I re-examine Freud’s often disputed if not altogether debunked theory of male homosexual psycho- sexual development, in which narcissism plays a central role, arguing that this theory, while not without some considerable difficulties, retains a value as an analysis of mother-identified male identity and the implications such an identity has for social relations. I reread Freud’s essay “On Narcissism: An Introduction” as an understanding of human subjectivity that provides a provocative alternative to the theory of the Oedipal complex. From the basis of this reading, I argue that Hawthorne explores same-sex love in his story “The Gentle Boy,” which I read as a complementary narrative to Freud’s the- ory of the male homosexual child’s psychosexual development, particularly in the centrality of the mother–son bond in both the tale and Freud’s theory. In this chapter, I begin to address the relationship between shame and nar- cissism in Hawthorne’s fiction as well as the relationship both thematics have to the equally substantial one in Hawthorne of vision and the gaze. Chapter 3 discusses Frederick Crews’s Freudian interpretation of Haw- thorne in his 1966 book The Sins of the Fathers and Crews’s later anti-Freud- ianism. From the 1980s to the present, Crews has emerged as one of Freud’s chief critics. In this chapter, I discuss Crews’s revisionist project, arguing that Crews’s early Freudian critique of Hawthorne was itself a misrepresen- tation of both Freud and Hawthorne. Challenging the emphasis that Crews 2 0 • i n T r O d U C T i O n placed on the Oedipus complex in Hawthorne’s work, I explore the narcis- sistic themes at play within it, through close readings of the tales “Roger Malvin’s Burial” and “My Kinsman, Major Molineux.” In the reading of “Burial,” I develop the concept I call “murderous narcissism” as an alterna- tive to the oedipal schema Crews sees at work in the story. In addition, I discuss the homoerotic significance of the classical allusions in the tale. With “Molineux,” I develop, from my readings of Freud, Lacan, and Mulvey, the concept of the “narcissistic gaze” in Hawthorne. The goal of this chapter is not to replace one powerful critical term with another—narcissism for the Oedipus complex—but, instead, to establish that a consideration of Haw- thorne’s narcissistic themes allows us to shed new light on his interests in male sexuality, vision, and the gaze. Chapter 4 refines the theoretical and thematic terms of the study as a whole. Here, I develop, through engagements with psychoanalytic and film theory, the ideas that Hawthorne’s narcissistic themes are informed by a career-long preoccupation with vision, especially in sadistic forms such as voyeurism, and with shame. I argue that, while an important theme in and of itself, shame proceeds from narcissism in Hawthorne’s work. Shame plays a key role in the “narcissistic crisis” that Hawthorne repeatedly stages. This chapter argues that Hawthorne’s critique of normative masculinity proceeds from his awareness of the potentialities of shame in narcissism and the rela- tion both have to vision and masculinity. The particular, consistent ways in which Hawthorne conveys the affect of shame in his male characters are explored, as are the related experiences of gender alienation and heterosex- ual ambivalence. In this chapter, I introduce the concept of “self-oversee- ing.” Hawthorne foregrounds a heightened sense of panic within the male self ’s encounter with the visual evidence of its existence. The moments in which male characters glimpse themselves, as if for the first time, are fraught with anxiety and even terror. Extending the themes of the Narcissus myth, with its ban on self-knowledge, these instances of self-overseeing reveal some core truth of the self, but this revelation fills the subject with dread and self-revulsion. Chapter 5 builds on the previous chapter in its examination of the ethics of looking and the gaze. Through a close reading of The Blithedale Romance that draws on film theory as well as Freud and Lacan, I explore Hawthorne’s construction of a voyeuristic male subjectivity, unpacking psychoanalytic interpretations of voyeurism as a form of sadism, and the ways in which it is informed by both homoerotic desire and homophobic defenses. I treat voy- eurism as an alternative form of narcissism while also considering the ways in which the novel thematizes the “pornographic gaze.” Miles Coverdale’s T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 2 1 ravenous desire to look at the other characters is read not as male mastery expressed through vision but, rather, as indicative of the essential fragility, as well as potential for cruelty and prejudice, in his persona. His own con- frontation with images of normative, nonnormative, and even nonhuman masculinity provides some of the most dramatic moments in the novel. I examine these moments in terms of Hawthorne’s deconstruction of both the male gaze and the conventional male subject’s relationship to masculinity as a gendered standard. One of the main themes of the chapter is the pro- pensity that the objects of Coverdale’s gaze have for returning the gaze and subjecting him to its own paralyzing effects. The chapter concludes with a comparison of the returned gaze in Hawthorne and Hitchcock. In chapter 6, I switch gender lenses and focus instead on Hawthorne’s representation of femininity, arguing that, on balance, Hawthorne’s work is feminist in its identification with female figures and critical hostility toward masculinist power. This chapter compares Hawthorne’s tale “Rappaccini’s Daughter” to Freud’s essay “Medusa’s Head.” I discuss the myth figures of Medusa and Narcissus as complementary metaphors for the difficulties in gendered subjectivity. Male narcissism emerges here as a defense against female sexuality and homoerotic desire. I also insert the tale within the con- texts of literary tradition and intertextuality that are, I feel, crucial to any understanding of Hawthorne. Among other intertexts, the Bible, Christian- ity, particularly the myth of the fortunate fall, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses are discussed as source materials revised through Hawthorne’s particular interests in questions of gender, sexuality, and their psychological dimensions. Freud’s theory of male fetishism is discussed at length and used as a critical lens through which to analyze the deep structures of misogyny that Hawthorne, in my view, critiques in this work. In chapter 7, I turn to a comparative discussion of Hawthorne and Mel- ville that focuses on each writer’s reception of classical works of art, and clas- sical male beauty in particular. Beginning with each writer’s impressions in his journals of the classical figure of Antinous, a legendary homoerotic icon, I explore the implications of Melville’s greater comfort with registering and recording homoerotic appreciation than that which Hawthorne exhibited. Considering his reconstructed late 1850s essay “Statues in Rome” and his Billy Budd, left in manuscript form and unpublished in his lifetime, I con- sider the ways in which Melville thematizes what I call visual identity and its relationship to male sexuality. Hawthorne’s equally vivid and intensive the- matization of the concept occurs through means that are less explicit than Melville’s, but equally relevant to Hawthorne’s work. Between them, Mel- ville and Hawthorne should be viewed as crucial contributors to what I term 2 2 • i n T r O d U C T i O n transatlantic homoerotic visual culture. Considering each writer’s familiar- ity with the eighteenth-century German art historian Winckelmann’s theo- ries of art, I argue that Melville and Hawthorne both take Winckelmann’s complex nonsensual homoeroticism to suggestive and provocative levels of engagement. Turning to Hawthorne’s 1860 novel The Marble Faun, I con- sider the significance of the titular figure to the narcissistic and homoerotic crisis Hawthorne thematizes in his work, and the ways in which the faun represents a kind of closure to this crisis. In chapter 8, I turn my attention to matters of race, and the ways in which homoerotic narcissism intersects with race and gender. I argue for the aesthetic and political value of Hawthorne’s unfinished Septimius Felton and Septimius Norton manuscripts. First, I propose that Hawthorne’s late period deserves much more critical scrutiny and acknowledgment than it has been traditionally accorded. The “unfinished” nature of both of these texts may, I argue, be a strategic aspect of their political aims, or at least reflective of them on some level. Second, I discuss Hawthorne’s exploration of racial identity and the ways in which his narcissistic themes and interests in the gaze inform this exploration of race. I discuss the implications of Hawthorne’s “black” sensibility, as Melville put it, for his depiction of the multiracial Septimius Felton. Given the controversies that currently attend Hawthorne’s represen- tation of race in the slavery era, my analysis makes the case that Hawthorne, in his late phase, much more thoughtfully engaged with matters of race and racism than he had in previous phases of his career. This argument seeks not to exculpate Hawthorne for his racism, but to provide a better context for it and also to enlarge the discussion of it. One way I do this here is to insert Hawthorne’s work within the growing field of “whiteness” studies. In psy- choanalytic terms, I discuss the concepts of “ego ideal” and “ideal ego” in order to theorize the nature of Septimius’s desire, both for the Revolutionary War English soldier he kills and the mysterious woman (actually the soldier’s sister) with whom he develops a relationship. In the epilogue, I discuss some fresh aspects of Hawthorne’s work that further illuminate its narcissistic thematic: his aesthetics and his representa- tion of history as crisis for the individual subject. Revisiting Hawthorne’s elaboration of his aesthetic theory in “The Custom-House,” what I call his textual narcissism, I explore the ways in which Hawthorne represents art as a mirror in which the unconscious and matters of social reality have equal weight and can be brought into mutual dialogue. I insert Hawthorne’s aes- thetics within philosophical treatments of narcissism’s relationship to lan- guage, considering the ways in which, first, the predicaments of the mythic Narcissus have been interpreted as indicative of the difficulties inherent in T h e Pa r a d O x O F d e S i r e • 2 3 writing and art generally, and, second, Hawthorne’s work illuminates and interacts with these philosophical questions. I then turn to Hawthorne’s idio- syncratic representation of history and its relationship to the individual sub- ject in The Marble Faun. This discussion allows me to revisit the controversial issue of Hawthorne’s supposed ahistoricism. While critics such as Sacvan Bercovitch, Lauren Berlant, Eric Cheyfitz, and John Carlos Rowe have cri- tiqued Hawthorne for his political conservatism and hypocritical poses of political naiveté, I argue here that Hawthorne offers a radical account of history as contingent upon individual experience and the question of desire. Hawthorne’s emphasis on the narcissistic dimensions of historical experi- ence makes his interpretation of the historical no less challenging but also considerably more interesting than contemporary critical treatments have maintained. c h a p t e r 1 24 T h e c h i e f c l a i m of this book is that Nathaniel Hawthorne’s work consistently evokes the core themes of the Narcissus myth: a beautiful young man whose beauty incites desire from both females and other males and whose cruel rejection of those in whom he has inflamed desire inflames a desire for vengeance in them; the staging of an encounter between a beautiful man and his reflection; the unattainability of this image of beauty, always tantalizingly out of reach; the often suppressed issue of same-sex desire that inheres within this myth that is essentially about a beau- tiful young man desiring another; and the intertwining of desire with death, as emblematized by the moment in which Narcissus stares at his image even in the River Styx on his way to the underworld in Ovid’s telling. The myth of Narcissus is also the myth of Echo, a powerful interpretation of women’s role in patriarchy. Echo is of great relevance to Hawthorne, whose work abounds with Echo figures struggling to make their voices heard even as they are denied a voice. In that all of these themes also preoccupy Freud, whose influence over my treatment of Hawthorne is considerable, the Narcissus myth looms above every aspect of the present study, from primary texts to a critical methodology itself under reconsideration. The approach I take combines Freudian literary criticism with psycho- analytic queer theory. My view is that a comparative analysis of primary author and critical method yields a richer understanding of both. In com- paring Hawthorne and Freud, reading them each through the other, I aim to develop a better understanding of the psychological and cultural components hawThOrne’S TraUmaTiC narCiSSiSm Paradise Lost Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 2 5 of social constructions of normative male subjectivity and of literature’s role in both shaping and potentially undermining this subjectivity. Both the Narcissus myth and the philosophical discussions it has engen- dered allow us to contemplate the essentially paradoxical nature of desire. The barriers to self-knowledge are many and formidable; we are strangers to our- selves. How much greater is the impasse between us and another. Is it really possible for us to connect to another person? For that matter, what, exactly, do we want to connect with in another person? Is it really possible for some- one else to forge a connection with us? The Narcissus myth and its tradition provide a resonant treatment of such questions and opportunities for them to be raised anew. In Hawthorne’s evocation of the myth and Freud’s reimag- ining of it as a human being’s initial experience of the world, one he or she desperately attempts to regain, and in Lacan’s theory of the mirror stage, the child’s identification with and captivation by its own image, the Narcissus myth finds a potent new symbolic force. Hawthorne’s work demonstrates that narcissism can create discordant effects, register a wide range of erotic responses, and challenge hierarchies of gendered and sexual identity. Proceed- ing from the basis of the self allowed Hawthorne to write affectingly of the multifaceted complexity of human experience. Given the deep controversies that attend all uses of Freudian theory, the first order of business for a study that calls for a return to Freud—albeit a most idiosyncratic one!—is to define the terms of my revision. I will be turn- ing to Freud more directly in chapter 2; in this chapter, I provide a series of contexts for my specific uses of Freud’s concepts of narcissism, and especially for its centrality in his theory of male homosexuality. While many other Freudian concepts will be used in this study, the theory of male homosexual narcissism, which I argue can be used more generally as the model of mother- identified male psychology, is central to my analysis of Hawthorne’s work, its potential radicalism, and his treatment of male subjectivity. At the same time, by revisiting some of Freud’s most controversial and least critically supported arguments, I will attempt to demonstrate that they often retain a usefulness for questions of gender and sexuality. Before commencing psychoanalytic ventures into Hawthorne’s work, it will be helpful to revisit the Narcissus myth and its associations between same-sex desire and gendered anxieties. A crucial thematic linking all of these concerns in the myth is the sense of vision. From Ovid to Hawthorne to Freud, vision is associated inextrica- bly with masculinity and male sexual desire, whereas voice, or more prop- erly voicelessness, as Echo’s role in the Narcissus myth achingly suggests, becomes symbolic of femininity and the female subject position in patri- archy. Freud’s theories of vision, particularly its relationship to shame and 2 6 • C h a P T e r 1 sadistic forms of looking such as voyeurism, will be central to later chapters. In this chapter, I will turn to the two most important revisions of Freudian visual theory, Jacques Lacan’s theory of the mirror stage and the gaze and Laura Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze in the Hollywood cinema, both of which foreground narcissism and are crucial to the understanding of visual desire in Hawthorne’s depiction of masculinity. I outlined the Lacanian the- ory of the mirror stage in the introduction; here, my discussion of Lacan’s theory of the gaze allows me to establish my understanding of Hawthorne’s work as a scopic field in which the male subject is only one figure in a much broader visual expanse, which is to say, finds his own abilities to look and to wield power by looking entirely dwarfed by the larger scopic regime. Thinking about Hawthorne’s work in terms of the gaze makes it possible to think about its relevance to theories of film spectatorship such as Mulvey’s, and, more broadly, to think about literature’s relationship to visual art forms such as film. I discuss theoretical concepts such as narcissism, masochism, the mirror stage, the double, the male gaze, voyeurism, and fetishism in relation to Hawthorne’s work, not in order to “apply” psychoanalytic and film theory concepts to Hawthorne, but because I believe that, between Hawthorne and theory, a lively and affecting dialogue occurs about the constitutive psychological elements of gendered identity. In that Hawthorne troubles the meanings of these elements, his work is worth examining for its insights into the arbitrariness of their social standardization as gender-role norms. oVId’s narcIssus It will be helpful to this analysis to recall some of the particulars of the Ovid- ian version of the myth of Narcissus, which has been the most influential version of the myth by far in the Western tradition. Ovid makes it clear that Narcissus needs a comeuppance. Desired by both females and males, the beautiful Narcissus cruelly rejects his suitors of each sex, mocking “Hill- nymphs and water-nymphs and many a man” (The Metamorphoses, 3: 401). He is cursed by being forced to suffer the same fate to which he subjected all of his admirers, to love a beautiful boy who cannot return his love. The major interest in the myth isn’t Narcissus’s vanity and its rightful comeup- pance, though, but rather his recognition of the pain his indifference to desire has caused his admirers. This recognition occurs only as the result of the curse. Maddened by the unending elusiveness of the boy he desires, Nar- cissus finally realizes that Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 2 7 Oh, I am he! Oh, now I know for sure The image is my own; it’s for myself I burn with love; I fan the flames I feel. What now? Woo or be wooed? Why woo at all? My love’s myself—my riches beggar me. Would I might leave my body! I could wish (Strange lover’s wish!) my love were not so near! (3: 463–69) Narcissus, the boy who mocked others’ desire, now burns with the same desire, forced to experience the same maddening longing he instigated in others. From Ovid forward, the myth has functioned as a cautionary tale on several levels, principally against pride and vanity; but it has also served as a template for normative desire, for desire itself as normative: Narcissus must learn how to desire. Paradoxically, in learning how to desire, Narcissus also learns how not to desire, and experiences the pain he caused others of having a desire that cannot be fulfilled. Another important myth-figure is embedded within Ovid’s version of the Narcissus myth: Echo. Obsessed with Narcissus, Echo is constantly “fol- lowing him,” as Robert Graves limns Ovid’s version of the myth, “through the pathless forest, longing to address him, but unable to speak first,” forever iterating her plea “Lie with me!” Narcissus’s harsh treatment of Echo as he adamantly dismisses her advances—“I will die before you ever lie with me!”—evince his cruelty.1 Yet Echo is cursed as a result of female rage against male power. A laughing, charming nymph, Echo distracted Juno while her spouse Zeus was off philandering with another nymph. Upon discovering Echo’s duplicity, Juno punishes her by denying her the ability to speak, rendering Echo capable only of repeating what someone else has said to her. One of the most poignant figures from classical myth, Echo can be used, in feminist terms, to represent women’s problematic role within patriarchy. If the position of Woman in the West, as Hélène Cixous argues, is one of decapitation—the denial of mind and voice—the myth of Echo encapsulates this position.2 If Narcissus, the beautiful man who falls in love with his own reflection, stands in for the conventional male protag- onist, then Echo, the nymph denied her own voice, able only to echo the words spoken by others, provides the template for the traditional image of Woman, who can ostensibly only support, reflect—in a word, echo— narcissistic male leads. “As Narcissus rejects Echo and the boys who want him,” Steven Bruhm describes, “he rejects not only the dictate to desire another (a socially pre- scribed and approved other), but also the drive to stabilize a range of binar- 2 8 • C h a P T e r 1 isms upon which gender in Western culture is founded.” Bruhm lists some of the binarisms associated with the “problem of Narcissus” thusly: solipsism versus communality; surface versus depth; regression versus growth; madness versus sanity; self-obsession versus democracy; and sterility versus significa- tion.3 Like Cooper’s Natty Bumppo, Stowe’s Uncle Tom, and Melville’s Billy Budd, Hawthorne’s male characters are often sexually inviolate, figures who reject both heterosexuality and compulsory homosociality in the form of the enforced fraternity of separate gendered, public/private spheres in Victorian America. (The figure of the sexually inviolate male is the central topic of my book Men Beyond Desire, in which I consider the development of the figure in works by Irving, Cooper, Poe, Melville, Stowe, Augusta Jane Evans, and, especially, Hawthorne.) In that Hawthorne’s sexually inviolate male charac- ters reject both woman and man, they enact the Narcissus myth, as well as its terrible cautionary function: as Young Goodman Brown’s fate emblema- tizes, these young, rejecting men are themselves profoundly rejected by nar- rative itself, left to live and die alone. paradIse lost Before turning to Freud, I want to try to paint a psychoanalytic picture gen- erally of how Freud’s theories of narcissism have contributed to our under- standing of the subject’s relationship to his or her own subjectivity. Whereas Freud made an adamant and frequent case for the centrality of the Oedipus complex, which we will discuss in greater detail in the next chapter, oth- ers have amplified the importance of his theories of narcissism. Béla Grun- berger, one of the finest psychoanalytic thinkers in the Freudian tradition, argues that narcissism plays a central role in the psychic life. Grunberger’s contribution is especially important because it implicitly challenges oedi- pal orthodoxy not only in Freud but also in psychoanalysis generally. The only normative oedipal outcome being properly achieved heterosexuality, any other kind of sexual orientation, such as homosexuality, will be seen as pathological and perverse. But this perspective overlooks and de-emphasizes not only the violence inherent within the properly resolved Oedipus com- plex but also the many deviations from it, the so-called negative Oedipus complexes that also account for a great deal of Freudian thought. Moreover, the focus on oedipal paradigms—emblematized, most significantly for this study, by Frederick Crews’s interpretation of Hawthorne’s work as princi- pally a working out of the Oedipus complex—obscures the vital role that narcissism plays in the life of the body as well as the mind, when taken, as Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 2 9 Grunberger does, as an independent psychic agency. In chapter 2, I will demonstrate that narcissism provides a helpful alternative to the oedipal biases of Freudian theory. “Narcissism should,” writes Grunberger, “be recognized as an autono- mous factor within the framework of Freudian topography and be promoted to the rank of psychic agency along with the id, the ego, and the superego.” He argues that we should confer “on narcissism the rank of agency or motive force.”4 We long to return to an original, preverbal state of bliss, of “unre- stricted autonomy and grandeur (the narcissist being one with the world, not delimited by the ego, which does not yet exist),” a state of well-being before trauma. We repress the “primal trauma” that shatters this once-experienced state of narcissistic bliss. “The repression remains superficial, however,” he continues, in regards to the individual, “and the memory of ‘paradise lost’ will never cease to haunt him throughout life, especially as the individual’s narcissism will always look on those ‘substitute’ pleasures with the scorn of the aristocrat for the rabble.”5 In chapter 3, I will engage with Frederick Crews’s work directly, but for now, let me note that it is difficult not to think here of his insightful description of “a certain impenetrable ceremoniousness that hints at aris- tocratic disdain for the coarse Jacksonian world” in Hawthorne’s sardonic prose.6 One thinks as well of the bitterness with which Hawthorne skewers those elderly Custom-House inspectors who dared to oust him from a job he hated. On some level, Hawthorne eulogizes a loss of something that he probably never possessed in life but may have had in phantasy (in psychoana- lytic terminology, unconscious wishes). As Jean Laplanche and Jean-Bertrand Pontalis observe in their definitive The Language of Psycho-Analysis, “phantasy (or fantasy),” is an “imaginary scene in which the subject is a protagonist, representing the fulfillment of a wish (in the last analysis, an unconscious wish) in a manner that is distorted to a greater or lesser extent by defensive processes.”7 I would argue that the strange fascination with his Puritan fore- fathers that Hawthorne exhibits along with a revulsion toward them and their cruelly intolerant practices stems from his own narcissistic phantasy of having once possessed unlimited autonomy and control. Hawthorne’s elegiac oeuvre, suffused with an intertextual awareness of Milton’s poem about the Fall of Man (discussed at greater length in chapter 6), is haunted by a sense of paradise lost and unattainable. The vestiges of paradise that remain, such as the physical beauty of his Adamic characters, is a beauty tainted by post- lapsarian blight, the shared trauma of human experience. Mark Edmunson helpfully reminds us that Paradise Lost was prominent among Freud’s favor- ite literary works.8 Both Hawthorne and Freud memorialize the moment in 3 0 • C h a P T e r 1 childhood in which narcissism ceded to the oedipal social order, an order forever haunted by this lost narcissism. If it is true of Hawthorne personally that, in his narcissistic self-represen- tations, he may be said, in Freud’s language, to project before him as his ideal “the substitute for the lost narcissism of his childhood in which he was his own ideal,” Hawthorne does not present this ego ideal or ideal ego in wholly idealized terms. (I discuss these concepts, and the distinctions between them, more fully in the last chapter.) The ideal image of man in Hawthorne is also often a violated, blighted image of man. Awash in the revealed deprav- ity of all the people he has reverenced throughout his life, Young Good- man Brown discovers himself to be the most horrifying sight in the Satanic nighttime forest; described as notably physically attractive, the young scholar Fanshawe nevertheless bears the mark of an incipient blight; Giovanni Guas- conti, described as a Grecian beauty, discovers that Beatrice Rappaccini’s poi- son-plant blood now courses through his veins; beautiful young Donatello transforms into a haggard man over the course of The Marble Faun; and so forth. Narcissism in Hawthorne carries with it an intense potential for dread; whatever form of self-investment manifests itself in his fiction is inextrica- bly linked to pain, fear, and a predilection to aggressivity. Following Grun- berger, we can understand that narcissism is above all else an agency that seeks a return to some mythic time—a paradise lost—before trauma. The fundamental trauma that shapes us, effects our individuation, and begins the process of our proper socialization is the separation from our mother’s body, an event that shatters the ideal state of oneness in which we knew no dis- tinction between her body and our own. However pessimistic Hawthorne’s vision of the world, his pessimism flows out of a peculiarly ardent yearning for lost perfection, the idealized state of oneness in which child and mother’s body were, if only for a moment, indissolubly linked, a transition I discussed in a Lacanian vein in the introduction as the individuating subject’s passage into the Symbolic order. These themes are given their most acute treatment in “The Gentle Boy,” which, as I will argue, is a tale central to Hawthorne’s body of work. Within Hawthorne’s depiction of narcissism as linked to hor- rifying feelings of loss is some persistent, urgent belief in a recapturable state of perfection, a belief always conjoined to an equally powerful refusal of or resistance to the belief, not a surprising stance in an author so committed to his own skepticism. For these reasons, I argue that Hawthorne’s work fore- grounds what I call a traumatic narcissism, a simultaneous nostalgia for a lost period of perfection and a bitter recognition of the impossibility of return- ing to this vanished, mythic state. If the Freudian concept of repetition- Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 3 1 compulsion has emerged as a key means of understanding the patterns of American masculinity from the early republic to the present, Hawthorne’s thematic of traumatic narcissism is a key aspect of what is politically resis- tant in his treatment of masculinity.9 The desire to return—or to repeat—is met with a stringent, self-critical self-awareness. Hawthorne promotes nei- ther narcissistic nor compulsive longings to return or to repeat; indeed, he critiques the motivations for either. At the same time, he treats these motiva- tions with a certain degree of empathy. The young men who populate Hawthorne’s fictions reflect both nostalgia and a revulsion against it: nostalgia in that their state of physical perfection and ability to incite desire through the eye suggests an idealized representa- tion of the self as youthful, desirable, and full of promise; revulsion in that their physical appeal jarringly contrasts with the inevitability of their ruin, on numerous levels. The loss and rage in Hawthorne parallel the psychoanalytic concept of grandiose narcissism, suffused with the pathological narcissist’s anger at the world’s failure to corroborate his own sense of his importance. Loss and rage also powerfully mock the promise of his comely male figures, making their pleasing outward show, paradoxically, the evidence of their doom and his despair. As I will further develop, male attractiveness appears to have provoked deep anxieties in Hawthorne, anxieties related to the cul- tural and social contexts of his own time, and to his personal experience of being a male in it. We will have several occasions throughout this study to revisit both these anxieties and their possible causes. narcIssIsm and the problem oF homosexualIty Writers such as Ovid, Milton, Hawthorne, and Freud raise a question that will haunt the present study: To what extent is the narcissistic also the homo- erotic? The episode in Book IV of Milton’s Paradise Lost in which the newly made Eve recounts her nativity is exemplary in this regard. Eve falls in love with her own reflection and must be led back into properly heterosexual love by God and Adam. At least insofar as traditional readings allow, her narcissism evinces her immaturity, the vanity that will make her susceptible to Satanic seduction; but one could also argue that her disrupted, aban- doned narcissism was the original sexual desire forcibly denied her. Though there is indubitably considerable homoerotic potentiality within narcissism, the extent to which narcissistic desire can be deemed homoerotic remains a productively difficult question. And as the predicament of Eve’s desire more than suggests, female sexual desire, while linked in Milton to homoerotic 3 2 • C h a P T e r 1 narcissism, poses its own set of equally urgent difficulties for patriarchy. Pre- cisely these questions will be the focus of chapter 6. While the question of same-sex desire in Hawthorne’s work looms large, the multivalent sexual registers of narcissism should not be ignored. I sug- gest that his narcissistic themes allowed Hawthorne to conduct a range of erotic energies; in making this suggestion, I aim to describe the capacious- ness of narcissism as a textual experiment and an erotic sensibility. Given that my work represents a return to Freud from a queer theory perspective, it is important to acknowledge that the underpinnings of our current anti- narcissistic thought, enmeshed with homophobia, can be found in Freud- ian theory, albeit a Freudian theory, in my view, that has been distorted and misapplied. In the life of the infant, narcissism is the stage between autoeroticism and object-love; Freud distinguished this “primary narcissism” from “sec- ondary narcissism,” one of the many enigmatic and controversial aspects of his theory. I will explore Freud’s important 1914 essay “On Narcissism” in depth in the next chapter; for now, it will be helpful to consider some glosses of Freud’s thought. Explicating Freud’s 1914 essay, R.  Horacio Etchegoyen importantly explains the difference between autoeroticism and narcissism: Childhood sexuality is not unitary and is not directed toward an object: it is at first anarchic, its various components each seeking its own pleasure and finding satisfaction in the subject’s own body. Freud calls this stage “autoeroticism”; it precedes “alloeroticism,” in which the object appears. There is a stage between these two, in which the unified sexual instincts take as their object the individual’s own ego, which has been constituted at the same time. In this intermediate stage, called “narcissism,” the subject behaves as if he were in love with himself; his egoistic instincts cannot yet be separated from his libidinal wishes. “It is worth emphasizing,” writes Etchegoyen, “that this condition is for Freud not only a stage in development but also a stable structure in the human being, who remains narcissistic even after finding an object.”10 As Janine Chasseguet-Smirgel notes, “Freud sees narcissism as not only one, or even several, stages of development, but as a permanent cathexis. It trans- forms the ego; as a result, objects can be cathected to different degrees, with- out the ego ever being able to give up entirely its libido in favour of its objects.”11 Primary narcissism is the “original libidinal cathexis of the self ”; in con- trast, secondary narcissism, as Jeremy Holmes glosses Freud, is a regressive Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 3 3 state in which the libido “(here conceptualized as a kind of psychic fluid)” of narcissists is “withdrawn from the external world and reinvested in them- selves and their own bodies.” As Holmes describes it, “Freud believed that people suffering from paranoia and schizophrenia, and to some extent hypo- chondriacal illnesses, regressed, often in the face of loss,” to this secondary narcissistic state, described by Ronald Britton as “libidinal narcissism.”12 In other words, secondary narcissism is a regressive resurgence of the libidinal investment in one’s own ego and body last experienced in infancy. Homo- sexuality has long been associated with this “regressive narcissism.”13 One of the chief legacies of Freud is the view of narcissism and homo- sexuality as inextricably linked, the Siamese twins of psychoanalysis. Some scholars have sought to debunk entirely the relationship between homosex- uality and narcissism, while others have reread the Freudian texts for pre- cisely the value of the pairing.14 I am in this latter camp (in more ways than one!). It is important to remember that Freud himself universalizes narcis- sism within his discussion of the two types of infant sexual object-choice, which he distinguishes as the “anaclitic” and the narcissistic. Freud argues that narcissism bears a much greater significance than its prevalence among “perverts and homosexuals especially” would suggest, an observation that “provides us with our strongest motive for regarding the hypothesis of nar- cissism as a necessary one.” Though associated with the pathologization of homosexuality as narcissistic, Freud reveals narcissism, ostensibly the special penchant of perverts and homosexuals, as a universal sexual disposition: a primary narcissism exists in everyone (SE 14: 87–89).15 Certainly, as I discuss in chapter 2, Freud’s view of homosexual narcissism does indeed pose several great difficulties for queer theory, but I believe that it retains greater value than presently attributed to it. A narcissistic sexual disposition is problematic for masculinity: on the one hand, narcissism is associated with homosexuality; on the other hand, it is associated with femininity. In Freud’s view, notes Etchegoyen, “only men are capable of attaining complete—that is, anaclitic—object love; women conform to the narcissistic type, loving themselves and needing to be loved before loving.”16 In chapter 6, I complicate the view of an essentially narcis- sistic female sexuality. Historically, psychoanalysis has viewed male sexuality as anaclitic, fully object-based; this is one of the psychoanalytic orthodox- ies that I contest even as I employ the insights of psychoanalysis to think through Hawthorne, narcissism, and gender. Moreover, I will throughout this book challenge American psychiatry’s deployment of Freud to patholo- gize homosexuality as regressive narcissism, the specific subject of the next chapter. 3 4 • C h a P T e r 1 hawthorne and lacan T h e m i r r O r S Ta G e a n d T h e G a z e Hawthorne’s work, in its increasing preoccupation with vision and visual culture, prefigures the cinema. The relationship between language and vision, in either representation or psychoanalytic theory, is a complex, indeed quite a vexed one. Freud’s French reinterpreter Jacques Lacan’s is best-known for his influential theories of language and its crucial relationship to the forma- tion of a subject. Leaving behind the pre-oedipal world of the mother, the subject becomes a subject by entering the father’s Symbolic order of language and law. If Lacan privileges the linguistic, his equally influential treatment of vision—exemplified in the mirror stage (which we outlined in the intro- duction) and the gaze—is well worth noting. Lacan’s theories of subjectivity foreground not only language but also vision, perception, image, and illusion as fundamental to the subject’s formation and lived experience. In chapter 4, I will discuss Freud’s theories of vision; for now, let me establish that Lacan’s refinement of Freudian paradigms of vision into the theory of the gaze is crucial to our discussion. Lacan’s theory of the gaze emerges from his disagreement with Sartre. Lacan disputed Sartre’s confla- tion of the gaze and the act of looking. For Lacan, “the look” and “the gaze” are not the same thing. In Lacan’s theory, the gaze actually becomes the object of the act of looking. When the subject looks at an object, this object is already looking back at the subject. Yet the subject can never see the object looking back at it; the object looks back at the subject from a vantage point that the subject can never see. For Lacan, there is a paradoxical blindness at the heart of vision. As Lacan explains in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, “From the outset, we see, in the dialectic of the eye and the gaze, that there is no coincidence, but, on the contrary, a lure. When, in love, I solicit a look, what is profoundly unsatisfying and always missing is that—You never look at me from the place from which I see you.” “Conversely,” Lacan adds, “what I look at is never what I wish to see.”17 What is poignant in Lacan’s discus- sion is that we are never able to see, certainly never able to see what we wish to see, never able really to see another, and never truly able to be seen by another. The emptiness and the disconnectivity of the gaze speak to narcis- sistic desire, a desire as unrealizable as it is maddening. In league with the Narcissus myth, psychoanalysis figures the relationships between the self and itself and between the self and the object of desire as equally and fundamen- tally impaired, the result of a profound, unbridgeable impasse. At the heart of the gaze is the plangency of narcissistic desire. Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 3 5 To explain the way that Lacan differentiates the eye or the “look” from the gaze, Kaja Silverman makes the analogy that the eye and the gaze are, in psychoanalytic theory, as distinct as penis and phallus. Whereas the penis is the male biological sexual organ, the phallus is the abstracted form of sym- bolic male power. (Indicative of our cultural misogyny, there is no corre- spondent abstract terminology for female sexuality. I would offer yonic as the female equivalent of phallic in terms of such symbolism.) Similarly, while the eye is the biological organ of sight, the gaze is the abstracted form of vision, far broader than any one individual’s act of looking. As Silverman continues, “Although the gaze might be said to be ‘the presence of others as such,’ it is by no means coterminous with any individual viewer, or group of viewers. It issues ‘from all sides,’ whereas the eye ‘[sees] only from one point.’”18 As Lacan himself would have it, in an illustrative discussion of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, “The gaze in question is certainly the presence of oth- ers as such. But does this mean that originally it is in the relation of subject to subject, in the function of the existence of others looking at me, that we apprehend what the gaze really is? Is it not clear,” Lacan presses, “that the gaze intervenes here only in as much as it is not the annihilating subject, cor- relative of the world of objectivity, who feels himself surprised, but the subject sustaining himself in a function of desire? ”19 If the gaze’s chief usefulness is to the subject who wants to sustain his desire, the questions for our reading of Hawthorne works prominently include: What is the subject’s desire? Hawthorne devises theories of vision that prefigure Freudian and Laca- nian paradigms, evoking the tensions that undergird them. His work makes the fearful encounter with one’s own image and the subject’s entrapment within the logic of the visual chief concerns, affectingly rendered. Haw- thorne may be said to make the fateful encounter with the specular self his great subject. But more broadly, the powerlessness of Hawthorne’s avid male lookers corresponds to the Lacanian understanding of the subject of the gaze as only one aspect of its larger scopic regime, engulfed within the overarch- ing structures of vision in which subjects vie for illusory and impossible power. As I will show in chapter 5, The Blithedale Romance exemplifies the Lacanian aspects of Hawthorne’s fictional staging of the gaze. hawthorne and mulVey Narcissism in Hawthorne functions as an approach to masculinity that radi- cally decenters and reorganizes it; in Hawthorne, men do not occupy clear- cut roles of dominance and mastery, which typically endow them with the 3 6 • C h a P T e r 1 power of the gaze, but instead come under visual scrutiny themselves as often as they subject others to it. In her famous 1975 essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Laura Mulvey argued that the woman in classical Hol- lywood cinema connotes “to-be-looked-at-ness.” In their effort to see their own reflections, men use women as mirrors for male resplendence, rendering women visual helpmeets. Yet in Hawthorne, males also connote this quality. Moreover, it is their own image they seek to find, a quest with homoerotic implications as well misogynistic ones. Mulvey influentially but also controversially argued that the classical Hollywood cinema, a key manifestation of attitudes of the dominant culture, is organized around the male gaze, presumably the white, heterosexual male gaze, which objectifies women, the to-be-looked-at sex, by turning them into visual spectacles. Devoid of any autonomous power, the women in film exist to mediate the protagonist’s own fears of castration. Todd McGowan has recently taken Mulvey to task for being insufficiently Lacanian in her theorization of the gaze, returning us to Lacan’s original paradigms. Yet we can say that Mulvey, drawing on Lacan, formulates her own theory of the gaze in relation to Lacan as well as Freud; her version of the gaze is more local, immediate, and direct, the force of one person’s eyes on another. The man’s eyes are powerful because the entire field of vision is structured around traditional masculinity and its demands, which include an incessant staving off of castration fears. As Mulvey theorizes it, the protagonist has recourse to two strategies for fending off these fears: voyeurism (investigating the woman, solving her mystery) and fetishism (focusing on certain parts of her body, such as the face or the breasts). I rehearse Mulvey’s views here, not to imply that I fully agree with them, either in terms of the classical Hol- lywood cinema or of Hawthorne’s work, but to establish that they continue to be relevant to any understanding of the role of vision within theoretical concepts of gendered identity, generally. I do not accept Mulvey’s view of the static and fixed nature of the male gaze in terms of identification and power; whereas Mulvey sees the spectator and the classical Hollywood pro- tagonist sharing masculinist power, I see the process as much more unstable and much more fluid. There is nothing stable or coherent in the gendered gaze; moreover, the gaze itself is heterogeneous, multiple. Mulvey establishes a view of the Hollywood protagonist as well as the spectator as both male and stably heterosexual, which is clearly false on both counts. It should be added that Mulvey has simultaneously qualified her views over time and maintained her basic thesis. At the same time, I have yet to encounter any treatment of queer dimensions within the classical Hollywood cinema or in terms of the gaze in her work. This being said, though, my view of the gaze Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 3 7 is closer to Mulvey’s than it is to Lacan’s. Like her, I see the gaze as a field of vision in which looking has a real-life impact on those being looked at, and on the looker, whereas for Lacan the major emphasis is on the blindness at the heart of vision, the impossibility of seeing, and the gaze as a vast structure that is quite indifferent to the individual subject. For Mulvey, narcissism is thoroughly the domain of male privilege: the shared gaze of the spectator, who is gendered male, and the male screen protagonist return both to a pre-oedipal state of narcissistic omnipotence. I respect her feminist perspective though I do not agree with her here. If we take Mulvey’s claims broadly as a problematic but nevertheless highly sug- gestive theory about the traditional, normative patterns of gendered vision in our culture, what is remarkable about Hawthorne’s work is the extent to which he refuses and overturns assumptions about gender and the gaze. (Though I am aware that in making this comparison my argument threatens to descend into anachronism, I treat Mulveyan theory as an articulation of long-standing patterns of gender and vision in the Western tradition; Mulvey herself frames her discussion in this manner.) Repeatedly, Hawthorne’s male characters provoke and incite the gaze, becoming themselves entrapped within it; repeatedly, his male characters inspire the speculative sexual contemplation usually associated in narrative forms with desirable female figures. This is not to suggest that Hawthorne stints on depicting female beauty; far from it. Rather, as does Herman Mel- ville, Hawthorne strives to give masculinity an equal claim to beauty. Very often, though, Hawthorne’s interest in the beauty of his male characters baf- flingly exceeds the parameters of the work. In ways that are indubitably linked to this last point, Hawthorne figures shame and trauma as central components of narcissism, and narcissism as fundamentally related to the relationship between gender and vision. These consistent associations make his work relevant for queer theory as well as psychoanalysis, and both rel- evant for an interpretation of his work. In chapters 4, 5, and 6, I will consider voyeurism as another dimension of Hawthorne’s narcissistic thematic. In the next chapter, I discuss Freud’s controversial theory of male homosexual narcissism—which many will with justification feel has already been quite thoroughly debunked, but which still retains, in my view, an eerie relevance—in relation to Hawthorne’s short story “The Gentle Boy.” This chapter will begin to develop the relationship between shame affect and narcissism in Hawthorne’s work. Before bringing this chapter to a close, I want to forecast a finding that I elaborate upon in chapter 7, which focuses on Hawthorne’s (and Melville’s) reception of classi- cal male beauty. 3 8 • C h a P T e r 1 VIsual IdentIty Throughout his work, Hawthorne foregrounds a particular understanding of self, sexuality, and the body. His work thematizes what I call visual identity, the conceptualization of the self as a perceivable visual image, something extruded upon the surface of the world as a reflection of a private, interior self the existence of which can be affirmed only through this visualization. Which is to say, selves are only known or knowable through their outward manifestation in physical form. Visual identity is certainly not exclusive to males; indeed, the entire postclassical Western tradition has emphasized the visual aspects of beauty as a female domain. But what is of interest in Haw- thorne is that the visual aspects of beauty are no less tangibly embodied in males than in females. Given the often idealizing tendencies of nineteenth- century American Romanticism, this might not be such a singular trait in an author’s work. One readily recalls descriptions of male beauty in Cooper (“comely” young Jasper in The Pathfinder), Poe (the eerie, ruined beauty of Roderick Usher), Stowe (the louche handsomeness of Augustine St. Clare, and the sturdy one of Tom), and especially Melville (Marnoo, his island Apollo in Typee; his charming Carlo, always displaying his “organ,” and vul- nerable dandy Harry Bolton in Redburn; and his immortal Billy Budd). But what is resistant—and highly disturbing—in Hawthorne is how stringently he incorporates the male’s beauty not only into the networks of the desiring gaze, making men equal-opportunity objects before it, but also into his fic- tion’s moral schemes, in which beauty emerges as a troubling and troubled outgrowth of a view of the world as a visual regime. Melville, without ques- tion, may be said to be doing something quite similar, especially in Billy Budd. But the difference between both authors is that in Hawthorne, depic- tions of male and female beauty are equally weighted, whereas in Melville, beauty is disproportionately male. It would follow, then, that Melville is the “queerer” author, but such is not the case. Male beauty in Hawthorne emerges as a surprising disturbance within an exquisitely outlined and devel- oped heterosexual economy of gender, difference, and desire, a self-under- mining, inherent queerness within normative heterosexuality. To the extent that this is also true of Melville’s writing, his relative lack of interest in femi- ninity (and I do mean relative, since it would be quite inaccurate to say that women are not present, sometimes crucially present, in Melville’s work) cre- ates discrete, discordant effects. In short, Hawthorne and Melville are alike in their incorporation of queer themes, but each figures queerness in his own way. Pa r a d i S e l O S T • 3 9 The beauty of Hawthorne’s men heightens their susceptibility to moral corruption. Or, as in the case of his gentle boy, it signifies his predicament in a culture that emphasizes normative masculinity, which Hawthorne everywhere shows to be indistinguishable from an overarching cultural and social structure of brutality. Hawthorne’s work makes us consider anew the dynamics and the difficulties of a lived subjectivity that is inextricable from one’s outward manifestation of this subjectivity, which is to say, one’s visual identity. c h a p t e r 2 40 T o c o m m e n c e our exploration of the intersection of Freudian theories of narcissistic male sexuality and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s fiction, I begin with a discussion of the most difficult aspect of Freud’s the- ory of narcissism, its centrality in Freud’s understanding of male homosex- uality.1 My reading of Hawthorne’s work touches frequently on issues of same-sex desire, but I should make clear at the outset that the chief goal in my reading of Hawthorne is not to establish him as a prototype of the homosexual author, if it is to be accepted that modern homosexual identity is a phenomenon that can be dated from the latter nineteenth century into the twentieth. (I remain skeptical of this Foucauldian view of sexual his- tory.)2 Rather, I am interested in the ways in which Hawthorne’s narcissism provides a conduit for the free play of sexuality, allowing for concepts such as same-sex desire, cross-gender identification, and gender liminality to inter- sect with traditional modes of sexual representation. Like many other ante- bellum American authors, Hawthorne, in classically Freudian terms, appears to have had a bisexual disposition in terms of responding to the beauty of both sexes. But Hawthorne doesn’t simply respond to the varieties of beauty; indeed, beauty becomes a highly fraught, sustained discourse in his work with deep relevance for his career-long interests in gendered and sexual iden- tity and, as his career develops, race. Thinking through Freud’s theory of narcissism from the perspective of male homosexuality allows us to accomplish several things at once. We can immediately address the controversial nature of the methodology this study “The GenTle bOy” and FreUd’S TheOry OF male hOmOSexUaliTy As His Mother Loved Him a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 4 1 uses, making a case for the methodology but also amply demonstrating that it will itself be subjected to reevaluation. Finding a persistent value, as I do, in one of Freud’s most debunked theories, I make the case that Freudian theo- ries of male homosexual narcissism retain a general relevance for male sexu- ality. In that Freud’s theory focuses on the relationship between mother and son, it provides insights into Hawthorne, who throughout his work explores the nature of parent–child bonds, especially those between mother and child. As discussed in the previous chapter, a longing for lost origins, figured in the mother–child bond, suffuses Hawthorne’s work. Hawthorne, in my view, challenges rather than perpetuates the oedipal logic of normative masculin- ity, the basis of which is a rejection of the mother. While there are certainly oedipal aspects to Hawthorne’s work, and while Hawthorne himself idealized such man’s-man figures as President Andrew Jackson, on balance it is mater- nal identification that informs his fiction. In that Hawthorne foregrounds and illuminates the problematic nature of gendered identity itself, his work sheds reciprocal light on Freud’s views of childhood psychosexual development, especially his insistence on the cen- trality of the Oedipus complex. If Freud provides a counternarrative to his own oedipal orthodoxy in his theory of narcissism, Hawthorne refuses any linear, clear-cut understanding of how normative gendered and sexual iden- tity gets formed, thus refusing assimilation into oedipal orthodoxy. This view of Hawthorne runs counter to Frederick Crews’s influential thesis of the oedipal paradigms of Hawthorne’s work (discussed in the next chapter). By exploring narcissism in Hawthorne, I believe that we gain a deeper and more complex appreciation of Hawthorne’s interest in several issues: gender, sexu- ality, race, but also trauma, shame, vision, power, and politics. In their scrupulous study Sexual Orientation and Psychodynamic Psycho- therapy, Richard C. Friedman and Jennifer I. Downey challenge the uses of Freud’s theory of the Oedipus complex for the pathologization of homosex- uality. Going through the Oedipus complex successfully in one’s childhood means emerging as properly heterosexual. Traditionally, deviations from the normative resolution of the Oedipus complex, such as homosexuality, have been diagnosed as pathological forms of the complex and therefore of prop- erly heterosexual adult sexuality. Friedman and Downey, making note of “profound change[s] in psychoanalytic theory in recent years in the areas of sexual orientation,” argue that, contrary to classical psychoanalytic thought, “superego development, gender identity, sexual orientation, personality struc- ture, the etiology of the neuroses (and the psychoses)—all seem to be sub- ject to influences other than oedipal conflict resolution or failure thereof.”3 Salutary though their revisionist work proves to be for new, antihomophobic 4 2 • C h a P T e r 2 psychoanalytic methods of interpreting the dynamics of gay identity in a rapidly changing world, that the authors dispense with narcissism—a crucial aspect of Freud’s thinking on homosexuality and, indeed, within his thought generally—altogether in their reassessment of classical psychoanalytic the- ory and survey of new approaches seems to me a disturbing and worrisome error.4 The opprobrium that narcissism has historically elicited—from its endur- ance as a cautionary tale throughout Western literature to its familiar usage as a pejorative assessment of an overly prideful character—intersects with the psychoanalytic diagnosis of narcissism as pathological. Freud’s thinking on narcissism, particularly as it pertains to homosexuality, has contributed to this model. Yet it can also challenge the prevailing derogations of narcissism.5 The figure of the homosexual narcissist, who could also be described as the narcissistic homosexual, recurs throughout Freud’s work. Great contro- versy over the Freudian view of homosexuality endures within queer the- ory: while many have contemned Freud’s theory of homosexual narcissism as pathologizing and inherently homophobic (Warner, 1990; Fuss, 1995), others have found enough complexity in Freud’s thinking on the subject to use his work not for the purposes of further pathologizing homosexual nar- cissism but, instead, to enlarge our view of desire and use psychoanalysis to challenge homophobic thinking (Dean, 2000; Dean and Lane, 2001; Ber- sani, 2001). My argument proceeds from this latter line of thought. The historical psychoanalytic pathologization of narcissistic identity has hit homosexuals with particular force. Given that psychoanalysis has con- tributed to the pathologization of homosexuality generally (though not consistently), the pathologization of narcissistic personality also entails psy- choanalytic homophobia. As I attempt to demonstrate here, homophobia can also be challenged through psychoanalytic means. My effort to recuper- ate narcissism, then, necessarily involves a challenge to this homophobia that emerges from within a psychoanalytic project. Finding the value in Freud’s view of homosexuality as narcissistic is a jumping-off place for this effort. Freud’s theory of homosexual narcissism is only one piece of his larger thinking on narcissism. The narcissist and the homosexual, while distinct types, are sometimes indistinguishable from each other in Freudian thought, similarly “perverse” forms of identity. Moreover, they have consistently, as types, been broadly used as embodiments of the same negative charac- ter traits: obsessive if not pernicious self-involvement, an inability to love, arrested development, a hatred of the opposite sex, a deep and abiding pen- chant for surface rather than depth, and so on. Narcissism, it should be noted, is just as integral to Freud’s view of heterosexuality as it is to homo- a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 4 3 sexuality. Though it has not, to my knowledge, been read in this manner before, Freud’s theory of homosexual male narcissism provides a generally resonant interpretation of the mother–son bond that exceeds the boundaries of a specific sexual orientation. To make an obvious point pointedly, hetero- sexual men have mothers, too. The Hawthorne work that I discuss in this chapter, “The Gentle Boy,” bears a striking resemblance in its thematic concerns to Freud’s treatment of the homosexual child. Freud illuminates the aspects of Hawthorne’s work that come closest to making a political statement about the ways in which males are socialized generally in Western patriarchy. Both provide insights into the experiential and social experience of maternally identified and nar- cissistically inclined male desire. Before turning to Freud’s 1914 essay “On Narcissism: An Introduction” (SE 14: 67–105), it is important to address some of the reasons why Freud remains for many a homophobic thinker. In my view Freud is, on balance, a thinker who challenges sexual orthodoxies rather than establishes them. This holds true, as I will show, for his contro- versial theorization of homosexuality. homosexual narcIssIsm a n i n T r O d U C T i O n In his aversive Foucauldian reading of Freud, Michael Warner argues that the concept of narcissism has been “primitively” used in psychoanalytic theory to calumniate queer sexuality as regressive and self-fixated.6 I should make it clear that I do not concur with most of Warner’s social-constructionist posi- tions; when exclusively maintained, with little consideration for the psychic life, these positions are far too orthodox to be fully useful to an understand- ing of either sexuality or the phobias that various forms of sexuality incur. The most useful point of Warner’s argument is his challenge to the prevail- ing view, in some circles, that homosexual desire is exclusively narcissistic, and that the homosexual subject chiefly desires himself or herself reflected in someone else. “Why is gender assumed to be our only access to alterity?” questions Warner. “Can it actually be imagined that people in homosexual relations have no other way of distinguishing between self and not-self? That no other marker of difference, such as race, could intervene; or that the pragmatics of dialogue would not render alterity meaningful, even in the minimal imaginary intersubjectivity of cruising?”7 Warner specifically locates Freudian thought within heterosexual ideology, the “central imperative” of which is that “the homosexual be supposed to be out of dialogue on the 4 4 • C h a P T e r 2 subject of his being.” Imagining the narcissistic homosexual’s “unbreakable fixation on himself ” serves two purposes: first, it allows “a self-confirming pathology by declaring homosexuals’ speech, their interrelations, to be an illusion”; second, “and more fundamentally it allows the constitution of hetero- sexuality as such.”8 Warner wants us to understand that psychoanalysis, as an arm of power, facilitates the “utopian erotics of modern subjectivity” that works to obscure what institutionalized heterosexuality has in common with homosexuality, a dependence on “a self-reflexive erotics of the actual ego measured against its ideals,” a dependence made visible in homosexuality but decisively obscured in heterosexuality. “Heterosexuality deploys an understanding of gender as alterity in order to mobilize, but also to obscure” what are its own “narcissis- tic sources,” hence the crucial function of a “discourse about homosexuality as a displacement” of these disavowed sources.9 I am in agreement with Warner about the primitiveness of a view of homosexuality that reduces it to desire for sameness and as a stunted inabil- ity to recognize and erotically respond to “difference.” Yet Warner’s argu- ment, which is not without value, hinges on a reductive reading of Freud that irons out the inconsistencies in his thought. It is these inconsistencies that make Freud an unpredictable and suggestive thinker. Freud returned to the subject of homosexuality several times, sometimes seeing it as one of the perversions, sometimes as the “most important of the perversions” (cold comfort, to be sure), but his attitude was not one of “complacent” hostility, as Warner describes it. How “inappropriate to use the word perversion as a term of reproach,” he writes in his 1905 Three Essays on the Theory of Sexual- ity (SE 7: 160). Freud clarified that perversions become pathological when they assume “the characteristics of exclusiveness and fixation” (7: 161). In counterdistinction to Warner’s presentation, Freud found, as a site of inquiry, homosexuality to be as interesting as it is disturbing, and his treatment of it cannot be simply dismissed as phobic. Moreover, Freud found exclusive het- erosexuality no less perplexing a problem than homosexuality. For his era, and despite his lapses, particularly concerning lesbianism, Freud was a fairly progressive thinker on homosexuality. The most surprising omission in Warner’s critique of Freud’s views on homosexuality is the centrality of the mother–son relationship to Freud’s theory of homosexual development. In a footnote added in 1910 to his 1905 Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality, Freud conjectures that homosexual identity emerges from an identification with the mother. In all the cases that we have examined we have established the fact that the a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 4 5 future inverts, in the earliest years of their childhood, pass through a phase of very intense but short-lived fixation to a woman (usually their mother), and that, after leaving this behind, they identify themselves with a woman and take themselves as their sexual object. That is to say, they proceed from a narcissistic basis, and look for a young man who resembles themselves and whom they may love as their mother loved them. Moreover, we have frequently found that alleged inverts have been by no means insusceptible to the charms of women, but have continually transposed the excitation aroused by women on to a male object. They have thus repeated all through their lives the mechanism by which their inversion rose. Their compulsive longing for men has turned out to be determined by their ceaseless flight from women. (SE 7: 145n1)10 Certain aspects of Freud’s argument indisputably lend themselves to homo- phobic views and were perniciously exploited as a basis for homophobic practices at certain points in the history of American psychiatry. I argue, however, that Freud’s theory of the mother–son relationship in terms of homosexuality should not necessarily be treated as itself pernicious; at the very least it should be re-examined. The sheer range of cultural myths about the male homosexual encapsu- lated in this passage from Three Essays does, admittedly, stagger the mind: male homosexuals and their mother-fixation; male homosexuality as narcis- sistic self-love; male homosexual desire as desire for sameness, for the replica of the self (they “look for a young man who resembles themselves”); homo- sexual desire as an expression of panic over female sexuality; homosexual desire as a substitute for normative heterosexual desire; homosexual desire as a kind of repetition-compulsion through which some form of sexual trauma can be relived, re-experienced, but never “resolved” (“repeated all through their lives,” “their compulsive longing”); male homosexuality as an attempt to escape women (“ceaseless flight”). Only a footnote, this passage wields a prescriptive power that managed to install a particular set of images about male homosexuality in the popular imagination. To be sure, there are diffi- culties with Freud’s theories of homosexuality. If one of the great phenomena of American culture is its profound receptivity to the new science of psychoanalysis, surely the Freudian view of homosexuality was one of the most widely assimilated of psychoanalytic concepts in the United States. Used to pathologize homosexuals and then to effect their elusive cure, Freud’s theories were reduced to cartoonish essences of themselves, made to serve the ideological needs of a nation eager to nor- malize all of its citizens in every conceivable way, perhaps especially in sexual 4 6 • C h a P T e r 2 terms. Yet Freud’s extraordinarily complex and often bizarrely contradictory ideas resisted such homogenization, much more its broad, normalizing appli- cation. In his complex approach to homosexuality, Freud was light-years ahead of figures such as Charles Socarides, one of the most prominent and virulently homophobic voices in American psychiatry.11 Warner leaves something else out of his discussion of Freud’s view of homosexuality as a perversion: the centrality of perversity to Freud’s think- ing. As Jonathan Dollimore points out in his superb treatment of Freud in Sexual Dissidence, “Freud described homosexuality as the most important perversion of all,” “as well as the most repellent in the popular mind,” while also being “so pervasive to human psychology” that Freud made it “central to psychoanalytic theory.”12 As Dollimore writes, if the value of psychoanalysis lies in its exposure of the essential instability of identity, “then this is never more so than in Freud’s account of perversion. At every stage perversion is what problematizes the psychosexual identities upon which our culture depends.”13 As Freud’s own words in his famous Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality attest, “a disposition to perversions is an original and universal dis- position of the human sexual instinct” (SE 7: 231). In Freud’s most famous formulation, the Oedipus complex eradicates the infant and young child’s access to polymorphous pleasure. In the process, we become properly socialized, learning how to desire normatively. For Freud, the oedipal conflict works differently in boys and girls. In boys, erotic attrac- tion to the mother arouses aggressive, violent feelings in the form of sexual rivalry with the father whom he wishes to supplant. It is by learning to iden- tify with, rather than to compete against, the father that the boy resolves his oedipal conflicts and becomes properly socialized. It is the boy’s fear that his father, whom he imagines to be as competitively enraged against him, will castrate him that ends the boy’s oedipal conflict. In contrast, for girls it is the recognition that they have been castrated that commences their Oedipus conflict. Freud frequently claimed to find the female Oedipus complex an essentially perplexing and mysterious process while nevertheless repeatedly submitting it to theoretical reformulations. Clearly, Freud is as frustrating a theorist of female psychosexual development as he is an illuminating one of the male’s. As I will demonstrate in chapters 6 and 7, Freud’s theories of femininity, however, are not altogether without value and interest.14 Part of socialization is the prohibition of both homosexuality and incest. By learning to identify rather than to compete with the same-sex parent and by learning to desire someone outside of the family and of the opposite sex, we find our way out of both homosexuality and incest and into normative desire and social identity. This is the area of Freud’s thinking that has proven a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 4 7 especially interesting to queer theory. Judith Butler wrote in her 1990 Gender Trouble of the “melancholia of gender identification” within Freud’s model of normative childhood psychosexual development, the Oedipus complex. Butler drew out the implicit Freudian point that “it would appear that the taboo against homosexuality must precede the heterosexual incest taboo; the taboo against homosexuality in effect creates the heterosexual ‘dispositions’ by which the Oedipal conflict becomes possible.”15 Because homosexuality must be, along with incestuous relations, repudiated, same-sex relationships are always already haunted and left bereft by an internalized awareness of the prohibition against homosexual desires. That these desires were foundational to the formation of a sexual subjectivity makes the prohibitions against them especially wounding. An extraordinary range of queer theory treatments of these themes have followed Butler’s line of argument.16 Socialization buries our polymorphous perversity under repressive deco- rum. What constitutes repression are an odd assortment of “social dams” such as the curious triumvirate of shame, disgust, and pity. The social and cultural neuroses that ensue are the “negative” of the perversions, the ills pro- duced by their repression. Our oedipalization drives the pulsating waves and experiences of polymorphous pleasure underground, leaving a good deal of our libidinal energies repressed. But a burial is not an eradication, as Poe’s writing makes so abundantly clear again and again: our perverse desires con- tinue to destabilize the dams of repression. As Freud consistently argued, civilization was a triumph for the human species and a tragedy for the individual. The lost histories of our childhood responses to the world—the unimaginable range of polymorphous pleasures, the sheer openness to feelings and sensations of all kinds—remain buried in our unconscious, largely hidden from us, accessible only in those unsettling moments of parapraxis, those slips of the tongue and other fissures through which our own truths slip out from beneath our repressive self-control. The Oedipus complex successfully transforms us into properly socialized beings, but this is not in and of itself a necessarily laudable process, only the one our culture demands. Freud’s own ambivalence about the Oedipus complex hovers over his discussion of homosexuality. He unsettles his own account of childhood homosexual development through his frequent discussions of the negative Oedipus complex, an “inversion” of the “normal” version rather than an exceptional case of pathology. Indeed, there is in Freud a strange and unsettling continuum of childhood sexual “disturbances” that undermine the oedipal model. The negative Oedipus complex of heterosexual male masoch- ism is particularly interesting as a complement to Freud’s theory of male homosexuality.17 4 8 • C h a P T e r 2 Freud’s theory oF narcIssIsm and Its uses The erotic predicament that lies at the heart of the Ovidian and Freudian versions of the Narcissus myth is the paradox of desire—the ultimate inac- cessibility of another person. Our longing for the other person, our desire to connect to and at times to possess them despite the obvious and less appar- ent barriers that separate one person from another, is no less ardent despite their inaccessibility. The Narcissus myth is a heightened, particularly and peculiarly affecting version of the essential pathos of desire, the gulf between self and other. Moreover, thinkers such as Freud help us to see that what we long for is our self in the other, suggesting, as does Ovid, that desire may actually proceed not from a primary longing for the other but from an origi- nal desire for self. As Leo Bersani puts it, all desire, at heart, has a narcissistic basis. We love . . . inaccurate versions of ourselves. . . . we relate to difference by recognizing and longing for sameness. All love is, in a sense, homoerotic. Even in the love between a man and a woman, each partner rejoices in finding himself, or herself, in the other. This is not the envy of narcissistic enclosure that Freud thought he detected in male heterosexual desire; it is rather an expression of the security humans can feel when they embrace difference as the supplemental benefit of a universal replication and solidar- ity of being. Each subject reoccurs differently everywhere.18 Recognizing our narcissistic disposition can lead to a utopian erotics of seek- ing sameness in difference and difference in sameness, an alterity not deter- mined by such narrow concepts as gender (however decisive a role these concepts play in our lives). The most valuable aspects of Jacques Lacan’s work are his theory of the subject’s development from identification with an illusory and misrecognized image of wholeness (the mirror stage) and his decoupling of desire from bio- logical or physical needs.19 Because desire is a term I use frequently here, some clarification of my understanding of it is in order. As the Lacanian queer theorist Tim Dean describes, “Distinguishing desire from biological or physical needs, Lacan conceived desire as the excess resulting from the articulation of need in symbolic form. Thus where bodies may be said to have needs such as biological sustenance and physical protection, subjects have desires—principally, overcoming the loss constitutive of subjectivity as such—hence the requirement to ‘find the subject as lost object.’ It is because desire remains distinct from need that sexuality is cultural rather than bio- a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 4 9 logical.”20 If desire is the differential between need and demand, desire always exists outside of corporeal wants and wishes. As Freud made sure we under- stood, desire has neither aim nor object. I mean always to evoke desire’s pos- sibilities in my use of the concept, which I leave deliberately open-ended; often, I mean to suggest sexual desire, but only as one of several forms desire can take. Given the special emphasis that Freud will place on the homosexual nar- cissist, and that he begins his discussion with the specific problem of schizo- phrenia, it is intriguing that Freud frames the entire question of narcissism as a question of a fundamental human need and experience: love. In the “last resort we must,” Freud writes, “begin to love in order not to fall ill, and we are bound to fall ill if, in consequence of frustration, we cannot love” (SE 14: 85). Freud uses narcissism primarily as an opportunity for the discussion of love and a rubric through which to explore it. Here, Freud’s controversial penchant for universalization has its affecting dimension. Though narcis- sism has been both a pathologized and a minoritized identity, Freud actually makes it central to his understanding of human relationships. Freud universalizes narcissism within his discussion of the two types of infant sexual object-choice, which he distinguishes as the “anaclitic” and the narcissistic. The first, the anaclitic, “or attachment,” type of object-choice focuses on “the persons who are concerned with a child’s feeding, care, and protection  .  .  .  that is to say, in the first instance the mother or her substi- tute.” The second, the narcissistic, can be found “especially clearly in people whose libidinal development has suffered some disturbance, such as perverts and homosexuals, that in their later choice of their love object they have taken as a model not their mother but their own selves. They are plainly seeking themselves as a love object, and are exhibiting a type of object-choice which must be termed ‘narcissistic.’” But the next line, which concludes this paragraph, anticipates Freud’s argument that narcissism bears a much greater significance than its prevalence among “perverts and homosexuals especially” would suggest: “In this observation we have the strongest of the reasons which have led us to adopt the hypothesis of narcissism” (SE 14: 87–88). Freud not only establishes the validity of narcissism as another kind of sexual object-choice, he also takes great pains to emphasize that narcissism, far from a minority disposition, is as available a sexual object-choice as the only seem- ingly more normative anaclitic type: We have, however, not concluded that human beings are divided into two sharply distinguished groups, according as their object-choice conforms to the anaclitic or to the narcissistic type; we assume rather that both kinds of 5 0 • C h a P T e r 2 object-choice are open to each individual, though he may show a preference for one or the other. We say that a human being has originally two sexual objects—himself and the woman who nurses him—and in doing so we are postulating a primary narcissism in everyone, which may in some cases manifest itself in a dominating fashion in his object-choice. (SE 14: 88) This universal, primary narcissism is complexly significant (and endur- ingly controversial for psychoanalytic theory). First, it makes it clear that an individual will have not only another person upon whom to fix his erotic hopes but also himself (to use Freud’s preferred gender for the moment). Although someone may “show a preference for one or the other,” both kinds of object-choice—that involving someone else, that focusing on the self—are available to the desiring subject. I would go further than Freud and say that one can make both desiring choices; one can desire oneself as well as someone else. But Freud goes far enough; his language here about the choices open to every individual between anaclitic and narcissistic objects is remarkably neutral, even though in the previous paragraph he associates narcissism with those reliable transgressors, “perverts and homosexuals.” By the time Freud describes, at a later stage in the essay, that the “aim and the satisfaction in a narcissistic object-choice is to be loved,” one has a hard time distinguishing “normal” from narcissism—it is the rare person for whom being loved can be of no concern (SE 14: 98). Indeed, Freud reveals narcissism, the special penchant of perverts and homosexuals, as a universal sexual disposition: it is one of the two sexual object-choices available to everyone; moreover, we have all experienced the state of primary narcissism. Freud then proceeds to distinguish anaclitic from narcissistic object- choice in terms that suggest the old, enduring problem of Freud’s sexism: males are generally anaclitic in their object relations, females narcissistic. Sex- ism would appear to be at work here in that the more normative, the ana- clitic, model of erotic attraction is generally the domain of males, whereas women and their sexuality are relegated to the sidelines of perversion. Yet because Freud’s depiction of narcissism lies suspended between modes of universality and sexual specialism—just as his view of homosexuality lies between an offhand admiration and a steadfast understanding of it as devi- ant—the normal heterosexuality of males and the narcissistic perversity of women, while ostensibly the sexual order of things as Freud establishes it, will come to seem less secure and more odd. And, as if presciently aware of our contemporary objections to his limited and limiting views of women, Freud provides one of his most thoughtful demurrals when he qualifies what he has just said about the narcissistic sexuality of women. a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 5 1 Perhaps it is not out of place here to give an assurance that this description of the feminine form of erotic life is not due to any tendentious desire on my part to depreciate women. Apart from the fact that tendentiousness is quite alien to me, I know that these different lines of development corre- spond to the differentiation of functions in a highly complicated biological whole: further, I am ready to admit that there are quite a number of women who love according to the masculine type and who also develop the sexual overvaluation proper to that type. (SE 14: 89) Had Freud consistently maintained the levelheaded and thoughtful tone of the above passage in his treatment of female sexuality, he would not remain burdened, as he will always be, by charges of misogyny. Here we have, as well, a reminder that what had seemed the normative mode of sexuality, the anaclitic sexuality of men, relies on “overvaluation,” a kind of idealizing blindness that makes male desire something less than clear-eyed. Going back to the way that Freud theorized anaclitic male desire, the tendency to over- valuation that characterizes it stems from “the child’s original narcissism and thus corresponds to a transference of that narcissism to the sexual object” (SE 14: 88, emphasis mine). In other words, at the heart of anaclitic object-choice, the normative choice that is in opposition to narcissism, that special penchant of homosexuals and other perverts . . . lies narcissism, which engenders the more normative choice. In other words, narcissism is the authentic core of any sexual object-choice. I return to the issue of gendered object-choice below. But for now, what I want to establish is the centrality of narcissism to Freud’s thinking about how we desire and how we love. Initially described as a heretofore unsuspected component of our erotic life, then as the characteristic of perverse sexualities, narcissism gathers momentum and achieves universality, finally emerging as one of the fundamental principles of desire. Narcissism even impels the parental love for children. The “affectionate love” parents have for their children revives and reproduces their own, “long since abandoned narcissism” (SE 14: 90–91). Overwhelmed by their potent feelings for their offspring, parents indulge in newly reactivated narcissistic fantasies that they had long suppressed in accordance with “cultural acqui- sitions,” and attempt to extend to their children the narcissistic “privileges” they had themselves long forfeited (SE 14: 91). If one of the major critiques of Freud’s theory of the Oedipus complex is that, in his focus on the oedi- pal child, he pays insufficient attention to the desires and aggressions of the parents, here, Freud redresses this oversight in his theory of narcissism. One might say that he does so with a vengeance, rather frighteningly theoriz- 5 2 • C h a P T e r 2 ing parental love for children—commonly perceived as the height of selfless love—as a passionate expression of narcissistic desire: “Parental love, which is so moving and at bottom so childish, is nothing but the parents’ narcis- sism born again, which, transformed into object love, unmistakably reveals its former nature” (SE 14: 91). If parental love for children is one of narcis- sism’s masks, it is certainly not the only one. Freud’s depiction of narcissism here makes it hard to find a love that is not either a disguised form of narcis- sism or some kind of attempt to make up for its loss. “He who loves has, so to speak,” Freud states, “forfeited a part of his narcissism, which can only be replaced by his being loved”—or, as Freud suggests in his depiction of the fond parent, in loving another (SE 14: 98). The theme of parental narcissism proves crucial to an understanding of the broad relevance of narcissism to Freud’s thinking and also to the depathologization of homosexual narcissism. It will be helpful to turn to Freud’s thinking on heterosexual development and oedipalization—certainly the normative model of human sexual development for Freud—in order to frame our thinking on homosexual narcissism. Jean Laplanche’s theory of the “enigmatic signifier” illuminates the ques- tions that attend to the mother–child relationship.21 “Laplanche’s concept of the enigmatic signifier,” as Leo Bersani elucidates it, “refers to an original and unavoidable seduction of the child by the mother, a seduction inherent in the very nurturing of the child. The seduction is not intentional; simply by her care, the parent implants in the child ‘unconscious and sexual significations’ with which the adult world is infiltrated, and that are received in the form of an enigmatic signifier—that is, a message by which the child is seduced but that he or she cannot read, an enigmatic message that is perhaps inevitably interpreted as a secret. The result of this original seduction would be a ten- dency to structure all relations on the basis of an eroticizing mystification.”22 To take this point further, all sexuality flows from the essentially seductive mother–child relation, in that we always desire enigmatically and that we always desire the enigmatic. As Steven Angelides further defines Laplanche’s concept, The enigmatic signifier (of adult desire) is first inscribed in the infant’s bodily, or, erotogenic zones. In a second phase, because the child cannot fully or successfully integrate the excessive libidinal excitation, or, unintel- ligible erotic messages from the parent, this enigmatic signifier undergoes a primal repression. The repressed, residual elements thereafter ensure a per- manent conflictual relationship with the ego, producing a subjective core of a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 5 3 irreducible otherness. The child is thus split unto him or herself, and sexu- ality is ever after inflected by an enigmatic otherness. This universal theory of primal seduction and the enigmatic signifier is therefore the foundational structure for the constitution of the primordial unconscious, and thus sexu- ality, in the child.23 As Freud makes remarkably clear, the boundaries separating anaclitic from narcissistic desire are fluid; and as Laplanche suggests, desire begins in the relationship the child has with the mother. Given that the male homo- sexual’s tie to and identification with the mother has been perhaps the most fundamental component of the view of homosexuality as pathological and the theory of male homosexuality itself, it seems well worth considering that desire understood in its broadest terms in Freudian thinking stems from the mother–child relationship. Tim Dean writes of Freud on the Narcissus theme in his 1910 essay on Leonardo da Vinci as Freud at his “most inventive,” and of this work as part of “a bizarre narrative of Freud’s own construction—as if Freud felt com- pelled to rival Ovid’s imaginative genius by creating a story of impossibly elaborate metamorphosis: the transformation of a boy into his mother.”24 “We might say,” writes Dean,” that psychoanalysis reveals the otherness within sameness, and so explodes the myth that sameness only involves self- sameness.” To take just one example, the boy Leonardo, “by installing his mother in and as his own mind, has become other to himself.”25 This is the radical potential in Freud’s treatment that critics such as Michael Warner have overlooked. (I will touch on Freud’s study of Leonardo in chapter 7.) Freud called narcissism a wound. If this wound is the customary psycho- analytic lack, lack marks our separation from the powerful being who gave us life alongside our desires—our mother, whose body we narcissistically mis- took for our own. Following Otto Rank, who “argued that the universally traumatic experience of birth is the true origin of all anxiety, not castration,” Marcia Ian describes the phallus as the phobic screen for something else: the umbilical cord, which literalizes and symbolizes the trauma of birth and our separation from the mother. Rank did not do away with the central Freudian notion of castration; rather, he theorized that it was birth trauma that alone explained it.26 On some level, all sexuality stems from an essentially traumatic relationship with our mothers and our mothers’ bodies. Lacan argued that desire emerges from the differential between need and demand, the moment when our need for the nourishment that comes from the mother’s breast transmutes into a demand for the breast not related to the instinctual need 5 4 • C h a P T e r 2 for hunger. But we could also argue that desire emanates from the trau- matic separation from the body of the woman who gave us life—we want to replace that first fatal cut with the remerging of bodies. Along these lines, we can interpret narcissism in its manifestation in the homosexual male as a strategy for the repair and restoration of the split, unmoored subject. What the homosexual child (in Freud) desires is to pre- serve the intensity of the bond between his mother and himself, the feeling of wholeness, of oneness, when he was his mother’s own object of desire. Freud doesn’t mention, in his treatments of male homosexuality, the concept of parental narcissism, but we do well to remember his discussion of it in “On Narcissism.” The mother’s own narcissism implicitly drives the process whereby the child learned about desire, how to desire himself, and developed his sustain- ing fantasy of preserving the scene of maternal desire that was so influential and affecting for the mind and heart and life of the child. The child acutely expe- riences, one could theorize, the force of the mother’s own investment in the child’s success in mirroring back her own desires, needs for self-reflection, and fantasies of self-perpetuation; the child experiences her own desires, needs, and fantasies so acutely that he begins to imagine that they are his desires, needs, and fantasies. Installing his mother’s psychic life into his own mind, the child develops a kind of double vision that, on occasion, becomes one: he sees the world both through his mother’s eyes and through his own; he seeks to find the same rapturously satisfying image that his mother saw in him; he wishes for the opportunity to see as she saw, to find the fulfillment of his own desire reflected in another’s face, body, eyes. One of the problems with the ways in which Freud’s theory has been interpreted over the years is that homosexual narcissism’s investment in gen- dered sameness has been taken as an interest in finding oneself replicated, another version of the self. Surely, if Freud has taught us anything, it is that this craving for self-sameness is the universal condition of human desire, since we all experienced the state of primary narcissism. Behind an interest in gendered sameness lies a radical otherness—the mother’s desire behind the gazing eyes of the desiring boy, the fantasy that the mother’s desire has been incorporated into and enmeshed with one’s own. Because patriarchy insists upon the perpetual reenactment of the Oedi- pus complex—far from some natural, inherent process, it is the narrative of socialization, the patriarchal script that Freud decoded—the erotic affilia- tions a male may feel with his mother’s desire are never valorized. Given the patriarchal cast of our culture, the only male desire which culture valorizes is that which replicates the father with whom one has properly identified. a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 5 5 Feelings for mothers; the mother’s own feelings; a woman’s sexual drives and desires, what motivates her own erotic life: historically, all of these aspects of human life have been suppressed, repressed, and subordinated. The chief problem the homosexual male has encountered in terms of his desire—and this is to speak of it only within the Freudian context of our discussion—is that his desire falls precipitously and disastrously out of the patriarchal, oedi- pal loop. Sexism, therefore, accounts just as powerfully and poignantly as homophobia for the pathologization of male homosexuality. (The Freudian girl is at such a loss during the Oedipus complex and its aftermath because of the essentially paralytic nature of her social position. Were she to identify with the father to too great an extent, she might become masculinized in a way threatening to and for her in social terms; she cannot easily identify with her mother because the mother has not only failed to protect her but rep- resents a reified version of the misogynistically determined subordination of women. One wishes, in exasperation, that Freud had more sensitively expli- cated the misogynistic social construction of femininity, rather than feminin- ity’s biological “inferiority.” But, at the same time, Freud’s account of female social experience is also unflinchingly realistic, at least for his own era.) The male homosexual’s strategy for preserving the scene of maternal desire resists patriarchal oedipalization, but, as Freud describes it, it is also a different kind of oedipal tragedy; it is a different kind of destruction of the erotic mother–son bond that enables desire even as it demands to be eradicated. Just as the heterosexual male child must abandon the mother as an erotic object, using her as a model for exogamous erotic attraction, the homosexual male must leave behind the mother to proceed with his desiring life; the difference is that the homosexual child devises a brilliant strategy for preserving the mother’s role in his desire. This is, of course, only one differ- ence among many. What drives homosexual desire is what drives all desire: an attempt to repair loss, the lack of something we believe we once possessed, somehow, somewhere. “They proceed from a narcissistic basis, and look for a young man who resembles themselves and whom they may love as their mother loved them.” If Freud draws upon the terror and violence of the Oedipus myth to describe our first confrontation, when we are very young, with adult sexuality, which is to say normative heterosexuality—most evoca- tively and provocatively drawn, in all senses of the word, in his case study of “The Wolf Man” in which he develops his theory of the primal scene, in which the child literally observes parental intercourse—he draws upon the incomparable frustrations and the plangency of the Narcissus myth to describe homosexuality.27 Both are tragic myths that mirror each other, 5 6 • C h a P T e r 2 providing alternative scenarios of the same theme of impossible desire—they reveal, as does Freud’s treatment, that desire is as paradoxically absurd as it is irresistible. Given that homosexuality has so often been seen as the Oedipus complex gone awry, as a failure to complete the process and be normalized by it, it behooves us to reconsider oedipal conflict. Specifically, we should reconsider any stable notion of the Oedipus complex in Freud’s work, for his views on it are characteristically inconsistent; moreover, the Oedipus complex and its narcissistic-homosexual foil bear far more similarities than are commonly acknowledged. If we can demonstrate the similarities that exist between het- erosexual and homosexual development, narcissistic sexuality can be seen as an alternative form of identity to an oedipalized one rather than its stunted inferior. As Kenneth Lewes puts it in his superb study The Psychoanalytic Theory of Male Homosexuality, “there is no straight line from preoedipal con- stitution to postoedipal result.” Instead, there is only a “bewildering series of transformations”: “the mechanisms of the Oedipus complex are really a series of psychic traumas, and all results of it are neurotic compromise for- mations.”28 If it is absurd to see the transition through the Oedipus complex into heterosexuality as a normal, inevitable, natural process, it is also absurd to view narcissistically inclined, mother-identified homosexual childhood development as stunted, counterfeit, unnatural. Though it has been deployed in resolutely homophobic ways throughout American psychiatric history, and though it bears the traces of Freud’s inconsistent views on homosexu- ality (certainly far from an exclusively inconsistent Freudian topic), Freud’s theory in and of itself seems as plausible a way of theorizing male homosexu- ality as any other; moreover, it movingly captures the emotional complexity of being a mother-identified male in a patriarchal culture. But perhaps the larger topic here involves what I call Freud’s subversive children: children who devise all manner of resisting, thwarting, eluding, and generally muck- ing up, for distinct reasons, the course of their sexual development, nor- mative or otherwise. The homosexual child is far from the only subversive agent in the Freudian field of childhood sexual development. The masochis- tic male and the phallic girl join the homosexual child in contesting the con- solidation of normative sexual roles into which we must all ostensibly fall. I now turn, at last, to Hawthorne’s short story “The Gentle Boy.” I read the story from a Freudian perspective, though not the one influentially limned by Frederick Crews. Crews saw the story as a rather unwieldy indul- gence on Hawthorne’s part in masochistic fantasy.29 What I will suggest, instead, is that Freud’s theory of male homosexual narcissism here serves a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 5 7 as a general allegory for male sexuality rather than a minor myth for a sexual minority, and as such provides key insights into Hawthorne’s story. In turn, Hawthorne’s tale explores the fate of a mother-identified male desire in a male-dominated social order. “the gentle boy” h a w T h O r n e ’ S 1 8 3 0 m a S T e r P i e C e Nathaniel Hawthorne sets his short story “The Gentle Boy” (written in 1829, first published the year after) in 1650s Puritan New England.30 The titular boy, a Quaker named Ilbrahim, is adopted by a Puritan couple, Tobias and Dorothy Pearson, after Tobias discovers the boy mournfully keeping vigil at his father’s fresh grave. At this time, the Puritans were actively persecut- ing the Quakers. Ilbrahim had been in the same jail cell as his imprisoned father and has watched him being hanged. Not only have the Puritans killed his father, but they have sentenced his mother to death as well, leaving her to die of exposure in the wilderness. Bereft, abandoned Ilbrahim occupies a liminal state between life and death. Ilbrahim’s tremendous tenderness and delicacy of spirit are commingled with a “premature manliness,” a gravitas born of suffering. The Quakers match the Puritans’ punitive zeal with an ever-increasing proselytizing passion: “The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally dis- tributed by our pious forefathers; the popular antipathy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and reward, would have been for the worldly-minded” (9: 69). The strange, delicate, remote child Ilbrahim will be the battleground for contending forces: the sadistic Puritan desires to quash rebellion and the masochistic Quaker avidity for their own persecution. But the most resonant battle rages within Ilbrahim himself, between his desire for his biological mother, the wild, enflamed, visionary Catharine, who evades death in the forest, and for the care and concern of his strong, subdued, steadfast adoptive mother, Dorothy. When the two women meet in a dramatic scene in the church and decide with whom Ilbrahim’s fate lies, they form “a practical allegory,” “rational piety and unbridled fanaticism, contending for the empire of a young heart” (9: 85). Evincing her quiet strength of will throughout the tale, Dorothy unflinch- ingly withstands the Puritan opprobrium that the Pearsons’ adoption of Ilbrahim engenders, whereas her husband Tobias much less steadily stands 5 8 • C h a P T e r 2 by his adopted son. Nevertheless, by the tale’s close, as Ilbrahim, the boy too gentle for this world, lies dying in his bed, Tobias will embrace the boy’s faith. Let me state the obvious: Hawthorne didn’t read Freud and knew noth- ing of psychoanalysis; when Hawthorne was writing the term “homosexual” did not exist; any overlaps between Hawthorne’s work and Freud’s theory of homosexual childhood development are coincidental (I have found no evidence that Freud read Hawthorne, though it is not impossible that he did). These disclaimers out of the way, I find remarkable correspondences between Hawthorne’s and Freud’s depictions of a feminine and female-iden- tified male child. At heart, Freud’s theorization of male childhood homosex- ual development is an account of the process of the development of a male who identifies with the mother rather than the father. Hawthorne allows us to experience the affectional and social ramifications of Freud’s theorization of this form of male childhood desire. Hawthorne locates in patriarchy an unyielding refusal to tolerate deviance of any kind and a rapacious drive to destroy the most vulnerable and defenseless in its midst. In his delicacy and, most acutely, in his desire to love, Ilbrahim exquisitely embodies Freud’s the- oretical construction of the homosexual child, emulating the mother’s love for him in his love for another male. In Hawthorne, however, the child emu- lates a maternal love only haphazardly and incoherently given, and attempts to bestow this love on a wholly inadequate and unworthy object. The love Ilbrahim bestows on others is a phantasy enactment of a love he craves but never receives from his biological mother (and perhaps cannot accept from his adoptive one). Hawthorne uses all of his already considerable skill in this early tale to create in Ilbrahim a figure of strangeness and beauty, qualities that set him apart from the rest of the characters in the story. With his “pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and the outlandish name,” Ilbrahim seems more like a visitor from a distant planet than a seventeenth-century New England child: “He was a sweet infant of the skies, that had strayed away from his home” (9: 79). By representing Ilbrahim as alien, Hawthorne establishes that a feminine, mother-identified male has no place in this world; Ilbrahim chafes against the masculinist, patriarchal Puritan order because the values he embodies can never be affirmed within it. “Quaker” identity in this tale emerges as a broad allegory for phobically perceived differences of all kinds. When Tobias learns that the young, mourning child he attempts to help is Quaker, the “Puri- tan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, relinquished it as if he were a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 5 9 touching a loathsome reptile” (9: 73). Difference dissolves human kinship, renders the other a different species altogether. “Do we not all spring from an evil root?” Tobias then asks himself, allow- ing his reason to overcome his prejudice. The specificity of this imagery makes a decisive point: Ilbrahim, a queer child, opposes the destructive phal- lic power of patriarchy. What can be the fate of a “little quiet, lovely boy, whose appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as could possibly have been adduced in his own favor,” in such a grimly oppres- sive world (9: 77)? The stern old man—representative of the pattern of inter- generational male conflict that informs all of Hawthorne’s work—who will turn his “repulsive and unheavenly countenance” against this boy as if he has “polluted” the Puritan church, synecdochically stands in for the Puritan community, “a miserable world” toward whom Hawthorne feels a repulsion he can barely contain (9: 79). Dorothy, who immediately takes in the new child as her own, asks Ilbra- him if he has a mother, and “the tears burst forth from his full heart” (9: 75); Dorothy tells him to dry his tears “and be my child, as I will be your mother” (9: 75). Ilbrahim longs for the oral mother, the original mother with whom he experienced, or wanted to experience, the greatest intimacy; Dorothy rep- resents the oedipal mother, custodian of the social order. While Ilbrahim submits open-heartedly to his adoption, it is clear that he never relinquishes his love for Catharine, shown to be almost entirely unsuitable for the role of parent. With her wild, unkempt appearance and feverish, fanatical speeches of condemnation to the Puritans who destroy her and her people, Catha- rine commands great pity but evokes greater fear; abused, victimized, con- demned, her rage and wrath against her oppressors, Hawthorne makes clear, galvanizes as much as it depletes her. Catharine calls to mind Freud’s indelible portrait of the Medusan mother, who represents the terror of adult sexuality. In the iconography of the Medusa, Freud located a metaphor of castration and the child’s atten- dant revulsion—the writhing snakes being representations of pubic hair and also compensatory substitutions for the castrated penis. If the Medusa’s head represents the female genitals—and specifically the “terrifying genitals of the Mother”—it isolates “their horrifying effects from their pleasure-giving ones” (SE 18: 274). Catharine, looming before the Puritans in their church, con- demns those who have condemned her: “her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness was defiled by pale streaks of ashes. . . . Her dis- course gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly entangled with her rea- son.  .  .  .  She was naturally a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and 6 0 • C h a P T e r 2 revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety . . . her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness” (9: 81). With disorienting urgency, Hawthorne anticipates Freudian themes. He directly pits this Medusan mother against the community that calumni- ates her; he also matches her against a different kind of phallic maternity, the coolly rational (though also deeply feeling) oedipal mother Dorothy, who represents the reason and rectitude the community claims to possess but obviously sorely lacks. But indirectly Hawthorne also opposes Medusan Catharine with narcissistically inclined Ilbrahim. Ilbrahim’s tender, feminine disposition can in no way correspond to the phallic, vengeful fury of the wronged but wrathful Catharine. Nor can Dorothy’s courageous and inspir- ing moral orderliness satisfy Ilbrahim’s needs. Ilbrahim roams this inhospi- table world in a state of authentic loneliness, in a no man’s land of oedipal deprivation; the mother he loves loves her own appropriated phallic power, her rage, above all else, and the mother who loves him loves him from a posi- tion within the patriarchal order that the boy, in his very essence, opposes. The most positive embodiment of the feminine in the story, the gentle boy provides a stark contrast to the myriad representatives of phallic power— phallic mothers, phallic Puritans, phallically aggressive children—that domi- nate the tale. One of Hawthorne’s 1837 revisions of the story uncomfortably clarifies parental narcissism as one of the major themes of the work.31 In the original version, when Tobias brings Ilbrahim home for the first time, Dorothy pre- pares a meal for him which the boy, with tearful tentativeness, manages to eat. But in the revised version of the story, Ilbrahim never eats and Dorothy never makes him a meal. Dorothy and Tobias have lost all of their children; the implication Hawthorne now makes is that the role Ilbrahim serves, that of replacement or substitute for their deceased children, for Dorothy in par- ticular, is more important than his actual, living, breathing, needing, person. Even Dorothy, shown to be of far greater courage than her husband and greater benevolence than their community, in the revised version attends to her own needs before that of the child; Ilbrahim’s appeasement of her hunger for a child takes the place of the appeasement of his own hunger. Dorothy, therefore, in a far more muted way, resembles Catharine in her ego-absorp- tion. Tobias, shown to be faltering in his resolve to claim Ilbrahim as his own child despite the scorn of his community, seeks to repair his own lack of a spiritual life; his primary goal seems to be to find a religious conviction, and so it makes sense that the wild, almost antic religious zealotry of the Quakers would be seductive to him. In any event, Hawthorne doesn’t seem especially interested in Tobias’s portions of the narrative. What chiefly interests Haw- a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 6 1 thorne is the fate of a gentle boy in an ungentle world; I argue that this was Hawthorne’s most personal work, and it is for this reason that the themes of the mother–son relationship are central to it. Hawthorne wrote of his relationship to his own mother that “there has been, ever since my boyhood, a sort of coldness of intercourse between us, such as is apt to come between persons of strong feelings” (8: 429). Never- theless, as Hawthorne’s astute contemporary biographer Brenda Wineapple observes, the feelings between son and mother “reached deep.”32 Catharine, Ilbrahim’s mother, can be seen as a nightmarish version of Elizabeth Man- ning Hawthorne; like Catharine, the author’s mother had “raven-dark hair,” a trait she shared, along with “fine gray eyes,” with her son. Both Haw- thorne and his mother dreaded separations, several of which they were forced to endure during Hawthorne’s fatherless childhood. (Hawthorne’s maternal Manning family, who ran a stagecoach business, divided their time between Maine and Massachusetts.) During one separation in 1819, Hawthorne despondently wrote, “I am extremely homesick. Why was I not born a girl that I might have been pinned all my life to my mother’s apron?” (15: 117). Juliet Mitchell has revised Freud’s theory of the Oedipus complex through her focus on the role that sibling relationships play in childhood develop- ment.33 Along these lines, it is also important to remember that Hawthorne had passionate and complex relationships with his two sisters, Elizabeth and Louisa. “No wonder pairs of women,” observes Wineapple, “frequently haunt his fiction. . . . One of the two is usually an exotic beauty, dark-haired, brilliant, and eccentric, like his older sister, Elizabeth; the other, like Marie Louisa, is more overtly conventional, self-effacing, and domestic.”34 Along these sisterly lines, Catharine can be seen as an Elizabeth figure, Dorothy as a Louisa. Further enhancing the biographical valences of the story, Haw- thorne’s own father, a sea merchant, died in Surinam when Hawthorne was very young; moreover, his childhood health was extremely worrisome to his family. And like the unworthy boy that Ilbrahim will care for in the story, the young Hawthorne also suffered in 1813 a foot injury, one that kept him indoors for several months. The correspondences between Hawthorne’s own childhood and Ilbrahim’s are too acutely obvious to be ignored. The greatest point of overlap between Hawthorne and his tale lies in Ilbrahim’s beauty and the disturbance it creates. Hawthorne came of age in Jacksonian America, a culture that valorized hypermasculine traits and saw effeminacy as a trait associated with degenerate Europe.35 Hawthorne’s own physical beauty, remarked upon by many people throughout his life, was a trait that most likely caused him discomfort, in that it made him the object of the gaze and therefore placed him in a feminine, passive position against 6 2 • C h a P T e r 2 which he no doubt chafed. Quoting Hawthorne’s son-in-law George Lath- rop’s biography of Hawthorne, Henry James recounts in his famous critical book on Hawthorne an episode in which Sophia and Elizabeth Peabody, desiring to see more of the charming writer, caused him to be invited to a species of conversazione at the house of one of their friends. . . . Several other ladies . . . were as punctual as they, and Hawthorne presently arriv- ing, and seeing a bevy of admirers where he had expected but three or four, fell into a state of agitation, which is vividly described by his biographer. He “stood perfectly motionless, but with a look of a sylvan creature on the point of fleeing away. . . . He was stricken with dismay; his face lost colour and took on a warm paleness . . . his agitation was very great; he stood by a table, and taking up some small object that lay upon it, he found his hand trembling so that he was obliged to lay it down.” It was desirable, certainly, that something should occur to break the spell of a diffidence that might justly be called morbid. Many fascinations abound here, not the least of which is Hawthorne’s own deep discomfort with being the object of visual fascination. (James makes his own specular fascination with Hawthorne palpable in this book.) James provides another similar anecdote from Lathrop about what would become the famous evening in which the purportedly shy and reclusive Hawthorne sisters brought, at the invitation of Elizabeth Peabody, the New England activist who was the sister of Sophia, who would become Haw- thorne’s wife, their even shyer and more reclusive brother with them to the Peabody home. “‘Entirely to her surprise,’ says Mr. Lathrop  .  .  .  ‘entirely to her surprise they came. She herself opened the door, and there, before her, between his sisters, stood a splendidly handsome youth, tall and strong, with no appearance whatever of timidity, but instead an almost fierce deter- mination making his face stern. This was his resource for carrying off the extreme inward tremor which he really felt.’”36 In life, Hawthorne strenu- ously attempted to overmaster the tremendous anxieties, figured in trem- bling hands and inward tremors, the gaze stimulated in him. As Wineapple writes, Hawthorne’s sense of his own masculinity was “unstable”; early on, Hawthorne saw himself as “one apart, marked and wounded, a victim with a special destiny who was, at the same time, as angry as the lame boy in the story ‘The Gentle Boy.’”37 That Ilbrahim’s beauty makes his life more difficult Hawthorne makes quite clear. “Even his beauty,” the narrator tells us, “and his winning man- ners, sometimes produced an effect ultimately unfavorable; for the bigots, a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 6 3 when the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, affirmed that no merely natural cause could have so worked upon them” (9: 77). With remarkable insight, Hawthorne describes the difficul- ties the feminine male encounters in a masculinist society: the beauty he possesses, while not a curse, is certainly no gift; unsettling the onlookers, it forces them to punish, at least in their own mind, Ilbrahim for having trig- gered feelings—of longing? of desire? or simply of confusion?—in them. The male child of beauty encounters the same kinds of phobic treatment suffered by women; he is despised for his witchlike powers to seduce and enthrall through “unnatural” means. Hawthorne, a male who physically and emotionally resembles his mother, who writes fiction from a position of “rivalrous identification” with women, as Millicent Bell puts it, acutely understands the experience of the narcis- sistic mother-identified child who wishes to bestow upon someone else the love his mother gave him, or that—here we must add to Freud—he wished that his mother had given him.38 Ilbrahim’s name associates him with the exotic and with the Far East (where Catharine and other Quakers prosely- tize); the Orientalism of his name intersects with the homophobic ideolo- gies that associated the East with loucheness, gross sensualism, abandon, and effeminacy. Effeminate, beautiful, tender, and relentlessly persecuted by both other children and their parents, Ilbrahim nevertheless wants nothing more than to bestow his as yet “unappropriated love” on someone else. The someone else that Ilbrahim finds reverses his traits in every respect; duplici- tous where Ilbrahim is sincere, ugly rather than beautiful, and violently cruel rather than tender, the boy with a leg injury whom Ilbrahim cares for leads Ilbrahim to premature death rather than to shared love. The Pearsons take in and care for a young, male Puritan child who has suffered a leg injury; that his parents are so willing to let another family care for their own child indicates something of this boy’s nature. Hawthorne takes pains to let us know that this boy is as physically ugly as he will prove to be spiritually. While this conflation of spiritual with physical character commonly appears in Hawthorne’s work and in Victorian literature gener- ally, here it has a deeper significance when considered in light of the story’s psychosexual themes. Ilbrahim, normally adept at decoding physiognomies, fails to read the evil in this boy’s physical nature. But we, however, are more than encour- aged to do so. He has a disagreeable countenance, slightly distorted mouth, an “irregular, broken” near uni-brow; “an almost imperceptible twist” char- acterizes his “every joint, and the uneven prominence of the breast.” Over- all, his body, though “regular in general outline,” is “faulty in almost all its 6 4 • C h a P T e r 2 details”; moreover, he is “sullen and reserved  .  .  .  obtuse in intellect” (9: 90). Nevertheless, Ilbrahim nestles “continually by the bed-side of the little stranger, and, with a fond jealousy” assiduously nurses the boy. Deepen- ing biographical valences, Hawthorne depicts Ilbrahim as a storyteller who recites “imaginary adventures, on the spur of the moment, and in apparently inexhaustible succession,” to the convalescent child of “dark and stubborn nature,” who responds to Ilbrahim’s airy fantasies with remarks of preco- cious and disturbing “moral obliquity” (9: 91). The force of love emanating from him makes Ilbrahim believe that this love will be returned. One day, seeing the boy he cared for playing with a group of other Puritan children, Ilbrahim approaches them, “as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to fear a repulse from their society.” But Ilbrahim could not be more mistaken about the lack of reciprocity in matters of love: “the devil of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics,” and, shrieking like banshees, they hit Ilbrahim literally with sticks and stones, displaying “an instinct of destruction, far more loathsome than the blood-thirstiness of manhood” (9: 92). The worst part of this brutal assault occurs when the ugly, lame boy whom Ilbrahim cared for lures Ilbrahim toward him with an offer of protec- tion; without hesitation, Ilbrahim complies, only to have the “foul-hearted little villain” lift up his staff and strike Ilbrahim on the mouth, “so forcibly that blood issued in a stream.” Ilbrahim had valiantly attempted to protect himself against a “brood of baby-fiends,” but after this brutal version of Judas’s kiss he wholly submits himself to the bashing crowd, an act of sup- plication that only intensifies their frenzied fury as they “trample upon him” and drag him by his “long, fair locks” (9: 92). It is impossible not to think of the contemporary crisis of bullying in our own era when reading such depic- tions of phobic and collective violence. Some older Puritans happen to rescue him, but Ilbrahim never recovers. Indeed, when Dorothy attempts one day to amuse the utterly withdrawn child, Ilbrahim yields “to a violent display of grief,” and during the middle of the night cries “Mother! Mother!” (9: 93). Later, on the night that the child Ilbrahim lies dying in his bed, Catharine returns from her world mission- ary travels and imprisonments, flush with news that Charles II has repealed the hostilities against the Quakers. Ilbrahim dies in her arms, a relief for him and a punishment for Catharine, now wild with grief. Catharine is ulti- mately a pitiable figure. Yet she has also been “neglectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman” (9: 95). Like many of Hawthorne’s most morally ambiguous figures, Catharine, though grievously victimized, a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 6 5 has more grievously erred by placing her ideological commitments above her emotional ties, even above her own offspring. One of the reasons why Hawthorne’s story is especially relevant to think- ing about modern queer identity is its depiction of male homosocial violence and the inexpressibly precarious nature of queer identity in the face of it. Ilbrahim confronts the full violence of group male mentality, a confronta- tion with resonance for modern queer identity but certainly not it alone. As I attempted to make clear earlier, I am not arguing that Hawthorne was either himself homosexual in orientation or that he represented consciously a same-sex-desiring child; rather, I argue that Hawthorne provides us with an allegory of childhood sexual otherness that is especially useful for the study of various forms of queer childhood development (gay, lesbian, bisexual, trans). But the issue is larger still: between Hawthorne and Freud, whatever historical slippages are necessary to make such a statement, the homosexual male child emerges as the model for feminine-identified masculine identity, the model that pertains with greatest significance to those who most clearly match up with it but also relevantly captures the experiences of those whose experiences fall within the paradigms of the model. In other words, Freud’s model of the homosexual male child illuminates Hawthorne’s depiction— written before the fixing of sexual identities through new taxonomical cat- egorizations that emerged after the American Civil War, if one adheres to Foucauldian paradigms—of a male child who does not conform to the gen- dered and social standards and practices of his day. (I would argue that The Scarlet Letter’s wild, intransigent, phallic Pearl is the female version of the same, and also the gentle boy’s avenger, punishing his enemies, at least before her own gender normalization by the end of the narrative.) Hawthorne himself was a heterosexual man, married with children, whose gender-bending qualities provoked discussion, concern, even awe, as his sup- porters rallied around a view of him as a sensitive artist who therefore had a poetic, feminine side, and his detractors criticized him for precisely these qualities. I believe that he was quite aware of the reactions he provoked. In constantly conflictual responses himself to these reactions, he wrote fictions, such as “The Gentle Boy,” that addressed, problematized, defended against, and mournfully recorded his own difficult experience of gendered identity. As Kenneth Lewes reminds us, identification with the “castrated mother” of the Freudian Oedipus complex can occur in the development of both het- erosexual and homosexual males, “since it is quite possible for a male with a primary identification with the castrated mother to make heterosexual object choices.”39 6 6 • C h a P T e r 2 Ilbrahim, it would appear, dies of a broken heart, a heart broken by two indistinguishable traitorous loves: the boy who returned his love with hate, the mother who returned his love with absence. With exquisite econ- omy and pathos, Hawthorne makes vividly clear that Ilbrahim reproduces a fantasy of being loved by the mother whom he loves with an equally illu- sory fantasy of loving and being loved in return by a boy who resembles Ilbrahim, not physically but in his position within Ilbrahim’s own fantasy of having been loved and cared for by his mother. Hawthorne enlarges what Freud imagines to be the psychological basis of same-sex desire by representing another dimension to it, that it can also be an enactment of a fantasy for connection between mother and son on the son’s behalf, an expression of longing for maternal love as much as a projection of having been its recipient onto another male. Ilbrahim’s grief suggests why narcis- sism is so directly enmeshed with the grievous heart of all desire, which flows from loss: he mourns for something he has already lost, the moth- er’s love so haphazardly and transitorily given, a time in which he and his mother were one. (While one could argue that Ilbrahim, found at the site of his father’s murdered body, mourns his dead father as well, this dead parent plays no role in the story beyond the initial mention of him, and Pearson seems more involved in his religious conversion than in Ilbrahim’s life or passage to death.) I do not in any way mean to reduce homosexual desire to a kind of misplaced desire for a mother’s love. My chief effort here is to make the case that what Freud theorized as homosexual development retains its validity as one pathway to homosexual orientation. Moreover, it retains its validity as a model of the emotional urgency of mother-identified desire and the difficulties faced by a male who identifies with mother rather than father. hawthorne and shame “The Gentle Boy” would appear to be, on the face of it, the height of repre- sentations of masochistic male sexuality. Certainly, this is the view of Fred- erick Crews, whose famous (and then famously repudiated, by the author himself ) Freudian study of Hawthorne theorized that oedipal conflict is the chief psychoanalytic paradigm at work in Hawthorne’s writings. Without disputing the importance of masochism to the story, I would argue that it is narcissism, and specifically homosexual narcissism, that informs the tale. If Ilbrahim desires the ugly, lame boy, what he also desires is to reproduce the scene of maternal desire that undergirds his phantasy life; he wants to love a S h i S m O T h e r l O v e d h i m • 6 7 this boy “as his mother loved him,” as Freud puts it. But, as we have seen, given that it is never clear that Catharine showed Ilbrahim the love he craves, and that Catharine has been largely absent from Ilbrahim’s brief life, this nar- cissistic process does not reproduce Ilbrahim’s own childhood experience of maternal desire but enacts a fantasy of its experiential fulfillment. And herein lies perhaps the deepest poignancy of the tale. Ilbrahim’s lav- ish bestowal of affection on this ugly child—the descriptions of whom as such border on the gratuitous at first blush—reveals a great deal about how he has felt about himself. If he attempts to make real his mother’s desire for him through his desire for and expression of love toward another male, that the object of his affections is so deeply, clearly, irredeemably unworthy sug- gests that Ilbrahim sees himself as ugly, base, unworthy and wishes that his mother would have loved him despite these onerous traits. The disturbing disjuncture between Ilbrahim’s actual beauty, readily (if ambivalently) per- ceived by others, and his fantasy of what he actually is or at least appears to be—if the ugly and violent boy does indeed symbolize Ilbrahim’s shameful self-conceptualization—communicates a great deal about the ways in which social, cultural, and other kinds of experiential messages that convey hatred and revulsion against one’s own person affect—shape—one’s own image of self. Moreover, Ilbrahim blames himself for his mother’s failure to love him or to love him adequately. Mary Ayers has eloquently written about the role that mother–infant attachment plays in shame. “When the maternal intrapsychic conflicts that influence the mother–infant relationship become impingements that in turn become a pattern, the details of the way in which the impingement is sensed by the infant are significant, as well as the infant’s reaction to them.” The ways in which a child can respond to such emotional abandonment are myr- iad, and gender and culture will shape the response. Aggression is usually associated with the masculine response, shame with the other. I would argue that Ilbrahim clearly reflects the latter, feminine response, literally dying of shame—shame at public humiliation and betrayal and shame at his mother’s behavior, which he internalizes as behavior he himself caused.40 In the end, the enduring value of Hawthorne’s and Freud’s depictions of the mother– son bond lies in their evocations of the plangency and the urgency of the bond. It would appear that a desire not to perpetuate stereotypes has led modern commentators to eschew if not altogether do away with homosex- ual narcissism as a way of theorizing queer identity. When contextualized, updated, and freed from pathologizing impetuses, it remains a profound and meaningful way of thinking about some of the varieties of human emotional experience. 6 8 • C h a P T e r 2 As I will be elaborating throughout this book, particularly in chapter 4, shame is one of the principle affects of Hawthorne’s work. But unlike other critics who have also located shame’s centrality in Hawthorne, I link shame to narcissism and to Hawthorne’s interest in the visual, an interest that becomes only more ardent, perhaps even obsessive, as his career devel- ops. In order to make most sense out of the complexly intricate connections among shame, the visual, and narcissism, it will be helpful to explore further why narcissism, as well as the Oedipus complex, provides an illuminating perspective through which to examine Hawthorne’s work, an effort I take up in the next chapter. c h a p t e r 3 69 I n a d d i t i o n t o reorienting the psychoanalytic treatment of nar-cissism and homosexuality, one of the chief goals of this book is to demonstrate why psychoanalytic theory, albeit significantly revised, remains useful for questions of gender and sexuality, male embodiments of both espe- cially. Shaped both by the rise of New Historicism in the 1980s and by the backlash against theory that stems, arguably, from the mid-1990s, Ameri- canist literary criticism has emphasized archival work and material history. While this approach continues to yield insights of lasting value, it also runs the danger of eschewing more intimate matters, such as sexual desire and emotional experience. In my view, some real losses are incurred when we primarily treat these topics from a historical, rather than an affectional, per- spective. While developing more of an understanding of the ways in which the expression of sexuality and the lived experience of gender were shaped, curtailed, or determined by cultural and social contexts is crucial to our reconstruction of gender and sexual history, the issue of desire is a more chal- lenging one because it cannot be solely illuminated by even the most scru- pulous historical research. As I will elaborate below, psychoanalysis’s central premise of an unconscious—a part of ourselves that we cannot rationally know, understand, or access, and that reveals itself only fitfully or meta- phorically—makes it a valuable means of considering the paradoxical and contradictory nature of desire. Current Americanist critical practice largely eschews the methodology of psychoanalysis (which is not to suggest that it is absent, only that it is de-emphasized), but it does so at the cost of over- CriTiCiSm and The FOrmS OF narCiSSiSm Revising the Oedipal Hawthorne 7 0 • C h a P T e r 3 looking certain dimensions of literary experience, specifically those related to the emotional aspects of subjectivity, its gendered, racialized, and sexual components, and the relationship all of these aspects have to desire and the unconscious. Historical and psychoanalytic approaches can have a comple- mentary relationship to one another that is simultaneously mutually rein- forcing and productively destabilizing—the historical approach revises and challenges psychoanalysis’s reliance on mythic dream structures and generali- ties; the psychoanalytic revises and challenges history’s emphasis on material evidence, which at times borders on a mania for certainty. In any event, my effort here—one mirrored by my attempt to argue for a place for the narcis- sistic within the oedipal structures associated with Hawthorne’s work—is not to replace one critical methodology with another but to enlarge our critical purview to include both. To be as clear as possible, it is my contention that an approach that is both psychoanalytic and historically attentive will yield the richest insights into historical texts. As I argued in chapter 2, there are very good reasons for regarding psy- choanalysis with suspicion; it has had a tendency, in its American contexts especially, to pathologize individuals for failing to live up to the normative standards it has itself either devised or upheld. Psychoanalysis must often be read and used against itself, which queer theory inflections of psychoanalysis make possible because queer theory, at its best, refuses normative programs of identity and subjectivity and promotes productively resistant reading. (I do mean queer theory does this at its best; at its worst, it has a tendency toward the normalizing all its own, especially in terms of political attitudes.) It is Freud’s very inconsistency as a thinker that makes his work valuable for my efforts to reimagine psychoanalytic theory for queer theory purposes and for the purposes of gaining greater understanding of Hawthorne’s work, especially in its capacity to critique the normative constructions of gender and sexuality in the United States. Freud’s tergiversations; his inconsistently held views; his footnotes that provide a radical counterargument, at times, to his own main text, all evince his habit of revising his opinions. This self- revisionary quality—when matched to the radicalism of Freud’s vision of sexuality as essentially a maddening, troublesome, even destructive force, the antithesis, in other words, of heterosexist culture’s ennoblement of sexual- ity as a normalizing, benign phenomenon when properly tied to regimes of reproductivity and heterosexual marriage—gives his work an appealing, excit- ing looseness.1 It is precisely this quality that Frederick Crews, a self-revisionary thinker himself, entirely misses out on in his revisionist work on Freud. Thinking r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 7 1 through Crews’s positions since the Freud backlash, of which Crews was instrumental, began in the 1980s allows us to gain insights into the ways in which critics have often missed out on what remains valuable in Freud, namely the variability and the resistant pessimism of his vision especially in relation to gender and sexuality, a political pessimism that Hawthorne shares. Interestingly, Crews has also played a significant role in the trends of Americanist literary criticism since the late 1980s, albeit as someone who has steadily critiqued them. (Americanists, for their part, have largely proceeded in comfortable defiance of his positions.) Making sense of Crews’s positions, then, will help us to situate this book within Americanist literary studies as well as psychoanalytic theory. This chapter moves from a re-examination of Crews’s views of both Freud and Hawthorne to close readings of two key Hawthorne stories, “Roger Malvin’s Burial” and “My Kinsman, Major Mol- ineux,” both of which, I argue, are more illuminatingly read through narcis- sism than the oedipal paradigms through which criticism, following Crews, has traditionally framed them. the sIns oF the crItIcal Fathers F r e d e r i C k C r e w S , F r e U d i a n l i T e r a ry T h e O ry, a n d F r e U d - b a S h i n G By now, everyone knows the story of the once passionately Freudian critic who became an even more passionate, self-described Freud-basher. We know the story well because Frederick Crews has been obsessively telling it since the 1980s. Crews’s 1966 The Sins of the Fathers, a Freudian study of Haw- thorne, remains an important, sharply written and observed work, while also one very much in need of updating. Though quite influential, it has rarely been imitated, its closest equivalent being Gloria Erlich’s excellent Family Themes and Hawthorne’s Fiction. Also of significance, in her book The Anat- omy of National Fantasy, Lauren Berlant discusses Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter in the Lacanian terms of the “National Symbolic.” Though I do not con- cur with all of her readings, especially of Hawthorne’s depiction of Hes- ter Prynne (which Berlant frames as a catalogue of biblical misogyny), her study of Hawthorne’s relationship to the national construction of subjectiv- ity remains extremely relevant.2 Because The Fragility of Manhood is the first avowedly Freudian study since Crews’s Sins, it is important to take a moment both to acknowledge Crews’s significance to Hawthorne studies, my own included, and to estab- lish the quite wide gulf between my own approach and his, beginning with 7 2 • C h a P T e r 3 his 1966 treatment. One of the vexations of the later Freud-bashing phase of Crews’s career is that it proceeds from the implication that his own ear- lier work was compromised only by its Freudianism, an orthodoxy which, as he claims in his 1989 afterword to a republished Sins, he finds himself relieved to discover managed to be tempered even in 1966 by his admirable skepticism: “my only goal was accurate knowledge about Hawthorne” (285). In other words, the Freudian methodology was hopelessly faulty, but the essential Crews probity somehow managed to save the work from its theo- retical sensibility. Crews is probing, and Sins remains an expert and incisive treatment of Hawthorne’s work. At the same time, it approaches Hawthorne from a Freudian perspective that is conventional in the extreme. Crews is a critic whose tendency to scornfulness can overshadow his insights. He works most effectively when he can critique other critics, and part of what drives Sins is his disdain for the moralistic critics of Haw- thorne’s work of the “Christian revival” of the 1950s and 60s. (One of the implications of re-examining Crews’s earlier work is that we also re-examine the theologically oriented Hawthorne criticism that he dismissed.) As Crews himself makes clear, Sins continues to be worth reading despite Crews’s much-publicized rejection of Freud. I believe that a more responsible, gen- erous critic would have revaluated his early argument from a position of self-revision but also in an effort to enlarge, rather than entirely debunk, the earlier critical paradigms, to add new perspectives and current concerns to the dated but still useful methodology. But Crews sees nothing dated or lim- ited in his application of Freud to Hawthorne’s art; he only sees the limita- tions of Freud, not of his own use of Freud. So determined is the later Crews to exculpate himself from any complicity with Freud that he ingeniously jet- tisons any investment in Freud, focusing only on the valiant bits of his earlier self that managed always to temper his youthful Freudian idolatry. We can usefully compare Crews with another critic who revaluated his 1960s Freudianism, Robin Wood. Having written, in the 1960s, a famous Freudian study of the films of Alfred Hitchcock, Wood began, in the 1970s, to revaluate his own work, sternly critiquing his insufficiently feminist earlier views and reliance on a faith in the redemptive power of therapy (although this last remains a stubbornly persistent facet of Wood’s work). Updating, critiquing, but also building upon his psychoanalytic principles, Wood was able to offer a powerful new feminist, proto-queer theory critique of Hitch- cock.3 Whereas Wood’s self-revisionary work enlarges Freudian critique to make vital interventions in misogyny and homophobia, Crews’s revision- ism elevates only Crews and, if anything, casts his work generally in an only more indelibly conservative light than his 1966 study did. Ultimately, r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 7 3 Crews’s defensive scornfulness becomes the point, rather than a component, of his work. Crews holds Freud responsible for the rise of poststructuralist theory, for the reign of the “apriorists” for whom a “theory is worth exercising if it yields results that gratify the critic’s moral or ideological passions” (285). This argument is incoherent. It is precisely poststructuralist theory, heavily influenced by Michel Foucault and his profoundly committed challenge to Freudian theories of culture, particularly what Foucault calls “the repressive hypothesis,” that began to deconstruct and dismantle the Freud legend in the 1970s.4 (Very briefly put, for Freud, society functions through repres- sion, specifically repression of the sexual; for Foucault, the opposite is true: society, far from repressing sexuality, endlessly incites it and promulgates the idea of its centrality to human life through discourse.) Crews in 1989, as he will do from then to the present, aligns himself with the noble “empiricists” rather than the dread poststructuralists. It is the empiricists for whom “justification for a theory must reside in its combina- tion of logical coherence, epistemic scrupulousness, and capacity to explain relatively undisputed facts at once more parsimoniously and more compre- hensively than its rivals do.”5 One might suggest that considerable biases can inform the empiricist view behind which Crews rallies here. Throughout this book, I attempt to demonstrate the considerable potential of literary Freud- ianism for “epistemic scrupulousness”; but I also approach Crews’s desire for “logical coherence” and “relatively undisputed facts” with suspicion. To my mind, those terms reveal an underlying, and, I hope, unwitting heterosex- ism. Crews appears to associate the empirical with properly masculine val- ues, emphasizing as positive virtues the factual, the concrete, the tangible, the verifiable. Crews’s valorization of the empirical betrays a bias against the qualities that would appear to oppose it: the liquid, the amorphous, the intangible, the obscure, the opaque. In essentialist terms, these values con- note femininity; if found in males, they connote effeminacy. Crews’s insis- tence on the supremacy of empiricist approaches proceeds from an attitude of revulsion toward the feminine and effeminacy. “Logic” in the later Crews emerges as the kind of ironclad vehement dogmatism that Hawthorne cri- tiques in the Puritan elders that infiltrate his fictions. Logic is the masculin- ist ethos that rigidly polices gendered decorum, that relies on the Cartesian model of a human being’s value lying exclusively in her rational nature, not in her bodily and affectional dimensions. I actually share with Crews a profound dislike of theoretical orthodoxy. I write this study neither with a desire to conform to psychoanalytic princi- ples nor to confirm the validity of psychoanalysis for its own sake. I, too, am 7 4 • C h a P T e r 3 interested in a real Hawthorne, if only in the sense of discovering an authen- tic and sound set of insights into his work. (The Hawthorne of Crews’s view is a weak, faltering man energized by his disdain and scorn. Given that this is not my own understanding of Hawthorne, I would say that the “real” Haw- thorne remains unfound in Crews’s work.) But it remains my challenge to make a case for a Freudian literary criticism—and, some would say, for psy- choanalytic theory, generally—when many commentators other than Crews have also repudiated the form. Psychoanalysis is valuable precisely as a means of deriving insights into the emotional and psychic experience of gendered, sexual, and racial iden- tity. What is enduringly valuable about psychoanalysis is its rejection of a faith in, to say nothing of an orthodoxy of, rationalist order at the exclusion of the arbitrariness, perversity, and instability of subjectivity, of the limitless and inscrutable range of our unconscious life. Its belief in an unconscious, a part of ourselves we cannot determine or fully know, makes psychoanaly- sis extremely useful for thinking about questions as vexed and enigmatic as sexual desire, which cannot be “covered” by context and historical research alone. As I attempted to show in chapter 2, the importance of perversity in Freud’s thought is extremely important to any understanding of the value his work retains for the study of gender and sexuality. The Freudian theory of perversity allows us to recognize the enormous reserves of sexual potentiali- ties that are necessarily squelched by the social order to ensure its normative function. As Valerie Rohy puts it in her Anachronism and Its Others, “Freud’s understanding that the normal is pathological and the pathological is normal may be his greatest and most humane insight: everyone fails at development, everyone is subject to sexual perversity, everyone falls back in time.”6 Theo- ries of arrested development, Freud’s included, lose any coherence when such a view is properly considered. In a fairly unflinching critique of Freudian theory, Marcia Ian succinctly and persuasively defines the value of psychoanalysis. This value lies in Freud’s radical refusal of one of the central tenets of classical philosophy, the law of noncontradiction: If I were asked . . . to say what is to me the most useful gift of the many psychoanalysis has offered us, I would answer that it is Freud’s definition of the psyche as the realm where the law of noncontradiction does not apply. In the psyche, both any idea p and its opposite not-p are true, and may either together or separately cause or prevent, animate or agitate, signify or deracinate, inspire or terrorize—or deaden.7 r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 7 5 It is precisely in the way in which opposite but equally urgent, felt, meaning- ful ideas do not cohere in Freud that makes psychoanalytic theory so affect- ingly useful for the study of Hawthorne. It is precisely the ways in which Hawthorne’s work complicates, deepens, and challenges psychoanalysis’s own pathologizing tendencies toward its own compulsive desire for system and logic that makes Hawthorne’s work so relevant for psychoanalysis. To return to Crews in 1966: in Crews’s index, under Oedipal, we find passim. The chief limitation of his study is one he shares with Freud, a persis- tent insistence on the explanatory function of the Oedipus complex, which Crews sees as the central problem of Hawthorne’s work. In Crews’s version of Hawthorne, the Oedipus complex manifests itself in a fearful apprehen- sion of horrifying incestuous desire on the part of male characters toward sister and mother figures, hostility toward the father, whom the protagonist wishes to see degraded, like Major Molineux, and a desire ultimately to con- form to the father’s law. Certainly, Hawthorne’s work is rife with oedipal tensions. But, as I argue throughout this study, his work is equally, if not more urgently, a conflictual engagement with the phenomenon of narcis- sism, which manifests itself in recurrent treatments throughout his career of divided selves, reflected selves, beautiful and unattainable selves, bifurcated or hollow or chimerical or fatally masked, veiled, and hidden selves; of paint- ings, portraits, miniatures, daguerreotypes, and other images of selves within a literary evocation of the visual the intensity of which prefigures the cinema; of the self split off from itself, of the self contemplating itself as another self, of the self cut off from and longing for itself, of the self self-mesmerized, of an essentially conflictual relationship between the self and the image of the self within a body of work whose chief concerns parallel Lacan’s theory of the mirror stage. Pace Crews, and in agreement with James K. Folsom, I argue that Hawthorne found oneness inscrutable and made its myriad perplexing fascinations his subject.8 To demonstrate both the ways in which Hawthorne explores the signifi- cance of male beauty and its potentially conflictual experiential and social implications, I will now turn to two famous tales that, while subject to innu- merable critical exegeses over the years, have rarely ever been viewed as exer- cises in narcissistic self-representation and exploration of the dynamics and effects of looking relations. My purpose in this analysis will be to demon- strate the importance of Hawthorne’s narcissistic themes even to works that ostensibly seem far removed from them. I will then turn to a discussion of the ways in which Hawthorne’s personal experiences may have shaped his attitudes toward the narcissistic visual desire foregrounded in his work. 7 6 • C h a P T e r 3 murderous narcIssIsm “ r O G e r m a lv i n ’ S b U r i a l ” Hawthorne’s indelible 1832 tale commences in the year 1725, during the battle known as Lovewell’s Fight (which Hawthorne names Lovell’s Fight), a real event of the French and Indian Wars. A young man and an old man lie depleted and wounded in a forest on their arduous journey home from a battle with Indians.9 This matched/mismatched pair of young and old man, I argue, is the locus classicus of male anxiety in Hawthorne’s work.10 Though tormented as to which decision to make, the young Reuben Bourne agrees to let old Roger Malvin die alone in the forest after the old man has entreated him, despite Reuben’s protestations, to do so. But when Reuben returns home to his fiancée Dorcas, who is Roger Malvin’s daughter, he finds him- self in a panic when Dorcas assumes that her father had already died and been properly buried, with funeral rites, by Reuben when he was rescued by a search party. Tormentedly accommodating himself to her inaccurate belief, Reuben turns into a secretive, inwardly tortured, hostile, and ungiv- ing man as he lives out his life as husband to Dorcas and father to their son, Cyrus. One day, many years later, in the forest with Dorcas and the now teen-aged Cyrus—the same forest in which Roger Malvin’s body was left to rot—Reuben and Cyrus go out hunting, and Reuben accidentally—or any- thing but—shoots Cyrus instead of a deer. As he contemplates the bizarre coincidence that Cyrus’s dead body lies beneath the same oak where Roger Malvin died alone, Reuben tells Dorcas that “Your tears will fall at once on your father and your son” (10: 360).11 So many complex ideas circulate here that to assign the tale one thematic program is quite limiting; yet I wish to demonstrate that its oedipal surface hides a narcissistic depth. Crews does not simply assert that the tale is a version of the Oedipus complex; his style is to reinforce by qualification. He considers several differ- ent reasons for his reading, systematically weighing these pieces of evidence: Roger relates to Reuben as a son, calling him “my boy”; Roger is depicted as a sexual rival to Reuben, who will profit from the older man’s death by getting to have his daughter all to himself; the incest themes in other Haw- thorne works, as Crews reads them, deepen the incestuous suggestion that Dorcas is a sister to Reuben as well as his wife, being the daughter of Reu- ben’s figural father. “But let us return to less tenuous evidence,” writes Crews, now clinching his oedipal case. Hawthorne, Crews cites, writes that Reuben “could no longer love deeply except where he saw or imagined some reflec- tion or likeness of his own mind. In Cyrus he recognized what he had him- self been in other days . . .” Crews not only fails to consider the narcissistic r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 7 7 valences here (reflections, likeness) but also stops the quote from the story right there, or rather isolates one piece of it.12 The full passage problematizes Crews’s oedipal interpretation of the work. The only child of Reuben and Dorcas was a son, now arrived at the age of fifteen years, beautiful in youth, and giving promise of a glorious man- hood. He was peculiarly qualified for, and already began to excel in, the wild accomplishments of frontier life. His foot was fleet, his aim true, his apprehension quick, his heart glad and high; and all who anticipated the return of Indian war spoke of Cyrus Bourne as a future leader in the land. The boy was loved by his father with a deep and silent strength, as if whatever was good and happy in his own nature had been transferred to his child, carrying his affections with it. Even Dorcas, though loving and beloved, was far less dear to him; for Reuben’s secret thoughts and insulated emotions had gradually made him a selfish man, and he could no longer love deeply except where he saw or imagined some reflection or likeness of his own mind. In Cyrus he recognized what he had himself been in other days; and at intervals he seemed to partake of the boy’s spirit, and to be revived with a fresh and happy life. (10: 351) Gray Kochhar-Lindgren writes, along Freudian lines, of narcissism as a wound: “unless we break out of the magic circle of the ego, unless the self- reflecting mirror of Narcissus is somehow shattered . . . there is no hope that the wound may be healed. And even if it is healed, the scar that marks the place of struggle will remain.”13 Hawthorne’s Reuben Bourne cannot break out of his ego’s magic circle; he can only love what reminds him of himself, “some reflection or likeness of his own mind.” No doubt Reuben loves him- self for his mind, but it’s Cyrus’s body, not mind, that Reuben regards so rhapsodically. Hawthorne’s elaborate evocation of the beauty of Cyrus (beau- tiful youth, glorious manhood) exceeds the parameters of the tale’s themes at this point. We know that Reuben is closed off and can love only the son who memorializes his own lost youth, but Hawthorne deepens this memo- rialization by suffusing it with an ardent beauty, one made more palpable by the Hellenic details of Cyrus’s athletic qualities. Reuben’s love for him is deep, strong, and silent, expressed entirely through visual contemplation; it displaces almost entirely his love for his steadfast wife, Dorcas. What Reu- ben seems to love in the boy is his own lost youth, before war and the ter- rible compact he forged with Roger Malvin took it away; but Cyrus is also an idealized figure, endowed with attractive physical qualities that were not attributed to Reuben. (Hawthorne adds little detail to his description of the 7 8 • C h a P T e r 3 young Reuben save his youth and anxiety.) Cyrus exemplifies visual identity, being knowable to us almost exclusively through his physical qualities, his visual design. So we have to ask, what is this beautiful youth who could be a sculpture from classical antiquity doing in the filial forest of Hawthorne’s oedipal themes?14 To begin the work of challenging the stronghold of Oedipus, we must begin by defamiliarizing the Oedipus complex itself. While it is the pro- cess whereby normative sexual identity is, ostensibly, produced—the process that makes us properly heterosexual, no longer seeing the same-sex parent as sexual rival but as the figure with whom we identify; no longer seeing the opposite-sex parent as object of sexual desire but as model for a proper, exogamous sexual object outside the bloodline—it is not some kind of narra- tive of sexual origins but, rather, itself a late stage in the psychosexual devel- opment of the child; it occurs after numerous other stages in which desire and identification take place. Even in its most normative cast, the Oedipus complex is produced through a prohibition on an original homosexual desire (for our discussion, the boy desiring the father before the mother): it does not produce heterosexuality out of thin air so much as it produces it through a repudiation of a prior homoerotic disposition. Judith Butler, writing of the “melancholia of gender identification,” draws out the implicit Freudian point that “it would appear that the taboo against homosexuality must pre- cede the heterosexual incest taboo; the taboo against homosexuality in effect creates the heterosexual ‘dispositions’ by which the oedipal conflict becomes possible.”15 For Steven Bruhm, these queer theory reformulations of classical psycho- analysis illuminate Romantic sexual and textual politics. Bruhm, drawing on Butler’s rereading of Freud, argues that “Romantic male desire is structured by a same-sex narcissism that it must continually repudiate.” The successful resolution of the Oedipus complex for the male involves identification with the father who had been a rival for the oedipal sexual object, the mother— but it is important to remember that the father, before this rivalry, was the original erotic object. As Butler argues, identifications, which take place in phantasy, express a wish to recover “a primary object of a love lost—and produced—through prohibition.” A desire to identify with the father is a desire, we can argue, to preserve some portion of that lost, repudiated desire for the father. If, as Butler argues, we mourn for a lost object specifically pro- duced by the prohibitions of the Oedipus complex, that lost object, suggests Steven Bruhm, “can only be seen in a Romantic male optic as a desiring and desired male other whom the . . . subject desires to possess and be possessed by,” a complex welter of identification, repudiation, and homoerotic desire.16 r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 7 9 If the Romantic author/figure cannot acknowledge the homoerotic object of his desiring gaze but must repudiate it, Reuben’s desire for Cyrus is met with two repudiations, the inability of Reuben to recognize Cyrus as auton- omous, as anything more than a reflection of his father—which suggests that Reuben in his own phantasy imagines himself as a gloriously beautiful youth—and, more intensely, the murder of Cyrus in the forest. I agree with Crews entirely, but for different reasons, that the accident is no accident at all. Reuben kills his own reflection in killing Cyrus, his own memory of a lost object, his unruined, earlier self, killed by war and the “Father.” In other words, the lost object that Reuben mourns is not the repudiated, repressed father-as-object-of-homoerotic-desire, but, instead, an image of his own prior perfection, which may or may not have ever existed but was produced from the wartime trauma and oedipal betrayal. Reuben mourns his own lost narcissism. Kochhar-Lindgren’s reading of Narcissus illuminates Hawthorne’s tale: It is otherness as language, person, the unconscious, and death that Narcis- sus refuses to open himself to as he stares at himself, reflected and unattain- able, in the pool. He longs to be both subject and object of his own desire and not to be riddled by the necessity of symbolization and the desire of an other.17 The actual living, breathing body of beautiful Cyrus both reflects Reu- ben’s own phantasy vision of himself and disrupts and thwarts it by remain- ing stubbornly autonomous, other. In other words, as poignantly and erotically as Cyrus reflects, realizes, and extends Reuben’s self-image, Cyrus will always remain Cyrus, not Reuben; Cyrus will always be himself, will always elude the totalizing grasp of Reuben’s narcissistic projection. Cyrus cannot be contained, subsumed, by Reuben’s desire; for each day he exceeds and eludes it, threatening to leave behind his most significant function, to be Reuben’s self-reflection. For these reasons, even the stirring promise of Cyrus’s future as a military leader is threatening: his increasingly accessible adulthood and mature manhood threatens to dissolve his resemblance to Reuben’s phantasy-image and to confirm the inescapable truth of his auton- omy, his difference from Reuben, that he is other. Liberating, cathartic tears gush from Reuben’s eyes as he contemplates his son’s freshly dead body lying upon the ashy dead body of his wife’s father. Reuben experiences cathartic relief because he is now freed, from memory, from himself, from the bind- ing logic of his own narcissism. The murder of narcissism is simultaneously the murder of homoerotic desire; perhaps this accounts for the orgasmic 8 0 • C h a P T e r 3 nature of Reuben’s tears, which seem forced out of him, as if they were an involuntary orgasm: “Then Reuben’s heart was stricken, and the tears gushed out like water from a rock” (10: 360). The father’s orgasmic release is tied to death, to the destruction of the son. But this murdered narcissism is itself also a memorial to Reuben’s lost narcissism, captured in the perpetual frieze of death agonies; Cyrus can now always remain the beautiful youth of fan- tasy, and never grow into the older or old man of recrimination and physical decay. Reuben preserves his self-image in his son’s glorious manhood, now forever intact in memory. i c a l l what Hawthorne evokes here murderous narcissism—the killing pro- jection of one’s own phantasies and desires onto another that refuses to rec- ognize another person as an other, not part of the self. As noted in chapter 2, Freud describes even parental love for children as a manifestation of their own narcissism. Hawthorne takes this idea, if you will, to diabolical heights here. The particular kind of murderous narcissism at work in this tale may be subclassified as patriarchal narcissism, the father’s inability to recognize the son as anything other than a reflection of himself. Reuben would appear to view himself as a victim of this force as well, killed off in the prime of his manhood by the troubling ghost of his father-in-law. With chilling cyclical sureness, Reuben kills off his own son, both the older man’s future and his (imagined) memory of youth, in the prime of his manhood. The schism between the young man and the old man that informs Haw- thorne’s work—present in tales such as “My Kinsman, Major Molineux,” “Young Goodman Brown,” “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” it becomes only an ever-more pronounced theme in all of the long romances, including the unfinished Septimius Felton—can be read as a perpetual acting-out of this narcissistic crisis. The old man threatens to destroy the younger, and the younger resists him. So far, so oedipal. Yet this conflict heavily involves both the logic of the visual and the threat of the homoerotic: who sees whom and how seeing occurs become thematic concerns. The young man is almost always described as rapturously beautiful, while the old man’s physical decrepitude and ugliness are emphasized and amplified. Robin Molineux is a surprisingly comely youth whose comeliness is in especially marked contrast to the tarred-and-feathered spectacle of his terrified older kinsman (I discuss this story at length in the next section); Young Goodman Brown is fixated on the old man-Devil’s writhing snakelike staff, a perversely funny reminder of the homoerotic dynamics of the father–son rivalry in the Oedipus com- plex; the beautiful Giovanni Guasconti is matched up against the cadaver- r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 8 1 ous, dark Rappaccini; beautiful, tremulously sensitive Dimmesdale against the grotesquely misshapen Chillingworth; Coverdale, said by Zenobia in The Blithedale Romance to be “quite the handsomest man,” against the ghastly, faded Old Moody; beautiful, lithe, primally sexy Donatello against the sin- ister Model; multiracial Septimius Felton, who possesses “a certain dark beauty,” against the ominous, spider-loving Dr. Portsoaken. These oedipal dynamics are disrupted by and suffused with an ardent, mystifying emphasis on the corruption of a beautiful male youth by an old and ugly one. I argue that this dynamic is at least as resonantly narcissistic as it is oedipal because of the recurring, increasingly incessant focus on both male beauty and the visual, the desire for self-reflection tied, so resolutely, to destruction, some- times of self, more often of other. What the father seems to want to kill off is not the son but the father’s own reflection; in so doing, he both destroys and memorializes his own lost beauty or his fantasy of having possessed it. On the part of these beautiful young men, these older male figures are a distort- ing mirror image for their own bodily perfection, reflecting back a grotesque self. Given that almost all of these young men are revealed to be as morally shallow, dubious, and corrupt as they are comely, youthful, and desirable, Hawthorne appears to suggest that the old man functions as the corrective mirror to the younger. The author employs the cautionary nature of the Narcissus myth as a stern corrective to beautiful young males, forcing them to acknowledge the interior ugliness a beautiful surface camouflages, themes that Oscar Wilde will make famously his own in The Portrait of Dorian Gray. Yet why would this be so? Why does Hawthorne regard the young man so skeptically? Another key Hawthorne story raises these questions. the narcIssIstIc gaze “ m y k i n S m a n , m a j O r m O l i n e U x ” An awareness of the presence of narcissistic themes in Hawthorne’s work makes possible fresh readings of works rarely considered in such a context, such as the famous tale “My Kinsman, Major Molineux” (1832). “Molineux” provides the template for Hawthorne’s major narcissistic themes: fraught, painful, violating looking that maims the viewer’s vision; the simultaneous pleasure and terror of being looked at; shame and the threat of public expo- sure; the simultaneous attractiveness and moral dubiousness of the figure of the young man; the rejection of perceived ugliness and fastidious adher- ence to standards of beauty best exemplified by the youthful, morally cal- low male. As the discussions of the Lacanian mirror stage (the aggressivity 8 2 • C h a P T e r 3 inherent in a fascination with one’s image), Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze (the desire and ability to subjugate another through the eye), and shame in “The Gentle Boy” (related in no small way to how Ilbrahim looks and is per- ceived by others) have suggested, for Hawthorne masculinity is inseparable as a psychic as well as social experience from the experience of vision and the harrowing possibilities it raises for violation—either of another person or of one’s self. Adding to the complexity of this welter of anxieties is the issue of homoerotic and narcissistic desire—the beauty of youthful male figures makes them simultaneously a gender and sexual threat that intensifies the inherent fears and dangers of images and of looking. “My Kinsman” depends upon the ambiguous moral nature of its protag- onist. But what is the relevance to “Molineux” that its protagonist, Robin, is exceedingly handsome? Moreover, why does Hawthorne reveal Robin’s beauty through the perspective of a ferryman’s appraising look: “the ferry- man lifted a lantern, by the aid of which, and the newly risen moon, he took a very accurate survey of the stranger’s figure”? We are introduced to Robin not by name but by body. “He was a youth of barely eighteen years, evi- dently country-bred. . . . He was clad in a coarse grey coat, well worn, but in excellent repair; his under garments were durably constructed of leather, and sat tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped limbs. . . . Brown, curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful eyes, were nature’s gifts, and worth all that art could have done for his adornment” (11: 209). The con- tours of Robin’s leather-clad body are suggestively eroticized; like those of an athlete in classical marble, his limbs and his features are both strong and “well-shaped.” Echoing the Narcissus myth, the ferryman transports this New England Narcissus to the underworld, the nighttime city of political revolt and oedipal confusion. Robin is primarily characterized through what I call visual identity. His outward appearance is the basis from which everything we subsequently learn about him—including his morally dubious and climactically revealed dis- loyalty to his kinsman—proceeds. One could argue that Hawthorne, deeply familiar with the tradition of the romance, merely borrows the form’s tech- niques of idealized figures here. But the references to Robin’s beauty surpass the needs of convention. By depicting Robin from the start as a magnet for the eye, Hawthorne foregrounds themes of looking as they relate to the fig- ure of the young man. While Robin would appear to be the chief subject of the gaze—looking constantly at multiple others, scrutinizing situations (however strained his powers of discernment)—he is in fact the chief object of the gaze. Robin’s own act of looking at his grievously humiliated “tar- and-feathery” kinsman, while the climactic, decisive moment in this famous r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 8 3 story, is merely one stage in a series of spectatorial encounters. The tale dra- matically engineers and stages Robin’s climactic reunion with his kinsman as, essentially, a profound act of looking, his kinsman rendered a baroque visual object for the purpose. Yet at the same time, and perhaps even more emphatically, it is Robin who is the object of the crowd’s fearsome gaze: as he gapes at his uncle, the crowd—verging on assimilating him into their own ranks or submitting him to his uncle’s cruel, bitter fate—fixes its col- lective eye on him. Robin’s encounters with dubious and alarming figures, which reach their height in his confrontation with his tarred-and-feathered uncle, rendered an alien figure, occur within a structural field of vision that I refer to as the narcissistic gaze, in which Robin is as much watched as he is a watcher—and as much watched by his fictional creator as he is by his fel- low fictional denizens. As we established in the introduction, for Lacan the gaze is indifferent to the subject, for Foucault it is deeply invested in monitoring the subject, and for film theory it constitutes the subject. Finding an ameliorative mid- dle ground in all of these views, I return, albeit from a queer theory per- spective, to Laura Mulvey’s view of the gaze as active, individually directed, and capable of making an impact that is often quite injurious on a person or persons. Hawthorne’s narcissistic gaze is just such a personal, direct, but also overarching and socially structured field of vision in which individual desires intersect with those of a collective as well as those of other individual persons. I call this fictional gaze narcissistic for several reasons. In his avid desire to look and in his frustrated ability to possess what he looks for, Robin enacts the most telling action of the Narcissus myth. Robin is always only one among several lookers competing for the power of the gaze. Hawthorne depicts the limited perspective afforded Robin’s look, but, as noted, he also makes Robin the figure around whom disparate acts of looking in the tale rotate. We can say that what Hawthorne literalizes, in the most paranoid but also the most satirical form imaginable, is the narcissistic subject’s belief that all eyes are no less fixated upon him than are his own. The most charged desiring perspective evoked through this schema is, I would argue, Haw- thorne’s own. In looking at his handsome young protagonist, the handsome young author looks at a textual mirror image. Even more intriguingly, as the author, Hawthorne looks upon a mirrored image of his own looking self in the figure of the mysterious stranger, lately entering the narrative, who pro- vides Robin with his only useful guidance. Robin Molineux’s nightmarish nighttime encounters with various trou- bling figures have been repeatedly analyzed over the years, with the chief readings, as with all of Hawthorne’s work, classifiable under the general 8 4 • C h a P T e r 3 headings of historicist or psychoanalytic-mythic. In the anti-psychoanalytic view of Michael J. Colacurcio, Hawthorne is a writer exclusively devoted to the study of American history. Though he notes the “strong hints of voyeur- ism” in “My Kinsman,” Colacurcio cautions that “some political motive is even more obvious.”18 For Colacurcio, any “psychologistic” reading of this “perfectly crafted” tale reduces “politics to passage.”19 I take Colacurcio’s point that we should challenge simplistic psychoanalytic readings that com- press the story into a rite-of-passage narrative that reveals some immutable oedipal law of filial overthrow of the “Father.” Yet to discuss voyeurism in the story is to discuss politics: the gendered politics of vision. Hawthorne’s disorganization of gendered and perceptual hierarchies—his refusal to grant his protagonist mastery over the field of vision, his interest in making Robin and other male figures as much the object as the subject of the gaze—makes a radical break with conventional conflations of masculine and visual dom- inance. Moreover, I argue that Hawthorne’s sexual politics is narcissistic rather than oedipal—focused on the rigors of self-consciousness and self- desire and the image of the self rather than a perpetual conflict with the father, which is not to suggest that oedipal themes are in any way unim- portant in Hawthorne, only that they are not necessarily preeminent. In his Freudian phase in The Sins of the Fathers, Frederick Crews wrote, “Even critics who denounce literary Freudianism have recognized that Robin’s real search is for an idealized father—a figure of benevolent power who will shield him from the world and lend him prestige.” For Crews, the story transforms “the crisis of late adolescence” into the achievement of “a healthy independence from the paternal image.”20 In his incisive but also conserva- tive readings of Hawthorne, Crews reduces most of the author’s work to fil- ial struggles, male quests for independent identity, and heterosexual closure. A much broader range of desires and conflicts can be considered in Haw- thorne’s work through psychoanalytic paradigms. Scanned by the ferryman as if he were Narcissus on the River Styx, Robin proceeds, in his search for his kinsman, to scan others. Discerning an approaching figure as a periwigged old citizen, Robin asks for his help; the citizen then rebukes him (“Let go my garment, fellow!.  .  .  .  I have author- ity, I have—hem, hem—authority”), Robin only discovers after the old man hurries away that he has been observed in his encounter by the “barber’s boys,” who emit an “ill-mannered roar of laughter” at Robin’s embarrass- ing and fruitless encounter (11: 211). Before being lured into a tavern by its “fragrance of good cheer,” the suddenly hungry Robin beholds the “broad countenance of a British hero,” whom he follows inside. In the tavern, Robin observes various homosocial groupings occupying the wooden benches, with r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 8 5 whom he feels a “sort of brotherhood” (11: 212). Just as Robin seizes upon one figure in particular, “striking almost to grotesqueness,” with a “fore- head” bulging out into “double prominence,” to emerge as a still yet more grotesquely fiendish face later in the story, the innkeeper reveals that he has been observing Robin as the youth has been observing the grouped men and the grotesque figure. Coming up to Robin, the innkeeper presumes that Robin is from the country and asks what his supper plans are (11: 213). By this point, all “eyes were now turned on the country lad,” appraising him and his attire (11: 214). Looking at the male group transforms into being looked at by them. Intensifying the palpable embarrassment of the scene, the innkeeper, apparently contemptuous of frugal Robin’s declining of supper, proceeds to compare Robin with the description of a fugitive servant, which leads the innkeeper to make “occasional recurrences to the young man’s fig- ure” (11: 214). It is not clear whether the innkeeper truly believes Robin to be the escaped thief in the “Wanted” poster, or is, on some level, taking the opportunity to make a kinsman of Molineux as uncomfortable as pos- sible, having possibly, as Robin conjectures, discerned a family resemblance. In any event, the overall effect of the episode is to make Robin, a perpetual observer, himself the site of glares from countenances with a “strange hos- tility.” Repeatedly, Robin is shown to be as looked at as he is a looker, and, when looked at, rendered a vulnerable visual object. Strangely, Robin’s avid desire to look decreases not at all even as he somat- ically registers the psychic effects of the scenes of shame he has endured. He walks “slowly and silently” up the street in his search for his kinsman, the gait I locate as Hawthorne’s marker of male shame, as I will elaborate in the next chapter. But he also “thrusts” his face “close to that of every elderly gentleman, in search of the Major’s lineaments.” The aggression of his look- ing results not in mastery over the objects of his look, but in the “dazzling of his optics,” as a riotous pageant of “gay and gallant figures” whoosh past and bedazzle him. Again, where Robin exerts visual mastery, others over- power him visually. Next, Robin encounters the pretty young woman with the “strip of scarlet petticoat” (11: 216), the Major’s housekeeper, who finds in him a “handsome country youth” in whose appearance “nothing [was] to be shunned.” Her “dainty little figure” deceptively obscures the heights of her visual power over Robin—her petticoat’s hoop lends her the appear- ance of “standing in a balloon,” and her bright eyes possess a “sly freedom, which triumphed over those of Robin” (11: 217). Interestingly, the power of her look transmutes into a seductive power “stronger than the athletic country youth” (11: 218), whom she nevertheless abandons to race into her own domicile when the opportunity arises. The scarlet-petticoated woman’s 8 6 • C h a P T e r 3 visual mastery over Robin intensifies through displacement: “the sparkle of a saucy eye” catches Robin’s own, accompanied by “drowsy laughter,” “pleasant twitters,” and the beckoning of a “round” arm above him. Good clergyman’s son that he is, Robin flees the suddenly lascivious scene (11: 218–19). The grotesquely double-faced man now reappears in even more grotesque form, his doubleness of visage redoubled in the “infernal” hues of red and black on each side of his face, a harbinger of the full climactic release of accumulating chaotic energies and the fullest intensification yet of the con- joined themes of strange faces and visual dread. By this point in the story, Robin’s powers of vision simply falter: just as he appears to “define the form of distant objects,” they start away with “ghostly indistinctness” (11: 221). Perhaps it is his inability clearly to see, and thereby achieve mastery over the scene, that leads Robin to present himself as a visual object, gaining power from being seen as an impressive figure: to the gentleman who is the first to treat him with “real kindness” (11: 224), Robin describes himself as “well grown, as you see,” proceeding then to raise “himself to full height” before the stranger; visual evidence reifies identity, truthfulness, the factual. The stranger reveals his own ambiguous desires to co-opt Robin into the story’s gaze, calmly informing Robin “I have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting” (11: 225). G. R. Thompson argues that the gentleman who appears near the end and waits with as he watches Robin waiting for his kinsman should be understood as Hawthorne’s authorial stand-in, an argument rel- evant for our present purposes.21 The narcissistic gaze of the story directly involves the author, whose own figure and desire to look insert themselves as they are incorporated into the workings of the tale. I argue that Hawthorne stages his own desire to look at his figural presence, a desire to look treated no less ambiguously than any other in the narrative. Hawthorne depicts the gaze as all-sided as he describes the tumult that Molineux’s humiliating procession provokes: “many heads, in the attire of the pillow, and confused by sleep suddenly broken, were protruded to the gaze of whoever had leisure to observe them.” The double-faced man, now revealed as the processional leader on horseback, assumes the Mars-like guise of “war personified,” the red of one cheek flaming like an emblem of fire and sword, the black of the other signifying mourning. He leads a fiery crowd of both men and women, “a mass of people,” curiously inactive save for their power as “applauding spectators.” “The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me,” Robin mutters, apprehensively imagining that he “was himself to bear a part in the pageantry.” With a nightmarish theatrical flourish, what Robin fears is precisely what occurs, as the leader turns around in his saddle and r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 8 7 fixes “his glance full upon the country youth.” The leader’s “fiery eyes” exem- plify the menacing aspects of vision (11: 228). In what is perhaps the most widely analyzed moment in a Hawthorne tale, Robin does finally find his kinsman, Major Molineux. What is the significance of this meeting, and of Robin’s bizarre, maddening, frighten- ing, and funny decision, if it can be called one, to join in with the cruelly laughing revelers who have tarred and feathered Robin’s unfortunate Loyalist kinsman, Robin’s laugh the “loudest there”? Pledging allegiance neither to the typical psychoanalytic nor to the historical traditions of readings of this moment, I do not see this climax as either hostile oedipal rejection of the father or as momentous historical allegory (the Revolutionary birth of the United States). Rather, I see it in the terms with which the story has consis- tently dealt, as the climactic confrontation of the looker and the gaze, and, more specifically, that between Narcissus and a mirror image that, like most in Hawthorne, reflects not a coherent, reassuring reflection of the idealized self, the longing for the reassurance of beauty, but, instead, the reflection as damning, distorted, frightening, ugly. The tarred-and-feathered spectacle of Molineux reflects Robin, but reflects him inaccurately. For Leo Bersani, desire, homoerotic desire in par- ticular, is desire for “inaccurate self-replication.”22 For Hawthorne, however, desire is desire for perfect likeness, resemblance, self-sameness, in Aristotelian terms, for mimesis. We can translate Robin’s shocking laughter into these words: This old, humiliated, profoundly ugly man does not resemble me. Haw- thorne’s personal hatred of ugliness, a recurrent theme in his life as well as fiction, relates to his anguished narcissism: the beautiful young man chiefly seeks an affirmation of his own beauty, remaining perpetually frustrated in this quest. Fulfilling the obsession with the visual with which every question of identity and every pursuit of mastery in it intertwines, the story makes its most decisive moment of narrative tension a question of complicity with visual spectacle. For Robin to admit that Molineux is really his kinsman is to admit to complicity in the gaze, to admit that he is as horrifyingly vulner- able to its most violent aspects as Molineux now is. Repudiating Molineux, Robin repudiates the entire question of visual mastery, of subject and object, look and gaze, of any complicity in the desire for visual power, as he avidly trades in ego for group psychology. If the gaze has threatened to consume Robin, and by consuming him acknowledge him as desirable object, Mol- ineux’s predicament now collapses such questions into the useful pandemo- nium whereby any intricate questions of desire and identification get lost in the riotous, scapegoating crowd. In joining in with the crowd’s boisterous 8 8 • C h a P T e r 3 calumniation of the figure who stands in, as site of visual fascination, for himself, Robin effectively cancels out knowledge of his own susceptibility to the gaze, of his own status as desirable visual object. In this story, the young man successfully displaces his own anxieties about being a visual object onto an old man who, victimized, lends himself all too readily to such uses. But in several Hawthorne works such a strat- egy is met with far less certain success. His participation in a collective rite of taboo vision in the forest leaves Young Goodman Brown eternally bereft, withdrawn and spiteful; Aylmer’s displacement of visual anxieties onto his beautiful wife Georgiana, whose titular “Birthmark” he unceasingly attempts to erase, results in her death. Hawthorne’s final story, “Feathertop,” provides the most persuasive rationale for Robin Molineux’s avoidance of complicity with the visual: once the self recognizes itself as a visual spectacle, it meets its own death. As Slavoj Žižek writes, “‘seeing oneself looking’ . . . unmistak- ably stands for death.  .  .  .  in the uncanny encounter of a double  .  .  .  what eludes our gaze are always his eyes: the double strangely seems always to look askew, never to return our gaze by looking straight into our eyes—the moment he were to do it, our life would be over  .  .  .  .”23 Robin Molineux and others like him in Hawthorne’s oeuvre extend Narcissus’s phobic cam- paign against self-knowledge—which carries death with it—yet Hawthorne, in his frequent attempts to grapple with the difficulties of the Narcissus myth and in his frequent creation of a narcissistic double through which he can conduct his own conflictual desires, seems as compelled by a need to look straight into the eyes of the self as he is to look and be looked at askew.24 As Lacan argues in his theory of the mirror stage, we are always locked in a relationship with our own image, the “small other” or autre, that is our counterpart in the mirror. (Lacan uses the lowercase a for the term autre to contrast it with the Autre of the Big Other, the Symbolic order, which exceeds our understanding and ability to identify with it.) I call this beguiling and illusory mirror image the specular self, an embodiment of cohesion and bodily perfection that haunts the subject while also connoting an uncanny, magical power. Hawthorne devises a theory of the subject’s relationship to the visual sphere that is similar to Lacan’s theory of a self irreparably at odds with, even as it is constituted by, its own image. In his famous study of the double in psychology, folklore, and literature, Otto Rank argued that the double is a transformation of one’s own narcissis- tic self-love into the doppelgänger, “the feared and loathed other of one’s own desires.”25 Steven Bruhm notes that Rank associated the narcissistic double with paranoia and homosexuality, which is certainly of relevance to Haw- thorne’s work, and reads Rank through Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, likening the r e v i S i n G T h e O e d i Pa l h a w T h O r n e • 8 9 paranoid terror that the double provokes to cultural regimes of homopho- bia.26 Also drawing on Rank, Dennis Bingham, in a study of Hollywood masculinity, notes that Rank theorized the double as a “disastrous wish-ful- fillment apparatus that acts out the darkest repressed desires of the subject”; in Rank’s words, the classic doppelgänger plot is resolved by “the slaying of the double, through which the hero seeks to protect himself permanently from the pursuits of his self.” The slaying, however, “is really a suicidal act.” To apply Bingham’s insights to our discussion of Hawthorne, we can say that the “difference between the classical double and” those in Hawthorne’s works “is that they are granted a recognition. In the other they recognize the dark instincts they themselves repress  .  .  .  [when the male protagonist] finally confronts himself in the mirror, [he illustrates] the Hegelian notion that the need to change is motivated by self-disgust.”27 As I will be consid- ering at length in the next chapter, Hawthorne repeatedly stages a fateful, fatal moment of self-confrontation—the young man looking at his uncanny double, and grappling with feelings of shame and fear. i n a c o n s i d e r at i o n of the philosophical implications of Hawthorne’s notorious shyness, Clark Davis asks what Hawthorne means “when he tells readers of ‘The Old Manse’ that he veils his face.” Hawthorne, Clark theo- rizes, “chooses an image of public or external identity to figure the private or internal self. He then offers to ‘veil’ that public/private self by presumably withholding one set of information and simultaneously offering another. In this way ‘veiling’ is not so much hiding one’s ‘face’ with a blank mask as it is refusing to show one face by showing another in its place. And what is this ‘face’ but the ‘veil’ itself . . . Thus, when Hawthorne ‘veils his face’ he is assuming the general characteristics of human personality; he is displaying his private self in order to receive and perceive the thoughts and feelings of others.”28 Davis astutely observes the effects created through Hawthorne’s rhetoric of veils and masks. I would put the matter differently, however: Hawthorne’s constantly threatened unveiling and reveiling function as a kind of autho- rial striptease for an audience presumed to be hungering for a glimpse of the “real” Hawthorne. This real Hawthorne is not merely the teasingly unyield- ing private celebrity author but the actual person writing the fictions who can be perceived by others in real life. In other words, Hawthorne trans- mutes his own felt experience of the gaze—his position within it, its impact on him, his own gazing agency and concomitant powerlessness—into a fic- tional performance of seeing and being seen that, while it covers a range of 9 0 • C h a P T e r 3 effects and feelings, places its chief emphasis on the dangers of vision, the pain of being seen, the violating tendencies of seeing. Hawthorne’s veil-dance circles around the concerns of an intensely self-fixated authorial self—no less legitimate a topic for fictive exploration than “the thoughts and feelings of others.” In the next chapter, we will explore this self-fixation and its affec- tional dimensions in depth. c h a p t e r 4 91 I n c h a p t e r 2 , I suggested that Hawthorne identified with the gen-tle boy, an identification that stems from his experience of shame. It is important to establish the cultural as well as psychological contexts for why Hawthorne may have associated shame with the feminine beauty of his Narcissus-like males, a quality that he personally embodied. Haw- thorne’s gentle boy provides an enduring template for his representations of masculinity. His friendship with Franklin Pierce, his best friend since their college days together at Bowdoin, is a good place to start in thinking about the ways that larger cultural forces intersected with representations of masculinity and homosocial relations. Written shortly before Frank- lin Pierce’s 1852 election and just after Hawthorne wrote The Blithedale Romance, Hawthorne’s campaign biography The Life of Franklin Pierce is certainly not one of his several masterpieces of the 1850s. Nevertheless, it remains a fascinating document in the history of American letters. Part of its fascination, as many scholars have shown, lies in its naked exposure of Hawthorne’s agonizingly ignorant view of slavery. Another part lies in its naked exposure of the ways in which white male homosocial relations in this period conducted all of the major ideological, social, and cultural ques- tions of its moment. Indubitably, Hawthorne and Pierce were on the wrong side of the slavery question; Northerners who were surrounded by people who campaigned against the Southern slavocracy should have known better. Pierce, born in New Hampshire in 1804, accommodated Southern inter- ests at every turn, infuriating Northern abolitionists, Despite his best efforts narCiSSiSm, Shame, maSCUliniTy, and The dread OF The viSUal Struck by the Mask 9 2 • C h a P T e r 4 to assuage and accommodate proslavery forces, Pierce may be said to have mobilized the gathering momentum of abolitionist rage against the continu- ing and expanding might and means of the Southern slavocracy. Less attention has been paid, however, to the gendered and sexual impli- cations of Hawthorne’s campaign biography. In a welcome and revelatory essay, Leland S. Person has argued that Hawthorne endows Pierce with a “physical appeal” that recalls Hawthorne’s “ambiguously gendered male char- acters.” Person reminds us that Harry Truman considered Pierce the best- looking of all U.S. Presidents, noting that Hawthorne would probably have agreed.1 For Person, that Hawthorne wrote this campaign biography after The Blithedale Romance and its exploration of same-sex love and gender ambigu- ity is significant; Hawthorne, notes Person, evokes his gender-liminal male characters Ilbrahim and Own Warland in his depiction of Pierce at various points as “beautiful boy,” “sweet,” “delicate,” “cordial,” “soft.” Person argues that “the delicate challenge for Hawthorne is marketing such a ‘delightful’ boy to the ‘whole country’—to arouse desire for the ‘boy’ without transgress- ing normative boundaries of adult male relationships.”2 Person also helpfully alerts us to the anxious machismo of Pierce’s political climate. He discusses a series of political cartoons that depict Pierce in an inferior, unmanly position to his Whig opponent for the presidency, Winfield Scott. Finally, in a coup de grace, Pierce and Winfield Scott appear together, with Pierce riding a goose and Scott riding a gamecock. “What’s the matter, Pierce?” the caption reads, “feel faint? Ha! Ha! Ha! Lord what a ‘goose!’ Don’t you wish you had my ‘Cock?’” Political attacks on a candidate’s man- hood do not get more political than that.3 Though I will not have the opportunity to explore The Life of Franklin Pierce further in this book, it is instructive to consider this largely overlooked work as yet another example of Hawthorne’s interest in gender liminality, perhaps especially in males, within a context of masculinist standards of gen- der that emphasized, in the Jacksonian era and beyond, competitiveness, self- sufficiency, and a lockdown on feeling, while also confusingly insisting that men as well as women feel “properly.” Homoerotic explorations of male sexu- ality were especially challenging in this era of homoeroticized homophobia (a description one could apply to all subsequent eras of American life, of course). Moreover, Hawthorne’s love for Pierce, with its homoerotic over- tones (emphasized by the fact that both men were exceptionally attractive), suffuses his evocation of Pierce’s physical appeal, one that sometimes daringly blurs gendered lines. The gentle boy who endures within adult men solicits S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 9 3 Hawthorne’s imaginative engagement, leading him to draw out the phantom presence of the feminine boy within his depictions of adult men, who are often youthful. But this phantom presence also provokes fear and even hor- ror. Thinking through the forces that shaped and the implications suggested by this simultaneous desire and repulsion in Hawthorne’s depictions of mas- culinity will be the chief aim of this chapter, in which I move from personal and cultural contexts to psychoanalytic theories of narcissism, shame, vision, and the “fear of looking.” personal beauty Though biographical readings are not without their dangers, in Hawthorne’s case some elements of his personal history seem not only relevant to his work’s central themes but indistinguishable from them, the sources of shame in his life and work chief among them. As an author whose sex appeal became a legendary aspect of his celebrity, Hawthorne could be called the American Byron, though in this regard he certainly pales in comparison to his Romantic predecessor, not only famously handsome but also sexually infamous, linked in his lifetime to both homosexuality and incest.4 Yet refer- ences to Hawthorne’s beauty on the part of both female and male commen- tators recur throughout myriad accounts of him and convey an atmosphere of heightened awareness of beauty as part of the Hawthorne package. His son Julian Hawthorne’s description of him, synecdochic of many such appraisals, is perhaps the most sustained: He was the handsomest young man of his day . . . His limbs were beauti- fully formed, and the moulding of his neck and throat was as fine as any- thing in antique sculpture. His hair, which had a long, curving wave in it, approached blackness in color; his head was large and grandly developed; his eyebrows were dark and heavy, with a superb arch and space beneath. His nose was straight, but the contour of his chin was Roman. . . . His eyes were large, dark, blue, and brilliant, and full of varied expression.5 There’s a good deal more to this lengthy description, including the tale (most probably apocryphal, but no less suggestive for being that) of an old gypsy woman stopping the young Hawthorne in the forest to ask whether he were “a man or an angel,” for seldom was a man so beautiful.6 Hawthorne’s physi- cal beauty is another dimension of the unsettling of gendered norms pre- sented for many people by his writing; it physically evinced the same qualities 9 4 • C h a P T e r 4 inherent in his “gentle,” “sweet” literary efforts, which many assumed had to be written by a woman. Given the transformation of American masculinity in the Jacksonian era, with its enforcement of codes of frontier toughness and policing of effeminacy, is it possible that Hawthorne’s notorious shyness resulted from his anticipation of being a magnet for the eye of the spectator? If we recall from chapter 2 the incidents of Hawthorne’s experience of the desiring gaze noted by both George Lathrop and Henry James, this would have been an anticipation corroborated by frequent and predictable favorable response. These responses could be experienced as pleasurable, a filling up of the libidinal tanks, and therefore no mean achievement for the self-critical Hawthorne. But they would also have been threatening, a public exposure of his own socially unstable gendered identity. I speculate that Hawthorne used writing to negotiate anxieties about his own personal appearance and its incitement of the gaze, anxieties that are one node in a network of far broader, related social and cultural ones. Writing also allowed him to negoti- ate a wide range of responses to beauty in both women and other men, and in himself. “The self-doubts, the uncertainty, the sense that even his best gifts were not entirely admirable did little to enhance Hawthorne’s confidence in his own masculinity,” writes Gloria Erlich in her psychobiographical study of the author.7 Hawthorne’s gendered intermixture was both deeply appealing and vexing for many, including himself. Moreover, male beauty, to the extent that it was thought to effeminate manhood, would have been a quality Jack- sonian America deemed decadent.8 Given Hawthorne’s conflictual, simul- taneous embrace of his feminine qualities and the very codes of Jacksonian toughness that routed them out, the recognition of his own beauty may have triggered in him the antithetical yet entirely coextensive responses of pleasure and scorn at male beauty that also characterize the fictions. Hawthorne’s physical description of Robin Molineux—his “brown, curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful eyes, were nature’s gifts” (11: 209)—is remarkably similar to that given by his lifelong friend Horatio Bridge of the young Hawthorne himself. As Bridge described the Hawthorne he knew as a classmate and chum at Bowdoin College in the 1820s, “Haw- thorne was a slender lad, having a massive head, with dark, brilliant, and most expressive eyes, heavy eyebrows, and a profusion of dark hair.”9 Richard Millington’s splendid 2011 Norton Critical Edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1852 The Blithedale Romance includes several new supplemen- tary materials.10 One of the freshest and most telling of these is the excerpt from an essay by Ora Gannett Sedgwick, who lived at Brook Farm when she was a teenager. (Brook Farm, which lasted from 1841 to 1847, was a S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 9 5 utopian experiment in communal and self-sustaining living that took place in West Roxbury, near Boston. Hawthorne participated in this experiment, famously failing to recoup his financial investment in the project; despite his demurrals, Hawthorne clearly draws on his experiences there in Blithedale.) “A Girl of Sixteen at Brook Farm,” which Sedgwick published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1900, contains several highly interesting firsthand impressions of the real-life Hawthorne, whom the shrewdly observant Sedgwick presents as simultaneously enigmatic and slyly knowing, aloof and genially playful. Her delightful and oddly poignant portrait of Hawthorne confirms the sense that develops in other accounts of Hawthorne as someone who maintained a certain social distance but was also capable of being wooed into sociality (no doubt a quality that appealed to Herman Melville, whose own efforts to woo Hawthorne into intimate friendship are not only a legendary ante- bellum myth but also widely considered a crucial biographical intertext for Blithedale). Sedgwick adds to the widely documented portrait of Hawthorne as phys- ically arresting: One evening he was alone in the hall, sitting on a chair at the farther end, when my roommate, Ellen Slade, and myself were going upstairs. She whis- pered to me, “Let’s throw the sofa pillows at Mr. Hawthorne.” Reaching over the banisters, we each took a cushion and threw it. Quick as a flash he put out his hand, seized a broom that was hanging near him, warded off our cushions, and threw them back with sure aim. . . . Through it all not a word was spoken. We laughed and laughed, and his eyes shone and twin- kled like stars. Wonderful eyes they were, and when anything witty was said I always looked quickly at Mr. Hawthorne; for his dark eyes lighted up as if flames were suddenly kindled behind them, and then the smile came down to his lips and over his grave face.11 Whether it was his dark good looks, the starry shine in his eyes, or simply his very imperturbability, Hawthorne seemed to provoke the attention of oth- ers, and their desire to provoke him. Throwing the pillows at Hawthorne, it would appear, was a means for these girls to express their own increasing fascination with this unusual older man, but their impudence also appears to have appealed to Hawthorne. One wonders if he saw in their antic enthusi- asm something of the charm that Coverdale reports that he sees in Priscilla, who nevertheless remains one of Hawthorne’s most pallid creations (though pointedly so, I think). The ways in which Hawthorne’s enigmatic, aloof, reserved beauty provoked the troublesome and tantalizing desires of others, 9 6 • C h a P T e r 4 especially young women and other men, while also leading Hawthorne to attempt to control and manage not only these provoked desires but also his own responses to them, which ranged from fear to revulsion to pleasure— these dynamics inform his fiction repeatedly and with increasing intensity. the wretched sImulacrum S i G h T a n d S e l F If we take Horatio Bridge’s description as an accurate one, Hawthorne gives characters such as Robin versions of his own physical traits. He makes sure that we understand that they are beautiful. But he also makes us understand that they are just as morally dim. Beatrice Rappaccini’s question to hand- some and callow Giovanni goes to the heart of the matter: “O, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?” (10: 91). Given the moral ambiguity that recurs in Hawthorne’s young men along with their beauty, we can posit that they reflect not only Hawthorne’s own self-aware- ness of his attractiveness and his investment in it, an investment that would be the natural result of the constant recognition of his own beauty that Haw- thorne experienced throughout his life, even into his later years (in which it admittedly underwent a significant erosion), but also a skeptical view of this surface attractiveness. (That the cult of Hawthorne’s handsomeness continues to thrive is amply reflected in the “Hawthorne is a Hottie” T-shirts on sale in gift shops in Concord, Massachusetts, and elsewhere.) I argue further that Hawthorne’s responses to the young men he cre- ated went beyond moral skepticism. He views the beautiful young man with an empathetic fearfulness at the power of the gaze—not an avaricious desire to wield it but rather a desire to avoid falling under it.12 As “My Kinsman, Major Molineux” reveals, for Hawthorne narcissism is a welter of anxieties that revolve around the figure of the young man, anxieties that become especially intense if the young man is also pleasing visually. The disjunct between exterior and interior self Hawthorne consistently thema- tizes extends the Narcissus myth and its phobic, cautionary associations with the disparity between surface and depth. Hawthorne further intensifies the implications of the Narcissus theme by combining it with his ongoing concern with vision. This concern leads, in turn, to Hawthorne’s develop- ment of shame. Shame is a crucial component of Hawthorne’s work, per- haps because it is the affect that he chiefly associates with vision, the sense he most exhaustively examines in all of its psychological and aesthetic com- plexity. The shame that proceeds in Hawthorne from vision relates, in my S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 9 7 view, to the gendered anxieties at work in the Narcissus myth, which renders vision such a vexed and troubling phenomenon. Vision in Hawthorne can signify either shame or an attempt at sadistic visual mastery, such as, if we follow Freud, voyeurism and other forms of visual violation. In the figure of the young man, Hawthorne collapses shameful and sadistic forms of look- ing: the young man experiences shame at both looking and being looked at, but also sadistically exerts power over the other characters through his eyes. Hawthorne’s work abounds with sight metaphors and visual media— paintings, portraits, mirrors, miniatures, sculptures, carvings—and with lookers, most often ambiguous male figures, whose desire to see others inva- sively crosses the line into voyeurism. In addition to those already men- tioned, such figures include the titular protagonist of “Wakefield,” who installs himself as a perpetual watcher of his own life in his absence; Chill- ingworth, who spies on Dimmesdale, just as Coverdale spies on his fellow Blithedalers from his “inviolate bower” up in a tree; and the Model, who spies on Miriam in The Marble Faun. These fictional males participate in voyeuristic schemes that are illuminated by Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze, in which she argues that the male protagonist in classical Hollywood cinema dominates the woman through vision, either voyeuristically (investigating the woman and solving her mystery) or fetishistically (breaking her up into idealized components, eyes, faces, and so forth) Moreover, Mulvey argues that the spectator, also gendered male, joins in with the screen protagonist in a shared experience of narcissistic omnipotence. Yet in Hawthorne’s work the male figure, as we have discovered, is as likely to be the object of the gaze as its subject—for example, spying on Beatrice Rappaccini, Giovanni Guasconti fails to realize that he himself is the object of her scientist father’s spying eyes, as well as Baglioni’s, Rappac- cini’s rival in more ways than one. Moreover, the sight of the male, perhaps especially when he is a handsome figure, causes pain. When the heroine Ellen Langton first gazes at Fanshawe, the doomed, young titular protago- nist of Hawthorne’s first novel, the “result of her scrutiny [is] favorable, yet very painful” (3: 346). When his fiancée, Elizabeth, finally as overcome by the maddening horror of the black veil as the agitated townspeople in one of Hawthorne’s most famous tales, stops to give one last look at his darkly obscured form, Minister Hooper mournfully asks her, “And do you feel it then at last?” (9: 47). The question urgently communicates the gendered and perceptual anxieties Hawthorne fuses in his representation of masculin- ity. In the midst of hellish visions in the nighttime forest of Satanic seduc- tion, visions that strip away the false appearances of his seemingly pious but secretly evil townspeople, Young Goodman Brown must acknowledge that 9 8 • C h a P T e r 4 “he was himself the chief horror of the scene” (10: 83). Learning of the hor- rifying hypocrisy of others seems to trigger in Brown a much deeper revul- sion toward himself, as if they function as outward manifestations of his own depravity. Brown’s recognition reveals the essential conflict at the core of Hawthorne’s representation of masculinity, a conflict between the self and itself that is then endlessly outwardly projected to all social relations. For Hawthorne, anti-relation begins with the self; self-regard generates anxiety and dread; and vision is inherently painful and wounding, indicative of the problematic nature of male sexuality. Psychoanalytic theory helps us to develop a richer understanding of these patterns in Hawthorne’s fiction, its tripartite monster of narcissism, shame, and tormenting sight. Shame has come to be a key topic in psychoanalytic Hawthorne studies. Joseph Adamson has written eloquently on the subject, and Benjamin Kilborne’s essay “Shame Conflicts and Tragedy in The Scarlet Letter” admirably illustrates the multivalent levels on which shame informs this novel. Clearly, I am in agreement that shame is of great importance to Hawthorne’s work, in which so many characters must endure the tyranny of another’s, or several others’, vision. Following Andrew Morrison, how- ever, I see shame as “the underside of narcissism,” a component of it. Shame stems from what I term the narcissistic crisis at the heart of Hawthorne’s fic- tion, in which young men endlessly confront the desiring looks of others. These visual intrusions intersect painfully with the young man’s opposing and equally fervent desires to see and not to be seen. As I develop below, Hawthorne’s works foreground the fear of looking, or, to use the psychoana- lytic term, scopophobia. Narcissism functions in Hawthorne as a crisis on several levels. Being looked at, held by the mastery of another’s vision, threatens normative mas- culine identity because it puts the male in the feminized passive position of not only being under another’s power but also of being the object of the look. Looking at oneself, especially if that self-regard provokes pleasurable feelings, crosses the lines of seemly gendered identity and moral standing at once, in that to look desiringly at oneself suggests, on the one hand, either a regressive sexual preoccupation with one’s own body or a sexual interest in one’s own gender, and, on the other hand, pride, one of the seven deadly sins, and its synonym, vanity. Both of these highly charged signs of the self run amok were culturally scorned in Hawthorne’s era, and hardly in his era alone. Historically, the Narcissus-like male has been considered the effeminate male. “We find,” writes Shadi Bartsch in her study The Mirror of the Self, “the self-indulgent male gaze demonstrated in artistic representations of Narcis- S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 9 9 sus, who, as he gazes winsomely at his image in the water in” several clas- sical representations “sprouts small but feminine breasts.”13 Hawthorne falls within the continuum of representations of Narcissus as effeminated that extends to Freudian psychoanalytic paradigms of narcissism as principally characteristic of female sexuality. In this regard, Freud follows longstanding tradition. “One of the major motifs through which [the] construction of the feminine has been transmitted in art is the woman holding, or standing in front of, a mirror. What happens to gender identity—and to cultural author- ity—” asks Thaïs E. Morgan, “when a man poses before and looks at himself in a mirror”?14 Sarah Rose Cole writes that in Thackeray’s novel Vanity Fair, a relevant Victorian intertext for Hawthorne, the “most obvious provocation offered by male vanity is the transgression of gender boundaries; the very act of cou- pling the words ‘male’ and ‘vanity’ implies a gender reversal, ‘turn[ing] the tables’ on the stereotype of female vanity.”15 For Cole, Thackeray plays with gender stereotypes as a means of negotiating class anxieties. Considering the character of Captain George Osborne, whom she describes as “that paragon of military glamour,” Cole writes that “his apparently happy self-objectifi- cation—his concentration on his own remarkable good looks—takes on an anxious, even desperate quality when he solicits the gaze that is supposed to certify his class status.”16 Hawthorne deepens these themes, reaching a level of feeling that far exceeds any specific kind of anxiety—or, to put it another way, that ques- tions the very meaning of identity, which cannot be distinguished from appearances.17 For example, when his character Feathertop—literally a con- struction of masculinity, having been assembled from random scraps by the witch Mother Rigby—presents himself as a dandified nobleman and solicits the gaze of the girl he attempts to woo, Hawthorne creates an arresting scene of visual desire with implications for female as well as male sexuality. By and by, Feathertop paused, and throwing himself into an imposing atti- tude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his figure, and resist him longer, if she could. His star, his embroidery, his buckles, glowed, at that instant, with unutterable splendor  .  .  .  The maiden raised her eyes, and suffered them to linger upon her companion with a bashful and admir- ing gaze. Then, as if desirous of judging what her own simple comeliness might have, side by side with so much brilliancy, she cast a glance towards the full-length looking-glass, in front of which they happened to be stand- ing. It was one of the truest plates in the world, and incapable of flattery. No sooner did the images, therein reflected, meet Polly’s gaze, then she 1 0 0 • C h a P T e r 4 shrieked, shrank from the stranger’s side, gazed at him, for a moment, in the wildest dismay, and sank insensible upon the floor. What impels Polly Gookin’s solicited gaze is a desire to survey her own attractiveness as much as Feathertop’s apparently splendid figure: his narcis- sism and self-objectification goads her own, though hers is more tentatively sought. His own gaze solicited by the gaze he solicited in Polly, Feathertop follows the track of Polly’s vision and also looks into the mirror. What he sees in the mirror—here not a deceptive surface but a properly cleansed door of perception—is not the “glittering mockery of his outside show, but a pic- ture of the sordid patchwork of his real composition, stript of all witchcraft” (10: 243–44). “The wretched simulacrum!” the narrator laments. “We almost pity him.” In a vivid depiction of male anguish with an undertone of dark comedy that deepens the anguish, Hawthorne describes Feathertop’s reaction to his own image: “He threw up his arms, with an expression of despair, that went far- ther than any of his previous manifestations, towards vindicating his claims to be reckoned human. For perchance the only time, since this so often empty and deceptive life of mortals began its course, an Illusion had seen and fully recognized itself ” (10: 244). Feathertop’s self-recognition exem- plifies such encounters in Hawthorne, in which self-perception is fraught with danger and filled with despair. But even if it is in no way redemptive, this experience also defines the human, as it does for Feathertop, whose anguish vindicates his humanity. If looking at oneself causes disturbance, a psychic torment with physical manifestations, what does that say about the self that regards itself—what levels of self-disgust or personal awareness of moral turpitude make the experience of self-regard so loathsome? Can looking at the self lead to self-knowledge, or does it, as in the writings of the Latin Stoic philosopher Seneca, actually function as “an impediment to self-knowledge”?18 In Ovid’s version of the Narcissus myth, the seer Tiresias cautions that Narcissus will be happy so long as he never knows himself. In the myth, to know oneself is to see oneself, to recognize that the person one desires is, in fact, an image of oneself. In the myth, this recognition does nothing to reduce the maddening nature of Narcissus’s absurd and heartbreaking pre- dicament. In Hawthorne, the sight of one’s self provokes deep anxiety, if not horror. As Shernaz Mollinger wrote in a 1983 study of narcissism in Haw- thorne and Emerson, “When Ethan Brand sees in himself the sin that he has been looking diligently for in everyone else, he kills himself.” As Mollinger concludes, “the underlying self is experienced as overwhelmingly negative— S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 0 1 wretched, sinful, mean, and empty.”19 Yet the paradox here is that very often this cataclysmic revelation of the ugly actual self occurs within the spectacle of male beauty. One of the questions demanded by the fusion of ugly depth and beautiful surface—the formula for so many cautionary narcissistic tales, from Ovid to Wilde’s Portrait of Dorian Gray to Anthony Minghella’s film version of Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999)—is why it mattered so much to Hawthorne. If in the Narcissus myth self-recognition is self-knowledge, but a self-knowledge that brings one neither relief nor sex- ual fulfillment, in Hawthorne the Narcissus theme conveys the ambiguity of identity and of desire as well as the terrifying potentialities of both. Hawthorne’s males maintain an attitude of deflection, the chief compo- nents of which are averted vision (refusing the eye of others, deferring any encounter with the gaze) and a demurral of physical authority (an abashed, circumspect stance, a bent gait). They refuse or forfeit conventionally mas- culine attitudes: directness, forthrightness, boldness, in other words, the hall- marks of male authority. Abashed male attitudes form a pattern that extends into Hawthorne’s late work, as this description of Septimius Felton evinces: “As for Septimius, let him alone a moment or two, and then you would see him, with his head bent down, brooding, brooding, with his eyes fixed on some chip, some stone, some common plant, any commonest thing, as if it were the clue and index to some mystery; and when, by chance startled out of these meditations, he lifted his eyes, there would be a kind of perplexity, a dissatisfied, wild look in them, as if, of his speculations, he found no end” (8: 6). This attitude of deflection is, I argue, a manifestation of the shame that informs Hawthorne’s narcissistically drawn male characters. (In Septi- mius Felton, as I discuss in the last chapter, this shame is tied to anxieties over racial identity.) Cynosures of desire, they deflect, avoid, elude, and refuse the appetites of the eye they have themselves incited. The deceptively light-hearted “Little Annie’s Ramble” (1835) is no longer a well-known story but, as Jane Tompkins points out, was one of the most critically acclaimed of the author’s own day.20 Despite its frolicsome tone, it is a tale of a young man who abducts a little girl in order to take her on that titular ramble. Hawthorne depicts the first-person narrator as a man who “walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down,” here alongside “a gay little girl.” The pedophilic relationship suggested in this story is deeply unsettling. What makes Haw- thorne’s depiction of the narrator particularly jarring is that he assumes these attitudes of submission, but is nevertheless in a position of undeniable mas- culine dominance. In the famous story “The Minister’s Black Veil” (1837), “good Mr. Hooper walk[s] onward” through the gathering crowd gawking 1 0 2 • C h a P T e r 4 at his appearance, “at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat and looking on the ground” (my emphasis, 9: 38). As will be increasingly clear, these atti- tudes of abashed masculinity relate, at once, to an alienation from the con- ventional codes of heteromasculinity—embodied in Hawthorne’s work by characters such as the rival who gets the girl in “The Artist of the Beautiful,” the pitiless father of the crying boy in “Ethan Brand,” and the most conven- tional aspects of Hollingsworth in The Blithedale Romance—and an ambiva- lence over heterosexual relationships generally. In life, Hawthorne himself wore “conservative garb,” “a long black jacket, shawl-colored vest, and a black silk bow-tied stock worn with a high-collared white shirt,” evincing both his frugality and his propriety. Not only the dark- ness of his clothing but his “indifference to style” (he requested a friend to buy him “stout dark” cloth from a “cheap clothing establishment”) may have signaled Hawthorne’s desire to deflect attention from his appearance.21 Wear- ing Hawthorne’s own customary attire, these dubious young men avert their eyes from the gaze in a manner also reminiscent of the author’s. As Horatio Bridge describes Hawthorne’s deportment, “Hawthorne’s figure was some- what singular, owing to his carrying his head a little on one side; but his walk was square and firm, and his manner self-respecting and reserved.”22 The anxious conjunctive reassurance of Bridge’s “but” may reveal a truth about Hawthorne’s relationship to looking: the singular quality of the way Hawthorne looked, keeping his head to one side, troubles Bridge to the extent that he must reassure us that Hawthorne walked with and maintained an air of personal dignity and manliness (“square and firm”). Something slightly abashed—feminine—in Hawthorne’s deportment caused, to what- ever extent, alarm. The possibility that Hawthorne anticipated his ability to incite the gaze and that this anticipation—and the results that confirmed it, as so many favorable accounts of Hawthorne’s appearance attest—caused Hawthorne alarm and discomfort, leading him to protect himself against the looks of others, but also a certain degree of pleasurable self-fascination, finds textual support in his work, which also suggests that he possessed an aware- ness of the visual compulsions he promoted. Given the moral ambiguity that recurs in Hawthorne’s young men along with their beauty, we can speculate that they reflect Hawthorne’s own self-awareness of his attractiveness and his investment in it, an investment that would be the natural result of the con- stant recognition of his own beauty that Hawthorne experienced throughout his life, even into his later years (in which it underwent a significant erosion). All of these thematic fictional concerns as well as elements of Haw- thorne’s own life and the ways he was perceived by others have a relevance for the larger question of masculinity and what haunts it, homosexuality, and S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 0 3 what haunts homosexuality and masculinity both, homophobia. Hawthorne lived the bulk of his adult life as a man married to a woman with whom he had children, and certainly there is little evidence to suggest that he did all of this under duress at the level of sexual premise. I make no claim about Haw- thorne’s sexuality in terms of same-sex desire. The claim I do make is that narcissism was a way for Hawthorne to negotiate whatever sexual interests he had and in whatever capacity. The concepts of sexuality and sexual desire in Hawthorne’s own cultural era were undeniably distinct from our own; we are no longer dominated, for instance, by a pervasive anxiety about the destructive effects of onanism. Yet, in my view, overlaps do exist between the antebellum period and our own era in terms of sexual matters. In particu- lar, Jacksonian ideologies of gender—man-on-the-make male aggressiveness and self-reliance; the ideal of “true womanhood”; an abhorrence of weakness in men and toughness in women—have lost little of their binding power, though a great deal of their presumed accuracy. Hawthorne’s depiction of a shame-informed, narcissistic masculinity has deep relevance for the study of American masculinity, for homosexuality, and for homophobia, which Hawthorne’s critical view of normative masculinity can greatly assist us in dismantling. As T. Walter Herbert observes, Homophobia imagines that men animated by same-sex desire are them- selves not “real men,” but embody an opposite of manhood all the more loathsome because secretly alluring. Hawthorne himself was prominently characterized by such “non-manly” traits. His notable shyness and prefer- ence for solitude resulted in good measure from that fact that his emotional life, like that of Arthur Dimmesdale, was exceptionally turbulent, so that he found routine interactions difficult. Talking to Hawthorne, said his col- lege friend Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, was “like talking to a woman.” Hawthorne was also a man of extraordinary physical beauty, who was well aware—and uneasily aware—of awakening sexual desire, both in women and in men. Even if Hawthorne had not been artistically inclined, to say nothing of leading the life of a writer, his familiar social relations would have made his manhood “suspect.” The factors that converged to give Hawthorne a “feminine” identity had a paradoxical result: they led him to insist all the more compulsively on his commitment to the conven- tional ideal of masculine self direction.23 Though in agreement with Herbert here generally, I demur on one point: while certainly it is true that in life Hawthorne did insist on proclaiming his 1 0 4 • C h a P T e r 4 allegiance to such commitments, it is also true that his work, far from pro- moting this allegiance, actively, consistently, emphatically, movingly, angrily contests it. While there were many aspects of Hawthorne’s own life and per- sonal views that demonstrate a commitment to the conservative values that found outward form in conventional, female-phobic, queer-phobic mascu- linity, it is also true that his work evinces a remarkable capacity for empathy for shunned sexual others as well as a penchant for stringent analysis of the foundations of masculinist power. In this respect, Hawthorne’s work makes for an interesting point of comparison with Martha Nussbaum’s, equally committed to a study of the effects of shaming, especially in public form, on abnegated others, emotions, and bodies.24 Moreover, in his book Devils and Rebels: The Making of Hawthorne’s Damned Politics, Larry J. Reynolds has also done a salutary job of refram- ing the personal Hawthorne’s dispositions toward the political issues of his time—which we generally view as ideologically suspect today—as an uncon- ventional, if often misguided, pacifist politics. Indeed, the term that most of Hawthorne’s critics most frequently employ when disparaging his politics, “passivity,” emerges in Reynolds as a valiant attribute of this pacifism. Admi- rably, Reynolds does not overlook the racism in Hawthorne’s views, but in his reframing of pacifism and passivity in Hawthorne, he does a heroic job of restoring proper cultural contexts to Hawthorne’s thought while alerting readers to the gender biases of their own critiques, such as the easy recourse to passivity as a term of abuse in criticism since the late 1980s.25 I would argue that Hawthorne’s passivity is an aspect of the shame he incorporates into his depictions of masculinity. (If Reynolds’s astute work has a weakness, it is his insufficient attention to matters of gender and sexuality that impinge directly on his project.) Hawthorne’s passivity is a response to many things, such as the activist furor he abhorred in abolition- ist campaigns against slavery; I would argue it was also his attitude toward the Judge Pyncheons of the world, males in power who exert their wills upon the less fortunate, including those whose gendered performance was seen as faltering, not fully realized, suspect, much like Hawthorne’s own at times (he did, it should be noted, always have his champions). Passiv- ity in Hawthorne’s case is a political stance derived from shame, though distinct from it; if shame is the result of social relations that have proven injurious, passivity can be seen as an attempt to keep potentially injuri- ous social relations—such as those between Hawthorne and New England abolitionists, many of whom were eager for a direct confrontation with a man whose views infuriated them—at bay. Which is to say that shame—the product of relation, the sign of social relation’s impact on the individual— S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 0 5 when reformulated as passivity can have a surprisingly useful capacity as self-protection. eyes oF shame F r e U d i a n T h e O r i e S O F v i S i O n a n d T h e F e a r O F l O O k i n G Despite the undeniable difficulties presented by Freud’s treatment of the sub- ject, difficulties to which we attend throughout this book, the psychoanalytic thinking on narcissism that I have found to be most suggestive for recon- sideration of Hawthorne’s writing proceeds directly from Freud. Theoretical treatments that, expanding and revising Freudian paradigms, link narcis- sism to shame and drive theory, specifically the focus on, in Léon Wurmser’s description, “the two major sexual drives of exhibitionism and Schaulust, the wish to look (curiosity, voyeurism, or—using the Greek word stem scop- for ‘spying, watching’—scopophilia),”26 shed especially illuminating light on Hawthorne’s gendered themes and visual sensibility. Hawthorne shares with other Romantic authors such as “Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats” (and I would add Shelley) “an abnormal fascination with and fear of the eye as an instrument of public self-confirmation and definition.”27 At this point, we should refine our understanding of the role shame plays within Hawthorne’s narcissism. In his study of shame in Hawthorne’s work, Joseph Adamson writes of what is perhaps the “ultimate wish of all human beings perhaps: to be recognized for what one is, by a loving eye from which the need to hide or cover oneself, with all of one’s flaws or defects, imagined or otherwise, is absent, without the fear of judgment or shame.  .  .  .  One of the signs of psychological and emotional health is to be capable of inti- macy, and one of Hawthorne’s central themes is the barrier that shame puts up between the self and the other, thus estranging us not only from other human beings, but from our genuine selves.”28 In Hawthorne, this barrier of shame becomes the extruded essence of his characters—their black veils, black clothing, slow and ponderous gait, circumspection, and distrustful looks. As Andrew Morrison has described it, shame is the “underside of narcis- sism.”29 In a valuable study that considers numerous psychoanalytic treat- ments of both concepts, Morrison, noting the lack of consensus about the nature of the relationship between shame and narcissism, points out that while some “maintain that shame functions ultimately to remind the self of its failure to meet perfectionistic demands for worthiness to attain fantasied merger with its” ego ideal, others view shame as “a response to the wish for 1 0 6 • C h a P T e r 4 merger itself ”: if what the self wants is autonomy, separateness, indepen- dence, “any suggestion that it falls short,” through a dependence on others, a dependence experienced as regressive, “generates shame. ‘To need,’ itself, is frequently experienced as shameful.”30 Intervening in these debates, Morri- son suggests “that both of these positions are correct—that there is an ongo- ing, tension-generating dialectic between narcissistic grandiosity and desire for perfection. . . . Thus, shame and narcissism inform each other, as the self is experienced, first, alone, separate, and small, and, again, grandiosely, striv- ing to be perfect and reunited with its ideal.”31 Léon Wurmser argues that the “perceptual functions affected by shame are predominantly visual”: the drives to look (scopophilia) and to be seen (exhibitionism).32 The “combination of aggression and libido in these com- ponent drives manifests itself particularly and most typically in [a] power struggle” alternately marked by “feelings of powerlessness, helplessness, and passivity or a triumphant sense of power or at least of mastery.”33 Wurmser expands here on Freud’s influential and provocative theorization of the roles of these component drives in sexual desire in his Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality, which Freud wrote in 1905 but continued to expand until 1924. Freud observed that infantile sexuality “from the very first involves other people as sexual objects.” Scopophilia, exhibitionism, and cruelty, linked “instincts,” dominate the early lives of children, who exhibit a great “satis- faction” in exhibiting their own bodies before others. Children can revel in both exhibitionism and in acts of cruelty because they do not yet experience shame (SE 7: 157–60). As a fraught, resistant object of this gaze who nevertheless perpetually solicits it, and as a textual figure who experiences traumatic pain within spectacles of seeing and being seen, the male of Hawthorne’s fiction repre- sents neither scopophilia nor exhibitionism but, most consistently, a psychic response that fuses them: scopophobia, or the fear of looking or being looked at. Considering the ways in which this densely complex fear may inspire creativity, David W. Allen theorizes that it may have root causes in “hidden emotional injuries, such as early object loss, with consequent attempts to repair the ruptured union.”34 Allen emphasizes that “the attempt at repair of self-image or repair of the lost relationship takes place within the looking- showing modalities. The repair of the self-image also involves an attempt at repair of the image being exhibited to others. ‘You see that I am all right or worthwhile’ is an unconscious step in the progression to ‘I see that I am all right and unimpaired.’”35 If we consider Hawthorne’s depiction of masculin- ity as both scopophobic and scopophilic in nature, we can theorize that the intertwined conflicts of narcissistic self-valuing, male beauty, and anguished S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 0 7 seeing in his work emerge from a project of self-repair with no attainable success, only capable of producing, at most, a partial, momentary respite from anxiety, and that all of these efforts are heightened and rendered more arduous by the equally incessant desire to look while avoiding being seen— precisely Coverdale’s conflictual aim in The Blithedale Romance. In Hawthorne’s work, the desire to see and be seen is concomitant with a fervent desire to avoid being seen, either by the self or another person. In every way, desire is balked; whichever way the eyes turn, they seize upon a prohibited, unsatisfactory, or retributively assaultive vision. The self seeking to know and to fulfill itself through the eye is itself subsumed by the power of the other’s eye; the self enthralled by self is also subject to the thrall- dom of the other’s gaze, with potentially disastrous consequences and even murderous intent. The traumatic narcissism of Hawthorne’s male characters enmeshes them in the gears of their own desires but also those of the other characters. Drawn to others whom they watch, they primarily crave the sight of their own image, powerfully alluring but also potentially deeply danger- ous. For all encounters with looking, whether from the position of one’s own desire or from that of the other, are profoundly fraught, linked to the poten- tial annihilation of the self and the crucial divide between self and other. Scopophobia informs several aspects of Hawthorne’s fiction. Though not Hawthorne’s most famous work, the “Oberon” stories are among Hawthorne’s most explicitly autobiographical (Oberon was the nickname Haw thorne used in his post-college correspondence with Horatio Bridge), and they pro- vide telling insights into some of Hawthorne’s concerns about himself as an author, his appearance, and his appearance as an author.36 In “Fragments from the Journal of a Solitary Man” (1837), the faithful friend (suggestive of Bridge) who reads, with mingled feelings of interest and guilt, the dead Oberon’s journal comes across this record of one of Oberon’s dreams: “I dreamed that one bright forenoon I was walking through Broad- way. . . . By degrees, too, I perceived myself the object of universal atten- tion, and, as it seemed, of horror and affright. Every face grew pale; the laugh was hushed, and the voices died away in broken syllables; the peo- ple in the shops crowded to the doors with a ghastly stare, and the pas- sengers on all sides fled as from an embodied pestilence. The horses reared and snorted. An old beggar woman sat before St. Paul’s church, with her withered palm stretched out to all, but drew it back from me, and pointed to the graves and monuments in that populous church-yard. Three lovely girls, whom I had formerly known, ran shrieking across the street. A per- sonage in black, whom I was about to overtake, suddenly turned his head, 1 0 8 • C h a P T e r 4 and showed the features of a long-lost friend. He gave me a look of hor- ror and was gone.” Oberon then notes that he stopped moving and “threw my eyes on a look- ing-glass . . . At the first glimpse of my own figure I awoke, with a horrible sen- sation of self-terror and self-loathing.” Little wonder, Oberon notes, that he caused the town to flee in fright: “I had been promenading Broadway in my shroud!” (my emphasis, 11: 317–18). Hawthorne extends the shock effect of this Poe-like ejaculation for the duration of “The Minister’s Black Veil,” in which the enshrouded minister of a Puritan-era New England town provokes fear and wonder, “just by hid- ing his face.” “The Minister’s Black Veil,” a voluminously critiqued story, might seem an odd example of narcissistic themes. After all, its protagonist veils his face, not wanting his face ever again to be seen on earth, and suc- ceeds at his goal, though not without cost. Yet this story perhaps most reso- nantly communicates the anguished heart of Hawthorne’s visual and sexual themes. “The veil is the type and symbol of the fact that all signs are poten- tially unreadable, or that the reading of them is unverifiable,” writes J. Hillis Miller.37 The veil exposes and thematizes the hermeneutical problem of read- ing: “In order to demystify, ‘unmask,’ I must forget that I am using as the ‘tool’ of unmasking the thing I am unmasking, the trope of personification.” The story foregrounds the “stubborn presupposition that behind every mask there is a face, and behind every face, as behind every sign or configuration of signs, there is somewhere a personality, a self, a subject, a transcendental ego.”38 Though I agree that the tale exposes our utter dependence on the “figure of prosopopeia,” or personification, I would pull back from the philosophi- cal broadness of Miller’s eloquent reading and focus in on the specificity of the particular mask upon which the story fixates. “The Minister’s Black Veil” certainly lends itself to many interpretations, but it is also quite simply a work about an ambiguous young man who decides to veil his face from his community and even from his “plighted wife.” Much more adamantly than other Hawthorne characters, Hooper, both phobic site and cultic goad of the visual, refuses inclusion in the gaze by barring his face from others; but he thereby simultaneously makes himself a perpetual incitement of the gaze. Struck by the mask, the story’s townspeople shudder and quake in Hooper’s presence even as they endlessly peer at his cordoned-off visage. Even at the end of his life, Hooper adamantly fends off demands that he take off his veil, at last; his veil provokes an unending desire to see him unveiled. His refusal to take off the veil even on his deathbed—and even after death, as the narra- S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 0 9 tor shudders to imagine his body rotting beneath his eternal veil—emerges as a strategy for control of the visual field, both acquiescence and resistance to the ravenous public glare.39 In the work this tale most closely prefigures, The Scarlet Letter, another young minister, his “tremulous” beauty vividly described, endures even more strenuous bouts with his own reflection, and his desirability as a visual object. Adulterer Arthur Dimmesdale’s nightly self-flagellation rituals include terri- fying encounters with a “looking-glass” in which he sees images that torment him. In one of the most famous episodes of the novel, Dimmesdale’s exposed chest, upon which the dread titular symbol may or may not be engraved, emerges as a site of visual wonder for the villain, the cuckolded and vengeful old physician Roger Chillingworth.40 Other works also fuse visual ardor and dread within narcissistic self-mes- merization. In Hawthorne’s final tale “Feathertop,” discussed earlier in this chapter, a handsome young dandy, who is in reality nothing more than a heap of rubbish given the illusory appearance of a young man by Mother Rigby, a salty-tongued, salaciously lively old witch, enraptures a young woman with his apparently handsome form. But when this Adonis in feath- ers looks at himself in the mirror, initially as enraptured by the spectacle of his own beauty as she, he discovers the traumatic truth behind his sham sur- face handsomeness, almost literally crumbling at the sight of his revealed self. He discovers that, once it is shorn of artifice and nakedly revealed, his true self is unbearably hideous. “Feathertop” vividly depicts self-recognition as traumatic; I can think of no more acutely affecting depiction of spectropho- bia, the fear of looking at oneself in the mirror, in literature. In The Blithe- dale Romance, which we examine closely in the next chapter, Coverdale finds the odious mesmerist Westervelt both the handsomest man he has ever seen and a humbug whose handsomeness hides a true and abiding ugliness. It is in The Blithedale Romance that the narcissistic gaze—in the form of voyeur- ism—most vividly emerges as a strategy for negotiating homoerotic feelings that verge on explosive crisis. The meeting between Coverdale and Westervelt indexes the homoerotic and homophobic themes linked throughout Haw- thorne’s work. selF-oVerseeIng To make the sense of vision the central topic of our discussion of Haw- thorne threatens to impose this most imperialistic of senses—imperialistic and often critiqued as such—on Hawthorne’s work. That is certainly not 1 1 0 • C h a P T e r 4 my intention; rather, I am attempting to respond to the pervasive scenes of looking and being looked at, of vision enacted, that he makes central, and to think through their implications. There are numerous senses at work in Hawthorne (think of those overpoweringly odiferous flowers in “Rappac- cini’s Daughter,” which are also such tactile objects; the resplendent visual beauty but also the tactility of Hester’s embroidered A; the stone flesh of his faun). Nevertheless, it is the visual that is privileged. One of the effects Hawthorne derives from his privileging of the visual, in terms of his equally insistent preoccupation with masculinity, is that the visual becomes the key to male subjectivity, the rubric through which it makes sense of itself. If this claim has any validity, we have to acknowledge that men in Hawthorne don’t like what they see. But more importantly, they learn something about themselves that they otherwise may not have—or, more properly, we learn something about them. To begin with, we learn that men attempt to control others through their eyes. Men’s eyes, however, betray them. Agents with the power to turn back the gaze upon the viewer, men’s ocular organs reflect the inner dark- ness of men. At a wedding for a young couple, the black-veiled Minister Hooper catches “a glimpse of his own figure in the looking-glass,” and when he does, “the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others” (9: 43–44). What makes this scene chilling is that Hooper has, before his donning of the veil, been especially beloved for his shyly sweet presence at such gatherings. Now, he is an emblem of fear and a source of unease. A potential terror lurks within the genial and the unassum- ing; the veil is this potentiality made literal, tangible, visual. Though Michael J. Colacurcio’s approach is quite different from my own, his observation is apt: “The terrifying discovery, just as everywhere recorded and predicted, is that no human self will . . . bear very much look- ing into.” Colacurcio links Hooper’s traumatic self-encounter in the looking- glass to Puritan theology as it followed Saint Paul and what these theologians referred to as the “looking-glass of the law.”41 As I will have further occa- sion to discuss in the last chapter, this moment alerts us as well to the the- matic of race that gains in intensity and preoccupation in Hawthorne’s late work. Hawthorne’s creation of a dark white identity, “ten times black,” to wax Melvillean, in figures such as the black-veiled young man Hooper has relevance for masculinity and increasing relevance for race, especially in that this darkness connotes sexual anxiety and ambivalence, gender disturbance, and racial anxiety at once.42 In one of the most penetrating points he makes in The Western Canon, Harold Bloom, characteristically reading Freud through Shakespeare, S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 1 1 observes, “When [Shakespeare’s] characters change, or will themselves to change on self-overhearing, they prophesy the psychoanalytic situation in which patients are compelled to overhear themselves in the context of their transferences to their analysts.”43 I suggest that Hawthorne’s males have the same gift for prophesy. They also possess the analogous potential to be self- overseeing. Just as Bloom’s self-overhearing Shakespearean characters, such as Edmund in King Lear, do not often absorb the perceptions into their own conflicted psyches that they have themselves uttered but only do so on rare occasions of self-insightfulness, Hawthorne’s males, catching on rare but piercing occasions the “true” sight of their own conflicted, divided, tor- mented natures, for a moment glimpse their interior darkness and confront the harrowing knowledge of their own fragility. These shocks of self-recognition, however, occur infrequently and are actively avoided: “he never willingly passed before a mirror,” the narrator tells us of Minister Hooper’s subsequent strategies of avoidance, “lest . . . he should be affrighted by himself.” Little wonder, then, that “love or sympathy could never reach him” (9: 48). The last time that his faithful though forever excluded fiancée Elizabeth saw Hooper was in “the comeliness of manhood”; implicitly, Hawthorne suggests, the sight of Hooper unveiled was enough to keep Elizabeth loyal to him (9: 51). This detail comes late in the story, but the confirmation of the male’s beauty must be there, somewhere, like an art- ist’s artfully camouflaged but always discoverable signature. (Similarly, very late in The Blithedale Romance, Zenobia calls Coverdale “much the handsom- est man,” and ruefully wonders why she didn’t just take up with him instead of pursuing the emotionally unavailable Hollingsworth.) Hooper’s self-veil- ing is the most extreme form of scopophobia in Hawthorne, but it is a strat- egy also marked by scopophilia, the ravenous desire to look. By donning the veil, Hooper paradoxically both deflects the gaze and endlessly incites it, one of the many predicaments of Hawthorne’s visually obsessed and obsession- inducing men. Hooper’s eerie, almost malevolent smile, a trope that attends the conclusion of his breakup scene with Elizabeth and other moments, sug- gests an erotic self-satisfaction in his refusal of the gaze, a desire to be seen which, in donning the veil, he has himself so skillfully incited and which his apparent self-camouflaging would appear so adamantly to negate. hawthorne’s VoyeurIsm If many of Hawthorne’s males avoid the gaze, many of his males also attempt to wield it. Their ravenous looking leads not to self-confrontation but to 1 1 2 • C h a P T e r 4 more avid attempts to look at others, a voyeuristic quest that is, ironically, motivated by a hunger to see the self, albeit one that can never be acknowl- edged as such. Vision becomes an increasingly, even obsessively, important theme in Hawthorne’s mature work. Though the visual preoccupations have many different implications and components, even thinking of them in terms of masculinity alone is revealing. The obsessive spying of “Rappac- cini’s Daughter” transforms into the onanistic voyeurism of The Blithedale Romance; the Narcissus-like young men of the tales transform into the once beautiful, now ruined Clifford of The House of the Seven Gables, a character who is a veritable index of traumatic narcissism in that his ruined beauty is linked to his failed promise, his having been entombed in a prison right at the moment of his blooming into adulthood (which continues the theme from Fanshawe onward of youthful male promise destroyed by blight44), his oppression by patriarchal power; moreover, the novel foregrounds an interest in the ethics of the visual (the Pyncheon portrait, uncannily lifelike, with its strange power to extend the patriarchal gaze; Holgrave’s role as daguerreo- typist, treated ambivalently). In House of the Seven Gables, Alice Pyncheon’s startlingly speculative, desiring gaze at Matthew Maule unnerves his mas- culine subjectivity to the extent that he feels he must punish her, using his sorcerer’s skills to turn her into a zombie and eventually destroying her, to his later horror. When the woman looks at male bodies, as she often does in Hawthorne, the results can be harrowing. The Marble Faun makes masculin- ity and the visual a central theme right from the first chapter, in which the titular sculpture is presented and discussed and the character of Donatello is depicted as both sexually desirable and as someone who conceals a visual wonder, his purportedly faunlike ears. The feral but feminized Donatello is the object of the collective gaze, threatened with exposure of his hidden attributes, whatever they may be. In his late, unfinished manuscripts, Haw- thorne’s career-long interest in a masculinity that blurs the lines of gender and sexuality expands to include increasingly urgent concerns over race, con- cerns implicitly present throughout Hawthorne but now made much more explicit. These topics will be the focus of the last chapter. As I will develop in chapter 7, Hawthorne’s thematization of what I call “visual identity” reaches a new level of mature development in The Marble Faun, in which the narcis- sistic crisis in his work achieves a kind of closure. Hawthorne’s responses to classical male beauty recorded in his French and Italian notebooks, specifi- cally to the homoerotic cult icon Antinous, open up the question anew of Hawthorne’s fundamentally conflicted relationship to male beauty. Tied to male subjectivity, vision in Hawthorne emerges, finally, as invasive and injurious, in other words, as voyeurism.45 In turn, voyeurism S T r U C k b y T h e m a S k • 1 1 3 emerges as the default mode of male subjectivity. Hawthorne’s work teems with obsessive male lookers, ambiguous figures whose desire to see others crosses the line into perversity: the titular protagonist of “Wakefield” installs himself as a perpetual watcher of his own life in his absence; Chillingworth spies on Dimmesdale, just as Coverdale spies on his fellow Blithedalers from his “inviolate bower” up in a tree; the Model spies on Miriam in The Marble Faun. Spying becomes the way males coordinate social relations, however one-sided such relations must necessarily be. The relationship of narcissism and shame to voyeurism opens up our discussion considerably. In his depic- tion of voyeurism, Hawthorne evokes the narcissistic and shame-filled nature of the voyeuristic gaze. Moreover, he ties these affective responses to the appeal and the fear of same-sex desire. These themes will be our central focus in the next chapter. c h a p t e r 5 114 W i t h i t s erotic themes, obsession with law and conformity, and fascination with their psychic effects, Hawthorne’s work provides an interesting opportunity to consider the ways in which narcissism and voyeurism imbricate one another. In Hawthorne’s 1852 novel The Blithedale Romance, both modes coalesce in Blithedale’s “amorous New World,” a realm of apparent sexual license in which each member of the utopian community is seemingly given free rein to act on his or her desires. Wielded by Haw- thorne’s famously first-person protagonist Miles Coverdale, the male gaze of this novel indexes a range of Hawthorne’s concerns: narcissism and voy- eurism, autoeroticism and onanism, sexual tourism and self-display, sadism and masochism, self-pleasure and shame, and the established codes of sexual appreciation, the heterosexual, the homoerotic, the bisexual, even the pan- sexual. But the gaze of The Blithedale Romance is varied and multiple: female as well as male, homoerotic as well as heteroerotic, nonhuman as well as human, and Coverdale just as much its object as its subject, as my discussion of “the returned gaze” will demonstrate. One could argue that Coverdale transforms his fellow denizens of a Brook Farm–like reformers’ community into the actors of a pornographic film, which he believes he can watch from afar, maintaining an illusion of mastery through his visual desire. In a discussion with a surprising relevance to this novel, Berkeley Kaite uses pornography as an opportunity to discuss the similarities between narcissism and voyeurism.1 Kaite helps us to under- stand the narcissistic core of voyeurism. While the voyeur seems compelled maSCUliniTy, maSTery, and The reTUrned Gaze OF The BliThedale Romance In a Pig’s Eye i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 1 5 by an aching need to see the other and possess the other by seeing, he chiefly longs for a sight of the self, longings that are also illuminated by Lacanian theory. Pornography emerges as a site in which the plangency and the sadism of this narcissistic voyeurism has full reign. While it endows the spectator with the sustaining, heady illusion of autoerotic plenitude, it proceeds from the logic of prohibition: homoerotic desire is banned, and femininity must conform to the demands of the male gaze. When voyeurism is understood as a kind of narcissism, we can fully appreciate the ways in which an obsession with looking at others reveals a profound ambivalence over how one looks at oneself.2 Indeed, The Blithedale Romance may be said to be one of the first American literary satires of the genre of pornography. In an extraordinarily modern manner that anticipates the films of Alfred Hitchcock and Brian De Palma, and films such as Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (1960) and Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976), the novel rigorously interrogates the fantasies of male mastery inherent in voyeurism. hawthorne and the gaze The young Ellen Langton stares at Fanshawe, the eponymous protagonist of Hawthorne’s first novel, marveling at his beauty; the Minister Hooper pre- vents anyone from seeing his face, hidden behind a black veil; Feathertop, believing he cuts a dashing figure, stares at himself in the mirror, discov- ering, to his horror, that he is merely the mirage of a man, a witch’s illu- sion; Giovanni stares at lush, poisonous Beatrice Rappaccini in her equally beautiful and deadly garden, little realizing that her father is all the while staring at him as he stares at her, or that Rappaccini’s own scientific rival, Baglioni, is spying on them all; Chillingworth triumphantly stares at the exposed flesh of sleeping, guilt-ridden Dimmesdale: these examples of the function of the gaze in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s work metonymically symbol- ize numerous important issues that inform his oeuvre. Hawthorne’s intensely, provocatively visual literary work invites cinematic comparisons. Through- out the book so far, I have been evoking Laura Mulvey’s well-known theory of the male gaze. While her theory remains crucial to my understanding of male visual desire, I also challenge her work here, as have numerous critics in the field of film studies, using Hawthorne’s cinematic novel as an example of representation that complicates gendered subject positions vis-à-vis the gaze.3 In his work, Hawthorne makes it impossible to assign clear positions of dominance and submission. In so doing, he offers valuable contributions to our understanding of the construction and organization of gender and 1 1 6 • C h a P T e r 5 sexuality in the antebellum United States. By rendering male subjects just as often the objects as the wielders of the gaze, Hawthorne insists that we view men as possible objects of erotic contemplation, thereby beckoning queer and feminist analysis. If I am arguing that the radical nature of Hawthorne’s work lies, in part, in his insistence on rendering male figures the object of multiple gazes, The Blithedale Romance poses a theoretical dilemma, since its protagonist, the cynical poet Miles Coverdale, clearly wields the gaze: one might even say his chief agenda is eluding the gaze of others by gazing at them first. In this chapter, I examine the psychic costs of wielding the gaze, arguing that Haw- thorne demonstrates the considerable potential personal risks involved in the avid desire to look, which he never treats as an act or symbol of power but, instead, as the very evidence of the debilitated fragility of the gazer.4 To be clear, I am not arguing that Hawthorne depicts the phallic gazer as a victim who should be pitied for the patriarchal power he must embody and enact through gazing; this chapter eschews any special pleading for the anx- ious condition of aggrieved American manhood. As Suzanne R. Stewart, in a study of late-nineteenth-century masochism and manhood, writes, “The problem with so many postmodern theories of the subject is the elevation of the failure of subjectivity into a general condition of all subjectivity, a fail- ure that is then celebrated as subversive.”5 The subversive energy of the novel lies in the manner whereby Hawthorne exposes Coverdale’s act of seeming masculine dominance—wielding the gaze, voyeuristically devouring what he sees—as indicative of a hopelessly unsuccessful embodiment of male power. In so doing, I argue that The Blithedale Romance can be read as a critique of developing antebellum forms and theories of American masculinity; an evocation of queer threats to it; and as a phobically defensive treatment of the issues of effeminacy that personally plagued Hawthorne. Moreover, and more pressingly, I will argue that The Blithedale Romance provides a partic- ular theorization of heteronormative masculinity’s relationship to the male gaze. As I established earlier, while I am influenced by Lacan’s theory of the gaze as a visual field in which the subject is only one figure and the object looks back at the subject, but at a position from which the subject cannot see itself being looked at by the object, I follow Mulvey in seeing the gaze as an act with real effects on those who look and those who are looked at. In other words, I accept and find useful for my own purposes—though I am not in agreement with many of Mulvey’s claims in her 1975 essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”—her literalization of the Lacanian theory of the gaze. Mulvey theorizes the gaze as the male gaze, the act of looking at i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 1 7 others on the part of the male subject. While I disagree with her reading of the classical Hollywood cinema as being dominated by this male gaze and of the consistent effects of its power as she describes them, and while I aim to show that Hawthorne’s work destabilizes her views, I nevertheless orient my own thinking around Mulvey’s argument. Mulvey argues that the male protagonist of the classical Hollywood film as well as the spectator, gendered male, have two strategies for avoiding a defining fear of castration: voyeurism and fetishism. (As an example of my disagreement with Mulvey, I believe that many of the artists she discusses as exemplary of the defensive uses of these strategies actually depict the strat- egies in a critical way, exposing them as urgent and destructive defenses. Hitchcock’s 1958 Vertigo, which Mulvey reads an example of these effects, is a rigorous analysis of them.) Along these lines, I compare constructions and theorizations of the voyeuristic gaze in Hawthorne, Freud, Lacan, and Hitchcock, artists and thinkers who all use the voyeuristic male gaze as a means of both establishing and deconstructing normative models of patriar- chal power. These psychoanalytic and cinematic perspectives illuminate the ways in which Hawthorne’s ineluctable conservatism competes with a poten- tial radicalism—his phobic demonizations of male deviance with a genuinely probing inquiry into the nature of male dominance, especially as organized around vision. I argue that the voyeuristic male gaze allows Hawthorne first to spy on and then to confront normative forms of manhood and masculin- ity. While I focus on the queer implications of Hawthorne’s work, especially in terms of the gaze, this focus hardly exhausts the potentialities of Haw- thorne gaze-theory. The feminist implications of the desiring gaze in Hawthorne’s work are just as rich, complex, and tantalizing, and demand further analysis than I can provide in this chapter. In chapter 6, I will turn to issues of female sex- uality within the context of the gaze. For now, let me establish that these issues are deeply embedded within the core themes of Hawthorne’s work. Ellen Langton’s desiring appraisal of Fanshawe’s troubled beauty; Hester’s ardent desire for Dimmesdale; seemingly meek, wan, sweet Alice Pyncheon’s frank physical appraisal of Matthew Maule are among the many examples of the female desiring gaze in Hawthorne’s work. As I argue in my book Men Beyond Desire, the figure of the inviolate male (such as Fanshawe, Natty Bumppo, Dimmesdale, Stowe’s Tom, Billy Budd), opposed to both female and homosocial/homoerotic desire, recurs throughout nineteenth-century texts. This man beyond desire, in his emotional, physical, and sexual unavail- ability, transforms fictional worlds into fields of erotic play in which female and queer desirers both discover opportunities to gaze, a surprising agency 1 1 8 • C h a P T e r 5 to roam the inhospitable expanse of beautiful and undesiring men. In this chapter, I am considering the implications for queer theory of the com- plex version of male subjectivity we find in Hawthorne, one that oscillates between spectator and object positions. But the fuller understanding of these questions can only come through further work on the implications for femi- nist literary theory of Hawthorne’s representation of masculinity, femininity, sexual difference, and the gaze. Nina Baym writes that “gay/queer criticism is male-centered by defini- tion. Homosocial and homoerotic moments are excavated and attributed either to Hawthorne’s own suppressed sexual inclinations or to the subli- mated, affect-laden idealizations of male–male relationships in antebellum culture.”6 Baym’s description may be an accurate one for most queer read- ings of Hawthorne’s work, and the present chapter does indeed focus on Hawthorne and manhood, largely because any queer reading of any author’s work that does not contextualize itself within the larger question of gender construction is, in my view, unintelligible. But certainly a queer approach to Hawthorne can and should include a consideration of his representation of active female desire. Certainly, one could at the very least read the transgres- sive desire of his fiery heroines such as Hester Prynne, Zenobia, and Miriam Schaeffer as allegories for transgressive desire of all kinds; moreover, the issue of queer male identification with the desiring woman is crucial though often overlooked. In her important study Domestic Individualism, Gillian Brown dis- cusses voyeurism in the novel and Freudian theory in relation to it. Brown places, however, more emphasis on fetishism, particularly in terms of Cover- dale’s misogynistic reduction of women, such as the fiery Zenobia, to literal objects, such as her shoe, discovered separately when the drowned Zenobia’s dead body is dragged from the water at the climax. One could establish, then, that both Brown’s and my readings proceed from the basis of Mul- vey’s argument, with my own reading emphasizing voyeurism, hers fetishism. For Brown, fetishism, when seen itself as a form of visual pleasure, defends against homoerotic attraction here. It also allows, through a series of dis- placements, Coverdale to remain safely a consumer—of objects, of women, of men. “In the consumerist pleasures and anxieties of looking that Haw- thorne explores,” she writes, “homophobia and misogyny proscribe not spe- cific sexes and sexualities, but the visibility of specificity: they prohibit the possibility of the spectator being static enough to be seen.”7 I discuss fetishism at length in the next chapter, and specifically in rela- tionship to femininity and female sexuality. Here, however, my interest is in the ways in which the spectator is, actually, constantly in the act of being seen i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 1 9 within his presumed scenes of invisible visual mastery. Hence my focus on the returned gaze. I share Brown’s feminist concern for the treatment of the female characters as fetishistic objects, and am in agreement with her reading that Coverdale uses his voyeurism and also his fetishistic regard for people- as-objects in an effort to avoid spectatorial exposure himself. And, though it is not my focus, I also agree with her reading of Coverdale as a nineteenth- century consumer and the importance of the novel to middle-class consumer culture generally, especially in its fantasies of consumerist visual impunity. But in my view the novel more directly engages with Coverdale’s “strategies for safe spectatorship,” as Brown puts it, in part to expose the homosexual panic, to use an anachronistic, perhaps, but nevertheless irresistible term, at its core. The novel itself incorporates homophobic anxiety into its represen- tation of Coverdale’s gaze, but at the same time, it exposes and critiques it as such. Moreover, the women, transformed into fetish objects, at times return Coverdale’s gaze, and with a saucy, derisive aplomb at that. a great deal oF eye-shot Unlike Fanshawe, Minister Hooper, Feathertop, and Dimmesdale, Miles Coverdale, Blithedale’s cryptic first-person narrator, occupies the position of watcher, the bachelor onlooker, or “third man,” who observes male–female love triangles.8 Alternatively, he also represents the “the fourth side,” as writer, reader, and also participant in the dramatic action.9 Characters such as Fanshawe and Dimmesdale occupy the position of being the object of the desiring gaze, recalling classical figures such as Endymion, a young man so beautiful that the moon goddess Selene insisted that Zeus cast a perpetual sleep over him so that she could forever gaze upon and caress him.10 But in contrast, Coverdale wields the gaze, albeit surreptitiously, almost as hidden a voyeuristic viewer as James Stewart’s Jefferies (“Jeff”) in Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954).11 Coverdale enjoys a “rare seclusion” in his “hermitage,” a “leafy cave” high up in the branches of a pine tree. The “decay” of branches “lovingly strangled” by “vine” forms this “hollow chamber.” Within his little bower, Coverdale counts “the innumerable clusters of my vine,” and forereckons “the abundance of my vintage.”12 Like Fanshawe, the protagonist of Haw- thorne’s first novel, he is a ruler in an autoerotic world of his own. “This hermitage,” reveals Coverdale, “symbolized my individuality, and aided me in keeping it inviolate” (3: 98–99). Coverdale’s declaration firmly establishes that, while he fantasizes about Hollingsworth, Zenobia, and Priscilla, his 1 2 0 • C h a P T e r 5 first thoughts tend toward his own “vine” and “vintage,” and the hermit- age merely extrudes the interior inviolate individuality into which Coverdale burrows.13 And from this vantage point, Coverdale “peeps,” for his posi- tion is “loft enough to serve as an observatory,” from where he can observe Hollingsworth, Priscilla, the Blithedale goings-on. Coverdale transforms his inviolate sanctuary into a theater in which his scopophilic spectatorship has full voyeuristic reign and range—the self as Panopticon (3: 99).14 If Coverdale fetishistically gazes at those around him, the way he looks at Zenobia triggers her to call him on it: “I have been exposed to a great deal of eye-shot . . . but never, I think, to precisely such glances as you are in the habit of favoring me with” (3: 47). If, in Mulvey fashion, Coverdale objecti- fies women through the power of his vision, Zenobia unflinchingly returns his gaze, a topic to which we will return. Coverdale’s anguished appreciation of Hollingsworth’s beauty—coming, as it does, along with a sense that Hol- lingsworth is neither terribly kind nor trustworthy—appears to translate into onanistic fantasy with self-flagellating (shades of Dimmesdale) repercussions, “exemplifying the kind of error into which my mode of observation was cal- culated to lead me”: In my recollection of his dark and impressive countenance, the features grew more sternly prominent than the reality, duskier in their depth and shadow, and more lurid in their light.  .  .  .  On meeting him again, I was often filled with remorse, when his deep eyes beamed kindly on me. . . .” He is a man after all!” thought I—“his Maker’s own truest image . . . not that steel engine of the Devil’s own contrivance, a philanthropic man!” But, in my wood-walks, and in my silent chamber, the dark face frowned at me again. (3: 71). One is reminded of the fiendish figure of the young man’s “Shame” who stands before him between consciousness and sleep in the tale “The Haunted Mind.” Sophia Hawthorne knew very well that when Hawthorne referred to a solitary chamber, he evoked onanistic pleasure, one reason why she obliter- ated references to such “filthiness” in her husband’s writing.15 Like the onan- ist of antebellum health and sexual reformer Sylvester Graham’s perfervid imaginings, Coverdale feverishly retreats into private “recollection” in his “silent,” secret chamber, where reproduced images of Hollingsworth take on a lurid luster of almost explicitly onanistic and homoerotic fantasy, solidi- fied even in negation by the phallicized quality of what Hollingsworth sup- posedly is not, a “steel engine.”16 It is little wonder that when Coverdale sees Hollingsworth after his solitary imaginings, he feels remorse—even less won- i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 2 1 der that this paragraph precedes both Coverdale’s declaration that he finds Hollingsworth beautiful and the description of Blithedale as a Golden Age that promotes polyamorous amativeness, that authorizes “any individual, of either sex, to fall in love with any other, regardless of what would elsewhere be judged suitable and prudent” (3: 72). The inviolate male in Hawthorne (and other authors’ works) overlaps with the construction of the onanist in the theories of myriad antebellum sexual and health reformers such as Sylvester Graham, John Todd, and Mary Gove Nichols.17 In this chapter, my focus will be not on onanism as a discur- sive category, but on Hawthorne’s fusing of an onanistic with a voyeuristic persona in Coverdale, and the various effects such a fusion has on the novel. Contemporary critics have linked Hawthorne’s concerns in The Blithedale Romance to the science-fiction author and literary theorist Samuel Delany’s in Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, a study on peep shows, porno- graphic theaters, and social regulation in New York City.18 I take these claims to their logical conclusion, seeing Coverdale as an onanistic Peeping Tom in the ever-illuminated pornographic theater of the Blithedale community. If Coverdale is a Peeping Tom, it is a subject position that implies onan- istic sensibility. Admiring the beauty of both men and women at Blithe- dale, Coverdale roams this utopian space as onanistic voyeur, tourist of erotic possibilities.19 In chapter 1 we outlined Lacan’s theory of the gaze, which has elicited many critical treatments.20 Focusing specifically on forms of the gaze most relevant to Blithedale—the voyeuristic and the returned gaze—we come to some suggestive points toward our fuller understanding of the gaze in Hawthorne. I will first consider the voyeuristic gaze. Because of the sado- masochistic quality of Coverdale’s simultaneously anguished and merciless voyeurism, I find Freud’s treatment of voyeurism particularly illuminating. Archeologically excavating “the early history of the sexual instinct,” Freud observes that infantile sexuality “from the very first involves other people as sexual objects.” Scopophilia, exhibitionism, and cruelty, linked “instincts,” exist somewhat “independently” from erotogenic sexual activity, dominating the early lives of children. In Freud’s view very young children are, crucially, not plagued by shame, and because of this they exude a great “satisfaction” in exhibiting their own bodies before others. (As I suggested in chapter 2, how- ever, children are hardly immune to shame.) Onanistic children, fascinated by their own genitals, also develop an interest in the genitals of others. Such children most often develop into “voyeurs, eager spectators of the processes of micturition and defecation,” activities likeliest to satisfy eyes hungering for a glimpse of hidden genitals. After repression sets in, this desire to see 1 2 2 • C h a P T e r 5 others’ genitals becomes a “tormenting compulsion.” Even more indepen- dent an impulse than scopophilia, cruelty comes easily to the child, for the affect of pity, like shame, develops late (SE 7: 191–92).21 In his conflation of scopophilia, exhibitionism, and cruelty, Freud appears to suggest that these drives, rather than depending on sexual iden- tity or feeling, manifest themselves as forces with their own agency, onerous demands, power. Moreover, these drives’ interrelated qualities hinge on piti- lessly attempting to exert dominance over the entire exhibitionistic specta- cle. Voyeurism curdles into a desperate sorrow, forever attempting to outwit more powerful repressive forces, while never relinquishing its essentially piti- less agenda to force the gaze-object to submit to the gazing subject. In terms of Coverdale’s gaze, the masochism of his own onanistic voyeurism never mitigates the cruelty inherent in his own relentless desire to possess through his ravenous eyes. Important valences unite Blithedale and Freud’s Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. Both works relentlessly assign zoological “types” to sexual and gendered categories while perpetually insisting on the fundamental cruelty of desire’s self-propagating exertions. Both works also insist that, far from signifying mere isolate self-regard verging on solipsism, onanistic activity only incites desire for the incorporation, through scopophilia, of the desired other; in fact, onanistic voyeurism becomes an ingenious strategy not only for connecting to others but for possessing and memorializing them, press- ing them permanently on the mind’s unblinking “inward eye,” to lift from Wordsworth’s poem “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” (written in 1804, first published in 1807, and published in revised form in 1815), where they can be made to “flash” at will. The chief relevance in Freud’s work here for the present inquiry lies in its insistence on seeing cruelty and torment as inher- ent aspects of scopophilia generally, voyeurism specifically. The curious gendered politics of Lacan’s theory of the gaze demand some attention. Lacan’s theoretical formulations of the gaze are as redolent of gendered anxieties as they are insightful about them. For Lacan, writes Robert Samuels in a Lacanian reading of Hitchcock films, the “ego is pure nothingness.  .  .  .  the subject is narcissistically invested in all of its external representations . . . the subject represses any awareness of its own nothing- ness or its own lack of representation.” Desperately attempting to avoid any confrontation with its own lack, the ego projects it “into the place of the Other,” then using “this nothingness, or what Lacan called the ‘object’ (a), as a cause of its own desire or anxiety. In our current civilization and social structure, this dialectic between the Imaginary state of consciousness and the projected object of nothingness is most often played out in gendered and i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 2 3 racial terms.”22 Like Jefferies in Hitchcock’s 1954 film Rear Window, Cover- dale perpetually seeks to elude knowledge of his own insubstantiality by forever busying himself with the “external representations” of his own narcis- sism, that is, the other Blithedalers, who also conveniently provide him with an external cause for his own marginalization (“How little did these two women care for me . . .!” [124]). But rather than projecting his own noth- ingness exclusively on female characters, who can then conveniently embody the fearsome lack/castration he disavows in himself, Coverdale projects his own nothingness onto male characters as well, most strikingly the mesmer- ist Westervelt, who embodies Coverdale’s “lack” in a vividly homophobic manner. Inadvertently or otherwise, slippages between homoeroticism and homophobia characterize Lacan’s treatment of the gaze, in a manner, as we shall see, similar to Hawthorne’s. The subject of the gaze seeks to see the “object as absence.”23 As Lacan himself writes, What the voyeur is looking for and finds is merely a shadow, a shadow behind the curtain. There he will phantasize any magic of presence, the most graceful of girls, for example, even if on the other side there is only a hairy athlete. What he is looking for is not, as one says, the phallus— but precisely its absence, hence the pre-eminence of certain forms as the objects of his search.24 Lacan’s formulation excludes potential feminine and/or queer voyeuristic desire. Continuing to keep our focus on queer desire for the purposes of this study, we may wonder what would happen if this voyeuristic subject were queer. If the queer voyeuristic subject seeks a literal phallus rather than a phantasmatic ideal, symbolic one, the phallus of the hairy athlete who is no goofy, farcical booby prize but the actual focus of the male subject’s fan- tasy (by making him hirsute, athletic, Lacan makes this masculine object especially homoerotic), what might he find on “the other side”? If Lacan is unable here to imagine actual male fantasy for another male, he nevertheless provides a means whereby homoerotic voyeuristic fantasy may be considered. If Coverdale, as moved by Hollingsworth’s as he is by Zenobia’s or Priscilla’s beauty (perhaps even more so), projects his own nothingness upon Holling- sworth, and upon Westervelt, does he find merely the shadow he seeks, the absence in which his own nothingness may be projected? In the provocative relays among subject, gaze, gender, and otherness that organize The Blithedale Romance, Hawthorne parlays his own gendered and sexual anxieties into the only first-person narrator of his novels, who then 1 2 4 • C h a P T e r 5 projects his own anxieties into the beckoning void of the other characters whom Coverdale voyeuristically fetishizes. In Lacanian terms, Hawthorne may be said to project his own sense of gendered nothingness into Cover- dale, who then projects his own onto Hollingsworth and Westervelt, freeing himself of it, even more successfully freeing Hawthorne—now at an even greater, safer remove—of it. Yet the uncannily unexpected occurs: the text— the void, the shadow that ostensibly marks an absence—will swerve about to reveal another set of eyes, its own; they look back on the subject desperately attempting to escape its own insubstantiality through its projected gaze.25 medusan manhood If Coverdale describes himself in a manner that suggests the self as Panop- ticon, or figures his mind as a pornographic theater in which he can play recorded erotic images, the novel’s interest in evoking images of the Medusa take on a special relevance. The head of the panoptical self, the head-as-por- nographic theater: Medusan references corroborate the head as a site of dan- ger and excitement but also one of pollution and contagion. If thine head offend thee, cut it off. Hawthorne referred to himself as the “Decapitated Surveyor” in “The Custom House,” thus associating himself with both Perseus, slayer of the Gorgon, and with Medusa herself (as Joel Pfister also argues), a mythologi- cal story he retells in his 1852 A Wonder Book, a work of children’s litera- ture.26 (In chapter 28 of Moby-Dick, Melville makes reference to Cellini’s famous statue of Perseus holding the decapitated head of Medusa, comparing Perseus to Ahab. Elsewhere, he associates the Whale with Medusa.) Haw- thorne explicitly uses Medusa—a spectacular subject of the gaze, the ulti- mate example of the terrible effects of looking, a prime example of male gazing with potentially fatal results—as a symbol in Blithedale. Coverdale obliquely associates Zenobia with Medusa and himself with Perseus, who can see the Gorgon only in a mirror (reflected in his shield) lest he be turned to stone: “Zenobia had turned aside. But I caught the reflection of her face in the mirror” (3: 167). When she, as raconteur, entertains the Blithedalers, Zenobia likens the Veiled Lady to Medusa (3: 110). Given Freud’s eloquently shocking formulation of the Medusa myth as representative of the terror of the primal scene, these references to Medusa clearly associate Zenobia with a threateningly vivid, voracious female sexuality.27 But what are we to make of Westervelt’s equally Medusan manhood? Coverdale also associates the mustachioed, bearded, and odious Westervelt i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 2 5 with the Green Man, “hirsute and cinctured with a leafy girdle,” whom Mar- jorie Garber, in a different context, has described as a Male Medusa (91).28 Zenobia, the Medusan harlot, Westervelt, the Male Medusa, and Coverdale, the onanistic voyeur—these three conform to the triptych of Victorian social monsters, as Jonathan Ned Katz puts it, the prostitute, the sodomite, and the onanist, all enemies of the properly reproductive and normative family.29 The Veiled Lady and the Coverdale–Westervelt episodes are exemplary and complementary scenes of spectatorial ambivalence centered in gendered and sexual anxiety. With the Veiled Lady, the veiling of a woman’s face func- tions as a metaphor for the sexual mystery of Woman, and emphasizes vision as the key to this mystery: unveiling her may reveal the face of beauty and sexual desirability or the Medusan face of ugliness and death. (As Richard Brodhead has persuasively shown, the Veiled Lady is an acute metaphor for the paradoxical possibilities of the “public woman” in antebellum culture.30) The Coverdale–Westervelt episode stages an encounter with masculinity’s sexual mystery. Unveiled, male sexuality is both desirable and horrifying, and, again, vision functions as key to all sexual mysteries.31 Coverdale immediately, instinctively despises Westervelt, who pre- sumptuously hails Coverdale as “friend” (3: 90). Coverdale’s appraisal of Westervelt significantly relates to several themes in our discussion of Haw- thorne: Westervelt is “young,” “well-developed,” “as handsome a man as ever I beheld.” Coverdale, however, does not like Westervelt’s style of beauty, “though a masculine” one (my emphasis). The problem with it? “He had no fineness of nature . . . [in his eyes was] the naked exposure of something that ought not to be left prominent” (3: 92). Coverdale hates him, he thinks, because Westervelt’s “foppish” garb outdoes his own “homely” one (3: 92). But this revelation clinches Coverdale’s appalled appraisal: In the excess of his delight, he opened his mouth wide, and disclosed a gold band around the upper part of his teeth; thereby making it apparent that every one of his brilliant grinders and incisors was a sham. . . . I felt as if the whole man were a moral and physical humbug; his wonderful beauty of face, for aught I knew, might be removeable [sic] like a mask; . . . [there was] nothing genuine about him. . . .” (3: 95) If Hawthorne ambivalently regards Fanshawe and Dimmesdale as beau- tiful young men blighted by onanism, no ambivalence, only a complete hatred, characterizes his response, through Coverdale, to Westervelt. In a pro- vocative essay, Benjamin Scott Grossberg discusses the chief impasse between Coverdale and Hollingsworth as the incompatibility between Hollingsworth’s 1 2 6 • C h a P T e r 5 homoerotic desire and Coverdale’s queer desire, which encompasses all of the Blithedale community, male and female alike. Yet Grossberg does not grapple with the intensely phobic manner in which Coverdale describes Westervelt— surely, a disruption of a marvelously omnivorous queer sensibility.32 When unveiled, Westervelt’s monstrous, artificially constructed mouth yawns open like a technologically engineered vagina dentata, with mech- anized teeth and drawbridge flexibility. Through his representation of Westervelt as all mouth, and by making this somatic zone the prime feature of his Medusan manhood, Hawthorne equates effeminate males such as the “foppish” Westervelt with an alarming artificiality that suggests the consis- tent Hawthorne theme of physical blight, moral depravity, and “contagion.” If Hawthorne previously treated the effeminate male with a certain degree of sympathy, in Westervelt he throws him to the wolves. (Coverdale continues to see Westervelt-types—at the hotel, he spies on a “young man in a dress- ing-gown, standing before the glass and brushing his hair, for a quarter-of- an-hour together” [150].) From a critical psychoanalytic perspective—which critiques psychoanalytic theory’s ideological conservatism while also appreci- ating psychoanalysis for its value and making use of its insights—Hawthorne may be said, however anachronistically, to return the “homosexual” to the oral stage, the first stage of human psychosexual development, as Freud theo- rizes it in Three Essays. Such a return has homophobic implications, associ- ating the nonnormative male with a regressive, stunted, “primitive” stage of human sexuality. Not only does Hawthorne’s depiction of Westervelt homophobically cor- respond to Jacksonian mythologies and cultural dictates about European dandyish, effeminate artificiality versus sturdy American naturalism—Cover- dale fears “the contagion of his strange mirth”—but it also reveals a great deal about Hawthorne’s own anxieties about his manhood, under constant threat from those in his circle.33 Hawthorne frustrated people who associated him with feminine qualities. “Oliver Wendell Holmes complained that trying to talk to Hawthorne was like ‘love-making.’ Hawthorne’s ‘shy, beautiful soul had to be wooed from its bashful pudency like an unschooled maiden.’”34 Emerson’s relationship to Hawthorne is also suggestive. Hawthorne and Sophia lived in the Old Manse, the home in Concord, Massachusetts, that had been built for Emerson’s grandfather and in which Emerson wrote his famous chapter, Nature.35 Though often in close proximity to each other, the men appeared to regard each other with suspicion and maintained a strange, jangly relationship.36 Emerson, for his part, once remarked (in an 1838 jour- nal entry) that Bronson Alcott and Hawthorne together would make one man.37 Much more paradoxically, Hawthorne suffered the slings and arrows i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 2 7 of charges of effeminacy after his marriage to Sophia. Sophia—not only as Hawthorne’s wife but also as a fellow artist (she created a memorable illustra- tion for Hawthorne’s tale “The Gentle Boy”) who appreciated Hawthorne’s sensitive, “feminine” qualities—was forced to defend her husband against charges of “womanish weakness” from her own family after their marriage in the summer of 1842.38 Hawthorne imbues Westervelt with the calumniating qualities lobbed against the writer himself—foppishness, artificiality, effeminacy. A scape- goat, Westervelt bears these socially undesirable, deviant traits with a smirk- ing gruesomeness that physically manifests his inner depravity.39 Hawthorne therefore presents himself as an ornery subject for a queer theorist to han- dle. His repulsion at effeminacy and at male–male bonds—while poten- tially antipatriarchal—carries a deeply homophobic charge as well.40 Yet his idealization of male beauty—which amounts to a refracted narcissism, an autoerotic/homoerotic relay between author, fictive mirror-image, and, if present, a spectator (usually, but not always, a woman) who acts as con- duit—charges his work with considerable homoerotic power. As Robert K. Martin and Scott Derrick have each observed, Coverdale seems as drawn to as he is freaked out by Westervelt’s disconcerting erotic spectacle.41 (In this chapter I am also only focusing on one aspect of the continuum of sexual modes represented by Westervelt’s almost ectoplasmically multivalent sexu- ality. Westervelt as dandy would be one place to start examining numerous ricocheting sexual valences of his character: Westervelt is both the dandy as effeminate fop and the womanizing “diabolical dandy,” who leaves ruined women in his Valmont-like wake. The misogynistic and predatory aspects of Westervelt must not be forgotten and need further analysis.) Coverdale’s loathing of Westervelt can be read as a specific feature of a general erotophobia that seemed to characterize Hawthorne’s reactions to Fourierianism. Hawthorne left Brook Farm, the famous, failed utopian com- munal experiment, before it adopted Fourierian philosophy in 1843; The Blithedale Romance is, of course, Hawthorne’s roman à clef depiction of his Brook Farm experiences. Despite considerable efforts on the part of Albert Brisbane, an American who tried to reimagine and reshape the Fourierian phalanstery system to make it more palatable to American tastes, Fourierian projects, such as Brook Farm ultimately became, received stinging criticisms that centered around the beliefs that Fourierian communities abolished mar- riage and promoted polyamorous relations.42 Certainly, Fourier’s own theories provided a deeply radical alternative to conventional middle-class morality. Hawthorne and his wife Sophia both read Fourier’s writing and expressed disdain; Hawthorne, reported Sophia, was left “thoroughly disgusted” by 1 2 8 • C h a P T e r 5 what he read.43 Reading deeply in Fourier himself before writing the novel— Sophia quite adamantly insisted that they both read Fourier in his original French44—Hawthorne reacted, in Blithedale, to the unadulterated, un-Amer- icanized version of Fourierian utopianism, which promised polyamorous potentialities ranging from “‘vestalic’ virginity” to “complete promiscuity, both heterosexual and homosexual.” In other words, Hawthorne cringed at the possibilities suggested by the seemingly imminent realization of Fourier’s “New Amorous World.”45 Another factor may account for the homophobic depiction of Westervelt. A great deal has been written about Hawthorne’s relationship with Herman Melville. Meeting Melville set the stage for writing The Blithedale Romance. While the history of commentary on the relationship between these wounded men is too complex to address in this chapter, it is fair to say that The Blithe- dale Romance’s extraordinarily push–pull relationship to male–male desire eerily resembles the dynamics of the Hawthorne–Melville relationship. Cer- tainly, Hawthorne’s own feelings toward same-sex intimacies deepened over time—into a genuine disgust. In his first experiences visiting the Shaker communities, Hawthorne found them odd but rather quaint. But, visiting them again—significantly, with Melville—in the period in which The Blithe- dale Romance was written, Hawthorne expressed contempt, and a genuine revulsion, for same-sex Shaker sleeping arrangements.46 In chapter 7, I will return to a comparative analysis of both authors’ treatment of masculinity and male beauty in terms of their distinct reactions to classical sculpture and in the larger context of Melville’s late masterpiece Billy Budd. While Hawthorne’s depiction of Westervelt as a bionic fop reeks of homophobic disgust, as a whole the novel’s depiction of manhood radically critiques national enforcements of masculine identity which were themselves founded on homophobic ideologies. The fears about his effeminacy sur- rounding Hawthorne especially around the time and the site of his marriage were one dimension of homo-threat in Hawthorne’s life. Others came from national currents in the construction of American manhood. The 1850s are a significant decade in the conflation of masculine character and physical strength. “In the three quarters of a century after the American Revolu- tion, bourgeois Northerners showed the deepest concern for manhood in its moral, social, and political meanings, while placing a lesser emphasis on the male body,” writes E. Anthony Rotundo. “Then, in the second half of the nineteenth century, this relative emphasis began to change.” Middle-class men began paying “assiduous attention to their bodies.” Beginning in the 1850s, a “vogue of physical culture” became a mania that would be a fully entrenched aspect of American masculinity by the end of the decade.47 The i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 2 9 novel’s critique of this newly hypermasculinist model of American manhood involves two seemingly unrelated yet, upon reflection, perfectly overlapping metaphorical themes: zoological allusions and the male/tourist/voyeuristic gaze. In a pIg’s eye The dangers of the gaze perpetually confront Coverdale. Interrupting their Comus-like masque in the forest, Coverdale gapes at the Blithedalers garbed as Indians, Arcadian shepherds, Shakers, the goddess Diana, and other oddly assorted figures, suggestive of the hellish forest orgy of “Young Good- man Brown” in its decadence. When these revelers spot Coverdale, they give chase, making him feel alternately like Actaeon, the young hunter who accidentally spied on the naked goddess Diana bathing in a pool (after she turns him into a stag, his own dogs kill him), and a “mad poet hunted by chimaeras (3: 211) (inverting the usual order of people chasing chimeras). The forest frolic in which Coverdale observes the Blithedale masque suggests another—Pentheus spying, in Euripides’ The Bacchae, on his mother reveling orgiastically among her fellow Maenads, female worshippers of Dionysius who become wildly drunk and tear animals apart with their hands. Discov- ering Pentheus, they decapitate him; his own mother, still in a mad bacchic haze, walks around with his head on a stick. Unmentioned yet suggested by the episode, the Pentheus story corresponds to the Medusan theme of castration/decapitation. The Blithedalers’ retaliatory chase after Coverdale opens up an extremely important theme in this work: the returned gaze. No mere passive spec- tacle, the Blithedalers look back at Coverdale—at us—violently forcing us to account for the spying sacrilege of our gaze, much as the murdered Mar- ion Crane’s eye in Hitchcock’s 1960 Psycho unflinchingly looks back at us for having so long looked at her. I borrow the term “the returned gaze” from Wheeler Winston Dixon’s study It Looks at You. Drawing on the work of Marc Vernet and Paul Willemen, this study covers such topics as the returned gaze, surveillance, and the trans/gendered gaze as “seen” in a very wide-ranging array of classically mainstream and independent films. Dixon is primarily interested in the process whereby a film “acts upon us, address- ing us, viewing us as we view it, until the film itself becomes a gaze, rather than an object to be gazed upon.”48 The returned gaze can produce moments in which “film structure watches us,” when we “feel the look of the image being turned against us, surveilling us, subjecting us to the ‘look back’ of the 1 3 0 • C h a P T e r 5 screen.”49 Discussing the films of Wesley E. Barry and Andy Warhol, Dixon argues that the film itself constitutes a body, a living being . . . that . . . views its poten- tial audience, holds them in its gaze, subjects them to the same sort of reciprocal surveillance that is experienced between prisoners and guards [a nod to the Foucauldian Panopticon], a state that leads the viewer, inevita- bly, to look with her/himself.50 The returned gaze is a highly ambivalent phenomenon, capable of both radical effects and reactionary forms of discipline. It is a perfect device, then, for an analysis of Hawthorne’s work. Surprisingly, Dixon does not engage with Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze. Instead, his primary focus is on the ways in which the camera’s own “chorascular” purview over the image becomes a gaze directed at—returned to—the audience.51 Taking his argu- ment in a different direction, I argue that the returned gaze can be a moment of radical resistance to the domination of the patriarchal male gaze, as theo- rized by Mulvey, in that the objects—women, sexual deviants, the racial other—at times squashed beneath it return the subject’s gaze, occasionally with a defiance that can be read as counterattack. Admittedly, this is a rare occurrence—but that makes instances of it all the more noteworthy. When Zenobia calls upon Coverdale’s voracious gazing of him—his excessive “eye- shot”—she is both questioning and undermining the structure of patriarchal power that enables Coverdale to believe he can gaze unabashedly. I am inter- ested in the returned gaze’s capacity to function as a form of the gaze within narrative forms such as novels and films. In terms of Hawthorne’s critique of 1850s hypermasculinity, the gaze, specifically the returned gaze, makes a surprising intervention. In order to understand the manifestation of the returned gaze in terms of the novel’s gendered project, we must link it to another aspect of this project, Cover- dale’s zoologies of gender and Hawthorne’s parodistic treatment of gendered stereotypes. Throughout the novel, Coverdale, a zoological categorizer of people by sex, relentlessly “pegs” his fellow fictive figures—and by implication, us— with broad essentialist generalizations. These generalizations crucially relate to conservative impulses in Hawthorne, especially regarding constructions of gender. But they have a radical side, too—through them, Hawthorne cri- tiques, intentionally, consciously, or otherwise, American hypermasculinity and its concomitant misogyny. Though Coverdale likens Blithedale to the i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 3 1 “Golden Age,” the first age in Greek myth and a time before women were created (3: 72), he bristles at and buckles against male dominion. “I hate to be ruled by my own sex,” reveals Coverdale, for it “excites my jealousy and wounds my pride” (3: 121). Young or old, man is “prone to be a brute” (3: 73). Men with an “over-ruling purpose” such as Hollingsworth have “no heart, no sympathy, no reason, no conscience,” are “not altogether human” (3: 70). Perhaps this is the fault of the male species itself—“we really have no tenderness” (3: 42). Again, confirming what men “are” through negation, Coverdale observes that men naturally contemn those weak, dis- eased unfortunates who “falter and faint” in the “rude jostle of our selfish existence” (3: 41). Coverdale suspects that Hollingsworth has come among them only because, having no “real” sympathy, he is as estranged from life as they now are (3: 54). While girls, despite their Pearl-like wildness, play with a “harmonious propriety,” boys play “old, traditionary games,” “accord- ing to recognized law”—this may not sound so very terribly ominous, but Coverdale concludes: “young or old, in play or in earnest, man is prone to be a brute” (3: 73). (I am reminded of the ad campaign for Anthony Ming- hella’s 1999 film version of Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Talented Mr. Rip- ley: “Why is it that when men play they always play at killing each other?”) Though highly conventional markers of femininity bestrew the novel— Zenobia’s hothouse flower, associating her with Beatrice, Rappaccini’s ill- fated daughter (3: 44); Priscilla’s purse (intriguingly, Coverdale reveals that he, too, possesses one) (3: 35)—especially sharp spikes line the markers of manhood. Though a seeming radical, Hollingsworth reveals himself to be a tradi- tional male in the worst sense. Hollingsworth emerges as a great spokesman for domestic violence. Violently aghast at Zenobia’s suffragist philosophy, Hollingsworth, all but explicitly assigning them a sapphic identity, deems women who strive for equal rights “poor, miserable, abortive creatures,” “pet- ticoated monstrosities.” “I would call upon my sex,” rails Hollingsworth, “to use its physical force, that unmistakeable [sic] evidence of sovereignty, to scourge them back within their proper bounds!” (3: 123). Hollingsworth decries women for failing to adhere to normative gendered stereotypes while fully adhering to those of his own sex. Crucially, Hawthorne puts a strident testimonial to “physical force” as the chief evidence of natural male “sover- eignty” in the mouth of an increasingly contemptible, misogynistic character. Coverdale’s sympathies seem firmly in the women’s camp—after Holling- sworth threatens Zenobia, Coverdale shares in what he presumes to be her rage at this “outrageous affirmation of  .  .  .  the intensity of masculine ego- 1 3 2 • C h a P T e r 5 tism” (3: 123). Self-pityingly wounded Coverdale transmutes his empathy, though, into rancor at the women for failing to care for him, while brutal Hollingsworth, “by some necromancy of his horrible injustice, seemed to have brought them both to his feet!” (3: 124), leaving Coverdale “to shiver in outer seclusion” (3: 126). Given Coverdale’s nearly misandrist contempt for masculinity, certain passages reek of an especially redolent Hawthornean irony: “After a reason- able training, the yeoman-life throve well with us. Our faces took the sun- burn kindly; our chests gained in compass, and our shoulders in breadth and squareness; our great brown fists looked as if they had never been capable of kid gloves” (3: 64). Given the emergent antebellum cult of hypermasculinity, and the critical drubbing that Hawthorne’s own performance of masculinity received, this description throbs with satirical and political significance. Coverdale conjectures that Hollingsworth views mankind as “but another yoke of oxen, as stubborn, sluggish, and stupid” (3: 100), and yet his own theories of manhood correspond symmetrically to Hollingsworth’s. The apo- theosis of the novel’s demythologization of male power—achieved precisely by associating it primarily with “brute” strength—is the passage on the pigs. Sadly yet bitterly leaving Blithedale after his refusal of Hollingsworth’s hand in friendship, Coverdale passes Hollingsworth, as if both were “mutu- ally invisible.” What follows is perhaps the most coarsely, palpably visual image in the novel, when Coverdale visits the pigsty before his departure: There they lay, buried as deeply among the straw as they could burrow, four huge black grunters, the very symbols of slothful ease and sensual comfort. They were asleep, drawing short and heavy breaths, which heaved their big sides up and down. Unclosing their eyes, however, at my approach, they looked dimly forth at the outer world.  .  .  .  They were involved, and almost stifled, and buried alive, in their own corporeal substance. The very unreadiness and oppression, wherewith these greasy citizens gained breath enough to keep their life-machinery in sluggish movement, appeared to make them only the more sensible of the ponderous and fat satisfaction of their existence. Peeping at me, an instant, out of their small, red, hardly perceptible eyes, they dropt asleep again; yet not so far asleep but that their unctuous bliss was still present to them, betwixt dream and reality. (3: 143–44) The authentically masculine farmer Silas Foster impresses upon Coverdale that he must return to dine on spareribs—“I shall have these fat fellows hanging up by the heels, heads downward, pretty soon, I tell you!” Appalled, i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 3 3 Coverdale responds that only these “four porkers” are happy in Blithedale, and that it would be better “for the general comfort to let them eat us; and bitter and sour morsels should we be!” (3: 144). Hawthorne’s dark humor comes through forcefully in such moments—and the joke is entirely on Coverdale. While some critics might argue that this brief moment in the text does not deserve sustained attention, and that, moreover, the pigs merely peep at Coverdale for an instant, thereby largely constituting slothful sleep rather than assaultive looking, I argue that this passage with the pigs is one of the novel’s most significant, especially because it foregrounds by thematizing the issues of gender, voyeurism, zoological typing, and the returned gaze in the work. The pig-passage reveals that, despite his efforts at sadistic voyeuristic mastery, Coverdale’s own subject position is resolutely one of enforced, abid- ing masochism, one that is no match for the pigs’ “unctuous bliss.” As I sug- gested in chapter 2, theories of masochism are relevant to Hawthorne’s work, and never more so than in this novel.52 FlyIng the boar Confirming their allegorical significance as males, these almost oneiric beasts are called “fellows.” “Fellows” echoes Coverdale’s earlier analogy between the pigs—who need to be acquired shortly after Coverdale arrives in Blithe- dale—and “the swinish multitude,” the masculine world of commerce and industry, the “greedy, struggling, self-seeking world” that Blithedale ostensi- bly rejects and defies (3: 20). In his 1853 Tanglewood Tales, another collection of classical myths retold for children, Hawthorne recounts the tale from Homer’s Odyssey of Circe and the pigs. The powerful sorceress Circe turns Odysseus’s men into pigs, just as she has transformed other hapless male victims into the various ani- mals that pace around her haunted palace. Admittedly, Homer often depicts Odysseus’s hungry men, who make the fatal error of eating the sun god Helios’s cattle (Book 12), as stupid and foolish. But Hawthorne extrava- gantly emphasizes the men’s innate beastliness to a degree that bears closer investigation. As Ulysses’ (as Hawthorne Victorianizes “Odysseus”) men marvel at their luck at being in the beautiful Circe’s beautiful palace and their impending feast, they whisper and “wink” at each other, little realizing Circe’s contemp- tuous plans for them. “It would really have made you ashamed to see how they swilled down the liquor and gobbled up the food,” the narrator sighs. 1 3 4 • C h a P T e r 5 “They sat on golden thrones, to be sure; but they behaved like pigs in a sty.” The squeamish narrator remarks, too, that it “brings a blush into my face to reckon up, in my own mind, what mountains of meat and pudding, and what gallons of wine, these two and twenty guzzlers and gormandizers ate and drank” (7: 281). Disgusted by the men’s behavior—which she has herself enabled and orchestrated—Circe calls them “wretches,” saying it will take little magic to transform them into the pigs they have already emulated. They would have wrung their hands in despair, but, attempting to do so, grew all the more desperate for seeing themselves squatted on their hams, and pawing the air with their fore trotters. Dear me! what pendulous ears they had! what little red eyes, half buried in fat! and what long snouts, instead of Grecian noses! (7: 283) The descriptions of the men as pigs, “buried in fat,” seeing “red” as the Blithedale pigs do, corroborates and extends the metaphorical implications of the peeping pigs in Blithedale.53 In the 1852 novel, the pigs gaze at Coverdale with an oddly, uncomfort- ably serene and uncanny knowingness; though being prepared for slaugh- ter, these pigs look out from a zone of almost godlike imperturbability. By “Circe’s Palace,” however, the metaphorical pigs have lost any authority, power, indifference—their association with men and manhood takes on a cursed quality, an air of desperation and despair as these pigs now see them- selves for what they are, a particularly hideous example of what I called, in the previous chapter, self-overseeing. What is metaphorical in one text becomes literal in the next: pigs that resemble men become pigs as men. As suggested by the knowing looks exchanged among Circe and her staff as they supply the men with fodder for their porcine obscenities, Circe already views the men as pigs before using her magic to make them actual pigs. Her own avidity for transforming men into beasts, these beasts in par- ticular, symbolically extends Zenobia’s appalled disappointment at Hol- lingsworth’s animalistically brutish behavior. But Hawthorne’s Circe adds what vulnerable Zenobia did not, a retaliatory, indeed a vengeful, campaign against mankind. Tanglewood ’s Circe acts as Zenobia’s avenging sorceress- angel. And if “Circe’s Palace” functions as sequel to Blithedale, as I argue it does, it is significant that Hawthorne must reach into the recesses of classical literature to “solve” the modern erotic problems of this antebellum utopian community and of antebellum feminism. Rather than using mythic reference i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 3 5 to underscore contemporary issues, Hawthorne infuses a retold myth with topical gendered anxieties. Lee Edelman, writing about W.  E.  B. Du Bois and African American manhood, thusly critiques Du Bois’s statement that he “simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American”: the self-consciousness of the “manhood” he envisions as the fulfillment of that wish suggests that such a manhood must be the enactment of a mas- culinity whose distinguishing characteristic is its power . . . to occupy the place of . . . master of the gaze. If the fantasy of masculinity . . . is the fan- tasy of a non-self-conscious selfhood endowed with absolute control of a gaze whose directionality is irreversible, the enacted—or self-conscious— “manhood” . . . is itself a performance for the gaze of the Other . . . always the paradoxical display of a masculinity that defines itself through its capac- ity to put others on display while resisting the bodily captation involved in being put on display itself.54 Flawed and flagrantly theatrical, Coverdale’s performance flails about in its desperate attempts to convince us, himself, the Blithedalers that he is indeed master of his gaze. Coverdale’s fantasy of masculine control never convinces, being always transparent as such. Directly challenging any attempt to prove that he controls the directionality of his pseudo-masterful gaze, the pigs return his gaze, stopping his eyes dead in their tracks with their porcine own. They put him on display. Discussing the returned gaze of Andy Warhol films, Dixon notes, “When watching Vinyl one gets the continual and uneasy feeling that one is being watched, being judged, by Warhol’s returned gaze, a gaze that is almost solely a product of the performance space of the film, rather than the ‘look’ of the actors. . . . [Vinyl leaves] the viewer viewed, the gaze returned.”55 Just as War- hol’s films seem to look back at the viewer with a life of their own, with a strange air of judgment, the pigs return Coverdale’s gaze and our own, resist- ing any facile notion of pity. If we recall Coverdale’s seeming concern for their imminent fates, their returned gaze suggests that it is Coverdale who should be worried. A faint undercurrent of hysteria marks Coverdale’s words to Silas Foster as he half-mockingly offers himself and his fellow Blithedal- ers in their place. The pigs, comfortable in their “unctuous bliss,” seem to respond with their eyes, “I’d worry about myself if I were you.” Dreamily returning his gaze, the blissful pigs reject Coverdale’s feeble offer of pity, the only means whereby he might have been able to achieve even a fleeting sense 1 3 6 • C h a P T e r 5 of mastery. With their eyes, they mock Coverdale, just as his own eyes mock themselves.56 Moreover, the pigs, in debunking any notion of Coverdale’s mastery of the gaze, also debunk any notion of a masculine power out there, some- where, that Coverdale can tap into, exploit. It is worth remembering that, on a symbolic level, the pig has been closely tied to cultural fantasies of fascist masculinity.57 If these porcine “fellows” are clearly representative of manhood in Hawthorne’s work, the male power they symbolize is also truly and ter- rifyingly other. Freighted with their own gendered typing, Hawthorne’s pigs represent a primordial, chthonic form of manhood and masculinity. When Coverdale stares at them and they look back at him, the authority they wield would appear to depend upon their tie to some form of essential, gendered knowledge, an essential masculinity both base and debased. To reformulate the theories of the Kristevan film theorist Barbara Creed, the pigs embody the monstrous-masculine.58 When they look back, they are not so much a Greek chorus of eyes, sorrowfully reflecting back Coverdale’s own inad- equacy and desperation, as they are the godlike power of “gender” itself, a sort of oozing pool of “original,” essentialist masculinity. Within their per- verse psychic and corporeal plenitude, the pigs need only peep at Coverdale, a mockery through diminution of his large-scale attempt to overmaster by sustained looking. s h a k e s p e a r e ’ s p l ay Richard III held a strong fascination for the young Hawthorne, who was prone to quote the line “My Lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.”59 Richard III provides the antecedent for Hawthorne’s sym- bolic imagery of men-as-pigs. In Richard III, the misshapen, murderous king is likened to a hedgehog and a boar. (In the 1996 film version, directed by Richard Loncraine and set in a fascist state, Ian McKellen’s Richard, in ter- rifying boar-face, stares and snarls directly at us.) Hastings, who will soon be beheaded at Richard’s behest, scoffs at Lord Stanley’s dream of a boar—that is, Richard—pursuing him, saying, To fly the boar before the boar pursues Were to incense the boar to follow us, And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. (III.2. 28–30) Hastings fails to heed the warning of Stanley’s dream, ending up beheaded. Coverdale similarly flees the boar, albeit one always on the chase and eter- nally incensed to follow him. i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 3 7 If, in this peeping-pigs passage, Hawthorne is rewriting the Odyssey epi- sode in which Circe turns Odysseus’s men into pigs, this writer normally as interested in the plight and the power of women erases Woman in Melvillean fashion. Hawthorne rarely paints a nakedly homoerotic tableau; rather, he suffuses his work with an erotic awareness of the intense beauty of both men and women, a sensibility that anticipates Freudian bisexuality. Yet, as Cover- dale stares at these hypermasculine pigs, Hawthorne erases Circe and her role as avenging enemy of male power. It’s as if Odysseus were forced to confront the actual animality of his men without the exculpatory hex of an eroto- maniacal sorceress.60 What Hawthorne constructs here, then, surprisingly resembles Marlowe’s queer retelling of the Diana–Actaeon myth in Edward II, which homoeroticizes the story and removes Diana, transformed instead into “a louelie boye in Dians shape.”61 It is of interest that Hawthorne also includes a retelling of this myth in the novel. In Hawthorne, myth becomes a means of metaphorizing manhood and male anxieties. Coverdale confronts his own anxieties about being a man in this polyamorous setting, which includes his homoerotic attraction to and disgust toward Hollingsworth and Westervelt, not to mention the effemi- nate young man he sees from his city window. Beautiful, desirable young men haunt his fiction alongside lushly beautiful women such as Georgiana (with her high-fashion flaw/mole) and Beatrice Rappaccini. Removing the equally pressing beauty of women from this passage, Hawthorne stages a confrontation between a man and maleness—with all of its attendant com- plexities—itself. If homoerotic desire and homophobic disgust equally influ- ence Coverdale’s relations with men, which culminate in or are synthesized by the pigs, the novel suggests that homosexuality causes a breakdown of all conventional standards that maintain identity, down to the level of species. Coverdale likens Hollingsworth to a “polar bear” (3: 26). Mingling his desire and disgust, Coverdale says, “I loved Hollingsworth,” Coverdale confesses. “But. . . .[h]e was not altogether human” (3: 70). In this manner, Hawthorne anticipates Hocquenghem.62 hawthorne’s hItchcockIan gaze In my view, both Hitchcock and Hawthorne consider similar material, espe- cially two interrelated themes—the plight of the independent, headstrong, sexually aware woman in patriarchy and the often murderous rivalry between men within patriarchal capitalism. Both Hawthorne and Hitchcock—in a manner concomitant with their misogyny—express a romantic, anguished 1 3 8 • C h a P T e r 5 interest in and identification with the wronged woman. Hester Prynne, Zenobia, and The Marble Faun’s Miriam resemble Hitchcock’s embattled, troubled, and determined heroines such as Notorious’s Alicia Huberman, Psycho’s Marion Crane, and Marnie’s titular protagonist. Much like Cover- dale, Cary Grant’s Devlin in Notorious (1946) treats the “bad woman” Alicia Huberman (Ingrid Bergman) with contempt, yet maintains a hidden sym- pathy for her—he is in love with her, a secret he assiduously hides, until the climax. And his sympathy toward her manifests itself in his contempt for the bureaucratic men who put her to work as a government spy infiltrating a Nazi stronghold in Brazil. In a meeting with his fellow government men, Devlin defends Alicia’s honor to one odious man who calls her a “woman like that.” Yet toward Alicia Devlin remains aloof, until it is almost too late. At odds with the homosocial, treating women with an ambivalence that borders on sadism, Devlin resembles many Hawthorne men, especially Coverdale. Rear Window also circulates and examines many of the same tensions and themes in The Blithedale Romance. James Stewart’s “Jeff,” an incapacitated photographer with a broken leg, temporarily wheelchair-bound and peep- ing on his neighbors, suffers and wounds in Coverdale fashion. Jeff wran- gles with his war buddy the detective Tom (Wendell Corey), who refuses to believe that Jeff has uncovered the murder of Mrs. Thorwald by her husband Lars (Raymond Burr) and mercilessly satirizes Jeff’s sleuthing. “How did we stand each other in that plane for three years?” Tom asks Jeff, referencing their former intimacy as war comrades while also articulating the essential enmity that defines male–male relationships in patriarchy in modern Amer- ica no less than in the antebellum period. Much as Hawthorne does, Hitch- cock also thematizes heterosexual ambivalence. Jeff’s girlfriend Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly), who works in the fashion industry, is introduced through an overwhelming, denaturing close-up of her face, which casts an ominous shadow over the sleeping Jeff’s. “There’s only one problem,” Jeff says as she plants strategic kisses on his lips. “Who are you?” Jeff’s sadism toward Lisa and her wounded responses to it provide a good deal of the film’s drama; much like Hawthorne, Hitchcock, though not without ambivalence, main- tains a sympathetic identification with Lisa, whose pain we are made to share as Jeff repeatedly rejects her.. In the closest parallel to Blithedale, Jeff’s apartment is his inviolate bower, the murders and other perversities of his neighbors his questionably distilled vintage. The song that permeates the film (sung by Bing Crosby) could also be applied to Blithedale’s world, albeit with severe qualifications, such as the violent tensions the sentiment evokes: “To See You (Is to Love You).” i n a P i G ’ S e y e • 1 3 9 There is a famous sequence in Rear Window that corresponds to the peeping-pig episode in The Blithedale Romance, of particular relevance to the issue of masculinity and the returned gaze. Desperate to impress the reti- cent, cynical, sexually reluctant Jeff, who claims they’ve no future together, Lisa boldly—a bit maniacally—ventures into Lars Thorwald’s apartment to find incriminating evidence, Mrs. Thorwald’s wedding ring especially, the logic being she would never have, as her husband claims, gone off on a trip without it. As Jeff and hard-bitten nurse and masseuse Stella (Thelma Ritter) watch, Lisa makes her way through Thorwald’s apartment, Jeff on the verge of calling the police and getting Lisa out of there. Jeff and Stella are suddenly distracted by the imminent suicide of the sad woman in a first-floor apart- ment whom Jeff has dubbed Miss Lonelyhearts. (Stella recognizes the pills she is about to take as lethal in large doses.) But Jeff’s phone call to the police to report Miss Lonelyhearts’s suicide attempt transforms into his frantic call to rescue Lisa. “The music’s stopped her!” cries Stella, discovering that the musical efforts of the equally lonely composer above have stalled Miss Lone- lyhearts’s desperate act. As Jeff and Stella stare at the transfixed Miss Lone- lyhearts, Thorwald returns to his apartment. Shortly afterward, he discovers Lisa, who attempts to convince him that there’s a perfectly good reason why she’s in his apartment. Thorwald grabs her, they struggle, and then—in one of the most terrifying and precisely engineered suspense moments in Hitch- cock’s considerable arsenal—the lights are knocked out, and darkness fills the screen, as Jeff, his face contorted in helplessness and guilty despair, says, “Oh, Stella, what am I going to do?” In a moment no Foucauldian could love, the police arrive and restore order. (With Hitchcock’s established pho- bia about the police, one wonders how he could, either.) The lights come back on. Triumphantly, the now rescued Lisa, her back to all of us, taps her finger, upon which glints in merry light Mrs. Thorwald’s wedding ring. As the finger taps and the ring flashes, Thorwald realizes that he is being watched. He stares back at Jeff staring at him, returning Jeff’s gaze.63 It is little wonder that guilty Jeff frantically attempts to elude Thorwald’s gaze, which penetrates him with shared knowledge, complicity, understanding, recognition, and that curious air of judgment. “You’re no different from me,” Thorwald seems to be saying to Jeff. “I may have killed my wife, but since you sent your girlfriend to my apartment, where I could have easily killed her and nearly did, you have no right to judge me.” In my view, in these distinct yet thematically linked episodes, Hawthorne and Hitchcock both use the gaze as a means of recording male anxiety about masculinity itself, as a means of looking at masculinity through male eyes, truly a sight hate- ful, sight tormenting. Thorwald invades Jeff’s apartment; Jeff, in self-defense, 1 4 0 • C h a P T e r 5 attempts to blind him with camera flashes that suffuse the screen with a red glow. This confrontation between deeply ambiguous men fuses the homo- erotic with homophobic violence, an eerie complement to the Coverdale– Westervelt encounter. Both Hitchcock, as the expressionistic red suffusions and Jeff’s phallic telephoto-lens camera evince, and Hawthorne mark the visual as the field for these fierce exchanges between desperate and devious mirror men. It is precisely within the returned gaze of The Blithedale Romance that Hawthorne’s conservatism and radicalism coalesce. Clearly, Hawthorne describes in phobic fashion ambiguous male sexuality: his Westervelt is a tri- umph of sodomitical/effeminate typing. Yet his analysis of normative forms of masculinity—all of those asides about the essentially brutish natures and increasingly regularized bodies of men, not to mention the possibility that what Coverdale seeks is in fact Lacan’s hairy athlete; and Coverdale’s uncanny confrontation with a terrifyingly chthonic form of manhood in the peeping pigs, peeping back at him; tinged with the author’s own anxieties about his gendered identity and how it was perceived—does provide an important cri- tique of the construction of gender in Hawthorne’s America.64 c h a p t e r 6 141 T h o u g h m y focus has thus far been on Hawthorne’s representation of manhood, narcissism, especially in its anguished aspects, also informs Hawthorne’s considerable interest in the representation of women, a set of issues that demand a discrete study. No more harrowing and exact transmutation of Hawthorne’s anguish over vision exists than the spectacle of Hester Prynne on the scaffold, the object of innumerable pitiless glares. Yet Hester also uses her pride as a shield against their awesome assault, while it is left deeply ambiguous whether Dimmesdale ever acknowledges himself as an equally guilty party in adultery even at the climax of the novel, when the minister finally stands with Hester and Pearl on the scaffold. Hawthorne suggests that his female characters can withstand the gaze far more unflinch- ingly than his male. In Hawthorne’s 1839 tale “The Gentle Boy,” examined in chapter 2, of the Puritan couple who adopt the abandoned, persecuted titular Quaker child, it is Tobias Pearson who finds “it difficult to sustain [the] united and disapproving gaze” of his fellow Puritan churchgoers as he and wife walk into a church with little Ilbrahim; his wife Dorothy, however, “whose mind was differently circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and faltered not in her approach” (9: 78). Georgiana has little worry over her own fatal blemish in “The Birthmark,” negotiating with a certain wry humor the various responses it garners from both male and female observers; it is her anxious alchemist husband Aylmer who writhes with discomfort at the sight of the fissure in her visual perfection, “causing him more trouble FemininiTy, FeTiShiSm, and TradiTiOn in “raPPaCCini’S daUGhTer” The Gaze in the Garden 1 4 2 • C h a P T e r 6 and horror than ever Georgiana’s beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight” (10: 39). As I have been arguing throughout this book, Hawthorne debunks Laura Mulvey’s sense of the stability of the male subject of the gaze, demonstrating that the gaze is indicative of male psychic fragility rather than mastery. Haw- thorne also reveals the voyeuristic gaze to be chiefly motivated by the desire to see oneself, and therefore as a subset of the narcissistic gaze. In this chap- ter, I will explore the ways in which the gaze functions as a structural field for Hawthorne’s analysis of gendered relationships in culture. In Hawthorne’s version of the gaze, looks not only wound, they kill. Through an analysis of the construction of the gendered gaze in Hawthorne, I will consider the rep- resentation of femininity in Hawthorne as well as his ongoing representation of narcissistic masculinity. My chief argument here is that Hawthorne’s fiction is feminist, a disposi- tion chiefly expressed in two ways: his unwaveringly critical view of his male characters’ propensity to attempt to dominate women, through the visual and other means, but also, and even more deeply, his allegiance to the women who are victimized by the male lust for control. The chief obstructions to seeing Hawthorne’s work as feminist would appear to be the frequency with which many of his female characters fall victim to an oppressive male and the fact that they are powerless to resist or stop their own destruction. I will problematize this view of Hawthorne’s work and ultimately dispute it; in my view, we cannot appreciate the feminist sensibility of Hawthorne’s fiction if we continue to fault him for failing to envision happier outcomes for his heroines. My view of Hawthorne’s feminism is indebted to Nina Baym, through- out whose considerable body of work on Hawthorne runs a steady argument about Hawthorne’s feminism. As her brilliant analysis of The House of the Seven Gables demonstrates, Hawthorne’s feminism lies in his sympathy and identification with the socially overlooked, such as the elderly, scowling, ten- der-hearted Hepzibah Pyncheon, and his hostility toward those who sadisti- cally wield their social power against the powerless, such as Judge Pyncheon. Whatever masculinist biases and misogynistic views are present in Haw- thorne’s work (as well as life), his work is feminist in its disposition toward male power and its abuses as well as its sympathy toward the oppressed, espe- cially in gendered terms.1 In a cogent analysis of Hawthorne’s representation of women, Alison Easton writes that “while a striking number of his contemporaries com- mented on his ‘feminine’ qualities,” this “certainly did not mean that [Haw- thorne] identified with women.” She reminds us that Hawthorne competed T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 4 3 against women in one of the few fields in which men and women actu- ally competed, authorship/publishing. “His relationships with women were a confused mixture of the supportive and the competitive,” though, Easton adds, “readerly connections with women were undoubtedly important.” In a statement that moves from the persuasive to the more debatable, Easton writes, “There is evidence of both feminist and misogynist views in his imag- inative and non-fictional writings,” but, she adds, “there simply is no cer- tainty about what he believed, and we should be wary when his texts make apparently definitive pronouncements.”2 Easton is an excellent critic whose nuanced readings I admire. But I would disagree that we simply have no way of knowing how Hawthorne felt about women—at least in his work. His fiction is rife with consistent images of women as courageous, daring, defiant, and authentically true to their feel- ings, images in stark contradistinction to the equally consistent images of men as duplicitous, fearful, sadistic, weak-willed, hypocritical, and self-hat- ing. Certainly, there is a genuinely autocratic, conservative Hawthorne who fights for the gendered status quo, along with other kinds of sustained nor- malcy; what I argue is that this Hawthorne is overshadowed by the radical Hawthorne whose views of gender defy and disrupt, along with his heroines, the normative gendered order. I am, in a way analogous to Baym, making a difficult point about Hawthorne’s feminism: its power lies in the effort Haw- thorne makes to critique normative masculinity rather than in his creation of empowering scenarios for women. Yet, wounded, suffering, and unfulfilled though many of them are, Hawthorne’s women are also provocative and stir- ring, even at their most off-putting. I feel that I should also explicate anew my own position here. As a gay man writing about a canonical American writer, a writer whom I love, despite his considerable lapses, I am well aware of the awkwardness of my position. On the one hand, this entire study resists and refuses the Foucaul- dian cast of much of queer theory practice, believing wholeheartedly in such oft-renounced traditional values such as meaning, intentionality, art, and beauty. Freud is specifically valuable to me here because he makes it possible to raise difficult questions about Hawthorne’s work while also demonstrating my respect for his imaginative genius. But I have no interest in simply per- petuating the Great Author cults that continue to thrive in certain quarters of academia. Hawthorne is specifically important to me not only because he is a great writer but also, and perhaps more importantly, because I feel that his work offers significant challenges to the normative standards through which gender and sexuality are organized in our culture. I am aware that I seem to be in disagreement with most feminist readings of Hawthorne. I 1 4 4 • C h a P T e r 6 may dispute the specifics of some of these readings, but their principles are my own as well. My hope is that in this chapter, as in this study as a whole, I can offer a reading of Hawthorne as feminist that will also be a feminist read- ing, which is to say, a reading that is sensitive toward and in tandem with feminist theory and that is also attentive to Hawthorne’s misogyny, against which his greater investment in identification with the feminine continu- ously struggles. In this chapter, I focus on one of Hawthorne’s major works, the tale “Rappaccini’s Daughter” (1844), arguing that it emblematizes Hawthorne’s feminist politics and interrogation of the male gaze’s effects on women. The previous chapter’s analysis of the functions of the gaze, voyeurism, myth, and the feminine experience of male visual desire in The Blithedale Romance leads me back to the 1844 story. (Rather than seeing this as a regressive move, I believe that it resists the progressive notion of both an author’s career and of the typical rhetorical trajectory of the single-author book. Rereading the 1852 novel leads one to rethink, in a nonlinear fashion, cer- tain patterns in Hawthorne generally.) Though my interest in the gendered gaze informs this chapter, it also moves into a different, though certainly related, area: the issue of Haw- thorne’s intertextual poetics, the correspondences between this work and sources such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the biblical Genesis narrative, and, especially, Milton’s Paradise Lost. In this respect, my argument resembles that of Magnus Ullén in the discussions of the tale in his book The Half- Vanished Structure. One of the reasons that I will emphasize Hawthorne’s intertextuality here is that, in my view, Hawthorne’s feminism flows out of the ways in which he reimagines and reframes key texts in the Western tra- dition, and in this respect, my work takes a quite distinct direction from Ullén’s. Like Roy R. Male, Ullén reads Hawthorne’s work in biblical terms, reading “Rappaccini’s Daughter” as Hawthorne’s version of the felix culpa, or the “Fortunate Fall.” Despite my considerable admiration for both Male’s and Ullén’s work, I think both critics end up blunting not only the feminist importance of biblical misogyny but also Hawthorne’s own critical aware- ness of this misogyny, which, as I will be arguing, he resists in this tale and elsewhere. Indeed, far from seeing a Christian-allegorical reworking of the felix culpa in this work, I believe that Hawthorne quite profoundly chal- lenges this theological reading.3 At least in terms of Hawthorne’s particular version of Christianity, I concur with the view of Hyatt Waggoner that it “repudiated the pagan garden in ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter.’” For Hawthorne, Waggoner argues, “the Voice in the garden was a real one, and the apple had been the agent of the Fall. As Giovanni in ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter’ had at T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 4 5 first failed to see the snaky vines for what they were, so the Puritans could see nothing else. Both views, Hawthorne thought, were unbalanced. Neither pagan nor Puritan himself, he could be described as a Christian humanist.”4 The question of a feminist Hawthorne cannot be conducted simply by evaluating Hawthorne’s views against the dynamics and concerns of his own cultural moment; Hawthorne’s engagement with art-making is just as signifi- cant to understanding his contributions as are his political stances and his responses generally to his own era’s cultural phenomena and social controver- sies. Hawthorne writes literature with one eye on his own thematic interests and the other on literary tradition. Hawthorne’s intertextual poetics are, at present, a largely overlooked aspect of his work that I reinsert into the criti- cal discussion. VeIlIng the mask The story begins with a preface in which Hawthorne adopts the persona of Aubépine (French for “Hawthorne”). Aubépine’s persona gives Hawthorne an opportunity for self-estrangement, to view himself from a disassociated, yet intimate, position; the preface serves as a drama of self-inspection that will be extended into the story proper. Hawthorne makes himself his own double through his self-figuration as Aubépine. One of the correspondences between this self-doubling and the tale proper is the fascination with dou- bles, the double as an often distorted if not altogether hideous reflection of the self, that runs throughout the tale, and that has particularly important implications for Hawthorne’s representation of masculinity. Throughout Hawthorne’s work, as we have seen, a peculiar figure recurs: a beautiful, callow young man, treated with a certain limited sense of sym- pathy but always dubiously regarded, who receives a terrible challenge to his masculine composure and almost always fails to rise up to this challenge, irreparably wounding if not killing those around him as he destroys his own life. The protagonist of “Rappaccini’s Daughter” fits this bill exquisitely. Giovanni Guasconti is a young man from “very long ago” and the “more southern region of Italy” who enrolls in the University of Padua. He takes lodgings in what might have been once a palace, the home of a noble once “pictured by Dante as a partaker of the immortal agonies of his Inferno.” To augment the knowledge of the Dantean plot into which he has fallen, Giovanni will become obsessed with a young woman named after the object of Dante’s love in his poem of infinite torment: Beatrice.5 But before we learn of her inevitable beauty, we learn of Giovanni’s, through the eyes of the old 1 4 6 • C h a P T e r 6 housekeeper, Lisabetta, who is “won by the youth’s remarkable beauty of per- son” (10: 93). That we are made aware that the young male protagonist is not simply presentable but a youth of remarkable beauty signals Hawthorne’s interests in this work. The young man who will look, indeed whose looking constitutes the principle action of the story, is himself the object of the gaze. Installed in “a high and gloomy chamber” that overlooks a garden, Giovanni occupies the structural position of the maiden in the fairy tale, whose plight and lofty remove from the world stimulate the hero below her into action. Giovanni even sighs, maidenlike, heavily and audibly, much to Lisabetta’s concern. By placing Giovanni in the tower, Hawthorne creates a schism between two subject positions: the feminine one of fairy-tale tradi- tion and the modern one that endows the viewer from a superior height with mastery over the visual scene, a mastery always associated with masculine power. As subject and object of the gaze at once, Giovanni fuses the familiar feminine and masculine versions of the gaze, connoting to-be-looked-at-ness as he takes on the role of the looker. Giovanni finds no “better occupation than to look down into the gar- den below his window” (10: 94). It is not the possible sight of the beautiful woman that impels his desiring gaze but the prospect of joining in with the gaze itself. In a kind of sketch for The Marble Faun, what Giovanni’s eyes light upon are the ruin of a marble fountain, marble urns, and foliage run- ning amok; one plant wreathes itself “round a statue of Vertumnus” (10: 95). The represented figure of Vertumnus is an extremely significant intertextual detail to which I will return below. The significance of the imagery lies in its fusion of biblical and classical references, the garden and the ruins. Haw- thorne’s settings often fall within the hazy sphere of the merged biblical and classical pasts, his imagery amply partaking in both. Hawthorne creates an environment, highly reminiscent of Milton’s Paradise Lost, in which he cross- fertilizes Judeo-Christian and classical mythologies. Much like Dante and Milton, Hawthorne contrasts these disparate and equally influential cultures while using them to reinforce thematic concerns: Judeo-Christian morality is jeopardized by riotous pagan sexuality; pagan sexuality is tempered and chastened by Judeo-Christian moral codes. Hawthorne crucially stands at a liminal moment in tradition, between the Renaissance and Romanticism and an incipient modernity; but he does more than stand: he swerves, charg- ing the neoclassical, pagan-Christian register of his allusions with elusive ambiguity, defamiliarizing the expected outcomes of traditional references. This atmosphere of merged references—what I call compound allusiveness— reflects, even as it facilitates, Hawthorne’s erotics of austerity, which can be described as both the eroticization of the austere and the rendering of the T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 4 7 erotic as a form of austerity. In this way, Hawthorne fuses Freud and Fou- cault—he heightens the erotic in the grim facades of culture as he puts a grim face on the erotic—and therefore definitively heralds and enters moder- nity rather than remaining a votive Romantic relic. Which is to say, he not only anticipates the crisis of meaning that defines modernity but rises to the semantic and social challenges of this crisis with his own paradoxical sense of terminated traditions and interminable analysis. t h e g o r g e o u s beauty of youth needs the misshapen countenance of ugliness, agedness, or a combination of both to counterbalance and reveal it: as we have seen, ugly doubles always counterbalance the rapturously beau- tiful men and women in Hawthorne’s work. The appearance of the titular figure of Rappaccini distorts as it doubles beautiful Giovanni. A “tall, ema- ciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man, dressed in a scholar’s garb of black,” Rappaccini, a “scientific gardener,” keeps his piercing focus on the plants in the garden; “it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature” (95). Beautiful but deadly Beatrice, it should be noted, also has a double in the quietly sinister old housekeeper Lisabetta, a type of the ambiguous nurse familiar from Hippolytus and Romeo and Juliet, who most likely aids and abets Rappaccini in his schemes. Rappaccini, in his work and persona, embodies the hierarchization of the senses that achieved its height in the nineteenth century: he privileges vision and associates the other senses with disgust.6 Utterly eschewing any intimacy with the plants his eyes penetrate, he avoids “their actual touch, or the direct inhaling of their odors  .  .  .  [as if he were] walking among malignant influ- ences” (96). Giovanni, deeply uncomfortable with what he sees, locates in Rappaccini an “air of insecurity” as he treads his phobic yet probing path within the ruined yet blooming garden. Rappaccini not only represents the distorted mirror image of ugliness to Narcissus-like Giovanni but also enacts the very same privileging of sight and abhorrence of the other senses that Giovanni himself will enact. Giovanni’s distaste for what he observes in Rappaccini’s behavior stems from his perception of Rappaccini’s revulsion at the Edenic nature of his environment and toil. Whereas the “unfallen parents of the race” had happily cultivated the wild growths of Eden, this godlike scientist shrinks away from his postlapsarian plants. In Hawthorne’s use of style indirect libre (the literary technique whereby the character’s private thoughts and the narrator-author’s own voice merge), the question that now arises is a quiet gasp of horror at the fallen state of the world: “Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present 1 4 8 • C h a P T e r 6 world?—and this man, in such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow, was he the Adam?” (96). In this line, many key themes of the story—and of Hawthorne’s art as a whole—converge. Hawthorne’s recurring diabolical figures of the horticulturist and the old man merge in Rappaccini; Rappaccini is the anti-father, like Chillingworth in The Scarlet Letter, Old Moodie in The Blithedale Romance, Judge Pyncheon in The House of the Seven Gables, and Miriam’s unseen but loomingly threatening father in The Marble Faun.7 Crystallizing the function of the ugly old man as double to the beau- tiful young man—a function that undercuts the attributes of the latter by suggesting the latter’s inevitable fall into a moral and physical decay that may have already begun—Giovanni, clearly the closest to an Adam figure in this tale, associates Rappaccini with Adam. This is an unusual suggestion, con- sidering that Rappaccini seems much less Adam-like than he does a Satanic God, presiding, as he does, over the fates of the creatures he has made for his poisoned garden, his daughter and the now entrapped Giovanni. If Rap- paccini provides a narcissistic double for Giovanni, then Giovanni beholds in him a paranoid vision of himself—ugly and life-killing, the opposite of the blooming Narcissus whose beauty endows life by enflaming desire and whose youthful beauty is memorialized and immortalized by the flower to which he gives a name. These resonances motivate us to ask, does Giovanni fear his own body? Does Giovanni fear that his touch will cause death, that his body will produce no life? As I have argued elsewhere, Hawthorne associates youthful manhood even at its most beautiful with “blight”; he wrote in an erotophobic era in which debates over sexuality and its role in health were public, frequent, and deeply alarmist. The leading voices in health and sexual morality debates (John Todd, Sylvester Graham, Mary Gove Nichols) associated young men with amoral sexuality, chiefly in the form of onanistic practice. One of the common themes in this literature was the young male body succumbing to decay and ultimately to the ravages of death as a result of onanism, or masturbation; of all the forms of sexuality, autoeroticism was among the most phobically regarded, especially in its associations with same-sex sexual practice. Themes of sterility and death also haunt the Narcissus myth; indeed, they account for its usefulness as a cautionary tale of the dangers of self-love. In Lacanian terms, Giovanni, much as Coverdale will do to his fellow Blithe- dalers, projects his own nothing onto Rappaccini; though he turns out to be more horribly right than he can possibly know, at this point his understand- ing of Rappaccini is purely an interpretation. As such, it stems as much from Giovanni’s own associations with a male body he repudiates yet also analo- T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 4 9 gously resembles. Milton, who haunts Hawthorne’s work, described Wom- an’s “most resembling unlikenes [sic], and most unlike resemblance” to Man.8 The same, of course, can be said of one man to another. Giovanni and Rap- paccini bear unlike resemblance to each other; as a composite portrait, they signify the beauty of the male body and its most loathsome potentialities.9 If Giovanni sees Rappaccini as Adam, how does he see himself in this strange non-Edenic Eden? What role could the young man play other than Adam? By casting the patriarchal Rappaccini in the role of Adam, Giovanni denies himself the role of the generative young hero in a new world and also implicitly declares this world to be God-less, for Rappaccini cannot be both Adam and God. Giovanni’s view manages somehow to erase both himself and the “Father,” in a strangely humorous way casting the cadaverous and sinister older man in the role of young hero. What we have come to by this early point in the narrative is a view of the young man as ugly and sinister, death lying at his touch. And Giovanni hasn’t even been poisoned yet. enter woman The entrance of Woman into the story can signal fortuitous change. In The House of the Seven Gables, the appearance of delicate but resourceful Phoebe signals a change for the better, a gleam of sunshine in the ancestral gloom. When Beatrice appears in “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” however, the gears of the story spin into violent motion that accelerates the tale toward its grisly end. In devising Beatrice, Hawthorne drew upon several sources, but one in par- ticular stands out: the myth of an attempted assassination of Alexander the Great, in which a woman, who in the legends tends to be associated with India, is pumped full of poisons and sent to Alexander with the purpose of seducing him and thereby killing him when they exchange bodily fluids through sexual intercourse.10 Beatrice Rappaccini will be shown to be a genu- ine fatal woman: her blood and breath mingle with that of her father’s poi- sonous plants, and, like them, she emits a fatal breath and wields an equally fatal touch. Yet Beatrice never outwardly suggests the poisons that course within her; indeed, she is one of Hawthorne’s most poignant creations and a figure of great moral strength. The disjunct between Beatrice’s helpless monstrousness and her moral resolve makes her a different kind of mirror for Giovanni. Though Giovanni is her match in physical beauty, Beatrice’s moral beauty far surpasses his own, as we will see. Beatrice is reminiscent of the character of Sin from Paradise Lost, a pitiable figure caught, as is Hawthorne’s Bea- 1 5 0 • C h a P T e r 6 trice, between two odious male figures, in Sin’s case, her father, Satan, and the child she bore from their incestuous union, Death, who no sooner meets his father for the first time than he attempts to kill him, at which point Sin intercedes. Yet Beatrice is a much more sympathetic figure than the sympa- thetically treated but ultimately consciously evil Sin, who willfully joins in with Satan and Death to destroy Man. Holding the key that open the gates of Hell, Sin opens Hell’s gates to allow her vengeful father and hideous son free rein on Earth. Hawthorne revisits the hierarchies of sense that had been determined but now blurs them: when Giovanni hears the “rich and youthful” voice of Beatrice, Hawthorne likens the richness of the voice to a “tropical sun- set”; it makes Giovanni synesthetically think of colors, “deep hues of purple or crimson,” and odors, “perfumes heavily delectable” (97). The depic- tion of Beatrice denatures the male gaze’s visual colonization of women: by emerging first as a riot of sounds and smells and colors, Beatrice defies the imprisoning construction of women as fixed visual objects. Beatrice is initially presented as a prelapsarian image of “Woman,” “as beautiful as the day,” redounding with health. Yet, immediately upon seeing her, Giovanni’s fancy grows “morbid”: he sees Beatrice as another flower in the garden, “as beautiful as they—more beautiful than the richest of them—but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask” (97). Giovanni in his own mind dons the protective gear Rappaccini already wears, thick gloves and a mask, an “armor” in defense against “a dead- lier malice” (96). Hawthorne presents us with an intergenerational pair of misogynistic men who don alternately literal and psychic defenses against Woman. No less strikingly than Rappaccini’s physical armor, Giovanni’s fantasies of prohibition are meant to serve as a defense against any contact with a woman whose image and olfactory properties so easily penetrate his own borders. In one of the most famous images from Hawthorne’s prefaces, those mock-confessions in which the author appears to speak to us directly while goading us into the labyrinth of the mocking, elusive rhetoric where he will remain equally inaccessible, Hawthorne writes (in the essay introducing his 1846 collection of tales Mosses from an Old Manse) that, “So far as I am a man of really individual attributes, I veil my face; nor am I, nor have ever been, one of those supremely hospitable people, who serve up their own hearts delicately fried, with brain-sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved public” (10: 32–33). In one of his American Notebooks, Hawthorne had also writ- ten, “A veil may be needful, but never a mask” (8: 23). Giovanni and Rap- paccini avail themselves of both veil and mask; their respective veils obscure T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 5 1 their deeper masks. The veil of distance—Giovanni from his lofty chamber, Rappaccini behind his gloves and mask—obscures, shields, the profoundly impenetrable mask of sexual difference. The barriers the men put up serve as flimsy markers of the true impasses separating them from Beatrice and each other. If woman is conventionally figured as Nature, the garden in a bloom that matches her own, both femininity and the natural world are toxic and deadly here, realms through which male figures make their way behind pro- tective armor. Yet this toxicity entirely stems from male hands. Rappaccini has infused the plants and his daughter with the poison that emanates from his experiments; the fatal poison passes from the hands of the father to woman and through her to other men, a horror-movie version of Eve Sedg- wick’s theory of triangulated desire.11 Beatrice and the plant are beautiful “but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask” (97). Inhaling the odor of woman is no less fatal than her touch. With extraordinary economy and daring directness, Hawthorne indexes the his- tory of misogyny, the bans on women and the male measures taken in pho- bic defense against them, the gloves signaling a horror of touch, the mask that of smell. Giovanni’s lofty visual position emerges as phobic distance that matches the more immediate barriers behind which Rappaccini eludes contact with Beatrice. The topos of Genesis—dangerous femininity and the garden—transforms into a controlled site of horrified wonder in which male spectators observe the fatal workings of biology and nature. Hawthorne’s depiction of Beatrice is a feminist reading of the Indian myth of the poisonous woman sent to kill Alexander the Great. Hawthorne decou- ples his Beatrice from the monstrosity that consumes her by presenting this monstrosity as entirely the creation of patriarchal power. What Hawthorne suggests is that the most enduring misogynistic myths of woman as poison- ous, fatal, stem from male fantasies turned into realities through the exercise of male power: Giovanni transforms Beatrice into the myth of woman as sexual monster. Yet in so doing, Rappaccini only effects a hideous literalization of what is always already the fate of women in patriarchy: to be socialized in patriarchy, especially in the Calvinist theocratical form in which Hawthorne was raised, is to be marked by the stain of human evil, an especially grievous and indelible stain in the case of women, linked with the serpent, original sin, and the corruption of humanity. As Augustine wrote, man is evil from the very moment of conception; indeed, semen itself, from Adam forward, bequeaths original sin upon the newly created human being.12 What Rap- paccini does, then, is to rewrite Genesis, the story in which woman seduced by Satan effects man’s fall, as a literal, scientific narrative in which one man 1 5 2 • C h a P T e r 6 programs a woman—in this case, biogenetically engineers a woman—to kill men. If Rappaccini takes Genesis matters into his own hands, transforming the narrative of original sin into his own scientific triumph, he also trans- forms sexual difference and the problems of gender relations into lab work, recreating the fundamental problems of patriarchy as the stuff of controlled scientific experiment. Like Hitchcock’s indelible Vertigo (1958), “Rappaccini’s Daughter” exposes the Western image of woman as the product of male fantasy. Bea- trice is a sexual monster only insofar as she represents misogynistic fantasies of femininity taken to their logical extremes. If women’s bodies are associ- ated with pernicious and mysterious odors, properties, cycles, Beatrice’s body literally emanates and causes death. If femininity remains forever trapped in the garden, tethered with the adamantine chains of culture to images of flowering nature and scenes of fatal seduction, this version of femininity has been conjoined to the serpent’s poisonous blood. Much like the cloned Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) of Alien Resurrection (1997) in whom human and Alien DNA combine, her blood a seething, acid mixture, Beatrice combines the purity of Eve with the poison of the snake, recalling frequent images of Renaissance art in which Eve confronts the serpent who wears Eve’s face. The depiction of nature-bound Beatrice both preserves and revises the Genesis narrative by keeping the woman in the Edenic sphere over which she reigns supreme; her poison nature and the poisoned nature of her garden keep the evil Eden inviolate, impregnable. One of the strange consequences of this scientific literalization of the Genesis myth—a myth mediated for Hawthorne by the equally relevant intertext of Paradise Lost, in which Milton simultaneously submits Genesis to a sensual paganization and uses it to reinforce the most stringent forms of Christian moral code—is that symbols assume the life of characters. Sym- bols take on human attributes, or suggest them with such intensity that they come to seem human themselves; sign transforms into character. “Rappacci- ni’s Daughter” pushes tensions in Hawthorne’s work to their breaking point in the ways in which the tale threatens to explode the confines of its own allegorical form. The “magnificent plant” that symbolizes Beatrice’s beauty emerges as “my sister, my splendor,” as Beatrice “opened her arms as if to embrace it” (10: 97). The symbols of gendered identity become indistin- guishable from what they sign. Yet Beatrice seems aware of the unseemly tension between sisterly affec- tion for a plant and the unnatural endowment of vegetable life with human qualities. She opens her arms to the plant she calls “my sister, my splendor,” but when she does so it is “as if to embrace it”—Beatrice recognizes on some T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 5 3 level that the plant is a plant, not fully to be embraced as if it actually were a sibling rather than just a sister under the skin. The significance of these seismic tensions lies in what they convey about a character’s psychic life in Hawthorne’s allegorical narratives in which characters and symbols vie alike for power. Hawthorne’s most famous symbol, the scarlet A, throbs with life and has more personality than most literary characters; many Hawthorne characters—though certainly not all—function most prominently as sym- bols in his allegories. Following Sacvan Bercovitch’s influential reading in The Office of The Scarlet Letter, recent critics of Hawthorne have come to see his once-celebrated technique of ambiguity as a conservative form of political consensus building, the seemingly endless array of interpretive possibilities actually functioning, however counterintuitively, as the denial of interpretive options. But Hawthorne’s ambiguity is much more complex, and at times more radical, than Bercovitch would have it. Here, this small instance of ambiguity reveals the intimate knowledge of a character’s conflictual feelings. In negotiating anxieties about her relationship to her father’s plant, Beatrice struggles over her responses to the enduring symbolic signs and narratives of women in Western culture. The bush symbolizes woman’s sexuality, an image repeated and further aestheticized in The Scarlet Letter’s rosebush outside the prison, the one gleam of hope in a bed of “black flowers.” As a gendered symbol, it synthesizes all of the essentialist markers of Beatrice’s beauty— beauty, bloom, and the Edenic garden. What Rappaccini has done is to blur the lines between a woman and the plant-as-gendered-symbol by interfusing their blood; what Beatrice appears to register is the grotesque way in which her own sexuality is delimited and reified by being fused with its own sym- bolic markers. FIrst mother, phallIc mother Imprisoned by the gendered symbology that gives her an identity, Beatrice inhabits her closed allegorical world as an Eve without an Adam, unless we view Rappaccini—“was he the Adam?”—as her incestuous father-husband. This is a suggestion the story offers, but more emphatically countermands by presenting the idea of intimacy between lush, floral, deadly daughter and gloved, masked, distant father as unthinkable precisely because the father- figure maintains such a chilly estrangement from the daughter who embod- ies his most fiendish ambitions while refuting their every import with her own moral code. However we are meant to interpret their relationship, it is redolent of sadomasochism. 1 5 4 • C h a P T e r 6 In her poison bloom, Beatrice thrives in a state of autoerotic pleni- tude that anticipates Freud’s phallic mother, the mythological construct of male fantasy. As noted in the previous chapter, Gillian Brown has made a strong case for reading Miles Coverdale’s incessant looking in The Blithedale Romance as a fetishistic maneuver that simultaneously turns women into objects and allows him to remain unperceived as a fetishistic voyeur. I believe that Brown’s reading is especially relevant to the present discussion because “Rappaccini’s Daughter” is the most fetish-obsessed work in the Hawthorne canon. In his 1927 essay “Fetishism,” Freud explains why “some men” develop fetishes. The fetishist—who privileges a foot, a shoe, a nose, even the shine on a nose as the site of his sexual desire rather than the woman herself— has, through his fetishizing, discovered an ingenious strategy for defending against and coping with a profound childhood psychic trauma that all males, in Freud’s view, must grapple with throughout their lives: the discovery that their mother, who seemed the embodiment of fullness, presence, oneness, totality, completeness, does not have a penis. The fetishist devises a peculiar, specific strategy for coping with the trauma of this discovery, his obsessive endowment of parts of women’s bodies with phallic attributes. Men can be divided into three categories: fetishists, homosexuals, and normal heterosex- uals. Why some men become fetishists, others homosexuals, and most het- erosexuals cannot be easily explained, if at all, but all men must cope with the trauma, and these three sexual categories represent the strategies men have for doing so. If Freud’s accounts of female sexuality remain deeply unsatisfying, he nevertheless offers a consistent and provocative view of male subjectivity and sexuality as tormented almost from its inception. Male identity in Freud emerges as a desperate series of ever-mounted psychic defenses, strategies for overcoming, forgetting, and shielding against trauma, all of which fail, and, despite their inherent futility, are perpetually renewed, taken up again as if for the first time. Freud suggests that without his narcissistic reverence for his own phallus, the male’s identity would be utterly untenable, rather than nearly so. The boy is so traumatized by the recognition that his great and powerful mother has been “castrated” that he, in effect, refuses to acknowl- edge what he has discovered. “No, that could not be true, for if a woman had been castrated, then his own possession of a penis was in danger; and against that there rose in rebellion the portion of his narcissism which Nature has, as a precaution, attached to this particular organ. In later life, a grown man may perhaps experience a similar panic when the cry goes up that Throne and Altar are in danger, and similar illogical consequences will ensue” (SE T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 5 5 21: 153). In a manner at once subtle and sweeping, Freud explains away here the whole masculine history of war, bloodshed, imperialism, and mur- derous power—responses to the illogical fears over “Throne and Altar”— as the result of the mythic little boy’s silent scream at the thought that his penis, like his mother’s, might be taken away. Though this is not the Freud- ian focus, which is on castration, it is the mother’s own sexuality—rather than the idea that it has somehow been taken away—that threatens the boy’s narcissism. While the absence of the mother’s penis causes so much consternation for the male child, there is another sense in which that phantom organ remains intact. In the male’s mind, “the woman has got a penis, in spite of everything; but this penis is no longer the same as it was before. Something else has taken its place, has been appointed its substitute, as it were, and now inherits the interest which was formally directed to its predecessor.” As Freud theorizes, “the horror of castration has set up a memorial to itself ” through the strategy of fetishism. And as he further argues, “an aversion, which is never absent in any fetishist, to the real female genitals remains a stigma indelebile of the repression that has taken place.” Nevertheless, his strat- egy of defense against traumatic knowledge of castration “saves the fetishist from being a homosexual by endowing women with the characteristic which makes them tolerable as sexual objects” (SE 21: 154). The original, pre-oedipal mother, whom the boy believed to possess a penis and therefore existed before the intense need for the fetish arose, ulti- mately emerges within Freud’s theory as the figure of the phallic mother, the unity of femininity and masculinity who transcends all fears of castration. This mythic phallic mother exists above, before, and beyond any other ver- sion of woman, indeed, any version of man. Rappaccini’s daughter Beatrice, in her abundant autoerotic natural plenitude, inhabits the original phallic mother’s mythic-psychosexual space: Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and com- pressed, as it were, and girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by her virgin zone. (10: 97) Lushly beautiful, Beatrice rivals the wonder of Milton’s Eve. And yet, as noted, this sight of her nevertheless almost immediately turns Giovanni’s 1 5 6 • C h a P T e r 6 fancy “morbid.” The phallic mother connotes death as well as generative life. In her sheer vitality, Beatrice suggests the overwhelming, suffocating force of the ancient mother who gives life and death at once. The imag- ery Hawthorne associates with Beatrice phallicizes her. She emerges from a portal, a phallic emergence from a yonic symbol. One shade more of her zestful healthfulness would have been too much—she connotes excess. This excess can barely be contained: it must be bound down and compressed, and can only be girdled tensely. As a figure bursting with her own fleshiness, Beatrice suggests throbbing fullness, a kind of tumescent engorgement. As horrifying as she is beautiful, she fuses the image of the Madonna and the carnal, death-dealing Eve-like seductress, associations that will inform later Hawthorne heroines, especially Hester Prynne (The Scarlet Letter) but also Zenobia (The Blithedale Romance) and Miriam Schaeffer (The Marble Faun). In these capacities, Beatrice occupies the central position in the pre-oedipal realm to which the story returns Giovanni. Giovanni inhabits the realm of primary narcissism, in which no distinction was made between the infant and the body of the Mother. The tale proceeds to develop a narrative that paral- lels the action of Freud’s essay on fetishism—the traumatic recognition on the male’s part that the looming, all-powerful Mother does not possess the penis, that she has been castrated, and that she will in effect castrate him. In Remembering the Phallic Mother, Marcia Ian discusses the cultural poli- tics of Freud’s theory of fetishism, and what it reveals about the male biases of psychoanalysis. As she establishes, “Freud has little of use to say about women; but then psychoanalysis is not about women.” Neither is the image of the phallic mother about women; it does not refer to women or to mothers. It does not refer at all, except to the possible col- lapse of sign and referent—a collapse represented as and replaced by the fetishization of their phantom connection to the mother. What the phallic mother represents, ultimately, is the “end of contradiction and the end of ambivalence,” since she is not two, but one, the mother who “inseminates and lactates.” The phallic mother is “neither hermaphrodite nor androgyne, human nor monster, because she is emphatically Mother.”13 Of Beatrice Rappaccini we can say that she is also neither daughter nor sis- ter, mother nor lover, woman nor nature, but is instead all of these things at once, a super-sign of femininity. The tale allows us, once again, to consider mother-identified narcissistic male desire in terms of an ostensibly heterosex- ual male sexuality. But it also allows us to consider the potential for misog- yny in identification with femininity and, more importantly here, what’s at T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 5 7 stake in all of this for the woman. The woman’s experience—of being identi- fied with, of being made mythological, of being the object of competing fan- tasies with positive and negative intentions at once, or more properly with intentions put forth as positive that are in actuality inescapably negative—is the chief subject of “Rappaccini’s Daughter.” Paradoxically, the centrality of femininity in the tale sheds abundant light on its limning of the nature of male subjectivity. FlowerIng narcIssus v e r T U m n U S We can now return to the image of Vertumnus and make better sense of it. If Beatrice is the Eve-Madonna, the erotic woman of death and the phallic mother, Giovanni is the tale’s flowering Narcissus, a self-regarding beautiful man that Hawthorne returns to nature, forcibly and frighteningly. The statue of Vertumnus in Rappaccini’s garden synecdochically alludes to the history of masculine Nature that is usually obscured by the preponderance of Judeo- Christian traditions of woman and nature. Vertumnus is a highly charged intertexual sign that marks Hawthorne’s negotiation of several key influential texts and the traditions they support—Ovid, the Bible, and Milton’s Paradise Lost, in particular. As an Ovidian figure associated with nature—he is the god of seasonal change—Vertumnus provides a link to the classical world and to the trope of masculinity as a force of nature. In Vertumnus, Hawthorne synthesizes several male figures associated with nature, such as the named biblical/ Miltonic Adam and the unnamed Ovidian Narcissus. Milton renders the sparsely sketched biblical figure of Adam with an erotic awareness of his beauty that matches that of Milton’s lushly desirable Eve; the poet’s depic- tions of the first human couple, both as a couple and as distinct individuals, surges with pagan sexuality. Narcissus emerges as the overdetermined index to these intertextual thematics: the beautiful male figure fuses elements of Vertumnus and Adam, all three being associated with nature (Narcissus is the origin myth for the flower by that name). Narcissus also connotes nature through negation, representing, as a phobic sign of sterility, anti- nature. This anti-nature also informs Milton’s representation of Adam, who, in falling from a prelapsarian state, loses his claim to paradisiacal unity with the natural world over which he had presided. (These thematics in Milton require much more discussion than I can provide here.) Like these other fig- ures, Narcissus embodies an ideal of male beauty, but also the possibilities 1 5 8 • C h a P T e r 6 for the metamorphosis of this beauty into a different form: the crone ver- sion of Vertumnus in Ovid; the corrupt, fallen, shamed version of Adam in the biblical and, especially, Miltonic contexts; the transformation, through death, of a beautiful young man into a memorial flower (Narcissus, Adonis, Hyacinth, and so forth). Hawthorne funnels this mixture of classical, bibli- cal, and Miltonic associations into a revisionist, secular Christian narrative that imagines Eden as a human male fantasy, organized around the fallible male human gaze rather than God’s. Rappaccini, the paradoxically Adam- like figure of death, and Giovanni, the death-haunted new Adam, consti- tute, along with Beatrice, an Eve whose blood courses with the serpent’s poison, a newly ordered, postlapsarian Eden, one suffused with satanic cor- ruptions of flesh, sense, and spirit. (One remembers that Milton’s Satan, in his seduction of Eve, hails the Tree of Knowledge as “Mother of Science”; Beatrice, the offspring of masculine science cast as a phallic, deadly anti- mother, embodies this Miltonic-Satanic concept.) Both Vertumnus and Adam play out the significant action of their story within a garden inhabited by a powerful woman who mesmerizes them: Pomona and Eve, respectively. Eve is the “fair Empress” of her vegetable realm and married to Adam, whereas Pomona, a hamadryad, or wood- nymph, installs herself within the precincts of her garden to elude the erotic attentions of various phallically driven male deities: Pan, Priapus, Silvanus. Narcissus, though a figure associated with solipsism, also enjoins a crucial female figure within his myth, Echo, who pines for him and, in the course of his pitiless rejection of her, loses her voice. Similarly, Pomona also never speaks in her myth, though Eve famously does in Milton. Hawthorne dis- avows the Narcissus themes crucial to his work by refusing to name Narcis- sus; yet he also fights against or mediates this disavowal. In “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” he incorporates the narcissistic facets of the Vertumnus and Adam myths into a Narcissus and Echo schema. Giovanni’s narcissism flows directly from the Ovidian Narcissus myth, and as it does so it picks up and absorbs those within the Vertumnus and Adam myths, Ovid, the Bible, and Milton. In short, considerable valences as well as differences exist in these myths and the versions of them under consideration here. The chief relevance to “Rappaccini’s Daughter” of the Vertumnus myth lies in these major themes: the display of male beauty, voyeurism, and, as Roxanne Gentilcore has argued, the theme of love as a destructive force. Through various disguises, Vertumnus woos the determinedly inviolate Pomona before settling on one last disguise, that of an old woman, in whose guise he tells her a cautionary tale, that of Iphis and Anaxarete. Anaxarete’s hardness of heart destroys both her life and that of her helplessly devoted T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 5 9 suitor, Iphis. Iphis hangs himself, and the rejecting Anaxarete turns to stone at his funeral procession. Telling her even this cautionary tale, however, fails to woo and win Pomona, who steadfastly remains sexually unavailable. See- ing that Pomona remains unmoved, Vertumnus resumes his own “Young shape and,” as Ovid puts it, shed the trappings of old age, And stood triumphantly revealed to her as when the sun Triumphs in glory through the clouds and rain And bright with beams untrammeled shines again. No need of force. His beauty wins the day, As she with answering love is borne away. (14: 766–71) Though Ovid appears to suggest that masculinity does not need recourse to violence to secure erotic satisfaction, A. D. Melville points out that “Ovid’s text makes it clear that it would have been forthcoming at need.”14 As Rox- anne Gentilcore summarizes her argument, “This negative portrait of love is set alongside several other mythological tales which together form patterns of violence and destructive passion” in The Metamorphoses.15 If Vertumnus signifies the culmination of the list of figures who embody for Ovid “the wild, sexual side of nature,” Hawthorne’s evocation of him signals an investment in male sexual nature that matches the investment in the feminine sexual nature of Beatrice.16 Pomona, who has rejected sex with men, is conscripted into sexuality with dramatic force by being forced submit to Vertumnus as a visual spectacle, to stare in wonder at Vertum- nus’s extravagant display of his own beauty. As Hawthorne’s contemporary Thomas Bulfinch wrote in his version of the story in his popularization of the Greek myths, Vertumnus, dropping his old-crone disguise, stands before Pomona in “his proper person, a comely youth. It appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud. He would have renewed his entreaties,” but there was no need: “the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph no longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame.”17 Left out of most critical analy- ses of Hawthorne’s tale (for instance, even Carol Marie Bensick makes no reference to Vertumnus in her book-length study of the story), Vertumnus plays a crucial role here. What makes Vertumnus a figure of vital impor- tance to Hawthorne is his combination of male beauty and sexual menace. Vertumnus is a sign of the erotic masculine and also of the duplicity of male appearances, one of Hawthorne’s most consistent themes.18 One of the most distinctive hallmarks of the erotic schemes that charac- terize Hawthorne’s fiction is the erotic appeal of his male characters. In other 1 6 0 • C h a P T e r 6 words, Hawthorne does not simply eroticize the feminine, which would be expected, but eroticizes the masculine as well, leaving the reader in the posi- tion of experiencing erotic responses to both female and male characters. In this regard, Hawthorne once more recalls Milton, but it must be noted that he does so in an era of increasingly punitive vigilance about such matters, if we see the nineteenth century as moving toward a greater phobic reaction against erotically charged same-sex affiliations. Hawthorne gives us not only Beatrice’s ecstatic beauty to contemplate but also that of Vertumnus in his proper guise of comely youth and Giovanni’s in his own, which mirrors clas- sical and biblical precedents. If we reinsert the relevance of Vertumnus as a spectacular, overwhelming, nearly obliterating spectacle of male beauty— a spectacle that comes close to scorching Pomona out of existence before it successfully subdues her into acquiescing to his charms—we can better understand the narcissistic themes of the story. For Vertumnus functions as a displacement of the unacknowledgeable, phobic, influential figure of Nar- cissus in Hawthorne’s work.19 wIld oFFsprIng Giovanni wields “the privilege of overlooking” (10: 98); “within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall,” he can “look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered”; he can feast his eyes on the “half-hoped, half-feared” phobic object of his erotic visual frenzy, Beatrice, with what he believes to be the impunity of his gazing male privilege (10: 101). What he actually witnesses, I would argue, is the scene of his own symbolic castration, precisely the fear that his fetishizing ardor is meant to assuage. A prefiguring of the hothouse flower in Zenobia’s hair that signals her overpowering carnality in The Blithedale Romance, Beatrice puts a flower on her presumably ample bosom. When Beatrice picks up a small reptile, it appears to Giovanni that “a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower” with which Beatrice adorns her bosom falls on the lizard’s head. “For an instant the lizard contorted itself violently, and then lay motionless”; this phallic symbol then transforms, in Beatrice’s hands and in contact with the symbol of her sexuality, into a sign of heterosexual failure and male ter- ror over female sexuality at once. “What is this being?” wonders Giovanni: “—beautiful shall I call her?—or inexpressibly terrible?” Combining both his knowing erotic themes and sense of the hideousness that may lie beneath erotically stimulating beauty, Hawthorne thematizes a profound ambivalence over heterosexual relations. This theme will reach only deepening levels in T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 6 1 the novel-romances from 1850 forward and also in his late, unfinished Sep- timius manuscripts. As if to compensate for the lack he experiences after wit- nessing this symbolic castration, Giovanni thrusts “his head out quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and painful curiosity which” Beatrice excites in him (10: 103); Hawthorne, describing the intensity and the pain of Giovanni’s curiosity, shares Freud’s view of scopophilic impulses such as voyeurism as “tormenting compulsions.” But again, Giovanni’s wishes remain unclear: does he wish to see Bea- trice or for her to see him? At “an impulsive movement of Giovanni,” Bea- trice “drew her eyes to the window. There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man—rather a Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a glistening of gold among his ringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in mid-air” (10: 104). This description, I argue, echoes the Vertumnus reference, by depicting Giovanni as someone who commands the woman’s gaze and by specifying him as “Grecian.” Though Vertumnus is a Roman (“Italian”) god, by associating Giovanni with the Grecian, Hawthorne inserts him into the general discourse of Hellenism within which the Vertumnus myth would have been understood; in this way, Vertumnus becomes antitype to Giovanni’s type.20 I will return to Hel- lenism’s significance in the next chapter. Giovanni’s exhibitionism and Beatrice’s radical license to wield the gaze and return his look coalesce here. Hardly aware of why, Giovanni tosses a bouquet of flowers to Beatrice, who takes them and passes through the por- tal back to her home, another hint of sexual intercourse. Yet, in a stunning transformation of the castration metaphor, Giovanni fearfully apprehends, or believes that he does, the bouquet wilting in Beatrice’s hand. The phallic lizard she held transmogrifies into the flowers she holds; if we follow the sex- ual symbolism here, his phallus transforms into her flowers, an extraordinary exchange of gendered signifiers that confirms Giovanni’s associations with the flowering masculinity of Vertumnus and Narcissus. His phallus blooms in her hands, but then also wilts. This is a poignant nod to Milton, too, if we remember the moment in Paradise Lost in which Adam recognizes that Eve has fallen (he notices that the bouquet of roses that he has given her upon her return from her independent labors in the Garden—during which time Satan seduced her—now wither in her hand). Giovanni’s phallic sexuality turns into yonic femininity; his looking, his desire, his fear all emasculate him, threaten to turn him into “Woman.” But the phallic scopic drive still impels him anew several days later to look again at the perplexing Beatrice, even if as he does so he feels as “if something ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eye-sight” (104). As in the Oedipus myth, eyes, like the 1 6 2 • C h a P T e r 6 phallus, can be castrated. The phallic woman threatens to castrate the male and his gaze. Like several other Hawthorne males, Giovanni is as motivated by scopo- phobia, or the fear of looking, as he is by scopophilia, the ravenous desire to look. Even as he consumes her with his eyes when “the wisest course would have been . . . to quit his lodgings,” Giovanni attempts to avoid her gaze. To lift, not irrelevantly, from Melville, Beatrice and the visual are both fate and ban. Beatrice synthesizes the anxieties that attend the visual; femininity is the economy that facilitates male visual desire in multiple forms: Giovanni’s ravenous looking, her father’s engulfing surveillance of her interactions with the youthful stranger, and even the prying, spying looking of Rappaccini’s scientific rival, Baglioni (indeed, Baglioni, who watches Rappaccini watching all of the events he engineered unfold, may be the tale’s ultimate voyeur). As noted, a palpable ambivalence surrounds the prospect of heterosexual union here. I would suggest that the entire scene of male voyeurism, shot through with conflictual longings between men as well as between men and women, suggests a relationship too terrible to be named, something outside of lan- guage, nameless, unrepresentable—in other words, a queer as well as gen- dered panic. The tale prefigures the terrible mystery, undeniably sexual and criminal at once, that indissolubly links Miriam to the Model in The Marble Faun. (As I will discuss in the next chapter, racial and ethnic panic inheres in these mysteries in both works.) The question to ask is, what, exactly, is so inexpressibly terrible here? The voyeur who sadistically attempts to achieve sexual satisfaction through looking at others and possessing them through the look is also the narcissist desperate for a vision of himself. But that self-image, as we have seen, may also itself be a kind of displacement of a desired but repudiated homosexual object: narcissistic desire may be a metaphor for homosexual desire. (Recalling our discussion in chapter 2 of Michael Warner’s critique of psychoanalysis, this is to reformulate, in some ways, the homophobic rhetoric, assailed by Warner, that defines queer desire as a desire for same- ness. Perhaps narcissistic desire is a metaphor for the queer desire for differ- ent sameness, for someone who suggests a different version of or alternative possibilities for the self.) Hawthorne suggests that such a displacement may occur for Giovanni. When he closes the lattice as night closes in, Giovanni goes to his couch and dreams “of a rich flower and a beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different and yet the same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape.” But something else may be deepening his peril. Before closing the lattice and commencing his onanistic nighttime reverie, Giovanni sees Rappaccini take his daughter’s arm and retire into their home. There is T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 6 3 an ambiguity over what has led Rappaccini to take this action: “Whether Doctor Rappaccini had finished his labors in the garden, or that his watch- ful eye had caught the stranger’s face,” we are left to decide for ourselves (10: 98). Such ambiguous moments are, while not definitive, at least sug- gestive for a queer theory reading of Hawthorne. That Rappaccini may have “caught the stranger’s face” is suggestive because of the power of the verb: What does it mean to catch someone’s face? This is reminiscent of Lacan’s theory of captation, of being seized by the image. Being seized by the image was our first crucial step toward selfhood, as the image we saw in the mirror captivated us forever. For that matter, if Rappaccini saw and held the image of Giovanni, that also suggests that Giovanni saw Rappaccini looking at him and exchanged looks with the scientist. Given this passage’s correspondence to the moment in The Blithedale Romance when Coverdale imagines seeing the “dark frown” of Hollingsworth before Coverdale commences his “shud- dering” nighttime reveries, it may not be implausible to consider that the dark face of repudiated homoerotic desire may frown on Giovanni as well. Such a possibility deepens the resonances of Giovanni’s feelings when he awakens the next day: he feels “surprised, and a little ashamed” (10: 98). But what was a suggestion becomes a reality, in terms of the male–male gaze. Giovanni attempts to avoid Beatrice’s sight (10: 105), in accordance with other Hawthorne males, such as Wakefield and Coverdale, who attempt to see while avoiding being seen themselves. But Giovanni cannot escape Rappaccini’s invasive, incessant gaze. Rappaccini’s eye descends on Giovanni even outside the garden. Baglioni, Rappaccini’s scientific rival, keeps trying to explain to Giovanni the terrible danger that he’s in, though to no avail. As Giovanni speaks to the Cassandra-like Baglioni, Rappaccini himself appears on the street, “stooping and moving feebly, like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but yet so per- vaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect. . . . As he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to bring out what- ever was within him worthy of notice.” “Nevertheless,” adds the narrator, “there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if merely taking a speculative, not a human, interest in the young man” (10: 106–7). Giovanni has the privilege of overlooking, but not the privilege to be overlooked. Emblematic of Hawthorne’s men, he is as much the object as he is the subject of the gaze. Rappaccini looks at him intently, just as the sav- agely face-painted horseback rider looks at comely Robin Molineux; ghastly Chillingworth at the splayed-out Dimmesdale, his chest exposed as if he were a character in a nineteenth-century bodice-ripper; the other characters 1 6 4 • C h a P T e r 6 at the earthy, sensual, faun-eared Italian youth Donatello; Septimius Felton and his sister at the handsome young English soldier whom Septimius later kills and mourns over.21 Rappaccini is the demonic “Father” here, whose totalizing gaze consumes all narrative space as it fixes upon Giovanni. Rappaccini’s gaze subsumes the young man’s own puny scopic endeavors. This scene also suggests, again, homoerotic threat, evoking, as it does, a scene of homosexual cruising. That Rappaccini is a debilitated, stumbling figure is significant as well, if we take the older man to be a mirror image for the younger, a mirror image that reveals his interior ugliness. If Giovanni is, like Coverdale, the voyeuristic onanist, Rappaccini, in his debilitated decrepitude, suggests the onanist’s fate as foreseen by the sexual and health reformers of Hawthorne’s day, such as Sylvester Graham and Mary Gove Nichols, who railed against onanistic practice and created images of the onanist’s body as ravaged by disease and of his soul as “ruined.”22 Moreover, Rappaccini walks with the same stooping gait that, as I argued in chapter 4, indicates male shame in Hawthorne, albeit usually associated with the young man. A ghost of sexual ruin, Rappaccini figures the future form of Giovanni, depicted as an onanist, while suggest- ing that male shame, an imprisonment in the other’s judgmental gaze, might descend into voyeuristic sadism, a desire to control others, as one had been controlled, through the cold, pitiless eye. When the young man’s vulnerability, his subjection to the gaze, is con- sidered along with the tale’s pronounced bewilderment in the face of hetero- sexual relations, what we are left with is an overturning of a broad range of presumptions: heterosexual, gendered, sexual, and, of course, racial, as this story’s terror in the face of “intermixture” has unmistakably racially charged undertones. The unwieldy, wide-ranging array of anxieties here can only be expressed as something that is itself an expression of the inexpressible. The story thematizes the attempt to express something—perhaps a form of desire—that cannot, ever, be expressed. The only possible vent for an expres- sion of the competing, incommensurate desires in the story is Giovanni’s feelings for Beatrice. It is a testament to the utter mystification of normative heterosexuality in this work that Hawthorne can express Giovanni’s desire for Beatrice only as the fusion of incommensurate responses: It was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor hor- ror, even while he fancied her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered like the other. (10: 105) T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 6 5 With self-preserving defiance, the narrator ejaculates thusly: “Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions” (10: 105). This story’s theme of terrible/irresistible looking is a metonymic welter of the anxieties and sexual preoccupations of Hawthorne’s oeuvre, fusing the heteroerotic and the homoerotic, the narcissistic with the voyeuristic, all of which produce together this textual wild offspring. Hawthorne’s attitude of ambivalence extends beyond gender, nature, race, and the body to the very idea of sexuality itself. It is in this ambivalence that Hawthorne and Freud meet as thinkers who view sexuality as a source of terror as well as beauty. VoyeurIsm as narcIssIsm Hawthorne makes Giovanni, with his “Grecian” beauty and golden, glis- tening ringlets, a poster boy of Hellenism. Succinctly summarizing the sexual import of the discourse, Linda Dowling writes that the “Anglo-Hel- lenism” of the nineteenth century was “a screen for sodomy.”23 If we recall our discussion of the homoerotic valences of Hellenism in chapter 3, we can understand that Hawthorne’s specific attribution of “Grecian,” rather than “Italian,” beauty to Giovanni has discursive implications for the nine- teenth century’s homoerotic themes, as does the classically named “Cyrus” of “Roger Malvin’s Burial.” The Greco-Roman ideal of symmetrical, lithe, and abstracted beauty to which Hawthorne’s beautiful males correspond was embodied by the Apollo Belvedere, a central figure and point of celebration for the eighteenth-century German art historian Johann Joachim Winckel- mann (1717–68), whose writings on classical aesthetics inspired the nine- teenth-century craze for the Grand Tour, an improving journey throughout the great cultural centers of Europe, with a focus on the classical past. The appearance of Hellenic images in the works of antebellum American authors in particular carried with it the dangerous attractions of the homoerotic. Like Cyrus, Giovanni seems to have wandered from Greek myth into a distinct new realm. Exporting the full weight of Hellenic themes into this neo-Dantean gothic, Giovanni amplifies and extends the associations between classical reference and male sexuality signaled by the reference to Vertumnus. If Hawthorne cannot name Narcissus—the figure that is so cru- cial to nineteenth-century homoerotic discourse—he can evoke his character through a representation of a male figure whose own striking beauty threat- ens to surpass the female figure who is presumably the focal point of the masculine, which is ostensibly the narrative, gaze; whose own beauty is inex- 1 6 6 • C h a P T e r 6 tricably intermeshed with his pronounced anxieties over vision and desire.24 In every way—his excessive beauty, the vulnerability of his body, its sus- ceptibility to penetration, the ease with which the “fierce and subtle poison [that flows] into his system” (10: 105) breaches the borders of his masculine integrity—Giovanni is threatened by homoeroticism and effeminacy, even as he himself carries these threats. The classical ethical content of the Narcissus myth—its cautionary pro- gram of redressing the failure to distinguish surface from depth, true from false value, self from other—is the most audible echo of the myth in Haw- thorne’s depiction of Giovanni. “Guasconti had not a deep heart,” the narrator tells us, when Giovanni resumes his scopophilic vigil. “[O]r at all events, its depths were not sounded now” (10: 105). But there are no depths to sound, save those to be seen in the “haunted verge” of the mirror, as Hawthorne describes it in “The Custom-House” (a thematic I turn to in the epilogue). What Hawthorne registers most acutely in this scene is the ambivalence over masculinity that suffuses his oeuvre. Beatrice’s physical resemblance to Giovanni—she shares his “glistening ringlets” (10: 102)—refracts the nar- cissistic similarities between them. Resemblances between woman and man signal the threatening infiltration of narcissistic femininity—Eve staring at her own reflection in Paradise Lost, the vain woman before her looking-glass in countless works of visual art—into the seemingly staunch, unimpeachably secure masculine character. Males look at women in the standard gendered narrative of Western culture and, indeed, of most cultures; the male who looks at himself with the same fixation, if not outright prurient intensity, that attends his visual inspection of women threatens to fall into the tradition- ally feminine languor of self-obsession—and into the even deadlier trap of homoerotic fascination. In the climactic portion of “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” Hawthorne finally makes his most explicit statement about Giovanni’s narcissistic nature: It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before descending into the garden, Giovanni failed not to look at his figure in the mirror; a vanity to be expected in a beautiful young man, yet, as display- ing itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certain shal- lowness of feeling and insincerity of character. He did gaze, however, and said to himself, that his features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such vivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life. (10: 121) T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 6 7 Explicating the metaphor that had been suggested earlier, that his phal- lus transforms into Beatrice’s flowers in her hands, Giovanni, momentarily assuring himself that her poison has not penetrated him, announces defi- antly, “I am no flower to perish in her grasp!” Or, to put it in modern par- lance, “You don’t own me!” Yet this assurance is none at all; indeed, it leads to that confrontation with the ugly self on the part of the beautiful male that I have termed trau- matic narcissism. Giovanni notices that the bouquet of flowers he holds has begun to droop. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame.  .  .  .  Giovanni grew white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there, as at the likeness of something frightful. . . . Then he shud- dered—shuddered at himself! (10: 121) No Hawthorne work more sharply articulates the particular set of anxieties that beset his male characters. Beautiful, they must contend with interior knowledge of a profound ugliness. Loving, they must renounce their love or destroy it. Lonely and longing for connection, they make of themselves a chilly, remote empire which no one else can enter. Giovanni becomes as white as marble and just as motionless—a spectator frozen in place. Giovanni’s exterior beauty masks a shallow heart and a dim soul: he is void of morals and spirit. This scene is a representative example of the theme of scopophobia that recurs throughout Hawthorne’s fiction: the fearfulness of returning one’s own gaze, the fearfulness of seeing, being seen by others, of truly seeing oneself; what makes this fear of looking espe- cially painful and poignant is how closely tethered it is to physical beauty, both in male and female characters. But it is debatable who suffers more, in real-world terms, within the visual regime of Hawthorne’s fiction. Haw- thorne’s beautiful, intelligent, and sympathetic women are all ensnared in the murderous logic of the gaze, be they the center of the assaultive gaze of a sadistic mob, such as Hester Prynne; a woman whose sexual gaze so unmans the desired male that he destroys her in retaliation, such as Alice Pyncheon; the object of a dubious man’s “eye-shot,” such as Zenobia; or the purveyor of a gaze that literally kills, such as Miriam Schaeffer. But if Miriam’s gaze kills, she is also the object of an incessant, injurious, and itself quite murderous gaze, the Model’s. Beatrice Rappaccini, visual mag- net, is destroyed by the narcissistic male gaze at its most pernicious. 1 6 8 • C h a P T e r 6 medusa In the mIrror Giovanni’s horrifying self-encounter in the mirror evokes not only the Nar- cissus myth but also another, analogous mythic figure of equal significance to psychoanalysis and to Hawthorne: Medusa. Turned into “white marble,” Giovanni is at once Narcissus and the victim of a woman’s killing gaze, a woman in whose image he now sees himself. In properly Medusan fashion, she has turned him into stone. In Ovid’s narrative of Perseus’s encounter with Medusa, in order to decapitate the infamously hideous Gorgon, whose face turns men to stone, Perseus uses his shield as a kind of mirror in which he can see her reflection, thereby seeing her with no danger to himself before he cuts off her head. The mirror is a type of Perseus’s shield; what is fascinating in Hawthorne is that, within it, Giovanni becomes a reflection of Beatrice. In other words, he now assumes the position of Medusa, caught in Perseus’s shield. Giovanni does not so much recall the figure of the Male Medusa, which we considered in the previous chapter, as he evokes Medusa herself and her structural posi- tion in Ovidian myth. If, as I argue, Hawthorne collapses the Narcissus and Medusa myths here, in a significant way Giovanni is also Perseus. Perseus is a liminal figure between Narcissus and Medusa, another male caught up in an anguished relationship toward vision, unable to see properly, but able to kill, a male who destroys woman for his own ends. If we consider the associations the tale makes between Beatrice and the Medusa myth, we can fully understand the correspondences between the Narcissus and Medusa myths in Hawthorne’s works and between Hawthorne and Freudian theory. It behooves us to recall the particulars of the Ovidian myth. As Ovid limns the Medusa myth, she is the victim of both male and female oppression. I quote from the translation that Hawthorne would have read: Medusa once had charms; to gain her love A rival crowd of envious lovers strove. They, who have seen her, own, they ne’er did trace More moving features in a sweeter face. Yet above all, her length of hair, they own, In golden ringlets wav’d, and graceful shone. Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir’d, Resolv’d to compass, what his soul desir’d. In chaste Minerva’s fane, he, lustful, stay’d, And seiz’d, and rifled the young, blushing maid. T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 6 9 The bashful Goddess turn’d her eyes away, Nor durst such bold impurity survey; But on the ravish’d virgin vengeance takes, Her shining hair is chang’d to hissing snakes. These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear, The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare, Than they did lovers once, when shining hair. (Dryden’s translation) The split between Athena-Minerva and Medusa is crucial to an understand- ing of Freud’s treatment of the myth as well as Hawthorne’s. Unpublished in his lifetime, Freud’s extraordinary brief paper “Medusa’s Head” (SE 18: 273–74; published in 1940 but dated as having been written in 1922) uses this Greek myth as an occasion to defamiliarize at once the oedipal normativity of the family and the pleasures of sexuality.25 Contem- plating the “horrifying decapitated head of Medusa,” Freud first associates it with the fear of castration: “To decapitate = to castrate.” He then proceeds to make a further linkage: Medusa terrifies because she links castration to “the sight of something” (emphasis added). Freud reminds us that castration fear is specifically a male fear, a fear that the boy, “who has hitherto been unwilling to believe the threat of castration,” is made to feel. In an exem- plary instance of psychoanalytic theory as the methodology in which the law of noncontradiction does not apply, Medusa’s head both signifies castration and assuages the male’s fear of it, because her writhing snakes-for-hair sug- gest both the cut of castration and a phallic compensation for it.26 This symbol of horror, notes Freud of Medusa’s head, “is worn upon her dress by the virgin goddess Athene.” “And rightly so,” Freud remarks, “for thus she becomes a woman who is unapproachable and repels all sex- ual desires.” She repels them because she “displays the terrifying genitals of the Mother.” In her innovative and brilliant study of Freud, Speaking the Unspeakable, Diane Jonte-Pace presents Freud’s paper on the Medusa— which, as we have made note of, was never published in his lifetime, though he does briefly allude to some of its claims in the 1923 essay “Infantile Genital Organization”—as an example of what she argues is the masterplot/ counterthesis tension in Freud. His masterplot is the patriarchal, oedipal nar- rative, which upholds the Father’s law; the counterthesis is the repudiated underside of this paternal law, emblematized by the Medusa myth and its “‘horrifying’ associations of maternal genitals, female deities, and death.”27 Medusa is an example of the “dead mother” who haunts, in counterthesis form, many of Freud’s texts.28 Jonte-Pace also makes note of Freud’s interest in the decisive split between conventionally feminine types and the deadly, 1 7 0 • C h a P T e r 6 “unapproachable woman.”29 This split will prove more and more significant to our analysis of Hawthorne’s tale.30 What unites the Narcissus and Medusa myths is the theme of vision as trauma (which they share with that other myth deeply significant to psycho- analytic theory, Oedipus). Of the many different ways that we can approach the similarities between these mythic figures, for our purposes the one I will focus on is their relevance to cultural and aesthetic conflations of sexual and visual anxiety. Both Medusa and Narcissus signal a disturbance in sexuality that is manifested in vision and is metaphorical of an essential disturbance within gendered identity. In Medusa’s case, she is the beautiful woman made hideous precisely because of her sexual desirability; she is forced to carry the burdens of misogyny by being entrapped within the outward display of its horror. Her hideous appearance conveys the horrific misogyny of patriarchy as it also demonstrates the monstrous impact of misogyny; in other words, she is both the effect of misogyny and its cause. Moreover, cursed by a female god for a male god’s impropriety, Medusa also symbolizes internalized misog- yny: a woman’s self-hatred at her own social, gendered, and sexual subject position.31 With Narcissus, the situation is reversed but similar. He is entrapped not within his ugliness but within his own beauty, a beauty that causes a pain to the males and females whose desire he perpetually incites but refuses to satisfy, much like the sexually inviolate males of antebellum American fiction, Hawthorne’s especially. No less than Medusa, he must experience the pain his appearance has caused others; if Medusa’s beauty “led” Posei- don to rape her—as Ovid’s myth constructs it—Narcissus’s beauty leads the call to Nemesis for his punishment. His punishment is to pine over the same face that provoked such a frenzy of communal desire, his own face. Once Medusa looks at herself in Perseus’s mirror, she herself is subsumed by the horror she embodies; once Narcissus stares at himself in the mirror of the pool, he is subsumed by the beauty he projects but can never possess as his own. These myths invert ugliness and beauty, yet produce the same results. Tobin Siebers argues persuasively in his study The Mirror of Medusa of the parallelism of the Narcissus and Medusa myths. Siebers’s study interro- gates the culture of superstition that, he argues, extends to our present; the “evil eye” is the powerful superstition that unites Medusa and Narcissus, though in distinct ways. In Medusa’s case, she is the evil eye, the look that can kill. But Medusa combines opposites: along with various other apotro- paic devices, the image of the head of Medusa can be used to ward off the evil eye as well.32 T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 7 1 As Siebers explains, the narcissist takes the place of the figure of the “fas- cinator,” a stranger, most commonly an ordinary male but one with super- human powers, who fascinates others with his evil eye. Like the figure he replaces, the narcissist fascinates, a point Freud echoes in his essay 1914 essay “On Narcissism.” Fascination, Siebers notes, is a “communicable dis- ease.”33 Like “the Gorgon, the narcissist seems to enthrall and to stupefy those around him.”34 In turn, the “magical familiars of Narcissus reveal their common parentage with the Gorgon. An emblem of fascination, the Gor- goneion directs its fatal glance to catch and stupefy the eye.”35 Narcissus and Medusa share this irresistible ability to fascinate. But their erotic predica- ments also turn their faces into fearsome masks. Moreover, each bears the opprobrium of “accusation.”36 Narcissus is accused of cruelty, pride, shallowness, vanity, and the failure to distinguish self from other; Medusa’s very ugliness is the embodiment of accusation, from others but also the self; the image of Medusa, a welter of rage, violence, victimization, and self-hatred, thematizes both the misogynistic regard in which women are held and the internalized misogyny with which women behold themselves. Narcissus comes to signal the failure of masculinity in his queer affect and his feminine susceptibility to the desiring gaze; Medusa signals not only the apparent horror and terror of female sexuality but also the terrors of a femininity with access to male power. Narcissus and Medusa emerge as symbols of gender and sexual conflict, opposing mirror images of the feminized male and the phallic woman who evoke the prejudices that surround gendered identities. Intertextual poetIcs “What is this being?—beautiful, shall I call her?—or inexpressibly terrible?” Giovanni wonders of Beatrice (10: 103). Giovanni echoes the different tradi- tions of Medusa: both the hideous ugliness she figures but also the “Beautiful Medusa” tradition found in Boccaccio. As Sylvia Huot observes, the latter was “a Medusa based on Ovid’s implication that what is dangerous is neither feminine desire nor its effects on men, nor male desire as such, but rather the lack of desire in a woman who refuses to yield.”37 Significantly, Milton draws on the Ovidian Narcissus myth for his depic- tion of Eve’s nativity. As Julia M. Walker reminds us, Milton pairs the Nar- cissus and the Medusa myths in Paradise Lost, perhaps the most important intertext for “Rappaccini’s Daughter.” Walker not only refers to Milton’s famous reimagining of the Ovidian Narcissus myth as the scene of Eve’s 1 7 2 • C h a P T e r 6 nativity in Book IV, but discusses his reworking of the myth in other ways, such as Adam’s recognition of the fallen but still irresistible Eve in Book VIII as “Bone of my Bone, Flesh of my Flesh, my Self / Before me” (VIII. 494– 96). Walker argues that Milton fragments and recombines these two Ovid- ian narratives “to reflect the fallen knowledge of the reader in and from the textual mirror of Paradise Lost.”38 Whereas Milton uses classical iconography as a gaudy decoration for his Christian redemption narrative, a redemp- tion as well as a textual project that delegitimates classical myth, Hawthorne writes not a Christian redemption narrative but, rather, an allegorical work in closer allegiance to the despairing view of Ovid. In other words, Haw- thorne inserts the redemptive Christian myth into the inescapable strictures of classical myth. But Hawthorne’s intertextual agon with his literary prede- cessors is also an engagement with their sexual politics. Hawthorne, ambi- tiously rewriting the biblical Genesis, Ovid, and Paradise Lost in this tale, creates an atmosphere that takes the Genesis narrative to a different level on which the thought of sexual connection is unthinkable. Adam and Eve are severely challenged in their desire, a predicament that Milton dramatically enlarges in his poem of the Fall. But whatever obstacles their desire faces and whatever fateful consequences await it, it is nevertheless always a desire that is sustained, achievable, fulfilled. In contrast, Hawthorne’s version of this tale makes the fulfillment of desire between his new Narcissus-like Adam and Medusan Eve utterly unthinkable, using the full despair and horror of the Ovidian myths to can- cel out the generative program of Genesis and the genuine tenderness of marital love in Milton’s vision. (Significantly, in Milton’s poem it is only after they have fallen that Adam and Eve treat each other with brutality dur- ing sex; the Fall makes the first pair treat each other like meat, in marked contrast to their exquisitely erotic prelapsarian sexual tenderness.) Haw- thorne may be said, in Beatrice Rappaccini, to fuse the terrible and the beautiful Medusa traditions, palpably registering Beatrice’s Medusan refusal to desire. These dynamics in Hawthorne’s characterization of Beatrice deepen his larger thematic of the ambivalence within—indeed, the unthinkability of—heterosexual relations. This is the aspect of the tale that most resonantly lends itself to queer interpretation. Hawthorne evokes Medusa when Giovanni makes his way to speak to Beatrice for the first time, making his passage into Beatrice’s space: “Giovanni stepped forth, and forcing himself through the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden entrance, he stood beneath his own window, in the open area of Doctor Rappaccini’s garden” (10: 109). Bea- trice’s yonic portal swarms with tendrils that entangle Giovanni as he “enters” T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 7 3 it, imagery that corresponds to Freud’s description of the Medusa’s writhing phallic snakes as metaphorical of the “terrifying genitals of the Mother.” Beatrice, the Daughter, also must represent, in her Eve-like role and status as the only generative woman in this fallen garden, the “Mother.” As I have suggested, Beatrice suggests Freud’s phallic mother, fetishized by Giovanni as well as Rappaccini. Standing beneath his own window—Giovanni’s own sexual symbol, which is appropriately a symbol of gender ambiguation, in that it connotes his phallic vision and a yonic portal itself—Giovanni now stands beneath his own mastery, in an effeminated position that reflects his relinquishment of male power. In Giovanni’s fateful climactic confrontation with Beatrice, the overlap- ping Narcissus-Medusa themes become especially imbricated. If we recall Siebers’s interpretation of these myths, accusation is a crucial aspect of both. The accuser assigns the blame of the evil eye on the person whose gaze has lingered too long on the object, causing harm. “Accursed one!” Giovanni screams at Beatrice (10: 124), pointedly echoing Adam’s rebuke of Eve in Milton’s Paradise Lost: “Out of my sight, thou serpent” (10: 867). Medusa- like Beatrice—like Hawthorne’s later heroines Hester, Zenobia, Miriam—is the accused. Yet it is Giovanni who has sadistically attempted to dominate Beatrice through the gaze; his accusation is a projection of his own guilt and shame. His murderous narcissism reaches its zenith in his denunciation of her: “poisonous thing!  .  .  .  Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself,—a world’s wonder of hideous monstrosity!” (10: 124). This traumatic outburst is specifically traumatic because, in being directed at Beatrice, it reveals both the depth of Giovanni’s own self-loathing and his inability to recognize it as such. He can only proj- ect it outward at a woman who, if anything, is far more victimized and far more blameless than he. This screed directed at Beatrice explicates the anxi- eties and tensions that simmer beneath the surface of Hawthorne’s placidly beautiful male exteriors—a confessional stream of self-hatred, fatally directed at an unsuitable target, rather than an inward stream of recrimination with the potential to lead to self-recognition and self-knowledge. Much like Hippolytus’s speech in response to the revelation that his stepmother Phaedra loves him in Euripides’ tragedy Hippolytus, Giovanni’s accusation is an index of misogynistic feeling. It also depicts, in the lines that conclude his invective, the idea of heterosexual relations as a monstrous inversion: “Now—if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all oth- ers—let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred, and so die!” (10: 124). The radicalism of Hawthorne’s vision here cannot be overstated: he 1 7 4 • C h a P T e r 6 has re-envisioned the ultimately redemptive Christian version of the myth of Adam and Eve—the origin myth of heterosexuality—as a dead-end narrative of sexual despair, sterility, and futility. In “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” Hawthorne presents male-centered hetero- sexuality as a system suffused with hate, the inverse motivation of Christian love. Emptiness, barrenness, duplicity, and death-fixation characterize the tale’s central male and female relationship. In emphasizing the irredeemable fallenness of the first human couple, the tale enacts precisely the outcome that the medieval Christian doctrine of the felix culpa, or Fortunate Fall, attempted to avert. The felix culpa was the belief that God actually wanted Adam and Eve to sin so that he could demonstrate his goodness by restoring us to a final state that will be “even happier than that from which we fell,” as Milton scholar John Leonard explains it.39 Hawthorne will return to these tragic themes in The Marble Faun, but at least that bleak novel has some promise of redemption (however pallid) in the Kenyon–Hilda relationship that may lead to marital union, or, to a lesser extent, the faint belief that sin- ful Miriam and Donatello may ultimately find redemption through suffer- ing. “Rappaccini’s Daughter” provides no compensatory promise of love or redemption, however faint the prospect of either, only the scene of blasted hope. The tale thematizes hatred’s triumph over love.40 It is precisely at this point that I believe I can make a plausible case for Hawthorne’s feminism. medusa’s protest I can think of few other works that make a more acute case for the Medusa myth as being—like Freud’s theory of the phallic mother—entirely a male fantasy, not about women at all. Like Medusa, Beatrice is entirely the victim of different forms of male oppression—her father’s cold, inhuman science (shades of “The Birthmark”) and Giovanni’s sadistic voyeurism, and even Baglioni’s rivalrous obsession (he cares nothing for Beatrice, only Giovanni, or perhaps, only for outing Rappaccini’s schemes for what they are). Beatrice is imprisoned within a terrifying Medusan identity and narrative, but she is never an active part in its construction. Beatrice is forced to occupy the role of generative mother as well as daughter in this tale, but in this role, she can only be a parodistic version of the mother. The lushly blooming plants and her own lushly blooming body are poisonous, indicative of death rather than maternal nurture. Her Medu- san quality—which is to say, the way she fuses Eve, Milton’s Sin, and the Gorgon; the numerous symbolic correspondences in the story (for example, T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 7 5 Medusan hair and swarming, poisonous plants)—carry the Freudian associa- tions with “the terrifying genitals of the Mother.” Yet these maternal genitals are precisely terrifying not for any inherent quality but because they mani- fest the overpowering anxieties and phobic defenses against them that char- acterize male subjectivity in Hawthorne as well as Freud. Freud’s misogyny is counterbalanced by his acute understanding of male subjectivity as being anything but what its cultural mythologies purport it to be: solid, rational, impregnable. As Freud represents masculinity, it is dominated from its out- set by fears of being ripped apart (castration, decapitation), fears it then, in the broad iconography of misogynistic practice, projects outward, to women, those with nonnormative sexualities, and the racial other. In Hawthorne’s case, Hawthorne maintains Freud’s skeptical view of masculinity, but he also maintains throughout his career a conflictual but always profound identifica- tion with women and the feminine. If Beatrice represents the full force of the misogyny inherent in Freud’s treatment of the Medusa, and a potential misogyny in Hawthorne, it should also be considered that, writing in his Victorian era of True Womanhood, Hawthorne is also offering a defiantly, aggressively satirical response to that desexualizing, domesticating ideal of femininity. Far from a wholesome, life-giving mother, Beatrice is the menace of sexuality and a refusal of the properly generative. While some will undoubtedly argue that this portrait confirms Hawthorne’s misogyny, in my view what Hawthorne offers through the tale is a critique of the cultural regime of conformity to normative gen- dered and sexual standards. Hence the significance of Beatrice as the Medusa who refuses to desire. If True Womanhood constructs women as asexual, the sexually unapproachable Beatrice is both the end of sex and its most luridly monstrous sign. In other words, Hawthorne brings the repressed terrors over female sexuality in the cultural unconscious vividly to the surface. Moreover, and most importantly, it is Beatrice’s Romantic nobility of character that makes Hawthorne’s identification with femininity most palpable, carrying the full force of his critique of masculinity. Frederick Crews makes several fine points about the tale in his essay “Giovanni’s Garden,” especially about Giovanni’s character, which he prop- erly recognizes as narcissistic: “Hawthorne shows him to be infatuated with his own ‘remarkable beauty of person’” and naively anxious to test out his seductiveness. . . . [He] demands a love-object that will merely flatter his van- ity, not make sexual demands of its own. Every hint of Beatrice’s complete womanliness is thus a blow to his narcissism. But beyond this, Giovanni dis- plays an abject terror before the whole phenomenon of female sexuality.”41 Crews’s conclusion is apt: “Ultimately he has cared only for his attractive- 1 7 6 • C h a P T e r 6 ness.”42 Like many Hawthorne works, the tale works hard to keep its male protagonist sexually inviolate. Like Medusa, Giovanni refuses sexual desire; like Narcissus, his desire is arrested at the point between incitement and consummation. But I think that Crews is quite wrong about Beatrice. Rebutting critics, as is his forte, Crews writes that Giovanni has been accused of shallowness because he rejects Beatrice “as monstrous.” But, Crews rebuts, “as a potential bride she is monstrous.”43 To Crews, Beatrice is “unaware of her power of enticement.” What she really disavows, Crews argues, is that “she has delib- erately exploited her attractiveness, which has been enhanced by the mys- terious aura of danger attaching to her poisonousness.  .  .  .  Her innocence consists in an almost willful ignorance of her sexual power, and this igno- rance is the foundation of her claim to spiritual power.”44 The most hateful aspect of the Ovidian Medusa myth is the way in which Medusa is herself punished for having been raped by Poseidon. Crews accuses Beatrice of knowing innocence about her own sexual magnetism; he creates a portrait of her as a weirdly girlish sexual predator who ensnares Giovanni while all the time coyly camouflaging any personal knowledge of her sexual charms. I do not see any evidence for this reading of her in Haw- thorne’s portrayal: if she is a monster, her monstrousness stems entirely from the male fantasies that have appropriated her body, though not, entirely, her spirit. Beatrice has internalized the misogyny in her midst and come to see herself, as Giovanni does, as a monster; in other words, she accuses herself as she has been accused. Unlike Giovanni, however, Beatrice can speak the language of self-recognition, even if she damns herself in the process: “I, it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me” (124). But why, she asks, does Giovanni include himself in her world of contamination? “Dost thou pretend ignorance?” Giovanni scowls at her. In also condemning her for feigning ignorance, Crews takes a very Giovanni-like view of Beatrice. But Beatrice, we must accept, believes that she is alone in her difference; she truly is not aware of her fatal potentialities to others. She asks Giovanni this ques- tion because she does not realize that he now shares in her poisoned nature. Finally, she does come to realize that it is her father who has united her and Giovanni in “fearful sympathy” (125). “I see it! I see it!” shrieked Beatrice. “It is my father’s fatal science. No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never, never! I dreamed only to love thee, and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass away, leaving but thine image in mine heart. For Giovanni—believe it—though my body be nour- T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 7 7 ished with poison, my spirit is God’s creature, and craves love, as its daily food. But my father!—he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes, spurn me!—tread upon me!—kill me! Oh, what is death, after such words as thine? But it was not I! Not for a world of bliss would I have done it!” (10: 125) Beatrice transforms the emblem of Giovanni’s narcissism, his image, into compensation for lovers’ loss: she hopes to retain Giovanni’s image in her heart, assuaging the eventual loss of his bodily presence. Her desire is, ulti- mately, not a projection of her fixation with her own image but a desire to possess the image of her beloved. Whereas Giovanni and, for that mat- ter, Rappaccini can only see Beatrice as an extension of themselves, as an image of themselves, Beatrice can see that an image of Giovanni is an image of the other, one she can incorporate into her own emotional life, rather than seeing Giovanni as simply another version, copy, likeness, or reflection of herself. As will Sybil in Septimius Felton, Beatrice quaffs the potion that promises release from death or that promises death itself, the latter winning out in both cases. As Beatrice dies, she rebukes both Giovanni and her father, united in their masculinist attitudes if not in their specific positions toward Beatrice. Her father is incredulous that Beatrice is angry with him for what he has done to her. “Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil, and capable of none?” he asks. Her response is one of the greatest speeches in Hawthorne. “I would fain have been loved, not feared,” murmured Beatrice. . . . “I am going, father, where the evil, which thou hast striven to mingle with my being, will pass away like a dream—like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers, which will no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni. Thy words of hatred are like lead within my heart— but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?” (10: 127) On the similarities between Georgiana in “The Birthmark” and Beatrice, Alison Easton writes, “Both women protest impotently—Beatrice asserts that she is more than poisonous flesh. . . . Both women die, sacrificing them- selves for men demonstrably undeserving of such inordinate devotion.”45 If an impotent protest is one that is defined as a protest that fails to alleviate the misfortune of the protester, than surely that is an apt phrase to describe Beatrice’s parting words. Yet I would argue that another way of thinking 1 7 8 • C h a P T e r 6 about Beatrice at this moment is possible.46 Beatrice stunningly critiques both Giovanni and her father. In being so directed, her dying words are at once a lament and a stinging affront both to heterosexual male privilege and to the “Father”: to the oedipal dynamics in which she has lived fatally ensnared, and to patriarchy itself. While I understand Crews’s effort to provide an alternative view to pietis- tic interpretations of Hawthorne’s art, to de-emphasize the religious conno- tations here, as Crews does, seems to me a large mistake. Beatrice recognizes, and also appoints, herself as a martyr, ascending to an afterlife envisioned specifically as an antidote to both male narcissism and patriarchal misogyny. Beatrice’s self-election here may smack a bit of unseemly hubris, but I think its point is that, whereas the males consign themselves to corrupt, worldly values, she embodies true Christian feeling. However one feels about this Christian message, what is significant about it is that it importantly resists not only Giovanni’s—and, it should be added, Rappaccini’s—calumniation of her sexuality but the misogyny within the long history of Judeo-Christian myth and also of the classical literary tradition. Rappaccini claims that in Beatrice he created a woman who could transcend misogyny by becoming untouchably powerful, far mightier than men; she exposes the underlying misogyny in her father’s dark idealism, revealing that he exerts a masculinist privilege that has overridden her feelings and, ultimately, ended her life. Beatrice’s declaration that she would rather have been loved than feared is especially striking. She inverts the Machiavellian maxim that, for a ruler, it is better to be feared than loved, demonstrating a feminine disposition toward such political questions that, I would argue, Hawthorne endorses. (Machiavelli’s The Prince was published in 1532.) Beatrice makes a declara- tion for love as a potent force, the true antidote to the tale’s regime of hate. This is an affirmation of a redemptive Christian message, but this message is transmitted through a larger network of failure, despair, and death; Beatrice may condemn her oppressors, but she cannot change the logic of patriarchy. I see her predicament as indicative not of Hawthorne’s misogyny, but, rather, of his combined empathy for women’s situation—allegorical of his own as a “degenerate fellow, a writer”—and pessimistic view of gendered relations. Most provocatively and movingly of all, Beatrice’s own condemnation of Giovanni reveals a great deal about Hawthorne’s own views. “Was there not from the first more poison in thy nature than in mine?” Beatrice recog- nizes that Giovanni is always already “poisoned.” Her reference to Giovan- ni’s “nature” synthesizes Hawthorne’s textual and symbolic efforts to reinsert masculinity into nature; but this reinsertion only more deeply reveals that it is masculine nature which Hawthorne views as truly poisoned. T h e G a z e i n T h e G a r d e n • 1 7 9 “ w o m e n h a v e no choice other than to be decapitated,” Hélène Cixous wrote in 1976, “and in any case . . . if they don’t actually lose their heads by the sword, they only keep them on condition that they lose them—lose them, that is, to complete silence, turned into automatons.” For Cixous, “women always inhabit the place of silence  .  .  .  they remain outside knowledge.” If woman could be freed from the shackles of ignorance through which men bind her, she could do the work that would “benefit not only women but all humanity.” But in order for that woman to begin her gendered revolu- tion, she must first “speak, start speaking, stop saying that she has nothing to say!” Once she does this she may be able to bring man back to an “erog- enous field  .  .  .  [that] appears shifting, diffused, taking on all the others of oneself.”47 Beatrice anticipates Hawthorne’s strong, resistant female characters of the novel-romances of the 1850s—Hester Prynne, defying the Puritan elders who want to take her child away or telling Dimmesdale that what passed between them, however illicit, had “a consecration of its own”; the elderly Hepzibah, though inwardly timorous, standing up to Judge Pyncheon to protect her spectral brother, Clifford; most strikingly in terms of a woman’s voice, Zenobia assailing the solipsistic men around her for their obsession with “self, self, self!” And, most Beatrice-like of all, the dark sexual mystery of Miriam Schaeffer in The Marble Faun, a work that could almost be an elaborate sequel to “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” puts her in a perpetually embat- tled position. Miriam is a highly ambivalent portrait of femininity, but in her forthrightness, eloquence, and odd courage she demands sympathy even at her most alienating. Moreover, the dark-lady Jewess Miriam far exceeds the pallid, Protestant Hilda in terms of authorial and readerly fascination. If the position of woman in the West, as Cixous argues, is one of decapi- tation—the denial of mind and voice—Hawthorne explodes this position, giving the Medusan woman decapitated by misogyny back her mind and voice. Here is the place in which his career-long revision of the Narcissus myth has its most subversive dimension: he gives Echo the power to speak for and as herself and on her own behalf. Nowhere in Genesis, Ovid, Shake- speare, or even Milton does a woman speak truth to patriarchal power more movingly and bracingly, with no hypocrisy or final self-recrimination, than does the dying but resilient Beatrice in “Rappaccini’s Daughter.”48 It is in Hawthorne’s daring identification with a wronged but valiantly eloquent woman and in his unremittingly skeptical, negative view of the masculine “character” that his feminism makes itself most keenly felt. c h a p t e r 7 180 . . . all these marble ghosts. Why should not each statue grow warm with life! Antinous might lift his brow, and tell us why he is forever sad. . . . Bacchus, too, a rosy flush diffusing itself over his time-stained surface, could come down from his pedestal, and offer a cluster of purple grapes to Donatello’s lips; because the god recognizes him as the woodland elf who so often shared his revels. And here, in this sarcophagus, the exquisitely carved figures might assume life, and chase one another round its verge with that wild merriment which is so strangely represented on those old burial coffers: though still with some subtle allu- sion to death, carefully veiled, but forever peeping forth amid emblems of mirth and riot. —The Marble Faun, chapter 2 (14: 17) I n t h e p r e v i o u s c h a p t e r , I began to explore homoerotic Hel-lenism and its significance to Hawthorne’s work. This topic will be central to chapter 7 along with a comparison that has been hovering, with a certain persistence, as a possibility over my critical narrative. More than any other writer of the antebellum period with the exception of Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville shares Hawthorne’s preoccupations. Their themes signifi- cantly overlap: each author obsessively treats the central idea of the duplic- ity of appearances; in their work, reality is but a “pasteboard mask” that we must “strike through.” Yet, for both, surfaces have depth; they brood upon the beguiling allure of appearances, puzzling out their irresistible and mad- dening appeal. While the heady, agonized, enigmatic relationship between Hawthorne and Melville has occupied the minds of scholars for decades well into the present, what I wish to consider is each artist’s treatment of Narcissus. In hawThOrne, melville, and ClaSSiCal male beaUTy Visual Identity v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 8 1 terms of these authors’ uses of the myth of Narcissus, I refer not just to this specific myth figure but also to what we can call Narcissus-discourse or a Nar- cissus-continuum, youthful male figures that evoke qualities associated with Narcissus: great beauty, a tragic early death, flower imagery, and homoerotic associations. These characteristics all inhere in the classical figure of Antinous, whom I treat here as an extension or double of Narcissus. While the entire premise of this book is that Hawthorne frequently evokes the figure of Narcissus, it is also true that he never names him explic- itly. Melville, in contrast, does name him in Moby-Dick and makes the figure in all of its explicitness the “key” to his greatest work. Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.1 In characteristically haunting and provocative fashion, Melville jams together two thoroughly unlike adjectives—tormenting, mild—to evoke Narcissus and his fundamentally perplexing nature. Melville seizes upon classical myth’s iconic power. In his hands, the myth is sent out to float like a phantom of the sea, as if the pool that captured the face of the mythic youth had widened into all of the waters of the world. In Melville’s pointed contrast between “the robust healthy” and presumably American youth, even whose soul has similar qualities, and the phantomlike Narcissus, he offers a telling commentary on the gulf between a typical image of youthful masculinity and one associated with the classical world; the latter is inevitably imbued with haunting and uncanny qualities. I will not attempt to decode the meanings of Narcissus in Melville’s epic novel here. Rather, my focus is more disparate. By considering some instances of the reception of classical male beauty in Hawthorne’s and Melville’s writ- ings, specifically regarding the figure of Antinous, I believe that we can get at something significant about what role classical culture and myth played for antebellum male authors who explored homoerotic themes in an era in which the sexual content of classical literature was generally expurgated. I proceed, 1 8 2 • C h a P T e r 7 after the comparative discussion of Melville and Hawthorne’s travel writing and Melville’s last major work, Billy Budd, Sailor, to a consideration of the titular figure in Hawthorne’s 1860 The Marble Faun. While there is much to consider within this extraordinarily dense and rich novel, my focus is on the relevance of the faun to the narcissistic crisis that Hawthorne consistently thematizes and the significance of Hellenism, spectacularly referenced in the ekphrastic appreciation of the faun, to this crisis. Forecasting the concerns of the last chapter, I will also address here the problematic of race and racism. I do so through a critique of the charges of racism that have been leveled not only at nineteenth-century Hellenism generally but also at Hawthorne’s deployment of the technique in his uses of the faun. One of my concerns here is the diminishment of issues related to gender, sexuality, and, specifically, queer sexuality that sometimes occurs in critiques of nineteenth-century literary racism. Neither eclipsed nor dis- placed by these discussions, Freud is alive within them in his study of the homosexual artist par excellence, Leonardo da Vinci. Vexed QuestIons n i n e T e e n T h - C e n T U ry h e l l e n i S m a n d S e x U a l h i S T O ry While it is important to note that Hawthorne does not mention Narcis- sus in print, it is also worth noting that he was not the only antebellum writer working in a mythohistorical context who kept Narcissus and simi- lar kinds of figures unmentioned. Samuel Griswold Goodrich, the editor of the illustrated annual The Token (1828–42), which published the younger Hawthorne, and the creator, with his brother, of the Peter Parley children’s book series, does not mention Narcissus at all in his 1832 A Book of Mythol- ogy for Youth. And when he does discuss similar figures, he makes no note of their beauty. For example, in a passage from the entry on Venus, Goodrich discusses Adonis, another beautiful youth in the Narcissus tradition who is doomed to an early death and associated with flower imagery. Goodrich makes no mention of Adonis’s famed physical splendor, saying only that he is “the son of the King of Cyprus . . . slain by a wild boar. Venus bewailed his death with much sorrow, and changed his blood which was shed on the ground, into the flower anemone.”2 Similarly, the figure Endymion receives a nonerotic reception. A youth so beautiful that Selene (or Diana) the moon goddess rendered him perpetually asleep so that she could contemplate and caress him as he slumbered, Endymion is described simply as “an astrono- v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 8 3 mer.” Diana’s effort to keep him in eternal amorous captivity is described with similar opacity as “Diana, or the moon, descending from Heaven to visit the shepherd Endymion.”3 When the specific subject of homosexuality comes up, coded language prevails. On the subject of the Thracian wom- en’s destruction of the poet-musician Orpheus—triggered by his embrace of homosexual practices and rejection of sex with the women, as described in Ovid’s Metamorphoses in one of the key instances of same-sex desire in his heterosexually oriented epic—Goodrich writes: “Orpheus fled for ever from mankind. His lyre was silent. The Thracian women, enraged because he avoided their society, attacked and killed him during the feast of Bacchus. They threw his head into the Hebrus . . . .”4 As still holds true in American culture, violence (the Thracian women’s decapitation of Orpheus) remains more safely representable than sexuality. (One recalls the reaction of the late French director Louis Malle to the news that one of his American films would be given an “X” rating: “You can show a breast being cut off and get an ‘R’ rating, but if you show this breast being kissed or fondled you get an ‘X.’”) Goodrich, it should be repeated, is repurposing the classical myths for children, as Hawthorne would in the 1850s. At the same time, his reluc- tance even to describe the most famously beautiful males from the classical corpus as such reveals tensions within the strictures on content in the ante- bellum period that exceed the category of children’s literature. Writing in the 1850s in this genre, Hawthorne also makes no mention of Narcissus, signifying that a shared reticence about the subject was evident two decades after Goodrich’s mythology book appeared. At the same time, Hawthorne does frequently evoke male beauty in his work generally. The point is not so much that the sexual content of classical mythology was being expurgated in children’s literature, but, rather, that children’s literature was being chosen as the venue in which to present classical material in order to keep its content sexually expurgated. The homoerotic uses of Hellenism must be understood within the com- plex relay between the coded and the explicit about sexual matters generally within the period, but especially in terms of classical themes and allusions. Hawthorne’s decorum accords with that of his era, as his retelling of the myth of Demeter and Persephone, “The Pomegranate Seeds,” in his 1853 Tanglewood Tales (7: 296–330) evinces. In the Greek myth, Persephone is a maiden, daughter of the seasonal goddess Demeter, who is abducted by Hades and forced to be his bride. Hawthorne makes Persephone a young girl rather than a maiden, mitigating the force of rape imagery and sexual 1 8 4 • C h a P T e r 7 conquest in the myth. Yet (perhaps unconsciously, but also perhaps not) Hawthorne’s representational choices here link his work to the homoerotic tradition from which it emerged: the girl in Hawthorne’s retelling evokes the boy, or eromenos, of classical pederastic tradition, whose adult male men- tor, or erastes, initiates him into both intellectual and sexual knowledge, as works such as Plato’s dialogue the Phaedrus evoke so palpably. This is not to suggest that accurate or even widely available translations of works by Plato were available to Hawthorne; such translations would emerge in print only in the later nineteenth century. But it is also true that the wider reference world of classical reception contained frequent instances of and allusions to homoerotic practices, in addition to other taboo sexual references, in the ancient world. As Louis Crompton observes in his masterly Byron and Greek Love, “if Plato was a closed book, the gardens of poetry were open. The clas- sical curriculum in England, as John Stuart Mill was to complain, ignored history and philosophy in favor of philology and poetry. . . . It was a paradox that an age that would have rejected formal sex education as shocking should have prescribed amorous Latin and Greek poetry as a staple of education.”5 Considerable overlaps existed in both the educational practices and the cul- tural discordances of classical reception in England and the United States. As Caroline Winterer writes, mid-nineteenth-century Americans “wrestled with the problem of representing timeless ideals of transcendent beauty in forms unacceptable to standards of modern social propriety”; the “suspect morality of the ancients became more problematic as the physical and textual remains of antiquity became more numerous.”6 While a fuller consideration of this complex set of historical questions exceeds the scope of this chapter, we can establish that sexual matters related to classical culture were riddled with epistemological inconsistencies, asymmetries, and discordances—in other words, were metonymic of the larger problem of the representation and understanding of sexuality and sexual history in transatlantic nineteenth- century cultural practices. While he observes literary proprieties that were his own as well as his culture’s, Hawthorne also at times resists antebel- lum cultural codes by highlighting the erotic dimensions of classical litera- ture, and sometimes in a homoerotic context, such as in his descriptions of the glorious physicality of the young Cyrus in “Roger Malvin’s Burial” and Giovanni’s “Grecian beauty” in “Rappaccini’s Daughter.”7 In emphasizing the homoerotic potentialities of Hellenism and classical beauty, I am bringing into clearer focus an underlying theme in this study, though one I have also repeatedly attempted to problematize: the relevance of Hawthorne’s work to the question of the presence of same-sex desire in v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 8 5 nineteenth-century texts. The determinability of same-sex desire in nine- teenth-century texts has been a vexed historical question since the 1980s at least, though one that has been innovated in the past decade. The widespread adoption of the findings of the gay French social historian Michel Foucault, particularly in his influential book The History of Sexuality, Volume 1, dra- matically reshaped the attempt to recover a homosexual past (the very term homosexual being seen as anachronistic by some) in the 1980s. In History, Foucault famously argued that, at a key moment in the second half of the nineteenth century, the homosexual became “a species.”8 The homosexual was a new kind of person, one whose sexual acts were now tied to subjectiv- ity.9 This new taxonomical identity-category of the homosexual replaced the former category of “sodomite.” What has prevailed since the 1980s, until very recently, is the view that there is no correspondence whatsoever between sexual acts and sex- ual identities before this taxonomical emergence, identities being the result of classifications such as the naming of the homosexual and the attendant pathologization, in legal, medical, psychiatric, criminal, and religious dis- courses, of those so named. Significant challenges from certain quarters to the Foucauldian model have been offered in the past decade, however, and as a result debates over nineteenth-century same-sex desire have undergone a remarkable transformation.10 Even one of the major earlier voices of the Foucauldian positions about matters of sexual history, David M. Halperin, has attempted to challenge the standard view of a sharp distinction between acts and identities before the latter half of the nineteenth century, seeking to reorient Foucault’s reception in sexuality studies.11 My work on Hawthorne reflects my engagement with these more recent approaches to the question of same-sex desire in nineteenth-century texts. Through the scenes of contemplation of images from the ancient archive within Melville’s and Hawthorne’s private writings, we can learn more about the meanings that the classical world held for antebellum Americans, an era that was fascinated by simultaneously suggestive and decorous works such as Hiram Powers’s sculpture The Greek Slave. (It was sculpted by Powers in several versions between 1844 and 1869.) Specifically for our purposes, a historical same-sex desiring presence as well as different styles of masculin- ity charge these scenes of contemplation with homoerotic and gendered sig- nificance for the authors. Comparing Melville’s and Hawthorne’s reactions to representations of the homoerotic cult icon Antinous reveals some key aspects of the attitudes toward sexuality maintained in their culture and of each author’s sensibility. 1 8 6 • C h a P T e r 7 melVIlle and male beauty a n T i n O U S , T h e a P O l l O b e lv e d e r e , b i l ly b U d d In the course of his travels to England, the Middle East, and Europe in 1856–57, Herman Melville saw a statue of Antinous, the famous young beloved of the Roman emperor Hadrian, in the Capitoline Museum. (The statue is now considered to be of Hermes.) As he wrote in response to it in his journal entry of Thursday, February 26, 1857: “Antinous, beautiful.— Walked to the Pincian hill.—gardens and statuary—overlooking Piazza del Populo.—(Music on the Pincian) Fashion & Rank—Preposterous postur- ing within stone’s throw of Antinous. How little influence has truth on the world!” He goes on to note that fashion is ridiculous everywhere, but espe- cially in Rome. He also writes here that “No place where lonely man will feel more lonely than in Rome,” adding parenthetically “or Jerusalem.”12 Two days later that week, he stopped off at the Villa Albani in Rome, where he saw the celebrated bas-relief of Antinous, which had been found in Hadrian’s Tivoli villa. In his journal, Melville described the bas-relief this way: “— along the walls—Antinous—head like moss-rose with curls and buds—rest all simplicity—end of fillet on shoulder—drapery, shoulder in the mantle— hand full of flowers and eyeing them—the profile &c. . . .”13 This entry ends with the line that seems to be a recurring motif: “Silence and loneliness of long streets of blank garden walls.” Interestingly placed between Melville’s two discussions of representations of Antinous is his report in the Journals of visiting the graves of Shelley and Keats. Shelley, in particular, was famed for his feminine handsomeness, and these poets who died young add to the atmosphere of Antinousinian melancholy, of beautiful youth cut down in the prime of life and reverentially immortalized. The cult of Antinous is a vari- ant, one might argue, of the Narcissus myth: both concern the premature death of a beautiful youth whose image galvanizes the spectator. As Gail Coffler observes in her superb essay “Classical Iconography in the Aesthetics of Billy Budd, Sailor,” Antinous was “often assimilated to the fertility god Dionysius, or to his Egyptian counterpart, the underworld deity Osiris, god of the regenerative Nile. Indeed, the erotic, Dionysian impulse informs the identifying facial characteristics of Antinous: the full mouth with curved upper lip; the large, ‘melting’ eyes; and the distinctive curls extending around his forehead.” Coffler proceeds to compare the iconic fig- ure of Antinous to Billy Budd. As Coffler describes, “Billy Budd as a type of the Antinous is clearly adumbrated in that journal description. The rose bud iconography, identifying Antinous with the fertility god Dionysus, also links this journal passage with a Greek youth who anticipates Billy Budd: v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 8 7 the gay Cypriote, whose image appears twice in Melville’s poetry. All three figures (Antinous, the Cypriote[s], Billy Budd) are physically alluring and seductively dangerous, like the ‘rose’ in Melville’s ‘Naples in the Time of Bomba’ . . . For Melville the rose is an emblem of earthly beauty, a reminder that art based on beauty, without the strengthening fiber of transcendent truth, cannot last.”14 Antinous’s backstory, given in Royston Lambert’s standard account, bears mentioning. Hadrian reigned for twenty years, from the years 117 to 138. Antinous was a Bithynian slave, Bithynia now being northwest Turkey. While the circumstances of the emperor and Antinous’s meeting remain unknown, most sources have described the relationship between the emperor and the famously beautiful youth as a sexual one. It is said that Hadrian wept bitterly and mourned deeply for Antinous after his death in October of the year 130. (Antinous was born in the year 111.) While some reported that Antinous was murdered, it is more generally supported that Antinous committed sui- cide by jumping into the Nile because of a prophecy that the emperor would die unless someone close to him died in his stead—a voluntary religious sac- rifice on Antinous’s part. In any event, Hadrian immortalized the young man as the ideal of Greek beauty through all manner of iconography after hav- ing Antinous deified, an honor usually reserved for members of the ruling family. While it has been suggested that Hadrian had political motivations for the creation of the Antinous cult—as a means of securing the allegiance of the Greek-speaking East to Roman rule—the lavishness of his tributes to the dead youth suggest that his passion was as heartfelt as his politics were canny. As the cult of Antinous, worshipped as a god, spread throughout the Roman empire, busts of him were rife, and the beautiful young man’s face adorned coins, medallions, cut gems and cameos, and even “small collaps- ible busts” were made for well-off folk to carry with them on their travels. In his honor, Hadrian also founded the Egyptian city of Antinopolis.15 To flash forward to the period we are examining, busts of Antinous were prominent decorations in the Hellenism-saturated households of the nineteenth cen- tury. Hawthorne had a bust of Antinous, kept “in the parlor of his little red house in Lenox, where Melville surely would have noticed it,” and Melville kept a bust of the youth in his own home in his later years.16 What specifically concerns me here is the way in which same-sex desire and love informed the relationship writers maintained with the classical past. One way or another, many writers, Melville and Hawthorne promi- nent among them, contributed to the development of a nineteenth-century transatlantic homoerotic aesthetic culture. While many studies have focused on this culture’s efflorescence in late-Victorian England, cultivated by figures 1 8 8 • C h a P T e r 7 such as Pater, Wilde, and John Addington Symonds, among others, less work has been done on American artists’ participation in this aesthetic culture’s development, Henry James being co-opted, as often happens, into English literary traditions for these purposes. By aesthetic culture, I mean a series of intersections among literary and visual art traditions, with the specific form of Hellenism as their founda- tion, that together emerged as a language and a tradition, a shared set of references and an index of representations, of homoerotic desire across tem- poral and geographical spaces. One of the most highly charged precedents for homoerotic aesthetic culture’s nineteenth-century manifestation was the writings of Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717–68), a German art histo- rian and archaeologist who pioneered a new interest in classical art, one that focused on the beautiful male body, albeit as a rejection of the sensual and an embrace of the meditative. Famously, Winckelmann maintained that the Apollo Belvedere, the Laocoön, and the Villa Albani bas-relief of Antinous represented the art of the ancient world at its most glorious. Indeed, by the time Melville and Hawthorne were traveling in Europe in the 1850s, Winck- elmann’s triumvirate of classical male beauty had become quite thoroughly a cliché, passages in which he extolled these figures’ beauty cut and pasted, as it were, into guidebooks for the educated traveler and connoisseur.17 From the earliest days of the American republic, a fixation with the clas- sical world was prominent. By the antebellum period, a decisive shift from Rome to Greece (the “Greek Revival”) had occurred. During the 1850s, it had become de rigueur for educated Americans to embark on an improv- ing voyage to Europe in order to contemplate its endless array of art his- tory treasures. This “Grand Tour” was a central experience of transatlantic nineteenth-century middle-class society. Of chief interest to us here are the possibilities afforded the male viewer of art to register, record, and explore the male form. The nineteenth century, in terms of the possibilities for the expression of homoerotic desire, was a period in flux. As we have noted, scholars have generally framed the century as a movement from more liquid, amorphous forms of same-sex affiliation to a more rigid, sexually stratified period of modern sexual taxonomies that flowed from the medical and legal discourses that reframed sexualities at the end of the century. This critical narrative has framed the late-nineteenth-century birth of psychoanalysis as the death of free-flowing, unclassified homoerotic relations.18 While this narrative has its uses, especially for rhetorical purposes, I believe that the question of when and how same-sex desire was regulated—either policed against or allowed a range of public, open, visible expressions—continues to remain an unsettled v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 8 9 and enigmatic one. While more strictures were indeed placed on same-sex desire, or more specifically desirers, by the late nineteenth century, it is also true that prohibitive codes of conduct that prevented the public expression of unseemly gendered as well as sexual behavior were well in place in the early nineteenth century. One of the ways of subverting these codes was through coded discourse itself, and nineteenth-century Hellenism was chief among such coded discourses, allowing for the expression of homoerotic apprecia- tion while still within acceptable social parameters of taste and decorum. From Winckelmann well into the late nineteenth century, classical art, particularly that of ancient Greece as synecdochically embodied by the mar- ble statue, provided a discourse for the male discussion of male beauty with considerable potential for the expression of homoerotic desire.19 Under the guise of Hellenic art-appreciation, nonthreatening because it was presumed divorced from the sexual and firmly situated on the higher plane of the rational, socially unsanctioned desires, such as same-sex desire, found expres- sive vent.20 Though it has come under considerable fire as racist rhetoric from a number of critics who associate it with the promulgation of a white racial ideal, Hellenism had subversive uses within this register. I return to the ques- tion of Hellenism and race below. At the same time, as Hawthorne’s responses to the classical representa- tions of Antinous made clear, these responses were in no way predictable or uniform in their effects. In his Italian notebook, Hawthorne described visit- ing the Villa Albani on May 10, 1858. As he noted, I do not recall any of the sculpture, except a colossal bas-relief of Antinoüs, crowned with flowers, and holding flowers in his hand, which was found in the ruins of Hadrian’s Villa. This is said to be the finest relic of antiquity next to the Apollo and the Laocoön; but I could not feel it to be so, partly, I suppose, because the features of Antinoüs do not seem to me beautiful in themselves; and that heavy, downward look is repeated till I am more weary of it than of anything else in sculpture. (14: 214) The narrator of The Marble Faun asks why Antinous is “forever sad.” But here, the “real” Hawthorne addresses the question with less empathy, focus- ing on why the statue makes him, as spectator, “weary.” Hawthorne’s Passages from the French and Italian Notebooks was posthumously published in two volumes in February of 1872, edited (and often expurgated) by Sophia Haw- thorne before her death in the February of 1871. The 1872 Passages included this passage on the weary-making Antinous; Melville, who lived for most of the latter half of the nineteenth century, therefore had access to this and 1 9 0 • C h a P T e r 7 related passages. I will return to Hawthorne’s response to Antinous in terms of the larger themes of his work. Before doing so, I want to consider some of the most immediate implications of Melville’s encounters with Hellenic art. Melville’s 1857 lecture “Statues in Rome” survives today in reconstructed form. As the editors of the Piazza Tales and Other Prose Pieces write, “Dur- ing his first season as a lecturer, beginning in Lawrence, Massachusetts, on November 23, 1857, and concluding in New Bedford, Massachusetts, on February 23, 1858, Melville discussed the subject of Roman statuary in six- teen cities and towns east of the Mississippi River. He did not publish his lecture in a magazine or book, and no manuscript is known to survive, but contemporary newspapers gave fairly full accounts of the content and even of the organization and style of the lecture” (Piazza Tales 723). The con- sensus of Melville scholars is that he did not attempt to publish his lectures himself; indeed, surprisingly few nineteenth-century authors pursued this option, despite the prominence of the public lecture and the lyceum in the nineteenth century.21 In “Statues in Rome,” Melville discusses the Apollo Belvedere in the Vati- can Museum, for Winckelmann the height of classical Greek art and beauty. He had read Winckelmann’s famous History of Ancient Art in 1852, and would have been familiar with the high esteem in which the German art his- torian held the statue.22 Echoing the German writer, Melville writes of the Apollo Belvedere as the “statue which most of all in the Vatican excites the admiration of all visitors . . . the crowning glory.”23 Further echoing Winck- elmann, Melville notes that, in its “divinity,” the statue “lifts the imagination of the beholder above ‘things rank and gross in nature,’ and makes ordi- nary criticism impossible.” He continues: “it gives a kind of visible response to that class of human aspirations of beauty and perfection” that can only be fully experienced, as “Faith” tells us, in the next life.24 On the dazzling beauty of the Apollo Belvedere, Hawthorne was in agreement. As he wrote in his Italian notebook when in Rome in March of 1858, “I saw the Apollo Belvidere as something ethereal and godlike; only for a flitting moment, however, and as if he had alighted from heaven, or shone suddenly out of the sunlight, and then had withdrawn himself again” (14: 125). Hawthorne goes on to praise the other sculpture that, along with the Apollo Belve- dere and the Antinous, represented the height of classical art and beauty for Winckelmann. “I felt the Laocoon, too, very powerfully, though very qui- etly; an immortal agony, with a strange calmness diffused through it, so that it resembles the vast rage of the sea, calm on account of its immensity, or the tumult of Niagara, which does not seem to be tumult because it keeps pour- ing on, forever and ever” (14: 125). v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 9 1 Melville’s sense of a beautiful art object as visible evidence of some kind of divinely perfect beauty—“it gives a kind of visible response to that class of human aspirations of beauty and perfection”—is, in my view, important here for a consideration of the function of art, especially in the context of the ancient archive. Considered by so many, even to this day but especially in the nineteenth century, to be the epitome of human civilization and aes- thetics, ancient Greek culture served the role in Victorian America, as it did in Europe at the time, of making aesthetic as well as philosophical, cultural, and social ideals visible. While many aspects of this externalization of ideals are important, what interests me specifically is the way in which homoerotic desire could be made visible without being threatening or inordinately obvi- ous. At the same time that Melville could evoke, in his public lectures, the beauty of male forms such as the Apollo Belvedere, the Greek and Roman myths and histories were being expurgated of their sexual content in print, as emblematized by the work of writers such as Goodrich, Thomas Bul- finch, and Hawthorne, who very specifically rewrote the myths as stories for children. Melville notes that the Apollo Belvedere embodies “the attributes, physi- cal and intellectual, which Milton bestowed on one of his angels, ‘Severe in youthful beauty.’” From May 1638 to July or August 1639, Milton went on his own Grand Tour of France and Italy. Melville goes on to call Paradise Lost a “great Vatican done into verse.”25 I considered the valences between Milton and Hawthorne in the chapter on “Rappaccini’s Daughter.” If one thinks of the varieties of male beauty on display in this poem, but specifi- cally the way in which Milton registers Satan’s devolution from beautiful near-divine being to fallen angel through highly visualized descriptions of Satan’s physical ruination as well as Milton’s obsessive plumbing of signifiers from the ancient archive, Milton’s work becomes a suggestive intertext for homoerotic aesthetic culture as well. Hawthorne implicitly registers a kind of discomfort with the visual spec- tacle of the Apollo Belvedere that I think is also quite suggestive. While he can praise the figure as “ethereal and godlike,” he also notes that he only saw it for a “flitting moment.” The way the figure shines “suddenly out of the sunlight” suggests a momentary blinding. In contrast, the more reassur- ingly masculine and patriarchal, however indescribably tormented, Laocoön strikes Hawthorne as, at once, powerful and suffused with a “strange calm- ness” (14: 125). In Virgil’s Aeneid, Laocoön, a Trojan priest, is divinely pun- ished for having warned his countrymen against the Greek gift of the Trojan Horse, which is, of course, no gift at all but contains within it Greeks wait- ing to invade the stronghold of their enemy. The famous Vatican Laocoön— 1 9 2 • C h a P T e r 7 “Laocoön and His Sons,” also known as the “Laocoön Group,” a Roman copy, discovered in Rome in 1506, of an ancient Greek sculpture that dates back to 200 b.c.e.—depicts Laocoön and his two sons being squeezed to death by two giant sea serpents. His body horribly twisted into a contorted position, Laocoön cries out, along with his similarly afflicted sons, in silent but palpable anguish. Powerless despite his outsize physical form, Laocoön can do nothing to save either his sons or himself. Laocoön, his sons, and the serpents that intertwine and lock them all together form an exquisite tableau of sorrow, suffering, menace, and helpless human acquiescence to a greater might. For Melville, the Laocoön “expresses the doubt and the dark groping of speculation in that age when the old mythology was pass- ing away and men’s minds had not yet reposed in the new faith”; for him, Laocoön, “the symbol of human misfortune,” “represents the tragic side of humanity.”26 In psychoanalytic terms, the sculpture thematizes anew what Freud found in the image of Medusa’s Head: the Laocoön both evokes cas- tration (male powerlessness and violation) and defends against it with a phallic plenitude (the limbs of the male figures, the invincible, long, coiling serpents). Hawthorne echoes Winckelmann’s famously counterintuitive interpre- tation, representative of the German art historian’s view of classical Greek sculpture generally, of the Laocoön as a serene, harmonious work, a view that was famously challenged by Lessing.27 Even in his “tumult,” Hawthorne observes, Laocoön maintains a strange, quiet placidity, one that reassures the spectator. I would argue that a crucial distinction between the youthful male figures Hawthorne discusses and the Laocoön is that the latter is, however tormented, finally a father figure, an older and more authoritarian presence. In contrast, the figures of youthful male beauty, whether Hawthorne dis- putes or praises their beauty, embody (Antinous’s “heavy, downward look”) and provoke (the Apollo Belvedere’s sudden, blinding brightness) visual dis- turbance and spectatorial ambivalence. Melville’s godlike youth Billy Budd will embody similar qualities and provoke similar effects. Melville also makes note of a very different kind of male form in the Farnese Hercules who, “leaning on his club,” embodies “simplicity and bovine good nature”; indeed, Hercules evokes the “lazy ox, confident of his own strength but loth to use it.”28 Melville’s Billy Budd will be compared to Hercules; indeed, in his mixture of both “meltingly” beautiful attributes and animalistic qualities, Billy Budd is a fusion of Antinous and Hercules. One of the most interesting aspects of Melville’s literary fusion-technique in his description of the Handsome Sailor is the way it recalls one of Winckel- mann’s central arguments. v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 9 3 The art historian Whitney Davis, in his 2010 book Queer Beauty, dis- cusses Winckelmann’s formal doctrine of ideal beauty, achieved when the artist “combines the beauty of many discrete things (or parts of things) judged by him to be beautiful.” As Davis describes, Winckelmann’s implausible doctrine of ideal beauty  .  .  .  echoed familiar, banal legends about the practice of ancient artists such as Zeuxis, who sup- posedly collated the various beautiful aspects (as it were beautiful body parts) of five maidens of Croton in order to compile his depiction of the supremely beautiful Helen of Troy. In this respect Winckelmann’s doctrine could hardly have been the radical—the radically modern—element of [his method that came to be described by thinkers such as Hegel as “an entirely new organ”].29 Davis, parsing late-nineteenth-century critics such as Bernard Bosanquet and Benedetto Croce, writes that Winckelmann’s radical modernity and value must lie elsewhere, “in his historical account of the psychosocial dynamics and specifically the cultural erotics of beautiful artworks, overlaid with his descrip- tion of their sensible reception on our own part and in this very respect—an eroticized cultural reception that absorbs the original affect and responds to it.”30 Davis’s emphasized terms correspond to the kind of approach I have pursued in this study and to the questions I am raising about antebellum authors’ apprehension of the classical image. Near the end of “Statues in Rome,” Melville recalls his visit to the Villa Albani. His description of Antinous, at least insofar as the lecture has been reconstructed, is comparatively austere when his description in the Journals is recalled. In “Statues in Rome,” Melville makes note only of “Antinous with his eye reposing on a lotus of admirable design which he holds in his hand.” Melville sandwiches his brief description of the beautiful Antinous, whose beauty would not be guessed, however, from this essay, between descriptions of statues of Minerva, “a creature as purely and serenely sublime as it is pos- sible for human hands to form,” and Aesop, “the dwarfed and deformed.”31 The austerely registered homoerotic icon is contrasted against the phallic woman of virginal rectitude (who will play such a key role in Melville’s poem “After the Pleasure Party,” also written very late in life) and a figure of mis- shapen manhood who is here also, significantly, a figure of the artist. As I have had occasion to note, Hawthorne frequently contrasts his beauti- ful youths against grim and unappetizing older figures. And as I noted in the last chapter, Athena, or Minerva, the “unapproachable” goddess, merges with “fatal” woman Medusa, whose image Athena wears as her aegis. What 1 9 4 • C h a P T e r 7 I want to suggest is not only that a continuum of images, both variously and similarly deployed, runs throughout the works of Hawthorne, Melville, and other nineteenth-century writers, but that this continuum reflects the usefulness of classical iconography for the representation and exploration of otherwise taboo gendered and sexual subjects, precisely because the classical could function as code. A detail recorded in the editorial notes to the Journals regarding Melville’s description of Antinous here proves oddly appropriate and suggestive. “The one newspaper report of ‘Statues in Rome’ to mention this work is obvi- ously garbled: the ‘medallion of Antinous,’ according to the Montreal Daily Transcript and Commercial Advertiser (#8), represents a ‘female of crystalline countenance with her eye reposing on a lotus of admirable design, which she holds in her hand.”32 Part of the homoerotic threat of Antinous lies precisely in his feminine nature, the “melting” beauty he embodies, the same gender- bending threat associated with Narcissus. The misunderstanding here, the report that Melville was describing a female character, seems to me telling, speaking, as it does, to Antinous’s gender indeterminacy. Yet part of that indeterminacy is also Antinous’s associations with a striking masculinism, connoted by his large, powerful chest. Antinous’s strength is emphasized along with his feminine softness. It is this duality in an icon of male beauty that arrests Melville and which he treats as an endlessly perplexing puzzle. While, to turn now to Billy Budd, left unfinished at his death in 1891 and not published until 1924, many critics have focused on the mystery of the villain Claggart, who embodies the irresolvable conundrum of “Natural depravity, or depravity according to nature?” the short novel’s titular figure is no less a mystery. While Coffler links Billy Budd’s Hercules-like simplicity of mind and nature back to Antinous, seen as a figure of sensual lassitude and therefore a kind of serene mindlessness, I think the disjunction of both figures within one literary character is a more salient issue.33 For what Billy Budd represents at once is a stereotypically strong, hardy, and murderously powerful form of masculinity and a soft, feminized, and feminizing form of masculinity. Billy Budd’s ability to feminize the male gaze—in other words, to elicit responses from other male lookers in a manner customarily associ- ated with the way men look at women—is a key part of the pattern of prob- lems associated with his character. To switch mythic gears, Margaret Walters’s discussion of Michelangelo’s David in her study The Nude Male speaks most directly to the issues at work in Melville’s portrait of Billy Budd. As the latest incarnation of the Hand- some Sailor, the cynosure who galvanizes male visual appraisal and appre- ciation, Billy Budd is a figure who embodies the gaze, which as Lacan has v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 9 5 famously described is not reducible to the eye or the look of one individual but, instead, encompasses the entire visual field in which the person looking and what is being looked at are only included elements. (Indeed, for Lacan, the gaze is indifferent to the individual subject.) Melville likens Billy Budd to the “comely young David” (78) and also evokes the naked male subject of the sculptor, being a figure “who in the nude might have posed for a statue of young Adam before the Fall” (94).34 As Walters notes of Michelangelo’s famous work, “despite David’s size and his defiant nudity—he is stripped for action, and his nakedness is the sign that he is God’s warrior—he is not altogether confident. From the front, he looks proudly relaxed; from any other angle, his pose seems more uncertain.  .  .  .  The hero is shown, not in his moment of triumph, as is more common, but tensed before the fight. His energy remains petrified, forever unreleased and unrealized.”35 Melville creates in Billy Budd a figure who represents a similar set of dualities, and it is fair to say, I believe, an idealized self-image on the part of a once hale, handsome author in his final years. What is analogous in Billy to David’s uncertainty, as Walters puts it, is Billy’s vulnerability, meta- phorically registered in his stutter, which further links him to the uncouth- ness of the stammering barbarian. Indeed, Billy Budd’s dualities include his being both David and his foe, the Philistine barbarian Goliath. What I find to be the most telling valence between the David of Walters’s description and Melville’s beautiful youth is the idea of a banked and potent power— “petrified, forever unreleased and unrealized.” He could be a man frozen by Medusa’s gaze, frozen, that is, to follow Freud, in phallic rectitude. If this is the case, Melville explodes it—he gives Billy Budd the power to unleash his power. As I argue in Men Beyond Desire, Billy Budd transitions from the object of the homoerotic gaze to the disciplinary force that prohibits it— indeed, a murderous force that annihilates it. If Billy Budd is the literary homoerotic icon par excellence, his destruction of the queer Claggart (not, to be sure, an innocent character) also makes Billy the icon of homophobic defensiveness. Billy’s ability, as an object of desire, to affect the viewer speaks to the vol- atility of the work of classical art as a subject of “safe” viewing for the homo- erotically gazing spectator. One of Winckelmann’s most ingenious strategies for allowing scores of spectators to savor images of beautiful young men was his decisive separation, like the yolk and the whites of an egg, of sexual desire from appreciation of the beautiful. The beauty of young men such as the Apollo and the Antinous could be appreciated, indeed, ecstatically inhabited, while the mantra of nonsexual and idealized response always safeguarded this appreciation against the threat of prurience. But looking at Billy, a kind of 1 9 6 • C h a P T e r 7 living piece of Greek art, does not leave the spectator safe or unimplicated in sexual schemes, points hardly incidental to a work that is so fundamentally obsessed with knowledge and knowledgelessness. Moving from the “simpler” sphere of the ship the Rights-of-Man to the “ampler and more knowing world of ” the Bellipotent, Billy Budd fails to register the change in his circumstances that is grounded in the change from simplicity to greater knowingness (50). He is a kind of “rustic beauty trans- planted from the provinces and brought into competition with the highborn dames of the court” (51), but does not notice this shift in intersubjective relations. “As little did he observe that something about him provoked an ambiguous smile in one or two harder faces” among the “bluejackets,” or common sailors, of the Bellipotent crew. “Nor less unaware was he of the peculiar favorable effect his person and demeanor had upon the more intel- ligent gentlemen of the quarter-deck” (51). It is on Claggart that Billy Budd has the greatest power to alter and transform the spectator. This is an effect that Melville produces at times through the alternative route of negation: talking, in a pre-Freudian manner, of Claggart’s homoerotic blend of “envy and antipathy,” conjoined in him like “Chang and Eng,” for Billy, the nar- rator notes that the envy in Claggart is no “vulgar form of the passion. Nor, as directed toward Billy Budd, did it partake of that streak of apprehensive jealousy that marred Saul’s visage perturbedly brooding on the comely young David. Claggart’s envy struck deeper” (78). By disputing an outcome that he has himself visualized for us, by telling us that Billy Budd does not mar Claggart’s visage in the way that the “comely young David” marred Saul’s, Melville is, of course, putting that very image of a desire-marred face in our minds, and therefore recalling not just the homoerotic tradition of Jona- than and David that, as Richard Godbeer has shown in The Overflowing of Male Friendship, was one of the central tropes for romantic male friendship in the early American republic, but also the beautiful-ruined face of the fallen Satan staring, with “jealousy, th’injur’d Lover’s Hell,” at the prelapsar- ian splendor of Adam and Eve. Perhaps the chief disfiguration that Clag- gart undergoes is the result of the melancholia that intermittently seizes him when he looks at Billy. Looking at the “cheerful sea Hyperion,” Claggart takes on a “settled meditative and melancholy expression, his eyes strangely suffused with incipient feverish tears. Then would Claggart look like the man of sorrows. Yes, and sometimes the melancholy expression would have in it a touch of soft yearning, as if Claggart could have even loved Billy but for fate and ban” (88). I argue that in Billy Budd Melville brings the banned sexual elements in the discourse of Hellenism to a newly articulated and prominently visualized v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 9 7 level. While Billy Budd is famously unpublished, there is evidence that Mel- ville did not intend it to remain so. In the responses to Billy Budd, especially Claggart’s, Melville registered mingled responses to the spectacle of male beauty: feelings of ambiguous regard, of mingled envy and antipathy, and of sorrow, a lingering melancholy. Billy Budd is Melville’s answer to Haw- thorne’s question about why Antinous is forever sad. Or, perhaps more to the point, Billy Budd is a figure of the sad young man offered to Hawthorne, whose work teems with such figures, as a tribute from Melville, whose work also teems with such figures. The young man’s sadness would appear to be a reaction to the impossible demands of visual identity. What needs to be disentangled—rethought and reimagined—are the phenomena of a homoerotic tradition coming into greater prominence and decidability and an ongoing fascination with the classical past. As scholars, we continue to ask where the banned homoerotic response begins, and the kind of weariness at looking at a beautiful work of art with unimpressed eyes, as Hawthorne did with the bas-relief of Antinous, ends; where the ecstatic love of the beautiful intersects with an enflamed sexual response; from which source the spectatorial ambivalence with which Billy Budd is regarded flows, homoerotic desire or an essential bewilderment over the unceasing repetition of classical forms in the present. hawthorne’s antInous v i S U a l i d e n T i T y, h e l l e n i S m , a n d T h e m a S O C h i S T i C G a z e Melville still had Hawthorne on his mind when he wrote Billy Budd in the late 1880s. “Though our Handsome Sailor had as much of masculine beauty as one can expect anywhere to see; nevertheless, like the beautiful woman in one of Hawthorne’s minor tales, there was just one thing amiss in him. No visible blemish indeed, as with the lady; no, but an occasional liability to vocal defect” (53). As he did with such perspicuity in “Hawthorne and His Mosses,” Melville isolates here something peculiarly and stubbornly power- ful in Hawthorne’s writings, and a theme that Melville takes to new levels of complexity in Billy Budd: the relationship between men and their own image. The impossibility of “visual blemish” in Hawthorne’s beautiful young men ironically alerts us, through negation, to the fact that they are in every other way quite blemished indeed. For Melville, the blemish is located in the body even if it is not on its surface; stuttering Billy’s ruptured, impaired voice gives vent to the tensions in the story that are centered in the predica- ment of Billy’s beautiful, feminine form in a world that consists entirely of 1 9 8 • C h a P T e r 7 other men. Hawthorne, generally, establishes a different kind of split: the outward beauty of his young men contrasts with their interior inadequacy, sometimes to the point of moral decay. At the same time, the older men who may be said to prey on these younger men are often described as physically as well as morally inferior, damaged, or downright ugly, like the misshapen Chillingworth, the menacing Model, or, to go back further, the tarred and feathered spectacle of Major Molineux. In the introduction, I noted the valences between Hawthorne’s represen- tation of the male’s conflict with his own image and Lacan’s theory of the mirror stage, which brilliantly revises Freud’s theories of narcissism in ways that dovetail with psychoanalytic film theory. What I want to suggest is that Hawthorne foregrounds a particular understanding of self, sexuality, and the body in his work. His work thematizes what I have called visual identity, the conceptualization of the self as a perceivable visual image, something extruded upon the surface of the world as a reflection of a private, interior self the existence of which can be affirmed only through this visualization. Which is to say, selves are known or knowable only through their outward manifestation in physical form. Visual identity is certainly not exclusive to males; indeed, the entire postclassical Western tradition has emphasized the visual aspects of beauty as a female domain. Hester Prynne is first introduced to us in The Scarlet Letter as a visual spectacle, the very outward show of her controversial sinfulness, a tableau vivant of her public identity as adulterous woman bearing her adulterously spawned child, a parody of the Christian icon of the Madonna and Child that adds what this icon refutes, a lush, Mary Magdalene–like carnality. Highly responsive to the beauty of women and men in his work as a whole, Hawthorne reinserts masculinity into the continuum of visual desire and concepts of beauty. He extends Winckelmannian aesthetics, preserving their merger of homoerotic appreciation and desexualizing aesthetic distance and adding a fierce, psychologizing, secular-religious moral critique. If Haw- thorne’s young men are Greek statues come to life, they actively comment on the disparity between a belief in classical perfection and modern forms of beauty, sexuality, and the body: they embody the split by denaturing out- ward shows of beauty with interior realms of moral depravity. The distinctions between Hawthorne’s disdainful reaction to Antinous in Rome and Melville’s transported one make for an extremely telling com- mentary on how each author imagined “significant personal beauty” in males—and even more saliently why this would be an important issue in representation at all. While one could go in several directions here, and while the comparative discussion of Melville’s and Hawthorne’s representations of v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 1 9 9 masculinity demands a discrete study, what I want to consider is the dispar- ity between what Hawthorne “said” he liked or disliked in his ostensibly private writing and what he consistently thematized in his fiction. At this point, I would like to introduce into the discussion a concept that I call the masochistic gaze.36 Melville’s reaction to Antinous, though clipped in the manner of all of his journal writing, reflects his ability to respond to an image of aestheti- cized male beauty with appreciation and something approaching a lack of conflict. In other words, Melville’s homoerotic sensibility can come through on the page with greater explicitness and fewer restrictions than could Haw- thorne’s. Immediately we recall all of the moments in Melville’s work in which young men are regarded dubiously (think, for example, of the burly sailors’ contemptuous regard of the too feminine and dandified young Eng- lishman Harry Bolton in Melville’s underappreciated Redburn), none more powerfully in this regard than Billy Budd. But just as Melville can name and poetically evoke Narcissus in his published writing, he can behold Antinous and record his impressions of this beautiful doomed youth with apprecia- tion. In contrast, Hawthorne can only see a drooping, dispiriting attitude in this figure. What makes Hawthorne’s response more than simply a matter of opinion, a question of differing tastes, is that Hawthorne continuously the- matized in his fiction precisely what the “real” author Hawthorne recorded with disapproval or frustration: an attitude of discomfort on the part of the beautiful young man with male visual identity. Hawthorne distances himself from received opinion, writing that despite the figure’s vaunted beauty, “the features of Antinoüs do not seem to me beautiful in themselves.” As he clarifies: “that heavy, downward look is repeated till I am more weary of it than of anything else in sculpture.” I call our attention to Hawthorne’s admission—or declaration—of “weariness” at beholding that frequently repeated “heavy, downward look.” The received opinion to which Hawthorne was aversively responding was Winckelmann’s appreciation for the beauty of the Antinous. Notably well versed in issues of aesthetics and visual representation (as the thematic references to portraits, miniatures, daguerreotypes, statues, and other art objects in his work attest), Hawthorne read Winckelmann’s 1764 The History of Ancient Art shortly after having completed The Scarlet Letter. The English translation by G. Henry Lodge was the one that Hawthorne and Melville read before their trips to Europe in the 1850s.37 Both writers frequently echo Winckelmann’s focus on the classical beautiful male body, such as the famous Apollo Belvedere. Published in 1849, Lodge’s translation of the second volume, Art Among the Greeks, was the first to be published in 2 0 0 • C h a P T e r 7 the United States, probably precisely because of the second volume’s Greek focus. The first volume, which focuses on Egyptians and Etruscans, was pub- lished in 1856. It was the first two volumes of Winckelmann’s History of Art, then, that were available to Hawthorne, since the subsequent two volumes did not come out until 1872–73 (Hawthorne died in 1864). Hawthorne’s immersion (along with that of his wife Sophia, a visual artist whose own career and aesthetic interest are finally receiving the scholarly attention they deserve, and his family) in the European art world produced the rich series of commentaries on European culture and aesthetics that are recorded in The French and Italian Notebooks as well as in The Marble Faun. While nothing as predictable or rote as a one-to-one relationship between Hawthorne’s art and his personal responses exists—to the extent that we can ever really view a famous writer’s journal writing as “personal”; it is not dif- ficult to believe that Hawthorne, who had achieved fame a decade earlier with The Scarlet Letter, was aware that his private prose might one day be published—what is nevertheless of undeniable interest is the central dis- crepancy here. As I have had frequent occasion to note, Hawthorne associ- ates youthful male figures in his fiction with precisely the attitude of “heavy, downward” looking that he finds so unappetizing in the Villa Albani Anti- nous. Generally, the Antinous is associated with certain defining qualities: a sensual, daydreaming lassitude; detachment; a melancholy air; and down- cast eyes. Stooping, head bent down, in attitudes that I have associated with shame, passivity, aggression and hostility, and, especially, the fear of looking, Hawthorne’s young men share with Antinous, and Antinous as Hawthorne perceived him, a melancholic disposition tied directly to ways of seeing and being seen. As I have written in another context, masochistic male looking is indica- tive of the fragility, vulnerability, and powerlessness of the male eye. The masochistic gaze, which renders vision impaired, faulty, or in some other way damaged, is an expression of repressed homosexual voyeurism.38 What I want to suggest is that—at least to a certain extent—Hawthorne’s expression of detachment, skepticism, and disdain toward the highly regarded bas-relief of Antinous was a self-policing maneuver against the homoerotic potentiali- ties of the figure, potentialities suggested within the fame that surrounded it as among the most beautiful of classical works and within Winckelmann’s idealization of such figures. (Some critics will inevitably solve the problem by offering that Hawthorne simply didn’t like this bas-relief. Based on Haw- thorne’s consistent themes, I believe that there’s more to it than that.) To speculate, perhaps what Hawthorne found so wearisome about the Antinous was precisely the way in which the attitude of downward-gazing v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 2 0 1 (looking upon the earth and recalling his premature death) thematizes the predicament of his young anguished men, forever caught in a paralytic bind within the gaze, their own desire to look and not to be looked at, their con- stant vulnerability to the assaultive and ravenous eyes of others. To speculate further, perhaps these afflictions are precisely what safeguard Hawthorne’s youthful male figures from a threatening homoerotic explicitness. Were their desirability presented without them, they might be too available as objects of erotic contemplation, too idealized. And yet, at the same time, their afflic- tions make them more vulnerable and therefore more accessible, as Billy Budd’s stutter does him. Sensually feminine and obdurately, stoically mas- culine at once, Billy Budd becomes an accessible figure through his somatic rupture. And much like Billy Budd, Antinous has the ability to affect the spectator, perhaps, against his will. As looking at Billy Budd on some level deforms Claggart, so, too, does looking upon the Antinous leave Hawthorne wearied—a response that blurs the somatic and the affective.39 And as the epigraph to this chapter shows, the more explicit the figuration of the young man’s melancholia becomes, the more amplified the homoerotic threat. The narrator’s question about Antinous’s perplexing sadness leads to an almost shockingly explicit homoerotic image of the androgynous wine-god Bacchus bringing grapes to the earthy young Italian man Donatello’s lips: “Bacchus, too, a rosy flush diffusing itself over his time-stained surface, could come down from his pedestal, and offer a cluster of purple grapes to Donatello’s lips; because the god recognizes him as the woodland elf who so often shared his revels” (14:17). What undergirds this encounter is a knowing, sexually charged kinship between louche god and feral man or “woodland elf,” a queer shock of recognition. By transforming Hawthorne’s Georgiana in “The Birthmark,” the woman from one of Hawthorne’s “minor tales” with a blemish on her beauty, into Billy Budd, a young man without a visual blemish, but with a different kind of somatic flaw, Melville provocatively reorganizes Haw- thorne’s thematic. The missing figure in Melville’s analogy—Hawthorne’s male characters—is abundantly supplied by Melville in his most over- whelmingly male-centered and homoerotic work. Melville, in other words, provides a dazzling riff on the beauty of Hawthorne’s males while safe- guarding the dead author’s legacy through an evocation of a flawed female beauty in one of Hawthorne’s so-called minor tales. The levels of distancing and detachment at work here paradoxically make it possible for Melville to flood the Hawthorne oeuvre, by implication, with homoerotic valences, embodied in Billy Budd and his own maddening, even wearying incitement of the male gaze. 2 0 2 • C h a P T e r 7 reFlectIons on the sIgnIFIcance oF the Marble Faun I want to suggest that Hawthorne’s last published novel, The Marble Faun (1860), represents a certain terminus point, a kind of closure, in Haw- thorne’s development of his narcissistic themes. Certainly, it is the headi- est aestheticization of them, in which Hawthorne offers perhaps the most telling account of his conflicted relationship to male beauty. If narcissism for Hawthorne was a means of both critiquing normative masculinity and mourning for a lost ideal, The Marble Faun functions as a kind of narcis- sistic catharsis, a way for Hawthorne to resolve the maddeningly conflicted anxieties that informed his understanding of masculinity, on a personal and social level. Moreover, Hawthorne’s deployment of the titular figure of this novel illuminates the homoerotic stakes in narcissistic self-representation, while also presaging Hawthorne’s treatment of racialized masculinity in the late, unfinished work. As I have been arguing, Hawthorne conducts his inquiry into the anguished nature of gendered identity and issues of power and violation through symbolic reenactments of the Narcissus myth. Yet his aesthetics— as he discusses in “The Custom-House” essay, his view of art as a mirror in whose “haunted verge” can merge the polarities that inform the Narcissus myth, surface and depth, or, in Hawthorne’s reformulation, the imagina- tive and the actual—positively revalues Narcissus. (I turn to the question of Hawthorne’s aesthetics, as he presents them in the “The Custom-House,” in the epilogue.) I suggest that, towards the end of his career, Hawthorne found a way of resolving his narcissistic crisis, albeit only for a moment. Though The Marble Faun is Hawthorne’s last “complete” romance, he wrote a great deal after it, including the unfinished Septimius Felton/Norton manuscripts, which stage anew the narcissistic crisis at the center of Hawthorne’s work, as I will argue in the last chapter. Hawthorne’s momentary resolution of this narcissistic crisis in The Marble Faun is intimately tied to his anxieties over gender and homoerotic desire, and involves an attempt to mediate them as well as his conflicts over self and self-image. The Marble Faun also gives us a valuable opportunity to consider more generally the cultural anxieties over all of these conflicts within Hawthorne’s own era. The spectacle of Praxiteles’ faun with which this novel opens is the cul- mination not only of major preoccupations in Hawthorne’s work but also of those in the culture he brought with him to Europe, in which he traveled after finishing his stint as American Consul in Liverpool, an appointment secured for him by his friend, President Franklin Pierce.40 As we have noted, v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 2 0 3 a decisive shift from Rome to Greece (the “Greek Revival”) had occurred in American culture by the antebellum period. The unceasing classical refer- ences throughout Hawthorne’s work convey the interest in the mythologi- cal past in American life, inherited from and cross-fertilized with European Romanticism: the national form of narcissistic relation, in which one nation makes sense of itself by negotiating the effects of its specular image in another. Hawthorne’s interest in Praxiteles’ faun, while certainly inspired, flows from the trends Winckelmann set in motion. “The prominence Winck- elmann gave to Praxiteles,” writes the art historian Alex Potts, along with Whitney Davis one of the key contemporary reinterpreters of Winckelmann, “has remained a feature in modern histories of Greek sculpture ever since.” In Winckelmann’s wake, a “rash of ascriptions of antique sculptures of beau- tiful little fauns and satyrs to Praxiteles” occurred, as modern “artists also became preoccupied with this sculptural ideal, and produced a number of interesting renderings of the boyish gracefulness and supposedly ‘innocent’ homoeroticism that had come to be associated with this great sculptor of antiquity.”41 Freud illuminates what was at stake for Hawthorne in terms of the sex- ual relevance of aesthetics generally. In his enduringly controversial study of Leonardo da Vinci, Freud writes with fascination of the homosexual artist’s fusion of opposites, particularly of moral opposites: Leonardo was notable for his quiet peaceableness and his avoidance of all antagonism and controversy. He was gentle and kindly to everyone . . . He condemned war and bloodshed and described man as not so much the king of the animal world but rather the worst of the wild beasts. But this femi- nine delicacy of feeling did not deter him from accompanying condemned criminals on their way to execution in order to study their features dis- torted by fear and to sketch them in his notebook. . . . He often gave the appearance of being indifferent to good and evil. (SE 11: 68–69) Freud’s view of the homosexual artist remains as fascinating as it is prob- lematic. For Freud, Leonardo is the homosexual male artist who sublimates his desires and occupies a strange, anomalous position between love and hate, sexuality and asexuality, good and evil. Morally and sexually ambiva- lent, he sublimates his sexuality, specifically his homosexuality, into aesthetic endeavor. The homosexual artist emerges in Freud and in popular culture as a beautiful monster, a figure of profound ambivalence. Writing, as he did, of male beauty and the figure of the artist in the period between Winckelmann 2 0 4 • C h a P T e r 7 and Freud, between neoclassicism and psychoanalysis, between the myth- discourse of Narcissus and the classical psychoanalytic theory of narcissism, Hawthorne creates in his marble faun a portrait that combines Winckel- mann’s aesthetic theory with an uncannily Freudian view of the work of art—and implicitly of the artist—as the merging of opposites. Discussing the “homoerotic reflexivity operating between image and spectator” in Winckelmann’s theories, Alex Potts explains why Winckel- mann could not locate the figure of a Zeus or a Hercules as his ideal form of masculine beauty. Only the boyish youth could fill this role, for his “ideal masculinity could be projected while effacing suggestions of any too categor- ically insistent a masculine identity.” Indeed, Winckelmann “suggests that the imperatives of ideal beauty lead ineluctably to the image of the hermaph- rodite or castrated figure.”42 In contrast, Melville had no problem doing so, as suggested by his Billy Budd, who fuses Antinous- and David-like beauty with that of the strong man Hercules and with other “barbarian” typings of masculinity. While a great deal needs to be said about Winckelmann’s establishment of a homosexual Hellenic tradition in the nineteenth century, Winckelmann’s elevation of a particular figure, “the purified image of the body as a cipher of ideal oneness,” most relevantly impinges upon our discussion.43 For Haw- thorne, the faun is just such a unifying cipher, reconciling warring opposites, male and female, human and animal, culture and nature, beauty and horror. The novel’s original title (used in England) was Transformation: in the faun, the ambiguously beautiful young man in Hawthorne’s work transforms into a male figure of beautiful ambiguity. Permanently available to the gaze yet unblinkingly indifferent to it, the faun incites the gaze yet remains utterly invulnerable, the most successful version of a sexually inviolate male in a literary era that teems with such figures. The faun is truly a “man beyond desire,” aloof not only from sex but also from the messy complications of the human. Moreover, Hawthorne’s representation of the faun intersects with a series of critical controversies concerning race and Hellenism; briefly address- ing these controversies will help us to contextualize Hawthorne’s more direct interrogation of race in his late work. Nancy Bentley has reframed The Marble Faun, Hawthorne’s last com- plete fictional work, as indicative of Hawthorne’s white, imperial disposi- tion toward racial, ethnic, and class otherness. Similarly, Arthur Riss has presented The Marble Faun as a chief example of Hawthorne’s aesthetics of “anti-black racism.”44 Kendall Johnson’s discussion of the racial as well as sexual politics of The Marble Faun draws on Bentley’s and usefully indexes several concerns relevant to the present discussion: v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 2 0 5 As Nancy Bentley notes, the faun first appears in Hawthorne’s notebook as a “bearded woman” and a link to humanity’s “lower tribes.” . . . The faun of the notebook seems the product of Hawthorne’s anxiety over possibly errant sexual sympathy. Recall [Joseph] Addison’s claim that our sense of beauty regulates sexual appetite, directing desire to maintain the proper boundaries between species. In changing the gender of the faun from a woman (in the notebook) to a man (for the novel), Hawthorne bridles the faun’s procreative potential with an American brand of impotence, fig- ured through a grammar of noble savagery.  .  .  .  Whereas Bentley inter- prets the faun through Hawthorne’s characterization of fugitive slaves in “Chiefly About War Matters” (The Atlantic Monthly, 1862), Donatello’s story echoes the frame of savage “doom,” to recall the terms of George Cat- lin. . . . Donatello’s vexed masculinity reflects a logic of racial classification that assumes an impossibly pure ancestry rooted in a pre-national soil out- side of history. In foreclosing the possibility of union and generation between Donatello and Miriam Schaeffer, Johnson argues, Hawthorne echoes the “figurative impotence” of characters such as Chingachgook in The Last of the Mohi- cans (1826): “The exclusive logic of racial ancestry” dooms the Monte Beni family.45 Johnson brings many important cultural contexts into the discussion, particularly the legacy of George Catlin (July 26, 1796–December 23, 1872), a Pennsylvanian painter whose “Indian Gallery” was one of the chief antebellum foundations, along with Cooper’s novels, of the myth of the American Indian as a romantic figure of lawlessness and a vanished primi- tive American past. (Catlin used his experience of living among Indians to bolster his own personal mythology.) But Johnson errs, I think, in associ- ating Hawthorne’s faun with “impotence”; not only is this a heteronorma- tive argument, relying, as it does, on conventional standards of masculine potency and reproductivity, but it is also a misrepresentation of the faun’s properties. Casually teasing and placidly appealing, the faun evokes both the feminine and the masculine, an androgynous figure that synthesizes the kinds of gender-blurring beauty to which Hawthorne is drawn through- out his fiction. Oddly beautiful feminine males abound—Fanshawe, with his scholarly softness contrasted against his jock rival’s loping machismo; the gentle boy Ilbrahim; Minister Hooper, with his transvestic black veil; Dimmesdale, as tremulously emotional as he is pleasing to the eye. Oddly masculine while also sensually feminine beauties abound as well—Beatrice, as phallically potent as she is overripely gorgeous; Hester Prynne, a self- 2 0 6 • C h a P T e r 7 reliant woman likened to “man-like Elizabeth” the Queen and the Renais- sance Madonna both; Zenobia, with her arresting, Angelina Jolie–like erotic beauty and immense, masculine hands, between which she always threatens to pulverize Coverdale’s obtrusive head. The faun’s androgynous sexual élan specifically defies the hypermasculine new standards of virility and physi- cal hardness that began to emerge in the 1850s, with the rise of the athletic male body-cult, and that Hawthorne had already satirized, as we have noted, in The Blithedale Romance. Far from being a diminution of the queer sexual charge of the “bearded woman,” the faun looms above us as a tantalizing queer mystery, one suggestive of an essentially enigmatic quality in Haw- thorne’s own persona on several levels, the sexual included. None of this is to diminish the problems of race evoked by the figure. The genuinely trou- blesome issue here is the figure’s representativeness as an icon of nineteenth- century Hellenism, to which I now turn. race and hellenIsm Sandra Zagarell describes Hellenism as “the celebration of the cultural supe- riority of Greece that flourished in Europe and the United States in the nineteenth century and that, as Martin Bernal has shown, had strong rac- ist overtones.”46 Martin Bernal’s influential and highly controversial Black Athena, a study that examines the erasure of the “Afroasiatic” roots of classi- cal civilization, has had the effect of fixing transatlantic nineteenth-century Hellenism as racist practice. In a chapter titled, in a characteristically incen- diary manner, “The Final Solution of the Phoenician Problem, 1885–1945,” Bernal examines the “consolidation of the Aryan model and the denial of both Egyptian and Phoenician influence on the formation of Greece.” By 1898, Bernal argues, the view that a “great mass of Semitic influence” shaped Aegean culture (as the denunciated scholar Robert Brown, who railed against the “Aryanists,” argued) “now seemed eccentric.”47 Scholars who have drawn on Bernal’s study have, explicitly or implicitly, suggested that writers whose work deploys Hellenism were participating in the erasure of the knowledge of the Semitic and Asian influences on Greek culture and religion.48 While a proper discussion of controversies over Hellenism cannot be undertaken in this chapter, it is worthwhile to note them in terms of think- ing about the political potentialities of Hawthorne’s weird, unsettling medi- tation on the faun, which has elicited numerous considerations in the past two decades about race and ethnicity but not, however, nearly as many about sexuality. v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 2 0 7 What the faun represents, if considered from the perspective that Helle- nism was racist practice, is idealized whiteness. Yet, and this is both to con- cur and disagree with Bentley and Johnson, if the faun does indeed embody a confluence of whiteness and otherness, signified by primitivism, it serves as a commentary on the influence and the undeniability of racial otherness, which, in an American context, would most pressingly impinge upon the presence of the Indian and the African. But the wild card in Hawthorne’s representation is the figure’s mysteriousness. With his vague smile and louche stance, the figure seems to be in on some sexual or cultural or racial joke that forever eludes us.49 Like the mystery of the faunlike Donatello’s hidden ears, the faun’s mystery trenches upon sex and race at once, caudal appendages and racial identity presented as similar, teasing questions. The faun simul- taneously suggests a masculinity informed by homoeroticism and a white- ness marked by nonwhiteness, by racial difference. As such, it anticipates the intersection of homoeroticism and racial intermixture that so provocatively and disturbingly informs, as we will see, Septimius Felton. t h o u g h i have not seen the figure read this way elsewhere, the faun bears a striking physical resemblance to Hawthorne, with his mop of “bright curly hair” and striking eyes and general air of sexual ambiguity, his feminine male beauty. As with Hawthorne, the faun provokes unsettling erotic responses precisely because, though clearly readable as male, he nevertheless infuses the feminine within the masculine form, in fact derives his exquisite beauty pre- cisely from the fusion of masculine and feminine qualities. (Winckelmann was also fascinated by such gender-bending figures, especially hermaphro- dites and eunuchs.) In his notebook description, Hawthorne writes of the faun’s “voluptuous mouth,” of “beautiful and agreeable features” neverthe- less “rounded.” Much like Freud’s Leonardo, the faun has no “principle,” yet Hawthorne lays the stress on the faun’s truthful and honest “simplicity” rather than his moral ambiguity (14: 191–92). Overall, this bewitching spec- tacle of the androgynous or hermaphroditic male art object–artist positively rather than diabolically casts its unsettling spell. In keeping with Winckelmannian theory, Hawthorne designates as his ideal figure a castrated creature: a fig leaf covers his genitals and Hawthorne never makes direct mention of either the leaf or what it covers. Yet Haw- thorne carefully alerts us to the sexual potentialities of this teasingly ambigu- ous figure through his attention to the faun’s visible pointed ears and unseen tail, hidden beneath the lion skin slung over its right shoulder, diagonally across its chest, and over its backside. In his notebook, Hawthorne simply 2 0 8 • C h a P T e r 7 states, “a tail is probably hidden beneath his garment,” but in the fiction the language becomes more cumbersomely and coyly Latinate: “a certain caudal appendage” would connote the faun’s animal nature, and, “if it exists at all,” be found under the garment (4: 10, my emphasis). If Hawthorne’s self-por- trait of the artist eschews the monstrosity Freud added, it is like Freud’s in its desire to free the sexually ambiguous artist from the presence of the phal- lus—Freud’s Leonardo is the model of sexual sublimation, and Hawthorne’s faun probably lacks a tail. As we have noted, a key feature of Hawthorne’s scopophobia, or fear of looking, is his rendering of vision as violation: masochistic suffering courses through Hawthorne’s depiction of narcissistic desire.50 The faun, loom- ing above observers, fixes the gaze in a timeless frieze of spectatorship over which it presides, the object of the gaze but also its indifferent master. The faun is timelessly indifferent to the ravenous gaze, but the human male is not. Donatello, one of the party of four young people in the Capitoline Museum at the start of this gorgeous and difficult novel (in my view, Haw- thorne’s greatest work), comes closest to resembling the mythic faun, and the other members of the party—all artists, the exotic, probably Jewish, Euro- pean Miriam; the Americans Hilda and Kenyon—all tease this apparently peasant-class earthy Italian about his resemblance to the faun, Miriam most mercilessly of all, demanding to see if Donatello’s ears are, like the faun’s, pointed. (Donatello will later be revealed to be a Count of noble ancestry, exposing the class biases and faulty analytic powers of the group.) This scene emblematizes our discussion of Hawthorne’s depiction of self, manhood, narcissistic desire, and fraught looking, as it stages the narcissistic gaze as desire to see manhood revealed and as the always imminent, ines- capable threat of violation. Are Donatello’s ears really pointed? Will we see his caudal appendage? As arresting for not being seen as they are for their phallic potentiality, Donatello’s ears signify the secret of male sexuality, what lies beneath hair or other veils, what must remain hidden (to most) in order to provoke desire. The ideal male beauty may be castrated, but the human, even if the ambiguously human, male provokes desire by suggesting a lurking phallic potency hidden beneath the beautiful surface. Of most interest here is that Donatello provokes desire from both women and other men (and from androgynous gods), competing, merged desires that always carry with them the threat of violation. The faun as sexual spectacle provokes a poignant human confrontation with the torments of desire. The faun itself, however, is never violated. In the faun, Hawthorne at last found a figure that could represent his complicity with the gaze and remain invulnerable in the face of it. The faun is a reso- v i S U a l i d e n T i T y • 2 0 9 lution to Hawthorne’s crisis precisely because it bears no evidence of Anti- nous’s “heavy, downward” look—the faun looks ahead, and past us, but also at nothing and no one at all, and is thus able to enjoy, or at least to signal, a range of unfettered erotic and even emotional possibilities. The faun is the ultimate figure of the narcissist, the purest, indifferent to all and absolute in his self-regard. As I will demonstrate in the discussion of Septimius Fel- ton, this momentary resolution of Hawthorne’s narcissistic crisis was, indeed, momentary: the ornery, indeed, the intractable, nature of this crisis would continue unabated. If the figure of the faun signals closure, the concept of closure is parodied from the beginning of The Marble Faun, which begins with an evocation of the faun’s qualities only to initiate an almost endless series of moral and narrative conflicts and perplexities that will spill out into the unfinished work. If Billy Budd is a sight that wounds the spectatorial eye, inciting a desire that cannot be fulfilled, the faun also incites the spectator’s visual hunger, a desire to denude his human avatar, Donatello. But most resonantly of all, the faun is an apt symbol for the “frozen passionateness” that Hawthorne so eloquently thematizes in this novel. If Billy Budd is, in contrast, a somatic and messily human figure, there is also something nonhuman about him— the silent swiftness of his blow to Claggart’s head that suggests a robotic, automaton-response; the lack of any bodily emissions (semen, specifically) once he is hanged; indeed, the bestial quality of his innocence. Perhaps the chief result of so many associations with the classical world and other kinds of mythic parallels is that the human subject becomes indistinguishable from the classical icon. Winckelmann’s aesthetic may have allowed a discourse of sexual appraisal that would otherwise have been impossible, but it is also, at heart, an expression of a desire to be freed from sex, one consonant with many trends in nineteenth-century American literature, which often figured sex as violation, for men no less than women.51 The contemplation of the frozen, blank, beautiful classical form is the expression of a wish for a non- sexual appreciation and even more emphatically experience of the body, of one’s own and also that of another person. Stasis, nonbeing, is the only real respite from the maddening demands of desire. Yet the faun, in his sexual mystery, remains a perpetual goad to desire. The aging Hawthorne, in con- templating the faun, may have contemplated his own youthful beauty and its ability to incite the gaze; may have recalled the predicaments of his young men and their struggles with self-overseeing, but also, perhaps for the first time, may have imagined the greater possibilities of pleasure within the desir- ing gaze. c h a p t e r 8 210 I n t h e p r e v i o u s c h a p t e r , I considered the overlaps between Hawthorne’s and Herman Melville’s treatments of classical male beauty. In this chapter, I will consider a theme that has lurked throughout this study as well as Hawthorne’s work. The darkness of Hawthorne’s young American men is a gender metaphor and a sexual metaphor. It is also a racial metaphor. Melville’s famous description of Hawthorne as “shrouded in a blackness, ten times black” blends unsettlingly into the dark white masculin- ity that Hawthorne himself imagined.1 Hawthorne’s simultaneously appeal- ing and demonic men evoke the fears of the racial other that hovered around New England antebellum culture and became only increasingly more intense as the nation moved ever closer to civil war over slavery. Even as opposi- tion to slavery grew exponentially more heated in the North, particularly in abolitionist centers such as Concord and Boston, fears of a racial other’s intrusion into the white homogeneity of antebellum New England intensi- fied. I believe that Hawthorne absorbed and reflected these growing fears of an influx of black bodies. These fears animate his peculiar representation of that iconic American image of the young white man full of promise who is bizarrely afflicted by blight and whose darkness of character belies his pleas- ing outward show. More to the point, however, his depictions of masculinity reflected his own fears of these bodies and his own racism. That Hawthorne was an artist of supreme moral intelligence makes his racism more vexing, heartbreaking, and infuriating. Without any desire to exculpate Hawthorne for his racist attitudes—which can be summarized as a failure to respond to narCiSSiSm, FOrm, and raCe in hawThOrne’S laTe wOrk A Certain Dark Beauty a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 1 1 and empathize with the suffering of the slave—I do nevertheless believe that in his late career, Hawthorne confronted his own racism as well as his cul- ture’s and attempted to theorize its psychosexual sources.2 From within his own aesthetic preoccupations as well as thematic ones, he crafted narratives, most of which remained unfinished, in which race began to play the worri- some, galvanizing near-explicit role that gender and sex had played through- out his work. This is in no way to suggest that racism and race anxiety are not everywhere present throughout Hawthorne’s work, but, rather, that in his late phase Hawthorne made these undercurrents something like a current. In his late work, Hawthorne makes it impossible to distinguish race from sex, sex from race. He makes desire the basis from which any question about the self and identity proceeds. All of this makes psychoanalysis helpful to our understanding of the late work. To understand racism fully, we need to consider the sexual logic of all identity formations. Kalpana Seshadri- Crooks urges psychoanalysis to grant race “coevality” with sex: “not to do so,” she warns, “trivializes the effects of racial identification.”3 Such a critique could be applied to Hawthorne’s work generally, which tended to submerge questions of race beneath those of gender and sexuality. In his last phase, I argue, Hawthorne makes race coeval with gender and sexuality as thematic concerns. l o n g i g n o r e d by most critics, Hawthorne’s late, unfinished work, never published in his own lifetime, is now attracting some new critical interest, the challenge continuing to be the prevailing view of these works as not only uninteresting but also aesthetically inferior to Hawthorne’s published, “com- pleted” output.4 In his superb 1991 study of Hawthorne, Charles Swann had already begun to call our attention to the late work’s significance. But only in recent years has it received anything like a sensitive treatment from criticism more broadly, with readings by critics such as Larry J. Reynolds, Rita Gollin, and Magnus Ullén, and, in a more mainstream vein, John Updike in a 2006 New Yorker essay.5 In addition to making a case for its aesthetic worth, I am interested in Hawthorne’s late work for its remarkably vivid continuation and revision of Hawthorne’s themes of narcissism and homoerotic desire (still underexplored in Hawthorne criticism), which remain deeply relevant and are now much more self-consciously tied to issues of racial identity. Hawthorne’s stance on race and his attitudes toward the Civil War are major preoccupations of contemporary Hawthorne criticism. Belying the view that Hawthorne avoided race in his writing, critics have re-examined Hawthorne’s editorship of the 1845 Journal of an African Cruiser, written by 2 1 2 • C h a P T e r 8 his friend Horatio Bridge, uncovering far greater contributions to this work than had been previously understood. Larry J. Reynolds’s magisterial Devils and Rebels: The Making of Hawthorne’s Damned Politics makes a concerted effort to contextualize Hawthorne’s views toward the Civil War and race as, in part, a pacifist stance against the potential terrors and terrorism of revo- lution.6 One of Reynolds’s most troubling and eye-opening contributions is his revelation of the extent to which Hawthorne’s racist attitudes were shared by many others in his abolitionist New England communities. But the majority of critics take a much more negative view of Hawthorne’s atti- tudes toward race, seeing his racism as indicative of his support of American empire-building. As we noted in the previous chapter, scholars such as Nancy Bentley, Arthur Riss, and Kendall Johnson have reframed Hawthorne’s last com- plete fictional work, the 1860 novel-romance The Marble Faun, as indica- tive of Hawthorne’s white, imperial disposition toward racial, ethnic, and class otherness. In his essay “Nathaniel Hawthorne and Transnationality” in Hawthorne and the Real, a collection edited by Millicent Bell, John Carlos Rowe disputes Henry James’s assessment of Hawthorne as a provincial writer, but not in a celebratory manner: “Today we are interested in the history of our current global situation and the transnational forces that challenge the nation state and other traditional sociopolitical organizations. In order to understand these phenomena, we would do well to study Hawthorne’s fiction, which represents an older world transformed by the new forces of modernization, first announced by the industrial revolution in England and made more urgent and dangerous in the expansionist frenzy of Jacksonian America.”7 Rowe explicitly sees his work as an updating of Bercovitch’s influ- ential 1991 study The Office of The Scarlet Letter. Bercovitch wrote about Hawthorne’s desire to create consensus through the reconciliation of oppos- ing points of view, all of which bolster an ultimate affirmation of liberal indi- vidualism. Rowe not only extends the Bercovitchian position but also goes further, arguing that “the abstraction of liberal individualism from its histori- cal and geopolitical possibility in nineteenth-century America is Hawthorne’s way of contributing to what today we recognize as cultural colonialism”; indeed, Hawthorne’s “romantic regionalism is a trick that serves expansionist political and cultural purposes.”8 While I certainly share these critics’ concerns, and, again, neither wish to exculpate Hawthorne for his racism nor explain away the considerable tensions in his writings related to race and empire, it is my contention that in his last phase the gaps in his thinking on race as well as the biases are precisely what Hawthorne submitted to analysis. This is not to suggest that a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 1 3 the late work is entirely antiracist in sensibility or that it thoroughly revises the stances toward otherness that characterize his oeuvre. Rather, I suggest that the late phase marks a new self-consciousness about these stances and a greater sensitivity toward these matters. The Marble Faun demands a more sensitive treatment, in my view, than many critics have given it. In the previous chapter, I attempted to discuss the novel’s sexual radicalism, but clearly a great deal more work needs to be done on this novel. For now, let me establish that, rather than seeing it as the end- point of his career, I would place The Marble Faun at the vanguard of a new direction taken by Hawthorne in which he turns his acute critical gaze upon matters only implicitly or glancingly scrutinized in his earlier work, such as race and racism. None of these critical assessments, for all of the necessary points they make, fairly frame Hawthorne’s attempt to make sense of race categories and racial difference in either The Marble Faun or the unfinished manuscripts as a new phase in his work. If Hawthorne exudes a deep ambivalence regarding otherness and dif- ference, on racial and ethnic as well as gender and sexual levels, The Marble Faun is a case in point of this ambivalence. It is a work with a Jewish hero- ine that clearly contains negative depictions of Judaism. It is also, at times, poignantly sympathetic toward the history of Jewish oppression. Certainly, it is a work that recognizes the centrality of Judaism to Western culture even within its most avowedly classical and Christian cultural underpinnings. Hawthorne appears to have used fiction as an occasion to work through his personal prejudices while also indulging in them. Donatello’s obsession with the dark mystery of Miriam Schaeffer carries over the obsession with Beatrice Rappaccini’s dark sexuality on Giovanni Guasconti’s part in a tale that many have examined as an allegory of racist fears of miscegenation. What unites both “Rappaccini’s Daughter” and The Marble Faun is that in these works the racial other becomes a figure of sympathy because embodied by a suf- fering and embattled female figure, always a figure with whom Hawthorne identifies. Again, that Hawthorne identifies with the figure does not translate into an uncomplicated feminist portrait, especially in The Marble Faun. Resil- ient, intelligent, eloquent, and admirable a character though she is, Mir- iam Schaeffer is always highly ambivalently rendered. While it is commonly accepted that Hawthorne’s major female characters all proceed from the basis of the dark-lady archetype, it is perhaps more to the point that they each evoke the figure of the Jewess of Hawthorne’s 1856 description of Emma Abigail Montefiore Salomons, whom he met in London during his Consul- ship years.9 Raven-haired, passionate, darkly mysterious, as well as extremely 2 1 4 • C h a P T e r 8 intelligent, Hawthorne’s great heroines Hester Prynne, Zenobia, and Mir- iam Schaeffer all share with Mrs. Salomons as Hawthorne perceived her an uncanny ability to provoke in the men who behold them simultaneous feel- ings of attraction and alienation, of desire and “repugnance.” The unremittingly negative portrayal of “dark” masculinity in the depic- tions of Rappaccini and the Model of The Marble Faun make especially sig- nificant the fact that, in the Septimius manuscripts, the racial other is now the multiracial male protagonist who is also an identification figure meant to solicit at least a certain amount of sympathy from the reader. In that Sep- timius is such a figure, this late work represents an expansion and develop- ment of Hawthorne’s figure of the “dark young man,” treated here with more sympathy perhaps because of his very “darkness.” The Septimius manuscripts, an uneven, often thrilling project, demand renewed critical attention for several reasons. First, they explode the myth that Hawthorne painstakingly avoided race in his fiction, making race not only a major concern but also a decisive theme in the founding of the nation. Second, they foreground same-sex desire, a theme that remains not only underexplored in Hawthorne criticism but also still deeply controver- sial within the study of nineteenth-century literature. Most importantly, in insisting on the intersection of desire and race, the Septimius project takes Hawthorne’s career-long concerns with male sexuality and its attendant ter- rors to unexpected places with myriad implications. The issue of race in Hawthorne’s work alone, to say nothing of the ante- bellum literary period, is deeply vexed and complex. Let me make it clear at the outset, then, that this chapter has a very narrow focus: the relevance of theories of narcissism to an interpretation of the multiracial male sub- ject’s relationship to white masculinity. Given that narcissism is so closely tied to male privilege for many—as embodied in Laura Mulvey’s treatment of the male gaze—one always raced as white, it is especially interesting to consider narcissism in terms of racialized gender politics. My interpretation of Hawthorne’s treatment of this dynamic is informed by the emerging field of whiteness studies, of which Nell Irvin Painter’s 2010 book The History of White People is exemplary.10 As we have noted, Hawthorne read some of Winckelmann’s The History of Ancient Art (1764) shortly after having com- pleted The Scarlet Letter,11 and he applied the German art critic’s theories to his own experience of European art in the late 1850s. Winckelmann, as has been frequently discussed, was a pioneer not only in the popularization of Hellenism but in the development of a transatlantic homoerotic Hel- lenic aesthetic. As Painter elaborates in her book, this Hellenic ideal was also crucial to the cultivation and generalization of an ideal of white beauty. a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 1 5 Hawthorne’s previous male characters, such as the Grecian beauty Giovanni Guasconti, evoke this ideal in their Hellenic qualities. In contrast, Septi- mius Felton embodies the mixed-race mysteries that had been previously associated with Hawthorne’s women. In contrast to Septimius, the English soldier embodies the ideal of English-European white male beauty. Haw- thorne creates a nationalistic and cultural divide through contrasting styles of masculinity, casting whiteness as the domain of English-European cul- ture, racial tensions and intermixtures as a more distinctively American phe- nomenon. Lacan argues that the experience of the mirror stage is marked by aggressivity as well as suicidal despair, as we identify with a more perfect, apparently more coherent, miragelike image of ourselves. Hawthorne, in the culmination of his major themes, stages the encounter between Septimius and the English soldier as a confrontation with the specular self, one that produces an appositely violent result, except in real-world rather than psy- chic terms. In this chapter, I explore the racial tensions within Hawthorne’s treatment of white masculinity while thinking about his depiction of white masculin- ity as an allegory for race. The linchpin figure in this regard is the multira- cial Septimius Felton. I argue that Hawthorne brings an erotic dimension to his construction of racial otherness, one that intensifies the difficulties and the occasional daring in his exploration of race. That Hawthorne’s stance on race throughout his career is one of infuriating indifference makes his engagement with the topic in his late career all the more startling. One of the most moving aspects of Hawthorne’s career is that his late work—so long denigrated as inferior, evidence of his physical as well as mental and creative enfeeblement—is, in many ways, the most politically radical of his career, which is not to suggest that it is politically radical but, rather, that it repre- sents not only Hawthorne’s attempt to grapple with issues of race in the glare of an impending and soon actively fought civil war but also some fresh and surprising thinking on these subjects. The issue of race in Hawthorne raises an analogous question for psy- choanalysis, namely what its relevance to such questions might be. Given how often psychoanalysis has historically ignored questions of race, it is especially important to address this lack in the methodology here. As I will show, Freud’s theories of the ego ideal and ideal ego, especially as revised by Lacan, can provide valuable insights into the homoerotic dynamics of race when race is considered in terms of visual identity—a making sense of one- self based on visual evidence. Of course, this evidence is so overdetermined by historically shifting and maintained cultural and social standards as to be unintelligible without the context they provide. 2 1 6 • C h a P T e r 8 Perhaps surprisingly, Hawthorne’s late work also allows us a quite wel- come opportunity to think about the related and equally vexed topics of Hawthorne’s representation of women and Freud’s theories of female sexu- ality. The Septimius manuscripts, Septimius Felton in particular, offer us a potent account of female agency that makes for a dynamic point of compari- son to Freud’s frustrating but not entirely irrelevant theories of femininity. Before we can address any of these concerns, however, it is crucial that we establish the grounds for which we can appreciate the late work aesthetically as well as for its considerations of racial identity and sexual politics. IntermIxtures S e p T i m i u S F e lT o n En route to England, where he would be employed as American Consul in Liverpool courtesy of President Franklin Pierce, his best friend since their days as classmates at Bowdoin College, Hawthorne began to write a romance about an American attempting to claim an English estate (The American Claimant manuscripts), a project Hawthorne put aside in order to write The Marble Faun, his last published novel-romance. He was never able to com- plete the Claimant project; in his final years in Concord, Massachusetts, to which he returned after his years in Europe, Hawthorne took up, among other works, the romance Septimius Felton, in a later draft renamed Septi- mius Norton, a tale of a young, multiracial man on a quest for the secret of immortal life. Betsy Erkkila points out that the America of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking tales is “spooked by the prospect of a collapse in the distinc- tions of sexual, racial, and class blood in the America of the future.” The irony is that the one boundary that remains open—the erotically charged cross-race and same-sex bond among Hawk-eye, Uncas, and, by extension, Chingachgook—is the bond that might seem least threaten- ing by the normative sexual and racial standards of Cooper’s time. While the white man and the Indians might share in the phallic rites of guns and blood and sleep with each other in the forest, they would not repro- duce a mixed-blood progeny: the love triangle of Hawk-eye, Uncas, and Chingachgook enables the fantasy of blood mixture—of sex and rank and color—without the threat of generation.12 a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 1 7 What I will be suggesting throughout this chapter is that Hawthorne takes up and continues Cooper’s subversive homoerotics of race and race anxiety in Septimius Felton. But what Hawthorne adds to Cooper is precisely the idea that “generation”—albeit, a generation of a different kind than biologi- cal human reproduction—can indeed result from the intermixture of differ- ently raced male bloods. Septimius Felton provides evidence that in Hawthorne race and sexuality face each other in a narcissistic relation, each mirroring the other. My claim that Septimius Felton is one of Hawthorne’s most vibrant and intriguing achievements, which I am aware many readers will find dubious, depends on an even more problematic contention that the most animated and provoca- tive section of this draft version of a never completed work occurs early on: Septimius’s encounter with the teasing, haughty, handsome young English soldier whom Septimius later kills in a duel. By exploring this episode in some depth, I aim to make the case that the fragmentary nature of Haw- thorne’s achievement in these final works both is essential to their special character and has a validity all its own. Moreover, I will use this incident as emblematic of the narcissistic themes that I consider to be a recurring inter- est in Hawthorne’s work. Prominent among the many links between the American Claimant and the Septimius manuscripts is the symbol of a bloody footprint. Left on the threshold of an ancestral English home, the bloody footprint marks the crime against innocence, an irremovable sign of indelible guilt. Beyond those familiar Hawthorne concerns, the bloody footprint serves as a poignant trace of Hawthorne’s own persistent, painful attempts to craft a romance after his return from England, a return to a transformed America on the brink of fraternal war. Hawthorne wrote with an anguished sense that the romance form he perfected was no longer fashionable, that a new form was needed. As Terence Martin writes of Septimius Felton, one can find throughout it “scat- tered yet provocative evidence that for Hawthorne the literary genre which had served him for years was no longer a viable form.”13 The symbol conveys the somatic pain of Hawthorne’s illness-ridden last days. At the same time, the bloody footprint marks the pages of these unfinished late romances with the blood of the slain Civil War soldiers populating Hawthorne’s increas- ingly aggrieved mind. As he wrote, Hawthorne was pondering the human propensity for barbarism and bloodshed in a war he eventually supported but always despised. If a tremendous potential for violence inheres in all of Hawthorne’s representations of human relations, especially between men, in Septimius Felton this violence erupts into actual murder. That murder might 2 1 8 • C h a P T e r 8 seem justified during war is the very proposition that Hawthorne compli- cates and troubles. Of Hawthorne’s late work, Charles Swann, among the most brilliant readers of Hawthorne, writes, “the struggles with his themes and materi- als is not evidence of imaginative failure but rather of Hawthorne’s intelli- gence, courage and ambition in facing remarkably complex issues at a time of great historical crisis which (had he lived longer) might well have pro- duced a radically new kind of fiction.”14 Swann’s 1991 argument, a view I share, was an anomalous one within Hawthorne criticism, which has his- torically framed these late works as sad indications of Hawthorne’s faltering powers. In one of the few earlier studies to consider them, Edward David- son views the unfinished romances not only as signs of Hawthorne’s final ruin but also as evidence that “the seeds of his failure lay back in the years of success. He had at his disposal only a very limited number of plots and an even more limited number of scenes than we have ever suspected. In the short stories and in the earlier novels he had quite thoroughly exhausted his restricted budget.” “Old,” “miserably old,” Hawthorne was “senile,” a sad fact reflected in his late writings.15 Davidson’s own critical terminology betrays the sexual register of critical complaint—the supply of the seeds of Hawthorne’s art was exhausted by the end. This is a critical version of G. J. Barker-Benfield’s spermatic economy, the spermatic economy of imagina- tive production.16 Traditional criticism maintains masculinist standards of productivity that insist on closure as the end result of a literary work; little wonder, then, that the unfinished Hawthorne works have had such a hard time gaining recognition. Hawthorne repeatedly writes of being unable to finish these romances, often with irritation, sometimes with despair. Yet the sheer persistence of his attempts conveys the urgency of his need to communicate something. One possibility that has not been raised in most critical accounts of late Haw- thorne is that the impossibility of completion was aesthetically necessary to the nature of these late works, not in the reductive sense that their unfin- ished nature somehow reflects the impossible, unrealizable goals of the plots, for example the futile quest for the key to immortal life, but, rather, that the unfinishability itself serves as a response to the welter of conflictual, mad- dening pressures Hawthorne faced—national unrest; shifting literary tastes; his faltering, mutinous body—a statement about the impossibility of finding resolution, clarity, closure. The major source of the opprobrium the late works have inspired in criticism would appear to be Hawthorne’s inability to find a workable plot or to carry a plot to its conclusion. It is part of my goal here to demon- a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 1 9 strate that, at least to a certain extent, Hawthorne self-consciously thematizes the “failed” nature of Septimius Felton, allegorizing the work’s very unfinish- ability through the work itself. Moreover, as I will show, this self-conscious textuality corresponds to and deepens the novel’s daring exploration of the intersection of desire and race in male–male relationships, which Hawthorne symbolically conducts through the figure of a maddening text passed from hand to hand from one male to another. If normative standards of male sex- ual performance appear to have dominated critical practice, these standards nevertheless appear very much to have been on Hawthorne’s mind as he wrote Septimius Felton.17 An obsession with potency courses through the Sep- timius manuscripts, as its hero attempts to transform the alternately crimson and purple flowers that flourish above the grave of the young English soldier he kills into the elixir of immortal life. Ingeniously crafting a Civil War allegory that reminds its still largely undiscovered readers of the historical continuity of war and bloodshed, Hawthorne sets Septimius Felton in the Revolutionary War American past. In the Concord of 1775, Septimius Felton, of mixed English and native American stock (and possibly of African stock as well), lives with his fiery, witchlike Puritan-Indian Aunt Keziah (whose name changes throughout the manuscript, finally to Nashoba in the Norton version). As he ambivalently pursues the ministry, he commits himself to a life of scholarly toil, much like the titular protagonist of Hawthorne’s first romance, Fanshawe. His pur- ported love interest, Rose Garland (in later drafts turned, not implausibly, into his sister, given the lack of any sexual ardor between the characters), and his boyhood friend, strapping Robert Hagburn, who joins the fighting, provide the makings of a romantic triangle that Hawthorne barely invests with any interest whatsoever, his concerns lying in quite different areas. The quest that Septimius undertakes for the creation of an elixir for immortal life was derived from a legend that Henry David Thoreau had told Hawthorne about one of his Concord homes, The Wayside: a generation ago, it had been inhabited by a man who believed that he would never die. If the inspiration for this novel was the product of an exchange between two artists, it is inter- esting to see how this male–male exchange becomes so complexly literalized in the unfinished romance. It is also an elaboration of a Revolutionary War tale that Hawthorne recounted in the preface to his 1846 collection of tales, Mosses from an Old Manse: on that famous April morning, a youth is chop- ping wood behind the Manse residence. He races to the scene of battle, axe in hand. He sees two English soldiers lying prostrate on the ground—one stirs and looks him in the face. Instantly, the boy raises his axe and buries it in the still-living soldier’s head. Hawthorne remarks that he frequently 2 2 0 • C h a P T e r 8 wonders about the boy’s tortured soul after this wartime act. In the Septimius manuscripts, Hawthorne imagines his way through the psychological reper- cussions of wartime killing. The sheer wastefulness of wartime carnage loomed large in Hawthorne’s mind as he wrote Septimius, as his letters, journals, and essays of the time evince. Hawthorne also wrestled with feelings of mingled contempt and long- ing for England upon his return, as evinced by the essays in Our Old Home, the only work after The Marble Faun that Hawthorne was able to complete. The English soldier of the early portion of the romance fuses all of these ten- sions in his surprisingly comely, flirtatious form, appearing as a harbinger of war and imperial menace, yet casually teasing Rose, upon whom he plants a kiss, and charming as much as angering Septimius. Teasing emerges as a qual- ity of male sexual appeal in the later Hawthorne: the sexual suggestiveness and mysteriousness of the faun, the arch, playful, erotic mirth of the English soldier. Hawthorne appears to have finally begun to enjoy the appeal of his desirable young male figures in his later career and years. If the figure of the beautiful young man recurs in Hawthorne’s work (Robin Molineux, Giovanni Guasconti, Dimmesdale, the young Clifford), and if he always regards this figure ambivalently, the beautiful, budding young English soldier carries with him the promise of beauty, death, and immortal life all at once. By investing the soldier with a sexual charisma and charm, Hawthorne intensifies our understanding of the pointlessness of his death. “In an encounter,” as John Updike puts it, “that has strong narcissistic and homoerotic overtones,” Septimius kills the soldier and “finds on his body the formula for eternal life.”18 Kneeling by his “fallen foe’s side,” Septimius ponders, watching him die, the magnitude of what he has done and the nature of this loss: It seemed so dreadful to have reduced this gay, animated, beautiful being to a lump of dead flesh for the flies to settle upon, and which in a few hours would begin to decay; which must be put forthwith into the earth, lest it should be a horror to men’s eyes; that delicious beauty for woman to love; that strength and courage to make him famous among men,—all come to nothing[.] (12: 31)19 The young English soldier’s allegorical functions are multivalent and sub- stantial. He stands in for the otherness of the soldier on the other side— English or Southern—so alike yet so different; in his maddening appeal he signals secret sympathies and affiliations.20 Most pressingly, he represents in a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 2 1 his fullness the promise of art as well as, in his national identity, the ori- gins of the art-making tradition Hawthorne would emulate. If Hawthorne struggled over the future of the form of the romance inherited from Walter Scott and other English forebears, the deeply appealing soldier who must be killed may be said to represent the form of the romance itself, Hawthorne’s awareness of its continuing charms, and the impossibility of its survival. The soldier’s scarcely justifiable death allegorizes the transition from one form to another, the transformation of the romance into something else, that some- thing that Hawthorne kept trying to get at, possibly the realist novel his con- flicted disciple Henry James would fashion as his own, possibly something else altogether. The scene of the killing of this young English soldier also elegiacally mourns Hawthorne’s own lost youth and impending death. As Septimius stares into the soldier’s face, he broods upon the awful significance of the waste of youth, but, more specifically, the waste of the soldier’s “delicious beauty.” Throughout Hawthorne’s work, motifs of mirrors, reflections, dou- bles recur along with the equally consistent motif of the young man the sight of whom causes as much consternation as pleasure (Fanshawe, Minister Hooper, Feathertop, and several others). A point to which we will return, Septimius is not unbeautiful; indeed, he himself possesses “a certain dark beauty” (40). What I have called Haw- thorne’s traumatic narcissism takes a spellbinding form here. Staring into the dying young soldier’s face and lamenting the loss of the beauty it synecdochi- cally signs, Septimius can be said, from a psychoanalytic perspective, to be mourning the loss of a prior state of perfection, specifically his ego ideal, the more attractive, more appealing, and inaccessible version of himself. This lit- erally as well as symbolically traumatic loss suggests implications of all kinds: to begin with, the loss of the aforementioned allegorical notes of beautiful, unrealizable form. But most crucially, given the fraught racial dynamics of the novel, this loss suggests a longing for the apparently more perfect, more beautiful form of European whiteness, a “delicious” versus a “certain dark” beauty, a point which I expand in the next section. “Sing, goddess”—if the Muse is conventionally gendered female, in the tradition that derives from classical Greek mythological origins of the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, in Septimius Felton Hawthorne devises the Muse in masculine terms; if we view Septimius as a figure of the artist, it is the slain young soldier who inspires his art. This inspiration takes literal shape in the form of the manuscript that provides in cipher-code the key to the immortality Septimius seeks. In addition, Septimius’s bullet shatters the miniature portrait of a woman on the soldier’s person. Recalling the myth of 2 2 2 • C h a P T e r 8 Achilles and Penthesilea, the Amazon warrior-queen he slays, falling in love with her just as she dies on the battlefield, Septimius realizes his heart-stop- ping ardor for the soldier only when he annihilates him; in especially violent terms, their connection appears to obliterate any sign of conventional hetero- sexual love by literally smashing in the face of woman, obviously a horrifying implication. Hawthorne would appear to suggest that art can be passed from one male to another only through the obliteration of woman. Beyond this, art, the search for immortal life, emerges from suffering and death; only the murder of something—a soldier, a literary form, the symbol of love—can bring forth the new life of art. It will be revealed, however, that the young woman of the photograph, Sybil Dacy, far from being dead, is alive and vying for narrative control, a development of great interest to this analysis. The manuscript—“that weary, ugly, yellow, blurred, unintelligible, bewitched, mysterious, bullet-penetrated, blood-stained manuscript” (58)— becomes a simultaneously fetishistic and phobic object for Septimius. It combines somatic with material properties, turning the page into battered, hateful, yet also irresistible flesh. More than any other Hawthorne work, Septimius Felton reveals the wrenching pain Hawthorne experienced within the act of art-creation, suggesting that beneath the elegant, hypercontrolled Latinate prose has lurked a writhing sense of discomfort. This work oscillates among several thematic concerns, some aesthetic, some psychosexual, and some political and historical. The duel synthesizes these last concerns. Harkening back to the bad old days of the early Ameri- can republic, the duel symbolizes relations between men in patriarchy, seek- ing “satisfaction” from each other through the economy of violence.21 But Hawthorne in this scene returns to a much earlier time, the mythic-Edenic time of the prelapsarian. He returns the male body to nature and to origins; from a psychoanalytic view, he returns masculinity to its disavowed, rejected place in the pre-oedipal world of the mother. In the well-known paradigms of Jacques Lacan, there are three “orders” of human life: the Imaginary, domi- nated by the mirror stage and its imaginary identifications, specifically the incipient subject’s identification with an illusory image of wholeness in the mirror; the Symbolic, the father’s realm of language and law; and the Real, that which stands outside of signification and representation. Buried, the body of the soldier produces a field of crimson and purple flowers that will provide the final, decisive ingredient for Septimius’s recipe for immortality. As his own body faltered and failed him, Hawthorne fantasized about a gen- erative and blooming, youthful and beautiful male body returned to the time before symbolic subjectivity. In a Lacanian elaboration, the English soldier— a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 2 3 in his whiteness and desirability on both racial and homoerotic levels—is the false but irresistible illusion of wholeness with which the mixed-race Septi- mius identifies, an image of desirable perfection shattered, along with the triangulated woman, by Septimius’s bullet. Hawthorne’s characteristic concerns over the troubling form of masculin- ity continue to inform his late work. Given the metaphorical world of the novel, the depiction of writing as an extension of the male body, the somatic qualities of the manuscript signal the phobic dimension of Hawthorne’s view of this male body, so beautiful in one dimension, so hateful in another. If Hawthorne recalled his own youthful beauty in such stark contrast to his present state of infirmity in the body of the soldier with its multivalently life- giving properties, he also conveyed a sense of this body’s grotesque, unseemly physicality. The Elixir of Life recipe, once laboriously decoded by Septimius, reads like a tract written to young men by antebellum sexual reformers such as Sylvester Graham and John Todd exhorting them to practice rigid sexual continence.22 The yellowish quality of the manuscript links it to the color of the whale oil in the scandalous and joyous sperm-squeezing passage in Mel- ville’s Moby-Dick, as it also recalls the Creature’s lurid flesh in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the fluid into which M. Valdemar deliquesces at the climax of Poe’s story, notable for its particularly grotesque homoerotic tableaux. (In “The Facts in the Case of M. Valedemar,” published in 1845, a dying man, surrounded by a homosocial group of male scientists who have hypnotized him, lies suspended between life and death; his one quiveringly lifelike organ is his tongue.) If yellow is the color of male sexual fluids, the written page is steeped in it here. On the one hand, in the somatic economy of this work, writing suggests ejaculation, in terms that recall the Coen Brothers’ film about a maddened writer, Barton Fink (1991), with its trope of yellow fluids oozing out behind wallpaper, a failed orgasmic release that mocks the titular character’s writer’s block. On the other hand, it suggests the “flow” Hélène Cixous associated with women’s writing, which she links with blood and disengorgement, in stark contrast to masculine writing. Highly essentialist though they are as a schema of gendered writing, Cixous’s theories have a great relevance for con- siderations of the gender dynamics of literary production, especially given the masculinist critical standards that predominate. In his near-final phase, Hawthorne portrayed art-making as the release of fluids. Hawthorne recalls Coleridge’s famous description of the essential androgyny of the artist’s mind by associating the male body with conventional markers of both male and female sexuality while making the bloody male body generative in conven- tionally feminine terms.23 2 2 4 • C h a P T e r 8 Matching yellow as a heavily freighted symbolic color in this work, red—a particularly deep, “crimson,” red, evocative of the scarlet “A”—also connotes creativity as it emanates from the male form. Hawthorne’s use of winemaking metaphors to describe the manuscript recalls both Virgil’s Geor- gics and, as an intercalary note makes explicit, Burton’s Anatomy of Melan- choly. These metaphors liken writing to a vintner squeezing “viscid” juice from “the great accumulation of grapes that it had gathered from so many vineyards” (49). One and the same, the rich blood of writing and the rich blood of the fallen dead produce a “great abundance, a luxuriant harvest,” “as if the dead youth beneath had burst into a resurrection of many crimson flowers!” (109). This explosive image connotes a linkage between male sexu- ality and creativity. In a very Cixousian way, then, Septimius Felton is a work that refuses to finish. If, in Cixous’s terms, feminine writing is about flow and disgorge- ment, Septimius Felton bleeds out its contents, its text bursting free of the confines of form and narrative. The finished product always remains willfully and intransigently uncontained. I do not mean to suggest that Septimius Fel- ton is—in the manner suggested by Elizabeth Wanning Harries in her study of eighteenth-century fiction The Unfinished Manner—a work left deliber- ately unfinished, a statement of defiant incompleteness.24 Rather, what I wish to suggest is that Hawthorne found the form he was looking for, the elusive form of a work that could be neither completed nor finished, an immortal text that in its exasperating irresolvability refuses to die. As I suggested earlier, in mourning the dying English soldier, Septimius may be said to be mourning the loss of his ego ideal. The difficulties of Haw- thorne’s depiction of a narcissistic male sexuality with implications for both same-sex desire and race are encompassed by the juxtaposition the work makes of two forms of male beauty: the English soldier’s “delicious beauty” and that which characterizes Septimius, “a certain dark beauty.” Hawthorne inserts Septimius’s desire for the solider he kills into his fic- tion’s topos of male guilt, a killing in the forest, a crime that must be bur- ied. Septimius Felton recalls Hawthorne’s superb early story “Roger Malvin’s Burial,” which we explored in chapter 3. Here, rather than beginning with a tense scene between a young man and an old one, we open, roughly speak- ing, with a traumatic encounter between two young men that revises the young man–old man split in Hawthorne’s work—at least until the enigmatic and creepy Doctor Portsoaken, associated with occult details such as a huge, knowing spider, makes his appearance. Constantly returning to the scene of his crime, the memory of which alternately revivifies and torments him, Sep- timius develops a much more sustained and passionate relationship with the a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 2 5 buried corpse of the soldier than he does with any of the other characters, with the possible exception of his Aunt Keziah, at once, like Mother Rigby in “Feathertop,” witchlike and motherly. As the dead soldier’s body decays, it paradoxically blooms with life, transforming into the lush field of flowers from which Septimius will extract the key ingredient to the elixir of immor- tal life. Hawthorne’s own status as a white male writer can hardly be inciden- tal to his depiction of a multiracial young man’s ambivalent desire for the “secret” of a comely white European youth. His decision to make Septi- mius a fusion of his own race and cultural ancestry and the fraught and contested racial identities of Indianness and blackness could not have been anything other than a highly self-conscious choice on Hawthorne’s part. If a thematic of narcissism with implications for both heterosexual and same- sex desire informs Hawthorne’s work, it is through this thematic that Haw- thorne imagines race consciousness in Septimius Felton/Norton. The question that presents itself here is to what extent narcissism reflects Hawthorne’s own feelings toward race, in the sense of complicating, deepening, or scrambling the controversial record of Hawthorne’s own recorded views about race, slav- ery, and otherness. In other words, does Hawthorne view race, racism, and racial consciousness as a set of psychosexual, social, cultural, or historical dilemmas? (Clearly, the answer must be some combination of all of these, the salient question being on which factor Hawthorne places his emphasis.) Related to these concerns is the question of how psychoanalysis helps us to think through such matters, especially given the methodology’s historical indifference to them. psychoanalysIs and race In employing psychoanalytic theory to discuss authorial investments in race, I join in recent efforts to challenge psychoanalysis to extend its valuable findings about human subjectivity to theorizations of race as a lived experi- ence. Psychoanalysis is not an end to itself, at least in my view, but an aid to understanding the emotional and psychic underpinnings of our culture and our art. When psychoanalysis, and any other theoretical apparatus for that matter, becomes an end in and of itself, the critic ends up mistaking the tool for the task. To make my intentions clear once again, my aim is to use psychoanalysis as a political maneuver against the prohibitive and silencing voices of our culture that impede understanding of its traumatic knowledges, past and present. 2 2 6 • C h a P T e r 8 Of chief interest to me here are the valences between Hawthorne’s depic- tion of the Septimius-soldier episode and the psychoanalytic theories of the ego ideal and the ideal ego. In her application of Freudian theories of mel- ancholia to race, Anne Anlin Cheng asks, “How is a racial identity secured? How does it continue to generate its seduction for both the dominant and the marginalized?” As Cheng notes, insufficient attention has been paid to “the ways in which individuals and communities remain invested in main- taining such categories, even when such identities prove to be prohibitive or debilitating.”25 As Cheng continues, racialization in America “may be said to operate through the institutional process of producing a dominant, stan- dard, white national ideal, which is sustained by the exclusion yet retention of racialized others.”26 It also, along these lines, seems to be sustained by the instantiation in these simultaneously excluded and retained racial others of investments in the national ideal that are as urgent psychically as they are outmoded and contestable socially. In his study The Color of Sex: Whiteness, Heterosexuality, and the Fictions of White Supremacy, Mason Stokes equates narcissism with white heterosexual privilege: “for my purposes I understand it as a way of being that requires a consideration of others solely for the purpose of articulating and buttressing the ego, the self. . . . Although Freud focuses most of his attention on ‘per- verts and homosexuals,’ I want to add whiteness to that category of perver- sions (though not endorsing his views on the narcissism of homosexuals and women). Doing so allows us to see whiteness as a pathology, as an unhealthy way of living in the world.” By “making this leap” to contemporary psychiat- ric understandings of a “controversial psychological category,” Stokes claims that he is shedding light on “a larger ideological presence—whiteness, that ‘shadow of a reflected form [that] has no substance of its own,’ to borrow once again” from Ovid’s version of the Narcissus myth.27 I am in ideological sympathy with Stokes’s effort to dismantle white het- erosexist privilege. The process whereby he employs narcissism in this effort, however, unwittingly exposes a fundamental social and theoretical queasiness about narcissism. This queasiness must be considered if we are to appreci- ate narcissism’s value as a potentially radical sexual disposition that disrupts normative sexual categories. It is neither possible to extricate Freud’s view of the perversions from his theory of narcissism nor to apply perversion to a normative category, such as racial whiteness, without jeopardizing the entire structure of Freud’s argument. As Jonathan Dollimore points out, “Freud described homosexuality as the most important perversion of all,” “as well as the most repellent in the popular mind,” while also being “so pervasive to human psychology” that Freud made it “central to psychoanalytic the- a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 2 7 ory.”28 In terms of Freud’s theory of psychosexual development and perver- sity’s place in it, Dollimore writes, if the value of psychoanalysis lies in its exposure of the essential instability of identity, “then this is never more so than in Freud’s account of perversion. At every stage perversion is what prob- lematizes the psychosexual identities upon which our culture depends.”29 Stokes obscures the disruptive force of both perversion and narcissism in his conflation of hegemonic whiteness with both. This maneuver has the effect of rearming the categories as pathological diagnoses. Stokes retains the presumed pathological imperative of the Freudian diagnosis while losing the inherent instability within this diagnosis. It is this instability that is precisely what makes narcissism an excitingly weird way of thinking about sexuality. The central instability of narcissism is that, like homosexuality, it represents for Freud both a perversion and a universal human disposition. Freud’s concepts of the ego ideal and the ideal ego, variations on the theme, allow us to take into further account the value of his theory of nar- cissism. Freud theorizes love in terms of idealization, a process that involves narcissism and the ego ideal. When we idealize the object of our desire, we treat the object as we do our own ego. When we are in love, Freud writes in Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, “a considerable amount of narcissistic libido overflows onto the object.” Fascinatingly, Freud even goes so far as to suggest that very often the “object serves as a substitute for some unattained ego ideal of our own. We love it on account of the perfections which we have striven to reach for our own ego”; indeed, being in love is a “roundabout” way of “satisfying our own narcissism”! (SE 18: 112–13). Far from being a minoritizing discourse about desire, the Freudian theory of nar- cissism claims it as one of the major components of human love. As Jacques Lacan, reworking these Freudian ideas, explains the relation of ideal ego to ego ideal, it helps us to consider certain key questions: “What is my desire? What is my position in the imaginary structuration? This posi- tion is only conceivable in so far as one finds a guide beyond the imaginary, on the level of the symbolic plane . . . This guide governing the subject is the ego ideal.”30 In one of his best glosses, Slavoj Žižek explains Lacan’s reframing of these Freudian concepts, including the superego: Lacan introduces a precise distinction between these three terms: “ideal ego” stands for the idealized image of the subject (the way I would like to be, the way I would like others to see me); Ego-Ideal is the agency whose gaze I try to impress with my ego image, the big Other who watches over me and impels me to give my best, the ideal I try to follow and actualize; and superego is this same agency in its vengeful, sadistic, punishing aspect. 2 2 8 • C h a P T e r 8 The underlying structuring principle of these three terms is clearly Lacan’s triad Imaginary-Symbolic-Real: ideal ego is imaginary, what Lacan calls the “small other,” the idealized mirror-image of my ego; Ego-Ideal is symbolic, the point of my symbolic identification, the point in the big Other from which I observe (and judge) myself; superego is real, the cruel and insa- tiable agency that bombards me with impossible demands and then mocks my botched attempts to meet them, the agency in whose eyes I am all the more guilty, the more I try to suppress my “sinful” strivings and meet its demands.31 To consider Septimius Felton from these psychoanalytic perspectives, we can posit that the English soldier functions for Septimius as both ideal ego (“the way I would like to be, the way I would like others to see me”) and as ego ideal. The soldier’s cultural heritage—the fatherland England of law and traditional values; the motherland England of generative aesthetic forms— and his racially privileged whiteness provide the foundation for his role as ego ideal to Septimius. The racially charged descriptions of Septimius’s pos- session of “a certain dark beauty” and the handsome, confident English sol- dier’s “delicious beauty” emerge as poles of possession and lack, of longing and excess, of having and not having. The multiracial male longs for the secret to the fecundity of the European white male’s overflowing racial full- ness. This fullness finds explosive metaphorical form in the fecund field of flowers growing over the soldier’s grave, flowers that symbolize the soldier’s life-giving powers. The voice of Hawthorne’s narrator, as always evasive and endlessly evaluative, provides a perverse textual superego, faltering in its occasional empathy, more often more than adequate to its authoritarian task. If the text would appear to suggest that whiteness is the mixed-race sub- ject’s ego ideal, what undermines the racial politics of the scenario, a racial politics that would appear to confirm Hawthorne’s status as white writer extending a fantasy of white privilege into the private provinces of sexual- ity, is Hawthorne’s investment in the imaginary life of a mixed-race subject. Of all canonical white antebellum writers, Hawthorne and Harriet Beecher Stowe are among the few to have written a work that attempts to under- stand the differently raced subject from within. (For all of his daring and brilliance generally and specifically in his exploration of race, Herman Mel- ville rarely attempts such an inhabited experience of racial difference. For example, his villain Babo in Benito Cereno—serialized in Putnam’s Monthly in 1855, and then somewhat revised for inclusion in his collection The Piazza Tales [1856]—is endlessly fascinating but always a character beheld from the outside, never one given interior personhood.) To be clear, I am not mak- a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 2 9 ing any evaluation here of the success or failure of these efforts. Rather, what I’m suggesting is that Hawthorne’s career-long interests in male sexuality and narcissism, and his personal investments in these themes, are precisely what give Septimius Felton its value as a work about race. Septimius Felton deepens, in this regard, Hawthorne’s attempt to inhabit a Jewish identity in his depic- tion of Miriam Schaeffer in The Marble Faun. In that novel, the heroine’s Jewishness is suffused with the same aura of impenetrable mysteries—tied to sexual crime of some kind, most likely incest between Miriam and her father, recalling the famous tragic figure of Beatrice Cenci—that suffuses the novel. Septimius Felton is less invested in the “mystery” of its protagonist’s racial heritage than it is fascinated by the mysteriousness of his desire, ostensibly figured as the quest for immortal life, but a quest everywhere shown to be inextricable from his desire for a white, English masculinity. Adding to the gendered daring of Hawthorne’s conceptions here, this English masculinity is depicted as a generative feminine form, a kind of male mother, on several, mutually reinforcing levels a matrix. If Septimius Felton reveals that Hawthorne’s unusually explicit depiction of male beauty depends upon a privileging of a whiteness that is crucial to this beauty, it is nevertheless a perverse, excessive whiteness. It is not a white- ness governed by symbolic law (in Lacanian terms, the realm of the Father, his language and his laws, the social order that upholds sexual difference) but specifically a whiteness in defiance of the law. The English soldier’s flirt- ing and teasing manner extends as fully to Septimius as it does to Rose, his sister. His appeal seems more deeply registered by Septimius than by Rose, but it is offered freely, excessively, to all. By suggesting the confusing homoerotic pull of the bond Septimius has with the soldier, Hawthorne implicitly challenges the homophobic desexu- alization of all male bonds in our culture. The daring of Hawthorne’s depic- tion of this homoeroticism can be seen in Hawthorne’s own disavowal of it in the Septimius Norton draft. The description of the aftermath of the sol- dier’s death in Norton subtly and tellingly alters the fuller intensity of feeling in the Felton draft. If we recall the Felton description given above, the one in Norton evinces a diminution of feeling achieved through revision. Now, Septimius cannot help shuddering at himself, for reducing that gay, beautiful boy to a lump of dead flesh, which a fly was already settling upon, and which must speed- ily be put into the earth else it would grow a sensible horror, that beauty for women to love, that strength and courage for men to fear, all annihi- lated[.] (240) 2 3 0 • C h a P T e r 8 Removed from this passage now are the idea that the corpse will be “a horror to men’s eyes”; most significantly, that what we have lost is the “delicious” beauty of the soldier. Hawthorne also dampens the phallic charge of the sol- dier’s appeal—the soldier’s “strength and energy” (31) transmutes now into the more conventional “strength and courage” proper to a soldier. Along sim- ilar lines, what had been the soldier’s “beautiful grace of form and elegance of feature” (31) transforms now into the blander and more general “This beauty of form, and bright intelligence of feature” (240, all italics mine). In the later draft, Hawthorne commits the unexpectedly emotionally intense earlier version of the scene to a more conventional fantasy of auto- genesis, the modified language aiding in a more properly desexualized ver- sion of male–male relations. If my reading of these shifts has any validity, we have to conclude that Hawthorne retreated from the radicalism of his libidinal investments in Septimius Felton, a sexual panic that then has to be, on some level, connected as well to the general sense of “failure”—unpub- lishability, incompleteness—hovering around both drafts and the period of the late works. The perversity of Septimius Felton is that in it Hawthorne inhabits the consciousness of a multiracial male in order to gaze upon the spectacle of male whiteness that Hawthorne treats not as prohibitive privilege but as site of spectacle and jouissance, an excessiveness of pleasure bordering on death. In other words, Hawthorne renders whiteness here a spectacle of wonder in which he himself shares; he puts himself in the removed, alienated position of the other to marvel at the irresistibly compelling spectacle of whiteness. All of this is to say that the white male author remains more fascinated by whiteness and its workings than by any other racial category. Certainly, a potential for racist attitudes and white privilege abounds here. At the same time, Hawthorne imbues whiteness with a Freudian perversity. In other words, whiteness is associated here not with the stifling, crushing, grandi- ose narcissism of the social order but, instead, with something closer to the polymorphous perversity that, in Freud’s view, the social order determinedly represses. hawthorne and mIxed-race masculInIty Septimius can be read as an ameliorative figure across racial lines, like mixed- race Dirk Peters in Poe’s novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nan- tucket. In that novel, the mixed-race Dirk Peters, initially described as an eye-poppingly grotesque fusion of white, “negro,” and Native American races a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 3 1 and as a figure that exceeds the boundaries of the animal and the human, nevertheless undergoes a confusing racial transformation by the end of the novel, in which he and Pym, the narrator, emerge as the “only living white men” on a dark-skinned-savage-overrun island. Hawthorne does not relin- quish Septimius’s racial mixture, as Poe does, to a program of white make- over, even as Septimius’s quest may be interpreted as an attempt to transform himself into the body of the white man he kills. Hawthorne takes great pains to make us—to keep us—aware that Septimius emerges from complex racial lineages. Hawthorne appears to suggest, in his depiction of Septimius, that beauty is the result of a special discernment—a certain slant of light, to wax Dickinsonian, will reveal a “certain dark beauty” in the figure of someone from a race associated in racist thought with physically unattractive quali- ties that outwardly evince moral and cultural failings. (Native Americans’ dark skin and non-European clothing was thought to connote the savagery of their characters; the dark skin of Africans was taken as a literal form of their “benighted” condition as a race and linked to animality and an aestheti- cally displeasing physicality. Given the sheer intensity of this racist rhetoric, Hawthorne’s evocation of beauty in Septimius stands out all the more. Stowe evoked the beauty of both African and mixed-race characters in the 1852 Uncle Tom’s Cabin as well, and it is possible that Hawthorne may have been inspired by her deeply popular work.) Septimius should be read, I argue, as a male mulatto. The figure of the mulatto in literature is usually rendered in alternately tragic or sexually threatening terms. Moreover, the mulatto is most usually a woman (Cora Munro in Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, the titular heroine of Frances Harper’s Iola Leroy). Rafia Zafar notes that James Weldon Johnson’s depic- tion of the mulatto as male in his The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man in 1921 is a significant break in the tradition of the mulatto as female. Given this significance, it is even more remarkable that Hawthorne represents the mulatto male in the early 1860s.32 The appearance of mulattoes was particularly unsettling to many nine- teenth-century viewers. As Stephen Talty writes of antebellum Americans, “Most whites looked on blacks with disgust or pity, but, mostly, indiffer- ence. It was not that they secretly knew that blacks were human and chose to ignore it. Their blindness was so deep-seated as to be almost a function of brain chemistry; they simply could not look on blacks and see creatures like themselves.” Mulattoes, Talty writes, were a “shock to the optic nerve.”33 Sep- timius’s surprisingly appealing—though its appeal is undeniably qualified— appearance suggests a broader capacity to appreciate the range of human “looks” on Hawthorne’s part than one would have thought likely, especially 2 3 2 • C h a P T e r 8 given the paucity of direct references to raced subjects in Hawthorne’s work before Septimius and the general, almost hysterical, abhorrence of “ugliness” he consistently expressed.34 The category of ugliness was one of the most potent weapons in the arse- nal of anti-black racism. This tradition of thought can be traced in American culture at least from Thomas Jefferson forward. In his “Notes on the State of Virginia” (written in 1781, revised in 1782), Jefferson crystallized white racism’s construction of the ugliness of the physical appearance and customs of Africans. “Are not the fine mixtures of red and white, the expressions of every passion by greater or less suffusions of color in the one, preferable to the eternal monotony which reigns in the countenances, that immovable veil of black that which covers all emotions of the other race?”35 If Hawthorne’s marble faun suggests an attractive white male body tinged with dark racial as well as interspecies otherness, in Septimius he sug- gests that racial intermixture can produce a white subject with an unusual, offbeat appeal. Hawthorne suggests that the attractiveness of a mixed-race person is a matter of perspective—the anamorphic angle from which Sep- timius’s certain dark beauty can be perceived and evaluated as such—and such a person’s appearance is a phenomenon that does not produce an inevi- table revulsion in the white spectator, always assumed to be the subject of the desiring gaze. And given that it is precisely from such an anamorphic angle that same-sex desire can be viewed in nineteenth-century texts, as Val- erie Rohy has argued, the ability to take an unusual perspectival position comes to be crucial to the late romance’s negotiation of the homoerotics of race.36 In light of Jefferson’s repellent racist aesthetics, Hawthorne’s depiction of a darkness blended into whiteness comes to seem a daring exploration of the limits of white identity figured, as ever in Hawthorne’s visually oriented fictions, in the physical and the outwardly visible. Indeed, in these terms, before the marble faun and the mixed-race Septimius, Minister Hooper, a white male shrouded by his own self-donned “immovable veil of black,” begins to suggest the first in a series of the “dark” white males in Haw- thorne’s imagination. That Hawthorne could devise in Septimius such an ameliorative figure is notable, given how wrenching all of these issues were in antebellum America and Hawthorne’s own conflicted attitudes toward racial difference. Again, none of this exculpates Hawthorne for his lapses in empathy for the condition of the enslaved and racially oppressed. Never- theless, Septimius Felton evinces a shift in Hawthorne’s thinking, one regis- tered through his imaginative faculties: his first mixed-race protagonist. In this work, the sexually ambiguous male familiar from Hawthorne’s fictions a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 3 3 becomes explicitly racially ambiguous as well, as opposed to the inchoate racial allegory of Minister Hooper and his black veil. Figures of “black white- ness,” such as Hooper and much more pronouncedly Septimius Felton, com- bine sexual and racial ambiguity. Though the “delicious” excessiveness of the handsome English soldier is one important aspect of white identity as Hawthorne represents it, through- out both Septimius manuscripts, a much more critical view of whiteness pre- vails. Here is the point at which Hawthorne may be considered authentically daring. Linking white male subjectivity to the histories of imperialism and exploitation of other cultures, Hawthorne repurposes in the Septimius Nor- ton manuscript the bloody footprint symbol from the American Claimant manuscripts in a revealing manner. The spectral, immortal man known as the Sagamore, who lends guidance to but also tyrannically controls a tribe of Native Americans, is actually the Englishman cursed by the “Bloody Foot- print,” which he attempts to flee by venturing to the New World. As Charles Swann writes, “The white benevolent dictator may (quite unintentionally) have made it easier for the Puritans to conquer the Indians by sapping their individual and social independence and aggression. . . . [he] becomes a Tories’ Tory, a tyrant[.]”37 The Sagamore is the embodiment of all of the sinister old white males in Hawthorne’s fiction; now, Hawthorne inserts his dubious old white male into the history of colonization and racist oppression through which the United States was founded, and in which the Sagamore plays a central role. It should not be overlooked as well that, while Aunt Keziah in her virulent opposition to white culture conforms to racist stereotypes of the barbarous and uncouth other, her character nevertheless provides an alternative view of Hawthorne’s own white Calvinist culture and is, moreover, a figure of considerable sympathy, one who demands far more consideration than I have the space to provide here. She embodies the fig- ure of the savage mother, but she is also a loving maternal presence, and an alternative point of identification for the nonnormative male Septimius. In contrast, the Sagamore represents the negative narcissism of white, colonial power, the textual superego against whom Septimius chafes even as he shares in his fantasies of narcissistic, imperialistic omnipotence. Similarly, Dr. Port- soaken, in his enigmatic and dubious scientific role, and with his familiar, that large, diabolically knowing spider, is a kind of warlock double to witch- like Aunt Keziah. The abortive romance between Septimius and the soldier looms above Septimius Felton as an unfulfilled possibility of connection across racial, national, and sexual lines. Its tender, evanescent memory—and the aesthetic power of the episode as Hawthorne describes it—provides a constant coun- 2 3 4 • C h a P T e r 8 terpoint to the increasingly obsessive fascination with white morbidity and duplicity, conducted across and seeping into the centuries, in the manu- scripts; Septimius’s quest enshrines the encounter with the man he kills and whose multivalent textual blood infuses his volatile own. The surprising sug- gestion Hawthorne makes in Septimius Felton is that homoerotic male inter- subjectivity disrupts and challenges the ongoing, inexorable patterns of white hegemonic rule. Female authorIty One character complicates all of these matters even further: Sybil Dacy, the woman whose image Septimius’s bullet shatters. Sybil is the daughter of Dr. Portsoaken and the betrothed of the young English soldier, a decisive fact Septimius learns only in the climactic portion of the Septimius Felton narrative. Considering her role in this version of the narrative allows us to consider more broadly the question of female sexuality in Hawthorne and Freud’s theories. Throughout this study, my focus has been on Freud’s theory of masculin- ity and its self-defeating and self-protecting psychic defenses, such as voyeur- ism and fetishism. In chapter 6, I attempted to make use of these Freudian theories in order to appreciate Hawthorne’s critique of misogyny. But I have not wanted to give the impression that Freud’s theories are uniformly reve- latory or potentially radical—far from it. His views of female sexuality are an especially difficult aspect of his work that demands careful consideration and, I would argue, reconsideration. Altogether, they are hampered by his inability either to understand or to make clear that he understands the social constraints upon femininity. If “penis envy” has any validity at all, it is only when retooled—if I can be excused the term—as desire for a share in social power always already decreed as the privilege of the male. Lacan, in his the- ory of the phallus, comes closer to doing so than Freud, but I share feminists’ frustrations with the treatment of “woman” in Lacan as a “symptom of man.” In order to make better sense of the significance of the Sybil Dacy character as well as to establish both the inherent frustrations in and the possible uses that can be made of Freud’s theories of femininity, I want briefly to compare Hawthorne’s and Freud’s views of women before commencing an analysis of femininity in Septimius Felton. In her essay “Bourgeois Sexuality and the Gothic Plot in Wharton and Hawthorne,” Monika Elbert speaks to an important issue, “the bourgeois dilemma of exploiting woman’s body for public consumption—exposing a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 3 5 Hester in the marketplace—and of exploring class anxieties and allegiances using woman as a battleground for these tensions” (260).38 Elbert’s major argument in this essay is that Hawthorne is disturbed by the spectacle of unlicensed female sexuality, which he works to contain. If this is indeed the case—and despite my admiration for Elbert’s work, I am not in full agree- ment with her—he also questions the socialization of women, suggesting that patriarchy denies girls and women the full range of their sexualities generally. This disposition finds a particularly harrowing exploration in the episode in The House of the Seven Gables in which Alice Pyncheon is pun- ished by Matthew Maule because she visually appraised his body and found it desirable. He makes her a zombie slave, and then inadvertently kills her. In my view, Hawthorne is critiquing here the male sexual anxiety that motivates Maule’s malevolent vengeance. Hawthorne problematizes heterosexual presumption and compulsory heterosexuality by repeatedly returning to themes such as bachelor anxiety (almost all of the young males of his short fiction and novels are unmarried and deeply anxious about the prospect of heterosexual intimacy), marital dis- cord (Young Goodman Brown leaving his new wife alone for a dark night in the forest, the husband who walks out on his wife for years in “Wakefield”), and, most importantly, the tendency for men to betray the trust women invest in them (The Scarlet Letter and The Blithedale Romance are exemplary in this regard). Creating an ongoing ominous atmosphere of tension, anxiety, and even sadism when it comes to matters of sexuality, Hawthorne refuses any view of sexuality as necessarily positive, affirming, or unquestionably appealing. This is, ultimately, the meeting place between his sensibility and Freud’s. The feminist relevance of Hawthorne’s work stems from this skeptical view of sexuality and lies specifically in his consistent, ruthless depiction of male inadequacy and tendencies toward both duplicity and domination. By unceasingly exposing the precarious nature of relations between men and women in his culture, Hawthorne sheds empathetic light on the social con- dition of femininity in patriarchy. Of course, this empathy is in no way a straightforward empathy, intermixed as it is with ambivalence, alienation, and even antipathy. Without denying this intermixture, I nevertheless argue that the empathy is genuine and politically valuable. Of course, the views that Hawthorne expressed in life about women complicate matters further. Hawthorne frequently made derogatory and hostile comments about women in his private writings (correspondence, journals, notebooks). I can only add that his fictional version of Margaret Fuller in The Blithedale Romance, the fiery feminist Zenobia, is a far more sympathetically drawn portrait than his 2 3 6 • C h a P T e r 8 scabrous comments about Fuller herself, whom he once called a “humbug,” would suggest was a possibility. With Freud the situation is much more vexed for feminism. After a demonstration of genuine identification with his female patients in his early Studies of Hysteria (1895), an identification fraught with difficulty, Freud proceeded to discuss women with an increasingly alarming lack of sympa- thy, to say nothing of empathy. A desultory tone pervades his discussions of women and female sexuality; Freud is indifferent to the social and experi- ential ramifications of his theory of penis envy, which, while it has a certain value when his social context is taken into consideration, audibly expresses his competitive hostility toward women. Where, then, is the feminist value in Freud, who differs from Hawthorne in that whereas there’s a genuine feeling for the plight of women detectable throughout Hawthorne’s body of work, Freud’s work evinces a greater and greater indifference to women? The primary feminist value of Freud lies in the general stance he main- tains toward the relationship between human beings and culture. As does Hawthorne, Freud overturns positive assumptions about and associations with the two most prominent social roles and functions our culture desig- nates as the responsibility of women: mothering and marriage, woman’s social responsibility being, on the one hand, to provide nurture and to domesti- cate her children, and, on the other hand, to ensure that marital sexuality is full and fulfilling and that men are properly socialized through marriage. Casting, as does Hawthorne, these compulsory roles and the social system dependent on them in an ominous, denatured light, Freud makes sexual- ity a source of ongoing frustration and even terror. The value of his Grand Guignol version of sexuality is that it renders normative, positive views of sexuality and the assumption that individuals must conform to them deeply suspect. Troubling the socially enforced views of such phenomena as the family, marriage, child rearing, and childhood as inherently positive, Freud offers a pessimistic theory of culture. The feminist value of his theory lies in its implicit critique of the effect culture has on the people who live in and make it. It is the Freudian view of culture and civilization as deeply suspect that enables a feminist view of women’s oppression within culture to emerge from Freud’s work, even if it does not frequently emerge within it. In her discussion of what value lies, if any, in Freud’s Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria, commonly known as Dora, Toril Moi puts the matter somewhat differently, but in a way that extends what I mean here: “Freud’s epistemology is clearly phallocentric. . . . To undermine this phal- locentric epistemology means to expose its lack of ‘natural’ foundation. In the case of Dora, however, we have been able to do this only because of a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 3 7 Freud’s own theories of femininity and sexuality. The attack upon phallocen- trism must come from within.  .  .  .  We can only destroy the mythical and mystifying constructions of patriarchy by using its own weapons. We have no others.”39 Moi’s statement about the usefulness of Freud is hard won, hardly celebratory; I invoke it here because it demonstrates the difficulty of Freudian theory but also what remains useful in it for the purposes of proj- ects such as feminism as well as queer theory. Despite Freud’s considerable failures, his theories retain their value as methods for the study of the ways in which we are sexually socialized in patriarchy. Freud’s theories of feminin- ity are also not entirely without value. Nancy Chodorow argues that one of the vexations of Freud is that while he is deeply insightful on masculinity, he is equally troubled and troubling on femininity.40 Despite, as Chodorow rightly notes, the infiltration of Freud’s cultural biases into his more clini- cal findings, Freud nevertheless provides a piercing account of the thwart- ing of female autonomy and self-confidence by the misogynistic strictures of the patriarchal social order, even if he is also intricately connected to these strictures. Freud repeatedly returns to an increasingly poignant theme: the condi- tion of femininity is one of loss. Freud shares with Hawthorne a tragic view of gender. Girls must relinquish their active, phallic sexuality in order to become women. This is the central issue in Juliet Mitchell’s brilliant feminist reformulation of Freud’s theories of female hysteria in the Dora case his- tory especially, in which she argues that one of its major issues is that the young Dora was forced to relinquish her active sexuality, while her brother Otto was allowed to maintain and develop his own.41 This compulsory for- feiture of women’s sexuality has tremendous significance for their subsequent relationships with their mothers and other women, males, and with them- selves and their own psychic and corporeal lives. With this theme comes another significant insight: misogyny is the result of the trauma of male socialization.42 In other words, our culture’s socialization of males manufac- tures misogynists. However blinkered Freud can be, he does at times provide an insightful account of the female experience of patriarchy and, given how both females and males are socialized, the inevitability of misogyny. What Hawthorne and Freud share is the sense that women fight for their right to act and for their right to desire in patriarchy. w h e n s e p t i m i u s first discovers Sybil Dacy, she is fluttering about in “his” hillside spot where the soldier lies buried by Septimius’s own hand. Indiffer- ent to her in a manner suggestive of his likely sexual disposition, Septimius, 2 3 8 • C h a P T e r 8 like the protagonist of classical Hollywood film noir, nevertheless becomes hopelessly intrigued by Sybil; in turn, she emerges as an emotionally unsta- ble femme fatale. Indeed, Hawthorne may be said to rework the conventions of noir by depicting Sybil not as the black widow who lures the protago- nist to his doom, but as a wronged woman who takes narrative into her own hands for more ambiguous purposes, including revenge. Hawthorne reveals the tellingly named Sybil as a rival author figure in a work that teems with them: Septimius, the solider, Dr. Portsoaken, Aunt Keziah with her own diluted “elixir” recipe, and the Sagamore who inscribes his own iden- tity upon the tribe he colonizes. Sybil may be said to be the most successful author figure in Septimius Felton in that she not only concocts some versions of the elixir herself but overmasters Septimius in the process of his own quest to do so, subsuming his quest into her own stratagems. Given the number of female characters who become ensnared within if not altogether destroyed by the male quest in Hawthorne’s fiction—Geor- giana in “The Birthmark,” Beatrice in “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” the wife in “Wakefield”—Sybil’s outmaneuvering of Septimius takes on a note of femi- nine triumph, the nature of which feminist and queer theory revisions of Freud illuminate. Judith Butler, drawing on the work of French feminist Luce Irigaray, describes the prevailing Western fantasy of autogenesis as “a spiritualized and desexualized desire for the form or reflection of a mascu- line self in another,” which produces the “fantastic logic whereby men beget other men, reproducing and mirroring themselves at the expense of women and of their own reproductive origin in women/mothers.”43 As Irigaray puts it in Speculum of the Other Woman, “The only men who love each other are, in truth, those who are impatient to find the same over and over again.” Unable to find the same in “some other part of man,” they must seek out what Irigaray calls “that mirror of vision in which they can look at them- selves in the very gaze of the other, perceiving, in one and the same glance, their view and themselves.”44 This circuit of male self-reflection depends, writes Butler, upon an excluded third term or medium, “the girl, consid- ered a flawed copy, or the mother, the medium through which procreation becomes possible and who physicalizes and, hence, demeans the higher form of the spiritual reduplication of ‘man’ that is philosophy.” As Butler contin- ues, “For Irigaray, then, there can be no feminine desire inside this economy and certainly no parallel possibility of feminine self-reflection.”45 If Septimius, the dead soldier, the manuscript, and the abundant field of purple, tumescent flowers that grow above the soldier’s body all connote a fantasy of masculine autogenesis, a shared male world of spiritualized male desire and male beauty—what Luce Irigaray critiques as hommo-sexuality— a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 3 9 Sybil disrupts, even shatters, the fantasy by insisting upon inserting herself within the circuit of male self-reflection and reordering the logic of the male quest plot. In this manner, if we recall the shattering of her portrait by Sep- timius’s bullet, she may be said to restore her shattered image, insisting upon its solidity and that of her own presence. But Hawthorne, even in his most fantastic plots, is too much of an emotional realist to describe this daring act of feminist agency as being without cost: Sybil immolates herself in the process. Having vengefully intended to kill Septimius because he killed her lover, the English soldier, Sybil realizes that she now loves Septimius herself. She quaffs the poisoned elixir she meant to give Septimius, even as he cries out in horror that she must not do so, and dies. Hawthorne critiques the male fantasy of autogenesis by enlarging our understanding of what this fantasy means in something like the real world. He does so by making vividly clear this fantasy’s costs to femininity. But he also undermines the fantasy by emphasizing the force of female will—Sybil’s active desire constitutes a parallel quest narrative in this work, even if a quest for revenge. At the same time, Septimius’s solipsistic quest for immortal life robs Sybil and also the soldier of their own. The eerie, despairing, and highly frustrating means that women have of demonstrating their agency and acting on their desires is to choose death over subjugation, as happens repeatedly in Hawthorne (Beatrice, Zenobia), and happens, on some level, here. Again, such a theme provides no comfort to anyone. At best, it reflects what I have called Hawthorne’s tragic view of gender. In his near-final works, Hawthorne continued to explore the woman’s experience in patriarchy, her means of negotiating it, and also the male’s investment in women. Sybil initially recalls Ophelia, Hamlet’s would-be fiancée, who, driven mad by Hamlet’s own feigned madness, drowns herself. But Hawthorne’s Sybil is an Ophelia with the guile of Hamlet: she uses a veneer of mad- ness as a cunning strategy. Hamlet, in fulfillment of his revenge plot, also ends up dead from a poisoned drink, murders his mother in the process, and was, if not the cause of, certainly the catalyst in Ophelia’s suicide: if Hamlet manages to defeat his enemies, he does so at considerable cost to himself and those around him, particularly the women he loves. His nearly Pyrrhic triumph haunts Sybil’s own ambiguous fate. The interest, in both Shakespeare’s and Hawthorne’s work (and one inevitably thinks of Melville’s ecstatic celebration in his review “Hawthorne and His Mosses” of Haw- thorne as nearly Shakespeare’s equal) lies precisely in these muddles of gen- dered representation. One further point in our consideration of Hawthorne’s treatment of fem- ininity deserves amplification. Aunt Keziah-Nashoba is a maternal presence 2 4 0 • C h a P T e r 8 despite her savagery, one that will in no way allow itself to be excluded or repudiated. She is like a Mistress Hibbens or a Mother Rigby who has been endowed with a human complexity, vulnerability, and depth. Moreover, she is, like Septimius, a mixed-race character who ultimately solicits our sympa- thy and even admiration. As such a persona, she signals a further develop- ment in Hawthorne’s thinking about gender and race, and the mother–son bond. In his portrait of the depth of Septimius’s bond with Aunt Keziah- Nashoba, Hawthorne further develops the theme of mother-identified mas- culinity that he began to explore in his tale “The Gentle Boy.” But here, the bond is constant, lasting, and mutual. c h a r l e s s w a n n writes that by the 1860s, Hawthorne’s “confidence in the realities or truths of world or reflection and in the stability of the rela- tions between world and reflection has, it seems, been replaced by the larger question of whether there is a stable reality to which we can have access.” Of Septimius Felton, Swann writes, “Ambitious as The Marble Faun was, Haw- thorne has gone beyond that. While we may only have fragments, they are fragments of a masterpiece.”46 Swann’s astute reading of the value of Septi- mius Felton not only recuperates its aesthetic worth but also draws our atten- tion to the ways in which its textual and thematic qualities mirror while deepening the significance of each other: the fragmentary text and the frag- mentation of identity it thematizes achieve an exquisite equilibrium. Gray Kochhar-Lindgren writes of the necessity for the textual Narcis- sus’s transfiguration, which demands that Narcissus “shift the cathexis of his libido from his own self-representation to a textual body that enters the chain of signification.  .  .  .  When Narcissus moves from the imaginary reg- ister of reflexive mirroring to the symbolic dimension of subjectivity that acknowledges the necessity of otherness, the body emerges from the chrysa- lis of reflection.”47 Death emerges as the fate Narcissus attempted to elude with his self-mesmerized desire, and acknowledging its inevitable presence provides cold comfort. But it is the very acknowledgment of death that frees the narcissistic subject to experience the larger world beyond the self. If the heart of Narcissus’s tragedy is that he can never recognize an other, in the Septimius manuscripts Hawthorne, to whatever extent we can view him as a Narcissus figure, insists upon seeing the other in his depiction of an other-raced protagonist, a character through whom he gazes upon a charac- ter whose beauty reflects Hawthorne’s vanished own. Septimius’s obsession with “undyingness” can be read as Hawthorne’s own ambivalence toward acknowledging the increasingly undeniable imminence of his own death. a C e r Ta i n d a r k b e a U T y • 2 4 1 These late works insist, however, upon grappling with otherness in a way unparalleled in Hawthorne’s previous work. Overall Hawthorne’s last phase marks his emergence from the chrysalis of self-reflection into a world of dif- ference. These features alone make the late work meaningful and worthy of renewed attention. The new critical work on Hawthorne and Freud begins rather than ends with this book. The entire question of masculinity in Hawthorne (as well as Freud) needs further analysis. A range of masculine styles animates Haw- thorne’s work and would benefit from the Freudian queer perspectives that illuminate his dark young men. What is the psychology of the Judge Pyn- cheons, the Old Moodies, and the Sagamores, the robber barons of their day, who exert their will sadistically on others? Of the Chillingworths, whose desires for vengeance mutate, along the way, into obsessive desires to keep their male quarry all to themselves? Perhaps even more urgently, Hawthorne’s feminist poetics and politics need further exploration. In life, though in his “private” writing, Hawthorne said some unforgivably uncharitable things about women. In his fiction, however, Hawthorne exhibits a feminist sensi- bility in his empathy with embattled women and in his unyielding critique of male dominance, both of which also make his work important to queer theory. That so much work has been done on Hawthorne over the years and that so much more work still needs to be done attests to the significance of his achievement. e p i l o g u e 243 H a v i n g b e e n absorbed throughout this book with questions of gender and sexuality, I want to take the opportunity provided by the epilogue to consider other ways in which Hawthorne thematized narcis- sism: first, in his aesthetic theory; second, in his idiosyncratic theorization of history. Considering the importance of narcissism to Hawthorne’s aes- thetics takes my effort to rethink and revalue the question of narcissism to a new level while also further developing our understanding of Hawthorne’s writerly sensibility. Considering the question of history—as critics such as Sacvan Bercovitch, Lauren Berlant, Eric Cheyfitz, John Carlos Rowe, and others have demonstrated, a deeply vexed one for Hawthorne—in terms of Hawthorne’s narcissistic aesthetic, as evinced by his novel The Marble Faun, yields some fresh insights into what, precisely, was Hawthorne’s understand- ing of the historical. textual narcIssIsm h a w T h O r n e ’ S a e S T h e T i C S Though it has been frequently framed throughout the Western tradition and well into the present as pernicious—used as the model of the failure to love properly or of an egotism run monstrously amok—narcissism has also proved richly useful in several disciplines for the contemplation of the essentially paradoxical nature of subjectivity and its relationship to desire and aeSTheTiCS, deSire, hiSTOry The Haunted Verge 2 4 4 • e P i l O G U e language. This book has chiefly considered the insights into male subjectiv- ity offered by Hawthorne and Freud in their thematizations of the Narcissus myth; at the same time, this book has also attempted to establish the value of narcissism as a textual figure and a psychological experience. Toward this end, it is helpful to think through, once again, the various ways in which the concept of narcissism has been theorized, especially by those who have found the concept intellectually productive. Beginning with a consideration of the relationships among narcissism, language, and myth, I proceed to a discus- sion of an aspect of the narcissistic sensibility in Hawthorne’s work that I have not yet explicitly considered, what I call Hawthorne’s textual narcissism. n a r c i s s i s m , broadly understood, encompasses the varieties of desire and the most profound questions that pertain to self and other. Narcissus, as Lacan suggested in his influential theory of the mirror stage, is the child fixated on his own reflection, which he mistakes for an image of authentic wholeness that will continue to haunt him as the unattainable ideal of his own bodily cohesion, so radically distinct from the fragmentation of his non- imaged body.1 We see through Narcissus’s eyes when we contemplate our own body, so much ours yet so intangible; when we contemplate the beauty of a person whom we desire yet can’t access, much less possess. Narcissus evokes our desire for perfect likeness, to see ourselves reflected in another’s eyes; the myth also speaks to the ways we project our will and our anxieties onto another, the ruthless potentiality of this need to see ourselves reflected back to us. Narcissism is longing and power, vulnerability and domination; it is man, woman, both, neither, other. Narcissism is also nothing. The nothingness of narcissism speaks to the mystery—the void—at the heart of myth and language as well as desire. Eric Gould’s concept of “mythicity” importantly draws upon the Narcissus myth. Mythicity, a view of myth as “a metaphysics of absence implicit in every sign,” “is the condition of filling the gap with signs in such a way that Being continues to conceal Nothing as a predication of further knowledge.”2 In his study Narcissus Transformed, Gray Kochhar-Lindgren writes in response to Gould that the “hidden presence of the nothing necessitates myth, metaphor, and endless interpretive play. But Narcissus refuses to see the insubstantial shadows, the shades of nothingness, that lie so close to his fixed and staring face.”3 As Kochhar-Lindgren theorizes, The myth of Narcissus narrates a dialectic of reflection that is internally disturbed by an obsessive desire for immediacy. It is a poetic narrative that T h e h a U n T e d v e r G e • 2 4 5 depicts a way of being that wants to destroy the surface of things, the appearances, in order to plunge into the depths and shatter the reflect- ing mirror completely so that the other of love—which is only apparently other—might be possessed. But a terrible paradox binds any desire that enters into this symbolic topos: If the appearances are destroyed, then the apparent object of love, the image of Narcissus, will also be destroyed. If, on the other hand, the mirror is not shattered, Echo will remain but a deso- late voice, and Narcissus himself will die from the grief of love unreturned. How shall we respond to the mirror with which we are so closely identi- fied? How shall we think about myth and the fictions of representation?4 The urgency of the questions the Narcissus myth raises about myth and language, and, I would add here, also about gender, sexuality, and identity, arises from the myth’s fundamental intimacy with death. “The mirror of fic- tion,” Kochhar-Lindgren argues, “does not naively and mimetically reflect its subject matter. Rather, fiction transforms the writer, the reader, and society by a critical unmasking of the forms of death.” This unmasking involves a challenge to orthodoxies of all kinds as well as the ways in which we relate to others and ourselves. “One must reflectively gaze at death before there is a possibility of becoming more free in the face of the glassy-eyed stare of Than- atos.” But whatever liberation we may derive from staging such a confron- tation can only be partial: “reading, like psychoanalysis, is interminable.”5 Signs, like mirrors, give the illusion of depth, but they are themselves no more than a surface. The Narcissus myth thematizes not only the torment- ing disparity between surface and depth—we recall Melville’s description of the image of Narcissus as “tormenting, mild”—but the tantalizing, seductive ways in which surface gives the appearance of depth, the ways in which signs signal meaning, a presence rather than an absence. As Judith Butler glosses Lacan, both she and Lacan appear to be rewrit- ing the Narcissus myth: “Linguistic reference fails in the same way that desire is structured by failure: if language were to reach the object it desires, it would undo itself as language.”6 As I discussed in the introduction, the fun- damentally split subject is a creation of language. One of the major para- digms of Lacanian psychoanalysis is that language fundamentally alters a human being: in order to render us a speaking subject, language cuts us off from the pre-oedipal world of the mother and the state of primary pleasure in which our mother’s body and ours were one. Language thereby transforms us into a subject of the Symbolic order, the father’s world of language and law, a theory of the formation of the subject that has informed this study as well as its revised Freudian methodology. 2 4 6 • e P i l O G U e A colonizing force, language bars access to whatever was part of that being before language transformed it. Desire proceeds from the split between need and demand that heralded the end of our pre-oedipal state of pleni- tude and pleasure, the moment when we demanded the breast even after our biological needs were satisfied. Desire can never be fulfilled, for if it could, we would simultaneously return to that original state of bliss and cancel out our own subjectivity, which proceeds from the basis of our loss of that original state. Subjectivity is a form of exile, desire a longing for the lost world of origins, and language the vexed means we have of negotiating the two. The myth of Narcissus metaphorizes the split nature of subjectiv- ity—that it emerges from the split between an original self and a self remade through language—and the split between a human being and language: we can no more access authentic meaning or the primary pleasure of lost origins through language than Narcissus can grasp the image of the boy that beguiles him. The figure of Narcissus illuminates the disparity between the textual and whatever may be the “actual,” that term that so plagued Hawthorne as he defensively made a case for romance in opposition to the novel and its penchant for depicting “the actualities” of the “real” world. One of the cen- tral debates of psychoanalysis, in its Lacanian cast, is the disparity between a human being and language, the profoundly limited medium that is the only means whereby a human being can communicate. In his writings, Hawthorne exudes an awareness of the Narcissus myth’s relevance to these philosophical concerns. The author playfully prefaces “Rappaccini’s Daughter” with a framing device—the other half of which is never provided, as the frame that precedes the story is not returned to at the end—that metatextually serves as autocritique (10: 91–93). Presenting the story as being “From the Writings of Aubépine,” Hawthorne both satirizes himself and the more acid among his contemporary critics by assuming the role of the “introducer” of the works of Aubépine, a writer so obscure that “his very name is unknown to many of his countrymen,” echoing Haw- thorne’s own admission of feeling like the “obscurest man of letters” in his own land. French for “Hawthorne,” Aubépine fuses Hawthorne’s own sense of his authorial persona and how it was viewed by various critics. “As a writer,” the anonymous preface writer remarks of Aubépine, “he seems to occupy an unfortunate position between the Transcendentalists . . . and the great body of pen and ink men who address the intellect and the sympa- thies of the multitude.” Aubépine’s writings “are not altogether destitute of fancy and originality,” but fame has eluded them because of the author’s “inveterate love of allegory,” which has stolen “the human warmth out of his conceptions.” T h e h a U n T e d v e r G e • 2 4 7 Hawthorne chides Aubépine throughout, but he also cannot resist the opportunity for defensive self-flattery. On occasion, “a breath of nature, a rain-drop of pathos and tenderness, or a gleam of humor” manages to burst free from the stuffy confines of this inveterate allegorist’s oeuvre. His alter ego’s fictions are “voluminous,” his prolixity “praiseworthy and indefati- gable.” The author has produced a “startling catalogue of volumes” which, however “wearisomely” perused, nevertheless leave behind a “certain personal affection and sympathy, though by no means admiration[.]” Hawthorne uses the Aubépine persona as an opportunity for self-inspection as well as for playing his usual sadistic, wounded, cunning verbal games with his readers. Hawthorne’s prefaces are stripteases in which we’re led to believe the author will lay himself bare before our eyes only to see him become more armored against our prying vision than ever before. Behind all the cunning play lies a sense of anxiety betrayed by the indecisive tone that vacillates between smug self-satisfaction and an awareness of faults, limitations, and an uncer- tain readership (this story was written in 1844, quite a few years before Hawthorne’s first major success, The Scarlet Letter). Aubépine’s persona gives Hawthorne an opportunity for self-estrangement, to view himself from a disassociated, yet intimate, position; the preface serves as a drama of self- inspection that will be extended into the story proper. h a w t h o r n e famously theorized the romance as “a neutral territory, some- where between the real world and fairy-land, where the Actual and the Imag- inary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other” (1: 36). I argue that as Hawthorne lays out his aesthetic philosophy in “The Cus- tom-House” chapter that prefaces The Scarlet Letter, he evokes the Narcissus myth; and in the manner that he evokes it, he intervenes in the dead end of signs, meaning, and interpretation embodied by the myth. Hawthorne makes an intervention by framing the romance as an attempt to find some means of bridging surface and depth, meaninglessness and meaning, desire and the unattainable, life and death: the romance is a neutral space between these polarities, a retrieval of the space from which they diverge. Narcis- sus is the chief metaphor of the beauty and terror of the mirror image, the desire it instigates and the despair it returns; about the power of reflections over the human mind, eye, and heart. The reflection seems more real, more “winning soft,” as Eve says of her reflected image in Paradise Lost (IX: 479), than reality. For Hawthorne, it is the mirror of art where a compromise—the merger that is neutral territory—can take place. Moonlight metaphorizes the imagi- 2 4 8 • e P i l O G U e native faculty; it casts an uncanny, defamiliarizing light on the objects of a nighttime sitting room, lending all of its contents a “quality of strangeness and remoteness.” But the “somewhat dim coal-fire” also plays an important role. Throwing its “unobtrusive tinge,” “faint ruddiness,” and a “reflected gleam” throughout the altered room, this “warmer light mingles itself with the cold spirituality of the moonbeams,” thereby communicating “a heart and sensibilities of human tenderness.” Hawthorne suggests that the trans- forming, uncanny power of art competes against the warm glow, the hope- fulness, of human emotions (1: 36). But this competition produces a salutary effect on “the forms which fancy summons up.” It converts them from snow-images into men and women. Glancing at the looking-glass, we behold—deep within its haunted verge—the smoul- dering glow of the half-extinguished anthracite, the white moonbeams on the floor, and a repetition of all the gleam and shadow of the picture, with one remove farther from the actual, and nearer to the imaginative. (1: 36) Hawthorne privileges the imaginative over the actual—presumably, emo- tions over facts, art over reality—but the mirror emerges as the place where neutral territory awaits, where the imaginative and the actual can exist at once. Hawthorne transforms the dead, dread mirror of Narcissus into a place where disparities, divergences, splits, wounding if not mortal separations— chiefly Narcissus’s aching separation from himself, from his desire, his image, his other—and other gulfs can find some respite and perhaps even repair. Hawthorne’s “haunted verge” is the space where myth, language, self, other- ness, and nothingness can find animating play, a play that, while no resolu- tion, gives empty forms back their vitality, turns ghosts into flesh, allows us to stare Narcissus in the face. Yet if Hawthorne in his aesthetic philosophy positively rewrites the Narcissus myth so that the mirror enables connections and exchange, rather than merely and conventionally presenting itself as the limpid impenetrability of the sign, his fiction’s thematic concerns—about illusion, identity, masks, masquerades, and violation, the imposition of per- sonal will that threatens to obliterate the other—much more consistently convey the deep anguish of subjectivity, informed by the implicit presence of the Narcissus myth. Hawthorne’s textual narcissism is the basis from which his larger explora- tion of “identity themes” proceeds. The fullest account of Hawthorne’s work will be one that considers the relationship between his aesthetics and his political concerns—his gender as well as sexual politics. His belief that in art imagination and reality can meet and merge was manifested in his fiction, T h e h a U n T e d v e r G e • 2 4 9 in which fantasies and social realities confront one another but also have an equal legitimacy. Hawthorne’s belief in individual fantasies, in the uncon- scious urgency of human minds, passions, and lives, makes him a psychoana- lytic author. At the same time, I believe that he was also very conscious, and increasingly more so, of the often brutal implications of fantasy’s encounter with the “actual.” In the end, Hawthorne was an empathetic author. His darkest fictional devisings were tempered always with an awareness of the fragility of human experience. His key insights into the relationship between the visual and gendered identity, and between anxiety and sexuality, make him one of the most significant and prescient theorists of gender and sexual identity in nineteenth-century American letters—maddening and at times limited in his views, but, on balance, bracingly astute and even more brac- ingly resistant. hawthorne, narcIssIsm, and the hIstorIcal While often being accused of having actively skirted the issue, Hawthorne has a great deal to teach us about history; indeed, I would say that in his late works, especially, history emerges as a central preoccupation. What distinguishes Hawthorne’s version of history is the centrality of desire’s role in it. In my view, the question of desire, harder to chart, more dif- ficult to track, is sometimes neglected in Americanist literary criticism, which places its emphasis on material history, cultural context, and the archive, as I discussed in chapter 3. (Several important Americanists cer- tainly do consider desire—Lauren Berlant, Kathryn R. Kent, Valerie Rohy, Dana Luciano, Christopher Castiglia, and Peter Coviello come immedi- ately to mind. I do not want to present a distorted view of the field, only to register that its predominant practice has a tendency to deemphasize the role of desire as well as the concept of the unconscious, a substantial por- tion of the subject, and indeed of existence, that is unknowable except in dreams, slips of the tongue, and other eruptions of this kind. In my view, any historical inquiry is always already haunted by desire and the uncon- scious. This is not to suggest that historical inquiry is not necessary—of course it is—but that any such inquiry must proceed in the knowledge of its partial, fragile condition.) Hawthorne, as Freud will do later, insists on making the presumably antithetical fields of history and desire interchange- able, indeed, synonymous. Both Hawthorne and Freud theorize history as an endless battle between the individual and civilization in which desire is the battleground.7 2 5 0 • e P i l O G U e i n c h a p t e r 4 5 of Hawthorne’s 1860 novel The Marble Faun, “The Flight of Hilda’s Doves,” Kenyon, an American sculptor living in Rome, discov- ers that Hilda, the young American woman he loves, has apparently disap- peared, intelligence that leaves lovelorn Kenyon bereft. Hilda, a fellow artist who makes copies of the great works of Western visual art, had illuminated the “whole sphere” of Kenyon’s life, chased out the “evil spirits”; without her, he finds himself “in darkness and astray” (4: 409). Kenyon has already suffered the loss of the intimacy that once existed among himself, Hilda, and their friends Miriam, an artist with a dark, hazy past, and Donatello, initially a carefree handsome young Italian man now rendered morbid and distant by the central traumatic action of the novel. Ardently in love with Miriam, Donatello—at the behest of her eyes—killed the Model, an obscure, loathsome figure who stalked Miriam during the early portion of the novel. Hilda witnessed Donatello pushing the Model over the precipice of the Tar- peian Rock, from which the “political criminals” of ancient Rome were once flung to their deaths. It “was an admirable idea of those stern old fellows,” muses Kenyon, to fling such wrongdoers “down from the very summit on which stood the Senate-House and Jove’s Temple; emblems of the institu- tions which they sought to violate,” a fall symbolic of the suddenness with which one could plunge from “the utmost height of ambition to its pro- foundest ruin” (4: 168). But the sudden repetition of such retributive retali- ation in the present has disastrous consequences. The hideous sight of not only the murder but also of the female gaze that impelled it drives the deeply pious Hilda into a despair so deep that she puts her adamantly maintained Protestantism aside to seek the solace of the Catholic confessional. An intri- cate series of later events results in her temporary disappearance from the city. Having spent time after the murder (of which Kenyon is not yet aware) with a transformed, newly somber Donatello, now revealed as a Count, in his Tuscany estate, and having met up again with Miriam, to whom he offers cautious advice when she speaks to him of Donatello’s apparent rejection of her, Kenyon needs Hilda’s reassuring plainness (as I would describe it) more than ever upon his return to Rome. It is little surprise that this return inaugurates in Kenyon an awareness of “what a dreary city is Rome.” When the gloom cast over one’s heart, observes the narrator, corresponds to the city’s “spell of ruin,” “all the pon- derous gloom of the Roman Past” will “crush you down with the heaped- up marble and granite, the earth-mounds, and multitudinous bricks, of its material decay” (4: 410). And so crushed, a melancholy man might suppos- edly “make acquaintance with a grim philosophy”: he “should learn to bear patiently with his individual griefs,” which he must endure only over the T h e h a U n T e d v e r G e • 2 5 1 course of his own brief life, for what are they in comparison to “tokens of such infinite misfortune on an imperial scale,” the knowledge that this vast history of ruin memorializes an eternal span of horror and misery. Moreover, these “landmarks of time” bring “the remoteness of a thousand years ago” to bear on the present, all of which might lead the melancholy man of current times to consider the puniness of his own travails, in the awesome light of this history of oppression and oppressing history, a kind of comfort. Yet even this “shrub of bitter-sweetness” cannot be found. For however long a view of history you take, however many “palaces and temples,” “old, triumphal arches,” or “obelisks, with their unintelligible inscriptions, hinting at a Past infinitely more remote than history can define,” you see before you; however aware you become that, “compared with that immeasurable distance,” your “own life is nothing,” still “you demand, none the less earnestly, a gleam of sunshine, instead of a speck of shadow, on the step or two that will bring you to your quiet rest.” You know how “exceedingly absurd” you are to do so. But, even while you taunt yourself with this sad lesson, your heart cries out obstreperously for its small share of earthly happiness, and will not be appeased by the myriads of dead hopes that lie crushed into the soil of Rome. How wonderful, that this our narrow foothold of the Present should hold its own so constantly, and, while every moment changing, should still be like a rock betwixt the encountering tides of the long Past and the infi- nite To-come! (4: 410–11) Numerous problems inhere in this passage: Hawthorne’s deft, troubling use of style indirect libre, the narrator’s voice blending into Kenyon’s inner thoughts so that we struggle to differentiate the two, wondering whose point of view we should accept, or, indeed, if any point of view is offered at all; more directly, Hawthorne’s interesting, for him, use of the second person, here an aggressive way of hailing the reader and interpolating him or her into the action. Though the delicacy of such textual tensions should not be overlooked (who is speaking and for whom?), I wish to make a broad point. Here, the novel philosophically expresses a problem that Freud will also take up: the essential narcissism of the human disposition, not a narcissism that should be typed as pathological but one that should be understood as fundamen- tal, intrinsic, a constitutive aspect of the human mind. This is the narcissism of the kind Rei Terada describes as “an extra you,” the kind needed for the “virtual self-difference” required for any emotional experience.8 Seeing the limitless scope of ruin, of history, makes the melancholy viewer see himself 2 5 2 • e P i l O G U e seeing—see himself dwarfed by time, himself in time, only himself mak- ing time. We can rationally understand that events, structures, and experi- ences vastly more powerful and far more powerfully vast than our own loom before and beyond us, but we can only process history, life, reality, through the methods of our individual consciousness. We make sense from the self outward. The view expressed here makes very clear the always already subjective nature of our grasp on reality, the way we focus on self rather than world; yet it also does something more. It emphasizes the individual experience of history, the predicament of aloneness—what Freud calls the “curse of solitude”—that is the irreducible essence of existence, however much love, empathy, hatred, and other forms of relation draw us to others. The obelisks of time loom above us, taunting us to decode their inscrutable messages, but the mystery of our own self-consciousness surpasses theirs. Even as we under- stand the infinitude of the past, we demand that our own present moment’s concerns take precedence. Hawthorne articulates here an understanding of human desire that anticipates one of the major precepts of psychoanalysis, as Octave Mannoni so succinctly summarized it: “I know very well, but even so. . . .” We know that in the face of time we mean next to nothing, but even so we value our time as distinctly crucial. An individual is history. I would argue for this idea as the major thrust of Hawthorne’s philosophical statement in these passages about Kenyon’s survey of the past, that we can only process our own experience with any measure of success, and even this success will only ever be partial, delimited, narrow. Yet despite its obvious limitations, an individual’s experience has a value equal to that of any other piece of evidence in the survey of human his- tory; what one feels and thinks, what one desires, makes history; is, indeed, the historical. Those memories lying in ruins can only be memorialized in the mind of a person thinking and feeling in the present; nothing happens, in the past or in the future, except in the present; the past and the future only connote the boundaries of, the dark borders around, our present view. Freud and Hawthorne share a view of the parity between individual and cultural history. One of the major and most familiar tenets of the work of Michel Foucault is that the concept of the individual subject has been deployed by “power” to control, conscript, and contain the minds and bod- ies of beings caught in the meshes of discursivity, and that psychoanalysis, far from a resistant position from which to critique these cultural workings, enables, facilitates, and precisely relies on this construction of the subject. Foucault’s own work and Foucauldian criticism have offered one of the most unified and influential challenges to psychoanalytic theory. Given that the T h e h a U n T e d v e r G e • 2 5 3 crucial contention within the Foucauldian view is its dispute with the con- struction of the subject and psychoanalysis’s investment in it, it is inter- esting indeed to consider that the radicalism of both psychoanalysis and Hawthorne’s psychological literature may lie precisely in their interest in the individual subject. Having attempted to demonstrate that historical and psy- choanalytic questions and methodologies are, far from mutually exclusive, mutually illuminating; that Hawthorne’s work foregrounds these overlaps and their stirring potentialities; and that narcissism, far from a moribund and deadened fixation on the self, is the key to desire and social relations as well as literary production, I turn, in conclusion, to the very tendency we have, as critics, to insist, even at this point, on the old philosophical law of noncontradiction. It is precisely in their contradictions, their irresolvable conflicts, their sense of the equal legitimacy of antithetical realities, that the enduring value of Hawthorne’s and Freud’s accounts of human experience lies. n o t e s 255 I n t r o d u c t I o n 1. In contrast to Hawthorne, Herman Melville has the mythic figure of Narcissus mak- ing an explicit appearance in the first chapter of Moby-Dick, or The Whale. The main source text for the Narcissus myth is Ovid’s The Metamorphoses, one of the key classical texts for the European-American literary tradition; Hawthorne was familiar with the 1717 transla- tion of the Ovidian Narcissus myth by Joseph Addison. In addition to Ovid’s, the volume of mythology that Hawthorne specifically cited as a source for his two children’s books of classical Greek mythology, Anthon’s Dictionary, was published in 1841 and went through several editions. “Not once, however, in either his fiction or journals or letters did he ever mention Narcissus specifically, as did Herman Melville, or others of his era. Yet the presence of the deluded beautiful youth seems to haunt the subconscious world of the New England writer, providing much of his narrative structure and his characterizations,” an assessment with which I am in agreement. See MaryHelen Cleverly Harmon’s dissertation The Mirror of Narcissus: Reflections and Refractions of the Classical Myth in the Short Fiction of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Ph.D. diss., Florida State University, 1981), 27–28; 34; 37–38. 2. Sándor Ferenczi, Further Contributions to the Theory and Technique of Psycho-Analysis (1926; London: Hogarth, 1950), 365. 3. Jacques Lacan, “The Mirror-Stage as Formative of the Function of the I,” in Ecrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1977), pp. 1–7. My interpretation of Lacan has been greatly influenced by Tim Dean in his superb Beyond Sexuality (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2000), 37, 44, 46, especially. Dean is particularly useful to me as a rigorous queer theorist of Lacan. Dean places less emphasis, however, on the visual in Lacan’s theories of the development of the ego, discussing the “model of the inverted bou- quet” as an alternative to the mirror stage (46). 4. To offer an absurdly simplified summary: the other orders are the Symbolic and the Real. The Symbolic is associated with language, law, rationality, and is therefore the order of the father, whose name and law language enacts; it is through the symbolic that we are produced as “subjects.” The Real is the unrepresentable, that outside or prior to the 2 5 6 • n O T e S T O i n T r O d U C T i O n symbolic, sometimes referred to as “the impossible”; it is the material of life that cannot be incorporated into the forms of signification, such as language. 5. Copjec, Read My Desire: Lacan Against the Historicists (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994), 37. 6. Copjec quoted in Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004), 51. 7. Edelman, No Future, 52. 8. See chapter 7 of Castiglia’s Interior States: Institutional Consciousness and the Inner Life of Democracy in the Antebellum United States (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008). This is a rich and provocative discussion of Hawthorne’s engagement with the dis- ciplinary culture of interiority through which, in Castiglia’s view, the antebellum United States organized the emotional, somatic, legal, and criminal dimensions of its social order. Given that my work, rather than striving for a “post-interiority,” attempts to make sense of the lived experience of interiority that Castiglia critiques as a discursive phenomenon, I find his argument quite differently motivated from my own. 9. Joyce W. Warren, The American Narcissus: Individualism and Women in Nineteenth- Century American Fiction (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1984), 230. 10. Lillian R. Furst, Romanticism in Perspective: A Comparative Study of Aspects of the Romantic Movement in England, France, and Germany (London: Macmillan, 1969), 99. 11. Ibid., 64. 12. See Michael Davitt Bell, The Problem of American Realism: Studies in the Cultural History of a Literary Idea (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 45. The issue of Hawthorne’s sexuality overlaps with the sexual ambiguity of the Romantic male author. For a discussion of the linkages between homosexuality and the Romantic male genius, and es- pecially the ways in which homosexuality emerges as pathological in studies of genius, see Andrew Elfenbein, Romantic Genius: The Prehistory of a Homosexual Role (New York: Co- lumbia University Press, 1999). 13. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Shelley’s Poetry and Prose, 2nd ed, ed. Donald H. Reiman and Neil Fraistat (New York: Norton, 2002), 503–4. 14. In contrast to Freud in the pathologizing dimensions of his theory of narcissism and the trends of American psychiatry, Heinz Kohut, in The Analysis of the Self and other writ- ings, offered a radically normalized view of narcissism, which he saw as linked to poor early attachment but also as a commonplace, nonpathological aspect of emotional and psycho- sexual life. 15. Wilhelm Stekel, Auto-Erotism: A Psychiatric Study of Onanism and Neurosis (New York: Grove, 1950), 32. 16. Wilhelm Stekel writes, “I consider auto-eroticism, the expression proposed by Have- lock Ellis, preferable to the antiquated and abused term, onanism.” For Stekel, the psychic aspects of onanism are just as crucial an aspect as any other, hence his preference for “auto- erotic.” Ibid., 31. 17. Sylvester Graham’s writings are exemplary of these concerns. To his horror, as he wrote in A Lecture to Young Men, Graham discovered that public school boys who mastur- bated even engaged in “criminal,” “unnatural commerce with each other!” thus belying any critical notion that homosexual relations are never explicitly specified in nineteenth-century texts before the 1860s. Sylvester Graham, A Lecture to Young Men (1834; repr., New York: Arno, 1974), 43. 18. See Nissenbaum, Sex, Diet, and Debility in Jacksonian America: Sylvester Graham and Health Reform (1980; repr. Chicago: Dorsey, 1988). n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 1 • 2 5 7 19. See, especially, Sacvan Bercovitch, The Office of The Scarlet Letter (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992); Jonathan Arac, “The Politics of The Scarlet Letter,” in Ide- ology and Classic American Literature, ed. Sacvan Bercovitch and Myra Jehlen (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 247–66; John Carlos Rowe, “Nathaniel Hawthorne and Transnationality,” in Hawthorne and the Real: Bicentennial Essays, ed. Millicent Bell (Colum- bus: The Ohio State University Press, 2005), 88–106. Eric Cheyfitz chides Arac and Bercov- itch for not going further in their critique of what Cheyfitz views as Hawthorne’s “immoral passivity.” See Eric Cheyfitz, “The Irresistibleness of Great Literature: Reconstructing Haw- thorne’s Politics,” American Literary History 6, no. 3, Curriculum and Criticism (Autumn 1994): 539–58. I critique these ideological positions in my essay “Masculinist Theory and Romantic Authorship: Hawthorne, Politics, and Desire,” New Literary History 39, no. 4 (Au- tumn 2008), 971–87. 20. T. Walter Herbert, Sexual Violence and American Manhood (Cambridge, MA: Har- vard University Press, 2002), 40–41. 21. See in particular the introduction to Greven, Men Beyond Desire: Manhood, Sex, and Violation in American Literature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). 22. Hofstadter, Anti-Intellectualism in American Life (1963; repr., New York: Vintage, 1999), 159. 23. Ibid, 157–59. 24. Ibid, 159. 25. Hawthorne joined in public celebrations of Jackson, much to the surprise of his sis- ter Elizabeth. As Edwin Havilland Miller describes of Hawthorne, “One of his heroes was the greatest Democrat of his era, Andrew Jackson, who was scarcely tolerated or even men- tioned in elite circles in Salem. Jackson, however, was in the tradition of the Hathornes: vir- ile, energetic, and more than a little ruthless. When Jackson visited Salem in 1833 after his reelection Hawthorne walked to the outskirts of the town, in the words of his sister Eliza- beth, ‘to meet him, not to speak of him, only to look at him; and found only a few men and boys collected, not enough, without the assistance that he rendered, to welcome the General with good cheer.’ Forty years later Elizabeth was still surprised: ‘It is hard to fancy him doing such a thing as shouting.’” As Miller further observes: “Hawthorne’s opinion remained fixed. In 1858 he insisted that Jackson ‘was the greatest man we ever had; and his native strength, as well of intellect as of character, compelled every man to be his tool that came within his reach; and the cunninger the individual might be, it served only to make him the sharper tool.’ He wished in a strange mismatching that ‘it had been possible for Raphael to paint General Jackson.’” Miller, Salem Is My Dwelling Place (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1991), 89. 26. Holland, The Dynamics of Literary Response (1968; New York: Norton, 1975), vii. I will admit to finding that Holland’s work lacks bite. But one does occasionally come across a telling insight or analytic passage. 27. Coen, Between Author and Reader: A Psychoanalytic Approach to Writing and Reading (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 130. 28. Skura, The Literary Use of the Psychoanalytic Process (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1981), 242. c h a p t e r 1 1. Robert Graves, vol. 1 of The Greek Myths (New York: Penguin, 1985), 287. I find 2 5 8 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 1 Graves’s summary useful, but I should note that classicists have very little use for Graves’s work, which has been discredited within the field. 2. Hélène Cixous, “Castration or Decapitation?” in Contemporary Literary Criticism, ed. Robert Con Davis and Robert Scheifler (1976; repr., New York: Longman, 1989), 488– 90. 3. Steven Bruhm, Reflecting Narcissus: A Queer Aesthetic (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001), 15. 4. Béla Grunberger, Narcissism: Psychoanalytic Essays, trans. Joyce S. Diamanti (Madi- son, CT: International Universities Press, 1979), 108. 5. Ibid., 107–8. 6. Frederick Crews, The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne’s Psychological Themes (1966; repr., Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1989), 282. 7. Laplanche and Pontalis, The Language of Psycho-Analysis (London: Karnac Books, 1988), 314. 8. Mark Edmunson, Towards Reading Freud: Self-Creation in Milton, Wordsworth, Em- erson, and Sigmund Freud (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 56. 9. See, for example, Nancy F. Cott’s essay, “On Men’s History and Women’s History,” in Meanings for Manhood: Constructions of Masculinity in Victorian America, ed. Mark Chris- topher Carnes and Clyde Griffen (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 209–13. Cott, providing a summary response to the collection, makes use of Freud’s concept of rep- etition–compulsion to describe the patterns she finds to be recurrent in nineteenth-century masculinity as treated in the collection’s essays. 10. R. Horacio Etchegoyen, “’On Narcissism’: Text and Context,” in Freud’s “On Nar- cissism: An Introduction,” ed. Joseph Sandler et al. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991), 54–75. Quoted passage on p. 56. 11. Janine Chasseguet-Smirgel, The Ego-Ideal: A Psychoanalytic Essay on the Malady of the Ideal, trans. Paul Barrows (1975; repr., New York: Norton, 1985), 232. 12. Jeremy Holmes, Narcissism (Cambridge: Icon Books, 2001), 7. 13. It is worth considering here the unsettled nature of the question of the difference between primary and secondary narcissism; from my perspective, the more we understand how frustratingly inconclusive Freud’s essay on narcissism remains for many, the better, for it is precisely this inconclusiveness that makes fresh readings of the work possible and resists any normalizing, pathologizing application. As Ruth Leys puts it in her important study of trauma, Freud’s concept of primary narcissism is “notoriously problematic.” Discussing the incoherencies inherent in this concept, Leys discusses the preliminary definition of it offered by Laplanche and Pontsalis. They “describe primary narcissism as an ‘early state in which the child [or ego] cathects its own self with the whole of its libido.’ But as they make clear,” Leys continues, “precisely the status of the ego is problematic in such a formulation. On the one hand, as a state in which the ego takes itself as its love-object, primary narcissism cor- responds to the first emergence of a unified subject or ego. On the other hand, Freud also conceptualized primary narcissism as a primitive state of the infant that occurs prior to the formation of an ego, a state epitomized by life in the womb.” In this view, primary narcis- sism is an “objectless state, implying no split between the subject and the external world. As Laplanche and Pontsalis comment  .  .  .  it is difficult to know just what is supposed to be cathected in primary narcissism thus conceived.” Jean Laplanche and J. B. Pontalis, The Language of Psycho-Analysis, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith (New York: Norton, 1974), quoted in Ruth Leys, Trauma: A Genealogy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 139. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 2 • 2 5 9 14. Michael Warner offers a valuable critique of psychoanalytic denunciations of homo- sexuality as narcissistic, but to my mind his argument is deeply hampered by a reductionist view of Freud that does justice to his treatment neither of homosexuality nor of narcissism. The best overview I have found of the radicalism possible in psychoanalytic discussions of narcissism is Dean and Lane’s introductory essay to Homosexuality and Psychoanalysis. An- drew Morrison collects significant contributions from leading thinkers such as Freud, Heinz Kohut (whose efforts to depathologize narcissism are distinct from many of those of the twentieth century), Otto Kernberg (most notable for his theory of the grandiose self and narcissistic rage), and the overlooked but deeply insightful Annie Reich (wife of the more famous Wilhelm) in his Essential Papers on Narcissism. Notably absent from Morrison is Jacques Lacan, whose writing on narcissism is extensive. In his essay “Homosexuality and the Problem of Otherness,” Dean provides a helpful unpacking of Lacan’s views. While Lacan considers narcissism pathogenic, writes Dean, it is “as a consequence not of homo- sexuality but, more generally, of the ego’s delusional attachment to a mirage” (Tim Dean and Christopher Lane, eds., Homosexuality and Psychoanalysis [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001], 127). See Bruhm and Kochhar-Lindgren for particularly interesting reinter- pretations of narcissism: Bruhm calls attention to the homoeroticism of the myth, whereas Kochhar-Lindgren focuses on narcissism as an inability to recognize otherness. 15. All quotations from Freud will be taken from The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud (SE) and will be noted parenthetically in the text. 16. Etchegoyen. 66. 17. Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1981), 102–3. 18. Kaja Silverman, Male Subjectivity at the Margins (New York: Routledge, 1992), 130; 146; 152. Tim Dean also stresses the importance of distinguishing “vision” from the “gaze.” Dean critiques Lee Edelman’s conflation, in his Homographesis, of vision and gaze. Tim Dean, Beyond Sexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 195n26. Henry Krips notes that the gaze is Lacan’s name for “the structural distortions of the visual field, those that are not only seen but are also the source of a look turned back upon the viewer.” Henry Krips, Fetish: Erotics of the Gaze (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999), 27. 19. Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, 84–85 (my emphasis). c h a p t e r 2 1. I want to thank Dr. David Diamond for kindly reading an early draft version of this chapter and generously sending me his responses, which I found to be valuable, challenging, and insightful. Dr. Diamond pointed out to me that Ilbrahim is keeping vigil at the scene of his father’s death at the start of the story, suggesting a strong oedipal-paternal identification. This is not a dynamic that I focus on here, but I believe it is one that is worthy of further consideration. 2. For his discussion of the historical emergence of homosexuality in the latter half of the nineteenth century, a theory that has sometimes had the effect of creating a view of ho- mosexuality as an invention datable only from this period forward, see in particular Michel Foucault’s The History of Sexuality, vol. 1, trans. from the French by Robert Hurley (1988; New York: Vintage Books, 1990). A great deal of work done on both Foucault and the ques- tion of nineteenth-century sexual history over the past decade has significantly enlarged our understanding of the latter and usefully clarified the claims of the former. 2 6 0 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 2 3. Richard C. Friedman and Jennifer I. Downey, Sexual Orientation and Psychodynamic Psychotherapy: Sexual Science and Clinical Practice (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 97. 4. Relevant for our study, Friedman and Downey do discuss the mother–child rela- tionship to a certain degree. 5. It should be clearly stated that my project proceeds from the theoretical, rather than clinical, dimensions of psychoanalysis, and that any attempt to rethink narcissism has to take into account that pathological forms of it do indeed exist in severe mental illness, such as schizophrenia and other forms of psychosis. Less severely, but nevertheless painfully, the narcissism of intensely self-involved persons for whom an obsessive interest in the self dam- agingly limits their emotional lives and intersubjective relationships must be understood as problematic, as a barrier between satisfying relationships with self and other. 6. Michael Warner, “Homo-Narcissism: Or, Heterosexuality,” in Engendering Men: The Question of Male Feminist Criticism, ed. Joseph A. Boone and Michael Cadden (New York: Routledge, 1990), 190–207. My discussion of Warner here echoes that in chapter 1 of my book Manhood in Hollywood from Bush to Bush (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009). 7. Ibid., 200. 8. Ibid., 202. 9. Ibid., 206. 10. Freud wrote Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality in 1905 but kept adding to it until 1924. This footnote was added by Freud in 1910. 11. Socarides was a pioneer in the movement to “cure” homosexuality through psy- chiatry. As Ronald Bayer discusses, Socarides was to become, “in the late 1960s and early 1970s, a leading and forceful proponent of the view that homosexuality represented a pro- found psychopathology.” In Socarides’ own words, “Homosexuality is based on fear of the mother, the aggressive attack against the father, and is filled with aggression, destruction and self-deceit. It is a masquerade of life in which certain psychic energies are neutralized and held in a somewhat quiescent state. However, the unconscious manifestations of hate, destructiveness, incest and fear are always threatening to break through.” See Ronald Bayer, Homosexuality and American Psychiatry: The Politics of Diagnosis (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987), 34–38. Socarides quoted in Bayer, 34. 12. Jonathan Dollimore, Sexual Dissidence: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 174. 13. Ibid., 181. 14. Freud’s difficult treatment of the Oedipal complex for girls remains deeply contro- versial. Without discounting the problems of Freud’s sexism, I would argue that we can say that he exposes the effects of misogyny at the same time as he constructs them. I discuss the uses that can be made of Freud’s theories of women at greater length in chapter 1 of my book Representations of Femininity in American Genre Cinema: The Woman’s Film, Film Noir, and Modern Horror (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). 15. Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990), 64. 16. These innovative projects focus on the intersections of melancholia, race, class, gen- der, and queer desire. See, especially, Douglas Crimp, Melancholia and Moralism: Essays on AIDS and Queer Politics (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001); Anne Anlin Cheng, The Melancholy of Race: Psychoanalysis, Assimilation, and Hidden Grief (New York: Oxford Uni- versity Press, 2001); Loss: The Politics of Mourning, ed. David L. Eng and David Kazanjian (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003) [the introductory essay n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 2 • 2 6 1 provides an especially helpful updating, for queer theory purposes, of Freudian melancholia theory]; Ann Cvetkovich, An Archive of Feelings: Trauma, Sexuality, and Lesbian Public Cul- tures (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); Dana Luciano, Arranging Grief: Sacred Time and the Body in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: New York University Press, 2007). Luciano’s extensively engages with Freud’s theories of “mourning and melancholia.” 17. Freud often discusses the ways in which the Oedipus complex goes awry for those who emerge as heterosexually oriented. The masochistic male who emerges as heterosexual doubles the homosexual male in his complex maneuvers to reimagine, innovate, and thwart the normative course of the Oedipus complex; though a sustained discussion of this point exceeds the scope of this chapter, the valences that exist between male heterosexual mas- ochism and male homosexual narcissism—both of which processes privilege the maternal rather than paternal role in the Oedipus complex—demand a thorough investigation. In- deed, one could make the case that it is Freud’s theory of heterosexual male masochism, which involves identification with the mother, that is even more germane to Hawthorne. Certainly, there are masochistic elements in Hawthorne’s representation of masculinity, but to my mind the thematization of narcissism in Freud’s theory of male homosexuality, when linked to identification with the mother, sheds more light on Hawthorne’s work. As Le- land S. Person persuasively argues in his review essay “Middlesex: What Men Like in Men,” American Literary History 17, no. 4 (2005): 753–64, the varieties of male desire for other males, however we define this desire, is wide-ranging. The male-identified homoeroticism in Hawthorne’s work, suggested by his idolization of the rough-hewn President Andrew Jackson, would be a compelling subject for future study. 18. Leo Bersani, “Genital Chastity,” in Homosexuality and Psychoanalysis, ed. Tim Dean and Christopher Lane (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 365. 19. Jacques Lacan, “The Mirror Stage,” in Ecrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1977). Lacan’s theory evolved over time; he gave the first versions of this pa- per in 1936. 20. Tim Dean, Beyond Sexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 198. 21. Jean Laplanche, et al., Jean Laplanche: Seduction, Translation and the Drives , trans. Martin Stanton, ed. John Fletcher and Martin Stanton (London: Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1992), 93–120. 22. Bersani, “Genital Chastity,” 356. 23. Steven Angelides, “Historicizing Affect, Psychoanalyzing History: Pedophilia and the Discourse of Child Sexuality,” Journal of Homosexuality 46, no. 1/2 (2003): 79–109. 24. Tim Dean and Christopher Lane, eds., Homosexuality and Psychoanalysis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 123. 25. Ibid., 130. 26. Marcia Ian, Remembering the Phallic Mother: Psychoanalysis, Modernism, and the Fe- tish (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 21. 27. Freud’s Wolf-Man case study, From the History of an Infantile Neurosis, was written in the year 1914, but did not appear in print until 1918. 28. Kenneth Lewes, The Psychoanalytic Theory of Male Homosexuality (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1988), 82. 29. Frederick Crews, The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne’s Psychological Themes (1966; repr., Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 67–72. Masochism in Hawthorne is far from an unimportant issue, but Crews’s argument is characteristic of his frequently high- ly conventional uses of Freud, which at times blunts the effectiveness of his often insightful treatments of Hawthorne. A more thorough and complex treatment of Freud’s theory of 2 6 2 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 3 masochism would need to be undertaken for real clarity about the issue’s development in Hawthorne to be gained. 30. All quotes from Hawthorne are taken from the Centenary Edition of Hawthorne’s works, and all volume and page numbers will be noted parenthetically in the text. 31. For Hawthorne’s revisions to “The Gentle Boy,” see The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, vol. 9, ed. William Charvat et al. (Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 1962), 613–19. 32. Brenda Wineapple, Hawthorne, 16. 33. See, especially, Mitchell’s Siblings: Sex and Violence (Polity, 2004). 34. Wineapple, Hawthorne: A Life (New York: Knopf, 2003), 21. 35. I discuss these issues at length in the introduction and in chapter 2, Men Beyond Desire, passim. 36. Henry James, Hawthorne (1879; repr., New York: Cornell University Press, 1997), 54–55. 37. Wineapple, Hawthorne, 31; 15. 38. Millicent Bell, introduction to Hawthorne’s Major Tales, ed. Millicent Bell (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 15. 39. Lewes, Psychoanalytic, 84. 40. Mary Ayers, Mother–Infant Attachment and Psychoanalysis: The Eyes of Shame (New York: Brunner-Routledge, 2003), 76–77. c h a p t e r 3 1. My view of Freud has been influenced by Leo Bersani, one of Freud’s most radical and galvanizing interpreters, especially in a queer theory context. See especially Bersani’s The Freudian Body (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986). For a discussion in which I establish my disagreements with Bersani, particularly his views on queer masochism, see Greven, Manhood in Hollywood from Bush to Bush (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009). 2. There is much to admire in Berlant’s invaluable and still-provocative reading. I also feel that it is consistently a distortion of Hawthorne’s personal literary investments, espe- cially in terms of his identification with Hester Prynne. See Lauren Berlant, The Anatomy of National Fantasy: Hawthorne, Utopia, and Everyday Life (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). 3. The Wood of 1989 can now write of Hitchcock in ways that reflected a deepening and political expansion of Freudian method rather than an abrasive, near-hysterical rejec- tion of it, as his treatment of Hitchcock’s 1956 remake of his own 1930s version of The Man Who Knew Too Much evinces: “The two great liberating screams of The Man Who Knew Too Much (Doris Day’s in the Albert Hall, Brenda de Banzie’s ‘answering’ scream in the embas- sy) must be read on one level,” argues Wood, “as the protests of women against masculin- ist politics and the cruelty and violence that issue from it.” Robin Wood, Hitchcock’s Films Revisited (1989; repr., New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 361. 4. For a far sounder critique of these matters, see Eugene Goodheart, The Reign of Ide- ology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996). 5. Frederick Crews, The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne’s Psychological Themes (1966; repr., Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 285. 6. Rohy, Anachronism and Its Others: Sexuality, Race, and Temporality (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2010), 128–29. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 3 • 2 6 3 7. Marcia Ian, Remembering the Phallic Mother: Psychoanalysis, Modernism, and the Fe- tish (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 8. 8. Crews wrote disdainfully in 1966 of James K. Folsom’s book Man’s Accidents and God’s Purposes: Multiplicity in Hawthorne’s Fiction (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1963): “concluding regretfully that Hawthorne considers Oneness inscrutable,” Folsom “claims that the concept of ‘multiplicity’ governs the tales and romances.” But Crews seems to share Folsom’s view even as he dismisses it: Hawthorne “was aware that in exposing our common nature he was drawing largely on his own nature”; “uneasy with the self-revelatory aspect of his work,” Hawthorne with “one arm strikes a pose of cold dignity and holds us at bay, but with the other beckons us forward into the cavern of his deepest soul.” Crews, Sins, 9; 11–12. 9. “Roger Malvin’s Burial” was first published separately in 1832 and was later includ- ed in the collection Mosses from an Old Manse (1846). 10. One could make the case that the young man / old man split is also fundamental to Edgar Allan Poe’s work—one immediately thinks of tales such as “The Man of the Crowd,” in which the narrator insatiably follows around an old man with an insatiable desire for crowds, and of “The Tell-Tale Heart,” in which the narrator kills an old man whose titular heartbeat drives him mad. Homoerotic valences charge these as well as other Poe works with a disturbing intensity, disturbing because the homoeroticism is indistinguishable—indeed, constitutive of—a deep psychic dislocation. Herman Melville’s work is rife with split mas- culinities. His fictional worlds—especially in his sea fiction but not only there—are domi- nated by older men who prey on younger men, a form of dominance with often violent sexual implications, that is, implications of real sexual violence. 11. “She heard him not. With one wild shriek, that seemed to force its way from the sufferer’s inmost soul, she sank insensible by the side of her dead boy. At that moment, the withered topmost bough of the oak loosened itself, in the stilly air, and fell in soft, light fragments upon the rock, upon the leaves, upon Reuben, upon his wife and child, and upon Roger Malvin’s bones. Then Reuben’s heart was stricken, and the tears gushed out like water from a rock. The vow that wounded youth had made, the blighted man had come to re- deem. His sin was expiated, the curse gone from him; and, in the hour, when he had shed blood dearer to him than his own, a prayer, the first for years, went up to Heaven from the lips of Reuben Bourne” (10: 360). 12. Crews, Sins, 86–87. 13. Gray Kochhar-Lindgren, Narcissus Transformed: The Textual Subject in Psychoanalysis and Literature (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993), 37–38. 14. Fascinatingly, Cyrus’s own name-origins seem programmatic of his function in the story. As Herodotus tells Cyrus’s story, he is, like Oedipus, another one of those legendary royal children condemned to death who manage to survive (through the kindly intervention of a nonnoble person, such as a shepherd, who rescues and adopts them) and later reclaim their noble ancestry. See Herodotus, Book 1 of The Histories (New York: Penguin, 1972), 85–90. 15. Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990), 64. Though space limitations preclude a discussion of them here, several innovative projects on the intersections of melancholia, race, and queer desire have been undertaken in the wake of Butler’s retooled Freudian paradigms, and the fullest treatment of these themes in Hawthorne would have to take them into account. See note 16 of the previous chapter. 16. Bruhm treats Coleridge’s 1802 poem “The Picture; or The Lover’s Resolution” as a 2 6 4 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 3 prime example of Romantic narcissism. The speaker of this poem, Bruhm argues, “holds a desiring male imago as the central phantasm of the poem.” “As the speaker falls into the image of youth at the end of the poem, and the youth is absorbed by the speaker (and then, both collapse into the image of the boy in the picture, whose desire for the m/other they imitate), we see the act of identity and identification that this poem is really about.” See Steven Bruhm, Reflecting Narcissus: A Queer Aesthetic (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001), 30–38; Bruhm references Butler’s Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex” (New York: Routledge, 1993). 17. Kochhar-Lindgren, Narcissus Transformed, 121. I admire this theorist’s formulations greatly, but I should add that he sometimes too uncritically pathologizes Narcissus for his homoerotic desire to reproduce a blissful heterosexuality within his self-desire. 18. Michael J. Colacurcio, The Province of Piety: Moral History in Hawthorne’s Early Tales (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 144. 19. Ibid., 153. 20. Crews, Sins, 74–75. 21. As Thompson writes, “The stranger is, not Hawthorne, but a symbolic figuration of, a substitute agent for, a Hawthorne: that is, an author figure, symbolically present in the narrative.” The transformation of self into figure has decisive repercussions for the narcissis- tic gaze, in which the various possibilities for seeing and being seen are constantly explored and negotiated. Turning oneself into a figure—especially here, the authorial figure of the stranger who can watch Robin, another version of the authorial self, being seen as he sees— is a strategy of control of the visual field. G. R. Thompson, The Art of Authorial Presence: Hawthorne’s Provincial Tales (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993), 156. 22. Leo Bersani, “Genital Chastity,” Homosexuality and Psychoanalysis, ed. Tim Dean and Christopher Lane (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 365. 23. Slavoj Žižek, “‘I Hear You with My Eyes’; or, The Invisible Master,” in Gaze and Voice as Love Objects, ed. Renata Salecl and Slavoj Žižek, (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996), 94. 24. To be sure, vision is not the only sense thematized in the tale. The story’s concomi- tant obsession with the voice demands attention that I do not have the space to elaborate upon here. But to make a brief note of the point, the story is governed by images of the aural/oral, especially the riotous, sybaritic, barbaric laughter that frequently erupts, evok- ing the Bakhtinian theories of the carnivalesque and the grotesque. This raucous and deri- sive laughter anticipates the terrible, demonic laughter of the damned Ethan Brand. Slyly, smugly, and coyly, the stranger asks Robin if multiple voices can occur as well as faces (226). In this story, the voice shields the eye; or rather, the voice is the eye, coming at Robin from all sides and no less entrapping, enclosing, and imprisoning than the gaze. Robin’s visual face-off with aggrieved Molineux perpetuates the pattern of seeing / being seen that structures the story: Molineux stares back at Robin staring at him, even as the “lantern-bearer” “drowsily” enjoys “the lad’s amazement” and that “saucy eye” again “meets his” (228). All the old gazers gather round, having never gone away—the innkeeper, the periwigged old citizen hemming and hawing, the derisive barbers, the guests of the inn, “and all who made sport of him that night,” all present, all watching Robin watch his kins- man writhe, all joining in with him, in a defensive denial of rapacious visual desire through raucous mass-laughter (228). I would argue that the shared laughter strategically distracts us from the profound desire to look that engulfs each figure in the story, and in which Robin engulfs his own desire to look. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 4 • 2 6 5 25. Otto Rank, The Double: A Psychoanalytic Study, trans. Harry Tucker, Jr. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1971), 74; 85. 26. Bruhm, Reflecting Narcissus, 44. 27. Bingham, Acting Male: Masculinities in the Films of James Stewart, Jack Nicholson, and Clint Eastwood (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1994), 214–15. 28. Clark Davis, Hawthorne’s Shyness: Ethics, Politics, and the Question of Engagement (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), 56. c h a p t e r 4 1. Leland S. Person, “A Man for the Whole Country: Marketing Masculinity in the Pierce Biography,” The Nathaniel Hawthorne Review 35, no. 1 (2009): 4. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid., 5–6. 4. For a study of Byron’s sexuality in the context of the Romantic era, see Louis Crompton’s excellent book Byron and Greek Love: Homophobia in 19th-Century England (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), passim; for a study of narcissism in Byron’s poetry, see Steven Bruhm, Reflecting Narcissus: A Queer Aesthetic (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001), 20–53. Also relevant is Nathaniel Brown’s book Sexuality and Feminism in Shelley (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). 5. Julian Hawthorne, Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife: A Biography, vol. 1 (1884; Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1892), 120–21. 6. The son’s rapt account of the father’s beauty alerts us to the narcissism inherent within oedipal relations. Julian becomes one of the men in Hawthorne’s fiction who con- templates the beauty of another man (Rappaccini and the younger Giovanni, Chillingworth and Dimmesdale)—albeit here, in life, it is the younger man who contemplates the older, indeed, the dead, man. But younger only in a relative sense—Julian, who was born in 1846, was thirty-eight years old when Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife was published. 7. Gloria Erlich, Family Themes and Hawthorne’s Fiction: The Tenacious Web (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1984), 124. 8. For a discussion of the calumniation of effeminacy in Jacksonian America and the treatment of male sexuality in the literature of the time, see Greven, Men Beyond Desire Manhood, Sex, and Violation in American Literature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). 9. Horatio Bridge, Personal Recollections of Nathaniel Hawthorne (1893; Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific, 2004), 4. 10. Hawthorne, The Blithedale Romance (New York: Norton, 2010). 11. Sedgwick quoted in ibid., 200. 12. In psychoanalytic terms, Hawthorne’s depiction of male beauty could be called a compromise formation. A compromise formation occurs when the psychic agencies at our disposal, such as the id, ego, superego, confront a split or conflict between what we desire and what has been prohibited from us and work within the confines of reality to produce something like a workable fantasy that a conscious mind can tolerate. Male beauty in Haw- thorne points to a desire for an image of male beauty—a desire that we can understand as autoerotic, homoerotic, or both—and a painful apprehension of the terrible repercussions of having this beauty perceived. He allows himself to inhabit this beauty while also register- ing its dangers and the phobic responses it generates. 2 6 6 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 4 13. Shadi Bartsch, The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 31. 14. Thaïs E. Morgan, Men Writing the Feminine: Literature, Theory, and the Question of Genders (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), 5. 15. Sarah Rose Cole, “Aristocrat in the Mirror,” Nineteenth-Century Literature 61 (2006): 147. 16. Ibid., 161. 17. Though it is not my focus here, the issue of class in Hawthorne has been underex- plored and would make for a resonant complement, I think, to this analysis. 18. Whereas Plato argues that the mutual gaze of lovers leads to self-knowledge, his “trio of eros, self-speculation, and philosophical self-knowledge becomes diluted in Seneca in particular. In Seneca’s work the erotic force of gazing at self provides an impediment to self-knowledge.” Bartsch, Mirror of the Self, 72. A fascinating discrete study could be done of the correspondences between Hawthorne and the ancient writings on these matters. 19. Shernaz Mollinger, “On Hawthorne, Emerson and Narcissism,” Psychoanalytic Re- view 70, no. 4 (Winter 1983): 580. 20. Tompkins points out—in a derisive gesture meant to jab at critics who venerate Hawthorne’s brooding, darkly themed work—that nineteenth-century critics valorized Hawthorne stories such as “Little Annie’s Ramble,” “Sights from a Steeple,” and “A Rill from the Town Pump,” not stories such as “The Minister’s Black Veil” (10–11). Jane Tomp- kins, Sensational Designs: The Cultural Work of American Fiction, 1790–1860 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1986), 9; 122. 21. Rita K. Gollin, Portraits of Nathaniel Hawthorne: An Iconography (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1983), 2. 22. Bridge, Personal Recollections of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 5. 23. T. Walter Herbert, “Hawthorne and American Masculinity,” in The Cambridge Companion to Nathaniel Hawthorne, ed. Richard Millington (New York: Cambridge Uni- versity Press, 2004), 60–78, quoted passage from p. 74. See also Herbert’s Sexual Vio- lence and American Manhood (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002). Though I admire Sexual Violence, I actually find Herbert’s analysis of Hawthorne and masculinity sharper in his Companion essay; his chapter on The Scarlet Letter in the 2002 book reads the Dimmesdale and Chillingworth relationship as a metaphor for male–female relationships and misogyny, which I find blunts the considerable issues involved in Hawthorne’s depic- tion of a bad male marriage. 24. Many Nussbaum works speak to these issues, but see, for example, Hiding from Humanity: Disgust, Shame, and the Law (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004); Frontiers of Justice: Disability, Nationality, Species Membership (The Tanner Lectures on Hu- man Values) (Cambridge: Belknap, 2007). 25. “As Hawthorne drew on his readings in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Ameri- can history, he developed the strong pacifism that served as the foundation of his political thought. Although this pacifism wavered at times . . . it nevertheless served as the basic and consistent principle by which he implicitly judged the actions of individuals and nations.” See Larry Reynolds, Devils and Rebels: The Making of Hawthorne’s Damned Politics (Ann Ar- bor: University of Michigan Press, 2008), 19. 26. Léon Wurmser, The Mask of Shame (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981), 147. 27. As Charles J. Rzepka continues, for Romantic authors, “the self that is engaged in direct confrontation is, on the one hand, individuated and affirmed as real thereby, but n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 4 • 2 6 7 on the other is nearly always felt to be taken away from itself by the eye of the person confronted, especially if that person is unsympathetic or a stranger.” Hawthorne’s entire body of work thematizes these conflicts. See Rzepka, The Self as Mind: Vision and Identity in Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 27. 28. Joseph Adamson, “Guardian of the ‘Inmost Me’: Hawthorne and Shame,” in Scenes of Shame: Psychoanalysis, Shame, and Writing, ed. Joseph Adamson and Hilary Clark (Al- bany: State University Press of New York, 1999), 73. 29. Attesting to the proliferation of studies of shame in recent years, Morrison wrote another (much more populist) book and edited a collection of essays on the subject, while Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick presented a new edition of Silvan Tompkins’s important theories of the concept. The most interesting aspect of the growth of shame studies is its implicit re- versal of the emphasis on phallic aggression in earlier Freud-focused discussions. It should be noted as well that David Halperin and Valerie Traub have edited a collection called Gay Shame (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). The volume collects papers from the controversy-filled conference by that name that the editors organized at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor on March 27–29, 2003. 30. Andrew Morrison, Shame: The Underside of Narcissism (Hillsdale, NJ: Analytic, 1989), 65. 31. Ibid., 66. 32. Wurmser, Mask of Shame, 160. 33. Ibid., 161. 34. David W. Allen, The Fear of Looking: Or, Scopophilic-Exhibitionistic Conflicts (Char- lottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1974), 118. 35. Ibid. 36. As Bridge notes, “Soon after graduation [from Bowdoin] we agreed to correspond regularly at stated periods, and we selected new signatures for our letters. Hawthorne chose that of ‘Oberon,’” while Bridge (not being a Romantic artist, evidently) chose the more prosaic name “Edward” (55–56). Bridge debunks the idea that Oberon was Hawthorne’s college nickname or that “his beauty” had anything to do with the name: “In a letter of Miss Peabody, quoted by Mr. Conway, it is stated that ‘his classmates called Hawthorne ‘Oberon the Fairy’ on account of his beauty, and because he improvised tales.’ It seems a pity to spoil so poetic a fancy; but, if truthful narrative is required, the cold facts are these,” i.e., that Oberon was a post-college signature (55). Bridge does not, however, dispute the idea that the real-life Hawthorne was beautiful. 37. J. Hillis Miller, Hawthorne and History: Defacing It (Cambridge: Basil Blackwell, 1991), 97. 38. Ibid., 124. 39. “The narrator of ‘The Minister’s Black Veil,’” writes Richard Millington, “notes that Hooper’s sartorial orientalism makes him a peculiarly effective clergyman: ‘Strangers came long distances to attend service at his church, with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his face’ (9: 49). Hooper’s strategy has been to make himself a piece of art, a ‘figure’ instead of a ‘face.’” Millington notes that this strategy’s one obvious benefit is that it does wonders for Hooper’s career. Another obvious benefit is that it allows Hooper (and Hawthorne) to maintain some degree of control over the visual field in which Hooper is an object. Richard H. Millington, Practicing Romance: Narrative Form and Cultural Engagement in Hawthorne’s Fiction (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), 30. 2 6 8 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 4 40. For Michael T. Gilmore, the title of whose book Surface and Depth: The Quest for Legibility in American Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006) bespeaks its rel- evance to a study of narcissism, The Scarlet Letter is a key text in the American quest for legibility, which Hawthorne treats with appositely contradictory impulses because he “at once shares and recoils from the [American] demand for openness” (80). Hawthorne can barely hide his revulsion against the stocks, “a penal technology that immobilizes the cul- prit before ‘the public gaze’ and forbids him ‘to hide his face for shame.’” (81). Hawthorne “craves truthfulness without” this “pitiless exposure”; he wants “the balm of self-disclosure in a context secure from the ‘public gaze.’” (83). Gilmore reads Dimmesdale’s ultimate “self-erasure” as an attempt to convert “abasement into narcissistic falsehood” (85). I would place a somewhat different emphasis on what Hawthorne creates here—not narcissism as flight from shame but, instead, an atmosphere of shame in a state of shockingly public ex- posure that is itself a mediation of essentially narcissistic desire to see the self and control the ways in which the self is seen by others—the shame is the symptom of a fatally con- flicted narcissism. 41. As Colacurcio writes, “On this point Jonathan Edwards and Edgar Poe would be in perfect agreement: the appropriate result of a truthful look might be fairly described as ‘horror’; the blackness within the self would correspond much more nearly to the darkness outside the wedding into which Hooper rushes (‘For the Earth, too, had on her Black Veil’) rather than the cheery light inside the [wedding] hall.” Michael J. Colacurcio, The Province of Piety: Moral History in Hawthorne’s Early Tales (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 340. 42. Noting that Hooper spills his wine at the wedding, Colacurcio reads this moment as an allegorical evocation of the dread antebellum figure of the onanist. Frederick Crews reads “sexual ambivalence” in figures such as Hooper and Young Goodman Brown: “It is possible that Hooper, who like Goodman Brown is obliged to confront the sexual aspects of womanhood, shares Brown’s fears and has hit upon a means of forestalling their realiza- tion in marriage. His literal wearing of a veil, like Brown’s figurative removal of it to leer at the horrid sexuality underneath, acts as a defense against normal adult love.” Immediately upon making these suggestive though heterosexist observations, Crews retreats from their implications (“I do not care to lay very much stress on indications of sexual squeamishness in Hooper”) yet also rightly observes that the rumors of a sexual scandal involving Hooper and the young dead woman who is said to shudder when he peers at her corpse are just that, rumors, started by the townspeople and, in a review of Twice-Told Tales, Edgar Allan Poe, wearing his critic’s hardhat. Crews, The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne’s Psychological Themes (1966; repr., Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 109–10. 43. Harold Bloom, The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages, 1st ed. (New York: Riverhead Trade, 1995), 365. 44. See Greven, Men Beyond Desire, chapter 2, for a discussion of male blight in Fan- shawe. 45. In part such a rendering of male vision stems from Hawthorne’s Gothic frame- work. “Gothic villains,” Benjamin Franklin Fisher writes in an excellent study of Poe’s “renovations” of the Gothic, “are possessed of a startlingly piercing eye, which functions symbolically in phallic terms in its ability to penetrate its victims’ innermost secrets.” Fisher, “Poe and the Gothic Tradition,” in The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe, ed. Kevin J. Hayes (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 72–91, quote from p. 76. Many of the same themes in Hawthorne powerfully animate Poe’s work as well, to say the least. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 • 2 6 9 c h a p t e r 5 1. Berkeley Kaite, Pornography and Difference (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995), 81–82. 2. What Richard Gray discovers in Faulkner’s novels can also be said of Hawthorne’s: “voyeurism and narcissism frequently elide, because what the solitary seer sees is a reflection of himself, the imperatives of his own gaze.” Richard Gray, The Life of William Faulkner: A Critical Biography (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1996), 173. 3. See Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16, no. 3 (1975): 6–18, repr. in Visual and Other Pleasures (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 14–27; “Afterthoughts on ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ Inspired by King Vidor’s Duel in the Sun,” Framework 15/16/17 (1981), repr. in Visual and Other Pleasures, 29–38. I do not mean to denigrate Mulvey’s bold and revolutionary work; as much as anything, I am critiquing its continued hold on critical accounts of the gaze. “Visual Pleasure and Nar- rative Cinema” was a very early Mulvey article, and her own views have evolved over time, though this evolution has not resolved their controversial nature. For a discussion of femi- nism’s shifting responses to Mulvey, see Susan White’s excellent essay “Vertigo and Problems of Knowledge in Feminist Film Theory,” in Alfred Hitchcock: Centenary Essays, ed. Richard Allen and S. Ichii-Gonzales (London: BFI, 1999), 278–98. I discuss the shifts in Mulvey’s thinking and in critical responses to her in chapter 1 of my book Manhood in Hollywood from Bush to Bush. 4. “Although the gaze might be said to be ‘the presence of others as such,’ it is by no means coterminous with any individual viewer, or group of viewers. It issues ‘from all sides,’ whereas the eye ‘[sees] only from one point.’” In her delineation of Lacan’s theory of the gaze, Kaja Silverman differentiates the eye or the “look” from the gaze, making the anal- ogy that the eye and the gaze are, in psychoanalytic theory, as distinct as penis and phal- lus. Drawing from Lacan, Silverman elaborates that, far from lending an air of mastery to the subject, voyeurism renders the looking subject “subordinated to the gaze,” disturbed and overwhelmed, and overcome by shame. In Lacanian gaze theory, “the possibility of separating vision from the image” is called “radically into question,” and along with it the presumed “position of detached mastery” of the voyeuristic subject. This clarification of Lacanian gaze theory has bold implications for feminist film theory, whose proper interroga- tion of the male look has not, at times, “always been pushed far enough. We have at times assumed that dominant cinema’s scopic regime could be overturned by ‘giving’ women the gaze, rather than by exposing the impossibility of anyone ever owning that visual agency, or of him or herself escaping specularity.” See Kaja Silverman, Male Subjectivity at the Mar- gins (New York: Routledge, 1992), 130; 146; 152. This view of the voyeuristic subject not as victim but as vulnerable and fragile insofar as he can never achieve the sense of mastery that fantasmatically impels his very voyeuristic project informs my reading of The Blithedale Romance. 5. See Suzanne R. Stewart, Sublime Surrender: Male Masochism at the Fin-de-Siècle (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 10. In this study, Stewart discusses the dis- course of the masochistic male in the German-speaking world between 1870 and 1940. Male masochism, she suggests, was a rhetorical strategy through which men asserted their cultural and political authority paradoxically by embracing the notion that they were (and always had been) wounded and suffering. 6. Baym specifically refers to the work of critics such as Robert K. Martin, Scott Der- rick, David Leverenz, and Karen L. Kilcup. See her chapter “Revisiting Hawthorne’s Femi- 2 7 0 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 nism,” in Hawthorne and the Real: Bicentennial Essays, ed. Millicent Bell (Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 2005), 111. 7. Brown, Domestic Individualism: Imagining Self in Nineteenth-Century America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 131–32. 8. The bachelor has been established as a highly interesting figure in contemporary critical work. In her excellent study Bachelors, Manhood, and the Novel, 1850–1925, Kath- erine V. Snyder writes, “I like to think of the bachelor as the figure who stands in the door- way, looking in from the outside and also looking out from within” (17). Examining first- person bachelor narrators, Snyder argues that “bachelor trouble was gender trouble. While they were often seen as violating gender norms, bachelors were sometimes contradictorily thought to incarnate the desires and identifications of hegemonic bourgeois manhood” (3– 4). Bachelors have a “wide variety and sheer intensity” of “erotic and identificatory energies” (5). As Snyder writes in her discussion of the “third man” who observes male–male–female triangles, this “bachelor onlooker is a figure of surplus value, one who is apparently in ex- cess of the requirements of a homosocial market in Oedipalized desire.” It is remarkable that Pearl describes Dimmesdale, interrupting her forest fun with her mother Hester, as “the third man” (10). See Katherine V. Snyder, Bachelors, Manhood, and the Novel, 1850–1925 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 9. In The Blithedale Romance, Coverdale provides the crucial fourth side, “being writer and reader as well as participant in the dramatic action he describes.” See Allan Gardner Lloyd Smith, Eve Tempted: Writing and Sexuality in Hawthorne’s Fiction (Totowa, NJ: Barnes and Noble, 1984), 73–74. 10. As the online journal Encyclopedia Mythica reports: “Endymion was a handsome shepherd boy of Asia Minor, the mortal lover of the moon goddess Selene. Each night he was kissed to sleep by her. She begged Zeus to grant him eternal life so she might be able to embrace him forever. Zeus complied, putting Endymion into eternal sleep and each night Selene visits him on Mt. Latmus, near Milete, in Asia Minor. The ancient Greeks believed that his grave was situated on this mountain. Selene and Endymion have fifty daughters” [!]. Micha F. Lindemans, “Endymion,” Encyclopedia Mythica, http://www.pantheon.org/ articles/e/endymion.html. 11. In classically Hellenizing fashion, the walls of the Hawthornes’ West Newton home, which Nathaniel rechristened “The Wayside,” “were adorned by a bust of Apollo” and “Mrs. Hawthorne’s drawing of Endymion.” No more perfect emblems of Hawthorne’s own enig- matic beauty and personality could have existed, and it is little surprise that they adorned their home, or that Sophia drew the figure so often present—in my view—in her husband’s fiction. See Randall Stewart, Nathaniel Hawthorne (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1948), 124. 12. Interestingly, the allegorical Hawthorne-figure in Herman Melville’s poem Clarel is called “Vine.” For a wonderful queer reading of Clarel in terms of Melville’s love for Haw- thorne, see Robert K. Martin, Hero, Captain, Stranger (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986), 96–99. 13. Thomas Laqueur has written about the history of masturbation in Solitary Sex (Cambridge: Zone Books, 2003). 14. In calling Coverdale the self-as-panopticon, I attempt to evoke Jeremy Bentham’s original design for supervision of prison inmates and the now conventional Foucauldian ominousness of social surveillance, but I do not mean to offer a Foucauldian argument in this chapter. Coverdale’s panoptical selfhood explodes the idea of a functioning means of surveillance that can in any way control or shape or manipulate what it sees. Along these n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 • 2 7 1 lines, see E. Shaskan Bumas’s essay “Fictions of the Panopticon: Utopia and the Out-Peni- tent in the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne,” American Literature 73, no. 1 (March 2001): 121–45, which provides insights into early prison reform. Bumas contends that “in Blithe- dale,” Hawthorne “shows the virtually historiographic power of a narrator over narrated events and people, and he judges this power as barren but not much different from other forms of power. In Coverdale, the spy, the voyeur, and the observer overlap” (133). I would add that Hawthorne actively critiques and destabilizes Coverdale’s narrative subject position of power and mastery. 15. See T. Walter Herbert, Dearest Beloved: The Hawthornes and the Making of the Mid- dle Class Family (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 144. 16. As Hortense Spillers writes in her chapter on Uncle Tom’s Cabin, “negation becomes an alternate route to confirmation.” Hortense J. Spillers, “Changing the Letter: The Yokes, The Jokes of Discourse, Or, Mrs. Stowe, Mr. Reed,” in Slavery and the Literary Imagination: Selected Papers from the English Institute, ed. Deborah E. McDowell and Arnold Rampersad (1987; repr., Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 44. 17. For a sustained discussion of inviolate manhood and the antebellum threat of onan- ism as represented in Hawthorne’s first novel, the 1828 Fanshawe, see my book Men Beyond Desire, chapter 2. 18. See Christopher Newfield and Melissa Solomon, “Few of Our Seeds Ever Came Up at All: A Dialogue on Hawthorne, Delany, and the Work of Affect in Visionary Utopias,” in No More Separate Spheres!, ed. Cathy N. Davidson and Jessamyn Hatcher (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 377–408. 19. Many discussions of the “tourist gaze” exist, most notably in recent examinations of Jewett’s 1893 novel The Country of the Pointed Firs. For our discussion, I find Katherine Frank’s examination of it in G-Strings and Sympathy, a theoretical deconstruction of her own experiences as a stripper, particularly interesting (though far too brief ). Drawing on the work of sociologist John Urry, Frank discusses the “collective gaze”—in which multiple tourists lend glamour to their surroundings—and the “romantic gaze”—which emphasizes solitude and privacy; obviously, Coverdale embodies the latter, but one could argue that Blithedale as a whole constitutes a collective gaze. See Katherine Frank, G-Strings and Sym- pathy: Strip-Club Regulars and Male Desire (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 28–29. 20. Krips offers a stimulating discussion of onanistic voyeurism as treated similarly but also very distinctly in Hitchcock’s 1954 film Rear Window and David Cronenberg’s 1996 film Crash. See Krips, Fetish: Erotics of the Gaze (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999), 171–83. In addition to Kaja Silverman’s Male Subjectivity at the Margins and Henry Krips’s Fetish, see Robert Samuels’s Hitchcock’s Bi-Textuality: Lacan, Feminisms, and Queer Theory (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998). 21. Freud wrote Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality in 1905 but kept adding to it until 1924. See Freud, Three Essays, 58–59. 22. Samuels, Hitchcock’s Bi-Textuality, 10. 23. Ibid, 113. Samuels reads this desire to see not the presence of the object but its ab- sence as a desire on the part of the [male] subject to dominate the object by pushing it to “the limits of the visible and the sayable,” an especially relevant goal for the misogynistic subject. 24. Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, trans. Alan Sheri- dan (New York: Norton, 1981), 182. 25. Like the uncanny apparitional Green Knight of the great medieval poem Sir Gawain 2 7 2 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 and the Green Knight, the pigs have “red eyes,” an odd parallel, to be sure, but, for me, one that corroborates the uncanny quality of these highly odd pigs. Like the Green Knight— who carries a bunch of holly in one hand, an axe in another—the pigs signify gendered anxiety and threat, and much less merrily than the Green Knight. 26. See Joel Pfister, The Production of Personal Life: Class, Gender, and the Psychological in Hawthorne’s Fiction (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991), 101. 27. For Freud, the head of the Medusa suggests part of the terror of accidentally view- ing the primal scene that Freud located in the iconography of the Medusa, which he saw as a representation of the male child’s attendant revulsion—the writhing snakes being rep- resentations of pubic hair and also compensatory substitutions for the castrated penis. The 1922 essay “Medusa’s Head” (SE 18: 273–74) was unpublished in Freud’s lifetime. 28. As Marjorie Garber writes in her marvelous chapter on the gender indetermina- cy of Macbeth, the Male Medusa, “the foliate head or leaf mask which gained enormous popularity in England and throughout western Europe during the Romanesque and me- dieval periods . . . with leaves sprouting from [its face] . . . [is] often sinister and frighten- ing. . . . [This] Green Man . . . embodies a warning against the dark side of man’s nature, the devil within” (101–3). It is interesting that this sinister figure represents the union between brutal masculinist power and generative female nature. See Marjorie Garber, Shakespeare’s Ghost Writers: Literature as Uncanny Causality (New York: Methuen, 1987). 29. Jonathan Ned Katz, The Invention of Heterosexuality (New York: Dutton, 1995), 45. 30. See chapter 2, “Veiled Ladies: Toward a History of Antebellum Entertainment,” in Brodhead’s Cultures of Letters: Scenes of Reading and Writing in Nineteenth-Century America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 48–68. 31. For an excellent discussion of the implications of the veil for female sexuality, see the discussion of The Blithedale Romance in chapter 4 of Roberta Weldon’s Hawthorne, Gen- der, and Death: Christianity and Its Discontents (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 32. Benjamin Scott Grossberg, “‘The Tender Passion Was Very Rife Among Us’: Cover- dale’s Queer Utopia and The Blithedale Romance,” Studies in American Fiction 28, no. 1 (2000): 3–25. While I admire Grossberg’s highly interesting chapter, I think his approach to Coverdale’s queer sexuality verges on a celebratory quality and eschews its problematic, chilling complexities. 33. Jacksonian America was growing increasingly aware of, and hostile to, the image of the European dandy, as historian David G. Pugh points out: “[Jackson could] speak from experience . . . [since he] brought earthy wisdom to Washington rather than esoteric knowl- edge. . . . Their independence from Europe secure, Americans turned upon themselves and found on their own eastern doorstep the cultivated, effeminate enemy of the true demo- crat.” David G. Pugh, Sons of Liberty (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1983), 18. 34. “Hawthorne’s great friend Horatio Bridge wrote that [the author] was invariably cheerful with his chosen friends.” But then Hawthorne could relax with companions such as Bridge; with literary celebrities and rival authors he seldom opened up. See James R. Mel- low, Nathaniel Hawthorne in His Times (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1998), 28. 35. Ibid., 195. 36. See Renée Bergland’s chapter on the sexual and national politics of Hawthorne and Emerson’s relationship, “The Puritan Eyeball, or, Sexing the Transcendent,” in The Puritan Origins of American Sex: Religion, Sexuality, and National Identity in American Literature, ed. Tracy Fessenden et al. (New York: Routledge, 2001), 93–108. In terms of Hawthorne’s marriage and the political and historical significance of the Old Manse, Bergland provides n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 • 2 7 3 interesting contributions; especially useful are her sympathetic insights into the often mis- understood Sophia Peabody Hawthorne, her own writing, and how the pain she suffered from a miscarriage affected it. 37. Sophia’s sister Elizabeth Peabody strove to incite enthusiasm for Hawthorne’s work in Emerson, who, after reading Hawthorne’s “Footprints on the Seashore,” an account of a Salem seashore day-trip, found that it had “no inside to it.” See Carlos Baker, Emerson Among the Eccentrics: A Group Portrait (New York: Viking, 1996), 210. 38. See Herbert, Dearest Beloved, 140, for a discussion of the Peabodys’ opinion of Hawthorne’s “suspiciously feminine” manhood. Sophia chided her family for failing to rec- ognize that her husband possessed a “divine poetic manhood, into which feminine quali- ties are incorporated,” as Herbert puts it. They needed, felt Sophia, to better comprehend Hawthorne’s androgynous Apollonian qualities as such. 39. In the early republic, “European immigrants  .  .  .  were increasingly regarded with suspicion, as sources of contamination to the ‘democratic’ spirit, a suspicion made lawful in the Alien and Sedition Acts.” See Dana Nelson’s National Manhood: Capitalist Citizenship and the Imagined Fraternity of White Men (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998), 38. This anti-European and newly nativist sensibility seeped into manhood as a social category, increasingly reimagined as a decisive break with European decadence. 40. It is of course impossible to discuss the issue of homoeroticism in Hawthorne with- out mentioning the issue of Hawthorne’s relationship with his uncle, Robert Manning. Hawthorne shared an adolescent bed with his uncle after an accident that left the young Hawthorne unable to use one of his legs for several months. See Mellow, Hawthorne, 610, n66, for a very interesting discussion of Hawthorne’s “animus” toward his uncle. Mellow makes the interesting point that this animus appears to translate itself into the association with horticulture on the part of Hawthorne villains such as Rappaccini, Chillingworth, and Judge Pyncheon: Uncle Robert Manning was also a horticulturist. Whatever their re- lationship, a wounded quality seems to permeate Hawthorne’s depiction of young men, who often flinch against the threat of an older and more powerful male (“Young Goodman Brown,” “The Gentle Boy,” “The Artist of the Beautiful,” “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” The Scar- let Letter). Mellow suggests that this theme may be attributable to a childhood sexual trau- ma that Hawthorne, who once noted that “an uncle is a very dangerous thing,” may have experienced at the hands of his uncle. Though there is, undeniably, a considerable amount of suggestive evidence in Hawthorne’s work for Mellow’s theory, there is also nothing in the way of concrete evidence for it. I would point out that by placing this information in a footnote, Mellow both makes sure to include it—give it voice—and keep it discrete, if not discreet. I would add that works such as the tale “The Gentle Boy” could be justifiably read as an allegory of childhood sexual trauma. 41. See Robert K. Martin, “Hester Prynne, C’est Moi: Nathaniel Hawthorne and the Anxieties of Gender,” in Engendering Men: The Question of Male Feminist Criticism, ed. Joseph A. Boone and Michael Cadden (New York: Routledge, 1990), 135–36. My only disagreement with Martin’s essay—a superlative tour of the dynamics of gender representa- tion in Hawthorne from a great critic—is his insistence that at the heart of Hawthorne’s male characters’ gendered anxieties lies an “unacknowledged, or at least denied, desire for intimate companionship” (138). Another fine critic, Scott Derrick, concurs: what moti- vates Hawthorne’s rejection of masculine worlds in “The Custom House” chapter may stem less from a distance toward them than an unsettling erotic attraction. See Scott Derrick, Monumental Anxieties: Homoerotic Desire and Feminine Influence in 19th Century U.S. Lit- erature (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1997), 43–44. While I definitely 2 7 4 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 see a problematic, unsettling homoerotic desire as a factor in the anxiety of Coverdale and other Hawthorne males, I think a revulsion against male intimacy—exemplified by Haw- thorne’s experience at the Shaker community (see n46)—needs to be considered not only as a panicked cover for an actual desire for other men but also as a chafing against compulsory American homosociality. 42. “Fourier’s plan for a social system was embedded in a broad philosophical program. Rejecting contemporary individualistic and competitive society, which he called Civiliza- tion, Fourier projected a future ideal state of Harmony based on cooperation. He imagined a system of communities, what he termed phalanxes or phalansteries, in which all adults would engage in productive work determined by their interests and be rewarded by a com- plex scheme of remuneration for both labor and capital.” The American Albert Brisbane, who studied in Europe and worked with Fourier before his death in 1837, transmogrified the French philosopher’s ideas into an American version that de-emphasized Fourierian ir- religiousness and sexual openness, heightening instead Fourierian elements that appealed to “economic and social value.” See Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz, Rereading Sex: Battles Over Sexual Knowledge and Suppression in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Knopf, 2002), 261. 43. Engaged in a passionate discussion with her mother about Fourier, Sophia reported finding Fourier’s views “abominable”; she noted that while she read a small part, “My hus- band read the whole volume and was thoroughly disgusted.” Sophia slightly exculpated Fourier by noting to her mother that his having written after the French Revolution “ac- counts somewhat for the monstrous system” Fourier proposes. Mother Peabody responded by saying that the French “have been and are still corrupt.” See Mellow, Hawthorne, 248– 49. 44. “It was not a translation of Fourier that I read,” wrote Sophia. “It was the original text.” She then passed it onto her husband, who read the whole volume. Ibid., 249. 45. See Horowitz, Rereading Sex, 262–63. 46. See Mellow, Hawthorne, 378–79. Touring a Shaker village with Melville, interest- ingly enough, Hawthorne, observing quarters in which men slept in the same beds with other men, called the Shakers “filthy.” His hostility toward the Shakers seems only to have deepened over time. 47. See Anthony Rotundo, American Manhood: Transformations in Masculinity from the Revolution to the Modern Era (New York: Basic Books, 1993), 223. By the end of the nine- teenth century, American men, obsessed with men’s bodies, even more obsessed with their own, “treated physical strength and strength of character” as one and the same. 48. See Wheeler Winston Dixon, It Looks at You: The Returned Gaze of Cinema (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 2. 49. Ibid., 14. 50. Ibid., 17. 51. Drawing on Kristeva’s theory of the “chora,” a womb/receptacle, Dixon argues that the camera is the dark womb, the chora, of film, the birthplace of imagery. Ibid., 81–82. 52. Drawing on the work of sex researcher Theodor Reik, Silverman argues that “the male masochist,” unlike the female, “leaves his social identity completely behind—actually abandons his ‘self ’—and passes over into the ‘enemy terrain’ of femininity.” Male masoch- ism can be “disruptive,” “shattering.” See Silverman, Male Subjectivity, 190. Though highly unpleasant for him, Coverdale’s masochism does allow him to be critical of the masculine subject position as a whole and to empathize with women and female desire, as his empathy for Zenobia in the face of misogynistic Hollingsworth’s freezing idealism evinces. It does n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 • 2 7 5 not, however, enlarge his capacity to see dandified Westervelt in anything but phobic terms, though it must be insisted upon that this phobia is indistinguishable from the critique of masculine power and capacity for cruelty that makes Coverdale such an unflinching critic of manhood in the first place. The pig-passage, as I elaborate upon, functions as Hawthorne’s authorial critique of the illusion of mastery that Coverdale fantasmatically believes he gains from his phobic calumniation of Westervelt, who is, after all, not essentially read inaccu- rately by Coverdale, given Westervelt’s showman’s knack for domination and cruelty. We can further interpret Coverdale’s apprehensiveness around Old Moody, revealed to be the father who abandoned Zenobia, as further evidence of his skill for discerning questionable manhood. 53. For a characteristically insightful examination of the particular implications of pigs as a beast-metaphor in Homer and elsewhere, see Marina Warner, No Go the Bogeyman: Scaring, Lulling, and Making Mock (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1998), 265–67; 277–78. 54. Edelman is, I think, insensitive to the anguished awareness of racial inequality that informs Du Bois’s rhetoric. Nevertheless, Edelman’s theorization of masculinity as a pub- lic performance, one that is enacted and wholly self-conscious, is useful. See Lee Edelman, Homographesis: Essays in Gay Literary and Cultural Theory (New York: Routledge, 1994), 50–51. 55. See Dixon, It Looks at You, 31. 56. In her chapter “The Animal Department of Our Nature,” Rita K. Gollin discusses pigs in Hawthorne’s work as signifiers of sensual decadence, “types of unmitigated sensu- ality.” The figure of the pig can represent concupiscence in both men and women, female sexuality as well as male. But the strenuously specific nature of the gendered typing of the pigs in The Blithedale Romance cannot be underemphasized, nor should be. See The Nathan- iel Hawthorne Review 30, nos. 1 and 2 (2004): 145–66. 57. “Pig” is a common epithet for police officers; pigs are also the animals who betray their beastly brethren in Orwell’s Animal Farm, finally indistinguishable from the “men” to whom they sell out their ideals. 58. Barbara Creed—drawing, like Dixon, on the work of Julia Kristeva—theorizes that traditional narrative film thematizes the figure of what Creed calls “The Monstrous-Fem- inine.” As discussed by Creed, this figure evokes “the dread of the generative mother seen only in the abyss, the monstrous vagina, the origin of all life threatening to reabsorb what it once birthed” (54). See Barbara Creed’s book The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis (New York: Routledge, 1993), particularly the chapter on Alien, 16–31, in which Creed unpacks Kristeva’s theory of abjection for feminist readings of the horror film, focusing on the figure of the archaic mother; or her chapter “Horror and the Monstrous- Feminine: An Imaginary Abjection,” in The Dread of Difference: Gender and the Horror Film, ed. Barry Keith Grant (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1996), 35–65. If the monstrous- feminine represents the primal, archaic mother who threatens to devour, to re-engulf, the subject, the pigs in Hawthorne represent a primal, archaic father, animal and barbaric mas- culinity unvarnished by language, rationality, culture, the embodiment of a bestial irratio- nal gendered knowledge a return to which is too terrifying to contemplate. One thinks of Cronos, madly and with an unappeasable appetite, devouring his children in Goya’s famous painting. Perversely, the pigs can suggest such a bestial gendered state of origins while being themselves fattened up for the slaughter. 59. The “whole of Richard III resonated” for the boy Hawthorne. See Brenda Wine- apple, Hawthorne: A Life (New York: Knopf, 2003), 25–26. Wineapple links Hawthorne’s 2 7 6 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 fascination with the malformed Richard III to his ambivalent feelings about his maternal Manning family and Uncle Richard in particular. 60. Monika Mueller sums up the Hollingsworth–Coverdale relationship this way: “In The Blithedale Romance, homoeroticism is finally abandoned in favor of ‘frosty bachelor- hood’ on the part of one character involved in the relationship and a heterosexual marriage, clouded by the outcome of the homosocial exchange of women, on the part of the other” (71–72). See Monika Mueller, This Infinite Fraternity of Feeling: Gender, Genre, and Homo- erotic Crisis in Hawthorne’s “The Blithedale Romance” and Melville’s “Pierre” (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1996). Overall, Mueller’s approach is too simplistic. Some critics, such as biographers James R. Mellow and Edwin Havilland Miller, Robert K. Martin, and Mueller, argue that Hawthorne and Melville both worked out in literature— The Blithedale Romance and Pierre, specifically—the tortured feelings each eventually devel- oped within the course of their famous friendship. If, as these critics contend, Hawthorne transmuted his fraught friendship with Melville into art with The Blithedale Romance, we can look upon Hollingsworth as the Melville figure, brimming with blustery brio, offer- ing his hand to Hawthorne in deep longing promise of friendship, and Coverdale as the Hawthorne figure, cryptic and unresponsive, but secretly filled with unresolved longings. Yet I would argue that Hollingsworth is also an Emersonian figure, in that he represents a social-program-obsessed visionary with huge philanthropic ideals but a lack of interest in the individual human soul. Hawthorne “took aim at his public-spirited neighbors,” such as Emerson, when he lived in Concord, surrounded by “poets, reformers, and wooly tran- scendentalists of the sanguine persuasion.” Hawthorne saw Emerson as “pretentious and spoiled,” and had little use for his lofty transcendentalist ideals and programs. See Wine- apple, Hawthorne, 171–72. But I also think Wineapple’s wonderfully compelling biography is too dismissive of Hawthorne’s own feelings toward Melville. She discusses the famous first meeting between Hawthorne and Melville as “ a good story” (222) and focuses primarily on Melville’s overheated passion for Hawthorne, never fully exploring Hawthorne’s own potential desires for the younger, initially idolatrous author. Wineapple offers a much more considered account in her essay “Hawthorne and Melville: Or, the Ambiguities,” Hawthorne and Melville: Writing a Relationship, ed. Jana L., Argersinger and Leland S. Person, 51–70 (University of Georgia Press, 2008). See also Robert Milder, “The Ugly Socrates: Melville, Hawthorne, and the Varieties of Homoerotic Experience,” Hawthorne and Melville: Writing a Relationship, ed. Jana L. Argersinger and Leland S. Person (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2008), 71–97. 61. At the start of Marlowe’s Edward II, the King’s lover Gaveston, who has just been recalled from exile, describes the erotic entertainments he wants to stage for Edward: I must haue wanton Poets, pleasant wits, Musitians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please: Musicke and poetrie is his delight, herefore ile haue Italian maskes by night, Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes, And in the day when he shall walke abroad, Like Siluian Nimphes my pages shall be clad, My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes, Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay, Sometime a louelie boye in Dians shape, n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 5 • 2 7 7 With haire that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearle about his naked armes, And in his sportfull hands an Oliue tree, To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, One like Actæon peeping through the groue, Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde, And running in the likenes of an Hart, By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die, Such things as these best please his maiestie. (1.1. 51 forward) Not only does this homoerotic revision of the Diana-Actaeon myth correspond to Haw- thorne’s masculinization of the Odysseus-Circe-male pigs episode from The Odyssey, but it also influences our reading of Hawthorne’s own version of the Diana-Actaeon myth in The Blithedale Romance. In this manner, Coverdale reproduces or is forced to relive his confron- tation with the peeping pigs when he spies on the Comus-like masque of revelers in the forest. I thank Alan T. Bradford for reminding me of the Marlowe passage. 62. In his revolutionary 1972 study Homosexual Desire (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993), Guy Hocquenghem discusses homosexual desire as “an arbitrarily frozen frame in an unbroken and polyvocal flux” (50). Hocquenghem’s refusal to distinguish homosexual from any other form of desire—which is to say that desire has multiple forms, and cannot be subdivided into homosexuality or heterosexuality, that is, imitative and prior forms— matches, in my view, the polyamorous appreciation of male and female beauty in Haw- thorne’s work. Significantly for the pig-passage and its breakdown of normative forms of identity, as well as for Coverdale’s inability to distinguish Westervelt from man or machine, Hocquenghem writes, “Homosexuality exists and does not exist, at one and the same time: indeed, its very mode of existence questions again and again the certainty of existence” (53). The animal–male references—their interspecies blurriness—contribute to the overall sense of splintering, shaken order, dissolving reality. 63. Surprisingly, Thorwald’s returned gaze is not discussed in Dixon’s It Looks at You, not only because it’s a great moment for his thesis but because surely Thorwald stares just as harrowingly at us as he does at Jeff. 64. Precisely because Hawthorne’s greatest political accomplishment is his consistent and consistently unflinching critique of conventional, compulsory forms of manhood and masculinity, which has implications not only for heteromanhood but for queer manhood as well, I find the strain of masculinism in treatments of Hawthorne’s politics vaguely humor- ous and largely unsettling. Since the 1980s, in a critical movement spearheaded by Jonathan Arac and Sacvan Bercovitch, a broad critique of Hawthorne’s ambiguity—seen as, among other dubious things, an aesthetic maneuver for expressing by camouflaging ambivalence over the slavery issue or for providing a seeming array of possibilities to us as desiring sub- jects while actually depriving us of all choice, making us complicit with our own deadening socialization—has denatured Hawthorne’s aesthetics by seeing it in strictly political terms. The issues in this critique, which extends into the present, as many chapters in the Millicent Bell–edited collection Hawthorne and the Real evince, are painfully, pressingly important, but, as I argue at length in chapter 1, the critique in its Arac–Bercovitch cast suffers from an inability to see aesthetics in anything other than ideological terms. I am left largely mystified by Michael J. Colacurcio’s provocative, at times reveal- ingly well-observed, but ultimately quite confused reading of the novel in “Nobody’s Pro- 2 7 8 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 6 test Novel,” The Nathaniel Hawthorne Review 34 (2008): 1–39. While this essay deserves a much more elaborate response than I can provide here, I find his thesis—that Coverdale actually murders Zenobia—wildly improbable, especially given the passivity and fragility that defines Hawthorne’s sympathetically drawn males even at their most scornful. In other words, I find it vexing that Colacurcio ignores Hollingsworth’s declaration of his willing- ness to beat women into submission—literally, through physical violence—and focuses on Coverdale as a would-be lover so jealous that he’s driven to kill the woman his love for whom he cannot explicitly express. Not only does Colacurcio fairly thoroughly heterosexu- alize Coverdale—in that he is read as a character motivated by sexual passion for a woman he cannot possess—but he also blunts Hawthorne’s tragic feminist point: Zenobia’s suicide is her only means of real resistance in the novel, at least in her own view. c h a p t e r 6 1. Nina Baym, “The Heroine of The House of the Seven Gables; Or, Who Killed Jaffrey Pyncheon?” The New England Quarterly 77, no. 4 (December 2004): 607–18. 2. Allison Easton, “Hawthorne and the Question of Women,” in The Cambridge Com- panion to Nathaniel Hawthorne, ed. Richard Millington (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 82. 3. See especially the chapter “The Ambiguity of Beatrice” in Roy R. Male, Hawthorne’s Tragic Vision (New York: Norton, 1957) and chapter 2 of Ullén, The Half-Vanished Struc- ture: Hawthorne’s Allegorical Dialectics (New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2004). These are both superb studies, but their insistence on seeing “woman” as the embodiment of man’s sinfulness rather than as a thoughtful, resistant agent of her own desires in Hawthorne’s work is, in my view, a limitation. 4. Hyatt H. Waggoner, Hawthorne: A Critical Study, rev. ed. (1955; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963), 159. 5. The Italian poet Dante, whose works define the early Renaissance, evoked the char- acter of Beatrice in his La Vita Nuova and Paradiso, the third book of The Divine Comedy, in which the figure of Beatrice, embodying the divine grace of womanhood, leads Dante to Heaven. (Figured as one of Heaven’s great women, Beatrice takes over the role of Dante’s guide from Virgil, author of The Aeneid. The Latin poet, because pagan and therefore fallen, cannot lead Dante into paradise.) A significant intertextual overlap for Hawthorne’s work generally is the figure of “The Lady of the Screen” in La Vita Nuova. Dante anticipates modern theories of the gendered gaze in his thematization of The Lady of the Screen, the woman that Dante used as a substitute object of veneration so that he would not embarrass the real-life object of his desires, Beatrice Portinari, with his unceasing gaze. One also in- evitably thinks of the historical Beatrice Cenci, executed for having murdered her powerful, cruel father but venerated as a victim who fought back (her father forced her to have sexual relations with him), a tender soul plunged into a miasmic world of sin who yet managed to retain her poignant, delicate humanity. She became a prominent figure of sympathy in the Romantic era, as evinced by Percy Bysshe Shelley’s drama The Cenci; Hawthorne centrally evokes her in The Marble Faun. 6. For a book-length discussion of this topic, see Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990). n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 6 • 2 7 9 7. For a discussion of the diabolical horticulturist, which she ties to the avuncular figures in Hawthorne’s life and fiction, see chapter 4 in Gloria Erlich’s Family Themes and Hawthorne’s Fiction: The Tenacious Web (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1984). 8. Milton writes of this gendered relationship in his divorce essay “Tetrachordon.” See Milton, The Riverside Milton, ed. Roy Flannagan (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1998), 1033. 9. This is a structuring theme that is not unique to Hawthorne, and nor are its ho- moerotic as well as homophobic implications. Poe’s stories ranging from “The Man of the Crowd” to “The Tell-Tale Heart” also contrast a young man against a frightening older man, although the sources of this fear appear to lie in the younger man’s own conflictual feelings. Similarly, Melville frequently contrasts endangered younger men against alternately preda- tory and brutal older men, while consistently thematizing that the younger man is sexually endangered, if not actively violated, within this intergenerational conflict. 10. As Carol Marie Bensick explains, Hawthorne draws on the poison damsel tradition. This tradition was widely circulated in the six- teenth century. The tradition of the poison damsel had entered Europe from the East via the two pseudo-Aristotelian miscellanies, the Gesta Romano- rum, from which Baglioni’s version comes, and the Secreta Secretorum. In the legends, the poison damsel tended to be associated with India, as in Ba- glioni’s rendering. Variants included the presence of a characteristic “flow- ering creeper”; subtraditions dealt specifically with “Poisonous Breath” and “Poison by Intercourse.” An especially famous version form the Neapolitan chronicler Costanzo told the story of King Ladislaus of Naples, a retelling of which by Montaigne Hawthorne transcribed in his notebook. In Costanzo’s original version the father of the poisonous bride is “a certain unscrupulous doctor of Perugia”—the citadel, we may recall, of the historic Balioni. One version of the Alexander legend was circulated in the sixteenth century un- der the title of “La Pucelle venimeuse”; this title seems close to Aubépine’s supposed original title for “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” “La belle empoisonneu- se.” Even earlier, a variant of the legend was circulated by Dante Alighieri’s teacher and later fictional inhabitant of the circle of Inferno reserved for sins related to sex, Brunetto Latini. Carol Marie Bensick, La Nouvelle Beatrice: Renaissance and Romance in “Rappaccini’s Daugh- ter” (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1985), 83–84. 11. See chapter 1 of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), in which she influentially describes, building on the theories of René Girard, the theory of triangulated desire, the ways that males exchange and circulate their own desires through the traffic in women. 12. See Pagels, Adam, Eve, and the Serpent: Sex and Politics in Early Christianity (New York: Vintage, 1989), 109. 13. Marcia Ian, Remembering the Phallic Mother: Psychoanalysis, Modernism, and the Fe- tish (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 8–9. 14. Editor’s note, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, ed. A. D. Melville (New York: Oxford Univer- sity Press, 1998), 458n770. 15. Roxanne Gentilcore, “The Landscape of Desire: The Tale of Pomona and Vertum- nus in Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses,’” Phoenix 49, no. 2 (Summer 1995): 120. 2 8 0 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 6 16. Ibid., 112. 17. Thomas Bulfinch, Bulfinch’s Mythology, vol. 1, The Age of Fable (New York: Signet, 1962), 112. 18. Robert Daly mentions Vertumnus in his review of various intertextual valences in the story; his conclusion, that Hawthorne’s tale is primarily about a broad battle, one go- ing beyond Christian philosophy, between fideism (faith as the ultimate knowledge) and empiricism seems to me to miss out entirely on the provocatively sexually charged nature of Hawthorne’s themes. See Daly, “Fideism and the Allusive Mode in ‘Rappaccini’s Daugh- ter,’” Nineteenth-Century Fiction 28, no. 1 (June 1973): 25–37. 19. Vertumnus is a related, complementary figure to Narcissus, not his opposite. If we consider the reference to Vertumnus as Hawthorne’s means of exploring his unacknowl- edgeable interests in the figure of Narcissus, the Freudian concept of reaction-formation il- luminates this device. In Freud’s theorization, a reaction-formation is the psychic defense whereby a desire or image one cannot acknowledge and or wishes to repudiate is replaced by its opposite quality. While Hawthorne’s use of Vertumnus is not precisely representative of this Freudian concept, the concept sheds light on Hawthorne’s usage of one classical figure to evoke another, at least insofar as I interpret Hawthorne’s work. The explicit reference to Vertumnus exposes the absence of a textually named Narcissus as it nods to Ovid. 20. For a discussion of typology in Hawthorne, see Courtmanche, How Nathaniel Haw- thorne’s Narratives Are Shaped by Sin: His Use of Biblical Typology in His Four Major Works (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2008). 21. Though I have not found a discussion of it in print, in a conference paper, T. Walter Herbert made the allusion to the Dimmesdale-exposed-chest scene as a scene reminiscent of the nineteenth-century bodice-ripper. 22. For a discussion of the “debility” caused by onanism, the finest study of sexual re- form in the antebellum United States remains Stephen Nissenbaum’s Sex, Diet, and Debility in Jacksonian America: Sylvester Graham and Health Reform (1980; repr., Chicago: Dorsey, 1988). His primary focus is Sylvester Graham, and there is also a notable chapter on Thom- as and Mary Gove Nichols. Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz’s Rereading Sex is an important new interpretation of sexual morality and its mavens in nineteenth-century America. 23. Linda Dowling, Hellenism and Homosexuality in Victorian Oxford (Ithaca, NY: Cor- nell University Press, 1994), 91. 24. Oscar Wilde called his beloved “Bosie,” Lord Alfred Douglas, “Narcissus” among other classical names. “[T]he notion of the male lover as ethical mirror,” writes Dowling of the Platonic discourse of same-sex desire in the nineteenth century, “would come to be represented by the figure of Narcissus, a symbol that, emptied of its classical ethical context, would in turn come to represent male love—Wilde and [W. H.] Mallock . . . both deploy it this way.” Ibid., 145, 147. 25. Of “Medusa’s Head,” Freud’s standard translator James Strachey writes that “it ap- pears to be a sketch for a more extensive work” (SE 18: 273n1). 26. Freud cited Sándor Ferenczi’s discussion of the myth as a goad to his own theoriza- tion of the Medusa. Ruth Leys offers an excellent discussion of Ferenczi’s views of Medusa (in his Clinical Diary) in her book Trauma: A Genealogy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 134–38. As Leys observes, Ferenczi gets the details of the myth wrong but comes up, nevertheless, with a fascinating reading of Medusa’s hideousness as a mirror for that of her raging, animalistic killer, whom Ferenczi fails to identify as Perseus. 27. Diane Jonte-Pace, Speaking the Unspeakable: Religion, Misogyny, and the Uncanny Mother in Freud’s Cultural Texts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 53. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 6 • 2 8 1 28. Ibid., 54. 29. Jonte-Pace notes that Freud remarked on this theme in print, in a footnote to the published paper “Infantile Genital Organization.” As Freud put it, “Athene, who carried Medusa’s head on her armor, becomes, in consequence, the unapproachable woman, the sight of whom extinguishes all thought of sexual approach” (SE 19: 144n3). 30. The relationship between Athena and Medusa was certainly well known in the ante- bellum context. As S. G. Goodrich, who was the editor from 1828 to 1842 of the illustrated annual The Token, which published the younger Hawthorne, wrote in his book of mytho- logical stories retold for children, “The countenance of Minerva was generally more expres- sive of masculine firmness than of grace or softness. She was clothed in complete armour, with a golden helmet, a glittering crest, and nodding plume. She has a golden breast-plate. In her right hand she holds a lance, and in her left, a shield, on which was the painted the dying head of Medusa, with serpents writhing around it.” See Goodrich, A Book of Mythol- ogy for Youth: containing descriptions of the deities, temples sacrifices and superstitions of the ancient Greeks and Romans: adapted to the use of schools (Boston: Richardson, Lord and Hol- brook, 1832), 37. 31. For a probing discussion of misogyny in this tale, see Dana Medoro’s essay “‘Look- ing into Their Inmost Nature’: The Speculum and Sexual Selection in ‘Rappaccini’s Daugh- ter,’” The Nathaniel Hawthorne Review 35, no. 1 (Spring 2009): 70–86. 32. Tobin Siebers, The Mirror of Medusa (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 12. 33. Ibid., 44. 34. Ibid., 57. 35. Ibid., 65. 36. Ibid., 85–86. 37. Huot quoted in Julia M. Walker, Medusa’s Mirrors: Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, and the Metamorphosis of the Female Self (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1998), 182. 38. Ibid., 185. 39. John Leonard, introduction to Paradise Lost, by John Milton (New York: Penguin, 2003), xxvii. 40. For a fine discussion—and one of the first to make the point—of the overlaps be- tween Hawthorne’s tale and Paradise Lost, see Liebman, who argues interestingly, especially given that the essay dates from 1968, that Hawthorne figures Beatrice as the New Adam, and Giovanni as the New Eve. Hawthorne inverts the Paradise Lost myth, since it portrays “the second fall, the fall from the promised paradise rather than from paradise itself.” Li- ebman reads Baglioni as Satan to Rappaccini’s God, and therefore argues that Giovanni is the Eve figure seduced by Satan-Baglioni, whereas the “New Adam”-Beatrice is “fallen but pure.” See Sheldon W. Liebman, “Hawthorne and Milton: The Second Fall in ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter,’” The New England Quarterly 41, no. 4 (1968): 521–35; quote from p. 534. 41. Frederick Crews, The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne’s Psychological Themes (1966; repr., Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 122. 42. Ibid., 130. 43. Ibid., 117. 44. Ibid., 120. 45. Easton, “Hawthorne and Women,” 86. 46. Georgiana’s character is a related but distinct one from Beatrice, I think. She seems much more complicit in her own death than Beatrice, although that story is as much a cri- tique of misogyny as “Rappaccini’s Daughter.” Surely we are never asked to sympathize with 2 8 2 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 7 Aylmer’s quest to rid Georgiana of the birthmark, and her capitulation to her husband’s de- ranged quest indicates an internalization of his misogyny as well as that of the social order. 47. Hélène Cixous, “Castration or Decapitation?” in Contemporary Literary Criticism, ed. Robert Con Davis and Robert Scheifler (1976; repr., New York: Longman, 1989), 486– 87. 48. Milton’s Eve has many magnificent moments, but the one moment in which she rebukes masculinist authority occurs not only after she has fallen but also in the speech in which she incoherently and vituperatively accuses Adam of not having exerted his masculin- ist will more forcibly upon her: “Being as I am, why didst not thou the head / Command me absolutely not to go / Going into such danger as thou sadist?” (9: 1155–57). Eve, who so stirringly had explained to Adam why they should divide up their labors in the Garden and work independently, now condemns Adam—who is, of course, condemning her for having been tempted and tempting him in turn—for having treated her with too much respect, for having recognized her self-sufficiency and fortitude. c h a p t e r 7 1. Melville, Moby-Dick, or, The Whale, ed. Harrison Hayford, et al. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2001), 5. 2. Samuel G. Goodrich, A Book of Mythology for Youth: containing descriptions of the deities, temples sacrifices and superstitions of the ancient Greeks and Romans: adapted to the use of schools (Boston: Richardson, Lord and Holbrook, 1832), 40. 3. Ibid, 45. 4. Ibid, 103. 5. Crompton, Byron and Greek Love: Homophobia in 19th-Century England (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 91. 6. Winterer, The Culture of Classicism: Ancient Greece and Rome in American Intellectual Life, 1780–1910 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 91. 7. As Laura Laffrado rightly reminds us, in Hawthorne’s version of the Demeter and Persephone myth, sexuality has “not been sanitized; instead, it has gone underground. The sexual innuendo in the pomegranate scene is coded sexuality located in little red caves and significant seeds. Sexuality is hidden, not eliminated. . . . [This] is a movement toward de- nial, not purification. The strategy to desexualize the myth by reducing Proserpina’s age fails. The denial of overt sexuality and the lack of a pure world for children remain.” See Laffrado, Hawthorne’s Literature for Children (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1992), 122. 8. As Foucault quite influentially wrote, in 1870 homosexuality emerged as a psycho- logical, psychiatric, and medical category, as “a certain way of inverting the masculine and feminine in one self. Homosexuality appeared as one of the forms of sexuality when it was transposed from the practice of sodomy to a kind of interior androgyny, a hermaphrodism of the soul. The sodomite had been a temporary aberration; the homosexual was now a spe- cies.” See Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 1, trans. from the French by Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1988–90), 43. 9. “The word ‘homosexuality’ was not invented until 1869 (by the Hungarian, Benkert von Kertbeny) and did not enter English usage until the 1880s and 1890s, and then largely as a result of the work of Havelock Ellis.” Jeffrey Weeks, Against Nature: Essays on History, Sexuality and Identity (London: Rivers Oram, 1991), 16. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 7 • 2 8 3 10. Critics such as Graham Robb, George E. Haggerty, William Benemann, Judith Halberstam, Christopher Castiglia, Christopher Looby, Peter Coviello, Richard Godbeer, Heather Love, Regina Kunzel, Valerie Rohy, and Axel Nissen, and others already men- tioned, with their attention to historical specificity as well as a new openness, have been opening up the sexual terrain, allowing for fresh connections to be made. 11. David Halperin, How to Do the History of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002). 12. Melville, Journals, ed. Howard C. Horsford and Lynn Horth (Evanston, IL: North- western University Press, 1989), 106. 13. Ibid., 107. 14. See Coffler, “Classical Iconography in the Aesthetics of Billy Budd, Sailor,” in Sav- age Eye: Melville and the Visual Arts, ed. Christopher Sten (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1991), 261. 15. Lambert, Beloved and God: The Story of Hadrian and Antinous (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1984), 5. 16. Coffler, “Classical Iconography in Billy Budd,” 257, 259. 17. See Francis Haskell and Nicholas Penny, Taste and the Antique: The Lure of Classi- cal Sculpture, 1500–1900 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982), 146. The authors specifically note Hawthorne’s dissent from what had become Winckelmann’s “clichéd” view. 18. I discuss this critical narrative and establish the basis for my dissent from it in my essay “The Bonds of Men: A Review of Richard Godbeer’s The Overflowing of Friendship and Brian Baker’s Masculinity in Fiction and Film,” College Literature 37, no. 3 (2010): 193–202. 19. For discussions of literary male viewing of visual art representations of male beauty as mediated by Winckelmann, see excellent discussions in Brown of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s appraisal of male sculpture in classical art, especially chapter 1, and Crompton; and of Henry James’s encounter with homoerotic imagery in France in Michael Moon, A Small Boy and Others: Imitation and Initiation in American Culture from Henry James to Andy Warhol (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998). 20. For discussions of the considerable homoerotic implications of nineteenth-century Hellenism, see especially Nathaniel Brown, Sexuality and Feminism in Shelley (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979; Linda Dowling, Hellenism and Homosexuality in Vic- torian Oxford (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994); Louis Crompton, Byron and Greek Love: Homophobia in 19th-Century England (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); and Moon, A Small Boy. 21. I gratefully thank Tom Rice as well as several on the C-19 e-mail discussion list, especially Robert Wallace and John L. Bryant, for their feedback on the question of the publication of lectures in the nineteenth century and of Melville’s lectures in his lifetime. 22. “A number of Goethean references to the writings of Winckelmann were marked, showing an interest that seems confirmed by Melville’s reading of Winckelmann’s History of Ancient Art in 1852.” See Douglas Robillard, Melville and the Visual Arts: Ionian Form, Venetian Tint (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1997), 35. Given the growing impor- tance of Goethe to the emergent homoerotic aesthetic culture of the eighteenth and nine- teenth centuries, further analysis of the overlaps among the German writers and Melville’s and Hawthorne’s work should prove quite fruitful. 23. Melville, The Piazza Tales and Other Prose Pieces, 1839–1860, ed. Harrison Hayford et al. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1987), 402. 2 8 4 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 7 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid., 403. 26. Ibid., 403–4. 27. Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, in his famous 1766 Laocoön: An Essay Upon the Limits of Poetry and Painting, disputes Winckelmann’s view of the serenity of this sculpture, although the chief issue for Lessing is one of genre and its inherent constraints. For example, sculp- ture should not attempt to reproduce literary narrative (such as the action of The Aeneid) but should, instead, capture iconic moments. As Deanna Fernie notes in her 2011 book on Hawthorne and sculpture, “Modern works of sculpture failed, in Lessing’s view, because they attempted to incorporate narrative, which sculpture, as a spatially determined form, should not. Where writing builds an impression by word, sculpture presents in material form a complete entity. The sculptural Laocoön succeeds for Lessing because it does not at- tempt everything that the myth’s literary renditions achieve. Although Laocoön’s mouth is open, he appears to be withholding or at least subduing utterance rather than shrieking (as he does in Virgil).” In other words, Laocoön’s open mouth is iconic of suffering rather than a representation of an action in Virgil’s poem; it is not an attempt to reproduce Virgil’s epic narrative in sculpture. See Fernie, Hawthorne, Sculpture, and the Question of American Art (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), 32–33. My thanks to Brian Glavey for his feedback on the question of Lessing’s relationship to Winckelmann. 28. Melville, Piazza Tales, 406. 29. Whitney Davis, Queer Beauty: Sexuality and Aesthetics from Winckelmann to Freud and Beyond (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), 13. 30. Ibid.; emphases in the original. 31. Melville, Piazza Tales, 407. 32. Ibid., 753. 33. Coffler, “Classical Iconography,” 267. 34. Melville, Billy Budd: The Genetic Text, ed. Harrison Hayford and Merton M. Sealts (1978; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001). All citations from Billy Budd will be from this edition and are documented parenthetically within the main text. 35. Here is Walters’s description in fuller form, which I include here because of its dex- terity and relevance: The great marble David, carved when Michelangelo was not yet thirty, is not just a symbol of Florentine liberty, but the sculptor’s idealized self-im- age. The obscure and youthful shepherd goes out alone to prove himself to his doubting family and countrymen and to carve his place in history: the personal implications for Michelangelo are obvious. David is at once classi- cally ideal, and far more particularized than any ancient hero. The boy has been turned into a giant, but he is as gawky as an adolescent. The enlarged hands, with their swollen veins and muscles, belong to a laborer, or a stone- worker. . . . But despite David’s size and his defiant nudity—he is stripped for action, and his nakedness is the sign that he is God’s warrior—he is not altogether confident. From the front, he looks proudly relaxed; from any other angle, his pose seems more uncertain. The head turning over the shoulder disturbs David’s poise, and his frowning face is both angry and anxious. The hero is shown, not in his moment of triumph, as is more com- mon, but tensed before the fight. His energy remains petrified, forever un- released and unrealized. n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 7 • 2 8 5 See Margaret Walters, The Nude Male: A New Perspective (New York: Paddington, 1978), 138–39. 36. For elaborations on the “masochistic gaze,” see my 2010 book Manhood in Holly- wood from Bush to Bush, particularly chapters 2 and 4. 37. Winckelmann’s writings on Antinous were available within the second volume, which was the first to be published in the United States, in 1849. As Alex Potts puts it in his introduction to Winckelmann’s History of the Art of Antiquity, published in a new trans- lation in 2006, The publication history of this translation by G. Henry Lodge, titled The History of Ancient Art, is strangely erratic: Volume 1 (Boston: Little, Brown) came out in 1856, volume 2 (Boston: J. Munroe) in 1849 (reprinted with volume 1 in 1856 by Little, Brown), and volumes 3 and 4 (Boston: J. R. Osgood) in 1872–73. The complete four volumes were reissued in Boston in 1880, in London in 1881[.] See Potts, introduction to History of the Art of Antiquity, by Alex Potts and Johann Joachim Winckelmann (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2006), 38n5. 38. Ibid., 80, 144. 39. For discussions of the American male traveler’s response to classical sculpture and its homoerotic implications, see Person, “Falling into Heterosexuality: Sculpting Male Bod- ies in The Marble Faun and Roderick Hudson,” in Robert K. Martin and Leland S. Person, Roman Holidays: American Writers and Artists in Nineteenth-Century Italy (Iowa City: Uni- versity of Iowa Press, 2002), 107–40; Robert Milder, “The Connecting Link of the Centu- ries: Melville, Rome, and the Mediterranean, 1856–57,” in Roman Holidays, 206–26. For a discussion of the relationship among the melancholia that Winckelmann characteristically associated with the Antinous, pederasty, and the “queer subject in history,” see Thomas Alan King, The Gendering of Men, 1600–1750: Queer Articulations (Madison: University of Wis- consin Press, 2008). Milder is very interesting on the eye pains that Melville experienced while gazing at the “stunning” art works in Italy. Unlike Hawthorne, Milder observes, “Melville typically viewed statuary and painting with an eye less to character than to history and the progress (or regress) of civilization. What impressed him most about Rome—ancient Rome—was the [“massive,” “majestic,” “colossal,” et al.] scale of life it evinced.” See Milder, “The Con- necting Link of the Centuries,” 218. It would have been interesting to hear Milder’s specu- lations on what role Melville’s distinct view of historical scale played in his appraisal/recep- tion of Antinous. Person’s view of the significance of the faun differs from my own. “Working strenu- ously . . . to portray the Faun as another ‘neutral territory,’ Hawthorne’s best effort produces a male body that reflects an uneasy truce between desire and its expression—a prison house of desire, sportive and frisky, that threatens to burst forth a monster.” See Person, “Falling into Heterosexuality,” 116. As I will be suggesting through my comparison of Hawthorne’s view of the faun as art object with Freud’s discussion of the homosexual artist Leonardo, Hawthorne does not come down on the side of seeing the faun as monster. Rather, Haw- thorne frames the faun as representative of the freedom that is made possible only through the aesthetic—a freedom both from sex and from sexual restraint. 40. “Immediately after General Pierce’s election to the Presidency, in 1852, he offered Hawthorne the Liverpool consulate, an office then considered the most lucrative of all the 2 8 6 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 7 foreign appointments in the Presidential gift, and soon after his inauguration he gave him that place. With his family, Hawthorne sailed for England in July, 1853.” The appointment lasted for four years. Horatio Bridge, Personal Recollections of Nathaniel Hawthorne (1893; Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific, 2004), 150. 41. Potts, Flesh and the Ideal: Winckelmann and the Origins of Art History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994), 91. 42. Ibid., 165–66. 43. Ibid., 167. 44. Bentley, The Ethnography of Manners: Hawthorne, James and Wharton, 1st ed. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Riss, Race, Slavery, and Liberalism in Nineteenth- Century American Literature, 1st ed. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 45. Johnson, Henry James and the Visual (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 57–58. 46. Sandra A. Zagarell, “Country’s Portrayal of Community and the Exclusion of Dif- ference,” in New Essays on “The Country of the Pointed Firs,” ed. June Howard (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 39–60; 53–54. 47. Martin Bernal, Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, vol. 1, The Fabrication of Ancient Greece, 1785–1985 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987), 367–70. 48. Attesting to the controversial nature of Bernal’s book, two classical scholars have put forth a collection of essays from classicists who strongly dispute Bernal’s claims. See Black Athena Revisited, ed. Mary R. Lefkowitz and Guy MacLean Rogers (Chapel Hill: North Carolina University Press, 1996). 49. Considering the productively maddening “perplexity” of the faun, Emily Budick argues that the faun is both childlike and presexual, and also postsexual, signifying the ero- sion of art and eros. See Budick, “Perplexity, Sympathy, and the Question of the Human: A Reading of The Marble Faun,” in The Cambridge Companion to Nathaniel Hawthorne, ed. Richard Millington (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 241–42. I am not in agreement with Budick here—in my view, the faun represents a sexual tease very much of the present as well. Nevertheless, I think she offers a brilliant reading of the novel. For Budick, the novel is ultimately a critique of Protestantism, “more ignorant in its sternness, more in flight from the realities of human being” than the moral worlds of Judaism and Roman Catholicism, to which the novel offers, in her view, a surprisingly sympathetic re- sponse (249). 50. In Caravaggio’s Secrets (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), Leo Bersani and Ulysse Dutoit discuss masochistic narcissism in the context of Freud’s 1915 essay, “Instincts and their Vicissitudes” (SE 14: 109–40), an essay “concerning the fundamental antagonism be- tween the ego and the external world. . . . Within the Freudian scheme . . . the ego’s pro- found mistrust of the world can be ‘overcome’ only by a narcissistic identification with the hated object, one that masochistically introjects that object. This masochistic narcissism sexualizes our relation to the world at the same time that it eliminates the difference be- tween the world and the ego” (40–41). In less cosmic terms, Hawthorne suffuses narcissistic desire with an awareness of the painfulness of looking relations fully enmeshed with their pleasure. The theme of masochistic looking has most thoroughly been explored in feminist film theory; see in particular Tania Modleski’s discussion of masochistic female viewing in Alfred Hitchcock’s film Notorious in her study The Women Who Knew Too Much: Hitchcock and Feminist Theory (New York: Routledge, 1988). n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 8 • 2 8 7 51. This is the thesis of my book Men Beyond Desire: Manhood, Sex, and Violation in American Literature. c h a p t e r 8 1. Herman Melville, “Hawthorne and His Mosses, By a Virginian Spending July in Ver- mont,” originally published in The Literary World on August 17 and 24, 1850. 2. While noting that Hawthorne did not condone slavery even “for a minute,” Brenda Wineapple in her biography of Hawthorne notes—and it is difficult to disagree—that it is “strange and disappointing” that Hawthorne completely lacked “empathy for the slave. His conscious sympathies lay with the laboring white man who would certainly lose his job to an emancipated black man. And doubtless Hawthorne identified with the southern white slaveholder to the extent that he romanticized an agrarian planter class as more cultured and genteel than its busy Yankee counterpart . . . Yet like most people, Hawthorne regard- ed himself as well-intentioned and fair-minded, a neo-Jeffersonian patriot” devoted to the preservation of the Union, seen as crucial not just to the American future but to that of humanity itself (264). See Wineapple, Hawthorne: A Life (New York: Knopf, 2003), 269. Perhaps Septimius Felton allows us to see that Hawthorne’s unconscious feelings about the slave—or, at least, about the differently raced—were more inclined toward empathy. 3. Seshadri-Crooks seeks to challenge the view, especially prevalent, for her, in psycho- analytic feminism, that “sexual identity precedes racial identity,” which she critiques for its dependence on the “feminist axiom that sexual identity is both private and public, while race and class, insofar as they invoke a group or collectivity, belong only to the public do- main.” Kalpana Seshadri-Crooks, “Psychoanalysis and the Conceit of Whiteness,” in The Psychoanalysis of Race, ed. Christopher Lane (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 356–57. 4. With Magnus Ullén, I have co-edited a special, 2010 edition of The Nathaniel Haw- thorne Review on Hawthorne’s late work. I am grateful to Ullén for his innovative work on Hawthorne’s late period. See especially his essay “The Manuscript of Septimius: Revisiting the Scene of Hawthorne’s ‘Failure,’” Studies in the Novel 40, no. 3 (Fall 2008): 239–67. 5. Charles Swann was one of the first recent critics to take Hawthorne’s late work se- riously in his excellent study Nathaniel Hawthorne: Tradition and Revolution (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991). In the potent collection Hawthorne and the Real: Bicen- tennial Essays, edited by Millicent Bell (Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 2005), several essays, notably by Larry J. Reynolds, Rita Gollin, and Brenda Wineapple, touch on Hawthorne’s late work; Gollin’s essay “Estranged Allegiances in Hawthorne’s Unfinished Romances,” 159–81, makes the late work its specific focus. 6. Larry J. Reynolds, Devils and Rebels: The Making of Hawthorne’s Damned Politics (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2008). 7. John Carlos Rowe, “Nathaniel Hawthorne and Transnationality,” in Hawthorne and the Real, 88. 8. Ibid., 91. 9. On Sunday, April 13, 1856, Nathaniel Hawthorne attended a banquet in London at the Mansion House, to which he was invited by David Salomons, the Lord Mayor of London. Salomons was honoring Hawthorne in his capacity as U.S. Consul in Liverpool. Salomons was a pioneering activist for Jewish rights. The U.S. President Franklin Pierce, 2 8 8 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 8 for whom Hawthorne had written a campaign biography, had appointed Hawthorne, one of his best friends since their days as college classmates at Bowdoin College, to this position in 1853. The description he provides in The English Notebooks of Mr. Salomons’s brother Philip and of his wife, Emma Abigail Montefiore Salomons, is fascinating on many levels, revealing, as it does, both his deep-seated anti-Semitism and his intense fascination with the figure of the “Jewess” (21: 481–82). Why can so many qualities about the Jewish woman strike Hawthorne as aesthetically and sensually pleasurable, even as he registers the inescap- able “repugnance” he feels toward her, while his feelings toward the Jewish man are unre- mittingly negative? The gendered imbalance in Hawthorne’s phobic disposition toward the Jew—the bifurcation of the figure of the Jew into the beautiful, if also disturbing, Jewess, and the wholly displeasing Jewish male—also raises the often unexplored question of the intersection between racist and anti-Semitic attitudes and anxieties over gender and sexual- ity. On Hawthorne’s uses of the dark-lady archetype, see Philip Rahv’s classic essay “The Dark Lady of Salem,” Partisan Review 8 (1941): 362–81. 10. Nell Irvin Painter, The History of White People (New York: Norton, 2010), 61. 11. Rita K. Gollin, Prophetic Pictures: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Knowledge and Uses of the Visual Art (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1991), 31. 12. Betsy Erkkila, Mixed Bloods and Other Crosses: Rethinking American Literature from the Revolution to the Culture Wars (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), 19–20. 13. Terence Martin, “Septimius Felton and Septimius Norton: Matters of History and Immortality,” The Nathaniel Hawthorne Review 12, no. 1 (1986): 1–4. 14. Swann, Nathaniel Hawthorne: Tradition and Revolution, 134. 15. Edward Hutchins Davidson, Hawthorne’s Last Phase (New Haven, CT: Yale Univer- sity Press, 1949), 121. 16. Barker-Benfield theorizes the rhetoric of the anti-onanism sexual reformers of an- tebellum America as the “spermatic economy.” See G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Horrors of the Half-Known Life: Male Attitudes towards Women and Sexuality in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Routledge, 2000). 17. The differences between the Septimius Felton and Norton manuscripts are striking, and they demand thorough textual analysis. My present focus on a certain constellation of thematic and ideological issues in Septimius Felton is not in any way a foreclosure of the necessary scholarly work that needs to be done on both texts, and I do mean both texts; though there are obvious and significant overlaps, the Felton and Norton manuscripts should be considered not homogenous but actually quite distinct works. 18. John Updike, “Late Works,” The New Yorker, August 7 & 14, 2006, 64–72. 19. All quotations from Hawthorne are taken from The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 23 vols., ed. William Charvat et al. (Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 1962). 20. For a discussion of Hawthorne’s sympathy for the Southern soldier during the Civil War, and Hawthorne’s overall opposition to violence and to the demonization of those on opposing sides of debates even as vexatious as those about slavery during the antebellum era, see Larry Reynolds’s brilliant essay “‘Strangely Ajar with the Human Race’: Hawthorne, Slavery, and the Question of Moral Responsibility,” in Bell’s Hawthorne and the Real, as well as his Devils and Rebels. 21. For a discussion of the evolving significance of the duel in antebellum American life, see Kenneth S. Greenberg, Honor and Slavery (Princeton, NJ: Princeton, 1996). n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 8 • 2 8 9 22. For a discussion of antebellum health and sexual reformers and their relevance for literary output in the era, see David Greven, Men Beyond Desire: Manhood, Sex, and Viola- tion in American Literature. 23. Coleridge wrote, on September 1, 1832, that “I have known strong minds with im- posing, undoubting, Cobbett-like manners, but I have never met a great mind of this sort. And of the former, they are at least as often wrong as right. The truth is, a great mind must be androgynous. Great minds—Swedenborg’s for instance—are never wrong but in con- sequence of being in the right, but imperfectly.” See Table Talk of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (London: George Routledge and Sons, 1884), 173. 24. In her discussion of Tristram Shandy, Harries explains that Laurence Sterne should be seen as a writer who deliberately and self-consciously “produces fragments, works that have not become incomplete but have been planned and executed as incomplete.” See Har- ries, The Unfinished Manner: Essays on the Fragment in the Later Eighteenth Century (Char- lottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1994), 43. 25. Anne Anlin Cheng, The Melancholy of Race: Psychoanalysis, Assimilation, and Hidden Grief (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 7 (my emphasis). 26. Ibid., 10. 27. To elucidate the rationale for this view, Stokes quotes from the 1980 version of the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders’ entry on narcissism: “A grandiose sense of self-importance or uniqueness; preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success; exhibitionistic need for constant attention and admi- ration; characteristic responses to threats of self-esteem; and characteristic disturbances in interpersonal relations, such as feelings of entitlement, interpersonal exploitativeness, rela- tionships that alternate between the extremes of overidealization and devaluation, and lack of empathy.” Mason Stokes, The Color of Sex: Whiteness, Heterosexuality, and the Fictions of White Supremacy (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001), 72–73. 28. Jonathan Dollimore, Sexual Dissidence: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 174. 29. Ibid., 181. 30. Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book 1, Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953– 1954 (New York: Norton, 1991), 141. 31. Žižek, How to Read Lacan (New York: Norton, 2006), 79–81. Lacan explains the distinctions himself in The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, chapter 11, 129–43. 32. For a discussion of Johnson and the gendering of the literary mulatto, see Rafia Zafar’s section, titled “Fictions of the Harlem Renaissance,” in The Cambridge History of American Literature, vol. 6, Prose Writing 1910–1950, ed. Sacvan Bercovitch (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002); specific reference to the mulatto as usually female can be found on page 299. 33. Talty, Mulatto America: At the Crossroads of Black and White Culture: A Social History (New York: HarperCollins, 2003), 6–7. 34. “He would not abide a cracked or broken dish on the table, and he detested any- thing, or anyone, he deemed ugly, particularly women.” See Brenda Wineapple, “Nathaniel Hawthorne 1804–1864: A Brief Biography,” in A Historical Guide to Nathaniel Hawthorne, ed. Larry J. Reynolds (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 14. 35. Thomas Jefferson Notes on the State of Virginia, ed. David Waldstreicher (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 176. For discussions of the implications of associations of blacks and ugliness for the white desiring gaze, see Hortense J. Spillers, “Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: An American Grammar Book,” in The Black Feminist Reader, ed. Joy James 2 9 0 • n O T e S T O C h a P T e r 8 and T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting (New York: Wiley-Blackwell, 2000), 57–88; Maurice O. Wallace, Constructing the Black Masculine: Identity and Ideality in African-American Men’s Literature and Culture, 1775–1995 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002). 36. See the last chapter, “Ahistorical,” especially, in Valerie Rohy, Anachronism and Its Others: Sexuality, Race, and Temporality (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2010). 37. Swann, Hawthorne, 239. 38. Monika M. Elbert, “Bourgeois Sexuality and the Gothic Plot in Wharton and Haw- thorne,” in Hawthorne and Women: Engendering and Expanding the Hawthorne Tradition, ed. John L. Idol, Jr. and Melinda M. Ponder (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999), 258–71. 39. Toril Moi, “Representation of Patriarchy: Sexuality and Epistemology in Freud’s Dora,” in In Dora’s Case: Freud—Hysteria—Feminism, ed. Charles Bernheimer and Claire Kahane (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 198. 40. See especially Chodorow’s Femininities, Masculinities, Sexualities: Freud and Beyond (The Blazer Lectures) (University Press of Kentucky, 1990). 41. Juliet Mitchell, Mad Men and Medusas: Reclaiming Hysteria (New York: Basic Books, 2000). 42. In his extraordinary 1925 essay “Some Psychological Consequences of Anatomical Distinction between the Sexes,” Freud explores masculine and feminine identities within patriarchy. Writing of penis-envy—a theory that can only be recuperated as “desire for power in our culture,” as Freud’s French reinterpreter Jacques Lacan did—Freud remarks that one of its consequences “seems to be a loosening of the girl’s relation with her mother as a love-object” (1993, 19: 254). In the tragic terms that Freud lays out, the development of femininity derives in the girl from her narcissistic sense of humiliation which is bound up with penis-envy, the reminder that after all this is a point on which she cannot compete with boys and that it would therefore be best for her to give up the idea of doing so. Thus the little girl’s recognition of the anatomical distinction between the sexes forces her away from masculinity and masculine masturbation on to new lines which lead to the development of femininity. [The thus far unseen manifestation of the Oedipus complex now occurs when] . . . the girl’s libido slips into a new position along the line—there is no other way of putting it—of the equation “penis = child.” She gives up her wish for a penis and puts in place of it a wish for a child: and with that purpose in view she takes her father as a love-object. Her mother becomes the object of her jealousy. The girl has turned into a little woman. (SE: 19: 256) Reading Freud against the blindness’s of his own argument, we can posit that he theorizes the emotional and social consequences of the construction of femininity within patriarchy, the enforced separation between mothers and daughters (which also must occur, with equally traumatic but differently registered resonances, between sons and mothers). 43. Judith Butler, “Desire,” in Critical Terms for Literary Study, ed. Frank Lentricchia and Thomas McLaughlin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 375. 44. Irigaray quoted in Butler, “Desire,” 376. Irigaray’s original quote can be found in her Speculum of the Other Woman, trans. Gillian C. Gill (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985), 327. 45. Butler, “Desire,” 376. 46. Swann, Hawthorne, 259. n O T e S T O e P i l O G U e • 2 9 1 47. Kochhar-Lindgren, Narcissus Transformed: The Textual Subject in Psychoanalysis and Literature (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993), 128–29. e p I l o g u e 1. Jacques Lacan, “The Mirror Stage,” in Ecrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1977). Lacan’s theory evolved over time; he gave the first versions of this pa- per in 1936. 2. Eric Gould, Mythical Intentions in Modern Literature (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Uni- versity Press, 1981), quoted in Gray Kochhar-Lindgren, Narcissus Transformed: The Textual Subject in Psychoanalysis and Literature (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993), 12–13. 3. Kochhar-Lindgren, Narcissus Transformed, 12. 4. Ibid., 9. 5. Ibid., 6–7. 6. Judith Butler, “Desire,” in Critical Terms for Literary Study, ed. Frank Lentricchia and Thomas McLaughlin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 383. My interpre- tation of the Lacanian theory of the formation of the subject through language is influenced by Butler’s reading. 7. A proper comparative discussion of Hawthorne and Freud and their views far ex- ceeds the scope of this epilogue, of course. 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J., 218 Bartsch, Shadi, 98, 100 Baym, Nina, vii, 118, 142, 143 Bell, Millicent, vii, 63, 212 Bentley, Nancy, 204, 207, 212 Bercovitch, Sacvan, 12, 23, 153, 212, 243, 277n64 Berlant, Lauren, 23, 71, 243, 249, 262n4 Bernal, Martin, 206 Bersani, Leo, 42, 48, 52, 87, 262n1 Billy Budd, Sailor (Melville), 21, 28, 38, 117, 128, 182–97, 199, 201, 204, 209 Bingham, Dennis, 89 Blithedale Romance, The (Hawthorne), 11, 14, 15, 20, 81, 91, 92, 94, 102, 107, 109, 111, 115–40, 144, 154, 160, 163, 206, 235 Bloom, Harold, 110–11 Bridge, Horatio, 94, 96, 102, 107, 212 Brown, Gillian, 118, 154 Bruhm, Steven, 27, 28, 78, 88, 259n14 Budick, Emily Miller, 286n49 Bumas, E. Shaskan, 271n14 Burstein, Andrew, 12 Butler, Judith, 47, 78, 238, 245, 263n15 captation, 4, 163 Castiglia, Christopher, 8, 249, 256n8, 283n10 Chasseguet-Smirgel, Janine, 32 Cheng, Anne Anlin, 226 Cheyfitz, Eric, 23, 243, 257n19 Chodorow, Nancy J., 237 “Circe’s Palace” (Hawthorne), 133–36 Civilization and Its Discontents (Freud), 291n7 Cixous, Hélène, 27, 179, 223, 224 Classicism. See Hellenism; Medusa; Narcis- sus; Ovid Coen, Stanley J., 16 Coffler, Gail, 184, 196 Colacurcio, Michael J., 84, 110, 268n41 and n42, 277n64 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 105, 223, 263n16, 289n23 compromise formation, 265n12 i n d e x • 3 0 7 Copjec, Joan, 5, 7 Crary, Jonathan, 278n6 Creed, Barbara, 136, 275n58 Crews, Frederick, 19, 28, 41, 56, 66, 70–76, 176, 178, 261n29, 263n8 Crompton, Louis, 184 Davidson, Edward Hutchins, 218 “David Swan” (Hawthorne), 2 Davis, Clark, 89 Davis, Whitney, 203 Dean, Tim, vii, 42, 48, 53, 255n3 desire, defined, 48–49 Dixon, Wheeler Winston, 129, 130, 135 Dollimore, Jonathan, 46, 226, 227 doppelgänger. See doubles Dora (Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria) (Freud), 236–37 doubles, 88–89, 145, 147, 148, 181, 221 Dowling, Linda, 165 Downey, Jennifer I., 41 Easton, Allison, vii, 142, 143, 177 Edelman, Lee, 7, 135 Edward II (Marlowe), 276n61 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 14, 126, 273n37, 276n60 Erkkila, Betsy, 216 Erlich, Gloria, 71, 94 Etchegoyen, R. Horacio, 32 Fanshawe (Hawthorne), 3, 30, 97, 112, 115, 117, 119, 125, 205, 219, 221 fear of looking, 93, 98, 101, 102, 105–9, 162, 167, 200, 208 “Feathertop” (Hawthorne), 3, 88, 99–100, 109, 115, 119, 221, 225 female gaze, 99–100, 120, 161, 167, 250 Ferenczi, Sándor, 3, 280n26 Fernie, Deanna, 284n27 fetishism, 36, 117–18, 153–57 Foucault, Michel, 5, 6, 73, 83, 147, 185, 252 Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hyste- ria. See Dora Freud, Sigmund: on female sexual- ity, 154–57, 234–37; on fetishism, 153–57; on homosexuality, 31–33, 40–57, 78; on Medusa myth, 59, 169, 173, 175, 281n29; on narcissism, 40–57, 226–30, 250–53; on Oedipus complex, 28, 41, 46, 47, 51, 55, 56, 61, 65, 75, 76, 78, 261n17, 290n42; on voyeurism, 105–6, 121–22; on shame, 105–6, 121–22. See also fetish- ism; homosexuality; Lacan; masoch- ism; Medusa; narcissism; psychoana- lytic criticism; shame; voyeurism; titles of individual Freud works Friedman, Richard C., 41 From the History of an Infantile Neurosis (Freud), 261n27 Furst, Lillian R., 297 Garber, Marjorie, 125 gaze, the: and film theory, 5–6; and Foucault, 5–6; Hawthorne, biographi- cal basis for treatment of, 62, 89–90, 94; Lacan’s theory of, 5–6, 34–35; Mulvey’s theory of, 35–37; varied and multiple, 114. See also fear of looking; female gaze; masochistic gaze; narcis- sistic gaze; pornography and porno- graphic gaze; returned gaze; voyeurism Gentilcore, Roxanne, 158 “Gentle Boy, The” (Hawthorne), 19, 30, 37, 39, 40–68, 82, 91, 92, 127, 141, 205, 240 Gilmore, Michael T., vii, 268n40 Gollin, Rita K., 211, 275n56 Goodrich, Samuel G., 182, 191, 281n30 Graham, Sylvester, 10, 11, 120, 121, 148, 164, 223, 256n17 Grossberg, Benjamin Scott, 125, 126 Grunberger, Béla, 28, 29, 30 Halperin, David, 185 “Haunted Mind, The” (Hawthorne), 11, 120 Hawthorne, Elizabeth Clarke Manning (mother of Hawthorne), 61 3 0 8 • i n d e x Hawthorne, Elizabeth Manning (sister of Hawthorne), 61, 257n25 Hawthorne, Louisa (sister of Hawthorne), 61 Hawthorne, Nathaniel: and Andrew Jack- son, 11–14, 17, 29, 41, 61, 92, 94, 103, 126, 257n25; 261n17; and Civil War, views of, 210, 211, 212, 215, 217, 219, 288n20; as a psychoanalytic author, 6–7, 248–49; biographical basis for treatment of the gaze, 62–63, 93–94; biographical elements in treat- ment of shame, 101–2; biographical basis for theme of traumatic narcis- sism, 30–31; Brook Farm experi- ence, 94–95, 127; gendered writing, 223–25; in relation to Lacan, 34–35; in relation to Melville, 38–39, 180– 209; in relation to Mulvey, 35–36; late works, critical evaluation of, 218–19; pacifism, 104, 266n25; passivity, 12, 13, 14, 104, 105, 106, 200, 257n19, 277n64; prefaces, significance of, 145, 150, 219, 246, 247; question of effeminacy, 12, 61, 63, 73, 94, 98, 99, 116, 126, 127, 128, 137, 140, 166; question of same-sex desire, 11, 19, 32, 65, 103, 113, 128, 184–85, 187, 224; question of race, 92, 204–6; 211–16; question of misogyny and representation of women, 141–45, 179, 234–40; religious views, 144–45; travel and notebook writing, 197–201. See also Antinous; fear of looking; Freud; gaze; Hellenism; history; homosexuality; intertextual poetics; Lacan; Laocoön; Medusa; murder- ous narcissism; narcissism; Narcissus; psychoanalytic criticism; race; shame; textual narcissism; traumatic narcis- sism; voyeurism; Winckelmann; young man/old man split; titles of individual Hawthorne works Hawthorne, Sophia Peabody, 62, 120, 126, 127, 128, 189, 200, 270n11, 272n36, 273n38, 274n43 Hellenism, 77, 165, 189, 190, 204, 214; and race, 206–7, 214–15. See also sculpture; transatlantic homoerotic aesthetic culture Herbert, T. Walter, 12, 103, 266n23 Herodotus, 263n14 historicism, 15, 69–70, 74, 185 history, Hawthorne and the question of, 249–54 Hocquenghem, Guy, 137 Hofstadter, Richard, 13, 14, 15 Holland, Norman Norwood, 15 homosexuality, and narcissism, 7, 31–33, 43–47; question of the historical emer- gence of, 184–86; and transatlantic homoerotic aesthetic culture, 187–88 House of the Seven Gables, The (Haw- thorne), 112, 117, 148, 149, 167, 235 Ian, Marcia, 53, 74 “Infantile Genital Organization” (Freud), 281n29 “Instincts and their Vicissitudes” (Freud), 286n50 intertextual poetics, 144, 145, 171–74 Irigaray, Luce, 238 Jackson, Andrew, 13–15, 17, 41; Haw- thorne’s investment in masculine presence of, 257n25 James, Henry, 62, 94, 188, 212, 221 Jefferson, Thomas, 232 Jews, representation of, and anti-Semitism, 179, 208, 213, 229, 287n9, 297 Johnson, James Weldon, 231 Johnson, Kendall, 206, 207, 212 Jolie, Angelina, 206 Jonte-Pace, Diane, 169 Kaite, Berkeley, 114 Keats, John, 186 Kilborne, Benjamin, 98 Kimmel, Michael, 12 Kochhar-Lindgren, Gray, 77, 79, 240, 244, 245 Kohut, Heinz, 256n14 Krips, Henry, 271n20 i n d e x • 3 0 9 Laocoön (classical sculpture), 188, 190, 191, 192 Laocoön (Lessing, 1766), 284n27 Lacan, Jacques: on desire, 48, 53; on the gaze, 5–6, 34–35, 37; on language and the subject, 4–7, 244–46; mirror stage, 4–7, 34–35, 48, 75, 81, 88, 198, 215, 244–46; on relation of ideal ego to ego ideal, 227–28; on voyeurism, 123. See also gaze, the Laplanche, Jean, 29, 52, 53 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 192, 284n27 Life of Franklin Pierce, The (Hawthorne), 91, 92 Male Medusa, 125, 168; in The Blithedale Romance, 124–29; 272n28 Male, Roy R., 144 Mannoni, Octave, 252 Marble Faun, The (Hawthorne), 2, 3, 30, 97, 112, 138, 146, 148, 156, 174, 179, 180, 182, 189, 200, 202–9, 212–13, 216, 220, 229, 240, 243, 250–53 Martin, Robert K., vii, 127, 273n41 masochism, 47, 66, 114, 116, 122, 133, 208; masochistic narcissism, 286n50 masochistic gaze, 204–9 McGowan, Todd, 36 Medoro, Dana, 281n31 Medusa, 21, 59, 60, 124–29,192, 193, 195, 272n27, 280n26, 281n30; antebellum descriptions of relationship between Athena and, 281n30; and correspondences with the Narcissus myth, 168–71; Ferenczi’s theory of, 280n26; Freud’s theory of, 59, 169, 173, 175, 281n29; and intertextual- ity, 171–74; and feminist protest, 174–79. See also Freud; Male Medusa; Narcissus “Medusa’s Head” (Freud), 21, 59, 169, 192, 272n27, 280n25, 281n29 Mellow, James R., 273n40 Melville, Herman, 21–22, 28, 37, 38, 95, 110, 124, 128, 180–209, 210, 223, 228, 239, 245; on Antinous, 186; Billy Budd, Sailor, 21, 28, 38, 117, 128, 182–97, 199, 201, 204, 209; “Haw- thorne and His Mosses,” 197, 239; Moby-Dick, 124, 181, 223, 255n1; “Statues in Rome,” 190, 193, 194; travel journal and impressions of clas- sical beauty, 186, 193, 194, 199, 200 Milder, Robert, 285n39 Miller, Edwin Havilland, 257n5, 276n60 Miller, J. Hillis, 108 Millington, Richard, vii, 94, 267n39 Milton, John, 29, 31, 144, 146, 149, 152, 155, 157, 158, 160, 161, 171, 172, 173, 174, 179, 191 “Minister’s Black Veil, The” (Hawthorne), 101, 108, 110–11, 115, 232, 233 Mitchell, Juliet, 61, 237 Moi, Toril, 236–37 Mollinger, Shernaz, 8, 100 “Monsieur du Miroir” (Hawthorne), 1 Moon, Michael, 283n19 Morgan, Thaïs E., 99 Morrison, Andrew, 8, 98, 105, 106, 259n14 mothers, seduction (Laplanche), 52–53; shame and, 66–68 mulatto, gender and, 231 Mulvey, Laura, 9, 19, 20, 26, 35–37, 82, 83, 97, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 130, 142, 214, 269n3 murderous narcissism, 76–81, 173 “My Kinsman, Major Molineux” (Haw- thorne), 81–89 narcissism: as psychic agency, 29; auto- eroticism as distinct from, 32; Lacan’s theory of, 4–5; primary and second- ary, 32; Copjec on, 5–6; Edelman on, 7; Freud’s theory of, 28–33, 43–57; longstanding views of as pathological, 8–11; narcissism and the Oedipus complex, 20; shame and, 98, 105–6. See also fear of looking; gaze; homo- sexuality; mirror stage; murderous narcissism; narcissistic gaze; textual narcissism; traumatic narcissism; voy- eurism 3 1 0 • i n d e x narcissistic gaze, 20, 81–89, 109, 142, 208 Narcissus (Greek myth), 1, 4, 8, 24–28, 34, 48, 53, 55, 77, 79, 81, 96, 98–99, 100, 148, 157–58, 161, 165–66, 168, 170–71, 179, 181, 183, 194, 244–48, 255n1, 280n24; and effeminacy, 99; as homoerotic icon in the Pater-Wilde tradition, 280n24 Nichols, Mary Gove, 10, 121, 148, 264. See also onanism and antebellum America Nussbaum, Martha, 104 Oedipus complex, the, 28, 41, 46–47, 51, 54, 55, 56, 61, 65, 68, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80. See Frederick Crews; Sigmund Freud onanism: and antebellum America, 101, 103, 114, 121, 125, 148; as distinct from autoeroticism in psychoanalytic theory, 268n42 “On Narcissism” (Freud), 19, 32, 43, 49–57, 171 Ovid, 19, 21, 24, 25, 26–28, 48, 53, 100, 101, 144, 157, 158, 159, 168, 171, 172, 176, 226, 255n1. See also Narcis- sus; Medusa; Vertumnus Pagels, Elaine, 279n12 Painter, Nell Irvin, 214 Peabody, Elizabeth, 62, 273n37 Person, Leland S., 92, 261n17 Pfister, Joel, 124 Pierce, Franklin, 91, 92, 202, 216 Poe, Edgar Allan, 180, 223, 230, 231, 263n10, 268n42 “Pomegranate Seeds, The” (Hawthorne), 183 pornography and pornographic gaze, 114–15 Potts, Alex, 203, 204 psychoanalytic criticism, value of, 15–18, 69–71, 74–75 Pugh, David G., 12 race: and antebellum America, 204–7, 230–34; and Hellenism, 206–7. See also Nathaniel Hawthorne Rank, Otto, 53, 88 “Rappaccini’s Daughter” (Hawthorne), 3, 11, 80, 110, 112, 141–79, 184, 191, 213, 238, 246, 273n40 reaction-formation, 280n19 Rear Window (Hitchcock), 137–40 Reynolds, Larry J., 12, 104, 211, 212 “Roger Malvin’s Burial” (Hawthorne), 20, 71, 76–81, 165, 184, 224 Riss, Arthur, 204, 212 Robillard, Douglas, 283n22 Rohy, Valerie, 74, 232, 249, 283n10 Rotundo, Anthony, 12, 128 Rowe, John Carlos, 12, 23, 212, 243 Samuels, Robert, 122 same-sex desire and antebellum America, 11, 185, 188, 189. See also homosexu- ality Scarlet Letter, The (Hawthorne), 3, 65, 71, 98, 109, 148, 153, 156, 198, 199, 200, 212, 214, 235, 247, 266n23 scopophobia. See fear of looking; traumatic narcissism sculpture, 284n27 Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky, 88, 151, 267n29 Sedgwick, Ora Gannett, 94, 95 self-overseeing, 109–11 Seneca, 100, 266n18 Septimius Felton (Hawthorne), 2, 9, 22, 80, 81, 101, 164, 177, 202, 207, 210–42, 287n2 Seshadri-Crooks, Kalpana, 211, 287n3 shame, 8, 9, 11, 19, 20, 25, 37, 41, 47, 66–68, 91–113, 120–22, 133, 163, 173, 200; allegorical figure of in Haw- thorne, 11, 120 Shelley, Mary, 223 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 9, 10, 105, 186, 278n5, 283n19 Siebers, Tobin, 170, 171, 173 Silverman, Kaja, 35, 269n4, 274n52 i n d e x • 3 1 1 Skura, Meredith Anne, 18 Socarides, Charles, 260n11 “Some Psychological Consequences of the Anatomical Distinction between the Sexes,” 290n42 Stekel, Wilhelm, 10 Stewart, James, 119, 138 Stewart, Suzanne R., 116 Stokes, Mason, 226, 227 Swann, Charles, 211, 218, 233, 240, 287n5 Tanglewood Tales (Hawthorne), 133, 134, 183 Terada, Rei, 251 textual narcissism, 243–49 Thompson, G. R., 86, 264n21 Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (Freud), 44, 45, 46, 106, 122, 126 Todd, John, 10, 121, 148, 223 Tompkins, Jane, 101, 266n20 Tompkins, Silvan, 267n29 tourist gaze, 271n19 transatlantic homoerotic aesthetic culture, 187–88 traumatic narcissism, 7, 30–31, 107, 112, 167, 221 Ullén, Magnus, vii, 144, 211, 278n3, 287n4 Updike, John, 211, 220 Vertigo (Hitchcock), 117, 152, 269n3 Vertumnus (Roman myth), 146, 157–60. See also Narcissus visual identity, 38–39, 180–209 voyeurism, 111–13, 114–40, 165–67; repressed homosexual, 200; sadism and, 114, 164 Waggoner, Hyatt H., 144, 145 “Wakefield” (Hawthorne), 3, 97, 113, 163, 235, 238 Walker, Julia M., 171, 172 Walters, Margaret, 194, 195, 284n35 Warner, Marina, 275n53 Warner, Michael, 43–44, 46, 53, 162, 259n14 Warren, Joyce W., 8, 9 Weeks, Jeffrey, 282n9 Weldon, Roberta, vii, 272n31 White, Susan, 269n3 Wilde, Oscar, 81, 101, 188, 280n24 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim (1717– 68), 22, 165, 188, 189, 190, 192, 193, 195, 198, 199, 200, 203, 204, 207, 209, 214 Wineapple, Brenda, vii, 61, 62, 276n60, 287n2 Winterer, Caroline, 184 Wonder Book, A (Hawthorne), 124 Wood, Robin, vii, 72, 262n3 Wurmser, Léon, 105, 106 “Young Goodman Brown” (Hawthorne), 1, 28, 30, 80, 88, 97, 129, 235, 268n42, 273n40 young man/old man split in Hawthorne, 59, 76, 80, 81, 84, 88, 148, 224; in Poe, 263n10 Zafar, Rafia, 231 Zagarell, Sandra A., 206 Žižek, Slavoj, 88, 227–28 
work_df4gw4ls5ffulisazcoyh6jemm	----	European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 European journal of American studies 7-2 | 2012 Special Issue: Wars and New Beginnings in American History “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of American Cultural Nationalism after 1815 Jaap Verheul Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/9638 DOI : 10.4000/ejas.9638 ISSN : 1991-9336 Éditeur European Association for American Studies Référence électronique Jaap Verheul, « “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of American Cultural Nationalism after 1815 », European journal of American studies [En ligne], 7-2 | 2012, mis en ligne le 03 avril 2012, consulté le 01 mai 2019. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/9638 ; DOI : 10.4000/ejas.9638 Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 1 mai 2019. Creative Commons License http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/9638 “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of American Cultural Nationalism after 1815 Jaap Verheul Just as 1776 saw the birth of political independence for the United States as a new nation, the year 1815 saw the quickening of its quest for cultural independence. The year that finally brought an end to the War of 1812 was the starting point for a wave of national pride in which Americans redefined their own national purpose, their collective cultural identity, and – perhaps most of all – their relation to the Old World. This recalibration of the transatlantic ties and the fundamental changes it brought to the American perception of Europe are perhaps the most intriguing and problematic features of the emerging American nationalism that characterized the early nineteenth century. It fed a vitriolic anti-European rhetoric that soon informed American foreign relations and economic policy, and would never completely disappear from the American intellectual horizon. But it also changed the way Americans defined what it meant to be a great nation. 1 The cultural dialogue with the Old World was crucial to the emergence of a new era of cultural nationalism in the United States. As Henry Adams famously put it: “In 1815 for the first time Americans ceased to doubt the path they were to follow. Not only was the unity of their nation established, but its probable divergence from older societies was also well defined.” That departure from “older societies” was particularly critical, for Adams believed that the United States had finally escaped from the “Old-World development” and could define its national ethos, character and identity in contrast to Europe. By not only adopting its own political system, but also following an independent course in social, religious, literary and scientific development, he felt, “the difference between Europe and America was decided.” Since it was henceforward inconceivable that the United States would revert to European models and ways of thinking, Adams concluded that “a new episode in American history began in 1815.”1 “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 1 2 Although Adams and others have argued that a new American cultural nationalism developed in self-confident opposition to the Old World, the powerful cultural thralldom to Europe was not broken that easily or suddenly. In fact, the American quest for nationality shows the familiar complexities of a cultural decolonization process.2 Although American intellectuals redefined Europe as a useful “other” against which they could construct their own collective identity, they long retained a legacy of European standards of civilization and esthetics. More importantly, they were thoroughly influenced by European ideas about the relationship between culture and nation. Ironically, the cultural differentiation with the Old World was informed by new standards of nationhood that were developed in England, and in particular in continental Europe, the romantic laboratory of nationalism of the early nineteenth century.3 1. The Tenacity of Trans-Atlantic Ties Until the young republic entered its second war with the former mother country, few of its citizens expressed concerns about the cultural identity of their nation. When Americans pondered the rising glory of their nation, it had mostly been as an “Empire of Liberty,” as Jefferson famously named it, which had explored a new system of government based on freedom and equality. As Joyce Appleby argues, the first generation of Americans who inherited the Revolution felt that the War of Independence simply had not supplied “the shared sentiments, symbols, and social explanations necessary for an integrative national identity.”4 Although the revolution had provided the nation with shared histories, documents and sentiments, and foreign travelers already noticed distinctive American characteristics, the ideal of a national culture took a longer time to emerge. The revolutionary generation had defined nationhood characteristically in terms of political, social and economic participation, and had little interest – or accomplishments, for that matter – in culture and refinement.5 It took another war to start that process of cultural nationalism. 3 While they treasured their political independence and nationalism, prior to 1815 most Americans embraced the cultural ties with the Old World. As Gordon S. Wood emphasizes, the revolutionary generation still thought in terms of a translatio imperii and “never intended to create an original and peculiar indigenous culture. […] They were seeking not to cut themselves off from Europe’s cultural heritage but to embrace it and in fact to fulfill it.”6 The revolutionary generation had been emphatically cosmopolitan, and if anything, aimed to import as many fruits of Enlightenment culture from Europe into their young nation as possible. Jefferson and other founders lived parts of their lives in Europe, mentally if not physically. These Americans were not seeking to separate themselves from western civilization, but saw themselves as members of a cosmopolitan community, a “trans-Atlantic intellectual fraternity.”7 In the concept of culture that had developed during the Enlightenment, all civilized people belonged to the same family of nations, and all nations were marching towards the same goal of human perfection and artistic achievement. 4 David Hackett Fischer and others have reminded us that Americans clung to the English language and folkways with feelings of nostalgia, even if they vehemently rejected English political tyranny, autocracy and monarchy.8 London remained the undisputed cultural center of the new republic. For standards of taste in painting, sculpture, architecture, literature, poetry and even language, Americans still referred to England. 9 “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 2 As far as there was an element of cultural transatlantic competition, it was because Americans were eager to prove that they, too, could contribute to the common achievements of humanity. Also linguistically, the former colonies shared an undisputed common cultural core with England, even if its inhabitants sometimes diverged from the prescribed practice of pronunciation and spelling. Early proposals to discard the English language were therefore laughed away. As one delegate at the Constitutional Convention joked: “it would be more convenient for us to keep the language as it was, and make the English speak Greek.”10 5 Yet within this seemingly unbroken transatlantic civilization early calls for American cultural independence could be heard, even if they did not coalesce into a shared program of cultural nationalism. Significantly, anti-English feelings did make their way into some early proposals to liberate American English from the linguistic norms of the former mother country, challenging of the most obvious forms of shared cultural heritage. The lawyer and lexicographer Noah Webster would become the most outspoken proponent of a separate American dictionary and orthography. As he already insisted in 1789: “As an independent nation, our honor requires us to have a system of our own in language as well as government.” His attempt to “declare American linguistic independence” was largely practical and had been informed by ideas about development and standardization of languages that were current in Europe. 6 Recognizing that language was an essential ingredient of cultural identity, Webster was convinced that a uniform national language was a requirement for “political harmony” and national unity, and would help to “inspire us with a suitable respect for our own national character.” 11 He firmly rejected Anglophilia and repeatedly warned that the linguistic ties with “a transatlantic nation” were the result of perilous foreign cultural influences on American taste and manners. In a flood of political essays he continued to caution that the American Revolution could not be completed if his country would remain culturally dependent on England. To Webster’s dismay, however, his warnings fell on deaf ears or met with ridicule, as most of his collocutors preferred a more gradual development of the American language. He was forced to tone down his reform proposals and it was only well after 1815 that his dictionary was widely adopted and Webster became the “Schoolmaster to America.”12 7 Similarly, indigenous writers who tried to develop an authentic style had difficulty in receiving recognition from American readers and critics during the first decades of independence. The authors known as the Connecticut Wits, who celebrated their own society but modeled their work on English literary styles, met with some success. But the literary career of a more original writer such as Charles Brockden Brown, who developed his own style independent from English literary norms, was bitterly short-lived. Lack of sales and popularity as American novelist drove him to spend his last years as political pamphletist and editor of his own magazines.13 8 Charles Brockden Brown was only recognized and heralded as an early American literary nationalist in 1815, five years after his death. His first biography, which was published in that year, started off with a sharp condemnation of the difficulties Brown had faced in competing with English authors. His close friend and biographer, the dramatist and painter William Dunlap, now hailed Brown as one of the first adventurers of American fiction “who first saw the propriety of men in a new and better political state, throwing off the shackles of an absurd prejudice in favour of European opinions and writings, as they had thrown from them the proffered chains and rejected the pretensions of “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 3 European tyranny.” As if to enlist his protagonist in a new struggle for cultural independence, Dunlap reminded his readers that Brown had identified the “remoteness of their situation from the ordinary range of European politics and influence of European ambition.”14 Following Dunlop in his praise, other writers such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and William Hickling Prescott in the subsequent decades also posthumously rediscovered Brockden Brown as the father of a truly indigenous American literature.15 9 Until the War of 1812, the American society treasured its political independence and economic prowess, but remained well-embedded in the cultural traditions of the Old Word. Put differently, although the War of Independence and the debate over the Constitution had created a strong sense of statehood, the new republic was not yet united by a cultural nationalism, which presupposed a unique, shared culture. It would take another war to push the United States into an era of nationalism that fostered ideas of exceptionalism and cultural isolation. 2. The Second War for Independence Accentuating the end of warfare as a new beginning for the nation, the War of 1812 was already dubbed a “Second War for Independence” by the first history of the war that was published in 1815.16 This second battle for freedom was not only fought with guns, however, but also became a battle of words. The war marked the beginning of a true communication revolution in which a host of new periodicals, newspapers and new publishing houses connected the American citizens and formed a national forum of opinion that was vital for the construction of a national identity.17 These new means of communication were used to calibrate and interrogate the relation to the Old World. 10 Even when the War of 1812 was still being fought on the high seas and the American continent, Americans prepared for what one scholar called “a campaign of periodicals” against the former mother country by starting literary and cultural journals to express their new national sentiment. Some magazines explicitly referred to the parallel between the two battle fields. The Democratic leaning Port-Folio, for instance, encouraged its writers to “emulate the ambition, diligence and zeal that have so eminently characterized our gentlemen of the sword,” and hoped the United States would in a few years “become as renowned in literature, as she is in arms.”18 11 Between 1815 and 1830 no less than thirty one new periodicals were founded. Many of these journals encouraged native writers to rise against foreign interference and shed intellectual homage to England. Among them was the Portico started in 1816 in Baltimore, the self-professed “Rome of the United States,” by wealthy literati who aimed to meet European standards of culture, not only by erecting monuments, constructing buildings and founding museums, but also by raising a new generation of “native genius […] to produce a literature that would be a worthy asset to America’s reputation.”19 The new journal decried “the literary sycophants who would Europeanize America,” explicitly defied British magazines and their reviewers, and claimed their own national literature, and – almost as important – language. “Americans,” the editor of the Portico boasted, “are perfectly competent to carry on the ‘war of words’ with any Europeans.” Instead of leaning on foreign education, they were to “exercise [their] own talents.”20 12 It was the North American Review, however, that would rapidly become the most influential magazine of the republic, unmodestly claiming to print “the best that has been said and thought.”21 The magazine was founded in May 1815 by William Tudor, a wealthy “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 4 merchant who is credited with the first reference to Boston as “the Athens of America.” Just returning from Europe, he intended his new periodical as a rival to leading British magazines he had read there, such as the Edinburgh Review and the London-based Quarterly Review. Transatlantic cultural rivalry was essential to Tudor´s publication project. His magazine aimed to foster genuine American culture by countering the criticism of American society and culture that was voiced by British periodicals. “The spirit of the work was national and independent as regarded foreign countries,” Tudor explained.22 In its pages collective opinion was formed about politics, history, science and literature in the American republic, but it also closely watched new ideas, developments and—most of all—recent literature that originated from Europe. In spite of its nationalistic agenda, it remained emphatically transatlantic and comparative in its approach and tastes, and for instance eagerly debated English romanticism and German philosophy. As Tudor intended, the North American quickly became the most important forum for the new cultural nationalism that spread within the young nation. 23 3. The Quest for National Character In its first years, the North American Review most of all expressed the ambitions of the cultural elite that dominated Boston intellectual life, as Tudor managed to recruit many of these Brahmins to write for his journal. A fitting opening volley in the new battle of words was delivered in 1815 by the Boston physician Walter Channing. Dr. Walter, who would become the nation´s foremost obstetrician, was the younger brother of William Ellery Channing, the author and clergyman who would become the founder of the Unitarian church and one of the most influential intellectual leaders of Boston. 24 In a long article that was printed in two issues of the first volume of the Review, the young doctor voiced his concern for national literature and the arts. He accused his fellow Americans of a “delinquency in that, to which every other civilized nation chiefly owes its character,” namely in producing a distinctive and original national literature. Painting a large canvas that placed the new republic in the family of civilizations, he warned that “the great events of our history” would be insufficient to confer “national character” on the United States if it remained without original intellect and “extraordinary men of genius.” Unfortunately, it was precisely in this department that he found his country deficient. The doctor sadly concluded that the United States lacked “the pride of a nation,” a literature that could do justice to its “national peculiarities,” such as climate, landscape, social institutions and history, and hence would be essentially original. “Unfortunately for this country, there is no national character, unless its absence constitutes one,” Channing concluded.25 13 Channing directed his tirade above all against the cultural subservience of his compatriots to England, the former colonizer and recent enemy, as he firmly deplored “the dependence of Americans on English literature, and their consequent negligence of the exhortation of their own intellectual powers.” After identifying the “slavery to a common tongue” as one of the main causes of the literary dependence of the new republic, he went on to analyze the intricate relations between language and literature. How futile it was, he conceded, to “describe Niagara in language fitted for the falls at London bridge.” It was only in the language of American Indians, he suggested, that one could find authentic beauty and “genuine originality.” The Native Americans who refused “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 5 to attend an American school, he suggested, probably realized “the debilitating effects of an English education on this national literature.”26 14 But the apprehensive doctor also placed blame on the disadvantageous situation of the literary market and deplored the fact that American authors depended on the “literary tyranny” of the English critics and reading public, because their American readers were “too liberal and patriotick [sic] to allow the excellence of domestic manufacture.” He explained this dependence on English literature, which had prevented the blossoming of American originality, from the colonial origins of the American republic, and pondered that perhaps “colonies may not be the favourites of the muses.” Channing suggested related historical explanations for the surprising “barrenness of American Literature,” such as the lack of a publishing infrastructure or patronage, which would allow for professional authors. But most of all he blamed his compatriots for the lack of “genuine intellectual courage” to resist the enslaving foreign influences of English literature.27 15 Walter Channing’s contributions to the earliest issues of the North American Review have been described as the first expression of self-conscious literary criticism in the United States.28 If sometimes haltingly and convoluted, he developed a novel language of cultural nationalism that explored such essential themes as cultural influence, literary originality, criticism, taste, national language, and the relation between individual genius and national pride. Although all of these ingredients had a longer genealogy, he was blending them into an argument that was new in at least two important ways. First, he was defining national greatness in cultural terms, rather than in those of constitutional republicanism, and hence broadened the demarcation of nationhood. He argued that national identity not only implied victories in the traditional arenas of warfare and politics, but just as much in the fields of the arts and sciences. This is why language and literature, the topic of his articles, became so important for the creation of “national character.” As another contributor to the North American Review would summarize this concern a few years later: “The rank that people take among nations is not measured by its population, wealth and military power, but often by the number of its distinguished individuals of former ages — and often by its superiority of its men of letters.”29 But Channing was also keenly aware that these accomplishments not only required men of genius to express the national particularities, but just as much the participation of indigenous critics, patrons, publishers, and audiences of citizens who appreciated and shared that national culture. 16 Second, defining the greatness of the United States within the family of nations implied a new comparative perspective. In a sharp break with the Enlightenment notion of human unity, Channing started to draw cultural boundaries between his own nation and the influences from the Old World. He effectively divided the common cultural core that had united England and its colonies into separate civilizations on both sides of the Atlantic. He assumed that each nation expressed its specific identity in its own literature, language en other peculiarities. In short, national identity not only implied specific intuitions and social arrangements, but also an indigenous culture, language, customs, and manners that grew out of specific local geography and circumstances. This implied a nationalized concept of culture in which the unique identity of a nation, the “national peculiarities,” were expressed in a range of forms, such as literature, language, morals, religion, social institutions and politics. From this unitary perspective of authenticity, “foreign” influences suddenly became pernicious. This was the main reason why the doctor warned against the contamination by European culture. “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 6 4. Under the European Influence Intriguingly, the ideas about authenticity, national genius and national identity that Channing and his compatriots voiced, were influenced by notions about nationalism that were emerging in Europe. Connected to the Old World Europe by ties of trade and learning, the Boston elite was well-informed about current developments in European thought and many graduates of Harvard spent one or two years in Europe to complete their studies. Two years before war broke out Dr. Channing had studied in London and Edinburgh where he had mingled with the elites of these two centers of intellectual innovation. After the war of 1812, however, many of them avoided England and rather travelled to the European continent. Influenced by the publication of an English translation of Madame De Staël’s popular book about Germany, the universities of Göttingen and Berlin became a destination of choice for a new generation of pioneers of European culture, such as Edward Everett, George Ticknor, George Bancroft and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. There they absorbed German ideas about linguistics, folklore, history and national culture that were developed by Johann Gottfried von Herder and the brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. 17 It was no coincidence that Walter Channing’s publication was prompted by a review of August Wilhelm von Schlegel’s works that had appeared in the London Quarterly Review earlier that year. Schlegel, who had been the travel companion of Madame De Staël, became one of the most important philosophers and disseminators of the romantic movement in Germany who forcefully stimulated an interest in the national origins of literature and the arts. In the reviewed lectures Schlegel had assessed the factors that had facilitated the development of dramatic literature in different countries from classical Greece to modern times. His comparison between the level of civilization and refinement of various nations not only discussed the role of language, criticism and taste, but most of all underlined the necessity of superior genius to achieve originality and resist the imitation of classical examples. 18 Although Schlegel was not yet widely known in the United States Channing was quick to adopt many of his categories and terms.30 He explicitly responded to the claim, quoted at the head of his first article, that there were so many connections between nations in the modern world that “intellectual originality may justly be regarded as one of the greatest phenomena in nature.” Nothing is of greater importance, the reviewer had suggested, than the manner in which “a bold and inventive imagination erects a fabric entirely of its own creation,” independent from the progress of other countries.31 Dr. Channing measured the development of his own nation against the standards of authenticity that were established by this romantic theory of national character. Significantly, he referred in seventy-five instances to the concepts of “nation” and “country,” used forty-five times a version of the words “peculiar” and “original,” and repeatedly cautioned against the contagion of “foreign” influences. 19 Although Channing expressed much praise for Germans thinkers, he was just as likely influenced by ideas about the relation between culture and national character that had been developed in England and Scotland. His argument bears close resemblance, for instance, to the doctrine of associationism that had been developed in Britain during the eighteenth century, which held that taste depended on the association with national or individual ideas or images. This meant that aesthetics were not absolute but flourished “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 7 within a specific national context. As was explained by the Scottish clergyman Archibald Alison, who had popularized this theory, a national scenery only aroused “emotions of sublimity and beauty” by mental associations that were determined by a specific historical and national context. This Scottish aesthetic theory could easily be mobilized to argue for a distinctiveness of American cultural expressions that sprung from the specific landscape and historical circumstances of the United States. Walter Channing seemed almost to quote Alison when he found that “the remotest germs of literature are the native peculiarities of the country in which it is to spring. These are diversified beyond all estimation, by the climate and the various other circumstances which produce them.”32 20 As Channing’s use of German and Scottish cultural terminology illustrates, American intellectual rivalry with the Old World coincided with an implicit dependence on European norms and criteria for excellence in literature and scholarship. At the same time, Americans explored and developed essentialist conceptions of Europe as an “other” against which they defined their own emerging civilization. These two intellectual developments received urgency and new meaning in the wake of the recent war, which became the cradle of American nationalism. 5. Winning the War of Words After Walter Channing had sounded the opening shots in the new battle of words in 1815, his intellectual peers around the North American joined his quest of nationality. As if they were working on a collective program, these American intellectuals began to tackle the various questions of American cultural identity in their publications, lectures and addresses, sometimes explicitly, but more often inserted in reviews or other occasional articles. While they spoke from individual viewpoints and reached different conclusions, the transatlantic relation with the Old World was the dominant basso continuo which provided a common structure for this intellectual debate. Some were merely comparing literary and cultural achievements on American soil with established European standards of taste, as had been done during the first decades after the American Revolution. But more and more they engaged in a discourse about difference that underlined the inherent originality and authenticity of American art as it was grounded in experiences, democratic principles, natural geography and indigenous peoples only to be found in the New World.33 21 It was Walter Channing’s younger brother Edward Tyrell Channing, soon to become the first Harvard professor of Rhetoric and Oratory, who perhaps best summarized the new creed of cultural isolationism and militant resistance to foreign influences, when he stated in the 1816 volume of the Review: that the literature of a country is just as domestick [sic] and individual, as its character of political institutions. Its charm is its nativeness. It is made for home [… ] A country then must be the former and finisher of its own genius. It has, or should have, nothing to do with strangers. 34 In similar vein, the question of the specific American contributions to literature, poetry and language was discussed in the North American and other periodicals in the United States, where some authors voiced a buoyant perspective on the prospects of their nation in comparison to Europe, and others shared the guarded pessimism that had marked Walter Channing’s first essays. “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 8 22 The virtual battle over ideas soon translated into the real world as the American republic took concrete measures to curb European influence on its side of the Atlantic. When Congress passed its first tariff bill on April 27, 1816 to protect indigenous industry against European competition, it had explicitly included books with a duty of 15 percent, only exempting colleges and other scholarly institutes. After no one less than Thomas Jefferson, in his capacity as president of the University of Virginia, had petitioned for a repeal of that duty on the importation of books, the Senate in 1822 flatly refused to budge, citing arguments that seemed lifted from the debate Walter Channing had initiated. The Senatorial committee not only feared that foreign books would inundate the literary market, but also pointed at the grave danger of “these means of foreign influence” posed for American schools, where “our youth are taught by British authors, wedded to their own institutions, and exultingly proud of their country, constitution and laws.” A discernment of the close association between ideas and national origins spoke from its observation that “our government is peculiar to ourselves, and our books of instruction should be adapted to the nature of the government and the genius of the people.” Following the committee’s conclusion that these foreign books could lead to “habits of thinking adverse to our prosperity, unfriendly to our government, and dangerous to our liberties,” the US Senate upheld the tariff that intended to break the supremacy of European learning.35 23 One year later president James Monroe used similar arguments when he announced his famous doctrine which sought to prevent European intervention in the Western hemisphere. Since “the political system of the allied powers is essentially different” from that of the United States, he argued, his government considered “any attempt on their part to extend their system to any portion of this hemisphere as dangerous to our peace and safety.”36 The former colonial empire was not only ready to write back, but also proved prepared to act against European hegemony. 6. The Continuation of War by Other Means When Ralph Waldo Emerson presented his oration on the “American Scholar” to the members of the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard on August 31, 1837, he mostly repeated what so many of his American friends and colleagues had been arguing during the decades before. The difference was perhaps that he declared the mission of cultural independence accomplished. After all, he famously announced that “[o]ur day of dependence, our long apprenticeship to the learning of other lands, draws to a close. […] We have listened too long to the courtly muses of Europe.” It has become somewhat of a trope to describe his famous lecture as America’s “Intellectual Declaration of Independence.” That epithet was craftily coined by Oliver Wendell Holmes in the hagiographical biography that he published in 1884, and has been tirelessly repeated ever since. Yet, as his biographer Robert Richardson dryly remarks, comparable language of cultural resistance had been heard around Boston so often that “it had become a standard undergraduate theme topic.”37 24 Rather than sounding the first “trumpet call” for a new war of independence, as Holmes suggested, Emerson was fighting a rearguard action in a cultural struggle that had already erupted in full force when the War of 1812 ended. In a sense, the quest for nationality that marked the first decades after 1815 was a continuation of that same war against the Old World by cultural means. As the writer James Fenimore Cooper had to “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 9 remind his readers in 1837 “it is much easier to declare war, and gain victories in the field, and establish a political independence, than to emancipate the mind.” Similarly, a few years later his colleague Edgar Allen Poe still felt the need to call for a “Declaration of War” in the battlefield of Letters to achieve what the Declaration of Independence had done for Government.38 25 The appeal of that bellicose metaphor was significant. After all, the American cultural nationalism that was propagated and negotiated after 1815 emerged from a struggle against a European culture that was now felt to be hegemonial and menacing. American writers began to deplore American “dependence,” “servitude” and “idolatry” towards European cultural achievements, and theorized the dismal effects of European “influence” on indigenous genius and national pride. Just as Europeans after the Second World War began to define their own cultural achievements and national identities in opposition to an almost irresistible American imperialism of popular culture and consumerism, early Americans had done the reverse after the War of 1812.39 Both constructed a cultural opponent who threatened to seduce their compatriots with an overpowering culture that reflected foreign political and social ideals. And in both cases the cultural realignments followed fundamental shifts in international relations after a major war. 26 The new cultural nationalism that emerged after 1815 in the United States was not only a result of the transatlantic war. The domestic political power struggle that ended in an Era of Good Feelings, economic prosperity and territorial expansion all contributed to the upsurge of nationalism. At the same time sectionalism and the debate over slavery threatened national unity. Also, new ideas about national culture and romanticism broadened and changed the definitions of nationality which now included the arts, science and culture as areas of national pride. Yet the outcome of the war fostered a westward-orientated isolationism and turned the United States against European cultural and territorial aspirations. In that context the new transatlantic realignment and the emergence of a new national culture inevitably reinforced each other in the wake of the War of 1812. NOTES 1. Henry Adams, History of the United States of America During the Second Administration of James Madison (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1891), 220-21, 41. See also Garry Wills, Henry Adams and the Making of America (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2005), 382. 2. Edward Watts, Writing and Postcolonialism in the Early Republic (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1998); Lawrence Buell, “American Literary Emergence as a Postcolonial Phenomenon,” American Literary History 4, no. 3 (1992). 3. Elise Marienstras, “Nationality and Citizenship,” in The Blackwell Encyclopedia of the American Revolution, ed. Jack P. Greene and J. R. Pole (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1994). Anthony D. Smith, National Identity (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991); Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 2nd ed., New Perspectives on the Past (Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2006). “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 10 4. Joyce Appleby, Inheriting the Revolution: The First Generation of Americans (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap, 2000), 240. 5. For the post-revolutionary American interest in cultural achievements, see Kenneth Silverman, A Cultural History of the American Revolution: Painting, Music, Literature, and the Theatre in the Colonies and the United States from the Treaty of Paris to the Inauguration of George Washington, 1763-1789 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1987); Norman S. Grabo, “The Cultural Effects of the Revolution,” in The Blackwell Encyclopedia of the American Revolution, ed. Jack P. Greene and J. R. Pole (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1994); Michal J. Rozbicki, “The Cultural Development of the Colonies,” in The Blackwell Encyclopedia of the American Revolution, ed. Jack P. Greene and J. R. Pole (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1994). 6. Gordon S. Wood, Empire of Liberty: A History of the Early Republic, 1789-1815 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 543 ff. 7. Ibid., 545. 8. David Hackett Fischer, Albion’s Seed: Four British Folkways in America. America, a Cultural History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 55-57, passim. 9. Benjamin Townley Spencer, The Quest for Nationality: An American Literary Campaign ([Syracuse, NY]: Syracuse University Press, 1957). 10. John Hurt Fisher, “British and American, Continuity and Divergence,” in The Cambridge History of the English Language, ed. John Algeo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 59. 11. Noah Webster, “Dissertations on the English Language, Etc. [1789],” in The American Literary Revolution, 1783-1837, ed. Robert Ernest Spiller (Garden City, NY: Anchor, 1967), 61. 12. David Simpson, The Politics of American English, 1776-1850 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986); Eve Kornfeld, Creating an American Culture, 1775-1800: A Brief History with Documents (New York: Palgrave, 2001). 13. For the literary market in which Charles Brockden Brown operated, see Steven Watts, The Romance of Real Life: Charles Brockden Brown and the Origins of American Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 1-26, 131-63. See also Philip Barnard, Mark Kamrath, and Stephen Shapiro, Revising Charles Brockden Brown: Culture, Politics, and Sexuality in the Early Republic (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2004), 143; Donald A. Ringe, Charles Brockden Brown, Twayne’s United States Authors Series, 98 (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1966). 14. William Dunlap, The Life of Charles Brockden Brown, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: John P. Parke, 1815), I, 3. Dunlap’s biography was based on an earlier manuscript that was commissioned by Brown’s family one year earlier, but had remained unfinished. The cited remarks about Brown’s resistance to European standards are written by Dunlop in 1815. Watts, Romance of Real Life, 225-26. 15. Spencer, Quest for Nationality, 80-81; [Edward Tyrrel Channing], “Brown’s Life and Writings,” review of The Life of Charles Brockden Brown by William Dunlap, North American Review, June 1819. 16. Samuel R. Brown, An Authentic History of the Second War for Independence: Comprising Details of the Military and Naval Operations, from the Commencement to the Close of the Recent War; Enriched with Numerous Geographical and Biographical Notes (Auburn, N.Y.: J. G. Hathaway, Kellogg & Beardslee, 1815), 3. 17. Daniel Walker Howe, What Hath God Wrought: The Transformation of America, 1815-1848, The Oxford History of the United States (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007). 18. John C. McCloskey, “The Campaign of Periodicals after the War of 1812 for National American Literature,” PMLA 50, no. 1 (1935): 264. For the paper war with England, see also Frank Luther Mott, A History of American Magazines, 1741-1850 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957), 183ff. 19. McCloskey, “Campaign of Periodicals,” 267; Mott, History of American Magazines, 293-96. 20. Marshall W. Fishwick, “The Portico and Literary Nationalism after the War of 1812,” The William and Mary Quarterly 8, no. 2 (1951). “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 11 21. Quoted in James Playsted Wood, Magazines in the United States (New York: Ronald Press, 1971), 43. See also Mott, History of American Magazines. 22. William Tudor, Miscellanies (Boston: Wells and Lilly, 1821), 59; Mott, History of American Magazines. 23. Robert Ernest Spiller, The American Literary Revolution, 1783-1837, Documents in American Civilization Series (Garden City, N.Y.,: Anchor Books, 1967), 109-11; William Charvat, The Origins of American Critical Thought, 1810-1835 (New York: Russell & Russell, 1968), 174-75; Frank Luther Mott, A History of American Magazines, 1850-1865 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957), check pages. 24. Amalie M. Kass, Midwifery and Medicine in Boston: Walter Channing, M.D., 1786-1876 (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2002), 5-59; Amalie M. Kass, “‘My Brother Preaches, I Practice’: Walter Channing, M.D., Antebellum Obstetrician,” Massachusetts Historical Review 1 (1999). 25. Although published in two subsequent issues under different titles, the two contributions should be read as one long argument, probably divided into two episodes for reasons of space. As usual, the contributions in the NAR were not signed, although most readers would be able to identify the author. [Walter Channing], “American Language and Literature,” North American Review, September 1815, 261; [Walter Channing], “Reflections on the Literary Delinquency of America,” North American Review, November 1815. 26. [Walter Channing], “Language and Literature.” 27. Ibid., 243; [Walter Channing], “Reflections on the Literary Delinquency of America.” 28. Albert D. Van Nostrand, Literary Criticism in America, The American Heritage Series, No. 16 (New York: Liberal Arts Press, 1957), ix, 3; Spiller, American Literary Revolution, 112-31. 29. [John Knapp], “National Poetry,” North American Review, December 1819, 170. 30. For the American discovery of Schlegel, see Charvat, American Critical Thought, 57, 60-63. 31. [Francis Hare-Naylor], “Schlegel’s Cours De Littérature Dramatique,” Quarterly Review, October 1814. Although dated October 1814, the article had only appeared in London early 1815. Its author was most likely the English historian and writer Francis Hare-Naylor who had lived in Europe for many years. Jonathan Cutmore, ed., Quarterly Review Archive, http://www.rc.umd.edu/ reference/qr/index/23.html. 32. [Walter Channing], “Reflections on the Literary Delinquency of America.” For the influence of Scottish aesthetic theory on William Ellery and Eward Tyrrel Channing see Charvat, American Critical Thought; Arthur W. Brown, Always Young for Liberty: A Biography of William Ellery Channing ([Syracuse, N.Y.]: Syracuse University Press, 1956), 192; Arthur W. Brown, William Ellery Channing (New York,: Twayne Publishers, 1962), 108; Robert E. Streeter, “Association Psychology and Literary Nationalism in the North American Review, 1815-1825,” American Literature 17, no. 3 (1945). 33. For an overview of some of these publications see Spiller, American Literary Revolution; Spencer, Quest for Nationality; Van Nostrand, Literary Criticism in America. 34. [Edward Tyrell Channing], “On Models in Literature,” North American Review, July 1816, 207. 35. Duty on Books, 622, HR, 17th Cong., 1st sess. (January 8, 1822); Duty on Books, 627, HR, 17th Cong., 1st sess. (January 8, 1822). The chairman of the Senatorial committee on finance that issued this report was John Holmes (1773 - 1843) of Maine. See also Catherine Seville, The International Copyright Law: Books, Buccaneers and the Black Flag in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 192. 36. President James Monroe’s seventh annual message to Congress, December 2, 1823. http:// www.ourdocuments.gov. 37. Robert D. Richardson, Emerson: The Mind on Fire, a Biography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 263. See also Perry Bliss, “Emerson’s Most Famous Speech,” in The Praise of Folly, and Other Papers (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1923). 38. Spencer, Quest for Nationality, 78. “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 12 39. Richard Pells, Not Like Us: How Europeans Have Loved, Hated, and Transformed American Culture since World War Ii (New York: BasicBooks, 1997); Richard Kuisel, Seducing the French: The Dilemma of Americanization (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Victoria De Grazia, Irresistible Empire: America’s Advance through Twentieth-Century Europe (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2005). RÉSUMÉS This article argues that the emergence of American cultural nationalism after the War of 1812 developed in self-confident opposition to the Old World, yet was thoroughly influenced by European standards of nationhood. American intellectuals who campaigned for cultural independence from Europe at the same time retained European standards of civilization and esthetics, and were thoroughly influenced by ideas about the relationship between culture and nation that developed in England and Germany. This articles discusses these postcolonial complexities are reflected in debates about American cultural identity in newly founded magazines such as the North American Review that long predated Emerson’s famous “Intellectual Declaration of Independence” of 1837. INDEX Keywords : aesthetic theory, Anglophilia, associationism, Berlin, Connecticut Wits, Constitutional Convention, cultural identity, Edinburgh, Edinburgh Review, England, Enlightenment, Europe, Göttingen, Greece, Harvard, literary criticism, literature, London, nationalism, North American Review, Old World, Phi Beta Kappa Society, Port-Folio, Portico, Quarterly Review, romanticism, Scotland, translatio imperii, United States, University of Virginia, US Congress, War of 1812, War of Independence AUTEUR JAAP VERHEUL University of Utrecht “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of A... European journal of American studies, 7-2 | 2012 13 “A Peculiar National Character”: Transatlantic Realignment and the Birth of American Cultural Nationalism after 1815 1. The Tenacity of Trans-Atlantic Ties 2. The Second War for Independence 3. The Quest for National Character 4. Under the European Influence 5. Winning the War of Words 6. The Continuation of War by Other Means 
work_dqnxqoexsvea3eyfxfbyubjv2i	----	untitled Philosophy and Phenomenological Research doi: 10.1111/phpr.12147 © 2014 Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, LLC Intuition Fail: Philosophical Activity and the Limits of Expertise WESLEY BUCKWALTER University of Waterloo Experimental philosophers have empirically challenged the connection between intuition and philosophical expertise. This paper reviews these challenges alongside other research findings in cognitive science on expert performance and argues for three claims. First, evi- dence taken to challenge philosophical expertise may also be explained by the well- researched failures and limitations of genuine expertise. Second, studying the failures and limitations of experts across many fields provides a promising research program upon which to base a new model of philosophical expertise. Third, a model of philosophical expertise based on the limitations of genuine experts may suggest a series of constraints on the reliability of professional philosophical intuition. Even when the experts all agree, they may well be mistaken. — Bertrand Russell, On the Value of Scepticism I. Introduction In 2008, the American College of Surgeons released some astonishing results from a consumer survey they had commissioned. They found that patients spend one hour on average researching a surgeon’s credentials prior to scheduling a procedure. But comparatively, they spend roughly 5 times as long researching the purchase of a major appliance or piece of home fur- niture. They spent 8 times as long reading customer reviews before buying or leasing a new car, and 10 times as long when debating a change in jobs. In fact, their results showed that 36%, or roughly one in three Americans surveyed between the years of 2003-2008 did not bother to review the cre- dentials of these expert medical professionals before going under the knife.1 After all, they are the experts. 1 “Survey Says: Patients Prep Harder for Vacation than for an Operation” <http://www. facs.org/news/russell.html> INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 1 Philosophy and Phenomenological Research Let this illustrate the powerful allure of expertise. Experts possess very high levels of skill and technical proficiency. Due to their advanced training and experience, we typically trust experts, all else equal, over those lacking such proficiency. The wisdom and limits of placing this level of trust in our expert professionals is a question we will revisit at the end of this essay. The question we will consider presently, and one that has dominated recent metaphilosophical discussions in philosophy, is whether we should extend an analogous level of trust to professional philosophers when it comes to philosophical intuition. According to many challenges to intuition and philosophical expertise offered by experimental philosophers, the answer is “no”. This paper reviews these challenges alongside other research findings in cognitive sci- ence on expert performance in several fields and argues for three claims. First, evidence taken to challenge philosophical expertise may, paradoxi- cally, be well explained by the failures and limitations of genuine expertise. Second, studying the failures and limitations of genuine experts across many fields provides a promising research program upon which to base a new model of philosophical expertise. Third, a model of philosophical expertise based on the limitations of genuine experts also suggests a series of constraints on the reliability of professional philosophical intuition. II. Philosophical Expertise Philosophers have long been concerned with the nature and value of expert human performance. Socrates noted the importance of differentiating between experts and novices “in all matters which are considered learnable and teachable” when he observed in Plato’s Protagoras that “we send for builders to advise us on what is proposed to be built,” and that “if anyone else whom the people do not regard as a craftsman attempts to advise them” they will “merely laugh him to scorn and shout him down” (319b-c). Today many philosophers continue to distinguish between experts and novices in matters of philosophical activity, and particularly, philosophical intuition (for variations see Deutsch 2009; Hales 2006; Ludwig 2007; and Williamson 2005, 2011). The same basic Socratic spirit above is closely embodied in the work of Steven Hales, for instance, when he writes “Intu- itions are and should be sensitive to education and training in the relevant domain” and subsequently that the “intuitions of professional philosophers are much more reliable than either those of inexperienced students or the ‘folk’” (Hales 2006, p. 171–2). The reason why Socrates and his fellow Athenians send for craftsmen in their deliberations is presumably the same reason why Hales and others have called for professionally trained philosophers in our own. By taking the advice of expert builders over non-builders, for example, you all but 2 WESLEY BUCKWALTER guarantee the creation of a better building. Likewise, it might be thought, philosophers are the experts of evaluating philosophical thought experi- ments.2 Consequently, one should rely on the intuitions of trained philoso- phers over those of non-philosophers when building or evaluating philosophical theories. The attempt to specify, develop and defend this claim of philosophical expertise in evaluating thought experiments is commonly referred to in phi- losophy as “the expertise defense.”3 Perhaps the most straightforward articu- lation of this defense comes from Kirk Ludwig in his paper “The Epistemology of Thought Experiments: First Person Versus Third Person Approaches”: What is called for is the development of a discipline in which general expertise in the conduct of thought experiments is inculcated and in which expertise in different fields of conceptual inquiry is developed and refined. There is such a discipline. It is called philosophy. Philoso- phers are best suited by training and expertise to conduct thought exper- iments in their areas of expertise and to sort out the methodological and conceptual issues that arise in trying to get clear about the complex structure of concepts with which we confront the world. (2007, p. 150–1) While a number of articulations are available (Williamson 2005, 2011; Hales 2006; Ludwig 2007; Horvath 2010; Grundmann 2010) such defenses typically turn on a simple analogy. We give special evidentiary weight to the perfor- mances of experts in their respective fields. We do so on the basis of the assumption that their performances are more accurate or reliable than those lacking expertise in the target discipline. And expertise in philosophy is no different. By way of this analogy, philosophers are best suited to construct and evaluate thought experiments and reach intuitive verdicts in virtue of their expertise in the discipline of philosophy. They are the expert intuiters. III. Questioning the Analogy Timothy Williamson, perhaps the most prominent advocate of the expertise defense, writes that we should continue to uphold the analogy until evidence is provided to question it. He observes that “from a sociological perspective, philosophy is a fairly normal academic discipline,” and 2 Some philosophers have argued that intuitions are rarely used as evidence in philosophi- cal methods (Cappelen 2012; Kuntz & Kuntz 2011). This paper remains neutral on this point, focusing instead on the question of philosophical expertise (though also see responses by Chalmers forthcoming; Bengson forthcoming; Buckwalter 2012b). For a review of the majority of work in experimental philosophy that does not focus on exper- tise and related methodological concerns, see Knobe et al. (2012). 3 Professional philosophers might be experts in many senses. The present question is whether or not they are ‘expert intuiters’, a phrase of art from Weinberg et al. (2010). INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 3 consequently, “since thought experimentation is a cognitive task distinctive of contemporary analytic philosophy, the initial presumption should be that professional analytic philosophers tend to display substantially higher levels of skill in thought experimentation than laypeople do” (2011, p. 221). Many philosophers find this initial presumption plausible and continue to endorse the general analogy advocated by Williamson and others. By contrast, some experimental philosophers find this initial presumption implausible and have offered arguments and evidence suggesting that the link between intuition and philosophical expertise is disanalogous to expert performances in other disciplines. They have done so either by casting doubt on the claim that philosophers meet some of the basic empirical con- ditions required of experts as a class (Weinberg et al. 2010), or by demon- strating that philosophers fail to have intuitions that are any more reliable than those of non-philosophers (Machery 2011; Schwitzgebel & Cushman 2012; Tobia, Buckwalter & Stich 2013; Tobia, Chapman, & Stich 2013). The most comprehensive challenge to date is given by Weinberg et al. 2010.4 They discuss two main factors questioning the analogy between expertise in philosophy and other disciplines. The first factor is that philoso- phers lack robust sources of feedback regarding the correctness of their intu- itions. The second and related factor, Weinberg et al. argue, is that philosophers lack more objective sources of evidence available to other experts upon which to calibrate and hone intuition. For example, a clinician may receive direct feedback after making an incorrect diagnosis or misread- ing an x-ray. There are also other objective sources to evaluate her perfor- mance. But we typically lack the same kind of direct feedback concerning expert philosophical intuition into the nature of causation or justice. And compared to reading an x-ray, it is initially unclear, at least, whether there are similarly objective sources of evidence besides intuition with which to calibrate these judgments. On this basis, the connection between philosophical expertise and intui- tion appears less straightforward than common examples of expertise in other professions. When facing many of the deep questions philosophers are interested in asking, we typically do not know which intuitions correctly capture the philosophical explanandum they were provided to explain. Neither are there clearly objective evidential sources with which to calibrate philosophical intuition. These observations lead Weinberg et al. to conclude that advocates of the expertise defense “can no longer offer quick armchair analogies between philosophers’ judgments about thought-experiments, and those of the practitioners of other fields in their own home domains” (2010, p. 67). In their view, the analogy supporting typical deployments of the 4 Also see Weinberg et al. (2013) for the related issue of whether philosophical intuitions may be improved by reflection. 4 WESLEY BUCKWALTER expertise defense itself requires empirical defense. There are even reasons to doubt it. The comparison between philosophers and experts of other fields is fur- ther complicated by the fact that no one is quite sure which factors mediate superior performance in evaluating thought experiments. In other words, we do not understand the acquired skills, mechanisms or adaptations underlying expert intuitions. There are several proposals on offer. One study has shown that professional philosophers have a more reflective or inquisitive tempera- ment than the general public, even after controlling for overall level of edu- cation (see Livengood et al. 2010).5 Alternatively, others have argued that philosophers possess a deeper understanding of complicated linguistic or semantic theories relative to the content of their intuitions, and can apply these considerations more efficaciously in unfamiliar or novel cases (Devitt 2006). Still others have pointed to a cluster of skills involving the ability to focus on key philosophical details of thought experiments, while remaining minimally distracted by potentially irrelevant information (Ludwig 2007; Williamson 2007). These are all interesting hypotheses. But without a dee- per understanding of the particular skills that actually mediate exceptional performance in evaluating thought experiments, we lack an adequate account of philosophical expertise in intuition. Lastly, a growing body of empirical work has challenged the link between intuition and philosophical expertise directly. As mentioned above, a number of experimental philosophers have begun investigating the actual intuitions that professional philosophers report when they evaluate thought experiments. Results are typically taken to show that the various intuitions reported by philosophers are not always any more accurate or reliable than those of non-professionals. Though this work is ongoing, the latest results continue to put pressure on the notion that philosophical expertise is best understood in terms of evaluating thought experiments and delivering supe- rior intuitions (see Machery 2011; Machery 2012; Schwitzgebel & Cushman 2012; Schultz et al. 2011; Tobia, Buckwalter & Stich 2013; Tobia, Chap- man & Stich 2013). IV. A New Approach We have reviewed four challenges for both the expertise defense of philosophical intuition, as well as the study of philosophical expertise and philosophical activity more generally. These points are made by way of the comparison to expertise and an analogy to professionals in other disciplines. First, when philosophers conduct thought experiments they often lack 5 Livengood et al. (2010) do not endorse the expertise defense, though it is possible their results could be recruited by others for this purpose. INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 5 adequate indications of whether their intuitions are correct. Second, philoso- phers lack other objective sources with which to adequately calibrate intui- tion. Third, we do not know which factors actually mediate philosophical expertise in evaluating thought experiments. Fourth, there is some direct evidence regarding the performance of philosophers counting against the claim that philosophers are expert intuiters. When taken together, these observations seem like an almost insurmount- able challenge for linking intuition and expertise. There is direct evidence that may tell against it. The lack of evidence for the underlying factors to potentially support such an account of philosophical expertise is troubling. Moreover, if the points made about correctness or calibration are true, it is difficult to see how we could ever adequately understand the factors that mediate expert intuitional verdicts. Perhaps there are potential responses one might develop to any one of these challenges (e.g. Williamson 2011: 224). But taken at face value, they provide a daunting challenge to studying pro- fessional philosophical intuition, and to the extent that it exists, philosophi- cal expertise. While important research to date has challenged the existence of expert philosophical intuition, the challenge is not yet definitive and the question requires further study. Four observations motivate the further study of intui- tional expertise. First, prior research comparing philosophical performance to expertise in other fields has only focused on some features of expertise across those fields. As we will see, a large body of research in cognitive science on expert performance has yet to be explored and may provide evidence for similarities between philosophers and other expert profession- als that have gone unnoticed. Second, and with respect to philosophical activity specifically, the factors mediating philosophical performances in thought experiments are not understood, which renders claims for or against philosophical expertise largely undecided. Third, prior metaphilosophical discussions attempting to locate philosophical expertise have mostly been restricted to philosophical education, and typically involve studying the effect that acquiring a PhD in a branch of philosophy has on philosophical activity. However there is an array of other factors beyond receiving a PhD in philosophy through which one might locate philosophical expertise, such as through individual differences in experiences, talent, preferences, opportunities, and habits (Ackerman 1990; though also see Howe et al. 1998). These factors have not been studied by critics and any of them might contribute significantly to locating philosophical expertise. Lastly, some empirical evidence produced by experimental philosophers gives us some positive reason to expect intuitional expertise (Buckwalter & Phelan 2013; Buckwalter, Rose & Turri 2013; Turri 2013b). Such results suggest that in some cases, professional philosophical intuition did gleam crucial and accurate insights into the nature of important philosophical phenomena. 6 WESLEY BUCKWALTER Though prior challenges do not yet forestall the existence of genuine philosophical expertise, they do encourage the development of a new approach to studying it. Such an approach would avoid difficult questions regarding intuitional correctness and feedback. It would address empirical evidence telling against philosophical expertise to date. And it would pro- vide the basis for broader, empirically informed comparisons between philo- sophical expertise and the nature of expertise seen within and across other disciplines. This is what this paper attempts to provide. The inspiration for this new approach comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who writes, “Sometimes we may learn more from a person’s errors, than from his virtues” (1848, p. 313). While it is important to under- stand philosophical progress and success, as Longfellow suggests, it may be just as important to study its failure. In the spirit of this approach, let’s retain the basic analogy between philosophy and expertise in other fields endorsed by Williamson, Hales and others. And following this insight, let’s continue to look for comparisons between philosophical and non-philosophi- cal experts across other domains—this time with a twist. Instead of engag- ing in a direct comparison between the practices of professional philosophers and the various ways in which experts in other domains suc- ceed, let us take the opposite approach and investigate the well-documented and domain-general ways in which highly trained experts regularly fail. In the remainder of this paper, I survey the literature in cognitive science on the failures and limits of expert performance. I outline four specific areas—including domain limitation, poor prediction, glossing, and bias—in which experts fail to outperform, and even underperform, novices. I then sketch the contours of existing research in experimental philosophy on philosophical activity and compare these results to the failures and limita- tions of experts more generally. The results of this comparison begin to cir- cumvent the challenges to studying philosophical expertise above and serve as the basis for three arguments. First, some evidence generated by experi- mental philosophers challenging expertise is consistent with commonly accepted accounts of expertise developed across the social sciences. In many cases, the performances of expert philosophers are also well explained by some of the empirically well-researched failures and limitations of genu- ine expertise as they are by the absence of expertise. If true, much of the extant direct and indirect evidence taken to count against the existence of genuine philosophical expertise in thought experiments may need to be reevaluated. Second, evidence from cognitive science and experimental phi- losophy consistent with cross-domain failure can be used to ground a prom- ising new approach to studying philosophical expertise and activity. If philosophers are prone to fail in similar ways that genuine experts predict- ably fail across a series of different professional domains, then these behav- iors may be used to begin to build a model of professional philosophical INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 7 expertise. In other words, such results can potentially be used to reverse engineer the beginnings of the first empirically supported account of philo- sophical expertise. As this research progresses, we can begin to gain better insight into the nature of expert philosophical activity, both its strengths and weaknesses. Third, new appreciation of these strengths and weaknesses can help us do philosophy even better in the future. Clearer insight into the nat- ure of expert philosophical activity helps to identify when expert intuitions reliably inform philosophical argumentation, and when they might not. V. How Experts Fail As it turns out, we know a lot about experts. The literature across psychol- ogy, cognitive neuroscience, sociology, and computer science attempting to explain the factors mediating expert human performance is vast and grow- ing. One approach researchers have used to study these questions is to closely compare individual experts and non-experts within and across domain. Under this kind of comparative method, human expertise is studied relative to the performance of agents of different levels of proficiency (for an example of a proficiency scale, see Chi 2006; Hoffman 1998). The basic idea of this approach is to compare the relative expertise between experts and non-experts in the hopes of understanding what abilities and underlying processes differentiate levels of expert performance, as well as how a novice rises to the level of expert. So, for instance, one research question would be to ask, what is it about an expert or master that distinguishes her from a novice? This comparative approach to studying expertise is also the one that is implicated in the philosophical literature on the use of intuitions in philoso- phy. Simply stated, a crucial claim of the expertise defense is that there are key differences between philosophers and non-philosophers (akin to the differences between the expert and the novice more generally) in virtue of which they are experts. A corollary to this claim is that professional philo- sophical intuition is preferable as a result. Expert intuitions are not always preferable to those of intermediate or novices. One important thing we have learned from this research on experts in psychology is that the most accurate comparison between experts and non-experts as a class includes not only the general ways in which experts typically outperform novices. It also includes studying the general ways that highly trained experts fail to outperform and sometimes even underperform novices. While it is important to understand the factors that mediate excep- tional human performance, it is also equally important to understanding the ways that experts typically fall short. This observation was notably made in Chi (2006)’s seminal review of the categories and research classifying the strengths and limitations of gen- 8 WESLEY BUCKWALTER eral expertise, which I rely on when comparing the ways that failures of expertise associated with domain specificity, prediction, glossing, and bias may relate to professional philosophical activity (for discussion of these categories and research see Chi 2006, pp. 24–27). [Correction added on 29 October 2014, after first online publication: The author added an explana- tory paragraph describing observations made in Chi’s (2006) paper “Two approaches to the study of experts’ characteristics.”] Can basic lessons regarding how experts are prone to error rather than excel advance our understanding of philosophical expertise? If philosophers are experts in the traditional sense, then we should not only expect them to succeed like other experts, but also to fail like them. This observation clears the way for a new approach to studying philosophical expertise. Instead of looking to cases where philosophers get it right, let’s opt for the opposite: spotting when and where they go wrong. This section reviews the psychological research on the general conditions under which genuine expertise fails. Experimental philosophers have pro- vided evidence for when philosophical intuition tends to be unreliable. If a general pattern emerges between these conditions and the failures of exper- tise more generally, then evidence to date may not challenge philosophical expertise. Rather, such evidence may serve as a new means for studying philosophical expertise and potentially reveal a better understanding of philosophical activity. To paraphrase Robert F. Kennedy, let’s look to the experts, dare to fail, and see what we can achieve. Before proceeding it is important to note that the following discussion compares the findings of two large research programs in cognitive science and experimental philosophy. The results of this comparison are suggestive. However the comparison is not a substitute for controlled empirical research. Only research dedicated to studying professional judgments directly can demonstrate that philosophical expert intuiters share the typical failures and shortcomings of genuine experts. Instead, the results of this comparison are perhaps best viewed as a sketch for a promising theoretical framework guid- ing future understanding and study of philosophical expertise. V.I. Domain Specificity The literature on skills and expert performance suggests that genuine exper- tise is domain-specific. Professionals typically do not outperform, and can even underperform novices when completing tasks outside of their relevant domains of expertise. This tendency is perhaps best illustrated in famous studies by Gobet & Simon on chess grandmasters’ ability to recall certain kinds of chessboard positions (1996a, b, c). In many of their studies, they presented chess players of various abilities with randomly selected textbook chessboard positions of about 25 pieces each. These positions were selected INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 9 using a number of different criteria with respect to the domain of expertise. For instance, some criteria involved board positions reached after a certain number of moves during a match, others where the match was played by grandmasters, or where the gameplay was sufficiently obscure. In one particular study, Gobet & Simon investigated whether impairment of position recall interacted with player ability when positions were switched with their mirror image reflections. So once they had chosen the positions they wanted to administer, they altered the positions by taking their horizontal and vertical mirror images. As a control task, and to check and see if experts simply excelled at memory tasks outside of the domain more generally, Gobet & Simon also included some very unusual chessboard positions in their study. These positions had the same basic structure as the mirror image boards from before, but the individual pieces were rearranged and randomly assigned by computer to each of the previous spots. These five sorts of chessboard posi- tions: the normal ones, the mirror images (horizontal, vertical, and center), and the randomized pieces, were presented to players of various different skill levels (Masters, Experts, and Class A ranging from 1680 to 2540 ELO). Gobet & Simon found that when the players were asked to recall the positions from memory, there was a large effect of expertise on the percent- age of pieces that were recalled correctly, and that mirror image distortions did have a deleterious influence on the ability of players to report piece locations. These results are shown in Figure 1. Gobet & Simon take these data as evidence supporting the need to mod- ify certain aspects of the chunking theory of memory (as proposed by Rich- Figure 1. “Mean percentage of pieces correct as a function of chess skill and type of position. Mean percentage with random positions is shown for comparison sake. Delta indicates the difference of vertical and central posi- tions from normal and horizontal positions.” (Gobet & Simon 1996a: 499, Experiment 2. Reprinted with permission.) 10 WESLEY BUCKWALTER man, Staszewski, & Simon 1995) to include these more complicated aspects of various recall tasks. For our present purposes however, this research begins to demonstrate how expert performance is often constrained by domain. While there were large effects for superior expert performance throughout the study, stronger players were not able to recall the random board positions (Figure 1: solid squares) significantly better than weaker players. In other words, the superior performance of the expert chess player is restricted because one of the skills thought to mediate higher performance only operates within certain situations. That is, superior position recall only seems to lead to superior results when the players were presented with board positions that have been dubbed relevant and meaningful within the game of chess. This same basic result has been found again and again, not just for chess players, but also for a series of other domains (Voss et al. 1983; Ericsson & Lehmann 1996; Vicente & Wang 1998) and especially in understanding physical systems (Vicente 1992).6 Return now to the analogy between expertise in philosophy and other disciplines. If philosophers are experts with respect to delivering intuitions in philosophically meaningful thought experiments, then we should also expect superior performance to be constrained by domain of expertise. In other words, under this picture professional intuitions should analogously, only excel in those cases that have been dubbed relevant and meaningful with regard to various areas of philosophical study. And of course, within philosophy there are a number of diverse fields and foci of inquiry. According to a domain-general model of expertise, it would be surprising if an expert ethicist, for instance, performed at the same level as an expert epistemologist or philosophers of language within the other’s specialty. If the general analogy to other disciplines holds, then the general skills that these professionals bring to bear on responding to thought experiments will proba- bly not result in superior performance outside of the domain of expertise. Philosophical expertise, like expertise across a number of disciplines, is not a blank check. There may be some empirical precedent for this finding among philosophers. For instance, researchers have recently found that both non-philosophers and professional philosophers are subject to a certain framing effect when making judgments of moral permissibility and moral obligation: the actor-observer bias (Tobia, Buckwalter & Stich 2013). Spe- cifically, researchers found that when both groups were presented with the famous “Jim and the Natives” case originally proposed by Smart and Williams (1978) or standard Trolley problems, the intuitive judgments both groups gave when they are the actor (or in response to cases framed in the 6 Also see Roediger & McDermott (1995); Smith et al. (2000) for how increased knowl- edge in a domain can directly limit performance in other domains. INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 11 first-person) differ from the intuitive judgments given when they are the observer (or cases framed in the third-person). If one accepts that whether an action in a moral scenario is framed in the first or third person is irrele- vant to the truth of the moral judgment, then the intuitions of professional philosophers are also influenced by factors that are irrelevant to the truth of the intuition. If professional intuitions are influenced by such factors, then they may not be more reliable than those of non-professionals. But interpreting these results requires caution. As these researchers them- selves note: One objection to our conclusion may be to argue that because only ethi- cists have expert moral intuitions, the data here do not pose a challenge to the expertise defense, since they represent the intuitions of a wide range of philosophers, including metaphysicians, philosophers of language, epis- temologists, etc., rather than only those of ethicists. The objection is well taken. . .Our findings do not pose a significant challenge to the advocate of the expertise defense who maintains that only professional ethicists are experts in moral intuition (2013, p. 635). Another way to interpret these findings is that just as in other fields like chess or engineering, expertise in philosophy is domain specific. In this case, intuitions in these central thought experiments of moral philosophy reported by philosophers who specialize in some other area of philosophy outside the relevant domain will also likely suffer. Superior performance is specialized to their domain of specialization.7 These findings do not demonstrate that professional philosophers are expert intuiters, but they do suggest an alternative explanation of the evidence available. Philosophical expertise, like genuine expertise across many fields, may be very domain specific. In other words, such findings need not threaten philosophical expertise understood above. There’s another possible explana- tion right in line with what a domain general model of expertise would pre- dict. They may reflect domain specificity of expert philosophical intuition. Moreover, such findings may constitute a first step toward providing a model of philosophical expertise grounded by the limitations of genuine experts. If philosophical expertise fits the model of expertise in other fields, we should expect the link between philosophical expertise and intuitions to 7 See also recent work by Nado (2014) in favor of the claim that philosophical intuitions are the result of a number of disparate mental mechanisms and by Machery (2012) for direct evidence of a relationship between areas of professional specialization and confi- dence in Kripkean intuitions about reference. By contrast, see recent experimental find- ings by Schwitzgebel & Cushman (2012) suggesting that philosophers specializing in ethics display order effects in their judgments about some ethical scenarios but not in others, and by Schulz et al. (2011) for an effect of the heritable personality trait extraver- sion on free will intuitions after controlling for domain knowledge. 12 WESLEY BUCKWALTER hold strictly within the domain of expertise. To that end, future empirical work supporting expert performance in philosophy might profitably explore the effects of philosophical specialization on philosophical judgments in greater detail. In the meantime, this research suggests that if philosophers are expert intuiters, their expertise is most likely restricted to the area of specialty and their domain of expertise. V.II. Inaccurate Prediction Philosophers have long argued that ordinary behavior, and in some cases the ordinary application of certain concepts, can be very useful in guiding and building certain sorts of philosophical theories (Aristotle [1984]; Reid 1785 [2002]; Moore 1942; Austin 1956). The basic idea is that these judg- ments, in certain circumstances, can serve as valuable evidence in philo- sophical arguments. We see many examples of such arguments involving appeals to ordinary behavior within recent debates in epistemology and in metaphysics.8 Perhaps nowhere is this more evident than recent work in epistemology on ascriptions of knowledge. For instance, Jason Stanley motivates his defense of interest relativity in part based on “the intuitive reactions we have,” to pairs of cases that manipulate a subject’s practical interests. His claim is that our intu- itions regarding knowledge ascription are stakes sensitive, and that his “cen- tral interest is to evaluate accounts that make as much sense of these intuitions as possible” (2005). Likewise, John Hawthorne touts that his view offers “the best hope yet for respecting the intuitive links between knowledge, assertion, and practical reasoning” (2004). In related discussions concerning epistemic contextualism, Keith DeRose claims that some of “the best evidence” for this view comes from “what ordinary speakers will count as ‘knowledge” (2005). Before drawing on ordinary behavior in philosophical argumentation, one must first understand what ordinary behavior is like. To find out what ordinary behavior is like, philosophers often turn to intuition and thought experimentation. In the epistemic literature for instance, claims of ordinary practice are often based on the familiar appeal to intuition about knowledge attribution, together with armchair claims about “what people will say” in response to philosophical thought experiments. If philosophers are expert intu- iters however, we should expect these performances to resemble the perfor- mances of other experts when predicting ordinary responses to their respective areas of inquiry. That is, we would expect them to be exceptionally bad at it. The psychological research on expert performance suggests that experts consistently fail in making predictions about the behavior of novices or non- 8 For reviews of the former see Pinillos (2011, 2012) and Buckwalter (2012). For a discus- sion of the role of ordinary intuitions in research on the metaphysics of causation see Collins, Hall, & Paul (2004, pp. 30–39). INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 13 experts. In a series of studies, researchers have shown that one’s level of expertise is negatively correlated with making correct predictions regarding novice performance (see, for instance, Hinds 1999). They have also shown that experts typically fail to make better predictions than novices regarding the future behavior of others under conditions of uncertainty—such as predicting which prospective students will be successful in graduate school (Dawes 1971) or in evaluating medical internship candidates (Johnson 1988). For instance, consider a famous study by Hinds (1999). Hinds compared the predictions that expert, intermediate, and novice participants made about the performances of other novices. In these studies, members of each expert level were asked to make predictions about the novice completion of a task, such as “using advanced cellular telephone technology” (though recall the year was 1999), or the assembling of a set of LEGOs (the Star Wars V-Wing Fighter). In both cases, Hinds found that experts were significantly worse than novices at successfully predicting novice performances in these tasks. Hinds also examined how certain procedures might aid experts in making better predictions about novice behavior. One such technique was to “prompt people to recall their own experiences and instruct them to use this experience to construct a scenario of how the task being estimated may progress” (p. 207). Another technique was to present participants with a list of potential problems faced by novices prior to collecting predictions about their behavior in the tasks. However Hinds found that experts were significantly less respon- sive to both the list or recall procedures. They continued to be significantly worse predictors of novice behavior than the intermediate or novice partici- pants across the studies.9 One hypothesis offered to explain these findings is that experts struggle when taking the perspective of non-experts. Hinds speculates of this case that, “Experts may anchor on their own performance and fail to adjust ade- quately for the differences in skills between themselves and novices. People often anchor on their own attitudes, beliefs, and knowledge and use this anchor as a basis for predicting what others believe, feel, and know (Davis, Hoch, & Ragsdale 1986; Nickerson, Baddeley, & Freeman 1987)” (Hinds 1999, p. 206). An expert’s experience and knowledge can interfere with perspective-taking and, consequently, cause them to poorly predict novice behavior. Are professional philosophers just as bad as other experts at predicting novice behavior? Countless results accumulated by experimental philoso- phers suggest that the answer to this question is an emphatic “yes.” These data suggest that philosophers are also strikingly bad at making predictions about ordinary behavior, or how ordinary people will respond to philosophi- 9 Despite the effect for poor expert prediction, Hinds also found that intermediates gener- ally tended to be among the best predictors of novice behavior. 14 WESLEY BUCKWALTER cally relevant questions or thought experiments across several areas of philosophical inquiry (Arico & Fallis 2013; Batson 2008; Bengson et al. 2009; Braddock 2010; Church et al. 2005; Faraci & Shoemaker 2010; Feltz et al. 2009; Livengood & Machery 2007; Liao et al. 2012; Murray et al. 2013; Myers-Schulz & Schwitzgebel 2013; Reuter 2011; Starmans & Fried- man 2012; Swain et al. 2008; Sytsma & Machery 2010). Returning to the example of practical interests and knowledge ascription, the questions of stakes and interest relativity serve as a case in point. While there has not been a systematic study of professional philosophical judg- ments on the matter, a dominant assumption in contemporary epistemology is that ordinary ascriptions of knowledge are stakes sensitive (see Buckwalt- er 2014 for discussion). The results produced by several independent researchers suggest that professional predictions of ordinary practice are wrong (Feltz & Zarpentine 2010; May et al. 2010; Buckwalter 2010, and Schaffer & Knobe 2012). Using a series of sophisticated empirical techniques, the latest round of studies strongly suggesting that there is no distinctive unmediated epistemic role for stakes on knowledge judgments (Buckwalter & Schaffer 2013; Turri & Buckwalter 2014).10 Again, these findings do not demonstrate that professional philosophers are expert intuiters. But the results are suggestive. If philosophers are noto- riously bad at predicting the behavior of non-experts, then this just as well supports the link from intuition to philosophical expertise. These findings are right in line with what a general model of expertise would predict. Such findings constitute another step toward providing a model of philosophical expertise grounded by the limitations of genuine experts.11 If philosophers are experts in the traditional sense, then we should expect them to err when predicting ordinary behavior. And despite the philosophical value of ordinary behavior, poor prediction of ordinary intuition appears to be a consistent finding in experimental philosophy. To that end, future empirical work supporting expert performance in philosophy might profitably explore the overall accuracy of philosophical prediction. For instance, future work might conduct a representative survey of failed expert predictions in philos- ophy, and experimental evidence of such failed predictions of the kind that 10 See Buckwalter & Schaffer for responses to experimental challenges to stakes insensitiv- ity from Pinillos (2012) and Sripada & Stanley (2012). They provide a competing model for the role of error salience in ordinary epistemic judgment. 11 Presumably we might expect laypeople to make more accurate predictions of lay intu- itions than professional philosophers simply in virtue of reporting their own intuitive reactions. While dedicated empirical work is necessary to fully test this claim, some evi- dence for it is available. For instance, Turri, Buckwalter & Blouw (in press) have shown that patterns in ordinary knowledge attribution are more attuned to certain variations with respect to types of Gettier case constructions than the professional philosophical lit- erature has been, suggesting that predictions of ordinary behavior made on this basis will likely be more accurate than those of professionals. INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 15 one finds in the psychological literature on expertise. In the meantime, this research suggests that if philosophers are expert intuiters, their expertise is most likely at the cost of expert prediction of novice behaviors. V.III. Glossing Over (In)significant Details One virtue often attributed to professional philosophers is their keen ability to pay attention to key philosophical details when evaluating thought experi- ments. As Williamson writes, “The expertise defence does not imply that a good philosophical education involves the cultivation of a mysterious sui generis faculty of rational intuition, or anything of the kind. Rather, it is supposed to improve far more mundane skills, such as careful attention to details in the description of the scenario and their potential relevance to the questions at issue” (2011, p. 216). The basic idea seems to be that due to their advanced training, philoso- phers are better than novices at holding fixed in their minds certain informa- tion of philosophical importance, while dismissing other features of thought experiments that are irrelevant to the philosophical question at issue. This is indeed an important skill. If philosophers possess it, then they would also share this important skill with experts from many different fields. We know that generally speaking, experts possess the remarkable ability of being able to overlook visual or surface details, and understand the deep or underlying structure of problems relevant to their intended focus of inquiry (see Chi et al. 1981). But although this ability is often considered a strength of genu- ine expertise, it can also be a weakness. Researchers have found that although experts excel at understanding deep structures of problems, they often fail to process important surface details. For instance, Voss et al. (1980) found that when participants of different levels of expertise were presented with a narrative account of a fictitious baseball game, “high knowledge” individuals recalled more information rel- evant to the structure of the game than “low knowledge” participants. But they also found that low knowledge individuals were able to recall more information than the high knowledge participants regarding auxiliary and non-game action. Specifically, they found that participants with greater domain knowledge generated more complete descriptions of the mechanics of plays, in contrast to participants with less domain knowledge, who were more likely to provide more details concerning “fans’ reactions and thoughts, the pressure of the game, and so on” (p. 659).12 Researchers have also obtained similar results in the medical domain by comparing the performances of medical students to those of general practitio- ners (Boshuizen, Schmidt & Coughlin 1987; Schmidt & Boshuizen 1993a,b; 12 Also see Adelson (1984) for similar results in the domain of computer science. 16 WESLEY BUCKWALTER Patel et al. 1989). For example, in a famous study by Schmidt & Boshuizen, medical students and internists were presented with vignettes describing a hypothetical scenario in which a patient was brought into the ER displaying certain symptoms (acute bacterial endocarditis). After different lengths of time examining the case, the participants were then asked to recall as many propositions as they could about the patient’s condition, as well as make a diagnosis. What Schmidt & Boshuizen found was that advanced students were able to recall significantly more propositions about the endocarditic patient than the novices and the expert internists (Figure 2). Schmidt & Boshuizen explain these results by appeal to the idea that the way fourth and sixth year (or pre-clinical, intermediate) students compre- hend the case depends on representing and accessing detailed pathophysio- logical concepts. Alternatively, they hypothesize, internists’ (or the experts’) comprehension of the case does not rely on this kind of intensive processing and recall. Instead experts approach the case by using certain shortcuts or cognitive heuristics that they have developed in the course of their extensive clinical experience. This training allows them to make patient diagnoses while also glossing over several pathophysiological processes picked up on by the students lacking the same kind of extensive clinical experience. This, in turn, explains why the internists were unable to recall as many proposi- tions regarding the medical status of the patients in Schmidt & Boshuizen’s experiments. They simply glossed over them when processing the case. Are professional philosophers prone to the same sort of detrimental glossing effects as sports and medical experts? Here we do not have direct empirical evidence of this basic phenomenon among professional philoso- Figure 2. “Average number of propositions recalled from the endocarditis case under two levels of priming.” (Schmidt & Boshuizen 1993a: 347, Experiment 2. Reprinted with permission.) INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 17 phers. The relevant experiments have not been conducted. However, many observations support this hypothesis and serve as initial evidence that some areas of philosophy emit precisely this sort of glossing. Consider, for instance, the literature in epistemology surrounding the issue of epistemic purism. Epistemic purism (also sometimes referred to as intellectualism) is the thesis that, “for any two possible subjects S and S’, if S and S’ are alike with respect to the strength of their epistemic position regarding a true proposition p, then S and S’ are alike with respect to being in a position to know that p” (Fantl & McGrath, 2007, p. 558). Purism states that whether or not one is in a position to know that p depends only on truth conducive factors. In other words, orthodoxy has long suggested that “the right sort” of factors for knowledge are ones like evidence or reli- ability, which increase the likelihood that a belief is true. Recent work in contemporary epistemology and across experimental epis- temology on knowledge ascription has suggested a very different picture. Researchers have found that knowledge ascriptions may often be governed by many of what epistemologists have historically considered the “wrong sort” of factors thought to make a difference for knowledge (for a review, see Buckwalter 2012a). By contrast, these results tend to support a general picture whereby many important non-truth-conducive factors influence knowledge ascription. To cite one recent example, experimental work has found a powerful relationship between knowledge and actionability (Turri & Buckwalter 2014). Specifically, these researchers find that whether a person should pur- sue a course of action has a powerful and direct relationship to knowledge ascription. In fact, mediation analysis conducted by these researchers sug- gests that judgments about “how one should act” influence judgments about “what one knows” as much as judgments about truth and evidence do. These results powerfully vindicate recent theoretical work in philosophy on the role of knowledge in licensing certain activities (Unger 1975; William- son 2000; Hawthorne & Stanley 2008), and lend support to the view that there is a deep and important connection between knowledge and actionabil- ity (Fantl & McGrath 2009). Another example involves the apparent influence that normative factors—and in particular people’s moral judgements—have on epistemic judgments (Beebe & Buckwalter 2010; Beebe & Jensen 2012; Buckwalter 2013). This basic effect on knowledge ascription, known as the “epistemic side-effect effect” takes its inspiration from Joshua Knobe’s “side-effect effect” for intentionality (2003), arguably one of the most famous and well replicated effects in all of experimental philosophy. Specifically, what Beebe & Buckwalter have shown is participants are significantly less likely to agree that an agent knew that her actions would bring about a particular side-effect when the outcome was good, and more likely to attribute knowl- 18 WESLEY BUCKWALTER edge when the outcome was bad. This finding has been replicated and extended, and suggests a powerful relationship between normative or evalu- ative judgments on the one hand, and epistemic judgments on the other. The effects of normative and pragmatic judgment on knowledge ascription have not been discovered until relatively recently. If one accepts the form of purism above, then these features should be dismissed when processing a thought experiment. On the traditional view, they are surface details of a thought experiment removed or altogether irrelevant to the deep structure of knowledge. To better approximate the deep structure of knowledge, philosophers for centuries have focused instead on factors such as truth or evidence. Some philosophers had hypothesized about these variables theoretically (Fantl & McGrath, 2009; Hawthorne & Stanley 2008; James 1948; Locke 1975), but it was only recently, and aided by experimental methods, that philosophers began to discover how factors like actionability or normativity affect ordinary knowledge judgments. Of course, the correct explanation or interpretation of these practices might well remain a matter of debate (e.g., Alicke et al. 2011; Knobe 2010). For our present purposes, the key thing to realize about these effects, is that up until relatively recently, philosophical orthodoxy implicitly judged them to be irrel- evant to the problem at issue. One explanation for this is that these factors— along with other factors recently discovered in contrast to purism—were potentially concealed by expert susceptibility to glossing when evaluating thought experiments. In other words, they were not processed, or processed and dismissed as factors of the case irrelevant to the philosophical question of inquiry. This situation is exactly what we would expect if expert intuitions in philosophy share the same limitations as experts in other fields. Such findings constitute another step toward providing an adequate model of philosophical expertise. If philosophical expertise fits the model of expertise in other fields, we should expect glossing effects in professional philosophical inquiry. Thus future empirical work on philosophical expertise might profitably study susceptibilities to the kind of glossing effects found in the psychological literature. Future research might also compare the susceptibility of professional philosophers and non-philosophers when eval- uating philosophical thought experiments. In the meantime, this research suggests that if philosophers are expert intuiters, their experience and exten- sive knowledge of philosophical phenomena will likely lead to glossing at the level of case processing, which has the potential to influence their intu- itions as a result. V. IV. Expert Bias David Lewis began “Elusive Knowledge” by considering the clash between infallibilism and the bulk of the propositions we ordinary take ourselves to INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 19 know (1999). Classic infallibilism is the thesis that a subject must rule out just about every possibility of error in order to know that p—fallibilism denies this. If forced to choose between the two, Lewis reluctantly admits that he would give up the philosophically preferred position of infallibilism for fallibilism, rather than embrace almost total skepticism about everyday knowledge. But Lewis is not fully satisfied with the prospect of fallibilist knowledge. To convince philosophers who have accepted this thesis like- wise, Lewis offers the following plea: We can get used to it, and some of us have done. No joy there—we know that people can get used to the most crazy philosophical sayings imagin- able. If you are a contented fallibilist, I implore you to be honest, be naive, hear it afresh. “He knows, yet he has not eliminated all possibilities of error.” Even if you’ve numbed your ears, doesn’t this overt, explicit fallibi- lism still sound wrong? (1999, p. 418–419). What should we make of Lewis’ request to be “honest” and “naive” when considering fallibilist conjunctions? One explanation, of course, is that intro- spection and intuition of this sort are often closely tied to biases that accom- pany one’s prior philosophical commitments, training, and experience. If philosophers are subject to this kind of professional bias, then they are again, in very good company. Research suggests that expertise in a number of domains can lead to specific errors within that domain due to the bias that accompanies greater domain knowledge. An indicative example of this tendency can be seen in Castel et al.’s (2007) “The Dark Side of Expertise.” In their studies, Castel and colleagues present expert and novice participants (individuals with either high or low levels of knowledge about American football) with a random assortment of animal names in a recall task. These animal names also happened to be the names of NFL teams (e.g. dolphins, broncos, falcons, etc.). Castel et al. predicted that although these objects were familiar to both groups of participants, high-knowledge and low-knowledge participants would process them differently. Presumably, they thought, experts will rely on their domain specific knowledge of football to organize the names of the animals, giving rise to superior performance in the memory task over the novices. But Castel et al. also hypothesized that this comes with a cost. Relying on this kind of schema for recalling the animal names may also lead experts to make more mistakes. Specifically they predicted that experts would misremember animal names that hadn’t been presented on the list (or that they hadn’t previously represented), just because they also happened to be NFL teams, too. That’s exactly what happened. What they found was that indeed, high- knowledge participants were able to correctly recall more animal names than 20 WESLEY BUCKWALTER low-knowledge subjects. However they also found that the high-knowledge participants, or the football experts, were also significantly more likely to incorrectly recall teams that were not represented. In other words, the experts were more susceptible to “intrusion” errors during recall. Castel et al. take theses results to show that “under some circumstances, the organizational processing that benefits experts also has a ‘‘dark side’’; specifically, it can lead to recall of domain-relevant information that was not presented” (p. 4). Similar effects of expert bias have also been shown in remote association tasks. For instance, Wiley (1998) discovered that although expertise in a domain could increase performance in these kinds of tasks, it could also work to greatly interfere with creative problem solving by promoting the onset of something known as “functional fixedness.” Wiley’s experiments featured participants who possessed a low degree or high degree of knowl- edge in baseball. Both groups were presented with several different sets of three words each. For example, included in one set of words was ‘plate’, ‘broken’, and ‘shot’. They were then asked to supply the fourth word that can be successfully combined with each of the three individual words. (The correct answer for this set is ‘glass’.) But Wiley also varied something else about the sets: whether or not the words primed participant knowledge of baseball (the example above is a set of this type, since it begins with the word ‘plate’). She found that when experts were primed in this way, they were significantly less likely to find the correct answer then low-knowledge participants when the correct answer had nothing to do with baseball. In this way, baseball knowledge was a strike against expert participants. It led them down a path where the correct answer was not likely to be found. Findings from Wiley and others on bias, functional fixedness, and the “dark side” of expertise are perhaps best summarized by the Buddhist phi- losopher and S�ot�o Zen monk Shunryu Suzuki, who writes, “In the begin- ner’s mind there are many possibilities, in the expert’s mind there are few” (1970). Experiments show that greater domain knowledge can constrain creative thinking. Specifically, expert knowledge often constrains the search space of answers to the domain of expertise. Sometimes this can be advan- tageous to problem solving. But it can also prove disadvantageous when more general solutions to problems are called for. In short, novices outper- form experts when experts favor biased solutions.13 It remains to be seen if professional philosophers directly suffer from the same kinds of biases when evaluating thought experiments. Though such a result would hardly be very surprising. After all, natural scientists quite gen- 13 Many studies have also shown bias in the medical domain regarding how outcome prob- abilities influence treatment decisions (Christensen et al. 1991) and how greater expertise in sub-specialty biases patient diagnoses (Hashem et al. 2003; Walther et al. 2003). INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 21 erally have long identified the concern of research bias in designing and conducting experiments (see Rosenthal & Rubin 1978). We should expect no less from thought experiments. And as noted earlier, and unlike the natu- ral sciences, we typically do not get direct or as robust feedback concerning intuitions in thought experiments. This would suggest potential for signifi- cant bias towards one’s favored philosophical research program. There is some direct empirical evidence that philosophers are susceptible to bias during the process of constructing philosophical thought experiments. For example, Strickland & Suben (2012) have shown the problem of experimenter bias extends to experimental philosophy itself.14 To demonstrate this, Strickland & Suben conducted an experiment within an experiment. They divided up two groups of Yale undergraduates and asked them to design a study investigating a certain philosophical question. The philosophical question was about group mental states and the concept of phenomenal consciousness (e.g. “Can Acme Corp., the group, experience great joy?”).15 However they also supplied each group with the hypothesis they were meant to test. One group received the hypothesis that a certain factor, the biological embodiment of an entity, was a crucial psychological cue for phenomenal state ascription. The other group received the exact opposite assignment—to test the hypothesis that embodiment was not cru- cial for state ascription. Strickland & Suben found that when they proceeded to conduct the experiments that each of these two groups of participants had designed, they found opposite results. Both experiments turned up some evidence in sup- port of the rival hypotheses they were given. Strickland & Suben conclude that foreknowledge of the hypothesis, and particularly, the goals of the experiment, led to significant bias affecting the outcome of the experiment. These results point to an important source of bias, and suggest the need for important safeguards against experimental bias when conducting research of this kind. Without such safeguards, Strickland & Suben write, researchers have “ample opportunity to mold and craft one’s stimuli in such a way that the expected or desired outcome is more likely to be obtained than it should be” (p. 3). Professional philosophers not only evaluate thought experiments, but also construct them. They almost always construct them with foreknowledge of hypotheses, just as Strickland & Suben warn against. Moreover, they almost always construct and evaluate thought experiments for the very purpose of achieving the intuition that they wish to achieve. This is not always a bad 14 Also see Hansen (2013), for work on bias in thought experiments involving shifting epi- stemic contexts. 15 For more on embodiment and phenomenal state ascription, see Knobe & Prinz (2008); Phelan & Buckwalter (2012). 22 WESLEY BUCKWALTER thing. Flexibility in constructing thought experiments can sometimes be a very good thing. But there are also clear risks associated with this practice. As results demonstrate, with greater flexibility in constructing and evaluat- ing philosophical thought experiments comes greater chance for bias. This kind of bias is right in line with the kind of bias accompanying expert professionals across a number of domains. At the same time, much more research needs to be done on professional bias in philosophical judgments. Such research might examine the influence on greater domain knowledge and commitments in philosophy on the construction and evaluation of thought experiments. One clear motivation for this research is that if philosophical expertise fits the model of expertise in other fields, we should expect, at least in some cases, that biased judgments follow as a result. In the meantime, if philosophers are expert intuiters, their expertise is most likely also accompa- nied by susceptibility to theoretical and experimental bias. VI. The Wages of Expertise We began with a shocking example. A surprising number of American patients seek out consumer reviews of trivial consumer goods at far greater rates than they do the qualifications of their surgeons. Unsurprisingly per- haps, the American College of Surgeons does not endorse this behavior. They recommend that patients get involved. You should, they advise, become familiar with your surgeon’s qualifications, history, as well as the prescribed treatment and recovery procedures. After all, experts sometimes make mistakes. Sometimes experts make mistakes because of their expertise. As paradox- ical as this can sound, it is very well documented. This basic observation about the boundary conditions of expertise may serve as the basis for a novel approach to understanding philosophical expertise. Of course, experts across different domains might not share all the same features. It’s beyond doubt that they differ in important ways too. But research has shown that they share many important properties, including some limitations. If philos- ophers tend to error when evaluating thought experiments in much the same way that other experts fail across domain, this fact may reinforce the anal- ogy between philosophers and intuition, on the one hand, and expert perfor- mances in other fields, on the other. And although there is less evidence for the factors underlying expert failure rather than mediating success, we have seen a suggestive pattern. The basic pattern that has emerged suggests that research on the failures of professional philosophical intuition can also be explained by the failures and limitations of genuine expertise across many fields. Philosophers, like genuine experts more generally, are not perfect. They may also suffer in situations when making intuitive judgments outside the specialized range of INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 23 the domain of their expertise. Evidence to date suggests that they struggle to predict the judgments and philosophically relevant behaviors of non- experts. There seem to be many areas of philosophical inquiry where gloss- ing can, or has, occurred. Evidence of and potential for bias lurks beneath vignette construction and evaluation. These observations help to clarify the four challenges to studying philo- sophical expertise, discussed earlier. First and foremost, the approach from failure effectively responds to direct challenges to the expertise defense focusing on the performances of professional philosophers. If the data on professional philosophical intuition challenges philosophical expertise, it must show how the performances of professional philosophers are different than what we might expect of expert performances in other fields. But this body of evidence points to the opposite conclusion. Much of the data uncovered by experimental philosophy previously taken to question the link between intuition and expertise can also be interpreted as supporting it. The data support the link between intuition and expertise because they can also be explained, and in some cases even predicted, by widely accepted accounts of expertise across the social sciences. That said, only dedicated empirical studies can demonstrate that philo- sophical expert intuiters share the failures and shortcomings of genuine experts. And, research on the professional intuitions of philosophers in thought experiments is ongoing. Future studies might not support philosoph- ical expertise or the link between philosophical intuition and the failures of experts in other fields. For instance, it’s possible that the results collected so far are each explained by independent factors not associated with expertise. These are exciting questions for future research guided, in part, by this new approach to philosophical expertise. The next challenge to studying philosophical expertise was that philoso- phers lack adequate understanding of the factors mediating expert philo- sophical judgments. On this score we have also made progress—though perhaps not in the way we might have expected. We made this progress by studying the factors mediating negative expert performance across a series of domains, and using those factors to cast light on the performances of professional philosophers when they construct or evaluate thought experi- ments and report their intuitions about them. Understanding the factors that mediate negative expert performances can be used to begin to reverse engineer a new model of philosophical exper- tise. If one assumes with Williamson and others that philosophers are experts in the traditional sense, then in line with the analogy to experts in other fields, one should expect philosophers to emit of skills and abilities that generally resemble members of that class. And as we observed, for all their skills and abilities, genuine experts also generally tend to fail in certain areas, too. Again, many of these areas in which they fail appear to overlap 24 WESLEY BUCKWALTER with errors philosophers make as they evaluate thought experiments. This reinforces the analogy between expertise in philosophy and other disci- plines. It also suggests that an accurate account of philosophical expertise most likely includes these failures and limitations. In other words, while more research must be conducted, an empirically successful model of philo- sophical expertise will most likely include, among other things, that expert philosophical intuition is domain-specific, highly susceptible to glossing and bias, and unreliable in predicting novice behavior. The last two challenges to studying expertise noted by Weinberg et al. involved correctness and calibration. While it can sometimes be very diffi- cult to discern correct philosophical intuitions, it is often very apparent when intuitions go wrong. The evidence from failure circumvents the issue of correctness. Our focus is on when intuitions are most likely incorrect. The tools of experimental cognitive science have readily demonstrated sev- eral areas in which expert performances go awry. By demonstrating the lim- itations of expertise, these tools also provide an interesting new resource for objective feedback and calibration. Awareness and adaption by professional philosophers in response to errors, such as poor prediction, glossing or bias, may provide just the sort of philosophical calibration that is currently avail- able to experts in other fields. Such observations reveal important features of philosophical activity and have the potential to help us do philosophy even better in the future. The use of experimental techniques helped defend and develop a new account of expertise in philosophy based on genuine expertise seen across many fields. The use of these methods need not threaten the basic idea that philosophers are experts. By contrast, they have helped us form more realistic expecta- tions of expert performance, both inside and outside of philosophy. Within philosophy they help calibrate intuitions in precisely those areas in which expert intuiters fail, and, potentially lead to more reliable evaluation of thought experiments in the future. Lastly, a model of philosophical expertise based on the limitations of genuine experts may place a series of constraints on the reliability of profes- sional philosophical intuition. In the past, many experimental philosophers have argued that if professional philosophers are not expert intuiters, then their intuitions may not be reliable evidence in philosophical arguments (e.g. Weinberg et al. 2010). I have argued that many findings may be explained in virtue of expertise. But a constrained critique of the reliability of intuition may still be warranted. Consider that if philosophers are not expert intuiters, than we have reason to question their reliability. And alter- natively, if philosophers are expert intuiters who share the failures and limi- tations of genuine experts, then we should decrease credence in the reliability of philosophical intuition, at least in certain circumstances, too. Namely, we should decrease credence in intuitions in those situations likely INTUITION FAIL: PHILOSOPHICAL ACTIVITY AND THE LIMITS OF EXPERTISE 25 to involve glossing, professional prediction of non-professional behavior, bias, and intuiting outside of the domain of expertise. In those circum- stances it seems sensible to turn to the tools of empirical cognitive science to investigate intuitions more carefully. These results may have interesting implications for the use of the exper- tise defense in philosophy. For instance, the expertise defense is often invoked for the purpose of highlighting the special evidentiary weight of professional philosophical intuition. But the same research in cognitive science suggesting that philosophers may be genuine experts also seems to suggest important limits on philosophical expertise, and in turn, important limits to viable deployments of the expertise defenses in philosophy. Some- times, we should expect expert intuition to be less reliable in virtue of the factors mediating genuine expert performance than, as some experimental philosophers have argued, in the absence of it. In such contexts, the more creditable it is that philosophers are genuine experts, the less creditable it is that a viable “expertise defense” applies. Given this, future work might profitably question applications of the expertise defense in philosophy inside and outside of these contexts. VII. Conclusion A full account of expertise in philosophy will require much more work comparing philosophers to genuine experts of other fields. The framework provided by this paper is offered to help achieve this goal. Yet it is also perhaps no coincidence that the research conducted thus far points to well- known failures and limitations of expertise. Many results taken to challenge philosophical expertise may also be explained by genuine expertise. Such results also provide a promising new approach for understanding philosoph- ical expertise and activity. In cataloguing when professional intuitions are likely to be wrong, we may be able to increase our confidence in their expertise, in the traditional sense Williamson and others have advocated. At the same time, the failures and limitations of genuine expertise suggest important limits on expert intuition and intuitional reliability, which experi- mental methods in psychology and cognitive science can help to reveal and address. 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work_dujx3aij4fgihenchhff2jvk7q	----	7PaulaPombo - Ene19 Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 RAFAEL POMBO : LA TRADUCTION ET LES ÉCHANGES INTERCULTURELS AU XIXe SIÈCLE EN COLOMBIE1 Paula Andrea Montoya Arango2 Professeur Universidad de Antioquia, Colombie Doctorante Universidad de Montreal, Canada paulamontoya000@yahoo.com Résumé : Le poète et traducteur Rafael Pombo (1833-1912) constitue un exemple intéressant pour découvrir les échanges dont ont bénéficié les intellectuels colombiens du XIXe siècle. Cette époque est caractérisée par la constitution des États- Nations, par la recherche de modèles à imiter dans tous les domaines, et par une ambiance « interculturelle » propice pour établir des contacts. Pendant son séjour de dix-sept ans aux États-Unis, Pombo a mené diverses activités telles que le contact avec les poètes nord-américains William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) et Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882). Ces contacts deviennent des éléments importants pour connaître un peu mieux l'histoire de la traduction en Colombie ainsi que l'histoire culturelle du pays. Mots clés : États-Nations, interculturalité, poète, traducteur, histoire de la traduction, histoire culturelle. Resumen : El poeta y traductor Rafael Pombo (1833-1912) constituye un ejemplo interesante para descubrir los intercambios que hicieron los intelectuales en Colombia en el siglo XIX. Esta época se caracterizó por la constitución de los Estado-Nación, por la búsqueda de modelos a imitar en todos los campos, y por un ambiente « intercultural » propicio para establecer contactos. Durante su estadía de diez y siete años en Estados Unidos Pombo desarrollo diversas actividades, y entró en contacto con poetas estadounidenses, entre ellos, William Cullen Bryant (1794- 1878) y Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882). Estos contactos se convierten en elementos importantes para conocer un poco más sobre la historia de la traducción en Colombia y sobre la historia cultural del país. Palabras clave : Estados-Nación, interculturalidad, poeta, traductor, historia de la traducción, historia cultural. Abstract: Rafael Pombo (1833-1912), poet and translator, is an interesting example to present the intellectual exchanges carried out during the XIXth century in Colombia. It is a time characterized by the constitution of Nation-States, by a search for models to imitate in every domain, by an « intercultural » atmosphere proper to establish relationships. During his staying in New York, for seventeen years, Pombo developed different activities and got in touch with American poets, among them William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) y Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882). These relationships became an important fact to get to know a bit more about the history of translation in Colombia and about the cultural history of our country. Key words: Nation-States, intercultural, poet, translator, history of translation, cultural history. 1 Cet article fait partie du travail de recherche d’une thèse en traduction soutenue le 13 novembre 2008 à l’Université d’Ottawa : « Le traducteur médiateur interculturel en Colombie au XIXe siècle : Rafael Pombo (1833- 1912) ». 2 Titulaire d’une Maîtrise en traduction de l’Université d’Ottawa et membre du Groupe de Recherche en Traductologie de l’Université d’Antioquia. Actuellement étudiante au doctorat en traduction à l’Université de Montréal. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 286 1. Introduction : Rafael Pombo, traducteur de Longfellow et Bryant ? Le nom de Rafael Pombo (1833-1912) occupe une place privilégiée dans l’histoire culturelle colombienne. Lorsque nous regardons le site web de la présidence de la République de la Colombie, lien consacré aux écrivains les plus représentatifs de toute l’histoire du pays, on trouve des noms tels que Gabriel García Marquez, Álvaro Mútis, José Asunción Silva, Soledad Acosta de Samper, Julio Flórez, Carlos Castro Saavedra et le poète Rafael Pombo. La mise en évidence de Pombo dans ce site web montre combien le poète colombien est considéré comme une « figure représentative » de la littérature nationale. Le texte d’accompagnement, de Beatriz Helena Robledo, chercheure en littérature pour la jeunesse en Colombie, signale qu’il a été embauché par la maison d’édition nord-américaine Appleton pour « llevar al castellano » quelques contes de la tradition anglaise. D’après elle : « […] más que traducir, crea y recrea historias en verso que sobresalen, dentro de la literatura infantil hispanoamericana del siglo XIX, de la forma que narra sus historias Pombo es no sólo el gran clásico de las letras colombianas para la niñez, sino uno de los grandes iniciadores de esta modalidad literaria en la región. […] Pero la mayor popularidad la alcanzó este autor en su país y en obras antológicas, en la literatura infantil, especialmente los textos contenidos en su libro Cuentos pintados y cuentos morales para niños formales (1854) […] Logró recrear los recuerdos de la infancia en su país y muchos de los chicos recuerdan a Rin Rin, el renacuajo, los vestidos de la Pobre Viejecita y las colas de las ovejas de la Pastorcita»3. Dans cette présentation de Robledo, deux éléments ressortent. D’une part, le « père » de la littérature pour la jeunesse en Colombie, a acquis sa popularité grâce aux contes pour les enfants et aux fables. Robledo termine son texte de présentation en faisant référence aux personnages traditionnels des contes tels que Rin Rin, La Pobre Viejecita ou Pastorcita, dont on peut dire qu’ils font partie de la culture populaire colombienne. Prenons quelques exemples pour confirmer combien l’image de Pombo est ancrée dans la mémoire collective des colombiens et combien le poète représente presque un « symbole national » de l’enfance et de l’éducation en Colombie : une fondation appelée « Fundación Rafael Pombo »4, dédiée au développement d’activités pour promouvoir « la formación integral de la niñez »; un grand parc d’attractions dans la capitale colombienne, Mundo Aventura, qui comporte un parc thématique appelé : Mundo Pombo5 dont les principales attractions sont des figures de presque deux mètres qui représentent les personnages des contes; et, finalement, le grand nombre de réimpressions de ses fables dans des livres, méthodes de lecture pour l’école, ainsi que la grande production multimédia de celles-ci6. 3 http://web.presidencia.gov.co/asiescolombia/cultura_escr_3.htm 4 http://www.fundacionrafaelpombo.org/ 5 http://www.bogota.gov.co/portel/libreria/php/frame_detalle_noticias_1_nyn.php?h_id=20906&version=a 6 Le dernier projet connu sur les fables de Rafael Pombo, a été entrepris par un chanteur colombien très populaire, Carlos Vives, en 2007. Le projet cherche à mettre en musique ses contes dans la voix de divers musiciens P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 287 Cette image de fabuliste est, pour sûr, la plus reconnue parmi les Colombiens, dont l’origine remonte à la traduction et à l’adaptation de Nursery Rhymes. D’autre part, la chercheure souligne, néanmoins, le talent de Pombo comme traducteur, mais plutôt comme créateur, parce qu’il a fait « plus que traduire ». Ce commentaire de Robledo met en évidence à quel point la traduction peut être considérée comme une activité de second ordre, puisque si l’on considère qu’il a fait « plus que traduire » et que la création et la recréation sont plus importantes, cela veut dire que la traduction est envisagée comme une activité de moindre catégorie et presque proche du plagiat. Il est sans doute vrai, que l’enthousiasme suscité par ces traductions a réveillé chez Pombo un intérêt pour le genre et pour l’éducation pour les enfants; nous considérons que le travail mené par Pombo se trouve à la frontière de la traduction, de l’adaptation et de la création. Raison pour laquelle le phénomène devient plus intéressant : sans aucun doute la traduction a joué un rôle considérable. D’ailleurs, il convient de souligner que l’œuvre poétique de Pombo et sa réalité de traducteur sont presque oubliées : en témoigne le manque d’études sur le poète signalé par quelques critiques (Robledo, 2006; Pöppel, 2004), Héctor Orjuela apparaissant comme son principal et presque unique spécialiste. À ce manque d’études, nous devons ajouter que sa tâche comme traducteur mérite une révision parce que, comme nous l’avons vu, plus haut, cette activité a été étudiée d’une façon superficielle sans tenir compte de tous les éléments sociohistoriques qui se trouvent autour de ces traductions7. Nous avons commencé en citant les traductions des contes de la tradition nord-américaine, mais il faut ajouter les auteurs considérés canoniques tels que : Bryon, Shakespeare, Longfellow, Bryant, Hood, Blanco White, Tennyson, Lamartine, Hugo, Musset, Goethe, parmi d’autres. Une étude de ce type donnera la valeur à la traduction comme un instrument fondamental dans la création de Rafael Pombo ainsi que la place de son travail comme traducteur dans l’histoire culturelle du pays. L’intérêt de Pombo pour la traduction remonte à sa jeunesse. Dès son plus jeune âge, Pombo a établi un rapport entre la traduction, l’étude des œuvres et des auteurs et la création. Pombo avait 12 ans lorsqu’il a commencé à écrire des cahiers comportant des commentaires de lecture d’auteurs qu’il aimait, avec des traductions de poètes anglais et quelques-uns de ses premiers poèmes. Orjuela (1965) donne le titre de quelques-uns de ces cahiers: « Diario de mil curiosidades para su propio dueño que lo es verdaderamente el señor Licenciado en Bellas Artes J. Rafael Pombo, Seminarista que fue en la ciudad de Bogotá a 1845»; «Panteón literario, La Araña o poesías de José Rafael Pombo y Rebolledo y sus traducciones del latín, francés e inglés más curiosas. Bogotá, 1845. Manuscritos del autor, así que el inglés, ocupa gran parte de esta obra, e incluso el retrato de “The english queen” [sic] Victoria»; «Álbum poético de J. R. Pombo, Tomo I, 1845» (Quijano, 1933). Chez Rafael Pombo, donc, un rapport très particulier existait avec la traduction depuis sa jeunesse et après, lorsqu’il a traduit d’autres auteurs, des articles pédagogiques et des livrets d’opéra. Pombo a toujours octroyé diverses fonctions à la traduction : créatrice, pédagogique, moralisante, etc. En fait, son contexte a montré que dans son environnement la pratique de colombiens en utilisant les rythmes propres à la région tels que le bambuco, le vallenato ou le pasillo. Pour plus de détails, consulter le site web officiel du musicien colombien Carlos Vives : http://www.carlosvives.com. 7 Il existe deux thèses de Maîtrisse consacrées à l’analyse d’un point de vue linguistique, des caractéristiques les plus remarquables de ces « traductions-adaptations ». « Análisis formal de « cuentos pintados » de Rafael Pombo », auteurs : Jairo Escobar Argaña et Gustavo Reyes Galeano et «Análisis formal de algunas fábulas de Rafael Pombo», auteur: Amparo Hernández Rojas. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 288 l’écriture et pourquoi pas, la traduction, était une activité courante et un instrument pour s’approprier des idées et construire une identité nationale, comme l’ont montré quelques études menées par des chercheurs colombiens (Aguirre Gaviria, 2004; Orozco, 2000). Dans cet article nous allons montrer tout particulièrement comment Rafael Pombo, dans un contexte propice aux échanges interculturels, a établi des rapports considérables avec deux écrivains nord-américains, Bryan et Longfellow. Ce faisant, il fait preuve de l’intérêt des intellectuels hispano-américains désireux de créer des liens entre les deux Amériques. Par conséquent, nous découvrirons l’importance de ces rapports pour l’histoire de la traduction en Colombie. 2. Un contexte propice pour les échanges Pombo a vécu une période très intéressante à New York lorsqu’il y était diplomate. Pendant sa période comme soldat en 1854 lorsqu’il a défendu le pays d’un coup d’État mené par le général José María Melo, Pombo a connu le Général Pedro Alcántara Herrán. Celui-ci avait été nommé par le président Manuel María Mallarino ministre à l’étranger pour les États-Unis et le Costa Rica. Grâce aux influences de son père qui fréquentait les sphères du pouvoir, Pombo a été nommé secrétaire de la délégation colombienne aux États-Unis et au Costa Rica, et il s’est rendu avec le Général Herrán à New York en 1855 (Orjuela, 1965; Robledo, 2006), où il a vécu pendant une période de dix-sept ans. Toute une ambiance « interculturelle » entourait Pombo : écrivains, diplomates, journalistes, voyageurs d’origine hispano-américaine se sont rencontrés à New York. Pombo, en sa qualité de diplomate, a eu l’occasion d’entrer en contact avec diverses personnalités ; ces rencontres, une ville qui avait une vie culturelle très riche et son esprit ouvert ont motivé Pombo à mener plusieurs projets, parmi eux des projets de traduction. Mais avant d’observer concrètement ces échanges, il faut faire le point sur l’intérêt historique de ceux-ci. L’importance accordée à ses échanges est montrée par divers auteurs qui affirment que les rapports culturels entre les deux Amériques commencent d’une façon plus « réelle » au début du XIXe siècle. D’après Onís (1952), González (1959) et Orjuela (1980), les rapports intellectuels et culturels entre l’Amérique du Nord et l’Amérique du Sud avant le XIXe siècle étaient peu communs. Les auteurs signalés expriment plusieurs raisons, par exemple, la période pendant laquelle chaque région était soumise par les colonisateurs, grosso modo les Anglais du nord et les Espagnols au sud respectivement, les rapports entre les deux Amériques étaient très limités car l’ancienne rivalité entre l’Angleterre et l’Espagne a été un des éléments qui empêchait à l’époque un contact culturel à cause des différences de valeurs que chaque religion imposait. D’un côté, pour les Anglais, les Espagnols étaient des tyrans et de l’autre côté, les Anglais étaient perçus par les Espagnols comme des hérétiques. D’ailleurs, tout un système de valeurs sociales, culturelles et économiques les éloignaient. Les Américains, pour leur part, avaient peu d’intérêt pour les Hispano-américains. Avec les mouvements d’indépendance, la situation a beaucoup changé, et comme l’affirme Orjuela (1980), les rapports ont commencé à être plus directs: « La revolución norteamericana desde el principio despertó viva simpatía entre los criollos que abrigaban la esperanza de independizarse del gobierno monárquico español » (p. 52). La situation préindépendantiste et postindépendantiste a été favorable pour que les hommes de lettres de l’Amérique hispanique se déplacent soit comme voyageurs, « próceres » de l’indépendance, exilés ou diplomates. De cette façon, le rôle du diplomate ou de l’exilé —la plupart des criollos lettrés— pendant cette époque a été fondamental pour établir des contacts entre les deux P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 289 Amériques. Retenons, de cette époque, que le plus important a été la traduction espagnole de la constitution nord-américaine parce que ce document sera la base sur laquelle les Hispano- américains détermineront eux-mêmes leur démocratie et, en conséquence, leur indépendance de l’Espagne (Bastin, 2006). Ensuite, un bon nombre de politiciens de l’Amérique du Sud se sont intéressés à d’autres sujets, tels que le système éducatif nord-américain. Le cas le plus visible est celui de Domingo Faustino Sarmiento (1811-1888), homme de lettres et politicien argentin qui s’est consacré, pendant son séjour aux États-Unis, à l’étude du système éducatif nord-américain : comme diplomate, il a écrit des livres sur l’éducation et une fois devenu Président de la République argentine, Sarmiento a mis en place plusieurs idées dans son pays (Orjuela, 1980). Le travail de Rafael Pombo revêt d’une importance considérable, parce que le poète colombien est considéré comme un homme clé pour comprendre comment se sont poursuivis les échanges entre les Amériques au XIXe siècle. En effet, l’éducation et la littérature nord-américaine seront des sujets d’intérêt pour les Hispano-américains. Pour mieux y comprendre, nous utiliserons le concept d’« ambassadors of culture », proposé par la chercheure nord-américaine Kirsten Silva Gruesz (2002). L’ « ambassadeur culturel » met en évidence une situation d’« interculturalité » des hommes de lettres hispano- américains au XIXe siècle et la Colombie ne fait pas exception à la règle8. Ces hommes lettrés ont accompli un rôle comme diplomates et ils ont vécu dans un environnement qui a permis le contact entre les États-Unis et l’Amérique hispanique. La situation socioculturelle des États- Unis au XIXe siècle avait toutes les caractéristiques d’une société où les frontières étaient faibles. Pour diverses raisons, les hommes lettrés se sont déplacés « vers le nord ». Les grandes villes comme New York, sont devenues des carrefours où l’on relève les premières traces d’une présence « latine » forte qui a marqué la culture nord-américaine. D’ailleurs, ces hommes ont commencé à établir divers rapports avec ce nouvel espace, et par conséquent, ces contacts ont eu comme résultat diverses situations : les traces écrites dans les zones de contact (les frontières physiques telles que le Nouveau-Mexique ou la Californie, ou les villes qui ont hébergé de grandes communautés hispanophones telles que New York ou Los Angeles). Une autre situation décrite par Silva Gruez est celle qu’elle appelle les contacts « transaméricains » et « transatlantiques » : cette situation peut être illustrée à partir de tous les réseaux de publications, des rapports de mécénat, dont la traduction, laquelle est vue par l’auteure comme une forme de « transamerican thinking ». Ces contacts sont alors une preuve de ce « transnational traffic in words ». Voici quelques exemples de ces échanges. Nous les aborderons à partir des contacts et des publications issues de ces contacts, et de manière plus détaillée, nous regarderons les rapports que Pombo a eus avec Bryant et Longfellow. Tout d’abord, les fréquentations de Pombo nous permettront de voir « l’ampleur sociale » à laquelle il avait accès : écrivains, politiciens, artistes et familles nord-américaines de l’élite. Pombo habitait le Gramercy Park-House, un hôtel où il y avait une grande présence d’hispanophones (Orjuela, 1997). Ces cercles ont permis à Pombo d’élargir ses perspectives intellectuelles et culturelles. De plus, c’était pour lui l’occasion parfaite de connaître la réalité nord-américaine de l’époque : un pays avec une présence hispanophone de plus en plus marquée. 8 «To be an ambassador of culture involves reporting and representing, but not enforcing, the authority of that idealized realm of prestige knowledge in a place where it does not rule –whether in the hinterlands or in a cosmopolitan space where many value systems come together in chaotic plurality, as they did in American cities » (Gruesz, 2002, p. 18). P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 290 Parmi les intellectuels et les hommes de lettres hispanophones que Pombo a connus, se trouvent le cubain Enrique Piñeyro9, José Durand de Guatemala et l’espagnol Andrés Orihuela, entre autres. Pombo a rencontré aussi d’autres compatriotes tels que : Mariano Manrique, Joaquín Posada, Alejandro Posada, Santiago Pérez, Luis Mantilla. Tous des personnages liés à la culture ou à la politique de la Colombie. Pombo a été en contact avec des politiciens comme Tomás Cipriano de Mosquera, le Général vénézuélien José Antonio Páez, le costaricien Luis Molina ou le diplomate chilien Carlos Morla Vicuña. Parmi ces relations littéraires avec des écrivains nord-américains, Rafael Pombo était amie de la poétesse María Juana Christie de Serrano. Il a été le premier à faire connaître cette poétesse en Colombie à travers la traduction de ses poèmes qui ont été publiés dans l’anthologie Parnaso colombiano, faite par Julio Añez en 1887 (Orjuela, 1965, 1975). Ses relations avec les écrivains nord-américains Bryant et Longfellow, sont très importantes et représentent un élément interculturel très clair dans l’histoire culturelle colombienne. Nous y reviendrons plus loin. Terminons cette question des contacts établis par Pombo, en mentionnant le musicien Louis Moreau Gottschalk, fréquentation intéressante parce que Pombo traduit en guise de cadeau pour ce dernier « Le lac » de Lamartine, une de ses traductions les plus connues. De plus, avec ce musicien nord-américain, Pombo a partagé son goût pour la musique. Goût qu’il essayera de transmettre à son retour en Colombie. Ces contacts sont liés à la production dont nous allons parler maintenant. Pym (1998) affirme avec raison que les traducteurs ne travaillent pas seuls, qu’ils forment des réseaux qui permettent le flux des textes et des idées. Tous ces contacts ont permis à Pombo non seulement d’établir des liens d’amitié, mais de mener des collaborations qui ont une portée évidente sur le travail des intellectuels colombiens au-delà des frontières, collaborations que Gruesz (2002) appelle « transaméricaines ». De fait, la production du poète aux États-Unis est significative. Orjuela (1965) affirme que pendant son séjour à New York, Pombo a écrit quelques-uns de ses poèmes les plus importants, par exemple La Hora de Tinieblas, sans compter son journal personnel pendant ces premières années aux États-Unis et sur lequel nous reviendrons rapidement pour, de façon générale, signaler comment celui-ci fournit quelques éléments de la perception culturelle et de l’ambiance « interculturelle » à cette époque à New York. Le journal personnel de Rafael Pombo édité par Romero (1983) a été écrit entre 1855 et 1866 à New York. Dans ce journal personnel, Pombo écrit ses premières impressions de la vie et de la géographie des États-Unis. Dans ces premières années, nous pouvons voir que Pombo avait une vision très critique de la culture nord-américaine: « He venido aquí a espiar el siglo XIX…Yo preferiría tener siempre buen humor a ser banquero como estos de aquí, es decir, una máquina de echar firmas. Estos son 9 Silva Gruesz (2002) décrit Piñeyro (1839-1911) comme un diplomate et écrivain cubain fondateur du journal El Mundo Nuevo à New York. Après la guerre de 1868 à Cuba, il s’est réfugié aux États-Unis. Il a été une figure active dans les luttes préindépendantistes à côté d’autres intellectuels cubains qui ont créé le journal La Revolución de Cuba. De l’avis de Silva Gruesz : « El Mundo Nuevo was a semi-monthly « illustrated encyclopedia » that digest important international and local news. It also devoted a good deal of space to belletristic essays, serialized novels, descriptive and scientific engravings, poetry and at one point even fashion plates in sixteen lavish folio pages per issue» (p. 188). P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 291 verdaderamente los hombres más pobres del mundo. Yo haciendo versos soy mucho más rico que ellos » (Romero, 1983, p. 7). Ce commentaire montre que Pombo ne se laisse pas impressionner par la grande ville. Il arrive à New York avec ses propres conceptions et il se trouve dans une position de confrontation presque permanente. De plus, il ne se laisse pas impressionner non plus par la force politique que représente le pays, qu’il appelle « la república modelo » (La république modèle). Il observe avec les yeux d’un critique qui analyse tout : « La paz, libertad y costumbres hospitalarias, proverbiales, de los Estados Unidos son a veces bien curiosas. En Louisville ha habido con motivo de las elecciones una batalla en toda forma entre Know-nothings10 e irlandeses: quedaron muertos 20, heridos un sinnúmero […]. Luego con decir “esto es en tiempo de elecciones” queda todo compuesto, y siguen los EE.UU. en su profesión tan lucrativa de república modelo» (Ibid., p. 25). Mais cela ne l’a pas empêché d’admirer le paysage et les progrès technologiques et artistiques qu’offrait la ville. De fait, nous pouvons affirmer que Pombo a essayé de s’« approprier » cet espace et de donner sa propre vision comme on peut le voir avec la belle description qu’il a fait des lieux new-yorkais : «Acostumbrado al eterno estrépito de las fábricas y carros de Nueva York, el silencio casi completo de que me encontraba rodeado y el santo objeto de cuanto más próximamente vi, me poseyeron de recogimiento y religiosa tristeza» (p. 44). De cette façon, Pombo décrit l’île Blackwell, lieu qui servait à l’époque de refuge pour les malades mentaux. Cette description fait partie des descriptions que Pombo a faites de divers lieux de New York comme collaboration avec J. Durand (guatémaltèque) pour un guide touristique dont nous en parlerons. Pombo a parcouru la ville avec son ami et a laissé ses impressions consignées dans ce journal comme symbole de la perception culturelle d’un étranger à cette époque. C’est aussi à ce moment de sa vie que Pombo a collaboré et publié des articles ou des traductions dans divers journaux nord-américains. Il faut également remarquer sa participation au journal El Mundo Nuevo créé par son ami, le critique cubain Enrique Piñeyro. Ce quotidien est un des journaux publiés en espagnol aux États-Unis au XIXe siècle, travaux très symboliques des échanges transnationaux (Silva Gruesz, 2002). Pombo publie un poème anglais dans l’Evening Post (journal édité par Bryant) et dans The Church Journal (son poème Cadena), Pombo a aussi publié des articles à caractère politique, en tant que diplomate, dans The New York Herald et National Intelligencer. Par ailleurs, il faut mentionner la collaboration de Rafael Pombo dans le guide pour les voyageurs hispanophones dirigé par José Durand Guía del Viajero en Los Estados Unidos (1859)11; l’aide fournie au scientifique nord-américain Isaac F. Holton avec qui Pombo a 10 « Know-nothing era el miembro de un partido secreto, llamado Know-nothingism, opuesto a la nacionalización de extranjeros. Floreció en los Estados Unidos entre 1853-1856» (Romero, 1983, p. 7). 11 Dans la préface du livre José Durand (1859) affirme : « Sólo nos falta dar aquí públicamente las gracias al Sr. Don Rafael Pombo, secretario de la Legación de Nueva Granada, por la eficaz cooperación que nos ha prestado con sus escelentes [sic] artículos pág. 76 sobre “El catolicismo en la gran república,” y pág. 99 sobre “Las Norteamericanas en Brodway,” » (p. iv). Cette guía fait un panorama de l’ambiance politique, culturelle, économique et touristique de New York à l’époque pour les « visiteurs » (plutôt que pour les émigrants) hispano-américains. Pour cette raison P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 292 partagé des informations sur la Nouvelle Grenade lorsque celui-ci écrivait son livre Twenty Months in the Andes (1857)12, livre de caractère scientifique et en même temps journal de voyage qui fait une étude de la région américaine; et des articles pour la Appleton’s American Cyclopedia (1887) 13. En somme, toutes ces collaborations signalent l’importante production du poète colombien et montrent la participation de Rafael Pombo à la vie intellectuelle nord-américaine de l’époque. Si a cette production nous ajoutons les traductions des contes pour enfants que Pombo a faits pour la maison d’édition Appleton, nous pouvons réaffirmer, comme l’indique Silva Gruesz (2002), que Pombo a contribué à tracer les premières lignes d’une identité « latino-américaine » aux États-Unis et il a effectué un certain travail « cosmopolite ». Mais, regardons comment a été le rapport avec les poètes Longfellow et Bryant et quelle est l’importance pour la réflexion sur l’histoire de la traduction en Colombie. 3. Longfellow et Bryant : essai d’un dialogue interculturel. Les poètes William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) et Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807- 1882) ont eu une grande influence sur les poètes hispano-américains au milieu du XIXe siècle (Orjuela, 1980; González, 1959; Englekirk, 1942). Comme nous l’avons signalé, les écrivains hispano-américains se sont intéressés à certaines manifestations politiques et culturelles des États-Unis. Les écrivains nord-américains se sont intéressés aussi à la culture espagnole. Pour appuyer cette assertion, notons que les auteurs tels que Washington Irving, Ticknor, Everett, Prescott sont reconnus pour avoir exprimé leurs préférence pour la culture et la littérature espagnole (González, 1959). Bryant et Longfellow eux-mêmes ont établi des rapports avec la culture hispano- américaine. En ce qui concerne Bryant, celui-ci est considéré comme le premier écrivain nord- américain qui s’est intéressé à la culture et à la littérature hispano-américaine : « Of all our great men of letters, he was the first one to interest himself in the literary production of Spanish America and the first also to visit it » (González, 1959, p., 180). Bryant a témoigné de l’amitié envers divers écrivains hispano-américains tels que Matías Romero, Guillermo Prieto et José Rosas Moreno. Son rapport le plus connu est avec le poète cubain José María Heredia14. De ce dernier, Bryant a traduit le poème « En una tempestad » et il a participé à la traduction et à la s’y trouvent des descriptions sur la ville nord-américaine qui cherchent aussi à approcher les visiteurs étrangers. Regardons comment Pombo commence son article sur « Le catholicisme dans la Grande République » : « El siglo XIX, en que los artistas se hacen millonarios, y en que viajamos, por decirlo así, montados en el pensamiento humano, tiene reputación de materialista, y los Estados Unidos muy especialmente andan de boca en boca como un pueblo sin más ley que el interés […] Un español echará de menos los importantes repiques de las campanas de su país, pero en cuanto al numero de campanarios, ni Castilla la Vieja, ni Méjico saldrán muy aventajados en el parangón» (p. 76). 12 Holton F (1857) naturaliste nord-américain, présente de cette façon la collaboration de Pombo dans son livre : « But to no one individual, nor, indeed, to all others, does the work owe so much as to Señor Rafael Pombo, secretary of the Granada legation. And this zeal was owing, not to a friendship to the author, to whom he was a stranger when his aid was first sought, but to a noble love for his country. May that country thank and reward him; for his faithfulness, accuracy, promptness, and zeal transcend all mere thanks of mine» (p. vi). 13 Orjuela (1965) présente quelques-uns des articles écrits par Pombo: « Isthmus of Panamá »; « Jiménez de Quesada »; « New Granada ». 14 Heredia a été considéré comme le premier à commencer des rapports culturels avec les États-Unis et l’Amérique hispanique. D’après Manuel Pedro González (1959), Heredia a travaillé comme professeur d’espagnol dans le pays « du nord ». Le poète cubain a dédié la première édition de ses poésies en 1825 à ses étudiants. Dans ce livre Heredia a écrit un prologue bilingue avec un système de prononciation de l’espagnol. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 293 publication d’ « Oda al Niágara »15, dans la revue The United States Review and Literary Gazette (González, 1959). De plus, Bryant a publié des articles écrits par des Hispano-américains dans les publications dont il était l’éditeur, tels que United States Review and Literary Gazette et dans le New York Evening Post. Le poète nord-américain a aussi visité Cuba et Mexique. De la même façon, Longfellow a entretenu des rapports avec la culture hispanique. Passionné de littérature espagnole, il l’a enseignée à l’Université Harvard. Il a traduit en anglais certaines œuvres du poète espagnol Jorge Manrique (1440-1479). Longfellow a vécu en Espagne où il a établi des rapports d’amitié avec les écrivains hispano-américains : Irisarri, Mendive, Sarmiento, Miralla, Eusebio Guiteras (Orjuela, 1980). Cependant, comment se fait-il que parmi les hommes de lettres hispaniques, Rafael Pombo se soit montré particulièrement intéressé par Bryant et Longfellow et non pas par d’autres auteurs nord-américains? Tout d’abord, il faut noter que Pombo n’est pas l’unique à s’intéresser aux deux poètes romantiques: « La influencia más importante de los Estados Unidos en la poesía hispanoamericana se efectuó a través de Bryant y Longfellow, poetas que despertaron gran entusiasmo en los bardos románticos y que se preocuparon por establecer contactos con los países vecinos. El papel de Bryant y Longfellow en las relaciones culturales de la época ayudó a mejorar la imagen negativa que el “Coloso del Norte” había creado en la mente de sus vecinos, pero no logró borrarla del todo» (Orjuela, 1980, p., 98). Il semble que les intellectuels de l’Amérique Hispanique, comme l’affirme Orjuela (1980), sympathisaient et s’identifiaient aux thématiques et aux valeurs que représentaient les deux poètes nord-américains. Aussi bien Bryant que Longfellow étaient vus comme d’« illustres citoyens » avec des valeurs morales et éthiques remarquables. Pombo représentait la culture colombienne de l’époque, ancrée dans les fortes valeurs morales et religieuses chrétiennes. D’ailleurs, il faisait partie de toute une élite intellectuelle qui se préoccupait de la construction d’une identité et une nation (Aguirre Gaviria, 2004; Orozco 2000). Dans cet article, il ne nous est pas possible de faire une étude comparative complète des poèmes traduits par Pombo des deux poètes nord-américains. Mais nous examinerons les thématiques des poèmes et quelques commentaires, pour découvrir partiellement l’intérêt de Pombo par les deux poètes. Ce matériel est tout à fait pertinent pour dessiner un panorama général. Il s’agira tout d’abord de Byron et après de Longfellow. Pombo a traduit 11 poèmes du poète nord-américain William Cullen Bryant, poèmes envoyés au poète américain avec quelques commentaires. Les commentaires en forme de manuscrit se trouvent dans les archives de Pombo. Dans une note, Orjuela (1975) affirme : « Esta nota [les commentaires ajoutés aux traductions] titulada The Translations carece de fecha y se 15 Les deux traductions ont suscité une polémique. En ce qui concerne la traduction d’“En una tempestad”, il semble que la traduction ait été présentée comme une création de Bryant: «In connection with this translation, it is pertinent to remark on the fact that beginning with the London edition of 1832 of Bryant’s Poems, this composition has always been reproduced as one of his original poems, without any reference to the original. […] Still another unsolved problem relative to this translation is the fact that Bryant left out in his rendition the last stanza of the original without any explanation» (González, 1959, p., 180). D’autre part, “Oda al Niágara” a paru sans le nom du traducteur, cela a été objet de diverses spéculations. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 294 encuentra entre los papeles de Pombo que conserva la Academia Colombiana de la Lengua » (p. 307). Nous nous servirons des commentaires d’Orjuela. Presque toutes les traductions, faites à New York, portent le titre original entre parenthèses. Bien que nous ne sachions pas exactement les dates des traductions, celles-ci pourraient avoir été réalisées entre 1870 et 1871, avant les traductions de Longfellow. Leur diffusion a été discrète par rapport à celle des traductions de Longfellow. Cependant, quelques- unes de ces traductions ont été publiées dans des journaux colombiens et dans des anthologies de traductions. Par exemple Canción de la Amazona griega (Song of the greek amazon) et El firmamento (The firmament) ont été publiées dans Antología de líricos ingleses y angloamericanos (Madrid 1924); La jornada de la vida (The journey of life) en 1897 dans le journal La Reintegración et Las pampas del norte (The prairies) dans le journal La Escuela Normal en 1876, deux journaux publiés en Colombie. Il faut remarquer la particularité du poème La vida futura (The Future Life) qui est accompagné du sous-titre « traducción libre, para canto » (Traduction libre pour chanter). Ces traductions ont parcouru le continent et elles ont traversé des frontières. Rafael Pombo a connu personnellement Bryant, très possiblement après lui avoir envoyé les traductions. Bryant a rencontré Pombo dans son bureau de l’Evening Post à New York le 10 mars 1871 (Robledo 2006). D’après Robledo, Pombo avait avec lui deux de ses propres poèmes écrits en anglais (Our Madonna at Home et To my father16), poèmes que Pombo a donnés à Bryant. Celui-ci a publié Our Madonna at Home dans l’Evening Post, et, d’après Robledo, Bryant a déclaré à Pombo que le poème: « no sólo era poesía y lengua inglesa, sino que el soneto le había gustado mucho » (Op.cit: 189). Rafael Pombo a traduit du poète nord-américain des poèmes qui exaltent le paysage, sujet que Pombo connaît parfaitement puisque c’était une thématique romantique qui correspond aux canons esthétiques romantiques traditionnels que Pombo avait appréciés avant de quitter son pays. De plus, il est possible que Pombo se soit identifié avec Bryant à cause des valeurs qu’il représentait. D’après González (1959) Bryant était une des figures culturelles et morales les plus représentatives du XIXe siècle aux États-Unis. Bryant était connu pour sa formation humaniste : connaissance des langues étrangères et traducteur d’auteurs classiques. D’ailleurs, sa vocation comme journaliste lui avait donné une réputation de libéral traditionnel, défenseur des causes justes, comme l’écrit Gonzalez (1959) : « To my way of thinking William Cullen Bryant symbolizes better perhaps than any other of his contemporaries the noblest qualities of the Puritan New England conscience » (179). Les commentaires, écrits en anglais par Pombo, sont un reflet du respect et de l’admiration de Pombo par le poète nord-américain. Ceux-ci contiennent des informations à propos de la vision de Pombo sur la traduction et de la façon comment Pombo s’est approché aux poèmes originaux. Pombo montre une position « soumise » et il en appelle à la traditionnelle «fidélité» et «littéralité». Il affirm: « I have endeavored to make my translations as faithful and literal as the character of Spanish poetry could allow, with only some slight additions necessary for style and 16 Les deux poèmes se trouvent dans: Pombo, Rafael (1916) Poesías de Rafael Pombo Tomo 2, Bogotá: Imprenta Nacional, p. 287. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 295 rhyme…» (Cité par Orjuela, 1975, p., 307). Pombo atténue avec « slight additions », des ajouts qui sont nécessaires pour que les traductions soient de « bon goût », des ajouts qui sont très récurrents dans ses traductions. D’ailleurs, dans les commentaires, nous observons que Pombo demande une certaine « légitimation ». Dans le texte cité par Orjuela (1975), le traducteur affirme qu’il a fait réviser les traductions par d’autres personnes, par ses « amis littéraires » (« literary friends ») avant de les envoyer à Bryant. L’ambiance intellectuelle qui entoure Pombo, lui a permis d’avoir des amis ayant la connaissance pour apprécier les traductions, et des traducteurs travaillant en groupe (Pym, 1998). Mais Pombo demande aussi à Bryant de réviser lui-même les traductions et de les corriger au besoin. Pour Pombo, Bryant est ici « l’expert » qui a le pouvoir de juger et de « valider » ses traductions : « I have already submitted these translations to severe criticism from literary friends, and, as the manuscript shows, I have changed every line or word objected to, whenever my own taste has agreed to the remark made. Now, Mr. Bryant is requested [sic] to mark in the manuscript any mistake, etc., he may detect, and express with the utmost frankness his opinion in regard to the plan and execution» (308). D’ autre part, il y a chez Pombo un souci constant de « la concision » de la langue anglaise : «Mr. Bryant knows well that the Spanish language is not so monosyllabical and laconic as the English, and that, therefore, English poetry cannot be rendered in Spanish line by line and in identical measures unless some ideas are left out. Otherwise, the translation might be intelligible, but not written in spanish style » (cite par Orjuela 1975: 308). Ce commentaire signale la position de Pombo face à l’obligation de respecter le « style » de la langue espagnole, et nous illustre comment Pombo témoignait d’un souci de la langue espagnole, il était intéressé à la construction d’une identité nationale. La réaffirmation d’une langue et d’une littérature nationale faisait partie de cette identité; c’est ainsi, que l’intérêt de Pombo par la langue d’arrivée se manifeste comme un élément très clair pour observer comme la traduction a sert à enrichir la langue espagnole. Il sait qu’il est difficile de traduire mot à mot et pour cette raison il affirme qu’une « bonne » traduction en espagnol, c’est-à-dire une traduction écrite en « spanish style » ne peut pas être une traduction mot à mot, « line by line ». Si le poème traduit mot à mot peut se comprendre, parce qu’il s’agit d’un « poème », c’est-à-dire parce qu’il peut transmettre l’effet stylistique propre au langage poétique, il doit avoir un style qui correspond au style de la langue d’arrivée. Pombo défend et reconnaît ainsi la langue espagnole comme une langue poétique au même titre que l’anglais. En ce qui concerne Longfellow, Pombo a traduit 16 compositions. Les traductions ont été faites à New York et à Bogota. Avant de rentrer dans son pays, Rafael Pombo a essayé de contacter le poète comme il l’a fait avec Bryant, mais la rencontre n’a pas été possible et Pombo a dû se contenter de lui écrire. Il a écrit à Longfellow en 1868 une lettre accompagnée de sa traduction de The Psalm of Life/El Salmo de la vida, datée de 1864, c’est la première traduction que Pombo a faite du poète nord-américain. Les traductions ont aussi été publiées dans les anthologies, quelques-unes à l’étranger, et dans les divers journaux nationaux tels que El Repertorio Colombiano (El herrero del pueblo, 1880), La Escuela Normal (Los obreros, 1876), P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 296 El Nuevo Tiempo Literario (Los niños, 1903); Evangelina a été publié dans le journal chilien La estrella de Chile en 1872. Parmi les anthologies les plus importantes, soulignons Traducciones poéticas de Longfellow (New York, 1893) publiées par le colombien Rafael Torres Mariño, Musa bilingüe (San Juan, 1903) publiée à Puerto Rico par Francisco Javier Amy et Los poetas de otras tierras (Bogotá, 1935) publiée par Samper Ortega. Ce réseau de publications montre, d’une part, que Pombo s’est intéressé à Longfellow lorsqu’il était à New York, mais sa sympathie pour la poésie et la personne de Longfellow a traversé les frontières et il a continué avec l’étude et la traduction de l’œuvre du poète nord- américain une fois rentré dans son pays. D’autre part, Pombo a transmis aussi cet intérêt à d’autres écrivains et collègues, augmentant ainsi la popularité de Longfellow en Amérique hispanique. En fait, l’intérêt de Pombo pour diffuser Longfellow dans l’Amérique hispanique lui confère le privilège d’être un des premiers traducteurs de Longfellow et d’avoir suscité, autour du poète nord-américain, tout un réseau de traducteurs, écrivains et poètes hispano-américains qui se sont passionnés pour lui, en particulier en Colombie. La critique littéraire affirme que Longfellow a exercé une influence importante sur les Hispano-américains entre 1870 et 1900, période caractérisée par la transition du romantisme au modernisme (Orjuela, 1980; Englekirk 1942). Bien que Cuba, le Mexique, le Venezuela, le Chili et l’Espagne soient les pays où la poésie de Longfellow a connu la plus grande diffusion, la Colombie a eu un rapport particulier avec Longfellow. D’après Englekirk (1942), la Colombie est le pays qui a accueilli la majorité des traducteurs : des 94 traducteurs de Longfellow, 28 sont des Colombiens, et Rafael Pombo est le premier (en Colombie) avec la traduction de The Psalm of Life en 1864 : «As we have already observed, Pombo’s compatriots were the most zealous of all. Not only did they constitute the largest single national group, clearly indicting that Longfellow’s popularity and influence was continuous and widespread in Colombia, but they also provided the largest number (109 as against a total of 245) of different translations and could count among them – in addition to Longfellow’s first translator- the four leading individual translators in point of number of poems translated: Ruperto S. Gómez with forty-one translations to his credit, Rafael Pombo with fifteen, Jorge Gómez Restrepo with twelve, and Miguel Antonio Caro with nine» (p. 298). De cette façon, Pombo est une figure qui a motivé ses compatriotes à traduire Longfellow et a contribué à créer un « national group » (groupe national) de traducteurs. D’ailleurs, il a aidé à promouvoir Longfellow dans d’autres pays, fait confirmé par l’aide fournie au diplomate chilien Carlos Morla Vicuña17. Comme pour Bryant, nous devons essayer de trouver la raison pour laquelle Pombo s’est intéressé à Longfellow en particulier. Les raisons sont à l’évidence diverses. Par exemple, les 17D’ailleurs, la traduction d’Evangeline, dont Pombo a traduit seulement les 14 premières strophes du chant V, a été une collaboration avec le diplomate chilien Carlos Morla Vicuña : celui-ci a traduit tout le poème et l’a publié au Chili et à New York en témoignant sa reconnaissance à Pombo dans la préface : « Juzgo de mi deber advertir que debo a la espontánea y amistosa colaboración del afamado poeta colombiano Sr. Don Rafael Pombo, autor del original poema titulado Eda [sic], algunos de cuyos interesantes fragmentos han circulado por toda la América del Sur, las catorce primeras estrofas del V canto de la Segunda Parte. Entre ellas y las restantes no podrá menos de notarse la enorme distancia que separa la obra del literato consumado de la del novicio » (citée par Englekirk, 1954, note10, p., 21). P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 297 thématiques abordées par Longfellow. Manchester (1931) et Englekirk (1942) affirment que Longfellow, Poe et Whitman ont été les auteurs le plus traduits à la fin du XIXe siècle et début du XXe. Cependant, Longfellow était le plus traditionnel des trois. La poésie de Longfellow d’après Englekirk (1942; 1954) avait des intentions moralisantes, c’était une poésie qui admirait le passé, la nature, les coutumes nationales, la tradition « indigène » et biblique. Cet élément moral présenté chez Longfellow peut être comparé au sentiment catholique qui a inspiré beaucoup d’intellectuels de l’Amérique hispanique comme Pombo, la différence étant que dans le cas du poète nord-américain ses valeurs étaient puritaines: «His poetry of the Good Life, of Christian virtues, “de resignación y de fe en Dios” of the home of children, written in no unusual diction and in facil, musical rhyms, has a certain universal appeal» (Englekirk, 1942, p., 306- 307). Un autre élément qui a pu attirer l’attention de Pombo est la vision qu’avait Longfellow de l’art et de la littérature utilisés comme un outil social et humaniste afin d’aider à la construction d’une identité « américaine ». D’après Englekirk (1954), Longfellow était un symbole qui représentait les aspirations nationales nord-américaines les plus significatives. Beaucoup d’Hispano-américains intéressés par Longfellow partageaient des influences européennes et la recherche d’une identité, d’une « cultura auténticamente americana » (p. 7). De façon générale, dans un pays avec un fort attachement à la tradition comme la Colombie, Longfellow était vu comme un poète idéal pour enrichir la littérature nationale et poursuivre les idéaux capables d’imprégner la culture de valeurs morales. L’affinité des idéaux entre la pensée de Longfellow et de Pombo est évidente. Étudions les commentaires dans la correspondance entre Pombo et Longfellow pour confirmer notre argument. Tout d’abord, dans ce contexte d’évidente interculturalité, la correspondance que Pombo et Longfellow ont entretenue devient un élément à considérer puisqu’elle représente des premiers les contacts culturels entre les États-Unis et l’Amérique, particulièrement la Colombie. Englekirk (1954) signale que la correspondance entre Américains et Hispano-américains était très rare aussi: « En vano se buscará, sin embargo, alguna carta o indicación cualquiera de contacto epistolar con colegas de los países hispanos del sur, lo cual no ha de sorprender tanto, ya que ninguno de nuestros máximos valores literarios dirigió jamás sus pasos hacia la otra América, donde reinaba la feroz lucha entre « la barbarie y la civilización » (p. 6). Pour cette raison, l’hispaniste nord-américain affirme que cette correspondance entre Pombo et Longfellow est un outil précieux de communication interaméricaine. D’ailleurs, il semble que cette correspondance ait été la seule que le poète nord-américain ait eu avec un écrivain hispano-américain (Englekirk, 1954). Cette correspondance a été publiée de manière fragmentée. L’Academia Colombiana de la Lengua a publié en 1914 quelques lettres de Longfellow à Pombo et plus tard, Antonio Gómez Restrepo, dans l’édition officielle de 1917, a reproduit les mêmes lettres sans aucun contexte et sans avoir vu l’ensemble des lettres. De plus grands efforts ont été faits pour en faire une compilation complète par l’hispaniste nord-américain John E. Englekirk (1954). Englekirk (1954) a compilé des lettres dans les archives de Longfellow à la Craigie House, maison-musée de Longfellow à Cambridge (Massachusetts). Il a publié les lettres avec des détails sur l’œuvre de Pombo et son rapport avec Longfellow, ainsi que quelques traductions de ses poèmes faites P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 298 par Pombo et par d’autres traducteurs colombiens. D’autre part, Gerardo Ramos (1965) a publié la première lettre de Rafael Pombo à Longfellow, lettre qu’Englekirk n’a pas pu trouver à Cambridge. La correspondance entre les deux poètes a été courte et elle est composée de 10 lettres dont 6 envoyés par Pombo à Longfellow, 3 lettres écrites en anglais et envoyées de New York (1 janvier 1868; 27 janvier et 13 février 1872) et 3 lettres écrites en espagnol et envoyées de Santa Fé de Bogotá (18 juin, 8 juillet et 18 octobre 1880). Longfellow a envoyé à Pombo 4 lettres, toutes écrites en anglais à Cambridge (30 mars 1871; 6 février et 14 février 1872; 27 novembre 1880). De façon générale, on peut affirmer que les lettres de Pombo à Longfellow sont une preuve de l’admiration du poète colombien pour le poète nord-américain. Cela se reflète dans le ton presque solennel de la première lettre : « Un sudamericano, de Nueva Granada » qui est adressée au « eminente autor de Hiawatha y traductor del Dante » (Ramos, 1965, p. 6). Pombo exprime sa motivation à lui écrire comme une façon de remercier Longfellow de la traduction que ce dernier a fait des poèmes du poète espagnol Jorge Manrique. C’est en signe de remerciement qu’il a traduit The Psalm of Life : « Sírvase Ud. aceptarla [la traduction de The Psalm of Life] como un débil testimonio de antigua admiración, y como prenda del reconocimiento de mi raza [sic] por la bellísima traducción que debemos a usted de nuestras « Coplas de Manrique » » (p. 6). Il est intéressant de voir dans ce cas, la traduction comme un élément qui permet établir le contact interculturel, comme une espèce d’« acte symbolique » qui a permis à Pombo de se rapprocher de Longfellow. Dans les lettres Pombo fait une réflexion sur la littérature, la poésie et la traduction; ces affirmations sont une preuve de la profonde connaissance de Pombo et de son sens critique sur la littérature du continent américain. Il faut noter que les lettres de Longfellow sont courtes, le poète nord-américain est aimable, mais il est direct et bref, et laisse Pombo avec beaucoup de questions sans réponse18. Dans ces lettres, Rafael Pombo lui demande des conseils sur ses traductions : de la même façon qu’avec Bryant, Pombo cherche à « légitimer » ses traductions avec l’« expert ». D’ailleurs, Pombo envoie à Longfellow ses propres poèmes, Fonda Libre et En el Niágara et d’autre matériel intéressant comme les traductions vers l’espagnol de poèmes du poète nord-américain faites par lui et d’autres collègues colombiens, des articles critiques de littérature publiées dans les journaux colombiens, ainsi que des traductions de livrets d’opéra. Pombo a essayé aussi de susciter des discussions autour des sujets connus de Longfellow tels que la littérature espagnole. Pombo pensait que discuter des sujets en commun pourrait être la meilleure façon de se connaître un peu plus et d’établir un dialogue intellectuel fructueux. Longfellow a été bref en faisant référence au «la manque du temps ». Cependant, cela n’a pas empêché Longfellow d’admirer les poésies de Pombo : « I quite forgot in my letter to thank you for the Fonda libre. Accept my thanks now. It is a charming poem; very melodious and as good as anything in Montemayor or Gil Polo » (Englekirk, 1954, p. 25), ainsi que ses traductions: « Your translations are excellent. They are once faithful and glowing. In particular I like that of The Psalm of Life. I beg you to accept my most cordial thanks» (Englekirk, 1954, p. 18-19). 18 « Estas cartas de Longfellow, que comprenden una época de poco más de nueve años, no son ni “largas” ni muy “interesantes”. Las de Pombo, al contrario, sí debieron de serlo, no sólo por la cantidad de material que venía adjunto –traducciones de Longfellow hechas por Pombo y otros colombianos, poesías originales, recortes, sin contar lo que llegaba en paquetes aparte- sino también por los datos, informes y preguntas que exigían respuesta y que manifestaban plenamente la admiración que su autor sentía por Longfellow y cuánto deseaba establecer y mantener amistad con él, aunque sólo fuera mediante cartas» (Englekirk, 1954, p. 3). P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 299 Prenons ces courtes lignes comme une preuve qui montre que leur rapport a été « positif » et teinté d’une certaine condescendance de la part de Longfellow. En ce qui concerne les commentaires à propos de la traduction, Pombo traite de l’importance du style en langue espagnole. Il traite des sujets tels que la concision de l’anglais, effectivement un des problèmes les plus difficiles pour traduire chez Pombo; les formes poétiques, en particulier l’utilisation en espagnol de l’hexamètre; et la question « classique » de la fidélité/infidélité et littéralité/liberté. Lissons par exemple, le commentaire que Rafael Pombo fait d’un des poèmes le plus connus de Longfellow et en conséquence, l’une des traductions de Pombo les plus commentées par la critique : « Psalm of Life ». De ce poème Pombo affirme: « Muchos defectos tiene mi traducción, empezando por no ser literal, y sacrificar al estilo español y al metro adoptado la enérgica concisión del original inglés; pero tal vez el metro interesara al gran poeta que ha tratado de aclimatar el hexámetro en la poesía inglesa, -a pesar de que mis líneas no son hexámetros regulares según la prosodia y métricas latinas,-sino una especie de transacción, algo monótona, entre estas y las españolas» (Ramos, 1965, p. 6). Pombo s’inscrit dans le discours un peu traditionnel de la « littéralité », comme une façon « correcte » de traduire par opposition à la traduction libre et il adopte aussi cette « soumission » en affirmant « Muchos defectos tiene mi traducción ». Rappelons que cela a été la même position adoptée dans les traductions de Bryant. Il semble que Pombo assume que pareille position constitue le « discours » sur la traduction, comme une espèce de doxa. D’ailleurs, Pombo insiste sur la perte de « la enérgica concisión del original inglés ». La justification de Pombo pour traduire de cette façon est intéressante parce qu’il veut « revendiquer » la langue d’arrivée et prouver que la traduction sert à mettre à l’épreuve les formes littéraires de la langue d’arrivée. Pombo affirme qu’il a essayé d’imiter l’hexamètre, forme connue par Longfellow, malgré des problèmes pour bien l’utiliser : « Respecto del hexámetro, yo he hecho varias debilísimas tentativas, una de ellas con la Eneida y otra con el Childe-Harold; pero mi capacidad apenas basta para entrever lo que debía ser, lamentar que no sea, y conocer que yo no puedo hacerlo.-Ni una línea de mis ensayos he publicado» (Ramos, 1965, p. 7). Pombo montre que le style de la langue d’arrivée est important et qu’il a essayé d’enrichir la métrique espagnole à partir de la traduction. Cette question de l’hexamètre est de nouveau le sujet qu’il commente dans la traduction d’Évangeline de Carlos Morla Vicuña. Pombo écrit à Longfellow que cette traduction a été admirée par Bryant, mais Pombo se plaint du fait que le poème ne soit pas traduit en hexamètres mais en « octavas reales ». Cependant Pombo affirme: « But in several cases where he is unfaithful he produced with the filling up an octava exquisitely musical » (Englekirk, 1954, p. 22). De nouveau, Pombo établit le rapport qu’ « une bonne traduction » est « fidèle » si elle reproduit « littéralement » la forme, lorsqu’il dit que Morla Vicuña a été « infidèle » pour avoir utilisé l’« octava real ». Néanmoins, il va réaffirmer sa position sur l’importance de penser au style de la langue d’arrivée lorsqu’il dit que le traducteur chilien est «infidèle», mais le poème est de « bon goût » musicalement. Pombo légitime son commentaire en appelant au style utilisé P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 300 par le poète espagnol de tendance romantique, Zorrilla, lequel a utilisé les octavas reales dans ses poèmes. En consequence, Pombo dit: « And now and then I think he is as faithful as, under such shackles any Spanish scholar could be » (Englekirk, 1954, p. 22). La position de Rafael Pombo, bien qu’elle soit « soumise », cherche à « affirmer » la langue d’arrivée comme une langue littéraire et donc à utiliser la traduction comme un moyen d’être plus flexible avec les formes, et plus créatif pour enrichir la langue et produire des œuvres d’art en langue espagnole comme il en existe dans les autres langues. C’est intéressant aussi de connaître d’autres commentaires faits par Pombo sur divers sujets. Par exemple, dans la lettre que Pombo a envoyée de Bogota, il a présenté un panorama de la littérature et la culture colombienne de l’époque. Nous pensons que ce commentaire est une façon d’affirmer son idéologie de faire de la Colombie un pays riche culturellement. Pombo fait une liste des réussites les plus importantes des poètes et des écrivains colombiens. Parmi les événements littéraires signalés par Pombo : les traductions du latin de Miguel Antonio Caro; les travaux sur la grammaire espagnole de ce dernier et Rufino José Cuervo; l’étude sur les langues indigènes menées par Ezequiel Uricoechea et Rafael Celedón, parmi d’autres. Toutes ces publications ont contribué à diffuser la popularité de la Colombie dans l’Amérique hispanique comme l’« Atenas Suramericana », étiquète dont les intellectuels colombiens se montraient satisfaits. Avec cette idée, Pombo fait preuve de sa fierté pour le développement culturel du pays et il adopte une attitude « érudite » en faisant cette liste de tous ces événements littéraires pour essayer d’être au niveau du poète nord-américain et montrer que son pays traverse un grand progrès littéraire et culturel. Finissons notre analyse en exprimant la vision de Pombo sur Longfellow consignée dans cette correspondance. Celle-ci est la preuve de la plus grande admiration et identification de Pombo avec les valeurs représentées par Longfellow. Pombo lui dit qu’il est en train de préparer une conférence sur lui pour être lue aux membres de l’Academia Colombiana de la Lengua et il fait une énumération des quelque 10 points où il décrit l’œuvre de Longfellow. Pombo commence par faire une apologie des valeurs et de la personnalité du poète « Su espíritu y corazón cosmopolitas, sin limitacion de razas, naciones, lenguas, tiempos, sectas, etc.,» (Englekirk, 1954, p. 40). D’ailleurs, Pombo admire «su constante y perfecta moralidad y espiritualidad: moral viril, de deber, actividad y energía, no de inercia y devoción soñolienta » (Ibid. p. 40). Pombo pense que Longfellow doit être apprécié parce qu’il est le symbole du respect et de l’amour pour la tradition. Pombo partage la vision que Longfellow a de l’art et de la poésie comme des outils moraux qui élèvent l’esprit humain : « Tengo para mí que la poesía debe ser a un tiempo progresista y conservadora; para destruir, la barbarie y la ignoracia bastan» (Ibid. p. 41). Nous pouvons voir que Pombo partage avec Longfellow cette idée pédagogique d’éduquer travers l’art et la littérature, idées aussi marquées par une vision morale et chrétienne. Après cette apologie de la personne de Longfellow, Pombo fait des commentaires sur son œuvre et la valeur littéraire de celle-ci. Pombo admire des caractéristiques particulières de la poésie du poète nord-américain, en particulier les thématiques : la poésie descriptive, la « poesía del hogar » ou la « poesía de asunto indígena americano », « la poesía de asunto bíblico », et en général, toute la poésie de caractère narratif. En ce qui concerne cette dernière, Pombo affirme que ce genre de poésie est celui qui doit figurer dans les livres pour les jeunes. Il admire tous les genres et les idées que, lui-même, a voulu transmettre dans son pays. Une littérature de caractère traditionnel, moral et avec des intentions pédagogiques. Pour conclure, nous pouvons affirmer que l’admiration de Pombo pour Longfellow est grande et cette correspondance en est la preuve. Ce qui retient particulièrement notre attention P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 301 c’est de voir comment la différence religieuse n’a pas empêché Pombo de découvrir et d’admirer l’œuvre de Longellow. Avec cette correspondance nous voyons comment la traduction et l’admiration de Pombo pour Longfellow est un élément qui fait ressortir la différence de valeurs, établit le dialogue parmi les deux cultures et finalement, avec humilité et presque « soumission », reconnaît comment dans la différence se trouvent des points communs. Ainsi, Pombo écrira à Longfellow: « Nosotros como católicos y como españoles, debemos a dar a Ud. Una acción pública de gracias por el espíritu generoso y simpático con que toca nuestra religión, historia y lengua; y no menos debemos agradecer los aficionados a las letras el ejemplo y las lecciones que nos da con su cultivo, lo que será, en el fondo, el objeto de mi “conversación” del 6 de agosto » (Englekirk, 1954, p. 45). 4. Conclusion : Rafael Pombo un médiateur interculturel Cet article nous a permis d’identifier combien la figure de Rafael Pombo apparaît trop emblématique pour comprendre comment se sont établis les rapports avec l’étranger au XIXe siècle, particulièrement avec les États-Unis. La figure du « poète de l’enfance » est complémentée avec la figure de l’« ambassadeur culturel » ou du « médiateur interculturel ». Mais qu’entend-on au juste par le concept de « médiation interculturelle »? Lorsque Pym (1998) expose son concept d’interculturalité, il fait référence à des situations dans lesquelles les traducteurs se trouvent dans une situation de contact, de «frontières». Presque par nature, toutes les cultures sont en « situation de frontière » : les sociétés sont constituées par plus d’une culture, divers groupes convergent dans un espace. Par ailleurs, les cultures ne sont pas fermées aux influences d’autres cultures et les contacts entre les cultures sont une activité normale : « I use the term ‘interculture’ to refer to beliefs and practices found in intersections or overlaps of cultures, where people combine something of two or more cultures at once » (Pym, 1998, p. 177). Ce que nous trouvons intéressant de ce concept c’est qu’avec celui-ci Pym met l’accent sur trois aspects qui présentent un grand intérêt. Tout d’abord, Pym pense que les traducteurs se trouvent dans les « intersections » où les langues et les cultures établissent des rapports ; le traducteur incarne lui-même cette idée parce qu’il n’est pas un agent monolingue, et par conséquent, il n’est pas monoculturel. L’interculturalité est alors cet espace particulier dans lequel convergent tous ces éléments. Ensuite, les traducteurs « bougent »; cette situation de déplacement des traducteurs et des traductions montre comment le traducteur ne peut pas être identifié avec une seule culture, parce qu’il est le produit de la diversité. Finalement, cette situation d’interculturalité met en évidence le caractère de « profession » de la traduction : «Translators are not the only people likely to be found in the cultural intersections of their urban geometry. They often work for or alongside other intermediaries like diplomats, negotiators, travelers, academics, teachers, journalists, scientists, explorers and traders of all kinds” (Pym, 1998, p. 188). Cette hypothèse a permis à Pym d’affirmer combien les traducteurs font plus que traduire et font partie de réseaux, de « professional networks ». Cela dit, nous voulons ici dire que Pombo a joué un rôle comme médiateur interculturel parce qu’il a vécu une situation particulière de contact parmi les cultures. Il a envisagé dans la traduction un outil pour établir les contacts et permettre que les cultures s’intègrent et partagent, il a construit un espace de communication où les deux cultures se confrontent et peuvent avoir un point de contact. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 302 À travers du cas étudié ici, on a vu que pour Pombo la traduction a été un « exercice intellectuel » qui a traversé toute sa carrière. La traduction doit se concevoir comme une « activité professionnelle » liée à toute l’ambiance socioculturelle et qui a eu le rôle d’« instrument de contact ». Pombo est un agent qui a vu dans la traduction un outil pour s’approprier des modèles, ainsi qu’un instrument pour enrichir la langue d’arrivée, et de cette manière affirmer son identité. L’histoire de la traduction se présente dès lors comme une porte d’entrée permettant d’accéder à des situations diverses comme nous l’avons exposée ici. L’histoire de la traduction et la valeur intrinsèque donnée au traducteur, met en évidence que la traduction est une activité centrale dans la construction des savoirs et les identités et surtout elle peut nous fournir des éléments pour mieux comprendre le rapport de la Colombie avec les influences étrangères et les fonctions données par ses agents, les traducteurs. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 303 RÉFÉRENCES AGUIRRE GAVIRIA, Beatriz Eugenia. (2004). Soledad Acosta de Samper y su papel en la traducción en Colombia en el siglo XIX. Ikala: Revista de Lenguaje y Cultura, 9(15), pp. 233- 267. BASTIN, Georges. (2006). Subjectivity and Rigour in Translation History. The case of Latin America. Dans: Bastin, George et Paul Bandia (ed) Charting the Future of Translation History. (pp. 111-129). Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press. -------------------- (2003). Por una historia de la traducción en Hispanoamérica. Ikala: Revista de Lenguaje y Cultura, 8(14), pp. 193-217. DELISLE, Jean et Judith Woodsworth (ed). (1995). Les traducteurs dans l’histoire. Ottawa & Paris: PUO/UNESCO. [Traduction vers l’espagnol. (2005). Los traductores en la historia. Medellín: Universidad de Antioquia]. --------------------- (1999). Portraits de traducteurs. Ottawa & Arras: Les Presses de l'Université d'Ottawa & Artois Presses Université. --------------------- (2002). Portrait de traductrices. Ottawa & Arras : Les Presses de l'Université d'Ottawa & Artois Presses Université. ---------------------- (2003). La historia de la traducción: su importancia para la traductología y su enseñanza mediante un programa didáctico multimedia y multilingüe. Ikala: Revista de Lenguaje y Cultura, 8(14), pp. 221-235. DE ONÍS, José. (1952). The United States as seen by Spanish American writers. New York: Hispanic Institute. DURAND, José. (1859). Guía del Viajero en Los Estados Unidos. New York: F. J. Vingut. ENGLEKIRK, John E. (1942). Notes on Longfellow in Spanish America. Hispania, 25 (3), (pp. 295-308). Consulté le 12 janvier 2008, dans la base de données JSTOR. ---------------------- (1954). El epistolario Pombo-Longfellow. Bogotá: Instituto Caro y Cuervo. GONZÁLEZ, Manuel Pedro. (1959). Two Great Pioneers of Inter-American Cultural Relations. Hispania, 42 (2), (pp. 175-185). Consulté le 12 janvier 2008, dans la base de données JSTOR. MANCHESTER, P. T. (1931). American Poetry in Spanish Translation. Hispania, 14 (5), (pp. 341-346). Consulté le 12 janvier 2008, dans la base de données JSTOR. ORJUELA, Héctor. (1965). Biografía y bibliografía de Rafael Pombo. Bogotá: Instituto Caro y Cuervo. --------------------- (1975). La obra poética de Rafael Pombo. Bogotá: Instituto Caro y Cuervo. --------------------- (1980). Imagen de los Estados Unidos en la poesía de Hispanoamérica. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. OROZCO, Wilson. (2000). La traducción en el siglo XIX en Colombia. Ikala: Revista de Lenguaje y Cultura, 5(9-10), pp. 73-88. POMBO, Rafael. (1957). Poesías completas. Madrid: Aguilar. PÖPPEL, Hubert. (2004). Educar o indoctrinar con literatura: las fabulas de Rafael Pombo y María Eastman. Dans: Santiago Castro-Gómez (Éd.), Pensar el siglo XIX. Cultura, biopolítica y modernidad en Colombia. (pp. 251-272). Pittsburgh: Biblioteca de América & Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana. P.A. Montoya / Rafael Pombo: la traduction et les échanges interculurels au XIXe siècle en Colombie Mutatis Mutandis Vol. 1 No. 2 2008 pp. 285-304 304 PYM, Anthony. (1998). Method in Translation History. Manchester & UK: St Jerome. QUIJANO, Arturo. (1933). EL curioso archivo de Pombo. Cromos No. 891. Bogotá. RAMOS, Oscar Gerardo. (1965). Dos documentos inéditos de Pombo a Longfellow. Bogotá: Instituto Caro y Cuervo. ROBLEDO, Beatriz Helena. (2006). Rafael Pombo. La vida de un poeta. Bogotá: Vergara & Ediciones B. ROMERO, Mario Germán. (1983). Rafael Pombo en Nueva York. Bogotá: Editorial Kelly. SILVA GRUESZ, Kirsten. (2002). Ambassadors of Culture. The Transamerican Origins of Latino Writing. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Site web de la présidence de la République de la Colombie. Consulté le 3 juin 2008, à http://web.presidencia.gov.co/. Site web de la Fundación Rafael Pombo. Consulté le 3 juin 2008, à http://www.fundacionrafaelpombo.org Site web de la Mairie de Santa Fé de Bogotá. (2007). Mundo Pombo, un cuento hecho realidad. Consulté le 15 juin 2008 à http://www.bogota.gov.co/portel/libreria/php/frame_detalle_noticias_1_nyn.php?h_id=20906&version=a Site web du parc Mundo Aventura. Consulté le 15 juin 2008 à http://www.mundoaventura.com.co/inicio_pombo.asp 
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work_e54xohichratva7oalbcqy2maa	----	doi:10.1016/j.jtcvs.2004.11.016 The Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery Vol 129, No. 3, March 2005 Presidential address: An evolving discipline Vaughn A. Starnes, MD From the Department of Cardiothoracic Surgery, Keck School of Medicine at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles, Calif. Read at the Thirtieth Annual Meeting of The Western Thoracic Surgical Associa- tion, Maui, Hawaii, June 23-26, 2004. Received for publication June 30, 2004; revisions received Nov 3, 2004; accepted for publication Nov 5, 2004. Address for reprints: Vaughn A. Starnes, MD, Hastings Distinguished Professor and Chair, Department of Cardiothoracic Surgery, University of Southern California, Keck School of Medicine, 1520 San Pablo St, HCC2 Suite 4300, Los Angeles, CA 90033 (E-mail: vstarnes@usc.edu). J Thorac Cardiovasc Surg 2005;129:483-7 0022-5223/$30.00 Copyright © 2005 by The American Asso- ciation for Thoracic Surgery doi:10.1016/j.jtcvs.2004.11.016 A s I was debating and reflecting on what I would say today, I thought about my own personal experiences in cardiothoracic surgery and how so much has changed from the time I was a farm boy in North Carolina to becoming a cardiothoracic surgeon and now president of The Western Thoracic Surgical Association. I first recognize the great opportunities this wonderful profession has given me. For me, this was the American dream. Believing in this promise, I refuse to fall victim to the current era of despair in our profession: the complaints of reimbursement being too low, cardiologists taking all our business away, HMOs dictating patient care, our graduates unable to find jobs, and some of our colleagues believing our specialty has seen its golden years come and gone. All of these complaints do have some element of validity, but to effect change and alter the current circumstances, we have to understand more fully the sequence of events leading to these concerns. First, I accept the concept of change and know the only constancy is change. Therefore, I do not give into the psychology of the golden years of cardiothoracic surgery. Instead, I believe in the concept of cardiothoracic surgery as an evolving discipline and as such have much to look forward to. These times bring to mind a quotation from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear, and with a manly heart.” As an evolving discipline, we need to understand the acrimony. Is the golden age past? The short answer is no. As a specialty, we are cardiac, thoracic, congenital, and vascular surgeons. Cardiac surgeons have to be careful not to imply the entire specialty is in trouble because coronary artery bypass surgery is down 25%. In fact, as I talk to my colleagues who perform thoracic surgery, it might be one of the most exciting times in nearly 80 years. Thoracic surgery has emerged from a palliative discipline of draining empyemas and cancer resections into a better understanding of the biology of lung and esophageal tumors. Resective therapy with careful staging and, if needed, adjuvant therapy offers cure to patients with lung cancer. Lung transplantation has developed from an experimental procedure in 1986 to an accepted form of therapy for end-stage lung disease. Last year, nearly 1100 lung transplantations were performed in the United States.1 The 1-year survival after transplantation has increased from 60% in 1986 to as high as 90% in selected centers in the year 2003. These improved results are due to better immunosuppression and increased recognition and treatment of the various multifactorial causes of bronchi- olitis obliterans. For example, this dreaded complication has been reduced by noting the relationship with gastroesophageal reflux and performing antireflux procedures. Living donor lung transplantations are being done with increasing frequency. In 2003, at The American Association for Thoracic Surgery meeting in Toronto, we reported our 10-year experience with 128 lobar lung transplantations. Our conclusion was that this procedure is an ideal operation for children and young The Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery ● Volume 129, Number 3 483 Presidential Address Starnes patients with cystic fibrosis. Additionally, the incidence of bronchiolitis obliterans syndrome was half that of cadaveric lung transplantation. Lobar transplantation has developed from an experimental procedure beginning in 1990 to an accepted therapy for critically ill patients with end-stage lung disease. These are a few examples of why thoracic surgery is very active and exciting. A barometer of this excitement is mea- sured by the increasing numbers of entering thoracic resi- dents who are choosing thoracic surgery as their subspe- cialty. Another discipline that has gained excitement and momentum over the past 20 years has been surgery for congenital heart disease. This evolution has progressed from palliative procedures, such as the Blalock-Taussig shunt for tetralogy of Fallot, to complete repair in the neonatal period. Whereas children would present with cya- notic heart disease and receive palliative procedures, now these neonates undergo total repair. This therapy limits the number of operations infants are exposed to and results in better outcomes without the interval mortality between pal- liation and corrective surgery. Hypoplastic left heart syn- drome was a diagnosis with 100% mortality. Today these infants are undergoing first-stage palliation with greater than 85% success.2 This tremendous progress has been made because of a few pioneers, such as Bill Norwood, not succumbing to risks and criticism. Instead he took the clinical problems as challenges and spent 10 to 15 years perfecting an operation that now saves hundreds of new- borns. These pioneers did not accept the status quo but embraced the need for change and became part of the changing influence. They took lesions with poor outcomes and tried to make a difference, although success did not come quickly. Today I challenge all of us to accept this pioneering spirit as we approach our current challenges. In the short span of 20 years, we have taken a lesion (hypo- plastic left heart) from a hopeless condition to now having surgical outcomes with greater than 80% survival.3 These few examples are representative of the exciting changes that have occurred in other disciplines within our specialty. If we try to understand why there is pessimism today, we need to understand the scope of the problems. Adult cardiac surgery has been prolific in terms of the number of patients treated and the number of surgeons rendering their care. Therefore, when a major change occurs in this discipline, its reverberations are felt throughout the specialty. As a consequence, the specialty as a whole now has a problem rather than a segment of the specialty. If we analyze the problem within adult cardiac surgery, do we conclude that it is all of adult cardiac surgery or just coro- nary bypass surgery? Over the past 20 years, coronary bypass surgery defined the practice of adult cardiac surgery. Coronary bypass operations comprised 80% to 90% of most cardiac surgeons’ activity and therefore defined the value 484 The Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery ● Mar most surgeons placed on their practice. Simply put, a car- diac surgeon was an adult cardiac surgeon who performed “X” number of bypass operations with “0” mortality. If this is the yardstick by which we measured our specialty, then it is easy for all of us today to understand the sense of frustration that has developed. Rather than becoming frustrated and resentful of change, we need now, more than ever, to take on the pioneering spirit and be part of the evolution of our discipline. The indicator of needed change has been the downturn in the number of patients referred for coronary bypass operations. During the past year, the number of coronary artery bypass grafting (CABG) operations is down approximately 25%. This occurred as a result of many factors. Cardiologists have become successful in opening coronary blockages with bal- loons, stents, and now with improved drug-eluting stents. As cardiothoracic surgeons, we have not accurately an- swered the question of whether these procedures are better for the patient. Patients certainly like the concept of not having a large incision down the center of the chest. The patient keeps coming back for repeated procedures. It is almost as though the results of these stenting and balloon angioplasty procedures do not matter. We need to ask our- selves why this continues, particularly in patients with pre- dictably poor outcomes. I believe one answer is that we have totally capitulated our responsibility to our patients by not making them more aware of the alternatives. We have been too concerned about the business of our specialty and not upsetting the referring cardiologist. We accepted the 20% to 30% stent restenosis rate by not being more critical of these results. We are, through our silence, in agreement with this therapy, and the patients do not know better. We complain about not being held with the same regard as in the past. If we are going to regain self respect as a discipline, we have to stop behaving as technicians performing surgical procedures. We have to become physicians again; we have to look for better ways to treat our patients’ problems. We have to persuade the cardiologist to look at cooperative trials com- paring, for example, bypass surgery versus stenting in pa- tients with 3-vessel disease and diminished ventricular func- tion. A study from the Cleveland Clinic that looked at these 2 groups was reported in the Wall Street Journal in May 2004.4 The results confirmed that in the high-risk group, the stented patients had 2.5 times the mortality seen in those patients having bypass surgery. The high-risk group was defined by low ejection fraction (�40%), multiple-vessel disease, and diabetes. This study, now published in Circu- lation,5 is the first comparison in the past 5 years in which surgeons and cardiologists were willing to look at their data. The results confirmed what we have surmised. But until now, no group was willing to compare the data. It will take ch 2005 Starnes Presidential Address many other studies to properly place both procedures in the correct patient care algorithm for the best outcomes. Information and publications regarding our surgical out- comes are essential, but this is only one piece of the puzzle. We still have to understand that patients would prefer to have a catheter-based treatment rather than a huge surgical scar. How do we overcome this huge hurdle? I believe there are 2 ways we can approach this dilemma: results and technology. We have to continually assess our results, com- paring them with outcomes that are medically produced in an unbiased fashion. We have to be willing to inform the patient of these results. This might represent reporting in less conventional medical publications, such as the Wall Street Journal. As editors of journals, we are aware of the impact factor. I would suggest that the impact factor of the Wall Street Journal article was far greater in terms of information to the patient than the same article just pub- lished in Circulation. We now have patients coming to our office inquiring about the results and wanting to know more. With public communication, we can go directly to the patient and have the opportunity to explain treatment options. This has the much desired effect of circumventing the gatekeeper, in this case the cardiologist. I am not advocating a confrontation with our colleagues. We simply need a more level playing field. Other ways of making the patient more aware of treatment choices are public speaking and Internet access. The next step in our evolution will involve better tech- nology that allows truly minimally invasive procedures. Patients do not want large incisions. As surgeons, we have to accept and try to improve our minimally invasive skills. We have to exhibit restraint and investigate methods to which we were not exposed during our surgical residency. Coronary bypass surgery might have been the siren song that lulled us into complacency. For more than 20 years, we had no reason to change because the number of cases continued to grow and the results improved, with mortality and morbidity rates reaching 1% to 2%. We made the mistake of assuming the patients were seeking our proce- dures because of these outcomes. We failed to recognize the work of the cardiologist. We had become content with our procedure while cardiologists’ continued to improve their therapy for coronary disease. Angioplasty and the early stents had high restenosis rates. This did not deter their pursuit of better stents. Now we have drug-eluting stents with the promise of a less than 10% restenosis rate.6 Our rebuttal during this time was mostly complaining. During this time, we have failed our patients because we have not continued to challenge ourselves and improve our procedures. We need to begin by offering minimally inva- sive revascularization with arterial grafts. The fright of the patient over the sternotomy can be partially overcome by small, less-invasive thoracotomy incisions. With arterial The Journal of Thoraci grafts, we can tell our patients with confidence of superior results compared with those achieved with stents. As sur- geons, we can tell the patient about the restenosis rate and the effect of taking anticoagulants to keep the stents patent. Although the restenosis rate is low, the uncertainty of this therapy has to be made clear to the patient. For example, if your patient is traveling in some other part of the nation or world, what happens when he or she gets chest pain? Does this patient call the nearest emergency department when he or she has chest pain, or does the patient take antacids and hope the pain is caused by bad pizza? These potential scenarios have not been explained. With bypass operations and small incisions, we can give our patients a more durable option. Change and evolution are often difficult to embrace. However, if we accept that change is needed and become the mediators of that change, it becomes a part of our evolving specialty. There are numerous examples of this. Robotic assisted heart surgery is in its infancy. Whether you choose to embrace the technology or not, it cannot be ignored. Patients are exploring their options. When we first explored robotic assisted mitral valve surgery at the Uni- versity of Southern California (USC), I was sure there would be a learning curve and that the operation that nor- mally takes 2 to 3 hours would take twice as long. Then you ask yourself, “Why perform the surgery robotically?” I believe mitral valve surgery done minimally invasively is better for the patient. In my hands the robot made this minimally invasive procedure easier, more precise, and therefore a more durable repair for the patient. Since the initiation of robotic assisted mitral repair, we have com- pleted 50 cases with excellent results. In addition, we have re-explored the insertion of polytetrafluoroethylene chords rather than leaflet resection and found the results compara- ble with those after resections and taking less time. Saving time means less time spent on cardiopulmonary bypass, which is good for the patient. The result for the patient is a small (4-6 cm) incision, fewer days in the hospital, quicker recovery time, and fewer days missed from work. These are the reasons as cardiothoracic surgeons we have to explore new methods to better treat our patients. With these steady advances, we will regain the respect of our colleagues. Our patients will once again request and receive choices of treatment options based on evidence-based med- icine rather than treatment based on who encountered the patient first. Another challenge we face as cardiothoracic surgeons is the temptation to embrace all technology before it has been proved efficacious. This temptation is spurred by the desire to increase our practice during a time of a decreasing number of cases, the desire to be seen as on the leading edge, and last, the attempt to improve our marketing strat- c and Cardiovascular Surgery ● Volume 129, Number 3 485 Presidential Address Starnes egy over that of our nearest competitor. This strategy will fail. For example, approximately 5 years ago, off-pump CABG (OPCABG) was touted as the safest method of coronary revascularization. The claims were of fewer strokes, less blood use, fewer days in the hospital, and decreased costs. The scientific data to support these claims have been lacking. However, in a meta-analysis, Parolari and colleagues7 reviewed 9 studies with matched selection criteria. There were 558 patients in the routine CABG group and 532 in the OPCABG group. The composite end point consisted of death, stroke, and myocardial infarction. No advantage could be demonstrated by use of one technique over the other (Table 1). The problem with the study was the rather short-term follow-up. Another end point examined by Khan and associates8 was graft patency. With 80% of patients undergoing angiograms at 3 months, the patency rate in the CABG group was 98% compared with 88% in the OPCABG group. With the purported advantages not being realized, the overall rate of OPCABG has leveled off at approxi- mately 20% (Table 2). This technology, although touted as a breakthrough, did not fulfill surgeons’ expectations. Looking back, this might have been predicted. The OPCABG operation is much more difficult to perform. Rather than a motionless field, the surgeon once again is operating on a beating heart, similar to what was done in the early 1970s. The technology had regressed in hopes of avoiding the heart-lung machine and its complications. What we failed to factor in was the requirement for enhanced technical performance by the surgeon needed for OPCABG. In addition, the heart-lung machine has become safer with membrane oxygenators and heparin-coated circuits. The end result was that the heart- lung machine had evolved and improved at a faster rate than the technical skills of the surgeons performing beating-heart surgery. The anticipated lower stroke rate, lower blood use, and shorter hospital stays with OPCABG were not realized, and the patency rates of our grafts were lower. This chapter of evolving technology might be viewed by some as a step backward. However, the technology of heart stabilization, TABLE 1. A meta-analysis comparison of major cardiac events after on-pump and off-pump CABG No. of Patients MI-stroke-death composite end point odds ratio On-pump CABG 558 0.48 (P � .08) Off-pump CABG 532 CABG, Coronary artery bypass grafting; MI, myocardial infarction. Adapted with permission from Parolari et al.7 the search for sutureless anastomosis, and minimally inva- 486 The Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery ● Mar sive approaches has been a spin off of OPCABG. Although great for selected patients, OPCABG will be considered one of the stepping stones to the next evolution in coronary surgery. The message to take away is that the current proposed procedure might not be the answer to the current problem, but it might serve as a building block. Another example would be Heartport technology, which was innovative and provided the foundation for our current era of minimally invasive surgery. The mistake of Heartport technology was not the technology per se but the marketing strategy of introducing it as a revolutionary new technique rather than as an adjunct to the surgeon. Today I view robotic surgery as robotic assistance for established surgical techniques of repairing mitral valves and performing coro- nary revascularizations. I would like to comment briefly on the leveling of the playing field I spoke about earlier. Technology has ad- vanced in all areas of the treatment of cardiovascular and cardiothoracic diseases, with advances in imaging being unsurpassed by any other field. In the future, this will provide opportunities for us as cardiothoracic surgeons. Imaging coronary arteries will not always be catheter based. Patients will undergo magnetic resonance imaging angiog- raphy or perhaps enhanced computed tomographic scan- ning, which will provide a roadmap for coronary lesions. Patients will view angiography as invasive, like invasive surgical intervention, and will choose another less-invasive way to have their heart disease diagnosed. Suddenly, the playing field changes. The physician making the diagnosis (radiologist-cardiologist) is no longer prescribing the ther- apy. The apparent ease of immediately treating the coronary lesions with the sheaths in the groin is gone. Patients will weigh their various options and make evidence-based deci- sions after gaining trust in the physician who is the mes- senger of this information. I believe the convenience of the therapy (“already in the catheterization laboratory sheaths in place”) will be supplanted by evidence-based decisions. As treating physicians, we have to be prepared to become more involved with our patients as they try to sort out the various options. If we are seen as unbiased with nothing to gain but the patient’s health and interest, we will once again be held in high regard and, consequently, our self-esteem as TABLE 2. A randomized comparison of graft patency 3 months after on-pump and off-pump multivessel CABG No. of patients Patency of grafts at 3 mo On-pump CABG 50 98%* (127/130) Off-pump CABG 54 88%* (114/130) CABG, Coronary artery bypass grafting. *P � .002. a profession will be restored. ch 2005 Starnes Presidential Address The golden age of cardiothoracic surgery has not passed. We are entering an exciting time of change and evolution in our specialty. Many new techniques will be pioneered, and our patients will benefit. More important, as trustees of our specialty, we have to communicate this to future surgeons. Our perceived enthusiasm for our specialty and its accom- plishments will drive the next generation of surgeons. We will determine the caliber of students selecting our spe- cialty. Since the peak in 1996, the number of college grad- uates choosing medicine is down by 26%.9 The number of medical students to choose surgery is also down by 7%.10 To compound the problem further, the number of surgical residents choosing our specialty is also down. Therefore, the pool of potential candidates to become cardiothoracic sur- geons has dramatically dropped since 1996. The next challenge we face is the exposure of medical students and surgical residents to our specialty. With the 80-hour work week, there are fewer general surgery resi- dents on our services. The number of medical students choosing to rotate on our specialty is also down because of the decrease in emphasis of our specialty in the medical school curricula. To overcome these hurdles, we have to become excited once again by the specialty we practice. We have to convincingly tell our students and residents of the excitement of being a cardiothoracic surgeon. These poten- tial students of our specialty will want to see our dedication to our specialty and the passion with which we practice first hand in operating rooms, research laboratories, and class- rooms. At USC, cardiothoracic surgery is seen as an exciting specialty with a bright future. We have become part of the medical school curriculum, with third- and fourth-year stu- dents rotating on our service. To make the rotation a teach- ing and learning experience, we have physician extenders to help with histories and physical examinations, discharge summaries, and chasing down laboratory values. This al- lows the students to come to the operating room to observe a patient having a robotic mitral valve repair. The general surgery resident is afforded the same opportunity. It is this group of students we have to impress to keep our specialty interesting. By doing so, we will continue to attract the brightest and best to our specialty. I have often said that if I applied today, I could not get into the cardiothoracic program at USC because of the outstanding residents we have applying each year. Like trout fishing, the highly prized trophy fish (resident) has many lures to choose from. He waits until the very best comes along before taking the bait. We have to present the very best bait (an exciting and rewarding profession) if we are going to attract the very best to our specialty. Once a young resident expresses an interest, we have to foster their enthusiasm. The entry point to our specialty is often the The Journal of Thoraci laboratory during their general surgery training. The young investigators in our laboratories at USC are exceptional. To have exceptional laboratory experiences for our students, we have to invest in faculty who will provide these expe- riences. This requires protected time, incentives for writing grants, and the rewards of a tenure track. This in turn is again a great investment in the future of our specialty because we are continuing the search for new and innova- tive therapies and techniques for the benefit of our patients. Once the student is involved with this activity, you will have hooked the trophy fish. If we look to the future as one with promise, our students will also be enthusiastic for the future of cardiothoracic surgery. I would like to leave you with a quote from the late Charles Merriam, who was a political scientist. In 1934, he stated the following: “The future belongs to those who fuse intelligence with faith, and who with courage and determi- nation grope their way forward from chance to choice, from blind adaptation to creative evolution.” It has been an immense honor to be president of The Western Thoracic Surgical Association, and I thank you for the opportunity. References 1. The Organ Procurement and Transplant Network. Transplants in the U.S. by region. Available at: http://www.optn.org/latestData/rptData.asp. Accessed June 29, 2004. 2. Sano S, Ishono K, Kawada M, Arai S, Kasahara S, Asai T, et al. Right ventricle-pulmonary artery shunt in first-stage palliation of hypoplastic left heart syndrome. J Thorac Cardiovasc Surg. 2003;125:504-10. 3. Ohye RG, Gomez CA, Goldberg CS, Graves HL, Devaney EJ, Bove EL. Tricuspid valve repair in hypoplastic left heart syndrome. J Thorac Cardiovasc Surg. 2004;127:465-72. 4. Burton TM. Bypass surpasses angioplasty in study: benefits lasted longer in high-risk patients, raising questions about conventional ap- proach. Wall Street Journal. May 4, 2004:D1. 5. Brener SJ, Lytle BW, Casserly IP, Schneider JP, Topol EJ, Lauer SM. Propensity analysis of long-term survival after surgical or percutane- ous revascularization in patients with multivessel coronary artery disease and high-risk features. Circulation. 2004;109:2290-5. 6. Moses JW, Leon MB, Popma JJ, Fitzgerald PJ, Holmes DR, O’Shaughnessy C, et al. Sirolimus-eluting stents versus standard stents in patients with stenosis in a native coronary artery. N Engl J Med. 2003;349:1315-23. 7. Parolari A, Alamanni F, Cannata A, Naliato M, Bonati L, Rubini P, et al. Off-pump versus on-pump coronary artery bypass: meta- analysis of currently available randomized trials. Ann Thorac Surg. 2003;76:37-40. 8. Khan NE, De Souza A, Mister R, Flather M, Clague J, Davies S, et al. A randomized comparison of off-pump and on-pump multivessel coronary-artery bypass surgery. N Engl J Med. 2004;350:21-8. 9. Sherrod R. Applicants to U.S. medical schools increase: women the majority for the first time [press release]. Available at: http://www. aamc.org/newsroom/pressrel/2003/031104.htm. Accessed on June 29, 2004. 10. Spector R. Surgery career lifestyle unappealing to medical students, research reveals. Stanford Report. Available at: http://news-service. stanford.edu/news/2004/june16/med-surgery-616.html. Accessed on June 29, 2004. c and Cardiovascular Surgery ● Volume 129, Number 3 487 http://www.optn.org/latestData/rptData.asp http://www.aamc.org/newsroom/pressrel/2003/031104.htm http://www.aamc.org/newsroom/pressrel/2003/031104.htm http://news-service.stanford.edu/news/2004/june16/med-surgery-616.html http://news-service.stanford.edu/news/2004/june16/med-surgery-616.html Presidential address: An evolving discipline References 
work_6hqkrs4hrfgc5icptqut2zwyte	----	Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 1 | P a g e The Joyce of Food: A Negotiation of History, Politics, and Society By Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke B.A (hons) Griffith University, Dip. Arts (Literature) University of Southern Queensland The School of Humanities, Arts, Education, Law Group Griffith University The thesis is submitted in fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Submission Date: December, 2015 Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 2 | P a g e Abstract: Joyce’s art establishes a liminal space in which he interrogates hegemonic positions on colonialism, politics, religion, and gender, and this cultural work makes a significant contribution to reimagining the Irish social contract. Joyce’s use of ‘parallax’ in Ulysses complicates understandings of each of these issues as he reveals a complex intermingling of structural impediments that paralyse Dubliners through inter- generational memory, and thwart social agency. Joyce challenges Platonic dualistic thought and the traditional hierarchy of the senses by paying particular attention to food, a fraught topic in post-Famine Ireland. My examination of Joyce’s treatment of this central human concern reconsiders Irish politics, history, religion, culture, society and makes a specific case for the role that literature can play in refiguring memory and addressing the effects of the past on the social contract. This work has not previously been submitted for a degree or diploma in any university. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the thesis itself. Signature: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 3 | P a g e For my mother, Margaret (Maggie) Rowen, in memoriam. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 4 | P a g e Contents ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...................................................................................................................................................5 NOTE ON THE LITERARY TEXTS .......................................................................................................................................5 ABBREVIATIONS.............................................................................................................................................................8 INTRO DUCTION .............................................................................................................................................................9 JOYCE’S PARALLAX...................................................................................................................................................... 13 MODERNIST SCHOLARSHIP AND PRAGMATISM: A PARALLACTIC APPROACH .................................................................. 19 JOYCE’S NEGOTIATION OF HISTORY ............................................................................................................................. 26 THE SCHOLARSHIP OF EVERYDAY LIFE: DAILY EXPERIENCE AND STRUCTURE .................................................................. 34 TRADITIONAL PHILOSOPHICAL DUALISMS AND THE NEW SCHOLARSHIP OF GASTRO-CRITICISM ...................................... 38 JOYCE’S INTERROGATION OF THE FEMININE / MASCULINE DUALISM ............................................................................. 44 THESIS OUTLINE ......................................................................................................................................................... 51 CHAPTER 1 - JOYCE, THE FA MINE AND COLONIAL VIOL ENCE .......................................................................... 56 YEATS, JOYCE AND NATIONALISM................................................................................................................................ 59 THE FAMINE, HISTORY AND COLLECTIVE MEMORY ...................................................................................................... 64 JOYCE AND THE GREAT FAMINE................................................................................................................................... 71 THE POTATO: FAMINE MEMORY AND POLITICAL VIOLENCE ......................................................................................... 84 CONCLUSION.............................................................................................................................................................. 92 CHAPTER 2 – SP ECTRES OF FA MIN E: ‘FA MISHED GHOSTS’ .............................................................................. 93 CLACHAN AND ENGLISH POLITICAL ECONOMY.............................................................................................................. 96 COLLECTIVE TRAUMA AND HAUNTINGS ..................................................................................................................... 101 ‘SEE THE ANIMALS F EED’ .......................................................................................................................................... 108 ‘STRANDENTWINING CABLE OF ALL FLESH’: CORPSECHEWERS .................................................................................... 121 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 125 CHAPTER 3 – PARN ELL, FAILED HO SPITALITY AND DECLINE OF THE DOMESTIC REAL M ......................... 128 THE UNCROWNED KING ........................................................................................................................................... 131 THE JOYCE OF CHRISTMAS DINNER ............................................................................................................................ 135 THE COFFIN OF ‘HOME’: THE HOMOSOCIAL CIRCLE AND ANTI-TREATING ................................................................... 143 JOYCE AND SENTIMENTALITY: ‘WANDERING ROCKS’ .................................................................................................. 155 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 165 CHAPTER 4 – YOU ARE WHA T YOU EA T.............................................................................................................. 167 JOYCE, DISEASE AND M EDICINE................................................................................................................................. 168 JOYCE’S POOR S TOMACH AND THE MATTER OF INNARDS ........................................................................................... 174 ‘YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT’ ...................................................................................................................................... 182 WHITE BREAD AND SUGARY TEA............................................................................................................................... 190 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 195 CHAPTER 5 – THE N EW EP IC F EAST...................................................................................................................... 197 THE CONTINUATION OF THE EPIC .............................................................................................................................. 198 HEROES AND OTHER WASTE MATTER ....................................................................................................................... 204 ‘GREEKER THAN THE GREEKS’: THE CLEVERNESS OF LEOPOLD BLOOM ....................................................................... 209 ‘WOMANLY WISE’: G ERTY’S ‘BREKKY’ AND MOLLY’S MEAT AND SEEDS .................................................................... 222 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 236 CONCLUSIONS .......................................................................................................................................................... 238 APPENDIX .................................................................................................................................................................. 243 LIST OF WO RKS CITED ............................................................................................................................................. 245 Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 5 | P a g e Acknowledgements I would not have been able to complete this thesis without the support, encouragement and assistance of a number of people. First and foremost I want to thank my Principal Supervisor, Professor Chris Lee. I could not have asked for a more incisive and supportive mentor. Chris’s enthusiasm for what literature does, and why it is so important, is a constant source of inspiration. I thank him for thinking the topic was a good idea in the first instance, and for encouraging me to ‘keep on writing’. He has taught me so much and has demonstrated such generosity. I hope to emulate his example of mentorship throughout my career. I would also like to extend special thanks to my Associate Supervisor Associate Professor Jock McLeod. Jock’s advice in the final stages of the thesis has been invaluable and I am very appreciative of the time he has given me and the interest he has shown in the project. My candidature was unusual as it was undertaken at two institutions, firstly the University of Southern Queensland and then Griffith University. The move was a result of my supervisor’s new role at Griffith, and I need to thank Griffith for their support and granting me a scholarship to continue my project under Chris Lee’s guidance. It would be remiss to not also acknowledge USQ who awarded me an APA scholarship, and who also provided some funding towards my conference and research trip in 2013. Without these funds I would not have had the opportunity to undertake archival research at the National Library of Ireland, attend the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery, or the XXth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association at the Sorbonne. This trip enabled me to gather some fascinating primary research, meet food enthusiasts such as Dr. Mairtin Mac Con Iomaire from the Dublin Institute of Technology, and present my work at an international conference. As I had been a Griffith student during my undergrad and honours degrees, the move ‘back’ was relatively smooth, but I am indebted to the Griffith Higher Degree Research Office and Dr. Amanda Howell who helped me navigate my way through to the administrative process. I also would like to thank the Griffith School of Humanities for providing me with the opportunity to present my work in a friendly and supportive environment at the Emerging Scholars Day. There are many academics who have provided advice or support along the way. In particular, I would like to extend my Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 6 | P a g e heartfelt thanks to Assoc. Professor Laurie Johnson, Dr. Jessica Gildersleeve, Dr. Éidín O'Shea, Dr. Robert Mason, Dr. Celmara Pocock, Richard Gehrmann, Dr. Dan Timbrell, and Dr. David Akenson. The librarians at both USQ and Griffith have been fantastic attending to my endless requests for books and articles, and I am very grateful for their assistance. I am thankful for the generous and supportive ‘Irish lit’ attendees at the 2013 Irish Studies Association of Australia and New Zealand conference, who both inspired me and provided invaluable advice. I am also appreciative for the opportunity to present papers at a number of postgraduate symposiums (at USQ, the University of Queensland, and Griffith University) and would like to thank fellow postgrads for their ongoing encouragement. In particular I would like to acknowledge a group of fellow postgrads, many now Doctors, whose friendship and support will always be remembered with great fondness: Dr. Eddie Thangavelu, Dr. James Stenzel, Sarah Peters, Elizabeth Cuskelly, Dr. Wendy Richards, Dr. Alexandra Lawson, Dr. Mark Emmerson, Tarn McLean, and Karen Austin. Thanks for the many chats in the postgrad room. I save the final thanks for my family. A thesis is a long road that a spouse also takes by default, so I am forever grateful for my husband Toby’s forbearance and encouragement. I also want to thank my son Charlie and daughter Honor who have demonstrated great patience for little people, especially in the months leading to completion. To my Dad and family, a special thank you for your support. It has been a long and at times difficult journey and it was wonderful to have you cheering me on. I have dedicated this thesis to my mother who sadly passed away in the first year of my candidature. She would have been proud I think. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 7 | P a g e Note on the Literary Texts Ulysses is the focus of the study, for both its richness of food references and the multifarious ways in which the food can be ‘read’. Where necessary some chapters will refer to Dubliners. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is of key importance to Chapter Three as it follows the Dedalus family’s demise. A number of decisions were made about what editions of Joyce’s work to utilise. The authoritative Norton Critical Editions of Dubliners and Portrait are used, and the Hans Walter Gabler ‘Corrected Text’ (Random House 1986), what is now considered to be the ‘standard edition’ of Ulysses (Sheehan 114), is the one referred to throughout the essay. Sean Sheehan has noted that as many British and American publications of this text have the same page and line numbering it has become the most used edition for Joyce scholars. As such I follow the predominant convention and use the episode and line number format for the in-text citations. While the Gabler edition has chapter numbers and no chapter titles, I follow the Joycean practice of naming the familiar Odyssean episode titles, as outlined in the Gilbert and Linati schema. Chapter Five focuses on Joyce’s continuation of the Odyssean epic, and what his version of heroics says about power and gender, and so Homer’s Odyssey is of central concern. This chapter analyses portions of this Homeric epic, and while I draw on the introductions of the Robert Fagles and E. V. Rieu (revised by D. C. H. Rieu) translations, the textual references are drawn from the Samuel Butler translation. Although it is noted that Joyce first came into contact with Odysseus in Charles Lamb’s accessible translation (see for example Kenner Dublin’s Joyce), and Frank Budgen recalls Joyce using the Butcher and Lang translation (Budgen James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses 323), the Samuel Butler translation was published in 1900, and as Hugh Kenner states, ‘hence the most up-to-date version available when Ulysses was being thought out’ (110-1). Kenner notes that the Butcher and Lang translation ‘comes from later years, when Joyce was studying Victorian-Homeric diction in order to parody it in “Cyclops”’ (110-1). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 8 | P a g e Abbreviations The following abbreviations for Joyce’s texts will be used in subsequent in-text citations. Dubliners and Finnegans Wake are not abbreviated. Ulysses — U A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man — Portrait Stephen Hero — SH The Critical Writings — CW Occasional, Critical and Political Writings — OCPW Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 9 | P a g e INTRODUCTION a man might eat kidneys in one chapter, suffer from kidney disease in another, and one of his friends could be kicked in the kidney in another. (James Joyce Letters II 436). Recent developments in Modernist studies have identified Modernism as a ‘liminal space’. Rather than a ‘break’ from the past, it is conceived more in terms reflective of William James’s and John Dewey’s Pragmatism. For these Pragmatists new art, new habits and new ideas develop as conventional artistic forms, established norms and traditional ‘truths’ are rearranged and reworked as the past is renegotiated in light of present concerns. This ‘space’ is politically charged. Joyce’s treatment of food and food insecurity — that central human concern — demonstrates his complex politics as he considers his version of nationalism and problematises ‘history’, ‘memory’, betrayal, and the power of discursive binaries. He suggests how Ireland might imagine its independence, progress and future outside the established paradigms of ‘power’, ‘strength’, ‘heroics’ and ‘victory’ which are enacted through violence. For Joyce ‘strength’ is exhibited by ruminating on historical complications, and a ‘strong spirit’ is derived from persevering despite incertitude (Gibson The Strong Spirit 5). As Andrew Gibson maintains, Joyce marries strength to ‘fragility’, ‘brokenness’ and ‘doubt’ (5). It is in these ‘spaces’ where the repressed can perceive inconsistencies and contradictions and begin to organise effective resistance and negotiate an alternate path (Sinfield Faultlines 35; Schwarze Joyce and the Victorians 3). Most importantly for Joyce, the conflict against the status quo ‘must be fought out behind the forehead’ not with violence (S. Joyce My Brother’s Keeper 109; Gibson 5). For Joyce being modern was being a historicist; recognising the historicity of ‘people, cultures, [and] worlds’ (Gibson Strong Spirit 3). Indeed, Andrew Gibson contends that Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 10 | P a g e the complexity of Joyce’s work is due to his wrestling with ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’, and a concern for ‘justice’ necessitates engaging with history. To this extent Joyce was extraordinarily sensitive to ‘the fleeting precisions of historicity’ and his work demands ‘historical micrology’ (3). His work has been described as a labyrinth (Gibson suggests like studying Irish political history), where ‘the victim loses themselves in a seemingly endless wilderness of fissures, splits, rifts, [and] divisions’ (5). The labyrinth is not just an allegory for reading Ulysses, but points to the ‘political implications of the novel’s aesthetic strategies’ (6). But rather than considering victims ‘losing themselves’, this thesis explores Joyce’s parallax, that ability to present things from multiple perspectives and thus proffering the opportunity for the fullest insight. This stylistic ploy illuminates innumerable colonial pathologies and explores contradictions. Joyce probes the state of the Irish through food, and his multidimensional ruminations on the past and its impact on the present — through explorations of Famine, hunger, violence, parental neglect, poverty, unemployment, alcoholism, health, nutrition discourses, abundance, memory, vegetarianism, patriarchy, sex, death and life (amongst other things) — demonstrate his working through the hegemonic positions on colonialism, politics, religion and gender. Food is a fraught topic for post-Famine Ireland. The devastation of The Great Famine and the ongoing food insecurity and malnutrition of turn of the century Ireland is suggestive of an abortive social contract between Ireland and England.1 Throughout history, individuals have sacrificed their freedom — the ‘original state’ — for the benefits of self-preservation and security which can only be gained through association (Rousseau The Social Contract I: vi). The ‘social pact’ of James Joyce’s Ireland, however, is problematised by its long history of oppression and turn of the century Irish politics. From the Irish perspective there is no ‘proper bond of rational obligation’ (Wraight 34) between the imperial power and Ireland. If a people decide via ‘prior covenant’ to act together in such a way that surrenders their freedom to a ruler, the agreement which forms the political group and social order has necessarily been established before a ruler enters the political order. The covenant — or ‘transfer of each associate, with his rights, to the whole community’ — is the essential precondition for a well ordered society (Rousseau I: v, vi; Wraight 34). This is not the relationship 1 I use the terms ‘England’ and ‘English’ rather than ‘Britain’ and ‘British’ as Ireland was still part of Britain at the time Ulysses was set, and in general this thesis is examining imperial power as the antithesis to Irish agency and development. By referring to ‘England’ and ‘English’ throughout this thesis I am referring to the imperial centre (the imperialism of the Empire). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 11 | P a g e between the colonial power and a subjugated people. The English suppression of Irish interests has a long history, and Famine and the concomitant decimation of rural society elicit questions about the legitimacy of power. In addition to incremental violations of Irish freedom, England used a natural/agricultural disaster and food insecurity as a means to secure a more complete subjugation. Instead of the ‘minority’ submitting to the will and needs of the ‘majority’ (Rousseau I: v; Wraight 30), any semblance of a social contract was rendered void with England’s prioritising of agricultural ‘reform’ — the rationalisation of the small family holdings and the communal system of subdivision, or clachan. The desperation of the starving Irish is further evidence of their status as colonial subjects. Joyce’s texts, particularly Ulysses, explore this historical event and its resonance for post-Famine generations. However, his multi-dimensional perspectives on the state of the Irish presents more complex deliberations. Joyce interrogates not only ‘history’ but also Irish ‘memories’ of the Famine, the betrayal of the Irish by their own people, and the complicity of the Irish in their own subjugation (at the behest of the imperial power, the Catholic Church, and the internalised state of patriarchy). Betrayal became central to Joyce’s perception of the Irish (Ellmann James Joyce 32; Joyce OCPW 138-41). Alongside the Famine, the betrayal of Charles Stewart Parnell (by the Irish, by the Irish Parliamentary Party, by the Catholic Church, and by the British Government) typifies the seeming inevitability of duplicity, and the consequent failure of anyone dedicated to political freedom for Ireland (Smyth ‘Trust not Appearances’ 254-71). Importantly, central to the political demise of Parnell is another betrayal: adultery. Parnell undermined the institution of marriage in his affair with Katherine O’Shea and in so doing destroyed his reputation amongst his staunch, Catholic constituency. In what was a fragile political climate, the supporters Parnell relied upon felt that he had betrayed them. Pointedly, Joyce enacts his own treachery through his adulterated form. Counter to other brands of Irish nationalism and the efforts of the revivalist movement to imagine and create an authentic cultural-nationalism and the Irish epic, Joyce’s ‘anti- representational tendency’ and his hybridisation of popular forms challenged patriarchal nationalist discourse and its desire to restore ‘the lineage of the fathers in order to repossess the motherland’ (Lloyd Anomalous States: Irish Writing in the Post-colonial Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 12 | P a g e Moment 89, 105). As David Lloyd points out, the anxiety of betrayal circulates thematically and stylistically throughout Ulysses reflecting ‘the condition of colonial Ireland at virtually every level’ (106). Through an analysis of food and eating in Joyce’s work, I contend that his parallactic form reveals the oppressive terms of the colonial / subject social contract, but he also subjects the Irish, the Church, and patriarchy to close scrutiny. This multifarious view of the state of things is complex. Although blame is scathing at times, it is not neatly laid in any one corner. Joyce’s parallactic art and the complex examination of history, politics and society, and what these structures mean for food security, necessitates the consideration of an eclectic field of scholarship. These include Pragmatic Modernism (which explores the importance of the past for Modernists); Joyce and History (which by extension explores Joyce’s politics); Everyday Life (specifically, the structural impediments and agency surrounding everyday life); the field of Gastro-criticism (covering vast literary periods but providing a number of interesting perspectives, such as ‘taste’, ‘the body’, and psychoanalysis); and gender studies (especially in Modernism, its gendered hierarchies, and the subversive tactics against patriarchy). Food is essential for our existence and our identity, and as Claude Fischler reminds us, it too is ‘multidimensional’. If Joyce’s form demands heterogeneous research and analysis, so too does food. Food ‘runs from the biological to the cultural, from the nutritional function to the symbolic function’ and ‘links the individual to the collective, the psychological to the social’ (Fischler ‘Food, Self, Identity’ 275). For Fischler, a non-multidimensional approach, one lacking the ability to see food from various perspectives, fails to address some key questions, such as ‘How do organisms and representations, biological individuals and their culture, interact with each other and with their environment?’; ‘How do socially constructed norms and representations become internalised – inscribed, so to speak, in taste-buds and metabolisms?’; Do these norms and representations also have a biological side?’; ‘How do they tie into ecosystems in which subjects and societies experience them?’ (275). The burgeoning interdisciplinary field of food studies endeavours to attend to food from multiple perspectives: the biological, nutritional, environmental, social, cultural, political and the historical. A multi-dimensional study of food in Joyce’s work reveals all of these perspectives in the context of turn of the century Ireland. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 13 | P a g e Joyce’s use of ‘parallax’, broadly conceived of as his operationalising of different lenses through which to try to understand the past and the various ways it impacts upon the present, opens various aspects of Irish history and turn of the century life up to scrutiny and critical review. These multiple perspectives highlight the interconnectedness of the legacies of the Great Famine, colonialism and religion, and the continued subjugation of the Irish. It explores the Irish people’s comparative poverty, political apathy, the prevalence of alcoholism and malnutrition, and the oppressiveness (for men and women) of patriarchy. Leopold Bloom — a character at odds with the pretence of ‘masculine’ Modernism — gives Joyce great scope for multi-dimensional perspectives. However, Joyce’s parallax is achieved through innovations in form: characterisation more broadly, structure and juxtaposition, intertextual cues, allusions, and modernist techniques such as interior monologue and stream of consciousness. Importantly, the abundance of food in Ulysses, particularly, locates the continuation of Odyssean epic in the ‘everyday’ and the ‘domestic’. Joyce’s historical, political, cultural and social considerations of food defy the philosophical and gendered dualisms which underpin turn of the century gender politics and their dispossession of women. Joyce’s Parallax ‘Parallax’, the ability to see things from different perspectives in order to gauge a situation more fully, is a key word in Ulysses. Bloom signals its significance by contemplating its etymology as he works to understand the meaning: ‘Parallax. I never exactly understood. There’s a priest. Could ask him. Par it’s Greek: parallel, parallax’ (U 8: 110-12). It is ‘Bloom’s problem word’ (Kiczek 292). The word comes via the French (from New Latin) parallaxis, from the Greek parallassein to change (para and allassein meaning ‘to alter’ or ‘alternate’, to ‘exchange’, or ‘to vary’, akin to allos, ‘other’), and in the late sixteenth century was used in the general sense of ‘seeing wrongly’ (Collins Dictionary, Random House Kernerman Webster's College Dictionary, Oxford Dictionary). The Oxford English Dictionary online defines the term as the ‘difference or change in the apparent position or direction of an object as seen from two different points’. Bloom has Sir Robert Ball’s book, The Story of the Heavens (1885), which frequently uses the term, and he ponders the concept throughout the day. As Justin Kiczek astutely notes, even in his subconscious Bloom claims to have chatted to his ‘old pals, Sir Robert and lady Ball’ (U 15: 1010-11; Kiczek 292). It is Ball’s use Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 14 | P a g e of the word in relation to perspective that is most relevant in Ulysses. Ball explains that ‘it is by parallax that the distance of the sun or, indeed, the distance of any other celestial body, must be determined’ (181). He explains the concept thus: Stand near a window whence you can look at buildings, or the trees, the clouds, or any distant objects. Place on the glass a thin strip of paper vertically in the middle of one of the panes. Close the right eye, and note with the left eye the position of the strip of paper relatively to the objects in the background. Then, while still remaining in the same position, close the left eye and again observe the position of the strip of paper with the right eye. You will find that the position of the paper on the background has changed. As I sit in my study and look out of the window I see a strip of paper, with my right eye, in front of a certain bough on a tree a couple of hundred yards away; with my left eye the paper is no longer in front of that bough, it has moved to a position near the outline of the tree. This apparent displacement of the strip of paper, relatively to the distant background, is what is called parallax. (181-2) Bloom tries the experiment and ‘faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm’s length towards the sun’. ‘Wanted to try that often’, he thinks, and he successfully illustrates the concept: ‘Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun’s disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross’ (U 8: 564-7). Apart from a scientific interest in all manner of things, after this experiment Bloom’s thoughts of outer space are countered with a perceived pointlessness to existence given the vastness of the universe, and his astronomical interest is drawn down to realities of domestic life: ‘Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock’ (8: 580-5). When his mind shifts to something more positive — ‘[t]he moon. Must be a new moon out, she said’ — his stream of consciousness soon flows to Molly and her impending meeting with Boylan: ‘She was humming. The young May moon she’s beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm’s la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes’ (8: 584-91). Though Bloom engages with Ball’s astronomical meaning of parallax, here we can also perceive parallax metaphorically via Bloom’s stream of consciousness and his alternation of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 15 | P a g e thoughts of awe and irrelevance, interest and indifference. Here parallax is more than an experiment with objects ‘out there’. The ability for parallax enables a fluid shift of perspectives and foci. Parallax can be uncomfortable, confronting or joyous, rather than interesting for its own sake. As David Chinitz observes in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, Bloom’s poetic reflection of the stars — ‘The heaventree of the stars hung with humid nightblue fruit’ (17: 1039) — soon shifts to dry, scientific discourse and a comparison of the greatness of the ‘evermoving’ wandering stars from ‘immeasurable remote eons’ to the ‘threescore and ten, of allotted human life’ which forms a ‘parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity’ (17: 1042-56). If optimism in the future, ‘progress’ (17: 1068), relies on looking forever ‘inward’ — for example all the ‘myriad entomological organic existences concealed in cavities of the earth, beneath removable stones, in hives and mounds, of microbes, germs, bacteria, bacilli, spermatozoa’ (17: 1059-61) — then for the resolutely inward and outward looking Bloom, ‘nought nowhere’ will never be reached (17: 1068-9). If there was life on other planets Bloom supposes that the redemption of other races would necessitate a benevolent redeemer, for like inward focussed humans they too would probably ‘remain inalterably and inalienably attached to vanities, to vanities of vanities and to all that is vanity’ (17: 1083-5, 1099-1100; Chinitz 435-6). Parallax thus shifts from Ball’s specific application to Joyce’s artistic one, used to amplify the shortcomings of the preoccupied and narrow minded and the gift of open, parallactic thought. Over three decades ago, Barbara Stevens Heusel observed that critics’ interpretations of the relationship between Bloom and Stephen were idiosyncratic and revealed their ‘blindspots’ (‘Parallax as a Metaphor for the Structure of Ulysses’ 135, 140). Only ‘active’ and ‘experienced’ readers will recognise the ‘depth’ of their meeting, as they attend to Joyce’s use of parallactic images and encourage the reader to view life with ‘two eyes’ at once, not one eye at a time; that is ‘(Stephen’s, the artist’s) and then the other (Bloom’s, the common man)’ (135, 140). As Heusel charts the seven occurrences of the term ‘parallax’ in Ulysses she highlights how the metaphor provides an outer ‘structure’ which reveals ‘the difficulty of perception and, therefore, the complexity of viewing life’ (135). Joyce’s method encourages the reader ‘to synthesize the shifting perspectives’ of the two main points of view (Stephen’s and Bloom’s) so that when the two ‘join’ in the urination scene in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, what is represented is a ‘fuller vision of life’ (135). Hugh Kenner comments on the effect of Joyce’s repositioning of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 16 | P a g e events and bodies so that ‘each speck in this book has somewhere its complementary speck, in a cosmos we can trust’ (Ulysses 76). Though Heusel’s liberal-humanist approach is not specifically interested in the ‘social’, it is an important formalist grounding for the approach taken in this project. Heusel’s argument emphasises Joyce’s ‘complex artistry’ and the scholar’s role in deciphering the ‘cues’ within, but beyond the liberal-humanist discourse, the notion of a ‘three-dimensional’ world, and the theme of the complexity of life remain persuasive. So, while Patrick McCarthy also comments on how ‘the juxtaposition of various perspectives [Bloom’s, Stephen’s, Molly’s] hints at the larger, fully human, viewpoint toward which Ulysses reaches’ (‘Ulysses’: Portals of Discovery 5; also see Kiczek ‘Joyce in Transit: The “Double Star” Effect of Ulysses’ 298), this thesis is predominately concerned with more materialist lenses, and thus how structure precludes, qualifies or enables ‘fully human’ experience. Parallax is a way of approaching any complex societal concern. While Heusel sees parallax in relation to the complexity of life (exhibited via the bringing together of Bloom’s and Stephen’s different views), I wish to demonstrate Joyce’s wider operationalising of the idea of parallax. If we follow the food and not the more narrow and specific ‘cues’ of the term, we see that within Ulysses (and across other Joyce texts) Joyce weaves a complex web of perspectives and contexts. Throughout the chapters numerous perspectives on food are explored — for example, history, power, status, memory, hunger, starvation, health, gender sustainability — and these perspectives are not limited to individual characters. Some perspectives are held by more than one character or the narrator, and multiple perspectives can be held by one character. Bloom and Stephen, for example, do not hold just two of these possible perspectives, but often represent considerations of multiple perspectives. Ways of seeing important social issues are also revealed via fleeting thoughts, inaction or juxtaposition, and that supposed un-Modernist notion of ‘sentiment’. These are but some of the elements of Joyce’s form that contribute to the whole story of food. Kenner and André Topia remind us there is nothing interior about Joyce’s interior monologue. Bloom’s random thoughts, for example, are often from the public realm, for instance originating from books, common understandings and new knowledges (Kenner Joyce’s Voices 32; Topia ‘The Matrix and the Echo: Intertextuality in Ulysses’ 103-25). Tony Thwaites argues that interior monologue reflects ‘content’ that ‘arrives Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 17 | P a g e from elsewhere’ and a character as being influenced from ‘elsewhere’ (‘Mr. Bloom, Inside and Out’ 367). Drawing on Slavoj Žižek’s The Parallax View, Thwaites argues that the significance of Joyce’s operationalising of parallax is his inversion of the conventional understanding of the term. Instead of the apparent displacement of an object being caused by provision of a new line of sight (demonstrated through Bloom’s ‘thumb’ experiment), Joycean parallax begins ‘with objects out there in the real world, and with the ways in which they triangulate, place, and make demands on the subject’ (Thwaites ‘Molly and Bloom in the Lists of “Ithaca”’ 499). For Thwaites, parallax ‘is not that what I see in the world changes according to my position in it’ but rather ‘that what I am is already inscribed in the world’s materiality, as that point from which the world gazes back at me, and from which I am under its gaze’ (500). In addition to objects ‘out there’ demanding ‘notice and response’, there will always be a ‘blind spot’ which signals the observer’s inclusion in the world (Žižek in Thwaites 500). As Thwaites explains, in this view of parallax an observer can never glean a complete picture as there is always something still left to be noticed or accounted for, or ‘something in this clamor of meanings that does not yet make sense’ (500). The incompleteness of the world is not a failing of the observer but a result of the observer being ‘already there as a fold in the world . . . making sense of it’ (Thwaites 500). Indeed at times Bloom and Stephen seem oblivious or defensive about their own lack of action and the consequences of inaction. I will reveal throughout the thesis, however, that some observers’ views are more incomplete than others. Characters like Bloom, though flawed with ‘blind spots’, strive to obtain more perspective, while others entrench themselves more deeply in their ‘folds’. As Kiczek comments, ‘we learn something more about Bloom from each parallactic angle’, even when he is seemingly trumped by the one eyed Cyclops and Blazes (‘Joyce in Transit’ 298). I think we need to make an addition here though; we also learn more about the Dubliners around Bloom, the city in which he lives, and the history, politics and public memory of the nation. Stephen, in contrast, is consumed by his ‘shadow’, and in ‘Proteus’ we see how he desires to rid himself of the hindrance: ‘I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here?’ (U 3: 412-4). While the sun may elucidate things for Stephen, his shadow is formed, as Kiczek notes, by an eclipse of his body and the sun (294). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 18 | P a g e In my conceptualising of parallax as Joyce’s über form I move away from Kiczek, Chinitz and Heusel and their focus on Bloom and Stephen’s relationship as wandering bodies that are eventually brought together. Bloom seems nihilistic about the vastness and uncontrollability of the universe and the ‘waste of time’ thinking about it, and equally pessimistic about the alternate focus on ‘involution’, but he spends much of his time thinking ‘big’ and also occupied with thoughts of the ‘inner’ (both his body and his thoughts and memories). Bloom stands in contrast to Stephen as he notices more around him and attempts to ameliorate what he sees. At the end of the ‘Ithaca’ episode a weary Bloom rests, for ‘he has travelled’ (U 17: 2320; emphasis added); travelled more than any other Dubliner that day in terms of his effort to see his world from all perspectives. I therefore draw on Thwaites’s analysis in my consideration of how characters give account of themselves in relation to external influences. Though narration and other literary devices throw light where Bloom cannot, Bloom’s ‘otherness’ translates to a heightened awareness of both entrenched institutions and where agency is deficient. The methodology for this project is necessarily eclectic in order to penetrate the parallactic nature and purpose of Joyce’s art, and the way he ruminates on central concerns of Modernist aesthetics, Ireland and his era. In particular I am interested in the complex meaning of food that emerges through the lens of ‘Pragmatism’ (for example, William James [1842-1910] and John Dewey [1859-195]), where the present is inextricably woven with the past, but where the present is open to new formations of meaning. All chapters have a New Historicist approach but as Andrew Gibson has stated, such an approach needs to be ‘in a manner appropriate to Joyce, determined by Joyce himself’ (Strong Spirit 1). The method used to scrutinise Joyce’s problems with ideological narrative can best be described as ‘thick description’ (Geertz The Interpretation of Cultures) as I undertake historical investigations that engage with the Joycean historical turn and Irish historiography, and respond to Joyce’s demand for ‘historical micrology’ (Gibson 2). The thesis also draws on cultural studies of the period to help reconstruct the particularities of the Irish ‘voices’ within Joyce’s texts, and historiographic studies to contextualise and explore areas such as turn of the century socio-economic indicators. The divergent primary research — such as Joyce’s letters and essays, Famine ‘recipes’, Irish newspaper advertisements and journal articles — augments the contextualising secondary scholarship on the Famine, colonial politics, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 19 | P a g e Irish nationalism and the decline and death of Parnell. As the background is brought to the foreground, alongside the parallax of Joyce’s literary texts, we can better interrogate Joyce’s problematising of history and what this says about his perceptions of art, the ‘present’ and the future. Joyce teaches us ‘an appreciation of difference’ (Attridge Joyce Effects 84) and this methodological approach facilitates what the post-colonialism scholar Marjorie Howes identifies as the investigation of internal differentiations — such as gender, religion, socio-economic status — and what this means for ‘a given situation, population, or individual’ (Howes ‘Joyce, Colonialism, and Nationalism’ 260). Modernist Scholarship and Pragmatism: a Parallactic Approach Emerging research suggests that the dominant narrative of literary Modernism still privileges the ideology of the avant-garde and emphasises Modernism’s break with the past. Too often this narrow story neglects Modernism’s thoughtful contextualisation and constructive and purposeful renegotiation with history (Ellis Virginia Woolf and the Victorians 2007; Schoenbach Pragmatic Modernism 2011; Cuda The Passions of Modernism 2010). The stylistic innovation and mind-set of Modernism has become synonymous with: ‘break-up’, ‘dissolution’, ‘catastrophe’, ‘shock’, ‘crisis’, ‘disaster’, ‘collapse’ and ‘chasm’ (Bradbury and McFarlane ‘The Name and Nature of Modernism’ 1976). ‘New Criticism’, which developed as a critical approach in the 1930s to teach the ‘art of reading’ ‘difficult’ and ‘serious’ literature, effectively wrote the narrative of Modernism as a rejection of Victorian forms of literature; a story that was largely unchallenged for several decades. Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane (1991) cited key literary and art critic Herbert Read’s 1931 appraisal of Modernism. For Read the concern was not the ‘logical development of the art of painting in Europe, not even with a development for which there is any historical parallel’ but instead with ‘an abrupt break with all tradition . . . the aim of five centuries of European effort is openly abandoned’ (in Bradbury and McFarlane Modernism 1890 – 1930 20). Two decades later Modernism is still, for C. S. Lewis (1954), ‘shattering’: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 20 | P a g e I do not think that any previous age produced work which was, in its own time, as shattering and bewilderingly new as that of the Cubists, the Dadaists, the Surrealists, and Picasso has been in ours. And I am quite sure this is true . . . of poetry . . . I do not see how anyone can doubt that modern poetry is not only a greater novelty than any other ‘new poetry’ but new in a new way, almost in a new dimension. (in Bradbury and McFarlane 20) This framing of the story of Modernism, however, is evident in much more recent texts such as Peter Nicholls’s Modernisms: A Literary Guide (1995), that notes the break with a Victorian literary tradition by asserting Modernism’s privileging of ‘intellect over emotion’ and the aggressive enforcing of ‘strong and authoritative versions of self’ (Nicholls 203,193; Cuda 5). Philip Weinstein (Unknowing: The Work of Modernist Fiction 2005) also emphasises the surprise and arrest of the modernist texts, arguing that the work of Franz Kafka, Marcel Proust and William Faulkner aims to subvert the familiarity and narrative progression that is intrinsic to realist fiction, undermining, in the process, the enlightenment project of ‘knowing’. Ariela Freedman observes that while the ‘cliché of the autonomous aesthetic modernist object’ has been displaced, many critics seem compelled to read the modernist aesthetic as ‘a relic of privilege, wilfully detached from social history and significant only insofar as details of the world can be read through the work’ (cultural studies), or as ‘accountable only to itself and its own aesthetic tradition’ (formalists/Liberal Humanists) (Freedman ‘Did it Flow: Bridging Aesthetic and History in Joyce’s Ulysses’ 853). The cultural studies field that emerged in the 1980s politicised aesthetics (Hunter ‘Aesthetics and Cultural Studies’ 347) and American literary criticism identified aesthetics with New Criticism’s apolitical, formalist judgments (Gilmore ‘Romantic Electricity, or Materiality of Aesthetics’ 467; Freedman 865). In addition to the questioning of Modernism as a ‘break’ with the past, recent scholarship suggests that Modernism is not a rejection of Victorian ideals and emotive forms, but rather a space for thinking and making sense of the changing world: a liminal space (Ellis; Schoenbach; Cuda; Schwarze Joyce and the Victorians 2002; Scholes Paradoxy of Modernism 2006; Feldman Victorian Modernism: Pragmatism and the Varieties of Aesthetic Experience 2009; Uhlmann Thinking in Literature: Joyce, Woolf, Nabokov 2011). This is not to suggest that there were no previous challenges to the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 21 | P a g e framing of discussions of Modernism in terms of ‘revolutionary’ ideologies of the avant-garde, where ‘success in life’ and ‘ecstasy’ stands in contrast to the ‘habits’ and a ‘stereotyped world’ (Pater ‘Conclusion’ to The Renaissance [1873] in Modernism 114; also see Shklovsky [1917] ‘Art as Technique’ in Modernism 219). For instance, in his recent work Robert Scholes recalls when Clive Hart contacted him in 1964 about ‘a problem he was having with a little essay . . . he had written’, as the Joyce scholarship ‘did not want to hear about Joyce’s sentimentality’ (Scholes 122). By sentimentality, Hart referred to ‘a demand for emotion not justified by the subject matter and a certain indulgence in emotion for its own sake’ (Hart ‘James Joyce and Sentimentality’ 26 -7). While Hart noted in his essay that ‘modern critics’ considered sentimentality ‘inherently immature and debilitating’, he reminded the Joycean critics that it is a feature of the best literature in the world (Hart 27). The durability of some of the key works of Modernism, such as Joyce’s Ulysses, is due to the familiarity of certain literary conventions. Long narrative, Scholes argues, requires an emotional investment in the characters. Of comedy, sentiment and suspense, he suggested, long narrative needs as least two out of three, and ‘many of the best have all three in abundance’ (Scholes 124). As Hart argued more than fifty years ago, New Criticism’s almost pathological ‘fear of sentimentality’ has thus been ‘inhibiting and limiting’ for Joyce scholarship (28; Scholes 123, 126). Wyndham Lewis, exemplary advocate of hard, new, masculine Modernism, in fact ‘has remained largely unreadable, despite serious critical effort on his behalf, mainly because his fiction is totally lacking in sentiment’ (124). ‘If Joyce’, Sholes argues, ‘had been as unsentimental as Lewis, Bloomsday would not be an international event’ (132); instead, ‘the scaffolding would have collapsed long ago’ (126). While Hart thought that Joyce’s propensity to deal with sentimental subjects distinguished him from ‘his more hard- boiled contemporaries, such as Eliot and Pound’ (in Scholes 134), critics such as James Longenbach (‘Randall Jarrell’s Legacy’ 2003) have noted that T. S. Eliot’s and Ezra Pound’s best work comes from the same ‘sentimental propensity’. For example, Longenbach notes that Eliot includes a number of ironic asides in ‘Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, not to distance himself from the emotion in the poem, but ‘to allow those emotions into the poem’ (359; Scholes 134). Anthony Cuda likewise resuscitates the classical meaning of ‘passion’ (‘to suffer’ or ‘to be moved’) and highlights the ‘passion’ in high Modernist literature. The oft noted characteristics of Modernism — Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 22 | P a g e its experimental forms, ‘defensive ironies’, its ‘ubiquitous trope of mastery’, and privileging ‘intellect over emotion’ (Nicholls Modernisms) — are far from a rejection of emotion, Cuda argues, but reflect the modernists’ need to be moved. As Cuda states, there was ‘an urgent desire among modern writers to meaningfully encounter powerlessness, to both know and feel what it means to be moved instead of the mover’ (Cuda 5). In this light Virginia Woolf can be conceived of as ‘Post-Victorian’, not to emphasise her dissent with a Victorian past, but to represent the dialogical nature of her work. Ellis argues that the ‘clichés’ of Woolfian criticism, such as the reference to Woolf’s statement that ‘on or about December 1910 human character changed’ (Woolf ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’ Selected Essays; Ellis 5), has uprooted important ‘moments’ or ‘landmarks’ in Woolf’s work and used those to perpetuate the master Modernism narrative of rupture. Ellis argues though that this uprooting misses the ‘pervasive preoccupation’ in Woolf’s work with ‘the relationship between Victorian and modern culture and its sense of loss and gain, of desire and rejection’ (6). Woolf attempts to ‘communicate with, retrieve and proclaim’ a link with the past that acts ‘as a resource for the present day in the problems it faces’ (8). It may come as a surprise, Ellis ventures, how often Woolf’s ‘exhilaration’ for the contemporary, and the resultant ‘sense of emancipation’ is accompanied by ‘anxiety, insecurity . . . and regret’, thus feeding the nostalgia that informs her ‘Victorian retrospect’ (7). Pragmatism, particularly the philosophies of William James (1842-1910) and John Dewey (1859-1952), is useful for scholars as they challenge periodisations and consider the importance of ‘the past’ in literature (Feldman Victorian Modernism: Pragmatism and the Varieties of Aesthetic Experience 2009; Schoenbach). Pragmatism tends to be suspicious of dualisms, ‘eschews monisms’, and is ‘anti-dogmatic, anti-metaphysical, anti-foundational, anti-positivist, and anti-systematic’ (Feldman 2). James’s Pragmatism views the world as ‘innumerable little hangings-together’ within the larger ‘hangings-together’ (James Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking 95). There are ‘little worlds’ within the ‘wider universe’ where the same part might figure in many different systems’ (95). The world isn’t a monistic system — ‘each in all and all in each’ — but a collection of ‘parts’. These ‘disjoined’ fragments, nevertheless, may ‘hang together by intermediaries with which they are severally Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 23 | P a g e connected’, and where ‘some path of conjunctive transition by which to pass from one of its parts to another may always be discernible’. James calls this ‘hanging-together’ ‘concatenated union’, in contrast to the ‘through-and-through’ type of union which characterises metaphysical conceptualising of the world (James Essays in Radical Empiricism in Feldman 11). In such a complex and multidimensional world the idea of ‘truth’ is up for interrogation. James’s conceptualisation of truth is inherently active and connected to its temporality, and is thus ‘evolutionary’ (Evans William Faulkner, William James, and American Pragmatic Tradition 4, 7; Feldman 2). ‘Truth lives’, states James, ‘for the most part on a credit system’, where thoughts and beliefs are maintained only if they remain unchallenged (Pragmatism 142). In contrast, philosophy generally insists that ‘reality’ is ‘ready-made’, with an ‘agreement of ideas’, and foretold ‘virtue’ (155). For James the diversities of reality are as important as their connections, as foregoing everything else for the cause of ‘mystical’, ‘abstract unity’ means ‘com[ing] to a full stop intellectually’ (91-2). Working within the multidimensional world of Pragmatism, Feldman abjures both the notion of ‘The Victorian Novel’ and ‘The Crisis of Modernity’ (3). She instead examines the concatenated union of discernible features of literature written in the ‘Victorian period’ which defies the periodization of the grand narrative of both ‘Victorian’ and ‘Modernist’ literature. Feldman’s emphasis is not ‘Imagination’ — that unifying whole that ‘dissolves’ and ‘diffuses’ in order to ‘recreate’ — but ‘Fancy’, which must make art from materials ready made from the law of association. ‘Fancy’ is concerned with ‘dead objects’, ‘rearranging’, ‘decorating’ and ‘ornamentation’, and is equated with ‘woman’s work’ (11), but if a detailed ornamentation successfully obscures ‘readymade material’ and even gives the concatenated union a ‘life of its own’, then ‘to decorate or ornament is intrinsically to challenge the notion of unified, mastering form’ (11). Works of modern art have thus been interpreted as expressions of ‘strife, rupture, loss, and gap’ and have not been sufficiently explored for ‘Fancy’; ‘for peaceful dwelling, plenitude, and continuities that reach across gaps’ (5). Key modernist figures, such as Gertrude Stein and Marcel Proust, were interested in central questions of Pragmatism; questions about the relationship between tradition and innovation’ and ‘habit and shock’ (Schoenbach 5). In contrast to the narrative of the avant-garde, pragmatic Modernism initiates its engagement with modernity on a deep Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 24 | P a g e awareness of the power of ‘habit’. As Schoenbach reiterates, for John Dewey (Human Nature and Conduct 1922), there is ‘no alternative to habit, no space outside habit’, but new habits do develop (Schoenbach 7). Habit can be both ‘stultifying and enabling’, but Pragmatism is distinguished by its active, ‘dialectical understanding of habit’ and its ability to ‘maintain a critical stance toward mindless repetitions’ whilst refusing to romanticise shock or conflict (6). Like William James, John Dewey saw ‘habit’ — James’s ‘Fancy’ and ‘dead objects’ — as an essential medium in which all human thought and action takes place (6). As Dewey suggests, ‘a mystic intuition of an ongoing splurge’ might be a ‘poor substitute for the detailed work of an intelligence embodied in custom and institution’, which creates ‘by means of flexible continuous contrivances of reorganization’ (Dewey 74). As habits come into conflict with each other a conscious search transpires — thought happens (Dewey 67) — and with this a reorganisation of custom and institutions (Schoenbach 7). While habits are continually in tension, Pragmatism does not emphasise the ‘shattering of custom’ and the ‘destruction of institutions’ (7-9), but a ‘reintegration’, ‘recontextualisation’, and steady ‘reorganisation’ as new habits feed back into the social fabric (7). It is obtuse to set up habit and thought as oppositions, as ‘[t]hought which does not exist within ordinary habits of action lacks means of execution’, and in ‘lacking application, it also lacks test’ (Dewey 67). Anthony Uhlmann’s analysis of Joyce, Woolf and Nabokov speaks to this new shift in criticism where Modernism might be conceived of as a ‘machine for thinking’. Though underpinned by a different philosophical framework (Gilles Deleuze, G. W. Leibniz and Spinoza), Uhlmann explores how new meaning develops from the creative integration of old habits. Nabokov’s work, for example, is ‘full of patterns of connections’, and these connections weave together to not only form a new texture but also to create a new being that has meaning, that is situated as an agent in the real world (Thinking in Literature: Joyce, Woolf, Nabokov 118). While the new agent may draw meaning out of connections that ‘seem hidden and unexpected’, the new meaning is able to be ‘verified’ through a close reading of the details within (118). Importantly, experimental Modernist techniques are highly amenable to this exploration of connectivity. Indeed, Uhlmann points out that the term ‘stream of consciousness’, adapted from William James, has largely become reductive and limited to the interest in interior monologue, rather than the fuller account of ‘thought and thinking’ of internal and external modes of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 25 | P a g e thought and the interactions between (2-3). As Liesl Olson affirms, the negotiation of habits reveals the agency of individuals. Following James’s concept of ‘habit’ Olson argues that people create habits by choosing from the ‘stream of consciousness’ of everyday life, and as they select habits they organise the ‘chaotic flow’ (Modernism and the Ordinary 92). In contrast to Walter Pater, who sees habit as a lack of receptiveness, James’s ‘habits’ give scope to personal will (95). While Modernism is ‘saturated with style’ there is a dialectical nature to it as it oscillates between a literature of ‘pure style’ and a literature that rejects ‘purely style’ (Barthes ‘Style and its Image’ 10; Hutchinson Modernism and Style 6, 10, 42). With reference to the ‘weight of classical culture which can be felt constantly pressing on [Modernism’s] textual surfaces’, Hutchinson suggests that Modernism’s rejection of pure style is evident in the double working of myth: to conserve and commemorate, and to attack and destroy (42-3). Indeed, this double bind is evident in Joyce’s see-saw assertion and rejection of the importance of the Odyssean myth for Ulysses (see Chapter 5). We might also consider the Modernist disruption of the familiar and enduring bildungsroman, where the ordered charting of the protagonist from childhood to maturity is reworked to represent a stalled and suspended experience of adolescence (Etsy Unseasonable Youth: Modernism, Colonialism, and the Fiction of Development 2011). Here ‘habit’ and ‘Fancy’ are reorganised and reconsidered in light of changing experiences of ‘truth’. The new form comes via the concatenated union, a hanging together, of a recognisable form, informed by the rejection of anthropological-structural thinking. For all the talk of the ability of personal will to renegotiate ‘tradition’ and ‘habit’ Joyce’s texts also reveal the insidious nature of tradition — ideology and dominant structures — and in the confused negotiation of these exposes grounds and opportunities for future resistance to the status quo. Tracey Teets Schwarze doesn’t specifically relate Pragmatism to Joyce, but she relates Joyce’s form, such as dissimilar discourses and contradictions, to Joyce’s ‘difficulties in existing and creating’ outside the sphere of the dominant ideological forces of ‘gender constructs, colonial politics, and religiosity’ (Joyce and the Victorians 2-5, 10). Like Uhlmann, for Schwarze the form creates a liminal space for negotiating the late-Victorian and Edwardian ‘authorities’ of ‘Nation, Church, Manliness, Morality, and Womanliness’ (4). The Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 26 | P a g e inconsistencies in Joyce’s political essays, and the contradictory remarks about the Church and women’s inequality, reveal both Joyce’s desire to ‘stand against the subordinating force of social discourse’ but also ‘its insidious ability to infuse his own thoughts’ (5). Joyce’s characters, like himself, are ‘simultaneously bound by, as well as critical of, the ideologies of his life’ (4). Rather than Althusser’s and Fredric Jameson’s assertions that subjectivity is constituted in ideology (Jameson The Political Unconscious 152; Schwarze 3), Schwarze draws upon Alan Sinfield’s consideration of the possibilities for resistance: ‘If we come to consciousness within a language that is continuous with the power structures that sustain social order’, Sinfield asks, ‘how can we conceive, let alone organize, resistance?’ (Sinfield Faultlines 35; Schwarze 3). For Sinfield ‘dissidence’ doesn’t originate with the independent thoughts of the individuals, but in the ‘faultlines’ or ‘contradictions’ that are ‘contained within and among dominant structures themselves’ (Sinfield 41; Schwarze 4). The faultlines ‘create spaces’ where ‘the self may dissociate from the ascendant social order’ (Schwarze 4). This seems to resemble Iser’s remarks about novels; though they deal with ‘norms’ they don’t necessarily reproduce societal values as readers respond to the ‘divergence from the familiar’ (The Implied Reader xii). Molly Bloom, for example, performs several subversive roles, ‘doing and undoing ideological gender acts’ (Devlin ‘Pretending in “Penelope”: Masquerade, Mimicry, and Molly Bloom’ 81). She makes and remakes herself, and in so doing neutralises and exposes ‘the contradictions and double standards’ of the power structures, ‘whose control is rooted in their very imperceptibility’ (Schwarze 11-2). Characters may not be able to enact change for themselves, but the ruminations highlight the faultlines where transformations or dissidence might take place (12; Sinfield 49). Joyce’s Negotiation of History For the Marxist critic Jameson, the ‘narrative object’ of history is the ‘ground and untranscendable horizon’, constrained by ‘hegemonic strategies of containment’. The stories, supposedly told by individual subjects, are the stories of human collectivities within the false consciousness of individualisation (The Political Unconscious 82-3, 102, 283; Hofheinz ‘Joyce and the Invention of Irish History’ 13). Jameson reads Joyce through his categories of human collectivity where the ‘universal fragmentation’ of capitalism reveals a ‘sociopathology’ of nostalgia for more authentic forms of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 27 | P a g e community (Jameson ‘Ulysses in History’ 128-31). History may well be the ‘horizon’ in which actions and narratives about actions occur, but as Derek Attridge observes, Joyce’s texts seem to suggest that ‘all versions of history are made in language’ and are thus ‘ideological constructs’. Reflecting Pragmatism’s reorganisation of ‘habit’, Attridge notes how histories weave and reweave ‘old stories, fusions of stock character types, blendings of different national languages, dialects, and registers’ (Joyce Effects 79-80). Ideologies are narratives in the ‘most general sense’ as human imagination works with and upon ‘the materials of language’ in order ‘to present to itself a version of experience with which it can live’ (79). Finnegans Wake is the ‘fullest statement’ of this view of history as Joyce exploits linguistic signifiers ‘to mix and conjoin narratives from a multiplicity of cultures, periods, disciplines, and discourses’, but this is also very evident in Ulysses (80; Hofheinz 27). The nightmare from which Stephen is trying awake is not just the ‘untranscendable horizon’, but also the production of history (by the Church, the British Government, and the Irish themselves). As Attridge observes, narratives of ‘exploitation, exclusion, and domination, of racial, national, gender, and class hegemony’, are ‘tricked out’ by both ‘oppressors and victims’ (79). Joyce’s multiplicity of narratives do not make claims about the non-existence or existence of a ‘Real’ history (81). Joyce, instead, spawns ‘actions, characters, speeches, memories, fantasies, speculations, and hallucinations’ which dismantle preconceptions about how ‘existents and occurrences are constituted entirely by the language in which they are presented’ (81). Joyce demonstrates the ‘immense power’ of language as he ostensibly presents a ‘Real’ history while at the same time ‘drawing attention to the linguistic and literary processes through which this effect is achieved’, and thus intimates the degree to which other kinds of ideological narrative ‘depend on the same power’ (81-2). If Joyce exposes the production of ideological narratives, he also exposes the violence which is metered out to ensure the predominance of particular imperialist or nationalist narratives. In few other places is colonial violence, and the nationalist revolutionary violence this gives rise to, ‘so sustained and long-drawn-out as in Ireland’ (S. Brown ‘The Great Criminal, The Exception, and Bare Life in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 781). Stephanie J. Brown draws on the work of two of Joyce’s contemporaries, Carl Schmitt’s Political Theology: Four Essays on the Concept of Sovereignty (1922) and Walter Benjamin’s ‘Critique of Violence’ (Selected Writings I 1921), to explore the ethics of the exercising of sovereign power, and particularly the ‘monopoly to decide’ when laws Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 28 | P a g e can be suspended, as it is the ‘exception’ that is attached to the violent origin of the state (Schmitt 10, 13; Brown 782, 784). While I argue in subsequent chapters that the problem with ideological narratives is their misrepresentation of the past in order to bolster a version with which it can live, Brown argues that an additional problem is how sovereign and nationalist narratives continue to use ‘coercive behaviours’ to protect their hegemonic thinking (787). Both Jacques Derrida and Walter Benjamin argue that when violence is used to found a state the only means of preventing revolutionary violence is through a consolidation of power and the continued threat of violence (Derrida ‘Force of Law’ 33; Benjamin 293-5; Brown 789). Future order is the imperial and nationalist justification for violence (789-91). Thus, an envisaged lawful and peaceful place at some future point — either the successful colonial subjugation of Ireland and its compliance with economic rationalisation, or the nationalists’ successful overthrowing of the imperial power and the establishment of an independent state — means that violence can be retrospectively legitimated if the goals are accomplished (787). Paralysis is a central theme for Joyce studies, but the stagnation of political inaction, and hints of past and future failed political action, are amplified by the presence of Bloom who may be able to show the Irish a way out of stasis by ‘generating new frameworks of understanding political agency’ (Brown 785). If we apply Sinfield’s terminology to Brown, Bloom amplifies the ‘faultlines’ and ‘contradictions’ of dominant structures, creating a space for the dissociation from the ‘ascendant social order’ (Sinfield 35; Schwarze 4). As Brown proposes, Bloom’s imagining of the impossible, and also his persistent attempts to orientate himself towards a possible future, ‘genuinely threatens the status quo’ (786). That is, through Bloom Ulysses proposes a new social contract, ‘a new mode of citizenship’, which ‘critiques a sovereignty inaugurated through violence’ and the Irish nationalists’ replication of imperial ends/means legitimisation of violence; violence justified via assertions of prior or ‘origin stories’ (792). The instructiveness of Bloom’s appeal to ‘Love’, not ‘Force, hatred, history, all that’ (U 12: 1481) is palpable because Bloom’s audience at Barney Kiernan’s pub respond so poorly to it (Brown 792). Bloom’s view of a future, written with the benefit of hindsight after the First World War and the Easter Rising, seems impossible from the ‘historical moment in which he finds himself’ (786). Bloom’s instructive role notwithstanding, he appears flawed in the context of turn of the century Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 29 | P a g e Ireland. Bloom has not undergone Revivalist-style redactions where raw material is sublimated or excluded which does not serve ‘nationalist ends’. His apparent inconsistencies, however, are necessary for Joyce. Ulysses implies, Brown proposes, that ‘no narrative can adequately account for history’, and so incongruities suggest a narrative that hasn’t been tampered with (792; original emphasis). I contend, therefore, that it is not just through Bloom that we see the ‘faultlines’ and the possibility of dissension, as Joyce presents other characters as responding to competing demands. For example, this thesis will consider Simon Dedalus’s mourning for Ireland’s lost ‘king’, the solace he finds in the homosocial circle, and how he struggles to perform his responsibilities to his children after the death of his wife. While Bloom’s actions may be ‘ground clearing’, helping ‘found a future-oriented citizenship’ (Brown 792), Joyce’s ruminations on the Irish social contract are most fully appreciated by mapping his more parallactic considerations. For most of the twentieth century Joycean criticism was based on the perception that he was a ‘rootless and elite intellectual’, ‘apolitical and cosmopolitan’ (Orr Joyce, Imperialism and Postcolonialism ‘Introduction’ 2). Joycean scholarship reflected Modernism’s central concern with ‘the theme of human freedom’ and ‘subjective life at its most intense’, ‘personal and private, [and] wholly individual’ (Platt James Joyce: Texts and Contexts 82; see Ellmann and Feidelson eds. The Modern Tradition 1965). The structuralist and poststructuralist focus of the 1970s and 1980s continued depoliticising Joyce. Historicising Joyce’s texts may now be at the centre of Joyce studies but it was not until the 1990s, with some qualified exceptions, that colonial Ireland, Irish life and culture progressed from mere superficial considerations, to having a fundamental place in critical readings (Platt 81-2). Colin MacCabe’s James Joyce and the Revolution of the Word (1976) was one of the first works that attempted to fill the silence about Joyce’s political concerns and respond to the assertions of Marxist critics that Joyce was disengaged from reality. For MacCabe, Joyce’s aesthetics were political and subversive, where, like Derek Attridge and Daniel Ferrer’s Post-Structuralist Joyce (1984), the ‘political’ was more metaphysical than historical. MacCabe states, in relation to Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, that Joyce’s texts aren’t concerned ‘with representing experience through language’ but rather ‘experiencing language through a destruction of representation’ (4). As Vicki Mahaffey suggests, the links between text and history are analogous rather than more immediate (Reauthorizing Joyce 1988). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 30 | P a g e Dominic Manganiello’s Joyce’s Politics (1980) might signal an early shift towards New Historicism, though the approach is biographical and limited to a survey of the key figures and movements of Joyce’s time, rather than a contextualising or politicising of Joyce’s texts. The 1990s paradigm shift to New Historicism, Cultural Studies and Post-Colonial Studies (and, as Leonard Orr adds, ‘along with other interdisciplinary or transdisciplinary and transcultural approaches such as trauma studies and diaspora studies’) made it impossible to ignore the previously denied or disregarded aspects in Joyce’s work: ‘empire, colonialism, postcolonialism, nationalism, and constructions of race and gender’ (5). Broadly ‘emphasising continuity and the aftermath of the “colonial”’ (Attridge and Howes Semicolonial Joyce 5-7), post-colonial scholars ‘seek to uncover the subjugated knowledges and buried histories’, global forces — such as migration, the flow of money, and political ideas — and ‘internal division’ — such as religion, economic status, gender and regionalism — and what this means for a ‘given situation, population, or individual’ (Howes ‘Joyce, Colonialism, and Nationalism’ 260). Gregory Castle (‘Ousted Possibilities: Critical Histories in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 1993), James Fairhall (James Joyce and the Question of History 1993), and Robert Spoo (James Joyce and the Language of History 1994) focus on the idea that Joyce’s texts create a liberating space free from absolute ideologies and master narratives. Castle argues that critics have assumed Stephen’s repudiations of history in Portrait and Ulysses are also Joyce’s repudiations. Like Spoo, who draws on Nietzsche’s belief that the ‘malady of history’ was destroying the intellectual rigour and moral health of the nineteenth century (6), Castle argues that Joyce ‘struggles against the historical imperative . . . in order to make room for his own alternatives to it’ (309). Joyce creates the type of ‘tribunal’ Nietzsche calls for that would ‘scrupulously examine’ a multiplicity of histories, and finally condemn parts of the past that are ‘worthy to be condemned’ (Nietzsche Untimely Meditations 75-6; Castle 309). There are three principle judges on the tribunal —Stephen, Bloom and Molly — with Bloom questioning the narrative of Christian salvation (and we should add ‘nation’ and masculinity), while Molly, through the historical trope of ‘memory’, deploys a ‘fundamentally anti-historical narrative’ as her remembering is free from all coercive authority (Castle 315, 321). Instead of the ‘entrapment’ of the poststructuralist Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 31 | P a g e ‘prisonhouse of language’, ‘we might see freedom’ Fairhall suggests, ‘at least a freedom from absolutist concepts and ideologies’ (9). In a similar vein to Castle’s argument, Spoo argues that Stephen’s concerns with history are the ‘persistent historiographic concerns of Ulysses’ and the text takes up these battles (8). In terms which I suggest reflect Oswald de Andrade’s Manifesto Antropófago (1928), which uses the ‘cannibal’ as a symbol of resistance against colonising Portuguese culture, Spoo sees Joyce as the ‘historical Devourer’ and historical orthodoxies are formally challenged ‘by means of its textual praxis, as well as thematically, on the levels of plot and characterization’ (7). Joyce’s ‘ironic counterdiscourses’ in Ulysses, such as the ‘winking assaults’ at the Citizens’ ultranationalist reductionism, are marshalled to challenge those representations (Spoo 7 - 8). On the topic of ‘doubleness’ Derek Attridge and Marjorie Howes suggest that for Joyce, ‘to identify points of difference . . . is to articulate a kind of connection’. Irish ‘separatism or unionism’, ‘nationalism or antinationalism’ are ‘not entirely separable’ but ‘conflated’, so that identifying with one side ‘is as stultifying as it is irresponsible to make no distinction at all’ (Howes and Attridge Semicolonial Joyce 2). Noting the significance of the time period in which Joyce wrote the novel (1914 -21), Enda Duffy (The Subaltern Ulysses 1994) asks the challenging question: ‘Might an IRA bomb and Ulysses have anything in common’? (1) He developed a Republican reading of the text, where the novel acts as a ‘guerrilla text’ (10), written with the forces of anticolonial revolution in view’ (7). For Duffy, Spoo’s ‘winking assaults’ are described in terms of ‘the bitter pleasures of personal ressentiment and resentful nationalism’ and their subsequent abandonment (27). The superficial ‘kitsch’ — ‘stereotyped versions of communal subjectivity (nationalism) and individual subjectivity (romantic alienation)’ — such as the hackneyed tropes of ‘Saxon Greed’, are ‘peeled away’ (27). The familiar narratives are ‘supplanted by the suggestion of a simultaneously occurring national life that is at the least a blueprint for the condition of a heterogeneous national community whose members coexist peacefully together’ (27-8). For Andrew Gibson (Joyce’s Revenge 2002) Joyce’s ‘revenge’ is more subtle. Gibson suggests that the pacifist Joyce translates ‘a ferocious political struggle into the literary arena’, thus ‘releasing it from its most debilitating features, notably passionate violence’ (15). The revenge — those ‘wicked practices upon the colonizer’s culture’ (15) such as ‘causing the language of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 32 | P a g e Milton and Wordsworth to utter all but unimaginable filth and treason’ (Eglinton [1935] in Gibson 1) — is ‘liberating’ rather than ‘disabling’; it ‘repeatedly function[s] as delicate, ironical negotiations between a range of political positions that Joyce found unacceptable as wholes’ (15). More recently Richard Begam (‘Joyce’s Trojan Horse: Ulysses and the Aesthetics of Decolonisation’ 2007) develops this line of argument, by suggesting we think of Joyce’s work as Odyssean rather than Achillean, as Joyce employs modernist techniques ‘undercover’ as a kind of ‘Trojan horse’ instead of a more Duffy imagined ‘bomb’ (186). Echoing Castle, Fairhall and Spoo, Begam also argues that Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness and mythical method ‘undermine ahistorical or transcultural aspirations’ (186; original emphasis). Vincent Cheng (Joyce, Race and Empire 1995), in line with Duffy, reads Joyce as a dissident colonial subject revolting against a dominant power, and he interrogates constructions of race and racism. When applied to the Irish of the nineteenth century, the word ‘race’ sits in opposition to the superior English race, linked to the discourse of Empire, and ‘fostered by the nature of nineteenth-century scientific racism’ (18). Emer Nolan (James Joyce and Nationalism 1995), controversially, interrogated one of the widely accepted politicised readings of Ulysses — one that argues that in the ‘Cyclops’ episode Bloom is ‘reasonable universalism’ pitted against the violence and bigotry of the Citizen. ‘Joyceans’, Nolan states, ‘read their sacred texts in a spirit of benign multiculturalism, which they imagine to be identical to Joyce’s own’ (3). Irish nationalism, thus read, is ‘a symptom of local idiocy’ (5) and the Citizen’s ‘verbal skill in parody and . . . invective’ demonstrate the ‘cynicism of xenophobia of his brand of Irish nationalism’ (92). Pointing to the similarities between Joyce’s 1907 essay ‘Ireland, Isle of Saints and Sages’, and the Citizen’s Irish nationalist charges that the English handling of the Famine was akin to genocide, Nolan argues that this must inevitably take on ‘other implications and suggestions’ beyond the reading of the Citizen that is based on ‘repudiation and mockery’ (99). Nolan acknowledges that Ulysses doesn’t vindicate violence, but through Bloom, she argues, we are given ‘an important insight into the pacifism of the oppressed’ (113). As Bloom recounts his success over the Citizen to Stephen, he, like the Citizen, ‘creatively misinterprets his history, in order to better play the role of paternal advisor to Stephen’ (113-4). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 33 | P a g e This thesis is indebted to many of these scholars, and their work is cited repeatedly throughout the following chapters as I consider the significance of food for the post- Famine generation of Joyce’s Dublin. Food, as Fischler argues, is multidimensional (275) and an analysis of food in Irish post-Famine literature cannot do justice to the ‘cultural’, ‘social’ or ‘biological’ lenses without investigating one of the central, traumatic and determinative events in Irish history. Considerations of food in Joyce’s work must entail a parallactic approach that starts with an interrogation of Joyce’s politics; specifically his multifaceted ruminations on contradictory narratives of history and their resonance. Relevant revisionist Irish historiography will be explored in Chapters One and Two, however, it is appropriate to stress here that the long cycle of colonisation and violence resulted in the decimation of the rural populations during the Great Famine. The desperation of the Famine years resonates in turn of the century Ireland with protracted poverty and the continuation of Irish emigration. Furthermore, the political–economic policies of the British Government — their complicity in the starvation, mass mobilisation and eviction of great portions of the rural population justified by the ends of ‘agricultural reform’ — confirmed the sub-human status of the Irish as they were reduced to desperate acts for survival, whilst Irish farmland was made more manageable and economically viable for the Anglo-Irish. As Brown proffers, the other indelible mark of colonisation was that the Irish were wary of whom they could trust, as informants and members of Metropolitan police surveyed their fellow Dubliners ‘in service of the British Government’. As a result building relationships, let alone a sense of political community, amongst ‘friends, strangers, neighbours, families, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, immigrants and emigrants’ was fraught (S. Brown ‘Bare Life in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 785). Irish historiography and Joycean scholarship on the Famine reveal the complexity of Irish suffering and duplicity in the post-Famine era. I also contend, however, that the domestic realm, where ostensibly Irish people might feel secure and be nourished, is correspondingly undermined by the Church and the British Government and through Irish-Catholic internal divisions over the fall and death of Parnell. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 34 | P a g e The Scholarship of Everyday Life: Daily Experience and Structure Theoretical considerations of the ‘everyday’ have been a popular resource for cultural studies, and this study on a central, everyday resource and human activity — food and eating — reflects a number of the key concerns of some of the originating scholars. Informed by Marxist thought, four French figures at the heart of the theory of ‘the everyday’ — Henri Lefebvre, Roland Barthes, Michel de Certeau, and Georges Perec — argue that the neglect of the everyday in philosophy, social theory, art and literature undermines our ability to live fully (Sheringham Everyday Life: Theories and Practices from Surrealism to the Present 2006). The last decade has seen numerous studies across disciplines that have operationalized the work of these theorists (Sheringham 479; Highmore 28), published in the period roughly between 1960 and 1980. Along with Ben Highmore’s edited volume (The Everyday Life Reader 2002), Michael Gardiner has published Critiques of Everyday Life (2000), and two journals have dedicated issues to the area of inquiry (New Literary History 2002; Cultural Critique Fall 2002). Everyday life, Andrew Epstein observes, ‘has indeed emerged as an important organising principle and theoretical problem in literary and cultural studies, sociology, and across the humanities in general’ (‘Critiquing “La Vie Quotidienne”’ 477). As Michael Sheringham argues though, various strains of Anglo-American cultural studies have misappropriated aspects of the theory of ‘everyday’, particularly Michel de Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life (1984). These theorists ‘advocate radical critique that would force us to be more conscious of the connections between lived, daily experience in the twentieth century and the oppressive economic and political structures of modern, capitalist society’ (Epstein 478). As Sheringham argues, de Certeau’s influential account of the consumer as a creative ‘poacher’ of the dominant culture ‘is not about popular culture, nor is it a study of consumer behaviour’ (Sheringham 213). De Certeau’s customers were wilier, dissident agents who relied on a number of ‘tactics’ to evade power structures (Sheringham 213). Henri Lefebvre and the ‘Situationist International’ movement argue that the idea of the ‘everyday’ begins with the notion that the everyday has been colonised by dehumanising capitalism and the only way to awake from the trance is an active, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 35 | P a g e radical, ‘revolution’ in everyday life (in Epstein 482). He is concerned with the twentieth century and the changes of the modern world, which meant a shift from the ‘old obsessions about shortages’ and when things were made and built ‘one by one’ and ‘existed in relation to accepted moral and social references’ to the ‘abundance’ of the first world and the destructive colonisation of the developing world and the environment (‘The Everyday and Everydayness’ 9). As will be explored, particularly in Chapter Four, the functional element of the everyday was ‘disengaged’ and ‘rationalized’ with the advancement of technologies. Through persuading and constraining advertising, and also economic and political lobbies, more industrialised products (including food) became universalised (8). The study of the everyday illuminates history (10). It has always been repetitive, but with increased modernisation the repetitive gestures of work and consumption overpower the repetition of cycles — such as ‘nights and days, seasons and harvests, activity and rest, hunger and satisfaction, desire and its fulfilment, life and death’ (10). One might suggest that Lefebvre sits between de Certeau’s more positive exploration of agency and Barthes more negative Mythologies (for example, see Sheringham 4). Lefebvre recognises the ‘organised passivity’ of modernisation and argues that the passivity of universalised consumption and ‘gestures’ weigh ‘more heavily on women, who are sentenced to everyday life, on the working class, on employees who are not technocrats, on youth—in short on the majority of people’ though it never happens in the same way to everyone at once (10). Joyce, it will be suggested, represents the implicit and continuous negotiation of organised passivity. The concept of ‘everyday life’ as an object of study and aesthetic endeavour is inherently ambiguous, and as argued by Lefebvre and Maurice Blanchot, it rests upon a central paradox (Lefebvre ‘The Everyday and Everydayness’; Blanchot ‘Everyday Speech’). This point is explored by Sheringham, as he states that the ‘everyday’ is ‘neither objective fact’ nor ‘subjective fantasy’. It is lived experience that we cannot ‘arise and go’ to (in Yeats phraseology), as we are already in it. For this reason it is often only noticed when it ‘weighs heavily on us’ and we react by depreciating it, or ‘glorify it into something that it usually is not’ (Sheringham 21). The key question for Sheringham then is: how do we pay attention to and represent the everyday without killing it? Everyday life is everyday life because it is vital, elusive, inconspicuous, and has a ‘resistance to form’ (22). This thesis highlights, however, how Joyce preserves Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 36 | P a g e the vitality and meaningfulness of the everyday with his modernist techniques and parallactic approach. As Highmore and Sheringham argue, conventional realism, established genres and aesthetic forms often fail to do justice to the complexity of everyday life (Sheringham 15; Epstein 480). Artistic practices that have been successful in representing the ‘everyday’ without losing the vitality are hallmarks of Joyce’s work: indirection, ‘friction and fusion of genres’, experimentation of form, and ‘other subversive practices that cut across generic divisions’ (Sheringham 122, 45). As Sheringham notes, the goal is to bring about a transformation that will make it visible (‘Attending to the Everyday’ 188). Recent research examining the everyday in relation to literary Modernism — for example Briony Randall’s Modernism, Daily Time and Everyday Life (2007), Liesl Olson’s Modernism and the Ordinary (2009), and Lorraine Sim’s Virginia Woolf: The Patterns of Ordinary Experience (2010) — are themselves ‘successful’ for their appreciation of the ‘central paradox’ and their illumination of how key modernists were concerned with commonplace activities. In these studies, even in the context of war and other political crises, modernist representation of quotidian detail was a counter-force to the aesthetic of heightened effect that Modernism is often associated with. Randall and Olson work with the key theorists of the ‘everyday’, but they take issue with the privileging of space at the expense of daily time. While de Certeau states that above all he is concerned with the use of space (The Practice of Everyday Life xxii), Randall, for example, is also interested in the new ways Modernists imagined and represented the present in ongoing daily time (7). According to Randall the ‘temporality of dailiness’ is critically neglected, but the transformations (making the invisible visible), to which Sheringham refers, are for Randall also literary techniques writers develop and make use of to convey the everyday and its temporality (7). For this reason, like Olson, Randall utilises the theories of both William James and Henri Bergson; James’s being concerned with the importance of ‘sameness’ for the unity of self (Psychology: Briefer Course 215), and Bergson’s contemplation of breaking down the illusion of homogenous time (Time and Free Will 200). Exemplifying the critical neglect of time in studies of everyday life, Randall points to the limited ways in which the structure of Joyce’s Ulysses is interpreted. Taking T. S. Eliot’s ‘Ulysses, Order and Myth’ as the primary example, Eliot sees the dailiness of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 37 | P a g e Ulysses (with the whole novel taking place on 16 June, 1904) as the ‘surface matter’ under which lays the ‘real substance’ of the text, particularly its division into the ‘episodes’ analogous to Homer’s Odyssey (Randall 7-8). According to Eliot, by organising the novel around the structure on Homer, Joyce ‘give[s] a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history’ (Selected Prose 177). Other critics, such as Robert Humphrey, focus on the stream of consciousness in Joyce’s work, and argue that ‘the formless nature of the psychic life of the characters forced Joyce to impose exterior patterns on the narrative’, one pattern being the eighteen hours of one day (Humphreys in Randall 8). Reflecting Joyce’s use of parallax, Randall suggests that rather than seeing the mythic and psychological depth overlaid with a ‘daily surface’, we should consider Joyce trying to make sense of daily depth by overlaying it with a variety of structures (9). Joyce’s allusion to the Odyssey, for example, is thus more than an external pattern but also acts as a signal for his challenges to traditional ‘dualisms’ and gendered hierarchies; a point explored in Chapter Five. For Olson, Joyce gives everyday life ‘texture’ and ‘believability’ by simultaneously ‘pinning it down’ and ‘letting it go’ (34). By logging the experiences of a single day in Dublin 1904, Olson suggests, Ulysses represents both ‘the reality of a particular moment’ and ‘gestures towards what cannot be included in a literary text’; he acknowledges ‘a difference between an ordinary event and a representation that often changes the event into something extraordinary’ (34). Joyce and other modernists like Woolf, Stein and Mansfield, were not the first authors motivated to make art from quotidian things; Wordsworth, is a notable precursor. As Olson points out though, Joyce’s art is unique for its cultural and political commentary. In the context of a burgeoning Irish Revivalist literature which was mythologising Ireland’s past, Joyce’s sustained consideration of common life ‘steps away from an Irish nationalism characterised . . . by a propensity to overlook facts about modern life’ (34; emphasis added). Olson contrasts Joyce’s earlier use of epiphany, which she argues ‘extracts the individual from a context of community and civic commitment’, with Ulysses, which demonstrates how ‘the everyday does not evade historical conditions’ (35). In Olson’s consideration of the lists in Ulysses, she proposes that instead of indicating a ‘closed’ system (see Kenner The Stoic Comedians), where ‘language marks what lies within and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 38 | P a g e what lies outside the boundaries of knowledge’, Joyce’s lists indicate the openness of everyday life (46). Traditional Philosophical Dualisms and the New Scholarship of Gastro-criticism This thesis is also inspired by the interdisciplinary scholarship on food in literature, or ‘gastro-criticism’. This emerging research covers a great expanse of literature, from the ancients (Gowers The Loaded Table: Representations of Food in Roman Literature 1993) to the contemporary (Sceats Food, Consumption, and the Body in Contemporary Women's Fiction 2000), though the vast portion of the field tends towards examining food in Renaissance, Romantic, and Victorian literatures. Joan Fitzpatrick’s edited volume Renaissance Food from Rabelais to Shakespeare (2010) and Robert Appelbaum’s Aguecheek's Beef, Belch's Hiccup, and Other Gastronomic Interjections: Literature, Culture, and Food among the Early Moderns (2006) both undertake an interdisciplinary approach, bringing together historical, cultural and literary perspectives in their examination of food in literature. Central to studies of food in Romanticism is aesthetic ‘taste’, for to be ‘in good taste’ in this period was to exclude references to literal taste, and yet Romanticism is resplendent in its culinary allusions. Joselyne Kolb’s The Ambiguity of Taste: Freedom and Food in European Romanticism (1995), Timothy Morton’s edited volume Cultures of Taste: Theories of Appetite Eating Romanticism (2004), and Denise Gigante’s Taste: a Literary History (2005), all point to the challenge to literary decorum wielded through food. As Gigante notes, the enormous cultural changes of the Romantic period were the result, not only of the Industrial Revolution, but a Consumer Revolution also, where the ‘Man of Taste’ had ‘to navigate an increasing tide of consumables’, and sought distinction through ‘the exercise of discrimination’ (3). In contrast to ‘appetite’, aesthetic taste was ‘guided by certain fixed rules that taste philosophers set out to identify’ (7). Taste was situated, Gigante reiterates, at the intersection of appetite and manners, and was predominately a middle-class affair to produce ‘tasteful subjects’ (7). Kant, for example, (Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View 1798) thought that the dinner party transcended physical gratification and ‘aesthetically united’ companions in pleasure (Kant 187; Gigante 9). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 39 | P a g e As Gigante explores the Romantic poets for their negotiation of food she reveals the conflict between the Lake Poets (Wordsworth, Shelley, and Coleridge), who transcended the grosser experiential realms, and the more sensuous poets. There is quite a difference, Gigante argues (reiterating Fred V. Randel), between Wordsworth’s ethereal ‘drinking of visionary power and feeding upon infinity’, or Coleridge’s ‘imbibing the milk of Paradise’ by eating honey-dew melon, and Charles Lamb’s more grounded ‘taste for roast pig’s crackling or bread and cheese with an onion’ (Randel in Gigante 94). Whilst being ‘a carnivore in Romantic-era vegetarian discourse’, Gigante attests, ‘was merely one step away from being a cannibal’ (100), Lamb’s ‘Dissertation Upon Roast Pig’ fictionally critiques ‘taste’ in the Romantic era, and its ‘masochistic fascination with the arts of carving, cookery, and culinary animal tortures’ suggest epicurean cruelty as a precondition of what Lamb labels ‘low-urban taste’ (90). In contrast to the vegetarian Lake Poets, Lamb represents meat eating as an advance in civilisation (104). Like Lamb, Byron’s food metaphors were not of the ilk of the Lakers. As Carol Shiner Wilson notes (‘Stuffing the Verdant Goose: Culinary Esthetics in Don Juan 1991), Byron thought the Lake poets wrote only ‘funeral baked meats’, coldly set on the breakfast table for all of Great Britain (Byron in Wilson 50), while his poetry was more richly varied. His poem Don Juan, for example, captures the complexities and ambiguities of life. The poem is a ‘conundrum of a dish’ (XV.21.8), and the culinary images contribute to the plurality of experience (Wilson 50-1). Penny Bradshaw argues in her essay ‘The Politics of the Platter’ (in Morton Cultures of Taste/Theories of Appetite 2004) that the political implication of food was central to Romanticism. The era was characterised by a clash between the image of the Prince of Wales (‘great George weighs twenty stone’ Don Juan VIII.126.1008), and the malnutrition of the poor (Bradshaw 63). For example, Coleridge writes to a patron in 1801 that he has a ‘true heart-gnawing melancholy’ when he contemplates ‘the state of [his] poor oppressed Country’: ‘it is as much as I can do to put meat and bread on my own table; & hourly some poor starving wretch comes to my door, to put in his claim for part of it’ (in Gigante Taste 10). Norbert Lennartz argues that the Romantics’ inclination to vegetarianism can thus be understood as a protest against a system where ‘power and egotism were defined by over-indulgence in food’ (‘Introduction’ The Pleasures and Horrors of Eating 17). As Chapter Five of this thesis explores, this Romantic framing of vegetarianism is made more complex when scientific, imperial Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 40 | P a g e and gendered discourses surrounding meat are considered. Interestingly, Sarah Moss (Spilling the Beans: Eating, Cooking, Reading and Writing in British Women's Fiction 2011) examines works of women novelists of the Romantic era, that ‘ran parallel’ to ‘Romanticism’. Women novelists such as Frances Burney, Mary Wollstonecraft, Marie Edgeworth and Susan Ferrier have a different position to ‘corporality, domesticity and economic’ to the canonised male poets. For example, she argues that Burney’s work reveals the feeding of the female body is inseparable from feeding the mind. For Wollstonecraft ‘good mothering, which includes good writing, depends on good eating, which means constant surveillance of potentially disordered appetites’ (10). As will be noted in Chapter Four, this Romantic understanding of nutrition continues in Victorian and turn of the century nutritional discourses. Of all periods being examined for their utilisation of food, it is perhaps the Victorian period that has been explored most thoroughly, though as Sarah Moss notes the scholarship more or less ignores the daily purchase, cultivation, preparation, ingestion and digestion of food (Spilling the Beans 6). To be fair, women in Victorian literature are rarely seen eating (Silver 50). Anna Krugovoy Silver (Victorian Literature and the Anorexic Body 2002) and Laurence Talairach-Vielmas (Moulding the Female Body in Victorian Fairy Tales and Sensation Novels 2007) both examine the body in Victorian literature; how the appetite was regulated, moulded and monitored in service to femininity (Silver 23). Silver, for example, in her fascinating study of the shared characteristics of anorexia nervosa and central aspects of Victorian gender ideologies, argues that anorexia — a disease that stems from the Victorian era, diagnosed simultaneously in Britain, France and America in the mid-nineteenth century — is deeply rooted in Victorian values. Normative qualities and feminine ideals of Victorian womanhood — spiritual, non-sexual and self-disciplined (Silver 3) — share what Leslie Heywood describes as ‘anorexic logic’ (Dedication to Hunger: The Anorexic Aesthetic in Modern Culture 1996). The central premise of Silver is ‘that control over the body, a fundamental component of Victorian female gender ideology and anorexia nervosa, theoretically links the model of the passionless or self-regulated Victorian woman with the anorexic woman’ (11). As feminist critics have argued, Victorian women were not solely idealised as angelic beings, for they were simultaneously viewed as potential demons, ‘aggressive, angry, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 41 | P a g e and sexually voracious – ruled by their physiology, particularly their menstrual cycles’ (Silver 10). Self-control, therefore, was integral as the Victorian woman was expected to control her behaviour, speech and appetite (10), and as such slenderness signified contained desire, controlled impulse and restrained hunger (Bordo Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body 189). While Silver acknowledges that there is no clear, direct correlation between a particular narrative and ‘a real woman’s slim body’, narrative is important, not only as discourses directly and indirectly influence behaviour, but because ‘the ideologies of the slender body help us understand what the Victorians thought about the relationships of eating to femininity and to class’ (Silver 10). William A. Cohen (Embodied Victorian Literature and the Senses 2009) suggests that writing about the body gave Victorian authors a way of ‘giving form to intangible thoughts and feeling’. One of the achievements of Victorian realism, Cohen argues, is ‘characterological psychology, consciousness, and inner depth’ that seem to ‘exceed the representation’. For Cohen, Victorian writers such as Charles Dickens and Charlotte Brontë achieved this impression by ‘physical embodiment in characterisation’, in addition to other rhetorical features such as setting and dialogue (27). Silver’s approach is thus twofold; she analyses how hunger and appetite work within a particular text and what they signify within those texts, but also she relates those texts to culture at large, as part of an ‘ongoing cultural dialogue’ (3). Though Silver does not concentrate squarely on food, this dialectical role of food in literature will be a prominent focus in this thesis. Drawing on Hélène Cixous, Tamar Heller and Patricia Moran argue that the writer can, by ‘writing the body’ (Cixous ‘Laugh of the Medusa’ 1975), break down dualisms of flesh and spirit that traditionally silence women (‘Introduction’ Scenes of the Apple: Food and the Female Body in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Women's Writing 2003). For Hellar and Moran, the cultural constructions of woman, for example, as desiring and therefore necessarily self-denying, are more complicated than they initially appear (3). The self-effacing anorexic of Victorian literature, they argue, is problematised when considered in relation to the ‘hefty Queen Victoria’ (3; Munich ‘Good and Plenty’). As the mouth has a dual association of eating and speaking, food thus symbolises bodily and sexual experience, and also language and voice (2). The Genesis narrative of the ‘fall’ of Adam and Eve, Cixous claims, is the guiding myth of Western culture: ‘a fable about the subjection of female “oral pleasure” to the regulation Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 42 | P a g e of patriarchal law’ (‘Extreme Fidelity’). But, it is also a genesis of the ‘artistic being’ in which the writer (for Cixous, the transgressive woman) not only encounters the cultural prohibitions of the body but also encounters the ‘realm of language which encodes them’ (Hellar and Moran 1). As Helena Michie argues, orality is ‘deeply linked with the question of authority and . . . authorship’ (The Flesh Made Word 28). Michie, Malcolm Bedell and Elaine Showalter have illustrated this tension in their studies of Louisa May Alcott. Showalter, for example, noted that Alcott repeatedly re-enacted in her fiction the tension between ‘patriarchal authority’ and ‘female self-assertion’ (see Hellar and Moran 2-3; Showalter Little Women x). Michie notes that as Jo March ‘stuff[s] apples into her mouth as she writes in her garret’, she transgresses the ‘hunger to write and to know . . . translating trespass into the source of power’ (28). As Alcott’s biographer Bedell notes, the author reacts to her father’s attempts to tame her unruly appetite by shutting her in a room with an apple she was forbidden to eat (The Alcotts 81-2). The predominant theoretical framework for examining food in Victorian and Modernist literature is psychoanalysis, though Susanne Skubal (Word of Mouth: Food and Fiction after Freud 2002) has reasserted the importance of actual food (not just what food might mean). As Skubal observes, for Freud the oldest instinctual domain – the oral – is at the core of self-affirming judgments humans make about themselves and the world: ‘this will be part of me; this other won’t’ (3). Curiously, Skubal notes, Freud and other psychoanalysts such as Karl Abraham don’t focus on an appetite for life, but rather mourning and melancholia which is marked by ‘guilt-driven rejection of food’ and ‘lack of appetite’ (4). While Skubal privileges the psychoanalytic lens, she criticises Freud who looks for the significance of eating ‘elsewhere’: the sexual body, the reproductive body, the used body, the euphemistic body, the laughable body. Skubal asserts in her study that ‘eating it ultimately its own metaphor’, and the mouth is a site for both nourishment and desire (8). Like Skubal, for Michel Delville (Food, Poetry, and the Aesthetics of Consumption: Eating the Avant-Garde 2007) the tongue, the organ of taste and self-expression, becomes the site of aesthetic and philosophical negotiations for modernists such as Gertrude Stein, F. T. Marinetti and Wyndham Lewis, as ‘bodily processes and self-consciousness run in parallel and interact with each other’ (3). Delville explicitly mentions how ‘gastro-critics’ in recent years have rejected the supremacy of ‘vision’ over ‘taste’, and also challenge a metaphysics, stretching from Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 43 | P a g e Plato to Kant, that endorses the classic hierarchy of the senses, and its postulation that ‘the bodily senses are irrelevant to the apprehension of works of art’ (Hegel in Delville 1). Hegel’s hierarchy of the senses, for example, is described in the following way: [T]he sensuous aspect of art is related only to the two theoretical senses of sight and hearing, while smell, taste, and touch remain excluded from the enjoyment of art. For smell, taste, and touch have to do with matter as such and its immediately sensible qualities . . . For this reason these senses cannot have to do with artistic objects, which are meant to maintain themselves in their real independence and allow of no purely sensuous relationship. What is agreeable for these senses is not the beauty of art. (in Delville 1-2). Though the body was a Modernist consideration, until recent decades literary criticism and philosophy have tended to steer clear of bodily functions. For philosophers food has been seen, until relatively recently, as ordinary, embodied and temporal whereas Western philosophy is concerned with loftier, abstract, eternal, mental, disembodied and atemporal matters (Flammang The Taste for Civilization: Food, Politics, and Civil Society 142; Heldke ‘The Unexamined Meal is Not Worth Eating’ 202; Curtin and Heldke ‘Introduction’ Cooking, Eating, Thinking: Transformative Philosophies of Food xiv). Plato, however, at least pondered food, and while he was condemnatory of taking pleasure in food (through the voice of Socrates in Gorgias and in The Republic) Lisa Heldke suggests that is still an important precedent for seeing food as an interesting and worthy subject (‘Unexamined Meal’ 203; see Flammang for Plato’s food references 142-4). Plato might be a precedent but in the early 1990s philosopher Deane Curtin argued that philosophy must reject dualistic thought — ‘mind/body, self/other, culture/nature, good/evil, reason/emotion’ — that stemmed from Plato (‘Food/Body/Person’ Cooking, Eating, Thinking 5). For Curtin these dualisms are ‘distinctions of ontological kind and value that have been inimical to serious philosophical interest in food’ (5). As food is incorporated into the permeable self we are obliged to reconsider food as part of the ‘self’ rather than the ‘other’ (see Fischler ‘Food, Self, Identity’ 279; Martin ‘Food, Literature, Art, and the Demise of Dualistic Thought’ 28). Rather than a discrete, disembodied ego, the self is connected with and dependent on the rest of the world (Curtin ‘Introduction’ xiv). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 44 | P a g e Flammang argues that a ‘major barrier to understanding the centrality of food and culture, and of women and food, is the pervasiveness of the philosophical approach to knowledge that separates the mind and the body’ (Flammang 142). Constrained by the mind/body dualism women are the ‘body’ and involved in foodwork — that ‘knack gained by experience’ that is ‘aimed at gratification and pleasure’ (Plato in Flammang 143) — while men are the ‘mind’ and doing ‘higher-order activities’ that transcend bodily needs and desires (Flammang 142). Flammang argues that philosophers not attending to food, and the trivialisation of foodwork generally, has been ‘detrimental to women, to self-understanding, and to knowledge about human culture, society, economics, and politics’ (142). Until work like the path-breaking book The Madwomen in the Attic and its consideration of the body (Gilbert and Gubar 1979), literary scholars still ‘read’ through the Hegelian hierarchy of the senses. Allie Glenny observes, for example, that although food is abundant in the work of Virginia Woolf, it appears invisible to many critics (Ravenous Identity: Eating and Eating Distress in the Life and Work of Virginia Woolf 1999). Joyce’s Interrogation of the Feminine / Masculine Dualism The close analysis of food in modernist literature necessitates considering how the ‘feminine’ was suppressed. While Joyce was allowing for ‘doing and undoing’ in his fiction, the destruction of World War I caused other modernists to embark on the task of distinguishing their style and content from the ‘feminine’. While war may not have been an overt subject for all modernists, it was considered in a ‘concatenated union’ with their other political concerns, as they renegotiated a less certain era and questions about humanity, progress, and the ‘woman question’. William Courtenay’s The Feminist Note in Fiction (1904) criticised the ‘New Woman’ novel for its ‘sex problems’ and ‘failing to realise the neutrality of the artistic mind’ (in Mullin ‘Modernism and Feminisms’ 137). ‘Virile’, manly Modernism of the ‘men of 1914’ was contrasted with the flaccidity of women’s nineteenth-century writing (Mullin 139). Declarations, manifestos and periodical by-lines, such as the Egoist’s ‘For virile readers only’, gendered Modernism and defined the guidelines for legitimate participants. Filippo Tommaso Marinetti’s desire to fight ‘every opportunist cowardice’ such as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 45 | P a g e ‘moralism and feminism’; Wyndham Lewis’s journal’s bidding to ‘BLAST years 1837 – 1900 / Blast . . . RHETRIC OF EUNUCH AND STYLIST / SENTIMENTAL HYGIENICS’; and Pound’s declaration that ‘[n]o woman should be allowed to write for The Little Review’, claiming that ‘most of the ills of the American little magazines are . . . due to women’, are just a few of the better known examples of the overt hostility that prevented women’s accepted artistic participation in Modernism (in Mullin 137-142). Michael North points out that the conflation of the ‘artistic mind’ and masculinity found pseudo-scientific endorsement from 1922 linguist Otto Jesperson (Language: Its Nature, Development and Origin), who argued that the influence women have on language is insignificant (North Reading 1922: a Return to the Scene of the Modern 174). As Jesperson states: ‘the highest linguistic genius and the lowest degree of linguistic imbecility are very rarely found among women’ however ‘[t]he greatest orators, the most famous literary artists, have been men’ (in North 174). While the examples of this repression abound — T. S. Eliot’s criticism is particularly replete with examples of patriarchal criticism — Eliot’s framing of Katherine Mansfield’s work and North’s revisiting of Willa Cather’s suppression prove good examples. Though Eliot ‘recognises’ Mansfield’s skill, the material is ‘minimum’ and therefore ‘feminine’ (Eliot After Strange Gods 35-6; Mullin ‘Modernisms and Feminisms’ 145). North explores the critical reception of One of Ours, winner of the 1922 Pulitzer Prize, and how Cather was criticised for her conventionality and dullness (174-5). North, however, points out that though male Modernism was simultaneously ‘realist and imaginative’, Cather’s work was criticised for its homeliness and artificiality (175). Even though representing a similar balance of technique (mimesis / poesis), ‘homely’ and ‘artificial’ are strategically, hierarchically inferior to ‘realist’ and ‘imaginative’. In short, the distinction between Modernism and feminine writing was insistent because the resemblance was too close for comfort (North 179): ‘the emotional charge built up at this time may come from the guilty secret harboured . . . that male Modernism itself was not so much a defiance of convention as an exacerbation of the contradiction within it’ (175). Suzanne Clark (Sentimental Modernism: Women Writers and the Revolution of the Word 1991) argues that women’s writing was denigrated by modernists and modernist critics as flaccid, emotional and prosaic. This disallowing of the ‘emotional’ was particularly vehement in Wyndham Lewis’s attack on ‘sentimental Gallic gush’, criticising it for its ‘sentimental hygienics’, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 46 | P a g e stating instead that in ‘[o]ur Vortex . . . everything absent, remote, requiring projection in the veiled weakness of the mind, is sentimental’ (Clark 125-6). By the early 1990s a number of anthologies framed Modernism in a new way, reconstituting Modernism as not ‘exclusively defined by the valorisation of formal as well as thematic characteristics . . . associated with masculinity’ (DeKoven ‘Modernism and Gender’ 182). Bonnie Kime Scott’s edited volume The Gender of Modernism: A Critical Anthology (1990) was ground breaking in its insistence on gender being a primary concern for Modernism and modernity. In addition to giving a voice to the less vaunted female makers of Modernism, Scott and her contributing editors redirected attention to gender in the canonical modernist texts, thus exposing the gender politics in the critical framing of Modernism. This was also the central concern in Lisa Rado’s edited volume Rereading Modernism: New Directions in Feminist Criticism (1994), where instead of identifying the misogyny in male modernist texts, the emphasis is examining how Modernism’s assumption about gender informs modernist texts. Rita Felski’s The Gender of Modernity (1995) affects a paradigmatic change to understanding modernity by exploring women’s varied experiences of modernity, and gives ‘feminine phenomena’ — such as selling, shopping, travel, social and political activism, radical discourses of feminine sexuality, and experiments with literary form — a central rather than marginalised place in the analysis of the culture of modernity. Elizabeth Jane Harrison and Shirley Peterson ‘unman’ Modernism by interrogating the traditional, masculine modernist aesthetic by examining how women writers created their own Modernism through the melding of the sentimental, the domestic and the maternal with experiments with plot, voice and point of view (Unmanning Modernism: Gendered Re-Readings 1997). Marianne DeKoven’s Rich and Strange: Gender, History, Modernism (1991; and ‘Modernism and Gender’) explores the density, dislocations, and gender-inflected ambiguity of Modernism. For DeKoven, Modernism evolved as a means of representing the threat of cultural and political change. While modernists wanted change in gender politics, for example, male modernists feared the loss of power that accompanied the empowered feminine, and female modernists feared punishment for desiring change. DeKoven’s exploration of the irreconcilable ambivalence toward what Perry Anderson calls the ‘revolutionary horizon’ thus informs the form of Modernism (184; Anderson ‘Modernism and Revolution’ 96-113). Interestingly, Ann Ardis doesn’t exclude Joyce from her account of the male high Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 47 | P a g e moderns (Pound, Joyce and Eliot) and their use of radical, formalist poetics to conceal their conservative cultural and sexual politics (Modernism and Cultural Conflict, 1880- 1922 2002). North argues that as the ‘conventionality’ of the gendered delineation of feminine writing became unhinged, the contradictions within masculine writing could no longer be differentiated by an aesthetic and emotional division of labour (192). Instead, contradictions began to appear within the modernist male aesthetic; ‘a doubling or changing’ of the self, due to the ‘conflicting demands of male creativity’ (192). Using James Joyce’s Ulysses to illustrate the point, North refers to descriptions of Leopold Bloom – ‘a bit of an artist’, ‘a mixed middling’ – and reminds us that Bloom was ‘an anomalous man at least part woman’ even before his fantastic transformation in the ‘Circe’ episode (192). In the last twenty years critics such as Cynthia Lewiecki-Wilson (Writing against the Family: Gender in Lawrence and Joyce 1994), Christine Froula (Modernism's Body: Sex, Culture, and Joyce 1996), Beryl Schlossman (Objects of Desire: The Madonnas of Modernism 1999), Tamar Katz (Impressionist Subjects: Gender, Interiority, and Modernist Fiction in England 2000), Hugh Stevens and Caroline Howlett (eds. Modernist Sexualities 2000), and Geraldine Meaney (Gender, Ireland, and Cultural Change: Race, Sex, and Nation 2009) have explored this interconnectivity between male and female modernists and the disruption of a gendered aesthetic. Lewiecki-Wilson argue that Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man begins to deconstruct gendered theories of meaning; a deconstruction that continues in Ulysses. In contrast to T. S. Eliot’s argument that the modernists’ incorporation of ancient myth was a way of ‘controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary life’ (Selected Prose 175-8), Meaney suggests that Joyce’s use of myth represents interconnections between gender and Irish nationalism, and gender and Modernism. Drawing on Stephen Jay Gould (Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle: Myth and Metaphor in the Discovery of Geological Time 1987), Meaney reiterates that after the Enlightenment ‘time’s cycle’, as opposed to the scientific and empirical ‘time’s arrow’, becomes the ‘space of myth and mythic thought’ (98). In contrast to the ‘arrow’s’ realm of progress, the ‘cycle’ became identified with conservativeness, ‘presenting aspects of human experience as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 48 | P a g e unchanging and hence unchangeable’ (98), reflective of the feminine delineation of the aesthetic. Meaney implicitly speaks to the scholarship of pragmatic Modernism and Schwarze’s consideration of the function of Joyce’s ‘faultlines’ and contradictions. She suggests that far from myth providing order, myth in Ulysses becomes a place for those who have been aliened by history — immigrants and women for example — to change the unchangeable direction of ‘the arrow’ and redefine history. By drawing on Homi Bhabha, Meaney argues that Joyce’s utilisation of The Odyssey provides a context for reading Ulysses as an engagement of issues of gender and national identity (99). For Froula this adulteration of the masculine modernist aesthetic is used by Joyce to mount a critique of his culture. Rather than viewing Joyce as misogynist, Froula associates Joyce’s rhetorical devices with an effort to bring the Irish culture’s unconscious knowledge into consciousness. A crucial key to Ulysses, Froula argues, is grasping the parody of the once mentioned subtitle of Ulysses: ‘His Whore of a Mother’. Stephen’s Shakespeare theory puts the figure of the mother/wife/whore at centre stage, arguing that masculine creativity issues from a dialectic of sexual difference in which strong women act as the originating term of the male creator’s nightmare, wish, or dream (Froula 87). Repressed by gender conventions, Stephen regains his ‘maternally identified self’ ironically through rediscovering the figure of the woman/mother/whore upon which masculine culture establishes itself (Froula 88). Feminist philosophers — such as Julia Kristeva, Luce Irigaray, Hélène Cixous and Judith Butler — have been helpful for understanding how Joyce was able to use his highly self-conscious form to ‘ruminate’ upon the constructs of ideological forces. In broad terms they suggest that women writers, in particular, use avant-garde linguistic forms to escape the confines of patriarchal language (Mullin 146). As Elizabeth Grosz points out though, each philosopher works within a specific theoretical paradigm and has different interpretations of ‘sexual difference’ (Grosz Sexual Subversions 100-104). Kristeva accepts the oedipal structure and essentially works with the tools of psychoanalysis. For Kristeva (Desire in Language 1980; The Revolution in Poetic Language 1984) avant-garde texts ‘reject all discourse that is either stagnant or eclectically academic’ and ‘stimulate and [reveal] deep ideological changes that are currently searching for their own accurate political framework’ (Desire 92-3). The Kristevian aim is to ‘uncover the women’s (repressed) masculinity and men’s Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 49 | P a g e (disavowed) femininity through the acknowledgement of a repressed semiotic, sexual energy or drive facilitation on which both male and female “identities” are based and to which they are vulnerable’ (Grosz 100-1). Here, ‘sexual difference’ entails dissolution of all sexual identities ‘into a dispersed process of sexual differentiation, relevant to both sexes’ (Grosz 100). Irigaray, in comparison, is derisive of the oedipal structure and Freud’s asymmetrical, masculine, regulative principle of sexual organisation (Grosz 103) wherein the ‘desire for the auto . . . the homo . . . the male, dominates representational economy’ (Irigaray Speculum of the Other Woman 26). Irigaray’s conceptualisation of ‘sexual difference’ refers to women’s sexual autonomy and specificity (Grosz 100). Her argument is that Western discourse presents ‘sex’ as ‘masculine sex’. Male sex or ‘sex’ is ‘the privilege of unity, form of self, of the visible, of the specularisable, of the erection’ (Irigaray ‘Women’s Exile’ 64). ‘No sex’ has been assigned to the woman as ‘her sex is not visible nor identifiable or representable in a definite form’ (64). While Kristeva’s work is insightful for the examination of the interconnections between male and female Modernism, such as the womanly man and the manly woman, Irigaray has provided underpinning, implicitly in the case of Michael North, for work on the repression of women modernist writers (DeKoven ‘Modernism and Gender’; Felski The Gender of Modernity 79; Michael North Reading 1922; Smith ‘Gender in Women’s Modernism’ 92). Irigaray links the repression of the feminine voice to the vigilant repression of the feminine ‘origin’ of life and the ‘mystery’ of the man’s role in reproduction (DeKoven 179). Her power for giving life is repressed and reassigned and all ownership of reproduction and naming rights fall under what Lacan calls ‘The Name of the Father’ (Irigaray Speculum 330-353). Importantly, this results in the hierarchy of dualisms prevalent in Western culture, for example, masculine / feminine, culture / nature, and higher / lower (DeKoven 179). However, as claimed by DeKoven, it is in Freud and Modernism in general that the ‘power of the maternal feminine comes closest to erupting into representation, and therefore is met by an even more cruelly powerful act of repression’ (179). The theories of both Judith Butler and Michèle Le Doeuff, I suggest, prove particularly useful for exploring the ways in which Joyce uses food as a focal point for his ruminations on gender, and for their implicit links to Pragmatism. While Sarah Moss Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 50 | P a g e reminds us that ‘we perform with food’, the performance is more than the physiological performance and the political power to maintain social inequality that Moss is primarily concerned with in her research (7). This project investigates the ways that characters perform in relation to food, and how gender constructs are challenged. Judith Butler (Bodies that Matter 1993; The Psychic Life of Power 1997; Undoing Gender 2004) uses Michel Foucault’s concept of ‘subjectification’, by which he means ‘the subject is constituted through practices of subjection’ and renders this idea as both ‘the process of becoming subordinated by power as well as the process of becoming a subject’ (The Psychic Life of Power 2). As Moya Lloyd notes, for Butler it is at the moment that the individual is subjected to gender norms that ‘he or she becomes a gendered subject who can resist those norms’ (Judith Butler 64-5). While gender, as performative, requires the mandatory reproduction of normalised gender practices, gender can be performed against the grain (Butler Bodies that Matter 95). As a result of this disruption, the gendered norm may be subversively denaturalised, or the transgressive performance is punished for its unnatural behaviour (Lloyd 64; Butler Undoing Gender). Michèle Le Doeuff provided an early, valuable theoretical frame through which to negotiate Joyce’s High Modernism, his challenges to narrow conceptions of Modernist aesthetics, and his challenge to ideological constructs. Le Doeuff’s ‘mid-way’ approach seems to resonate with Pragmatism, but also Sinfield’s conceptualisation of Modernism as a space where ruminations can occur. In a 1979 essay, ‘Operative Philosophy’, Le Doeuff rereads Jean-Paul Sartre’s most misogynist text Being and Nothingness (1977). In this book Sartre relies on patriarchal designations of masculine and feminine and uses this binary imagery in his understanding of knowledge. For example, he proclaims that ‘to see is to deflower’, that ‘knowledge is at once a penetration and a superficial caress’, and he expresses the fear of the ‘slimy’ ‘in-itself’ that threatens to engulf the sovereign ‘for-itself’. The ‘viscosity’ of the slime is ‘comparable to the flattening out of the overripe breasts of a woman lying on her back (Sartre in ‘Operative Philosophy’ 50-1; Grosz 212). The default to the feminine to represent the feared castration of masculine philosophy is familiar. Sartrean existentialism is incapable of explaining oppression because of its heavy stress on responsibility and free choice, and Modernism — defined and protected by its masculine classifications but espousing innovation, imagination and experimentation — rings in the same tone. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 51 | P a g e Yet in her analysis of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex (1949), Le Doeuff claims that de Beauvoir works within a male philosophy to use it to produce feminist insights, rather than radically breaking with male dominated history of philosophy as Irigaray and Kristeva do (Grosz 212). While readers of de Beauvoir often wish to separate her adherence to Sartre’s existentialism from her feminism, Le Doeuff claims that Beauvoir uses Sartre’s philosophy as an ‘operative viewpoint’ for exposing the character of the oppression of women (‘Operative Philosophy’ 48; Grosz 213): Luce Irigaray’s books insist on the idea that, since it is philosophical discourse that lays down the law for all discourses, the discourse of philosophy is the one that has first of all to be overthrown and disrupted. At one stroke, the main enemy comes to be idealist logic and the metaphysical logos. Simone de Beauvoir’s book leaves me with the contrary impression, since, within a problematic as metaphysical as any, she is still able to reach conclusions about which the least one can say is that they have dynamised women’s movements in Europe and America for over thirty years. (Le Doeuff ‘Operative Philosophy’ 48) This thesis does not incorporate a dense philosophical exploration of Feminist theory, but these theories have informed the approach to Joyce’s experimental aesthetics. They help navigate the food in Joyce’s work and assist in the analysis of his stylistics for their ruminations on ideology and history. Joyce’s work provides an ‘operative viewpoint’ that enables not only an interrogation of gender constructs and the oppression of women, but also ruminations on Irish politics, history, religion, culture and society. It makes a specific statement about the role that literature can play in refiguring memory and addressing the effects of the past on the state of the Irish and their relationship with an imperial power. Thesis Outline Underpinning the historical turn, this thesis is indebted to the key Joycean scholars who have challenged the long held assumption of Joyce’s ‘apolitical’ stance and disavowal of history. I draw upon the work of Emer Nolan, Enda Duffy, Andrew Gibson, Vincent Cheng, James Fairhall and Robert Spoo (amongst others) over the course of the thesis as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 52 | P a g e I exhibit Joyce’s awareness of ideological ‘nets’ as he ruminates upon the impact of history. Recent articles on food in Joyce, notably by Miriam O’Kane Mara (‘James Joyce and the Politics of Food’ 2009), Marguerite Regan (‘“Weggebobbles and Fruit”: Bloom’s Vegetarian Impulses’ 2009), Lauren Rich (‘A Table for One: Hunger and Unhomeliness in Joyce’s Public Eateries’ 2010), Bonnie Roos (chapter in Hungry Words, ‘Feast, Famine and the Humble Potato in Ulysses’ 2006), Julieann Ulin (‘Famished Ghosts: Famine Memory in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 2011), Kevin Whelan (‘The Memories of “The Dead”’ 2002), and James Wurtz (‘Scarce More a Corpse: Famine Memory and Representations of the Gothic in Ulysses’ 2005), have been invaluable starting points for my investigations, particularly in their considerations of food in relation to the Famine, Irish history and politics, gender, and post-Famine culture. I draw on numerous theoretical frameworks over the course of the thesis, such as Collective Memory and Inter-generational Trauma, both used to help explore the significance of Famine for identity construction in the post-Famine era. This thesis develops through a series of topic based chapters. Rather than include a review of all the relevant scholarship throughout the thesis in the introductory chapter, the individual chapters highlight the key scholarship relevant for each ‘topic’. The chapters focus on: the collective memory of the Great Famine (Chapter 1); the embodied trauma of the Famine and fractured community (Chapter 2); the impact of the betrayal and decline of Charles Stewart Parnell and the disintegration of the domestic realm (Chapter 3); the interrogation of imperial appropriations of new knowledges, particularly nutritional science (Chapter 4); and Joyce’s subversive tactics against patriarchy and his rumination on the need for a new kind of heroism (Chapter 5). Chapter One explores how Joyce was a consummate historicist, interested in the impact of the past on the present, and allowing the possibility for considering new possibilities of Irishness and an alternate social contract. This chapter situates Joyce in the context of Irish nationalism. In contrast to Anglo-Irish revivalists like Yeats, Joyce is critical of the conjuring of the ancient Irish mythical past and its presentation as a collective Irish identity to inspire heroic, nationalist action. For Joyce, this falsifies and romanticises the past and perpetuates the violence of colonial subjugation. While Ulysses reflects Joyce’s scathing indictment on the English mismanagement of the Famine, Joyce also problematizes the notion of one collective memory of the Famine as he alludes to the ways in which the Irish are complicit in their own oppression. Joyce’s essays highlight Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 53 | P a g e the parallel between Joyce’s politics and some more nationalistic rhetoric in Ulysses, particularly in the ‘Cyclops’ episode. This chapter engages with the key scholarship which explores Joyce’s interrogations of history and politics, for example Emer Nolan and Andrew Gibson, and is also indebted to the work of Julieann Ulin and Bonnie Roos. Both Ulin and Roos specifically consider the significance of food in the ‘Circe’ episode; my analysis of the episode draws on them but is also informed by work in Irish historiography (for example David Nally), sociological theorising of collective remembering, and a theoretical consideration of colonial violence. Chapter Two points out that Joyce’s Dubliners are generally second generation Famine survivors who did not experience the Famine themselves, but they still seem to be paralysed as they wander around Dublin like the Famine’s dispossessed did sixty years prior. Joyce reworks the modernist flâneur and a number of Gothic tropes to indicate that ‘times past are not times past’, and I draw on theories of collective trauma (for example, the work of Pierre Nora and Marianne Hirsch) to help frame the ‘ghostliness’ of Joyce’s Dubliners. While current scholarship notes a ‘collective memory’ of the Famine in broad terms, I draw on the work of Irish historians and consider how the reorganisation of the Irish coterie system fractured the link between geography, community and identity. This produces an ‘intergenerational trauma’ (Hirsch) which prevents the Irish from developing an effectual ‘prior covenant’ and the means to negotiate the terms of their social contract. Lauren Rich and James Wurtz both consider the resonance of the Famine for Joyce’s Dublin. I explore this idea further, however, by examining the connections between the eating of soup in Ulysses and the soup relief scheme of the Famine. Chapter Three considers the ‘betrayal’ and death of Charles Stewart Parnell (1846-91) as a key event of Irish history prevalent in Joyce’s work, and its contribution to the destruction of Irish community, the passivity of Irish politics, and the decline of the domestic realm. Joyce’s representation of this Irish hero’s political downfall through his essays, Portrait and Ulysses highlights the tensions encapsulated by Stephen Dedalus’s two key phrases: ‘History . . . is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’, and ‘In here it is that I must kill the priest and the king’ (Ulysses 2: 377; 15: 4436-7). The Christmas dinner scene in Portrait exhibits how the ensuing post- Parnellite paralysis impacts on Dubliner families, and I contend that the proto-feminist Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 54 | P a g e Joyce explores paternal neglect in relation to homosocial drinking culture. While they are seemingly neglected in contemporary scholarship, Hans Walter Gabler’s and Michael Toolan’s essays on the Christmas dinner scene in Portrait have been invaluable. Although there are implicit judgments made against Dubliner men in Dubliners, Portrait and Ulysses, Joyce’s ruminations on drink are more considered. Joyce’s use of juxtaposition and sentimentality, particularly in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode, highlights the complexity of patriarchy, Irish subjugation, and political independence. This chapter employs sociological considerations of ‘hospitality’, and more anthropological approaches to homosocial drinking culture to investigate Joyce’s parallactic considerations of these themes. Chapter Four addresses Joyce’s personal experiences of hunger and his interest in medicine, which is given full scope in Ulysses with Leopold Bloom. This fascinating area of Joycean scholarship is explored by J. B. Lyons and more recently Vike Martina Plock. Joyce’s explorations of food, nutrition and health in Ulysses are tempered by a scepticism for the medical profession. Joyce interrogates the various rhetorical devices and discourses that the English use to marginalise the Irish, such as the nationalistic appropriations of new scientific knowledges. The so-called ‘choices’ the Irish make are also problematised, and the ‘faultlines’ of Ulysses point to the double bind of the Irish as the British Government and the Catholic Church simultaneously undertake the project of pacification. I explore sugar, that complex commodity symbolic of imperialism, slavery, luxury, energy and productivity, and malnutrition. While I follow the potato in Chapter One, here I also consider Bloom’s ‘offal’ and explore his ‘vegetarian moment’. The size and title of Joyce’s self-conscious epic insists that we see Homer’s Odyssey as an intertext for Ulysses. Chapter Five explores how in Joyce’s hands a new type of hero springs to life. The experience of the First World War and the sham of ‘heroics’ meant Joyce couldn’t start with the heroic Achilles; he needed to pick up from the Odyssey where the epic had started with the ‘home bound’ hero and a story that gave due attention to the domestic realm. Here I explore the gendered relationship between meat and power in the Odyssey, and how Joyce uses food and eating to highlight how his epic reframes heroism through its negotiations of patriarchy and challenges to ‘Irishness’. If Bloom isn’t considered Irish, Catholic, a Jew, a ‘Man’, then he surpasses these Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 55 | P a g e identifications with ‘Greekness’ and his embracing of Spinoza. Chapters Two and Three indicate that the danger of living in the past is the risk of stagnation and emotional paralysis, but here I consider how Molly and Leopold Blooom’s positive, personal histories eventually prevail and show the way towards the subordination of patriarchy and creating the space for a new narrative for Ireland. Joyce’s attempts to finish Ulysses were frustrated by ocular troubles and he proofread Ulysses ‘with blurred and impaired vision, armed with a magnifying glass’ (Plock 1). Physical impediments notwithstanding, Joyce’s skill in using parallax proffer lenses to examine colonialism, politics, religion, and gender and that cultural work makes a significant contribution to a reimagining of the Irish social contract. My contribution to the field of scholarship is my consideration of that central human need for food from numerous perspectives; not just via ‘Famine memory’, but through nuanced assessments of colonial violence, collective memory and inter-generational trauma, the impact of a fractured domestic realm, discourses of health and nutrition, and the reconsideration of the notion of what constitutes a hero. In so doing I reveal Joyce’s shunning of dualisms, reflective of Pragmatism, and ‘hear him more historically’ (Gibson Strong Spirit 7) as he both questions the origin of Irish society and identity, and interrogates the legitimacy of continued English occupation, dispossession, eviction and the marginalisation of the Irish. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 56 | P a g e Chapter 1 - Joyce, the Famine and Colonial Violence The satiated never understand the emaciated (Hugh Dorian [1896] in Kissane 53) The Great Famine, though often ambiguous, is pervasive in Ulysses, and this is in contradistinction to the nationalist project of Joyce’s Revivalist peers. In contrast to the nationalism of W. B. Yeats, for example, who seeks to inspire through ‘ancient’ history and ‘heroic’ memory, Joyce’s nationalism problematises Irish ‘collective memory’ and pursues an interrogation of the narratives of history (including the Famine) to reveal the pathologies of colonisation. For Joyce, post-Famine colonial pathologies, such as silence and passivity, mythologising the past, ultranationalism, complicity and hypocrisy, and the Anglicisation of language, complicate the revivalists’ imagining of nationhood. Joyce’s Pragmatic Modernism considers how the past resonates in the present, but Joyce enacts a type of treachery (against the English and against Irish nationalism). He probes the ‘collective memory’ of the Famine and the universal status of ‘victims’, and also highlights the illegitimacy of the Ireland / England social contract. Rather than Ireland having any ‘social pact’, Joyce emphasises how acts of violence are inextricably linked to the origin of a state (Schmitt Political Theology 10, 13; S. Brown 782, 784), far removed from Enlightenment notions of ‘association’, ‘social pact’ and ‘rational obligation’ (Rousseau The Social Contract). It is only through suppression and violence (in its many guises) that England can ensure its ruler status. Joyce does exhibit Irish subversion (for example, in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode), but the ‘Circe’ episode demonstrates, I contend, how Irish agency is ultimately self-regulated via the memory of violence. ‘Circe’ has been examined as a scathing indictment of colonisation (for example, Andrew Gibson and Vincent Cheng), but if we follow the potato Joyce’s ruminations on the persistence of colonial rule become more complex. It is here, at the ‘faultlines’ of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 57 | P a g e this highly stylised episode, where we can perceive Joyce revealing the contradictions of history, and the fraught nature of a political association bound by the insecurity of colonial subjects and the dominance of the imperial power. Recent scholarship closely examines a number of episodes in Ulysses for its representations and ruminations of the Famine (Roos ‘The Joyce of Eating: Feast, Famine and the Humble Potato in Ulysses’; Ulin ‘“Famished Ghosts”: Famine Memory in James Joyce’s Ulysses’). Bonnie Roos has very interestingly followed this blackened and shrivelled root as a symbol of Famine memory, through the lenses of feminism and psychoanalysis. In her analysis of the ‘Circe’ episode she explores the gender issues that link the potato, symbol of the Famine, with prostitution and the exploitation and suppression of women. Julieann Ulin’s consideration of the same episode considers Joyce’s representation of both the unreliability and persistence of historical memory. In answer to Eagleton’s ‘Where is the Famine in . . . Joyce?’ (13), Ulin responds that its presence is in the ‘textual iconography’ such as the exposed corpses, the dogs that devour bodies, and the impoverished or homeless Dubliners scattered throughout the Ulysses. While this chapter draws on multiple Joycean sources, it is particularly indebted to the work of Roos and Ulin for their innovative and subtle considerations of the Famine. Following their work I also explore the ‘Circe’ episode, but my examinations draw together some recent historical research, for example David Nally, on the violence of the Famine and colonial suppression. Though ‘memory’ is noted by most scholars writing about Joyce and the Famine, specific research into the field of Social Remembering raises some important issues about the significance of written texts, for example, and the distinction between ‘public’ or ‘presentist’ memory, and ‘collective memory’ as explored by Maurice Halbwachs (1877-1945). I argue that the potato, rather than a catchall symbol of Famine and Famine memory, is more precisely a symbol of the memory and experience of imperial violence. Bloom’s actions and manner in the ‘Circe’ episode, as they relate to the possession, dispossession, and repossession of the potato, reveal the extent of the dehumanization and subjugation of the Irish. The Famine is, as Bonnie Roos suggests, the ‘Allimportant’ key to Ulysses. It makes a significant statement about the persistence of the cultural legacy of the Famine, Joyce’s politics, and his view of history. Joyce’s parallactic style belies any simple statements about each of these, as he represents a complex interrogation of English, Anglo-Irish, and Irish nationalist perspectives of the Famine. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 58 | P a g e Although history is now a central consideration for Joycean studies, it should be noted that it wasn’t until the late 1980s that literary critics really broke the general ‘silence’ about the centrality of the Famine in Irish history and literature, and its persistent cultural legacy. Mary Lowe-Evans (Crimes Against Fecundity: Joyce and Population Control 1989), Terry Eagleton (Heathcliff and the Great Hunger 1995), Christopher Morash (Writing the Irish Famine 1995) and Margaret Kelleher (The Feminization of the Famine 1997), and more recently George Cusack and Sarah Goss (eds. Hungry Words: Images of Famine in the Irish Canon 2006) examine Irish literature for how it echoes or challenges more dominant political narratives of The Great Famine. It is no surprise that this relatively recent burgeoning of interest in the Famine in literature coincided with a significant shift in Irish historiography. Apart from Cecil Woodham- Smith’s The Great Hunger: Ireland 1845-49 (1962), which is an anomaly for breaking the silence about the Famine and locating it in the colonial/imperial framework, both Irish historiography and Irish memory ‘have been notoriously reluctant to confront the catastrophe of the famine’ (Lloyd ‘The Indigent Sublime’ 173). Cormac Ó Gráda (Ireland: A New Economic History 1994), Christine Kinealy (A Death-Dealing Famine: The Great Hunger in Ireland 1996), and Kevin Whelan (‘The Revisionist Debate in Ireland’ 2004) all explore the absence or at least relegation of the Famine’s significance and impact in Irish historical research. Patrick Sullivan (ed. The Meaning of the Famine 1997) and Cormac Ó Gráda (Ireland: A New Economic History 174; Ireland Before and After the Famine 78) comment that the sidelining was more prolonged, arguing that the Great Irish Famine was largely neglected until the 1990s when more popular and academic interest developed surrounding the commemoration of the Sesquicentennial of the disaster. It initially appears somehow incongruent to analyse the Famine in Joyce’s very urban work. The more direct, catastrophic impact of the Famine, after all, was in rural Ireland, particularly the West. Historians emphasise, however, that Dubliners were witness to the Famine as North and South Dublin Union workhouses filled with people from a devastated rural Ireland (Guinnane and Ó Gráda ‘Mortality in the North Dublin Union’ 487). Dublin was the destination for thousands from rural areas searching for relief, and as the main port for ships to Liverpool its citizens saw the procession of starving en route to elsewhere. Interestingly, Timothy Guinnane and Ó Gráda note that the North Dublin Union was also the destination for the infirm and disabled paupers Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 59 | P a g e ‘dispatched’ from England and Scotland (494). Modelled on the English Poor Law of 1834, the Irish Poor Law of 1838 divided the country into 130 ‘Unions’ with each administering its own workhouse. By 1845 these workhouses were operational with relief available to those who needed it. As Guinnane and Ó Gráda state, the willingness to accept the Spartan workhouse regime . . . was deemed sufficient evidence of need’ (488). By 1845 the workhouses were full to overflowing. The North Dublin Union, for example, with its original capacity of 2000, had by late 1847 doubled its capacity to 4000 with the conversion of the dining hall into a dormitory (492, 495). While some specifically entered the workhouses expressly to die and others arrived in a chronic condition, ‘[m]any more died of infectious diseases such as dysentery and typhoid fever contracted in workhouses’ (489). For example, the North Dublin Union workhouse death rate before the Famine was seven per day, though in 1847 during a cholera outbreak this rose to 39 deaths a day (489). Gail Baylis and Sarah Edge remind us that in addition to seeing the immediate effects of Famine, the Irish also experienced it as a mass media event. ‘Amply recorded in print’ the conditions were ‘reported in considerable detail in newspapers’ in Britain, North America, Europe and Australia (Baylis and Edge ‘The Great Famine: Absence, Memory, Photography’ 781; Kissane The Irish Famine: A Documentary History 123). Furthermore, as the Famine coincided with the development of print technology, enabling the mass distribution of woodcut illustrations, it also became something that was imagined in visual terms and became ‘memorable’ (Baylis and Edge 781). The photographs of the 1880s and 1890s Irish evictions were also interpreted as representations of the Great Famine. Though a visual representation of different circumstances, for those who did not experience the Famine these eviction photos added visual evidence and helped the generation after the Famine to imagine the mid -century event in a new visual context (787). Yeats, Joyce and Nationalism Irish literature works with and through Ireland’s long history of ‘famine, failed rebellion, emigration and colonial persecution’ and considers its representations of ‘loss, suffering and guilt’ (McDonald Tragedy in Irish Literature 2). However, as Rónán McDonald observes, identifying commonalities in Irish texts, and coercing Irish Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 60 | P a g e writing into an uneasy alignment, is a fraught enterprise (2). Such is the case when attempting to line up W. B. Yeats and Joyce. Yeats has long been positioned as Joyce’s political and artistic anathema, but as Alistair Cormack notes, over recent decades there has been a shift from pitting the two against each other in the ways fostered by New Criticism and the American liberal school: the traditional ‘Celtic’ nationalist Yeats vs the cosmopolitan internationalist Joyce (Yeats and Joyce 1; Nolan xiii; McDonald ‘The Irish Revival and Modernism’ 51-2, 57-8). Early in his career Joyce had indeed encouraged such an opposition. Joyce’s early essay ‘The Day of the Rabblement’ (1901) reveals his understanding of the individualism of art, and thus positions himself apart from the Irish Literary Theatre that ‘courts the favour of the multitude’ and entangles itself with ‘the contagion of its fetichism [sic] and deliberate self-deception’ (CW 71). Early in his career Joyce thought art should ‘be autonomous, above the realm of politics’ (Nolan 23). There is a ‘complex historical geography of modernism’, however, and many modernists struggled ‘to settle their accounts with parochialism and nationalism’ (Harvey in Nolan 2). Illustrative of such a struggle, by November 1906 Joyce qualifies his ‘apolitical’ stance, writing to his brother Stanislaus that ‘[i]f the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I could call myself a nationalist’ (Selected Letters 125). Thus between 1902 and 1907 Joyce’s view of ‘freedom’ would develop from a determination ‘to keep the spirit within him alive in the midst of all- pervasive squalor and disintegration’ to a ‘powerful desire for the settling of a historical debt’ (Gibson Strong Spirit 1, 5; S. Joyce My Brother’s Keeper 100). Kevin Barry maintains that Joyce ‘disguises’ his nationalist dialogue, and his ‘international and cult status’ conceals how his work ‘is part of an articulated and broad debate within the Irish literary revival’ (OCPW xxix; Cormack 13). Thus, Joyce’s art cannot be explored within a cosmopolitan and aesthetic vacuum, devoid of politics. Instead his gesture to internationalism and his self-imposed exile must be understood ‘as a response to the nationalism he was offered rather than simply a rejection of the very ideas of the national consciousness and liberation’ (Cormack 13; original emphasis; Nolan 10). Whilst Irish critics such as Declan Kiberd, Emer Nolan and Seamus Deane historicised Irish Modernism and corrected the purely aesthetic critical construction of Yeats and Joyce, to the point that ‘if there is a monolithic academic position’ in Joyce studies today it is ‘postcolonial historicism’ (Cormack 1), Joyce’s nationalism remains a different type of nationalism to Yeats’s (14). This political Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 61 | P a g e disparity is evident in Richard Ellmann’s description of Yeats’s and Joyce’s first meeting: The defected protestant confronted the defected catholic, the landless landlord met the shiftless tenant. Yeats, fresh from London, made one in a cluster of writers whom Joyce would never know, while Joyce knew the limbs and bowels of a city of which Yeats knew well only the head. The world of the petty bourgeois, which is the world of Ulysses and the world in which Joyce grew up, was for Yeats something to be abjured. Joyce had the same contempt for the ignorant peasantry and the snobbish aristocracy that Yeats idealised. The two were divided by upbringing and predilection. (Ellmann James Joyce 104) Yeats advocated a common cultural mission for Irish artists that would counter the ugliness of the modern world; a world that was sterile and lacked a sense of community (McDonald ‘The Irish Revival’ 51; Nolan 23). Disillusioned with contemporary Ireland, a place where ‘immediate utility’ had trumped idealism and the ‘traditions of the countryman’ were eclipsed by middle-class concerns and values, Yeats followed the great writers of ancient ballads and epics and in his early career fused Irish folklore and heroic legend into his art (Yeats Essays and Introductions 260; Pethica 138; Allison 190). He imagined an invigorated Irish nation via these ancient genres, revived from the once glorious Celtic civilisation, whose recreation could prove as ‘exotic and exciting an art as any devised by a fin-de-siècle London coterie’ (Nolan 24). For Yeats, folklore countered the ‘scientific’ and the ‘materialist’ modern world where the ‘sick’ and hurried existence produced ‘Grey’ and inhuman forms of truth (Yeats Variorum Plays 64-5; Pethica 129). Heroic action, Yeats believed, was the only way to fully express selfhood (129), but as Ellmann suggests, the great Yeatsean paradox was that he ‘disintegrate[d] verisimilitude’ to create a more ‘ultimate realism’ (in Balinisteanu 52). Yeats, along with fellow revivalists, wanted to purge the perception of Ireland as the home of ‘buffoonery or easy sentiment’ and instead present Ireland as the home of ‘ancient idealism’ (Yeats, Gregory and Martyn [1897] in Nolan 25). In his essay ‘Ireland and the Arts’ (1901) Yeats states: Art and scholarship like these I have described would give Ireland more than they received from her, for they would make love of the unseen more Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 62 | P a g e unshakable, more ready to plunge deep into the abyss, and they would make love of country more fruitful in the mind, more a part of daily life. One would know an Irishman into whose life they had come – and in a few generations they would come into the life of all, rich and poor – by something that set him apart among men. He himself would understand that more was expected of him than of others because he had greater possessions. The Irish race would have become a chosen race, one of the pillars of the world. (Essays and Introductions 210) In the context of Ireland’s early twentieth century social upheaval, Yeats supposed that the Irish self may be uncertain and inactive, but will know how to take control of social action through art (Balinisteanu 52). As Richard Kearney suggests, Yeats takes part in a broader Irish tradition of inspiring political action via myth. For example, the Celtic myth of the Rose — ‘emblem of Ireland’s eternally self-renewing Spirit’ (Kearney in Balinisteanu 52) — gave impetus to social change by joining with the political action of Easter 1916 in a ‘synchronic aesthetic experience’ (Balinisteanu 52). Such synchronicity is exemplified as one of the 1916 leaders, Joseph Plunkett, wrote a poem entitled ‘The Black Rose Shall be Red at Least’, in which he reworked an earlier lyric that had itself been inspired by wandering poets, who envisaged Ireland ‘as a goddess manifested in a Rose symbol’ (Kearney in Balinisteanu 52-3). After 1916, Yeats would perpetuate the symbolism in his poem ‘The Rose Tree’, where it is suggested that ‘Maybe a breath of politic words / Has withered our Rose Tree’, but in the end there is the realisation of necessary action: ‘There’s nothing but our own red blood / Can make a right Rose Tree’ (Collected Poems 206). In the end it is blood sacrifice that will give life force to Ireland as the ‘repertoire of nationalist symbols’ enables the ‘joining of narrative subject and subject of action’ so the ‘social subject may carry out the action of myth as social action’ (Balinisteanu 53). Yeats would lament in ‘Poetry and Tradition’ (1907) the passing of ‘Ireland’s great moment’, as conviction had been surpassed by ‘[i]mmediate victory’ and ‘immediate utility’ (Essays and Intro. 260). In his latter works though, he would propose that his ‘boyish plan’ (Variorum Plays 577) of inspiring heroism through the legends of Cuchulain, and his part in popularising these, had succeeded after all (Pethica 142). In ‘The Statues’, for example, the Easter Uprising leader Pearse summons Cuchulain to his side, which spurred the nationalist fighters into ‘historical agency’ (142). This Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 63 | P a g e retrospective judgment of inspiring political action needs some clarification. Peter Kuch reminds us that Yeats was ‘silent’ for four years after the Easter Rising, and although there were a number of contributing factors for this, such as a tumultuous time in his private life, there were political and aesthetic complexities he needed to work through (‘We Writers Are Not Politicians’ 62-2; see also ‘For Poetry Makes Nothing Happen’ 202). In these years Yeats reconstituted himself politically and also allowed time for the Easter Rising ‘to acquire its own myths’ (‘We Writers’ 62, 66). His politics shifted from a form of cultural nationalism to a more ‘confrontational politico-cultural nationalism’, and this subsequent brand of nationalism ‘found room for the violence’ (68). ‘Between the executions of the 1916 revolutionaries and October 1920’, Kuch notes, violent acts seems to provoke yet more violence, but for Yeats Ireland was enacting an ‘old historical nationalism’ and thus he was able to subsume the violence into the supernatural (68). As Kuch argues, in short Yeats expunged from the violence ‘its temporal specificity, its historical occasion’ and instead it became ‘part of a dialogue of self and soul, of the socio-cultural with the daemonic’ (68). As Edward Said suggests, in the aftermath of the dramatic actions of the Easter 1916 uprising, Yeats saw ‘the breaking of a cycle of endless, perhaps meaningless recurrence, as symbolised by the apparently limitless travails of Cuchulain, and an affirmation of the poet’s ability to conjure ‘a sense of the eternal and of death into consciousness’ as the true rebellion (300-1). If Yeats sought to inspire, then Joyce’s version of nationalism focuses on representing the multiple realities of Irish history and politics. ‘The problem of my race’, Joyce wrote, ‘is so complicated that one needs to make use of all means of an elastic art to delineate it’ (in Duffy 14). Importantly for Joyce, the ‘problem’ includes the uglier side of that reality: the Irish people’s complicity, hypocrisy and ‘selective’ memory, along with the physical violence metered on the Irish and, I suggest, the embodied collective memory of this violence. Following the development of Joycean scholarship since the 1980s (for example, MacCabe, Castle, Fairhall, Spoo, Howes and Attridge, Gibson, Duffy, Cheng, Nolan) research has repeatedly demonstrated that Joyce’s writing is shaped by politics, critiques political ideologies, and argues ideology. As Vincent Cheng argues, to regard Joyce as just ‘another icon in the Great Tradition of English Literature’, and disregard the specific ‘historical contexts and ideological contents’, is to act as if there were no difference between ‘an Irish-Catholic writer from Dublin . . . and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 64 | P a g e say, Lord Tennyson or Matthew Arnold’ (2). The irony is Joyce spent much of his life debunking ‘history’ and institutional authorities (2-3). Importantly, and reflecting the Pragmatist theoretical framework established in the introductory chapter, Joyce also represents how ideologies perform, thus exhibiting the interconnectedness of culture and society with the past. His representations, however, are subversive. As Seamus Deane emphasises: ‘Subversion is part of the Joycean enterprise . . . There is nothing of political or social significance which Joyce does not undermine and restructure’ (‘Joyce the Irishman’ 44). Ireland is the only Western European country that has had ‘both an early and a late colonial experience’, and as such, Deane argues, in the first three decades of the twentieth century its literature attempts to ‘overcome and replace the colonial experience’ with something ‘native’. This ultimately ended in failure as it deployed the very terms it needed to abolish (Deane ‘Introduction’ 2-3). Cheng sees Joyce’s work as a historical representation of the various social discourses of both hegemony and resistance (9). He also suggests that Joyce’s works form both an analysis and critique of the ideological discourses and the ‘resultant colonial pathologies’ (9). Rather than ‘homogenis[ing] difference’, by erasing rather than living through oppositions (Deane ‘Introduction’ 4), Joyce demonstrates how both Ireland and its colonisers expunge any complications to their respective narratives. He is not just concerned with power in terms of a ‘cause’ external to the Irish but also interrogates the ability of the Irish to exhibit agency (Marsden in Balinisteanu 212). The Famine, History and Collective Memory The most influential early political critique of the Famine was the work of journalist John Mitchel (Jail Journal 1854; Last Conquest of Ireland 1861; History of Ireland From the Treaty of Limerick to the Present Time 1868). Mitchel argues that the Great Famine was ‘starvation in the midst of plenty’ and a deliberate policy of genocide that would solve the British Government’s problem of Irish ‘population surplus’ as identified in the 1843 Devon Commission (Davis ‘The Historiography of the Irish Famine’ 17). Whilst this is not generally a thesis followed in more recent Irish historiography, it generally is agreed that the catastrophic nature of the Famine was due to the lack of political will from the British Government (Davis 17-8; Nolan 98). With Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 65 | P a g e Cecil Woodham-Smith’s The Great Hunger (1962) as the anomaly, henceforth there was a long silence about the Famine and its location in the colonial / imperial framework. Since the 1980s The Great Famine, or An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger), has been interpreted as evidence of the evils of British colonisation: the doctrine of laissez faire capitalism; the acceptance of Malthus’s population thesis; and the judgment of providentialism (for example see also Davis; Gray Famine, Land and Politics: British Governmental Irish Relief, 1845-50 1999; Nally Human Encumbrances: Political Violence and the Great Famine 2011). David Nally explores the contradictions between the ideology of progress and improvement and the realities of devastating loss caused by the Famine. Rather than the genocide cited by Mitchel, for Nally there was ‘famineogenic behaviour’ — ‘behaviour that aids and abets famine’ (Nally 20) — that generated ‘mass vulnerability’ (65). The British Government was intent on protecting the propertied classes, and social, economic and agrarian reform was the long-term goal (Davis 18-9). Colonisation therefore is not only ‘the seizure, occupation and reconstitution of native domestic space’, but ‘the repertoire of cultural images that depict indigenous life as degenerate’, which justifies the ‘remedial interventions’ in the name of ‘improvement’ (Nally 65). As Peter Gray points out, the doctrine of Christian Providentialism meant that the Irish Famine was also seen as the opportunity for the Irish to develop a taste for ‘higher kinds of foods’ and ‘better food habits’ (in Davis 19; Gray ‘Charles Trevelyan’ 85). The reality of the Great Famine though was that it caused the deaths of one million, with two and a half million emigrating within ten years of the Famine, the elimination of approximately 300,000 family farms and the near disappearance of cottiers (plots of less than an acre), and the economic demise and impoverishment of innumerable towns (Crowley, Smyth and Murphy xiv). It was ‘Ireland’s defining national tragedy’; in this debilitated state it was unable to resist Empire (Roos 160-1; Lowe-Evans 16). In the post-Famine decades, however, the conservative foundations of Irish bourgeois nationalism enabled the imperial re-imaging of colonisation, as it focused on selecting a more amenable, canonised past for its political and social project of building a modern Irish state (Lloyd ‘Indigent Sublime’ 173). This bourgeois nationalism, after all, was mobilised by ‘urban petty capitalists’ and ‘strong farmers’, whose emergent social and economic status was in large part due to enforced economic rationalising and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 66 | P a g e consolidation of landholdings. The memory of the Famine (starvation, eviction, emigration) was not to be ‘summoned up’ as nationalists needed to subdue these more ‘Subaltern formations’ (173, 175). While the Famine ‘fossilized’ the peasantry, the revivalists’ nationalism relied on an idealisation of the peasantry and required an unbroken indigenous history that could replace the one imposed by colonisation (Cusack ‘Nationalism and The Playboy of the Western World’ 136-7; also Deane ‘Introduction’ Nationalism, Colonialism and Literature 9). W. B. Yeats made the point that ‘passive suffering is not a theme for tragedy’ (in Sullivan 5). What does invite empathy and support though ‘is anything that permits one to see the other as an agent’ (John Fraser in Sullivan 5), and thus Ó Gráda notes that popular accounts of the Famine move away from passive suffering to instead seek those who acted (in Sullivan 5; Ó Gráda Ireland: A New Economic History 204). Whilst Mitchel’s Irish history made ‘official’ the popular belief that the Famine was a deliberate act of genocide, this same history could not be canonised in its entirety as Mitchel unflinchingly represents an oppressed and defeated people on the verge of animality. As Mitchell states: There is no need to recount how the assistant barristers and sheriffs, aided by the police, tore down the roof-tress and ploughed up the hearths of village after village – how the quarter-acre clause laid waste the parishes, how the farmers and their wives and little ones in wild dismay, trooped along the highways – how in some hamlets by the seaside, most of the inhabitants being already dead, an adventurous traveller would come upon some family eating a famished ass – how maniac mothers stowed away their dead children to be devoured at midnight – how Mr. Darcy of Clifden, describes a humane gentleman going to the door of a house; ‘and when he threw the crackers to the children (for he was afraid to enter), the mother attempted to take them from them’ – how husband and wife fought like wolves for the last morsel of food in the house; how families, when all was eaten and no hope left, took their last look at the sun, built up their cottage doors, that none might see them die nor hear their groans, and were found weeks afterwards, skeletons on their own hearths. (in Morash ‘Making Memories’ 48) Morash makes the point that Mitchel’s Irish history is frozen, disconnected, from the full narrative of the Irish Famine (‘Making Memories’ 42). Mitchel’s history of Ireland Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 67 | P a g e stops at the point at which he leaves as a prisoner and impressions of the past become more vivid while he is a ‘solitary captive’ in a ‘lonely cell’: ‘there is more Irish history, too, this month’ he reflects in his journal, ‘if I could but get at it’ (Mitchel in Morash 42). The effect of this narrative suspension though is that while it has the sense of authenticity validated by Mitchel’s personal experience, thus challenging the definitiveness of British ‘history’, there is no ‘pastness’ of the Famine in his texts. Instead, for Mitchel the Famine is an ongoing experience inscribing it in the present of its readers (Mitchel in Morash 42). More than this, however, the popularity of Mitchel’s work meant that this experience became an imagined collective experience shared by subsequent generations. Joyce’s work is ‘pervasively disturbed by the presence of the famine’. It is often an unnamed horror in Ulysses, and Whelan suggests that its exclusion often makes its absence felt (Whelan ‘Memories of “The Dead”’ 67). Joyce is critical about the silence surrounding ‘reality’ and real history, and equally critical when collective memories are conjured that falsify, prune or romanticise the past. ‘Collective memory’ is a type of ‘social remembering’. It is distinct from ‘public memory’, or what Barbara Misztal terms ‘presentist’ approaches to memory, that focus on the institutionalization of ‘remembrance’ within national, public ritual and educational systems (see for example Hobsbawn and Ranger Invention of Tradition; Misztal 56-60). As operationalised here, collective memory is more dynamic as the focus is on ‘the active production and mediation of temporal meanings of the past’ (Misztal 67). It is characterised by negotiation, and ‘questions the assertion that the maintenance of hegemonic control by dominant social groups is the sole factor responsible for memory content’ (68). While the Chapter’s focus is on colonial power, Joyce’s various evocations of memory seems to locate memory in what Susannah Radstone identifies as ‘the space between an imposed ideology and the possibility of an alternative way of understanding experience’: a liminal space (‘Working With Memory’ 18; also see Olick and Levy ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Constraint’ 922; Schudson ‘Lives, Laws and Language’ 4; and Kammen ‘Some Patterns and Meanings of Memory’ 340). It is important to acknowledge that Joyce’s fiction, in tandem with his essays, is a pronounced divergence from the folk memories, myths and legends which traditionally relied on oral performance. Oral traditions and folk memories rely on a familiar ‘rhythm’ if they have ‘any chance of their being repeated by successive generations’. In Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 68 | P a g e contrast to the revivalists’ continuation of the familiar, I suggest Joyce’s succession of essays and fiction generates what Paul Connerton calls ‘cultural innovation’ which allows for the detection of incoherence, inconsistency and contradictions (How Societies Remember 76). Interestingly, this notion of ‘cultural innovation’ seems to reflect Sinfield’s idea of the ‘faultlines’ as a space where dissidence is given the opportunity to emerge in light of the exposition of contradiction (Sinfield 35-49). Any exploration of collective memory inevitably begins with Maurice Halbwachs. Ulin mentions him in an endnote, to add a brief theoretical context to the implementation to The Irish Folklore Association (60), but the rationale here is to understand more fully how group memory is ‘generated, maintained and reproduced’ (Misztal 1) through Joyce’s work, and the significance and negotiation of images, experiences and emotions that ensue. Halbwachs transitioned from being a student of Henri Bergson to the protégé of Emile Durkheim in the early 1920s, and thus represents a shift in how memory was being considered in those interwar years. Halbwachs initiates the conceptualisation of collective memory as he moved from the predominant early twentieth century preoccupation with memory explored in the fields of philosophy and psychology — notably Freud, Bergson and Proust — and considered memory via the disciplines of sociology and anthropology (Misztal 4; Rossington 134-5). Exploring how present conditions and issues determine what aspects of the past societies remember, and continuing Durkheim’s belief that societies need to have a sense of continuity with the past, Halbwachs asserted that social groups develop particular memories to highlight their unique identity. Reflecting Durkheim’s (and Marcel Mauss’s) emphasis of time as a ‘social construct’ and not ‘intuitive’ (Douglas in Rossington 135), Halbwachs argues that while the individual brings recollections to mind, this is achieved ‘by relying on the frameworks of social memory’ (On Collective Memory 182). Importantly, Halbwachs also asserts the Durkheimian argument that a collective imagined past is necessary for the unity of a society and the reconstruction of social solidarity. ‘[S]ociety can live only if there is sufficient unity of outlooks among the individuals and groups comprising it’, Halbwachs contends, and as such societies tend to erase those memories ‘that might separate individuals’ or ‘distance groups from each other’ (On Collective Memory 182-3). Not surprisingly Halbwachs’s work drew lively debate from within the discipline he left. French psychologist and psychiatrist Charles Blondel (1926), for example, identified his neglect of the ‘glimmer of sensory Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 69 | P a g e intuition’, and argued that an individual’s construction of the past is based on ‘more than commonly shared materials’ (in Olick et al. eds. The Collective Memory Reader 150; also see Coser ‘Introduction’ 6, 10). This is not to suggest that Halbwachs thought there was ‘one’ collective memory for any given society, as he allows for a diversity of experiences and thus a multiplicity of collective memories: While the collective memory endures and draws strength from its base in a coherent body of people, it is individuals as group members who remember. While these remembrances are mutually supportive of each other and common to all, individual members still vary in the intensity with which they experience them. I would readily acknowledge that each memory is a viewpoint on the collective memory, that this viewpoint changes as my position changes, that this position itself changes as my relationships to other milieus change. Therefore, it is not surprising that everyone does not draw on the same part of this common instrument. In accounting for that diversity, however, it is always necessary to revert to a combination of influences that are social in nature. (Halbwachs The Collective Memory 48) Collective memory is ‘fostered and shared by family, religion, class, the media and other sources of the creation of group identities’, and although the individual is inseparable from the ‘collective’ (Rossington 134), there are a multiplicity of unique recollections. While Chapter Five of this thesis will consider Henri Bergson’s more psychological considerations of memory, it will remain an important part of my argument that individual memories in Joyce’s work, in particular Molly and Leopold Bloom’s, become real mainly due to these characters’ continual interrogation and negotiation of ‘ideological nets’ (Marsden in Balinisteanu 212). Contrary to more psychoanalytical Joycean scholarship, the diversity and different intensities of individual memories in Ulysses will largely be explored via the individual’s unique combination of collective experiences and the ability for parallax. Halbwachs also makes an interesting distinction between history and memory that is valuable for differentiating official English accounts of the past (‘history’), and Irish folklore (‘memory’). General history commences for Halbwachs only when social memory (or collective memory) fades: ‘So long as a remembrance continues to exist, it Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 70 | P a g e is useless to set it down in writing or otherwise fix it in memory’ (The Collective Memory 78). One might suggest then, that the social memory of the Famine in Joyce’s time was fading as few who had experienced the Famine firsthand were alive. The pervasive presence of the Famine in Joyce’s works interrogates the replacement, definitive history of the crisis, and the pervasive universal memory. Encompassing ideas reflective of Pragmatism’s rejection of periodization, Halbwachs rejects history’s arrogance that ‘the interplay of interest, general orientations, modes of studying men and events, traditions, and perspectives on the future’ transform from one period to the next (The Collective Memory 80). Like the Pragmatists writing at this time (Dewey Human Nature and Conduct 1922; Williams Pragmatism 1907), Halbwachs saw historical periods and ‘generations’ as threads of a fabric. Rather than two generations being like ‘two tree stumps that touch at their extremities but do not form one plant because they are not otherwise connected’, society is rather like ‘a thread that is made from a series of animal or vegetable fibres intertwined at regular intervals’ or ‘the cloth made from weaving these threads together’, the sections of which ‘correspond to the end of a motif or a design’ (The Collective Memory 80). As Allan Megill argues, ‘[i]t is not a question of a simple opposition: history vs memory’ (193). Instead ‘it is a matter of both writing and living in a situation in which some certainty can be achieved, but . . . finally, a background of uncertainty persists’ (193). While Megill comments on ‘our time’ his argument reflects Joyce’s messy grappling with both history and memory. When Haines states in the first episode of Ulysses that ‘history is to blame’ (U 1: 649), and Stephen struggles throughout the novel with his ‘nightmare of history’ (2: 377), Joyce refers to history in its numerous, messy manifestations: English versions of colonisation (the ‘civilising mission’ and economic rationalisation); Irish romanticised ‘history’; Irish complicity; but also the burden of trauma and collective memory. Drawing on Megill we might suggest that Joyce was concerned with the ‘arrogance of both history and memory’. That is, on the one hand he rejected the ‘the arrogance of definitiveness’ and on the other, ‘the arrogance of authenticity’ (Megill 196-7). In so doing, I suggest, he permeates the facade of ‘rational obligation’ between imperial power and colonial subjects. He also gestures to the inadequacy and inability of invocations to ancient mythology and imagined collective experience to enact real political change; real change, that is, outside the paradigm of violence and patriarchal possession. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 71 | P a g e Joyce and the Great Famine In Heathcliff and the Great Hunger (1995), Terry Eagleton argues that this silence surrounding the Famine also extended to literature. He asks ‘Where is the Famine in the literature of the Revival? Where is it in Joyce?’ Eagleton claims that when it comes to the work of the revival there is a ‘politics of form’, but ‘much of that writing is programmatically non-representational, and thus no fit medium for historical realism’ (13). If the Famine stirred some minor literature to ‘angry rhetoric’, Eagleton proposes, it seems to have traumatised the canonical literature into ‘muteness’ (13). Eagleton’s argument has now been countered by many scholars (for example Nolan, Morash, Ulin, Whelan, Roos, Melissa Fegan, Miriam O’Kane Mara) and this has opened up the ancillary commentaries surrounding the type of representation ‘the canon’ gave the Famine. I would like to highlight though that Eagleton was never as hard on Joyce as he was on other aesthetes and the revivalists. Though he objects to Joyce’s seeming recuperation of realism, which he argues becomes merely the redemption of nature for art’s sake and thus becomes ‘obtrusively artificial’, he yields that Joyce is not in ‘full flight from nature’ like Wilde, Moore and Yeats (13). Eagleton makes a number of points throughout his influential work that make his initial criticisms of apolitical art reflective of this thesis’s framing of Joyce’s Modernism as a liminal space. Joyce represents the very ambiguity that was present in turn of the century Ireland, and Eagleton contends that like the travesty of Auschwitz, ‘there would seem something trivialising or dangerously familiarizing about the very act of representation itself’ (13). We should hence attend to Joyce’s form, such as juxtaposition, allusions, symbolism, iconography, and characterisation, and not just the utterances of ‘famine’, such as the Citizen’s memory of the Black ’47. While Joyce’s anti-political aesthetics ‘is a politics all in itself’, Eagleton importantly adds that this modernist non-political politics appears ‘sharper’ in a society which lacks a mainstream liberal tradition’ (Heathcliff and the Great Hunger 235). While ‘European modernism is apolitical’, Irish writers might seem less political due to the ‘boisterous presence of [Irish] politics’ (299). In contrast to the Presbyterian Ulster, Catholic Ireland, ‘with the sea-change from Enlightenment republicanism to romantic nationalism’, did not have the ‘language of individual liberty’ but instead embraced the discourse of ‘collective emancipation’ (235). The Romantic nationalism of Ireland Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 72 | P a g e replaced the universalism of human rights with particularism, but when the revolution arrives, Eagleton asserts, its ontology is constrained by ‘God and nation’ (235). Taking Eagleton’s argument further, we can suggest that rather than Joyce representing turn of the century Irish nationalist politics, he represents what happens ‘after the revolution’. As W. J. McCormack points out, Ulysses is an historical novel, and so the Irish readership would have been aware of the interim years between 1904, when the novel was set, and the Ireland of 1922, when it was published (in Innes The Cambridge Introduction to Postcolonial Literature in English 201). The ‘Cyclops’ episode in particular, C. L. Innes notes, highlights the differences between ‘then and now’, and the ‘romantic and racially based nationalism espoused by the Citizen is brought into question’ (202): The cultural and political world represented in 1904 by ‘Citizen’ Michael Cusack, the Gaelic League, and the Gaelic Athletic Association had now been overlaid by the fearful bloodshed of World War I, the Easter Rising and subsequent executions, the elections that brought Sinn Fein to power in Ireland, the declaration of Irish independence, and the fierce fighting between Irish Republicans and the British Black and Tans. (Innes 202) Joyce thus arouses reflection: What happens to the universal freedoms and a people when the Church and its sanitised and canonised versions of the past provide the scaffold around which the new Irish state is to be built? Joyce represents England’s laissez-faire and providentialist Famine response, but also denotes other confronting realities such as the Irish people’s complicity in perpetuating their oppression and the paralysing effects of folk memory. In many ways Joyce is as radical as Mitchel because he leaves in the ugliness of what people are reduced to. This type of past (known but not regaled) will not do for a modern state’s history, and Irish writers drew upon Mitchel selectively. Louis J. Walsh, for example, (whom Joyce debated at university about Mangan’s status as a nationalist poet) appropriated aspects of Mitchel for his 1934 novel, The Next Time (Morash ‘Making Memories’ 46). Walsh’s hero asks: ‘Wouldn’t the greatest massacres in battle or even deaths at the stake have been pleasant compared with that slow torture [of famine]!’ As Morash states, this selective appropriation of Mitchel is important for Walsh’s nationalist cause as it allows ‘victims’ of the Famine to be re-imagined as military dead and part of the nationalist cause (46). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 73 | P a g e Joyce doesn’t romanticise the Famine and make martyrs of victims. Instead he presents colonial oppression and violence, a theme set down in his 1907 essay ‘Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages’. Joyce’s treacherous move in this essay is to also present a ‘silent people’ (‘Saints and Sages’ CW 165) complicit in their subjugation. He draws into comparison the two visits made by Queen Victoria to Ireland; the first in 1849 and then the 1900 visit, when Joyce was 18. Joyce described the mid-nineteenth century visit in intriguing terms. The Irish, he offers, were ‘antipathetic to the queen’; they ‘had not completely forgotten their fidelity to the unfortunate Stuarts, nor the name of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, nor the legendary fugitive, Bonnie Prince Charlie’ (164). Joyce represents this antipathy though in seemingly incongruous ways. He remarks that the Irish had a ‘wicked idea’ of amusing themselves at the expense of the Queen’s consort by ‘greeting him exuberantly with a cabbage stalk just at the moment when he set foot on Irish soil’ (164). Though Joyce also reports that the Irish ‘responded in a lively way’ to the Queen’s disparaging comments about the Irish people, there is a sense that the Irish actions were ‘little’ (164). Fifty years later when the Queen visited Ireland again, Joyce reflects that ‘the old Queen of England entered the Irish capital in the midst of a silent people’ (165; emphasis added). In this essay Joyce writes his most scathing indictment of Imperial oppression and England’s inaction during the Great Famine, but pointedly Joyce does not represent a desperate and angry Irish people. It is worth noting this section of the essay at length for although Joyce’s derision of imperial oppression is often cited (for example, by Nolan), this following section which signals Joyce’s awareness of Irish muteness is rarely considered in tandem: Along the way were arrayed the little English soldiers . . . and behind this barrier stood the crowd of citizens. In the decorated balconies were the officials and their wives, the unionist employees and their wives, the tourists and their wives. When the precession appeared, the people in the balconies began to shout greetings and wave their handkerchiefs. The Queen’s carriage passed, carefully protected on all sides by the impressive body of guards with bared sabres, and within was seen a tiny lady, almost a dwarf, tossed and jolted by the movement of the carriage, dressed in mourning, and wearing horn-rimmed glasses on a livid empty face . . . She bowed to left and right, with a vague and mechanical movement. The English soldiers stood respectfully at attention while their patroness passed, and behind them, the crowd of citizens looked at the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 74 | P a g e ostentatious procession and the pathetic central figure with curious eyes and almost with pity; and when the carriage passed they followed it with ambiguous glances. This time there were no bombs or cabbage stalks, but the old Queen of England entered the Irish capital in the midst of a silent people. (165) Compared to the meek and silent reception of 1900, the ‘wickedness’ of the cabbage wielding incident in 1849 was an out-and-out ‘bomb’. The ‘crowd’ aren’t looking at the ‘ostentatious’ procession from their balconies (from where the officials, unionists and tourists view the procession), but from behind the barrier of the English soldiers. But, despite the literal and figurative height of the Anglo-Irish in this reported scene and the strength of the ‘body of the guards with bared sabres’, the Queen is ‘tiny’, a ‘dwarf’, ‘empty’, ‘tossed and jolted’, ‘mechanical’ and ‘pathetic’. Instead of contempt for their current conditions and the poor English response to the Famine, the crowd ‘almost’ pities the melancholy old widow. Joyce’s ‘almost’ is important, however, for stronger than a sense of pity, the Queen’s physical, diminutive presence highlights to the Irish their complicity in their own suppression. The procession is humiliating for here the Irish bear witness to the impoverishment of the power by which they are still subjugated. Ulysses productively subjects the operations of power to scrutiny. According to Andrew Gibson, the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode is concerned with the ‘micropolitical formation’, signified by the episode’s ‘brackets’ of ‘[Fr.] Conmee at one end and the Viceroy at the other’ (Joyce’s Revenge 94); the microstructure replicating the macro level powers of the Catholic Church and the British colonial presence. Gibson argues that Joyce’s fragmented narrative technique highlights the ‘interfold[ing]’ of Dubliners’ lives, demonstrating a ‘circulation or permutation of repetitive elements’ and the resultant ‘false community’ who are complicit in their own condition (94). Gibson also suggests though that Dubliners in this episode exhibit non-compliance. While the episode exhibits what Irish republican and socialist leader James Connolly saw as the profound subjugation of the Irish — whereby the end of the colonial rule would still leave the Irish subjected to ‘the whole array of . . . institutions she has planted’ (in Gibson 96) — the episode still ‘flickers with resistance to the political and cultural authority of the colonial power’ (97). In some sense it is between the poles of resistance and complicity that the rest of Ulysses will ruminate, with Stephen, for example, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 75 | P a g e articulating his concern for this oscillation between ‘two imperial masters’ (Gibson 99): ‘Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I’ (10: 824). Although the response to the viceregal cavalcade of ‘Wandering Rocks’ is often in a ‘mixed and muted mode’, it is worth reiterating that Dubliners at the turn of the century would have been on their guard should any ‘public expression of political animus’ be grounds for arrest (Gibson 100-1). Joyce, however, had no such reasons for holding back. Little Patrick Dignam’s collar, for example, ‘sprang up’ in an ‘obscene or at least dismissive gesture’ (U 10: 1268; Gibson 101), at the same time as he ‘salutes’ the ‘gent with a topper’ (10: 1266). While John Wyse Nolan quotes ‘elegantly’ from the Merchant of Venice (10: 980), his eyes will remain ‘cool’ and ‘unfriendly’ (10: 1036), and he will ‘[smile] with unseen coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland’ (10: 1212-3). Gibson suggests that while Simon Dedalus ‘stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low’ (10: 1200-1), his hat may have just prevented his penis ‘hanging out in fealty’ (Gibson 101). Parnell’s brother, John Howard Parnell, maintains his fixed gaze at the chessboard, while the ‘eager guests’ cast a shadow over his game (U 10: 1225-6). Of the figures that cast the shadow, Mulligan looks out the window ‘gaily’, whilst the Englishman Haines ‘gravely’ gazes at the sight. Although he supposes earlier that ‘history is to blame’, here Haines articulates the indirect connection between ‘history’ and Irish passivity: Their ‘moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution’ (10: 1083-4). When considered alongside his description of the Queen’s visit in the ‘Saints and Sages’ essay, ‘Wandering Rocks’, written some ten years later, seemingly presents less passive Dubliners. I argue, however, that their actions highlight the diminutive and ineffective ways in which the Irish expressed ‘moral ideas’, ‘destiny’, and ‘retribution’. The ‘Cyclops’ episode presents a Dubliner who is far from guarded about his political stance. Like a number of turn of the century writers, for example Conyngham, Guinan, Walsh, and Sheehan (Morash ‘Making Memories’ 46-8), Joyce echoes the rhetoric of Mitchel’s history of the Famine in his prose and in the character of the Citizen. Joyce engages in what Patrick Sullivan calls ‘oppression history’, as the Citizen’s accounts of the Famine (death and migration) become subsumed into the larger ‘oppression, compensation, contributio n’ cycle (2): Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 76 | P a g e We’ll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in the black ’47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid low by the batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay, they drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember the land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. (U 12: 1364-1375) Morash demonstrates that certain details of this oft quoted section of ‘Cyclops’ are paraphrases of well-known passages of Mitchel’s history: ‘the “Times rubbing its hands”, the “grand Turk” sending charity, and the mention of Rio de Janeiro’ are all from Mitchel (Morash 45-6). Nolan’s survey of the critical history of the ‘Cyclops’ episode draws attention to the work of Matthew Hodgart (James Joyce: A Student Guide 1978), who argues that ‘the version of history given by the Citizen is hardly at all exaggerated from that favoured by the IRA’, and ‘and only a little more from that taught in some Irish schools’ (in Nolan 98). Despite the reading of the Citizen as belligerent and ultranationalist (Fargnoli and Gillespie 40), Nolan argues that the straightforward charges of the Citizen’s ‘lying, ignorance or triviality’ need to be considered as representing nationalist memories of the disaster: some million Irish did starve to death in the disaster, and there is a general agreement that the English authorities did mismanage the crisis (98). This indictment of the complicity of the British Government is also heard in Joyce’s ‘Saints and Sages’. While the Irish revivalists were intent on recreating a heroic Irish history ‘cleansed of meanness, squalor, and vulgarity’, ‘Saints and Sages’ and Ulysses presents the reality of hunger, malnutrition and vulnerability, counter-offering the Revivalist heroism with ‘the anti-heroic, the dirty, trivial, and obscene’ (Gibson 113). As Joyce states in his essay: The English now disparage the Irish because they are Catholic, poor and ignorant; however, it will not be so easy to justify such disparagement of some people. Ireland is poor because English laws ruined the country’s industries, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 77 | P a g e especially the wool industry, because the neglect of English governments in the years of the potato famine allowed the best of the population to die from hunger. (CW 167) As Ian Miller and others have noted, while England attempted to apply food reform in the post-Famine era it tended to be in areas of agricultural education, a focus that benefitted cattle graziers who sold their cattle to the English markets (2): ‘English bankers seized control of abandoned pockets of Irish land, turning agricultural fields to cow pastures’, so that by 1880 ‘Ireland had been virtually transformed into a giant cattle pasture’. Furthermore, a decade later, ‘over 65 percent of Ireland’s meat production was being shipped to England’ (Rifkin in Regan ‘Bloom’s Vegetarian Impulses’ 471-2). Paradoxically, nutritious foodstuffs such as eggs, butter, and meat were exported out of Ireland, whilst less nutritious, cheaper food was being imported (Miller 2). In addition to the Citizen’s indictment, Bloom also identifies the continuing use of Ireland for the benefit of the England. On the way to Paddy Dignam’s funeral he notices sheep and cows out of his carriage window, and thinks of the ‘[d]ead meat trade’: ‘Tomorrow is killing day . . . For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones’ (U 6: 392-6). In the ‘Eumaeus’ episode, Skin the Goat has an ‘axe to grind’ bemoaning that despite all the natural resources — coal, pork, butter and eggs — ‘all the riches are drained out of it by England levying taxes on the poor people . . . and [England] gobbling up the best meat in the market’ (16: 985-93). In addition to Joyce’s explicit and implicit comments about the English administration of the Famine, he also parodies his peers and their reimagining of ancient idealism, and their representation of Irish hospitality. Joyce’s neo-Celtic allusions highlight discrepancy between the ridiculousness of the ‘pseudo-histories’ (Tymoczko 35) of the Anglo-Irish, Revivalist historiographies and the ‘actual’ (Gibson 107, 110). As Gibson points out, Standish O’Grady’s two volume History of Ireland (1878-80) is central to turn of the century Irish historiography, and Joyce’s awareness of its importance on Irish culture shouldn’t be underestimated (108). O’Grady, along with Yeats and Lady Gregory, who sustained O’Grady’s mode of ‘historical imagination’, believed that the ‘gigantic conceptions of heroism and strength . . . with which the forefront of Irish history is thronged, prove the great future of this race and land’ (in Gibson 108). Irish history ‘requires and creates heroic forms’, O’Grady argued, and ‘gigantism’ is Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 78 | P a g e authentically Irish (110). The ‘ancient idealism’ of Revivalist art needed to reimagine folk culture as both ‘ideological and artistic’, correcting previous misconstructions of Irish national character and create new images of the Irish race that eliminated stereotypes from future Irish art (Nolan 25). Early in the ‘Cyclops’ episode the narrator gives a survey of the Dublin markets which highlights the discrepancy between the romantic visions of the revivalists and the Citizen’s and Joyce’s view. Reading the survey as a pastiche of the ‘style of nineteenth- century translations and revisions of Irish poetry, myth, and legend’, Joyce draws upon select phrases from James Clarence Mangan’s translations of ‘Aldfrid’s Itinerary’ [Appendix 1], and ‘lampoons the style of Revivalist works such as Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men (1904)’ (Gifford 316; also see Nolan 109-10). Mangan writes of ‘fruitful provinces’ (l. 5), ‘Abundant apparel, and food for all’ (l. 8), ‘plenty of wheat and plenty of honey’ (l. 10), with ‘many a feast’ (l. 12), ‘milk in lavish abundance’, and ‘Flourishing pastures, valor, health’ (l. 47) and ‘Sweet fruits’ (l. 51). Laden with the romanticism of the revivalists, the ‘Cyclops’ episode exhibits what Cheng sees as ‘a number of extended and hilarious send-ups of sentimentalized, nostalgia-laden, heroic Irish literature and legend in Celtic-revival mode’ (199). Drawing on Maria Tymoczko’s terminology, we might then refer to this description as a ‘pseudo market’: And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks expressly for that purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O’Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms (U 12: 87-99) . . . the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwools and storesheep . . . sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine . . . polly bullocks of immaculate Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 79 | P a g e pedigree . . . sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of Thomond . . . their udders distended with superabundance of milk . . . and oblong eggs in great hundreds (12: 102-16) While numerous allusions in these extended parodies have been explored by Don Gifford (Ulysses Annotated), it is worth exploring Mangan’s translation of Aldfrid further. Prince Aldfrid, afterwards King of the Northumbrian Saxons, was amongst the Anglo-Saxon students studying in Ireland around 684 (Longfellow ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology, See Appendix 1). The original was pointedly written in Irish, well prior to the Tudor conquest of Ireland and the Plantation, and the destruction of Gaelic culture. Apart from the description of abundance of produce, what is most striking in the poem are the many references to heroism and hospitality. While domestic, masculine hospitality is explored in Chapter Three of this thesis, it is ‘diplomatic’ hospitality that is of interest to me here. While Joyce parodies Revivalist nostalgia by drawing on the poem he problematizes both of these ‘ancient’ traits of heroism and hospitality that are central to Irish ‘pseudo’ histories. ‘Aldfrid’s Itinerary’ mentions that on his visits to all the ‘provinces’ he discovers ‘God’s people rich in pity’ (l. 11); ‘fond affection, / Holy welcome and kind protection’ in Armagh (l. 19-20); ‘Hospitality, vigor, fame’ in Connaught (l. 31); and ‘virtue, vigor and hospitality’ in Meath (l. 54). The ultimate result of this extension of diplomatic hospitality to ‘outsiders’ is noted by Joyce in ‘Saints and Sages’ where he reminds the Irish, as the Citizen does, that the ‘English came to Ireland at the repeated requests of a native king’ (CW 162). While the Citizen states ‘we want no more strangers in our house’ (U 12: 1150-1), he soon accepts that it is ‘[o]ur own fault. We let them come in. We brought them in’ (12: 1156-7). In less than one year after King Henry II landed with seven hundred men, he was ‘celebrat[ing] Christmas with guests in the city of Dublin’ (CW 162). As will be suggested in Chapter Three, this first English Christmas in Dublin seems to smite the ability for Irish familial and communal celebrations well into the future. Toward the end of the ‘Cyclops’ episode Joyce continues to problematise Irish ‘hospitality’ by parodying the ancient myths of hospitality in the context of colonial occupation. A group of men enter Barney Kiernan’s pub and demand ‘Bestir thyself, sirrah! . . . Look to our steeds. And for ourselves give us of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 80 | P a g e your best for ifaith we need it’, to which the proprietor informs them that ‘my poor house has but a bare larder’ (U 12: 1600-3). The proprietor’s visage changes dramatically though when the ‘masters’ inform him that they are on the King’s business: Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king’s messengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The king’s friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my house I warrant me . . . What you say, good masters, to a squab pigeon pastry, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog’s bacon, a boar’s head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and flagon of old Rhenish? - Gadzooks! . . . That like me well. Pistashios! - Aha! cried he of pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! ‘Tis a merry rogue. (12:1607-20) In addition to ‘hospitality’, Aldfrid observes the heroism of the Irish. Seemingly the enjoyment of the bounty and beauty of the Isle was due to the dual measure of defence. Salutations to ‘Nobel councilors’ of Armagh (l. 16); ‘Bravest heroes, ever victorious’ of Connall (l. 34); Ulster’s ‘Hardy warriors; resolute men’ (l. 38); the ‘valor’ of Leinster (l. 47); and the ‘bravery’ in Meath, intersperse the regaling of Irish hospitality and abundance. But what constitutes an Irish hero is also up for contestation. Tymoczko observes that while Stephen, Bloom and Molly are ‘culturally alienated’ from ‘pseudo history’ they represent ‘the heritage of all the island’s inhabitants as descendants of invaders’ (35). Thus every Irish citizen, including the Citizen — that ‘broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero’ (U 12:152-5) — is an immigrant. We might focus here on the red hair and the Viking invasions from the late eighth century. Invasion theory of Ireland, Tymoczko notes, ‘is predicated on the notion that there are no aboriginal inhabitants of the island’ (35). Joyce’s ‘Saints and Sages’ was concerned too with Irishness as a convergence of identities. For Joyce, revivalists’ efforts placed on searching for an imagined Irish past were ill placed: ‘Ancient Ireland is dead just as ancient Egypt is dead (CW 173). Joyce does not imagine a pure Irishness but rather the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 81 | P a g e mix of the invaders’ blood with old Celtic blood (161). During the nearly eight centuries that span the time of the English invasion to the early 1900s, Joyce perceives the rise of a national Irish temperament as ‘the various elements’ of the ‘old Celtic stock and the Scandinavian, Anglo-Saxon and Norman races’, mingle and renew ‘the ancient body’ (161). The ancient enemies, Joyce argues, ‘made common cause against the English aggression’ with the Norman descendants — ‘more Irish than the Irish themselves’ — together with the Scandinavian descendants, championed ‘the cause of the Irish nation against the British tyranny’ (161). O’Grady and the Anglo-Irish revivalists wanted history to move away from English culture and towards a unique indigenous Irish one. Only then can the ‘intellect of man, tired by contact with the vulgarity of actual things’, find refuge in the idealised haven of ‘legends’ that offers ‘rest and recuperation’ (O’Grady in Gibson 111; Gibson 111-2). D. P. Moran argued in 1905 though that the talk of ‘ancient glories’ and the Irish being a ‘fine people long ago’ was an errant evasion of the political reality of contemporary Ireland (Moran Philosophy of Irish Ireland 39; Gibson 111-2). This approach actually Anglicised Irish culture via its ‘outlandish stylistic oscillations’ (Gibson 112). Joyce ostensibly endows his parodies with the Anglo-Irish binary of Celtic purity / English depravity (Cheng 199) but through the gigantism of Ulysses, and specifically the Citizen, this also works to highlight the Irish realities of hypocrisy. Although both the Citizen and Joyce rail against the injustices of England during the time of the Famine, Joyce’s parallax, here via the narration, also questions collective rhetoric and reveals that the Citizen himself profited from an ‘eviction’: The narrator remarks that ‘[a]s much as his bloody life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled multitude in Shanagolden where he daren’t show his nose with the Molly Maguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the holding of an evicted tenant’ (U 12: 1312-6). The Citizen may counter the sanitised version of history by reminding us of the providentialist and liassez-faire justifications for English inaction during the Famine, and remember the dead with a toast (12: 519), but Joyce pointedly reveals that the Citizen’s own actions perpetuate the injustices he decries (Ulin 51). Ó Gráda critiques the rhetoric of contemporary poets, novelists, scholars and psychotherapists arguing that collective rhetoric — such as invocations of ‘our memory of hunger’, ‘ourselves’, ‘Irish character’, ‘Irish people’, ‘this country’, ‘a country with a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 82 | P a g e memory’, ‘our own’, ‘our memory’ — imagine the inclusiveness of all Irish and occludes the ‘uneven and divisive character of the famine’ (Ireland’s Great Famine 229). Christine Kinealy also remarks upon the unpleasant and hidden truths of the Famine: the ships that left Ireland laden with food during the Famine were doing so largely for the financial benefit of Irish merchants and traders. The large farmers who benefitted from the availability and sale of cheap land toward the latter end of the Famine were also Irish and, sometimes, Catholic . . . Corruption, stealing, hoarding, and even cannibalism are part of the darker reality of the Famine years, and should not be forgotten in an attempt to make the Famine a simplistic morality tale about the ‘goodies’ (the Irish en masse) and the ‘baddies’ (the whole of the British people). (‘The Great Irish Famine – A Dangerous Memory’ 248; original emphasis) Garrett Deasy in the ‘Nestor’ episode exhibits the more practical dangers of not talking about the Famine. He is usually read as ‘an older version of Buck Mulligan’, an anglophile complicit in English colonisation, both ‘stingy and ignorant’ (Roos 168; Cheng 164), but he also demonstrates the importance of Famine memory and how it is subordinated to romanticised versions of history and free market doctrine. Although he claims to have survived the Famine — ‘I remember the famine in ’46’ (U 2: 269) — he is ‘unreliable and inconsistent both in recalling it and in evaluating its political significance’ (Ulin 36). Though he tries to be Cassandra, that ‘truth teller’ and ‘prophetic seer’ (Roos 171), when he attempts to prevent another possible agricultural disaster by writing a letter to the English authorities about the spread and consequences of foot and mouth disease, he is unable to articulate the urgency of the situation: May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which is so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue. (U 2: 324-30) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 83 | P a g e Roos argues that Deasy’s ambiguous letter repeats the mistakes of previous writers (revivalists and historians of the ilk of O’Grady) who don’t mention the Famine (170). ‘His odd letter’, Roo states, tries to embody ‘many arguably inappropriate facets of Irish Revival ideals of self-sacrifice and hospitality in the context of a scientific and agricultural letter’ (170). Ulin makes the interesting point that while Deasy mentions laissez faire capitalism he does so in an incomplete sentence, thus only implicitly referring to the extent English inaction and laissez faire doctrine were responsible for the Irish suffering (Ulin 36). Though Deasy aims not to ‘mince words’ (U 2: 331) and perceives he has made his point in ‘a nutshell’ (2: 321), he is only able to articulate fully to Stephen the way the disease will impact Ireland: ‘You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle’ (2: 338-9). In comparison, Deasy’s letter destined for the British Government is ‘hypocritically courteous’ and ‘generous to the point of comedy’, and in the end obstructs his urgent message about the disease that could lead to starvation and famine (Roos 170). Foot and mouth disease — a disease that affects pigs, sheep, goats and cattle — was a recurring disease throughout industrialised Europe, but until 1912 it had not struck Ireland. With a post-Famine reliance on cattle and beef exports, and a domestic reliance on milk and milk products, the consequences would be devastating for Ireland (171). ‘In response to outbreaks of the disease’, Roos comments, ‘whole herds of cattle were habitually slaughtered, and in addressing the problem England proposed sanctions against Ireland’s imports of cattle when and if it appeared there’ (171). Though Joyce is prophesising about the future outbreak (171), he makes Deasy’s ‘point at issue’ unclear to highlight that real and urgent concerns cannot be communicated clearly in a style befitting a ‘hospitable’, Revivalist style: Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. (U 2: 332-7) While action is urgently needed the letter is pointedly not specific about what action is required. It isn’t until the end of the letter that a full sentence appears, however, here he Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 84 | P a g e merely reverts to platitudes. While Deasy is a teacher, what he teaches — the perpetuation of cultural hegemony and English versions of Western history (Cheng 162, 165) — is not capable of articulating any problem that may counter hegemonic power. Though Roos encourages us to see Deasy’s letter, possibly, as heroic — an ‘attempt at the salvation of Ireland from future plagues’ (172) — in the end she suggests that the letter is a failure. Deasy remembers the Famine but the rhetoric available to him isn’t amenable to a full articulation of a more critical indictment of the English, nor is it able to express the possible calamitous impact of another agricultural disaster. The Potato: Famine Memory and Political Violence As will be explored throughout the thesis, Bloom’s relationship with food is multi- dimensional. It is particularly complex when this gustatory character is considered in relation to the Famine. As well as exploring the significance of that key Famine symbol — the potato — Roos suggests that Bloom’s comparative gluttony also says something about Irish complicity and a failure to act heroically. While Roos shows Deasy’s possibility for heroism, she leads her discussion of Bloom with a list of his heroic failures and his missed opportunities to demonstrate a communal conscience. In the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode, for example, while Bloom recognises Dilly Dedalus’s starvation — ‘Underfed she looks too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It’s after they feel it. Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution’ (U 8: 41-3) — he buys bread for the ‘hungry famished gull’ rather than helping her (8: 62; original emphasis; Roos 175). Furthermore, as Bloom follows Stephen in ‘Circe’ to protect him he pauses to buy unnecessary food, and this is likely the cause of him losing track of Stephen (175). Bloom ‘appears, flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a sidepocket’, and soon after stops at Olhausen, the pork butcher’s, and emerges holding a parcel in each hand: ‘one containing a lukewarm pig’s crubeen, the other a cold sheep’s trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper’ (U 15: 142-3, 155-9; original emphasis). Bloom’s excessive hoarding of food, Roos suggests, reflects the initial sequence of events that lead to the Famine, where the market was flooded with rotting potatoes before they had gone completely bad (175). Bloom indicates then the difficulty of both eating to excess and acting heroically (175). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 85 | P a g e Roos and Ulin’s reading of Bloom’s potato offers some insight into the complexity of Famine memory. As Roos traces the role of the potato in ‘Circe’ we are reminded that in Homer’s Odyssey Hermes gives Odysseus a ‘moly’ (a charm) to carry to prevent the Circean loss of memory (174). Like Odysseus’s ‘holy moly’ Bloom carries a potato in his pocket, but Roos maintains he doesn’t recognise its significance. For Roos the potato is a powerful symbol of ‘Irish subjection’ and the ‘memory of that experience’: Through metonymic substitution, the potato is ‘England’s exploitation; Ireland’s economic culpability; and the truth behind Ireland’s seeming “docility” — women prostituted for food, infanticide and even the horrors of cannibalism, caused by the effects of starvation’ (177). Roos argues, however, that Bloom sanitises the ‘distasteful memory’ of the Famine by referring to it instead as a mere good luck charm from his mother (U 15: 1313; Roos 177). Bloom as unheroic in his denial of the potato as a Famine symbol, as it is only by remembering this history, Roos contends, that Ireland can ‘win’ in its struggles against English oppression and prevent a repetition of the Famine (177). As with the Union and ‘free trade’, however, the initial expectations of advancing Ireland’s best interests in reality proved to further Irish suppression and the Irish complicity in their own subjugation (180). As Bloom surrenders the talisman to English Zoe he forfeits his ability to remember the memories attached to it. As Roos states: ‘To become part of this practice of colonization and empire requires a kind of forgetting of the Famine, a willful ignorance of the truth of colonization’, and so when Bloom pays the prostitute Zoe with the potato ‘he unknowingly prostitutes himself’ (180). Ulin contends that Roos overstates Bloom’s ignorance of the potato’s Famine significance, as he calls the potato ‘poor mama’s panacea’ (U 15: 201-2), suggesting his mother carried the potato as protection against famine’s recurrence (Ulin 56). Ulin perceptively points out that Zoe and Bloom’s mother both have the same surname, Higgins (U 17: 536, 15: 1279), so even if he unknowingly surrenders his mother’s memory of the Famine, he cannot escape it (Ulin 56). Nevertheless, for Ulin the potato is more about ‘familial identity’ rather than participating in a collective memory (57). I contend, however, that there is still more to explore about the potato as metonymic substitution for the collective memory of the Famine. In contrast to Roos, who argues that Bloom shirks from the ugly truths of the Famine, I think that Bloom’s potato is significant for its highlighting of the illegitimacy of Ireland’s social contract with England and the imperial power’s use of violence to maintain its power. The blackened Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 86 | P a g e potato indicates pathologies of colonisation, such as the loss of an ‘Irish’ language to articulate Irish history and debate issues specific to the Irish; the internalisation of liberal economic rationalisation; and also the memory of colonial violence. The memory of the violence of the Famine, that is the British Government’s economic rationalisation of the event and their purposefully inadequate humanitarian response, is given Joyce’s treatment and reimagined in more physical and brutal terms. The brutality metered on Bloom is also significant for its linking of violence to the state and the importance for neutralising challenges to legitimacy. Bloom’s persona alters according to his possession or dispossession of the potato — from a passive state, to ‘Anglo’ advocate of Irish concerns — but either way he cannot escape the pathologies of colonial suppression. It is noteworthy that after English Zoe puts ‘the potato greedily into a pocket’ (U 15: 1316; original emphasis) she encourages Bloom to make a ‘stump speech’. While initially Bloom’s speech is in response to Zoe smoking and the evils of tobacco, Zoe is complicit in inciting Bloom to speak in the knowledge that without the potato he is now unfettered from the memory of violence and the fear of violent reassertions of imperial power. She instigates not only his tobacco speech but his fantasies of being a liberator and saviour of Ireland, and his use of discourses that the Irish have learned not to use in public forums due to a pervasive English surveillance (Gibson Joyce’s Revenge 191). Though Cheng does not ‘follow the potato’ as such, he does note that the ‘Circe’ episode allows Bloom to prove his Irishness and counter the earlier mocking of the Citizen with more than a ‘soft answer’. While the Citizen taunted Bloom as ‘a new messiah for Ireland’ (U 12: 1642), I suggest that without the potato in his possession the ‘Circe’ episode gives Bloom the psychological and therapeutic space to ‘counter and refute all the Citizen’s innuendos and accusations’ (Cheng 219). Here we can perceive an alternative to Nolan’s issue with Bloom’s unheroic behaviour. For Nolan, Bloom’s self-proclaimed rhetorical victory over the Citizen, where he tells Stephen in the cabman’s shelter that he ‘simply but effectively silenced the offender’ and thus showed that a ‘soft answer turns away wrath’ (U 16: 1080, 1085-6), hasn’t really compensated him for the Citizen’s racist hostility, nor ably proven his membership into the Irish community (Nolan 525). However, if one follows the potato the focus shifts from the ‘unheroic’ to the pathologies of colonisation, not least of which concerns language. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 87 | P a g e Bloom may challenge the English and offer a new future for Ireland, but this is done via Anglicised rhetoric as he observes ‘linguist propriety’, or what Biddy the Clap calls ‘refinement of phraseology’ (Gibson Joyce’s Revenge 191; U 15: 4443). As Gibson points out, he ‘can only promote his side’ by demonstrating a kind of ‘irreproachability’ by joining the other side linguistically (Gibson 191, 193). Whilst it is true that Bloom soon falls into his own economic rationalisations for his reformed Ireland (194), unlike Deasy who cannot begin to clearly communicate Irish concerns in an English style of rhetoric, Bloom can. The Englishness of Bloom’s speeches, advice, and the whole coronation sequence (U 15: 1353-1752) reflect the necessary use of Englishness to allay authorities of any subversion actions. Bloom (and the other Irish characters in the episode) resort to ‘English idioms, English modes of self-presentation’ because they ‘find themselves under certain sorts of pressure or scrutiny, and involved in self- justification’ (Gibson 191). Even as Bloom is regaled with ‘prolonged applause’ and paid respect by a procession of a myriad important representatives, Gibson astutely points out that the signs and symbols of English colonialism, from the ‘sidars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of estate’ are present (U 15: 1417-8; original emphasis). Also present, and closely following representatives of ‘guild and trades’ (15: 1426), are various royal officials (15: 1436-9; Gibson 194). Bloom’s more heroic persona also exhibits the pathology of internalising imperial economic rationalisation. He laments that ‘[t]he poor man starves while they are grassing their royal mountain stags of shooting peasants and phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power’ (U 15: 1395-6), and alludes to Henry George’s Progress and Poverty (1879) as he states forcefully that he stands for ‘[t]hree acres and a cow for all children of nature’, and also ‘universal language and a universal brotherhood’, and no more ‘patriotism of barspongers’ (U 15: 1685-93). However, Bloom is repeatedly ‘dragged back into patterns and connections he seeks to resist’ (Gibson 194). Thus while he addresses his ‘beloved subjects’ his ‘new Bloomusalem’ with its ‘colossal edifice’ is under construction, but ‘[n]umerous houses are razed to the ground and the inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes (U 15: 1542, 1552-4). Despite his utopian idealism, Bloom’s plans for reform start to cause evictions like those of the Famine era and into the late 1800s (see for example Kinnane The Irish Famine: A Documentary History). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 88 | P a g e Bloom’s play with power is short lived though as his apparent ‘Englishness’ is no longer leverage for the potential threat which his masculinity and quasi-nationalism poses. The Irish have been characterised persistently as a ‘feminine race’, and gendered binary oppositions proved effective in establishing a ‘providential’ and patriarchal hierarchy which rationalised the dominance of the Saxon ‘race’ and the inevitability if Irish subjugation (Curtis Anglo-Saxons and Celts 61; McDonald ‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72). Lewis Perry Curtis identifies that Victorian Literature repeatedly draws on patriarchal and Darwinian discourses as they identify the Irish as ‘unstable, childish, violent, lazy, feckless, feminine, and primitive’ (121). In distancing themselves from both the collateral damage of colonisation and also the particularities of Irish society, the English deemed the Irish were closer to ‘pigs, apes, and chimpanzees’ than the Anglo-Saxon ‘race’ (121). As McDonald notes, the Irish-English distinction is structured around these gendered discursive binaries: ‘Saxon versus Celt, civilisation versus barbarism, urban versus rural, progress versus tradition, faith versus superstition, modernism versus revival’ (‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72). Joyce highlights these entrenched dualisms as Bella / Bello, parodying Queen Victoria — ‘massive whoremistress’ (U 15: 2742) — reasserts England’s patriarchal predominance and punishes, rapes, and degrades Bloom. As Bella appears in the brothel her ‘eyes rest on Bloom’ and her ‘falcon eyes glitter’ (15:2751-3). She soon becomes fixated on possessing Bloom, from her initial ‘You are mine’ (15: 2774), to a more insistent ‘Be mine. Now’ (15: 2792), and then not long after she has physically broken him and emasculated him she claims her possession: ‘you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under the yoke’ (15: 2965-6). As Bello weds Bloom saying ‘With this ring I thee own’ (15: 3068), the marriage reflects contemporary perspectives on Ireland’s oppressive Union with England, a Union that was bitterly opposed (Woodham-Smith 15-6). With Ireland as the ‘feminised protesting bride’ and heiress, whose supposed guardians had been bribed, she is dragged to the altar and is subject to the Queen’s (England’s) ‘brutal rape’ (Roos 186; Woodham-Smith 15-6). So too Bello initially has to coax Bloom out from under the sofa with ‘Come, ducky dear, I want a word with you, just to administer correction’ (U 15: 2882-3), but then violently grabs Bloom by the hair with an aggressive ‘I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot. How’s that tender behind? O, ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready’ (15: 2884-7). A violent and brutal scene in itself, a scene where Bloom is left ‘fainting’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 89 | P a g e (15: 2889; original emphasis), Bello states plans for further violence, in terms that reflect the animalistic terminology often used by the colonial power as further justification for their continued oppression of their subjects. Importantly, this terminology also likens colonisation to cannibalism: Bello: (savagely) The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging hook, the knout I’ll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubrian slave of old. You’re in for it this time! I’ll make you remember me for the balance of your natural life . . . Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from baking tin basted and baked like suckling pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. It will hurt you. (15: 2891-901) Bloom faints, ‘squeals’, ‘screams’ and ‘whimpers’ from the violence administered for his ‘own good’ (U 15: 2903, 2908, 2914; original emphasis), establishing his primitiveness (squealing like a pig), femininity (fainting and screaming like a woman), and child status (as he whimpers). Bloom claims that he has ‘been a perfect pig’ (15: 3397), implying that he remembers and acknowledges his inferior status and is thus deserving of the violence. As Joseph Nugent has recently reiterated, nineteenth century English representations of Irish peasantry were grounded in the castigation of peasants’ domestic cottages — their apparent odour and primitiveness — and the metonymic substitution of the peasants’ pigs for Irish national character (‘The Human Snout: Pigs, Priests, and Peasants in the Parlor’). Pigs throughout the ages, Peter Stallybrass and Allon White remark (The Politics and Poetics of Transgression), ‘seem to have borne the brunt of our rage, fear, affection and desire for the “low”’. Rather than creatures of the household, pigs were ‘creatures of the threshold’ (in Nugent 289). As a self- affirmed pig, Roos contends that through Bloom Joyce also represents how the Irish internalised the English critique of the Famine: Ireland required an unfortunate but necessary curbing of its population rates; that Ireland’s failure to industrialise led to the famine; that Ireland’s people were too weak and lazy to prevent their own starvation; that Ireland exaggerated the Famine to better squeeze the English; that England’s laissez-faire policies were designed to make Ireland a stronger nation. (Roos 162) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 90 | P a g e Towards the end of his ordeal in ‘Circe’, it is interesting to note that as Bloom exclaims: ‘My willpower! Memory! I have sinned! I have suff . . .’ (U 15: 3215), he fully articulates his sin but cuts short his suffering. He appeals to his memory, but his second thoughts about parting with the potato — ‘I should not have parted with my talisman’ (15: 2794) — also point to his regret for forgetting imperial violence and his ‘place’. When he asks Zoe for his potato back he says ‘there is a memory attached to it’ (15: 3520). Bloom’s appeal to memory touches on possible reasons for passivity: the memory of imperial dominance will suppress the Irish voice but it will provide security from violence. As Zoe unrolls the potato from her stocking, Roos suggests that her comment that ‘those that hides knows where to find’ (15: 3524-6), indicates that the Irish have hidden their Famine memory, and only they themselves can find it (189). We might also consider that in the context of Ireland’s colonial status and England’s monopoly on violence the safest place for the memory is ‘hidden’. Cheryl Herr argues that ‘Circe’ is ‘as much the world of an imperialised experience as it is of the unconscious’, so while critics have predominately focused on ‘the purgation of various psychic problems of Stephen and Bloom’, the episode insists on being read as a representation of ‘cultural psychosis’ (Joyce’s Anatomy of Culture 167; Nolan 134). With this in mind the transformation of Bloom as he repossesses the potato demonstrates such cultural pathologies. Tellingly, his memory of violence heightens his fear of a physical altercation between Stephen and the British soldiers, and he undermines Stephen’s fearless inflammatory ‘truth telling’ at all costs (Roos 191-2). Stephen states, in the company of Privates Carr and Compton, ‘You are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory’ (U 15: 4370-2). He further claims that his ‘centre of gravity is displaced’, and that he must ‘kill the priest and the king’ (15: 4433-7), while Bloom urges Stephen to ‘Come home’ before he gets into trouble, or things get worse (15: 4511, 4732). Bloom makes excuses for Stephen: ‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed monster. I know him. He’s a gentleman, a poet. It’s all right’ (15: 4486-8). Increasingly fearful of the escalation of the interaction, ‘terrified’ Bloom assures the soldiers: ‘He said nothing. Not a word. A pure misunderstanding’ (15: 4600; original emphasis). Gibson also notes that Bloom (and most other characters in this episode) reflect entrapment, where the presentation of ‘Englishness’, via language or through Anglicised Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 91 | P a g e ‘connections’ (for example, Masons, Trinity College, Royal Dublin Fusiliers), while causing a ‘self-disjunction’, is nonetheless necessary to be safe from authorities who require proof of the right ‘whiteness’ (Joyce’s Revenge 190-2, 195). As Roos poignantly observes, as Corny Kelleher and Bloom exchange masonic signs, now that they are assured the bobbies will not arrest Stephen, they are ‘merry’ and ‘mirthful’ but importantly remain ‘mute’ (193). They are successful because they are like ‘well- trained beasts’, ‘unable to shed their domestication’ (193). Jean-Michel Rebaté explores sodomy in Joyce’s work, that ‘fourth or missing corner of the “gnomon”’, evoked by the boy in ‘The Sisters’, that ‘ana-phanic counter-principle that hints of a dark and incomplete disclosure’ (167-8). Yet, I suggest that beyond Rebaté’s analysis of sodomy as the homoerotic, the metaphor of sodomy also speaks of Ireland’s long subjugation. Violence does not have to be as direct and brutalising as it is in the ‘Circe’ episode. In David Nally’s recent Human Encumbrances, he purposefully begins by quoting from John Hughes’s 1847 ‘Lecture on the Antecedent Causes of the Irish Famine’, establishing the vagaries and seeming innocuousness of political violence: The vice which is inherent in our system of social and political economy is so subtle that is eludes all pursuit, that you cannot find or trace it to any responsible source. The man, indeed, over whose dead body the coroner holds an inquest, has been murdered, but no one killed him. There is no external wound, there is no symptom of internal disease. Society guarded him against all outward violence; - it merely encircled him around in order to keep up what is termed the regular current of trade, and then political economy, with an invisible hand, applied the air-pump to the narrow limits within which he was confined, and exhausted the atmosphere of his physical life. Who did it? No one did it, and yet it was done. (in Nally vii) As Hannah Arendt cautions, the most despotic forms of domination do not rely on overt coercion, but on ‘a superior organisation of power – that is, on the organized solidarity of the masters’ (in Nally viii). Thus, political violence is not only that metered by brute force, but also via dehumanisation, so a person or population is ‘reduced to a position of virtual rightlessness through harmful economic policies, debilitating institutional Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 92 | P a g e programmes, prejudicial legislative actions, or misguided political doctrines’ (viii). For this second type of political violence, Nally and Arendt argue, no police force or army is needed, just greater organisation and political design (Nally viii). It is this violence, this ‘monological, authoritarian legitimisation of social power’ (Castle 307), which Joyce sets out to expose through the phantasmagorical ‘Circe’ episode. Conclusion Joyce perpetrates a number of treacherous literary acts in Ulysses, not least of which is the acknowledgement of the mid-nineteenth century Famine and the complex ways this still resonates one and two generations later. Joyce’s work stands in opposition to the Revivalist project of cultural production, which saw the need to bury any Irish history not amenable to its aesthetic experience, created to inspire political action, rebellion, victory, and the heroics of sacrifice. The parallactic aesthetic experience of Ulysses challenges the ilk of W. B. Yeats by, for example, invocating the ‘abundance’ of Ireland whilst throughout the novel presenting the reality of poverty of Dublin and alluding to Ireland’s status as an imperial resource. Reflective of Feldman and Schoenbach’s explorations of Pragmatic Modernism and Schwarze’s deliberation on the contradictions of Modernism providing a space for thinking, Joyce’s form produces ambiguity about Ireland’s past. As Nolan argues, despite the Citizen’s ultranationalism his indictment of England’s part in the scale of devastation of the Famine is reflective of Joyce’s own views. But, Joyce’s interrogations of Irish history go beyond Dubliners ‘remembering’ the Famine. Joyce ventures that the silence surrounding the Famine is not solely due to the disjuncture between the Irish nationalists’ cultural production and a narrative of the Irish as ‘victims’. Ulysses indicates that the Famine experience wasn’t homogenous as some Irish benefitted financially during this time. Importantly though, through the symbol of the potato, it indicates the Famine was an act of imperial violence and that ongoing violence is necessary in a state not formed on the principles of ‘prior covenant’, ‘social pact’ and ‘rational obligation’. By implication Joyce problematises Irish nationalism’s rationalisation of violence. While Joyce provides no direct answers, his aesthetics indicate that violence inspired by imagined ancient heroics isn’t a solution. He thus alludes to the need for a more complete national narrative and by implication a new kind of political action. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 93 | P a g e Chapter 2 – Spectres of Famine: ‘Famished Ghosts’ We keep the Irish dark and ignorant, and then we wonder how they can be so enthralled by superstition; we make them poor and unhappy, and then we wonder that they are so prone to tumult and disorder; we tie up their hands, so that they have no inducements to industry, and then we wonder why they are so lazy and indolent . . . No wonder that it should be part of the Irish character that they are so careless of their lives, when they have so little worth living for. (Thomas Campbell [1733-95] in Nally 33) Mid-nineteenth century Dubliners were both spectators and victims of starvation, disease and inadequate Famine relief. In addition to Bloom’s remembering of colonial violence and Joyce’s representation of the complicity and lack of agency of the Irish, we can also perceive in Ulysses a rumination on the long-term effect of destroyed rural communities. One generation later, Joyce’s Dubliners have a collective memory of ‘The Great Hunger’ and the experience of the violence of subjugation. They are a traumatised intra- and intergeneration of the post-Famine era, still experiencing what Hannah Arendt identifies, in relation to post-Second World War revolutions, as the collective violent action of ‘progress’. The exploration of theories of collective trauma by, for example, Pierre Nora, Cathy Caruth and Marianne Hirsch, explain in psychosocial terms how trauma is transferred from one generation to the next. Part of this trauma, I suggest, is considered in recent developments in Irish historiography which interrogate the geographical and social implications of the mobilisation of the Famine era. This multifaceted exploration of Joyce’s treatment of the Famine is interested in the apparent state of Dubliner paralysis but also the political ramifications a disruption of community has on the ability for association and ‘prior covenant’, and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 94 | P a g e thus the political agency needed to negotiate the political order and the terms of ‘rational obligation’. As David Nally’s Human Encumbrances reminds us, an analysis of the mid-nineteenth century Irish Famine cannot be sufficiently appreciated if we don’t consider the duration and complexity of Ireland’s colonial history and the ‘long cycle of confiscation and banishment’ (25, 32). While the contemporary Irish historian, Cormac Ó Gráda, disagrees with the idea that there can be a ‘collective’ memory, he does argue that a traumatic event like the Famine can damage communities. English policies of economic and agricultural rationalisation espoused the ‘progress’ of these transformations, and in Joyce’s work we see what Christopher Morash identifies as ‘atrocity’: the disturbance of the anticipated sequence of ‘cause and effect’ that prevented a coherent, Irish, narrative of improvement (Morash ‘Literature, Memory, Atrocity’ 114-7). In addition to the more overt and direct consequences of the Famine, David Lloyd considers the ‘spatial’ aspects of Irish subjugation and the fractured ‘mental geographies’ of land reform (‘Indigent Sublime’). Joyce’s Dubliners, generally, are second generation Famine survivors who did not experience the Famine themselves but still seem to be paralysed; caught in the present as they wander aimlessly around Dublin like the dispossessed and banished victims of the Famine sixty years before. Joyce’s reworking of both the ‘flâneur’ and gothic tropes distinguishes his work from Modernists who saw the crowd as a threat, and other forms of Irish Gothic that either internalise the great ‘woe’ or demonise the ‘other’ (the Irish). Ulysses, as with many other Gothic texts, perceives that ‘times past are not times past’; the separation of history blurs and wavers (Punter ‘Scottish and Irish Gothic’ 112). As David Punter suggests though, the resonance of history in the Scottish and Irish Gothic is distinct from much of the English form, as there are the nagging questions about what life would be like without being subjugated, or ‘settled’ or ‘conquered’: ‘What if?’ (106). This chapter addresses these questions in terms of the destruction of rural community and how fractured community impacts on political agency. The ‘famished ghosts’ of the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode have been identified by Lauren Rich and James F. Wurtz as a continuation of the tragic history of the Famine (Rich ‘A Table for One: Hunger and Homeliness in Joyce’s Public Eateries’ 87; Wurtz ‘Scarce More a Corpse: Famine Memory and Representations of the Gothic in Ulysses’ 109). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 95 | P a g e For Rich, Joyce’s Dubliners, and especially the men, are ‘unhomed’ and not able to ‘feel at home’ in any meaningful way (74). In contrast to Suzette Henke’s perspective of the men at Burton’s, ‘driven by a megalomanic rage to stuff their gullets and fill the angry void inside’ (Joyce’s Moraculous Sindbook 125), Rich’s more political analysis of the scene considers the images of hunger and cannibalism as systematic of colonisation and the pressures of colonial urban modernity (73, 87-8). For Wurtz, beyond the mythic parallel with the Odyssey’s cannibal ‘Lestrygonians’, the Gothic figure of the vampire is evoked by Joyce to reflect the ‘past’s grip’ over the present, and how the living are transformed into the ‘undead’ (109). This chapter develops Rich and Wurtz’s work by delving even more deeply into the historical causes of modern Dubliners’ ‘fraught relation to history’ (Wurtz 109). James Fairhall argues there is ‘something nightmarish’ about the ‘intertwined history of city and country in Ireland’. He highlights the demography of turn of the century Ireland and its ‘closeness’ to the Famine by investigating the migrants from the countryside moving to Dublin in the 1890s. He notes the resonance of ‘the country in the city’ throughout Dubliners and reiterates that James Joyce’s wife Nora Barnacle was from Galway, a tiny city of ‘great poverty and misery’, surrounded by ‘ocean, mountainous bogland, and farmland owned by absentee landlords’ (Question of History 75). Julieann Ulin makes the attentive connection between the soup the Dignam children eat in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode and the soup relief scheme of the Famine. While Ulin briefly includes some historical research — Alexander Sullivan’s New Ireland (88) — highlighting the ‘humiliation’, ‘degradation’, and ‘demoralization’ of the scheme (in Ulin 32), this chapter explores primary research surrounding Alexis Soyer’s ‘soup kitchens’ and points to the intra- and inter-generational trauma of this scheme for Joyce’s Dubliners. While the decaying flesh, bile and ‘corpsechewing’ can be perceived as the unavoidable pull of nature (Fairhall ‘N ature, Existential Shame, and Transcendence’), the self-devouring May Dedalus also acts as an inter-generational umbilical cord that binds the Irish to the Famine. Joyce neither advocates the nationalism of traditional and violent heroics, nor wants an Irish society to build its identity on the memory and trauma of the Famine, but rather wants an Ireland that learns and progresses. Instead of ‘human breath and compromises’ Ireland needs to ‘hurry up’ and wake up from the past (‘Saints and Sages’ CW 174). Here, however, Joyce’s represents the state of haunting between the traumatic event and the anticipated Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 96 | P a g e awakening. I suggest that while Joyce’s Ireland is traumatised, due to the loss of ‘true memory’ and the destruction of the bonds that brought people together and fostered trust and cooperation, the violence and oppression of colonial rule has implemented a new ‘social contract’ that breeds distrust. Clachan and English Political Economy As Joyce points out in ‘Saints and Sages’ (159-61), the Vikings (from 795AD) and the Normans (from 1169AD) well preceded the English, but their settlements inevitably merged with ‘Indigenous Irish . . . language, customs, and brehon laws’ (Nally 26), whereas the English remained vehemently distinct. As late as the fifteenth century English rule was confined to ‘the pale’. Conscious that ‘Englishness’ was vulnerable to being subsumed by Irishness, the English were aware that ‘colonial demarcations of difference would require vigilant and constant reaffirmation’ (26). Therefore, The Statute of Kilkenny (1336) decreed ‘that no alliance by marriage, gossipred, fostering of children, concubinage or by amour, nor in any other manner, be henceforth made between the English and Irish’ (in Nally 26). Acculturation was a criminal offence with those in breach liable to have ‘lands and tenements’ legally seized and confiscated (26). From the sixteenth century on the pale was extended and this demarcation was accompanied by a series of policies of broader displacement. Henry VIII’s policy of ‘Surrender and Regrant’, the policies of confiscation and plantation of Edward VI and Elizabeth I, and Cromwell’s brutal suppression of rebellion and further dispossession and displacement, all contributed to the marginalisation of the Irish (Nally 28-32). As Patrick Brantlinger notes, whilst the Cromwellian conquest of Ireland did not set out to destroy the Irish, the effect was genocidal. From an estimated Irish population of just under 1.5 million in 1641, prior to the conflict, the conquest left a death toll of 600,000 with a further 140,000 were forcefully sent to the West Indies as servants and indentured labourers (Johnson in Brantlinger 96; Nally 32). The 1652 Act for Settling Ireland aimed at ‘a total reducement and settlement’, the ‘reducement’ of which commenced with the execution of 100,000 rebels and the confiscation of Irish land to pay Cromwell’s soldiers (Brantlinger 96; Nally 32). The Irish landed class who were permitted to retain their land were relocated to the most marginal land of Connaught and Clare (to ‘Hell’), ‘[f]orbidden to appear within four miles of the seas and ten miles of the Shannon’ (Nally 32). The Penal Laws (from the late seventeenth century to the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 97 | P a g e mid-eighteenth century further debilitated Catholics by barring them from voting, obtaining an education, and renting or purchasing land (32). It is no surprise then that this long cycle of displacement meant that Irish land ownership fell from 90% in 1600 to 12.5% by 1700, and to 5% by 1778 (Johnson in Brantlinger 96; Edwards and Hourican in Nally 31). The Irish population, however, was ‘neither completely removed nor wholly anglicised’ as planters needed Irish tenants to make their estates viable (Nally 30). As David Lloyd (‘Indigent Sublime’), Kevin Whelan (‘Pre and Post Famine Landscape Change’) and Robert Scally (The End of Hidden Ireland) have argued, despite being relegated to the bogs and mountainsides along the inhospitable western seaboard, the Irish developed ‘sophisticated and ecologically inventive’ means of subsistence on the basis of the potato crop (Lloyd 153). On this relatively poor quality farming land, the Irish were capable of yielding enough food for the family for almost a year on a one acre plot. The system of small scale potato cultivations on small rented plots, combined with occasional labour on larger farms for low wages or some payment in kind was known as cotterism (154). In contrast to the Famine and post-Famine years, early marriage and high fertility rates were the norm due to the way family holdings could be subdivided. Furthermore, a Gaelic system of clachan (or rundale) — a communal system of land holding facilitated by continual subdivision — meant a tenant could have access to a variety of land types, from mountain plots for a small number of sheep to more fertile potato growing patches. While a family’s landholding could be scattered across the landscape, it also encouraged groupings of cabins that created intimate communities and communal labour – meitheal (154). Though historical anthropologist Estyn Evans is rather backhanded in appreciating the clachan system, Robert Scally nonetheless indicates that his description of clachan reflects the inextricable link between geography, community and identity: It was egalitarian, and could operate without the benefit of a landlord, but it was complicated by the subdivision among the co-heirs and in former times by the periodic reallocation of the holdings, which were scattered in many small plots so that all shared land of varying quality. The word used to describe the confusion of innumerable scattered plots and tortuous access ways in the infield Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 98 | P a g e was ‘throughother’, a word that has been applied to other aspects of Irish life. (Evans in Scally 13) David Lloyd states that this spatial organisation produced a remarkable vital culture, a ‘deeply imbricated material and cultural space’, that sustained an alternate conception of social relations (155); or in Scally’s words, the system produced a ‘mental geography’ (16). Alexis de Tocqueville would comment on the ‘stunningly vigorous and civil social cohesion amid the mud and rags’ (in Scally 10-1). At the time of the Famine, the landscape underwent systematic ‘improvement’; that is, English economic rationalisation demanded that the ‘confusion’ of the Irish space was reshaped into an ‘orderly geometry’, consolidating the web of clachan into larger farms based on the English agricultural model (Lloyd 154). As the 1847 ‘Report of the Select Committee of House of Lords on Colonisation from Ireland’ declared, the clachan system, where ‘a Man’s Holding of Five Acres was probably in Twenty different Divisions of Farm’, had to be rooted out thoroughly (in Nally 203). As a consequence, all but the most marginal wasteland was enclosed, there was a shift to grain farming and grazing, and small holding tenants were evicted (Lloyd 154). Charles Trevelyan, the British Treasury official responsible for administering famine relief, thought the Famine a godsend: ‘Unless we are much deceived, posterity will trace up to that famine the commencement of a salutary revolution in the habits of a nation long singularly unfortunate, and will acknowledge that on this, as on many other occasions, supreme Wisdom has educed permanent good out of transient evil’ (in Lloyd 159). Representative of the English and the ‘Protestant Ascendancy’ take on the Famine, Lord Hill in Gweedore Ireland also made clear that the failure of the potato crop and the Famine offered opportunities: ‘The Irish people have profited much by the famine, the lesson was severe; but so rooted were they in their old prejudices and old ways, that no teacher could have induced them to make the changes which this visitation of Divine Providence has brought about, both in their habits of life and in their mode of agriculture’ (in Nally 206). Ireland had benefitted from trade with England, and indeed had transatlantic trade in the eighteenth century buoyed by Western industrialisation. However, as Emmet O’Connor notes, this economic growth dried up with the political union of England and Ireland in 1800 and the monetary and customs union in 1825. The Union was to Ireland’s Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 99 | P a g e disadvantage as it was unable to compete with ‘the workshop of the world’ and ‘proto- industries sank into decay’ ushering in the overwhelming problem of ‘deindustrialisation, long before most other countries had begun to industrialise’ (O’Connor A Labour History of Ireland 201; O’Connor ‘Labour and Politics, 1830- 1945’ 28). As Marx and Engels argued, the geographical restructuring and depopulation of Ireland was far from benevolent. It was a policy that responded to the English political and economic programme and expansion. As Engels notes, ‘Today England needs grain quickly and dependably – Ireland is just perfect for wheat-growing. Tomorrow England needs meat – Ireland is only fit for cattle pastures’ (in Nally 212; Marx, Engels et al. Ireland and the Irish Question 191). Rather than a godsend for the Irish then, the geographical and cultural transformations were merely ‘out of kilter with imposed disciplines of modernisation’ (Lloyd 155), and thus necessitated what Marx recognised as the ongoing instance of ‘primitive accumulation’ (157; Marx 704). The collective customs of Ireland’s rural poor, sustained by its ‘throughother’ spatiality, (Lloyd 155) were seemingly invisible to the English, who in the Devon Commission saw the Irish as ‘human encumbrances’ to implementing the ‘English system’ of agriculture and economy (in Nally 211-2). To draw on Hannah Arendt’s perception that violence has an instrumental character, designed and used for multiplying strength, in the case of Ireland we see how violence is ‘[justified] through the end it pursues’ (46, 51). Power equated with violence is necessarily expansionist: ‘Just as in the realm of organic life everything either grows or declines and dies, so in the realm of human affairs power supposedly can sustain itself only through expansion; otherwise it shrinks and dies’ (Arendt 74). As a young university student at University College Dublin, Joyce wrote that ‘Subjugation is “almost the essence of an empire and when it ceases to conquer, it ceases to be”’ (‘Force’ CW 24). The apologists for the violent ‘revolutionising’ of Ireland’s agricultural system, that expunged the obstacles to development, accepted this approach as ‘organic’ and inevitable. As Arendt argues, however, ‘[n]othing . . . could be theoretically more dangerous than the tradition of organic thought in political matters by which power and violence are interpreted in biological terms . . . violence is justified on the grounds of creativity’ (75; emphasis added). While the context of Arendt’s On Violence is post World War II ‘revolutions’ and totalitarian regimes, the pattern of political rhetoric and violence is consistent. Arendt argues that ‘glorifiers of violence’ — and here we can insert such names as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 100 | P a g e Trevelyan, Thomas Carlyle, Thomas Malthus and William Thornton, numerous Commissions and the Times — ‘appeal to the undeniable fact that in the household of nature destruction and creation are but two sides of the natural process, so that collective violent action . . . may appear as natural a prerequisite for the collective life of mankind as the struggle for survival and violent death for continuing life in the animal kingdom’ (Arendt 75). In addition to Arendt’s perspective on violence, Lloyd’s arguments have great relevance for Joyce’s work. Lloyd suggests that the force of violence was not due to the apparent wretchedness of the Irish, but rather as a result of the ability of the Irish to successfully live and flourish in a system coeval to the English political economic model. Despite the poor living conditions in which the rural Irish lived, what they marked for the English was a ‘countermodern effect of modernity’, and this ‘alternative track’ for organising life presents to the modernisers a haunting and ‘uncanny glimmer’ of an alternate ‘definition of human life’ (155, 160). While the Poor Law Commission (1835) noted the ‘foolish attachment to home’ makes ‘amelioration’ difficult (Nally 210), Lloyd suggests that what this type of criticism seeks to deny is the ‘specter of Irish abundance’ and contentment (157). Lloyd argues that both recent and mid-eighteenth century scholarship affirms the incongruity of the need for ‘improvement’. There is evidence that the Irish population, for the most part, were sustained by the potato with occasional supplements of ‘buttermilk, lard, or salted fish’, and were in fact ‘healthier, taller and stronger’ than their English counterparts (154). Therefore the ‘backward’ system of clachan and cotterism was a viable mode of existence and the ‘vehemence of the desire to extirpate the clachan’ indicates the degree to which it was ‘an alternative to capitalist social relations’, and a ‘material and moral culture that capitalism negated’ (159-60). Arendt pointedly finishes On Violence with the same perception; that power invites violence because those ‘who hold power and feel it slipping from their hands . . . have always found it difficult to resist the temptation to substitute violence for it’ (87). What I perceive in Joyce’s work is a literary representation of Paul Klee’s print, ‘Angelus Novus’ (1920), considered by Walter Benjamin as ‘the angel of history’: His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 101 | P a g e in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress. (Benjamin ‘Thesis on the Philosophy of History’ Illuminations 249) While Dubliners may be severed from a past and forced into a new future, this process of agricultural rationalisation and deindustrialisation, under the direction of the English, represents the violence that set in motion the cycle of Irish ‘debris’. Here I not only refer to the direct impact of a people mobilised, starving or dying from disease, but the more pervading type of destruction: militarism. Greg Winston argues that Ireland’s colonisation was militarist as England promoted the complete ‘social, economic, even geographical reorganisation of its citizens’ lives for the goal of increased military capacity’ (Joyce and Militarism 12). Thus, the colonial ideology and militarist orientation permeates ‘academic and educational institutions . . . shapes artistic activity, mass media, and other forms of cultural discourse . . . controls social structures, such as church, club, union, and guild’, and ultimately takes over ‘individual psychology, marital relations, and family dynamics’ (12). I suggest that this ‘chain of events’ is the ‘catastrophe’, the aftermath of which is Dublin’s ghosts and walking dead. These spectres have been deprived of an orientation towards the future; other possibilities of human sociality that might have organically emerged without English ‘benevolent’ modernisation. They are ‘ghost[s] of hopes’ as they internalise melancholy for the loss of ‘forms of agency’ and ‘forms of social relations’ that can no longer be named (Lloyd 153, 156, 174). Collective Trauma and Hauntings Pierre Nora’s essay ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire’ (1989) refines Halbwachs’s distinction between collective memory and history and offers considerations transferable to any society whose disappearing ‘peasant culture’ had been supplanted by post-industrial culture devoid of the ‘quintessential repository of memory’ (7). Nora suggests that the remnants of experience that are played out in the ‘warmth of tradition’, ‘the silence of custom’, ‘the repetition of the ancestral’, are Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 102 | P a g e experiences from the historical past that are ‘gone for good’ (7). This phenomenon of the slippage of real environments of memory into a distant past is what Nora refers to as the ‘acceleration of history’ and what it leaves in its wake is a secularised and amnesiac modern world (7-8). Nora refers to sites of memory (‘lieux de memoire’), such as the ‘museums, archives, cemeteries, festivals, anniversaries, treaties, depositions, monuments, sanctuaries, fraternal orders’, as the only memory available when real environments of memory, ‘milieu de memoire’, have disappeared (Nora 7, 12). Rita Sakr contends that Joyce purposefully places numerous monuments in his work because Dubliners have lost, or are on the precipice of losing, their embeddedness with lived memory (Monumental Space in the Post-Imperial Novel 41-80, 170). That is, those everyday gestures that were ‘experienced as the ritual repetition of a timeless practice’ no longer produce the same meaning (Nora 8). As Nora makes clear, ‘true memory’ exists in ‘gestures’, ‘habits’ and ‘skills’ passed down by ‘unspoken traditions’. True memory isn’t the same as ‘memory transformed’ (or public memory), as the latter is only ‘experienced as a duty’ and is ‘no longer spontaneous’ (13). This distinction leads me to contemplate Cormac Ó Gráda’s apparent reticence regarding a ‘collective memory’ of the Famine. While Ó Gráda bemoans the ‘collective rhetoric’ of Famine memory (Ireland’s Great Famine) where ‘we’, ‘us’, ‘Irish people’ are perceived as starving or forced to emigrate ‘with knock on effects to their traumatised descendants’ (229-30), he far from denies the long term impact of the Famine. Ó Gráda highlights a key point argued by Kai Erickson (A New Species of Trouble), that the real communal trauma is a blow ‘that damages the bonds attaching people together and impairs the prevailing sense of community’ (in Ó Gráda 231). Indeed this is what the Famine, agricultural reform and Union with England cemented; an oppressive ‘social contract’ safeguarded by weak, Irish social bonds and a preoccupation with counterproductive efforts to clarify ‘Irishness’ and therefore who isn’t part of the community. For my purposes of exploring Joyce in relation to the communal or collective trauma of the Famine I am not concerned with ‘cultural trauma’, defined by Neil Smelser as an ‘overwhelming event that is believed to undermine or overwhelm one or several essential ingredients of a culture or the culture as a whole’ (‘Psychological Trauma and Cultural Trauma’ 38). Today the Great Famine is still identified in these terms and remains an integral part of a national identity, where the ‘claim of traumatic cultural damage’ is established by ‘cultural Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 103 | P a g e carriers’ — ‘cultural specialists such as priests, politicians, intellectuals, journalists, moral entrepreneurs, and leaders of social movements’ — and continuously and actively sustained to reproduce the status of national/cultural trauma (Smelser 38; Ó Gráda 228 - 9; and McLean The Events and Its Terrors 154-7 explore this contemporary debate). I suggest that Joyce doesn’t want Ireland to build an identity on cultural trauma through public memory. He acknowledges the violence of colonial suppression and indicates the damage this has caused, but through the representation of the traumatised Dubliners in juxtaposition with those who attempt to live life, like Bloom, he shows how a more dynamic and honest relationship with the past can provide space for more substantial progress. Oftentimes it is the outsider Bloom’s observations and thoughts that highlight the damaged Irish community, and as will be explored more fully in Chapter 5, Joyce shows a way to build a new community and thus provide the unity to challenge their oppression. Cathy Caruth’s work on trauma is an interesting starting point when considering Joyce’s presentation of ghostly Dubliners who haven’t reflected on the impact of the ‘event’ and how it still affects their lives. Through her psychoanalytical approach Caruth, following Freud (Beyond the Pleasure Principle), argues that a trauma or ‘wound’ can be inflicted on the mind as well as the body. Unlike the injured body though, the traumatised mind can’t heal as the infliction of the wound ‘is experienced too soon, too unexpectedly, to be fully known’ and thus not available to one’s consciousness (Caruth ‘Introduction’ Trauma: Explorations in Memory 3-4; also see Unclaimed Experience). An event is traumatic because ‘it imposes itself again, repeatedly, in nightmares and repetitive actions of the survivor’ (4). The wound, therefore, has a complex pathology. It is not located in the ‘violent or original event’ but in its ‘unassimilated nature’; the way that ‘it is precisely not known in the first instance [but] returns to haunt the survivor later on’ (4; also see Eyerman ‘Social Theory and Trauma’ 42). The traumatic event can cause amnesia and repression, where the ‘victim simply forgets or denies that anything has occurred (Eyerman 42). This forgetting, what Freud called ‘latency’, where the traumatised still function in their everyday lives, can last for days or years. As Eyerman suggests, this identification of the pathology of individual trauma also resembles societal crisis (42-3). Walter Benjamin made an implicit connection between societal trauma and modernity as he identified how the mechanisation of warfare Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 104 | P a g e devalued the moral world; where ‘destructive torrents of explosions’ that were pitted against the ‘tiny, fragile human body’ devalued experience; not only that of the external world but that of the moral world also (‘The Storyteller’ Illuminations 84). Men who returned from the war did not return with communicable experiences as their experience was unfathomable, and the men were not enriched from their knowledge but ‘poorer’ and silent (84). Though Kevin Newmark remarks that Walter Benjamin does not specifically address ‘trauma’, his elaboration of Benjamin is analogous to the concept of trauma. Newmark clarifies that ‘experience’ for Benjamin always consists in the coordination of individual elements within a larger tradition (‘Traumatic Poetry’ 236). The subject’s experience of the modern world, however, causes a kind of ‘atrophy’ and ‘inability to provide the necessary links and connections . . . between individual and collective patterns or memory’ (236). Newmark affirms that ‘modernity names the moment’ when the subject is no longer completely in control of the events that ‘comprise “his” own past’ (238). The formal patterns of continuity that are presumed to be ‘grounded in traditional experience by the assimilation of consciousness to memory’ are disturbed, displaced and made incoherent (238). Thus we might perceive a complex layering of trauma for Joyce’s Dubliners; the impact of war (explored in Chapter Five) and the ongoing pathology of Famine memory. Marianne Hirsch’s theory about transgenerational transmission of the Holocaust trauma helps us reconsider Joyce representations of the Famine’s resonance. As noted in Chapter One there seem to be only two Dubliners (Deasy and the Citizen) who affirm a direct memory of the Famine. If we consider that a person would have needed to be at least, say, five years old to ‘remember’, this would make the characters 63 at the least. As the average life expectancy in Dublin in 1904 was 50 years of age (Ferriter in Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 280) this paucity of direct remembrance is consistent with turn of the century Irish demography. ‘Postmemory’ is defined by Hirsch as: ‘the relationship of the second generation to powerful, often traumatic, experiences that preceded their births but that were nevertheless transmitted to them so deeply as to seem to constitute memories in their own right’ (‘The Generation of Postmemory’ 103). Signalling more than a temporal delay, the ‘post’ of postmemory indicates looking backward and ‘defining the present in relation to a troubled past’ rather than interrogating the past and ‘initiating new paradigms’ (10 6). Just as the ‘postcolonial’ does not refer to the end of the colonial, but ‘its troubling Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 105 | P a g e continuity’, postmemory ‘reflects an uneasy oscillation between continuity and rupture’ with its ‘inter- and trans-generational transmission of traumatic knowledge and experience’ (106). Postmemory is the ‘consequence of traumatic recall . . . at a generational remove’ (106; original emphasis), where ‘children of those directly affected by collective trauma’ inherit a horrific but ‘unknowable past’ that their parents, somehow, survived (112). As a result the second generation’s ‘fiction, art, memoir, and testimony’ develop their shape by representing the effects of ‘living in close proximity to the pain, depression, and dissociation of persons who have witnessed and survived massive historical trauma’ (112). Hirsch warns though being ‘dominated by narratives that preceded one’s birth or one’s consciousness’ runs the risk of ‘having one’s own stories displaced, even evacuated’ (107), and this, I contend, is the danger that Joyce alludes to. In examining the unnamed men in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode Hirsch’s ‘intra-generational horizontal identification’ whereby a second generational child’s position is broadly that of other contemporaries (Hirsch 114-5), proves useful when considering the impact upon the second generation as a whole. The focus here then is not the ‘national/political and cultural/archival memory’ in Joyce’s work, which Hirsch classifies as ‘trans-generational’ (110). While there is ample evidence in Joyce of constructed symbolic systems — in various sites of memory (monuments for example) — my concern here is with societal ‘hauntings’; the ‘intra’ transference of the sense of lost hope and the seeming displacement and evacuation of the second generation’s articulation of a future narrative. Avery Gordon’s sociological consideration of ‘hauntings’ proposes that they are an important element of modern social life as it is only through apparitions that disappearances becomes real (Ghostly Matters 7, 63). Accordingly, a ghost is a symptom of what is missing (a loss or path not taken), but it also represents a ‘future possibility, a hope’ (63-4). In relation to Ireland’s past, Lloyd argues that the violence of history can be righted only by relinquishing the desire to set it right and instead allowing the restless ghosts of the ‘foundational violence of capitalist colonisation’ to speak of their alternate life (153, 161). For Lloyd there are two types of hauntings: the familiar sort of ghost that ‘seeks redress for the injustice of its negation’ and one which is the ‘phantom of “possible futures”’ (156). Joyce, I suggest largely advances the latter. Joyce redresses the past not through revenge and perpetuation of violence, or through mourning or commemoration (which fixes the dead in the past), but by ‘making Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 106 | P a g e room’ for the dead (Lloyd 152-3). Joyce did not advocate a future built on a silencing of the past. On the contrary, he was scathing of the economic impact of colonial capitalism, and thus conjures ghosts, both apparitions and also in the guise of walking dead Dubliners, to ensure there are witnesses to exorcise the past and begin what Joyce longs for: the ‘new play that we have waited for so long’ (‘Saints and Sage’ CW 174). With its Linati schema of the ‘Scene’ of ‘ lunch’, the key ‘Organ’ of the ‘Esophagus’, the ‘Technic’ of ‘Peristaltic’ prose, and the ‘Symbols’ of ‘Bloody Sacrifice, food, shame’ (Gifford 156), the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode is the most overtly food orientated section of Ulysses. Bloom moves across Dublin in search of a midday meal, and like other Modernist flâneurs Joyce’s wanderer works his way through the city observing his surroundings. At the turn of the century the altered cityscapes of empire capitals were places of grand state pageants and processions, but for the Modernists the streets were ‘a site of gratification’ where the Victorian ‘repulsive horror of the streets’ had been replaced with an emphasis on the ‘energizing frisson generated in the individual in the ever-stimulating, shocking city’ (Duffy Subaltern Joyce 57-8). Importantly, Modernists like T. S. Eliot, Kafka, Poe and Baudelaire were concurrently ambivalent about the forces of the crowd and what it might unleash (Duffy 58; Benjamin ‘Some Motifs in Baudelaire’ Illuminations 172-4). ‘Fear, revulsion, and horror’ Benjamin states, ‘were the emotions which the big city crowd aroused in those who first observed it’ (174). The crowd was ‘menacing’, ‘inhuman’, and worthy of ‘contempt’ (172), and thus the flâneur as representative subject in Modernist narratives stood as a mediator; the desire to aestheticize/represent the crowd stood beside a related desire to control it (Duffy 59). Duffy argues in opposition to essentialist accounts of flânerie, where the signifier of the early twentieth-century subject reacts to the ‘shock’ of city life and the ‘choking quality’ of modernity. This flâneur is ontologically specific; determined by ‘specific class and political assumptions’ (Duffy 56-7). Joyce differs from other Modernists and theorists because he engaged with the political factors that elicited the new size and tempo of the cities in the first place. Dublin is not another set-piece of ‘metro- representation’, but instead ‘one of the first cities of the colonial “other world”, the world that largely made the expansion of the European capitals possible’ (57, 63). Joyce’s flâneurs are not the flâneurs of ‘an empire capital’ and represent more than the ‘radical anomie’ of the cosmopolitan modern city; they reflect the immediate Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 107 | P a g e consequences of political transformation as the flâneur is brought into contact with the ‘spectacle of late-colonial domination’ and the ‘confrontation between the colonial administration and the native population’ (55-6). Dubliners are not partaking in ‘the nation’s victory parade’ as they walk through the city streets. Ireland was not a victor, and the Irish ‘at most’ had a ‘walk-on rather than speaking parts in the official public sphere’ (Gibbons ‘Where Wolfe Tone’s Statue Was Not’ 140). Joyce’s Dubliners experience the same marginalisation as the modernist flâneur, but importantly they are detached from the space through which they circulate (Gibbons 140). Duffy argues that a key distinction between the flâneur ‘set piece’ and Bloom is that rather than wanting to ‘control the masses’ Bloom’s viewpoint captures a ‘heterogeneous group of people, activities, and spectacles’ (62), ingesting the diversity of activity around him. However, there is one group of men that Bloom observes who are different; they are the famished ghosts in Burton’s pub. As James Wurtz points out, while critics have observed ghosts in Joyce’s work, the approach often fixes on guilt and psychoanalytical readings (Wurtz ‘Scarce More a Corpse’ 103; see for example Morrisson ‘Stephen Dedalus and the Ghost of the Mother’; and more recently Edmundson ‘Love's Bitter Mystery’). The intent here is to examine the gothic tropes but remain grounded in the historical and social perspectives of the Famine and the intra- and inter-generational trauma of the Famine. Wurtz argues that Joyce’s gothic is ‘engendered out of deep and repeated trauma’, such as the Famine and the demise (and betrayal) of Parnell (103). I would also add to this the trauma of the lost sense of community and culture (mental geography), the loss of hope for an alternate future due to evictions and the forced relinquishing of land, and the intra - generational memory of the demoralising soup kitchens. In this light I suggest an alternate reading to that of Emer Nolan who proposes that the men at Burton’s are representative of capitalism; the ‘the modern world . . . inhabited only by living dead, whose possession of human instincts is horrifying’ (Nolan 82). I suggest though that as Bloom thinks about the ‘Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline’, and that ‘Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smokinghot, thick sugary’ (U 8: 729-30), his vampiric allusion indicates the devouring of the colonised by the colonisers. It is Empire, as Arendt suggests, that is in perpetual need of more ‘blood’ for expansion. Significantly, Bloom punctuates his bloody thoughts with the ‘Famished Ghosts’ (8: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 108 | P a g e 730), not to castigate all Dubliners but to refer to the collective trauma of the Famine, its undermining of Irish agency, and its concomitant pathology of paralysis. As indicated in the previous chapter, the Famine was a real presence for Dubliners as they saw the workhouses overflowing and the hordes of people flowing from the countryside through Dublin on their way to a better life, or indeed just ‘life’. Thus, as James Fairhall contends, Joyce’s representation of paralysis is not just about Dubliners being trapped in the present, but the repression of something ‘nightmarish’ in the ‘intertwined history of city and country in Ireland’ (James Joyce and the Question of History 75; emphasis added). In the ‘Scylla and Charybdis’ episode, therefore, when Stephen Dedalus defines a ghost as someone living ‘out of time’, and elaborates that a fading into ghostliness might be due to something as banal as a ‘change in manners’, we can see the implications for the Irish (U 9: 147-9; Wurtz 102). In Joyce’s Dublin a good portion live ‘out of time’. As Fairhall states, ‘[i]n 1901, 33 percent of citizens of Dublin had been born elsewhere’; they flocked to the city from the countryside in the 1890s and 1900s and ‘filled the ranks of the shop-keeping classes in particular’ (75). Many of Joyce’s Dubliners are the petty-bourgeois and thus either ‘rural migrants themselves or were their children or grandchildren’ (75). Throughout Ulysses there is a blurring between the living and the dead, where the paralysis transforms ‘characters into ghosts’ (Wurtz 102) as the rural peasants’ sense of community fades as they enter the ‘timeless’ space of the colonial capital, where their story has no place. ‘See the Animals Feed’ The ‘Men, men, men’ (U 8: 653) Bloom sees upon entering Burton’s are an important example of the embodied memories of violence and the resultant intra- and inter- generational trauma of colonial subjects, but they also represent the danger of the ‘evacuation’ of individual stories (Hirsch 107). Joyce reflects Lloyd’s and Gordon’s position that ghosts must be allowed to speak, and they do through Bloom, but Bloom struggles to maintain his ‘speaking part’ in the process. The reason Bloom enters Burton’s and the impact it has on him is complex. Bloom seems to be aware of the impact the pub will have on him before he enters. Just as he thinks earlier in the episode that a ‘barefoot arab [standing] over the grating, breathing in fumes’ will deaden ‘the gnaw of hunger’ (U 8: 235-6), I believe that Bloom uses the Burton as a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 109 | P a g e kind of sewerage grate to deaden the anxiety of Molly’s impending tryst with Boylan. When Bloom thinks, ‘Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then’ (8: 640), he is not necessarily indicating he must eat at the Burton, but that he happens to not feel good. The sights, smells and sounds will help him forget Molly’s ‘hungered flesh’ he could only ‘mutely adore’, which Blazes Boylan would soon gratify in their ‘creaking bed’ (8: 638-9). The assault to Bloom’s senses would stop the ‘pursuit’ (8: 641) of these thoughts. So intense is the stench it ‘gripped his trembling breathe’ (8: 651), but the pub has the initial desired effect; he temporarily loses Blazes Boylan from his mind’s eye: ‘Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said “Not here. Don’t see him”’ (8: 694-5; emphasis added). The by-product of Bloom’s exorcising of personal demons though is the stirring of the intra-generational famished ghosts. Upon Bloom’s entry he very quickly makes the connection between the diners and animals: ‘See the animals feed’ (U 8: 651-2). There upon he observes these men ‘perched’ whilst, ‘swilling’, ‘wolfing’, ‘shovell[ing]’, ‘spitting’, ‘bolting’, ‘scoffing’, and ‘ramming’ their food (8: 654-82). These aren’t times of famine, however, where starvation occasioned the kind of lapse into animality that Mitchel suggested (see Morash ‘Making Memories’ 48). These ‘animals’ are ordering decent food and there is a sense of abundance and not scarcity: ‘Roast beef and cabbage’, ‘stew’, ‘corned [beef] and cabbage’, ‘Roast and mash’ (U 8: 668-9, 680, 699). Despite this availability of food there is no long memory of plentifulness, so one man needs ‘an infant’s saucestained napkin’ around his neck (8: 658), and there seems to be an underlying fear of losing one’s food: ‘Every fellow for his own’ Bloom thinks, ‘tooth and nail . . . [e]at or be eaten. Kill! Kill!’ (8: 701-3). For Bloom this is no place to luncheon but a place where ‘animals’ are content to eat, spit, spill and urinate. ‘Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarettesmoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men’s beery piss, the stale ferment’ (8: 670-1) combines with the ‘pungent meatjuice’ (8: 651) to produce an overwhelming smell so that Bloom’s ‘gorge rose’ and he had to ‘tight[en] the wings of his nose’ (8: 672-9). Lauren Rich suggests that Joyce’s critique of colonialism in ‘Lestrygonians’ is demonstrated by the failed sense of community, with Dubliners ravenous and desperate; ‘born of hunger and fear rather than of personal moral failings (‘A Table for One’ 87): ‘Hungry man is an angry man’ Bloom thinks. He soon determines that he had to ‘[g]et out’ of there as he couldn’t ‘eat a morsel’ (U 8: 677, 673) amongst these mindless eaters: ‘I hate dirty eaters’ he declares (8: 696). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 110 | P a g e In ‘Lestrygonians’ there are many depictions of eyes, often indicating the numbing effects of alcohol. Mr. Breen has ‘oyster eyes’ (U 8: 322), Pat Kinsella has ‘parboiled eyes’ (8: 606), the men at Burton’s have ‘bulging eyes’ (8: 656) and one has ‘sad boozer’s eyes’ (8: 661). But these eyes might be more suggestive. Lloyd notes that what was most traumatic for the witnesses of the Famine was ‘the spectacle of the skeleton’ and the ‘stare’; these starved bodies, or ‘lean worms’ that ‘rise out of earth- holes’ revealed ‘the very minimum of humanity itself’ thus making the living dead cause the subject to question his or her subjecthood (Lloyd 164; Somerville in Lloyd 165-6). Though the spectres were often silent they were often described as penetrating the innermost pores of the observers of the Famine. Englishman Alexander Somerville, who travelled Ireland in 1847, wrote of the ghostly figures he encountered: One ‘phantom farmer’ said nothing ‘but looked – oh! such looks, and thin jaws!’ (in Lloyd 166). Similarly another observer recalls that Famine victims left an impression ‘then and there’ that ‘never has nor ever can be effaced’; ‘the vacant sepulchral stare, which, when once fastened on you, leaves its impress for ever’ (in Lloyd 168; original emphasis). Bloom leaves home with the potato in his pocket in the ‘Calypso’ episode, indeed making a point of checking for it before he leaves the house for breakfast supplies: ‘Potato I have’ (4: 73). While this symbol of the memory of violence and oppression can stifle the articulation and criticism of Irish colonisation, as evidenced in the ‘Circe’ episode, it does not stem the tide of inter- and intra-generational memory embodied at Burton’s. Bloom is overwhelmed by hungry phantoms at the bar, but his subsequent thoughts about the future – ‘years to come’ – make the link between Burton’s and the communal food relief of the Famine period, a point made by Lowe-Evans (18). Bloom contemplates the communal kitchen of the future: All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the street . . . My plate’s empty. After you with your incorporated drinkingcup. Like Sir Philip Crampton’s fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O’Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park . . . Hate people all round you . . . Soup, joint and sweet. Never Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 111 | P a g e know whose thoughts you’re chewing. Then who’d wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse. (U 8: 704-19) The 1847 amendment to the 1838 Poor Law Act recognised the right of certain categories of people to receive relief, usually in the form of cooked food, outside the workhouse instead of limiting relief to inmates of workhouses (McLean The Event and its Terrors 64). It should be reiterated that the workhouse system was not only concerned with helping the most vulnerable, but as George Nicholls states, it was intent on improving ‘the character, habits and social conditions of the people’ (in McLean 58). This intention was reflected in the amended law also, as outdoor relief was made available only to the elderly, sick, disabled, destitute widows with two or more dependent (‘legitimate’) children. Able bodied people, it was reasoned, would learn to rely on relief. Thus if an able bodied person wanted to be admitted into a workhouse but there were no places available, they would be given relief for a six month period only. To further combat idleness, begging was punishable by 30 days’ imprisonment (64). Importantly those who still occupied more than a quarter acre could not be considered destitute. As Stuart McLean observes this ‘Quarter Acre’ policy’s stated aim was ‘to facilitate the consolidation of holdings by encouraging impoverished tenants to give up their land in order to qualify for relief’ (64). Using the Victorian philanthropic discourse of the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor (74), the British Government saw those worthy of assistance as those who relinquished their right to land and contributed to the continued restructuring of the Irish political economy and the concomitant rationalisation of agriculture. The ‘worthy’ thus helped to fracture any bonds of traditional community which might threaten the Coloniser’s monopoly on violence. For the deserving destitute, the ‘relief’ that was offered was often soup, though ‘soup’ is perhaps rather too generous a name for what was distributed to the starving in Dublin: Perhaps nothing during the famine years more appropriately symbolized England’s ‘helping hand’ to Ireland than Soyer’s Dublin soup kitchen, for it was there on April 5, 1847, with the beating of drums and the sounding of horns, with the Union Jack proudly flying from the kitchen’s smoking chimney and a splendidly attired gentry nodding its approval, that the British government fed Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 112 | P a g e the Irish a soup incapable of keeping a newborn cat alive. (Gallagher in Lowe- Evans 18) Irish food historian Regina Sexton comments that still today ‘the mere mention of soup in an Irish context is often enough to evoke memories of the Great Famine’ (A Little History of Irish Food 9). The ‘Soup Kitchen Act’ (1847) was implemented by the British Government to ostensibly feed the ever increasing numbers of desperate Irish. Alexis Soyer, a French chef from the Reform Club in London, was invited by the Lord Lieutenant to set up a soup kitchen in Dublin, a wooden and canvas structure placed at the main entrance to Phoenix Park (Lowe-Evans 19; Sexton 9). While Soyer no doubt improved some cooking methods thus retaining nutritional value of some ingredients, such as advising soup kitchen cooks to leave the skins on certain vegetables and not boiling meat for twenty-four hours (Soyer The Poor Man’s Regenerator 16, 18), he confuses what might be a nourishing broth for people otherwise well fed and the sustenance needed for the malnourished. He provides the following recipe for two gallons of soup as a base for adopting the larger quantities needed for soup kitchens. Soyer’s Dublin soup kitchen for example, had a three hundred gallon steam boiler (Gallagher in Lowe-Evans 19). For two gallons, a cook needed two ounces of dripping, quarter pound of meat, a quarter pound of onions, a quarter pound of turnips, two ounces of leeks, three ounces of celery, three quarter of a pound of ‘common flour’, half pound of pearly barley, three ounces of salt, and a quarter ounce of brown sugar (Soyer Regenerator 20). Soyer declared that the soup ‘has been tasted by numerous noblemen, members of parliament, and several ladies who have lately visited my kitchen department, and who have considered it very good and nourishing’ (21), though this testimony is problematic. By my estimates, following Soyer’s suggestion of one quart per person (just over one litre – 1.1365l), the distribution of the meat would be approximately 28 grams per person (113 grams for the whole pot of 2 gallons or 4.55 litres), which equates to around 50 calories per person from the meat portion. With substantial calories certainly attributable to dripping and cereals under normal circumstances, the ‘watered down’ nature of the soup makes the nutrition negligible and barely worth the exertion of getting to the soup kitchen. The relief recipients would have received far more calories from the quarter pound of bread (or savoury biscuit), approximately 300 calories, that Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 113 | P a g e the kitchen distributed after the soup was eaten (Soyer Regenerator 43). As Thomas Gallagher (Paddy’s Lament) emphasises, when the English medical journal The Lancet made a chemical analysis of the soup it stated: ‘This soup quackery (for it is no less) seems to be taken by the rich as a salve for their consciences’ (in Lowe-Evans 19). With unsatisfied stomachs leaving soup kitchens, poignantly Joyce has Bloom reflect on ‘Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot’ and the dissolution of any sense of community: ‘Hate people all round you’ (U 8: 714, 716). As Alexander M. Sullivan bitterly states in New Ireland (1878): I doubt if the world ever saw so huge a demoralization, so great a degradation, visited upon a once high-spirited and sensitive people. All over the country large iron boilers were set up in which what was called ‘soup’ was concocted . . . I once thought – ay, and often bitterly said, in public and in private – that never, never would our people recover the shameful humiliation of that brutal public soup-boiler scheme. (in Ulin 32) It isn’t just the paucity of food supplied through the soup kitchen that is pondered by Bloom, as he also considers how food relief distribution dehumanised the Irish. He (re)imagines the hungry ‘trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled’, ‘Devour[ing] contents in the street’, and using communal drinking cups (U 8: 704-5, 711; emphasis added). Bloom considers Dubliners via animalistic metaphors, but what is most important here, as indicated by Sullivan, is that this depravity and dehumanisation was triggered and perpetuated by the English relief machine. In his description of his soup kitchen Soyer explains with Victorian exactitude how the soup is to be dispensed and how the kitchen can efficiently feed thousands. He explains how in a kitchen there would be rows of tables, ‘eighteen inches wide’, along which one hundred holes are cut where ‘quart iron white enamelled basin[s], with a metal spoon attached thereto by a neat chain’ are secured (Soyer Regenerator 41-2). Outside the tent structure the deserving hungry would form a ‘zigzag passage capable of containing one hundred persons in a small space in the open air’, and at the entrance ‘is a check-clerk, and an indicator, or machine which numbers every person that passes’ (43). Soyer continues by explaining the ‘six minute’ feeding cycle: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 114 | P a g e When the soup . . . is ready, notice is given by ringing the bell, and the one hundred persons are admitted, and take their places at the table – the basins being previously filled, grace is said – the bell is again rung for them to begin, and a sufficient time is allowed them to eat their quart of food. During the time they are emptying their basins, the outside passage is again filling; as soon as they are done, and are going out at the other side, the basin and spoon is cleaned, and again filled; the bell rings, and a fresh number admitted; this continuing every successive six minutes, feeding one thousand persons per hour. (Soyer Regenerator 44) Further contributing to the dehumanisation of the Famine victims, Morash notes that ‘Fashionable Dublin flocked to view Soyer’s soup kitchen in Phoenix Park’ (Morash The Hungry Voice 282), causing Ireland’s nationalist newspaper The Freeman’s Journal to remark on April 6, 1847 that ‘Dublin society pays 5 shillings each to see paupers feed on Soyer’s soup. Five shillings each to watch the burning blush of shame chasing pallidness from poverty’s wan cheek! When the animals in the Zoological Gardens can be inspected at feeding time for sixpence!’ (in Morash 282). The assertion of Colonial violence, that essence of Empire (Joyce ‘Force’ CW 24), justifies the extra money the elite are willing to pay. If we consider that from the time of Erasmus’s treatise of 1530, De civilitate morum puerilium, where table manners were assigned crucial importance, there is something contradictory in this Victorian flaunting of feeding efficiency. As Paul Connerton notes, the impact of the treatise was ‘immediate, wide and lasting’ with the work being rapidly translated into English, with 130 editions, thirteen of these being in the late eighteenth century (How Societies Remember 82). Since Erasmus, ‘outer bodily propriety’ such as ‘carriage, gesture, posture, facial expression and dress’ were seen as the expression of the inner person, with decorum and restraint being essential attributes for civility (civilité). Connerton summarises some key aspects in Erasmus’s proprieties of the body: Some people, says Erasmus, devour food rather than eat it. They behave as if they were thieves wolfing down their booty or as if they were about to be carried off to prison. They put their hands into the dishes when they are scarcely seated Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 115 | P a g e and push so much into their mouths at once that their cheeks bulge like bellows. They eat and drink without even pausing, not because they are hungry or thirsty, but because they can control their movements in no other way. They scratch their heads or play with a knife or are unable to refrain from coughing and snorting and spitting. All such signs or rustic embarrassment and coarseness must be avoided. You should not be the first to take food from a dish. You should not search the whole dish with your hand or turn the dish around so that a better piece comes to you, but should take the first piece that presents itself. It is impolite to lick greasy fingers or dip bread you have already bitten into the sauce. It is indecorous to offer someone else some meat you are eating and it shows a want of elegance to remove chewed food from the mouth and put it back on the plate. And it is good if conversation interrupts the meal from time to time. (Connerton 82-3) We can discern here multiple infringements made by the men at Burton’s who ‘wolf’, eat without pause, ‘spit’, and remove gristle from their mouths. One can argue that these indecorous movements were turned into intra- and inter-generational habits learned from the Famine generation. If we suppose the starving peasants in Dublin avoided starvation by presenting themselves at soup kitchens, a consequence of this is that they were trained to eat their bowlful in 6 minutes; no time to talk, just enough to ‘wolf’. In Joyce’s representation of Famine ‘relief’ eating, we see that ‘[i]n habitual memory the past, as it were, sedimented in the body’ (Connerton 72); their uncivilised eating, though ostensibly something to be corrected, instead was embedded making the Irish the perpetual savage to be controlled. Thus, whilst we can read the ‘savage’ eating as the internalised intra- and inter-generational trauma of desperation and fear, and a lost sense of community (Rich 87), we can also interpret it as the result of the dehumanising colonial relief administration. The relief scheme, in effect, dehumanised the recipients and reinforced the perceptions of the Irish as ‘pigs’. Brantlinger notes, in relation to Spencer’s early accounts, that the ‘wretchednesse’ of the Irish crawling from the forests starving actually says more about the ‘violence of imperialism at its genocidal worst’ (96). We might argue the same here in relation, not only to the Famine and ‘agricultural reform’, but also to Famine relief. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 116 | P a g e The discussion of the Irish as subhuman has a long history, and Bloom’s ‘See the animals feed’ has a deeper political significance. Cheng notes that prior to the operationalising of Darwinian evolutionary discourse to make sense of the Irish, the Irish were identified as barbarians (19-21). In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the English, frustrated in their attempts to subdue the Irish, compared the Irish to the Indians of the New World: they were ‘lawless’, ‘nomads’, ‘treacherous’, ‘cruel’, ‘cannibals’, and ‘savage’ (Brantlinger 94). Edmund Spenser’s A View of the Present State of Ireland (1633) is a case in point: Marrie those bee the most barbarous and loathly conditions of any people (I thinke) under heaven; for . . . they doe use all the beastly behaviour that may be; they oppresse all men, they spoile aswell the subject, as the enemy; they steale, they are cruell and bloodie . . . licentious, swearers, and blasphemers, common ravishers of woemen, and murtherers of children. (in Brantlinger 95) Spenser’s scathing comments also lead to his recommendation of extermination with the sword and enforced starvation (Brantlinger 95). Describing what he perceived as a strong case for more cost effective starvation, Spencer writes of the 1579-83 Desmond rebellion (or ‘Warres of Mounster’), where the famine forced the rebels to ‘consume themselves, and devoure one another’: The proofe whereof, I saw sufficiently exampled in these late warres of Mounster . . . for not withstanding that the same was a most rich and plentifull countrey, full of corne and cattle . . . yet ere one yeare and a halfe they were brought to such wretchednesse, as that any stony heart would have rued the same. Out of every corner of the woods and glynnes they came creeping forth upon their hands, for their legges could not beare them; they looked like anatomies of death, they spake like ghosts crying out of their graves; they did eate the dead carrions. (in Brantlinger 95-6) Coinciding with an increase in Irish political activism in the 1860s—1880s the barbarous ‘peasant Paddy’ was transformed in Victorian caricature into apes and gorillas, with epithets such as ‘Caliban, Frankenstein, Yahoo and gorilla’ (Curtis Apes and Angels 2, 22, 31), warranting Madden’s comment in Stephen Hero about the ‘old stale libels – the drunken Irishman, the baboon-faced Irishman that we see in Punch’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 117 | P a g e (SH 65; Cheng 33). As Cheng, Brantlinger and Nally point out, it was the dominant Victorian Anglo-Saxon belief that the English and Irish were separate ‘races’, and the failure of the Irish race to ‘progress’ was due to racial inferiority (Brantlinger 100; Cheng 20; Nally 82). Couched in Darwinian discourse, this perception of the Irish was bolstered by race theorist John Beddoe’s The Races of Britain (1885), who developed a formula around quantities of melanin in skin, eyes and hair that ‘proved’ the Irish were ‘more Negroid than the English’, and anthropological and ethnological ‘data’ that claimed that the characteristics of the heads of Irish people — absent chins, receding or sloping foreheads, large projecting mouths with thick lips — suggesting the Irish were ‘the missing link’ (in Cheng 31-2, 37; Curtis 29, 94). Nally suggests though that supposed melanin quantities were not sufficient indicators to provide enough of a gap between the Irish and the Anglo-Saxons, so English racism also draws on ‘domestic barbarism’ — the domestic disorder and poor public hygiene — of the Irish as the signifier of race (85). As Curtis and Cheng maintain though, the ‘pejorative singular’ – ‘The Irishman’ – was endowed with the very traits that were ‘most feared and despised in respectable English society’: ‘subservient, disorderly, uncivilised, unenterprising, cowardly, indecorous’, for example (Curtis 5; Cheng 20-1). Though the Catholic Emancipation Bill was ratified in 1829 Nally argues convincingly that ‘racial and cultural prejudices were reinforced and amplified by pre-existing suspicions about loyalty, morality, and industry of Roman Catholics’ (82-4). Catholicism was seen as superstitious, irrational, feminine and bestial, and as such ‘antiprogressive’ (Brantlinger 101). In Ulysses Joyce problematises the English labels of barbarians and animals for the Irish by exhibiting a struggle against the internalisation of this dehumanisation. Bloom’s ability to maintain his ‘speaking’ part requires effort lest he too becomes one of the walking dead at Burton’s. While Bloom judges other men at Burton’s for their animal- like eating habits, for example, he notices that one man spits half-masticated gristle back onto his plate, another picks his teeth, another licks his plate, and another talks with his mouth full (U 8: 658-93), he also reveals his own proximity to animality. ‘Scavenging’ for something to eat at the viceregal high tea he ends up pouring mayonnaise on his plums instead of custard (8: 352-5). He also admits to the unsavoury weakness for raw pastry (8: 874-5). While Bloom loses his appetite at Burton’s, and temporarily forgets Boylan, he orders a Gorgonzola sandwich (8: 764). In Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 118 | P a g e contradistinction and as an anecdote to the animalistic eating at Burton’s, here Bloom ‘cut[s] his sandwich into slender strips’ and studs each strip with a yellow blob of mustard (8: 777-782). Significantly, he eats the sandwich ‘with relish’ (8: 818). When the reader first meets Bloom in the ‘Calypso’ episode we are immediately told he ‘ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls’ (4: 1-2). However, as noted in the previous chapter, just as Bloom seemingly appears to ‘relish’ his bondage, so too he seems to exhibit a continued ‘relish’ for offal — the ‘leftovers of others’ (Roos 186) — and the new peasant staple, bread. Bread was for the English the ‘ultimate hallmark of improvement’ (Lloyd 171), benefitting as it did the transference of potato yielding small holdings to large scale grain growing farms. Upon a visit to the ‘new rationalised landscape’ of Gweedore, for example, one Commissioner praised how ‘this former desert and bleak wilderness – this example of barbarism and starvation’, had been transformed into ‘fertile corn fields, the seat of industry and content, and into a humanized abode’ (in Nally 208). As Lloyd explains: In Ireland, [the] moral economy was also an alternative economy that was deeply embedded in the opposition of the potato as means of subsistence to corn as commodity. The potato is the antithesis of corn in almost every respect. Unlike corn the potato is not conducive to storage or long distance transportation . . . The Bulk and slowness of the potato . . . defies that other critical capitalist virtue, speed of movement across space. Dependent on a food that lacks marketability, that cannot effectively be circulated as a commodity, the Irish fail[ed] to enter into Empire-wide market commodities. (Irish Culture and Colonial Modernity 37) In the ‘Circe’ episode Bloom reflects that he has ‘been a perfect pig’ (U 15: 3397). Just as Spenser’s judgments of Irish wretchedness reveal imperial violence, Joyce’s symbol of offal and other ‘left overs’, such as the pig’s crubeen and sheep’s trotter he buys in ‘Circe’, reveal a submissiveness to colonisation through the conditioned acceptance of scraps from the ‘rump’ of (Bello) England (15: 2839; emphasis added). Joyce tellingly has dogs ‘take to him’, and as Bloom reflects that his purchase of sheep and pig’s feet is ‘Absurd’, ‘Eat it and get all pigsticky’, he ventures to feed them to the dogs (15: 557- 65). While he regrets the ‘waste of money’, ‘O let it slide. Two and six’, it is the bullmastiff – an English breed – that ‘mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 119 | P a g e growling greed, crunching bones’ (15: 658-74; original emphasis). The scene is nonetheless complex. Bloom exhibits the seemingly insatiable appetite for the lowly, a rejection of his conditioning, but also the eventual reacceptance of the coloniser’s assigned label of subhuman. It is significant that earlier in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode Bloom considers the ‘[p]enny dinner’, where the Dubliner poor still eat with the ‘[k]nife and fork chained to the table’ (U 8: 237-8). As Gifford reveals though, there was a further imposition and demoralisation as the recipients had to eat standing up (163). Even though this organisation that operated from the Christian Union building, offering free breakfast on Sundays, and the ‘penny and half-penny dinners’ available during the winter months (Gifford 163), the symbol of distrust, oppression and coerced submission (the chain) is still evident. While fifty years after the famine the spoon has been replaced with knives and forks, suggestive of more substantial eating, it is even more telling that an implement for attack and defence – the knife – is chained. In the ‘Proteus’ episode Stephen makes a connection between himself and the ancestors of the Irish. Just as Joyce thinks of Irishness as a blend of identities (‘Saints and Sages’ CW 159-61), Stephen makes an association with Danish Viking invaders, a more ‘unchained’ version of the Irish: Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane Vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breast when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers’ knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lust my waves. (U 3: 300-7) Although these Scandinavian ancestors also experienced famine they were not impotent. Stephen’s thoughts of ‘his people’ when juxtaposed with Bloom’s thought about the Famine emphasise the impact of England’s colonisation and the manacling of the Irish. The ancestors that occupy Stephen’s thoughts did not line up in zigzag formation to eat their portion of flavoured water with a spoon on a chain, but with their tomahawks and knives they ran to scale and hack their prey. As Kevin Whelan observes, throughout Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 120 | P a g e Dubliners and Portrait Joyce employs a particular lexicon to describe Dublin (and colonised Ireland more broadly): ‘spectral, shrivelled, stale, vague, mean, dull, dark, melancholy, sombre, sour, sullen, gaunt, bleak, bitter, denuded, pallid, grey, servile, consumptive, narrow, tawdry, gloomy, listless’ (Whelan ‘Memories of “The Dead”’ 65). The description of these early Irish in Ulysses with their weapons and tools ‘aglitter’ highlights the extent of the decline of the Irish. Even more telling, Stephen’s ancestors aren’t thought of in animalistic terms; it is the whales that ‘spout’ and ‘hobble’. As Wurtz maintains, ‘Joyce’s Gothic’ generally doesn’t rely on the established tropes of the haunted house, a dark and stormy night or a preternatural fiend. The key gothic feature of Ulysses is its conjuring of ‘the sense of claustrophobia’ through the ‘incessant return of the past’ that threatens to dominate daily life and smother the characters (103). It would be an oversight not to acknowledge that in 1847 there were reports of attacks against soup kitchens, with the starving demanding employment, not porridge and soup. There were also demands for receiving a ration of meal so that people could cook for themselves instead of receiving soup. Relief committees were usually reluctant to distribute meal, notes McLean, as they claimed that people had inadequate cooking facilities, had poor domestic hygiene that might aggravate the spread of diarrhoea and dysentery, and may even exchange the meal for alcohol, tea or tobacco (McLean 85). McLean remarks that if relief recipients were successful in having their demands met, modest though they were, the victory was often short lived. In County Clare when the Poor Law Commission reneged on their agreed substitution of meal for soup, and had troops sent in anticipation of riots, what followed ‘was not rioting but a series of peaceful protest marches, all of which failed to convince the commissioners to reconsider their decision’ (McLean 85). While the 1826 Parliamentary Committee feared that the fecund Irish population would ‘fill up every vacuum created in England or Scotland and reduce the laboring classes to a uniform state of degradation and misery’ (in McLean 65; also see Lloyd ‘Indigent Sublime’ 161), the Famine allayed England’s fears as not only had the Irish fertility rate declined but ‘the very instinct for sex had been diminished drastically’ (Lowe-Evans 19). Lowe-Evans suggest that this ‘biological impotence’ mirrored the ‘apparent powerlessness to stop the English landlords from driving them off the land and shipping out crops which could have saved their lives’ (19). As argued in the previous chapter, Joyce’s reflections on Queen Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 121 | P a g e Victoria’s visits to Ireland also reflect the modest protest and silence of the Irish (CW 163-5). Gallagher notes that during the Famine ‘the forebearance of the Irish peasantry, and the calm submission with which they bore the deadliest ills that can fall on man can scarcely be paralleled in the annals of any people’ (in Lowe-Evans 19). ‘Strandentwining Cable of all Flesh’: Corpsechewers In addition to Joyce’s sense of ‘claustrophobia’, the more obvious gothic trope is the post-mortem ‘corpsechewing’. James Fairhall uses Stacy Alaimo’s concept of ‘trans- corporeality’, where the human is always intermeshed with the environment, to explore this image (Fairhall ‘Nature, Existential Shame, and Transcendence’ 92). Despite the human drive to transcend nature, we ‘are continually pulled back into our physical selves by natural laws whose impingement we feel to be, at times, alien and shame- provoking’ (Fairhall 66). Stephen’s thoughts and apparition of his mother as ‘Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! (U 1: 278) and ‘corpsechewer’ (15: 4214) are thus more complicated, for in addition to personal guilt surrounding her death, where upon seeing her he chokes with ‘fright, remorse and horror’ (15: 4185-6), Stephen also has ‘existential shame’; ‘the painful emotion a person naturally feels on encountering any kind of shortcoming or limitation’ (Jordan in Fairhall 67). As Stephen walks along Sandymount in the ‘Proteus’ episode he considers how the ‘cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh’ (U 3: 37). Fairhall suggests that this ‘intergenerational umbilical cord’ (70) taints Stephen and his progenitors as they are ‘made not begotten’ by the navel-less ‘Belly without blemish’ and the ‘Womb of sin’ (U 3: 42-5). The cord is more than a representation of the myth of origin, however, as it connects the Irish to Famine and the intra-generational memory of putrefying bodies. This cord of Famine and decay that binds the Irish was introduced in Stephen Hero as Stephen’s mother asks Stephen if he knows anything about the body, in particular the ‘hole we all have in the stomach’ as his sister Isobel had some ‘matter coming away’ (SH 163). Though we don’t know what this ‘matter’ is, T. P. O’Connor [1889] records one writer’s medical observations of the Famine, where among numerous horrendous symptoms there was ‘a loathsome, putrid smell emanating from Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 122 | P a g e their persons, as if decomposition of the vital organs had anticipated death’ (in Ulin 40). At the beginning of Ulysses we also learn that as May Dedalus dies ‘[a] bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting’ (U 1: 108-10). The image for Stephen is beyond a sorrowful familial remembrance as he links this bile to Dublin and sees the bay and skyline as a ‘dull green mass of liquid’ (1: 107-8). In the ‘Circe’ episode May Dedalus’s face is ‘worn and noseless, green with gravemould’ and ‘a green rill of bile trickling from the side of her mouth’ (15: 4159, 4189-90; original emphasis), reinforcing Joyce’s allusion to the physical effects of the Great Famine (Ulin 40). As Morash and Ulin observe, the colour green is evoked in the majority of Famine descriptions of the dying as during the Famine dead bodies were often discovered ‘with grass in their mouths and in their stomachs and bowels’ (O’Connor in Ulin 40). Morash follows the literary genealogy of this ‘memory’ of the Famine from Edmund Spencer [1580] who recorded the effects of the Munster Famine, noting that ‘yf they founde a plot of water cresses or shamrocks, there they flocked as to a feast’ (‘Making Memories’ 50). Though Spenser’s reflections are through the imperial lens that uses a bank of images to affirm the animality of the Irish, these were subsequently appropriated by the Irish to advance their status as victims (Morash 50). In the United Irishman newspaper [1848], Morash quotes a Famine report where ‘[a] poor man . . . lay down on the road-side, where shortly after he was found dead, his face turned to the earth, and a portion of the grass and turf on which he lay masticated in his mouth’ (in Morash 50). The desperate image of ‘green mouths’ is also recorded in poems such as ‘The Boreen Side’ [1848]: ‘A stripling, the last of his race, lies dead / In a nook by the Boreen side . . . Where he ate the green cresses and died’ (in Morash 49-50). Canon Sheehan’s 1905 novel Glenanaar refers to the ‘lines of green around the mouth, the dry juice of grass and nettles’, as one of the ‘appalling pictures’ of the Famine that ‘springs up to memory’ (in Morash 48-9). Morash doesn’t refer to Joyce’s place in this genealogy, but Joyce does continue this use of Famine images. Furthermore, Joyce’s repetition of the image of green mouths from this ‘fund’ gives the Famine lexicon ‘added credence’ (Morash 51). Not only does Joyce encourage the reader to follow his addition to Famine vocabulary but he also draws on and perpetuates established signs. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 123 | P a g e The confluence of the image of a green mouth with the Gothic trope of the encounter with the vampiric corpsechewer compounds Joyce’s strategy to highlight the Irish ‘incessant return of the past and its dominance over daily life’, and the effect that ‘living modern life in the colonial metropolis [has] on the individual psyches of the characters’ (Wurtz 103). In his genealogical study of ‘corpsechewers’ as ‘vampires’ William Orem points out that many of the earliest ‘vampires’ didn’t focus on blood sucking but on the phenomenon of manducation, or ‘postmortem chewing’ (‘Corspe-chewers’ 62). In early accounts such as Philipp Rohr’s Dissertatio Historico-Philosophica De Masticatione Mortuorum [1679] — which incidentally Orem notes was at the Zurich Zentralbibliothek where Joyce was researching when writing ‘Telemachus’ (64) — vampires chewed their shrouds in their coffins, and gnawed their own bodies as well as nearby corpses. They ‘devoured the grave clothes’ and swallowed and crunched ‘the cerements and the linen napkins which wrap their jaws’ (Rohr in Orem 63). Orem importantly indicates Paul Barber’s work (Vampires, Burial, and Death) which points out that a corpse that chews on its shroud or limbs was thought to bring death to the living relatives, and so apotropaics (‘methods of turning evil away’) were used (Barber 46-7). In Prussia, for example, a coin would be placed in the mouth of the corpse, or the mouth would be filled with dirt so the corpse would not chew (47). Read in this light, Joyce’s chewing also reflects eminent sociologist Robert Hertz’s theory of the ‘unquiet and spiteful souls’ that ‘roam the earth for ever’ (Death and the Right Hand 85). For Hertz the organic event of death is accompanied by ‘a complex mass of beliefs, emotions and activities which give it its distinctive character’ (27). This was violated during the Famine, however, as the ubiquity of death meant burials, if they did occur, were ‘indifferent’ and were enacted in casual haste (McLean 95). As Brendan O Cathaoir (Famine Diary), Roger McHugh (‘The Famine in Irish Oral Tradition’), McLean, and Ulin have all noted, there was tremendous anxiety over burial ritual during the Famine. The dying Famine victims would be seen ‘dragging themselves toward the local graveyards’ and friends and relatives of the dead ‘would resort to every means to lay the dead with their ancestors’ (McHugh 245; in Ulin 42). Despite this anxiety McLean notes survivors’ accounts that suggest churchyard burials were the exception rather than the norm (97). During the Famine the western landscape ‘was quite literally body-strewn’, as corpses were buried where they were found or lay unburied by hedges where rats would attend to the flesh (98; Gibson Strong Spirit 60). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 124 | P a g e The mass grave, McLean maintains, is the most widely disseminated image of the Famine where ‘bodies were piled anonymously and indiscriminately’ into pits. At Skibbereen, for example, ‘the dead were placed in “strata”, a little clay being thrown over each “stratum”, before the next was laid on . . . [I]n some cases the “stratum” would consist of ten to twelve bodies . . . [but] regularities were not always observed and . . . the dead were thrown sometimes into pits in a careless manner, and . . . the pits were covered when they could hold no more’ (McLean 101). The ‘theatre of death’, McLean suggests, overran the entirety of social space so the corpse that was traditionally dealt with in culturally prescribed ways disrupted the survivors’ normal propulsion of the dead body and their concomitant ritual reassertion of themselves as ‘living’ (McLean 95; also see Kristeva Powers of Horror 2-4). Instead, the Famine ‘hardened the hearts of people’ (in McLean 94) as death became ‘everyday’ rather than ‘extraordinary’ (Kerry Examiner [1847] in McLean 94). In addition to May Dedalus representing Irish Famine victims as restless, ‘chewing’ on their grave clothes and haunting the living, we might suppose that she also indicates the great secret of the Famine: Cannibalism. Thomas Jackson Rice explores metaphorical cannibalism in Joyce, where Joyce’s aesthetic is read as a ‘denatured relation to English progressively liberat[ing] him to disassemble and reassemble language to increase the artistic “serviceability” of words’ (Cannibal Joyce xvii), but cannibalism in Joyce can also be considered more literally. Joyce’s ‘corpsechewing’ takes into account the silence that encrypts famine cannibalism. This cannibalism is not from a psychogenic perspective (explained in terms of psychosexual needs), or hermeneutical (where cannibal practice is part of a larger life, death, reproduction cycle), but is materialist where ‘people adapt to hunger or protein deficiency by eating one another’ (Sanday Divine Hunger 3). Whilst there are different cultural practices of cannibalism, and ‘[i]n different contexts it may be seen as an inhuman, ghoulish nightmare or as a sacred, moral duty’, it is nonetheless ‘always . . . encompassed by the order of ritual and the tenor of ambivalence’ (8). Cormac Ó Gráda concurs that ‘the silences surrounding cannibalism are almost deafening enough to arouse suspicion’ (Curtis in Ó Gráda ‘Eating People is Wrong’ 23, and Eating People Is Wrong, and Other Essays 5, 11-37). In ‘Circe’ the emaciated body of Stephen’s mother ‘rises stark through the floor’, and as she ‘fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and opens her toothless mouth’, she utters ‘a silent word’, and a ‘choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly’ (U 15: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 125 | P a g e 4157-62). The ‘voiceless’ May Dedalus not only reflects the Irish silence surrounding their own subjugation, as has been investigated previously, but this ‘corpsechewer’ also reflects the taboo against cannibalism. As Ó Gráda notes, when and if it occurred, it would have been furtive, all traces hidden by the perpetrators’, necessitating also a taboo ‘inhibited others from recalling it’ (Ó Gráda ‘Eating People’ 30). In his paper from the Irish Famine Commemorative Lecture Series, Joseph Lee states that ‘[t]here was also of course a great deal of psychic decomposition, even right down to some cases of cannibalism, even, or especially, cannibalism in one’s own family. It was, as far as we can tell, of the deranged, of those who were themselves victims, driven mad by hunger’ (in Ó Gráda 23-4). May Dedalus’s ‘subtle smile of death’s madness’ further points to the possible link to cannibalism, but Joyce’s depiction of madness is sympathetic. May Dedalus in this light is ‘trans-corporal’, challenging the human desire to transcend nature. Through the inter-generational ‘strandentwining cable of all flesh’ Stephen fills in the silence of her ‘voicelessness’ with the deeming of his mother a ‘corpsechewer’, thus verbalising the existential shame of the Irish. Conclusion While Irish historiography exonerates the English of charges of genocide, there is little disagreement that the government could have done more to relieve starvation if its efforts were not focussed on long-term agricultural reform and the economic rationalisation of the clachan system. The link between the Great Famine, geography and fractured communities, via the long experience of land appropriation, eviction and displacement, considered alongside Famine ‘memory’ and allusions to Famine images, is seemingly not explored in Joycean scholarship. The nightmare of the ‘intertwined history of the city and country’ (Fairhall 75) refers to a complex intra- and inter- generational trauma of the Famine that considers the effects spatially as well as temporally. Joyce’s trope of famished ghosts is complicated when considered alongside recent developments in Irish historiography. The destruction of rural communities and the mass mobilisation of the rural Irish to cities meant Dublin witnessed a desperate people. Relief, pointedly, was also linked to a relinquishing of claims to land ownership, thus making what might have been a self-preserving, temporary stay in a city a permanent relocation. The ‘modern’ urban environment Joyce represents one to two generations later is not characterised by the intimacy and cooperation identified Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 126 | P a g e with the traditional clachan system. Instead Joyce presents throughout his work the atmosphere of distrust and economic insecurity, at least in part promulgated by the project of English economic rationalisation. Chapter One considered the Famine as a violent act, and argued that the pathologies of colonial oppression prevent social, economic and political progress. With the mobilisation of rural Irish, the imperial power affected a neutralisation of community and hindered the development of political association and the ability for a ‘prior covenant’. Furthermore, Bloom’s allusions to Victorian soup kitchen relief schemes, a point noted by Lowe-Evans and Ulin, are all the more poignant when they are considered alongside historical evidence that explores the paltriness of the relief, and the enforced dehumanisation as the starving were ushered through the ‘system’, timed, and observed like zoo animals. The Irish have long been portrayed as animals, pigs, subhuman, and the tag would be confirmed as reports of the Irish ‘scavenging’ were circulated during the Famine. Perceptions of Irish animality were part of the English arsenal to continue their subjugation and justified the neglect of ‘proper bonds of obligation’. Joyce’s ‘famished ghosts’ represent not only the intra- and inter-generational trauma of the ‘event’, but the idea that those Dubliners caught in the past, but who don’t understand the past and how it impacts them, are prevented from progressing their narratives beyond immediate satiation. The men at Burton’s are men ‘out of time’ who have both internalised projected animality but also reflect the embodied, dehumanising efficiencies of Victorian ‘relief’. Bloom, though struggling to carve out a space in time, manages to distinguish himself and indicates the danger of being caught in the nets of the intra-generational memory. Joyce’s use of gothic tropes is interesting, and although scholars have considered his use of the vampiric figure, May Dedalus, as corpsechewer, also intimates the possible historical shame surrounding famine cannibalism, an area of Irish historiography Ó Gráda has recently investigated. Joyce’s gothic is postcolonial as it stands in contrast to the Anglo-Irish gothic which expresses fear of the ‘native population’ as they endeavoured to create their own Anglo-Irish cultural identity (Wurtz 104). Joyce’s gothic also diverges from James Clarence Mangan’s gothic poems about the Famine (for example, ‘The Nameless One’ and ‘Siberia’; see also see Morash The Hungry Voice). For Joyce, Mangan’s gothic was too focused on the discourse of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 127 | P a g e internalised sin, where even in his ‘fiery moments’, he still isn’t ‘free from it’ (Joyce ‘James Clarence Mangan’ CW 81). For the men in Burton’s there is no alternative definition of human life yet, but it seems Joyce is presenting these spectres to Dublin itself; parading the apparition as the precursor to the reawakening. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 128 | P a g e Chapter 3 – Parnell, Failed Hospitality and Decline of the Domestic Realm ‘[T]he angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat . . . Justice it means but it’s everybody eating everybody else’ (Ulysses 7:212-14) In A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Stephen describes Ireland as ‘the old sow that eats her farrow’ (179), alluding to Irish complicity in their own oppression. As indicated in previous chapters Joyce’s narrative of the state of the Irish follows a complex interweaving of both structural impediments and failed agency. For example, while the Irish have been victims some, like the Citizen, have also benefitted financially at the expense of other Irish. The colonial experience of the Irish is thus to some extent predicated on class. If England has metaphorically ‘eaten’ Ireland, then the Irish have also devoured their own. In addition to the Great Irish Famine and the concurrent, violent ‘reforming’ of the Irish agricultural system, another key event of Irish history prevalent in Joyce’s work is the ‘betrayal’ and death of Charles Stewart Parnell (1846- 91). Joyce’s essays ‘Home Rule Comes of Age’ (1907) and ‘The Shade of Parnell’ (1912) reveal his admiration for Parnell. They also represent Parnell’s political downfall and highlight the tensions in Ireland between desires for independence and the pressures of Catholic morality. As Andrew Gibson argues, we might read Ulysses as an emancipatory project that can be encapsulated with Stephen Dedalus’s two key phrases: ‘History . . . is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’, and ‘In here it is that I must kill the priest and the king’ (Ulysses 2: 377; 15: 4436-7; see Gibson Joyce’s Revenge). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 129 | P a g e A primary focus of this chapter is the Dedalus family, and though the textual evidence moves to Ulysses, the household’s decline begins in Portrait, and more specifically, I suggest, at the Christmas Dinner scene. It is symbolic that the decline is most visible after the politically charged conversation at this celebration, and telling that the conflict involves both ‘host’ and ‘guest’. Margaret Visser’s The Rituals of Dinner observes that traditionally hospitality means the willingness of hosts and strangers (or guests) to be ‘constrained by intricate sets of obligations’ for the sake of ‘peace, order, and the benefit of the whole community’ (91). This is especially important in cultures — and I would add very relevant for a post-Famine colonial Ireland — where ‘people were apt to find themselves in the role of travellers or strangers’ (Flammang The Taste of Civilization 104). Janet Flammang affirms that hospitality is in the individual’s and the group’s best interest, especially in a hostile environment such as one with an uncertain food supply (104), but in Portrait the common threat of suppressive colonial domination and its concomitant insecurities is secondary to internal, religious conflict. The Christmas dinner suggests a nightmare of both the priest and king ‘devouring’ Parnell, the man Parnellites like Casey and Simon Dedalus believed was ‘born to lead us’ (Portrait 33). A number of scholars have considered both Joyce’s devotion to a particular Parnellite mythology (for example Fairhall A Question of History, especially ‘Literary Politics’; Gibson Joyce’s Revenge, ‘Introduction’). Others such as Seamus Deane (‘Dead Ends: Joyce’s Finest Moments’ in Semicolonial Joyce), explore the ‘ghostly version’ of the world of Parnell in turn of the century Dublin, and Allan H. Simmons (‘Topography and Transformation’ in Joyce, Imperialism and Colonialism) observes the historical dimension of Joyce’s Dublin where locations and architecture root the Irish to the past and prevent contestation and subversion of the colonial present. It is Hans Walter Gabler’s 1975 article, however, from which this chapter owes its trajectory as it connects the political altercation over Parnell in the Christmas dinner scene with Joyce’s biography and the impact of Parnell’s demise on the Dedalus family (‘The Christmas Dinner Scene, Parnell’s Death, and the Genesis of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’). The demise and death of Parnell not only had implications for Ireland’s nationalist aspirations but through the Christmas dinner Joyce exhibits how the ensuing post- Parnellite paralysis impacts Dublin families and the domestic realm. As the scene Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 130 | P a g e closes Casey, with his head in his hands, will emit a ‘sob of pain’ crying ‘Poor Parnell! . . . My dead king!’, and Dedalus senior will have eyes full of tears (34). While Catholics like Dante proclaim ‘God and morality and religion come first’ (33), Casey and Simon Dedalus are left hollow. Simon Dedalus, now a broken man without hope, is increasingly less able to provide for his family. In post-Parnell Ulysses, a number of men attempt to find ‘home’ and connect with each other through the homosocial consumption of alcohol in the public sphere. Scholars skim over Joyce’s drinking. For example: alcohol was a ‘blessed relief from his responsibilities’ (Pindar 51); Joyce was ‘sensitive to alcohol’ (Epstein 17); and Joyce’s drinking bouts ‘bear witness . . . to the sheer ardour of his sense of purpose’ (Gibson James Joyce 51; see Briggs ‘Joyce’s Drinking’ 639). This downplays Joyce’s alcoholism but it also fails to consider the effects of excessive alcohol consumption that are presented throughout his work. The proto-feminist Joyce explores the downside of homosocial drinking culture because it leads to another type of devouring: paternal neglect. Joyce’s snapshot technique in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode enables parallax to complicate gendered, cultural and socio-economic preconceptions, and the complex consideration of the downwardly mobile post-Parnell Dedalus family is a prime example. Reader responses of sympathy and condemnation shift throughout the episode as new juxtapositions are made, and previous scenes, episodes, and Joyce’s previous work (Portrait) are recalled. Joyce’s ruminations on the deterioration of Dublin families elicit sentiment, that emotional investment in characters which is, apparently, antithetical to High Modernism’s pursuits of ‘hard’, ‘new’, ‘masculine’ art forms. Clive Hart, alone in the critical world dominated by the New Criticism, argued five decades ago that the ‘fear of sentimentality’ had been ‘inhibiting and limiting’ for Joyce scholarship (Hart ‘James Joyce’s Sentimentality’ 28; Scholes Paradoxy of Modernism 123, 126). This chapter progresses both James Longenbach’s argument that High Modernists like T. S. Eliot included Modernist devices, such as ironic sides, to enable emotion into the work (‘Randall Jarrell’s Legacy’ 259), and Anthony Cuda’s assertion that Modernists were not interested in eliminating emotion via their experimental forms but were fulfilling the ‘urgent desire . . . to meaningfully encounter powerlessness’ and be ‘moved’ (The Passions of Modernism 5). Joyce’s characters are not devoid of emotion; nor completely subsumed by their subjugation. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 131 | P a g e This chapter contends that Joyce’s dissident voices are heard as they challenge dominate structures and can manage to create a brief space where ‘the self may dissociate from the ascendant social order’ (Sinfield Faultlines 41; Schwarze 4). In this ‘space’ the Irish might gain the necessary perspective to critique the pervasiveness of religious suppression and the oppressive terms of their ‘social contract’ with the English. Joyce’s sentiment isn’t for its own sake but exists to challenge the reproduction of amnesiac societal values and offer a flickering possibility of an alternate Irish society. The ‘betrayal’ of Charles Stewart Parnell typifies the seeming inevitability of Irish duplicity, where anyone dedicated to political freedom for Ireland is compromised (Smyth ‘Trust not Appearances’ 254-71). Joyce’s parallactic form also, treacherously, examines how Ireland’s capacity for political agency is impacted by a failing domestic sphere, neglected and impaired by patriarchy. These considerations are qualified and complex, and Joyce also highlights the complicity and ignorance of the Irish middle class, represented by Mulligan, and their disconnection from the reality of working class poverty. The Uncrowned King Joyce fiction and non-fiction reflect a collective memory of Parnellite martyrology, passed down from his father (Fairhall Question of History 123), which depicts the fall of Charles Stewart Parnell, the ‘uncrowned king’ of Ireland (‘Shade of Parnell’ CW 228). Joyce notes that Parnell’s influence on the Irish people defies critical analysis. He had a ‘speech defect’ and his speeches ‘lacked eloquence, poetry, and humour’, he was ignorant of the history of Ireland, and was of a Protestant aristocratic lineage. His manner was cold and formal, and ‘as a crowning disgrace, he spoke with a distinct English accent’ (225). Parnell was a landlord of nearly 4000 acres in Wicklow (McCartney ‘Parnell, Davitt and the Irish Land Question’ 75), which was relatively untouched by the bad harvests of the 1870s, and revisionist historians like F. S. L. Lyons highlight the personal political ambitions behind the ‘saviour’ mythology (Lyons Charles Stewart Parnell 138; McCartney 73). Donal McCartney contends, however, that while Parnell’s initial interests were political with a focus, for example, on election contests and parliamentary obstructions, from 1877 he became openly interested in social questions (‘Parnell, Davitt and the Land Question’ 74). During his County Mayo visit in 1877 Parnell was ‘struck by the wretchedness of the people, the squalor of their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 132 | P a g e houses, the smallness and barrenness of the farms’ (McCartney 74). It is this strong focus on the ‘land question’ and the plight of Irish peasants that cultivated the unbreakable reverence ‘Parnellites’ had for their king. When Parnell addressed the American Congress on 2 February 1880, he quoted Professor Blackie who argued that confiscated Irish land was now in the hands of ‘cliques of greedy and grasping oligarchs, who had done nothing for the country . . . but suck its blood in the name of land rent and squander its wealth under the name of fashion and pleasure in London’ (in McCartney 74; Parnell ‘The Land Question’). In his ‘Shade of Parnell’ essay, thirty two years after Parnell uttered these words, Joyce returns to these vampiric metaphors to emphasise the parasitic landlord / tenant relationships, and to pointedly highlight Ireland’s sacrifice of its own saviour. Joyce’s shame for his country is evident: he laments the ‘broken heart’ of the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party and the leading figure in the Home Rule Movement (CW 228). ‘The ghost of the “uncrowned king” will weigh on the hearts of those who remember him’ Joyce states, for while Parnell ‘begged them’ not to betray him to the ‘English wolves howling’, it was not the colonial oppressor who ultimately devoured him; it was the Irish who ‘tore him to pieces themselves’ (228). He had led the Irish, ‘like another Moses’ from ‘the house of shame to the verge of the promised Land’ (225), but for his efforts he was ‘like a hunted deer’ and in the end his party turned on him and the ‘clergy entered the ranks to finish him off’ (227). Joyce would go on to repeat this Old Testament evocation linking the Irish to the Israelites in the ‘Aeolus’ and ‘Circe’ episodes of Ulysses. Joyce asserts in his ‘Home Rule Comes of Age’ essay that the most powerful weapons England used against Ireland were Gladstone’s Liberalism and ‘Vaticanism’ (Joyce ‘Home Rule’ CW 195). Conservativism, though ‘tyrannical’ is at least for Joyce ‘a frankly and openly inimical doctrine’: ‘its position is logical; it does not want a rival island to arise near Great Britain, or Irish factories to create competition for those in England, or tobacco and wine again to be exported from Ireland, or the great ports along the Irish coast to become enemy naval bases under a native government or a foreign protectorate’ (195). The Liberals he implies, are hypocritical, raising false hopes and disarming Irish separatists (Fairhall Question of History 125). Prior to the Gladstone losing power in the 1886 elections, Joyce maintains that Gladstone’s delays on Home Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 133 | P a g e Rule, despite the ostensive approval of the 1886 Act, were spent completing the ‘moral assassination’ of Parnell (CW 193). The price Gladstone demanded for the success of the second Home Rule Bill would be the resignation of the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party. Parnell was now labelled an adulterer, after his long-term affair with Mrs O’Shea was affirmed when he failed to contest Mr. O’Shea’s citing of him as co-respondent in his divorce law suit. Citing the Liberals’ need for the English Dissenters’ support for the Home Rule Bill, in November 1890 Gladstone demanded the resignation of Parnell as party leader to pacify the demands of dissenter Puritanism to expunge the ‘unmasked sexual sinner’ (Fairhall 134). In December 1890, in a Committee Room at the House of Commons, 75 of the 83 Irish Party members withdrew their support for Parnell (Joyce CW 227). Cheng notes though that not all high profile sexual transgressions are met with the same response, and seemingly there was a distinction between the well-known philandering of Prince (later King) Edward and the eight year affair Parnell had with O’Shea; a woman he ultimately married (Cheng 125; also see Simmons 31). The hypocrisy of moral judgment and Parnell’s betrayal by his Party and nation are both addressed in the Dubliners short story, ‘Ivy Day at the Committee Room’. On Ivy Day (October 6, the anniversary of Parnell’s death), the committee room is full of canvassers for candidates for a local Dublin election. Most of the men don’t believe in their candidates, but nonetheless are waiting in the room for their wages. Both Fairhall (‘Colgan-Connolly’ 299) and Cheng focus on the personal, economic motivation of the men’s political lobbying. As Cheng states, ‘[i]n this story and in the wake of Parnell’s death, the nationalist zeal once focused under his leadership has been replaced in Irish citizens by a prostituted, shoneen politics that would sell its services to anyone willing to pay for them, regardless of political affiliation or ideology’ (124). In Margot Norris’s reading of the story though, she observes that ‘Ivy Day’ seeks to ‘do justice not only to the signifier of Parnell but also to the class of ordinary Dublin men whose lives are the micropolitical landscape that Parnell’s macropolitical policies and strategies sought to address’ (Norris Suspicious Readings 176). Norris observes that some of these men are in financial difficulty — Mr O’Connor’s boots ‘let in the wet’ (Dubliners 100), and Mr Henchy expects to find bailiffs in the hall when he gets home (105) — representing Joyce’s acknowledgment of contemporary social problems and the fact that their conditions don’t allow the luxury of supporting a candidate who represents their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 134 | P a g e interests (Norris 179). Before his betrayal and defeat Parnell was able to ‘unite the disparate segments of colonial Ireland in collective stance against English domination in the cause of Home Rule’ (Cheng 123). Like a prophet he led a ‘turbulent and unstable people from the house of shame to the verge of the Promised Land’ (Joyce CW 227). The void left by Parnell is palpable. It shifted Irish priorities from the inspirational project of national determinism to a situation more immediate with an anxious concern for economic security. Despite the recognition of the material conditions of Dubliners and the identification of why Dubliners prostitute their politics, Joyce’s considerations are multifaceted as he doesn’t completely absolve the ‘Ivy Day’ canvassers of their trespasses. The micropolitical concerns noted in ‘Ivy Day’ highlight the passivity demonstrated by the Dubliners. For example, the political candidate Henchy is working for has vested interests that fly in the face of his own financial anxieties, but this canvasser still fronts up to be paid (Norris 179-80). Joyce is ruthless in his reiteration of Parnell’s betrayal through the character of Hynes who represents a candidate he believes in and is thus placed above Irish shoneen politics, and who remains a loyal Parnellite. Hynes highlights the Dubliners’ shame for their sham canvassing through his recitation of a poem about Parnell. Though mawkish, the rendition draws applause then ‘all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence’ (Dubliners 115-6; emphasis added). As Cheng maintains it is the ‘silence of complicit guilt’ as the poem implicitly suggests that ‘all of them but Hynes have compromised and prostituted their ideals’ and all share in ‘the betrayal of Parnell and the Nationalist principles for which he stood’ (Cheng 126). Hynes admonishes Dubliners who forget their own suppression, and reminds those present that while there is talk of ‘kowtowing to a foreign king’ and plans for ‘an address and welcome’ for King Edward in Dublin, Parnell would never support such an ameliorative stance (Dubliners 103; Cheng 124). As Cheng observes, so internalised is Mr Henchy’s oppression that he imagines that the King has Ireland’s best interests at heart, and despite the pomp he perceives the King as a no-nonsense ‘ordinary’ man. He does not see the connection between his excuses for King Edward and the moral reasoning behind Parnell’s discharge from leadership: Parnell is dead . . . Now, here’s the way I look at it . . . He’s a man of the world and he means well by us. He’s a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 135 | P a g e damn nonsense about him . . . Let bygones be bygones . . . I admire the man personally. He’s just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He’s fond of his glass of grog and he’s a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he’s a good sportsman. Damn it, can’t we Irish play fair? (Dubliners 112) The Joyce of Christmas Dinner In the Portrait Christmas dinner scene Joyce encapsulates the theme of post-Parnell paralysis and the Irish self-devouring that is explored in much of Joyce’s work. It is significant that Joyce uses the season of Christmas to explore the complexity of Irish politics, and as a marker for the subsequent decline of the Dedalus family. According to an 1893 article in The Journal of American Folklore, Christmas was a ‘glorious’ day for the Irish where ‘[r]adiant joy beamed from the faces of all’, where ‘everyday felt extremely happy’, and nothing could ‘harm’ you (‘Folk-Lore from Ireland’ 259). The anthropologist Ellen Powell Thompson notes that the Irish woman she interviewed had lived for twenty years in Connaught before moving to Washington, but these customs and superstitions that she recalled were ‘universal’ (259). Indeed, these childhood and early adult recollections seem perfectly in keeping with Victorian Christmas ideals. For Dickens, Christmas stories ‘retain[ed] through memory the child’s imaginative capacity, and through that imagination, the adult’s understanding of compassion’ (Glancy ‘Dickens and Christmas’ 59). While in one sketch in a ‘Christmas Number’ of Household Words Dickens would acknowledge that one can be ‘[e]ncirled by social thoughts’ at Christmas time, it was hoped that in spite of this ‘the benignant figure of . . . childhood [would] stand unchanged’ (59). Thus, as Ruth Glancy argues, Dickens’s literary Christmases were times for memories to ‘flood back and bring about a spiritual regeneration’ as people won moral victories over ‘the hardening and destructive effects of age and experience’ (54). As David Parker notes of A Christmas Carol, the three ghosts give Scrooge ‘a transcendent understanding’. He has learned ‘the possibility of learning and the capacity for change’, so he can improve his life and also the lives of those around him (Christmas and Charles Dickens 206, 214). In contrast to the Dickensian regenerative powers of Christmas, one could argue that Joyce reflects more the melancholy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘The Christmas Banquet’ (1844) where the Christmas feast is held, not in the hope that the ‘ten most miserable Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 136 | P a g e persons’ that attend might derive solace from the spirit of the occasion (Cody ‘Invited Guests at Hawthorne’s “Christmas Banquet”’ 17-8), but ‘to provide that the stern or fierce expression of human discontent should not be drowned, even for that one holy and joyful day, amid the acclamations of festal gratitude which all Christendom sends up’ (Hawthorne ‘Christmas Banquet’ Tales 308). In Hawthorne’s misanthropic tale the wine thus seems ‘to come imbued with gloomy inspirations’, its influence not to cheer but ‘either to sink the revellers into a deeper melancholy, or elevate their spirits to an enthusiasm for wretchedness’ (313). The Hawthorne scholar James Wohlpart proposes that ‘Christmas Banquet’ is critical of the Transcendentalist aesthetic, where the figures who live in the unsubstantiated dream world are separated from humanity (‘Allegories of Art’ 450-1). This much is indicated in the frame narrative as the narrator Roderick Elliston introduces Hawthorne’s criticism of this philosophy; its ‘deficiency in . . . spiritual organisation’ (Hawthorne 307; see Wohlpart 451-2). The purpose of the old man in Roderick’s tale is to ‘perpetuate [the old man’s] own remonstrance against the earthly course of Providence, and his sad and sour dissent from those systems of religion or philosophy which either find sunshine in the world or draw it down from heaven’ (308). One can discern in Portrait’s Christmas dinner scene Joyce’s desire to examine the heart of humanity via the uncomfortable, disrupting, conflictual realities of the paralysed post-Parnell Ireland. Joyce thus challenges Ireland’s idealistic ‘crowning’ of Parnell, which he sees as worthless if the Irish are still bound by Catholic doctrines of ‘sin’ (Dante), left impotent after Parnell’s demise (Simon Dedalus), or defy humanity in a bid to fly by the structural nets of Irish society (Stephen). In the first chapter of Portrait, Christmas Day falls not three months after the death of Parnell, and as Hans Walter Gabler argues, Chapter One is ‘as much about Parnell and Ireland as about Stephen and Clongowes’ (Gabler ‘Christmas Dinner Scene’ 33). Gabler reminds us that ‘the action proper of the novel opens on the day Stephen alters his Christmas holiday countdown from 77 to 76 (33; Portrait 12). Thus the novel opens on a day between Parnell’s death (October 6, 1891) and his burial (October 11). The 77th day (October 8) before Christmas is termed by Gabler the first ‘post-Parnellite’ day in Irish history, given the news of his death did not reach Ireland until October 7. As Gabler suggests, post-Parnellite behaviour ensues at this point at Clongowes with Wells shouldering Stephen into a ditch of ‘cold and slimy’ water causing Stephen’s illness (35; Portrait 12). Extending the sequential dates of the novel, Stephen is taken to the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 137 | P a g e infirmary on October 10 where he has a fever dream about his death where the perpetrator Wells ‘would be sorry then for what he had done’ (Portrait 20). As Gabler maintains, the evening of Stephen’s subsequent ‘recuperative sleep’ (October 10 -11) synchronises Stephen’s time with Parnell’s (34). Linking Parnell’s burial on 11 October, 1891 and Stephen’s recovery, Gabler suggests that such synchronicity means ‘Parnell dies so that Stephen may live’ (34). What I suggest, however, is the Christmas dinner highlights the emptiness of the myth of heroic sacrifice. Parnell’s supporters are not inspired to continue or benefit from his work, but instead Joyce denotes how the ensuing paralysis ultimately leads to the financial ruin of Dublin families. From Portrait’s ostensive festive rituals and hospitality to the ultimate breakdown in hope and dialogue, the Christmas dinner scene further demonstrates the type of post- Parnellite behaviour emblematic of the betrayal, disorder and incivility experienced by Stephen at Clongowes. As Stephen dreams of Parnell’s body arriving at the harbour the people present ‘wail’ and ‘moan’ with sorrow – ‘Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!’ (Portrait 23). Dante is ‘proud’ of Parnell’s sacrifice evidenced by her wearing a ‘maroon velvet dress with a green velvet mantle from her shoulders’ (23). Instead of grieving like the people she silently passes, Stephen sees her distanced from grief and instead attaching meaning to death. Such an imagined action is consistent with Stephen’s knowledge of Dante’s nationalist loyalty (5, 13), prior to ‘politics’ and her ripping off of the green velvet from the brush, telling Stephen ‘Parnell is a bad man’ (14). While Gabler argues that there is no reference to the green and maroon colours so consistent with the Parnell (green) and Davitt (maroon) motif leading up to the Christmas scene (‘Christmas Dinner’ 35-6), I argue that the continuation of the motif is present. Before Dante rearticulates her moral standing of her ‘politics’ Joyce continues the motif highlighting the betrayal of Parnell and nationalist hope with the red of a Davitt, anti-Parnell ‘fire’ and the Parnellite green of the ‘ivytwined branches of the Chandelier’ (Portrait 23). Tellingly it is under the ‘green’ ivy branches with which the ‘Christmas table was spread’ that the conflict proper surrounding Parnell and the Church ensues. Though the conflict ignites at the table, we should not neglect that the pre-dinner ‘placing’ of characters around the room pre-figures the ‘argumentative positions’ that the participants will adopt later (Toolan ‘Analysing Conversation in Fiction’ 394). The red fire symbolises anti-Parnellites, like Davitt and all Parnell’s close former associates Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 138 | P a g e who betrayed him, but also the Clergy who would bend to Gladstone’s demands and would argue against Parnell’s sexual immorality and neglect the more pressing concern of Irish independence. This puts Parnellite Mr Casey and the anti-Parnellite Dante on opposite sides of the hearth. Stephen is ‘seated on a chair between them’ with his feet resting on a soft foot stool (‘toasted boss’) indicating his innocence and uncertainty. While Toolan notes that Simon Dedalus has his back to the fire (394), it is also significant that he lifts his coat tails to the flames, exhibiting not only a back turning rejection but a rump-flaunting irreverence (Portrait 23). In addition to flouting the anti- Parnellites he later spurns the Catholic Church by devouring another rump; the ‘pope’s nose’ of the turkey (28). Toolan’s fascinating study, informed by linguistics and conversational analysis, highlights the conventionality of much of the early Christmas dinner, such as the rituals of polite conversation (394). Indeed, beyond conversation there is a Victorian conventionality and middle-class aspirational element to the scene as they wait for the ‘door to open and the servants to come in, holding the big dishes covered with their heavy metal covers’ (Portrait 23). There is also a mark of tradition as Stephen graduates from dining in the nursery with his other siblings ‘till the pudding came’. He is now ‘oldish’ and as his mother brought him downstairs dressed for mass with his ‘deep low collar and Eton jacket’ his father cried (26). As dinner arrives and Mr and Mrs Dedalus arrange table placings, with Mr Dedalus at the head of the table (25), the upholding of tradition, henceforth, becomes increasingly tenuous. The patriarch nearly disrupts the order of things by prematurely lifting the lid of the turkey dish, with ritual only being maintained when Stephen is called on to say grace (25). Mr Dedalus further transgresses when he begins to eat ‘hungrily’, forgetting his role as host at the head of the table, and neglecting to dispense sauce with Mrs Riordan’s turkey (26). Dante’s curt replies to pretences of conventional speech also contravene the rules of being a good guest (24, 26). Order and ritual, symbolised by the turkey, the table placings and the reciting of grace, is further ruptured by the young Stephen’s stream of consciousness as his mind moves from thoughts of the abundant table, to violence, and to Parnell. While Stephen looks at the trussed ‘plump turkey’ he recalls that his father had paid a substantial sum, a guinea, for it. He had bought the bird from the expensive ‘Dunn’s of D’Olier Street’, where the poulterer ‘prodded the breastbone to show how good it was’ (25). Stephen’s thoughts shift from the reassurance of plenty to violence through the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 139 | P a g e association of the plump bird gracing the table, to the name given to the leather strap used to discipline boys at his school: ‘Why did Mr Barrett in Clongowes call his pandybat a turkey? It was not like a turkey’ (25; Gabler ‘Christmas Dinner’ 28 -9). This fleeting connection is then supplanted by a description of the bountiful table, but his childlike observations and anticipation also inextricably intertwines the ‘red’ and ‘green’ discontent that underscores the special occasion: the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and celery rose from the plates and dishes and the great fire was banked high and red in the grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel so happy and when dinner was ended the big plumpudding would be carried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with bluish fire running around it and a little green flag flying from the top. (25; emphasis added) As Toolan mentions, Mr Dedalus’s position as head of the household and head of the table ‘gives him ample opportunity to establish his roles as not only master of ceremonies but in addition as master of the talk’ (394). Dante Riordan challenges this patriarchal prerogative, and despite her lowly status of ‘dependent female relative, the maiden aunt’ she exhibits ‘a noticeable refusal to suffer the men’s opinions in silence’ (394, 396-7). While Dante Riordan and Mrs Dedalus’s ‘non-eating’ at the Christmas dinner might be compared to Molly Bloom’s love of food in the final chapter, here I focus on how this central Irish political debate interrupts eating; a disruption that has an impact on the traditional patriarchal role of ‘provider’ through Portrait and into Ulysses. Purely in conversational terms, Dante does exhibit what Toolan sees as Stephen’s first experience of someone rejecting orthodoxy: ‘I will not serve’, Dante seems to say as she rejects various attempts to steer what has turned into a political conversation back to conventional banalities. Toolan’s analysis of one such point in the dinner exhibits such resistance, though I would add that Simon Dedalus’s subversive actions (eating the pope’s nose as metaphor for his rejection of the Catholic Church’s stand on Parnell) and his capacity to do so given his gendered status, should be noted: – There’s a tasty bit here we call the pope’s nose. If any lady or gentleman . . . He held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 140 | P a g e - Well, you can’t say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it myself because I’m not well in my health lately. He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dishcover, began to eat again. There was a silence while he ate. Then he said: - Well now, the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of strangers down too. Nobody spoke. He said again: - I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas. He looked round at the others whose faces were bent towards their plates and, receiving no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly: - Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow. - There could be neither luck nor grace, Dante said, in a house where there is no respect for the pastors of the church. Mr Dedalus threw his knife and fork noisily on his plate. - Respect! he said . . . (Portrait 28; also see Toolan 402-3) Brad Kessler observes that in literature the table, from The Odyssey to Beowulf and the Canterbury Tales, has long been a framing device for storytelling (‘One Reader’s Digest’ 152-3). In contrast to the Odyssey, however, where banqueters sit transfixed for five chapters as Odysseus regales with his sea adventurers, the people gathered around the Christmas table in Portrait cannot clearly articulate themselves beyond inciting gibes and anger. The raw and inflammatory topic of Parnell’s betrayal is too divisive for Simon Dedalus’s pedestrian attempts at diverting conversation away from religion and politics. Thus, his failure to fill conversational gaps after his attempted conversation openings cannot succeed as Dante and Mr Casey are unwilling to see the topic dropped (Toolan 403). Soon after Simon’s smoothing attempts Dante will respond to Mrs Dedalus’s whispered plea with ‘I will not say nothing’, and Mr Casey will ‘[push] his plate rudely into the middle of the table’ (Portrait 29). As Casey desists eating, Dedalus is then able to continue his meal (30). Content with Casey pursuing the Parnellite cause, though subversive at first, he gives support for Casey’s violent ‘story’ of spitting at an anti-Parnellite by taking a bone from his plate and ‘tearing’ at it (31). Dante, though a staunch nationalist — ‘[hitting] a gentleman on the head with her umbrella because he had taken off his hat when the band played God save the Queen’ (Portrait 32) — is fiercely anti-Parnellite: ‘God and morality and religion come first’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 141 | P a g e (33). Parnell was a ‘public sinner’ (27), a ‘traitor, an adulterer’ and as such the ‘priests were right to abandon him’ (33). Dante shouts ‘We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!’ (34). The debate of the Parnellites (Dedalus and Casey) versus the ‘moral’ middleclass Catholics leaves a silence around two key factors. First, as Fairhall describes in detail, the ‘morality’ of Parnell was secondary for the clergy as their focus was on ensuring Gladstone maintained the support from the ‘dissenter’, nonconformist backbone of his English constituency, thus safeguarding Home Rule (134). Second, by extension, the judgment of Parnell’s immorality was not led by the clergy or Gladstone but by the ‘dissenters’ of Gladstone’s constituency. The ‘we’ Dante uses in her departing attack on Casey and Dedalus, alludes to an imagined, purely ‘moral’ conflict and a naivety about moral political argument. The web of politics and religion is made ironic by Casey and Dedalus arguing for the separation of religion and politics, given the Catholic clergy’s long involvement in Irish Nationalist politics as ‘patriots’, and from 1881 being ‘embedded in and integral to the Parnellite movement’ (Fairhall Question of History 131; see 130-41). The grief of the men at the end of the Christmas dinner was thus not due to the house of God being made into a polling booth (Portrait 26), but that the clergy had intervened in politics on the wrong side (Fairhall 139). Joyce’s ‘Saints and Sages’ notes that Ireland has been ‘the most faithful daughter of the Catholic Church’ (CW 169), with its ‘compliance . . . so complete . . . it would hardly murmur if the pope turned the island over to a Spanish noble “who found himself momentarily unemployed”’ (170). The Christmas scene in Portrait also alludes to the ways in which self-surveillance of Irish Catholics maintains their own subjugation. Parnell’s demise was led by moral judgments, the kind of judgments irreconcilable to the building of an independent modern state. Ulin refers to Francini Bruno’s recollections of a Joyce parable from his Trieste lectures, where he notes that the ‘sowing [of] hunger’ from the Great Famine leaves the Irish contemplating a ‘potato in their hands’, but that it also indicates how the Irish ‘eat symbolically’ via the ‘gluttonous consumption of religious and superstitious symbols’ (23): Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 142 | P a g e The metropolitan government, after centuries of strangling [Ireland], has laid it waste. It’s now an untilled field. The government sowed hunger, syphilis, superstition, and alcoholism there . . . I think [our peasants] are the one people who, when they are hungry, eat symbolically. Do you know what it means to eat symbolically? I’ll clear it up for you in no time: the peasant family, a big roomful of them, sit round a rustic table as if it were an altar. In the middle of the table, suspended on a string from the ceiling, is a herring which could feed the lot of them. The headman arms himself with a potato. Then with it he makes the sign of the cross . . . high up on the back of the fish instead of just rubbing it as any hypocrite would do. This is the signal, and after him, hieratically, each member of the family performs the same trick so that at the end the members, that is to say the diners, find themselves left contemplating a potato in their hands, and the herring, if it doesn’t get eaten by the cat, or rot, is destined to be mummified for posterity, this dish is called the indicated herring. The peasants are gluttons for it, and stuff their bellies full. (Francini Bruno Joyce Intimo Spogliato in Piazza [1922] in Ulin ‘Famished Ghosts’ 22-3) In addition to the devouring of religion, we might consider the food more materialistically too. Herrings, smoked and eaten by the poor, represent how the clergy (eaters of ‘fish’) and the upper classes (eaters of ‘flesh’) are invested in perpetuating ritual and oppression. The herrings, or Irish poor, are symbolically anointed but physically and politically rot or petrify. The parable also points to the intra-generational trauma of Famine co-existing with the ‘mummifying’ performance of religious ritual. The signs of imperial oppression (the potato) and the performance of religion (the ‘altar’ and sign of the cross made on the herring) highlight the lack of real material sustenance and the implicit acceptance of a corrupted Irish social contract. Joyce’s political essays show him to be critical of both Gladstone’s Liberalism and the clergy for their role in Parnell’s political demise and ultimate death. While Fairhall mounts an extensive case for Joyce’s narrow engagement of Parnellite mythology in Portrait (Question of History 130-41), the conflict being reduced to God versus Ireland where the ‘priestridden Godforsaken race’ ‘killed’ Parnell (Portrait 31, 32), Joyce’s understanding of events in his essays encourages us to see Portrait’s Christmas dinner scene as more than a representation of historical ‘events’. What Joyce does is highlight Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 143 | P a g e how the simplification of events — for example, Dante Riordon’s ‘The priests were right to abandon him’ (33) and Casey’s ‘No God for Ireland!’(34) — causes a schism that paralyses Parnellites and implicates the domestic realm in disastrous ways. The Coffin of ‘Home’: the Homosocial Circle and Anti-Treating The decline of the Dedalus family is in part due to Simon Dedalus’s neglect, I suggest, but the poverty of the family is also reflective of the general socio-economic status of Dublin’s working class. Writing about Joyce’s family in the 1880s and 1890s, Vincent Sherry notes that due to the lack of industry in Dublin city there was a great divide between the affluence of the suburbs and the destitution of the city centre. The surplus, casual ‘generalised labourers’ filled the ‘crumbling splendour of the Georgian townhouses’ of the inner city (Sherry Joyce: Ulysses 7). Furthermore, one half of the nearly 5,400 tenement dwellings at the turn of the century were ‘sliding into unfitness’, and one quarter had ‘moved beyond the possibility of reclamation’ (7). The standard of housing had not altered by the time Dubliners was being published. Irish historian Ruth McManus states that by 1913, 87,000 (or 29% of the city’s population) lived in slums with one third being ‘unfit for human habitation’ and the other two-thirds being either ‘structurally sound but not in good repair’ or so much decayed they soon would be unfit for habitation (McManus Dublin, 1910-1940 in Rich 76-7; also see O’Brien Dear Dirty Dublin: A City in Distress, 1899-1916). In addition to general deterioration, one third of tenements consisted of one room, and often with little in the way of furniture, blankets or cooking utensils (O’Brien 137; Rich 77). Rich suggests that Bloom’s musings in the ‘Hades’ episode that ‘the Irishman’s house is his coffin’ (U 6: 821-2) reflects that for many poor Dubliners the concept of ‘home’ was felt more as a painful absence than a comforting presence (Rich 78). Central to what Rich sees as a critique of colonial, urban modernisation, Joyce’s characters, like many poor inner city Dubliners, are unable to participate in the ‘British ideals of domestic life . . . symbolized . . . by hearth, home, and [the] family meal’ (72). For Rich, Joyce’s working class Dubliners (and the precarious middle-class) try to recreate a sense of the familial with strangers in public eating establishments (Martens and Warde in Rich 72), which thus serve as refuges for those ‘unhomed’ (Rich 72). ‘Unhomeliness’ identifies the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 144 | P a g e ‘estranging sense of the relocation of the home and the world in an unhallowed place’ (Bhabha ‘The World and the Home’ in Rich 72). Bloom notes Bob Doran is on ‘his annual bend’ (U 8: 595), and passes judgment on the men at Barney Kiernan’s: ‘Ought to go home and laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a child of two’ (13: 1217-19). Joyce’s ‘unhomed’ men and the trope of solitary public eating also expresses the impact of colonialism and economic exploitation through the deprived and unhomed subject (Rich 72-3). Paul Delany’s ‘Homosocial Consumption in Dubliners’ (1995) is interesting for its implicit identification of Joyce’s ‘unhomed’ Dublin men. Delany notes that Joyce’s work, particularly Ulysses, has been an interest to Cultural Studies for the ways in which consumer goods ‘express cultural categories and principles, cultivate ideals, create and sustain life-styles, construct notions of the self, and create (and survive) social change’ (McCracken in Delany 381). Delany, however, argues that the consumption of alcohol for immediate enjoyment within a male collective — ‘Homosocial consumption’ — is distinct from the ‘individual status-seeking’ of modern consumption (382). In contrast to the centrality of the domestic, ‘feminine’ space of modern consumption where goods are fantasized about and displayed, homosocial consumption takes place in public houses and, Delany argues, is akin to Marcel Mauss’s ‘gift economy’ (382). ‘Rounds’ or ‘treating’ converts the buying of a round of drinks within a select group into an ‘exchange of gifts’: The person buying a round gains status by playing the role of a generous host; the others enjoy the honor of receiving a favour from the buyer–as well as the more practical dividend of getting a ‘free’ drink. Each drinker in turn can then savor the prestige of being a gift-giver and master of the revels. Rounds also balance out periods of relative wealth or poverty: when he is ‘skint’ a member of the group may buy fewer rounds, to be compensated by extra rounds when he has money in hand. Any drinker who has money in his pocket is expected to share it, but he has an equivalent claim on anyone else’s windfall. Everyone is thus provided with ‘drinking insurance’, guaranteeing that few evenings will be completely dry. (Delany 382-3) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 145 | P a g e The giving and receiving is not limited to money and drink though as the ‘economy of drinking corresponds closely with an economy for talk’ (385), for if a round recipient cannot be the ‘buyer’ he must be able to ‘pay’ with his entertainment, flattery or good company (383). Though Lenehan in ‘Two Gallants’ is described as a ‘leech’ for example, ‘his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against him’; he was a ‘sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles’ (Joyce Dubliners 39). Simon Dedalus, though skint, uses his ‘[g]lorious tone’ in Ulysses to earn his place in the ‘economy of drinking’. Though he could have made ‘oceans of money’, he ‘[w]ore out his wife’, and now has ‘overstrung nerves’, which he eases with drinking (U 11: 765-9). The anthropologist Mary Douglas suggests that drinking also needs to be considered for the structure that the ritual gives to social life, and its semblance of ‘an ideal world’ rather than the ‘painful chaos’ of the real world (Douglas in Delany 388). Beyond the ritual of drinking though there are societal pressures, behaviours and consequences to consider, and here Douglas’s ‘ideal world’ explanation falls short for Joyce’s depressed turn of the century Dublin. In a letter to brother Stanislaus, for example, Joyce can neither assign blame nor responsibility for the type of abuse we are led to believe Farrington administers to his wife and son in ‘Counterparts’. ‘I am no friend of tyranny’, he states, ‘but if many husbands are brutal the atmosphere in which they live . . . is brutal and few wives and homes can satisfy the desire for happiness’ (Selected Letters 130; Delany 387). These debates were taken up at the same time by the colonial Australian writer, Henry Lawson. For Lawson the judgment on the ‘weakness for drink’ is divided. Alcohol is represented as a threat not only to the husband’s life, but to the life of the wife and children also (Lee ‘Looking for Mr. Backbone: the Politics of Gender in the Work of Henry Lawson’ 97). However, as Christopher Lee suggests, Lawson also points to the intense pressures on the rural family man to ‘provide’ in an unstable work environment. Here ‘a man is unable to guarantee provision for a family’, and the pressure to be a provider causes both ‘personal and mental degeneration’ (98). The harsh economic realities prohibit ‘respectable’ masculinity, as advanced in early feminist journals, where values of ‘home, hearth, wife, and child’ were associated with ‘moral, mental, and physical hygiene’ (Lee 96). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 146 | P a g e Delany alludes to more complex political concerns at work in Joyce as he draws on Mark Osteen (‘Narrative Gifts: “Cyclops” and the Economy of Excess’) who discusses the self-destructiveness of the male Dubliners’ drinking and gambling. To flout ‘English economic ethics’, Osteen suggests, ‘they spend and drink themselves deeper into poverty and paralysis, rebelling against oppression by making themselves unprosperous’, reimagining themselves as powerful as they ‘lose and destroy goods [and themselves]’ and the refusal to spend ‘productively’ (Osteen in Delany 387-8). Using McDonald’s terminology we might describe this homosocial culture as withdrawing from what England would identify as industrious and ‘useful masculine citizenry’ (‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72; emphasis added). One could suggest Osteen reflects Georges Bataille’s challenge to the political economy, as there is a sense of an alternative to the extraction of surplus value and overproduction for its own sake: to instead dissipate the surplus through ‘sacrifice’, without the expectations of the recuperation of any ‘loss’ (Bataille The Accursed Share 10, 21, 69). Bataille writes in the context of late 1940s Cold War, where he argues that ‘raising the global standard of living’ is the only real way to prevent a third world war, rather than increasing ‘military manufactures’ (Bataille 187), but Osteen’s argument indicates a correlation as England’s ‘anti-sacrificial’ expansionist model of capitalism stands in opposition to the Irish unconventional challenge to the political economy. Although Katherine Mullin (‘James Joyce, Drink, and the Round System’) draws on neither Delany nor Osteen, these two articles prove to be a valuable introduction to Mullin’s Cultural Materialist / New Historicist approach. Mullin’s complex analysis looks at the Anti-Treating League (ATL) — that organisation the ‘Cyclops’ narrator suspects Bloom of being part of — and how Joyce participates in the various political and economic reactions surrounding this response to the ‘rounds’ practice. In contrast to the teetotalism of the Irish Catholic temperance movement from the 1840s to the turn of the century, the ATL was described as a more realistic and ‘temperate brand of temperance’ (Mullin 312-3). Treating was seen as discouraging moderation, as Mullin explains: ‘A man entering a pub for one or two drinks was, if drawn into a round, bound by honour to continue drinking until he could reciprocate—and might then be tempted to remain until other members of the group had stood drinks in turn’ (312). The League didn’t aim to combat drinking itself but drunkenness, and treating was identified as a main cause of drinking to excess (313). Members of the League were not Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 147 | P a g e forbidden to accept drink when visiting private homes, neither were they prevented to extend hospitality in their own homes, but they did pledge ‘Not to take a treat from another, or give one himself, in any place where drink is sold, whether public house, bar, hotel, shebeen, &c’ (St. Patrick’s Anti-Treating League in Mullin 313). In addition to the religious aspect of the League guidelines ‘to observe the law of God faithfully on all occasions’ on the ‘sin of intemperance’ (St. Patrick’s ATL in Mullin 313), there were numerous economic and nationalistic motivations. In 1902 the Gaelic League’s co-founder Eoin MacNeill asserted that treating was in fact ‘established in Ireland by the English settlers’ and a key step to creating an ‘Irish-Ireland’ would be to cease the ‘foreign custom’ (in Mullin 313). Timothy McMahon notes that the Gaelic League estimated that the annual expenditure on drink in Ireland was £15 million, with one third of this being a ‘self-imposed yearly tribute to the English exchequer’ (McMahon in Mullin 314). Furthermore, as Frank Shovlin points out, Irish Protestant families such as the Guinness, Jameson and Persse families made their fortunes by manufacturing drink (‘Endless Stories about the Distillery’ 154) prompting the temperance priest Father Michael Kelly to declare that ‘With fell design England suppressed our commerce, our factories, our mines, our industries, and left us only the distillery’ (in Shovlin 155; F. L. S. Lyons Culture and Anarchy in Ireland, 1890-1939 80). In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode the financial success of the Guinness partners would occupy Bloom: Lord Iveagh [Edward Cecil Guinness, 1847-1927] once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter . . . A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter. What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same. (U 5: 304-12; Gifford 91) In 1904 Horace Plunkett (Ireland in the New Century) would argue against treating in economic terms, also stating that drinking depressed the ‘industrial capacity of the people’ and as such ‘national regeneration’ was linked with temperance (in Mullin ‘James Joyce, Drink’ 314). By 1907 new Sinn Féin recruits were required to be teetotallers if under 25, and if over 25 were required to pledge to ‘never be seen drunk’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 148 | P a g e (Mullin 313) reflecting their confluence of self-discipline and nationalism. In the ‘Cyclops’ episode Bloom’s ‘talking about the Gaelic league and the anti-treating league and drink, the curse of Ireland’ (U 12: 683-4) is significant. As the narrator of the episode recalls the mantra of the temperance meeting, ‘Ireland sober is Ireland free’ (12: 692), he would allude to Joyce’s portrayal of Bloom as ‘Ireland’s coming man’ (Mullin 327). That is, reflecting Joyce’s composition of the episode in June 1919, the 1904 Bloom signifies the Sinn Féin landslide defeat of the Irish Parliamentary Party in the 1918 general election (Mullin 326). Mullin also meticulously shows, particularly in the ‘Cyclops’ episode, how Joyce engages in the broader political debate about anti-treating that centres on the British Government’s war-time anti-treating law. In September 1915, under the powers of the Defence of the Realm Act, it was illegal to participate in treating ‘except at meals’ (Mullin ‘James Joyce, Drink’ 323). The ‘moderation’ then, that was a part of the ‘abstemious advanced nationalism of Sinn Féin’, seemingly fell in line with the British Government’s nationalist efforts. Responding to this the Irish Parliamentary Party was against such laws and were passionate defenders of Irish distillers and brewers (323). As argued by Fairhall, ‘Ivy Day’ in Dubliners suggests this ‘unhealthy alliance between the Nationalists and the drink trade’ as the Nationalist candidate’s promise of stout occupies the canvassers in the second half of the story (Question of History 100). It is interesting to consider though that the Sinn Féin temperance requirements led English intelligence to complain that the recruits were too ‘sober’ to facilitate the gathering of information, with the political organisation also reluctant to hold meetings at pubs, instead preferring ‘temperance halls and reading rooms’ (Laffan in Mullin 326). Nonetheless the Parliamentary Party’s economically framed rejection of anti-treating saw the laws as another ‘imperial encroachment comparable even to the Famine or conscription’ (Mullin 324). Considered in isolation one may read Portrait as evidence of the relationship between the repressive politics of colonialism and the material realities of inner Dublin life. Pure structural arguments neglect instances where Joyce points not to the victimisation of the Irish, but to the complicity of Dubliners, not only for their personal financial situation, but for the material and societal decline of the working class families in general. It is through a brief look at relevant biographical details that Joyce’s dual structural / agency Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 149 | P a g e view gains purchase. Taking inspiration from his own childhood remembrances Joyce’s portrayal of the decline of the Dedalus family ‘became linked, in a family mythology, with political betrayal’ (Gabler ‘Christmas Dinner’ 32; Fairhall Question of History 41; Ellmann James Joyce 33-4). As Fairhall reveals, the young James Joyce realised that his father’s spending habits and drinking were linked with the family’s downward spiral (41), and in less than a decade led him (like Stephen) and his family from ‘modest privilege through well-mannered poverty into near squalor’ (Sherry Joyce: Ulysses 7). John Joyce was dismissed from his well-paid job as a rate collector for Dublin City and County, and in turn conflated the ‘turn of the political wheel of fortune’ with a ‘turning- point in his own life’ (Fairhall 41-2). Fairhall maintains James Joyce felt betrayed throughout his own life: ‘betrayed by friends, colleagues, his wife Nora, and Ireland herself’ (42), and indeed Joyce’s letters and fiction indicate these victimisations. However, Joyce presents another betrayal; the betrayal of the father (in the character of Simon Dedalus) and his neglect of the Victorian role of ‘provider’. Natalie McKnight notes the powerful presence of fathers, where ‘even in absence, their shifting roles over time, and their symbolic link to paternal institutions such as church and state make father figures the locus of quests to better understand our cultures, histories, and ourselves’ (McKnight ed. ‘Introduction’ Fathers in Victorian Fiction 1). Following Victorian expectations of the father as breadwinner, with the domestic realm in the charge of the wife and mother, the scarcity of material resources Stephen notes in Portrait reflects the ineffectiveness of Simon as a ‘provider’. As Joyce’s brother Stanislaus recalls, their father ‘was quite unburdened by any sense of responsibility’ for his large family (My Brother’s Keeper 50; Friedman ‘Stephen Dedalus’s Non Serviam’ 65). In Joyce’s oft cited August 1904 letter to Nora, he would write that his ‘home’ was ‘simply a middle-class affair ruined by spendthrift habits which I have inherited’ (Selected Letters 25-7). Gabriel Conroy in ‘The Dead’ may depict John Joyce’s ‘oratorical style’ and ease in the limelight, but Simon Dedalus would represent the self- serving side of Joyce’s father; ‘a caricature of conviviality whose excesses of oral performance (of song, drink, and foulness of mouth) utterly displace familial, economic, political, and religious obligations’ (Friedman 65; Jackson and Costello in F riedman 65). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 150 | P a g e While in the opening pages of Portrait the young Stephen is aware that his family isn’t as affluent as other boys’ families — Stephen suffers weak tea and damp bread while other boys have hampers and cocoa sent from home (Portrait 6-11) — he fondly recalls his ‘Nice Mother’ and the generosity of his father, and he longs for home with his mother by the fire and the kettle on the hob (7-22). We learn though that the morning after the Christmas dinner ‘discussion’ Stephen tries to write a poem about Parnell on the back of ‘one of his father’s second moiety notices’ (61). Stephen knows his father is ‘in trouble’ and the changes to the Dedalus house, ‘were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world’ (56). Joyce would emphasise this by repeating the word ‘heart’ in its various states of suffering, thereby linking the broken heart of Parnell with material decline. The lack of ‘any vision of the future’ would sicken Stephen’s heart, and he would seek ‘kindly lights’ in other people’s windows to pour a ‘tender influence into his restless heart’ (56). The sudden move from the ‘comfort and revery’ of Blackrock to the ‘bare cheerless house’ in the ‘gloomy foggy city’ also made Stephen’s ‘heart heavy’ (57). Juxtaposed to Joyce’s journey of the broken heart of Parnell early in the novel to the suffering ‘heart’ of Stephen, Joyce’s reiteration of ‘squalor’ links the political events with the material demise of the Dedaluses. For the young Stephen ‘[t]he change of fortune . . . was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity’ (58), and his ‘sensitive nature’ was suffering with his ‘undivined and squalid way of life’ (68), the ‘squalor of his mind and home’ (69), and the ‘squalor of his life’ and ‘riot of his mind’ (79). Simon Dedalus’s attempts to ignore financial realities are mimicked by Stephen. Just as Stephen’s father fails to exercise economy when he buys an expensive turkey despite having a demand notice, and stays at the most expensive hotel in Cork (Portrait 77), so too does Stephen prove frivolous in his spending of his examination award winnings: ‘For a swift season of merrymaking the money of his prizes ran through Stephen’s fingers. Great parcels of groceries and delicacies and dried fruit arrived from the city’ (85). Through his purchase of gifts and food and his effort to redecorate his room, like his father he ‘had tried to build a breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life’ (86). With Stephen’s winnings long spent, Part IV of Portrait sees the increased tribe of the Dedalus family still gathered around the table, but as they prepare for ‘still another removal’ their tea time is fittingly humble and reflects a more desperate hunger: ‘Tea was nearly over and only the last of the second watered tea Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 151 | P a g e remained in the bottoms of the small glassjars and jampots which did service for teacups. Discarded crusts and lumps of sugared bread, turned brown by the tea which had been poured over them, lay scattered on the table. Little wells of tea lay here and there on the board and a knife with a broken ivory handle was stuck through the pith of a ravaged turnover’ (142). Stephen’s siblings show ‘no sign of rancour’ for the comparative advantages he was presented as the eldest son, but as his siblings sing he hears in their voices ‘the recurring note of weariness and pain’, for they ‘seemed weary of life even before entering upon it’ (143). Compared to the turkey dinner in Part I of the novel, in Part V, with a box of pawn tickets at his elbow, Stephen would ‘set to chewing the crusts of fried bread that were scattered near him’ and stare at a jar from which yellow dripping had been scooped out leaving a liquid like the ‘dark turfcoloured water of the bath in Clongowes’ (151), linking the first post-Parnell day with his current circumstances. If we look carefully at Cranly’s questions to Stephen about his father and mother, the cause and effect of drinking in the Dedalus household, although implicit, is present. Trevor Williams (Reading Joyce Politically) argues that Stephen’s answers to Cranly’s question ‘What is he?’ is important for the ‘rapid shift from the relatively positive traits possessed by the individual to the patent decline initiated when Simon Dedalus engages fully as a social and economic being with the life of Ireland’ (98; original emphasis). What I emphasise, however, is that Simon’s drinking is at the literal centre of Stephen’s glib list of his father’s ‘attributes’, and thus carries broader significance. Stephen replies his father was/is ‘A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody’s secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past’ (Portrait 213). Stephen’s description of his father as ‘praiser of his own past’ is, Williams suggests, ‘tragically symptomatic’ of the paralysis of Joyce’s Dubliners who don’t see revolution as an option and instead turn to the past, ‘diverting their energies into a “bankrupt” rhetoric’ (98). Discussing the broader significance of drinking in Joyce’s work benefits from acknowledging that Joyce himself was a heavy drinker (Briggs ‘Joyce’s Drinking’). His brother Stanislaus addresses the topic in My Brother’s Keeper: James Joyce’s Early Years (1958) and The Complete Dublin Diary of Stanislaus Joyce (1962), but as Austin Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 152 | P a g e Briggs demonstrates, there has been great reluctance by Joycean scholars to accept this fraternal testimony (638). Brigg’s examination of a number of Joyce biographies well illustrates this point. Richard Ellmann, for example, prefaces his revised edition of his biography of Joyce by stating that Joyce’s ‘regard for alcohol’ is something to rebuke him for, but as Briggs observes, there is nothing in the biography to suggest any such rebuke (Ellmann James Joyce 7; Briggs 640). Ellmann, Briggs argues, ‘softens the facts’ and turns Joyce’s ‘collapses’ from drunkenness into the writer being ‘magnificently unconscious’ (Ellmann 268) or ‘old conviviality’ (531; Briggs 640-1). Just as Delany would see Joyce’s compulsive drinking as ‘inseparable from his creativity’ (388), Ellmann suggests drinking is a similar ‘happy’ byproduct of Joyce’s endeavour to be ‘overcome’ (Ellmann 82): ‘His soul, fed on pride, and declining attachments, longed to give way, to swoon, to be mutilated, and he brought this happy consummation about with the help of porter’ (Ellmann 132). Indeed Briggs’s close analysis of a selection of key Joyce biographies (by Ellmann, Morris Beja, Gordon Bowker), and Brenda Maddox’s biography of Nora Joyce, reveals a rejection of the suggestion that Joyce was an alcoholic, principally based on Joyce’s apparent refraining from drink during the daytime (Briggs 647). Maddox claims that ‘he was not an alcoholic’ as he ‘rarely drank spirits’ and his ‘celebrated inebriation came from a regular consumption of several bottles of white wine between, roughly, eight in the evening and two in the morning’ (185-6; Briggs 645). Furthermore, Joyce’s reputation was also protected by biographers who marginalised the women in Joyce’s life who were affected by his drinking. Bowker characterises Nora Joyce’s efforts to control her husband’s drinking as ‘puritanical’ (Bowker 435), and Beja would deride benefactor Harriet Shaw Weaver’s misgivings and concerns about Joyce’s drinking as prudish (Beja 80; Briggs 645-6). This defence against the label of ‘alcoholic’ seems counter to Joyce’s self-evaluations, having described himself to Jung as ‘inclined to extravagance and alcoholism’ (Ellmann James Joyce 63; Briggs 642) and speaking of himself to Weaver as a man ‘known to all as a wholesale squanderer’ (Selected Letters 381; Briggs 653). Mullin concludes her article on the politics of anti-treating with reference to ‘Joyce’s prodigious appetite for drink’, and his notorious willingness ‘to live on the largesse of others’ (Mullin 327). Nevertheless, with the references to ‘leeches’ in Joyce’s work Mullin maintains there is ‘a self-critical impulse to analyse the implications of his own behaviour’ (327). Briggs Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 153 | P a g e poses questions about how Joyce’s drinking affected his wife and family (639, 641, 644, 646, 648-51), and ends his article by reflecting on some questions to be addressed in future work: he asks ‘whether his physical health might have been less frail, his days less depressed, his partnership with Nora happier, his children less troubled, his friendships more enduring, his finances less distressed, and—possibly—his oeuvre larger had he not consumed alcohol so compulsively and excessively’ (657). I propose, however, that just as Mullin sees Joyce in ‘scrounging’ characters (327) so too can we address Briggs’s ponderings, not in relation to Joyce personally, but within Joyce’s work more broadly. Can we not glean in Joyce’s work the implicit judgment that Dublin drinking men like Mr. Kernan in ‘Grace’, or dead Paddy Dignam in Ulysses would be healthier (or alive) by drinking less? Might not the Dedalus and Dignam children be less troubled and the family less financially distressed without the father drinking? Paddy Dignam in Ulysses is the most poignant reminder of the dangers of drinking culture. As the men gather for Dignam’s funeral in the ‘Hades’ episode, Bloom, who is on the margins of the homosocial circle (Delany 391), provides a more sobering explanation for the man’s death. Whilst Simon Dedalus and Mr Power would reflect on the ‘sudden’ death, with Martin Cunningham suggesting it was a ‘breakdown . . . heart’, as he tapped his chest sadly (U 6: 303-11), Bloom would think of Dignam’s ‘[b]lazing face: redhot’ caused by ‘[t]oo much John Barleycorn’, and his ‘red nose’: ‘Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it’ (6: 307-9). When Ned Lambert speaks more frankly, asking ‘How did he lose it? . . . Liquor what?’, Simon would sigh that this was ‘[m]any a good man’s fault’ (6: 572-3). I suggest that Joyce implicitly shows that this understanding and forgiveness of alcoholism is also perpetuated in the name of religion. Hope Howell Hodgkins, in her analysis of ‘Grace’, notes how Mr. Kernan’s ‘reform’ isn’t concerned with ‘the drunkard’s seamy descent into degradation, and his rejection by, or abuse of, family and friends’, but is instead reform by ‘social persuasion and communal support’, ‘acceptance’ not ‘rejection’ and ‘talk’ not ‘deeds’ (‘Joyce’s “Grace” and the Modern Protestant Gentleman’ 431). In the image of Jesus as an ‘indulgent boss’ (433), the drunkard’s ‘accounts’ can be ‘set right’ (Dubliners 151). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 154 | P a g e It is Bloom and Martin Cunningham, who we learn in ‘Grace’ has an alcoholic wife who continually hocks the family furniture (Dubliners 135), who set out investigating Dignam’s insurance for the family. While skint Simon Dedalus is moved at Dignam’s funeral — ‘I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man’s inmost heart’ (U 6: 670) — and spends two pennies of the two shilling he got from Jack Power on ‘a shave for the funeral’ (10: 698-9), he will not be immediately ‘moved’ by his daughter and will resent giving her any money. The practical Bloom, on the other hand, questions this prioritising of the dead: ‘More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living’ (6: 930-1). While Nosey Flynn would ridicule Bloom’s moderation and reluctance to participate in rounds — ‘Slips off when the fun gets too hot . . . If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe’ (8: 978-81) — he is also known for his generosity. Nosey Flynn will concede that ‘[h]e’s been known to put his hand down to help a fellow’ (8: 983-4), Davy Byrne will judge him to be a ‘safe man’, never once ‘over the line’ (8: 976-7, 982), and in ‘Wandering Rocks’ John Wyse Nolan and Martin Cunningham will talk about Bloom not only putting his name down for five shillings for the Dignam family, but coughing up the actual money ‘[w]ithout a second word’ (10: 973-7). This new expression of masculine heroism concerned with the domestic realm is, I argue in the final chapter, in keeping with Joyce’s art as he continues the development of this epic tale of Ulysses from Homer’s more domestic Odysseus. While Delany acknowledges that the homosocial circle and the domestic sphere are ‘rival’, he does suggest that they are ‘interlocking systems’ and share the ‘collective pathology’ of the city (Delany 387). As with Mullin and Brigg, however, Delany offers no sustained focus on the impact of homosocial consumption (and male drinking generally) on the domestic space. The implicit argument is that the pathologies co- exist, instead of exploring how one ‘system’ has an element of agency and acts upon the other ‘system’. If indeed the ‘systems’ of the homosocial and domestic realms are intertwined as Delany argues, throughout Joyce’s work the integration is often represented as a cannibalising of one system by the other. This is at odds with Delany’s estimation of Joyce’s valorisation of male drinking where it becomes a ‘legitimate refuge for the beleaguered Dublin male, who faces both the economic and moral exactions of his wife, and the further wounds to his masculinity inflicted by colonial subordination’ (388). Delany only implicitly indicates the drain treating has on the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 155 | P a g e domestic realm as he notes that while women ‘are conceded power over domestic consumption’ their husbands’ ‘homosocial obligations have first call on family resources’ (386). I would also add that reflective of the higher status of the ‘breadwinner’ any substantial domestic food resources, such as beef and mutton, were generally for the male head of the household (McManus Dublin, 1910-1940: Shaping the City and Suburbs 31-2; Rich 77). This hierarchy for the consumption of food also extended to male guests within the domestic space. In ‘The Sisters’, for example, the boy eats the ‘stirabout’ (‘a porridge or gruel, often made with oatmeal’) his aunt has ladled out for his supper, while the uncle offers his guest Old Cotter to ‘take a pick of that leg of mutton’ (Dubliners 3-4). Joyce and Sentimentality: ‘Wandering Rocks’ Joyce makes room for emotion in his work, and it is only through this ostensive counter to the ‘hard’, detached, and decidedly unsentimental Modernism where he finds space to explore the complexity of post-Parnell Ireland. In his 1967 essay ‘James Joyce’s Sentimentality’, Clive Hart refers to a number of manifestations of sentimentality: ‘the attribution by the author of more emotion than is warranted by his subject (excessive “feeling”)’; ‘the valuing of emotion for its own sake’ or a ‘dissociation of subject from emotion’; ‘a distortion of reality in order to make possible an emotional response which would not otherwise appear to be relevant’; and a ‘desire to maintain an illusory state of affairs because this is felt to be more pleasing than reality’ (Hart 26-7). As Hart argued nearly fifty years ago, New Criticism’s almost pathological ‘fear of sentimentality’ has thus been ‘inhibiting and limiting’ for Joyce scholarship (27-8). Taking Hart’s lead, Robert Scholes argues that the durability of some of the key works of Modernism, such as Joyce’s Ulysses, is due to the familiarity of certain literary conventions. Long narrative, Scholes argues, requires an emotional investment in the characters (Scholes Parodoxy of Modernism 124). Wyndham Lewis, an exemplary advocate of hard, new, masculine Modernism, in fact ‘has remained largely unreadable, despite serious critical effort on his behalf, mainly because his fiction is totally lacking in sentiment’ (Scholes 124). Attending to Joyce’s use of literary conventions, such as sentiment, reveals Joyce’s representation of both ‘systems’, to use Delany’s terminology. For Hart, Joyce’s fusing of ‘less emotional materials’ with sentimentality often produces ‘a very stimulating mixture’ (28). More common than writing in the extreme of sentimental Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 156 | P a g e exultation or the repudiation of the sentimental is Joyce’s ‘mixed response in which sentimentality is present, but is counterbalanced by other responses’ (30; emphasis added). Joyce uses a ‘thickness of texture’ in his ‘grubby wasteland’ (30) but he partakes in a ‘double-dealing’, for example with his inclusion of irony and ‘starker material’, to balance the emotion (30-1). As the ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode pointedly demonstrates, Joyce ‘conceived of Ulysses in the Anglo-Irish literary tradition’ and evokes, particularly, the heroic ‘men of feeling’ emblematic of the sentimental figures of Laurence Sterne, Oliver Goldsmith, and Charles Dickens (Dickson ‘Defining the Sentimentalist in Ulysses’ 20). Responding to the Enlightenment belief in the innate goodness of humanity, the mid-eighteenth century ‘cult of sensibility’ was concerned with ‘the faculty of feeling, the capacity for extremely refined emotion and a quickness to display compassion for feeling’ (Todd Sensibility: an Introduction 7; Dickson 20). ‘Men of feeling’ exhibited their association with the humanist philosophers via ‘their willingness to recognise human misery in the urban landscape, to suffer with the afflicted, and render them aid’ (Dickson 20). By the last decades of the eighteenth century sensibility began to be ridiculed for its immoderation, and the term, as Dickson verifies, became entangled with the ‘feminine’ (20). Nonetheless Victorian writers, notably Dickens and Tennyson, continued to use sentimentality ‘as a rearguard Enlightenment reaction to the inhumanities of industrialism, capitalism, and imperialism’ (Fred Kaplan in Dickson 21). Turn of the century modernists, however, recoiled from luxuriating in emotive expression (21) believing that the exhaustive examination of the emotional state exhibited ‘an apparent naiveté about the relation of expression to meaning’ (Anita Sokolsky in Dickson 20). For modernists it was the challenge and failure to represent emotion that brought the thrill (20). Instead of what Aldous Huxley and T. S. Eliot saw as the inauthenticity of excessive emotion (Huxley Vulgarity in Literature 57; Eliot ‘Tradition and Individual Talent’ Selected Prose 43; Dickson 22), modernists like Wyndham Lewis wanted to thwart everything sentimental and ‘feminine’ while more moderate approaches such as Eliot’s propounded that all emotion in art needed an objective correlative’ (Scholes 138 - 9; Mullin ‘Modernism and Feminisms’ 137-142; Eliot ‘Hamlet’ Selected Prose 49). But this framing of Modernism, as outlined in the literature review, has been far too arbitrary. Hart’s exploration of Joyce’s double-dealing and counterbalancing are cases in point, for as Scholes suggests, the question for the greatest modernists was not ‘how Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 157 | P a g e to avoid’ sentiment but ‘how to include it, protect it, and enhance it’ (Scholes 135 -6). The key issue was the reader’s relation to sentiment and the authenticity of the feeling. ‘Wandering Rocks’ is a key episode for scholars of food and famine in Joyce (for example Mara 106; Ulin 32; Fairhall 75), but the approach to the episode I advance here is sparked by Hart’s earlier assessments of Joyce. Though Hart primarily draws on Finnegans Wake in his 1960s essay, as Scholes reveals, ‘Wandering Rocks’ is amenable to his contemplation of sentimentality. Via the seemingly disjointed snapshots of wandering Dubliners Joyce uses juxtaposition to insert and protect emotion from the wasteland, but this juxtaposition also proffers the benefit of ‘parallax’. This view has been taken up by Dickson as he notes that what constitutes sentimentality in Ulysses depends on ‘a matter of external vicarious perspective[s]’ (28). A consideration of the material struggles of the Dedalus family in ‘Wandering Rocks’ highlights this argument. Questions about whether one sympathises with the Dedalus children or with Stephen, or how to react to Simon Dedalus and Buck Mulligan in this episode largely depend on whether the relevant snapshots are read in isolation or in juxtaposition, or as a group which rouses a complex mix of responses. One of the most sentimental scenes in Ulysses occurs as Stephen notices his sister Dilly at a bookstall: – What have you there? Stephen asked. – I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing nervously. Is it any good? My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? . . . He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal’s French primer. – What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French? She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. Show no surprise. Quite natural. – Here, Stephen said. It’s all right. Mind Maggy doesn’t pawn it on you. I suppose all my books are gone. – Some, Dilly said. We had to. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 158 | P a g e She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death. We. Agenbite of inwit. Inwit’s agenbite. Misery! Misery! (U 10: 862-80) Just as Bloom notices Dilly Dedalus at the beginning of ‘Lestrygonians’, ‘underfed’ with her dress in ‘flitters’ (U 8: 4), Stephen notices Dilly’s ‘shabby dress’ in ‘Wandering Rocks’ (10: 855). In fact he notices a good deal about Dilly: her resemblance to him in appearance and temperament (‘We’ he thinks); her vulnerability and embarrassment, which he gently tries to ease; and above all the poverty which is ‘drowning’ her (10: 865-75). As Portrait revealed, Stephen too had experienced the impoverished state in which Dilly is trapped. He too had been ‘illclad’ and ‘illfed’ (Portrait 206), but although he is now in a position to help his sister (and whole family) he rejects the role of breadwinner, fearing that if he saves his siblings he will drown with them. Though having experienced the Dedalus post-Parnell poverty, Stephen begins June 16, 1904 with a breakfast of fried egg, bread, tea, honey and fresh milk (U 1: 329-408). Although he abstains from eating throughout the day his breakfast intake is substantial compared to the impoverished state of his family. As Fairhall notes, Stephen seems unable to block out the ‘drowning’ family for his own preservation, and in the ‘Eumaeus’ episode he ‘recalls with implicit shame’ his last family visit (75): Stephen’s mind’s eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by the ingle, her hair dangling down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper, in accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on the days commanded. (U 16: 269-77) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 159 | P a g e His remembering of what seems to be an act of generosity on his part (perhaps buying the herrings) seemingly does little for our sympathy for Stephen in ‘Wandering Rocks’. Stephen’s exclamation of ‘Misery! Misery!’ is for Scholes Joyce’s double-dealing, mocking Stephen’s exaggerated emotion and thus preserving the text against the charge of sentimentalism but nonetheless allowing the emotion in (132). The artist’s apparent excess of emotion also highlights the depth of Stephen’s resentment for his father. Alan Warren Friedman has argued that Stephen’s ‘flight’ in Portrait isn’t positive — that is, towards an aesthetic goal – but is a ‘negative’ flight ‘from his father and all that he embodies — familially, culturally, politically, historically, and performatively’ (‘Stephen Dedalus’s Non Serviam’ 68; emphasis original). If Joyce represents Simon as a ‘caricature of conviviality’ partaking in ‘excesses of oral performance’ (Friedman 65), I contend that Stephen’s excessive emotional performance and paucity of action appears to caricature Stephen’s depth of feeling. While Stephen is compelled to deny familial aid in ‘Wandering Rocks’, in ‘Eumaeus’ when someone’s hunger is not the result of his father’s neglect, he will exhibit easy generosity even though the recipient is less deserving. Although Stephen fails to assist his sister, in his drunken state he will let ‘his feelings [get] the better of him’, and ‘loan’ Corley a half-crown (U 16: 173, 195-6). Though Corley’s breath was ‘redolent of rotten cornjuice’ (16: 129-30) and Stephen knows his ‘brandnew rigmarole . . . was hardly deserving of much credence’ (16: 174-5), he wanted to see the ‘starving’ Corley ‘get sufficient to eat’ (16: 184). While Dickson proposes that a Goldsmith or Sterne protagonist would share his wages with his starving sister (24), Stephen’s shift from avoidance of sentimental actions to impromptu generosity, arguably, borders perversion. Corley, one of the down-and-out ‘Two Gallants’ in Dubliners is a predator, scavenging the city for money and preying on the gullible slavey girl. Rich emphasises how Joyce uses food imagery to exhibit Corley and Lenehan’s rapaciousness and parasitism (78). Corley, for example, boasts of the ‘fine tart’ he has seduced, and tells Lenehan how he has given up courting girls by taking them out and buying them ‘chocolate and sweets’; ‘damn the thing I ever got out of it’ he declares to his associate (Dubliners 40-2). Whilst Stephen imagines the great choice between drowning and the aesthetic necessity to transcend conventional bonds that hinder artistic freedom, Joyce also seems to admonish what Kevin Whelan calls the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 160 | P a g e ‘dangerous and potentially deforming . . . freefall without the parachute cords of community and identity’ (‘The Memories of “The Dead”’ 67). Stephen’s disputation of the use of term ‘tragedy’ to describe the death of a young girl in a hansom accident — ‘It is remote from terror and pity according to the terms of my definitions’ (Portrait 180) — seems in keeping with his ‘hard’ response to Dilly in Ulysses. McDonald suggests that Stephen’s ‘bloodless aesthetic theorizing’ in Portrait detaches him from ‘everyday reality and suffering’ (19). More broadly, and again drawing on McDonald’s analysis of Portrait, we might glean that Stephen’s response to Dilly is a barometer for societal attitudes to ‘suffering, loss and death’ (19). Such ‘hard’ responses though are part of the ‘Famine symptom’ (Lowe-Evans 35-46) where a ‘generalized callousness’ typified the post-Famine culture as self-preservation entailed loosening kinship and community ties (Gibson Strong Spirit 56-7; Ó Gráda Black '47 and Beyond 46). Extrapolating Freidman’s argument that Stephen’s ‘flight’ is negative, away from his father and the institutions and structures he embodies, I would add that Stephen continues pathologies of colonisation through his perverted performance of ‘community’. By determining not to help his sister Stephen ensures the decline of the already compromised domestic realm, and by helping Corley he perpetuates his duplicitous behaviour. Either way, it seems, Stephen’s performance supports the attack on the ‘feminine’ (women and the domestic realm more broadly) which his ‘flight’ might suggest he tried to break free from. In so doing Joyce establishes contrast with Bloom who is interested in performing community beyond the confines of violence and patriarchy; something explored in Chapter Five. Joyce’s parallactic form refuses simple portioning of blame and Simon is thus a complex amalgam, representing the economic depression and hopelessness of post- Parnell Ireland, but also the failings of patriarchy. Before Stephen and his sister meet in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode there are other glimpses of the Dedalus household that reveal this multiplicity. As Dilly pursues her father for money she exhibits a learned toughness and the ability to see through her father’s insults and diversions. For all Simon’s abuse — he calls his children ‘An insolent pack of little bitches’ and threatens to get rid of them (U 10: 682-4) — Simon exhibits more ‘feeling’ than some scholarship tends to give him credit for (for example Scholes 130, and Lynch ‘Mixing Memory and Desire’ 73). Following James Longenbach’s contention that modernists include Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 161 | P a g e sentiment under the diversion of irony (in Scholes 134), Scholes’ analysis of the conversation between Dilly and her father suggests Simon’s heartlessness and lack of sympathy is evidence for irony working to allow sentiment into the scene (130; also see Lynch 73). I hold though that this narrow focus on Simon neglects a more nuanced reading of the Dedalus patriarch and the ebb and flow of Simon’s own emotion. Crucially, after Simon shows Dilly his money, he submits to her request to ‘look for some money somewhere’ with a thoughtful nod saying ‘gravely’ that he had ‘looked all along the gutter in O’Connell street’ and that he will now ‘try this one’ (U 10: 700-4). Despite the desperate act of searching for money on the ground, this display of ‘feeling’ is met with a ‘grin’ from his daughter who is pleased with the father’s effort. Although Simon is a true man of the homosocial circle, proffering his talent of singing for drinks at Ormond bar in the ‘Sirens’ episode — ‘I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down’ (11: 658-9) — he hands her a shilling for the family, and two pennies to get a glass of milk or a bun for herself (10: 706-7). He will also tell her he will ‘be home shortly’ (10: 707). In contrast to the masculine drinking culture and the ownership men have of the public realm, Joyce presents a drinking father acknowledging, however begrudgingly, his role of provider and his responsibilities in the domestic realm. Simon is a complex amalgam, however, with various judgments available depending on what is suppressed or emphasised. For example, there is no doubt that Joyce waxes ironic as Simon bemoans what he perceives as the nuns teaching his daughters bad manners: ‘Was it the little nuns taught you to be so saucy?’ (U 10: 677). This equating of his daughter’s abilities to rouse guilt with the Catholic nuns is of course ironic given it is the nuns who have kept the family from starving by giving them soup, as one of the opening snapshots in ‘Wandering Rocks’ reveals: Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes. –What’s in the pot? She asked. –Shirts, Maggy said. Boody cried angrily: –Crikey, is there nothing for us to eat? Katey lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: –And what’s in this? Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 162 | P a g e . . . – Peasoup, Maggy said. – Where did you get it? Katey asked. – Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said. . . . Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily: – Give us it here. Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertips lifted to her mouth random crumbs: – A good job we have that much. Where’s Dilly? – Gone to meet father, Maggie said. Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added: – ‘Our father who art not in heaven’. Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey’s bowl, exclaimed: – Boody! For shame! (10: 270-93) Despite the father’s insults linking ‘sauciness’ to the nuns, perhaps reflecting their ability to draw upon shame to extract money for donations, this donated meal is evocative of Famine relief and implies the desperation of the family. Simon Dedalus’s attack on the nuns is in keeping with Joyce’s patriarchal Dublin which, despite its own failings, looks to the feminine and domestic realms in its apportionment of blame. This relinquishing of male responsibility and the intent to blame women is also evident in historical sources like the The Irish Homestead, publisher of Joyce’s first short stories. For example, in 1907 the editor George Russell notes how well French households eat compared to Irish families. While the French menu includes macaroni, mutton, pork, olive oil, eggs, milk, cheese, coffee, chicory, sugar, wine, cider and beer, Russell bemoans: ‘We do not believe any family in Ireland with the same income would live so well, or have anything like so varied a diet . . . Our diet could be just as varied if Irish women were interested in feeding their families. Our national dish of Irish stew has come into existence simply as the result of the survival of the laziest methods’ (Russell 185). The point Joyce subversively makes though is that Dubliner men are in a post- Parnell paralysis and any money they do earn (or find) isn’t able to be utilised by Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 163 | P a g e women for familial sustenance as it is instead ‘invested’ in male consumption at the pub. In addition to the family, Joyce holds up for inspection another patriarchal institution — the Catholic Church — and examines its part in the impoverishment of the Irish. While Joyce presents the nuns as caring, he doesn’t endow priests with the same generosity. Bloom is especially observant of the apparent hypocrisy of the clergy and just prior to seeing the illclad and illfed Dilly Dedalus, who he supposes lives on ‘Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes’ (U 8: 41-3), he thinks of the plight of the Dedalus family as perpetuated by Catholicism: ‘Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That’s in their theology or the priest won’t give the poor woman the confession . . . Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their butteries and larders’ (8: 31-5). However, if Bloom is scathing of the priesthood, he implicitly criticises Catholics themselves who don’t question authority. In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode Bloom watches the priest give communion, and thinks that Latin is a good idea, ‘Stupefies them first’, but he also notices that they don’t ‘chew’ the host; they ‘only swallow it down’ (5: 350-2). He gives seagulls more respect as they aren’t fooled by his ‘fake’ bread, the crumpled bits of paper, and only swoop down when he throws them real fragments of Banbury cake (8: 57-78). If Simon’s hesitant paternal provision and Stephen’s disinclination to help his sister is thus more complex when considered in juxtaposition to the snapshot of the Dedalus girls at home, Joyce’s carefully placed snapshot of Mulligan and Haines in ‘Wandering Rocks’ works to remind us of Ireland’s colonial, exploited existence. As Dickson notes of Joyce’s ‘self-consciously heteroglossic’ approach: ‘Sentimentality always emanates from a vicarious–and hence invariably distorting–perspective, so that what appears excessive from one point of view might seem mete from another . . . What can seem “wet” and abject from one perspective can be viewed as generous or laudatory from another’ (28). Jonathan Greenberg argues that from the ‘Telemachus’ episode the Falstaffian figure of Mulligan, in particular, is established as a ‘satiric spirit’ of Ulysses, exhibiting the aloof and witty traits of the dandy alongside the combativeness and cruelty (Modernism, Satire, and the Novel 33-4). He performs a ‘social role’ (34), highlighting the paralysis of Dubliners but also revealing an ignorance about the social Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 164 | P a g e issues of the poor. Scholes suggests that Joyce ‘teaches us to despise’ Mulligan and Haines, especially through their gourmandising (132). Looking the dandy in his panama and primrose waistcoat (U 10: 1043, 1065) Mulligan joins Haines in ordering a mélange, but also asks the waitress to ‘bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well’ (10: 1054-6). As Mulligan and Haines discuss (and mock) Stephen their ‘cheerful cups’ and food arrive (10: 1083-7). Haines sinks ‘two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream’, while Mulligan ‘slit[s] a steaming scone in two and plaster[s] butter over its smoking pith’ biting off a piece ‘hungrily’ (10: 1086-8). In contrast to Stephen and Dilly’s ‘oatmealwater’ substitute for real milk (16: 273) only the Englishman Haines can afford the luxury of discernment, demanding Ireland’s finest: ‘He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup. “This is real Irish cream I take it”, he said with forbearance. “I don’t want to be imposed on”’ (10: 1093-5). Mulligan’s pronouncements connecting nutrition with health might be true enough, but he reveals his ignorance of the complex socio-economic conditions, the constraints of patriarchy and the malaise of post-Parnell Dublin. In ‘Telemachus’ he remarks of the fresh, just delivered milk that ‘[i]f we could live on good food like that . . . we would n’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits’ (U 1: 411-4). But, even Mulligan’s voice is ‘wellfed’ (1: 107). He is the picture of middle- class health and prosperity, especially when we consider his thrice-mentioned ‘white’ and ‘glittering’ teeth in the first episode (1: 25, 132, 378; Fairhall 69), compared with Stephen who in ‘Proteus’ suffers from a ‘Hunger toothache’ and at twenty two reflects that his teeth are ‘very bad’ (U 3: 186, 494; Ulin 35). Mara maintains that Mulligan’s good health also commingles fertility and masculinity in ‘Oxen of the Sun’, as he jokes that his ability to offer ‘his dutiful yeoman services for the fecundation of any female’ would demand a particular diet: ‘For his nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a diet of savoury tubercles and fish and coneys . . . broiled and stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum chillies’ (U 14: 692-6). As Bloom observes in ‘Eumaeus’, Mulligan ‘knows which side his bread is buttered’, and thinks that ‘in all probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals’ (16: 264-5, 282-3). As Scholes affirms, if the reader is disappointed with Stephen in ‘Wandering Rocks’, the disconnected Mulligan works to improve our opinion of him (133). If we happen to miss the point, in the ‘Circe’ episode Joyce includes Buck Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 165 | P a g e Mulligan in a ‘particoloured jester’s dress of puce and yellow and clown’s cap’ holding a ‘smoking buttered split scone in his hand’ (U 15: 4176-8), with ‘tears of molten butter fall[ing] from his eyes on to the scone’ (15: 4179-80). Conclusion Joyce’s representation of the betrayal and demise of Parnell and the ensuing paralysis of the post-Parnell era reveals a complex relationship between colonial violence, religious repression, compromised nationalist politics, and a disintegrating domestic sphere. The Christmas dinner scene in Portrait examines the devouring of Parnell and the perpetuation of the cycle of betrayal. As Joyce indicated, anyone who tries to bring the Irish together and improve the terms of the defective ‘social contract’ (for example by addressing the key issues of land, economic security, and political representation) are met with subterfuge. Joyce shows empathy for Parnellites sharing their first post- Parnell Christmas, but continuing on from themes in ‘Ivy Day’ we can also perceive his criticism of the political apathy of the Irish and the dangers of perpetuating the cycle of imperial violence by suppressing and neglecting their own domestic spheres. While Joyce’s parallax prevents assertions that he passes judgments on Parnellites like Simon, he does interrogate homosocial consumption as he presents bonds of drinking culture in material terms and as syphoning money away from an already poor and decaying domestic realm. In the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode children are presented as victims of both hapless fathers and a religion which is detached from material realities in its perpetuation of poverty. This episode is a prime example of Joyce’s multi-dimensional perspectives revealing his ebb and flow of sentimentality and irony. Following Cuda’s argument, I concur that Joyce’s operationalising of sentiment provides the space to experience powerlessness, but Joyce also interrogates this powerlessness and what could be done differently to restore agency. Stephen’s famous declaration in the ‘Nestor’ episode, that ‘History . . . is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’ (U 2: 377) has been explored in previous chapters in relation to the production of history, the memory of the violence of the Famine, a haunting of the loss of community, and the mourning of an alternate future. This chapter has expanded the implications of such a claim not only to highlight the aesthete’s desire to live artistically, away from the confines of nature, family, church and the history of colonialism, but also to consider the flight Parnellites also took in post-Parnell Ireland. Joyce is sympathetic towards Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 166 | P a g e Dubliners like Simon as they flounder in a post-Parnell era, but he also points to the collateral damage of the cycle of betrayal, and how even the loyal Parnellites sabotage their own domestic realm and negate the possibility for Irish ‘community’. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 167 | P a g e Chapter 4 – You Are What You Eat And of course Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower’s heart violent exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: Look at, Bloom. Do you see that straw? That’s a straw. Declare to my aunt he’d talk about it for an hour so he would and talk steady. (Ulysses 12: 891-6) James Joyce remained interested in medicine and the body throughout his life, and both Joyce and his father John made unsuccessful attempts at a medical career. His father studied in Cork between 1867 and 1869, but as Stanislaus Joyce comments, ‘one should say he was enrolled in the school of medicine for three years, since he studied as little as possible, and instead made a big name in sport and dramatics, and by his wild life while a student’ (in J. B. Lyons Joyce and Medicine 19; emphasis added). Joyce entered the Dublin Catholic University Medical School in 1902 but left after only one month (Lyons 215-8). After moving to Paris he enrolled in Medicine at the Sorbonne, but as Vike Martina Plock notes, once again ‘scientific ineptitude and financial problems forced Joyce to give up his half-hearted attempt’ (Plock Joyce, Medicine and Modernity 5). Ulysses’ episodes were famously organised around a human body’s organ’s, bones, nerves, and blood circulation, according to the schema Joyce passed on to the Italian critic Carlo Linati in 1920. While he later dismissed the interpretative device, the novel nonetheless ‘continues to accentuate [Joyce’s] ongoing interest in exploring the analogies between the human body, the city as a social organism, and the corpus of his developing narrative’ (Plock 6-7). Scholars such as Plock place Joyce’s writing in the context of turn of the century medical debates and the socio-economic context of health and disease. Indeed, in recent decades medicine educators have turned to Joyce’s fiction, and other canonical writers, to help students understand the human response to illness; something that an ‘empirical’ education doesn’t make room for. This has its own irony though, as Joyce is ambivalent about the medical profession in Ulysses and this is reflected in Bloom’s midway stance: a regard for empirical medicine Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 168 | P a g e on the one hand, and, if not an Apollonian focus on the spirit, at least a scepticism of the profession and an implicit belief in a more holistic approach to health. While medicine is looking to literature for its humanity, literature scholars are examining more clinical medical scholarship on Joyce, health, and illness and discovering, more fully, what Joyce is saying about the world of turn of the century Dublin. What is revealed is a malnourished and diseased population, a result of colonial repression, poverty and poor housing. Joyce’s consideration of the body, specifically eating and digestion, says something about both his view of art and his nuanced considerations of the complex state of Ireland. His examination of food and eating, of what we call today ‘nose to tail’ food, reveals his interest in the total digestion tract, but ‘innards’ also represent frugality, and echo his own stomach concerns and hunger pains. Ulysses also participates in various discussions about social and cultural improvement, and the maxim ‘you are what you eat’ is explored aesthetically, scientifically, and via the more narrow nationalistic extrapolations of this scientific discourse. While Bloom may have some common ground with Irish Homestead editor George Russell and his criticism of the new Irish food staples of bread, tea and sugar, the ruminations in Ulysses about the consumption of these foods requires more thoughtful, political consideration. Joyce reflects the turn of the century phenomenon of increased consumer ‘choice’ and the implicit rejection by Dubliners of ‘peasant’ food. Nevertheless, Joyce explores the concomitant consideration of quasi-scientific and imperial discourses which turn to food for further evidence of Irish ‘otherness’. While Bloom’s interest in scientific and nutritional knowledges might initially signal a possible new framework outside the current terms of Ireland’s oppressive social contract, Joyce pointedly reveals how new knowledges are appropriated and how the discourse is used to reassert Ireland’s colonial status. The Church doesn’t go without comment either, as Joyce ruminates on how both the Catholic Church and England have used food to pacify the Irish. Joyce, Disease and Medicine Robert Kaplan of the graduate School of Medicine at the University of Wollongong reports that doctors ‘are looking to philosophy, anthropology, sociology and other disciplines to answer the question: “What is it like to be human?”’ (Kaplan ‘Doctors, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 169 | P a g e Disease and James Joyce’ 669). It is the discipline of literature, he argues, that best demonstrates this insight into the human understanding of illness, and the role of illness in the life of a person (669; see also Greenhalgh and Hurwitz ‘Narrative Based Medicine’; and Charon ‘Literature and Medicine’ and ‘Reading, Writing Doctoring’). Thus, Kaplan and other likeminded medical academics and clinicians assert that the works of Conan Doyle, Chekhov, Maugham, Tolstoy, Kafka, Thomas Mann, Joyce and Plath fill the gap left by the ‘narrow, technology based, organic focus[ed]’ medical model (Kaplan 669). Medical journals such as The American Journal of Medical Sciences, Literature and Medicine, Annals of Internal Medicine (for example, Waisbren et al.; and Charon), Lancet (McLellan), the British Medical Journal (Greenhalgh and Hurwitz), Perspectives in Biology and Medicine (Shanahan and Quigley), The Australian Family Physician, Australas Psychiatry (Kaplan) and the Scandinavian Journal of Primary Health Care (Heath) exhibit an increasing consideration of Joyce’s work for its perspective on medical and social history. One General Practitioner, Dr Iona Heath, notes the relevance of Joyce, particularly Ulysses, to the work of general practitioners (65). In addition to the relatively recent examination of Joyce’s work for its contextualisation of disease and its illumination of the human side of ill health, medical journals and literary scholars are also interested in Joyce’s personal list of ailments. The creative process of Ulysses was repeatedly interrupted by Joyce’s medical complaints. As Plock and J. B. Lyons (James Joyce and Medicine) note, gastric pains, rheumatism, ocular troubles and nervous collapses exasperated Joyce’s attempts to finish the novel. Roy Gottfried reminds us that Joyce proofread Ulysses ‘with blurred and impaired vision, armed with a magnifying glass’ (in Plock 1). Fergus Shanahan and Eamonn Quigley note that ‘literature often uniquely provides an appreciation of the societal and historic context of disease’ as the novelist can ‘cast light where others have failed and can provide a vivid account that may be lacking in an assemblage of historical facts’ (‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 277). Joycean scholars are also using these more clinical studies as a springboard for a more rigorous examination of Joyce’s oeuvre. While the impetus for studies published in medical journals may be ‘clinical’, recent articles in literary criticism, such as Michael Timins’s article in the James Joyce Quarterly (‘“The Sisters”: Their Disease’), acknowledge the contribution made in medical scholarship, but are also compelled to take the clinical and textual evidence further by researching the socio-historical significance of the disease in Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 170 | P a g e Joyce’s time. Burton A. Waisbren and Florence L. Walzl’s 1974 article on the use of syphilis in ‘The Sisters’, for example, sparked interest in literary criticism. As Timins points out, subsequent footnotes and forwards to standard editions of Dubliners from 1990 onwards consider not only the theme of societal paralysis but also consider the paralysis caused by syphilis and what this illness says about religion, gender and colonisation. At the turn of the century when Joyce was writing Dubliners syphilis was ‘ubiquitous’: ‘in Berlin, about one out of eight and in Paris one out of six individuals had the disease, and in parts of Russia, about one out of five were infected’ (Timins 445). While the Royal Commission on Venereal Diseases estimated one out of ten were infected in England and Ireland, as Joseph V. O’Brien points out, the prevalence of the disease in Dublin was double that of London, and as Dublin’s population was half London’s this means that one in five Dubliners were infected (in Timins 445). No wonder Joyce described the ‘syphilitic contagion in Europe’, with Dublin as the ‘centre of paralysis’ (Timins 445; Joyce Selected Letters 83), and the Citizen refers to colonial oppression in terms of the ‘syphilisation’ of Ireland (12: 1197). The prevalence of syphilis is reflective of the poor public health of Dublin in general at the turn of the century (Timins 445). While the overall deathrate in post-Famine Ireland declined by 8% between 1870 and 1900, death from infectious disease ‘could rise to alarming rates at particular times and in particular locations’. For example, while deaths from measles decreased very marginally in Ireland as a whole between 1864 and 1903, in Dublin in 1903 there were 186 deaths per 100,000, more than double the highest rates in the rest of the UK (Clarkson and Crawford Feast and Famine 239, 244- 5). F. S. L. Lyons notes that Dublin’s infant mortality was the highest in the UK, tuberculosis was rife and malnutrition was endemic (Ireland Since the Famine 275). Tuberculosis was responsible for half the deaths between the ages of 15 and 35 and in 1904 it accounted for 16% of all deaths (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 282), but it is estimated that between one third to one half of all post-mortem examinations revealed traces of the disease (Bock ‘James Joyce and Germ Theory’ 24). Martin Bock notes that at the turn of the century Dublin’s infant mortality and childhood death rate were worse than in Calcutta (23), and Joseph O’Brien affirms that the annual death rate in Dublin 1887 was 33.6 per 1,000, ‘only slightly less than Calcutta’s’ and ‘the largest of any major city in Europe’ (in Timins 445). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 171 | P a g e If Joyce’s work says something about public health and illness in turn of the century Dublin, it also says something about medical practitioners. This more overt critique, however, doesn’t formulate until Ulysses. Joyce’s early work was less concerned with inept professionals and more interested in offering the perspective of the layperson, and implicitly bringing societal ills that impact good health to the foreground. In Stephen Hero for example, Valerie Bénéjam suggests that the dialogue between Stephen and his mother about the ‘hole in Isabel’s stomach’ (SH 163) reveals the layperson’s ‘ignorance of bodily processes and anatomical details’ (Bénéjam 441). Whatever more Stephen (or Joyce) may know about the body and medicine, Joyce ‘[r]efuses to present any medical assistance or final diagnosis’ and instead ‘embraces the patient’s (and her anxious family’s) viewpoint’ (441). Ulysses, in contrast, draws on much medical discourse. Joyce’s knowledge was ‘bookish’ and only that ‘of a medical student’s pal’ (Gogarty in Bénéjam 441), or what his brother called ‘pseudo-medical phraseology’ (The Complete Dublin Diary of Stanislaus Joyce 51), but it is his choice of discourse that makes his point about the profession. Unlike Flaubert or Maupassant, whom Joyce greatly admired, and who were intent on revealing the ineptitude of physicians (Donaldson- Evans 110-122; Bénéjam 439-53), Joyce is more concerned with highlighting the dehumanisation and insensitivity of practitioners. Though Shanahan and Quigley maintain that the impact of doctors in Joyce’s time was modest — ‘a prescription of paternalism, potions, purges, and placebos’ (‘In Search of Lost Opportunities’ 157) — it is apparent that Mulligan, his fellow medical students and other practitioners in Ulysses know more about the body than, for example, Charles Bovary. What concerns Joyce though is their ‘arrogance of expertise’, their alienating jargon, their pomposity, and their affectations (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 278; Bénéjam 442). The justification of this critique seems to be established early in Ulysses as medical student Mulligan attempts to defend his insensitivity on the matter of the death of Stephen’s mother: ‘And what is death . . . your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It’s a beastly thing and nothing else’ (U 7: 204-7). While Flaubert’s competent surgeon Larivière is introduced to penetrate the lies of the incompetent and self-serving quasi-professionals (Bénéjam 442), Joyce uses Bloom not so much to debunk, but to provide empathy in his midway position between the doctor Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 172 | P a g e and the patient, refusing to see humans as objects (Bénéjam 444-5). In ‘Lestrygonians’ Bloom thinks that most doctors are humane, and feels patients are ungrateful as they keep doctors waiting for their fee, whilst they are on call ‘at all hours’ (U 8: 397-400). In ‘Oxen of the Sun’, however, the medical students’ crassness on the subject of women, and the contrasting reverence for Mr Purefoy as ‘the remarkablest progenitor’ (see 14: 803-9, 1411), is countered by Bloom’s concern for Mrs Purefoy’s long and hard labour (14: 111-3). He is repeatedly noted to contemplate with ‘wonder’ ‘women’s woes’ (14: 119, 186), and pities the ‘terrorcausing shrieking of shrill women in their labour’ (14: 265). Whilst Molly is bamboozled by medical jargon — ‘where do these old fellows get all the words’ (18: 1170) — Bloom ‘knows a lot of mixedup things especially about the body and the inside’ (18: 179-80); loving ‘the art of the physic as might a layman’ (14: 255-6). As a ‘layman’ Bloom is not desensitised, and as he lives outside the confines of ‘religion’ he does not defer to the spiritual as a fellow ‘lay’ Dubliner may. Bénéjam points out that despite Bloom’s rather vague medical knowledge, his explanation in the ‘Ithaca’ episode of Stephen’s earlier collapse reveals an awareness that is lacking in Stephen’s version of events, which is ‘primitive and irrational’ and has biblical undertones (Bénéjam 446; 17: 36-42). Bloom’s explanation of ‘gastric inanition and certain chemical compounds of varying degrees of adulteration and alcoholic strength, accelerated by mental exertion and the velocity of rapid circular motion in a relaxing atmosphere’, is contrasted with Stephen’s account of ‘the reapparition of a matutinal cloud (perceived by both from two different points of observation, Sandycove and Dublin) at first no bigger than a woman’s hand’ (U 17: 37- 42). While we may wonder, as does Cranly in Portrait, how Stephen’s mind can be supersaturated with the religion in which he says he does not believe (Portrait 212), Bloom’s distance from ‘religion’ enables what Mike Digou calls Bloom’s ‘Chironian medicine’ (‘Joyce’s Ulysses’). Digou argues that the ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode is replete with Asclepian medicine symbolism. The image of the serpents ‘there to entwine themselves on long sticks’ (U 14: 157-8), though attributed to hops vines and the manufacture of beer by Gifford (412), also indicates for Digou the symbol of Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine. Asclepius medicine combined the Apollonian focus on the healing of the patient’s spirit with Chironian medicine, which ‘used empirical methods to heal the body, but ignored . . . the spirit’ (Digou 209). The Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 173 | P a g e synthesis of Bloom and Stephen in Ulysses creates for Digou ‘the potential for something greater than either alone’ (209-10). Digou’s characterisation of Bloom as Chironian is justified by his concern for the ‘physical, practical, and not spiritual’ (209). But as I contend in the next chapter, while Bloom isn’t ‘religious’ he is ‘spiritual’; spiritual if we consider his various ponderings on the cycle of love, life, death and nature, and his curiosity about people’s beliefs. He is also empathetic thus exhibiting a connection and awareness of people beyond what would be considered ‘empirical’. Thus, while Digou sees Asclepius in the synthesis of Bloom and Stephen, I contend that there is evidence of an Apollonian and Chironian union within Bloom. Thus, Bloom’s apparent inheritance of empirical medical methodology (Bénéjam 446), such as in his assessment of Stephen’s state in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, shouldn’t be considered in isolation. As already stated, he is critical of the detachment of the medical profession, but he also questions the commercialisation of medicine and is critical of those who don’t question the profession. In ‘Oxen of the Sun’ he would wonder how carousing medical students can become respected doctors: ‘that the mere acquisition of academic title should suffice to transform in a pinch of time these votaries of levity into exemplary practitioners of an art which most men anywise eminent have esteemed noblest’ (U 14: 899-92). On the matter of the teaching hospital, Mater Misericordiae, Bloom will ponder: ‘Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very Encouraging’ (6: 375-6). In ‘Hades’ Bloom questions the over prescription of drugs, and as he orders Molly’s lotion in ‘Lotus Eaters’ he will reflect on the potency of the contents of the chemist store, but thinks that those early chemists must have had ‘a bit of pluck’. Above all though Bloom credits ‘clever’ nature for providing remedies ‘where you least expect it’ (5: 479-84). Though Richie Goulding ‘[t]hinks he’ll cure [his back complaint] with pills’, for Bloom the pills are ‘breadcrumbs’ sold at about ‘six hundred percent profit’ (6: 60-2), so the only thing the ‘cure’ accomplishes is increasing the wealth of the chemists. Not long after this he will think of his father’s suicide and the ‘redlabelled bottle on the table’ (6: 359-63). We might also perceive here what Andrew Gibson argues in relation to the hyperbolic overflow of knowledge in the ‘Ithaca’ episode; that Joyce gives science back to the English establishment by ‘interrogating it and displacing its emphasis’ (‘An Aberration of the Light of Reason’ 165). Joyce uses Bloom to portray medicine’s permeation of daily life, and Joyce shows Bloom to be superior for his ability to deplete the power of the master narrative Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 174 | P a g e (Gibson 165). Bloom’s questioning of pills as a ‘cure’, by implication, questions the medical establishment who increasingly ‘prescribe’ (Shanahan and Quigley ‘In Search of Lost Opportunities’ 157). An examination of a number of 1904 issues of a popular Dublin periodical, The Lady of the House (1890-1923), seems to suggest that Ulysses comments on the prevalence of ‘remedies’ endorsed by the medical profession at the turn of the century. Amongst numerous remedies advertised in the journal, Dr Ritter’s ‘Tasteless Capsules’, are ‘[d]evised by a qualified medical man!’ and claim to be a ‘remedy for obesity’ (15 January, 1904, 16). Another noteworthy example is Dr Tibbles’ Vi-Cocoa which was regularly advertised. For example in the 1904 January and June issues the product is endorsed by the Medical Magazine, which claims it is ‘Favoured by the Homes and Hospitals of Great Britain’, and uses testimonials from nurses for its relief of dyspepsia and ‘physical and mental loss’ (9; 9). As Plock points out, in the post-Famine era the preoccupation with ‘getting enough’ had been replaced by ‘eating correctly’ (33) and the medical profession were called upon to make such judgments. This endorsement, however, co-opts ‘expert’ scientific discourse as a marketing tool to capitalise on the social standing of these professionals and thus optimise profit; a strategy used today (Scrinis ‘Ideology of Nutrition’ 39, 44-5; Churchill and Churchill ‘Buying Health’ 91- 3). Joyce’s Poor Stomach and the Matter of Innards In their article in Clinical Medicine Shanahan and Quigley hold that while descriptions of the gut and gastrointestinal ailments are avoided by many writers, Joyce embraced the whole digestive process ‘from deglutination to defecation’ (‘James Joyce and Gastroenterology’ 633). Indeed, Bloom’s preoccupation with digestion is carried throughout the novel. So important is this process that as Mrs Breen tells him of her husband’s nightmare, Bloom thinks it must have been ‘Indiges[tion]’ (U 8:252), and then soon after contemplates Fletcherism — ‘Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews per minute’ (8: 360) — a scientific way of eating advocated at the turn of the century by health-food faddist Horace Fletcher, also known as ‘the great masticator’ (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 31). Food and digestion seems to be Bloom’s ‘operating principle’ (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 25) as he is introduced in the fourth Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 175 | P a g e episode by way of his culinary preferences, ‘the inner organs of beasts and fowls’, and that he liked ‘the tang of faintly scented urine’ of his grilled mutton kidneys (U 4: 1-5). He will also remark that looking at the statue of Venus of Praxiteles aids digestion (8: 922). As Greek statues have perfect forms ‘some ideal digestion must be taking place within them’, hence Bloom’s interest in looking for the statue’s anus (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 32). Shanahan and Quigley suggest that ‘Joyce was a prescient gastroenterologist, anticipating nanotechnology in diagnostics and perhaps capsule endoscopy’ (‘Gastroenterology’ 633). After eating his cheese sandwich and having a glass of burgundy at Davey Burns’s Bloom would imagine that with the ‘Röntgen rays searchlight you could . . . watch it all the way down’ (U 8: 1029, 1046-7; Shanahan and Quigley 633). In ‘Aeolus’ he will fantasise about helping others with digestion problems: ‘Country bumpkin’s queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I’d like that part. Learn a lot teaching others’ (U 7: 95-7). In ‘Sirens’ he will deduce that his own gas is from cider (11: 1180), and in the ‘Ithaca’ episode we learn that Bloom owns a prospectus for the ‘Wonderworker’: ‘the world’s greatest remedy for rectal complaints’, ‘assist[ing] nature in the most formidable way, insuring instant relief in discharge of gases . . . making a new man of you and life worth living’ (17: 1820, 1827-9). While Clive Hart saw Joyce’s fascination with anality as ‘an obsession’, he saw in Finnegans Wake a beauty which is distilled by verbal alchemy from obscene scrawls’ (Hart Structure and Motif in ‘Finnegans Wake’ 202-3; Tucker Stephen and Bloom at Life’s Feast 3). As Lindsey Tucker suggests, perhaps this verbal alchemy is the ‘key to Joyce’s use of such images’ thus elevating the seemingly obscene and scatological (3). Following a more positive, Jungian interpretation of Bloom’s ‘fondness for excrementa’, Tucker advances that unlike a Freudian reading which links only the repression of the anal stage with creativity, Jungian readings emphasise art as the continuation of the anal stage that ‘has been preserved and integrated with the individual’s development as a whole’ (Neumann in Tucker 5). Joyce’s narratological technique of offering different viewpoints is here embodied with Bloom’s ‘inversion of habitual perspectives’ (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 32). Bénéjam observes that Bloom’s desire to consider things and people (and statues) from different angles can be likened to the famous anecdote in art history: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 176 | P a g e French painters Camille Corot and Gustave Courbet would often go on painting expeditions together. Corot, faithful to the inheritance of Romantic landscape painters, spent hours choosing the place to set up his painting material, considering the prospect and composition of the landscape — in a way, finding the painting in nature before he would reproduce it on canvas. Once he had set up his easel, Courbet the realist would turn his back on him, and started painting whatever was to be seen on the other side. (32) This radical approach to the project of representation in painting is a good analogue to Bloom looking at the statue of Venus from behind. It also speaks of Joyce’s modernist aesthetic, for more than considering new perspectives, he is also concerned with ‘rendering life in its very process and transformation’ (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 32). Life isn’t what will occur in the future — when the Irish don’t remember the Famine, or when Ireland has a new ‘uncrowned king’, or after Ireland is independent and the socio-economic status of the working class improves — as life, and art, occur at the faultlines too. It is ironic that despite Joyce’s interest in the digestive process, his own chronic peptic ulcer disorder was misdiagnosed, when this was ‘one of the most common gastrointestinal ailments of his day’ (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Gastroenterology’ 633; also see Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of “Ulysses”’ 281; and Baron ‘Byron’s appetites, James Joyce’s Gut’ 1701). Today Joyce’s alcohol consumption, his smoking, and his taking of analgesia for rheumatic and ocular pain would point to the reason for Joyce’s severe episodic abdominal pains (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Gastroenterology’ 633). Jeremy Hugh Baron reminds us, however, that Joyce’s stomach pains were also the result of poverty. From the age of twenty-one he had severe bouts of ‘epigastric hunger pain’ (1700). These began when he was a penniless student in Paris, and where the physical pain of hunger, and perhaps the beginnings of the peptic ulcer, were commingled with the anxiety of poverty and waiting for financial relief, usually from his brother Stanislaus (Lyons James Joyce and Medicine 211-20). He writes to his brother in September 1906 that the stress of the landlady perceiving Nora was paying rent with a counterfeit ‘gold piece’ made him ‘so sick’ that he ‘couldn’t eat [his] dinner’ (Selected Letters 107). Writing to his brother in February 1907 from Rome, he declares that his financial situation — their father’s request for Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 177 | P a g e money; the hiatus of his tuition income; his clothing expenses, for example — necessitates that he ‘break off this letter’ as ‘[a]ll this trouble and bustle always finds its way into the bosom of my stomach’ (Selected Letters 149; Letters of James Joyce II 213). As noted in the previous chapter Joyce may have known hunger in the ‘downwardly mobile household of his father’ (Whelan 61), but his periods of poverty and lack of food would also leave a physical mark. One may contend that it is this reason that Joyce disregarded friends’ suggestions that he probably had an ulcer, and trusted a more romantic version of his ailment: ‘“nerves” from his worries over so many years’ (Baron 1701). Plock (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’), L. B. Lyons (James Joyce and Medicine) and John Garvin (James Joyce’s Disunited Kingdom and the Irish Dimension) all note how Joyce’s financial situation after moving to Paris made the regular supply of food an acute concern. In February 1903 he informs his mother that ‘spells of fasting are common with [him] now’, and as he gets so hungry, when he does get money he can ‘eat a fortune (1s/-) before you can say knife’. He hopes the ‘new system of living won’t injure [his] digestion’ (Letters of James Joyce II 29). On 8 March, 1903 he writes to his mother of the infrequency of his meals: my next meal . . . will be 11 a.m. tomorrow (Monday): my last meal was 7 p.m. last (Saturday) night. So far I have another fast of 40 hours — No, not a fast for I have eaten a pennyworth of dry bread. My second last meal was 20 hours before my last . . . — Two meals in sixty hours is not bad, I think. As my lenten regulations have made me somewhat weak I shall go up to my room and sit there till it is time to go to bed. (Selected Letters 16) A little under two weeks later he will write to his mother again that [a]s for the food I get—I do not always get food only when I can. Sometimes I take one meal in the day and buy potatoes cooked and dry bread in the street . . . I can assure you, I have a most villainous hunger. Today I came laughing and singing to myself down the Boulevard Saint-Michel without a care in the world because I felt I was going to have a dinner—my first (properly speaking) for three days. (Selected Letters 18) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 178 | P a g e He writes to his father in February 1903 that he had brought some cooking utensils, a stove and some supplies, and that he was now trying to do his own cooking to reduce his expenses. While he lists the numerous foods he has eaten or wants to cook, Joyce expresses concern about the effect the irregularity of meals would have on his health: ‘I am sorry to say that after my dinner on Tuesday I became very ill and at night I had a fit of vomiting. I felt very bad the whole of the following day but I am better today except for attacks of neuralgia – induced, I imagine, by my constant periods of fasting’ (Selected Letters 15; L. B. Lyons 211). Some years later Joyce used eating habits as a litmus test for his family’s health. In a letter from Rome (1906) he writes: Yesterday being the anniversary of the day of my espousal and the day of the gladness of my heart, we went out into the country and ate and drank the greater part of many larders. Here is the full and exact list of what we ate yesterday. 10.30 a.m. Ham, bread and butter, coffee 1.30 p.m. Soup, roast lamb and potatoes, bread and wine 4.- p.m. Beef-stew, bread and wine 6.- p.m. Roast veal, bread, gorgonzola cheese and wine 8.30 p.m. Roast veal, bread and grapes and vermouth 9.30 p.m. Veal cutlets, bread, salad, grapes and wine ‘There is literally no end to our appetites’, he continues, ‘I don’t believe I ever was in better health except for the sedentary life I lead’ (Letters of James Joyce II 172). Such joy though is soon countered by the fear of an imminent period of frugality. After he notes that he stands outside grocer’s shops ‘fascinated’, he reveals to his brother that his salary ‘will not be sufficient to feed him in the winter’ (172-3). Nora and Joyce’s cycle of feasting and fasting is revealed in a number of letters, as noted by Plock (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 3, 40). On 16 August 1906 Joyce will reveal that ‘the real reason the money goes so quickly is that we eat enormously’. Nora’s usual dinner, he states, is ‘two slices of roastbeef, 2 polpetti, a tomato stuffed with rice, part of a salad and a half-litre of wine’, although he importantly includes that she is ‘getting much healthier looking’ (Selected Letters 95). He would on other occasions confirm their ‘villainous’ appetites noting that he and Nora had eaten ‘an entire roast chicken and a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 179 | P a g e plateful of ham, bread and wine – and went to bed hungry’ (Letters of James Joyce II 151), and he had eaten ‘soup, spaghetti al sugo, half a beefsteak, bread and cheese, grapes and a half litre of wine’ (Letters of James Joyce II 167-8). The listing of food items indicates that food is a central concern; and while the lean times are dreaded, the periods of feasting are recalled again in Joyce’s letters as an extension of the occasion. Jaye Berman Montresor suggests that this ordering of food items in the form of lists, exemplified in both Joyce’s letters and in his fiction, is a practice rooted in the origins of writing itself such as food store inventories of ancient Egypt and Sumeria (‘Joyce’s Jewish Stew’ 194). To propose Joyce’s cataloguing of food in letters though is a type of prelude to his tracing the development of English literature in ‘Oxen of the Sun’ may be a case of not seeing the wood for the trees. On the contrary, Montresor alludes to Joyce’s self-professed ‘more ordinary quality of his mind’ (195). In a letter to Frank Budgen (2 May 1934) Joyce would write ‘I have a grocer’s assistant’s mind’ (James Joyce Letters III 304; Montresor 195). Joyce’s listing process in his personal correspondence may be an easy means of ‘filling in’, as Garvin notes, but his itemisation of food also finds its way into his fiction (77). Garvin contends that although the delectable descriptions of food at the Morkan sisters’ Christmas party are ‘lovingly dressed’ in ‘adjectival adornments’, what Joyce produced in effect was an ‘itemised menu’ (77). Hugh Kenner would also argue that Joyce’s lists offer comfort; ‘a double pleasure of knowing what should be present, and knowing that all of it is present’ (Kenner The Stoic Comedians 55; Montresor 3). We are introduced to Bloom in the ‘Calypso’ episode with a list of food preferences: ‘Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes . . . [and] mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine’ (U 4: 1-5). Montresor proposes that food lists, such as the list here, demonstrate a delicate balance of ‘confinement’ and ‘freedom’. By ‘confinement’ Montresor refers to a ‘finite all-inclusiveness’ resulting from Joyce’s ordering of words. For example the juxtaposition of ‘soup’ and ‘nutty’ is a nod to the expression ‘from soup to nuts’, the ‘alpha and omega points of a complete dinner’ (3). From this perspective the dinner menu in ‘The Dead’ could also come under this reassuring finite inclusivity. The menu consists of: a ‘fat brown goose’ with stuffing, ‘a great ham’, ‘a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 180 | P a g e round of spiced beef’, raspberry and orange jelly, blancmange, red jam, ‘purple raisins and peeled almonds’, Smyrna figs, custard with grated nutmeg, chocolates and sweets, a vase of celery, oranges and American apples, and a ‘huge pudding’ (Dubliners 170-4). Here we can see the alpha and omega of this traditional Victorian dinner, replete with the roast bird, the joint of meat and the beef. The menu has a Victorian reassurance about it and you can find these menu items in Mrs Beeton’s seminal (1836-65) Household Management (see for example ‘Spiced Beef’ 292, ‘Roast Goose’ 454, Baked Ham 358; Orange and Raspberry Jellies 694 and 751, ‘Blancmange’ 673-4). Joyce’s lists can be read in alternative ways though. Gilbert Sorrentino advances ‘an absolute fictional infinity’ of Joyce’s lists as ‘anything can be added to it, the original can be tampered with, varied, corrupted, repeated in new contexts, etc’ (‘Fictional Infinities’ 146, 149; Montresor 3). Joyce’s list in effect reflect the ‘reorganisational’ tenets of James’s and Dewey’s Pragmatism as traditional foods are purposefully arranged providing space for new connections and meanings, contributing to the dissociation from the ‘ascendant social order’ (Schwarze 4). Whilst I question Roos’s allocation of the ‘fat brown goose’, the ‘great ham’, and the ‘spiced beef’ as ‘traditional Irish dishes’ that are at either end of the table (‘James Joyce’s “The Dead” and Bret Harte’s Gabriel Conroy: The Nature of the Feast’ 117, 126), her analysis of the political representations of the laden Christmas table is compelling, as the ‘fictional infinity’ tampers with the ostensive normality of the consumables. I suggest that the whole table is a displacement of Irishness. Aside from Gabriel’s celery and sprigs of parsley underneath the ‘great ham’, everything green, or other symbols of Irish identity, have no place on the table (Dubliners 170-1; Roos 117). The traditional Irish stout, Roos observes, is ‘relegated behind the pudding . . . on the piano’, and the potatoes are offered by Lily guest to guest (117). Traditional Irish foods and symbols are not only displaced by English fare, but the table abounds with evidence of continued religious division and imperialism. There are ‘two little ministers of jelly’ heading the ‘parallel lines of side dishes’; though small compared to the ‘great’ meat dishes, they represent the two rival, divisive religions (Roos 118). Present on the table are great imperial powers: port (Portugal), sherry (Spain), and in addition to the ‘great’ meat, England’s colonial possessions are in attendance — nutmeg, raisins and Smyrna figs (Dubliners 171; Roos 117). As Roos suggests, the Morkan sisters’ feast is only possible for a ‘bourgeois family with access to privileges gained through British Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 181 | P a g e imperialism’, and as such confirms the sisters as ‘complicit in their own colonization’, which perpetuates ‘the deprivation of Ireland’s future’ (117), and reflects a complex view of the intermeshing of perceived agency and structure. Of particular interest in the list that introduces Bloom are the various ways in which offal can be ‘read’. Culturally offal is a complex food. L. A. Clarkson and E. M. Margaret Crawford explain that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries offal was consumed in Bishops’ households, and though expensive (the reverse of price differences today between the meat carcass and ‘innards’) it was disdained by ‘polite society’ and if purchased for an aristocratic household ‘was often given to servants or dogs’ (Feast and Famine 37). Irish food historian Regina Sexton affirms it wasn’t until relatively recently that the prime cuts of beef were available to average Irish households and society was generally affluent enough to buy fresh meat on a daily basis (A Little History of Irish Food 26-7). ‘Prime beef’ was a luxury and reserved for Sundays and special celebrations. At Christmas, for example, beef would sit alongside the goose as the ‘traditional fare of the season’. In comparison, normal week-days meant ‘cheap beef cuts, offal pieces and salted beef on the table’ (Sexton 27). Bonnie Roos implicitly indicates that Bloom’s settling for his scraps of offal, which he has learned to ‘relish’, may be read psychosexually (‘Feast, Famine, and the Humble Potato’ 186); for instance, that Bloom is ‘starving’ for physical contact with his wife but accepts Boylan’s ‘leftovers’. A more sociological reading might perceive that Bloom has imagined his agency of food choices despite socio-economic impediments of colonialism and class. Bloom’s love of offal and cheap cuts such as trotters, however, also reveals economy in a more positive light; self-control that gives Bloom more freedom than his spendthrift or drinking friends. While Dubliners like Dignam and Simon Dedalus forego pursuing food for themselves and their families, and can only seem to chase the next drink, the more job secure Bloom ensures he can have a glass of wine and food through some careful economising. Mrs Beeton, who Joyce cites by name in Finnegans Wake — ‘for dour dorty domplings obayre Mattom Beetom’ (Finnegans Wake 333) — was a great home economist. Beeton’s tome of Household Management spans over 1000 pages (Wordsworth ed.), but her cornerstone of ‘frugality’ is indicated from the beginning with the section entitled ‘Frugality and Economy are Home Virtues’ situated at page two. Of special interest is Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 182 | P a g e her inclusion of Dr Johnson who warns ‘[the] extravagant will quickly become poor, and poverty will enforce dependence and invite corruption’ (2). Whether the income is small or great, Beeton propounds, ‘[w]e must always remember that it is a great merit in housekeeping to manage a little well’, but must also avoid the dangers of the degeneration of frugality into ‘parsimony and meanness’ (2). In Bloom’s budget for 16 June 1904 we see much evidence of attempted economy with the purchase of the kidney for breakfast, his liver lunch, and the cheap pig’s foot and sheep’s trotter. Though there are ‘gratifications’ listed, Bloom’s generosity is affirmed with the inclusion of his five shilling donation to the Dignam family (U 17: 1455-77). Rather than a man denied and satisfied with ‘scraps’, the ‘Ithaca’ episode also reveals comparative plenty and comfort. On the kitchen dresser amongst the salt, pepper, black olives, and Jersey pear is a ‘packet of Epps’s soluble cocoa’, ‘five ounces . . . of choice tea’, ‘the best crystallised lump sugar’, onions, Irish cream, two cloves and a ‘small dish containing a slice of fresh ribsteak’ (17: 303-17). Thoughtless though Bloom may prove to be, as for example, his purchase of buns for the gulls despite having observed the hunger of Dilly Dedalus, the tally of his expenses for the day seems to vindicate him. We see that despite his economising, he is not ‘mean’ and manages ‘a little well’, so the dresser remains stocked with drinks for guests, and even a steak for a future meal. Joyce complicates offal. The oft quoted list that introduces Bloom alludes to the acceptance of ‘poorer’ tastes, thus affirming lower status, but it also points to economising. In so doing it is suggestive of a possible judgment against the Dublin poor, drunk but starving men, but also an indictment against imperialism that sees ‘all the juicy ones’ leave Ireland. Away from the more direct references to the Famine and inter-generational memory, the prevalence of food lists and Bloom’s interest in health provides another perspective from which to consider Ireland’s complex relationship to food. ‘You Are What You Eat’ As indicated, in post-Famine Ireland food was an increasingly ‘medicalised’ topic. Medicine, having emerged as a political force in the Victorian period, through growing specialisation of doctors and the increase in their social position, had emerged as an assertive progress narrative ‘energetically intervening in discussions about social and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 183 | P a g e cultural improvement’ (Plock Joyce, Medicine, and Modernism 6-7). The tense socio- economic climate of the post-Famine era ‘meant that all areas of Irish life — even the private world of consuming — could often be highly politicised’ (Miller ‘Beyond the Potato’ 1). For scientists the Famine was physio-sociological proof of the failing of mono-agriculture and new ideas about what to eat were imposed (1). From the 1840s and 1850s detailed studies of food and its health effects emerged in Europe, the UK and America. As nutritional science developed as an academic discipline, empirical research produced a new awareness of food which, Plock argues, was ‘central to nineteenth-century concepts of social and cultural modernism’ (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 32). Plock suggests that Joyce’s engagement with debates in the international scientific community contributed directly to his modernist aesthetics as the specifically ‘Irish’ and realistic references to diet and nutrition also include a more ‘playful and figurative’ interpretation of international scientific discourse (Plock 32; also see Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 33). Joyce refers to the ‘great masticator’ Horace Fletcher a second time as Bloom ponders how humans stoke their bodies like an engine: ‘we [stuff] food in one hole and out behind’ (U 8: 929-30). The analogy is drawn from distinguished German biochemist Justus von Liebig (1803-73) who debunked Romantic non-mechanistic Naturphilosophic with his publication of Animal Chemistry in 1842. Rather than heat and energy being the result of ‘inherent life force’, Liebig revealed that it was a result of chemical reactions (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 35), whereby the organism uses material from its environment ‘to promote its own vital activities’ (Clarkson and Crawford 175). The analysis of food according to its chemical components developed from Liebig’s work so that by the turn of the century the American study by W. O. Atwater and A. P. Bryant had developed food composition tables, and J. Lumsden’s research, ‘An Investigation into the Income and Expenditure of Seventeen Brewery Families’ (1905), included the protein, fat, carbohydrates and energy values of food (Clarkson and Crawford 175). Though Bloom suppresses his dietary knowledge in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, for example his concern for ‘the respective percentage of protein and calories energy in bacon, salt ling and butter’ (U 17: 248-52), we nonetheless see his play with developing nutritional discourses. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 184 | P a g e Scientists in the 1850s such as Theodor Schwann, Rudolf Virchow and Edwin Lankester demonstrated that cell activity relied on the same mechanistic processes as the human organism itself. Lankester, for example, claimed that the human body is renewed every forty days through the cyclical process of cell renewal (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 36). Stephen’s request to A. E. to ‘Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound’, is a clever appropriation of cell biology to defer payment of his debt (U 9: 205-6; Plock 37). Liebig advanced that the renewal of tissue was only achieved by using the right kind of food: ‘tissue food’ (or protein) (Plock 36). Bloom reflects this knowledge. When he thinks of Stephen Dedalus’s uncle, Richie Goulding, eating a kidney pie he thus thinks it ‘[a]ppropriate’ (U 11: 617). Bloom knows that Goulding suffers Bright’s disease, ‘a disease of the kidneys that could be caused by the excessive consumption of alcohol’ (Gifford 301), and thus recommends Lankester’s theory or regenerating diseased tissue via the ingestion of ‘like’ tissue. As has been proposed, kidneys also indicate self-denial, poverty, and frugality, however, Joyce adds cell biology to his perspectives on ‘kidneys’, signifying the result of a poor diet and drinking, and indirectly, the more physical consequences of subjugation. Plock carefully observes that scientific discourse and dietetics manuals were also laced with more folklorist extrapolations that linked diet to national character and individual personality. The German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach (1804-72) undermined the political and religious presuppositions of the nation-state by espousing an anti- metaphysical and materialistic philosophy that made the food humans eat inseparable from who they are (Feuerbach ‘The Question of Immortality’ in Geller 166). Feuerbach’s philosophy was based on a complete unity of mind/body and his anthropological and more psychological writings were framed around his break with Traditional, Idealist, Platonic philosophy (Levitt ‘Introduction’ 3). Feuerbach was influenced by Spinoza, although his ‘completely dreadful materialist’ philosophy also incorporated mid-nineteenth century cutting edge physiology, especially the work of Buchner, Vogt and Moleschott, who also implicitly supported Feuerbach’s ‘philosophy of science, nature and human nature’ (Levitt 4; Feuerbach ‘Man Is What He Eats’ 7). Aristocratic stomachs are no different to bourgeois stomachs, Feuerbach argued; ‘Being is one with eating, to be means to eat’: ‘You are what you eat’. If leaders want a better people then ‘give them better food instead of declaiming against sin’, he argues, as a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 185 | P a g e humane diet is the ‘foundation of human development and disposition’ (Feuerbach ‘The Natural Sciences and Revolution’ in Geller The Other Jewish Question 166). In ‘Circe’ Bloom will advocate social regeneration, which includes among other things ‘Gastronomy’ (U 15: 1702-10). Like other leaders though, he will demonstrate his hypocrisy by partaking in the food of the people by eating a turnip, but will reveal who he really is by uncloaking ‘obesity’ (15: 1610, 1622). Plock observes that Feuerbach’s philosophy also reflects the contemporary currents of nutritional science which suggested that food was responsible for personality development. Not only was food a contributing factor for cell renewal but the human body absorbed qualities associated with the specific food ingested (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 37). Feuerbach points out that Homer, Greek geographers and historians ‘designated peoples only according to their favourite or conspicuous foods’, and so they identified the ‘eaters of fish’, ‘eaters of turtles’, ‘eaters of roots’, and so forth (Feuerbach ‘Man Is What He Eats’ 8). Bénéjam notes that Pierre Jean George Cabanis (1802) was the first to link physiology and psychology: Cabanis ‘defined thought as the physiological result of perceptions, derived from the brain of which it is the organic secretion, just as the stomach and intestine receive and digest food’ (‘Joyce After Flaubert’ 447). If the English perceive the Irish as pigs, due to their living conditions and how they eat (which was reinforced by English agricultural ‘reform’ and evictions, and the dehumanisation of Famine ‘relief’), then Bloom’s thoughts in the ‘Lestrygonians’ and ‘Circe’ episodes — ‘Eat pig like pig’ (U 8: 86), and ‘O I have been a perfect pig’ (15: 3397) — affirms the Irish people’s inferior status physiologically via the ‘secretion’ of the organic matter itself. I would add here that the supposed hierarchy of domesticated beasts also reflects the understanding or presumptions of what animals eat. As Feuerbach notes, the Greeks equated the Arcadians with savagery and primitiveness as the pigs they consumed ate ‘acorns’, rather than the more cultured, and civilised ‘grain’ (‘Man Is What He Eats’ 9). If Bloom sees himself as emanating from the meat he eats, he tends to see other people in terms of food also: ‘know me come eat with me’ he thinks (U 8: 879-80). The porkbutcher is described in terms of the sausages he snips off for a customer: ‘blotchy fingers, sausagepink’ (4: 146, 152-3). When he looks at Mrs Breen he thinks: ‘Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I’m hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 186 | P a g e dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior’ (8: 270-3). A squad of constables is described in terms of animals, with their ‘[f]ood heated faces, sweating helmets’ they are let ‘out to graze’ after their good feed of ‘fat soup’, while another squad is ‘bound for the troughs’. ‘Best moment of attack one in pudding time’, Bloom muses; ‘A punch in his dinner’ (8: 406-13). Bloom further draws on the association of food and personal traits as he makes a distinction between the policemen and the vegetarian ‘Esthetes’. He considers the ethics and health benefits of vegetarianism although this diet doesn’t agree with his body: ‘Only weggebobbles and fruit . . . They say it’s healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night . . . Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you on the tap all night’ (U 8: 534-41). Though he detests the frumpy dressing of the ‘homespun’ Lizzie Twigg — ‘stockings are loose over her ankles’ — he ‘wouldn’t be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain poetical’ (8: 542-5). Amidst Bloom’s considerations of the nutritional benefits of vegetarianism, and his own physiological reaction to the diet, he is concerned with its philosophy; or at least that of the Theosophy. ‘Don’t eat the beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity’ (8: 535-6) he thinks. According to Annie Besant, president of the Theosophical Society from 1908, animals have ‘desire bodies’ that were ‘astral’, and as such they were capable of a fleeting existence after death. The butchery of animals and the killing of animals for sport sends these desire bodies into the astral world where they are ‘full of horror, terror, and shrinking from men’. From this world, however, they can ‘rain down influences that are extraordinary and destructive’ adding to a society’s ‘general feeling of hostility’ (The Ancient Wisdom 1897; Gifford 173). Free of such destruction and anxiety the vegetarian poets are ‘[d]reamy, cloudy, [and] symbolistic’, in contrast to the policemen who are ‘sweating Irish stew into their shirts’ and who you ‘couldn’t squeeze a line of poetry’ from (U 8: 542-6). In ‘Sirens’, Bloom will think of the less than ethereal music of ‘the chap that wallops the big drum: . . . sitting at home after pig cheek and cabbage’ (11: 1228-30). Though Bloom will call himself a ‘perfect pig’ in the ‘Circe’ episode, in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode he distances himself from the animals at Burton’s and from the ‘grazing’ police by producing poetry: ‘The dreamy cloudy gull / Waves o’er the waters dull’ (8: 549-50). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 187 | P a g e Marguerite Regan argues that Bloom engages in the multiple discourses circulating in Joyce’s time surrounding vegetarianism. Though brief, Bloom’s commonly referred to ‘vegetarian moment’ in ‘Lestrygonians’ provides what Ariela Freedman sees as ‘Joyce’s most extensive contemplation of meat and men, of consumption and character’ (‘Don’t Eat the Beefsteak’ 448). Bloom’s initial reservations are based on digestion, a position that joins ‘a long conversation on the benefits and drawbacks of vegetarianism’, such as the sometimes vegetarian Byron whose Don Juan states that for labourers meat is ‘better for digestion’ (in Freedman 450). However, ‘Lestrygonians’ is far more nuanced than this in its figuring of vegetarianism. Freedman pointedly makes the distinction between Joyce’s treatment of the Theosophical Society via his caricature of A. E. (Russell) and Lizzie Twigg, ‘the listening woman at his side’ (see U 8: 527-34), and his more considered and sympathetic treatment of Vegetarianism’s project of human rights, animal rights, and the central principle of non-violence (Freedman 452). This connection between meat and power / oppression is made by Joyce in his 1903 review of H. Fielding-Hall’s The Soul of a People (Regan 466). Fielding-Hall thinks that the peaceful Burmese people can have no political future as ‘[o]ur civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilisation which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence’ (‘A Suave Philosophy’ CW 94). These Burmese people thwart the connection between success and conquering, anger and rudeness are condemned, and even their animals ‘are glad to be under masters who treat them as living beings worthy of pity and toleration’ (94). Put in the context of English culture and the quasi-science of the time, ‘Roast Beef of Old England’ means ‘colonial muscle’ (Beard in Regan 471), and Victorian nutritional manuals comment on such a correlation. As Jacob Moleschott poses in 1856: ‘Who does not know the superiority of an English labourer, who is strengthened by his roast beef, over an Italian lazarone, whose predominant vegetable diet explains in great measure his inclination to idleness?’ (The Chemistry of Food and Diet; Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 35). J. Milner Fothergill (1887) reiterates this nationalist view when he proclaims that ‘[t]he conquering Anglo- Saxon, – the master and too often the exterminator of aborigines whose lands he coverts – is a meat-eating man par excellence’ (in Plock 35). English doctor George Beard would state in his Sexual Neurasthenia (1898) that vegetables were inferior to meat, that Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 188 | P a g e vegetable-eaters such as ‘the rice-eating Hindoo and Chinese and the potato-eating Irish’, were intellectually inferior to any race of beef-eaters (in Regan 471). It should be noted that at the time of the Famine the English media applied this quasi-science to the ‘idle’ Irish. The Times (26 March, 1847) indicates that the Irish are incapable of helping themselves. ‘Deep, indeed, has the canker eaten’, the newspaper states, ‘[n]ot into the core of a precarious and suspected root – but into the very hearts of the people, corrupting them with a fatal lethargy, and debasing them with a fatuous dependence!’ It is no wonder, they reason, that ‘the plow rusts, the spade lies idle, and the fields fallow’ (in Davis 18, 260). To exemplify his beefy argument, Beard argues that one of the reasons for the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo was that ‘for the first time he was brought face to face with the nation of beef-eaters, who stood still until they were killed’ (in Regan 471). Ironically, as explored in Chapters One and Two, the imperial squeeze on Ireland’s agriculture added to the paunch of Old England. Bloom’s pacifism (when arguing with the Citizen) and his moral relativism (his equanimity about Molly’s affair with Boylan), reveal his alignment with Vegetarian philosophy. In the ‘Ithaca’ episode Bloom will put Molly and Boylan’s affair into perspective, and amongst his extensive list of things worse than adultery, he will think it ‘not so calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the planet . . . less reprehensible than theft, highway robbery, cruelty to children and animals’ (U 17: 2178-90). This portion of the text is a nice example of Joyce’s implicit consideration of Victorian and Edwardian feminism which protested against the exploitation of those with no political voice; the ‘brutality of the strong against the weak, whether on the part of men against women, or human beings towards animals’ (Schuch ‘Shafts of Thought’ in Regan 466). One might suggest that Bloom exhibits that middle-class sentimentality, where middle- class activism becomes a part of the ‘civilising process’ (Moira Ferguson in Regan 468), but Bloom is not the ‘run-of-the-mill, middle-class animal welfarist’. Bloom is an eater of meat, but as Regan has explored in some detail, Bloom has compassion for household pets, working animals, circus animals and seabirds, and of particular relevance here, he reflects classic seventeenth and eighteenth century radical vegetarian discourse that focuses on the unethical violence of meat production and the pain meat- eating causes animals (Reagan 467-8; also see Morton ‘The Pulses of the Body’ 81; and Stuart The Bloodless Revolution). Bloom will think of the ‘Pluck and draw fowl’, and the cows at the cattle market as ‘[w]retched brutes . . . waiting for the poleaxe to split Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 189 | P a g e their skulls open’. He thinks of the ‘[p]oor trembling calves’, the ‘[s]taggering bob’ and then the grim remains of the slaughter: ‘Butchers′ buckets wobbly lights’, the ‘brisket off the hook’, the ‘Rawhead and bloody bones’, the ‘Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches’, and the ‘sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust’ (U 8: 722-28). He will also comment on the rich who require the torturing of animals to make the meat more delicious, so the geese are ‘stuffed silly’ and lobsters are ‘b oiled alive’ (8: 886). While Bloom eats meat earlier in the day, and will eat meat later that day in the ‘Sirens’ episode, he has a ‘vegetarian moment’ in ‘Lestrygonians’, disgusted at the thoughtless and violent eating of the ghost-like men at Burton’s. As Freedman explains, ‘Bloom’s reservations about eating meat have to do with the ways in which it implicates the consumer in an economy of violence: his squeamishness is crucially connected to his pacifism’ (452). I argue, however, that Bloom also inserts another paradigm into his consideration of vegetarianism; that lowly sense of ‘taste’. After his escape from Burton’s he will ponder the ‘fine flavour’ of earth’s produce — garlic, onions, mushrooms and truffles (U 8: 720-2) — and ‘Mity’ cheese, Italian olives, and salad ‘cool as a cucumber’ (8: 755-59). Though interested in the body, Bloom moves beyond Descartes’ explanation of the operation of the body in mechanistic terms — that bodies of humans and ‘beasts’ are mere ‘machines’ that ‘breathe, digest, perceive’ — and the Cartesian dualism of ‘matter’ and life / ‘soul’ and spirit, which relegated animals to ‘unthinking and unfeeling machines that move like clockwork’ and thus justified them being relegated as ‘food’ (The Philosophical Works of Descartes 114-8; Shugg ‘The Cartesian Beast-Machine’ 279; Stuart The Bloodless Revolution 132). Though Descartes thought animals no more than lumps of dirt, he paradoxically supported vegetarianism, not on ethical grounds, but through his own dietary experiments which attested to the suitability of the vegetarian diet for the mechanism of the human body (Discourse on the Method; Stuart 135). Bloom has reconciled his carnivorousness and his ethics concerning animal welfare, but pays due respect to the source of meat by cutting ‘liverslices’ as he and Goulding eat their dinner ‘fit for princes’ (U 11: 519, 523). Care is also taken with a dairy product as he makes a special ritual of his humble cheese sandwich by cutting it into strips (8: 777, 818-20). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 190 | P a g e Bloom’s self-assignment of ‘pig’ is perhaps more ambiguous than simply accepting the subjugator’s justifying discourse. He is scornful of the animal-like eating in ‘Lestrygonians’, and implicitly distinguishes himself from the unpoetic ‘trough’ feeding police and aligns himself with the aesthetes with his couplet. One may consider too that for Joyce not all pigs are the same: Bloom is after all a ‘perfect pig’ (U 15: 3397; emphasis added). In contrast to early Greek and prevailing English perceptions, Frederick J. Simoons observes that Celtic tales reveal that pork was regarded as ‘the best of all flesh foods’ and celebrated. Certain Celts also buried pork before planting their seeds to assure good crops (Simoons Eat Not This Flesh 39), and reflecting the central importance of the oak tree for the Celts, the visionary and magical power of pig herders is said to stem from the acorns and oak leaves chewed by the pigs (Póinséas Ní Chatháin in Simoons 40; emphasis added); acorns are thus transformed from the lowly to the ethereal. Rather than Bloom’s carnivorous moments affirming his dominance or representing the violence of humans, Bloom, as ‘pig’, also reveals Joyce’s use of parallax to interrogate various discourses that attempt to frame the Irish as animals, inferior, and destined to be conquered. Through the negotiations of meat eating and vegetarianism in the contexts of colonial violence, ethics and ‘taste’, Joyce seeks to reveal the politics behind the English metonymic substitution of ‘pigs’ for the national character of the Irish, and as Peter Stallybrass and Allon White suggest, highlight how the English might really have been seeking to expunge the worst parts of themselves by marginalising the Irish. Pigs, they observe, ‘seem to have borne the brunt of our rage, fear, affection and desire’ (Stallybrass and White The Politics and Poetics of Transgression 44, 47; Nugent 283, 288). White Bread and Sugary Tea By the turn of the century, Ireland was beginning to see the negative effect of the modernisation of eating habits (Clarkson and Crawford 245). Though sugar was first associated with the rich and nobility, and ‘remained out of the reach of the less privileged for centuries’, the technological developments in the manufacture and refining processes meant that between the mid-nineteenth century and World War I sugar had become an ‘essential ingredient’ in the Western diet (Mintz Sweetness and Power 8, 12, 17, 187-8). As Sidney Mintz states in his seminal Food Studies text, ‘[s]ugar . . . was a cornerstone of British West Indian slavery and the slave trade’, and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 191 | P a g e as such we can extrapolate that the plantation African slaves who produced the sugar were linked via ‘economic relationships’ to the working classes who were learning to eat it (175). So much so, that by the First World War sugar rationing was regarded ‘as among the most painful and immediate of the petty hardships caused by the war’, and was most acutely felt by the poor (Mintz 187). Joyce interrogates the new food staple of sugar through multiple lenses. Clarkson and Crawford note that the tenfold increase in sugar consumption between 1859 and 1904 caused an increase in poor dental health (245). Rather than blaming the deterioration of eating habits and ill-health on poor household management and housewives (as Irish Homestead editor Russell does), Joyce considers poor food ‘choices’ alongside the institutions of Church and State. From the mid-nineteenth century sugar, that commodity long associated with luxury, allowed the Irish to reimagine themselves. The taste for sugar, however, also contributed to their continued suppression as they worked to guarantee continued consumption of an imperial product. Russell makes a number of points about nutrition and health that are ameliorative to Bloom’s ponderings. A number of his Irish Homestead articles, however, reveal distinct economic priorities (Selections from the Contributions to the Irish Homestead). In ‘Food Values’ (1913) Russell compares the ‘miserable spectacle’ of the Irish and the sculptured bodies evidenced in Greek and Roman statues (Selections 375), and argues that newly discovered ‘vitamines’ are depleted from food as humans interfere with the natural diet of humanity. His declaration that ‘[p]erhaps the best thing science could do with regard to our food supply is to recognise that the less it interferes to aide in its preservation the better’, is at the heart of the global slow food movement today. In another article, ‘Dead Food and Half Dead Bodies’ (1913), Russell is critical of the lack of responsibility people take for maintaining their own health. The Irish will ‘fly to doctors when they are ill’, he jibes, but do not take ‘the slightest trouble to keep well’ (Selections 376). One of the central concerns for Russell in ‘Food Values’ is that the economy needs workers to have nutritious food to be productive, as ‘lethargy, laziness, and incapacity for hard work comes from an insufficient diet’. Reflecting his economic paradigm he states that ‘[n]othing is of more importance to the nation than the health of its units’ (Selections 375; emphasis added). He claims in ‘The Food in Ireland’ (1906) that ‘Weedy’ boys, live on white bread while the ‘anaemic girls have tea running through their veins instead of blood’ (Selections 71; also see 375). He is also concerned Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 192 | P a g e with what he sees as endemic madness caused by tea consumption (71). Ian Miller points out that the concern over ‘tea mania’ reflects the pseudo-scientific currents of nutritional science that make the connection between sugar and madness (Miller 2-3). In Bloom’s nutritional ponderings, he observes in ‘Lestrygonians’ that ‘Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butterscotch’ are bad for children’s tummies, and he will reflect that a diet of ‘Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes . . . [u]ndermines the constitution’ (U 8: 1- 3, 42-3). Russell’s and Bloom’s comments are interesting in themselves, but a more nuanced analysis reveals a more complex story of sugar for the Irish. Russell wants to put up health posters along the roadside to ‘denounce parents as inhuman monsters’ who feed their children poor quality food, and demonise ‘white bread and canned foods’ because it encourages laziness in food preparation (Selections 378). Joyce ruminates on the complexity of the problem through parallax. While Bloom may exhibit knowledge of dietetics, the important aspect of ‘medical Bloom’ is his ‘up stream’ perspective on health and his implicit challenge of dominant authorities. In the editorial of the Scandinavian Journal of Primary Health Care, written nearly eight decades after the publication of Ulysses, Iona Heath comments that although we perceive the Enlightenment as the birth of modern medicine, with the great achievement being the ability to see beyond the individual and to make ‘objective generalisations’, there is a great danger in such generalisations (66). By grouping people together in disease categories medical practitioners are able to apply ‘downstream’ medical treatment. However, what Heath insists, and why the ‘ordinary’ in Ulysses is so important, is that ‘downstream’ treatment — treatment given on the basis of standardised diagnoses of patients and delivered by ‘experts’ — needs concurrent ‘upstream’ awareness of the everyday life of patients, that is, primary health care, where there is a close consideration of lifestyle ‘choices’ and socio-economic constraints that underpin the development of health issues. In this sense, as demonstrated in the previous chapter in relation to starvation and alcoholism, Bloom is like the more holistic general practitioner who also considers the ‘material poverty’ and degraded life and compromised health of Dublin’s poor (Heath 66). Although Bloom becomes a dental surgeon in ‘Circe’ (U 15: 721), echoing his earlier concerns for sweets that the children are eating, he will also act in a ‘dissimilar’ way, to use Schwarze’s terminology. The Applewoman will state that Bloom, as mayor, is what Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 193 | P a g e ‘Ireland wants’ (15: 1540), and Bloom sprouts familiar rhetoric about ‘a new era’, a ‘golden city’ and ‘the future’ (15: 1542-5). In a crowd pleasing exercise, however, he tellingly dispenses, amongst other things, sweets to the people (15: 1572). Following Sinfield’s model of ‘faultlines’ — where contradictions in dominant discourses open possibilities for dissidence in ideological structures (35-41; Schwarze 3-4) — Bloom’s observations about the sugary diets of Dubliners, and who provides the sugar, produces a complex commentary as he destabilises authority by exposing contradictions within authority itself (Schwarze 10). The opening of the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode indicates that both the Catholic Church and the imperial power are invested in the Irish consumption of sugar. As Bloom looks at the ‘[p]ineapple rock, lemon platt, [and] butter scotch’, the ‘sugarsticky girl’ shovels ‘scoopfuls of creams’ for the Christian Brother; probably ‘some school treat’. Bloom will think that it is ‘[b]ad for their tummies’, but will also notice that the ‘[l]ozenge and comfit’ are ‘manufacturer to His Majesty the King’, and imagines him, ‘[s]itting on his throne sucking red jujubes white’ (U 8: 1-4). This argument comes via Lowe-Evans’s and Susan Harris’s work which examines the pathologisation of fertility in Ireland. Drawing on Lowe-Evans, Harris states that the ‘rhetoric of disease and cure’ within the formalised medical profession, and the Church’s use of the confessional as an ‘artificial contraceptive’ to transform ‘sexual desire into discourse’, both continue the work of imperialism (Harris ‘Invasive Procedures’ 373-5, 378, 393; also Lowe-Evans 66). The ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode, with the medical profession’s long and protracted debate about ‘conception, contraception, gestation, and delivery’, reflects England’s ‘pathologization and manipulating of Irish fertility through its actions on the Irish female body’ (374). Importantly the Catholic Church advances the colonial project through ‘a complementary system that works through different methods to reach the same goal’ (394). In the case of sugar, the Irish continue to be the topic of analysis, and their perceived ill-health, madness or apathy are the rationale for the continued control of the colonial subject. Sugar, like alcohol, can be another solution to the problem of Ireland and may dull appetites and hunger for the Church whose ‘upstream’ remedy is ‘fast and abstain’ (U 16: 277). Woven through Ulysses though are contradictions that upset this authoritative stance. While there are hungry families in the streets of Dublin in ‘Hades’, Father Coffey will be described as having a ‘toad’s belly’ (6: 591). In Nausicca the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 194 | P a g e priests will eat butter on their bread as well as have chops and catsup (13: 1292 -4), while earlier the Christian brothers were buying sweets for students (8: 2). In ‘Wandering Rocks’ two urchins will be ‘sucking long liquorice laces’ (10: 244). In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode Bloom’s stream of consciousness will, tellingly, liken the Eucharist to sweets. Just like the lotus fruit, ‘sweet, sticky fruit’, seemed to signify a death experience for Odysseus because it induced forgetfulness, so too the ‘lollipop’ communion host causes a loss of self-consciousness (Tucker 52, 7). Bloom sees the benefit of ‘confraternity’ — ‘Not so lonely’ — though the faithful are like children lining up for ‘Hokypoky penny a lump’. The Eucharist ‘Lollipop’ ‘makes them feel happy’ as it ‘[l]ulls all pain’ (U 5: 359-68). In addition to the colonial government’s and the Church’s interest in Irish bodies, there had long been an anxious Anglo-Irish middle class who had concerns over what the Irish ate, even before the Famine. Early nineteenth century ‘reformers’ and writers of improvement fiction, such as Mary Leadbeater and Abigail Roberts, were concerned with the threat that would result from the Irish diverging from their ‘traditional’ diet of potatoes. For these writers, Ireland had an aristocracy and a rural poor with no strong middle-class attuned to the values of frugality and restraint (O’Connell ‘“At Our Potatoes”: Recipes for Normality in Post-Union Ireland’ 53). ‘Taste’ for more ‘provocative’ flavours was seen as a threat to ‘social harmony’, and after the French Revolution the spread of culinary knowledge and ‘tastes’ that were previously the domain of the elite, became associated with republicanism and nationalism (49-50, 55). As Helen O’Connell points out, a well-nourished body was perceived as able to ‘withstand emotional experiences triggered by external factors’ and also able to control emotions within (57). A diet of potatoes, stirabout, oats and stew fortified the body against Irish nationalism: ‘Such wholesome and simple food thus preserves traditional structures of feeling as well as social order’ (57). Leadbeater advanced that a diet of ‘clean good victuals’ such as ‘potatoes and butter-milk’ as it was free of worrying stimuli (in O’Connell 57). To the consternation of the reformers though, the poor rural Irish rejected the values of the English productive middle-class and instead emulated the ‘worst habits of the elite aristocracy or Ascendancy society, namely idleness and excessive consumption’ (53). As Mintz asserts though, this focus on ‘choice’ and framing the consumption of sugar in terms of ‘emulation’ and ‘imitation’ seems to place the history of drinking sweetened tea, for example, in a vacuum. He reminds us that tea Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 195 | P a g e was ‘hot, stimulating, and calorie-rich’ and had the power to make a ‘cold meal seem like a hot one’ (182). At a time when people worked hard and under difficult working conditions these are significant considerations. Thus ‘new schedules of work, new sorts of labor, and new conditions of daily life’ seemed to make the altered lives of the working class more ‘natural’ (181-2). Mintz contends that sugar, ‘by provisioning, sating . . . [and] drugging’ workers, had the effect of reducing the cost of creating and reproducing the workforce as ‘laboring classes [became] sugar eaters’, ready to work hard in order to consume (180). In the previous chapter it was proposed that we can view Irish consumption as a rejection of middle-class values and Ireland’s reluctance to further participate in the continual growth of imperial wealth. Here, however, Joyce demonstrates how sugar numbs the Irish poor and enables an imaginary state of affluence, and thus deadens any urge to disrupt the social and institutional structures that maintain the status quo. Conclusion This chapter’s epitaph, taken from ‘Cyclops’, notes the barfly narrator’s rather humorous observations about Bloom’s capacity for talk. Throughout Ulysses though, Bloom’s talk isn’t uncompromisingly opinionated but instead attempts to chew over alternate perspectives. Bloom’s interior dialogue, his more fleeting thoughts, the third person narrator’s insights, the use of juxtaposition and ‘dissimilar discourses’, all exhibit Joyce’s use of parallax to negotiate and interrogate various hegemonic positions. In so doing he reveals some cracks that allow the Irish to glean the poor terms of their social contract. This scrutiny of food in the context of the turn of the century medical profession, and the health and malnutrition of the Irish, casts light on other related institutional constructs and socio-economic concerns. Joyce’s kidneys — from the wholesome breakfast of ‘Calypso’, the alcoholic kidney of ‘Sirens’, and the frugal home-economics in ‘Ithaca’ — problematise Roos’ suggestion that Bloom internalises his marginalised status by being satisfied with offal. Joyce’s personal interest in medicine is given full scope alongside Bloom’s fascination with the body, but this is tempered with scepticism towards a profession that is ‘in partnership with the doctrines of British imperialism’ (Harris 378). The various rhetorical devices and discourses that the English use to marginalise the Irish, such as animality and nationalistic appropriations of new scientific knowledges, are both recited but then deconstructed as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 196 | P a g e perceived ‘choices’ are problematised. The ‘faultlines’ of Ulysses, moreover, point to the double bind of the Irish as the British Government and the Catholic Church simultaneously undertake the project of pacification. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 197 | P a g e Chapter 5 – The New Epic Feast ‘Who will deliver us from the Greeks and Romans?’ asked many a Romantic author, to which Joyce answered, ‘I will.’ (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer, Homer’s Joyce’ 243) The size and title of Joyce’s self-conscious epic insists that we see The Odyssey as an intertext for Ulysses (Zajko ‘Homer and Ulysses’ 314). Though T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound saw the modernist use of myth as offering ‘order’ and a ‘scaffold’, W. B. Stanford reminds us that Joyce was interested in ‘the whole literary tradition of Ulysses’s exploits’ and the three thousand year long life of the Ulysses myth and its varying transformations (‘Ulyssean Qualities in Joyce’s Leopold Bloom’ 125-6). Joyce’s pacifist, turn of the century experiences, thoughts and feelings merge into this traditional myth, but his imagination makes ‘a sudden mythopoeic leap beyond the slow tide of normal literary development’, so that in his hands a new type of ancient hero springs to life (Stanford 125-6). The experience of the First World War and the sham of ‘heroics’ meant Joyce couldn’t start with the heroic Achilles; he needed to pick up from The Odyssey where the epic had started with the ‘home bound’ hero and a story that gave due attention to the domestic realm. As Wolfgang Iser points out, for Joyce the archetype is the vehicle and not the subject (The Implied Reader 201); instead the subject is the contrast between Joyce’s Bloom, Molly and Ireland’s decaying heroes, and Homer’s Odysseus, Penelope and the ancient Greece of gods and heroic men. Bloom is not a godfearing hero like Odysseus, but he has that ‘Greek’, Odyssean characteristic of cleverness — ‘cleverness in the widest sense’ (Stanford 133) — within his own brand of Spinozistic ethics. Joyce uses food and eating to highlight how his epic diverges from its Odyssean predecessors and by implication rejects exertions of power, revenge and violence. While Odysseus will slaughter the suitors as they feast in the hall, avenging their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 198 | P a g e attempted seduction of Penelope and their consumption of his food and wine, Bloom will eat and work through his feelings. Joyce will leave us scraps of food to follow his ‘differential repetition’ of events (Miller Fiction and Repetition 9), showing us an alternative to patriarchal control, violence and death. Joyce’s use of food will not stop at this lesson though, for the pinnacle memory Bloom and Molly share — that exchange of ‘seedcake’ — will also show us the way to an invocation of nature and the way to love. Chapters Two and Three indicate that the danger of living in the past is stagnation and emotional paralysis; here I consider the danger of forgetting individual, life affirming memories. The Pragmatists see the weaving of the past with the present in art. Joyce also presents a future; one where pinnacle, individual memories are unharnessed from both history, which smothers the reality of women (Spoo ‘Genders of History in “Nestor”’ 21), and the confines of the Catholic Church, which perceives sexuality, or ‘biological humanity’, as abhorrent (Brown James Joyce and Sexuality 15). Bloom’s gift for parallax and Molly’s multiplicity means they can see how to live life. Bloom, furthermore, reimagines Irish ‘hauntings’ by thinking of how to love from the grave. Molly and Bloom represent a new Ireland that is capable of understanding the core necessity of ‘community’ beyond the habit of repressive and violent patriarchy institutionalised by colonial government, church, and replicated in the domestic sphere by the Irish themselves. The way to agency is through life affirming acts and memories, not through the burden of remembering betrayal. The Continuation of the Epic It was established early in this thesis that Joyce’s rejection of the cultural nationalism of Yeats and the Irish Literary Revival did not mean he was disengaged from the political concerns of the ‘narrative of the nation’ (Nolan James Joyce and Nationalism 23-4). For the revivalists, Irish art imbued with ‘ancient idealism’ (Yeats et al. in Nolan 25) depended upon a ‘reconstructed version of native or folk culture which is both ideological and artistic’ (Nolan 25), and this aimed to correct previous misconstructions of Irish national character and create new images of the Irish race that eliminated stereotypes from future Irish art. For Joyce though, efforts placed on searching for an imagined Irish past were ill placed. As he insists in his 1907 essay ‘Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages’, ‘Ancient Ireland is dead just as ancient Egypt is dead’ (CW 173). Joyce suggests instead that what Ireland needs to remember is not a mythologised, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 199 | P a g e ancient past but the recent past. Modernist novelists and poets such as T. S. Eliot, D. H. Lawrence and W. B. Yeats, were incorporating ancient myth in their works as a way of ‘controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary life’; indeed this is what T. S. Eliot said of Joyce’s Ulysses (Eliot Selected Prose 177; Kiberd Ulysses and Us 280;). Yeats, who believed ‘Ancient Salt [was] the best packaging’ (in Ellmann ‘Joyce and Homer’ 567), delved back into a mythical past to inspire and ‘will’ an embodied, heroic, revolutionary potential (Said 301). While Joyce too was inspired by ancient genres, he did not ‘pack’ his story in the ancient salt but continued the development of an ancient genre – the epic – and the concomitant development of heroic action into more recognisable human concerns (Ellmann 570) with a Bloomian incarnation of the Odyssean domestic realm. Mikhail Bakhtin observes the ancient epic genre is concerned with the ‘absolute past’, a national heroic past concerned with ‘beginnings’ and ‘peak times’, ‘a world of fathers and of founders of families’, and a world of ‘firsts’ and ‘bests’. It was ‘never a poem about the present’ (The Dialogic Imagination 13). But, while Bakhtin suggests that the epic is the ‘absolute past’, lacking ‘temporal progressions that might connect it with the present’ (15), he does not acknowledge the progression of the epic genre itself. The novel form, Emer Nolan and Bakhtin suggest, parodies other genres and ‘the epic was that genre the novel parodied in its nation forming role’ (in Nolan 27; Bakhtin 5). As Nolan notes though ‘[o]nly the novel could be for the contemporary world what the epic had been for antiquity, offering a depiction of a social totality from which citizens might gain a sense of the larger significance of their own lives’ (27). For Vico, Homer was a figure of ricorso: ‘that stage in a historical cycle when the whole cycle was known and leaped beyond’ (‘Discovery of the True Homer’ The New Science of Giambattista Vico xlii-xliii; Ellmann ‘Joyce and Homer’ 568). Just as The Iliad and The Odyssey represented two stages of national development, Ellmann suggests that Joyce aspired to give his work such stature (568). I suggest though that Joyce’s epic does not represent ricorso – a stage of national development – but rather a possible alternate civilisation to the intolerant, violent era in which he lived. This perhaps explains the ambivalence of Joyce regarding the Homeric titles to the Ulysses episodes as people may under or over emphasise or misread the connection to the ancient form. As Ellmann notes, ‘To those who read the book as an ordinary work of fiction, he Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 200 | P a g e wished to make clear its elaborate structure; to those who addressed themselves to the structure, he pointed to the novelistic element’ (569). Given Joyce’s investment in the ‘political’ in Ulysses, his use of The Odyssey — the epic form and some of its conventions — does more than provide humorous moments where the classical conventions highlight the ‘inappropriateness of heroic language and style’ (see Murfin and Ray ‘Mock Heroic’ 306). These judgments though, of what is ‘epic’ and ‘heroic’ and what must be a satirizing of these, neglects the evolutionary nature of form and archetypes. Bernard Knox’s introduction to Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey (1996) reminds us that Longinus thought The Odyssey was a product of ‘a mind in decline’, ‘work of the setting sun’, whereby ‘the size remained [but] without the force’ (On the Sublime in Knox 23). Longinus had a preference for the heroism of The Iliad rather than the extremes of the ‘fabulous and incredible’, and the realism of ‘life in the farms and palace of Odysseus’ domain’, or what the ancient critic called ‘a comedy of manners’ (On the Sublime in Knox 23; Knox 23). For the ancient critic the ‘sublime’ is not found in what we might call the ‘everyday’ of the Odyssey, such as the fistfight between beggars or the prize of a ‘great goat’s paunch . . . filled with blood and fat’ (Homer [Butler] Odyssey 18: 117-9; Knox 23). Peter V. Jones notes in his introduction to D. C. H. Rieu’s revised translation of The Odyssey (1991) that the hero Odysseus is a distinctly different hero to The Iliad’s Achilles. Odysseus’s world doesn’t centre on the battlefield, but reconciles the more traditional ‘heroic’ with the humble, and makes the household (or oikos) the centre of the story (Jones xi). J. V. Luce notes in Homer in the Heroic Age (1975) that in The Odyssey ‘Homer shows what human character can be; what men and women have to bear, and how great it can be’ (181), and this ‘character’ can be great on the battlefield or ‘home’. Rather than Joyce’s hero, Leopold Bloom, being a mock-hero — a trivialized subject satirized by placing him in a Homeric framework — Joyce was actually fulfilling the natural destiny of any great epic: The Odyssey is multi-plotted and contains many elements for future narratives. As Declan Kiberd puts it: ‘If Odysseus was destined to travel across space and time, so also was The Odyssey’ (Ulysses and Us 278). In this sense it is not so much a story of a journey, but the journey of the story (Dougherty in Kiberd 278; emphasis added). Just as Homer was able to surpass The Iliad with The Odyssey by continuing a story while reducing the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 201 | P a g e prior text to a footnote, so too has Joyce acknowledged the great masterpiece of The Odyssey, but continued the Homeric energy of the story by taking a deeper x-ray of the narrative (Kiberd 278), and engaging it in a modern context. While Joyce may have been told as a school boy that Odysseus was no ‘hero’, he would continue to admire the intelligent and determined wanderer (O’Connor in Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer, Homer’s Joyce’ 241). What distinguishes Joyce is that he ‘imagined past heroes in our space, rather than us in theirs’ (Kiberd 282). Just as Odysseus is a different sort of hero from Achilles, so is Bloom a different sort of hero from Odysseus. Achilles, we could say is the ‘archetype’ hero. He is a ‘warrior-hero’, fierce and successful on the battlefield, with strong convictions of what is right (Knox 37). While not on a battlefield, Odysseus wages war against the ‘suitors’ in a vicious and calculated way (Jones xlix). The Odyssey includes ‘normalisation’ techniques whereby a homely image, such as a farmer ploughing his fields, will be evoked in the midst of battle (see Brann Homeric Moments 138-9; Kiberd 248). If we see Joyce’s goal as not to repeat the narrative of The Odyssey, but to take up certain threads, then Ulysses is more an ‘extended hymn to the dignity of everyday living’. As Homer heroicised the domestic, Joyce wished to ‘domesticate the heroic’ (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 248). Joyce’s thoughts about the ramifications of contemporary ideas of war ‘heroics’ figure in his focus on the domestic realm. However anachronistically, the ‘heroic’ battle that features as a constant ancillary to Ulysses is World War I where young men went to war ‘seeking extreme sensations’ after the ‘long peace’ (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249). As Declan Kiberd states in his introduction to Ulysses (Penguin ed.), the liberal humanist Freud thought that the war made life ‘interesting again’ after the prolonged peace had made life ‘as shallow as an American flirtation’ (Kiberd ‘Introduction’ Ulysses 16; Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249). In a letter to his brother in 1905, Joyce comments on the pre-war cult of ‘heroics’: ‘Do you not think the search for heroics damn vulgar’ (Letters of James Joyce II 80-1, Selected Letters 53; Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249). Kiberd suggests that Joyce’s stance on the contrivance of heroics, that was ultimately unleashed in the war, is really ‘a critique of the imperial mastery over subject peoples’ (249; also see Zajko 312). We might also consider that Joyce’s political comment is that Ireland (and the Western world) did not need ‘warrior heroes’, but rather a new type of hero to save the ‘subjected’ from the self-devouring nature of narrow, divisive ‘nationalism’: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 202 | P a g e In those prewar years, cults had grown up around boy-scouting, mountain- climbing, Arctic expeditions — anything that allowed men to assert a jeopardized virility and to escape from taunts of emptiness and effeminacy at home. The link between all this and empire-building was obvious enough, and Joyce was keenly aware of the use to which the classical texts of Greece and Rome were put in the classrooms of Britain and Ireland. A cult of manly strength, cut loose from clear ethical moorings, had led to the jingoism finally unleashed in the First World War. (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249) Kiberd points specifically to two World War I meditations in Ulysses. In the ‘Nestor’ episode, as Stephen teaches ancient history, he will think ‘I hear the ruin of the space, shattered glass and toppling masonry and time one livid final flame. What’s left of us then?’ (U 2: 9-10). In the ‘Penelope’ episode, Molly will lament the killing of ‘any finelooking young men’ (18: 396). We might, however, also consider the man in the mackintosh that ‘pops up’ in Ulysses. The mackintosh, that waterproof coat developed in 1822 by Charles Macintosh while he was researching uses for coal-gas by-products (Hart ‘Detecting the Man in the Macintosh’ 635), became innocuous by World War I. At the turn of the century, ‘almost any raincoat was referred to as a “macintosh”’ (Hart 635). Celia Marshik observes that in the first three decades of the twentieth century British literature encodes the mackintosh to develop characters and ‘advance arguments’ (‘The Modern(ist) Mackintosh’ 44). The mackintosh was affordable and durable and it was technologically innovative, offering protection from the elements; however, for the modernists it was unscrupulous. It caused a loss of individuality, and also represented ‘the paralysis of individuals by economic and social structures they could not transcend’. While it could protect people against the elements, the mackintosh also symbolised the vulnerability of humans against the ‘violence of technological warfare’ (44): ‘The garments could keep rain, wind and mud at bay, but they could not shield against bullets, bombs, poison gas, and other weapons’ (60). The first and best long-term customer of the ‘mac’ was the British army. It became a ‘de-individuating garment worn by members of an institution that functioned because of group behaviour, experience and history’. It also became associated with ‘the masses’ (Marshik ‘Modern(ist) Mackintosh’ 46). During the war the ‘trench’ coat, or mackintosh, was often worn by soldiers and volunteers in advertisements for products Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 203 | P a g e associated with the war, or indeed products far removed from the war (51). In an interesting example Marshik notes that in the 5 July, 1917 edition of the Daily Telegraph, a medicine for ‘nerves’ uses a soldier in a mackintosh in its advertisement. The advertisement claims that ‘Phosferine’ helped Private W. G. Amatt recover from shell shock. In the accompanying photograph of the Private, he is in the muddy trenches in his trench coat with his helmet on and gun slung over his shoulder (52). Marshik argues very convincingly that readers of this advertisement would see this mackintosh as ‘protective’ and exhibiting ‘grit’, but could not help also aligning the mackintosh ‘with shell shock, wounds, and the violence that created them’ (52). As readers of Ulysses were post-war readers, the man in the mackintosh that quietly appears in the ‘Hades’ episode at Paddy Dignam’s funeral reflects the preoccupations of other modernists such as Virginia Woolf, where the mackintosh becomes ‘a perambulating reminder of the war most people wanted to forget’ (Marshik 66). In ‘Hades’ the appearance of the ‘thirteenth’ attendant at the funeral will surprise Bloom: ‘Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the chapel, that I’ll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen’ (U 6: 826-7). This man is also unknown to Hynes, who is writing down the names of those in attendance, but he becomes identified as ‘Macintosh’ by Bloom and subsequently ‘M’Intosh’ by Hynes. Robert Spoo has argued that Ulysses, though ‘ostensibly out of battle, is a neutral zone crossed and recrossed’ by the phantom of war (in Marshik 62). This spectre continues through the wearing of garments, across space and time (Marshik 66; also see Froula Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury Avant-Garde 89). In the case of Joyce’s narrative, the haunting occurs from the violent ‘future’. Thus, as Marshik points out, in the ‘Circe’ episode Macintosh becomes strikingly linked with violence. In Bloom’s fantasy of building the Bloomusalem of the ‘new era’ — ‘a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the shape of a huge kidney, containing forty thousand rooms’ — the building is accompanied by the demolition of several buildings and monuments, the razing of houses, and the displacement of inhabitants. Dublin’s walls, ‘crowded with loyal sightseers’ collapses, but the victims of the collapse dedicate their death to Bloom: ‘Morituri te salutant’ (U 15: 1542-57). The Man in the Macintosh immediately ‘springs up through a trapdoor’, a sign of a grave or hell (Marshik 61), and accuses Bloom of being a ‘fireraiser’ and a fraud (U 15: 1558-62) at which point Bloom yells Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 204 | P a g e ‘Shoot him! Dog of a Christian! So much for M’Intosh!’ Signalling war, there is a ‘cannonshot’, Macintosh ‘disappears’, and Bloom ‘strikes down poppies’ (15: 1564-6; Marshik 62). We should also take pause to consider Duffy’s observations that between 1916 and 1921, ‘IRA terrorists, gunman, and bomb carriers’ were also often seen in trench coats in photographs (Subaltern Ulysses 66). Duffy sees this purposefully inconspicuous flâneur as a modernist, metropolitan figure ‘recast’ in a late-colonial context (Duffy 66). Indeed for Joyce’s covert allusions to Michael Collins (66), we can’t discount this additional, specifically Irish reading. Heroes and Other Waste Matter As a challenge to nationalistic heroics Joyce rejects conventional religious consolations of death, and rather than turn death into heroic sacrifice he focuses on the finality of death but also on death as part of a natural cycle of life. When Ulysses is read for food and ingestion, however, what is interesting about the allusions to war (World War I or Irish nationalist and English imperial conflict and violence) is how Joyce challenges nationalistic ‘heroics’. This is perhaps best illustrated through the numerous references to Robert Emmet (1778-1803), who led an attempt to seize Dublin Castle in 1803. The promised assistance from Napoleon and other Irish allies did not materialise and the attempt turned into a riot where the Lord Chief Justice was piked to death. Emmet was in hiding for a month, and finally, legend has it, returned to farewell his fiancé, Sara Curran. He was captured, hanged and beheaded (see Gifford Ulysses Annotated 124). As Gifford points out, what is intriguing about Emmet is that despite his failed seizure, the farce of the international assistance that never came, the capture and the ‘botched’ execution, this figure became a potent Irish-hero myth (Kee in Gifford 124). The perseverance of the Emmet myth lies in what Robert Kee calls the Irish need to ‘ennoble failure’: ‘For the tragic failure was to become part of Ireland’s identity, something almost indistinguishable from “the [Irish] cause” itself’ (in Gifford 124). Bloom irreverently draws attention to such myths as the bodies and memories of heroes are quickly devoured and decay. While Mr Kernan’s reflection at the funeral service — ‘I am the resurrection and the life’ — touches his ‘inmost heart’, Bloom will think there is no touching ‘the fellow in the six by two with his toes to the daisies’ (U 6: 670-3). Indeed, Bloom is pragmatic Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 205 | P a g e and rejects religious reimagining of dead bodies. The six by two is superfluous for Bloom who thinks too much money is spent on the dead, and perhaps the dead should be put down a shaft: ‘[L]ump them together to save time’ (6: 928-30). A heart for Bloom is a pump, and then ‘[o]ne fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are . . . Once you are dead you are dead’ (6: 673-7). Importantly Bloom’s reasoning is linked back to the uncrowned, dead king, Parnell, as the men walk around to ‘the chief’s’ grave. While Power notes that some say Parnell will come back again, Hynes replies that he ‘will never come again . . . He’s there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes’ (6: 923-7). This acknowledgement of the reality of heroics and the fate of heroes is also indicated in ‘Wandering Rocks’ when Mr Kernan notes where Emmet ‘was hanged, drawn and quartered’, and dogs were ‘licking the blood off the street’ (10: 764 - 5). He acknowledges the drinking prowess of that era of nationalists — ‘Great topers too. Fourbottle men’ — but he soon tries to shrug off the memory: ‘Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with’ (10: 767-8). Just as he thinks of Paddy Dignam’s death, ‘Went out in a puff’ (10: 771), so too the memory of Emmet quickly evaporates. Bloom will be reminded of Emmet as he sees a grave for Robert Emery, but this thought is preceded and followed by him following the trail of a rat ‘toddl[ing] along the side of the crypt’, making the rounds of the graveyard, ‘[p]icking the bones clean no matter who it was’, making ‘short work of a fellow’ (U 6:971-81). Corpses are ‘[o]rdinary meat for them’, after all a copse is just ‘meat gone bad’ (6: 981-2). The corpse-eating rat will preoccupy Bloom at the offices of the Freeman’s Journal, for as Hynes ‘thumps’ away at Dignam’s funeral notice, Bloom will muse upon Dignam’s remains as his body is working away, ‘fermenting’, and the old grey rat waits to tear at his corpse (7: 76-83). Bloom, with his ‘remarkably sharp nose for smelling a rat of any sort’ (16: 1865-6), will also think of the corpse devouring rat in ‘Sirens’ (11: 1036) and in ‘Circe’ the rat will be seen toddling after Paddy Dignam as he ‘worms down through a coalhole’ (15: 1255-6). Indeed, at the end of ‘Sirens’ episode Bloom will also intertwine ‘Robert Emmet’s last words’ so that his own digesting body and ‘fermenting’ food becomes a part of Emmet’s epitaph: When my country takes her place among. Prrprr. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 206 | P a g e Must be the bur. Fff! Oo. Rrpr. Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She’s passed. Then and not till then. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I’m sure it’s the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Kraaaaaa. Written. I have. Pprrpffrrppffff. Done. (11: 1284-94; original emphasis) Bloom sees the ‘stream of life’ (U 8: 94-5) flowing in life and death. You can’t hold back time; ‘[l]ike holding water in your hand’ (8: 610-1). So whilst he is on the one hand nihilistic about human mortality — rat food in the waiting — his view of death has much life also. Henry Staten suggests that the confluence of food, eating and death goes beyond ‘cannibalism’ as it also represents the ‘circulation of living beings in general through one another’s digestive systems’ (‘The Decomposing Form of Joyce’s Ulysses’ 384). Bloom wants to be buried in his ‘native earth’, a ‘bit of clay from the holy land’ (U 6: 819), but I suggest that these are not conventional, religious wishes but are linked to his earlier thoughts about the fecundity of the warmer, southern Mediterranean and what his body could ‘produce’ there. Bloom would sooner see his body ‘planted’ (6: 932) in the Mediterranean, fertilising exotic fruits. In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode he recites the words of Jesus, as the son of God declares himself food for his disciples: ‘This is my body’ (Luke 22: 19; U 5: 566; Staten 384). Palestine was part of the Turkish Empire from 1516 until the end of the First World War, but during the closing decades of the nineteenth century the Turkish government was amenable to the Zionists who were ‘purchasing lands to establish Jewish colonies in Palestine’ (Gifford 74). In the ‘Calypso’ episode when Bloom reads about the opportunity to purchase tracts of land from the Turkish Government, it should be noted that he does this ‘gravely’. The land can be planted with eucalyptus trees, ‘[e]xcellent for shade, fuel and construction’, and ‘olives, oranges, almonds or citrons’ (U 4: 191-6). While land owners get pecuniary benefits — ‘Every year you get a sending of the crop’ and also your ‘name entered for life as owner in the book of the union’ — Bloom’s monetary practicality expressed at Dignam’s funeral, and his scientific perspective on death and decomposition, is linked with something much more resembling a romantic notion of undying love. His thinking of the land scheme ‘gravely’ (as his grave) is Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 207 | P a g e interestingly sandwiched between his purchase of the kidney at the pork butcher’s and his fantasy about a woman who buys ‘prime sausages’, and his intermingled thoughts of Molly, food, death and sex. Bloom thinks about ‘dead’ meat. He ‘stares’ at black and white sausages, and the ‘shiny links, packed with forcement, fed his gaze’. He breathes in ‘tranquilly’ the smell of the ‘cooked spicy pig’s blood’ (4: 140-4). He remembers his mornings while working in the cattle yards: ‘the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there’s a prime one’ (4: 159-62). The slapping of the beast shifts to the whack, whack, whack of a woman’s swinging skirt and his desirous thoughts of following the woman from the butcher to watch her ‘moving hams’ (4: 150-1, 163-5, 171-2). After his thoughts of the Turkish land scheme in Palestine, he sees cattle, possibly that ‘Roastbeef [bound] for old England’ he sees on the way to Dignam’s funeral (6: 393-4). The silver shimmer of the beasts in the sun soon triggers his dreams of the ‘quiet long days’ of ‘pruning’ and ‘ripening’ ‘[s]ilverpowdered olivetrees’ (4: 201-2). These thoughts of growing produce are intermixed with the arrival of expensive imports from Spain, Gibraltar, the Mediterranean and the Levant (U 4: 211). Molly doesn’t like olives from Andrews he thinks, she ‘spits them out’ (4: 203). So he thinks of the ‘[o]ranges in tissue paper packed in crates’ and Citrons. These ‘cool waxen fruit’ are nice to hold and smell of ‘heavy, sweet, wild perfume’ (4: 204-8). The silver heat of the morning is short lived though, as a ‘cloud began to cover the sun slowly’, snuffing Bloom’s dreams of farming and the thought of exotic fruit. Instead ‘grey’ and ‘far’ thoughts of ‘desolation’ are awakened, with ‘[g]rey horror sear[ing] his flesh’ and ‘cold oils slid[ing] along his veins, chilling his blood’ (4: 218-32). Unwelcome thoughts of the lifeless, ‘grey’, poisonous, foggy waters of the dead sea, and the ‘barren’, ‘bare’, ‘grey and old’ ‘dead land’ of the cities on the plain: ‘Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names’ (4: 219-23). He laments how the ‘oldest . . . first race’ have wandered the earth, from ‘captivity to captivity’, ‘multiplying, dying, being born everywhere’, and the thought encrusts him like a ‘salt cloak’ (4: 223-32). Just as thoughts of Molly find their way into his wanderings in Palestine, it is his home, his thoughts of breakfast and Molly’s ‘ample bedwarmed flesh’ — home, food, sex — that bring him back from the grey and ‘warm sunlight’ returns (4: 238-40). He rejects the paralysing crust of history and the captivity of religion, and takes his place in the present with Molly. When Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 208 | P a g e Bloom arrives upstairs with Molly’s breakfast the ‘grey’ becomes a ‘grey garter looped round a stocking’. This new ‘grey’ is accompanied by the orange of the exotic in the form of Molly’s ‘orangekeyed chamberpot’ (4: 322, 330), linking the Molly of Eccles Street to the Molly of the Mediterranean. ‘Let them sleep in their maggoty beds’ Bloom asserts, ‘They are not going to get me this innings’. He has a ‘warm bed’ to go to: ‘warm fullblooded life’ (6: 1003-5). As Molly asks Bloom about ‘metempsychosis’ Bloom’s ‘grave’ considerations about farming, or being ‘of’ a farm in Palestine, are alluded to again and his initial explanation of ‘the transmigration of souls’ is further elaborated with an example: ‘They [the ancient Greeks] used to believe you could be changed into an animal or tree’ (U 4: 331- 42, 374-5). Bloom might leave his explanation here but his thoughts about the cycle of life go beyond a ‘migration’ to a reconnection and recirculation back into life and love. Indeed, one of Bloom’s ways to fund his ‘ultimate ambition’ (17: 1497) — a very detailed account of his dream house, land, and comfortable life in the ranks of the landed gentry (17: 1497-1607) — is to invest in a German company with a land scheme in Palestine. The scheme reclaims Palestinian waste land ‘by the cultivation of orange plantations and melonfields and reafforestation’ via the utilisation of ‘waste paper, fells of sewer rodents, [and] human excrement possessing chemical properties’ (17: 1699- 1703). Due to the ‘immense quantity’ of effluent, calculated at 80lbs per annum (‘cancelling byproducts of water’) for each human ‘of average vitality and appetite’ (17:1704-6), Bloom sees a practicality to the scheme also. Whilst he may think of the universes (within universes) of the human body (17: 1063-5), he thinks too of the body as a part of the death, earth, sex, and life. In ‘Hades’, for example, death, sex and fecundity are intertwined as Bloom notes that the caretaker of the graveyard has eight children. It seems to be a place of desire in general — ‘Love among the tombstones’ might have a ‘[s]pice of pleasure’ — and Bloom reflects that ‘[i]n the midst of death we are in life’. It would be a good place to ‘pick up a young widow’ after all (6: 758-62). In contrast to the other men at Dignam’s funeral, who look for the grave of their hero, still mourning for what might have been, Bloom is inspired by graves and thoughts of death and decay become part of his ‘ultimate ambition’ for the future and link back to life. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 209 | P a g e ‘Greeker than the Greeks’: The Cleverness of Leopold Bloom To continue the journey of Odysseus Joyce diminishes traditional heroics but goes back to the essence of ‘Greekness’. In the first episode of Ulysses Mulligan remarks to Stephen that if they ‘could only work together [they] might do something for the island. Hellenise it’ (U 1: 157-8). Mulligan’s Hellenising, as Richard Begam blithely notes, is aesthetic, ‘a kind of Oxbridge on the Liffey’ or ‘Republic of Letters’ if not a republic of citizens (Begam ‘Joyce’s Trojan Horse’ 187). Joyce’s Hellenising project is not Mulligan’s Wildean aestheticism — an ‘all-too-English denial of . . . Irishness’ that smacks of the court jester winning the master’s praise (Begam 193-4; U 2: 44-5; Joyce ‘Oscar Wilde: The Poet of “Salomé”’ CW 201). Nor is Joyce interested in the revivalist Hellenisation that Haines ‘collects’, which Joyce sees as lapsing into colonial stereotypes: the dead spirit of the past that devours the living (U 1:365-6, 480; Begam 194, 197-8). The Hellenisation of Ireland that Mulligan and Haines desired or anticipated in 1904 was trumped though by Joyce’s 1922 novel and its modernist innovations (Began 187, 191). The revolutionary aesthetic of Ulysses would not play the jester nor romanticise dead culture. As Bergman claims, Joyce is ‘speaking the language of modernism, as represented by a universalizable, if not universalist, Greek culture, but speaking that language in a distinctly Irish register’ transforming the ‘Celtic twilight of the Nineties in to the Celtic daybreak of modernism’ (194). We can continue Begam’s tracing of ‘aesthetic’ Hellenism by considering Joyce’s careful reassertion of the characteristics of Odysseus, specifically his cleverness — ‘cleverness in the widest sense’ (Stanford ‘Ulyssean Qualities in Joyce’s Leopold Bloom’ 133) — and thus address Mulligan’s comment about Bloom’s Greekness: ‘Greeker than the Greeks’ (U 9: 614-5). W. B. Stanford’s remarks that the cleverness in The Iliad is limited to military and political matters, but in The Odyssey ‘one finds the beginnings of that intellectual curiosity which became a salient feature of the Ulysses tradition’ (133). Danté’s Inferno and Gower’s Confessio Amantis sieze on the ‘Greek’ quality with Gower’s polymath sharing a number of characteristics with Bloom: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 210 | P a g e He was a worthi knyht and king And clerk knowende of everything; He was a gret rethorien, He was a gret magicien; Of Tullius the rethorique, Of king Zorastes the magique, Of Tholome thastronomie, Of Plato the Philosophie, Of Daniel the slepi dremes, Of Neptune ek the water stremes, Of Salomon and the proverbes, Of Macer al the strengthe of herbes, And the Phisique of Ypocras, And lich unti Pictagoras Of Surgerie he knew the cures. (Gower in Stanford 133) If readers of Joyce’s Ulysses miss Bloom’s intellectual curiosity and eagerness to learn, the ‘Ithaca’ episode presents Bloom’s personal library, including books on astronomy, geometry, theology, philosophy, history and travel (U 17: 1361-98; Stanford 133). Bloom will be ridiculed by the narrator in the ‘Cyclops’ episode for his propensity for ‘jawbreaking’ (U 12: 466) and ability to see things from different perspectives: ‘And Bloom with his but don’t you see? and but on the other hand’ (12: 515; original emphasis). He will be called ‘the distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft’ and ‘Mister Knowall’ (12: 468, 838). After Lenehan and M’Coy have a laugh at Bloom’s expense, Lenehan will thoughtfully acknowledge Bloom’s broad interests and knowledge: ‘He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is . . . He’s not one of your common or garden ... you know ... There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom’ (10: 581-3). Joyce never meant Bloom to be average, states Richard Ellmann; he is complete, heroic, and equipped with a darting, nimble, undefeated mind (Ellmann Ulysses on the Liffey 30, 39; Raleigh ‘Bloom as a Modern Epic Hero’ 598). Stanford identifies a key alteration of the Odyssean tradition from Homer’s Odysseus — ‘pious, god fearing, and god beloved’ hero — to Bloom as polytropic, discarding all formal religious belief for his vague ‘scientific optimism’ (Stanford 131). Erwin Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 211 | P a g e Steinberg argues that Joyce ‘took care to have Bloom deny that he was Jewish’ (‘James Joyce and the Critics Notwithstanding, Leopold Bloom is not Jewish’ 33). For Steinberg, Bloom is neither a religious or secular Jew, as he doesn’t fit the rabbinical definition of Jewishness or actually practise the religion. Bloom can’t be a secular Jew either, according to Steinberg, as he does not meet three criteria: ‘an acceptance of or commitment to being Jewish’; ‘a commitment to the idea of the Jews as a people, if not a nation’; and ‘no embracing of a non-Jewish religion’ (32). Ó Gráda states that what matters most is that ‘Bloom was perceived as (or even mistaken for) Jewish by others’ (‘Lost in Little Jerusalem: Leopold Bloom and Irish Jewry’ 18), but we may well add that his challenge of all Jewish criteria makes him an ‘outsider’ of the Jewish community too. Bloom’s Jewish lineage is dubious having been born of a Gentile mother (Ellen Higgins). While his father was born a Jew he converted to marry Ellen, Bloom also marries ‘out’ of his religion by converting to Catholicism. He was not circumcised or bar mitzvahed, doesn’t attend synagogue, and flouts kosher dietary laws (see Steinberg 32, 38; McCarthy Ulysses: Portals of Discovery 70-1; Ó Gráda 18; Sultan Eliot, Joyce and Company 78). Indeed Bloom’s delight in consuming organs (whether this be, as noted in the previous chapter, for the sake of frugality or taste), rather than highlighting his Jewishness, seems to emphasise his Greekness. The Greeks of Homer’s world ate the inner organs of the sacrificial animal. In comparison the rabbis of the Hellenistic period introduced dietary laws to ‘curb animal appetites’ (Montresor ‘Joyce’s Jewish Stew’ 196). Here we might see Bloom, not as violating kosher law, but ignoring the more superficial religious laws that deprives his appetite, taste and/or economy. As Ira Nadel argues in Joyce and the Jews (1989) Joyce had a keen interest in the Jewish tradition. Despite his many religious digressions Bloom is of two races: Irish and Jewish. He is Irish — ‘[a] nation of people living in the same place’ — and Jewish — a people ‘living in different places’ (U 12: 1422-31). Rather than deny his Jewishness, which Steinberg suggests is evident when Bloom tells Stephen in ‘Eumaeus’ that he is not a Jew via maternal lineage (Steinberg 33; U 16: 1082-5), Bloom propounds his affiliation with the ‘hated and persecuted’ race. He states that the Jewish people are ‘Robbed’, ‘Plundered’, ‘Insulted’, ‘Persecuted’, and I think importantly he claims this is happening ‘now’, ‘This very moment’, ‘This very instant’, ‘At this very moment’ (U 12: 1467-71). In the impassioned exchange, primarily Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 212 | P a g e directed at the anti-Semitic Citizen, Bloom points out that Jews were being sold in Morocco ‘like slaves or cattle’ (12: 1471-2). Morocco in 1904, Gifford explains, had a Moslem majority who enforced Jews to undertake ‘compulsory service’ whereby ‘both men and women were compelled to do all servile tasks, even on the Sabbath and holy days, and these services could apparently be bought and sold in the Moslem community (364). Emphasis on present injustice (‘this very instant’) suggests that we also look at Dublin. In Dublin 1866 (the year of Leopold’s birth) there were only a few hundred Jews and the community was in decline with only nine births recorded for that year (Ó Gráda ‘Lost in Little Jerusalem’ 19). With immigration from small towns and villages of Lithuania, Dublin’s Jewish population was 2,000 by 1900 and nearly 3,000 by 1914 (Ó Gráda 19). Early in 1904 there was a ‘dramatic outbreak of anti-Semitism’ in Ireland with organised boycotts of Jewish businesses (Sultan ‘Ulysses and the Question of Anti- Semitism’ 26). Stanley Sultan quotes a Dublin Jew who wrote, ‘You cannot get one native to remember that a Jew may be an Irishman’ (26). In his famous 1882 essay promoting Zionism Leo Pinsker states that the un-nationed Jewish people no longer existed as a political entity. Instead the world saw these people as ‘uncanny’, ‘ghostlike apparitions . . . without land or other bonds of unity, no longer alive . . . yet walking among the living’ (Pinsker in Davison Anti-Semitism and British Gothic Literature 1). ‘This spectral form without precedence in history’, Pinsker claims, could not b ut ‘strangely affect the imagination of nations’, who through the generations imagine themselves ‘endangered’ (1). As considered in Chapter One, however, this spectral form did have a precedence in the post-Famine era. The mirror Joyce holds up to the Irish with Ulysses provides them with a reflection of their own inhumanity and racism. The Jews of turn of the century Ireland were hated and persecuted, but Ó Gráda’s research suggests that this does not mean that Dublin Jews formed a single community. The mainly middle-class ‘English’ Jewish community in Dublin didn’t make welcome the poor Eastern European co-religionists (‘Lost in Little Jerusalem’ 20-1). Ó Gráda asserts that Bloom marrying out of the Jewish religion was unimaginable at the time, a s was Bloom’s apparent acceptance into the Litvak community; Citron and Mastiansky are Bloom’s friends (23). Ó Gráda perceives a gap in Joyce’s otherwise meticulous research and suggests that as he wrote much of Ulysses in Trieste (1904-1919), his Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 213 | P a g e Jewish Bloom reflects the ‘different character of Trieste Jewry’: ‘more urbane, more middle-class, more integrated, more western than their Dublin brethren’ (24). In contrast to the orthodoxy of Irish Jews, in Trieste ‘one Jew in five had renounced his or her faith’ and there was a significant proportion of ‘mixed’ marriages (24). While Ó Gráda identifies poetic licence in Joyce’s transference of ‘Jewishness’ I suggest that Joyce may be commenting on the narrowness of religion and society in Ireland. Dublin 1904 cannot tolerate ‘mixed middlings’ (U 12: 1658-9), a label that indicates ‘what’ and ‘who’ a person is should be unambiguous (12: 1631-2). Labels for ‘others’ are necessary for bigots like those in the ‘Cyclops’ episode who see those who transgress boundaries as ‘wolves in sheep’s clothing’ (12: 1666), or someone ‘perverted’ (12: 1635). There is a voice of reason throughout the ‘Cyclops’ episode that occasionally remarks on the un-Christian behaviour of Irishmen in the pub — ‘Isn’t that what you are told. Love your neighbour’ (12: 1490); ‘why can’t a jew love his country like the next fellow?’ (12: 1628-9); and ‘Charity to your neighbour’ (12: 1665) — but in the end Bloom is attacked for speaking a most intolerable truth: ‘Christ was a jew like me’ (12: 1805), the parody climaxing as the citizen says: ‘By Jesus . . . I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name’ (12: 1811). Bloom bridges nations, something worthy of suspicion in Dublin 1904. Despite marrying Molly, not practising his faith, disobeying dietary laws, being generous to those in need, he is nonetheless a loner; the penalty the Odyssean tradition demands in exchange for cleverness (Stanford 131, 134). Kiberd reminds us that Odysseus is isolated by his incredulity at the superstitious activities of the primitive peoples he encounters (‘Joyce’s Homer, Homer’s Joyce’ 245). Bloom, as I have illustrated in previous chapters, has passed judgments on the day-to- day actions that keep the Dubliners around him in a state of paralysis. Odysseus, however, ‘reduced to the barest common level of humanity’ (Clarke ‘Manhood and Heroism’ 87) will live up to his name — ‘causer of pain’ (Dimock in Raleigh 584). He will ostensibly emulate the heroics of Achilles as he slaughters the suitors and the maids who have disgraced the household: Eurycleia found Odysseus ‘among the corpses besplattered with blood and filth like a lion that had just been devouring an ox, and his breast and both his cheeks are all bloody . . . besmirched from head to foot with gore’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 214 | P a g e (Butler [Trans.], The Odyssey xxii: 400-6)2. But, as Michael Clarke suggests, Odysseus is not vainglorious. He warns of any exultation over the slaughter as the suitors’ downfall was their disrespect for the gods and any ‘man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them’ (xxii: 410-14; Clarke ‘Manhood and Heroism’ 88). His heroics are but one part of his story of return. Odysseus’s manhood is confirmed but the great and new development for this Greek hero is his ‘thoroughly inglorious degradation’. His experience ‘of the instability of good fortune and of the gods′ remote and unpredictable power’ has given depth to his sense of humanity (Clarke 88). Just as Odysseus will seek to be amenable to the gods by not vaunting over the dead (The Odyssey xxii: 410-12), Bloom will acquiesce to his moral code. John Raleigh’s article is fascinating for its analysis of the way that a history of Western ethics is ‘woven’ into Bloom. He lists in some detail cardinal, intellectual, Stoic, Christian, chivalric, gentillesse, prudential and economic virtues (596). His principal concern though is ‘Bloom’s philosopher’ Spinoza, as it is Spinoza who ‘plays a greater role than any other philosopher’ (585). Spinoza was a ‘double heresiarch’, first in his scepticism and subsequent excommunication from his synagogue, and second because of a notorious anathema to the philosophical norms of western thought (586-7). A copy of his father’s Thoughts from Spinoza (U 11: 1058, 17: 1372) is listed amongst Bloom’s books in the ‘Ithaca’ episode. Raleigh notes that one of the paradoxes of Spinoza is the quotability of this mathematical metaphysician, who wrote in Latin and created a vast, interlocking philosophical system (588). This makes Spinoza accessible for Bloom who is educated in the ‘University of Life’ (15: 840, 17: 555-6). Four short propositions in part four of Ethics (‘Of Human Bondage’ or the ‘Strength of Emotions’) prove central to Bloom’s moral code, and each is exemplified in his responses to the Citizen: Cheerfulness can never be excessive but is always good; melancholy, on the contrary, is always evil. (Ethics 4, prop. 42) Hatred can never be good. (Ethics 4, prop. 45) 2 Unless specified otherwise, the textual references to Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad are from Samuel Butler’s translation: Homer. The Iliad of Homer and the Odyssey. Trans . Samuel Butler. Chicago: William Benton, 1952. Print. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 215 | P a g e He who lives according to the guidance of reason strives as much as possible to repay the hatred, anger, or contempt of the others toward himself with love or generosity. (Ethics 4, prop. 46) Minds, nevertheless, are not conquered by arms, but by love and generosity. (Ethics 4, appendix, prop. 11) Bloom also sees ‘no use’ in ‘[f]orce, hatred, [and] history’. ‘That’s not life for men and women’ he states, living with ‘insult and hatred’, as real life is the ‘opposite of hatred’ — ‘Love’ (U 12: 1481-5). As demonstrated in ‘Cyclops’, Bloom’s attempts to articulate his ethics are interpreted as naïve and confirm his outsider status. The Citizen doesn’t believe a Jew can love a gentile: ‘A new apostle for the gentiles . . . Universal love . . . Beggar my neighbour is his motto, Love moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet’ (12: 1489-92). The narrator has his fun at Bloom’s expense too: ‘Love loves to love love . . . [and] this person loves that person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody’ (12: 1493, 1499-1501). Though the appeal for love is disarmed by the Citizen and the narrator and cast as pure sentimentality, Bloom’s simple answer is explored further via Joyce’s parallactic form, in ways that Bloom himself is not able to articulate. Central to Joyce’s interrogations of violence and patriarchy are his allusions to that masculine epic The Odyssey, as he highlights a path for an alternative Ireland in his development of the myth. In so doing I venture that Joyce does what Le Doeuff perceives as the more subversive way to disrupt the patriarchal underpinning of society: he attacks the repressive structure under the guise of a ‘masculine’ and combative narrative. While the revivalists draw on epic, indeed seek to create an authentic Irish epic, their focus is on inspiring Irish nationalism to ‘sacrifice’ and violent heroics. For Joyce, the development of the epic is determined by time and place, and as he continues the Odyssean myth ‘home’ he points to the necessity to rethink the foundation of society — the domestic realm — if Ireland is to establish a united ‘prior covenant’ and thus the ability to select its own ‘ruler’. In Joyce’s continuation of the Odyssean myth the reactive, violent Odysseus will not return. Bloom slaughters no suitors, and there are no gods or heavens that have helped bring men and women to destruction. Wolfgang Iser’s seminal essay on Ulysses suggests that ‘the whole structure and stylistic texture of the novel’ is geared to such character transformations (The Implied Reader 228). The Odyssey is unacceptably Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 216 | P a g e violent for Joyce (Turner ‘How Does Leopold Bloom Become Ulysses?’ 42), as is the ‘heroics’ of war and the rousing call to nationalism. Unlike history, myth can be cured of its violence. The ‘physician’, as termed by John Turner, can come from Joyce’s ‘ailing’ Modernity, but in turn the rotten world of violence and paralysis in need of transformation is healed by myth (Turner 42). Though Odysseus quells the vainglorious violence of The Iliad, Book XXII of The Odyssey is undeniably a bloodbath. I propose that the bloody slaughter of the suitors is carefully reworked in Ulysses via purposeful ‘differential repetition’, a term used by J. Hillis Miller to identify when copying (with a difference) acts as a ‘subversive ghost’ to the original ‘always already present within it as a possibility which hollows it out’ (Fiction and Repetition 9). This point reflects Le Doeuff’s exploration of subversive feminism. The key point is that as Ulysses parallels The Odyssey, if something happens in the original but doesn’t happen in the successor ‘then that inaction is something’ (Turner 43; original emphasis). Joyce reconciles the epic to his own pacifism and Bloom’s Spinozistic ethics. ‘I am not a bloodyminded man’ Joyce would frequently refrain (Budgen ‘James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses’ 263). The bloodbath commences in ‘The Slaughter in the Hall’3 when Antinous is about to drain the wine from the golden, two handled goblet and is shot through the neck by Odysseus’s stabbing arrow, and ‘the cup dropped from his hand, while a thick stream of blood gushed from his nostrils’. The feasting table is knocked and bread and roasted meats are strewn across the floor (Odyssey xxii: 8-21). Ignoring promises of financial compensation from Eurymachas, the seething Odysseus sets about the annihilation of all suitors and the maids who ‘[lay] in secret with the suitors’ (Odyssey xxii: 44-67, 443-5). Eurymachas’s pleas fail and he rouses his fellow suitors, but as he hurled himself at the returned King with his honed bronze sword, Odysseus ‘instantly shot an arrow into his breast that caught the nipple and fixed itself in his liver’. At this he ‘dropped his sword and fell doubled up over the table. The cup and all its meats went over on to the ground’ (xxii: 79-86). With bow and arrow Odysseus ‘shoot[s] the suitors one by one, and they fell thick on one another’ (xxii: 116-8). Odysseus instructs ‘Eumaeus’ to torture the goatherd Melanthius for his role in helping the suitors secure arms and armour, but also for ‘driving in [his] goats for the suitors to feast on’ (xxii: 198-9). 3 The title of this chapter is taken from Book xxii in the Robert Fagles translation of The Odyssey (1996). As indicated all textual references to The Odyssey are from Samuel Butler (Trans.) unless specified. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 217 | P a g e Melanthius is treated like one of the beasts he herds: ‘Eumaeus’ and Laertes ‘bent his hands and feet well behind his back, and bound them tight with a painful bond as [Odysseus] had told them; then they fastened a noose about his body and strung him up from a high pillar till he was close up to the rafters’ (xxii: 191-6). With Athena’s assistance Odysseus, Telemachus and their men continue to cut down the suitors and their men. Athena creates more sport by terrifying the suitors, and they ‘fled like a herd of cattle’. Odysseus and his men were like vultures and attacked them on every side, and the suitors made ‘a horrible groaning as their brains were being battered in, and the ground seethed with their blood’ (xxii: 297-309). They lay ‘like fishes which fishermen have netted out of sea, and thrown upon the beach to lie gasping for water till the heat of the sun makes an end of them’ (xxii: 386-9). A dozen maids who slept with the suitors and were insolent to Penelope and Telemachus were sent to their grisly deaths too, hanged ‘one after the other’ (xxii: 462-72). Last but not least, the goatherd was hauled outside, his nose and ears were cut off, his genitals were torn off and given to the dogs, and then ‘in their fury they cut off his hands and his feet’ (xxii 2: 474-77). Of all those who were amongst the suitors only the herald and the Bard were spared. As the Bard claims, he makes all his ‘lays’ [paths of songs] himself, and heaven visits him with ‘every kind of inspiration’ (xxii: 347-9), enabling a new path for the Odyssean myth. Odysseus will not be satiated without this blood revenge, whilst Bloom will work through his jealousy and eventually be happy to sleep next to Molly. When Bloom sees Boylan at the Ormond in the ‘Sirens’ episode his initial thoughts aren’t of jealousy or revenge but Boylan’s tardiness, and how this would affect Molly. He is supposed to meet Molly at 4pm: ‘Has he forgotten?’ He thinks that Boylan must be playing a trick — ‘Not come’ to ‘whet the appetite’. This is something Bloom ‘couldn’t do’ (U 11: 354, 392-3). But Boylan is whetting his own appetite, flirting with the barmaids and having a drink. Bloom will name Molly’s many suitors later in the ‘Ithaca’ episode — twenty five in all (17: 2132-42) — however, these aren’t all lovers. Most of the men listed ‘ogled her, goosed her, kissed her (d’Arcy), inspired her revulsion etc’ (Turner 43-4). She has had two lovers, Mulvey and Boylan, and the rest are ‘Molly’s lovers in their dreams only’ (44). Nonetheless the list is there to ‘copy’ The Odyssey in order to transcend it: ‘For there to be differential repetition there must be copyism’ (44). It is Hugh E. (Blazes) Boylan who is established as akin to Antinous: the leader of Penelope’s suitors in The Odyssey. In contrast to Antinous being shot in the neck as he Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 218 | P a g e drains the wine from his goblet, Boylan’s thirst will be quenched; ‘Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops’ (U 11: 419- 20). The ‘bronze’ of Eurymachas’s honed sword is a sunburnt ‘Miss Bronze’, the barmaid Boylan watches as she glides ‘by the bar mirrors’: ‘bronze with sunnier bronze’ (11: 115, 420-3). As Lenehan greets Boylan as ‘the conquering hero’ (11: 340) as he enters the Ormond, Bloom is ‘warily walking’. Importantly though he is not described as ‘conquered’ but an ‘unconquered hero’ (11: 341-2). The most glaring alteration of the Odyssean tradition is that Odysseus is ‘pious, god - fearing, and [mostly] god-beloved’, whereas Bloom, certainly affiliated with Judaism in his ‘outsider’ status and his yearning for home, discards formal religion (Stanford 131). He is ‘polytropic’, embraces a vague ‘scientific optimism’, and if he portrays any religion through actions he is Christian. As Stanford summarises, he is meek, compassionate, considerate, kind to people and animals, and is gentle and has self- control (131). Harry Girling recognises in Bloom a counterbalance to what Hannah Arendt would call ‘the banality of evil’ (‘The Jew in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ in Jewish Presences 110). Bloom stands for ‘the banality of love’. ‘He is just the kind of average man who makes everything he says or thinks irretrievably ordinary, boring, banal’, comments Girling, but his assertion of the ‘banality of goodness’ doesn’t make him conquered: he is ‘never unheroic’ (Girling 131). Surrounded by the imperialist politics and nationalism, the malevolence of industrialisation, uncaring bureaucracy and an apathetic citizenry, Bloom offers hope by ‘letting love be as humdrum, unexciting, and uninspiring as common courtesy’ (Girling 110). The point that Girling states so eloquently is that for Bloom, a character developed during WWI and the violent conflict for Irish independence, love is ‘[n]ot something to die for’ (and I think we can add here ‘to kill for’ also), but ‘something to survive for’ (110; emphasis added). As the suitors gather in Book XX of The Odyssey, the hero Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar, is included in the feast. Sheep, goats, pigs and a heifer were sacrificed, and the ‘inward meats’ were cooked and served, with Odysseus receiving a good portion (Odyssey xx: 249-61). As Boylan travels to Eccles Street Bloom will sit down to the Ormond’s ‘best value’ dinner and eat his liver and bacon while Richie Goulding eats his steak and kidney pie: ‘Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods’ roes while Richie Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 219 | P a g e Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate’ (U 11: 519-22). So intent is Joyce to highlight Bloom’s eating of liver that it is mentioned two more times (11: 569, 608) as well as referring to the ‘Calypso’ episode (‘As said before’). In contrast to the gruesome killing of Eurymachas, with Odysseus’s arrow fixing itself in his liver, via differential repetition Bloom will focus on the banal act of eating a cheap pub dinner. In contrast to the ancient Greeks who offered the gods animal bones covered in fat or ‘inwards’ (which they would subsequently share), the godless but mindful Bloom will eat the innards himself and contemplate his own response to the suitor ‘feasting’ in his house. He will not leave his response to the gods, or act on behalf of the gods, but refigures food as life affirming rather than linked to violence, and takes responsibility for his own reaction to Molly’s affair. Joyce had to work through his own jealousy of other men pursuing Nora Barnacle, and John Turner makes some interesting connections. In 1909 Vincent Cosgrove (Lynch in Portrait and Ulysses) made claims he had gone out with Barnacle while Joyce was courting her in the summer of 1904. J. F. Byrne, then living at 7 Eccles Street, what was to become the Blooms’ address, acted as the calming voice of reason convincing Joyce that Cosgrove was intent on making Joyce jealous. Turner maintains that ‘[a]n important part of Bloom’s character is related to what Byrne did for Joyce in August 1909, as they walked around the streets of Dublin talking about the alleged affair (Turner ‘How Does Leopold Bloom Become Ulysses?’ 45). While Joyce needed Byrne to overcome his jealousy, Joyce would have Bloom overcome it himself (45). Bloom’s inaction is indeed something. Turner makes a very interesting point about the ‘Ithaca’ episode which I think is relevant here too. Ithaca’s ‘cold’ style ‘slows down’ the narrative ‘to the point where something as inconspicuous as the contemplative man’s course from jealousy to abnegation can be seen’ (Turner 43; also see McDonald ‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72). Reflecting the idea of Sinfield’s ‘faultlines’, McDonald also argues that the apparent ‘inaction’ in modernist texts, like Joyce’s, results in a ‘thickened texture’ where inconsistencies, ‘gaps, distensions and absences’ enable the possibility for new subjectivities (72). The ‘Sirens’ episode, with its lead up to the imminent meeting of Boylan and Molly, has this ‘slowing down’ too. Bloom contemplates going home to Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 220 | P a g e stop the affair a number of times (see U 7: 230-1; 8: 633; 11: 305). Budgen’s explanation for Bloom’s inaction focuses on essentialist readings of Bloom as a Jew, as an ‘Oriental’, and the fatalistic outlook of the oriental race: ‘What has to be will be. What is written will come to pass. You may prevent a thing today but what about tomorrow?’ (Bugden 148). As a non-practising Jew his ‘racial pessimism’ cannot be derived from traditional religious observations; ‘no black fasts, no lamentations for the fall of Jerusalem [and] none of the griefs and penances of Israel’. He has to use the only ‘instrument’ he has through which to suffer: Molly (148-9). As Budgen puts it ‘[t]he griefs and exultations of the cuckolded husband are a substitute for the griefs and exultations of Israel from which he is exiled’. The outsider and loner Bloom can gain ‘an underground substitute for noisy backslapping, [and] arm-gripping comradeship’ as he ‘shares’ his wife with other men (149). While I think there is evidence to suggest that Molly’s affair(s) titillates his fancy — for example with Bloom climaxing on Molly ‘the night Boylan gave [her] hand a great squeeze’ (18: 77), and Molly commenting that Bloom doesn’t have ‘the courage’ to have an affair with a married woman, ‘that’s why he wants me and Boylan’ to (18: 1253-4) — I don’t think this extends to Bloom desiring a ‘backslapping’, homosocial relationship with the Dubliners he observes and engages with. As argued in Chapter Three, Bloom is critical of the irresponsibility of many Dubliner men and has no wish to partake in the social practices of ‘rounds’ or treating. No, Bloom wants no backslap, but Budgen’s reading of why Bloom doesn’t act is reflective of established racial and gender politics and discourse of the 1930s when Budgen was writing his influential book. Joyce challenged these politics (see Chapters One and Three). Rather than taking up Budgen’s proposed masochism, we might more fruitfully return to Bloom’s philosophy of love and his philosopher Spinoza, who argued that one must accept the limitations of human life. Bloom’s responses to infidelity are not bound by religion or the broader, confining patriarchy of turn of the century Dublin. The slaughter of the suitors and their supporters in The Odyssey is about ‘law’ and ‘justice’ (Clarke ‘Manhood and Heroism’ 88), however, it should be highlighted that these are conventions for the protection of property (including wives and families) and the appeasement of the ever-watching gods. Bloom rejects gods and works through the urges to interrupt the liaison between Molly and Boylan. Bloom’s ‘slaughter’ is not outward looking but internal and his victory is psychological (Ellmann ‘Joyce and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 221 | P a g e Homer’ 568; Stanford 130). What guides Bloom is the Spinozistic acceptance of the limitations of human life and the resultant domestic tranquillity such acceptance brings (Raleigh 591; also see Stanford 136): But human power is very limited and is infinitely surpassed by the power of external causes . . . Nevertheless we shall bear with equanimity those things which happen to us contrary to what a consideration of our profit demands if we are conscious that we have performed our duty, that the power we have could not reach so far as to enable us to avoid those things, and that we are a part of the whole of Nature, whose order we follow. (Spinoza Ethics IV, Appendix, Statement 32) As Byre told Joyce, Bloom will judge for himself that Boylan is a ‘boaster’ and will work through his ‘antagonistic sentiments’ of ‘envy’ and ‘jealousy’ to his ‘subsequent reflections’ of ‘abnegation’ and ‘equanimity’ (U 17: 2146, 2154-5). He had already reconciled the inevitability of the affair in ‘Sirens’ as he thinks ‘Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost’ (11: 641). Scholars such as Myra Jehlen (‘Archimedes and the Paradox of Feminist Criticism’ 582), Jules Law (‘The Home of Discourse: Joyce and Modern Language Philosophy’ 50) and Bonnie Kim Scott (‘James Joyce: A Subversive Geography of Gender’ 159-60) explore the significance of the ‘geography of gender’ and how independence for women in narrative is achieved ‘as open access to the sea’ (Jehlen 582), as it is this ‘feminine territory that male characters are least able to hold to patriarchal values’ (Scott 159). As Budgen notes regarding the form of the ‘Penelope’ episode, Molly’s voice ‘snakes’ its way through the last episode of Ulysses, and ‘like a river winding through a plain’, it finds ‘its true course by the compelling logic of its own fluidity and weight’ (Budgen 296). Developing Geraldine Meaney’s argument, Joyce’s writing of the feminine works against ‘time’s arrow’ and its trajectory of ‘history’ and violence, and re-establishes ‘time’s cycle’ enabling the interrogation of ‘progress’, society and identity (Meaney 98-9). In Bloom’s subversion of ‘time’s arrow’ he will reason that sex is after all ‘as natural as any and every natural act of a nature expressed or understood executed in natured nature by natural creatures in accordance with his, her and their natured natures, of dissimilar similarity’ (U 17: 2178-80). Bloom sets out to put the affair into perspective: it is not, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 222 | P a g e for example as ‘calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the planet’, as ‘reprehensible as theft’ or ‘cruelty to children and animals’, stealing, or betrayal of public trust, malingering, mayhem, corruption of minors, criminal libel, blackmail, contempt of court, arson, treason, felony, mutiny on the high seas, trespass, burglary, jailbreaking, practice of unnatural vice, desertion from armed forces in the field, perjury, poaching, usury, intelligence with the king’s enemies, impersonation, criminal assault, manslaughter, wilful and premeditated murder. (17:2180-90) We might see Bloom’s compilation of the day’s events, expenditures and receipts in the ‘Ithaca’ episode as also engaging in a ‘spiritual casting up of accounts’. His methodical reckoning of the ‘moral balance sheet’ show he had sustained no loss and had brought a positive gain to others (Raleigh 584-5; U 17: 1455-78). Given Bloom has not had penetrative intercourse with Molly for over ten years, since the death of their son Rudy, he sees the affair, the latest ‘suitor’ and ‘late occupant of the bed’ (17: 2143-4), as another practically scientific example of ‘adaptation to altered conditions of existence’ bringing back ‘equilibrium’ to Molly (the ‘bodily organism’) and her ‘attendant circumstances’ (17: 2193-3). With ‘bloodless thought’ Bloom works through the envy and jealousy and turns his rival(s) into ‘nonentities’, and this work is done as efficiently as the ‘bloody-minded’ Odysseus (Budgen 267). ‘Womanly Wise’: Gerty’s ‘Brekky’ and Molly’s Meat and Seeds Nancy Felson and Laura Slatkin see equilibrium as central to The Odyssey and the state of oikos: ‘How will the patriarchal domestic economy work, or not work, when the patriarch is gone, perhaps never to return?’ (‘Gender and the Homeric Epic’ 103 -4). As Joyce’s hero moves from the Homeric piercing of livers to a thoughtful dining on livers, signalling Bloom ‘working through’ envy and jealousy, he also cultivates a turn-of the- century heroine who works through gender politics. Budgen suggests that in the ‘Penelope’ episode Molly ‘runs through all the world that is hers . . . paint[ing] a portrait of herself not known to Leopold, and a portrait of a Poldy not known to him or his friends, and a picture of the world, the values of which would be disputed by every Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 223 | P a g e other person in the book’ (Budgen 268-9). There is no traditional Irish patriarchy at 7 Eccles Street, but Molly lives in a world that doesn’t tolerate the Blooms’ deviations from gendered expectations, nor acknowledge a woman’s independent sexual needs and desires. As with Bloom, Molly’s ‘working through’ her own conflicting thoughts bears interesting insight read through the complex interrelationships of food, and for Molly this is intrinsically linked to love, sex and power. We might suppose Molly stands in contrast to ‘Penelope’ in The Odyssey, and indeed all the feasting in Homeric political economy, for she participates in the masculine consumption of meat. This is a problematic comparison as meat eating occurs in the macho and virile public realm in The Iliad and The Odyssey. In the ‘Penelope’ episode of Ulysses there is evidence of public eating, though this is met with anxiety. In the Ancient Greek world of Homer both meat preparation and meat consumption is a male activity (Rundin ‘A Politics of Eating: Feasting in Early Greek Society’ 190). Mortal women will only watch festivities and feasts from their thresholds (Iliad 18: 496; Rundin 189). Even Helen, daughter of Zeus, and Arete, a Phaeacian (‘closer to the gods than normal humans’), though they sit down at feasts, do not eat or drink (Rundin 190). Molly certainly eats, and she is a strong woman with a ‘voice’, but she also displays characteristics of Homer’s non-eating women and Joyce’s other female characters who have a voice but do not eat: Dante Riordan and Gerty MacDowell. Dante speaks, and as Michael Toolan observes this gives Stephen his earliest example of non serviam (Toolan 397), but she stops eating in the process (see Chapter Three). Speaking necessitates defiant food denial or conversely an alternate form of suppression. Despite Gerty remembering her father as a drunk, she will recall fondly when they ‘stewed cockles’ and ate them with lettuce and Lazenby’s salad dressing for supper (U 13: 313-4). As she fantasises about creating a ‘home’ with Bloom — ‘for Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess’ (13: 222-3) — she imagines making her acclaimed griddlecakes and queen Ann’s pudding (13: 224 -5). Though she takes pride in her cooking and is particular about recipe instructions — ‘dredge in the selfraising flour and always stir in the same direction, then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs’ (13: 226-8) — and though she likes the idea of ‘brekky’ for two, she doesn’t like the idea of eating where ‘there were any people that made her shy’ (13: 228-9). Gerty’s anxiety about eating here is a little Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 224 | P a g e ambiguous as she may well be ‘shy’ with a husband. She wants a marriage where they ‘would be just good friends like a big brother and sister without all that other in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess’ (13: 665-6), and so a husband, not so happy to be just ‘friends’, could also put her off food. Her reluctance to eat could indicate ‘unvoiced rebellion’ about societal expectations (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 39), though the textual evidence also exhibits societal and cultural power. An ‘acute observer of popular culture’, Joyce developed Gerty’s character as a reflection of popular women’s magazines and sentimental novels (Beetham A Magazine of Her Own 207; Leonard Advertising and Commodity Culture in Joyce 98-137; Henke ‘Gerty MacDowell: Joyce’s Sentimental Heroine’; Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 39). Cheap printed magazines signalled that ‘women’s work’, of raising children, managing a household, cooking and cleaning, was increasingly being considered ‘skilled work’ (Beetham 208). Alternatively, women’s magazines also reflect the loss of face-to-face contact with other women, and a ‘loss of voice’ (208). In their own homes women become an imagined, homogenous community (209). Advertisements create ‘facts’ about women — ‘we are consumers’, ‘we are individuals’ — when individuals are really ‘trapped in the illusion of choice’ creating themselves according to how they have already been created (Williamson in Leonard 101). At times Molly exhibits her internalisation of this illusion. She recalls anticipating her role of housewife with Bloom as she remembers printing her married name ‘to see how it looked on a visiting card or practising for the butcher’ (U 18: 841-2). She may rehearse the role of purchasing household provisions but we learn that she does eat, and importantly eats meat. She has eaten a pork chop with a cup of tea, after Boylan left, but she suspects it might not have been quite good, thinking the ‘queerlooking man in the porkbutchers is a great rogue’ (18: 909-12). She seems to eat meat regularly though this comparative luxury, given the domestic economy of other Dubliner households, is not devoid of anxiety. She is tired of meat we learn; she no longer likes to eat it or does not think the quality good: ‘Im sick of that everlasting butchers meat from Buckleys loin chops and leg beef and rib steak and scag of mutton and calfs pluck the very name is enough’ (18: 944-6). While she is ambivalent about the meat at Buckley’s she did enjoy the poultry she remembers eating at the Glencree dinner. Though the food is delicious, social mores inhibit her ability to devour the plate of food: ‘I wished I could have picked up every morsel of that chicken out of my fingers it was so tasty and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 225 | P a g e browned and as tender as anything only for I didnt want to eat everything on my plate’ (18: 430-2). Behind the bedroom door though Molly is free to eat as much as she wants. Joyce’s differential repetition transforms the meat that falls to the ground during Odysseus’s battle, with the dead bodies of the suitors piled on top of it (The Odyssey xxii: 8-21, 79- 86), into the flakes of ‘recooked’ Plumtree potted meat still in Molly and Bloom’s bed (U 17: 304, 2124-5). Tired after their afternoon of sex, Molly and Boylan take the port and potted meat back to bed. Molly felt ‘tired and lovely’ and notes that she enjoyed the ‘fine salty taste’ of the potted meat — ‘a small jar’ — that Boylan had sent in the fruit hamper (18: 131-3; 10: 301). Plock remarks that potted meat was a luxury: ‘In 1910 an ordinary can of potted meat would cost the average worker three times the amount of his daily wages’ (38). Plock confirms, however, that canned food was also ‘liable to manipulation’ and dietary experts expressed their concern for potted meat that was not as it seemed. Boylan and Molly’s post coital bed picnic was potentially adulterated — and, I offer, perhaps the cause of Molly’s upset stomach rather than the pork chop — thus alluding to their adulterous tryst (Plock 38). Whether tampered with or not, Molly did like the taste. What is interesting is the various other references to meat and what this says about Molly’s objectification and her ruminations on this. Molly rejects meat (at least from one particular butcher) and likes meat (potted meat and the chicken at the Glencree dinner), but throughout Ulysses we also see Molly herself being fragmented, ready to be consumed. Theorising the common oppressions of women and animals, Carol J. Adams focuses on the parallel trajectories of animals killed for meat and violence against women (The Sexual Politics of Meat 47). Violence is not my concern here though aspects of the theory prove interesting and highlight Molly’s sexual agency and her concomitant thoughts about being fragmented (her much admired bosom, curves and feet) or treated like an animal. Bloom thinks of Molly’s ‘ample bedwarmed flesh’ (U 4: 238-9). He shows Stephen a photo of her in the ‘Eumaeus’ episode, and while her low cut evening dress reveals too much bosom for Stephen (Bloom also thinking the ‘getup’ wasn’t the most flattering), Bloom is proud of his wife’s ‘opulent curves’, ‘which come in for a lot of notice usually’ (16: 1427 -48). McCoy remembers with delight a bumpy car ride with the Blooms, with Molly and her ‘fine pair’ bumping up against him: ‘God bless her. Like that’ (10: 558-60). Molly will Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 226 | P a g e reveal in her soliloquy that she likes to ‘show [her] bubs’ (18: 901). Molly’s form is a topic of pub talk as Nosey Flynn gossips about Molly’s food consumption: ‘I met [Bloom] the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan’s wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better half. She’s well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast’ (8: 949-52). The narrator in ‘Cyclops’ will refer to Molly as the ‘fat heap’ Bloom married (12: 503), rather than the ‘buxom lassy’, as she is referred to in ‘Sirens’ (11: 502). For Bloom, Molly is distinguished from the Dublin ‘skeletons’. Molly could ‘knock spots off’ the Dubliner women who enable their alcoholic husbands (13: 968). Molly’s ‘Moorish’ blood, her ‘form’ and ‘figure’ (13: 968-9) are juxtaposed with Dubliner housewives ‘locked up at home’ like a ‘skeleton in the cupboard’ (13: 970-1). As the Dubliner housewife tolerates the skeleton in the closet — alcoholism — this undernourished woman becomes ‘nondescript’: ‘Always see a fellow’s weak point in his wife’ (13: 972-3), Bloom thinks. Bloom is unique, however, ‘a bit of an artist in his spare time, on the female form’ and had earlier in the day examined the Greek statues and imagined the lovely ‘hams’ under a woman’s skirt. The Greeker than Greek Bloom sees a woman’s form from multiple perspectives: aesthetically and socially. Molly can understand the desirability of her curves but is unsure about the attention to her feet. Boylan noticed the ‘shape’ of her foot ‘even before he was introduced’. She had been listening to Bloom and was ‘waggling’ her foot ‘laughing and trying to listen’, and Boylan’s eyes followed her feet as she walked back from the lavatory (U 18: 246- 57). Bloom also fetishizes Molly’s feet. Molly recalls Bloom wanting her to ‘walk in all the horses dung [she] could find’; ‘hes not natural like the rest of the world’ she thinks (18: 265-8). Freud would say this replacement of the human subject of sexual attraction with an isolated body part is a ‘mechanism of denial’. The anxious male fetishist ‘denies woman as the object of his desire and instead embraces something safer . . . [a] truncated body part’ (Bendiner Food in Painting 26-7; Freud Complete Work vol. xxi 149-58, vol. xx 276). Bloom’s purchase of a pig crubeen and a sheep trotter then seems to build on this fetishism. When Molly appears in ‘Circe’ her feet are bejewelled and ‘[h]er ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain’. She asks Bloom ‘Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?’ (15: 307-13). As discussed in Chapter Two, the English mastiff and retriever get the crubeen and trotter, symbolising imperial violence. Nonetheless Bloom’s capacity for parallax also make him reflect on his Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 227 | P a g e absurdity (15: 658). Denying his fetish he won’t bring ‘crubeens for her supper’ — watching her feet while she eats feet — but will let it slide (15: 311, 670). Bloom also rethinks his fragmenting of women and his fetishizing of feet in the ‘Nausicaa’ episode. Initially embarrassed that he had masturbated while watching the ‘lame’ Gerty, with the imperfect feet — ‘Glad I didn’t know it when she was on show’ — he also critiques the idea of ‘her exclusion and exceptionality’ by incorporating disability, femininity and sexuality (Bednarska ‘A Crippled Erotic: Gender and Disability in James Joyce’s “Nausicaa”’ 75). Far from unmarriageable, Bloom relegates Gerty’s limp to the ‘ordinary’ (like wearing glasses) and in the process ‘allow[s] the space for Gerty MacDowell to exist as a sexual subject’ (75). Molly may be bemused (with Boylan) and tolerant (with Bloom) and their fetish for her feet, but she objects to being slapped on the bottom: ‘one thing I didnt like his slapping me behind going away so familiarly in the hall though I laughed Im not a horse or an ass am I I suppose he was thinking of his fathers’ (U 18: 122-4). Molly dwells on the slap, and Boylan’s lack of manners and refinement (18: 1368-9), but becomes less indignant thinking his unwelcome spank is ‘because they were so plump and tempting in [her] short petticoat he couldnt resist’ (18: 1377-9). Even so, as Kiberd contends, Molly shares ‘the worldwide fear that she is loved not for herself so much as for her sexual parts’, and Bloom’s and Boylan’s bottom fetish (in addition to the foot fetish) seem ‘violations of her identity’ (200). She sees the sense in a man showing adoration by kissing a woman’s foot, but she draws the line at bottom kissing: ‘any man thatd kiss a womans bottom Id throw my hat at him after that hed kiss anything unnatural where we havent I atom of any kind of expression in us all of us the same 2 lumps of lard before ever Id do that to a man pfooh the dirty brutes the mere thought is enough’ (18: 1401-5). In ‘Circe’ she re-establishes herself as a complete sexual subject by slapping her turbaned camel and ‘scolding him in Moorish’ rather than being the objectified ‘disgruntled hindquarter’ (15: 314-7). As Bloom works through his feelings about Molly and Boylan, and his own passivity, Molly’s soliloquy also processes her marriage, eventually bringing her to an ambiguous but emphatic ‘Yes’. Molly ‘working through’ frustration to her own more loving state of equanimity towards the end and this journey is intertwined with food memories and food references. Though Molly and Bloom experience overt linear time — l’étendu — Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 228 | P a g e on 16 June 1904, we also experience the characters’ durée (Bergson Time and Free Will 91-127). That is, as well as providing the reader with the sense of the continuation of an ancient story, the novel engenders a sense of ‘universal time’ as the totality of experience, where the ‘past, present, and future’ of Molly and Bloom ‘exist on the one day’ (Gillies Henri Bergson and British Modernism 146). As indicated in the first chapter, the tension between l’étendu and durée was a central concern for modernists as they explored the possibilities of psychological time and implicitly contrasted it with more restrictive objective time (for example see Gillies 134-5; Caporaletti ‘The Thematization of Time’ 407-8; Kumar Bergson and the Stream of Consciousness Novel; Le Brun ‘T. S. Eliot and Henri Bergson’; Forster Aspects of the Novel). Mary Gillies, drawing on the work of Shiv Kumar, suggests that unlike Woolf, Joyce’s primary concern was less placing l’étendu and durée in opposition and more his ‘awareness of the free creative evolution of personality unimpeded by utilitarian interests’ and the ‘personality as a process of dynamic blending of physic states’ (Kumar 107-8; Gillies 134). Joyce wanted to represent life’s fluid inner world (Gillies 134) and its most forceful expression is in the final episode of Ulysses as Molly explores her life. The present is her whole life: ‘Here Molly’s life ranges over various moments in her life. Echoes of all her choices in life are heard in the resounding “Yes” with which the episode ends, making the one moment her entire lifetime’ (146). While in Chapter Three I share Kiberd’s more pessimistic reading of gender in Ulysses, I do deviate from his reading of Molly’s obsessive repetition of ‘Yes’ as ‘a desperate strategy to convince herself that she is actually talking to someone’ (Men and Feminism 198). For Kiberd the tragedy of the final episode is the lack of ‘social occasions’. As he points out, ‘Bloom never does manage to put his arms round his wife and forgive her in person, as he has already forgiven her in his mind — and she never tells him what she tells herself, that he is still the finest man in Dublin, and handsome as well’ (198). In Joyce’s exploration of a character’s ‘duration’ the absent (and perhaps expected) social occasions are purposefully and distinctly Bergsion. The social self — the outer self — is the ‘crust solidified on the surface’, useful for social interaction but not ‘vital’ (Bergson Creative Evolution 282; Gillies 135). Rather than tragic, hope emerges through ‘mémoire réele’ (Bergson Matter and Memory). Molly and Bloom’s past can ‘be called to new life’ as significant past events, or what E. M. Forster calls ‘notable pinnacles’ of the ‘life by values’ (Aspects of the Novel 42), have been preserved ‘in their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 229 | P a g e original intensity’ and acquire ‘new and deeper significance’ (Caporaletti 407). But, this also has broader, political significance as Joyce’s emphasis on ‘real’ memories and the types of memories that affirm the foundations of society, sit in contrast with tampered narratives of history. Memories of betrayal won’t supply the Irish with the ‘original intensity’ of prior community, and neither will the efforts of creating or retaining an imagined ‘Irishness’ via myth of racial differentiation. A new Ireland can only emerge via new habits and memories outside the structures of ‘history’, patriarchy and violence. The resolution or hope is found in the ‘Penelope’ episode’s form as Molly’s final ‘Yes’ is contingent on the order of her thoughts and how subsequent thoughts are sparked, and the reflection upon the near past in relation to the more distant ‘notable pinnacles’ (Gillies 147). As Kiberd remarks, Molly and Bloom ‘are married in the depths of the soul’ as they share the same thoughts on the inevitability (given the circumstances) of Molly’s infidelity (Kiberd 198; see U 11: 641, 17:2178, 18: 1518-20). In addition to this shared explanation, another connection is revealed as they both recall that notable pinnacle of when Bloom proposed and they made love for the first time. It is this pinnacle in their lives which provides the type of ‘sweet traces’ Proust refers to; all the things which figure in memories that first appear inconsequential or as obstacles to ‘the event’ are eventually the moments that have ‘sunk so deep’ and leave ‘so sweet a trace’ (Proust Against Sainte-Beuve 140-1). It is their memory of exchanging ‘sweet traces’ of seedcake as they make love for the first time, that provides the hope in Ulysses; it is a shared event which continues to inform their present and future. Jacques Derrida suggests that whenever Molly or Bloom think ‘yes’, ‘the other is hooked up somewhere on the telephone’ (‘Ulysses Gramophone: Hear Say Yes in Joyce’ 35; M. Ellmann ‘“Penelope” Without the Body’ 107). Belying their monologues, the ‘yes’ is, as Maud Ellmann affirms, ‘an answer to another’ just as the kiss and the exchange of seed cake on Howth Head demands another kisser (107). In addition to this theme of ‘connection’, however, is Joyce’s rejection of marriage and its metaphysical notion of ‘mystical union’ (Brown Joyce and Sexuality 12). Joyce rejected ‘recognised virtues’ (Letters of James Joyce II 48), and wrote ‘How I hate God and death! [and] How I like Nora’ (Letters II 50), due to Godly love’s seeming inseparability from death and nothingness, rather than life (Boysen ‘The Necropolis of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 230 | P a g e Love’ 160). In October 1904 Joyce and Nora Barnacle would begin living together in unmarried union, rejecting marital conventionality and the Church’s failure to recognize their ‘biological humanity’ (Brown 13, 15). That Molly and Bloom’s physical union is symbolised by the exchange of seedcake also places food, taste and touch (the body) — rather than abstinence, sight and sound (and the mind) — at the centre of life. Joyce’s lower senses renounce traditional philosophical dualisms and hierarchies, and also upsets the traditional literary framing of appetitive gusto as associated with moral feebleness (Kessler ‘One Reader’s Digest: Toward a Gastronomic Theory of Literature’ 160). Furthermore, Joyce shakes up the place of women and sexuality in historiography, challenging how women have been framed as the ‘mono-cause of history’s ills’ (see U 2: 389-95; Spoo ‘Genders of History in “Nestor”’ 21). Though the real experiences of women are notably absent from history, and the woman’s role is often ‘titular, mythic, [and] ahistorical’, history is personified as ‘woman’ and the ‘erotic ambush’, or female seduction, becomes the ‘first cause’ of the ‘many errors and many sins’ which men commit (Spoo 21-2; U 2: 389-90). In Joyce’s hands history’s, and society’s, smothering of women’s realities also reveals how this repression and silencing negates everyone — ‘male, female, citizen and artist’ — from living an authentic life (Spoo 21). In the context of colonial politics, where the Irish are the ‘feminine’ in the ‘Union’ of imperial ruler and subject, Spoo’s argument has other pressing implications. For the colonial rulers the Irish were the ‘first cause’, needing the ‘Godly love’ of death and suppression ‘for their own good’. By affirming the feminine in Ulysses, by realigning the appetitive, food and the body with love, Joyce disrupts the dualisms that continue to affirm the subjugation of the Irish. Bloom’s thoughts about love and Molly occur in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode, after he has left the numb, gristle ‘chewing’ corpses at Burton’s pub and settles down with a glass of burgundy at the more gentile pub of Davey Byrne. The disturbing sight of ‘Famished Ghosts’ at Burton’s is replaced with the sun-ripened thoughts of Molly at Howth: Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun’s heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion’s Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 231 | P a g e head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you’ll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman’s breasts full in her blouse of nun’s veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me. Me. And me now. (U 8: 897-917) In the final episode Molly contemplates the events of the day, including her affair with Boylan. While she has been angry at Bloom throughout the episode, especially for what she perceives to be his implicit encouragement of the affair, in the end what is most important are her life affirming memories: the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things . . . and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 232 | P a g e and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. (18: 1571-1609) In order to reach the common involuntary memory of eating seedcake and making love, however, Molly ruminates on events where food isn’t indicative of community and love but reflects the state of turn of the century Ireland. As in the case of Bloom’s thoughts, and Joyce’s use of parallax, food is used to indicate social inequality, post-Famine and post-Parnell unethical behaviour, and also the gender politics of the domestic economy. The Glencree dinner makes Molly aware of ‘the way the world is divided’ (U 18: 437) and reveals the stinginess of Larry from ORourkes sending a ‘mangy parcel’ of a cottage cake and cheap claret for Christmas (18: 451-4). She suspects the servant stole her ‘potatoes and the oysters 2/6 per doz’ (18: 61-3), and initially perceives Boylan’s gift basket as a ‘putoff’ with ‘him sending the port and the peaches first and I was just beginning to yawn with nerves thinking he was trying to make a fool of me’ (18:340-2). Molly resents not having a servant: she made the last one leave due to her thieving, but also as a result of Bloom ‘ruining’ her through kind gestures, such as ‘proposing that she could eat at our table on Christmas Day if you please’ (18: 60-2). Nonetheless she is left with the ‘damn cooking’ as well as the other housework (18: 72). A number of Molly’s and Bloom’s meals reframe societal structure and their eating of soup and potato gives new meaning to the entrenched symbols of the Famine. Molly remembers Bloom’s embarrassing absconding with ‘boiling soup’, refusing to pay until he had finished (U 18: 358-62), and how Bloom was on the verge of proposing when she was ‘rolling potato cake’ with her ‘hands and arms full of pasty flour’ (18: 198 - 201). Before she meets Boylan, she and Bloom eat ‘plain bread and butter’ (18: 249). Though she complains about Bloom’s ‘paltry’ income from the Freeman’s Journal, Molly comments on Bloom’s desire for ‘eggs and tea and Findon haddy and hot buttered toast’ (18: 930-1). She subsequently imagines him ‘sitting up like the king of the country pumping up and down [on] his egg’, but this imagined inflated position is tolerated by Molly as she loves how he ‘[falls] up the stairs of a morning with the cups rattling on the tray’ (18: 931-4). She is treated like a queen. Turner points out that we are unsure if Bloom actually demanded breakfast from Molly, ‘to virilise himself and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 233 | P a g e become a more successful realization of the dominant, patriarchal, authoritarian male’ (Jameson The Modernist Papers 174; Turner 49). She may have misconstrued Bloom’s tired ramblings — ‘egg in the night of the bed’ (U 17: 2329) — for ‘breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs (18: 2; Turner 53). Even so, Bloom’s daily (and clumsy) thoughtfulness acknowledged, she thinks she will ‘get a nice piece of cod’ and ‘some blancmange with black current jam like long ago’ (U 18: 939-43). Fish for the fisherman of men — the proclaimed ‘new apostle to the gentiles’ (12: 1489), the lover of love not hate and prejudice — is appropriate. Molly is proud of her husband. She well knows Bloom’s acquaintances ‘[make] fun of him behind his back . . . when he goes on with his idiotics’ but he is a better husband than those ‘goodfornothings’ like Dignam and Simon Dedalus: ‘he has sense enough not to squander every penny piece he earns . . . and looks after his wife and family’ (18: 1276-79). Molly’s reciprocation of Bloom’s thoughtfulness is interrupted by her lamenting Stephen not staying the night, as she would ‘have brought him in breakfast in bed with a bit of toast’ (U 18:1478-9). Her thoughts soon shift to Bloom and ‘[giving] him one more chance’ (18: 1498) and cooking for him. It is significant that at this point at the end of the episode Molly considers going over to the markets ‘to see all the vegetables and cabbages and tomatoes and carrots and all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in lovely and fresh’ (18: 1499-1501). Here is a way she can connect to Gibraltar where she made pisto madrileno (18: 720; emphasis added), a Spanish dish of red peppers and tomatoes (Gifford 619), so different to the turn of the century ‘scientific’ preparation of vegetables that subdued them ‘until they bore as little resemblance as possible to their natural state’ (see Shapiro Perfection Salad 91, 96; Schaffer ‘The Importance of Being Greedy’ 113). That Mrs Dwenn wrote to Molly asking for her recipe for the simple pepper and tomato dish (U 18: 718-20) reflects the approach to cooking at this time. Raw food was menacing and associated with savagery while elaborate cooking ‘disciplined food’ through its deliberate blanching out of the flavour with bland white sauces, excessive cooking and the use of gelatine (Shapiro 91-3, 96, 102; Schaffer 112- 3). As Talia Schaffer points out, food that ‘neither pleased the palate, nor satisfied the stomach, nor built up the body’ suited turn of the century women ‘who wished to demonstrate that she had neither appetite, nor hunger, nor other bodily needs’ (114). Upper and middle-class status demanded ‘restraint in eating’; good women, after all, ‘tighten their corsets and limit their appetites’ (Munich ‘Good and Plenty’ 47). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 234 | P a g e Paul O’Hanrahan contends that Molly’s plan to venture out early to the markets indicates ‘a more open, public and engaged lifestyle, casting off the recumbent mode to which she has been confined’. The markets represent a ‘rejuvenated city’ (O’Hanrahan ‘The Geography of the Body in “Penelope”’ 194). As explored in Chapter One, for the Citizen and for Bloom the markets symbolised colonial oppression with the best produce and stock being exported and inferior and cheap goods being imported. In the ‘Penelope’ episode the markets and shops provide the necessary link between Molly’s thoughts about her floral bedroom wallpaper (U 18: 1545-6) to that most memorable day on Howth Head where she ate seedcake and was a mountain flower. Instead of being confined by the wallpaper like the female figure in Charlotte Perkins Gilmore’s The Yellow Wallpaper, Joyce ‘shakes the bars’ of the cage that confines women (Spoo ‘Genders in History in “Nestor”’ 21). Molly thinks she ‘can get up early [and] go to the Lambes there beside Findlaters and get them to send us some flowers to put about the place’ in case Bloom brings Stephen back later that day (U 18: 1548-50). She thinks she will wear a white rose and contemplates buying ‘fairy cakes . . . 7 1/2d a lb or the ones with the cherries in them and the pinky sugar 11d a couple of lbs of those’ from the ‘rich big shop’ (18: 1553-6). When she thinks about ‘a nice plant in the middle of the table’ though (18: 1556), a shift occurs from decorating the interior of the house — ‘to have the whole place swimming in roses’ (18: 1557-8) — to the more sweeping deference to the beauty, variety and the abundance of nature: theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the beautiful country with the fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even out of the ditches primroses and violets (18: 1558-63) Boylan’s straw hat is replaced with the hat Bloom wore to Howth Head when he proposed. The flowers for the house and the fruit Boylan sent are replaced with rhododendrons, and fanciful fairy cakes become earthy and lifegiving ‘seedcake’. In his recollection of that day at Howth Bloom also harbours details of the surrounding nature: the ‘wild ferns’, the purple bay ‘sleeping’, the variegated colours of the fields, the heather, and the goat walking on pebbles. Both Molly and Bloom begin their Howth memories with a salutation to the sun. As Bloom drinks his Burgundy he can taste the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 235 | P a g e ‘sun’s heat’, ‘touching’ the memory of Molly on that day when he told her ‘the sun shines for you’. Molly’s memory of that passionate day is noticeably sullied with two less romantic thoughts: ‘I knew I could always get round him’ and ‘I thought well as well him as another’, but it would be a mistake to confuse what she ‘knew’ and ‘thought’ on that day with her thoughts many years later. As I suggest in Chapter Three, this can be read as yet another example of how Joyce inserts unemotional and detached rationalism so he can include sentimenta lity. In Molly’s remembrance of this ‘notable pinnacle’, where seed becomes the earth, Bloom clearly isn’t like other men. She saw all those years ago that he ‘understood or felt what a woman is’. He told her that she was ‘a flower of the mountain’. This comment is transformative as it makes Molly empathetic to all women — ‘yes so we are flowers all a womans body’ — whereas throughout the episode she had been defensive and competitive with other women (for example wives of suitors, possible suitors of Boylan or Bloom, possibly a flirtatious servant). As Maud Ellmann suggests, Molly’s quite narcissistic tendencies are explained by a sense of ‘alienation’ as she sees herself through the eyes of men (‘“Penelope” Without the Body’ 106). She thus generally thinks of women as competition rather than sharing with them innate commonalities. Annette Shandler Levitt argues that it is the ‘multiplicity’ of women, what Luce Irigaray calls the ‘ceaseless exchange with the other’, that manages to permeate Molly’s thoughts in the end (Levitt ‘The Pattern Out of the Wallpaper’ 510; Irigaray This Sex Which is Not One 31). The plenitude of Molly’s plans, memories, and the abundance of nature illustrates Irigaray’s principle of metonymy: the richness of the world she experiences is herself (Levitt 510). She is ‘several at the one time’ with no aspect ‘dominating the other’ (Irigaray ‘Our Lips Speak Together’ 72), and ‘without the possibility of identifying either’ (Irigaray This Sex 31). There is a fluid exchange where multiplicity is part of the woman, and woman is a part of the natural world. Thus, the more diverse Molly is, the more she exemplifies all women (Levitt 511). If Bloom is a ‘mixed middling’ (U 12: 1658-9), ‘with a touch of the artist’ (10: 581), Molly is also enriched by her diversity and contradiction. Molly is ‘a mixture of plum and apple’ (18: 1535); ‘Juicy and fleshy’ and ‘crisp’ and offering resistance (Levitt 509). Similarly she can’t decide on the purity of the white flower or the passion of the red (U 18:1553, 1603), but, as Irigaray stresses, women are ‘quite red’ and ‘still so white’: ‘You don’t lose your candor as you become ardent’, she states (Irigaray ‘Our Lips’ 70; Levitt 509). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 236 | P a g e More than marking Molly and Bloom’s union through their memories of that day at Howth, the ‘Penelope’ episode reworks the relationship between betrayal, death and proposes a way to an alternate life for the Irish. Molly and Bloom have suffered loss with the death of their infant son, and Bloom still seems to fear the recurrence of the loss by not having sex with Molly. In this light Bloom thus struggles against the ‘Godly’ connection between love and death, but he finds a way, through abnegation, of not denying Molly’s ‘nature’. Bloom may not have fully discarded the salt cloak of history, but throughout his journey Joyce presents the means to thwart its repressive paralysis. Molly and Bloom are akin in their abundance and multiplicity, and Molly’s final Yes to her Bloom and her giving him another chance hinges on Molly’s identification with nature, particularly, as Levitt notes, ‘embodied by the lowly, earthy flowers’ (512): ‘I was a Flower of the mountain’, like ‘all’ women she declares, but she is also Bloom’s mountain flower as he is her bloom (U 18: 1602, 1577, 1606). Joyce wrote to Harriet Weaver that the ‘Penelope’ episode depicted ‘the earth which is prehuman and resumably posthuman’ (Selected Letters 289). Joyce suggests ‘a topography prior to . . . the imposition of the human subject’, ‘underneath the skin of gendered, individuated selves’ (M. Ellmann ‘Penelope’ 107-8). While there is, as Derrida suggests, a telephone connection in the Molly and Bloom’s ‘yes’, we also see that their shared ‘seed’ also connects them to the earth, and forever to each other in nature via metempsychosis. Bloom’s ‘grave’ thoughts are not just about a farm in Palestine but also a cyclical reconnection to Molly. His thoughts of being buried in his ‘native earth’ — a ‘bit of clay from the holy land’ (U 6: 819) — and subsequently fertilising the land and producing oranges, citrons, olives and melons, is a fitting match for Molly who feels all ‘plums and apples’ and is a flower of the mountain. Conclusion The stringing of the bow in The Odyssey is a sign of strength and identity; the king is revealed beneath his rags. For Turner this marvel corresponds to Bloom reaching abnegation (Turner 42). But, if the stringing of the bow is about identity then perhaps the differential repetition is the eating of seedcake, for it is this memory that reaffirms who Molly and Bloom are, who they love, and who they want to be. While Terry Eagleton contends that the ‘greatest of all Irish novels turns on an ironic unity-com- discrepancy between humdrum text and a heroic subtext’, and Ulysses remains Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 237 | P a g e suspended between ‘the mythic and the real’ (311), the novel presents a new kind of heroism as a counter to destructive nationalism. Joyce’s hero works through his feelings about love, women, sex, death, power and life, and although confined to the city and the home his journey encourages a different world view to the one striving for domination, power, and revenge. Molly’s multiplicity demonstrates her fluid thoughts about men, sex and love as she negotiates her own sexuality in early twentieth century Dublin and rethinks her experiences and her life with Bloom. Food is a central concern for Bloom and Molly, and Joyce uses food in his stylistic register to indicate his deviations from the Homeric world, and sham heroics generally, and to reject the salt cloak of a ‘womanless’ history and the confines of a ‘mystical’ marriage. Where history paralyses the Irish, and wipes women’s experiences and casts them as temptresses, Joyce interrogates the contrivance of women as the ‘first cause’. Joyce refigures the ‘Greek’ characteristic of ‘cleverness’ then, to enable a view of society wider than the heroes of the Homeric world. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 238 | P a g e CONCLUSIONS Bonnie Roos astutely observes that the Famine is the ‘Allimportant key’ to Ulysses. By attending to the resonance of the Famine, temporarily and spatially, but by also broadening the analysis of food, we can perceive Joyce’s complex examination of turn of the century Irish politics and society. At a base level food is a central human necessity and preoccupation. Self-preservation and food security are crucial catalysts for humans to willingly yield ‘originating’ freedoms to form associations and adopt rational bonds of mutual obligation. As contemporary philosophers have argued, food is a part of the ‘self’, but given the human need for food ‘the self’ is forever connected with, and dependent on, the outside world (Curtin ‘Intro’ xiv). Food is also multidimensional (concerned with biology and nutrition; the psychological and psychosocial; and the social, cultural, historical, political and environmental) and thus encourages analysis through multiple lenses. Joyce’s parallactic form enables multiple shifts of perspectives on food bringing uncomfortable histories and realities to the foreground, and in so doing revealing the contradictions of various ‘truths’. Joyce exhibits the unacceptable and oppressive terms of the British ‘Union’ with Ireland and interrogates the pretences of the social contract. This examination of food in Joyce doesn’t focus on food in terms of agency, as considered by cultural studies (for example, consumer behaviour and identity creation), but tends towards the concerns of the French theorists of the ‘everyday’ as they consider agency in the context of oppressive economic and political structures. I would add to this the dimensions of societal and cultural constriction. The structures of Joyce’s form is a consummate mechanism to probe the ordinary ‘object’ of food and, in ways amenable to James’s and Dewey’s Pragmatism, he undertakes an ideologically charged project of reorganising a number of ‘habits’ or ‘truths’. Joyce’s agitation of ‘habits’ and ‘objects’ — the problematising of a unified ‘collective memory’ of the Famine; Famine ‘relief’; the ideal of Christmas and the familial; (quasi)scientific ‘knowledges’; and notions of ‘community’, ‘Irishness’, ‘masculinity’, ‘heroics’, and ‘progress’ — reveals ideological ‘faultlines’ as inconsistencies are revealed and his reworked habits come into conflict with the old (Sinfield; Schwarze). It is in this murky liminal space of dissembling ideological narratives where thought happens. Joyce’s experimental techniques, such as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 239 | P a g e stream of consciousness, thus need to be considered beyond the ‘internal’ and as a space for the interactions between the internal and external modes of thought (Uhlmann 2-3). In addition to Bloom’s and Molly’s more overt ‘thinking’, Joyce’s use of structure, intertextual cues, allusions, juxtaposition and characterisations highlights injustice, inequality, prejudice, impoverishment, apathy, neglect and hypocrisy, and creates the grounds for dissidence and subversion. Joyce interrogates the ‘abstract unity’ of history and memory and demonstrates James’s claim that such negation of the realities of diversity means intellectual (and thus societal, cultural and political) paralysis (James Pragmatism 91-2, 142). As Attridge suggests, the crux of Ulysses is that ‘truth’ needs to be constantly challenged by rewriting history. By being aware of the effects of the ‘textual activity’ of history, a society can imagine a future that is antithetical to the ‘dogmatic’, ‘metaphysical’, ‘foundational’, ‘positivist’, and ‘systematic’ reality that has become ‘truth’ (Attridge Joyce Effects 84; Feldman 2). As Feldman, Schoenbach, Schwarze, Uhlmann (amongst others) have argued, Modernism needs to be distinguished from the revolutionary discourse of the ‘avant-garde’ and considered as a ‘liminal space’ or a ‘machine for thinking’. Joyce’s Ulysses, considered alongside his earlier work, essays and letters, is such a ‘space’ where he interrogates hegemonic positions on colonialism, Irish politics, religion and gender. In doing so Joyce makes a specific statement about the role that literature can play in refiguring memory and addressing the resonance of ‘history’, and providing the lenses through which the Irish people may reconceive ‘Irishness’, community, self-determination and political action. In addition to interrogating ‘history’, ‘truth’ and ‘memory’, Joyce contravenes the dualisms of Western philosophy and challenges the gendered distinctions of ‘hard’, ‘masculine’ literature. Indeed food would not be so evident and significant in Joyce’s work if he had not flouted the dictates of Victorian ‘good taste’, the avant-garde’s subordination of the ‘feminine’, and the traditional hierarchy of the senses. Joyce follows Pragmatism’s eschewing of dualisms and monisms, and pre-empts contemporary Western philosophy’s challenge to the pre-eminence of the mind, the abstract and the atemporal (see Curtin; Flammang; and Heldke). Joyce’s parallactic form doesn’t equate easily to definitive answers to Ireland’s woes, but by challenging gendered dualisms — masculine/feminine, heroics/passivity, mind/body, culture/nature, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 240 | P a g e reason/emotion, progress/cycle — he presents an alternate way for Ireland. Rather than participating and perpetuating the rhetoric of his male Modernist counterparts, Joyce presents the disastrous implications of trivialising the feminised foils of these binaries. As Flammang has recently warned, such neglect is pernicious not only for women, but for self-understanding, human culture, society, economics, and politics (142). Joyce’s form creates a new aesthetic texture but he also makes alternate connections between the past, present and futures and creates the possibility for revitalised narratives as he produces ‘new beings’ that have ‘meaning’ and negotiate the everyday problems of the real world in different ways (Uhlmann 118). While Joyce reveals the unpropitious association of the colonial power and subjects, and even how new discourses and knowledges are appropriated by a dominant power and used as evidence for continued ascendency, he also calls attention to Ireland’s fractured and dysfunctional community. The term ‘civil society’ has a long history (see for example Cohen and Arato Civil Society and Political Theory), but Joyce seems to ruminate on the principal ideas of more recent conceptualisations. For example the slogan coined by Czech dissident and writer Václav Havel, ‘Truth and Love has to Prevail over Lie[s] and Hatred’ has a distinctly Bloomian resonance. At the time of the demise of the Soviet Union, Havel called for moral politics and civil society, in opposition to both the coercive power of the totalitarian state and the unfettered market of the ‘free’ world (Klicperová-Baker ‘Czech Rhetoric of 1989 and Václav Havel’). Civil society comprises the social mechanisms embedded in associational life — ‘voluntary action, discussion and agreement’ — and is therefore a source of both ‘cultural life’ and ‘intellectual innovation’. An active civil society promotes ‘collective action for the common good’, acts as a ‘counterweight’ to the state and the market, and provides an essential pillar in the promotion of ‘good governance’ (Edwards Civil Society 11, 14-5). As Michael Edwards states, civil society in this sense means ‘“people power” writ large’, for it is when individuals think outside the primacy of their private world and ‘face each other in dialogue and discussion’ with a view to ‘reform’ that ‘publics’ are formed (Edwards 15, Rosen in Edwards 63). Parnell — the ‘saviour’ of the Irish — is dead, but the pacifist Joyce seems to ask the subjugated Irish of this post-Parnell era if there is any intellectual space between political apathy, the internalisation of an inferior status and the imagining of imperial Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 241 | P a g e ruler as ‘one of us’, and resorting to violence to change the terms of governance. Joyce no doubt highlights the intolerable social contract of the Irish and the double bind of being caught between English rule and the doctrine and political involvement of the Catholic Church. Joyce suggests, however, that the Irish are also complicit in their own subjugation. Whilst his ‘Saints and Sages’ essay is scathing of colonial oppression, even here he indicates the ‘smallness’ of the power which oppresses them and thus implies the inability or apathy of the Irish to organise and demand a better deal. The trifling expressions of defiance which the Irish employ during a ‘Famine’ royal visit are reflective of the Dubliners’ response to the Vice-Regal cavalcade in ‘Wandering Rocks’. It is the Englishman Haines’s thoughts on Stephen that will encapsulate Joyce’s thoughts about post-Parnell Ireland: ‘The moral idea seems to be lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution’ (U 10: 1083-4). But, there is no unidirectional blame game for Joyce as he ruminates on the complexity of turn of the century Dublin; caught between English rule and the doctrine and political involvement of the Catholic Church, and also a nuanced exploration of the internal differentiation of Dubliners. Joyce’s nationalist politics are complex. Rather than continuing the Revivalist project of inspiring heroics and sacrifice, or engaging in an authorial polemic, Joyce subjects the narrow ‘truths’ of ‘progress’, ‘legitimacy’ and the paradigm of retrospective justification of violence to analysis. He draws attention to the failing of the cooperative aspects of Irish politics and society by presenting an assortment of dysfunctional associations: the colonial ruler and subject, the ‘Irish’ community, political affiliations, the homosocial circle, the family, and marriage. Bloom can’t clearly expand upon his politics — ‘love not hate’ — but his refusal to perpetuate the social performance of ‘masculinity’ by renouncing force (S. Brown 792), and his refusal to react to Molly’s infidelity in a socially prescribed manner, is an indication of a prescription for a renewed society. Joyce’s engagement with Irish nationalism, force and masculinity, alongside his intertextual cue of The Odyssey, all act as ‘operative viewpoints’ for exposing suppression, dysfunction and complicity (Le Doeuff ‘Operative Philosophy’ 48). While High Modernist contemporaries perceived Joyce’s aesthetic as avowedly ‘masculine’ and what the new art demanded, Joyce’s treachery was not only unveiling the ugly truths of Ireland, but highlighting the failings of literature cut off from society and the specifics of politics. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 242 | P a g e In addition to reworking this thesis into a monograph, this project has set up a course of future work. I have started to examine Stephen’s restraint from food as an expression of his defiance against the nets of patriarchy, colonial oppression and the church. The gourmandising of Haines, Stephen’s unwillingness to help his family, and the various references to the priests’ square meals in Ulysses seems to affirm such a reading. However, if we consider Stephen’s self-imposed hunger in Portrait the notion of Stephen’s hunger becomes more complicated. The other two projects I have been developing along the way are social and political analyses of food in both Dubliners and Finnegans Wake. In this thesis I briefly explore the political paralysis of the post- Parnell era in ‘Ivy Day’ and ‘The Dead’ is attended to for the significance of the food at the Morkan sisters’ Christmas party. However, I would like to interrogate Dubliners as a whole, considering the references to Famine relief style meals, fraught expressions of hospitality, and patriarchy (including the role of the Catholic Church) in relation to the impoverishment of the domestic realm. Anthony Burgess notes in his Foreward to Alison Armstrong’s cookbook, The Joyce of Cooking: Food and Drink from James Joyce’s Dublin, that Finnegans Wake provides as much gustatory relish as contention, and one ‘paragraph of the Wake before a meal will get the saliva working nicely’ (xii). I would like to analyse food in the Wake in relation to Shem’s ‘lowness’, ‘that creeped out first in foodstuffs’ (171-1), by considering the established notion of ‘taste’ and how food is intertwined with the ‘memories of the past and the hicnuncs of the present embelliching the musics of the futures’ (407). There is so much more about food still to explore in Joyce’s work. I look forward to continuing this investigation, engaging with the developments in both historiography and Joycean scholarship. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 243 | P a g e APPENDIX Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes. Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79. ‘Introduction’ Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland was Prince Aldfrid, afterwards King of the Northumbrian Saxons. His having been educated there about the year 684 is corroborated by the Venerable Bede in his “Life of St. Cuthbert.” The original poem, of which this is a translation, attributed to Aldfrid, is still extant in the Irish language. ‘Prince Aldfrid’s Itinerary through Ireland’, Translated from Irish by James Clarence Mangan. I FOUND in Innisfail the fair, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen. I travelled its fruitful provinces round, 5 And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant apparel, and food for all. Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; 10 I found God’s people rich in pity, Found many a feast and many a city. I also found in Armagh, the splendid, Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, 15 And noble councillors untranscended. I found in each great church, moreo’er, Whether on island or on shore, Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection. 20 I found the good lay monks and brothers Ever beseeching help for others, And in their keeping the holy word Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. I found in Munster, unfettered of any, 25 Kings, and queens, and poets a many,— Poets well skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 244 | P a g e I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance; 30 Hospitality, vigor, fame, In Cruachan’s land of heroic name. I found in the country of Connall the glorious, Bravest heroes, ever victorious; Fair-complexioned men and warlike, 35 Ireland’s lights, the high, the starlike! I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son. 40 I found in the noble district of Boyle (MS. here illegible.) Brehon’s, Erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, 45 From Dublin to Slewmargy’s peak, Flourishing pastures, valor, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 50 Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. 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As you have access to this article, a PDF of this content is available in through the ‘Save PDF’ action button. Type Theories and Methodologies Information PMLA , Volume 135 , Issue 2 , March 2020 , pp. 378 - 386 DOI: https://doi.org/10.1632/pmla.2020.135.2.378[Opens in a new window] Copyright Copyright © 2020 Paula McDowell References Allen, Woody, director. Annie Hall. Jack Rollins and Charles H. Joffe Productions, 1977.Google Scholar Anderson, John Dennis. “The Medium Is the Mother: Elsie McLuhan, Elocution, and Her Son Marshall.” Text and Performance Quarterly, Vol. 37, 2017, pp. 110–28.CrossRefGoogle Scholar de Bolla, Peter. The Architecture of Concepts: The Historical Formation of Human Rights. Fordham UP, 2013.CrossRefGoogle Scholar de Bolla, Peter “New Knowledge as the Goal of Research.” New York University, Department of English, Sept. 2014. Address.Google Scholar “Elsie McLuhan Charms Large Audience with Her Recital.” Edmonton Journal, 16 Mar. 1927, p. 9.Google Scholar Gitelman, Lisa. Always Already New: Media, History, and the Data of Culture. MIT Press, 2006.CrossRefGoogle Scholar Gitelman, Lisa Scripts, Grooves, and Writing Machines: Representing Technology in the Edison Era. Stanford UP, 2000.Google Scholar Gordon, W. Terrence. Marshall McLuhan: Escape into Understanding: A Biography. Basic Books, 1997.Google Scholar Guillory, John. “The Genesis of the Media Concept.” Critical Inquiry, Vol. 36, 2010, pp. 321–62.CrossRefGoogle Scholar Hayes, Edward A. The Principles of Vocal Science. Vocalist Publishing Company, 1897, National Archives of Canada, MG31, D156, Vol. 2, file 14.Google Scholar King James Bible. King James Bible Online, 2020, www.kingjamesbibleonline.org.Google Scholar Marchand, Philip. The Medium and the Messenger: A Biography. 1989. MIT Press, 1998.Google Scholar McDowell, Paula. The Invention of the Oral: Print Commerce and Fugitive Voices in Eighteenth-Century Britain. U of Chicago P, 2017.CrossRefGoogle Scholar McLuhan, Andrew. “The Medium Is the Message.” Inscriptorium, 20 May 2011, inscriptorium.wordpress.com/2011/05/20/the-medium-is-the-message/.Google Scholar McLuhan, Elsie. Note. Hayes, Principles.Google Scholar McLuhan, Marshall. The Gutenberg Galaxy: The Making of Typographic Man. U of Toronto P, 1962.Google Scholar McLuhan, Marshall Letters of Marshall McLuhan. edited by Molinaro, Matie et al., Oxford UP, 1987.Google Scholar McLuhan, Marshall The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man. 1951. Beacon Press, 1967.Google Scholar McLuhan, Marshall Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. 1964. Routledge Classics, 2001.Google Scholar McLuhan, Michael. “Re: Permission to Quote from Archival Materials.” E-mail to Paula McDowell, 16 Dec. 2019.Google Scholar “Miss Elsie McLuhan Delights Big Audience at Murray Street.” National Archives of Canada, MG31, D156, Vol. 2, file 1. Newspaper clipping.Google Scholar Nevitt, Barrington, with Maurice McLuhan. Who Was Marshall McLuhan? Exploring a Mosaic of Impressions. edited by Zingrone, Frank et al., Stoddart, 1995.Google Scholar Ong, Walter J. “Hopkins' Sprung Rhythm and the Life of English Poetry.” 1949. An Ong Reader: Challenges for Further Inquiry, edited by Thomas J. Farrell and Paul A. Soukup, Hampton Press, 2002, pp. 111–74.Google Scholar “Recital by Noted Reader Much Enjoyed by Audience.” National Archives of Canada, MG31, D156, Vol. 2, file 1. Newspaper clipping.Google Scholar Review of performance by Elsie McLuhan. Calgary Herald, 12 Nov. 1930, National Archives of Canada, MG31, D156, Vol. 2, file 1. Newspaper clipping.Google Scholar Richards, I. A. Practical Criticism: A Study of Literary Judgment. Harcourt, Brace, 1929.Google Scholar Robson, Catherine. Heartbeats: Everyday Life and the Memorized Poem. Princeton UP, 2012.Google Scholar “Teri McLuhan Would Rather Be Herself.” Chicago Daily News, 21 Nov. 1972, National Archives of Canada, MG31, D 156, Vol. 2, file 24. Newspaper clipping.Google Scholar Full text views Full text views reflects PDF downloads, PDFs sent to Google Drive, Dropbox and Kindle and HTML full text views. Total number of HTML views: 0 Total number of PDF views: 3 * View data table for this chart * Views captured on Cambridge Core between 23rd October 2020 - 6th April 2021. This data will be updated every 24 hours. Access Cited by 0 No CrossRef data available. 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work_etyraobsuffodm7my7ni6rmrd4	----	ESO_1900082 1..36 “Deceptions Have Been Practiced”: Food Standards as Intellectual Property in the Missouri and Ohio Wine Industries (1906–1920) ANDREW VENTIMIGLIA This article explores early twentieth-century debates about wine regulation in order to understand how emerging food standards could be mobilized in order to produce and protect value around particular geographical locales. Ohio and Missouri winemakers sought to protect their practices of “amelioration,” or the addition of sugar and water to acidic or foxy wines, by establishing the regulatory designation of “Ohio and Missouri Wine” as separate from “Wine.” In doing so, they turned food standards into a form of intellectual property mobilized to protect their practices and enhance the market value of Ohio and Missouri wines. Conversely, they argued that “universal” wine standards were unduly preferen- tial to California wines. This compelling yet forgotten historical episode inverts the rationale behind geographical indications (a form of intellectual property designed to protect the intrinsic benefits of place) producing a unique argument for geographical protections based not on value but on lack. Introduction In 1909, the United States Department of Agriculture issued a report asserting that the consumer is “entitled to know the character of the product he buys.”1 For this reason, the report provided a legally bind- ing definition of wine as “the product made from the normal alcoholic fermentation of the juice of sound ripe grapes.” It continued: “the addition of water or sugar, or both, to the must prior to fermentation © The Author [2020]. Published by Cambridge University Press on behalf of the Business History Conference. All rights reserved. doi:10.1017/eso.2019.82 ANDREW VENTIMIGLIA is Assistant Professor of Mass Media at Illinois State University. Contact information: Illinois State University, School of Communication, Fell Hall 434, Campus Box 4480, Normal, IL 61790. E-mail: amventi@ilstu.edu. 1 The act being referred to was the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. 1 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 mailto:amventi@ilstu.edu https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core is considered improper, and a product so treated should not be called ‘wine’ without further characterizing it.”2 Today this report appears uncontroversial, crafting a neutral definition of its subject matter grounded in standards of purity put forth by the Department of Agri- culture in the early twentieth century.3 Yet, for winemakers in Ohio and Missouri—producers that dominated American wine production dur- ing the mid-nineteenth century—this ruling was evidently discrimina- tory. Rather than the product of objective analysis, the decision was instead considered the result of manipulation by California producers to secure a definition of wine that suited their practices and discrimi- nated against all the competing industries east of the Rockies. Ohio and Missouri wine producers routinely practiced “ameliora- tion”: the addition of sugar and water in order to produce a palatable wine. They claimed that this practice was not a form of adulteration or fraud but rather a valuable technique for making wines from the natu- rally acidic but flavorful local grape varieties.4 These winemakers sought to protect amelioration by establishing the regulatory designa- tion of “Ohio and Missouri Wine,” which would permit certain forms of manipulation necessitated by the unique characteristics of regional climate and geography. If unsuccessful, they claimed that the Depart- ment of Agriculture’s “universal” wine standards would severely dam- age Midwestern producers’ livelihoods and limit their capacity to innovate.5 If successful, they would turn the techno-legal taxonomies of food regulatory law from obstacles into brands utilized to protect or enhance market value. In other words, they would turn food standards into a form of intellectual property.6 2 United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), Food Inspection Decision 109. This document and the others that make up most of the historical research presented in this article are from the Food and Drug Administration Collection (largely from a series titled “Miscellaneous Subject Files, 1905–1938”) at the National Archives at College Park, Maryland. 3 See for instance, United States Department of Agriculture circulars, nos. 13 and 19, Standards of Purity for Food Products, (1904 and 1906). Circular no. 19 was released on June 26, 1906, just four days before Theodore Roosevelt signed the sweeping Pure Food and Drug Act into law. 4 See the chapters on the wine techniques utilized by American wine pioneers Nicholas Longworth and George Husmann in Pinney, The Makers of American Wine. On eighteenth and nineteenth century practices of wine manipulation in Europe, see Goldberg, “Acidity and Power,” 294–313; Gough, “Winecraft and Chemistry,” 74–104. 5 In this respect, the wine regulations shared similarities with debates around the Department of Agriculture’s seed distribution program at the same time. See Cooke, “‘Who Wants White Carrots?’” 6 One of the few articles dealing similarly with the interrelation between food and drug law and intellectual property is Swanson, “Food and Drug Law as Intel- lectual Property Law.” 2 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core More specifically, Ohio and Missouri winemakers sought to use food regulatory law as a geographical indication: a form of intellectual prop- erty designed to protect the names of goods wherein the quality of that good is attributable to its geographical origin.7 Except, rather than acknowledging the unique terroir of Ohio and Missouri wines, this new regulatory category was necessitated because of the wine’s lack of quality. In other words, Ohio and Missouri wines were uniquely terrible, and as such, needed a special legal category that allowed them to chemically manipulate their wine in ways otherwise denied by the Pure Food and Drug Act. For a wine to be called an Ohio or Missouri wine, it had to reflect its makers’ commitment to the region and native grapes, whose acidic, foxy, and unpalatable flavors generated the need to ameliorate them. This chapter in American history is important because it provides critical context for understanding how California winemakers became dominant players in the contemporary American wine industry. They earned their success not simply by offering a superior product but also by effectively maneuvering at the level of national policy and regula- tion. The arguments marshalled by Californians and other producers allied against the Ohio and Missouri wine interests highlight the com- plex economic and scientific stakes of the legal standardization pro- cess. At one level, their argument was relatively straightforward: National standards had to be established and enforced both as a mech- anism for protecting the consumer and to ensure that the market for wine was uniform across state jurisdictions. At another level, this claim strategically tapped into deeper concerns about the production of legal standards and its relation to scientific knowledge and systems of clas- sification. If the Department of Agriculture adopted the approach of creating different legal standards based on scientifically valid differ- ences in regional soil, climate, and variety, it risked opening itself up to a potential fragmentation of legal standards based on any number of differences in product. This result would render the consumer’s capac- ity to compare goods within one particular market increasingly diffi- cult, because the Midwestern producers essentially claimed that their wine and those wines produced in California were ontologically differ- ent things.8 Because of these complexities, the conflict over wine regulation provides insights into a tumultuous and formative era for the regulation 7 This is a rough paraphrase of the definition of geographical indications provided in Article 22(1) of the WTO Agreement on Trade Related Aspects of Intel- lectual Property Rights (1995). 8 For the complexities of the label and its role in the supply chain—with a particular focus on wine—see Duguid, “Information in the Mark” and “Developing the Brand.” Food Standards as Intellectual Property 3 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core of food and drugs in the United States. Debates about the regulation of Ohio and Missouri wines serve as a microcosm for a range of broader disputes enacted across state and federal levels about the nature and suitability of American food regulation, the place of science and ana- lytic chemistry in determining food standards, and the degree to which regulation might be tolerated even as it depressed or altered the com- petitive practices of a growing industrial food economy.9 These debates required governmental and corporate actors to utilize a range of rhe- torical strategies in order to shape the production and implementation of food regulation, moving from the staid language of analytic chemis- try as presented in Department of Agriculture Enological Reports to the inflammatory rhetoric of trade war leveraged by various producers against the California wine industry.10 One need only look to contem- porary conflicts around the regulatory definition of milk and meat to understand how the issues present in this historical account continue today.11 By attending to food standards as intellectual property, I emphasize that, although the subject of these debates was wine—its production, composition, and sale—the product label constituted the primary object of regulation.12 Ohio and Missouri wine producers carefully constructed, arranged, and designed their wine labels based on the countervailing demands of effective advertising and branding logics on one hand and legal regulation on the other. These labels were care- fully read by regulators (if not by consumers) in relation to the chemical analysis of products to determine whether or not “deceptions had been practiced.” Regulators’ fear of impurity at the chemical level was mir- rored in an equal concern with semiotic “impurity” in the label, in which various product claims (grape variety, location of origin, brand, production style) lacked a uniformity that would make them properly legible to consumers. The wine label posed a threat to regulators as it displayed the degree to which the ideal jurisdictional separation of trademark, mislabeling, and food regulatory law failed to operate or was subject to manipulation by savvy wine producers: scientific impu- rities matched by the ever-present specter of legal impurity. 9 The literature on the emergence of food regulation in the early twentieth century is extensive. Useful overviews of this era include Coppin and High, Politics of Purity; Smith-Howard, Pure and Modern Milk; Young, Pure Food. 10 For a similar instance of rhetorical complexity surrounding food regulation, see Freidberg, “Triumph of the Egg,” which focuses on debates about the suitability and effects of refrigeration on the egg market. 11 Belz, “As Regulators Ponder Food Labels.” 12 The label has historically occupied an indeterminate status in intellectual property law, sometimes regulated as an object subject to copyright law, sometimes trademark, and sometimes a sui generis object of legal regulation. Rosen, “Reimagin- ing Bleistein,” 357. 4 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core This article tracks the history of Ohio and Missouri wine regulation through three distinct phases in the early twentieth century. The first phase involved the emergence of wine regulation following the passage of the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906 and continues to the point at which Ohio and Missouri wines were given a unique legal classifica- tion in the Department of Agriculture’s Food Inspection Decision 120 (1910). This decision was promptly challenged, and the hearings following its implementation led to a second phase beginning with the passage of Food Inspection Decision 156 (1914). This decision deter- mined that any amount of wine amelioration was impermissible, a ruling that posed a significant threat to Ohio and Missouri wine inter- ests. The third phase involved lobbying efforts by both Midwestern and California producers to establish a stable definition of wine in the Revenue Act of 1916. The congressional debates surrounding the bill restaged many of the arguments presented over the previous ten years but further highlighted the opinion of some that California wine inter- ests were unilaterally shaping federal wine standards. Pure Food Law and the Legal Classification of Ohio and Missouri Wines The Missouri and Ohio wine industries emerged as two of the leading areas in early American viticulture.13 Ohio producers, following pio- neer Nicholas Longworth, developed wine from local American varie- ties and built a robust wine culture centered on Cincinnati, considered to be the “Rhineland of America.”14 Wine production along the banks of the Missouri River soon followed, maturing in the mid-1800s under the guidance of German immigrant George Husmann.15 These early innovators exemplified those vignerons, described by historian Erica Hannickel, who believed in the promotion of American terroir as a mechanism for broader national and international legitimation.16 They 13 For comprehensive surveys of the history of the Missouri wine industry, see Brown, “A History of the Weinbau”; Poletti, “An Interdisciplinary Study.” See also Stiles, “How the Missouri Wine Industry First Took Root.” 14 Pinney, The Makers of American Wine, 22–38. See also Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 157–175. 15 The Missouri wine industry reached its peak around 1870, at which point— according to the U.S. Census of Manufactures—Missouri winemakers made over 40 percent of the national wine industry and sold roughly one million dollars of prod- uct. Cited in Poletti, “An Interdisciplinary Study,” 49, 105–106. 16 Hannickel convincingly argues that Ohio “should have a higher profile in the history of fruit- and grape-growing, alongside the better-known centers of New York and California.” Hannickel, Empire of Vines, 96. For terroir as a mechanism of national legitimation, see Guy, When Champagne Became French. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 5 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core invested in the development of new techniques of cultivation and winemaking while also establishing an American market for wine con- sumption by turning unused land into scenic vineyards suitable for upper-class tourists and simultaneously selling home-consumed wine to the influx of European immigrants entering the country between 1830 and 1860.17 Both states also depended on this (largely German) immigrant pop- ulation as a resource for both labor and winemaking techniques to develop their local practices.18 The Ohio wine industry established its reputation with the native Catawba grape, which produced a white sparkling wine that sold suc- cessfully beyond the local Cincinnati market. Nicholas Longworth aimed to develop this dry sparkling wine as “a pure article having the peculiar flavor of our native grape,” even as he employed the traditional French méthode champenoise (with a dose of sugar added after first fermentation) in its production.19 Meanwhile, the Missouri industry experimented with a wider range of native grapes including the Isa- bella, Norton, and Concord. The Norton in particular—a black grape that yielded a dark and astringent wine—caught on in American mar- kets alongside the popular Catawba, which was also grown across the Missouri Valley. Missouri winemakers prospered well into the 1860s by selling wine, as well as cuttings, across the state and into Illinois and Kansas.20 Although these Midwestern environments were suitable for wine- making—as evidenced by the widespread growth of wild native Vitis labrusca vines—the humidity and variability of climate made grapes susceptible to rot, mildew, and poor growing seasons resulting from spring frosts or summer sunburn.21 Ohio and Missouri winemakers adapted by introducing techniques to counteract the naturally occur- ring defects in their harvests. Longworth improved his Catawba wines by adding large quantities of sweeter scuppernong juice from North Carolina.22 Meanwhile, Husmann embraced the methods of Ludwig Gall who pioneered a method of amelioration known as “gallization.” 17 Hannickel, Empire of Vines, 116–118. 18 Pinney, The Makers of American Wine, 39–56; Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 175–187; Brown, “A History of the Weinbau,” 58. 19 Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 161. 20 In addition to similarities in climate and geography, the Ohio and Missouri wine industries were linked in other ways. For instance, some wines made in Her- mann, Missouri, were sent up to Longworth in Ohio while Ohio winemakers shipped their own product downstream to St. Louis. As Pinney notes, companies like the Missouri Wine Company advertised a sparkling Catawba that was likely Ohio wine. See Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 177–179, 186. 21 Poletti, “An Interdisciplinary Study,” 18. 22 Pinney, The Makers of American Wine, 29. 6 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Thistechnique involved theadditionof watertoreducethewine’sacidity and sugar, thus raising its alcohol content during fermentation. This practice differed from “chaptalization,” which solely involved the addi- tion of sugar to grape musts in order to increase a wine’s alcohol content. Because gallization could significantly increase yield, it was thought by many European vignerons to be a form of cheating.23 However, historian Thomas Pinney writes that Husmann understood these modifications not asadulterations,muchlessasdeceptivepractices,butratheras“enhance- ments of otherwise deficient material.… What would you rather have [Husmann] asked: a ‘natural’ wine that was simply undrinkable, or an ‘artificial’ wine that was at least tolerable?”24 Husmann considered galli- zation a tool for creating a balanced wine no different from traditional techniques like pruning, harvesting, and aging.25 Ohio and Missouri producers acknowledged and defended wine amelioration for improving quality without sacrificing purity or authenticity. Because techniques like gallization were developed in Germany and designed to correct deficiencies caused by northern cli- mates, the practice could be interpreted as both scientifically progres- sive and historically grounded in German wine traditions.26 Even as these winemakers developed relationships with agents and whole- salers who made Ohio and Missouri wine available in cities across the country, they still had to convince consumers that Midwestern wines were of commensurate quality to both the California wine indus- try (which produced wines from the Mediterranean Vitis vinifera) and the European imports.27 Pinney recounts a telling story in which 23 Husmann, The Cultivation of the Native Grape, 149; Goldberg, “Acidity and Power,” 294–313. 24 Pinney, The Makers of American Wine, 46. 25 Husmann’s broader attention to the value of balance is noted in Matthews, Terroir and Other Myths, 88. 26 Kevin Goldberg describes how gallization was developed to improve wines grown in the Mosel region, which were prone to high acidity. Goldberg, “Acidity and Power,” 299–301. 27 The early popularity of these wines does raise a question: What did these wines taste like? Pinney notes in his history of Nicholas Longworth that robust sales of Catawba wine to his New York agent indicate that some people must have liked it (in addition to its advantage in price compared to European imports) even as some buyers might have been “moved by patriotic impulse.” However, reports on these wines from early travellers were mixed. Frances Trollope wrote in 1832 that “the very best [native wine] was miserable stuff,” whereas Henry Wadsworth Longfellow famously wrote a poem in praise of “Catawba Wine Made on the Banks of the Ohio River.” A different source—the enological study commissioned by the U.S. Depart- ment of Agriculture in 1911—gives a separate indicator of taste. The author William Alwood wrote that the various native species “can be grown with sufficient sugar content to make a fine, sound wine, but they are strongly acid.” Pinney, The Makers of American Wine, 32; Alwood, Bureau of Chemistry–Bulletin No. 145, 16. Long- fellow’s poem is mentioned in Robertson, Little Red Book of Wine Law, xvii. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 7 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Nicholas Longworth overcame consumer preference for European wine by changing domestic wine labels. Longworth claimed, “Some of our best judges of Hock have not been able to drink our still Catawba, but when old Hock labels have been put on our bottles, have not only been able to relish it, but led to pronounce it the best Hock wine they ever drank.” Pinney reports that “Longworth had counterfeit German labels prepared with such mock designations as ‘Ganz Vorzüglicher’ (wholly superior) and ‘Versichert’ (guaranteed).”28 By the start of the twentieth century, Ohio and Missouri wine pro- duction had been dwarfed by the cheaper and more consistent wines coming from California: a state that claimed over sixty percent of wine’s domestic market share by 1909.29 The California wine industry—partly due to the efforts of Missourian George Husmann who traveled to California to share his expertise—flourished by taking advantage of the turmoil caused by the phylloxera crisis that decimated the nineteenth century European wine industry. As the phylloxera louse was destroying millions of acres of European Vitis vinifera vineyards, California was growing vinifera grapes relatively untouched by the outbreak. These European style wines, originally developed by the Franciscan Missions, proved extremely profitable across the country and competed with Midwestern and European wines. In comparison to Ohio and Missouri varieties, California wines tasted more like those immigrants may have been familiar with from home while also costing less than the imports.30 Further, California wine merchants banded together to form the California Wine Association (CWA), thereby mak- ing them more adept at reaching a variety of markets and exerting their influence unilaterally over the nation’s wine trade.31 The CWA also adeptly utilized wine labels as a method of differen- tiating their product and effectively competing with imports sold by eastern wine merchants. Instead of simply selling California wine to be mixed into undifferentiated blends, the CWA created an integrated enterprise with cellars in San Francisco, where the wines were bottled 28 Pinney, The Makers of American Wine, 30. 29 Peter Poletti provides relatively comprehensive statistics on various states’- wine production from 1870–1910, demonstrating how Missouri fell from its domi- nant position in 1870 (making up over 40 percent of the market share of all national wine sales) to become just a fraction of the industry (roughly 2 percent of the market) by 1910. Meanwhile, California witnessed a meteoric rise from over the same period, eventually capturing nearly 70 percent of the market by 1910. Poletti, “An Interdis- ciplinary Study,” 104–106. Pinney also uses data from the California State Board of Agriculture to map this growth between 1870 to 1900, from roughly 2 million gallons of wine production in the state to a high of roughly 30 million before the end of the century. Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 312. 30 Lukacs, American Vintage, 46, 60–61; Hannickel, Empire of Vines, 162–165. 31 Lukacs, American Vintage, 47. 8 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core and sold under the Calwa brand. This brand was marked with state symbols, including the iconic California bear riding in a ship bearing the seal of California.32 California wine interests thus capitalized on broader industry trends toward the adoption of unified brand and labelling strategies in a rapidly growing and increasingly geographi- cally expansive consumer marketplace.33 Even as the CWA rose to international prominence, a few key pro- ducers like Missouri’s Stone Hill and Ohio’s Sweet Valley Wine Com- pany remained competitive, and as such played an important role in their states’ economy and local politics. These producers were soon to find themselves at the center of heated national debates about the nature and definition of wine that drew them in direct battle with these powerful California wine interests. This conflict between Midwestern and California wines also evoked questions about the nature and qual- ities of American terroir and its relation to wine labelling.34 The ensuing wine debates were enabled by a broader nationwide movement for pure food that culminated in the passage of the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act. This groundbreaking legislation authorized the government to set enforceable standards to prevent adulteration or misbranding of any article of food or drug.35 It was the product of years of advocacy by a wide constellation of actors, including progressive reformers, temperance advocates, physicians, and journalists. These figures witnessed the growth of an increasingly industrialized food industry—of which the “beef trusts” of Chicago were exemplars—that was unscrupulous in its business practices and had introduced scien- tific improvements (preservatives, canning, transport, and storage) per- ceived to be radically changing the nature and quality of food.36 An 1879 House Committee report claimed the following: The rapid advance of chemical science has opened a wide doorway for compounding mixtures so nearly resembling nature’s products 32 Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 355–356. 33 For the growth of branding in the American mass market, see Strasser, Sat- isfaction Guaranteed. 34 For a more broadly construed but important definition of American terroir and its place in the history of California wine, see Trubek, The Taste of Place, 93–138. 35 United States Statutes at Large (59th Cong., Sess. I, Chp. 3915): 768–772. The act is officially referred to as “An Act for preventing the manufacture, sale, or transportation of adulterated or misbranded or poisonous or deleterious food, drugs, medicines, and liquors, and for regulating traffic therein, and for other purposes.” 36 For a comprehensive history of the Pure Food and Drug Act, with careful attention given to all the controversies around food adulteration that led to its passage, see Young, Pure Food. Another key faction that came out in support of the act were women’s groups like the National Women’s Christian Temperance Union and the General Federation of Women’s Clubs. Their influence on the act is chronicled in Goodwin, The Pure Food, Drink and Drug Crusaders. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 9 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core that the senses are impotent to detect the difference.… Not only are substances of less value commingled with those of greater, but such as are injurious to health, and we have no doubt often destructive of life, are freely used in manufacturing.37 The legitimacy of these concerns were disputed (particularly questions about how widespread adulteration was and which types of modifica- tion posed a health threat); nonetheless, they succeeded in generating significant public attention.38 The resulting Pure Food and Drug Act granted the Department of Chemistry (operating within the United States Department of Agriculture) the power to police the food industry by inspecting products and subjecting them to chemical analysis to determine if they were adulterated or mislabeled.39 Whereas the enforcement of food standards sometimes involved keeping unsafe goods off the market, more often it required careful attention to how products were labeled. If, as Lawrence Busch writes, “standards are where language and world meet,” the primary site where this meeting occurs is on the product label.40 The legal determination of adulteration could thus only be made in relation to the name under which a product was being marketed and could be rectified not only by transforming production practices but also by changing the manner in which products were identified and labeled. Even Harvey Washington Wiley—the head of the Department of Chemistry and key figure in the passage of the Pure Food and Drug Act—admitted that it was often “entirely sufficient to place upon a food label the nature of any sub- stance which has been added … and leave to the consumer himself and his physician the determination of whether or not that substance is injurious to him.”41 37 Quoted in Young, Pure Food, 51. 38 Young covers this history, with a focus on the regulation of glucose and oleomargarine—the “twin brothers” of artificial foods—in his chapter “This Greasy Counterfeit” in Pure Food, 66–94. The secondary literature on artificial foods, often with a focus on oleomargarine, is robust. See, for instance, chapter 2 of Smith- Howard, Pure and Modern Milk, 36–66; Dupré, “'‘If It’s Yellow, It Must Be Butter,’” 353–371; Strey, “The ‘Oleo Wars,’” 3–15; Suval, “(Not) Like Butter,” 17–27; Deelstra, Burns, and Walker, “The Adulteration of Food,” 725–744. The literature on food regulation and the meatpacking industry is too extensive to list here, but Young’s chapter “The Jungle and the Meat-Inspection Amendments” covers the basics, 221– 252. See also Pickavance, “Gastronomic Realism,” 87–112. 39 Although, significantly, the Pure Food and Drug Act fell short of giving the Secretary of Agriculture full authority to establish legally binding food standards. The department could release its own definitions of various products, but the legal force of those definitions would have to be determined de novo each time a violation was identified. 40 Busch, Standards, 3. 41 Young, Pure Food, 151. 10 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Before these developments, the Department of Agriculture had already printed and released circulars that established standards of purity for food products, including “Fermented Fruit Juices.”42 Although not legally binding, these standards guided state and federal officials as they prepared reports and conducted experiments.43 The definitions proffered by these publications created a bureaucratic foun- dation upon which the future enforcement of the Pure Food and Drug Act depended. Any deviation beyond their specifications and limits rendered a particular food item “inferior or abnormal.”44 The circulars defined wine as “the product made by the normal alcoholic fermenta- tion of the juice of sound, ripe grapes, and the usual cellar treatment,” and specified a permissible range of alcohol content (not less than seven nor more than sixteen percent alcohol), quantity of sodium chlo- ride and potassium sulfate, and level of acidity. Another circular issued in 1906 introduced variants on this general wine definition, including a category for “modified wine, ameliorated wine, corrected wine,” which was defined as the “product made by the alcoholic fermentation with the usual cellar treatment, of a mixture of the juice of sound, ripe grapes with sugar (sucrose).”45 The inclusion of ameliorated wine highlighted two important features of this emerging legal regime: First, adulterations that were not harmful to the consumer were permissible; and second, impure foods were allowed as long as they were correctly labeled. In other words, as Harvey Washington Wiley claimed, “A pure food is what it is represented to be. It has nothing to do with its wholesomeness at all.”46 The primary object of these reforms then was not about the regulation of the substance of foods in isolation but was rather about, in the words of Jason Picka- vance, “establishing a correspondence between words and things.”47 The whole system of policing and analysis initiated by the Pure Food and Drug Act was at its foundation a “machinery for identification”: a means by which the government could ensure that labels “should truly represent their products” in the absence of the consumers’ independent ability to evaluate products themselves.48 42 USDA, Circular No. 13: Standards for Purity for Food Products; USDA, Circular No. 19: Standards for Purity for Food Products. 43 United States Congress, An Act Making Appropriations for the Department of Agriculture for the Fiscal Year Ending June Thirtieth, Nineteen Hundred and Four. 44 USDA, Circular No. 13, 5. 45 USDA, Circular No. 19, 18. The 1904 Circular No. 13 did not include this category but included a similar category of “sugar wine”: a product made by the addition of sugar to the juice of sound, ripe grapes prior to alcoholic fermentation. 46 Quoted in Young, Pure Food, 218. 47 Pickavance, “Gastronomic Realism,” 92. 48 Ibid. The phrase “machinery for identification” was used by Florence Kelley, the founder of the National Consumers League, who saw in the Pure Food and Drug Food Standards as Intellectual Property 11 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core These national standards were soon to be challenged as to their applicability across local markets and varying conditions of production and manufacture. On June 30, 1909, a hearing was held by the secretary of agriculture and the Board of Food and Drug Inspection on the label- ling of Ohio and Missouri wines. This hearing involved evaluating how to apply the extant wine standards to the practices of Ohio and Missouri winemakers, all of whom ameliorated their wines without stating the nature and extent of that amelioration on their labels. This hearing resulted in Food Inspection Decision (FID) 109, which confirmed the definition of wine established in the circulars and further clarified that “the addition of water or sugar, or both to the must prior to fermentation is considered improper, and a product so treated should not be called ‘wine’ without further characterizing it.”49 The decision did allow for wines to be made with the addition of sugar to the must (both to sweeten the wine and increase the alcohol content via fermentation) as long as they were labelled “sugar wine”; however, the decision did not carve out an exception for wines ameliorated with both sugar and water, the practice central to Ohio and Missouri wine production. This decision was soon superseded by Food Inspection Decision 120. The Department of Agriculture delivered this decision after Ohio and Missouri winemakers protested FID 109 for discriminating against their long-standing wine amelioration practices.50 These winemakers requested that a regulatory exception be made for Ohio and Missouri wines manufactured with the addition of sugar and water provided that they were “labelled, under the Food and Drugs Act, as ‘Ohio Wine,’ or ‘Missouri Wine,’ respectively, without further qualification.”51 Although the decision clarified that the previous decision’s definition of wine was correct, it nonetheless continued as follows: It has been found that it is impracticable on account of natural con- ditions of soil and climate, to produce a merchantable wine in the States of Ohio and Missouri without the addition of a sugar solution to the grape must before fermentation. This condition has recognition in the laws of the State of Ohio, by which wine is defined to mean the Act a powerful tool for consumer protection at a time when “the vast complications of modern production and distribution” made it increasingly difficult for the indi- vidual purchaser to “ascertain for himself whether the representation of the seller is accurate or not.” 49 USDA, Food Inspection Decision 109. 50 “Memorandum on Ohio Wines,” (September 17, 1913), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. This memorandum provides a histor- ical overview of the circumstances leading up to the various food inspection deci- sions as well as a summary of the arguments posed by wine producers challenging or defending those decisions. 51 USDA,Food InspectionDecision120:TheLabellingofOhioandMissouri Wines. 12 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core fermented juice of undried grapes, and it is provided that the addi- tion, within certain limits, of pure white or crystallized sugar to perfect the wine or the use of the necessary things to clarify and refine the wine, which are not injurious to health, shall not be construed as adulterations and that the resultant product may be sold under the name “wine.”52 These state-sanctioned wine production practices were permitted because some of the leading European wine-producing countries fol- lowed similar practices in order to “remedy the natural deficiency in sugar or alcohol, or an excess of acidity” in problematic vintages.53 Methods of wine amelioration were indeed widely practiced across Europe, albeit subject to varying levels of regulation. Chaptalization had developed in the eighteenth century specifically to allow for the international transport of French wine that might otherwise spoil. As a method of preservation, chaptalization achieved a level of respectabil- ity that kept it from being regulated as a form of adulteration, even as other practices like “plastering” and “watering down” faced varying degrees of governmental scrutiny.54 Meanwhile, gallization—the method directly adopted by George Husmann in Missouri—was invented in nineteenth century Germany to rectify a crisis in the Mosel Valley in which vintners faced difficult climate conditions in nine of the ten years leading up to 1854.55 Although gallization was rendered illegal in 1879, it was later made permissible again in order to correct “natural deficiencies.”56 A memorandum explaining FID 120 also com- pared its labelling decision to wine laws in other European countries including Switzerland (which permit amelioration under the designa- tion of “sugar wine” and “gallised wine”), Hungary (which permit the addition of sugar during the vintage period in poor years), and others.57 The updated decision determined that local producers would be in compliancewithfederal labellingstandards, aslongas theseameliorated wines were labelled “Ohio Wine” or “Missouri Wine.” Having linked Ohio and Missouri winemaking to traditional European practices, FID 120 claimed, “Itis conceived thatthere is nodifference inprincipletothe adding of sugar to must in poor years to improve the quality of the wine than in the adding of sugar to the must every year for the same purpose in 52 Ibid., 1. 53 Ibid., 1–2. 54 For a thorough analysis of various forms of wine adulteration in nineteenth century France, see Stanziani, “Information, Quality and Legal Rules.” 55 Goldberg, “Acidity and Power,” 301. 56 Ibid., 308. 57 “Memorandum on Ohio Wines,” (September 17, 1913), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 13 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core localities where the grapes are always deficient.”58 In other words, because of the natural deficiencies of soil and climate in the Midwest, Ohio and Missouri wines gained a unique legal status separate from wines as a general class of goods. Ohio and Missouri wines were wines that, of necessity, had to be chemically adjusted for quality. Natural or true Missouri or Ohio wine was adulterated wine. This legal production of and protection for Ohio and Missouri wines is striking because the United States has historically been insensitive to legal protections for the labelling of products sourced from one specific locale—a variety of regulations generally clustered under the category of geographical indications of origin (or GIs).59 At this time in the early twentieth century, there were few protections in place for GIs anywhere in the world. Even France had not yet fully established their system for protecting French wines—appellations d’origine contrôlées—although they had passed a law to combat fraudulently labelled wines. Nonethe- less, the idea of terroir, through which an essential quality of a product can be attributed to the land on which it was made, was already avail- able as a rational for establishing and protecting the brand value of uniquely sourced wines.60 This rationale identified what Justin Hughes calls a “land/qualities nexus,” through which the unique qualities of a product are specifically attributable to its place of origin (the qualities of soil, climate, elevation, and quasi-magical intangibles that may not be easily scientifically identified) and so could not possibly be repli- cated elsewhere.61 Although the United States was not actively engaged in creating GI protections for its products, its status as an importer (and imitator) of European wines was nonetheless critically important to the history and development of these regulations. Kolleen Guy and Alice Trubek argue 58 USDA, Food Inspection Decision 120, 2. 59 The United States currently protects GIs as a signatory to the TRIPS Agree- ment (1995), although the United States Patent and Trademark Office claims to have provided protection to foreign and domestic GIs since at least 1946. It protects them as a subset of trademarks—specifically as a certification mark or collective mark— rather than as a separate category of intellectual property law. Certification marks can be used to “certify regional or other origin, material, mode of manufacture, quality, accuracy, or other characteristics of … goods or services.” See Hughes, “Champagne, Feta, and Bourbon,” 299–386; United States Patent and Trademark Office, Geographical Indication Protection in the United States. 60 Hughes, “Champagne, Feta, Bourbon,” 307. 61 Ibid., 305. German laws also regulated place names but with a concern less for the essential qualities of land and product and more for the product’s reputation, if that reputation could be meaningfully linked to its place of origin. This tension is manifest the current European Union distinction between protected geographical indications (PGI), which accommodate the German approach and protected desig- nations of origin (PDO), which more closely resemble the French approach. See Gangjee, “Melton Mowbray and the GI Pie in the Sky,” 291–309. 14 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core that terroir—used to explain agriculture for centuries—only became the foundation for a formal system of regulatory classifications when French products like champagne became valuable brands on an inter- national market. By the mid-nineteenth century, champagne had become one of France’s most profitable exports, even as domestic con- sumption remained largely unchanged. It was by valorizing the impor- tant combination of soil and grapes responsible for producing champagne that vignerons could protect their global reputation and defend against upstart competitors in burgeoning markets like the United States.62 This context suggests that wine producers in the United States would have been well aware of GI protections as a legal strategy for the protection of regional product value, particularly con- sidering they sought to capture that value through brand imitation and counterfeit production.63 Recent scholars have also noted that GI protections were not solely grounded in terroir as a “land/quality” nexus but also designed to recognize the cultural, social, and political values and practices con- tributing to a products’ overall regional “brand” identity.64 For instance, as early as the 1855 classification of Bordeaux wines, there were indications that this developing GI system did not necessarily exclude other forms of manipulation and human intervention that might work in tandem with products’ natural attributes in order to produce their essential qualities. The French regulatory body, the Insti- tut National des Appellations d’Origine, determined not just the bound- aries for different wine-producing regions but also the conditions of production by mandating the varietals to be used, the natural alcohol content to be produced during vinification, the amount (if any) of irrigation deemed permissible, etc.65 The Department of Agriculture’s classification of Ohio and Missouri wines was no different. Even though the land/quality nexus in this instance produced a net negative value (making highly acidic wines with low alcohol content subject to frequent mildew and rot), these natural properties, offset by “tradi- tional” regional production practices, produced a reputation for Ohio and Missouri wines that warranted its own labelling practices and legal protections. 62 Guy, When Champagne Became French, 4–5; Trubek, The Taste of Place, 25–27. For a broader history of geographical indications in the global economy, see Higgins, Brands, Geographical Origin, and the Global Economy. 63 Guy, When Champagne Became French, 78. 64 Higgins, Brands, Geographical Origin, and the Global Economy, 7–8. See also Parry, “Geographical Origins,” 361–380; and the essays collected in Black and Ulin, Wine and Culture. 65 Hughes, “Champagne, Feta, Bourbon,” 307. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 15 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core As a result, Food Inspection Decision 120—a standard produced within the context of an emerging federal regulatory apparatus— resulted in the quasi-proprietarian protection of Ohio and Missouri wine. This effect indicates an interesting and underappreciated sym- metry between food regulation and geographical indications. Both regimes produce taxonomic distinctions. Although regulatory classifi- cations assign responsibility, and GI classifications protect value, the way that each legal form “cuts” the world into classificatory systems is the same, particularly as they meet at the medium of the label. As such, food regulatory systems can be productive of value just as GI systems might result in the assignment of responsibility (for instance, if a par- ticular GI-protected good was found to be contaminated and thus could be traced to the source). This quality might be considered foundational to intellectual property law, in which the allocation of responsibility exists as the inversion of the monopoly rights granted to owners. Food Inspection Decision 120 was quickly challenged by a range of different actors. First, William Alwood, a chemist in the Department of Agriculture, published a multiyear enological study on the chemical composition of American grapes grown in Ohio, New York, and Vir- ginia. The study focused on these regions in order to position grapes grown in the “Central States” alongside other productive areas further east. In doing so, the Department of Agriculture sought to better under- stand the natural variability associated with “American grapes” and to contrast them with the “distinctly European varieties grown so largely in California.”66 Further, this study was explicitly conducted in order to investigate the claims of grape growers and winemakers in and around the Ohio region who insisted upon the need to add water and sugar to wines made in these areas.67 After evaluating a range of vari- eties and locations across three vintages (1908–1910), the results were unequivocal. Even in bad growing seasons—in which growers experi- enced widespread crop failure due to severe late spring frosts—the 66 Alwood, Bureau of Chemistry–Bulletin No. 145, 7–8. New York might have been a useful point of comparison because that state’s wine industry had grown throughout the late 1800s until it became the second largest producer of wine behind California by 1890, all while refraining from practicing amelioration. However, Pinney notes that New York’s signature sparkling wines were “based on neutral California white wine imported in bulk to modify the flavors and the acidity of the wine from native varieties.” Presumably, this blending practice did not raise the same concerns as did gallization. Pinney, A History of Wine in America, 374–375. 67 “The need of this investigation in the administration of the food law is readily seen if one compares the widely varying statements of the grape growers and the wine makers as to the quality of the fruit produced and the possibility of making straight wines from this fruit, and also if one is familiar with the general practice of watering and sugaring (i.e. gallizing) the wines made in the districts mentioned. For these reasons it is important to determine fully the character of the strictly nature [sic] wines made from these grapes.” Alwood, Bureau of Chemistry–Bulletin No. 145, 7. 16 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core investigation determined that American varieties nonetheless dis- played “remarkably good qualities” and contained a sufficiently high sugar content to produce marketable wines.68 Second, representatives of other wine-growing regions objected to the exceptions being carved out for Ohio and Missouri producers who had chosen to grow grapes in an area with distinct geographical and climato- logicaldisadvantages.RepresentativesfortheCaliforniawinemakerswere granted an informal hearing on September 3, 1913, during which they requested that FID 120 “should be repealed or modified on the ground that the decision is contrary to the spirit and letter of the Food and Drugs Act since it permits products to be labelled and sold as wine which are not entitled to the name.”69 Further, they claimed the following: The decision admits unlimited stretching by the addition of both sugar and water in the shape of sugar solution, the alcoholic content being entirely under the control of the manufacturer.… With only a small amount of grape juice or mash with which to start, a manufac- turer with a sugar barrel on one side and a water hose on the other and a supply of cream of tartar (grape tartrate) in his cellar, can make more so-called “wine” than all the vineyards in the country can produce.70 Third, the American Wine Growers’ Association, which represented growers across California, New York, New Jersey, Virginia, and North Carolina, also expressed its opposition “to adulteration in any form.” This claim was strengthened by the fact that it represented growers from “vastly different climatic conditions” that produced “grapes dif- fering widely in character and in composition.”71 Complaints like these led to another set of hearings eventually leading to the passage of Federal Inspection Decision 156 on June 24, 1914. This decision claimed that, “as a result of investigations carried on by this Department and of the evidence submitted at a public hearing given on November 5, 1913, the Department of Agriculture has concluded that gross deceptions have been practiced under Food Inspection Decision 120.” Thus, Food Inspection Decisions 109 and 120 were abrogated and wine wasreturnedtoitsnationallyunifiedstandard,onceagainrenderingimper- missible the modifications practiced by Ohio and Missouri producers.72 68 Ibid., 15. 69 “Memorandum on Ohio Wines,” 14, Food and Drug Administration Collec- tion, National Archives. 70 Ibid., 16–17. 71 American Wine Growers’ Association, “Letter to Board of Food and Drug Inspection,” (December 17, 1913), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 72 USDA, Food Inspection Decision 156: Wine. It is possible that the cost and practicality of enforcing different standards might have also factored into this Food Standards as Intellectual Property 17 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Food Inspection Decision 156 and the Legal Production of Deceptive Wine Before Food Inspection Decision 156 was released, public hearings indicated that the regulatory tides might quickly turn against Ohio and Missouri winemakers. In early 1914, the Department of Agriculture received ample correspondence from Midwestern winemakers and their opponents continuing the debate about the nature of American wine, the importance of place, and the suitability of extant federal wine regulation and labelling. At the heart of this conflict was how the law could meaningfully distinguish between permissible types of modifi- cation on one hand and similar practices of modification deemed inher- ently deceptive or dishonest on the other. The most vocal advocate for Missouri wine was George Stark, owner of the Stone Hill Wine Company, which had been one of the largest wineries in the country in the late 1800s.73 Stark lobbied federal regu- lators at the Department of Chemistry and local representatives in his capacity as a major wine producer as well as President of the Missis- sippi Valley Wine Growers and Grape Growers Association. Stark’s efforts were notable for the way in which they simultaneously assured regulators that Missouri and Ohio wine practices were similar enough to others’ practices that they should be considered legitimate, while at the same time seeking recognition for their specific local needs. Stark argued that Missouri and Ohio wine producers were both similar and different: similar enough to be considered legal by national (and inter- national) definitions of wine; different enough to warrant unique pro- tections necessitated by local conditions. Stark wrote to Carl Alsberg, chief of the Bureau of Chemistry, asking that Missouri producers be given “fair consideration” because they developed a flourishing industry years before California wines had ever been put on the market. Stark also sent Alsberg copies of the Swiss and Canadian food laws. Like Germany, these countries allowed the addi- tion of water and sugar to correct the acidity of the must “just as we have decision as it did in other areas of regulation like meat and milk inspection. Thank you to one of the anonymous reviewers for suggesting this possibility. 73 Peter Poletti identifies Stark’s Stone Hill Wine Company alongside Sohns Winery as “famous growers” in the region, both of whom had substantial connec- tions to German viticultural areas (Stark from Rhine-Hessen and Sohn from Baden). Stone Hill Winery was built in 1847. George Stark became sole proprietor of the winery in 1893, and under his management—according to the records of the State Historical Society of Missouri—it became one of the largest wineries in the country, with a total capacity of 1,250,000 gallons. Stone Hill Winery still exists today after it was bought and restored in 1965. Poletti, “An Interdisciplinary Study,” 64; “Com- pany Sketch,” Stone Hill Wine Company, Herman, Missouri, Records, 1896–1919. State Historical Society of Missouri. 18 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core to do in the Middle States of the United States where we are exposed to cold winters.”74 Stark’s strategy to draw from international wine regulations was savvy because wine producers outside the United States had recently expressed interest in harmonizing industry standards to facilitate trade. In February 1914, the International Committee of the Commerce of wines, ciders, ardent spirits, and liquors wrote to the Secretary of State claiming that “when a wine is, in the country of production, recognized of good quality, it ought to be judged the same in all coun- tries.”75 To this end, it suggested unifying international methods of chemical analysis for food products, including wine. The communique suggested that Stark might not just find favorable models for U.S. wine regulation overseas but also allies in countries that imported wine to American markets. Shortly before the issuance of FID 156, Stark pushed the Department of Agriculture to recognize that the proposed regulations would negatively affect international producers. “We now inquire wether [sic] or not you are going to exclude German, Swiss, and other foreign wines where the addition of sugar and water to wine is permitted, or whether you are going to compel these wines to be labeled ‘Imitation Wines.’”76 Further, Alsberg faced concerns directly from the German ambassador that American regulations would affect his country’s wine exports. In response, Alsberg confirmed that the proposed wine law might “be construed as adverse to the importation of wines from Ger- many to which both sugar and water have been added.” Nonetheless, he believed that these facts did not warrant changing the impending regu- lations because “the addition of water to wine in Germany is greatly limited and properly controlled, and probably within the limits, which can be detected by analysis with present-day methods.”77 Thus, Food Inspection Decision 156 was released in June 1914, reestablishing a definition of wine that forbid amelioration.78 74 “Letter from George Stark to Carl Alsberg,” (December 30, 1913 and January 15, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 75 “Letter from J. A. Maynet, Secretary General and A. Flavy, Vice President Delegated of the International Committee of the Commerce of wines, ciders, ardent spirits, and liquors to the Secretary of State,” (February 21, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 76 “Letter from George Stark to the Secretary of Agriculture,” (July 28, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 77 “Letter from Carl Alsberg to W.A. Taylor, Chief, Bureau of Plant Industry,” (May 5, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 78 USDA, Food Inspection Decision 156: Wine. This decision did, however, modify the original Food Inspection Decision 109 by permitting “correction of the natural defects in grape musts and wines due to climatic or seasonal conditions.” This definition would appear to permit Ohio and Missouri practices, but the decision goes on to limit permissible correction only to the addition of “neutralizing agents” like potassium tartrate or calcium carbonate. Under no condition was the addition of water permitted to products labelled as “wine.” Food Standards as Intellectual Property 19 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core In response, George Stark lobbied federal officials with increasing agi- tation, probing the language and logic of the ruling in order to deter- mine the boundaries of permissible behaviour. Because the decision defined wine as “the normal alcoholic fermentation of the juice of fresh, sound, ripe grapes, with the usual cellar treatment,” Stark pressed the Secretary of Agriculture to clearly define its terms. “Does ‘cellar treat- ment’ permit the correcting of wine by adding sugar and water in such quantities as is necessary to produce a wholesome and marketable product? If you do not permit it, then give us your reason why not.”79 He also asked why the decision permitted the addition of acids to wines —“an article which the Californians only, as far as we know, wish to use”—even as other countries expressly forbid it. The National Wine Growers Association—an Ohio-based advocacy group—also expressed reservations about FID 156. It raised several com- plaints, arguing first that the proposed alternative of “plastering” the wine (which involved the permissible addition of sulphates to increase fermentation and preservation) would destroy the flavor and value of the wines. Second, it contended that infractions would be “difficult, if not impossible, to detect” and so eastern wine makers “will be forced to ignore the provisions of said decision.” Third, looking at Decisions 109, 120, and 156 in succession, the association claimed that the deci- sions were “so inconsistent with each other that they show on their face that there is no definite standard for wine in this country.” Finally, the association protested the decision as unreasonable and unjust, “and one thatis contrary to the law of the landand which tends to createa standard that is neither legal nor natural for the United States.” 80 The myriad complaints against FID 156 all sought to demonstrate that the appearance of scientifically grounded uniformity and stan- dardization imposed by the ruling concealed a wide variety of “natu- ral” differences in wine production that the bureau had failed to 79 “Letter from George Stark to Secretary of Agriculture,” (July 16, 1914). Stark correctly surmised that “cellar treatment” had no formal definition, and federal officials avoided defining it so as to allow producers a certain degree of flexibility in wine production. During the drafting of the decision, the solicitor of the Depart- ment of Agriculture wrote to the Bureau of Plant Industry claiming, “The expression of ‘usual cellar treatment,’ on the face of it, is vague and indefinite. I do not understand what it means.” To this, the draftees responded that “usual cellar treatment” “covers a ratherwide range of manipulation of the productduring its manufacture, as well as some additions in particular cases.” See “Letter from Department of Agriculture Office of the Solicitor to W. A. Taylor, Bureau of Plant Industry,” (April 7, 1914); “Memorandum for the Solicitor, addressed to Colonel Caffey,” (May 8, 1914); “Letter from B.G. Hartmann to O.G. Stark,” (October 26, 1914); “Letter from C.L. Alsberg to B.G. Hartmann,” (October 31, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 80 “Letter from National Wine Growers Association of the United States to D. F. Houston, Secretary of Agriculture,” (August 6, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection,NationalArchives.Forplasteringofwine,see“ThePlasteringofWines,”89. 20 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core adequately account for. In this respect, the scientific neutrality wielded by the Bureau of Chemistry in fact operated as a form of geographic discrimination, advantaging either Californian or international pro- ducers and unnecessarily handicapping Ohio and Missouri industries. These arguments failed to sway administrators at the federal level, but this was not necessarily because the arguments were specious. Rather, amelioration was understood as part of a larger array of deceptive practices undertaken by Ohio and Missouri producers that systemati- cally and routinely misrepresented their product either through the manipulation of the wine or the deceptive labelling of their products. Before the release of the first wine decision in 1909, the Ohio-based Sweet Valley Wine Company—a major producer in Sandusky—rou- tinely produced adulterated and mislabelled goods. Shipments from Sweet Valley had been seized as early as August 1907 (and repeatedly over the next four years), in which wine bottles were labelled and branded “as to cause the purchaser to believe that the package con- tained Riesling wine of a select quality, while the said article was a compound of wine and a fermented solution of commercial dextrose.” The label further contained a misleading list of ingredients.81 This “wine stretching” was just one violation among many. In October 1907, Sweet Valley labelled a wine with a picture of a German village and packaged it in a bottle with the shape and appearance of a tradi- tional “Hochheimer wine,” thereby suggesting German origin.82 Simi- larly, Sweet Valley marketed a scuppernong wine that the Bureau of Chemistry called a “fictitious product made up in part at least from base wines, with the addition of sugar and flavouring matter.”83 Ohio winemakers were not alone in these practices. Evidence from the federal inspections of major producers in Missouri—including H. Sohns & Brothers and Stone Hill Winery—confirms that these mislabelling prac- tices were as widespread as amelioration. Stone Hill practiced a wide range of labelling techniques similar to those identified at Sweet Valley. For instance, the Bureau of Chemistry’s inspection report includes copies of Stone Hill labels that called their Missouri wines “Claret Cabinet,” “St. Julien,” and “St. Emilion” style with the graphic design and typography modelled after the labels of major French producers. So too did Stone Hill produce a “Laubenheimer” wine that included an image of the Rhine Valley on it with no indication of the wine’s true geographical origin.84 81 United States Bureau of Chemistry, Decision 3271, 436–444. 82 Byszewski, “What’s in the Wine?” 552–553. 83 United States Bureau of Chemistry, Decision 3271, 442. 84 Bureau of Chemistry, “Investigation of Wine Industry. H. Sohns & Bro., Hermann, MO,” (March 15, 1916); “Inspection of Food and Drug Factories: Stone Hill Wine Company, Hermann, MO,” (March 14, 1916), Food and Drug Administra- tion Collection, National Archives. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 21 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Later, the Virginia-based Garrett & Company sued Sweet Valley for unfair competition based on its use of labelling that was confusingly similar to their “Virginia Dare” trade name.85 In a series of letters addressed to the Bureau of Chemistry and fellow members of the wine trade, this Virginia winemaker claimed that Ohio producers’ practice of amelioration should be considered inseparable from these other practices of misbranding designed to deceive the consumer. For example, Ohio producers sold pomace wine (wine made by adding sugar and water to the pomace of grapes from which the juice had already been expressed) “masquerading under such names as Scuppernong, Blackberry, and any LABEL that would help its sale.”86 The company further argued that Ohio producers’challengestotheextantfooddecisions explicitlyrevealed their duplicity because in doing so, they were “making the most amazing admission, which should damn their goods eternally in the minds of all reputable dealers. Their argument seems to be ‘It’s all right to steal if you don’t get caught.’” How, Garrett & Company argued, could the industry let these deceptive practices persist, particularly when they were already under threat of condemnation from the rising Temperance movement?87 Figure 1 Label from United States Bureau of Agriculture, Department of Chemistry, Inspection of Food and Drug Factories: Stone Hill Wine Company, Hermann, MO. 85 Garrett & Co. v. Sweet Valley Wine Co. 251 F. 371 (N.D. Ohio, 1918); Garrett & Co. v. A. Schmidt, Jr., & Bros. Wine Co. 256 F. 943 (N.D. Ohio, 1919). 86 “Letter from Garrett & Company to the Trade,” (April 6, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 87 Regarding Prohibition, Garrett & Company writes, “One of [the Ohio wine manufacturers], writing us, asks—‘How can we expect to stem the tide of prohibition if we fight among ourselves?’ to which we reply—‘How can we expect condemnation if 22 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Garrett & Company’s letter to the Bureau of Chemistry similarly conflated amelioration with consumer deception and the production of low-quality imitation wine. It claimed that the enforcement of basic wine standards—for instance through the seizure of mislabelled scup- pernong wine from Ohio manufacturers—was creating spillover effects into other areas for misrepresentation and fraud. Finding … that the public was growing wise to the fact that under the brand Scuppernong the wines were liable to seizure, various pro- ducers in Ohio began to turn out imitations of our trade mark brand … and these goods apparently of the same quality which had been forfeited by the Department then appeared on the market under the Figure 2 Label from United States Bureau of Agriculture, Department of Chemistry, Inspection of Food and Drug Factories: Stone Hill Wine Company, Hermann, MO. the trade persist in swindling the consumer by base imitations, confessedly illegal and unfit for consumption?’” “Letter from Garrett & Company to the Trade,” (April 6, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 23 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core brands, “Virginia Bell,” “Carolina Belle,” “Puritan Belle,” “Southern Belle,” “Virgianna,” “Virginette,” “Vanity Fair” and even “California Blair,” the last we believe being a California product.88 This argument parallels those made about standards for other food and beverage commodities, in which some producers claimed that stan- dardization was a prerequisite to honest competition between brands.89 This criticism generated counterarguments that some degree of ame- lioration was necessary and that customers knew exactly what they were buying (or not buying) when they purchased cheap Ohio and Missouri wine. A wholesale liquor dealer responded to Garrett & Com- pany’s attacks on Midwestern industries by writing, “We have bought these Ohio goods cheap, and we have sold them cheap. We don’t suppose there is any retailer in the Country that thinks he is getting pure wine when he buys it.”90 Failing to find allies across all sectors of the wine industry and rebuffed by the Bureau of Chemistry, Midwestern winemakers turned next to their state representatives in Congress. In the process, they constructed a new argument tailored to this audience of politicians. Rather than arguing that these neutral definitions unwittingly discrim- inated against Missouri and Ohio wines, they claimed instead that these regulations were specifically preferential to the natural condi- tions of California wines. Masquerading as a “universal” definition of wine, Food Inspection Decision 156 in fact defined California wine. The Revenue Bill and the Question of Who/Where Defines Wine? George Stark harangued the Department of Agriculture from the time of the decision’s release in June 1914. On August 7, he diversified his attack. Stark first wrote to Missouri Representative Champ Clark, 88 “Letter from Garrett & Company to C.L. Alsberg, Bureau of Chemistry,” (April 25, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 89 For examples of this argument, see Wood, “The Strategic Use of Public Policy.” 90 “Letter from P.R. Lancaster & Co. to Garrett & Co.,” (April 10, 1914). To this comment, Garrett & Co. presented the same argument they made to the Bureau of Chemistry: “Are you aware of the fact that when the government puts a stop to selling these goods under standard brands the producers in Ohio have now adopted brands which are an imitation of brands which are advertised for years and under which we have sold genuine wine, and that already there are on the market fifteen or twenty brands some of which we have secured injunctions against and others which we are prosecuting, which brands are gotten up in plain infringement of our special trade mark rights.” “Letter from Garrett & Co. to P.R. Lancaster & Co.,” (April 13, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 24 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core claiming that the Bureau of Chemistry’s decision was harming Missouri producers to the benefit of the dominant California wine industry. Stark claimed that because the decision went beyond simply defining wine but also specified the methods by which wines could be corrected, it “makes a sweeping decision against us, and altogether in favour of the Californians.… The Californians got everything they asked for, and we got nothing.”91 In doing so, Stark reconfigured a debate about the nature of wine into a debate about an ongoing trade war between states.92 By allowing the addition of sugar and tartaric acid while prohibiting water, FID 156 permitted the types of modification necessary to pro- duce quality California wines while forbidding methods used in Ohio and Missouri wine production. To emphasize this imbalance, Stark wrote to Representative Clark that the addition of sugar could not cover up the excessive acidity of their wines “any more than we can make lemon juice taste sweet by adding sugar.… The only way to reduce the acid is by diluting it with water, in the way you do in making lemon- ade.” Further, Stark reiterated, Ohio and Missouri wines “made for over sixty-seven years just as they are made today”—were popular with consumers. “As long as our customers and the drinking public is satis- fied with our wines, and even like same better than the California wines, why then should the Department of Agriculture interfere?”93 Stark also sent a letter to a number of congressmen informing them that FID 156 “to our members and others, is a matter of life and death.”94 Again, he blamed the decision on the “California wine trust” whose actions were all the more unjust because the Missouri wine producers were investing in grapes of American origin. “Grapes … cultivated from varieties of originally wild American grapes [which are] very robust and vigorous; can stand the coldest winters and hottest summers that contain an excess of fruit acid, and an abundance of aroma, color and gluten, however are deficient in sugar.” By contrast, the California grapes all originated from Spain, Italy, Algeria, and the South of France and produced pleasant if insipid sweet wines with little acid. In this way, FID 156 was “in all its respects favourable to the California wine industry and unfavourable to the wine-growers east of the Rocky Moun- tains.”95 Stark’s letter also suggested that the influence of Californian 91 “Letter from George Stark to Hon. Champ Clark, Speaker, H.R.,” (August 7, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 92 To be precise, Stark claims, “This whole controversy is a TRADE WAR between two sections, to wit: the Pacific Coast against the Growers East of the Rocky Mountains.” 93 Ibid. 94 “Letter from George Stark to Congressmen,” (September 5, 1914), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 95 Ibid. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 25 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core producers was evident across other federal regulations, including a tariff bill that gave rebates to producers of a sweet wine only made in California.96 Stark interpreted these regulations as evidence that the Department of Agriculture was taking sides in “a trade war between the California still wine-growers and the eastern wine-growers,” and in doing so was “destroying with a single stroke of the pen, the entire wine industry east of the Rocky Mountains.”97 Stark also saw federal preference given to California for agricultural funding, which he interpreted as the result of a well-organized and multipronged state lobbying effort.98 This level of success in securing federal backing was part of an extensive and focused strategy to inter- calate state interests into federal law. Stark wrote the following: Californians are working in classified groups and have been doing so in the past. When the big California “Wine Trust” has put in its licks, then the next Congress is confronted by the small wine growers League of California; when they have gained their point, then the next Congress is besieged by the grape growers Union; then comes along the California “Associated” Raisins Co. who control 95% of the raisin output. It’s a great system they work under, but they usually get what they go after.99 This system disadvantaged Missouri and Ohio producers who did not have the money and influence necessary to make themselves heard at the federal level. Stark’s pleas were not unsuccessful. In February 1915, Ohio Senator Atlee Pomerene wrote to the Secretary of Agriculture conveying the protests against FID 156 that he had received from his state’s wine interests. Like Stark, Pomerene positioned the recent federal decision within the larger regulatory landscape, which favored California over Ohio and Missouri. He mentioned that the Sweet Wine Fortification Act, recently passed in 1914, already allowed the addition of limited quantities of water to sweet wine, and he saw no reason why traditional wines should be treated differently.100 The secretary’s response only 96 Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Finance, 40–42. 97 “Letter from George Stark to Congressmen,” Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 98 Stark claimed that he unsuccessfully advocated for an experimental field station in the Ozark Mountains dedicated to the promotion of viticulture even as Californians were able to attract fourteen such agricultural stations. “Letter from the Mississippi Valley Wine Growers & Grape Growers Association to A.W. Douglas, c/o Business Men’s League,” (January 21, 1916), Food and Drug Administration Collec- tion, National Archives. 99 Ibid. 100 “Letter from Atlee Pomerene to Hon. David F. Houston, Secretary of Agricul- ture,” (February 18, 1915), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 26 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core confirmed Stark’s charge of discrimination: The permitted addition of water to sweet wine was precisely because “the viscous California variety of grapes would otherwise clog the rolls and pipes during the pulping process.”101 Although the secretary explained that the addition of water was needed simply “for mechanical purposes,” Mid- western producers saw explicit evidence of bias. The fallout from FID 156 necessitated the creation of a binding definition of wine that could secure assent greater than that attained by the technicians at the Department of Agriculture. The Revenue Bill of 1916 provided just such an opportunity. This bill sought to define “what wines are and what wines are not” in such a manner that the subsequent definition would be binding under food law as well as internal revenue law.102 Unsurprisingly, California Representative William Kent was the first to propose a definition; however, rather than securing state advantage by codifying FID 156, Kent instead struck a surprisingly conciliatory tone. In a letter to the secretary of agriculture, Kent wrote that he had exhaustively studied the “wine question.” While admitting that his “sympathies are naturally with the California wine growers who are making wines from European grapes on European principles,” he nonetheless reiterated many of the concerns expressed by Stark: European grapes could not be grown in eastern climates; American varieties were deficient in sugar and high in acid; and the addition of sugar and water was sometimes necessary and did not always indicate deceptive practices.103 Kent thus proposed an amendment to the revenue bill that allowed for wine to be produced with the addition of sugar and water provided that this process was conducted under supervision, the resulting wine’s volume was not increased more than twenty-five percent, and its chem- ical values fell between predetermined standards for acidity and alco- hol content.104 Although crafted as a compromise, Kent’s amendment nonetheless included a crucial modification: It delineated the legal production and regulation not of all wines as a single category but 101 “Letter from Secretary of Agriculture to Hon. Atlee Pomerene,” (ND). A secondary difference was that in California, the fortification of sweet wines through the addition of tax-free brandy was already supervised by the Internal Revenue Bureau who would then also supervise the limited addition of water. “As dry wine making is not under control of the Internal Revenue Bureau, legal sanction for water- ing wines would result in a repetition of gross adulteration.” 102 “Hearing In re Food Inspection Decision 156 Before the Secretary of Agricul- ture,” (March 25, 1916): 3, Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 103 “Letter from William Kent to David F. Houston, Secretary of Agriculture,” (March 16, 1916), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 104 “Letter from William Kent to David F. Houston, Secretary of Agriculture,” (May 15, 1916), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 27 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core rather “all wines or artificial wines.”105 The inclusion of this language meant that even as the amendment rendered certain processes of ame- lioration legal, it nonetheless classified Ohio and Missouri wines dif- ferently: not as pure or natural products like those made in California but rather as something fabricated. Rather than having a salutary effect, the Department of Agriculture recognized that Kent’s amendment might only complicate matters. The amendment would overturn FID 156, thereby forcing the department to create new labelling regulations determining whether the products of eastern wine makers were, “wines merely, ‘artificial’ wines, or … some significant and appropriate qualifying word less strong than ‘artifi- cial.’”106 The myriad options for terminology—for instance, natural wine, pure wine, artificial wine, imitation wine, ameliorated wine— coupled with the fact that these wines, even if properly labelled, would still constitute adulterated products as defined by the Pure Food and Drugs Act, made the Department less than enthusiastic about the pro- posed changes.107 Further, subsequent debate about the revenue bill demonstrated that many of eastern winemakers were also not happy with the resulting language. Thomas Lannen, an attorney for the Mississippi Valley Wine Growers and Grape Growers Association, wrote that “as the bill left the House it was essentially a California bill, and the East was not properly recognized in that bill.”108 He argued that the Californians, in their lobbying efforts, were “trying to create the impression that these ame- liorated wines, which are the standard native wines of all the states east of the Rocky Mountains, are vile concoctions, produced by a few crooked wine makers who want the right to put adulterated wine upon the market.”109 Instead, Lannen advocated for a Senate amendment that proposed a labelling and classification strategy similar to the one previously established by FID 120. This amendment established a three-tiered labelling structure, with the first being “Natural Wine”; the second being wine subject to some necessary amelioration labelled simply as “wine” but qualified by the name of the locality where pro- duced (for instance, “Tennessee Wine,” “Missouri Wine,” “Ohio 105 “Letter from William Kent to David F. Houston, Secretary of Agriculture,” Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. [emphasis added]. 106 “Letter from W.A. Taylor, Chief, Bureau of Plant Industry to C.L. Alsberg, Chief, Bureau of Chemistry,” (May 20, 1916), Food and Drug Administration Collec- tion, National Archives. 107 “Letter from Secretary [of Agriculture] to Hon. F.M. Simmons, United States Senate,” (ND), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 108 Thomas Lannen, “In re Revenue Bill, Statement on Behalf of Certain Eastern Wine Industries,” (September 4, 1916), Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 109 Ibid. 28 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Wine,” etc.); and the third being wine that needed to be ameliorated due to a particularly bad season or other natural cause (and which would be labelled as “Ameliorated Wine”). This labelling system disarticulated “‘artificial” amelioration and adulteration from the “natural” amelio- ration necessary in particular states, “the theory being that such wines are the standard native wines of those states … and have been for over half a century.”110 Eastern winemakers deemed it insufficient for Congress to legalize ameliorated wine if that legalization rendered only Californian wines “pure” or “natural” while configuring Ohio and Missouri wines as deviations from the norm, be they imitation, artificial, or adulterated. This debate made clear that Congress’s attempt to establish neutral standards were inevitably discriminatory if they failed to recognize the differential effects place had on the production of wine across the United States. As Lannen wrote, ameliorated Ohio and Missouri wines may not have been “natural” wines but they were still “standard.” The eastern winemakers simply asked that the government, recognize “our standard native wines that have been standardized by custom and trade practice for over half a century—long before the California wine indus- try was established.”111 Similar arguments were presented during Senate hearings on the Revenue Bill of 1916.112 This testimony marshalled scientific, eco- nomic, and cultural evidence demonstrating that the eastern wine- makers’ unique practices necessitated localized definitions recognizing human intervention—that is, amelioration—as central to the crafting of quality wine. Ottmar Stark—George Stark’s son—argued the following: Wine is seldom, if ever, a natural product.… On the contrary, the making of wine is an art and the wine is the product of that art rather than a natural product. That the nature of the wine and the value of the wine is controlled by and depends upon the skill employed in its production admits of no argument. What the wine maker aims to produce is a product that the consumer will like. The more pleasing that product is to the consumer the greater its value.… That product may be obtained by a process of blending, or, as in the Mississippi Valley wines and in the eastern wines, it may be the result of both correcting and blending.113 110 Ibid. 111 Ibid. 112 Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Finance, 25–68. 113 Ibid, 36. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 29 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core This recognition of human manipulation was not antithetical to a notion of place; it was necessitated by the unique qualities—or limitations—of the Mississippi Valley and the American varietals native to that area. If ameliorated Ohio and Missouri wines were not considered wine, “then wine can not be produced in those States; or, in other words, to deny that it is wine is to deny that wine can be produced in the Mississippi Valley. Such a contention would seem to be absurd.” Further, if standards of purity were enforced, only wines that were “unpalatable, unmerchan- table, and worthless” could be called wine under legal standards. “And will anyone contend for a moment that such a worthless product should be held to be a wine to the exclusion of all others?”114 The revenue bill that was passed by Congress in 1916 permitted amelioration within certain prescribed limits under supervision and only to correct “natural deficiencies.”115 Despite the careful circum- scription of permitted amelioration, this ruling was undoubtedly favor- able to the needs of Midwestern producers. It considered ameliorated wine to be “natural wine” within the meaning of the act, and it allowed this wine to be labelled, transported, and sold as “wine,” qualified by the name of the locality where it was produced. The resulting regula- tions avoided the fragmentation of standards that might have resulted had they chosen to define California wines as fundamentally different from Ohio and Missouri wines. Instead, Congress opted to universally permit limited forms of modification and enforced the use of locality names primarily as a means of tracing responsibility (rather than, as in a true GI system, as a unique source of value). Nonetheless, Congress’s acceptance of some forms of modification was fundamentally shaped by arguments insisting on the central role of place in American wine production. Conclusion In his statement on the revenue bill, Thomas Lannen included a post- script titled “Sunshine vs. Frost.”116 In it, Lannen wrote that Califor- nians condemned amelioration “on the theory that God gave them the sunshine and that they do not have to ameliorate, and can make so-called natural wines, and that they are entitled to a natural advan- tage.” To the contrary, Lannen wrote that the wine produced in 114 Ibid, 39. 115 United States Congress, An Act to Increase the Revenue, and for Other Pur- poses, 757. At a federal level, wine amelioration is still legal, although some states like California prohibit it. Mendelson, Wine Law in America, 26. 116 Lannen, “In re Revenue Bill, Statement on Behalf of Certain Eastern Wine Industries,” Food and Drug Administration Collection, National Archives. 30 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core California had its own imbalances—too sweet with too little acid—that were every bit as damaging as those of eastern wines. He continued: It is fallacious to argue that all virtue lies in sunshine. There is also virtue in frost.… Even were it possible to grow [California] grapes in our climates, and their fruits, and supplant our native varieties by them, it would not be advisable to do so, for the very reason that we would be surrendering quality fruit for fruit that is as deficient in quality as it is perfect in appearance and other respects. Our native varieties of grapes will not grow in California, nor will their grapes grow here.117 Lannen claimed that a truly neutral and universally applicable sys- tem of regulation should treat differences not as deviations from an arbitrarily established norm but rather as themselves valuable dis- tinctions that diversify and strengthen the American wine market. This recognition of chemical difference at the level of wine mirrored the well-established appreciation of geographical difference across the diverse ecosystems and environments of the American country- side. Lannen’s comments also carried a resonant and none-too-subtle subtext: Californian wines—grown under the hot sun from “grapes imported from the warm climates of Southern Europe”—did not rep- resent American national identity as did the genuine American grape varieties and terroir of the (Germanic, Northern European) Midwest. Why enact standards that would benefit inferior grapes that could not even “survive our cold winters?” Thus, Lannen asked Congress to produce standards that recognized the value of Midwestern wines whose qualities stood as proxies for the values of an unfolding Amer- ican culture and identity.118 Although subsequent federal regulation did not fully adopt Lannen’s suggestions, Congress nonetheless acceded to the necessity for some winemakers to ameliorate their product, redefining this form of manip- ulation from a “deceptive practice” to a legitimate strategy for improv- ing wines. However, the beneficial effects of this regulation on the Ohio and Missouri wine industries failed to materialize when Prohibition began in 1920.119 Whereas wine production was never the central focus 117 Ibid. 118 This observation is indebted to the arguments put forth by Erica Hannickel’s Empire of Vines, which similarly explores the links between American viniculture and American national identity. 119 In fact, it is striking that rising national support for Prohibition largely failed to influence the wine standards debates or encourage winemakers to abandon their regional differences in the face of a larger threat. Daniel Okrent argues that California winemakers’ position of strength in the state’s agriculture and culture blinded them Food Standards as Intellectual Property 31 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core of temperance reform in Missouri—most activists having set their sights on liquor producers, brewers, and saloons—Prohibition none- theless decimated an industry that was already in a precarious eco- nomic situation.120 After fighting for years to get recognition for Missouri and Ohio winemaking practices in federal regulation, Ottmar Stark found himself ripping up all of Stone Hill’s grapevines on the eve of Prohibition, definitively marking the end of an era of Midwestern wine production.121 As short-lived as the Ohio and Missouri wine debate was—occur- ring at a time when California wine was already ascendant and uncer- emoniously rendered irrelevant by Prohibition—it provides a uniquely illustrative snapshot of an important moment in the history of food and beverage regulation. The debate represents a conflict in which food standards—far from being anodyne matters of solely bureaucratic import—instead involved a complex balancing of values and concerns with significant emotional valence and eco- nomic consequence. Even under the cover of Department of Chemis- try enological reports and annual revenue bills, disputes around Ohio and Missouri wine standards activated deep tensions about the rela- tionship between agricultural industry and national identity, refracted through complex contestations over the nature and mean- ing of wine and its connection to American terroir. This narrative also demonstrates that debates about the protection of geographical indi- cations—usually considered solely a European matter—were not completely foreign to the United States in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century even if they were occurring in the adjacent legal area of food standards. Instead, wine producers across Califor- nia and the Midwest were actively involved in establishing the unique qualities of American wine as a matter of industry building and equally as a matter of national pride. Into the late twentieth and early twenty-first century, Ohio and Missouri wines continue to play an important if underappreciated role in American wine history. Shortly after the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms established the American Viticultural Area (AVA) system—the American equivalent of the French appellations d’origine contrôlée—in 1978, the Augusta AVA in Missouri was the to the threat of Prohibition. On the other hand, Missouri witnessed a robust Prohi- bitionist movement, although its focus largely remained on liquor and beer as sold in the saloons, versus wine, which was largely consumed in the home. Okrent, Last Call, 175; Detjen, The Germans in Missouri; Renner, “Prohibition Comes to Mis- souri,” 367–368. 120 Renner, “Prohibition Comes to Missouri.” 121 Stiles, “How the Missouri Wine Industry First Took Root”; Dufur, “The History of Missouri Wine.” 32 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core first region federally approved, predating the Napa Valley AVA by eight months.122 This level of protection can only be granted if the region demonstrates key criteria such as name recognition, historic evidence of wine production, clear boundaries, and physiographic uniqueness of the area. It appears then that even as the Midwestern wine industry lay fallow for years following Prohibition, American wine regulation was destined to once again recognize and legally protect the value, or lack thereof, of Ohio and Missouri wines. Bibliography of Works Cited Books Black, Rachel E., and Robert C. Ulin, eds. Wine and Culture: Vineyard to Glass. New York: Bloomsbury, 2013. Busch, Lawrence. Standards: Recipes for Reality. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2011. Coppin, Clayton A., and Jack High. The Politics of Purity: Harvey Washington Wiley and the Origins of Federal Food Policy. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999. Detjen, David W. The Germans in Missouri, 1900–1918: Prohibition, Neutrality, and Assimilation. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1985. Goodwin, Lorine Swainston. The Pure Food, Drink and Drug Crusaders, 1879– 1914. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 1999. Guy, Kolleen M. When Champagne Became French: Wine and the Making of a National Identity. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. 2003. Hannickel, Erica. Empire of Vines: Wine Culture in America. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013. Higgins, David M. Brands, Geographical Origin, and the Global Economy: A History from the Nineteenth Century to the Present. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Husmann, George. The Cultivation of the Native Grape and Manufacture of American Wines. New York: F.W. Woodward, 1868. Lukacs, Paul. American Vintage: The Rise of American Wine. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2000. Matthews, Mark A. Terroir and Other Myths of Winegrowing. Berkeley: Univer- sity of California Press, 2015. Mendelson, Richard P. Wine Law in America: Law and Policy. New York: Wolters Klewer Law and Business, 2011. Okrent, Daniel. Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition. New York: Scribner, 2010. 122 Poletti, “An Interdisciplinary Study,” 216–219. Food Standards as Intellectual Property 33 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Pinney, Thomas. A History of Wine in America. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. ———. The Makers of American Wine: A Record of Two Hundred Years. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012. Robertson, Carol. The Little Red Book of Wine Law: A Case of Legal Issues. Chicago: ABA Publishing, 2008. Smith-Howard, Kendra. Pure and Modern Milk: An Environmental History Since 1900. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Strasser, Susan. Satisfaction Guaranteed: The Making of the American Mass Market. New York: Pantheon Books, 1989. Trubek, Amy. A Taste of Place: A Cultural Journey into Terroir. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008. Young, James Harvey. Pure Food: Securing the Federal Food and Drugs Act of 1906. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989. Journal Articles and Chapters in Books Byszewski, Elaine T. “What’s in the Wine? A History of the FDA’s Role.” Food and Drug Law Journal 545 (2002): 552–553. Cooke, Kathy J. “‘Who Wants White Carrots?’: Congressional Seed Distribution, 1862 to 1923.” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 17 (2018): 475–500. Deelstra, H., D. Thorbun Burns, and M. J. Walker. “The Adulteration of Food, Lessons from the Past, with Reference to Butter, Margarine, and Fraud.” European Food Research and Technology 239 (2014): 725–744. Duguid, Paul. “Developing the Brand: The Case of Alcohol, 1800–1880.” Enter- prise & Society 4, no. 3 (September 2003): 405–441. ———. “Information in the Mark and the Marketplace: A Multivocal Account.” Enterprise & Society 15, no. 1 (March 2014): 1–30. Dupré, Ruth. “‘If It’s Yellow, It Must Be Butter’: Margarine Regulation in North America Since 1885.” Journal of Economic History 59, no. 2 (June 1999): 353–371. Freidberg, Susanne E. “The Triumph of the Egg.” Comparative Studies in Soci- ety and History 50, no. 2 (2008): 400–423. Gangjee, Dev. “Melton Mowbray and the GI Pie in the Sky: Exploring Cartogra- phies of Protection.” Intellectual Property Quarterly 3 (Summer 2006): 291–309. Goldberg, Kevin D. “Acidity and Power: The Politics of Natural Wine in Nineteenth-Century Germany.” Food and Foodways 19, no. 4 (2011): 294–313. Gough, J. B. “Winecraft and Chemistry in 18th-Century France: Chaptal and the Invention of Chaptalization.” Technology and Culture 39, no. 1 (January 1998): 74–104. Hughes, Justin. “Champagne, Feta, and Bourbon: The Spirited Debate about Geographical Indications.” Hastings Law Journal 58 (2006): 299–386. Parry, Bronwyn. “Geographical Indications: Not All ‘Champagne and Roses.’” In Trade Marks and Brands: An Interdisciplinary Critique, edited by Lionel 34 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Bently, Jennifer Davis, and Jane C. Ginsburg, 361–380. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Pickavance, Jason. “Gastronomic Realism: Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, the Fight for Pure Food, and the Magic of Mastication.” Food and Foodways 11, no. 2–3 (2003): 87–112. “The Plastering of Wines.” Science 12, no. 290 (August 24, 1888): 89. Renner, G. K. “Prohibition Comes to Missouri, 1910–1919.” Missouri Historical Review 62, no. 4 (July 1968): 363–397. Rosen, Zvi S. “Reimagining Bleistein: Copyright for Advertisements in Histor- ical Perspective.” Journal, Copyright Society of the U.S.A. 59, no. 2 (Winter 2012): 347–389. Stanziani, Alessandro. “Information, Quality and Legal Rules: Wine Adultera- tion in Nineteenth Century France.” Business History 51, no. 2 (March 2009): 268–291. Swanson, Kara. “Food and Drug Law as Intellectual Property Law.” Wisconsin Law Review, 2011, 331–397. Wood, Donna J. “The Strategic Use of Public Policy: Business Support for the 1906 Food and Drug Act.” Business History Review 59, no. 3 (Autumn 1985): 403–432. Newspapers and Magazines Belz, Adam. “As Regulators Ponder Food Labels, Dairy Farmers Press Harder Against Nut Milk,” Minneapolis Star Tribune (February 18, 2019). Dufur, Brett. “The History of Missouri Wine,” Missouri Wine Country. http:// www.missouriwinecountry.com/articles/history. Last accessed July 16, 2018. Stiles, Nancy. “How the Missouri Wine Industry First Took Root,” in Feast Magazine (April 28, 2017). Strey, Gerry. “The ‘Oleo Wars:’ Wisconsin’s Fight over the Demon Spread,” Wisconsin Magazine of History (Autumn 2001): 3–15. Suval, John. “(Not) Like Butter: W.D. Hoard and the Crusade Against the ‘Oleo Fraud,’” Wisconsin Magazine of History (Autumn 2012): 17–27. Government Documents and Reports Alwood, William B. Bureau of Chemistry–Bulletin No. 145. Enological Studies: The Chemical Composition of American Grapes Grown in Ohio, New York, and Virginia. Washington: Government Printing Office, 1911. Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Finance, United States Senate, Sixty- Fourth Congress First Session on H.R. 16763, An Act to Increase the Revenue, and for Other Purposes. Washington: Government Printing Office, 1916. United States Bureau of Chemistry. Decision 3271. Adulteration and misbrand- ing of wines. U.S. v. Sweet Valley Wine Co. Plea of nolo contendere. Fine, $1,500 and costs. Service and Regulatory Announcements (June 1914): 436–444. United States Congress. An Act for Preventing the Manufacture, Sale, or Trans- portation of Adulterated or Misbranded or Poisonous or Deleterious Food, Food Standards as Intellectual Property 35 https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at http://www.missouriwinecountry.com/articles/history http://www.missouriwinecountry.com/articles/history https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core Drugs, Medicines, and Liquors, and for Regulating Traffic therein, and for other Purposes. December 4, 1905. ———. An Act Making Appropriations for the Department of Agriculture for the Fiscal Year Ending June Thirtieth, Nineteen Hundred and Four. March 3, 1903. ———. An Act to Increase the Revenue, and for Other Purposes. The Statutes at Large of the United States of America from December, 1916 to March, 1917, 39, Part 1 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1917). United States Department of Agriculture. Circular No. 13: Standards of Purity for Food Products. 1904. ———. Circular No. 19: Standards of Purity for Food Products. 1906. ———. Food Inspection Decision 109: The Labeling of Wines. August 24, 1909. ———. Food Inspection Decision 120: The Labeling of Ohio and Missouri Wines. May 20, 1920. ———. Food Inspection Decision 156: Wine. June 24, 1914. United States Patent and Trademark Office. Geographical Indication Protection in the United States. https://www.uspto.gov/sites/default/files/web/offices/ dcom/olia/globalip/pdf/gi_system.pdf. Last accessed June 7, 2018. Unpublished Materials Brown, Todd. “A History of the Weinbau in the Lower Missouri Valley: From Dutzow to Hermann.” MA thesis, University of Missouri-St. Loui,. 2011. UMI 1495032. Poletti, Peter Joseph. “An Interdisciplinary Study of the Missouri Grape and Wine Industry, 1650 to 1989.” PhD diss., Saint Louis University, 1989. Archives Food and Drug Administration Collection. National Archives. College Park, Maryland. 36 VENTIMIGLIA https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:29, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.uspto.gov/sites/default/files/web/offices/dcom/olia/globalip/pdf/gi_system.pdf https://www.uspto.gov/sites/default/files/web/offices/dcom/olia/globalip/pdf/gi_system.pdf https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/eso.2019.82 https://www.cambridge.org/core ‘‘Deceptions Have Been Practiced’’: Food Standards as Intellectual Property in the Missouri and Ohio Wine Industries (1906-1920) Introduction Pure Food Law and the Legal Classification of Ohio and Missouri Wines Food Inspection Decision 156 and the Legal Production of Deceptive Wine The Revenue Bill and the Question of Who/Where Defines Wine? Conclusion Bibliography of Works Cited Books Journal Articles and Chapters in Books Newspapers and Magazines Government Documents and Reports Unpublished Materials Archives 
work_ey223fgvk5cvvgljmdhsdrjhxm	----	Microsoft Word - Canevaro - Homeric Ladies of Shalott Edinburgh Research Explorer The Homeric Ladies of Shalott Citation for published version: Canevaro, L 2014, 'The Homeric Ladies of Shalott', Classical Receptions Journal, vol. 6, no. 2, pp. 198-220. https://doi.org/10.1093/crj/clt010 Digital Object Identifier (DOI): 10.1093/crj/clt010 Link: Link to publication record in Edinburgh Research Explorer Document Version: Peer reviewed version Published In: Classical Receptions Journal Publisher Rights Statement: © Canevaro, L. (2014). The Homeric Ladies of Shalott. Classical Receptions Journal, 6(2), 198-220. 10.1093/crj/clt010 General rights Copyright for the publications made accessible via the Edinburgh Research Explorer is retained by the author(s) and / or other copyright owners and it is a condition of accessing these publications that users recognise and abide by the legal requirements associated with these rights. Take down policy The University of Edinburgh has made every reasonable effort to ensure that Edinburgh Research Explorer content complies with UK legislation. If you believe that the public display of this file breaches copyright please contact openaccess@ed.ac.uk providing details, and we will remove access to the work immediately and investigate your claim. Download date: 06. Apr. 2021 https://doi.org/10.1093/crj/clt010 https://doi.org/10.1093/crj/clt010 https://www.research.ed.ac.uk/portal/en/publications/the-homeric-ladies-of-shalott(83f1300d-9eaa-406e-9e56-58afa692f736).html 1    The Homeric Ladies of Shalott  Lilah Grace Canevaro  Abstract:  This  paper  argues  that  the  traditional  referentiality  of  Tennyson’s  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’  can  be  better  understood  by  supplementing the poet’s medieval sources, of little more than tangential  relevance to the poem, with Homeric influences. It suggests that the Lady  is  an  amalgamation  of  Homeric  women,  primarily  Andromache  and  Helen  but  also  Penelope,  Circe  and  Calypso,  who  fulfil  their  domestic  roles  by  weaving  but  who  also  cross  gender  boundaries:  who  express  themselves through objects and engage in memorialisation. It shows that  Tennyson used layers of resonance to create a character through which he  could reflect on issues of poetics, aesthetics, memory and vision, utilising  those  elements  of  tradition  which  were  simultaneously  timeless  and  allowed him to comment on his own art and times. Further, it posits that  in rewriting ‘The Lady of Shalott’ in 1842, Tennyson took yet another step  away from his medieval sources, and  towards Homer. As a final point,  this paper suggests that it is this perpetual chain of resonance stretching  back  from  Victorian  England  through  medieval  legend  to  the  archaic  Greek world which  inspired  the Pre‐Raphaelites  to adopt  ‘The Lady of  Shalott’ as a favoured subject.  2        To point out that Lord Alfred Tennyson drew from, engaged with and made  heavy use of Homeric epic would be stating the obvious, to put it mildly. Schooled  from the age of seven and sent up to Cambridge at eighteen, he received the usual  Victorian full‐immersion Classical education and ‘had his favourite Classics, such as  Homer, and Pindar, and Theocritus’.1  If  ‘Classics was simply  the  furniture of  the  mind  for  the  Victorian  upper  classes,  often  somewhat  shabby  or  threadbare  furniture, sometimes thrown out on the rag‐and‐bone cart, but always a recognizable  style  of  decoration,  whether  homely  or  grand’2  –  well,  Tennyson’s  upholstery  positively gleamed.     Systematic analyses such as Mustard’s 1904 Classical Echoes in Tennyson or (to  skip a century) Markley’s 2004 Stateliest Measures: Tennyson and the Literature of Greece  and Rome make eminently clear how avidly the poet used Greek and Latin sources in  his work, and self‐evident titles of such poems as ‘Achilles over the Trench’ or ‘The  Lotus‐Eaters’  leave us  in no doubt as  to Tennyson’s Homeric  leanings.3 The poet                                                               1 H. Tennyson 1897.2:806.  2 Goldhill 2011:2.  3 See also Jenkyns in Conin/Chapman/Harrison 2002:229‐45.  3    even debated with Gladstone about how best to translate Homer.4 The poet’s own  son, Hallam, comments on how deeply embedded Homer was in his father’s psyche:   a portable copy of Homer which some friend had given him he had  in his  hands on our Cornish  journey (1860), and kept sitting down to read as we  wandered over a wild rock‐island in the Scillies. We took Homer, however, so  much for granted, that I do not recall many discussions in honour of Iliad and  Odyssey. It would have seemed like praising ‘Monte Rosa’.5    However,  in  spite  of  the  poet’s  such  rampant  philhellenism,  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’  (arguably  Tennyson’s  most  well‐known  and  widely  critiqued  poem)  has  largely  escaped  the  notice  of  Classicists,  Homerists  and  scholars  of  classical  reception  alike.6  Plasa  1992  spots  allusions  to  Shelley  and  Wordsworth;  Turner  1976:62 and Chadwick 1986:24‐5 posit exploitation of Platonic doctrine; Cannon 1970  even strays eastward and compares ‘The Lady of Shalott’ with ‘The Arabian Nights’  Tales’. But  the real source of  the story,  I suggest,  is much more obvious and,  in  educational  terms, much closer  to home.  In  this paper  I argue  that  ‘The Lady of                                                               4 See Hurst 2010:490‐1, Joseph 1982.  5 H. Tennyson 1897.2:841.  6 Some exceptions: Mustard 1900:153 notes passing resemblances to Virgil Aeneid 3.195, Horace Odes  1.5.6, Iliad 7.63, 21.126, and Odyssey 4.402; Allen 1975 suggests the influence of Sappho fr.102; Joseph  1992 and Armstrong 1993:81 see a weaving parallel with Arachne; Gray 2009 compares the Lady with  Ovid’s Medea, in that both choose what is detrimental to them.  4    Shalott’ is bound up not only with Victorian Medievalism, but also with Classicism.7  There is, of course, a link between the two: the fact that, by Tennyson’s time, Homer  was  already  being  medievalised  and  romanticised.  Cowper,  for  instance,  had  translated  the  Homeric  epics  with  Milton  in  mind;  volumes  of  Homer  were  illustrated  in  a  medieval  style;  paintings  incorporated  elements  anachronistic  to  archaic  Greece  but  in‐keeping  with  Medieval  or  Romantic  periods.8  The  trend  continued  throughout  the  19th  century,  with  Barter  and  Worsley  both  translating  Homer into Spenserian stanzas, and Newman producing an antiquated Iliad full of  Anglo‐Saxon  echoes.9  Blackie’s  Iliad  and  Morris’  Odyssey  were  also  heavily  medievalising  translations:  ‘these  classical  texts  are  intended  to  appear  as  the  medievals received them, enacting a transformation of classical epic into ʹmedievalʹ  romance’.10  Through  this  romanticised  Homer,  Tennyson  could  easily  transpose  elements of archaic epic into a medieval setting: there was a pre‐existing (and still  operating) bridge between the two.                                                               7 For an overview of Victorian Medievalism see Harrison in Cronin/Chapman/Harrison 2002:246‐61.  8 Fowler in his introduction to Fowler 2006:1 gives as an example a portrait of Homer by Mattia Preti  (1613‐99), the atmosphere of which evokes Romanticism, and in which the robes and wreath are  distinctly medieval.  9 For a survey of English translations of Homer, see Steiner in Fowler 2006:363‐75.  10 Waithe 2006:103.  5      I argue that ‘The Lady of Shalott’ is based not only on the medieval Italian  novella La Donna di Scalotta and Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, generally acknowledged  as  sources  but  just  as  generally  acknowledged  as  lacking  in  similarity  with  Tennyson’s poem,11 but also on Homeric epic. Harrison in Stray 2007 observes that  many Victorian writers prefer to engage with epic on a small scale (he sees a more  direct connection with Homer in ‘The Lotos‐Eaters’ or ‘Ulysses’ than in the ‘Idylls of  the  King’):  perhaps  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’  is  one  of  these  instances  of  intense  (if  unattributed) engagement. I argue that the Lady is an amalgamation of (at the very  least) Homer’s Andromache, Helen and Penelope, women who fulfil their domestic  roles by weaving but who also cross gender boundaries: who express  themselves  through objects and engage  in memorialisation. Further,  I argue  that  in rewriting  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’  in  1842,  Tennyson  took  yet  another  step  away  from  his  medieval  sources,  and  towards  Homer.  As  a  final  point,  I  suggest  that  it  is  this  Homeric  resonance  which  inspired  the  Pre‐Raphaelites  to  adopt  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’ as a favoured subject.                                                               11 For early discussions of La Donna di Scalotta as a source see Potwin 1902 (including Italian text and  translation) and Chambers 1903:227‐33. Although Tennyson himself acknowledged this novella as a  source, he seems to have been more reticent in admitting conscious associations with Malory: ‘The  Lady of Shalott is evidently the Elaine of the Morte d’Arthur, but I do not think that I had ever heard of  the latter when I wrote the former’ (Tennyson, quoted in Ricks 1987.3:387).  6      First it is necessary to establish a methodological framework for this analysis.  As Mustard 1904 already showed, in ‘The Lady of Shalott’ Tennyson does not refer  explicitly  to  Homer.  He  does  not  use  Homeric  lines,  whether  quoting  or  paraphrasing,  nor  does  he  indulge  in  Homeric  name‐dropping.  In  tracing  Tennyson’s sources for this poem, then, I am working with something rather  less  tangible. This poses a fundamental methodological question: where does reception  end and cultural similarity begin? Certainly, I will address issues which are relevant  to far more than Homer. For example the gendered aspect of materiality (women’s  use of objects: the Lady’s weaving, the mirror, and the boat) has been the focus of  anthropological  studies  such  as  those  of  Appadurai  1986,  Graeber  2001,  DeMarrais/Gosden/Renfrew 2004 and van  Binsbergen/Geshiere 2005: such studies  have shown that the relationship between gender and materiality is configured in  similar ways cross‐culturally and diachronically. However, I think it is Tennyson’s  Classical background and his  intellectualising, even academic, approach to poetry  which give him away. This is no South Slavic epic, no indigenous oral genre which  happens  to  have  a  cultural  configuration  comparable  to  Homer:  this  is  rarefied  Victorian  poetry.  Yes,  women  may  have  performed  a  comparable  role  also  in  Victorian  society,  giving  the  poem  a  certain  anthropological  element  of  social  critique:  but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  poet  like  Tennyson,  interested  in  all  things  archaising, could not help but relate current affairs to the mythic past he knew and  loved. Nor is the further Homericising move between 1832 and 1842 accidental: in  7    the  meantime  Tennyson  had  been  working  on  or  revising  poems  with  Homeric  subject matters, such as ‘Oenone’, ‘The Lotus‐Eaters’ and ‘Ulysses’. As Bush 1969:203  notes  of  the  rewrite  of  ‘Oenone’,  ‘The  first  version  contained  some  lines  of  epic  breadth and dignity, but others were added in the second, such as those describing  the majestic approach of Herè’. Tennyson had immersed himself in epic language  and epic concepts  (kleos,  for example,  is a prominent  theme  in  ‘Ulysses’), so  it  is  hardly surprising that they should rear their heads even more in the second version  of ‘The Lady of Shalott’.    F.J. Furnivall in a letter to William Rossetti of 1868 quotes Tennyson as saying:  ‘I met the story first in some Italian novelle: but the web, mirror, island, etc., were my  own.’12 A cog in this article, or doth the poet protest too much? That these features  were not of Italian origin  is clear. That Tennyson appropriates them as his  ‘own’,  however, does not mean that he plucked them out of thin air. Again, we are dealing  with  intangible  influences, a hidden  thread of  implicit reception. Whether or not  Tennyson acknowledged the influence of the Classics on this poem, he was working  in a tradition stored irrevocably in his armoury of sources through schooling, and  woven inexorably into his poetical works.13                                                               12 Rossetti 1903:341.  13 Jenkyns in Conin/Chapman/Harrison 2002:229 ‘Most of the Victorian poets...were educated chiefly  in the literature and civilization of Greece and Rome, and we should expect to find these things bred  8      Tennyson’s  medieval  sources  are  ultimately  of  little  more  than  tangential  relevance  to  the  poem.  In  both  La  Donna  di  Scalotta  and  Le  Morte  d’Arthur,  no  mysterious curse befalls the maiden, and no name is written on the boat. Rather, the  damsel  dies  of  lovesickness,  and  her  plight  is  revealed  only  through  a  letter  (Lancelot  already  knows  her  identity,  having  previously  rejected  her).  Nor  does  anyone  weave.14  There  is  no  loom,  no  web,  no  mirror.15  In  fact,  most  of  what  Tennyson focuses on is missing from these tales. And Tennyson moves even further  from his supposed medieval sources in the second version of the poem. In the first  version, of 1832, the Lady’s adornment is emphasised, both in her tower (24‐6):                                                                                                                                                                                            into their bones.’ P.231 ‘The corpus of Latin and Greek literature formed the stock of a curiosity shop  peddling all sorts of different goods.’  14 Chambers 1903:228 tries to explain away the omission by noting that the web ‘is represented in the  Idyll of Lancelot and Elaine by the case which the lily maid embroiders for the knight’s shield (ll. 7‐12)  – apparently developed from Malory’s simple words (xviii, 14) “It is in my chamber, covered with a  case”’. This hardly solves the problem: first, ‘Lancelot and Elaine’ (Ricks 1987.3:422‐62) was composed  after ‘The Lady of Shalott’ so can show only a later development of Tennyson’s thoughts and, second,  in this poem too the medieval sources are lacking. In fact, many of the Homeric themes I trace in this  paper can be found also in ‘Lancelot and Elaine’: for example, Elaine uses an object (the shield) to  ‘read’ Lancelot’s story, adopting a role close to that of the poet, yet her perspective is limited and  inaccurate – she ‘guessed’ the story (17), ‘Conjecturing where and when’ (21), ‘so she lived in fantasy’  (27). Tennyson’s medievalism seems inextricably intertwined with Homeric resonance.  15 Many scholars (e.g. Rick 1987.1:390) look to Spenser’s Faerie Queene 3.2 for the mirror.   9    A pearlgarland winds her head:  She leaneth on a velvet bed,  Fully royally apparellèd,            The Lady of Shalott.16  and as she goes to her death (126^7):  A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight.  All raimented in snowy white  That loosely flew, (her zone in sight,  Clasped with one blinding diamond bright,)  Similarly in La Donna di Scalotta it is the maiden’s adornment which is emphasised:  E fosse il suo corpo messo in questo letto vestito di suoi più nobili vestimenti,  e con bella corona in capo ricca di molto oro a di molte ricche pietre preziose,  e con ricca cintura e borsa.  She commanded that her body be laid on this bed, dressed in her most regal  clothes, and with a beautiful crown on her head rich with much gold and with  many rich precious stones, and with a rich girdle and purse.17                                                               16 All Tennyson text is taken from Ricks 1987. For ‘The Lady of Shalott’ cf. vol.3:387‐95.  17 The Italian text is taken from Tosi 1825, novella 82. The English translation is my own.  10    And Elaine in Malory’s tale too leaves orders that she be dressed in her finest. In the  1842 version of  ‘The Lady of Shalott’, however, the maiden  is no  longer dripping  with jewels but rather her anonymity is emphasised.     In the 1832 poem the Lady carries a parchment which explains how she met  her end (165‐71):  There lay a parchment on her breast,  That puzzled more than all the rest,            The wellfed wits at Camelot.  ‘The web was woven curiously  The charm is broken utterly,  Draw near and fear not – this is I,            The Lady of Shalott.’  Just so does Malory’s Elaine leave a letter, and the missive of La Donna di Scalotta  reads:  A  tutti  i  cavalieri  della  tavola  ritonda  manda  salute  questa  damigella  di  Scalot, siccome alla miglior gente del mondo. E se voi volete sapere perch’io a  mio fine sono venuta, si è per lo migliore cavaliere del mondo e per lo più  villano, cioè monsignore messer Lancialotto de Lac, che già nol seppi tanto  pregare d’amore, ch’elli avesse di me mercede. E così  lassa sono morta per  bene amare, come voi potete vedere.  11    To all the knights of the round table this damsel of Shalott wishes health, as to  the best men in the world. And if you want to know why I have come to my  end,  it  is  for  the best knight  in  the world, and  for  the most villainous: Sir  Lancelot de Lac, whom I knew did not care enough about love to take pity on  me. And so I died for loving well, as you can see.  By  1842,  however,  the  parchment  has  been  expunged  and  only  the  inscription  remains.    So when the ostensible sourcing are lacking, do we attribute the remainder of  the content to Tennyson’s own ingenuity? Given the atmosphere in which he was  writing, saturated as it was with all things Classical, it seems to me that we have  another stop to make first. The importance of the loom and the web cannot but bring  to mind  the Homeric women: Calypso and Circe weaving and singing; Penelope  refusing to complete her weaving; Andromache weaving in her naiveté as Hector is  killed; and, most relevant to Tennyson’s poem, Helen weaving the Trojan war as it  unfolds.  I  also  hope  to  show  that  the  second  version  of  the  poem  embodies  yet  another step away from the ostensible medieval sources and towards archaic epic.    Weaving in Homeric epic is an essentially female activity. Hector delineates  gender  roles  and  sets  up  the  activity  of  weaving  as  a  foil  for  warfare  when  he  commands Andromache:  ἀλλʹ εἰς οἶκον ἰοῦσα τὰ σʹ αὐτῆς ἔργα κόμιζε,  12    ἱστόν τʹ ἠλακάτην τε, καὶ ἀμφιπόλοισι κέλευε  ἔργον ἐποίχεσθαι· πόλεμος δʹ ἄνδρεσσι μελήσει  Go therefore back to our house, and take up your own work,   the loom and the distaff, and see to it that your handmaidens     ply their work also; but the men must see to the fighting.18  Iliad 6.490‐219  Weaving symbolises domestic stability, and thus its interruption can come to mark  the disruption of a household. At Iliad 6.456 Hector fears that after the fall of Troy  Andromache will be taken away to work at another man’s loom: that transferral of  Andromache  and,  crucially,  her  weaving  will  symbolise  the  end  of  Hector’s  household. Similarly, at Iliad 22.448 when Andromache hears lamentation from the  walls  ‘the  shuttle  dropped  from  her  hand  to  the  ground’  (χαμαὶ  δέ  οἱ  ἔκπεσε  κερκίς).  The  dropping  of  the  weaving  shuttle  signifies  impending  domestic  upheaval:  Andromache  fears  not  only  for  her  husband’s  life  but  also  for  her  domestic  stability.  This  delicate  balance  between  weaving  and  its  interruption  emerges as a key theme also in Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’. For as long as the                                                               18 Similarly Odyssey 21.350‐3 (Telemachus and Penelope).  19 All Iliad and Odyssey text is taken from the Allen/Monroe OCT editions (1963), all Iliad translations  are taken from Lattimore 1951, Odyssey translations are taken from Fagles 1996 (though line numbers  are made to match up with the OCT text).  13    Lady concentrates on her weaving, safe in the domestic sphere, she keeps the curse  at bay and preserves stability (42‐5):  She knows not what the curse may be,  And so she weaveth steadily,  And little other care hath she,            The Lady of Shalott.  She  differs  from  her  Homeric  counterpart  in  that  her  isolation  from  family  and  society means that she does not really have a household to disrupt. Nevertheless, as  soon as she leaves her weaving, the domestic system breaks down and the woman  within it is doomed (109‐17):  She left the web, she left the loom,  She made three paces through the room,  She saw the water‐lily bloom,  She saw the helmet and the plume,            She looked down to Camelot.  Out flew the web and floated wide;  The mirror cracked from side to side;  ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried            The Lady of Shalott.  14    In ‘The Lady of Shalott’, the maiden’s movement is emphasised. She not only ceases  weaving, but steps away from the activity altogether. Nor does she stop there: her  movement continues, until she has left the tower and taken a boat to Camelot. She  breaks away from her female role, and breaks out of the female space.20 In Homeric  epic,  too,  the  gender  divide  is  physically  manifest.  In  Iliad  6  Hector  commands  Andromache to ‘Go therefore back to our house’ (the female space), and in Iliad 22  Andromache  learns of her husband’s death while on the battlements,  looking out  from the female space onto the male. The weaving is done in the inner palace, where  the women are secluded in their gendered domain.21 However, just like the Lady of  Shalott, Andromache at times breaks out of the female role and the female space.  When she entreats Hector to stay with her and to turn away from the battle at Iliad  6.431‐4, she advises him in military terms:  ἀλλʹ ἄγε νῦν ἐλέαιρε καὶ αὐτοῦ μίμνʹ ἐπὶ πύργῳ,  μὴ παῖδʹ ὀρφανικὸν θήῃς χήρην τε γυναῖκα:  λαὸν δὲ στῆσον παρʹ ἐρινεόν, ἔνθα μάλιστα  ἀμβατός ἐστι πόλις καὶ ἐπίδρομον ἔπλετο τεῖχος.                                                               20 Plasa 1992:249 (similarly Chadwick 1986:17) makes the point that ‘despite the medievalism of the  poem, the disposition of social space in ‘The Lady of Shalott’ accurately replicates...the gender  conventions informing Victorian society’. This is certainly true, but it is not the whole story: such  gendered divisions of social space can be tracked further back than medieval sources.  21 Helen Il.3.125 ἐν μεγάρωι, Andromache Il.22.440 μυχῶι δόμου ὑψηλοῖο.  15    Please take pity upon me then, stay here on the rampart,  that you may not leave your child an orphan, your wife a widow,  but draw your people up by the fig tree, there where the city  is openest to attack, and where the wall may be mounted.  She steps out of her domestic female role into the male martial sphere (in an explicit  attempt to draw Hector from the latter to the former), displaying tactical knowledge  not expected of her  gender, and she does so exactly where  the male and  female  spheres meet: the Scaean gates. As Arthur Katz notes,  ‘The Scaean gates separate  two  radically  different  worlds,  and  they  are  the  dividing  line  between  city  and  battlefield’:22 and this is where Hector and Andromache part.    This meeting (and parting) at the Scaean gates not only brings Andromache  closer to the male sphere, but also brings Hector close to the female:  αὐτίκʹ ἀπὸ κρατὸς κόρυθʹ εἵλετο φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ,  καὶ τὴν μὲν κατέθηκεν ἐπὶ χθονὶ παμφανόωσαν:  and at once glorious Hektor lifted from his head the helmet  and laid it in all its shining upon the ground.  Iliad 6.472‐3                                                               22 Arthur Katz in Foley 1981:20.  16    In this moment of poignant tenderness, Hector lays aside his plumed helmet so as  not to frighten his son. Arthur Katz 1981:31 notes: ‘Since one of [Hector’s] principal  epithets  is  korythaiolos  (“of  the  shining  helmet”),  and  since  it  is  used  of  him  frequently  in VI, the act takes on symbolic  importance and marks the moment of  Hector’s  furthest  distance  from  the  world  of  the  battlefield’.  This  symbolic  importance of an object is, in Homeric epic, more often a female motif than a male.  When women become the focus of Homer’s attention the narrative strategy changes  to accommodate their limited agency: rather than relating glorious deeds, when the  poet turns to the women he offers more static moments of reflection on memory,  objects and loss.23 At such points the story often unfolds through series of objects: for  example Andromache with the shuttle and headdress at Iliad 22.448‐72, or Penelope  with the key, bow, doorsill and chests at Odyssey 21.5‐56. It is therefore significant  that  Hector’s  helmet  takes  on  its  symbolic  resonance  precisely  when  the  hero  is  furthest from the male sphere and closest to the female.     In ‘The Lady of Shalott’, Lancelot too blurs the gender boundaries (105‐8):  From the bank and from the river  He flashed into the crystal mirror,  ‘Tirra lirra,’ by the river            Sang Sir Lancelot.                                                               23 On memory see below.  17    Here  the hero  transgresses boundaries  in  terms not of social but of poetic space.  Plasa  1992:254  makes  the  point  that,  before  this  stanza  and  for  the  most  part  afterwards,  ‘the refrains of  the poem are consistently organized  in  terms of strict  gender distinctions’;  in  these  lines, however,  the pattern  is overturned, as  ‘it  is a  reference  to  Lancelot  that  appears  in  the  space  traditionally  allocated  to  the  “feminine”’. Moreover, here he is said to be singing, though from Part I of the poem  it has been the Lady’s song which ‘echoes cheerly’. He adopts a female speech act,  breaking into the Lady’s realm and shattering it:  ‘Her privacy, constituted by and  dependent upon the discourse of masculine, public voices, is instantly dissolved by  the  intervention  of  that  discourse,  by  Lancelot’s  ‘Tirra  lirra’’.24  It  is  perhaps  no  coincidence  that  ‘Lancelot  mused  a  little  space’  (168  my  emphasis):  as  external  observer,  as  the  inspiration  for  the  Lady’s  own  tale,  he  takes  on  the  mantle  of  Homer’s female Muse.25 But most Homeric are the helmet and the plume (112‐13):  She saw the helmet and the plume,            She looked down to Camelot.                                                               24 Chadwick 1986:24.  25 Gray 2009:54 notes the resonance of ‘mused’, but writes of Lancelot (specifically in ‘Lancelot and  Elaine’): ‘he would not claim that his speech is inspired’ – indeed, he is not the inspired but the  inspiration. It is the Lady who is the poet.  18    As  Hector’s  plumed  helmet  was  used  symbolically  to  mark  his  proximity  to  the  female sphere, so here Lancelot’s acts as the catalyst for the Lady’s transgression, the  token which draws her eye to the prohibited male space. In both cases, the helmet  operates as a liminal object in gendered space.    The symbolic importance of objects is common to both Homeric epic and ‘The  Lady of Shalott’ also in terms of the objects’ destruction. In Tennyson’s poem, the  curse is represented by the breaking of an object: ‘The mirror cracked from side to  side’.  The  symbolism  is  noted  by  Plasa  1992:258:  ‘her  action  not  only  results  in  cracking the mirror literally, but also embodies an overturning of that for which the  mirror  is  the  figure  –  the  ideological  status  quo.’  We  have  already  seen  how  Andromache’s dropping of the shuttle performs just such a symbolic role. Further, at  Iliad 22.510‐14 Andromache promises the destruction of objects:       ἀτάρ τοι εἵματʹ ἐνὶ μεγάροισι κέονται  λεπτά τε καὶ χαρίεντα τετυγμένα χερσὶ γυναικῶν.  ἀλλʹ ἤτοι τάδε πάντα καταφλέξω πυρὶ κηλέῳ  οὐδὲν σοί γʹ ὄφελος, ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἐγκείσεαι αὐτοῖς,  ἀλλὰ πρὸς Τρώων καὶ Τρωϊάδων κλέος εἶναι.    though in your house there is clothing laid up  that is fine‐textured and pleasant, wrought by the hands of women.  But all of these I will burn up in the fire’s blazing,  19    no use to you, since you will never be laid away in them;  but in your honor, from the men of Troy and the Trojan women.  Andromache’s vow to destroy her husband’s clothes stands in stark contrast with  the domestic stability expressed by her weaving in blissful ignorance, less than one  hundred lines earlier. She uses objects, the only thing over which she, as a woman  confined to the domestic sphere, has control, to express herself and to contribute in  her own way to the action. Just so does the Lady of Shalott use an object to make  herself known, to perform an active role in her own story (123‐6):   Down she came and found a boat  Beneath a willow left afloat,  And round about the prow she wrote            The Lady of Shalott.  It is the boat which carries her and which bears her name. In this the 1842 version of  the poem, the Lady ‘found a boat’: in the 1832 poem, however, lines 123‐4 read:   Outside the isle a shallow boat  Beneath a willow lay afloat.  What  is  left passive  in  the former version  is made an active pursuit  in  the  latter,  emphasising  the Lady’s agency  through her control over objects, on  the Homeric  model.  20      Thus far I have considered Tennyson’s use of Homeric epic in ‘The Lady of  Shalott’ mainly in terms of the reception of Andromache. This model is particularly  useful for understanding the gender relations in the poem, particularly the spatial  mapping  of  gendered  domains  and  the  expressing  of  agency  through  gendered  objects. However, there are still some aspects of the poem which need explaining:  the  importance  of  what  the  Lady  weaves,  for  example.  Here  I  naturally  turn  to  another of Homer’s weaving women: Helen. Like Andromache, Helen in Iliad 3 is  found in the inner palace, weaving patterns into double folded purple garments. But  unlike Andromache, she is not weaving flowers, motifs appropriate to the domestic  sphere and indicative of naïveté:26 rather, she weaves the Trojan war.   τὴν δʹ εὗρʹ ἐν μεγάρῳ: ἣ δὲ μέγαν ἱστὸν ὕφαινε  δίπλακα μαρμαρέην, πολέας δʹ ἐνέπασσεν ἀέθλους   Τρώων θʹ ἱπποδάμων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν χαλκοχιτώνων,   οὕς ἑθεν εἵνεκʹ ἔπασχον ὑπʹ Ἄρηος παλαμάων.  She came on Helen in the chamber; she was weaving a great web,  a red folding robe, and working into it the numerous struggles  of Trojans, breakers of horses, and bronze‐armoured Achaians,  struggles that they endured for her sake at the hands of the war god.                                                               26 The poet explicitly comments on this naïveté when he calls her νηπίη (Graziosi/Haubold 2010:30  translate ‘poor innocent’) at Il.22.445.  21    Iliad 3.125‐8  Helen weaves a μέγαν ἱστόν, the Lady a ‘magic web’: both are emphasised by their  adjectives as  they have a wider significance within  their respective poems. Helen  weaves the events unfolding in the male martial sphere, outside her own realm: like  Andromache  in  her  speech  at  the  liminal  Scaean  gates,  she  transgresses  gender  boundaries. She weaves the struggles  ‘of Trojans, breakers of horses, and bronze‐ armored Achaians’ (Iliad 3.127 Τρώων θʹ ἱπποδάμων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν χαλκοχιτώνων),  but crucially she does this before Iris comes to her and takes her to see the amazing  deeds  ‘of  Trojans,  breakers  of  horses,  and  bronze‐armored  Achaians’  (Iliad  3.131  Τρώων θʹ ἱπποδάμων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν χαλκοχιτώνων). The order of events in Iliad 3  suggests, and the repetition emphasises, that when Helen weaves ‘reality’ she does  not  yet  see  it.27  This  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  Lady  of  Shalott’s  predicament (46‐8):  And moving through a mirror clear  That hangs before her all the year,  Shadows of the world appear.                                                               27 The line is made up of formulaic elements, but it is not very common as it appears elsewhere only at  Il.3.251 and 8.71.  22    The Lady sees events not through her window, but through a mirror: that tool of the  trade which allowed the weaver to see her work in progress,28 but which reflects the  outside world back to her and distorts her view of reality. She  ‘cannot escape the  limitations  of  her  perspective’.29  The  Lady  weaves  events  occurring  outside  her  window,  yet  her  depiction  of  those  events  is  always  one  step  removed  from  actuality. Given the epic parallel, it could quite conceivably be a Homeric move that  in the second version of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ the mirror is further emphasised by  being shifted from mid‐way through its stanza to the beginning of it.    The  similarities  between  Helen  and  the  Lady  are  manifest  even  at  the  poetological  level,  as  both  Homeric  and  Tennysonian  scholarship  are  rife  with  readings of these respective female characters as foils for the poet. The connection  between  textile production and poetic creation  is embedded already  in  the Greek  ῥάψοδος,  rhapsode,  derived  from  ῥάπτειν,  ‘to  sew’:  the  poet  stitches  words  together. And poetological readings go back to the ancient scholia, with one scholiast  commenting on Helen’s weaving: ‘the poet has crafted a worthy model for his own  poetic enterprise’.30 So when Houghton and Stange  in 1959 made  the observation                                                               28 See e.g. Ricks 1987:1.390n46.  29 Martin 1973:255.  30 ἀξιόχρεων ἀρχέτυπον ἀνέπλασεν ὁ ποιητὴς τῆς ἰδίας ποιήσεως, ΣIl.(Erbse)3.126‐7. For modern  scholarship on the poetic potential of Homeric weaving see e.g. Clader 1976, Snyder 1981, Austin  1994, Roisman 2006, Mueller 2010.  23    that ‘The Lady of Shalott’ ‘suggests that the artist must remain in aloof detachment,  observing life only in the mirror of the imagination, not mixing in it directly’, the  parallel they were drawing between the weaver and the poet had its roots already in  the archaic Greek tradition.31     In adopting a role akin to that of the poet, both Helen and the Lady of Shalott  ostensibly  assume  a  degree  of  agency  foreign  to  their  gender.  By  fulfilling  their  prescribed gender roles, somehow they manage to transcend them. But to a certain  extent  they  also  reaffirm  them,  by  resigning  themselves  to  the  isolation  and  detachment  both  recommended  for  women  within  their  respective  contexts,  and  common to the poetic ideal. As Roisman 2006:11 comments of Helen: ‘Her weaving  may be seen as an effort to break through these barriers to being and belonging, but,  like poetry, it is a one‐way form of communication in which the maker stands apart  from  the persons addressed.’  Just so  is  the Lady of  Shalott necessarily separated  from that which she weaves, the curse being ‘simply the inescapable condition of the  poet’s art’.32 In fact, Tennyson in his poem goes one step further, making the Lady  not only isolated but completely divorced from the world around her (52‐9):                                                               31 Houghton/Stange 1959:16. Such a poetological reading was propagated by e.g. Buckley 1960:49,  Culler 1977:46, Shaw 1976:65, Joseph 1992, Wright 2003. E.g. Gray 2009 interprets the Lady’s leaving of  the loom as her becoming an artist: however, on the basis of the Homeric model where weaving itself,  not its end, symbolises poetry, this seems to me less convincing.  32 Culler 1977:46.  24    And there the surly village‐churls,  And the red cloaks of market girls,            Pass onward from Shalott.  Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,  An abbot on an ambling pad,  Sometimes a curly shepherd‐lad,  Or long‐haired page in crimson clad,            Goes by to towered Camelot;  Unlike these passers‐by, the Lady ‘remains outside the cycles of economic and sexual  exchange’.33  The  Lady’s  dissonance  with  the  outside  world  is  emphasised  even  further in the second version of the poem, where Tennyson adds (24‐7):  But who hath seen her wave her hand?  Or at the casement seen her stand?  Or is she known in all the land,            The Lady of Shalott?  Like Helen in the teichoscopia of Iliad 3, the Lady observes those below her: unlike  Helen, however, her reputation does not precede her.                                                               33 Chadwick 1986:17.  25      In her weaving, Helen depicts the conflicts suffered ‘on account of her’ (Iliad  3.128 οὕς ἕθεν εἵνεκʹ ἔπασχον). Her creation  therefore stands as a memorial not  only to the Trojans and Achaeans who fought in the war, but also to Helen herself, as  its catalyst. Similarly,  in  the Odyssey she gives Telemachus a robe she has woven  which she explicitly hopes will act as a ‘monument to the hands of Helen’ (Odyssey  15.126 μνῆμʹ Ἑλένης χειρῶν). As Mueller 2010:1 points out,  ‘Helen’s  is  the only  garment in either epic to have its commemorative function expressly articulated’.34  This does not mean  that  it  is  the only garment  to have a  link with memory and  memorialisation – we need only think of Penelope drawing out her weaving so as to  keep her husband’s memory alive, or Arete recognising Odysseus’ clothes because  she had woven them herself – but it is relevant that only Helen makes the connection  explicit.  This  is  another  indication  of  her  elevated  status  in  the  poem,  and  her  proximity  to  the poet: she can convey upon herself  the kleos which epic seeks  to  perpetuate.  Of  course,  her  self‐conveyed  kleos  has  its  limits:  it  is  linked  with  an  object, something which will not survive  indefinitely. As Grethlein 2008:35 notes,  ‘the fragility and ambiguity of material relics and the eternity of the poetic tradition  highlight each other in their discrepancy’: a woven memorial does not stand the test  of time, so for it to be immortalised it must be told about in epic.    The Lady of Shalott, too, pursues her own kleos (125‐6):                                                                34 On the commemorative function of objects in Homeric epic see e.g. Grethlein 2008, Crielaard 2003,  Bassi 2005, Hartmann 2010.  26    And round about the prow she wrote            The Lady of Shalott.  Here we can see another step towards archaic epic between 1832 and 1842: whereas  in the first version the Lady wrote her name on the stern, in the second she writes it  on the prow. The self‐memorialising element is brought to the fore (quite literally),  in line with Helen and her explicit pursuit of her own kleos. In writing her name, to  be read by others, the Lady effectively creates an epigram (albeit a rudimentary one):  something  which  Svenbro  1993:164  describes  as  ‘a  machine  for  producing  kleos’.  Inscribed epigrams ‘constitute a kind of literary “site of memory”’:35 the Lady turns  the boat into her own lieu de mémoire. However, as with Helen’s woven memorial,  the Lady’s epigrammatic monument can neither stand the test of time nor operate  independently.  It  is,  once  again,  a  material  relic,  and  as  such  cannot  exist  indefinitely. Further, for the written name to fulfil its memorialising function it must  be seen and read. Svenbro 1993:44 writes of the Greek epigrammatic tradition: ‘in a  culture  where  kléos  has  a  fundamental  part  to  play,  what  is  written  remains  incomplete until such time as it is provided with a voice’.  But Lancelot mused a little space;  He said, ‘She has a lovely face;                                                               35 Baumbach/Petrovic/Petrovic 2010:10. On lieu de mémoire see Nora.  27    God in his mercy lend her grace,            The Lady of Shalott.’  In this final stanza of the poem (168‐71), Lancelot literally provides the written name  with a voice: a scene added in the second version of the poem, as a further archaising  move. But as with Helen’s self‐memorialisation,  the  final voice –  that which will  cement the memory for posterity – is that of the poet.    I hope  to  have shown  that  ‘The Lady of Shalott’  is by no means  the  least  Homeric of Tennyson’s poems, and  that where  the medieval sources are  lacking,  Homeric models (via an already medievalised Homer) can step comfortably into the  breach.  Whereas  both  la  Donna  di  Scalotta  and  Elaine  of  Astolat  are  rejected  by  Lancelot for Guinevere, die from lovesickness and write about it, the Lady of Shalott  is divided from the knight by circumstance, dies more from her own curiosity than  anything else, and leaves her story a mystery. She is no weak dejected maiden, and  has more in common with proactive Homeric women who push the boundaries of  their gender roles and seek agency in materiality. Whereas Elaine has her father and  brother write her final letter for her, the Lady of Shalott is alone and independent:  she  is  like  Helen  who  has  left  her  family  behind  in  Sparta  (Iliad  3.139‐40),  or  Andromache who can say to Hector ‘you are father to me, and my honoured mother,  / you are my brother, and you it is who are my young husband’ (Iliad 6.429‐30) –  because she has no family structure remaining.   28      Allusions to archaic Greek epic, implicit and veiled in medievalism as they  may be, are woven into the very fabric of the poem. The ways in which the maiden  explores  gender  boundaries  by  transgressing  them,  expresses  herself  through  objects, engages in self‐memorialisation and epitomises poetic activity – all are ideas  we can trace back to Homer. This is not to deny the innovative nature of the poem  nor the complexity of the character – indeed, I hope to have shown that Tennyson  did not content himself with copying a Homeric woman and transposing her to an  Arthurian setting, but rather combined facets of multiple characters. I have shown  the parallels with Helen and Andromache, and to a lesser extent Penelope, but we  might also add Calypso  (Odyssey 5) and Circe  (Odyssey 10): both sing while  they  weave, a striking combination of poetic creation with textile production which they  share with the Lady of Shalott and which suggests proximity to the poet. Tennyson  created  a  complex  amalgam,  a  multi‐faceted  character  through  which  he  could  reflect on issues of poetics, aesthetics, memory and vision. He combined medieval  sources with Homeric epic, utilising those elements which were both timeless and  allowed him to comment on his own art and times. I have offered a comparative  reading of the motif of weaving, bringing out its timeless relevance to poetry and  creation,  but  because  of  the  multi‐valence  of  the  poem  this  can  jog  along  quite  happily  alongside  readings  immersed  in  contemporary  history  such  as  that  of  29    Armstrong 1993:82, which sees behind the motif a backdrop of starving handloom  weavers being displaced by new industrial processes.36    I hope to have shown that Homeric reception can be traced  in the Lady of  Shalott, despite its opacity of reference, its lack of explicit quotation or citation. This  raises a methodological and conceptual issue important for reception studies. How  do we detect reception, when  the receiver does not  flag  it up as such? First and  foremost we must distinguish, as I endeavoured to do at the beginning of this paper,  between reception and cultural similarity. It is not, I would argue, enough to go on a  similarities scavenger hunt wherever the wind should take us. We need to be sure  that the chain of transmission could exist: that a poet (or author, or artist – the list, of  course, goes on) could and did know of the material he is ‘accused’ of receiving. This  is not to deny that the ancient world influenced future society in a myriad of ways,  acknowledged or otherwise – but what  I would  term  ‘unconscious reception’  (an  influence that cannot be traced to any sort of specific education or exposure) is not  something that interests me here. I am interested in the conscious use of the classical  world, a potentiality which must be generated by the user’s own knowledge. This  does not mean that the poet (or author, or artist) must stick to the script. William  Morris argued that if one worked from a source text, there must come a point when                                                               36 Such a context certainly made its way into Victorian poetry: see e.g. John Grimshaw’s ‘The Hand  Loom Weavers’ Lament’.  30    the authority was laid aside: ‘In this way it would be transfigured, filtered through  the consciousness of the recipient and thus remade’.37 It also does not mean that the  poet (etc.) must  lead us by the hand through every resonance and echo. Classical  reception entails engagement with the ancient world – but it doesn’t need a footnote.     It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  this  subtlety  of  reference,  this  perpetual  chain  of  resonance stretching back from Victorian England through medieval legend to the  archaic Greek world, that made ‘The Lady of Shalott’ so appealing to its immediate  audiences. The Pre‐Raphaelite brotherhood adopted Lord Alfred Tennyson as one of  their  ‘Immortals’ already  in the  late 1840s, drawing up a  list at one of their early  gatherings.38  He  was  given  one  star,  on  a  level  with  such  notables  as  Raphael,  Boccaccio, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – but he  was pipped to the post by none other than Homer himself, awarded two stars (only  Christ, Shakespeare and the ‘Author of Job’ received more). Given such a clear‐cut  hierarchy, we might expect  that  the Pre‐Raphaelites would gravitate  towards  the  more  Homeric  of  Tennyson’s  poems  –  and  gravitate,  they  did.  When  the  three  founding members of  the brotherhood contributed woodcuts  to  illustrate Edward  Moxon’s  edition  of  Tennyson’s  poetry  in  1857,  both  William  Holman  Hunt  and  Dante Gabriel Rossetti chose to depict ‘The Lady of Shalott’.                                                               37 Waithe 2006:105.  38 Holman Hunt 1905.1:158‐60.  31      Hunt’s illustration (Fig.1) focuses on that most Homeric element of the poem:  the Lady’s weaving. However, he doesn’t exactly stick to the story: as Stein 1981:292  comments,  ‘Here  it  is Hunt who  is allegorizing on his own hook’. The maiden  is  tangled  in  her  threads,  which  rise  up  to  meet  her  wild‐flowing  hair:  she  is  inextricably linked with her own object. And as the threads wind around her they  emphasise the curves of her body, suggesting a sexuality that is destined never to be  fulfilled. Tennyson himself was not enamoured of this illustration: he criticised Hunt  for depicting a scene which had not been part of his poem.39 Hunt explained that he  wanted to sum up the entire poem in one illustration: and this he certainly did. Hunt  walks  with  the  Lady  the  line  between  agency  and  limitation:  her  determined  expression  and  affiliation  with  her  agent  object  suggest  empowerment,  yet  the  crowded interior setting, the encircling loom and the insidious threads all indicate  confinement.  ‘The artist has become a prisoner of what she formerly controlled’.40  The Lady takes control of events through her decision to leave the loom,  just like  Andromache when she burns Hector’s clothes or Helen when she weaves the Trojan  war: however, Hector is killed, the Trojan war continues regardless – and the Lady  sails to her death. Women use objects to contribute in their own way to the action, to                                                               39 Layard 1894:41 reports conversations between Tennyson and Hunt. Tennyson complained that he  had not specified the details Hunt chose to depict; Hunt replied that he had not precluded them  either.  40 Stein 1981:295.  32    stand  symbolism  in  lieu  of  narrative  progression:  but  ultimately  the  story  will  plough  inexorably  on,  and  they  are  powerless  to  stop  it.  The  complexity  of  the  subject and the difficulty of summing it up in one composition so intrigued Hunt  that he returned  to  it  in 1905, painting a  full‐scale version based on  this original  illustration.     Rossetti  chose  to  depict  the  final  scene  of  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’  (Fig.  2).  Lancelot leans over the Lady as she lies in her boat. The focus is firmly on Lancelot,  shifting Tennyson’s poem  toward a male viewpoint.41 Rossetti plays with gender,  just  as  I  have  shown  Tennyson  and  Homer  to  have  done.  In  this  illustration,  memorialisation plays a key role. The Lady’s face is shadowed by the prow of her  boat: the prow which we know to bear her name. She is subordinated to the object  which memorialises her. The prow, in turn, is spatially subordinated to Lancelot: the  one  who  will  give  voice  to  the  name,  thus  bestowing  kleos  upon  the  Lady  and  perpetuating her memory, at least for as long as he himself lives. This too constitutes  a gender shift, as preserving  the memory of  those who have died  is  in Homer a  primarily female role:  Ἕκτορος ἥδε γυνή, ὃς ἀριστεύεσκε μάχεσθαι                                                               41 Kooistra in Conin/Chapmen/Harrison 2002:404 ‘By focusing on Sir Lancelot and his response the  artist provides an accessible subject position for the reader of the poem, removed from the action and  yet subtly drawn into its charm.’  33    Τρώων ἱπποδάμων, ὅτε Ἴλιον ἀμφεμάχοντο.  This is the wife of Hektor, he who was ever the bravest fighter   of the Trojans, breakers of horses, in the days when they fought about Ilion.    Iliad 6.460‐1  Hector  envisages  that  after  his  death  Andromache  will  be  seen,  spoken  of,  and  remembered. However, she is not to be remembered on her own merit but as the  wife  of  Hector,  and  as  such  she  will  act  as  a  vessel  for  the  preservation  of  his  memory. In Rossetti’s illustration, it is Lancelot who performs this role. We might go  further and say that he is no longer a character in the story, perpetuating memory  within the narrative; rather he stands in for the poet or artist himself, immortalising  that memory through a medium he makes his own.    Following  in  the  tradition of Hunt and Rossetti,  John William Waterhouse  was  also  drawn  to  ‘The  Lady  of  Shalott’.  Indeed,  out  of  his  nine  Tennysonian  paintings, three depict this poem. It was his choice of subject matter that is said to  have  initiated  Waterhouse  into  the  Pre‐Raphaelite  movement:  ‘The  modern  construction  of  Waterhouse  as  a  ‘third‐generation’  Pre‐Raphaelite  begins,  appropriately, with ‘The Lady of Shalott’ because Tennyson appeared on the ‘List of  Immortals’’.42 When Waterhouse began the first painting in 1887, Tennyson had been  Poet Laureate for 37 years, and ‘The Lady of Shalott’ had become his most painted                                                               42 Trippi 2002:88.  34    poem. It remained fashionable because  it continued to be simultaneously timeless  and timely: shrouded in myth, archaism and medievalism yet relevant to Victorian  life and Pre‐Raphaelite ideals.     Waterhouse  in  particular  was  drawn  to  this  poem  because  of  his  preoccupation with vision: something which comes out clearly in all three paintings.  In the 1888 version (Fig. 3), the Lady is about to set out in her boat, sitting atop her  tapestry.  In  ‘centring  the  composition  on  the  Lady’s  trance‐like  expression’,43  Waterhouse reflects on the importance in the poem of seeing and being seen.44 That  the Lady sees without being seen epitomises her seclusion (‘But who hath seen her  wave her hand?’); that she decides to see the real world seals her fate (‘She looked  down to Camelot’); and that Lancelot should see her is key to the perpetuation of her  memory.  Similarly,  for  Andromache  to  act  as  a  vessel  for  the  preservation  of  Hector’s memory she must be seen, her grief witnessed:  καί ποτέ τις εἴπῃσιν ἰδὼν κατὰ δάκρυ χέουσαν...  and some day seeing you shedding tears a man will say of you...  Iliad 6.459  Waterhouse had three lines printed in the exhibition catalogue:                                                               43 Trippi 2002:87.   44 On which see e.g. Shannon 1981.  35    And down the riverʹs dim expanse,  Like some bold seër in a trance, ...  The broad stream bore her far away.  As explicit source for his painting, he chose lines which appeared only in the second  version  of  the  poem.  Tennyson  had  gradually  focused  in  on  the  importance  of  vision. Perhaps he recognised this as a technique, established already in Homer, for  remembering  and  being  remembered.  The  ancient  Greek  rhapsodes  would  use  spatial and visual markers to help them keep their recitation consistent and coherent,  and to help an audience follow and engage with the narrative by mapping events  visually.45 Though the former element is rendered redundant by Tennyson’s use of  the written word as opposed to oral performance,46 the second is surely relevant to  any  lengthy narrative poem which seeks to be understood and recalled. We have  already  seen  how  the  Lady  of  Shalott  stands  in  for  the  poet:  but  as  spectator  of  events unfolding around her, she also stands in for the reader.    In  the  second  of  his  paintings  (Fig.  4),  completed  in  1894,  Waterhouse  depicted the same moment as Hunt had chosen in 1857. In fact, the composition has  much in common with this earlier work (though Hunt’s full‐scale version was not to                                                               45 See Clay 2011.  46 Interestingly, the poem has since been freed from the shackles of writing: Celtic musician Loreena  McKennitt in her 1991 album ‘The Visit’ set ‘The Lady of Shalott’ to music, casting it into an oral  genre once more.  36    be completed for another decade). The Lady is entangled in her threads, and against  a backdrop of geometric and curvilinear forms ‘the Lady’s body rebels as the only  significant diagonal’.47 The major difference from Hunt’s illustration, however, is the  Lady’s  gaze.  Whereas  in  the  Moxon  engraving  she  faced  to  the  side,  into  the  composition, in Waterhouse’s painting she looks directly at the viewer. Her gaze is  intense and penetrating, casting us in multiple roles simultaneously: we see her pain  and longing, and so we empathise with her; yet put in her direct line of sight we are  part of the outside world she can never know.48     In  1912  Waterhouse  painted  ‘Penelope  and  the  Suitors’  (Fig.6).  Though  ostensibly a shift in subject matter, the resemblance this work bears to the earlier two  discussed suggests that Waterhouse recognised the affinity between the two women.  As Trippi 2002:214 notes, ‘The bright weather contrasts with her confinement, which  is reinforced by the cage‐like  lantern hanging above. Behind Penelope’s head  is a  shrine,  like  those  to which  the Lady of Shalott and Mariana pray  for rescue, and  scattering  yarns  suggest  that  she,  too,  is  coming  undone.’  Though  rather  more  controlled  than  Waterhouse’s  1894  work,  the  weaving  scene  suggests  another  precarious domestic situation. Penelope’s confinement is emphasised by her physical  surroundings, yet it is not a result of them. Whereas the Lady is imprisoned in her                                                               47 Trippi 2002:129.  48 If we compare the final painting with a preparatory oil sketch, we can see that Waterhouse  intensified the gaze.  37    tower, Penelope’s imprisonment is depicted here in terms of vision: ‘the heroine is  utterly trapped at the centre of a web of converging gazes’.49 As with Waterhouse’s  ‘Lady’  paintings,  vision  is  key:  the  scene  is  ‘crowded  with  figures  watching  Penelope; even the two eyes painted on a suitor’s lyre seem to be looking’.50 In fact,  this  focus  on  the  onlookers  is  an  artificial  construction.  As  I  mentioned  earlier,  weaving in Homer is done in the inner palace, where the women are secluded: here  Waterhouse takes the radical step of opening up the gendered domain.    To  return  to  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  Waterhouse’s  first  two  paintings  of  the  subject feature the tapestry itself, with its depiction of events unfolding outside the  tower. In fact, two of the roundels are repeated from one painting to the next. This is  a motif which continues also into his 1916 painting ‘I am half sick of shadows, said  the Lady of Shalott’ (Fig. 5). The artist decided to focus on the product of the Lady’s  art,  following  it  through  all  stages  of  the  narrative.  We  might  suppose  that  he  recognised  it  as  this  comparative  study  has  shown  it  to  be:  an  embodiment  of  domestic stability and gender roles on the one hand, whilst on the other a potentially  agent object connoting boundary  transgression, memorialisation and proximity  to  the  poet.  Wright  2003:289  comments  on  the  tapestry  in  the  first  of  Waterhouse’s  paintings:  ‘When  the artist dies her art remains’. Within  the poem,  this  indeed  is  true. The tapestry outlives the woman who wove it, in the same way that the robe                                                               49 Trippi 2002:215.  50 Trippi 2002:214.  38    given to Telemachus will be a ‘monument to the hands of Helen’ (Odyssey 15.126).  However, even material relics can provide only short‐term,  imperfect, synchronic  memory.  This  reflection,  therefore,  has  even  greater  weight  in  terms  of  those  poetological readings which we can trace from the Iliadic scholia right through to  modern Homeric and Tennysonian scholarship. The art of  the poet will not only  outlive him, but will be the final and definitive stage in the memorialisation of its  characters.    39       The Moxon Tennyson, 1857: illustrations for ‘The Lady of Shalott’ (images provided by George P.  Landow, http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/whh/6.html and  http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/dgr/8.html).  Fig. 1 (above): William Holman Hunt; Fig. 2 (below): Dante Gabriel Rossetti.    40      Paintings of the Lady of Shalott by J.W. Waterhouse (images taken from Wikipedia).  Fig. 3 (above): 1888; Fig. 4 (below left): 1894; Fig. 5 (below right): 1916.    41      Fig.6 ‘Penelope and the Suitors’ by J.W. Waterhouse, 1912 (image taken from Wikipedia) 42    Works Cited  Allen, S.C. (1975) ‘Tennyson, Sappho, and ‘The Lady of Shalott’, Tennyson Research  Bulletin 2: 171‐2.  Appadurai, A. (ed.) (1986) The Social Life of Things, Cambridge.  Armstrong, I. (1993) Victorian Poetry: Poetry, Poetics, Politics, London/New York.  Austin, N. (1994) Helen of Troy and Her Shameless Phantom, Ithaca, N.Y.  Bassi, K. (2005) ‘Things of the past: objects and time in Greek narrative’, Arethusa 38:  1‐32.  Baumbach,  M.,  Petrovic,  A.,  Petrovic,  I.  (eds.)  (2010)  Archaic  and  Classical  Greek  Epigram, Cambridge.  Buckley, J.H. (1960) Tennyson: the Growth of a Poet, Cambridge Mass.  Bush, D. (1969) Mythology and the Romantic Tradition in English Poetry, New York.  Cannon, C. (1970) ‘’The Lady of Shalott’ and ‘The Arabian Nights’ Tales’’, Victorian  Poetry 8.4: 344‐6.  Chadwick, J. (1986) ‘A blessing and a curse: the poetics of privacy in Tennyson’s  ‘Lady of Shalott’’, Victorian Poetry 24.1: 13‐30.  Chambers, D.L. (1903) ‘Tennysoniana’, Modern Language Notes 18.8: 227‐33.  Clader, L. (1976) Helen: The Evolution from Divine to Heroic in Greek Epic Tradition,  Leiden.  Clay, J. S. (2011) Homer’s Trojan Theater, Cambridge.   43    Crielaard, J.P. (2003)  ‘The cultural biography of material goods  in Homer’s epics’,  Gaia 7: 49‐62.  Cronin, R., Chapman, A. and Harrison, A.H. (eds.) (2002) A Companion to Victorian  Poetry, Oxford.  Culler, A.D. (1977) The Poetry of Tennyson, New Haven.  DeMarrais, E., Gosden, C. and Renfrew, C. (eds.) (2004) Rethinking Materiality,  Cambridge.  Erbse, H. (ed.) (1969) Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem, Berlin.  Foley, H. P. (ed.) (1981) Reflections of Women in Antiquity, New York.  Fowler, R. (ed.) (2006) The Cambridge Companion to Homer, Cambridge.  Goldhill, S. (2011) Victorian Culture and Classical Antiquity, Princeton.  Graeber, D. (2001) Toward an Anthropological Theory of Value, New York.  Grethlein, J. (2008) ‘Memory and material objects in the Iliad and the Odyssey’, JHS  128: 27‐51.  Gray, E. (2009) ‘Getting it wrong in ‘The Lady of Shalott’’, Victorian Poetry 47.1: 45‐59.  Graziosi, B. and Haubold, J. (2010) Iliad 6: A Commentary, Cambridge.  Hartmann, A. (2010) Zwischen Relikt und Reliquie, Objektbezogene Erinnerungspraktiken  in Antiken Gesellschaften, Berlin.  Houghton, W.E. and Stange, G.R. (1959) Victorian Poetry and Poetics, Boston.  Holman Hunt, W. (1905) Pre‐Raphaelitism and the Pre‐Raphaelite Brotherhood, 2 vols.,  New York.   44    Hurst, I. (2010) ‘Victorian literature and the reception of Greece and Rome’, Literature  Compass 7.6: 484‐95.  Joseph, G. (1992) Tennyson and the Text: the Weaver’s Shuttle, Cambridge.    (1982)  ‘The  Homeric  competitions  of  Tennyson  and  Gladstone’,  Browning  Institute Studies 10: 105‐15.  Layard, G.S. (1894) Tennyson and his Pre‐Raphaelite Illustrators: A Book about a Book,  London.  Markley, A.A. (2004) Stateliest Measures: Tennyson and the Literature of Greece and  Rome, Toronto.  Martin, D.M. (1973) ‘Romantic perspectivism in Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’’,  Victorian Poetry 11.3: 255‐6.  Mueller, M. (2010) ‘Helen’s hands: weaving for kleos in the Odyssey’, Helios 37.1: 1‐21.  Mustard, W.P. (1900) ‘Tennyson and Homer’, AJPh 21.2: 143‐53.    (1904) Classical Echoes in Tennyson, New York.  Nora, P. (1984‐92) Les Lieux de Mémoire, 3 vols. Paris.  Plasa, C. (1992) ‘Cracked from side to side: sexual politics in Tennyson’s ‘The Lady  of Shalott’’, Victorian Poetry 30.3/4: 247‐63.  Potwin, L.S. (1902) ‘The source of Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’’, Modern  Language Notes 17.8: 237‐9.  Ricks, C. (ed.) (19872) The Poems of Tennyson, 3 vols., Berkeley.  Roisman, H. M. (2006) ‘Helen in the Iliad’, AJPh 127.1: 1‐36.  45    Rossetti, W.M. (ed.) (1903) Rossetti Papers 1862‐1870, London.  Shannon, E.F. (1981) ‘Poetry as vision: sight and insight in Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of  Shalott’’, Victorian Poetry 19.3: 207‐23.  Shaw, W.D. (1976) Tennyson’s Style, Ithaca.  Snyder, J. (1981) ‘The web of song: weaving imagery in Homer and the lyric poets’,  CJ 76: 193‐6.  Stray, C. (2007) Remaking the Classics: Literature, Genre and Media in Britain 1800‐2000,  London.  Svenbro, J. (1993) Phrasikleia, Ithaca.   Tennyson, A. (1857) Poems by Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate, London.  Tennyson, H. (1897) Alfred Lord Tennyson: A Memoir by his Son, 2 vols., New York.  Tosi, P.A. (ed.) (1825) Le Cento Novelle Antiche, secondo l’edizione del 1525, Milan.  Trippi, P. (2002) J.W. Waterhouse, London.  Turner, P. (1976) Tennyson, London.  van Binsbergen, W.M.J. and Geschiere, P. (eds.) (2005) Commodification: things,  agency, and identities, Münster.  Waithe, M. (2006) William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers: Victorian Medievalism and the  Ideal of Hospitality, Cambridge.  
work_f5puwq5u2ncghpoi7g4t7acd3q	----	European journal of American studies, 10-1 | 2015 European journal of American studies 10-1 | 2015 Special Issue: Women in the USA “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Experiment and the Work of Laura M. Towne Antje Dallmann Electronic version URL: http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/10668 DOI: 10.4000/ejas.10668 ISSN: 1991-9336 Publisher European Association for American Studies Electronic reference Antje Dallmann, « “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Experiment and the Work of Laura M. Towne », European journal of American studies [Online], 10-1 | 2015, document 2.2, Online since 31 March 2015, connection on 01 May 2019. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ ejas/10668 ; DOI : 10.4000/ejas.10668 This text was automatically generated on 1 May 2019. Creative Commons License http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org/ejas/10668 “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Experiment and the Work of Laura M. Towne Antje Dallmann 1 The so-called Sea Islands are located off the shore of Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina – a part of the South infamous for cotton farms worked by eleven thousand slaves (cf. Rose, Rehearsal 8). On 7 November 1861, the South Carolina Sea Islands were occupied by Army and Navy troops as part of a broader successful campaign to secure a Union sea access. While white planters fled inland to unoccupied mainland cities such as Charleston, the majority of former slaves remained on the islands, destitute and often starving, not technically free but declared “contraband of war.”1 2 In reaction, benevolent societies were founded by abolitionists in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia in early 1862 for a project that was to become known as the “Port Royal Experiment.”2 On 3 March 1862, a first all-white group of relief workers from Boston and New York got on board the steamship Atlantic, en route to Port Royal; another ship, the Oriental, set sail on 9 April 1862. The prospective “missionaries” envisioned their task in terms of educating former slaves and of organizing free labor to be “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 1 performed by African American contract workers (cf. Faulkner “Chap. 1”).They were informed by a widely publicized narrative of early emancipation on the Sea Islands, which aimed to prove the profitability of wage labor in the South by highlighting the role of freed African Americans as self-sufficient contract laborers and which reacted to Northern fears of the emancipation of slaves. While giving a positive interpretation of the Sea Island’s “rehearsal for reconstruction” (Rose), this narrative is also an expression of the racialized and status-conscious character of a discourse that increasingly offered the prospect of “free labor” as patent remedy for what was perceived as the lurking threat of African Americans’ dependency on the North. 3 Historian Margaret Geneva Long shows that abolitionist discourse draws a powerful link between wage labor and freedpeople’s health: Free labor was represented as killing disease – both in a symbolic and in a literal sense (cf. “Chap. 2”). While the concepts of “cleanliness” and “industry” emerge as cornerstones of these discourses of health, the poor character of healthcare available for freedpeople, reversely, is hardly ever acknowledged. When relief workers, however, eventually arrived in the South, Long continues, “they found that without public health measures, adequate food and clothing and basic medicines, no other forms of uplift were possible. Sickness and its causes – malnutrition and inadequate clothing and shelter – were a central concern of all the aid workers who went south” (“Chap. 2”). Northern women, in fact, contributed in crucial ways to offering this much-needed medical care and relief, even if they hardly ever discuss their contributions openly in autobiographic narratives. 4 In this article, I shall look closely at the diary and letters of abolitionist Laura M. Towne, a trained homeopath who came to the Sea Islands in early 1862, who subsequently co- founded one of the first schools for former slaves in the South on St. Helena Island, the Penn School, and who worked on this island for the rest of her life, the ensuing forty years. Her writings convey an idea of the scale of illness and suffering on the Sea Islands during and shortly after the Civil War. At the same time, they offer insights both in the restrictions and the discursive valences open to Towne as a white woman who provided medical relief for freed African Americans. Furthermore, Towne’s diary and “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 2 letters indicate what the discourse of early emancipation omits: a coherent discussion of how diseases raged in a wartime South where healthcare for freedpeople virtually did not exist. 5 After a historical contextualization, this article re-visits two discursive sites through which questions of health and healthcare were renegotiated and which are also central in Towne’s writing: the trope of teaching health within unhealthy spaces and the trope of “doctoring” family with its relation to homeopathy. Discussions concerning the health of freedpeople were put into the broader discursive context of an internal colonial encounter of domestication between Northern female “missionaries” and freedpeople who were portrayed as yet uncivilized other. Health and disease, thus, were represented as part of a “natural” field of female influence. Towne’s training as homeopath, in this context, is used as indication of her superior grasp of healing techniques vis-à-vis fellow-missionaries as well as freedpeople and as sign of a more suitable, more domestic medical practice as compared to allopathic medicine. References to wartime medical crises are rare in Towne’s accounts since their complicated causes and disastrous results defy easy metaphoric appropriation. In both what is narrated and what is omitted, healing and health are shaped as fields of female authority. In this sense, medicine and healing emerge as discursive sites of a class-specific, gendered, and racialized struggle over prestige, power, and authority within the public realm. 1 Civil War Healthcare and Female Commitment 6 Medical care during the Civil War depended on the service of female relief workers and nurses. Over the last twenty years, historians have revised the Civil War narrative by looking closely at the role women played, both in the Union and in the Confederacy; and providing healthcare for sick and wounded soldiers has been identified as an important field of female engagement. “Almost from the war’s inception,” Nina Silber writes in her influential Daughters of the Union, “Northern women began considering, and pursuing, the possibility of joining the Union struggle as nurses” (195). 7 The United States Sanitary Commission, with its aim to provide adequate nursing for Civil War soldiers, was “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 3 founded in 1861 following an initiative of the Women's Central Relief Association. While nursing was not institutionalized in the Confederacy, women still played an important and active part in it, as Drew Gilpin Faust has shown. According to Jane E. Schultz, “[m]ore than 20,000 women in the Union and Confederate states engaged in relief work during the Civil War” (2). 8 In Women at the Front, Schultz looks “at hospital work across regions, races, and classes, […] foregrounding differences between women and restoring agency in those whose voices did not rise above the pitch of traditional source narratives” (2). Schultz points out that Civil War nursing has mostly been considered as performed by white middle- to upper-class women on an unsalaried, voluntary basis. Schultz, in contrast, points out the diversity of backgrounds from which female relief workers emerged. 9 Diaries and letters as available sources, however, are mostly authored by middle- to upper-class women. These documents convey nursing in a sentimentalized fashion with emphasis on a set of hospital practices such as feeding the sick, washing the wounded, and comforting the dying. References to more independent medical work are unusual. The formulaic nature of such narratives deserves further consideration. In light of substantial cultural resistance toward female wartime nursing – in a world in which Army nurses were traditionally male convalescent soldiers – to represent military nursing as female-connoted should be considered part of a skillful (white, elite) female intervention into a discourse of power, laying out deep- going transformations of gendered realms of influence in the guise of a traditional rhetoric of separate spheres. In this sense, the rhetoric of the necessity of female nursing, arguably, did tie in with an antebellum feminist agenda of female participation in the public sphere, of equal citizenship, and with a plea to open arenas for women to enter professions such as medicine that found its expression in the small yet rising numbers of female medical students in antebellum North America.3 10 Wartime nursing is often discussed as categorically different from women’s salaried work as physicians, yet the example of women like Towne complicates this conception. It is true that the Civil War necessitated a broad, but only temporary access for women to the public sphere (cf. Reverby; Group and Roberts). While the voluntary and “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 4 temporary nature of female wartime engagement allowed framing this work as socially appropriate for middle- to upper-class women, these women did in reality often draw a salary. At the same time, a relevant portion of those few women who had received a medical education prior to the war did join the war efforts, if nominally as nurses or as teachers since finding official appointment as physicians was in most cases impossible. Trained female physicians, both with and without degrees, found ways to serve as medical relief workers, even if they had to understate their medical education (cf. Bellafaire and Graf 7-21).4 11 The function of nursing narratives in addressing the hospital experience of white middle- to upper-class nurses and the nursing of (white) wounded soldiers has productively been discussed in a variety of sources (see, for instance, Schultz). Cultural studies scholars, as Elizabeth Young, emphasize the symbolical and cultural work of the trope of nursing within nineteenth-century gendered social hierarchies. Yet while the nursing of wounded soldiers, as reality and as literary trope, looms large within the Civil War cultural imaginary and is central to any investigation of the commitment of women during the war, there is comparatively little research on women’s roles in providing general healthcare during the war, particularly healthcare for freedpeople in the South, that also considers questions of this healthcare’s discursive representation and its symbolic impact. This is also due to the fact that healthcare for freedpeople and, reversely, freedpeople’s health are questions only rarely discussed in pertinent contemporary sources. 12 The isolated Port Royal Experiment, broadly documented at the time as shaped by women, emerges in this context as an important, and yet too little examined, historical site. The abundance of sources that address the events on the Sea Islands allows not only for insights into a turbulent historical period: these different sources also illustrate the emergence of a discourse that, while suppressing references to a factual lack of organized healthcare, racialize freedpeople’s health as a function of wage labor and domestic discipline. 13 Only recently have questions concerning the character of healthcare provided for freedpeople during and directly after the Civil War started to attract focused scholarly attention. Next to Long’s Doctoring Freedom, two further “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 5 publications examine Civil War medicine with an emphasis on the role and situation of African Americans as patients and healers, a subject that so far had been largely ignored. In Intensely Human, Humphreys discusses the quality of medical care provided for African American soldiers during the war. In Sick from Freedom, Downs argues for a critical re-evaluation of the freedpeople’s medical situation and of the symbolic appropriation of their suffering, since this appropriation distorts the view on the inadequacy of care provided and, in some cases, perpetuates an inherently racist nineteenth-century agenda that focused on the “contraband” as commodified and objectified icon and instrument within a capitalist reconstruction of the South. 2 The Port Royal Experiment and the Work of Laura M. Towne 14 Looking at healing and healthcare within the Port Royal Experiment, at racialized symbolizations of illness and health, and at the ambivalent role of white middle- and upper-class Northern women as medical caregivers, I propose to “read” the omission of the medical crisis Downs describes as indicative also of a crisis of representation in negotiations of contemporary white women’s roles, obligations, aspirations, and their assumed entitlement. I suggest complicating the discussion of white women as agents of relief and of medical care during the Civil War by reading autobiographic texts, as Towne’s, as representative of a wartime discourse that based – in a selective, romanticizing, and formulaic manner – a re-negotiation of female status and (white elite or middle-class) women’s role in contemporary North American society on an authority gained from a field of healthcare that is discursively shaped to mirror the domestic sphere. 15 In this context, the Port Royal Experiment is of particular interest for several reasons. First, it anticipates how questions of healthcare for freedpeople were approached in the reconstructed South. Second, women, who could only travel to the wartime Sea Islands in the capacity of teachers, were expected to provide basic medical care for the freedpeople once they arrived there.5 In their autobiographic accounts, female relief workers like Towne and Esther Hill Hawks as well as Elizabeth H. Botume, Austa M. French, Susan Walker, and African American “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 6 Charlotte Forten all reference healthcare as a subject of their concern, even if they only give very few details of their medical relief work. Third, of the few trained female physicians who are known to have served in different capacities during the Civil War, two found their way to the South Carolina Sea Islands: Hawks and Towne.6 Both women left behind diaries and letters, which further singles them out.7 Several studies have discussed Hawks’s contribution both to wartime healthcare and to its discursive transformation (cf. Humphreys Marrow; Long; Schultz; Twelbeck). Towne’s efforts as teacher, educator, and administrator, likewise, have found ample consideration (cf. Butchart; Faulkner), yet her medical work remains largely ignored. In the following, I shall attempt to shed light on Towne’s individual role and on her situatedness within a broader discourse of wartime healthcare, trying to draw a balanced picture both of her achievements and of the limitations set by her embededness in a dominant system of white social privilege. 16 The fourth child of seven of John Towne and Sarah Robinson Towne, Laura Matilda Towne was born in 1825 into a prominent and wealthy abolitionist family. Her father was a successful businessman, at one time the superintendent of the Boston city gas works (cf. Butchart). After having received what historian Ronald E. Butchart calls an “advanced education in the classics, philosophy, science, and music” (17), Laura Towne was educated at the Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, a progressive allopathic institution, which was opened in 1850 as the second female medical college in the United States. Additionally, she studied independently with German-born physician Constantine Hering, one of the pioneers of homeopathy in the US, probably also enrolling in his short-lived Penn Medical University. It is unclear, Jonathan Davidson notes, whether or not she graduated from either of these institutions (26). 17 In the 1850s, Towne taught various charity schools in the North (cf. Rose, “Laura Matilda Towne” 472). At the outbreak of the Civil War, already engaged in relief work, she was presented with what, according to Rupert Sargent Holland, who edited and published her diary and letters, she thought of as “her golden opportunity”: the chance to join the Port Royal Experiment. Commissioned by the Philadelphia-based Port Royal Relief Committee, she “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 7 accompanied this organization’s first shipment of goods to the Sea Islands (cf. Holland; Butchart 16).8 On her list “Port Royalists who sailed from New York of the ‘Oriental’ Wed. Apr. 9 1862,” Towne describes herself in very few words as “Laura M. Towne, Philadelphia, Abolitionist.” 18 Towne’s self-description conveys the significance she rightly saw in her abolitionist agenda, which was not shared by other Northern officials who, for instance as cotton agents, had been sent to the islands in late 1861. In some ways, however, her self-definition also indicates Towne’s uncertainty of her own “mission”: an uneasiness that was confirmed to be justified once she arrived on St. Helena Island. On Pope’s Plantation, which remained to be named after its former owner, she found accommodation together with several other “missionaries.” It soon became her duty to order the household for the men who worked as superintendents and supervisors on the island’s plantations, a task she was to share with fellow-relief worker Susan Walker, who – as Towne – was less than enthusiastic.9 For the first weeks on the island, the contact Towne made with freedpeople was mostly by handing out, and later selling, clothes that had been donated in the North. This was a time overshadowed by rivalries and controversies between the members of the different relief organizations over the character of relief to be offered to the freedpeople, but also over the gendered hierarchies among the Northern relief workers themselves. 19 In spring 1862, Towne’s friend and partner Ellen Murray, a trained teacher, came to St. Helena Island. Murray’s arrival allowed Towne to re-order the balance of power in relation to other “missionaries” and to redistribute tasks. While Murray took over teaching, Towne commenced “doctoring” the freedpeople, a duty that she describes as important and that she connotes with the attributes of scientific authority and knowledge, which were increasingly associated with modern medicine (including homeopathy) in mid-nineteenth-century America. At the same time, Towne inscribes herself into the discourse of domesticity as realm of female authority by emphasizing her own superior understanding of domestic principles such as cleanliness and industry, which she intricately intertwines with her claim of medical authority: a conjunction that becomes particular distinct in her self-projection as “family doctor.” “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 8 20 In her first months and years on the Sea Islands, Towne seized the power to change social realities that the professional roles of physician and teacher offer in order also to gain more authority in a male-dominated wartime and postwar society. Towne’s diaries and letters bespeak her belief in her superior competence vis-à-vis her African American co-workers, patients, and students. At the same time, they document that white male contemporaries were not always taking her efforts, and those of her female fellow-relief workers, seriously: an attitude to which her self-dramatization as female doctor also reacted. Increasingly, however, reality came in the way of pre- scripted roles, leading to both dissatisfaction with the duties of a female “family doctor” and to her strategy of omitting in her diaristic accounts, accounts she probably intended for publication or at least circulation in the North, what collided with contemporary social scripts available for white women, female doctors, and abolitionists. 3 “Putting th[e] lesson to use”: Teaching “Cleanliness” and “Order" 21 By initially framing her diary and letters within scripts of imperial domesticity (cf. Kaplan) – as missionary, teacher, and medical caregiver, and as motherly figure for the freedpeople – Towne, the trained homeopath, not only aims to escape the prevailing negative connotation of a “hen doctor.” By narrating her experiences through tropes of domesticity, discursively claiming freedpeople as “family” and depicting them as children in need of education (rather than medical care), she also secures for herself a position of supreme narrative authority, an authority warranted by both experience and education within a discourse of internal US American colonialism. 22 A host of narratives by Sea Islands relief workers, including Towne’s, demonstrates the ubiquity of a formula reminiscent of narratives of colonial encounter that represent “native spaces [as] potentially dangerous, disease ridden and disorderly” (Kothari 163). Northerners frame their accounts of the Port Royal Experiment by pathologizing the South as exotic space and simultaneously spatializing and racializing disease. Both diseases and colonial spaces, at the same time, are imagined to be conquered by order, industry, and cleanliness. In this way, “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 9 disciplining Southern spaces, and African Americans who are symbolically tied to them, Northern relief workers claim a superior position within a discourse of “teaching health.” 23 The conceptionalization of what became known as tropical diseases overlapped with contemporary racist pseudo-scientific polygenic theories, which claimed that newly categorized “races” were unequally prone to be affected by specific diseases. In the following section, the analysis will focus on the appropriation and dramatization of narratives of (internal) colonialism. Discussions of health and disease, in this context, are figuratively and literally linked to the United States South while the process of othering African Americans revolves around questions of spatialized and racialized health and disease. 24 In medical texts of the first half of the nineteenth century, the United States South is increasingly conceptualized as “tropical space” (cf. Murison 32). Particularly hypochondria and malingering, characterized by somatic symptoms such as dyspepsia as well as by laziness, were not only related to Southern climates, but were symbolically and literally linked to slavery. Justine S. Murison succinctly argues that, since “slavery connected the United States South with the West Indies, physicians and writers often superimposed the supposed nervous effects of tropical climates onto the more temperate environments of the southern states” (31). Northerners, in this discourse, are not affected by hypochondria, as slaves and slaveholders alike are, since they are saved by domestic industry and cleanliness. 25 The predominant explanation of “Southern” perils was that of “bad air” in relation to an excess of stagnant water or, conversely, a lack of water: the miasma that still served as main theory of disease in contemporary orthodox medicine.10 Even though not expressed explicitly in most autobiographic texts, the relation between the Sea Islands as precarious tropical space and the description of miasms is related to a racialization of the dangers these latter pose. “[E]ncod[ing] the landscape of health in racial terms,” Kathryn Shiveley Meier argues, “Civil War medicine believed miasms caused by water to be dangerous to ‘whites,’ yet harmless to African Americans” (20). In a related vein, in Slavery in South Carolina and the Ex-Slaves (1862), Austa M. French describes the Sea Islands in a way similar to the tropical spaces of travel writing, musing “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 10 about the differing susceptibilities of African Americans and “whites” to be affected by those spaces’ harmful properties: “The sun is life to him [“the Negro”] which is death to the White man. ‘The whole secret of health here,’ said a learned military officer long acclimated, South, ‘is to keep out of the sun. Do that on the healthy shores, and the evening air is innoxious” (308). Thus, French, a staunch abolitionist like her husband, famous reverend Mansfield French, takes contemporary racializing theories of disease for granted. 26 The general tone adopted in discussions of the South as tropical space, however, is one of eventual mastery over adversities. While places are “healthy” or “precarious,” they are presented as posing fewer dangers to the Northerners than to Southern “whites” and to former slaves. Shortly after her arrival on Pope’s Plantation on St. Helena Island, Towne in fact notes that she knows “from the accounts of the negroes that this plantation is a healthy one. Salt water nearly encircles it at high tide” (“Pope’s Plantation, St. Helena Island, April 21, 1862”). Here and in later diary entries and letters, she underscores that she is not in danger of infection.In the exploration of first impressions, which directly follows the “medical” examination of Towne’s place of arrival, it is striking how closely she follows the script of travel writing with its inherent colonizing agenda. “On the left are pines, in front a cotton-field just planted, to the right the negro quarters, a nice little street of huts which have recently been whitewashed, shaded by a row of the ‘Pride of China’ trees,” Towne continues. These trees are just in bloom and have very large clusters of purple flowers – a little like lilacs, only much more scattering. There is a vegetable garden also to the right and plenty of fig trees, one or two orange trees, but no other fruit. We have green peas, though, and I have had strawberries. (“Pope’s Plantation, St. Helena Island, April 21, 1862”; my emphasis) 27 In this passage, the text’s autobiographic persona adopts the narrative position of a supreme observer, thus investing in a visual economy of power not unlike Foucault’s panopticon (cf. Spurr 16), adopting a medical gaze that catalogues her surroundings into categories of health and potential danger. The narrator’s roaming, distanced, and superior gaze meets an inviting yet exotic place that is, at first, examined. It is visually appropriated and endorsed; its riches are claimed as the author’s property. Only then are the island’s inhabitants, the actual cause for Towne’s journey, introduced: “The number of the little darkies tumbling about at all hours is marvelous. They swarm on “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 11 the front porch and in the front hall” (“Pope’s Plantation, St. Helena Island, April 21, 1862”).11 28 The autobiographic narrative’s “we” of the earlier quote encompasses the Northern newcomers on the island whose arrival is thus narrated as a tale of first explorers who take in and appropriate the beauty and health of a foreign place, to eventually meet the yet uncivilized, slightly threatening natives. Instead of framing her story in the context of African American emancipation, Towne’s entry exoticizes and others the Southern place, St. Helena Island, and links it to the former who are presented as unruly, yet affectionate, and healthy children in need of an ordering parental hand. Even without using the term whose problematic ambivalence abolitionist relief workers were aware of, Towne references the character of the “contraband” who, according to Long, was fast becoming an “icon in [wartime] American culture” (“Chap. 2”). 29 “[C]ontraband,” Kate Masur argues, is “a ‘keyword’ in the history of emancipation, race, and citizenship in the United States” (1052). In wartime America, the term was used ambiguously, also referencing its more general meaning of an “illegal good.” The term thus continued to represent African Americans as objects rather than as individuals. “[T]here is every indication that the term ‘contraband’ caught on rapidly precisely because it provided a means for Northerners to continue thinking of escaped slaves as property, without disturbing antebellum racists preconceptions,” Fahs contends (152). 30 The cultural icon of the “contraband” is characterized by its simple and loyal goodwill as well as its robust and healthy constitution. “Contrabands” are depicted, in wartime culture, as happy and healthy when set to work, and the threat posed to their health is constituted by idleness and lack of order. This trope of idleness is repeatedly evoked in Towne’s writing, as in the description of a destitute African American family she encounters, and it is linked to health and disease: “In the quarters we [...] went to,” Towne reminisces, “we saw a dirty family and two horribly ugly old women. They had got a lesson from some one and said, ‘We got to keep clean or we’ll all be sick.’ They were not putting their lesson to use” (“Beaufort, S.C., April 17, 1862”). “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 12 31 This trope of idleness as related to health, in fact, structures Towne’s understanding of the freedpeople she encounters, putting a – both figurative and literal – medical reading into place. Another important discursive trope is that of cleanliness versus uncleanliness. As Towne’s exchange with destitute freedpeople in Beaufort indicates, she equally links uncleanliness to concepts of disease and illness. In this sense, Towne, upon her arrival, frames her duties on St. Helena Island as a work of imposing order and enforcing discipline by teaching cleanliness, purity, and health, thus racializing disease and constructing it as direct result of (what she perceives as) disorder. 32 The trope of cleanliness versus uncleanliness is spatialized and related to the medical concept of the miasma, as Towne’s autobiographic writing indicates. This, importantly, aligns the Southern spaces described by abolitionist relief workers with another site of contemporary concern: the urban slum. Peter Stallybrass and Allon White have argued that the nineteenth-century city is discursively constructed around the concepts of filth and cleanliness, purity and impurity, and the fear of the transgression of these binaries (cf. 136). The discursive link between the (Northern) city and the (pseudo-tropical) Southern space directs attention to the social underpinnings of the trope of cleanliness. Referencing Stallybrass and White, Steve Pile describes the discourse of uncleanliness as part of a “bourgeois Imaginary [that] saw the ‘lower’ classes as ignoring the moral codes necessary for respectability” (179) and as related to the bourgeois fear of the social other. 33 The recurrent reference to uncleanliness in the autobiographic writings by Northern relief workers in the South, thus, transfers to the South a social hierarchy in which freedpeople are approximated with the social low- Other, as in Towne’s diary. At the same time, these categorizations of social class distinctly intersect with preconceptions of race. The evocation of the concepts of cleanliness versus uncleanliness, furthermore, also functions as assertion of Towne’s own whiteness and her own social status, and thus as authorization of a superior position within a powerful symbolic economy that connotes whiteness with both health, diligence, and industry, and that privileges this whiteness as crucial sign of authority. In this sense, “[n]eatness and hygiene,” as Bridged T. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 13 Heneghan argues, “developed […] in part as a response to [the] demand for racial purity, requiring visible spotlessness for the conferring of legal privilege’s and social status” (133). Towne’s narrative construction of a causal relation between purity and cleanliness, moral values, health, and spaces of discipline, in fact, mirrors nineteenth-century health debates that imagined disease as characteristic of colonial spaces as well as the urban slum. In this context, health is supposed to result from discipline imposed on the racialized and social other. Accepting order, thus, is the recipe for health that Towne writes out for the former slaves she encounters upon her arrival on the Sea Islands and whom she exoticizes and represents following the emerging formula of the childlike, simple “contraband” who needs to be disciplined to work in order to remain healthy. Increasingly, however, Towne became aware of the necessity of actual “doctoring” on the islands, and she begins to dramatize herself as a “family doctor.” 4 Doctoring “our people”: Healing Family 34 Together with the overwhelming majority of its white population, physicians had fled from Beaufort and the Sea Islands in November 1861. While white Southern physicians resumed practicing medicine after the war, no healthcare structures survived in the Southern territories during Union occupation. While the island’s population was growing dramatically, slave communities, on whose intimate knowledge on the part of the healer African American conjure as a form of alternative medicine relied, were disrupted as a consequence of war. Interrogated by the American Freedmen’s Inquiry Commission in Beaufort in 1863, freedman Harry McMillan stated that there are hardly enough (Western white) physicians on the Sea Islands, also intimating a lack of interest in the health of freedpeople in the few physicians who were available: “I do not think there are doctors enough; the islands are very large. If you send for the doctor, he will come; probably if you send for him one day you will see him a day or two afterwards. They do not get out of bed to go when called” (Berlin 254). 35 In narratives of Northern work on the Sea Islands, the provision of medical relief is often identified as one of the female relief workers’ tasks once they arrived, even if those “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 14 women were officially sent to the South as teachers. Towne soon started to frame her work on the Sea Islands in this way, pointing out that she does “a lot of doctoring,” yet without detailing her tasks, her experiences, her successes, and her failures. “In the afternoons,” Towne states in 1862, “so many folks come for clothing, or on business, or to be doctored, that I rarely have an hour” (“St. Helena Island, July 17, 1862”). In a diary entry from 26 August 1862, Towne describes her daily routines as follows: I get up about six and hurry down so as to have breakfast by seven for Captain Hooper […]. After that I generally have three or four patients, feed my birds, and am ready by nine for driving out to see my patients on five plantations – only one plantation or two a day, though. The roads are horrible and the horses ditto, so I have a weary time getting along […]. We come hurrying home by two o’clock or a little before […]. We snatch a lunch and begin school. [...] At four, school is out for the children. Ellen then takes the adults while I go doctoring down to the “nigger houses,” or street of cabins. [...] I generally have several patients to attend to in the evening, and the rest of the time Ellen and I are kept busy folding papers for the medicines. (“St. Helena’s, August 26, 1862”) 36 “I have a large practice as doctor” (“St. Helena’s, May 5, 1862”), Towne states on 5 May 1862, and five days later: “The day I kept school for Miss Winsor I had the hardest time of all, and I concluded perhaps I was better for this work than teaching. In my doctoring I can do much good and give much advice that is wanted” (“St. Helena’s, May 11, 1862”). While Towne, upon her arrival on the Sea Islands, had adopted a discourse that had promoted health through teaching order and cleanliness, she soon started to fill the position of a doctor for the freedpeople. Towne, in fact, was one of the very few healers on St. Helena Island. 37 Only in two cases, however, does Towne discuss her medical duties in relative detail. On the one hand, “Aunt Bess,” an elderly African American woman with chronic leg ulcers, is mentioned repeatedly. Even though Towne is unable to cure Bess, as most practitioners of her time would have been, her illness – a widespread condition in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries – fits well into Towne’s self-dramatization as faithful female family doctor. “We have got to calling them our people and loving them really,” Towne accordingly states in 1862 (“St. Helena’s, May 13, 1862”), claiming the Sea Islands’ freedpeople as “family.” 38 The other type of cases Towne refers to are related to obstetrics and to pediatric medicine. “We had the prettiest baby born here the other day,” Towne writes in July 1862. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 15 And in 1878, when she has already been complaining of her duties as doctor for years, she notes: If you had seen the three little skeleton babies that were brought to me to-day, and if you had heard one poor mother, whose baby seemed dying, say, “Me een-a-pray day and night for you to come and save my baby,” [...]. I think that baby will die before the woman can get it home, but the other two I have some hope of, now that the mothers have advice and medicine. (“September 22, 1878”) 39 While Towne thus depicts her work as doctoring women and “family,” she otherwise does not elaborate on the cases she treats, and she does not discuss the general state of healthcare on the islands. She does not even acknowledge that she treats her fellow relief workers, a fact substantiated, however, by Charlotte Forten who writes on 19 January 1863: “Miss T[owne] came to see me and did me good, as usual with her good medicines and her sunshiny face” (Grimké 438). 40 Increasingly, however, Towne complains about the physical strain that the work as medical doctor creates, also admitting to not visiting her patients regularly. Towne’s enthusiasm for “doctoring,” in fact, distinctly declines over the years. In 1864, she writes: “I am not afraid of being sick myself, but of having to nurse and doctor those who are” (“Aunt Rachel’s Village, St. Helena, February 7, 1864”). In 1867, when Towne still has a “regular doctoring levee in [her] school-room,” she asks Hering, her former mentor, to send a medical graduate. “If I could only escape from this part of my work here I should be very glad, for I do it badly and very inefficiently. I never visit, so you may know how uncertainly I must generally prescribe for all who are not able to come to me” (“March 3, 1867”).12 41 Arguably, complex reasons let to Towne’s growing disaffection with practicing medicine, or perhaps simply with discussing her practice in her diary and letters. Dominant discourse prescribed avoiding mention of freedpeople’s health in the writing she intended to make public. But refugee freedpeople were those who were most affected by serious diseases, including smallpox, and who were in dire need of medical help and relief, which Towne could only inadequately provide for lack of supplies, because of contemporary medicine’s general incapacity of effectively treating epidemic diseases, but probably also because she herself was not trained for such emergencies. Her experiences, thus, pointed out the shortcomings of a discourse that equaled health with order, cleanliness, and “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 16 wage labor and blanked out the status quo of a lack of healthcare. 42 Thus, Towne refers to her medical duties if they comply with a more general understanding of the tasks of a woman healing family, quite in line with the role of “women doctors” that Sarah Josepha Hale, the famous editor of Godey’s Ladys’ Book, had envisioned in her 1852 “Appeal to the American Christians on Behalf of the Ladies’ Medical Missionary Society,” in which she claimed the necessity of female physicians particularly in missionary projects. In her work on the Sea Islands, Towne must increasingly have understood the impossibility of doing “lots of doctoring” and relating her work according to the scripts of the contemporary white (medical) culture. Her letters and diary, however, do give indications of how the subject of healthcare for freedpeople increasingly became racialized and effaced, even in the writings of abolitionists like Towne herself who, after all, argued that these freedpeople should be treated like family, but, as she continued, “not so much individually as the collective whole – the people and our people” (“St. Helena’s, May 13, 1862”). 5 “[A]ntidotes from my little doctor’s box”: Gender, Medical Prestige, and Homeopathy 43 It is no coincidence that Towne had received a training in homeopathic medicine. Mid-nineteenth-century Philadelphia, in fact, was a stronghold of homeopathic teaching in the US. In the 1840s, Towne’s mentor Hering devised the so-called Homoeopathic Domestic Kit, a box that contained a set of labelled drugs together with a copy of his popular book, The Domestic Physician. The domestic kit, to be sold particularly to women to treat their family members and avoid calling in expensive and little-trusted allopathic doctors, became an outstanding success (cf. Kirschmann 34). At a time when orthodox medicine still had few effective drugs and cures to offer and many orthodox physicians still relied on the use of aggressive and dangerous “heroic medicine,” the success of homeopathy, also by addressing women who did traditionally nurse family members, was simply logical. Feminist activist Elizabeth Cady Stanton embraced homeopathy because it allowed women to escape “the cruel bondage of mind and suffering of body […] by tak[ing] the liberty of being [their] “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 17 own physician of both body and soul” (qtd. in Kirschmann 29). An impressive number of prominent contemporaries, furthermore, from Harriet Beecher Stowe to Louisa May Alcott Mark Twain, William James, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, to Henry David Thoreau, likewise proclaimed their belief in homeopathic medicine (cf. Ullman 26). 44 Homeopathy, in fact, was linked to “various antebellum reform impulses,” as Anne Taylor Kirschman asserts (30), which translated into a greater willingness within homeopathy as a movement to allow women to enter medical schools and to practice homeopathic medicine, both as lay practitioners as Stanton and as graduate doctors. In the context of the relative openness of homeopathy toward lay practitioners, furthermore, Towne’s willingness to “doctor” freedpeople as extended family is consistent. 45 Actual references to homeopathy in Towne’s writing are scant, yet telling. Thus, Towne writes that, should she fall ill, she wishes to be treated by “Lieutenant Belcher […], a stanch homoeopathist,” and continues: “we have promised to doctor each other should occasion require” (“Sunday, May 4, 1862”). An episode from July 1862 demonstrates that her botanical knowledge was limited, contrary to her assumed air of wisdom, but that her “little doctor’s box,” presumably a domestic kit, was at hand: I gave Ellen and Mr. Wells each a berry which I supposed was a “ground berry.” Mr. W. ate his in silence, but Ellen exclaimed that it was intensely bitter. I was alarmed, for I knew that the berry belonged to a poisonous family. We asked some people whether they were good to eat, and they said “No – poison.” I then made the two victims hurry back to Mr. Jenkins’ house and drink some strong coffee, besides giving antidotes from my little doctor’s box. No bad effects. (“July 20, Sunday”) 46 In Gullah Culture in America, Willbur Cross contends that Towne “quickly acquainted herself […] with the Gullah folk medicine that had been brought to the Sea Islands from West Africa and the uses of plants, roots, and herbs to cure or alleviate maladies” (125). While these medical practices would, in fact, not have been genuinely akin to homeopathy, other alternative medical schools, most importantly Thomsonianism with its immensely popular self-help movement as well as eclectic medicine, propagated the use of medicinal herbs and botanical remedies. If Cross’s argument is correct, however, there is no further indication of Towne’s interest in the curative qualities of local herbs and in the methods of Gullah folk medicine in her writing. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 18 47 The above episode in fact indicates, or at least claims, that this knowledge was negligible and that Towne did not take African American folk medicine seriously. “Maum Katie,” whose respectful African American title indicates that she served as healer and midwife in her community, is referred to in Towne’s writing as “spiritual healer,” “fortune teller,” and “prophetess,” underscoring Towne’s own authority rather than acknowledging the African American woman’s expertise, which is presented as inferior. Praising “Maum Katie,” furthermore, is of a tactical nature: “I am going to cultivate her acquaintance. I have been sending her medicine for a year nearly, and she ‘hangs upon top me,’ refusing all medicine but mine” (“Sunday, May 4, 1862”). Thus, Towne establishes a hierarchy of female authority, in which she herself holds a position of superior status. “Dr. Jacob,” another African American healer, is treated far less respectfully in Towne’s writing. “He is a man who has poisoned enough people with his herbs and roots, and magic,” Towne argues, “for his chief remedy with drugs is spells and incantations” (“February 15, 1874”). This hostility particularly toward male healers is provoked in no small part by the influence conjure doctors enjoyed in African American communities. 48 Increasingly over the years of “doctoring,” Towne complains about what she perceives as lack of discipline on the part of African American patients. If Towne’s writing parallels teaching and healing, both techniques of imposing discipline, she interpreted freedpeople’s resistance to this discourse as proof of an irreformable understanding of hygiene and cleanliness. This resistance seemingly validated racialized theories of disease, and particularly blamed women – whose task was believed to internalize order and to enforce cleanliness. “I am nearly ill too,” Towne writes in 1864. Every evening I fold powders and every afternoon I take my way down street and stop at every house, giving medicine at the door, but lately not going in as I used to, for they keep their rooms so dark I cannot see the patients, and if I order a window opened, I find it nailed up the next time I come. The people are beginning to follow a practice which I dislike. They will wash the patients with strong pokeroot, and vinegar and salt. (“January 7”) 49 The “practice” Towne rejects, however, was part of a folk remedy against smallpox, freedpeople’s only resort in the absence of organized healthcare and the official refusal to address what increasingly became a medical crisis.13 Downs explains that “[w]ithout vaccination, many people relied on “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 19 homeopathic [and alternative] remedies to ward off the virus. From covering the body with tar to isolating afflicted family members to a remote location, freedpeople devised ways to prevent the virus from spreading within their community” (“The Other Side…” 91).14 Towne – an alternative practitioner herself – refuses to acknowledge the effectiveness of other alternative medical treatments and medicines, placing homeopathy symbolically in strategic positions alongside or against orthodox medicine as necessary in different discursive contexts. 50 Towne’s self-presentation as homeopath and “family doctor” and her refusal to acknowledge folk medicine and folk medical practices, thus, should be read within the symbolic register of an appropriation of cultural authority through the assumption of the role of a trained physician. It mirrors the difficulties white women experienced and the possibilities they had to gain ground within a gendered and raced struggle for more influence in the public realm. Denied access to most orthodox medical schools, homeopathy – with its developing affinity to family practice – made it easier for women to gain professional knowledge, which they rightly considered necessary to exercise a broader social influence. Homeopathy was welcomed in nineteenth-century intellectual circles, and homeopaths thus held prestigious positions to contribute to a reform- oriented discourse. At the same time, homeopathy was a school tailored to the sensibilities of the contemporary intellectual elite of particularly white middle- to upper- classes. Thus if, according to contemporary critics, Thomsonianism constituted the “radicalism of the barnyard,” homeopathy was the “quackery of the drawing- room” (cf. Whorton 68), even if – at the time – the scientific connotations of allopathic versus homeopathic medicine were still in no way firmly in place and the respective scientificity of the schools was still very much embattled. If the term “modern medicine” was already used, it was attributed to both fractions. In this sense, Towne’s references to doctoring with the homeopath’s “doctor’s box,” as well as her neglect of discussing local folk medicine, bespeak more than simply medical practices of the day: they encode a struggle for authority and prestige that Towne, as a white woman, articulated against the backdrop of a white male establishment, symbolized by orthodox medicine, and against African American traditions and culture, symbolized by folk medicine. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 20 6 “The health on the island is good”: Repressing Medical Crisis 51 While Towne reacted with indignation to the freedpeople’s refusal to embrace the regime of medical discipline she teaches, she is herself increasingly forced to make note of the shortcomings of a doctrine of teaching health in light of African American refugees’ extreme poverty and its direct medical consequences that teaching alone could in no way heal. On the Sea Islands, refugees from different Southern regions arrived from 1862 onward, and, among other epidemics, there were outbreaks of smallpox between 1862 and 1868 when the disease also repeatedly affected mainland South Carolina. On Hilton Head Island with the freedmen’s town Mitchelville, where many refugees were sent, “smallpox killed freedpeople by ‘tens and twenties,’” an infected refugee reports in 1864 (Downs, Sick from Freedom “Chap. 4”). Downs shows that by 1865, “[i]n the Sea Islands, [...] it killed roughly 800 freedpeople a week” (“Chap. 4”). Northern relief organizations, however, as for instance the New England Sanitary Commission, were unwilling to support healthcare for freedpeople (cf. Silber). 52 Long established medical protocols were not followed in the treatment of this outbreak of smallpox, a failure caused by the turmoil of war, but not by it alone. It was facilitated by a growing reluctance – on the part of the Union Army, Northern benevolent societies as well as, from 1865 on, federal institutions such as the Freedmen’s Bureau – to support financially the healthcare for freedpeople in the South, leading to a situation in which doctors were no longer financed and the few existing hospitals were eventually disbanded.15 It was, at the same time, also made possible by racist theories of the origin and spread of disease and of racial differences in individuals’ susceptibility to be infected. In 1866, the New York Times reports: “The small-pox rages among them … dirt, debauchery, idleness, are the causes of this inordinate mortality” (qtd. in Downs, Sick from Freedom “Chap. 4”) 53 The only effective measure to prevent a smallpox epidemic, and to counter the disease’s worst forms, is vaccination, which had been introduced at the beginning of the nineteenth century, then displacing inoculation. To this “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 21 day, there is no cure once smallpox has set in. According to Long, “[b]uilding and maintaining ‘pest houses,’ where smallpox victims would die or recover away from non- immune people, and burying the dead before corpses could become a public health problem were twin responsibilities” (“Chap. 4”). In the absence of effective methods of treatment, the practice of nailing up windows, described in a negative vein by Towne for leading to “bad air” and uncleanliness, might have been a strategy, on the one hand, to create what came close to “pest houses” and thus to contain the disease while not forcing families apart and, on the other hand, to minimize the disease’s visibility and its association with African Americans as a group. 54 While isolated smallpox cases had occurred regularly in mid-nineteenth-century America (Kotar and Gessler “Chap. 1”), the wartime circumstances led to a spread of the virus, and smallpox – together with other infectious diseases – claimed more casualties among the soldiers on both sides than injuries incurred in battle. During the war, thousands of soldiers as well as civilians were infected, and approximately one patient in three died. This situation constituted a threat particularly to freedpeople whose risk of infection – as soldiers, refugees, but also as residents of areas to which many refugees fled – was particularly high. 55 Smallpox had already then a long history of metaphorization. Dayle B. DeLancey demonstrates that both in antebellum proslavery and abolitionist discourses, smallpox was a sign to evoke the disaster of ongoing slavery, but also proslavery fears of emancipation (308-09). Particularly in the Civil War South, this feared viral disease was increasingly racialized. 56 While relief workers such as Towne discursively linked health to cleanliness and order, thus revealing the proximity of teaching and the practice of medicine in imposing discipline, the freedpeople’s alleged susceptibility to contract smallpox was linked to their failure to follow what white relief workers propagated as the discipline of cleanliness. Towne’s writing, in fact, bears witness to the racialization of smallpox, even if only few passages indicate that smallpox did claim victims during and after the war.16 In an entry from April 1869, at a time when the actual epidemic was over, Towne includes a long paragraph on smallpox in one of her letters home, claiming “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 22 that vaccination seemed to be of no account at all and that people had it (smallpox) over three times sometimes, and died of it at last; that I vaccinated children, it took well, and in a month or two after they died of smallpox. They say white folks cannot catch diseases from blacks. Lottie Fortin was vaccinated and took it, with not half the exposure I had to it. (“April 11, 1869”) 57 Towne had probably used an inert, old, weak, or otherwise ineffective vaccine (cf. Schroeder-Lein 321). But instead of considering this explanation, the above passage, one of the very few in which she mentions Forten with whom she shared a house, implicitly elaborates the notion – popular at the time, yet in stark contrast to century-long experience (cf. Willrich; Kotar and Gessler) – that smallpox was a disease of African Americans for whom not even vaccination provided efficient protection and that it was not communicable to whites. 58 For Towne, to reduce the visibility of smallpox in her writing might have followed a number of purposes. On the one hand, it was in line with a general policy of sugarcoating the medical situation in the South. On the other hand, she might have aimed at protecting her patients, “her people.” This strategy of repressing the representation of smallpox, however, not only further marginalized those who were already affected by the disease and distorted the view on disease control. It also consolidated the symbolic link between health, cleanliness, order, and free wage labor since it was particularly refugees, and among them especially women and children, who were affected by epidemic diseases such as smallpox. Not only racializing but also gendering smallpox, Towne marginalized and pathologized women and children, who succumbed to the virus in larger numbers than men (cf. Downs, Sick from Freedom). 59 Towne’s writing, thus, gives a valuable indication of how female medical engagement during the Civil War was narrated within the broader context of two in part conflicting discourses: the relief work of white elite women and the discussion of healthcare for freedpeople in the Civil War and early Reconstruction South. In her diary and letters, it is possible to trace discursive sites that indicate how medicine was appropriated as a trope of authority and prestige in a struggle for female influence by intricately linking medicine simultaneously to the domestic (through the figure of the family doctor and the reference to homeopathy) and to the public sphere (through the claim of the expert and scientific knowledge of modern medicine). “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 23 By following the chronology of her entries and letters, it becomes evident that Towne was aware of the discursive embededness of her own writing. Thus, she chooses specific tropes in order to achieve a skillful self-dramatization as physician, administrator, teacher, and abolitionist. While this self-representation in part blocks the view on contemporary healthcare practices, it allows insights into the empowering function of medical discourses. 60 12. In 1884, Dr. Peters had arrived on St. Helena Island. Towne notes that “[t]he people all seem pleased to have a doctor of their own, and all have paid Dr. Peters so far, but he charges very little,” “Frogmore, May 22, 1884”; in the original letter, the year is illegible. Peters might have taken over Towne’s medical practice around this time, and he remained on the island for at least the next nine years: his name turns up in several articles as that of the doctor in charge after the Sea Islands Hurricane swept over St. Helena on 27 September 1893. This “Dr. Peters” was, in all probability, Dr. William Clancy Peters from Frankford, PA, a graduate of the Hahnemann Medical College in Philadelphia, as Peters’s obituary from 20 September 1916, published in the Harrisburg Telegraph, states, cf. “Obituary.” The island’s first African American physician was Dr. York Bailey (1882-1971), a Penn School graduate who took up medical practice on St. Helena as the first African American physician to continue his work for fifty years, cf. Cross 121. BIBLIOGRAPHY “A Girl’s Soldier Life: The Romantic Military Career of a Well-Known Philadelphia Lady.” St. Lawrence Plain Dealer (1887-1890): 2. Web. 14 Mar. 2014. Bellafaire, Judith, and Mercedes Graf. Women Doctors in War. College Station: Texas A&M UP, 2009. Berlin, Ira. “The Wartime Genesis of Free Labor, 1861-1865.” Slaves no More: Three Essays on Emancipation and the Civil War. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1992. 77-186. Butchart, Ronald E. “Laura Towne and Ellen Murray: Northern Expatriates and the Foundation of Black Education in South Carolina, 1862-1908.” South Carolina Women: Their Lives and Times. Ed. Marjorie J. Spruill. Vol. 2. Athens: U of Georgia P, 2010. 12-30. Cross, Wilbur. Gullah Culture in America. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2008. Davidson, Jonathan. A Century of Homeopaths: Their Influence on Medicine and Health. New York: Springer, 2014. DeLancey, Dayle B. “Vaccinating Freedom: Smallpox Prevention and the Discourses of African American Citizenship in Antebellum Philadelphia.” ASALH 95.3-4 (2010): 296-321. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 24 Downs, Jim. “The Other Side of Freedom: Destitution, Disease, and Dependency among Freedwomen and Their Children during and after the Civil War.” Battle Scars: Gender and Sexuality in the American Civil War. Ed. Catherine Clinton and Nina Silber. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2006. 78-103. ---. Sick from Freedom: African-American Illness and Suffering during the Civil War and Reconstruction. New York: Oxford UP, 2012. E-book. Fahs, Alice. The Imagined Civil War: Popular Literature of the North & South, 1861-1865. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 2001. Faulkner, Carol. Women’s Radical Reconstruction: The Freedmen’s Aid Movement. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 2006. E-book. Faust, Drew Gilpin. Mothers of Invention: Women of the Slaveholding South in the American Civil War. 1996. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 2007. French, Austa M. Slavery in South Carolina and the Ex-Slaves; or the Port Royal Mission. New York: French, 1862. Grimké, Charlotte F. The Journals of Charlotte Forten Grimké. Ed. Brenda Stevenson. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1988. Group, Thetis M., and Joan I. Roberts. Nursing, Physician Control, and the Medical Monopoly: Historical Perspectives on Gendered Inequality in Roles, Rights, and Range of Practice. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2001. Hale, Sarah Josepha Buell. “An Appeal to the American Christians on Behalf of the Ladies’ Medical Missionary Society.” Godey's Ladys’ Book 54 (1852): 185-88. Haller, John S. The History of Homeopathy: From Rational Medicine to Holistic Healthcare. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 2009. Hawks, Esther Hill. A Woman Doctor's Civil War: Esther Hill Hawks’ Diary. Ed. Gerald Schwartz. Columbia: U of South Carolina P, 1984. Heneghan, Bridget T. Whitewashing America: Material Culture and Race in the Antebellum Imagination. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2003. Holland, Mary A.G., ed. Our Army Nurses: Interesting Sketches, Addresses, and Photographs of Nearly One Hundred of the Noble Women Who Served in Hospitals and on Battlefields during Our Civil War. Boston, MA: P of Lounsbery, 1895. Holland, Rupert Sargent. Introduction. Letters and Diary of Laura M. Towne, 1862-1884. Cambridge, MA: Riverside P, 1912. E-book. Humphreys, Margaret. Intensely Human: The Health of Black Soldiers in the American Civil War. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP, 2007. E-book. ---. Marrow of Tragedy: The Health Crisis of the American Civil War. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP, 2013. E-book. Kaplan, Amy. “Manifest Domesticity.” American Literature 70.3 (1998): 581-606. Kirschmann, Anne Taylor. A Vital Force: Women in American Homeopathy. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 2004. Kotar, S.L., and J.E. Gessler. Smallpox: A History. New York: McFarland, 2013. E-book. Kothari, Uma. “Spatial Practices and Imaginaries: Experiences of Colonial Officers and Development Professionals.” Colonial Pathologies: American Tropical Medicine, Race, and Hygiene in the Philippines. Ed. Warwick Anderson. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2006. 161-75. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 25 Long, Margaret Geneva. Doctoring Freedom: The Politics of African American Medical Care in Slavery and Emancipation. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 2012. E-book. Masur, Kate. “‘A Rare Phenomenon of Philological Vegetation’: The Word ‘Contraband’ and the Meaning of Emancipation in the United States.” Journal of American History 93.4 (2007): 1050-85. Web. 20 Sep. 2014. Meier, Kathryn Shiveley. Nature's Civil War: Common Soldiers and the Environment in 1862 Virginia. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 2013. Murison, Justine S. The Politics of Anxiety in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2011. “Obituary.” Harrisburg Telegraph 20 Sep. 1916: 18. Penn School Papers, 1862-2004. Web. <http://www2.lib.unc.edu/mss/inv/p/ Penn_School.html#folder_335a#1>. 21. Mar. 2014. Pile, Steve. The Body and the City: Psychoanalysis, Space, and Subjectivity. London: Routledge, 1996. Reverby, Susan M. Ordered to Care: The Dilemma of American Nursing, 1850-1945. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1987. Rose, Willie L. Rehearsal for Reconstruction: The Port Royal Experiment. London: Oxford UP, 1964. ---. “Laura Matilda Towne.” Notable American Women: 1607-1950: A Biographical Dictionary. Ed. Edward James, Janet W. James, and Paul S. Boyer. Vol. 3. Cambridge: Belknap P, 1971. 472-74. Schroeder-Lein, Glenna R. The Encyclopedia of Civil War Medicine. Armonk, NY: Sharpe, 2008. Schultz, Jane E. Women at the Front: Hospital Workers in Civil War America. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 2004. Silber, Nina. Daughters of the Union: Northern Women Fight the Civil War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2005. Spurr, David. The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial Administration. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1993. Stallybrass, Peter, and Allon White. The Politics and Poetics of Transgression. London: Methuen, 1986. Sullivan, Regina D. “Orianna Moon Andrews (1834-1883).” Women in the American Civil War. Ed. Lisa Tendrich Frank. Notre Dame, IN: ABC-CLIO, 2008. 103-04. Towne, Laura M. Letters and Diary of Laura M. Towne, 1862-1884. Ed. Rupert Sargent Holland. Cambridge, MA: Riverside P, 1912. E-book. ---. “Port Royalists who Sailed from New York of the ‘Oriental’ Wed. Apr. 9 1862.” Folder 335c. Penn School Papers 1862-2004 and undated. The Southern Historical Collection. University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Archival Material. Web. http://www2.lib.unc.edu/mss/inv/p/ Penn_School.html#folder_335a#1. 21 Mar. 2014. Twelbeck, Kirsten. “Reconstructing Race Relations: Esther Hill Hawks and Her Life among Freedmen.” American Lives. Ed. Alfred Hornung. Heidelberg: Winter, 2013. 173-88. Ullman, Dana. The Homeopathic Revolution: Why Famous People and Cultural Heroes Chose Homeopathy. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books, 2007. Whorton, James C. Nature Cures: The History of Alternative Medicine in America. New York: Oxford UP, 2004. “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 26 Willrich, Michael. Pox: An American History. New York: Penguin P, 2012. Young, Elizabeth. Disarming the Nation: Women’s Writing and the American Civil War. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1999. ABSTRACTS In 1862, Laura M. Towne – abolitionist, teacher, educator, and trained homeopath – joined the Port Royal Experiment, a project initiated by Northern benevolent societies to provide education and relief for former slaves on the South Carolina Sea Islands, which had been occupied by Union troops in late 1861. On the Sea Islands as well as in broader Northern culture, healthcare for freedpeople – and freedpeople’s health – soon became controversial topics. This article traces how Towne as homeopathic practitioner uses medical tropes in autobiographic documents intended for publication or circulation in the North to increase her own authority within a wartime discourse and how, at the same time, she avoids reflection about medical crises. INDEX Keywords: African American culture, African American emancipation, Civil War, cleanliness, discourse of authority, Discursive sites, family doctor, female doctor, freedpeople, Gullah culture, healthcare, homeopathy, internal colonialism, modern medicine, Port Royal Experiment, race, racialization and medicine, smallpox, the South, travel writing, whiteness, “contraband, ” Sea Islands Mots-clés: Austa M. French, Charlotte Forten (Grimké), Esther Hill Hawks, Laura Matilda Towne, Sarah Josepha Buell Hale AUTHOR ANTJE DALLMANN Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Institut fuer Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Unter den Linden 6, D-10099 Berlinantje.dallmann@staff.hu-berlin.de “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Exp... European journal of American studies, Vol 10, no 1 | 2015 27 mailto:antje.dallmann@staff.hu-berlin.de “Lots of doctoring, with great success”: Healthcare within the Port Royal Experiment and the Work of Laura M. Towne 1 Civil War Healthcare and Female Commitment 2 The Port Royal Experiment and the Work of Laura M. Towne 3 “Putting th[e] lesson to use”: Teaching “Cleanliness” and “Order" 4 Doctoring “our people”: Healing Family 5 “[A]ntidotes from my little doctor’s box”: Gender, Medical Prestige, and Homeopathy 6 “The health on the island is good”: Repressing Medical Crisis 
work_fe73v7ihavcfpo6wq2rbixmc4e	----	Plenty of pitches 232 measure for measure Plenty of pitches The note A tuned to 440 Hz only became the norm for musical performance in 1939 after decades of international and interdisciplinary disputes. Fanny Gribenski retraces this rocky path. Though music is often referred to as “the universal language of mankind,” in the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, for the longest time, the practice of this art was founded on local standards. Now regarded as ‘natural,’ the note A tuned to 440 Hz only became the norm for musical performance following an international conference held in 1939. For most of music history, pitches were fluctuating concepts: countries, cities and individual musical institutions performed music according to their own tones. But with the development of railroads and the resulting integration of musical spaces, many voices called for the adoption of a unified musical measure. France was the first country to create such a standard. In 1859, a state-appointed commission gathering representatives of the worlds of music and science fixed a diapason normal at A 435. In the same way as a standard metre had been agreed upon after the revolutionary standardization of the metric system, a model of the musical standard — a tuning fork — was stored at the Paris Conservatory (pictured). The ‘French pitch’ was subsequently chosen as a first international standard in Vienna in 1885 by several European countries and Russia. But in the interwar period, the United States adopted A 440 as standard, which was agreed on by certain European nations in 1939, and became the first acoustic norm issued by the International Standards Organization in 1955 as ISO 16. Although resembling that of other technical and scientific standards, the history of concert pitch is more complex. Crucially, whereas the metre was principally the product of industrial factories and physics laboratories, pitch was also the concern of opera houses, radio studios and instrument workshops. For other scientific and technical standards, it was physicists, mathematicians, engineers and natural philosophers who determined at what measure these were set. In the case of pitch, such authorities were challenged by a diverse body of interested parties all with different ideas of what a standard pitch should be. Shaping these ideas were not only considerations about the physics of sound, but also conflicting notions of what sounded aesthetically pleasing, what was physiologically sustainable, and what was historically consistent with the works of celebrated composers. Whereas in France the diapason normal was fixed in reference to a historical canon of operas with the commission claiming that the choice of A 435 “would render the performance of old masterpieces easier,”1 these aesthetic considerations were challenged in other countries. In Britain, for instance, in the wake of the French decision, the Society of Arts started investigating “how far it would be practicable to do anything in this country in reference to it,”2 but with the aim of putting a greater emphasis on science. Drawing from the recommendations made by natural philosophers such as John Herschel the body created a competing standard, presented as a compromise between mathematical knowledge and contemporary musical practice: C 528. Following the advice of Giuseppe Verdi, the Italian association of musicians similarly adopted A 432 as a standard in 1881, reconciling the demands of science and musical practice. Such a low pitch, it was argued, was more friendly to voices. The following year, however, this measure was defeated by the French pitch A 435 at the conference held in Vienna because of the commercial strength of the diapason normal, which had already been adopted by several acclaimed instrument makers. Eventually, the French pitch was superseded by the higher pitch A 440. This standard had been introduced in the United States in 1917, and enforced by means of a radio signal emitted by the Bureau of Standards in 1935. Concert pitch still remains a controversial standard. For several years, numerous blogs have been denouncing the use of A 440 and calling for its replacement by what they regard as the pitch of the “origins”: A 432. Following in the footsteps of activist Lyndon LaRouche who, at the end of the 1980s, claimed that one should “revive Verdi’s tuning [A 432] to bring back great music,”3 the Dutch political party Vrijzinnige Partij argues for A 432 as a standard on the unverified grounds that Joseph Goebbels was responsible for the adoption of A 440, and that it causes “disarray” in music and society4. The history of our musical measure is actually one of many pitches, attesting to the great variety of sonic ideas and practices throughout the modern era. ❐ Fanny Gribenski Max Planck Institute for the History of Science, Berlin, Germany. e-mail: fgribenski@mpiwg-berlin.mpg.de Published online: 6 February 2020 https://doi.org/10.1038/s41567-019-0707-1 References 1. Auber, D. F. E. et al. Rapport et Arrêtés pour l’établissement en France d’un diapason musical uniforme (Imprimerie impériale, 1859). 2. Royal Society of Arts Minutes of the Council AD/ MA/100/12/02/11, 122 (25 May 1859). 3. LaRouche, L. Executive Intell. Rev. 15, 24–34 (1988). 4. Korteweg, A. Vrijzinnige Partij: verlaag de grondtoon, deze wekt verdeeldheid en agressie op. de Volkskrant https://go.nature. com/2B5ATVm (3 March 2017). Credit: Diapason, Jules-Antoine Lissajous, France, 1859, E.378 Collections Musée de la musique / Cliché Anglès Nature Physics | VOL 16 | FEbruAry 2020 | 232 | www.nature.com/naturephysics mailto:fgribenski@mpiwg-berlin.mpg.de https://doi.org/10.1038/s41567-019-0707-1 https://go.nature.com/2B5ATVm https://go.nature.com/2B5ATVm http://www.nature.com/naturephysics Plenty of pitches 
work_fiwrunaeyje5dpipkk67lakhta	----	No doctor is an island | Semantic Scholar Skip to search formSkip to main content> Semantic Scholar's Logo Search Sign InCreate Free Account You are currently offline. Some features of the site may not work correctly. DOI:10.4103/2045-8932.93540 Corpus ID: 11031664No doctor is an island @article{Yuan2011NoDI, title={No doctor is an island}, author={Jason X. -J. Yuan and N. Morrell and S. Harikrishnan and Ghazwan Butrous}, journal={Pulmonary Circulation}, year={2011}, volume={1}, pages={435 - 436} } Jason X. -J. Yuan, N. Morrell, +1 author Ghazwan Butrous Published 2011 Medicine, Chemistry Pulmonary Circulation No doctor is an island " expand the knowledge base of PH and the complexities of diagnosis and management of this group of patients " ; and lobbying power, " to create a force that will have levels of influence on many facets of PH management in Australia and New Zealand. " [3] (See the PHSANZ abstracts published in this issue of Pulmonary Circulation). they were joined by still more people in San Diego; and at Malta there were 25 experts from around the world. Since coming into existence, the… Expand View on SAGE journals.sagepub.com Save to Library Create Alert Cite Launch Research Feed Share This Paper Topics from this paper Peripheral Vascular Diseases Oxygen Pulmonary Circulation Structure of articular surface of bone Conferences Occupations Speaking (activity) Scientific Publication Knowledge Bases meeting References SHOWING 1-6 OF 6 REFERENCES Devotions : upon emergent occasions J. Donné, A. Raspa, J. Goldberg Art 1969 138 PDF Save Alert Research Feed Textbook of Pulmonary Vascular Disease J. X. Yuan, J. Garcia, J. B. West, C. Hales, S. Rich, S. Archer Medicine 2009 35 Save Alert Research Feed Molecular Structure of Nucleic Acids: A Structure for Deoxyribose Nucleic Acid J. Watson, F. Crick Chemistry, Medicine Nature 1974 2,728 PDF Save Alert Research Feed Are Women Really More Talkative Than Men? M. Mehl, S. Vazire, Nairán Ramírez-Esparza, R. Slatcher, J. Pennebaker Psychology, Medicine Science 2007 312 PDF Save Alert Research Feed Chapter 3, Young Scientist Journeys,Canterbury UK: The Butrous Foundation Chapter 3, Young Scientist Journeys,Canterbury UK: The Butrous Foundation 2010 Meditation XVII, " Devotions upon Emergent Occasions Meditation XVII, " Devotions upon Emergent Occasions 1624 Related Papers Abstract Topics 6 References Related Papers Stay Connected With Semantic Scholar Sign Up About Semantic Scholar Semantic Scholar is a free, AI-powered research tool for scientific literature, based at the Allen Institute for AI. Learn More → Resources DatasetsSupp.aiAPIOpen Corpus Organization About UsResearchPublishing PartnersData Partners   FAQContact Proudly built by AI2 with the help of our Collaborators Terms of Service•Privacy Policy The Allen Institute for AI By clicking accept or continuing to use the site, you agree to the terms outlined in our Privacy Policy, Terms of Service, and Dataset License ACCEPT & CONTINUE 
work_flg2zsda3vf4jnhfmwluj5nf7y	----	wp-p1m-38.ebi.ac.uk Params is empty 404 sys_1000 exception wp-p1m-38.ebi.ac.uk no 217803476 Params is empty 217803476 exception Params is empty 2021/04/06-02:01:27 if (typeof jQuery === "undefined") document.write('[script type="text/javascript" src="/corehtml/pmc/jig/1.14.8/js/jig.min.js"][/script]'.replace(/\[/g,String.fromCharCode(60)).replace(/\]/g,String.fromCharCode(62))); // // // window.name="mainwindow"; .pmc-wm {background:transparent repeat-y top left;background-image:url(/corehtml/pmc/pmcgifs/wm-nobrand.png);background-size: auto, contain} .print-view{display:block} Page not available Reason: The web page address (URL) that you used may be incorrect. Message ID: 217803476 (wp-p1m-38.ebi.ac.uk) Time: 2021/04/06 02:01:27 If you need further help, please send an email to PMC. Include the information from the box above in your message. Otherwise, click on one of the following links to continue using PMC: Search the complete PMC archive. Browse the contents of a specific journal in PMC. Find a specific article by its citation (journal, date, volume, first page, author or article title). http://europepmc.org/abstract/MED/ 
work_fnw744kflzchpb3rrvzophbu7e	----	Telling Jeffers' Story | California History | University of California Press Skip to Main Content Close UCPRESS ABOUT US BLOG SUPPORT US CONTACT US Search search input Search input auto suggest search filter All Content California History Search User Tools Register Carnegie Mellon University Carnegie Mellon University Sign In Toggle MenuMenu Content Recent Content Browse Issues All Content Purchase Alerts Submit Info For Authors Librarians Reprints & Permissions About Journal Editorial Team Richard J. Orsi Prize Contact Us Skip Nav Destination Article Navigation Close mobile search navigation Article navigation Volume 87, Issue 2 January 2010 Previous Article Next Article Article Navigation Research Article| January 01 2010 Telling Jeffers' Story Dana Gioia Dana Gioia Search for other works by this author on: This Site PubMed Google Scholar California History (2010) 87 (2): 50–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/25702954 Views Icon Views Article contents Figures & tables Video Audio Supplementary Data Share Icon Share Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Email Tools Icon Tools Get Permissions Cite Icon Cite Search Site Citation Dana Gioia; Telling Jeffers' Story. California History 1 January 2010; 87 (2): 50–66. doi: https://doi.org/10.2307/25702954 Download citation file: Ris (Zotero) Reference Manager EasyBib Bookends Mendeley Papers EndNote RefWorks BibTex toolbar search Search search input Search input auto suggest search filter All Content California History Search This content is only available via PDF. © 2010 California Historical Society Article PDF first page preview Close Modal You do not currently have access to this content. Sign in Don't already have an account? Register Client Account You could not be signed in. Please check your email address / username and password and try again. Email address / Username ? Password Sign In Reset password Register Sign in via your Institution Sign in via your Institution Citing articles via Google Scholar CrossRef Latest Most Read Most Cited Mexican American Parrhesia at Troy: The Rise of the Chicana/o Movement at the University of Southern California, 1967–1974 Breaking the Eleventh Commandment: Pete McCloskey’s Campaign against the Vietnam War Fishing on Porpoise: The Origins of Dolphin Bycatch in the American Yellowfin Tuna Industry Keepers of the Culture at 3201 Adeline Street: Locating Black Power Theater in Berkeley, California Suburban Cowboy: Country Music, Punk, and the Struggle over Space in Orange County, 1978–1981 Email alerts Article Activity Alert Latest Issue Alert Close Modal Recent Content Browse Issues All Content Purchase Alerts Submit Info for Authors Info for Librarians About Editorial Team Richard J. Orsi Prize Contact Us Online ISSN 2327-1485 Print ISSN 0162-2897 Copyright © 2021 Stay Informed Sign up for eNews Twitter Facebook Instagram YouTube LinkedIn Visit the UC Press Blog Disciplines Ancient World Anthropology Art Communication Criminology & Criminal Justice Film & Media Studies Food & Wine History Music Psychology Religion Sociology Browse All Disciplines Courses Browse All Courses Products Books Journals Resources Book Authors Booksellers Instructions Journal Authors Journal Editors Librarians Media & Journalists Support Us Endowments Membership Planned Giving Supporters About UC Press Careers Location Press Releases Seasonal Catalog Contact Us Acquisitions Editors Customer Service Exam/Desk Requests Media Inquiries Print-Disability Rights & Permissions Royalties UC Press Foundation © Copyright 2021 by the Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved. Privacy policy   Accessibility Close Modal Close Modal This Feature Is Available To Subscribers Only Sign In or Create an Account Close Modal Close Modal This site uses cookies. By continuing to use our website, you are agreeing to our privacy policy. Accept 
work_fp4xiihxmnblzjkxwsvtlo4eyu	----	“These French Canadian of the Woods are Half-Wild Folk”: Wilderness, Whiteness, and Work in North America, 1840–1955 Jason L. Newton In 1853 the Brown Company was a small water-powered sawmill in Berlin, New Hampshire, but by the turn of the century it had become a highly suc- cessful lumber and paper-processing company which made some of the largest timber cuts in the Northeast US.1 Its success depended largely on the French Canadian immigrant labourers employed to cut and drive logs. The company found that these workers could be hired cheaply, worked long hours, and, perhaps most importantly, it regarded them as innately suited for logging work. According to company officials, French Canadians were of a “hardy type, accustomed to the work in the bush, such as portaging, running rapids, etc., … [and were] as a rule, pretty high-grade men.” The French Canadian affinity for logging work was recognized all over North America. Adirondack scholar Alfred Donaldson wrote in the 1920s that these people “seemed naturally endowed with the agility, recklessness, and immunity to exposure that must combine to make them expert. They have always predominated as a race in the lumbering operations.” The French from “the settlements,” one Canadian sociologist wrote, “[have] the lure … of the woods tingling in their blood down through the generations.”2 1. William Robinson Brown, Our Forest Heritage: A History of Forestry and Recreation in New Hampshire (Concord: New Hampshire Historical Society, 1958), 187; James Elliott Defebaugh, History of the Lumber Industry of America (Chicago: American Lumberman, 1906), 70. 2. “First Annual Conference of the Woods Department,” Berlin Historical Society (1903), 47, 43; Brown, Our Forest Heritage, 241, 317; Edmund W. Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man: A Study of research note / note de recherche Jason L. Newton, “‘These French Canadian of the Woods are Half-Wild Folk’: Wilderness, Whiteness, and Work in North America, 1840–1955,” Labour/Le Travail 77 (Spring 2016): 121–150. 122 / l abour/le tr avail 77 From 1850 to 1930 one million Québécois migrated to the US, pushed by rapid population growth, a shortage of good agricultural land, and slow industrial development in their home country. By the 1870s, new rail lines, specifically the Grand Trunk, Québec Central, and the Canadian Pacific accelerated their immigration. By 1901 almost one quarter of the entire population of Québec moved to New England. Ninety-two per cent of these immigrants settled in urban areas in the “border states or in states immedi- ately south of them.”3 Even though most settled in urban areas, in the forests along the border and in inland lumber regions of New England and New York there were logging camps composed entirely of French Canadian workers.4 By 1890, a congressional report found that “American farmers’ sons no longer follow wood chopping for a business, and their places have been filled by the French Canadians.”5 In 1900, 33.6 per cent of New England “woodchoppers, Work and Pay in the Camps of Canada, 1903–1914 (1928; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1972), 95–96. 3. Stephen J. Hornsby, Richard William Judd, and Michael J. Hermann, Historical Atlas of Maine (Orono: University of Maine Press, 2015), plate 42; Yves Roby, “The Economic Evolution of Quebec and the Emigrant (1850–1929),” in Claire Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks: A Collection of Essays on the Franco-American Experience in New England (Worcester: Assumption College, Institut français, 1996), 7; Marcus Lee Hansen, and John Bartlet Brebner, The Mingling of the Canadian and American Peoples. Vol. 1, Historical (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1940), 180–181; Gerard J. Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage in New England (Hanover: University Press of New England, 1986), 52–53; Gary Gerstle, Working- Class Americanism: the Politics of Labor in a Textile City, 1914–1960 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 21; Bruno Ramirez and Yves Otis, Crossing the 49th Parallel: Migration from Canada to the United States, 1900–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001), 1; Victor Bushey (b. 1900) interview by Sue Dauphinee, 1970, p. 719069, transcript, Lumberman’s Life Collection, Maine Folklife Center, University of Maine at Orono (hereafter llc, mfc). 4. Some evidence for the high percentage of French Canadians in lumber camps can be found in Raymond J. Smith and Samuel B. Locke, “A Study of the Lumber Industry of Northern Maine,” Master’s thesis, University of Maine Orono, 1908, 13; David Nathan Rogers, “Lumbering in Northern Maine,” Master’s thesis, University of Maine Orono, 1906, 25; William James Henry Miller, James Plummer Poole, and Harlan Hayes Sweetser, “A Lumbering Report of Work on Squaw Mountain Township, Winter of 1911–1912,” Master’s thesis, University of Maine Orono, 1912, 14–15; Frank Carey (b. 1886), interview by Rita Swidrowski, 1970, p. 6980117, transcript, llc, mfc; Andrew Chase (b. 1888) interview by Linda Edgerly, 1971, p. 6970094, transcript, llc, mfc; John F. Flanagan, “Industrial Conditions in the Maine Woods,” First Biennial Report of the Department of Labor and Industry (Waterville: Sentinel Publishing, 1912), 220; Maine Department of Labor and Industry and Maine Division of Research and Statistics, “Working Conditions in Lumber and Pulpwood Camps August 1955– March 1956” (1956), Labor Standards Documents, Paper 313; Ferris Meigs, The Santa Clara Lumber Company, Vol. 1, (unpublished manuscript, typeset 1941) Santa Clara Collection, Adirondack Museum, Blue Mountain Lake, New York (hereafter AdkM). 5. United States Senate, Report of the Select Committee on Immigration and Naturalization: and Testimony Taken by the Committee on Immigration of the Senate and the Select Committee on Immigration and Naturalization of the House of Representatives Under Concurrent Resolution of March 12, 1890 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1891), 324. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 123 lumbermen [or] raftsmen” were French Canadian immigrants and the per- centage was much higher in the northern portion of the region. Their affinity for the woods made them useful for specific tasks in other rural industries as well. On railroad grades, one sociologist found, the French “prefers to be in the vanguard. The space and freedom of the trail and water routes appeal to him … assisting with ready axe to erect the big log company camps.” When it came to technical work, however, the experts claimed they were useless. 6 These com- ments on French Canadian loggers are evidence of how the perceived racial hierarchies that were constructed in the US by academics, government, and business officials pushed immigrant workers into specific industries based on their perceived racial characteristics. These rural immigrant workers were especially vulnerable to exploita- tion. They were isolated on wilderness tracts, separated from urban French Canadian communities and Church support. They were also unfamiliar with the English language and American labour laws. In northern New York, the Emporium, Santa Clara, and A. Sherman lumber companies conspired to set wages lower for immigrant workers than native “white” workers. Referring to immigrant logging labour, one 1911 government report found that “there has probably existed in Maine the most complete system of peonage in the entire country.” The preference for French Canadian loggers in American camps evolved from an informal and exploitative cross-border contracting system in the 19th century into a federal government sponsored contract labour program in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. During the labour shortages of World War II, the Canadian and American governments allied to create a system which “bonded a specific number of Canadian woodsmen to their American employers for fixed terms.”7 Large paper and lumber companies utilized a mode of production known as “shacking,” in which entire “bonded” Canadian families were hired to go into an isolated forested area and produce logs on a piece rate in rough, dangerous conditions. A violation of child labour laws, shacking also often led to debt peonage.8 6. Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 96–97. 7. W.C. Sykes to C.H. Sisson, 1 May 1919; C.H. Sisson to W.C. Sykes, 2 May 1919; W.C. Sykes to C.H. Sisson, 3 May 1919, box 13; E.L. Stables to Mr. Sykes, Mr. Caflish and Mr. Turner, 7 November 1912, box 5, Emporium Forest Company Records, AdkM; William P. Dillingham, et al., Abstracts of Reports of the Immigration Commission: With Conclusions and Recommendations and Views of the Minority (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 447–448; Bill Parenteau, “Bonded Labor: Canadian Woods Workers in the Maine Pulpwood Industry, 1940–55,” Forest & Conservation History 37, 3 (1993): 113–115. 8. Stacy Warner Maddern “Bonded Labor and Migration, United States” in Immanuel Ness, ed., The Encyclopedia of Global Human Migration (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 3; Fred Alliston Gilbert Papers, F.A. Glibert to G. Schenck, 20 December 1925, box 7, Correspondence, 1924–1925 Special Collections, Raymond H. Fogler Library, University of Maine; United States, Report of the Select Committee on Immigration and Naturalization, 322–325; United States, Importation of Canadian Bonded Labor: Hearings before the Subcommittee on Labor of the Committee on Labor and Public Welfare, United States Senate, Eighty-fourth Congress, First 124 / l abour/le tr avail 77 Italian immigrant workers were employed in the Canadian and American wilderness as well, but they rarely worked in logging camps. Logger Arnold Hall said that he only ever saw “one or … two Italians in the woods in my life. They don’t work in the woods much. Pick and shovels all right, but they don’t seem to go for the woods.” The Maine Department of Labor found that “Italians who work on our dams, railroads, and other construction opera- tions in the summer are not to be found in [logging] camps. It is too cold for them.” An Adirondack area newspaper from 1883 reported that “excepting the French-Canadians the Latins have an insurmountable aversion to the ax.”9 The supposed French Canadian affinity for logging work and odd exclusion of Italians exemplifies how North Americans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries connected their ideals about race with the realities of industrial work. By the early 20th century, eugenic and racial thinking had become “so pervasive … that it attained the state of common sense,” and experts asserted that even “economic virtues … [were] a function of race.”10 As “white” Northern Europeans pushed west to civilize supposedly free, wild land, industries in the East were “directed to attracting to their workshops people representing almost static civilization.”11 These immigrants from the “static civilizations” of Eastern and Southern Europe were considered a “mobile army of cheap labor,” and – in order to maximize industrial production – progressive thinkers con- structed racial taxonomies that dictated which races best fit different types of production.12 This extended beyond logging work. The American government Session, on S. Res. 98, A Resolution to Authorize a Study of the Policy and Practice of the United States with Respect to Permitting Bonded Laborers from Canada to Enter and Work in the United States (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1955), 56. 9. Arnold Hall (b. 1892) interview by William Bonsall, 1970, p. 580038, transcript, llc, mfc; Flanagan, “Industrial Conditions in the Maine Woods,” 220; “Among the Woodcutters,” Chateaugay Record (Chateaugay, NY), 11 May 1883. 10. Daylanne K. English, Unnatural Selections: Eugenics in American Modernism and the Harlem Renaissance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004), 1, 33; Edward Alsworth Ross, Foundations of Sociology (New York: Macmillan Company, 1905), 377; Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color: European Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998), 88; Nell Irvin Painter, The History of White People (New York: W.W. Norton, 2010), 252; Thomas F. Gossett, Race: The History of an Idea in America (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1963); Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 156–157. 11. Theresa Schmid McMahon, Social and Economic Standards of Living (Boston: D.C. Heath, 1925), 134. 12. Gunther Peck shows that bosses and labour agents used race to help decide what groups would do different types of labour. There were particularly large racial divisions in skilled vs. unskilled positions. Gunther Peck, Reinventing Free Labor: Padrones and Immigrant Workers in the North American West, 1880–1930 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 166–169; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 137–138. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 125 found regular patterns in the type of work that different immigrant groups engaged in: The Austrians have gone principally into construction work and to the iron ore fields. The Finns have been furnished with about the same class of labor. The Greeks and Italians almost without exception have gone into section work for some railroad system. The Scandinavians and Americans have gone into almost every kind of work, but the largest percentage of them have gone into the logging camps.… The Poles and Bulgarians, almost without exception, have gone into construction work.… The Cuban and Spanish races are employed exclusively in the manufacture of cigars and tobacco … North and South Italians are most extensively employed in silk dyeing, railroad and other construction work, bitu- minous coal mining, and clothing manufacturing … the Slovaks seem to be industrial laborers rather than farmers.13 Similar sentiments were expressed by Canadian academics and officials.14 Though historians of immigration now realize that there were several reasons for the consistent occupational streaming patterns illustrated above, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries these patterns were attributed to racial char- acteristics. At their most extreme, immigration policies that followed racial dictates led to draconian exclusionary laws, such as the Chinese exclusion acts in Canada and the US. In America before the 1924 Johnson Reed Act, however, less than two per cent of immigrants were denied entry. When immigrants were rejected, it was most often because it was presumed they would become a drain on the nation’s economy – because they couldn’t work.15 Racial thinking 13. William P. Dillingham, Immigrants in Industries: Part 21; Diversified Industries, Vol. 2 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 342. 14. Canadian sociologist Edmund W. Bradwin wrote “[e]ach nationality on a frontier work seems to fit into some particular form of activity: the Slavs … become laborers’ helpers, the English-speaking delight in machinery, the Finn … in blasting … [Italians] work with cement.…” Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 110. 15. The US passed a Chinese exclusion act in 1882, and Canada passed one in 1885 and another in 1923. Even exclusion policies were tied to economics. The argument was that Chinese bare minimum subsistence would lower the living standards of all Americans. Lawrence B. Glickman, A Living Wage: American Workers and the Making of Consumer Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 86; McMahon, Social and Economic Standards of Living, 131–155; Lucy E. Salyer, Laws Harsh As Tigers: Chinese Immigrants and the Shaping of Modern Immigration Law (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1995), 12, 18; Rosanne Currarino, “‘Meat vs. Rice’ The Ideal of Manly Labor and Anti-Chinese Hysteria in 19th- century America,” Men and Masculinities 9, 4 (2007): 476–490; Vincent J. Cannato, American Passage: The History of Ellis Island (New York: Harper, 2009), 6, 11; Margot Canaday, The Straight State: Sexuality and Citizenship in Twentieth-Century America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 39, 95; Mae M. Ngai, Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 77; Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 167. In his analysis of this rhetoric Jacobson found immigrants were judged by their “relative merits.” Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 8–9, 69, 78. Historians disagree on the extent to which “irrational” nativism influenced American exclusionary and restrictive immigration policy. Oscar Handlin and John Higham argued that, while economic exploitation was a factor in immigrant exploitation, racism was the primary 126 / l abour/le tr avail 77 was a major factor in deciding how the tens of millions of immigrants who were allowed into the country were treated and directed once they got here. Reflecting popular opinion, labour leaders like Samuel Gompers, Terence Powderly, and Frank P. Sargent (the latter two of whom also doubled as public immigration officials) were against allowing immigrants of questionable “whiteness” to compete with real white Americans for jobs. If questionably white people were allowed into the country, some justification was needed for why they should work the type of undesirable jobs that American labourers were leaving: monotonous factory jobs and grueling manual work like logging. The argument not only involved a debate over the low standard of living of immigrant workers, but also whether their labour was, in a fundamental way, worth less than real white peoples’ labour. One way to justify routing immi- grants into demeaning, low-paying jobs was by interpreting the valuable types of labour – clearing and civilizing supposedly wild land, for example – as work that only real white people could do.16 culprit. In Nation by Design, Aristide Zolberg argues that US immigration policy dipped in and out of periods of irrational nativism. Mae M. Ngai, “Oscar Handlin and Immigration Policy Reform in the 1950s and 1960s,” Journal of American Ethnic History, 32, 3 (Spring 2013): 64; Aristide R. Zolberg, A Nation by Design: Immigration Policy in the Fashioning of America (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), 6–7; John Higham, Strangers in the Land: Patterns of American Nativism, 1860–1925 (New York: Atheneum, 1963). Award-winning historian Mae Ngai has added evidence to Handlin’s and Higham’s argument. Her recent Impossible Subjects shows how US policies discriminated against and exploited Asian and Mexican people in order to establish a “desired composition … of the nation” which was European and white. According to Ngai immigration laws like the Johnson Reed Act “put European and non-European immigrant groups on different trajectories of racial formation” The bracero program was an extension of that thinking. It was, Ngai argues, “imported colonialism” and based on “the subordination of racialized foreign bodies,” a legacy of “[w] estern expansion” and notions of “Anglo-Saxon superiority.” The bracero program and the bonded labour system relied on similar legal precedent and so the exploitation of seemingly white French Canadian immigrants in non-western states challenges Ngai’s understanding of immigration policy and labour. Mae M. Ngai, Impossible Subjects, 5, 13, 94. Robert F. Zeidel’s Immigrants, Progressives, and Exclusion Politics: The Dillingham Commission, 1900–1917 found that American immigration policies were less reliant on racial assumptions that Handlin, Higham, and Ngai assume. Instead, Zeidel argues that immigration policy was designed to allow for maximum economic productivity in American industry. The argument posed in this article is that the imperatives of industrial capitalism were difficult to disentangle from the racial thinking. Robert F. Zeidel, Immigrants, Progressives, and Exclusion Politics: The Dillingham Commission, 1900–1927 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2004), 5. 16. David R. Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working Class (London: Verso, 1991); Philip S. Foner, History of the Labor Movement in the United States Vol. 3 (New York: International Publishers, 1964), 256–258; Luis L.M. Aguiar and Tina I.L. Marten, “Shimmering White Kelowna and The Examination of Painless White Privilege in the Hinterland Of British Columbia,” in Audrey Kobayashi, Laura Cameron, and Andrew Baldwin, eds., Rethinking the Great White North: Race, Nature, and the Historical Geographies of Whiteness in Canada (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011), 136. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 127 In his book Barbarian Virtues, Matthew Jacobson focuses on how Americans created and reacted to what he calls the “image” of the immigrant, “[seem- ingly] unshakable demonstrations of this or that ethnological truth about this nation and the nature of the world’s diverse populations.” One of the many ways that these images were formed was through the observation of immi- grant workers as they attempted to transform wild land into arable or valuable land, an activity that proved a worker’s degree of whiteness and aptitude for citizenship.17 Wilderness has been defined by Americans in a number of ways. Areas designated wilderness received that designation by the fictions that were created about them. In the narrative of industrial capitalism of the late 19th and early 20th century, before preservationism became a mainstream cultural phenomenon, most North Americans of European ancestry thought of wilder- ness as an isolated tract of unproductive land that required improvement to become valuable or productive. Influential conservationist and forestry expert Gifford Pinchot was famous for saying “wilderness is waste.” In this utilitar- ian view, the pastoral landscape was the desirable landscape.18 Immigrants of questionable whiteness who proved capable at improving wilderness land might be more than just expendable industrial workers; they might have the ability to become independent agriculturalists, the bedrock of American democracy. Nativism was built into this tautology: any person descendant from a group with a long history of free citizenship in the country was pre- sumed to have descended from pioneering, wilderness conquering people and was therefore de facto white. The constructed history of the white conquest of the American wilderness explains how wilderness became a space exclu- sively for white middle-class men in the first two decades of the 20th century. Observing immigrants’ adeptness at creating civilization on wilderness land allowed state, federal, and business officials to judge their whiteness and 17. Matthew Frye Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues: The United States Encounters Foreign Peoples at Home and Abroad, 1876–1917 (New York: Hill and Wang, 2001), 97; Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 18, 166, 169–170; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 31; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 253; Glickman, A Living Wage, 25; Joyce Appleby, “Commercial Farming and the ‘Agrarian Myth’ in the Early Republic,” Journal of American History 68, 4 (1982): 833–849; Rossell Dave, “Tended Images: Verbal and Visual Idolatry of Rural Life in America, 1800–1850,” New York History 69, 4 (1988): 425–440; David Danbom, Born in the Country: A History of Rural America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995). 18. Quoted in Richard White, “From Wilderness to Hybrid Landscapes: The Cultural Turn in Environmental History,” in Douglas Cazaux Sackman, ed., A Companion to American Environmental History (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014), 185. The government equated wilderness land with idle land and worthless land. William P. Dillingham et al, Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 1 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 95, 359, 263; Louis S. Warren, “Paths Toward Home: Landmarks of the Field in Environmental History,” in Sackman, ed., A Companion to American Environmental History, 11; William Cronon, “The Trouble with Wilderness; Or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” in William Cronon, ed., Uncommon Ground: Toward Reinventing Nature (New York: W.W. Norton, 1995), 69–91. 128 / l abour/le tr avail 77 sort immigrants into different types of work based on their displayed racial characteristics.19 Because of the messiness of the “racial sciences” there were people who were “in between” white and non-white, groups whose whiteness remained in question even after being tested by wilderness work. This was where the French Canadians fit into the scheme and these racial discourses are the primary reason they were exploited in the woods for more than a century.20 This type of racial thinking was applied to all immigrant groups coming into America and was responsible for other ethnically based labour systems like the Italian padrone system, tenement sweating in New York City and, by the 1940s and 1950s, federally sanctioned guest worker arraignments like the bracero Mexican farm worker program.21 The discourses that formed about French Canadians in Northeastern logging camps were distinctly rural, however, and therefore have not been the target of historical investigation to the same extent as urban discourses on race and industry have been.22 This is unfortunate because until the 1920s most Canadians and Americans lived in the countryside where the transition to industrial capitalism often had its most dramatic effects.23 The images of immigrants in the rural Northeast had a profound effect on where foreign workers settled, how they were treated, and how they adapted to industrial capitalism. As Canadian social historian Béatrice Craig found, opinions on the French Canadians depended on “whether [writers] took their cue from Longfellow or Darwin.”24 Though this point was just an aside for Craig, it reveals an 19. Paul Outka, Race and Nature from Transcendentalism to the Harlem Renaissance (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 3, 31–33, 154; James Belich, Replenishing the Earth: The Settler Revolution and the Rise of the Anglo-World, 1783–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 20. The absence of black, Mexican, or other obviously “coloured” workers in the forests of the Northeast meant that the whiteness of new immigrant groups was scrutinized closely. Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 169; David R. Roediger, Working Toward Whiteness: How America’s Immigrants Became White: the Strange Journey from Ellis Island to the Suburbs (New York: Basic Books, 2005), 13. 21. Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 16–18; Deborah Cohen, Braceros: Migrant Citizens and Transnational Subjects in the United States and Mexico (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010); Noel Ignatiev, How the Irish Became White (New York: Routledge, 1995); Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color; 31. On ideas of immigrants’ low standard of living driving down wages see Lawrence B. Glickman, A Living Wage, 78–91. 22. Those historians who have discussed industrialization, immigration, and whiteness have usually done so using the American West or the Southwest as their setting. See Peck, Reinventing Free Labor; Elliott Robert Barkan, From All Points: America’s Immigrant West, 1870s–1952 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007); Ava F. Kahn, ed., Jewish Life in the American West: Perspectives on Migration, Settlement, and Community (Los Angeles: Autry Museum of Western Heritage in association with University of Washington Press, Seattle, 2002). 23. Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A Global History (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2015), 441. 24. Beatrice Craig, Backwoods Consumers and Homespun Capitalists: The Rise of a Market “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 129 important change in the way that North Americans thought about whiteness, wilderness, and work. In the 1840s, as an influx of Irish, German, and Canadian immigrants began to complicate the US understanding of whiteness, a dis- tinctive rhetoric emerged that allowed Americans to group immigrants into different racial categories.25 The first section of this article discusses French Canadian images in literature from the 1840s to 1893. In these works, racial differences were noted by the authors and were often an important part of the text, but the causes of these differences remained obscure to the audi- ence. Ideas about whiteness began to change as Darwinian interpretations of human evolution merged with the American fixation on a vanishing frontier, and concern over the effects of industrialization – a time most clearly denoted by Frederick Jackson Turner’s presentation of “The Significance of the Frontier in American History” in 1893.26 From the 1890s into the 1930s, the images of French Canadians and other immigrants were elucidated by academics and government officials as a scientific racial consensus solidified in the minds of most Americans. This is the topic of part two. The lingering effects of the racialized French Canadian image were still apparent in the 1950s when the bonded labour and shacking system became well documented. More than a century before the bonded labour system, however, the French Canadian image was perpetuated by an influential American writer living in a shack in Massachusetts. Literature and the Early French Canadian Image One of the few people who visited Henry Thoreau at Walden Pond was the French Canadian woodchopper and post maker Alek Therien, a character who represented nearly all the attributes of the French Canadian image before 1893. In Walden (1854), as in the other works discussed in this section, the French Canadian image depicts a people who are unperturbed by modernity and almost indistinguishable from the trees they work among. Though his name is never given in the original text, Therien is introduced to the reader as a “true … Paphlagonian man,” a reference to an ancient region along the Culture in Eastern Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 148. 25. On increased Canadian migration into the US in the 1840s see James P. Allen, “Migration Fields of French Canadian Immigrants to Southern Maine,” Geographical Review 62, 3 (1972): 369; Ralph Dominic Vicero, “Immigration of French Canadians to New England, 1840–1900: A Geographic Analysis,” PhD Dissertation, University of Wisconsin – Madison, 1968, 132; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 7, 42–43; Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness, 118; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 166, 225. 26. The presentation of the Turner thesis also coincides with a period of extensive French Canadian migration to New England. Yves Roby, The Franco-Americans of New England: Dreams and Realities (Sillery: Septentrion, 2005), 12; Carl N. Degler, In Search of Human Nature: The Decline and Revival of Darwinism in American Social Thought (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991). 130 / l abour/le tr avail 77 Black Sea that was “rugged and mountainous with dense forests.” Dressed in homespun cloth, “a more simple and natural man it would be hard to find,” Thoreau wrote. Therien was a wage worker who owned no land and did not have the ambition to become a proprietor. He lived in a log house in the woods, and admitted to Thoreau that if he could live off of hunting alone, he would. He imbibed nature by drinking spruce, hemlock, or checkerberry tea, and by taking balls of bark from trees and chewing them. “In physical endurance and contentment,” Thoreau wrote, “he was cousin to the pine and the rock. I asked him once if he was not sometimes tired at night, after working all day; and he answered … ‘Gorrappit, I never was tired in my life.’” Thoreau wrote that “in him the animal man chiefly was developed.” He was a skillful woodsman capable of making more posts in a day than the average person. When chop- ping a tree his cuts were clean, level, and close to the ground, and his cordwood was piled right. Though attentive to his work, Therien didn’t have the “anxiety and haste” of Yankee workers. When working he was in a constant state of elation. To the French Canadian, pleasure and work were the same thing. “I can enjoy myself well enough here chopping,” he reportedly said. “I want no better sport.”27 Therien was almost the embodiment of Thoreau’s ideal austere life, a person who rejected modern civilization for the natural world. He was so “simple,” however, that he was unable to engage in the type of deep thought that was so important for Thoreau.28 For Americans in the middle of the 19th century, the French Canadian simplemindedness, connection to nature, and lighthearted passivity were partially caused by their devout Catholicism: [his] strength skill and endurance came at the expense of intelligence, a flaw bolstered by his education.… He had been instructed only in that innocent and ineffectual way in which the Catholic priests teach the aborigines, by which the pupil is never educated to the degree of consciousness, but only to the degree of trust and reverence, and a child is not made a man, but kept a child. 29 27. Henry David Thoreau and Jeffrey S. Cramer, Walden: A Fully Annotated Edition (1854; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 139, 143, 141. 28. Robert W. Bradford, “Thoreau and Therien,” American Literature 34, 4 (1963): 501; Edward Watts, In This Remote Country: French Colonial Culture in the Anglo-American Imagination, 1780–1860 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 48; Thoreau and Cramer, Walden, 142, 143, 144–145; David E. Shi, The Simple Life: Plain Living and High Thinking in American Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 147–149; Philip Cafaro, Thoreau’s Living Ethics: Walden and the Pursuit of Virtue (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2004), 36, 37, 87, 118, 119, 210, 211. 29. Thoreau and Cramer, Walden, 139–144. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 131 In his survey of French Canadians in early American literature, Edward Watts found that the French were depicted as a group “meant to be governed, not to govern themselves.”30 In Thoreau’s early life, the racial sciences were in a nascent state. The supe- riority of the Anglo-Saxon-Teutonic people was commonly understood, but hierarchies of racial characteristics that extended beyond a dichotomy of white and black were, according to historian Reginald Horsman, “confused” and “jumbled.” There was also no “sharp separation between a precise scientific racialism and literary racial nationalism,” Horsman found.31 Understanding Thoreau’s influences will explain the type of sources that perpetuated immi- grant images for American audiences before 1893. Thoreau read John Springer’s Forest Life and Forest Trees (1851), a popular account of logging labour in which French Canadians were represented as “demi-savages” with a propensity for woodwork.32 Like other Americans, Thoreau likely read Alexis de Tocqueville’s works, including “Two Weeks in the Wilderness,” in which the French settlers are “carefree,” “cheerful,” men of “instinct” who submit to “life in the wild.” “He clings to the land,” De Tocqueville wrote, “and rips from the life in the wild everything he can snatch from it.”33 One text that had a strong influ- ence on how Americans thought of French speaking Canadians was Henry W. Longfellow’s epic poem Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie (1847), a work that his- torian Naomi Griffiths found “was the most powerful cultural tool available to those constructing an Acadian identity.” Although French Canadians and Acadians were distinct people, many Americans conflated the two groups. In Evangeline, the idyllic “forest primeval” of Acadia was the birthplace and a safe haven for the French who were forcefully expelled by the British. The French people were viewed as part of the landscape, their lives gliding on “like rivers that water the woodlands.” Like the landscape, these people’s society yielded slowly to time. The pine trees sang the tale of Evangeline.34 The Therien character also reflected circulating ideas of the familial and communal connection between the French and First Nations people. This connection partially explained their “swarthy” complexion and affinity with 30. Watts, In this Remote Country, 118. 31. Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 159, 301. 32. John S. Springer, Forest Life and Forest Trees (1851; New York: Harper, 1856), 246–247. 33. Alexis de Tocqueville, quoted in Watts, In This Remote Country, 40–41. 34. The first printing of Evangeline in 1847 sold out and in the following century the poem went through 270 editions and was translated into 130 languages. Naomi Griffiths, “‘Longfellow’s Evangeline’: The Birth and Acceptance of a Legend,” Acadiensis 11, 2 (1982): 28, 37; Andrew J.B. Johnston, “The Call of the Archetype and the Challenge of Acadian History,” French Colonial History 5, 1 (2004): 78; Eric L. Haralson “Mars in Petticoats: Longfellow and Sentimental Masculinity,” 19th-Century Literature 51, 3 (1996): 343, 344; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie (1847; Boston: Leach, Shewell, & Sanborn, 1896), 15–16; Watts, In this Remote Country, 88. 132 / l abour/le tr avail 77 the forest. Thoreau read James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales, in which the French and First Nations are not only allies, but also people who share a connection with the forest. Early and mid-century nonfiction works by Zadok Cramer, Francis Parkman, and George Bancroft furthered this idea. According to Parkman, “the French became savages” in early America.35 “Hundreds [of French settlers] betook themselves to the forest, never more to return,” Parkman wrote in his The Conspiracy of Pontiac (1851). After his stay at Walden, Thoreau visited Therien’s homeland and wrote A Yankee in Canada (1850). He found that, like the First Nations people, “the French … had become savage.”36 There was truth to the history of French and First Nations linkage. Historian Richard White found that “there is no need to romanticize this rela- tionship … [French and First Nations’] knowledge of each other’s customs and their ability to live together … had no equivalent among the British.” Even though most French Canadians were not of mixed heritage, by 1911 this belief was so widespread that the United States Immigration Commission felt the need to address it in a Dictionary of Races, stating “the French Canadian race is not widely intermingled with Indian blood, as some misinformed persons think.” At mid-century, American attention was fixated on the expansion of Anglo-Saxon peoples westward and on the domination and disappearance of Native peoples. Like the seemingly weak Mexicans that the US fought a war against in the late 1840s, the French Canadians were assumed to be spoiling their bloodline by intermingling with First Nation peoples. People who were associated with First Nation blood were on the wrong side of history. They would need to assimilate or be destroyed.37 35. Wayne Franklin, James Fenimore Cooper: The Early Years (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), xxix; Allan M. Axelrad, “Historical Contexts of The Last of the Mohicans: The French and Indian War, and Mid-1820s America,” paper presented at the 17th Cooper Seminar, “James Fenimore Cooper: His Country and His Art at the State University of New York College at Oneonta,” July 2009, accessed, 20 August 2014, http://external.oneonta.edu/cooper/articles/ suny/2009suny-axelrad.html; James Fenimore Cooper, The Deerslayer (1841; New York: Dodd, Mead, 1952), 23, 41; James Fenimore Cooper, The Pathfinder (1840; New York, NY: Dodd, Mead, 1953), 164; Zadok Cramer, The Navigator (1801; Pittsburgh: Cramer & Spear, 1824), 44, 254, 388; Fulmer Mood and Frederick J. Turner, “An Unfamiliar Essay by Frederick J. Turner,” Minnesota History 18, 4 (1937): 393; Peter Cook, “Onontio Gives Birth: How the French in Canada Became Fathers to their Indigenous Allies, 1645–1673,” Canadian Historical Review 96, 2 (2015): 165–193. 36. Quoted in Watts, In this Remote Country, 72; Henry David Thoreau, A Yankee in Canada with Anti-Slavery Reform Papers (1866; Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1866), 60, 61; Charles Hallock, “Aroostook and the Madawaska,” The Harper’s Monthly 20 (October 1863): 695. 37. Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650–1815 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 60–75, 316; Carolyn Podruchny, Making the Voyageur World: Travelers and Traders in the North American Fur Trade (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007), 1, 2, 71, 98; William P. Dillingham, et al., Dictionary of Races or Peoples (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 29; Jean Charlemagne Bracq, The Evolution of French Canada (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1924), 206; Madison Grant, The Conquest of a Continent; or, The Expansion of Races in America “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 133 The French Canadian connection to nature and First Nation peoples was reinforced by the popular image of the French voyageurs and coureurs de bois, frontier workers who defined the early Canadian experience in the wilderness. Importantly, 19th-century texts on the voyageurs depicted them as blending into, rather than civilizing, the frontier. The French entered the woods not to “clear and colonize,” but to range. The only enduring marks they left on the land were “names upon the map.” Thoreau wrote that they had “overrun the great extent of the country … without improving it.”38 One American author, reflecting on the settlement of the US wrote, “if these countries had contin- ued to belong to the French, the population would certainly have been more gay than the present American race … but it would have had less comforts and wealth, and ages would have passed away, before man had become master of those regions.…” Clearly American thinkers were quick to forget the real French contribution to the settling of North America when it supported their narrative of Anglo-Saxon superiority. French Canadians, like Native people, were a “vanishing” part of the landscape. Unlike Native peoples, however, French Canadians remained valuable to the growing American economy because, as Therien demonstrated, they fit into a specific industrial niche.39 The idea that French Canadians were a people who uniquely fit into wood- work was a common theme in late 19th- and early 20th-century popular fiction. A romanticized view of the arboreal and agrarian life of the French Canadians was part of la survivance, a repatriation and cultural preservation movement which gained momentum after the accelerated influx of French Canadians into the US in the late 19th century. A popular example of la sur- vivance literature was Louis Hémon’s 1916 book Maria Chapdelaine.40 In the book, clearing the forest was the passion of these people: “‘Make land!’ Rude phrase of the country, summing up in two words all the heart-breaking labor that transforms the incult woods, barren of sustenance, to smiling fields.…”41 (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1933), 310–311; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 183, 216, 240, 241, 272. 38. Mood and Turner, “An Unfamiliar Essay,” 395; Watts, In This Remote Country, 37; Konrad Gross, “The Voyageurs: Images of Canada’s Archetypal Frontiersmen,” in Hena Maes-Jelinek, Gordon Collier, Geoffrey V. Davis, and Anna Rutherford, eds., A Talent(Ed) Digger: Creations, Cameos, and Essays in Honour of Anna Rutherford (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), 411–422; Thoreau, Yankee in Canada, 62; Béatrice Craig and Maxime Dagenais, The Land in Between: The Upper St. John Valley, Prehistory to World War I (Gardiner: Tilbury House, 2009), 48. 39. Quoted in Watts, In This Remote Country, 15, 8–9; Thoreau, Yankee in Canada, 62; See also Zadok Cramer, The Navigator; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 218; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 156, 198, 200, 230, 291. 40. The book was translated into English multiple times and adapted into several movies. Louis Hémon, Maria Chapdelaine, trans. W.H. Blake (1913; Toronto: MacMillan, 1921), 45; Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage, 34, 158. 41. Hémon, Maria Chapdelaine, 46; Paul Socken, “Maria Chapdelaine” in Eugene Benson and William Toye, eds., The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature. (Oxford: Oxford 134 / l abour/le tr avail 77 Félix-Antoine Savard’s popular Menaud Maître-draveur, depicts the forests and rivers of Québec under the thrall of an Anglo-Canadian lumberman and the French take their place in the river crews, using their innate skill to bring the logs to market. There is a long list of other Canadian authors who employed similar depictions of French Canadian woodsmen.42 French Canadians are similarly depicted in American literature. In Jack London’s popular The Call of the Wild, the Québécois Francois and Perrault are idealized frontiersmen who are fundamentally important to the protagonist Buck’s reconnection with nature. Characters similar to Francois and Perrault appear in the pleth- ora of lumbermen novels and pulp fiction which were popular in the US from 1900 into the 1950s. In his famous The Blazed Trail (1902), Edward Stewart wrote that French supporting characters “typified the indomitable spirit of these conquers of a wilderness.” Similar characters are found in White’s other popular books and in Maine writer Holman Day’s forest fictions.43 Hard Race Science In the literary and fictional works written in the middle of the 19th century the French Canadian idiosyncrasies were thought to have been caused by their Catholicism, their intermingling with Native peoples, and their history University Press, 1997) accessed 27 August 2014, http://site.ebrary.com/lib/alltitles/docDetail. action?docID=10334814. 42. These include William Henry Drummond, Gilbert Parker, Cornelius Krieghoff, George Boucher, Rosarie Dion-Levesque, Reine Malouin, Camille Lessard, and Jacque Durcharme. Félix-Antoine Savard, Boss of the River (1937; Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1947); Jules Tessier “Menaud, Maître-draveur,” in Benson, and Toye, eds., The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature; Armand Chartier, “Towards a History of Franco-American Literature: Some Considerations,” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 295–306; Richard S. Sorrell, “‘History as a Novel, the Novel as History’: Ethnicity and the Franco American English Landguar Novel,” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 361. 43. Jack London, The Call of the Wild (1903; New York: Macmillan, 1963), 17; Stewart Edward White, The Blazed Trail (New York: McClure, 1907), 13, 41, 46, 65. White’s other books with stereotypical French Canadian characters include The Westerners (New York: McClure, Phillips, 1901), Conjuror’s House: A Romance of the Free Forest (New York: McClure, Phillips, 1903) and The Forest (New York: Outlook Company, 1903). Day’s books include Joan of Arc of the North Woods (New York: Harper, 1922) and The Landloper: The Romance of a Man on Foot (New York: Harper, 1915). There are many other examples, including, Sara Ware Bassett, The Story of Lumber (Philadelphia: Penn Publishing Company, 1912); Levi Parker Wyman, The Golden Boys Among the Lumberjacks (New York: A.L. Burt, 1923); Stephen W. Meader, Lumberjack (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1934); Frank Gee Patchin, The Pony Rider Boys in New England: Or, An Exciting Quest in the Maine Wilderness (Philadelphia: H. Altemus, 1924); Capt. Charles A.J. Farrar, Through the Winds: A Record of Sport and Adventure in the Forests of New Hampshire and Maine (Boston: Estes & Lauriat, 1892); David C. Smith, “Virgin Timber: The Maine Woods as a Locale for Juvenile Fiction” in Richard S. Sprague, ed., A Handful of Spice: A Miscellany of Maine Literature and History (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1968), 194–195, 196. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 135 of work in the wilderness. There were few clues in these works as to why French Canadians were ostensibly predisposed to these activities. After the US census declared the official closing of the Western frontier in 1890 and Frederick Jackson Turner published his thesis on that topic in 1893, North American elites increasingly attempt to fit immigrants into a scientific “hierarchy of evo- lutionary economic stages,” which helped explain their behaviour. Just as the African American predisposition to slavery was supposedly a result of race, French Canadian Catholicism, affinity to the First Nations, and connection to the forest became, not the cause of racial difference, but the consequence.44 In this period the most useful tools to use in determining racial traits were not works of fiction (though these still helped perpetuate the images) but the social scientific disciplines of sociology, history, and anthropology.45 As the racial sciences developed, experts like anthropologist Franz Boas posited that peoples were shaped by their environment, and shaped their envi- ronment in turn as part of the progression of human evolution.46 Observing how different cultures were able to make civilization from wilderness land, historically and in the present, revealed their innate racial characteristics. Popular travel writer Richard Harding wrote in 1903 that “there is no more interesting question of the present day, than that of what is to be done with the world’s land which is laying unimproved, whether it shall go to the great power that is willing to turn it to account, or remain with its original owner, who fails to understand its value.” Supposedly “civilized” races used wild land to make a profit, and to bring forth culture and free government. Those who were controlled by nature, or lived in harmony with it, were more “savage.”47 Savage societies like the First Nations were wasteful because they did not create as much value from wilderness land as civilized people did. By not retaining the same amount of value from their labour as white people, lesser races were always working at a loss and could never be completely economi- cally independent. White races were more bodily efficient than inferior races, 44. Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues, 50–51, 145. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 31; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 48, 70; John S. Haller, Outcasts from Evolution; Scientific Attitudes of Racial Inferiority, 1859–1900 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1971). 45. In his Working Toward Whiteness Roediger argues that readers should be skeptical of any history that presents the racial thinking of the time as “elegant.” Peck calls the racial thinking of the time “unstable.” In retrospect it was clear that these were “messy” sciences but around the turn of the century there was a clear, collective attempt to make the racial sciences more precise. Roediger, Working Toward Whiteness, 7–8, 37; Painter, The History of White People, x; Ngai, Impossible Subjects, 33; Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 169; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 6. 46. Roediger, Working Towards Whiteness, 68; Degler, In Search of Human Nature, 65. 47. Quoted in Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues, 112, 145, 171; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 7; Adam Kuper, The Reinvention of Primitive Society: Transformations of a Myth (London: Routledge, 2005); Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 113–114. 136 / l abour/le tr avail 77 a US government report found. The Germans, for example, were better able to “apply their industry and energy” than Southern Europeans.48 Racial char- acteristics, then, innately determined the type of professions to which racial groups were predisposed. In his popular Passing of the Great Race, Madison Grant discussed the “racial aptitudes” of different people: “The Alpine race is always and everywhere a race of peasants, an agricultural and never a maritime race.… The Nordics are, all over the world, a race of soldiers, sailors, adventur- ers and explorers, but above all, of rulers, organizers and aristocrats.”49 The history of North America as it was written by the “conservative evolu- tionist” and “progressive” historians of the late 19th and early 20th centuries supported these racial taxonomies. Proponents of the “germ theory” of histori- cal progression argued that, in the civilizing of the North American wilderness land, “the inherent superiority of the Anglo-Saxon … Germanic … Teutonic or the Aryan race was a common intellectual assumption of the day.” The “free land” of America was “an Anglo-Saxon theatre, an empire which only the ‘old stock’ Americans could have developed and in which the new immigrants played no part.” Theodore Roosevelt, Frederick Jackson Turner, Herbert Baxter Adams, Edward Perkins Channing, and George Bancroft all agreed that “when Germanic people were placed in a forest environment they tended instinc- tively to evolve … free political institutions” and economic success.50 It was the prerogative of true white people to bring about civilization wherever there was free wild land. Racial thinking of the time suggested that to civilize wilder- ness land a racial group needed three crucial characteristics: 1) to be bodily able, 2) to have familiarity (actually or hereditarily) with forest land, and 3) to be self-directing or have independent inclinations. These characteristics come up again and again in texts on race and wilderness. For example, Turner described these pioneering traits as “coarseness and strength combined with acuteness and inquisitiveness; that practical, inventive turn of mind, quick to find expedience; that masterful grasp of material things, lacking in the artistic but powerful to effect great ends; that restless, nervous energy; that dominant individualism.” The last attribute, individualism, was particularly important. 48. Dillingham, et al., Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 1 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 424. 49. Grant, The Passing of the Great Race, 227–228. 50. Gilman M. Ostrander, “Turner and the Germ Theory,” Agricultural History 32, 4 (1958): 259; Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 81; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 43; Gail Bederman, Manliness & Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 25; Bronwen J. Cohen, “Nativism and Western Myth: The Influence of Nativist Ideas on the American Self-image” Journal of American Studies 8, 1 (1974): 28–29; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 71, 206–207; Madison Grant, The Conquest of a Continent; Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York: W.W. Norton, 1987); Novick, That Noble Dream, 457. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 137 Even slaves could clear land under direction, but true white pioneers tamed the wilderness individually, civilized it, and eventually lorded over others who did the manual labour. Americans on Canadian frontier rail grades expressed their dominance by quickly rising up the ranks to become “pushers,” “drivers,” or “foremen-bullies.” “They take hold of a group of workers and get something done,” sociologist Edmund Bradwin wrote.51 The forest was a crucial part of creating civilization because it gave pio- neering races vast resources while also imposing a substantial barrier to weed out weaker peoples. According to Turner, “American democracy came from the forest.” When white people turned forest into farms, “culture” emerged. The axe was a metaphor for the advancement of civilization, but there was a presumed literal element to the metaphor. Only those capable of sustained manual labour and ingenuity were capable of creating civilization. Northern Europeans had a propensity for “unbroken forest land” and naturally avoided slavish, urban, industrial work.52 They were always owners and their own bosses. The Norwegian, for example had “never known the steamroller of feu- dalism.” The Scandinavian “insisted on getting his living in connection with soil, water and wood,” and looked for “good land rather than for land easy to subdue.” The German “chopped his homestead out of the densest woods” because, according to early sociologist Edward A. Ross, he knew “heavy forest growth proclaims rich soil.” Ross’ comments on the issue carried weight. A renowned academic, his popular audience widened in 1900 when he was fired from Stanford University for supporting Chinese exclusion, which, he argued, would prevent “race suicide” (a phrase he coined).53 51. Attribute number three was an economic and a political virtue. On the frontier, immigrants and citizens were making free markets and making free government at the same time. It is difficult to divide citizenship and economic viability into separate discursive categories like Jacobson seems to want in Whiteness of a Different Color, 72; Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 166–169; Dillingham, et al., Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 2, 175; Turner, The Frontier in American History, 37; Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 98; Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 72. 52. Turner, The Frontier in American History (1920; Project Gutenberg, 2007), 154, accessed 7 May 2015, http://www.gutenberg.org/files/22994/22994-h/22994-h.htm#Page_157; Michael J. Pikus, “Chopping Away at the New World: The Metaphor of the Axe in The Prairie. The Axe as a Symbol of Destruction, in The Pioneers and The Prairie” (SUNY seminar: 2001) accessed 5 November 2015, http://external.oneonta.edu/cooper/articles/suny/2001suny-pikus. html; Cohen, “Nativism and Western Myth” 25; Dillingham, et al., Abstracts of Reports of the Immigration Commission, 547–549, 551; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 47. On the importance of the forest in the myths that propagated proper whiteness see Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 72, 75, 83, 108, 169, 281; Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), 8–13; Della Hooke, Trees in Anglo-Saxon England: Literature, Lore and Landscape (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press, 2010). 53. Ross, The Old World in the New (1913; New York: Century, 1914), 82, 73–74, 52; Dillingham, et al., Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 1 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 424; Cohen, “Nativism and Western Myth,” 37; Painter, The History of White People, 251–252; James C. Mohr, “Academic Turmoil and Public Opinion: 138 / l abour/le tr avail 77 The harshness of the American wilderness weeded out the weak, it was thought, forging a unique American race. In Roosevelt’s words “there was scant room for cowards and weaklings in the ranks of the adventurous fron- tiersmen … who first hewed their way into the primeval forest.”54 Historian George Bancroft wrote that the “the century-training in backwoods life” gave white Americans advantages over the immigrant germ. Boas, who typically argued against some of the most harmful racial science of his time, found to his own surprise that the “American soil” could change people bodily in only a few generations.55 Since Darwinian evolution occurred over time, the study of ancient and medieval history provided important evidence to support the racial sciences. In the early 20th century there was a growing alliance between the profes- sion of history and the newer social sciences. Historical evidence was used to help explain the habit of races in the present day. For example, Ross found that Scandinavian people were drawn to “Northern lumber camps, where they wield another pattern of ax than did their forebears, who, eight centuries ago, were known as ‘ax-bearers’ in the Eastern emperor’s body-guard.” Scandinavia was, according to Ross, “the mother hive of the swarms of barbarians that kept southern Europeans in dread a thousand years.”56 They brought to the frontier of America “the spirit of the Viking race,” Bradwin found. He continued: “let us think of these things as we watch their descendants … gather in groups on some isolated work, loitering, skulking … men of massive frames, slouch about some obscure Canadian camp.” Like the Scandinavians, the Germans were a race forged in the “Hercynian forest.” Modern Germans were “descendants from the tribes that met under the oak-trees of old Germany,” making them “strong like the oak.”57 The Ross Case at Stanford,” Pacific Historical Review 39, 1 (1970): 39–61. 54. Ross, The Old World in the New, 21; Theodore Roosevelt, The Strenuous Life: Essays and Addresses (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1906), 242. 55. Quoted in Ostrander, “Turner and the Germ Theory,” 258; William P. Dillingham, et al., Reports Of The Immigration Commission: Changes In Bodily Form Of Descendants Of Immigrants (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1911), 5, 72, 75; Degler, In Search of Human Nature, 63–64; Painter, A History of White People, 238. 56. Novick, That Noble Dream, 90; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 184; Ross, The Old World in the New, 72, 73–74; Barkan, From All Points, 257, 346. On the importance of ancient and medieval history in this discourse see, Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 9–24; Meyer Reinhold, Classica Americana: The Greek and Roman Heritage in the United States (Michigan: Wayne State University Press, 1984); Andrew F. West, F. F. Abbott, Edward Capps, Duane Reed Stuart, Donald Blyth Durham, and Theodore A Miller, eds., Value of the Classics (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1917); T.J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture, 1880–1920 (New York: Pantheon Books, 1981) 141–167. 57. Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 101; Quoted in Painter, The History of White People, 182; Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues, 157. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 139 Still influential at the end of the 19th century, the works of historian of the classics Edward Gibbons reinforced these ideas. The Gallic, Nordic, or Teutonic people surpassed Mediterranean people in vigour and manliness, partly because of their ability to thrive in frontier environments. These envi- ronments bred in them physical vitality and size. Living in the wilderness was directly linked to their bellicose nature. To various degrees, these warlike people resisted the decadence of the Roman metropolis and were better off for it: “the true mission of the Germanic peoples was to renovate and reorganize the western world. In the heart of the forest, amid the silences of unbroken plains … [they] re-infuse[d] life and vigor and the sanctions of a lofty morality into the effete and marrowless institutions of the Roman world.”58 Although he became famous for his ideas on the environment, George Perkin Marsh was inspired by ideas of race and nature. According to Marsh’s Man and Nature or, Physical Geography as Modified by Human Action, Roman decadence and weakness had caused the culture to become out of sync with the environment, leading to the fall of the Empire. In a similar vein, Ross wrote that some Slavic people were destroying American soil, leaving “Death’s-head in the landscape.” He argued that North Americans would have to pay for these mistakes just like “France paid for the reckless ax work that went on under the First Republic.”59 According to Marsh and Ross the ability to make land profitable in the long term was an inheritable racial trait. With a few exceptions, the logic of the time dictated that races whose ances- tral homeland was outside of Northwestern Europe had less ability to civilize wilderness, and thus less aptitude for citizenship. Immigrants from Southern and Eastern Europe carried with them this presumed racial burden. As they inhabited the seat of metropolitan decay in ancient times, Italians attained effete racial characteristics. Russian and Romanian Jews, sometimes assumed to have Mongolian blood, sometimes Mediterranean, were always a bad racial type and thus bad pioneers. Lacking physical stamina and frugality, they were a city people by nature. Journalist Jacob Riis, author of the popular How the Other Half Lives, reported that “the great mass of them [Jews] are too gregari- ous to take kindly to farming, and their strong commercial instincts hamper” their ability to cultivate the land. According to Ross, “they came from cities and settled in cities…. No other physiques can so well withstand the toxins of urban congestion. Not one Hebrew family in a hundred is on the land.… They 58. Gilbert F. LaFreniere, The Decline of Nature: Environmental History and the Western Worldview (Bethesda: Academica Press, 2007), 55–56; Ostrander, “Turner and the Germ Theory,” 260; Painter, The History of White People, 17–18; 27; Quoted in Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 34, 66, 68, 69. 59. Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 181; George P. Marsh, Man and Nature or, Physical Geography as Modified by Human Action (1864; Project Gutenberg, 2011) accessed 20 May 2015, http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37957, 6, 7, 49, 279; LaFreniere, The Decline of Nature, 55–57; Ross, The Old World in the New, 203. 140 / l abour/le tr avail 77 contrive to avoid hard muscular labor.”60 Ross observed that the second gen- eration improved, but suggested that “it will be long before they produce the stoical type who blithely fares forth into the wilderness, portaging his canoe, poling it against the current, wading in the torrents living on bacon and beans, and sleeping on the ground.” The comedy films Der Yiddisher Cowboy (1910) and Der Yidisher Kauboy (1911), mocked Jewish ineptitude on the frontier and popularized these stereotypes.61 US government reports and racial scientists agreed that perceived French Canadian racial deficiencies were caused by the evolution of French society in ancient and medieval Europe, though there was mixed opinion on their exact racial genealogy. It was assumed by some that the French were Celtic or Gallic people who shared the bellicose nature of other ancient frontier peoples. Dillingham’s Dictionary of Race along with a few other sources defined the French as Teutonic, or purely white. The Gauls and Celts, however, had given into the Roman conquest easier than German, Teutonic, Nordic, or Anglo- Saxon people, demonstrating their weakness. One visitor to the Acadians of Madawaska found they were clearly “distinct in tastes, habits and aspirations from the Anglo-Saxon race.” Still other racial thinkers saw the French as a bifurcated people, the peasant class comprised largely of Roman slave blood, while the aristocracy maintained Teutonic traits. This unstable genealogical position meant that French Canadians could not immediately be considered proper white citizens.62 American investigations into the active settling of wilderness land rein- forced the idea that immigrants of questionable whiteness were unfit to create civilization from wilderness. Collected under the direction of Vermont senator William P. Dillingham (R), The Federal Reports of the Immigration Commission of 1911 constituted a series of studies on American immigration that focused on industry and agriculture. Two volumes on “Recent Immigrants in Agriculture” explored how new immigrants took to “pioneer farming” or 60. Dillingham, et al., Dictionary of Races or Peoples, 74, 75; Ross, The Old World in the New, 145, 209, 289, 290; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 6, 174; Grant, The Conquest of a Continent, 227; Joseph Jacobs, Studies in Jewish Statistics, Social, Vital and Anthropometric (London: D. Nutt, 1891), 1v. 61. Ross, The Old World in the New, 209; Ava F. Kahn, “American West, New York Jewish,” and Ellen Eisenberg, “From Cooperative Farming to Urban Leadership,” in Kahn, ed., Jewish Life in the American West, 37, 117–118; Edward Paul Merwin, “In their Own Image: New York Jews in Jazz Age American Popular Culture,” PhD dissertation, City University of New York, 2002, 190–197. 62. Painter, The History of White People, 100–101; Watts, In This Remote Country, 9, 24; John Davidson, “The Growth of the French Canadian Race in America,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 8 (1896): 20; Dillingham, et al., Dictionary of Races or Peoples, 28–31; Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 92–95; Painter, The History of White People, 232; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 45, 162; Edward H. Elwell, Aroostook: With Some Account of the Excursions Thither of the Editors of Maine, in the Years 1858 and 1878, and of the Colony of Swedes, Settled in the Town of New Sweden (Portland: Transcript Print, 1878), 26. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 141 the clearing and civilizing of wild land.63 The site of investigation was the wilderness of Northern Wisconsin, but according to the study, wild land was any land that was valueless until hard work rendered value from it. Wild land could be swamp, sand, brush, cutover land, second growth, grassland, and any type of forest. They even referred to “wild lands” in New Jersey.64 The land in Wisconsin, however, like much of the forests of the Northeast, Pacific Northwest, and the Canadian Boreal Shield was a type of landscape that was imagined to have improved the Northern European races in early America. It also mimicked some of the features of the landscape of ancient Northern Europe.65 In a growing industrial economy, this type of land had two primary uses: lumber and other natural resources could be extracted from it and the land could be put into cultivation. This type of work was the first step in creating civilization and was only suited for the most fit races. “It is just such land as this … that hundreds of Germans, Scandinavians, Poles and Swiss have been buying, clearing and making good living on since the early [eighteen] nineties” the report found.66 The Dillingham studies found that immigrants of Southern Italian lineage were naturally ill equipped for this pioneer agriculture. They were urban “industrial workers” by nature and “ordinarily the city-bred immigrant does not make a good pioneer farmer.”67 Italians proved to be better pioneer farmers than Jewish settlers, however. One local Wisconsin man commented after watching the Jewish workers that “No 63. The authors of the studies on agriculture exposed their racial bias in the abstract, writing that they selected for study only those “races … which we are accustomed to consider inclined to industrial rather than to agricultural pursuits.” They included only those “races which come from southern or eastern Europe, and the Japanese.” Ostrander, “Turner and the Germ Theory,” 258; Dillingham, et al., Abstracts of Reports of the Immigration Commission, 543; Zeidel, Immigrants, Progressives, and Exclusion Politics. 64. Dillingham, et al., Abstracts of Reports of the Immigration Commission, 595; Dillingham et al, Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 2, 555, 96, 212. 65. Ostrander, “Turner and the Germ Theory,” 259–260; Novick, That Noble Dream, 87; Herbert Baxter Adams, The Germanic Origin of New England Towns (Baltimore: N. Murray, publication agent, Johns Hopkins University, 1882), 33. 66. Poles inhabited a space in the racial hierarchy that was similar to the Canadian French. Their whiteness was questionable, but they exhibited many white racial characteristics. Dillingham, et al., Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 2, 145,175,190, 213, 265, 346, 262; Roediger, Working Toward Whiteness, 44; Ross, The Old World in the New, 120; Painter, The History of White People, 289; Dillingham, et al., Dictionary of Races or Peoples, 104. 67. Jacob Riis, How the Other Half Lives: Studies Among the Tenements of New York (1889; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1890), 48; Dillingham, et al., Abstracts of Reports of the Immigration Commission, 565, 574; Dillingham, et al., Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 1, 41–42, 399, 431; Ross, The Old World in the New, 97, 102; There was, however, “[a] sharp cleavage” between Northern and Southern Italians, proving how specific the racial sciences had become. Dillingham, et al., Dictionary of Races or Peoples, 82; Peck, Reinventing Free Labor, 169; Cohen, “Nativism and Western Myth,” 31. 142 / l abour/le tr avail 77 one could handle or sharpen an ax or a saw, or milk a cow, care for stock or conduct any sort of farming operations.… ‘Ask one to dig a post hole and he would likely dig a well.’” Ross stated the prevailing attitude bluntly: “the Hebrews are the polar opposite of our pioneer breed.”68 French Canadians were not included in these Dillingham studies because their history in the New World proved that they excelled at many aspects of improving wilderness land, yet this did not mean their whiteness was unques- tioned. The French Canadians were perceived to have white people’s physical aptitude and ability in the woods, but were lacking in the third crucial element required to bring civilization to the land: an independent inclination. The col- lection of essays edited by James George Aylwin Creighton, French Canadian Life and Character: With Historical and Descriptive Sketches (1899), demon- strates the common conception of French Canadian workers at the time: “[the] Canadian experiences developed in the old French stock new qualities, good and bad, the good predominating … such men needed only a leader [emphasis added] who understood them to go anywhere into the untrodden depths of the New World, and to do anything that man could do.” The shortcomings of the French Canadians and Southern Italians in the realm of independence was attributed to their Catholicism, adherence to which was now a sign of racial inferiority. To Creighton, the French Canadian was “a genuine survival of the Old Regime … smoke-dried into perpetual preservation” and their devo- tion to religion was likewise outdated.69 Gerald Morgan argued in the pages of The North American Review in 1917 that the will of the French Canadian people was the same as the will of their priests who had it in their best inter- est to keep the laity ignorant, isolated, and bound to tradition. The result, according to Morgan, was the “stoppage of national progress.” Convinced by the French Canadian image, Americans and British Canadians alike depicted these people’s agriculture as backwards. Conveying both the French Canadian inability to properly render profit from the land and their racial inferiority, popular author on race Madison Grant wrote they were “a poor and ignorant 68. There were a few exceptions, the report noted, and these exceptional Jewish settlers were able to clear a “large quantity of timber.” Dillingham, et al., Immigrants in Industries: Part 24; Recent Immigrants in Agriculture, Vol. 2, 93, 143, 146–147; Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 108–109; Ross, The Old World in the New, 145, 289. 69. George Monroe Grant, ed. French Canadian Life and Character; With Historical and Descriptive Sketches of the Scenery and Life in Québec, Montreal, Ottawa, and Surrounding Country (Chicago: A. Belford, 1899), 73. Catholic French Canadians supposedly brought to the new world a Norman predisposition to tyranny and absolutism. Northern Europeans were depicted as the “purest Protestants” and thus the most free-thinking, free-acting, and capable people. According to Turner, Scotch-Irish were also great frontiersmen because they were not Catholic Celts, but Saxon Protestants. Barkan, From All Points: America’s Immigrant West, 185; Watts, In This Remote Country, 9; Mood and Turner, “An Unfamiliar Essay,” 393, 397; Ross, The Old World in the New, 13, 71, 82; Ostrander, “Turner and the Germ Theory,” 28, 206; Watts, In This Remote Country, 3; Grant, ed., French Canadian Life and Character, 12; Craig and Dagenais, The Land in Between, 298, 327–337; Elwell, Aroostook, 25. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 143 community of little more importance to the world at large than are the Negroes in the South.”70 The French proved they could clear wilderness land, but, like “Negroes” they could never truly bring high civilization to it. In 1904 one northern New York newspaper published an article on logging in the region proclaiming “these French-Canadian inhabitants of the woods are half-wild folk.” This article encapsulated the prevailing attitudes on the French Canadian race at the time. The common belief was that First Nations made the wild their home and they had no desire to civilize it. This had made them wild and savage. French Canadians had an affinity for wild land like First Nations but they also had an affinity towards clearing it. If left on their own, however, their racial weaknesses meant they were forever stuck in the process of civilizing the wilderness. Given the fact that they were also seen to have mixed their blood with First Nations people, it is easy to understand how they were understood to be in between white/civilized (or civilizing), and savage (non-white)/wild. Therefore they were “half-wild folks.”71 By the 1950s the explicit racial thinking of the first two decades of the 20th century had been almost completely abandoned.72 Stereotypes of immi- grants remained, but they were explained using different analytical methods. Mid-20th century “Chicago School” anthropologists and sociologists created narratives of the French Canadian transition into modernity that reinforced all the characteristics of the French Canadian image. Even with their fixa- tion on data and ethnographic observation, these experts were not able to evade reifying commonly held beliefs. Anthropologists Robert Redfield and Horace Miner argued that French Canadian peasants, or habitants, were primitive people. They were not land owners like American farmers; instead they worked on behalf of another, and the full product of their labour was not their own. They had an affinity with nature that most modern people did not possess because they worked so closely with it daily. For habitants, the sea- sonal cycles of life and in agro-forestry repeat year after year, generation after generation, with little change unless change was brought from the outside. Sociologist Everett C. Hughes wrote in his French Canada in Transition (1943) 70. Gerald Morgan, “The French Canadian Problem: From an American Standpoint,” The North American Review 205, 734 (1917): 77–80; Grant, The Passing of the Great Race, 81; Outka, Race and Nature, 3. 71. According to Jacobson it was part of the imperative of imperial nations to see foreign people as “wilderness in human form.” Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues, 111; “Lumbering Operations in the Adirondacks,” The Watertown Re-Union (Watertown, NY) 9 March 1914; Jocelyn Thorpe, Temagami’s Tangled Wild: Race, Gender, and the Making of Canadian Nature (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2012), 15; Nast, Wilderness and the American Mind, 260; Colin Fisher, “Race and US Environmental History,” in Sackman, ed., A Companion to American Environmental History; Outka, Race and Nature, 33. 72. The Holocaust and a retrospective understanding of America’s eugenic policies towards African Americans had proven the dangers of these ideologies. English, Unnatural Selections, 177, 182; Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 95–96, 98–99. 144 / l abour/le tr avail 77 that the small French Canadian farmers were “bound by sentiment, tradition, and kinship to the … countryside.” According to Hughes, when the French did industrialize it was because of British Canadian or American catalysts not because of their own ability.73 As depicted in Savard’s Menaud Maître- draveur, the natural transition for these peasant lumberers in an increasingly industrial world was work in commercial logging interests. The French Canadian image made these workers specific targets for labour agents in the lumber hubs of the Northeast. Immigrant workers were often dependent on these middle men to find work in American camps. The Foran Act of 1885 banned immigration of contract labourers but the Immigration Act of 1917 allowed “skilled workers” to be imported if there was no native labour available to do the work. Under the 1917 act immigrant workers were subject to an eight to ten dollar head tax, a charge that was often factored into the labour agents’ fees.74 Workers who took the jobs from labour agents often accumulated debt of around $30–$35 from fees, transportation, and advances. If they spent liberally at the wangan, or camp store, they might accumulate $40 or $50 of debt to different parties. With wages between $25 and $30 a month some indebted workers needed to work nearly 2 months before they were even and the logging season was only between 4 and 6 months long.75 Once in camp, there is evidence that French Canadians were subject to very harsh treatment. Tough bosses in wilderness camps pushed foreigners hard and dis- ciplined them severely, hoping to weed out unfit workers. A boss in charge of a lumber operation in St. Lawrence County, New York shot and killed a French Canadian worker in 1908 after a disagreement about camp food.76 This type of 73. Robert Redfield, Peasant Society and Culture: An Anthropological Approach to Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956), 25–29. 116, 144; Horace Miner, St. Denis: A French-Canadian Parish (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), 20, 158–159; Brigitte Lane, “Three Major Witnesses of Franco-American Folklore in New England,” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 416; Everett C. Hughes, French Canada in Transition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1943), 2; Marlene Shore, The Science of Social Redemption: McGill, the Chicago School, and the Origins of Social Research in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987), 253–260. 74. Fred Alliston Gilbert Papers, “F.A. Glibert to G. Schenck, 20 December 1925,” box 7, Correspondence, 1924–1925 Special Collections, Raymond H. Fogler Library, University of Maine; Meigs, The Santa Clara Lumber Company, 113–114. 75. Farm Labor National Agricultural Statistics Service, United States Department of Agriculture, Agriculture Marketing Service, 12 January 1940, accessed, 31 March 2015, http:// usda.mannlib.cornell.edu/MannUsda/viewDocumentInfo.do?documentID=1063; William F. Fox, A History of the Lumber Industry in the State of New York (Washington, DC: US Dept. of Agriculture, Bureau of Forestry, 1902); Meigs, Santa Clara Lumber Company, 56; Flanagan, “Industrial Conditions in the Maine Woods,” 219, 223–226; Paul H. Douglas, Real Wages in the United States, 1890–1926 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1930) 41, 130, 177; James H. Blodgett, Wages of Farm Labor in the United States: Results of Twelve Statistical Investigations, 1866– 1902 (Washington, DC: US Dept. of Agriculture, Bureau of Statistics, 1903), 14. 76. Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 163; Robert E. Pike, Tall Trees, Tough Men (New York: “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 145 rough treatment may have even led to the famous French Canadian “jumping” disease, a type of post-traumatic stress disorder reported among immigrant workers in a few Northeastern camps. 77 Rough treatment was one of the many reasons why some workers jumped camp and returned to Québec without working off their debt, a practice that became known as taking the “French Leave” or “jumping the line.”78 In 1907 the Maine legislator followed the lead of Minnesota and Michigan and enacted a statue which allowed authorities to arrest loggers and river drivers who did not pay off advances. If found guilty of “intent to defraud” they faced up to 30 days of jail or a $10 fine even though most debts did not exceed $10 or $20. Many rural justices either did not understand, or willingly misinterpreted, the “intent to defraud” provision and punished any worker caught with outstand- ing debt who left camp, even those with legitimate reasons for leaving. The threat of punishment pressured many workers to continue to work and few cases ever made it into the courts. When workers were arrested “in nine cases out of ten the men are made to go back to work” according to one labour agent. A rural justice in Maine admitted that he would wait for debtors to get drunk in mill towns and when they were arrested for some related offense he would check to see if they had any unpaid debt with an operator. If so the justice forced the man to work off both the state fine and the debt in camp. Labour advocate John Clifton Elder studied debt peonage around 1907 and he testified that “the Labor Law of Maine … make virtual slaves of the labouring classes.”79 W.W. Norton, 1967) 57; Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 163; White, The Blazed Trail, 218–219; Wyckoff, The Workers, 236; “Telephones After Murder” Chateaugay Record and Franklin County Democrat, 5 June 1908, Page 6, Image 6, Northern New York Library Network, accessed 31 March 2015, http://nyshistoricnewspapers.org/lccn/sn87070301/1908-06-05/ed-1/seq-6/. 77. Robert Howard and Rodney Ford, “From the Jumping Frenchmen of Maine to Posttraumatic Stress Disorder: the Startle Response in Neuropsychiatry,” Psychological Medicine 22 (1992): 700, 702; George Beard, “Remarks upon ‘Jumpers or Jumping Frenchmen,’” The Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases 5 (1878): 526; Marie‐Hélène Sainte-Hilaire, Jean‐ Marc Sainte-Hilaire, and Luc Granger, “Jumping Frenchmen of Maine,” Neurology 36 (1986): 1269–1271; George M. Beard, “Experiments with the ‘Jumpers’ or ‘Jumping Frenchmen’ of Maine,” Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease 7 (1880): 487–490. 78. John F. Flanagan, “Industrial Conditions in the Maine Woods,” First Biennial Report of the Department of Labor and Industry (Waterville: Sentinel Publishing: 1912), 209, 224; Victor Bushey (b. 1900) interview by Sue Dauphinee, 1970, p. 719069, transcript, llc, mfc. 79. John Clifton Elder, “Peonage in Maine (A Manuscript Report sent to the Attorney General of the United States),” 28 March 1910, RG 60, Department of Justice file 50-34-0, 13-21, pg. 5–7, 10, 15, 16–17, 20, 21, National Archives, Washington, D.C.; “Does peonage Exist in the Maine Lumber camps?” Paper Trade Journal, (November 1915): 16; Robert J. Steinfeld, Coercion, Contract, and Free Labor in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 279; Flanagan, “Industrial Conditions in the Maine Woods,” 225; “May Repel Law Protecting Lumbermen,” Paper: A Weekly Technical Journal for Paper and Pulp Mills 20 (New York: Paper, 1910); “Is it a Feats or a Famine?: Symposium by High and Low Authorities on the Epicurean Delights of Maine Logging Camps – Forestry Student Refutes Vile Slanders,” Bangor Daily News, 8 March 1910. 146 / l abour/le tr avail 77 The shacking system of lumber production that was documented in the 1950s likely evolved from the system of debt bondage described above.80 Between 1951 and 1955 an average of 5,920 French Canadian workers were “bonded” to logging companies throughout New York, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine, though some years there were more than 7,000.81 In Maine during these years the pulpwood cutting force was on average 78.4 per cent French Canadian and a portion of these were shackers. The shacking system mimicked the way that French Canadian habitants were thought to have lived in Québec. An employee of Maine’s Great Northern Paper Company described it thusly: A shacker is a man, usually with a family, and one or two relatives who will move onto company land, build himself a shack to live in, cut pulp through the cutting season and haul it to the designated hauling point … Usually the whole family, regardless of age, works with the father in the woods. The children rarely attend school … The shacker invariably is semi-literate.… If a contract can be drawn that will make these shackers independent con- tractors we will be able to relieve ourselves of a great deal of responsibility and will be able to produce wood much cheaper.…82 The French Canadian image from Thoreau to Miner inspired this labour exploitation, but the image did not reflect any innate characteristics of French Canadians. Instead the image was a reflection of the shallow understand- ing that many people in the US had of the political, economic, and religious history of Québec. Historian Bruno Ramirez found in his comparative study of immigration in Canada that “clearing forest land in Québec required work techniques and an endurance that not all prospective settlers were willing to endure.” Thus Italians, Jews, and even many French Canadian and Northern European settlers failed at civilizing wild land simply because of the “physical and mental difficulty it entailed.” In Québec, frontier colonization efforts led by clergy, lumber companies, and the Canadian government put many French Canadian families in a position that disallowed economic or educational advancement. It was just these types of small pioneer farmers who tended to migrate to the US, bringing with them pioneering skills. Approximately 62 per cent of French Canadian textile workers in New England had been farmers or farm labourers before coming to the US.83 Many French Canadians were not able to own land right away so their “supreme resource, as a release from … poverty … was to take to the ax …” It is also possible that the perpetuation of 80. On the various types of debt bondage see Félix Albert, Immigrant Odyssey: A French- Canadian Habitant in New England-a Bilingual Edition of Histoire D’un Enfant Pauvre, (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1991), 68–69, 95–97. 81. Parenteau, “Bonded Labor,” 113. 82. On the standard of living of peasants see Glickman, A Living Wage, 82–84; Quoted in Parenteau, “Bonded Labor,” 115. 83. Bruno Ramirez, On the Move: French-Canadian and Italian Migrants in the North Atlantic Economy, 1860–1914 (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1991), 77–79; Bradwin, The Bunkhouse Man, 95; Vicero, “Immigration Of French Canadians To New England,” 214. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 147 the French Canadian image within this immigrant community created what social psychologists call “stereotype lift,” whereby exposure to positive ste- reotypes causes “an elevation in their self-efficacy or sense of personal worth [and] performance.” Whatever caused the French Canadian affinity for logging work, the contradiction in depicting French Canadians as a primitive peasant class is glaring, since moving to American lumber camps proved their adapt- ability toward modernization and progress at a time of economic trouble in their home country.84 It is important to note, however, that the racial discourse on whiteness, wil- derness, and work was not as strong a factor in deciding where immigrants would work as was the iron law of supply and demand. Most immigrants coming to the US, regardless of their race, settled in factory towns and cities. By 1900 French Canadians made up 50 per cent or more of the entire popu- lation of Southbridge and Spenser Massachusetts; Biddeford, Lewiston and Old Town, Maine; Woonsocket, Rhode Island; Danielson, Connecticut and Suncook, New Hampshire.85 It was estimated that only 10 per cent of all the French Canadians in New England lived in rural areas and as few as one per cent of workers went into “forest work” (there are problems with this latter figure, however).86 A majority of French factory workers were immigrants. While the lumber industry had the second highest percentage of French Canadians as a portion of the workers employed in 1900, the brick and tile making industries had an even larger number – more than 50 per cent.87 84. Albert, Immigrant Odyssey, 34–37, 40, 56; Richard William Judd and Patricia A. Judd, Aroostook: A Century of Logging in Northern Maine (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1988), 194–195; Ramirez and Otis, Crossing the 49th Parallel, 5, 8, 63; 11–12, 16; Vicero, “Immigration Of French Canadians To New England,” 70, 197–198; J.I. Little, Nationalism, Capitalism and Colonization in Nineteenth-Century Quebec: The Upper St. Francis District (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1989), 7, 16, 31–35, 47, xii–xiii; J.I. Little, Crofters and Habitants: Settler Society, Economy, and Culture in a Quebec Township, 1848–1881 (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1991), 149, 154; Brault, The French- Canadian Heritage, 34, 158; Ramirez, On the Move, 47; Gregory M. Walton and Geoffrey L. Cohen, “Stereotype Lift,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 39, 5 (2003): 456–467; Margaret Shih, Todd L. Pittinsky, and Amy Trahan, “Domain-specific Effects of Stereotypes on Performance,” Self and Identity 5, 1 (2006): 1–14. 85. Vicero, “Immigration of French Canadians to New England,” 119, 121; Hornsby, Judd, and Hermann, Historical Atlas of Maine, plate 42; Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage, 54–55. 86. These figures are drawn from Vicero, “Immigration of French Canadians to New England.” The nature of logging in eastern North America make precise employment figures in the lumber camps difficult to surmise. Logging was inseparable from the agricultural sector, it was seasonal work, most workers took up other jobs when they were not logging, and loggers rarely self-identified as such. By combining figures from several categories of work in Vicero’s study which were closely allied with logging (agriculture, forest workers, pulp and paper, saw and planing mills, general labour, teamsters, railroad and street railway workers, and other occupations) we see the figures could have been as great as 31 per cent. Vicero, “Immigration of French Canadians to New England,” 298. 87. Vicero, “Immigration of French Canadians to New England,” 347. 148 / l abour/le tr avail 77 In urban areas another French Canadian image developed which reflected the type of work found there. It was assumed that the French habitants who moved to cities were a simple people who would work for below subsistence wages. Their strong nationalism, and adherence to traditional culture, lan- guage, and religion worried Protestant New Englanders. In cities like Lewiston, Maine and Woonsocket, Rhode Island immigrants were able to virtually reconstruct the social, religious, and political order of Québec in immigrant enclaves. The la survivance movement made many New Englanders worried that the Québécois had no desire to assimilate or nationalize and were only present for quick monetary gains.88 In 1891 the state of Maine passed a consti- tutional amendment targeting French Canadians by disallowing anyone who could not “read the constitution in the English language, or write his name” from voting or holding office.89 As in rural logging areas, the French Canadian adherence to Catholicism seemed to prove they had a greater devotion to the tenets of their religion then to the tenets of Republicanism. Finding Irish Catholic churches disagreeable, the first thing that many French Canadian settlers did when they came to New England was build their own churches. By 1900 there were at least 82 parishes in the region. Some French immigrants were comfortable settling political and workplace problems within the Church, giving the Québécois a reputation as an insular and clannish people. The rise of the second Ku Klux Klan in the US in the 1920s was a time of rampant anti-Catholicism and anti-Semitism. During this period French Canadian workers were publicly intimidated by members of the Klan in two different cities in Maine because of their adher- ence to Catholicism.90 As obedient female Catholics the Québécois factory workers were seen as a people who followed orders well and respected authority. “They are industrious in the extreme” one employer wrote and they “do not grumble about pay, are docile, and have nothing to do with the labour agitations.” Their large family size, and their need to send their children into the factories young worried 88. Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage, 67; Roby, The Franco-Americans of New England, 58–59, 66–67; Gerstle, Working-Class Americanism, 27; Michael J. Guignard, “The Franco- Americans of Biddeford Maine,” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 128. 89. The law was on the books until 1982–83. Rebecca Dirnfeld, “Research Note: Maine ‘Jim Crow’? The Forgotten Maine Constitutional Amendment of 1891,” in Nelson Madore and Barry H. Rodrigue, eds., Voyages: A Maine Franco-American Reader (Gardiner: Tilbury House, 2007), 370. 90. Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage, 68–69; Gerstle, Working-Class Americanism, 35–37; Mark Paul Richard, “This Is Not a Catholic Nation’: The Ku Klux Klan Confronts Franco-Americans in Maine,” New England Quarterly 82, 2 (2009): 296–297; Philip T. Silvia, Jr., “Neighbors from the North: French-Canadian Immigrants vs. Trade Unionism in Fall River, Massachusetts” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 145; David H. Bennett, The Party of Fear: From Nativist Movements to the New Right in American History (New York: Vintage Books, 1995), 223–225. “these french canadian of the woods are half-wild folk” / 149 Progressive reformers but were a boon to factory owners.91 A representative of a Fall River company testified in a Massachusetts Bureau of Statistics of Labor (mbsl) report that he sought these workers out because “they are not so apt to rebel as others … They are quiet; they don’t raise much disturbance around the factory village.” Through the leadership of their priest, Rev. Pierre J.B. Bedard, French Canadians in Massachusetts became strikebreaker during the Fall River strike of 1879, perpetuating the idea that they were an anti-labour group.92 These distorted views of French Canadian immigrants in factory towns led the mbsl to famously condemn them as “the Chinese of the Eastern States” in an 1881 report. Comparing the Chinese with French Canadians conveyed the perceived chasm between native white Americans and Québécois immigrants and shows how pervasive the hierarchies of whiteness were at the time. Almost immediately after the report was issued coalitions of Franco Americans from Cohoes, Fall River, Lewiston, Manchester, Nashua, Woonsocket, and Worcester publicly refuted these claims in a meeting, the views of which were published as The Canadian French in New England. They hoped to distance themselves from undesirable immigrants.93 The “Chinese of the Eastern States” comments shows that the rhetoric on whiteness, wilderness, and work in the logging woods was not the only way that French Canadian immigrants were defined in America. Images of immigrants were adaptable and worked symbiotically with specific industries. The images also reflected the gender of the workers in different industries, as most factory workers were women and all loggers were men. The image of the French as “half- wild” was supported in rural industries and it was used to help fill isolated work camps with a racially desirable type of labour. This image ensured that all the industrial niches of this vast heterogeneous economy would be filled efficiently. Conclusion Ideas about wilderness, whiteness, and work evolved out of a long process of immigrant image formation which began in the 1840s as Americans strug- gled to comprehend different European immigrants. After 1893, Americans meshed their ideas about race with an industrializing economy, a disappeared frontier, and a large population of exotic immigrants. Bolstered by evidence from history, sociology, and anthropology, characters from literature like 91. Quoted in Vicero, “Immigration of French Canadians to New England,” 119; Guignard, “The Franco-Americans of Biddeford Maine,” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 137; Gerstle, Working-Class Americanism, 23; Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage, 62–63; Roby, The Franco-Americans of New England, 65. 92. Massachusetts Bureau of Statistics of Labor, Thirteenth Annual Report (Boston: Wright & Potter Printing, State Printers, 1882), 64; Gerstle, Working-Class Americanism, 22–23, 37; Guignard, “The Franco-Americans of Biddeford Maine,” in Quintal, ed., Steeples and Smokestacks, 153. 93. Brault, The French-Canadian Heritage, 68. 150 / l abour/le tr avail 77 Alex Therien or London’s Francois and Perrault came to represent categories of workers in the minds of many American businessmen. The racial world- views that formed made the rapidly changing world of modern America more digestible for many “white” Americans. Under the dictates of this racial logic almost every group of immigrants had a unique place in this new industrial economy, and native white peoples’ standard of living was ensured. The objec- tives of government and business officials were not strictly nativist, however. In creating these immigrant images they were attempting to fit different types of workers into industries where they would be economically efficient and most likely to succeed. From this vantage point it is clear that the chronology of American immigration is not characterized by successive dips into “irra- tional” nativist thinking, as some historians have argued, but instead there was a consistent goal of advancing the American economy by whatever means necessary. Applying “common sense” racial science to immigration and indus- trial policies simply helped improve the economy. Nativism was not at odds with capitalism because the desire for a “white republic” was synonymous with a desire for an economically robust republic. By 1950s systematic racism had been a part of American political and economic thought for more than a century so its effects on immigrants remained even as the explicit discussion on racial whiteness began to disappear. The French Canadian image, with its “unshakable demonstrations … of … ethnological truth,” made the label of savage/wild hard to dislodge, and the exploitation of French Canadians in the woods remained a problem into the 1970s.94 I would like to thank the Maxwell School at Syracuse University and the Forest History Society for their generous support of my research on logging and French Canadian immigration. None of this research would have been possible without initial funding from the New England Regional Fellowship Consortium. I would also like to thank all the librarians and archivists who helped me locate and access material as well as my colleague Philip D. Erenrich at Syracuse University for his help and advice. 94. Zolberg, A Nation by Design, 3, 7; Cannato, American Passage, 9; Ngai, Impossible Subjects, 165. Jacobson’s assertion in Whiteness of a Different Color that “Economics alone … cannot explain why this government was made on the ‘white basis’” needs to be reexamined because it is clear that the economic imperatives shaped immigration policy and even ideas of race. Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color, 18–19; Michael Hillard and Jonathan Goldstein, “Cutting off the Canadians: Nativism and the Fate of the Maine Woodman’s Association, 1970–1981” Labor: Studies in the Working Class History of the Americas 5, 3 (2008): 67–89; William C. Osborn, The Paper Plantation: Ralph Nader’s Study Group Report on the Pulp and Paper Industry in Maine (New York: Grossman Publishers, 1974), 159–163. 
work_ghw5swtbwfdf5gn5y6yhpl2igy	----	Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia e il liber mortis di Dante Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia e il liber mortis di Dante Mattia Mantovani Dante Studies, Volume 135, 2017, pp. 31-73 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ Access provided at 6 Apr 2021 02:01 GMT from Carnegie Mellon University ] https://doi.org/10.1353/das.2017.0001 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/686852 https://doi.org/10.1353/das.2017.0001 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/686852 Vol. 135:31–73 © 2017 Dante Society of America Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia e il liber mortis di Dante Mattia Mantovani He came to speak to business men and he would speak to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his hearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience . . . But one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to be straight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point to say: “Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well”. But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the truth, to be frank and say like a man: “Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this wrong. But, with God’s grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right my accounts”. Joyce, Grace Giunto nel cielo di Giove, nel canto XIX del Paradiso Dante assi-ste al grandioso spettacolo dell’Aquila, emblema della giustizia divina e terrena. Gli “spirti beati” si dispongono inizialmente in modo da disegnare il primo versetto della Sapienza, “diligite iusti- tiam qui iudicatis in terram” (che è anche, con l’Apocalisse, il modello dell’episodio), per sciamare e raccogliersi quindi intorno all’ultima let- tera, fino a formare “la bella immagine.” All’Aquila composta da questi spiriti Dante pone una domanda che lo assillava da tempo, “il gran digiuno, / che lungamente m’ha tenuto in fame” (vv. 25–26): la vera 32 Dante Studies 135, 2017 natura della giustizia, se fosse davvero legittimo condannare chi era stato virtuoso soltanto perché non aveva mai conosciuto la Rivelazione. Se i non credenti potessero o meno salvarsi era in effetti una delle questioni più dibattute tra il XIII e il XIV secolo, quando la discussione dilagò dai commenti alla 25a distinzione del libro III delle Sententiae di Pietro Lombardo alle piazze. La risposta dell’Aquila si snoda lentamente nella forma della determinatio magistralis fino a quando le domande di Dante non vengono messe brutalmente a tacere, come già era avvenuto con Giobbe: “Or tu chi se’, che vuo’ sedere a scranna, / per giudicar di lungi mille miglia / con la veduta corta d’una spanna?” (vv. 79–81).1 L’accusa rivolta a Dante è quella di superbia—di “follia”—ché non può pretendere, lui mortale, di ergersi “in sedia come iudice” davanti a Dio, per quanto l’Aquila riconosca che agli occhi umani la parzialità della Rivelazione non possa apparire che arbitraria, per non dire assur- da.2 L’Aquila proclama che soltanto alla luce di questa Rivelazione le ingiustizie apparenti e inconcepibili che tormentano gli uomini (di cui la dannazione di chi non ha colpe non è che un esempio, per quanto eclatante) possono sperare di acquistare un senso: l’Aquila-Giustizia concede difatti che “a colui che meco s’assottiglia, / se la Scrittura sovra voi non fosse, / da dubitar sarebbe a maraviglia” (vv. 82–84). L’Aquila, però, è ferma: soltanto chi ha creduto in Cristo, “vel pria, vel poi ch’El si chiavasse al legno” (v. 105) può sperare nella salvezza. L’episodio del troiano Rifeo che risplende tra gli spiriti sommamente giusti nel canto successivo non mira ad allentare o magari persino a infrangere questa norma, ma soltanto a ribadire, ancora una volta, l’imperscrutabilità assoluta della Grazia divina.3 La domanda di Dante è destinata pertanto a rimanere senza risposta, dato che la ragione non potrà mai venire a capo, da sola, di una “quistione impossibile” come quella della predestinazio- ne (per usare le parole di Giordano da Pisa).4 Al giudizio tutto umano e fallace di “donna Berta e ser Martino,” l’Aquila oppone il Giudizio finale, divino, quando saranno proprio i virtuosi non battezzati a con- dannare i credenti peccatori: “Ma vedi: molti gridan ‘Cristo, Cristo!’ / che saranno in giudicio assai men prope / a lui, che tal che non conosce Cristo; // e tai Cristian dannerà l’Etïòpe, / quando si partiranno i due collegi, / l’uno in etterno ricco e l’altro inòpe” (vv. 106–11).5 I pagani virtuosi, esemplificati qui dai Persiani, saranno poi partico- larmente duri con i re cristiani, rinfacciando loro le numerose colpe (“i dispregi”) di cui si sono macchiati in vita, tutte puntualmente registrate 33 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani in un non meglio precisato “volume aperto.” Il canto si chiude quindi con una durissima requisitoria in cui Dante, per bocca dell’Aquila, stigmatizza con asprezza i sovrani del suo tempo: Che poran dir li Perse a’ vostri regi, come vedranno quel volume aperto nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi? [114] . . . Vedrassi al Ciotto di Ierusalemme segnata con un ‘i’ la sua bontate, quando ’l contrario segnerà un ‘emme’. [129] Vedrassi l’avarizia e la viltate di quei che guarda l’isola del foco, ove Anchise finì la lunga etate; [132] e, a dare ad intender quanto è poco, la sua scrittura fian lettere mozze, che noteranno molto in parvo loco. [135] E parranno a ciascun l’opere sozze del barba e del fratel, che tanto egregia nazione e due corone han fatte bozze.6 [138] A enumerare gli scarsi meriti di Carlo II d’Angiò nel “volume aper- to,” denuncia l’Aquila, sarà sufficiente un misero ‘i’, dato che Dante fatica a pensare che il “Ciotto di Gerusalemme” possa aver compiuto più di una singola azione degna di lode (nel sistema numerico romano, ‘i’ vale per l’appunto uno), mentre i suoi misfatti ammonteranno a miglia- ia: “quando ‘l contrario segnerà un ‘emme’.” “L’avarizia e la viltate” di Federico III di Sicilia (“quei che guarda l’isola del foco”) saranno invece registrate con delle non meglio precisate “lettere mozze, / che noteran- no molto in parvo loco.” L’espressione affanna da secoli i commentatori, senza che nessuno sia però ancora riuscito a darne un’interpretazione pienamente convincente. Lo scopo di questo saggio è proprio quello di chiarire questo sintagma e, più in generale, le due terzine di Paradiso XIX dedicate a Federico d’Aragona. L’esegesi di questi versi permetterà quindi di rileggere con nuovi occhi la sezione conclusiva del canto e, più in 34 Dante Studies 135, 2017 particolare, di restituire al “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi”—quelli dei sovrani europei—la sua piena densità meta- forica, grazie alla scoperta dei modelli e delle fonti di questo libro: il liber mortis di Dante. §1. “Vedrassi l’avarizia e la viltade / di quei che guarda l’isola del foco” La questione dei rapporti tra Dante e Federico III di Sicilia sembrereb- be di primo acchito di facilissima soluzione, dato che Dante pare non aver perso occasione per criticarne l’operato. A complicarla è pressoché soltanto la famigerata epistola di frate Ilaro, stando alla quale Dante avrebbe pianificato di dedicare proprio a questo sovrano la terza cantica del poema.7 L’attendibilità di questa lettera, che vocifera di un primo tentativo, presto abortito, di scrivere la Commedia in latino, è tuttavia fortemente dibattuta dagli studiosi.8 I giudizi espressi da Dante a propo- sito del re di Sicilia nel De vulgari eloquentia, nel Convivio e nella Commedia sono difatti tutt’altro che benevoli.9 Federico III è inoltre condannato a Purgatorio VII 112–120 come un indegno successore del padre, Pietro III, e la contrapposizione con i suoi predecessori virtuosi continua anche nella cantica successiva. Quest’ultima condanna, che si legge a Paradiso XX 61–63, ribadisce e accentua la dura requisitoria del canto imme- diatamente precedente (da cui sono tratte le nostre terzine), sicché pare davvero difficile credere che Dante volesse dedicare l’ultima cantica del poema a quel Federico di Sicilia che si rivela piuttosto come uno dei più esecrati bersagli polemici di così tante sue opere. Federico III di Sicilia accese senza dubbio molte speranze nei ghibel- lini toscani quando decise di schierarsi a fianco di Enrico VII di Lus- semburgo, il quale gli offriva un’alleanza contro Roberto d’Angiò. Non tardò tuttavia molto a deluderle: alla morte improvvisa di Enrico (il 24 agosto 1313), Federico rifiutò difatti di continuare l’impresa imperiale nonostante le insistenze e le profferte dei Pisani, e si affrettò piuttosto a fare ritorno in Sicilia, minacciata allora dagli Angioini, lasciando così i ghibellini toscani in una situazione di enorme difficoltà.10 Per quanto non sia del tutto impossibile che Dante, alla notizia dell’alleanza tra Enrico VII e Federico III, preferisse accantonare il disprezzo che nutri- va da anni nei suoi confronti, cui pure aveva dato voce in così tante 35 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani occasioni, e arrivasse fino al punto di accarezzare l’idea di dedicargli il Paradiso, l’ipotesi è grandemente improbabile.11 Così come è ancora più improbabile che Dante ne parlasse a un frate sconosciuto incontrato per caso durante un viaggio: il frate Ilaro dell’epistola, per l’appunto, il quale avrebbe avuto l’eccezionale ventura di parlare con Dante proprio in quei pochissimi mesi a mezzo tra la malcerta riabilitazione di Federico e il definitivo disinganno di Dante. Uguccione della Faggiola, il presunto destinatario della prima can- tica, è inoltre celebrato nella lettera di frate Ilaro, come “inter Ytalicos proceres quam plurimum preminens”, e gli studiosi ritengono quindi, concordi, che la dedica (chiunque ne sia l’autore) sia stata vergata dopo la nomina di Uguccione a signore di Pisa, il 20 settembre 1313. Se non che questo titolo fu offerto a Uguccione proprio in seguito al rifiuto da parte di Federico III di Sicilia, quello stesso rifiuto che dovette scredi- tarlo senza appello agli occhi di Dante e che gli valse la taccia di “vil- tade” a Paradiso XIX 130.12 La dedica dell’Inferno a Uguccione, capo dei ghibellini italiani, e quella del Paradiso a Federico III sembrano quindi contraddirsi a vicenda, andando così a rafforzare l’argomento degli stu- diosi che si erano fatti forza dell’implausibilissima dedica a Federico di Sicilia per attaccare l’attendibilità dell’epistola.13 A darle una qualche vaga parvenza di verosimiglianza sarebbe soltan- to un passo di Purgatorio III, dove Manfredi si riferisce alla figlia Costan- za come alla “genitrice / de l’onor di Cicilia e d’Aragona” (vv. 115–16), andando così ad ammantare i nipoti Giacomo e Federico d’Aragona—in apparenza perlomeno—di una patina di onorabilità e di nobiltà in forte contrasto con le accuse di pusillanimità e di pochezza che attraversano il poema. Ancora prima di aver abbandonato l’Antipurgatorio Dante lamenterà difatti che, del padre Guglielmo, “Iacomo e Federigo hanno i reami; / del retaggio miglior nessun possiede” (Purg. VII 119–20). È stato tuttavia correttamente osservato che “onor” potrebbe essere privo di qualsiasi connotazione encomiastica, non stando a indicare altro che la carica rivestita da Federico di Sicilia: una nobiltà tutta “di sangue,” insomma, anziché d’animo.14 Anche a voler concedere a “onor” il secon- do significato, il tono benevolo del verso sarebbe quindi da imputare soltanto all’orgoglio di Manfredi per il nipote, e non certo alle con- vinzioni politiche di Dante poeta al momento della scrittura del canto. A ben guardare, non è inoltre nemmeno scontato che, con “l’onor di Cicilia e d’Aragona,” Manfredi si riferisse a entrambi i nipoti.15 Il 36 Dante Studies 135, 2017 titolo di “Re di Sicilia” spettava difatti di diritto al solo Giacomo il quale, subentrato allo zio paterno Alfonso III sul trono d’Aragona, lasciò il fratello quale semplice governatore dell’isola (1291). Federico entrò però in crescente contrasto con il fratello, rivendicando per sé la completa signoria dell’isola. Alla notizia del Trattato di Anagni (20 luglio 1295), che prevedeva la restituzione della Sicilia—riconosciuta quale “terra Ecclesie”—a Bonifacio VIII, Federico colse l’occasione per farsi proclamare re di Sicilia dal Parlamento siciliano (15 gennaio 1296). Sebbene non fosse che il secondo del suo nome in quella dina- stia, prese per sé il nome di Fredericus tercius (da cui le ambiguità sul titolo che si intravedono talvolta in alcuni commenti alla Commedia), presentandosi in tal modo come l’ideale continuatore della casata sve- va e il “terzo Federico” di cui parlavano le profezie. Le tumultuose vicende degli anni successivi, che portarono alla pace di Caltabellotta (31 agosto 1302) e alla partecipazione alle imprese imperiali, videro Federico in scontro pressoché permanente con gli Angioini e con il papato—così come, in un primo momento perlomeno, con il fratello Giacomo—non soltanto per il possesso effettivo dell’isola (e, più in generale, dell’intera Italia meridionale), ma per la definizione stessa del proprio titolo di sovrano, il quale gli fu variamente contestato, conteso, revocato, barattato quasi, per essergli riconosciuto in via definitiva soltanto al termine di estenuanti campagne militari e diplo- matiche.16 Dante avrebbe potuto pertanto mancare di riconoscere a Federico d’Aragona il titolo di re di Sicilia, fosse questa (come pare estremamente probabile) la situazione storica effettiva nel momento in cui andava scrivendo queste terzine o volesse piuttosto contestare a Federico la legittimità della sua signoria sull’isola, ricordando a tutti i suoi lettori che questi non era poi—in origine, perlomeno—che il vicario generale del Regno in qualità di luogotenente del fratel- lo Giacomo, il quale sarebbe pertanto, lui solo, “l’onor di Cicilia e d’Aragona” di cui parla Manfredi. Paradiso XIX sembra confortare questa lettura: nelle terzine sotto esame Federico d’Aragona è infatti indicato da Dante come “quei che guarda l’isola del foco” (v. 131), un verbo che non significa affatto “governa,” “regge” ma, piuttosto “tiene in custodia,” come testimoniato da numerosi altri passi del poema, quale ad esempio—per rimanere nella terza cantica—Paradiso XVI 145–46: “quella pietra scema / che guarda ’l ponte.” È stato persino ipotizzato che a Paradiso XIX Dante si stesse rifacendo alla formula 37 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani utilizzata da Bonifacio VIII per indicare le mansioni di Federico d’Aragona: “garder l’isle.”17 Le terzine di Paradiso XIX esprimono ad ogni modo un giudizio durissimo e inequivocabile su Federico III d’Aragona, accusato di ava- rizia e di viltà per aver abbandonato l’impresa ghibellina, continuata invece da Cangrande della Scala nonostante la morte intempestiva di Enrico VII.18 Dante non si degna nemmeno di nominarlo direttamente, tanto grande è il suo disprezzo, ma si riferisce a Federico tramite una perifrasi (“quei che guarda l’isola del foco, / ove Anchise finì la lunga etate”; vv. 131–32), come già per gli altri sovrani del canto: “quel di Portogallo e di Norvegia . . . e quel di Rascia,” “di quel di Spagna e di quel di Boemme” (vv. 139–40, 125).19 Sarebbe tuttavia un errore prendere questi versi per una mera circonlocuzione esornativa, per non dire una zeppa: il richiamo ad Anchise mira difatti a porre in risalto ancora maggiore la “viltade” delle scelte politiche di Federico III per contrapposizione alle peregrinazioni eroiche di Enea, il quale, alla morte del padre, non si trattenne “sanza gloria” in Sicilia ma proseguì il suo viaggio fino a Roma e alla fondazione dell’Impero.20 La perifrasi con cui Dante apostrofa Federico d’Aragona ha pertanto la stessa intenzione denigratoria del riferimento a Carlo II d’Angiò, il “Ciotto [lo Zoppo] di Gerusalemme,” nella terzina immediatamente precedente, del “bestia” (v. 147) per Enrico II di Lusignano o quella del verso, feroce, con cui Dante indica Filippo il Bello – morto per una caduta a cavallo durante una battuta di caccia al cinghiale – come “quel che morrà di colpo di cotenna” (v. 120). §2. “E, a dare ad intender quanto è poco, . . .” La prima delle terzine di Paradiso XIX dedicate a Federico d’Aragona (vv. 130–32) risulta pertanto chiara e di facile comprensione, ché a intenderla pienamente è sufficiente saper leggere nell’accusa di “viltade” un riferimento ai fatti occorsi a Pisa dopo la morte di Enrico VII nella tarda estate del 1313, e prestare quindi attenzione al valore estremamen- te preciso di quel “guarda” e al confronto polemico tra Federico III ed Enea. La terzina successiva è invece una vera e propria croce interpre- tativa, sia per quanto riguarda la struttura del periodo, piuttosto opaca, che per il significato esatto da dare ai singoli termini. 38 Dante Studies 135, 2017 I primissimi commentatori della Commedia leggevano “a dare ad intender quanto è poco / la sua scrittura” come un enjambement, sebbene finissero poi per darne interpretazioni discordi. L’autore dell’Ottimo Commento pensava difatti che questi versi parlassero degli scarsi meriti che potevano essere riconosciuti a Federico (“e più aggrava la riprensio- ne dicendo, che quello che si iscriverà in sua laude e fama, fia con lettere mozze, e poco, e in poca carta”), mentre Jacopo della Lana li riferiva piuttosto alle sue colpe: “Cioè che poca scrittura seconda quella del detto re Federigo e del figliuolo, ma rileva molto e in avarizia e in vilitade.”21 Benvenuto da Imola mostrò quindi le difficoltà della prima lettura e precisò il senso della seconda, da lui preferita: Et subdit ad cumulum maioris verecundiae: e fien lettere mozze, scilicet, singulae pro partibus, che noteranno molto, scilicet suorum vitiorum, in parvo loco, idest, in modico spatio chartae; et hoc a dar ad intender quanto è poco la sua scrittura, scilicet, per contrarium, quia multa mala dici possunt de eo in paucis verbis. Vel intelligas simpliciter, quod pauca scriptura potest fieri de eo, quia habet paucas virtutes, quae possunt notari per paucas literas truncas, scilicet I, quod importat unum, ut jam dictum est paullo supra. Sed prima expositio videtur melior, quia litera dicit: che noteranno molto; et ita non videtur posse pati talem intellectum. La lettura dell’Ottimo Commento non è infatti in grado di spiegare perché i pochi segni utilizzati per registrare le poche virtù di Federico dovrebbero “notare molto.” L’unica soluzione sarebbe leggere l’intera terzina in chiave fortemente antifrastica, come in effetti farà poi Mat- talia, nel tentativo di ripristinare questa antica interpretazione.22 Ben- venuto da Imola preferì quindi adottare l’esegesi alternativa di Jacopo della Lana, cui conferì uno spessore e un’eleganza ancora maggiori, leggendo nei verso in questione un sottile sarcasmo, tutto giocato sul contrasto stridente tra i pochi caratteri utilizzati e la gravità delle colpe che sarebbero andate a denunciare. L’interpretazione di Benvenuto conobbe grande fortuna, per quanto travisata dall’imperizia di alcuni commentatori meno attenti e dalle lezioni discordi dei manoscritti.23 L’enjambement dei vv. 133–4 pare tuttavia di difficile lettura, con un inciso molto forte che prolunga la cesura e va contro la normale tenden- za di Dante a poggiare la struttura del periodo sull’intero endecasillabo e, quindi, sulla terzina. Già Pietro Alighieri aveva pertanto avanzato un’interpretazione più piana, la quale intendeva “poco” come un pre- dicativo del soggetto riferito a Federico, anziché alla “sua scrittura”: 39 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani “eius bonitas et virtus erat ita modica quod in licteris truncis a suis dictionibus modicum occupabunt in predicto libro.”24 Pietro seguiva l’errore dell’Ottimo, ma così facendo aveva corretto quello di tutti i primi commentatori, Benvenuto compreso. La lezione di Pietro, mar- ginale, fu ripresa da Francesco da Buti, che arrivò così, finalmente, alla corretta interpretazione della terzina: Questi fu Federigo re di Sicilia, che fu avaro e vile. Et a dare ad intender quanto è poco; cioè lo peccato suo, cioè di don Federigo, La sua scrittura fien lettere mozze; cioè sarà sì grande, che converrà che si scriva con lettere mozze, che tegnano meno luogo e capene più, Che noteranno molto in parvo loco; cioè aranno grande importanzia e terranno poco luogo: imperò che male sarà assai.25 Il sommo peccato di Federico III è difatti la sua pusillanimità, la sua “viltade.” Al “poco” di Paradiso XIX 133 è pertanto da assegnare lo stesso valore aggettivale di Inferno XX 115: “quell’altro che ne’ fianchi è così poco.” Il fraintendimento di Benvenuto da Imola continuò tuttavia fino alla metà del XVI secolo, quando l’interpretazione di Francesco da Buti finì, da ultimo, per imporsi. Le glosse del Tasso, del tutto corret- tamente, chiosano difatti “è di poco valore,” e la stessa punteggiatura delle attuali edizioni si basa su questa interpretazione.26 Questa terzina pone tuttavia un ulteriore problema circa l’esatto valore della proposizione “a intender quanto è poco.” Tutti i commen- tatori moderni l’hanno intesa come una finale: al fine di rendere palese la pusillanimità di Federico III, la registrazione delle sue colpe (scrittura) sarà vergata con lettere mozze, così da poterla liquidare nel più breve spazio possibile (in parvo loco). Dio adotterebbe pertanto dei caratteri abbreviati pur di non dover indugiare su un animo così indegno, mosso da quello stesso sentimento di repulsione che aveva fatto cadere sugli ignavi il silenzio sdegnato di Dante.27 Il sarcasmo di questi versi risulta tanto più sferzante se si considera che Federico è l’unico sovrano, nella rassegna del canto, cui Dante abbia dedicato due terzine.28 L’unico difetto di queste lettura, pur così seducente, è di discostarsi non poco dal semplice significato letterale, come si può notare dalla semplice parafrasi. È tuttavia possibile avanzare un’interpretazione più agevole di questo periodo, che non costringa a supporre nessun signifi- cato implicito, leggendo “a intender quanto è poco” come una propo- sizione parentetica, anziché finale. Secondo questa esegesi alternativa Dio non ricorrerà pertanto alle lettere mozze con l’intento esplicito, e 40 Dante Studies 135, 2017 determinante, di rendere evidente la viltà di Federico III. In questo verso l’Aquila si rivolge piuttosto a Dante, e quindi a noi lettori, per invitarci a prestare attenzione alla scrittura particolarissima con cui saranno registrati i misfatti di Federico, che da sola ci permetterebbe di comprenderne la gravità.29 Si deve perciò aggiungere una seconda virgola dopo la e iniziale (forse persino una parentesi), e scrivere quindi il verso: “e, a dare a intender quanto è poco, / la sua scrittura . . .”.30 Quello che rimane ancora da comprendere è il significato da asse- gnare a queste lettere mozze, capaci di stipare in così poco spazio le colpe innumerevoli di Federico III di Sicilia. §3. “Lettere mozze” Il sintagma “lettere mozze” è difatti il luogo più oscuro di queste ter- zine, al punto che molti dei primi commentatori—tra cui Jacopo della Lana, l’autore dell’Ottimo Commento e Francesco da Buti—appa- rentemente incapaci di afferrarne il senso, evitarono semplicemente di chiosarlo (che lo trovassero ovvio e lampante pare difatti da escludere). Il termine “mozzo” compare in altri cinque casi nella Commedia, in tre dei quali in riferimento a una mutilazione fisica, con l’accezione di “reciso,” “amputato,” “monco”: “e un ch’avea l’una e l’altra man mozza, / levando i moncherin” (Inf. XXVIII 103–4), “e qual forato suo membro e qual mozzo” (19) o infine, in un contesto meno truculento: “col pugno chiuso, e questi coi crin mozzi” (Inf. VII 57). Nelle altre due occorrenze ha un’accezione analoga, ma con traslazione di significato sul piano metaforico, venendo a indicare separazione—“Guarda che da me tu non sia mozzo!” (Purg. XVI 15)—e di qui privazione, impedimento: “quella voglia / a cui non puote il fin mai esser mozzo” (Inf. IX 94–5). La questione preliminare è comprendere se “mozze” indichi a Paradiso XIX 134 una peculiarità dei singoli caratteri grafici oppure qualifichi un particolare tipo di scrittura. Nel primo caso, considerando l’accezione più consueta di “mozzo,” si dovrebbe intendere che le numerose colpe di Federico III sarebbero trascritte con lettere smozzicate, private di alcune gambette, così da poterne ammassare un gran numero in pochissima carta; ma si tratta senza dubbio di una proposta interpretativa piuttosto inelegante e poco persuasiva. Salvo alcuni casi isolati,31 questa prima lettura è stata infatti rifiutata da tutti gli interpreti, che hanno invece 41 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani osservato come nell’italiano antico lettere non indicasse soltanto i singoli caratteri, ma una particolare forma di scrittura – in questo caso della “scrittura” del “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi.”32 I rari commentatori antichi che avevano cercato di chiarire il passo confortano per di più questa seconda interpretazione. Pietro Alighieri, in particolare, portava come esempio di scrittura “troncata” la pratica di indicare un nome per mezzo della sola lettera iniziale: eius bonitas et virtus erat ita modica quod in licteris truncis a suis dictionibus modicum occupabunt in predicto libro, exemplo Boetii in describendo phylo- sophiam et ponendo pro hac dictione theorica solum hanc licteram T et pro pratica P.33 I commentatori odierni rimandano invece piuttosto alle abbrevia- zioni, frequenti nei manoscritti dell’epoca, oppure, anche se meno frequentemente, ad alcuni sistemi di stenografia e crittografia diffusi nel Medioevo.34 Benvenuto pare appoggiare questa lettura moderna, anche se è difficile comprendere il significato esatto del suo commento, che sembrerebbe tuttavia riferirsi a un sistema di abbreviazione in cui una singola lettera esprime un’intera sillaba: “lettere mozze, scilicet, singulae pro partibus.”35 A questa prima e criptica glossa ne segue una seconda, non meno oscura. Benvenuto da Imola, come si è visto sopra, discute con attenzione la proposta dell’Ottimo e cerca di leggere con nuovi occhi le “lettere mozze” in accordo a questa interpretazione, che finirà da ultimo per rifiutare. Quella che ne emerge è una spiegazione alter- nativa del sintagma, molto diversa dalla prima, adottata da Benvenuto e da quasi tutti i commentatori successivi: Vel intelligas simpliciter, quod pauca scriptura potest fieri de eo, quia habet paucas virtutes, quae possunt notari per paucas literas truncas, scilicet I, quod importat unum, ut jam dictum est paullo supra.36 Lo ‘i’ non sarebbe pertanto da intendere come una lictera trunca per- ché privata di una sua qualche componente grafica, ma solo in quanto carattere di un sistema di notazione simbolico in virtù del quale essa esprime l’unità, la significa (importat).37 Questo particolare sistema di notazione—e, di conseguenza, ognuno dei suoi caratteri—è “mozzo” in quanto permette di simboleggiare il concetto di unità, e di numero in genere, facendo a meno della sua dicitura completa, per rimpiazzarla 42 Dante Studies 135, 2017 invece con un segno convenzionale, più breve (che esso sia poi anche un lettera dell’alfabeto, non importa). Là dove la nostra attenzione va alla possibilità di assegnare un valore simbolico a un carattere e alle potenzialità, offerte da questo artificio espressivo, di maneggiare con pochi tratti di penna concetti molto complessi, Benvenuto—e quindi, in via ipotetica, lo stesso Dante—poneva piuttosto l’accento sul carattere sintetico del simbolo, così lacunoso rispetto alla sua denominazione per esteso. Ogni sistema di notazione in quanto tale, potrebbe quindi essere definito un caso di “lettere mozze,” di scrittura compendiaria, sintetica, simbolica. Al termine del suo commento Benvenuto rigettava tuttavia questa interpretazione, che aveva avanzato soltanto per fare luce sugli errori dell’Ottimo, e fu così che questa lettura alternativa divenne lettera morta sul nascere.38 Secondo questa lettura alternativa discussa da Benvenuto da Imola, la registrazione delle colpe di Federico III sarebbe così stata condotta anch’essa su base quantitativa, come già avvenuto per Carlo II, anziché qualitativa, ovverosia tramite la descrizione degli atti compiuti, come era nel caso di tutti gli altri sovrani: numerazione, quindi, piuttosto che enumerazione.39 Quest’interpretazione, così isolata e confutata sul nascere, rimase negletta per secoli (il che non stupisce affatto), fino a quando fu ripresa a metà ’800 da Pietro Fraticelli, il quale la sviluppò ulteriormente e ipotizzò quindi che Dante facesse allusione in questi versi a un sistema di notazione numerica più rapido degli stessi numerali romani che Dio adotterebbe (in via del tutto straordinaria), per liquidare nel minor tempo possibile un sovrano così vile, suggerendo quindi un climax rispetto allo stesso Carlo d’Angiò. Una notazione, vale a dire, che avrebbe permesso di dar conto in uno spazio ancora minore di quello richiesto dalla numerazione romana di tutti i misfatti di Federico di Sici- lia. Fraticelli, seguito poi da Brunone Bianchi, proponeva inoltre, anche se soltanto a titolo di esempio, che queste “lettere mozze” avrebbero potuto non essere poi altro che le “cifre arabiche.” Nel suo commento Fraticelli non si dilungava oltre e così anche questa interpretazione ottocentesca morì praticamente inascoltata.40 Quella della numerazione araba è in effetti una proposta suggestiva, che conferirebbe alle terzine una grande forza espressiva; manca però purtroppo di una giustificazio- ne testuale circostanziata, cosicché la cautela del critico—come anche la perplessità dei suoi lettori—sembra più che comprensibile. 43 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani §4. “Modus Indorum” e “figure mercantesche” Le cifre arabe fecero la loro comparsa in Europa con il Liber abaci di Leo- nardo Pisano, meglio noto come Fibonacci (circa 1170–1240), pubblica- to nel 1202 e rivisto quindi nel 1228. La dedica a Michele Scotto mostra i forti legami dell’autore con la corte di Federico II.41 Dei precedenti medievali non mette conto parlare, dato che si trattò sempre di episodi isolati e dotti, destinati a non avere nessun seguito o, ancora più spesso, di sistemi di calcolo che riprendevano i simboli della nuova notazione numerica ma finivano per fraintenderne o dimenticare del tutto il valore posizionale (come nel sistema degli apices di Gerberto). “Sed hoc totum etiam et algorismum atque arcus Pictagore quasi errorem computavi respectu modi Indorum”: cosí si apre, con chiara consapevolezza del proprio carattere innovativo, il prologo dell’opera di Fibonacci. Fibonacci fu infatti con buona probabilità il primo europeo a rendersi conto con chiarezza del significato e dell’utilità della notazione posizio- nale, di quello che chiamava il “modus Indorum.” Nel suo trattato, uno dei capolavori della matematica medievale, ne mostrava pressoché in ogni pagina le grandiose possibilità: dalle più complesse questioni arit- metiche, squisitamente teoriche, ai problemi di conversione delle unità di misura e di lega metallica che si ponevano ai mercanti dell’epoca. La formazione di Fibonacci era difatti avvenuta a stretto contatto con il mondo mercantile, dapprima a Bugia (Béjaïa), presso Algeri, dove il padre svolgeva le mansioni di publicus scriba. Leonardo, come ci infor- ma nel proemio del Liber abaci, viaggiò quindi l’intero Mediterraneo, dall’Egitto alla Siria, dalla Grecia alla Sicilia fino alla Provenza, e questa lunga serie di viaggi gli valse così l’epiteto di “Bigollone” (“viaggia- tore”) che campeggia accanto al nome proprio dell’autore negli incipit di alcune sue opere e in diversi documenti ufficiali. Quando si stabilì definitivamente a Pisa, intorno alla fine del secolo, il Comune si volle avvalere dell’enorme conoscenza matematica di cui si era impossessato nelle sue peregrinazioni e gli assegnò pertanto un importante incarico “in abbacandis estimationibus et rationibus”—nella gestione della con- tabilità pubblica, vale a dire, della quale si era in effetti già occupato nel terzo capitolo del Liber abaci.42 I mercanti toscani furono così i primi in Europa ad essere introdotti alla notazione araba, e a comprendere gli enormi vantaggi che offriva: accantonate tutte le questioni di matematica pura e di algebra, andarono 44 Dante Studies 135, 2017 a sviluppare invece i già numerosissimi esempi e casi pratici dell’opera di Fibonacci. Prima della fine del secolo già iniziavano a diffondersi i primi trattati d’abaco in volgare, e il nuovo sistema di contabilità contribuì in effetti grandemente alla supremazia in Europa dei mercanti toscani e, quindi, italiani.43 Il “modus Indorum” si affermò poi anche nelle con- tabilità dei cambiavalute e dei banchieri, seguendo le indicazioni del Liber abaci e la pratica effettiva di Fibonacci presso il Comune di Pisa. Il documento più lampante della crescente diffusione delle cifre ara- be nelle contabilità dei privati toscani è fornito con buona probabilità da uno statuto dell’Arte di Cambio di Firenze che intendeva proibirne l’utilizzo, promulgato originariamente nel 1299 e rinnovato per ben tre volte nel corso degli anni successivi, a chiara riprova della sua inefficacia: CII. Quod nullus de arte scribat in suo libro per abbacum. Item statutum et ordinatum est quod nullus de hac arte audeat vel permictat per se vel per alium scribere vel scribi facere in suo libro vel quaterno vel in aliqua parte eius, in quo vel quibus scribat data et accepta, aliquid quod per modum vel per licteram abbachi intelligatur, sed aperte et extense scribat per licteram. Facienti contra teneantur consules tollere nomine pene soldos viginti florenorum parvorum pro qualibet vice et pro qualibet scripta, et nicchilominus teneantur consules, si ad eorum manus pervenerit aliquid scriptum esse contra predicta vel aliquod predictorum, per se et eorum officium condempnare modo predicto. Et predicta locum habeant a medio mense aprelis sub annis Domini millesimo ducentesimo nonagesimo nono, yndicione doudecima, in antea, silicet de libris incipiendis scribi a medio mense aprelis in antea et pro rationibus que scribentur a medio mense aprelis in antea.44 Le ragioni di questo statuto son state più volte dibattute dagli studiosi, ma pare pressoché certo che il motivo fondamentale essere il timore di frodi fiscali, dettato dalla scarsa dimestichezza di alcuni membri dell’Arte del Cambio con la notazione araba—non di tutti, tuttavia, come dimo- strato proprio da questo statuto che cercava di combatterne la crescente diffusione. Le cifre arabe potevano inoltre essere alterate e contraffatte con facilità assai maggiore di quanto non fosse possibile con la notazione romana (per la quale erano stati invece escogitati ormai da tempo nume- rosi stratagemmi e regole di scrittura a questo preciso scopo) e tanto più con la scrittura alfabetica, l’unica che lo statuto si sentisse di autorizza- re. A ben guardare è proprio per ridurre il rischio di falsificazioni che ancor oggi si deve indicare in parole, e non soltanto in cifre, l’importo degli assegni.45 La necessità di ripetere questa stessa ingiunzione dopo 45 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani un anno soltanto, e poi di nuovo dopo un decennio, per ben due volte, mostra tuttavia come le cifre arabe fossero adottate da un numero sempre maggiore di contabili, a dispetto delle norme ufficiali. Il testo dello statuto pare tradire una certa estraneità al nuovo sistema di notazione: “aliquid quod per modum vel per licteram abbachi intel- ligatur” sembra difatti parlare di un tipo di scrittura del tutto incom- prensibile per chi scrive, “aliquid,” segni ammonticchiati in colonne che potevano essere decifrati soltanto da chi era già a conoscenza delle regole della nuova notazione. Le entrate e le uscite (data et accepta), ordina lo statuto, avrebbero dovuto pertanto essere registrate “aperte et extense . . . per licteram,” vale a dire secondo la tradizionale scrittura per esteso, completa, non compendiaria (extense), in modo da poter risultare pie- namente intelligibile (aperte) e scongiurare così il pericolo di frodi e di fraintendimenti. È impossibile capire se chi scriveva avesse afferrato il significato del valore posizionale della numerazione araba o se, del tutto ignaro, continuasse il lungo fraintendimento dell’alto Medioevo, che aveva adottato le cifre arabe come semplici abbreviazioni dei numerali romani, anche se tutto sembra spingere verso questa seconda interpre- tazione.46 L’espressione “aperte et extense per licteram” finì addirittura per imporsi come una locuzione canonica della legislazione in materia, tanto che ancora nel 1550 l’estensore di uno statuto bolognese che rical- cava da vicino quello fiorentino del 1299 la poteva utilizzare immutata, limitandosi a tradurla il più fedelmente possibile: Siano tenuti . . . nelle posta del debito e credito predetto, al meno nel suo giornale, scrivere distesamente e chiaramente per lettere d’alfabeto, e non per abaco, né per figure mercantesche . . . il numero peso o misura di quella cosa, per la quale egli lo fa debitore, o creditore.47 La seconda interpretazione delle lettere mozze discussa da Benvenu- to da Imola aveva già portato alla luce come la notazione numerica (romana) potesse essere intesa quale forma abbreviata della registrazione verbale, a parole, del numero delle colpe dei sovrani: “possunt notari per paucas literas truncas, scilicet I, quod importat unum.” Lo statuto del 1299 appena analizzato ci testimonia poi come la notazione araba delle nuove scuole d’abaco fosse vista anch’essa come una sorta di scrittura compendiaria, in contrapposizione alla tradizionale scrittura “estesa.” Il documento permette così di dimostrare l’ipotesi che Pietro Fraticelli 46 Dante Studies 135, 2017 aveva cautamente proposto facendo appello al suo solo intuito lingui- stico, e che proprio per questo fu del tutto ignorata dai commentatori successivi. Là dove Benvenuto da Imola e tutti i commentatori moderni scorgevano un generico riferimento ad una forma abbreviata e quanto mai imprecisata di scrittura, variamente identificata, lo statuto dell’Arte del Cambio ci permette così di comprendere con esattezza che cosa siano queste lettere mozze che dovranno registrare le colpe di Federico III di Sicilia: nient’altro che le cifre arabe. Per poter registrare l’importo di tutti i peccati di Federico III nel- la voce a lui destinata nel “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti i suoi dispregi”—è quindi questo il senso del vituperio di Dante—Dio si vedrà così costretto a ricorrere alla notazione araba. Persino quella romana, pure utilizzata per Carlo II d’Angiò, avrebbe difatti richiesto un dispendio di carta eccessivo per indicare il numero, così grande, delle colpe di un uomo così vile ed è proprio a questa particolarissima scelta che l’Aquila ci invita a prestare attenzione, di per sé sufficiente a renderci palese la gravità dei misfatti di Federico di Sicilia (“a dare a intender quanto è poco”). Questo particolarissimo regesto delle impu- tazioni contro Federico III approfondisce ulteriormente l’accezione tecnica della scrittura di questo libro, che è appunto l’annotazione in un registro contabile a partita doppia.48 Si potrebbe persino ipotizzare che Dante invochi le cifre arabe per denunciare le colpe di Federico III appellandosi a un sottile contrappasso. Non è difatti da escludere che anche i mercanti siciliani, seguendo il modello dei pisani e dei loro vicini mediterranei, avessero deciso di redigere in cifre arabe i propri registri contabili (i forti legami politici e mercantili tra questi potenze militano in effetti a favore di quest’ipotesi), il che avrebbe potuto dar luogo a qualche accusa da parte dei contemporanei. Queste polemiche—se mai vi furono—non sembrano però aver lasciato nessuna traccia.49 Che lo statuto del 1299 fosse noto a Dante pare indubbio, dato il suo impegno politico in quegli anni. Dante, inoltre, non poteva non prestare attenzione a questi statuti dell’Arte di Cambio: il nonno pater- no, Bellincione, aveva difatti esercitato la professione di cambiatore (di piccolo prestatore di denaro, vale a dire), e sappiamo inoltre che egli stesso, mentre ancora viveva a Firenze, si vide costretto a contrarre numerosi debiti.50 Lo stesso padre di Dante, Alighiero, così come suo zio Brunetto, avevano poi continuato la professione paterna, come ci testimoniano i documenti del tempo e la tenzone tra Dante e Forese, 47 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani il quale accusava Alighiero di praticare l’usura, ossia di fare prestiti a interesse (indipendentemente dal particolare tasso di interesse, in quanto con “usura” ci si riferiva allora a qualsiasi prestito a interesse, in quanto tale).51 Alighiero, per di più, sposò la sorella di Dante con un tale Lapo Riccomanno, il quale lavorava, a sua volta, come cambiatore.52 Dante, insomma, era semplicemente troppo esposto, sia sul piano personale che su quello politico, per poter ignorare un simile statuto, ribadito per ben due volte in giro di pochi mesi: come bene noto, Dante detenne difatti nell’estate del 1300 la carica di Priore.53 Non è invece dato capire se Dante condividesse il (probabile) errore di chi aveva steso questo statuto: non abbiamo difatti nessuna testi- monianza sulla formazione giovanile di Dante, tanto meno sulla sua cultura matematica, per cui non è possibile nessuna illazione intorno la sua conoscenza e comprensione della notazione araba. Stando ai dati a nostra disposizione è tuttavia lecito supporre che egli non abbia mai frequentato una scuola d’abaco “secondo la nuova lezione.” Il primo documento fiorentino in cui è citato un maestro d’abaco moderno risale infatti al 1283, un tale Jacopo dell’Abaco, che è forse l’autore del primo trattato fiorentino sull’argomento e di uno dei più antichi in volgare, il Tractatus algorismi (1307).54 Con il finire del secolo il numero di abacisti a noi noti aumentò tuttavia notevolmente e continuò poi a crescere per tutto il Trecento, ed è rimasta celebre la testimonianza di Villani sugli studi dei giovani fiorentini nel 1338: Troviamo, ch’e’ fanciulli e fanciulle che stanno a leggere da otto a diecimila. I fanciulli che stanno a imparare l’abbaco e algorismo in sei scuole, da mille in milledugento. E quegli che stanno ad apprendere la grammatica e loica in quattro grandi scuole, da cinquecentocinquanta in seicento.55 Furono quindi le due generazioni successive a Dante a impossessarsi pienamente della notazione araba, e lo statuto dell’Arte del Cambio del 1299 è probabilmente una spia dello scontro in atto tra le diverse genera- zioni di campsores. Si ritiene difatti che Jacopo Alighieri possa essere stato allievo di una delle più importanti scuole d’abaco fiorentine, situata di fronte alla chiesa di Santa Trinita, probabilmente fondata da quel Pietro dell’Abbaco di cui ci resta un importante trattato di aritmetica secondo la nuova lezione.56 L’altro figlio di Dante che ne commentò il poema, Pietro (il solo dei due a spingersi fino all’ultima cantica) fraintese al pari 48 Dante Studies 135, 2017 di tutti i commentatori antichi il senso dell’espressione, chiosandola piuttosto alla luce di Boezio, il quale aveva fatto uso delle sole ‘T’ e ‘P’ per indicare, rispettivamente, la filosofia teoretica e la filosofia pratica. Il padre gli aveva insegnato bene. Anche troppo. La generazione immediatamente successiva a quella di Dante, e non soltanto a Firenze, non era pertanto più in grado di scorgere nelle lettere mozze un riferimento a quei caratteri arabi ai quali erano stati educati sin da bambini.57 Già pochissimi anni dopo la morte di Dante, Jacopo della Lana—attivo a Bologna, ma di famiglia quasi certamente fioren- tina—mostrava una piena padronanza della notazione araba, tanto da riuscire a calcolare del tutto correttamente (o, perlomeno, a compren- dere dopo averla letta in qualche moderno trattato d’abaco) a quanto ammontasse 264 – 1: Per esprimere grande moltitudine dice che Più che il doppiar degli scacchi s’immilla. Lo doppiare degli scacchi si è apponere sul tavolieri dove si gioca a scacchi, sul primo scacco uno, sullo secondo due, sul terzo quattro, sullo quarto otto, sullo quinto 16, sullo sesto 32, e così doppiando fino all’ultimo scacco, che è lo 64, il quale numero si è tutto 18446744073709551617, e così dice che seimila fiate questo numero non potrebbe comprendere lo numero delli angeli.58 Nel corso del Trecento la notazione araba si affermò definitivamente in Italia e di qui in tutta Europa. Soltanto le amministrazioni pubbliche continuarono per diversi decenni, quando non per secoli, a mostrarsi refrattarie e persino ostili, forse anche soltanto impreparate, alle nuove “figure mercantesche”, temendo quelle stesse frodi fiscali che avevano dettato lo statuto fiorentino del 1299 e preferendo così raccomandarsi alle più rassicuranti “figure antique, o voi dire Imperiali .  .  . le qual figure antique, non ad altro effetto si mettono, se non per più segu- rezza, che quelle non si possino mutare, facendone di una un’altra.”59 Persino la contabilità di Medici iniziò a essere tenuta integralmente in cifre arabe soltanto nel 1494, mentre alcune amministrazioni europee continuarono ad opporvisi fino al 1700, come ci testimonia Samuel Pepys nel suo diario, e persino in Francia le “chiffres des Finances, dont les Financiers se servent ordinairement” continuarono a indicare, fino alla metà del secolo, i vecchi numerali romani.60 Si trattava però ormai di episodi marginali e destinati a cadere davanti alla diffusione della nuova notazione e ai fasti della nuova matematica: tra il 1500 e il ’600, seppure con differenze talvolta significative tra le diverse regioni, le cifre 49 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani arabe si imposero difatti definitivamente in tutta Europa. E fu così che la “scrittura” di Federico III di Sicilia, vergata com’era in lettere mozze, finì per diventare incomprensibile. §5. Il liber mortis di Dante L’analisi condotta nei precedenti paragrafi ha permesso di giungere alla corretta interpretazione del sintagma “lettere mozze” e di mostrare inol- tre, allargando un poco il campo di indagine, che il “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti i suoi dispregi” è da concepire come un registro contabile nel senso letterale del termine, un registro tenuto secondo la numerazione romana nel caso di Carlo II d’Angiò, nella moderna nume- razione araba per Federico III di Sicilia. “Scrittura,” in queste terzine, assume difatti l’accezione fortemente tecnica di “annotazione di una partita di libro di conti,” e rende così ancora più pregante il modello del registro contabile adottato da Dante.61 Il modello del registro contabile, a ben guardare, era già stata evocato da Dante nella prima cantica, più precisamente a Inferno XXIX 52–57: Noi discendemmo in su l’ultima riva del lungo scoglio, pur da man sinistra; e allor fu la mia vista più viva giù ver’ lo fondo, là ’ve la ministra de l’alto Sire infallibil giustizia punisce i falsador che qui registra. Spetta a Robert Hollander il merito di aver fatto luce sull’ultimo dei versi citati, dimostrando che il “qui” dove Dio registra i falsatori di moneta è proprio la Commedia, il testo stesso di Dante.62 “Registrare,” difatti, non ha in queste terzine l’accezione traslata di “relegare,” ma quella letterale di “porre a registro,” un registro che non è poi altro che il poema che stiamo leggendo.63 Questa interpretazione riceve un’ulteriore conferma dall’unica altra occorrenza del verbo nelle sue opere, dove è indubbio che Dante si stia riferendo proprio alle pagine di questa sua Commedia: “quando mi volsi al suon del nome mio, / che di necessità qui si registra” (Purg. XXX 62–63). 50 Dante Studies 135, 2017 Inferno XXIX e Paradiso XIX, specie se presi insieme, rivelano come Dante guardasse così al proprio poema—tra le altre cose—come a un registro in cui iscrivere i nomi dei dannati (e, in analogia, dei salvati) e come, con il progredire dell’opera, egli andasse elaborando e complican- do questo modello del registro in analogia a quello contabile, finendo così per intendere la Commedia quale un libro delle partite dei mercanti, strutturato per rubriche, sotto le quali collocare i nomi dei peccatori, e con scritti a margine i loro capi di accusa, le colpe, e i loro scarsi meriti. Questa metafora contabile era riconoscibile, quantomeno in filigrana, sin dall’episodio dei falsatori di moneta, e più di un commentatore aveva intravisto l’accezione pressoché tecnica dei termini impiegati da Dante in quelle terzine.64 I passi, a ben guardare, sembrano invitare a una mag- giore prudenza, poiché il “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi” non può senza dubbio essere la Commedia in quanto tale, come è evidente. Tuttavia, è della più grande importanza comprendere che Dante aveva modellato il suo poema proprio su questo libro divino, il quale a sua volta era stato pensato (calcando un poco la mano) sul model- lo dei registri contabili dei mercanti di Firenze. Il passo dell’Inferno per- mette per di più di fugare queste cautele critiche, perché il “qui” dove sono registrati i nomi dei falsatori è proprio questo canto, e nient’altro, così come è ben difficile comprendere in cosa si distinguerebbe la voce del “volume” dedicata a Carlo d’Angiò, cosa potrebbe aggiungere alla corrispettiva terzina del Paradiso. La descrizione (profetica) del “volume aperto” rivela per di più una coscienza metatestuale acutissima, che spinge a credere che Dante abbia voluto ritagliare queste terzine dal resto del canto per farne un testo a sé stante—o, se non altro, per suggerire una simile lettura—evidenziandole e incatenandole tra loro per mezzo di un acrostico: le prime lettere delle terzine formano infatti la parola “lve” (peste), a indicare il malgoverno esiziale dei sovrani incriminati.65 Questo acrostico permette così di rafforzare la tesi che il “volume” e la Commedia vadano a coincidere, quantomeno all’infinito, per così dire: è difatti il poema stesso che teniamo in mano a recare iscritta la condanna comune a tutti i sovrani incriminati. Il “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi” dipende ovviamente da un celebre passo dell’Apocalisse (20, 11–15), in cui si parla di un “libro della vita” che recherebbe iscritti i nomi dei salvati, il quale non si limitò a fornire a Dante l’ispirazione complessiva dell’episodio ma ne guidò le stesse scelte lessicali: “libri aperti sunt et alius liber 51 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani apertus est.” Il passo conobbe un’enorme fortuna in età medievale: lo si ritrova ad esempio nel Dies irae di Tommaso da Celano. Il volume che compare in moltissime raffigurazioni di Cristo Giudice fu ispirato, con buona probabilità, proprio da questi versetti, per quanto molto spesso le scritte di questo volume parlino della natura di Cristo anziché delle anime che questi sarebbe venuto a giudicare (così che lo si dovrebbe accostare piuttosto ai cartigli parlanti e identificativi di tanta arte sacra medievale):66 11 et vidi thronum magnum candidum et sedentem super eum a cuius aspectu fugit terra et caelum et locus non est inventus ab eis 12 et vidi mortuos magnos et pusillos stantes in conspectu throni et libri aperti sunt et alius liber apertus est qui est vitae et iudicati sunt mortui ex his quae scripta erant in libris secundum opera ipsorum 13 et dedit mare mortuos qui in eo erant et mors et inferus dederunt mortuos qui in ipsis erant et iudicatum est de singulis secundum opera ipsorum 14 et inferus et mors missi sunt in stagnum ignis haec mors secunda est stagnum ignis 15 et qui non est inventus in libro vitae scriptus missus est in stagnum ignis. Al più celebre liber vitae lo pseudo-Giovanni contrappone così dei meno noti e assai più generici libri, al plurale, senza qualificarli ulte- riormente, e che si sarebbe portati a concepire sul modello del primo, come se questi dovessero recare scritti i nomi dei sommersi, così come il primo recitava quelli dei salvati. Forzando il testo, Hollander vor- rebbe parlare però di un libro singolo, da lui ribattezzato il liber mortis, e da citare quindi sempre tra virgolette, dato che il termine non trova nessun riscontro nel testo biblico né è dato ritrovarlo nei trattati e nel lessico tecnico dei teologi (in strictly theological language). O, perlomeno, così sostiene Hollander—con un certo disappunto—rifacendosi a padre Berthier.67 L’ipotesi di un liber mortis dei dannati, da contrapporre al canonico liber vitae, riservato ai soli eletti, è in effetti molto seducente, e permet- terebbe di indicare un modello veramente preciso e autorevole per il “volume” di Paradiso XIX—e, quindi, seppure soltanto in via di ipotesi (per di più inverificabile), per il registro di Inferno XXIX. Una simile proposta si scontra tuttavia con le evidenze testuali, le quali sembra- no suggerire piuttosto una molteplicità di libri, tante quante sono le coscienze, di contro a quell’unico libro divino, il liber vitae per l’appunto, cosicché i libri dell’Apocalisse sarebbero da accostare al “libro della mia memoria”—al testo della coscienza—prima ancora che al “libro della 52 Dante Studies 135, 2017 vita.” Questi libri sarebbero, insomma, una sorta di regesto privato delle proprie azioni che ogni singolo individuo dovrà sottoporre a giudizio, sebbene il testo dell’Apocalisse rimanga piuttosto elusivo circa l’esatto rapporto tra questi e l’unico liber vitae. Il testo dell’Apocalisse fu effetti- vamente letto in questa chiave nell’Italia del ’300, come testimonia, ad esempio, un pannello d’altare conservato all’Accademia di Venezia che raffigura gli scheletri nell’atto di presentare a Cristo Giudice—il quale tiene invece in mano l’unico liber vitae divino—il proprio personalissimo liber conscientiae, sulla scorta dell’autorità di Agostino e del commento di Gerolamo a Daniele 7, 10 (“iudicium sedit et libri aperti sunt”).68 Ed era difatti proprio in tal modo che chiosò il versetto il francescano spirituale Pietro di Giovanni Olivi, il quale nelle lezioni tenute allo studio di Santa Croce di Firenze dal 1287 al 1289 si limitò a compendiare Agostino.69 I “libri” dell’Apocalisse, stando alla lettura di Olivi, si muoverebbero pertanto nello stesso orizzonte metaforico del “libro della memoria” con cui si apre (e chiude) la produzione dantesca, secondo un’esegesi probabilmente influenzata da Geremia 17, 1: “peccatum Iuda scriptum est stilo ferreo . . . super latitudinem cordis eorum.”70 L’intuito del critico era tuttavia corretto, per quanto privo di una giu- stificazione adeguata, tanto che, a sostegno della propria interpretazione, Hollander avrebbe potuto citare niente meno che Tommaso d’Aquino. Nella settima delle sue Quaestiones disputatae de veritate (scritte tra il 1256 e il 1259), Tommaso si interrogava difatti “utrum possit dici liber mortis, sicut dicitur liber vitae.” Tommaso allegava numerosi argomenti contro un simile concetto per quanto, nella conclusione della quaestio, sembrasse concedere che un simile libro dei dannati potesse pure esistere, seppure soltanto ad tempus (fino al Giudizio vale a dire, prima che la damnatio memoriae andasse a scendere su tutti i peccatori), ma pur sempre con- tinuando a ribadire che questo “libro della morte” non poteva essere equiparato in nessun modo al liber vitae divino: Ad secundum dicendum, quod aliqua conscribuntur in libro, ut perpetuo in noti- tia maneant. Illi autem qui puniuntur, per poenas ipsas exterminantur a notitia hominum; et ideo non conscribuntur, nisi forte ad tempus, quousque eis poena infligatur. Sed illi qui deputantur ad dignitates et praemia, conscribuntur simpli- citer, ut quasi in perpetua memoria habeantur.71 53 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani La Summa Theologiae andava a disperdere anche queste ultime ambi- guità, mettendo in chiaro come il liber mortis e la cancellazione dei nomi dei dannati dal “libro della vita” non erano da intendere che quali termini troppo umani dettati dalla mancata onniscienza, ché i nomi di chi cadeva in peccato mortale non potevano di certo essere depennati dal “magno volume / du’ non si muta mai bianco né bruno” (Par. XV 50–51), poiché questo libro divino è perfettamente immutabile mentre il primo, il liber mortis, nemmeno è attestato dalle scritture.72 Tommaso riteneva tuttavia legittimo che si continuasse a parlare di nomi che veni- vano cancellati dall’unico libro divino e di altri ancora che vi venivano iscritti “non solum ad opinionem hominum . . . sed etiam quantum ad rem,” chiamando in causa sottilissimi distinguo.73 Al di là dell’interpretazione esatta della proposta teologica di Tom- maso, quello che preme davvero è osservare che, nell’Europa e nell’Italia di fine ’200, c’era chi leggeva il ventesimo capitolo dell’Apocalisse come se questo parlasse di un libro che recava iscritti i nomi dei dannati, così come il liber vitae registrava quello dei salvati. E così, per quanto, al ter- mine della sua disamina, Tommaso finisse per rifiutare questo concetto come improprio e privo di qualsiasi legittimità in strictly theological lan- guage, sono proprio queste sue considerazioni, non appena guardate in controluce, a permetterci di intravedere che l’espressione “liber mortis” doveva essere diventata ormai d’uso nelle discussioni del tempo, ché è difatti proprio contro quest’uso corrente che Tommaso sentì di dovere reagire. I primi commentari della Commedia, forse ancora memori di queste discussioni di fine ’200, non si mostrarono difatti per nulla turbati dalla disinvoltura con cui Dante era passato dai “libri” molteplici di Apocalisse 20, 12 (esplicitamente indicata da Pietro Alighieri quale fonte primaria dell’episodio) all’unico “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti i suoi dispregi” di Paradiso XIX 113–14. Nessuno di loro, a dire il vero, parlava mai di un liber mortis, ma la questione del nome è in effetti piuttosto marginale. A premere è difatti soltanto la nozione di un libro “in quo . . . scribuntur omnes transgressiones hominum qui spernunt mandata Dei,” la quale evidentemente, agli occhi di questi primi commentatori del poema, non sembrava richiedere nessuna ulteriore giustificazione: 54 Dante Studies 135, 2017 Nota quod Sanctus Ioannes in Apocalypsi, vicesimo capitulo, dicit quod in die iudi- cii aperientur duo libri, in quorum uno scripta sunt omnia criminalia hominum, in alio scripti sunt qui sunt predestinati salvandi.74 Il tema del “liber mortis” sopravvisse infatti per decenni alle critiche sollevate da Tommaso. In una predica tenuta il 26 luglio 1304, il frate domenicano Giordano da Rivalto, nel tentativo di fare presa sul pub- blico fiorentino, tornava a parlare difatti di questo “libro della morte” in una vivida descrizione di quella che uno studioso ha brillantemente ribattezzato “la contabilità dell’aldilà”: Redde rationem villicationis tuae [Lc. 16, 2]. A ogne persona sarà detta questa parola da Dio al giudicio. Rendimi ragione della castalderia tua. Ed ogni cristiano questo giudicio dee forte temere . . . Vedete di questi fattori delle campagne, che istanno fuori di Firenze, c’hanno tra le mani l’avere altrui.. S’egli ha mal trattato quello della campagna, non ardisce né d’assegnare ragione, né d’apparire ove sia nullo di loro [dei proprietari] . . . Ma quando questi fattori rassegnano ragione, il loro rassegnamento è molto in grosso; perocchè non possono scrivere ogni danaiuzzo, scrivon pur le cose più grosse . . . Ma non fa così Iddio . . . E sono due i libri, uno di vita, ed uno di morte: nel libro della vita sono scritti tutti i beni, non è manco uno. Nel libro della morte sono scritti tutti i mali, tutti insino al più minimo. E però è suttile il giudicio di Dio.75 I due libri di fra Giordano corrispondono quindi alle due colonne distinte di una partita di conti: il libro della vita registrerebbe infatti soltanto le buone azioni degli uomini—di tutti gli uomini, siano essi destinati alla salvezza o alla dannazione eterna—mentre i loro misfatti saranno enumerati nel “libro della morte.” Tommaso d’Aquino, come si è visto, intendeva invece il liber vitae come il registro dei nomi dei dannati, e soltanto di quelli, una lettura indubbiamente più vicina al “volume aperto” della Commedia di quella avanzata da Giordano da Pisa, mentre i pochi commentatori che si soffermarono su questo passo dal Paradiso oscillarono un poco confusamente tra le due. Dante non poté ovviamente mai ascoltare questa predica di Fra Giordano, così come non è necessario supporre che, nello scrivere le terzine contro Carlo d’Angiò e Federico di Sicilia, andasse con la mente ai passi di Tommaso (è verosimile che Dante abbia mutuato il tema del liber mortis da Remigio de’ Girolami, discepolo di Tommaso a Parigi e superiore di Giordano a Firenze: una prima indagine del materiale non ha tuttavia prodotto nessun risultato). Le testimonianze congiunte di Tommaso d’Aquino e 55 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani Giordano da Pisa portano difatti a ritenere che il liber mortis fosse una metafora e un concetto ben vivo della religiosità italiana tra il 1200 e il ’300, relegato ai margini dalla teologia domenicana più intransigente, ma fatto proprio e variamente interpretato dai predicatori dell’ordine. Il già informatissimo fascicolo sulle valenze metaforiche del libro nella letteratura latina ed europea raccolto da Curtius può così andare ad arricchirsi di una nuova voce: il “libro della morte” degli escatologi e, con quelli, di Dante.76 §6. Conclusionsi Fra Giordano, come il padre Purdon di Joyce, “came to speak to business men and he would speak to them in a businesslike way.” Le prediche del domenicano grondano difatti di metafore finanziarie, spin- gendosi fino a proclamare che “Dio tiene bancho et presta a uxura”.77 Il frate sapeva che il suo pubblico, formato com’era da mercanti e dai loro familiari, da banchieri e notai, avrebbe capito e lo avrebbe apprezzato. Il lessico e l’immaginario finanziario non permeava soltanto le prediche del periodo ma la stessa poesia, tanto che già nei primi anni ’90 Forese aveva potuto porre termine alla sua tenzone con Dante chiedendo al rivale di portargli del panìco, “ch’i vo’ metter la ragione.”78 Le pratiche dei mercanti, dei banchieri e dei notai non si limitavano però a plasmare il solo lessico dei poeti, ma decidevano la forma stessa delle loro opere o, perlomeno, ne veicolavano la ricezione. È stato difatti dimostrato che gli estensori del celeberrimo manoscritto Vaticano 3793 avevano strutturato questo testo chiave della prima lirica italiana—fondamentale per la formazione dello stesso Dante (sebbene verosimilmente per via soltanto indiretta)—sul modello dei propri libri maestri: le diverse voci del libro di conti sono qui sostituite dalle diverse voci poetiche, ma l’impaginazione dei sonetti e delle canzoni non lascia dubbi sul modello codicologico ultimo di questa antologia.79 Questi colti rappresentanti della classe mercantile fiorentina si spinsero fino al punto di indicare Monte Andrea (un poeta-banchiere particolarmente caro ai compilatori del Vaticano 3793, per ovvi motivi di vicinanza sociale e culturale) con la stessa sigla, Mo., con cui indicavano nei loro libri maestri il saldo finale delle transazioni di un singolo debitore, o creditore (nel qual caso Mo. sta per Monta). Collocati entrambi al centro della pagina, posti in entrambi 56 Dante Studies 135, 2017 i casi tra parentesi, in un testo già fortemente strutturato sul modello delle rubriche di un registro finanziario, l’analogia è troppo stringente per poterla liquidare come un caso. La si potrebbe ovviamente spiegare come l’automatismo irriflesso di una pratica d’ufficio, ma non è da esclu- dere che si trattasse piuttosto di uno sberleffo bonario a quello che era sostanzialmente percepito come un collega, strizzando l’occhio agli altri lettori-colleghi, sicuri che quelli sarebbero stati al gioco di “rendicon- tarne” i componimenti. Dante avrebbe reagito a questi motteggi con la “serietà terribile” che gli era propria, la serietà assoluta di un autore che intendeva presentare tutti i propri giudizi poetici—e tanto più i politi- ci—quali avvisaglie e antesignani del Giudizio universale.80 A differenza di questo era avvenuto con Monte Andrea, era stato infatti Dante stesso a decidere in piena consapevolezza di strutturare il proprio libro come un registro diviso in rubriche, le quali avrebbero recati scritti i nomi dei dannati e l’ammontare esatto delle loro colpe. Dante si era difatti prefisso l’esplicito compito di reddere rationem di ogni poeta, di ogni politico e, più in generale, di ogni uomo. Dante conferì a questa metafora un’evidenza assoluta, facendosi forza del lessico tecnico dei campsores di Firenze e andando con la mente allo scontro tra i diversi sistemi di notazione che avevano infiammato gli uffici contabili di Firenze nei mesi immediata- mente precedenti il suo esilio. Il suo modello ultimo, però, non era uno dei tanti libri maestri che si potevano trovare nelle botteghe dei mercanti e sui quali era stato modellata l’antologia Vaticana, ma un libro che nessuno aveva ancora mai letto, ma che sarebbe stato prima o poi sotto gli occhi di tutti (o, almeno, così credeva Dante). Nel tormentatissimo dibattito sul genere della comedìa / poema sacro, bisognerà difatti tenere sempre a mente che Dante aveva un ulteriore modello per la propria “scrittura,” un libro “redolentem ubique” nei cento canti ma che sfugge a qualsiasi genere e canone letterario: il “volume aperto” dell’Apocalisse. È su questo modello divino che Dante andava esemplando la sua opera, il proprio personalissimo liber mortis. Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin 57 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani Ringraziamenti La scrittura di questo articolo si è protratta per molti anni, al punto che molte delle persone che mi hanno aiutato nelle prime fasi di questa ricerca potrebbero persino aver finito per dimenticare quanto debba a loro. Tra questi vanno menzionati perlomeno Lina Bolzoni, Roberta Cella, Claudio Ciociola e Marco Santagata. Il mio ringraziamento più sentito va però a Carlo Ginzburg, che ha seguito questo lavoro dai pri- missimi abbozzi fino alla pubblicazione. Ringrazio infine, e di cuore, il direttore e il comitato scientifico di questo giornale, i cui consigli mi hanno salvato da molti refusi, sviste ed errori e hanno migliorato di molto quest’articolo. Elenco dei commenti danteschi citati Jacopo della Lana (1324–28), Comedia di Dante degli Allaghieri col Com- mento di Jacopo della Lana bolognese, a cura di Luciano Scarabelli (Bologna: Tipografia Regia, 1866–67). L’Ottimo Commento (1333), L’Ottimo Commento della Divina Commedia [Andrea Lancia]. Testo inedito d’un contemporaneo di Dante . . . , ed. Ales- sandro Torri (Pisa: Capurro, 1827–1829). Pietro Alighieri (1) (1340–42), Petri Allegherii super Dantis ipsius genitoris Comoediam Commentarium, nunc primum in lucem editum . . . , ed. Vincenzo Nannucci (Firenze: Piatti, 1845). Pietro Alighieri (3) (1359–64), Pietro Alighieri, Comentum super poema Comedie Dantis: A Critical Edition of the Third and Final Draft of Pietro Alighieri’s “Commentary on Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy,’ ” ed. Massimiliano Chiamenti, (Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2002). Codice cassinese (1350–75[?]), Il codice cassinese della Divina commedia . . . per cura dei monaci benedettini della badia di Monte Cassino, (Monte Cassino: Tipografia di Monte Cassino, 1865). 58 Dante Studies 135, 2017 Chiose ambrosiane (1355[?]), Le Chiose Ambrosiane alla “Commedia,” edizione e saggio di commento a cura di Luca Carlo Rossi (Pisa: Scuola Normale Superiore, 1990). Benvenuto da Imola (1375–80), Benevenuti de Rambaldis de Imola Comen- tum super Dantis Aldigherij Comoediam, nunc primum integre in lucem edi- tum sumptibus Guilielmi Warren Vernon, curante Jacobo Philippo Lacaita (Firenze: Barbera, 1887). Francesco da Buti (1385–95), Commento di Francesco da Buti sopra La Divina Commedia di Dante Allighieri, ed. Crescentino Giannini (Pisa: Fratelli Nistri, 1858–62). Anonimo Fiorentino (1400[?]), Commento alla Divina Commedia d’Ano- nimo Fiorentino del secolo XIV, ora per la prima volta stampato a cura di Pietro Fanfani (Bologna: Romagnoli, 1866–74). Johannis de Serravalle (1416–17), Fratris Johannis de Serravalle Ord. Min. Episcopi et Principis Firmani Translatio et Comentum totius libri Dantis Aldi- gherii, cum textu italico Fratris Bartholomaei a Colle eiusdem Ordinis, nunc primum edita, a cura di Fr. Marcellino da Civezza & Fr. Teofilo Dome- nichelli] (Prato: Giachetti, 1891). Cristoforo Landino (1481), in I commenti danteschi dei secoli XIV, XV e XVI, diretto da Paolo Procaccioli, a cura di Francesca Ferrario, 1999. Alessandro Vellutello (1544), in I commenti danteschi dei secoli XIV, XV e XVI, diretto da Paolo Procaccioli, a cura di Francesca Ferrario, 1999. Bernardino Daniello (1547–68), Dante con l’espositione di M. Bernard[in] o Daniello da Lucca sopra la sua Comedia dell’Inferno, del Purgatorio, & del Paradiso (Venezia: Pietro da Fino, 1568). Torquato Tasso (1555–68), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri postil- lata da Torquato Tasso, a cura di Giovanni Rosini (Pisa: Didot, 1830). 59 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani Lodovico Castelvetro (1570), Sposizione di Lodovico Castelvetro a XXIX Canti dell’Inferno dantesco, ora per la prima volta data in luce da Giovanni Franciosi (Modena: Società tipografica, 1886). Pompeo Venturi (1732), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri . . . col comento del P. Pompeo Venturi (Firenze: Ciardetti, 1821). Niccolò Tommaseo (1837), La Divina Commedia con le note di Niccolò Tommaseo e introduzione di Umberto Cosmo (Torino: Utet, 1927). Pietro Fraticelli (1852), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri, col com- mento di Pietro Fraticelli, e note tratte da Venturi, Lombardi, Costa e Bianchi, Firenze: Barbera 1852.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1867), The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri translated by H. W. Long fellow (Boston, MA: Ticknor & Fields, 1867). Brunone Bianchi (1868), La Commedia di Dante Alighieri, novamente rive- duta nel testo e dichiarata da Brunone Bianchi (Firenze: Le Monnier, 1868). G.A. Scartazzini (1872–82 [19002]), La Divina Commedia di Dante Ali- ghieri riveduta nel testo e commentata da G.A. Scartazzini (Lipsia: Brockhaus, 1900). Giuseppe Campi (1888–93), La Divina Commedia . . . per cura di Giuseppe Campi (Torino: Utet, 1888–93). Gioachino Berthier (1892–97), La Divina Commedia di Dante con com- menti secondo la scolastica del P. Gioachino Berthier (Friburgo: Libreria dell’Università, 1892–97). Giacomo Poletto (1894), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri con com- mento del Prof. Giacomo Poletto (Roma & Tournay: Desclée, Lefebvre, 1894). Francesco Torraca (1905), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri nuova- mente commentata da Francesco Torraca, 4a ed. riveduta e corretta (Milano- Roma-Napoli: Albrighi-Segati, 1920). 60 Dante Studies 135, 2017 Enrico Mestica (1921–22), La Commedia di Dante Alighieri . . . esposta e commentata da Enrico Mestica (Firenze: Bemporad, 1921–22). Tommaso Casini and S.A. Barbi (1921), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri con il commento di Tommaso Casini, 6a ed. rinnovata e accresciuta per cura di S. A. Barbi (Firenze: Sansoni, 1944). Carlo Steiner (1921), La Divina Commedia commentata da Carlo Steiner (Torino: Paravia, 1921). Isidoro del Lungo (1926), La Divina Commedia commentata da Isidoro del Lungo (Firenze: Le Monnier, 1926). G.A. Scartazzini—G. Vandelli (1929), La Divina Commedia col commento scartazziniano rifatto da Giuseppe Vandelli (Milano: Hoepli, 19299). Ernesto Trucchi (1936), Esposizione della Divina Commedia (Milano: Toffaloni, 1936). Dino Provenzal (1938), La Divina Commedia, commentata da Dino Proven- zal (Milano-Verona: Mondadori, 1938). Luigi Pietrobono (1946 [1924–30]), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighie- ri commentata da Luigi Pietrobono (Torino: Società Editrice Internazionale, 19824). Attilio Momigliano (1946–51), La Divina Commedia commento di Attilio Momigliano (Firenze: Sansoni, 1979). Manfredi Porena (1946–48), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri com- mentata da Manfredi Porena (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1981). Natalino Sapegno (1955–57), La Divina Commedia a cura di Natalino Sapegno (Firenze: La Nuova Italia, 1968). Daniele Mattalia (1960), La Divina Commedia a cura di Daniele Mattali (Milano: Rizzoli, 1960). 61 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani Siro A. Chimenz (1962), La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri a cura di Siro A. Chimenz (Torino: Utet, 1962). Giovanni Fallani (1965), La Divina Commedia a cura di Giovanni Fallani (Messina-Firenze: D’Anna, 1965). Giuseppe Giacalone (1968), La Divina Commedia a cura di Giuseppe Gia- calon (Roma: Signorelli, 1968). Charles S. Singleton (1970–75), The Divine Comedy, Translated, with a Commentary, by Charles S. Singleton (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press 1970–75). Umberto Bosco—Giovanni Reggio (1979), La Divina Commedia a cura di Umberto Bosco e Giovanni Reggio (Firenze: Le Monnier, 1979). Emilio Pasquini—Antonio Quaglio (1982), Commedia di Dante Alighieri, a cura di Emilio Pasquini e Antonio Quaglio (Milano: Garzanti, 1982). Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi (1991–1997), La Commedia di Dante Alighieri (Mondadori: Milano, 1991–1997). Robert Hollander (2000–2007), Inferno (2000), Purgatorio (2003) and Paradiso, translated by Robert and Jean Hollander (New York, NY: Double- day/Anchor, 2000–2007). Giorgio Inglese, Commedia (Roma: Carocci, 2016). NOTE 1. Cfr. Bortolo Martinelli, Paradiso. Canto XIX, in Lectura Dantis Turicensis, a cura di Georges Güntert e Michelangelo Picone (Firenze: Franco Cesati, 2000–2002), III 282. Riccardo Scrivano, “Paradiso XIX,” L’Alighieri XXXVI (1995): 29–46. 2. Francesco da Buti (1385–95). 3. Cfr. Par. XX 67–69 (a parlare è sempre l’Aquila): “Chi crederebbe giù nel mondo errante / che Rifëo Troiano in questo tondo / fosse la quinta de le luci sante?” 4. Cfr. Prediche del Beato Giordano da Rivalto dell’Ordine dei Predicatori, a cura di Domenico Maria Manni (Firenze: Viviani, 1739), 54: “Or tu diresti: ecco un saracino, non udì mai ricor- dare Cristo, fa tutto ’l bene che puote, e guardasi di male; che fia di costui? salverassi per queste 62 Dante Studies 135, 2017 virtudi? Frate, tu mi fai quistione impossibile.” Il passo è connesso a Paradiso XIX da Carlo Delcorno, “Dante e il linguaggio dei predicatori”, Letture classensi XXV (1996): 73. Giordano da Rivalto, meglio noto come Giordano da Pisa, fu nominato lettore principale di S. Maria Novella, dove iniziò a predicare nel gennaio dello stesso 1303, in sostituzione del suo superiore, il magister Remigio de’ Girolami; cfr. Carlo Delcorno, Giordano da Pisa (Giordano da Rivalto) in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani (Roma: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani, 2001) LV 243–51; d’ora in avanti DBI. 5. Si tratta di nomi esemplari canonici; cfr. Conv. 1.8.13; 3.11.7; DVE 2.6.5; Par. XIII 139– 142: “Non creda donna Berta e ser Martino, / per vedere un furare, altro offerere, / vederli dentro al consiglio divino; / ché quel può surgere, e quel può cadere.” Dante si ispira qui ai versetti di Mt. 12, 41–42: “viri ninevitae surgent in iudicio cum generatione ista et condemnabunt eam quia paenitentiam egerunt in praedicatione Ionae et ecce plus quam Iona hic regina austri surget in iudicio cum generatione ista et condemnabit eam quia venit a finibus terrae audire sapientiam Salomonis”; cfr. Venturi (1732). I versetti dovevano essere diventati un punto di riferimento costante delle discussioni sul tema cui si richiama anche Giordano da Pisa: “Et dicovi più: che li demoni giudicheranno li peccatori cristiani, et li saracini, et li giudei, et li tartari et li altri dannati. Diranno li saracini ai cristiani: ‘Oh, che è questo? Tu che credevi queste cose et sapevile et avevi le predicationi et le altre cose, et se’ venuto qua: va in del sommo fuoco infernale!’ ”; cfr. Giordano da Pisa, Prediche inedite (dal ms. Laurenziano, Acquisti e Doni 290), a cura di Cecilia Iannella (Pisa: ETS, 1997), 46–47; d’ora in poi Iannella. 6. Qui e nel resto dell’articolo le citazioni della Commedia sono prese, come di consueto, dall’edizione Petrocchi; cfr. La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata, a cura di Giorgio Petrocchi (Mondadori: Milano, 1966–1967). Ho tuttavia leggermente modificato l’interpunzione di queste terzine da Paradiso XIX, mettendo tra virgolette lo ‘i’ e lo ‘emme’ dei vv. 128–129 per facilitarne la comprensione, così come ho aggiunto la prima virgola del v. 133, immediatamente dopo la “e” iniziale (giustificherò questa mia ultima modifica nel prossimo paragrafo). La mia proposta interpretativa permarrebbe immutata anche qualora si preferisse adottare l’edizione di Federico Sanguineti, il quale propone—si segnalano con il corsivo le variazioni rispetto all’edizione Petrocchi—“che potran dir li Persi ai vostri regi” (v. 112); “tutti i s[u]oi” (v. 114); “segnata con uno I la sua bontate / quando il contrario segnerà un’emme” (vv. 128–29); “di quel” (v. 131); “finìo” (v. 132);”fien” (v. 134); “paranno” (v. 136), “àn” (v. 138); cfr. Dantis Alagherii Comedia, a cura di Federico Sanguineti (Firenze: Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2001), 483. 7. La più recente edizione del testo si può leggere nella “Edizione diplomatico-interpretativa della lettera di frate Ilaro (Laur. XXIX 8, c. 67r)”, a cura di Beatrice Arduini e H. Wayne Storey, Dante Studies CXXIV (2006): 77–89. 8. Ilaro ne cita persino i (presunti) versi iniziali: “Ultima regna canam, fluvido contermina mundo, / Spiritibus que lata patent, que premia solvunt, / pro meritis cuiucunque suis” (ibid., 85). Secondo Padoan si tratterebbero invece piuttosto dei versi iniziali di quel poema paradisiaco con- sacrato a Beatrice che Dante aveva promesso al termine del Vita nova; cfr. Giorgio Padoan, Il lungo cammino del “poema sacro”: Studi danteschi (Firenze: Olschki, 1993), 22. Per un contributo recente a favore della sostanziale inaffidabilità dell’Epistola e una succinta presentazione dello stato della questione, vedi Alberto Casadei, Dante oltre la Commedia (Bologna: il Mulino, 2013), 129–41. Ulteriori argomenti contro l’autenticità della lettera in Paolo Pellegrini, “Tra Dante e Boccaccio: il monaco Ilaro non è mai esistito” in Storie e linguaggi I (2015): 41–104. Da vedere anche (di parere opposto) Umberto Carpi, La nobiltà di Dante (Firenze: Polistampa, 2004), 444–46. Nella Genea- logia Boccaccio sostiene che tra Dante e Federico di Sicilia intercorrevano degli ottimi rapporti di amicizia, ma si tratta di una testimonianza estremamente implausibile, anche tenendo conto di tutte le possibili esagerazioni dettate dal desiderio di nobilitare Dante, facendone il confidente dei più grandi uomini del suo tempo; cfr. Genealogia deorum gentilium, a cura di Vittorio Zaccaria (Milano: Mondadori, 1998), XIV xi: “Dantes noster Frederico Aragonensi, Sycelidum regi, et Cani della Scala, magnifico Veronensium domino, grandi fuit amicitia iunctus.” Si noti inoltre che l’Epistola di frate Ilaro—vale a dire, dell’unico altro documento che attesta l’ammirazione di Dante per Federico III—ci è pervenuta in una copia soltanto, per mano del Boccaccio, così che 63 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani pare molto plausibile supporre che la notizia dell’amicizia tra i due, riportata nella Genealogia, derivi proprio da questa lettera, con buona probabilità reperita e trascritta dal Boccaccio mentre andava raccogliendo materiali per il Trattatello e le Esposizioni; cfr. Saverio Bellomo, “Il sorriso di Ilaro e la prima redazione in latino della Commedia,” Studi sul Boccaccio XXXII (2004): 216. Billanovich sostenne che l’ideatore di questa lettera—e quindi, con quella, della leggenda dell’a- micizia tra Dante e l’odiato Federico III—non fosse poi altri che il Boccaccio, una tesi che è stata però confutata con validi argomenti da Giorgio Padoan, Il lungo cammino. 9. Cfr. Conv., IV 6.19–20; DVE 1.12.5. 10. Come ci testimonia Giovanni Villani nella sua Cronica (IX 54); vedi inoltre Salvatore Fodale, “Federico III (II) d’Aragona, Re di Sicilia (Trinacria),” DBI XLV 682–94. Su Enrico VII, oltre ai classici William Bowsky, Henry VII in Italy: The Conflict of Empire and City-State, 1310–1313 (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1960) e Francesco Cognasso, Arrigo VII (Milano: Dall’Oglio, 1973) è ora da vedere il numero monografico di Reti Medievali 15/1 (2014) e la raccolta di saggi Enrico VII, Dante e Pisa a 700 anni dalla morte dell’imperatore e dalla Monarchia (1313–2013), a cura di Giuseppe Petralia e Marco Santagata (Ravenna: Longo editore, 2016). 11. Federico III iniziò a trattare con Enrico VII a partire dalla seconda metà del 1311. 12. Cfr. Francesco Giunta, “Dante e i sovrani di Sicilia,” Bollettino Centro Studi Filologici e Linguistici Siciliani X (1969): 29–43. 13. Sulla datazione del presunto incontro tra Dante e frate Ilaro, vedi Alberto Casadei, Dante oltre la Commedia, 130. Che la dedica del Paradiso a Federico III sia del tutto inverosimile lo ammette lo stesso Padoan, il quale—seguendo Parodi—crede però di poterne fare un argomento, e il più stringente, a favore dell’autenticità dell’epistola, dato che nessuno che avesse una cono- scenza anche soltanto superficiale delle opere di Dante poteva ignorare i numerosi passi contro Federico III, cosicché l’implausibilità di una falsificazione così grossolana si trasmuta nella prova dell’affidabilità dell’epistola; cfr. Giorgio Padoan, Il lungo cammino, 5–23, che va a rielaborare la sua voce “Ilaro” nella Enciclopedia dantesca (Roma: Istituto della Enciclopedia italiana, 1970–1978), III 361–63; da qui in avanti ED. 14. Cfr. Bosco—Reggio (1979): “Onor: il termine non ha valore elogiativo: i due sovrani furono sempre giudicati con severità da Dante . . . qui onor può forse valere più o meno ‘dinastia’. Questo interessa Manfredi: l’apprezzamento negativo sull’opera di Federico e di Giacomo qui non c’entra. Del resto qui parla il personaggio Manfredi, non Dante. Il Tobler, seguito poi dal Parodi, pensa che possa valere come onor in ant. fr. e in prv., cioè ‘dominio, possesso’ estenden- done il senso anche a chi lo possiede. Sarebbe lo stesso caso, aggiunge il Parodi (Bull. VIII 52), di podestà o di sacra corona”. 15. Analoghe cautele erano già state avanzate da Pietro Palumbo, Il “novissimo” Federico nel giudizio dantesco in Atti del Convegno di Studi su Dante e la Magna Curia (Palermo: Centro di studi filologici e linguistici siciliani, 1967), 226–35. Debolissimo Carmelo Ciccia, L’onore e il disonore di Sicilia e d’Aragona (Purg. III e VI, Par. XIX e XX) in Id., Allegorie e simboli nel “Purgatorio” e altri studi su Dante (Cosenza: Pellegrini, 2002), 107–15. 16. Federico d’Aragona, semplificando notevolmente, fu difatti luogotenente e vicario gene- rale del Regno di Sicilia dal 1291 al 1296, rex Sicilie dal 1296 al 1302 (cioè fino alla pace di Calta- bellotta) e quindi Re di Trinacria dal 1320 alla morte, avvenuta nel 1337 (sebbene Federico finisse per accettare il titolo di “rex Trinacrie” soltanto nel 1311). Federico d’Aragona, a dire il vero, cercò in ripetute occasioni di fregiarsi nuovamente del titolo di “rex Cicilie,” la più importante delle quali nell’agosto 1314, trovando tuttavia davanti a sé l’opposizione costante degli Angioini e, con quelli, del Papa; cfr. Salvatore Fodale, Federico III (II) d’Aragona. Non è così da escludere che, quando Dante, a Paradiso XIX, accusa Giacomo di Maiorca, fratello di Pietro III d’Aragona e quindi zio (barba) di Federico III e suo fratello Giacomo II d’Aragona di aver “tradito” ( fatto bozze) la propria stessa stirpe (nazione), si riferisca proprio alla loro alleanza contro Federico, un loro familiare, in favore del Papa e degli Angioini; cfr. Par. XIX 136–38: “E parranno a ciascun l’opere sozze / del barba e del fratel, che tanto egregia / nazione e due corone han fatte bozze”; cfr. Pietrobono (1946 [1924–30]): “han fatte bozze, fornicando con papa Bonifazio, le hanno vituperate, al modo che le mogli infedeli fanno ai loro mariti”. Il passo è da avvicinare quindi 64 Dante Studies 135, 2017 a Inf. XIX 2–4: “che le cose di Dio, che di bontate / deon essere spose, e voi rapaci // per oro e per argento avolterate”. 17. Pietro Palumbo, Il “novissimo” Federico, 227 (dal trattato di pace di Caltabellotta, ratificato nel 1302). Paradiso XIX 131 sembrerebbe pertanto andare a mettere in discussione la legittimità e il titolo di Federico in Sicilia piuttosto che la sua signoria effettiva sull’isola, cui farebbe invece allusione Purg. VII 119, dove Dante scrive che “Iacomo e Federigo hanno i reami” (al plurale, quindi), anche se i versi sono così concisi e la cronologia talmente malcerta che pare si debba disperare di un’interpretazione veramente risolutiva. Per altre occorrenze di “guardare” nella stessa eccezione all’interno della Commedia, vedi Inf. XI 7–9: “io vidi una scritta / che dicea: ‘Anastasio papa guardo, / lo qual trasse Fotin de la via dritta’ ”; Inf. XII 32–33; Purg. XIX 104. 18. Bellomo, basandosi sull’indagine delle fonti dei presunti versi iniziali della Commedia latina, ha definitivamente dimostrato che il falsario dell’Epistola di frate Ilaro proviene dal “milieu preumanistico settentrionale, tra l’ambiente del Mussato e quello di Giovanni del Vir- gilio,” inclinando con forza per il secondo. La dedica del Paradiso a Federico III, di per sé così inverosimile, sarebbe nata dal desiderio di mettere in ombra la dedica di quella stessa cantica al nemico storico di Padova, Cangrande della Scala, riportata per l’appunto dalla cosiddetta Epistola a Cangrande (lo ipotizzava già Rajna). La scelta sarebbe quindi ricaduta su Federico d’Aragona—indicato nell’Epistola con il titolo di rex Cicilie—in quanto principale esponente in Italia della fazione ghibellina, il che sembrava farne, agli occhi del falsario, un dedicatario perlomeno accettabile; cfr. Saverio Bellomo, Il sorriso di Ilaro, 233–34. La scelta del falsario di porre il Paradiso sotto il segno di Federico d’Aragona potrebbe essere stata dettata anche dai solidi rapporti diplomatici tra Federico e i Veneziani, i quali rifiutarono difatti tutte le profferte degli Angioini di schierarsi al loro fianco contro la Sicilia di Federico; cfr. Luca Lombardo, Dante e Federico III: UN caso ancora aperto, tra storia e filologia in Il Medioevo nel ’300: Raimondo Lullo e Federico III d’Aragona, re di Sicilia, a cura di Marta M. M. Romano e Alessandro Musco (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), 372–75. 19. Fa eccezione il solo Alberto I d’Austria, il primo dei sovrani attaccati a Paradiso XIX: “Lì si vedrà, tra l’opere d’Alberto” (v. 115). 20. Cfr. ÆN. III. 707; Purg. XVIII 136–138: “E quella [gente] che l’affanno non sofferse / fino a la fine col figlio d’Anchise / se stessa a vita sanza gloria offerse.” 21. L’Ottimo Commento (1333) e Jacopo della Lana (1324–28). Questa prima interpretazione è accolta anche nelle Chiose ambrosiane (1355[?]): “Scriptura—Epygramma sive titulus sue lau- dis. Mozze—Per hec et sequentia verba ostendit nullam laudem eidem ascribi debere” e, poi da Pietro Alighieri e nel Codice cassinese, anche se con un’importante variazione. Il riferimento al “figliuolo” di Federico III è un errore di Jacopo della Lana, che fraintende quindi anche la terzina successiva (forse leggendo il “quei” del v. 131 come un pronome plurale). 22. Cfr. Mattalia (1960), il cui commento è ripreso alla lettera, senza tuttavia indicare la fonte, da Alessandro Niccoli, s.v. “mozzo,” in ED III 1052–1053. 23. Anonimo Fiorentino (1400[?]), che tuttavia segue l’errore Jacopo della Lana e parla di un “figliuolo” di Federico III. Johannis de Serravalle (1416–17) si sforza di accordare il commento di Benvenuto con il testo della Commedia a sua disposizione, il quale reca la lectio alternativa “non terranno” (anziché “noteranno”): “et ad dandum intelligendum quantum est modica sua scriptura, idest quam pauca sunt scribenda de ipso vili et pravo, fient littere mozze, idest pauce, vel scisse, vel truncate, que non tenebunt multum in parvo loco: et tamen multa mala possent dici de ipso.” L’oscurità del passo sotto esame era difatti ulteriormente complicata da un equi- voco, parzialmente paleografico (“che non terranno”), una variante attestata in vari rami della tradizione; cfr. La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata, I 159; IV 324. A seguire Benvenuto da Imola saranno poi anche Landino (1481), Vellutello (1544), e Daniello (1547–68). 24. Pietro Alighieri (3) (1359–64). L’interpretazione di Pietro è fedelmente riportata nel Codice cassinese, che chiosa poi correttamente “scilicet. dictus rex in bonitate et virtute” (Codice cassinese (1350–75[?]). 25. Francesco da Buti (1385–95). 26. Torquato Tasso (1555–68). 65 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani 27. Ernesto Giacomo Parodi, Lingua e letteratura (Venezia: Pozza, 1957), 394: “Forse che Dio prima assegnò poco spazio e poi s’accorse dell’errore? No, si tratta di uomo così da poco, che, per quanto sian molti i suoi falli, non meritano che si perda spazio a notarli; poche abbreviature stenografiche, e sarà presto finita col fastidio di dover occuparsi della sua nullità. Lo sdegno di Dante ha trovato qui una delle più bizzarre e insieme più pungenti espressioni.” 28. A notarlo, con grande finezza, è Hollander (2000–2007): “Frederick is the only one of the pestilential dozen to receive more than a single tercet for his dispraises. With a wry sense of humor, Dante claims that Frederick is unworthy of attention, yet he gives Frederick’s unwor- thiness more space than any of his competitors in malfeasance.” 29. La parafrasi alternativa suona quindi piuttosto: “la registrazione delle sue colpe sarà verga- ta con lettere mozze, che annoteranno (permetteranno di scrivere) molto in poco spazio, e questo dia un’idea della gravità del suo peccato!”. Questa mia interpretazione è in effetti molto vicina a quella di Benvenuto da Imola, il cui unico errore è di aver esteso la parentetica al verso successivo. 30. Questa virgola è già stata aggiunta al testo dell’edizione Petrocchi riportato all’inizio dell’articolo. 31. Il primo fu Johannis de Serravalle (1416–17), anche se i vari sinonimi utilizzati sembrano tradire qualche perplessità: “fient littere mozze, idest pauce, vel scisse, vel truncate.” La glossa di Torquato Tasso (1555–68), “mozze, brevi,” di nuovo presa da Fino, sembra invece suggerire che le lettere debbano essere scritte con grafia ridotta. La glossa fu poi ripresa da Longfellow (1867), il quale propose i caratteri minuscoli, di contro ai maiuscoli impiegati per Carlo d’Angiò: “In diminutive letters, and not in Roman capitals, like the DILIGITE JUSTITIAM of XVIII. 91, and the record of the virtues and vices of the Cripple of Jerusalem.” Questa lettura erronea fu poi nuovamente proposta da Mestica (1921–22 [1909]) che parla di “lettere abbreviate,” e sviano nella stessa direzione Steiner (1921), Provenzal (1938), Momigliano (1946–51) e Pietrobono (1946 [1924–30]), che pure cerca di aggiustare il tiro: “lettere mozze, dimezzate e abbreviate, in una specie insomma di carattere stenografico.” Porena (1946–48) corregge l’errore ma parla di “caratteri abbreviati,” un’espressione ambigua se estrapolata dal contesto, come si trova poi in Sapegno (1955–57) e Giacalone (1968), che non si riesce quindi a capire se abbiano semplicemente seguito la lettera, imprecisa, di Porena o se ne abbiano frainteso lo spirito. Sbaglia invece senza dubbio Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi (1991–1997), che parla di “lettere accorciate.” 32. Cfr. Porena (1946–48): “Che lettere mozze significhi (come alcuni sostengono) che le singole lettere alfabetiche siano mozzate, è da escludere, ché esse non sarebbero leggibili e occuperebbero nell’insieme spazio quasi uguale e non parvo loco. Questa interpretazione strana è nata dal non aver ricordato che lettere in antico significava assai di frequente caratteri, modo di scrivere, onde lettere mozze deve significare caratteri abbreviati, ossia, più o meno, stenografia. Cfr. Francesco Tateo, lettera in ED III 631–2: “estendendone il significato con una sineddoche, D.  indica con lettere le “note” mozze, ossia abbreviate, con le quali nel libro divino saranno ricordati i molti vizi di Federico II di Sicilia.” 33. Pietro Alighieri (3) (1359–64). Seguito, di nuovo, dal Codice cassinese (1350–75[?]): “idest. detruncate a suis ditionibus”. Il riferimento a Boezio è, più precisamente, al De consolatione philosophiae, I i 4. 34. A partire da Vellutello (1544): “le lettere saranno mozze, ciò è, abreviate,” trascritto lette- ralmente da Daniello (1547–68). Cfr. (1960): “col Casella, delle abbreviature ottenute usando una sola “lettera” di una parola, a fini stenografici o crittografici, e di cui discorre Isidoro in Etym., I, 22–24 (“De notis iuridicis”; “De notis militaribus”; “De notis litterarum” ecc.)”; la stenografia era già stata proposta da Grandgent (1909–13). 35. Benvenuto da Imola (1375–80); cfr. Landino (1481). 36. Ibid. 37. Il significato esatto, quasi specifico, di importat nel latino di Benvenuto lo si evince dal commento alla precedente terzina: “Et dicit: quando un emme, quod importat mille” (Par. XIX 127–129) e ancora più chiaramente dal commento a Purg. XXXIII 40–5: “un cinquecento diece e cinque, idest, unus dux; nam D semel positus apud arithmeticos significat quingentos, V impor- tat quinque, X decem, et istae tres literae constituunt istud nomen dux” (dove “importat” e 66 Dante Studies 135, 2017 “significat” sono utilizzati come sinonimi). Analogamente per le sigle: “literis illis S. P. Q. R., quae literae important: senatus, populusque romanus” (Par. XVI 148–154). 38. Unica eccezione, per quanto importante, Poletto (1894): “Di Carlo ha detto che meriti e demeriti sarebbero segnati nel libro di Dio con numeri romani, che sarebbero le lettere mozze, cioè non scrittura per disteso.” Mattalia (1960) discute l’ipotesi, anche se con qualche confusione, ma inclina da ultimo per l’interpretazione tradizionale: “o s’intende di cifre scritte in lettere romane mozze, mozzate, incomplete; o, e forse meglio, col Casella, delle abbreviature.” 39. Le colpe degli altri sovrani sembrano che saranno invece registrate una ad una e specificate nel dettaglio, in modo da essere chiaramente riconoscibili: “Lì si vedrà, tra l’opere d’Alberto, / quella che tosto moverà la penna” (vv. 115–117), “Lì si vedrà la superbia ch’asseta” (v. 121), “Vedrassi la lussuria e ’l viver molle” (v. 124), “E parranno a ciascun l’opere sozze / del barba e del fratel, che tanto egregia” (vv. 136–137), di modo che solo “Carlo e Federigo” fanno eccezione. 40. Cfr. Fraticelli (1852): “I Commentatori intendono abbreviature; ma le abbreviature si fanno non con lettere mozze, ma con parole mozze. Io credo dunque che il poeta abbia voluto indicare i numeri arabi, i quali hanno più de’ romani la proprietà di notar molto in poco spazio.” Lo segue poi, senza citarlo, Brunone Bianchi; cfr. Bianchi (1868): “Ha detto sopra che al Ciotto di Gerusalemme sarebbero state segnate le sue cattività con un’M . . . Ora dice qui, che le viltà e brutti fatti di Federigo saranno tanti, da doversi mozzare, compendiare queste stesse lettere affinché possano entrare nella pagina del libro di Dio. Le cifre arabiche, per es., possono consi- derarsi come un’abbreviatura dei numeri romani.” Il commento di Fraticelli è riportato infine da Giuseppe Campi (1888–93), sebbene Campi inclini poi per un’esegesi più tradizionale: “Il Frati- celli non consente che lettere mozze significhino abbreviature, ma invece numeri arabi, ch’hanno la proprietà di notar molto in poco spazio, ed assai più brevemente che non fanno i numeri romani.” 41. L’ultima opera di Fibonacci, il Liber Quadratorum, è dedicato a Federico II—il suo trattato De arte venandi cum avibus era già stato citato nell’opera maggiore—e nasce dalla discussione con i matematici e gli astrologi della sua corte, in particolare con Giovanni di Palermo. Il Liber abaci e le altre opere di Fibonacci furono pubblicate a metà ’800 da Baldassare Boncompagni; Scritti di Leonardo Pisano matematico del secolo decimoterzo, a cura di Baldassare Boncompagni (Roma: Tipo- grafia delle Scienze Matematiche e Fisiche, 1857). Ne esiste anche una traduzione inglese, priva di commento, Fibonacci’s Liber abaci: A translation into modern English of Leonardo Pisano’s Book of calculation, translated by Laurence Sigler (New York, NY: Springer, 2003). Utile l’introduzione in Leonardo Pisano, Le livre des nombre carrés, traduit pour la première fois du latin médiéval en français, a cura di Paul Ver Eecke (Bruges: Desclée De Brouwer, 1952), i–xxv. 42. Cfr. Maria Muccillo, Fibonacci, Leonardo (Leonardo Pisano), in DBI XLVII. 43. Cfr. Bruno Dini, Saggi su una economia-mondo (Ospedaletto: Pacini 1995), 129–30. Gino Arrighi, La matematica dell’Età di Mezzo: Scritti scelti (Pisa: ETS, 2004), 74 parla di un trattato di abaco umbro della metà del secolo. La diffusione della numerazione araba in Europa non dipese ovviamente dal solo Fibonacci; cfr. Jens Høyrup, “Fibonacci—Protagonist or Witness? Who Taught Catholic Christian Europe about Mediterranean Commercial Arithmetic?”, Journal of Transcultural Medieval Studies 1 (2014): 219–47. 44. Statuti dell’Arte del Cambio di Firenze (1299–1316), con aggiunte e correzioni fino al 1320, a cura di Giulia Camerani Marri, in Fonti sulle corporazioni medievali, IV (Firenze: Olschki, 1955), 72–73; cfr. gli statuti del 1300 (C), 1313 (LXXXXIII), e 1316 (LXXXXIIII: per abacum); enfasi mia. Nella traduzione italiana di Maria Lucioni all’interno del libro di Alexander Murray, Ragione e società nel Medioevo (Roma: Editori Riuniti, 1986), 182: “Parimenti si stabilisce e si ordina che nessuno di quest’arte consenta o permetta di scrivere per sé o per altri, o faccia scrivere, nel suo registro o libro contabile, o in nessuna sua altra parte, dove si scrivono uscite o entrate, qualcosa che si intenda come segno o lettera dell’abbaco, ma scriva chiaramente e per esteso mediante lettera. Al contravventore i consoli sono tenuti a far pagare, a titolo di ammenda, venti fiorini piccoli, per qualsivoglia irregolarità e qualsiasi documento; parimenti i consoli sono tenuti, se giungerà in loro mano qualche scritto che contravvenga quanto predetto, o in parte quanto predetto, personalmente e in virtù del loro officio, [sono tenuti] a condannare nel modo pre- detto. E quanto predetto deve aver vigore dalla metà del mese di aprile dell’anno del Signore 67 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani mille duecento novanta nove, dodicesimo dall’indizione in avanti, ossia dai registri contabili che s’iniziano a scrivere dalla metà del mese d’aprile in avanti, e per le ragioni che si scrivono dal mese di aprile in avanti.” L’espressione “per modum vel per licteram abbachi” si richiama poi con ogni probabilità al “modus Indorum” di Fibonacci e “lictera abbachi,” utilizzata come sinonimo, è da intendere in chiara contrapposizione alla “lictera” in senso assoluto, la scrittura tradizionale. Molto probabilmente, infatti, “lictera” non significa qui il singolo carattere grafico (“segno o lettera,” come traduce Lucioni) ma la “scrittura” o notazione araba, in analogia con quanto detto sopra per lettere. 45. Dirk Jan Struik, “The prohibition of the use of Arabic numerals in Florence,” Archives Internationales d’Histoire des Sciences 21 (1968): 291–94. L’autore ipotizza, in maniera piuttosto romanzesca, che si tratti invece di una misura contro le nascenti forze democratiche delle Arti minori e della fazione ghibellina, sviluppando una tesi di Raymond L. Wilder, Evolution of mathe- matical concepts (New York: Dover, 1968), 93 e 169, il quale parlava, assai più genericamente, di scelta “conservatrice.” Murray suppone invece fosse stato il Papato ad imporlo, in quegli anni il principale alleato economico della Firenze, per scongiurare l’usura. Entrambi, tuttavia, sembrano cadere nel pericolo di interpretare immediatamente queste resistenze all’introduzione delle cifre arabe come un atto di oppressione e di conservatorismo politico; Ragione e società, 182. La tesi della contraffazione è invece difesa con numerose testimonianze da Karl Menninger, Number Words and Number Symbols: A Cultural History of Numbers (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1970), 426–28. Decisiva quella di uno dei primi libri di contabilità veneziani: “lequal figure antique si fanno, perche le non si possono così facilmente diffraudare come quelle dell’abaco moderno, lequal con facilita di una sene [segno] potria fare un’altra, come quella del nulla, dalla qual seno potria far un 6 uno 9 e molte altri si potriano mutare”; che il bando si riferisca soltanto alla registrazione delle entrate e delle uscite (data et accepta) rinforza ulteriormente questa tesi. La tesi di Menninger è stata recentemente ripresa da David A. King, The Ciphers of the Monks: A Forgotten Number Notation of the Middle Ages (Franz Steiner Verlag: Stuttgart, 2001), 315–16, che tuttavia propone come ragione alternativa, se pure in via fortemente ipotetica, la mancanza di una convenzione di scrittura: “perhaps the forms [delle cifre arabe] were so diverse that no standard was recognisable”. Questa difficoltà è testimoniata per alcune aree europee, ma in Italia pare fosse un problema piuttosto marginale, per quanto documenti anche importanti attestino alcune differenze tra le “figure dell’arte vecchia e della nuova” (limitatamente alla grafia dei numeri “4”, “5” e “7”); cfr. Gino Arrighi, “Il primo abaco in volgare italiano (1307). Il Cod. 2236 della Biblioteca Ricciardiana di Firenze”, Archivio storico italiano 525/III (1985): 429–35; ora in Id., La matematica dell’Età di Mezzo, 75–79. Per le norme grafiche della scrittura notarile in cifre romane, vedi Karl Menninger, Number Words, 281–87. 46. Lo dimostra con grande chiarezza Karl Menninger, Number Words, 424: “the new nume- rals were adopted in the early Middle Ages not because of any conception of the advantages of place-value notation but merely as a new and exotic means of writing numbers. The Indian numerals were seen as nothing but abbreviations for numbers established on the counting board”; 284: “No one took the mental step of realizing what had actually been done with what appeared as mere abbreviations.” I numerali ibridi cinquecenteschi riportati da Menninger a pagina 287 (“1·5·IIII” per “1504”, “15000·30” per “15030”, e così via) mostrano la persistenza di queste stesse difficoltà anche nei secoli successivi. 47. Statuti della honoranda Università de’ Mercanti della inclita città di Bologna, Riformati l’anno MDL, Bologna 1554, fol. 57r; citato da Florence Edler, Glossary of Business Terms: Italian series 1200–1600 (Cambridge, Mass: The Medieval Academy of America, 1934), 121. Nell’ordinanza bolognese “abaco” indica tuttavia i numerali romani, mentre nello statuto fiorentino del 1299 il “modus vel lictera abbachi” designava i numerali arabi, un’ambiguità piuttosto infelice ma ben nota agli studiosi, i quali sono ormai in grado di scioglierla con relativa facilità. Per un’ulteriore conferma si veda uno dei primissimi trattati d’abaco in volgare, il primo fiorentino a noi noto, di poco successivo al nostro statuto (fu scritto difatti intorno al 1307): “ancora scriviamo qui disotto come lievano le dette figure et per cioè che ss’intendano meglio e più apertamente sì lle scriviamo per fighure e simigliantemente per lettere perciò che sança alcun magisterio l’uomo 68 Dante Studies 135, 2017 per se medesmo le possa intendere e sapere che ’l çevero per se non significa ma è potençia di fare significare”; Gino Arrighi, Il primo abaco in volgare italiano (1307), 77. 48. Cfr. Florence Edler, Glossary, 266. 49. Sulla situazione fiscale in Sicilia durante il regno di Federico III, vedi Illuminato Peri, La Sicilia dopo il Vespro (Roma-Bari: Laterza, 1982), 52–54 e 102–108; Henri Bresc, Un monde méditérranéen: Economie et societé en Sicile, 1300–1450 (Palermo-Roma: Accademia di scienze lettere e arti di Palermo, 1986), II 792–97. Già Salvatore Betti favoleggiava di una qualche forma di contrappasso, con tratti quasi da novella: “scrivendo le sue molte colpe con lettere abbreviate, come egli, pare, usava scrivere con abbreviature per far economia sulla carta”; cfr. Trucchi (1936). Giorgio Inglese, pur facendo propria la mia proposta di leggere “scrittura” come un termine contabile tecnico, mi ha obiettato che, nel caso in cui colpe di Federico III ammontassero a “mille” come era il caso per Carlo d’Angiò, “1000” finirebbe per occupare più carta di “M.” Indubbiamente, ma “mille” indica nel passo in questione una grande cifra generica (il valore simbolico del termine è palese), e grandi cifre di questo tipo le si indica di norma più rapidamente e più efficacemente con le cifre arabe che con le romane (che è poi il motivo per cui i mercanti fiorentini sfidarono le norme ufficiali e adottarono la notazione araba). Da parte sua, Inglese preferisce rifarsi invece senza ulteriori argomenti al commento di Benvenuto da Imola; cfr. Giorgio Inglese, Paradiso (Roma: Carocci, novembre 2016). 50. Per un’analisi della documentazione pertinente, vedi Franek Sznura, “I debiti di Dante nel loro contesto documentario” in Reti Medievali. Rivista 15/2 (2014): 303–22 e, più in generale, la nuova edizione del Codice Diplomatico Dantesco, a cura di Teresa De Robertis, Laura Regnicoli, Giuliano Milani e Stefano Zamponi (Roma: Salerno editrice, 2016). 51. L’accusa di Forese contro il padre di Dante si legge nel suo primo sonetto di risposta (L’altra notte mi venne una gran tosse); cfr. Rime, a cura di Gianfranco Contini (Torino: Einaudi, 1939), 85–87. Sul concetto di “usura” al tempo di Dante vedi perlomeno Ovidio Capitani, “Sulla questione dell’usura nel Medioevo” in Id., L’etica economica medievale (Bologna: il Mulino 1974): 23–46 e Giacomo Todeschini, Il prezzo della salvezza: Lessici medievali del pensiero economico (Roma: La Nuova Italia, 1994). Più recentemente, dello stesso autore, “Usury in Christian Middle Ages: A Reconsideration of the Historiographical Tradition (1949–2010)” in Religione e istituzioni religiose nell’economia europea: 1000–1800, a cura di Francesco Ammannati (Firenze: Firenze University Press 2010), 119–130. Per un’introduzione alle idee di Dante in materia economica, vedi Giuseppe Garrani, Il pensiero di Dante in tema di economia monetaria e creditizia (Palermo: Fondazione culturale “Lauro Chiazzese”, 1965). 52. Sul tema vedi anche Jeremy Catto, “Florence, Tuscany and the World of Dante” in The World of Dante, edited by Cecil Grayson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 7–8. 53. Dante detenne la carica di Priore nel bimestre dal 16 giugno al 15 agosto; per un rapi- do schizzo sulla carriera politica di Dante a Firenze vedi la voce curata da Chimenz nel DBI II 89–128. Non abbiamo invece nessuna informazione sull’attività politica di Dante nel 1299 (nell’anno, vale a dire, in cui fu originariamente promulgato lo statuto dell’Arte di Cambio che ci interessa qui), poiché, come noto, sono purtroppo andate smarrite tutte le consulte (cioè, i verbali delle sedute del Comune) del periodo dal luglio del 1298 al febbraio del 1301. 54. Cfr. Annalisa Simi, Trascrizione ed analisi del manoscritto Ricc. 2236 della Biblioteca Riccardiana di Firenze, Rapporto matematico n. 287, Università di Siena, 1995; il Cod. 2252 della Biblioteca Ricciardiana di Firenze, un Trattato d’aritmetica, che pure potrebbe essere anteriore, è infatti di dubbia datazione (oscillando tra il 1270 e il 1316). Un catalogo molto ricco dei trattati d’abaco e d’aritmetica delle biblioteche fiorentine si trova in Diane Finiello Zervs, “The Trattato dell’Abbaco and Andrea Pisano’s Design for the Florentine Baptistery Door”, Reinassance Quaterly XXVIII/4 (1975): 483–503. 55. Cfr. Giorgio Villani, Cronica di Giovanni Villani a miglior lezione ridotta coll’aiuto de’ testi a penna, XI 94 (Firenze: Sansone Coen, 1845), III 324. Cfr. Elisabetta Ulivi, Le scuole d’abaco a Firenze (seconda metà del sec. XIII- prima metà del sec. XVI), in Luca Pacioli e la Matematica del Rina- scimento: Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi, Sansepolcro 13–16 aprile 1994, a cura di Enrico Giusti (Città di Castello: Petruzzi, 1998), 41–60. 69 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani 56. Pietro dell’Abbaco fu matematico, astronomo e astrologo di grandissima fama, celebrato sia da Giovanni Villani che da Boccaccio (morì intorno al 1346). Cfr. Gino Arrighi, Introduzione a Paolo dell’Abbaco, Trattato d’aritmetica: Secondo la lezione del codice Magliabechiano XI, 86 della Biblioteca Nazionale di Firenze (Pisa: Domus Galileana, 1964), 7–8. Cfr. Id., Il Codice L. IV. 21 della Biblioteca degl’Intronati di Siena e la “Bottega dell’Abaco a Santa Trinita” in Firenze, in Id., La matematica nell’Età di Mezzo, II.7. 57. Un caso analogo è stato studiato da Mirko Tavoni, il quale ha mostrato come già i più antichi commentatori della Commedia fossero all’oscuro di come si officiasse materialmente il rito del battesimo nel Battistero di San Giovanni al tempo di Dante, cosicché nessuno di loro riusciva ormai più a comprendere cosa fossero i “battezzatori” di Inf. XIX; cfr. Mirko Tavoni, “Effrazione battesimale tra i simoniaci” (Inf. XIX 13–21), Rivista di letteratura italiana 10 (1992): 457–512. L’importanza dei trattati d’abaco moderni per i pittori dell’Italia centrale del Quat- trocento è stata studiata da Michael Baxandall in un suo celebre libro, in cui si mostra come la scomposizione dei solidi complessi in forme più elementari, così come la “Regola del Tre,” o “Chiave del Mercante,” la quale permetteva di calcolare il quarto termine (ignoto) di una proporzione, entrambe al centro della formazione scolastica dei giovani della classe media, non soltanto mercantile, avessero plasmato lo “stile conoscitivo” della classe media del Quattrocento italiano e permettano così di illuminare retrospettivamente lo “stile pittorico” degli artisti di questo periodo: è proprio perché al futuro mercante era stato richiesto sin dai primi anni di scuola di calcolare il volume delle botti e dei barili in cui avrebbe stipato le proprie merci, sostiene Baxandall, che questi poteva comprendere e apprezzare la natura geometrica delle opere di Piero della Francesca (egli stesso, a sua volta, studente presso quelle scuole d’abaco moderne e autore più tardi di un De abaco) scomponendo così il manto della Madonna della Misericordia in un cono e un cilindro, e il padiglione della Madonna del Parto in una calotta sferica sovrapposta ad un tronco di cono, ad esempio; cfr. Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in 15th Century Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972). Sarebbe ovviamente illegittimo prendere di trasporre quanto detto a proposito dello “stile conoscitivo” visivo del ’400 più maturo alla poesia di inizio ’300, ma la lettura di questi due saggi fa nascere il desiderio di un terzo, più generale, che vada a indagare come la pratica mercantile e la formazione presso le scuole d’abaco abbia informato per secoli la percezione del reale della classe media dell’Italia centrale e, quindi, le opere artistiche di questo periodo, la loro produzione e fruizione. Per un’indagine preliminare sull’emergere di una “mentalità matematica” nel ’200 europeo e sulle cause sociali di questo mutamento è da vedere la seconda parte di Alexander Murray, Ragione e società nel Medioevo. 58. Cfr. Jacopo della Lana (1324–28) ad Par. XXVIII 93. Che Jacopo della Lana ricorra ai numeri arabi è confermato anche dall’edizione più recente del suo Commento alla “Commedia,” a cura di Mirko Volpi (Roma: Salerno editrice, 2009), IV 2519. È bene però non esagerare la padronanza della nuova notazione, ché più di mezzo secolo dopo Francesco da Buti (1385–95) si mostrava ancora piuttosto impacciato, come risulta dal suo commento allo stesso verso: “del quale numero chi facesse ragione quanto è tutto insieme, troverebbe che 13 [leggi 18] milliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia, 446 migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia, 1644 migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia, 173 migliaia di migliaia di migliaia di migliaia, 1709 migliaia di migliaia di migliaia, e 551 migliaio, 617; ecco a quanto grande numero crescerebbe lo numero delli scacchi.” La metafo- ra dantesca (“L’incendio suo seguiva ogne scintilla; / ed eran tante, che ’l numero loro / più che ’l doppiar de li scacchi s’inmilla”), contrariamente a quanto verrebbe da supporre in un primo momento, non dipende, non direttamente almeno, dalla cultura matematica del suo tempo, ma riprende un topos della poesia provenzale, sia francese che italiana (questo sì derivato con ogni probabilità da fonti arabe), da Folchetto di Marsiglia, Peire Vidal e Guidot de Provins, fino al Mare amoroso: “Ché io porria giurar sanza mentire / che si raddoppia e cresce il mio volere, / in voi amore e in voi ubidire, / sì com’ cresce il numer de lo scacchiere, / che tanto cresce che non trova fine” (vv. 311–15); cfr. Giuseppe Ledda, La guerra della lingua: Ineffabilità, retorica e narrativa nella Commedia di Dante (Ravenna: Longo editore, 2002), 297. 59. Da un trattato veneziano del 1540; cfr. Florence Edler, Glossary, 120–21. 70 Dante Studies 135, 2017 60. Georges Ifrah, Histoire Universelle des Chiffres (Paris: Laffont, 1994), 342. Karl Menninger, Number Words, 286. La mole di documenti analoghi sembra fugare qualsiasi dubbio sulle ragioni dello statuto fiorentino del 1299. 61. Cfr. Porena (1946–48). Questa accezione specifica pare sia completamente sfuggita ai commentatori antichi; cfr. Michele A. Lanci et alii, scrittura in ED V: 93–4. Il primo a intuirlo sembra essere stato Poletto (1894): “la sua partita, la pagina stabilita per lui.” Lo notava in tempi più recenti anche Joan M. Ferrante “the good and bad deeds of men are recorded by number in God’s books like in account books” in The political vision of the Divine Comedy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 360. Alcuni studiosi hanno auspicato un’indagine dell’opera dantesca alla luce del lessico mercantile e, più in generale, del sistema bancario che nacque proprio sul finire del ’200 in Toscana, per affermarsi quindi in tutta Europa; cfr. Susan Noakes, Dante e lo sviluppo delle istituzioni bancarie a Firenze: “I sùbiti guadagni” in Dante: Da Firenze all’Aldilà—Atti del terzo Seminario dantesco internazionale, Firenze, 9–11 giugno 2000, a cura di Michelangelo Picone (Firenze: Franco Cesati, 2001), 249–61. Le terzine studiate in questo saggio potrebbero offrire un ottimo punto di partenza per indagini di questo tipo. 62. Cfr. Robert Hollander, “Dante’s “book of the dead”: a note on Inferno XXIX, 57”, Studi danteschi 54 (1982), 38–39: “Where is ‘here’ in verse 57? We hold the answer in our hands: the text of Dante’s poem . . . In such a reading of the verse, the implicit claim made by the poet on behalf of his text was simply too much for his commentators to accept. In any number of them one can sense a new awareness of the relevance of the book’s metaphor generated by the verb registrare to Dante’s own book.” 63. Cfr. Fraticelli (1852): “Registrare è porre a registro, a libro.” C’è chi ha invece voluto scorgere un riferimento alla pratica giudiziaria, per quanto i due ambiti metaforici, il contabile e il giu- diziario, non vadano necessariamente intesi come alternativi, ché il liber mortis sarà per l’appunto chiamato in causa nel giorno del Giudizio; cfr. Alessandro Vellutello (1544) ad Inf. XXIX 57: “che qui registra, i quali in questo tal fondo condanna, E dice registra, perche data la sententia contra del reo, quella si registra, acciò che tale qual ella è, si possa poi a tempo publicare.” Cfr. Johannis de Serravalle (1416–17): “Qui registra .  .  . hic ponitur in quaterno, scilicet per auctorem.” Il Serravalle fu in effetti l’unico dei commentatori a comprendere il significato esatto da assegnare al “qui” di Inferno XXIX, per quanto la sua interpretazione non abbia trovato prima di Hollander nessun interprete pronto ad accoglierla. 64. Cfr. Daniello (1547–68): “registra; tratto dai mercatanti: uolendo dimostar che qui tutti li nomi dei peccatori sono registrati”; gli fa quindi eco Gregoretti (1856): “qui, come mette nel registro delle partite il mercante.” Confronta inoltre Bergmann (1881): “registro est un livre divisé en rubriques.” Cfr. Florence Edler, Glossary, 240. 65. Dopo essersi appellato al “volume aperto / nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi,” Dan- te (o, per meglio dire, l’Aquila) passa difatti immediatamente a descriverne il contenuto (vv. 115–41), dando enfasi alla propria requisitoria per mezzo dell’anafora delle aperture delle nove terzine successive le quali recitano, a gruppetti di tre, “Lì si vedrà,” “Vedrassi” e, infine, “E” seguita da verbi di significato analogo ai primi (“E a dare a intender”, “e parranno”, e . . . lì si conosceranno”), cosicché questi versi si caratterizzano poi anche, a livello semantico, per una marcata insistenza sulla capacità del liber di “rendere palese” le colpe di questi sovrani. Dante aveva fatto ricorso allo stesso artificio retorico a Purg. XII 25–63, nell’episodio dei superbi, sui quali campeggiano gli esempi di superbia punita e l’acrostico “VOM” (uomo) delle terzine che li vanno a descrivere, piuttosto vicine a quella di Paradiso XIX quanto a struttura descrittiva (“Vedea,” “O” esortativo, “Mostrava”). Nessuno dei due acrostici pare possa essere inteso come un prodotto casuale delle anafore di inizio terzina, come osserva giustamente, tra gli altri, Robert Hollander (2000–2007). Contro una recente tendenza interpretativa che pretende di ritrovare numerosi altri nuovi acrostici nei luoghi più disparati dell’opera dantesca ha argomentato a piena ragione Teodolinda Barolini, The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 308–10. La tesi che le “letter mozze” indichino proprio quelle lettere iniziali che vanno a formare l’acrostico “LVE” è evidentemente priva di qualsiasi plausibilità interpretativa. 71 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani 66. Cfr. Leo Koep, Das himmlische Buch in Antike und Christentum: Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zur altchristlichen Bildersprache (Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1952), in particolar modo pp. 47–54. 67. Cfr. Robert Hollander, Dante’s “book of the dead”, 42 n. 16: “I realize that my phrase is impressionistic rather than based in strictly theological language. cfr. Berthier (1892) “On our passage: “Perché, sebbene nella lingua dei teologi sia abbia di frequente il ‘liber vitae’, non si ha però il ‘liber mortis’ . . .”. Nonetheless the passage in Apoc. 20:12 undoubtedly suggests exactly a division into two books, one for the saved and one for the damned.” 68. Daniele è difatti con certezza pressoché assoluta la fonte dei libri dello pseudo-Giovanni. I libri di Daniele non sono tuttavia esplicitamente contrapposti al liber vitae, per quanto altrove nell’opera si parli di un libro (non ulteriormente qualificato) che conterrebbe i nomi di coloro che saranno salvati; cfr. Dn. 12, 1. Per l’esegesi di Agostino e Gerolamo vedi Jean Leclerq, “Aspect spirituel de la symbolique du livre au XIIe siècle” in L’Homme devant Dieu: Mélanges Offerts au Père Henri De Lubac (Paris: Aubier, 1963–64): II 64–67. Gerolamo, in particolare, commenta: “Libri . . . conscientiae et opera singulorum in utramque partem, vel bona vel mala, revelantur. Bonus liber ille est, quem saepe legimus, liber viventium” (PL 25, 532–33). 69. Cfr. Petrus Iohannis Olivi, Lectura super Apocalipsim, ed. Warren Lewis (Saint Bonaven- ture, NY: Franciscan Institute of Publications, 2015), commento ad Ap. 20, 12. 70. Gorni ha proposto un accostamento proprio tra quest’ultimo passo dell’Apocalisse (5, 1) e l’ultimo canto del Purgatorio in relazione al tema del “libro della memoria” nella Commedia; cfr. Purg. XXXIII 73–4, 79–81 (a parlare, nei primi versi, è Beatrice): “Io veggio te ne lo ’ntelletto / fatto di pietra e, impetrato, tinto . . . E io: ‘Sì come cera da suggello, / che la figura impressa non trasmuta, / segnato è or da voi lo mio cervello’ ”. Cfr. Guglielmo Gorni, “Spirito profetico duecentesco e Dante,” Letture classensi XIII (1984): 60: “È l’invenzione di un nuovo mito. Il ‘libro della memoria’ dantesco, all’occorrenza, si piega a una realtà più esoterica, diventa un libro sacro, suggellato: proprio come nell’Apocalisse, ‘librum scriptum intus et foris, signatum sigillis septem’ (5, 1). E la ‘pietra’ del suo intelletto si fa molle cera, come in Judith 16, 18 ‘petrae sicut cera lique- scent ante faciem tuam’: ciò è congeniale alla vocazione profetica, come ben sapeva Dante.” La stessa immagine ricorre anche in Epist. XI, 2: “qui solus eternus est, mentem Deo dignam viri prophetici per Spiritum Sanctum sua iussione impressit,” con allusione a Geremia. Sulla metafora del libro in Dante vedi, più in generale, il classico Charles S. Singleton, An Essay on the “Vita Nuova” (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1949), 22–54. Da integrare perlomeno con John Ahern, “Binding the Book: Hermeneutic and Manuscript Production in Paradiso 33,” Publi- cations of the Modern Language Association of America 97 (1982): 800–809. Sull’importanza del “libro della memoria” nella cultura medievale, rimane imprescindibile Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 71. De veritate, q. 7 a. 8 ad 2 (53101). È lo stesso Tommaso a parlare di una damnatio memo- riae che colpisce i sovrani che hanno governato ingiustamente; cfr. De regimine principum, I, 10. Perché Hollander se ne rendesse conto sarebbe infatti bastato andare a leggere i passi indicati da Berthier nel proprio commento (che Hollander, come si è visto, cita) per sostenere che “sebbene nella lingua dei teologi sia abbia di frequente il ‘liber vitae’, non si ha però il ‘liber mortis’.” Se era stata l’erudizione teologica a permettere a padre Berthier di scovare il passo della Summa e del De Veritate, questi era poi caduto preda del demone dell’ortodossia, perché seppure il liber mortis non aveva corso “nella lingua dei teologi”—o, perlomeno, non in quella di Tommaso— pretendere di far coincidere la religiosità dantesca (in senso lato) con la dogmatica tomista è un errore imperdonabile. 72. Tommaso d’Aquino, De veritate, q. 7 a. 8 s. c. (53098): “Sed liber mortis non invenitur in Scriptura dici sicut liber vitae. Ergo non debemus ponere librum mortis”. Se la Bibbia non pare accennare in nessun luogo ad un liber mortis si riferisce tuttavia in molteplici occasioni ai nomi dei dannati che saranno depennati dal libro di Dio, variamente qualificato come liber viventium, liber monumenti (da intendere come “libro di memorie”) o semplicemente come libro divino (“liber tuus”); cfr. Es. 32, 32–33 (dialogo tra Dio e Mosè dopo l’episodio del vitello d’oro): “ ‘Aut si non facis dele me de libro tuo quem scripsisti.’ Cui respondit Dominus: ‘Qui peccaverit mihi delebo 72 Dante Studies 135, 2017 eum de libro meo’:” Ml. 3, 16: “Scriptus est liber monumenti coram eo timentibus Dominus et cogitantibus nomen eius;” Sal. 69 (68), 29: “Deleantur de libro viventium et cum iustis non scribantur;” Is. 4, 3: “Sanctus vocabitur omnis qui scriptus est in vita in Hierusalem;” Fil. 4, 3: “adiuva illas . . . quorum nomina sunt in libro vitae.” 73. Si veda l’intera quaestio 24 della prima parte del trattato. 74. Johannis de Serravalle (1416–17). Il passo riportato in corpo di testo è tratto da Benvenuto da Imola (1375–80): “quel volume aperto, scilicet librum Dei in quo descripta sunt omnia delicta hominum; unde dicit: nel qual si scrivon tutti suoi dispregi, idest, in quo volumine magno scribuntur omnes transgressiones hominum qui spernunt mandata Dei”; cfr. L’Ottimo Commento (1333): “quel volume aperto, cioè in quella ultima sentenza dove sono scritti tutti li processi.” Jacopo della Lana pare avvicinarsi invece all’esegesi metaforica di Olivi; cfr. Jacopo della Lana (1324–28): “E questo saranno quando lo libro sarà aperto, cioè la giustizia condannerà li buoni e li rei, nel quale libro si saranno scritti tutti li loro difetti.” Manca di discutere il problema del “volume” Christian Trottmann, “Communion des saints et jugement dernier dans les chants XIX–XX du Paradis,” in Pour Dante. Dante et l’Apocalypse: Lectures humanistes de Dante, ed. Bruno Pinchard et Christian Trottmann (Paris: Champion, 2001), 181–98. Andrea Battistini, “L’universo che si squaderna: cosmo e simbologia del libro,” Letture classensi XXV (1986): 67, parla invece, del tutto genericamente, di un “libro della giustizia che registra il male e il bene di ognuno.” 75. Prediche del B. Fra Giordano da Rivalto recitate in Firenze dal MCCCIII al MCCCVI, a cura di Domenico Moreni (Firenze: Magheri, 1831), I 207–208. L’edizione Moreni non riporta pur- troppo un altro passo di questa stessa predica che sviluppa ulteriormente la metafora contabile: “O che grandi volumi si troveranno molti de’ fatti loro! Non è libro nullo di Compagnia sì grande o di tanto volume che quello non sia maggiore. Vedil pur in questo modo, ch’avrai pieno di un grande libro di bottega, pur di tante opere k’ae fatte di marcanzia”; Firenze, Biblioteca Riccar- diana, ms. 1268, c. 10vb, citato da Carlo Delcorno, Giordano da Pisa e l’antica predicazione volgare (Firenze: Olschki, 1975), 60. Nel passo citato in corpo di testo ho seguito la proposta di Moreni, il quale corregge molto ragionevolmente il “compagnie” dei manoscritti in “campagne” (ibid., 207 n. 1). Il passo riportato da Delcorno suggerisce tuttavia una maggiore prudenza, anche se è probabile che Giordano, prese le mosse dalle ricevute degli amministratori di cui parlava Luca, finisse poi per assumere come termini di paragone i libri contabili delle Compagnie di Firenze, confondendo così chi stava trascrivendo la sua predica. A questo passo di Giordano da Pisa si erano già richiamati, nel loro commento a Par. XIX 112–14, Scartazzini—Vandelli (1929). Sui nessi formali tra lo stile dantesco e quello dei predicatori (con particolare attenzione a frate Giordano, preso come riferimento esemplare), cfr. Carlo Delcorno, “Cadenze e figure della predicazione nel viaggio dantesco”, Letture Classensi XV (1986): 41–60; “Dante e il linguaggio dei predicatori”; Schede su Dante e la retorica della predicazione, in Miscellanea Pasquazi I 301–12. Che alcuni tratti della lingua di Dante dipendano da quella di Giordano da Pisa era già stato sostenuto, ma con argomenti del tutto infondati, da Aldo Vallone, “Dante e fra G. da Rivalto,” Giornale italiano di filologia XIX (1966): 260–72. Poco stringente anche Adriano Bozzoli, “Due paragrafi sul prologo della Divina Commedia,” Aevum XLI (1967): 518–29. Mutuo l’espressione in corpo di testo da Jacques Chiffoleau, La comptabilité de l’au-delà: Les hommes, la mort et la religion dans la région d’Avignon à la fin du Moyen Age (vers 1320–vers 1480) (Roma: École française de Rome, 1980). Dello stesso autore e per una presentazione critica della letteratura sul tema è da vedere la bella conclusione al volume da lui curato Économie et religion: L’expérience des ordres mendicants (XIIIe–XVe siècle), a cura di Nicole Bériou—Jacques Chiffoleau (Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 2009), 707–54. 76. Cfr. Ernst Robert Curtius, Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter (Bern: Fran- cke, 1948), 306–52. Curtius si limita a ricordare Ap. 20, 12 senza tuttavia discuterlo, mentre il “volume aperto” di Paradiso XIX non è nemmeno citato. 77. Venezia, Biblioteca del Museo Correr, ms. Malvezzi 149 (VI 837), c. 104r; cfr. Carlo Delcorno, Giordano da Pisa, 60. Per uno studio sulle metafore tratte dall’economia nel lessico religioso di Giordano da Pisa vedi Cecilia Iannella, Giordano da Pisa: Etica urbana e forme della società (Pisa: ETS, 1999), 134–41. 73 Le “lettere mozze” di Federico III di Sicilia Mantovani 78. Cfr. Rime, a cura di Gianfranco Contini, 28a (LXXVIII), 93: “i grani di panìco sarebbero serviti per far di conto . . . Metter la ragione, ‘fare, regolare i conti’; più frequente, come termine commerciale, è rimetter la ragione, ‘presentare il rendiconto periodico’. Qui varrà, meglio che ‘fare il conto’ (delle persone del v. 12), ‘regolarlo, finirla, metter punto’.” Sul significato tecnico di Ragione, di Saldo, mettere (la ragione) in e di Libro della ragione vedi Florence Edler, Glossary, 160, 236–37, 255. 79. Cfr. Justin Steinberg, Accounting for Dante: Urban Readers and Writers in Late Medieval Italy (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), in particolare 125–44. 80. L’espressione è di Contini; Rime, lvi. Per il giudizio di Dante sulla lirica precedente e la sua funzione narrativa all’interno del poema, vedi Teodolinda Barolini, Dante’s Poets: Textuality and Truth in the Comedy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984). 
work_grnrtjxnfjhzzlt2sisb2mhlru	----	Anesth&#x00E9;sie g&#x00E9;n&#x00E9;rale en m&#x00E9;dicine dentaire E D I T , D R I A L S 329 without this benefit. The need for general anaesthe- sia in dentistry undoubtedly exists and if it were available, many more patients would request it. Not only would this relieve stress and anguish, particu- larly in children, but it would produce better working conditions for the dentist and allow exten- sive restorative and peridontal procedures to be carried out in one sitting, thus reducing the cost to the patient. How can dental patients get better access to general anaesthesia? The dentist is reluctant to leave the comfort o f his office where he can do good work with his own equipment in familiar surroundings. Likewise, the anaesthetist is unwilling to venture from the hospital operating room where he feels comfortable and safe amongst the complex technol- ogy he has assembled. Economic considerations favour this separation: the state will not provide for anaesthetic equipment outside the hospital nor equip special operating rooms inside the hospital to accommodate dentists. One practical answer may be a dental office designed and equipped for the administration of general anaesthesia. Such offices have been pro- vided by practicing dentists or groups of dentists; they have also been set up by dental anaesthetists who then invite other dentists to bring their patients to such an office for dental procedures under general anaesthesia. This solution requires considerable capital expenditure and enterprise if both the dentist and the anaesthetist are to be satisfied with the working conditions, The specialist anaesthetist who ventures from the operating room into an office will ask himself the question, is it safe to do this and should I be seen doing it? With this question in mind, we learned of Dr. Kay's practice which represents yet another ap- proach; general anaesthesia is provided in practi- cally any dental office with the anaesthetist's own portable equipment. In this issue, Dr. Kay describes the organization of his practice, his selection of patients, anaesthetic technique, postoperative care and follow-up. Since he has practiced this approach to office anaesthesia successfully and safely, we encouraged him to report it in our Journal. We believe anaesthetists have an obligation to provide dental anaesthesia. In our opinion, this paper reports an uncommon but successful and therefore possible approach which we hope will provoke reflection and constructive discussion. References 1 Keys TE. The History of Surgical Anaesthesia, Dover Publieatmns Inc., New York. 1963. 2 Notation: Boston Medical and Surgical Journal, April 14, 1848. Anesthdsie gdndrale en m dicine dentaire Les anesth~sistes contemporains semblent avoir oublir, ou prrfrrent oublier, qu'ils doivent leur situation dam le monde m~dical ~ deux dentistes: Horace Wells, qui a inhal6 du protoxidc d'azme lois de l'extraction sans douleur d'une dent infectre et William Morton, qui a ouvert la vole h l'anesthrsie en d~montrant que I'iuhalafion d'~ther di~thylique permettait une chirurgie sans douleur. La premirre administration d'6ther pour extrac- tion dentaire sans douleur d'une dent remonte ~t 1842 ~t Rochester, New York. Le Dr. Elijah Pope a alors extrait une dent d'une Mile Hobble qui avait prralablement re~u de l'rther imbib6 sur une servi- ette. L'anesthrsiste 6tait un 6tudiant en chimie, William Clarke, qui avait drift acquis une certaine e x # r i e n e e darts le domaine. Nathan Colley Keep, plus tard doyen de la facult~ de mrdecine dentaire b. Harvard, a administr6 des inhalations interrnittentes d'4ther, le sept avril 1848 h l'4pouse de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lors de son premier accou- chement. C'est le premier exemple d'anesthrsie obstrtricale jamais enregistr~ en Am~rique du Nord. Historiquement, la discipline de l'anesthrsie dolt beaueoup ~ la profession dentaire. Durant les 139 ans qui ont suivi la premiere inhalation de protoxide d'azote par Horace Wells, une nouvelle discipline ind~pendante est apparue et des millions de patients profitent chaque annre d'op&ations chirurgicales sans douleur. L'anesthrsie s'est de- puis d r v e l o p l ~ grace aux progr~ de la technologic, de la pharmacologic et de la physiologic mais nous remonterons toujours ~ la d~couverte du dentiste de Hartford au Connecticut. Malheureusement, les anesthrsistes n'ont pas d~montr6 beaaeoup de gratitude h l'rgard de la 330 C A N A D I A N A N A E S T H E T I S T S ' SOCIETY J O U R N A L profession dentaire. L'anesthEsie dentaire n ' e s t pas tr~s bien vue parmi les anesthEsistes. La premiere responsable de cette situation est la tradition qui a attribu~, sans raison, la cavit6 orale ~ une profession et le reste du corps i~ une autre. La profession mfdicale s'est concentrEe dans les hEpitanx o~ l'&iuipement et le secours sont disponibles et oO i'anesth~sie, lorsque requise, est payee h mfime les fonds publics. La mEdecine dentaire, au plan de la chirurgie et de la restauration, est basEe sur la pratique en cabinet privE. Ce n ' e s t que rEcemment que certains chirurgiens stomatologistes out accEdE ~t la salle d'opEration oi~ ils sont plus ou moins tolgrEs. Cependant la majorit6 des dentistes n ' o n t pas acc~s anx hEpitaux et sont par le fait m~me coup~s des anesthEsistes du milieu hospitalier. Dans son cabinet, le dentiste utilise son propre outillage et son personnel est form6 en fonction de son genre de pratique. Les dentistes ont d~velopp6 leur propre approche vis-a-vis de l'anesth~sie: ils utilisent habilement l'anesthEsie rEgionale et les techniques de sgdation mais seuls quelques dentis- tes ont ~t~ entraln~s it administrer une anesth~sie gEn~rale. Toutefois le dentiste-anesthEsiste n ' a pas de statut officiel parmi les anesthfsistes mEdicaux. I1 en r~sulte q u ' u n patient qui peut profiter d'une anesthEsie sans danger darts le cas d ' u n e chirurgie plastique mineure doit endurer les souffranees encore plus grandes d'une chirurgie dentaire sans le b~nfifice de I'anesth~sie. L'anesth~,sie g~nErale est souvent nEcessaire en mEdecine dentaire et si cUe 6tait disponible, de nombreux patients s'en prE- vaudraient. Cela contribuerait non seulement ~t diminuer le stress et l'angoisse attaches ~ la chirur- gie dentaire, particuli~rement chez les enfants, mais encore ~ am~liorer les conditions de travail du dentiste. L'anesthgsie permettrait de pratiquer des interventions de restauration et de pgriodontie importantes au cours d ' u n e seule scEance, rEduisant ainsi le coflt pour le patient. Comment les patients de m~decine dentaire peuvent-ils avoir accks A l'anesthgsie gEnErale? Le dentiste hEsite ~t sortir de son cabinet oia il peut travaiUer aver ses propres instnaments darts un environnement familier. Pour les m~mes raisons, l'anesthEsiste pr&ere ne pas s'Eloigner de la salle d'ol~ration de I'hfpital oi~ un 6quipement spE- cialis6 est ~ sa disposition. On doit souligner que des considerations 6conomiques entretiennent cette separation: l'Etat ne fournira pas d'6quipement d'anesthEsie en dehors de l'h6pital et n'Equipera pas non plus les salles d'op&ation pour accomoder les dentistes. La solution pourrait ~tre un cabinet dentaire con~u et 6quipE pour l'administratiou de t'anes- thEsie gEnErale. De tels cabinets oat Et~ mis sur pied par des dentistes et des groupes de dentistes; ils oat ~galement 6tE months par des anesthEsistes qui ont alors invite d'autres dentistes ~t amener leurs pa- tients ~ leur cabinet pour une chirurgie dentaire sous anesthEsie gEnErale. Cette solution exige des inves- tissements considErables et beaucoup d'astuce afin d'Etablir des conditions de travail satisfaisantes rant pour l'anesthEsiste que pour le dentiste. Pour ranesthEsiste-spEcialiste, sortir de la salle d'opEra- tion reprgsente un risque et il hEsitera avant de s ' y aventurer. En gardant cela ~ l'esprit, rappelons-nous l'ap- procbe du docteur Kay dans ce numEro: r anesthEsie gEnErale est disponible chez pratiquement t o u s l e s dentistes avec le concours d'anesthEsistes possE- dant leur propre ~luipement. Le docteur Kay d ~ r i t I'organisation de son cabinet de consultation, la selection de ses patients, sa technique d'anesth6sie, les soins post-opEratoires et les contrbles sub- sgquents. Etant donne le succ~s du docteur Kay, nous avons cru bon de lul ouvfir les pages du journal. Si cette approche est pen commune, elle est nEanmoins possible et nous espErons qu'elle sera discut6e et imitEe par de nombreux anesth~sistes car il est de leut devoir, nous croyons, de procurer I'anesthEsie dentaire l~t ott elle est requise. 
work_fmardtvcjnh5jkahzcgaifxfua	----	DIPLOMARBEIT / DIPLOMA THESIS Titel der Diplomarbeit / Title of the Diploma Thesis Atom Bombs, Synths, and the Red Scare: American Ideologies in Fallout 4 verfasst von / submitted by Markus Pluschkovits angestrebter akademischer Grad / in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Magister der Philosophie (Mag.phil.) Wien, 2020 / Vienna, 2020 Studienkennzahl lt. Studienblatt / degree programme code as it appears on the student record sheet: UA 190 333 344 Studienrichtung lt. Studienblatt / degree programme as it appears on the student record sheet: Lehramtsstudium UniStG UF Deutsch UniStG Englisch UniStG Betreut von / Supervisor: Univ.-Prof. Mag. Dr. Alexandra Ganser-Blumenau Table of Contents 1. Introduction ........................................................................................................................3 2. Rules, Narratives and Commodities: the Contested Concept ‘Videogame’ ..........................5 2.1 The Ludology/Narratology Debate ................................................................................6 2.2. The Case for Games as Rules: Fallout 1, Fallout 2 and Fallout Shelter ........................9 2.2.1. Ergodic Operations.............................................................................................. 10 2.2.3. Time in Videogames ........................................................................................... 16 2.2.4.) Hermeneutic Mechanics and Mimetics ............................................................... 22 2.3. Videogames as Narrative Medium: Fallout 3 and Fallout New Vegas ........................ 25 2.3.1. Videogames in the Narrative Tradition ................................................................ 25 2.3.2. Narrative Techniques in Adventure Games.......................................................... 28 2.4. Videogames as Commodities: Fallout 76 ................................................................... 35 2.4.1. Game Culture and Videogames in Culture ........................................................... 36 2.4.2. Videogames and Ideology ................................................................................... 41 2.5. Transclusion: What is a Videogame? ......................................................................... 44 3. Analysis............................................................................................................................ 45 3.1. The Narratives of the Wasteland ................................................................................ 49 3.1.1. Retrofuturism, Nostalgia and History in the Wasteland ....................................... 49 3.1.2. Ruins and Dark Tourism ..................................................................................... 57 3.1.3. The End of the World: Ecocriticism and Apocalypse ........................................... 66 3.2. Playing America: Ludic Operations after the Apocalypse ........................................... 71 3.2.1. A New Frontier ................................................................................................... 72 3.2.2. Unit Operations after the Apocalypse .................................................................. 75 4. Conclusion: Game Over? .................................................................................................. 79 References ............................................................................................................................ 81 Bibliography ..................................................................................................................... 81 Ludography ...................................................................................................................... 87 Appendix .............................................................................................................................. 88 English Abstract ............................................................................................................... 88 German Abstract ............................................................................................................... 88 2 List of Figures Figure 1: The player character of Fallout 1 leaving their Vault .............................................. 13 Figure 2 Activating the targeting systems stops time in the gameworld in Fallout 3 .............. 17 Figure 3 Log of real time exploration in Fallout Shelter ........................................................ 20 Figure 4 Screenshot of an evocative space in Fallout: New Vegas ........................................ 31 Figure 5 Evocative micronarratives in Fallout: New Vegas ................................................... 32 Figure 6 Embedded narrative in Fallout: New Vegas ............................................................ 33 Figure 7 Potential augmentary narratives in Fallout: New Vegas .......................................... 34 Figure 8 The interior of the player's house before the Great War ........................................... 50 Figure 9 'Celebrate History!' banner in front of the Museum of Freedom .............................. 52 Figure 10 The game's version of John Hancock .................................................................... 53 Figure 11 A non-interactable synth and a humanoid synth .................................................... 55 Figure 12 The player character's house prior to the Great War .............................................. 59 Figure 13 The player character's house as ruin ...................................................................... 60 Figure 14 Ruin of a retirement home .................................................................................... 62 Figure 15 Bunker Hill Monument in Fallout 4 ...................................................................... 63 Figure 16 Massachusetts State House in Fallout 4 ................................................................. 65 Figure 17 The Mushroom cloud of Fallout 4 ......................................................................... 68 Figure 18 The Nuclear Ecology of Fallout 4 ......................................................................... 69 Figure 19 The Glowing Sea .................................................................................................. 70 Figure 20 The in-game map of settlements in Fallout 4 ......................................................... 73 Figure 21 In-game overview over the happiness of settlements ............................................. 77 Figure 22 Overview over the player's stats and perks ............................................................ 78 3 1. Introduction “War, war never changes.” – this iconic tagline has become synonymous with the Fallout- series. It stands at the beginning of each Fallout game, of which Fallout 4, the fifth major release in the series, is the most sold installment. This tagline is almost deceiving, as Fallout games are not really about war, but rather its consequences. All Fallout games are post- apocalyptic games, set considerable time after the annihilation of most of society in a global nuclear war in 2077. In the Fallout universe, the Cold War never stopped, and ultimately, resulted in atomic mutual destruction in the 21st century. The player and their avatar, true to role-playing games, stumble through the ruins of this war to fulfill a grand quest. Along their quest, the player experiences the remnants of the society before the war – a society perpetually stuck in Cold War mindsets and 1950’s aesthetics, a society long gone to both the player and their avatar. The player collects weapons, accomplishes tasks, gains levels and discovers locations on their way to the end of the game. Characteristically, these games are filled with so many things to do that, even after reaching this end, the player can play on for quite some time. In this way, these games are not really about war, but about many different things. The question of what Fallout 4 is about, i.e. what it communicates, is of strong relevance. While the game’s publisher never released sales figures, they asserted that it has been the company’s most successful game (Makuch). Bethesda, the publisher of Fallout 4, also published Skyrim, for which sales figures are available, placing Skyrim as the thirteenth best sold videogame as of 2019 (Sturak). It is therefore safe to assume that Fallout 4 comes close to being one of the top ten best-selling games as of today, in an industry that was valued at around 135 billion US dollars in 2018 (Batchelor). Despite these impressive figures, and the number of players they entail, Fallout 4 has not gathered widespread scholarly attention. As videogames permeate popular culture more and more, games like Fallout 4 hopefully move closer to the center of cultural studies. Because, when looking at a game like Fallout 4, it becomes clear that these games communicate a lot. Despite its slogan, Fallout 4 negotiates complex meanings about things other than war, and engages excessively with both the past and the present. In the following pages, I aim to discern what these things are, and how they are communicated to the player. This project entails that videogames are an expressive medium, a medium that conveys meaning. This assumption that videogames have meaning, and the question of how they transport meaning will be the subject of the second chapter, as this is far from uncontested ground. I trace my arguments along the lines of the central debate of early videogame studies, the ludology/narratology debate. 4 Arguments both from ludological and narratological perspective are fleshed out in chapter 2.2. and 2.3. respectively, establishing how videogames can communicate their meaning. As a supplement to the debate, I investigate the role of the videogame market as a culture industry in 2.4., focusing on what kind of meanings are usually negotiated in commercially successful games like Fallout 4. While these discussions center on a more conceptual level, I frequently draw on other installments of the Fallout series as examples. The other major part of this paper, chapter three, will investigate Fallout 4, aiming to answer the question what the game is about, if not just war. A closer look at Fallout 4 shows that it is a game deeply concerned with history – precisely the history of the United States. The game approaches history in a variety of ways – through narrative means such as its aesthetics, its ruins and its environment (discussed in chapter 3.1.). However, Fallout 4 also speaks of the present. Its negotiation of the present is more implicit, and mostly happens on the level of game rules, i.e. the ludic level. This is discussed in chapter 3.2., showing how the rules and game mechanics of Fallout 4 are shaped by neoliberal assumptions of emotions, and the self. This analysis ultimately indicates that, while Fallout 4 is deeply concerned with historical periods such as the Revolutionary War or slavery, the ironic tone of this engagement effectively rejects any critical conception of these periods. Irony and nostalgia set the tone of any engagement with the past, a past that is almost obscenely glorified in parts. And yet, the ironical distance between the past and the game’s conception of it are indicative of resting anxieties of the present. Negotiations of the present are also implicit in the ludic aspects of the game. However, these ludic aspects do not reflect upon the past, but rather solidify hegemonial neoliberal assumptions about the self. By placing those in a post-apocalyptical context, these ideological assumptions are rendered as timeless, and thereby, reinforced. To arrive at these conclusions, I draw from a variety of theoretical backgrounds, among them concepts from contemporary video game criticism, retrofuturism, ruin studies, ecocriticism, critical American history, and critical ludology. As Pfister (65) suggests, there is no universal theory of videogames, and likely never will be – which is the reason behind devoting chapter two to the expressive possibilities of videogames more generally, and drawing from this variety of established theoretical backgrounds to discuss individual phenomena. Because it is almost impossible to cover all aspects of such a complex medium as videogames, even when limiting oneself to only one specific game, this discussion of Fallout 4 cannot claim all-encompassing totality of the game’s meanings. However, I hope that it provides groundwork 5 for further analysis, and nudges videogames closer to the center of attention of cultural scholars – a place they undoubtedly deserve. 2. Rules, Narratives and Commodities: the Contested Concept ‘Videogame’ "On Friday, April 19, 2002, senior U.S. District Judge Stephen Limbaugh rejected a request against a St. Louis ordinance passed in 2000 that limited the access of minors to video game arcades. According to the Associated Press, Limbaugh reviewed four games and found ’no conveyance of ideas, expression, or anything else that could possibly amount to speech’" (Frasca "Simulation" 225) This anecdote, reported by Frasca (“Simulation” 225), unintentionally centers around a fundamental issue of videogame studies – if and how games ‘speak’, i.e. produce meaning. While debates in more public forums generally centered around depictions of violence in videogames, or sometimes their possible status as works of art, academic videogame studies tend to focus more on their ability to convey meaning, in whatever form that may be. This focus of study is particularly prevalent in western countries, where videogame design is mostly excluded as academic pursuit. This is in contrast to other academic cultures, such as Japan, where videogame studies are more concerned with such questions of videogame design and production (Wolf and Perron 13). These debates about ‘meaning’ in western videogame studies gave birth to a variety of theoretical approaches – most notably a field of study referred to as ludology – which all consider the expressive power of videogames in different ways. The following chapter aims to discern the most important theoretical tools needed for a thorough analysis of a videogame from a cultural studies perspective. By tracing one of the founding issues of academic videogame studies – the so-called ludology/narratology debate – the object ‘videogame’ is sketched in light of its specificities as a medium. As such, the ludological position is considered first in chapter 2.2., due to its claim of centering on such specificities. Among them is considering the act of playing as effortful traversal of a text, the concepts of ergodic and unit operations, the status of filmic sequences within games, and ludohermeneutics, or the meaning of game rules. A short excursion to procedural rhetorics closes the ludological considerations. This ludological section is followed by narratological considerations in 2.3., specifically the localization of videogames in narrative traditions, the applicability of classical narratological terms, most notably concepts originating from Todorov and Chatman, and a specific narratological taxonomy for adventure games, drawing from videogame theorists like Jenkins and Pearce. The closing section 2.4 leaves the realm of formalist analysis and considers videogames as commodities sold in a market economy, thereby marking them as commodities of a culture industry, and the ideological implications this has 6 on their expressive power. Finally, the implications of these considerations on a cultural reading of videogames are considered, and close this chapter before turning to the analysis of salient factors in Fallout 4 and their implications for its players. 2.1 The Ludology/Narratology Debate The keynote of the 2009 Digital Games Research Association conference, delivered by game designer and scholar Ian Bogost, was aptly titled “Videogames are a Mess” (Bogost “Mess”). The ‘mess’ Bogost refers to is principally, but not exclusively, an ontological one (Bogost “Mess”): it refers to the founding question of academic videogame studies, often framed as ludology/narratology debate. The subject of this debate was the nature of videogames, and whether they are an amalgam of systematic rules, or a narrative, i.e. whether videogames should be conceived of as systems of rules, or narratives (e.g. Beil 26; Bogost “Mess”;. Gamescoop 9; Ensslin 30; Pfister 63-64). While this question (and, for many scholars, its answer as well – they are both) appears straightforward, it was a productive source of disagreement within the early days of videogame studies, and is often cited as a founding issue for the discipline, inspiring many theoretical advancements (e.g. Aarseth, “Year One”) Scholars disagree if the term ‘debate’ even applies to the handling of this question about the nature of videogames. Frasca (“Ludologists” 92), involved on the ludology front, considers it a “misunderstanding”. Murray, who was not a narratologist by her own account (Hamlet 190, was nevertheless an initial target for the ludologists, mainly for her infamous reading of Tetris as “a perfect enactment of the overtasked lives of Americans in the 1990s” (Murray Hamlet 178). She states that such a debate has preoccupied the then-young field of academic videogame studies for long, despite never actually having taken place (Murray “Last Word”). Her position is that the so-called debate de facto took the form of pure polemics, where “the ‘ludologists’ are debating a phantom of their own creation.” (Murray “Last Word”), thereby suggesting that narratological hardliners that deny any game-like qualities in videogames never existed. Pearce, in her account of the debate, attests to this, being similarly surprised to be labeled as a narratologist (“Theory”). Frasca further solidifies the bizarre nature of the debate. He recalls the confusion he encountered when he – known to be a ludologist – employed narrative as a mode of analysis (“Ludologists” 92), and outright states in his account of the debate that he is not able to name any narrativists1 (“Ludologists” 94). Bogost (“Mess”) similarly argues that 1 Fresca, in an effort to clarify the terminology of the debate, uses the term “narrativist” for scholars who see narrative as central in videogames, while he reserves the term “narratologist” for any scholar interested in narratives in any medium (94). 7 prominent ludologists confuse narratology as a formalist method of analysis (which ludology is, for all accounts, as well) with an ideology of narrativism that is practically nonexistent. Likewise, the ludologists feel misrepresented in the debate, with Aarseth pointing out that most of the early ludologists are actually trained narratologists employing narrative theory in their analysis (Aarseth “Ludology” 187). Additionally, he states that the ludologist position was misrepresented from the start, as a rejection of narrative theory in the field of videogame studies was never an objective of the ludologists (Aarseth “Narrative” 130). This disagreement between scholars sharing the same object of study and mostly employing comparable (i.e. formalist) methods of analysis – Simons calls ludology and narratology “siblings” – attested to both the early stage of academic game criticism and the difficulties of grasping the essential qualities of videogames. The early stage of academic game criticism was precisely what motivated the sharp criticism of any approach to games focused on narrative by the ludologists. Espen Aarseth, editor of the first academic, peer-reviewed journal of videogame studies, rallies in the editorial of its first issue against “colonizing attempts” from literature or film departments (Aarseth “Year One”). However, not even the early ludologist approaches in this first issue of Game Studies disavowed narrative completely. Ryan concedes that the “inability of literary narratology to account for the experience of games does not mean that we should throw away the concept of narrative in ludology” (Ryan), Juul concludes that games and narratives share structural traits and that many “games contain narrative elements” (Juul “Games”). Aarseth himself, in his earlier, seminal study Cybertext draws clear parallels between games and narratives: “[t]o claim that there is no difference between games and narratives is to ignore the essential qualities of both categories. And yet, as this study tries to show, the difference is not clear cut, and there is significant overlap between the two” (Cybertext 5). The intense rejection of narrative was mostly due to the stated fear of intrusion into the new, emerging field, whereby “the vocabulary of literary theory” would become “a set of unfocused metaphors,” (Aarseth Cybertext 14) neither equipped to account for the qualities of (adventure) games nor to accurately differentiate them from “other types of literature” (Aarseth Cybertext 111). The ludology/narratology debate can therefore be framed either as an emancipatory effort of a newly emerging field (as e.g. Aarseth in “Year One”) or as a somewhat misguided discussion where narratologists with different foci defended themselves against strawmen of their own creation. Current approaches to videogame criticism therefore usually avoid subscribing to either side of this artificial binary. 8 As this brief résumé of the foundational controversy of videogame studies has shown, the controversy in question is relatively small. The result of its existence, however, was substantial for the direction of academic videogame criticism. As Bogost (“Mess”) suggests, this debate steered videogame studies into a purely formalist effort. This brought Bogost, who takes a functionalist approach (Bogost Things 7), to a somewhat provoking conclusion: “[b]y pitting one kind of formalism against another, the result became a foregone conclusion: formalism wins. Really, it doesn’t even matter which one, since the underlying assumptions are so similar” (Bogost “Mess”). In a similar way, Moberly reflects that both ludology and narratology “construct readers and players alike as empty vessels,” and that the effort of the debate “preclude[s] any discussion about the social, political and economic systems through which computer games […] are produced, or, conversely, any discussion of the role that computer games play in ensuring the reproduction of these systems” (Moberly 172-173). Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter additionally point out that the focus on formalist discussion blinds the critical eye to “digital play within formations of societal power” (xxvii). The ontological question of what videogames are might therefore not be the most productive, or even interesting, question to ask. It is, however, a necessary question to ask, as the object of a study should at least be somewhat definable. Eskelinen, a representative of the ludology front, noted somewhat polemically that “[l]uckily, outside theory, people are usually excellent at distinguishing between narrative situations and gaming situations: if I throw a ball at you, I don’t expect you to drop it and wait until it starts telling stories” (“Towards” 176). Even though this polemic (which Eskelinen later clarified was intended as a narratological in-joke2, Eskelinen Poetics 414) was intended as an attack against narrative conceptions of games, it raises an important point: while the layperson is usually able to identify (video)games as such, formulating a fully fleshed out, satisfactory definition of a (video)game has proven nearly impossible. The most notable effort comes from Wittgenstein, who laid out his theory of family resemblance on the basis of games. Wittgenstein asks: “[h]ow should we explain to someone what a game is?”, only to conclude that “we should describe games to him, and we might add: ‘This and similar things are called 'games'’. And do we know any more about it ourselves? […] We do not know the boundaries because none have been drawn” (Wittgenstein 32). While such an effort at a non-definition is persuasive, Bogost (How 133) remarks that Wittgensteinian 2 Eskelinen explains in his later book that this polemic was intended as a joke about the confusion of “the act with recounting of the act – something that competent narratologists and ludologists do not do” (Poetics 114) 9 family resemblance might "help to dampen the cold fixity of formalism" - however, its aim is to explain family resemblance theory, and not games themselves. It might therefore be more fruitful to follow the path Wittgenstein suggested, and consider theoretical implications alongside examples of specific games. In my discussion, I do not aim to reproduce the formalist binary of the ludology/narratology debate, as such an effort of a comprehensive, formalist ontology of videogames is far beyond the scope of the present paper (see e.g. Feige for a valid and nuanced effort) and not the subject matter for a cultural scholar. Instead, I include a third, functionalist conceptualization of videogames, whereby videogames are seen as commodities, objects of a cultural industry, both actively influencing and influenced by popular culture. By revisiting the most prominent arguments of ludologist and narratologist conceptions of videogames, I aim to sharpen the focus on those aspects of videogames that should be investigated critically (e.g. the underlying ideology of rules and affordances, and the narrative possibilities of videogames). Thereby, this chapter will illustrate that the dichotomy between the two formalist approaches is a false one, and that – at has been argued before – videogames are both systems of rules and narratives. By including the dimension of games as commodities, I exemplify how videogames can be both subject to and reproducers of dominant ideological forces and prime the discussion of ideological meaning transported in Fallout. As an additional effort, the examples this theoretical discussion draws from will include the games from the Fallout-series, thereby laying out the history and tone of the franchise. 2.2. The Case for Games as Rules: Fallout 1, Fallout 2 and Fallout Shelter In a certain sense, the statement that ‘videogames are rules’ is painfully trivial. By virtue of being digital artifacts, played on a computer, videogames are constituted by and subject to their code and algorithms, which are perhaps prime examples of strict, unbending rules. However, such a reductionist perspective is clearly dissatisfying – even ludologists refrain from such a position. Aarseth traces this dissatisfaction, stating that “program and data of the internal level can of course be studied and as objects in their own right,” but that those descriptions of code are not “ontological equivalents” of the actual games being played (Aarseth Cybertext 40). Even more straightforward is a short blog post by Jesper Juul, where, upon stumbling on the code for Pac-Man, he simply asks: “Is this what Pac-Man really looks like? What Pac-Man really is?” (Juul “Pac-Man”). The code underlying a videogame is therefore not the object of videogame studies proper, much in the same vein as the study of an alphabet does not compare to literary criticism. 10 While it is helpful to be aware of the materiality (or lack thereof) of games as code, it is obvious that this alone is neither a satisfactory definition of videogames – as nothing would differentiate them from other code-based artifacts such as an Excel spreadsheet – nor a perspective that can account for the act of playing. Instead, the main arguments for viewing games as systems of rules stem from two different directions, both of which will be addressed in the following. On the one hand, videogames are positively conceived of as interactions with rule-based systems, and on the other hand, they are seen ex negativo as systems of rules because they are logically incompatible with formal aspects of other narratives, as for example to organization of time in written narratives. 2.2.1. Ergodic Operations Aarseth’s early study on what he terms ‘ergodic’ literature, or cybertext, is generally seen as one of the foundational ludological texts. In his conception, ergodic literature requires “nontrivial effort” for the reader to “traverse the text” (Aarseth Cybertext 1). This means that the role of the reader is shifted – in contrast to their position as “voyeur” in traditional literature, the reader of cybertext is exposed to “the risk of rejection” (Aarseth Cybertext 4). By this risk of rejection, Aarseth calls forth the first conceptional difference between game and narrative: the existence of win and lose conditions. In contrast to the traditional novel, videogames usually feature at least a win (e.g. save the princess from the castle) or a lose (e.g. death of the avatar) condition. Aarseth’s notion of the “nontrivial effort” (Cybertext 1), although general enough to include different types of hyperfiction, recalls the mastery needed to avert the lose condition until the game is won. Fallout 1, for example, features two distinct lose conditions: while the death of the avatar results in a game-over screen, forcing the player to reload a saved game, an additional lose condition can be met by not adhering to a time limit. In Fallout 1, first published in 1997, and set in the nuclear wasteland of the 2160’s United States, the player character is sent on a mission to retrieve a water chip – a technological McGuffin – in order to secure the water supply of their vault, an advanced underground nuclear shelter. The player gets a limited amount of time – 150 days of in-game time – to complete this mission. Should the player fail, a game-over screen is displayed, with the option to reload a save. While the bare survival against the hostile creatures of the nuclear wasteland is already an effort far from trivial, the punishment for avatar death is not severe, and dependent on when the player last saved. If, however, running out of time causes the game-over, the player might be forced to start a new game. Even though the timer is generous, a player can effectively lock themselves in a state where it becomes virtually 11 impossible to achieve the win condition without cheating. This can occur when the timer is already low on the saved game. As such, a conceptional difference between videogames and literature becomes clear: there is no way to ‘lose’ while reading a novel, and it is generally not the case that the reader can induce a condition on which the novel becomes impossible to finish. While literature can be hermetic and require nontrivial cognitive effort from the reader in order to imbue meaning, the traversal through the text is generally open to every literate reader. In videogames, however, traversal through the game is dependent on the player’s skill, and it is entirely possible – and common – for players to not be able to finish a game if they lack said skill. In addition to the transparent timer (a countdown until the water supply of the vault runs out is displayed in the game menu), a second, hidden timer exist: should a player spend a considerable amount of in-game time (500 days) without progressing the main story (organized in quests, episodic tasks connected to each other through an overarching narrative) far enough, the player’s home – the Vault – is overrun by an antagonistic force, again resulting in a game over screen. The destruction of this antagonistic force (so-called super mutants) by the player character is one of the possible win conditions of the game. Throughout the game, the player is never made aware of such a timer existing, and while the amount of in-game time the player is granted is generous, it is entirely possible to achieve this lose condition on accident. This is perhaps a prime example of what Aarseth calls “intrigue” in video games, the ergodic counterpart of “plot” in his conception (Cybertext 112). Aarseth’s intrigue, borrowed itself from drama theory, differs from the notion of plot (in the sense of syuzhet) in that it is effectuated by the player, who is the voluntary target of ergodic intrigue. The outcome of intrigue – in contrast to plot – is not decided and depends on the skill of the player in order to be actualized (Aarseth Cybertext 112-113). For players who do not progress far enough in the game’s story to even be aware of the super mutant threat, the meaning of intrigue is certainly not only true in its metaphorical sense. The actualization of plot through the action of the player differentiates the (adventure) game further from the novel: the ending of a novel stays consistent, no matter the reader’s deductive skills, in stark contrast to the adventure game, where achieving specific desired outcomes can require considerable effort from the player. While it may seem trivial to evoke the existence of win and lose conditions to underscore the role of the nontrivial effort, it accentuates the clearest differentiation between stories and videogames: As Murray put succinctly: "Stories do not require us to do anything except pay attention as they are told. Games always involve some kind of activity and are often focused on 12 the mastery of skills, whether the skill involves chess strategy or joystick twitching" (Hamlet 174). As games behave do not behave like stories in how they are consumed, the understanding of their consumption requires different theoretical tools. Inarguably among the most notable contributions of traditional ludology to the field of videogame studies is the supplementation of concepts of how videogames are consumed, i.e. what their playing entails. Another fundamental addition ludology brought forward is that of the ergodic operation as smallest unit of playing. The ergodic operation is the basis of any ludic interaction with a videogame. Aarseth, who integrated the term ‘ergodic’ from physics into his new narrative theory, refers as any action by the user that effectuates a semiotic sequence as ergodic action (Cybertext 1). In essence, the familiar ‘press X to start game’ operation is already ergodic: input from a user affects the information state of the program. As such, ergodic operations are information feedback loops of programs with user (Cybertext 19). As Aarseth subsequentially points out, this is also true for reading traditional texts: in reading traditional narratives, everything preceding the sentence just being read can alter its meaning (Cybertext 19). The crucial difference, however, is that this feedback loop in traditional narratives is unidirectional3: while narrative can alter mental states of the reader, the consumption of narrative, be it read or watched, rarely has any meaningful influence on the (material) reality of the medium itself. As such, the difference between reading and playing a game is therefore that any interaction with a game is a performance “in an extranoematic sense” (Aarseth Cybertext 1), i.e. a performance that goes beyond the change of mental states. This loop, where a meaningful interaction of the player with a game changes both their mental state and the state of the game, is essentially Aarseth’s conception of an ergodic operation (Cybertext 40). Aarseth’s notion of a semiotic process between player and game was especially transparent in the early days of videogaming. Early adventure games were often purely text-based, and featured little or no graphic support. The feedback cycle of input by the player and output of the game was, in such cases, completely verbalized – any action the player wanted to take had to be spelled out on the keyboard, and the game generated a response consisting of combined stock phrases. As such, playing an adventure game was clearly conceivable of as a succession of distinct ergodic operations. Even though Fallout 1 was published after the advent of purely 3 With regard to the notion of intertextuality, the word ‘unidirectional’ proves somewhat inaccurate. The essential distinction is that in contrast to intertextuality, the player of a game is not only “included within a […] discursive universe only as discourse itself,” (Kristeva 37) but acts as both addressee and facilitator of said discourse. 13 text-based adventure games, characteristic elements of such are still clearly visible in the game’s mechanics (see fig. 1): Each player action in Fallout 1 is accompanied by a verbalized feedback in the lower left corner, spelling out the actions (or lack thereof) to the player. Interestingly, by employing a “you”, the player is interpolated to inhabit the role of the character they are playing. Movement is only possible along hexagonal tiles, and any fighting is purely turn-based, i.e. the player character and the enemies take turns to act against each other. All of these aspects of the game’s mechanics are very close to both earlier, text-based adventure games and to classical role- playing games like Dungeons and Dragons. The semiotic cycle of the ergodic operation is transparent: by clicking on something, the character moves – a change of state of the game – and the game gives verbalized feedback to the player of the outcome of their interaction, e.g. “You see nothing out of the ordinary.” This information in turn changes the player’s mental state. Figure 1: The player character of Fallout 1 leaving their Vault While Aarseth’s notion of the ergodic operation is suited to analyze the mechanics of a game like Fallout 1, more contemporary games offer decisively different mechanics, which can 14 hardly be interpreted as succinct, individual operations. Additionally, this conception of playing as ergodic operation, a “cybernetic sign process” (Aarseth Cybertext 39), is essentially a semiotic effort. While providing a sound basis for early ludology, the concept is somewhat lacking in applicability, as it provides no foothold to differentiate between pressing X to start, and pressing X to deliver the final blow to the end boss of a game, which represent two very different experiences. The concept of ergodic operations – useful as it might have been to establish ‘games’ as something different from ‘stories’ – “privilege[s] the position of the work” (Bogost Unit 129, emphasis in original) instead of the player. And indeed, if the ergodic operation is posed as the sole basis for understanding games, any effect the action has on the representational layer – what the player feels they have accomplished in the progression of the game – is secondary to the act itself. As such, any representation in games becomes “inconsequential for the seasoned gamer,” and therefore, their “semiotic content and audiovisual aspects function not primarily as representations of an external (actual or fictional) world, but as mnemonic mediators between the game’s mechanical system and the player” (Aarseth “Ludology” 188). Such a crass reduction of games to pure mechanics is a fundamental flaw of Aarseth’s rendering of ergodic operations, as it cannot account for the emotional experience of playing videogames. Additionally, the videogame market appears to contradict this assertion as well. A game’s graphics – i.e. the resolution it can be played at, but also the level of realism in portrayal it achieves – is a stable factor in how most games are rated by reviewers, despite not contributing to the game’s mechanics in any way. Additionally, there is a prolific genre of videogames that acutely deemphasize mechanics over storytelling and atmospheric experiences (somewhat derogatively referred to as ‘walking simulators’, as the main interaction the player has to perform is walking their character around). The concept of ergodic operations is, while foundational to the field, ultimately unfit for an in-depth analysis that goes beyond pure mechanics, and should be seen as what it is: not a theoretical tool, but a valuable contribution in semiotics. For the purpose of this paper, any subsequent ludological analysis will be informed by Bogost’s concept of the unit operation (Unit ix), a term borrowed from cybernetics and software technology. In contrast to Aarseth’s approach, unit operations are conceived as fundamental building blocks of any aesthetic medium, and are not solely specific to videogames (Bogost Unit ix). Bogost considers such media as configurative systems of procedural expressions conveying expressive meaning, i.e. as arrangements of unit operations (Unit ix). Units are prioritized over systems to account for the complexity of expressive media (Bogost Unit 2-5) – in analogy to literary theory, Bogost states that “unit operations interpret networks of discrete 15 readings […] [while] system operations interpret singular literary authority” (Unit 2). The term ‘unit’ is left deliberately vague. Parallel to object-oriented philosophy, a unit in this sense is any object constitutive of a larger system, even entire systems themselves, in relation to other objects (Bogost Unit 4-6). Units are therefore “fundamentally referential,” and “form from relationships that extent beyond their own limits” (Bogost Unit 5). For videogames, ergodic operations such as button presses are units, but so are quests, characters or assets (recurring objects in the gameworld, such as trees, character models, or enemies). In literature, individual words act as units, but so do sentences or themes.4 The concept of the operation again spans between computational science and philosophy. An operation is “a basic process that takes one or more inputs and performs a transformation on it” (Bogost Unit 7). It represents a purposeful action, be it mechanic or discursive. It is a flexible, and not a static process, procedural in nature and not hierarchically structured (Bogost Unit 6- 9). Unit operations are therefore succinct, dynamic modes of meaning making (Bogost Unit 3-4). Bogost’s accomplishment of connecting Heideggerian and object-oriented philosophy with computational science provides a flexible basis for analysis in the form of unit operations – which could also be considered a drawback of this mode of analysis. While the openness of the concept allows for broad application, it also lacks specificity due to its genericness, meaning that in concrete analysis, its necessary to draw from additional theoretical concepts. Such a specific language is already well established in literary theory (ultimately, metaphors, quotes, themes and the likes can also be read as unit operations), but is not yet present for a large body of videogames. Subsequently, while this paper assumes unit operations as fundamental element of meaning making with videogames, whenever possible, any discussion of a unit operation will draw on appropriate theoretical tools from other fields. This is in line with observations made by e.g. Pfister (65), who recognizes that there cannot be a universal theory of videogames, and instead draws on an amalgam of theoretical tools, depending on the research focus. Ludology has therefore brought forth two of the most radical differences between games and traditional narratives. Both of these differences – the nontrivial effort required to play them, and the feedback loop between player and game – relate to the consumption of the medium, and any analysis of videogames should take these fundamental differences into account. A 4 Bogost e.g. analyzes the theme of the chance encounter in poetry of Bukowski and Baudelaire, and in Will Wright’s simulation game The Sims (Unit 73-89). 16 shorthand alternative to acknowledge these fundamental differences is sometimes found in references to a medium’s interactivity, a term that is – as Landay (174) points out – “not well understood, having suffered from a too-broad application that conflates interaction with any action causing an outcome." For this reason, the term interactivity is generally avoided in this paper in favor of the conception of interactions as unit operations. 2.2.3. Time in Videogames A further ludological objection to considering games as stories rests on yet another formal quality of the medium: its relation to time. The fundamental objection that videogames cannot be considered narratives was raised early in ludology, and rest on primarily on structuralist narratology, most notably Genette. The following traces out the ludological objection of structuralist understandings of time in narrative and games, considers its implication for a contemporary study of videogames in light of the casual spin-off game Fallout Shelter, and assesses the validity of the initial objections twenty years after they have been made. The chapter closes with a investigation of the cutscene – a, from a ludic perspective, completely insignificant event in game time – from a functionalist perspective, showcasing the specific temporal relation it brings to videogames. Early videogame criticism originated mostly from narratology, which was quick to point out another essential difference between games and stories – the function of time within both. Eskelinen sees one possible discrepancy between time in games and narratives: “To be brief: a story, a back-story, or a plot is not enough. A sequence of events enacted constitutes a drama, a sequence of events taking place a performance, a sequence of events recounted a narrative, and perhaps a sequence of events produced by manipulating an equipment and following formal rules a game. This is quite trivial but crucial; there are sequences of events that do not become or form stories (as in Tetris for example). The reason for this is equally simple. In games, the dominant temporal relation is between user time and event time not, as in narrative, between story time and discourse time.“ (Eskelinen “Towards“ 176) For Eskelinen, therefore, the time between the actions of the player – what is referred to as “user time”– and the “event time”, that is, what is happening in the game, is the relevant temporal notion of videogames (“Towards” 178). It is clear that this understanding of temporal relations of games is based on the notion of ergodic operations. While the shortcomings of ergodic operations as a theoretical concept have already been elaborated on, Eskelinen’s (“Towards”) understanding of game time based on user and event time carries another caveat: the response of user time action and event time action (i.e. the completion of one unit operation) is usually almost instantaneous. While Eskelinen is technically correct to consider the time between input and action as vitally important for games, this notion does not convey much about time relations in videogames, as – would it be the case that the relation between user and 17 event time was not (almost) instantaneous – the resulting piece of software would hardly be playable, and therefore no longer a game in the conventional sense. In fact, Eskelinen touches on a much more interesting point regarding temporal relations: while it is clear that there should be no noticeable delay between the player’s input and the action on screen, the reverse holds true as well: the actions on screen, governed by the game engine, demand a reaction by the player in the form of another input, and timing here is of the essence. Essentially, many games across genres demand near-perfect timing of inputs by players to progress the game, making timing an obligation the player has to fulfill (Wiemer 36). Essentially, for some genres, the relation of action and user time is determined in two ways: the immediacy of an action following an input is expected by the player and necessary to progress, as the action on screen demands additional input, which can be time sensitive. While the relation between user and event time was unidirectional in Fallout 1 & 2, as of Fallout 3, combat was no longer turn-based but rather realized as heated, three-dimensional battles, and therefore required precise timing. Interestingly, Fallout 3 also introduced a feature called VATS5, which pauses game time and allows for precise targeting, and thereby massively deemphasized the obligation of the player’s timing. Figure 2 Activating the targeting systems stops time in the gameworld in Fallout 3 5 An acronym for ‘Vault-assisted targeting system’. 18 Because unit operations usually consummated immediately, the discussion of temporal relations of videogames can hardly operate on such a level. Other ludologists have instead turned to find equivalents of narratological conceptions of time, mostly relying on established taxonomies of time in narrative, such as by Genette or Müller. Juul was one of the first to point out the incongruencies of time in narrative and videogames: "In the classical narratological framework, a narrative has two distinct kinds of time, the story time, denoting the time of the events told, in their chronological order, and the discourse time, denoting the time of the telling of events (in the order in which they are told). To read a novel or watch a movie is to a large extent about reconstructing a story on the basis of the discourse presented. […] If we then play an action-based computer game like Doom II (ID Software 1994), it is hard to find a distance between story time, narrative time, and reading/viewing time. […] It is clear that the events represented cannot be past or prior, since we as players can influence them. By pressing the CTRL key, we fire the current weapon, which influences the game world. In this way, the game constructs the story time as synchronous with narrative time and reading/viewing time: the story time is now" (Juul "Games", emphasis in original). Juul’s fundamental objection is therefore that, in videogames, no equivalent for story time is seemingly available: in his words, a videogame is “pure discourse” (Juul “Clash” 33). This assertion of the instantaneousness of videogames, however, does not hold. The story time of narratives can also only be actualized in their telling, i.e. there is no other way to experience the narrative except as discourse, as telling: “[t]he narrative text, like every other text, has no other temporality than what it borrows, metonymically, from its own reading” (Genette 34). Juul acknowledges this position of Genette (“Clash” 29), arguing that because the readers cannot influence a narrative, it must necessarily represent something that has already happened (32-33). Thereby, he conflates the representation of events in narrative with the actualization of narrative in telling. While it is true that the influence a reader can have on narrative does not compare to that of the player on the game, this says little about the relation of story to discourse time: Juul, in this case, only considers individual ergodic operations – e.g. whether the player hits an enemy while shooting, or misses. He fails to consider the motivation of the player for shooting (the ‘backstory’, mostly presented in a traditionally narrative way, as cutscene or verbal description). A succession of disjointed individual ergodic operations – the only kind of game which would be completely congruent with Juul’s assertion – cannot be considered an industry standard.6 6 While Juul likely had games like Pong or Tetris in mind, the seminal open-world sandbox game Minecraft can serve as a contemporary example. A player in this continuously generating, open sandbox world can destroy blocks that make up all of the game environment and place them somewhere else, thereby building to their heart’s content. The game is imbued with traces of narrative, however, as the ‘ending’ is a quite traditional slaying of a dragon. 19 Instead, narratives in games actualize themselves much in the same way as narratives in novels: through action, be that action playing or telling. The time of both videogame and novel is both now (Juul “Games”). When Juul asserts that “[t]he fixed status of a sequence of events is what identifies a story,” and contrasts this with “[t]he variable sequence of computer games” (“Clash” 35), his argumentation does not leave the level of disjointed ergodic operations. On the scale of larger, narrative unit operations, this assertion fails. While playing Fallout 2, the overall sequence of events necessary to complete the game is fixed: the player is introduced as descendent of the protagonist of Fallout 1, is tasked to find a powerful tool to prevent starvation of their tribe, enters Vault 13, their village is captured by the remnants of a former American government, etc. The player overcomes many such hurdles before their eventual success. Many individual ergodic operations between those fixed elements (a closer investigation of satellite and kernel events in games follows in 2.3.2) conform to Juul’s dictum, as they are not fixed in outcome or chronology. However, if game events are not just perceived as disjointed, individual button presses, it becomes clear that the sequence of most games is not completely variable. A tentative transclusion of how early ludology considered time is therefore that the perceived differences between temporal relations in narrative and games are either trivial, as in Eskelinen (“Towards”), or only true on a superficial level of analysis, as in Juul (“Clash”, “Games”). There are, however, temporal specificities that truly distinguish game from more traditional narratives, and two of those will be showcased. There is, of course, a certain level of truth to the claim that videogames are played with a constant speed (Juul “Clash” 31). In traditional narratological terms, this would conform to the scene (Genette 94) – actions in the game conform temporally to how the player experiences them. Even though many play sequences in game are considered scenes, there exist different possibilities: ellipsis is quite common in role-playing games, where clicking on the map will place the character in a specific location (often called ‘fast-travelling’). While no time for the player passes, temporal progression in the game usually does not halt, but will be skipped. The pause is also prevalent in games: while not technically acting as a descriptive pause in Genette’s sense (94), it is common for players to utilize the pause button, which stops all action in game, for reflection upon happenings in game. Interestingly, the temporal form only theorized by Genette to be featured in narratives – the slow motion (95) – can be achieved in videogames. The Fallout series employs this temporal relation in the form of VATS (in Fallout 4, the rest of the game world is slowed down, not stopped, as in Fallout 3 and New Vegas) or in the form of a power-up called ‘Jet’, which also slows combat severely, but only for the enemies, not the player. 20 Additionally to the time relations also found in novels or films, videogame feature a unique time relation: a selective 1:1 mapping of game time to real time. This is different to the scene in the sense that this mapping does not allow for a cessation of this relation, i.e. even when the game is not being played, time still progresses in the game. The mobile spin-off game Fallout Shelter ̧first introduced as a smartphone-game, features mechanics that utilize this mapping of game and real time. The casual game, a population manager simulating one of the iconic vaults of the series, allows for an option to send a vault dweller out into the wasteland to gather resources. The dweller disappears from the game world proper, and their travels are displayed in a travelogue form (figure 3). The progress of their exploration depends on how much time has passed – not time spent playing. Figure 3 Log of real time exploration in Fallout Shelter While this is not unknown to player of massive multiplayer online games, where the servers necessarily have to keep running even when one is not playing, this version of the always- running game is particularly interesting, because – lacking a multiplayer function – there is no need to map happenings in the game to real time outside of playing. The reason for such a mapping can be found outside of aesthetic considerations: players can speed up the return of their dweller by using a purchasable in-game currency. These are so-called microtransactions. Because real, experienced time cannot be sped up, this mechanic acts as an incentive for players to spend money on the otherwise free game. The reason for this mapping of game time to real time cannot be explained on purely ludic grounds – it needs to be considered a feature of videogames as commodities. 21 Another special time relation in videogames is also outside of the ludic and the formalism associated with it: the so-called cutscene. On first glance, the cutscene – that is, “a cinematic sequence that suspends regular gameplay in order to convey plot, characterization, and spectacle” (Klevjer 301) and utilizes “cinematic language to convey meaning” (O’Grady 113) – does not seem out of the ordinary in time relations of videogames, as cutscenes are usually scenic in tempo. There are, however, two distinct factors that bestow the cutscene a privileged position in game time, not from a structuralist perspective, but in their function– their function as markers of progress and their non-ludicity. As Klevjer (301) notes, cutscenes function as organizers of game stories. Their status as unit operations that structure the experience of plot privilege them – essentially, reaching a cutscene means that the player has progressed the game towards a milestone the game itself deems worthy of a reward (O’Grady 111). The cutscene, conveying information such as characterization or background story, serves to award meaning to the individual ergodic operations the player performed to reach it, thereby shaping them as a unit operation and bestowing significance to the action. In the same vein, they also prompt any operations following them. Even though their temporal mode is usually that of the scene, like most game actions are, they represent an idealized version of scene – all characters’ movement is smooth and plotted out, the camera is usually fixed and showcases a well-selected composition of the action. In that sense, cutscenes are a cinematic spectacle (Klevjer 301). Their status as markers of progression within the game bestow them their privileged position within game time, as they indicate the temporal progression through the game on a larger scale. The cinematic quality of the cutscene is also the cause of another temporal specificity, and simultaneously one of the biggest challenges to a purely ludic conception of videogames. Introducing an essentially filmic element to videogames – an element where agency is taken from the player – runs counter to any purist ludological conception of videogames. As cutscenes often deny interaction, whatever software title is played stops being a video game as soon as a cutscene happens, as some theorists have argued (e.g. Crawford 260, Juul “Games”). This has prompted the approach to consider the term videogame a “metonymical shorthand […] that confuses and obscures the composite makeup of these creations” (Aarseth “Narrative” 130) – essentially stating that videogames are made of more than just a game. While the argument that videogames are complex and include more than a game appears sound, it is also a prevarication: by referring to videogames as complex software packages that can contain elements alien to the actual game, any element of a videogame that does not fit ludological criteria is automatically excluded of being part of the game proper. The ludological proposition becomes impossible to 22 falsify, as any traditionally non-ludic element is excluded by this definition of being part of the game proper. As an alternative, I consider everything included in a videogame as part of the game proper, cutscenes included, which allows to highlight another temporal phenomenon of the cutscene, resulting precisely out of their non-interactivity. Klevjer (305) points out that one of the significant functions of cutscenes is their ability to establish something close to an explicit narrative voice. Their suspension of rules established by the game world present them as a “deus ex machina force” bestowed with a narrative privilege, essentially signaling to the player that they are experiencing “a ‘special’ time – with more heightened coherence and consequence than ordinary time" (O’Grady 113). The non-agency of the player contributes to this experience of “special time” – as even non-action can be distinctly ludic (O’Grady 111). This non-ludictity is tied to the significance in the overall game progression they award: the progression is forced upon the player. Their non-interactivity becomes meaningful. This process becomes transparent in the opening of Fallout: New Vegas: the player character is on their knees with bound hands, getting shot in the head by the primary antagonist. Even though the cutscene’s perspective is a point of view shot (corresponding to the first-person-perspective as the default of the game) and the tempo is scene (like the rest of the game), it is perceived fundamentally different by the player. On a structural perspective, cutscenes do not differ from gameplay in their temporal markup. Their effect on the player, however, is distinctly different. As the above has shown, while studying game time relations from a formalist perspective is a valid approach, more interesting conclusions can be drawn from functionalist and player-centric perspectives. The notion of the cutscene as privileged game time and structuring element thereby proves to be an especially promising onset for the analysis of videogames. 2.2.4.) Hermeneutic Mechanics and Mimetics Inarguably, one of the most essential contributions ludology brought to the study of videogames is their taxonomy of game models and rules. As the above has shown, not all assertion about the aforementioned formalisms still hold true. However, the rejection of narrative is not the only relevant point of friction between ludology and other forms of media study. Certain positions, even within contemporary ludology, argue against the possibility of videogames to represent or connect to aspects of the world of the player – a radical aesthetic autonomy of videogames that, as the following will show, does not hold to closer scrutiny. Nonetheless, this positions helps to highlight an important characteristic of videogame rules in general: their inherent capability to represent dominant ideologies. 23 Such a position wherein “the semiotic content and audiovisual aspects function not primarily as representations of an external (actual or fictional) world, but as mnemonic mediators between the game’s mechanical system and the player” (Aarseth “Ludology” 188) – i.e. a position wherein the actors, objects and environments in a game serve primarily as set-dressing for the interaction with game rules – has been termed ludohermeneutics. Ludohermeneutics sees a “decoupling of gameplay from the referential and contextual aspects of the game” (Aarseth “Ludology” 188), and, by extension, a supremacy of mechanics over representation. The essence of a particular videogame is, in such a sense, found in the game’s mechanics, and not their representational qualities. Anything that is rendered graphically within the game is therefore inconsequential to the player – and of questionable relevance to the analysis of a videogame. While this position is sometimes referenced whenever the question of the relation between violence in videogames and violent behavior of the players arises (Aarseth “Ludology” 188) – as violent depictions are part of a game’s representational skin, and therefore inconsequential in the ludohermeneutic perspective – a strict ludohermeneutic position is hard to defend: as already has been stated, the graphic resolution of a videogame is a stable factor in ratings by reviewers. Furthermore, the art style used in games sometimes act as defining element for their genre (e.g. pixelart games), there is a painstaking amount of personalization offered in avatar creations of many role-playing games, the ability of videogames to elicit emotions from players, and the existence of so-called telltale game, a subset of videogames where the mechanics are often reduced to simple button presses to decide the fate of characters – all these are just cursory, but valid objections to a ludohermeneutic perspective. It is therefore fair to say that such a perspective is not suited for the analysis of videogames. Nevertheless, the primacy of rules that ludohermeneutics assumes helps to sensitize the focus on the ideological baggage that seemingly neutral game rules can carry. The roles and possibilities of a player are already funneled by a videogame’s code – an enemy in a roleplaying game is usually either killed or fled from, but rarely reasoned with, and an object in a virtual store can usually be bought or stolen, but seldomly shared or borrowed. This ideological baggage of rules has already been considered by Murray in the advent of institutional video game studies, with her stating the importance of “asking why things work the way they do and why we are being asked to play one role rather than another” (Murray Hamlet 107) by a videogame. Murray even anticipates the emergence of ludohermeneutics, specifying that players can only perform the actions intended by the code written by (an) author-figure(s) – 24 “unless the imaginary world is nothing more than a costume trunk of empty avatars” (Hamlet 187) – an assumption which corresponds to a strong ludohermeneutic position. It is particularly easy to forget about the constraints set by code in open-world/sandbox videogames like the Fallout-series, i.e. videogames that are defined by the possibility of player choice on where to go and what to do. Saxton Brown (396) rightfully points out how such free choice of the player ultimately reduces to “infinite possibilities within a finite system,” a system in which choices often are “a limited set of enactable colonialist and anthropocentric tropes.” The bias towards specifically intended modes of play is therefore hidden by apparent free choice of the player. Therefore, “interactivity does not mean virtual play is free from ideology; rather, it intensifies the sense of free will necessary for ideology to work really well" (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter 192). In such a way, the ludohermeneutic position collapses on itself: the mechanics and affordances of objects in games are considered by the player in light of their representation as identifiable object in the game world – e.g. an object in the game that looks like a gun will be coded so that the player is able to shoot it. Similarly, the representation of the object will be chosen by the programmer to correspond to something the player is familiar with – an object that is coded to shoot enemies will look like a gun. Both player and programmer carry their understanding of the world to the creation and interaction with the game world. The mediating status of graphic objects is thereby overdetermined and reciprocal: it allows players to interact with the mechanics, but also shapes how such mechanics are coded by the programmers. The match of a unit operation, be it an interaction with the game’s environment or a game’s object, to its representation on screen has been termed a procedural rhetoric (Bogost Persuasive ix). These procedural rhetorics in games are heavily tied to gameplay: the press of a button producing on-screen effects that make sense to the player (Bogost Persuasive 14) represents a successful procedural rhetoric. These rhetorics can be fairly basic or convincing - like the press of a button corresponding to the pulling of a trigger in game - or outlandish and unconvincing. One example of such an unconvincing rhetoric has even been ingrained as the popular slang term - "Press F to pay respects". In Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare, the player was able to pay their respects to a fallen soldier by pressing the F button on their keyboard, an obvious mismatch in the signifying chain of procedural rhetorics, where the expression of emotion has been tied to a simple button press. The following intense mockery of this scene shows that players notice 25 such a crass mismatch in procedural rhetoric,7 while rarely doubting such rhetorics when they feel intuitive or are heavily conventionalized. A mismatch between mechanic and representation therefore draws attention to itself, and in extension, the mechanics that underlie it. In such a vein, the task of contemporary critical ludology is to unearth the ideological baggage present even in successful procedural rhetorics. 2.3. Videogames as Narrative Medium: Fallout 3 and Fallout New Vegas In contrast to ludology, which tried to unearth a completely new understanding of videogames, narratological approaches to videogames rest comfortably in a scholarly tradition with established terminology and criteria for understanding – which have been criticized by early ludologists as unfit for the study of videogames. In an effort to circumvent the tried and tired arguments of this debate further, specific narratological criteria suited for the study of games are highlighted in the following – i.e. the adaption of Todorov’s narrative organizations and Chatman’s differentiation between satellite and kernel events – while new terms tailed specifically to videogames are introduced. These efforts are preceded by the cautionary disclaimer that these apply specifically to adventure and role-playing games. As has been pointed out by Eskelinen and Tronstad (195), Feige (45), Neitzel, and others, not all games lend themselves equally well to an analysis based on narrative grounds – sports and fighting games, for example, seem particularly resistant, as do many casual or abstract games. The following is therefore smaller in scope, and focuses on the narrative qualities of adventure and role-playing videogames. 2.3.1. Videogames in the Narrative Tradition As Aarsenault (475) points out, Barthes was one of the first to identify parallels between narrative and games: “[A] great many set up two opponents at odds with each other over the possession of a stake […]. This may even be a widely used archaic form, as if narrative, emulating the practice of certain ancient languages, recognized […] ‘a dual’ in persons. […] [I]t points out the affinity between narrative and the structure of certain (quite modern) games in which two equal opponents set out to conquer an object. This scheme recalls the actantial matrix proposed by Greimas, an analogy that is not surprising if one pauses to realize that play, considered as a language, possesses the same symbolic structure as that found in language and narrative. The procedure of playing can be analyzed in the same manner as a sentence. (Barthes 259) Barthes identifies the tension present in narrative settings and draws a parallel to games of the same structure. But while this immediate parallel between games of this kind and narrative is 7 a Google Trends analysis shows that the phrase is still popular, five years after the original release of the game (Google Trends). 26 present, it does however conflate the act of playing with the act of recounting an experienced game, i.e. a narration (Ryan). This parallel is thereby limited in its applicability. Another connection that has been made between videogames and traditional models of narration, reaching back into ancient Greece, is the metaphor of the (video)game as a maze that has to be navigated. Murray sees videogames in the tradition of “a heroic narrative of adventure whose roots are in antiquity,” from where they receive their “narrative power” (Hamlet 163). This connection to the tradition of the maze is explained by a connection to the navigation of space, i.e. the physical traversal of an environment that bestows the sensation of meaningful action on the player (Murray Hamlet 165). Unlike videogames, however, mazes move “the interactor toward a single solution” (Murray Hamlet 165). This analogy of the videogame as narrative maze is, most likely, due to the technical limitations of the time and the way videogames looked – the first installments of Doom or Wolfenstein 3D resemble a labyrinth very closely. The analogy thereby primarily functions on the level of resemblance. This analogy was also picked up by Aarseth, who nevertheless cautioned against basing analysis of games on it, and draws clear borders to its usefulness – warning that such analogies might “affect the critic's perspective and judgment” (Cybertext 3). As has been argued before, this fear of undue influence of narratological terms has motivated early ludology. Nevertheless, there is power and use in connecting videogames to established aesthetic forms of expression, as Feige (42) argues. Such a connection allows not only to understand (certain) videogames, but also to understand narration in general, as forms of ‘interactive’ narration have existed before videogames, e.g. in specific forms of theatre (Feige 44). But Aarseth’s (Cybertext 3) cautioning is valid: as Rauscher (64) stated, the presence of a labyrinth in a videogame alone does not suffice to connect it to narrative forms of antiquity. While parallels in narrativity can be drawn, painting such a comparison in the broadest of strokes is not productive. Another way in which videogames are tied to a narrative tradition lies within the history of game studies themselves. The earliest attempts at conceptualizing videogames come from the community around hypertext novels, where text-based adventure games were often subsumed as a subset of such (Neitzel). As the complexity of (adventure) games has moved beyond simple text-based adventures and both their technological markup and their status in the canon of new media has vastly superseded those of hypertext novels, the connection to this narrative tradition has not proved fruitful in the long term either. A more promising route to locate (adventure) games in a narrative tradition might be found in older narrative tropes, especially those that Jenkins (122) terms “spatial stories,” i.e. stories that 27 focus on traversals, often found in forms like hero’s odysseys or quest myths. These kind of stories “are held together by broadly defined goals and conflicts and pushed forward by the character’s movement across the map” (Jenkins 124). By virtue of this, these games are reminiscent of older narrative traditions. This analogy is further supported by the structure of the roleplaying adventure game according to quests – a term already suggestive of some (European) oral narrative traditions, as the countless iterations of the quest for the holy grail and their variety of sidetracking adventures indicate. Propp’s Morphology of the Folktale can almost be thought of as a repertoire for characters and story design of many adventure games (Simons), and Campbell’s concept of the monomyth has served as analytical tool for comparative videogame analysis (e.g. Ip “Part I”, “Part II”). As however e.g. Burn (244) in his reluctance to commit to Proppian terminology demonstrated, and has already been stated above, such analogies have limited use and should be employed with caution. Such attempts to locate videogames in diverse narrative traditions have been complicated by the lack of a shared understanding of what the term ‘narrative’ even refers to. As has been pointed out by e.g. Koenitz (4), Zimmerman (155), and Simons, the understanding of the term ‘narrative’ itself is conflated, especially within the field of videogame studies, where a transparent definition for what is clearly a contested concept is practically missing. Juul (Half 1.4.1.) argues along similar lines, stating that the term ‘narrative’ is “practically meaningless unless specified in great detail.” I therefore use the encompassing definition brought forth by Aarsenault (482) when referring to narration in videogames: "Video game narration occurs when the algorithm, acting as a Game Master in role-playing games, orders the events and relays the effects of actions and current state of the fictional world through visual semiotics. While video games are perfectly capable of upholding extrinsic, embedded narratives by emulating cinematographic or literary techniques, the player’s actions can be intrinsically narrativized by a fictionalizing player, given that they hinge on the same elements that are central to action theory." (Aarsenault 482) As can be seen, this definition is focused on role-playing games, and differentiates between both narration in the form of cutscenes – what Aarsenault here calls “embedded narratives” (482) – and a ludic form of narration, which centers on the player as “fictionalizing” agent (482). He subsumes both of these forms of narrations under a shared umbrella, which surpasses the circular logic employed by a strong ludological position regarding cutscenes (as elaborated on in the discussion of cutscenes in 2.2.3). As has been shown, the parallel between games and narratives precedes not only the ludology- narratology debate, but the commercialization of videogames as we know them today. Huizinga’s seminal Homo Ludens even locates a more generalized play-element in poetry 28 (119), going back into antiquity. This, however, does not mean that a videogame may be read like a novel, poem or performance – the specifics of the medium must be accounted for, as the subsequent chapter shows. 2.3.2. Narrative Techniques in Adventure Games There is – of course – narration in videogames, narrations in a way that is comparable to other narrative forms stemming from written, oral or filmic traditions. The role that narrative plays in each given game is not only determined by the game itself, or its genre, but also by the player’s willingness to invest in it – some players, as Ryan suggests, might even forget a game’s narrative in states of deep immersion, while others might fictionalize events without much narrative potential (Aarsenault 482). It is therefore needed to reconceptualize the way narrative is described and analyzed in videogames. The following chapter introduces concepts either suitable to be adapted for the analysis of videogames, or specifically coined for them. Principally, a very basic categorization of narratives in games can be found in the narrative organizations as laid out by Todorov, which were considered as a taxonomy of videogame narratives by e.g. Neitzel. Todorov’s initial dichotomy between mythological and gnoseological narratives (40) is suitable to serve as a basic starting point to understand narrative in videogames. The mythological narrative in adventure games – a “simple narrative” which operates on the “modification of a basic predicate” within “the principle of succession” (Todorov 40) – may take on a variety of forms, from the narration delivered in initial cutscenes that serve as the raison d'etre for gameplay, to initial quests aimed to teach game mechanics, so-called tutorials. Very often, the main quest of an adventure game will be mythological in organization, e.g. Fallout 3’s search for the protagonist’s father – this narrative is organized around a straightforward succession of individual quests that provide little to no actual choice – the “modification of a basic predicate” Todorov (40) described. The gnoseological narrative organization, in contrast, affords more significance to the aesthetics of the telling of events than their actualization (Todorov 40). This, again, is found in many adventure games in different forms – in free-roaming exploration or sometimes even within a succession of mythological narrative elements. Todorov’s reading of the Perceval story sees the accumulation of simple, mythological episodes (i.e. quests) as transformative to a gnoseological story organization that searches for meaning (40) – we can observe the same in some quest narratives of adventure games. A prime example for the transformation of mythological to gnoseological story can be found in Fallout: New Vegas. The quest structure of Fallout: New Vegas’ main storyline seems 29 mythological at first: the player searches for their would-be killer that shot them in the introductory sequence, and follows clues to find them within the partly ruined, but still operating Strip of Las Vegas. Upon finding them, they are handed a key item – a computer chip – that can determine the fate of the Strip: leaving it in its original state being controlled by a hidden autocrat, handing over the power to an organized, but only pseudo-democratic military state termed the New California Republic, even handing it over to a fascist, Hegel-quoting slave lord called Caesar, or flooding it with a poisonous gas clouds as nihilistic punishment for humanity’s flaws – or taking control themselves. As was already pointed out by e.g. Schulzke (“Critical” 330), none of these choices are morally pure, and even when the player decides to expel all other factions, they still have to decide the fate of groups located in the Strip that are, at best, morally ambiguous themselves – like the well-mannered cannibals running one of the three remaining casinos. Additionally, the player is confronted with the fact that such an independently run New Vegas might not look at a lasting future. As such, the mythological succession of individual quests transforms into a gnoseological narrative that negotiates questions of values, and what the survival of humanity means – in Todorov’s (40) words, New Vegas’ story, “like so many others, tells the story of a quest; what is sought, however, is not an object, but a meaning.” Todorov’s third organization of narrative almost reads as it would have been conceptualized with videogames in mind: the ideological organization. This narrative organization “is an abstract rule […] which produces different adventures” (Todorov 42). The events in succession no longer form a direct, simple causal relationship, and they do not transform “from ignorance to knowledge” (Todorov 42) – rather, they represent “repetitive and recursive” (Neitzel) happenings, and correspond therefore closely to what has been termed ‘emergent narrative’ in game studies. Before examining the ideological organization (in the form of the ‘emergent narrative’) below, another set of terms useful in the analysis will be discussed: the organization of narrative around satellites and kernels. This particularly well-suited set of terms for understanding narrative structure in role-playing games is the distinction of happenings within the plot into satellite and kernel events (Chatman 32). The kernels are the essential plot points without which a narrative would cease to make sense. They represent branching nodes within a story, and in a bare-stripped version of a plot, each kernel would follow successively and logically to the next (Chatman 53). In such a way, kernel events would roughly correspond to the presentation of a main questline within a game, be that in the form of cut-scenes, dialogue or else. Typically, the recounting of a game’s story would focus on kernels. Satellites, in contrast, are events that are not necessary for the logical 30 development of the plot. A satellite “can be deleted without disturbing the logic of the plot, though its omission will, of course, impoverish the narrative aesthetically” (Chatman 54). As such, a satellite will most typically correspond to so-called side-quests, missions or short narrations not necessary for the completion of the game. The satellites, functioning to deepen the narration, generally add a feeling of achievement to the player. While a game like Fallout 3 spans the whole lifespan of the avatar from their birth to their search for their father as adults to their eventual death by radiation in a self-sacrifice to activate a water purifier in Washington, DC’s Jefferson Memorial, much of the average player’s time will be devoted to complete non- essential satellite quests. These “form the flesh on the skeleton” (Chatman 54) of the game, and the individual player’s choice of which satellites to complete will strongly contribute to the individuality of each game’s playthrough. Even more so, the possibilities of different endings in videogames even allow for a complete and unique arrangement of kernels within a playthrough (Rauscher 76). Curiously, Ip, in a comparative analysis of different role-playing games (amongst them noted canonical titles like Final Fantasy X or The Legend of Zelda), noted that the ratio of kernels to satellites is tendentially low, suggesting that “the chosen titles appear to lack depth” (“Part II” 218). I would, however, argue that Ip (“Part II”) arrives at such a low figure because his definition of satellite events is too restrictive, and too closely oriented at traditional forms of narration, such as back-stories, cut-scenes and on-screen text (Ip “Part I” 118). Videogames offer additional modes of narrative which require a new and distinct terminology – the following aims to showcase the most important additions to traditional narrative techniques employed by the open-world adventure game. The first model for narration within videogames hinges on the understanding of narrative as a spatial experience within games (Jenkins 123). This means that the traversal of individual levels, or story-worlds carries narrative potential. As such, “spatial stories can evoke pre- existing narrative associations; they can provide a staging ground where narrative events are enacted; they may embed narrative information within their mise-en-scene; or they provide resources for emergent narratives” (Jenkins 123). The first possibility of spatial storytelling are such spatial stories that evoke narrative associations - these are termed “evocative spaces” in Jenkins’ terms. The success of this type of narrative hinges on how the player’s experience space and their familiarity with any source material that is referenced in the space. Jenkins connects this type of narrativity to transmedia storytelling (124), but it also connects to the general world knowledge of players. Fallout’s visual aesthetics draw heavily on such evocative spaces, which not only contain the usual display of skeletons and debris suggestive of post- 31 apocalypse, but also points more specifically to its alternative history perpetually stuck in the Cold War and the Red Scare. Figure 4 Screenshot of an evocative space in Fallout: New Vegas The poster in figure 4 is on display in a school building in Fallout: New Vegas. A similar poster next to it reads “C is for Commie!”, thereby establishing that these were used to teach the alphabet to kids. Such a space carries evocative narrative potential, allowing the player to locate the game and its storyworld within a specific cultural sentiment (albeit by hyperbole). The narrative potential of evocative spaces rests therefore not only on the actual perception of the space by the player (although, in the case of Fallout, many such spaces exist, constructing the familiar aesthetic experience of playing a Fallout game), but also on the player’s ability to parse the narrative potential of it. Evocative spaces may even contain micronarratives, very localized and usually short narrative experiences (Jenkins 125). One such example found in Fallout: New Vegas is shown below in figure 5: the skeleton in the fridge, suggestive of someone trying to survive the nuclear attacks locked in a fridge. This micronarrative – someone locking themselves in a fridge and dying in the process – is even more so evocative in that the skeleton, wearing a hat, is a reference to a scene in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, where the protagonist survives a nuclear test locked in a fridge. The placement of skeletons as means of evocative storytelling are a staple in the Fallout series (see e.g. Spokes for a transdisciplinary analysis of Fallout 4’s evocative skeletons). 32 Figure 5 Evocative micronarratives in Fallout: New Vegas Jenkins furthermore differentiates between the enacted and embedded narrative, with the former being roughly congruent with a game’s main story or quest – i.e. a performance of narrative events on a pre-structured stage set by the game (Jenkins 124-26), and the latter as embedded narrative being “relatively unstructured and controlled by the player as they explore the game space” (Jenkins 126). The embedded narrative asks the player for “acts of detection, speculation, exploration, and decryption” (Jenkins 128) to reconstruct past events. Potential for embedded narrative can be found in a variety of game objects and locations, but especially written records or objects in the mise-en-scene lend themselves well for embedded narration. Figure 5 shows an embedded narrative in the form of a diary entry, found in an abandoned camp. The embedded narrative clarifies that this was a detainment camp for political dissidents prior to the fall of the atom bombs: 33 Figure 6 Embedded narrative in Fallout: New Vegas Finally, the emergent narrative in videogames are those “are not prestructured or preprogrammed,” but only emerge through the rules of gameplay (Jenkins 128). The emergent narrative corresponds to Todorov’s ideological organization of narrative (42), and is the narrative potential of games (sequences) that feature no traditionally discernable narrative, but rather the potential for the construction of the narrative. Many simulation games are emergent narratives, most notably the Sims-series, which feature no pre-structured narrative. Nevertheless, this life simulation narrates something: the player, controlling a character (referred to as Sim) may marry, get a job, have children, and die, passing the control to a different Sim. The emergent narrative game can be understood as “a dollhouse”, an “authoring environment within which players can define their own goals and write their own stories” (Jenkins 128). Pearce (“Game” 149) calls the emergent narrative “a story that evolves over time as a result of an interplay between rules and players,” which makes the parallel of emergent narrative in videogames to pen-and-paper roleplaying games clear. The emergent narrative usually exists outside of the teleological quest structure of adventure games. The final addition to narratology needed to discuss adventure games is supplied by Pearce (“Game”). Pearce identifies – amongst others – the augmentary narrative, i.e. the “[l]ayers of information, interpretation, backstory, and contextual framework around the game” (“Game” 145) which enhances the experience of the game itself – in the context of Fallout, this includes the player’s knowledge about the origin of the specific aesthetics of the game. The augmentary narrative is different from Jenkins’ notion of the evocative space in that it is not part of the 34 game proper, but may be cultural knowledge, fan theories or journalistic coverage of or about a videogame (Pearce “Game” 145-46). Figure 7 shows such potential augmentary narratives in the form of casino advertisements – the leftmost billboard, an advertisement for one of the casinos found in Fallout: New Vegas, has been theorized by fans to be a fictionalized stand-in for the Caesar’s Palace casino (Fallout Wiki). Figure 7 Potential augmentary narratives in Fallout: New Vegas Additionally, one of the most important additions of Pearce (“Game” 145) is the introduction of the experiential narrative, i.e. the specific narrative experienced by a player during their individual playthrough of a game. Realistically, any narrative analysis of a videogame can only be the analysis of the experiential narrative of the player, as satellites and other narrative events can occur in a variety of orders (Eskelinen and Tronstad 198) and even static, independent objects – like evocative spaces – are informed and interpreted by prior and following events. The interpretation of different events and spaces therefore creates a unique understanding of them (Rauscher 76), which necessarily influences the analytical perspective. These perspectives have evidenced in what ways videogames are narratives in a traditional sense, and in their own, specific ways. However, one should bear in mind that said concepts do not apply to all genres of videogames equally, and are not even employed homogenously as modes of narration within different adventure games. 35 2.4. Videogames as Commodities: Fallout 76 The above has suggested possible connections of narratives in videogames and various narrative traditions. It also has shown which terms from narratology lend themselves to the analysis of narrative in videogames, and has introduced concepts to describe narrative events specific to the (adventure) videogame. To conclude the theoretical modelling of the videogame as object of analysis, the third and final part of this chapter will focus on the specific economic and cultural conditions that shape mainstream videogames, and how these affect their possible meanings. While there have been approaches considering the economic conditions of videogame production and consumption, many of these discussions were carried out in videogame journalism. Most prominently, issues of crunching, i.e. the working of gruesome hours prior to a game’s release have found public interest on the production side, while the question of microtransactions, i.e. small, optional fees to buy progress or cosmetic upgrades in a game has ruled public discourse on the side of consumption. However, informed academic positions on the relationship of capitalist hegemony and videogame meaning remain sparse. This is, in part, due to the fixation of narratology and ludology in early videogame studies. Moberly (173) points this out when calling the debate ”constructed to preclude any discussion about the social, political, and economic systems through which computer games (and the hardware required to play them) are produced, or, conversely, any discussion of the role that computer games play in ensuring the reproduction of these systems of production.” The argument about such a formalist divide creates a dangerous blind spot, obscuring a facet of videogame production that shapes videogames and player experience to a great extent. Nichols formulated this shortcoming of the ludology/narratology debate probably most succinctly: "But these poles have, at best, paid lip service to one of the essential truths about video games: that they emerge, almost exclusively, as industrial commodities. What recognition is given comes typically in the form of sales figures waved like a banner at the beginning of a study to demonstrate via dollar signs just how worthwhile of study video games are; by the start of the next paragraph, the recognition gets obscured, abandoned, and forgotten. Doing so, however, ignores the impact industrial creation and commodification has on video games and, therefore, on game meaning" (Nichols 31). It is therefore that the status of videogames as industrial commodities is the third perspective of analysis of this paper. Both ludological and narratological considerations of the analysis are underpinned by the conception of videogames as commodities produced in a capitalist system. In such a way, the interpretation of both mechanics and storytelling devices must necessarily be critical in order to unearth the relation of said devices to the capitalist hegemony from which they stem. As such, a ludohermeneutic position as described in 2.2.4. is unfeasible, especially 36 if one assumes that videogames can convey meaning about something else than themselves. While the following will sketch out basic considerations about the status of videogames as objects of culture and both products and reproducers of a capitalist hegemony, it is important to point out that the entanglements of videogames and capitalism reach further than the scope of this paper allows. There are, of course, other approaches, like e.g. Nichols, or Dyer- Whiteford and de Peuter, who model the relationship of players and modders (i.e. creators of fan-made modifications and expansions to games, which are usually distributed for free on the internet) as forms of “immaterial labor” (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter 23), Kerr, examining new production logics of videogames, or Yee, who investigating the act of playing as new form of labor (59-96). Such approaches reach far beyond the pure content of a game and transcend notions of ludology or narratology. For present purposes, however, the discussion of such entanglements must be restricted to the bilateral influence of a capitalist hegemonic system to the content of the videogame, not purely to account for scope, but also to showcase that neither ludology nor narratology can claim analytical autonomy over a commodity. 2.4.1. Game Culture and Videogames in Culture The connection of videogames and culture tends to function in either of two ways: very often, scholars investigating videogames and culture set out to investigate the culture of videogames – especially that of the elusive ‘gamers’, a term both used as self-identifier meant to in- and exclude, and simply as descriptive term for people who play videogames. Somewhat more comprehensively, some scholars however set out to model the influence and status of videogames as objects of popular culture, the second connection of videogames and culture. After a brief review of the identity of the gamer and their presumed culture, the second approach will be the main concern of the following section. The chapter closes with a conception of videogames as commodities in a cultural industry, following the notion of culture as industry laid out by Horkheimer and Adorno. The idea of game culture as a distinct, specific culture is still a prevalent object of study, even though it has undergone significant changes recently. A great many investigations of game cultures, both in the past and today, focused on distinct online worlds, multi-user dungeons and their more contemporary spiritual successors, massive multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGS) (Shaw 404). The initial focus on the description of individual game worlds and their players painted such game cultures as distinct microcosms radically separate from real life (Taylor 18) – and thereby, mainstream or popular culture. While such approaches are still valid and have produced canonized titles within the field – such as T.L. Taylor’s Play between Worlds 37 – attention has been shifted towards approaches concerned with gender and sexuality in the identifier ‘gamer’ and their culture. The relation of gender, videogames and their culture might represent the only well-researched niche in the question of what videogame culture is (Shaw 416). The disconnect in gender between those labelling themselves ‘gamers’ – and thereby shaping an understanding of gaming culture – and actual players of games is staggering: a review of recent surveys shows that male players are more than twice as likely to identify as gamers (Paaßen, Morgenroth and Stratemeyer), despite the number of male and female players being roughly the same (Muriel and Crawford 29; Paaßen, Morgenroth and Stratemeyer 430). Gender even beats skill in the assessment of what constitutes a ‘gamer’ (Paaßen, Morgenroth and Stratemeyer 423). It seems that questions of gendered relations are still are source of contention within an imagined ‘game culture’. Such a question of ‘the’ culture of ‘gamers’ and gendered relations within a gaming culture became especially relevant during 2014, when a large-scaled harassment campaign unified under the hashtag “#GamerGate” originated. This harassment campaign mainly targeted feminist videogame critics and game developers (Mortensen 788) for a seeming intrusion in a masculine online space, showcasing “the great distance between people who happen to play games and people who identify as gamers.” (Mortensen 792, emphasis in original). This targeted harassment campaign was not only at fault for committing a variety of crimes (Salter 253), the unification of strangers under the identity of ‘gamers’ via a hashtag has been cited as predecessor of the rise of the alt-right (Bezio 563) and online mobilization for Donald Trump’s presidential campaign (Salter 255). This has made it ostensibly clear that any conception of a distinct, isolated gaming culture outside of popular culture and mainstream discourse is typically misleading at best. Therefore, the approach taken in this paper focuses on “video games in culture rather than games as culture” (Shaw 416). Such a kind of videogame studies, which considers games as objects in cultures rather than distinct, enclosed subcultures themselves have gained traction in the last two decades, partly caused by a broader focus of academia on popular culture in general (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter xxvi). Nevertheless, even investigations of videogames as cultural objects are sometimes unclear on their actual relation to culture. Consider e.g. Crogan and his analysis of the videogame The Thing, a videogame based on the John Carpenter movie with the same title: while Crogan (14) is aware that the game itself exists only by virtue of connecting to a widely recognized movie, he nevertheless asserts that the “‘cultural inputs’ employed in digital games 38 are worthwhile objects […] in spite of — or even because of — the fact that they play a different, less central role in games than in other media forms such as films, television programs and literature." This sentiment hints again at a dictum that proposes an autonomy of form, a decoupling of gameplay and cultural signifiers – in short, a sentiment that brushes closely to aforementioned ludohermeneutics. Dismissing cultural signifiers entirely or brushing them off as “backstory” (Crogan 15) because they seemingly occupy a less central role to the player creates a blind analytical spot that should be uncovered. The tendencies of such positions to implicitly acknowledge the cultural status of videogames without drawing conclusions from culture in their analysis is ultimately an empty gesture. It is, essentially, the other side of the coin that Ensslin (42) described when theorizing that the demand of gameplay and immersion may render players less sensitive to the ideological content of games – wherein the analysist is stricken by form and gameplay and neglects cultural inputs. This, of course, is not to say that a focus on mechanics is not a valuable addition to the analysis of a game. However, as has been argued in 2.2.4., a focus on mechanics must not forget that the modelling of said mechanics does not happen in a cultural vacuum. Neither representational nor mechanical meaning in games are authored directly: a programmer-author writes code, and that code generates representations. Any interpretation of the system's representations is projected onto it by an interpreter (Bogost Persuasive 4-5). Making meaning of computational representation is thus a fairly complex task: procedural semantic content in a game is generated by code – i.e. mechanics – authored by a human and interpreted by the player. This interpretation is shaped by underlying assumptions of both programmer and interpreter and constrained by the affordances of the code. It is therefore necessary to conceptualize videogames as objects of culture in such a way that their relation to culture does not become obscured, but also in such a sense that cultural signifiers within games do not remain the singular focus in their analysis. Additionally, it is vital that the idea of seeing videogames as objects of popular culture “in culture” (Shaw 416) does not exclude them from a critical glance informed by their status as commodity, as Dyer- Witheford and de Peuter (xxvi) point out. Adopting such a double perspective of seeing videogames as both commodities and cultural signifiers is not exclusive to videogame studies by any means: the now apparently defunct Department of Defense Game Development Community listed 25 mainstream games as useful for the purpose of the United States Armed Forces (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter 101-02). This is but one example that showcases how games relate to a larger cultural climate as a commodity. 39 In order to account for the relationship of games as both commodities and objects of culture, I view videogames as products of a culture industry as sketched by Adorno and Horkheimer. This approach is especially suited to consider artistic products both in culture and as commodities, and the videogame industry fits nearly seamlessly into Adorno’s and Horkheimer’s conception of culture as industry. This has been made clear both by the analysis of actual production, circulation and consumption of videogames (see e.g. Kerr’s thorough discussion) and by analysis of which titles and genres dominate the market – very often remakes of and sequels to existing games, stemming from a small variety of genres, showing “little evidence of real innovation or avant-garde artistry within the commercial digital games industry” (Crawford and Rutter 151). This observation is in line with the arguments of Horkheimer and Adorno, who claim that within a cultural industry, all cultural products are necessarily mass produced, formulaic and standardized (95). The parallel between the conception of the culture industry and the contemporary videogame industry is so striking that it has led critics to consider the games industry as “pinnacle of the culture industry, as understood by Adorno and Horkheimer” (Muriel and Crawford 44). The conception of popular cultural as industrial product helps to understand the status of most mainstream games. Like in the conception of the culture industry, many of these games tend to be awkwardly similar to or based on each other. The dictum to “let pass nothing which does not conform to their [i.e. producers, MP] tables, to their concept of the consumer, or, above all, to themselves” (Horkheimer and Adorno 96) is even evident in the game central to this thesis – it is, after all, the fourth sequel to an original game released in the 1990ies. But perhaps the conceptualization of videogames as cultural commodities becomes most clear when considering the latest main installment of the Fallout-series, Fallout 76. The game, which takes the retrofuturistic design elements of the main series into an MMORPG instead of a traditional single-player game, was a major disappointment for both fans and critics with the lowest- ranking Metacritic score of any main Fallout-installment (Metacritic). Essentially, Fallout 76 combined both the formulaic aesthetics of other Fallout games with game mechanics from MMORPGs, thereby strongly lacking in any sense of originality. Even worse for players, the game was not even running stable, and what little inventiveness was promised fell either flat or was changed retroactively.8 As the game’s publishers tried to harrow in money with a 8 What Fallout 76 originally brought forward as main point of innovation was a complete lack of characters. Every human non-player character encountered in the original version was actually another player. But since the server architecture only supported 24 players on each server, this resulted in the game feeling empty. A coming update to the game reintroduces non-player characters to the game, doing away with this singular feat of originality. 40 considerable amount of microtransactions, the games status as commodity became clear to many players and drew considerable criticism. But perhaps most strikingly, Fallout 76 conformed to another assertion about the culture industry: the tendency of the culture industry to subsume entertainment as “the prolongation of work” (Horkheimer and Adorno 109). The gathering of resources to craft items, the introduction of daily quests rewarding a daily login to the game, and the repetitive nature of quests that are rewarded with in-game currency (which can also be bought in microtransactions) caused reviewers to describe the act of playing as “more busywork than satisfying heroics” (Tyrell). The parallel between the act of playing a videogame and working is indeed striking – the term used for accomplishing repetitive tasks like those of Fallout 76 is ‘grinding’, reverberating associations with depressing, hard labor. Yee (64) describes how playing such online games, which supposedly are escapes from work, tendentially end up actually becoming another form of work. Fallout 76 represents the status of videogames as commodities of a cultural industry not just because its status as commodity is transparent in its formulaic structure and disappointing gameplay, it furthermore lays bare the extension of work in entertainment. By considering videogames as commodities originating in a cultural industry, the question of what videogames can mean must be rephrased. It has already been shown that the idea of a neutral code governing a game is a flawed assumption, and that a position of ludic autonomy is therefore inaccurate. If videogames are thought of as products of a culture industry, their expressive meanings are never purely ludic, but connect to a larger, ideological discourse. The assumption of a ‘magic circle’ of play, disconnected from everyday life (Huizinga 77), only asserts the naturalization of the ideologies being conveyed in play. The videogame seamlessly integrates into the function of entertainment in cultural industries “[b]y claiming to anticipate fulfillment through their aesthetic derivatives,” which “posits the real forms of the existing order as absolute” (Horkheimer and Adorno 103). As such, any meaning of videogames is also ideological meaning. Viewing videogames – especially commercial titles – as commodities necessitates investigating the influence of dominant ideologies on them, and how games themselves tend to reproduce such ideologies. Viewing videogames as outside of ideological forces is a faulty assumption, in the same way that viewing gaming culture as distinct from popular culture is. In order to not just pay lip-service to the status of (mainstream) games as commodities, it is essential to adopt a critical position of the ideologies that go hand in hand with the commodification of culture. 41 2.4.2. Videogames and Ideology By acknowledging the commodification of culture in the form of the games industry, it becomes important to understand in which ways videogames are influenced by dominant ideologies, and transport these themselves. Because there is a wide spectrum of videogame genres – some of which lend themselves more easily to transport specific ideologies, such as war games – this discussion aims to cover basic principles of the transportation of ideologies by videogames. The principal focus, however, lies on role-playing and adventure games. It is also important to note that the mediation of ideologies in videogames can be seen both as a default of the medium itself and as a conscious design choice (Hayse 442). While ideological mediation in the form of conscious design choices (e.g. the design of enemies in America’s Army, a game officially licensed by the United States Armed Forces, Allen 39) may be more salient, most necessary tools to unearth them are not strictly confined to videogame studies, as the analysis part of this paper will show. Instead, the more implicit ideological mediations found in videogames will be the main concern of the rest of this section. The first ideological mediation is found in the architecture of the videogames as simulation, while the second circles back to the commodity status of games. During the course of the ludology/narratology debate, much ink has been spilled on the question of whether games act as system of rules or as stories. For certain games, their status can be more effectively conceived of as simulations or models. This does not just apply to those games that were developed as simulations specifically, i.e. ‘training’ or ‘serious’ games. After all, in the construction of games, “the designers transform certain intangible schemas into the physics, mechanics, world, gameplay and interface of the game” (van Ooijen 35). By doing so, games effectively act as “tangible models of specific areas of ideology” (van Ooijen 35). In other words, by conceptualizing a game as a simulation or model, the question of what aspects of perceived reality are integrated into the model in which way becomes ideologically charged. Because “meaning in videogames is constructed not through a re-creation of the world, but through selectively modeling appropriate elements of that world,” (Bogost Persuasive 46) the selection of what is being modelled is in itself a meaningful decision, caused by the constraints of the software architecture. The mediation of ideologies is a default of videogames as a medium precisely because of selective modelling. Furthermore, both the what and the how of the modelling is important. When a player interacts with a game, they operate the simulation, but all possible interactions “are constrained by their rules” (Bogost Things 4). This again follows the line of argumentation against 42 ludohermeneutics, whereby all possible interaction within a game is already charged with meaning since the selection of which actions are made possible is an ideological decision. Additionally, the what of the modelling – so, which aspects are being modeled, i.e. the representations – can become an object of closer inquiry. While the ideological mediations on this level correspond closer to conscious design choices, it is however worth mentioning that videogames rarely model reality. In such a way, it seems conspicuous that while dragons, demons, zombies or magic are stable features of many genres, the modelling of characters seems firmly aligned to ‘realistic’ (i.e. mainstream) conceptions of gender and sexuality. The ‘what’ of the modelling is therefore not only a question of who and what is included, but which deviations of perceived reality are tolerated in the game. Such questions about the how and the what of modellings in games offer great analytical potential. Since representational meaning in videogames is dependent on the affordances of code as source of representations, and any such representation can only be a simulation shaped by the code's affordances, an analysis of videogames can offer an "unusually detached perspective on the ideologies that drive them" (Bogost Persuasive 75). Because the perspective of the player on the actual happenings within the machine (i.e. representations on screen versus code) is twice removed, a perceived mismatch can offer potential to investigate ideological meanings. Contrarily, because the ideological mediation is twofold, it can in successful cases open up the possibility of a desensitization to it. The ideological influence inherent in videogames is particularly relevant because most commercially successful games pose as pure entertainment. In their status as entertainment, “the underlying value judgements” coded in them “are rendered invisible” (Thompson and Quellette 3). To qualify as such apparently non-ideological tools, the unit operations available to the player must be carefully designed. Unsuccessful unit operations, as discussed in 2.2.1., can cause “the kind of cognitive dissonance that might lead to the discovery of this complicity” (Thompson and Quellette 3). It thereby becomes the task of the critical videogame scholar to unearth the ideologies inherent in successful unit operations, i.e. in such unit operations that do not threaten the player’s immersion. As such, the ludological project can be carried out further, but on a more critical basis. Such critical analysis is especially relevant in the context of open world or ‘sandbox’ games. In their promise to offer as much player choice and freedom as possible, these games intensify “the sense of free will necessary for ideology to work really well” (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter 192). Because the player is under the assumption to be given the most choice possible 43 in a game, the actual funneling towards specific outcomes and playstyles – those that are allowed by the game – becomes obscured. In this way, “[p]layers, of their own choice, rehearse socially stipulated subjectivities" (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter 192). As they point out, even - or maybe especially - the openness of sandbox games allows the imposition of such subjectivities, as they are "coded to constrain and channel" towards hegemonic subject positions (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter 192-93). Because of their apparent freedom of choice, such an imposition appears as the illusion of free choice. In order to understand the ideological implications of videogames, it is not only important to look at what is in a videogame, but also what is missing. There is, however, an additional aspect on the intersection between videogames and ideology that is worth mentioning. The object of the videogame itself and its role both in capitalism and in culture. Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter consider the videogame as the characteristic medium of the 21st century: "Just as the eighteenth century novel was a textual apparatus generating the bourgeois personality required by mercantile colonialism (but also capable of criticizing it), and just as twentieth-century cinema and television were integral to industrial consumerism (yet screened some of its darkest depictions), so virtual games are media constitutive of twenty- first-century global hypercapitalism and, perhaps, also lines of exodus from it." (Dyer- Witheford and de Peuter xxix) While Dyer-Whiteford and de Peuter’s assertion is painted in somewhat broad strokes, it does appear striking how quickly much of videogame production fell in line with a global capitalist order. Bethesda, the studio behind the latest incarnations of the Fallout-series, was on the vanguard of an attempt to monetize mods with their Creation Club. Mods, i.e. fan-programmed expansions to games, are typically distributed for free on the internet. Bethesda’s Creation Club was an effort to monetize mods by creating a platform to sell them, with part of the revenue being paid to the creators of the mod. This effort by Bethesda to tame rouge fan culture was mostly frowned upon by the community (Hansen). In many other ways, actual play has, in parts, fallen to hegemonic capitalist orders as well, perhaps most strikingly in the trend of the gamification of work. Gamification refers to “the application of game systems – competition, rewards, quantifying player/user behaviour – into non-game domains, such as work” (Woodcock and Johnson 542) and has been a noticeable trend in many workplace environments. The gamification via apps or contests is not only used to ensure productivity and motivation, but also considered useful for “employee control” (Kim 28). The process of gamification, gaining steady traction (Woodcock and Johnson 543) represents the other side of the process of games as commodities: while 44 games as products of a culture industry carry the spirit of work into entertainment (Horkheimer and Adorno 109), the adoption of play as form of work and productivity further blurs the boundaries between the two. The ideological implications of game mechanics therefore reach even further than the game itself, meaning their logic cannot be tied to the videogames themselves exclusively. Ultimately, the relationship of videogames and ideology is probably summed up best by Nichols (32) when stating that “[a]s products of an industry focused on profits, video game production is forced to follow particular sets of logics in hopes of catching audience attention and dollars. The rules and narratives coded into video games typically seek to reinforce these tendencies and attitudes by limiting the experiences offered in video games.” The ideological implications of most mainstream games are therefore both determined by a profit motive and by the affordances of the code that make up games themselves. This is of course not to say that videogames are completely determined by such ideological implications, or that there are no subversive games. Such subversive games, however, tend to be found outside of a best-selling games of all time list. 2.5. Transclusion: What is a Videogame? After having investigated videogames from both a ludological and narratological point of view, and discussing the implications of the status of games as commodities, the possibilities of meaning making within a videogame have hopefully been better illustrated. It is, however, notable that despite all the ink being spilled about videogames, a satisfactory definition of the term has yet to be achieved. For the present purposes, it should suffice to note that the term ‘videogame’ is ultimately historically contingent – it is, after all, not a term coined by scientists (Aarseth “Ontology” 484). For the analysis of a videogame like Fallout 4, it seems of greater importance to understand how videogames (can) function than to produce a philosophically sound definition of a phenomenon so in flux like videogames. This chapter has hopefully sharpened a working understanding of common aspects of videogames – of how they function both as systems of rules and as conveyers of narrative, and in what way videogames can connect to ideological discourses. As a preliminary transclusion to conclude this chapter on the theory of videogames, it can be summarized that videogames are, in certain ways, system of rules. They specifically act as systems of rules, made up of unit operations, and feature obstacles that need to be overcome to reach a winning– or avoid a losing – condition. These unit operations can, in contrast to a ludohermeneutic position, be considered meaningful representations, and convey meaning about things outside of the game. The 45 relations of time within a videogame, a much contested concept because many traditional conceptions of narrative ultimately rest on temporal relations, act somewhat different than those in narrative, but are essentially similar enough to apply narratological concepts to them. This, of course, entails that videogames, especially role-playing and adventure games, are also narratives. Chapter 2.3. suggested different ways in which videogames connect to narrative traditions. Additionally, a narratological toolbox showed which concepts of traditional narratology are appropriate for the analysis of adventure games, and introduced new concepts specifically modelled to describe storytelling in adventure games. Overall, while videogames can be considered both as systems of rules and as narratives, the final part of this chapter showed that they are also commodities, subjects to market forces that determine both their range of expression and their meaning. Such a trifold understanding of videogames as system of rules, narratives and commodities in a culture industry inform the following analysis. Before turning to the analysis proper of Fallout 4, a final cautionary remark is in order. As Eskelinen and Tronstad (198) remind us, the exact configuration of every playthrough of a videogame must necessarily be different for each individual player, each time they play it. The best the analyst can do is therefore to describe their own playing experience and try to be mindful of any biases based on preferred playstyles. The following analysis is based on an amalgam of various playthroughs conducted by me during the course of the last four years, the latest happening during the course of the writing of this paper. The analysis is therefore one of multiple individual experiential narratives (Pearce “Game” 145), during the course of which I tried to alter my playstyle in order to cast a wider net. All screenshots, quest descriptions and other game contents are taken from these various playthroughs. Fallout 4 was played on the Playstation 4 with all the current patches installed (i.e. game version 1.34). 3. Analysis After having staked out a theoretical field for the analysis of a videogame, it is time to turn to the object proper, Fallout 4. It has been noted before that within videogame studies, there often tends to be a “precedence of theory over the object of study” (Ryan), which is why the rest of this paper is devoted to the analysis of the game itself. The analysis draws on both narratological and ludological aspects of the game and aims to examine those aspects critically. The approach taken is multi-angular, drawing from critical ludology, narratology, retrofuturism, ecocriticism, critical American history, ruin studies and dark tourism, in line with Pfister’s (65) observation that any game contains a multitude of influences. 46 Fallout 4 has so far not only been the most commercially successful installment of the series, but also of the publisher’s – Bethesda – history (Makuch). Although no official sales figures have been released, 12 million copies of the game where shipped on launch day alone (Makuch). A self-reporting polling website lists about an average of 26 hours to finish the game, and an average of 151 hours to finish all the quests in the game (howlongtobeat.com). To situate my own playing experience, I have spent about 260 hours playing Fallout 4 between various characters, with the longest playthrough with one character amounting to roughly 127 hours of playtime. For players enjoying the role-playing adventure game genre, it becomes quite easy to spend a significant amount of time with Fallout 4. The reason that Fallout 4 is such a rich game is partly in its structure. As the discrepancy in the times cited above shows, the main story only accounts for roughly a sixth of the play time should one chose to try to ‘complete’ the game, i.e. pursue every quest. This is despite the fact that even the main questline of the game – its story – is already quite long and requires significant time to be played through. To contextualize the analysis, a brief recount of the game’s plot is in order. This retelling is a retelling of the most salient kernel events of the game, and thereby somewhat different from what a typical player experience might be, as such an experience would also include a number of satellite events in various configurations. In contrast to any other Fallout game, Fallout 4 starts in 2077, just hours before the ‘Great War’, the global nuclear destruction of presumably all of the world. The ‘Great War’ is the pinnacle of the Sino-American war, an escalation of the Cold War between the United States and China, of which the player character is a veteran. In the Fallout universe, this Sino- American war was a war between the US and China for resources, essentially a Cold War turned hot. While all of the Fallout games are set in the future, and feature impressive technological advances in certain areas, such as intelligent robots or nuclear-powered cars, other cultural and technological conditions seem archaic, such as the lack of color TV, or clothing and hairstyles more reminiscent of the 1950s or 60s. The Fallout games essentially present an “alternate history that started to diverge from the actual world around the time of World War II” (Domsch 407) coated “with the ashes of the Atomic Age’s fantasies of tomorrow” (McClancy). The player starts the game by customizing their character. They are introduced into the still pristine gameworld of Boston by their spouse, their infant son Shaun and their domestic robot. After a short while of domestic idyll, a news broadcast informs the player of incoming nuclear attack, prompting the family to flee to the nearest vault, ‘Vault 111’, for which they registered beforehand. 47 Unbeknownst to them, the player is cryogenically frozen in the vault. After an undisclosed amount of time, they are forced to watch their spouse, frozen in a pod across of them, being shot and their son being abducted. The player is then released from their cryogenic slumber and the world opens up to them. From this point onward, the game becomes nonlinear – technically, the player is free to explore the world of the game and pursue any quest they encounter. Prototypically, the player will follow the initial nudges of the game (and it is this ‘ideal’ or ‘intended’ playthrough that I am describing here), and return back to their former home, finding their cul-de-sac abandoned and destroyed. After talking to their domestic robot, the player learns that their cryogenic sleep has lasted for two hundred years, i.e. that the game has now moved to two centuries after the global nuclear war. The player, in search of their son, travels onwards through the nuclear wasteland of Boston, filled with mutated, hostile creatures. They will gradually encounter members of factions – the alliance and loyalty to these factions determines the game’s end. The first faction typically encountered are the ‘Minutemen’, a now almost entirely defunct militia devoted to keeping the inhabitants of the wasteland save – taking both their name and their preferred weapon (a laser musket) from the Minutemen militia of the American Revolutionary War. The player progresses to Diamond City, the ‘capital’ of the Boston wasteland, situated in a baseball stadium turned into a small city. On their way, they usually meet the ground troops of another faction, the Brotherhood of Steel – a faction present in other Fallout games as well. In Fallout 4, the Brotherhood is imagined as militaristic organization, trying to control as much technology as is left from before the Great War, in order to not let it fall into the wrong hands. In Diamond City, the player learns about ‘synths’, robots that are virtually indistinguishable from humans, and are said to be sent by the mysterious ‘Institute’, another faction, to infiltrate what is left of society after the apocalypse. After tracking down their spouses killer with the help of a robot-detective, the player is introduced to the fourth and final faction of the game, the ‘Railroad’, who are trying to free synths from their servitude to the Institute, considering them equivalent to humans. Through a series of quests, the player learns that their son Shaun was taken by the Institute, and follows him there. Arriving at the Institute, which is located in a bunker below the ruins of the M.I.T., the player learns that they have spent more time in cryogenic sleep than expected, and that their infant son Shaun is now not only old and close to death, but has also become the director of the Institute. The reasons for his abduction is revealed as well: earlier scientists used the infant’s DNA, untouched by nuclear radiation, as model for the synths – for this reason, he is referred to as ‘Father’ by the members of the Institute. 48 At this point, the story opens up. What until now has been a fairly mythological narrative structure (Todorov 40) diverges into a more gnoseological setting. Depending on which faction the player decides to support, different quests and objectives are to be reached to ensure the winning state. The Brotherhood of Steel, who consider synths dangerous technology, requires the player to wipe out the Railroad, allies to them and their potential liberators, and destroy the Institute. The Railroad, consequently, require the annihilation of the Brotherhood, and organize a rebellion of the synths before destroying the Institute. If the player sides with the Institute, they have to both take out the Brotherhood and the Railroad. The ending achieved by supporting the Institute results in the Institute powering up a nuclear reactor, ensuring their continuous existence. Supporting the Minutemen will likewise end with the destruction of the Institute, although there is the possibility to destroy the Brotherhood of Steel as well. After having achieved this end point, the credits will roll – the player, however, is free to still roam the wasteland of Boston and explore, fight, and finish as many side quests as they desire. Summarizing the plot of the game in this way, it becomes clear that Fallout 4 is a game distinctly concerned with the United States and their history. In my analysis, I aim to examine in what ways Fallout 4 negotiates ideologies of both the United States history and present on a narrative and ludic level. Building on a critical approach, the following will show that facets of US history are distorted by hyperbolic irony to make them approachable to the player, suggesting a resting uneasiness with both the past, and the present that resulted from it. Additionally, my analysis investigates how both ludic and narrative elements of Fallout 4 work as reproducers of a hegemonic neoliberal ideology, ultimately relying on distinctly American cultural and historical assumptions. Thereby, Fallout 4 as a game about a past in the future becomes telling of the contemporary United States. The following analysis tackles the game from two sides. The first part of the chapter is concerned with the game’s narrative in its broadest sense. I examine the gameworld’s retrofuturist aesthetic in connection with significant kernel events of the story to discern the relationship of Fallout 4 to both uncomfortable and celebratory elements of the United States history. This will suggest that the ironic distance the game aims to achieve ultimately undermines any critical engagement with history. This assertion is supported by the portrayal of ruins as evocative spaces in Fallout 4, which however hint at a resting uneasiness of such a distancing irony. These ruins also signify an ambiguous relationship to the contemporary United States. Building on this ambiguous relationship embodied in the ruins, a discussion of the nuclear ecology of Fallout 4 closes the analysis of narrative. The nuclear wasteland of Boston again draws on contemporary anxieties while simultaneously negating them. 49 The second part of the analysis is concerned with some of Fallout 4’s salient mechanics and is ludological in nature. I relate the game’s ‘settlement’ mechanic to the notion of the American Frontier and read it as a reflex of the manifest destiny. In such a way, I argue that the portrayal of history remains ultimately uncritical. This, however, holds also true to the present: in the final part of the analysis, I argue that the nuclear apocalypse of Fallout is effectively inconsequential, leaving dominant ideological assumptions about capitalism and self- improvement untouched. Thereby, these assumptions that guide our present are ultimately cemented as timeless. 3.1. The Narratives of the Wasteland In this initial step of the analysis, the narrative assertions of Fallout 4 are investigated. As e.g. Bogost (Things 48) suggests, narrative and space are closely intertwined in videogames. For this reason, much of the discussion of Fallout 4 centers around its space – its ecology, and the ruins that inhabit them. However, another significant portion is devoted to the game’s plot. Priming the analysis is a closer look on the game’s retrofuturistic aesthetics – as both the game’s environment and plot are couched in them. 3.1.1. Retrofuturism, Nostalgia and History in the Wasteland As the brief recollection of the enacted narrative of Fallout 4 has shown, this game is distinctly concerned with history – the history of the United States. The game’s unique conception of history is embedded in, and mediated by its retrofuturistic aesthetics, which convey a sense of nostalgia, masked by an ironic distance. The following untangles the relationship of Fallout 4’s aesthetic, its conception of history, and its use of irony. It suggests that, while the game’s aesthetic suggests an ironic distance, the actual engagement with darker parts of the United States history is uncritical. The ironic distance that dilutes any critical engagement with history ultimately reaffirms hegemonic notions of America’s past. Fallout 4’s instantly recognizable visual design has been a cornerstone of the series, especially since the enhancement of graphic abilities of computers before the serie’s revival with Fallout 3 made a more detailed rendering of objects possible (McClancy). The design is overtly retrofuturistic – a style that, in Fallout’s iteration, can probably best described as “a parody of 1950s scientific utopianism as well as its political paranoia" (Domsch 407). Retrofuturism, a term that Latham (340) links back to the 1984 Smithsonian exhibition “Yesterday’s Tomorrow” can be accurately characterized as “a Space Age Future that simultaneously conjures the past”, a mélange of “fin-de-siècle daydreams and modernist longings” (Latham 339). Retrofuturism is, essentially, a “history of the future” as Joseph Corn and Brian Horrigan write in their book 50 accompanying the Smithsonian exhibition (xii, emphasis in original). Figure 8 below gives a glimpse of Fallout 4’s retrofuture before the bombs fell, complete with a domestic chore robot. The game’s aesthetic is an augmentary narrative experience (Pearce “Game” 145), underlying all other narrative experiences of the game because they are molded to fit its mode. Figure 8 The interior of the player's house before the Great War The recognizable, but nevertheless strange aesthetic of the game evokes the design of the 1950s, and by extension its historical associations and beliefs (McClancy). In such a sense, the dominant mode of the aesthetic is nostalgia. This nostalgia is not only evoked by the game’s aesthetic, but also by its destruction – after all, shortly after the initial sequence of the game, the retrofuturistic environment becomes destroyed, ravaged by time and nuclear fallout. The evocation of the 50s is therefore displaced in two ways: both by the actual temporal mismatch between the game’s aesthetic and the 21st century it is played in, and in the destruction and neglect symbolizing this passage of time. The aesthetics are the futures of the past, “the ashes of the Atomic Age’s fantasies of tomorrow” (McClancy). The game’s design is thereby a somewhat excessive nostalgia, a nostalgia yearning not specifically to the 1950s, but rather to the promises these times supposedly held. This nostalgia excessively permeates every aspect of the game, and frequently crosses into the pastiche. Some (e.g. McClancy, Mosberg Iversen) have suggested that this crossover of nostalgia to pastiche hints at the overcoming of any nostalgia, but this would be too simplified. The nostalgia of retrofuturism is both “a form of bad faith and a screen for darker impulses – specifically, for fears of our own antiquation” (Latham 343). These fears are articulated quite literally in Fallout, 51 where the irradiated world has surpassed humans. In Fallout, nostalgia reminds us that these tomorrows of yesterday have already arrived – the retrofuturist nostalgia is reminiscent of a future that is already “upon us, and with a vengeance” (Bukatman 59). This essentially means that the future has arrived, but is completely different from what futurism expected it to be. This becomes obvious in Fallout, a game that “is set both in the future and in the past” (November 301) – and can only articulate its future as past. Bukatman’s phrasing of a future “with a vengeance” (59) already calls upon Jameson’s analysis of nostalgia9, as a “nostalgia for the present” (Jameson 279). This nostalgia for the present is a result of the impossibility to articulate a meaningful idea of the future (Jameson 286). In such a way, this nostalgia is very much retrofuturist in nature. The past has to step in for a future that can no longer be imagined, the nostalgic mode is thus a nostalgia not for the 1950s specifically, but for their vision of the future. Latham, after all, calls retrofuturism “an ironic celebration of the obsolescence of imagined tomorrows” (348). But since nothing fills the hole, all that is left is the nostalgia for those imagined tomorrows. In its excessive display, bordering on pastiche, it displaces the aspect of yearning present in nostalgia, but does not drown it out. The ironic distancing created by excess fuels not only the game’s nostalgia for a future, but also informs its overall perspective of history. Essentially, Fallout 4 as a game is deeply concerned with history. On the forefront of many discussions of the series stand its negotiation of the Cold War – cited as being the maybe most engaged discussion of this part of history in any current popular text (McClancy). Scholars have noted the similarity between the Cold War setting of the game and the current post 9/11 security state, drawing parallels in the way these periods “see the United States facing an existential threat based in an ideology defined as antithetical to American ideals" (McClancy). But Fallout 4 engages with the past even further – while its aesthetics evoke the Cold War, its plot – the enacted narrative – draws on the American Revolutionary War and the legacy of slavery. These two distinct eras of history become entangled in Fallout 4: while much of the plot negotiates the US legacy of slavery, with cyborgs as a stand-in for the enslaved black Americans, the gameworld being modelled after Boston arguably invited many of the parallels to the American Revolutionary War. The game itself seemingly suggests how its relation to history should be understood: one of the first kernel events has the player rescue the last member of the 9 Bukatman’s “future […] with a vengeance” (59) is likely inspired by Jameson’s conception of “historicity with a vengeance” (Jameson 287) 52 Minutemen from the Museum of History. The banner in front of it (fig. 9) reads: “Celebrate History!” Figure 9 'Celebrate History!' banner in front of the Museum of Freedom And indeed, the game’s conception of the Revolutionary War is celebratory. The Minutemen, one of the game’s factions modelled after the militia of the Revolutionary War, take their slogan (“Ready at a minute’s notice!”) from the original Minutemen slogan – to be “ready to ‘stand at a minute’s warning in Case [sic] of an alarm’” (Bush 19). The game celebrates the legacy of both the Minutemen and the Revolutionary War extensively: Bunker Hill, Lexington and Concord, places that “enshrined the minutemen in American military history” (Bush 20) are all significant locations in the game. The Battle of Bunker Hill is reenacted as a kernel event of the story, where the player – depending on their alliance to the different factions – either helps captured synths to escape (when aligned with the Railroad), recaptures them (when aligned with the Institute) or kills them (when aligned with the Brotherhood of Steel). The allusions to the Revolutionary War reach further: the ruin of the Old North Church has two lanterns placed on its steeple, a reference to the plan to alert the Revolutionaries of the British, popularized by the poem “Paul Revere’s Ride” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch / Of the North Church tower as a signal light, – / One, if by land, and two, if by sea;” (8-10). However, the allusions to the Revolutionary War are not exclusively celebratory. Many of them are saturated with elements of pastiche and irony: the Minutemen carry ‘Laser Muskets’, a weird fusion of a musket and a laser rifle, which requires a manual crank to be shot. 53 Furthermore, the game features an non-player character named John Hancock (clearly named after the historical figure), reimagined as period-cloth wearing, drug-addicted, borderline maniac ghoul (fig 10). Figure 10 The game's version of John Hancock This Hancock-character however is in no way displayed as antagonistic or evil, much rather as a likeable and somewhat eccentric fellow. This fictionalized version is close in style to the game’s version of the USS Constitution. Although not technically part of the Revolutionary War, as the ship was constructed only after independence from Great Britain, it is linked to the legacy of the Revolutionary War – and American Militancy in general – through its name and status. In Fallout 4, the ship is fitted with rocket engines and ‘shipwrecked’ on top of a building for undisclosed reasons. It is maned by characterful robots, and the player has the option to complete a satellite quest to defend it against intruders and launch it again (only for it to promptly get stuck on the next, higher building). These hyperbolic, absurd engagements are in the same mode as the excessive indulgence with retrofuturist aesthetics: taken at face value, their portrayal is purely ironic. This irony in Fallout’s dealing with history deserves closer attention. Videogames, theorists like Lizardi argue, can act as points of departure for “alternative histories that resist historical determinism.” In many readings of the Fallout series, this resistance is, in some way or another, attributed to the use of irony, satire or cynical humor in the games (e.g. Domsch 407, McClancy, Mosberg Iversen, November 298, Schulzke "Critical" 324-25, Schulzke "Refighting" 267). This, however, begs the question in which way historical 54 determinism is resisted, and where the subversion of such resistance lies. The excess of the retrofuturistic aesthetic can be questioned along the same lines. Such a line of questioning cuts to the core of Fallout and its relation to history. While it is clear that traversing the wasteland with a drugged, ghoulish John Hancock as companion only to encounter a flying naval warship populated by anachronistic robots is a fun playing experience, it is not a subversive one. In a certain way, the fact that the player can, and is encouraged to laugh about experiences like these reassures their underlying mythos. By designing these enacted narratives and micronarratives as so excessively ridiculous, their moderate form becomes reinforced as acceptable. As Dyer-Whiteford and de Peuter state in their analysis of the excess of the Grand Theft Auto series, such ironic excess acts as “a self-cancellation that allows these elements to stay intact, […] the rendering of these truths in the form of excess […] functions to keep these same truths at safe distance” (181). Cutterham (315) formulates this even more succinctly: in his analysis, Fallout’s “setting serves as an exaggeration – a distortion of scale, but not type.” Such a distortion does not engage critically with the history that underlies it– instead, it solidifies the fundamental assumptions on which it rests. In similar ways, the same is true for the excess of the retrofuturistic aesthetics: the nostalgia for the present, for an articulatable future that underlies its aesthetic is somewhat numbed in the excess of its portrayal. The game’s negotiation of the Revolutionary War is therefor largely celebratory. Irony, although generously used by Fallout 4, ultimately reaffirms these celebratory negotiations of history. Fallout 4’s perspective on its other main historical influence, however, is much different. While it can be argued that Fallout 4’s position on the Revolutionary War is mostly informed by its setting in Boston, its negotiation of the legacy of slavery is driven by the game’s kernel narrative. This narrative utilizes ‘synths’ as a stand-in to humans in its metaphor of slavery. While the argument has been brought forward that this aspect of the story serves as reminder of the role of slavery in the creation of the United States (McClany), I argue that this central metaphor reveals itself upon closer inspection as signifying a residual awkwardness with this dark part of United States history. Furthermore, the way in which the enacted narrative can play out offers an astonishing rewriting of history, bordering on revisionism. Fallout 4’s central narrative arch of the Institute – the shadowy organization which creates the synths, enslaves them for their labor, and uses them to spy on the residues of civilization – marks the turning point for its narrative from the mythological to the gnoseological narrative structure. Prior the discovering the Institute, the player follows the kernel events in a linear trajectory. Once the Institute is introduced into the narrative, the player has to align themselves 55 with one of the factions to progress their quest, resulting either in their prolonged enslavement if they decided to side with the institute, their destruction if the side with the Brotherhood of Steel, or their liberation if they side with the Railroad. While the game makes relatively straightforward assessments on the ethical implications of each position, the choice remains in the hand of the player. The metaphorical underpinnings of this narrative turning point is straightforward, the allusions to the Railroad, modelled after the Underground Railroad, marks this metaphor of slavery as distinctly American. This underlying metaphor, however, carries somewhat awkward implications. While the game makes explicit that synths are virtually indistinguishable from humans (and one of the satellite quests actually reveals an non-player character of the Brotherhood of Steel, devoted to murder synths, as a synth himself), they game subdivides these synths further. The Institute, painted as a society of scientists locked in voluntary isolation, are equipped with an army of synths – those synths are visibly nonhuman and only serve a ludic function as killable enemies (fig. 11). Figure 11 A non-interactable synth and a humanoid synth This subdivision the game makes for a ludic reason – i.e. to offer a near endless stream of enemies, consistent with the image of the Institute as small population of scientists – echoes the subdivision of slaves along the lines of ‘house’- and ‘field servants’, a complex and controversial issue running along different axis, far from being a rigid divide (Sutherland 339- 40). The game, however, has no other possibility than to articulate this binary as clear cut: there are synths who offer a variety of unit operations to the player – they give the player quests, make conversations or pose challenges to them, and there a synths who are mere cannon fodder, 56 where the only possible unit operation is to kill them. Because Fallout 4’s central metaphor poses synths as slaves, it evokes this problematic binary as well. The idea of using mechanical humans in a variety of forms as metaphors for slavery is not unique to Fallout 4 – in fact, stories about robots or synths regularly address legacies and understandings of slavery (Kakoudaki 115). The metaphor of artificial humans as slaves is explicitly positioned in the legacy of racialized slavery, as the body of enslaved black people has always been reduced to the status of a tool (Chaney 265) or machine (Gallardo 242) in white supremacist imagination. This metaphorical equivalent of the robot as slave is already primed by the etymology of ‘robot’ from the Czech ‘robota’, meaning serf labor (Kakoudaki 116). The robot, cyborg or synth is thereby already coded as (racial) other. Chaney (267) especially notes how the complex determinations of the black slave are organized around a visible otherness. Fallout 4, however, negotiates this point differently – by making the enslaved synths completely undistinguishable from other characters, the game implicitly assumes a race-blind point of view. While this appears to be an effort to underscore the similarities between synths and humans, this effort ultimately results in characterizing the othering of synths as opaque and random. By taking visual othering through mechanical appearance out of the equation, the game invites a race-blindness to its metaphorical construct, essentially ignoring the racialized aspect of US slavery. Critics like Kakoudaki have explicitly noted that it is precisely this visible, mechanical otherness of the artificial human that connects these “narratives with the historical legacies of slavery and their cultural memory” (117). In the game’s choice to make the sentient synths indistinguishable from humans, it deemphasizes the role of (racial) othering in slavery, essentially pulling the rug out under the central metaphor’s feet. This desire to tell a story about the history of slavery in the United States without engaging in its racialized aspects is indicative of the uneasiness with the racialized aspect of slavery and its legacy in contemporary racism. Fallout 4 tries to reconcile its vision of a post-racial future with the story about US slavery it aims to tell. The dissonance between these efforts expresses a lingering uneasiness with, and an ambiguous relationship to the history of slavery. And indeed, the retelling of the United State’s history of slavery with synths is telling of a residual uneasiness about the legacy of slavery in contemporary US society. This uneasiness is in tension with its celebratory depiction of the Revolutionary War, as both these aspects of the narrative center around a quest for freedom. One of the game’s possible endings connects these two aspects: if the player completes Fallout 4 in an alliance with the Minutemen, they can free the synths. In this portrayal of an alternative history, the Minutemen, celebrated heroes of the 57 Revolutionary War, also become the liberators of the enslaved. This version of the enacted narrative places the shameful history of slavery in the celebratory context of revolutionary liberation. The act of liberation is thereby coded as American – but not the act of enslavement. This expulsion of the uncomfortable aspect of slavery seems an idealized version of history, a history that sits well with the player – but not a history that critically engages with itself. Ultimately, the enacted narrative of Fallout 4 and its concern with US history is primed by its augmentary narrative in the form of retrofuturist aesthetics. These aesthetics, informed with a complex nostalgia, and characterized by ironic excess, lay the groundwork for the engagement with history – a history that is ultimately either negotiated uncritically, or characterized by present day anxieties. This conception of history is not exclusive to the game’s enacted narrative or augmentary narrative – it is developed further in its evocative spaces. 3.1.2. Ruins and Dark Tourism While Fallout 4 and its predecessors inarguably feature a diverse and interesting mise-en-scene and a range of evocative spaces, amongst their most revered and prominent is their depiction of ruins. The setting of many of the main installments of the series were culturally and politically relevant centers of the United States, such as Washington D.C. in Fallout 3, Las Vegas in Fallout: New Vegas, and Boston in Fallout 4. The following examines the depiction of the post- apocalyptic Boston in Fallout 4 under the theoretical lenses of both ruin porn and dark tourism. I argue that both the evocative spaces of nondescript ruins and American landmarks serve as more than pure set dressing, and instead both fuel “a rational paranoia that taps into our own eventual demise - both individual and, more importantly, collective" (Lyons 1) and showcase an uneasiness with the historical past of the United States and the myths that sustain it. Walter Benjamin was amongst the first to recognize the appeal of ruins, noting that “[i]n the ruin history has physically merged into the setting”, a setting in which history is represented as “irresistible decay" (Benjamin 177-78). The irresistibleness of such a decay has shaped the understanding of ruin porn, a term reflecting the obsession that ruins inspire (Lyons 2). The obsession with ruins has been investigated from several angles, most notably citing "the idea that the destruction of physical structures is paralleled by, and symbolic of, the destruction of social structures,” thereby associating the ruin with “liberation and freedom" (Watts 247). This liberation is sometimes considered not just a liberation of an abstract standing order, but more directly an understandable paradigm. Drawing on the well-known phrase, both attributed to Frederic Jameson and Slavoj Žižek, that it would be easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism, Lyon (3-4) argues that "ruin porn confronts both of these matters in a 58 single gesture. The end of capitalism thus evokes the end of the world." The “liberation and freedom” Watts (247) sees as the ground of obsession is thus the liberation of capital. There have, however, been complementary approaches, seeing the fascination in contemporary ruins in their ability to confront us with mortality and extinction without facing the literal consequences of death (Lyons 10). Yet another angle sees this obsession more grounded in “the moment of obliteration,” which decontextualizes the ruin both from the present and its past (Arnold 335). Another explanation grounds the phenomenon in nostalgia (Steinmetz 298). There is no singular explanation to account for the fascination of ruins. The ruins found in Fallout 4 may even make the situation even more complex. There is, of course, a considerable difference in the portrayal of a ruined, nondescript family home or super market versus the ruin of the M.I.T. or the dilapidated Bunker Hill Monument. While the former may correspond closer to the a “simpler nostalgia for Fordism” and “a desire to relive the past” (Steinmetz 298), while the latter may correspond more closely to the metaphorical destruction of a social structure (Watts 298). The relationship between ruin and observer is even further complicated by the fact that ruins in Fallout 4 are not only there to be observed – they are, essentially, to be played with. While parallels have been drawn between videogames and architectural storytelling (e.g. Pearce “Theory” 3), the considerations of ruins in games has been sparse so far. However, one theoretical field closely connected to ruin porn (Lyons 6) has made considerable advancements in modelling the experience of a virtual encounter with death and destruction: virtual dark tourism. Originally conceived as dark tourism, its object of study are places with violent or devastating histories, turned to “tourist sites connect[ing] people to the past in tangible ways through objects, spaces, exhibits, and dramatic recreation" (McDaniel 1). These travels to sites of atrocities, whether the journey be virtual or real, attract in a similar way as ruins. One of the reasons McDaniel names for the attraction of dark tourism is to “invite reflection on the possibility of catastrophe in the here-and-now,” citing “postmodern anxieties about late-capitalist and post-Cold War developments” as a possible reason (McDaniel 2). Ultimately, virtual dark tourism functions in a similar way, however with the facet that even impossible travel is made possible (Milligan 267) – not just travelling to sites that are hard to reach, but also to those that do (yet) not exist. The virtuality of the travel – or the destination – does not matter much: a Seaton (14) has concluded, the encounters of dark tourism are always “engineered and orchestrated” for the tourist’s consumption. 59 The discussion of the ruins of Fallout 4 as evocative spaces is therefore informed by two perspectives: their appeal as ruins and their status as destination of virtual dark tourism. Before turning to the recognizable ruined structures of Fallout 4 – the dilapidated Bunker Hill Memorial and the Massachusetts State House – the all-pervasiveness of nondescript ruins in Fallout 4 is discussed. A novum in Fallout 4 that separates it from preceding titles is the fact that the player, however briefly, gets a chance to play before the bombs fell, and is invited to a direct comparison of the starting area before, and after the Great War. The first depiction of ruins in this discussion very much begets such a comparison: it is the player character’s house, the last structure they see before entering the vault, and usually the first they encounter after escaping. Figures 12 and 13 offer a direct comparison of this structure before and after the player enters the vault: Figure 12 The player character's house prior to the Great War 60 Figure 13 The player character's house as ruin This ruin is special – not because it is parsed by the player as their literal domestic dwelling, bur rather because the game allows us to see it untouched beforehand. The interior, once pristine, is encountered again as abandoned, smashed, forgotten. While some critics have expressed doubt about the obsession with ruins simply being ground in nostalgia (e.g. Gansky 123), it is clear that nostalgia plays a significant role in such a depiction. The pristine house and its interior are symbolic for a presumed past way of life. In this way, these ruins are not simply evocative spaces, but also spaces enriched by augmentary narratives. Economic history suggests that such a picture is not inaccurate: the building of single-family homes skyrocketed between 1946 and 1956, and spending on furnishing and household appliances rose by 240 percent between 1945 and 1950 (Coontz 24-25). It is, however, not the factual accuracy behind the pristine home, but rather its promise of economic growth and stability that inspires nostalgia. In many of the domestic ruins of Fallout 4, such a nostalgia is evoked. This is not a nostalgia for a specific period of time but rather the promises that it supposedly held. The fact that the series’ revival with Fallout 3 in 2008 coincided with a large-scale global financial crash and a decade-long recession contextualizes this nostalgia even further in the supposed promise of (economic) stability. The feeling of nostalgia is, however, ambiguous. While the idea of the suburban family home filled with wonky household appliances corresponds somewhat to the economic reality of the 1950s, the accuracy of such a depiction is not important. There is also a deeper enjoyment in such ruins, in seeing the destruction of the ideals they evoke. In a way, these domestic ruins 61 also fascinate because they signify destruction and obliteration (Arnold 355), and in this case, the destruction of the promises signified in these homes is ambiguous to the player. What these ruins signify oscillates between acceptance of such stability being bygone and spite towards them. These ruins are, after all, literal playgrounds – there is little to no awe-inspiring distance between them and the player. The cul-de-sac in which the player’s home is located is the prime example of this. After the nuclear destruction, the player can build new structures, made of scrap metal and improvised materials (this mechanic is discussed in more detail in 3.2.1.). Any nostalgia still present in these structures is overcome by literally scrapping them away and repurposing them into new, makeshift structures, bearing clear signs of their repurposed nature. The exterior of these houses, however, cannot be repurposed. These ruins loom over the player while they create their new, makeshift dwellings. Thereby, the nostalgia that underlies them becomes complicated. Because they lack the authoritative distance of a mere visual representation, any simple nostalgia they may evoke becomes challenged by ludic actions. In such a way, these ruins are more than evocative spaces – the augmentary narrative associations of them potentially inspire nostalgia, which is overcome partly due to a game mechanic allowing to repurpose them. The emergent narrative experience of this mechanic complicates their nostalgic associations. These can be overcome and recontextualized, where their bare structures serve as reminder of a ‘survival despite of’. The contrast of the ruins of an imagined past and the makeshift present structures opposing them results in the ambivalent nostalgia these ruins portray. Not all of Fallout 4’s ruins are imbued with such ambivalent nostalgia. While many (domestic) ruins allow for the unit operations of settlement building that characterize their ambivalent status, the great majority of nondescript ruins mostly act as pure evocative spaces. These might be explored and battles might be fought within them, but the player is not able to significantly transform term. These ruins act as destinations for the virtual dark tourists that play Fallout 4. This does not lessen their status as objects of investigation, as much of the fascination of Fallout lies in its “wonder of archaeological discovery" (Seidl 43). Consider, for example, the ruin in figure 14: this is a ruin as nondescript as can be, the game does not even allot a marker on the map that would have identified it. It is a former retirement home, now dilapidated and forgotten. The gameworld of Fallout 4 is filled with such ruins, they symbolize a societal collapse (Watts 247), even more so than a completely barren landscape could. 62 Figure 14 Ruin of a retirement home Such ruins are evocative spaces of the game world, often filled with micronarrative experiences. A ruin like the one in figure 14 usually features carefully placed skeletons or other atmospheric details, not only enriching the gameworld, but also marking death as an “implicit feature” of it (Spokes 147). These all-present ruins are also constant sites of combat themed unit operations, and the death they represent is thereby mirrored with literal deaths of the player’s avatar or other, non-player characters (Pichlmair 109). Thereby, these ruins serve both a ludic and a narrative function. As objects of play, they enable the player to traverse them in a variety of ways, using holes in walls, roofs, or floors for creative actions in combat sequences. The rubble and ruins of the inner city of Boston similarly enhance play, creating tight chokepoints for hectic and claustrophobic combat, as Mosberg Iversen has described for the urban ruins of Fallout 3. In their role as evocative spaces, the ruins act as destinations for the player as dark tourist, often filled with micronarratives which facilitate the sensation of play as “archeological discovery” (Seidl 43). But they serve yet another role: while the constant reminder of death may generate a feeling of uncanniness in players (Milligan 275), it has also been brought forward that these ruins symbolize “liberation and freedom” of standing social orders (Watts 247). The term ‘liberation’ is probably most representative here, as the ruins themselves hardly subvert social orders, but much rather suspend them. The taboo of direct violence, which necessarily has to be suspended in a combat-driven game, is circumvented by a world filled with ruins, which make it ostensibly clear that this is no longer a society in order. 63 These nondescript ruins therefore serve a variety of purposes and convey different, sometimes even conflicting meanings. While they facilitate explorative behavior, these generic ruins are somewhat overshadowed by more salient ruins – the ruined landmarks of Boston. These ruins – such as the Monument of Bunker Hill or the Massachusetts State House –are fundamentally different because they are mostly unaffected by the game’s retrofuturistic aesthetic and are modelled more closely to their real equivalents. Also, these buildings carry meanings outside of their game appearance – which are modelled and modified in their game appearance. Consider, for example, the game’s rendition of the Memorial of Bunker Hill in figure 15: it is visibly dilapidated, but far from being a traditional ruin. Figure 15 Bunker Hill Monument in Fallout 4 This depiction of ruin comes closer to what Lyons (2) described as “a bewildering form of time travel to the future within the present.” The Bunker Hill Monument stands as a recognizable feature of the present, and as such, seeing its slow but visible degradation is a different experience than any nondescript ruin in the game. The monument, originally constructed “to the memory of those statesmen and soldiers who led the way in the American Revolution” (Bunker Hill Monument Association 28) has, for the longest time, been a staple of the United States concept of a nation, even though its importance diminished somewhat after the Reconstruction era (Roeser 3). However, the battle of Bunker Hill – and the monument commemorating it – are still part of a larger American mythos. The monument itself, interpreted 64 as “a symbol of American military perseverance and heroism” (Purcell 61) is an integral part of this mythos. The monument in Fallout 4 does little to question or critically engage with this mythos. Although an independent community has settled around it, the Monument of Bunker Hill is far from being an opportunity to “rethink standing symbols of social order,” as Chandler (58) analyzed for prominent ruins of Fallout 3. Instead, the game reinforces the uncritical conception of American heroism and self-sacrifice. As the player character is introduced as a veteran of the Sino-American War in the introductory sequence of the game, and the Battle of Bunker Hill is recreated ludically as a kernel event in the story, the Monument of Bunker Hill is consistently placed in the same, militaristic context. It’s prevalence even after nuclear war suggests a timelessness to the mythos underlying it. This mythos could have been critically negotiated in the course of the game. After all, the Fallout series is often read as games concerned with the “harsh realities of a world devastated by war" (Schulzke “Refighting” 266) – but such a reading might not account for the traces of militarism still embedded in the games. In the same way that the enacted narrative of Fallout 4 might produce an ironic distance to US history, but does not subvert it, the depiction of the Bunker Hill Monument might recontextualize its militarism, but does not subvert it. Ultimately, the symbolism of the monument – much like its structure – remains nearly unchanged. It is the present, masquerading as ruin. This, however, is not the only form of negotiation with the US’ past in Fallout 4. Figure 16 shows the game’s version of the Massachusetts State House. Lacking the pervasive mythology of sites like the USS Constitution or the Monument of Bunker Hill, such a location represents the United States history and its institutions more broadly. There are still traces and remnants of them, scattered through the wasteland of Boston, but these have been repurposed. 65 Figure 16 Massachusetts State House in Fallout 4 Ruins like those of the Massachusetts State House corresponds to those ruins conceptualized by Lyons (10), which “speak of our own civilisation while we are still living and breathing.” While such a structure might not be recognizable for most players, it carries the aura of officiality and governmental power. Its abandonment very much reflects the downfall of a social order as theorized by Watts (247). While this alone makes the Massachusetts State House a notable evocative space, the interior of it contains a micronarrative experience especially worth considering. Inside of the ruin, the player will be confronted with a number of raiders, anarchistic antagonist out to kill them. But beneath the State House itself, the player will find a safe filled with radioactive barrels, and a mirelurk queen – one of the rarest and deadliest enemies of the game. It is no surprise that this irradiated monster is found in the underground foundation of a State House (much like the Institute as primary antagonist is located in a secret bunker under the MIT, and the climactic fight with the spouse’s killer happens in the basement of a military fort). Such a connection between foes and monsters and them dwelling underground makes sense from a ludic perspective: it offers an additional challenge to the player, as even the traversal to them is a challenge in itself. Were these foes located immediately behind the entrance door, there would not be a build-up of sorts, leading to these intense confrontations. There is, however, more to this: by such a placement, the very foundation of such ruined, official buildings becomes associated with peril and monsters. Whenever the player enters a ruin like the Massachusetts State House, they can be sure that a monster lurks at its bottom. 66 The fact that these large ruins imbued with an aura of officiality and governmental power carry these traces of rottenness at their foundation 10 is significant. The previous section (3.1.1.) laid out how irony is used as a distancing device to uncomfortable aspects of US history. Without straying to far into a psychoanalytical reading, it can be argued that these monsters in the basements of (semi-)official ruins fill the distance created by the ironic depiction of history. These ruins are, after all, representations of these institutions and their shared US history. As such, the evocations of officiality these structures generate are inextricably linked with the foes and irradiated monster that lurk within them. The monsters in the basements of these ruins thereby hint at a resting uneasiness with the history these ruins embody. The ruins of Fallout 4 serve a variety of different narrative and ludic functions. Ultimately, these ruins reflect a variety of obsessions cited in literature of ruin porn – such as nostalgia, a liberation of standing social order, or implicit encounters with death. However, placed in their ludic and narrative context, we see that these ruins express something even deeper, simultaneously asserting American myths while also expressing an uneasiness about them. 3.1.3. The End of the World: Ecocriticism and Apocalypse As a final note on the game’s narration through its space, this chapter investigates the augmentary narrative experiences of Fallout 4’s nuclear ecology. The augmentary narrative associations are investigated through the lens of ecocriticism and are related to current concerns of climate. The nuclear catastrophe that shaped the wasteland of Fallout 4 is read as the antithesis to the slow pollution process of climate change, and as a nihilistic absolvent of it. In such a way, it taps into the notion of the atomic sublime, an atomic sublime succeeding the Cold War. Nevertheless, the irradiated glow of the wasteland also draws on contemporary anxieties of pollution. These factors are additionally related to gameplay, where it becomes clear that even in the post-apocalypse, the nuclear ecology exists to provide the player. However, it is far from being pastoral – it falls closer into the trope of the dangerous wilderness. The environments of videogames matter. Murray, in her seminal study on narration in new media, already acknowledged that digital environments contribute to the immersiveness of digital text (Holodeck 87-88). Fallout 4’s environment is largely determined by its ecology – a distinctly post-apocalyptic, nuclear ecology. The barren and ruined landscape is wholly defined by its nuclear catastrophe. Barren trees and fields are filled with irradiated, mutated creatures. 10 Other notable examples for this phenomenon are the Institute in a bunker under the MIT, the hitman Kellogg in a bunker under a military fort, a brain-harvesting operation run by a US military branch underneath an office building (introduced in the Automatron DLC), etc. 67 Not all of these are hostile, but almost all of them are mutated and strange. Fallout 4’s ecology has to be read in light of its catastrophe – the mutually assured nuclear destruction. This nuclear annihilation of Fallout expresses a “vulgar desire for catastrophe” (Horn 102, my translation), a desire to overcome the vaguely lingering fears of the present. The nuclear apocalypse is essentially the opposite of what Horn called the “catastrophe without event” (Horn 19-20, my translation), a prolonged, lingering catastrophe that is seemingly always in the making. Climate change represents such a present catastrophe without an event. Because it’s causes and effects are complex, it is hardly possible to identify a single cause or culprit, not even in narrative (Garrad 115). The complex and long catastrophe without event proper that climate change is, is overcome in Fallout 4 by nuclear destruction. This is somewhat ironic, as Derrida famously referred to nuclear war itself as a “non-event”, as something that simply has not happened, and therefore only exists in texts, such as videogames (Derrida 23). Nevertheless, in this text, the catastrophe has finally happened, the non-event has become event, and the player is invited to enjoy the rubble of its destruction. Fallout’s irradiated ecology is, in this sense, almost light-hearted and fun. Despite its daunting radiation, it is essentially a playground, grounded in the relief of having overcome the catastrophe without event. The nuclear ecology of Fallout – especially the early titles – thereby becomes something bordering on the “kitschy and unthreatening” (Knoblauch 132). While many of the whimsical mutated creatures, like the two-headed cows called brahmin, support this unthreatening conception, it is important to acknowledge that there is more to this nuclear ecology, and a reduction to kitsch would be inaccurate. Following Aravamudan’s comparison of nuclear criticism and ecocriticism, I suggest that the nuclear catastrophe of Fallout 4 is a sublimation of anxieties of climate change (10-13). This sublimation is, however, not entirely successful: just as the nuclear wasteland is not entirely unthreatening, residual anxieties remain. Before turning to see how these residual anxieties are expressed in Fallout 4’s ecology, it is important to note the general representation of the nuclear ecology. Both in its hostility, but also its mostly unthreatening mode, it stands as continuation of the atomic sublime. The atomic sublime, initially identified by Hales, describes the feeling of “[t]error and beauty” (Hales 24) which characterized initial portrayal of nuclear detonations. These feelings solidified in American culture and their relation to the depiction of nuclear detonations, resulting in their understanding as “terrible beauty” (Hales 19), and a new relation to landscapes. With the advent of nuclear detonations, “a product of man, of culture” framed “in the language of nature,” the relationship of man and ecology changed: there were no more “unmodified sign[s] of nature,” 68 and all of ecology became understood as a dominion of human and nuclear influence (Hales 28). This understanding of the atomic sublime is referenced in Fallout 4 in how it portrays the nuclear detonations, happening just mere seconds before the player enters the vault in the beginning of the game (fig. 17). Figure 17 The Mushroom cloud of Fallout 4 Its depiction as the familiar mushroom cloud is couched in a cutscene, in itself a “special time” (O’Grady 111) of the game, actively emphasizing narration. By taking away agency from the player, the sublime image of the detonation is emphasized. This is in line with Hale’s conception of the atomic sublime. However, the post-apocalyptic nuclear ecology of Fallout 4 develops the atomic sublime further. The post-apocalyptic nuclear ecology of the wasteland is an extension of the atomic sublime. The landscape still feels exalted, but not in the “awe and pleasure” (Hales 24) of the atomic sublime. Instead, its exaltation lies in its overcoming of present anxieties through catastrophe. While much of the atomic sublime rested in the knowledge that there was no more nature save from human influence, that there is “nothing completely outside of us” (Hales 28), this new atomic sublime takes this as its prerequisite. Its presentation as a destroyed wasteland, a man- made horror, is contrasted with its framing as a pseudo terra nullius, waiting for discovery by the player. It is, in this sense, an “unnaturally natural” (Wills 451) ecology – entirely shaped by the actions of humans, but still able to evoke a feeling of discovery, of being the first to see it. Figure 18 aims to represent this extension of this new, atomic sublime. 69 Figure 18 The Nuclear Ecology of Fallout 4 There is, however, another facet to this exaltation that cannot go unmentioned. Much of the sublime feeling evoked by the nuclear ecology of Fallout is due to its mediality. It is, after all, a completely computer-modelled landscape, one that achieves a high level of ‘realism’. Much of the sublime feeling associated with it stems precisely from the fact that it is not real. The awe it inspires is therefore not only in what this ecology transports, but also in its medium. This extended atomic sublime, however, does not mean that the wasteland is entirely without peril. As Will (458) notes, while nuclear landscapes may inspire a feeling of “divine beauty,” it also designates itself as a place “where invisible evils lurk.” Fallout 4 realizes this underbelly of the atomic sublime in two distinctly different ways: on the one hand, as a designated, hyperirradiated area of the game, and on the other, as a ludic limitation, i.e. a gameplay mechanic. There is one area in the game where the ecology of Fallout 4 significantly changes. This area, called ‘The Glowing Sea’ (fig. 19), differs significantly from the rest of the game. Both in its absolute barrenness and its distinctly different color palette, this part of Fallout 4’s geography stands out. The Glowing Sea is, in its color scheme and its weather, very much a toxic place. Its name connects it to notions of the ocean, to deep water, an antithesis to the territory of humans. It is polluted nature, actively harmful to the player. Despite its open space, it feels claustrophobic to the player, as the fog and frequent nuclear thunderstorms obscure their field of vision. It thereby evokes a narrative of pollution. 70 Figure 19 The Glowing Sea This evocation of pollution in the Glowing Sea brings the nuclear ecology of Fallout 4 back to a full circle. Visiting the Glowing Sea is a kernel event of the game, traversing it is mandatory to complete the game. Should the player choose to investigate the place, they will inevitably come across abandoned factories, a decrepit nuclear power plant, and even an abandoned bunker, filled with nuclear warheads. While the game itself explains the highly irradiated ecology of the Glowing Sea by stating that this was where a nuclear warhead detonated during the Great War, the locations found in the Glowing Sea evoke a different kind of pollution. The densities of ruins of factories and the presence of a nuclear power plant connect the Glowing Sea to present-day questions of pollutions. The Glowing Sea in its overt toxicity is not subverted by the notion of an atomic sublime. In its pollution, it represents a taste of what might be a possible future. Its presentation as actively hostile and claustrophobic demarks it from the rest of Fallout 4’s ecology. It does not signify the overcoming of an ecological catastrophe like climate change – instead, it illustrates a possible result. Tightly connected the presentation of the Glowing Sea is a game mechanic of Fallout 4: radiation damage. While ludic in nature, it also carries narrative implications. Much like in previous Fallout titles, the exposure to radiation is actively harmful to the character. The radiation damage is determined by proximity to a source of radiation, which can be both explicit objects in the game (e.g. a nuclear waste barrel) or just places themselves – such as the Glowing Sea. In fact, the Glowing Sea is probably one of the most irradiated places in the game, so much so that its traversal becomes impossible without utilizing specific armor or items to dampen the 71 radiation damage. Domsch (407) has commented on how “the ecological consequences of man's inherent inclination to war” act as “elements that structure the experience of playing the game.” Pollution is therefore a significant gameplay factor as well. This element, that much of the game’s ecology ignores in favor of an exalted experience with nature, is present in a ludic way. The explicit connection of this mechanic to specific places or objects reverberates ongoing and present anxieties of pollution. This corresponds to assertions that, while many videogames while not explicitly deal with climate change, they often nevertheless negotiate its effects (Saxton Brown 403). As a final note on Fallout 4’s ecology, it should be noted how non-consequential the nuclear apocalypse ultimately is for the ways in which players can interact with the environment. There is no scarcity of any natural resource, and almost anything in its ecology is designed to be consumed. Wild animals, who also serve as resource for crafting recipes and experience points, will endlessly respawn. Water will continuously flow out of water pumps, once they have been built by the player. Crops that the player plants will never go barren, and reproduce continuously. In the way in which the player can interact with the environment, the nuclear apocalypse plays a small role. This is, of course, also due to the nature of videogames – resources must be available and respawn continuously, in order to make plays for several hundreds of hours possible, technically denoting no ‘endpoint’ at which playing becomes impossible. However, it also reflects how many people conceive nature. The ecology of Fallout 4 communicates much, but overall, it is still there to be consumed by the player. 3.2. Playing America: Ludic Operations after the Apocalypse This final part of the analysis is concerned with the mediation of ideologies in the game’s rules and mechanics. As has been established before (chapter 2.2.4. and 2.4.2.), the unit operations of videogames are not free from ideological baggage. Because game rules are usually conventionalized and implicit, they are optimal actors in processes of naturalization of ideological assumptions. By virtue of this, Bogost (“Ideological” 175) considers such ludic operations as authoritative, “rendering them implicit and in need of critique.” The following aims to discern some of the implicit assumptions present in the mechanics of Fallout 4. The first mechanic under investigation – settlement building – connects back to the narrative assertions of the game. This mechanic is contrasted to the notion of the Frontier, as established by Frederick Turner. It suggests that this mechanic, whereby players can establish settlements, acts as a reverberation of the foundational frontier thesis. However, much like the game’s metaphor of slavery, discussed in 3.1.1., any shameful aspects of this epoch are defused. 72 The settlement mechanic leads to the second focus of this chapter. This is a focus on the present, specifically how game mechanics transport ideological frames about happiness and the self. Much in the nature of programming architecture, and neoliberal conceptions, both happiness and the self are implicitly assumed to be easily quantifiable concepts. Because these assumptions are framed within a post-apocalyptic context, their historicity is obscured, naturalizing them even further. 3.2.1. A New Frontier The first ludic consideration of Fallout 4 is tightly connected to its ecology and evocative spaces. It is, essentially, a ludic negotiation of these spaces, tightly connected to the United States’ history and ideology of manifest destiny. The settlement mechanic, a game mechanic enabling the player to build and fortify settlements, is the logical continuation of a theme that Cutterham (321) already identified (albeit to a lesser degree) in previous Fallout titles – the theme of the frontier. The idea of seeing the American nation building through the lens of the frontier goes back to Frederick Turner. While the question of the accuracy of Turner’s frontier thesis is still somewhat debated, and the general consensus suggests that Turner’s arguments are somewhat lopsided, the frontier as idea still resonates in popular imagination (Paul 324-35). An essential part of this experience of the frontier is the distinctiveness of it to (colonial) America. Turner sees this as distinctive to American history because: “American development has exhibited not merely advance along a single line, but a return to primitive conditions on a continually advancing frontier line, and a new development for that area. American social development has been continually beginning over again on the frontier. This perennial rebirth, this fluidity of American life, this expansion westward with its new opportunities, its continuous touch with the simplicity of primitive society, furnish the forces dominating American character” (Turner 7). These writings on the frontier thesis are stunningly parallel to the player experience of Fallout: the protagonist emerges from a vault, completely unfamiliar with the wasteland he is surrounded with – an identifier or the player, who enters the game as a stranger to the wasteland as well (Milligan 275). The wasteland functions as frontier, and the player “must accept the conditions which it furnishes, or perish” (Turner 8). As Peterson (160) suggests, such post- apocalyptic wastelands can function as revisioned frontier. This wasteland as new frontier is hostile to the player. It is a strangely defamiliarized version of nature, in which beasts, ghouls and ‘primitive’ societies thrive, but that needs to be remodeled for humans. As Bogost (Things 48) notes, progression through the game’s quest entails movement through its space - the true challenge of the game is thereby the traversal, and eventual mastery, of this new frontier. The 73 kernel story sends the player all through the wasteland and supplies them with ever more deadly weapons to master the creatures and fiends inhabiting this new frontier. But it is not only in the game’s narrative that this trope of the frontier is echoed. As a novum to the series, Fallout 4 features the workbench- and settlement mechanic. This gameplay mechanic allows the player to utilize workbenches, placed strategically in the wasteland, to build structures like huts, walls, or decorations. The player can scrap existing structures, or use junk found throughout the map, to create new settlements. These settlements will then be inhabited by non-player characters, which the player can assign to a variety of duties, such as farming, resource production, or guarding of the settlements. These settlements can be linked up via trading routes, essentially establishing a new empire with the player character as its head. Figure 20 shows settlements spread across the in-game map, the lines connecting them indicate active trading routes. Figure 20 The in-game map of settlements in Fallout 4 This mechanic has two implications for the relationship of the player and the game environment, coded as frontier: it is conceived as a hostile environment – arguably a sensible conception for an irradiated wasteland – that can be manipulated and tamed. Additionally, this taming of the frontier entails a civilizing effort. The player is invited to (re-)build a civilization. This civilizing effort of the frontier is, theoretically, not an essential part of Fallout 4. While there are quests associated with the building of settlements, all of these are potential satellite events, and the game can be completed without them. They, however, still also perform a 74 narrative function as well – they provide an emergent narrative experience to the player. The rules out of which this emergent narrative experience emerge are straightforward: objects can be built using a variety of resources either collected as items during play (referred to as ‘looting’) or by scrapping existing objects in the area. Once a settlement is established, it will draw inhabitants automatically over time. These settlers must be provided with beds, water and food sources, recreational items such as weightlifting benches, and means of defense. The player provides for these needs by crafting objects like wells or guard towers and assigning the non-player characters functions, such as farming crops or standing guard. The overall ‘success’ of a settlement is expressed in a happiness index for each settlement, made up from how well all the aforementioned needs are being met. Happier settlements draw more settlers, which in turn make farming for resources or filling roles in the settlement easier. Because these settlements progress and grow, they are an emergent narrative experience. These emergent narrative experiences have been associated with the ideological narrative organization as described by Todorov (Neitzel). The “abstract rule[s]” producing these narratives (Todorov 40) are ideological in nature – as game rules tend to be. There are two fundamental ideological assumptions underlying the settlement mechanic of Fallout 4: the first shapes the wasteland as frontier, an untamed nature waiting to be civilized by the act of establishing settlements. The second ideological assumption is that a concept like happiness is quantifiable by a combination of simple factors, which will be elaborated on in the subchapter following this (3.2.2.). The settlements are essentially the ludic way to the taming of the frontier of the wasteland. In an almost metaphorical way, the first settlement the player establishes in a prototypical playthrough – ‘Sanctuary’ – is located almost on the northwest end of the game world’s map. From there, the westwards expansion of the frontier becomes an east- and southward expansion in the game. 13 locations can be turned into a settlement in the gameworld, ranging from abandoned suburbs to a drive-in cinema. These are, quite literally, “meeting point[s] between savagery and civilization” (Turner 7), where the ruins of former civilization are contrasted with the savagery of the wasteland in form of mutated monsters. It is a ludic rendering of the manifest destiny, with only one important difference: this time, the lands behind the frontier are actually empty. This is the crucial difference between the ludic frontier to the historical frontier: its emptiness. Whatever land there is to be settled on is actually unclaimed – in contrast to the history of the United States, where the westward expansion is more accurately described as “successive 75 invasions and occupations of Indigenous nations” (Dunbar-Ortiz 118). Fallout 4’s ludic frontier takes this aspect out of the equation: the places the game affords as possible settlements are mostly empty, bar some generic enemies. In much the same way as the game’s central metaphor of slavery, this ludic rendering of history circumvents any uncomfortable aspects of it, and thereby becomes an uncritical engagement with it. It reinforces the idea of a civilizing aspect of settler colonialism by presenting it in precisely such a way – as a civilizing endeavor. The settlement mechanic is additionally also linked to one of the ways to finish the game: should the player want to side with the Minutemen-faction, and end the game with them destroying the Institute, establishing at least eight of the 13 settlement locations becomes a kernel event necessary to progress the game’s plot. These settlements are under the control of the Minutemen. In such a way, the nexus of American history being referenced and evoked in the Minutemen becomes almost comically overdetermined: they are simultaneously reminiscent of the Revolutionary War while also liberators of ‘slaves’, and additionally, they represent early settlers. The implementation of the settlement system in Fallout 4 showcases how ingrained the notion of the frontier still is in American culture. The wasteland of Fallout 4 offers an unproblematic stand-in for the historical frontier. However, because any problematic aspect is removed, this ludic rendition of the frontier is ultimately uncritical of its history. 3.2.2. Unit Operations after the Apocalypse This final note on Fallout 4 investigates two particular mechanics present in the game. Connecting to the previous chapter, the first mechanic this chapter analyzes is the quantification of happiness in the settlement-system. Following this, the leveling system of the game as a quantification of the self is inspected. The common denominator to these different unit operations is, effectively, their unremarkability during play. These unit operations correspond complex ideas to very simple mechanics, and thereby represent successful procedural rhetorics. The success of these rhetorics hangs partly on their conventionalization in videogames, but also in how these processes are understood in a neoliberal hegemony. This conventionalization, and the framework it depends on, are contrasted with the game’s postapocalyptic11 setting – a space 11 For convenience, I follow Doyle’s typological convention to not hyphenate ‘postapocalypse’ when referring to her concept of the postapocalyptical imagination (Doyle 100-01) to differentiate it from the more common understanding of the term. The hyphenated ‘post-apocalypse’, when used in this paper, refers to the more general understanding, simply meaning ‘after the apocalypse’. 76 that in its very nature would allow for the transcension of current ideologies of neoliberalism (Doyle 108). As a postapocalyptic game, Fallout 4 is not restrained by considerations of realism – it can safely transcend notions of what is realistic and common to our present experience by virtue of it depicting the downfall of everything that shapes said present experience. It is a postapocalyptic game, a game that does not need “to revise or restore what has come before catastrophe” (Doyle 105) – i.e. a game that has free reign to express itself in any way it might want. The idea that the postapocalypse does not have to “reconcile the contradictions of the old world in a drive to revelation,” but rather opens spaces for “imagined tactics” outside of dominant ideologies is referred to as the postapocalyptic imagination (Doyle 111). While the Fallout games have made use of the postapocalyptic imagination as “a site in which to play out aberrant possibilities in a wasteland” (Doyle 111) on occasions, the Fallout-game’s ludic components seem hesitant to move beyond established forms. Pichlmair (111) briefly touches on this point, noting that “those who settle down immediately start to copy the rigid social structures of an abolished society.” Fallout 4, released years after Pichlmair’s (111) assertion, drives this point even further. The settlements the player can establish, discussed in the preceding chapter, carry a gameplay element highly indicative of present-day neoliberal assumptions. Each of these settlements have a ‘happiness index’, a numerical value assigned to them. This value expresses the overall happiness of the settlers, rendered in a percentage point. The implicit goal of this mechanic is to reach the highest possible happiness index in each settlement. While the game does not reward this explicitly, reaching 100% happiness in a large settlement awards the player an achievement (a digital trophy outside of the game, which usually can be displayed in online- gaming networks) called ‘Benevolent Leader’. While the mechanic is somewhat hermetic, even to the seasoned player, the mapping of the gameplay mechanic to its expression is not too alien to raise awareness to itself. It thereby represents a successful procedural rhetoric. Figure 21 shows the mechanic as expressed in the in-game overview of established settlements. 77 Figure 21 In-game overview over the happiness of settlements The units of food, water, power, defense and the number of beds make up the basic calculation of happiness for the settlement. Some additional factors, like the placement of specific items, influence happiness. These are not made explicit. The overall happiness of settlements influences their productivity, i.e. the resources they will yield their player. Ultimately, this procedural rhetoric should not be as successful as it is. The idea of the quantification of something as abstract as happiness out of simple factors as the number of beds should at least raise eyebrows. This rhetoric nevertheless works. By virtue of falling into a tradition of modelling very abstract ideas into simple processes (such as videogames do), the conception of happiness – which translates to increased productivity – as a quantifiable resource is successful. And yet, this procedural rhetoric taps into another tradition, while simultaneously reinforcing it: the idea of the quantification of emotions. As sociologists have noted, this idea of an ‘economy of emotions’, which quantifies and operationalizes feelings, can be seen as an extension of capitalism into the realm of culture (e.g. Kappler and Vormbusch 268). Others have noted how videogames, in the form of gamification, can further this process of self-quantification (e.g. Whitson 167). Fallout 4 expresses these assumptions – that happiness is quantifiable, and that it is a resource, used to increase production – in its settlement mechanic. This considerable ideological bias in its procedural rhetoric is notable precisely because it is so natural to players. The procedural rhetoric is successful because it is naturalized, both the medium itself, which encourages such simplifications, and hegemonical assumptions of the player. However, these assumptions are 78 not only expressed in the settlement-mechanic. They underlie another, more fundamental game mechanic as well: levelling. Levelling up in Fallout 4 works very similar to most role-playing games: after having slain enough enemies, or completed enough quests to accumulate enough experience points to be pushed over a threshold, the game rewards the player with reaching a new level. In Fallout 4, leveling up means either adding a point to one of seven character values, or choosing from a variety of perks, which have different effects on gameplay. The selection of perks is determined by the character values, in a way where a strength stat of one only allows the player to obtain a strength perk from tier one. Figure 22 shows the first three tiers of perks and their character values. Figure 22 Overview over the player's stats and perks While, again, this is not a mechanic exclusive to Fallout, but rather a staple of role-playing games, it rests on two fundamental assumptions. The first assumption entails that a character’s abilities are quantifiable (Baerg 161), the second suggests that the enemies and quests of the game are valuable as resources furthering the advancement of the player-self (Seidl 48-49). As Baerg (161) has already noted in his discussion of older role-playing games, the understanding of a character as accumulation of a few specific numbers positions “the player to understand her avatar in a neoliberal entrepreneurial manner” – the object of identification for the player thereby becomes a set of numbers. This, essentially, entails the quantification of the game-self. Baerg (156) connects this understanding of ‘leveling up’ to the political context 79 of neoliberalism, but does note that such a political context is subject to change (Baerg 170). Fallout 4, as a postapocalyptical game, could represent a space where different approaches contesting such implicit narratives of self-optimization could emerge. However, the game does not seize the possibilities granted by this postapocalyptical imagination. The same holds true for the second assumption underlying Fallout 4’s leveling system. Seidl (48) has noted how almost every interactable object in the game world of Fallout 3 ultimately only represents “an investment toward the […] next level”, a trend that has not changed in Fallout 4. In fact, this mode of interaction is such a staple in many role-playing games that an alternative becomes nearly unthinkable. The framing of objects, quests, or enemies as resources or investments for a better score, a higher number to quantify a character’s value, has become so conventionalized that many other games, which do not rely on these interactions, are often considered lacking (as e.g. so-called ‘walking simulators’). While Fallout 4 is unique in many aspects, such as its aesthetics, most of its mechanics do not differentiate it from other games. Precisely this combination of its postapocalyptical aesthetics and its conventional mechanics, reverberating neoliberal conceptions, is ultimately the ideological framework of the game. Its mechanics, grounded in present-day assumptions, are mismatched to its aesthetics of the postapocalypse. Because these mechanics are couched in the aesthetics of postapocalypse, they are cemented as timeless. What Seidl (49) phrased it in his discussion of Fallout 3 also holds true for Fallout 4 – it is a game in which “capitalism fakes its own death.” Its mechanics seamlessly transport present-day assumptions, grounded in neoliberal capitalism, into its postapocalyptical setting. While Fallout 4’s story is an imagined version of the past, its mechanics transport the present into the future. 4. Conclusion: Game Over? As has been shown, Fallout 4 is a videogame with complex meanings, both about the American past, and its present. These meanings are negotiated in a variety of ways – both on a narrative, and a ludic level. The game’s excessive aesthetics convey nostalgia, a nostalgia not specifically for the past, but also for the present. A similar nostalgia haunts the ruins of Fallout 4. Similarly, both the game’s enacted narrative – its plot – and the ruins of landmarks in Boston suggest a difficult, but ultimately celebratory attitude towards American history, somewhat keen to avoid critical engagement with darker aspects of this past. The ludic settlement mechanic is analogous to this reimagination of history: the manifest destiny in Fallout 4 is peaceful, in contrast to history. This peace is somewhat reflected in the game’s ecology. The new atomic sublime of 80 Fallout 4 is a convenient absolvent of climate change, although it still connects to discourses of pollution, localized only in a small part of the game, the Glowing Sea. The ludic component of pollution, in the form of the radiation mechanic, hints at an anxiety towards a polluted future. Ultimately, the game environment connects to a wider neoliberal understanding of the relations of self and ecology. The game’s environment with its objects, enemies, and quests are ultimately only present for the consumption by the player. Thereby, the player can level up, and continue their quest of a quantified optimization of the self. This, however, is not the full extent of expressive meanings in Fallout 4. Many more aspects of the game – and videogames in general – are deserving of critical attention. For reasons of scope, aspects like mods, the game’s diegetic music, its framing of time, fan communities, intertextual relations to other media, and others could not be part of this discussion. These represent aspects and approaches for further investigations of Fallout 4 and other videogames. Such investigations are direly needed. As videogames are on track to become the dominant entertainment medium of the 21st century, scholars of popular culture need increasing awareness of the intricacies of the medium and its modes of expression. 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MS-DOS version, Apogee Software and FormGen, 1992. 88 Appendix English Abstract As videogames are set to become the dominant pop-cultural medium of the 21st century, this paper aims to provide approaches to a critical reading of Bethesda’s Fallout 4, informed by perspectives of cultural studies. Tracing arguments from the fronts of the ludology/narratology debate, this paper adds the conception of videogames as commodities of a culture industry to provide a critical perspective on the meanings and ideologies negotiated in Fallout 4, one of the most successful games of the last decade. Drawing from various theoretical approaches, salient narrative and ludic aspects of the games are investigated. Among them is the game’s plot, its nostalgic retrofuturistic aesthetic, its ruins and ecology as evocative spaces, its stylization of the gameworld as frontier through its mechanics, and tangible neoliberal ideologies present in its levelling system. Ultimately, it is shown that Fallout 4 is a game negotiating US history and its present. While the engagement with history, most notably the Revolutionary War and slavery, relies on ironic detachment and celebratory excess, its engagement with the present hints on resting anxieties with legacies of slavery and pollution. German Abstract Videospiele sind auf dem besten Weg, das bestimmende Medium der Populärkultur des 21. Jahrhunderts zu werden. Daher nimmt sich diese Arbeit eine kritische kulturwissenschaftliche Betrachtung eines der erfolgreichsten Spiele der letzten Jahre zum Thema: Bethesdas Fallout 4. Auf den Spuren der Ludologie- Narratologie-Debatte stellt diese Arbeit eine dritte, kritische Konzeption von Videospielen vor – als Produkt einer Kulturindustrie. Anhand dieser Triade werden bemerkenswerte narrative und ludologische Aspekte Fallout 4s untersucht. Unter anderem werden dabei die nostalgisch-retrofuturistische Ästhetik des Spiels, seine Ruinen und Umwelt, die Stilisierung der Spielwelt als ‚Frontier‘ durch seine Mechaniken, und hegemoniale ideologische Annahmen in der levelling-Mechanik untersucht. Dabei zeigt sich, dass Fallout 4 vorranging ein Spiel mit der Geschichte und der Gegenwart der Vereinigten Staaten ist. Die Beschäftigung des Spiels mit verschiedenen geschichtlichen Epochen – allen voran die Revolution und Sklaverei – ist vor allem durch ironische Distanzierung und Überschwänglichkeit geprägt, während die Darstellung der Gegenwart auf unterdrückte Unbehaglichkeiten mit den Resten der Sklaverei und gegenwärtiger Umweltverschmutzung hindeuten. 
work_hutnlz4qfbacnobgke23mqhk2y	----	PII: 0315-0860(90)90089-V HISTORIA MATHEMATICA 17 (1990), 81-96 ABSTRACTS Editedby DAVID E. ZITARELLI The purpose of this department is to give sufficient information about the subject matter of each publication to enable users to decide whether to read it. It is our intention to cover all books, articles, and other materials in the field. Books for abstracting and eventual review should be sent to this department. Materials should be sent to Prof. David E. Zitarelli, Department of Mathematics, Temple University, Philadelphia, PA 19122, U.S.A. Readers are invited to send reprints, autoabstracts, corrections, additions, and notices of publications that have been overlooked. Be sure to include complete bibliographic informa- tion, as well as transliteration and translation for non-European languages. We need volun- teers willing to cover one or more journals for this department. Readers interested in receiving a computer-readable version of the abstracts, beginning with #11.3.1, are invited to write to the Abstracts Editor. In order to facilitate reference and indexing, entries are given abstract numbers which appear at the end following the symbol #. A triple numbering system is used: the first number indicates the volume, the second the issue number, and the third the sequential number within that issue. For example, the abstracts for Volume 12, Number 1, are num- bered: 12.1.1, 12.1.2, 12.1.3, etc. For reviews and abstracts published in Volumes 1 through 13 there is an author index in Volume 13, Number 4, and a subject index in Volume 14, Number 1. The initials in parentheses at the end of an entry indicate the abstractor. In this issue there are abstracts by Victor Albis (Bogota), Joe Albree (Montgomery, AL), Thomas Bartlow (Villanova, PA), Gary Brown (Collegeville, MN), Louise Grinstein (Brooklyn, NY), Susanne Hensel (Jena), James J. Kaput (North Dartmouth, MA), Robert E. Kennedy (Warrensburg, MO), Albert C. Lewis (Hamilton), Peter Ross (Santa Clara, CA), and David E. Zitarelli. ADELE, GAIL H. 1989. When did Euclid live? An answer plus a short history of geometry. The Mathematics Teacher 82(6), 460-463. A classroom module based on a chronological table of the history of GEOMETRY. It omits the projective geometry of Desargues and Poncelet. (DEZ) #17.1.1 ALCOLEA BANEGAS, JESUS. 1988. Arend Heyting. Mathesis (M&co) 4, 189-220. Succinct presen- tation of AREND HEYTING’S work on INTUITIONISM. BROUWER. Heyting’s BIBLIOGRAPHY. WA) #17.1.2 ANDERSON, J. M. 1988. ELISHA NETANYAHU (1912-1986). Bulletin of the London Mathematical Society 20,613-618. Netanyahu was a native of Warsaw, and his family emigrated to Palestine in 1920. He was influenced by MICHAEL FEKTE at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem in the 1930s and his early mathematical career was concerned with COMPLEX ANALYSIS, in particular, Dirichlet series. This was interrupted by his service during World War II and in the early years of the state of Israel. “In a very real sense he was the creator of the Mathematics Department at the TECHNION” [in Haifa]. The “second flowering” of Netanyahu’s mathematical career involved his work on UNIVALENT FUNC- TIONS. The list of Netanyahu’s 24 published papers omits his three papers in Hebrew; there is also a photo. (JA) #17.1.3 ANON. 1987. Academician Leonid Vitalevich Kantorovich (on the 75th anniversary of his birth). [In Russian] Optimizatsiya 40(57), 5-6. Brief biography Of LEONID VITALEVICH KANTOROVICH. Other 81 0316~0860/90 $3.00 Copyright 0 1990 by Academic Press, Inc. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved. 82 ABSTRACTS HM 17 articles in this volume of the journal dealing with his work are: D. A. Vladimirov, “The works of V. I. Kantorovich in the descriptive theory of sets and functions” (pp. 7-l 1. 159); L. T. Petrova. “Com- mentary on the works of L. V. Kantorovich on large-block programming” (pp. 12-16, 159); Ya. 1. Fet. “The investigations of L. V. Kantorovich in the area of computer architecture” (pp. 17-25, 159); and A. G. Kusaraev and S. S. Kutateladze, “The contribution of L. V. Kantorovich to the theory of ordered vector spaces” (pp. 26-39, 159). PHOTOGRAPH. (DEZ) #17.1.4 ANON. 1988. Jan Mikusinski: 3 April 1913-27 July 1987. Studiu Muthemafica 89(l), ii-xi. Brief obituary of JAN MIKUSINSKI. Bibliography of 26 books and 149 papers. PHOTOGRAPH. (DEZ) #17.1.5 ANON. 1988. Professor Raj Chandra Bose. Journal of Geometry 33(1-2) l-2. Brief obituary of RAJ CHANDRA BOSE. PHOTOGRAPH. (DEZ) #17.1.6 ANON. 1988. Recipients of the Korean Mathematical Society PRIZES for 1987. [In Korean] Bulletin of the Korean Mathematical Society 25(l), 162-163. Brief biographies of two of the winners, CHIN MYUNG CH~NG and JONGSIK KIM. PHOTOGRAPHS. (DEZ) #17.1.7 ARNOLD, V. I. 1989. A topological proof for the transcendence of the ABELIAN INTEGRAL of I. NEWTON’S Principia mathematics. Istoriko-matematicheskie Zssledovaniya 31, 7-17. [In Russian] In this paper, which was presented at the 1987 Moscow Conference on the 300th Anniversary of Principia mathematico, a modern proof is given of an integral which appeared in Principia Lemma 18. Newton’s proof is translated into Russian by A. N. Krylov and analyzed from a modern viewpoint. The author also generalizes the Newtonian theorem to the multidimensional case of smooth hypersurfaces in R”. W-U #17.1.8 BELLER, WALTER. 1988. Sicologia y matem8ticas: Convergencias y divergencias (PSYCHOLOGY and mathematics: Convergences and divergences). Muthesis (M&ico) 4, 393-412. (VA) #17.1.9 BINDER, CHRISTA. 1989. II. Gsterreichisches Symposium zur Geschichte der Mathematik. Hisro- ria Mathematics 16(2), 166. Announcement of a week-long symposium in October 1989 on the history of mathematics. (DEZ) #17.1.10 BOROWCZYK, JACQUES. 1989. Universite d’ete d’histoire des mathematiques, 28 aotit au 2 septem- bre 1988. Hisroria Mathematics 16(2), 167-168. A list of the speakers and the titles of their talks from five conferences, six presentations, and numerous workshops at the Third Interdisciplinary History of Mathematics Meeting, held at La Rochelle from August 28 to September 2, 1988. (DEZ) #17.1.11 BOWEN, K. C. 1988. A mathematician’s journey through operational research. Mathematical Pro- gramming 42(l) (Ser. B), 33-40. The author reminisces on how, as a pure mathematician in 1940, he gradually became involved in OPERATIONS RESEARCH. He also discusses his relationship with MARTIN BERLE. (DEZ) #17.1.12 BROWDER, FELIX E. 1989. Stone age of mathematics at the midway. The Mathematical Zntelli- gencer 11(3), 22-24. A tribute to MARSHALL STONE’S chairmanship at the University of Chicago. See also #17.1.125. (DEZ) #17.1.13 BROWN, MORTON. 1987. The mathematical work of R. H. Bing. Topology Proceedings 12(l), l-25. A discussion of the work of R. H. BING on the Kline sphere characterization problem, the pseudoarc, homogeneity, metrization, convex metrics, 3-manifolds, and decomposition spaces. TOPOLOGY. (DEZ) #17.1.14 BULICHEVA, S. See #17.1.102. CERUZZI, PAUL. 1989. Electronics technology and computer science 1940-1975: A coevolution. Annals of the History of Computing U(4), 257-275. An analysis of the continuous interplay between ELECTRONIC ENGINEERING and COMPUTER SCIENCE since 1940. Electronic engineering dominated the HM 17 ABSTRACTS 83 activities from 1940 to 1955 but computer science dominated from 1955 to 1975. More recently both electronic engineers and computer scientists see their work as “the management of complexity.” (LW #17.1.15 COLEMAN, A. JOHN. 1989. The greatest mathematical paper of all time. The Mafhemarical Intelli- gencer 11(3), 29-38. Coleman exceeds even Thomas Hawkins in his praise of the work of WILHELM KILLING. He chooses a paper by Killing as the greatest paper of all time, explains the main ideas and results in it, and describes its subsequent effects on E. CARTAN, COXETER, KAC, and MOODY. PHOTO- GRAPHS. (DEZ) #17.1.16 DALE, A. I. 1989. THOMAS BAYES: A memorial. The Mathematical Intelligencer 11(3), 18-19. The family vault in Bunhill Fields, where Thomas Bayes is buried, was restored in 1969 but “is once again in a sorry state.” (DEZ) #17.1.17 D’AMBROSIO, UBIRATAN. 1989. A research program and a course in the history of mathematics: ETHNOMATHEMATICS. Historia Marhematica 16(3), 285-287. The term ethnomathematics is defined, and a program for teaching a non-Eurocentric, ethnomathematical history of mathematics course is described. (DEZ) #17.1.18 DEBARNOT, MARIE-TH~%sE. See #17.1.69. DEBNATH, LOKENATH. 1987. Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920). A centennial tribute. Znrerna- tional Journal of Mathematical Education in Science and Technology 18(6), 821-861. A tribute to SRINIVASA RAMANUJAN on his 100th birthday. The first part gives an account of Ramanujan’s life. The remainder is a synopsis of his contributions and their importance. See Mathematical Reviews 89g:O1048 for a review by Bruce Berndt, who states that “much of this material is incorrect or misleading.” (PR) #17.1.19 DEL PINO ARABOLAZA, PILAR, AND VALERA, MANUEL. 1988. Analisis estadistico y sociometrico de la production matematica espariola a travts de la Revista Matemritica Hispanoamericana (Statisti- cal and sociometric analysis of the Spanish mathematical production through the Reuista Maremdtica Hispanoamericana). LLULL l&263-284. Evolution of Spanish mathematical production from 1919 to 1936 through the study of papers that appeared in Rev&a Matemdtica Hispanoamericana, from a bibliometrical viewpoint. SPANISH MATH. (VA) #17.1.20 DEMIDOV, S. S. 1988. Der philosophische Kontext der Herausbildung der Moskauer funktionen- theoretischen Schule. NTM-Schrijtenreihe fiir Geschichte der Naturwissenschafren, Technik und Medizin 25, 25-3 1. The philosophical context of the development of the MOSCOW SCHOOL OF FUNC- TION THEORY. D. F. EGOROV; N. N. LUZIN; N. G. BUGAEV. (ACL) #17.1.21 DEMIDOV, S. S., PARSHIN A. N., AND POLOVINKIN, S. M. 1989. On the correspondence of N. N. LUZIN with P. A. FLORENSKI. Isroriko-matematicheskie Issledovaniya 31, 116-190. [In Russian] This continues the account, started in Vol. 30, of the source materials for the history of the Moscow SCHOOL in function theory found in the Florenski archives. An overview of the history of the Moscow school is followed by an analysis of the historical relevance and the content of the correspondence from 1904 to 1922. The correspondence for these years is published on pages 125-190. (SH) #17.1.22 DUTT, SUKOMAL. 1988. Bibhuti Bhusan Datta (1888-1958) or Swami Vidyaranya. Pp. 3-15 in #17.1.45. Biography of the Indian historian of mathematics, BIBHUTI BHUSAN DATTA, who is known for his work on ancient HINDU contributions, especially the decimal number system. At age 45 Datta left his professorship at Calcutta University for the ascetic life of Sannyas, where he was known as VIDYARANYA. There is a bibliography of Datta’s publications in the history of mathematics. INDIAN MATHEMATICS. PHOTOGRAPH. (DEZ) #17.1.23 EMERSON, ROGER. 1988. SIR ROBERT SIBBALD, Kt, the Royal Society of Scotland and the origins of the Scottish enlightenment. Annals qfScience 45(l), 41-72. The author claims that there existed in 84 ABSTRACTS HM 17 fate 17th century SCOTLAND a sizeabfe virtuoso community whose leaders were abreast of European developments in philosophy, history, and science. There is little mention of this community’s knowf- edge of mathematical developments. (GB) #17.1.24 ERMOLAEVA, N. S. 1989. New biographical material on N. N. LUZIN. Isforiko-matematicheskie Issledovaniya 31, 191-272. [In Russian] An introduction to newly revealed correspondence between Luzin and A. N. KRYLOV between 1928 and 1942. The fetters are preserved in the archives of the USSR Academy of Sciences in Moscow and in its Leningrad division. The author provides not only biographical information but also a history of the mathematics concerned, especially of the Moscow SCHOOL in the theory of functions of real variables. The author also reconstructs the beginning of the relationship between Luzin and Kryfov. Following the article, on pages 203-272, the correspondence is reproduced along with additional documents: (1) Luzin’s travel report for the 1928 International Congress in Bologna which he presented to the USSR Academy of Sciences in 1930; (2) Luzin’s notes on a 1931 paper by A. Kaz; (3) a 1942 letter from Luzin to the Remembrance Jubilee Commission for Newton’s 300th anniversary. (SH) #17.1.25 ERMOLAEVA, N. S. 1989. The dissertation of G. W. KOLOSOV and its evaluation by V. A. STEKLOV. Istoriko-matematicheskie Issledovaniya 31,52-74. [In Russian] Kofosov’s “On the appfica- tion of the theory of complex variables to the plane cases of the mathematical theory of elasticity,” is considered for its theory of functions and the fact that not all of Kofosov’s ideas have been further developed later by other researchers. Further, several circumstances relating to Kofosov’s disserta- tion defense in 1911 at Petersburg University are clarified on the basis of manuscripts of the two referees (Stekfov and Bobylev) and of two fetters from Kolosov to Stekfov. These concern the differ- ences of opinion during the defense which, though they have been known, have not hitherto been explained in the historical literature. (SH) #f7.1.26 EVANS, JAMES. 1987. On the origin of the Ptofemaic star catafogue. I. Journal ofrhe History of Astronomy 18(3), 155-172. Provides evidence to dispute earlier accounts that claim that PTOLEMY borrowed HIPPARCHUS’S star catafogue instead of establishing the catafogue himself in Almagesr 7-8. GREEK ASTRONOMY. Mathematical Reviews 89h:01003. (DEZ) #17.1.27 EVANS, JAMES. 1987. On the origin of the Ptofemaic star catafogue. II. Journal of the History of Asfronomy 18(4), 233-278. A continuation of #17.1.27. Suggests various solutions to account for a shift of 40’ in PTOLEMY'S star longitudes, thus providing further evidence of Ptolemy’s paternity of the star catafogue in the Almagest. Mathematical Reviews 89h:01004. (DEZ) #17.1.28 FAUVEL, JOHN. 1989. Platonic rhetoric in distance learning: How Robert Record taught the home learner. For the Learning of Mathematics 9(l), 2-6. This article analyzes the pedagogic style of ROBERT RECORD, who was one of the best and most successful textbook writers of all time. His geometry was the reverse of Euclid, and his arithmetic provided the foundation for the practical mathematics of navigation and science of Elizabethan times. (JJK) #17.1.29 FENTON, P. C. 1989. An extremaf problem in Harriet’s mathematics. Historia Marhematica 16(2), 154-163. This note provides an elementary geometrical proof to refute the suggestion that THOMAS HARRIOT needed to use INFINITESIMALS to solve an optimization problem. (DEZ) #17.1.30 FLEMING, WENDELL, AND KLEE, VICTOR. 1989. EDWARD JAMES MCSHANE 1904-1989. Notices of the American Marhematical Society 36(7), 828-830. Brief biography with an indication of Mc- Shane’s contributions to the cafcufus of variations, integration theory, control theory, and stochastic calculus. (DEZ) #17.1.31 FLETCHER, COLIN R. 1989. Fermat’s theorem. Hisroria Mathemarica 16(2), 149-153. Arguments are given to support the claim that the usual interpretation regarding FRENICLE'S challenge to FERMAT to find a perfect number with at feast 20 digits is flawed. (DEZ) #17.1.32 FOLKERTS, MENSO, AND KNOBLOCH, EBERHARD. 1989. Christoph J. Scriba-60 Jahre. Historia HM 17 ABSTRACTS 85 Muthematica 16(3), 207-212. Biographical comments on the historian of mathematics, CHRISTOPH J. SCRIBA, with a bibliography of his works. (DEZ) #17.1.33 FOLTA, JAROSLAV. 1988. Some remarks on the history of numerical analysis especially in the area of Prague. LLULL 11, 217-233. The concept of NUMERICAL ANALYSIS in Goldstine’s History of numerical analysis from the 16th century through the 19th cenfury is contrasted with that of computa- tional mathematics of the Babylonians, the Egyptians, BRAHE, WITTICH, BORGI, and KEPLER as related to ASTRONOMY. (VA) #17.1.34 FREGUGLIA, PAOLO. 1989. Study centre for scientific thought between 1500 and 1600. Historia Mathematics 16(2), 170. Report of a seminar held at Perugia University on “Moments of the mathe- matical culture between the 16th and 17th centuries, ” including a list of speakers and the titles of their lectures. (DEZ) #17.1.35 GOLDSTEIN, BERNARD R. 1986. Levi ben Gerson’s theory of planetary distances. Centaurus 29(4), 272-313. Presents LEVI’S theory as found in Chapters 130 and 131 in his Astronomy. A translation of the two chapters is included. ASTRONOMY. (TB) #17.1.36 GORDAN, PAUL. 1987. Vorlesungen iiber Invariantenrheorie. Erster Band: Determinanten. Zweiter Band: Bin&e Formen. New York: Chelsea. Vol. I: xii + 201 pp.; Vol. II: xii + 360 pp. $49.95. A new printing in one book of the second edition of two classic volumes that were first issued in 188.5 and 1887, Lectures on invariant theory. Vol. I: Determinants. Vol. II: Binary forms, edited by Georg Kerschensteiner. The book contains an elaboration of two series of lectures by PAUL GORDAN, the first of which dealt with the theory of DETERMINANTS and the second with INVARIANTS OF BINARY FORMS. See the review by Jean Dieudonne in Mathematical Reviews 89g:O1034. (DEZ) #17.1.37 GOWER, B. 1987. Planets and PROBABILITY: Daniel Bernoulli on the inclinations of the planetary orbits. Studies in History and Philosophy of Science B(4), 441-454. A review Of DANIEL BERNOULLI’S different approaches to the problem of the inclination of planes of the planetary orbits with the plane of the solar equator. Also looks at criticisms by JEAN D’ALEMBERT and ISAAC TODHUNTER of these approaches. ASTRONOMY. (GB) #17.1.38 GRAEF [FERNANDEZ], CARLOS. 1988. Espacio matemfitico y espacio ffsico (Mathematical space and physical space). Mathesis (ML;xico) 4,327-353. In Cuadernos de1 seminario de problemas cient@ cos yfilos$icos. Cuadernos y Suplementos. Primera Serie, Mtxico: Universidad National AutBnoma de Mtxico. 1956, l-25. (VA) #17.1.39 GRAEF [FERNANDEZ], CARLOS. 1988. Mi justa con ALBERT EINSTEIN (My tilt with Albert Ein- stein). Mathesis (MPxico) 4, 413-422. Spanish version from The American Scientist 44 (1956), 204- 211. (VA) #17.1.40 GRIGORYAN, A. T. 1988. Lev Davidovich Landau (on the 80th anniversary of his birth). [In Russian] Voprosy Istorii Estestvoznaniya i Tekhniki 1988(l), 116-119. A brief biography of LEV DAVIDOVICH LANDAU. (DEZ) #17.1.41 GRUENBERG, K. W. 1988. KURT AUGUST HIRSCH (1906-1986). Bulletin of the London Mathemati- cal Society 20, 350-358. Hirsch was first influenced by I. SCHUR at the University of Berlin, 1925- 1930, but began his career as a journalist. He fled the Nazis in 1934 and settled in Cambridge where he came under the influence of PHILIP HALL and earned a second PhD. His mathematical interests were in GROUP THEORY. “His most impressive achievement” was his leadership in the 1950s in transform- ing the department of pure mathematics of the UNIVERSITY OF LONDON into “an active, internation- ally respected centre for research in ALGEBRA, without being in overall charge of the department. . . ” Furthermore, “internationally, the mathematical community owes him a debt of gratitude for the immense amount of work he devoted to the translation of Russian mathematics” over the 40 years from the end of World War II until his death. Unfortunately, a complete list of these translations is not included. There is a list of Hirsch’s 20 papers and there are two photos. (JA) #17.1.42 86 ABSTRACTS HM 17 GUPTA, R. C. 1988. Kurt Vogel (1888-1985). the veteran German historian of mathematics. Pp. 16- 20 in #17.1.45. Brief biography of KURT VOGEL, who, among other things, was responsible for founding the Institute for the History of Science in Munich. Also included is some of Vogel’s corre- spondence with the INDIAN mathematicians B. B. DATTA (see also #17.1.23) and A. N. SINGH. PHOTOGRAPH. (DEZ) #17.1.43 GUPTA, R. C. 1988. On values of a from the Bible. Pp. 51-58 in #17.1.45. An examination of several explanations of the biblical quotation “a molten sea, ten cubits from the one brim to the other; it was round all about; . . and a line of thirty cubits did compass it round about.” PI. (DEZ) #17.1.44 GUPTA, R. C. (Ed.) 1988. Tenth anniversary volume. Gn#a-Bhrirati lO(l-4). The Datta-Vogel centenary issue celebrating 10 years as the official Bulletin of the Indian Society for History of Mathematics. Articles by Sukomal Dutt, R. C. Gupta, Parmeshwar Jha, J. N. Kapur, Kripanath Sinha, and B. L. van der Waerden are abstracted separately. (DEZ) #17.1.45 GUPTA, R. C. 1988. Tombstone mathematics. Pp. 69-74 in #17.1.45. Brief discussions of 12 mathe- matical EPITAPHS ranging from Archimedes to Sierpinski. (DEZ) #17.1.46 HALD, A. 1986. Galileo’s statistical analysis of astronomical observations. Internafional Statisti- cal Review 54(2), 21 I-220. A statistical analysis carried out by GALILEO in 1632 contains the rudiments of a theory for comparing hypotheses by means of the sums of the absolute deviations of the observa- tions from the hypothetical values. STATISTICS. (DEZ) #17.1.47 HANSEN, VAGN LUNDSGAARD. 1988. From geometry to topology. Normat 36(2), 48-60, 90. [In Danish with a summary in English] A discussion of the development of TOPOLOGY from its origins up to the Brouwer fixed point theorem and the Borsuk-Ulam theorem. Mathematical Reviews 89h:OlO42. (DEZ) #17.1.48 HEINZMANN, GERHARD. 1988. Poincare et la philosophie des mathematiques. Cahiers du SPmi- naire d’tlistoire des MathPmafiques, Univ. Paris VI 9, 99-121. A discussion of POINCARR and his PHILOSOPHY of mathematics, which he called “pragmatism,” a synthesis of his intuitionistic require- ments followed by a descriptive analysis of the mathematical constructions. See Mathematical Re- views 89h:OlO43 for a list of corrections to the references in the paper. (DEZ) #17.1.49 HENTSCHEL, KLAUS. 1988. Die Korrespondenz Duhem-Mach: Zur Modellbeladenheit von Wis- senschaftsgeschichte. Annals of Science 45(l), 73-91. The preserved part of the hitherto unpublished correspondence between PIERRE DUHEM and ERNST MACH, kept in the Archives de I’Acadtmie des Sciences, Paris, and in the Ernst Mach institute of the Fraunhofer Society, Freiburg im Breisgau, is documented and commented upon. (GB) #17.1.50 HEWITT, EDWIN. 1986. What Pave1 Sergeevich Aleksandrov meant to me. [In Russian] Uspekhi Matematicheskikh Nauk 41(6)(252), 205-208. Hewitt’s remembrances of his personal contact with PAVEL SERGEEVICH ALEKSANDROV, and the influence exerted on him by Aleksandrov’s books. Trans- lated into English in Russian Marhematical Surveys 41(6), 247-250. Zentralblatr 621:O1010. (DEZ) #17.1.51 HEYDE, C. C.. AND SENETA, E. (Eds.) 1988. Bicentennial history issue. The Australian Journal of Statistics 30 (Special Vol. B), l-130. Contents: E. Seneta, “Silhouettes in early Australian STATIS- TICS” (pp. 2-22); C. C. Heyde, “Official statistics in the late colonial period leading on to the work of the first Commonwealth Statistician, G. KNIBBS” (pp. 23-43); John D. Kerr, “Introductionof statisti- cal design and analysis by the Queensland Bureau of Sugar Experiment Stations” (pp. 44-53); J. B. F. Field, F. E. Speed, and J. M. Williams, “Biometrics in the CSIR: 1930-1940” (pp. 54-76); David B. Duncan, “Australian BIOMETRY and multiple comparisons” (pp. 77-98); H. 0. Lancaster, “Statistical Society of New South Wales” (pp. 99-109); E. J. Williams, “A survey of experimental design in AUSTRALIA” (pp. 110-130). (DEZ) #17.1.52 HM 17 ABSTRACTS 87 HOGENDIJK, JAN P. 1984. al-Ktihi’s construction of an equilateral pentagon in a given square. Zeitschrift fiir Geschichte der Arab&h-Zslamischen Wissenschaften 1,9-54. AL-KOtii was a mathe- matician and astronomer working in Iran in the 10th century. He was a leading figure in a revival and continuation of Greek GEOMETRY in the MEDIEVAL ISLAMIC world. His method for constructing an equilateral pentagon in a square involves the intersection of hyperbolas and the solution of a quartic equation. CONIC SECTIONS. ALGEBRA. Mathematical Reviews 89g:O1011. (DEZ) #17.1.53 HORMIG~N, MARIANO. See #17.1.91. HOUZEL, CHRISTIAN. 1989. Colloque d’histoire des mathtmatiques sous le patronage de la SociCte MathCmatique de France. Hisforia Mathematics 16(2), 169. A list of the speakers and the titles of their talks at the Conference on the History of ALGEBRAIC EQUATIONS held June 17-22, 1985, in Marseille. (DEZ) #17.1.54 HOYNINGEN-HUENE, P. 1987. Context of discovery and context ofjustification. Studies in History and Philosophy of Science l&4), 501-515. The author argues that the traditional argument between “positivist” philosophers and “historicist” philosophers can be clarified by focusing on the distinction between the “context of discovery” versus the “context of justification.” PHILOSOPHY OF MATHE- MATICS. (GB) #17.1.55 HUGHES, BARNABAS. 1989. The arithmetical triangle of Jordanus de Nemore. Historia Mathe- matica 16(3), 213-223. An analysis of Book IX, Proposition 70, of De arithmetica by JORDANUS DE NEMORE. Three illustrations suggest a knowledge of PASCAL’S TRIANGLE. Appendices include an English translation and a critical edition of the material. (DEZ) #17.1.56 HUNTER, M. 1988. Promoting the new science: HENRY OLDENBURG and the early Royal Society. History of Science X(2), 165-181. Analyzes why Oldenburg came to be so dominant in his correspon- dences with early members of the ROYAL SOCIETY. (GB) #17.1.57 ILLY, J. 1989. Einstein teaches Lorentz, Lorentz teaches Einstein: Their collaboration in general relativity, 1912-1920. Archive for History of Exact Sciences 39(3), 247-289. This paper discusses the cooperative work of EINSTEIN and LORENTZ in developing the theory of general RELATIVITY between 1913 and 1920. (GB) #17.1.58 INDORATO, LUIGI, AND NASTASI, PIETRO. 1989. The 1740 resolution of the Fermat-Descartes controversy. Historia Mathematics 16(2), 137-148. An examination of a booklet from 1740 by PIETRO Dr MARTINO disputing the prevailing view that FERMAT’S law of refraction was obtained by DES- CARTES from an opposite hypothesis. There is also an explanation of the reason why Di Martin0 stated his minimum principle only for OPTICS, unlike the similar principle discovered by MAUPERTUIS and extending to DYNAMICS. ISAAC NEWTON. ITALY. (DEZ) #17.1.59 IOSIFESCU, MARIUS. 1986. Obituary notice: Octav Oniciscu, 1892-1983. International Sratistical Review 54(l), 97-108. Brief biography of OCTAV ONICISCU, a description of his major contributions, and lists of his 222 papers and 32 books. STATISTICS. (DEZ) #17.1.60 JANUSZ, GERALD J. 1988. Irving Reiner 1924-1986. Illinois Journal of Mathematics 32(3), 315-328. A biography of IRVING REINER, a discussion of his work, a list of his students, and a bibliography. (DEZ) #17.1.61 JHA, PARMESHWAR. 1987. Mm. Hemtirigada Thtikura and his work “RBhiipar%gapaiiji.” The Math- ematics Education 21(Z), 38-43. HEM.&&GADA TH.%KURA was the grandson of a king whose family ruled MithilH for four centuries. The work, whose title means “table of eclipses,” gives a list of predicted lunar and solar eclipses from 1620 to 2708. ASTRONOMY. Mathematical Reviews 89g:OlOl4. (DW #17.1.62 88 ABSTRACTS HM 17 JHA, PARMESHWAR. 1988. Study of history of mathematics in Bihar. Pp. 59-63 in #17.1.45. A description of research activity in the history of mathematics that has taken place in Bihar, INDIA. It includes biographical comments about several of the present researchers. (DEZ) #17.1.63 JONES, F. BURTON. 1987. R. H. Bing. Topology Proceedings 12(l), 181-186. Some personal remi- niscences of R. H. BING. TOPOLOGY. (DEZ) #17.1.64 KAPUR, J. N. 1988. A brief history of mathematics education in India. Pp. 31-39 in #17.1.45. Eight periods in the MATHEMATICS EDUCATION in INDIA are discussed: ancient India (up to the 15th century), medieval India (16th and 17th centuries), the transition period (18th century), early British period (1780-1834), pre-university period (1835-1857), post-university 19th century (1857-1900), pre- independence 20th century (1900-1947), and post-independence 20th century (1947- ). CD=) #17.1.65 KAUFMANN-B~HLER, WALTER. 1987. Gaufl: Eine biogruphische Studie. Berlin/Heidelberg: Springer Verlag. viii + 191 pp. DM 56. A German translation of Gauss: A biographical study. This edition of a biography of GAUSS contains some corrections and “alters some historical explanations that can be omitted for an edition intended for a German-speaking reader.” Reviewed by Karin Reich in Historic Mathematics 16(1989), 178-179. See Muthematica/ Reviews 82j:O1066 for a review of the English original. (DEZ) #17.1.66 KAUNZNER, WOLFGANG. 1987. ijber Charakteristika in der mittelalterlichen abendllndischen Mathematik. Mathematische Semesterberichte 34(2), 143-186. The characteristics of MEDIEVAL Oc- CIDENTAL mathematics are described in three periods. In the 13th and 14th centuries the primary concern was practical problems, even though the material appeared to be strongly theoreticized; between 1450 and 1550 the theoretical direction dominated in symbolic ALGEBRA; the 1600s again witnessed the dominance of the practical side. Zentralblart 638:01004. (DEZ) #17.1.67 KEIDING, NIELS. 1987. The method of expected number of deaths, 1796-1886-1986. international Statistical Review 55(l), I-20. The expected number of deaths was calculated in 18th century ACTU- ARIAL MATHEMATICS but the method seems to have been forgotten, and was reinvented in connection with 19th century studies of geographical and occupational variations of mortality. STATISTICS. (DEZ) #17.1.68 KENNEDY, EDWARD S., AND DEBARNOT, MARIE-TH~R~SE. 1984. Two mappings proposed by Biruni. Zeitschriftfir Geschichte der Arabisch-lslamischen Wissenschaften 1, 145-147. Two ways of mapping a hemisphere upon a plane by AL-BIRLJNI. (DEZ) #17.1.69 KERSCHENSTEINER, GEORG. See #17.1.37. KILMISTER, C. W. 1988. J. T. COMBRIDGE (1897?-1986). Bulletin of the London Mathematical Society 20, 156-158. Combridge was a student of MATHEMATICAL PHYSICS. The major intellectual influence in his life was Sir ARTHUR EDDINGTON, with whom he carried on an important scientific correspondence from the end of World War I until 1936. His major scientific contributions were two: “Notes on RELATIVITY ,” a survey of the most important literature of the 1920s and 1930s in three volumes, now in the archives of King’s College, London; and, a bibliography of general relativity covering the same time period and published in a limited edition in 1965. In 1937, he moved into the administration of King’s College, LONDON. He was president of the MATHEMATICAL ASSOCIATION in l%l-62 and wrote a history of the Association in 1971, apparently never published. There is a photo. (JAI #17.1.70 KLEE, VICTOR. See #17.1.31. KLEINER, ISRAEL. 1989. Evolution of the function concept: A brief survey. The Cokge Mat&mat- its Journal 20(4), 282-300. After a glimpse of precalculus notions, the paper considers the 18th and early 19th century view of a FUNCTION as a formula or a geometric curve, DIRICHLET’S definition in terms of an arbitrary correspondence, the study of various pathological examples, BAIRE class&a- HM 17 ABSTRACTS 89 tion, the controversy relating to the use of the axiom of choice, L2 functions in functional analysis, distributions, and category theory. (DEZ) #17.1.71 KNOBLOCH, EBEIUIARD. 1989. Analogie und mathematisches Denken. Berichte zur Wissen- schafisgeschichte 12, 35-47. ANALOGICAL THINKING in mathematics, especially in the works of KEPLER, WALLIS, LEIBNIZ, EULER, and LAPLACE. (ACL) #17.1.72 KNOBLOCH, EBERHARD. See #17.1.33. KNORR, WILBUR. 1985. Archimedes and the pseudo-Euclidean Catoptrics: Early stages in the ancient geometric theory of mirrors. Archives Znternationales d’Histoire des Sciences 35(114-l IS), 28-105. Part 1 supports the viewpoint that the work Catoptrics on the reflections of light was written by THEON of Alexandria and not by EUCLID. The connection with ARCHIMEDES is explained. Part 2 discusses the correspondences between Catoptrics and other works on OPTICS by DAMIANUS, PTOLEMY, HERO, and DIOCLES in relation to the dating question. Appendix I excludes Damianus. Appendix II discusses Ptolemy’s authorship of the Optics ascribed to him. ANCIENT GREECE. Mathematical Reviews 89g:OlOOS. (DEZ) #17.1.73 KOBLITZ, ANN HIBNER. 1988. Science, women and the Russian intelligentsia: The generation of the 1860s. Isis 79(297), 208-227. Discusses how the 1860s in Russian history offered greater opportuni- ties for WOMEN in science and medicine. RUSSIA. (GB) #17.1.74 LAM, LAY-Y• NG, AND SHEN, KANGSHEN. 1989. Methods of solving linear equations in traditional CHINA. Historia Mathematics 16(2), 107-122. A survey of the methods used by ancient Chinese mathematicians to solve problems that today can be solved by the modem methods of linear equations. The ROD NUMERAL notation encapsulates the complexity of the underlying concept. ALGEBRA. SI- MULTANEOUS EQUATIONS. (DEZ) #17.1.75 LANCASTER, H. 0. 1986. A bibliography of statistical bibliographies: An eighteenth list. Interna- tional Statistical Review 54(l), 109-l 14. Another list of bibliographies in STATISTICS. The 13th list contained national bibliographies [49(2), 177-1831 while the 14th listed biographies [50(2), 195-2171. (DEZ) #17.1.76 LARROYO, FRANCISCO. 1988. Filosofia de las matemdticas (Philosophy of mathematics). Mexico: Editorial Pomia. MATH PHILOSOPHY. (VA) #17.1.77 LAUGWITZ, D. 1987. Hidden lemmas in the early history of INFINITE SERIES. Aequatianes Mathe- maticae 34(2-3), 264-276. Certain results are put into the language of infinitesimals (as in NONSTAN- DARD ANALYSIS) and then claimed to be implicit in the work of EULER, POISSON, and CAUCHY. Mathematical Reviews 89g:O1031. (DEZ) #17.1.78 LAUGWITZ, D. 1989. Definite values of infinite sums: Aspects of the foundations of infinitesimal analysis around 1820. Archive for History of Exact Sciences 39(3), 197-245. Usually the reorganization of ANALYSIS during the 19th century is attributed to the textbooks of CAUCHY. The foundational changes, the author claims, are not just a result of teaching obligations but also a result of the study of convergent and divergent SERIES. The convergent series studied by EULER are first reviewed, followed by a discussion of Cauchy’s banning of divergent series, and finally a discussion of the need for divergent series in FOURIER ANALYSIS and its applications to partial differential equations of mathe- matical physics. (GB) #17.1.79 Ldvu, TOI~Y. 1987. Figures de l’infini: Les mattmatiques au miroir des cultures. Paris: Edition du Seuil. 279 pp. Paperbound. F 99. Reviewed by Karen Hunger Parshall in Isis 79(1988), 325-326. The author wishes to unify the various “faces of the infinite.” According to Parshall, Levy has produced an eminently readable and engaging book on an ever-tantalizing subject. INFINITY. (GB) #17.1.80 LINTON, MATTHEW. 1988. BABYLONIAN TRIPLES. Bulletin: The Institute of Mathematics and Its Applications 24(3-4), 37-41. Brief discussion of Plimpton 322. See also Historia Mathematics 8(1981), 90 ABSTRACTS HM 17 277-318, in which .I. Friberg came to the same conclusions. Mathematical Reviews 89h:01002. (DEZ) #17.1.81 LIU, DUN. 1989. International symposium for the commemoration of MEI WENDING and the CHI- NESE third annual meeting on the history of mathematics. Historia Mathematics 16(3), 281-282. A list of the 21 speakers, and the titles of their talks, from a symposium held November 1-5, 1988, in Mei’s hometown of Xuanzhou. (DEZ) #17.1.82 LLOMBART PALET, Jose. 1987. Ciencia y libertad: El papel de1 cient@co ante la independencia americana (Science andfreedom: The role of the scientist in the presence of American Independence). Cuadernos Galileo de Historia de la Ciencia, 7. Centro de Estudios Hismricos. Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas. Madrid. 350 pp. (VA) #17.1.83 LOZANO, JUAN MANUEL. 1988. Carlos Graef Fernandez. Mathesis (Mexico) 4,309-3 10. Biograph- ical sketch of the Mexican physicist and mathematician C. GRAEF. MEXICO. (VA) #17.1.84 MAEYAMA, Y. 1988. The Keplerian and mean motions: A geometric study. Archivefor History of Exact Sciences 38(4), 365-383. Mathematical derivation of the point from which Keplerian motion of a planet appears most regular to an observer. The author seeks to keep “historical statements to a necessary minimum” and has attained a minimum of one, in the penultimate sentence of the paper. ASTRONOMY. (TB) #17.1.85 MAINZER, KLAUS. 1988. Symmetrien der Natur: Ein Handbuch zur Natur- und Wissenschaftsphi- losophie. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. xi + 739 pp. Illustrated. Bibliography. Index. Hardbound DM 365 (SYMMETRY in nature: A handbook for natural philosophy and philosophy of science). A compre- hensive historical account of symmetry in science, philosophy, and art. The mathematical topics include Galois theory, Lie groups, representation theory, and Hilbert spaces. (ACL) #17.1.86 MANCOSLJ, PAOLO. 1989. The metaphysics of the CALCULUS: A foundational debate in the Paris Academy of Sciences, 1700-1706. Historia Murhematica 16(3), 224-248. A sketch of L’H~PITAL’S Analyse des infinimentpetifs. A description of the debate on the logical admissibility of the differential calculus in the Parisian Academy of Sciences from 1700 to 1706. The most outspoken adversary for the finitist faction was MICHEL ROLLE. FOUNDATIONS. INFINITESIMALS. (DEZ) #17.1.87 MARCHISOTTO, ELENA ANNE. 1989. Mario Pieri: His contributions to the foundations and teaching of GEOMETRY. Historia Mathematics 16(3), 287-288. A discussion of the work and influence of MARIO PIERI, a member of PEANO’S school of Italian geometers. An appeal is made for additional information on Pieri’s influence. (DEZ) #17.1.88 MEDVEDEV, F. A. 1989. The HORN ANGLE in the works of NEWTON. Zstoriko-matematicheskie Issledovaniya 31, 18-37. [In Russian] Applications are looked at in Methodus differentialis and in Principia mathematics. On the basis of two extracts from these texts the author analyzes Newton’s treatment of the infinitely small from the standpoint of NON-STANDARD ANALYSIS. (SH) #17.1.89 MEHRTENS, HERBERT. 1989. The Gleichschaltung of mathematical societies in Nazi Germany. The Mathematical Zntelligencer 11(3), 48-60. A translation by Victoria M. Kingsbury of the article “Die ‘Gleichschaltung’ der mathematischen Gesellschaften im nationalsoziahstischen Deutschland,” which appeared in 1985. It is a report on how three MATHEMATICAL SOCIETIES were brought into line with Nazi ideology. The roles played by some pivotal people are discussed: LUDWIG BIEBERBACH, WILHELMBLASCHKE, WILHELM S~SS,GEORGHAMEL, andLunw~~PnA~~~~.Theconclusioncon- tams an analysis of the histories of the three organizations. GERMAN MATHEMATICS. PHOTOGRAPHS. (DEZ) #17.1.90 MILLAN GASCA, ANA. 1987. El matemtitico Julio Rey Pastor (The mathematician Julio Rey Pas- tor). LogroAo: Instituto de Estudios Riojanos. 105 pp. Foreword by Mariano Hormigon. The life and works ofthe SPANISH MATHEMATICIAN JULIO REY PASTOR. (VA) #17.1.91 HM 17 ABSTRACTS 91 MILLS, A. A. 1988. The mercury clock of the Libros del Saber. Annals of Science 45(4), 329-344. Translation of the section of the Libros de1 Saber de Asrronomia dealing with a mercury clock, preceded by an introduction and followed by a description of a model constructed by the author. ASTRONOMY. (TB) #17.1.92 MILTON, J. R. 1987. INDUCTION before Hume. The British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 38(l), 49-74. This paper demonstrates that in the centuries before DAVID HUME virtually everyone was affected by doubts about the reliability of inductive inferences. The last two sections of the paper criticize both Ian Hacking’s and the author’s own explanations of the emergence of the modem problem of induction. Mathematical Reviews 89g:OlO32. (DEZ) #17.1.93 MITCHELL, CHARLES E. 1989. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, poet extraordinaire. The Mathematics Teacher 82(5), 378-379. Five problems written by this American poet attest to his interest in mathematics. (DEZ) #17.1.94 MONASTIRSKI, M. I. 1989. The FIELDS MEDALLISTS. Istoriko-matematicheskie Issledovaniya 31, 88-115. [In Russian] After a short account of its history, the author takes up the conditions under which the medal is awarded, the method of selection and the conferral. The members of the Fields committee from 1950 to 1986 and the medallists from 1936 to 1986 are introduced. In the second part of the article the author gives summary descriptions of the medallists’ work. (SH) #17.1.95 MONNA, A. F. 1988. Marcel Brelot (1903-1987) hommage posthume. [In French] Nieuw Archief voor Wiskunde (4) 6(1-2) 63-68. A homage to MARCEL BRELOT and his contributions to POTENTIAL THEORY. The author recalls his relationship with Brelot beginning in the 1930s. (DEZ) #17.1.96 MOLLER, CLAUS. 1986. Zum 100. Geburtstag von Hermann Weyl. Jahresbericht der Deutschen Mathematiker-Vereinigung @J(4), 159-189. On the 100th anniversary of the birth of HERMANN WEYL. Describes the historical background, mathematical content, physical motivation, and applications of Weyl’s work. Also includes the philosophical context and implications. Mathematical Reviews 89h:OlO77. (DEZ) #17.1.97 NASTASI, PIETRO. See #17.1.59. NEWING, ANGELA. 1988/1989. The life and work of H. E. Dudeney. Mathematical Spectrum 21(2), 37-44. A popular account of H. E. DUDENEY’S contributions to mathematics, particularly recreational mathematics. In his day Dudeney was known as “The Puzzle King.” Includes some biographical information. (PR) #17.1.98 ORTIZ, EDUARDO L. 1988. Una alianza para la ciencia: Las relaciones cientificas entre Argentina y Espana a principios de este siglo (An alliance for science: Scientific relations between SPAIN and ARGENTINA at the beginning of this century). LLULL 11, 263-284. (VA) #17.1.99 PALTER, R. 1987. Saving Newton’s text: Documents, readers and the ways of the world. Studies in History and Philosophy of Science U(4), 385-439. A discussion of ISAAC NEWTON’S De Gravitatione. In this work, Newton criticizes DESCARTES’ formulation of physics and definition of motion. Palter raises the following questions about this criticism: (i) why is Descartes the sole target of Newton’s criticism; (ii) who if anyone influenced this criticism; (iii) how closely does the natural philosophy of De Gravitatione resemble that of Newton’s later writings; and (iv) how closely does Newton’s physics compare with modem physics? (GB) #17.1.100 PARSHALL, KAREN. 1988. The art of ALGEBRA from AL-K~XOWARIZMI to VIBTE: A study in the natural selection of ideas. History of Science 26(2), 129-164. The “natural selection of ideas” is an approach to the study of the historical and evolutionary development of mathematical ideas that may include a mathematician’s false starts, ill conceived techniques, and imperfectly formed theories. The author argues that the development of algebra from Al-Khowarizmi to Vi&e provides a good “test case” for this model of the natural selection of ideas. (GB) #17.1.101 92 ABSTRACTS HM 17 PARSHIN, A. N. See #17.1.22. PETROVA, S. S., AND BULICHEVA, M. G. 1989. On the history of NEWTON’S POLYGONAL METHOD. Istoriko-matematicheskie Issledouaniya 31, 38-51. [In Russian] Three matters are taken up. First is the view, represented by Yushkevich, that Newton did not consider the question of the number of developments of an implicit function in the neighborhood of the point x = 0. Second is Chebotarev’s objection that the term “Newton’s diagram” would not be appropriate for the method since Newton himself did not use a polygon but rather only drew a straight line in the diagram. And the third is the position that the analytical representation of the polygonal method is almost exclusiveIy tied to the name of LAGRANGE, although D. M. Sinzov has already indicated an analytical approach to the question in Newton. The authors base their review on Newton’s manuscripts published by D. T. Whiteside in 1971 and in particular on the incomplete work of 1684 on series. (SH) #17.1.102 Prcurrr, ETTORE. 1989. Pour l’histoire des sept premiers nombres parfaits. Historia Mathematics 16(2), 123-136. The history of the first seven PERFECT NUMBERS. Two manuscripts from 1458 and 1460 by ALLIEVO DEL VAIAIO contain the fifth and sixth perfect numbers, respectively. The criteria fol- lowed by PIETRO CATALDI are also explained. NUMBER THEORY. See also #17.1.32. (DEZ) #17.1.103 PLACKETT, R. L. 1988. Data analysis before 17.50. International Staristical Review 56(2), 181-195. The focus is on nonstatistical DATA ANALYSIS in pneumatics, sound, and physiology during the period 1650-1750. STATISTICS. (DEZ) #17.1.104 POLOVINKIN, S. M. See #17.1.22. REY PASTOR, JULIO. 1988. Julio Rey Pastor. Selecta. Madrid: Edition of the Real Acad. Cie. Exact. Fis. Nat. Fundacion Banco Exterior. 724 pp. Comments by Sixto Rios, Luis A. Santalo, and Ernest0 Garcia Camarero. A selection of REY PASTOR’S publications on Analysis, Algebra, Geometry, and Topology. SPANISH MATH. (VA) #17.1.105 RoDRfGuEz CONSUEGRA, FRANCISCO. 1988. Bertrand Russell, 1900-1913: Los principios de /a matemdtica (parte 1) (Bertrand Russell, 1900-1913: The principles of mathemafics (Part 1). Mathesis (M&co) 4, 355-392. The last of three papers dealing with the genesis of BERTRAND RUSSELL’S “Principles.” PEANO. CANTOR. (VA) #17.1.106 RODRIGUEZ CONSUEGRA, FRANCISCO. 1988. Elementos logicistas en la obra de Peano y su escuela (Logicist elements in Peano’s work and his school). Mathesis (Mexico) 4, 221-299. MATH LOGIC. FOUNDATIONS. PEANO. (VA) #17.1.107 ROERO, C. S. 1989. Giomate di storia della matematica. Historia Mathematics 16(2), 171-172. Report from an international symposium held September 8-12, 1988, in Cetraro (Cosenza), Italy, dealing with the birth and first developments of CALCULUS, and the achievements of modem mathe- matics beginning with the last decades of the 19th century. A list of speakers and the titles of their lectures is included. (DEZ) #17.1.108 ROSE, H. E. 1988. R. L. GOODSTEIN (1912-1985). Bulletin of the London Mathematical Society 20, 159-166. Goodstein was “greatly influenced by LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN,” and he “was the first person whose main interests were in mathematical LOGIC to hold a chair in a British university.” To be more specific, his interests included RECURSIVE FUNCTIONS, FOUNDATIONS, and the PHILOSOPHY OF MATHEMATICS. In addition to being a member of the faculty, Goodstein held several administrative positions at the University of LEICESTER, 1948-1977. Also, he was quite active in the MATHEMATICAL ASSOCIATION, serving as editor of the Mathematical Gazette, 1956-1962, and as president of the Association, 1975-1976. Included is a list of 12 of Goodstein’s research students, a list of his 11 books and 132 papers and notes, and a photo. (JA) #17.1.109 HM 17 ABSTRACTS 93 Ross, GEORGE. 1989. Lagrange conference. Historia Mathematics X(2), 174-175. Report of a one- day conference held at King’s College, London, to mark the 200th anniversary of LAGRANGE’S Mb- chanique analitique. (DEZ) #17.1.110 Rowe, David E. 1989. Symposium on the history of modern mathematics. Historia Mathematics 16(3), 271-280. Abstracts of 29 papers, about half of which deal with the interface between pure and applied mathematics, from a symposium held June 20-24, 1988, at Vassar College. (DEZ) #17.1.111 SALIBA, GEORGE. 1986. The determination of new planetary parameters at the Maragha Observa- tory. Centaurus 29(4), 249-271. Analysis of the determination of Jupiter’s eccentricity according to the Ptolemaic model, using observations of Yahya b. Abi al-Shukr al-MAormmt in his 13th~century text halkhis al-majisti. There is also a brief comment on Maghribi’s use of a clock. ASTRONOMY. (TB) #17.1.112 SCANLAN, MICHAEL J. 1988. Beltrami’s model and the independence of the parallel postulate. History and Philosophy of Logic 9(l), 13-34. A treatment of NON-EUCLIDEAN GEOMETRY in which BELTRAMI’S original model is contrasted with its later presentation that occurred after the shift in attitude toward the axiomatic method in the 1890s. LOGIC. Mathematical Reviews 89h:01037. (DEZ) #17.1.113 SENETA, E. See #17.1.52. SHEN, KANGSHEN. 1988. Historical development of the Chinese remainder theorem. Archive for History of Exact Sciences 38(4), 285-305. Discusses the appearance of problems on simultaneous congruences, and their solution methods, in China, Japan, India and Europe, from ancient Chinese calendrical reckoning to Gauss’ Disquisitiones Arithmeticae. ALGEBRA. (TB) #17.1.114 SHEN, KANGSHEN. See #17.1.75. SHERRY, D. 1987. The wake of Berkeley’s Analyst: Rigor Mathematicae? Studies in History and Philosophy of Science W(4), 455-480. Questions the traditional view that BERKELEY’S Analyst im- pugned the foundations of the newborn CALCULUS and spurred mathematicians to situate their edifice more securely. Instead, the author reexamines the Analyst’s criticisms both in the context of Berke- ley’s philosophy and the development of the calculus. The author argues that there is some of Berke- ley’s “idealism” that is more congenial to Newton’s approach to the calculus. (GB) #17.1.115 SHEYNIN, 0. B. 1989. Letters from A. M. LYAPUNOV to K. A. ANDREEV. Zstoriko-matemati- cheskie Zssledouaniya 31,306-313. [In Russian] Six letters from the archives at Lomonossov Univer- sity in Moscow are published and commented upon. (SH) #17.1.116 SHIELDS, ALLEN. 1989. BANACH ALGEBRAS, 1939-1989. The Mathematical Zntelligencer 11(3), 15-17. A discussion of some contributions of I. M. GELFAND to FUNCTIONAL ANALYSIS, including his collaboration with D. A. RAIKOV and G. E. SHILOV. (DEZ) #17.1.117 SHIMURA, GORO. 1989. YUTAKA TANIYAMA and his time: Very personal reflections. Bulletin ofthe London Mathematical Society 21, 186-196. In his tragically short life, Yutaka Taniyama (1927-1958) was “one of the most brilliant and pioneering minds of the time” (the middle 1950s) and “the moral support of many of those who came into mathematical contact with him” at the UNIVERSITY OF TOKYO. This affectionate and intimate memoir also recounts the start of Taniyama’s promising career (ALGEBRAIC NUMBERS). There are two photos and a list of Taniyama’s five papers and two books (with G. Shimura). (JA) #17.1.118 SIKIC, ZVONIMIR. 1986. Joseph Louis Lagrange (on the 250th anniversary of his birth). Matematika (Zagreb) #(4), 47-50. A brief treatment of the influence of JOSEPH LOUIS LAGRANGE on French mathematics. FRANCE. (DEZ) #17.1.119 94 ABSTRACTS HM 17 SIMSON, DANIEL. 1988. In memoriam. Journal of Pure and Applied Algebra 52(1-2), 76. Obituary of ROMAN KIELPIASKI (1939-1987). ALGEBRA. (DEZ) #17.1.120 SINGH, PARMANAND. 1987. “Ratna Matijusa,” a Jain work on Sanskrit prosody and binomial coefficients. The Mathematics Education 21(2), 44-50. Written about 800 A.D., this work of an un- known author contains two rules for the formation of BINOMIAL COEFFICIENTS. PERMUTATIONS. Mathematical Reviews 89gOlOl5. (DEZ) #17.1.121 SINGH, SUKHJIT. 1987. Publications of R. H. BING classified by the year. Topology Proceedings 12(l), 27-37. A list of 115 publications and one preprint from 1943 to 1986. TOPOLOGY. (DEZ) #17.1.122 SINHA, KRIPANATH. 1988. Vyaktaganitadhyaya of SrIpati’s SiddhrintaSekhara. Pp. 40-50 in #17.1.45. An English translation of, with an introduction to, SRIPATI’S SIDDHxNTA$EKHARA, a major work on ASTRONOMY written during the period 1039-1056 A.D. The 13th chapter, titled vyakta- ganitadhyaya, contains 55 verses, some of which deal with SERIES and MENSURATION. INDIAN MATH- EMATICS. (DEZ) #17.1.123 STIGLER, STEPHEN M. 1988. A look backward on the occasion of the centenary of the JASA. Journal of the American Statistical Association 83(403), 583-587. A discussion of the history of this PROFESSIONAL ORGANIZATION, including extracts from the first two volumes of JASA. (DEZ) #17.1.124 STONE, MARSHALL H. 1989. Reminiscences of mathematics at Chicago. The Mathematical Zntelli- gencer 11(3), 20-25. MARSHALL STONE served as the Chairman of the Mathematics Department at the University of Chicago for 7 years. Here he discusses his drastic revision of the curriculum. See also #17.1.13 for an accompanying commentary. AMERICAN MATHEMATICS. (DEZ) #17.1.125 STRUIK, D. J. 1988. Dirk Jan Struik. NTM-Schriftenreihe fir Geschichte der Naturwissenschaften, Technik und Medizin 25, 5-23. Interview with David E. Rowe covering aspects of Struik’s life and work. (ACL) #17.1.126 SWETZ, FRANK J. 1989. Using problems from the history of mathematics in classroom instruction. The Muthematics Teacher 82(5), 370-377. There are several sets of problems for students to solve that interested early mathematicians. The problems are drawn from different time periods of China, Egypt, Babylonia, India, Europe, and America. EDUCATION. (DEZ) #17.1.127 TYRRELL, J. A. 1989. PATRICK Du VAL (1903-1987). Bulletin of the London Mathematical Society 21,93-99. Du Val was a student of H. F. BAKER in ALGEBRAIC GEOMETRY, and he also was influenced by FEDERIGO ENRIQUES and other Italian geometers of the 1930s. His most important mathematical contributions were concerned with ALGEBRAIC SURFACES. His book (1973) “is the best source, in English, for the geometric applications of ELLIPTIC FUNCTIONS.” He made many geometric models, some of which are still to be seen at University College, London. There are two photos and a list of 60 of Du Val’s publications, but omitted are his works published in Turkish while he was on the faculty of the University of Istanbul. (JA) #17.1.128 VALERA, MANUEL. See #17.1.20. VAN DEN DRIES, Lou. 1988. Alfred Tarski’s elimination theory for real closed fields. The Journal of Symbolic Logic 53(l), 7-19. A description of the history of some of ALFRED TARSKI’S contributions to LOGIC. Mathematical Reviews 89h:OlO40. (DEZ) #17.1.129 VAN DER WAERDEN, B. L. 1987. The astronomical system of the Persian tables, II. Centaurus M(3), 197-211. A continuation of the paper entitled “Das Astronomische System der Persischen Tafeln I” that appeared in Centaurus W(l%S), l-28. In that first part, 16 horoscopes recorded by the HM 17 ABSTRACTS 95 Arabian astrologer IBU HIBINTA were analyzed. The aim was to reconstruct the astronomical theory underlying the tables which were used to compute the horoscopes. In the present continuation, the author wishes to compare the lunar longitudes presented in the horoscopes with those computed by means of the Midnight System. PERSIA. ASTRONOMY. (GB) #17.1.130 VAN DER WAERDEN, B. L. 1988. A summary of Roger Billard’s L’Astronomie indienne. Pp. 21-30 in #17.1.45. ROGER BILLARD’S book Indian astronomy [In French] sheds light on INDIAN ASTRONOMY by its method of dating astronomical theorems. (DEZ) #17.1.131 VAN DER WAERDEN, B. L. 1988. Die Astronomie der Griechen. Eine Einfiihrung. Dannstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. xi + 315 pp. Illustrated. Paperback. The author intends this to be a less mathematical treatment than 0. Neugebauer’s A history of ancient mathematical astronomy (1975). He emphasizes, for example, the observations upon which the mathematics is based. The work includes an argument that the heliocentric theory of Aristarchos of Samos played a much greater role in scientific GREEK ASTRONOMY than has been hitherto assumed. (ACL) #17.1.132 VIZGIN, V. P. 1988. Die Rolle der Mathematik bei der Aufnahme der Relativitltstheorie und der Quantenmechanik in Russland und in der U.d.S.S.R. NTM-Schriftenreihe fiir Geschichte der Naturwissenschaften, Technik und Medizin 25, 33-42 (The role of mathematics in the acceptance of RELATIVITY THEORY and QUANTUM MECHANICS in RUSSIA and the U.S.S.R.) (ACL) #17.1.133 VIZGIN, V. P. 1989. The role of mathematics in the acceptance of fundamental physical theories (in the case of relativity theory and quantum mechanics in Russia and in the U.S.S.R.). Istoriko-mate- maticheskie Zssfedouaniya 31,75-87. [In Russian] This study points out the greatly increased ROLE OF MATHEMATICS IN PHYSICS, with its new structures, which moved into prominence in the first third of the 20th century. This new mathematics essentially played no role in the classical theories which were tied to national mathematical traditions. The author’s goal is to show that, in the case being consid- ered, the “mathematical canal” for the acceptance of the scientific revolution was of substantial, if not decisive, significance. (SH) #17.1.134 WANG, YUAN. 1985. Obituary. Graphs and Combinatorics l(3), 205-206. LUO-GENG HUA (1910- 1984). GRAPH THEORY. (DEZ) #17.1.135 WHITE, MICHAEL J. 1988. On continuity: Aristotle versus TOPOLOGY. History and Philosophy of Logic 9(l), l-12. An analogy between ARISTOTLE’S idea of “continuity” and topological notions of continuum. Mathematical Reviews 89g:O1007. (DEZ) #17.1.136 WHYBURN, LUCILLE. 1987. R. H. Bing 1949-50. Topology Proceedings 12(l), 177-180. Some reminiscences and comments about R. H. BING at the University of Virginia in 1949-1950. TOPOLOGY. (DEZ) #17.1.137 WILLIAMS, GURNEY, III. 1989. The master of math. Omni 11(S), 58-64. Was RAMANUJAN reli- gious? This article, otherwise a standard biographical sketch, answers “No.” (REK) #17.1.138 WILSON, ROBIN. 1989. Mathematics in the Low Countries. The Mathematical Zntelligencer 11(3), 80. Stamps honoring SIMON STEVIN, JOHANN DE WITT, and CHRISTIAAN HUYGENS. (DEZ) #17.1.139 Wu, WEN-TSUN. 1987. Recent studies of the history of Chinese mathematics. In Proceedings of the International Congress of Mathematicians, Vol. 2, pp. 1657-1667. Providence, RI: American Mathematical Society. A panoramic view of various results of recent historical research on ancient CHINESE MATHEMATICS. The major topics include problems concerning integers, GEOMETRY, and ALGEBRA. Mathematical Reviews 89h:OlOO8. (DEZ) #17.1.140 YUSHKEVICH, A. P. 1989. On the history of the scientific relationships between mathematicians in the USSR and France (on the election of S. N. BERNSTEIN, I. M. VINOGRADOV, and M. A. LAVREN- 96 ABSTRACTS HM 17 TIEV to the Paris Academy of Sciences). fstoriko-matematicheskie Issledouaniya 31, 273-305. (In Russian] The evaluative reports held at the archives of the Paris Academy on these three mathemati- cians are transcribed with a commentary. (SH) #17.1.141 ZHMUD, LEONID. 1989. Pythagoras as a mathematician. Historia Mathematics 16(3), 249-268. An examination of the reliability of the evidence concerning PYTHAGORAS’S mathematical studies, and the IogicaI establishment of his contributions. DEDUCTIVE PROOF. (DEZ) #17.1.142 
work_hyvcsab6k5aofdl4svlblk7l54	----	PLEASE SCROLL DOWN FOR ARTICLE This article was downloaded by: [Wright, Tom] On: 8 June 2010 Access details: Access Details: [subscription number 922889062] Publisher Routledge Informa Ltd Registered in England and Wales Registered Number: 1072954 Registered office: Mortimer House, 37- 41 Mortimer Street, London W1T 3JH, UK Studies in Travel Writing Publication details, including instructions for authors and subscription information: http://www.informaworld.com/smpp/title~content=t902189980 The results of locomotion: Bayard Taylor and the travel lecture in the mid- nineteenth-century United States Tom F. Wright Online publication date: 08 June 2010 To cite this Article Wright, Tom F.(2010) 'The results of locomotion: Bayard Taylor and the travel lecture in the mid- nineteenth-century United States', Studies in Travel Writing, 14: 2, 111 — 134 To link to this Article: DOI: 10.1080/13645141003747207 URL: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13645141003747207 Full terms and conditions of use: http://www.informaworld.com/terms-and-conditions-of-access.pdf This article may be used for research, teaching and private study purposes. Any substantial or systematic reproduction, re-distribution, re-selling, loan or sub-licensing, systematic supply or distribution in any form to anyone is expressly forbidden. The publisher does not give any warranty express or implied or make any representation that the contents will be complete or accurate or up to date. The accuracy of any instructions, formulae and drug doses should be independently verified with primary sources. The publisher shall not be liable for any loss, actions, claims, proceedings, demand or costs or damages whatsoever or howsoever caused arising directly or indirectly in connection with or arising out of the use of this material. http://www.informaworld.com/smpp/title~content=t902189980 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13645141003747207 http://www.informaworld.com/terms-and-conditions-of-access.pdf Studies in Travel Writing Vol. 14, No. 2, June 2010, 111–134 The results of locomotion: Bayard Taylor and the travel lecture in the mid-nineteenth-century United States Tom F. Wright* During the mid-nineteenth century, appearances by returning travellers were a ubiquitous feature of the American popular lecture circuit. Attending such talks was one of the few means by which the majority of citizens acquired an insight into distant cultures. These ‘travel lectures’ became an idiom of an emerging mass entertainment culture, one of the period’s more under-appreciated and idiosyn- cratic cultural practices. Drawing upon a range of archival materials, this essay explores the scope of the phenomenon during the period 1840–70, and argues that these oratorical events represented interpretive performances or ‘dramas of appraisal’ through which performers brought reformist themes to the platform. Focusing on the career of the poet, writer and diplomat Bayard Taylor – the archetypal ‘travel lecturer’ of the period – it reveals the ways in which he used the form to advance a moral vision of mid-century American cosmopolitanism. Keywords: travel; lecture; oratory; oratorical culture; performance; cosmopoli- tanism; nineteenth century; United States; Bayard Taylor In a chapter of Little Women (1868) entitled ‘Literary Lessons’, Louisa May Alcott’s heroine Jo is disturbed from her writing and ‘prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture’ at the Concord Lyceum: It was a people’s course – the lecture on the Pyramids, – and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied, or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs, to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx. Unmoved at the speaker ‘prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabeti and hieroglyphics’, Jo proceeds instead contentedly to compose stories in her head before ‘the lecture ended, and the audience awoke’. 1 The incident gently satirised an American scene immediately familiar to much of Alcott’s domestic audience. On winter evenings during the mid-nineteenth century, hundreds of communities throughout the nation gathered in meeting halls and lyceums to consume edifying addresses by visiting orators. The period represented the peak of the American popular lecture system, offering eclectic ‘people’s courses’ of talks in towns such as Alcott’s Concord, Massachusetts. Alongside lectures on temperance and ethical conduct, the appearances of returning travellers delivering eyewitness accounts of exotic locations were a ubiquitous feature of the circuit. Speaking at the Brooklyn Athenaeum in February 1860, New England abolitionist and orator Wendell Phillips delivered just such an address, a lecture entitled ‘Street Life *Email: tomwright@post.harvard.edu ISSN 1364–5145 print/ISSN 1755–7550 online � 2010 Taylor & Francis DOI: 10.1080/13645141003747207 http://www.informaworld.com D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 in Europe’. The Brooklyn Eagle reported that, introducing the topic to his audience he remarked that: the system of public lecturing might be considered from one point of view as a great labor-saving machine. One man travels through books and brings back to you the result of his journeying; another travels over the globe and brings back the result of his locomotion. 2 Such presentations of the ‘results of locomotion’ became an established idiom of an emerging mass entertainment culture, one of the more under-appreciated and idiosyncratic cultural practices of the period. Attending such talks was one of the scarce means by which many Americans acquired an insight into distant geographies and cultures. These presentations – which I term ‘travel lectures’ – covered a diverse array of oratorical performances, but often involved a single figure recounting and interpreting esoteric personal experiences. It was a form attempted by figures as various as Anna Dickinson, Herman Melville and Mark Twain, and the specialism of a handful of principal performers such as Bayard Taylor, the archetypal ‘travel lecturer’ of the period. Beginning to think about the travel lecture through its appearance in Little Women allows us to glimpse its uncertain contemporary status. Alcott’s ironic portrayal suggests that audiences routinely assumed the utility of lyceum discourses, uncritically presuming that they would meet ‘some’ broad national appetites and address ‘some’ imprecise reform agendas. Moreover, she posits that this reflex assumption blinded lecture-goers to the tangential irrelevance of addresses such as travel accounts. They were thus axiomatically middlebrow cultural productions, of putative cultural capital but lacking in import, occupying an ambiguous cultural status. Partly as a result, like Alcott’s heroine Jo, modern scholarship seems to have taken the popular travel lecture, ‘for granted’, as an innocuous sideshow to more contentious, pungent oratory. Surprisingly for an aspect of culture so important to so many, there has been a relative lack of recent engagement with nineteenth-century public lecturing in the United States, aside from the work of Donald Scott, Angela Ray and David Chapin. 3 This is in part an inevitable consequence of the ephemeral nature of lecture culture. Nonetheless, the materials for its study – broadsides, newspaper reports, advertisements and manuscripts – are far from scant, and combine to provide glimpses of the transnational appetites and curiosities of the mid-century republic. In what follows, I draw upon a range of such materials to offer an outline sketch of the broad phenomenon of the travel lecture during the years 1840–70, the period of its greatest popularity and a fleeting moment before visual technologies diluted its essentially literary character. 4 Reconsidering the diverse cultural work performed by these lectures, I adopt Alcott’s phraseology to recover the ways in which they both supplied various ‘great wants’ of mid- century culture and assailed some of the republic’s ‘great social evils’. I trace this interplay through the richly suggestive figure of Taylor, whose attempts to advance a moral vision of exemplary cosmopolitanism reveals the ambivalence and limits of the travel lecture form. The lyceum and popular lecture system What became known as the ‘lyceum movement’ originated from a pioneering institution for community education established in Millbury, Massachusetts in 1826, aiming to provide workers with a secular, non-partisan centre for civic life. 5 Catalysed by the self- improvement ethos of the Jacksonian era, a loosely connected network of between 4000 and 5000 similar lyceums had developed nationally by 1840. 6 Their initial participatory 112 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 character gradually evolved into a commercial circuit based upon the hosting of lectures in seasons that ran from October to April, and by 1855 the Boston Evening Transcript observed that ‘every town or village of any sort of enterprise or pretentions has its annual course of popular lectures, while the cities support several courses’. 7 In smaller communities, performances took place in town halls; in the major cities, venues and lecture-sponsoring organisations proliferated, and stages such as Boston’s Tremont Temple and Philadelphia’s Musical Fund Hall became hallowed platforms. Though Northern authors maintained that the system ‘never existed in the South and could not be tolerated there’, a Southern circuit had been in existence since the 1830s and venues such as the Richmond and Charleston Lyceums became important lecturing centres. 8 According to Scott, ‘by fairly conservative estimate, attendance at public lectures probably reached close to half a million people each week during the lecture season’. 9 An average lecture price of 50c prescribed a certain income, and lecture-going was traditionally associated with female and young male members of the emerging middle classes, a self-consciously refined arena for communal edification. Furthermore, as one observer saw it, the lyceum had a markedly nativist emphasis, with ‘foreign immigrants’ tending ‘to avoid it – or to taste of it, as they do of any other national dish, with courtesy but not with relish’. 10 In practice, the movement represented an institutional attempt to foster the ethos and values of Northeastern civic nationalism. 11 In addition to being trailed in advance, noteworthy lectures were recorded in prominently placed newspaper reports, which ranged from brief précis to verbatim transcriptions. These evocative reports were often interpretative, providing a commentary on attendance and audience reaction, and were an essential part of the ‘text’ of any lecture, generating a potentially revealing discursive interplay between journalist and performer. Such reports raise inevitable authorial problems, with some rendered in direct reported speech, others in a shifting hybrid of transcription and editorial exegesis. Crucially, this reporting practice meant that the audience for any given lecture was threefold: a primary audience in the venue, perhaps a few thousand at most; a second audience of thousands more readers who consumed lectures in papers such as the New York Tribune with national readership; and a potential third group who read subsequent appropriated reprints of these lecture reports in local papers across the nation. 12 These institutional arrangements gave birth to the short-lived profession of the ‘public lecturer’ and the dominance of the national marketplace by a small number of eminent names largely drawn from the metropolitan elites of Boston and New York who toured the country lucratively each winter. 13 Hailed by Putnam’s Magazine in 1857 as ‘the intellectual leaders of intelligent progress in the country’, these celebrity lecturers included such renowned cultural figures as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Brooklyn preacher Henry Ward Beecher, and temperance speaker John B. Gough. 14 Travel lectures One condition of the circuit was that speakers brought to the platform some form of practical first-hand knowledge, and in this way, physicians, military veterans and cultural arbiters of all kinds found enthusiastic audiences. So too did the broader group of individuals returning from distant excursions. In the mid-century republic, travellers were by definition people of consequence, and accounts of their experience were seen to promise both entertainment and information. For the purposes of this discussion, the ‘travel lecture’ is defined as an oral rendition of first-hand experience, imparting esoteric Studies in Travel Writing 113 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 knowledge about distant places or peoples, most often delivered by Americans returning from international excursions. It represented a discursive space where several other modes of expression and inquiry – natural history, popular anthropology, comparative politics, autobiography, landscape description – overlapped in the lecture hall. Approaches and registers ranged from the urbane to the demotic, from scientific analysis to touristic reminiscence. As Scott maintains, ‘the travel lecture was less a travelogue than a kind of comparative ethnography’ an oratorical performance that fused description and comparison to communicate the realities of unfamiliar geographic and social conditions, with the cardinal aim of allowing audiences to ‘travel’ vicariously. 15 No season would have been complete without at least one lecture topic occasioned by a period of travel, and these performances became a hallmark of courses from the humblest lyceum to prestigious courses such as Boston’s Lowell Institute series. 16 A high- water mark of the vogue for these lectures can be seen in the records of the Salem, Massachusetts Lyceum course of 1853–4 (Figure 1). 17 In this season, which featured some of the circuit’s leading names, five out of 18 lectures were on subjects that newspaper accounts confirm as reports of international or domestic travel: ‘France’, ‘Cuba and the Cubans’, ‘Europe’, ‘The Arabs’ and ‘The Valley of the Mississippi’. 18 As this course suggests, the repertoire of locations covered in these lectures was eclectic, a range that provides an index to the fashions of the period and antebellum society’s thirst for knowledge about the world beyond the republic. Perennially popular subjects were locations such as the Holy Land, Western Europe, and the developing American West; most attractive of all were the even more exotic locations of Africa, the Far East and the Arctic. The range of travel orators was also diverse, the personalities of individual performers frequently being as important an attraction as their chosen theme. The Atlantic Monthly observed in 1865 that ‘narratives of personal travel . . . have been quite popular, and indeed, have been the specialties of more than one of the most popular of American lecturers, whose names will be suggested at once by this statement’. 19 First, there were those such as Taylor or the Arctic explorers Elisha Kent Kane and Isaac Hayes, whose fame largely rested on voyages; second, there were more substantial public figures such as Mendelssohn Quintette Club – Concert George Sumner – France Ralph Waldo Emerson – American Character George B. Cheever – Reading and Mental Cultivation W.H. Hurlbut – Cuba and the Cubans William R. Alger – Peter the Great John P. Hale – Last Gladiatorial Exhibition at Rome Octavius B. Frothingham, Salem – Europe Thomas Starr King – Property George W. Curtis – Young America Henry Ward Beecher – Ministrations of the Beautiful Theodore Parker – The Function of the Beautiful Bayard Taylor – The Arabs Henry W. Bellows – New England Festivals Anson Burlingame – The Valley of the Mississippi D.A. Wasson – Independence of Character Prof. Guyot – Distribution of the Races Wendell Phillips – The Lost Arts In The Massachusetts Lyceum During the American Renaissance, ed. Kenneth W. Cameron Figure 1. Salem Lyceum Course 1853–4. 114 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 Phillips or Emerson, who sporadically reflected upon their travels on the platform. 20 Reports also testify to travel accounts delivered by some curious or unexpected figures. During the early 1860s, audiences throughout the country were treated to Rev. W.H. Milburn, former chaplain to the US Congress, speaking on ‘What a Blind Man Saw in Paris’ and ‘What a Blind Man Saw in London’. 21 In 1872, Civil War General William T. Sherman regaled Cincinnati with an unlikely account of ‘his travels among the Greek islands’. 22 Perhaps most peculiar, in 1859 The Lowell Daily Citizen tells us of ‘a fellow named McKinney’: who escaped jail at Dayton, Ohio, went to New Madison, Indiana, and gave a course of lectures on his travels in the Holy Land. He did the thing so well that he was invited to repeat his lectures in the college there, but before he had finished an officer came along in pursuit, and he was obliged to make a precipitate retreat. 23 As Carl Bode observed, ‘the traveler who brought back his tales could generally count on prompt engagements’, in part due to lecture committees’ approval of travel reports as reliably uncontroversial. 24 Public lecturing operated within a carefully regulated discursive space, and as Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr was later to remark, there was ‘an implied contract to keep clear of doubtful matters’. 25 Alongside biography or conduct, ‘travel’ presentations were viewed as an ideal way of achieving this whilst simultaneously meeting the lyceum’s original function of ‘diffusing’ useful information. 26 These lectures could aid an appreciation of novel agricultural processes; could foster an understanding of other nations and peoples; and could underwrite democratic decisions with an awareness of competing traditions and social formulations. As Henry David Thoreau remarked of the self-censorship of the lyceum, ‘the little medicine [audiences] get is disguised with sugar’: these lectures offered the ‘sugar’ of pleasurable evocation, alongside ‘medicinal’ acts of cultural translation. 27 To be sure, the ostensible emphasis of these events was frequently on entertainment, most clearly in such presentations as the ‘thrilling’ Arctic narratives of Kane and Hayes. 28 Lectures could consist of mere international small talk, as in a series of lectures on ‘England and the English’ delivered by Rev. C. Pinkney in Baltimore in 1844, which dealt mostly in physical descriptions of Queen Victoria and Albert. 29 They could also offer vehicles for light satirical commentary, as in playwright Dion Boucicault’s 1854 ‘Sketches of European Society’, which humorously lampooned the foibles of the French and British nobility. 30 They could even occasionally resemble theatrical performance, as with Gough’s series of flamboyant lectures on London during the 1860s, the highlight of which was a series of well-received impersonations of cockney street characters and Parliamentary figures. 31 Other categories of lecturer offered more substantively educational experiences to audiences. Some such as French-American naturalist Paul du Chaillu used reports as the basis for popular scientific instruction, and the popularity of his accounts of Africa was the subject of a Harper’s Weekly article in 1869 (Figure 2). 32 As depicted in Little Women, others offered historical and archaeological descriptions, frequently accompanied with visual aids, as in an 1840 New York lecture on ‘Modern Jerusalem’ ‘illustrated with 40 splendid Illuminated Paintings, from drawings taken on the spot’ (Figure 3). 33 Subjects and locations were often topical, supplying news and fresh information, with a number of lecturers providing first-hand accounts of the European revolutions of 1848, the Great Exhibition of 1851 and the Paris Exposition of 1869. 34 Particularly urgent were those addresses by Civil War participants which provided Northern audiences with eyewitness accounts of the progress of the Union forces in the South. 35 Studies in Travel Writing 115 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 A popular sub-genre of presentation supplied another ‘great want’ of Eastern audiences in the form of explanations and interpretations of westward expansion. Frequently performed by missionaries, clerics or settlers, these lectures often had the more or less explicit aim of spurring internal emigration, offering inspiration and guidance for Easterners hoping to emulate pioneer success. They could be anthropological, as Figure 2. ‘Mr. Paul Du Chaillu Lecturing to the Young People of Boston’, Harper’s Weekly, 6 March 1869. Figure 3. Mr. Dickinson, ‘Lecture Descriptive of Modern Jerusalem’, New York, 1840. Reproduced with permission of American Antiquarian Society. 116 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 in Rev. Parsons’s 1841 report on ‘The Physical, Social and Moral Condition of Wisconsin Territory’ in Worcester, Massachusetts (Figure 4). 36 Other examples were straightfor- wardly autobiographical, such as Rev. Peter Cartwright’s lectures on ‘Pioneer Life in the West’ at the Episcopal Church in Manhattan in 1860. 37 This brand of lecture represented part of the dominant imperialist discourse surrounding Manifest Destiny, but Eastern audiences were also occasionally treated to oppositional visions of Western developments, as in the talks of Native American Chief Kah-ge-ga-gah-bowh (aka ‘George Copway’), who lectured widely during the 1840s and 1850s describing the landscapes of Wisconsin and the threatened practices of the Ojibway tribe. 38 As this survey demonstrates, the performances of travellers supplied a range of the ‘great wants’ of nineteenth-century culture: providing excitement, escapism, adventure, instances of heroism, patriotic reassurance and guidance. Travel lectures also sometimes aimed to remedy ‘great evils’ of antebellum society, and a number of performers used the form as an oblique but effective medium for bringing reformist themes to the platform. Many used accounts of experience abroad to rebuke American society, as was the case with New York Tribune editor Horace Greeley’s admonitory account of the Great Exhibition entitled ‘The Crystal Palace and Its Lessons’, which lamented the state of American industry and advocated reform of free trade. 39 Similarly, Phillips’s ‘Street Life in Europe’ drew on experience of Old World racial attitudes to condemn the relative intolerance exhibited in the cities of the US. 40 Others used a comparative frame as a warning, as with educationalist Horace Mann’s lecture on ‘Great Britain’ which drew on descriptions of the English labouring classes to argue for the necessity of republican educational institutions. 41 During the late 1860s, women’s rights reformer Anna E. Dickinson toured an eyewitness report of Utah entitled ‘Whited Sepulchres’, a piece that began as a descriptive travel narrative, before evolving into an outspoken critique of gender relations under Mormonism. 42 Figure 4. Rev. Parsons, ‘The Physical, Social and Moral Condition of Wisconsin Territory’, Worcester, MA, 1841. Reproduced with permission of American Antiquarian Society. Studies in Travel Writing 117 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 The most incendiary of such lectures were those by orators who used reports of both international and domestic travel as vehicles for abolitionist sentiment. This was true of both international and domestic topics. Speaking before the Boston Mercantile Library Association in 1847, the well-travelled Senator Charles Sumner offered an account of ‘White Slavery in the Barbary States’, marvelling at how ‘the evil I am about to describe . . . banished at last from Europe, should have entrenched itself in both hemispheres between the same parallels of latitude’. 43 In a lecture featured in the Salem course of 1853–4, Free Soil Party spokesman Anson Burlingame spoke on the seemingly innocuous topic of ‘The Valley of the Mississippi’, but the Cambridge Chronicle reported that he ‘elected this subject . . . for the purpose of fixing a few transient memorials of that wonderful valley’, before documenting the lecture’s escalation to a crescendo of anti- slavery rhetoric: ‘In the name of humanity, I protest: let the declaration go forth from Old Fanueil Hall, let it rise from every section of the republic . . . by every shining mountain, Nebraska Shall Be Free!’ 44 In providing this broad platform for cross-cultural reflection, the eyewitness travel report offered a significant degree of freedom to orators, a potential discursive range far beyond any notional remit. Performers could exploit an innocuous set of broad conventions of the travel report – evocative first-hand description, curious information, comparative cultural interpretation – to pronounce on almost any subject. Rhetorically, they were acts of inductive reasoning, treating empirical experience of distant practices to argue for local reform. As with the wider genre of nineteenth-century travel writing, these lectures centred on potent messages about ‘nationhood’ and ‘otherness’, articulated with varying degrees of conscious obliqueness. However, the oral form transformed the purchase of this wider literary mode; in this still largely pre-visual mode, language was called upon to usher expectant audiences into distant lands. Moreover, oral renditions of travel material allowed for the evolving emotional or dramatic movement of the travel account to be experienced communally. Travel talks were therefore above all performances of interpretation, or dramas of appraisal. Though often fragmentary in their record of audience response, newspaper reports occasionally provide a sense of this galvanising public atmosphere. As Lawrence Levine has remarked of the performance culture of the period, ‘the very ethos of the times encouraged active audience participation’, a reality amply illustrated in reports of two lectures on British themes in 1850s’ New York. 45 An account of Emerson’s lecture on ‘England’ in 1850 recorded that ‘the loudest and most animated cheering occurred at the mention of the name of Oliver Cromwell – proof positive that he was before an audience who sprung from the people of whom Oliver was one’. 46 Three years later, a report on Mann’s ‘Great Britain’ detailed the dramatic silencing of a heckler: a gentleman from the gallery said he would like to say a word on the other side of the question. He was from the manufacturing districts, and could say that the statements were exaggerated; that – The gentleman’s voice was overpowered by a storm of sibillation. 47 Both cases testify to the readiness with which certain audiences endorsed or appropriated the symbolism of orators’ cross-cultural representations. Moreover, the experience of reading these reports reminds us that the importance of these events only partly lay in their initial oral expression. The implications of these dramas of appraisal were transformed through their reproduction in the print media, and reporters and editors participated in the encoding and dissemination of performances. Promotional materials were also central to this process, and advertising for these events reveals a range of motivations for attendance. Some lectures were marketed as purely 118 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 informational, others as more aspirational, as with Gough’s talks on London, which were specifically recommended to Philadelphia audience members ‘who design visiting the English metropolis’. 48 Most others were advertised simply in terms of narrative value or descriptive appeal. Performers deficient in these prized qualities were not highly regarded, the most prominent example being Melville, whose short-lived platform career speaking on ‘The South Seas’, and ‘Statues in Rome’ during the mid-1850s suffered from his apparent failure to provide such stimulation. 49 These performances existed as part of what David Chapin has termed ‘a culture of curiosity, built on knowledge of the world presented as both amusement and useful education’. 50 The purveyors of such knowledge occupied a unique place in mid-century culture, their lecturing activities providing ‘the possibility of forging careers’ in Lewis Perry’s terms ‘as intellectual middlemen’. 51 The act of travel rendered performers crucially distinct from most of their audience, and the ‘result’ of locomotion could be gauged by how separate and distinct these performers had become. Due to their accomplishments, travel lecturers represented exemplars, but were also obliged by lyceum conventions to interpret privileged experiences in a demotic way, to be simultaneously exceptional and representative. Bayard Taylor: performing cosmopolitanism Of no performer of the period was this more true than Bayard Taylor, the travel writer, poet and diplomat whose lectures dominated the platform of the 1850s. An 1873 Harper’s Weekly illustration entitled ‘The Lyceum Committeeman’s Dream’ (Figure 5) depicted him striding purposefully in Russian attire amidst a cohort of fellow celebrity orators, Figure 5. ‘The Lyceum Committeeman’s Dream – Popular Lecturers in Character’, Harper’s Weekly, 15 November 1873. Bayard Taylor top centre. Studies in Travel Writing 119 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 including Susan B. Anthony, Wilkie Collins and Mark Twain. One historian of the lyceum has termed him among ‘the most admired and talked-about men in antebellum America’, and his 1879 Harper’s Weekly obituary recalled that: for a long time in his earlier life, his lectures of travel were more charming and attractive to the public than any other lyceum oratory; special trains were run, and no hall was large enough for the crowds that wished to hear him. 52 Born into moderate means in Pennsylvania in 1825, Taylor rose to prominence as a result of serialised newspaper dispatches of his youthful adventures as an impoverished but resourceful traveller in Europe during the early 1840s. When these experiences were subsequently published as Views Afoot: Europe Seen with a Knapsack and Staff (1846), a generation of middle-class Americans were offered an innovatory guide to enjoying the Old World ‘on the cheap’. Possessed of acquisitive linguistic gifts and considerable personal charm, he found himself a natural traveller, and his combined voyages were on a vaster scale than any author or lyceum performer, covering more ground than perhaps any other American of his age. At the height of Gold Fever in 1849 Taylor travelled West to California and Mexico, excursions which resulted in El Dorado: Adventures in the Path of Empire (1850). In 1851 he travelled to the Levant and sailed down the Nile; in 1852 he pressed on to India and China before achieving his greatest coup the following year, accompanying US Commodore Perry on the successful 1853 commercial ‘opening’ of Japan. 53 The output from these and other voyages was prolific – including A Journey to Central Africa (1854); The Lands of the Saracen (1854); A Visit to India, China and Japan (1855); and Northern Travel (1857) – and Taylor became a literary sensation, widely hailed as a patriotic hero. Upon his return from Japan in 1854, he observed to his publisher that ‘curiosity is alive to see ‘‘The Great American Traveller’’. It provokes me and humiliates me, but I suppose it is natural, and I must submit to it.’ 54 Taylor duly embarked upon the lecture circuit, satisfying the curiosity of audiences across the nation who ‘longed to look upon this friend who had been with them such a pleasant companion in so many strange lands’. 55 He proved an immediate success, and though he soon grew to resent the time-consuming pressures of lecturing, he could not resist its rewards and repeatedly undertook full winter tours. 56 Taylor’s account books state that between 1850 and 1865 he delivered almost 800 lectures, netting him an average salary of $3363 versus the $2058 he received from publishing. 57 His repertoire consisted of a nucleus of five main lectures on exotic locations – ‘The Arabs’ (toured from 1853), ‘Japan and Loo Choo’ (1853); ‘India’ (1854), ‘Life in the North’ (1858) and ‘Moscow’ (1858) – alongside which Taylor frequently delivered a more abstract piece entitled ‘The Philosophy of Travel’ (1856). 58 In later years his attention turned to presentations on German literature and, to mixed success, ambitious socio- political addresses on such grand themes as ‘The American People’ (1861) and ‘American Life’ (1866). This latter group have been the only pieces to have received critical attention, but it is on the first group of popular eyewitness reports that his considerable contemporary fame rested. 59 Taylor periodically appeared in the costume of the region about which he was speaking, adopting Oriental robes while performing ‘The Arabs’ or an oversized Cossack cap for touring ‘Moscow’ (see Figures 6 and 7). 60 This theatrical element of his ‘act’ was central to his appeal. However, unlike fellow performers who became increasingly reliant upon visual aids, ‘magic lanterns’ and illustrations, reports suggest that Taylor’s art was a primarily oral, literary phenomenon. For the modern reader, some of this literary appeal 120 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 is elusive. In his published works, he is often a repetitive and wearisome guide, his admirably complete immersions in local culture frequently marred by a stylistic tendency for superlatives and extraneous statistics. The lecture scripts are necessarily comparatively condensed, and the more effective for it. Mature pieces such as ‘Moscow’ are relatively tightly focused, finely wrought collage-like compositions that weave exotic cultural allusion to figures from Western and Eastern traditions, anecdotes, precise geographic detail and rhapsodic imagery. In Alcott’s terms, Taylor’s performances met several great wants of antebellum culture: his accounts afforded vicariously pleasurable escapist experiences, and his appraisals met the ‘great want’ of international classification. An account of an 1854 performance of ‘Japan and Loo Choo’ in Cambridge, Massachusetts, centred on just such an act of classification, beginning with a comparison between the Chinese and the inhabitants of Japan, with the lecturer concluding the latter to be ‘immensely superior in capability and in promise . . . The Chinese however, are a stupid, almost witless race, fitted to their stagnant condition’. Such troubling moments represented influential codifications of races in hierarchical relation to putative American progress. During his platform career Taylor’s style developed from this early reductive emphasis on racial hierarchy towards meeting the ‘great want’ of aesthetic stimulation through vivid geographic sketches that served as dramatic highlights. It was this latter quality that was Figure 6. ‘Bayard Taylor’, Putnam’s Monthly, Vol. 4.4, August 1854. Studies in Travel Writing 121 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 clearly most admired by audiences. ‘Japan and Loo Choo’ was praised in New York in 1854 for its ‘extremely graphic . . . descriptions of the island scenes’ that generated ‘the strongest expressions of pleasure from the audience’; an 1855 Ohio report recorded that ‘his listeners can see clearly in their minds eye the things of which speaks’. 61 Having attended ‘Moscow’ in 1858, The Philadelphia Press deemed him ‘a true, faithful word- painter of scenes that come within the range of his perceptive intellect – Taylor’s powers are certainly extraordinary’. 62 One such dioramic set-piece occurs towards the beginning of ‘Moscow’, a recollection of Taylor’s first sight of the capital, worth quoting at length for its cumulative effects: Your eyes, accustomed to the cool green of the woods and swamps, are at first dazzled with the light. The sun is reflected from hundreds of gilded domes, whose long array fills up one third of the horizon, the nearest ones flashing in your face, and the farthest sparkling like stars in the distance. I have heard people attempt to compliment Nature by saying of a celebrated view: ‘How like a scene in a theatre!’ Yet one’s first impressions of Moscow might be expressed in almost these words. Its sudden burst of splendour – its confusion of gold and prismatic Figure 7. Bayard Taylor Carte de Visite, c. 1860 (Berg Collection, New York Public Library). 122 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 colors – does not belong to the sober landscape which surrounds it or the pale Northern sky which looks down upon it. It is an immense dramatic show, gotten up for a temporary effect, and you can scarcely believe that it may not be taken to pieces and removed as soon as its purpose has been achieved. Whence comes this wilderness of grass-green roofs, of pink, blue and yellow houses, out of which rise by hundreds spire and towers, stranger and more fantastic than ever were builded [sic] in the dream of an insane architect? Whence these gilded and silvered domes, which blind your eyes with reflected suns, and seem to dance and totter in their own splendour, as you move? It can be no city of trade and government, of pleasure and scandal, of crime and religion, which you look upon. It was built while the lamp was yet in Aladdin’s hands. 63 Rather than capturing a static image, the varied rhythms and constructions of the passage strive to dramatise a process of observation and appraisal. Taylor emulates the assault of Moscow on the senses, a spectacle represented as celestial, feral, enchanted, yet delicately insubstantial. Russian otherness is figured against the propriety of the ‘sober’ landscape, offsetting the city’s ‘confusion’ and the strange daring of its architecture. To experience Taylor reciting such a passage and rehearsing its rhetorical questions was to participate in his succession of metaphysical uncertainties, to share in the essentially passive theatricality of travel. The passage’s invocation of such theatrical aspects alludes to an interplay of visual and literary arts in the contemporary performance culture of spatial representation, and offers a commentary on the pictorial character of his own prose, a ‘dramatic show gotten up for temporary effect’. In the absence of magic lanterns or illuminated paintings, mimetic literary executions such as Taylor’s provided audiences with their most vivid encounters with distant scenes. Even in such passages as this, Taylor’s account retains a curiously informational character in its specification of ‘one third of the horizon’, and a diffidence of tone in the tentative gesture of ‘it might be expressed’. Just as central to the effect of such scenes was Taylor’s pronominal flexibility. His scripts often let the third-person ‘traveller’ drive his narrative (‘this tale will naturally recur to the mind of the traveller, who approaches Moscow’), achieving a sense of objective distance from his own travels. 64 As with other performers, he also frames his experience with reference to plural ‘we’ and ‘us’ of American identity (‘If any of us had asked his neighbour, three years ago . . .’; ‘In Finland, we find a different class . . .’). 65 Significantly, however, Taylor largely avoids the first- person singular, characteristically employing the second-person to establish a voice simultaneously intimate and authoritative. In the above passage, the action of viewing Moscow thus takes place specifically for its listeners (‘your eyes’, ‘your face’, ‘you can scarcely believe’). By modulating the addressee of his lectures in this way, Taylor presented his exploits as merely one in a succession of potential voyages, intimating the essentially representative typicality of his exploits, and the plausibility of audience repetition of such feats. This stylistic self-effacement contributed to Taylor’s self-conscious attainment of fellowship with his audiences. His lectures resisted mystifying himself or his achievements, aiding the process of what Ray has termed ‘the symbolic creation of Taylor as the public’s own observer, simultaneously a celebrity and a compatriot’. 66 In 1855 the Wisconsin Patriot thought ‘his manner [is] not that of the orator, but that of the companion – conversational’; in 1860 the Springfield News maintained that ‘everybody likes Bayard Taylor because he is a man of the people and puts on no airs’. 67 The early image of Taylor as the resourceful, indigent everyman of Views Afoot appears to have remained with popular audiences, and central to this appeal was his position as part of but crucially apart from the antebellum literary establishment. Studies in Travel Writing 123 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 Among these elite contemporaries, he enjoyed a markedly less positive reputation. Fellow poet and editor Park Benjamin coined the notorious, widely circulated witticism that Taylor had ‘travelled more and seen less than any man living’. 68 Melville, perhaps harbouring a degree of resentment at his rival’s lyceum success, is believed by some to have used Taylor as the basis for ‘The Cosmopolitan’, the worldly but naive dilettante in The Confidence Man (1856). 69 A contemporary coolly remarked of his lecturing that ‘reports of his latest trip are always well-received by the large class who (as Goethe says in his analysis of playgoers) do not care to think, but only to see that something is going on’. 70 Modern critical opinion of his lecturing has generally concurred, considering him at best as a minor heir to the Genteel Tradition of such derided figures as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, at worst as a mere shill of colonialism, a disseminator of the racial prejudices of his day. 71 David Mead concluded of his platform career that ‘his appeal was conscious and calculated; he had no share in the ideal of spreading culture’. 72 Taylor’s colonial vision clearly represents the most challenging aspect of his work for modern readers. His books were filled with repeated claims of the nature that ‘every important triumph which man has achieved since his creation belongs to the Caucasian race. Our mental and moral superiority is self-evident.’ 73 In his lectures, a prominent aspect of this vision lay in the repeated theme of the celebration of the ‘mobility’ of nations. In ‘the course of History’ he observed in ‘The Philosophy of Travel’, ‘we shall find that a country is progressive, in proportion as its people travel. None of the great nations of the ancient world ever grew up to power on its original soil’. 74 This process of international mobility was characteristically expressed in a troublingly violent register, typified by the frequent rhetorical suggestion that the traveller ‘should rather seek to penetrate the national character of each country he visits’. 75 Taylor was evasive about the processes and implications of imperialism, remarking of his role in the ‘opening up’ of Japan to US trade that: I leave it to others to discuss the question whether Japan has not a perfect right to exclude herself from intercourse with the world . . . destiny does not pause to consider these questions. There are certain things which happen, whether they seem to be right or not. 76 This celebration of destiny is twinned in the dramatic closing tableaux of ‘Japan and Loo Choo’ with a vivid expression of militarist patriotism: We carried with us, as a token of our nationality, a small boat’s ensign, and on arriving at the gate of the capital, one of the sailors fastened it to a light staff which he stuck into the barrel of his musket, and thus we carried the flag in triumph through the centre of the town. 77 However troubling they may seem, emphasis on these seemingly oblivious imperial aspects alone risks missing the broader personal and party-political agenda at work in Taylor’s lecturing. Correspondence from his earliest days of touring registers his realisation of the potential of his new role, expressing pleasure in the ‘great satisfaction’ of ‘magnetizing so many persons at once’. 78 It also indicates that at least for a time, he consciously sought to articulate serious lessons through what he described as his ‘lecturing crusade’ across the nation. 79 Reports repeatedly record this resolute aspect to his performances, noting Taylor’s characteristic transition from graphic description to abstract cross-cultural analysis. In 1855, the Wisconsin Patriot reported having ‘listened with great pleasure to this most philosophical of travellers, and most travelled of philosophers’. 80 In 1858, the Philadelphia Press praised ‘the lecturer’s happy manner of tinging his vivid and life-like descriptions with the sober colors of sound philosophical content’. 81 The consistent message of Taylor’s later lectures ultimately appears less one of imperial destiny than a Whiggish enactment of exemplary stances of appraisal. In ‘The Philosophy 124 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 of Travel’, he announced the broad aim of ‘presenting some of the nobler aims of travel . . . rescuing the practice from the imputation of being merely the result of an unsettled state of mind, or an unstable character’. 82 These nobler aims were most clearly expressed in a passage of direct guidance: I know of no better advice to give to one who wishes to obtain that broad and living experience of the world which travel only can supply, than follow the example of St. Paul and become all things unto all men. You can establish no magnetic communication with another race, without conforming in some degree to their manners and habits of life. Unless you do this, you carry your own country with you wherever you go, and you behold new forms of life merely from the outside, without feeling the vital pulse which throbs beneath. The only true way of judging of a man’s actions is to place ourselves in his situation, and take our bearings from that point; and the only way to understand a people thoroughly is to become one of them, for a time. 83 All of his lectures were at least in part hymns to these benefits of breadth of experience, which for Taylor amounted to the cultivation of an attitude of cultural openness and cosmopolitanism. Taylor believed that he was witnessing the close of an age of authentic cultural cosmopolitanism, an ethos and way of life whose passing he mourned. Throughout his multiple careers as traveller, diplomat and man of letters, he worked up a distinct vision of this lost cosmopolitan ideal, one reliant on versatility, adaptation and resistance to the wilder claims of nationalism. It was an ethos central to his cultural agenda, at the heart of such projects such as his Cyclopaedia of Modern Travel (1856), but was one he sought to convey most energetically on the lecture platform. 84 Taylor was one among several Whig voices who used the lyceum to urge for a reining in of boosterist passions, and the tendency of the United States to overvalue itself. One of the most popular performances of the period, Wendell Phillips’s ‘The Lost Arts’ (included on the 1853–4 Salem course discussed earlier) was a comparable attack on self-indulgent nationalist boosterism, advocating a greater respect for the achievements of past global civilisations. 85 Such sentiments became a major theme of Taylor’s lectures, disseminated by plentiful lecture reports. In 1854 ‘The Arabs’ reminded audiences in Georgia that ‘those who have only associated with their own race have but a little knowledge of human character’; ‘Man and Climate’ opened in Brooklyn in 1860 ‘with some general remarks setting forth the desirableness of acquiring a knowledge of the different branches of the human family’. 86 While unfailingly affirmative about American life, these lectures drew upon Taylor’s foreign experience to advocate a more sophisticated, cosmopolitan form of patriotism. This cosmopolitanism was reiterated through the aesthetic values of Taylor’s lectures. Their stylistic layering and multicultural allusiveness supplied for audiences a stance of elegant discrimination, and the frequently unassuming nature of his observations communicated a position of confident discernment. It was also part of the casualness of his tone, a disavowal of the high seriousness of his peers on the platform, favouring meandering over linear narrative. In ‘Japan and Loo Choo’, for example, he said: I propose, therefore, to give you my impressions of the Japanese, with such illustrations as may suggest themselves, rather than a connected narrative of my experience, much of which has already been made public. 87 If a cosmopolitan stance can be defined as partly that of boredom, then Taylor’s lecturing frequently exemplified this blasé attitude. 88 ‘In walking through palaces you lose your sense of the value of jewels’, he remarked in ‘Moscow’, ‘you look upon them at last with as much indifference as upon pine wood and pottery’. 89 These values were imparted through his urbane platform persona. In 1854, the Newark Advocate thought his style ‘dignified, Studies in Travel Writing 125 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 simple and unaffected’; in 1858, the Cambridge Chronicle considered his ‘easy conver- sational style’ to have ‘afforded a pleasant contrast to the spread eagle and pompous lectures so much in vogue’. 90 Taylor’s cosmopolitanism was almost a matter of physical bearing, his insouciance and costumes offering audiences the spectacle of the cosmopolite. Taylor has long been associated with Genteel literary culture, a milieu whose association has dogged his reputation, but whose own members are currently attracting revived interest for their comparably cosmopolitan emphases. 91 While he certainly enjoys many affinities with this tradition and with the Whig culture of Greeley’s Tribune, the intimate accessibility of his everyman persona also embodied a type of non-elite cosmopolitanism. As a lyceum celebrity, he personified the obtainable goal of travel, its potential for social mobility and personal growth, offering audiences a form of ‘performed cosmopolitanism’. It was in one sense cosmopolitanism as commodity whereby, for the price of admission, lyceum-goers could vicariously obtain ‘that broad and living experience of the world’. 92 Attending his performances, Taylor’s admirers gained exposure to an aspirational way of life: literary, itinerant, and amicable, an apparent representative of broadminded republican manhood. As the 1860s began, Taylor’s lyceum career faced a growing problem. Correspondence reveals his recognition of the absurdities of the occupation, not least the fact that conditions for the traveller on the provincial platform circuit were often as oppressive and treacherous as those in the regions about which he spoke. Eager to focus on more literary endeavours, he was increasingly unwilling to accumulate the experiences necessary for fresh travel lectures, turning to socio-political themed talks that were perhaps not best suited to his talents. Partly due to this shift in subject matter and his continued association with the abolitionist New York Tribune, Taylor became embroiled in the unavoidable clamour towards sectional conflict, and suffered a high-profile cancellation of his speaking engagements before the Young Men’s Christian Association in Richmond in 1860. 93 As Civil War broke out, Taylor continued to lecture to Northern audiences, perhaps now more than ever meeting the ‘great wants’ of escapism through his exotic accounts. Nonetheless, an 1863 Washington, DC, performance of ‘Moscow’ led to a memorable exchange with one such audience member who retained a belief in Taylor’s potential to remedy the most urgent of ‘great social evils’. Having attended the lecture at Willard’s Hall on 23 December, Abraham Lincoln wrote to Taylor, with whom he had a passing personal acquaintance, requesting the commission of a lecture on the realities of Russian serfdom, as an instructive parallel to Confederate slavery: My Dear Sir. I think a good lecture or two on ‘Serfs, Serfdom, and Emancipation in Russia’ would be both interesting and valuable. Could not you get up such a thing? Yours truly A. LINCOLN. 94 Though evidently deeply flattered, Taylor, due to time constraints, was forced to reply to his President in the negative: I am very much gratified by the manifestation of your personal interest in the subject, and hope that I may be able to contribute, though so indirectly, to the growth of truer and more enlightened views among the people. 95 This exchange testifies to a mutual belief in the reformist potential of the lecture circuit, and to Lincoln’s keen sense of the ‘value’ of popular amusements in shaping national opinion. Perhaps disclosing lingering doubts regarding his own abilities, it reveals Taylor’s awareness of the significant, ‘indirect’ cultural agency of his lecturing activities. It articulates his determination to exploit his ambiguous position as the ‘Great American 126 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 Traveller’ as a platform from which to stage resistance to what he regarded as misguided national sentiments, aspiring not only to captivate audiences, but to convert them. As Larzer Ziff has observed, ‘he believed he had acquired a comparative base from which to point out to his countrymen America’s shortcomings’. 96 The waning of Taylor’s lecturing career during the late 1860s, however, suggests the limits to this form of cultural authority. Upon his turn towards political commentary, audience responses grew increasingly lukewarm, and reports speak to a popular reluctance towards his more explicit comparative analyses. A report of ‘Ourselves and Our Relations’ from Quincy, New York, in December 1865 concluded that whilst ‘Mr. Taylor is a scholar, and has the appearance and bearing of a gentleman, as one might expect from so extensive a traveller . . . he is not a great thinker’, observing that he merely took ‘skilful advantage of his pursuit and position to propagate . . . purely partisan ideas’. 97 Sections of the public were seemingly unwilling to entirely accept the premise of the insightful traveller as oppositional voice. As George Landow has observed regarding the rhetorical authority of nineteenth-century non-fiction, ‘the audience is willing to pay attention to someone extraordinary and set apart from the majority of men, but any claim that one possesses special insight threatens to drive them away’. 98 By 1870, one New York reporter recommended that ‘Bayard Taylor can stand down. His audiences on his last lecture tour have been slim. He is ausgespielt [ finished].’ 99 Despite this retreat, not long before his death in 1878 Taylor pointed to an apparently enduring legacy of his lecturing tours, noting that ‘hardly a week passes, but I receive letters from young men’ influenced by his example: to achieve the education of travel; and believing as I do that the more broad and cosmopolitan in his views a man becomes through his knowledge of other lands, the purer and more intelligent shall be his patriotic sentiment – the more easily he shall lift himself out of the narrow sphere of local interests and prejudices – I rejoice that I have been able to assist in giving this direction to the mind of the American youth. 100 This direction came in the form of a continual entreaty for an appreciation of global culture and a challenge to parochialism and the wilder excesses of nationalism. These sentiments of curiosity and nuance were offered as the ‘results’ of his locomotion: results whose moral and civic benefits his writings insistently dignified, and which the dramas of appraisal of his underappreciated lyceum performances helped bring to the remotest communities in the nation. Epilogue In the years following the Civil War, the lecture circuit increasingly professionalised, culminating in the dominance of lecture agencies such as the Redpath Lyceum Bureau. 101 The catalogues of these agencies attest to the continued popularity of travel themes, which persisted in the successful career of explorer George Kennan into the late 1890s, by which time the lecture system evolved into the Chautauqua movement. 102 By this time, advances in visual technology had decisively ended the era of the free-standing, oral travel narrative. In effect, these lectures had always been embedded in a wider performance culture of spatial geographic representation alongside magic lanterns, raised maps and panora- mas. 103 Since the 1840s, lectures had occasionally been accompanied by illustrations and paintings (as in Figure 3), but by the post-war period even those lecturers who had earlier dealt in unadorned accounts now often presented stereopticon views, with oral testimony as a prominent but secondary attraction. 104 As the century drew to a close, heirs to Taylor Studies in Travel Writing 127 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 such as John L. Stoddard and Burton Homes achieved national fame as purveyors of the kinds of cinematic travelogues which film historian Jeffrey Ruoff has recently termed ‘virtual voyages’. 105 Meanwhile, a more conceptual challenge had been launched against the authority of these eyewitness reports. From the late 1850s humorists such as Stephen Massett and Artemus Ward began to tour the lecture circuit offering comic talks billed as straightforward eyewitness travel accounts. In 1863, Ward spoke in Ohio on ‘Sixty Minutes in Africa’, which the Cincinnati Inquirer recorded as a series of disjointed witticisms that closed with the declaration ‘I have not told you much about Africa. You did not suppose I would, and so, as the prestidigitators say, there is no deception about that.’ 106 Its Cincinnati audience recognised the satire: ‘The speaker administered some telling blows at the prevailing folly of putting on airs and funnily took off the ignorance concerning the West which prevails in New England.’ 107 Upon the transfer of the lecture to the East Coast, there was more irritation at Ward’s ‘deception’, and the Brooklyn Eagle concluded that the lecture had been a mere ‘joke on the audience . . . he spoke of almost everything but Africa, which was merely alluded to incidentally’. 108 The most prominent parody of this type was a lecture billed as ‘A Lecture on the Sandwich Islands’, the performance that helped introduce obscure journalist Mark Twain to national consciousness. First performed in San Francisco in 1868, it consisted of an obtuse account of his impressions of Hawaii gained as a correspondent for Californian newspapers, burlesquing the typically lofty informational tone of travel accounts: These islands are situated 2,100 miles southwest from San Francisco, California, out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Why they were put away out there, so far away from any place and in such an out-of-the-way locality, is a thing which no one can explain. 109 In a similar vein, advertisements for the lecture’s San Francisco performances (Figure 8) took aim at the mock-grandeur of certain lyceum presentations, announcing ‘A SPLENDID ORCHESTRA/is in town, but has not been invited/A DEN OF FEROCIOUS WILD BEASTS/Will be on exhibition in the next block/ MAGNIFICENT FIREWORKS/Were in contemplation for his occasion, but the idea has been abandoned.’ 110 By the time Twain reached the East, the act was being billed as a ‘humorous lecture’. 111 Despite this, in Jamestown, New York an audience member wrote to express outrage at ‘the irrelevancy and senselessness of nearly all his lecture . . . I went there expecting to hear something thrilling and original about those interesting islands, and this trash was all he had to offer.’ 112 The town’s newspaper felt it necessary to clarify that the lecturer had used his ‘ostensible theme for the sole purpose of hanging jokes to it’. 113 ‘The Sandwich Islands’ was in part a repudiation of Pacific missionaries and the genre of the ‘missionary lecture’. It also represented a broader challenge to the conventions and assumptions of the ‘travel lecture’, invoking a set of regional and class antagonisms. As portrayed in this essay, typical performers were overwhelmingly elite Northeastern males, often doubtless pompous in their appraisals of international experience for the ‘benefit’ of mid-Western audiences. In a sense Twain and Ward merely offered a more extreme version of the oblique way in which purveyors of travel lectures talked ‘around’ and ‘against’ the advertised themes of their talks. Their burlesques mocked the high- minded sobriety of the lyceum, debunking the prestige surrounding the activities of orators such as Taylor and exposing travel lecturing as merely another confidence trick. They concurred with the spirit of Alcott’s contemporaneous depiction in Little Women of such 128 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 lectures as lofty and ephemeral, an idiom of condescending cultural appraisals directed at social inferiors. Conclusions The dramas of appraisals offered by these travel lectures remains a largely unexplored area. Anglophone culture offers plentiful contemporary analogues to this American Figure 8. ‘The Sandwich Islands’, San Francisco Bulletin, 1 October 1866. Reproduced with permission of American Antiquarian Society. Studies in Travel Writing 129 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 phenomenon, from Anglican missionary talks and Royal Geographical Society presenta- tions to the lectures of Victorian comic orators such as Albert Smith. 114 Nonetheless, British parallels apparently offer little of comparable scope to the example of the United States. Entertainments involving global comparison were particularly attuned to the curiosities and anxieties of a nation with a rapidly expanding land empire, its history so characterised by mobility. Moreover, it was a culture in which oratory enjoyed a prominent national role, and in which the civic virtue of knowledge diffusion had acquired republican distinction. 115 Given this civic impetus, the enthusiasm of travel lecturers might be seen as an heir to the reportorial duties of returning travellers’ re-aggregation rituals in classical republicanism. 116 Moreover, as Judith Adler and others have argued, all processes of travel represent modes of ‘performance’; the phenomenon discussed in this essay proposes a suggestive way in which cultural aspects of this performance might be said to occur upon travellers’ return. 117 Despite the legitimate critiques of Twain and Alcott, it is clear that these performances represent a dynamic and still largely underexplored field of cultural activity. More than simply part of nineteenth-century spectacle culture, popular renditions of travel experiences should be recognised as influential ‘rational amusements’, operating at the intersection of mass culture and moral discourse. It was an oratorical phenomenon that offered a fleeting literary mode through which performances could foster inventive and powerful comparative views of American identity. As I have demonstrated, these dramas of appraisal provided a space for communal thinking about place, national selfhood, and the ethics of interpretation; they met both the ‘great wants’ of a mass society, and attempted to engage with its ‘great social evils’. It was a space whose creative and reformist potential was exploited by public figures such as Taylor as a unique vehicle for popular moral critique. Acknowledgements Research for this article was made possible by the award of a Mary C. Mooney Fellowship at the Boston Athenaeum. It owes much to the advice of Angela Ray, the generosity of Murray Wheeler Jr, Barbara and Eugene McCarthy, and the comments of Sarah Meer, Tim Youngs, Rav Casley Gera and James Emmott on early versions of this material. Notes 1. Louisa May Alcott, Little Women, Good Wives [1868] (London: Everyman, 1994), 293. 2. ‘Street Life in Europe’, Brooklyn Eagle, 22 February 1860. 3. Donald Scott, ‘The Popular Lecture and the Creation of a Public in the mid-Nineteenth- Century United States’, The Journal of American History 66, no. 4 (1980): 791–809; Scott, ‘Print and the Public Lecture System 1840–1860’, in Printing and Society in Early America, ed. William Joyce et al. (Worcester, MA: American Antiquarian Society, 1983); and Scott, ‘The Profession that Vanished: Public Lecturing in Mid-Nineteenth-Century America’, in Professions and Professional Ideologies in America, ed. Gerald Grierson (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983). Angela Ray, The Lyceum and Public Culture in the Nineteenth-Century United States (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2005); and Ray, ‘What Hath She Wrought? Woman’s Rights and the Nineteenth-Century Lyceum’, Rhetoric & Public Affairs 9, no. 2 (2006): 183–213. David Chapin, Exploring Other Worlds: Margaret Fox, Elisha Kent Kane, and the Antebellum Culture of Curiosity (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2004). Earlier valuable studies include Carl Bode, The American Lyceum: Town Meeting of the Mind (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956) and David Mead, 130 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 Yankee Eloquence in the Middle-West: The Ohio Lyceum 1850–1870 (East Lansing: Michigan State College Press, 1951). 4. This essay draws upon (a) the newspaper holdings of the American Antiquarian Society; The Boston Athenaeum; Cambridge University Library; Harvard Widener Library, and Readex Historical Newspapers Online (Series 1–7); (b) the broadside holdings of the above and Boston Public Library, Massachusetts Historical Society and New York Historical Society; (c) the manuscript holdings of the above and Boston Public Library; Chester County Historical Society, PA; Cooper Union Library; and Harvard Houghton Library. 5. Josiah Holbrook, American Lyceum, or Society for the Improvement of Useful Knowledge (Boston, MA: Perkins & Marvin, 1829). 6. Bode, American Lyceum, 15. 7. ‘Popular Lectures’, Boston Evening Transcript, 29 October 1855. 8. Josiah Holland, ‘The Popular Lecture’, Atlantic Monthly 15, no. 89 (March 1865): 370. For accounts of the Southern lyceum, Jonathan Daniel Wells, The Origins of the Southern Middle Class 1800–1861 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina), 97; and Michael O’Brien, All Clever Men Who Make Their Way: Critical Discourse in the Old South (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1992); Bode, The American Lyceum, 87. 9. Scott, ‘The Profession That Vanished’, 12. Scott explains that ‘the figure is based on an estimate that 2000 lectures, with an average attendance of 250 people, took place each week during the season. See Robert J. Greef, ‘Public Lectures in New York: A Cultural Index of the Times’ (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1941), 4–7. 10. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, ‘The American Lecture-System’, Living Age 97, no. 1244 (April 1868): 630. 11. Ray, The Lyceum and Public Culture, 2. For the distinction of civic and ethnic nationalisms, I draw on the discussion in James McPherson, ‘Was Blood Thicker Than Water? Ethnic and Civic Nationalism in the American Civil War’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 145 (1999): 102–08. 12. See Meredith McGill, American Literature and the Culture of Reprinting 1834–1853 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002). 13. Holland, ‘The Popular Lecture’, 363; Scott, ‘The Profession That Vanished’, 10–12; and Lewis Perry, Boats Against the Current: American Culture Between Revolution and Modernity 1820–1860 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 173–85. 14. Anon., ‘Lectures and Lecturers’, Putnam’s IX (March 1857): 318. 15. Scott, ‘The Popular Lecture and the Creation of a Public’, 803. For this understanding, I draw on the discussion in James McPherson, ‘Was Blood Thicker Than Water? Ethnic and Civic Nationalism in the American Civil War’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 145 (1999): 102–08. 16. For example, ‘Prof. H. D. Rogers, The Arctic Regions’ and ‘E.H. Davis, Mounds and Earthworks of the Mississippi Valley’, on the 1853–4 course. A full course list is provided in Harriet Knight Smith, History of the Lowell Institute (Boston, MA: Lamson, Wolffe & Co., 1898). 17. Kenneth Walter Cameron, ed., The Massachusetts Lyceum During the American Renaissance (Hartford, CT: Transcendental Books, 1969), 19. 18. For example, ‘Athenaeum Lecture: Valley of the Mississippi’, Cambridge Chronicle, 11 February 1854; ‘Bayard Taylor on The Arabs’, Macon Georgia Telegraph, 14 February 1854. 19. Josiah G. Holland, ‘The Popular Lecture’, The Atlantic Monthly 15, Issue 89 (March 1865). 20. For an in-depth treatment of Kane’s career see Chapin, Exploring Other Worlds, 11–112. 21. ‘The Lecture’, Rochester Union and Advertiser, 9 December 1870. 22. ‘Gen. Sherman Gives a Lecture’, Cincinnati Daily Gazette, 6 December 1872. 23. ‘Misc. Items’, Lowell Daily Citizen and News, 14 April 1859. 24. Bode, The American Lyceum, 230. 25. Oliver Wendell Holmes, The Professor at the Breakfast Table [1858] (London: Everyman’s Library, 1906), 109. 26. Josiah Holbrook, American Lyceum, or Society for the Improvement of Useful Knowledge (Boston, MA: Perkins & Marvin, 1829), 20. 27. Henry David Thoreau, 16 November 1858, The Heart of Thoreau’s Journals (New York: Courier Dover, 1961), 203. Studies in Travel Writing 131 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 28. For example, ‘Dr. Hayes Lecture at Musical Fund Hall Last Evening’, Philadelphia Press, 10 January 1862. 29. ‘England and the English’, Baltimore Sun, 26 April 1844. 30. ‘Sketches of European Society’, Cambridge Chronicle, 18 February 1854. 31. For example, ‘John B. Gough at the Academy of Music Last Evening’, Philadelphia Press, 19 February 1861; ‘General City News – Lecture by John B. Gough’, New York Times, 25 January 1867; ‘John B. Gough at the Academy of Music – The Great Metropolis’, Brooklyn Eagle, 4 April 1865. 32. ‘Mr. Paul Du Chaillu Lecturing the Young People of Boston’, Harper’s Weekly, 6 March 1869. 33. ‘The Great Lecture of the Season’, New York Tribune, 9 February 1860. 34. For example, ‘Benjamin Silliman on Paris’, 1870, Free Saturday Night Lectures Index, Cooper Union Library; ‘The Crystal Palace and Its Lessons – A Lecture by Horace Greeley’, New York Times, 1 January 1852; ‘Mr. Stansbury’s Lecture on the World’s Fair before the Maryland Institute’, Baltimore Sun, 24 January 1852. 35. ‘Campaign of the Army of the United States in Louisiana’ invitation card, Boston Tremont Temple 1863, American Antiquarian Society. 36. ‘Mr Dickinson – Modern Jerusalem’ broadside, Dutch Reformed Church, New York, 1840, American Antiquarian Society. 37. ‘Lecture: Wisconsin Territory’ broadside, 1841, American Antiquarian Society. 38. See George Copway, Life, Letters and Speeches (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). 39. Horace Greeley, The Crystal Palace and Its Lessons: A Lecture (New York: Dewitt and Davenport, 1851). 40. Wendell Phillips, ‘Europe’ undated scrapbook, Harvard Houghton Library. 41. ‘Great Britain’ undated scrapbook, Massachusetts Historical Society. 42. See Ray, The Lyceum and Public Culture, 157–61. 43. Charles Sumner, White Slavery in the Barbary States: A Lecture (Boston, MA: Ticknor & Fields, 1847). 44. ‘Athenaeum Lecture: Valley of the Mississippi’, Cambridge Chronicle, 11 February 1854. 45. Lawrence Levine, High Brow/Low Brow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988), 179. 46. ‘Lecture on England at the Mercantile Library by Ralph Waldo Emerson’, New York Herald, 23 January 1850. 47. ‘People’s Lectures – Great Britain. A Lecture by Horace Mann’, New York Times, 10 March 1853. 48. ‘Mr John B. Gough’s Lectures’, Philadelphia Inquirer, 18 February 1861. 49. See Merton Sealts Jr, Melville as Lecturer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957). 50. Chapin, Exploring Other Worlds, 8. 51. Lewis Perry, Intellectual Life in America: A History (New York: Franklin Watts, 1984), 261. 52. Mead, Yankee Eloquence, 113; ‘Bayard Taylor Remembered’, Harper’s Weekly, 11 January 1879. 53. Larzer Ziff, Return Passages: Great American Travel Writing, 1780–1914 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 141–54. 54. ‘Bayard Taylor to James. T. Fields’, 17 February 1854, in Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor, ed. Marie Hansen-Taylor (Boston, MA, 1884), 269. 55. Isaac Edwards Clarke, A Tribute to Bayard Taylor: Read before the Literary Society of Washington, March 8, 1879 (Washington, DC: Mohun Bros., 1879). 56. See Ziff, Return Passages, 156–8. 57. Private Account Book, Bayard Taylor Collection, Houghton Library, Harvard University. See also Theresa Ellen Moran, ‘Bayard Taylor and American Orientalism: 19th Century Representations of National Character and the Other’ (PhD diss., Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, 2005), 45. 58. For this essay, the following lecture manuscripts have been examined: ‘Japan and Loo Choo’, ‘The American People’, ‘Moscow’, ‘The Philosophy of Travel’, ‘American Life’, ‘The Animal Man’. All manuscripts held at Chester County Historical Society, Pennsylvania. 59. Robert Warnock, ‘Unpublished Lectures of Bayard Taylor’, American Literature (1933): 122–32. 60. ‘Bayard Taylor’, Putnam’s Monthly 4, no. 4 (August 1854). See also Peter G. Buckley, ‘Paratheatricals and Popular Stage Entertainment’, in The Cambridge History of American 132 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 Theatre, Vol. 1: Beginnings to 1870, ed. Don Wilmeth and Christopher Bigsby (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 475. 61. ‘Bayard Taylor’s Lecture’, New York Evening Post, 21 January 1854; ‘Bayard Taylor Lecture’, Daily Toledo Blade, 15 January 1855. 62. ‘Bayard Taylor’, Philadelphia Press, 6 November 1858. 63. Taylor, ‘Moscow’ manuscript, 5–6. 64. Taylor, ‘Moscow’, 2. 65. Taylor, ‘Japan and Loo Choo’ manuscript, 1; ‘Moscow’, 15. 66. Ray, ‘Popularizing Imperialism: Bayard Taylor and the U.S. Expedition to Japan, 1853’, in Proceedings of the 2nd Tokyo Conference on Argumentation, ed. Takeshi Suzuki et al. (Tokyo: Japan Debate Association, 2004), 208. 67. ‘Bayard Taylor’s Lecture’, Wisconsin Patriot, 6 April 1855; Springfield News, 27 November 1860 quoted in Mead, Yankee Eloquence, 123. 68. Hansen-Taylor, Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor, 523. 69. See Hans-Joachim Lang and Benjamin Lease, ‘Melville’s Cosmopolitan: Bayard Taylor in The Confidence-Man’, Amerikastudien 22 (1977): 286–9 (289). 70. Higginson, ‘The American Lecture System’, 363. 71. Richard Cary, The Genteel Circle: Bayard Taylor and His New York Friends (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1952); for recent postcolonial readings, see Ziff, Return Passages, 118–69. 72. Mead, Yankee Eloquence in the Middle-West, 118. 73. Quoted in Richmond Croom Beatty, Bayard Taylor: Laureate of the Gilded Age (Oklahoma City: University of Oklahoma Press, 1936), 153. 74. Taylor, ‘The Philosophy of Travel’ manuscript, 5. 75. Taylor, ‘Japan and Loo Choo’, 21. 76. Taylor, ‘Japan and Loo Choo’, 21. 77. Taylor, ‘Japan and Loo Choo’, 24. 78. Taylor to George H. Boker, 5 February 1854, in Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor, ed. Hansen-Taylor, 268. 79. Taylor to James T. Fields, in Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor, ed. Hansen-Taylor, 272. 80. ‘Bayard Taylor’s Lecture’, Wisconsin Patriot, 6 April 1855. 81. ‘Bayard Taylor Lecture’, Philadelphia Press, 6 November 1858. 82. ‘Philosophy of Travel’, 15. 83. ‘Philosophy of Travel’, 32. 84. See Daniel Walker Howe, The Political Culture of the American Whigs (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1979). 85. Wendell Phillips, ‘The Lost Arts’ manuscript, Boston Public Library, p. 2. 86. ‘Bayard Taylor on The Arabs’, Macon Georgia Telegraph, 14 February 1854; ‘Man and Climate’, Brooklyn Eagle, 19 December 1860. 87. Bayard Taylor, ‘Japan and Loo Choo’, 3. 88. See David Simpson, ‘The Limits of Cosmopolitanism and the Case for Translation’, European Romantic Review, 16, no. 2 (April 2005): 141–52 (143). 89. Taylor, ‘Moscow’, 14. 90. ‘Irving Lectures’, Cambridge Chronicle, 18 December 1858; Newark Advocate, 29 March 1854, quoted in Mead, Yankee Eloquence in the Middle West, 116. 91. See for example, Christopher Irmscher, Longfellow Redux (Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2007). 92. Taylor, ‘Philosophy of Travel’, 32. 93. ‘Mr Bayard Taylor and the Young Christians of Virginia’, New York Tribune, 9 February 1860. The cancellation and its attendant controversy attracted significant national media attention, and was treated in reprinted articles in regional papers, for example, ‘An Invitation Withdrawn’, Weekly Georgia Telegraph, 18 February 1860; ‘Bayard Taylor and Virginia’, San Francisco Bulletin, 23 March 1860. 94. Lincoln to Taylor, 25 December 1863, in Abraham Lincoln: Speeches and Writings 1859–1865, ed. Don E. Ferhenbacher (New York: Library of America, 1989), 93. 95. Taylor to Lincoln, 28 December 1863, in Abraham Lincoln: Speeches and Writings 1859– 1865, 93. 96. Ziff, Return Passages, 156. Studies in Travel Writing 133 D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 97. ‘Bayard Taylor’s Lecture’, Quincy Daily Whig, 22 December 1865. 98. George Landow, Elegant Jeremiahs: The Sage from Carlyle to Mailer (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 54. 99. ‘Miscellaneous Items’, Jamestown Journal, 18 February 1870. 100. Taylor, By-Ways of Europe [1858] (New York: G. Putnam’s Sons, 1883), 12. 101. See Crawford A. Peffer, Outline History of the Redpath Lyceum Bureau (MA diss., Harvard University, 1953); John R. McKivigan, Forgotten Firebrand: James Redpath and the Making of Nineteenth-Century America (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008). Annual lists of lecturers and topics are contained in editions of Lyceum Magazine (1871–5), the American Antiquarian Society. 102. See discussion of Kennan’s lecture career in ‘The Forgotten George Kennan: From Cheerleader to Critic of Tsarist Russia’, World Policy Journal 19, no. 4 (Winter 2002/03): 79–84. 103. See Edward Ziter, The Orient on the Victorian Stage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 104. Consider the example of Isaac Hayes: 1850s and 1860s records of his performances (e.g. ‘Dr. Hayes Lecture at Musical Fund Hall Last Evening’, Philadelphia Press, 10 January 1862) contain no reference to illustrations, but by 1871 broadsides billed his appearances as ‘Dr. Isaac Hayes – the celebrated Arctic Explorer . . . magnificently illustrated by a GRAND STEREOPTICON’, 1873 Broadside, Exeter Lyceum, Massachusetts, American Antiquarian Society. 105. Jeffrey Ruoff, ed., Virtual Voyages: Cinema and Travel (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006); see also Robert Dixon, ‘What was Travel Writing? Frank Hurley and the Media Contexts of Early Twentieth-Century Australian Travel Writing’, Studies in Travel Writing 11, no. 1 (2007): 59–81. 106. ‘Sixty Minutes in Africa’, Cincinnati Inquirer, 5 March 1863. 107. ‘Sixty Minutes in Africa’, Cincinnati Inquirer, 5 March 1863. 108. ‘Artemus Ward in Brooklyn’, Brooklyn Eagle, 9 March 1867. 109. ‘The Sandwich Islands’, stenographed lecture report, Cooper Union Library. 110. ‘The Sandwich Islands’, San Francisco Bulletin, 1 October 1866. 111. ‘Our Fellow Savages’, Lecture Advertisement, Brooklyn Eagle, 10 February 1870. 112. ‘Mark Twain criticised – An Indignant Spectator’, Jamestown Journal, 28 January 1870. 113. ‘Criticism on Mark Twain’s Lecture for Adult Readers – Not to be read by People with weak stomachs’, Jamestown Journal, 28 January 1870. 114. See Giliana Bruno, Atlas of Emotion: Journeys in Art, Architecture, and Film (London: Verso, 2002), 117–20; and Edward Ziter, The Orient on the Victorian Stage. 115. Susan Gufstafson, Eloquence Is Power: Oratory and Performance in Early America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998), 7–11. 116. See Richard D. Brown, The Strength of a People: The Idea of an Informed Citizenry in America, 1650–1870 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996), 119–29. For rituals of re-aggregation in classical republicanism, see for example, Plato’s formulation of these rituals in ‘Laws’ XII in Plato: Complete Works, trans. Trevor J. Saunders, ed. John M. Cooper (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1997), 1320. 117. Judith Adler, ‘Travel as Performed Art’, American Journal of Sociology 94, no. 6 (1989): 1366–91. See also In Transit: Travel, Text, Empire, ed. Helen Gilbert and Anna Johnston (New York: Peter Lang, 2002). 134 T.F. Wright D o w n l o a d e d B y : [ W r i g h t , T o m ] A t : 1 8 : 1 9 8 J u n e 2 0 1 0 
work_i7dhpcdd3zbiln5a76uayacjbm	----	19: Interdisciplinary Studies in the Long Nineteenth Century Login | Register Home About 19 Live Articles Issues Contact Start Submission Account Login Register Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 This issue of 19 explores the contribution of women as collectors from the mid-nineteenth century to the aftermath of the First World War, paying particular attention to the cosmopolitan transfer of artworks, ideas, and expertise between Britain, France, and the United States. The authors reflect on women’s role in acquiring, displaying, and donating works of art, often in ways that crossed national borders or that subvert gendered assumptions about taste. Beyond its value as a form of personal expression, the articles reflect on how far collecting provided women with a public platform in the late nineteenth century, enabling them to shape the contents of cultural institutions and promote new types of inquiry. But the articles also cast light on the archival and methodological reasons why women’s crucial contributions in this domain have so often been obscured. The idea for this issue originated with the study days organized in 2019 to celebrate the philanthropy of Lady Wallace, who gifted the collections of the Hertford family to the nation. Cover image: Detail of William Rothenstein, The Browning Readers, 1900, oil on canvas, 76 × 96.5 cm, Cartwright Hall Art Gallery, Bradford. Editors: Tom Stammers (Guest Editor) Introduction Women Collectors and Cultural Philanthropy, c. 1850–1920 Tom Stammers 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 Article ‘Life was a spectacle for her’: Lady Dorothy Nevill as Art Collector, Political Hostess, and Cultural Philanthropist Caroline McCaffrey-Howarth 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 Beyond the Bowes Museum: The Social and Material Worlds of Alphonsine Bowes de Saint-Amand Lindsay Macnaughton 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 French Taste in Victorian England: The Collection of Yolande Lyne-Stephens Laure-Aline Griffith-Jones 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 Unmasking an Enigma: Who Was Lady Wallace and What Did She Achieve? Suzanne Higgott 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 More than Mere Ornaments: Female Visitors to Sir Richard Wallace’s Art Collection Helen C. Jones 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 New Collections for New Women: Collecting and Commissioning Portraits at the Early Women’s University Colleges Imogen Tedbury 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 Ellen Tanner’s Persia: A Museum Legacy Rediscovered Catrin Jones 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 The Artistic Patronage and Transatlantic Connections of Florence Blumenthal Rebecca Tilles 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 A Woman of No Importance?: Elizabeth Workman’s Collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist Art in Context Frances Fowle 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 Afterword Afterword Kate Hill 2021-01-05 Issue 31 • 2021 • Women Collectors: Taste, Legacy, and Cultural Philanthropy c. 1850–1920 Created by potrace 1.14, written by Peter Selinger 2001-2017 | 1755-1560 | Published by Open Library of Humanities | Privacy Policy Sitemap Contact Login 
work_idiqkldlb5esrhfm6q2uqrtguy	----	Boletin de Filología, Tomo LII Nº 2, corrección.indd Boletín de Filología, Tomo LII Número 2 (2017): 187-222 Un periódico neoyorquino como vehículo ideológico de promoción del español. El caso de La Prensa (1917-1928)1 Rosa Sánchez* Swiss National Science Foundation Resumen En el presente artículo se da a conocer material publicado en el periódico neoyorquino La Prensa para promocionar el español y su enseñanza entre los años 1917 a 1928. Se trata de un corpus bastante heterogéneo constituido por material publicitario, material didáctico (cursos de lengua y rúbricas que proporcionaban textos sobre y para las aulas) y concursos, que tiene en común la promoción del español y su enseñanza como estrategia comercial para la ampliación de los lectores durante un periodo en el que en EE.UU. se vive lo que se ha denominado un Spanish craze o hispanomanía. Se presentan los factores históricos, geopolíticos e ideológicos que llevaron a que el español se convirtiera en la primera segunda lengua enseñada en el 1 Este artículo ha sido elaborado durante una estancia de investigación afiliada al programa doctoral Hispanic and Luso-Brazilian Literatures and Languages del Graduate Center de la City University of New York en el marco del proyecto Constructing Communicative Spaces. Self-representation and Linguistic Diversity in New York’s Spanish-language Press during the First Half of the 20th Century (Advanced Postdoc.Mobility-Project: P3001P1_151221) financiado por el Fondo Nacional Suizo para la Promoción de la Investigación (SNF; http:// www.snf.ch/). * Para correspondencia, dirigirse a: Rosa Sánchez (rosa.sanchez@unibas.ch),The City University of New York, The Graduate Center, Ph.D. Program in Hispanic and Luso-Brazilian Literatures and Languages, 365 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10016, USA. 188 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 sistema escolar estadounidense, para luego ilustrar las estrategias mediante las cuales el periódico se hizo eco en sus contenidos de las ideologías divulgadas por las instituciones culturales más importantes de la época (Hispanic Society, American Association of Teachers of Spanish, Instituto de las Españas de la Columbia University) y con las cuales llegó a colaborar en determinados formatos. Palabras clave: ideologías lingüísticas, prensa hispana, enseñanza del español, La Prensa, Nueva York, José Camprubí. a nEW yorK nEWSPaPEr aS iDEoLogiCaL VEhiCLE For ThE ProMoTion oF SPaniSh. ThE CaSE oF La PrEnSa (1917-1928) Abstract The current article presents and analyzes material promoting Spanish and its teaching published between 1917 and 1928 in La Prensa,one of New York’s leading Spanish-language newspapers. The corpus consists of a series of heterogeneous texts such as advertisements, didactic material and competitions, having in common the promotion of Spanish and its teaching as a commercial strategy in order to expand its readership during a time when the US was experiencing a Spanish craze. Furthermore, historical, geopolitical and ideological factors are presented that led Spanish to be the first foreign language taught in the American school system. The article also shows how the newspaper reflected and adapted itself to the ideologies displayed by the main cultural institutions it collaborated with, such as the Hispanic Society, the American Association of Teachers of Spanish, and the Instituto de las Españas at Columbia University. Keywords: language ideologies, Hispanic press, Spanish as a foreign language, La Prensa, New York, José Camprubí. Recibido: 13/09/2016 Aceptado: 30/06/2017 Durante el mes de febrero de 1917, el periódico La Prensa se promocionaba en la cabecera con el siguiente lema: “The best medium to practice Spanish”. A primera vista esto puede sorprender o parecer contradictorio, pues tratándose de un periódico que ha sido definido como de y para inmigrantes (Kanellos 2000: 32 y ss.) lo esperable sería que promocionase el aprendizaje del inglés como soporte para la integración de los inmigrantes en la sociedad de acogida; cosa que también hizo, pero en menor medida. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 189 Tras presentar brevemente el periódico y su director, veremos a continuación los motivos históricos y socioculturales que hicieron que este rotativo, uno de los más importantes (sino el más importante, al menos durante este periodo) dentro de la panorámica periodística hispanófona neoyorquina, pusiera un gran énfasis en la promoción de la enseñanza de la lengua española, sobre todo entre 1917 y 1928. Después de esto presentaremos un breve marco teórico en el que relacionaremos los dos ámbitos aquí tratados –el periodístico y el didáctico– con una serie de herramientas teóricas que nos serán útiles para el análisis del material recolectado. En la última parte describiremos y analizaremos estas, que identificamos como estrategias comerciales, puestas en marcha por el rotativo. 1. LA PRENSA Y JOSé CAMPRUBÍ El periódico La Prensa2 fue fundado el 12 de octubre 1913 por el español Rafael Viera y Ayala y su propósito inicial fue “contrarrestar «las malas doctrinas publicadas por varios periódicos anarquistas que se publica[ba]n en español en la ciudad de Nueva York»”3. Poco se sabe de esta primera etapa fundacional, ya que no se conservan, que sepamos, números de ella (cfr. de Juan Bolufer 2009: 534 y ss.). Tras una serie de cambios internos y de propietarios, será durante el año 1917, con la llegada de José Camprubí (1879-1942)4, un ingeniero español-puertorriqueño5, que este órgano, aún modesto y de difusión semanal, se convertirá finalmente en diario, el 04 de junio 1918. Es aún incierto cuándo Camprubí realizó exactamente la compra del periódico, tuvo que ser entre los años 1917-1919 (de Juan 2 Para más información véase también la cronología que El Diario / La Prensa elaboró para su centenario en 2013: <http://centenario.eldiariony.com/cronologia/)>. 3 En <http://centenario.eldiariony.com/cronologia/)>. Según la información que se encuentra en esta misma página web, Viera era canario y llegó a Nueva York en 1910 pasando por La Habana, donde ya había fundado un periódico. En 1920 dirigió además otro semanario neoyorquino, La Gaceta, también por poco tiempo. 4 Para más información acerca de la vida de José Aymar Camprubí véanse de Juan Bolufer (2009), Cortés Ibáñez (2013) y Fernández y Cagiao (2016). 5 Recordemos que la isla de Puerto Rico había sido cedida por parte de España a Estados Unidos en 1898 a raíz de la pérdida de la Guerra hispano-estadounidense, según lo acordado en el Tratado de París. 190 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 Bolufer 2009: 537; Cortés Ibáñez 2013: 5)6. El caso es que no será hasta 1921 que abandonará sus otras ocupaciones laborales para dedicarse por completo a la dirección del diario. Durante este periodo, la empresa “La Prensa Printing Co.” (fundada en enero de 1919) se hará con una imprenta propia y tanto el servicio cablegráfico, como la plantilla laboral y las instalaciones técnicas serán ampliados, fruto de todo lo cual se aumentarán las tiradas de 5 000 ejemplares en 1918 a 13 000 en 1921 (de Juan Bolufer 2009: 537, según indicaciones del propio periódico). A lo largo del año 1920 se empieza a publicar en el directorio una lista de países para los cuales el rotativo ofrece suscripción, la lista se va ampliando hasta llegar en 1928 a los siguientes países: “Estados Unidos y posesiones, Argentina, Bolivia, Brasil, Canadá, Chile, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, España, Guatemala, Honduras, Méjico, Nicaragua, Panamá, Paraguay, Perú, Santo Domingo y Uruguay” (p. ej. 18.12.1928, 4a). Con la debida cautela ante los datos proporcionados por el periódico, esto nos puede dar una idea, ya no tanto del ámbito de difusión que pudo tener efectivamente, sino más bien del ámbito de difusión aspirado o deseado por parte del rotativo. Camprubí, que había sido director de la Unión Benéfica Española (UBE)7 desde 1914, usó el rotativo desde 1917, “como plataforma de información de los derechos de los hispanos en los Estados Unidos” (de Juan Bolufer 2009: 537). La compra y las funciones informativas comunitarias del periódico se hicieron aún más urgentes cuando, desde la entrada de EE.UU. en la Primera Guerra Mundial, muchos barones hispanos fueron acusados de desertores y la oficina de abogados defensores establecida por la UBE no daba abasto con la atención. Según el propio Camprubí: tanta gente fué la que vino, que se hizo imposible atenderla, y había que darle un número de orden y decirles que se les llamaría. Para esto era necesario un periódico y compré LA PRENSA, y en los números de aquella época pueden verse los anuncios llamando a los reclutas (“Autobiografía del Director de «La Prensa»”, 06.06.1938, 10e)8. 6 Según Fernández y Cagiao (2016) la compra se efectuó ya en 1917. 7 Fundada en 1914, la “Unión Benéfica Española. Sociedad de Beneficencia, Protección, Instrucción y Recreo. única Reconocida y Subvencionada por el Gobierno de España” fue durante mucho tiempo la asociación más importante para la ayuda e integración de inmigrantes españoles e hispanoamericanos en NYC (cfr. Cortés Ibáñez 2013). 8 Esta autobiografía se publicó a raíz del 25 aniversario de La Prensa, se volvería a reeditar a raíz de la defunción de Camprubí en la edición del 13.03.1942, 1d-f. Manejamos ejemplares de la New York Public Library y del archivo del Center for Puerto Rican Studies de la City University of New York. En las referencias del periódico indicamos UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 191 Este destacado miembro de la colonia hispano-neoyorquina fue asimismo miembro de las sociedades más importantes de la ciudad tales como la Hispanic Society9, el Instituto de las Españas de la Columbia University, la Pan American Society o la Spanish Chamber of Commerce y la Pan American Business Association (de Juan Bolufer 2009: 538). Como ingeniero, empresario y periodista fueron múltiples las esferas en las que se movió: la intelectual, la social-cultural, la comercial; “era liberal y demócrata por convicción y republicano aún desde los tiempos de la monarquía” (13.03.1942, 1c), de ideología moderada y ecléctica (Fernández y Cagiao 2016), siempre a caballo entre el proyecto hispanista y el panamericanista (cfr. cap. 2.). Estuvo casado con Agnes Ethel Leaycraft, prima de tercer grado de Theodore Roosevelt y fue hermano de la escritora Zenobia Camprubí, esposa de Juan Ramón Jiménez. Todo estos aspectos biográficos se reflejarán por supuesto también en los contenidos del periódico. El programa de La Prensa fue desde un comienzo, por una parte, el “de servir a la colonia española e ibero americana en Estados Unidos” (18.11.1922, 1d), informando y ofreciendo servicios para unificar esta comunidad por esos entonces ya bastante heterogénea10. Por otra parte, el periódico también se vio como embajador del mundo hispano, queriendo “servir a todos los norteamericanos que tienen interés en nuestro arte, cultura, comercio y civilización en general” (18.11.1922, 1d); en un ejercicio constante de tender puentes entre ambas sociedades: la de origen y la de acogida y las comunidades resultantes del movimiento migratorio. Como declaraba el mismo rotativo: “Este diario es Ibero-Americano y especializado en España, Portugal, las 19 Repúblicas Iberoamericanas, Puerto Rico, Filipinas, Los Estados Unidos y Canadá” (06.06.1938, 11a). El 12 de marzo de 1942 fallece Camprubí; años después, en 1960, sus hijas venderán el diario al empresario Fortune Pope, cuya familia fecha de publicación, página y columna. En las citas reproducimos la (orto)grafía tal cual, corrigiendo simplemente las erratas tipográficas más evidentes. Las cursivas son del periódico, de ser nuestras lo indicamos en nota a pie de página. 9 De esta fue, de hecho, miembro correspondiente desde diciembre de 1919 y miembro de derecho desde noviembre de 1939, hasta finalmente “ser elegido miembro de honor unos días antes de morir, el 7 de marzo de 1942”, lo cual le concedió el “privilegio de estampar su firma en una de las columnas del museo” (de Juan Bolufer 2009: 540). 10 Para más información acerca de la composición demográfica de la comunidad hispano- neoyorquina de la época, véase Haslip-Viera (1996: 8). Durante los años 1920 los grupos más representados eran oriundos de España, Cuba y Puerto Rico, en este orden, orden que se invertirá a lo largo de las décadas siguientes, cuando la población boricua se irá perfilando como la más numerosa, debido a los sucesos geopolíticos en la Isla. 192 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 era propietaria desde 1928 del también diario neoyorquino Il Progresso Italiano-Americano (29.03.1960, 2c). Con todo, la era Camprubí, que es la que aquí trataremos, se puede considerar como una etapa muy fructífera para el rotativo al expandir y profesionalizar sus servicios a pesar de las carencias económicas por las que también tuvo que pasar (cfr. cap. 4.1.). Se puede decir que el diario fue una publicación general de tipo informativo, de ideología moderada y ecléctica (Fernández y Cagiao 2016), al igual que su propietario, tratando de alcanzar un máximo de lectores (de un nivel más bien culto) dentro de la colonia hispano-neoyorquina y fuera de esta, tal como demuestra también el material que analizaremos a continuación. En 1963, La Prensa se fusionará con El Diario de Nueva york, diario que se había fundado en 1948 y que en pocos meses se había afianzado en el mercado periodístico neoyorquino. El propietario por esos entonces era el magnate O. Roy Chalk, que había adquirido a su vez El Diario de Nueva york en 1961 a su fundador, el dominicano Porfirio Díaz y La Prensa en 1962. El resultado de la fusión, El Diario / La Prensa (recientemente ya solo El Diario), sigue existiendo aún hoy en día, pertenece a la multinacional ImpreMedia desde 2004 a la cual también pertenecen periódicos tales como La Opinión (Los ángeles), La Raza (Chicago) o La Prensa (Florida), entre otros11. 2. CONTEXTO HISTóRICO-IDEOLóGICO Serán una serie de factores de índole histórica, geopolítica, socioeconómica y cultural (cfr. tb. Fitz-Gerald 1917: 11; de Onís 1920: 275 y s.) los que hagan que durante las primeras décadas del siglo xx se viva en EE.UU. lo que Kagan ha denominado un Spanish craze o hispanomanía: The term refers to a particular era in US history when seemingly everything Spanish –art, music, language, literature, architecture, and more– was in vogue. This particular “craze” began in the 1890s, and lasted, with few interruptions until the early 1930s, when it was brought to an abrupt end by a combination of factors associated with the Great Depression, the victory of General Francisco Franco and his Falange 11 Cfr. <http://www.impremedia.com/#intro> y Yúdice (2009: 56 y s.). UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 193 Party in Spain’s bloody civil war (1936-1939), and changing tastes and fashions in the United States (2010: 38). Este será en realidad un segundo boom de hispanofilia; el primero había tenido lugar ya durante el siglo xix y había sido fomentado por una serie de filólogos estadounidenses, estudiosos de lenguas modernas, entre ellas el español, tales como Washington Irving, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William H. Prescott o George Ticknor entre otros (Wilkins 1922: 133; Ruiz- Manjón 2012: 399; cfr. Jaksic 2012). Dos guerras desempeñarán un papel fundamental en este segundo auge. Por una parte será, paradójicamente, de gran importancia la derrota de España en la Guerra hispano-estadounidense y la pérdida de sus últimas colonias para la revaloración de todo lo español en EE.UU: Spain’s defeat in the Spanish-American war eliminated the idea that Spain might somehow be a threat to hemispheric security, and it was arguably the removal of this “threat factor” that helped clear the way for a new and intensified Spanish craze in the US. [...]But it is almost as if once Spain had been definitively expelled –as a political player– from the hemisphere, and once the US had begun to imagine itself as the seat of a new kind of benign and enlightened empire, certain Spanish cultural forms –which before may have seemed backward or decadent– could now be safely reinscribed or re-appropriated as exotic or picturesque or even stately (Fernández 2010: 57). Por otra parte, desempeñará un papel fundamental la entrada de EE.UU. en la Primera Guerra Mundial en 1917 en el “intensified interest in the spiritual and political ideals of the twenty other sovereign states in the western hemisphere, in eighteen of which Spanish is the official language” (Fitz-Gerald 1917: 11). Este interés por los países americanos hispanófonos no fue aleatorio; la gran guerra había dificultado el comercio con Europa lo cual llevó a que EE.UU. tuviera que centrar sus intereses comerciales, ahora más que nunca, en el hemisferio sur, ruta que había sido facilitada gracias a la apertura del Canal de Panamá en 1914. Se puede vincular cada una de las guerras, de alguna manera, a uno de los movimientos ideológicos que surgen durante el siglo xix en el mundo hispano. Si bien el movimiento del hispanismo (también llamado hispanoamericanismo)12 surge ya durante el segundo tercio del siglo xix, 12 Según Sepúlveda Muñoz, se trata de una idea transnacional y de un movimiento que a su vez se puede subdividir en tres corrientes: “la pan-hispanista, la progresista y la propiamente 194 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 las consecuencias de la derrota de la Guerra hispano-estadounidense y la consecutiva pérdida de los últimos territorios de ultramar españoles, sentarán las bases para su posterior desarrollo (Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994: 50 y ss.). El hispanismo postulaba la pertenencia de españoles e hispanoamericanos a una misma raza, una raza formada por una cultura, una historia, tradiciones y una lengua compartidas, más que por sangre o factores étnicos (cfr. Pike 1971; Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994). Este movimiento ha sido interpretado como una reacción al imperialismo cultural, económico y político de EE.UU. (Fernández 2002: 133; Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994: 275 yss.). Sorprendentemente, es en este país donde tuvo uno de los mayores impactos y una interpretación muy propia, debido, por una parte, precisamente a la pérdida de la amenaza por parte de España y, por otra, a la articulación ideológica con el movimiento panamericanista. Este último surge a raíz de las guerras de independencia de los países hispanoamericanos y adquiere un carácter más o menos oficial en los EE.UU. a través de la Doctrina Monroe. El bloqueo comercial hacia Europa causado por la Primera Guerra Mundial fomentará aún más las relaciones verticales con las jóvenes naciones hispanoamericanas, reforzando el carácter económico que había adquirido el interés por el español en el marco del panamericanismo estadounidense. Pero, según los intelectuales hispanófilos e hispanistas de la época, fueron precisamente el aliciente práctico-comercial del panamericanismo en Latinoamérica13, junto con la imagen de una España sujeta a retraso y decadencia vinculada a la leyenda negra, los principales factores que hicieran que el español careciera inicialmente de estimación, al menos durante las dos primeras décadas. Por lo cual hubo que lanzar toda una campaña para dotar a esta lengua de prestigio, como se había hecho previamente con otras lenguas como, por ejemplo, el alemán. En estos términos lo planteaba uno de los miembros de la American Association of Teachers of Spanish (AATS)14, Jacob Warshaw, en Hispania, la revista órgano de esta asociación: americana” (1994: 30). El episodio estadounidense parece inscribirse más bien en la corriente progresista (cfr. Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994: 118 y ss.). Para las diferentes denominaciones de este movimiento véase Sepúlveda Muñoz (1994: 25-30). 13 Lo cual no quita que también determinadas vertientes del hispanismo tuvieran un marcado interés en las relaciones comerciales con Latinoamérica (cfr. Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994: 37 y ss.). 14 Agradecemos a Inés Vañó García, que en la actualidad está realizando una tesis sobre la AATS, las informaciones que nos ha proporcionado acerca de esta asociación. Warshaw ocupó diferentes cargos importantes dentro de la AATS e Hispania. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 195 The extraordinary vogue of German was largely the result of efficient advertising for prestige. The popularity of French, too, has been due to prestige; but it has needed very little active propaganda in our days. French prestige is traditional, and, in general, a spontaneous and unconscious product. German prestige was made. Spanish prestige must be made (1919: 227). Y por supuesto, la prensa será uno de los vehículos más importantes para la promoción y difusión de esta campaña, como lo declaraba también Warshaw: Every Spanish newspaper and periodical in the United States should educate us in this respect. It is only by some such means that we shall be able to rehabilitate Spain and Spanish in the eyes of the world and acquire a portion of that “prestige” which is the dominant educational measurement (1919: 235). El origen de dicho prestigio procederá del hispanismo y será precisamente la “madre patria”, España: No sólo por razones de comercio, sino, ante todo, porque de esta manera podemos entendernos fraternalmente con las naciones que con nosotros ocupan el nuevo hemisferio. Sirve el idioma español para promover la paz y tranquilidad interamericana y para corregir los mutuos conceptos falsos que tienden a separar los pueblos de habla española e inglesa. El interés por la América española se encauza siempre a través de España, pues mientras más estudiamos vuestra literatura y vuestra civilización y las de Hispano-América, vemos que éstas no son más que el trasunto de las de España. Por tanto, sabemos que el mejor modo de conocer lo hispanoamericano es a través de lo español (Wilkins 1922: 155)15. Esto será lo que James Fernández ha denominado la “Ley de Longfellow”, que predice que el interés estadounidense por España siempre ha estado mediado por su interés en Hispanoamérica (2002: 135) en la siguiente distribución: “interest in Latin America was coded as being primilarily–or exclusively–driven by economics, whereas interest in Spain was marked as being driven purely by culture” (2002: 133). Las siguientes instituciones desempeñaron un papel fundamental en dicha campaña de prestigiamiento: la Hispanic Society of America (1904; 15 Se trata de un extracto de una conferencia que Wilkins, cofundador de la AATS (cfr. infra) dio el 08.12.1921 en el Ateneo de Madrid, de ahí que hallemos marcas de interpelación. 196 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 fundada por Archer M. Huntington)16, la American Association of Teachers of Spanish (a partir de 1944 se le añade “and Portuguese”, 1917; fundada por Aurelio M. Espinosa y Lawrence A. Wilkins; cfr. Leavitt 1967) y el Instituto de las Españas (que posteriormente pasará a llamarse Instituto Hispánico) de la Columbia University (1920; dirigido por Federico de Onís; cfr. de Onís 1955: 8 y s., 1968: 732 y ss.); que surgen en Nueva York a comienzos del siglo del siglo xx como reflejo y reacción a este boom de hispanofilia y a la creciente demanda de aprendizaje de esta lengua (cfr. infra). Estas eminentes instituciones neoyorquinas estuvieron en estrecho contacto con las instituciones más importantes españolas creadas por las reformas que había llevado a cabo la Junta para Ampliación de Estudios e Investigaciones Científicas (JAE, 1907), a saber, sobre todo el Centro de Estudios Históricos (CEH, 1910), cuyo director era por esos entonces el ilustre filólogo, miembro y en diferentes ocasiones director de la Real Academia de la Lengua Española, Ramón Menéndez Pidal: Con la nueva institución, heredera de los principios de la Institución Libre de Enseñanza, se pretendía terminar con el aislamiento español y enlazar con la ciencia y la cultura europeas, además de preparar al personal encargado de llevar a cabo las reformas necesarias en las esferas de la ciencia, la cultura y la educación. De este modo, el esfuerzo por reformar, por regenerar el país, pasaba a ser una empresa nacional, independiente de los vaivenes políticos, en la que se implicaba a intelectuales de diferente ideología. Para llevar a cabo estos objetivos la JAE puso en marcha una activa política de pensiones, esenciales para el desarrollo cultural y científico de España, de la que se beneficiaron numerosos estudiantes, profesores e investigadores, que fueron becados para trabajar en el interior, en Europa y en América (en: <http://www.jae2010.csic.es/historia.php>). Esta voluntad de ruptura con el aislamiento y regeneración de las ciencias y educación se plasmó de diferentes maneras en el caso del hispanismo estadounidense. Por una parte, mediante el estrecho intercambio, p. ej., en cursos de verano en Madrid, de profesores de español de todos los niveles del sistema escolar estadounidense (Fitz-Gerald 1917). Por otra parte, los catedráticos de Filología Hispánica en EE.UU. eran por esos entonces casi todos enviados por este órgano (cfr. Wilkins 1922: 101). 16 Cfr. <http://www.hispanicsociety.org/hispanic/history.htm>. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 197 Así nos relata el que fue durante años director de la Enseñanza de Lenguas Modernas en las Escuelas Superiores de la ciudad de Nueva York y cofundador de la AATS, Lawrence A. Wilkins (cfr. tb. de Onís 1968: 722- 724) los cambios que se produjeron en el ámbito de la enseñanza de lenguas: Mientras tanto, había explotado la gran guerra, y en nuestro pequeño mundo lingüístico-pedagógico ocurrió, como en otros muchos mundos del planeta, un trastorno completo. Desde 1914 hasta 1918 se manifestó un verdadero cataclismo en nuestra enseñanza de lenguas, que dejó por resultados los siguientes: 1.° decadencia del alemán, que había ocupado el primer lugar en el programa de casi todas las instituciones docentes del país, decadencia tan marcada que poco faltó para que desapareciese por completo la enseñanza de este idioma; 2.° ascensión del francés al puesto de lengua predilecta en la mayor parte de las Universidades y escuelas secundarias; 3.° aumento casi increíble de la adhesión al castellano, llegando esta lengua a ocupar el primer puesto en muchas partes y en otras corría parejas con el francés y en todas partes excedía al alemán en el número de los que estudiaban. En mi opinión, no depende la boga del español en los Estados Unidos de la popularidad ni del decaimiento de ningún otro idioma. Se ha logrado un lugar tan importante que no hay nada que pueda destituirlo en la presente generación (1922: 29 y s.). Este auge del español se traducía en materia de números de la siguiente manera, por ejemplo, en el nivel de las “high schools de la ciudad de Nueva York” (Wilkins 1922: 49): Francés Alemán Italiano Latín Español 1917 14.000 23.000 103 17.000 13.900 1918 17.000 13.000 56 16.000 21.000 1919 20.000 3.000 66 15.000 25.000 1920 20.000 500 125 14.000 28.000 1921 22.000 800 213 13.000 31.000 Es perceptible a partir de las cifras un claro descenso de inscripciones para el alemán, así como un ascenso para las lenguas románicas, sobre todo para el español. En el nivel universitario podemos mencionar las cifras de matrículas en español de la Columbia University que nos proporciona Federico de Onís (adaptado de 1968: 729): 198 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 1903-1904 1911-1912 1914-1915 1915-1916 1916-1917 1920-1921 50 248 596 763 1626 (72 graduados, 1512 no graduados) 2.923 (no graduados) En lo que sigue veremos cómo nuestro rotativo se hizo eco de todo lo hasta aquí expuesto: las ideologías recurrentes, la campaña de prestigio, el aumento del profesorado y alumnado de español, etc. 3. MARCO TEóRICO Los dos ámbitos que abordaremos a continuación, el periodístico y el de la enseñanza de lenguas extranjeras (ELE), comparten diferentes características y funciones en la sociedad y con respecto a la lengua y sus implicaciones económicas y políticas17. Se trata en ambos casos de esferas que promueven discursos y prácticas que tienen que ver con la estandarización de formas y normas lingüísticas, también desempeñan un papel fundamental en la producción y reproducción de ideologías lingüísticas y, por último, aportan de manera sustancial al proceso de mercantilización de las lenguas. Si los discursos mediáticos representan ya de por sí espacios discursivos o actividades en las que determinados agentes sociales deciden sobre la legitimidad de la(s) lengua(s) y de los hablantes (cfr. tb. Cameron 1995: 11): We can think of the media as one of these [discursive spaces], and ask questions about the kind of discursive space it is, who controls it, what kinds of interest they may have in defining linguistic competence the way they do, and what consequences this may have for ranges of speakers who control diverse arrays of linguistic resources (Heller 2010a: 278), 17 Por todos estos motivos, el material recolectado se presta perfectamente para un análisis desde la perspectiva de la glotopolítica, que es una rama de la sociolingüística que se dedica a estudiar las articulaciones entre la lengua y las dimensiones políticas que ésta suele implicar (cfr. p. ej. del Valle 2007; Arnoux 2008; Arnoux y del Valle 2010; del Valle 2013 y 2014b). UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 199 lo mismo es válido para el ámbito de la enseñanza de lenguas en el que operan, como afirma Pennycook (1989), diferentes relaciones de poder en un complejo nexo de relaciones de factores sociales, culturales, económicos y políticos. También aquí se legitiman determinadas variedades o lenguas con respecto a otras en un mercado lingüístico (Bourdieu 1977, 1992) debido al valor simbólico que determinados regímenes lingüísticos (Kroskrity 2000) le adjudican. Ambos ámbitos funcionan como importantes agentes o instituciones que contribuyen a la organización lingüística de la esfera pública y de los grupos sociales que la constituyen (cfr. Habermas 1974; Paffey 2012: 44; Lippi- Green 1997: 55), por lo tanto, participan en los procesos de planificación, regulación y estandarización de una lengua (Joseph 1987: 14; Paffey 2012: 48). Primero la enseñanza (Bourdieu 1977), luego los medios, desempeñan un importante papel en la normalización de este estándar. De esta forma contribuyen a la construcción y reglamentación del ciudadano y de la nación- Estado en la que éste se inserta (cfr. tb. Paffey 2012: 40): The media has played a key role in this joint process of constructing nation, State, Empire, citizen and subject, and in producing the legitimating ideologies of the social order. We can understand ‘language ideologies and media discourse’ in precisely these terms, namely as a field in which the media serves as one institution for the construction of citizens, one dimension of which is their linguistic practice (Heller 2010a: 278). Son por ende asimismo importantes espacios discursivos en la producción y reproducción de ideologías lingüísticas (Paffey 2012: 74) mediante prácticas lingüísticas, pero también a través de discursos metalingüísticos. Entendemos por ideologías lingüísticas sistemas de ideas que articulan nociones del lenguaje, las lenguas, el habla y/o la comunicación con formaciones culturales, políticas y/o sociales específicas. Aunque pertenecen al ámbito de las ideas y se pueden concebir como marcos cognitivos que ligan coherentemente el lenguaje con un orden extralingüístico, naturalizándolo y normalizándolo (van Dijk 1995), también hay que señalar que se producen y reproducen en el ámbito material de las prácticas lingüísticas y metalingüísticas, [...] (del Valle 2007: 19 y s.). La naturalización de ideologías se consigue muy a menudo precisamente mediante la reproducción y repetición de éstas en los medios y en la enseñanza, entre otros (cfr. Paffey 2012: 34 y s.; del Valle y Meirinho- Guede 2016: 622). Otra herramienta importante para nuestro análisis será 200 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 el concepto de ideologema que puede ser considerado como herramienta básica o materialización discursiva de las ideologías lingüísticas. Se trata más concretamente de lugares comunes, postulados o máximas que, pudiendo realizarse o no en superficie, funcionan como presupuestos del discurso. Se pueden identificar los ideologemas dominantes en una época, en un campo discursivo o en una institución18 (Arnoux y del Valle 2010: 12). La suma de ideologemas conforma el sistema lingüístico-ideológico de una determinada comunidad de habla (del Valle y Meirinho-Guede 2016). Otra cosa que tienen en común la prensa y la enseñanza de segundas lenguas es que ambas actividades probablemente siempre han participado y participan cada vez más en la actividad de mercantilización (commodification) de la lengua como producto con valor económico (Bourdieu 1977). Según Heller (2010b: 105), con la nueva economía globalizada la emergencia del trabajo lingüístico (language work) y del trabajador lingüístico (language worker) se han convertido en factores centrales dentro de la sociedad. En lo que sigue veremos, no obstante, cómo estas tendencias se fueron fraguando ya durante la época preglobalizada. 4. MATERIAL Y ASPECTOS METODOLóGICOS A continuación presentaremos y analizaremos parte del material publicado en el periódico La Prensa mediante el cual se promocionó activamente durante dicho periodo el español y el aprendizaje de esta lengua, inscribiéndose así en lo que se ha pasado a denominar a posteriori Spanish craze. Se trata de un corpus de tipos y géneros textuales bastante heterogéneos, que podríamos clasificar bajo las siguientes rúbricas: material publicitario, material didáctico y concursos. Seguimos con ello el modelo de Grosse y Seibold (1994) (cfr. tb. Grosse 2001) que abarca en su tipología de géneros periodísticos también los no propiamente periodísticos (strictu sensu) por formar parte integrante de la macroestructura periodística. En los tres casos se trata de estrategias 18 Son por ejemplo ideologemas ambos postulados recurrentes durante las primeras décadas del siglo xx acerca del valor práctico/económico y el valor cultural/prestigioso del español y que conjuntamente configuraron esta articulación/triangulación entre panamericanismo e hispanismo tan propia de los ámbitos intelectuales estadounidenses. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 201 comerciales que pueden ser fuente de ingresos directos y/o mediante las cuales se trata de atraer o involucrar de manera más activa a los lectores. En el caso del material didáctico, que a su vez se subdivide en cursos de lengua y en la rúbrica “El Eco de las Aulas” se podría decir que los primeros van a caballo entre los servicios/consejos y la publicidad, mientras que el segundo constituye (al menos en su época inicial) un cajón de sastre que contiene de todo un poco (información, consejos, ficción, divertimiento y publicidad). Disponemos de números de los años 1917 a 1963, cuando el periódico se fusiona con El Diario de Nueva york. Lamentablemente no se conservan, que sepamos, los números de los primeros 4 años de andanza de La Prensa, que empezó a publicarse, como ya hemos dicho, el 12 de octubre de 1913. Los primeros números disponibles en la New York Public Library datan de enero de 1917. Para el presente artículo nos hemos limitado al periodo que comprende los años 1917 a 1928 (año en el que se cesa de publicar “El Eco de las Aulas”), que es el periodo en el que el periódico parece adherirse de manera más manifiesta al boom hispanófilo. 4.1. MaTEriaL PuBLiCiTario No ahondaremos demasiado en este apartado. Baste con decir que en La Prensa se publicitaron, como era y sigue siendo usual en este tipo de prensa, que se ha denominado de y para inmigrantes (Kanellos 2000: 32), material y servicios para la integración del inmigrante, tales como intérpretes, servicios de corrección y redacción de textos, maestros y cursos de lengua o la venta de libros destinados a la enseñanza tanto del español como del inglés (e incluso de otras lenguas), tanto en la rúbrica de clasificados como distribuidos por las páginas del resto del periódico. Sabido es de sobra que ésta era y sigue siendo una importante fuente de ingreso, junto a los trabajos de imprenta (cfr. p.ej. 13.10.1917, 5d-e) para las empresas periodísticas, que aporta más ingresos que la venta de los periódicos mismos (Grosse 2001: 39) y tratándose, al menos durante esta época y en este contexto específico, de empresas pequeñas, que casi siempre tenían que luchar por su subsistencia. Este fue también el caso particular de La Prensa que “siempre dio problemas económicos a Camprubí” (Cortés Ibáñez 2013: 5), el cual tuvo que invertir más de una vez capital propio para mantener el periódico a flote. El propio Camprubí afirmaba en un artículo autobiográfico a raíz del vigésimoquinto aniversario del periódico: “Nunca hemos tenido subvención de ningún Gobierno. Vendemos anuncios y periódicos y NADA MáS” (06.06.1938, 11a) (cfr. tb. p.ej. 29.05.1920, 1d-e “HOY EL ANUNCIO ES EL MEDIO 202 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 MAS IMPORTANTE” o 18.06.1920, 1d-e “EL CENTRO DEL MERCADO HISPANICO” publicidad para anunciar en las columnas clasificadas). No nos extraña, pues, que el periódico recurriera además a estrategias publicitarias tales como la de promocionarse en la cabecera como “The best medium to practice Spanish” durante el mes de febrero de 1917. Asimismo encontramos durante el año 1918 publicidades para el periódico mismo en las que se puede leer “Read and practice Spanish, the language of the future” (p. ej., el 02.12.1918, 6f-g). Ya nada más por el mero hecho de estar redactada en inglés, este tipo de llamada estaba claramente dirigida a un potencial consumidor anglófono, probablemente uno que estuviera interesado en aprender español por motivos comerciales (cfr. nota 27) u otros motivos. También puede que estos reclamos estuvieran vinculados a la práctica de emplear el periódico en las aulas de aprendizaje de lenguas, como estudiaremos en el próximo apartado. La suscripción al periódico a veces era además premiada mediante el obsequio de un libro, como podemos observar durante el mes de enero de 1922, en colaboración con la librería Zabala y Maurin (en 135 West 49th): “Regalamos un libro de Amado Nervo, Azorín, Blasco Ibáñez o Pio Baroja, con una subscripción diaria de seis meses a LA PRENSA o Dos de los siguientes libros versiones castellanas” (19.01.1922, 4g) o durante los años de 1919 y 192019 mediante el obsequio de un diccionario por cada suscripción anual (p. ej., 18.09.1919, 4e-g). Vemos, pues, cómo desde ya muy temprano este periódico se apropia de este tipo de estrategias publicitarias, tratando la lengua y el aprendizaje de ésta como un producto de mercancía, ya antes de que la globalización hiciera de este ámbito todo un gran mercado lucrativo (cfr. Heller 2010b). 4.2. MaTEriaL DiDÁCTiCo El artículo de Alfred Coester, otro destacado miembro de la AATS (cfr. Devenish Walsh 1967: 824), publicado en 1918 en uno de los primeros números de Hispania, titulado “Periodicals in Spanish Available for the Classroom”, da fe de que la práctica de emplear periódicos y revistas en el aula de aprendizaje de lenguas era ya usual durante esa época (cfr. tb. 19 Durante este año el periódico lamenta el retraso de la entrega de éstos debido a la “escasez del papel y la huelga de ferrocarriles” (03.05.1920, 8c-e); al parecer estas obras eran impresas en la propia imprenta. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 203 Oakley 1919: 296 y s.). Coester veía determinadas ventajas en usar los periódicos hispanófonos publicados en EE.UU. (vs. los publicados en países hispanófonos): A magazine printed in the United States will probably prove most satisfactory for classroom use. Though it will not have a tone so thoroughly Spanish as those printed abroad, it will be received with greater regularity; and in case a teacher wishes to use a large number of a single issue, they can be obtained more easily and economically (1918: 26). Quedamos ante la duda de cómo interpretar el sintagma “it will not have a tone so thoroughly Spanish as those printed abroad”, si se refiere a la autenticidad o a la calidad lingüística de los periódicos neoyorquinos; sea como fuere, las ventajas de éstos eran, desde luego, la regularidad y que eran más fáciles y económicos de conseguir. La Prensa y El Heraldo son dos que recomendaba por ser de los pocos periódicos generales informativos que se publicaban por esos entonces, como diarios a pesar de ser semanarios (Coester 1918: 27). Aparte de esta práctica general de usar el periódico precisamente como “medium to practice Spanish”, La Prensa se dedicó además a publicar una serie de materiales específicos para la enseñanza del español a lo largo de las primeras décadas de su existencia, pero con especial insistencia durante el periodo de 1917 a 1928. Dentro de este material que hemos denominado didáctico hallamos a su vez dos tipos de materiales, los cursos de lengua y “El Eco de las Aulas”, una rúbrica dedicada a proporcionar textos sobre y para las aulas de ELE en EE.UU.20 Ignoramos cuál pudo ser la repercusión de este tipo de material en las ventas del periódico. En el caso de los cursos de lengua suponemos que el periódico era remunerado por publicar este tipo de material, tratándose de una fuente de ingreso similar a la de la publicación de publicidades. Difícil también de evaluar la utilidad de este tipo de métodos para el aprendizaje de una lengua, teniendo además en cuenta las restricciones que ofrece el medio escrito. 20 Como ya advertía Wilkins, la “carencia de libros de texto adecuados a la nueva situación, sobre todo, en el campo del español” (1922: 30) fue uno de los problemas que se creó a raíz de este gran incremento de demanda del español. 204 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 En todo caso, este material iba dirigido a un público más bien norteamericano-anglófono21, pues recordemos que durante este periodo el alumnado de español en EE.UU. consistía básicamente en locutores anglófonos monolingües (del Valle 2014a: 362), lo cual no quita que también el lector hispanófono pudiera aprovechar este material, como veremos a continuación, pues muy a menudo se trata de textos/listas bilingües en inglés/ español e incluso en el caso de los textos monolingües en español, el rotativo supo como promocionárselos también y además en términos patrióticos, como veremos en capítulos posteriores (cfr. cap. 4.2.2.). 4.2.1. Los cursos de lengua22 Uno de los primeros cursos de los que disponemos en nuestro corpus es “El Curso Galeno de Lengua Española” que se publicó entre el 20.01.1917 y el 31.03.1917, en poco más de 10 lecciones. La publicación de este material didáctico en el rotativo se concibió como acompañamiento de las clases que este profesor estaba impartiendo en Carnegie Hall23. Después de dos artículos introductorios en los que se describen y publicitan las clases (el 01. y el 07.01.1917)24, se empieza a publicar el curso en un lugar tan destacado como la segunda página, en la sección “NOTICIAS DE TODAS PARTES”, ocupando las dos primeras columnas, precedido de una publicidad para las 21 Véase también el aviso en la nota 35 que es encabezado con “TO THE AMERICAN STUDENT OF SPANISH” (17.11.1917, 7a-b). Interesantemente la versión española del anuncio reza “Advertencia al Lector”. Hubiera sido interesante analizar en este tipo de paratextos bilingües las diferencias entre las versiones españolas e inglesas (cfr. tb. nota 27), que demuestran que iban dirigidas a diferentes destinatarios. Lamentablemente esto excede los límites de este trabajo. 22 No hemos hallado hasta ahora en el amplio corpus de periódicos hispanófonos publicados en Nueva York del que disponemos, un fenómeno similar. Este parece ser un fenómeno específico de La Prensa, el de publicar cursos de lengua de la lengua de procedencia del público lector y no la de la sociedad de acogida, como se estilaba en la prensa de minorías de la época. Así se publicaron, por ejemplo, lecciones de yiddish e inglés durante los años 1911 y 1912 en el periódico judeoespañol La América (cfr. Scolnik 2014: 2 y s.). 23 Carnegie Hall, aparte de ser sala de conciertos y espectáculos, fue también foro público para oradores, escritores, etc. “In the days before radio and television, Carnegie Hall gave a prominent public forum to anyone with a cause” (CHNT pág. 5). Así nos podemos imaginar que también tendrían cabida cursos de lengua y otro tipo de actividades culturales/educativas en el marco de este foro. 24 Suponemos que ambos fueron escritos por la propia redacción del periódico, además en español y en inglés. Por lo tanto, podemos decir que se trata probablemente de dos casos de publicidad redaccional (Grosse y Seibold 1994: 52). Este tipo de artículos eran redactados a cambio de pago para divulgar o promocionar servicios. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 205 clases y seguido del siguiente texto: “In these columns will appear weekly Articles by Professor Oscar Galeno written to assist the many pupils who are taking his course of instruction at Carnegie Hall” (p. ej., 20.01.1917, 2a-b). Deducimos, por lo tanto, que este servicio se basaba en un pacto comercial de beneficio mutuo: el profesor publicitaba sus clases en el periódico para atraer más estudiantes y el rotativo se beneficiaba a su vez de la venta de las lecciones para los estudiantes. Ignoramos quién recibiría remuneración por parte de quién o si se trataba precisamente de un acuerdo mutuo en el que nadie tenía que pagar, por salir beneficiadas, a fin de cuentas, ambas partes. Si bien en realidad es más probable que fuera la escuela de lenguas la que pagara, las dos publicidades redaccionales previas y los anuncios que acompañaban las clases apuntan más bien a ello. Por la descripción que se nos da en el periódico, el método Galeno (registrado en 1915), de un profesor oriundo de San Francisco, consistía básicamente en repartir hojas sueltas a los alumnos con palabras e imágenes de objetos correspondientes para hacérselas repetir en voz alta, haciendo preguntas acerca de la temática25. Tuvo que tratarse de un método que combinaba el elemento gráfico con el oral mediante la repetición de vocablos, preguntas y respuestas, dictados, etc. Por la siguiente aseveración: “Viendo sus clases se cae en la cuenta de que en el aprendizaje de idiomas no es lo más importante la regla, sino el caudal lingüístico adquirido por un método objetivo tan natural como el que instintivamente sirve al niño en sus primeros balbuceos” (06.01.1917, 2a), pensamos que tuvo que tratarse de un método más bien inductivo, muy probablemente de tipo directo (Omaggio 1986: 57 y ss.). Por ello suponemos que las lecciones impresas en el periódico se veían como complementarias, proporcionando al estudiante pequeñas dosis de gramática (pero no solo) en un método más bien deductivo acercándose más a los métodos de gramática y traducción, el otro tipo de métodos que se estilaba durante esa época (Omaggio 1986: 54 y ss.). Así abundan pues sobre todo las frases modelo con sus respectivas traducciones26. 25 Esta técnica de visualización típica del método directo (Omaggio 1986: 57 y ss.) era también recomendaba por Wilkins: “Convienen, sobre todo en las clases de principiantes, pegar a varios objetos del aula letreros hechos por los estudiantes, en que vayan indicados en español los nombres de cosas tales como: pupitre, ventana, mesa, asiento, silla, pizarra, caja, borrador, etc.” (Wilkins 1922: 88). 26 Esto los hacía útiles también para los lectores hispanófonos, los cuales, como ya mencionado, probablemente pudieran aprovechar este tipo de lecciones a la inversa para ampliar su conocimiento del inglés. 206 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 Las algo más de 10 lecciones que publicó el por esos entonces aún semanario resultan algo heterogéneas e imaginamos que el curso disponía en realidad de más. Resulta además llamativo que la que resulta ser la última clase, la del 31.03.1917, sea desplazada a la séptima página y a las últimas columnas de ésta27. El curso pone bastante énfasis en las conjugaciones de los principales paradigmas verbales, así por ejemplo, en la primera lección se aprende a conjugar el verbo andar en las formas del presente, pretérito perfecto simple, futuro e imperativo (20.01.1917, 2a-b). También se explican los pronombres personales; de especial interés resulta la ilustración de las formas pronominales de tratamiento, pues se recurre a formas arcaizantes, como el thou inglés, para explicar el complejo sistema pronominal de formas de tratamiento del mundo hispanófono (vs. el del inglés que se reduce a you, al menos en el contemporáneo): Tú (thou) is usted [sic] in Spanish to indicate familiarity and affection, and is used among relations, intimate friends and when addressing children. you is rendered in Spanish by vos, vosotros (mas.) vosotras (fem.) and also usted (Ud. or V.) for the singular or both genders, and ustedes (Uds. or VV.) for the plural. Vos is used only in formal style, or when addressing the Deity, saints, kings, etc. Vosotros is used by orators and speakers. Usted in the singular and Ustedes in the plural is the only form of direct address that a stranger is likely to use. It is the universal conversational expression; as vosotros is rarely used, and tú marks a decided familiarity (20.01.1917, 2b). Recordemos en este lugar, que estos cursos iban dirigidos probablemente en su gran mayoría a hombres de comercio norteamericanos28 y eran 27 Si bien es sabido que en el ámbito periodístico las páginas impares tienen mayor valor que las pares dentro del periódico; este desplazamiento llama la atención y nos puede servir como indicio de que el curso fue interrumpido por motivos que ignoramos. Agradecemos a Luis Bernardo Quesada Nieto este y otras valiosos comentarios e informaciones que nos ha hecho a lo largo de la elaboración de este artículo. 28 Como recalcaban en uno de los textos bilingües introductorios al curso e interesantemente solo en la parte inglesa: “Everybody is more or less informed of the enormous business development in South American trade and of the future opportunities that these countries present to those people that learn their language, their habits, their means, that become acquainted with its resources, business conditions, etc. / The better the American business people know their language, the better is the opportunity to get the benefits, thereof. / In this section of “La Prensa”, the student of Spanish will find in the future details of those countries such as their produce business opportunities, description of cities, habits, of the people, the UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 207 concebidos para el aprendizaje de un español comercial para ser empleado en Hispanoamérica y durante una época en la que el tú todavía no estaba aún tan difundido como hoy en día (cfr. Brown / Gilman 1964). No nos ha de extrañar pues que usted (como forma de respeto) / ustedes (como forma de respeto y la única empleada en Hispanoamérica para el plural) sean las formas recomendadas. Mientras que la descripción del uso de vos evoca reminiscencias de la mismísima gramática de Bello: “pero ahora no se usa este vos sino cuando se habla a Dios o a los Santos, o en composiciones dramáticas, o en ciertas piezas oficiales donde lo pide la ley o la costumbre” (Bello 1847 [2002]: 234)29. Por lo demás, y siempre en la línea del interés comercial, se dedican algunas lecciones al vocabulario de la correspondencia (27.01.1917, 2a-b), a las abreviaturas mercantiles más usadas (03.02.1917, 2a-b) o a algunos sistemas de medidas (17.02.1917, 2a-b; 24.02.1917, 2a-b), a la fraseología (10.02.1917, 2a-b) o a los proverbios (24.02.1917, 2a-b). También se le dedican dos entregas a “the description of South American countries” con textos generales sobre Chile30 (03.03.1917, 2a-b; 17.03.1917, 2a-b). Tras el curso Galeno, La Prensa publicó el “Morrell Commercial Course of Spanish” “by Henry B. Morrell of the faculty of Commercial HighSchool of Brooklyn” entre el 07 de abril de 1917 y el 18 de agosto de 1917, en 20 lecciones. Dado el éxito que supuso la publicación de este curso, el periódico lanzó una segunda edición a partir del 29.09.1917. Esta segunda edición prometía restringirse aún más a lo meramente comercial (factor que ya de por sí estaba presente en el título), esta vez como nos explica el periódico: “The new lesson will be made even more practical by the suppression of all topics that are not strictly of commercial adaptation, and every effort will be made to fill the very apparent lack of suitable introduction to the Spanish of Commerce” (p. ej., 25.08.1917, 7f-g)31. best way to travel, the cost of these trips and in fact everything that will serve to practice language and at the same time, give a true idea of the Southern Republics” (13.01.1917, 2b). Las cursivas son nuestras. 29 Lamentablemente no hemos podido consultar la Gramática de la lengua castellana de la RAE, que por esos entonces andaba entre la vigésimonovena y la trigésima edición (cfr. <http://www.rae.es/la-institucion/historia/siglo-xx>). En general resulta difícil saber cuáles pudieron ser las fuentes gramaticales de este tipo de cursos. 30 Chile parece ser uno de los países con más interés económico, probablemente por la riqueza de recursos naturales, como desprendemos de los textos mismos. En la entrega del 24 de febrero de 1917 se explica además el sistema monetario chileno. 31 Por motivos de espacio prescindimos de un análisis pormenorizado de este y demás cursos; nos reservamos este ejercicio para otra publicación. 208 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 Durante los años 1918/1919 se publica de manera más esporádica e irregular el “Intermediate Course in Commercial Spanish”, que parece ser una continuación del “Morrell Commercial Course of Spanish”, también concebido por el profesor Henry B. Morrell de la Commercial High School of Brooklyn. Durante estos años, el periódico se ve reducido a seis páginas hasta mayo del 1919 debido a la carestía de papel por la I Guerra Mundial, a cuyas noticias se dedicará el periódico de manera significativa al menos hasta finales del 1918. Durante la década de los 1920, desaparecen los cursos de lengua casi por completo, si bien durante los primeros meses del año 1920 se publica aún “A Practical Course in Conversational Spanish”. Nos atrevemos a conjeturar que la desaparición de los cursos de lengua durante esta década tiene que ver con el hecho de que éstos ponían demasiado énfasis en el argumento comercial, argumento que, como hemos visto, carecía de prestigio a los ojos de los hispanistas de la época. Recordemos también que el llamamiento a la campaña de prestigio por parte de Warshaw databa del año 1919 (cfr. cap. 2). Volverán a aparecer cursos para aprender español durante la década de los 1930 y se seguirán publicando hasta mediados del siglo xx. Así se publicarán por ejemplo durante los años 1940 la “Spanish Lesson”, una rúbrica más o menos fija que abarcó diferentes tipos de cursos de lengua. Suponemos que la publicación de este tipo de material, más allá del periodo del Spanish craze, siguió debiéndose a motivos económicos y por seguir los formatos y contenidos de la era Camprubí, que tan prolífica había resultado32. 4.2.2. El Eco de las Aulas A raíz de una serie de reformas que el periódico comienza a hacer a partir del año 1921, aparece, sin embargo, a partir del 1 de enero de 1921 la rúbrica “El Eco de las Aulas”, que según el rotativo había de dedicarse “exclusivamente a recoger las palpitaciones de la vida escolar en las cátedras de castellano” (14.12.1921, 1e) de EE.UU. 32 De hecho, el periódico continuará teniendo los mismos contenidos y rúbricas (o muy similares) también después de la muerte de Camprubí, como anunciaba en un editorial dos días tras su fallecimiento: “Pero no hemos perdido al señor Camprubí. No le veremos más, pero en todos los rincones del periódico seguirá viviendo espiritualmente; y por no poderlo olvidar, cuando nuestro ánimo flaquee, su recuerdo nos estimulará para continuar en la brega, haciendo que LA PRENSA siga siendo lo que él quería” (14.03.1942: 3a). UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 209 Desde un comienzo los coordinadores de esta rúbrica vieron la necesidad de justificar su existencia sobre todo con respecto a revistas especializadas dedicadas a temas de didáctica: Aunque tenemos muy en cuenta que en Norteamérica existen revistas meritísimas que dedican a las cuestiones de enseñanza una atención preferente y hasta exclusiva (como ocurre con la insuperable publicación “Hispania”, órgano de la Association of Teachers of Spanish), no vacilamos en asegurar que emprendemos la creación de “El Eco de las Aulas”, con el propósito de llenar un enorme vacío, ya que, cuando un organismo adquiere la vitalidad que ha adquirido el que forman los miles y miles de personas dedicadas a enseñar o a aprender el castellano, hay aspectos profesionales que, por su índole especial, tienen en una revista técnica el lugar más indicado para su desarrollo, hay otros, en cambio, que caben lo mismo en la revista técnica que en la miscelánea; y no deja de haber muchos, que, por su urgencia, por su interés momentáneo, por su extensión y por otras varias razones, sólo pueden manifestarse en una publicación diaria. Entiéndase, pues previamente, que nuestra afirmación de que pretendemos llenar un vacío no implica el menor alarde de superación ni de competencia. Queremos simplemente trabajar en un ancho campo, en el que vemos grandes extensiones baldías; queremos trabajar poniendo en la tarea todo nuestro esfuerzo y buena voluntad y viendo en todo aquel que labore a nuestro lado en tareas análogas, un compañero fraternal, cuando no un maestro (14.12.1920, 1e). No sorprende que se mencione Hispania, la revista lanzada en 1917 por la AATS, pues, Camprubí y el periódico tuvieron que estar en contacto con la asociación. De hecho, a partir del año 1924, La Prensa lanzaría en colaboración con ésta un concurso de ensayos de estudiantes de español, cuyos textos premiados se publicaron en el periódico a lo largo de los años 1924-1928 (cfr. cap. 4.2.3.). Alegando el argumento de la periodicidad y de la urgencia de informar acerca de las actividades del aula, entre otras cosas, se justificaba la aparición de esta rúbrica y se apelaba a la colaboración entre las instituciones. Además, el campo de “los miles y miles de personas dedicadas a enseñar o a aprender el castellano” era lo suficientemente “ancho” y “baldío” como para que el periódico pudiera y debiera hacer sus propias incursiones. Durante los primeros cuatro meses, la cabecera de la sección rezó lo siguiente: “Página especialmente dedicada a los alumnos de lengua y literatura española, a cargo de Juan Cueto, de Columbia University”; sin embargo, esta inscripción desaparece a partir del28 de abril de 1921 (cfr. nota 35). En un principio la rúbrica lo quiso abarcar todo: 210 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 ◊ una “Sección informativa” que informara acerca de las actividades que se dieran en “Universidades, Colegios, Escuelas y sociedades hispanistas” (01.01.1921, 4b), para las cuales se pidió desde un comienzo ayuda a “los profesores y alumnos de las clases de español” (01.01.1921, 4a). La sección prometía dedicarle, además, artículos a “personalidades, con quienes la enseñanza del castellano ha contraído una mayor deuda de gratitud”, amén de describir “las organizaciones más eficientes en el aspecto cultural (American Association of the Teachers; Instituto de las Españas; Hispanic Society, etc.)” (01.01.1921, 4c); ◊ “Literatura miscelánea” en la cual se publicaran artículos literarios, “dándose preferencia a aquellas composiciones, que tengan un interés pedagógico directo y a la colaboración de escritores dedicados a la enseñanza o relacionados con ella” (01.01.1921, 4c); ◊ “Artículos didácticos” relacionados con aspectos concernientes al folletín (cfr. infra) y a la sección de consultas también publicados en esta página; ◊ una “Sección de consultas”33 a la que pudieran acudir los lectores, con el objetivo de “establecer una plataforma, en que puedan recibir el aire y la luz de una discusión serena las cuestiones más oscuras y más discutibles de gramática, de lexicografía –y de las demás ramas de la ciencia del lenguaje” (01.01.1921, 4c); ◊ una “Sección bibliográfica” que recogiera reseñas de libros y revistas de interés; ◊ y, por último, en formato de folletín34, “obras maestras de la literatura española e hispano americana, escogiéndolas entre aquellas, que sin mengua del mérito literario, ofrezcan amenidad para la generalidad de los lectores” (01.01.1921, 4d), empezando por la obra del siglo xVi “Historia del Abencerraje y de la hermosa Jarifa”, seguido de “Idilios Vascos” de Pío Baroja o “Marianela” por Benito Pérez Galdós, para mencionar los tres primeros. Como vemos y como ya hemos comentando anteriormente, se trata de una serie de contenidos y formas muy heterogéneas que bien tenían por objetivo informar acerca de las actividades, bien poder ser empleados para 33 Esta sección no llegó a establecerse nunca, probablemente por falta de consultas por parte de los lectores, como desprendemos de uno de los dos únicos artículos que se llegaron a publicar el 19.01.1921 y el 02.02.1921. En el primero, Cueto deploraba el hecho de no haber anunciado la sección con antelación. 34 Otro “moyen de marketing que surge durante el siglo xix en la prensa francesa” (Grosse y Seibold 1994: 52). UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 211 las aulas de español. Sin embargo, tanto quiso abarcar este cajón de sastre de aparición diaria y con tantos apartados que parecían solaparse, que la ambiciosa empresa, al cabo de cuatro meses, cuando el profesor Cueto deja su dirección35, tuvo que ser reestructurada. A partir de ahí la rúbrica que disponía en un comienzo de la superficie de toda una página (y a veces más), la 4, la que solía ser la de opinión o la de información cultural, se irá reduciendo a algunas columnas y ya no se publicará ni de manera regular ni diaria, al menos durante este año. A pesar de todos los cambios y reformas a las que se vio sometida durante su existencia, se mantuvo durante unos ocho años. Al igual que había sucedido con los cursos de lengua, también esta rúbrica será publicitada por el diario para fines comerciales, incitando a los profesores a suscribirse a las series, vendiéndolas a 50 centavos mensuales por pago adelantado. También les ofrecían enviar el periódico “en varios ejemplares juntos” (13.01.1922, 4c). Todo ello sirviéndose de un cupón impreso en la misma página. Esto da una vez más fe del grado de comercialización que podemos hallar durante esta época preglobalizada en torno a la lengua y el aprendizaje de ésta: la enseñanza se va perfilando ya como todo un mercado y rica fuente de ingresos para el periódico. A lo largo del año 1928, la rúbrica se acabará confundiendo con aquella que lleva por título “Notas Escolares”, que existía ya desde 1925 y que pasó a dar información acerca de las “actividades de los Círculos de español, las Escuelas, «Colleges» y Universidades” (01.01.1925, 4f) proporcionada por los lectores, ya que “El Eco de las Aulas” había quedado reducido a proporcionar textos literarios que se pudieran emplear en clase. El componente literario, que ya existía anteriormente a la época del “Eco de las Aulas” tambiénse seguirá publicando, así p. ej., “El cuento de hoy”.En efecto, parte de los contenidos ya habían estado antes de la aparición de esta rúbrica y seguirán estando ahí. Lo que se pierde de alguna manera es el factor publicitario/económico dirigido explícitamente al cuerpo de profesorado y estudiantil, que implícitamente ya había conllevado antes de la instauración de esta rúbrica36. En cuanto a la selección literaria, lo que cambiará en el “Eco de las Aulas” será según el periódico lo siguiente: 35 El periódico no da ningún tipo de explicación de por qué se termina esta colaboración, pero suponemos que se debió a la dificultad de compaginar la labor universitaria y la de coordinación de una rúbrica periodística diaria de tal envergadura. 36 Así encontramos, por ejemplo, el 17.11.1917, 7a-b este anuncio: TO THE AMERICAN STUDENT OF SPANISH / Beginning with this number we are giving selected pieces of translated literature from distinguished authors in good and correct Spanish in order that our students may practice reading good literature and those more advanced, may translate them into English. / By means of these selected articles, the students will not only practice 212 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 Este periódico venía dedicando una página entera a la amena literatura, escogiendo los temas entre aquellos [que] tuvieran un interés directo para la colonia de habla española. En la elección del folletín, por ejemplo, venía predominando el criterio de las traducciones de libros escritos en inglés, en los que los españoles o hispanoamericanos recién llegados podían encontrar un texto vivo, que les ayudase en la tarea de penetrar en el alma del pueblo en que había venido a vivir. Aunque hay muchos puntos de vista, desde los cuales puede defenderse ese criterio, a nadie se le ocultará que con la transformación que vamos a intentar en esta hoja, al atender preferentemente los intereses de un grupo –el formado por el gigantesco cuerpo de maestros y alumnos– serviremos, mejor que antes, los intereses generales, puesto que el núcleo de españoles e hispano americanos, que viven aquí y que reciben, en cada paso que dan, una lección de americanismo, están más necesitados de textos castizos, en que se mantenga el fuego sagrado de su raza: de lecciones, que aminoren el detrimento, que siempre produce en la contextura del idioma propio el ejercicio cotidiano de un lenguaje distinto, de informaciones relativas a los libros /[4b] nuevos, a las conferencias, discursos, fiestas y reuniones, que se celebren aquí, a las que acaso pueda asistir, proporcionándose el regalo de vivir unas horas en el ambiente de su tierra. Todo esto aparte de la honda satisfacción patriótica, que debe producir en todo individuo de habla española el hecho de ver reflejados a diario, en las columnas de un periódico, el movimiento y la vida de ese organismo tan formidable que constituyen, en su conjunto, los miles y miles de personas, que se dedican a la enseñanza y al estudio del español (01.01.1921, 4a-b)37. Como vemos, el énfasis de servir a la integración del inmigrante mediante la publicación de traducciones del inglés para familiarizarlo con la sociedad de acogida es desplazado por el valor patriótico que consiste en proporcionarle “textos castizos” para mantener “el fuego sagrado de su raza” y aminorar el detrimento que “siempre produce en la contextura del idioma propio el ejercicio cotidiano de un lenguaje distinto”. Este último punto resulta ser un ideologema recurrente en la prensa (Cameron 1995: 68): nos encontramos aquí ante el usual miedo de contaminación lingüística que es tan frecuente en este tipo de contextos plurilingües y transnacionales (Joseph 1987: 30; Paffey 2012: 16). Con la nueva rúbrica se matan así varios pájaros de un tiro al “atender preferentemente los intereses” del grupo “formado por the Spanish language, but will also enable them to gather good and valuable observations of authors of all nationalities and races. 37 Las cursivas son nuestras. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 213 el gigantesco cuerpo de maestros y alumnos”, un público receptor muy lucrativo, lo cual se vende como un ejercicio de mejora de este servicio que además resulta ser servicio patriótico38. Obsérvese además cómo se emplea el término emblemático de raza ligado al movimiento del hispanismo (cfr. Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994: 254-276), junto con otros términos39 recurrentes como el de “colonia de habla española” o “núcleo de españoles e hispano americanos” para homogeneizar a este conglomerado ya por esos entonces bastante heterogéneo. Está operando aquí muy tempranamente el proceso semiótico de elisión (Gal / Irvine (1995: 972 y ss; del Valle 2006: 42), lo cual también puede ser visto como una estrategia para mantener el colectivo de lectores lo más amplio posible también en cuanto a la comunidad de inmigrantes. Al igual que la práctica de emplear el periódico, era y sigue siendo también muy común la de emplear textos literarios para el aprendizaje de las lenguas. Ya que la lengua literaria suele ser considerada como la base de la variedad estándar (Crowley 2003: 84; Paffey 2012: 48). El mismísimo Menéndez Pidal recomendaba a los profesores de español estadounidenses en uno de los artículos programáticos publicados en el primer número de Hispania lo siguiente: Por lo tanto la enseñanza de la lengua debe tender a dar un amplio conocimiento del español literario, considerado como un elevado conjunto; y de un modo accesorio debe explicar las ligeras variantes que se ofrecen en el habla culta española en España y en Hispano-América, haciendo ver la unidad esencial de todas dentro del patrón literario (Menéndez Pidal 1918: 11). Menéndez Pidal proponía así una representación del español como un conjunto altamente unificado de variedades en el que el español literario había de ejercer como norma escrita y el habla de Castilla como norma oral (del Valle 2014a: 98). Esta parece ser la pauta que sigue también el periódico, favoreciendo, todo en la línea del ilustre filólogo español, la 38 El patriotismo/nacionalismo vinculado al ejercicio de aprender otra lengua y a los intereses económicos y políticos fue otro ideologema recurrente durante esta época, así afirmaba Wilkins: “Cuando una nación tiene un comercio inmenso y relaciones estrechas con otras naciones que hablan distintos idiomas, prevalece en ella forzosamente un punto de vista nacional respecto al aprendizaje de lenguas, que puede diferir mucho del que se tiene en alguna otra nación, que en su mayor parte se baste a sí mismo económica y políticamente” (1922: 85). 39 Véase Sánchez (2016) para la evolución de este tipo de términos de autodefinición en la prensa hispanófona neoyorquina durante la primera mitad del siglo xx. 214 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 variedad ibérica, pues como ha estudiado Amparo de Juan Bolufer, “abundan [en general, no solo en esta rúbrica] los escritores españoles del siglo XX, y firmas consagradas, pues este periódico es muy poco arriesgado en su selección” (2009: 544), lo cual era, al parecer,asimismo la práctica común en las publicaciones hispanófonas neoyorquinas de la época (2009: 545). Podemos pues decir que a través de la selección y publicación de este tipo de textos en una rúbrica declarada abiertamente como escolar, el rotativo estaba reproduciendo y reafirmando una vez más determinados regímenes de normatividad profundamente anclados en la ideología del hispanismo estadounidense de la época (del Valle 2014a: 360). Aunque los propios profesores de español no siempre estaban de acuerdo con el uso de literatura, sobre todo en el caso de las clases de principiantes, como advertía Lawrence A. Wilkins: Nos parece que las diferencias que existen entre el español literario y el familiar o de todos los días, son más imponentes que las que se perciben en francés, alemán o italiano. Al lado de esta declaración hay que poner esa otra, que reza que de todos los idiomas de hoy que se enseñan en los Estados Unidos, el español posee la significación práctica más evidente. Entonces se deduce fácilmente que la lectura de trozos en alto grado literarios durante los primeros años de estudio del idioma es, si se me permite la frase, una tontería; por lo menos un tour de force absolutamente injustificado. No se adquiere el vocabulario práctico y útil que hace falta, ni se logra una estimación debida de las obras maestras de la literatura. Si fueran autores contemporáneos los que se leen, no sería tan disparatado el procedimiento como ya es de suyo, porque entonces se conocería el vocabulario literario del día de hoy [...] (Wilkins 1922: 128). 4.3. ConCurSoS Otra estrategia publicitario-comercial que aplicó el rotativo durante estas décadas del Spanish craze, implicando una vez más a este lucrativo público receptor-consumidor que suponía “el gigantesco cuerpo de maestros y alumnos” (01.01.1921, 4a), entre otros, fue la de organizar certámenes de composición. Se trata de otra manera más de atraer, tratar de comprometer e involucrar a lectores potenciales –práctica que era muy popular ya desde finales del siglo xix en el mundo periodístico (Weill 1934: 165)–, esta vez ofreciéndoles una manera más activa de implicarse, seduciéndoles además con algún tipo de recompensa. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 215 Fueron también múltiples los concursos que se convocaron desde las páginas de La Prensa a lo largo del periodo estudiado y estos dan una vez más fe de la estrecha colaboración con los centros e instituciones de enseñanza. Hacia finales de 1917 se organiza, por ejemplo, un “Certamen de composición en inglés en colaboración con el Departamento de Inglés para Extranjeros de la West Side Young Men’s Christian Association” (17.11.1917, 7d-e); el premio era “un curso completo de gramática, composición y conversación inglesa dado por el Departamento de Inglés para Extranjeros de la West Side Y.M.C.A., 318 West 57th Street” (24.11.1917, 7d-e); el tema de la composición fue “La parte que al nuevo mundo corresponde en la guerra”, con una extensión máxima de 300 palabras (24.11.1917, 7d-e). La composición ganadora fue publicada en el periódico, suponemos que durante las primeras semanas del año 1918, de las cuales lamentablemente no disponemos de ningún número. Este concurso se inscribe más bien en la línea de integración del inmigrante que el periódico, como hemos visto, también adoptó, sobre todo durante la etapa previa a la década de los 1920. Otra serie de concursos dignos de mención fueron los organizados durante los años escolares del 1924-1928 a nivel nacional, en colaboración con la AATS en el marco de la rúbrica “El Eco de las Aulas”. Se trató más concretamente de un concurso de ensayos de estudiantes de español, cuyos textos premiados se publicaron en el periódico a lo largo de estos años. Como objetivo declaraban el “dar mayor impulso e incrementar el entusiasmo por el estudio del idioma español en los Estados Unidos” (10.03.1927, 4c-e) y “estimular a los estudiantes norteamericanos en el estudio del español y con ello lograr que se interesen en la literatura y en las otras manifestaciones culturales de nuestra raza” (16.05.1928, 4g-h). De nuevo hallamos el término clave del hispanismo, raza, en función del ideologema cultural de prestigio. “LA PRENSA distribuyó $3.500.00 en NOVENTA PREMIOS entre los alumnos y maestros de español de los centros de enseñanza de este país” (10.03.1927, 4c-e), cifra no desdeñable para esos entonces, en lo que el rotativo llegó a denominar una “altruista causa” (16.05.1928, 4g-h). Cinco fueron los grupos de participantes propuestos que cubrían los niveles superiores del sistema educativo estadounidense: a) “Alumnos de las Escuelas Superiores (públicas y privadas)” b) “Alumnos de los «Colleges»” c) “Alumnos de los colegios y universidades, aspirantes al título de A. M. en Lenguas Romances” d) “Aspirantes al grado Ph.D. en Lenguas Romances” e) “Profesores de Español en las Escuelas Superiores”; 216 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 Seis las regiones en las que celebró: I) Estados de Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsilvania II) Delaware, District of Columbia, Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, Porto Rico III) Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana IV) North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, Montanta, Idaho, Washington V) Arizona, Utah, Nevada, California, Oregon VI) los Estados de Texas, New Mexico y Oklahoma. Los ensayos se publicarían, según el rotativo, tal como los alumnos los habían presentado al concurso “sin correcciones de los errores que pudieran contener, con el objeto de que los lectores puedan darse cuenta precisa del adelanto de los estudiantes de español en las escuelas americanas” (10.03.1927, 4c-e). Los temas estaban relacionados con el ámbito cultural del mundo hispanófono. El último ejemplo que traemos no es fruto de la colaboración con instituciones de enseñanza, pero sí tiene como objetivo promocionar el español en un marco bastante emblemático.En mayo de 1919, La Prensa organizaba por primera vez unos juegos florales en Nueva York, la celebración tuvo lugar en Carnegie Hall el 04.05.1919. Tres fueron las categorías convocadas con sus respectivos premios (p. ej., 31.03.1919, 6c-e): I. Poesía lírica: tema libre: extensión máxima 100 líneas. Premio: La Flor Natural con el privilegio de elegir la Reina de los Juegos Florales. Recompensa adicional, $250. II. Prosa: “Unidad espiritual y material de la América hispana y anglosajona”. ¿Por qué no se ha logrado? ¿Cómo puede obtenerse efectiva y prontamente? Extensión máxima, 3500 palabras. Premio: Un objeto de arte. Recompensa adicional, $500. III. Cuento en prosa: tema libre; extensión máxima, 2500 palabras. Premio: Un objeto de arte. Recompensa adicional, $200 El jurado calificador fue integrado por Federico de Onís, José Castellot, el poeta Tomás Walsh, Oreste Ferrara y Pedro Henríquez Ureña, aunque en el UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 217 artículo sobre la gala solo se mencionan los primeros tres (05.05.1919, 1a). Ganador del premio principal fue el poeta mexicano Joaquín Méndez Rivas, que al parecer ya había ganado la flor natural de otros juegos florales (los de Oaxaca y Covadonga, entre otros) (cfr. 05.05.1919, 1e), el cual “escogió como reina de la fiesta a la señorita Luz Requena Legarreta” (05.05.1919, 1a), de la cual el periódico no nos da ulterior información. Así, un año después de la instauración y celebración en Nueva York de una fiesta tan emblemática como el Día de la Raza40 (cfr. Pike 1971: 172 y ss.; Sepúlveda Muñoz 1994: 270-276), el rotativo se embarca en otra empresa de alta carga simbólica e histórica en el mundo iberoamericano, en la que la lengua española había de fungir una vez más como ente articulador: con el propósito de vigorizar y estrechar el afecto recíproco entre los habitantes de origen hispano y de origen anglo-sajón del continente americano, así como de contribuir a la expansión del conocimiento del idioma español en los Estados Unidos de América y a dar a esa nuestra lengua mayor lustre y belleza. (15.01.1919, 1c-d)41. 5. CONCLUSIONES El material analizado en este artículo demuestra cómo La Prensa no solo supo hacerse eco del auge y demanda de la enseñanza del español en EE.UU., sino que también supo cómo conectar con la red de instituciones que emergen a comienzos del siglo xx precisamente como reflejo, reacción y órganos ejecutores de este Spanish craze que se estaba viviendo. Se posicionaba así como un importante vehículo polifuncional capaz de suplir determinadas carencias causadas por el boom (p. ej., falta de textos escolares), difundir la campaña de prestigio del español y, por supuesto, también por motivos 40 Celebrada el 12 de octubre y conocida también en determinados países hispanoamericanos ya desde el siglo xix bajo nombres como el “Día de Colón” y el “Día de América”, este evento conmemora el “descubrimiento” de América. En Nueva York ya se venía celebrando desde comienzos del siglo por la comunidad de inmigrantes italianos. 41 En los próximos años la fiesta va tomando otras dimensiones y el aspecto literario es relegado cada vez más a segunda plana o anulado. Así se celebra, por ejemplo, el 07.05.1927 el Baile anual de las Flores, organizado esta vez por el Galicia Sporting Club, cuyo acto principal fue la elección de la Reina de las Flores y en cuyo jurado estuvo esta vez José Camprubí (07.05.1927, 1e). 218 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 lucrativos para llegar a un público anglófono más amplio, que fuera más allá del de la colonia hispanófona. Los años analizados corresponden a los primeros diez años de la era Camprubí, durante la cual el periódico pasó por una serie de reformas, que implicaron la ampliación y profesionalización del equipo técnico y la plantilla laboral. En el marco de estas reformas se insertan asimismo las realizadas en cuanto a formatos y contenidos, que como hemos visto, parecen haberse moldeado según las demandas del mercado, creadas a su vez por acontecimientos geopolíticos y las pautas ideológicas propuestas por los principales agentes culturales. ágil hombre de negocios, intelectual y miembro de la colonia hispana, la polifacética figura de Camprubí reunía todas las calidades para llevar a cabo la empresa de tender puentes entre ambos continentes, en un proyecto que James Fernández y Pilar Cagiao han etiquetado como “ecléctico” (2016). El material analizado muestra claras correlaciones entre los cambios de contenidos del rotativo y factores externos que tienen que ver con el desarrollo ideológico del Spanish craze. Según nuestra lectura serían perceptibles en la transición de la década de los 1910 a la de los 1920 dos tendencias que parecen solaparse y complementarse. Por una parte, tenemos el cambio de énfasis en miras de una ampliación del público receptor, que desplaza su atención por la integración del inmigrante, proyecto que no se abandona del todo, pero que se parece subordinar a uno de mayor envergadura, el de acoplarse a las necesidades del profesorado/alumnado de ELE. Por otra parte, La Prensa parece también reaccionar a la campaña de prestigio, abandonando contenidos que recalcaban el ideologema utilitario/ económico (tales como los cursos de lengua), e implementando formatos que realzaran el cultural/prestigioso (“El Eco de las Aulas” o algunos de los concursos). El periódico seguía con ello las ideologías recurrentes en ámbitos intelectuales y las tendencias sugeridas por la AATS en Hispania, no en vano mencionan la revista y tratan de justificar la publicación de la nueva rúbrica, “El Eco de las Aulas”, con respecto a ésta en uno de los artículos programáticos. El cotejo con textos coetáneos publicados en dicha revista por importantes miembros de la asociación ha sido en ese sentido muy útil y ha servido para corroborar este solapamiento y posterior desplazamiento de ideologemas. Hacia mediados del siglo xx (probablemente ya antes), el ideologema del prestigio cultural del español, vinculado al movimiento del hispanismo, ya está completamente consolidado en el discurso periodístico y ya no hay necesidad de mencionar el del valor comercial/utilitario (vinculado a su vez al movimiento hispanoamericanista). UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 219 Todo esto nos permite volver a las características que comparten el ámbito de la enseñanza de lenguas y el periodístico y que con nuestro material han quedado también patentes. Con este tipo de estrategias comerciales el rotativo participaba, de alguna manera, en la legitimación de determinadas variedades por encima de otras en el mercado lingüístico, en la elaboración y difusión de un estándar y en última instancia en la construcción y reglamentación del ciudadano y de la nación-Estado. Esto resulta aún más importante en un contexto como el estudiado, que era y sigue siendo transnacional y que carecía, al menos por esa época, de instituciones que dictaran normas oficiales, como por ejemplo una academia de la lengua. Las ideologías lingüísticas vinculadas a estos procesos desempeñaron, como hemos visto, un papel fundamental. Por último, es observable cómo el español es tratado ya durante una etapa muy temprana en la que se convierte en primera segunda lengua enseñada en el sistema escolar, como un producto de mercado para un público consumidor que ya por esos entonces y, si bien bastante diferente al de hoy en día, resultase probablemente bastante lucrativo.Tendencias todas estas en torno al español en EE.UU. que siguen estando, hoy más que nunca, en el ojo del huracán. REFERENCIAS BIBLIOGRáFICAS arnoux, ELVira narVaJa DE. 2000. La Glotopolítica: transformaciones de un campo disciplinario. En Elvira Narvaja de Arnoux. Lenguajes: teorías y prácticas, pp. 95-109. Buenos Aires: Gobierno de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires, Secretaría de Educación. ________ 2008. Los discursos sobre la nación y el lenguaje en la formación del estado (Chile, 1842-1862): estudio glotopolítico. Buenos Aires: Santiago Arcos. arnoux, ELVira narVaJa DE y JoSé DEL VaLLE. 2010. Las representaciones ideológicas del lenguaje. 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En Richard Kagan e Ignacio Suárez-Zuloaga (eds.). When Spain Fascinated America, pp. 47-59. Madrid: Fundación Zuloaga. FErnÁnDEz, JaMES D. y PiLar Cagiao. 2016. “Campeón de los hispanos”: José Camprubí y la diáspora española en los Estados Unidos. Ponencia presentada en The Second International Congress On Historical Links between Spain and North America: Past, Present and Future, City College of New York, New York, EE.UU. FiTz-gEraLD, John. 1917. The Opportunity and the Responsibility of the Teacher of Spanish. Hispania 1.1: 11-18. gaL, SuSan y JuDiTh T. irVinE. 1995. The Boundaries of Languages and Disciplines: How Ideologies Construct Difference. Social Research 62.4: 967-1001. UN PERIóDICO NEOYORQUINO COMO VEHÍCULO IDEOLóGICO… / ROSA SáNCHEZ 221 groSSE, ErnST-uLriCh. 2001. Evolution et typologies des genres journalistiques. Essai d’une vue d’ensemble. Semen. Revue de sémio-linguistique des textes et discours 13: 1-15. groSSE, ErnST-uLriCh y ErnST SEiBoLD. 1994. 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JaKSiC, iVÁn. 2012. The Hispanic World and American Intellectual Life, 1820-1880. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. JoSEPh, John EarL. 1987. Eloquence and Power. The Rise of Language Standards and Standard Languages. London: Pinter. Kagan, riCharD L. 2010. The Spanish Craze in the United States: Cultural Entitlement and the Appropriation of Spains’s Cultural Patrimony ca. 1890-ca. 1930. Revista Complutense de Historia de América 36: 37-58. KanELLoS, niCoLÁS. 2000. A Brief History of Hispanic Periodicals in the United States. En Nicolás Kanellos y Helvetia Martell (eds.). Hispanic Periodicals in the United States. Origins to 1960. A Brief History and Comprehensive Bibliography, pp. 3-142. Houston: Arte Público Press. KroSKriTy, PauL V. 2000. Regimenting Languages. Language Ideological Perspectives. En Kroskrity, Paul V. (ed.). Regimes of language: ideologies, polities, and identities. Santa Fe, Nuevo México: School of American Research Press, 1-34. LEaViTT, S. 1967. The American Association of Teachers of Spanish and Portuguese. Hispania 50: 806-822. LiPPi-grEEn, roSina. 1997. English with an Accent: Language, Ideology, and Discrimination in the United States. New York: Routledge. MEnénDEz PiDaL, raMón. 1918. La lengua española. Hispania 1.1: 1-14. oaKLEy, EDna. 1919. Vitalizing the Teaching of Spanish. Hispania 2.6: 291-297. oMaggio, aLiCE C. 1986. Teaching Language in Context. Proficiency-Oriented Instruction. Boston: Heinle & Heinle. PaFFEy, DarrEn. 2012. Language Ideologies and the Globalization of ‘Standard’ Spanish. London: Bloomsbury. PEnnyCooK, aLaSTair. 1989. The Concept of Method, Interested Knowledge, and the Politics of Language Teaching. TESOL Quarterly 23.4: 589-618. PiKE, FrEDriCK P. 1971. Hispanismo, 1898-1936. Spanisch Conservatives and Liberals and their Relations with Spanish America. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. ruiz-ManJón, oCTaVio. 2012. Federico de Onís: figura clave en la historia de las relaciones culturales entre España y los Estados Unidos. Memoria y Civilización 15: 397-413. SÁnChEz, roSa. 2016. Edificando espacios comunicativo-identitarios. Términos de autodefinición en la prensa hispanófona neoyorquina durante la primera mitad del siglo 222 BOLETÍN DE FILOLOGÍA TOMO LII, NúMERO 2, 2017 xx. En Yvette Bürki y Henriette Partsch (eds.). Redes de comunicación: Estudios sobre la prensa en el mundo hispanohablante, pp. 249-279. Berlin: Frank & Timme. SCoLniK, JuLiE. 2014. Libro de embeźar las linguas ingleśa y yudiš: La América’s Guidebook to Learning English and Yiddish and Becoming an American Citizen. MEAH. Sección Hebreo 63: 1-13. Disponible en http://www.meahhebreo.com/index.php/meahhebreo/ article/view/436 [Consulta 22/05/2016]. SEPúLVEDa Muñoz, iSiDro. 1994. Comunidad cultural e hispano-americanismo, 1885-1936. Madrid: UNED. Van DiJK, TEun. 1995. Discourse Analysis as Ideology Analysis. En Christina Schäffner y Anita L. Wenden (eds.). Language and Peace, pp. 17-33. Aldershot: Dartmouth. WarShaW, JaCoB. 1919. The Spanish Porgram. Hispania 2.5: 223-235. WEiLL, gEorgES. 1934. Le Journal. Origines, évolution et role de la presse périodique. Paris: La Renaisance du Livre. WiLKinS, LaWrEnCE a. 1922. La Enseñanza de Lenguas Modernas en los Estados Unidos. Conferencias dadas en el “Centro de Estudios Históricos” y en el “Ateneo”, de Madrid, en el “Instituto de Idiomas” de la Universidad de Valencia y en el “Consell de Pedagogía de la Mancomunitat de Catalunya” durante el otoño de 1921. New York: Instituto de las Españas. yúDiCE, gEorgE. 2009. Culturas emergentes en el mundo hispano de Estados Unidos. Observatorio: Cultura y Comunicación, 1-75. Disponible en http://www.falternativas. org/occ-fa/documentos/culturas-emergentes-en-el-mundo-hispano-de-estados-unidos [Consulta 01/02/2015]. 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work_itetugrbazhn3jxolj6v6nhkxy	----	Heated Words : The Politics and Poetics of Work in 'A Complaint against Blacksmiths' This is a repository copy of Heated Words : The Politics and Poetics of Work in 'A Complaint against Blacksmiths'. White Rose Research Online URL for this paper: http://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/96160/ Version: Published Version Article: Thorpe, Deborah Ellen orcid.org/0000-0002-2307-8770 (2015) Heated Words : The Politics and Poetics of Work in 'A Complaint against Blacksmiths'. Parergon. pp. 77-101. ISSN 0313-6221 https://doi.org/10.1353/pgn.2015.0066 eprints@whiterose.ac.uk https://eprints.whiterose.ac.uk/ Reuse Items deposited in White Rose Research Online are protected by copyright, with all rights reserved unless indicated otherwise. They may be downloaded and/or printed for private study, or other acts as permitted by national copyright laws. The publisher or other rights holders may allow further reproduction and re-use of the full text version. This is indicated by the licence information on the White Rose Research Online record for the item. Takedown If you consider content in White Rose Research Online to be in breach of UK law, please notify us by emailing eprints@whiterose.ac.uk including the URL of the record and the reason for the withdrawal request. Parergon 32.1 (2015) This PDF copy of Parergon 32.1 (2015), 77–101 was provided by ANZAMEMS (Inc.), under Parergon’s Open Access Policy. Copyright is retained by the author(s). Heated Words: The Politics and Poetics of Work in ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’ Deborah Thorpe ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’, unique to BL, MS Arundel 292, may gesture towards fourteenth-century legislation against night-time work, yet is underpinned by delight in the sights and sounds of the forge. The smith’s smoke-smattered visage is simultaneously disgraceful and inspiring to its medieval audience. Many of us experience a different kind of unease in the digital age, as hours are converted into immaterial goods. For many, the clamour of physical labour has been replaced by the noise of automation. Looking back into the forge, the modern urban worker may yearn for its sonic landscape, with clattering hammers, grunting mouths, and hissing waters. My hips are a desk. From my ears hang chains of paper clips. Rubber bands form my hair. My breasts are wells of mimeograph ink. My feet bear casters. Buzz. Click.1 Weighted by paper clips and rubber bands, filled with ink, and conveyed by squeaky casters, Marge Piercy’s secretary is inseparable from the apparatus of bureaucracy. The desk, clips, bands, ink, and casters are objects that store, sort, and record rather than tools that design, carve, and finish. The paraphernalia that tangles with the secretary is burdensome rather than productive. The ‘Buzz’ and ‘Click’ are the dull flat-line of automation, rather than the noise of human craft. Eventually, the secretary’s womb is prodded into angles by an inhuman pregnancy: Swollen, heavy, rectangular I am about to be delivered 1 Marge Piercy, ‘The Secretary Chant’, in Piercy, Circles on the Water: Selected Poems of Marge Piercy (New York: Knopf, 1989), p. 77, lines 1–7. The author would like to thank the two anonymous readers of this article for their pertinent comments and acknowledge the part-funding of the research by the Wellcome Trust (ref: 105624) through the Centre for Chronic Diseases and Disorders (C2D2) at the University of York. 78 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe of a baby Xerox machine.2 The ‘baby’ is semi-animate, heaving into life periodically, but in order to replicate rather than procreate. This unnatural reproduction is marked by short lines, which invoke the jabs and swipes of a Xerox machine. Even the poem’s title – ‘The Secretary Chant’ – with its absence of a possessive apostrophe, denies this working woman an element of agency. The chant relates to her, but it does not belong to her. The poem narrates a steady erosion of human identity through unproductive work. The blacksmith’s forge, as depicted in the fourteenth-century poem, ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’, with its heady mixture of human sweat, heat, and deafening noise, is the antithesis of the modern secretary’s sterile office.3 ‘A Complaint’, which survives uniquely in BL, MS Arundel 292, fol. 71v, condemns the smith for his noisy, socially disruptive work. However, this is underpinned by a sense of delight in his craft as a source of poetic inspiration, as a place to hang ‘rhetorical ornaments’.4 In contrast with Piercy’s secretary, his work is creative, energetic, dirty, and thus delightful to the poet. The writer of ‘A Complaint’ revels in the smith’s clattering hammer and smoke- smattered visage as a source of material for stylish expression.5 This article situates the smiths of ‘A Complaint’ alongside later representations of ‘hammar men’ in a variety of literary and sociological settings.6 It creates a dialogue between these medieval and post-medieval representations to explore the world of human work as conveyed by sound. The sound of the forge, which was ear-splitting to the medieval listener in ‘A Complaint’, pales in comparison to the soundscape of industrialisation, with its hellish but productive blast furnaces, belching noise that was previously unimaginable. The figure of the blacksmith allows us to trace a reversal of acoustic values and meanings, in relation to work, between the medieval and 2 Piercy, ‘The Secretary Chant’, lines 17–20. 3 BL, MS Arundel 292, fol. 71v. The manuscript gives no title, but for the given title, see Elizabeth Salter, ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’, in English and International: Studies in the Literature, Art and Patronage of Medieval England, eds Derek Pearsall and Nicolette Zeeman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 199–214. The poem is presented as prose, upon a single folio, with punctus elevatus to indicate the ends of verse lines. Here, the text has been separated into these verse lines, to which I have assigned numbers in parentheses. Abbreviations are expanded and represented in italics, and I have reproduced upper- and lower-case letters as they appear in the manuscript. 4 Salter, p. 209. 5 Salter, p. 209. 6 Corporation of London, The Lawes of the Market (London, 1595), sig. A6v; Emily Cockayne, Hubbub: Filth, Noise & Stench in England 1600–1770 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), p. 113; David Hendy, Noise: A Human History of Sound and Listening (London: Profile, 2013), p. 149. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 79The Politics and Poetics of Work modern worlds. In this article, then, I will show how the acoustic dimensions at work delineate manual labour from mechanised work: the cries of knaves and ‘clateryng of knockes’ became the ‘shrieking noise’ of a nineteenth-century iron mill and, ultimately, a post-industrial, dehumanised, and dehumanising, ‘Buzz. Click.’. Thus, instead of despising the blacksmith, modern audiences might yearn to glimpse and hear him, as a relic of a pre-industrial era. Many humans now feel dehumanised at work, to an even greater extent, perhaps, than Piercy’s pre-digital age secretary. Jeremy Rifkin, writing The End of Work in 1995, predicted that sophisticated technologies were going to bring civilisation closer to a ‘world without workers’.7 Rifkin’s prophecy was made during a period of especially rapid progress in the speed of digital information transfer. In 1990, a single optical fibre could transmit about one billion bits per second; by 2000, it could transmit nearly one trillion.8 Internet usage increased dramatically in the years following the publication of Rifkin’s book. Worldwide, there were about thirty million computers connected to the Internet at the beginning of 1998, which increased to nearly one hundred million by July 2000.9 Rifkin feared the negative impact of such a ‘technological revolution’. By 2015, many of us have become accustomed to fast-paced technological expansion. Indeed by 2011, Rifkin had progressed from an analysis of the general impact of electronic communication on the individual to a more specific, and optimistic, approach. In The Third Industrial Revolution, he focused on a digital communication revolution that was becoming the means of organising new renewable energy systems.10 Rifkin’s latest book shone a more positive light on technology, specifically on ‘the collaborative power unleashed by the merging of Internet technology and renewable energies’, which he promised would restructure human relationships.11 He believed that a new triad between human, Internet technology, and energy was the only way to avoid catastrophic climate change.12 Regardless of this potential adaptation to, and synthesis with, new technologies, there is some unease in the urban workplace. This also took root 7 Jeremy Rifkin, The End of Work: The Decline of the Global Labour Force and the Dawn of the Post-Market Era (London: Penguin, 1995), pp. 1–14. 8 See Science and Engineering Indicators, 2002 (National Science Foundation, Division of Science Resources Statistics, 2002) http://www.nsf.gov/statistics/seind02/ [accessed 26 May 2015], chap. 8, Trends in IT: Networking. 9 Science and Engineering Indicators, chap. 8, Trends in IT: Networking. 10 Jeremy Rifkin, The Third Industrial Revolution: How Lateral Power is transforming Energy, the Economy, and the World (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. 2, 36. 11 Rifkin, Third Industrial Revolution, pp. 5–6. 12 Rifkin, Third Industrial Revolution, pp. 5–6. 80 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe in the 1990s as the Internet began to make its impact. Maurizio Lazzarato, in 1996, worried about the immaterial product of work in the information age.13 He showed that the skills needed to produce these goods – usually ‘content’ rather than a physical object – involve cybernetics and computer control, rather than crafting and finishing.14 Lazzarato perceived a lack of individuality in this modern workplace, as the labourer exists as part of a collective, or ‘team’.15 As introspective scholarship of the information age has progressed, a more hopeful view of this re-organised workplace has developed: re- negotiated hierarchies; connections that transcend geographical limitations; and utopian levels of productivity in a ‘near-workerless wonderland’.16 As Rifkin’s later book shows, many are now accustomed to the pace of digital growth, and so there is optimism about how Internet technology can be used to the advantage of the human race. A generation that has grown up with the Internet may well enjoy its deployment to the service sector, finding satisfaction in social connectivity and individual reward in giving themselves to a larger ‘networked community’.17 In promoting a ‘Third Industrial Revolution’, Rifkin argues that we have now abandoned the nineteenth-century obsession with productivity in favour of being free of the pursuit of material wealth: ‘we live to play.’18 While undoubtedly enjoying this social connectivity, the worker who produces an immaterial good might still crave pre-First Industrial Revolution dexterity – the kind of physicality that is seen in ‘A Complaint Against Blacksmiths’. The question of how far intellectual work can really be considered ‘work’ is an old one. Doubts about the benefits of immaterial labour such as the preaching and praying of friars were persistent in the Middle Ages.19 Rather than creating unease about the productivity of cerebral labour, the digital age has intensified it. So, this article pushes back into the lively world of the medieval forge to explore its political and poetic appeal to audiences, both medieval and post-medieval. 13 Maurizio Lazzarato, ‘Immaterial Labor’, in Radical Thought in Italy: A Potential Politics, eds Michael Hardt and Paolo Virno (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), pp. 132–46 (p. 132). 14 Lazzarato, p. 132. 15 Lazzarato, p. 132. 16 Kellie Robertson and Michael Uebel, ‘Introduction’, in The Middle Ages at Work: Practicing Labor in Late Medieval England, eds Kellie Robertson and Michael Uebel (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), pp. 1–15 (p. 3). 17 Rifkin, Third Industrial Revolution, p. 268. 18 Rifkin, Third Industrial Revolution, p. 269 (emphasis in original). 19 Robertson and Uebel, p. 3. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 81The Politics and Poetics of Work As ‘A Complaint’ opens, soot and smoke cling to the blacksmith’s clothes and skin: ‘Swarte smekyd smeþes smateryd wyth smoke’ (1). Quickly, the poem moves to the crux of its complaint. The deafening din of the smith at work causes the narrator distress: Dryue me to deth wyth den of her dyntes Swech noys on nyghtes ne herd men neuer What knauene cry and clateryng of knockes (2–4). The narrator’s aversion to night-time knocks and cries may gesture towards late fourteenth-century movements to legislate against noisy night work.20 It was not only blacksmiths whose work caused such disruption after dark: the neighbours of the London armourer Stephen atte Fryth complained that the blows of his sledge-hammers ‘shake the stone and earthern party-walls’ and ‘disturb the rest of the plaintiffs … day and night’.21 However, it was the blacksmiths who became the target of legislation. Arguments for these laws invoked quality control in addition to noise limitation; there was a concern among merchants that late-night work resulted in slipshod craftsmanship and saturated markets.22 Legislators ruminated over the plummeting prices that resulted from extended work days.23 Thus, the integrity of the smith of ‘A Complaint’, who continues to clatter late ‘on nyghtes’, is called into question. He is socially irresponsible and irritating. This concern persisted well into the early modern period: The Lawes of the Market (1595) prescribed that, ‘No hammar man, [such] as a Smith, a Pewterer, a Founder, and all Artificers making great sound, shall not worke after the hour of nyne in the night, nor afore the houre of four in the Morninge’.24 ‘Hammer men’ were evidently an ongoing nuisance, whose late-night work provoked contempt from the sleep-deprived populace, and attracted legislative attempts from successive governments. BL, MS Arundel 292 belonged to the Benedictine monastery of Holy Trinity in Norwich. Thus, it is likely that the scorn of blacksmiths was 20 See Salter (‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’, p. 202) who considers ‘a clustering of documents of legislation in the fourteenth century, and the comparative silence of the fifteenth century’ to suggest a date for the poem, and to argue that the fourteenth century might have presented conditions strong enough to provoke poetic composition on the topic of noisy night work. 21 Helena Chew and William Kellaway, eds, London Assize of Nuisance (London: London Record Society, 1973), p. 160. I would like to thank Brad Kirkland for bringing this to my attention. 22 Salter, pp. 203–04; see also E. P. Kuhl, ‘Daun Gerveys’, Modern Language Notes, 24 (1914), 156. 23 Salter, pp. 203–04. 24 Lawes of the Market, sig. A6v; Cockayne, Hubbub: Filth, Noise & Stench, p. 113; Hendy, Noise: A Human History, p. 149. 82 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe promoted by religious as well as economic attitudes.25 Noises are never ‘just sounds’, Douglas Kahn argues.26 They are also ‘ideas of noise’. These ideas of noise can be, ‘tetchy, abusive, transgressive, restrictive, hyperbolic, scientistic, generative, and cosmological’.27 The noise of the blacksmith is made unpleasant by its interpretation by an antagonised, sleepless narrator. Elizabeth Salter has argued that the ideology underscoring this negativity may be discerned in an intertextual annotation as the lament continues: Þe cammede kongons cryen after col col And blowen her bellewys þat al here brayn brestes \ech of hem at other/28 Huf puf seyth þat on haf paf þat oþer Þei spyttyn and spraulyn and spellyn many spelles Þei gnauen and gnacchen þei gronys to gyder (5–9) The annotator may have felt compelled to signal a link between the men of the forge and a contemporary literary depiction of riotousness. He interrupted this image of pug-nosed boys (‘cammede kongons’) blowing bellows with an interlinear inscription: ‘ech of hem at other.’ Salter argues that the words connected the boys with Geoffrey Chaucer’s ‘Pardoner’s Tale’, in which three young men of Flanders laugh at each other’s sins: ‘And ech of hem at otheres synne lough.’29 If the smiths were associated with Chaucer’s depraved young men, the connection was made by a reader – who was possibly also associated with the monastery – rather than the poem’s author. However, there are other links with Chaucerian imagery ingrained into the language of the poem itself. In ‘The Reeve’s Tale’ of Cambridge University Library, MS Gg. 4.27’s Canterbury Tales, the Reeve describes the appearance of the thieving miller of his tale with the same unusual verb, ‘cammede’: ‘Round was hese face & kammede was hese nose.’30 This descriptive similarity adds layers of complexity to the poem’s moral statement, prompting physiognomical comparisons with Chaucer’s most untrustworthy figures. The bad blacksmith’s boys are 25 Salter, pp. 205–07. 26 Douglas Kahn, Noise, Water, Meat: A History of Voice, and Aurality in the Arts (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), p. 20. 27 Kahn, p. 20. 28 The phrase ‘ech of hem at other’ appears interlinear to the text in the manuscript. 29 Salter, p. 207; Chaucer, ‘The Pardoners’ Tale’, in The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Larry D. Benson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) (hereafter Riverside Chaucer), p. 196, line 476. 30 Frederick James Furnivall, ed., The Cambridge MS. University Library, Gg 4. 27 of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (London: Trubner & Co., 1868–79), p. 113; cf. ‘camus’ in Ellesmere MS, the basis of the Riverside Chaucer (see Chaucer, ‘The Reeve’s Tale’, in Riverside Chaucer, p. 78, line 3933). Parergon 32.1 (2015) 83The Politics and Poetics of Work characterised by their narrativised bodies, with visually unpleasant features that may form connections with Chaucer’s oeuvre.31 There is further intertextuality in the sounds of the bellows. The ‘huf puf’ resembles an early fourteenth-century Latin poem, where a drunken priest recites a prayer, punctuating his Latin with belches: ‘Laudate Dominum, puf, omnis gens, laudate, puf, et omnis spiritus laudet, puf.’ This priestly belching was later echoed in Chaucer’s ‘Summoner’s Tale’ as the fat friars burp their way through prayers: ‘Lo buf they seye, cor meum eructavit.’32 ‘A Complaint’ contains several more similarities with contemporary texts, each of which casts aspersions on the figure of the smith. There are further connections with Chaucer’s works in its opening line: ‘Swarte smekyd smeþes smateryd with smoke’ (1). The unusual verb ‘smatre’ appears in the ‘The Parson’s Tale’, used to represent fools defiling themselves through vile, lecherous, kisses: ‘Thise olde dotardes holours, yet wol they kisse thogh they may nat do, and smatre hem.’33 There are also thematic links with the portrayal of blacksmiths in ‘The Miller’s Tale’. In this tale, the blacksmith, Gerveys, is visited by the vengeful Absolon in the middle of the night. In love with the adulterous Alisoun, Absolon is keen to redress his humiliation after being tricked into kissing the backside of her lover, Nicholas. Absolon wishes to borrow a hot coulter (the iron blade that was fixed in front of the share in a plough), with which to burn Nicholas’s bottom.34 The blacksmith’s character is dubious: Absolon knows instinctively that Gerveys will be working at night, and will lend him the hot coulter to exact his revenge. The night-working smith does not adhere to social conventions, and is deemed likely to provide the instruments of mischief. As Edmund Reiss observed, ‘Absolon has really put himself in the hands of the wrathful devil’.35 So, the images of the forge in ‘A Complaint’ seem to hint towards Chaucer’s stylishly immoral figures. Frequent allusions to these contemporary 31 See Kellie Robertson, ‘Branding and the Technologies of Labour Regulation’, in The Middle Ages at Work, eds Robertson and Uebel, pp. 133–53. For the moral implications of physiognomy for the worker, see ‘the pardoner’s speaking body’, as discussed in Caroline Dinshaw, Chaucer’s Sexual Poetics (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), pp. 156– 84; and Glen Burger, ‘Kissing the Pardoner’, PMLA, 107 (1992), 1143–56. 32 Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 53, fol. 27v; see also The Latin Poems Commonly Attributed to Walter Mapes, ed. Thomas Wright (London: Camden Society, 1841); Chaucer, ‘The Summoner’s Tale’, in Riverside Chaucer, p. 132, line 1934. 33 Chaucer, ‘The Parson’s Tale’, in Riverside Chaucer, p. 318, lines 861–62. 34 See Cornelius Novelli, ‘Sin, Sight, and Sanctity in the “Miller’s Tale”: Why Chaucer’s Blacksmith Works at Night’, Chaucer Review, 33 (1998), 168–75 (p. 168). 35 Edmund Reiss, ‘Daun Gerveys in The Miller’s Tale’, Papers on Language and Literature, 6 (1970), 115–24. 84 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe literary scoundrels, including the unscrupulous blacksmith of ‘The Miller’s Tale’, infuse the thickest possible air of distrust into the grimy medieval forge. There is more explicit moral vilification in other fourteenth-century works depicting blacksmiths. A gruesome scene in the anonymous The Vision of Tundale presents the smith in the worst possible light.36 In its twelfth- century Latin source, the Visio Tnugdali, the devil Lucifer is chained to a giant cauldron tended by demonic smiths.37 The fourteenth-century version intensifies these demonic associations by giving the name of the Roman god of fire, Vulcan, to the master of a band of blacksmiths, who delights in doling out grizzly punishments to wrongdoers (1042). The eponymous antihero, Tundale, is shown the way to the deep valley of death, which is full of grim- looking forges (1031–35). These forges are packed with souls who weep and make ‘grett dyn’ (1038). The smiths throw the sinners onto the fire and beat them with their hammers (1039–40). As Tundale enters one of the forges, the smiths run at him furiously: ‘with furgons and with tongus glowand’ (1056). They throw him into the middle of the fire with obvious delight (‘as hem liked best’) and blow bellows at him as if he were a piece of molten iron (‘as hit wer as yron ymulton new’, 1062). The unhinged and energetic delight with which the smithy-fiends punish their captive souls is evident as they beat them madly with their hammers: ‘And leyde on hem as thei wer wode’ (1074). They are described as ‘fowle and blake’ (1081), and they never tire of their ‘wykkyd labourus’ (1084). In a particularly foul scene, the pack of smiths fight with a rival group, who seize the souls and brand them until there is almost nothing left of their bodies (1087–1100). The early fourteenth-century preachers’ handbook Fasciculus Morum depicts the devil inflaming a soul with sensuality, as a blacksmith blows upon a fire. The scene links the blacksmith to the source of all evil.38 This association between blacksmiths and hell is also presented in The Revelations of St Birgitta of Sweden, where the captive soul’s ears flap like blacksmith’s bellows, fanning the brain.39 These poetic descriptions of the visual and auditory world of the 36 The Vision of Tundale, in Three Purgatory Poems: The Gast of Gy, Sir Owain, The Vision of Tundale, ed. Edward E. Foster (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2004), pp. 179–280. Subsequent references to this edition are provided in the text, denoted by line number. 37 See Visio Tnugdali lateinisch und altdeutsch, ed. Albrecht Wagner (Erlangen: Verlag von Andreas Deichert, 1882), pp. 35–36; and its translation in The Vision of Tnugdal, ed. and trans. Jean-Michel Picard (Dublin: Four Courts, 1989), p. 138. 38 Reiss, pp. 115–24. 39 The Revelations of St Birgitta of Sweden, eds Bridget Morris and Denis Searby, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), ii, 39. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 85The Politics and Poetics of Work forge and the ‘grysly smythys’40 resemble those of ‘A Complaint’ in their heat, stench, and noise, and depict the smith as a figure of utter obscenity. Despite the abundance of wicked images in fourteenth-century literature, the forge was not invariably connected with depravity. A synchronous association with godliness was focused upon the most productive smiths. The metalworking story of St Dunstan is illustrated in a twelfth-century manuscript now in the British Library (see Figure 1). While a hermit in Glastonbury, Dunstan passed time as a smith. When he realised that a visitor to the hermitage was the devil in disguise, Dunstan seized him by the nose with his tongs. This evocative image is well attested in medieval manuscripts, demonstrating an enduring positive conception of the medieval smith.41 Unlike agricultural labour, craft production had a capacity for newness and ‘things that were not there before’, which marked it as the production of an intelligence.42 This connection with creation meant that God Himself was sometimes characterised as a craftsman.43 The trade of the blacksmith was also one that inspired special pride, as was demonstrated in the fourteenth- century tale, The Tale of the Smyth and his Dame, in which the smith exalts himself as ‘the kynge’.44 However, though the craft had prestige, excessive pride comes before a fall and the smith is humbled by Christ. The shaming of the proud smith by Jesus exposes the inferiority of his ‘making’ next to the work of God. In addition, the potential for holiness was reserved for artisanal smiths, as opposed to the brutes of ‘A Complaint’, whose night work held implications of ineptitude. Though morally questionable, the cacophony of the forge is a source of material for rhetorical brilliance.45 The dints and clattering of the smith can be transmuted into the music of poetry.46 The ephemeral nature of sound makes authors and musicians yearn to capture it, whether in words or musical scores. Otherwise, it ‘inhabits its own time and dissipates quickly’.47 For Hugh of St Cher, writing in the thirteenth century, like the writer of 40 The Vision of Tundale, line 1103. 41 See BL, MS Royal 10 E. IV, fol. 250v. 42 Nicola Masciandaro, The Voice of the Hammer: The Meaning of Work in Middle English Literature (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), p. 41. 43 George Ovitt, Jr, The Restoration of Perfection: Labor and Technology in Medieval Culture (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987), pp. 57–70. 44 An edition of the Middle English The Tale of the Smyth and his Dame, which survives only in a later print, can be found in Altenglische Legenden mit Einleitung und Anmerkungen, ed. Carl Horstmann (Heilbronn: Henninger, 1881), pp. 322–28. See Masciandaro, p. 41 45 Salter, ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’, p. 209. 46 Masciandaro, p. 1. 47 Kahn, Noise, Water, Meat, p. 5. 86 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe Tundale discussed above, the sound of the hammer was suggestive of the devil. However, he also found the noise delightful: ‘he is delighted by the harmonious variety of sounds coming from the stroke of the hammer.’48 Ranulf Higden’s Polychronichon describes the joy with which the biblical father of music, Jubal, listened to the sounds of the forge and the work of the smith, Tubalcain: Tubal cain fonde first smythes craft and grauynge, and whan Tubal cain wrouȝte in his smeþes craft, Tubal [Jubal] hadde grete likynge to hire þe hameres sowne, and he fonde proporcions and acorde of melodye.49 An association between the smith and harmony persisted into the fifteenth century. At the end of Chapter 8 of the first book of the Theorica musice, published by Franchino Gaffurio in 1492, there are images representing the origin of musical scales.50 One depicts Jubal watching smiths as they beat a piece of metal with hammers. The labels on the hammers indicate their different weights, which is the cause of the variance in the noise that each hammer produces. In this depiction, the sounds of the forge are harmonious and it is the mastery of the smith that creates this harmony. This idea of the blacksmith’s creative harmony is reflected in the medieval association between Nature and blacksmiths. In an ornate copy of the thirteenth-century Roman de la Rose, a queenly, hammer-wielding, Nature crafts a baby at her forge, thereby ensuring the harmonious continuation of our species (see Figure 2).51 As Boethius demonstrated, drawing together the wisdom of Greek, Arab, and Latin philosophers, even the human body itself generated music, musica humana, which needed to be in tune with cosmic harmony.52 David Hendy has shown that the human body’s instrument-like quality necessitates occasional 48 Hugonis de Sancto Charo, Opera omnia in universum Vetus et Novum Testamentum, 8 vols (Lyons, 1645), iii, 246: ‘delectat propter consona varietatum sonorum ex percussionibus malleorum peruenientium’; English translation from Novelli, ‘Sin, Sight, and Sanctity’, pp. 172–73. 49 Ranulf Higden, Polychronichon, eds Churchill Babington and Joseph Rawson Lumby, 9 vols (London: Longman, 1865–86), ii (1865), 229, quoting Trevisa’s translation. For the history of the legend, see James McKinnon, ‘Jubal vel Pythagoras, quis sit inventor musicae?’, Musical Quarterly, 64 (1978), 1–28; Paul E. Beichner, The Medieval Representative of Music: Jubal or Tubalcain (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 1954); Masciandaro, p. 2 and n. 6; and Richard J. Schrader, ‘The Inharmonius Choristers and Blacksmiths of MS Arundel 292’, Studies in Philology, 104 (2007), 1–14 (p. 9). 50 C. J. Verduin, ‘Hammers, music and scales. Jubal watching Tubalcain: some notes on iconography’, available at http://www.leidenuniv.nl/fsw/verduin/ghio/speculum.htm [accessed 26 May 2015]; Franchinus Gaffurius, Theorica musice (Milan, 1492). 51 BL, MS Harley 4425, fol. 140r; Katherine Park, ‘Nature in Person: Medieval and Renaissance Allegories and Emblems’, in The Moral Authority of Nature, eds Lorraine Daston and Fernando Vidal (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), pp. 50–73 (pp. 54–56). 52 Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, trans. Calvin M. Bower, ed. Claude V. Palisca (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), Book 1.2; Hendy, Noise: A Human History, p. 121. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 87The Politics and Poetics of Work retuning.53 The blacksmith, with his hammers and metal, has an enhanced capacity to make sound, whether pleasing or brain-bursting. In ‘A Complaint’, the sounds of the forge are neither pleasing nor harmonious. As Richard Schrader has argued, they force listeners ‘to think hard about the traditional association of hammer and anvil and music’.54 However, they are inspiring to the poet regardless. The ‘dyntes’ and ‘knockes’ convey their clattering through hard, clustered, consonants. Alliterative lines with parallel syntactic structures gather spitting, sprawling, tale-telling, gnawing, gnashing, and groaning into a disgusting, evocative, pile of participles. Verbs are taken out of their usual contexts and applied to the smith, using the forge to craft a rich literary piece. The Middle English ‘spraulyn’ was commonly applied to the writhing of death throes.55 Alternatively, it could describe the squirming of babies and was used in John Trevisa’s translation of De proprietatibus rerum to describe the uncontrolled movement of a foetus as it explores the potential of its newly developed limbs: ‘[the foetus] bigynneþ to meue it self & sprawle & puttiþ wiþ feet & hondes.’56 In ‘A Complaint’, ‘spraulyn’ describes a lolling smith, carrying implications of sluggishness that contrast both with the horrific convulsion of death and the joyful wriggle of babies. R. Murray Schafer has observed that the eye points ahead of us, looking outwards, whereas the ear draws information inwards.57 Indeed, the sounds of the forge draw the audience of ‘A Complaint’ directly into it. The poet explores words, combining hypnotic, visual images with centripetal sonic aspects that pull us, by our ears, into the heady, claustrophobic world of the smith.58 Then, because we are most dependent on sight, and thus internalise vision into every aspect of our being, we open our eyes to the smoky dimness of the forge; an assault on both vision and hearing.59 When the American poet, Philip Freneau wrote a eulogy of a dead blacksmith four centuries later, he also found rich material for stylistic 53 Hendy, p. 121. 54 Schrader, p. 14. 55 See ‘spraulen (v.)’, in MED, esp. definition (a): ‘To move convulsively, as in death throes, struggle, writhe.’ 56 John Trevisa, On the Properties of Things: John Trevisa’s Translation of Bartholomaeus Anglicus ‘De Proprietatibus Rerum’, ed. M. C. Seymour, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), i, 296. 57 R. Murray Schafer, The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World (Rochester: Destiny Books, 1994), p. 11. 58 Stephen Handel, Listening: An Introduction to the Perception of Auditory Events (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1989), p. xi. 59 Kahn, Noise, Water, Meat, p. 4. 88 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe expression. In his ‘Elegy on the Death of a Blacksmith’, he used the smith playfully to demonstrate his prowess in punning: WITH the nerves of a Sampson this son of the sledge, By the anvil his livelihood got: With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge; And struck – while his iron was hot. By forging he liv’d, yet never was tried, Or condemn’d by the laws of the land; But still it is certain, and can’t be denied, He often was burnt in the hand.60 Freneau aligns the blacksmith with violence and criminality, before sweeping him away with a wry smile as he unveils his double meanings. Freneau’s play on the words ‘forging’ and ‘burnt in the hand’ nods briefly towards counterfeiting and corporal punishment, before redirecting us to more innocent meanings. The smith forges – honestly – with his hammer. The branding of his hand was done innocently in the course of shaping hot metal. However, Freneau’s comedic and over-zealous denial of the smith’s sins gestures towards long- established concerns about the morality of smiths. In Britain, the nineteenth century heralded an idealisation of blacksmiths, as the Industrial Revolution brought about ever-greater mechanisation. The isolatable sounds of craftsmen were being replaced by ‘a new and apparently all-encompassing din: the sound of the steadily advancing Industrial Revolution’.61 Thus, there was a desire to capture, to preserve, the ‘organic soundscape’ that preceded this ‘super-human, or rather inhuman noise’.62 In 1836, the musician and writer Richard Clark wrote an account of the life of George Friedrick Handel.63 In it, he developed a legend that Handel’s final movement, Air and variations, Suite No. 5 in E major, HWV 430, for harpsichord, was inspired by the sounds of a blacksmith’s forge. This story, which mirrors that of Jubal and the blacksmith Tubalcain, recounts how Handel sought shelter from a rain shower in a roadside smithy and heard the smith singing at work and beating time upon his anvil. In this idyllic image of artistic inspiration, the legendary Handel went home and wrote a set of variations on the tune that the blacksmith sang. 60 Philip Freneau, ‘Elegy on the Death of a Blacksmith’, in Poems Written and Published during the American Revolutionary War, 2 vols (Philadelphia: Laura R. Bailey, 1809), ii, 209, lines 1–8 (emphasis in original). 61 Hendy, p. 217. 62 Hendy, p. 217 (emphasis in original). 63 Richard Clark, Reminiscences of Handel, His Grace the Duke of Chandos, Powells the Harpers, the Harmonious Blacksmith, and others (London, 1836); Victor Schoelcher, The Life of Handel (London: Trübner & Co, 1857), p. 65. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 89The Politics and Poetics of Work Three years later, when the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow peered into the forge to write ‘The Village Blacksmith’, the medieval smith’s brute power had been superseded entirely by benign and admirable strength: Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.64 The craftsman remains a figure upon whom poetic ornaments can be hung with style, but Longfellow’s gentle giant is the antithesis of the dirty-faced, spitting, noisy medieval smith. His brawny arms have latent power, yet their comparison with ‘iron bands’ implies restraint. Longfellow’s blacksmith is a bridled colossus. His bellows do blow relentlessly and his hammer does swing noisily: ‘You can hear him swing his heavy sledge’ (15). However, there is no agitated, sleepless listener to cast aspersions. Instead, the moral focus is upon the smith’s religious devotion and reverence for his mother. This figure, unlike the disgusting blacksmith of ‘A Complaint’, lacks a distinct identity. He is merely an archetype of the loyal son and devoted Christian. This absence of individuation is fuelled by idealisation: he is an unnatural fantasy of the ‘good’ labourer. Longfellow’s smith is a theological creation, representing the smith as the simple antithesis to the nineteenth-century reality of industrialisation and materialism. As the nineteenth century progressed, the association between the sounds of the forge and charming simplicity became entrenched. The American poet, Alice Cary depicts the smith as a benignly sitting, sweetly singing, little man in her children’s poem ‘The Little Blacksmith’, first published posthumously in 1877: We heard his hammer all day long On the anvil ring and ring, But he always came when the sun went down To sit on the gate and sing. His little hands so hard and brown Crossed idly on his knee, 64 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ‘The Village Blacksmith’, in The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (London: G. Routledge, 1871), p. 214, lines 1–6. Subsequent references are provided in the text, denoted by line number. 90 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe And straw hat lopping over cheeks As red as they could be.65 With a tuneful, ringing hammer, later described as a ‘happy ring’ (26), and a healthy-coloured face, Cary’s blacksmith is a sentimental figure to be enjoyed and reminisced about, rather than abhorred and cursed. He is described fondly as ‘a picture sweet’ (12) and is aligned with the virtuous ‘rustic’ tending fields nearby (17). Crucially, unlike the socially disruptive fifteenth-century smith, he finishes work and begins to sing a sweet song as darkness descends: ‘As forth he came when the sun went down | And sat on the gate and sung’ (15–16). Not only do those who hear the smith not despise his voice, but they yearn to hear it: ‘And half the busy villagers | Lean from their doors to hear’ (19–20). A sense of restorative nostalgia emerges from the sonic aspects of the forge in this poem, which is written as a blissful memory. While sight and touch are inextricably tied to everyday life – what we might call ‘reality’ – sound has ‘privileged access to the emotional life of the hearer’.66 Sound is less connected to objects and things and thus is free to connect with hazy recollections, emanating as it does ‘from nowhere or everywhere’.67 Thus, the poem presents an idealised sound of the forge, which evokes the pleasant memories of the blacksmith and his ruddy cheeks. This sound of hammers bashing ‘all day long’ contrasts with the noise of the industrialised nineteenth-century city, which is equally persistent, but less evocative of glowing cheeks and rough, ‘brown’ hands. In Ireland, late nineteenth-century depictions of blacksmiths were equally positive. In William Allingham’s poem ‘The Blacksmith’, published in 1889, the smith makes a din: His anvil makes music from morning till night, And the swing of his arm keeps it polish’d and bright, Bing-bang!’ ting-clang!68 However, the forge is a social centre, ‘where neighbours peep in with a greeting or smile | Or stand in the doorway to gossip awhile’ (29–30). Allingham’s chorus lauds the blacksmith for his melodious clatter: 65 Alice Cary, ‘The Little Blacksmith’, in Poetical Works of Alice and Phoebe Cary, ed. Mary Clemmer (New York: Hurd & Houghton, 1877), p. 254, lines 1–8. Subsequent references are provided in the text, denoted by line number. 66 Kathryn Kalinak, Settling the Score: Music and the Classical Hollywood Film (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992), p. 22; Helen Dell, ‘“Yearning for the Sweet Beckoning Sound”: Musical Longings and the Unsayable in Medievalist Fantasy Fiction’, Postmedieval, 2 (2011), 171–85 (p. 178). 67 Dell, p. 179. 68 William Allingham, ‘The Blacksmith’, in Life and Phantasy [verse] (London: Reeves & Turner, 1889), p. 144, lines 3–5. Subsequent references are provided in the text, denoted Parergon 32.1 (2015) 91The Politics and Poetics of Work Success to the Smith in his Forge! Long life to the Smith in his Forge! Sing, all you good fellows, Tongs, hammer, and bellows Hurrah for the Smith in his Forge! (6–10). Allingham anticipates the aspersions that might be cast upon the blacksmith for his dirty visage, and dismisses them. He is not disgustingly grimy, as is the smith of ‘A Complaint’. Instead, Allingham’s smith is ‘besmudged’ because he has done an honest hard day’s work: His hands are besmudged, his features the same It’s the sign of his trade, and he thinks it no shame, A varnish of coal needn’t cause him to fret, For an honest day’s work never soil’d a man yet (11–14). The poetry of Longfellow, Cary, and Allingham demonstrates how the harsh clanking of the forge was muffled by nineteenth-century poets. The din of a solitary, rural smith paled in comparison to the noise that was shaking the nineteenth century. For instance, the Industrial Revolution brought the blare of blast furnaces, which Thomas Carlyle in 1824 described roaring like ‘many whirlwinds all around’.69 In these iron mills, the hammers were of ‘monstrous size, which fell like so many little earthquakes’, and Carlyle heard a ‘hideous shrieking noise’ that was almost unparalleled in nature. A hundred and fifty thousand men ‘grind out their destiny’ there; labour on an unimaginable scale. So, in the midst of this hellish nineteenth-century clamour, nostalgic literature ejected the brash medieval smith from the forge, and replaced him with a sweetly singing, heart-warming, solitary, and justifiably dirty vision of a rural smith. We return to the medieval forge of ‘A Complaint’ as the sounds of the blacksmiths reach their maximum brain-bursting potential. Animalistic features become prominent in the smith’s physical appearance: And holdyn hem hote with her hard hamers Of a bole hyde ben here barm fellys Her schankes ben schakeled for þe fer flunderys Heuy hamerys þei han þat hard ben handled by line number. 69 Thomas Carlyle to Alexander Carlyle, 11 August 1824, in The Collected Letters of Thomas and James Welsh Carlyle, Vol. 3, eds Charles Richard Sanders, Kenneth J. Fielding, Ian Campbell, John Clubbe, and Janetta Taylor (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1970), p. 125. See Humphrey Jennings, Pandaemonium 1660–1886: The Coming of the Machine as Seen by Contemporary Observers, eds Mary Lou Jennings and Charles Madge (London: André Deutsch, 1985), p. 165; Hendy, pp. 207–08. 92 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe Stark strokes þei stryken on a stelyd stokke Lus. bus. las. das. rowtyn be rowe (10–15). The smith is shielded from the licking flames by an apron made from coarse bull hide. His ankles are protected from loose sparks by thick guards. The word ‘schakeled’, like Wadsworth Longfellow’s iron bands, invokes imagery of restraint. However, the shackled smith of this poem is bursting with crude energy as he handles his hammers ‘hard’ and his strokes strike ‘stark’. There is no gentle nobility in this fettered beast. The secretary of Marge Piercy’s poem is similarly encumbered by the apparatus of her work: her paperclip earrings, and rubber band hair. In contrast with the blacksmith’s shackles, which hint at his underlying strength and energy, the secretary’s burdens suggest unnatural inertia, and enervation. The poet of ‘A Complaint’ rendered the smith animalistic to emphasise the horrendous sights and sounds of the forge. The French engraver, Nicolas de Larmessin II, in 1695 also explored the dehumanising potential of work, using the figure of the smith. Larmessin’s smith is not bestial, but instead is mechanised by his occupation-appropriate attire. In a similar image to Piercy’s paperclip-encumbered secretary, this blacksmith is made up of bellows, a furnace, and various tools (see Figure 3). An anvil rests on his head, horseshoes hang over his ears, and hot coals nestle in his belly. In the same series of engravings, the locksmith sits astride an anvil, with a body made up of a furnace and tools, and the ironmonger has a costume composed of various tools, bells, locks, and body armour.70 Returning to ‘A Complaint’, the potential for work to erode human identity is reiterated in the refrain: ‘Lus. bus. lus. das.’ In the medieval working day, the rhythm of song, the street cries and chants, were reassuring markers of the passing of time.71 They were reminders of a human’s position within a community of other working bodies. However, the blacksmith’s song, or ‘rowe’, is not intoned by human voices, but instead by heaving bellows. The hiss of air alternates with the dints of the hammers – ‘Tik. tak. hic. hac. tiket. taket. tyk. tak.’ (19) – to form a din that has musicality as it hits the treble, but also an inhuman sharpness. The rowdy song of the blacksmith contrasts sharply with contemporary depictions – perhaps idealistic – of the studious quietude of a writer. The life of ‘trauaillous stilness’ that might have been experienced by the writer of ‘A Complaint’, is described by Thomas Hoccleve in The Regiment of Princes: 70 London, British Museum, I, 7.187, Travestissements: ‘Habit de maréchal’; I, 7.193, ‘Habit de serrurier’; and I, 7.200, ‘Habit de quincaillier’. 71 David Garrioch, ‘Sounds of the City: The Soundscape of Early Modern European Towns’, Urban History, 30 (2003), 5–25 (pp. 8–9). Parergon 32.1 (2015) 93The Politics and Poetics of Work This artificers, se I say be day In þe hotteste of al hir bysynesse Talken and syng, and make game and play And forth hir labour passith with gladnesse But we labour in trauaillous stilnesse; We stowpe and stare vp-on þe shepes skyn, And keepe muste our song and wordes in.72 Hoccleve contrasts the strenuousness of writing with the relative mental freedom of craft work.73 The writer’s mind is fixated on his page, his lips pursed in silence, whereas the craftsman has breathing space, represented by his capacity to make noise, to sing, and to ‘make game and play’. Unlike the blacksmith, the writer is not able to make noise, because all of his attention is held by the page. For the writer, the song and words are internalised, ruminated on, focused upon, and fed into the work at hand, in a marked contrast to the grunting, clattering smith. Returning to the forge of ‘A Complaint’, its unrestrained sounds reach their climax and the sleepless narrator loses his composure: Swech dolful a dreme þe deuyl it to dryue Þe mayster longith a lityl and lascheth a lesse Twyneth hem tweyn and towchith a treble Tik. tak. hic. hac. tiket. taket. tyk. tak. Lus. bus. lus. das. Swych lyf þei ledyn Alle cloþe merys cryst hem gyue sorwe May no man for brenwateres on nyght han his rest (16–22) The narrator condemns the blacksmith to Hell for this anguished waking dream. The poem reaches the peak of its claustrophobia as we see the tiny pieces of metal that the smith smashes: he makes one little piece longer (‘longith a lityl’) and deals a heavy blow upon an even smaller one (‘lascheth a lesse’). The narrator’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the hammers and bellows, which join into a final raucous refrain. He wishes Christ’s damnation upon these ‘cloþe merys’, literally ‘one who clothes mares’. Finally, he exclaims resignedly that no man may get sleep, because of these ‘brenwateres’, referring to the hissing noise as a smith cools his irons in water.74 The smith persists with his unceasing racket seemingly unaware of the distress he is causing. He might be deaf. Pierre De La Primaudaye (1546–1619) claimed that blacksmiths were, ‘thicke of hearing, because 72 Thomas Hoccleve, The Regiment of Princes, ed. Charles R. Blyth (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1999), lines 1009–15. 73 Masciandaro, Voice of the Hammer, p. 48. 74 See ‘bren(ne)-water (n.)’, in MED. 94 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe their eares are continually dulled with the noise of and sound of their hammers & anuiles’.75 Insomnia can prop the door of the mind open and invite anguish in. It ushers any remaining resilience out. Every wakeful hour can remove a protective stone of the mind’s fortifications. Insomnia’s capacity to incapacitate has been a long-established source of literary inspiration. An eighth-century Chinese poem by Tu Fu describes how a lack of sleep erodes the mind’s protection against what torments it: ‘Sleepless, memories of war betray me: I am powerless against the world.’76 Loss of sleep was both the cause and result of misery for Thomas Hoccleve in his ‘Complaint’: Syghenge sore as I in my bed lay, For this and othar thowghts whiche many a day, Before I toke sleape came none in myne eye So vexyd me the thoughtful maladye.77 Equally, sleeplessness is a muse. The smallest noise is concentrated and even the sounds of inspiration and expiration of breath are made more intense.78 Sleeplessness in the deepest part of the night is a source of heightened poetic movement. In the lyrics to the 1995 song ‘Insomnia’ by Faithless, the effect of insomnia is magnified by mind-altering drugs: Deep in the bosom of the gentle night Is when I search for the light Pick up my pen and start to write I struggle, fight dark forces In the clear moon light Without fear … insomnia I can’t get no sleep … At least a couple of weeks Since I last slept, kept takin’ sleepers But now I keep myself pepped Deeper still, that night I write by candle light I find insight, fundamental movement, uh So when it’s black this insomniac take an original tack Keep the beast in my nature under ceaseless attack 75 Pierre de la Primaudaye, The French Academie Fully Discoursed and finished in foure Bookes, trans. Thomas Bowes and Richard Dolman (London: Thomas Adams, 1618), p. 375. 76 Tu Fu, Facing the Snow: Visions of Tu Fu, trans. Sam Hamill (Fredonia: White Pine Press, 1988), p. 103; Lisa Russ Spar, ‘Insomnia and the Poet’, New York Times, 9 March 2013, online at opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/03/09/insomnia-and-the-poet [accessed 9 January 2014]. 77 Thomas Hoccleve, Complaint and Dialogue, ed. J. A. Burrow, EETS, o.s. 313 (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 2–3, lines 18–21. 78 Russ Spaar, ‘Insomnia and the Poet’. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 95The Politics and Poetics of Work I gets no sleep I can’t get no sleep.79 The result of this combination of mind-altering drugs and insomnia is ‘insight’, writing ‘by candle light’. The insomniac is destitute, yet experiences a ‘fundamental movement’ within the mind. This song, like ‘A Complaint’, is crafted by insomnia. In ‘A Complaint’, prolonged wakefulness conspires with a shroud of darkness to magnify every gnashing sound of the forge. The narrator’s eyes and ears consume the exhaustive, and exhausting, details: the smith’s apron, his shin guards, every single blow of the hammer. The narrator’s tiredness intensifies with every irritable twitch until his anger discharges: ‘cryst hem gyue sorwe.’ His insomnia invites us to share in every disturbing stimulus of the forge with rapt irritation. In this process, we relish the poem’s ever- increasing attention to detail. Though the ‘song’ of the forge is brain bursting, there is a simple connection between the smith’s labour and the sleep-depriving product. It is this uncomplicatedness that enthrals a modern audience. The simplicity of the blacksmith’s noise contrasts with the opening scene of the film Metropolis (1927), in which machines appear to move independently. It is uncertain who puts them in motion, or what their movement produces.80 The film’s orchestral score is interrupted by loud, halting clunks as the machine elements shift. The only obvious product of human labour is sporadic bursts of steam from the machines’ outlets. In Metropolis, there is a disconcerting gulf between the toils of the human beings and the mechanic operation of the machines. This is quite unlike the simple, monosyllabic noises of the blacksmith at work. The noises of the forge are undeniably loud and jarring, but they are also the sounds of simple human endeavour. Many modern workers experience a schizophonic confusion of non- human noises: there is a split between any original sound and its electro- acoustical reproduction.81 It is not always possible to identify the source of any sound. This inability to associate noise with its source makes the mechanised office as distressing as the ear-bursting forge. In ‘A Complaint’, the narrator is, at least, able to attribute blame for the noise and thus retain a sense of control. This helplessness in the modern workplace was narrated in an advertisement from 1931, which was published in the United States 79 Rollo Armstrong, Ayalah Deborah Bentovim, and Maxwell Alexander Fraser, ‘Insomnia’ (Champion/BMG, 1995), lines 1–7, 17–25. 80 Anton Kaes, ‘Metropolis: City, Cinema, Modernity’, in Expressionist Utopias: Paradise, ‘Metropolis’, Architectural Fantasy, ed. Timothy O. Benson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), pp. 146–65 (p. 151). 81 Schafer, The Soundscape, p. 90. 96 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe Chamber of Commerce’s Nation’s Business Magazine (see Figure 4). In this promotion, the Celotex Company speaks directly to managers responsible for employees who are distressed by sound: “4 o’clock fatigue means OFFICE SHELL SHOCK” Take a good look at your staff when the clock rolls ‘round to 4. Nerves on edge. Exhausted. Praying for 5 o’clock. Study your own face. Rather pinched? Lined a bit? “Office shell shock” etched those lines. It’s “office shell shock” that wastes precious hours for you and your employees.82 It then invents an internal monologue for the troubled office manager: ‘“I’ll get used to this racket” you say to yourself. But you don’t. Noise – uncontrolled – always wins.’ Promoting its sound-absorbent wall padding, the advertisement argues for the existence of a psychological condition caused by ‘clattering typewriters’ and ‘jangling telephones’, dubbed ‘office shell shock’. The ‘nerves on edge’ and exhaustion of the 1930s office are caused by the constant exposure to ‘racket’. The advert imagines that the human victim of nervous exhaustion is passive among the clamour of the workplace. (S)he can find no identifiable, human source of the noise. The only answer is for managers to build a sound-proof cushion around their workers, to eliminate the distressing, mechanic noises of the office. The twenty-first-century audience listens with fascination to the range of sounds of medieval industry. It is impossible for many of us to comprehend a medieval sonic landscape, when the developed, urban world is so completely different. As the Celotex advertisement shows, modern industry is full of intrusive and varied sounds. Even those who do not work in offices – agricultural labourers, builders, or carpenters, for example – have usually been exposed to the rich diversity of the modern city soundscape. Thus, it is difficult to comprehend the isolated, man-made din of a smith at work. R. Murray Schafer pushed towards an understanding by studying blacksmiths in twentieth-century rural Germany. His findings described the small hammer strikes and the heavy blows, the ‘tik’ and the ‘tak’: While on a recording expedition in Europe, we were fortunate in persuading an old Swabian blacksmith and his assistant to fire up their abandoned forge and to demonstrate his techniques. Shaping scythes consisted of a rapid series of taps, followed by slight pauses for inspection. By comparison, the shaping of horseshoes called for the assistant to strike the metal with mighty sledgehammer beats while the smith, with a little 82 The Celotex Company, ‘4 o’Clock Fatigue Means “Office Shell Shock”’, Nation’s Business Magazine, July 1931, p. 10. I would like to thank Celotex for permission to reproduce the image, and acknowledge that there has since been a change in product range and business ownership. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 97The Politics and Poetics of Work hammer for shaping, struck the metal off the beat … When the smith wanted more flattening he would tap the side of the anvil with two rapid flourishes.83 The sound of the smith in ‘A Complaint’ – brain-bursting, sleep-depriving noises – would have resonated for miles. Schafer measured the sound of a blacksmith at work at over 100 decibels. Though this is extremely loud, and enough to damage hearing, it is insignificant compared to the levels of noise that can be experienced today: a hairdryer can reach 70 decibels, a jackhammer 105 decibels, and a rock concert up to 140 decibels.84 Schafer’s study highlighted the dexterity that is channelled into every tap or blow, with the shaping strikes of the ‘little hammer’ and the ‘rapid flourishes’ that flatten the metal. It is this skill that lent itself so well to the medium of finely crafted alliterative, poetic rhetoric. The early twentieth century brought an awareness of the slowly eroding world of manual craftsmanship. In the novel The Man Without Qualities, written by Robert Musil over the course of the 1930s and unfinished at his death in 1942, Count Leinsdorf reflects on the different type of intelligence that was required for mechanised work, compared with manual craftsmanship. Leinsdorf mourns the loss of crafting skill as a loss of part of the human soul: there was a time when people grew naturally into the conditions they found waiting for them and that was a very sound way of becoming oneself. But nowadays, with all this shaking up of things, when everything is becoming detached from the soul it grew in, even where the production of soul is concerned one really ought, as it were, to replace the traditional handicrafts by the sort of intelligence that goes with the machine and the factory.85 An inseparability of individual and craft pervades the depiction of the blacksmith in ‘A Complaint’. He grows into a representative of his trade, which, for the narrator, ties him inextricably to moral degeneration. The secretary of Marge Piercy’s poem also grows into her role. However, her lot is precisely the kind of ‘shaking up of things’ that Musil’s Leinsdorf lamented. She has lost touch with any kind of traditional handicraft and thus has become 83 Schafer, p. 58. For a detailed description of the medieval blacksmith at work, see Jane Geddes, ‘Iron’, in English Medieval Industries: Craftsmen, Techniques, Products, eds John Blair and Nigel Ramsay (London: Hambledon, 1991), pp. 167–88 (p. 173). 84 See ‘Common Sounds’, an online resource for educators provided by the US National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders, at www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/ education/teachers/pages/common_sounds.aspx [accessed 9 January 2015]. 85 Robert Musil, The Man without Qualities, trans. Sophie Wilkins, 2 vols (New York: Vintage, 1996), ii, 367; see also Michael Hardt, ‘Affective Labour’, Boundary 2, 26.2 (1999), 89–100 (p. 91). 98 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe a detached soul, whose only value lies in sorting things and controlling machines. She is no longer a producer – as the blacksmith is – but an operator. To conclude, a sense of guilty delight in the sights and sounds of the blacksmith’s forge pervades the fourteenth-century poem ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’. The smith is burdened with long-established moral implications about his work. The grunting, spitting, night-working creature is representative of the social problems that were associated with the forge. The text, probably produced within a monastic context, carries clear messages about the reprehensibility of illicit work done without the remit of regulated medieval work. The writer also found the forge compulsive because of the delightful rhetorical possibilities that it afforded. It is this compulsiveness, combined with the moral message of the poem that gives the poem its complicated power. As the narrator crouches in pain, his brain bursting at the horrific clamour of the forge, the poem resounds with delightful alliteration and onomatopoeia. It is the noises that distress the listener that provide such rich material upon which the poet can ‘hang his rhetorical ornaments’.86 The poem may gesture towards work by Chaucer and allude to long-established tropes, while crafting new and brilliant poetic embellishments from the sights and sounds of the forge. A twenty-first-century urban audience, existing in a world of immaterial work, ubiquitous technology, and flat-line, automated soundscapes, is drawn towards the dirty, noisy smith. It may not idealise him as the nineteenth- century poets did, but those who are surrounded by technology revel in the sensual claustrophobia of his noisy night. The smith, animalistic yet pulsating with human sinews and muscles, is appealing as a vivid and dynamic individual. The audience may sympathise with the narrator’s annoyance at the brain- bursting sounds of the forge as he lies awake and disturbed. Most humans can relate to the universal affliction of insomnia. However, many of us now live and work amid greater, and more varied, noise. Many of us can never truly comprehend the clamour of a forge within a comparatively straightforward medieval soundscape. So, from a world of indistinguishable, confusing noises, a modern, urban reader is pulled into the sonic landscape of the forge, with its clattering hammers, grunting mouths, and hissing waters. The University of York 86 Salter, ‘A Complaint against Blacksmiths’, p. 209. Parergon 32.1 (2015) 99The Politics and Poetics of Work Figure 1 St Dunstan seizing the devil by his nose Source: BL, MS Harley 315, fol. 15v Image from the British Library’s Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts <http://www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts> Figure 2 Nature forging a baby Source: BL, MS Harley 4425, fol. 140r Image from the British Library’s Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts <http://www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts> 100 Parergon 32.1 (2015) Deborah Thorpe Figure 3 Gerard Valck, Travestissements: ‘Habit de maréchal’ (1695–1720) Engraving on paper (27.6 × 18.5 cm) London, British Museum, shelf-mark I, 7.187 © The Trustees of the British Museum Parergon 32.1 (2015) 101The Politics and Poetics of Work Figure 4 The Celotex Company, ‘4 o’clock fatigue means “Office Shell Shock”’ Source: Nation’s Business Magazine (July 1931), p. 10 Hagley Digital Archives, Wilmington, DE, f HF1.N38. Reproduced by permission of Celotex 
work_bh34u7jzw5fpxl2p6qdtmtilcu	----	THE IMAGE OF CANADA IN THE LITERATURE OF THE UNITED STATES by JAMES DOYLE B.A., Laurentian University, 1965 M.A., University of Toronto, 1967 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY i n the Department of ENGLISH We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard 1?HE UNIVERSITY" OF BRITISH COLUMBIA November, 1974 I n p r e s e n t i n g t h i s t h e s i s i n p a r t i a l f u l f i l m e n t o f t h e r e q u i r e m e n t s f o r a n a d v a n c e d d e g r e e a t t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a , I a g r e e t h a t t h e L i b r a r y s h a l l m a k e i t f r e e l y a v a i l a b l e f o r r e f e r e n c e a n d s t u d y . I f u r t h e r a g r e e t h a t p e r m i s s i o n f o r e x t e n s i v e c o p y i n g o f t h i s t h e s i s f o r s c h o l a r l y p u r p o s e s m a y b e g r a n t e d b y t h e H e a d o f my D e p a r t m e n t o r b y h i s r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s . I t i s u n d e r s t o o d t h a t c o p y i n g o r p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h i s t h e s i s f o r f i n a n c i a l g a i n s h a l l n o t b e a l l o w e d w i t h o u t my w r i t t e n p e r m i s s i o n . D e p a r t m e n t o f E n g l i s h T h e U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a V a n c o u v e r 8, C a n a d a i ABSTRACT This d i s s e r t a t i o n i s a study of the extent, nature, and s i g n i f i c a n c e of the image of Canada i n the l i t e r a t u r e of the United States, with p a r t i c u l a r reference to the nineteenth century. A f t e r a preliminary chapter on Colonial American writing, the d i s s e r t a t i o n traces the development of various ideas about Canada as evinced i n the work of obscure or "popular" writers as well as authors of acknowledged l i t e r a r y reputation, from 1776 to 1900, and concludes with a summary chapter on twentieth-century achievements and prospects. To the B r i t i s h American authors of various journals and c a p t i v i t y narratives i n the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Canada i s mainly the stronghold of French Roman Catholic heresy and Indian barbarism. To post-revolutionary authors, Canada becomes the l a s t enclave of B r i t i s h imperialism i n the New World, although a few L o y a l i s t dissenters view Canada more favorably. Some writers of t r a v e l narratives and of anti-Catholic novels express t h e i r aversion to the French Canadians, and a few authors compare unfavorably the e x i l e d Canadiens on the American p r a i r i e s to American frontiersmen. James Fenimore Cooper evokes an i n d i r e c t but symbolically suggestive conception of Canada i n the Leatherstocking Tales, but most subsequent h i s t o r i c a l romancers emphasize the alleged r e l i g i o u s decadence and r a c i a l i n f e r i o r i t y of French Canadians. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, i n Evangeline (1847) , expounds a more sympathetic—but very i d e a l i z e d — v i e w of the French i n North America. Pre-eminent among the many nineteenth-century American narratives of t r a v e l i n Canada i s Henry Thoreau's "A Yankee i n Canada" (written 1850). Thoreau postulates an i r r e c o n c i l a b l e c o n f l i c t between the c i v i l i z e d s e n s i b i l i t y and the northern wilderness, and suggests that Canadians have f a i l e d to meet the unique challenge of t h e i r geographical and h i s t o r i c a l s i t u a t i o n . Francis Parkman's epic history, France and England i n North America (1865-92) attributes the f a l l of New France p a r t l y to the savagery of the northern wilderness, but primarily to the decadence of the anti-democratic French regime. William Dean Howells suggests i n Their Wedding Jour- ney (1872), and other novels, that the great age which Parkman depicted has given way to a t r a n q u i l period when American t o u r i s t s use Canada to test t h e i r optimistic view of New World society. In the f i c t i o n and essays of various " l o c a l color" writers, Canada serves s i m i l a r l y as a vast t o u r i s t resort where Americans can reassess t h e i r p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l values, which are usually revealed as superior to those of Canada. One writer who expresses a completely favorable reaction to Canada i s Walt Whitman. The exuberant optimism of his Diary i n Canada (1880) i s echoed by various American authors who discovered the Canadian northwest i n the l a s t two decades of the century, but i s q u a l i f i e d by Hamlin Garland, whose T r a i l of the Gold Seekers (1899) i s a nostalgic lament for the disappearance of the "wild places" i n America. In the early twentieth century, Jack London sees Canada mainly as the s e t t i n g of a stark and elemental struggle for s u r v i v a l . The successors of London include James O l i v e r Curwood, who wrote many novels of northern adventure, and S i n c l a i r Lewis, whose Mantrap (1926) i s an i r o n i c treatment of the "back-to-nature" theme. Other twentieth-century n o v e l i s t s , including W i l l a Cather i n Shadows on the Rock (1936), have turned back to Canadian h i s t o r y . Eminent twen- tieth-century American writers who have written about Canada include Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, and Edmund Wilson, but none of these writers seem to have been very interested i n the country. In general, i t appears that twentieth-century writers have continued to express basic attitudes about Canada which were defined and a r t i c u l a t e d i n the nineteenth century by such writers as Thoreau, Parkman, and Howells. iv C O N T E N T S I n t r o d u c t i o n 1 I C a n a d a i n t h e L i t e r a t u r e o f C o l o n i a l A m e r i c a . . . . 9 I I C a n a d a i n t h e L i t e r a t u r e o f t h e E a r l y R e p u b l i c . . . 2 3 I I I C o o p e r a n d t h e H i s t o r i c a l R o m a n c e 4 9 I V T h e A c a d i a n T r a g e d y : L o n g f e l l o w a n d O t h e r s 7 0 V " A Y a n k e e i n C a n a d a " a n d O t h e r T r a v e l e r s 8 8 V I T h e N o r t h e r n F r o n t i e r . 1 2 4 V I I P a r k m a n : F r a n c e a n d E n g l a n d i n N o r t h A m e r i c a . . . . 1 4 4 V I I I T h e S u c c e s s o r s o f P a r k m a n : H o w e l l s a n d O t h e r s . . . 1 6 5 I X F a r n h a m . , B u r r o u g h s , t h e R e g i o n a l R e a l i s t s 2 0 3 X W h i t m a n a n d t h e N o r t h w e s t e r n F r o n t i e r 2 2 7 X I C o n c l u s i o n : t h e K l o n d i k e a n d A f t e r 2 4 1 A S e l e c t e d B i b l i o g r a p h y 2 6 2 V ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would l i k e to express my gratitude to the s t a f f of the Special Collections D i v i s i o n of the University of B r i t i s h Columbia Library, for t h e i r help i n my consultation of the Colbeck C o l l e c t i o n of t r a v e l l i t e r a t u r e . I also received v i t a l assistance from the Library's Microfilm and Inter- Library Loan Divisions. I am very g r a t e f u l to the s t a f f of the Rare Book D i v i s i o n of the New York Public Library f o r t h e i r courteous and e f f i c i e n t assistance during my consulta- tion of the Beadle C o l l e c t i o n of Dime Novels. I would l i k e to o f f e r my p a r t i c u l a r thanks to Professor Bruce L. Grenberg of the University of B r i t i s h Columbia Department of English, who f i r s t suggested t h i s topic, and who provided invaluable advice and encouragement throughout the research and writing. 1 INTRODUCTION In the imaginative l i t e r a t u r e of the United States, Canada has always been a vague, peripheral, and extremely ambiguous concept. Those authors who have looked northward beyond the Great Lakes and St. Lawrence and forty-ninth p a r a l l e l , whether i n a c t u a l i t y or imagination, have reported an almost kaleidoscopic variety of images involving strange- ness and f a m i l i a r i t y , h o s t i l i t y and amiability, primitive wildness and highly developed c i v i l i z a t i o n . To the early inhabitants of the colonies which ultimately comprised the United States, Canada was a remote stronghold of French "popery" and Indian barbarity. This i s the image projected, for instance, by the Reverend John Williams of Deerfield, Massachusetts, i n his personal narrative of c a p t i v i t y i n Canada, The Redeemed Captive (1707). To many post-revolutionary authors, such as the Georgia humorist William Tappan Thompson (Major Jones's Sketches of Travel, 1848), Canada was the l a s t retreat of decadent B r i t i s h imperialism i n the New World; while i n Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Evangeline (1847) part of the northern regions appeared as a nostalgic and i d y l l i c v i s i o n of prelapsarian peace and contentment. Henry Thoreau, a f t e r v i s i t i n g Quebec City and environs i n 1850, wondered i n "A Yankee i n Canada" (1866) whether he had found a grim sub- a r c t i c region of exploration and adventure or some fantasy 2 world of medieval romance; while Francis Parkman, i n his epic history France and England i n North America (1865-92), constantly struggled to reconcile or explain the ambiguities and contradictions of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century New France. "Neither a republic nor a monarchy, but merely a languid expectation of something undefined," announced Charles Dudley Warner a f t e r a v i s i t to Cape Breton Island i n 1874; and William Dean Howells, writing of Quebec province i n 1871, frankly acknowledged his i n a b i l i t y to comprehend the incongruities of the region, with the bemused comment " I t i s not America; i f i t i s not France, what i s it?""'" This variety of response i s obviously related not only to the fact that the writers usually saw or contemplated a small part of a vast t e r r i t o r y , but also to the extraordinary process of change and development that has characterized the h i s t o r y of the New World as a whole. Both the "United States" and "Canada" are r e l a t i v e terms which have been applied at various times to widely d i f f e r e n t p o l i t i c a l and geographical e n t i t i e s . Before 1761, the term "Canada" was applied with geographical imprecision to the widely scattered French settlements and outposts on the St. Lawrence River. After the B r i t i s h conquest, Canada was successively an i l l - d e f i n e d agglomeration of the former French possessions, a B r i t i s h colony consisting of two provinces, a large united province i n central B r i t i s h America, and a confederation of provinces which grew steadily to encompass a l l the t e r r i t o r y north of 3 the great lakes and the forty-ninth p a r a l l e l , from A t l a n t i c to P a c i f i c . S i m i l a r l y , the region which eventually became the United States has embodied a small group of B r i t i s h colonies on the A t l a n t i c coast, a loose union of states, and f i n a l l y a strongly centralized, r i c h and powerful nation extending from A t l a n t i c to P a c i f i c and from the A r c t i c to the Gulf of Mexico. And yet i n t h i s context of constantly s h i f t i n g objective conditions and subjective viewpoints, i t i s possible to d i s - cern considerable form and substance. The following chapters are concerned with demonstrating i n d e t a i l the form, sub- stance, and extent of the image of Canada i n the l i t e r a t u r e of the United States. "Canada" i n the subsequent discussion refers to a l l those regions of North America, regardless of t h e i r p o l i t i c a l status or t h e i r l o c a l appellation at any given time i n h i s t o r y , which constituted the nation a f t e r Newfound- land joined Confederation i n 1949. The "image of Canada" i s also understood to include the inhabitants and e x i l e d former inhabitants as well as the land; so Canadian emigres i n the United States w i l l occasionally be the object of consideration. This study, a f t e r a b r i e f review of some representative works of the pre-revolutionary period, w i l l concentrate primarily on the nineteenth century, and w i l l conclude with a summary of some achievements and prospects a f t e r 1900. This emphasis i s not intended to suggest that nothing of value has been written about Canada i n the twentieth-century United States. Rather, i t represents a general agreement with the assumptions propagated by such scholars as F.O. Matthiessen, Leslie Fiedler, Charles Feidelson, and others, that the nine- teenth century was a crucial formative period for American literature, and that subsequent developments are in large measure outgrowths of achievements and possibilities which appeared within a relatively brief extent of time. It has to be acknowledged at the outset that Canada is not a large topic in the profusion of imaginative and i n t e l - lectual matters which occupied the writers who contributed to a distinctive national literature in the United States. William Dean Howells, who maintained a life-long interest in Canada, commented in 1907 that "the cultivated American who is keenly alive to the existence of a dominion bordering us beyond the seas, i s comparatively dead to the presence of a 2 Dominion bordering us beyond the lakes and rivers." And a modern Canadian historian has observed that "Americans, caught up in their own vibrant l i f e , are not noted for their readiness to devote sustained attention to any other society 3 . for i t s own sake." But this lack of interest in Canada is not nearly so extensive as an uninformed assumption is likely to make i t . It would have been very unusual i f imaginative Americans had not expressed some response to the vast north- ward extension of the continent and to the various contrasts and parallels with their own society which the northern settlements presented. Besides the authors previously men- tioned, prominent American literary figures who have written 5 about Canada have included Richard Henry Dana, Walt Whitman, Henry James, Hamlin Garland, Jack London, W i l l a Cather, and Edmund Wilson. In terms of mere quantity, without regard to q u a l i t y of l i t e r a r y achievement, the b i b l i o g r a p h i c a l record i s f a i r l y substantial. Lyle H. Wright's three-volume American F i c t i o n 1775-1900 (1965-69) l i s t s about f i f t y novels with Canadian settings. Harold F. Smith's American Travelers Abroad: A Bibliography of Accounts Published Before 1900 (1969) l i s t s about forty t r a v e l narratives p a r t i a l l y or e n t i r e l y concerned with Canada. And Joseph-Delphis Gauthier's Le Canada francpis et le roman americain (1948), covering the period 1826-1948, l i s t s over one hundred novels i n i t s b i b l i o - graphy of primary sources. But with the exception of Gauthier's study, there has been v i r t u a l l y no c r i t i c a l and a n a l y t i c a l attention devoted to t h i s minor but s i g n i f i c a n t aspect of American l i t e r a t u r e . Gauthier's work i s a valuable introduction to a neglected subject; but besides imposing geographical and generic l i m i t - ations as indicated i n his t i t l e , the author expresses much more i n t e r e s t i n le_ Canada fran^ais than i n le roman ame*ricain, and his c r i t i c a l observations are almost e n t i r e l y confined to demonstrating how the " r e a l " French Canada d i f f e r s from American misrepresentations. "Un roman," says Gauthier rather dogmatically, " . . . est . . . un document qui depose un t^moinage sur une epoque et f a i t revivre 1'atmosphere d'un milieu. . . . Avant d'etre romancier aimable, i l faut §tre 6 4 chroniqueur f i d e l e . " Consequently, those novels are pro- nounced good or s i g n i f i c a n t which are most f a i t h f u l to what Gauthier defines as the discoverable r e a l i t i e s of French- Canadian l i f e , and those novels are declared bad or t r i v i a l which d i s t o r t these r e a l i t i e s . I t should not be necessary to enter into a discussion of the complex r e l a t i o n s h i p between a r t and empirical r e a l i t y i n order to demonstrate the l i m i t a t i o n s and f a l l a c i e s of Gauthier's approach to the subject. The image of Canada presented by writers who have seen the country very b r i e f l y and p a r t i a l l y (or i n some cases not at a l l ) and whose main i n t e r e s t s are i n t e n s i v e l y directed towards t h e i r own national experience w i l l i n e v i t a b l y be s o c i o l o g i c a l l y unreliable. The l i t e r a r y c r i t i c ' s main concern should not be with how well the image of Canada i n American l i t e r a t u r e conforms to what- ever propositions are accepted as facts about the country. Rather, he needs to consider such questions as these: what kind of imaginative impulse has Canada given to those r e l a t i v e l y few American writers who have turned t h e i r atten- t i o n northward? How s i g n i f i c a n t and valuable are the resultant a r t i s t i c creations? The answers to such questions i n e v i t a b l y involve some concern with s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l factors, and with the degree of d i s t o r t i o n between imaginative construct and discoverable fact; but primarily they should involve a detailed c r i t i c a l and a n a l y t i c a l consideration of the l i t e r a r y works with reference to the development of 7 imaginative l i t e r a t u r e i n the United States. The development of l i t e r a t u r e i n the United States i s conventionally assumed to begin with the journals, d i a r i e s , and h i s t o r i e s of the early Puritan s e t t l e r s of New England. The seventeenth-century B r i t i s h colonists who l e f t l i t e r a r y records of t h e i r experience i n the New World were f a r too busy struggling with the harsh climate and wild forest land- scape of t h e i r own part of the continent to pay much attention to a forbidding northern wilderness inhabited by h o s t i l e Indians and French h e r e t i c s . They were not, however, e n t i r e l y s i l e n t on the subject of Canada. With the f i r s t s t i r r i n g s of l i t e r a r y consciousness i n Colonial America, writers began to make some acknowledgement of the mysterious regions to the north. I t i s i n these f i r s t f a i n t s t i r r i n g s that the American l i t e r a r y image of Canada begins to emerge and take form. 8 Notes to Introduction "^Charles Dudley Warner, Baddeck, and that Sort of Thing (Boston: James R. Osgood, 1874), p. 29; William Dean Howells, Their Wedding Journey, ed. John K. Reeves (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1968), p. 158. 2 Howells, "Editor's Easy Chair," Harper's Monthly, 114 (Jan., 1907), 317. 3 Gerald M. Craig, The United States and Canada (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1968), p. 9. Joseph-Delphis Gauthier, Le Canada francais et l e roman am^ricain, Diss. Laval 1948 (Paris: Tolra, 1948), pp. 7, 149. CANADA IN THE LITERATURE OF COLONIAL AMERICA The B r i t i s h American colonists were bound to become involved with t h e i r French counterparts to the north, for the two races were t r a d i t i o n a l enemies and both considered them- selves the r i g h t f u l owners of the New World north of Mexico. In 1613, a ship from V i r g i n i a made a p i r a t i c a l foray against a peaceful French settlement i n Acadia. In 1633, a group of Plymouth men set up a trading post i n t e r r i t o r y which nomin- a l l y belonged to the French. But the French . . . came i n t h e i r beginning before they were well s e t t l e d and displanted them, slew two of t h e i r men and took a l l t h e i r goods to a good value.1 Thus William Bradford, who was not i n sympathy with the traders' e x p l o i t s , b r i e f l y depicts i n Of Plymouth Plantation one of the e a r l i e s t encounters between B r i t i s h Americans and the inhabitants of Canada. A more extensive encounter i s described i n the Journal of John Winthrop. The governor of Massachusetts Bay was drawn into the quarrels of Charles d'Aulnay and Charles de l a Tour, the r i v a l French proprietors of Acadia, and the f a s c i n - ating account of the Englishman's attempts to play one side o f f against the other while arranging matters to the best advantage of his own colony weaves i n and out of the journal l i k e a r e f r a i n . La Tour coming now to us, and acquainting us how i t was with him . . . though we thought not f i t to give him aid, as being unwilling to intermeddle i n the wars of any of 10 our neighbors, yet considering his urgent d i s t r e s s , we could not i n C h r i s t i a n i t y or humanity deny him l i b e r t y to hire for his money any ships i n our harbour, e i t h e r such as came to us out of England or others.2 C h r i s t i a n i t y , humanity, and money: the d'Aulnay-La Tour a f f a i r , as recorded i n Winthrop's Journal, indicates the extent to which the Puritan attitude to French North America was governed by economic, rather than r e l i g i o u s and r a c i a l considerations. As long as the French were intent upon f i g h t i n g among themselves, the New Englanders were quite w i l l i n g to stand back and reap whatever p r o f i t the s i t u a t i o n might y i e l d . In the long run, however, Winthrop's repeated attempts to avoid commitments with the r i v a l s of Acadia suggest that he would have preferred to have no contact with his northern "neighbors" whatever. And he almost succeeded i n keeping Massachusetts Bay aloof from New France; but by the beginning of the eighteenth century, such i s o l a t i o n i s m was impossible. On the twenty-ninth of February, 1703-4, not long before the break of day, the enemy came i n l i k e a flood upon us. . . . They came to my house i n the beginning of the onset, and by t h e i r v i o l e n t endeavors to break open the door and windows, with axes and hatchets, awaked me out of sleep,;, on which I leaped out of bed, and running toward the door, perceived the enemy making t h e i r entrance i n t o the house.3 The Redeemed Captive Returning to Zion ( f i r s t published 1707), by the Reverend John Williams of Deerfield, Massachusetts, i s one of the e a r l i e s t and most e x c i t i n g " c a p t i v i t y narratives" written by a New Englander c a r r i e d prisoner by the French and Indians to Canada. Unlike Winthrop, who was involved only i n 11 b r i e f negotiations with the a r i s t o c r a t i c proprietors of Acadia, Williams traveled (albeit with considerable reluc- tance) to Quebec, where he mingled with a wide representation of the population, including rough canadien militiamen, erudite Jesuit p r i e s t s , and even the Governor of New France. The image of the country i n Williams' narrative i s disappoint- ingly vague, however, for he was not r e a l l y interested i n observing and analyzing the northern society. His overriding concern during his c a p t i v i t y i n Canada was to avoid contamin- ation from the "papist" h e r e t i c s ; and his narrative subsequent to the gripping story of the winter march from Deerfield to Montreal i s almost e n t i r e l y devoted to arguments with the Jesuits and accounts of his attempts to save fellow prisoners from damnation. Nevertheless, The Redeemed Captive provides a few glimpses of representative inhabitants of early eight- eenth-century New France, through the eyes of an intransigent but d i g n i f i e d and charitable New England C a l v i n i s t . There are, for instance, the bon vivant Jesuits at Quebec who regale the distinguished Deerfield preacher at t h e i r table, and are subsequently reduced to confusion by his s k i l l f u l arguments and superior b i b l i c a l knowledge. There are also the "Macquas," the Canadian Indians who are l a t e r to become the incarnations of treachery and cruelty i n James Fenimore Cooper's f i c t i o n , but for whom Williams i s able to express some admiration even a f t e r experiencing and witnessing unspeakable c r u e l t i e s at t h e i r hands. And there are the 12 Canadian habitants, such as the woman at Chambly who defies the Indian captors to o f f e r .the wretched prisoners food and shelter. "The French were very kind to me," says the Deer- f i e l d pastor. "Wherever we entered i n t o houses, the French were very courteous."^ The kindness and h o s p i t a l i t y of the Canadian s e t t l e r s i s further commended i n another early eighteenth-century New England c a p t i v i t y narrative, John Gyles' Memoirs of Odd Adventures (published 1736). Gyles was abducted i n 1689 from his farm on the Penobscot, and c a r r i e d by the Abenaki Indians into the French-controlled wilderness which was l a t e r to become New Brunswick. Like Williams, Gyles t e l l s of Indian c r u e l t i e s and of J e s u i t d e c e i t — o r , at least what seemed deceit to a seventeen-year-old brought up i n the s t r i c t C a l v i n i s t t r a d i t i o n and taught to prefer death to eternal damnation: The Jesuit gave me a b i s k i t , which I put into my pocket and dared not eat, but buried i t under a log, fearing that he had put something i n i t to make me love him: for I was very young, and had heard much of the Papists t o r t u r i n g the Protestants.5 And at f i r s t , he i s s i m i l a r l y r e p e l l e d by the prospect of l i v i n g with a "papist" family: S o l d ! — t o a Frenchman!—I could say no more!—went [sic] into the woods and wept t i l l I could scarce see or stand! The word sold, and that to a people of that persuasion which my dear mother so much detested and i n her l a s t words manifested so great fears of my f a l l i n g into!** As events develop, however, Gyles finds himself gradually becoming quite fond of the habitant couple to whom he i s enslaved. "Monsieur" and "madam" [sic]—he apparently could never grasp the exotic sound of their name—treat him with kindness and trust, the woman providing him with homespun clothing, and the man allowing him to help in the operation of his trading post. Finally, Gyles has the opportunity to repay their generous treatment: the English invade the region while his master i s away, and instead of deserting the French- woman he helps her escape, in return for which he is granted his freedom. The narratives of Williams and Gyles c a l l particular attention to the a f f i n i t i e s between the British and French in North America. In spite of the foreign language and customs, in spite of the "popish" menace of Jesuits and half-Christian- ized Indians who force their religion on the captives, Canada appears as a frontier society remarkably similar to the English settlements, populated by sturdy and energetic pioneers trying to transform the wilderness into an outpost of European c i v i l i z a t i o n . Not a l l the American colonists who wrote of their experiences in Canada presented such a balanced view of the country, however. The Narrative of the Captivity of Nehemiah How in 1745-1747 i s mainly devoted to accounts of torture and murder, and concludes with a cryptic and pathetic note by another prisoner t e l l i n g of the author's miserable death in a Quebec prison. There i s also the narrative poem by a soldier named John Maylem, Gallic Perfidy (Boston, 1758), which i s supposedly based on f i r s t hand experience of the 14 massacre at Fort William Henry, where hundreds of the author's cohorts succumbed (in the words of the poem) to " f e l l Canadian rage," and whence Maylem was c a r r i e d prisoner to Quebec. In general, the l i t e r a r y effusions of c o l o n i a l American m i l i t a r y prisoners i n Canada tend to be rather chauvinistic and melodramatic, compared to the narratives of non-combatants who are caught up i n the struggle against t h e i r w i l l . While writers l i k e Williams and Gyles can look upon the Canadians with sympathy as people much l i k e themselves, the s o l d i e r - authors attribute to the French a l l the treachery and r a c i a l i n f e r i o r i t y which the r h e t o r i c of war has bestowed on "the enemy" from time immemorial. This point of view i s promin- ently i l l u s t r a t e d i n the Memoirs of Robert Stobo (1727-1770), a V i r g i n i a o f f i c e r taken hostage to Quebec a f t e r Major George Washington surrendered to the French at Fort Necessity i n 1754. Stobo, a shamelessly vain i n d i v i d u a l , describes himself as the " l i t t l e hero of the following memoirs, whose dauntless courage, constant zeal, and s t i l l greater sufferings, well 7 deserve the attention of every lover of his country," and represents himself at Quebec l y i n g " i n a dungeon, . . . on a bag of straw, with a morsel of bread and a pan of cold water Q by h i s side. . . . " In a c t u a l i t y , as h i s o f f i c e r ' s commission guaranteed, most of his c a p t i v i t y was spent on parole, which he v i o l a t e d at the f i r s t opportunity because "he was h e a r t i l y convinced of the f a i t h l e s s regard paid by [the French] to any 15 t r e a t y . " 9 Stobo i s too occupied with his own dashing figure to devote much attention to Quebec or i t s inhabitants, who are merely "Britain's f a i t h l e s s enemies," but he does mention his exploits i n various salons, where he learned French, " i n which pursuit he was greatly assisted by the ladies. . . . As he had very l i t t l e other employment at that time, he endeavored to make himself as agreeable as he could with the ladies . . . . One lady i n p a r t i c u l a r he describes i n a rhythmical prose s t y l e which he apparently mistakes for elegant w r i t i n g : There dwelt, by lucky fate, i n t h i s strong c a p i t a l , a lady f a i r , of chaste renown, of manners sweet, and gentle soul; long had her heart confessed for t h i s poor prisoner, a flame best suited for the s p i r i t of the times to smother. . . . 1 1 Salons and dungeons, charming Frenchwomen and v i l l a i n o u s Frenchmen, courtly conversation and e x c i t i n g pursuit over the dark Canadian countryside, and as a flamboyant climax, a meeting with Wolfe just before the b a t t l e of the Plains of Abraham: Stobo's narrative of his c a p t i v i t y i n Canada, clumsily written though i t may be, i s a s t a r t l i n g prefigura- t i o n of the nineteenth-century romantic adventure novel. I t i s not surprising that the Canadian writer of h i s t o r i c a l romances, S i r G i l b e r t Parker, should adapt Stobo 1s memoirs i n t o a novel of adventure and i n t r i g u e , The Seats of the Mighty (1896). Stobo's romantic and over-simplified image of Canada i s an early version of the picture of New France during the French and Indian wars which subsequent authors were to . 16 e x p l o i t i n a long t r a d i t i o n of American f i c t i o n . Stobo's Memoirs end with the f a l l of Quebec. The b a t t l e of the Plains of Abraham takes place off stage because Stobo admits that he was not present; but he makes up for t h i s loss by claiming to have given Wolfe secret information which enabled him to take the c i t y , and by describing his own exploits while carrying dispatches to Louisbourg. He probably regretted the loss of a magnificent opportunity, however, for the f a l l of Quebec subsequently proved to be a very popular l i t e r a r y theme. In c o l o n i a l America the event was commemorated i n a noteworthy blank verse drama by George Cockings (d. 1802) 12 e n t i t l e d The Conquest of Canada (published 1773). In the preface to h i s play, Cockings declares h i s intention to write "an h i s t o r i c a l tragedy" which w i l l present the exploits of the B r i t i s h army i n Canada "as r i v a l actions of those p a t r i o t i c deeds of the so much admired ancient Greeks and Romans." As analogues of his subject matter he mentions "the siege of Calais" and "the gallant defense of the Thermo- pylaean pass"; for a l i t e r a r y model, he refers to the popular eighteenth-century c l a s s i c a l imitation, Joseph Addison's 13 Cato. Cockings t r i e s to make General Wolfe a t r a g i c hero on the c l a s s i c a l pattern/ i n ominous scenes where he takes his farewell of his mother and his fiancee, and i n scenes where Wolfe expresses forebodings about his own fate. But a closer analogue to the play as a whole (although Cockings* preface does not mention Shakespeare) i s Henry V, with i t s 1-7 p a r a l l e l scenes i n the two opposing camps the night before the b a t t l e , i t s chorus of low characters to comment on the main action, and the on-stage presentation of crowded and v i o l e n t b a t t l e s . The important point about The Conquest of Canada, how- ever, i s not that i t imitates any s p e c i f i c l i t e r a r y work, but that i t i s one of the e a r l i e s t attempts i n American l i t e r a - ture to relate the French-English c o n f l i c t i n North America to a c l a s s i c a l t r a d i t i o n of tragedy, epic, and myth. Before the f a l l of Quebec, the l i t e r a r y chronicles of t h i s c o n f l i c t are for the most part b r i e f and prosaic first-hand reports by writers who have few l i t e r a r y pretensions and whose main purpose i s to i n t e r p r e t t h e i r experience i n the l i g h t of t h e i r r e l i g i o u s and n a t i o n a l i s t i c presuppositions. Robert Stobo's crude narrative draws attention to the romantic and melo- dramatic p o t e n t i a l of the French and Indian wars and the Canadian setting; but Cookings' play d e l i b e r a t e l y t r i e s to elevate the c o n f l i c t and i t s s e t t i n g to a higher l e v e l of l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n . The attempt i s not very impressive, for Cockings i s not a great author; his play i s f u l l of r h e t o r i - c a l bombast and noisy spectacle. But the idea that the French-English c o n f l i c t constitutes a d i s t i n c t i v e North American myth with elements of epic and tragedy i s s i g n i f i - cant; i t w i l l be developed l a t e r , i n greater d e t a i l and with much greater s k i l l , i n the h i s t o r i e s of Francis Parkman. Another important and more d i r e c t precursor of Parkman 18 i s Alexander Henry (1739-1824), author of Travels and Adven- tures i n Canada and the Indian T e r r i t o r i e s between the Years 14 1760 and 1776. Henry, born i n New Jersey, " f i r s t came to Canada with the B r i t i s h forces that i n 1760 completed the mopping up of French resistance a f t e r the f a l l of Quebec. " ^ Attracted by the economic prospects of the fur trade, he set out to make his fortune, and soon f e l l completely under the s p e l l of the northwest wilderness. Reaching Michilimackinac i n the summer of 1761, he found himself the f i r s t B r i t i s h trader to enter the region, and the object of intense sus- picion on the part of the Indians who had been the a l l i e s of the French during the war. Caught up i n an Indian uprising, he narrowly escaped death through the grudging intervention of the French-Canadian s e t t l e r s . Undaunted by t h i s setback, he went on with his trading and exploring expeditions, which kept him i n the B r i t i s h northwest for more than f i v e years and eventually took him almost as far as Lake Athabasca. Henry's book i s the acknowledged source for Parkman's version of the massacre at Michilimackinac i n The Conspiracy 1 fi of Pontiac. But i n more general terms, Parkman's professed admiration for Henry i s related to the fact that Henry found i n northwestern Canada the same kind of opportunity to l i v e a l i f e of rugged adventure among Indians and plainsmen as the h i s t o r i a n found on the Oregon T r a i l . Parkman's American p r a i r i e and Henry's B r i t i s h northwest are s o c i o l o g i c a l l y as well as geographically s i m i l a r : both regions were largely inhabited i n the late eighteenth and early nineteenth cen- t u r i e s by nomadic Indian tribes and French-Canadian hunters and trappers. Like Parkman, Henry expresses ambivalent feelings towards these denizens of the plains. On the one hand, he admires t h e i r capacity to survive i n an i n t o l e r a b l y cruel environment where a severe climate and almost barren topography seem to conspire to keep the inhabitants on the edge of starvation. On the other hand, he deplores the Indians' ignorance and the French-Canadians' lack of i n i t i a - t i v e which keep them attached to t h i s environment. In a s i m i l a r way, Henry's attitude toward the wilderness i s divided between his love of unspoiled nature and his i n t e r e s t i n the prospects f o r economic development of the B r i t i s h northwest. Henry does not, however, express any awareness of a contradiction between progress and primitivism: there i s no reason, as far as he i s concerned, why one cannot enjoy both the primitive l i f e and the advantages of wealth derived from the fur trade. But i n subsequent years the tension between the two poles of wilderness and c i v i l i z a t i o n i s to become increasingly evident i n American l i t e r a t u r e , and numerous writers w i l l look northward to the region of Henry's explorations and beyond, i n search of a f r o n t i e r to replace the one being gradually eroded by i n d u s t r i a l and mercantile development. In the meantime, Henry's account of his t r a v e l s and adventures stands poised at a c r u c i a l point i n both American history and American l i t e r a t u r e . A f t e r more than a century of r i v a l r y and warfare between B r i t i s h and French North America, during which the English-speaking colonies looked upon t h e i r northern counterparts as l i t t l e less than the Babylon or the Carthage of the new world, almost the whole continent was u n i t e d — a t l e a s t i n administrative t h e o r y — i n one vast empire of i n f i n i t e p o t e n t i a l i t y . Henceforth "Canada" should have been a v e s t i g i a l and u n o f f i c i a l name for the northern regions formerly under French control. But as Henry unobtrusively points out at the end of his narrative, a new alignment of l o y a l t i e s was about to give new meanings to old p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l concepts, and bring new concepts into being. Notes to Chapter 1 1William Bradford, Of Plymouth Plantation, 1620-1647, ed. Samuel E l i o t Morison (New York: Alfred A. Knopf , 1952), p. 245. 2 John Winthrop, Journal, 16 30-1649, ed. J.K. Hosmer (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1908), II, 12 7. 3 John Williams, The Redeemed Captive Returning to Zion (1908; rpt. New York: Kraus, 1969), pp. 9-10. 4 Ibid., pp. 35-36. 5 John Gyles, Memoirs of Odd Adventures, Strange Deliver- ances, &c, in the Captivity of John Gyles, Esq. (Boston: S. Kneeland & T. Green, 1736), p. 5. ^Ibid., p. 33. 7 Robert Stobo, Memoirs of Major Robert Stobo, of the Virginia Regiment (Pittsburgh: John S. Davidson, 1854), p. 1. 8 Ibid., p. 19. 9 I b i d . 1 0 I b i d . , pp. 20-21. i : L Ibid., p. 32. 12 The Conquest of Canada was one of only two plays by native-born playwrights produced in the thirteen colonies before the Revolution (the other was Thomas Godfrey's The Prince of Parthia). See Frank P. H i l l , American Plays Printed, 1714-1830: A Bibliographical Record (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1934), p. 17. 13 George Cockings, The Conquest of Canada: or, the Siege of Quebec (Albany: Alexander & James Robertson, 1773), pp. iv-v. 14 Henry's Travels were written several years after the events they describe, and were f i r s t published in 1809. But the journalistic immediacy of the narrative and the dramatic reference in almost the last sentence to the crucial events of 1776 render uniquely appropriate the discussion of Henry's work at the conclusion of a chapter on pre-revolutionary writing. L.G. Thomas, ed., "Introduction to the New Edition," 2 2 Travels and Adventures i n Canada and the Indian T e r r i t o r i e s between the Years 1760 and 1776, by Alexander Henry (Edmonton: M.G. Hurtig, 1969), p. v i i . "^Francis Parkman, The Conspiracy of Pontiac, Frontenac ed. (New York: Charles Scnbner's Sons, 1915), I, 321-67. 23 II CANADA IN THE LITERATURE OF THE EARLY REPUBLIC 1. Alexander Henry set out on his return journey from the B r i t i s h Northwest on the fourth of July, 1776. On an i s l a n d i n the Lake of the Woods, we saw several Indians, toward whom we made, i n hopes to purchase pro- visions, of which we were much i n want; and whom we found f u l l of a story, that some strange nation had entered Montreal, taken Quebec, k i l l e d a l l the English, and would c e r t a i n l y be at the Grand Portage before we arrived there.1 The Indians' fears proved extravagant, for when Henry reached Montreal on the f i f t e e n t h of October, the Continental army had long since withdrawn from Canada, having l o s t one of i t s generals i n a reckless assault on Quebec, and having f a i l e d to e n l i s t either the support or the sympathy of the northern c o l o n i s t s . Almost a year before Henry reached the Lake of the Woods, a young American s o l d i e r from Pennsylvania whose name, c o i n c i - dentally, was John Joseph Henry, had emerged with the ragged and exhausted remnants of the army led by Benedict Arnold from the forest wilderness into the St. Lawrence Valley. On the morning of the 6th Nov. we marched i n straggling p a r t i e s , through a f l a t and r i c h country . . . decorated by many low houses, a l l white washed, which appeared to be the warm abodes of a contented people. Every now and then a chapel came i n sight; but more frequently the rude, yet pious imitations of the sufferings of our Savior, and the image of the v i r g i n . These things created surprise, at l e a s t i n my mind, for where I expected there could be l i t t l e other than barbarity, we found c i v i l i z e d men, i n a comfortable state, enjoying a l l the benefits a r i s i n g from the i n s t i t u t i o n s of c i v i l 24 society. Henry's surprise at finding an oasis of c i v i l i z a t i o n i n the remote northern wilderness i s echoed by another member and chronicler of the expedition, a s o l d i e r named Abner Stocking: The French people received us with a l l the kindness we could wish, they treated our sick with much tenderness, and supplied us with every thing they could for our com- f o r t . They seemed moved with p i t y for us and to greatly admire our patriotism and resolution, i n encountering such hardships for the good of our country.3 At the same time, the invading Americans have serious reser- vations about the northern colony and i t s people. The French Canadians, says Stocking, "were too ignorant to put a just estimate on the value of freedom." And Henry hastens to explain that his remarks are intended only as . . . a description of our sensations, entertained i n our minds by the conveniences we now enjoyed, i n opposi- t i o n to our late p r i v a t i o n s . We had just arrived from a dreary and inhospitable wild, half-starved and t h i n l y clothed, i n a land of plenty, where we had f u l l rations and warm quarters; consequently our present feelings, contrasted with former sufferings, might have appreciated i n too high a degree the happiness of the Canadian—What i s now said, ought not to be taken i n anywise as an a l l u s i o n to the p o l i t i c a l r i g h t s , but be confined s o l e l y to the apparent prosperity and economy of families.4 Like numerous subsequent authors, Henry finds to his surprise that Canada presents an i n v i t i n g image of domestic contentment and s p i r i t u a l refinement set against the "dreary and inhospi- table" wilderness, an image which seems to be a close r e f l e c - tion of the American s o c i a l experience. On closer inspection, however, Canada i s found to be populated by a suspiciously a l i e n race of people, who do not share the American zeal for such abstractions as "freedom" and "patriotism" and " p o l i t i - c a l r i g h t s . " A more uncompromising republican view of Canada—a view based, s i g n i f i c a n t l y , on imagination and hearsay rather than experience, and expressed i n consciously l i t e r a r y r h e t o r i c — i s featured i n another work i n s p i r e d by the 1775 invasion. Hugh Henry Brackenridge, l a t e r to become famous as the author of Modern Chivalry (published i n parts between 1792 and 1815), was an Episcopalian clergyman and schoolmaster i n Philadelphia when the news of the defeat at Quebec reached the American settlements, and he immediately set to work on a commemorative blank verse drama e n t i t l e d The Death of General Montgomery (published 1777). Brackenridge had never seen Quebec, and his representation of the northern colony i s consequently b r i e f and generalized; but i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t as an attempt to e x p l o i t the semi-legendary implications of both the s e t t i n g and the events. With his mind running on the medieval romances which are to form part of the i n s p i r a t i o n for Modern Chivalry, Brackenridge has Montgomery say to his aide: I t seems to me, MacPherson, that we tread The ground of some romantic f a i r y land, Where knights i n armour, and high combatants Have met i n war. This i s the p l a i n where Wolfe, Victorious Wolfe, fought with brave Montcalm; And even yet, the dreary, snow-clad tomb, Of many a hero, slaughter'd on that day, Recalls the memory of the bloody s t r i f e . 5 To Brackenridge, Wolfe's v i c t o r y was the climax of a long chronicle of c o n f l i c t and heroism forming the basis of a North American mythology, the main theme of which i s the r i s e of the New World as an e n t i t y d i s t i n c t i v e from the Old. Ideally, the Revolution should form an even more important climax by conclusively detaching North America from i t s European roots. But the main theme of The Death of General Montgomery i s the t r a g i c f a i l u r e of the revolutionary army and i t s leader: Canada i s apparently destined to remain a bastion of European decadence i n America. Brackenridge was too infused with the prevalent optimism of the early stages of the Revolution to consider i n d e t a i l the implications of Montgomery's f a i l u r e for the v i s i o n of a triumphant republican North America; but the s u r v i v a l of Canada as a vestige of the Old World was to haunt the American imagination for many generations. While Brackenridge was commemorating the t r a g i c attempt to f o r c i b l y extend republicanism to Canada, another author was arguing that the northern colony represented an i d e a l which the rebellious colonies would do well to emulate. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur, the famous "American farmer," had chosen the l o y a l i s t side i n the Revolution, and was t r y i n g to i l l u s t r a t e the advantages of preserving the status quo by presenting an i d y l l i c picture of the peace-loving French- Canadian habitants: Before t h e i r conquest . . . no society of men could e x h i b i t greater s i m p l i c i t y , more honesty, happier manners, less l i t i g i o u s n e s s ; nowhere could you perceive more peace and t r a n q u i l i t y . . . . England has found them the best of subjects. I f the influence of r e l i g i o n was more v i s i b l e here than i n any other of the English colonies, i t s influence was salutary; . . . for what else do we expect 27 to gain by the precepts of religion but less ferocious manners and a more upright conduct?^ To Crevecoeur, both the Conquest of 1761 and the American Revolution are disruptions of the "peace and tranquility" which the New World citizen has the unique opportunity of achieving, and which has been the particular attainment of the French Canadians. "Had they been slaves before [the Con- quest]," he continues, "this change would have improved them, but they perhaps were happier than the citizens of Boston, perpetually brawling about liberty without knowing what i t ..7 was. " Crdvecoeur i s probably the most famous of the American anti-republican writers of the Revolutionary period. But his interest in Canada was extremely limited; in spite of his experiences at Quebec as an officer in the army of Montcalm; and when conditions in America became intolerable during the Revolution, he fled to his native France. Other writers, meanwhile, joined the thousands of loyalists who took refuge in the northern provinces. The English-born poet Joseph Stansbury (1743-1809), who had settled in Philadelphia in 1767, regarded Canada as an abhorrent region of exile and wildness, as he makes clear in the opening stanza of his lament, "To Cordelia": Believe me, Love, this vagrant l i f e O'er Nova Scotia's wilds to roam, While far from children, friends, or wife, Or place that I can c a l l a home Delights not me;—another way 8 My treasures, pleasures, wishes lay. 28 In contrast to Stansbury, another l i t e r a r y e x i l e e n t h u s i a s t i - c a l l y embraced Nova Scotia as "the retreat of freedom and security from the rage of tyranny and the cruelty of oppres- 9 sion." Jacob Bailey (1731-1808), a Massachusetts-born Episcopal clergyman, was hounded from his backwoods mission on the Kennebec by v i g i l a n t e s acting as representatives of the Continental Congress, and took up a new charge i n the remote wilderness of Nova Scotia. His journal of these exper- iences, covering the years 1775 to 1808, was edited some f o r t y years a f t e r his death by William S. B a r t l e t and pub- l i s h e d as The Frontier Missionary (1853). Bailey's i n i t i a l enthusiasm for Nova Scotia gradually gives way to discourage- ment, as the preacher describes the r e l e n t l e s s ignorance and poverty i n the TAnnapolis Valley, where "there i s not a b u i l d i n g equal to the houses of the middling farmers of New England.""^ But he remains o p t i m i s t i c and firm i n h i s b e l i e f that B r i t i s h North America w i l l eventually surpass the United States i n prosperity and c u l t u r a l development. The authors who stayed i n the United States a f t e r the Revolution, whether l o y a l i s t or republican i n sympathies, were i n e v i t a b l y too busy with the concerns of t h e i r new nation to pay much attention to Canada. Among the few writers who had occasion to comment on the northern provinces was the eminent Pennsylvania-born Moravian missionary John Heckewelder (1743-1823). Heckewelder was the author of various t r e a t i s e s on the Delaware and Mohegan Indians (his Account of the 29.-. History, Manners and Customs of the Indian Nations who Once Inhabited Pennsylvania and the Neighboring States [1819] was the main source of James Fenimore Cooper's knowledge of Indians), and he kept detailed journals and diaries of his many expeditions both as missionary and government emissary to the Indian settlements on the western and northern fron- t i e r s . He visited Canada twice, in 1793 and 1798, mainly to inspect the Moravian mission in the village of F a i r f i e l d in Upper Canada, and on the earlier occasion he made a side- trip to Montreal. Having decided in favor of supporting the new republican government in his own country, he was gratified to find in Canada some evidence of the wisdom of his choice. At the village of Queenston, "we were visited at our camp by many people of this neighborhood, some of which were very sensible that they had changed better for worse, in coming from the United States to these p a r t s . " ^ At Montreal, he found some indication of mercantile progress comparable to that in his own country, but he found the French Canadians rather ignorant and unenergetic, and he was repelled by des- criptions of the harsh winters of the region. Another early republican notice of Canada i s The History of Maria Kittle (1797), by Mrs. Ann Eliza Bleecker (1752- 1783). Maria Kittle is a brief epistolary romance about a New York g i r l who is carried off to Montreal by Indians during the French and Indian war. Very l i t t l e is said about Canada in the course of the narrative, the author's main interests 30 being i n v i v i d descriptions of Indian a t r o c i t i e s and drama- t i z e d discussions of various topics of presumable i n t e r e s t to contemporary female readers. But there i s an i n t e r e s t i n g development towards the end of the novel, when one of the English prisoners, rather l i k e her t r u e - l i f e counterparts who wrote c a p t i v i t y narratives i n the early part of the century, declares her new-found sympathy for the French inhab- i t a n t s of Canada. I now r e j e c t a l l prejudices of education. From my infancy I have been taught that the French were a cruel and perfidious enemy, but I have found them quite the reverse.12 Towards the end of the century, another noteworthy author expressed a more emphatic and uncompromisingly favor- able view of Canada. John Cousens Ogden (1751-1800) was a New Jersey-born Episcopal clergyman who, unlike many of his professional colleagues, refused to abandon his native country a f t e r the Revolution. The f a c t that he was not f o r c i b l y ejected during the waves of a n t i - l o y a l i s t enthusiasm i s sur- p r i s i n g , for Ogden was a vehement opponent of the independence movement. In 1799, he published A Tour Through Upper and Lower Canada, describing his recent excursion to Kingston, Montreal, and Quebec C i t y . I t i s clear that Canada represents for him a p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l i d e a l which the United States has w i l l f u l l y and i l l - a d v i s e d l y forsaken. Of Lower Canada he comments: An happy harmony p r e v a i l s among a l l orders of the inhab- i t a n t s . . . . An urbanity, h o s p i t a l i t y , and i n t e r e s t i n g g e n t i l i t y of manners pervades most classes of people. . Lower Canada appears upon examination to enjoy as many of the blessings of l i f e as are needful to make men happy.13 And of the more recently s e t t l e d , predominantly English- speaking Upper Canada, he says: People of every language and nation have come hither and formed prospering colonies. Heaven has blessed t h e i r labors, industry, and enterprize. Few have experienced greater success. The nation of England has fostered them with great care. . . .14 He i s e s p e c i a l l y p a r t i a l to the French-Canadian people, and even approves of t h e i r r e l i g i o n : A decent, r e s p e c t f u l , a f f a b i l i t y of manners prevails among the French peasantry. . . . Religion appears t r u l y venerable, not only i n i t s temples and other e d i f i c e s , but i n the h o s p i t a l i t y , politeness, and genteel deportment of most of i t s pro- fessors . 15 The basic object of Ogden's approbation i s the order and s t a b i l i t y which he believes the Catholic church creates i n Lower Canada, and which he opposes to the s i t u a t i o n i n his own country: The people of the States are divided into parties about r e l i g i o n , and are not at unity among themselves—Union, order, harmony, and prosperity universally extend among the Catholics i n Canada.16 "Few conquered countries have been better protected or governed," Ogden continues. P o l i t i c a l l y , Canada has achieved at l e a s t as much as, and perhaps more than, the United States, without resorting to revolution: In the year 1790, the wisdom of the B r i t i s h government 32 was eminently evinced i n d i v i d i n g t h i s large country into two separate governments, and granting to each a constitution, on the most l i b e r a l and disinterested p r i n c i p l e s , a constitution for freedom and the rights of man, perhaps unequalled i n the h i s t o r i c a l page, with a l l the advantages enjoyed by the B r i t i s h colonies i n America previous to the revolution, and with many a d d i t i o n s . . . . 17 But Ogden i s obviously i d e a l i z i n g Canada, just as Crevecoeur i d e a l i z e d the French Canadians, i n order to place i n bold r e l i e f what he sees as the defects of American republicanism. His book i s f u l l of such abstractions as "harmony," "order," "prosperity," and "happiness," but he seldom i l l u s t r a t e s these abstractions with reference to s p e c i f i c individuals and s i t u - ations. Nor does he mention such problems as French-English r a c i a l and r e l i g i o u s r i v a l r y ; indeed, he would have the reader believe that the Churches of England and Rome i n Lower Canada e x i s t side by side i n perfect accord. Ogden was not unique i n his extravagantly favorable attitude to Canada. In 180 8 another Episcopal clergyman, William Jenks of Boston, published a Memoir of the Northern Kingdom which purported to be a history written i n 1901 describing the ultimate d i s i n t e g r a t i o n of the American union. While the New England and V i r g i n i a of Jenks's book decline economically and founder p o l i t i c a l l y , the "Northern Kingdom" with i t s mercantile metropolis of "Quebeck" flourishes under the benevolent paternalism of the B r i t i s h crown. Like London, Quebec was now the mart not only of trade, but of l i t e r a t u r e ; the "Royal American Board" of which, under the fostering patronage of a discerning Prince, ..g became highly instrumental i n the promotion of science. 3 3 Eventually, New England forms a union with the Northern King- dom; V i r g i n i a i s annexed by France; and republicanism, degenerating to a licence for r i o t and self-indulgence, makes a l a s t stand among the ignorant frontiersmen of I l l i n o i s . The war of 1812 i n e v i t a b l y aroused further American i n t e r e s t i n Canada, although during and immediately a f t e r the war ideas about the northern colonies tended to be subordinated to the strong partisan feelings provoked by the contention with England and by opposing attitudes within the United States. A New York pamphleteer named Jacob Bigelow r i d i c u l e d the war hawks' notions of continental conquest by having the f i c t i t i o u s commander of "The Gulls" (the U.S. i n the a l l e g o r i - c a l context of his pamphlet The Wars of the Gulls, published 1812) make plans for a "viceroy of Labrador" and " m i l i t a r y governor over the fragments of Quebec." Most of Canada, says the author contemptuously, can be captured at any time, "for 19 the ice never breaks up." Typical of the more vociferous pro-war propaganda are Samuel Woodworth's f i c t i o n a l i z e d history The Champions of Freedom (1816), i n which the oppressed Canadian colonists are eager to j o i n the American invaders, and Mordecai Noah's extravagant stage spectacle She Would Be a Soldier; or the Plains of Chippewa (1819), which suggests that the s e t t l e r s of Upper Canada are r u s t i c Jacksonian demo- crats, i n t r i n s i c a l l y superior to the B r i t i s h a r i s t o c r a t s who govern them. A much more detailed l i t e r a r y consideration of Canada 34 which r e f l e c t s the experience of the 1812 war i s Joseph Sansom's Sketches of Lower Canada (1817). Sansom, a r e t i r e d s o l d i e r , traveled to Quebec City and Montmorency, and l i k e many of his countrymen had both blame and praise for t h i s curious region of North America. Seen as a part of the archetypal New World experience of creating a new c i v i l i z a t i o n out of the wilderness," the northern settlements are i n f e r i o r to those of the United States: I t i s only on the banks of i t s r i v e r s , that Canada pre- tends to any population, or improvement, whatever; whereas with us the cheering " t r a c t and b l e s t abode of man," i s scattered . . . over the whole surface of the s o i l , by hardy Adventurers. . . . And we have inland towns l i t t l e i n f e r i o r i n population to the C a p i t a l of Canada. 2 0 But i n some other respects, Canada i s u n i f i e d with i t s southern neighbor i n opposition to Europe: There are no beggars i n Canada, any more than i n the United States. The stranger i s nowhere importuned for money, or disgusted by the shameless display of natural or acquired deformity with which European roads and c i t i e s universally abound.21 Not s u r p r i s i n g l y , Sansom believes that the p o l i t i c a l t i e s with B r i t a i n are the p r i n c i p a l cause of Canada's i n f e r i o r i t y to the United States, and he predicts that the northern provinces w i l l eventually be absorbed i n t o the republic by a combined process of assimilation and m i l i t a r y conquest: I l e f t Quebec with a confirmed opinion that . . . i t s c i t a d e l , reputed the strongest f o r t i f i c a t i o n i n America . . . might possibly, i n future wars between the two countries . . . f a l l a prey to American enterprise and i n t r e p i d i t y . . . . I say not the same of Upper Canada, whose population i s , or w i l l be, e s s e n t i a l l y American, and whose attach- ment to the government of Great B r i t a i n must i n e v i t a b l y y i e l d to the habits and opinions of t h e i r continental neighbors.22 Sansom has mixed feelings about the French-speaking people. On the one hand, he admires t h e i r honesty and garrulous f r i e n d l i n e s s , which q u a l i t i e s he i l l u s t r a t e s by contrasting two individuals he met on his t r a v e l s , a candid young French Canadian and a haughty English-speaking c o l o n i s t . On the other hand, he d i s t r u s t s the European decadence i m p l i c i t i n the foreign language and r e l i g i o n . His ambivalent feelings are r e f l e c t e d i n the uncertainty with which he envisages the ultimate d i s p o s i t i o n of the French i n Canada: By the next competition between England and America . . . Upper Canada w i l l be nearly Americanized. Montreal i t - s e l f w i l l have become to a l l e f f i c i e n t purposes an American town; the French population there, w i l l grad- ually assimilate, or disappear; unless, indeed, French Canada should be consolidated by national independence. • • a I t i s clear from the repeated denunciations of Roman Catholicism i n Sketches of Lower Canada that Sansom would much prefer the French to "assimilate or disappear." Fear and d i s t r u s t of the habitants' r e l i g i o n i s an almost obsessive feature of early nineteenth-century American accounts of t r a v e l i n Lower Canada. Sometimes i t i s related to the general idea of a decadence i n i m i c a l to American p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l i d e a l s : Despotism seems to have stamped a feature of low sub- mission upon the plodding, unambitious peasantry, whose minds are, moreover, awed into s u p e r s t i t i o n by the d i s - played c r u c i f i x of t h e i r Catholic p r i e s t s . . . .24 But usually i t i s presented as a very serious q u a l i f i c a t i o n to the appealing q u a l i t i e s of a people who "appear to be very temperate, honest, industrious, and hospitable, but remark- 25 ably ignorant, and zealously devoted to t h e i r p r i e s t s . " An American guidebook, The Northern T r a v e l l e r (1825, and several subsequent- e d i t i o n s ) , informs i t s readers that The French Canadians, notwithstanding the common pre- judices against them, appear on acquaintance to be an i n t e l l i g e n t people. They c e r t a i n l y are amiable, cheer- f u l , and gay, and t h e i r backwardness i n improvements i s attributable to the system under which they l i v e . They are generally brought up i n great ignorance, and they are taught to d i s l i k e and avoid not only Protestant p r i n c i p l e s , but Protestants themselves.26 The Northern T r a v e l l e r i s attributed i n the Library of Congress catalogue to Theodore Dwight (1796-1866), son and namesake of one of the "Connecticut Wits." Dwight has also been i d e n t i f i e d as the author of one of the most notorious best s e l l e r s i n the history of American publishing, the Awful Disclosures of "Maria Monk" (1836), which purports to be the true revelations of a former inmate of the Hotel-Dieu 27 nunnery i n Montreal. Four years before the appearance of Awful Disclosures, an Episcopal clergyman from New York named George Bourne published a s i m i l a r work, e n t i t l e d Lorette. The History of Louise, Daughter of a Canadian Nun, i n which the habitants are portrayed as degenerate beings who indulge i n every kind of vice with the assurance of even- t u a l l y receiving absolution from t h e i r p r i e s t s . The s e t t i n g of Lorette moves from an i n f e r t i l e , perpetually snowbound landscape of r u r a l Lower Canada, featuring gloomy forests, 37 lonely granges and s i n i s t e r monasteries, to the grottoed i n t e r i o r of a convent where the innocent heroine i s held prisoner while repeated assaults are made on her chastity by vicious p r i e s t s abetted by ugly and dissolute nuns. In Dwight's Awful Disclosures the same kind of Gothic trappings are evident: lecherous p r i e s t s , mad nuns, subterranean passages and dungeons, infant corpses buried i n quicklime, and an innocent narrator-heroine who describes her ordeal with a suitable combination of gruesome e x p l i c i t n e s s and t i t i l l a t i n g suggestion. In both Lorette and Awful Disclosures there are obvious s i m i l a r i t i e s to M.G. Lewis's famous tale of seduction and murder, The Monk; and Bourne's use of the North American forest as a scene of t e r r o r r e c a l l s the innovative novels of Charles Brockden Brown. As Gothic romances, the works of Bourne and Dwight are h i s t o r i c a l l y i n t e r e s t i n g and even mildly entertaining to the twentieth-century reader, who i n e v i t a b l y discovers a pervasive unintentional humor i n the extravagances of p l o t and character. As s o c i o l o g i c a l t r e a t i s e s on the actual state of a f f a i r s i n French Canada, i t i s hardly necessary to say, they are obvious l i b e l s . Even the unsophis- t i c a t e d element of the American reading public to which they were o r i g i n a l l y addressed very quickly l o s t i n t e r e s t i n them, p a r t i c u l a r l y a f t e r the crusading New York j o u r n a l i s t , William Leete Stone, published his expose" Maria Monk and the Nunnery of the Hotel Dieu (1836). But Lorette and Awful Disclosures 38 were only extreme expressions of a set of stereotyped ideas about Canada which were being formed i n the American imagina- tion and propogated by authors of various degrees of a b i l i t y and influence. 2. Another unfavorable view of French Canadians was being presented i n early nineteenth century American l i t e r a t u r e , i n a series of s e m i - h i s t o r i c a l writings. The true (or i n some cases, purportedly true) narrative of exploration and adven- ture on the American western f r o n t i e r often featured the expatriate yoyageur who wandered down from Canada or remained i n i s o l a t e d communities of I l l i n o i s , Missouri, and Louisiana a f t e r the f a l l of New France. One of the e a r l i e s t notable appearances i n American l i t e r a t u r e of t h i s exotic figure i s i n Washington Irving's history of the i l l - f a t e d attempt to develop an independent American fur trade, A s t o r i a (1836). Irving's purpose i n A s t o r i a i s to g l o r i f y American i n i t i a t i v e and energy, p a r t i c u l a r l y as they are manifested i n the execution of far-sighted c a p i t a l i s t enterprise, and to i l l u s t r a t e the i n e v i t a b i l i t y of the expansion of American i n d u s t r i a l and commercial c i v i l i z a t i o n . The individuals involved i n t h i s view of American destiny are set forth i n a very c l e a r l y delineated hierarchy, i n which the French Canadians are relegated to a decidedly i n f e r i o r p o s i t i o n . The "hero" of A s t o r i a , although he appears very b r i e f l y i n the book, i s the i n i t i a t o r and guiding s p i r i t of the enterprise, 39 John Jacob Astor; below him are the managers and leaders of the expedition. Next i n precedence come the Kentucky back- woodsmen who do most of the hunting and trapping for the party: they are dead shots with a r i f l e , i n t r e p i d and resourceful i n a l l the s k i l l s necessary for s u r v i v a l i n the wilderness. F i n a l l y , at the bottom rank of the organization come the cheerfully inept and unambitious voyageurs: The Canadians proved as patient of t o i l and hardship on the land as on the water; indeed, nothing could surpass the patience and good-humour of these men upon the march. They were the cheerful drudges of the party, loading and unloading the horses, pitching the tents, making the f i r e s , cooking; i n short, performing a l l those household and menial o f f i c e s which the Indians usually assign to the squaws; and l i k e the squaws, they l e f t a l l the hunting and f i g h t i n g to others. A Canadian has but l i t t l e a f f e c t i o n for the exercise of the r i f l e . 2 8 S i g n i f i c a n t l y , Irving associated the Canadians not simply with the Indians, who throughout Astoria are represented as a brutish and v i o l e n t race doomed to extinction, but with the Indian women. The Canadians are thus seen as passive, almost i r r e l e v a n t appendages to the great American experience of taming the western f r o n t i e r : they are the v i r t u a l antithesis of the resourceful, active, unmistakably masculine American pioneer. The Canadians' inadequacies as frontiersmen, p a r t i c u l a r l y as compared to t h e i r American counterparts, are e x p l i c i t l y set forth i n another of Irving's t r u e - l i f e s t o r i e s of the p r a i r i e s , The Adventures of Captain Bonneville (1837): Here we would remark a great difference, i n point of character and q u a l i t y , between the two classes of trappers, 4 0 the "American" and "French" as they are c a l l e d i n contra- d i s t i n c t i o n . The l a t t e r i s meant to designate the French Creole of Canada or Louisiana; the former; the trapper of the old American stock, from Kentucky, [Tennessee, and others of the western States. The French trapper i s represented as a l i g h t e r , softer, more self-indulgent kind of man. He must have his Indian wife, h i s lodge, and his petty conveniences. He i s gay and thoughtless, takes l i t t l e heed of landmarks, depends upon his leaders and companions to think for the common weal, and, i f l e f t to himself, i s e a s i l y perplexed and l o s t . The American trapper stands by himself, and i s peer- less for the service of the wilderness. Drop him i n the midst of a p r a i r i e , or i n the heart of the mountains, and he i s never at a l o s s . He notices every landmark; can retrace his route through the most monotonous p l a i n s , or the most perplexed labyrinths of the mountains; no danger nor d i f f i c u l t y can appal him, and he scorns to complain under any p r i v a t i o n . In equipping the two kinds of trappers, the Creole and Canadian are apt to prefer the l i g h t fusee; the American always grasps his r i f l e ; he despises what he c a l l s the "shot-gun." We give these estimates on the authority of a trader of long experience, and a foreigner by b i r t h . "I consider one American," said he, "equal to three Canadians i n point of sagacity, aptness at resources, self-dependence, and fearlessness of s p i r i t . In fact, no one can cope with him as a stark tramper of the wilderness."29 I t must be noted that Irving's adverse judgement on the "Creole and Canadian" i s not e n t i r e l y a matter of race or national o r i g i n . The hero of Captain Bonneville, who i s an i n t r e p i d frontiersman equal or superior to the Kentuckians, i s of French descent. Bonneville, however, comes from a family which emigrated d i r e c t l y from France to the United States. I t might be thence i n f e r r e d that the alleged i n f e r - i o r i t y of the French Canadians i s related to t h e i r association with the collapse of the French empire i n the New World: the voyageurs are supposedly the vestiges of a defeated race and of a departed imperial glory, whereas Bonneville, as the descendant of comparatively recent immigrants, to the New World, i s associated with the r i s i n g glory of the American republic. It must also be pointed out that Irving was simply echoing i n good f a i t h the sources he consulted for his h i s t o r i e s , which represented the Canadians of the A s t o r i a and Bonneville expeditions as good-natured, unambitious, inept drudges. In any case, he contributed to the development of a l i t e r a r y stereotype of a f r o n t i e r character who was i n various ways distinguished from a l l other white men involved i n the opening of the American west. Further contributions to the stereotype were made by Edgar A l l a n Poe i n his unfinished novel of westward explora- t i o n , "The Journal of J u l i u s Rodman" (1840). Something of a l i t e r a r y hoax, "Julius Rodman" purported to be (according to the s u b t i t l e ) "an account of the f i r s t passage across the Rocky Mountains of North America ever achieved by man," but was actually a d i s t i l l a t i o n of d e t a i l s from several sources, including Captain Bonneville and the journals of Lewis and 30 Clark. The members of Poe's imaginary expedition include f i v e boatmen from the Missouri v i l l a g e of Petite C 6 t e , where "there are about a hundred inhabitants, mostly Creoles of 31 Canadian descent." The f i v e r e c r u i t s , says Poe's t i t l e character and narrator, are . . . good boatmen, and excellent companions, as f a r as singing French songs went, and drinking, at which they were pre-eminent. . . . They were always i n good humor, and always ready to work; but as hunters I d i d not think them worth much, and as f i g h t i n g men I soon discovered they were not to be depended upon.32 Poe goes on, l i k e Irving, to compare the Canadians unfavor- ably with s i x Kentuckian members of the expedition, who are t a l l , powerful, experienced hunters, and dead shots with the r i f l e . The Canadians are once again placed very low on the f r o n t i e r hierarchy; Poe barely grants them precedence over the Negro slave Toby, the b r u t i s h l y s e r v i l e and indefatigably good-natured clown of the story. Poe does, however, make a d i s t i n c t i o n between the voyageurs and Pierre Jun6t, one of the leaders of the party, who i s also a "Creole of Canadian descent." Jun6t's superiority to the Canadian voyageurs, and his r e l a t i o n s h i p of v i r t u a l equality with the American narrator, suggest that the primary basis of Poe's d i s t i n c t i o n between individuals i s not r a c i a l or national, but s o c i a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l . Ultimately, however, the comparative brevity of the "Julius Rodman" fragment makes i t d i f f i c u l t to o f f e r more than tentative generalizations about the author's attitudes to the various characters. A more detailed picture of the French Canadian on the p r a i r i e and of his r e l a t i o n s h i p to other denizens of the region i s given i n The Oregon T r a i l (1847) by the eminent h i s t o r i a n Francis Parkman. Unlike Irving, Parkman was not p a r t i c u l a r l y interested i n the nineteenth-century westward movement. His "Boston Brahmin" s e n s i b i l i t i e s i n c l i n e d him to r e c o i l from the easy f a m i l i a r i t y and rude inquisitiveness of the f r o n t i e r democrats i n the wagon t r a i n s , who were "for the most part . . . the rudest and most ignorant of the f r o n t i e r population." The historian's main purpose i n going to the p r a i r i e s was not to have dealings with white Americans at a l l , but to do f i e l d research i n the Indian character. By 1846 (the year of Parkman's expedition), the plains Indians constituted almost the l a s t remnants of North American aborigines s t i l l l i v i n g i n conditions comparable to those of the early days of European exploration and settlement i n the New World. Parkman, at this time contemplating his vast h i s t o r i c a l epic France and England i n North America, hoped to apply by analogy and inference his observations of the plains Indians to an imaginative recreation of the v i r t u a l l y vanished Iroquois and Hurons of New France. Unavoidably, however, he had considerable contact with the white inhabi- tants of the p r a i r i e s , and p a r t i c u l a r l y with the many French Canadians who served as attendants and guides to emigrant trains and to hunting or exploring p a r t i e s . His own group was accompanied for most of i t s expedition by two individuals of French descent, a muleteer named Deslauriers, and a hunter and guide named Henry C h a t i l l o n . In spite of his a r i s t o c r a t i c background, his devotion to scholarly pursuits, and his distaste for c e r t a i n f r o n t i e r types, Parkman had a l i f e - l o n g enthusiasm for the hearty out- door l i f e of strenuous a c t i v i t y . Several years a f t e r the Oregon T r a i l expedition, he expressed his admiration for the resourceful and energetic wilderness pioneer i n a t r i b u t e to Alexander Henry i n his f i r s t published h i s t o r y , The Conspiracy 44 of Pontiac (1851). On the Oregon T r a i l he found another representative of the virtues and ideals which he associated with the f r o n t i e r . Henry C h a t i l l o n , unlike Alexander Henry, was i l l i t e r a t e and uninterested i n economic success; but he more than compensated for these d e f i c i e n c i e s by his i n t u i t i v e honesty and by a kind of native i n t e l l i g e n c e displayed i n his hunting and tracking and r i d i n g s k i l l s . Parkman's t r i b u t e to C h a t i l l o n presents an extremely i d e a l i z e d picture of a "natural nobleman": His age was about t h i r t y ; he was s i x feet high, and very powerfully and gracefully moulded. The p r a i r i e s had been his school; he could neither read nor write, but he had a natural refinement and delicacy of mind, such as i s rare even i n women. His manly face was a mirror of up- rightness, s i m p l i c i t y , and kindness of heart; he had, moreover, a keen perception of character, and a tact that would preserve him from flagrant error i n any society. Henry had not the r e s t l e s s energy of an Anglo- American. He was content to take things as he found them; and his chief f a u l t arose from an excess of easy generosity, not conducive to t h r i v i n g i n the world. . . . His bravery was as much celebrated i n the mountains as his s k i l l i n hunting. . . . He was a proof of what unaided nature w i l l sometimes do. I have never, i n the c i t y or i n the wilderness, met a better man than my true- hearted f r i e n d , Henry Chatillon.34 C h a t i l l o n i s not, however, described as a "French Canadian" or with the careless indifference of Irving or Poe as a "Creole or Canadian." He i s e x p l i c i t l y i d e n t i f i e d as a Franco-American, a native c i t i z e n of the United States, "born i n a l i t t l e French town near St. Louis." He i s contrasted, furthermore, to the muleteer Deslauriers, who i s . . . a Canadian, with a l l the c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s of the true Jean Baptiste. Neither fatigue, exposure, nor hard labor could ever impair his cheerfulness and gayety, or h i s p o l i t e n e s s t o h i s b o u r g e o i s ; a n d w h e n n i g h t c a m e , h e w o u l d s i t d o w n b y t h e f i r e , s m o k e h i s p i p e , a n d t e l l s t o r i e s w i t h t h e u t m o s t c o n t e n t m e n t . 3 5 I n t h e c o u r s e o f t h e n a r r a t i v e , D e s l a u r i e r s i s r e p r e s e n t e d a s c o n s i d e r a b l y l e s s c a p a b l e t h a n t h e F r a n c o - A m e r i c a n . L i k e I r v i n g ' s v o y a g e u r s , h e i s c h e e r f u l a n d o b e d i e n t , c a p a b l e o f f o l l o w i n g o r d e r s , b u t a c o m p a r a t i v e l y i n f e r i o r r e p r e s e n t a t i v e o f t h e f r o n t i e r s p i r i t . I t i s w o r t h m e n t i o n i n g i n p a s s i n g t h a t a s e m i n e n t a c o m m e n t a t o r o n T h e O r e g o n T r a i l a s H e n r y N a s h S m i t h c a r e l e s s l y i g n o r e s P a r k m a n ' s e m p h a t i c d i s t i n c t i o n b e t w e e n t h e s e t w o 3 6 c h a r a c t e r s a n d r e f e r s t o C h a t i l l o n a s a " F r e n c h C a n a d i a n . " Y e t P a r k m a n m a k e s a p o i n t o f c a l l i n g a t t e n t i o n t o t h e h u n t e r ' s A m e r i c a n b i r t h , a n d o f c o m p a r i n g h i m f a v o r a b l y w i t h h i s C a n a d i a n u n d e r s t r a p p e r . H e t h u s r e l a t e s h i s c h a r a c t e r s o f F r e n c h d e s c e n t n o t t o a r a c i a l o r s o c i a l h i e r a r c h y , b u t t o a n i m p l i c i t d i s t i n c t i o n b e t w e e n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s a n d C a n a d a . I n s p i t e o f h i s a r i s t o c r a t i c i n c l i n a t i o n s , P a r k m a n o b v i o u s l y b e l i e v e s i n c e r t a i n a b s t r a c t i d e a l s r e l a t e d t o t h e A m e r i c a n c o n c e p t o f d e m o c r a c y . B y i m p l i c a t i o n , t h e f r e e a i r o f t h e r e p u b l i c i s m o r e c a p a b l e o f p r o d u c i n g a s u p e r i o r b r e e d o f h u m a n b e i n g t h a n C a n a d a , w i t h i t s l o n g t r a d i t i o n o f c o l o n i a l d e p e n d e n c e . I n T h e O r e g o n T r a i l , t h e s e i d e a s a r e g i v e n o n l y t e n t a t i v e a n d p e r h a p s b a r e l y i n t e n t i o n a l e x p r e s s i o n ; b u t l a t e r , i n F r a n c e a n d E n g l a n d i n N o r t h A m e r i c a , t h e y a r e t o b e c o n s i d e r e d i n m u c h g r e a t e r d e t a i l . 46 Notes to Chapter 2 "'"Henry, Travels and Adventures, p. 336. o March to Quebec: Journals of the Members of Arnold's Expedition, ecL Kenneth Roberts (Garden City, N.Y.: Double- day, 1947), p. 346. 3 I b i d . , p. 557. 4 I b i d . , p. 364. 5 Hugh Henry Brackenridge, The Death of General Montgomery i n the Storming of the City of Quebec (Philadelphia: Robert B e l l , 1777), p. 15. J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur, Sketches of Eighteenth- Century America: More "Letters from an American Farmer," ed. H.L. Bourdin, R.H. Gabriel, and S.T. Williams (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1925), p. 172. 7 I b i d . , p. 174. o Joseph Stansbury, "To Cordelia," Canadian Poetry i n English, ed. B l i s s Carman, Lome Pierce, and V.B. Rhodenizer (Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1922), p. 8. 9 . . . William S. B a r t l e t , The Frontier Missionary: A Memoir of the L i f e of Jacob Bailey, A.M. (Boston: Ide and Dutton, 1853), p. 154. 1 0 I b i d . , p. 216. ^ T h i r t y Thousand Miles with John Heckewelder, ed. Paul A.W. Wallace (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1958) , p. 304. 12 Ann E l i z a [Schuyler] Bleecker, The History of Maria K i t t l e , i n a Letter to Miss Ten Eyck (Hartford: E l i s h a Babcock, 1797), p. 56. 1 3 [John Cousens Ogden], A Tour Through Upper and Lower Canada ( L i t c h f i e l d , Conn.: [n.p.], 1799), pp. 15, 35. 1 4 I b i d . , p. 51. 1 5 I b i d . , pp. 18, 22. 1 6 I b i d . , p. 88. 1 7 I b i d . , pp. 106-07. 47 2 4 P h i l i p Stansbury, A Pedestrian Tour of 2,300 Miles i n 18 [William Jenks], Memoir of the Northern Kingdom ([Boston: n.p., 1808]), p. 46. 19 [Jacob Bigelow], The Wars of the Gulls: an H i s t o r i c a l Romance (New York: The Dramatic Repository, 1812), pp. 4-5. 20 Joseph Sansom, Sketches of Lower Canada (New York: Kirk & Mercein, 1817), p. 54. 2 1 I b i d . , p. 110. 2 2 I b i d . , pp. 136-37. 2 3 I b i d . , pp. 137-38. ^Philip Stansbury, North America (New York: J.D. Myers & W. Smith, 1822), pp. 159-60. 25 Moses Guest, Poems on Several Occasions. To Which are Annexed Extracts from a Journal (Cincinnati: Looker & Reynolds, 1823), p. 141. 2 6 [Theodore Dwight], The Northern T r a v e l l e r , new ed. (New York: J. & J. Harper, 1831), p. 214. 27 For a discussion of the popularity of Awful Disclosures, see Frank Luther Mott, Golden Multitudes: the Story of Best S e l l e r s i n the United States (New York: Macmillan, 1947), pp. 245-46. For the authorship question, see Ralph Thompson, "The Maria Monk A f f a i r , " The Colophon, Part Seventeen (1934), No. 6. 2 8 Washington Irving, A s t o r i a , or Anecdotes of an Enter- prise Beyond the Rocky Mountains, 1836 ed. unabridged with an introduction by W.H. Goetzmann (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippin- cott, 1961), I, 187. 29 . Irving, The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U.S.A. i n the Rocky Mountains and the Far West, ed. E.W. Todd (Norman, Okla.: University of Oklahoma Press, 1961), p. 19. 30 For demonstrations of Poe's indebtedness to these sources, see H. A r l i n Turner, "A Note on Poe's 'Julius Rodman,'" University of Texas Studies i n English, 10 (July, 1930), 147-51, and P.P. Crawford, "Lewis and Clark's 'Exped- i t i o n ' as a source for Poe's 'Julius Rodman,1" University of Texas Studies i n English, 12 (July, 1932), 158-70. 31 Edgar A l l a n Poe, "The Journal of J u l i u s Rodman," Complete Works of Edgar A l l a n Poe (1902; rpt. New York: AMS Press, 1965), IV, 23. 48 3 2 I b i d . , 25. 33 Francxs Parkman, The Oregon T r a i l : Sketches of P r a i r i e and Rocky Mountain L i f e (Boston: L i t t l e , Brown, 1894), p. 107. 3 4 I b i d . , pp. 12-13 35 Ibid., p. 12. 3 6 Henry Nash Smith, V i r g i n Land: The American West i n Symbol and Myth (1950; rpt. New York: Vintage, 1967), p. 51. 49 III COOPER AND THE HISTORICAL ROMANCE 1. The adverse picture of Canada and Canadians i n the l i t e r - ature of the early republic was p a r t i c u l a r l y evident i n the h i s t o r i c a l romances of the period. As has been seen, Canada figured i n the American h i s t o r i c a l romance at least as early as 1797, when Mrs. Bleecker sent her imaginary heroine into northern c a p t i v i t y i n The History of Maria K i t t l e . The c o l o r f u l and v i o l e n t chronicle of warfare and adventure i n the northern forest constituted an inevitable theme for Amer- ican romancers, and although these writers were mainly interested i n e x p l o i t i n g the strong n a t i o n a l i s t i c feelings associated with the early history of t h e i r own t e r r i t o r y , they very early discovered that t h e i r history was inseparable from that of the New World as a whole. In f a c t and i n legend, the French and Indian wars had irrevocably welded together the two main regions of North America, and had made i t v i r - t u a l l y impossible to consider i n d e t a i l the past of one region without r e f e r r i n g to the past of the other. This discovery was d e f i n i t i v e l y expressed i n the works of the chief innovator and p r a c t i t i o n e r of the h i s t o r i c a l romance i n America, James Fenimore Cooper. In spite of the ostensible vastness of his f i c t i o n a l canvas, which usually conveys an impression of the v i r t u a l l y i n f i n i t e expanse of the North American wilderness, Cooper was 50 basically a regional writer of comparatively narrow geograph- i c a l and historical interests. Almost a l l his important novels, including three of the four Leatherstocking tales and the Littlepage trilogy, are concerned with a relatively limited section of his native New York state. Furthermore, Cooper never traveled widely in North America. His farthest expedition westward was a trip to Michigan to research back- ground material for The Oak Openings (1848); the setting of The Prairie (1827) was created entirely from his reading and imagination; and of Canada he knew practically nothing at a l l . Although he visited Niagara Falls in 1809, he appar- ently did not cross the river. For the necessary historical information relating to the French and Indian wars, he relied on his reading. His conception of the French in eighteenth- century Canada was derived from incidental information in such works as Carver's Travels Through the Interior Parts of North America (1778) and Trumbull's History of the United States (1810), and his notions of the northern Indians (as has been noted previously) were based on the ethnological reports of John Heckewelder. His ignorance—or indifference— concerning the British provinces as they existed in his own time i s reflected in his cryptic and contemptuous reference in The Pioneers (182 3) to "that polar region of royal sun- shine.""'" Regarding the social and p o l i t i c a l organization of eighteenth-century Canada and the French settlers of the period he was almost completely indifferent. Throughout his 51 novels he i n s i s t e d on r e f e r r i n g to New France anachronisti- c a l l y as "The Canadas," a term belonging properly to Cooper's own l i f e t i m e but not to the e a r l i e r period about which he was usually writing, for i t did not come into use u n t i l 1791, when the B r i t i s h administration divided the former French colony into an upper and lower province. Yet the image of Canada i n Cooper's novels of the French and Indian wars has a suggestiveness which i s more impressive than that of detailed and factual accounts of the country. In The Last of the Mohicans (1826), The Pathfinder (1840) and The Peerslayer (1841), the mysterious region to the north has an oppressive power over the imaginations of Cooper's B r i t i s h American characters. The action of these novels never moves north beyond the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence, which form an ominous natural b a r r i e r between New France and the English colonies (the Thousand Islands scenes of parts of The" Path- finder probably constitute Cooper's most northerly s e t t i n g ) , but there are frequent references to the remote northern fastnesses of the "Frenchers" and t h e i r Indian a l l i e s . Leatherstocking i n p a r t i c u l a r frequently evokes an image of the northern country as the stronghold of barbarism and e v i l , the source of a dark and primitive p r i n c i p l e i n d i r e c t a n t i - thesis to the i l l u m i n a t i n g c u l t u r a l forces which are a r i s i n g i n the colonies to the south. This image i s repeatedly associated with the "Mingos" or "Maquas," the Indians of Canada, who are the s p e c i a l object of Leatherstocking's hatred and contempt. The Indians of Canada i n Cooper's novels are not the semi-Christianized tools of the Jesuits which the eighteenth- century c a p t i v i t y narratives frequently described. Rather, they constitute the negative term i n a d u a l i s t i c moral concep- tion of the primitive world. Cooper's obvious b e l i e f i n the ultimate superiority of the white European-derived c i v i l i z a - tion over the primitive Indian way of l i f e did not prevent him from making moral d i s t i n c t i o n s within his representations of the respective races. But paradoxically, he tended to state the moral r e l a t i v i t y of c i v i l i z a t i o n and primitivism i n f a i r l y s i m p l i f i e d and v i r t u a l l y absolute terms. Thus, he demonstrates his b e l i e f that there are both good and bad q u a l i t i e s i n primitivism by creating almost i n c r e d i b l y good and irredeemably bad Indians. Cooper derived his notions about Indians mainly from Heckewelder, who became convinced (possibly through a misunderstanding of Delaware o r a l trad- i t i o n s ) that the Delaware were the epitome of Indian bene- volence, while the Iroquois and several related tribes were 3 unregenerate savages. Cooper not only followed Heckewelder i n t h i s p o l a r i z a t i o n of the Indian character, but with a few unimportant q u a l i f i c a t i o n s he associated the good Indians with c o l o n i a l America and the e v i l "Mingoes" with New France. Magua i n The Last of the Mohicans i s from Canada, as are Arrowhead i n The Pathfinder and the Iroquois war party i n The Deerslayer who besiege the fortress on Lake Otsego. S i m i l a r l y , the French of Canada i n Cooper's novels are opposed to the B r i t i s h Americans from the southern colonies. There i s a certain dramatic effectiveness related to the image of Canada as the stronghold of ominous e v i l i n the description of the anonymous phalanxes of ghostly white-clad troops who have descended from the north to besiege Fort William Henry i n The Last of the Mohicans. But Cooper did not know the French character very w e l l , and i n his represen- tations of individuals (which he wisely kept to a minimum) he r e l i e d on what appears to be a stereotype from comic folk t r a d i t i o n . Captain Sanglier i n The Pathfinder i s a wily and unctious v i l l a i n , with a heavy accent clumsily produced i n phonetics ("'Monsieur l e Pathfindair'; ' he said, with a f r i e n d l y smile, '. . . une b a l l e from your honorable hand be 4 sartain d e a f . You k i l l my best warrior on some i s l a n d 1 " ) , and with a c y n i c a l fondness for i n c i t i n g the "Mingoes" to murder: In short, he was an adventurer whom circumstances had thrown into a s i t u a t i o n where the callous q u a l i t i e s of men of his class might r e a d i l y show themselves. . . . As his name was unavoidably connected with many of the excesses committed by his p a r t i e s , he was generally considered, i n the American provinces, a wretch who delighted i n bloodshed and who found his greatest happi- ness i n tormenting the helpless and innocent. . . . 5 There i s considerably more substance, on the other hand, to Cooper's most detailed picture of a Frenchman from Canada, that of the Marquis de Montcalm i n The Last of the Mohicans. The Marquis of Montcalm was, at the period of which we write, i n the flower of his age, and, i t may be added, i n the zenith of his fortune. But, even i n that enviable s i t u a t i o n , he was affable, and distinguished as much for his attention to the forms of courtesy as for that chivalrous courage which, only two short years afterward, induced him to throw away his l i f e on the plains of Abraham.6 The author subsequently condemns Montcalm for his f a i l u r e to prevent the massacre at Fort William Henry, and describes him as "a man who was great i n a l l the minor attributes of char- acter, but who was found wanting when i t became necessary to 7 prove how much p r i n c i p l e i s superior to p o l i c y . " But i n spite of t h i s ultimately negative judgement, the b r i e f scenes of the French general magnanimously conferring with his defeated enemies, and d r i f t i n g incognito through his army encampment i n the early morning (rather l i k e Shakespeare's Henry V), make him one of Cooper's more i n t e r e s t i n g minor characters. The allusions to his "courtesy" and "chivalrous courage," furthermore, when compared with the s l i g h t i n g reference to "the callous q u a l i t i e s of men of [Sanglier's] c l a s s , " r e f l e c t an admiration for the idea of aristocracy which the class-conscious American author obviously f e l t , even as he claimed to reject i t i n i t s European forms. Cooper's success with e x p l o i t i n g the events and scenery of the French and Indian wars inevitably i n s p i r e d a number of imitators, many of whom were more interested i n creating a d i r e c t and detailed picture of early Canada than he had been. But these imitators and successors, i n spite of the. ostensible concern for h i s t o r i c a l and geographical fact which they some- times displayed, most often merely succeeded i n demonstrating the triteness and narrowness of t h e i r ideas, without endowing t h e i r images of North America with any suggestion of meta- physical and moral profundity, as Cooper had done. Unlike Cooper, they were not usually interested i n considering i n any d e t a i l the significance of the wilderness, or the poss- i b l e virtues of primitivism as compared with c i v i l i z a t i o n . E s s e n t i a l l y , they saw the events of the French and Indian wars and the people and places of early Canada i n terms of a narrow range of prejudices involving the three basic subjects of s o c i a l class, n a t i o n a l i t y (often confused with certain r a c i a l presuppositions), and r e l i g i o n . A l l three of these subjects are of central concern i n one of the e a r l i e s t h i s t o r i c a l romances to appear i n the wake of Cooper's tremendous success. The Rivals of Acadia (1827), by Mrs. Harriet Vaughn Cheney, deals with the seventeenth- century feud between d'Aulnay and La Tour. The author i s p a r t i c u l a r l y interested i n the r e l i g i o u s controversy involved i n the episode, and while the h i s t o r i c a l La Tour (as John Winthrop's Journal indicates) was suspected of only pretending to be a Protestant to ensure the support of Massachusetts Bay, Mrs. Cheney represents the defenders of Fort St. John as enlightened spokesmen for the f a i t h which w i l l eventually dominate the New World and serve as a bulwark against the decadence of Roman Catholic Europe. Her r e b e l l i o u s Acadians are, i n short, prefigurations of Americans, with a firm 56 devotion to Protestantism and p o l i t i c a l independence. Mrs. Cheney also exalts a kind of middle-class democracy i n the exploits of her heroine, Lucie [;sic] de Courcy, who r i s e s from obscure origins to a position of confidence and v i r t u a l equality with Madame La Tour. But the fact that the author raises her heroine to t h i s l e v e l instead of suggesting that class d i s t i n c t i o n s are i r r e l e v a n t to i n d i v i d u a l worth suggests that l i k e Cooper she i s unable to avoid a c e r t a i n deference to the European i d e a l of aristocracy. She i s also apparently unable to r i d h e r s e l f of a predisposition against the French n a t i o n a l i t y . The v i l l a i n of her story i s a cruel and vicious hypocrite, l i k e Cooper's Sanglier. Her heroine i s matched romantically not with a French hero, but with a B r i t i s h American conveniently introduced into the Acadian s e t t i n g as an envoy from Massachusetts Bay; and at the end of the novel the author reveals that Lucie herself i s h a l f English. The same sort of predispositions against the French of Canada are more e x p l i c i t l y dramatized by another female successor to Cooper. Delia Salter Babon was the author of the novella "Castine" (published i n her Tales of the Puritans, 1831), involving a young Puritan g i r l who i s kidnapped by Indians at the outbreak of war between the French and English i n 1702 and c a r r i e d into the northern wilderness to be sold i n t o the household of the wicked Baron Castine. Not a l l the French characters i n the story turn out to be as unregenerately e v i l as Castine or his murderous henchman, Hertel de Rouville. Castine's daughter befriends the New England captive, and his son eventually helps her to escape. But the baron's daughter i s a pathetic figure who v o l u n t a r i l y remains immured i n her father's stronghold because of her conviction that her strong Roman Catholic f a i t h w i l l eventually bring about her father's conversion to r i g h t and j u s t i c e . The New England heroine f a l l s i n love with the baron's son, and i t appears temporarily that the author i s contemplating a mixed marriage between French Catholic and English Protestant. At the l a s t moment, however, young Castine reveals to his bride that his mother was English and he was secretly raised a Protestant. The Eagle of the Mohawks (1841) and i t s sequel The Scout (1844) by the New York author J.L.E.W. Shecut, also focus on the r e l i g i o u s and national c o n f l i c t s . The f i r s t of these works i s set i n the seventeenth century and i s a reversal of the t r a d i t i o n a l c a p t i v i t y narrative p l o t , for i t involves a French-Canadian g i r l who i s kidnapped from Montreal and c a r r i e d by Indians into the New England wilderness. When the Dutch-American hero of the story undertakes to restore her to her home, he discovers to his surprise that her countrymen are a reasonably decent and kindly people. Their Catholicism, however, i s i n t o l e r a b l e to him, as i t obviously i s to the author; the French-Canadian g i r l ' s conversion to Protestantism i s an e s s e n t i a l prerequisite to her becoming the hero's wife. But i n a s t a r t l i n g concluding development (a development which 5 8 s u g g e s t s t h a t t h e a u t h o r ' s o b j e c t i o n s t o t h e m a t c h a r e r a c i a l a s w e l l a s r e l i g i o u s ) , t h e h e r o r e j e c t s t h e C a n a d i e n n e i n f a v o r o f a D u t c h - A m e r i c a n g i r l w h o m h e l e f t b e h i n d i n N e w Y o r k . I n T h e S c o u t , w h i c h i s a r a t h e r t i r e s o m e s e r i e s o f c o n v e r s a t i o n s t i e d t o g e t h e r w i t h a t h i n s t o r y o f a c o l o n i a l A m e r i c a n m i l i t a r y e x p e d i t i o n t o C a n a d a , S h e c u t s e t s f o r t h e x p l i c i t l y s o m e o f h i s r a c i a l a n d r e l i g i o u s b e l i e f s , a n d F r e n c h C a t h o l i c C a n a d a i s p r e d i c t a b l y r e p r e s e n t e d i n a r a t h e r u n f a v o r a b l e l i g h t . T h e e x p r e s s i o n o f a n t i - F r e n c h s e n t i m e n t s d e s c e n d s t o e x t r e m e l y s i m p l i s t i c t e r m s i n a f e w p r e c u r s o r s o f t h e d i m e n o v e l o b v i o u s l y a i m e d a t m u c h t h e s a m e a u d i e n c e w h o r e a d w i t h c r e d u l i t y t h e A w f u l D i s c l o s u r e s a n d L o r e t t e . I n L u c e l l e o r t h e Y o u n g I r o q u o i s ! ( 1 8 4 5 ) b y O s g o o d B r a d b u r y , t h e i m a g e o f F r e n c h C a n a d a i s p r e s e n t e d e x p l i c i t l y i n r a c i a l t e r m s . T h e F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n h e r o i n e " s o m e t i m e s d r e a m e d o f h a v i n g a B r i t i s h o f f i c e r o f h i g h r a n k a n d w e a l t h f o r h e r h u s b a n d , i n p c a s e s h e c o u l d n o t o b t a i n a F r e n c h o n e " ; b u t i n t h e e n d s h e n o t o n l y f a i l s t o a t t r a c t a F r e n c h o r E n g l i s h h u s b a n d , b u t s h e i s u n i t e d w i t h a n I r o q u o i s b r a v e , i n a d a r i n g c o n s u m m a t i o n o f t h e m i s c e g e n a t i o n t h e m e w h i c h C o o p e r c o u l d o n l y r e s o l v e i n T h e L a s t o f t h e M o h i c a n s b y k i l l i n g o f f t h e p o t e n t i a l t r a n s - g r e s s o r s o f t h e r a c i a l b a r r i e r . B u t t h e m a r r i a g e o f L u c e l l e a n d t h e I n d i a n i s p r e s u m a b l y a c c e p t a b l e s i n c e , i n t h e e y e s o f t h e a u t h o r a n d p e r h a p s o f l a r g e p o r t i o n s o f h i s a u d i e n c e , a l o w e r c l a s s F r e n c h C a n a d i a n i s s o c i a l l y a n d r a c i a l l y a l m o s t 5 9 i n d i s t i n g u i s h a b l e f r o m a n I n d i a n . T h e e m p h a s i s i s v e h e m e n t l y a n d c r u d e l y o n r e l i g i o n r a t h e r t h a n r a c e o r n a t i o n a l i t y i n B e n j a m i n B a r k e r ' s C e c e l i a , o r T h e W h i t e N u n o f t h e W i l d e r n e s s ( 1 8 4 5 ) a n d J u s t i n J o n e s ' s J e s s i e M a n t o n , o r t h e N o v i c e o f S a c r e - C o e u r ( 1 8 4 8 ) , w h i c h a r e s o v i o l e n t i n t h e i r r e l i g i o u s d i a t r i b e s a n d s o c l u m s y i n t h e i r w r i t i n g s t y l e t h a t t h e y a r e h a r d l y r e f e r a b l e e v e n o n t h e b a s i s o f h i s t o r i c a l i n t e r e s t t o t h e l e v e l o f A w f u l D i s - c l o s u r e s . B y c o n t r a s t w i t h t h e s e s p e c i m e n s , t h e r e i s c o n s i d - e r a b l e l i t e r a r y v a l u e i n J a m e s M c S h e r r y ' s P e r e J e a n o r T h e J e s u i t M i s s i o n a r y ( 1 8 4 7 ) . W r i t t e n b y a R o m a n C a t h o l i c M a r y - l a n d a u t h o r , P e r e J e a n i s ( a c c o r d i n g t o t h e p r e f a c e ) b a s e d o n t h e r e a l - l i f e e x p l o i t s o f F a t h e r J o g u e s , a n d i s q u i t e p o s s i b l y t h e o n l y A m e r i c a n p r o - C a t h o l i c , p r o - F r e n c h C a n a d i a n n o v e l i n t h e C o o p e r t r a d i t i o n . M c S h e r r y t a k e s C o o p e r a s h i s m o d e l , b u t r e v e r s e s t h e l a t t e r ' s v a r i o u s r a c i a l a n d m o r a l e q u a t i o n s . T h e t i t l e c h a r a c t e r i s a c c o m p a n i e d o n h i s m i s s i o n b y a F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n s c o u t n a m e d P i e r r e , k n o w n a s l ' E s p i o n h a r d i , a n o b v i o u s a v a t a r o f L e a t h e r s t o c k i n g . P i e r r e i s i n t u r n f o l l o w e d b y a f a i t h f u l C h r i s t i a n H u r o n , a n e x a c t o p p o s i t e t o t h e s a t a n i c H u r o n s w h i c h C o o p e r d e p i c t e d . P e r e J e a n i s a f a i r l y s i m p l i s t i c a t t e m p t t o r e f u t e C o o p e r ' s s t a t e m e n t s a b o u t C a n a d a a n d i t s i n h a b i t a n t s b y a d a p t i n g C o o p e r ' s o w n c h a r a c t e r s a n d s i t u a t i o n s t o a s e r i e s o f c o n t r a d i c t o r y p r o p o s i t i o n s . B u t i n s p i t e o f i t s l a c k o f o r i g i n a l i t y a n d i t s f r e q u e n t d i d a c t i s m , P e r e J e a n i s o n e o f t h e b e t t e r e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h - 6 0 century American h i s t o r i c a l romances about Canada. As previously indicated, Cooper and his successors were interested i n r e l a t i n g Canada to certain propositions about society, as well as about r e l i g i o n and n a t i o n a l i t y or race. Cooper's ambivalent admiration for the French aristocracy was shared by Harriet Vaughn Cheney, but not by Delia Salter Bacon, who makes her French a r i s t o c r a t s the v i l l a i n s of "Castine." Most authors of t h i s period, however, seemed to have been i n c l i n e d to follow Cooper and attempt to present a f a i r l y sympathetic picture of the upper class leaders of Canada under the French regime. The eminent poet John Greenleaf Whittier, for instance, t r i e d to make a kind of tragic hero out of Charles de l a Tour, i n a narrative poem e n t i t l e d "St. John" (1841). In this hypothetical character sketch, Whittier dramatizes the Acadian proprietor's boldness and devotion to his conception of the truth; but there i s also an implied condemnation of the impetuosity and passion associated with excessive r e l i g i o u s zeal. La Tour, resolutely s e t t i n g forth to seek a new fortune a f t e r his fortress has been l a i d waste and his wife murdered, might be taken for a type of the indomitable American pioneer, i f i t were not for the fact that his desire for revenge presages nothing but further destruction and death: 0, the l o v e l i e s t of heavens Hung tenderly o'er him, There were waves i n the sunshine, And green i s l e s before him: But a pale hand was beckoning The Huguenot on; And i n blackness and ashes Behind was St. John!^ A s i m i l a r but considerably less p o e t i c a l l y s k i l f u l p i c - ture of the Canadian French a r i s t o c r a t as t r a g i c hero was attempted by the popular poetaster A l f r e d B. Street, i n his long, j i n g l i n g narrative poem Frontenac (1849). As he appears i n the early part of the poem, the seventeenth-century governor of New France i s a grand figure who brings some of the best q u a l i t i e s of European culture and sophistication to the barbarous North American wilderness. But subsequently he i s involved i n an improbable p l o t of miscegenation and r e t r i - bution, when a f a t a l attachment to an Indian woman ends i n his witnessing the murder and suicide of his half-breed daughter and Indian concubine. The Count Frontenac of A l f r e d B. Street, the La Tour of Whittier and Mrs. Cheney, and preeminently Cooper's Montcalm, a l l indicate that some nineteenth-century American authors, i n spite of a professed devotion to democratic i d e a l s , tended to defer to a t r a d i t i o n a l l i t e r a r y a t t r i b u t i o n of superior q u a l i t i e s to the a r i s t o c r a t i c European. But t h e i r a r i s t o - crats, s i g n i f i c a n t l y , are a l l seriously flawed, so that the way i s l e f t clear for the implied or e x p l i c i t preference over them of the democratic B r i t i s h American hero. Thus Canada and i t s French inhabitants, i n the early nineteenth-century h i s t o r i c a l romance, was i n general a remote retreat of rather s i n i s t e r "foreignness" and of a seemingly irredeemable barbarism 62 which made the country f a r i n f e r i o r to the American colonies. 2. By 1850, h i s t o r i c a l romancers who were interested i n writing about Canada could choose from two extensive and sharply d i s t i n c t periods: the century and a h a l f of warfare between France and England, and the almost one hundred years of B r i t i s h rule since the f a l l of Quebec. The f i r s t period, with i t s elements of epic c o n f l i c t and ultimate triumph for the English-speaking people was a perennially favorite l i t e r a r y subject throughout the nineteenth century; but the second period yielded less promising p o s s i b i l i t i e s . Warfare, the staple ingredient of the h i s t o r i c a l romance, was an almost i n c i d e n t a l feature of post-Conquest Canadian history. There were the Montgomery-Arnold expedition of 1775 and several border clashes i n 1812-14 and again i n 1838; but apart from these episodes, there was very l i t t l e to i n t e r e s t an American n o v e l i s t . There was no protracted c o n f l i c t with Indians, no large scale westward movement u n t i l f a i r l y late i n the century, no r e v o l u t i o n — n o t h i n g but a rather tame chronicle of settlement and a g r i c u l t u r a l development. Nevertheless, a few authors t r i e d to adapt recent Canadian history to the f i c t i o n of adventure. In the 1850's, three American f i c t i o n writers turned t h e i r attention to the Upper Canada r e b e l l i o n of 1837—or more p r e c i s e l y , to the belated attempts of i r r e g u l a r bands of armed Americans to support the r e b e l l i o n with forays across the border i n 1838. The exploits of the "hunters' lodges"—as the i n t e r v e n t i o n i s t s c a l l e d themselves when they pretended, for the benefit of U.S. Marshalls stationed at the border, that they were bent on hunting expeditions—were the subject of Jedediah Hunt's An Adventure on a Frozen Lake ( 1 8 5 3 ) , George S. Raymond's The Empress of the Isles ( 1 8 5 3 ) , and P. Hamilton Myers' The Prisoner of the Border ( 1 8 5 8 ) . Of these three works, only the l a s t i s of any consequence. A l i t e r a t e and fast-paced narrative, The Prisoner of the Border i s p a r t i c u l a r l y remark- able for i t s level-headed and objective consideration of a f a i r l y recent c o n f l i c t which had aroused intense partisan f e e l i n g s . John Lesperance ( 1 8 3 8 - 9 1 ) turned to the Montgomery- Arnold expedition with The Bastonnais: Tale of the American Invasion of Canada i n 1 7 7 5 - 7 6 ( 1 8 7 7 ) . It i s perhaps stretch- ing a point to relate t h i s novel to the l i t e r a t u r e of the United States, since the author's l i t e r a r y career was pursued e n t i r e l y i n Canada, and the one e d i t i o n of The Bastonnais was published i n Toronto. But Lesperance was born and raised i n Missouri, served with the Confederate army, and emigrated to Montreal at the close of the C i v i l War. Although he wrote i n English, he was of Franco-American descent, and was p a r t l y educated i n France."^ With t h i s background, he was uniquely q u a l i f i e d to write about the 1 7 7 5 invasion, for he had national or r a c i a l a f f i n i t i e s with the American, B r i t i s h Canadian, and French Canadian p a r t i c i p a n t s . The Bastonnais employs the s i m p l i s t i c characters and overblown rhetoric t y p i c a l of nineteenth-century popular adventure f i c t i o n : "Too l a t e , too l a t e ! " exclaims a bereaved lover at one point, "She i s gone, never to return. Farewell to a l l my dreams of happiness, to a l l my hopes and aspirations. . . . Oh fate, oh fate!"1"*' But l i k e Myers1 Prisoner of the Border, i t i s a remarkably balanced and impartial consideration of a contro- v e r s i a l h i s t o r i c a l episode. In contrast to these reasonably l i t e r a t e f i c t i o n s , James McCarroll's Ridgeway: An H i s t o r i c a l Romance of the Fenian Invasion of Canada (186 8) i s an almost h y s t e r i c a l effusion of the author's p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l prejudices. This e f f o r t hardly deserves to be c a l l e d a novel, since almost h a l f the book i s devoted to an expository polemic against the B r i t i s h , and much of the narrative i s taken up with dialogue i n the same vein. Even the actual "invasion" i s not dramatized, but i s described i n an epilogue e n t i t l e d "authentic report of the invasion of Canada and the Battle of Ridgeway." An author named James Shrimpton t r i e d to make f i c t i o n a l use of the chronicle of Canadian settlement i n The Black Phantom: or Women's Endurance (1867), which involves L o y a l i s t homesteaders i n the Bay of Quinte* region of Upper Canada. But Shrimpton runs up against exactly the same problem which (as Henry Nash Smith has described i n V i r g i n Land) vexed the f i c t i o n - w r i t i n g chroniclers of the a g r i c u l t u r a l settlement i n the American middle west. Anecdotes of plowing and barn- r a i s i n g may have minor h i s t o r i c a l i n t e r e s t , but they cannot sustain an extended f i c t i o n a l narrative. Shrimpton, l i k e h i s colleagues who dealt with the a g r i c u l t u r a l west, f i n a l l y has recourse to contrived melodramatic incident borrowed from the Cooper t r a d i t i o n of adventure f i c t i o n . The Cooper t r a d i t i o n , related s p e c i f i c a l l y to e a r l i e r stages of Canadian history, was revived b r i e f l y and sporadi- c a l l y during the 1860's and 70's. Charles W. H a l l wrote Twice-Taken (1867), a well researched and e x c i t i n g narrative concerning the two B r i t i s h sieges of Louisbourg fortress i n the eighteenth century. In addition, early Canada was the s e t t i n g for several "dime novels." The romance of the northern forest proved to be quite popular with readers of t h i s genre (although not so popular as tales of the "wild west"), but the strong n a t i o n a l i s t i c i n c l i n a t i o n s of both writers and readers were r e f l e c t e d i n a preference for s p e c i f i c a l l y American settings such as Pennsylvania and New York. The d e f i n i t i v e history and bibliography, Albert Johannsen's The House of Beadle and Adams and i t s Dime and Nickel Novels (1950) conveniently s p e c i f i e s the settings of the hundreds of works l i s t e d , and less than twenty are described as set i n Canada. Of these works, very few are extensively involved with the d i s t i n c t i v e elements of the Canadian s e t t i n g . Edward S. E l l i s ' s The Forest Spy (1861) i s nominally set i n Canada during the war of 1812, but the 66 country i s very vaguely characterized as a land of forests, Indians, and "Tories." N. William Busted 1s King Barnaby: or The Maidens of the Forest (1861) i s more s p e c i f i c i n i t s descriptions of Halifax and Quebec i n the late eighteenth century, but the focus of attention i s on the Bostonian romantic hero and on a family of European French emigre's which he guides through the forest during an Indian uprising. Two dime n o v e l i s t s , Ann Stephens and C. Dunning Clark, made a minor specialty of writing about early Canada, both producing t r i l o g i e s based on h i s t o r i c a l and legendary events i n New France before the conquest. Ann Stephens exploited the legend of Count Frontenac's half-breed c h i l d i n Ahmo's Plot (1863), Mahaska (1863), and The Indian Queen (1864). Clark presented a Gothicized chronicle of urban French Canada, reminiscent of Awful Disclosures but with an emphasis on p o l i t i c a l intrigue rather than r e l i g i o u s controversy, i n The S i l e n t Slayer; or The Maid of Montreal (1869), Despard the Spy, or The F a l l of Montreal (1869), and Graybeard the Sorcerer, or the Recluse of Mount Royale (1874). Thus throughout most of the nineteenth century, a rather s i m p l i f i e d and derogatory conception of Canada persisted i n the American imagination. In spite of the fact that i n the l a t t e r h a l f of the century, B r i t i s h North America had a large English-speaking population which was as devoted to demo- c r a t i c ideals and to material progress as i t s southern neigh- bor, many American writers continued to represent the country a s a p o l i t i c a l l y r e a c t i o n a r y B r i t i s h c o l o n y , o r a s a n e n c l a v e o f F r e n c h - s p e a k i n g R o m a n C a t h o l i c p e a s a n t s , o r a s t h e p r i m i - t i v e w i l d e r n e s s s c e n e o f I n d i a n w a r f a r e o r o f d e c a d e n t F r e n c h i m p e r i a l i s m . T h e r e h a d b e e n a f e w c o n t r a d i c t i o n s o f t h e s e v i e w s , b y l o y a l i s t w r i t e r s a t t h e t i m e o f t h e R e v o l u t i o n , f o r i n s t a n c e , o r b y s y m p a t h e t i c a n d c u l t u r a l l y s o p h i s t i c a t e d t r a v e l e r s , b u t t h e s e d i s s e n t e r s w e r e f e w a n d t h e i r w o r k s o b s c u r e . B u t b y 1 8 5 0 t h e r e w a s o n e p a r t i c u l a r l y p r o m i n e n t c o u n t e r - i n f l u e n c e a t w o r k . T h i s c o u n t e r - i n f l u e n c e w a s n o t , h o w e v e r , c o n c e r n e d w i t h c o r r e c t i n g t h e d i s t o r t i o n s o f t h e h i s t o r i c a l r o m a n c e o r t h e p r e j u d i c e s o f t r a v e l n a r r a t i v e s . I t i n v o l v e d , r a t h e r , a v e r y i d e a l i z e d c o n c e p t i o n o f o n e p a r t i c u l a r e p i s o d e i n e a r l y F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n h i s t o r y . 68 Notes to Chapter 3 "'"James Fenimore Cooper, The Pioneers (New York: New American Library, 1964), p. 29. Cooper's journeys to Niagara and Michigan are outlined i n The Letters and Journals of James Fenimore Cooper, ed. James F. Beard (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960-68), I, 10-14 and V, 219-20. Some of his researches for his novels of the French and Indian wars are described i n Thomas P h i l b r i c k , "The Sources of Cooper's Knowledge of Fort William Henry," American L i t e r a - ture, 36 (May, 1964), 209-14. 2 The frequency of Cooper's references to Canada i n the Leatherstocking t a l e s , and the s i n i s t e r connotations which often characterize these references are i l l u s t r a t e d by S.B. L i l j e g r e n , The Canadian Border i n the Novels of J.F. Cooper, Upsala Canadian Studies, No. 7 (Upsala: A.-B. Lundequistska, 1968). The main subject of t h i s monograph, however, i s Cooper's representation of the northern New York f r o n t i e r region. 3 Cooper's indebtedness to Heckewelder i s c l e a r l y evident from a b r i e f perusal of Heckewelder's Account of the History . . . of the Indian Tribes Who Once Inhabited Pennsylvania and New York (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, [1819]), and i s i n d i r e c t l y acknowledged i n the author's pre- face to the 1850 e d i t i o n of the Leatherstocking t a l e s . There i s a detailed discussion of the subject by Paul A.W. Wallace, "Cooper's Indians," JFC: A Re-Appraisal, ed. Mary Cunningham (Cooperstown: New York State H i s t o r i c a l Association, 1954), pp. 55-78. 4 Cooper, The Pathfinder (New York: New American Library, 1961), p. 384. 5 I b i d . , p. 382. Cooper, The Last of the Mohicans (New York: New American Library, 1962), p. 180. 7 I b i d . , p. 212. o [Osgood Bradbury], Lucelle, or The Young Iroquois! A Tale of the Indian Wars (Boston: Henry L. Williams, 1845), p. 28. q John Greenleaf Whittier, P o e t i c a l Works, Household ed. (Boston: Houghton M i f f l i n , 1857), p. 33. See Norah Story, The Oxford Companion to Canadian History and Literature (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1967), p. 453. ^ J o h n L e s p e r a n c e , T h e B a s t o n n a i s : T a l e o f t h e A m e r i c a n I n v a s i o n o f C a n a d a i n 1 7 7 5 - 7 6 ( T o r o n t o : B e l f o r d B r o t h e r s , 1 8 7 7 ) , p . 3 3 5 . S e e V i r g i n L a n d , p . 2 1 1 f f . IV THE ACADIAN TRAGEDY: LONGFELLOW AND OTHERS 1. In 1837, the distinguished h i s t o r i a n George Bancroft described i n the second volume of his History of the United States the 1755 expulsion of the French-speaking inhabitants of Acadia. Bancroft's whole history i s strongly a n t i - B r i t i s h , having as a pervasive theme the j u s t i f i c a t i o n of the American p o l i t i c a l system and of American independence. Hence the events of the Seven Years War are treated primarily as a prologue to the American Revolution, and great emphasis i s placed on the cruel and a r b i t r a r y actions of the English government and army, not only towards the French, but towards the American c o l o n i a l governments and m i l i t i a forces. Obviously, the Acadian episode i s of p a r t i c u l a r value to Bancroft's a n t i - B r i t i s h thesis; and he t e l l s the story with a tone of indignation, with strong emphasis on the s u f f e r i n g of the e x i l e s . Before the expulsion, says Bancroft, the Acadians l i v e d i n i d y l l i c pastoral s i m p l i c i t y , i n a kind of Golden Age of peace and contentment: No tax-gatherer counted t h e i r f o l d s , no magistrate dwelt i n t h e i r hamlets. . . . The pastures were covered with herds and flocks; . . . the meadows . . . were covered with grasses, or f i e l d s of wheat. . . . With the spinning wheel and the loom, t h e i r women made, of f l a x from t h e i r own f i e l d s , of fleeces from t h e i r own f l o c k s , coarse but s u f f i c i e n t clothing. . . . Happy i n t h e i r n e u t r a l i t y , the Acadians formed, as i t were, one great family.1 Then suddenly and without reason (so Bancroft suggests) t h i s i d y l l i c existence was v i o l e n t l y disrupted. Conveniently suppressing the fact that the expulsion involved the conni- vance of the New England administrators and was c a r r i e d out by c o l o n i a l m i l i t i a , Bancroft excoriates the B r i t i s h "lords of trade, more merciless than the savages and the wilderness i n winter," who "wished very much that every one of the Acadians should be driven out." Most of his narrative involves s i m i l a r extravagant rhetoric and categorical denun- c i a t i o n s of the B r i t i s h motives and methods. Families were separated, says Bancroft, the refugees were subjected to i n d i g n i t i e s at the hands of the s o l d i e r s , and l a t e r , i n the English colonies, the Acadian e x i l e s "were cast ashore with- out resources." A b e a u t i f u l and f e r t i l e t r a c t of country was reduced to a solitude. There was none l e f t round the ashes of the cottages of the Acadians but the f a i t h f u l watchdog, vainly seeking the hands that fed him.3 As t h i s fervent peroration indicates, Bancroft's version of the Acadian expulsion i s not an h i s t o r i c a l narrative i n the modern sense of a recreation of facts and an analysis of cause and e f f e c t . I t i s a highly charged effusion of emotion, i n which v i r t u a l l y a l l facts are subordinated to the central theme of B r i t i s h cruelty. Bancroft not only ignores the B r i t i s h motives and the p a r t i c i p a t i o n of the American colon- ies i n the expulsion; he also temporarily suspends the perennial American suspicion of Roman Catholicism, a suspicion which he c l e a r l y expresses elsewhere i n his h i s t o r y , i n his b r i e f summations of early French a c t i v i t y i n the New World. 72 A s i m i l a r emotional and n a t i o n a l i s t i c response to the Acadian expulsion i s represented i n a novel by a Rhode Island author named Mrs. Catherine Williams. The Neutral French: or The Exiles of Nova Scotia (1841) follows the Acadian e x i l e s to Massachusetts, and takes a central group of charac- ters on through the American Revolution and down as far as the eve of the French Revolution. In a long introduction, the author expands her h i s t o r i c a l context i n the other d i r e c t i o n by summarizing the c o n f l i c t i n North America between the English and French from the time of the e a r l i e s t explorations and settlements. Using this vast h i s t o r i c a l context Mrs. Williams makes the Acadian expulsion, as Bancroft did, a p a r t i c u l a r l y heinous crime i n a long chronicle of B r i t i s h i n j u s t i c e against the s e t t l e r s of North America. In the course of the novel, the Acadians are seen from two points of view. In the introduction and early chapters, the author follows the suggestion of her acknowledged source, Thomas Chandler Haliburton's History of Nova Scotia (1829), and represents them as l i v i n g i n "a state of s i m p l i c i t y and 4 s o c i a l happiness" which i s disrupted by the tyrannical agents of the B r i t i s h crown. The pathos of t h e i r s i t u a t i o n i s underscored by gruesome descriptions of the murder of children and the persecution of helpless old men. Set i n contrast to t h i s picture of passive endurance and s u f f e r i n g i s the defiant self-possession of the two main characters, Pauline St. Pierre and her s i s t e r Josephine. Separated from 73 her family and f o r c i b l y expelled from her native province, Pauline s e t t l e s i n Boston, where her career follows an arche- typal American pattern of economic and s o c i a l success. Josephine becomes involved i n the events of the American Revolution, and i n a climactic scene devastatingly reduces the B r i t i s h General Howe to confusion i n p o l i t i c a l argument. As t h i s summary suggests, The Neutral French i s essen- t i a l l y a t r a c t celebrating the r i s e of the American republic. The Acadians are used mainly to i l l u s t r a t e the tyranny of the B r i t i s h , and i n the process of serving t h i s function they are v i r t u a l l y transformed i n t o Americans. The transformation i s made p a r t i c u l a r l y evident not only i n the heroine's ready acceptance of American p o l i t i c a l and economic i d e a l s , but also i n her r e l i g i o u s conversion. Unlike Bancroft, Mrs. Williams obviously cannot bear to think of her Acadians as adherents of Roman Catholicism, so she represents them as continually expressing r e l i g i o u s doubts; eventually everyone of any significance i n the n o v e l — i n c l u d i n g the parish p r i e s t — i s converted to Protestantism. Bancroft's b r i e f lament for the Acadians and Mrs. Williams' s h r i l l defense of the republic represent s i g n i f i c a n t developments i n the American imaginative conception of Canada. Heretofore, t h i s conception has been rather i n c i d e n t a l and unfavorable; the northern country and i t s French-speaking inhabitants have been remote and rather d i s t a s t e f u l shadows on the fringes of the American consciousness. But the story 74 of the Acadians represents the p o s s i b i l i t y of a more sympath- e t i c attitude. Neither Bancroft nor Mrs. Williams gave s i g n i - f i c a n t l i t e r a r y embodiment to t h i s material, however. The most impressive expression of the Acadian theme—perhaps not large i n the t r a d i t i o n which produced Moby-Dick and The Scarlet Letter, but undeniably worth serious a t t e n t i o n — i s Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Evangeline (1847). 2 . I t i s a noteworthy fact of American l i t e r a r y history that Evangeline—or rather, a transmuted version of the same story —was almost written by the author of The Scarlet Letter. In 1838, the Reverend Horace Conolly of Salem narrated to Nathaniel Hawthorne a legend which he had heard from a French- Canadian woman l i v i n g i n Boston concerning an Acadian g i r l who i s separated from her betrothed by the expulsion, and after years of wandering finds him l y i n g on his deathbed. Although t h i s anecdote, with i t s irony and pathos, i s not unlike some of Hawthorne's t a l e s , the author decided that i t 5 was "not i n his vein." Eventually he included a b r i e f narra- t i v e of "The Acadian E x i l e s , " dealing with the expulsion and the a r r i v a l of a group of the e x i l e s at Boston, i n Grand- father 's Chair (1841), a history of New England for children. In the absence of any further authorial comments on the subject, i t i s d i f f i c u l t to speculate as to why Hawthorne found the story of the wandering Acadian g i r l uncongenial. His handling of the children's version suggests that the connection with New England history was the aspect of the story which most interested him. As for the wanderer's t a l e , he may have f e l t that i t involved too passive an experience, for his usual i n c l i n a t i o n was towards plots involving the deliberate commission of s i n and the consequent burden of g u i l t . There are obvious exceptions to t h i s generalization, but i f i t was the character's p a s s i v i t y to which Hawthorne objected, he rejected the story for p r e c i s e l y the same reason that Longfellow e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y took i t up. When the Reverend Conolly, a mutual f r i e n d of the poet and the romancer, t o l d the story once again i n the presence of both writers, Longfellow i s reported to have remarked " I t i s the best i l l u s t r a t i o n of faithfulness and the constancy of woman that g I have ever heard of or read." As t h i s comment suggests, Longfellow was ostensibly even less interested than Hawthorne i n the h i s t o r i c a l and geographical background of the Acadian expulsion. His o r i g i n a l conception of Evangeline involved a prominent central figure who would be the p e r s o n i f i c a t i o n of a p a r t i c u l a r v i r t u e . The virtue e x t o l l e d i n the f i n i s h e d poem, however, i s not "faithfulness and constancy," but the more general q u a l i t y of patience. The word "patience" occurs repeatedly throughout the poem, and the impassive figure of Evangeline wandering over the American continent becomes a symbol of the serene and single-minded acceptance of circum- stances over which the i n d i v i d u a l has no control. But with a l l the emphasis on the central story of 76 Evangeline, Longfellow does not neglect the h i s t o r i c a l and geographical background of the poem. Like Mrs. Williams (whose novel, i n c i d e n t i a l l y , he had not read when he wrote 7 his poem), he consulted Haliburton's History of Nova Scotia, where he found descriptions of the landscape and early settlements of the province, as well as an account of the expulsion. His preparation for writing the poem did not, however, include a v i s i t to Nova Scotia, even though the t r i p from Boston to Halifax could be made with r e l a t i v e convenience by packet boat, and i t was his frequent custom to v i s i t and s c r u t i n i z e the American and European regions relevant to his o other writing and teaching. Presumably, he wanted to avoid any i r r e l e v a n t or inconsistent d e t a i l s which an examination of nineteenth-century Nova Scotia might intrude on his i d y l l i c image of eighteenth-century Acadia. In any case, he r e l i e d e n t i r e l y on his reading and imagination, with the r e s u l t that the l i t e r a l truth of his picture of Acadia has been c a l l e d into question. Longfellow had never been to Nova Scotia, and i t has been said that [the] opening l i n e . . . i s the most untruthful of the whole poem. For the great s a l t marshes washed by the s i x t y - f o o t tides of the Bay of Fundy, dotted with a few willow trees (the e a r l i e r growth having been destroyed by forest f i r e s ) had i n 1755 l i t t l e to suggest e i t h e r "the forest primeval" or "the murmuring pines."9 But t h i s objection overlooks the fact that the "forest prime- v a l " i n the Prologue i s e x p l i c i t l y d i f f e r e n t i a t e d from the v i l l a g e of Grand Pre", where Part I of the poem i s set. In the opening l i n e s of Part I, the scenery around Grand Pre" i s presented, accurately enough, as "vast meadows," " f i e l d s of f l a x , and orchards and cornfields/Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the p l a i n . " In the distant background, "away to the northward," are "the forests old" (Evangeline, p. 13). "^ Longfellow i s here presenting a f a m i l i a r feature of the North American scene: i t i s the same feature, i n e f f e c t , that so f o r c e f u l l y struck the. men of Arnold's army when they stumbled out of the forest onto the neatly c u l t i v a t e d f i e l d s of the St. Lawrence Valley. The image of an a g r i c u l t u r a l oasis on the edge of a forest wilderness i s , of course, a fundamental and pervasive expression of the New World experience. Its l i t e r a r y mani- festations include (to mention a few prominent examples) William Bradford's account of Plymouth Plantation, St. John de Crevecoeur's picture of the " s i t u a t i o n " of the American farmer, and de Tocqueville's admiring description of the rude but energetic attempts at c u l t i v a t i o n to be suddenly d i s - covered i n the midst of the forest of northern New York.'*"''' By the 1840's, however, t h i s image was being supplanted i n the American mind by the new image of the western f r o n t i e r , and the notion of the a g r i c u l t u r a l oasis i n the forest was becoming a nostalgic i d e a l . This i s how Acadia appears i n Evangeline: as an epitome of the youth of the American con- tinent, as a kind of "golden age" of moral innocence and s o c i a l perfection. This conception of Acadia i s by no means o r i g i n a l with 7 8 Longfellow. In Halliburton's History of Nova Scotia he found the following description, based on an imaginative account by the eighteenth-century French encyclopedist, Abbe" Raynal: Hunting and f i s h i n g , which had formerly been the delight of the Colony, and might have s t i l l supplied i t with subsistence, had no further a t t r a c t i o n for a simple and quiet people, and gave way to agriculture, which had been established i n the marshes and low lands, by r e p e l l i n g with dikes the sea and r i v e r s which covered these p l a i n s . These grounds yielded f i f t y for one at f i r s t , and afterwards f i f t e e n or twenty for one at least; wheat and oats succeeded best i n them, but they likewise produced rye, barley and maize. . . . At the same time these immense meadows were covered with numer- ous f l o c k s . They computed as many as s i x t y thousand head of horned c a t t l e ; and most families had several horses. . . . Their habitations, which were constructed of wood, were extremely convenient, and furnished as neatly as substantial farmers' houses i n Europe. They reared a great deal of poultry of a l l kinds, which made a variety i n t h e i r food, at once wholesome and p l e n t i - f u l . . . . Real misery was wholly unknown, and benevolence anticipated the demands of poverty. Every misfortune was r e l i e v e d as i t were before i t could be f e l t , without ostentation on the one hand, and without meanness on the other. I t was, i n short, a society of brethren; every i n d i v i d u a l of which was equally ready to give, and to receive, what he thought the common r i g h t of mankind. x 2 Catherine Williams, as has been mentioned, also followed Haliburton; and Bancroft's b r i e f description of Acadia before the expulsion r e f l e c t s a probable debt to e i t h e r Haliburton or Raynal. But i n both Bancroft and Williams, the image of Acadia as a prelapsarian paradise i s subordinated to the vehement statement of anti-English and pro-republican i d e a l s ; and i n The Neutral French, the pastoral i d y l l i s severely q u a l i f i e d by the author's anti-Roman Catholicism. Longfellow, by contrast, i s not interested i n condemning English actions almost a hundred years i n the past. His description of the actual expulsion i s comparatively b r i e f , with only a s l i g h t and unemphatic condemnation of the o f f i c e r s and s o l d i e r s who c a r r i e d out the order. Nor has he any p a r t i c u l a r objections to Roman Catholicism. His account of the Acadians and t h e i r sad fate i s directed towards other purposes. An important i n d i c a t i o n of the thematic d i r e c t i o n of Longfellow's poem i s provided i n a generalized description of evening i n the v i l l a g e of Grand Pre": There i n the t r a n q u i l evenings of summer when b r i g h t l y the sunset Lighted the v i l l a g e s t r e e t , and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat i n snow-white caps and i n k i r t l e s Scarlet and blue and green, with d i s t a f f s spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled t h e i r sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish p r i e s t , and the children Paused i n t h e i r play to k i s s the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the labourers home from the f i e l d , and serenely the sun sank Down to his r e s t , and t w i l i g h t prevailed. Anon from the b e l f r y Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the v i l l a g e Columns of pale-blue smoke, l i k e clouds of incense ascending, Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together i n love these simple Acadian farmers Dwelt i n the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from 80 Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to t h e i r doors, nor bars to t h e i r windows; But t h e i r dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners; There the r i c h e s t was poor, and the poorest l i v e d i n abundance. (Evangeline, pp. 13-14) Longfellow, l i k e Haliburton, associates the happiness of the Acadians with t h e i r economic success as an a g r i c u l t u r a l community. They have achieved the i d e a l of prosperity and contentment such as Crevecoeur attributed to his American farmer. Longfellow associates t h i s i d e a l not merely with the d i s t i n c t i v e New World s i t u a t i o n , however, but with the con- tinuance of certain Old World t r a d i t i o n s . In the quoted passage and throughout Part I of the poem the European costumes, language, and r e l i g i o u s b e l i e f s of the Acadians are repeatedly emphasized: the "matrons and maidens" dress as t h e i r ancestors have done for centuries; the parish p r i e s t i s the central figure of the community, and the hours of r e l i g - ious observance mark the hours of the day. Furthermore, the r e l i g i o u s imagery of the description of e v e n i n g — p a r t i c u l a r l y the references to the s o f t sounds of the Angelus and the smoke " l i k e clouds of incense ascending"—give an almost hypnotically sensuous q u a l i t y to the Acadians 1 Roman Cathol- icism, and show how far the poet i s from expressing the petty objections of an American Protestant. In subsequent cantos, the v i l l a g e r s are represented as following t h e i r accustomed Old World amusements, t e l l i n g the 81 folk tales and singing the songs brought over from Normandy."'" Longfellow's Acadians have the best of both worlds, for they have the economic prosperity of America and the s p i r i t u a l refinement of Europe, and yet have escaped the p o l i t i c a l decadence of Europe and the ungoverned s p i r i t of competition which Longfellow suggests i s one of the major drawbacks of North American c i v i l i z a t i o n : " . . . Alike were they free from/Fear that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics." I t w i l l be r e c a l l e d that the eighteenth-century t r a v e l e r John Cousens Ogden s i m i l a r l y saw i n Lower Canada an i d e a l amalgamation of America and Europe; but unlike Ogden's r i g i d l y h i e r a r c h i c a l society, Longfellow's Acadia i s communistic: Every house was an inn, where a l l were welcomed and feasted; For with t h i s simple people, who l i v e d l i k e brothers together, A l l things were held i n common, and what one had was anothers. (p. 24)14 The strength and d u r a b i l i t y of t h i s society i s corroborated by descriptive d e t a i l and related metaphor: the houses are "Strongly b u i l t . . . with frames of oak and of hemlock" (p. 13), and Evangeline's father i s "Hearty and hale, . . . an oak that i s covered with snowflakes" (p. 14). S i m i l a r l y , Evangeline i s associated with the p o t e n t i a l f r u i t f u l n e s s of apple trees (p. 16); the h a i r of the old notary public i s compared to a f i e l d of maize (p. 21); and throughout Part I the Acadians are associated by juxtaposition of descriptive 8 2 d e t a i l with the permanence and i n f i n i t e productiveness of nature. Ultimately, however, the association i s i r o n i c . Evan- geline's father soon dies; and s i g n i f i c a n t l y , Evangeline h e r s e l f eventually dies unmarried and barren. For Acadia represents the nostalgic i d e a l of a golden age that no longer e x i s t s ; the central event of the poem i s the expulsion of the simple and innocent people from t h e i r a g r i c u l t u r a l paradise, and the long second part of the poem i s devoted to the wander- ings of Evangeline i n search of her l o s t love. Part II also relates the loss of Acadia to a large mythological context involving the whole North American continent. Forced to move south into the regions which are to become the United States, the e x i l e s yearn to regain t h e i r l o s t happiness. Father F e l i c i a n , the parish p r i e s t of Grand Prd, consoles Evangeline by holding before her the v i s i o n of a "new Eden" where she w i l l be reunited with her l o s t Gabriel: . . . not far away to the southward On the banks of the T§che are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. There the long-wandering bride s h a l l be given again to the bridegroom, There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. Beautiful i s the land, with i t s p r a i r i e s and forests of f r u i t trees; Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens Bending above, and r e s t i n g i t s dome on the walls of the forest. They who dwell there have named i t the Eden of Louisiana, (pp. 39-40) In Louisiana, Evangeline and the p r i e s t f i n d Gabriel's father 83 living in circumstances of prosperity and pastoral content- ment which seem to be a duplication of the old l i f e in Acadia. But the "new Eden" is imperfect, because Gabriel i s not there; "moody and restless grown," he has moved on toward the western frontier, whither Evangeline decides to follow him. The American west, with i t s connotations of vast h i s t o r i - cal migrations involving cruel hardships and disappointment, provides the appropriate setting for the part of the poem devoted to Evangeline's search. The image of the "great American desert," reflecting Evangeline's desolation and pre- figuring the f u t i l i t y of her search, i s introduced early in Part I I : Fair was she and young: but, alas! before her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of l i f e , with i t s pathway Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead, and abandoned, As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by Campfires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. (p. 34) And in Louisiana Evangeline stands at the edge of the farm of Gabriel's father, where the calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As through the garden gate, and beneath the brown shade of the oak trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent i t lay, with a silvery haze upon i t , and f i r e f l i e s Gleamed and floated away in mingled and i n f i n i t e numbers. (p. 45) 84 Concomitant with the geographical background of the p r a i r i e with i t s i n f i n i t e vistas i s an h i s t o r i c a l panorama which includes the American Revolution and the spread of urban c i v i l i z a t i o n i n the United States: Thus did the long sad years glide on, and i n seasons and places Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden; Now i n the Tents of Grace of the Meek Moravian missions. Now i n the noisy camps and the b a t t l e f i e l d s of the army. Now i n secluded hamlets, i n towns and populous c i t i e s , Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. (p. 51) Appropriately, Evangeline's quest comes to an end i n one of the "populous c i t i e s , " the ultimate development of the h i s t o r - i c a l and geographical movements depicted i n the poem. The nostalgic i d e a l of an innocent, prelapsarian past has been replaced i n the American imagination by a prospective i d e a l of an urbanized i n d u s t r i a l Utopia; the s t a t i c image of primi- t i v e s i m p l i c i t y and perfection has given way to a dynamic and complex image of progress toward a goal which continually recedes into the i n f i n i t e p o s s i b i l i t i e s of the future. Super- f i c i a l l y , the c i t y to which Evangeline g r a v i t a t e s — P h i l a d e l - p h i a — i s reminiscent of Acadia: Something at least there was i n the f r i e n d l y streets of the c i t y , Something that spoke to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger, And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, For i t r e c a l l e d the past, the old Acadian country, Where a l l men were equal, and a l l were brothers and s i s t e r s . (p. 52) But i t s inadequacy as a substitute for the l o s t pastoral 85 paradise i s underscored by the onslaught of a "pestilence" (possibly Longfellow has i n mind the yellow fever epidemic of 1793) which serves as a dramatic reminder of the hardships and setbacks involved i n the process of development towards the prospective i d e a l of s o c i a l perfection. In terms of Evangeline's quest, the epidemic also serves as an emphatic seal to the loss of her i d y l l i c Acadian youth and the love associated with i t : for she finds Gabriel l y i n g i n a hospi- t a l at the point of death. The pathos of Evangeline's s i t u a t i o n i s somewhat m i t i - gated by a f i n a l reference to the heroine's "patience" and by the introduction of a rather conventional C h r i s t i a n consolation, but the larger implications of the story are emphasized by a return, i n the concluding l i n e s , to the "forest primeval" and by the evocation of a desolate image of the depopulated or transformed Acadian settlements of Nova Scotia: S t i l l stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of i t s branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty A t l a n t i c Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from e x i l e Wandered back to t h e i r native land to die i n i t s bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are s t i l l busy; Maidens s t i l l wear t h e i r Norman caps and t h e i r k i r t l e s of homespun. And by the evening f i r e repeat Evangeline's story, While from i t s rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean Speaks, and i n accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. (p. 56) Longfellow envisaged Evangeline primarily as a story of 86 the sufferings and virtues of a single i n d i v i d u a l ; but the repeated emphasis on s e t t i n g i n the poem, and on the connec- t i o n between the s e t t i n g and the development of North American h i s t o r y , results i n a large mythological conception i n which Acadia becomes an image of a l o s t and lamented golden age. The myth i s c l e a r l y marred by over-sentimentalization, by Longfellow's inorganic method of composition ( i . e . , his incorporation of d e t a i l s for t h e i r i n t r i n s i c i n t e r e s t rather than for t h e i r relevance to e i t h e r the story of Evangeline or the story of the expulsion), and perhaps by his rather dim awareness of the implications of his material. Nevertheless, t h i s image of Acadia and the Acadians constitutes an important development i n the American l i t e r a r y conception of Canada. 87 Notes to Chapter 4 "'"George Bancroft, History of the United States of America from the Discovery of the Continent (1885; rpt. Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1967), I I , 426. 2 I b i d . , 434. 3 I b i d . , 433. 4 Catherine Williams, The Neutral French; or The E x i l e s of Nova Scotia (Providence: The Author, 1841), I, 54. 5 Manning Hawthorne and H.W.L. Dana, The Origin and Development of Longfellow's "Evangeline" (Portland, Me.: The Anthoensen Press, 1947), p. 11. 6 I b i d . , p. 12. 7 I b i d . , pp. 15-16. For accounts of Longfellow's research methods, see Newton Arvin, Longfellow: His L i f e and Work (Boston: L i t t l e , Brown, 1962), passinu 9 Hawthorne and Dana, p. 17. X^A11 quotations are from the unlineated e d i t i o n of Evangeline (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1962). x ± See Alexis de Tocqueville, Journey to America, trans. George Lawrence, ed. J.P. Mayer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960), pp. 128-29. 12 Thomas Chandler Haliburton, An H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s - t i c a l Account of Nova-Scotia (Halifax: Joseph Howe, 1829), I, 170-72. 13 The old world antecedents of Longfellow's Acadians are less d i r e c t l y revealed i n the f a c t that the poet based his description of them p a r t l y on his observations of European peasants and on descriptions adapted from Scandinavian saga. See Hawthorne and Dana, p. 17. 14 Longfellow i s not e n t i r e l y consistent on t h i s point, however; cf. the following: "Somewhat apart from the v i l l a g e , and nearer the Basin of Minas,/Benedict Beliefontaine, the wealthiest farmer i n Grand Pre"/Dwelt on his goodly acres." (p. 14) 88 V "A YANKEE IN CANADA" AND OTHER TRAVELERS 1. While Cooper, Irving, Longfellow and others were incor- porating t h e i r notions of Canada and Canadians into a romantic, retrospective image of the North American f r o n t i e r , some of t h e i r countrymen were developing a more prosaic and contemporary view of the northern provinces. Nineteenth- century Americans were indefatigable travelers and i r r e p r e s - s i b l e writers of t r a v e l narratives; and although Canada did not exert as great an appeal to t o u r i s t s as Europe, i t was by no means overlooked."'" In the 1830's and 40's, several works were published dealing p a r t l y or e n t i r e l y with tours to Quebec and Montreal v i a Lake Champlain, and to the more recently s e t t l e d Upper Canada (or as i t was known a f t e r 1841, Canada West) v i a Niagara and Lake Ontario. Some of these works, l i k e the previously mentioned Northern T r a v e l l e r of Theodore Dwight, were merely guidebooks; some, l i k e Nathaniel Parker W i l l i s ' s elaborately i l l u s t r a t e d two-volume Canadian Scenery (1842), were part guidebook and part personal memoir; and there were a few s e m i - f i c t i o n a l narratives such as Jesse Walker's Queenston and Fort Niagara (both 1845), and William Tappan Thompson1s Major Jones's Sketches of Travel . . . from Georgia to Canada (1848). With minor variations r e l a t i n g to the author's s p e c i f i c purpose or to the p a r t i c u l a r section of the provinces he has 8 9 s e e n , t h e s e w o r k s e x p r e s s s u b s t a n t i a l l y s i m i l a r a t t i t u d e s t o w a r d s C a n a d a . T h e r e i s a g e n e r a l e n t h u s i a s m f o r t h e s c e n e r y , a n d f o r t h e p i c t u r e s q u e n e s s o f t h e o l d e r s e t t l e m e n t s . T h e t r a d i t i o n a l a n t i p a t h y t o R o m a n C a t h o l i c i s m i s o f t e n a d o m i n a n t f e a t u r e o f w o r k s d e a l i n g w i t h F r e n c h C a n a d a , a s i n t h e r a t h e r b i a s e d g u i d e b o o k P i c t u r e o f Q u e b e c ( 1 8 3 0 ) , b y G e o r g e B o u r n e , t h e a u t h o r o f L o r e t t e . B u t t h e f a v o r i t e t a r g e t s o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y v i s i t o r s t o e i t h e r o r b o t h l i n g u i s t i c r e g i o n s a r e t h e c u s t o m s a n d i n s t i t u t i o n s r e l a t i n g t o B r i t i s h s e t t l e m e n t a n d B r i t i s h i m p e r i a l i s m . O . L . H o l l e y , i n T h e P i c t u r e s q u e T o u r i s t ( 1 8 4 4 ) , f o r i n s t a n c e , c o m p l a i n s o f t h e c i t i z e n s o f T o r o n t o : T h e p r e j u d i c e a g a i n s t t h e A m e r i c a n s , o r Y a n k e e s , i s e a s i l y p e r c e i v e d a n d e a s i l y a c c o u n t e d f o r , a s m o s t o f t h e i n h a b i t a n t s a r e e x c e e d i n g l y l o y a l , h a v e n e v e r v i s i t e d " T h e S t a t e s , " a n d l o o k u p o n t h e i r n e i g h b o u r s a s a s e t o f l a w l e s s r e p u b l i c a n s o r d i s o r g a n i z e r s . . . . 2 I n Q u e e n s t o n a n d F o r t N i a g a r a , J e s s e W a l k e r s e t s o u t t o d e m o n s t r a t e t h e s u p e r i o r i t y o f t h e r e p u b l i c a n o v e r t h e c o l o n i a l s y s t e m o f g o v e r n m e n t . I n t h e s e t w o f i c t i o n a l e x c u r - s i o n s , b o t h s u b t i t l e d " a t a l e o f t h e N i a g a r a f r o n t i e r , " a n o l d s e a c a p t a i n a n d h i s t w e l v e - y e a r - o l d n e p h e w r a m b l e o v e r t h e N i a g a r a p e n i n s u l a a n d d i s c u s s i n S o c r a t i c d i a l o g u e t h e h i s t o r i c a l a s s o c i a t i o n s o f t h e r e g i o n . I n Q u e e n s t o n , t h e t w o t o u r i s t s c l i m b t o t h e t o p o f B r o c k ' s m o n u m e n t t o a d m i r e t h e v i e w : O n t h e e a s t w a s t o b e s e e n t h e w e l l c u l t i v a t e d f i e l d s o f t h e w e s t e r n p a r t o f N e w Y o r k , a n d t o t h e w e s t t h e e y e 90 f e l l upon the domain of the B r i t i s h king. A s t r i k i n g difference was to be observed between these portions of the two countries. On the west there was less improve- ment than on the east, though the s o i l was equally f e r t i l e . "This difference may be owing," said the Captain, "to the d i f f e r e n t form of government and the d i f f e r e n t i n s t i t u t i o n s e x i s t i n g i n the two countries." "How," said Harry, "does the government have any e f f e c t on the c u l t i v a t i o n of the f i e l d s ? " "Because," said the captain, "men are not s a t i s f i e d with the c u l t i v a t i o n of the f i e l d s alone. They do that as a means of subsistence, but the most enterprising have some other purpose i n view as the chief object to be accomplished. In the United States the highest o f f i c e s are open to a l l , while i n Canada t h e i r governors and many other o f f i c e r s are appointed by the government of a distant country, separated from them by thousands of miles of ocean. And though a man may never expect or hope to obtain any high s t a t i o n , yet he prefers to l i v e i n a country where he i s not excluded from i t by custom, or by the organization of government."3 This s i m p l i f i e d comparison hardly does j u s t i c e to the c o n s t i - t u t i o n a l and p o l i t i c a l complexities of e i t h e r country, and e s p e c i a l l y misrepresents the s i t u a t i o n i n the united province of Canada, which by 1845 was well along i n the evolution towards self-government. But t h i s misrepresentation involves more than mere ignorance of s o c i a l or p o l i t i c a l f a c t . Many nineteenth-century Americans were anxious to demonstrate the v a l i d i t y of t h e i r revolution-based p o l i t i c a l system i n the face of external c r i t i c i s m and i n t e r n a l c o n f l i c t s over such questions as slavery and states' r i g h t s . I f Canada were able to achieve by peaceful means a greater degree of prosperity, freedom, and unity than the United States had achieved by revolution, the whole American system would be seriously 9 1 discredited. But the observable evidence suggested that the northern provinces were i n these respects i n f e r i o r to the republic; and American l i t e r a r y observers were quick to point out t h i s i n f e r i o r i t y . The retarded economic and p o l i t i c a l s i t u a t i o n of the provinces as compared to the republic i s one of the main themes of Major Jones's Sketches of Travel. A vehement advo- • cate of slavery, states' rights and the ideals of Jeffersonian democracy, Thompson takes h i s plantation owner persona on a c r i t i c a l tour of the northern states, and f i n a l l y to Niagara, Montreal, and Quebec. North of the Mason-Dixon l i n e , Major Jones finds that Jefferson's i d e a l of a well-ordered society i s being dangerously threatened by the a b o l i t i o n i s t movement; but his f a i t h i n the ultimate s o l i d i t y of the republic i s restored by his glimpse of conditions i n the B r i t i s h province. In the f i r s t of his two chapters on Canada, Thompson's narrator assures h i s readers of his o b j e c t i v i t y and r e l i a - b i l i t y : I f I was t r a v e l i n l i k e Mr. Dickens or Captain Marryatt, or any of them English t r a v e l l e r s , j e s t to make a book for a people who i s so blinded with prejudice that they can't see any thing but f a u l t s , i t wouldn't make no difference whether I know'd much about the things I described or not; a l l I'd have to do would j e s t be to go ahed and f i n d a l l the f a u l t I could with everybody, and with every thing I heard of or seed sot down i n the gide- books; and the further I cum from the truth, so I went on the black side of i t , the better I would please. But I a i n ' t a w r i t i n for no s i c h people, and I'm not gwine to f i n d f a u l t with what I don't know nothin about, j e s t for the sake of f a u l t - f i n d i n . 4 I t i s soon clear, however, that Thompson i s only concerned, 92 l i k e Jesse Walker, with using the s u p e r f i c i a l features of Canadian society i n a running demonstration of the s u p e r i o r i t y of American customs and i n s t i t u t i o n s . As Major Jones sets out from Niagara to Montreal, he expresses the same opinion about the two sides of the r i v e r as Walker's Captain: None of these towns along here on the Canady side a i n ' t no great shakes, and a l l of 'em makes a monstrous bad contrast with the smart bisness-lookin towns on the American side, showin p l a i n enuff that our i n s t i t u t i o n s i s best calculated to promote the prosperity of the people.5 In Montreal, Major Jones v i s i t s "the Parlyment House, whar the Canady people make s i c h laws as ther masters over the water don't care about t r o u b l i n themselves with." And also i n Montreal, he takes note of the ubiquitous signs of B r i t i s h m i l i t a r i s m . "Sogers [ s o l d i e r s ] , " says the major, are the " s t r i k i n feater of Canady—and one can't help but wonder what upon yeath England can want of t e r r i t o r y what takes sich a g t e r r i b l e l o t of money and sogers to keep i t . " Thompson, l i k e so many of his countrymen, i s suspicious of the Roman Catholic French-speaking Canadians; but his objections to B r i t i s h imperialism take precedence over his r e l i g i o u s pre- judices. In Quebec City, Major Jones meditates on the monument to Wolfe and Montcalm; subsequently he imaginatively conceives the French Canadians as an oppressed and l i b e r t y - loving race and the v i c t o r y of Wolfe as an " i n j u s t i c e " which the B r i t i s h government w i l l never s a t i s f a c t o r i l y redress: I t was a hard piece of bisness, that contest, i n which France l o s t her General and her cause; and though the 93 English may try t i l l dooms-day to make the French Canadians f o r g i t the i n j u s t i c e they have suffered, by g i v i n t h e i r Catholic church a l l sorts of p r i v i l e g e s , and by b i l d i n monuments, l i k e they have i n the Palace Gardin with Wolfe's name on one side and Montcalm's on the other, t r y i n to make the honors of that day easy between 'em,—they never can make l o y a l , contented subjects out of 'em as long as Cape Diamond stands where i t does.^ Thompson's Canada i s thus plagued by i r r e c o n c i l a b l e r a c i a l c o n f l i c t s , by rampant and i r r a t i o n a l B r i t i s h m i l i t a r - ism, and by retarded economic development stemming from the i l l i b e r a l p o l i t i c a l system. Canada, i n short, i s a negative alternative to the U . S . — j u s t as i n the h i s t o r i c a l perspective of the Cooper-inspired romancers, New France was often the negative alternative to the B r i t i s h American colonies. In this r e f l e x i v e view of Canada, i t i s not s u r p r i s i n g that only the most s u p e r f i c i a l features of the society are involved, or that the French Canadians are rendered as stereotypes whose attitudes and b e l i e f s are dependent upon the interests of the American commentator. I t i s somewhat surprising, however, that Thompson neglects one of the most predominant observable features of the northern provinces: the ominous proximity of the vast northern forest. To Cooper and his successors, and to Longfellow, the contrast between the settlements and the wilderness was the central physical fact of the New World s e t t i n g , a fact which was p a r t i c u l a r l y evident i n the sparsely s e t t l e d northern regions of the continent. In the works of many of the early nineteenth-century l i t e r a r y t o u r i s t s , however, the Canadian wilderness i s v i r t u a l l y ignored. This neglect i s possibly a r e f l e c t i o n of the impor- tance which these t o u r i s t s place on the s o c i a l comparison between Canada and the United States. Canada's geographical s i t u a t i o n , on the southern fringe of an almost incomprehen- s i b l y vast and barely habitable wilderness, i s the most important physical d i s t i n c t i o n between that country and.the United States with i t s immense stretches of arable land; but Thompson and s i m i l a r writers wish to emphasize the physical s i m i l a r i t i e s between the two regions, i n order to demonstrate that Canada's i n f e r i o r i t y i s e n t i r e l y a matter of p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l factors. The lack of i n t e r e s t i n the northern wilderness might also r e f l e c t a more general feature of the American national character, a feature which Alexis de Tocqueville claimed to have discovered i n his t r a v e l s : In Europe people talk a great deal of the wilds of Amer- i c a , but the Americans themselves never think about them; they are insensible to the wonders of inanimate nature and they may be said not to perceive the mighty forests that surround them t i l l they f a l l beneath the hatchet. Their eyes are fixed upon another sight: the American people views i t s own march across these wilds, draining swamps, turning the course of r i v e r s , peopling solitudes, and subduing nature.^ And of course, the l i t e r a r y t o u r i s t ' s neglect of the wilder- ness may merely be a r e f l e c t i o n of his confinement to the comparatively populous t o u r i s t routes, where his attention i s almost continually directed to the signs of c i v i l i z a t i o n . In any event, the only acknowledgement of the northern f r o n t i e r i n these books seems to be quite perfunctory and generalized. 95 Thompson, for instance, has only t h i s conventionally worded meditation: A l l together, Quebec i s a curious and i n t e r e s t i n place. I t looks l i k e i t belonged to another continent and to another age of the world; and when one looks upon i t s power and i t s buty, and remembers that i t stands on the boundry of c i v i l i z a t i o n , close to the edge of the wild unexplored wilderness that extends northward to the regions of e v e r l a s t i n freeze-to-death, he i s apt to exclaim with the poet—"Time's noble empire i s the l a s t . " 9 The same indifference to the Canadian wilds i s evident i n the t r a v e l account of Richard Henry Dana, J r . , who v i s i t e d Montreal, Quebec, Montmorency and the Saguenay region i n the summer of 1853. Except for his youthful voyage to C a l i f o r n i a , Dana was not widely traveled. In 1853 his f i r s t v i s i t to Europe was s t i l l three years i n the future; most of his early manhood had been spent looking a f t e r a busy law practice and working strenuously i n the cause of Emancipation. As his association with the Emancipation movement suggests, his p o l i t i c a l b e l i e f s were considerably more l i b e r a l than Thomp- son's. He was not, however, committed to the e g a l i t a r i a n form of democracy t r a d i t i o n a l l y associated with Andrew Jackson and the western f r o n t i e r . On the contrary, he was firmly attached to the semi-aristocratic p r i n c i p l e s of the "Boston brahmin" society i n which he l i v e d most of his l i f e . Accord- ingly, the impression of a B r i t i s h m i l i t a r i s t i c oligarchy i n Quebec did not trouble him as i t had troubled Thompson; nor was he i n c l i n e d to exalt American progress and enterprise over the ostensible economic backwardness of Canada. On the 9 6 whole, the b r i e f (approximately eight thousand word) account of his Canadian v i s i t which he committed to his / journal pre- sents a very favorable view of Canada. As i n Thompson's experience, one of the f i r s t features of Canada which attracts Dana's attention i s the ubiquitous presence of the B r i t i s h army. But his reaction to the spec- tacle of s o l d i e r s on parade i s quite unlike Thompson's: [Montreal, Aug. 17] The 26th Reg., Lt. Col. Hemphill, i s here. Saw them parade at 11 o'ck. Excellent d i s c i p l i n e . Col. Hemphill has the most elegant m i l i t a r y a i r I ever saw i n a commanding o f f i c e r , with a noble voice. (p. 572)10 His f i r s t reaction to the other prominent feature ( i . e . , Roman Catholicism) of Canada i s s u p e r f i c i a l l y s i m i l a r to that of most nineteenth-century American t r a v e l e r s . He acknow- ledges the i n s p i r a t i o n a l e f f e c t of such structures as Notre Dame Cathedral i n Montreal: I t i s huge, & to my unaccustomed eye, gigantic. There i s a very impressive a i r of devotion about these open churches . . . with people always about engaged i n prayer or other acts of worship. (pp. 572-73) But he i s suspicious of the Roman Catholic r i t u a l : [Aug. 18] Before br[eakfast] walked to the R.C. Cathedral & attended mass. . . . A l l was Chaunted, & there was the constant dingling of b e l l s , & putting o f f & on of caps, ducking up & down, taking s n u f f — , robing & unrobing wh. encumbers & b e l i t t l e s the Roman service so much. (p. 573) Nevertheless, he i s impressed by the Catholic church as a powerful and e f f i c i e n t i n s t i t u t i o n s t a f f e d by a c u l t u r a l l y superior class of i n d i v i d u a l s , just as for s i m i l a r reasons he admires the B r i t i s h army and c o l o n i a l administration. With 97 an unmistakable consciousness of his s o c i a l p o s i t i o n , Dana r e s t r i c t s his contacts i n Canada almost e n t i r e l y to such representatives of the administrative and e c c l e s i a s t i c a l aristocracy as Lord E l g i n (the B r i t i s h governor-general), the Roman Catholic archbishop of Quebec, and members of the o f f i c e r s ' mess at the C i t a d e l . Occasionally, he remembers to play the role of American democrat among B r i t i s h a r i s t o c r a t s : " I t i s a great advantage," he writes of his dinner with Lord E l g i n , "to be an American among people of rank. If you are only p o l i t e & not obtrusive & act n a t u r a l l y , you may do as you please" (p. 580) . But elsewhere he confides quite frankly, "I cannot but record the pleasure I receive from the voices of educated Englishmen of good society" (p. 589). He does not e n t i r e l y ignore the French Canadians, but his attitude toward them i s extremely condescending. On a b r i e f walk i n the countryside near Quebec City, he talks to a number of farmers and v i l l a g e r s , and reports: I am delighted with the manners of the French Canadians of the middle and lower c l a s s , — t h e r u r a l population. There i s a native & i n d e s t r u c t i b l e politeness and grace about them which charms me. . . . 1 believe them to be a moral, r e l i g i o u s , honest & kind people. (pp. 590-91) Yet the Boston Brahmin who dines with Lord E l g i n and who passes among the habitants l i k e a European nobleman among peasants i s also the man who wrote i n Two Years Before the Mast: We must come down from our heights, and leave our s t r a i g h t paths for the byways and low places of l i f e , i f we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and i n hovels, 98 i n f o r e c a s t l e s , a n d a m o n g o u r o w n o u t c a s t s i n f o r e i g n l a n d s , s e e w h a t h a s b e e n w r o u g h t a m o n g o u r f e l l o w - c r e a t u r e s b y a c c i d e n t , h a r d s h i p , o r v i c e . H H e i s a l s o t h e s a m e s o c i a l r e f o r m e r a n d h u m a n i t a r i a n w h o s t r e n u o u s l y c a m p a i g n e d a g a i n s t t h e w r e t c h e d w o r k i n g c o n d i t i o n s o f A m e r i c a n s e a m e n a n d H a w a i i a n l a b o r e r s i n C a l i f o r n i a , a n d w h o d o n a t e d h i s l e g a l s e r v i c e s i n r e p e a t e d a t t a c k s o n t h e F u g i t i v e S l a v e L a w . B u t i f D a n a w a s t h e e n e m y o f o p p r e s s i o n a n d t y r a n n y , h e w a s a l s o a f i r m b e l i e v e r i n t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f s o c i a l o r d e r . I n Two Y e a r s B e f o r e t h e M a s t h e d e n o u n c e s t h e i n c o m p e t e n c e a n d c r u e l t y o f m e r c h a n t m a r i n e o f f i c e r s — b u t h e a l s o e m p h a s i z e s t h e i l l e g a l i t y o f m u t i n y . H i s o p p o s i t i o n t o t h e F u g i t i v e S l a v e L a w i n v o l v e d c h a l l e n g i n g t h e l a w i n c o u r t — b u t n o t t h e o p e n d e f i a n c e o f i t . H e w o u l d a l m o s t c e r t a i n l y h a v e d i s a g r e e d w i t h H e n r y T h o r e a u ' s a r g u m e n t i n " C i v i l D i s - o b e d i e n c e " t h a t t h e i n d i v i d u a l h a s a r i g h t a n d d u t y t o d i s o b e y u n j u s t l a w s , f o r D a n a p l a c e d t h e s t a b i l i z i n g p o w e r o f l a w a n d g o v e r n m e n t a b o v e a l l c o n s i d e r a t i o n s . I n C a n a d a , t h e m a i n f e a t u r e o f s o c i e t y w h i c h a t t r a c t s h i s a t t e n t i o n i s t h e s e m b l a n c e o f s t a b i l i t y : r e f i n e d , a r i s t o c r a t i c a d m i n i s t r a t o r s r u n n i n g t h e p r o v i n c e ' s a f f a i r s w i t h e v i d e n t e f f i c i e n c y , w e l l - t r a i n e d t r o o p s m a i n t a i n i n g a d i s p l a y o f m a r t i a l r e a d i n e s s , a p o w e r f u l c h u r c h e x e r c i s i n g s p i r i t u a l d i s c i p l i n e o v e r c h e e r f u l a n d s u b s e r v i e n t h a b i t a n t s , a n d n o o u t w a r d a p p e a r a n c e o f s o c i a l i n j u s t i c e t o d i s t u r b a m o r a l s e n s i b i l i t y w h i c h a p p a r e n t l y c o u l d b e a f f e c t e d b y o n l y t h e m o s t o b v i o u s e v i l . H i s b a s i c a t t i t u d e t o C a n a d a i s r e m i n i s c e n t o f t h e a t t i t u d e o f J o h n 99 Cousens Ogden, the American clergyman who i n 1799 was so well pleased with the h i e r a r c h i c a l s o c i a l structure of Lower Canada. Dana i s not quite l i k e Ogden, however, for Ogden*s ultimate purpose was to i l l u s t r a t e the s u p e r i o r i t y of the c o l o n i a l system over republicanism, whereas Dana makes almost no e x p l i c i t comparison (beyond the reference to his "demo- c r a t i c " table manners) between the two systems. In the same way, he d i f f e r s from such defenders of republicanism as William Tappan Thompson, who come to Canada with a store of prejudices against the c o l o n i a l system. On the whole, Dana i m p l i c i t l y acknowledges the t h e o r e t i c a l v a l i d i t y and p r a c t i c a l e f f i c i e n c y of both the Canadian and American s o c i a l struc- tures. With no emphatic opinions or comparative judgements underlying i t , Dana's account of Canada i s mainly valuable for i t s objective report of certain observable features of the country. His choice of features, as has been suggested, r e f l e c t s the narrowness of his p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l attitudes; but within the obvious l i m i t a t i o n s of these attitudes, his perceptive and comprehensive descriptions have a d e f i n i t e h i s t o r i c a l i n t e r e s t . Some of these descriptions, furthermore, involve quite respectable prose work which commendably r e f l e c t s Dana's writing a b i l i t y , considering the fact that the journal was merely a personal memorandum not intended for publication. Primarily, he avoids the pseudo-poetic c l i c h e s which other writers frequently r e l y on when rendering the 100 picturesque or spectacular features of Canadian scenery. With a good eye for d e t a i l , he i s able to introduce a con- creteness to his pictures which make for a v i v i d recreation of nineteenth-century Canada. This q u a l i t y i s evident, for instance, i n his f i r s t impressions of Quebec: I was surprised to f i n d so many v i l l a g e s along the banks of the r i v e r , & such an appearance of populousness & c u l t i v a t i o n as far as we cd. see into the i n t e r i o r . At length, a l i n e of shipping along the l e f t bank, large wood-yard, & vessels at anchor i n the stream, denoted the approach to Quebec. In a few minutes, the gallant l o f t y c i t a d e l , with i t s b a t t e r i e s , & royal f l a g , burst upon us, & snuggling at i t s feet the town, g l i t t e r i n g with i t s t i n roofs, i n the morning sun. As we drew nearer, red coats on guard, o f f i c e r s & men i n undress, denoted the mental and physical power which possesses & controls t h i s i n e r t material might. On the bank about half-way up, a monument marks the spot where Montgomery f e l l i n his desperate attempt. A l i t t l e lower than the c i t a d e l , stands the Terrace, & lower & s t i l l lower, at the water's edge, under the h i l l & looking l i k e the mop- board to the wall of a room stands the trading town, the s o l d i e r s on guard & the v i s i t o r s walking along the ram- parts looking down at the chimney tops of the t a l l e s t houses as from a dizzy height. How strange! How d i f f e r - ent from everything American i s Quebec! The winding narrow gateway, thro 1 which our omnibus t o i l e d up to the upper town, attainable by horses only by means of long deflections & c i r c u i t s of the path, and hard struggles of the beast. For the f i r s t time i n my l i f e I entered a w a l l e d - t o w n — l i t e r a l l y a walled town, into or out of which no one can go save thro 1 a guarded gate-way. (p. 574) To William Tappan Thompson and others, the signs of "populous- ness and c u l t i v a t i o n " would be contemptuously dismissed by comparison with the United States, and the sentinels on the walls and heights would be taken as symbols of malevolent B r i t i s h m i l i t a r i s m . Dana, however, merely reports what he sees, with no comment other than the wide-eyed exclamations 101 of the inexperienced t o u r i s t , or b r i e f and tentative r e f l e c - tions on the " i n e r t material might" of the f o r t i f i e d c i t y . As a p a r t i a l but r e l i a b l e r e f l e c t i o n of what a nine- teenth-century American saw and experienced on the most popular t o u r i s t route i n Canada, Dana's t r a v e l notes have indisputable value. In the context of the history of imaginative l i t e r a t u r e , however, they are considerably less important than the almost exactly contemporary t r a v e l narra- t i v e of Henry Thoreau. 2. "A Yankee i n Canada" (published p a r t i a l l y , 1853, and 12 e n t i r e l y , 1866) can j u s t i f i a b l y be placed among Henry Thoreau1s s i g n i f i c a n t minor works. I t i s at l e a s t as impor- tant to an understanding of his a r t i s t i c and i n t e l l e c t u a l development as i t s companion t r a v e l essays, The Maine Woods and "Cape Cod" (portions of which were published i n p e r i o d i - cals i n the 1850's and which appeared i n book form a f t e r the author's death). The man who prided himself on' having "traveled a good deal i n Concord" and yet who was fascinated by t r a v e l books and by visions of remote corners of the world was bound to be strongly affected by the one foreign journey of his l i f e , even i f t h i s journey was only a ten-day railway and steamship excursion to Montreal, Quebec and Montmorency. As Sherman Paul has observed, "Thoreau's t r i p to Canada . . . was the equivalent, for one who made much of l i t t l e , of a 13 tour to Europe." Yet with the exception of Paul's detailed 102 and perceptive discussion, "A Yankee i n Canada" has received very l i t t l e serious c r i t i c a l attention. Thoreau*s modern biographer H.S. Canby seems to have set the course of subse- quent judgement when he dismissed the work as " r e l a t i v e l y simple . . . factual and d i r e c t , but useful and suggestive."*'' Modern denigrators of the work, i t i s true, are following the author's own lead. "I do not wonder that you do not l i k e my Canada story," Thoreau wrote his f r i e n d Harrison Blake i n 1853; " i t concerns me but l i t t l e , and probably i s not worth the time I took to t e l l i t . " But t h i s comment i s c l e a r l y an expression of annoyance rather than a considered c r i t i c a l judgement, for Thoreau had been concerned enough with his "Canada story" to withhold the l a s t three chapters from Putnam's rather than submit to the e d i t o r i a l censorship of 15 certain allegedly "pantheistic" statements. Indeed, almost a l l the i n t e r n a l and external evidence indicates that the imaginative experience involved i n the excursion to Canada concerned him a great deal. In the f a l l of 1850, when he took the t r a i n from Boston to Montreal, Thoreau was i n the early stages of thinking and research for an ambitious history (which he did not l i v e to complete) of the North American Indian and the early a r r i v a l and settlement of Europeans i n the New World. A f t e r his return from Canada, he set to work accumulating a mass of material r e l a t i n g to the geographical and h i s t o r i c a l background of the northern country. And for at least two years afterward, he continued 103 to make random notes i n his journal r e l a t i n g to his foreign 16 excursion. The statements to Blake, including his further comment that "I had no other design whatever i n my mind, but simply to report what I saw," thus have to be placed i n the context of a creative mind that was v i r t u a l l y incapable of casual or s u p e r f i c i a l e f f o r t . I t i s true that "A Yankee i n Canada," The Maine Woods, and "Cape Cod" represent Thoreau's attempt to break into the l u c r a t i v e market of the quarterly magazines by catering to the current popularity of t r a v e l narratives. But i t i s also true that these books represent part of h i s attempt to comprehend i n l i t e r a r y terms the com- plex theme of the meaning of the New World experience. Thoreau's conception of the American continent i s not r i g i d l y n a t i o n a l i s t i c l i k e William Tappan Thompson's, nor inadequately concerned with the wilderness f a c t , l i k e Thomp- son's and Dana's. For Thoreau, the New World i s the symbol of certain s p i r i t u a l ideals as well as an agglomeration of geographical and h i s t o r i c a l facts. The vast and apparently i n f i n i t e p o t e n t i a l of the North American forest and the western f r o n t i e r offers a, unique opportunity to pursue moral and s o c i a l perfection, while the pattern for some of the virtues which must be c u l t i v a t e d i n the pursuit of t h i s i d e a l can be found i n the study of the early h i s t o r y of the con- tinent, and i n the d i r e c t experience of f r o n t i e r l i f e . In his three late t r a v e l books, Thoreau describes both his h i s t o r i c a l studies and his quest for related experience. In 104 The Maine Woods, he goes deep into the northern forest, into the pre-Columbian world of the Indian and the primeval world of nature; i n "Cape Cod," he takes the search to the A t l a n t i c shore of the continent, where English-speaking settlement i n America began; and i n "A Yankee i n Canada" he goes to the region of early French colonization, on the edge of a wilder- ness even more remote and forbidding than the woods of Maine. Each of these expeditions involves the search for a kind of "representative man." Of course, Thoreau i s not so naive as to expect to f i n d Rousseau's noble red man i n the Maine Woods, or a seventeenth-century explorer on Cape Cod, or a coureur de bois i n Canada. But he hopes to f i n d i n these f r o n t i e r s certain individuals whose l i v e s might convey intimations of a simpler and purer l i f e which can provide imaginative contrast (in the words of Walden) to "the r e s t l e s s , nervous, bustling, 17 t r i v i a l Nineteenth Century." In Maine, his quest ends with the discovery of Joe P o l i s , the Penobscot Indian guide whose s i m p l i c i t y of character and a f f i n i t y with nature have not been e n t i r e l y obscured by his contact with the white man's c i v i l i - zation. On Cape Cod, he finds the W e l l f l e e t Oysterman, who i n spite of his comical piety and contempt for his "young" wife and daughter i s an admirable representative of the American c o l o n i a l period. In Canada, however, Thoreau i s not so successful. Although he meets and talks with many inhabi- tants of the northern province, he does not f i n d any i n d i v i d u a l who appears to be an adequate representative of the great age 105 of northern exploration and adventure. But i f Thoreau was disappointed with nineteenth-century Canada, i t i s p a r t l y because his expectations associated with the country were unusually high. Perhaps he did not l i t e r - a l l y expect to f i n d a world of coureurs de bois and voyageurs, but the great northern wilderness of Canada seems to have s t i r r e d him to p a r t i c u l a r l y extravagant f l i g h t s of poetic fancy. In a meditation on reading i n A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers (1849), he thinks of the l i t e r a t u r e of early North American exploration: We naturally remembered Alexander Henry's Adventures here, as a sort of c l a s s i c among books of American t r a v e l . I t contains scenery and rough sketching of men and incidents enough to i n s p i r e poets for many years, and to my fancy i s as f u l l of sounding names as any page of h i s t o r y , — Lake Winnipeg, Hudson's Bay, Ottawa, and portages innumerable; Chippeways, Gens de Terres, Les P i l l e u r s , The Weepers; with reminiscences of Hearne's journey, and the l i k e ; an immense and shaggy and sincere country, summer and winter, adorned with chains of lakes and r i v e r s , covered with snows, with hemlocks, and f i r - t r e e s . There i s a naturalness, an unpretending and cold l i f e i n t h i s t r a v e l l e r , as i n a Canadian winter, what l i f e was preserved through low temperatures and f r o n t i e r dangers by furs within a stout heart.18 The object of Thoreau's northern excursion was the s e t t l e d region of Canada East, not the solitudes of Lake Winnipeg and Hudson Bay; but the repeated meditations on the wilderness i n "A Yankee i n Canada" suggest that Thoreau1s expectations of the northern province involved elements which were at l e a s t analogous to the imaginative ideals represented by Henry's great northwest. Thoreau's early writing contains another important 106 intimation of what he might have expected to f i n d i n Canada. In his journal for July 14, 1845, while he was l i v i n g i n a hut on the shore of Walden Pond, he wrote: "Who should come to my lodge just now but a true Homeric boor, one of those Paphlagonian men? Alek Therien he c a l l e d himself; a Canadian 19 now, a woodchopper, a post-maker. . . . " The woodchopper i s the one "representative man" i n a l l Thoreau1s writings who receives the highest praise. "A more simple and natural man i t would be hard to f i n d , " Thoreau concluded i n Walden. The admiration for Therien i s by no means unqualified, for at times the author "did not know whether he was as wise as 20 Shakespeare or as simply ignorant as a c h i l d . " But on the whole, Thoreau was i n c l i n e d to see the woodchopper1s ignorance as a primitive naturalness. As he appears i n Walden, he i s the epitome of native i n t e l l i g e n c e and v i r t u e , a man who lacks and has no need for l i t e r a r y culture beyond a vague f a m i l i a r i t y with the names of poets and a few fragments of poetry, and who i s able to experience a d i r e c t and unaffected response to nature. Surprisingly, i n his lengthy consideration of French- Canadian manners and customs i n "A Yankee i n Canada" Thoreau makes not the least i n d i c a t i o n that he i s acquainted with an i n d i v i d u a l who might serve as a pattern for the race. Nor, conversely, i n Walden or i n the various journal entries con- cerning Therien written a f t e r 1850 does he suggest how the woodchopper compares with his countrymen i n t h e i r native 107 element. But i t i s d i f f i c u l t to believe that Thoreau would not think of Therien during his v i s i t to Canada. And i f , as the tone of "A Yankee i n Canada" repeatedly suggests, he found the French Canadians disappointing, i t may have been partly because his experience with Therien had given him an exaggerated notion of t h e i r v i r t u e s . I t i s misleading, however, to suggest that Thoreau was t o t a l l y unhappy with nineteenth-century Canada and i t s inhabitants. "A Yankee i n Canada" r e f l e c t s , rather, a constant ambivalence of attitude, expressed i n repeated q u a l i f i c a t i o n s , exceptions, and frank contradictions. Perhaps nowhere else i n Thoreau's writing i s the Transcendentalist penchant for d i a l e c t i c a l tension more evident. Throughout the narrative, his fascination with the great northern wilderness i s modified by his c r i t i c i s m of Canadian society; his admiration for the great age of New France i s opposed to his annoyance with modern Canada East; his approval of some of England's achieve- ments i n the New World i s opposed to his d i s l i k e of B r i t i s h imperialism; and there are many other c o n f l i c t i n g attitudes i n his observations of s p e c i f i c features of the c i t i e s and countryside. Perhaps the most important c o n f l i c t i s that involved i n the pervasive comparison between Canada and the United States. Unlike such biased commentators as Thompson, Thoreau struggles to be f a i r and open-minded about Canadian society; but he cannot look at i t u n c r i t i c a l l y , as Dana does, and f i n a l l y , his d i a l e c t i c a l tensions are resolved i n a 108 general conclusion which involves some of the highest praise that Thoreau expresses anywhere for his native country. This conclusion i s prefigured i n the almost contemp- tuously i r o n i c tone of the opening sentence. "I fear that I have not got much to say about Canada, not having seen much; 21 what I got by going to Canada was a cold" (p. 3). In s p i t e of the brevity and geographical l i m i t a t i o n s of his t r i p , he actually saw a great deal .more than most American v i s i t o r s , for unlike Thompson and Dana (for instance), he made a p a r t i - cular point of c u l t i v a t i n g the acquaintance of a wide repre- sentation of the inhabitants. He was far more conscious than other t o u r i s t s of the physical s i t u a t i o n of Canada, on the edge of the wilderness; but the expectations aroused by t h i s s i t u a t i o n led to what was probably his f i r s t disappointment i n the country. Instead of approaching something analogous to Alexander Henry's great northwest, he found himself on the t r a i n and boat to Montreal "being whirled toward some foreign vortex" (p. 8); and shortly afterward he was i n Montreal, i n a s e t t i n g that appeared completely divorced from the world of gens de terre and coureurs de bois. Like other American v i s i t o r s to Montreal and Quebec, Thoreau i s unfavorably impressed by the ubiquitous manifesta- tions of Roman Catholicism. The f i r s t t o u r i s t a t t r a c t i o n he v i s i t s i s Notre Dame Cathedral, which s t r i k e s him as a large "cave" of ambiguous value: "I saw that i t was of great size and s i g n i f i e d something" (p. 12). The Roman Catholic r i t u a l 109 appears to him to reduce i t s devotees to the l e v e l of brutes: Presently came i n a troop of Canadians, i n t h e i r home- spun, . . . and one and a l l kneeled down i n the a i s l e before the high a l t a r to t h e i r devotions, somewhat awkwardly, as c a t t l e prepare to l i e down. . . . (pp. 12- 13) And the e c c l e s i a s t i c s are grotesque l i v i n g symbols of a morbid solemnity: We also met some Sisters of Charity, dressed i n black, with Shaker-shaped black bonnets and crosses, and cada- verous faces, who looked as i f they had almost c r i e d t h e i r eyes out, t h e i r complexions parboiled with scalding tears; i n s u l t i n g the daylight by t h e i r presence, having taken an oath not to smile. (p. 15) But he i s not t o t a l l y unsympathetic to Roman Catholicism. In one of the few comparisons between French Canada and New England which presents his native region i n the less favorable p o s i t i o n , he declares: I t i s true, these Roman Catholics, p r i e s t s and a l l , impress me as a people who have f a l l e n far behind the significance of t h e i r symbols. I t i s as i f an ox had strayed into a church and were t r y i n g to bethink himself. Nevertheless, they are capable of reverence; but we Yankees are a people i n whom t h i s sentiment has nearly died out, and i n t h i s respect we cannot bethink ourselves even as oxen. (p. 13) The second prominent feature of Montreal which attracts his attention e l i c i t s his unqualified antipathy. Unlike William Tappan Thompson, however, he attacks B r i t i s h m i l i t a r - ism not with the righteous indignation of the convinced republican, but with the i r o n i c scorn of the man of common sense and good will:. The s o l d i e r here, as everywhere i n Canada, appeared to be put forward, and by his best foot. They were i n the proportion of the s o l d i e r s to the laborers i n an A f r i c a n a n t h i l l . The inhabitants evidently r e l y on them i n a 110 great measure for music and entertainment. (p. 16) Like Roman Catholicism, m i l i t a r i s m i n Thoreau"s view reduces men to the l e v e l of brutes, but does not i n s p i r e even such a s u p e r f i c i a l virtue as the appearance of reverence. In a more serious passage, Thoreau describes the soldiers on parade, comparing them i n c i d e n t a l l y to the congregation which he observed i n Notre Dame: In a large graveled square or parade ground, c a l l e d the Champ de Mars, we saw a large body of soldiers being d r i l l e d . . . . But they did not appear to notice us any more than the devotees i n the church. . . . I t was one of the most i n t e r e s t i n g sights which I saw i n Canada. The problem appeared to be how to smooth down a l l i n d i - vidual protuberances or idiosyncrasies, and make a thousand men move as one man, animated by one central w i l l ; and there was some approach to success. . . . They made on me the impression, not of many i n d i v i d u a l s , but of one vast centipede of a man, good for a l l sorts of p u l l i n g down. . . . (pp. 16-17) In Quebec City, his distaste for Canada i s aggravated further by the anachronistic walls and battlements. The f o r t i f i c a t i o n s provoke thoughts of the diminutive, straitened, and rather f a n t a s t i c world of medieval Europe—not as i t i s understood by history, but as i t i s represented i n the t r a d i t i o n of romance, the t r a d i t i o n of "Skip of the Tip-Toe- Hop, a Romance of the Middle Ages" which he r i d i c u l e s i n the 22 chapter on "Reading" i n Walden. Passing through the Pres- cott gate, which i s ominously "defended by cannon, with a guard-house over i t , a sentinel at his post," Thoreau comments: I rubbed my eyes to be sure that I was i n the Nineteenth Century, and was not entering one of those portals which I l l sometimes adorn the frontispieces of new editions of o l d b l a c k l e t t e r volumes. I thought i t would be a good place to read F r o i s s a r t ' s Chronicles. I t was such a reminis- cence of the Middle Ages as Scott's novels. Men apparently dwelt there for security! Peace be unto them! As i f the inhabitants of New York were to go over to Castle William to l i v e ! (p. 23) Yet Thoreau i s not e n t i r e l y discouraged by the unexpected incongruities of urban Canada East. A f t e r a hurried day of viewing some of the more prominent features of Quebec City, he sets out on a walking tour to the F a l l s of Montmorency and Ste. Anne de Beaupre\ In the countryside, where a l l trace of B r i t i s h imperialism vanishes, he i s much more aware of the proximity of the sub-arctic f r o n t i e r : We had only to go a quarter of a mile from the road, to the top of the bank, to f i n d ourselves on the verge of the uninhabited, and f o r the most part, unexplored wild- erness stretching towards Hudson's Bay. (p. 42) And i n farmhouses and v i l l a g e s by the way, he i s able to meet and talk with a class of habitants whose way of l i f e ought to be closer to the early period of French settlement i n North America, and who might display some of the s i m p l i c i t y and i n t u i t i v e virtue of his f r i e n d Therien. The great St. Lawrence River which borders the road, the vast wilderness beyond, and the exotic place names, a l l con- tribute to an imaginative recreation of the heroic age of New France. Near Ste. Anne, Thoreau crosses La Riviere au Chien, . . . which brought to my mind the l i f e of the Canadian voyageur and coureur de bois, a more western and wilder Arcadia, methinks, than the world has ever seen; for the Greeks, with a l l t h e i r wood and r i v e r gods, were not so q u a l i f i e d to name the natural features of a country as the ancestors of these French Canadians; and i f any 112 people had a r i g h t to substitute t h e i r own for the Indian names, i t was they. They have preceded the pioneer on our f r o n t i e r s and named the p r a i r i e for us. (p. 56) But at the same time, he i s aware of an influence which runs counter to the exuberant pioneering s p i r i t represented by the coureur de bois, and which i s as evident i n r u r a l Canada East as i t was i n Montreal and Quebec. On the road to Ste. Anne he sees so many wayside crosses and shrines that he "could not look at an honest weathercock . . . without mistrusting that there was some covert reference i n i t to St. Peter" (p. 46). And on the walk back from Ste. Anne, he notices place names with associations quite d i f f e r e n t from those of La Riviere au Chien, associations which bring him back to the circumscribed world of the middle ages: To a traveler from the Old World, Canada East may appear l i k e a new country, and i t s inhabitants l i k e c o l o n i s t s , but to me, coming from New England and being a very green traveler withal . . . i t appeared as old as Nor- mandy i t s e l f , and r e a l i z e d much that I had heard of Europe and the Middle Ages. Even the names of humble Canadian v i l l a g e s affected me as i f they had been those of the renowned c i t i e s of antiquity. . . . St,. Fereol or Ste. Anne . . . Bdlange or St. Hyacinthe! As soon as you leave the States, these s a i n t l y names begin. . . . I began to dream of Provence and the Troubadours, and of places and things which have no existence on the earth. They v e i l e d the Indian and the primitive forest, and the woods toward Hudson's Bay were only as the forests of France and Germany. (pp. 56-57) In a similar way, his encounters with the farmers and v i l l a g e r s are disappointing. The habitants are self-centered and narrow-minded, uninterested i n anything beyond t h e i r immediate environment, and seem to Thoreau to be more c l o s e l y related to the medieval European peasant than to the pioneers 1 1 3 of New France. In accordance with his pervasive i n t e r e s t i n the habitation as the epitome or symbol of a culture, he c a l l s attention to the Canadians' circumscribed and i n t r o - spective l i v e s by describing t h e i r unusually constructed farmhouses, which he compares with t h e i r New England counter- parts . The comparison inspires some exceptionally high, unqualified praise for his "fellow townsmen": These Canadian houses have no front door, properly speak- ing. Every part i s for the use of the occupant exclu- s i v e l y , and no part has reference to the t r a v e l l e r or to t r a v e l . Every New England house, on the contrary, has a front and p r i n c i p a l door opening to the great world, though i t may be on the cold side, for i t stands on the highway of nations, and the road which runs by i t comes from the Old World and goes to the far West; but the Canadian's door opens i n t o his back yard and farm alone, and the road which runs behind his house leads only from the church of one saint to that of another. (p. 5 9 ) The respective situations of Canada and the United States i n the nineteenth century lead him to reconsider t h e i r h i s t o r - i c a l backgrounds. S u p e r f i c i a l l y , the world of the voyageur, the coureur de bois, and the J e s u i t missionary was romantic and e x c i t i n g ; but i n the long run, the s e t t l e d and p r a c t i c a l l i f e of the American c o l o n i s t was more conducive to the creation of an enduring and s i g n i f i c a n t society i n the New World: The impression made on me was that the French Canadians were even sharing the fate of the Indians, or at l e a s t gradually disappearing i n what i s c a l l e d the Saxon current. The English d i d not come to America from a mere love of adventure, nor to truck with or convert the savages, nor to hold o f f i c e s under the crown, as the French to a great extent did, but to l i v e i n earnest and 1 1 4 with freedom. . . . In no part of the Seventeenth Century could the French be s a i d to have a foothold i n Canada; they held only by the. fur of the wild animals which they were exterminating. . . . The New England youth, on the other hand, were never coureurs de bois nor voyageurs, but backwoodsmen and s a i l o r s rather. Of a l l nations the English undoubtedly have proved h i t h e r t o that they had the most business there. (pp. 66-67) And yet, the imaginative appeal of the French Canadian past i s i r r e s i s t i b l e . In the continuation of the above passage, Thoreau reverts to his admiration for the early French explorers: . . . I am not sure but I have most sympathy with that s p i r i t of adventure which distinguished the French and Spaniards of those days, and made them e s p e c i a l l y the explorers of the American continent,—which so early c a r r i e d the former to the Great Lakes and the M i s s i s s i p p i on the north, and the l a t t e r to the same r i v e r on the south. I t was long before our f r o n t i e r s reached t h e i r settlements i n the West. So far as inland discovery was concerned, the adventurous s p i r i t of the English was that of s a i l o r s who land but for day, and the enterprise the enterprise of traders. (pp. 67-68) Yet i n spite of his fascination with the early days of New France and his preference for the earnest and free l i f e of New England, Thoreau finds c e r t a i n admirable q u a l i t i e s i n nineteenth-century French Canada. In comparison to some of his ancestors, the modern habitant i s perhaps a rather d u l l i n d i v i d u a l ; i n comparison to the New Englander, he i s narrow- minded and p r o v i n c i a l ; but considered sympathetically i n the context of his own peculiar society he can provide c e r t a i n lessons for the American observer. There i s even a c e r t a i n poetry to his l i f e , although i t i s not the epic of the voyageur, but rather the l y r i c of "Provence and the Trouba- dours." The names of saints and ancient European c i t i e s 115 may " v e i l " the Indian and the forest, and make the Canadian wilderness seem l i k e the forests of France and Germany, but they have an undeniably evocative beauty of t h e i r own: "I could not at once bring myself to believe that the inhabitants who pronounced d a i l y those b e a u t i f u l , and to me, s i g n i f i c a n t names led as prosaic l i v e s as we of New England" (p. 57). Concomitantly, although the Old World manners of the habitants suggest the s e r v i l i t y of a feudal age, they also invoke a more courteous and l e i s u r e l y way of l i f e than that of the nineteenth-century United States. Noting the universal salutation of the French Canadians, "bon jour, at the same time touching the hat," Thoreau wryly remarks " I t would, indeed, be a serious bore to touch your hat several times a day. A Yankee has not l e i s u r e for i t " (p. 47). S i m i l a r l y , he observes that i f the habitants are lacking i n the progres- sive s p i r i t of the American frontiersman, they are not so devoted to the material wealth which i s too commonly the object of progress i n the United States. Invoking the r a i l - road, the symbol of irresponsible i n d u s t r i a l i s m i n Walden, Thoreau observes of the farmers and v i l l a g e r s of Montmorency County: I t was evident that they had not advanced since the settlement of the country, that they were quite behind the age, and f a i r l y represented t h e i r ancestors i n Nor- mandy a thousand years ago. Even i n respect to the common arts of l i f e , they are not so far advanced as a f r o n t i e r town i n the West three years old. They have no money invested i n r a i l r o a d stock, and probably never w i l l have. I f they have got a French phrase f o r a r a i l - road, i t i s as much as you can expect of them. They 116 are very f a r from a revolution, have no quarrel with Church or State, but t h e i r vice and t h e i r virtue i s content. (p. 64) As the ambivalent tone of t h i s paragraph suggests, Thoreau considers the habitant's easy-going existence to be preferable i n many ways to the New Englander 1 s l i f e of quiet desperation: " I f the Canadian wants energy, perchance he possesses those v i r t u e s , s o c i a l and others, which the Yankee lacks, i n which case he cannot be regarded as a poor man" (p. 68). But at the same time, i t i s possible to be too lacking i n energy; i n his introverted concern with family, farm, and church, the Canadian may eventually share the fate of the Indian or disappear i n the "Saxon current." Having made h i s discovery of r u r a l French Canada and reassessed his h i s t o r i c a l conception of North America i n the l i g h t of t h i s experience, Thoreau returns to Quebec. Once again, the main object of his attention i s B r i t i s h m i l i t a r - ism; and i n the l a s t two chapters of "A Yankee i n Canada" he continues his c r i t i c a l and s a t i r i c a l attack on t h i s archaic phenomenon. To Thoreau, the stones of the c i t y walls and the c i t a d e l i n Quebec are the symbols of an unthinking reliance on force as the mainstay of a decadent and anachronistic regime. Huge stone structures of a l l kinds, both i n t h e i r erection and by t h e i r influence when erected, rather oppress than l i b e r a t e the mind. They are tombs for the souls of men, as frequently for t h e i r bodies also, (p. 78) Richard Henry Dana saw the f o r t i f i c a t i o n s of Quebec as the 117 awe-inspiring manifestation of " i n e r t material might"; but Thoreau sees them as absurd vestiges of the least valuable t r a d i t i o n s transplanted from the Old World to the New. The extreme of absurdity i s the spectacle of a benumbed B r i t i s h sentinel s t a l k i n g the heights of Cape Diamond i n the midst of a freezing Canadian winter night: What a natural or unnatural f o o l must that s o l d i e r b e — to say nothing of his government—who, when q u i c k s i l v e r i s freezing and blood i s ceasing to be quick, w i l l stand to have his face frozen, watching the walls of Quebec, though, so far as they are concerned, both honest and dishonest men a l l the world over have been i n t h e i r beds nearly h a l f a century. . . . I s h a l l never again wake up i n a colder night than usual, but I s h a l l think how rapidly the sentinels are r e l i e v i n g one another on the walls of Quebec, . . . as i f apprehensive that some h o s t i l e Wolfe may even then be s c a l i n g the Heights of Abraham, or some persevering Arnold about to issue from the wilderness; some Malay or Japanese, perchance, coming round by the northwest coast, have chosen that moment to assault the c i t a d e l ! (pp. 79-80) In the countryside, during his walks to Ste. Anne and Montmorency, he can forget about t h i s ludicrous aspect of Canada and concentrate on studying the habitant i n his native element, on his farm on the edge of the wilderness, where he appears as a lethargic but not unattractive figure. In the c i t i e s , however, and e s p e c i a l l y i n the heavily garrisoned Quebec, the French Canadian appears p a r t i c u l a r l y contemptible for submitting so d o c i l e l y to m i l i t a r y r u l e . His submission to the church can be p a r t i a l l y excused by reference to the aesthetic appeal of Roman Catholic symbolism; but his t o l e r - ance of a m i l i t a r i s t i c government i s an inexcusable r e f l e c t i o n of his s e r v i l i t y . "They are a nation of peasants," Thoreau 118 remarks abruptly; " . . . How could a peaceably, freethinking man l i v e neighbour to the Forty-ninth regiment?" (p. 82). Once again, the author's countrymen come i n for some compara- t i v e praise: "A New-Englander would naturally be a bad c i t i z e n , probably a rebel, t h e r e — c e r t a i n l y i f he were already a rebel at home" (p. 82). And i n a f i n a l summary of the differences between the two countries, he condemns the m i l i t a r i s t i c government of Canada i n terms which r e c a l l his assertion of the sanctity of the i n d i v i d u a l i n " C i v i l Dis- obedience" : Give me a country where i t i s the most natural thing i n i n the world for a government that does not understand you to l e t you alone. . . . What makes the United States government, on the whole, more t o l e r a b l e — I mean for us lucky white men—is the fact that there i s so much less of government with us. Here [ i . e . , i n the U.S.] i t i s only once a month or a year that a man needs remember that i n s t i t u t i o n : and those who go to Congress can play the game of Kilkenny cat's there without f a t a l consequences to those who stay at home, t h e i r term i s so short; but i n Canada you are reminded of the government every day. I t parades i t s e l f before you. I t i s not content to be the servant, but w i l l be the master; and every day i t goes out to the Plains of Abraham or to the Champ de Mars and exhibits i t s e l f and toots. (pp. 83-84) Paradoxically, considering i t s p o s i t i o n on the edge of a v i r t u a l l y l i m i t l e s s wilderness, Canada East p e r s i s t e n t l y s t r i k e s Thoreau as oppressively narrow and confined. Every- where he turns there are v i s i b l e or i n v i s i b l e walls and fences, surrounding the c i t y which b r i s t l e s with cannons and s o l d i e r s , defining the r i d i c u l o u s l y narrow farms with t h e i r backward-facing houses, i s o l a t i n g i n t h e i r convents or i n t h e i r gloomy t a c i t u r n i t y the " s h u f f l i n g p r i e s t s " and "Sisters 119 of Charity gone into mourning for t h e i r deceased r e l a t i v e " (p. 84). For r e l i e f from t h i s oppressive atmosphere, Thoreau turns to the contemplation of the wilderness. But unexpect- edly, he finds that the Canadian wilds can have an e f f e c t on the imagination quite d i f f e r e n t from that of the Concord Woods. In the c l o s i n g chapter of "A Yankee i n Canada" he describes his reaction to the view from Cape Diamond, where he .discovers 'that the immense wilderness stretching north to Hudson Bay does not evoke a sense of man's a f f i n i t y with nature, but rather reveals the fact of man's diminutiveness, and leads ultimately to thoughts of a n n i h i l a t i o n : . . . The c i t a d e l under my feet, and a l l h i s t o r i c a l associations, were swept away . . . by an influence from the wilds and from Nature, . . . an influence which, l i k e the Great River i t s e l f , flowed from the A r c t i c fastnesses and Western forests with i r r e s i s t i b l e tide over a l l . (p. 89) As on Mount Ktaadn i n the Maine Woods where he f e l t him- 2 3 s e l f i n the grip of "vast T i t a n i c , inhuman Nature," Thoreau i s overwhelmed by the incomprehensible vastness of the North American wilds, and i s reminded of the human necessity of building a home i n t h i s environment. As he declares i n Walden, the animal i n s t i n c t i n man i s drawn to the Wild, but there are higher laws which require the c u l t i v a t i o n of the divine s p i r i t , both i n the i n d i v i d u a l and i n society. Canada, set precariously on the edge of an a l l - e n g u l f i n g wilderness where the need to c u l t i v a t e the higher laws ought to be p a r t i c u l a r l y great, i s a petty church- and military-dominated society c l i n g i n g stubbornly to anachronistic customs and i n s t i t u t i o n s and steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the requisites of i t s geographical and h i s t o r i c a l s i t u a t i o n . With evident r e l i e f , Thoreau turns back to the r e l a t i v e l i b e r t y of his own country. 121 Notes to Chapter 5 *"Some idea of the r e l a t i v e popularity of Canada as a subject for nineteenth-century American travelers with l i t e r a r y i n c l i n a t i o n s may be had from Harold F. Smith's American Travellers Abroad: A Bibliography of Accounts Published Before 1900 (Carbondale, 111.: Southern I l l i n o i s University, 1969). 2 O.L. Holley, The Picturesque Tourist (New York: J. D i s t u r n e l l , 1844), p. 219. 3 Jesse Walker, Queenston: A Tale of the Niagara Frontier (Buffalo: Steele's Press, 1845), pp. 110-11. 4 [William Tappan Thompson], Major Jones's Sketches of Travel: Comprising the Scenes, Incidents and Adventures, i n his Tour from Georgia to Canada (Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson, 1848), p. 180. 5 Ibid., p. 175. 6 I b i d . , p. 181. 7 I b i d . , p. 183. o Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy i n America, ed. P h i l l i p s Bradley (New York: Vintage, 1958), I I , 78. 9 [Thompson], p. 184. " ^ A l l quotations from Dana's journal r e f e r to v o l . 2 of The Journal of Richard Henry Dana, J r . , ed. Robert F. Lucid (Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press, 1968). **Two Years Before the Mast (New York: Washington Square Press, 1968), p. 239. 12 The f i r s t three chapters appeared i n Putnam's Monthly Magazine, Jan.-March, 1853, under the t i t l e "An Excursion to Canada." The complete five-part work, with i t s ultimate t i t l e , was included i n the posthumous volume Anti-Slavery and Reform Papers (1866). In the 1893 Riverside e d i t i o n of The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, i t was included i n the volume e n t i t l e d Excursions"^ 13 Sherman Paul, The Shores of America: Thoreau's Inward Exploration (Urbana: University of I l l i n o i s Press, 1958), p. 370. 14 H.S. Canby, Thoreau (Boston: Houghton M i f f l i n , 1939), 122 pp. 369-70. Edmund G. Berry, i n "Thoreau i n Canada," Dalhousie Reyiew, 23 ( A p r i l , 1943), 68-74, v i r t u a l l y repeats Canby's wording i n a s u p e r f i c i a l summary and appreciation of "A Yankee," which he describes as "a simple piece of narra- t i v e writing, d i r e c t and matter-of-fact." Max Cosman, attempting a psychological approach i n an essay e n t i t l e d "A Yankee i n Canada," Canadian H i s t o r i c a l Review, 25 (March, 1944) , 33-37, suggests that Thoreau went to Canada primarily to recover from the double shock of the deaths of his s i s t e r Helen i n 1849 and Margaret F u l l e r Ossoli i n 1850, and that his rather negative reaction to the northern country might have had something to do with his morbid state of mind. Walter Harding, i n A Thoreau Handbook (New York: New York University Press, 1959), p. 57, dismisses even Canby's tentative approval, and pronounces the book (without o f f e r i n g any i l l u s t r a t i o n s i n support of his comments) as "one of Thoreau1s l e a s t i n s p i r e d 'Excursions'. . . . Even the sentence structure and vocabulary of the essay are a t y p i c a l , staccato, pedestrian journalese." John A. C h r i s t i e , i n Thoreau as World Traveler (New York: Columbia University Press, 1965) , attributes some p o t e n t i a l significance to "A Yankee," but he concludes his b r i e f discussion with the unsupported declara- tion that the work lacks "the immediacy of Thoreau1s keen observation and involvement that gave v i t a l i t y to his l a t e r accounts of Maine and Cape Cod" (p. 100). 15 A summary of the controversy with Putnam's, and the relevant correspondence, i s i n The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, ed. Walter Harding and Carl Bode (New York: New York University Press, 1958), pp. 293-94. The l e t t e r to Blake i s i n the same volume, p. 299. 1 6 The Journal version of the 1850 excursion, consisting of some eighty-five pages, i s missing; presumably Thoreau used i t as a rough draft. Lawrence Willson has made an admirably thorough study of the manuscript f a i r copy of "A Yankee" (now i n the Huntington Library) and of the large amount of background material on Canada which Thoreau accumulated a f t e r returning to Concord. Willson's documen- tation of Thoreau's reading notes and compilations of b i b l i o - graphies demonstrates conclusively that Canada occupied his i n t e l l e c t and imagination quite intensively for at least f i v e or s i x years a f t e r the excursion. See Lawrence Willson, "Thoreau"s Canadian Notebook," Huntington Library Quarterly, 22 (May, 1959), 179-200; and "Thoreau and the French i n Canada," Revue de 1'University d'Ottawa, 29 (July-Sept., 1959), 281-97. Henry Thoreau, Walden, Walden ed. (1906; r p t . New York: AMS Press, 1968), p. 363. 123 X °A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Walden ed. (1906; rpt. New York: AMS Press, 1968), p. 230. 19 The Journal of Henry David Thoreau, (1906; rpt; New York: Dover, 1962), I, 365. 2 0Walden, pp. 160, 164. 21 A l l quotations from "A Yankee i n Canada" r e f e r to Excursions and Poems, Walden ed. (1906; r p t . New York: AMS Press, 1968). 2 2Walden, p. 117. 23 The Maine Woods, Walden ed. (1906; r p t . New York: AMS Press, 1968), p. 71. 124 VI THE NORTHERN FRONTIER In his excursion to Canada, Thoreau followed the w e l l - worn route of the "fashionable tour" (as one contemporary guide-book c a l l e d the t r i p through Canada East), but his exceptional imaginative powers were able to conjure up from this b r i e f , circumscribed journey an immense h i s t o r i c a l and geographical v i s i o n which ultimately encompassed the i n f i n i t e a r c t i c vistas of B r i t i s h North America as seen i n the context of the entire New World. Many of his contemporaries, as has been noted, were not interested i n contemplating any more of Canada than the narrow populated fringe along the eastern United States border which could be conveniently (and often adversely) compared with t h e i r own country. There were others, however, who were drawn l i k e Thoreau towards the vast northern regions beyond the settlements. By mid-century, i t was becoming increasingly easier to experience these regions d i r e c t l y . The d i s t r i c t of Canada West (formerly the province of Upper Canada, and i n 1867 to become the province of Ontario) was rapidly opening to exploration, settlement, and tourism, while c e r t a i n remote outposts on the northern A t l a n t i c coast were a t t r a c t i n g the p a r t i c u l a r l y hardy and adventurous breed of t r a v e l e r . One r e s u l t of t h i s i n t e r e s t i n the expanding Canadian f r o n t i e r was a small but noteworthy succession of novels and t r a v e l narratives by various minor American authors, dealing with the northern wilderness. 125 As historians of American culture have long recognized, two opposing concepts of the wilderness developed almost simultaneously i n the American imagination. On the one hand, there i s the negative idea (which de Tocqueville found par- t i c u l a r l y noticeable) of the wilderness as something to be feared and destroyed, an idea stemming from Puritanism and ultimately from attitudes as old as western c i v i l i z a t i o n . On the other hand, there i s the concept of nature as a place of s p i r i t u a l rejuvenation and of refuge from the e v i l s of society, a t r a d i t i o n deriving p a r t i c u l a r l y from eighteenth- and nineteenth-century romanticism, but traceable back at least as far as the pastoral mythology of the ancient Greeks. Nineteenth-century American notions of the Canadian f r o n t i e r , as expressed i n certain minor works of mid-century, involve both these t r a d i t i o n s , sometimes running i n c o n f l i c t with each other, and sometimes complicated by p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l b e l i e f s . A c o n f l i c t of attitudes towards the Canadian wilderness i s evident i n a novel by Owen Duffy, published i n 1854, e n t i t l e d Walter Warren, or the Adventurer of the Northern Wilds. Most of t h i s novel i s set i n and around the f r o n t i e r v i l l a g e of Hamilton " i n that part of the American continent now known as Canada West, formerly Upper Canada," whither young Walter's father has immigrated (like a latter-day Leatherstocking or Daniel Boone) " i n his desire to get as far as possible from the prying c u r i o s i t y of his neighbours.""'' 126 The basic c o n f l i c t i n Walter Warren derives from the f a m i l i a r Cooper-inspired contrast between forest and settlements. The Canadians who befriend Walter a f t e r his father i s murdered by Indians are rough musket-toting Indian-hating backwoodsmen, indistinguishable from t h e i r American counterparts of l i t e r - ary and folk t r a d i t i o n . The town of Hamilton, on the other hand, where the orphaned Walter i s taken by an evangelical preacher, i s an enclave of i n i q u i t y and hypocrisy. After s u f f e r i n g the preacher's tyrannical abuse and subsequently f a l l i n g prey to sensual temptations i n the I r i s h slum of "Corktown," Walter follows the example of his father (and of Boone and Leatherstocking), and escapes to a more remote f r o n t i e r , i n t h i s case the region northwest of Lake Superior. But the author of Walter Warren, whether i n deference to conventional formulas of popular f i c t i o n or because of a basic c o n f l i c t i n his own b e l i e f s , does not f i n a l l y uphold the exaltation of the wilderness. At the end of the story, the hero i s reunited with his long-lost wealthy uncle, there- by gaining the means to return to c i v i l i z a t i o n and enter a s o c i a l stratum where he w i l l presumably not encounter the problems which drove him into the wilderness. The formulaic p l o t and setting of Walter Warren are e s s e n t i a l l y s i m i l a r to a number of nineteenth-century American novels dealing with the western f r o n t i e r of the United 2 States. The author has chosen the Canadian s e t t i n g because "Canada" would automatically suggest "wilderness" to the 127 popular imagination, and perhaps because he was t r y i n g to s a t i s f y the appetite for s u p e r f i c i a l novelty of a rapidly growing American reading public. In any case, the people and places of Canada West i n t h i s novel are l i t t l e more than northerly versions of f a m i l i a r American l i t e r a r y and folk conventions. A s i m i l a r approach to Canada i s evident i n another novel of mid-century, The Renegade: A Tale of Real L i f e (1855) by John B. Coppinger. This work, however, i s a more ambitious attempt to a r t i c u l a t e some of the ideas and attitudes towards the wilderness which were current i n the United States at the time of writing, and to dramatize and j u s t i f y the retreat to the wilderness and the subsequent return to c i v i l i z a t i o n . Set mostly i n the forest wilderness north of Lake Ontario, the novel concerns two young Americans who have come to Canada to t e s t certain ideals and b e l i e f s associated with nature and the primitive l i f e . Frank Bramley believes that the retreat to nature i s valuable only insofar as i t affords the opportunity for contemplation i n solitude and t r a n q u i l - i t y , so that one can return to c i v i l i z a t i o n with increased self-understanding and renewed r e l i g i o u s s e n s i b i l i t i e s . His f r i e n d Dick Wood, on the other hand, has come to Canada to get away from the "selfishness and ingratitude of man" and to study the Indians, whom he takes to represent human beings 3 "as they were created . . . i n t h e i r primitive s i m p l i c i t y . " To s e t t l e t h e i r disagreement about the respective value of 128 primitive and c i v i l i z e d s o c i e t i e s , the two Americans j o i n a nomadic t r i b e of Indians who are just about to set o f f into the wilderness. The rest of the novel i s a compound of didactic colloquy, crude allegory, and fantasy, wherein the wanderers meet on a " p r a i r i e " near Lake Muskoka a band of mounted Indians apparently misplaced from the western p l a i n s , and eventually pursue t h e i r researches to the remote retreat of an a r t i c u l a t e Indian prophetess north of Lake Superior. The prophetess expounds the moral which i s i l l u s t r a t e d i n the career of the t i t l e character, an Indian who i s the p e r s o n i f i - cation of Wood's misogyny c a r r i e d to i t s l o g i c a l conclusion. No i n d i v i d u a l or race i s innately good or e v i l ; but pro- tracted solitude and resentment against mankind w i l l eventu- a l l y pervert the moral nature. With the sermon of the prophetess and the object lesson of the renegade fresh i n his memory, Dick Wood returns to the United States, determined to follow the more optimistic philosophy of his f r i e n d . In The Renegade, as i n Walter Warren, Canada West i s not primarily a p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l e n t i t y . It i s , i n e f f e c t (with due regard for the dangers of comparing widely diverse l i t e r a r y accomplishments) an immense Walden Pond, a temporary retreat from and t e s t i n g ground for the values of American society. In nineteenth-century American l i t e r a t u r e , the withdrawal to the primitive environment i s almost always temporary. The r e a l or f i c t i o n a l t r a v e l e r eventually acknow- ledges , as Thoreau acknowledged on the summit of Mount Ktaadn 129 and on the ramparts of Quebec, that there i s some sort of incompatibility between the c i v i l i z e d s e n s i b i l i t y and absolute wildness. Even the most unreflective and casual nature-seeker recognizes t h i s incompatibility, by revealing (as Alexander Henry did much e a r l i e r ) his ultimate dependence on the economic and moral values of modern society. This c o n f l i c t between c i v i l i z a t i o n and primitivism i s c l e a r l y i l l u s t r a t e d i n Adventures i n the Wilds of the United States and B r i t i s h American Provinces (1856) , by Charles Lanman. The author (who i d e n t i f i e s himself i n the preface as a friend and associate of Washington Irving and William Cullen Bryant) included i n his peregrinations Canada East and New Brunswick, and the portions of h i s book dealing with these regions mostly involve an enthusiastic celebration of the great outdoors. "I hate c i t i e s , " he says rather t e s t i l y ; "I have not v i s i t e d Canada for the purpose of exam- ining i t s c i t i e s , but s o l e l y with a view of hunting up some new scenery and having a l i t t l e sport i n the way of salmon 4 f i s h i n g . " Like Alexander Henry and Francis Parkman, Lanman i s obviously a devotee of what Theodore Roosevelt was even- t u a l l y to l a b e l "the strenuous l i f e . " But l i k e Henry and Parkman, Lanman i s not able to suppress completely his b e l i e f i n c e r t a i n values associated with c i v i l i z a t i o n . His admiration for the enterprise of great North American c a p i t a l i s t s i s p a r t i c u l a r l y notable, and r e c a l l s Washington Irving*s i d e a l i z a t i o n of John Jacob Astor. Of William Price, 130 the Saguenay "lumber king," he declares: ". . . did I not know the fact to be otherwise, I should set him down . . . 5 as a Yankee." There are also nineteenth-century American authors completely devoted to the concepts of c i v i l i z a t i o n and pro- gress who regard the remote outposts of B r i t i s h North America with the same attitude of invidious condescension as some of t h e i r compatriots regard the more s e t t l e d regions. In A T r i p to Newfoundland (1855) a j o u r n a l i s t named John Mullaly describes the laying of the t r a n s a t l a n t i c cable from Newfoundland to Cape Breton Island, and takes the opportunity to point out the contrast between American progress (as symbolized by the technological advance of the telegraph) and the retarded state of society i n the provinces. The people of Halifax are lazy and unambitious; the inhabitants of Newfoundland are far behind the age. "The day may not be f a r distant," observes the author, "that w i l l see Newfound- land bound i n closer connection with our republic than can be accomplished by the e l e c t r i c telegraph." Mullaly's attitude to the inhabitants of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland r e c a l l s Thoreau's attitude to the Indians and the French Canadians, for both authors assume that the primi- t i v e people w i l l eventually be absorbed into the "Saxon current." But Mullaly obviously does not have Thoreau's sympathy for primitive people, and he i s c e r t a i n l y unwilling to acknowledge (as Thoreau does) that t h e i r way of l i f e might 131 have c e r t a i n unique virtues which can provide valuable lessons for the c i v i l i z e d observer. A more p o s i t i v e and sympathetic attitude toward the North A t l a n t i c region and i t s inhabitants i s evident i n the writings of Robert T r a i l l Spence Lowell (1816-91). The brother of James Russell Lowell and grandfather of the twentieth-century poet, Lowell served as Episcopal missionary from 1843 to 1847 i n the f i s h i n g v i l l a g e of Bay Roberts, New- foundland. This experience inspired some poetry, a short story, and a novel, The New P r i e s t i n Conception Bay (1858). Although the poetry i s undistinguished, i t i s perhaps remarkable for i t s prefiguration of some of the less a t t r a c - t i v e affectations of Walt Whitman. Lowell attempts to imitate by means of apostrophes and unusual verse forms the rough and v i o l e n t features of the A t l a n t i c landscape. The opening stanza of "Newfoundland" (written 1847) exclaims: 0 rugged land! Land of the rock moss! Land whose drear barrens i t i s woe to cross! Thou rough thing from God's hand! 0 Stormy land! Land where the tempests roar! Land where the unbroken waves rave mad upon the shore: Thine outwalls scarce withstand!^ But The New P r i e s t i n Conception Bay i s a more subtle and detailed attempt to present both the landscape and the society of Newfoundland. The novel begins with a prefatory chapter which unites t e r r a i n and inhabitants i n a comprehen- sive picture of primeval starkness and elemental struggle: 132 Up go the surges on the coast of Newfoundland, and down again, into the sea. The huge i s l a n d , i n which the scene of our story l i e s , stands, with i t s sheer, beet- l i n g c l i f f s , out of the ocean, a monstrous mass of rock and gravel, almost without s o i l , l i k e a strange thing from the bottom of the great deep, l i f t e d up, suddenly, into sunshine and storm, but belonging to the watery darkness out of which, i t has been reared. The eye, accustomed to r i c h e r and softer scenes, finds something of a strange and almost s t a r t l i n g beauty i n i t s bold, hard outlines, cut out on̂ every side, against the sky. In March or A p r i l almost a l l the men go out i n f l e e t s to meet the ice that f l o a t s down from the northern regions, and to. k i l l the seals that come down on i t . In early summer a t h i r d part or a half of a l l the people go, by f a m i l i e s , i n t h e i r schooners, to the coast of Labrador, and spend the summer, f i s h i n g there; and i n the winter, h a l f of them are l i v i n g i n the woods, . . . to have t h e i r f u e l near them. At home or abroad, during the season, the men are on the water for seals or cod. The women sow, and plant, and tend the l i t t l e garden, and dry the f i s h : i n short, they do the land-work; and are the better for i t . 8 Lowell p a r t i c u l a r l y succeeds i n presenting a sympathetic and convincing picture of the Newfoundland fishermen and v i l l a g e r s with t h e i r naive piety and t h e i r u n c r i t i c a l acceptance of the stern natural conditions of t h e i r l i v e s . Some of the charac- t e r s — p a r t i c u l a r l y the garrulous Skipper George with his i n t u i t i v e moralizing and dogged acceptance of C h r i s t i a n p r i n - c i p l e s — a r e perhaps too heavily i d e a l i z e d . But Lowell q u a l i f i e s some of t h e i r virtues by pointing out that t h e i r s i m p l i c i t y of character can occasionally be united with abysmal ignorance, and by introducing a comic "Yankee" named Elnathan Bangs (an avatar of Thomas Chandler Haliburton's Sam S l i c k — o r perhaps of James Russell Lowell's Hosea Bigelow) who c a l l s attention to the Newfoundlanders' alleged lack of 133 i n i t i a t i v e and energy. The Newfoundland fishermen and t h e i r struggle with nature are not, however, the central focus of The New P r i e s t . The p l o t involves the v i o l e n t quarrels between the Anglo- Newfoundland Protestants and the Catholics of I r i s h descent which p e r i o d i c a l l y shook the island i n the nineteenth century. This theme was perhaps not an unwise choice for Lowell, who as a missionary would have detailed first-hand knowledge of the island's r e l i g i o u s controversies, while his experience of the fishermen's professional l i v e s would necessarily be l i m i t e d . Certainly the detachable episode "Skipper George's Story," which concerns a tragedy i n the f i s h i n g f l e e t , suggests that an extended sea narrative i n Lowell's hands, might have been i n t o l e r a b l y sentimental and d i d a c t i c . It i s worth mentioning, on the other hand, that Lowell also wrote a very compelling and dramatic short story about the Newfoundland seamen, a story which suggests that he might have been capable of something far more impressive than the d o c t r i n a l controversies of The New P r i e s t . "A Raft That No Man Made" (published i n the A t l a n t i c Monthly, March, 1862) t e l l s the suspenseful story of a Newfoundland seal hunter cast away on an ice f l o e , whose harrowing experience leads to a resolution to forsake his cruel and v i o l e n t occupa- t i o n . The hunter's discovery i n a barren world of ice and sea that the moral p r i n c i p l e of the universe i s love rather than the survival of the f i t t e s t unmistakably r e f l e c t s the 134 author's debt to "The Ancient Mariner," and indicates that Lowell was capable of successfully amalgamating and e x p l o i t - ing his l i t e r a r y background, his observations of the Newfound- land inhabitants, and his d i r e c t experience of t h e i r environ- ment. In The New P r i e s t , however, he chose to focus more exclusively on matter related to his c l e r i c a l pursuits, and the r e s u l t s are far from s a t i s f y i n g . U t t e r l y incapable of r e l i g i o u s o b j e c t i v i t y , he depicts his Catholics as d e v i l s , weaklings, or f o o l s , while his Protestants are mostly para- gons of v i r t u e and patience. An even more serious flaw i n the novel i s the central love story involving two "genteel" characters obviously derived from the t r a d i t i o n of domestic sentimental f i c t i o n . In addition, the p l o t of the novel i s carried along almost e n t i r e l y by melodramatic contrivances such as kidnapping, mysterious apparitions, and midnight rendezvous. Nevertheless, i n spite of the conventional characters and events which dominate the foreground, The New P r i e s t (as one of Lowell's very few modern commentators has declared) "should have honorable mention . . . as a d i s t i n - guished study of character and environment i n a time when one could count the f i r s t - r a t e productions of American f i c t i o n on 9 his two hands." There i s some f a i n t praise for Lowell's work i n the f a c t that i t i s not as bad as a s i m i l a r novel by Mrs. Mary L. Savage, e n t i t l e d Miramichi (1865), which involves the e f f o r t s of a New England missionary to bring the " l i g h t " of Methodism 135 to the backwoods of New Brunswick. The r u s t i c prospective proselytes are brainless and swinish drunkards and r o i s t e r - ers; the only admirable v i l l a g e r s i n the Miramichi v a l l e y are the s o c i a l l y superior Landsdowne family (who are o r i g i n a l l y from the United States) and the ubiquitous comic "Yankee," an i n d i v i d u a l named Micah Mummeychog who has immigrated to the New Brunswick backwoods for no apparent reason except to provide the author with the means of making s a t i r i c a l comments on the p r o v i n c i a l s . The plot i s mainly a series of arguments i n which the author upholds Methodism against Calvinism, Anglicanism, and Roman Catholicism. Prayer and repentance rather than predestination are seen as the way to salvation. In the end, however, the unregenerate New Brunswickers are made to see the l i g h t by the intervention of a catastrophic forest f i r e which the Methodist preacher (in spite of his denial of predestination) has foreseen i n a dream. The author of Miramichi pretends an i n t e r e s t i n the primitive New Brunswick s e t t l e r s and i n the forest-covered scenery of the province. But i t i s evident throughout the novel that she i s equally antipathetic to the people and to the forest. Living so close to the wilderness, the New Brunswickers are no better than beasts, and t h e i r regeneration can only be accomplished when the wilderness has been v i r t u a l l y destroyed. Their salvation l i e s , i n e f f e c t , i n the ultimate conflagration of the primitive environment and the rearing up of an urban society similar to that of the New 1 3 6 England which the Methodist preacher repeatedly praises. Miramichi i s f i n a l l y not a tribute to the wilderness and the primitive l i f e at a l l , but i s rather a defense of c i v i l i z a - t i o n and progress much l i k e Mullaly's T r i p to Newfoundland. The preference for modern c i v i l i z a t i o n and culture i s also evident i n a t r a v e l narrative by an American clergyman named Louis L. Noble, After Icebergs with a Painter: A Summer Voyage to Labrador and Around Newfoundland ( 1 8 6 1 ) . Noble admires the rugged Labrador coast, and makes frequent a l l u s i o n s to the sublime i n nature obviously based on his reading of English romantic poetry. But as his t i t l e suggests, his main i n t e r e s t i s i n the p i c t o r i a l q u a l i t i e s of the region, and his involvement with the inhabitants does not go beyond a few tentative speculations as to t h e i r s p i r i t u a l welfare. Like Richard Henry Dana at Quebec, he confines his s o c i a l encounters to the l o c a l aristocracy: at St. John's, Newfound- land, he spends the evening with the Anglican bishop, "where the conversation was about Oxford, and Keble, English parson- ages, and C h r i s t i a n a r t . " ± ^ In contrast to Noble's work i s a f i v e - p a r t account of a t r i p to Labrador by David A. Wasson ( 1 8 2 3 - 8 7 ) e n t i t l e d "Ice and Esquimaux," published s e r i a l l y i n the A t l a n t i c Monthly of 1 8 6 4 - 6 5 . Wasson has been described as a neglected genius of the Transcendentalist movement, "a corrective to Emerson and Thoreau," x x and i f his writings do not e n t i r e l y j u s t i f y t h i s praise, his i n t e l l e c t u a l intercourse with Emerson, 137 Thoreau, and others i s c e r t a i n l y of h i s t o r i c a l i n t e r e s t . P a r t i c u l a r l y noteworthy i s his i d e o l o g i c a l debate with Thoreau, which was stimulated by personal acquaintance while Wasson l i v e d i n Concord i n the 1850's. The basic terms of t h i s debate are outlined i n the f i r s t chapter of "Ice and Esquimaux," where Wasson describes the appeal which Labrador holds for him: The mystic North reached forth the wand by which i t had fascinated me so often, and renewed i t s s p e l l . Who has not f e l t i t ? Thoreau wrote of "The Wild" as he alone could write; but only i n the North do you f i n d i t , - - unless you make i t , as he did, by your imagination. And even he could i n t h i s but p a r t i a l l y succeed. Talk of finding i t i n a ten-acre swamp! Why, man, you are just from a c o r n f i e l d , the echoes of your s i s t e r ' s piano are s t i l l i n your ears, and you c a l l e d for a ' l e t t e r as you came! Verdure and a mild heaven are above; clunking frogs and plants that keep company with man are beneath. But i n the North Nature herself i s wild. Of man she has never so much as heard. She has seen, perchance, a biped atomy creeping through her snows; but he i s not Man, lording i t i n power of thought and performance; he i s a muffled i m b e c i l i t y , that can do nothing but hug and hide i t s existence, l e s t some careless breath of hers should blow i t out; his pin-head taper must be kept under a bushel, or cease to be even the covert pettiness i t i s . The wildness of the North i s not scenic and p i c t o r i a l merely, but goes to the very heart of things, immeasurable, immitigable, i n f i n i t e ; deaf and b l i n d to a l l but i t s e l f and i t s own, i t p r e v a i l s , i t i s , and i t i s a l l . 1 2 Wasson i s presumably thinking of Walden i n his a l l u s i o n to the "ten-acre swamp." Perhaps he had not read The Maine Woods, which was just published i n 1864 (although parts of i t had appeared e a r l i e r i n p e r i o d i c a l s ) , and which might have more adequately s a t i s f i e d his c r i t e r i a for the retreat to the Wild. In any case, he i s hardly being f a i r to Thoreau, who 138 d e l i b e r a t e l y chose Walden Pond rather than some more remote retreat because an important part of his purpose was to juxtapose and compare c i v i l i z a t i o n and the Wild. To explore t h i s comparison he would inevitably have to r e l y on his imagination, and most readers of Walden would argue that he more than " p a r t i a l l y " succeeded. Indeed, i t might be argued that Thoreau's imaginary wild i s more c l e a r l y r e a l i z e d than Wasson's actual one. Wasson p h y s i c a l l y retreats to one of the most i s o l a t e d and primitive regions on the continent, but he i s unable to project himself imaginatively into t h i s strange environment. There i s a suggestion of irony i n the fact that he was accompanied on his expedition not only by a painter, as Louis L. Noble was, but by a photographer as well. His view of Labrador, i n spite of the implied promise of metaphysical explorations i n the reference to the "immeasur- able . . . i n f i n i t e , " i s l a r g e l y "scenic and p i c t o r i a l . " His i n a b i l i t y to probe beyond a s u p e r f i c i a l p i c t o r i a l l e v e l i s p a r t i c u l a r l y evident i n his contemplations of the inhabitants of Labrador. While on a bird-hunting expedition, he observes c l o s e l y the physiognomy of his French-Canadian guide: It was a strangely a t t r a c t i v e , and yet strangely impene- t r a b l e , a rare out-door face, clean and firm as naked granite a f t e r a r a i n , healthful as balsam-fire, and so honestly weather-beaten that one could not help regard- ing i t as a feature of natural scenery. A l l out-of-doors was implied i n i t , and i t belonged as much to the horizon as to the nearest objects. The eye, with i t s unceasing, imperturbable search, never an instant relax- ing i t s intentness, and never seeming to make an e f f o r t any more than the sky i n looking blue, asserted t h i s r e l a t i o n s h i p , for by the same glance i t seemed to take i n equally the farthest and the nearest; only over us i n the boat i t passed always as over vacant space. . . . I found i t out of my power to r e l a t e myself to him as an i n d i v i d u a l . In most faces you study special character; but i n him i t was somewhat older.and more p r i m i t i v e , — somewhat which seemed to be rather existence i t s e l f than any special form of i t . One f e l t i n him that same ' world-old secret which haunts ancient woods, and would have asked him to utter i t , were not i t s presence the only utterance i t can have. x^ This i s ultimately only a verbose apology for his i n a b i l i t y to i n f e r the French Canadian's personality from his physical appearance. Thoreau was unable to get as close as he might have wished to the St. Lawrence Valley habitants and his friend Therien; but by frank and unaffected s o c i a l encounter v i v i d l y reported i n dialogue form, he at l e a s t made a move- ment towards understanding and exposition. Wasson, by con- t r a s t , stands at a distance, looks at the French Canadian as i f he were no more than an object i n the landscape, then resorts to the same kind of pretentious metaphysical general- i t i e s ("rather existence i t s e l f , " "the world-old secret") as he e a r l i e r applied to Labrador as a whole. The same l i m i t a - tions are evident i n his attempts to study the Eskimo. The aborigine of Labrador i s an " o r i g i n a l , pre-Adamite man," whom Wasson envisages as an enigmatic and rather inhuman figure, indistinguishable from the landscape, and hardly aware of the difference between himself and the objects around him. In his contemplation of the Eskimo, Wasson reveals e x p l i c i t l y his b e l i e f i n the superiority of c i v i l i z a t i o n and 140 progress over the "pre-Adamite" world: So long as man i s merely responding to outward and physical circumstances, so long he i s l i v i n g by bread alone, and has no history. I t i s when he begins to respond to h i m s e l f — t o create necessities and supplies out of his own s p i r i t , — . . . to l i v e by bread which grows not out of the s o i l , but out of the s o u l — i t i s then, then only, that history b e g i n s . 1 4 And elsewhere he recognizes that he himself belongs i r r e v o c - ably to the world of history and s p i r i t u a l development. The t h i r d instalment of his narrative, e n t i t l e d "Birds and Boys' Play" describes how he found himself one day bounding about on the rocky Labrador coast i n search of birds, and was f o r c i b l y struck by the incongruity of his p o s i t i o n . The idea of a c i v i l i z e d , cultured man chasing a f t e r a b i r d which he has neither the desire nor the physiological stamina to eat reduces his a c t i v i t y to the l e v e l of a c h i l d i s h game. It i s a game which takes f u l l possession of his senses while i t l a s t s , but he recognizes that i t belongs to a primitive part of himself, a part which c o n f l i c t s with the c u l t u r a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l values which are his true and proper pursuits. Wasson might have been interested i n a novel published just a few years a f t e r his own narrative, e n t i t l e d Left on Labrador (1872) by the p r o l i f i c dime novelist Charles A. Stephens. This novel e x p l i c i t l y transforms the northern excursion into "boy's play," when a group of American youths make a schooner excursion into the North A t l a n t i c and encounter a l l sorts of f a n t a s t i c adventures on the coast of Labrador. Stephens' e f f o r t , and perhaps Coppinger's The 141 Renegade, indicate that the far North i s beginning to take on the same sort of mythical dimensions i n the American imagina- t i o n as the far West. But the North remains farther removed from the American experience than the West. For even i n fantasy (as i n Stephens' and Coppinger's novels) the North i s a place of only temporary retreat: the r e a l , important world i s back i n c i v i l i z a t i o n , i n American society. Wasson recog- nizes the i n e v i t a b i l i t y of the return to c i v i l i z a t i o n a l l through "Ice and Esquimaux." In every chapter there i s a s p e c i f i c reminder of the C i v i l War, which invokes for Wasson a whole network of obligations and connections related to his i d e n t i t y as a c i v i l i z e d man and an American. F i n a l l y , l i k e Thoreau, and l i k e Coppinger's and Stephens' characters, he returns to the society to which he irrevocably belongs. Thus most of the American writers of the mid-nineteenth century who turned t h e i r attention to the Canadian North were ultimately repelled by the remoteness and irreclaimable wild- ness of the region. By the end of the C i v i l War, Americans were p a r t i c u l a r l y intent on looking ahead, toward the future growth of New World c i v i l i z a t i o n , and had l i t t l e desire to look toward a part of the continent where nature and man seemed v i r t u a l l y locked i n an implacable s t a s i s of primitive c o n f l i c t , r e c a l l i n g the very e a r l i e s t and most barbaric stages of the continent's history. But t h i s revulsion against the primitive North did, not imply a complete r e j e c t i o n of the Past. Canada as an a r c t i c or sub-arctic wilderness 142 was an intimidating, even frightening prospect; but Canada as the scene of some of the e a r l i e s t attempts of Europeans to transform wilderness into c i v i l i z a t i o n was an important part of the progressive American concept of the New World. H i s t o r i c a l romancers throughout the nineteenth century con- tinued to explore t h i s conception of Canada; but t h e i r t r e a t - ment of i t was frequently s u p e r f i c i a l and d i s t o r t e d . As the C i v i l War drew to a close, however, there appeared a very ambitious and l i t e r a r i l y impressive attempt to r e l a t e the Canadian past to the American present and future. In 1865— the same year that "Ice and Esquimaux" was s e r i a l i z e d i n the A t l a n t i c Monthly—Francis Parkman published the f i r s t volumes of his France and England i n North America. 143 Notes to Chapter 6 xOwen Duffy, Walter Warren, or the Adventurer of the Northern Wilds (New York: Stringer & Townsend, ,[1854]), pp. 3, 5. 2 See Henry Nash Smith's account of popular f i c t i o n using the westward retreat formula i n V i r g i n Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth (1950; r p t . New York: Vintage, 1970), chapters 5-9. 3 John B. Coppinger, The Renegade: A Tale of Real L i f e (New York: Sherman & Co., 1855), p. 4. 4 Charles Lanman, Adventures i n the Wilds of the United States and B r i t i s h American Provinces (Philadelphia: John W. Moore, 1856), I, 327, 265. 5 I b i d . , 275. John Mullaly, A T r i p to Newfoundland: i t s Scenery and F i s h e r i e s ; with an Account of the Laying of the Submarine Telegraph Cable (New York: T.W. Strong, 1855), p. 62. 7 The Poems of Robert Lowell (Boston: E.P. Dutton & Co., 1864) , p. 72. Q Robert Lowell, The New P r i e s t i n Conception Bay (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1974), pp. 6-7. 9 Harold Blodgett, "Robert T r a i l l Spence Lowell," New England Quarterly, 16 (Dec, 1943), 578. x ^Louis L. Noble, After Icebergs with a Painter: A Summer Voyage to Labrador and around Newfoundland (New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1861), p. 74. l x C h a r l e s H. Foster, "A Study of David A. Wasson," Beyond Concord: Selected Writings of David Atwood Wasson (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1965), p. 3. 12 David Wasson, "Ice and Esquimaux," The A t l a n t i c Monthly, 14 (Dec, 1864), 728. 1 3 I b i d . , 15 (Feb., 1865), 204. 1 4 I b i d . , 15 ( A p r i l , 1865), 438. 144 VII PARKMAN: "FRANCE AND ENGLAND IN NORTH AMERICA" "The early history of Canada," wrote Francis Parkman to a Canadian acquaintance i n 1856, " i s so f u l l of dramatic incident and noble examples of devoted heroism, that i t i s a matter of wonder that American writers have, u n t i l l a t e l y , so l i t t l e regarded i t . " * " This history, as has been seen, figured occasionally i n the works of various American novel- i s t s throughout the nineteenth century. Although Parkman had an eager i n t e r e s t i n n o v e l s — i n 1856 he wrote one of his own, Vassal Morton, an autobiographical melodrama set i n New England and Europe—he f e l t that they f a i l e d to do j u s t i c e to the size and complexity of the subject which was his primary i n t e r e s t . James Fenimore Cooper, whose Leatherstocking t a l e s Parkman admired immensely, had conveyed something of the geographical and h i s t o r i c a l sweep of the so-called "French and Indian war"; but Cooper had only a peripheral and i n d i r e c t i n t e r e s t i n Canada, and i n Parkman's view (as expressed i n a c r i t i c a l essay on the n o v e l i s t written i n 1852) his primary achievement had been the r e a l i s t i c recreation of the forest 2 and a few American f r o n t i e r characters. It was by means of the narrative history, a genre being developed with new d i s t i n c t i o n i n the United States by such author-scholars as George Bancroft, John Lothrop Motley and William H. Prescott, that Parkman hoped to do f u l l j u s t i c e to his chosen subject. Bancroft had included a b r i e f account of the French regime i n 145 Canada i n his History of the United States (1834-76), but Parkman had i n mind a project which would t e l l the story of New France i n exhaustive d e t a i l . The r e s u l t was a seven-part series involving more than forty years of research, and published between 1865 and 1892, e n t i t l e d France and England i n North America. Parkman's t i t l e implies an equal d i v i s i o n of i n t e r e s t between the French and English colonies; but i n fact the over- whelming emphasis, as i s suggested by the author's working t i t l e "France i n the New World" (given i n his introduction to the f i r s t volume), i s on New France. This disproportion r e c a l l s the attitude of Thoreau, who also contemplated an epic work on early North American history. "Of a l l nations," Thoreau wrote i n "A Yankee i n Canada," "the English undoubt- edly have proved hitherto that they had the most business [in North America]. . . . Yet I am not sure but I have most sympathy with that s p i r i t of adventure which distinguished 3 . . . the French." I t i s u n l i k e l y that Parkman was f a m i l i a r with Thoreau's writing, least of a l l with the obscure "Yankee i n Canada," but Thoreau's comment i s a noteworthy prefiguration of Parkman's basic response to Canadian history. Throughout France and England i n North America the i n e v i t a b i l i t y of English hegemony i n the New World i s repeatedly stated i n expository passages, while the dramatic focus i s almost con- t i n u a l l y on the great heroes and adventurous exploits of French-Canadian history. 146 Parkman accounted for the English triumph by reference to a very simple set of concepts. The basic formative p r i n c i p l e of North American c i v i l i z a t i o n , he declared, was the c o n f l i c t between Liberty and absolutism, New England and New France. The one was the o f f s p r i n g of a triumphant government; the other, of an oppressed and f u g i t i v e people; the one, an unflinching champion of the Roman Catholic reaction; the other, a vanguard of the Reform. Each followed i t s natural laws of growth, and each came to i t s natural r e s u l t . (Pioneers of France, I, x c v i ) ^ Modern historians have complained that "Parkman was more con- cerned with t e l l i n g a story than with understanding the 5 underlying reasons" for the f a l l of New France, and the statements from the Introduction to his f i r s t volume tend to j u s t i f y t h i s complaint. Instead of giving some intimation of the immensely complex s o c i a l , p o l i t i c a l , and economic factors involved i n the prevalence of New England over New France, he o f f e r s very s i m p l i f i e d and conventional theories. The reduction of p o l i t i c a l systems to simple a n t i t h e t i c a l p r i n - c i p l e s , the i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of Roman Catholicism with p o l i t i c a l reaction, the determinism inherent i n the assumption that events follow "natural laws" and i n the organic metaphor which implies that s o c i e t i e s follow a t e l e o g i c a l development com- parable to that associated with plants: these are a l l common nineteenth-century American ideas about history i n general and the history of the New World i n p a r t i c u l a r . Furthermore, Parkman's commitment to these ideas remains s u b s t a n t i a l l y unmodified throughout the whole extent of his study of early 147 Canada. In t h i s deterministic conception of New World history, the emergence of the United States as an independent country became the ultimate "natural r e s u l t " of the c o n f l i c t between France and England i n North TAmerica. Although his h i s t o r i c a l series ends with the f a l l of Canada i n 1761, Parkman empha- sizes i n his concluding volumes the r i s e of a s p i r i t of independence and a sense of national unity i n the B r i t i s h American colonies, and suggests that the collapse of New France removed the main b a r r i e r to American, independence. Freed from the menace of northern invasion, the colonies were able to concentrate on t h e i r own domestic i n t e r e s t s , and these interests seemed to be increasingly incompatible with B r i t i s h imperialism. And yet, although he saw the emergence of the United States as the inevitable climax to early North American history, Parkman was by no means an u n c r i t i c a l believer i n contemporary American society. To his close friend the Abb£ Casgrain, professor of history at Laval University, he thus outlined his p o l i t i c a l b e l i e f s : I have always declared openly my detestation of the unchecked rule of the masses, that i s to say of universal suffrage, and the corruption which i s sure to follow i n every large and heterogeneous community. I have also always declared a very c o r d i a l d i s l i k e of Puritanism. I recognize some most respectable and valuable q u a l i t i e s i n the s e t t l e r s of New England, but do not think them or t h e i r system to be praised without great q u a l i f i c a t i o n s . . . . Nor am I at a l l an enthusiast for the nineteenth century, many of the tendencies of which I deplore, while admiring much that i t has accomplished. I t i s too democratic and too much given to the pursuit of material interests at the expense of i n t e l l e c t u a l and moral 148 greatness. . . J And i n the f i n a l paragraph of one of the l a s t segments of his history, he declares: The s t r i n g of discordant communities along the A t l a n t i c coast has grown to a mighty people, joined i n a union which the earthquake of c i v i l war served only to compact and consolidate. . . . [The United States] has tamed the savage continent, peopled the solitude, gathered wealth untold, waxed potent, imposing, redoubtable; and now i t remains for her to prove, i f she can, that the rule of the masses i s consistent with the highest growth of the i n d i v i d u a l ; that democracy can give the world a c i v i l i - zation as mature and pregnant, ideas as energetic and v i t a l i z i n g , and types of manhood as l o f t y and strong, as any of the systems which i t boasts to supplant. (Mont- calm and Wolfe, II, 413-14) Thus the story of France and England i n North American-involves more than a bare c o n f l i c t , with a foregone conclusion, between " l i b e r t y " and "absolutism." The r i s e of B r i t i s h America i s a triumphant drama, q u a l i f i e d by grave character defects on the part of the protagonist. And conversely, the f a l l of New France i s a tragedy, involving f a i l u r e and defeat i n spite of c e r t a i n unmistakable v i r t u e s . It i s the tragedy of New France which mainly interests Parkman, and which provides the main unifying p r i n c i p l e for the series as a whole. In the l a t e r volumes, p a r t i c u l a r l y those dealing with the eighteenth-century wars, the attention s h i f t s more and more to the B r i t i s h American colonies, as the author prepares for the inevitable conclusion of the story. But through a l l the volumes, the main emphasis i s on the decline of the French American empire. It was an empire, Parkman i n s i s t s , more impressive i n c e r t a i n ways than any the 149 world had ever seen, and b u i l t by individuals of unmistakable i n t e l l e c t u a l and moral superiority; but almost from the beginning, i t was plagued by severe i n t e r n a l and external d i f f i c u l t i e s . "The story of New France opens with a tragedy," he announces i n an ominous prefatory note to the f i r s t part, Pioneers of France i n the New World (1865). The sixteenth- century Spanish massacre of Huguenot s e t t l e r s i s the f i r s t of a succession of bleak anecdotes from early French North American history which provide an ominous counterpoint to the chronicle of exploration and settlement: Champlain's provo- cation of the Iroquois who eventually brought Canada near to r u i n , the wretched f a i l u r e of the f i r s t Acadian colony, the French defeat i n the f i r s t armed c o n f l i c t with the English i n the New World, and as a climactic prefiguration of ultimate disaster, the temporary loss of Quebec to England i n 1629. The second part of the series, The Jesuits i n North America i n the Seventeenth Century (1867), continues i n the same vein, with the story of the t r a g i c a l l y f u t i l e mission to the Hurons. In The Discovery of the Great West (1869; revised i n 1878 as La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West) the emphasis i s less on the ultimate significance of French westward explora- t i o n than on the f r u s t r a t i o n and disaster that marked the career of the i l l - f a t e d Robert Cavelier de l a S a l l e . The Old Regime i n Canada (1874) and Count Frontenac and New France Under Louis XIV (1877) describe the i n t e r n a l corruption and s t r i f e which contributed to the downfall of the French 150 c o l o n i a l empire. Count Frontenac also focuses on the r i v a l r y with New England, which even i n the seventeenth century was beginning to surpass New France i n wealth and power. This r i v a l r y , repeatedly f l a r i n g into open war, i s followed to i t s catastrophe i n one of the longest and most ambitious seg- ments of the series, Montcalm and Wolfe (1888). And f i n a l l y , i n the only part written out of chronological order, Parkman goes back to consider c e r t a i n c r u c i a l events of the r i v a l r y during the early eighteenth century i n A Half-Century of C o n f l i c t (1892). The ambivalent q u a l i t i e s of New France and its-heroes which made them both magnificent and doomed to defeat are related p a r t i c u l a r l y to one motif running a l l through France and England i n North America. Thoreau, i t w i l l be r e c a l l e d , was struck by the vestiges of medievalism i n the society of Canada East. These vestiges he contrasted to the great age of French exploration and adventure, which seemed to him more modern than nineteenth-century Canada, i n the sense that the explorers and coureurs de bois were comparable to the modern pioneers of the western United States. Parkman, who was more f a m i l i a r than Thoreau with the d e t a i l s of Canadian history, understood that medievalism had been pervasive i n New France from the beginning. As a retrospective and regressive influence, i t worked against the "natural" progress of the New World c i v i l i z a t i o n and contributed to the downfall of the French empire i n North America. But.at the same time (as 151 Thoreau also had recognized), i t had an undeniable aesthetic appeal. This d u a l i s t i c attitude towards medievalism i s evident i n Parkman"s description of Samuel de Champlain: A true hero, a f t e r the chivalrous medieval type, his character was dashed largely with the s p i r i t of romance. Though earnest, sagacious, and penetrating, he leaned to the marvelous; and the f a i t h which was the l i f e of his hard career was somewhat prone to overstep the bounds of reason and invade the domain of fancy. (Pioneers, II, 61) S i m i l a r l y , although the devotion to archaic ideals and b e l i e f s led i n the long run to s o c i a l decadence and collapse, such devotion could contribute i n a l o c a l i z e d or temporary way to the cause of progress and c i v i l i z a t i o n . This i s the case with the J e s u i t missionaries i n Canada, who were "thoroughly and vehemently reactive" i n t h e i r devotion to "the medieval type of C h r i s t i a n i t y with a l l i t s attendant superstitions"; Yet, on the whole, the labors of the missionaries tended greatly to the benefit of the Indians. Reclaimed . . . from t h e i r wandering l i f e , s e t t l e d i n habits of peaceful industry, and reduced to a passive and c h i l d l i k e obed- ience, they would have gained more than enough to compen- sate them for the loss of t h e i r ferocious and miserable independence. (Jesuits, II, 2 57) The medieval s p i r i t of r e l i g i o u s zeal could also occasionally inspire enterprises of extraordinary boldness and resolution which produced far-reaching and durable r e s u l t s . In 1660, a small band of.adventurers ultimately known to Canadian t r a d i t i o n as "the heroes of the Long Sault," led by a young nobleman named Adam Daulac (or Dollard), devoted themselves to a s u i c i d a l expedition against the Iroquois, an expedition which v i r t u a l l y saved the l i t t l e colony from 152 extinction. Daulac, says Parkman, "was a knight of the early crusades among the forests and savages of the New World" (Old Regime, I, 129). Equally remarkable were the r e l i g i o u s zealots who defied the Iroquois to create i n the wilderness a medical mission which evolved into one of the most unusual c i t i e s i n North America. "In many of i t s aspects," Parkman comments, "this enterprise of Montreal belonged to the time of the first.crusades" (Jesuits, I I , 23). Ultimately, Parkman i s unable to make any conclusive judgement on the medieval impulse which inspired the founders of Montreal, the J e s u i t martyrs, and the heroes of the Long Sault. The New England historian's Unitarian upbringing and his personal agnosticism are unsympathetic to the mystical enthusiasm of the early Canadian Roman Catholic missions; yet some of the achievements of the church i n New France make an i r r e s i s t i b l e appeal to his imagination. Parkman e x p l i c i t l y reveals h i s ambivalent feelings i n his comment on the founding of Montreal: What s h a l l we say of these adventurers of Montreal, of these who bestowed t h e i r wealth, and far more, of these who s a c r i f i c e d t h e i r peace and risked t h e i r l i v e s , on an enterprise at once so romantic and so devout? Surrounded as they were with i l l u s i o n s , f a l s e l i g h t s , and f a l s e shadows,—breathing an atmosphere of miracle,—compassed about with angels and devils,--urged with stimulants most powerful, though u n r e a l , — t h e i r minds drugged, as i t were, to preternatural e x c i t e m e n t , — i t i s very d i f f i c u l t to judge of them. High merit, without doubt, there was i n some of t h e i r number; but one may beg to be spared the attempt to measure or define i t . To estimate a v i r t u e involved i n conditions so anomalous demands, perhaps, a judgement more than human. (Jesuits, I I , 22-23) 153 The medievalism of New France also had an important secular manifestation, about which Parkman i s equally incon- c l u s i v e . The feudal system established i n Canada i n the seventeenth century and consolidated under Louis XIV and his governor Frontenac tended to promote the c e n t r a l i z a t i o n of power at the expense of individualism and freedom. Yet, as Parkman p a r t i c u l a r l y demonstrates i n The Old Regime i n Canada, such a system was not inappropriate to a wilderness colony constantly threatened by Indians and by unfriendly colonies to the south. The ancient t r a d i t i o n s which bound the s e t t l e r s to seigneur and king were of inestimable value as a general source of s o c i a l s t a b i l i t y , and could be put to advantage during the frequent m i l i t a r y c r i s e s which beset the colony, when an armed force could be quickly raised by indisputable order from the central government at Quebec. This s i t u a t i o n , as Parkman frequently points out i n l a t e r volumes, d i f f e r e d s t r i k i n g l y from that i n the more l i b e r t a r i a n American colonies, where attempts to r a i s e troops were always accompanied by wrangling and dissension. In the long run, however, Canadian feudalism f a i l e d to create a durable and stable society. The a r i s t o c r a t i c c o l o n i a l administrators i n France were bent on establishing i n North America a miniature r e f l e c t i o n of the mother country; but such a r i g i d and a r t i f i c i a l s o c i a l structure proved to be completely inappropriate to the New World s i t u a t i o n . The Canadian s e t t l e r s rejected the t i t l e of peasant and i n s i s t e d on reserving to themselves the neutral 154 appelation habitant. They refused to take up the backwoods farms arranged i n European fashion around the manoir, but defied authorities to homestead on the more valuable land fronting the St. Lawrence River, even though the l a t t e r arrangement rendered communal defense against Indian,attacks very d i f f i c u l t . In extreme instances—which became a l l too common as the population of the colony grew—they rejected the feudal society altogether and took to the woods, becoming coureurs de bois engaged i n the outlawed independent fur trade. With even more f a t a l consequences for the feudal society of Canada, many c o l o n i a l a r i s t o c r a t s also responded to the appeal of the wilderness and preferred a l i f e of bushranging or. exploring or g u e r i l l a warfare to the sedentary role of seigneur or administrator. The famous Baron Saint-Castin, for instance, directed a huge i l l e g a l fur trade operation from his stronghold i n the woods of what ultimately became the state of Maine. Even the governors themselves, notably the i r r e p - r e s s i b l e Frontenac, were prone to neglect administrative duties i n order to engage i n clandestine fur trade operations, or to lead hit-and-run raids against the Mohawks or the Eng- l i s h , or to engage i n exploration of the western f r o n t i e r . The r e s u l t , says Parkman i n A Half-Century of C o n f l i c t , was that Canada was divided between two opposing influences. On the one side were the monarchy and the hierarchy, with t h e i r p r i n c i p l e s of order, subordination, and obedience. 155 . . . On the other side was the s p i r i t of l i b e r t y , or licence, which was i n the very a i r of t h i s wilderness continent, reinforced i n the chiefs of the colony by a s p i r i t of adventure inherited from the Middle Ages, and by a s p i r i t of trade born of present opportunities; for every o f f i c i a l i n Canada hoped to make a p r o f i t , i f not a fortune, out of beaver-skins. Kindred impulses, i n ruder forms, possessed the humbler c o l o n i s t s , drove them into the forest, and made them hardy woodsmen and s k i l - f u l bush-fighters, though turbulent and lawless members of c i v i l i z e d society. (Half-Century, I, 347) As i n his portrayal of the medieval r e l i g i o u s zeal which inspired the Huron missions and the founding of Montreal, Parkman does not o f f e r a conclusive moral judgement on either Canadian feudalism or i t s l i b e r t a r i a n reaction. He d i s - approves of the lawlessness of the coureurs de bois, but his own fondness for the strenuous l i f e i n the wilderness i n c l i n e s him to view t h e i r way of l i f e sympathetically: Though not a very valuable member of society, and though a thorn i n the side of princes and r u l e r s , the coureur de bois had his uses, at least from an a r t i s t i c point of vTew; and his strange figure, sometimes b r u t a l l y savage, but oftener marked with the l i n e s of a dare-devil courage, and a reckless thoughtless gayety, w i l l always be joined to the memories of that grand world of woods which the nineteenth century i s f a s t c i v i l i z i n g out of existence. (Old Regime, II, 113) Conversely, he finds much to deplore i n the tyranny and cor- ruption of the landowners and c o l o n i a l administrators of New France. But at the same time, he cannot r e f r a i n from admiring t h e i r e f f o r t s to create a regulated and stable society, even though t h e i r achievements were eventually swept away i n the collapse of the entire colony. Parkman's sympathy with the feudal system of New France i s notably evident i n his version of the famous Acadian war between d'Aulnay and La Tour. This episode of French North American history, as has been seen, attracted the attention of other nineteenth-century American writers, including the poet Whittier. Its appeal lay, no doubt, i n the fact that La Tour, as a bourgeois and ostensible Protestant who rebelled against the French government and against the a r i s t o c r a t i c Roman Catholic d'Aulnay, seemed to prefigure the revolution- ary s p i r i t of the United States. This i s the interpretation followed by one of Parkman's most devoted l i t e r a r y d i s c i p l e s , the Ohio-born h i s t o r i c a l romancer Mary Catherwood (1847-1902), i n The Lady of Fort St. John (1892). But i n t h i s instance Mary Catherwood departed from her l i t e r a r y mentor, for Park- man comes down firmly on the side of d'Aulnay. Although he admits candidly that "throughout t h i s a f f a i r one i s perplexed by the French o f f i c i a l papers, whose entanglements and con- t r a d i c t i o n s i n regard to the Acadian r i v a l s are past unravel- l i n g " (Old Regime, I, 28), Parkman proceeds to impugn La Tour as a dissembler and opportunist, and to praise his r i v a l as a sincere and l o y a l devotee to the cause of French colonialism. He [d'Aulnay] seems to have been a favorable example of his c l a s s ; l o y a l to his f a i t h and his king, tempering pride with courtesy, and generally true to his cherished ideal of the gentilhomme f ranc,ais. In his q u a l i t i e s , as i n his b i r t h , he was far above his r i v a l , and his death was the ruin of the only French colony i n Acadia that deserved the name. (Old Regime, I, 49) In view of the fact that Parkman admits the i m p o s s i b i l i t y of conclusively judging the respective claims of the Acadian r i v a l s , his preference for d'Aulnay might be interpreted as 157 the class-conscious bias of a Boston "brahmin." It i s very d i f f i c u l t , however, to erect such i n c l i n a t i o n s of the h i s t o r - ian into a thoroughly consistent system. In general, his basic attitude to most of the protagonists of French-Canadian history i s scrupulously objective. If he has a s l i g h t prefer- ence for the a r i s t o c r a t i c hero, he i s always careful to support his preference with convincing evidence or reasonable inference. With one notable exception (to be considered presently), there are i n France and England i n North America no " l a r g e r - t h a n - l i f e " a r i s t o c r a t i c protagonists on the Shakespearean pattern. His representation of Frontenac, for instance, studiously avoids the exaggerations and legends which attracted the attention of such mass-circulation writers as A l f r e d B. Street (Frontenac, 1850) and dime n o v e l i s t Ann Stephens (Ahmo's Plot, 1863). Even at the conclusion of Count Frontenac and New France Under Louis XIV, where a h i s t o r i a n might j u s t i f i a b l y indulge i n speculative generali- zations, Parkman o f f e r s no judgement of Frontenac. Instead, he presents a seventeenth-century eulogy of the governor, side-by-side with a refutation of the eulogy by one of Fron- tenac "s enemies. F i n a l l y , Parkman remarks succinctly, "His own acts and words best paint his character, and i t i s need- less to enlarge on i t " (Count Frontenac, pp. 458-59). Conversely, there are no "natural noblemen" i n France and England i n North America comparable to the Franco-American guide of Parkman's youthful work The Oregon T r a i l . Parkman 158 avoids, furthermore, the recurrent tendency among his con- temporary countrymen to i d e a l i z e the Acadians who were expelled by the B r i t i s h i n 1755. Instead, he emphasizes the extreme ignorance of the peasants, the nefarious influence of i n t r i g u i n g p r i e s t s , and the nerve-fraying e f f e c t of an interminable g u e r i l l a war which exasperated the B r i t i s h administrators of Acadia and f i n a l l y provoked them to sudden and v i o l e n t reaction (Montcalm and Wolfe, chapter 8). Unlike the s i m p l i f i c a t i o n of Bancroft, Parkman's version thus d i s - perses the g u i l t , i n an extremely vexed h i s t o r i c a l question, among a l l parties involved. There i s one segment of France and England i n North America, however, i n which the author's o b j e c t i v i t y gives way to a very personal point of view. The central character of La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West i s compared to other prominent figures i n the history of Canada, and singled out for unusual d i s t i n c t i o n : The enthusiasm of the disinterested and chivalrous Champlain was not the enthusiasm of La S a l l e ; nor had he any part -in the self-devoted zeal of the early J e s u i t explorers. He belonged not to the age of the knight- errant and the saint, but to the modern world of p r a c t i - c a l study and p r a c t i c a l action. (La S a l l e , pp. 430-31) It i s understandable that the story of French exploration of I l l i n o i s and the M i s s i s s i p p i should be of p a r t i c u l a r i n t e r e s t to a United States h i s t o r i a n , and that Parkman should be personally attracted to the early history of a region which he knew well from his youthful experiences on the Oregon 159 T r a i l . But i t i s not so immediately obvious why he should center his story of these explorations on the biography of Robert Cavelier de l a S a l l e , who was only one of many.notable French adventurers who contributed to the opening of the great west. Certainly La Salle was a very c o l o r f u l figure, and his eventual discovery of the mouth of the M i s s i s s i p p i i s an indisputably c r u c i a l event i n North American history. Bancroft represented La Salle as the central character i n his b r i e f account of French westward exploration i n The History of the United States. But as Parkman frequently indicates, achievements at l e a s t as important as La Salle's M i s s i s s i p p i explorations are associated with such names as J o l i e t t e and Marquette, Daniel Du Lhut, La Verendrye and his sons, and Henri de Tonti. La S a l l e , furthermore, was almost ludicrously unfortunate i n most of his attempts to f i n d the mouth of the great r i v e r . After two expeditions which were plagued by Indian attacks, mutiny of his men, mysterious disappearance of supply ships, and withdrawal of the support of the c o l o n i a l administration, he made a f i n a l attempt by s a i l i n g through the Gulf of Mexico, a voyage which ended f i n a l l y i n shipwreck hundreds of miles from his goal, at the s i t e of Galveston, Texas. Yet Parkman i n s i s t s on presenting La Salle as a t r a g i c hero whose resolution and s e l f - r e l i a n c e elevate him from his pseudo-medieval environment and i d e n t i f y him with the nineteenth century. It seems evident that Parkman1s exaltation of La Salle 1 6 0 s t e m s f r o m t h e h i s t o r i a n ' s t e n d e n c y t o i d e n t i f y h i m s e l f p e r s o n a l l y w i t h t h e e x p l o r e r . I n g e n e r a l c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s , L a S a l l e a p p e a r s t o b e a m a n v e r y m u c h l i k e P a r k m a n h i m s e l f : a l o o f , s c h o l a r l y , o f d i s t i n g u i s h e d f a m i l y , f o n d o f t h e w i l d e r n e s s a n d o f a d v e n t u r e — a n d , p e r h a p s m o s t s i g n i f i c a n t o f a l l , p r o n e t o p e r i o d i c a l m e n t a l i m b a l a n c e . A l t h o u g h P a r k m a n w a s u s u a l l y e x t r e m e l y c o n s c i e n t i o u s i n h i s h a n d l i n g o f p r i - m a r y s o u r c e m a t e r i a l s , h e s e e m s i n h i s s t u d y o f L a S a l l e t o h a v e s u p p r e s s e d a n d e v e n d i s t o r t e d c e r t a i n e v i d e n c e i n o r d e r t o m a k e h i s s u b j e c t a n s w e r t o a p r e c o n c e i v e d t r a g i c i m a g e . N e g l e c t i n g t h e a c c o u n t s o f L a S a l l e w r i t t e n b y t h e e x p l o r e r ' s r i v a l s a n d a s s o c i a t e s , P a r k m a n r a t h e r n a i v e l y t a k e s L a S a l l e ' s o w n a c c o u n t o f h i m s e l f a t f a c e v a l u e , a n d r e p o r t s ( i n a p a r a p h r a s e o f L a S a l l e ' s o w n w o r d s ) t h a t " t h i s s o l i t a r y b e i n g , h i d i n g h i s s h y n e s s u n d e r a c o l d r e s e r v e , c o u l d r o u s e n o e n t h u s i a s m i n h i s f o l l o w e r s " ( L a S a l l e , p . 3 4 0 ) . I n a d d i t i o n , " P a r k m a n . . . c o n s i d e r a b l y i m p r o v e d t h e l i t e r a r y q u a l i t y . . . o f L a S a l l e ' s l e t t e r s i n t h e t r a n s l a t i o n s h e g m a d e o f t h e m f r o m F r e n c h d o c u m e n t a r y s o u r c e s , " i n o r d e r t o p r o v e t h a t L a S a l l e " w a s n o r u d e s o n o f t o i l , b u t a m a n o f t h o u g h t , t r a i n e d a m i d a r t s a n d l e t t e r s " ( L a S a l l e , p . 1 9 8 ) . B u t i f P a r k m a n b e c a m e i m a g i n a t i v e l y i n v o l v e d w i t h t h e c h a r a c t e r o f L a S a l l e t o t h e p o i n t o f d i s t o r t i n g h i s t o r i c a l e v i d e n c e , t h e i n s t a n c e i s e x c e p t i o n a l . A s a h i s t o r i a n , P a r k - m a n w a s c o n s c i e n t i o u s a n d t h o r o u g h , a n d e v e n m o r e o b j e c t i v e t h a n m i g h t b e e x p e c t e d o f a s c h o l a r w h o l i v e d i n a n a g e w h i c h 161 valued moral didacticism more highly than s c i e n t i f i c detach- ment. But inevitably, i n common with v i r t u a l l y every author who ever l i v e d , he put into his writing many of the common assumptions of his h i s t o r i c a l period and n a t i o n a l i t y and s o c i a l c l a s s , as well as many aspects of his unique person- a l i t y and experience. His b e l i e f i n progress, c i v i l i z a t i o n , and the republican form of government, as has been shown, i s made e x p l i c i t i n the introduction to his opening volume. But, on the other hand, his q u a l i f i c a t i o n s of these b e l i e f s are demonstrated i n v i r t u a l l y every chapter of France and England i n North America. His i n t e r e s t i n the French-Canadian aristocracy and the feudal system i s repeatedly made evident. But his a b i l i t y to sympathize with more primitive individuals and more l i b e r t a r i a n ways of l i f e i s equally c l e a r . Perhaps, f i n a l l y , the most prominent bias i n his image of early Canada i s a very natural tendency to neglect people, places and experiences of which he had l i t t l e d i r e c t know- ledge, while over-emphasizing c e r t a i n features of French- Canadian history which evoked personal associations for him or which were of p a r t i c u l a r relevance to the United States. The many m i l i t a r y campaigns around Lakes George and Champlain, for instance, are always described i n great d e t a i l , with p a r t i c u l a r emphasis on the exhausting progress of the armies through a wilderness which the author knew intimately. But one of the boldest and most extraordinary expeditions i n the history of Canada, the French overland march to James Bay and the attack on the English trading posts there in 1686 (Count Frontenac, chapter 7) is told very briefly—presumably because Parkman had no knowledge of the region involved. Similarly, the explorations of La Verendrye in the "Oregon T r a i l " country are described at great length; but his equally significant fur-trading expeditions north of Lake Superior and to the site of modern Winnipeg are passed over f a i r l y quickly (Half-Century, chapter 16). But these few illustrations of some principles of emphasis in Parkman's histories might also be related to the fact that he saw the rise and f a l l of New France as essent- i a l l y a prologue to the emergence of the United States. His indifference to nineteenth-century Canada as a social and p o l i t i c a l entity, evident from the cryptic references in his letters and journals, has been developed by at least one commentator into an accusation of excessive romanticization of the Canadian past. "He assumed," says Canadian historian George M. Wrong, "something which a deeper knowledge of the present in Canada would have shown him to be not quite true, that the dominion of the French in America had vanished and 9 was only a memory." But this is clearly a twentieth-century judgement. Parkman, like Thoreau before him, and like most nineteenth-century Americans, believed that the French and the Indians were doomed to disappear in "the Saxon current." He also probably b e l i e v e d — i f he gave the matter any thought at a l l — t h a t Canada would eventually be absorbed into the 163 American union. The remarkable feature of France and England i n North America i s the fact that within t h i s i n t e l l e c t u a l context of h i s t o r i c a l i n e v i t a b i l i t y i t portrays the t r a g i c f a l l of a supposedly doomed nation with great sympathy and narrative power. 164 Notes to Chapter 7 '''The Letters of Francis Parkman, ed. Wilbur R. Jacobs (Norman! University of Oklahoma Press, 1960), I, 119. 2 "The Works of James Fenimore Cooper," Francis Parkman: Representative Selections, ed. Wilbur L. Schramm (New York: American Book Company, 1938), pp. 202-17. 3Henry Thoreau, "A Yankee in Canada," Excursions and Poems, Walden ed. (1906; rpt. New York: AMS Press), p. 67.- 4 A l l quotations from France and England in North America refer to the Frontenac Edition of Francis Parkman's Works, 16 vols. (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915). 5 William R. Taylor, "Francis Parkman," Pastmasters: Some Essays on American Historians, ed. Marcus Cunliffe and Robin W. Winks (New York: Harper & Row, 1969), p. 4. Taylor cites a few specific historians who have expressed this view in various ways. ^For a detailed discussion of the intellectual back- ground of the American "romantic" historians, see David Levin, History as Romantic Art: Bancroft, Prescott, Motley, and Parkman (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1959), especially chapter two, "Nature, Progress, and Moral Judge- ment . " 7 The Letters of Francis Parkman, II, 82. Q William R. Taylor, "Francis Parkman," p. 34. 9 George M. Wrong, "Francis Parkman," Canadian Historical Review, 4 (Dec, 1923), 289-303. 165 VIII THE SUCCESSORS OF PARKMAN: HOWELLS AND OTHERS 1. Although Parkman's h i s t o r i e s had considerable popular and c r i t i c a l success i n the United States and Canada, and provided a strong impetus to both French- and English-Canadian scholars i n the study of t h e i r country's past, they did not inspire historians i n the nineteenth-century United States to pursue s i m i l a r intensive researches into the subject of New France. Those historians who specialized i n North American studies continued to devote t h e i r attention to the o r i g i n and development of t h e i r own country, and Parkman's suggestion that the collapse of New France led d i r e c t l y to American independence was apparently considered too much of an over- s i m p l i f i c a t i o n to warrant further study of early Canada. There was, furthermore, some f e e l i n g a f t e r the seven segments of France and England i n North America had appeared that Parkman had exhausted the subject e n t i r e l y . In any case, by 1893—just one year a f t e r the publication of A Half-Century of Conflict—American historiography was impelled i n a new d i r e c t i o n , both i d e o l o g i c a l l y and geographically, with the western f r o n t i e r hypothesis of Frederick Jackson Turner, and with the advent of the new " s o c i a l science" approach to history, of which Turner was a leading exponent. Parkman, unlike other so-called "romantic" historians such as Bancroft 166 and Prescott, continued to be read and admired for both his scholarly accuracy and narrative power; but there was a growing popular and academic tendency to associate him with the authors which he himself placed among his primary i n f l u - ences, the h i s t o r i c a l novelists Cooper and S c o t t . 1 But i n spite of his a f f i n i t i e s with writers of f i c t i o n , Parkman's influence on the l a t e nineteenth-century American h i s t o r i c a l romance seems to have been minimal. Comparatively few authors of the p o s t - c i v i l war period looked back to a subject which had been thoroughly exploited by Cooper and his imitators, and those few often preferred a simpler and less scholarly approach to the material than Parkman's example provided. Edward P. Tenney (1835-1916) c i t e s Parkman among other sources i n Constance of Acadia (1886), which r e t e l l s the story of Madame de l a Tour and her defense of Fort St. John. Tenney echoes Parkman's analogy between New France and medieval Europe, but rejects the historian's a r i s t o c r a t i c bias, to make his heroine and her followers prefigure the democratic s p i r i t of the American revolution. William H.H. Murray (1840-1904) ignores Parkman completely and goes back to Cooper for two quaint and s t i l t e d imitations of the Leatherstocking t a l e s , Mamelons (1888) and Ungava (1890), which involve a r a c i a l l y conscious Homeric hero "The Trapper" and various doomed t r i b e s of Indians and Eskimos i n northern Quebec and Labrador. John R. Musick (1848-1901) was the author of a series of novelizations of North American history, 167 adapted from various sources, probably including Parkman. Braddock: A Story of the French and Indian Wars and Sustained Honor: A Story of the War of 1812 (both 1893) are undistin- guished r e c i t a l s of the prominent facts of t h e i r respective h i s t o r i c a l periods, as seen through the eyes of two young American protagonists. James K. Hosmer (1833-1927) wrote How Thankful was Bewitched: A Story of Cotton Mather's Day (1894), which deals with New England Puritans carried captive to Canada. Hosmer was a distinguished scholar of New England history (he edited John Winthrop's Journal i n 1908), and probably constructed his story from his study of primary sources. On a more "popular" l e v e l , and probably derived from h i s t o r i e s of North America considerably less r e l i a b l e and scholarly than Parkman's, are Joseph A. Altsheler's A • Soldier of Manhattan and his Adventures at Ticonderoga and Quebec (1887), and The Boy O f f i c e r s of 1812 (1898), by E.T. Tomlinson. Parkman's only d i s c i p l e of any consequence i n the f i e l d of the h i s t o r i c a l romance was Mary Catherwood, who i n the l a s t decade of the century drew on France and England i n North America for background information to produce a series of novels set i n Canada. Parkman was impressed enough with the f i r s t of these works, The Romance of Pollard (1889), to write a preface for i t , i n which he suggested that the author had surpassed Cooper, at l e a s t i n her d i r e c t and comprehen- sive treatment of the Canadian theme: 1 6 8 The author i s a pioneer i n what may be c a l l e d a new departure i n American f i c t i o n . Fenimore Cooper, i n his fresh and manly way, sometimes touches Canadian subjects and introduces us to French soldiers and bush-rangers; but he knew Canada only from the outside, having no means of making i t s acquaintance from within, and i t i s only from within that i t s quality as romance can be appreciated. The hard and p r a c t i c a l features of English colonization seem to frown down every excursion of fancy as p i t i l e s s l y as puritanism i t s e l f did i n i t s day. A feudal society, on the other hand, with i t s contrasted l i g h t s and shadows, i t s r i v a l r i e s and passions, i s the natural theme of romance; and when to l o r d and vassal i s joined a dominant hierarchy with i t s patient martyrs and i t s s p i r i t u a l despots, side by side with savage chiefs and warriors j o s t l i n g the representatives of the most gorgeous c i v i l i z a t i o n of modern times,—the whole strange scene set i n an environment of primeval forests,--the spectacle i s as s t r i k i n g as i t i s unique. 2 This description of the romance of Canadian feudalism seems, however, to refer more to Parkman's own concrete and v i v i d treatment of the subject than to the f i c t i o n of Mary Cather- wood. Except for a few descriptive and narrative passages obviously adapted from Parkman, The Romance of P o l l a r d hardly deals with Canadian feudalism at a l l . The author's concern i s with love and marriage and female virtue and f i d e l i t y : experiences and q u a l i t i e s which throughout the nineteenth century were staple ingredients of the so-called "domestic sentimentalist" school of f i c t i o n . As a l i t e r a r y pioneer, Mary Catherwood directed her main e f f o r t s toward the m i l i t a n t feminism of the late nineteenth century, which she represents through a series of aggressive and independent heroines. In The Romance of P o l l a r d she provides the leader of the Long Sault expedition with an imaginary wife who zealously follows her husband to martyrdom; i n The Story of Tonty ( 1 8 9 0 ) she 1 6 9 p r o v i d e s L a S a l l e ' s l i e u t e n a n t w i t h a r e s o u r c e f u l y o u n g f e m a l e c o m p a n i o n ; i n T h e L a d y o f F o r t S t . J o h n ( 1 8 9 1 ) s h e d e p i c t s i n i m a g i n a t i v e d e t a i l t h e l e g e n d a r y A m a z o n i a n q u a l i t i e s o f M a d a m e d e l a T o u r ; a n d i n T h e C h a s e o f S t . C a s t i n a n d O t h e r S t o r i e s ( 1 8 9 4 ) s h e f o l l o w s t h e c a r e e r s o f v a r i o u s h i s t o r i c a l a n d m y t h i c a l h e r o i n e s o f N e w F r a n c e . I r o n i c a l l y , P a r k m a n w a s a d e v o t e d a n t i - f e m i n i s t , a s h e r e v e a l e d i n a n a r t i c l e d e n o u n c i n g f e m a l e s u f f r a g e ( " T h e W o m a n Q u e s t i o n , " p u b l i s h e d i n t h e N o r t h A m e r i c a n R e v i e w , 1 8 7 9 ) , a n d i n h i s n o v e l V a s s a l M o r t o n , w h o s e h e r o f i n a l l y p r e f e r s t h e m e e k l y s u b m i s s i v e h e r o i n e o v e r a m o r e a g g r e s s i v e " l i b e r a t e d " f e m m e f a t a l e . T h e h i s t o r i a n e i t h e r c o n s c i o u s l y o r u n c o n - s c i o u s l y c l o s e d h i s e y e s t o M a r y C a t h e r w o o d ' s f e m i n i s m , i n h i s g r a t i f i c a t i o n a t ' f i n d i n g a t l e a s t o n e n o v e l i s t w h o d e a l s w i t h t h e r o m a n c e o f C a n a d i a n f e u d a l i s m i n a m a n n e r r o u g h l y c o m p a r a b l e t o h i s o w n c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e s u b j e c t . A n e a r l i e r a n d s l i g h t e r f i c t i o n a l a d a p t a t i o n o f P a r k m a n i s " L e C o u r e u r d e B o i s , " a s h o r t s t o r y p u b l i s h e d i n S c r i b n e r ' s f o r M a y , 1 8 7 6 . T a k i n g a s a n e p i g r a p h a q u o t a t i o n a b o u t t h e c o u r e u r s d e b o i s f r o m T h e O l d R e g i m e i n C a n a d a , t h e a u t h o r t e l l s h o w a y o u n g F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n g i r l i s l u r e d f r o m h e r h o m e b y a t r a p p e r , w h o m s h e f o l l o w s i n t o t h e n o r t h e r n w i l d e r n e s s . I n s t e a d o f c e l e b r a t i n g t h e s t r e n u o u s l i f e i n t h e f o r e s t , h o w - e v e r , t h e s t o r y i n v o l v e s a c o n f l i c t b e t w e e n t w o o p p o s i n g w a y s o f l i f e : t h e " f e m i n i n e " v i r t u e s o f d o m e s t i c i t y a n d m a r i t a l f i d e l i t y a r e c o n t r a s t e d t o t h e m a s c u l i n e i n c l i n a t i o n t o w a r d 170 independence and licentiousness. F i n a l l y , a f t e r a c r i s i s i n which the two lovers narrowly escape a freezing death in. the wilderness, the hero i s won o v e r — l i k e innumerable heroes of the "domestic sentimentalist" t r a d i t i o n — t o the virtues of home and f i r e s i d e . This story would probably have struck Parkman as a per- version of his ideas about the "manly" l i f e — a l t h o u g h he presumably would have approved of the Canadian setting and characters. The author of "Le Coureur de Bois" was Ohio-born Annie Howells Frechette, who s e t t l e d i n Ottawa with her Canadian husband and pursued a part-time career writing stories and a r t i c l e s for the American and Canadian q u a r t e r l i e s . That Parkman's very masculine image of Canada should appeal to the "domestic sentimentalists" i s a notable irony of l i t e r a r y history; and the s i t u a t i o n i s made even more incon- gruous by the fact that t h i s author was the younger s i s t e r of the chief exponent of realism i n late nineteenth-century American l i t e r a t u r e , William Dean Howells. The vagaries of l i t e r a r y a f f i n i t i e s are further demonstrated i n the fact that Howells and other devotees of the r e a l i s t movement ultimately provided the most s i g n i f i c a n t d i r e c t l i t e r a r y sequel to Park- man's h i s t o r i e s . Parkman knew Howells and l i k e d the young westerner personally, but found his l i t e r a r y tastes decidedly uncongen- i a l , as he confided i n a l e t t e r to a friend i n 1890: I regard [Walter Scott] as an educational force of the 1 7 1 f i r s t v a l u e , i n a l l t h e q u a l i t i e s o f t h e m a n a n d t h e g e n t l e m a n ; a n d i f , a s M r . H o w e l l s t e l l s u s , h i s i n f l u - e n c e i s u n d e m o c r a t i c , t h e n s o m u c h t h e w o r s e f o r d e m o - c r a c y . F o r m y p a r t I w o u l d r a t h e r m y s o n s h o u l d t a k e l e s s o n s f r o m G u y M a n n e r i n g t h a n f r o m T h e R i s e o f S i l a s L a p h a m . 3 T h e a u t h o r o f S i l a s L a p h a m w a s n o t , h o w e v e r , c o n v e r s e l y a n t i - p a t h e t i c t o F r a n c e a n d E n g l a n d i n N o r t h 7 A m e r i c a . Y o u n g e r h i s t o r i a n s t u r n e d a w a y f r o m P a r k m a n t o w a r d s n e w s u b j e c t s a n d i d e o l o g i e s , a n d o n l y o n e o r t w o m i n o r w r i t e r s o f f i c t i o n s h o w e d i n t e r e s t i n t h e r o m a n c e o f C a n a d i a n f e u d a l i s m ; b u t H o w e l l s a n d a f e w " r e a l i s t " c o l l e a g u e s d i s c o v e r e d i n P a r k m a n ' s h i s t o r i e s s e v e r a l i m p o r t a n t s u g g e s t i o n s f o r t h e i r c o n t i n u i n g a t t e m p t t o a n a l y z e a n d d e f i n e N o r t h A m e r i c a n c i v i l i z a t i o n . 2. H o w e l l s w a s o n l y o n e o f s e v e r a l n o t a b l e A m e r i c a n a u t h o r - t r a v e l e r s o f t h e p o s t - c i v i l w a r p e r i o d w h o e x p r e s s e d a n i n t e r e s t i n C a n a d a . T h i s i n t e r e s t c a n , o f c o u r s e , b e r e l a t e d t o t h e g e n e r a l p r o s p e r i t y o f t h e a g e a n d t h e r e v i t a l i z a t i o n o f A m e r i c a n t o u r i s m , a s w e l l a s t o P a r k m a n ' s i n f l u e n c e . I n T h e I n n o c e n t s A b r o a d ( 1 8 6 9 ) M a r k T w a i n c o n c l u d e d f r o m t h e h o r d e s o f A m e r i c a n s r u s h i n g t o g e t p a s s a g e o n t h e t r a n s - 4 A t l a n t i c s t e a m e r s t h a t " e v e r y b o d y w a s g o i n g t o E u r o p e " ; b u t a s a l w a y s t h r o u g h o u t t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , a s i g n i f i c a n t s e g m e n t o f t h e t r a v e l i n g p o p u l a t i o n — i n c l u d i n g , e v e n t u a l l y , M a r k T w a i n h i m s e l f — w e r e m a k i n g t h e m o r e e c o n o m i c a l t o u r o f t h e n o r t h e r n p r o v i n c e s . I n t h e c l o s i n g m o n t h s o f t h e w a r , o n e o f M a r k T w a i n ' s l i t e r a r y p r e d e c e s s o r s , " A r t e m u s W a r d " ( C h a r l e s F . B r o w n e ) r e p o r t e d t h a t h e w a s " t r a v e l l i n a m o n g t h e 172 crowned heads of Canady," and went on through several para- graphs i n Artemus Ward: His Travels to poke clumsy fun at the usual subjects of i n t e r e s t to Americans, such as the c o l o n i a l status of Canada ("Altho' t h i s i s a monikal form of Gov'ment, I am onable to perceive much moniky. I t r i e d to g i t a piece i n Toronto, but f a i l e d to succeed"), and the f o r t i f i c a t i o n s of Quebec ("Quebec i s f u l l of stone walls, and arches, and c i t a d e l s , and things. It i s said no foe could get into Quebec, and I guess they couldn't. And I don't see 5 what they'd want to get i n there f o r . " ) . In 1874, Mark Twain's f r i e n d and one-time collaborator Charles Dudley Warner published a l i t t l e book e n t i t l e d Baddeck, describing a b r i e f v i s i t to a remote settlement on northern Cape Breton Island. The i n s u l a r , Gaelic-speaking population and the various signs of economic and p o l i t i c a l retardation led him to pronounce the whole nation "a foggy land . . . which i s neither a republic nor a monarchy, but merely a languid expectation of something undefined." And i n 1880, Mark Twain devoted two b r i e f pages of his notebook to light-hearted observations on his v i s i t to Montreal, Quebec, and Montmorency: Drove halfway to the F a l l s of Montmorency, then came back and bought a photograph. The wind down on the low ground was mighty cold. The photograph i s very satisfactory.? A more serious attempt to convey impressions of Canada i s the essay "French Canada" by E.L. Godkin (1831-1902), the i n f l u e n t i a l owner and editor of the Nation, who v i s i t e d Quebec C i t y and environs i n the summer of 1868. An erudite s o c i a l 173 c r i t i c and h i s t o r i a n , Godkin was a f r i e n d and i n t e l l e c t u a l associate of both Howells and Parkman, and almost c e r t a i n l y must have read the two volumes of France and England i n North TAmerica which had appeared by 1868. In spite of the suggestion of his t i t l e , Godkin divides his attention f a i r l y equally between the two l i n g u i s t i c com- munities of Quebec province. The English Canadians he finds objectionable for t h e i r lack of c u l t u r a l independence: One has hardly set foot i n the country when one i s struck by the well-known c o l o n i a l tendency to out-Herod Herod. They [the English Canadians] are considerably more Eng- l i s h , i n a l l things i n which resemblance to the English i s possible, than the English themselves. ("French Canada," 128). 8 This deliberate imitation of foreign customs, Godkin i n s i s t s , i n e v i t a b l y impedes the natural development of the country: One cannot remain very long i n Canada without having the idea very strongly presented to one that even a s l i g h t p o l i t i c a l connection between a colony and "the mother country" i s a curse to the colony. As long as they are bound together, even by the l i g h t s i l k e n t i e of a l l e g - iance, r e a l l y healthy p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l l i f e seems to be impossible for the l a t t e r . A people whose manners are not the natural r e s u l t of i t s own character and c u l - ture, but a laborious copy of those of another people, d i f f e r e n t l y situated and i n a d i f f e r e n t stage of develop- ment, of course suffers much both morally and mentally, no matter what amount of p o l i t i c a l freedom i t may enjoy. (128) The main ambition of the English-Canadian businessman, Godkin continues, i s to make a fortune and r e t i r e to England, while large segments of the laboring classes aspire to immigrate to the United States. The movement southward "has even reached the French, to whom the United States has been hitherto a 174 land as far o f f as when the Indians came down from the St. Lawrence to harry the New England h e r e t i c s " (129). In contrast to his rather contemptuous view of the English, Godkin's attitude to the French Canadians i s quite sympathetic. Claiming to have "a respectable knowledge of French," he implies that he has conversed with various representatives of the population i n Quebec C i t y and the v i l l a g e s of the lower St. Lawrence. A lack of fluency i n the language, he remarks i n passing, "makes Thoreau's account of his Canadian t r i p as nearly worthless as anything emanating from so close an observer could well be" (129). But Thoreau, for a l l his d i f f i c u l t y with the language, met and conversed with a f a i r l y representative cross-section of habitants i n t h e i r f a m i l i a r home environment. Godkin, l i k e Richard Henry Dana, l i m i t s his contacts to a s l i g h t l y higher s o c i a l l e v e l . Indeed, the only Canadian he s p e c i f i c a l l y mentions t a l k i n g to i s a wealthy lawyer and landowner. Nevertheless, he does not hesitate to generalize about the French Canadians, whom he finds superior to t h e i r European counterparts: Priest-ridden and seigneur-ridden though he has been, the free a i r of the wilderness has given the Canadian a dignity and self-respect i n which the French peasant, i n spite of the Revolution, i s s t i l l wanting. (147) "The French Canadians," he goes on to report, "instead of declining before the Anglo-Saxons, gain on them rapidly, and bid f a i r before many years to have the lower province almost e n t i r e l y to themselves" (147). In spite of t h i s population 175 growth, however, Godkin assumes with Thoreau and Parkman that the French Canadians w i l l eventually disappear i n the "Saxon current": [They] w i l l probably preserve t h e i r language and manners i n t a c t t i l l the whole country i s annexed to the United States. Both w i l l probably then disappear r a p i d l y before the t e r r i b l e solvent of American ideas and i n s t i t u t i o n s . With them w i l l disappear the l a s t r e l i c of old France, and probably, outside of the T y r o l , the purest and simplest, most prosperous and most pious Catholic commun- ity, on the globe. (148) As these concluding remarks reveal, Godkin views the fate of modern French Canada with an ambivalence comparable to that i n Parkman's retrospective view of New France. The " t e r r i b l e solvent" of American democracy w i l l eventually engulf the whole continent, i n that i r r e s i s t i b l e h i s t o r i c a l process which decrees a constant development towards s o c i a l perfection. But i n t h i s process, something of value w i l l regrettably be l o s t . The unfortunate aspects of a possible American annexation of Canada was one concern of another b r i e f t r a v e l essay o r i g i n a l l y written for the Nation. Henry James, just at the beginning of his b r i l l i a n t and i n f l u e n t i a l l i t e r a r y career, v i s i t e d Quebec City and Montmorency i n 1871. After describing various features of the c i t y and neighboring countryside as seen by- a hypothetical "sentimental t o u r i s t , " he concluded I suppose no p a t r i o t i c American can look at a l l these things, however i d l y , without r e f l e c t i n g on the ultimate p o s s i b i l i t y of t h e i r becoming absorbed into his own huge state. Whenever, sooner or l a t e r , the change i s wrought, the sentimental t o u r i s t w i l l keenly f e e l that a long s t r i d e has been taken, rough-shod, from the past to the 1 7 6 p r e s e n t . T h e l a r g e s t a p p e t i t e i n m o d e r n c i v i l i z a t i o n w i l l h a v e s w a l l o w e d t h e l a r g e s t m o r s e l . W h a t t h e c h a n g e m a y b r i n g o f c o m f o r t o r o f g r i e f t o t h e C a n a d i a n s t h e m - s e l v e s , w i l l b e f o r t h e m t o s a y ; b u t , i n t h e b r e a s t o f t h i s s e n t i m e n t a l t o u r i s t o f o u r s , i t w i l l p r o d u c e l i t t l e b u t r e g r e t . T h e f o r e i g n e l e m e n t s o f e a s t e r n C a n a d a , a t l e a s t , a r e e x t r e m e l y i n t e r e s t i n g ; a n d i t i s o f g o o d p r o f i t t o u s A m e r i c a n s t o h a v e n e a r u s , a n d o f e a s y a c c e s s , a n a m p l e s o m e t h i n g w h i c h i s n o t o u r e x p a n s i v e s e l v e s . H e r e w e f i n d a h u n d r e d m e m e n t o e s o f a n o l d e r c i v i l i z a t i o n t h a n o u r o w n , o f d i f f e r e n t m a n n e r s , o f s o c i a l f o r c e s o n c e m i g h t y , a n d s t i l l g l o w i n g w i t h a s o r t o f a u t u m n a l w a r m t h . ( " Q u e b e c , " p p . 3 6 2 - 6 3 ) 9 F o u r y e a r s b e f o r e h i s v i s i t t o Q u e b e c , J a m e s w r o t e f o r t h e N a t i o n a r e v i e w o f T h e J e s u i t s i n N o r t h A m e r i c a , i n w h i c h h e i n d i c a t e d h i s g e n e r a l a g r e e m e n t w i t h P a r k m a n a b o u t t h e h i s t o r y o f F r a n c e i n t h e N e w W o r l d . T h e F r e n c h , J a m e s o b s e r v e d , w a s t e d t h e i r t i m e r a n g i n g t h e w i l d e r n e s s a n d t r y i n g t o c o n v e r t m o r a l l y u n r e g e n e r a t e s a v a g e s , w h i l e i n t h e A m e r i c a n c o l o n i e s " p r o l i f i c D u t c h f a r m e r s a n d P u r i t a n d i v i n e s w e r e b u i l d i n g u p t h e s t a t e o f N e w Y o r k a n d t h e c o m m o n w e a l t h o f M a s s a c h u s e t t s . " N e v e r t h e l e s s , t h e " f a i t h , p a t i e n c e , a n d c o u r a g e " o f s u c h z e a l o t s a s t h e J e s u i t m i s s i o n a r i e s " f o r m a v e r y i n t e r e s t i n g c h a p t e r i n t h e h i s t o r y o f t h e h u m a n m i n d . " " ' " ^ B u t i n s p i t e o f J a m e s ' s a g r e e m e n t w i t h P a r k m a n , a n d i n s p i t e o f h i s d e c l a r e d i n t e r e s t i n Q u e b e c a s a r e m i n d e r o f " s o c i a l f o r c e s o n c e m i g h t y , " i t i s w i t h t h e e y e o f t h e a r t i s t r a t h e r t h a n t h e m o r a l i s t o r s o c i a l h i s t o r i a n t h a t h e v i e w s t h e C a n a d i a n c i t y . T h e e s s a y o n Q u e b e c i s m a i n l y a s e r i e s o f p i c t u r e s q u e t a b l e a u x w h i c h c a l l a t t e n t i o n t o t h e q u a i n t n e s s o f t h e c i t y a n d s u r r o u n d i n g c o u n t r y s i d e , r a t h e r t h a n t o t h e v e s t i g e s o f t h e p o w e r f u l a n d g l o r i o u s F r e n c h c o l o n i a l e m p i r e . 177 As James approaches the c i t y , he sees through the misty window of the railway carriage "a huge monotony of most unstoried wilderness"; then suddenly, as Quebec comes into view, "the Old World r i s e s i n the midst of the New i n the manner of a change of scene on the stage" (p. 351). In the c i t y , he takes note of the "foreign architecture," the "foreign pinks, greens, and yellows p l a s t e r i n g the house- fronts," and " a l l the pleasant crookedness, and narrowness, and duskiness, the quaint economised spaces" (p. 352). After thus cataloguing various d e t a i l s at close view, he imagin- a t i v e l y draws back and contemplates the c i t y . . . perched on i t s mountain of rock, washed by a r i v e r as free and ample as an ocean-gulf, sweeping from i t s embattled crest the v i l l a g e s , the forests, the blue undulations of the imperial province of which i t i s warden. (p. 355) Quebec appears to James, as i t appeared to Thoreau, a diminutive and f i c t i v e world set down i n incongruous juxta- p o s i t i o n to the vast North American wilderness. And where Thoreau was reminded of F r o i s s a r t ' s Chronicles, of Scott's medieval romances, and of Provence and the troubadours, James also thinks of c e r t a i n l i t e r a r y antecedents. In "the l i t t l e r e s i d e n t i a l streets . . . some of the houses have the s t a l e - ness of complexion which Balzac loved to describe." S t r o l l i n g through these streets, James encounters " l i t t l e old Frenchmen who look as i f they had stepped out of Balzac" (pp. 357-58). Subsequently, he finds that the appearance of modest prosperity, domestic comfort, and naive piety remind him of another 178 l i t e r a r y analogue: " I t i s , perhaps, not Longfellow's 'Evan- geline' for chapter and verse, but i t i s a tolerable prose t r a n s c r i p t " (p. 3 5 9 ) . Besides r e l a t i n g Quebec to l i t e r a t u r e , James i n e v i t a b l y considers the c i t y i n the l i g h t of his experience of Europe. Like Thoreau, he vaguely disapproves of the attempt to create the facade of Old World c i v i l i z a t i o n i n the New World wilder- ness, and he represents Quebec as a deliberate deception:- "The place, after a l l , i s of the s o i l on which i t stands; yet i t appeals to you so cunningly with i t s l i t t l e stock of t r a n s a t l a n t i c wares that you overlook i t s flaws and lapses, and swallow i t whole" (p. 3 5 1 ) . In the countryside near Que- bec, he finds the reminiscence of Europe rather appealing: The rows of poplars, the heavy stone cottages, seamed and cracked with time i n many cases, and daubed i n coarse bright hues, the l i t t l e bourgeois v i l l a s , r i s i n g middle- aged at the end of short v i s t a s , the sunburnt women i n the f i e l d s , the old men i n woollen stockings and red nightcaps, the l o n g - k i r t l e d c u r l nodding to doffed hats, the more or less bovine stare which greets you from cottage-doors, are a l l so many touches of a l o c a l color r e f l e c t e d from over the sea. (p. 360) And i n the v i l l a g e of Chateau-Richer he i s so f o r c i b l y reminded of r u r a l France that he finds himself looking for the "elderly manor which might have baptised i t . " "But of course," he adds, " i n such p i c t o r i a l e f f o r t s as t h i s Quebec breaks down; one must not ask too much of i t " (pp. 3 6 1 - 6 2 ) . On the whole, James's impressions of French Canada are rather inconclusive. He finds "a palpable* atmosphere, a rare physiognomy" which he vaguely recognizes as unique, but which 1 7 9 h e i s a b l e t o d e f i n e o n l y t e n t a t i v e l y , b y r e f e r e n c e t o l i t e r - a t u r e a n d t o h i s e x p e r i e n c e o f E u r o p e . Q u e b e c p r e s e n t s a v e s t i g i a l i m a g e o f t h e m i g h t y s o c i a l f o r c e s w h i c h f o r m e d t h e m a i n t h e m e o f P a r k m a n ' s N e w W o r l d e p i c , a s w e l l a s a d i s - t o r t e d r e f l e c t i o n o f t h e O l d W o r l d t o w h i c h J a m e s w a s s o d e v o t e d . B u t i n t h i s i n c o n g r u o u s j u x t a p o s i t i o n h e c a n f i n d n o f o r m a l u n i t y , n o d i s t i n c t i d e n t i t y . T h e c i t y a n d s u r r o u n d - i n g c o u n t r y s i d e c o n s t i t u t e a c u r i o u s a n d m i l d l y i n t e r e s t i n g a n o m a l y w h i c h , a s J a m e s r a t h e r p e r f u n c t o r i l y a s s e r t s , w i l l p r o b a b l y b e e v e n t u a l l y a b s o r b e d i n t o t h e m a i n c u r r e n t o f N o r t h / A m e r i c a n l i f e , w i t h t h e r e g r e t t a b l e l o s s o f a p i c t u r e s - q u e t o u r i s t a t t r a c t i o n . 3. I n c o n t r a s t t o J a m e s ' s b r i e f a n d r a t h e r s u p e r f i c i a l i m p r e s s i o n s o f C a n a d a , W i l l i a m D e a n H o w e l l s ' p e r s o n a l a n d l i t e r a r y i n v o l v e m e n t w i t h t h e c o u n t r y w a s f a i r l y e x t e n s i v e . H e m a d e h i s f i r s t v i s i t t o t h e n o r t h e r n p r o v i n c e s i n J u l y , 1 8 6 0 , a s a s i d e - t r i p t o t h e f a m o u s f i r s t v i s i t t o N e w E n g l a n d d e s c r i b e d i n L i t e r a r y F r i e n d s a n d A c q u a i n t a n c e ( 1 9 0 0 ) . H i s i m p r e s s i o n s o f N i a g a r a F a l l s , T o r o n t o , M o n t r e a l , a n d Q u e b e c w e r e i n c l u d e d i n t w o s e r i e s o f t r a v e l l e t t e r s , " G l i m p s e s o f S u m m e r T r a v e l " a n d " E n P a s s a n t , " p u b l i s h e d i n 1 8 6 0 i n t h e C i n c i n n a t i G a z e t t e a n d t h e O h i o S t a t e J o u r n a l r e s p e c t i v e l y . M u c h o f t h e m a t e r i a l g a t h e r e d f o r t h e s e a r t i c l e s , s u p p l e m e n t e d b y f u r t h e r n o t e s f r o m a n o t h e r t r i p m a d e i n 1 8 7 0 , w a s i n c o r - p o r a t e d i n t o h i s f i r s t t w o f i c t i o n a l e f f o r t s , T h e i r W e d d i n g 180 Journey (1872), and A Chance Acquaintance (1873). He used his r e c o l l e c t i o n s of northern t r a v e l for f i c t i o n on two further occasions, i n The Quality of Mercy (1892), which includes a b r i e f but s i g n i f i c a n t Canadian episode, and i n the considerably less important sentimental novella, "A Pair of Patient Lovers" (1901), the opening chapters of which involve American t o u r i s t s on the St. Lawrence. F i n a l l y , he v i s i t e d his s i s t e r Annie at her Ottawa home i n 1906, and recorded his observations on the Canadian c a p i t a l i n "The Editor's Easy Chair" column of Harper's Monthly for January, 1907.*""'" Between the time of his f i r s t v i s i t to Canada and the writing of Their Wedding Journey, Howells encountered the h i s t o r i e s of Parkman. In the context of the best known features of Howells' c r i t i c a l theories, his admiration for Parkman appears anomalous, for there would seem to be very l i t t l e common ground between the exotic and spectacular romance of Canadian feudalism and the "ordinary t r a i t s of 12 American l i f e " which the younger writer aspired to record. Indeed, i n C r i t i c i s m and F i c t i o n (1892) , Howells i n s i s t e d that novelists should confine themselves to "the things that they have.:observed and known" and avoid any dependence on "the 13 things that some other a r t i s t or writer has done." Even i n the l i g h t of the reasonable assumption that Howells was not urging writers to avoid reading altogether, t h i s statement might be interpreted as a r e j e c t i o n of h i s t o r i c a l l i t e r a t u r e , which of necessity i s at two or more removes from d i r e c t 181 experience. But as i s well known, i t was the extravagant h i s t o r i c a l romance rather than h i s t o r i c a l writing in general that aroused Howells' antipathy and prompted many of the sweeping generalizations and over-simplifications of his c r i t i c a l essays. In the c l o s i n g years of the nineteenth century, the American reading public was r a p i d l y forsaking the r e a l i s t i c l i t e r a t u r e which Howells had fondly hoped would provide the means of conveying culture to "the common, average man, who always 'has the standard of the arts i n his power'," and was turning to the cheap t h r i l l s of the "swash- 14 buckler swashing on his buckler." In the more optimistic and enthusiastic early years of his writing career, when realism appeared to be the i r r e s i s t i b l e l i t e r a r y wave of the future, Howells unhesitatingly looked i n a l l d i r e c t i o n s — t o history, to romantic poetry, even to the superior class of h i s t o r i c a l romance of which Hawthorne's work was the pre- eminent example—for formal and i d e o l o g i c a l i n s p i r a t i o n . x ^ In the 1860's and 70's, Howells was p a r t i c u l a r l y recep- t i v e to the influence of Parkman, for his i n t e r e s t i n the "ordinary t r a i t s of American l i f e " tended to expand outward to the comprehensive h i s t o r i c a l theme of the development of c i v i l i z a t i o n i n the New World. Inevitably, Howells thought of New World history primarily i n terms of the development of his own country, and his early reactions to Parkman included an expression of regret that the h i s t o r i a n had not taken his subject matter from "the tougher and knottier f i b r e s of our 182 16 own annals." Howells r e a d i l y granted the i n t r i n s i c i n t e r e s t of the story of the French i n America, and agreed with Parkman that t h i s story involved "an attempt so grand and generous that i t s most comical and most ruinous conse- 17 quences are never less than heroic." But subsequently he began to see, as Parkman had seen, that the early history of Canada formed an inextricable part of the p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l background of the United States. Howells r e a l i z e d further that the c o l o r f u l panorama of warfare and adventure i n the northern wilderness had a v i t a l relevance to the supposedly commonplace chronicle of modern American l i f e which was to be the main subject of his own writing. The explora- t i o n of t h i s relevance forms an important part of Their Wedding Journey. In presenting the chronicle of commonplace events i n the wedding journey of B a s i l and Isabel March, Howells attempted what was perhaps the purest and most thorough application of his theories of l i t e r a r y realism. As i n l i t e r a t u r e the true a r t i s t w i l l shun the use even of r e a l events i f they are of an improbable character, so the sincere observer of man w i l l not desire to look upon his heroic or occasional phases, but w i l l seek him i n his habitual moods of vacancy and tiresomeness. To me, at any rate, he i s at such times very precious; and I never perceive him to be so much a man and a brother as when I f e e l the pressure of his vast, natural '.ttnaf- fected dulness. (TWJ, p. 5 5 ) I 8 This "dulness," which was by no means a pejorative term for Howells, was i n his view the most c h a r a c t e r i s t i c feature of l i f e i n the nineteenth-century United States. Stories of 1 8 3 w a r a n d h e r o i s m a n d m a s s s u f f e r i n g w e r e o u t s i d e t h e o r d i n a r y c o u r s e o f r e a l l i f e . O r , a s h e s u g g e s t e d l a t e r i n C r i t i c i s m a n d F i c t i o n , s u c h s t o r i e s b e l o n g e d t o t h e d e c a d e n t , u n d e m o - c r a t i c O l d W o r l d . E v e n a f t e r t h e C h i c a g o H a . y m a r k e t a f f a i r o f 1 8 8 6 , w h i c h o p e n e d h i s e y e s t o t h e f a c t t h a t s e v e r e i n j u s t i c e c o u l d e x i s t i n h i s o w n c o u n t r y , H o w e l l s c o u l d s t i l l s a y t h a t . . . i n a l a n d w h e r e j o u r n e y m e n c a r p e n t e r s a n d p l u m b e r s s t r i k e f o r f o u r d o l l a r s a d a y t h e s u m o f h u n g e r a n d c o l d i s c o m p a r a t i v e l y s m a l l , a n d t h e w r o n g f r o m c l a s s t o c l a s s h a s b e e n a l m o s t i n a p p r e c i a b l e . ( " T h o u g h a l l t h i s , " h e a d d e d i n a t e r s e r e f l e c t i o n o n r e c e n t 1 9 e v e n t s , " i s c h a n g i n g f o r t h e w o r s e . " ) T h u s t h e e a r l y c h a p t e r s o f T h e i r W e d d i n g J o u r n e y a r e d e v o t e d t o a d i s c u r s i v e a n d l e i s u r e l y a c c o u n t o f t r a v e l i n t h e m o d e r n U n i t e d S t a t e s , w i t h a l l i t s m i n o r i n c o n v e n i e n c e s a n d o c c a s i o n a l d e l i g h t s : t h e M a r c h e s r e s i g n e d l y a c c e p t i n g t h e r u d e n e s s o f r a i l w a y a n d h o t e l e m p l o y e e s , s u f f e r i n g t h e t e r r i b l e h e a t w a v e o f 1 8 7 0 i n N e w Y o r k C i t y , i n d u l g i n g t h e m - s e l v e s w i t h t h e e x t r a v a g a n t s p l e n d o r o f a s t a t e r o o m o n a H u d s o n R i v e r s t e a m b o a t . O c c a s i o n a l l y , t h e a u t h o r c a l l s i n d i r e c t a t t e n t i o n t o w h a t m i g h t b e c o n s i d e r e d a m o r e s e r i o u s o r e v e n t r a g i c a s p e c t o f l i f e . A s t h e M a r c h e s p r o c e e d o n t h e i r j o u r n e y , t h e y c a t c h b r i e f g l i m p s e s o f u r b a n s l u m s , w i t h " r o w s o f a s h b a r r e l s , i n w h i c h t h e d e c r e p i t c h i l d r e n a n d m o t h e r s o f t h e s t r e e t s w e r e c l a w i n g f o r b i t s o f c o a l " ( T W J , p . 1 7 ) ; t h e y w i t n e s s t h e t e m p o r a r y m i s e r y o f a v i c t i m o f h e a t p r o s t r a t i o n o n a N e w Y o r k s t r e e t ; a n d t h e y d i s c u s s w i t h 1 8 4 momentary solemnity the enigmatic cataclysm of a small boat rammed and sunk i n the night on the Hudson River. But t h i s background of extraordinary or exceptional circumstances does not seriously disturb the orderly and l e i s u r e d progression of Howells1 two characters along the commonplace course of t h e i r unremarkable journey, which i n i t s p l a c i d routine of domestic d e t a i l interrupted by only b r i e f inconvenience or by the impersonal spectacle of misfortune might be considered Howells' metaphor for the course of middle-class l i f e i n the 2 0 late nineteenth-century United States. At Niagara F a l l s , a new thematic element i s introduced into the story of the Marches' t r a v e l s . Here, at what i s perhaps the most famous geographical phenomenon i n North America and i s c e r t a i n l y the most famous border point between the United States and Canada, B a s i l March r e f l e c t s on the h i s t o r i c a l associations evoked by the natural s e t t i n g : [Niagara's] beauty i s relieved against an h i s t o r i c a l background as gloomy as the lightest-hearted t o u r i s t could desire. The abominable savages, revering the cata- ract as a kind of august d e v i l , and leading a l i f e of demoniacal misery and wickedness, whom the f i r s t Jesuits found here two hundred years ago; the ferocious Iroquois bloodily d r i v i n g out these squalid devil-worshippers; the French planting the f o r t that yet guards the mouth of the r i v e r , and therewith the seeds of war that f r u i t e d afterwards i n murderous s t r i f e s throughout the whole Niagara country; the struggle for the m i l i t a r y posts on the r i v e r , during the wars of France and England; the awful scene i n the conspiracy of Pontiac, where a detachment of English troops was driven by the Indians over the precipice near the great whirlpool; the sorrow and havoc v i s i t e d upon the American settlements i n the Revolution by the savages who prepared t h e i r attacks i n the shadow of Fort Niagara; the b a t t l e s of Chippewa and of Lundy's Lane that mixed the roar of t h e i r cannon with 185 that of the f a l l ; the savage forays with tomahawk and scalping-knife, and the blazing v i l l a g e s on either shore i n the War of 1812; these are the memories of the place, the l i n k s i n a chain of t r a g i c a l i n t e r e s t scarcely broken before our time since the white man f i r s t beheld the mist-veiled face of Niagara. (pp. 88-89). As Howells goes on to state, t h i s meditation has been p a r t l y inspired by his reading of Parkman. "Those precious books," he says of the four h i s t o r i c a l volumes which Parkman had published by 1870, " . . . make our meagre past wear something of the r i c h romance of old European days, and illumine i t s savage solitude with the splendor of medieval c h i v a l r y , and the glory of medieval martyrdom" (p. 89). Howells' basic l i t e r a r y ideal i s the celebration of the common man i n modern America, but he does not r e j e c t the epic and romance t r a d i - tions of Europe, with t h e i r emphasis on the preeminent hero and on extraordinary incident. Indeed, he i s g r a t e f u l to Parkman for having shown that North America has a h i s t o r i c a l t r a d i t i o n comparable to the epic and romance mythology of Europe. But the important point about t h i s t r a d i t i o n as i t concerns America i s the fact that i t belongs to the past. The Indians have vanished, or appear to be dwindling to the point of extinction; French m i l i t a r y power has disappeared from the continent; and i n place of the savage war parties along the border i n 1812, peaceable American t o u r i s t s come to view the natural and a r t i f i c i a l vestiges of an e a r l i e r era. The most extensive and s i g n i f i c a n t vestige of the past i s , of course, Canadian society. Unlike Parkman, who took no 186 i n t e r e s t i n nineteenth-century Canada beyond the opportunities the country offered for on-the-spot research, Howells i s curious to explore the country with i t s large French popula- t i o n and i t s B r i t i s h c o l o n i a l connections, to see how i t has fared i n i t s pursuit of a p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l development d i s t i n c t from that of the United States and more closely t i e d to the past and to Europe. In l i n e with his r e a l i s t i n c l i n a t i o n to define experience i n terms of the commonplace and routine elements of everyday l i f e , Howells forms his conception of modern Canada from encounters with service people or anonymous bystanders and from the various landmarks which happen to come within his observation. . In general, he claims to find a more amiable and l e i s u r e l y manner i n the Canadian people as compared to the Americans. The porter on the St. Lawrence boat . . . was so c i v i l that he did not snub the meekest and most vexatious of the passengers, and B a s i l mutely blessed his s e r v i l e soul. Few white Americans, he said to himself, would behave so decently i n his place; and he could not conceive of the American steamboat clerk who would use the politeness towards a waiting crowd that the Canadian purser showed when they a l l wedged themselves i n about his window to receive t h e i r state- room keys. (p. 107) At Kingston, Howells travelers f e e l "a sense of English s o l i d - i t y " i n the pervasive stonework of the buildings, and observe "a healthful bloom of the Old World" on the faces of the c i t i z e n s , "so that one must wonder i f the l i n e between the Dominion and the United States did not also sharply separate good digestion and dyspepsia" (pp. 110-11). 187 But these casual observations r e f l e c t l i t t l e more than the fact that the English-Canadian population of 1870 included a large element of comparatively recent B r i t i s h immigrants, and that the highly i n d u s t r i a l i z e d and commercial- ized economy of the United States with i t s inevitable bureau- cracy and impersonality had not yet evolved i n Canada. Howells does not discover the e s s e n t i a l foreignness of the country u n t i l he takes his f i c t i o n a l travelers to Montreal. The f e e l i n g of foreign t r a v e l for which our t o u r i s t s had s t r i v e n throughout t h e i r journey, and which they had known i n some degree at Kingston and a l l the way down the r i v e r , was i n t e n s i f i e d from the f i r s t moment i n Montreal. . . . At breakfast the next morning they could hardly t e l l on what country they had f a l l e n . The waiters had but a.thin varnish of English speech upon t h e i r native French, and they spoke t h e i r own tongue with each other; but most of the meats were cooked to the English taste, and the whole was a poor imitation of an American hotel. During t h e i r stay the same commingling of usages and races bewildered them; the shops were English and the clerks were commonly French; the carriage-drivers were often I r i s h , and up and down the streets with t h e i r pious old-fashioned names, t i n k l e d American horse-cars, (p. 121) Gradually, the chaotic heterogeneity of Montreal resolves into a series of related patterns. Like other American t r a v e l e r s , Howells notes the rather awkward zeal with which urban English Canadians try to imitate B r i t i s h manners, and customs, and he also notes the c l e a r l y observable d i s t i n c t i o n s between the two l i n g u i s t i c groups i n Canada: Our friends . . . knew [the other American t o u r i s t s ] at a glance from the native populations, who are also e a s i l y distinguishable from each other. The French Canadians are nearly always of a peasant-like commonness, or where they r i s e above t h i s , have a bourgeois commonness of face and manner; and the English Canadians are to be known 188 from the many English sojourners by the e f f o r t to look much more English than the l a t t e r . (p. 124) In spite of the large French-speaking population, the most prominent feature of Montreal from the American t o u r i s t ' s perspective i s the ubiquitous evidence of the p o l i t i c a l and c u l t u r a l attachment to England. "At dinner [the Marches] spent the i n t e r v a l s of the courses . . . i n wondering i f the Canadians did not make i t a matter of conscientious l o y a l t y to out-English the English even i n the matter of pale-ale and sherry, and i n rotundity of person and freshness of face, just as they emulated them i n the cut of t h e i r clothes and whiskers" (p. 134). This attachment i s not, however, always unfavorable i n i t s r e s u l t s : The Irishmen who drove the public carriages were as c i v i l as our own Boston hackmen, and behaved as respect- f u l l y under the shadow of England here, as they would have done under i t i n Ireland. The problem which vexes us seems to have been solved pleasantly enough i n Canada. It i s because the Celt cannot brook equality; and where he has not an established and recognized caste above him, longs to trample on those about him; and i f he cannot be lowest, w i l l at l e a s t be highest? (p. 135) On the basis of these random observations of public l i f e i n Montreal, Howells offers a general summary of the p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l status of Canada, a summary which reveals his devotion to the ideal of North American independence from Europe. After making his comment on the I r i s h cabmen of Montreal, he continues: Our friends did not suffer t h i s or any other advantage of the c o l o n i a l r e l a t i o n to d i v e r t them from the opinion to which t h e i r observation was gradually bringing them, that i t s overweening l o y a l t y placed a great country l i k e 189 Canada i n a very s i l l y attitude, the attitude of an over- grown, unmanly boy, c l i n g i n g to the maternal s k i r t s , and though s p o i l t and w i l f u l , without any character of his own. The constant reference of l o c a l hopes to that remote centre beyond seas, the test of success by the c r i t e r i o n s of a necessarily d i f f e r e n t c i v i l i z a t i o n , the s o c i a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l dependence implied by t r a i t s that meet the most hurried glance i n the Dominion, give an e f f e c t of meanness to the whole f a b r i c . Doubtless i t i s a l i f e of comfort, of peace, of i r r e s p o n s i b i l i t y they l i v e there, but i t lacks the grandeur which no sum of material prosperity can give; i t i s ignoble, l i k e a l l v o l u n t a r i l y subordinate things. Somehow, one feels that i t has no basis i n the New World, and that t i l l i t i s shaken loose from England i t cannot have. (p. 135) Unlike Henry James, however, Howells does not assume that American annexation of Canada i s inevitable. There i s good hope, he f e e l s , for Canada to find a d i s t i n c t i v e national i d e n t i t y independent of both England and the United States: I t would be a p i t y . . . i f [Canada] should be parted from the parent country merely to be joined to an unsym- pathetic half-brother l i k e ourselves; and nothing, fortunately, seems to be further from the Canadian mind. There are some experiments no longer possible to us which could s t i l l be t r i e d there to the advantage of c i v i l i z a - t i o n , and we were better two great nations side by side than a union of discordant t r a d i t i o n s and ideas. (p. 135) P o l i t i c a l independence, Howells r e c a l l s , i s by no means a magical guarantee of s o c i a l perfection. The United States continues to be plagued by a profusion of d i f f i c u l t i e s p a r t l y or wholly derived from i t s status as a democratic republic. But none the less does the American t r a v e l l e r , swelling with forgetfulness of the shabby despots who govern New York, and the swindling r a i l r o a d kings whose word i s law to the whole land, f e e l l i k e saying to the hulking giant beyond St. Lawrence and the Lakes, "Sever the apron strings of allegiance, and try to be yourself, whatever you are." (pp. 135-36) As Howells1 travelers proceed down the St. Lawrence, they 190 f i n d themselves moving away from the incongruities of modern Canada towards an unambiguous vestige of the c o l o n i a l empire and romantic h i s t o r i c a l era which Parkman wrote about. "Come out," says B a s i l March to his wife from the deck of the steam- boat as i t approaches Quebec, "—come out into the seven- teenth century" (p. 141). Even i n the routine sightseer's round of a place which has degenerated from a great imperial c a p i t a l to a "show c i t y " (p. 145), the American t o u r i s t s are able to evoke the splendid chronicle of discovery and adven- ture through the buildings and monuments associated with C a r t i e r , Champlain, the J e s u i t s , Wolfe and Montcalm. But even as Howells' travelers immerse themselves i n the r e l i c s of French imperial history and of the epic c o n f l i c t between France and England, they f i n d themselves again t r y i n g vainly to reconcile an incongruity i n t h e i r surroundings. Quebec, much more than Montreal, i s a French c i t y ; but the presence of the French race i n t h i s outpost of the northern wilderness seems somehow contradictory: The Frenchmen, who expected to f i n d there the climate of t h e i r native land, and ripen her wines i n as kindly a sun, have perpetuated the image of home i n so many things, that i t goes to the heart with a p a i n f u l emotion to f i n d the sad, oblique l i g h t of the North upon them. Quebec, i n fact, i s but a pantomimic reproduction of France; i t i s as i f two centuries i n a new land, amidst the primeval silences of nature and the long hush of the Northern winters, had s t i l l e d the tongues of the l i v e l y folk and made them t a c i t u r n as we of a graver race. They have kept the ancestral v i v a c i t y of manner; the elegance of the shrug i s i n t a c t ; the t a l k i n g hands take part i n dialogue; the agitated person w i l l have i t s share of expression. But the loud and eager tone i s wanting, and 191 t h e i r dumb show mystifies the beholder almost, as much as the Southern architecture under the slanting Northern sun. I t i s not America; i f i t i s not France, what i t i t ? (pp. 155, 158) Ultimately, Quebec, l i k e Canada as a whole, eludes Howells' attempts at f i n a l d e f i n i t i o n . Repeatedly throughout Their Wedding Journey his descriptions of the people and places become involved i n ostensible contradictions and enigmas, which end i n statements of uncertainty (". . . t r y to be yourself, whatever you are"), or i n questions (". . . i f i t i s not France, what i s i t ? " ) . Howells makes better l i t e r a r y use of Canada i n A Chance Acquaintance, his second work of f i c t i o n and the beginning of a series of novels involving emotional c o n f l i c t and domestic c r i s i s (a series climaxed by his f i r s t important achievement, the "divorce novel" A Modern Instance, 1882). A Chance Acquaintance i s set e n t i r e l y i n the Quebec C i t y and Saguenay regions; but instead of getting involved i n the subtle and elusive question of the northern country's d i s t i n c t i v e i d e n t i t y , he uses the Canadian scene as a backdrop for a s l i g h t but subtle tale of American t o u r i s t s i n a f l e e t i n g s i t u a t i o n of infatuation and disillusionment. In depicting the b r i e f romantic interlude involving young and inexperienced K i t t y E l l i s o n of Eriecreek and the rather world-weary and snobbish Miles Arbuton of Boston, Howells deals with a theme which i s prominent throughout his work, the c u l t u r a l c o n f l i c t between New England and the western American f r o n t i e r . If i t were not for the care which Howells devotes to the minute 192 d e t a i l s of i n d i v i d u a l character, his two lovers would be almost a l l e g o r i c a l representations of t h e i r respective regions: K i t t y , the daughter of a m i l i t a n t a b o l i t i o n i s t , has been brought up i n an atmosphere of " f i e r c e democracy"; Arbuton, educated i n New England and Europe, i s u n r e f l e c t i v e l y a r i s t o c r a t i c , "an exclusive by t r a i n i n g and by i n s t i n c t " (pp. 39-40). 2 1 The contrast between these two Americans and the regional viewpoints they represent i s mainly developed i n terms of t h e i r respective responses to Canada. To K i t t y , who has seen very l i t t l e of the world beyond Eriecreek, the province of Quebec appears simultaneously as a foreign country and an epitome of what she has read and thought about North America as a whole. On the boat t r i p up the Saguenay, she i s impressed by "the sad great r i v e r of the awful north," whose ominous and desolate grandeur evokes visions of the whole continent as i t must have been before the coming of the Euro- peans. The f i r s t feeble attempts of the white man to gain a foothold on the continent are subsequently evoked by the towns and v i l l a g e s , l i k e Tadoussac, "where early i n the sixteenth century the French traders fixed t h e i r f i r s t post, and where s t i l l the oldest church north of F l o r i d a i s standing" (p. 16). These geographical and h i s t o r i c a l associations appear to K i t t y , fresh from her reading of Parkman and the guidebooks, part of a common heritage of both Canada and the United States, a heritage which i s worthy of comparison to the more venerable 193 t r a d i t i o n s and the more famous scenery of the Old World. Subsequently, i n her encounters with the inhabitants of the St. Lawrence and Saguenay regions, and i n her observa- tions of the exotic costumes and architecture of Quebec C i t y , K i t t y discovers further connections, and some d i s t i n c t i o n s , with her own country. A voluble caleche driver at Ha-Ha Bay suggests by his manner and conversation that the Canadians are devoted to the same ideals of individualism and material success as t h e i r southern neighbors; but on the other hand, the view from Kitty's window i n Quebec C i t y of s i l e n t nuns i n a convent garden suggests an image of t r a n q u i l i t y and order which seems u t t e r l y d i s t i n c t from the bustling f r o n t i e r s p i r i t of her own native region. Miles Arbuton, by contrast, i s generally d i s d a i n f u l of the scenery and c i v i l i z a t i o n i n Quebec province. "I should l i k e to see an American landscape that put one i n mind of anything," he t e l l s K i t t y when she praises Quebec City and the surrounding countryside (p. 21). Like K i t t y , Arbuton sees the Quebec and Saguenay regions as representative of North America as a whole, but unlike her, he refuses to acknowledge that the New World has either scenery or h i s t o r i c a l associations to compare with those of the Old. "The great drawback to t h i s sort of thing i n America," he complains to K i t t y as t h e i r boat moves down the Saguenay, " i s that there i s no human i n t e r e s t about the scenery, fine as i t i s " (p. 43). And even when K i t t y repeats to him the legend she has learned from Parkman of the party of French explorers who " l e f t t h e i r comrades at Tadoussac, and came up the Saguenay three hundred years ago, and never were seen or heard of again," '-he p e r s i s t s i n his preference for "famous r i v e r s abroad" (p. 43). He acknow- ledges the magnificence of Cape Eternity with only grudging admiration; "Mr. Arbuton," the narrator confides s l y l y , had "an objection to the exaggerations of nature on t h i s continent, and secretly thought them i n bad taste" (p. 44). As for the " l o c a l color" of the settlements and the inhabitants, Arbuton i s bored and embarrassed by the i n t e r e s t which his companions show i n them, and endures the encounter with the t a l k a t i v e caleche driver i n strained silence. The more Arbuton sees of Canada, the more his h o s t i l i t y to the scenery increases; and although he extends his stay at Quebec i n order to see more of the charmingly naive g i r l from Eriecreek, there i s l i t t l e doubt about the ultimate outcome of the f l i r t a t i o n . K i t t y ' s enthusiastic response to Canada reveals her to be more cosmo- p o l i t a n than the closed-minded Bostonian whose travels have only served to confirm a r i g i d l y narrow set of prejudices. The Quality of Mercy (1892) presents quite a d i f f e r e n t image of Canada, r e f l e c t i n g the development of Howells1 ideas and techniques i n the l a t e r part of his career. Written immediately a f t e r A Hazard of New Fortunes, The Quality of Mercy reveals the author's increasing revulsion against the e v i l s of modern capitalism and his adoption of a kind of semi-Christian socialism based on i n t e l l i g e n c e and the golden 195 r u l e . In A Hazard of New Fortunes, he attempted a panoramic view of modern urban America, with a story involving two great American c i t i e s and many individuals of widely d i v e r s i - f i e d backgrounds and s o c i a l classes. In The Quality of Mercy he narrows the focus considerably, to t e l l the pathetic story of J.M. Northwick, an aging businessman who impulsively f l e e s to Canada rather than face the personal and public consequences a f t e r he has been exposed as an embezzler of his company's funds. Most of the novel i s devoted to revealing the e f f e c t of Northwick's action on his family and fellow c i t i z e n s of the v i l l a g e of Hatboro. A b r i e f opening episode portrays d i r e c t l y Northwick's weakness and lack of i n t e l l i g e n c e , then his personality and motivation are seen through the distorted perspective of his h y s t e r i c a l family, his v i n d i c t i v e enemies, and his skeptical friends, who gradually begin to recognize the falseness of the absconder's facade of r e s p e c t a b i l i t y . But when the accumulated e f f e c t of these responses begin to make Northwick appear as a s e l f i s h and stupid v i l l a i n , Howells abruptly s h i f t s the narrative from Hatboro to Canada, to follow Northwick1 i n his aimless f l i g h t from r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . With a vague notion of investing i n a gold mine to regain the money he has l o s t , Northwick sets out northward from Quebec City i n mid-winter, towards Chicoutimi i n the Saguenay region. In the long, s i l e n t sleighride along the banks of the St. Lawrence and Saguenay r i v e r s , he finds him- s e l f obsessively preoccupied with thoughts of his past l i f e 196 and present s i t u a t i o n . The f i n a l i t y of his break with the past i s emphasized by the strangeness of his surroundings and his growing f e e l i n g of i s o l a t i o n and loneliness. In Hatboro, his i d e n t i t y and s o c i a l position were perpetually acknow- ledged by the obsequious respect of his servants and the v i l l a g e r s . To the French-Canadian sleigh drivers and inn- keepers, however, he i s only the object of mild c u r i o s i t y and vague h o s t i l i t y ; an anonymous American whose unexpected a r r i v a l out of the t o u r i s t season and whose mysterious nor- thern journey suggest that he i s a f u g i t i v e from the law i n his own country. As Northwick advances further into the sparsely populated snow-covered northern wilderness, he begins to f e e l d i s o r i - ented, to lose his sense of purpose and i d e n t i t y : At f i r s t his mind worked c l e a r l y but disobediently; then he began to be aware of a dimness i n i t s record of pur- poses and motives. At times he could not t e l l where he was going, or why. He reverted with d i f f i c u l t y to the fact that he had wished to get as far as possible, not only beyond pursuit, but beyond- the temptation to return v o l u n t a r i l y and give himself up. He knew, i n those days before the treaty, that he was safe from extradition; but he feared that i f a detective approached he would y i e l d to him, and go back, e s p e c i a l l y as he could not always keep before himself the reasons for not going back. As his c a r r i o l e slipped l i g h t l y over [the snow], North- wick had a fantastic sense of his own minuteness and remoteness. He thought of the photograph of a lunar landscape that he had once seen greatly magnified, and of a f l y that happened to traverse the expanse of p l a s t e r - l i k e white between the ranges of extinct volcanoes. 2 2 Gradually, he begins to recognize that his i d e n t i t y consists of the multifarious relationships of his l i f e i n Hatboro. 197 Outside of those relationships, he i s a cipher, as empty and desolate as the snow-covered Canadian landscape which i s absorbing and v i r t u a l l y a n n i h i l a t i n g him. But Northwick keeps on with his aimless northward f l i g h t ; and just when he has been almost completely overwhelmed by the feelings of l o s t i d e n t i t y and l o s t purpose, he encounters a f i n a l . b i t t e r irony which adds absurdity to the pathos of his s i t u a t i o n . . At the remote outpost of Ha-Ha Bay he i s taken i n hand by a t a l k a t i v e English-speaking s e t t l e r named Oiseau. "Bird," as he c a l l s himself—recognizable as the caleche driver who appears i n A Chance Acquaintance—assumes c o r r e c t l y that Northwick i s an American defaulter, and t r i e s to entice his v i s i t o r into a questionable mining speculation. Northwick has f l e d as far as possible from his proper environ- ment, retreated into a wilderness whose lonely barrenness has taken him almost to the edge of insanity, and has come face to face at l a s t with—himself, or at l e a s t his a l t e r ego, another schemer whose outward show of charity and mercy do not conceal his s e l f i s h dreams of personal aggrandisement. "What would you do?" the parish p r i e s t asks Oiseau, when the l a t t e r speaks i n Northwick's hearing of the great fortune he w i l l make from his gold mine. " "What I do?" Bird struck the table with his f i s t . "Leave HaHa Bay to-morrow morning!" "And where would you go?" "Go? To Quebec, to London, to Paris, to Rome, to the d e v i l ! Keep going!"23 Northwick i s too oppressed by misery and homesickness to 198 see i n Oiseau 1 s words the r e f l e c t i o n of his own s i t u a t i o n , but Howells has l e f t l i t t l e doubt of the f a l l a c y inherent i n the pursuit of material wealth. The s e l f i s h search for money and power i s a pointless journey to nowhere—like Northwick's winter journey into the barren North—which ends at l a s t i n confrontation with the ugly, mocking Self. The image of Canada i n The Quality of Mercy involves a f a i r l y subtle and symbolic conception of the northern land- scape and i t s inhabitants, a conception which seems far removed from the straightforward realism of Their Wedding Journey or the t e n t a t i v e l y a l l e g o r i c a l c u l t u r a l confrontations of A Chance Acquaintance. But i n a l l three novels there i s a consistency of attitude stemming from Howells' general i n c l i n - ation to use Canada as a means of assessing the moral quality of l i f e i n the modern United States. Howells i s obviously intrigued by the fact that Canada i s both l i k e and unlike his own country. The wild northern landscape evokes visions of the struggle with the wilderness which engaged the pioneers of a l l regions of the continent; but as i n the writings of Thoreau and other American t r a v e l e r s , the wildness of Canada seems unbearably intense, i n i m i c a l , and ultimately destructive to the c i v i l i z e d s e n s i b i l i t y . The people of Canada, both French- and English-speaking, seem at times to be v i r t u a l l y indistinguishable from Americans, and at times to be d i s t i n c - t i v e l y and enigmatically foreign. Accordingly, Howells' American i n Canada i s simultaneously the t y p i c a l "American 199 a b r o a d " w h o m e a s u r e s h i s o w n c o u n t r y ' s a c h i e v e m e n t s o r f a i l - u r e s a g a i n s t t h o s e o f t h e f o r e i g n e n v i r o n m e n t , a n d t h e c i v i l i z e d N o r t h A m e r i c a n c o n f r o n t e d b y t h e p r i m i t i v i s m w h i c h i s o n e o f t h e m o s t p e r v a s i v e a n d i m p o r t a n t f e a t u r e s o f t h e N e w W o r l d l a n d s c a p e . B a s i l M a r c h i n T h e i r W e d d i n g J o u r n e y , K i t t y E l l i s o n i n A C h a n c e A c q u a i n t a n c e , a n d J . M . N o r t h w i c k i n T h e Q u a l i t y o f M e r c y , a l l d i s c o v e r i n C a n a d a a n e w p e r s p e c t i v e o n t h e i r n a t i v e c o u n t r y , b y e n c o u n t e r w i t h t h e s o c i a l c u s t o m s a n d i n s t i t u t i o n s w h i c h a r e b o t h d i f f e r e n t f r o m a n d s i m i l a r t o t h e i r o w n , a n d b y p r o x i m i t y t o t h e n o r t h e r n w i l d e r n e s s . B a s i l M a r c h c o n c l u d e s ( m u c h a s T h o r e a u c o n c l u d e d ) , t h a t C a n a d a , u n l i k e t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , h a s f a i l e d t o d e v e l o p a d i s t i n c t i v e i d e n t i t y a p p r o p r i a t e ^ t o i t s u n i q u e g e o g r a p h i c a l a n d h i s t o r i c a l s i t u a t i o n . K i t t y E l l i s o n f i n d s i n C a n a d a b o t h a f a s c i n a t i n g e v o c a t i o n o f E u r o p e a n d a l i n k w i t h p i o n e e r i n g p a s t o f t h e N e w W o r l d . A n d J . M . N o r t h w i c k d i s c o v e r s a b i z a r r e r e f l e c t i o n o f t h e s o c i a l a n d p e r s o n a l w e a k n e s s e s w h i c h h a v e b r o u g h t a b o u t h i s o w n t r a g e d y . 2 0 0 N o t e s t o C h a p t e r 8 1 I n f o r m a t i o n c o n c e r n i n g P a r k m a n ' s p o p u l a r i t y , i n f l u e n c e , a n d p o s i t i o n i n A m e r i c a n h i s t o r i o g r a p h y i s a v a i l a b l e i n a w i d e s e l e c t i o n o f s o u r c e s . S a m u e l E l i o t M o r i s o n , T h e P a r k m a n R e a d e r ( B o s t o n : L i t t l e , B r o w n , 1 9 5 5 ) , p p . 5 2 3 - 2 4 , c i t e s n i n e t e e n t h - a n d t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s a l e s f i g u r e s o n P a r k m a n ' s w o r k . M a s o n W a d e ' s b i o g r a p h y F r a n c i s P a r k m a n : H e r o i c H i s t o r - i a n ( N e w Y o r k : V i k i n g , 1 9 4 2 ) , d i s c u s s e s ( i n c h a p t e r s 1 4 - 1 5 ) P a r k m a n ' s r e c e p t i o n i n C a n a d a . W i l b u r L . S c h r a m m , i n h i s I n t r o d u c t i o n t o F r a n c i s P a r k m a n : R e p r e s e n t a t i v e S e l e c t i o n s , p . c i x , d e s c r i b e s P a r k m a n ' s p o s i t i o n " b e t w e e n t h e o l d e r g r o u p o f A m e r i c a n m o r a l h i s t o r i a n s . . . a n d t h e n e w h y b r i d h i s t o r y o f t h e s o c i a l s c i e n t i s t s . " S e e a l s o A l l a n N e v i n s , " P r e s c o t t , M o t l e y , P a r k m a n , " A m e r i c a n W r i t e r s o n A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e , e d . J o h n M a c y ( N e w Y o r k : H o r a c e L i v e r i g h t , 1 9 3 1 ) , p p . 2 2 6 - 4 2 ; W i l l i a m R. T a y l o r , " F r a n c i s P a r k m a n , " P a s t m a s t e r s : S o m e E s s a y s o n A m e r i c a n H i s t o r i a n s , p p . 1 - 3 8 . 2 F r a n c i s P a r k m a n , P r e f a c e , T h e R o m a n c e o f P o l l a r d b y M a r y C a t h e r w o o d ( N e w Y o r k : C e n t u r y , 1 8 8 9 ) , p . 2 . 3 T h e L e t t e r s o f F r a n c i s P a r k m a n , I I , 2 4 0 . 4 [ S a m u e l L . C l e m e n s ] , T h e I n n o c e n t s A b r o a d ( 1 8 6 9 ; r p t . N e w Y o r k : H a r p e r & B r o t h e r s , 1 9 0 6 ) , I, 5 5 . 5 [ C h a r l e s F . B r o w n e ] , A r t e m u s W a r d : H i s T r a v e l s ( N e w Y o r k : C a r l e t o n ; L o n d o n : S . L o w , 1 8 6 5 ) , p p . 4 1 , 4 4 . g C h a r l e s P u d l e y W a r n e r , B a d d e c k , a n d T h a t S o r t o f T h i n g ( B o s t o n : J a m e s R. O s g o o d , 1 8 7 4 ) , p . 2 9 . 7 M a r k T w a i n ' s N o t e b o o k , e d . A l b e r t B i g e l o w P a i n e ( N e w Y o r k : H a r p e r & B r o t h e r s , 1 9 3 5 ) , p . 1 6 0 . g A l l q u o t a t i o n s f r o m G o d k i n ' s a r t i c l e r e f e r t o " F r e n c h C a n a d a , " T h e N a t i o n , 7 ( A u g . 1 3 - 2 0 , 1 8 6 8 ) , 1 2 8 - 2 9 , 1 4 6 - 4 8 . g A l l q u o t a t i o n s f r o m J a m e s ' s a r t i c l e r e f e r t o H e n r y J a m e s , " Q u e b e c , " P o r t r a i t s o f P l a c e s ( 1 8 8 4 ; r p t . F r e e p o r t , N . Y . : B o o k s f o r L i b r a r i e s P r e s s , 1 9 7 2 ) , p p . 3 5 1 - 6 3 . " ^ H e n r y J a m e s , " F r a n c i s P a r k m a n : T h e J e s u i t s i n N o r t h A m e r i c a , " L i t e r a r y R e v i e w s a n d E s s a y s o n A m e r i c a n , E n g l i s h a n d F r e n c h L i t e r a t u r e , e d . A l b e r t M o r d e l l ( N e w Y o r k : T w a y n e 1 9 5 7 ) , p . 2 2 2 . W i l l i a m M . G i b s o n a n d G e o r g e A r m s ' s e x h a u s t i v e B i b l i o - g r a p h y o f W i l l i a m P e a n H o w e l l s ( N e w Y o r k : N e w Y o r k P u b l i c L i b r a r y , 1 9 4 8 ) , a l s o m e n t i o n s a p a m p h l e t e n t i t l e d T r i b u t e s t o 2 0 1 Canada, possibly published i n Boston i n 1 9 1 6 , but no copies of t h i s pamphlet have been found. William M. Gibson describes the r e l a t i o n s h i p between the 1 8 6 0 t r a v e l a r t i c l e s and Howells' f i r s t two novels i n "Mater- i a l and Form i n Howells' F i r s t Novels," American L i t e r a t u r e , 1 9 (May, 1 9 4 7 ) , 1 5 8 - 6 6 , and reports that much of the journal- i s t i c material i s reproduced verbatim i n the f i c t i o n . The same conclusion i s i l l u s t r a t e d i n d e t a i l i n John K. Reeves' Introduction to Their Wedding Journey (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1 9 6 8 ) . 1 2 Howells, Their Wedding Journey, ed. Reeves, p. 3 . 1 3 .-Howells, C r i t i c i s m and F i c t i o n , ed. Clara M. Kirk and Rudolf Kirk (New York: New York University Press, 1 9 5 9 ) , p. 1 2 . 1 4 Howells' f a i t h i n the common reader i s expressed i n C r i t i c i s m and F i c t i o n , p. 1 3 . His attack on "swashbucklers" i s i n "The New H i s t o r i c a l Romances," The North American Review, 1 7 1 (Dec, 1 9 0 0 ) , 9 3 6 . 1 5 Howells' early debt to a l l kinds of romantic l i t e r a t u r e i s discussed f u l l y by Olov W. Fryckstedt, In Quest of America: A Study of Howells' Early Development as a Novelist (Cam- bridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1 9 5 8 ) . Howells' l a t e r anti-romantic attitudes, and his consequent p r o c l i v i t y for aggressively dogmatic (and sometimes inconsistent) c r i t i c a l d i c t a , i s described by Everett Carter, Howells and the Age of Realism (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1 9 5 4 ) . Howells, rev. of The Discovery of the Great West, by Francis Parkman, A t l a n t i c Monthly, 2 5 (Jan., 1 8 7 0 ) , 1 2 2 . 1 7 Howells, "Mr. Parkman's H i s t o r i e s , " A t l a n t i c Monthly, 3 4 (Nov., 1 8 7 4 ) , 6 1 0 . 1 8 A l l quotations from Their Wedding Journey r e f e r to the e d i t i o n previously c i t e d . 1 9 C r i t i c i s m and F i c t i o n , p. 6 2 . 2 0 Jerome Klinkowitz has suggested that i n Their Wedding Journey Howells i s s a t i r i z i n g American middle-class compla- cency and i n s e n s i t i v i t y to s o c i a l problems ("Ethic and Aesthetic: The B a s i l and Isabel March Stories of William Dean Howells," Modern F i c t i o n Studies, 1 6 [Autumn, 1 9 7 0 ] , 3 0 3 - 2 2 ) . It seems more l i k e l y , however, that Their Wedding Journey i s intended to show the r e l a t i v e l y serene and fortun- ate condition of the t y p i c a l American, as opposed to c e r t a i n 202 a t y p i c a l situations i n the country. 21 A l l quotations from t h i s novel r e f e r to W.D. Howells, A Chance Acquaintance, ed. Jonathan Thomas, David J. Nordloh, and Ronald Gottesman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1971). 22 Howells, The Quality of Mercy (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1892), pp. 234-35; 237-38. 2 3 I b i d . , pp. 251-52. 203 IX FARNHAM, BURROUGHS, THE REGIONAL REALISTS 1. The image of Canada i n Howells* The Quality of Mercy involves the restatement of a f a m i l i a r theme i n the American imaginative contemplation of Canada. The vast stretches of barren whiteness which engulf J.M. Northwick and make him yearn for his home i n Hatboro are l i k e "the influence from the wilds and from nature" which almost overwhelmed Thoreau on the ramparts of Quebec, and prompted him to see Concord as the imperfect but necessary assertion of the higher laws of the human s p i r i t against the savagery of the wilderness. This c o n f l i c t between c i v i l i z a t i o n and primitivism, as has been seen repeatedly, underlies much of what Americans thought and wrote about Canada. Thoreau, Howells, Parkman, v i r t u a l l y a l l r e f l e c t i v e Americans from the time of the e a r l i e s t expres- sions of an emerging d i s t i n c t i v e culture, were simultaneously attracted and repelled by the wildness of the New World, and they simultaneously accepted and deplored the advance of c i v i l i z a t i o n . As the nineteenth century drew to a close other American writers, devoted l i k e Howells to the comprehensive- ness and f i d e l i t y to observable d e t a i l of realism, turned t h e i r attention northward. Their l i t e r a r y responses r e f l e c t t h e i r ambivalent feelings toward the wilderness and t h e i r intense i n t e r e s t i n the human beings who d e l i b e r a t e l y chose 204 to inhabit i t . Among these l i t e r a r y explorers of Canada was another d i s c i p l e of Parkman, a New York j o u r n a l i s t and essayist named Charles Haight Farnham (1841-1929). Although his l i t e r a r y output was small and perhaps unimportant by comparison to the achievements of his greatest contemporaries, Farnham deserves something better than the almost t o t a l obscurity i n which he now r e s t s . He i s ignored by a l l but the most exhaustive encyclopedias of American l i t e r a t u r e , and even the e s s e n t i a l facts of his l i f e are d i f f i c u l t to e s t a b l i s h . He was born i n Connecticut, "the son of Thomas Jefferson and E l i z a W.F. Farnham, both authors and travellers.""'" In 1885, Farnham became associated with the aging Francis Parkman as a compan- ion and secretary, and a f t e r the historian's death he was named by the Parkman family as o f f i c i a l biographer. A L i f e of Francis Parkman (1901) was his primary contribution to l i t e r a t u r e . His only other published work consists of about a dozen a r t i c l e s written for Harper's, the Century, and the New York Times i n the 1880's. But these a r t i c l e s are quite distinguished and praiseworthy treatments of the subject of Canada. Like Howells, Farnham was interested i n the subject which Parkman had l a r g e l y ignored, the modern remnant of the French empire i n North America. But i n contrast to the random and s u p e r f i c i a l t o u r i s t ' s notes of Their Wedding Journey, Farnham's a r t i c l e s constitute a detailed and intimate study 205 of French-Canadian l i f e and character. Ultimately, Farnham perhaps came closer to his s u b j e c t — a t l e a s t i n terms of quantity of d e t a i l — t h a n any American of the nineteenth century. He spoke French f l u e n t l y , was an ardent canoeist and woodsman (a better woodsman perhaps than Parkman, whose various physical and psychological ailments often interfered with h i s expeditions into the New England and Canadian wilder- ness) , and was prepared to devote a great deal of time and e f f o r t to the exploration of French Canada. Thus he not only made the standard excursions to the two major c i t i e s of Quebec province ("The G i b r a l t a r of America," The Century, Oct. 1882; "Quebec," Harper's, Feb. 1888; "Montreal," Har- per 's, June, 1889); he went beyond the usual American tour- i s t ' s routine to spend "A Winter i n Canada" (Harper's, Feb. 18 84), and made strenuous canoe expeditions along both the north shore of the St. Lawrence ("Labrador," Harper's, Sept.- Oct. 1885) and the south shore ("The Lower St. Lawrence," Harper's, Nov. 1888). His patient and tolerant i n t e r e s t i n people resulted i n sympathetic p o r t r a i t s of the French-Canad- ian s e t t l e r s ("The Canadian Habitant," Harper's, Aug. 1883), of the modern counterparts of the coureurs de bois ("Canadian Voyageurs on the Saguenay," Harper's, March 1888), and of the remnants of Indian t r i b e s i n the wilderness once dominated by the Huron and Iroquois ("The Montagnais," Harper's, Aug. 1888). "Canada," says Farnham, "with an a r c t i c winter and the greater part of i t s s o i l almost s t e r i l e , seems designed by 2 0 6 2 nature to be the Norway of America, a land of forests." Throughout his narratives of t r a v e l i n the North, he empha- sizes the cold, barren h o s t i l i t y of the Canadian landscape: the Saguenay region i n winter i s "an expanse of cold white 3 death," and the vast wilderness l y i n g just beyond the ram- parts of Quebec C i t y i s "a penetration of desolation into the 4 very heart of man." Like other sensitive observers of nature, such as Parkman and Thoreau, Farnham i s capable of a p o s i t i v e response to the spectacle of wildness: The surroundings of Quebec have become f a m i l i a r to me with years of observation, and s t i l l I always look abroad with pleasure from the Citadel or the Terrace, at the great St. Lawrence Valley, walled i n with mountains, cloven by a vast arm of the sea, and s t i l l watched over by primeval f o r e s t s . 5 And l i k e Thoreau, he i s i n c l i n e d to use e c c l e s i a s t i c a l or r e l i g i o u s imagery i n his descriptions of the wilderness, which suggests a sort of romantic pantheism: "Nowhere has nature spoken to me more d i r e c t l y , both i n the majestic storm service and i n the unutterable peace of t h i s vast and rugged temple." But ultimately, he echoes Thoreau i n his b e l i e f i n the impor- tance of c i v i l i z a t i o n as a counteraction to the oppressive and destructive force of wildness. "In looking across t h i s immense flood," says Farnham as he t e l l s of his canoe cruises i n the Gulf of St. Lawrence, ". . . I am glad to be ashore among a people l i v i n g close together for shelter and warmth 7 under an a r c t i c winter." Thus i n Farnham1s essays, as i n "A Yankee i n Canada," 207 the inhabitants and the habitations of the North constitute with nature an equally important subject of study. In the remote outposts of "Labrador" (Farnham applies the name loosely to the north shore of the St. Lawrence, including that part of the region belonging to Quebec province), he finds an e x o t i c a l l y varied population of outcasts and devotees of the wilderness, including an Irishman who has l i v e d i n New York, a French-Canadian monarchist p r i e s t , a European French emigrd, and an I t a l i a n jeweller. In the less distant region of the Saguenay, he observes the modern descendants of the coureurs de bois, who are mostly tame and conventional loggers and boatmen. But to get a close and familiar view of the " t y p i c a l " French Canadian—i.e., a presumed representative i n economic and professional status of the majority of the Quebec population—Farnham v i s i t s (again, as Thoreau did) the farm- houses of the St. Lawrence Valley. Inevitably, Farnham i s e s p e c i a l l y interested i n the Canadian attitude to the United States, and he reports the suspicion and h o s t i l i t y with which the habitants regard the country to the south. In a household where he has found lodging, One of the sons had passed two years working i n a brick- yard at Haverstraw, and l i k e many of his countrymen, he had returned with some h e r e t i c a l admiration of our more progressive c i v i l i z a t i o n . Emigration to the United States i s energetically opposed by church and state, so i n praising the wonders of New York I became an emissary of the d e v i l , which increased the i n t e r e s t of my p o s i - t i o n . 8 2 0 8 He goes on to describe the habitants' devotion to religious charms and r i t u a l s , their subservience to the parish priests, and their tendency to subordinate individual personality to the customs of the community: "The whole parish dresses as one man and one woman; you feel the extraordinary unity of 9 Canadian l i f e in this external monotony of the people." In this atmosphere of conformity, superstition, and a continuous cycle of cruel physical labor, "there is not even the begin- ning of intellectual l i f e . " x ^ Canada is our twin brother in chronology and geography; and yet no other contiguous land,'differs more widely. You can scarcely.believe yourself in this age when you pass from our luxurious, elaborate, and practical exis- tence to the poor, primitive and poetic l i f e of Canada.1 1 But as the conjunction of "primitive" and "poetic" suggests, Farnham is by no means completely negative in his criticism of French Canada. This c i v i l i z a t i o n has many attractive features. . . . [It] rests on the labor of the hand alone, unaided by mechanical powers; and i t s narrow, slow, economical, but self-supporting l i f e thus acquires something of the dignity of manhood. It is a very human c i v i l i z a t i o n , as distinguished from a mechanical and commercial one. Here you come in direct contact with human needs and human efforts. This phase of l i f e , where man stands out as in the old hand-to-hand encounter, is a strange contrast to our existence, where man seems to retire behind his engines and improvements.12 Finally, however, Farnham is unable to grant that the theoreti- cal dignity of the primitive l i f e is more valuable than the intellectual and cultural advantages of a c i v i l i z a t i o n based on belief in material progress: The Canadian is an excellent pioneer up to a certain 209 p o i n t ; n o o n e s u r p a s s e s h i m i n e n d u r i n g h a r d s h i p s , l a b o r , w a n t ; h e l i v e s a n d i n c r e a s e s w h e r e o t h e r s w i l l n o t r e m a i n . B u t w h e n h e h a s c l e a r e d a f e w a c r e s a n d w o n h a l f a l i v i n g h e f e e l s s a t i s f i e d , a n d g e n e r a l l y f a i l s t o c a r r y h i s c i v i l i z a t i o n t o t h e h i g h e r p l a n e o f c o m f o r t , c l e a n l i n e s s , a n d t a s t e . 1 3 T h u s F a r n h a m a r r i v e s a t t h e f a m i l i a r c o n f l i c t b e t w e e n p r i m i t i v i s m a n d p r o g r e s s w h i c h r e p e a t e d l y c h a r a c t e r i z e s t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n ' s c o n c e p t i o n o f C a n a d a . L i k e m a n y o f h i s c o u n t r y m e n ( i n c l u d i n g h i s m e n t o r P a r k m a n ) , h e i s c a u g h t b e t w e e n t h e p o l a r a t t r a c t i o n s o f h i s o w n t e c h n i c a l l y a d v a n c e d c u l t u r e a n d a l i f e o f o s t e n s i b l e s i m p l i c i t y c l o s e t o n a t u r e , a n d h i s r a t i o n a l m i n d c a n o n l y r a n g e b a c k a n d f o r t h b e t w e e n t h e m . S i m i l a r l y , h e i s b o t h a t t r a c t e d a n d r e p e l l e d b y t h e v a s t n o r t h e r n w i l d e r n e s s , w h i c h a p p e a l s t o s o m e v i t a l a s p i r a t i o n i n m a n ' s s p i r i t u a l b e i n g , w h i l e a t t h e s a m e t i m e t h r e a t e n i n g t o o p p r e s s o r d e s t r o y t h e p u n y h u m a n c o n s t i t u t i o n . A s i m i l a r a m b i v a l e n c e t o w a r d s C a n a d a i s e v i d e n t i n a l o n g e s s a y b y a c o n t e m p o r a r y o f F a r n h a m , J o h n B u r r o u g h s . (1837-1921). B u r r o u g h s w a s a d e v o t e e o f E m e r s o n a n d T h o r e a u , a f r i e n d a n d b i o g r a p h e r o f W a l t W h i t m a n , a n d i n l a t e r y e a r s b e c a m e a n a c t i v e s u p p o r t e r o f T h e o d o r e R o o s e v e l t i n b o t h h i s c o n s e r v a t i o n i s t p o l i c i e s a n d h i s a d v o c a c y o f t h e " s t r e n u o u s l i f e . " A s t h e s e l i t e r a r y a f f i n i t i e s m i g h t s u g g e s t , t h e r e w e r e s t r o n g r e g i o n a l i s t a n d n a t i o n a l i s t i n c l i n a t i o n s i n B u r r o u g h s ' n a t u r e w r i t i n g s ; a l m o s t a l l h i s w o r k s a r e b a s e d o n o b s e r v a t i o n s a n d e x p e r i e n c e s i n t h e C a t s k i l l s a n d A d i r o n d a c k s o f h i s n a t i v e N e w Y o r k s t a t e . I n . .1877, h o w e v e r , h e s e t o u t 2 1 0 o n a w a l k i n g a n d s t e a m s h i p t o u r o f Q u e b e c p r o v i n c e , t h e l i t e r a r y r e s u l t o f w h i c h w a s " T h e H a l c y o n i n C a n a d a , " f i r s t p u b l i s h e d i n S c r i b n e r ' s M o n t h l y ( F e b . , 1 8 7 8 ) , a n d s u b s e q u e n t l y c o l l e c t e d i n L o c u s t s a n d W i l d H o n e y ( 1 8 7 9 ) . B u r r o u g h s e x p r e s s e s i n t e r e s t i n b o t h t h e m a g n i f i c e n t n a t u r a l s c e n e r y a n d t h e i n c o n g r u o u s c i v i l i z a t i o n o f Q u e b e c p r o v i n c e . L i k e T h o r e a u , h e i s f a s c i n a t e d b y t h e S t . L a w r e n c e , w h i c h i s " a c h a i n o f H o m e r i c s u b l i m i t i e s f r o m b e g i n n i n g t o 1 4 e n d . " A n d Q u e b e c C i t y , h e r e p o r t s , " p r e s e n t s t h e a n o m a l y o f a m e d i e v a l E u r o p e a n c i t y i n t h e m i d s t o f t h e A m e r i c a n l a n d s c a p e . " * " ^ B u t t h e s t a n d a r d t o u r i s t a t t r a c t i o n s , a l t h o u g h h e d u t i f u l l y m a k e s t h e r o u n d o f t h e m , a r e n o t t h e m a i n o b j e c t o f B u r r o u g h s ' v i s i t t o C a n a d a . H e i s n o t i n t e r e s t e d i n m e r e 1 6 " s c e n e r y h u n t i n g " o r i n c o n t e m p l a t i n g t h e i n c o n g r u i t i e s o f C a n a d i a n s o c i e t y . H e d e p a r t s f r o m t h e u s u a l t o u r i s t r o u t e s , a n d e m b a r k s o n a r i g o r o u s w a l k i n g t o u r a l o n g t h e u n f i n i s h e d r o a d n o r t h o f Q u e b e c C i t y t o w a r d t h e S a g u e n a y r e g i o n , . t o h a v e 1 7 " a l o n g , s i l e n t l o o k i n t o t h e f a c e o f t h e w i l d e r n e s s . " B u t i n s p i t e o f B u r r o u g h s ' p r o f e s s e d d e v o t i o n t o t h e w i l d e r n e s s , t h e r e i s a c o n f l i c t o f t o n e a n d i d e a r u n n i n g a l l t h r o u g h " T h e H a l c y o n i n C a n a d a , " w h i c h s u g g e s t s t h a t h e i s i n t i m i d a t e d b y t h e v a s t n e s s a n d p r i m i t i v e s a v a g e r y o f t h e N o r t h . O n t h e o n e h a n d , t h e e s s a y i s a n e x a m p l e o f a p o p u l a r t y p e o f i n f o r m a l a r t i c l e ( s u c h a s S c r i b n e r ' s , H a r p e r ' s , a n d o t h e r A m e r i c a n m a g a z i n e s p u b l i s h e d w i t h i n c r e a s i n g f r e q u e n c y i n t h e l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y ) , c e l e b r a t i n g t h e l e i s u r e l y outdoor recreations of f i s h i n g and b i r d watching. But on the other hand, there are repeated a l l u s i o n s to the sense of lone- l i n e s s and desolation which haunts the traveler i n t h i s wilderness. In The Maine Woods, Thoreau described how he "most f u l l y r e a l i z e d " a sense of "primeval, untamed, and forever untamable Nature," while passing through a hugh t r a c t 18 of burnt land near Mount Ktaadn. In very similar terms, Burroughs describes l a grande brfilure, the devastated s i t e of a huge forest f i r e i n the Saguenay region. "For three hours 19 we rode through t h i s v a l l e y and shadow of death." Although he professes to f e e l the "presence and magnetism" of the 20 " s p i r i t of the forest-bound lakes," Burroughs obviously f e e l s somewhat out of place i n t h i s vast wilderness so unlike his native region. The ubiquitous spruce trees, the Lauren- t i a n boulders, and p a r t i c u l a r l y the s t e r i l i t y of the s o i l a l l suggest an implacable h o s t i l i t y to man. "The s o i l seemed as i f made up of decayed and pulverized rock, and doubtless con- tained very l i t t l e vegetable matter. It i s so barren that i t 21 w i l l never repay clearing and c u l t i v a t i n g . " Like most of his countrymen, Burroughs thinks of the wilderness i n terms of i t s subordination to the gradual spread of c i v i l i z a t i o n ; and i n t h i s context northern Canada presents a disturbing image of unyielding and barbarous wildness, where c i v i l i z a t i o n w i l l never penetrate except i n the rude settlements of habitant loggers and trappers. 2 1 2 2 . T h e e x o t i c a n d p r i m i t i v e q u a l i t i e s o f C a n a d a a n d i t s i n h a b i t a n t s , w h i c h c a u g h t t h e a t t e n t i o n o f F a r n h a m a n d B u r r o u g h s , a l s o a p p e a l e d t o c e r t a i n l a t e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y w r i t e r s o f f i c t i o n , e s p e c i a l l y t h o s e i n v o l v e d i n t h e " l o c a l c o l o r " o r " r e g i o n a l r e a l i s t " m o v e m e n t . B u t m o s t o f t h e c o n - s e q u e n t f i c t i o n a l r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s , a l t h o u g h t h e y p u r p o r t e d t o r e v e a l t h e a c t u a l i t i e s o f C a n a d i a n l i f e , s e l d o m r o s e a b o v e t h e m i x t u r e o f s e n t i m e n t a l i t y , c o n d e s c e n s i o n , a n d r a c i a l s u s - p i c i o n w h i c h p e r v a d e d t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n v i e w o f C a n a d a . T h e r e g i o n a l r e a l i s t " O c t a v e T h a n e t , " ( i . e . , A l i c e F r e n c h [ 1 8 5 0 - 1 9 3 4 ] ) , f o r i n s t a n c e , w a s t h e a u t h o r o f a s t o r y e n t i t l e d " T h e O g r e o f H a H a B a y , " f i r s t p u b l i s h e d i n t h e A t l a n t i c M o n t h l y f o r O c t o b e r , 1 8 8 5 , a n d l a t e r c o l l e c t e d w i t h s e v e r a l s t o r i e s a b o u t h e r n a t i v e A m e r i c a n m i d d l e w e s t i n K n i t t e r s i n t h e S u n ( 1 8 8 7 ) . " T h e O g r e o f H a H a B a y " p r e t e n d s t o c h a l l e n g e c e r t a i n p r e c o n c e p t i o n s o f C a n a d a b y r e c o r d i n g t h e " e d u c a t i o n " o f a p a i r o f A m e r i c a n t o u r i s t s w h o h a v e o b v i o u s l y f o r m e d t h e i r n o t i o n s o f F r e n c h C a n a d a f r o m E v a n g e l i n e . G r a d u a l l y , t h e t o u r i s t s d i s c o v e r t h e t r u e c o n d i t i o n s o f l i f e i n t h e S a g u e n a y r e g i o n : t h e p o v e r t y , t h e c o n t i n u a l l a b o r f o r a b a r e s u b s i s - t e n c e i n a h a r s h c l i m a t e , a n d a b o v e a l l , t h e p e t t y r i v a l r y a n d j e a l o u s y w h i c h c h a r a c t e r i z e s r e l a t i o n s h i p s i n a s m a l l a n d c l o s e l y k n i t c o m m u n i t y . T h e r e p u l s i v e a s p e c t s o f F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n l i f e a r e c e n t e r e d i n a n o l d m a n , t h e " o g r e , " w h o i s 213 a pariah to his neighbors because of his s e l f i s h and tyranni- c a l behavior. F i n a l l y , however, the story i s resolved i n a happy ending involving the reformation of the ogre and the general imposition of an i d y l l i c peace and t r a n q u i l i t y com- parable to that i n Longfellow's Acadia. A s l i g h t l y d i f f e r e n t , but again ultimately sentimental, view of French Canada i s involved i n the work of Rowland E. Robinson (1833-1900). Robinson was the author of several c o l l e c t i o n s of d i a l e c t tales and sketches mostly published i n the 1890's but set before the C i v i l War, about the northern backwoods of his native Vermont where "Yankees" and "Canucks" mingle with easy amiability. The two n a t i o n a l i t i e s are v i r t u a l l y personified i n two recurrent characters, Sam L o v e l l , a shrewd but generous Vermonter, and his "Canuck" companion Antoine Bissette. Antoine i s an almost c l a s s i c stereotype, with his constant cheerfulness, his singing, and his stock of t a l l t a l e s about his native country. But he i s also devious and untrustworthy, as Robinson i l l u s t r a t e s i n Uncle Lisha's Outing (1897), when Sam t r i e s to help a f u g i t i v e slave to cross the Canada border and Antoine plots to turn him i n for the reward. Perhaps more seriously, Antoine lacks the American's respect for the wilderness: he wantonly k i l l s animals without purpose, while the Vermonter i s an outspoken conservationist who i n s i s t s that hunting and trapping must always be aligned with legitimate human need. Interestingly, however (and perhaps without the author's complete awareness 2 1 4 o f t h e i m p l i c a t i o n s ) , A n t o i n e ' s m o r a l s h o r t c o m i n g s s e e m t o h a v e s o m e t h i n g t o d o w i t h h i s e x i l e f r o m h i s n a t i v e c o u n t r y . T h r o u g h o u t t h e S a m L o v e l l s t o r i e s , C a n a d a i s a v a g u e a n d i d y l l i c r e g i o n o f f r e e d o m a n d n a t u r a l i n n o c e n c e . T h i s c o n - c e p t i o n o f t h e c o u n t r y i s r e l a t e d n o t o n l y t o t h e f a c t t h a t i t i s t h e g o a l o f f u g i t i v e s l a v e s ; R o b i n s o n e v o k e s a s o r t o f g o l d e n a g e e x i s t e n c e i n t h e d i a l e c t r e m i n i s c e n c e s o f A n t o i n e . " B a h g o s h , s e h , " t h e C a n a d i a n t e l l s S a m i n U n c l e L i s h a ' s O u t i n g , A h ' 1 1 r e ' m b l e r d a t l e e t l y b o y i n C a n a d a w i d h e e s f a d e r a n 1 m u d d e r , y o u n g f o l k s d a t d a n c e a l l n a g h t . . . a n 1 d e s u m m e r l a s ' m o s ' a l l d e y e a r a n 1 d e w i n t e r a n t n e v e r t o o l o n g ' c a u s e A h ' 1 1 h a p p y e v e r y d a y . 2 2 F r e n c h C a n a d a a s a k i n d o f A r c a d i a i s t h e b a s i c i m a g e p r o p o g a t e d b y H e n r y V a n D y k e ( 1 8 5 2 - 1 9 3 3 ) . V a n D y k e , a P r e s b y - t e r i a n m i n i s t e r n o w p r i m a r i l y r e m e m b e r e d f o r s u c h C h r i s t m a s s e n t i m e n t a s " T h e S t o r y o f t h e O t h e r W i s e M a n , " w r o t e m a n y s h o r t s t o r i e s a n d s k e t c h e s b a s e d o n h i s o b s e r v a t i o n s d u r i n g r e g u l a r f i s h i n g a n d c a m p i n g e x p e d i t i o n s t o Q u e b e c a n d N e w B r u n s w i c k . T h e s e e f f o r t s w e r e p u b l i s h e d i n v a r i o u s p e r i o d i - c a l s i n t h e l a t e n i n e t e e n t h a n d e a r l y t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r i e s , a n d c o l l e c t e d u n d e r s u c h t i t l e s a s L i t t l e R i v e r s ( 1 8 9 5 ) , T h e R u l i n g P a s s i o n ( 1 9 0 1 ) , a n d T h e U n k n o w n Q u a n t i t y ( 1 9 1 2 ) . V a n D y k e ' s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f t h e F r e n c h C a n a d i a n s f o l l o w s r e c o g - n i z a b l e s t e r e o t y p e s , e m p h a s i z i n g t h e i r j o v i a l i t y , t h e i r l o v e o f m u s i c a n d d a n c i n g , t h e i r i n d i f f e r e n c e t o p r o g r e s s a n d m a t e r i a l s u c c e s s , a n d t h e i r p r e f e r e n c e f o r r u r a l o r w i l d e r n e s s 2 1 5 l i v i n g o v e r c i v i l i z a t i o n . T h e c o n v e n t i o n a l i z e d c h a r a c t e r s a n d s i t u a t i o n s c o m p r i s e a v e r y s e n t i m e n t a l p i c t u r e o f F r e n c h C a n a d a ; b u t o c c a s i o n a l l y V a n D y k e s u g g e s t s t h a t h e i s a w a r e o f m o r e s e r i o u s t h e m a t i c p o s s i b i l i t i e s i n h i s m a t e r i a l . " A B r a v e H e a r t " s u g g e s t s t h a t t h e b a c k w o o d s l i f e o f t h e h a b i t a n t m a y b e a c r u e l a n d p r i m i t i v e e x i s t e n c e , r a t h e r t h a n a p a s t o r a l i d y l l — a l t h o u g h i n t h e e n d s e n t i m e n t a n d d o m e s t i c i t y w i n o u t , e v e n o v e r t h e m u t i l a t e d b o d y o f a g i g a n t i c w o o d s m a n w h o i s a l m o s t k i l l e d i n a b r u t a l a n d m e a n i n g l e s s q u a r r e l . A n d i n " T h e K e e p e r o f t h e L i g h t , " V a n D y k e d e p i c t s t h e c l a s h b e t w e e n t h e p a r t y o f p r o g r e s s a n d t h e p a r t y o f r e a c t i o n w h e n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y b e g i n s t o p e n e t r a t e t o a t i n y a n d r e m o t e s e t t l e m e n t i n t h e G u l f o f S t . L a w r e n c e . B u t a g a i n t h e c o n - f l i c t i s r e s o l v e d b y a s e n t i m e n t a l h a p p y e n d i n g , w i t h t h e o p p o n e n t s o f p r o g r e s s c o n v e r t e d , a n d i t s e x p o n e n t s v i n d i c a t e d . " A l l o v e r t h e w o r l d , " t h e a u t h o r e d i t o r i a l i z e s s o a s t o l e a v e n o d o u b t a b o u t h i s o w n a t t i t u d e t o t h e c o n f l i c t , " f o r t h e l a s t h u n d r e d y e a r s , p e o p l e h a v e b e e n k i c k i n g a g a i n s t t h e s h a r p n e s s o f t h e p r i c k s t h a t d r o v e t h e m f o r w a r d o u t o f t h e o l d l i f e , t h e w i l d l i f e , t h e f r e e l i f e g r o w n d e a r t o t h e m 2 3 b e c a u s e i t w a s s o e a s y . " T h e u l t i m a t e p r e f e r e n c e f o r t h e p r o g r e s s i v e u r b a n l i f e o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s i s a f e a t u r e o f a g e n i a l a n d m i l d l y e n t e r t a i n i n g n o v e l , B o r d e r C a n u c k s , O u r F r i e n d l y R e l a t i o n s ( 1 8 9 0 ) , b y a D e t r o i t a u t h o r n a m e d G e o r g e C . R a n k i n . R a n k i n a c k n o w l e d g e s t h e i m m e n s e c u l t u r a l a n d t e c h n o l o g i c a l c h a n g e s 216 taking place i n North America i n the late nineteenth century by s t r i v i n g to evoke the unique s o c i a l patterns of a region before these patterns pass completely out of l i v i n g memory. Border Canucks deals with "the French settlement on either bank of the Detroit River twenty-five or t h i r t y years ago," where . . . the contaminating influence of modern methods and pending s o c i a l p e c u l i a r i t i e s have l a r g e l y robbed the present generation of descendants of a noble race, i n the d i s t r i c t s referred to, of that charm, and easy, s e l f - possessed grace of manner which, by comparison, made of an i l l i t e r a t e peasant a d i g n i f i e d courtier i n the days gone by.24 As a unifying device for his rather episodic novel, Rankin t e l l s the story of Jack Rathbone, who i s caught between the opposing attractions of two worlds. His father, a wealthy Detroit fur merchant, draws him toward the world of American commerce and i n d u s t r i a l progress, while his French-Canadian mother introduces him to the simpler and more carefree world of the habitant. In a series of i l l u s t r a t i v e anecdotes and episodes, the French Canadians are revealed to be i n d e f a t i - gably cheerful, fond of drinking and gambling, i n c l i n e d to r a i s e large f a m i l i e s , and content to extract no more than a bare subsistence from t h e i r farms. Rankin depicts the exuber- ant gaiety of t h e i r l i v e s with obvious a f f e c t i o n ; but his ultimate sympathies, as h i s hero's f i n a l choice makes c l e a r , are with the more progressive society of the United States. Some i n t e r e s t i n g variations on a similar theme are developed i n The Lady of the Flag-flowers (1899), the one 217 novel of a now largely forgotten American poetess named Florence Wilkinson Evans. As Van Dyke did i n "The Keeper of the Light," t h i s author takes as her theme the c o n f l i c t between the old, wild, and free l i f e and the modern world of progress and c i v i l i z a t i o n . She draws the c o n f l i c t e x p l i c i t l y along n a t i o n a l i s t i c and r a c i a l l i n e s , by dealing with the tragedy of a young half-French, half-Indian g i r l from northern Quebec, who i s enticed and f i n a l l y destroyed by urban c i v i l - i z a t i o n i n the United States. In the course of the novel the author i s careful to e s t a b l i s h the complexity and moral r e l a t i v i t y involved i n the contrast between the two ways of l i f e . The northern wilderness which her heroine leaves behind i s not a sylvan i d e a l , but a half-savage world of b r u t a l i z i n g poverty and superstition, i n which, however, the Indian and half-breed natives have developed a simple code of honor and f i d e l i t y . Conversely, the United States i s not an inferno of decadence and immorality, but a society of diverse i n d i v i d - uals struggling to assimilate rapid c u l t u r a l and technological changes and to r e s i s t the tide of crime and p o l i t i c a l corrup- t i o n which i s the inevitable by-product of an age of swift national expansion. But i f the northern forests of Canada and the c i t i e s of the United States do not constitute absolute moral concepts, they do represent i r r e c o n c i l a b l e ways of l i f e . The young American hero of The Lady of the Flag-flowers, Pierce Willoughby, spends a summer vacation i n the Quebec wilderness, 2 1 8 a n d d r e a m s o f l i v i n g t h e r e p e r m a n e n t l y , " w h e r e , l i k e T o l s t o i , h e c o u l d l i v e s i m p l y , a n d l a b o r a l i k e w i t h h i s h a n d s a n d h i s 2 5 h e a d . " B u t h e r e t u r n s t o h i s o w n c o u n t r y t o p u r s u e h i s c a r e e r i n j o u r n a l i s m a n d p o l i t i c s , f o r h e c a n n o t r e v e r t t o t h e p r i m i t i v e l i f e a n y m o r e t h a n h i s n a t i o n c a n r e v e r s e i t s p r o g r e s s i v e d e v e l o p m e n t t o w a r d s u r b a n i z a t i o n a n d i n d u s t r i a l - i s m . T h e C a n a d i a n h a l f - b r e e d g i r l , o n t h e o t h e r h a n d , d o e s r e m o v e t o t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , w h e r e s h e r e a d i l y p i c k s u p t h e l a n g u a g e a n d s u p e r f i c i a l p a t t e r n s o f b e h a v i o r , a n d e v e n t u a l l y a c h i e v e s r e m a r k a b l e s u c c e s s a s a s t a g e a c t r e s s . B u t u l t i m a - t e l y , h e r s i m p l e a n d n a i v e p e r s o n a l i t y i s a n t i p a t h e t i c t o l i f e i n s o p h i s t i c a t e d s o c i e t y ; a n d h e r s u c c e s s — l e a d i n g f i n a l l y t o h e r m u r d e r — i s o n l y t h e w o r k i n g o u t o f a n i r r e s i s - t i b l e a n d f o r t u i t o u s c h a i n o f c i r c u m s t a n c e i n w h i c h s h e i s a p a s s i v e o b j e c t . P u b l i s h e d a y e a r b e f o r e S i s t e r C a r r i e , F l o r e n c e E v a n s ' n o v e l h a s i n t e r e s t i n g s i m i l a r i t i e s t o D r e i s e r ' s , i n i t s p o r - t r a y a l o f a y o u n g a n d i n n o c e n t g i r l w h i r l e d a l o n g b y f o r c e s o v e r w h i c h s h e h a s o n l y p a r t i a l c o n t r o l , t o w a r d s a g o a l o f q u e s t i o n a b l e v a l u e . T h e m a i n w e a k n e s s e s o f T h e L a d y o f t h e B l a g - f l o w e r s a r e t h e m a n y m e l o d r a m a t i c p l o t c o n t r i v a n c e s — u s u a l l y f a r m o r e o u t r a g e o u s t h a n t h e w o r s t o f D r e i s e r ' s — a n d a v e r y a w k w a r d p r o s e s t y l e . A t b e s t , i t o f f e r s s o m e s u g g e s - t i o n s a s t o w h a t t h e r e a l i s t - n a t u r a l i s t l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n m i g h t d o w i t h " C a n a d i a n " m a t e r i a l . A s a l w a y s t h r o u g h o u t t h e h i s t o r y o f A m e r i c a n i m a g i n a t i v e i n v o l v e m e n t w i t h C a n a d a , Q u e b e c p r o v i n c e a n d i t s F r e n c h - s p e a k i n g i n h a b i t a n t s c l a i m t h e l a r g e s t s h a r e o f a t t e n t i o n . A f e w " l o c a l c o l o r " a u t h o r s d i s c o v e r e d o t h e r p a r t s o f t h e c o u n t r y , b u t t h e i r l i t e r a r y r e a c t i o n s a d d e d f e w s i g n i f i c a n t c o m p l i c a t i o n s t o t h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y i m a g e o f C a n a d a . H e n r y V a n D y k e w r o t e , i n a d d i t i o n t o s t o r i e s a b o u t t h e Q u e b e c h a b i t a n t s , e s s a y s a b o u t h i s f i s h i n g e x p e r i e n c e s o n t h e R e s t i - g o u c h e r i v e r i n t h e b o r d e r r e g i o n b e t w e e n N e w B r u n s w i c k a n d t h e G a s p e p e n i n s u l a . A n o t h e r v i s i t o r t o t h e R e s t i g o u c h e r e g i o n w a s R o b e r t G r a n t ( 1 8 5 2 - 1 9 4 0 ) , a d i s t i n g u i s h e d N e w Y o r k l a w y e r , a f r i e n d o f E d i t h W h a r t o n , a n d t h e a u t h o r o f s e v e r a l r e a l i s t i c n o v e l s d e a l i n g w i t h v a r i o u s A m e r i c a n s o c i a l a n d p o l i t i c a l t o p i c s . I n 1 8 8 8 , G r a n t p u b l i s h e d h i s s e c o n d n o v e l , J a c k i n t h e B u s h , a s l i g h t b u t l i t e r a t e b o y ' s b o o k d e p i c t i n g t h e v i r t u e s o f m a s c u l i n e c a m a r a d e r i e a n d s p o r t s m a n s h i p . G r a n t ' s f i c t i o n a l g r o u p o f r e d - b l o o d e d a i l - A m e r i c a n b o y s e a g e r l y p u r s u e t h e m a n l y l i f e i n t h e C a n a d i a n w o o d s , b u t a r e r i g h t e o u s l y i n d i g n a n t w i t h t h e b a c k w a r d n e s s o f t h e C a n a d i a n p e o p l e t h e y e n c o u n t e r . T h e v i l l a i n o f t h e s t o r y , P e t e L a b o u i s s e , i s a s i l e n t h a l f - F r e n c h , h a l f - I n d i a n s q u a t t e r , w h o i g n o r e s t h e r u l e s o f s p o r t s m a n s h i p a n d s h o o t s s i t t i n g d u c k s a n d s p e a r s s a l m o n a t n i g h t . B y i m p l i c a t i o n , h i s v i l l a i n o u s a n d u n s p o r t s m a n l i k e c h a r a c t e r i s r e l a t e d t o h i s r a c i a l i n f e r - i o r i t y ; a t l e a s t t h e A m e r i c a n b o y s a r e n o t s u r p r i s e d b y h i s 2 2 0 b e h a v i o r . T h e y a r e s u r p r i s e d , h o w e v e r , b y t h e E n g l i s h C a n a d i a n s t h e y e n c o u n t e r . T h e y a r e i n t r i g u e d ( a s t h e i r c r e a t o r o b v i o u s l y w a s ) t o l e a r n t h a t t h e R e s t i g o u c h e r e g i o n i s p o p u l a t e d b y t h e d e s c e n d a n t s o f U n i t e d E m p i r e L o y a l i s t s , a n d t h a t m a n y o f t h e i n h a b i t a n t s c a r r y s u c h r e s p e c t a b l e o l d N e w E n g l a n d n a m e s a s P a t t e r s o n a n d C o f f i n . . O n e o f t h e i r g u i d e s , G e o r g e C o f f i n , i s e x p l i c i t l y d e s c r i b e d a s h a v i n g 2 6 " m u c h o f t h e Y a n k e e i n h i s b u i l d a n d m a n n e r . " T o t h e b o y s ' d i s g u s t , h o w e v e r , G e o r g e a n d h i s h e l p e r s h a v e n e v e r e v e n h e a r d o f t h e f o u r t h o f J u l y . A s w o o d s m e n , t h e y a r e e q u a l t o t h e b e s t o f A m e r i c a n s ; b u t p o l i t i c a l l y , t h e y a r e b e n i g h t e d C a n a d i a n s w h o h a v e n o t h a d t h e a d v a n t a g e s o f A m e r i c a n d e m o - c r a c y . T h e R e s t i g o u c h e r e g i o n a n d i t s i n h a b i t a n t s a r e g i v e n m o r e s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n i n a n o v e l b y t h e e m i n e n t P h i l a d e l p h i a p h y s i c i a n a n d p r o l i f i c a u t h o r , S . W e i r M i t c h e l l ( 1 8 2 9 - 1 9 1 4 ) . W h e n A l l t h e W o o d s A r e G r e e n ( 1 8 9 4 ) i s o n e o f a s e r i e s o f " c o n v e r s a t i o n " n o v e l s b y M i t c h e l l ( t h e o t h e r s i n c l u d e C h a r a c t e r i s t i c s [ 1 8 9 2 ] a n d D r . N o r t h a n d h i s F r i e n d s . [ 1 9 0 0 ] ) i n w h i c h v a r i o u s c h a r a c t e r s d i s c u s s m o r a l a n d m e t a p h y s i c a l t o p i c s , a n d o c c a s i o n a l l y b e c o m e i n v o l v e d i n s l i g h t s i t u a t i o n s w h i c h s e r v e t o i l l u s t r a t e o r c o m p l e m e n t t h e d i s c u s s i o n s . L i k e H e n r y V a n D y k e , w h o i n c l u d e d a n e s s a y o n T h e C o m p l e a t A n g l e r i n T h e R u l i n g P a s s i o n , M i t c h e l l h a d p e r h a p s b e e n r e a d i n g I s a a c W a l t o n , f o r t h e i m a g i n a r y c o n v e r s a t i o n s o f W h e n A l l t h e W o o d s A r e G r e e n o f t e n t a k e p l a c e i n t h e l a n g u i d 221 a t m o s p h e r e o f f i s h i n g e x c u r s i o n s , a n d t h e s u b j e c t d i s c u s s e d i s o f t e n t h e s p i r i t u a l v a l u e o f f i s h i n g . M o r e g e n e r a l l y , t h e n o v e l i s a b o u t l i f e i n t h e w i l d e r n e s s a n d t h e i n f l u e n c e o f n a t u r e o n t h e h u m a n p e r s o n a l i t y . M i t c h e l l a c c e p t s t h e c o m m o n a s s u m p t i o n s a b o u t t h e r e - c r e a t i o n a l v a l u e o f a t e m p o r a r y w i t h d r a w a l t o t h e w i l d e r n e s s : l i k e T h o r e a u , h e h a s d i s c o v e r e d t h a t g o i n g t o t h e w o o d s i s a v a l u a b l e p r o c e s s o f s i m p l i f i c a - t i o n , w h e r e b y t h e i n d i v i d u a l c a n d i v e s t h i m s e l f o f a l l t h e t r i v i a a n d i m p e d i m e n t a h e a p e d u p o n h i m b y c i v i l i z a t i o n . I n t h e w o o d s [ M i t c h e l l e d i t o r i a l i z e s ] , a w a y f r o m m e n a n d t h e i r s t r u g g l e s a n d a m b i t i o n s , w i t h t h e a b s e n c e o f n e e d t o b e t h i s o r t h a t , a s d u t y , w o r k , o r s o c i a l c l a i m s d e m a n d , we l o s e t h e r e s u l t a n t s t a t e o f t e n s i o n , o f b e i n g o n g u a r d . I t i s r e a d i l y p o s s i b l e t o n o t i c e t h i s e f f e c t i n t h e r a p i d e r a s u r e f r o m t h e f a c e s o f t h e c o n s t a n t l y s t r a i n e d , i n t e l l e c t u a l w o r k m a n o f t h e l i n e s o f c a r e w h i c h m a r k t h e f e a t u r e s o f t h o s e o n w h o m , i n o n e o r 2' a n o t h e r p o s i t i o n , t h e w o r l d r e l i e s t o c a r r y i t s b u r d e n s . - B u t i n s p i t e o f t h i s t r i b u t e t o t h e s a l u t a r y e f f e c t s o f l i f e i n t h e w o o d s , M i t c h e l l c o m e s t o t h e u l t i m a t e c o n c l u s i o n t h a t c i v i l i z a t i o n a n d p r o g r e s s p r o v i d e a m o r e a p p r o p r i a t e s i t u a t i o n f o r h u m a n i t y t h a n p r i m i t i v i s m a n d w i l d n e s s . T h e n a t i v e C a n a d i a n p o p u l a t i o n , M i t c h e l l ' s t o u r i s t s a g r e e , p r e s e n t c e r t a i n a d m i r a b l e q u a l i t i e s i n w h i c h t h e u r b a n i z e d A m e r i c a n i s p o s s i b l y d e f i c i e n t ; b u t t h e r e i s s o m e a m b i g u i t y a b o u t t h e v a l u e o f t h e s e q u a l i t i e s : " Y e s , " s a i d L y n d s a y , " t h e s e G a s p e " m e n a r e m o s t i n t e r e s t - i n g . T h e y a r e c l e v e r , c o m p e t e n t , a n d i n h e r e n t l y k i n d l y , r e a l l y g o o d f e l l o w s ; b u t t h e i r t r o u b l e i s , a n d i t d o e s n o t t r o u b l e t h e m , t h a t t h e y h a v e n o p e r s i s t e n t e n e r g y . I c o n f e s s t h a t , ^ b e ' i n g m y s e l f , a t l e a s t w h i l e h e r e , w i t h - o u t e n e r g y , I l i k e i t s a b s e n c e . " 222 "Isn't i t a vast r e l i e f , a f t e r a l l the endless restlessness of our people," said Anne, "to f a l l among folks who are contented, and home loving, and uncompli- cated?" "I c e r t a i n l y think so," said Carington. "and what a surprise i t i s to meet the stray descendants of l o y a l - i s t s hereabouts. . . . Some of the best of the Canadians are descendants of those people; but, for the most part, those who s e t t l e d i n c e r t a i n quarters of Lower Canada are down again to the l e v e l of mere laborers and f i s h e r - men ."28 M i t c h e l l i l l u s t r a t e s the disadvantages of a l i f e of unrelieved primitivism with the story of the Colketts, a s h i f t l e s s middle-aged couple who have never l i v e d anywhere but i n Canadian backwoods settlements. Brutishly u n c i v i l i z e d i n t h e i r manners and speech, the Colketts are dishonest, sus- picious, and s e l f i s h , completely lacking i n those q u a l i t i e s of s e l f - r e l i a n c e and "persistent energy" which (according to Mitchell) characterize the American backwoodsman, who i s more l i k e l y to have derived some benefit from the advanced urban culture of the United States. The l a t t e r contention i s i l l u s t r a t e d i n the person of Dorothy Maybrook, a Quaker woman who has migrated from Pennsylvania to the backwoods s e t t l e - ment on the Restigouche. Although uneducated and r u s t i c i n habits, Dorothy i s i n most respects a complete a n t i t h e s i s to the Colketts. Her s e l f - r e l i a n c e i s i l l u s t r a t e d i n the f a c t that her small backwoods farm prospers, while the Colketts, with a s i m i l a r portion of land and v i r t u a l l y i d e n t i c a l opportunities, are unable even to sustain themselves. Further- more, she i s almost i n s t i n c t i v e l y charitable, and p e r s i s t s i n 223 o f f e r i n g to help the indigent Colketts, even when they d i s - play boorish ungratefulness. And f i n a l l y , unlike the Canad- ians, she i s i n t e l l e c t u a l l y curious: hearing about Shakes- peare from the American t o u r i s t s , she eagerly reads the play about "Mrs. Macbeth." There are f a m i l i a r p o l i t i c a l implications i n the contrast between the Colketts and Dorothy Maybrook. M i t c h e l l , l i k e many American writers, implies that the supposedly freer and more progressive society of the United States produces a superior breed of human being than the northern country with i t s c o l o n i a l heritage and i t s slower rate of development. But M i t c h e l l i s not so interested i n demonstrating the advan- tages of American democracy as i n expounding his theories on the influence of environment on personality. For many years, he was engaged i n an intermittent controversy on t h i s subject with another eminent American n o v e l i s t and physician, Oliver Wendell Holmes. In 1861, Holmes sent M i t c h e l l a copy of his novel E l s i e Venner, which argues by means of an incredible Gothic p l o t that personality can be formed almost e n t i r e l y by hereditary factors. In the 1880's, M i t c h e l l was engaged i n c e r t a i n b i o l o g i c a l experiments which may have reminded him of Holmes's novel; and while there i s no conclusive evidence that When A l l the Woods Are Green i s intended as a "refuta- t i o n " of E l s i e Venner, Mitchell's strong emphasis on the theme of environment suggests that he probably had the contro- 29 versy with Holmes i n mind. 2 2 4 A l t h o u g h M i t c h e l l ' s n o v e l h a s a d e f i n i t e i n t r i n s i c i n t e r e s t a s a c o m p e t e n t n a r r a t i v e b y a t a l e n t e d m i n o r a u t h o r , i t s u g g e s t s t h a t b y t h e l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y i m a g e o f C a n a d a w a s d e g e n e r a t i n g i n t o t r i t e n e s s a n d r e d u n d a n c y . T h e a p p e a l i n g b u t i n t i m i d a t i n g f o r e s t w i l d e r n e s s , t h e r e a c t i o n a r y p o l i t i c a l s t r u c t u r e , t h e u n s o p h i s t i c a t e d a n d u n a m b i t i o u s i n h a b i t a n t s , a n d t h e s u p e r i o r i t y o f A m e r i c a n i n i t i a t i v e a n d e n t e r p r i s e : a l l t h e s e a s p e c t s o f C a n a d i a n - A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s w e r e i n t r o d u c e d a g a i n a n d a g a i n , a n d w e r e i l l u s t r a t e d b y v e r y c o n v e n t i o n a l i z e d s e t t i n g s , c h a r a c t e r s , a n d i n c i d e n t s . S o m e s o r t o f n e w i m p u l s e o r n e w p e r s p e c t i v e w a s o b v i o u s l y n e e d e d , i f t h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y i m a g e o f C a n a d a w a s n o t t o d e g e n e r a t e i n t o a r e p e t i t i v e r e c i t a l o f p l a t i t u d e s . I n t h e l a t t e r p a r t o f t h e c e n t u r y , o n e i m p o r t a n t A m e r i c a n w r i t e r r e v e a l e d i n h i s o w n e c c e n t r i c a n d i n i m i t a b l e f a s h i o n t h a t t h e r e m i g h t b e m o r e t o C a n a d a t h a n t h e f a m i l i a r s t e r e o t y p e s a n d c o n v e n t i o n a l i t i e s . W a l t W h i t m a n ' s w r i t i n g s o n C a n a d a a r e o b s c u r e a n d u n p o l i s h e d , a n d h a d n o d i r e c t i n f l u - e n c e o n h i s c o n t e m p o r a r y c o u n t r y m e n ; b u t t h e y r e p r e s e n t a n i m p o r t a n t i n d i c a t i o n o f t h e i m a g i n a t i v e p o s s i b i l i t i e s w h i c h t h e c o u n t r y o f f e r e d t o t h e c r e a t i v e m i n d . 2 2 5 N o t e s t o C h a p t e r 9 " ' " W i l b u r R. J a c o b s , L e t t e r s o f F r a n c i s P a r k m a n , I I , 1 9 0 ( n . ) . 2 C h a r l e s H a i g h t F a r n h a m , " T h e C a n a d i a n H a b i t a n t , " H a r p e r ' s N e w M o n t h l y M a g a z i n e , 6 7 ( A u g . , 1 8 8 3 ) , 3 8 1 . 3 F a r n h a m , " C a n a d i a n V o y a g e u r s o n t h e S a g u e n a y , " H a r p e r ' s , 7 6 ( M a r c h , 1 8 8 8 ) , 5 4 9 . 4 F a r n h a m , " Q u e b e c , " H a r p e r ' s , 7 6 ( F e b . , 1 8 8 8 ) , 3 5 7 . . 5 I b i d . 6 F a r n h a m , " L a b r a d o r , " H a r p e r ' s , 7 1 ( O c t . , 1 8 8 5 ) , 6 5 1 . 7 F a r n h a m , " A W i n t e r i n C a n a d a , " H a r p e r ' s , 6 8 ( F e b . , 1 8 8 4 ) , 3 9 4 . 8 " T h e C a n a d i a n H a b i t a n t , " 3 7 8 . 9 I b i d . , 3 7 9 . 1 0 I b i d . , 3 8 4 . i : L I b i d . , 3 8 7 . 1 2 I b i d . , 3 8 4 . 1 3 " C a n a d i a n V o y a g e u r s o n t h e S a g u e n a y , " 5 4 1 . 1 4 J o h n B u r r o u g h s , " T h e H a l c y o n i n C a n a d a , " L o c u s t s a n d W i l d H o n e y ( 1 8 7 9 ; r p t . B o s t o n : H o u g h t o n M i f f l i n , 1 9 0 7 ) , p . 2 0 8 . 1 5 I b i d . , p . 2 0 9 . 1 6 I b i d . , p . 2 4 0 . 1 7 I b i d . , p p . 2 2 7 - 2 8 . 1 8 T h o r e a u , T h e M a i n e W o o d s , W a l d e n e d . ( 1 9 0 6 ; r p t . N e w Y o r k : A M S P r e s s , 1 9 6 8 ) , p . 7 7 . 1 9 B u r r o u g h s , " T h e H a l c y o n i n C a n a d a , " p . 2 1 9 . 2 0 I b i d . , p . 2 2 8 . 2 1 I b i d . , p . 2 1 7 . 2 2 6 2 2 R o w l a n d E . R o b i n s o n , U n c l e L i s h a ' s O u t i n g ( B o s t o n : H o u g h t o n M i f f l i n , 1 8 9 7 ) , p . 2 9 . 23 H e n r y V a n D y k e , " T h e K e e p e r o f t h e L i g h t , " T h e R u l i n g P a s s i o n : T a l e s o f N a t u r e a n d H u m a n N a t u r e ( N e w Y o r k : C h a r l e s S c r i b n e r ' s S o n s , 1 9 0 1 ) , p . 2 6 2 . 2 4 G e o r g e C . R a n k i n , B o r d e r C a n u c k s : O u r F r i e n d l y R e l a t i o n s ( D e t r o i t : G . C . R a n k i n , 1 8 9 0 ) , p p . 2 5 0 - 5 1 . 2 5 F l o r e n c e W i l k i n s o n E v a n s , T h e L a d y o f t h e F l a g - f l o w e r s ( C h i c a g o : H e r b e r t S . S t o n e , 1 8 9 9 ) , p . 5 5 . 2 6 R o b e r t G r a n t , J a c k i n t h e B u s h ; o r A S u m m e r o n a S a l m o n R i v e r ( B o s t o n : J o r d o n , M a r s h & C o . , 1 8 8 8 ) , p . 2 5 . 2 7 S . W e i r M i t c h e l l , W h e n A l l t h e W o o d s A r e G r e e n ( 1 8 9 4 ; r p t . N e w Y o r k : C e n t u r y , 1 9 0 5 ) , p . 3 3 4 . 2 8 I b i d . , p . 2 1 1 . 2 9 M i t c h e l l ' s d e b a t e w i t h H o l m e s i s b r i e f l y t r a c e d b y E r n e s t E a r n e s t , i n h i s b i o g r a p h y S . W e i r M i t c h e l l : N o v e l i s t a n d P h y s i c i a n ( P h i l a d e l p h i a : U n i v e r s i t y o f P e n n s y l v a n i a P r e s s , 1 9 5 0 ) , p a s s i m . 227 X WHITMAN AND THE NORTHWESTERN FRONTIER 1. In the summer of 1880, Walt Whitman v i s i t e d Canada at the i n v i t a t i o n of Dr. Richard M. Bucke, a p s y c h i a t r i s t and clergyman of London, Ontario. In company with Dr. Bucke (who, from t h i s v i s i t and other experiences wrote the f i r s t f u l l - l e n g t h biography of the poet), Whitman made a few rambling excursions i n southwestern Ontario, then took the standard tour by r a i l r o a d and lake steamer to Toronto, Mont- r e a l , Quebec, and the Saguenay region. The poet reported his b r i e f impressions of t r a v e l i n two a r t i c l e s published i n the London Advertiser, "Summer Days i n Canada" (June 22, 1880), and "Letter From Walt Whitman" (Aug. 26, 1880). These two a r t i c l e s , with a few digressions omitted and some other minor changes, were included i n Whitman's c o l l e c t i o n of autobio- graphical notes, Specimen Days (1882). In addition, Whitman kept a completely d i f f e r e n t and somewhat longer account of his Canadian travels i n a diary, and made various fragmentary notes which he may have intended to work up into poems or essays. The diary and notes were edited by William Sloane Kennedy and published i n 1904 as Walt Whitman's Diary i n Canada. In various parts of Leaves of Grass, Whitman refers with orthographic e c c e n t r i c i t y to "Kanada" and "Kanadians." One 228 of the catalogues i n "Song of Myself," for instance, envis- ages the poet "at home on Kanadian snow-shoes"; and "Our Old Feuillage" refers vaguely to "Kanada, the snows," along with other features of the American continent. These references are obviously intended as evocations of a poetic or mythologi- c a l image, a part of Whitman's i n f i n i t e l y optimistic v i s i o n of the New World, i n the context of which any "facts" about nineteenth-century Canada are v i r t u a l l y i r r e l e v a n t . S i g n i - f i c a n t l y , Whitman's notes and essay fragments about the actual Canada which he f i n a l l y v i s i t e d i n 1880 do not contra- d i c t t h i s poetic image. The d i s t i n c t i v e feature of his comments on Canada i s the consistent enthusiasm about the natural and s o c i a l phenomena of the North. Whitman does not have ambivalent feelings about the northern wilderness, nor does he have any reservations about the various ambiguities and contradictions involved i n the b i c u l t u r a l society. Indeed, he seems to d e l i b e r a t e l y d i s t o r t or suppress c e r t a i n observable aspects of the country—or more p r e c i s e l y , he seems to look at the country from a highly subjective point of view — i n order to create an image of Canada which accords with his u n i f i e d and optimistic v i s i o n of America. Throughout Whitman's Canada writings one of his f a v o r i t e words, "amplitude," occurs again and again: the country as a whole has " i t s own charms and amplitudes" (SJD, 345);"'" even the summer a i r i n Canada has an "amplitude and heavenly perfection" (Diary, p. 2); and the Thousand Islands region of t h e S t . L a w r e n c e h a s " a n a m p l i t u d e a n d p r i m a l n a t u r a l n e s s " ( D i a r y , p . 2 3 ) . I n c o n j u n c t i o n w i t h t h e s e s u g g e s t i o n s o f l i m i t l e s s n a t u r a l v i s t a s , W h i t m a n r e p e a t e d l y u s e s s u c h s e n - s u o u s l y o r i e n t e d w o r d s a s " v o l u p t u o u s , " " d e l i c i o u s , " " g l o r - i o u s , " " r e f u l g e n t , " a n d " m a g n i f i c e n t " t o i n d i c a t e t h e p r i m e v a l b e a u t y a n d p u r i t y o f t h e C a n a d i a n s c e n e r y . I n s o u t h w e s t e r n O n t a r i o t h e " v e r d u r e " i s s u p e r i o r t o a n y t h i n g h e h a s e v e r s e e n ; a n d t h e r e i s " a m e l l o w , r i c h , d e l i c a t e , a l m o s t f l a v o r e d a i r " ( D i a r y , p . 2 ) . T h e T h o u s a n d I s l a n d s a r e " t h e m o s t b e a u t i f u l e x t e n s i v e r e g i o n o f l a k e s a n d i s l a n d s o n e c a n p r o b a b l y s e e o n e a r t h " ( D i a r y , p . 2 4 ) . " L a n d o f p u r e a i r ! " W h i t m a n e x c l a i m s a t o n e p o i n t i n t h e D i a r y . " L a n d o f u n n u m b e r e d l a k e s ! L a n d o f t h e i s l e t s a n d t h e w o o d s ! " ( D i a r y , p . 2 5 ) . I n a d d i t i o n t o s u c h e f f u s i o n s o v e r t h e c l i m a t e a n d s c e n e r y , h e m a k e s o c c a s i o n a l p a s s i n g r e f e r e n c e t o p e o p l e h e h a s o b s e r v e d o n h i s t r a v e l s . B u t t h e s e r e f e r e n c e s a r e i m p e r s o n a l , o b j e c t i v e , a n d f r e q u e n t l y h y p e r - b o l i c , l i k e t h e d e s c r i p t i o n s o f n a t u r e . A g r o u p o f s c h o o l c h i l d r e n i n t h e O n t a r i o t o w n o f S a r n i a a r e " h e a l t h i e r , h a n d - s o m e r , m o r e i n t e l l i g e n t o r d e c o r o u s " t h a n a n y h e h a s e v e r s e e n ( D i a r y , p . 9 ) ; f r o m t h e s h o r e o f t h e ' S t . C l a i r r i v e r h e r e p o r t s t h e " h a n d s o m e , i n s p i r i n g s i g h t " o f b o a t - r a c i n g c r e w s o u t p r a c t i s i n g ( D i a r y , p . 3 ) ; i n t h e f a r m l a n d a r o u n d L o n d o n h e w a t c h e s " g r o u p s o f t a n - f a c e d m e n g o i n g f r o m w o r k " ( D i a r y , p . 1 4 ) . A n d l a t e r , i n Q u e b e c , h e u s e s s t a g e i m a g e r y t o d e s - c r i b e t h e F r e n c h C a n a d i a n s : 2 3 0 T h e i n h a b i t a n t s p e c u l i a r t o o u r e y e s ; m a n y m a r k e d c h a r - a c t e r s , l o o k s , b y - p l a y s , c o s t u m e s , e t c . , t h a t w o u l d m a k e t h e f o r t u n e o f a c t o r s w h o c o u l d r e p r o d u c e t h e m . ( D i a r y , p . 3 2 ) U n l i k e s u c h o b s e r v e r s a s H o w e l l s o r F a r n h a m , w h o h a v e t h e r e a l i s t ' s c o n c e r n f o r t h e c l o s e a n d c a r e f u l d e p i c t i o n o f o b s e r v a b l e d e t a i l , W h i t m a n s e e m s d e l i b e r a t e l y t o s t a n d b a c k f r o m t h e s p e c t a c l e o f C a n a d a , t o p r e s e n t i t s v a r i o u s f e a t u r e s i n v e r y b r i e f a n d g e n e r a l i z e d d e s c r i p t i o n s , t h e n m o v e o n q u i c k l y t o a c o m p r e h e n s i v e s u m m a t i o n o f t h e c o u n t r y , a s u m - m a t i o n r e l a t e d t o h i s c o n c e p t i o n o f N o r t h A m e r i c a a s a w h o l e . T h u s v e r y e a r l y i n t h e f i r s t a r t i c l e o r i g i n a l l y w r i t t e n f o r t h e L o n d o n A d v e r t i s e r , h e o f f e r s h i s r e m a r k s o n t h e C a n a d i a n p o p u l a t i o n : F r o m w h a t I a l r e a d y s e e , I s h o u l d s a y t h e y o u n g n a t i v e p o p u l a t i o n o f C a n a d a w a s g r o w i n g u p , f o r m i n g a h a r d y , d e m o c r a t i c , i n t e l l i g e n t , r a d i c a l l y s o u n d , a n d j u s t a s A m e r i c a n , g o o d - n a t u r e d a n d i n d i v i d u a l i s t i c r a c e , a s t h e a v e r a g e r a n g e o f b e s t s p e c i m e n s a m o n g u s . (SD_, 2 4 0 ) . A n d s h o r t l y a f t e r w a r d , h e r e l a t e s t h i s i m a g e t o a n e x p l i c i t a n d r a d i c a l l y s i m p l e p o l i t i c a l p r o p h e c y : I t s e e m s t o m e a c e r t a i n t y o f t i m e , s o o n e r o r l a t e r , t h a t C a n a d a s h a l l f o r m t w o o r t h r e e g r a n d S t a t e s , e q u a l a n d i n d e p e n d e n t , w i t h t h e r e s t o f t h e A m e r i c a n U n i o n . - T h e S t . L a w r e n c e a n d l a k e s a r e n o t f o r a f r o n t i e r l i n e , b u t a g r a n d i n t e r i o r o r m i d - c h a n n e l . ( S D , 2 4 1 ) . T o o t h e r A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s , s u c h a s H o w e l l s a n d H e n r y J a m e s a n d E . L . G o d k i n , t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f A m e r i c a n a n n e x a t i o n o f C a n a d a i s n o t a n e n t i r e l y p l e a s a n t o r d e s i r a b l e p r o s p e c t , b e c a u s e i t w o u l d i n v o l v e t h e d i s a p p e a r a n c e o f c e r t a i n u n i q u e a n d v a l u a b l e s o c i a l t r a d i t i o n s . W h i t m a n , h o w e v e r , d o e s n o t suggest that the d i s t i n c t i v e elements of Canada would d i s - appear with the f u l f i l m e n t of h i s v i s i o n of a pan-continental United States. On the contrary, some of these elements are an i n t e g r a l part of the v i s i o n . Observing along the St. Lawrence the seemingly endless rows of narrow farms and neat farmhouses (the same farmhouses which Thoreau represented as symbols of Canada's parochialism), Whitman merges a v i s i o n of Arcadia with a prophecy of an i n f i n i t e l y evolving North American Utopia: I see, or imagine I see i n the future, a race of two m i l l i o n farm-families, ten m i l l i o n people—every farm running down to the water, or at l e a s t i n sight of i t — the best a i r and drink and sky and scenery of the globe, the sure foundation-nutriment of heroic men and women. (Diary, p. 42) Although Whitman speaks e x p l i c i t l y about annexation, his reactions to Canada cannot be judged i n simple p o l i t i c a l terms. His Canada notes are e s s e n t i a l l y an emotional and aesthetic reaction to the sense of vast and v i r t u a l l y l i m i t - less space which the northern country seems to o f f e r to the imaginative observer. Even h i s most prosaic j o t t i n g s , such as a r e c i t a l of s t a t i s t i c s , emphasize t h i s aspect of Canada: "Total Dominion, 3,500,000 square miles. . . . Area equal to the whole of Europe. Population, 1880, four to f i v e m i l l i o n s " (Diary, p. 42). Other l i t e r a r y Americans, such as Thoreau and Howells and James, comment on the vastness of the Canadian wilderness, but what usually s t r i k e s them i s i t s ominous s o l i d i t y , i t s oppressiveness, which crowd the puny human 2 3 2 c o m m u n i t i e s u p a g a i n s t t h e , r i v e r s a n d l a k e s a n d o c e a n . W h i t - m a n ' s C a n a d a , o n t h e o t h e r h a n d , o p e n s o u t e n d l e s s l y t o t h e n o r t h a n d w e s t , o f f e r i n g y e t a n o t h e r f r o n t i e r f o r h i s h e r o i c N o r t h A m e r i c a n s i n t h e i r p u r s u i t o f t h e p e r f e c t d e m o c r a t i c s o c i e t y . 2 . W h i t m a n , l i k e T h o r e a u , i s a b l e t o c r e a t e a n i m a g i n a t i v e c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e C a n a d i a n f r o n t i e r w h i l e f o l l o w i n g t h e w e l l - w o r n t o u r i s t r o u t e s o f e a s t e r n C a n a d a . B u t w h i l e T h o r e a u e v o k e d v i s i o n s o f t h e i m p e n e t r a b l e f o r e s t s t r e t c h i n g n o r t h t o H u d s o n B a y , W h i t m a n ' s e x u b e r a n t a n d p r o p h e t i c t o n e s c o n s t a n t l y b r i n g t o m i n d t h e v a s t a n d o p e n v i s t a s o f t h e W e s t . A n d j u s t a s T h o r e a u h a d h i s l e s s i m a g i n a t i v e s u c c e s s o r s w h o t r a v e l e d t o L a b r a d o r i n s e a r c h o f t h e " W i l d , " s o i n t h e l a s t t w o d e c a d e s o f t h e c e n t u r y s e v e r a l l i t e r a r y A m e r i c a n s h e a d e d f o r t h e C a n a d i a n n o r t h w e s t i n s e a r c h o f a n e w f r o n t i e r . O n e o f t h e f i r s t A m e r i c a n b o o k s t o c e l e b r a t e t h e C a n a d - i a n w e s t w a s a w o r k w i t h t h e e v o c a t i v e t i t l e D a y l i g h t L a n d ( 1 8 8 8 ) . T h e a u t h o r , W . H . H . M u r r a y ( w h o h a s b e e n p r e v i o u s l y m e n t i o n e d a s t h e a u t h o r o f t w o h i s t o r i c a l r o m a n c e s i n i m i t a - t i o n o f J a m e s F e n i m o r e C o o p e r ) , o r i g i n a l l y a c h i e v e d b r i e f l i t e r a r y f a m e w i t h A d v e n t u r e s i n t h e W i l d e r n e s s ( 1 8 6 9 ) , a s e m i - c o m i c w o r k o f t r a v e l i n f o r m a t i o n a n d p e r s o n a l n a r r a t i v e w h i c h i n i t i a t e d a r u s h o f a m a t e u r c a m p e r s a n d h u n t e r s t o t h e 2 A d i r o n d a c k r e g i o n o f N e w Y o r k . D a y l i g h t L a n d a p p a r e n t l y r e p r e s e n t s a n a t t e m p t t o i n s p i r e a s i m i l a r d e g r e e o f i n t e r e s t 2 3 3 among Americans i n the Canadian west, by describing a t r i p on the new Canadian P a c i f i c railway from Toronto to Vancouver. As l i t e r a t u r e , the book i s almost without value. It i s pro- bably modeled on Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad, for i t s t h i n narrative involves a group of j o v i a l American t o u r i s t s who spend most of t h e i r time t e l l i n g jokes and t a l l t a l e s . But buried within the interminable digressions and s t a l e humor i s an image of Canada which i s a v i r t u a l sequel to the v i s i o n which Whitman conceived while following the well-worn routes of the eastern t o u r i s t regions. In Ontario and Quebec Whitman found "room enough for the summer recreation of a l l 3 North America," and had envisaged a nation of "ten m i l l i o n farm f a m i l i e s , " constantly growing and expanding into the i n f i n i t e v i s t a s of the future. Murray makes more s p e c i f i c but no less extravagant prophecies about the Canadian west: Port Arthur, at the head of Lake Superior, w i l l eventually be "one of the largest c i t i e s on the continent"; "a m i l l i o n of American wheat farmers" w i l l eventually occupy the Canadian p r a i r i e s ; the northwest wilderness "from Calgary . . . to the great Mackenzie basin" w i l l provide an inexhaustible source of game for American sportsmen; and B r i t i s h Columbia w i l l y i e l d "a lumber supply for the whole world for centuries to ..4 come. As these references suggest, Murray assumes (like Whit- man) that p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l differences between the two countries w i l l eventually be rendered i r r e l e v a n t as t h e i r 234 r e s p e c t i v e p o p u l a t i o n s m e r g e i n a g r a d u a l p r o c e s s o f n o r t h w a r d a n d w e s t w a r d e x p a n s i o n . A s a n i n t e r e s t i n g c o r o l l a r y t o t h i s a s s u m p t i o n , h o w e v e r , M u r r a y r e p e a t e d l y i m p l i e s t h a t t h e e x p a n s i o n i n t o C a n a d a w i l l b e p a r t l y t h e c o n s e q u e n c e o f t h e g r a d u a l d e c l i n e o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . A m e r i c a n s w i l l m o v e i n t o t h e C a n a d i a n n o r t h w e s t b e c a u s e t h e i r o w n a g r i c u l t u r a l r e g i o n s a n d w i l d e r n e s s f r o n t i e r s a r e s h r i n k i n g . " A s t h e s o i l t o t h e s o u t h [ s a y s o n e o f M u r r a y ' s c h a r a c t e r s ] u n d e r o u r s i l l y s y s t e m o f a g r i c u l t u r e b e c o m e s e x h a u s t e d . . . t h e w h e a t 5 g r o w e r s m u s t a n d w i l l m o v e n o r t h w a r d . " I n h i s t w o f i n a l c h a p t e r s o n B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a , M u r r a y l a m e n t s t h e d e s t r u c t i o n o f t h e g i a n t f i r t r e e s i n a n d a r o u n d t h e n e w c i t y o f V a n c o u v e r , a n d h i n t s t h a t t h e w a n t o n d e s t r u c - t i o n o f n a t u r a l r e s o u r c e s w h i c h h a s t a k e n p l a c e i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s m a y b e r e p e a t e d i n C a n a d a u n t i l t h e r e i s n o w i l d e r n e s s l e f t i n N o r t h A m e r i c a a t a l l . B u t t h e p r e v a i l i n g t o n e o f D a y l i g h t L a n d i s o p t i m i s t i c . T h e a u t h o r l a m e n t s " t h a t l i f e m u s t f o r e v e r f e e d i t s g r o w t h o n d e a t h , a n d h u m a n p r o g r e s s a d v a n c e o n l y o v e r t h e r u i n s o f t h e p e r f e c t , a n d h e a c k n o w - l e d g e s t h a t n a t u r e h a s b e e n g r i e v o u s l y r a v a g e d i n h i s o w n c o u n t r y ; b u t h e i s c o n f i d e n t t h a t N o r t h A m e r i c a i s l a r g e e n o u g h a n d r i c h e n o u g h i n n a t u r a l r e s o u r c e s t o s u p p o r t a v i r t u a l l y l i m i t l e s s e x p a n s i o n o f c i v i l i z a t i o n . T h e s a m e k i n d o f o p t i m i s m i s e v i d e n t i n " C o m m e n t s o n C a n a d a " ( 1 8 9 0 ) , a l o n g e s s a y b y C h a r l e s D u d l e y W a r n e r , w h o a l s o r o d e t h e C a n a d i a n P a c i f i c f r o m e a s t e r n C a n a d a t o V a n c o u - ver. Warner, who so contemptuously dismissed the slow and backward c i v i l i z a t i o n of Cape Breton i n Baddeck (1874), was delighted with the bustling energy and "free independent 7 s p i r i t " of the Canadian west. He did not, however, conclude that western Canadian society i s merely the northern extension of i t s /American counterpart. "One can mark already with tolerable distinctness a Canadian type which i s neither Eng- l i s h nor /American." There i s i n the western regions of the new Dominion "a d i s t i n c t f e e l i n g of n a t i o n a l i t y , and i t i s g increasing." In Warner's view, Canada's westward expansion i s an admirable r e f l e c t i o n of the e a r l i e r experience of the United States, and an i n d i c a t i o n of the younger country's ultimate a b i l i t y to e x i s t i n a state of independence and equality with i t s southern neighbor. Inevitably, the Canadian west attracted the attention of the l i t e r a r y d i s c i p l e s of Theodore Roosevelt. In the l a s t decade of the nineteenth century, many leading American maga- zines regularly presented feature a r t i c l e s about "roughing i t " i n the northern p r a i r i e s and mountains by young and a t h l e t i c j o u r n a l i s t s who sought l i k e t h e i r "rough r i d e r " i d o l to achieve a well-balanced l i f e of i n t e l l e c t u a l and physical a c t i v i t i e s . Roosevelt himself does not seem to have had much i n t e r e s t i n Canada: i n a l l his many volumes of essays dealing with hunting and camping, there i s no mention of expeditions across the northern border; and as for Canadian society and p o l i t i c a l i n s t i t u t i o n s , his essay on "The Monroe 2 3 6 D o c t r i n e " ( o r i g i n a l l y p u b l i s h e d i n t h e B a c h e l o r o f A r t s , 1 8 9 6 ) , c l e a r l y i n d i c a t e s t h a t h e r e g a r d e d t h e " c o l o n y " w i t h c o n t e m p t . S o m e o f h i s f o l l o w e r s , h o w e v e r , w e r e n o t s o i l l d i s p o s e d t o w a r d s C a n a d a ; a n d e s p e c i a l l y a s t h e y g r e w i n c r e a s - i n g l y c o n s c i o u s o f t h e i r o w n r a p i d l y s h r i n k i n g f r o n t i e r s , t h e y l o o k e d e a g e r l y n o r t h w a r d t o t h e v a s t u n p o p u l a t e d s p a c e s w h i c h s e e m e d t o o f f e r l i m i t l e s s o p p o r t u n i t i e s f o r t h e p u r s u i t o f t h e " s t r e n u o u s l i f e . " T y p i c a l o f s u c h w r i t i n g i s a c o l l e c t i o n o f a r t i c l e s b y t h e N e w Y o r k j o u r n a l i s t J u l i a n R a l p h ( 1 8 5 3 - 1 9 0 3 ) , o r i g i n a l l y p u b l i s h e d i n H a r p e r ' s , a n d c o l l e c t e d u n d e r t h e t i t l e O n C a n a d a ' s F r o n t i e r ( 1 8 9 2 ) . R a l p h , a c c o m p a n i e d b y F r e d e r i c R e m i n g t o n ( w h o i l l u s t r a t e d t h e b o o k ) , p r o c e e d e d p a r t l y b y r a i l a n d p a r t l y o n h o r s e b a c k a c r o s s t h e p r a i r i e s a n d t h r o u g h t h e R o c k y M o u n t a i n s t o V a n c o u v e r . R e m i n g t o n , a w o u l d - b e n o v e l i s t a n d e s s a y i s t a s w e l l a s a n a r t i s t , a l s o w r o t e a b o u t • C a n a d a i n M e n w i t h t h e B a r k O n ( 1 9 0 0 ) , a c o l l e c t i o n o f a r t i c l e s a b o u t l i f e o n t h e C a n a d i a n a n d A m e r i c a n f r o n t i e r s . A n o t h e r a u t h o r b e l o n g i n g t o t h i s t r a d i t i o n i s C a s p a r W h i t n e y , a p e r s o n a l f r i e n d a n d H a r v a r d c l a s s m a t e o f R o o s e v e l t , w h o w r o t e a b o u t h u n t i n g i n N o r t h e r n A l b e r t a a n d t h e N o r t h w e s t T e r r i t o r i e s i n O n S n o w - S h o e s t o t h e B a r r e n G r o u n d s ( 1 8 9 6 ) . A l l t h e s e a u t h o r s s e e t h e C a n a d i a n n o r t h w e s t a s t h e l a s t g r e a t u n d e v e l o p e d f r o n t i e r i n A m e r i c a . L i k e R o o s e v e l t , t h e y a r e c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e p r o b l e m s o f a d m i n i s t e r i n g a n d s e t t l i n g w i l d e r n e s s a r e a s , a n d w i t h t h e c o n s e r v a t i o n o f w i l d l i f e a n d 2 3 7 natural resources. Ralph has some c r i t i c i s m of the Canadian treatment of the Indians ("the p o l i c y of the Canadian govern- ment has been to make t r e a t i e s with the dangerous t r i b e s and 9 to l e t the peaceful ones starve"), and Whitney expresses fear that the musk-oxen of the Northwest T e r r i t o r i e s may shortly be hunted to e x t i n c t i o n . But l i k e most TAmericans of t h e i r time, they accept as i n e v i t a b l e the processes of c i v i l - i z a t i o n and progress. On the whole, they tend to express g r a t i f i c a t i o n that they have l i v e d early enough to experience f r o n t i e r l i f e i n North 7America, rather than regret that the f r o n t i e r i s disappearing. A more sensitive reaction to the Canadian northwest i s expressed i n a neglected but l i t e r a r i l y distinguished personal narrative by the eminent r e a l i s t of the American middle west, Hamlin Garland. The T r a i l of the Gold Seekers (1899) t e l l s of Garland's unsuccessful attempt to j o i n the Klondike gold rush by means of the notoriously d i f f i c u l t overland route through B r i t i s h Columbia. Beginning at the town of Ashcroft, Garland proceeded on horseback through the immense and sparsely s e t t l e d wilderness, f i n a l l y reaching A t l i n Lake i n the northwest corner of the province. After i n v e s t i g a t i n g a small gold s t r i k e i n the l a t t e r region, he abandoned h i s ambitions to reach the Klondike, and proceeded to Wrangell i n the Alaskan panhandle, where he took steamship passage down the coast to S e a t t l e . Early i n his n a r r a t i v e , Garland explains why he undertook 2 3 8 t h i s a r d u o u s t e s t o f p h y s i c a l e n d u r a n c e a n d s k i l l : I b e l i e v e d t h a t I w a s a b o u t t o s e e a n d t a k e p a r t i n a m o s t p i c t u r e s q u e a n d i m p r e s s i v e m o v e m e n t a c r o s s t h e w i l d e r n e s s . I b e l i e v e d i t t o b e t h e l a s t g r e a t m a r c h o f t h e k i n d w h i c h c o u l d e v e r c o m e i n A m e r i c a , s o r a p i d l y w e r e t h e w i l d p l a c e s b e i n g s e t t l e d u p . I w i s h e d , t h e r e - f o r e , t o t a k e p a r t i n t h i s t r a m p o f t h e g o l d s e e k e r s , t o b e o n e o f t h e m , a n d r e c o r d t h e i r d e e d s . I w i s h e d t o r e t u r n t o t h e w i l d e r n e s s a l s o , t o f o r g e t b o o k s a n d t h e o r i e s o f a r t a n d s o c i a l p r o b l e m s , a n d c o m e a g a i n f a c e t o f a c e w i t h t h e g r e a t f r e e s p a c e s o f w o o d s a n d s k i e s a n d s t r e a m s . I w a s n o t a g o l d s e e k e r , b u t a n a t u r e h u n t e r , a n d I w a s e a g e r t o e n t e r t h i s , t h e w i l d e s t r e g i o n y e t r e m a i n i n g i n N o r t h A m e r i c a . 1 0 G a r l a n d w a s h a r d l y i n t e r e s t e d a t a l l i n n o r t h w e s t e r n C a n a d a a s p a r t o f a d i s t i n c t i v e p o l i t i c a l a n d s o c i a l e n t i t y . M o s t o f t h e t o w n s a n d e v e n m u c h o f t h e l a n d s c a p e i n B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a r e m i n d e d h i m o f h i s o w n " m i d d l e b o r d e r " c o u n t r y o r o f o t h e r p a r t s o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . T h e t o w n o f A s h c r o f t " r e s e m b l e d a n o r d i n a r y c o w - t o w n i n t h e W e s t e r n S t a t e s " ; t h e t e r r a i n a r o u n d A s h c r o f t " s e e m e d d r y a s a s h e s , a n d t h e h i l l s w h i c h r o s e n e a r r e s e m b l e d t h o s e o f M o n t a n a o r C o l o r a d o . " L a t e r i n t h e t r i p , " w e c a m p e d a t n i g h t j u s t o u t s i d e t h e l i t t l e v i l l a g e c a l l e d C l i n t o n , w h i c h w a s n o t u n l i k e a t o w n i n V e r m o n t . " A g a i n , t h e v i l l a g e o f S o d a C r e e k i s " n o t u n l i k e a s m a l l M i s s o u r i R i v e r t o w n " ; a n d a s i d e - t r i p t h r o u g h t h e o l d C a r i b o o m i n i n g d i s t r i c t " c a l l e d u p i n m y m i n d v i s i o n s o f t h e h o t s a n d s , a n d t h e s u n - l i t b u t t e s a n d v a l l e y s o f A r i z o n a a n d M o n t a n a . . . . " x ± A s t h e s e c o n s t a n t l y r e c u r r i n g a l l u s i o n s s u g g e s t , T h e T r a i l o f t h e G o l d S e e k e r s i s a p r o l o n g e d n o s t a l g i c l a m e n t , n o t o n l y f o r t h e p a s s i n g o f t h e " w i l d p l a c e s " o f N o r t h A m e r i c a , b u t f o r t h e p a s s i n g o f t h e p i o n e e r e r a i n t h e h i s t o r y o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . I s h a l l n o t s o o n f o r g e t t h e s h i n i n g v i s t a s t h r o u g h w h i c h w e r o d e , . . . n o r t h e m e a d o w s w h i c h p o s s e s s e d a l l t h e a l l u r e m e n t a n d m y s t e r y w h i c h t h e w o r d " s a v a n n a " h a s a l w a y s h a d f o r m e . I t w a s l i k e g o i n g b a c k t o t h e p r a i r i e s o f I n d i a n a , I l l i n o i s , a n d I o w a , a s t h e y w e r e s i x t y y e a r s a g o . . . .12 I n d i r e c t c o n t r a s t t o W h i t m a n ' s e n t h u s i a s t i c v i s i o n o f C a n a d a a s a v i r t u a l l y i n f i n i t e f r o n t i e r f o r f u t u r e A m e r i c a n p r o g r e s s a n d s e t t l e m e n t , G a r l a n d ' s n o r t h w e s t s e r v e s m a i n l y a s a r e m i n d e r t h a t a n o l d e r a n d s i m p l e r w a y o f l i f e , t o g e t h e r w i t h t h e f r o n t i e r w h i c h p r o d u c e d i t , h a s a l m o s t v a n i s h e d f r o m h i s o w n c o u n t r y . 2 4 0 N o t e s t o C h a p t e r 1 0 X A 1 1 q u o t a t i o n s f r o m W h i t m a n ' s C a n a d i a n w r i t i n g s r e f e r t o S p e c i m e n D a y s , e d . F l o y d S t o v a l l ( N e w Y o r k : N e w Y o r k U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s , 1 9 6 3 ) , o r t o W a l t W h i t m a n ' s D i a r y i n C a n a d a , w i t h E x t r a c t s f r o m O t h e r o f h i s D i a r i e s a n d L i t e r a r y N o t e - b o o k s , e d . W i l l i a m S l o a n e K e n n e d y ( B o s t o n : S m a l l , M a y n a r d , 1 9 0 4 ) . 2 A d e t a i l e d a n d w e l l d o c u m e n t e d o u t l i n e o f M u r r a y ' s l i f e a n d l i t e r a r y c a r e e r i s p r o v i d e d b y W a r d e r H . C a d b u r y i n h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o a r e c e n t r e p r i n t o f A d v e n t u r e s i n t h e W i l d e r - n e s s ( S y r a c u s e : T h e A d i r o n d a c k M u s e u m / S y r a c u s e U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s , 1 9 7 0 ) . 3 W a l t W h i t m a n ' s D i a r y i n C a n a d a , p . 2 6 . 4 W . H . H . M u r r a y , D a y l i g h t L a n d ( B o s t o n : C u p p l e s a n d H u r d , 1 8 8 8 ) , p p . 9 5 , 1 4 7 , 1 4 0 , 3 1 2 . 5 I b i d . , p p . 1 4 6 - 4 7 . 6 I b i d . , p . 3 1 4 . 7 C h a r l e s D u d l e y W a r n e r , S t u d i e s i n t h e S o u t h a n d W e s t , w i t h C o m m e n t s o n C a n a d a ( L o n d o n : T . F i s h e r U n w i n , 1 8 9 0 ) , p . 4 3 7 . 8 I b i d . , p p . 4 5 3 , 4 5 5 . 9 J u l i a n R a l p h , O n C a n a d a ' s F r o n t i e r ( N e w Y o r k : H a r p e r & B r o t h e r s , 1 8 9 2 ) , p . 1 6 . x ^ H a m l i n G a r l a n d , T h e T r a i l o f t h e G o l d S e e k e r s : A R e c o r d o f T r a v e l i n P r o s e a n d V e r s e ( N e w Y o r k : M a c m i l l a n , 1 8 9 9 ) , p . 8 . 1 : L I b i d . , p p . 1 3 , 2 2 , 2 7 , 3 4 . 1 2 I b i d . , p . 6 0 . 241 X I C O N C L U S I O N : T H E K L O N D I K E A N D A F T E R H a m l i n G a r l a n d ' s g o l d s e e k e r , m a k i n g h i s w a y t o w a r d s t h e n o r t h w e s t e r n v e r g e o f t h e A m e r i c a n c o n t i n e n t t o t a k e p a r t i n t h e l a s t g r e a t f r o n t i e r m i g r a t i o n , r e p r e s e n t s t h e c u l m i n a t i o n o f a l i t e r a r y a n d h i s t o r i c a l t r a d i t i o n a n d a n i n t i m a t i o n o f d e v e l o p m e n t s t o c o m e . T h r o u g h o u t t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , a n d e a r l i e r , C a n a d a h a s b e e n a n i m a g e o f r e m o t e a n d p r i m i t i v e w i l d n e s s i n t h e A m e r i c a n i m a g i n a t i o n . I t h a s a l s o r e p r e s e n t e d c e r t a i n s o c i a l a n d p o l i t i c a l a l t e r n a t i v e s t o t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , a n d a t v a r i o u s t i m e s t h e l a t t e r a s p e c t s o f t h e n o r t h e r n c o u n t r y h a v e b e e n g i v e n c o n s i d e r a b l e p r o m i n e n c e . B u t b y t h e e n d o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t h e w i l d e r n e s s f r o n - t i e r i s c l e a r l y t h e d o m i n a n t A m e r i c a n n o t i o n o f C a n a d a : H a m l i n G a r l a n d ' s f a s c i n a t i o n w i t h t h e s e e m i n g l y e n d l e s s f o r e s t s a n d p l a i n s o f n o r t h e r n B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a i s e c h o e d i n t h e w o r k s o f m a n y o t h e r w r i t e r s w h o s e e k t o e v o k e t h e s i m p l e a n d p r i m i t i v e e x p e r i e n c e a s s o c i a t e d w i t h t h e e a r l y A m e r i c a n p a s t . T h i s e f f u s i o n o f " w i l d e r n e s s n o s t a l g i a " i s p a r t i c u l a r l y e v i d e n t i n t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f t h e K l o n d i k e . M o s t o f t h e w r i t e r s w h o w r o t e a b o u t t h e K l o n d i k e , l i k e m o s t o f t h e p a r t i - c i p a n t s i n t h e g o l d r u s h , w e r e n a t i v e s o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ; a n d t h e i r n o v e l s , p e r s o n a l r e m i n i s c e n c e s , a n d p o e m s e v o k e t h e s e t t i n g a n d e x p e r i e n c e s i n t e r m s r e c a l l i n g t h e A m e r i c a n " w i l d w e s t " o f l i t e r a t u r e a n d f o l k l o r e , o r t h e e a r l i e r p i o n e e r d a y s o f L e a t h e r s t o c k i n g a n d D a n i e l B o o n e . I n t h i s c o n t e x t , t h e d i s t i n c t i v e n a t i o n a l f e a t u r e s o f C a n a d a a r e i g n o r e d , o r c o m m e m o r a t e d o n l y i n s t e r e o t y p e d a l l u s i o n s t o " M o u n t i e s , " F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n w o o d s m e n , a n d C a n a d i a n g o v e r n m e n t b u r e a u c r a c y w h i c h f o r c e d t h e l a t t e r - d a y p i o n e e r s t o s u b m i t t o i n c o n v e n - i e n t c u s t o m s i n s p e c t i o n s a n d o t h e r w i s e h e d g e d i n t h e g r e a t f r o n t i e r e x p e r i e n c e . I t w a s v e r y e a s y f o r A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s t o f o r g e t o r m i n i m i z e t h e f a c t t h a t t h e K l o n d i k e w a s p a r t o f C a n a d a , f o r t h e C a n a d i a n n o r t h w e s t w a s g e o g r a p h i c a l l y c o n t i - g u o u s w i t h a n d a l m o s t i n d i s t i n g u i s h a b l e f r o m a v a s t w i l d e r n e s s r e g i o n w h i c h a c t u a l l y w a s p a r t o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . " A l a s k a " a n d " t h e K l o n d i k e " w e r e g e n e r a l l y t h o u g h t o f a n d r e f e r r e d t o i n t e r c h a n g e a b l y . * N a t i o n a l d i s t i n c t i o n s a r e a l m o s t i r r e l e v a n t i n t h e f i c t i o n o f t h e b e s t k n o w n l i t e r a r y c h r o n i c l e r o f t h e n o r t h e r n g o l d r u s h , J a c k L o n d o n . T h e r e a r e , i t i s t r u e , c e r t a i n C a n a d i a n " l o c a l c o l o r " e l e m e n t s i n L o n d o n ' s f i c t i o n . I n T h e C a l l o f t h e W i l d ( 1 9 0 3 ) t h e d o g B u c k i s t e m p o r a r i l y o w n e d b y t w o m a c k i n a w - c l a d p a t o i s - s p e a k i n g F r e n c h C a n a d i a n s , a n d L o n d o n d w e l l s b r i e f l y o n t h e u n i q u e l y C a n a d i a n p a r a d o x o f t h e c o n s c i e n t i o u s d e v o t i o n o f t h e s e t w o d e s c e n d a n t s o f o l d F r a n c e t o t h e t a s k o f c a r r y i n g h e r B r i t a n n i c m a j e s t y ' s m a i l s . A n d t h e s h o r t s t o r y " T o t h e M a n o n T r a i l " ( i n c l u d e d i n T h e S o n o f t h e W o l f , 1 9 0 0 ) f e a t u r e s a d e d i c a t e d M o u n t i e r e s o l u t e l y s e t t i n g f o r t h o n t h e " l o n g t r a i l " i n t h e m i d s t o f a b l i z z a r d 2 4 3 t o p u r s u e a f u g i t i v e f r o m j u s t i c e . L o n d o n w a s m u c h m o r e f a m i l i a r w i t h C a n a d a t h a n t h e s e s t e r e o t y p e d i m a g e s i n h i s K l o n d i k e f i c t i o n m i g h t s u g g e s t . I n 1 8 9 4 , h e " r o d e t h e r o d s " f r o m C a l i f o r n i a t o N e w E n g l a n d , a n d m a d e t h e r e t u r n t r i p o n t h e C a n a d i a n P a c i f i c , f r o m M o n t r e a l t o V a n c o u v e r . T h i s y e a r a s a v a g a b o n d h e d e s c r i b e d i n t h e s e m i - f i c t i o n a l T h e R o a d ( 1 9 0 7 ) , m u c h o f w h i c h i s c o n c e r n e d w i t h h i s a d v e n t u r e s d o d g i n g t h e C a n a d i a n p o l i c e a n d b e g g i n g h a n d o u t s a t F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n f a r m h o u s e s a n d i n t h e b a c k s t r e e t s o f O t t a w a , W i n n i p e g , a n d V a n c o u v e r . B u t T h e R o a d w a s w r i t t e n w h i l e L o n d o n w a s v e r y m u c h u n d e r t h e i n f l u e n c e o f s o c i a l i s t d o c t r i n e , a n d o n e o f i t s m a i n a r g u m e n t s i s t h a t t r a d i t i o n a l d i s t i n c t i o n s s u c h a s n a t i o n a l b o u n d a r i e s a r e l e s s i m p o r t a n t i n t h e m o d e r n w o r l d t h a n t h e d i s t i n c t i o n b e t w e e n r i c h a n d p o o r . H e n c e T h e R o a d d e l i b e r a t e l y e m p h a s i z e s t h e s i m i l a r i t i e s b e t w e e n C a n a d a a n d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . T h e n a r r a - t i v e r a n g e s w i t h e r r a t i c d i s c u r s i v e n e s s f r o m O h i o t o M a n i t o b a , f r o m S a n F r a n c i s c o t o M o n t r e a l , t o d e m o n s t r a t e t h a t e v e r y - w h e r e i n N o r t h / A m e r i c a t h e p o o r a n d u n d e r p r i v i l e g e d a r e r e l e g a t e d t o a c r u e l " u n d e r g r o u n d " e x i s t e n c e o n t h e e d g e o f s t a r v a t i o n a n d d e s p a i r . I n a s i m i l a r w a y , L o n d o n ' s K l o n d i k e f i c t i o n i s d o m i n a t e d b y t h e n a t u r a l i s t i c d o c t r i n e s w h i c h h e d e r i v e d f r o m h i s e c l e c t i c r e a d i n g o f H e r b e r t S p e n c e r , N i e t z s c h e , a n d o t h e r s . I n s t e a d o f d i s t i n g u i s h i n g b e t w e e n C a n a d a a n d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , L o n d o n e s t a b l i s h e s a b a s i c c o n t r a s t b e t w e e n t h e " N o r t h l a n d " 2 4 4 a n d t h e " S o u t h l a n d . " T h e " N o r t h l a n d " o f h i s s h o r t s t o r i e s a n d n o v e l s i s a l m o s t a l w a y s i d e n t i f i a b l e a s t h e r e g i o n w h i c h h e a c t u a l l y s a w w h e n h e w e n t t o t h e K l o n d i k e i n 1 8 9 7 , b e t w e e n t h e s e a p o r t a t D y e a , A l a s k a a n d D a w s o n C i t y i n t h a t p a r t o f t h e C a n a d i a n N o r t h w e s t T e r r i t o r y l a t e r t o b e c o m e t h e Y u k o n . O c c a s i o n a l l y , a s i n " T h e W h i t e S i l e n c e " ( T h e S o n o f t h e W o l f ) , a n d i n t h e s t o r i e s a b o u t I n d i a n s a n d E s k i m o s i n C h i l d r e n o f t h e F r o s t ( 1 9 0 2 ) , h e e v o k e s a m o r e r e m o t e a n d s e m i - m y t h o l o g i - c a l r e g i o n o f p e r p e t u a l i c e a n d s n o w . T h i s i m a g e o f t h e N o r t h , a l t h o u g h b a s e d o n g e o g r a p h i c a l r e g i o n s a n d e x p e r i e n c e s s i m i l a r t o t h o s e i n T h e T r a i l o f t h e G o l d S e e k e r s , d i f f e r s s t r i k i n g l y f r o m G a r l a n d ' s . I n s t e a d o f l o o k i n g b a c k n o s t a l - g i c a l l y t o a n e a r l i e r f r o n t i e r p e r i o d i n U n i t e d S t a t e s h i s t o r y , L o n d o n e v o k e s a p r i m i t i v e o r p r i m e v a l e p o c h s u g g e s t - i n g t h e v e r y e a r l i e s t s t a g e s i n h u m a n h i s t o r y , w h e n m e n w h o w e r e h a r d l y d i f f e r e n t i a t e d f r o m b e a s t s b e g a n t o a s s e r t t h e i r c o n t r o l o v e r t h e i r e n v i r o n m e n t a n d o v e r e a c h o t h e r b y b r u t e s t r e n g t h a n d c u n n i n g . P a r a d o x i c a l l y , t h i s i m a g e o f t h e r e m o t e p a s t i s a l s o a n i m a g e o f t h e f u t u r e . A s p e o p l e m o v e i n t o t h e h a r s h a n d v i o l e n t a r c t i c e n v i r o n m e n t , t h e m o r e h i g h l y d e v e l o p e d r a c e s w i l l d r i v e o u t t h o s e l e s s a d v a n c e d a n d l e s s a m e n a b l e t o c h a n g e . T h i s i s t h e t h e m e o f s u c h s t o r i e s a s " T h e S o n o f t h e W o l f " a n d " A n O d y s s e y o f t h e N o r t h " ( b o t h i n T h e S o n o f t h e W o l f ) , w h i c h d e a l w i t h t h e e f f e c t o n I n d i a n a n d E s k i m o c u l t u r e o f t h e a d v e n t o f w h i t e m e n . A n d a s " I n a F a r C o u n t r y " ( T h e S o n o f t h e W o l f ) a n d " T o B u i l d a F i r e " 245 (Lost Face, 1910) e f f e c t i v e l y demonstrate, the p h y s i c a l l y weak and unadaptable even among the "superior" race w i l l degenerate and die i n t h i s environment. London's "Northland" i s thus a^grim v i s i o n of the primi- t i v e struggle for existence. The v i s i o n i s not e n t i r e l y pessimistic, for i t does not imply that the movement north- ward i s an implacable process of h i s t o r i c a l i n e v i t a b i l i t y . In The C a l l of the Wild London traces the career of a dog who i s v i r t u a l l y transformed into«'a wolf i n what appears to be a deterministic process, when he i s c a r r i e d against his w i l l from his native "Southland" into the north; but i n White Fang (1906), London argues that the process can be reversed, i n the story of a wolf from the Klondike region who i s taken to C a l i f o r n i a and transformed by love into a domestic pet. The same process i s applied to human experience i n Burning Day^ l i g h t (1910), the story of an exuberant f r o n t i e r character from the Klondike who eventually s e t t l e s down to a quiet and c i v i l i z e d l i f e as a rancher i n C a l i f o r n i a . As these l a t t e r works suggest, there i s ultimately an i m p l i c i t n a t i o n a l i s t i c theme i n London's f i c t i o n . In opposi- t i o n to his dramatic exaltation of the "Northland" and of the supermen and super dogs who triumph i n the struggle for s u r v i v a l , he asserts a b e l i e f i n c i v i l i z e d society (or more s p e c i f i c a l l y , c i v i l i z e d American society) where the weak and the strong can e x i s t together under a p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l system based on j u s t i c e and benevolence. 2 4 6 A m e r i c a n n a t i o n a l i s m i s a m u c h m o r e p r o m i n e n t a s p e c t o f t h e f i c t i o n o f R e x B e a c h ( 1 8 7 7 - 1 9 4 9 ) . B e a c h d i d n o t i n s i s t o n a n e m p h a t i c d i s t i n c t i o n b e t w e e n t h e N o r t h l a n d a n d t h e S o u t h ; m u c h o f h i s f i c t i o n i s c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e t h e m e o f b r i n g i n g t h e s o c i a l s t r u c t u r e s o f A m e r i c a n c i v i l i z a t i o n t o t h e n o r t h e r n f r o n t i e r . H a v i n g p a r t i c i p a t e d i n t h e g o l d r u s h t o N o m e , A l a s k a , r a t h e r t h a n i n t h e K l o n d i k e s t a m p e d e , h e o f t e n u s e s t h e A l a s k a n s e t t i n g w i t h p o i n t e d r e f e r e n c e t o t h e f a c t t h a t i t i s d i s t i n c t i v e l y A m e r i c a n . H i s b e s t k n o w n w o r k , T h e S p o i l e r s ( 1 9 0 8 ) , i s a d r a m a t i z a t i o n o f t h e f i g h t a g a i n s t c o r r u p t p o l i t i c i a n s a n d b u s i n e s s m e n i n A l a s k a b y m e a n s o f t h e p o p u l a r " b i g s t i c k " p h i l o s o p h y o f d i r e c t a c t i o n p r o p o g a t e d b y T h e o d o r e R o o s e v e l t . T h i s m i l i t a n t f o r m o f A m e r i c a n d e m o c r a c y s p r e a d s i n t o C a n a d a i n B e a c h ' s o n e n o v e l o f t h e K l o n d i k e g o l d r u s h , T h e W i n d s o f C h a n c e ( 1 9 1 8 ) , w h i c h d e p i c t s t h e e n e r g e t i c a d v e n t o f A m e r i c a n c o m m e r c i a l a n d p o l i t i c a l i n i t i a t i v e i n t o t h e C a n a d i a n N o r t h w e s t T e r r i t o r y . A n o t h e r n o v e l - w r i t i n g d i s c i p l e o f T h e o d o r e R o o s e v e l t w a s M i c h i g a n - b o r n S t e w a r t E d w a r d W h i t e ( 1 8 7 3 - 1 9 4 6 ) . W h i t e d i d n o t j o i n t h e g o l d r u s h t o t h e n o r t h w e s t , b u t m a d e a s e r i e s o f c a m p i n g t r i p s t o n o r t h e r n O n t a r i o , t h e m a i n l i t e r a r y r e s u l t s o f w h i c h w e r e a b o o k o f e s s a y s , T h e F o r e s t ( 1 9 0 3 ) , a n d a n o v e l , T h e S i l e n t P l a c e s ( 1 9 0 4 ) . T h e t h e m e o f T h e S i l e n t P l a c e s , p r e s e n t e d t h r o u g h a r a t h e r m e l o d r a m a t i c p l o t , i s t h e f a m i l i a r c o n f l i c t b e t w e e n p r i m i t i v i s m a n d p r o g r e s s . I n t h e f o r e s t w i l d e r n e s s s o u t h w e s t o f J a m e s B a y , t w o a g e n t s o f t h e H u d s o n ' s 2 4 7 B a y C o m p a n y p u r s u e a n I n d i a n t r a p p e r w h o h a s r e n e g e d o n h i s a n n u a l d e b t t o t h e t r a d i n g p o s t . W h i t e d e p i c t s w i t h s y m p a t h y a n d i n s i g h t t h e O j i b w a y a n d C r e e n a t i v e s o f t h e O n t a r i o w i l d e r n e s s , a n d c o n d e m n s t h e d i s r u p t i o n w h i c h t h e w h i t e m e r c a n t i l e s o c i e t y h a s i n t r o d u c e d i n t o t h e i r a n c i e n t w a y o f l i f e ; b u t u l t i m a t e l y , l i k e m o s t o t h e r d i s c i p l e s o f R o o s e v e l t , h e a c k n o w l e d g e s t h e i n e v i t a b l e a s c e n d a n c y o f w h i t e c i v i l i z a - t i o n . " W e r e g r e t , " w r o t e W h i t e i n T h e B l a z e d T r a i l ( 1 9 0 2 ) , a n o v e l s e t o n t h e n o r t h w e s t e r n M i c h i g a n - O n t a r i o f r o n t i e r , " t h e p a s s i n g o f t h e I n d i a n , t h e b u f f a l o , t h e g r e a t p i n e f o r e s t s , f o r t h e y a r e o f t h e p i c t u r e s q u e ; b u t w e l i v e g l a d l y 2 o n t h e p r o d u c t o f t h e f a r m s t h a t h a v e t a k e n t h e i r p l a c e s . " T h e e s s a y s i n T h e F o r e s t a r e m o r e d i r e c t l y c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e p i c t u r e s q u e e l e m e n t s i n t h e n o r t h e r n f r o n t i e r , a n d w i t h t h e e x p r e s s i o n o f r e g r e t f o r t h e i r p r e s u m a b l y i n e v i t a b l e p a s s i n g . H e r e , W h i t e p a y s t r i b u t e t o t h e I n d i a n s , F r e n c h C a n a d i a n s , a n d A n g l o - C a n a d i a n s e t t l e r s i n t h e r e g i o n o f t h e n o r t h s h o r e o f L a k e H u r o n . T h e f r i e n d l y a n d n o s t a l g i c m o o d o f T h e F o r e s t r e c a l l s T h e T r a i l o f t h e G o l d S e e k e r s ; l i k e G a r l a n d i n B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a , W h i t e f i n d s i n n o r t h e r n O n t a r i o a v e s t i g i a l r e f l e c t i o n o f t h e g r e a t p i o n e e r e r a o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . W h i t e ' s T h e F o r e s t i s a l s o i n t h e t r a d i t i o n o f H e n r y V a n D y k e ' s f i s h i n g e s s a y s a n d S . W e i r M i t c h e l l ' s l e i s u r e l y r o m a n c e o f t h e o u t d o o r l i f e , W h e n A l l t h e W o o d s A r e G r e e n . T h e i d y l l i c p i c t u r e o f C a n a d a a s a s p o r t s m a n ' s a n d n a t u r e - h u n t e r ' s p a r a d i s e c a n b e f o u n d r e p e a t e d l y i n e a r l y t w e n t i e t h - 2 4 8 c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , i n t h e p a g e s o f t h e O u t l o o k m a g a z i n e , f o r i n s t a n c e ( w h e r e T h e F o r e s t o r i g i n a l l y a p p e a r e d ) , o r i n t h e m o n t h l y p e r i o d i c a l F o r e s t a n d S t r e a m . A m o n g n o t a b l e l i t e r a r y m e m o i r s o f o u t d o o r r e c r e a t i o n i n C a n a d a m i g h t b e m e n t i o n e d a w o r k b y M a r k T w a i n ' s f r i e n d a n d l i t e r a r y e x e c u t o r A l b e r t B i g e l o w P a i n e , T h e T e n t D w e l l e r s ( 1 9 0 8 ) , a s e m i - c o m i c a n d n o s t a l g i c a c c o u n t o f t h e a d v e n t u r e s a n d m i s - a d v e n t u r e s o f t w o A m e r i c a n t o u r i s t s o n a f i s h i n g e x p e d i t i o n i n t h e N o v a S c o t i a b a c k w o o d s . A l a t e r a n d m o r e s i g n i f i c a n t e x a m p l e o f t h i s g e n r e , w h i c h i n t r o d u c e s c e r t a i n i r o n i c v a r i a t i o n s o n t h e b a c k - t o - n a t u r e t h e m e , i s S i n c l a i r L e w i s ' s n o v e l M a n t r a p ( 1 9 2 6 ) . I n M a n t r a p , t w o N e w Y o r k b u s i n e s s m e n w i t h d r a w t o t h e n o r t h e r n w i l d s o f M a n i t o b a f o r a s e c l u d e d v a c a t i o n o f c a m p i n g a n d f i s h i n g . B e f o r e t h e y s e t - o u t , o n e o f t h e t o u r i s t s s u b - j e c t i v e l y e n v i s a g e s t h e e x p e d i t i o n : T h e L o n g T r a i l . A d i m p a t h a m o n g e n o r m o u s s p r u c e s . O v e r h e a d , g o l d - g r e e n l i g h t s l i p p i n g t h r o u g h t h e b r a n c h e s . L o s t L a k e s , r e f l e c t i n g a s e b o n y t h e s i l v e r o f b i r c h g r o v e s . T h e i r o n n i g h t , a n d i n t h e v a s t s i l e n c e m o r e b r i l l i a n t s t a r s . G r i m w o r d l e s s I n d i a n s , t a l l a n d h a w k - n o s e d , f o l l o w i n g f o r l e a g u e o n l e a g u e t h e t r a i l o f a w o u n d e d m o o s e . A l o g c a b i n , a n d a t t h e d o o r a l o v e l y I n d i a n p r i n c e s s . A t r a p p e r s - b e a r i n g a p a c k o f f u r s — l u x u r i a n t e r m i n e a n d c r o s s - f o x a n d b e a v e r . 3 T h e s u b s e q u e n t r e a l i t y , a s t h e e x a g g e r a t e d d i c t i o n o f t h i s v i s i o n i r o n i c a l l y p r e f i g u r e s , i n v o l v e s d i s c o m f o r t a n d i n c o n - v e n i e n c e , s q u a b b l i n g b e t w e e n t h e t w o t o u r i s t s , l a z y a n d s t u p i d I n d i a n g u i d e s , a n d a t t h e e n d o f t h e " l o n g t r a i l " t h e n o r t h e r n v i l l a g e o f M a n t r a p L a n d i n g , w h i c h t u r n s o u t t o b e 2 4 9 a n o t h e r A m e r i c a n " M a i n S t r e e t , " c o m p l e t e w i t h t h e e c o n o m i c b i t t e r n e s s o f t h e c a p i t a l i s t c o m p e t i t i v e s y s t e m , a n d a l l t h e p e t t y s o c i a l r i v a l r i e s o f s m a l l - t o w n A m e r i c a n s o c i e t y . T h e t h e m a t i c d e v e l o p m e n t o f M a n t r a p r e c a l l s H o w e l l s ' T h e Q u a l i t y o f M e r c y , w h i c h s i m i l a r l y i n v o l v e d a f l i g h t i n t o t h e n o r t h e r n w i l d e r n e s s , e n d i n g i n a n i r o n i c e n c o u n t e r w i t h c o n d i t i o n s s i m i l a r t o t h o s e f r o m w h i c h t h e p r o t a g o n i s t w a s f l e e i n g . B u t s i g n i f i c a n t l y , a l m o s t a l l t h e p e o p l e i n M a n t r a p L a n d i n g a r e c i t i z e n s o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , a n d L e w i s m a k e s i t c l e a r t h a t t h e y h a v e a b s o r b e d t h e i r p e t t i n e s s a n d c o m p e t i t i v e n e s s f r o m t h e i r u r b a n A m e r i c a n b a c k g r o u n d . T h e p o s s i b i l i t y t h a t C a n a d a , s t i l l a n o s t e n s i b l y u n d e v e l o p e d a n d u n s p o i l e d c o u n t r y , m i g h t b e a b l e t o p r o d u c e a m o r a l l y s u p e r i o r b r e e d o f i n d i v i d u a l , i s s e t f o r t h i n t h e p e r s o n o f t h e o n e C a n a d i a n i n t h e s t o r y , a n a m i a b l e a n d g u i l e l e s s t r a d e r f r o m N e w B r u n s w i c k , w h o e m b o d i e s s u c h v i r t u e s a s h o n e s t y a n d s e l f - r e l i a n c e w h i c h t h e A m e r i c a n s l a c k . T h i s i d e a l i z a t i o n o f C a n a d a a n d C a n a d i a n s i s o b v i o u s l y a r e v e r s a l o f s u c h n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s a s M i t c h e l l ' s W h e n A l l t h e W o o d s A r e G r e e n , w h i c h a s s e r t t h e s u p e r i o r i t y o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s o v e r C a n a d a . O b v i o u s l y , t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y b e l i e f i n p r o g r e s s a n d c i v i l i z a t i o n i s g i v i n g w a y i n s o m e q u a r t e r s t o s k e p t i c i s m a b o u t t h e a c h i e v e - m e n t s o f A m e r i c a n s o c i e t y . A n d i n L e w i s ' s c a s e , t h i s s k e p t i c - i s m i s a c c o m p a n i e d b y a r a t h e r n a i v e i d e a l i z a t i o n o f C a n a d i a n s a s a n e w b r e e d o f i n t r e p i d a n d v i r t u o u s p i o n e e r s c o n t r a s t i n g t o t h e u r b a n i z e d a n d d e c a d e n t A m e r i c a n s . 2 5 0 M a n t r a p i s i n m a n y w a y s a w e a k n o v e l , f o r L e w i s d o e s n o t s e e m t o b e a b l e t o d e c i d e w h e t h e r t h e o b j e c t o f h i s s a t i r e i s A m e r i c a n s o c i e t y o r m e r e l y " t h e c h i l d i s h h u r t s a n d s q u a b b l e s 4 b y w h i c h w e p o i s o n l i f e . " A n d h i s a t t i t u d e s t o t h e s e t t i n g a n d c h a r a c t e r s s e e m t o v a r y s o m e w h a t e r r a t i c a l l y f r o m c y n i c - i s m t o s y m p a t h y . B u t h i s n o v e l r e p r e s e n t s a n i n t e r e s t i n g , i f d i f f u s e , i m a g i n a t i v e r e s p o n s e t o C a n a d a b y o n e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n a u t h o r o f p r o m i n e n t c r i t i c a l a n d p o p u l a r r e p u t a t i o n . T h e m o s t p r e d o m i n a n t i m a g e o f ' C a n a d a i n t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e ( a t l e a s t i n q u a n t i t a t i v e t e r m s ) s e e m s t o b e l o n g t o a c o n s i d e r a b l y l o w e r l e v e l o f a c h i e v e m e n t . T h e m o d e r n i m a g i n a t i v e u r g e t o g o " b a c k t o n a t u r e " h a s b e e n e x p r e s s e d i n a p r o l i f i c t r a d i t i o n o f p o p u l a r f i c t i o n , i n v o l - v i n g i t i n e r a n t a d v e n t u r e r s ( u s u a l l y A m e r i c a n ) , M o u n t i e s , t r a p p e r s , a n d I n d i a n s , i n m e l o d r a m a t i c s i t u a t i o n s i n t h e " f r o z e n n o r t h . " T h e e x t e n t o f t h i s t r a d i t i o n i s e x t r e m e l y d i f f i c u l t t o m e a s u r e , s i n c e i t c o m p r i s e s e p h e m e r a l " p u l p " a n d j u v e n i l e w o r k s , a s w e l l a s a g r e a t m a n y h a r d l y m o r e d u r a b l e r o m a n t i c a d v e n t u r e n o v e l s o s t e n s i b l y a d d r e s s e d t o a d u l t s . A l m o s t a n y r e f e r e n c e w o r k d e a l i n g w i t h p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e — t h e F i c t i o n I n d e x , f o r i n s t a n c e , o r A . T . D i c k i n s o n ' s A m e r i c a n H i s t o r i c a l F i c t i o n ( 1 9 7 1 ) — i n c l u d e s l a r g e n u m b e r s o f t i t l e s i n t h i s c a t e g o r y . A n i n v e s t i g a t i o n o f t h e s c o p e a n d s i g n i f i - c a n c e o f t h e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y " f r o z e n n o r t h " r o m a n c e i s p r o b a b l y t h e p o t e n t i a l s u b j e c t o f a f a i r l y s u b s t a n t i a l b o o k . 2 5 1 P e r h a p s t h i s t r a d i t i o n c a n b e a d e q u a t e l y e p i t o m i z e d b y o n e o f i t s e a r l i e s t a n d m o s t s u c c e s s f u l p r a c t i t i o n e r s , t h e M i c h i g a n - b o r n n o v e l i s t J a m e s O l i v e r C u r w o o d ( 1 8 7 8 - 1 9 2 7 ) . B e t w e e n 1 9 1 0 a n d 1 9 2 2 , C u r w o o d p u b l i s h e d a b o u t f i f t e e n n o v e l s o f a d v e n t u r e s e t i n w h a t h e c a l l e d " G o d ' s c o u n t r y , " t h e f o r e s t w i l d e r n e s s c o v e r i n g t h e n o r t h e r n p o r t i o n s o f O n t a r i o , M a n i t o b a , S a s k a t c h e w a n a n d A l b e r t a p r o v i n c e s , a n d t h e s o u t h e r n f r i n g e s o f t h e N o r t h w e s t T e r r i t o r i e s . C u r w o o d r e p o r t e d l y m a d e r e g u l a r h u n t i n g a n d e x p l o r i n g e x p e d i t i o n s i n t o t h i s w i l d e r n e s s , b u t h i s f i c t i o n d o e s n o t c o n v e y t h e i m p r e s s i o n o f g e o g r a p h i c a l o r h i s t o r i c a l v e r s i m i l i t u d e . H i s p l o t s a r e e x t r e m e l y s e n t i m e n t a l a n d m e l o d r a m a t i c , u s u a l l y i n v o l v i n g v i o l e n t c o n f l i c t b e t w e e n i t i n e r a n t a d v e n t u r e r s a n d o u t l a w s ( T h e D a n g e r T r a i l , 1 9 1 0 ) , o r " M o u n t i e s " o n t h e t r a i l o f f u g i t i v e s ( P h i l i p S t e e l e o f t h e R o y a l N o r t h w e s t M o u n t e d P o l i c e , 1 9 1 1 ) , a n d d e m u r e b u t r e s o u r c e f u l h e r o i n e s w h o f i g h t a t t h e s i d e o f t h e M o u n t i e o r a d v e n t u r e r ( G o d ' s C o u n t r y — a n d t h e W o m a n , 1 9 1 5 ) . A s C u r w o o d r e v e a l s i n h i s a u t o b i o g r a p h y , S o n o f t h e F o r e s t s ( 1 9 3 0 ) , m o s t o f h i s p l o t s a r e a d a p t e d f r o m e a r l i e r l i t e r a r y s o u r c e s . T w o o f h i s f a v o r i t e a u t h o r s w e r e V i c t o r H u g o , w h o s e e s c a p e - a n d - p u r s u i t m o t i f f r o m L e s M i s e r - a b l e s h e u s e s r e p e a t e d l y , a n d J a c k L o n d o n , w h o s e s u c c e s s C u r w o o d c a n d i d l y a d m i t s h e s e t o u t t o e m u l a t e s i m p l y b y r e p e a t i n g s o m e o f L o n d o n ' s f o r m u l a s o f p l o t a n d s e t t i n g . ^ T h e e x p l o i t a t i o n o f t h e s e d e r i v a t i v e f o r m u l a s w a s a p p a r e n t l y e c o n o m i c a l l y s u c c e s s f u l , f o r a f t e r p u b l i s h i n g T h e V a l l e y o f 2 5 2 S i l e n t M e n ( 1 9 2 0 ) , a " M o u n t i e " m u r d e r m y s t e r y , C u r w o o d w a s " a b l e t o s a y t r u t h f u l l y t h a t [ h e ] w a s t h e b e s t - p a i d n o v e l i s t g i n A m e r i c a . " A f t e r p u b l i s h i n g t w o m o r e r o m a n c e s o f " G o d ' s c o u n t r y " — T h e F l a m i n g F o r e s t ( 1 9 2 1 ) a n d T h e C o u n t r y B e y o n d ( 1 9 2 2 ) — C u r w o o d b r a n c h e d o u t i n t o a s l i g h t l y m o r e s o p h i s t i c a t e d v a r i a - t i o n o n t h e C a n a d i a n t h e m e w i t h a s e r i e s o f h i s t o r i c a l r o m a n c e s a b o u t e a r l y C a n a d a u n d e r t h e F r e n c h r e g i m e . H i s f i r s t t w o e f f o r t s i n t h i s d i r e c t i o n , T h e B l a c k H u n t e r ( 1 9 2 6 ) a n d i t s s e q u e l T h e V P l a i n s o f A b r a h a m ( 1 9 2 8 ) i n v o l v e w e l l - r e s e a r c h e d a n d d e t a i l e d r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s o f N e w F r a n c e d u r i n g t h e t w o o r t h r e e d e c a d e s b e f o r e t h e f a l l o f Q u e b e c , b u t t h e c e n t r a l p l o t s f e a t u r e t h e f a m i l i a r s t e e l - j a w e d h e r o a n d d e m u r e h e r o i n e i n a s e r i e s o f r a t h e r i m p l a u s i b l e a d v e n t u r e s . C u r w o o d ' s n o v e l s o f N e w F r a n c e , l i k e h i s r o m a n c e s o f t h e n o r t h e r n f o r e s t , a r e p a r t o f a q u a n t i t a t i v e l y l a r g e t r a d i t i o n i n t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e . T h e b i b l i o - g r a p h y o f J o s e p h - D e l p h i s G a u t h i e r ' s L e C a n a d a f r a n c , a i s e t l e r o m a n a m l r i c a i n l i s t s a l m o s t o n e h u n d r e d A m e r i c a n h i s t o r i c a l r o m a n c e s p u b l i s h e d b e t w e e n 1 9 0 0 a n d 1 9 4 8 , d e a l i n g w i t h C a n a d a u n d e r t h e F r e n c h r e g i m e . S u b s e q u e n t l i s t s , s u c h a s J a c k V a n D e r h o o f ' s B i b l i o g r a p h y o f N o v e l s R e l a t e d t o A m e r i c a n F r o n t i e r a n d C o l o n i a l H i s t o r y ( 1 9 7 1 ) , i n d i c a t e t h a t t h e p r o d u c t i o n o f r o m a n c e s a b o u t o l d C a n a d a c o n t i n u e s u n a b a t e d . A g a i n , t h i s p r o f u s i o n o f m a t e r i a l p r o b a b l y d e s e r v e s s e r i o u s s t u d y , i n t h e h i s t o r y o f m o d e r n A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r t a s t e , a s w e l l a s i n t h e h i s t o r y o f l i t e r a t u r e . B u t t h i s b r i e f c o n c l u d i n g s u r v e y w i l l c o n s i d e r o n l y t h e o n e w o r k o f w i d e l y a c k n o w l e d g e d l i t e r a r y r e p u t a t i o n , W i l l a C a t h e r ' s S h a d o w s o n t h e R o c k ( 1 9 3 1 ) . W i l l a C a t h e r ' s p i c t u r e o f s e v e n t e e n t h - C e n t u r y C a n a d a , l i k e t h a t o f m a n y o t h e r h i s t o r i c a l r o m a n c e r s , i s h e a v y w i t h l o c a l c o l o r a n d h i s t o r i c a l i n f o r m a t i o n ; b u t t h e a u t h o r i s i n t e r e s t e d i n s o m e t h i n g m o r e t h a n m e r e l y e x p l o i t i n g t h i s m a t e r i a l f o r i t s i n t r i n s i c i n t e r e s t . E s s e n t i a l l y , S h a d o w s o n t h e R o c k , l i k e h e r e a r l i e r 0 P i o n e e r s ! ( 1 9 1 3 ) a n d M y A n t o n i a ( 1 9 1 8 ) , i s c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e a d j u s t m e n t o f E u r o p e a n i m m i - g r a n t s t o t h e N e w W o r l d . T h e Q u e b e c a p o t h e c a r y E u c l i d e A u c l a i r t y p i f i e s t h e r e s o l u t e a n d f o r w a r d - l o o k i n g i m m i g r a n t w h o i s d e t e r m i n e d t o a c c e p t t h e n e w a n d o f t e n h a r s h c o n d i t i o n s o f l i f e i n A m e r i c a , i n s t e a d o f c o n t i n u a l l y p i n i n g f o r t h e f l e s h p o t s o f t h e O l d W o r l d . H i s a n t i t h e s i s i s f o u n d , o n o n e l e v e l , i n M o n s e i g n e u r d e S a i n t - V a l l i e r , w h o i n t w e l v e y e a r s a s B i s h o p o f Q u e b e c h a s s p e n t o n l y f i v e y e a r s i n C a n a d a , a n d o b v i o u s l y l o o k s u p o n t h e N e w W o r l d o n l y a s a c o n v e n i e n t m e a n s o f e n h a n c i n g h i s p o s i t i o n i n t h e O l d . O n a n o t h e r l e v e l , A u c l a i r i s c o n t r a s t e d t o t h e d e f o r m e d w o r k m a n B l i n k e r , w h o i s h o r r i f i e d b y t h e N o r t h A m e r i c a n f o r e s t a n d w h o c a r r i e s a t e r r i b l e b u r d e n o f g u i l t f r o m h i s p a s t e x p e r i e n c e s a s a r o y a l t o r t u r e r i n F r a n c e . B o t h S a i n t - V a l l i e r a n d B l i n k e r t h u s r e t a i n l i n k s w i t h t h e O l d W o r l d w h i c h p r e v e n t t h e m f r o m f u n c t i o n i n g p r o p e r l y i n t h e N e w . B u t W i l l a C a t h e r d o e s n o t s u g g e s t t h a t t h e i m m i g r a n t m u s t c u t h i m s e l f o f f f r o m t h e p a s t 2 5 4 a l t o g e t h e r . O n t h e c o n t r a r y , s h e a c k n o w l e d g e s t h a t h e o f t e n b r i n g s w i t h h i m c e r t a i n v e r y v a l u a b l e t r a d i t i o n s , n o t t h e l e a s t o f w h i c h a r e h i s r e l i g i o u s f o r m s a n d r i t u a l s , w h i c h , i f t h e y o c c a s i o n a l l y l e a d h i m i n t o e x c e s s e s o f e m o t i o n o r a c t i o n , a l s o p r o v i d e a s e n s e o f c u l t u r a l r e f i n e m e n t w h i c h c o u n t e r a c t s t h e p r i m i t i v e a n d b r u t a l i z i n g i n f l u e n c e o f t h e w i l d e r n e s s . " W h e n a n a d v e n t u r e r c a r r i e s h i s g o d s w i t h h i m i n t o a r e m o t e a n d s a v a g e c o u n t r y , " s h e e d i t o r i a l i z e s i n o n e c h a p t e r , " t h e c o l o n y h e f o u n d s w i l l , f r o m t h e b e g i n n i n g , h a v e g r a c e s , 7 t r a d i t i o n s , r i c h e s o f t h e m i n d a n d s p i r i t . " A p a r t f r o m W i l l a C a t h e r , v e r y f e w t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s o f p r e e m i n e n t r e p u t a t i o n h a v e d e v o t e d m u c h a t t e n t i o n t o C a n a d a . I t i s a n o t e w o r t h y f a c t t h a t t h e t w o n o v e l i s t s f r e q u e n t l y a c k n o w l e d g e d a s t h e m o s t s i g n i f i c a n t a n d i n f l u e n t i a l i n m o d e r n A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e — E r n e s t H e m i n g w a y a n d W i l l i a m F a u l k n e r — b o t h h a d C a n a d i a n e x p e r i e n c e s i n t h e i r e a r l y y e a r s , b u t n e i t h e r s e e m s t o h a v e b e e n s i g n i f i - c a n t l y i m p r e s s e d b y t h e c o u n t r y . F a u l k n e r t o o k R A F f l i g h t t r a i n i n g a t T o r o n t o d u r i n g t h e f i r s t w o r l d w a r , b u t t h e o n l y d i r e c t l i t e r a r y r e s u l t o f t h i s e x p e r i e n c e w a s t h e e a r l y s h o r t s t o r y " L a n d i n g i n L u c k " ( f i r s t p u b l i s h e d i n t h e M i s s i s s i p p i a n , 1 9 1 9 , a n d c o l l e c t e d i n E a r l y P r o s e a n d P o e t r y , e d . C a r v e l C o l l i n s , 1 9 6 2 ) . T h e r e i s a n a l l u s i o n i n t h e s t o r y t o " B o r d e n , " w h i c h i s p r e s u m a b l y C a m p B o r d e n , t h e m i l i t a r y b a s e n e a r T o r o n t o , b u t t h e s e t t i n g i s o t h e r w i s e s o g e n e r a l i z e d t h a t i t m i g h t b e E n g l a n d r a t h e r t h a n C a n a d a . L a t e r i n h i s 2 5 5 c a r e e r , w h e n F a u l k n e r d e c i d e d t o i n t r o d u c e a C a n a d i a n e l e m e n t i n t o h i s f i c t i o n , h e c r e a t e d a n e t w o r k o f i m a g e s a n d i d e a s m o r e c l o s e l y r e l a t e d t o t h e t r a d i t i o n a l s e m i - m y t h o l o g i c a l c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e f r o z e n n o r t h , i n s t e a d o f d r a w i n g o n h i s T o r o n t o e x p e r i e n c e s . I n A b s a l o m , A b s a l o m ! ( 1 9 3 6 ) t h e n a r r a t o r - i n t e r l o c u t o r S h r e v e M c C a n n o n i s f r o m E d m o n t o n , A l b e r t a , w h i c h p r e s u m a b l y c o n j u r e s u p v i s i o n s o f s u b - a r c t i c c o l d a n d s n o w i n c o m p l e t e a n t i t h e s i s t o t h e r e f u l g e n t a n d s e m i - t r o p i c a l " s u m m e r o f w i s t a r i a " o f Q u e n t i n C o m p s o n ' s n a t i v e Y o k n a p a t a w p h a C o u n t y , M i s s i s s i p p i . I n t h e c o o p e r a t i v e a t t e m p t t o r e c r e a t e t h e s t o r y o f T h o m a s S u t p e n , S h r e v e " s r e m o t e n e s s f r o m t h e s e t t i n g s a n d e x p e r i e n c e s e n a b l e s h i m t o s e e S u t p e n w i t h a n o b j e c t i v i t y — a n d , f r e q u e n t l y , a n i r o n y — o f w h i c h t h e e m o t i o n - a l l y i n v o l v e d Q u e n t i n i s i n c a p a b l e . A l t h o u g h H e m i n g w a y 1 s C a n a d i a n e x p e r i e n c e w a s m o r e e x t e n - s i v e t h a n F a u l k n e r ' s , h e m a d e e v e n l e s s l i t e r a r y u s e o f t h i s e x p e r i e n c e . I n M a r c h , 1 9 2 0 , h e w e n t t o w o r k f o r t h e T o r o n t o D a i l y S t a r a n d i t s c o m p a n i o n p e r i o d i c a l t h e S t a r W e e k l y , a n d r e m a i n e d i n T o r o n t o u n t i l D e c e m b e r , 1 9 2 1 , s u b s e q u e n t l y e m b a r k i n g f o r E u r o p e a s a f o r e i g n c o r r e s p o n d e n t f o r t h e t w o p a p e r s . D u r i n g h i s s t a y o f n e a r l y t w o y e a r s i n T o r o n t o , h e s e e m s t o h a v e b e e n a s s i g n e d m a i n l y t o t h e " A m e r i c a n b e a t , " t u r n i n g o u t s t o r i e s a n d f e a t u r e a r t i c l e s o n s u c h t o p i c s a s C h i c a g o g a n g s t e r s , r u m - r u n n i n g a c r o s s t h e b o r d e r , a n d ( m o r e i n t e r e s t i n g l y ) C a n a d i a n e v a d e r s o f m i l i t a r y s e r v i c e w h o t o o k r e f u g e i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s i n t h e e a r l y y e a r s o f t h e w a r . 2 5 6 H e a l s o d i d a f e w " o u t d o o r s m a n " a r t i c l e s o f a v e r y c o n v e n t i o n a l t y p e , s u c h a s " T h e B e s t R a i n b o w T r o u t F i s h i n g i n t h e W o r l d i s a t t h e C a n a d i a n S o o " ( S t a r W e e k l y , A u g . 2 8 , 1 9 2 0 ) . H i s o n e d e t a i l e d a t t e m p t t o c o m p a r e t h e t w o c o u n t r i e s w a s a v e r y h a c k n e y e d a n d s u p e r f i c i a l f e a t u r e p u b l i s h e d i n t h e S t a r W e e k l y f o r O c t . 9 , 1 9 2 0 : " T h e a v e r a g e Y a n k d i v i d e s C a n a d i a n s i n t o t w o c l a s s e s — w i l d a n d t a m e . W i l d C a n u c k s w e a r M a c k i n a w b l a n k e t p a n t s a n d a r e c l o s e l y p u r s u e d b y M o u n t e d P o l i c e . T a m e o n e s w e a r s p a t s , s m a l l m o u s t a c h e s , a n d M . C . ' s " ; a n d s o o n , i n m u c h t h e s a m e v e i n , f o r s e v e r a l p a r a g r a p h s . T h e m o s t i m p o r t a n t p o i n t t h a t e m e r g e s f r o m a n e x a m i n a t i o n o f H e m i n g w a y ' s C a n a d i a n j o u r n a l i s m i s t h e f a c t t h a t v e r y l i t t l e i n t i m a t i o n o f h i s l a t e r f i c t i o n a l i n t e r e s t s a p p e a r s u n t i l h e b e g i n s t o s e n d d i s p a t c h e s f r o m E u r o p e . I n t h e t r i v i a l f e a t u r e s a n d r o u t i n e n e w s s t o r i e s w r i t t e n i n T o r o n t o , t h e r e i s n o t h i n g i d e n t i f i a b l e a s t h e d i r e c t s o u r c e o f l a t e r s t o r i e s o r n o v e l s ; b u t v e r y s h o r t l y a f t e r h i s a r r i v a l i n E u r o p e , h e w a s w r i t i n g o f i n c i d e n t s i n t h e e v a c u a t i o n o f T h r a c e w h i c h w e r e l a t e r t o g b e i n c o r p o r a t e d i n t o I n O u r T i m e . T h e r e a r e v a r i o u s p o s s i b l e r e a s o n s w h y C a n a d a f a i l e d t o s t i m u l a t e H e m i n g w a y ' s f i c t i o n - w r i t i n g i m a g i n a t i o n . T h e T o r o n t o p o l i c e c o u r t s , s l u m s , r a c e t r a c k s , a n d n e w s r o o m s t o w h i c h h i s o b s e r v a t i o n w a s m o s t l y c o n f i n e d w e r e p r o b a b l y i n d i s t i n g u i s h - a b l e i n o u t w a r d a p p e a r a n c e f r o m t h e i r c o u n t e r p a r t s i n m o s t c i t i e s o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . E v e n t h e t r o u t - f i s h i n g r e g i o n o f t h e " C a n a d i a n S o o " m u s t h a v e b e e n v i r t u a l l y i d e n t i c a l w i t h 257 t h e u p p e r p e n i n s u l a o f M i c h i g a n w i t h w h i c h h e h a d b e e n f a m i l i a r s i n c e h i s b o y h o o d . B u t p e r h a p s m o r e i m p o r t a n t , H e m i n g w a y t o o k t h e T o r o n t o j o b m a i n l y b e c a u s e i t o f f e r e d t h e p r o s p e c t o f a E u r o p e a n p o s t i n g , a n d h e w a s c l e a r l y a n x i o u s t o j o i n t h e n e w g e n e r a t i o n o f e x p a t r i a t e w r i t e r s ; s o t h e o r i e n t a - t i o n p e r i o d i n T o r o n t o w a s a b a r e l y t o l e r a b l e p r e l i m i n a r y t o b e i m p a t i e n t l y e n d u r e d . F o r t y y e a r s a f t e r H e m i n g w a y ' s T o r o n t o s o j o u r n , a n o t h e r m a j o r A m e r i c a n a u t h o r t o o k a m o r e l e i s u r e l y l o o k a t t h e c i t y , a l o n g w i t h o t h e r p a r t s o f C a n a d a . B u t E d m u n d W i l s o n ' s 0 C a n a d a ( 1 9 6 6 ) i s n o t a b o u t C a n a d i a n s o c i e t y , o r e v e n a b o u t " C a n a d i a n c u l t u r e " a s t h e s u b - t i t l e c l a i m s . R a t h e r , i t i s a c o l l e c t i o n o f a r t i c l e s o r i g i n a l l y p u b l i s h e d i n t h e N e w Y o r k e r o n a f e w r e p r e s e n t a t i v e w o r k s o f E n g l i s h - a n d F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n l i t e r a t u r e . W i l s o n ' s a p p r o a c h t o h i s s u b j e c t , h o w e v e r , i s m a i n l y h i s t o r i c a l a n d s o c i o l o g i c a l ; a n d i n t h e c o u r s e o f p l a c i n g h i s C a n a d i a n w r i t e r s i n t h e i r n a t i o n a l c o n t e x t , h e h a s a f e w c o m m e n t s a b o u t h i s o w n e x p e r i e n c e s a n d t h o u g h t s o f C a n a d a . W i l s o n ' s C a n a d i a n e x p e r i e n c e s w e r e a l m o s t e n t i r e l y c o n - f i n e d t o T o r o n t o a n d M o n t r e a l , a l t h o u g h h e t r i e s t o c o n v e y a m o r e c o m p r e h e n s i v e i m p r e s s i o n o f t h e c o u n t r y b y r e p o r t i n g t h e r e s u l t s o f h i s l i m i t e d h i s t o r i c a l a n d g e o g r a p h i c a l r e s e a r c h e s . I n h i s y o u t h , h e e x p l a i n s e a r l y i n t h e b o o k , h e w a s i n c l i n e d t o t h i n k o f C a n a d a , l i k e m a n y o t h e r A m e r i c a n s , " a s a n i n c o n - c e i v a b l y l i m i t l e s s e x t e n s i o n o f t h e w i l d e r n e s s — t h e ' N o r t h 258 9 W o o d s ' — o f u p s t a t e N e w Y o r k . " I n c o n t r a s t t o t h i s s t e r e o - t y p e d i m a g e , h e r e p o r t s h i s d i s c o v e r y o f C a n a d i a n c i t i e s a n d o f a n u m b e r o f C a n a d i a n w r i t e r s . H e c l a i m s t o f i n d s o m e i n t i m a t i o n o f a d i s t i n c t i v e n a t i o n a l i d e n t i t y i n T o r o n t o , " o f w h i c h i t i s c u s t o m a r y t o s a y t h a t i t i s g e t t i n g t o b e i n d i s - t i n g u i s h a b l e f r o m o u r s i m i l a r c i t i e s i n t h e M i d d l e W e s t b u t w h i c h I f e l t t o h a v e i t s o w n r h y t h m a n d a c c e n t . " 1 0 I n t r y i n g t o d e f i n e t h i s " r h y t h m a n d a c c e n t , " h o w e v e r , t h e b e s t W i l s o n c a n d o i s t a l k b r i e f l y a b o u t t h e h i g h q u a l i t y o f r e s t a u r a n t s , m u s e u m s , a n d a r t g a l l e r i e s . I n M o n t r e a l , h e i s a b l e ( l i k e h i s n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p r e d e c e s s o r s ) t o f i n d m o r e r e a d i l y a s u p e r f i c i a l a p p e a r a n c e o f f o r e i g n n e s s , b u t i n h i s c h a p t e r s o n F r e n c h C a n a d a h e r e l i e s v e r y h e a v i l y o n h i s r e a d i n g r a t h e r t h a n h i s e x p e r i e n c e , a n d e v e n t u a l l y s t r a y s i n t o a l o n g , r a m b l i n g s u m m a r y o f t h e Q u e b e c i n d e p e n d e n c e m o v e m e n t , g l e a n e d e n t i r e l y f r o m b o o k s o n t h e s u b j e c t . A t n o t i m e i n t h e c o l l e c t i o n o f e s s a y s d o e s h e a t t e m p t t o e x p l o r e , o r e v e n m e n t i o n , a n y p o s s i b l e p r i n c i p l e s o f u n i t y ( o r d i s u n i t y ) o r p o i n t s o f c o m p a r i s o n r e l a t i v e t o t h e f a c t t h a t M o n t r e a l a n d T o r o n t o a r e p a r t s o f a s i n g l e p o l i t i c a l e n t i t y . O n t h e w h o l e , 0 C a n a d a c o n v e y s t h e i m p r e s s i o n o f b e i n g t h e r e s u l t o f a n o t e n t i r e l y c o n g e n i a l ( p e r h a p s e v e n d i s t a s t e f u l ) " a s s i g n m e n t . " W i l s o n o b v i o u s l y f i n d s l i t t l e i n C a n a d a t o i n t e r e s t h i m , a n d s o m a k e s r a t h e r n o n - c o m m i t t a l o r p o l i t e l y a p p r o v i n g c o m m e n t s o n t h e c o u n t r y a n d i t s c u l t u r e . O f c o u r s e W i l s o n , H e m i n g w a y , a n d F a u l k n e r d o n o t c o n s t i - 2 5 9 t u t e a n e p i t o m e o f t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . N o d o u b t a d e t a i l e d s t u d y o f t h e m o d e r n A m e r i c a n i m a g e o f C a n a d a w o u l d r e v e a l a m u c h m o r e c o m p l e x p i c t u r e . B u t i n g e n e r a l , i t a p p e a r s t h a t m o d e r n A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s w h o l o o k a t t h e C a n a d i a n p a s t , o r t h e n o r t h e r n w i l d e r n e s s , o r t h e m i l d l y e x o t i c a n o m a l y o f Q u e b e c p r o v i n c e , f i n d m u c h t h e s a m e p h e n o m e n a a s t h e i r n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p r e d e c e s s o r s d i d ; a n d t h o s e w h o l o o k a t m o d e r n C a n a d i a n c i t i e s m e r e l y f i n d a n u n i n t e r e s t i n g r e f l e c t i o n o f t h e i r o w n s o c i e t y . O n t h e w h o l e , i t a p p e a r s t h a t C a n a d a h a s n o t p r o v i d e d a s t i m u l u s t o t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s c o m p a r a b l e t o t h a t r e f l e c t e d i n t h e w o r k s o f L o n g f e l l o w , T h o r e a u , P a r k m a n , a n d H o w e l l s . O r i t m a y b e m o r e a c c u r a t e t o s a y t h a t t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y w r i t e r s h a v e m e r e l y c o n t i n u e d t o e x p r e s s t h e b a s i c a t t i t u d e s a n d i d e a s o r i g i n a l l y d e f i n e d b y L o n g f e l l o w , T h o r e a u , P a r k m a n , a n d H o w e l l s . I n e v i t a b l y , t h e A m e r i c a n i m a g e o f C a n a d a w i l l c o n t i n u e t o g r o w a n d c h a n g e a s t h e t w o c o u n t r i e s g r o w a n d c h a n g e , b u t c e r t a i n b a s i c f e a t u r e s i n t h i s i m a g e w i l l u n d o u b t e d l y r e m a i n c o n s t a n t . T h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y i m a g e o f C a n a d a , l i k e t h e p o l i t i c a l a n d s o c i a l r e l a t i o n s h i p s b e t w e e n t h e t w o c o u n t r i e s , h a s a l w a y s i n v o l v e d — a n d w i l l u n d o u b t e d l y c o n t i n u e t o i n v o l v e — a b a s i c p a r a d o x . T o A m e r i c a n s , C a n a d a i s f a m i l i a r y e t f o r e i g n ; a p a r t o f a n d a p a r t f r o m t h e i r o w n e x p e r i e n c e . W h e n t h e y l o o k t o C a n a d a t h e y s e e , a s t h r o u g h t h e d i s t o r t i o n o f a w a r p e d m i r r o r , a g r o t e s q u e r e f l e c t i o n o f t h e m s e l v e s — o f t h e i r p a s t , t h e i r p r e s e n t , t h e i r f u t u r e . A n d t h e y a l s o s e e a .260 s t r a n g e a l t e r n a t i v e t o t h e m s e l v e s : a n o t h e r A m e r i c a , a s i t m i g h t h a v e b e e n , o r a s i t m i g h t p o s s i b l y b e c o m e . 2 6 1 N o t e s t o C h a p t e r 1 1 * T h e r e i s a c o m p r e h e n s i v e b i b l i o g r a p h i c a l a n d c r i t i c a l s u r v e y o f t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f t h e K l o n d i k e i n a n u n p u b l i s h e d m a s t e r ' s t h e s i s b y W i l l i a m K e i t h H u b b a r d , " T h e K l o n d i k e G o l d R u s h i n L i t e r a t u r e , 1 8 9 6 - 1 9 3 0 " ( D i s s . W e s t e r n O n t a r i o , 1 9 6 9 ) . 2 S t e w a r t E d w a r d W h i t e , T h e B l a z e d T r a i l ( N e w Y o r k : M c C l u r e , P h i l l i p s , 1 9 0 2 ) , p . 1 2 0 . 3 S i n c l a i r L e w i s , M a n t r a p ( N e w Y o r k : H a r c o u r t , B r a c e , 1 9 2 6 ) , p . 1 7 . 4 I b i d . , p . 4 4 . ^ J a m e s O l i v e r C u r w o o d , S o n o f t h e F o r e s t s ( G a r d e n C i t y , N . Y . : D o u b l e d a y , D o r a n , 1 9 3 0 ) , p p . 2 2 3 - 2 4 . 6 I b i d . , p . 2 3 0 . 7 W i l l a C a t h e r , S h a d o w s o n t h e R o c k ( 1 9 3 1 ; r p t . N e w Y o r k : V i n t a g e B o o k s , 1 9 7 1 ) , p . 9 8 . Q S e e " A S i l e n t , G h a s t l y P r o c e s s i o n , " a n d " R e f u g e e s f r o m T h r a c e , " B y - L i n e : E r n e s t H e m i n g w a y ( N e w Y o r k : C h a r l e s S c r i b n e r ' s S o n s , 1 9 6 7 ) , p p . 5 1 - 5 2 , 5 6 - 6 0 . q E d m u n d W i l s o n , 0 C a n a d a ( N e w Y o r k : N o o n d a y P r e s s , 1 9 6 6 ) , p . 3 7 . ° I b i d . , p . 3 8 . 262 A S E L E C T E D B I B L I O G R A P H Y T h e f o l l o w i n g b i b l i o g r a p h y i s a s e l e c t i v e l i s t o f A m e r i c a n w r i t i n g s o n C a n a d a a n d o f r e l e v a n t s e c o n d a r y m a t e r - i a l . T h e P r i m a r y S o u r c e s a n d P a r t B o f t h e S e c o n d a r y S o u r c e s i n c l u d e o n l y i t e m s w h i c h a r e r e f e r r e d t o i n t h e t e x t a n d n o t e s . P a r t A o f t h e s e c o n d a r y s o u r c e s i s a l i s t o f b i b l i o - g r a p h i e s a n d o t h e r r e f e r e n c e w o r k s c o n s u l t e d i n t h e s e a r c h f o r p r i m a r y a n d s e c o n d a r y w o r k s . 2 6 3 P r i m a r y S o u r c e s A l t s h e l e r , J o s e p h A . A S o l d i e r o f M a n h a t t a n a n d h i s A d v e n - t u r e s a t T i c o n d e r o g a a n d Q u e b e c . N e w Y o r k : D . A p p l e t o n , 1 8 8 7 . A r n o l d , B e n e d i c t , e t a l . M a r c h t o Q u e b e c : J o u r n a l s o f t h e M e m b e r s o f A r n o l d ' s E x p e d i t i o n . E d . K e n n e t h R o b e r t s . G a r d e n C i t y , N . Y . : D o u b l e d a y , 1 9 4 7 . [ B a c o n , D e l i a S a l t e r ] . T a l e s o f t h e P u r i t a n s . N e w H a v e n : A . H . M a l t b y , 1 8 3 1 . B a n c r o f t , G e o r g e . H i s t o r y o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s o f A m e r i c a f r o m t h e D i s c o v e r y o f t h e C o n t i n e n t . 6 v o l s . 1 8 8 5 ; r p t . P o r t W a s h i n g t o n , N . Y . : K e n n i k a t P r e s s , 1 9 6 7 . B a r k e r , B e n j a m i n . C e c e l i a ; o r T h e W h i t e N u n o f t h e W i l d e r - n e s s : A R o m a n c e o f L o v e a n d I n t r i g u e . B o s t o n : G l e a s o n ' s P u b l i s h i n g H a l l , 1 8 4 5 . B a r t l e t , W i l l i a m S . T h e F r o n t i e r M i s s i o n a r y : A M e m o i r o f t h e L i f e o f t h e R e v . J a c o b B a i l e y , A . M . , M i s s i o n a r y a t P o w n a l b o r o u g h , M a i n e ; C o r n w a l l i s a n d A n n a p o l i s , N . S . B o s t o n : I d e a n d D u t t o n , 1 8 5 3 . B e a c h , R e x . T h e S p o i l e r s . N e w Y o r k : A . L . B u r t , 1 9 0 6 . . T h e W i n d s o f C h a n c e . N e w Y o r k : H a r p e r & B r o t h e r s , 1 9 1 8 . 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P h i l a d e l p h i a : U n i v e r s i t y o f P e n n s y l v a n i a P r e s s , 1 9 5 0 . ! F o s t e r , C h a r l e s H . " A S t u d y ojf D a v i d A t w o o d W a s s o n . " B e y o n d C o n c o r d : S e l e c t e d W r i t i n g s o f D a v i d A t w o o d W a s s o n . E d . C h a r l e s H . F o s t e r . B l o o m i n g t o n : I n d i a n a U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s , 1 9 6 5 , p p . 1 - 5 8 . I F r y c k s t e d t , O l o v W. I n Q u e s t o f A m e r i c a ; A S t u d y o f H o w e l l s ' E a r l y D e v e l o p m e n t a s a N o v e l i s t . C a m b r i d g e , M a s s . : H a r v a r d U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s , ; 1 9 5 8 . G a u t h i e r , J o s e p h - D e l p h i s . L e C a n a d a f r a n ^ a i s e t l e r o m a n a m d r i c a i n . D i s s . L a v a l , 1 9 4 8 . P a r i s : T o l r a , 1 9 4 8 . 278 Gibson, William M. "Materials and Form i n Howells's F i r s t Novels." /American L i t e r a t u r e , 19 (May, 1947), 158-66. Haliburton, Thomas Chandler. An H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l Account of Nova-Scotia. 2 vols. Halifax: Joseph Howe, 1829. Harding, Walter. A Thoreau Handbook. New York: New York University Press, 1958. Harding, Walter and Carl Bode, ed. The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau. New York: New York University Press, 1958. Hawthorne, Manning, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Dana. The Origin and Development of Longfellow's "Evangeline." Portland, Me.: The Anthoensen Press, 1947. Heckewelder, John. An Account of the History, Manners, and Customs of the Indian Nations who Once Inhabited Penn- sylvania and the Neighboring States. Philadelphia: The American Philosophical Society, [1819]. Hemingway, Ernest. By-line: Ernest Hemingway. Selected A r t i c l e s and Dispatches of Four Decades. Ed. William White. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1967. Howells, William Dean. C r i t i c i s m and F i c t i o n , and Other Essays. Ed. Clara M. Kirk and Rudolf Kirk. New York: New York University Press, 1959. . "The New H i s t o r i c a l Romances." North American Review, 171 (Dec., 1900), 935-48. Klinkowitz, Jerome. "Ethic and Aesthetic: The B a s i l and Isabel March Stories of William Dean Howells." Modern F i c t i o n Studies, 16 (Autumn, 1970), 303-22. Levin, David. History as Romantic Art: Bancroft, Prescott, Motley and Parkman. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1959. L i l j e g r e n , Sten Bodvar. The Canadian Border i n the Novels of J.F. Cooper. Upsala Canadian Studies, 7. Upsala: A.-B. Lundequistska, 1968. Morison, Samuel E l i o t , ed. The Parkman Reader. Boston: L i t t l e , Brown, 1955. Mott, Frank Luther. Golden Multitudes: The Story of Best S e l l e r s i n the United States. New York: Macmillan, 1947. 279 Nevins, A l l a n . "Prescott, Motley, Parkman." American Writers on American Literature. Ed. John Macy. New York: Horace L i v e r i g h t , 1931, pp. 226-42. Parkman, Francis. The Journals of Francis Parkman. Ed. Mason Wade. 2 vols. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1947. . The Letters of Francis Parkman. Ed. with an i n t r o - duction by Wilbur R. Jacobs. 2 vols. Norman: Univer- s i t y of Oklahoma Press, 1960. . Vassal Morton. Boston: P h i l l i p s , Sampson, 1856. Paul, Sherman. The Shores of America: Thoreau's Inward Exploration" Urbana: University of I l l i n o i s Press, 1958. P h i l b r i c k , Thomas. "The Sources of Cooper's Knowledge of Fort William Henry." American L i t e r a t u r e , 36 (May, 1964), 209-14. Schramm, Wilbur L., ed. Francis Parkman: Representative Selections. New York: American Book Company, 19 38. Smith, Henry Nash. V i r g i n Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth. 1950; rpt. New York: Vintage, 1957. Taylor, William R. "Francis Parkman." Pastmasters: Some Essays on American Historians. Ed. Marcus C u n l i f f e and Robin W. Winks. New York: Harper & Row, 1969, pp. 1-38. Thompson, Ralph. "The Maria Monk A f f a i r . " The Colophon, Part Seventeen (1934), No. 6. Thoreau, Henry David. Cape Cod and Miscellanies. Walden ed. 1906; rpt. New York: AMS Press, 1968. . The Maine Woods. Walden ed. 1906; rpt. New York: AMS Press, 1968. Tocqueville, A l e x i s . Democracy i n America. Ed. P h i l l i p s Bradley. 2 vols. New York: Vintage, 1958. . Journey to America. Trans. George Lawrence. Ed. J.P. Mayer. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960. Turner, H. A r l i n . "A Note on Poe's 'Julius Rodman'." University of Texas Studies i n English, 10 (July, 1930) , 147-51. 2 W a d e , M a s o n . F r a n c i s P a r k m a n : H e r o i c H i s t o r i a n . N e w Y o r k T h e V i k i n g P r e s s , 1 9 4 2 . W a l l a c e , P a u l A . W . " C o o p e r ' s I n d i a n s . " J a m e s F e n i m o r e C o o p e r : A R e - A p p r a i s a l . E d . M a r y C u n n i n g h a m . C o o p e r t o w n : N e w Y o r k S t a t e H i s t o r i c a l A s s o c i a t i o n , 1 9 5 4 , p p . 5 5 - 7 8 . W i l l s o n , L a w r e n c e . " T h o r e a u a n d t h e F r e n c h i n C a n a d a . " R e v u e d e 1 ' U n i v e r s i t y d ' O t t a w a , 2 9 ( 1 9 5 9 ) , 2 8 1 - 9 7 . . " T h o r e a u ' s C a n a d i a n N o t e b o o k . " H u n t i n g t o n L i b r a r y Q u a r t e r l y , 2 2 ( M a y , 1 9 5 9 ) , 1 7 9 - 2 0 0 . W r o n g , G e o r g e M . " F r a n c i s P a r k m a n . " C a n a d i a n H i s t o r i c a l R e v i e w , 4 ( D e c , 1 9 2 3 ) , 2 8 9 - 3 0 3 . 
work_itr4jhmawvc55go4odfk636i4q	----	Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 Études photographiques 30 | 2012 Paul Strand / Kodak / Robert Taft versus Beaumont Newhall Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow A Difficult Dialogue between Two American Histories of Photography François Brunet Electronic version URL: http://journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3481 ISSN: 1777-5302 Publisher Société française de photographie Printed version Date of publication: 20 December 2012 ISBN: 9782911961304 ISSN: 1270-9050 Electronic reference François Brunet, « Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow », Études photographiques [Online], 30 | 2012, Online since 25 June 2014, connection on 30 April 2019. URL : http:// journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3481 This text was automatically generated on 30 April 2019. Propriété intellectuelle http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org http://journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3481 Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow A Difficult Dialogue between Two American Histories of Photography François Brunet AUTHOR'S NOTE A version of the present paper was presented at the conference ‘American Art and the Mass Media,’ INHA/Terra Foundation for American Art, May 2–3, 2012. I thank the organizers, Jason Hill and Elisa Schaar, for their feedback and their permission to publish this paper. [My] book was just about to be published when I was asked to review a manuscript by a man I had never heard of: Robert Taft, Professor of Chemistry at the University of Kansas. It was titled: Photography and the American Scene. I read the manuscript avidly. I found that he had gone over the same ground and in many cases had come to the same conclusions as I had. I felt compelled to ask the publisher, Macmillan, to send me a confirmation that the manuscript had been sent to me after my book had gone to press. My reader’s report to them was positive, and the book, now a classic, came out in 1938. It was a different kind of book, Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 1 as it turned out, than I had written. I found certain objections to his aesthetic conclusions, which, at my suggestion, were dropped. Perhaps some student might find it interesting to knock on the door of the University of Kansas, where the papers of Professor Taft were deposited after his death, to see if the excerpted portions of that old manuscript which I thought forty years ago were not worth publishing, perhaps might be reconsidered. –Beaumont Newhall, ‘Toward the New Histories of Photography,’ 1983 1 The first two major twentieth-century American histories of photo graphy arrived at the US Copyright Office on the same day – October 12, 1938. Beaumont Newhall’s Photography: A Short Critical History (henceforth PSCH), entered for copyright on August 24, was published by the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) as a slightly revised edition of the catalogue copyrighted on March 15, 1937, and previously published under the title Photography, 1839–1937 (henceforth P 1839–1937). The second was Robert Taft’s Photography and the American Scene: A Social History, 1839–1889 (henceforth PAS), published by Macmillan, and entered for copyright less than two months later, on October 11, 1938.1 2 This coincidence inaugurated the long but diverging lives of the two books, both of which are still in print in 2012. Newhall’s PSCH was completely rewritten for the 1949 edition, later revised twice more (1964, 1982), and translated in several languages; by 1982 it had become the standard text on the international artistic history of the medium. Taft’s book was reprinted, first by Macmillan, then in a paperback format by Dover from 1964 on, and more recently in a digital edition (ACLS Humanities E-Book), but it has never been translated and its fame has remained mostly confined to the sphere of historians and collectors of nineteenth-century American photography. 3 The coincidence of the two publications in 1937–38, the hitherto unnoticed network of interactions that linked them, and the emergence of not one but two American histories of photography in the 1930s, form the topic of the present paper. This topic has until now been approached solely from the viewpoint of an art-historical historiography, concerned with how photography came to be incorporated into art history and the art museum, and what role Beaumont Newhall (1908–93) and the MoMA played in that process. The present paper is part of a broader inquiry, which seeks to assess the ways in which, between the 1880s and the 1930s, photography and photographs became, in the United States as elsewhere, associated with public memory, historical research and writing, and what Elizabeth Edwards calls ‘historical imagination.’2 Central to this inquiry is the work of Robert Taft (1894–1955) – professor of chemistry at the University of Kansas, collector of western American art, and historian of American photography – and his book PAS. This book was preceded by a monumental archival and testimonial search conducted over a period of about ten years and reflected in its some five hundred footnotes as well as in the collection of Robert Taft’s papers preserved at the Kansas Historical Society in Topeka (KHS), a portion of which, relating to Taft’s researches on photography, has recently been digitized and put online.3 These papers shed considerable light on Taft’s enterprise and its context, especially his little-known dialogue with Beaumont Newhall in 1937–38. Thus Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 2 the purpose of the present article is not merely to study the historiographical discourse at work in Taft’s book, as I have done elsewhere,4 nor, for that matter, to attempt a new interpretation of Beaumont Newhall’s well-known text. It is, rather, to map out the larger context in which the two American histories of photography emerged, simultaneously but divergently, and to bring to light, through a study of the dialogue that took place between the two historians, the strategic differences – and commonalities – between their two histories. And to begin, I will highlight the strongly diverging historiographical destinies of these two founding texts of American photographic history. Two Diverging Destinies 4 As is well known, Newhall’s history achieved, by the time of its last edition in 1982, the status of a standard art-historical text on photography and a canon-maker. At the same time it came under attack as a selective reading, favouring a modernist conception of the medium as a self-determining form of expression, as well as a particular range of photographic masters. This critique was formulated most trenchantly by Christopher Phillips in a landmark October article,5 which targeted MoMA’s growing power as a shaping museum of photography from Newhall to John Szarkowski. So relevant was this critique, in the context of emerging deconstructions of photography’s new ‘canon,’ that it quickly became canonical itself.6 In recent years it has in turn come under revision, particularly by Marta Braun,7 Christine Hahn,8 and most recently Sophie Hackett.9 While much of this ‘history of history’ has concentrated on the 1937 MoMA exhibition and the institutional strategies it reflected, rather than on Newhall’s text, Newhall’s choices and guiding concepts in writing the history of photography have become a standard chapter of that history – usually envisioned as a history of aesthetic ideas. 5 By contrast, Robert Taft’s book, seventy-five years after its initial publication, still suffers from a kind of non-status. For many years it was the only available general history of American photography in the nineteenth century, continually reprinted by Dover. Insofar as it presents itself as ‘an accumulation of facts’ (PAS vii), and as its notion of ‘social history’ can be viewed as ‘amateurish’ or ‘popular,’ PAS is loosely linked to the later prolific lineage of monographs, exhibitions, and compendia on nineteenth-century American photography, a partly non-academic historiography for which Taft remains a highly relevant reference, even though many of his ‘facts’ have been criticized or augmented.10 Beyond the realm of specialists, Taft’s book is and has been used by journalists and general historians as a trove of facts, quotations, references, and anecdotes.11 Yet, à la Newhall, it cannot be considered a ‘master narrative’ because of the virtual lack of critical attention given it and the formidable investigation that preceded it, unlike Newhall’s book. The special issue devoted in 1997 by the magazine History of Photography to historiography contained almost nothing on Taft. In a recent special issue of American Art magazine on ‘American Histories of Photography,’ edited by Anthony W. Lee, one finds only a few passing references to Taft’s book, Michael Kammen merely mentioning it as a ‘standard’ reference.12 Alan Trachtenberg, the most incisive commentator of the relationship of photography to history in the United States, seems never to have taken more than a passing interest in Taft’s enterprise, and then only to gently debunk its nationalist undertones.13 In her 2005 article on the English-language historiography of photography, Marta Braun is one of very few contemporary photo- historians to pay some attention to Taft – and to the relationship between Taft and Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 3 Newhall.14 In sum, Taft’s monumental endeavour has functioned, until now, as a primary source, rather than a history. Does this mean that the book’s claim to lay out a ‘social history’ is empty? That only Newhall’s history is to be reckoned with, both as influential text and as conceptually significant historical work? This two-part question will be first tackled through a brief comparison of the narratives of the two American histories of photography. Conflicting Narratives / Parallel Histories 6 Beaumont Newhall’s critical argument on the history of photography is well known and can be simply recalled here by quoting the first lines of the preface to his PSCH. Newhall sought to build an aesthetic ‘foundation’ for the history of photography, and saw his main task as that of ‘remedying’ the original ‘confusion’ between photography and other graphic arts: ‘The purpose of this book is to construct a foundation by which the significance of photography as an esthetic medium can be more fully grasped … The confusion with other forms of graphic art which it superficially resembles was also latent in photography’s origin; the remedying of this harmful confusion, therefore, must be based on an examination of photography’s relationship to other arts during its short, but eventful, development’ (PSCH 9). 7 Taft’s approach to ‘social history,’ by contrast, is not so familiar to today’s readers. To put it in a nutshell, it was grounded in what Taft called, in contradistinction to an ‘artistic’ appreciation, the ‘historic(al) value’ of photographs. Though Taft generally avoided theorization, one may summarize his notion of ‘historical value’ under two main headings: the image as document, and the image as event. On the one hand, Taft sought to envision the photographic image as a historical document, an approach that he explicitly contrasted to Beaumont Newhall’s ‘system of photographic aesthetics’ in the main ‘theoretical’ passage of his book, inserted at pages 314–21 in the midst of chapter 16 (‘The Cabinet Photograph’): ‘The social historian, obviously, is not in a position to answer this question [whether photography is an art], nor is it his function. The question is still argued, but there appears to be developing at present a satisfactory and logical system of aesthetics based on the distinguishing features of the photograph [footnote*: Beaumont Newhall’s recent penetrating analysis of the problem, which at least outlines a system of photographic aesthetics, deserves the most careful consideration of any one concerned in its answer.] The social historian is interested, however, in a question which is interwoven to some extent with the above question; namely, “Are photographs historical documents?” Such a question can be answered’ (PAS 316–17). 8 Taft was indeed one of the very first authors, in the United States, to draw the public’s and the historians’ attention to photography as a means of historical knowledge, inviting his readers to collect and ‘document’ old photographs as building blocks for familial and local histories. ‘Documenting’ photographs meant evaluating their truthfulness, providing them with dates, captions, and subjects in order to use them historically (PAS 319–20).15 9 On the other hand, Taft was keenly aware of the image as event in a larger ‘social history’ – of photography’s ‘influence’ or ‘impact’ on American history. He singled out certain ‘epochal’ images (Lincoln’s portraits by Mathew Brady, the first photographs of the Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 4 Yellowstone Park area by William H. Jackson) as ‘making history,’ once again in contrast to art: ‘It may also be worth while noting that if a photograph can be appreciated for its historic value, another factor of evaluation can be considered … If, for example, I can point to a given portrait and say, “This photograph was an important factor in the election of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States,” shouldn’t we value such a photograph more highly than other portraits of the same period of equal artistic merit?’ (PAS 321). 10 Both of these concerns merged into a kind of popular visual history that the University of Kansas professor advocated, almost explicitly, as a form of democratic culture.16 The book’s opening and closing paragraphs were quite explicit about this popular, and almost political, mission of photography: ‘Photography affects the lives of modern individuals so extensively that it is difficult to enumerate all of its uses. In addition to preserving for us the portraits of loved ones, it illustrates our newspapers, our magazines, our books … It has recorded the past, educated our youth, and last, but not least, it has given us the most popular form of amusement ever devised’ (PAS vii). ‘Whatever may be the faults and flaws of the pictorial press it is probable that humanity has in this agent one of her most powerful weapons in the fight for the abolition of war, in combating ignorance and disease, and in the attainment of social justice. Through the use of this medium it should be possible, if ever, to reach more rapidly that long sought goal – the brotherhood of man’ (PAS 450). 11 Like other aspects of Taft’s book, these ‘populist’ and utopian visions echoed nineteenth- century ideas that Newhall, for one, clearly preferred to stay away from. Taft, indeed, relied on notions of progress and historical agency that were borrowed from ‘Whig’ history, and used a broadly ‘Turnerian’ vision of American history as driven by the conquest of the West.17 His narrative was generally written in a ‘popular’ or easy-reading style and made no references to fashionable authors of the 1930s. As shown by the quote given above, Taft was mindful of overstepping the boundaries of ‘social history’ towards discussions of art, with which several passages of his book show his discomfort.18 Although Newhall’s influences and choices have been in debate, his text and vision were, as he himself pointed out in various reminiscences, steeped in European art history and connoisseurship, combined with modernist aesthetics and Alfred Barr’s strategy for the modern art museum.19 One facile formulation of the difference is that Taft’s ‘social’ narrative functions as a ‘low,’ popular history, while Newhall’s is a ‘high,’ ‘critical,’ aesthetic and an intellectualizing one; or that Taft’s was an all-American, even western or midwestern, history, while Newhall’s text spoke to a New York and transatlantic readership. 12 Newhall’s history revolved around the central concept of photography as (aesthetic) ‘medium,’ a concept that was constructed from the combination of a ‘high’ photographic lineage (P.H. Emerson, A. Stieglitz, P. Strand) and German art history. The medium of photography was defined on the basis of a technological and semiological core that served to distinguish it from the other graphic arts and to measure a purely photographic artistic achievement. Taft, by contrast, did not elaborate theoretical concepts; but his book included at least one significant theoretical passage, which opened with a discussion of artistic versus historic ‘values’ of photographs, and continued with a subdivision of historic values between the ‘image-as-document’ and the ‘image-as-event.’ The combination of these two notions brought Taft close to the conceptualization of photography as a mass medium, though he did not use the phrase. Thus the larger Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 5 conceptual differences between Newhall’s and Taft’s narratives are obvious: medium versus mass medium; art or aesthetics versus information or history; attention to formal experiments versus attention to commercial portraiture; attention to ‘pictorialism’ (Newhall) versus attention to the ‘pictorial press’ (Taft). 13 Another obvious difference was in the scope or corpus encompassed by the two histories. Taft’s narrative was strictly limited to American photography, and generally avoided pronouncing on the European inventions and developments of photography. His two categories of ‘historical value,’ the ‘image-as-document’ and the ‘image-as-event,’ informed an oscillation in his text between the ordinary and the epic, the mundane exploration of the ‘American scene’ and the grandiose story of America.20 Taft’s narrative was also limited to the period between the announcement of Daguerre’s results in the United States in the fall of 1839 and the launching of the Kodak in 1888–89. Thus it can be read as a history of the Americanization of photography – rather, I would argue, than as a ‘nationalist’ history. Newhall’s narrative, by contrast, presented itself in 1937–38 as international and even internationalist, although it focused on France, Britain, and the United States; its subsequent editions until 1982 augmented its ‘global’ outreach. 14 Still, in choice of corpus as in other key aspects, there remain important commonalities between the two histories. Throughout its various editions Newhall’s history always gave ample space to American photographers and inventors. Like Taft, Newhall singled out – as early as the 1937 and 1938 editions of his text – certain American moments, particularly Mathew Brady and the Civil War, the development of the hand-held camera and the Kodak.21 For both authors the American photographer Mathew B. Brady served as a pivotal figure, whether as pioneer of ‘straight photography’ or as the first ‘photographic historian.’22 Another shared base was the technological skeleton of both narratives, inherited from Josef-Maria Eder’s and especially Georges Potonniée’s histories. Finally, and perhaps most significantly, the two texts reflected a shared concern for the contemporary spread of photography and the illustrated press, in the 1930s, which appeared, more implicitly with Newhall and more explicitly with Taft, as an imperative to write its history. Their parallel developments on ‘news photography’ (Newhall) or the ‘pictorial press’ (Taft) similarly gave importance to this domain and did so for partly similar reasons, that is, the resonance and ubiquity of photography, although Taft saw the pictorial press as a ‘weapon’ towards ‘the brotherhood of man’ (PAS 450, quoted earlier), while Newhall singled out the kind of news photograph that ‘transcends the ephemeral and becomes a great document.’23 15 In summary, the two histories were, at the same time, conceptually opposed and historically parallel. Whereas Newhall’s sophisticated ‘critical history’ configured photography as a medium of aesthetic expression, Taft’s incompletely articulated social history envisioned American photography as a mass medium (as window on the past and as social force); and this constitutes a basic and durable distinction between the two histories. Yet the two approaches had more than a little in common, even leaving aside their common appreciation and revaluation of American photography. Both books were motivated, though in unequal parts, by a typically mid-twentieth-century attention to the communicative powers of photography. Although the Beaumont Newhall of 1938 was less concerned with this social dimension than Robert Taft was, the two histories shared an awareness of photography’s present importance in 1930s America and the need to assess this importance in larger historical narratives. They were, in this sense, both the products of the broader American context for reevaluation of photography in the 1930s.24 Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 6 And as I will suggest in the last section of this paper, the initial reception of the two books in 1937–38 seems to corroborate the public’s interest in historicizing photography and the complementary appeal of the two histories. First, however, I will turn to the hitherto unnoticed interactions between Taft and Newhall in the writing of their respective books. For as we shall see, the apparently radical dichotomy between the two American histories of photography requires qualification in view of the relatively intense collaboration that linked their authors. Opponents or Collaborators? Clues in the Published Record 16 Today we know a great deal about the making of Beaumont Newhall’s MoMA show and his book, as a result of the mass of statements found in his published reminiscences, and even though his papers remain to be examined systematically in this direction.25 As the art historian recounted, his ideas on photography matured between his entrance to Harvard in 1926, the beginning of his PhD work in 1932–33, and Alfred Barr’s assignment for a photography show at the MoMA in 1936. While various influences have been claimed by and for Newhall, his goal was clearly to establish a critical approach to photography. The MoMA show appears to have been quickly prepared, between the spring of 1936 and the late winter of 1937. It opened on March 17, 1937, and as we saw, the catalogue was published on March 15, 1937, with 3,000 copies printed; the revised edition appears to have been elaborated in the first semester of 1938 (the preface was dated June 7). 17 From the published record – that, is, leaving aside for the time being the Taft papers – we know a lot less about the making of Taft’s book, except for the ample glimpses into his research correspondence afforded by his footnotes, and that the chemist was at work on it since at least the early 1930s, with researches on early photography in Kansas and the west26 and on Mathew Brady and the ‘daguerreotype era.’ 27 PAS was copyrighted on October 11, 1938, with Macmillan. While the coincidence of dates with Newhall’s second edition seems accidental, evidence from both books show that the two authors were in dialogue in 1937–38. 18 Although Newhall’s catalogue P 1839–1937 did not mention Robert Taft, his preface to the 1938 PSCH listed Taft among a small group of colleagues acknowledged for help in ‘textual revisions’ and ‘compiling the biographical index.’28 The overall amount of textual revision for PSCH is small; in one significant instance of revision, a passage on attribution and appraisal of Civil War photographs by Mathew Brady and his ‘assistants,’ it is probable that Robert Taft’s text or advice inspired the rewriting, particularly the excision of a sentence that, in the 1937 text, entertained the notion of Alexander Gardner ‘stealing some of Brady’s negatives.’29 In his text Robert Taft had taken pains to emphasize ‘the actual work of photographing the War was carried out by many others as well as by Brady himself.’ In the same passage, the chemist poked irony at ‘more than one would-be critic in recent years [who] has discussed at length the artistic merits of many Brady war photographs, which, as a matter of fact, were very probably not made by Brady at all, but some of his staff.’ ‘It is all very well,’ Taft insisted, ‘to give Brady his just credit, but artistic criticism should be confined to work which is known to come from his hands and his alone. This principle, the would-be critics have ignored completely’30. Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 7 19 The principal addition to Newhall’s text in 1938 was the twenty-five-page biographical index of photographers, and it is likely that Taft’s text and notes were used in some of the American entries, as Newhall acknowledged in the Brady entry.31 Newhall listed Taft’s book in his bibliography, where it was the only addition to the heading ‘Histories’ and one of a total of three additions to the entire bibliography, accompanied with this comment: ‘an important history of the development of photography in this country, with special emphasis on the relationship of its development to our social history.’32 Let me note here that after 1938, during the organization and reorganization of the MoMA’s photography department, Robert Taft would be repeatedly taken into consideration as one of the few expert historians of photography in the United States, and even made a member of the department’s advisory committee.33 20 From several of Newhall’s reminiscences it appears that he became aware of Taft’s work between the two editions of his book. In one statement from 1986, Newhall declared that Taft’s manuscript was transmitted to him by the photographic expert and translator Edward Epstean, who had been asked for a review by the publisher Macmillan (this, probably, in mid-to-late 1937).34 Newhall recalled being startled by the ‘similarity’ of Taft’s conclusions to his own, to the extent that he asked Macmillan to certify that Taft’s manuscript had been sent to Epstean after the publication of his own 1937 catalogue.35 In a reminiscence from 1983, reproduced in this article’s epigraph, Newhall stated that in his report on Taft’s manuscript he had requested the retraction of some comments on the aesthetics of photography, and offered the typical suggestion that perhaps a future ‘student’ might some day visit Robert Taft’s archives in Kansas and ‘reconsider’ the value of the excerpted passages. A great believer in ‘serendipity’ as a research method, Beaumont Newhall also knew to be prudent.36 21 Similarly, Taft’s book shows that the chemist became aware of Newhall’s exhibition and book sometime in 1937, that is, at a period in which he was putting the finishing touches to his manuscript. On page 94, Taft reproduced a daguerreotype from the Met ‘photographed by Beaumont Newhall July 1937’ (a credit line that is striking in a book where most reproduction photos are uncredited). In his theoretical passage (PAS 314–21), Taft made a reference to the quest for a ‘satisfactory and logical system of aesthetics based on the distinguishing features of the photograph,’ adding a footnote to refer to Newhall’s ‘penetrating analysis’ and then attaching to the footnote an endnote (numbered 341) that cited P 1839–1937 as well as several statements by ‘leaders in American photography’ on the subject of photography as art. The quotes in endnote 341 included excerpts from published statements by Alfred Stieglitz and Edward Steichen in defence of straight photography, and also mentioned letters of confirmation requested by Taft from the two ‘leaders.’ Stieglitz’s letter is dated November 17, 1937; Steichen’s, January 18, 1938.37 Perhaps we can agree with Geoffrey Batchen, when he writes on the basis of this association of Newhall’s work with Stieglitz and Steichen, that ‘the close relationship between the historical method adopted by Newhall and the views of Stieglitz is made explicit in [Taft’s] self-declared “social history.”’38 But what seems even more tangible from the dates of these letters (two of the very latest sources used in the whole book)39 as well as the complex redaction of this page, with its two-tiered expansion in notes, is that Taft’s very short remarks on aesthetics, and possibly the theoretical passage as a whole, must have been not just inspired, but elicited, by Newhall’s report to Macmillan. Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 8 22 If this hypothesis could be proven, it would help explain the odd feeling experienced by Taft’s reader when coming across this theoretical passage, and its painstaking effort to distinguish ‘artistic’ and ‘social’ historians. As we have seen, in other passages Taft did not hide his skepticism regarding the ‘artistic’ speculations of ‘would-be critics.’ Whether such piques were aimed at Beaumont Newhall – or, through Newhall, at ‘the views of Stieglitz’ – or whether they targeted other authors, or represented earlier moments of Taft’s redaction, all of this remains uncertain. Whether and how, more generally, the mutual acquaintance of the two historians may have impacted the peculiar coincidence of simultaneous publications in 1938 is open to question. But the clues contained in both books clearly suggest that there was dialogue and even collaboration, as much as latent confrontation, between the two historians. The portions of the Robert Taft papers I have been able to consult do not yet fully confirm this hypothesis, because major documents are missing – foremost, Taft’s original manuscript, Newhall’s report to Macmillan, and most of Taft’s correspondence with Macmillan. Still, the available documents shed considerable light on the two historians’ relationship. Dialogue behind the Scenes: The Testimony of the Taft Correspondence on Photography 23 The collection of Robert Taft’s papers preserved at the Kansas Historical Society40 does not appear to have been investigated by photo-historians until now. The recent digitization of one segment of these archives, the photography correspondence, now available online, is a great boon for research.41 This section of the present article will be limited to a preliminary survey of this correspondence, concentrating on the Taft- Newhall dialogue. It must be noted, however, that the Taft-Newhall dialogue is only a small aspect of the photography correspondence, which itself is only a small portion of the Taft collection at KHS. Taft estimated in 1936 that he had ‘written well over two thousand letters in search of material’ since 1930 (March 2, 1936, to Fannie Huntington Morriss). As a whole, this correspondence yields a fascinating wealth of information on Taft’s enterprise, its evolution and slow march towards publication (as late as March 1937, Taft was looking for a publisher, and Macmillan was not his first choice),42 the great diversity of topics it encompassed,43 and the wide response it received in the latter 1930s and early 1940s. This response evokes the picture of a large sociability network of photo- historically concerned correspondents – including descendants of pioneers; archivists and librarians; local and amateur historians; professional photographers; editors and publishers; representatives of various commercial firms; and some foreign correspondents – that is markedly different from the networks we have been used to associating with the elaboration of Newhall’s history, and definitely deserves further study. 24 On May 10, 1937, a letter from John Tennant (of Tennant and Ward, publishers of books on photography and the American Annual of Photography) told Taft of the publisher’s great interest ‘in learning that you have completed your history’ and his hope ‘that Macmillan will accept [it] for publication.’ Tennant, who was announcing the publication of Edward Epstean’s translations of Potonniée’s and Eder’s histories, may have been a link with Macmillan. At any rate, his next paragraph must have startled Robert Taft: ‘Have you seen Beaumont Newhall’s “Photography 1839–1937”? It is a detailed catalogue of the recent historical exhibition held at the Museum of Modern Art – of Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 9 which he is the librarian; but has a short history of photography as introduction. This, I hear, is part of a more comprehensive history of photography which he is preparing for press. As far as it goes it is very well done!’ 25 Since there are no previous mentions of Newhall or his exhibition in the correspondence, this may well have been news to Robert Taft. But the correspondence does not tell us anything about his initial reaction, on account of a gap in the file between May 13 and October 12, 1937, when the record resumes with exchanges revealing that Taft’s book, now entitled Photography and the American Scene, is ‘to be published by Macmillan next year’ (Taft to Ellsworth Ingalls, Oct. 14, 1937), and soon involving Beaumont Newhall. 26 The Taft-Newhall correspondence preserved at KHS begins, indeed, with a letter from Taft to Newhall dated October 16, 1937, thanking the latter for ‘suggestions and criticisms’ of PAS ‘as relayed by Mr. Latham of Macmillan’s.’ These remarks, Taft continued, were ‘well taken’ and correctly pinpointed ‘some of [the book’s] weak spots.’ As I have mentioned, Newhall’s report, Taft’s original manuscript, and his correspondence with Macmillan remain to be located in the archives. Quite strikingly, however, after this acknowledgment Taft broke off to request Newhall’s help with some illustrations (a print of Julia Cameron’s portrait of Herschel and ‘a copy of a daguerreotype, or tintype, which shows clearly the right to left reversal, i.e. one in which printing appears’). Newhall replied as early as October 18, 1937, offering answers to the illustration queries44, but primarily expressing, in what appears to be his first personal letter to ‘Professor Taft,’ his ‘delight’ ‘that Macmillan [was] at last publishing [Taft’s] book,’ his ‘pleasure’ and ‘privilege to read the manuscript,’ and his previous frustration in restraining a ‘natural desire to write [Taft] at length,’ in view of the fact that they had ‘both independently arrived at many similar conclusions.’ Promising to send his ‘little contribution to the history of photography,’ Newhall went on to praise several specific topics in Taft’s work (for example, ‘your dope about the importation of the news of daguerreotypy is epic’). Taft’s narrative of photography’s presence in the building of the transcontinental railroad was ‘entirely new’ and ‘most significant,’ Newhall stressed, and at the same time begging to include some railroad stereoscopic views cited by Taft in a small exhibition of American photography he was preparing for a show of American art at the Jeu de Paume in Paris in 1938.45 The art historian also praised the chemist’s treatment of Mathew Brady (‘still a puzzle to me,’ Newhall wrote, declaring himself ‘hopelessly mixed up in the proper attribution of the many Civil War views,’ a subject he called ‘one of the highwater marks of American photographic history’). He concluded with an invitation to Taft to come to New York – a prospect that apparently never materialized. 27 This first exchange set the tone for much of the ensuing correspondence, which, in the online edition, consists of twenty-one letters from Newhall to Taft and ten from Taft to Newhall – with obvious gaps in the file – and concentrates for the most part on the period from October 1937 to May 1938.46 The Taft-Newhall dialogue, which can only be briefly characterized here, appears to have immediately functioned on several levels and for several purposes, not all equally explicit nor manifesting an equality or commonality of goal and status beyond the reciprocal rendering of services. In 1937–38 Taft repeatedly obtained Newhall’s help with illustration requests from New York museums and libraries – and possibly used his intercession to obtain the above-mentioned letters from Stieglitz and Steichen, which were requested after Newhall’s report and with his blessing. In the same period, and later, Newhall frequently sought Taft’s information on historical collections or advice on historiographical matters (for the catalogue of photographers of Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 10 his 1938 PSCH and for a variety of other projects).47 Still, the initial impulse and the main early focus of the exchange was Newhall’s critical view of Taft’s aesthetic discussion in the manuscript he reviewed for Macmillan. 28 That we are currently missing Newhall’s report and Taft’s original manuscript makes a full analysis of their exchanges impossible at this point. We do know from the record that Taft reworked the topic of aesthetics, possibly upon Macmillan’s request, and, as we shall see shortly, to no avail, since Newhall’s eventual judgment on the second draft was, again, negative. But what needs emphasis is that, through this awkward conversation, Taft was apparently led to refine the theoretical argument of his book, indeed to reframe it – around history rather than aesthetics. It appears that it was Taft’s felt need, in the wake of Newhall’s report, to rework his ‘failed’ section on aesthetics that led him, in a sort of contradictory reaction, to elaborate his opposition to the whole topic of aesthetics, perceived as a burden and a mere fad, and his elaboration, as an alternative to aesthetics, of the ‘historic value’ of photographs. 29 On October 29, 1938, Taft thanked Newhall for the MoMA catalogue, noting that ‘your material on photographic esthetics will be of particular value to me when I attempt to rewrite my section on the relationship between art and photography.’ This section, Taft added, had been ‘inadequate’ in the first place, primarily because he was ‘little interested in the question’ and had only felt obliged to mention it as ‘the question has been raised so frequently.’ In the following paragraphs Taft stated, quite forcefully, a focus of his book that he perhaps felt had not been sufficiently clarified in his manuscript: 30 ‘The question which has seemed most important and most interesting to me, I have stressed only indirectly, chiefly through the illustrations and the title, namely “of what value is the photograph as a historic document?” My answer is that it is the most vivid and one of the most important records, if properly documented, available, supplementing the written record. 31 ‘As you have said the great psychological difference between the photograph and the end product of any of the other graphic art[s], lies in our belief – no matter how well founded – that the photograph recreates the original scene with absolute fidelity – we can again glimpse the past. The use of the photograph and its importance in recreating the past, I believe has been largely overlooked – especially in the pre-half-tone-period – a period in which “straight photography[”] was the rule, largely of necessity. 32 ‘The outstanding exception, of course, is the Photographic History of the Civil War – which, incidentally, I have had occasion to curse long and bitterly at times – but surely if the photographic method is important in recording abnormal life, it is equally as important to record normal life. A photographic History of the 1860’s would be equally as important and interesting and probably of more value. I am firmly convinced that there are literally thousands of photographs of this period still available, but unknown and which, if collected and properly documented, would make a truly astonishing and faithful record of the past American scene. ‘However, while history in photographs is important and interesting, the more significant aspect of photographic history is the part, or influence, that the photograph has played in determining history. To trace out this development is a real problem since it is difficult to obtain actual data. I have made the attempt, however, and whatever worth my manuscript has, I feel lies largely in pointing out [that] the photograph has influenced American social, political, and artistic life’ (Taft to Newhall, Oct. 29, 1937). Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 11 33 In the absence of Taft’s original manuscript we cannot decide to what extent, prior to October 1937, the chemist had fashioned his theoretical argument about the historic value or values of photographs. The above formulation, however, reads not just as a prefiguration but as a radical condensation of the theoretical passage found on pages 314–21 of PAS. Moreover, in this letter Taft makes two points that are not found in PAS: that straight photography ‘was the rule’ in the pre-half-tone period; and that photography is ‘as important to record normal life’ as it is in recording ‘abnormal life,’ in this case wartime. 34 These two points, which may strike the reader of 2012 as rather insightful, might have deserved more comment; quite possibly they were not kept in the final script of PAS because Beaumont Newhall, as might be expected, strongly objected. Though we do not have the whole extent of Taft’s two successive developments on the aesthetics of photography, it seems reasonable to assume that one particularly objectionable point, for Newhall, was precisely Taft’s contention that nineteenth-century photography, in general, was ‘straight.’ As the art historian wrote in his answer, dated November 3, 1937: ‘The reason why I feel that an esthetic discussion is indicated in a history of photography is that of all the thousands and thousands of photographs in existence, certain ones are better than others. I think that the reason lies is an esthetic rather than a technical proficiency. The esthetics of photography have very little to do with esthetics in other branches of art; it is just beginning to be studied. ‘I wonder if photography before the half-tone period was so much “straight” as you seem to indicate in your letter? How about H.P. Robinson and the whole pictorial movement? Sometimes I think that the half-tone itself brought about an appreciation of straight photography because of the great interest it fostered, and the rise of news photography’ (Newhall to Taft, Nov. 3, 1937). 35 The ubiquitous ‘influence’ of photography as a news medium was a very relevant context of the discussion between the two historians. In this same winter, 1937–38, Taft’s photography correspondence is filled with questionnaires sent by Taft to various press editors about the past and present roles and rules of modern illustrated magazines, the answers to which were used in PAS’s chapter on the ‘Pictorial Press’; Taft’s questionnaires and his exchanges with press editors of the period (including Henry Luce of Life magazine) also deserve close scrutiny. Newhall, however, consistently insisted that some photographs ‘are better than others.’ From the Taft-Newhall dialogue it appears more generally that the chemist was made further aware, by Newhall’s very insistence, of his own aversion to the fashionable subject of photographic aesthetics, and yet that the reflections borne out of this discussion helped him frame a broader theoretical argument about photography, history, and society. 36 Taft did the desired rewrite on the section on aesthetics, but only to shoulder another stringent – and this time, decisive – rebuttal from Newhall. On December 12, 1937, Newhall wrote Taft a lengthy letter that oddly opened with the colloquial if not vexing address ‘Dear Taft,’ which Newhall would repeat in his 1938 letters. This letter contained a detailed critique of Taft’s reworked section on aesthetics, accompanied by his annotated draft and a syllabus of a Newhall lecture on photographic aesthetics ‘presented at Harvard last Thursday.’ After some polite preliminaries, Newhall’s critique began with the following rather stark pronouncement: ‘After considerable study and thought I very much regret to write that I consider [the reworked section on aesthetics] confused and unsatisfactory. I very much Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 12 recommend that you drop all esthetic consideration from your excellent text. As you yourself say, “It [aesthetics] is not one of primary interest to the social historian.” For the benefit of those who wish to pursue the subject, you might refer to my book, which I think outlines in a sketchy way the lines on which an esthetic of photography might be built’ (Newhall to Taft, Dec. 12, 1937). 37 Indeed, Taft’s second draft – which is not worth analyzing here in detail, in the absence of the first one – included a marked reference to Beaumont Newhall’s arguments on the distinction of photography from the graphic arts and his contributions to a ‘satisfactory system’ of aesthetics (while at the same time obliquely questioning this distinction as meaningful aesthetically, a comment that seems to have infuriated Newhall). In the published version of PAS, the reference to Newhall’s authority would become about the sum total of Taft’s development on aesthetics. For, as Taft wrote to Newhall on January 12, 1938, after sending his final copy off to Macmillan, he decided to leave out ‘the several pages of debatable matter’ on aesthetics but to include the paragraphs on ‘historic value,’ a decision that, according to him, came back to his ‘original intention.’ This decision was already on Taft’s mind on December 18, 1937, when he wrote his first reply to Newhall’s ominous letter of December 12: ‘I haven’t as yet had time to thoroughly digest all of your criticisms. I have been engrossed ever since sending you the rough draft, on remodeling and rewriting the last chapter of my book. I believe it is very considerably improved. Following your suggestion, I have renamed it and called it “Photography and the Pictorial Press.” ‘Christmas vacation has just started and, theoretically, my time should be my own. I hope to get back on the final write-up of the section on pseudo-aesthetics next week and will write you further then’ (Taft to Newhall, Dec. 18, 1937). 38 The ‘final write-up of the section on pseudo-aesthetics’ must correspond to the theoretical passage of PAS 314–21. ‘Pseudo-aesthetics’ is an apt term for a discussion that basically eliminated aesthetics in favour of the methodology of history. Thus it seems not exaggerated to conclude that Newhall’s report and the ensuing dialogue helped Taft refocus his ‘unsatisfactory’ discussion of aesthetics into a whole argument on the ‘historic’ value of photographs – their conditions of truthfulness and the documentation protocols required to make historical use of them, which Newhall praised in his letter and which in today’s view arguably stands as one of the achievements of PAS48 – combined with a stronger characterization of their ‘social’ powers, a theme that indeed permeated PAS’s last chapter and closing statement about photography and the pictorial press as weapons for the ‘brotherhood of man’ (PAS 450, quoted earlier). ‘The Camera’s Century’: Notes on the Initial Reception of Newhall’s and Taft’s Histories 39 Marta Braun is correct in stating that the ‘narrative élan’ of Newhall’s book eventually eclipsed the other available histories – Taft’s, as well as Epstean’s translations of Eder’s and Potonniée’s histories (published in 1945).49 Braun’s comment, however, refers to the 1949 edition of Newhall’s book, a complete rewriting of the 1937–38 text.50 An examination of the New York Times (NYT) archives for 1937–39 shows that Newhall’s exhibition and Taft’s book both made strong impressions on columnists. While the MoMA’s show drew some criticisms in art circles,51 it ‘received considerable attention by both the local and the national press,’ writes Christina Hahn, citing five mentions in the NYT prior to opening day and a ‘lead editorial’ in the New York Herald in evidence of the Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 13 show’s ‘overwhelming success.’52 Newhall’s catalogue, P 1839–1937, also received attention as a book, as shown especially by an unsigned review, entitled ‘The Camera’s Century,’ which appeared on June 27, 1937. For the critic, whereas photography had until then been ‘confused with all other graphic processes,’ ‘that confusion is resolved and photography is examined in light of its own principles in this highly informative book,’ ‘a beautiful book.’ This reader, though obviously convinced by Newhall’s method, considered the book’s merits in a rather eclectic fashion: ‘Step by step from its semi-embryonic beginnings the scientific development of photography is traced in these pages. But the layman’s most vivid interest will probably be awakened, first, by the reminder of Brady’s Civil War photographs – those remarkable views taken with the awkward “wet plate” camera … Yet it is as an art that photography holds its keenest interest … This book is comprehensive as well as concise; but even if its text were far less enlightening than it is, it would be worth having and keeping for its photographs.’53 40 Even the MoMA’s show and catalogue, however, did not monopolize the attention of photographically minded New Yorkers, who had many other objects of interest in 1937.54 And the following year, in the end of 1938, Robert Taft’s PAS drew more attention in the NYT than Beaumont Newhall’s book, though less than the 1937 MoMA show. Between October 11 and Christmas Day, 1938, the newspaper published three lengthy reviews of Taft’s book, all emphasizing Taft’s approach to photography as a tool for history. In the first of two articles, Ralph Thompson (a regular NYT critic who also reviewed literature from Virginia Woolf to Ernest Hemingway), declared ‘that photography is the most wonderful of human inventions.’ Noting that some clung to a ‘German’ taste for Leica- style cameras, while others ‘regard the taking of pictures as a fine art, an avocation or a profession,’ the critic added, in explicit recognition of Taft’s method, ‘Photography is doubtless all these things. But it is also – and here, it seems to me, its true greatness lies – a method of history, a superb and unmatched recorder of men and events. This may sound obvious, but not everyone realizes it. For example, how many of those who have been “thrilled” and “terribly interested” by recent Civil War novels know that the story of that same war has been set down a thousand times more graphically than any Margaret Mitchell at her ultimate best could or can ever hope to set it down? How many have even heard of the ten- volume “Photographic History of the Civil War” published in 1911, let alone seen it?’ 41 Thompson concluded: ‘It is a long, solid book and the sort of thing some of us have been waiting for a long time … Though solid, it is not solemn.’55 In his second review, which heralded ‘a banner year for books of and about pictures’ and also touched upon Walker Evans’s American Photographs and John Kouwenhoven’s Adventures of America, 1857–1900: A Pictorial Record from Harper’s Weekly, Thompson paid more praise to Taft’s book – ‘not merely for the text, which is doubtless the best history of the subject we have … the most intelligent, scholarly and inclusive, but also for the illustrations, of which there are about 300.’56 Finally, the Christmas Day issue of the NYT included a review signed by S.T. Williamson, which aimed at clarifying the ‘social’ nature of Taft’s history. The critic echoed Taft’s thesis of photography’s ‘influence’ on American history (‘We learn how Jackson’s photographs inspired establishment of the Yellowstone National Park and how a photograph set Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to writing “Hiawatha”’). This influence, according to Williamson, must be understood not just as ‘a list’ of momentous events but as ‘a story’ and the object of a voluntary, continuing effort, destined at ‘preservation and Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 14 classification’ – another explicit nod to Taft’s own call for collection, preservation, and documentation of old photographs as testimonies of America’s visible past:57 ‘For despite photography’s value as a historical record, no one has been concerned with estimating the social significance of the photograph and with tracing what its development has meant to daily lives and habits of the people of this country. No one, that is, until Professor Taft … Enough has been brought to light by Professor Taft to indicate that the next step must be the preservation and classification of these visual historic records. The history of the last hundred years could be told in photographs. Its preparation will be a laborious and costly process, but it is eminently worth-while undertaking, and it must be launched before time ravages more prints and negatives.’58 42 In 1937–38, the New York Times gave comparable attention to Newhall’s MoMA show and Robert Taft’s book, suggesting the period’s wide interest in photo-history.59 The two histories, however, were discussed by different critics and in different tones. The dual categories of ‘art’ or ‘art history’ and ‘history’ or ‘social history’ were already well in place in these columns, which did not mingle the two books. Yet we retain a sense that, at this time, the two histories still belonged in the same realm, even as that would have been defined as the ‘picture book’ and primarily valued for illustration rather than text. 43 This ambiguous proximity is perceptible in the NYT down to 1964, when the paper’s photography expert, the critic Jacob Deschin, noticed the new edition of Newhall’s History , ‘a volume that is more than ever the most readable guide on the subject,’60 before paying homage, in a separate review devoted to that year’s crop of photo-history books, to the Dover reprint of Taft’s book, ‘a long, leisurely and eminently readable narrative … first published in 1938.’ Showing perhaps more deference than true critical spirit, Deschin gave the republication first place, acknowledging it as a ‘valuable service,’ while describing PAS in language blending distance and curiosity: ‘The author’s work offers what he subtitles “a social history” of American photography from 1839 to 1889. Hard fact mingles with revealing anecdote and an easy writing style to win, and maintain, the reader’s attention throughout. Seldom is the combination so engagingly executed as in this wholly absorbing survey.’61 44 Deschin’s phrasing would suggest that by 1964, Taft’s book, in spite of its value as ‘survey,’ was already viewed as something of a relic; the reprint gained less attention than Newhall’s new edition. Yet Deschin gave Taft equal footing to Newhall in the history of American photography, and appeared to consider the two histories as complementary rather than opposite or unequal. Let us recall that Robert Taft died in 1955, not long after the publication of his survey of western illustrative art, Artists and Illustrators of the Old West (1953);62 and that it was mostly after Taft’s death that Beaumont Newhall entered the vein of ‘American scene’ photo-history with The Daguerreotype in America (first published in 1961)63 as well as countless articles and several reprints of nineteenth-century American texts. This may help explain why the same blend of proximity and difference observed in the 1937–38 reviews of Newhall’s and Taft’s works is still perceptible in Deschin’s columns. For Deschin in 1964, as for many later American photo-experts, Taft’s book was still a relevant history of American photography. 45 This leads me to suggest that the ‘falling off the radar’ of Taft’s book in criticism (and American studies) occurred later, sometime between 1965 and 1980. In this scenario, the foremost explanation of the Taft book’s lost appeal is as a side effect of the rise to dominance of the Newhallian model of history and its institutionalization in major art museums and the art market. But it may have also been the fruit of the growing Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 15 fragmentation of criticism, photo-history, and photo-education that evolved in the United States in this period. The reconfiguration of the history of photography, especially American photography, that resulted from the diverging yet cumulative efforts of John Szarkowski at the MoMA, Nathan Lyons at the Visual Studies Workshop in Rochester, Peter Bunnell in the photography chair at Princeton, Alan Trachtenberg at the English Department at Yale, and the emerging ‘postmodernist’ critique nurtured by Alan Sekula, Douglas Crimp, and Rosalind Krauss around October magazine, was strikingly captured in Jonathan Green’s novel narrative of the history of American photography published in 1984 – the first ‘critical history’ since Newhall’s.64 The ‘contest of meaning,’ in Richard Bolton’s phrase, that newly characterized the cultural and historical understanding of (American) photography around 1980 had less and less business with Taft’s style of history as an ‘accumulation of facts,’ except perhaps to use those facts as ammunition in deconstructions of the ‘modernist’ brand of history. As Beaumont Newhall prophesized, however, the time would come to reconsider the moment of ‘historical imagination’ encapsulated in Photography and the American Scene in a new light, with new ideas and new means. NOTES 1. The epigraph is from Beaumont NEWHALL, ‘Toward the New Histories of Photography,’ Exposure, no. 4 (1983): 7, cited in Marta Braun, ‘Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone,’ Études photographiques, 16 (May 2005), 19–31, note 15. I thank Marta Braun and Rachel Stuhlman (George Eastman House) for providing me with a copy of this article. Beaumont NEWHALL, Photography: A Short Critical History (PSCH) (New York: MoMA, 1938; Beaumont NEWHALL, Photography, 1839–1937 (P 1839–1937) (New York: MoMA, 1937); Robert Taft, Photography and the American Scene: A Social History, 1839–1889 (PAS) (New York: Macmillan, 1938).For copyright documentation, see Catalog of Copyright Entries, respectively: Part 1, Books, Group 1, New Series, Vol. 36, for the year 1939, Nos. 1–12, Washington: Government Printing Office, 1940, 816; Vol. 34, for the year 1937, Nos. 1–112, Washington: Government Printing Office, 1938, 803; Vol. 35, for the year 1938, Nos. 1–112, Washington: Government Printing Office, 1939, 626. 2. Elizabeth EDWARDS, The Camera as Historian, Amateur Photographers and Historical Imagination, 1885–1918 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2012). See also the ongoing series L’Oeil de l’Histoire by Georges DIDI-HUBERMAN, especially Atlas ou le gai savoir inquiet, L’Oeil de l’Histoire, 3 (Paris: Minuit, 2011). 3. Robert Taft collection, Kansas Historical Society (KHS), Topeka. The portion of this collection that has recently become available online is the photography correspondence, which I discuss in part 4 of this paper. The existence of this new facility only came to my attention after my first draft had been completed and presented, and I thank April Watson and Jane Aspinwall (Nelson- Atkins Museum) for alerting me to it. Taft’s photography correspondence was digitized in 2010 by a KHS team including Michael A. Church (coordinator and editor of the collection), Teresa Coble (assistant editor), and Steve Wood (imaging), and put online in early 2011 through the Kansas Memory gateway. I warmly thank Michael A. Church, digital projects coordinator at KHS, for guiding me through it and providing me with additional information. In an email to me dated Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 16 July 10, 2012, Church tells me that additional segments of the collection may be digitized at a later date, depending on the response to this first endeavour. 4. François BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photo graphique de l’Amérique selon Robert Taft (Photography and the American Scene, 1938),’ E-rea, no. 8.3 (2011), http://erea.revues.org/17772011. 5. Christopher PHILLIPS, ‘The Judgment Seat of Photography,’ October, no. 22 (1982): 27–63; reprinted in Annette Michelson et al., eds., October, The First Decade, 1976–1986 (Cambridge and London: MIT Press, 1987), 257–93. 6. Along with Mary Warner MARIEN, ’What Shall We Tell the Children? Photography and its Text (Books),’ Afterimage 13, no. 9 (April 1986): 4–7. See also Richard BOLTON, ed., The Contest of Meaning: Critical Histories of Photography (Cambridge and London: MIT Press, 1989). 7. M. BRAUN, ‘Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone’ (note 1). In her footnote 1, Braun gave an extensive bibliography of the ‘history of history’; see especially the special issue of History of Photography 21, no. 2, ‘Why Historiography?’ (Summer 1997), with the articles of Allison BERTRAND, ‘Beaumont Newhall’s “Photography 1839–1937”: Making History,’ 137–47; and Anne MCCAULEY, ‘Writing Photography’s History before Newhall,’ 87–102. 8. Christine Y. HAHN, ‘Exhibition as Archive: Beaumont Newhall, Photography 1839–1937, and the Museum of Modern Art,’ Visual Resources: An International Journal of Documentation 18, no. 2, special issue ‘Following the Archival Turn: Photography, the Museum, and the Archive’ (2002): 145–52. Hahn argues that Newhall rather avoided advancing an aesthetics for photography and was influenced by the all-encompassing art theories of Alois Riegl and the period’s fascination with the machine. 9. Sophie HACKETT, ‘Beaumont Newhall, le commissaire et la machine: Exposer la photographie au MoMA en 1937,’ Etudes photographiques 23 ‘Politique des images / Illustration photographique’ (2009): 150–76. Hackett also emphasizes the cult of the machine as source of modern art promoted by Alfred Barr and Paul Strand especially, and Newhall’s wide-ranging choice of iconography. In the same issue, see also Matthew S. WITKOVKSY’s article, ‘Circa 1930: Histoire de l’art et nouvelle photographie,’ 116–38. 10. See François BRUNET, ‘Samuel Morse, “père de la photographie américaine,”’ Etudes photographiques 15 (2004), 4 and n. 2. For an example of a discussion of Taft’s research on the daguerreotype era, see Cliff KRAINIK’s reconsideration of Robert Taft’s article on ‘John Plumbe, America’s First Nationally Known Photographer’ (American Photography, 30, January 1936, 1– 12), in Daguerreian Annual, 1994: 48–57. 11. See, for example, Daniel J. BOORSTIN, The Americans, vol. 3, The Democratic Experience (New York: Vintage Books, 1974), 658; Michael SCHUDSON, Discovering the News: A Social History of American Newspapers (New York: Basic Books, 1978), 95. A search on Google Books confirms that Taft’s book is also currently commonly used. 12. Michael KAMMEN, ‘Photography and the Discipline of American Studies,’ American Art 21, no. 3 (Fall 2007), 13–18. See also F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4). 13. See F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4). It is relatively common to read that Taft’s book was inspired by a nationalistic perspective, which is probably an oversimplification (see part 2 of this article). 14. See M. BRAUN, ‘Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone’ (note 1). I discuss this further in this article; see Geoffrey BATCHEN’s comments below, part 3, and note 38. Douglas Nickel states that Taft’s book ‘does not appear to have been an influence’ on Newhall’s, and notes that the latter was Macmillan’s outside reader: Douglas R. NICKEL, ‘History of Photography: The State of Research,’ The Art Bulletin 83, no. 3 (2001): 557. 15. F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4), 18–22. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid. 2–4. Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 17 18. For further discussion, see part 3 and notes 29 and 30. 19. C. PHILLIPS, ‘The Judgment Seat of Photography’ (note 5); S. HACKETT, ‘Beaumont Newhall, le commissaire et la machine’ (note 9). Published reminiscences of Beaumont NEWHALL include B. NEWHALL, ‘Toward the New Histories of Photography’ (note 1); Interview with Beaumont NEWHALL from March 1975, in Dialogue with Photography, ed. Paul HILL and Thomas COOPER (New York: Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, 1979), 377–412; B. NEWHALL, ‘The Challenge of Photography to this Art Historian,’ in Perspectives on Photography, ed. Peter WALCH and Thomas BARROW (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986), 1–7; B. NEWHALL, Focus: Memoirs of a Life in Photography (New York: Bulfinch, 1993). Significant holdings of Beaumont and Nancy Newhall’s papers are found at the MoMA (MoMA Archives), the Getty Museum (Getty Research Institute), and the Center for Creative Photography in Tucson, Arizona. 20. See F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photo graphique’ (note 4), 13–22. 21. On Mathew Brady and Civil War photography compare B. NEWHALL, PSCH (note 1), 48–50 (a separate chapter on ‘Brady: Documentation of the Civil War,’ falling between ‘Ambrotypes’ and ‘Photographic Realism’) and R. TAFT, PAS (note 1), chapter 13 (‘Civil War Photographers,’ 223–47). On hand-held cameras and the Kodak, compare PSCH, 59–61 and PAS, chapters 18 (‘A New Age,’ 361–83) and 19 (‘The Flexible Film,’ 384–404). 22. F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique,’ 23–25. 23. Compare B. NEWHALL, PSCH (note 1), 76–80 (‘News Photography,’ where the art historian attempts to distinguish between ‘photographic interpretation’ and mere ‘sensation’) to R. TAFT, PAS (note 1), chapter 21 (‘Photography and the Pictorial Press,’ 419–51, which is much more concerned with technological evolution, especially the invention of half-tone printing, and social ‘impact’). In an interview from 1975, Newhall stated that the ‘exciting things’ happening in photography in the 1930s were the FSA’s work and ‘straight’ photography, experimental photography, and photojournalism: Interview with Beaumont NEWHALL from March 1975 (note 19), 383. This ‘excitement’ was linked, in the late 1930s, to the rise of ‘documentary photography’ (see Olivier LUGON, Le Style documentaire: D’August Sander à Walker Evans, 1920–1945, Paris: Macula, 2001). 24. This context, which deserves further study, has been touched upon by commentators interested in the making of Beaumont Newhall’s history. See references given in notes 5–9 and F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4), 4–6. 25. For references to published reminiscences of the art historian, see note 19. 26. See Robert TAFT, ‘A Photographic History of Early Kansas,’ Kansas Historical Quarterly 3, no. 1 (February, 1934): 3–14, http://www.kancoll.org/khq/1934/34_1_taft.htm. 27. See Robert TAFT, ‘M.B. Brady and the Daguerreotype Era,’ American Photography 29, nos. 8 and 9 (1935): 486–98, 548–60. 28. Along with René Auvillain, secretary of the Société Française de Photographie; H.H. Blacklock, secretary, and J. Dudley Johnston, curator of the Royal Photographic Society of Great Britain; Lewis Mumford; Georgia O’Keeffe; Louis Walton Sipley; and Monroe Wheeler (B. NEWHALL, PSCH [note 1], 10). 29. Compare B. NEWHALL, P 1839-1937, 50 and PSCH, 49–50 (note 1). 30. R. TAFT, PAS (note 1), 229–30. In Taft’s text, this terse recrimination seems not intended as a diminution of Brady’s artistic or other merit but as a caveat against the speculative excesses of ‘artistic criticism.’ Later in the same chapter Robert Taft gives details about Alexander Gardner’s career and separate venture from 1863 on (ibid., 230–31) that are not found in Newhall’s texts. 31. B. NEWHALL, PSCH (note 1), 194. 32. Ibid., 219. 33. See Erin Kathleen O’TOOLE, ‘No Democracy in Quality: Ansel Adams, Beaumont and Nancy Newhall, and the Founding of the Department of Photographs at the Museum of Modern Art (PhD Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 18 thesis, University of Arizona, 2010), 288–89. O’Toole also quotes a letter from James Soby to Dick Abbott, dated June 26, 1944, when in reference to the reorganization of the MoMA’s photography department Soby reluctantly opts for the ‘Stieglitzian-Fine Arts’ approach and ‘professional as opposed to commercial photography,’ adding: ‘And here Nancy Newhall knows more than anyone except Beaumont, Hyatt Mayor and [Robert] Taft, none of whom is available’ (ibid., 263), http://arizona.openrepository.com/arizona/bitstream/10150/ 204109/1/ azu_etd_10947_sip1_m.pdf. 34. B. NEWHALL, ‘The Challenge of Photography to this Art Historian’ (note 19), 6. Edward EPSTEAN (1868–1945) had become interested in the history of photography before 1900 while in the photogravure business. Translator of many French and German early publications on photography, including Josef-Maria Eder’s and Georges Potonniée’s histories, he also published several historical works of his own, including Daguerreotype in Europe and the United States, 1839–1853 (with John A. Tennant, s.n., 1934) and The Centenary of Photography and The Motion Picture (s.n., reprint from the Journal of the Society of Motion Picture Engineers, 1939). 35. B. NEWHALL, ‘The Challenge of Photography to this Art Historian’ (note 19), 6: ‘I was fascinated to discover that this unknown author had gone over much of the same ground that I had and come to certain similar conclusions as myself. Indeed I felt so strongly about it that I requested a letter certifying that the manuscript had been sent to Epstean after the publication of my own book. I highly recommend[ed] the publication of Taft’s book, which, as I am sure you all know, became a classic, twice reprinted.’ 36. In other statements, however, Newhall did not mention Taft among his peers in photo- history of the period, see for example Interview with Beaumont NEWHALL from March 1975 (note 19), 387. 37. R. TAFT, PAS (note 1), 496–97. 38. Geoffrey BATCHEN, Each Wild Idea: Writing, Photography, History (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2002), 211, n. 45. He is, to my knowledge, the only critic to have commented on Taft’s curious endnote 341. Yet he oddly states, after the sentence quoted, that Taft ‘then attaches an endnote that details Newhall’s MoMA catalogue and moves straight on to quote the views of Stieglitz, as published in the New York Times in 1934.’ Taft’s endnote does not detail Newhall’s catalogue, but merely cites it; he does move on to quote views of ‘leaders in American photography’ because, he explains, ‘they bear [him] out with regard to the point raised in the text.’ The problem is that, this comment being inserted in an endnote itself attached to the footnote referring to Newhall’s ‘system,’ ‘the point raised in the text’ is a bit hazy, unless that be the prudent statement that ‘there appears to be developing at present a satisfactory and logical system of aesthetics based on the distinguishing features of the photograph,’ to which the footnote is attached. The quoted statement by Stieglitz is a defence of straight photography, and the letter merely reaffirms the statement. The quoted statements by Steichen, taken from a 1923 interview in the New York Times, go in the same direction (‘Mr. Steichen urged a return of sharp pictures and praised the “meticulous accuracy of the camera”’). What is also worth noting is that Steichen’s letter, written in reply to Taft’s request for confirmation of these statements, rather expresses a form of denial (‘in detail they cannot have been accurate’) and retrospective self-justification (‘at that time I took every opportunity that presented itself to urge the abandonment of certain prevalent soft focus and other vagaries … I had been one of the ring-leaders in the production of these technical aberrations’): R. TAFT, PAS (note 1), 497. 39. None of the references I have seen in Taft’s endnotes seem to date later than January, 1938. 40. Robert Taft collection, KHS (note 3). This collection consists of fifty-six boxes, described by an online finding aid: http://www.kshs.org/p/robert-taft-collection/ 14128. 41. Robert Taft collection, KHS (note 3), boxes 10–12, accessible through a page selection tool: http://www.kansasmemory.org/item/221204/page/1. The photography correspondence ranges Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 19 from 1926 to 1955. In the following pages I simply reference the letters quoted by authors’ names and dates. 42. Taft initially hesitated on the scope of his book, between a more limited subject which he labelled ‘The Early Use of Photography in the Explorations of the West’ (Jan. 19, 1933, to A.J. Olmstead) to a more inclusive one (‘a history of American photography in the period 1839 to 1880,’ May 5, 1933, to Horace W. Davis; ‘a popular history of American photography in the period 1839-1880,’ June 13, 1933, to Agnes Rogers Allen). As early as 1935, he declared his project to be ‘nearing its close’ (April 19, 1935, to K.D. Metcalf). In the end of 1935 he started on a search for a publisher, while publishing portions or drafts of his work, on Mathew Brady particularly, in a series of articles for American Photography (see R. TAFT, ‘M.B. Brady and the Daguerreotype Era’ [note 27]). On November 19, 1935, Taft petitioned to Houghton, Mifflin Co., writing that he had ‘completed the first draft’ of a book that treated American photography ‘as a phase of American Social history rather than a technical history and as such it should be of much broader interest to the public at large,’ and offering as a tentative title ‘An American sun shines brighter’; the response was apparently negative. In June 1936, Taft expressed his hope to ‘get [the book] off to the publisher by the end of the summer’ (June 17, 1936, to L.W. Sipley); from 1936 on he seemed primarily engaged in collecting illustrations, though important textual revisions were still to come. On January 15, 1937, still without a publisher, Taft wrote Edward Epstean to inquire about the ‘two books announced by Tennant and Ward dealing with the history of photography which you have translated’ (i.e. Potonniée’s and Eder’s histories, which appeared only in 1945). From a letter preserved in his general correspondence, which I thank Michael Church for communicating to me, we learn the important fact that on March 11, 1937, Robert Taft approached the publisher Little, Brown & Co., who sent a denial letter on March 18 (Robert Taft Papers, Kansas Historical Society, Coll. 172, Box 1, General Correspondence, Folder 1937). Quite probably, then, negotiations with Macmillan only started after this date, although this cannot be confirmed until Taft’s correspondence with Macmillan is found. Michael Church assures me that so far this correspondence has not been located in the Taft collection. 43. For instance, Taft’s letter to Epstean quoted in the preceding note (note 42) was the starting point of an exchange that developed around the question, raised by Epstean in his January 22, 1937, letter to Taft, of ‘when “photography,” the word as noun, adjective or otherwise, was first used and by whom’; to which Taft replied with references to German and English sources (esp. John F.W. Herschel’s letter to Talbot of Feb. 19, 1839, proposing to substitute ‘photographic’ for Talbot’s ‘photogenic’) that did not appear in PAS. 44. Newhall advised Taft to use the Camera Work reproduction of Herschel’s portrait (a suggestion that Taft adopted, see R. TAFT, PAS [note 1], 106) and sent him a copy of a Southworth and Hawes view of a Boston street, which is the source of Taft’s illustration, already mentioned, of the right to left reversal appearing, with credit to Newhall, in Taft’s book on p. 94. 45. About this exhibition and its relative failure, see Laetitia BARRÈRE, ‘Influence culturelle? Les usages diplomatiques de la photographie américaine en France durant la guerre froide,’ Études photographiques, no. 21 (2007): 44–45 and n. 8 and 9. Newhall described the plans for this exhibition in a letter to Taft dated February 23, 1938. 46. The last letter or copy of a letter from Taft to Newhall extant in the file is dated March 7, 1938. After this there are two more letters from Newhall to Taft in March and May, 1938. Then the correspondence becomes less frequent and includes only five letters from Newhall to Taft (between January 1939 and March 1943) and one from Nancy Newhall, acting as Beaumont’s interim at the MoMA in 1942. Throughout the correspondence several letters from Taft to Newhall appear to be missing from the file. 47. Concerning, for example, Alexander Gardner and the photography of railroad construction in the West (Newhall to Taft, Nov. 11, 1937), the Mexican war daguerreotypes (Taft to Newhall, Nov. Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 20 30, 1937), W.H.F. Talbot materials in the possession of Robert Taft (Newhall to Taft, Dec. 2, 1937; Taft to Newhall, Dec. 7, 1937), etc. 48. See F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4), 20–22. 49. M. BRAUN, ‘Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone’ (note 1), 30. 50. Under the new title The History of Photography from 1839 to the Present Day; on the rewriting, with the help of Hollywood screenwriter Ferdinand Reyher, see Interview with Beaumont NEWHALL from March 1975 (note 19), 407–08; M. BRAUN, ‘Beaumont Newhall et l’historiographie de la photographie anglophone’ (note 1), 26. 51. See S. HACKETT, ‘Beaumont Newhall, le commissaire et la machine’ (note 9), 150–52. 52. C. HAHN, ‘Exhibition as Archive’ (note 8), 146–47. Mentions of the MoMA show I have found in the NYT online archive appeared on March 5, 1937; March 14, 1937; March 17, 1937; March 21, 1937; April 4, 1937 (signed H.D.: ‘the art of the camera is decidedly to the fore at the moment, with material enough on exhibition to please all varieties of photographic taste and keep devotees of the lens busy for some time.’); April 14, 1937, noting that the MoMA added a group of daguerreotypes of the Mexican war of 1847 to its exhibition. Robert Taft commented extensively on these recently rediscovered war images in his book (R. TAFT, PAS [note 1], 223–24 and endnote 246a). 53. NYT, June 27, 1937, ‘Miscellaneous Brief Reviews of Recent Non-Fiction,’ unsigned review entitled ‘The Camera’s Century.’ 54. On October, 7, 1937, a eulogious article was devoted by the NYT to the annual US Camera Salon: ‘Camera Show To Have 700 Prints.’ In a review of ‘The New Books on Photography’ by Edward Fitch HALL (NYT, October 31, 1937), largely devoted to technical or popular books, we find no mention of Newhall’s catalogue. 55. Ralph THOMPSON, ‘Books of the Times: A Method of History, Pictures and Text, A Broad View,’ NYT, October 11, 1938. See Francis TREVELYAN Miller, ed., The Photographic History of the Civil War, 10 vols (New York: The Review of Reviews, 1911); and F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4), 5. 56. Ralph THOMPSON, ‘Books of the Times: Walker Evans and Others Cartoons to Comic Strips from Harper’s Weekly,’ NYT, November 29, 1938. 57. See F. BRUNET, ‘L’histoire photographique’ (note 4), 20–23. 58. S.T. WILLIAMSON, ‘Early American Photography: Mr. Taft Writes a Social History of the Camera’s First Fifty Years in this Country,’ NYT, December 25, 1938. 59. Taft’s book received a number of reviews besides the NYT, not all favourable (see The Saturday Review, December 17, 1938, 6). PAS even received a mention in Life magazine’s issue of June 5, 1939, where the book and its illustrations appear to have been the main source for the photo-essay on ‘American Yesterdays, Nearly a Century of National History Has Been Recorded by the Camera,’ which stated that since the Mexican War of 1849 ‘photography as art in America took second place to photography as a medium for the recording of history’ (unidentified author, Life, 5 June 1939, p.p. 24, 29–40). See also Robert Taft to Elmo Scott Watson, October 14, 1938, KHS, Taft Collection (note 3), Photography correspondence. 60. Jacob DESCHIN, ‘History Updated: Newhall Book Appears in a New Edition,’ NYT November 8, 1964. 61. Jacob DESCHIN, ‘History Speaks Volumes,’ NYT, June 27, 1965, p. X24. 62. Robert TAFT, Artists and Illustrators of the Old West, 1850–1900 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953). 63. Beaumont NEWHALL, The Daguerreotype in America (New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1961, reprint Dover, 1976). Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 21 64. Jonathan GREEN, American Photography: A Critical History 1945 to the Present (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1984). ABSTRACTS This paper examines the historical coincidence, conceptual difference, and generative dialogue linking the two accounts of photography's first century, created simultaneously by the American historians Beaumont Newhall and Robert Taft. Whereas Newhall's catalogue to the 1937 MoMA exhibition and subsequent History of Photography have long been considered foundational documents for the aesthetic interpretation of photography, Taft's 1938 Photography and the American Scene has been given very little critical attention, in spite of its plausible claim to serve as a ‘social history’ of American photography and of its function as a medium of national memory and history. In addition to comparing the two texts, the paper sheds light on the generally unnoticed working relationship between the two historians and the initial reception of their work. AUTHOR FRANÇOIS BRUNET François Brunet is a historian of images and American culture; he teaches at Université Paris Diderot and is a fellow of the Institut universitaire de France. He has published La Naissance de l’idée de photographie photographie (new ed. PUF, 2011), Photography and Literature (Reaktion Books, 2009) and the anthology Agissements du rayon solaire (Presses de l'Université de Pau, 2009). He has cocurated the exhibition Images of the West (Musée d’art américain de Giverny, 2007). He is the chief editor of a forthcoming book on the history and culture of images in the United States (Hazan/University Paris Diderot, 2013). Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Études photographiques, 30 | 2012 22 Robert Taft in Beaumont Newhall’s Shadow Two Diverging Destinies Conflicting Narratives / Parallel Histories Opponents or Collaborators? Clues in the Published Record Dialogue behind the Scenes: The Testimony of the Taft Correspondence on Photography ‘The Camera’s Century’: Notes on the Initial Reception of Newhall’s and Taft’s Histories 
work_j3bcxfczuzbizfz7owjxrp2req	----	Enter or copy the title of the article here This is the author’s final, peer-reviewed manuscript as accepted for publication. The publisher-formatted version may be available through the publisher’s web site or your institution’s library. This item was retrieved from the K-State Research Exchange (K-REx), the institutional repository of Kansas State University. K-REx is available at http://krex.ksu.edu IMAGINING HEAVEN AND EARTH AT MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS, COLORADO Kevin Blake How to cite this manuscript (APA format) If you make reference to this version of the manuscript, use the following citation format: Blake, Kevin. (2008). Imagining heaven and earth at Mount of the Holy Cross, Colorado. Retrieved from http://krex.ksu.edu Published Version Information Citation: Blake, Kevin. (2008). Imagining heaven and earth at Mount of the Holy Cross, Colorado. Journal of Cultural Geography 25(1):1-30. Copyright: Copyright 2008 Taylor & Francis Digital Object Identifier (DOI): doi:10.1080/08873630701822588 Publisher’s Link: This is an electronic version of an article published in Blake, Kevin, (2008), Imagining heaven and earth at Mount of the Holy Cross, Colorado. Journal of Cultural Geography 25(1):1-30. Journal of Cultural Geography is available online at: http://www.informaworld.com with the open URL of your article, which would be the following address; http://www.informaworld.com/openurl?genre=article&issn=0887- 3631&volume=25&issue=1&spage=1 IMAGINING HEAVEN AND EARTH AT MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS, COLORADO (Accepted for publication in the Journal of Cultural Geography, vol. 25, no. 1, fall/winter 2007 issue) Kevin Blake Department of Geography Kansas State University Manhattan, KS 66506-2904 Phone: 785-532-3406 Fax: 785-532-7310 E-mail: kblake@ksu.edu 1 Abstract. Rumors of a giant cross hidden deep in the Colorado Rocky Mountains finally proved true in 1873 with William Henry Jackson’s photograph of Mount of the Holy Cross. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Thomas Moran further immortalized the cross, with many Americans imagining the peak as a Christian symbol of the righteous conquest of the West. Multiple geographical imaginations have since been quilted into the cultural fabric of the peak, such as a pilgrimage shrine, national monument, topographic oddity, Fourteener, and water wilderness. The place identity, spiritual geography, and iconography of these geographical imaginations are examined through participant observation and archival sources including folklore, poetry, newspaper articles, government surveys, and postcards. Some geographical imaginations prove to be unexpectedly temporary, such as the national monument designation, and others surprisingly enduring, such as pilgrimage. 2 The mystique of Mount of the Holy Cross makes it one of the most notable peaks in all of North America. Rumors of a giant snowy cross hidden in the Colorado Rockies shrouded the peak in mystery from the mid-1800s until it burst upon the American imagination with the first photograph in 1873, proving to some that “God himself had blessed the westward course of empire” (Goetzmann and Goetzmann 1986, 182). Although most sacred mountains in North America are those of indigenous peoples, especially in the American Southwest, the geographical imaginations of Mount of the Holy Cross include a long history of Christian pilgrimage, and the very name of the place signals its role as a Christian shrine. The peak is known more today for an accident of topography than for its religious symbolism, however. Its elevation in excess of 14,000 feet above sea level qualifies it as one of Colorado’s famed Fourteeners, yet both its secular and sacred cultural constructs have persisted from discovery to the present day (Blake 2002). The layering of these geographical imaginations over time is the focus of this article. The giant snow-filled cross on the east face of Mount of the Holy Cross is the most recognizable snowfield in Colorado (Borneman and Caudle 2005). The cross formed when a rugged, steep, narrow gully in the rock (a couloir) developed in a seam of schist that is weaker than the surrounding gneiss. Beginning at the summit of 14,005 feet, the defile, named the Cross Couloir, plunges down the mountain for approximately 1,200 feet. About a third of the way down intersecting arms branch out following joints in the rock that are each over 200 feet wide.1 What makes the couloir and intersecting benches unique is that they collect more snow than the rest of the sheer east face, and after the spring melt the snowy cross stands in sharp relief against the dark rock of the summit cone (Figure 1). 3 Located about 80 miles west-southwest of Denver, Colorado, Mount of the Holy Cross is the northernmost Fourteener in the Sawatch Range and the only one in this range located west of the Continental Divide. Such a distinctive snowy mark might be assumed to be widely known, but the cross is only visible for a short time in summer, and then only from a handful of mountain peaks and passes. But the key element adding doubt to the early rumors was that although Mount of the Holy Cross could be easily seen from several Fourteeners to the east, as a person travels nearer to the peak the looming mass of Notch Mountain (13,247 feet), located less than one mile east of the snowy cross, obscures the view. IMAGINING MOUNTAINS Few landscapes have an unambiguous meaning to all people for all time. More often, the symbolism of place will be molded to the beliefs of various cultures, perhaps in conflicting ways, and the symbolism will be re-shaped to fit changing ideals over time (Tuan 1974). New representations may creep into a collective consciousness over centuries, or newly understood meaning can occur overnight. Mountain symbolism, for example, has in general evolved from association with fear and evil, at least in the context of Western civilization, to sublime and beautiful landscape over the course of the past four centuries (Nicolson 1997). Amidst this broad trend, however, the geographical imaginations of an individual peak – the way it is conceptualized to fit cultural ideals particular to a time and place – can remain constant for centuries in the eyes of one group of people even while its meanings change rapidly for another group (Blake 2005). 4 Understanding “the place of the imagination in geographical studies” is intimately tied to the Siren call to explore unknown lands (Wright 1947, 1). The mysterious qualities of Mount of the Holy Cross have emitted various Siren calls to different individuals and groups for at least 150 years, yet the label terra incognita was inapplicable to Native Americans: Euro-Americans were the ones fascinated by the peak’s alluring image. This article explores the subjective matters that have kindled the geographical imaginations of the mountain from the perspectives of place identity, spiritual geography, and iconography that thread their way through the geographical imaginations. Place identity, the meaning of a place to a group of people that gives a stronger sense of shared belonging, is manifest in the appropriation of the peak as a symbol of local communities, Colorado, and the nation (Blake 1999a). The desire to create identity and give order to a place has also added significance to the mountain’s elevation and wilderness qualities. The nature of the place identity of Mount of the Holy Cross is best understood coupled with the context of spiritual geography, the study of the places with relevance to human spirituality and how this place-based spirituality is shaped by events and other places (Francaviglia 2003). Interwoven with the physical world of mountains are beauty, meaning, and purpose. The spiritual reactions to Mount of the Holy Cross resulted in its role as a sacred place and pilgrimage shrine, not only to Christians but also to thousands of hikers seeking climbing challenges or, as with John Muir, transcendental experiences based on the admiration of God’s creation set in a scenic alpine landscape (Muir 1993). Indeed, the serrated ridges, turquoise lakes, snow-filled couloirs, and mystical towering peaks of the Holy Cross landscape caused one experienced mountaineer to compare this place with the sacred landscape of the Himalaya (Kerasote 1987). 5 Much of the place identity and spiritual geography of this peak is communicated by its iconography, the collected pictorial representations or symbols of the mountain that convey its symbolic meaning. Applying iconography to the study of a landscape is a powerful tool in understanding the symbolism of place, whether secular or sacred (Cosgrove and Daniels 1988; Blake 1999b). Identifying key landscape icons and asking a series of questions that lead from source to symbol (Meinig 1979, 173) is a key perspective underlying this article. The creation of a deeply symbolic mountain is typically built with many icons emanating from the landscape memories and imaginations of countless individuals and groups (Macfarlane 2003). There may be no mountain more identified by its visual imagery than Mount of the Holy Cross. Photographs and postcards form a rich repository of the visual images and a benchmark to assess changing geographical imaginations (Stewart 1953; Vale and Vale 1983; Vale and Vale 1994; Shortridge 2000; Arreola 2001; Jakle 2003; Wyckoff 2006). I also rely on many archival sources for this essay, such as folklore, poetry, government surveys, newspaper articles, climbing registers, and hiking guides. Central to my understanding of the lure and lore of the peak are my experiences in the field, including multiple visits to the northern Sawatch, participant observation while mountain climbing, and analysis of the nearby landscape, a valuable way to understand the imprint of culture on place (Parsons 1977; DeLyser and Starrs 2001). In one sense Mount of the Holy Cross is an instance of exceptionalism: it is a rare example of a sacred American mountain to a non-indigenous population. Even though spirituality is at the core of its image, Mount of the Holy Cross is also a case study of the defining characteristics of the Mountainous West: barriers, islands of moisture, areas of government control, zones of concentrated resources, restorative sanctuary (Wyckoff and Dilsaver 1995). As Wright (1947) suggests in his seminal work 6 on the study of geographical imaginations, or geosophy, understanding the geographical imagination of the peak is often an issue of scale, from intense local meaning to artists and hikers to vague national symbols of religion and Manifest Destiny. The accumulated symbolism of the mountain is presented here in approximately chronological fashion, as each event, though varied in nature and intensity, built upon and reinterpreted prior geographical imaginations. Most of the Mount of the Holy Cross literature focuses exclusively on the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Those were heady days in the cultural history of the mountain, to be sure, but that focus ignores some continuing threads in how the peak has been imagined, such as a symbol for Colorado, as well as several new themes, such as wilderness management issues. QUEST FOR THE SNOWY CROSS Though the snowy cross was likely known to miners and other Coloradans, the first recorded sighting was in 1868 by Samuel Bowles, editor of the Springfield, Massachusetts Republican, from the summit of Grays Peak, an easily-climbed Fourteener located 37 miles to the east (Bueler 2000).2 His observations indicate that from the start the peak’s namesake feature was viewed in religious terms: Over one of the largest and finest [ranges] the snow-fields lay in the form of an immense cross, and by this it is known in all the mountain views of the territory. It is as if God has set His sign, His seal, His promise there, -- a beacon upon the very center and hight [sic] of the Continent to all its people and all its generations (Bowles 1991, 117). 7 Bowles, however, did not refer to the mountain by name, as did William H. Brewer, an agriculture professor at Yale on an 1869 expedition led by Harvard geology professor Josiah D. Whitney to measure mountain elevations. Also looking westward from Grays Peak, Brewer wrote that “The Mount of the Holy Cross was forty miles away, with its cross of pure white, a mile high, suspended against its side” (Brewer 1930, 49). At the opening of the “Great Survey” era of government-sponsored expeditions to the Mountain West in late 1860s, Mount of the Holy Cross was thus known by name and sight, but still undocumented by photography and in the realm of a rumored topographic oddity. As part of the “effort to demystify the secrets and scenery of the Colorado mountains” (Wyckoff 1999, 90), the 1873 survey of the Colorado territory led by Ferdinand V. Hayden set as one of its primary goals the photographing and measuring of the fabled cross. To that end the party included surveyor James T. Gardner, topographical illustrator William Henry Homes, and photographer William Henry Jackson. The Hayden Survey was easily able to pinpoint the location of Mount of the Holy Cross with triangulations from afar, yet the expedition members met no one with firsthand knowledge of how to access the peak. Still, toward the end of the summer survey season, the explorers amassed enough topographical knowledge to follow a creek valley (subsequently named Cross Creek) in a southwesterly direction from the Eagle River toward the base of the mountain (Jackson 2005). The trials and tribulations of travel through unknown lands during the next few days, combined with what the expedition ultimately accomplished, are legendary. The terrain never offered a view of their objective, and their progress slowed to a crawl across narrow ledges, tremendous rock slides, dark chasms, and densely timbered slopes. Hemmed in the valley, they dealt with swampy ground and mountain 8 slopes “that bristled like a porcupine. Countless multitudes of giant pine-trunks, uprooted by some fierce hurricane, were piled up and crisscrossed in such a way that an army must have stopped as before the walls of an impregnable fortress” (Holmes 1875, 209). Any terrain not fallen timber or bogs sprouted thousands of smooth, glacially-polished rocks that reminded the explorers of a million white-backed sheep; they named them roche moutonées. To make better progress the expedition split into two groups on 23 August 1873, one to climb and survey Mount of the Holy Cross, led by Gardner and Holmes, and one to photograph the cross from Notch Mountain, led by Jackson (Figure 2). Torrential rain, steep cliffs, and dense forests impeded both groups. Jackson forged ahead alone late in the day to the northwestern shoulder of Notch Mountain, where the clouds briefly parted for a glimpse of “the Holy Cross in all its sublime impressiveness … the marvelous mountain on which nature had drawn with mighty lines of snow the symbol of the Christian world” (Jackson 2005, 113). Before the rest of his party reached him the clouds again obscured the peak, but Jackson took it as a benedictional sign that a circular rainbow appeared floating on the mists in the valley below Notch Mountain and Mount of the Holy Cross. The survey party fared no better in completing their task, so both groups spent a cold, wet, hungry night high on the slopes, separated from each other by what would be a difficult climb but what was only a short straight-line distance across the narrow valley of East Cross Creek. They were able to spot each other’s campfires and cheer themselves by shouting greetings across the void (Holmes 1875). Sunday, 24 August 1873, dawned clear, and both parties quickly achieved their goals. Jackson’s exposure of one 11x14 and seven 5x8 plates of the snowy cross from the northwestern shoulder of Notch Mountain proved to be the monumental 9 achievement of the survey (Figure 1). The photography was especially valuable given the difficultly in even gaining a close-up view of the cross. Even today, views of the cross are rare, with no better nearby viewpoint than rugged Notch Mountain.3 Jackson’s photographs thus became at once the dominant iconography of the mountain, firmly emblazoning the peak’s eastern face in the public mind. With the countless photographs, paintings, and postcards images of the snowy cross, it is difficult to remember that another face of the mountain exists, despite the fact that the approach of the main hiking trail offers no view of the cross (Figure 3). Some climbers are so befuddled by this that they comment in the summit climbing register, “Where is the cross”?4 The 1873 photographs are unparalleled in their presentation of a perfect cross. Though the photographs “provided a sense of realism and immediacy heretofore impossible to grasp” (Wyckoff 1999, 90), the ideal nature of the cruciform that day later contributed to debates over the veracity of Jackson’s images and changes in the cross form. Jackson hardly rested in his quest to re-photograph the mountain, visiting again in 1880, 1893, 1897, and 1905, but he never could replicate the quality of the cross as he photographed it in 1873 (Brown 1970). Jackson’s perspective of the cross is so well known that a commemorative plaque was placed on Notch Mountain to mark the site of his first photographs, and another plaque was placed on the summit of Notch Mountain to indicate that Jackson’s photographs were not taken there (Foster 1987). The aura of scientific objectivity surrounding photography served Jackson’s work well, legitimizing the image of the cross in 1873 as the ideal view and facilitating the appropriation of nature as a commodity to a far wider audience than possible with landscape painting (Cosgrove 1984). Even as the peak later attracted the potent image-making skills of acclaimed painters and poets, Jackson’s first 10 photography reigns as the supreme event in the geographical imagination of Mount of the Holy Cross. POPULARIZING THE PEAK Jackson’s photograph of Mount of the Holy Cross became the most famous image ever made of an American mountain (Goetzmann and Goetzmann 1986; Hales 1988), but its two most important immediate effects were establishing the mountain as a Christian symbol and inspiring painter Thomas Moran to visit the peak. Already famous for his images of Yellowstone while in the employ of the 1871 Hayden Survey, Moran chose to travel with the John Wesley Powell Survey in 1873 in order to paint the Grand Canyon. Powell knew of Moran’s unique abilities to capture the West on canvas: “Two classes of mountains are represented in paintings. [Frederic] Church paints a mountain like a kingdom of glory. [Albert] Bierstadt paints a mountain cliff where an eagle is lost from sight ere he reaches the summit. Thomas Moran marries these great characteristics, and in his infinite masses cliffs of immeasurable height are seen” (Powell 1961, 389). Fresh on the heels of the renowned success of Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone (1872) and Chasm of the Colorado (1873-74), Moran set out in the summer of 1874 to see Jackson’s snowy cross. Knowing the correct route did not make for easier travel, as Moran struggled through the wet conditions and fallen timber that plagued the Hayden Survey a year earlier. He eventually reached Notch Mountain and a view of the cross, yet made few sketches due to the poor weather (Brown 1970). Relying heavily on the details of peak from Jackson’s photograph with highlights added from his own quest, Moran painted Mountain of the Holy Cross in 1875 11 (Figure 4). Like Jackson, he would return multiple times to this subject, but most critics prefer his first image (Brown 1970). The painting hung in the main art gallery at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition where it garnered a medal and diploma, but even more importantly it contributed to immortalizing the West in the national mindset (Kinsey 1992). A Jackson print was also displayed in Philadelphia, winning seven medals (Jenkins 1976). Images based on Moran’s painting quickly joined Jackson’s photographs in forming the dominant visual representations of Mount of the Holy Cross, overwhelming any sense of the feature as a topographic oddity and providing the “visual proof of the uniqueness of western landmarks” necessary for later preservation efforts (Runte 1979, 14). Ironically, both artists received some criticism for manipulating their work, with Jackson re-touching some plates to add a waterfall and Moran re-configuring the orientation of Cross Creek to place it in the foreground view of the cross (Carhart 1932). In neither case did the artist fabricate any scenic element from thin air (Brown 1968); Jackson relocated the waterfall on East Cross Creek farther upstream and Moran achieved a more pleasing composition by providing just a suggestion of the fallen timber amid the relocated waterfall and creek. Highlighting these small yet significant water features in their art established Jackson and Moran as early popularizers of the notion that sacred mountain wilderness in America combines rugged terrain with water. Moran’s painting helped shape the geographical imaginations of the peak in two additional ways. First, by placing the snowy cross near the top center of canvas and re-positioning the foreground water elements to lead the eye straight toward the cross, Moran contributed significantly to the Christian symbolism of the mountain. Second, in the same way that Jackson’s photograph motivated Moran, the painting 12 inspired one of America’s most popular poets of the nineteenth century, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, to pen “The Cross of Snow” in 1879. Upon viewing Moran’s landscape in a book about western scenery, Longfellow wrote the sonnet as a sorrowful and private memorial to his second wife, Fanny, who died eighteen years earlier. Found in his papers after he died in 1882, the poem became one of Longfellow’s most famous (Brown 1970). Longfellow’s words gave literary form to the ethereal and sublime images of Jackson and Moran: There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died (Longfellow 2000, 671). The claim of Christianity upon the geographical imagination of Mount of the Holy Cross relied heavily on the imagery established by Jackson, Moran, and Longfellow and stories of their efforts to immortalize the cross of snow. As if the cross was not enough for Christians to take as a sign of divine approbation, the snowfield to the right of the cross in Jackson’s photographs became known as the Supplicating Virgin for its supposed resemblance to the Madonna reaching out toward the cross (Jackson and Marshall 1952). The naming of the entire landscape became rife with Christian metaphor: the vertical arm of snow became the Cross Couloir, the glacial tarn at the foot of the couloir became the Bowl of Tears (akin to the cup catching the blood of Christ), and the stream became Cross Creek. 13 Christianity’s influence in the geographical imaginations of the peak is illustrated in a legend published in 1896. It spins a yarn about a party of Spaniards including a friar that have become separated from the conquistadors and entered unknown mountains, where they encounter the fabled Wandering Jew. The Spaniards give succor to the weak old man, and when he awakens the next morning he claims to have dreamt that he finally gains forgiveness for his sins and will sleep forever beneath the cross. Soon the Wandering Jew is found dead among the mountain grass, and there he is buried and blessed by the friar. That night a tremendous storm roars through the mountains, and in the morning the Spaniards find that the grave of the Wandering Jew is isolated from their camp by a newly formed chasm, and above the grave is an unscalable mountain precipice. The following summer a mighty cross of snow appears above the grave, serving as an eternal symbol of God’s benediction upon mountain travelers (Field 1896). The legend may sound fantastical today, but in the religious mindset of its day it was proof that the mount was of God’s hand and that the path to salvation was through Christianity. No aspect of popular culture was free from the Christian symbolism of the Mount of the Holy Cross. The sheet music for “A Trip to the Rockies” in 1901 featured Moran’s painting on the cover and a poem by Will L Vischer: “The holy cross of Christian faith, / Above the royal velvet / In beauty shines, an emblem wraith, / High on beetling helmet” (Ingram 1901). A guidebook to Colorado published in 1911 quoted Alva Adams in saying “the Almighty with everlasting snow has painted the symbol of masonry – the cross of Christianity,” and also a poem by Marion Muir that evokes the cross as a sign of God in the wilderness for westward moving settlers (Parsons 1911). By the 1920s, Mount of the Holy Cross had become a staple in any portrayal of Colorado mountains, whether in souvenir photography books (Among 14 the Rockies 1907), travel guides (Crofutt 1981), hiking tales (Chapin 1995), poetry (Kerin 1922), or postcards (Figure 5). A NATIONAL SHRINE By the 1920s, Mount of the Holy Cross was one of the best known mountains in the world (Carhart 1932). A photo of the peak hung in the Vatican (Picturesque Colorado 1909). Interest in the mountain, while primarily expressed in iconographic terms, had also spawned religious quests. The first recorded pilgrimage was in July 1912, when Benjamin Brewster, Episcopal Bishop of Western Colorado, performed a Holy Eucharist on top of Notch Mountain (Jenkins 1976). Access to the peak was still difficult, but community leaders in the nearby towns of Red Cliff and Minturn were intent on improving the roads and promoting the prospect of pilgrimage. In the early 1920s, O.W. Daggett, publisher of the Red Cliff newspaper, The Holy Cross Trail, convinced the Forest Service to set aside 350 acres as a devotional area in Holy Cross National Forest along Shrine Pass, a high mountain road (elev. 11,089 feet) approximately 13 miles northeast of Holy Cross.5 Daggett’s dream included building a 50,000 seat amphitheater, campground, and golf course (Brown 1970). None of these developments came to fruition, largely because the pilgrimage focus stayed fixed on Notch Mountain due its closer proximity to the cross. But the Shrine Pass viewpoint is still marked by the Forest Service today, with a short trail leading through the spruce-fir forest to an overlook and a plaque of a Bible verse embedded in granite (Figure 6). With Minturn billing itself as “Gateway to the Mount of the Holy Cross” and Red Cliff leaders advocating for a transcontinental route called the Holy Cross Trail 15 from New York to San Francisco that would utilize Shrine Pass, the prospect for road improvements and pilgrimage seemed bright. Not all Coloradans, however, imagined the improved access and increased numbers of visitors in positive terms. The Colorado Mountain Club (CMC) planned an August 1923 outing to Mount of the Holy Cross. It was billed as perhaps the last outing to the area before the newly constructed roads would spoil it with “thousands of high-heeled tourists.” The announcement continues: Now is the time to see it BEFORE it is desecrated in the name of religion. It is a glorious mountain, in a splendid and so-far inaccessible setting of ragged ridges and sparkling lakes. We want to visit it while the mystic lure and friendly solitude still surround it. And to do this we must go at once. For the roadbuilders are busy and the toot of the auto horn is approaching fast (Bergin 1923, 11). Although the dominant geographical imagination of Mount of the Holy Cross was framed by Christian beliefs, another group of people saw the peak as a symbol of outstanding mountain scenery and solitude. Ironically, although the CMC members dreaded the idea of mass pilgrimage, the after-trip report noted the “poor” views of the cross due to the late summer season (Bouck 1923). It was as if no trip to the area would achieve fulfillment, whether of the religious or recreational kind, without a view of the cross as it appeared in Jackson’s photos and Moran’s paintings. The key support that launched eleven consecutive years of significant national pilgrimages beginning in 1928 came from the editor of The Denver Post, Frederick Gilmer Bonfils, and his promotions in the newspaper and financial support for road improvements (Crouter 1977). Approximately two hundred Catholics and Protestants from twenty-five states and Canada hiked to the summit of Notch Mountain in the 16 July 1928 pilgrimage, with reports of a miraculous cure leaving no doubt that greater numbers of pilgrims would be on their way (Fryxell 1934). The pilgrimage prompted President Herbert Hoover to use the Antiquities Act to declare Holy Cross National Monument on 11 May 1929.6 Setting aside 1,392 acres encompassing the summits of Notch Mountain and Mount of the Holy Cross, Presidential Proclamation 877 notes the “figure in the form of a Greek Cross” that is “an object of much public interest” (Hoover 1929, 19). New road and facility construction came rapidly with the national monument status. An auto road was built from the Eagle River southwestward toward Notch Mountain, first to Camp Tigiwon (a Ute word meaning “friends”) in 1932 and then closer to Notch Mountain at Halfmoon Campground in 1933 (Gaug 2003). The Tigiwon Community House was built to shelter pilgrims, with over 600 pilgrims arriving in 1932, over 800 in 1933, and over 3,000 in 1934 (Birch 1935). Content with the view of the cross from Notch Mountain, few pilgrims climbed Mount of the Holy Cross. The Forest Service built a horse trail to the south summit of Notch Mountain, and two hundred workers of the Civilian Conservation Corps built a stone shelter house there at a cost of $120,000 (Fryxell 1934; Gilliland 2004). Expectations were that over one thousand visitors a day would arrive at Holy Cross within a few years, and plans were made to construct at Camp Tigiwon an administration building, post office, dining hall, rental cabins, parking lots, water system, and a larger community hall (Birch 1935). The pilgrimage phenomenon was not limited to actual visitors: “handkerchief healing” was inspired by Acts 19:12 (Eberhart and Schmuck 1970). During the 1928 pilgrimage, a Denver pastor promised the sick in his congregation that they would be healed in they kneeled in prayer at the appointed hour. When he returned, he was “swamped with assertions of cures” (Fryxell 1934, 9). He instructed anyone unable to 17 make the next pilgrimage to send him a handkerchief that he would take with him. About one hundred handkerchiefs were blessed in 1929, with astonishing reports of cures afterwards. By 1932, he received over 2,000 handkerchiefs from throughout the nation, requiring the help of the Forest Service to haul the load up Notch Mountain (Fryxell 1934). Mount of the Holy Cross had become an example of transmutation, the process by which religious worship was transferred from cathedrals to the mountain landscape. The belief system was the same, the holy dates the same, the symbolism of the cross the same, but the mountain landscape had become sacred (Carhart 1932; And Now 1933). A FALLEN CROSS Oddly, right at the height of the popularity of pilgrimages and the image of the peak as a sacred mountain, the pilgrimages ceased in 1938 (Brown 1968). The planned improvements at Camp Tigiwon were left on the drawing board. Although the pilgrimages can be conceptualized as a “fad” that ran out of steam (Lavender 1976, 172), the difficulties in reaching this remote area likely played a major role. No amount of development at Camp Tigiwon could offset the tortuous mountain roads leading to the area, the effect of high elevation on pilgrims, or the struggle to ride horseback or hike over steep, rugged terrain to Notch Mountain. Furthermore, the death of editor Bonfils in 1933 left the pilgrimage without its most ardent promoter (Crouter 1977). The U.S. Army likely had the greatest influence over the end of the pilgrimages, however, with the establishment in 1942 of Camp Hale (Borneman and Lampert 1998). Mountain and winter warfare training exercises were conducted until 1965 in this area of over 200,000 acres from the headwaters of the Eagle River right 18 up to the boundaries of Holy Cross National Monument. The combination of the Depression extending into the 1930s, gas rationing during World War II, and the prohibition of civilian travel within Camp Hale (Wolle 1949) ensured the demise of the large national pilgrimages. With the decline in public interest in the peak, Holy Cross National Monument was abolished by Congress on 3 August 1950.7 The superintendent of Rocky Mountain National Park, who administered Holy Cross National Monument, supported the abolishment because fewer than fifty people visited the monument each year and it was “a climb worth half your life” to climb Notch Mountain for a view of the cross (Brown 1968, 38). Rumors of the ruination of the right arm of the cross further supported the abolishment of the national monument while simultaneously discouraging the resumption of large pilgrimages (Brown 1968; Lavender 1976). As for when the cross arm changed appearance – if it changed – the war effort, lack of visibility, and climatic conditions all cloud the view (Figure 7). Rumors of a rock slide in the right arm were unsupported by visual evidence, yet to most observers the snowy cross has not appeared in its earlier form of classic perfection since the 1930s (Brown 1968). Most observers assumed that natural forces altered the cross, but artillery shelling or the vagaries of human perception might have played key roles. One rumor suggested that artillery shelling from the summit of Notch Mountain had blasted the right cross arm, but neither Army records nor the first-hand examination of the cross by climbers in 1951supported this tale (Brown 1968). Of course, ground vibrations from nearby shelling could have been the veritable straw that broke the cross’s back in causing some change in the rock fracture along the cross arm. It is also possible that the snow and atmospheric conditions observed by Jackson in 1873 have never again been 19 duplicated. Ample evidence exists of the changes caused by global warming in snow, ice, and glacial conditions; surely a small snowfield in a rock crevice could appear greatly different from decade to decade. The repeated doctoring of images of the cross by publishers in an effort to achieve a mythical yet ideal cross also resulted in the unrealistic visitor expectations to see a perfect cross and view anything else as something of a topographic oddity. The thousands of re-touched lithographs, woodcuts, postcards, paintings, and photographs ensured that no matter what image a visitor hand in mind of the cross, it was unlikely to be faithfully duplicated on site (Figure 8). The mere existence of the national monument would also have raised expectations of a perfect cross. With the lore of the pilgrimages and a steady stream of folklore suggesting a divine presence in the cross it is easy to see how the belief in the eternal character of the mountain was reduced greatly by reports of the diminished physical integrity of the cross. Ironically, just as the national monument was abolished, a local effort was mounted to have Mount of the Holy Cross on a commemorative stamp to be issued in 1951 for the 75th anniversary of Colorado statehood. The stamp effort faced long odds, though, since only six commemorative stamps were issued in 1951, and a state typically warranted a commemorative stamp only on the centennial of territorial designation or statehood. The Holy Cross Postmasters’ Association, based in Minturn, sent a resolution supporting the stamp idea and copies of Jackson’s photograph to thousands of postmasters and religious, fraternal, and civic organizations around the world. The resolution touted the (fabled) discovery of the cross by Coronado and its worldwide religious significance. Support for the stamp poured in from hundreds of Kiwanis and Lion’s clubs, chambers of commerce, American Legion and VFW posts, and newspaper editors, as well as fifty-four postmasters of foreign countries, Eleanor 20 Roosevelt, and Winston Churchill. The effort proved successful as the stamp prominently featured Mount of the Holy Cross when issued on 1 August 1951. The significance of the local effort and symbolic importance of the mountain among the stamp icons was affirmed by the issuance of the first day of issue postmark at Minturn (Figure 9). THE NEWEST FOURTEENER Just as Mount of the Holy Cross seemed to have run its course in geographical imaginations as a sacred mountain, topographic oddity, national monument, and state symbol, another government survey of elevations altered yet again the cultural course of the peak. Although the Hayden survey established the elevation of Mount of the Holy Cross as 14,170 feet, by the 1920s other surveys had removed the peak from the Fourteener aristocracy with a measurement of 13,978 feet (Fryxell 1934). In the 1950s, the estimate was back up to 13,996 feet, but without the Fourteener status and amid reports of a diminished cross, the mountain had “lost some of its luster” (Eberhart and Schmuck 1970, 33). The summit registers indicate that at most a few dozen people climbed Mount of the Holy Cross each year in the 1950s, but not all hikers were content to stop a few feet short of fourteen thousand.8 The 18 August 1954 register indicates a three-foot cairn (rock pile) had been added to the summit, and another on 6 October 1963 notes “we built it up to 14,000 – hope winter winds won’t blow down our unstable cairn.” With several decades spent on the Fourteener list in the late 1800s and early 1900s, the elevation of the summit apparently mattered greatly in the geographic imagination of the mountain, as is the case with mountains throughout human history (Wright 1966). 21 The cairns were redundant after the 1964 re-survey with a new elevation of 14,005 feet. Both of the CMC registers that straddle that era mention the new elevation, with a 18 June 1966 entry noting that the peak is now a “14er,” and the 1967 entries wishing, “Happy New Year, 14er’s.” A ranking of 53 on the list of 54 Fourteeners spawned an immediate increase in the number of climbers signing the summit register: 188 in 1966, approximately 800 in 1978, and nearly 1,200 in 1988. Hikers began to take notice of peak’s climbing popularity, with one writing on 24 July 1978, “There are too many damn people here.” By 1995, an annual total from the summit registers is impossible to estimate since the registers were not replaced frequently enough to record the thousands of climbers, but in just a three-week period from August 15-September 6, 1995, approximately 570 people climbed the mountain. The skyrocketing numbers reflected a fascination with 14,000 feet far more than the ease of the climb. The Cross Couloir offers one of the classic climbing challenges on a Colorado Fourteener, and the main climbing route up the north ridge is infamous for its distance of 12 miles round-trip and great elevation gain (5,625 feet) from the trailhead at Halfmoon Campground to the summit (Roach 1999). The terrain is “remote, forbidding, and dangerous” (Brown 1970, 27), and every few years there is a highly-publicized fatality on the mountain. The prospect of death at high elevation discourages few climbers. At the summit on 31 July 1998, I unexpectedly met Tomas, a Slovak currently living in Prague, and H.J., a Mexican-American from Dallas. Tomas was visiting a friend in Vail and sought out the nearest Fourteener, traveling from Vail to Minturn by bus and then hitchhiking to the trailhead. H.J., who cut his climbing teeth on the high volcanoes of Mexico as a boy, flew from Dallas to Denver the night before the hike then drove to the trailhead and slept in his car. It was an expensive and highly anticipated three-day 22 weekend for him as he attempted to climb at least two Fourteeners without the benefit of acclimatizing to the high altitude. We had each come to the mountain seeking solitude and beauty, yet meeting high on a mountain often forges camaraderie among hikers. For a delightful hour in the rarefied air we talked and admired the limitless view of stunning wilderness scenery. The aerie of the summit cone offered us one of the more dramatic sights on a Fourteener: a view 2,000 feet straight down Cross Couloir to the Bowl of Tears, sparkling vivid turquoise like a gemstone in the rough (Figure 10). A WATER WILDERNESS Protected wild nature is one of the dominant images for western landscapes (Vale and Vale 1989). Wild nature in the Colorado Rockies, though, invariably means water, whether it is a cascade, lake, tarn, stream, or wetland meadow (Douglas 1961). As more hikers became familiar with the iconic features of liquid or frozen water on and near Mount of the Holy Cross during the outdoor recreation boom of the 1970s, the spectacular scenery spurred the congressional designation in 1980 of over 48,562 ha (120,000 acres) as the Holy Cross Wilderness. As presaged by the Colorado Mountain Club (CMC) outing in 1923, however, thousands of visitors to the wilderness were soon seen as overusing the resource, i.e. loving it to death (Nash 1967; Gilliland 2004). To protect the wilderness, the CMC in 1988 proposed closing campsites along East Cross Creek and encouraging day use only (Vickery 1988). The goal was to avoid a permit system, yet in 2003 White River National Forest implemented a mandatory, but free permit system, for the wilderness. The permit 23 numbers are not currently limited; the goal first is to acquire better data on levels, locations, and types of use. Wilderness, a word with legal standing, still manages to conjure greatly different geographical imaginations on the part of users. The Forest Service, in an attempt to keep hikers on one route rather than creating a network of casual trails, placed five-foot cairns along the main hiking trail, but wilderness purists who object to that sort of intrusion on the landscape repeatedly dismantled the cairns. Other hikers, apparently in an effort to improve the trail marking, vandalized dozens of trees and rocks with spray-painted white arrows. Oddly, the arrows often mark a more difficult route or were painted where the trail is obvious (Lipsher 2005). The most serious competition for wilderness resources at Mount of the Holy Cross, however, involves water. The Piedmont cities, including Denver and its suburbs, such as Aurora, and Colorado Springs, covet central Colorado’s water (Crowley 1975). With roughly 80% of the precipitation falling on the western slope of the Continental Divide where only 20% of the population lives, transmountain water diversions are a Colorado way of life (Treese 2005). Utilizing water rights acquired in 1962 to numerous Eagle River tributaries, the Homestake Water Collection and Storage System, jointly owned by Aurora and Colorado Springs, transfers water in a tunnel below the Continental Divide from Homestake Reservoir on the western slope in the southern portion of the Holy Cross Wilderness to Turquoise Reservoir on the eastern slope. The 1980 act that created Holy Cross Wilderness Area preserved the rights of the cities to expand the Homestake Project. In 1981, the cities issued a draft environmental impact statement (EIS) for the $90 million Homestake II Project that would divert an additional 20,000 acre-feet of water from the Holy Cross Wilderness 24 Area. A new tunnel would divert over 90% of the spring snowmelt from several wilderness area creeks to the Homestake Reservoir and then the eastern slope. The first Forest Service report claimed minimal impact on wetlands and fisheries from Homestake II, but pressure from conservation groups and the formation of the Holy Cross Wilderness Defense Fund resulted in the completion of a full EIS in 1983. It also asserted minimal impact on the wetlands, but the battle for the dominant geographical imagination of Holy Cross Wilderness – water resource or water wilderness – was just beginning to heat up. The qualities of the wilderness related to water were quickly summarized by the wilderness defenders: “five glaciated valleys, eighty-seven alpine lakes, and Cross Creek, the longest high altitude stream running entirely within designated wilderness” (Illg and McClellan 1983, 155). They tapped into a powerful truism in the American perception of mountains and wilderness: people expect to see water in a Rocky Mountain wilderness. This mindset was manifest and codified when all early national parks were established in moist mountain environments, such as Yellowstone, Yosemite, Sequoia-Kings Canyon, Glacier, Rainier, and Great Smoky Mountains (Vale 1995). The juxtaposition of mountain wilderness and water is furthered by the symbols of the Holy Cross Wilderness Defense Fund. The “Help Save Holy Cross Wilderness” brochure produced in the 1990s prominently features photographs of waterfalls, wetlands, and the phrase, “water is the lifeblood of wilderness,” whereas the logo of the organization features the mountain cross. Interestingly, this current secular theme of water as lifeblood echoes Biblical prophesies and proclamations about living water in a physical and spiritual context, and serve as a foundation of Christian theology (e.g., Isaiah 35:6, John 4:14, John 7:38). 25 The Holy Cross Wilderness Defense Fund joined with the Sierra Club and Eagle County in opposing the project through several lawsuits, and then the Eagle County Commissioners denied a permit for the project. The opposition was based on potential environmental damage to rare wetland plants plus the potential need for water by Eagle County business interests. Eagle County’s decision was upheld by the Colorado Supreme Court and, in December 1995, by the U.S. Supreme Court when justices refused to hear the case. The water is still there, however, and stakeholders from both sides of the Continental Divide continue to discuss water development options in the Eagle River watershed (Treese 2005). A PEAK OF IDENTITY Over the past 130 years the fame of Mount of the Holy Cross has waxed and waned as the geographical imaginations of the place have been re-shaped by differing visions of place identity, spiritual geography, and iconography. The mountain has been conceptualized as a peak of identity for local communities, Colorado, the nation, and the Christian world. Often these scales have intertwined, such as when the local stamp boosters enlisted the support of foreign postmasters, or when Christian pilgrimages resulted in the designation of a national monument that gave local communities a short-lived economic boost. Even which local towns are at the heart of the peak’s identity has evolved, from Red Cliff early in the twentieth century to Minturn by mid- century, with Eagle, Glenwood Springs, and Vail on the periphery of its geographical imaginations. Minturn lays the strongest overt claim to the mountain with snowy cross icons on Saint Patrick’s Parish Chapel, a local car wash, cemetery markers, and the town 26 logo (Figure 11). The local electric utility headquartered in Glenwood Springs, Holy Cross Energy, also unabashedly projects the image of Jackson’s perfect cross in its web site (www.holycross.com), newsletter, name, and signage. Though the mountain is perhaps less well known today than in the 1930s, its majestic icon still is co-opted by a wide variety of businesses and organizations. Pilgrimage to Mount of the Holy Cross is widely reported in the literature to have ceased in the 1930s, but those were only the large-scale Christian pilgrimages organized by The Denver Post. In the spirit of earlier pilgrimages, Red Cliff community leaders led 150 residents to the Notch Mountain shelter house in 1976 (Jenkins 1976). Pilgrimage has since continued annually, though not on a scale intended to garner attention. Rev. Carl Walker of Mount of the Holy Cross Lutheran Church in Vail leads a group no larger than 15 people each July to a view of the cross. The persistence of pilgrimage in the geographical imaginations of Mount of the Holy Cross indicates that though the cross may appear imperfect to some, to others it remains sacred. Aside from the sacred mountains of Native Americans, many Americans associate the idea of a sacred mountain with other continents (Bernbaum 1990), yet Mount of the Holy Cross still exemplifies every sense of the term. Furthermore, unlike most other sacred mountains that are primarily understood through sacred texts or oral traditions, the sacredness of Mount of the Holy Cross is interpreted almost exclusively through iconography. Based on the summit registers, some hikers are on a pilgrimage when they climb the peak, whether as a member of a church group climbing the peak or expressing individual spirituality in comments like “Praise God,” “This is God’s creation,” and “What has God wrought.” Conversely, the name of the mountain seems to cause others to express the antithesis of spirituality: “Genuflect, genuflect, 27 genuflect. Well, Goddamn!” (17 July 1966); “Pot is fun” (10 August 1968); “If God can make all this he can surely make me holy” (10 August 1995); “Holy Molly” (12 August 1995); “Hot as hell” (3 July 1966). Even with the power of visual imagery, accessibility that offers personal landscape interaction is a key element in the creation and maintenance of mountain symbolism and geographical imaginations. Mountain imaginations have evolved greatly in the last 50 years to the point where the same peak can be a water wilderness, mountain climbing Mecca, Christian pilgrimage shrine, and an icon for the state or local communities. The exact precision of the cross is less of an issue today than when calls were made for the government to use helicopters to ferry men and supplies to the peak so that the rock could be blasted and bolted to the point of creating a more perfect cross (Colorado Historical Society c. 1950). Keeping with trends is U.S. society, fewer people see the mount in purely religious terms now, even with the continuation of pilgrimage on a limited scale, and when the mountain is called sacred today it is as likely due to its wilderness scenery as its Christian symbolism. It is difficult to imagine the snowy cross on a Colorado stamp today because of its overt religious symbolism, yet the less-than-perfect cross is a frequent symbol of Colorado wilderness and Fourteeners. The cross appears on the cover of a popular hiking guide (Borneman and Lampert 1998) and on a poster published by the Colorado Fourteeners Initiative, an organization formed in 1994 “to protect and preserve the natural integrity of Colorado’s Fourteeners and the quality of the recreational opportunities they provide” (Colorado Fourteeners Initiative 2006). These secular uses of the cross image indicate how nature has joined Christianity as one of the dominant geographical imaginations of the mountain, but the geographical imaginations of the peak in the days of Jackson and Moran are still 28 imbued in the mountain’s image. The 2005 Colorado Travel Guide mentions the Notch Mountain trail that leads to a view of “mysterious” Mount of the Holy Cross and its “near-perfect cross” (Colorado 2005, 18). Culturally, the mountain continues to be inseparable from its cross. More than a symbol of diminished religious significance, the changing appearance of the snow-filled couloir is a testament to dynamic geographical imaginations and natural processes, and to the uncertainty that occasionally pervades our understanding of each. 29 NOTES 1. The size of the cross has been subject to much conjecture, with estimates of its height ranging from 1,150 feet to 2,000 feet and estimates of the width of the arms ranging from 400 feet to 750 feet. Fritiof Fryxell (1933) climbed the Cross Couloir and estimated it to be 1,150 feet high and the total width of the arms to be about 400 feet. The elevation of Mount of the Holy Cross is shown on current U.S.G.S. topographic maps as 14,005 feet (4,268.7 m) above sea level. That elevation is based on the geoid (mean sea level) estimates of the National Geodetic Vertical Datum of 1929 (NGVD 29). The National Geodetic Survey has readjusted its elevation calculations to use the North American Vertical Datum of 1988 (NAVD 88), and if those elevations are adopted on official maps, the Mount of the Holy Cross elevation will be shown as 14,009 feet (4,269.9 m). 2. The peak was, no doubt, known to the Ute people, and one fanciful account of Jackson’s first photograph indicates the Ute Chief Ouray helped Jackson find the peak (Jackson and Marshall 1952). But no evidence suggests this mountain is sacred to the Ute, and the first recorded climb of the peak found no indication of a previous human presence (Bueler 2000). 3. Only the briefest of glimpses of Mount of the Holy Cross are possible from Colorado roadways, such as the west side of Shrine Pass, west side of Fremont Pass, north side of Tennessee Pass, west side of Loveland Pass, south slope of the Mount Evans Highway, and west portal of Eisenhower Tunnel. The peak is also visible from the summit of the Vail Ski Area. 4. The Colorado Mountain Club (CMC) places registers on the summits of selected peaks for climbers to note their name, hometown, and comments. I examined the 30 registers for Mount of the Holy Cross in the CMC collection, held in the Henry S. Hall, Jr. American Alpine Club Library in Golden, Colorado. 5. Holy Cross National Forest became part of White River National Forest in 1945. 6. Holy Cross National Monument was the fifth such designation in Colorado, following Wheeler, Colorado, Yucca House, and Hovenweep national monuments, yet the significance of Mount of the Holy Cross as a national shrine is suggested by its proclamation as a national monument prior to the monuments at Great Sand Dunes, Black Canyon of the Gunnison (each later designated a national park), and Dinosaur. 7. House Resolution 7339 provides no rationale for abolishing the national monument and returning the lands to the national forest. Wheeler National Monument was abolished at the same time. 8. Estimates of how many people climbed the mountain are reflected in the available registers, including 19 in 1954, 4 in 1955, 52 in 1956, 2 in 1957, and 65 in 1958. Single outings of large numbers of climbers account for much of the fluctuation, such as the group of 37 climbers on 4 July 1958 from the Mountain Recreation Department at the University of Colorado. 31 REFERENCES Among the Rockies: Pictures of magnificent scenes in the Rocky Mountains. 1907. Denver: The H.H. Tammen Curio Co. And now, our own sacred mountain. 1933. Appalachia 19(4): 595-596. Arreola, D. D. 2001. La cerca y las garitas de Ambos Nogales: A postcard landscape exploration. Journal of the Southwest 43(4): 505-541. Bergin, M. 1923. The Holy Cross outing. Trail & Timberline 56: 11 Bernbaum, E. 1990. Sacred mountains of the world. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Birch, A. G. 1935. U. S. Improvement work ordered in Holy Cross area. The Denver Post, 14 August, 1, 8. Blake, K. S. 1999a. Peaks of Identity in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. Journal of Cultural Geography 18(2): 29-55. ________. 1999b. Sacred and Secular Landscape Symbolism at Mount Taylor, New Mexico. Journal of the Southwest 41(4): 487-509. ________. 2002. Colorado Fourteeners and the Nature of Place Identity. Geographical Review 92(2): 155-179. ________. 2005. Mountain Symbolism and Geographical Imaginations. Cultural Geographies 12(4): 527-531. Borneman, W. R., and T. Caudle. 2005. 14,000 Feet: A celebration of Colorado’s highest mountains. Pueblo: Skyline Press. Borneman, W. R., and L. J. Lampert. 1998. A Climbing guide to Colorado’s Fourteeners. 3d ed. Boulder: Pruett Publishing Co. Bouck, C. 1923. Twelfth annual outing. Trail & Timberline 61: 1-2. Bowles, S. 1991 [1868]. The parks and mountains of Colorado: A summer vacation in the Switzerland of America. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 32 Brewer, W. H. 1930. Rocky Mountain letters, 1869: A journal of an early geological expedition to the Colorado Rockies, edited by E. B. Rogers. Denver: Colorado Mountain Club. Brown, R. L. 1968. William Henry Jackson and Mount of the Holy Cross. Trail & Timberline 590: 37-41. ________. 1970. Holy Cross: The mountain and the city. Caldwell, ID: Caxton Printers. Bueler, W. M. 2000 [1974]. Roof of the Rockies: A history of Colorado mountaineering. 3d ed. Golden: Colorado Mountain Club. Carhart, A. H. 1932. Colorado. New York: Coward-McCann. Chapin, F. H. 1995. Frederick Chapin’s Colorado: The peaks about Estes Park and other writings, edited by J. H. Pickering. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Colorado Fourteeners Initiative. 2006. http://www.14ers.org (last accessed 22 December 2006). Colorado Historical Society. Collection no. 475, Elmer E. Owen. File folder 23, manuscript 475. Restore the Mount of the Holy Cross. Colorado Official State Vacation Guide. 2005. Denver: Weaver Official Publications. Cosgrove, D. E. 1984. Social formation and symbolic landscape. London: Croom Helm. ________, and S. Daniels. 1988. The iconography of landscape: Essays on the symbolic representation, use, and design of past environments. New York: Cambridge University Press. Crofutt, G. A. 1981 [1885]. Crofutt’s grip-sack guide of Colorado, volume II. Boulder: Johnson Books. Crouter, G. 1977. The Majestic Fourteeners: Colorado’s highest. Silverton: Sundance Books. Crowley, J. M. 1975. Ranching in the mountain parks of Colorado. Geographical Review 65(4): 445-460. DeLyser, D., and P. F. Starrs. 2001. Doing fieldwork: Editors’ introduction. Geographical Review 91(1&2): iv-viii. 33 Douglas, W. O. 1961. My wilderness: East to Katahdin. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Eberhart, P., and P. Schmuck. 1970. The Fourteeners: Colorado’s great mountains. Chicago: Sage Books. Field, E. 1896. The Holy Cross: And other tales. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Foster, M. 1987. Historical hide ‘n seek. Trail & Timberline 823: 270-271. Francaviglia, R. V. 2003. Believing in place: A spiritual geography of the Great Basin. Reno: University of Nevada Press. Fryxell, F. 1933. Climbing the cross of snow. The Canadian Alpine Journal 21: 28-32. ________. 1934. The Mount of the Holy Cross. Trail & Timberline 183: 3-9, 14. ________. 1952. Foreword to Quest of the snowy cross, by C. S. Jackson and L. W. Marshall, 7-12. Denver: University of Denver Press. Gaug, M. 2003. Hiking Colorado. 2d ed. Guilford, CT: Globe Pequot Press. Gilliland, M. E. 2004. The Vail hiker and ski touring guide. 4th ed. Silverthorne, CO: Alpenrose Press. Goetzmann, W. H., and W. N. Goetzmann. 1986. The West of the imagination. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Hales, P. B. 1988. William Henry Jackson and the transformation of the American landscape. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Holmes, W. H. 1875. The Mountain of the Holy Cross. The Illustrated Christian Weekly, 1 May, 209-210. Hoover, H. 1929. Holy Cross National Monument. Proclamation 1877: May 11 (46 Stat. 2993). Illg, G., and R. McClellan. 1983. Wetlands at stake in Homestake II. Trail & Timberline 776, 777: 155-156. 34 Ingram, T. R. 1901. A trip to the Rockies: March and two step. Denver: Tolbert R. Ingram Music Co. Jackson, C. S., and L. W. Marshall. 1952. Quest of the snowy cross. Denver: University of Denver Press. Jackson, W. H. 2005 [1929]. William Henry Jackson’s “The pioneer photographer.” Ed. B. Blair. Santa Fe: The Museum of New Mexico Press. Jakle, J. A. 2003. Postcards of the night: Views of American cities. Santa Fe: Museum of New Mexico Press. Jenkins, T. M. 1976. The cross of snow. Summit 22(6): 18-21, 44. Kerasote, T. 1987. Confessions of a ski mountaineer. Climbing 104: 64-67. Kerin, S. 1922. Poems of sunny Colorado. Denver: Welch-Haffner Printing Co. Kinsey, J. L. 1992. Thomas Moran and the surveying of the American West. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Lavender, D. 1976. David Lavender’s Colorado. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Lipsher, S. 2005. A stain on the land. The Denver Post, 15 August, A1. Longfellow, H. W. 2000. Poems and other writings, edited by J. D. McClatchy. New York: Library of America. Macfarlane, R. 2003. Mountains of the mind. New York: Pantheon. Meinig, D. W., ed. 1979. Symbolic landscapes: Some idealizations of American communities. In The Interpretation of Ordinary Landscapes: Geographical essays, 164-192. New York: Oxford University Press. Muir, J. 1993 [1894]. The mountains of California. New York: Barnes & Noble. Nash, R. 1967. Wilderness and the American mind. New Haven: Yale University Press. Nicolson, M. H. 1997 [1959]. Mountain gloom and mountain glory: The development of the aesthetics of the infinite. Seattle: University of Washington Press. 35 Parsons, E. 1911. A guidebook to Colorado. Boston: Little, Brown, and Co. Picturesque Colorado: A story of the attractions of the wonderful Rocky Mountain region told in pictures and words. 1909. Denver: Colorado & Southern Railway. Parsons, J. J. 1977. Geography as exploration and discovery. Annals of the Association of American Geographers 67(1): 1-16. Powell, J. W. 1961 [1895]. The exploration of the Colorado River and its canyons. New York: Dover Publications. Roach, G.. 1999. Colorado’s Fourteeners: From hikes to climbs. 3d ed. Golden, CO: Fulcrum Publishing. Runte, A. 1979. National parks: The American experience. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Shortridge, J. R. 2000. Our town on the plains: J. J. Pennell’s photographs of Junction City, Kansas, 1893-1922. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas. Stewart, G. R. 1953. U.S. 40: Cross section of the United States of America. Cambridge, MA: Riverside Press. Tuan, Y. 1974. Topophilia: A study of environmental perception, attitudes and values. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. Vale, T. R., and G. R. Vale. 1983. U.S. 40 today: Thirty years of landscape change in America. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. ________. 1989. Western images, western landscapes: Travels along U.S. 89. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. ________. 1994. Time and the Tuolumne landscape: Continuity and change in the Yosemite high country. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Vale, T. R. 1995. Mountains and moisture in the West. In The Mountainous West: Explorations in historical geography, ed. W. Wyckoff and L. M. Dilsaver, 141-166. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. 36 Vickery, A. 1988. Holy Cross Wilderness Area proposals. Trail & Timberline 831: 186- 187. Wolle, M. S. 1949. Stampede to timberline: The ghost towns and mining camps of Colorado. Chicago: Sage Books. Wright, J. K. 1947. Terrae incognitae: The place of the imagination in geography. Annals of the Association of American Geographers 37(1): 1-15. ________. 1966. The heights of mountains: “An historical notice.” In Human nature in geography: Fourteen papers, 1925-1965, 140-155. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Wyckoff, W., and L. M. Dilsaver. 1995. The Mountainous West: Explorations in historical geography. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Wyckoff, W. 1999. Creating Colorado: The making of a western American landscape, 1860- 1940. New Haven: Yale University Press. ________. 2006. On the road again: Montana’s changing landscape. Seattle: University of Washington Press. 37 Fig. 1 – Mount of the Holy Cross, photographed by William Henry Jackson on 24 August 1873 from Notch Mountain. From Among the Rockies: Pictures of Magnificent Scenes in the Rocky Mountains (1907, H. H. Tammen Curio Co., Denver). The snowfield to the right of the cross has been likened to a supplicating Madonna or angel. The caption to the photograph includes these phrases: “this snow white banner of Christian faith … the symbol is perfect … this sign set in the heavens.” (Reproduced from the collection of the author) 38 Fig. 2 – Detail of a topographic map of “Mount of the Holy Cross Quadrangle,” 7.5 minute series, scale 1:24,000, contour interval 40 feet. Published by the U.S. Geological Survey, 1970, photorevised 1987. 39 Fig. 3 – View of the north face of Mount of the Holy Cross from near East Cross Creek along the main hiking route to the summit. Barely visible in the rocks at the left center of the photograph is a waterfall along East Cross Creek. The snowfield on the peak is part of the Supplicating Virgin, and the cross is out of view over the left ridge of the peak. (Photograph by the author, July 1998) 40 Fig. 4 – Color lithograph postcard of Mount of the Holy Cross, adapted from Thomas Moran’s 1875 painting. Cross Creek is in the foreground, along with a hint of the fallen timber that hindered the progress of the 1873 Hayden Survey and Moran’s visit in 1874. A postmark on the reverse is dated 1914. (Reproduced from the collection of the author) 41 Fig. 5 – Color lithograph postcard commemorating the 32nd Triennial Conclave of the Knights Templar in Denver, 1913. The caption refers to the imitation of Mount of the Holy Cross on the right side of the picture. Published by George E. Turner and printed by Williamson-Haffner Company, Denver. (Reproduced from the collection of the author) 42 Fig. 6 – View of the summit of Mount of the Holy Cross from a Forest Service viewpoint along Shrine Pass, approximately 13 miles northeast of the peak. From this vantage, Notch Mountain blocks the lower portion of the Cross Couloir. (Photograph by the author, July 2001) 43 Fig. 7 – Color lithograph postcard of Mount of the Holy Cross from Notch Mountain. The appearance of the snowy cross has long been subject to the time of year and annual variability. Published in about 1907-1916 (publisher unknown). (Reproduced from the collection of the author) 44 Fig. 8 – Mount Cross coffee can, date unknown. (Reproduced from the collection of the author) 45 Fig. 9 – Commemorative stamp issued in 1951 for Colorado’s 75th statehood anniversary. A reproduction of Jackson’s photograph of Mount of the Holy Cross appears with the Colorado State Capitol, the bucking bronco statue on the capitol grounds, the state seal, and the state flower (columbine). The first day of issue was postmarked from Minturn, Colorado on August 1. (Reproduced from a First Day Cover in the collection of the author) 46 Fig. 10 – View from the summit of Mount of the Holy Cross straight down the Cross Couloir to the Bowl of Tears, 2,000 feet below. The southern ridge of Notch Mountain rises behind the tarn. (Photograph by the author, July 1998) 47 Fig. 11 – Logo of The Minturn Car Wash, Minturn, Colorado. (Photograph by the author, June 2004) 48 JCulturalGeoCoverPage IMAGINING HEAVEN AND EARTH AT MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS, COLORADO BlakeJCulturalGeo2008 
work_hc3cboxupfaitkp73wsvuu6i3y	----	THE P R O C E S S OF MATURING A S A COMPETENT CLINICAL T E A C H E R by A N G E L A CHRISTINE WOLFF BScN, McMaster University, 1991 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE D E G R E E OF MASTER OF SCIENCE IN NURSING in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (School of Nursing) We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August, 1998 ©Angela Christine Wolff, 1998 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada DE-6 (2/88) ABSTRACT Clinical nursing teachers are a unique group of academics; they are experts in the art of teaching and the clinical aspects of the nursing profession. A relatively large body of published research substantiates the nature and scope of effective of clinical teaching behaviors as perceived by students and nurse educators. There is, however, a topic that is surprisingly absent from this literature; that is, the study of clinical teachers' competence. For the most part, research has not been conducted to determine clinical teachers' perceptions about their combined competence as teachers and as nurses. The purpose of this study was to describe the process, or processes, by which clinical nursing teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Indirectly, this research revealed the factors and situations that either facilitate or hinder the process of becoming competent. A grounded theory design was chosen for this study because this method was most appropriate for exploring a basic social process such as competence. Eleven clinical nursing teachers from three nursing programs in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia were interviewed for this study. Data analysis proceeded according to the method of constant comparative analysis designed by Glaser and Strauss (1967). In an analysis of the interview results, common themes comprise a three-phased process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. The main theme underpinning all three phases of this process was found to be the development of self-confidence. The first phase, dealing with "self learning needs, described a period of adjustment where clinical teachers confronted the difficulties associated with making the transition from a nurse clinician to a clinical teacher. In phase two, clinical teachers built their teaching style. The third phase focused on integrating the complexities of clinical teaching into their practice as educators. Each phase featured a central focus, key strategies, outcomes, conditions, and facilitative factors. The findings also indicated the maturation process was situation specific and context bound. Furthermore, clinical teachers may experience either occasional or overall incompetence. Based on the findings of this study, the implications for nursing practice, education, administration, and research were identified. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ABSTRACT ii TABLE OF CONTENTS iv LIST OF TABLES viii LIST OF FIGURES ix ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS x DEDICATION xi CHAPTER I: AN OVERVIEW OF THE RESEARCH PROBLEM 1 Background to the Study 1 Problem Statement 5 Purpose 6 Research Question 6 Literature Review 6 Introduction 7 Usage of the Concept "Competence" 7 Defining Competence 8 Motivational Definition 8 Behavioral Definition 9 Behavioral Effectiveness Definition 10 Self-Evaluation Definition 11 Trait Definition 12 Conceptualizing Competence 12 Product 12 Process 13 Summary 13 Defining Attributes 14 Demonstration Cases 15 Model Case 15 Contrary Case 16 Related Case 17 Performance 17 Experience 17 Expertise 18 Effectiveness 19 Caring 19 Antecedents 20 Consequences 21 Empirical Referents 21 V Page Summary 24 Significance of the Study 25 Definition of Terms 25 Clinical Agency 25 Competence 25 Clinical Competence 26 Clinical Teacher 26 Clinical Teaching 26 Learning Environment 26 Neophyte Clinical Teacher 27 Organization of the Thesis 27 Conclusion 27 CHAPTER II: RESEARCH METHOD 28 The Qualitative Approach - Grounded Theory 28 Participant Selection 28 Sample 30 Data Collection 32 Interview 32 Research Notes 33 Data Analysis 34 Stage 1: Discovering the Categories 34 Stage 2: Integrating Categories and Their Properties 35 Stage 3: Identifying the Core Category and Delimiting the Theory 36 Stage 4: Refining and Writing the Theory 37 Rigor 37 Truth Value: Credibility 38 Applicability: Fittingness 39 Consistency: Auditability 40 Neutrality: Confirmability 41 Ethical Considerations 42 Limitations of the Study 43 Conclusion 43 CHAPTER III: THE DISCOVERY 44 Introduction 44 The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher: An Overview 44 The Core Category: Developing Self-Confidence 49 Guiding Frame of Reference 50 Phase 1: Dealing With "Self Learning Needs (Figuring It Out) 52 Developing Abilities as a Clinical Teacher 53 Gaining Awareness about Clinical Teaching 55 Adjusting to the Idiosyncrasies of the Role 56 Establishing Teacher-Student Relationships 56 Evaluating Student Performance 57 vi Page Dealing With Anxieties 58 Orientating to the Clinical Agency 60 Establishing Credibility 60 Summary 61 Phase 2: Building One's Teaching Style (Learning As You Go) 62 Maintaining Credibility 63 Learning How To Teach 65 Focusing on Student-Centered Learning 67 Knowing the Student 68 Facilitating Student Learning 70 Giving Feedback 71 Evaluating Students 72 Summary 73 Phase 3: Integrating the Complexities (Putting It All Together) 74 Consolidating One's Abilities as a Clinical Teacher 77 Learning as a Process 78 Richness of the Learning Environment 80 Knowing the Student 80 Confronting Learning Issues 82 Advocating for Students 83 Evaluating Borderline Students 84 Dealing with Professional Obligations 85 Summary 87 Facilitative Threads 88 Support 88 Familiarity with the Clinical Agencies 89 Stable Teaching Assignments 90 Knowledge and Education 91 Personal Qualities 91 Ability to Communicate 92 Curricular Involvement 93 Summary 93 Variations in the Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher 94 Incompetence 96 Occasional Incompetence 97 Overall Incompetence 98 Summary 99 Conclusion 99 CHAPTER IV: DISCUSSION OF THE FINDINGS 101 Developing Self-Confidence 101 Self-Confidence and Other Related Concepts 102 Self-Confidence and Competence 103 Summary 105 The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher 105 Summary 110 vii Page Strategies Specific to the Phases of the Maturation Process 110 Establishing and Maintaining Credibility 111 Learning how to Teach Through Reflection 113 Knowing the Student 116 Summary 118 Facilitative Factors 119 Support 119 Consistent Teaching Assignment 120 Clinical Background 122 Summary 123 Incompetence 124 Occasional Incompetence 126 Overall Incompetence 127 Summary 127 Conclusion 128 CHAPTER V: SUMMARY, CONCLUSIONS, AND IMPLICATIONS 130 Summary of the Study 130 Background 130 Literature Review 130 Methodology 131 The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher 132 Summary of the Major Findings 135 Implications for Nursing 137 Clinical Teaching Practice 138 Administration 141 Education for Clinical Teachers 145 Research 146 Conclusion 147 REFERENCES 148 APPENDICES Appendix A - Domains of Competence 156 Appendix B - Letter of Request for Agency Consent 157 Appendix C - Letter of Invitation 158 Appendix D -1 nformed Consent 159 Appendix E - Sample of the Interview Questions 161 Appendix F - Demographic Form 162 LIST OF TABLES Demographic Characteristics of Study Participants ix LIST OF FIGURES Page Figure 1 The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher 46 Figure 2 Triad of Relationships 50 Figure 3 Phase One of the Maturation Process 52 Figure 4 Phase Two of the Maturation Process 62 Figure 5 Phase Three of the Maturation Process 74 X ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Completing a thesis is made possible with the assistance of many people. I would like to acknowledge those who have contributed directly to this thesis and those who encouraged me throughout my masters studies. I wish to thank the 11 clinical teachers who participated in this study. Your accounts of clinical teaching experiences were interesting, motivating and enlightening! I would also like to thank my thesis committee, they are: Dr. Carol Jillings (Chair), Professor Elaine Carty (Second), and Professor Marion Clauson (Third). Each member, in her own way, has contributed immeasurably to my scholarly development. Their expertise, support, and belief in my ability made this an experience I will never forget! Next, I would also like to thank other nursing faculty at the University of British Columbia who contributed to my graduate education. Their insightful thoughts and stimulating questions furthered my abilities as a clinical teacher. I am appreciative of Dr. Barbara Paterson's positive influence on my abilities as a clinical teacher. Her passion for, insight into, and dedication to clinical teaching are truly inspiring. Thanks also to Dr. Pamela Ratner for her role modeling how to be a researcher and a scholar. And, to Professor Louise Tenn, thank-you for mentoring me in my graduate course on clinical teaching. I would like to extend my appreciation to my friends and colleagues who listened to me during this endeavor. In addition, I would like to thank Keyano College for contributing towards my graduate studies. Last, but not least, I am grateful to my family for their encouragement while I worked to fulfill my goal of obtaining a Master of Science in Nursing. I am especially grateful to Blair who was always there when I needed a shoulder to cry on or a distraction from my studies. I am also grateful to my sister Barb whose encouragement and editorial expertise inspired me to continue with this project. Barb constantly provided editorial feedback despite my numerous subject and verb agreement errors, Barb constantly provided feedback! xi This thesis is dedicated to those who aspire to be competent clinical teachers: may your dreams become a reality. 1 CHAPTER I: AN OVERVIEW OF THE RESEARCH PROBLEM Clinical teachers are a unique group of academics; they are experts in the art of teaching while remaining involved with the clinical aspects of the nursing profession. Because nursing is a practice-based profession, clinical teaching is a major component of nursing education. Nursing faculty who engage in clinical teaching have the dual responsibility of demonstrating competence as both teachers and nurses (Karuhije, 1986; Morgan, 1991; Wiedenbach, 1969). The issue of clinical teacher competence has been increasingly scrutinized in recent times due to changes in the health system and the nursing education system. These changes have resulted in an increase in the complexity of the roles and responsibilities of clinical teachers. Administrators of post-secondary institutions, supervisors of clinical agencies, and members of professional regulatory bodies want to be assured that students are being accompanied to the clinical setting by teachers who demonstrate competence. Furthermore, present-day students tend to have clearer guidelines for what they consider to be a "quality education". For example, students expect their theoretical and clinical courses to be delivered by competent teachers. In this chapter, the rationale for arid purpose of this study will be presented. To begin, background information pertinent to the proposed study is introduced. Then, after introducing the research problem and research question, I will provide a brief overview of the research literature on competence in the substantive area of clinical teaching. The significance of this study will conclude this chapter. Background to the Study As an experienced clinical teacher I have periodically conducted a self-evaluation of competence. In addition, I have observed other clinical teachers' behaviors and found that their actions could be interpreted as either competent or incompetent. Based on these personal experiences, I became interested in exploring both the meaning of and the 2 characteristics that underpin the nature of competence in the context of clinical teaching. I was also curious to determine whether the contextual and situational nature of clinical teaching had a significant influence on competence. Specific situational factors of interest were the changing paradigms of education and the changing demands of the health system. For example, during the past two decades, nursing education has experienced a curriculum revolution. This revolution has resulted in significant changes to the structure, purpose, and outcomes of clinical teaching (Bevis & Watson, 1989; Karuhije, 1997; Marcinek, 1993). Specifically, the purpose of clinical teaching has shifted from showing students how to "do" tasks to working with students to learn how to "know" and "understand" concepts and procedures (Wong & Wong, 1987). In relation to the curriculum revolution, clinical teachers are now required to be knowledgeable about educational content, teaching-learning processes, and student-teacher partnerships (Gallagher, 1994; Marcinek, 1993). In addition to the changes associated with curriculum changes, clinical teachers are expected to teach the essentials of nursing practice in a variety of health settings and to support students to meet the academic and social demands of their future workplaces (Wong & Wong). These curriculum and role changes may leave nursing faculty feeling less confident in their clinical teaching abilities. Nursing faculty who have been teaching clinical theory for a long duration may feel especially vulnerable. For example, nursing faculty who have been teaching solely in the classroom setting may be expected to return to the clinical setting. First, these faculty may struggle to be competent in the clinical setting due to a long absence from hands-on nursing practice. Second, they may not have received advanced preparation for their role as teachers in the clinical setting (Karuhije, 1986, 1997; Morgan, 1991; Myrick, 1991). These are two examples of factors that may affect these teachers' abilities to be competent clinical teachers; however, other examples are likely to exist. 3 The process of clinical teaching is further complicated by recent changes in the health system, an increase in client acuity, and changing employer expectations (Crotty & Butterworth, 1992). For example, clients admitted to health care settings (i.e., acute care and community) have exhibited increasingly complex conditions requiring complicated interventions. In these instances, clients expect both teachers and students to be knowledgeable in the theoretical aspects of nursing practice while remaining sensitive to their personal needs. Employers, on the other hand, expect nurses entering practice to be able to function as independent practitioners. Modem nurses are expected to demonstrate such skills as assertiveness, an ability to adapt to change, and a willingness to act as a change agent. In addition, employers often expect graduating nurses to function as part of multi-disciplinary teams. One method for transmitting the knowledge, skills, and attitudes of nursing is through clinical teaching. Clinical teachers are often expected to teach students how to nurse through hands-on experience with clients. In other words, clinical teachers have an obligation to prepare students for the real life demands of the nursing profession. In sum, the re-organization of nursing education, prompted by the curriculum revolution, changes to the health system, and an increase in client acuity and employer expectations, have combined to challenge the abilities of those faculty teaching in the clinical setting. In searching to understand clinical teacher competence, I deliberated about the importance of these various factors. To further understand the concept of competence, I began by exploring the existing literature on clinical teaching. While the scope of clinical teaching has long been understood, research related to the meaning of competence in the context of clinical teaching was limited. Beginning in the early 1960's and continuing through much of the 1990's, a majority of the research on clinical teaching was dedicated towards identifying the characteristics of effective clinical teachers and the methods used to evaluate their 4 effectiveness (Benor & Leviyof, 1997; Bergman & Gaitskill, 1990; Brown, 1981; Fong & McCauley, 1993; Johnson, 1966; Knox & Mogan, 1985; McCabe, 1985; Mogan & Knox, 1987; Nehring, 1990; Reeve, 1994; Wong & Wong, 1987; Zimmerman & Waltman, 1986). While the knowledge generated from this "effectiveness literature" indicated that clinical competence was an essential characteristic of effective clinical teaching, the literature failed to address a critical issue. Specifically, the literature did not include an explanation of how clinical teachers achieve, demonstrate, and maintain competence as teachers. More recent 1990's literature has deviated from issues related to teacher effectiveness to investigate the core competencies required of nursing faculty (Choudhry, 1992, 1992a; Davis, Dearman, Schwab, & Kitchens, 1992). Other authors have attempted to delineate ways of maintaining and evaluating clinical competence of nursing faculty (Barnes, Duldt, & Green, 1994; Cox, 1988; Kirkpatrick, 1992; Oermann, 1996; Weitzel, 1996; Yonge, 1986). In short, although much is written in the realm of clinical teaching, the literature was inadequate for addressing my interest in competence. First, the research delineating core "educator" competencies did not address the competence of educators who teach specifically in the clinical area. For instance, many of the research findings referred only to nursing faculty teaching in the classroom setting. Second, the authors who did acknowledge the importance of competence restricted the use of this concept to a narrow view of clinical competence of teachers as nurses rather than the more complex competence of clinical teachers as both teachers and nurses. Third, most of the research was based on a behaviorist approach to competence as an end product. This reductionist view failed to address the process, or processes, involved for achieving, demonstrating, and maintaining competence as teachers. As I broadened my exploration of the literature on competence I found that the concept became increasingly ambiguous. It became evident that the health profession and 5 education literature used a multitude of terms when discussing competence (e.g., clinical competence, professional competence, teacher competence, interpersonal competence, academic competence, and nursing competence). A preliminary review of the literature revealed that, despite a wide use of the word competence, this concept was ill-defined and in some instances the use of the term competence was confusing and contradictory. The literature also failed to clearly specify which characteristics were essential to comprise competence (Bergman & Gaitskill, 1990; Kirkpatrick, 1992; Maynard, 1996; Nagelsmith, 1995; Reeve, 1994; Roach, 1984; Salvatori, 1996; Scheetz, 1989; White, 1994). To summarize, much of the literature related to nursing, clinical teaching, and competence was based on a collection of preconceived ideas. These ideas are identified as follows: 1. The components of competence are identifiable and objectifiable. 2. Competence is unidirectional as nurses progress from novice to expert. In other words, according to this assumption, incompetence does not exist. 3. Clinical competence is achieved solely through nursing practice. 4. Clinically competent nurses are assumed to be competent teachers. 5. Competence in clinical teaching is synonymous with effective classroom teaching. While the nature of clinical teaching has frequently been scrutinized, the primary area of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence has not been a focus of study. Due to the paucity of literature currently available on clinical teacher competence, many of the questions I had regarding this topic could not be answered. Problem Statement A brief overview of the literature on clinical teacher competence reveals a number of inconsistencies in the definitions, characteristics, and related concepts that underpin the essence of competence. These inconsistencies indicate that the nursing profession has 6 made limited progress towards understanding the process of becoming a competent clinical nursing teacher. Purpose The purpose of this study was to describe the process, or processes, by which clinical nursing teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Indirectly, this research was directed towards uncovering the factors that facilitate and the situations that affect the process, or processes, of becoming competent. Research Question The specific research question directing this study was: What is/are the process, or processes, described by nurse educators for attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence in their role as a clinical teacher? Grounded theory methodology was used to explore this question. Literature Review The purpose of grounded theory is discovery. Consequently, the direction of a literature review is to establish the diversity and scope of the previous research on the substantive area to be studied. At the same time, the researcher attempts only to briefly review the literature to avoid complete immersion (Glaser & Strauss, 1967; Strauss & Corbin, 1990). Ideally, when researchers are effective in their analysis, "new categories will emerge that neither we, nor anyone else, had thought about previously" (Strauss & Corbin, p. 50). Thus, the literature review allows the researcher to identify pre-existing concepts which may be used to extend the developing theory. Complete immersion is avoided during this process to prevent the researcher from becoming confined or creatively stifled by the existing knowledge available on the substantive area being studied (Strauss & Corbin). The following represents a review of the literature as a method for exploring the phenomenon of competence in clinical teaching. The databases utilized in the literature 7 search included the Cumulative Index to Nursing and Allied Health Literature (CINAHL) (1960 to 1998), HealthSTAR (1975 to present), and the Education Resources Information Center (ERIC) (1990 to present). The literature used in this study was screened according to the following parameters: 1. Research and anecdotal literature providing relevant descriptions (e.g., attributes, antecedents, and consequences) of clinical teacher competence. 2. Research and anecdotal literature providing sufficient information on related concepts relevant to extending the current theory on competence. 3. Research studies providing data on competence of teachers and students in nursing and other disciplines (e.g., medicine, dental hygiene, occupational therapy, and education). Introduction The accumulation of knowledge relating to the meaning of competence has continued to grow since the concept was first introduced in the early 1900's. The attributes associated with competence, both in everyday language and in professional usage, vary depending on the context in which the term is used. Consequently, conceptual ambiguity currently exists. To provide clarity for understanding the scope and nature of clinical teacher competence, the literature will be organized according to a concept analysis framework. This framework is based upon a design created by Walker and Avant (1995). Usage of the Concept "Competence" A literature review of numerous disciplines (e.g., nursing, occupational therapy, education, psychology, health care ethics, and mental health) indicated that various definitions of competence are used in similar but distinctive ways. At the same time, most of the literature was competing to identify one correct definition of competence rather than considering the complementary benefits of incorporating a number of these perspectives to define competence. This review of the definitions of competence led to the identification of 8 two central methods for categorizing the meanings of competence (Ford, 1985). Only the core ideas within each of the two categorical methods will be identified. They are: 1. Defining competence in five distinct ways: motivational, self-evaluative, behavioral, behavioral effectiveness, and trait. 2. Conceptualizing competence as an end in itself or a state-of-being. Defining Competence There are five interrelated but somewhat distinct definitions of competence currently used in the literature. Motivational Definition. White's 1959 theory of competence motivation was used by Schwammle (1996) to gain a deeper understanding of the factors involved in personal competence. This motivational definition of competence was based on the premise that being or becoming competent was dependent upon an individual's perception of "self as an effective controlling agent (Ford, 1985). Specifically, White's theory stated: (a) the environment has an effect on an individual and vice versa, (b) an individual has a desire to be competent in their environment, and (c) the results of competence are feelings of efficacy (Schwammle). Thus, development of competence refers to not only an individual's ability to deal with his or her surroundings, but also to his or her degree of motivation and interest in becoming competent (i.e., efficacy) (Schwammle). In other words, having a desire to become competent strengthens an individual's confidence and his or her subsequent development of competence. Similarly, Gatz et al. (1982) defined the attributes of personal competence as being self-efficient and having a sense of inner control. These facets of competence referred to an individual's subjective evaluation of whether he or she was capable of producing some set of desired environmental effects. Therefore, in the determination of competence, the motivational definition considered the existence of various internal influences (e.g., self perceptions, beliefs, values, and expectations) and external 9 influences (e.g., demands or situational characteristics such as time, place, persons, and history) which affect motivation, interest, and the desire to succeed (Burrows, 1989; Schwammle). In sum, the motivational definitions of competence refer principally to an individual's directive function. Behavioral Definition. In the literature, competence was also used to refer to a repertoire of behaviors. In this usage, attainment of the specified behavioral abilities or capabilities leads to successful outcomes, that is, competence. Various definitions of competence included behavioral characteristics such as knowledge, values, attitudes, motivation, energy, and judgement (Burrows, 1989; Butler, 1978; Kirkpatrick, 1992; Nagelsmith, 1995; Registered Nurses Association of British Columbia [RNABC], 1990; Roach, 1984; Scheetz, 1989; White, 1994; Yonge, 1986). For the purposes of identifying the behavioral characteristics of clinical competence, the definition of competence was modified to include clinical skills, knowledge and application of theory to practice, interpersonal attributes, problem solving and clinical judgement, and technical skills (Brown, 1981; Knox & Mogan, 1985; Neufeld, 1985; Scheetz, 1989). According to Yonge (1986), additional attributes of clinical competence were utilization of the nursing process and confidence as a nurse. Oldmeadow (1996) stated ethical and moral views also comprise the characteristics of clinical competence. While no links are explicit in the literature between critical thinking and competence, some authors supported the premise that critical thinking was necessary for the overall development of competence (Brookfield, 1987; Maynard, 1996; RNABC.1996; Toliver, 1988). The skill of critical thinking includes two concepts: reflection and openness to learning. Reflection was described as important for developing competence because it provides an opportunity for individuals to challenge, refine, or disclaim their decision-making patterns. In turn, these new insights would be applied to subsequent encounters with similar 10 situations leading to further development in clinical teacher competence (Paterson, 1997; Saylor, 1990). In Paterson's opinion, a clinical teacher who significantly improved his or her teaching abilities was an individual who was willing to reflect on his or her performance. Hence, the notion of perfect competence is contrary to the idea of "reflective thinker" (Schon, 1987). In the nursing profession, the identified repertoire of behaviors indicative of competence was also expressed through actions and interventions. Thus, an individual who possesses the requisite skills and knowledge must also be able to apply and integrate them to competently perform the activities required in a designated role (Burrows, 1989; Canadian Nurses Association, 1993; Kirkpatrick, 1992; Nagelsmith, 1995; RNABC, 1990). As well, for competence to occur, an individual must be cognizant of the actions required to perform within a given role and must understand the nature of the task or role (White, 1994). Accompanying competence were varying degrees of power, authority, respect, and trust (Covey, 1995; White). Behavioral Effectiveness Definition. Included in the behavioral definitions of competence, was literature that makes reference to the effectiveness of one's behavior in various contexts (Ford, 1985). According to this definition, competence as a clinical teacher was demonstrated when an individual successfully adapted to a given set of role demands. Thus, the central theme of the behavioral effectiveness perspective was that an individual must have accomplished some specified set of objectives (e.g., teaching, research, and nursing) within certain boundary conditions as defined by a given role (e.g., professional expectations, student expectations, or employer expectations) to be considered competent. Through a comprehensive review of 14 nursing research studies written from 1980 until 1998, many authors have attempted to identify a list of necessary behaviors by which a clinical teacher could be evaluated as effective. When the clinical teacher was effective, he 11 or she was assumed to be professionally or clinically competent. Also, the nursing literature sought to determine how much and what type of nursing practice and expertise was necessary to ensure teacher competence. Absent was the recognition that the integration and application of teaching-learning theory is a significant component of clinical teacher competence. Furthermore, this perspective of competence does not consider situational factors such as the level of student, the stability of teaching assignments, and the teacher's familiarity with the clinical agency. Primarily, the behavioral effectiveness literature emphasized the significance of nursing or clinical competence. Self-Evaluation Definition. Many regulatory and licensing bodies of the nursing profession used the self-evaluation definition to delineate behavioral competencies expected of all nurses in various settings and practice dimensions (e.g., practitioner, researcher, administrator, and educator). These specific competencies provided evaluative criteria for establishing regulatory guidelines for determining nursing competence. The underlying assumption of this definition was the importance of safeguarding the public. When individuals are deemed competent they are licensed to practice within a specific professional body (RNABC, 1990, 1992, 1996). This definition implied that when a clinical teacher meets the required standards of nursing practice they are also deemed to be a competent nurse educator. This notion of competence was based on the threshold approach to evaluation. The threshold approach indicated there was a single cut-off point for determining whether a clinical teacher was either competent or incompetent (White, 1994). Although Butler (1978) affirms the notion that a minimum standard of competence was necessary, he also believed individuals may surpass the standards of adequacy in a designated role and setting depending on their level of knowledge, skills, values, and attitudes. 12 Trait Definition. In addition to the identification of behaviors, several authors have identified ways in which various functional or behavioral components of competence could be organized into three domains: cognitive domain, psychomotor domain, and affective domain (Appendix A) (Maynard, 1996; Roach, 1984; Salvatori, 1996; White, 1994). According to these authors, "overall competence of the professional was determined by the demonstration of a combination of behaviors in all three domains" (Salvatori, p. 261). This definition of competence was the most inclusive; however, it failed to acknowledge relevant contextual and developmental considerations (Ford, 1985). Conceputalizing Competence As discussed, there are a number of ways to define competence. The motivational, behavioral, behavioral effectiveness, self-evaluation, and trait definitions tend to be limited in scope. Conversely, other authors equate professional competence as either an end (i.e., product) or a state-of-being (i.e., process). Product. As previously identified, competence was historically viewed as a product. This perspective suggests that the outcome of an individual's performance or ability within his or her environment eventually results in the desired end in itself; that is, competence. In other words, authors often refer to competence as a product or an outcome (Burrows, 1989; Butler, 1978; Ford, 1985; Know & Mogan, 1985; Nagelsmith, 1995; Scheetz, 1989). In the professional health literature, this perspective of competence was commonly used to identify competent nurses and students (Burrows, 1989; Jameton, 1984; Kirkpatrick, 1992; Oldmeadow, 1996; RNABC, 1990; Salvatori, 1996; Scheetz, 1989). As discussed in the five previous definitions, the product perspective of competence limits its meaning to ways of "knowing" and "doing" through the identification of behavioral criteria. On the other hand, opposing views suggest competence is more complex than merely being observable and measurable behaviors (Ford, 1985). 13 Process. According to the literature, the determination of an individual's competence was both subjective and objective in nature. From a subjective point of view, competence as a process referred to an individual's state-of-being at any point in time for a given situation and context. Each individual holds a view about his or her own competence. Each individual must determine whether, at a particular moment in time, he or she was acting in a competent manner. Simply put, a person's view of his or her own competence may vary both in the way he or she sees him or herself and in the way others perceive him or her (Slunt, 1993). To be competent, personal knowing about one's self was necessary. A component of personal knowing was reflection. Reflection included recognizing one's learning needs, determining the actions necessary to enhance one's abilities, and gaining meaning from experiences. According to Slunt (1993), personal knowing inevitably leads to competence. In this context, competence was an evolving process of growth and development influenced by interactions with the self (i.e., internal circumstances) and the environment (i.e., external circumstances) (Cohen, 1993; Slunt). In addition, to fully understand one's self, an individual must be motivated, energetic, and dedicated to lifelong learning (Roach, 1984). According to the process perspective, competence was viewed as a goal to be achieved and never an end in and of itself. In this evolving process, anxiety and tension as well as plateaus of comfort and a sense of empowerment are found. In sum, the state-of-being meaning of competence includes both the knowledge and the skill for competent performance and the attempt to understand one's self and others (Slunt, 1993). Summary In most cases, competence was defined in the literature as an achievement; that is, the attainment of personally or socially desired outcomes in some set of relevant contexts. Nearly all authors placed the responsibility for attaining and maintaining competence on the 14 individuals themselves. There was the view that one must do something to be competent. In this stance, competence refers to an end in and of itself (i.e., product). Conversely, a select number of authors recognized competence as a human activity that evolves with time and is relative to various situational and contextual events. This latter perspective infers that competence depends on external factors beyond an individual's control and is, to some degree, situation specific and contextually determined (Jameton, 1984). In the next section, the attributes, antecedents, and consequences identified in this literature will be presented as they pertain to clinical teacher competence. Defining Attributes Defining attributes of a concept are abstract and universal characteristics that appear over time and are frequently associated with the concept (Walker & Avant, 1995). In the literature review, the attributes of competence were dependent upon the context in which the word was used. All definitions and conceptualizations of competence were valid and useful for examining the attributes of clinical teacher competence. The defining attributes are: 1. An actual, or potential, state of or ability to integrate and apply a blend of attributes identified in the cognitive (knowledge) domain, psychomotor (skills) domain, and affective (values) domain (Appendix A) as required in the professional role. 2. An evolving process of continual development. This means a person will continue to develop to suit various contexts. 3. An ability to deal with one's surroundings which are influenced by personal (internal) circumstances and environmental (external) circumstances. • Internal factors (e.g., self perceptions, beliefs, values, and expectations) • External factors (e.g., demands or situational characteristics such as time, place, persons, and history) 4. An ability to learn and to gain meaning from one's experiences through critical thinking, problem-solving, and reflection. Inherent in this attribute is an openness to learning, an attitude of inquiry, a willingness to improve, and an ability to gain insight. 5. Motivation, interest, energy, and commitment. 15 6. Enduring feelings of anxiety and tension, comfort, and a sense of empowerment. In short, competence is the actual, or potential, state of and ability to integrate and apply a blend of attributes identified in the cognitive, psychomotor, and affective domains through an evolving process. This process requires an individual to gain meaning from his or her experiences. Motivation, interest, energy, and commitment are required to help an individual deal with the internal and external factors that influence his or her state-of-being competent. Furthermore, competence is not a constant state. Rather, feelings fluctuate between anxiety and tension, comfort, and a sense of empowerment. Demonstration Cases Demonstration cases provide clarity to the defining attributes by applying them to everyday examples. Application is important for determining whether the identified attributes are accurately illustrative of the concept (Walker & Avant, 1995). An example of each type of case - model, contrary, and related - will be presented. Model Case In this case, the descriptive attributes of competence are applied. Martha is a clinical teacher who has been on the same hospital unit teaching senior nursing students for the past five years. This unit specializes in the care of people undergoing cardiovascular surgery. Martha was an in-service educator and nurse on the unit before becoming a clinical teacher. Martha recognizes that she has grown a great deal as a clinical teacher during this time and has reflected on her teaching. She is now confident that she is able to meet most students' needs. Martha dedicates a significant amount of time to keeping current with recent literature on ways to help students learn. When asked how she has changed since she began teaching, Martha states, "I think I am much better at making decisions about evaluating students' performances. I believe teachers at different phases in their careers are competent in different ways. When I was a younger teacher I was a different teacher." Students describe Martha as an energetic and highly motivated teacher who works well with both patients and students. Students consistently say they learn a lot from her. Specific attributes illustrated in this case include competence as an evolving process, gaining meaning from experience, demonstrating energy and motivation, and comfort with 16 the clinical teaching role. By reading about Martha's past practitioner and educator experience one would assume she has the prerequisite cognitive, psychomotor, and affective abilities necessary for clinical teaching. However, specific information is needed to determine the application and integration of Martha's abilities. An expressed outcome of Martha's competence is the students' comments that they have learned a great deal from her. Contrary Case The following contrary case exemplifies attributes that do not apply to the concept under analysis. Beth has been hired on contract for one year to teach first year nursing students on a surgical floor. She has approximately 20 years of hospital-based and administrative nursing experience; however, prior to this appointment she had no experience as a teacher. Four months go by without incident. Beth is observing a female student prepare a specified dose of ventolin via nebulizer. Beth notices the student has calculated the wrong dose of ventolin but says nothing. The student proceeds to the client's bedside to administer the drug. After the student administered the drug Beth tells the student that she has administered the wrong dose. Beth, in a casual conversation to another instructor, boasts that she allowed the student to administer the wrong dosage to help the student to "learn a lesson". Beth believed this was an acceptable approach to help a student learn. In this case, Beth's behavior is not indicative of the defining attributes of competence. For example, Beth did not apply or integrate the knowledge, skills, and attitudes necessary (e.g., medication administration and the principles of teaching-learning) to function competently as a clinical teacher. Beth's unacceptable behavior prompts others to question her moral and ethical standards. Why? In this case, the client was unharmed by an inaccurate dosage of ventolin. However, what would occur when Beth permits students to "learn a lesson" by administering an incorrect dosage of intravenous narcotic medication? In this instance, severe medical consequences could occur. Clearly, both examples of permitting an incorrect dosage administration do not reflect Beth's personal nursing abilities. 17 However, both examples do plainly demonstrate Beth's use of inappropriate moral and ethical judgments, and her inability to apply the principles of teaching and learning. Related Case Related cases illustrate examples which are related to the concept of interest; however, they do not contain all of the defining attributes (Walker & Avant, 1995). Other concepts commonly associated with competence include performance, experience, expertise, effectiveness, and caring. Performance. Conceptual ambiguity exists between competence and performance. For example, in a review of the literature, While (1994) revealed that distinctions are rarely made between the constructs of competence and performance. According to While (1994), performance was seen as a means by which competence was demonstrated. Thus, competence refers to an individuals potential. Potential is what an individual knows and can do under ideal circumstances. On the other hand, performance refers to the actual behavior enacted during a real life situation (While). This view of competence and performance was often supported in the nursing literature. For example, student performance is usually measured with the intent of determining competence. Moreover, professional licensing bodies often deem nurses as being competent to do a specific action within his or her role; however, what follow-up is conducted to determine how well the nurse actually performs in the real life setting? Despite the merit of this view, other authors challenge While's (1994) distinction between competence and performance. For example, some authors define competence as the actual ability to apply and integrate the knowledge, skills, attitudes, values, and judgments necessary for the current situation (Burrows, 1989; Butler, 1978; Nagelsmith, 1995; RNABC, 1990; Roach, 1984; Schwammle, 1996). Experience. Experience (e.g., nursing practice, teaching, and formal education) provides a venue for a clinical teacher to acquire, integrate, and apply the necessary 18 knowledge, skills, and attitudes necessary for competence (Benner, 1984; Brunke, 1997; Jameton, 1984; Maynard, 1996; RNABC, 1996). Yet, measuring experience in terms of actual time spent in practice is insufficient for identifying one's competence as a clinical teacher (Benner; Watson, 1991). Rather, experience acquisition occurs when preconceived ideas and actions are challenged, refined, or rejected. Thus, experience prompting higher levels of cognitive reasoning (e.g., critical thinking, problem-solving, and reflection) and self-awareness are conditions necessary for the development of competence through experience (Benner; Saylor, 1990; Watson). Several authors have stated that nursing practice is a necessary requirement for being able to teach in the clinical setting; however, the nursing literature fails to empirically substantiate this claim. While one anticipates that the passing of time is necessary for competence some aspects of competence may, in fact, deteriorate with experience. For example, as the skills of an individual's role become more rote and less lively he or she may continue to use the same skills. For experience to have impact on clinical teaching practice, it must reflect continuous professional development (e.g., gaining meaning from an event or situation) rather than the completion of a series of repeated activities over time (Gee, 1995). Expertise. In the literature, the development of expertise is based on an individual's ability to gain meaning from personal experiences. By experiencing a variety of situations, it was assumed, expertise will be developed. In time, expertise will contribute to the evolving process of competence (Benner, 1984; Saylor, 1990). In Bonner's conceptualization of expertise, nurses are not categorized as either competent or incompetent. Rather there are five degrees of expertise which nurses strive towards. As well, these degrees lie on a graduated continuum which includes competence. In a broad sense, Benner"s continuum is conducive to the development of a clinical teacher's competence because it allows for, encourages, and explains the continual improvement in one's abilities. Next, the gradient 19 approach accounts for the variability and individuality of the participants' abilities, their professional learning needs, and various situational factors. Finally, according to Benner, competence is only one component of developing expertise. Effectiveness. All nursing studies exploring the effectiveness of a clinical teacher are descriptive in nature and sampled various groups of nursing students and nursing faculty. Specifically, the literature on this topic was extensive in two areas: (a) identifying the qualities and characteristics of effective teachers and (b) evaluating the successfulness of a clinical teacher based on these qualities (Benor & Leviyof, 1997; Bergman & Gaitskill, 1990; Brown, 1981; Knox & Mogan, 1985; Mogan & Knox, 1987; Nehring, 1990; Oermann, 1996; Reeve, 1994; Sieh & Bell, 1994; Van Ort, 1983; Zimmerman & Waltman, 1986). The characteristics of effective teachers included two elements: competence and character. This approach to determining personal and professional success was similar to Covey's (1995) belief that effectiveness was achieved through a combination of strong character (e.g., integrity and maturity) and high competence. In spite of the methodological problems (e.g., no consistent research tools and small sample sizes) encountered by researchers studying clinical teacher effectiveness, two tentative conclusions were reached: (a) a clinical teacher was required to be knowledgeable about the substantive area of nursing practice in which he or she teaches and (b) a clinical teacher must exhibit competence as a clinician (Oermann, 1996). Once again, this research acknowledges the importance of a clinical teacher exhibiting competence in nursing practice. It does not, however, recognize the importance of being a competent teacher. In addition, this research fails to acknowledge the process, or processes, by which a clinical teacher becomes competent. Caring. In the nursing literature a connection has been made between competence and caring (Cohen, 1993; Girot, 1993; Halldorsdottir, 1997; Paterson & Crawford, 1994; 20 Roach, 1984; Slunt, 1993). Professional caring behaviors in nursing were explicitly manifested through such attributes as compassion, competence, confidence, conscience, and commitment (Roach, 1984). From this perspective, demonstrating one's nursing competence is shown through professional caring (Halldorsdottir; Roach; Slunt). Paterson and Crawford's research findings further supported the view that caring is the context in which competence exists. To be competent in a humane fashion individuals must demonstrate a blend of compassion and competence (Roach). Based upon this body of literature, one can conclude that teacher competence is an element of professional caring. Furthermore, a caring environment is conducive to the development and maintenance of competence as a clinical teacher. Antecedents Antecedents are consistent predecessors to the occurrence of the concept. Several antecedents for competence were identified in the literature review: 1. Acquisition of abilities within the cognitive (knowledge), psychomotor (skills), and affective (values) domains through a combination of life experiences and formal education. 2. Expertise in the discipline of practice (e.g., nursing). 3. Cognitive ability to make judgments. 4. Desire and perceived ability to succeed. This includes self-efficacy. 5. Positive perceptions of one's self and an inner sense of perceived control. 6. Self-confidence 7. Awareness of the role requirements and expectations, including knowledge of the nature of the required task, or tasks, at hand. 8. Ethical and moral judgment. 21 Consequences Consequences are consistent events or effects succeeding an occurrence of the concept (Walker & Avant, 1995). Several consequences resulting from competence were identified in the literature review: 1. The completion of desired effects resulting in successful outcomes (e.g., promotion, student learning, or fulfilling role requirements). 2. The achievement of a higher professional status accompanied by respect, power, and trust. 3. The attainment of credibility both as a teacher and as a nurse. 4. The request, or requests, for one's consultation by other professionals and colleagues. 5. The opportunity to act as a positive role model or mentor for students and colleagues. 6. An elevated perception of one's self-control and self-confidence. While some authors indicate these consequences arise as a result of competence, many researchers identified these consequences as either personal implications or student-related outcomes. The literature also did not address the consequences of competence in relation to the agency staff and clients, the nursing profession, or the educational institution, including other clinical teachers. Empirical Referents The use of empirical referents is a strategy for measuring or determining the existence of the concept (Walker & Avant, 1995). Much of the literature pertaining to the use of referents to assess competence was based on the evaluation of students' performance in the health-related professions and the maintenance of competence in the nursing profession (e.g., clinical competence) (Burrows, 1989; Milligan, 1998; Salvatori, 1996; Scheetz, 1989). Evaluation tools used to measure student competence have sought to determine a list of criteria (e.g., domains) which a student must meet or exceed. Thus, 22 evaluation of clinical competence was measured according to certain levels attained within the cognitive, affective, and psychomotor domains (Oldmeadow, 1996; Scheetz, 1989). In the search for effective clinical teaching criteria, a number of instructor rating scales were developed. Included in these rating scales was a sub-component entitled clinical competence. Clinical competence was also referred to as professional or nursing competence (Bergman & Gaitskill, 1990; Brown, 1981; Knox& Mogan, 1985; Nehring, 1990; Reeve, 1994; Van Ort, 1983; Weitzel, 1996). It is important to note, however, that such evaluations fail to acknowledge or measure teacher competence. In fact, these tools are often based on the students' evaluations of their teacher's effectiveness (Benor & Leviyof, 1997; Brown; Knox & Mogan, 1985; Mogan & Knox, 1987; Nehring). This was not to say that students can not evaluate faculty, but rather student assessments should focus on the teaching-learning process and not the teacher's clinical competence (Ward-Griffin & Brown, 1992; Whitman, 1990). Another form of evaluating the competence of clinical teachers was examining the outcomes of various situations (e.g., student learning and client safety). Various descriptive studies have sought to identify linkages between specific teacher behaviors and student learning outcomes (Karuhije, 1997; Krichbaum, 1994; Kramer, Polifroni & Organek, 1986; Wills, 1997). Krichbaum identified certain teaching behaviors (e.g., asking appropriate questions; helping students organize their learning; and providing specific and timely feedback) as significant influences on cognitive learning and performance outcomes. The findings of Krichbaum's study indicate that the competence of clinical teachers does affect the students' learning to some extent. However, there is inconclusive evidence to pinpoint exactly what effect a teacher's competence, or lack thereof, has on student outcomes. Furthermore, while the effects of teacher competence on student learning are important, consideration must also be given to the other individuals and groups who may also be 23 affected: the clinical agency (including both its staff and clients); the educational institution (including co-workers as other colleagues); and professional regulatory and licensing bodies. Relatively new to the literature was the recognition of the important role clinical colleagues play in the evaluation process for clinical teachers (Whitman, 1990). In an exploratory study, Whitman asked clinical colleagues to identify which clinical teaching behaviors were important, observable, and measurable for evaluation purposes. A list of 60 clinical teaching behaviors were categorized as nursing skills, interpersonal skills, and instructional skills. Of these three categories, clinical colleagues were better able to observe and evaluate nursing skills and interpersonal skills than instructional skills. Specifically, clinical colleagues could not observe and evaluate many instructional behaviors. In fact, only 5 of 22 instructional behaviors achieved consensus by clinical colleagues (Whitman). Wellard, Rolls, and Ferguson (1995) also found inadequacies with the colleagues' contributions to teachers' evaluations. While collegial evaluations of a clinical teacher appear be deficient in some respects, the colleagues' contributions to the evaluations of the teachers' nursing and interpersonal skills were beneficial. In sum, the nursing literature identified the most common forms of clinical teacher evaluations as peer evaluation, self-evaluation, student evaluation, and administration evaluation (Harwood & Olson, 1988; Ward-Griffin & Brown, 1992). Absent from the previous empirical referents were measures designed to assess a clinical teacher's competence as both a teacher and as a nurse. Moreover, the aforementioned methods of assessing competence were primarily based on behavioral criteria. The research has failed to identify a state-of-being criteria for measuring competence. These criteria have been difficult to establish since evaluating competence from the perspective of "what one is" can be 24 subjective and unreliable. Adding to these evaluation difficulties was the isolating nature of clinical teaching. Summary A brief overview of the research and anecdotal literature pertaining to competence has been presented in this section. This section has identified the defining attributes, antecedents, consequences, and empirical referents that underpin the concept of competence. Demonstration cases were also used to clarify and illustrate the defining attributes relevant to clinical teacher competence. While most defining attributes are product and performance based, some conceptualizations of competence as a process were acknowledged. However, no current empirical studies have explored the process, or processes, by which clinical teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Since concepts provide the building blocks from which theories can be built, the results of this concept analysis provide directions for future research in the area of clinical teacher competence. Significance of the Study A review of the literature and an analysis of the concept of competence revealed that limited research has been conducted on this issue. As the roles and responsibilities of clinical teachers continue to change, the process by which clinical teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence remains relevant and important in today's world. Due to the practice-based nature of the nursing profession, clinical teachers have a professional obligation to students, clients, agency staff, educational institutions, and the nursing profession. Clinical teachers are expected to teach students how to nurse through hands-on experience with clients. When clinical teachers are not capable of demonstrating safe and competent nursing practices they can not effectively teach students the fundamentals of the profession. This lack of nursing competence also compromises the 2 5 safety of clients. To facilitate student learning clinical teachers must also be competent teachers. Clinical teachers must be able to apply and integrate theoretical knowledge (e.g., learning processes and evaluation) relevant to teaching-learning theory. Knowledge and insight gained from this study could be used to assist clinical teachers in maintaining the degree of competence necessary to continue their roles. The study results will provide baseline data for understanding the process, or processes, by which clinical teachers use theory to guide their professional practice in a competent manner. Understanding the competence process could be used to help orient new clinical teachers and to support the ongoing development of current teachers. As well, this research could provide insight into competence as a process that is inclusive of elements of both teacher and nursing competence. Finally, this study may provide valuable data to assist academic administrators with the evaluation of clinical teachers (Wong & Wong, 1987). Definition of Terms A list of definitions has been provided to clarify the meaning of various terms used throughout this thesis. Clinical Agency The clinical agency refers to the entire agency to which a clinical teacher and his or her students is assigned. The clinical agency includes the specific unit, or ward, within the agency and the health professionals employed within the agency. These health professionals are referred to as agency staff. Competence This definition of competence was based upon the defining attributes section of the literature review in Chapter I of this document. Competence is the actual, or potential, state of and ability to integrate and apply a blend of attributes identified in the cognitive, 26 psychomotor, and affective domains through an evolving process. This process requires an individual to gain meaning from his or her experiences. Motivation, interest, energy, and commitment are required to help an individual deal with the internal and external factors that influence his or her state-of-being competent. Furthermore, competence is not a constant state. Rather, feelings fluctuate between anxiety and tension, comfort, and a sense of empowerment. Clinical Competence In the literature distinctions are made between terms such as competence and clinical competence. For the purpose of this research, clinical competence refers to a registered nurse's competence in a clinical setting. Clinical Teacher A clinical teacher is a registered nurse who teaches undergraduate nursing students in a wide range of practice settings. A clinical teacher is employed by an educational institution or faculty and may be referred to as a "teacher" or an "instructor". A clinical teacher is an individual who has completed, at minimum, a baccalaureate degree in nursing. Clinical Teaching Clinical teaching is a dynamic and interactive process. It is a type of teaching that occurs in the proximity of a client (e.g., individual, family, group, community, and population) and in a variety of health-related settings. Learning Environment The learning environment refers to the context in which learning and clinical teaching occurs. This environment may vary depending on the clinical course and the clinical 27 agency. However, the learning environment is not inclusive of the learning that occurs in the classroom or laboratory setting. Neophyte Clinical Teacher A neophyte clinical teacher is an individual who is new to clinical teaching; he or she is a beginning instructor. Organization of the Thesis The thesis is organized into five chapters. This chapter has introduced the purpose and significance of the proposed research. Also, a review of the literature pertinent to the research problem was presented according to a concept analysis framework. Chapter II includes a discussion of the research design, sample characteristics, method used to collect and analyze the data, strategies used to ensure rigor, ethical considerations, and the limitations of the study. The results of data analysis will be presented in Chapter III. Selected findings of this study will be discussed in Chapter IV. Finally, Chapter V will present a summary of the study, and will conclude with a discussion of the implications of the study for nursing. Conclusion Nursing is a practice-based discipline. One method for passing on the knowledge, skills, and attitudes associated with nursing is through clinical teaching. To safeguard quality nursing practice it is necessary to ensure that clinical teachers are competent. While the concepts and issues that encompass competence have been explored in research, the explicit nature of the process, or processes, of becoming a competent clinical teacher have not been explored. Through a grounded theory methodology, I set out to describe the process of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence as a clinical teacher. 28 CHAPTER II: RESEARCH METHOD The Qualitative Approach - Grounded Theory The grounded theory method of research was used to generate new knowledge of the processes of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence as clinical teachers. Grounded theory is an inductive mode of research used for the generation of theoretical concepts about phenomena and the exploration of basic social processes (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Grounded theory, through a method of constant comparative analysis, seeks to generate theory from data. Consequently, theory development is viewed as a continuous process of simultaneous data collection, coding, and data analysis. During this developmental process, conceptual categories and conceptual properties emerge along with tentative hypotheses (Glaser & Strauss). It is these conceptual categories, properties, and hypotheses that form the basis for substantive or formal theory. Thus, the purpose of grounded theory is to generate theory from data derived from empirical evidence rather than to test existing theory. Theory grounded in data is of particular importance because it increases the chance that theory and the empirical world will match (Glaser & Strauss). In this study, the primary source of data were derived from formal, unstructured, audio-taped interviews with 11 participants. This researcher supplemented the interview data with her research notes (e.g., think notes and memos) compiled throughout the research process. Included in this chapter will be an overview of the selection of participants and the sample characteristics. Next, data collection procedures will prove a basis for the next step, data analysis. Following a description of the analysis process, issues of rigor and limitations to the study will be presented. Participant Selection In grounded theory, the researcher generally chooses participant groups that will compliment the needs and nature of the study. This is achieved by applying the principles of 29 theoretical sampling. Theoretical sampling is a process through which the researcher concurrently collects, codes, and analyzes the data and then determines which data to pursue next and where to locate it (e.g., what type of participant is needed and what is the theoretical purpose). In short, theoretical sampling allows the researcher to seek out key participants based upon their potential ability to facilitate the generation of conceptual categories and their properties (Glaser & Strauss, 1967; Robertson & Boyle, 1984). With theoretical sampling, specific sampling decisions evolve throughout the entire research process (Glaser & Strauss). When the emerging theory requires it, theoretical sampling allows the researcher to select from the volunteers with differing characteristics (e.g., educational backgrounds, philosophical perspectives, and years of experience). Both theoretical sampling and the following criteria were used to guide the researcher in the selection of participants. The participants were to be: 1. Employed by an accredited educational institution. 2. Currently working as a clinical teacher or had done so in the past six months. 3. Working within the Lower Mainland of British Columbia. 4. Fluent in the use of the English language. 5. Educated at or above the baccalaureate degree in nursing level. Since the primary goal of grounded theory is richness of data, data collection is usually terminated when theoretical saturation occurs. Generally speaking, theoretical saturation happens when no additional data are found to further develop categories and their respective properties, and no new themes evolve (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Based on the need for theoretical saturation, the emphasis of sample selection is based on the appropriateness of participants' experience and the accuracy of the data (i.e., quality) rather than the kind of evidence and the number of cases (i.e., quantity) (Glaser & Strauss). 30 Sample Participants for this study were recruited through three nursing programs in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia. Permission was obtained from the director of these nursing programs to distribute a letter of invitation to participate (Appendix B). The letters of invitation were distributed via the mailboxes of clinical teachers in the three nursing programs (Appendix C). Clinical teachers interested in participating were asked to contact either the researcher or the thesis supervisor. To determine the appropriateness of the potential participant, the selection criteria for the participants were reviewed and data needs were considered. Once suitability was determined a mutually agreed upon meeting location was designated. During the first interview session, the research study was explained in detail, a signed consent was obtained (Appendix D), and future interview times were discussed with the participants. The total sample was comprised of 11 participants who met the stated criteria and agreed to participate in several audio-taped interviews. A description of the sample is provided in Table 1. Participants in this study ranged in chronological age, years of experience (e.g., clinical teaching and nursing), educational backgrounds, philosophical perspectives, and level of students (e.g., first year, second year, third year, and fourth year) being taught. Forty-five percent of the participants were employed as clinical teachers for 20 to 29 years. Every clinical teacher in this category had six years or less of experience as clinicians prior to commencement in clinical teaching. All participants taught in a wide range of clinical agencies and substantive areas of nursing practice with various undergraduate student groups. In teaching various undergraduate student groups, 90% of participants taught two or three levels of students during their careers as clinical teachers. Table 1 Demographic Characteristics of Study Participants Characteristic N Gender Female 11 Level of Education Upon Initial RN Registration Diploma in Nursing 7 Baccalaureate Degree In Nursing 4 Current Level of Education Master's Degree in Nursing 7 Master's Degree in Nursing in Progress 1 Master's Degree in Education 3 Number of Years Practicing as a Clinical Teacher 0 - 9 years 4 • 0-4 years 1 • 5-9 years 3 10-19 years 2 20 - 29 years 5 Number of Years Working as a Clinician Prior to Clinical Teaching 1 - 6 years 7 7 - 1 2 years 2 13 -18 years 1 19 +years 1 Current Type of Nursing Program Employed as a Clinical Teacher Diploma Nursing Program 3 Baccalaureate Nursing Program 5 Collaborative Baccalaureate Nursing Program 3 Specialty Nursing Program 0 Note. N = 11 32 Data Collection To describe the process of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence as a clinical teacher, data were collected from formal, semi-structured, audio-taped interviews with 11 participants. The goal of data collection was to gather empirical evidence that was accurate. Glaser and Strauss (1967) place more emphasis on the accuracy of data (i.e., quality) versus the kinds of evidence and the number of cases (i.e., quantity). Interview The structure and sequence of asking questions is an important dimension of the interview (Goetz & LeCompte, 1984). For this research study, the initial interview agenda (Appendix E) was semi-structured. The interview guide introduced the main themes of the interview to help participants' focus their thoughts regarding the process of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence. The first interview with participants provided a basis for alternate and more directed interview questions for succeeding participants. The emerging categories and tentative conceptual framework provided structure for the second interview as participants were asked to clarify and validate data interpretations. Probing questions were also used to attain a deeper understanding of the participants' answers. Ten participants were interviewed twice for confirmation and depth of information over the course of a 10-month period. An additional participant was interviewed once during the middle portion of the analysis process to further verify the dimensions of the categories. Each interview took approximately 60 to 90 minutes. Before each interview, participants were informed that a break could be taken. During the interview participants were also informed they could request to discontinue audio-taping at any time. To place participants at ease with the interview process, the researcher conducted interviews at locations selected by participants (e.g., home or work). An interviewer-administered demographic 33 questionnaire was completed at the end of the first interview (Appendix F) and confirmed during the second interview. Research Notes Research notes reflected the events of the interview as well as the personal aspects of the research process. Note taking is central to the research process since it marks the beginning of preliminary analysis and theoretical discovery (Spradley, 1979). The research notes for this study were organized as think notes and memos. The think notes were organized to include observations of (a) the events that transpired during the interview, (b) the general mood and tone of the interview, and (c) non-verbal communication of the participants. As well, think notes included personal impressions of the interview, descriptions of themes to further explore, and personal biases of the researcher (Spradley). The researcher recorded (i.e., hand written or audio-taped) most of the think notes immediately following each initial interview. Fewer think notes were recorded following the second interviews. Ideas about the data, its interpretation, and the coded categories were elaborated upon in written or typed memos (Charmaz, 1983). Memos written by the researcher were a stepping stone between coding and writing the first draft of the analysis. Ideas, hypothesis, and conceptualizations regarding the coded categories (e.g., properties and consequences) were written as memos (Charmaz). These memos provided a basis for advancing the data from the empirical to the theoretical level of abstraction. This level of abstraction was necessary for the identification of the core category and the description of the basic social process reflected in the data (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Thus, the conceptual pieces to the puzzle, if you will, became clearer to the researcher through having a "discussion" with herself through memo writing. Working conceptualizations of the framework depicting the process of becoming competent were also drafted in the form of memos. 34 Data Analysis The goal of the data analysis is to create a vivid reconstruction of the phenomena being studied (Goetz & LeCompte, 1984). Since the objectives of this research were exploratory with an emphasis on theory development, constant comparative analysis was used. This method of analysis allowed the researcher to systematically generate theory by constantly comparing the data obtained through the interview process (Chenitz & Swanson, 1986; Glaser & Strauss, 1967). According to Glaser and Strauss there are four stages of analysis: (a) discovering the categories, (b) integrating the categories and their properties, (c) identifying the core category and delimiting the theory; and (d) refining and writing the theory. Since each stage of the analysis provided the basis for the next, the analysis required constant reflection and review of the data collected. In other words, the analysis was cyclical in nature and each phase was interconnected; several stages occurred at the same time. Theory that evolved using this method both subsumes and assumes verifications and accurate descriptions (Glaser & Strauss). When possible, every attempt was made by the researcher to permit the theory to emerge from the data. Stage 1: Discovering the Categories During the first stage, the researcher analyzed the interview data and research notes. As previously stated, data were collected from 11 participants. The interviews were transcribed verbatim, lines numbered, and hand coded. The researcher also listened to the audio-tapes a second time while alone to refresh her memory of the interview, correct transcription errors, and add intonations. The transcripts were read and each line or paragraph was deconstructed to identify a fact or an incident. These facts and incidents were underlined. Key words or phrases that represented and summarized the participants' thoughts were written either in the margin of the transcript or typed below participants' 35 comments1. From the collection of facts and incidents a pattern of themes began to emerge. Codes were then developed to capture the meaning of the themes. The codes were a combination of the actual terms used by participants or terms constructed by the researcher. A working list of tentative 000*68 was developed. The researcher then returned to the initial interviews to designate codes to each fact or incident. After the interviews were coded, the researcher documented a summary of the interview. This summary sought to capture an overview of the key themes discussed by each participant during the interview. This summary was beneficial as it became a source of quick reference for the researcher in comparing the similarities and differences among each participant's respective experience. To ensure accuracy of data collection, verify its interpretation, and control personal bias, the researcher's committee members read the data generated from a portion of the interviews. Furthermore, committee members validated conclusions made by the researcher. Stage 2: Integrating the Categories and their Properties Since the theory developed through constant comparative analysis, differing categories that emerged were compared with each other with the goal of reaching theoretical saturation. To facilitate theoretical saturation of the emerging categories, variability among participants was sought during the ongoing participant selection process. As data were compared, the working list of tentative codes developed in stage one were consolidated into a list of 29 codes (e.g., comfort level, confidence, and assessing the student). These codes represented important themes. The initial 29 codes were reorganized into 8 substantive categories (e.g., nursing practice, knowledge base, and evaluation process) that the researcher interpreted as pertaining to the same phenomena. The name selected for a category was more abstract than the concepts it represented. As data 1 This means the researcher used a word processing program to type the code words/phrases into the actual transcript versus hand writing her comments. The code words/phrases were typed below the area that it referred to, key comments from participants were underiined. 36 collection and analysis proceeded, it became clear that some categories were defining characteristics, or properties, of other categories. Categorized data were compared to previous data and new incoming data. When the code did not fit in a given category, a new one was developed to represent the code. At the same time, similar properties were integrated into existing categories (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). To assist with the integration process, conjectures were tested, revised, or modified until all of the categories were linked together and relationships identified (Glaser & Strauss). The outcome of stage two was the identification of eight substantive categories linked together and arranged into a tentative conceptual framework that consisted of three phases. Stage 3: Identifying the Core Category and Delimiting the Theory The second interviews completed by the researcher became a means of testing the themes of both previous and new participants. Specifically, 10 participants were interviewed for a second time. In these interviews, participants were encouraged to elaborate upon and validate the themes identified in the tentative conceptual framework. As such, some participant quotes presented in the findings (Chapter III) were in response to reviewing the emerging framework. Terminology in some quotes may reflect the wording of the presented framework (e.g., phase one, phase two, and phase three). Nonetheless, this component of the analysis allowed the researcher to build and to modify the existing categories with the intent of formulating a theory from a smaller set of higher level concepts (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). In stage 3, the constant comparative method changed from comparing incident with incident to comparing the incident with the properties of the category. In other words, categories were moved to a higher level of abstraction. The eight substantive categories were refined and organized into nine major categories (e.g., dealing with anxieties, learning how to teach, and confronting learning issues). At this point, saturation of the major categories was achieved. 37 Since the nine major categories were established and linked, the next task was to reorganize the categories around a core category. The core category, also referred to as a major concept or core variable, was the category in which other categories fit and to which they all relate (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Through reflective memo writing and dialoguing with committee members the relationship of the core category to each phase crystalized; the process as a whole began to emerge. All data related to the major categories were re-examined to saturate the categories and refine the conceptual framework. The researcher identified developing self-confidence as the core category. The three-phase process was reconstructed around the identified core category. Stage 4: Refining and Writing the Theory During the final stage of analysis, the researcher possessed coded data, a series of research notes, and a theory (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). The goal of this stage was to devise a theory consisting of a core category around which the other major categories fit (Chenitz & Swanson, 1986). The researcher's notes provided the content to support the preliminary conclusions about the main categories (Glaser & Strauss). After synthesizing and reorganizing the preliminary conclusions, the researcher devised a final conceptual framework of the central phenomena, namely the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. The core variable of this process was developing self-confidence. An additional review of the categories and of each participant's interview was conducted. A description of the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher was identified and is presented in Chapter III. Rigor Grounded theory is a qualitative approach to exploring a social process and discovering theoretical explanations about a particular phenomenon (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Qualitative methods, such as grounded theory, can not be evaluated against 38 conventional methods that are applicable to scientific criteria (Robinson & Thorne, 1988). Sandelowski (1986) suggests four criteria of rigor by which to evaluate qualitative research: credibility, fittingness, auditability, and confirmability. In this section, a discussion regarding each criterion addresses the concerns of rigor for this study. Truth Value: Credibility In qualitative research, credibility is similar to the conventional form of internal reliability. Credibility is the main criterion by which external reviews have confidence in the truth of the findings (Sandelowski, 1986). It attempts to measure the clarity and thoroughness of the description and interpretation of the phenomena under study (Beck, 1993). That is, can the researcher demonstrate that the study measures what is being studied as it is defined in the study (Beck; Sandelowski)? To ensure credibility of this research, the systematic method of constant comparative analysis was used as a method for avoiding misinterpretation or inaccuracies of the data. Specifically, the researcher checked for denseness of the data and emerging categories by posing questions along each stage of the research process and constantly comparing incoming data with previously analyzed data. Throughout the entire analysis, the researcher maintained a certain level of skepticism about the emerging data and questioned herself about each set of data (e.g., what are the data descriptive of?, what category does this incident indicate?, and what is actually happening in the data?) (Glaser, 1978). Credibility was also established through participant checking and peer debnefing. Participant checks involved completing a second interview with participants for the purpose of data clarification and validation of the emerging theory (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Peer debnefing was ensured by having the researcher working collaboratively with the thesis committee members (e.g., sharing data, ongoing analyses, and emerging theory). The committee members posed key questions that guided and aided the researcher in 39 moving towards higher levels of abstraction. As stated previously, when members of the committee did not concur with the researcher's interpretations of the data, the inconsistencies were discussed until an agreement was reached. The activities involved in peer debriefing were important because it enabled the researcher to discover the processes underpinning the experiences of clinical teachers. Additional techniques used to ensure credibility were: 1. Documentation of descriptive think notes following each interview (e.g., setting, events, and behaviors of both the participants and the researcher). 2. Documentation of memos detailing the researcher's ideas, thoughts, hunches, and potential bias about conceptual notions and research methodology. 3. Audio-taped interviews were completed to obtain achieve accurate and precise descriptions of the clinical teachers' experiences in attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence. After transcription, the researcher listened to the taped interviews once again to check for errors or omissions. Tone of voice and other non- verbal behaviors were also added to the transcripts at this time. Applicability: Fittingness Fittingness refers to how well the research findings "fit" into a context other than the one from which they were generated. In other words, how applicable and generalizable is the data outside the study situation (Beck, 1993; Sandelowski, 1986)? Thus, fittingness provides the foundation on which comparisons can be made. In grounded theory, both comparability and translatability can be used to contribute to the overall fittingness, or external validity, of any study (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). In fact, one of the goals of grounded theory is to establish generalizations regarding applicability, explanatory, and predicatory power (Glaser & Strauss). 40 Three strategies were used by the researcher to ensure fittingness of the data. First, the researcher described the characteristics of participants thereby assisting others to accurately transfer the findings to other similar groups. Second, the principles of theoretical sampling (Glaser & Strauss, 1967) were used to ensure that the findings were not only representative but also credible and applicable. According to Sandelowski (1986), another strategy for evaluating the credibility (truthfulness) of a study is if the audience views the findings as meaningful in terms of their experiences. Based on Sandelowski, the third strategy for evaluating the fittingness of the emerging theory occurred when the researcher presented the preliminary findings of this study at three conferences (e.g., international, national, and provincial). To elaborate, at a national conference for nurse educators, an oral presentation of clinical nursing teacher competence was given. It was readily apparent that the audience concurred with the process of becoming competent clinical teachers by the feedback received from the delegates. Then, at an international and provincial conference, preliminary findings were presented in poster format. During the viewing of the poster several external reviewers provided insightful and stimulating comments which assisted in the interpretations emerging from the data. Consistency: Auditability Reliability is typically thought of as being synonymous with auditability. It refers to the ability of another researcher, through replication, to arrive at similar, non-contradicting conclusions to those of the original researcher. Thus, another reader should be able to clearly follow the researcher's decision-making process as it pertains to the study under discussion. Since there can be no validity without reliability - and hence no credibility without auditability - the techniques used to establish credibility should be sufficient for demonstrating auditability (Sandelowski, 1986). 41 As previously discussed, the decision-making process for this study was guided by constant comparative analysis (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). The researcher maintained documentation on the entire research process by using transcribed interviews for each participant; code and category logs; think notes, memos, category booklets; and written drafts. As previously discussed, peer debriefing with committee members aided the researcher's decision-making abilities regarding the research process (e.g., interviewing techniques, coding of data, and interpreting the categories). Throughout the research process, the researcher sought the feedback of committee members regarding the clarification of categories, their properties, and the emerging conceptual framework. Neutrality: Confirmability The concept of confirmability is the criterion for neutrality or objectivity. Due to the subjective nature of qualitative research, confirmability refers to the findings themselves and not to the subjective or objective stance of the researcher. When auditability, credibility, and applicability are established confirmability is achieved (Sandelowski, 1986). Since the primary tools of any qualitative research, such as grounded theory, are the sensory organs of the researcher, one must strive for neutrality or objectivity. This was established by having the researcher, prior to the interviews, identify her beliefs concerning the competence of nurse educators in their role as clinical teachers. Furthermore, research notes (e.g., think notes and memos) were compiled throughout the research process. This provided a venue for the researcher to acknowledge and report any feelings, attitudes, or behaviors that may have influenced the research process. Finally, confirmability of the research findings was achieved by having the interpretations reviewed by two members of the thesis committee. 42 Ethical Considerations In this study, the researcher used various strategies to protect the human rights of all participants. Ethical approval for this study was obtained from the Behavioral Sciences Screening Committee for Research Involving Human Subjects at the University of British Columbia. This study was developed by following the Canadian Nurses Association's (1994) guidelines for research and the International Council of Nurses (1996) ethical guidelines for nursing research. Each participant was required to sign an informed consent form which explained the nature of the study; the extent and duration of his or her participation; the interview process and how the interview information was to be used; and the anticipated benefits (Appendix D). Upon verbal request, each participant will receive a synopsis of the research findings. Confidentiality was maintained by locking the transcribed interviews, notes, and audio tapes in a cabinet separate from consent forms and code lists. This material will be destroyed five years after the completion of the study. Moreover, to ensure confidentiality, additional measures were implemented, these include: 1. Identifying information was omitted from the interview transcripts, written reports, and verbal reports. 2. Only the researcher, the transcriber, and the thesis committee members were permitted access to the interview transcripts. 3. Transcribed interviews and notes located on the researcher's computer hard drive were protected by password access. 4. To ensure anonymity in the final report and subsequent presentation of the findings, the participants are referred to as a collective whole. In rare situations where the research is required to refer to an individual participant, a code number or pseudonym will be used. 43 Limitations of the Study A limitation of this study was that participants who volunteered were more likely to have definite ideas and opinions about competence while those who are uncertain or indifferent may not. Since those volunteering were also more likely to be viewed as "competent" clinical teachers this may have reduced the number of participants who could speak to issues of incompetence. Furthermore, the volunteer nature of the participants limits the generalizability of the study to those that were interested and willing to participate. Also, those who refused to participate may have been disinterested in or had opposing beliefs about the research topic. Conclusion Grounded theory was used as the research methodology for investigating the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. Chapter II began with an overview of the theoretical foundations of grounded theory. The sample selection and criteria, the data collection procedure, and the stages of data analysis were outlined. A summary of the measures used to guarantee rigor were also identified by the researcher. The chapter concluded with ethical considerations and limitations of the study. 4 4 CHAPTER III: THE DISCOVERY Introduction The goal of this research study was to describe the process by which clinical nursing teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. As the investigation proceeded, it became apparent that participants went through a three-phase process as they matured into self-confident and competent clinical teachers. Further analysis exposed a core category of developing self-confidence that served to integrate and clarify variations in data from which further sub-categories emerged. The outcome of each of the three phases resulted in the building of various degrees of self-confidence and competence. The activities associated with "confidence building" in one phase were necessary for succeeding phases to occur. In this chapter, the outcomes of data analysis are presented. This chapter begins with a theoretical portrait of the three phases of maturing as a competent clinical teacher that evolved through grounded theory methodology. Next, a description of the core category is presented with a detailed review of the three phases to follow. Factors that facilitated the process will be addressed where their effect was most pronounced. Participants' experiences of incompetence will complete the chapter. Integrated throughout this chapter are verbatim quotations from participants. These quotes serve to illustrate and substantiate the researcher's interpretations of the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. Because all of the participants in the study were female, the clinical teachers will be referred to in this report using the feminine pronouns. The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher: An Overview Central to the participants' descriptions of their experience were the three phases through which they passed during the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. The three phases, as depicted in Figure 1 , are: (a) dealing with "self learning needs, 45 (b) building one's teaching style, and (c) integrating the complexities. Phases of this process, illustrated as independent circular shapes, evolved as opposed to concluding or commencing in an abrupt manner. Some outcomes of one phase became a prerequisite of the next phase. Thus, each phase became dependent on the previous one. Movement among the phases was multi-directional and multi-factorial. To best explain the process, each phase was depicted in a linear, distinct fashion; however, in actuality the phases were not mutually exclusive. Variations in the process will be discussed in a later portion of this chapter. The first phase, dealing with "self learning needs, was best described as a period of adjustment as participants dealt with the transitions or changes in their current position; for example, changing from working as clinicians to employment as clinical teachers. During this phase participants focused on themselves. They dedicated the majority of their time and energy to fulfilling their learning needs rather than those of the students. As a way of addressing their learning needs, participants employed three interrelated strategies: developing abilities as a clinical teacher, gaining awareness about clinical teaching, and dealing with anxieties. According to the participants, these strategies varied according to the context of each participant. At some point in phase one, the participants needed to address their own needs and anxieties before they could progress on to phase two; this condition was essential. Participants also needed to figure our what was expected of students in order to progress through the clinical course. The outcome of phase one was being able to know about and understand the clinical teacher role, an outcome that promoted higher degrees of self-confidence. 47 Phase two, building one's teaching style, was primarily a time of trial and error. As clinical teachers become self-confident with the clinical teacher role, they ventured onward by challenging old assumptions, discovering new alternatives, and subsequently building one's teaching style (e.g., methods and philosophies). In this phase, participants focused on building a repertoire of teaching activities that fostered student learning. Participants used a combination of three interdependent strategies to develop their teaching style: maintaining credibility, learning how to teach, and focusing on student-centered learning. All participants, in one way or another, dedicated time towards critically appraising themselves. When reflection did not occur participants said they remained stagnant. The outcome of this phase was a variety of teaching methods which the participants had self-confidence in utilizing when a specific learning situation presented itself. Self-confidence in one's teaching ability was a requirement for moving to phase three. Two additional conditions needed to complete this progression were the commitment and the desire to advance the substantive area of clinical teaching. The third phase focused on integrating the complexities of clinical teaching into their practice of educators. It was at this point that participants developed a greater appreciation and understanding of how to consolidate their abilities as clinical teachers within the nchness of the learning environment. The focus of this phase was on directing energy towards the student but in a much broader context of the clinical teacher's professional nursing obligations. Participants who spoke of phase three had developed enough self- confidence and competence to confront student learning issues. The outcome of phase three led to a continual development of self-confidence and competence - there was no predetermined end. As new factors were introduced to participants who were experiencing phase three, they would mobilize various strategies to maintain and enhance their self- 48 confidence and consequently contribute to the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. In Figure 1, each circular shape is connected by two threads. One thread is depicted as a solid line. The other thread encircles the solid line and is graphically represented as a spiraling line. The thread illustrated as a solid line represents various degrees of competence - referred to as the competence thread- attained within each of the three phases. Movement along the competence thread (i.e., progression among the three-phased process of maturing as competent clinical teachers) was expedited by the presence of various facilitative factors that were identified by participants. Each facilitative factor was a component of the thread illustrated as a spiraling line. Collectively the facilitative factors were coined the facilitative thread. Each facilitative factor did not apply to all participants and the degree of applicability of the factors to each phase also varied. Participants reported various components of the facilitative thread: support, personality traits (e.g., attitude and reflective nature), continuing education, communication skills, relationships with clinical agencies, and teaching assignment. An analysis of these facilitative factors will be presented in a later portion of this chapter. Specifically, a report will be given to detail where the influence of the facilitative factors was most prominent. The competence thread and facilitative thread have a interdependent relationship; the direction of movement along the competence thread was dependent on the presence of the facilitative thread. Although all facilitative threads are not necessary for competence to occur, some type of facilitative factor was required. For example, some participants said that progression from phase one to two would not have occurred when they did not have collegial support. Because having support lessened their anxieties about clinical teaching this was significant since a decrease in their anxiety levels allowed for the development of their self-confidence and competence as clinical teachers. Conversely, lack of support 49 hindered the process. In other words, participant progression through the phases was lengthened, stagnated, or regressed (e.g., incompetence). As participants considered the applicability of the three phases to their own experiences, they perceived they possessed various degrees of competence as well as having some experiences of incompetence. Typically, participants categorized incompetence as either an overall incompetence or an occasional incompetence. At different times throughout each phase teachers are competent and incompetent in distinct ways. A synthesis of the participants' ideas of incompetence will be addressed in the final portion of this chapter. The Core Category: Developing Self-Confidence The core category underpinning the entire process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher is developing self-confidence. To foster the process, and thus progress from phase one to three, participants needed to develop a significant degree of self-confidence. The initiation of the "confidence building" process began with participants making a change, either self-initiated or as a result of external pressures (e.g., curriculum changes and reassignment of teaching responsibilities). A certain degree of self-confidence was required for participants to consciously make the decision to change in the focus of their nursing career. Self-confidence was increased further when the clinical teacher was successful in each phase. The participants indicated that: (a) self-confidence was necessary for competence as clinical teachers and (b) at the end of each phase clinical teachers displayed different degrees of self-confidence and competence. In other words, the two concepts, developing self-confidence and maturing as competent clinical teachers had a reciprocal, interdependent relationship. When the participants viewed themselves as competent, self- confidence was enhanced because they realized their ability to be successful as clinical 50 teachers. Feelings of pride and respect heightened participants' self-confidence; the more self-confidence developed, the easier it was to engage in activities directed towards enhancing competence. The strongest reciprocal relationship between the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers and self-confidence appeared to be during phase one. Guiding Frame of Reference Throughout the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers the importance of managing a triad of relationships emerged (Figure 2). Participants in all phases used, in varying degrees, a frame of reference where the client's well-being was central to their competence as clinical teachers. Second to the client's well-being was the degree of student learning that occurred within a given clinical context. Clinical Teacher Student Agency Staff Figure 2. Triad of relationships managed by the clinical teacher. This triad of relationships was an important frame of reference for clinical teachers dealing with every day teaching situations. As participants' self-confidence and competence in the clinical teaching role developed, they were better able to manage the triad of relationships. In phase one, for example, neophyte clinical teachers were most concerned for the safety of the client (i.e., what would happen if clients were harmed by students?). As 51 participants developed self-confidence and matured as competent clinical teachers they learned to let go and permit the student to learn. Thus, in phase two, the students' learning process gained equal attention in relation to the clients' well-being. In addition, contributing to the students' learning process were activities carried out by clinical teachers to maintain positive working relationships with the agency staff. Finally, in phase three, participants developed a degree of self-confidence and competence to manage complex situations that arose within the triad. In other words, all needs were met and energy was dedicated to each element of the triad as needed. This participant recalled her shift in thinking about the balance reached among the members of the triad, "In phase 1,1 still was a bedside nurse, so my priority was the patient, the staff, the unit, the students. [Later], I moved into the idea of being a teacher, the students, on the unit with patients and staff'. Other participants agreed with this clinical teacher. The participants came to see the students as only one variable within a larger context of clinical teaching where the needs of others (e.g., clients and agency staff) also needed to be managed. This dimension of clinical teaching, in addition to others revealed in this chapter, validated the complex nature of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. In the following sections of this chapter, the three phases of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers will be presented. The strategies and their consequences will also be described. The strategies used in the process of attaining competence were not necessarily exclusive to any one phase. For ease of reporting, three strategies are reported in phase one, three in phase two, and three in phase three. Moreover, the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher will also be referred to as "the maturation process" and "the process of maturing". 5 2 Phase 1: Dealing With " S e l f Learning Needs (Figuring It Out) Phase 1 Dealing With ' S e l f Learning Needs \ "Ocus: Sett "Figuring It Out" Knowing Figure 3. Phase one of the maturation process. At some point in time, assuming a clinical teacher position was a new experience for the nursing clinicians who participated in this study. All participants stated that they needed time to adjust to the uncertainties that accompanied the transition to their teaching position. During phase one (Figure 3), many participants agreed their self-confidence, pertaining to their abilities as a teacher, was at its lowest point. Participants who lacked self-confidence in the new or adjusted teaching position went into what they referred to as "survival mode". While experiencing the survival mode, participants coped by focusing their energy and attention primarily on their personal learning needs rather than those of their students. One neophyte clinical teacher recalled phase one, "It was all about me. And, the student success or failure or the program, I don't recall it entering into it [sic]. Simply, how was I going to survive". In addition, participants survived their new experience by relying primarily on their self-confidence as clinicians. 53 Participants' learning needs were individualistic in nature. Successful resolution of participants' own learning need(s) boosted their self-confidence as clinical teachers. Three strategies to address participants' learning needs included developing abilities as a clinical teacher, gaining awareness about clinical teaching, and dealing with anxieties. In phase one, support and repeated exposure to various teaching situations served as facilitative threads. To attain of certain degree of competence in phase one, the confidence building activities needed to occur before participants could shift their focus to students' learning. Building confidence became an outcome of phase one and a necessary condition for the occurrence of phase two. Another condition for the resolution of the first phase was participants need to figure out what was expected of students given the clinical course requirements. Developing Abilities as a Clinical Teacher Developing one's abilities as a clinical teacher required participants to acquire the knowledge, skills, attitudes, and judgements associated with clinical teaching. This strategy was used by all participants who had no previous experience as clinical teachers (also referred to as neophytes) or had their teaching assignment changed (e.g., clinical agency, level of student, or substantive practice area). The experiences of participants being reassigned to a new area of teaching will be discussed in a later portion of this chapter. Participants dedicated a substantial amount of time towards building their expertise in the area of nursing practice where they were assigned to teach. Participants took a self- inventory to determine their learning needs. This critical evaluation included assessing their strengths and limitations regarding nursing knowledge - theoretical and practical - as it related to the clinical course and the level of student being taught. One participant's comments reflected the need that many other participants concurred with: 54 What I would try to do when I first started teaching was know all the nice to knows, need to knows and even the don't need to knows. And then it changed, probably I accessed the people I needed, I accessed the resources I needed. Clinical teachers often expressed how it seemed like they were always trying to keep one step ahead of the students. In fact, some teachers became overwhelmed with the perception that they needed to know everything. For this participant, phase one meant that it was "getting past the point of knowing that it is okay to look up something when I need to". Participants engaged in various activities to develop their knowledge and self-confidence in the substantive area by orientating to the clinical agency, engaging in nursing practice, reading textbooks and periodicals, attending workshops, reviewing the course syllabus, and conversing with other clinical teachers. Participants believed that the most significant factor that contributed to being a competent clinical teacher was having a solid grounding in the fundamentals of nursing practice. In phase one, clinical teachers relied on the fundamentals of nursing knowledge versus applying specific teaching and learning theory. The following two comments were typical of most participants' experiences "[In the beginning] I was certainly confident in my practice skills, and I knew my theory backwards and forwards". "I think probably at the beginning you rely...more that you are an expert nurse". In addition to participants relying on the fundamentals of nursing knowledge, dealing with their own learning needs was also grounded in their experience in nursing practice. Nursing practice was identified as a prerequisite to becoming a self-confident and competent clinical teacher. Many participants clearly identified that a competent clinical teacher was someone who was, first and foremost, a competent clinician. To ensure clinical competence, teachers engaged in nursing practice. Engaging in nursing practice occurred prior to or during the participants' clinical teaching activities. This activity was identified by participants as serving three purposes. 55 First, clinical competence allowed participants to build the self-confidence to succeed as clinical teachers. This belief was substantiated by the fact that nursing is a practice-based profession and as such, those who teach need to have a strong grounding in current clinical practice. Second, engaging in nursing practice allowed clinical teachers to access a frame of reference by which to create learning opportunities for students and evaluate student performances. Third, practice-based nursing activities contributed to participants' credibility as clinical teachers. In summary, identifying knowledge requirements and engaging in nursing practice fulfilled participants' learning needs, built expertise and credibility, and promoted self-confidence. Some clinical teachers did not develop self-confidence until they learned more about clinical teaching. Learning about clinical teaching was another strategy used by all participants to make sense of what was required of them as clinical teachers. Gaining Awareness about Clinical Teaching Gaining awareness about clinical teaching was another strategy used in the first phase of dealing with self learning needs. Many participants began clinical teaching by emulating teaching behaviors they had observed as students. As participants continued teaching they gradually figured out the meaning of the clinical course. As this discovery was made, participants then determined the specific knowledge, skill, attitudes, and judgements required of them. As a neophyte clinical teacher, one participant recalled her experiences in gaining awareness: One of the analogies I used for last semester was navigating a black hole because there is a structure of things but it's like there's nothing to find. So, your out there, you know your supposed to be teaching clinical skills, but, so okay what does that mean and how do you know what the student can do and can't do and how do you know what they've done and haven't done and so I just, it took a long time to be able to sort those things out. 56 During the period of gaining awareness about clinical teaching, some common areas of concern to participants were adjusting to the idiosyncrasies of the role, establishing student- teacher relationships, and evaluating students' performances. Adjusting to the Idiosyncrasies of the Role. For many participants to be successful in phase one, they needed to go through the process of challenging preconceived views they held about clinical teaching. This process was achieved through questioning one's behaviors and the experience of actually teaching. During this process, participants spent a great deal of time (a) figuring things out by themselves, (b) paying attention to cues, and (c) pondering how their actions could be altered for subsequent teaching experiences. Participants noted that as neophyte clinical teachers they regimented the students experiences in the clinical setting based on what they thought the student needed most: "I have a need that you [the students] do every single psychomotor skill on this unit". Clinical teachers went through a period of figuring it out to determine which clinical experiences the students needed to meet the required course objectives. One participant recalled dealing with this issue: "If they [students] are more involved with that patient and her baby in terms of supporting her breastfeeding should I haul her away to hang an IV medication... just for the experience?" Neophyte clinical teachers tried to do everything, be everywhere, and do all tasks. One participant said "I just stretched myself way too thin... and then my anxiety increased and their [the students] anxiety increased.... It wasn't a very good experience for any of us actually". Establishing Student-Teacher Relationships. Part of the process of figuring it out was determining how to establish relationships with students. Most struggles associated with building relationships related to determining the nature of the student-teacher boundaries. This participant recalled her realization about this issue: 57 When I first started teaching, with one group of students, it was way too social. It was actually one of the nurses on the ward that said 'you know these are not your friends.' And I thought, oh ya right.... they were getting away with murder. While the opinions on "boundary" issues varied among the participants, they did agree there was a need to base relationships on mutual respect and caring. Reaching tentative conclusions about the student-teacher relationship became a means of gaining awareness about clinical teaching. Additional issues associated with student-teacher boundaries were associated with incompetence. These concerns will be addressed in the latter portion of this chapter. Evaluating Student Performance. Another component of gaining awareness about clinical teaching was becoming cognizant about evaluation of student performance. During the beginning of phase one, participants were uncertain about the "hows" and "whys" of evaluation. Evaluation was viewed as a task versus a process coinciding with learning. The participants' inability to evaluate students was primarily attributed to their lack of knowledge regarding the level of student and the outcomes expected of the particular clinical experience. All participants concurred with this clinical teacher's rendition of evaluating students: Initially...you're kind of in a...fog...because you are evaluating and...you are not sure what you are seeing. You have a gut reaction that perhaps it is not what you should be seeing, but you are just not sure how to categorize that according to...an evaluation form. In other words, the participants believed that as neophytes they did not know enough about evaluation and thus lacked the self-confidence to trust their judgment of the students' performances. Furthermore, participants expressed the need to develop insight into the level of student performance required during the clinical rotation. This step was crucial for the progression to phase two. Then in phase two, the clinical teachers could determine what was expected of the students for their progression through the clinical course. Another clinical teacher recalled her experience with evaluation as follows: 58 The bottom line that I am the person who decides whether or not this person passes or fails - it's a reality. So one of the big things that I know I really went through was how do I judge people who are in nursing? How do I judge that... behavior? Why do I judge that?, and how much do I understand where these judgments are coming from? To deal with these uncertainties, participants required support from other experienced clinical teachers. This support served as reinforcement for their interpretations of student behaviors. Because of the unfamiliarity with evaluation, participants found dealing with borderline students to be problematic and anxiety provoking. In fact, a few participants recall avoiding these students as much as possible. In sum, all clinical teachers implemented various activities to gain an awareness of about clinical teaching which led to the beginning of an appreciation for the complexities of clinical teaching (e.g., developing student-teacher relationships and evaluation). Participants who understood the roles and responsibilities associated with clinical teaching experienced a sense of comfort and self-confidence. However, to develop the degree of self-confidence needed to progress to phase two, these clinical teachers need to move beyond knowing about clinical teaching and reconcile their feelings of anxiety. In fact, participants stated that unaddressed anxieties hampered their progression into phase two. Dealing With Anxieties All of the participants' narratives included detailed information about the anxieties they experienced and the strategies they used to deal with these stressors. The anxieties were most evident among participants who were adjusting (a) to the clinical teacher role or (b) to a new teaching assignment (i.e., course, level of student, agency, curriculum change, or substantive area of practice). Perceptions of these anxiety-producing stressors varied in both source and degree among the participants. Anxieties might also have been associated with phase two or three; however, the recollection of these anxieties, as recalled by participants, were predominant in phase one. 59 Participants who recalled being a neophyte clinical teacher attributed their anxiety to the lack of awareness about the scope of clinical teaching. Most of these anxieties could be classified as those relating to the environment, the teacher, and the student. A s neophyte clinical teachers, many participants were anxious about not knowing how to teach. These feelings contributing to teaching anxieties were explained by one participant as "It was really difficult to come from being an expert nurse to being a novice teacher. It was like starting all over again". Other participants explained similar feelings. For example, they said "I [felt like I] needed to know everything and I... didn't so I was really nervous"; "I [wanted] to do such a good job"; "It is really hard when you have 7 or 8 students...you feel like you are so responsible for them"; "I was absolutely terrified that the students would kill somebody, or cause a problem or make a mistake that would reflect badly on me or more importantly harm the patient"; "My anxiety arose from not knowing how to do it [teaching]"; "The other place that... is anxiety producing is group dynamics and how to facilitate that conversation and having people feel comfortable and open and talking"; and "I didn't sleep before clinical ... wondering about what was going to happen and how could I manage it". The sources of anxiety differed for participants, therefore, each employed various strategies to cope. One common strategy used by participants to minimize, and to eventually overcome, these anxieties was to ask questions. The participants questioned their own practice decisions, they asked questions of more experienced clinical teachers, and then asked questions of students. Other common strategies expressed by participants for dealing with anxieties included orientating to the clinical agency, establishing credibility, and learning to trust the students. Many participants were able to resolve their trust issues once they realized the students were capable of proving safe, competent care. This realization was often achieved by the end of phase one. 60 Orientating to the Clinical Agency. Participants agreed that spending time orientating to the clinical agency, prior to the arrival of the students, had several benefits. For many participants, orientating to the clinical agency was a means of identifying appropriate learning experiences for students and familiarizing themselves with the routines, rituals, and idiosyncrasies of agencies. What you're learning when you go, there to go to the unit, ... is to find how they do things on that unit.... To know, on this ward, this is where they write, you know this is where they hide this, this is how they want you to organize your day, ...these are the rules. Just to actually get a bit of a grounding and the unwritten rules of the ward and getting to know the nurses on the unit a little bit and getting [to know] the routines. A few teachers were initially unclear as to why teachers should make contact with the agency. This participant recalled her first experience as a clinical teacher, "I mean it was sort of like 'well you have to go make contact on the ward' and its like oh okay, so like what all are we supposed to be doing out there?". In retrospect, participants became aware of other benefits of orientating to the clinical agency: (a) being perceived as clinically competent and credible as clinicians; (b) identifying key personnel; and (c) building positive working relationships with agency staff. Although the exact length of time and nature of the activities associated with orientation varied among the participants the final outcome was greater self-confidence as clinical teachers. Establishing Credibility. Participants also experienced the need to establish credibility- first, as a clinician and second, as a teacher. A fear of not being seen as credible was perceived as a hidden source of anxiety experienced by participants; however, it was essential to establishing professional working relationships with the agency staff (primarily other nurses). One participant summarized the importance of credibility, "They want to know can you [§jc] practice ... it was establishing the fact that I am a practicing nurse and that I know how to nurse". Participants who sensed that the agency staff saw them as credible expressed a sense of comfort. This sense of comfort then heightened their 6 1 self-confidence and competence as clinical teachers. While establishing credibility was not viewed by all participants as an essential condition to growth as a clinical teacher, they did find that it gave them "one less thing to worry about". This realization was beneficial because it allowed the participants to focus their attention on their students' learning needs. Summary During the journey through phase one, clinical teachers implemented three strategies to deal with their learning needs. Developing one's abilities as a clinical teacher was as important as gaining awareness about clinical teaching. The data suggested that being competent as clinicians provided the foundation by which participants could then move towards understanding the roles and responsibilities associated with clinical teaching. Clinical teachers also developed a mental image of what was expected of them and students within a given clinical course. This development was a requirement necessary for the second phase. As participants became more knowledgeable of the clinical teacher role they experienced heightened self-confidence in their abilities as clinical teachers. This self-confidence was a necessary tool for helping new teachers deal with their anxieties. Dealing with the anxieties associated with clinical teaching (e.g., unfamiliar clinical area, credibility, and trust) was paramount to the attainment of competence as a teacher. Moreover, the threads facilitating the first phase of this process included collegial support and a consistent teaching assignment. In summary, clinical teachers described a process of developing enough self-confidence to enable them to deal with their learning needs and advance to building their teaching style. They continued through the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers by progressing to the second phase, building one's teaching style, which will be described next. 62 Phase 2: Building One's Teaching Style (Learning As You Go) Phase 2 Building One's Teaching Style Figure 4. Phase two of the maturation process. At the end of phase one, clinical teachers developed self-confidence in "knowing" about clinical teaching. This self-confidence was a necessary condition for building one's teaching style; that is, for "doing" clinical teaching (Figure 4). The most significant component of this phase was the metamorphosis that participants went through to develop their teaching style. This transition was assisted by three strategies: maintaining credibility; learning how to teach; and focusing on student-centered learning. According to the participants, a prerequisite to implementing the three strategies was the awareness about what was expected of students to progress in the clinical course. All participants used three strategies to build a repertoire of teaching methods to promote student learning and indirectly ensure client safety. Thus, the driving force for participants became the students' needs - with the assumption that the clients' needs were also being met. One participant explained the difference between phase one and phase two as, "Phase one is most likely about you, your movement away from ... bedside nursing to a 63 different type of role, your competency .... Phase two is about being interested in ... students and wanting their success". The three strategies that participants used in phase two enabled clinical teachers to develop their teaching style. This resulted in an increase in the clinical teachers' self-confidence. An enhanced self-confidence then promoted an environment for the continuation of the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. As well, having support and engaging in reflective thinking were facilitative threads that affected both the core category of developing self-confidence, and the characteristic of competence as clinical teachers. An additional requirement for progression to phase three was a sense of commitment and dedication to advance the substantive area of clinical teaching. Maintaining Credibility Since the primary focus of phase two was the students, participants dedicated only a limited amount of time to maintaining the credibility they established for themselves in phase one. Participants used the same techniques in phase two to maintain credibility; they continuously orientated themselves with the clinical agency, developed positive working relationships, and demonstrated their abilities as clinicians. The participants' believed that student learning was hampered when they did not maintain their clinical competence and credibility. Thus, maintaining credibility became a foundation for establishing a context in which the students' learning could occur. Being seen as credible also became a mechanism used by participants to foster camaraderie and develop respectful working relationships with the agency staff. These relationships with the staff are vital for me for many reasons. One is the acceptance of the students, but also because ... [of] my situation ..., I had ten students on four wards, okay, so they were on two floors, but four wards.... So I couldn't be everywhere and ... you know when you don't really know these students what do you do? ... So that building of the relationships with the staff was vital because they were the people who were there, they became my eyes and ears and my hands. 64 The primary outcome of maintaining credibility was that it allowed participants to focus their energy on individualizing students' learning, achieving the course objectives for the clinical rotation, and ensuring quality client care. Maintaining credibility also provided the foundation for achieving the other two strategies: learning how to teach and focusing on student-centered learning. Participants discussed how maintaining credibility (e.g., theoretical knowledge and nursing practice) helped to create an environment to support student learning. This clinical teacher discussed the importance of nursing practice in this manner: You don't need to know every frigging policy ... or things like that, that's part of the on the job learning curve. But, if you don't know how to do an assessment and you don't know the population base, then how do you teach your student? I don't think teachers need to be experts in the, totally in the subject matter, but I think that they have to have some foundational knowledge in order to teach. Participants engaged in a wide variety of activities to maintain credibility. Some of these activities were reading journals, attending conferences, assisting with laboratory teaching, and engaging in nursing practice either in a clinical agency where participants were teaching students or elsewhere. These activities resulted in participants' abilities to keep current with nursing practice and teacher practice. Continuing to engage in nursing practice as a means of maintaining clinical competence was seen as the most important component of maintaining credibility. Maintaining credibility not only contributed to participants' abilities as clinicians (i.e., clinical competence) but also facilitated their ability to learn how to teach. Stated another way, maintaining credibility allowed clinical teachers to (a) define expectations of students, (b) facilitate instructor organization, (c) modify teaching strategies (e.g., role modeling), (d) select clients, (e) create learning opportunities for students, and (f) build and maintain existing working relationships with agency staff (e.g., public relations). Thus, the purpose of maintaining credibility, as identified by participants, was much broader than in phase one. 65 Credibility became a means by which participants developed self-confidence in their nursing practice and clinical teaching. Being perceived as credible and self-confident helped clinical teachers to develop their teaching style and facilitate student learning. Learning How To Teach The second strategy, learning how to teach, was interrelated with the third strategy of focusing on student-centered learning. In order for participants to develop their own teaching style they also needed to determine the essential components of clinical teaching (e.g., understanding the student, facilitating student learning, giving feedback, and evaluating students). Thus, the second strategy referred to the activities used by participants to learn how to teach while the third strategy identified the activities that clinical teachers used to promote student-centered learning. These strategies occurred simultaneously. Learning to teach was primarily concerned with challenging old assumptions and discovering new alternatives. Neophyte clinical teachers began teaching by emulating behaviors of clinical teachers they had as students. Participants in phase one also spent a great deal of time observing and questioning other clinical teachers. With successful completion of phase one, participants developed enough self-confidence to venture towards the challenges of the second phase - to implement, test, revise, and refine their own methods of teaching. Through the process of trial and error, participants adopted a series of approaches to learn how to teach; these included: evaluation and feedback (e.g., self, colleagues, students, and formal performance appraisals), reflection (e.g., introspection and review), observation (e.g., other clinical teachers and student responses), discussion (e.g., with a supportive mentor or role model), education (e.g., undergraduate and graduate studies in 66 nursing), and examination of the research literature. One common link among these approaches was the necessity of participants to engage in some method of critical self-appraisal. Regardless of the means of appraising (e.g., self-evaluation, reflection, or dialoging with others), participants needed to evaluate their abilities as clinical teachers. I think it is thinking about my experience, reflecting on my experience and learning from that, whatever that experience might be. It might be being on the ward with students looking after the patients or it could be reading something ... You can't learn from your experience ... unless you think about it and relate it to your past and your future. When "self-appraisal" did not occur, participants did not further develop their teaching style nor did they advance to the next degree of competence as clinical teachers. Collegia) support during the appraisal period served to be beneficial in providing an environment to augment participants' self-confidence. Continuing education was another facilitative thread mentioned by some participants as a means of learning how to teach. Participants also expressed time as an essential component of learning how to teach. Time simply referred to the period of time necessary for personal growth to occur. Time also allowed for repeated exposure to a breadth of clinical teaching experiences. One participant identified how time influenced her awareness, "When you first start teaching you think you know more than you do and it is not until you get experience you realize [what] you don't really know". Not only did participants need to have exposure to various situations but they also needed to encounter successful outcomes. Experiencing successful outcomes was critical because it was another means for developing self-confidence. In addition to the importance of time in developing self-confidence, the data also revealed the participants' ability to have insight into and be willing to change their behavior (i.e., reflection). This insight and willingness helped participants to continue learning from their experiences and adjust their teaching styles according to changing circumstances and variables. Participants then began to develop a sense of which particular teaching strategy 67 worked best for a given situation. This participant provided a vivid recollection of this process: Time is a really big factor... you get the exposure that you need. You run into situations more often than once. You have an opportunity to see how you deal with them and you have a chance to look at an evaluation of that to see whether that was a good outcome or a not so good outcome and whether you need to improve on, change [sjc] that the next time. So that, once you have some experiences with it, it makes it a lot easier and that comes with time. Although several participants in the first phase considered their behaviors to be somewhat inappropriate, it was not until the second phase that participants felt self-confident enough to address the need for change and enact on suitable methods for change. I have always reflected, but I have not always acted on that reflection and I guess that is based on your level of...feeling comfortable with yourself. Yeah...when I first started teaching... I wouldn't act on it because I felt I had to know everything.... Now I don't feel I have to know everything and...there is no way I can know everything and so I...will go back and re-visit that [event]. Focusing on Student-Centered Learning Dealing with the components of the students' learning process coincided with the previous strategy learning to teach. Although the learning process was a concern with other phases, it seemed to be a predominant theme in phase two. One clinical teacher summarized her shift in thinking while teaching students on a labor and delivery unit: I think before I was interested ... in getting the students deliveries [sic], thinking that was what they would need. What I have come to realize now is...about the process of learning and applying what you can learn in one situation. So, more the principles of learning and [how] to move it to another situation. Because participants had dealt with their anxieties and uncertainties associated with phase one, they were better equipped to focus on student learning processes in phase two. Participants emphasized four components of the learning process: understanding the student, facilitating student learning, giving feedback, and evaluating students. With repeated exposure to the components of the learning process, participants enhanced their abilities as clinical teachers (i.e., knowledge, skill, attitude, and judgement). Second, 68 exposure positively affected their self-confidence. Third, as the participants' self-confidence increased so did their competence. Being competent clinical teachers in phase two resulted in increased student learning, client safety, and fulfillment of the clinical teacher role. Focusing on student learning involved knowing the student, facilitating student learning, giving feedback, and evaluating students. Knowing the Student. To successfully develop student-teacher relationships participants identified the need to shift their perspectives and attitudes towards students. Participants in phase one confronted issues relating to student-teacher boundaries. Participants in phase two further refined these boundaries; however, they also needed to understand the student from the student's perspective. Participants in phase two realized that students are individuals who have unique learning needs, styles, and interests. This participant recalled her thoughts on why teachers need to understand students: At level two ... they [students] need to understand why they are doing things and take it a bit slower. They need to learn to do a good job with the hands on stuff, but I think they could take more time to make sure they know why they are doing what they are doing .... I think maybe I value the "understanding". I know that the students have taught me over the years a better notion at where they are at and how I think how they need to move to become a competent practitioner. I think I used to make some assumptions about how quickly they could pick things up and how simple things are when they are not simple at all. Many participants found when they understood the students they were better able to facilitate the students' learning. Participants enlisted several types of activities to gain an understanding of students (e.g., pre-clinical interviews, informal meetings with the student, observation of behaviors, and retrospection). At the end of the second phase, some participants viewed the learner first, as an individual first and second, as a student. Other participants did not experience this realization until phase three. As a new clinical teacher, this participant was unsure how to manage students. She discussed how her abilities changed as her competence increased: 69 Well the way I would go into a situation, I would spend some time discussing the situation with the student. Then I would review, reflect on that once I finished and I would think to myself, "oh, boy, I didn't handle those points or I didn't handle that situation very well," and part of it was ... I did not feel very competent in my abilities to handle students but I had to start somewhere to learn about them. And now when I go into a situation ... I feel more competent.... So it changed from being unsure about myself and moving into [feeling] competent. As the degree of self-confidence and competence increased so too did participants' abilities to understand individual students. One factor that facilitated the understanding of students was longer clinical rotations for a given clinical course. In other words, during longer clinical rotations, participants' gained more time to understand students and build student-teacher relationships. To further develop an understanding of students, participants talked about how trust and tolerance of students was necessary. For example, when clinical teachers did not convey some degree of trust in students' abilities they also did not provide students with adequate opportunities to become independent practitioners. Simply put, participants needed to "let go" and trust students in order to facilitate learning. Furthermore, clinical teachers needed to become tolerant of various student behaviors. In phase one, participants stated they often overreacted to certain student behaviors. This teacher explained, "I remember reaming out a student simply because she kept saying 'okay'." Another participant found herself reacting to students negatively because she did not like some of them, "I would interact with them on ... an annoyed level, we would find a place where we disagreed and then I was as sad as they were at times ... that was silly but I think that was part of my growth and development". Being patient and identifying with the students' perspectives (i.e., empathetic) became a virtue necessary for knowing individual students and a co-condition for facilitating student learning. 70 Facilitating Student Learning. As participants became more experienced with the intricacies of clinical teaching, they struck a balance between the students' needs and the application of the principles of teaching and learning. Because clinical teachers had self-confidence in their nursing practice (i.e., clinical competence) this allowed them time to build a repertoire of teaching methods which would facilitate learning in a given context (e.g., level of student). This participant recalled how her ability to facilitate student learning had changed: As a novice, just not being aware of the type of clinical experiences that I could hook the students into .... I was ... wanting to make sure they understood the right answer about... the specific thing I was asking them. Whereas now I am more interested in not only the answer but also how their thought process goes. So I think it is a whole maturation that has occurred more in my ability to bring it out of them than their ability to do it. Matching one's teaching style with the students' needs and course requirements became an effective means of presenting students with a variety of relevant learning opportunities. Participants identified various teaching strategies used in the second phase to facilitate student learning. Two examples of these strategies are patterning information and role modeling. A common teaching strategy discussed among several participants was the ability to pattern information in such as way that it was useful, understandable, and memorable to students. This was accomplished by breaking learning tasks into manageable pieces or smaller parts. The ability to simplify tasks into smaller steps was viewed by many participants as a strategy used by experienced and competent clinical teachers. This clinical teacher spoke about how she simplified tasks for students during their first clinical experience: I particularly break it down in deciding how much to give them in terms of their assignment.... I... selected the patients very carefully so that I know they can all communicate .... So it is broken down so that they only have to talk and meet the patient for the first time. And then the next time it is the hygienic care, it is the mouth care, the bath, the bed .... So, I break down what they are doing by only giving them so much and by doing very careful patient selection ... [it] requires a lot of judgement and experience on the part of the teacher. 71 Another strategy used by all clinical teachers was role modeling. Clinical teachers modeled appropriate professional nursing behaviors to students. The teachers' intent was to encourage professional nursing behaviors among the students. While clinical teachers in phase one may have used role modeling, it became a more purposeful behavior in phase two and three. In phase two, participants primarily focused on yet another component of the learning process, which included student evaluation (i.e., summative and formative). Giving Feedback. The data revealed that participants lacking self-confidence in their abilities as clinical teachers had a tendency to be either uncomfortable in giving or incapable of providing constructive feedback to students. Participants who were uncomfortable with providing feedback were more prone to focusing solely on either negative or positive behaviors. Participants postulated that this inability to provide feedback was primarily due to their lack of self-confidence regarding their knowledge about how and when to give feedback. This participant explained how her abilities to give feedback changed: I went so much on my own background and training. I gave a lot more negative feedback and not enough positive, not intentionally, but... it's much easier to see where somebody goes wrong than to sit down and say okay what did they really do that was really good or positive. So, as I went on I had to learn to be more positive and to focus on the things that were really important rather than what they [the students] weren't doing. It was also difficult for clinical teachers to ascertain when the students needed feedback. This was further complicated particularly when participants were unsure about what was expected of the students. Thus, the precursor to offering feedback was identifying the level of clinical expectations to be achieved and then conveying these expectations to students in a clear fashion at the beginning of the semester. Participants found having strong communication skills to be an essential component in developing their abilities to offer constructive feedback and thus assist and support student learning. Therefore, as 72 participants developed professional self-confidence, their abilities to provide constructive feedback improved. Usually by phase two, if not earlier, participants had enough self-confidence to provide constructive feedback. Participants often followed one method for giving feedback to all students. As the participants' self-confidence and competence grew, the clinical teachers began to individualize their feedback methods to meet the needs of individual students. For example, this clinical teacher commented on what she had learned over the years in terms of giving feedback, "It is better just to give it, say it right out and get it out on the table and then work with it there. I try to be a bit careful about when I give it and how I give it, but I am always clear". A larger component of giving feedback was evaluating students in the context of achieving the course objectives. Evaluating Students. Through trial and error, participants developed a greater sense of understanding about "how to" interpret student performance. As clinical teachers developed their abilities as evaluators, they reported being knowledgeable of and proficient with the process. Participants also identified that through their lived experiences they encountered repeated exposure to a breadth of students. From these experiences they developed a mental image of acceptable student expectations given the course requirements and the level of the student group. They became self-confident in trusting their judgement for identifying, interpreting, and diagnosing student behaviors. This was something participants in phase one struggled with. It seems when I first began teaching I thought they [students] were all just great and I was doing a great job and it wasn't until I was in it longer that I realized that I was really lacking in this whole evaluative thing. I was seeing what I wanted to see rather than truly looking at them [students] with ... a more critical eye .... I was ... rubber stamping them all... unless it was very blatant I would pick it up [their lack of skill], but I let lots go by for sure. Initially some participants reported being rule-bound by carefully following the evaluation guidelines as determined by the program. With experience, teachers developed 73 ways of relying on various sources of evidence to evaluate students (e.g., assessment tools, formative evaluations at the end of each clinical day, and discussions). A common theme for participants was their ability to eventually internalize the course objectives. When this internalization occurred, evaluation became second nature to the participants. This further substantiated and reinforced their intuitive abilities to evaluate their respective students. Initial intuitive reactions experienced in phase one were now enacted upon in phase two. Clinical teachers were self-confident and competent enough to trust their interpretations and tentative conclusions about the students' behaviors and clinical abilities. One participant talked about her experience with intuitive feelings: You move into another phase where you know what you are seeing and you are able to pinpoint it... Then, I think you move into another phase where you ... have a gut feeling that they will be able to do it [pass the course]. Most of that is based on your ... intuition or your gut feeling as to what you see that student do and what you feel that their potential is. Participants in phase two listened to their "gut reactions" and substantiated these feelings with ongoing observations and evaluative data. After developing self-confidence in evaluating "typical" student behaviors, participants stated that they began to initiate the development of their abilities in dealing with borderline students. Summary Implementing a combination of three strategies - maintaining credibility, learning how to teach, and focusing on student-centered learning - allowed participants to develop their teaching style. The first strategy, maintaining credibility, provided a foundation for which participants learn how to teach. In learning how to teach, a requirement of the participants was having the insight and willingness to critically appraise their own abilities. Self-evaluation and time to experience a breadth of student learning situations allowed clinical teachers to learn how to teach and further develop self-confidence. The third 74 strategy, focusing on student-centered learning required participants to develop a greater appreciation for students as individuals with unique needs and challenges. Intertwined in the three strategies were a series of activities that directly resulted in the building of relationships with students, agency staff, and other colleagues. For some participants, the building of relationships contributed to the development of their overall teaching style. Through the implementation of the three strategies - combined with time, support, communication skills, and personality traits (e.g., willingness to learn and ability to reflect) - participants developed a repertoire of teaching abilities (e.g., knowledge, skill, attitude, and judgement) which combined to develop their teaching style. Subsequently, the development of one's teaching style resulted in higher degrees of self-confidence in participants' abilities as clinical teachers. This cyclical process between developing a teaching style and increasing self-confidence was necessary for clinical teachers to proceed with the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Integrating the complexities of the clinical teacher role became phase three of the maturation process. Phase 3: Integrating the Complexities (Putting It All Together) Phase 3 Integrating The Complexities "Putting rt All Together' Synthesizing Figure 5. Phase three of the maturation process. 75 At the end of phase two, participants developed self-confidence and competence in "doing" clinical teaching. This provided a foundation for synthesizing the intricacies of clinical teaching. Participants in phase three perceived competence as a continual evolution of one's "self . Part of this evolution was the participants' abilities to crystallize their conceptualization of clinical teaching in a broader context (i.e., bigger picture). I know what the big picture is. I know what I want, what my end goal is and that is to have the best student and client experience possible. You know, that the student gets their best experience as well as the client has the best safe, psychological care they can and if I need to confront [sjc] or I need to do the PR [sic] in order to get it.... Then, I.think that is seeing the big picture as opposed to going for gratification for , yourself in that you're the clinical teacher and you're seen as being very competent .... Then, you have to look at what is the better good for all. A necessity for participants in phase three (Figure 5) was having this clear focus on the bigger picture of clinical teaching. Participants facing the challenges of phase three described themselves as clinical teachers with a spirit of inquiry, a willingness to change and take risks, and a commitment to clinical teaching. Armed with these capacities, participants dedicated time and energy to integrating the foundational components of clinical teaching in complex learning situations (e.g., variations in learning situations and learning styles, confrontational issues, and failing students). This integration of the participants' clinical teaching abilities was directed towards the greatest good for all - the students, the client, the clinical agency, and the substantive area of clinical teaching. Factors that facilitated integration were identified as institutional support, effective communication skills, and involvement with additional curricular activities (e.g., curriculum development). While all participants could identify with and speak about the first two phases of this process, fewer articulated the properties of phase three. Consequently, two themes emerged. First, participants identified that strategies developed previously (e.g., dealing with anxieties, sustaining credibility, and maintaining clinical competence) were an obvious 76 and ongoing part of phase three. Second, the final phase included three additional strategies: consolidating one's abilities as a clinical teacher, confronting learning issues, and dealing with professional obligations. For example, in order to facilitate student learning and preserve self-confidence, participants were cognizant of the need to sustain their credibility in the clinical agency. However, the amount of time and energy consumed by this strategy was, in comparison to phase one and two, less dominant in phase three. No longer are the routines or the idiosyncrasies of the unit a challenge to my feeling of competence because I know that I know this area, have theoretical knowledge that is current and extensive. Students know that, the nurses know, ... and the head nurse knows me, not just as a clinical teacher but in a broader context. This awareness, therefore, allowed clinical teachers to spend a greater amount of time focusing on the bigger picture of clinical teaching. As the complexity of phase three increased so too did participants' inability to view the development of their competence as a linear event. As previously stated, strategies used in previous phases became interwoven components of the third phase. Participants describing the process of maturing considered an endless list of strategies to be used in clinical teaching. Consequently, the boundaries between phase two and three were not as distinct as the division between phases one and two or phase one and three. The outcome of phase three was a strong degree of self-confidence and competence as a clinical teacher. Because participants viewed the development of competence as a process, attainment of phase three was not an arrival at competence. Rather, phase three signaled continual maturation of the participants' abilities as clinical teachers. That is, participants continued to engage in lifelong learning activities that were directed toward maintenance of their competence. In addition, the context in which participants taught was never static. Thus, clinical teachers needed to develop self-confidence and competence to accompany the ongoing changes experienced in phase three. 77 Consolidating One's Abilities as a Clinical Teacher Just as the participants' expertise as clinicians set the foundation for phase two, the building of one's teaching style became the foundation for phase three. The participants believed that a lack of a solid grounding in who they were as teachers (e.g., style, perspectives, philosophies) limited, if not prevented, their progression to phase three. In phase three participants used the three strategies identified in phase two; however, the strategies evolved to have more meaning attached to them. This interconnectedness between phases allowed participants to consolidate their abilities as clinical teachers so they could individualize students' learning. It doesn't mean that you are so rigid that you take away the individuality and I think that [individualizing] is the real mark of an expert teacher. When we talk about the student that is an excellent ... above average student and the good student and the student that will struggle ... [to] achieve minimal level of competence, you know within that there are lots and lots of ways to individualize the students [learning].... I think that in the case of excellent teachers they keep in mind the reason why the course outline and the [ends in] views ... is because they should have meaning for the end product. Participants identified that a facilitative thread of consolidating one's abilities as a clinical teacher was having varied experiences with diverse student populations. The outcome of this strategy was a continual development of the arsenal of teaching strategies that contributed to participants' teaching style. In addition, as participants developed self-confidence in their teaching abilities, they were assertive enough to confront learning issues. These two strategies had a complementary relationship. An increase in self- confidence with participants' teaching style affirmed their self-confidence to confront learning issues. The strategy of consolidation primarily related to the participants having several realizations about teaching and learning. This realization was coined the "aha experience". The "aha experience" was categorized as the (a) perspective of learning (e.g., student and teacher) as a process rather than a product, (b) richness of the learning environment, 78 (c) management of relationships, and (d) importance of knowing the student. Through the process of putting it all together, participants conceptualized various concepts in a new way. Approaches used to consolidate one's clinical teaching abilities paralleled those identified in phase two as a means of learning how to teach (e.g., evaluation, reflection, discussion, education, and examination of the research literature). Learning as a Process. The basic principles of teaching and learning developed by participants in phase two became the basis of refining their teaching methods to facilitate student learning. There was an "aha experience" where participants' realized that learning was viewed as a process rather than a product. One participant explained how she matured: When I first went into teaching,... because I had been at the bedside so much, ... I tended to want to get in there and do things .... I almost had to ... sit on my hands ... or, your know zip my mouth because I wanted to impart that knowledge. Now, I tend to stand back and if I think that... the patient is going to get into any jeopardy or anything I will sort of step in .... So, I found that I... over the years you learn to step back more and watch and give them feedback after, if it is not putting the patient in jeopardy. Similar to experiences in phase two, participants realized that they needed to give up control over the student for learning to occur. Participants in phase three had a heightened sense of what were appropriate expectations of students in a given clinical course. These realizations facilitated participants' self-confidence in selecting learning experiences (i.e., clients and client situations) for students. In phase three, client selection became an integral component of the learning process. Although participants in preceding phases were also concerned with client selection, the essence of this task became more apparent in phase three. Participants considered an array of variables when selecting clients for the students. These variables included: individual student abilities and interests, client characteristics, course 79 requirements, agency opportunities, and clinical teacher abilities. This participant described the variables she considered when selecting clients for senior nursing students: I am looking at numbers of individuals they care for, acuity of individuals, perhaps organization as in a variety of kinds of individuals and then I want to make sure that over the course of a rotation that they have adequate numbers of patients and numbers of skills and so on. I try to make sure if people look at what I have done that I have, as much as possible,... really had an opportunity to maximize their learning given what is available and they have all been treated equally. This quotation reflects the thoughts of many participants. In fact, many participants agreed client selection involved a balance between the course objectives, the level of students, and the students' needs while at the same time ensuring the well-being of the clients. For many participants, fostering learning also involved assisting students with "thinking" skills. Assisting students with their thinking skills was one way that participants fostered the learning process. For example, more attention was allocated to discussing client issues with students to help develop skills for higher levels of thinking (e.g., problem- solving and critical thinking). In addition to the development of higher levels of thinking, a few participants in phase three had adequate self-confidence to role model and encourage students to challenge the boundaries of nursing practice. Success in these activities further contributed to development of the participants' self-confidence. The context of learning as a process also applied to clinical teachers. Participants realized that the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers required lifelong learning. One participant discussed her revelation on lifelong learning: "One [component] is the integration as you describe it and the other is the lifelong learning about the different teaching strategies, different environment.... We are never finished learning how to teach". The ability to engage in lifelong learning allowed for further development of self-confidence and the continuation of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Activities of lifelong learning encompassed both changes in nursing practice and nursing education. A 8 0 complementary relationship between nursing practice and teacher expertise evolved from the data. Richness of the Learning Environment. In addition to the realizations associated with the learning process, participants experiencing phase three also developed a greater understanding of the richness of the learning environment and the factors impinging on the environment (e.g., client demographics, changes in the clinical agency, changes to health services, and political influences). These two concepts were closely related in that the environment was a means to facilitate learning. This participant elaborated on this point: As an expert teacher, you have knowledge of the concepts and the principles that you are trying to get across to the students in a very broad way. You are not orientating to unit X, you want them to be able to identify those themes, or those concepts or those [ends in] views and to transfer them across the health care perspective in a variety of different units and agencies .... I try to look at and use a variety of tools to help them assess what they need to know and help me to determine whether I am giving them the kinds of experience that will broaden their skills and abilities by the time they leave. Participants with a broad perspective of clinical teaching utilized and encouraged multiple sources of learning in the clinical setting. The clinical teacher was no longer seen as the primary source of knowledge. As well, participants realized that some learning occurred regardless of the events planned by the teacher and that each student took something different away from each learning situation. Knowing the Student. Another property of consolidating one's ability as a clinical teacher was knowing the student. The outcome of knowing the student was to facilitate the learning process by displaying empathy towards students. In addition to empathy, the ability to be considerate of and compassionate towards individual students (e.g., cultural, learning disability, and personal issues). While a similar strategy was used in phase two it was further refined in phase three. One outcome of knowing the students was the development of caring relationships between students and teachers. These relationships were based on mutual respect and trust. Demonstrating caring attitudes towards students also 81 encompassed the notion that the students' needs and interests changed with each clinical course. As a means of putting everything together, participants tried to develop a sense of who the students were as individuals. To accomplish this goal, participants concentrated on the subtle cues given by each student (e.g., overwhelmed with a clinical assignment, learning difficulties, and cultural needs). This participant shared her thoughts about students: "I think I was more concerned [in the beginning]...about finding, you know, making sure the students got the ... technical kinds of things and now I am much more interested actually in students as individuals". Participants who were empathetic to students as individuals were more likely to have insight into the students' performances and behavior. I think it's easier for me to see where the students are coming from because it is so overwhelming and they are so vulnerable and it is very traumatic .... So I try to tailor my teaching to their individual, where they are and where they are coming from. In addition to the strategies used in the second phase to understand the student, participants in phase three engaged in both formal and informal activities. Some clinical teachers conducted formal preclinical interviews to develop a sense of who the students were on a professional level. Thus, participants thought they were better able to individualize instruction based on the personalities of each student in the larger context of the course requirements and agency opportunities. This participant recollects the purpose of preclinical interviews as follows: One thing we do in preclinical interview is find out the mode of learning that students have - her learning style. I am interested also in some of their other real life experiences, like what type of job did they have before they came into nursing and what did they do during the summer. That tells me a lot about their maturity, the amount of work they do with the public, their completion skills, their resourcefulness, their industry and their self-esteem,... there is a whole lot of other facts and also I like to know that, I just like to get to know them as a person and I think they probably appreciate that, too. Additional methods of getting to know students included informal activities such as working alongside students and informal discussions. These activities also helped to build 82 professional student-teacher relationships and role model various aspects of nursing practice. Confronting Learning Issues The strategy of confronting learning issues emerged subtly at first. Many participants described difficult issues that they encountered. These issues were often ignored in phase one but confronted in phase three. In phase one, participants were not prepared with enough information about their role and therefore, they lacked the self-confidence to deal with learning issues. In phase two, participants may have identified learning issues; however, they did not always have the self-confidence to effectively deal with them. Although a few participants in phase two may of had the self-confidence to confront some learning issues, discussions of participants' abilities to deal with such issues was prominent in phase three. Participants in phase three, developed enough self-confidence in their abilities as competent clinical teachers to directly express their opinions. This strategy evolved into a more assertive stance depending on the participants' experience and self- confidence as a clinical teacher. This participant recalled her "aha experience": I remember specifically when my "aha" came around it was a really bad clinical situation and after I spent about 3 hours doing PR stuff around, it was something the students ... were blamed [for]... I remember thinking so this is what clinical teaching ... is all about... just the feeling you have competence and confidence to go after it as opposed to before where I might have skirted the issue and I felt myself incompetent in those situations. When dealing with a range of issues, participants considered what would be in the best interests of the student, the client, the agency staff, and the nursing profession. Confronting learning issues required participants to advocate for all students and to fairly evaluate borderline (or failing) students. Successful resolution of confrontational issues boosted participants' self-confidence. The participants' felt more self-confidence for dealing with conflict when they used assertive communication techniques with others (e.g., agency staff, students, and other clinical teachers). Participants involved with classroom teaching 83 and curriculum development stated that effective communication skills broadened their perspective of clinical teaching within the larger context of nursing education. Advocating for Students. Central to participants' experiences with learning issues between students and other persons (e.g., clinical agency staff, clinical teachers, and clients) was the need to advocate for students. In many instances, the participants became the students' voice. Participants implemented various strategies for the purpose of becoming stronger advocates for students. For example, some clinical teachers dedicated time towards establishing new and maintaining existing positive working relationships with the agency staff. The participants viewed these relationships as essential when advocating for a broad spectrum of student learning experiences. This participant recalled advocating for students: The other thing about the difficult situations is ... if you go back to the [example of] having the students in report. If you can speak to the unit manager... and relate why it is important that the students to get that experience. If you can relate it to the reality of being a nurse, most times they hear you and then and then together you can problem solve effectively. I have done that with medications, I have done that with meeting rooms, I think we have all had experiences where ... it is just easier not to have them [students] there because it is just too many people and too much chaos, but that is not going to meet the objectives that we need to meet. So how can we work around this? What can we do? What protocol can we put in place? What communication needs to occur? ... So if you are a credible nurse ... and a credible teacher you can usually facilitate that in an environment. Included in this participant's description of advocating for students was her goal to facilitate learning. Her rendition of advocating for students also outlines the importance of establishing and maintaining positive working relationships with agency staff with the intent of gaining the power to advocate for a broad spectrum of student learning experiences. If you ... know that you are being ... given credit for what you know by the staff and they have some regard for you, then ... it's ... much easier to advocate for the students. I feel like I am a much better advocate for the students then I was in the past. 8 4 Participants in phase three reported a higher degree of self-confidence and competence in their abilities as clinical teachers. To them, this meant they were better able to advocate for students. Evaluating Borderline Students. In addition to advocating for students, participants in phase three believed they had an obligation to deal with borderline students. This participant elaborated on her professional obligation: I think there is student advocacy, I think that is so important, and yet at what point do you draw a line in the and say "I'm sorry this is not the right place for you at the right time. This is what support we can offer you to withdraw with dignity, but this is not a safe place for you to be". By the end of phase two, participants had a handle on the "know how" of evaluating student performances. Furthermore, the participants believed that positive experiences in evaluating students heightened their development of self-confidence with the evaluation process. The difference for participants phase two and phase three was a further refinement of the evaluation process in phase three. Participants in phase three also believed that they had become more skilled with the evaluation process, particularly with decision-making and teacher judgement. I can look much wider than ... in Phase 2.1 see why this can't be ... taken lightly. I can look at the whole and their [students] functioning ... I can pull from my arsenal of my strategies and try them out to see if... there is anything that would make a difference. I have less in my arsenal in the center [phase 2]. I may still make suggestions, but I have to struggle more with it and in this case, I mean it is still going to be a struggle, but the decision is clearer. As well, participants revealed that they were much more capable of immediately assessing students as borderline. This participant revealed her focus about evaluating borderline students: To diagnose it fairly quickly and to help the student have some insight into what that problem is .... Because ... I can tell them what the problem is ... but if they don't see it... they are going to say, well I'll just "jump the hoops" for her. 85 Thus, participants dealing with borderline students placed more emphasis on assisting students to gain insight about their behavior (e.g., unsafe performance or inappropriate behaviors). As participants gained more experience for dealing with borderline students, they also gained more self-confidence in their skills for the "due process" of evaluation (e.g., identifying and delineating areas of concern, developing learning contract, and documenting observations) and for dealing with the appeal process. It was interesting to note that once clinical teachers informed students of borderline performance, participants' focused more on gathering evidence to support their assessment than on the process of learning. To facilitate the evaluation process, participants also used advanced communication skills to assist students in gaining insight into their borderline performance. Participants in phase three continued to build their repertoire of teaching methods for giving feedback, evaluating students, and generating remedial learning activities. Furthermore, participants had a greater intuitive sense of identifying whether students had the potential to succeed. As with phase two, intuition was one of many sources of evaluating students' performances. An increased self-confidence in dealing with borderline students was often accompanied with a greater understanding of the institutional conditions influencing participants' decisions to fail or not fail students. Participants also believed that their ability to assign failing grades to students was facilitated by having a supportive institutional environment (e.g., Chairperson or Dean). Dealing with Professional Obligations The second strategy, confronting learning issues, was interconnected to the third strategy, dealing with professional obligations. In order to effectively confront learning issues, participants also needed to have a greater sense of their obligations to the nursing profession. Thus, the third strategy of professional obligations provided a frame of reference by which participants identified the need to confront learning issues. The strategy of dealing 86 with professional obligations occurred through a variety of activities carried out by participants. The most common examples were (a) role modeling the profession to students, (b) role modeling clinical teaching, (c) supporting other clinical teachers, (d) failing students when necessary, and (e) maintaining clinical competence. Most participants' obligations to the nursing professional stemmed from their desire to ensure safe and competent client care. This participant summarized her professional obligations as a clinical teacher: You have above average knowledge, you work in research, you are an innovator, your always trying to grow, you have clinical expertise, but it is not at the level of an expert nurse, there are trade offs here because you can't be doing both. On the other hand, although participants had a professional obligation to clients, their role as clinical teachers also included capitalizing on a wide range of learning experiences for students within the larger context of the course requirements. Participants in phase three clearly recognized that clinical experiences contribute to nursing education. Clinical practice was valued for the richness and diversity it added to the educational experience. Participants believed they had an ethical and moral obligation to themselves, the students, the clients, and the nursing profession to make an ongoing commitment to maintain their clinical competence. In other words, participants expressed a conscious need to maintain their standards of nursing practice. Participants experiencing phase three also demonstrated a tremendous sense of commitment to their students and to their own lifelong learning needs. This participant elaborated on her sense of commitment: It is the part of you that makes you go to the library when you would rather be going for coffee. It is that part of you that wants you to make sure that you give the best you can to your students ... in the end that is where ... you feel like you have done a really good job. And I think that's ... passion, passion making. This participant talked about time she dedicated to maintaining her nursing expertise: "It is important enough for me to do that... I have two months off during the summer and I devote a month to working and a month off ... It is just too important to me not to do if. 87 In working with colleagues that were either new to clinical teaching or that were less experienced, participants believed that they had an obligation to support these and other clinical teachers. Some participants mentioned that clinical teachers in phase three would take on mentoring responsibilities. Often participants in phase three became sources of support (e.g., mentor, role model, and collegial support) to other clinical teachers experiencing a variety of phases. Summary The self-confidence developed in phases one and two allowed participants to progress to phase three. In phase three, participants were integrating the complexities of the clinical teaching role. Three intersecting, related strategies were used in the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. Strategies from phases one and two were a presumed part of phase three along with the three other strategies being: consolidating one's abilities as a clinical teacher, confronting learning issue, and dealing with professional obligations. As participants integrated these three strategies they experienced an "aha experience". During these experiences participants came to view their role in a different light. Upon entering clinical teaching, participants conceived clinical teaching as "simple". However, upon further examination of their competence as clinical teachers, they realized the complexity of clinical teaching. That is, the participants realized the necessity of integrating the complexities of clinical teaching into their daily activities as clinical teachers. The integration of the clinical teaching role was facilitated by the amount of institutional support, the utilization of advanced communication skills, and the involvement with additional curricular activities. Germane to phase three was the recognition that clinical teaching competence development did not simply end at phase three. Even though participants had attained a high degree of self-confidence and competence by this phase, participants continued with 88 the maturation process as new contextual variables were introduced to their role. As new variables were introduced, participants mobilized a series of strategies to maintain and strengthen their competence. Hence, the maturational process of competence was both evolutionary and cyclical in nature. Facilitative Threads The process of clinical teacher maturation as depicted in Figure 1 (page 46), indicates that the three phases are joined together by two threads. The straight line, or competence thread, is surrounded by a spiraling line which is referred to as the facilitative thread. Movement along the competence thread (i.e., movement through the process of maturing to be competent clinical teachers) was determined by the presence or absence of the facilitative thread. Although only one facilitative thread is represented in the diagram, there are several facilitative factors that combined to constitute the facilitative thread. The facilitative factors were any internal or external stimuli that, when present, prompted the occurrence of a phase or strategy within the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Not all facilitative factors applied to each phase or strategy. In addition, each respective participant experienced a variety of factors depending on their individual needs. In some instances the facilitative factors were as important as the strategies corresponding to each phase. The following discussion provides examples of common facilitative factors identified by participants; the examples include: support, familiarity with clinical agencies, stable teaching assignments, knowledge and education related to teaching and learning, personal qualities, communication abilities, and curricular involvement. Support Some form of support was required by participants to facilitate the transition among the three phases. Both the amount and type of support varied among the participants. 89 Types of support ranged from collegial group support (e.g., team meetings) to individual support (e.g., role models or mentors). Regardless of the type of support needed, additional requirements that needed to be met for the support to be effective were that the support provider(s) needed to be able to (a) relate to teaching; (b) share experiences both positive and negative; (c) listen; and (d) guide, support, and advise. In addition, support was more effective if it was provided in a safe environment. The various examples of support identified by participants included being orientated by their predecessors and being provided psychological support to deal with such matters as negative student-teacher experiences. One invaluable type of support identified by participants was some form of collegial support (e.g., mentor or role model). Collegial support was viewed as important because it contributed to the self-appraisal and reflection process required to accurately assess the participants' teaching abilities. In phase three, it was beneficial for clinical teachers facing difficult work situations (e.g., a student appealing a failing grade) to have institutional support. An additional source of support in all phases was that provided by the clinical agencies (e.g., cooperative agency staff). The support of these agencies demonstrated their commitment to the students' learning. Familiarity with the Clinical Agencies Being familiar with a clinical agency was also reported to promote the participants' self-confidence and competence in the clinical teacher role. For example, participants who were educated in hospital-based programs and then later taught in the same program and clinical agency expressed fewer feelings of anxiety and higher degrees of self-confidence. Analogously, participants who described the most self-confidence in their abilities as clinical teachers were those who had advanced education in a specialty area of nursing and then taught in this area in an agency where they had previously practiced. In both examples, participants were familiar with the clinical agency. This familiarity included having 90 successfully established professional relationships and demonstrated credibility. This point is significant since this familiarity further facilitated the development of self-confidence and competence. Stable Teaching Assignments Participants who described the most competence in their teaching abilities were those who had (a) a consistent teaching assignment (e.g., same level of student, same clinical agency, or same clinical course), (b) been assigned to teach a "familiar" substantive area of nursing practice, and (c) longer clinical rotations with students. Several participants concurred with this participant's thoughts on the benefits of being assigned to one clinical agency for an extended period of time: I think one of the key things is being in the clinical environment for a long time period ... because once you established yourself as a teacher in that setting and build a rapport with the staff... and physicians the better our skills are because we are comfortable and the more learning there is for the student because the staff then reach out to the student. Having a stable teaching environment allowed participants to focus more of their energies towards students versus themselves. Furthermore, participants having consistency in their teaching assignments experienced a sense of comfort. This participant expressed her thoughts regarding the importance of being familiar with the environment, "I think you gain confidence in a variety of ways, one is by experience, familiarity with the area, familiar with the context and the content of what your teaching and the environment you're working in". Thus, a comfortable environment encouraged further development of self-confidence and credibility- both factors contributed to the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Conversely, an unfamiliar environment delayed the maturation process of competence. This was not to say that clinical teachers should not be reassigned to other clinical courses. Rather participants in the first and second phases needed consistency in their teaching environment while participants in the third phase were more able to cope 91 competently with a reassignment of course. Participants in the third phase were more adaptable because they had developed their teaching style to a point where they had the self-confidence and competence to handle the uncertainties associated with changes to their teaching assignment. Knowledge and Education Participants who possessed theoretical knowledge in teaching and learning theory also reported fewer anxieties and more self-confidence. These participants believed that they progressed to phase two at a swifter pace because they did not have as many extraneous variables to deal with (in comparison to neophyte clinical teachers with no previous knowledge related to teaching and learning) when reassigned. Consequently, these participants were able to direct more energy towards developing their teaching style versus dealing with their learning needs. In addition, continuing education in any phases provided important opportunities for enhancing the participants' knowledge base and providing an environment for reflection. In phase three, continuing education became an integral part of the participants' commitment to lifelong learning. Personal Qualities The data also revealed that participants viewed some personal qualities as helpful for progression through the maturation process. Specifically, facilitative personal characteristics were cited as individuals with an outgoing personality, a sense of humor, a willingness to learn and to change, a personal desire to succeed, an ability to gain insight into their behaviors, a natural ability to reflect, an ability to challenge oneself, an attitude of commitment, and a spirit of inquiry. Participants who displayed these qualities believed they experienced a less traumatic journey in developing competence, particularly in both phase two and phase three. For example, this participant described how it was necessary for her to be willing to change: 92 [In the] second phase I would still be working on my teaching ... it would be hard for me to ... let go of my tried and true methods ... After all these years it is maybe easier for me to let go in some ways .... And to be competent yes, we do need to be willing to make change. Many teachers discussed the quest for knowledge as being an important component of the process of maturing. This quest protected participants from complacency. According to one participant, complacency was detrimental to achieving higher degrees of competence: Some times they [students] do test [you] and I think that for me I look at it as a way to increase my competence ... having [that] quest for knowledge. And it makes it much easier for me because I like that challenge so I can be the best that I can be .... But... they are making me develop more as a teacher and that is one thing that I have always felt is that I can always learn more [about].... A couple of times in my teaching in clinical I was quite complacent and I really got pulled up by my socks, not intentionally, by a student... I realized that I had become complacent about things and I needed to get some joy back in my teaching and delve a little deeper in my competence so that I could make it more exciting for them [students]. Participants displaying the aforementioned personal qualities identified greater feelings of self-confidence and competence as clinical teachers. Ability to Communicate Although participants' communicative abilities were facilitative in all phases, their recollection of the importance of effective communication was emphasized in phase three. In other words, participants may have indirectly alluded to the use of their communication skills during the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. However, in phase three the participants clearly recognized the significance of effective communication on all aspects of the maturation process. Specifically, the use of therapeutic communication techniques was discussed in the context of the triad of relationships (Figure 2, page 50). Sound communication skills were needed to build strong student-teacher relationships. It really is important. You have to be able to communicate really diplomatically with the personnel that you're working with and of course with your students. You have to ... communicate your concerns to them [students] without putting them down. In developing one's teaching style, effective communication techniques were tested as participants experimented with ways to articulate their expectations, provide feedback, and 93 cultivate student insight. This clinical teacher summarized her thoughts on competence and student-teacher communication: I think ...it is absolutely vital, probably [in] two...or three ways. One, you have to be able to communicate clearly what... you expect of students and you need to be consistent... If you're saying one thing then what you do follows that through. I think you need to be consistent in the kind of feedback that you give students and the kind of support you give them, so there's the verbals and there's also the non-verbals and there's how you handle stressful situations .... There may appear to be less structure [to communication]... but the purpose is clear. As participants progressed through the three-phased process they developed further self- confidence and competence in their abilities to communicate effectively with students. Curricular Involvement Some participants in phase three mentioned that it was easier to integrate the complexities of their teaching role when they were either currently or previously involved with curriculum activities (e.g., curriculum development and classroom teaching). Being involved in such activities broadened participants' perspectives of nursing education, of which clinical teaching was a sub-component. At the same time, teaching in the classroom or laboratory setting reduced the theory-practice gap common to nursing education. Participants had more self-confidence in their abilities to integrate the theoretical content into the clinical setting. Being familiar with the theoretical content facilitated the development of their abilities as clinical teachers and thus the maturation process. Summary Participants identified seven external and internal environmental factors that facilitated the three phase of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. These factors commonly provided comfort to participants in the clinical teacher role. Furthermore, higher degrees of comfort fostered the development of the participants' self-confidence and competence. On the other hand, while the facilitative factors could account for some of the variations in the maturation process, additional forces appeared to influence the process. 94 Variations in the Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher The previous portion of this chapter presented a sketch of the three-phased maturation process. Although the process was presented in a linear context, in essence it was influenced by an endless number of variables. As new variables were added to the clinical teaching context, the phases and strategies unique to the maturation process unfolded in a unique and complex fashion. Typically, clinical teachers experiencing the process for the first time did so in a similar manner; that is, all experienced the three-phased process. However, at other points in time variations in the process occurred as a result of changes brought about by external forces (e.g., delegated by supervisor and imposed curriculum or program changes). In many of these situations, participants were faced with changes to their teaching assignment (e.g., a different clinical course, level of student, clinical agency, or substantive area of nursing practice). Regardless of the specific change, participants were placed in situations unfamiliar to them. In many instances, teachers could experience these variations in any phase. Then, as a general rule, participants would regress to a previous phase. After experiencing a change, the participants needed some time to focus on themselves before they could focus on their students. The most common variations in the maturation process were experienced during phase two and three. In every phase, one of the main changes discussed by participants was reassignment to a new clinical agency. Moving to a different clinical agency was often accompanied with teaching a new clinical course and a different level of student. When participants were in phase two (i.e., developing one's teaching style) when this change was superimposed on their teaching, they reported a regression to phase one. These participants recalled their anxieties being related to issues of clinical competence and unfamiliarity with the context. For example, this participant recalled moving around at least two or three times a year. She said, "I would be at a new agency, didn't know the people, 95 didn't know ... the kinds of patients ... and I didn't know the students, so everything was unknown." It was common for participants re-experiencing the uncertainties of phase one to cope by relying on their self-confidence and competence in their teaching abilities. In some instances they also relied on their abilities as clinicians. Thus, a complementary relationship was established between their teaching abilities and their clinical abilities. Common to all participants re-experiencing phase one was their ability to adjust to the situation in a more manageable way. Participants were familiar with the difficulties associated with phase one. Therefore, they were able to more quickly mobilize the necessary strategies to deal with their learning needs. This participant shared her experience with changing to a new clinical agency: "It seems to go much faster and the anxiety isn't as much .... When I think ... back, I ... ended up knowing that I was ... a teacher, therefore I... knew that I had the skills that I needed ... to learn about the area". This participant's experience paralleled others who were reassigned to teach in a new area: I would have to orient myself to the new environment, both the physical and the psychological environment, but I would have a better idea of what cues to attend to, to move to the second [sic] and then adjust my teaching style based on the environment and the students. To continue to progress forward in the maturation process participants mobilized previous strategies that had been beneficial in the past. Consequently, participants' self-confidence returned more quickly which then expedited the process of moving on into phase two. To summarize, the data revealed that a disruption of participants' stable teaching environment resulted in some degree of regression in the participants' self-confidence and competence. Participants needed time to reapply coping strategies for various phases. The type of strategies used was dependent on the context and participants' self needs. In many instances where there was some type of change to the participants' teaching assignment, they needed time to become familiar with teaching in the new context, establish credibility, 96 and deal with anxieties. Successful resolution of the participants' learning needs boosted their self-confidence and competence as clinical teachers. This adjustment period allowed for their progression to subsequent phases. The pace at which participants progressed through the phases during a second exposure was faster in comparison to the first time they experienced this process. Incompetence During the three-phased process of developing competence, participants possessed various degrees of competence as well as having some experiences of incompetence. Participants described two types of incompetence: (a) occasional incompetence and (b) overall incompetence. Participants described occasional incompetence as a situation that happened irregularly or infrequently. Many examples of occasional incompetence were commonly related to participants' abilities to perform specific clinical skills. Overall incompetence was descriptive of a clinical teachers overall abilities, or lack of. The outcome of both types of competence varied in severity. Common to both types of incompetence were clinical teachers' inability to meet the conditions and outcomes of particular phases. There were also common situations or events the precipitated incompetence. Some participants commented that when they were reassigned to a new area of clinical teaching (e.g., clinical course, level of student, substantive area of nursing practice, and clinical agency) they were more likely to encounter some form of incompetence. In these instances, participants were lacking in their capacities to be competent in carrying out a required activity. As well, participants who did not have a supportive environment were threatened by low levels of self-confidence which led to further incompetence. In contrast, participants who had a stable teaching assignment but experienced incompetence did so due to a lack of motivation and insight. Thus, occasional 97 competence was more often a result of external influences whereas overall incompetence was a result of internal influences. One primary difference between occasional and overall incompetence was that the latter referred to clinical teachers who demonstrated a consistent pattern of unacceptable behavior(s). This clinical teacher elaborated on the determination of incompetence: There are levels of... incompetence in a way that I would feel strongly enough to make a report to a supervisor about and I have done this. And then there are reports of incompetence where it is a, maybe a singular incident that is uncharacteristic of the person or a knowledge deficit that they are working on or maybe something they are doing. So I guess maybe the attitude around their, whatever they are doing, is really important too in their incompetence. As revealed by this participant, the second most common determinant of incompetence was the attitude held by clinical teachers. When incompetent clinical teachers demonstrated a desire, motivation, and willingness to change they were deemed worthy (by others) to receive a second chance to improve their performance. Thus, a clinical teacher's incompetence was tolerated or even forgiven when he or she had a positive attitude towards learning from his or her mistakes. A main factor influencing clinical teachers' abilities to overcome incompetence was described by participants as reflection. Occasional Incompetence Occasional incompetence was described by participants as situations where very specific types of knowledge, skill, attitude, or judgement were required in a given situation. Participants dealing with an unfamiliar situation experienced feelings of uncertainty and nervousness. This participant elaborated on her feelings accompanying occasional incompetence: Well I certainly have been in situations where I didn't have a clinical background and I had to rely a lot on the staff and that was very uncomfortable .... You're just... sort of nervous about, is there something I am missing here that I should know that I don't know, that's that lack of ease and lack of familiarity. 98 Most participants described situations where they experienced occasional incompetence as those instances where skills or knowledge were infrequently used and rarely seen (e.g., glucometer in labor and delivery, IV pumps, infant resuscitation, and enema administration). This clinical teacher recalled her experiences of occasional incompetence while assisting a student insert a nasogastric tube: I hadn't done that for years ... and I ... [was] reviewing the procedure and then taking all of the stuff in and then trying to do it and it was really difficult... Thinking is there something I am missing here or am I doing this right or am I hurting this person ... I felt like I wasn't competent, I... wasn't confident in my competence .... You don't have that degree of comfort that assures you that at least you think you're competent... I think they are times when you think your competent and maybe your not. In the experiences of occasional incompetence, participants did not have the clinical background or self-confidence to act in a competent manner. Participants that experienced this type of incompetence either realized their incompetence at the time of their actions or in hindsight when they reflected on their actions. A comment element of reported occasional incompetence was that it was related to a single incident that was uncharacteristic of participants' overall performances. Overall Incompetence Overall incompetence was described as a state when a clinical teacher lacked most of the conditions and outcomes necessary for the progression through the three-phase maturation process. In many instances therewas some type of imbalance in their abilities as clinical teachers. In addition, their behaviors were at extreme ends of a continuum (e.g., either lackadaisical or tough). Participants found it difficult to address overall incompetence because their experiences were based mainly on third party observations. Participants' views about overall incompetence were grouped into four main categories: (a) lackadaisical or tough beyond reasonable expectations, (b) focusing on personal needs, (c) non-professional student-teacher relationships, and (d) not keeping current with nursing 99 practice. Although some participants did elaborate on the meaning of each category, few personal experiences of feeling or being overall incompetent were revealed. Summary Clinical teachers describing incompetence characterized the phenomena as either being an occasional or an overall, broader type of incompetence. Incompetence was brought about by either external or internal circumstances. For example, a change in teaching assignment is an external influence while a lack of motivation is an internal influence. Participants who experienced occasional incompetence had insight into the factor(s) that led to the incompetent situation. Consequently, they mobilized a number of strategies to overcome their deficiency. On the other hand, clinical teachers that met the criteria as being incompetent in a broader manner seemed to lack both the motivation and the insight to overcome their deficient abilities (e.g., tough or lackadaisical attitudes and unprofessional student-teacher relationships). Persons characterized as being overall incompetent did not have the capacities to fulfill the clinical teacher role, to conduct student evaluations, to build professional relationships, to facilitate learning, or to understand the students. Hypothetically, this inability to progress through the process of maturing could be accompanied by low degrees of self-confidence. Consequently, as the lack of self- confidence and competence intensified, the incompetent clinical teachers would conceivably stagnate or regress towards phase one. Conclusion In this chapter, the study findings of 11 clinical teachers' experiences of competence were presented. The analysis of their experiences was conceptualized as a three-phased process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Although the maturation process was viewed, to some extent, as unique to each individual, many common findings emerged from the participants' discussions of their competence. These findings contributed to an 100 increased understanding of the overall three-phase process of becoming competent, the central focus and strategies common to each phase, and the factors that facilitate progression. These findings and their implications for nursing education and future nursing research will be discussed in the following chapter. 101 CHAPTER IV: DISCUSSION OF THE FINDINGS This research set out to explore the process of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence as described by clinical teachers. Chapter III presented the outcomes produced by grounded theory data analysis. In this chapter, select findings of the data analysis will be discussed in relation to the literature. Although issues and concepts relevant to competence have been acknowledged in the nursing literature, no empirical evidence has been published which explores the phenomena of competence in the context of clinical teaching. Consequently, the following discussion will rely on research and anecdotal literature from various disciplines and interrelated topics. The conclusions that emerged from the analysis of the interview data will serve to organize a discussion of the findings: developing self-confidence, the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher, strategies specific to the phases of the maturation process, facilitative factors, and incompetence. Also, throughout the chapter, reference will be made to the defining attributes, antecedents, and consequences of competence as introduced in Chapter I. Developing Self-Confidence "JAs you get more comfortaBCe as a cCinicaC teacher you fee C more comfortaBCe and competent inside of yourself" Participant The core category that emerged from the data analysis was self-confidence. This core category depicts the basic social process by which participants develop a degree of self-confidence necessary for the progression among the phases. It was rewarding to observe how the core category, as depicted by participants, captured the meanings of their actions and interactions with others, and accounted for the variations within their behavior patterns. Also, it was fascinating to discover that at the end of each phase participants described different degrees of self-confidence and competence. It appears likely then that self-confidence is an antecedent to competence and that competence is a state-of-being 102 which exists as an evolving process. The significance of these findings will be discussed in this section. Self-Confidence and Other Related Concepts The participants described self-confidence as a feeling of self-reliance and a firm belief in their personal powers. In a review of the CINAHL and Psychinfo databases, various authors have identified relationships among self-confidence and hardiness, self-efficacy, self-esteem, self-worth, mastery, locus of control, and a sense of coherence. Regardless of the term utilized, these concepts contain a common element. That is, each concept is "associated with a sense of self derived from direct encounters with and mastery of elements in the environment" (Fidler, 1981, p. 568). To be competent, individuals need to develop a sense of inner confidence that they can succeed. Bandura (1977) refers to this confidence in one's ability to be successful as self-efficacy. Self-efficacy is a sense of controlling one's own destiny. In this study, participants who were the most self-confident felt a greater sense of control over their environment. For example, in phase one, the development of the participants' sense of self is attributed to dealing with their own learning needs. At the end of this phase, participants developed adequate self-confidence to believe in themselves. In other words, participants believed they could be successful as clinical teachers. In each phase, the consequences of gaining the self-assurance needed to succeed is positive reinforcement for developing more self-confidence. Eventually high self-confidence leads to competence. An increase in self-confidence and a greater sense of control resulted in movement through the three-phased process. In listening to participants' experiences, it was interesting to determine how their self-confidence and perceived sense of control contributed to their maturation as competent clinical teachers. Second, it was fascinating to learn that teachers who had greater 103 perceptions of self-worth and self-confidence became stronger advocates for students. Third, those participants who were self-confident, had well-developed teaching styles, and who had a number of years of teaching experience were not particularly concerned with the perceptions of others. Nagelsmith (1995) concludes in her literature review that "...with increased levels of competence comes a corresponding increasing sense of self-worth and empowerment" (p. 247). Since self-worth and self-efficacy are components of self-esteem, individuals with a higher sense of self-esteem are more apt to succeed (i.e., become competent). In this study, participants concluded that with self-confidence came a sense of self-direction, meaningfulness, and a sense of control that guided their thoughts and actions for maturing as competent clinical teachers. In sum, both the concepts of self-efficacy and self-worth are valuable for explaining the variances in self-confidence. Furthermore, these findings substantiate a claim made in Chapter I: self-efficacy and self-confidence are antecedents to competence. Self-Confidence and Competence It was significant to discover that in phase one participants' believed one of the most significant factors contributing to being competent clinical teachers was having a solid grounding in the fundamentals of nursing practice. This grounding brought them a sense of comfort. Participants who perceived themselves to be competent as clinicians had a basic degree of self-confidence necessary to progress through the three-phased maturation process. Crandall (1993) found that outstanding clinical teachers display "confidence in their clinical competence and are comfortable with their roles as mentor and teacher" (p. 89). Empirical evidence by Mozingo, Thomas, & Brooks (1995) reports that students who perceive themselves to be clinically competent reported higher levels of self-confidence. Conversely, Gillespie (1997) identifies that the clinical teachers' self-confidence both as teachers and as clinicians is a significant factor in competently meeting the students' 104 learning needs. Clinical teachers who lack self-confidence were limited in what they could offer students in their clinical learning experiences. This finding suggests teachers with less self-confidence are less competent in their abilities as clinical teachers (Gillespie). Therefore, it is reasonable to suggest that a teacher's ability and self-confidence, as a clinician and as a teacher, has a strong influence on clinical teacher competence. In other words, not every competent clinician is a competent clinical teacher. Rather, competent nursing practice is an antecedent to becoming a competent clinical teacher. Ironically, participants having more experience as clinicians (e.g., greater than 10 years) appeared to have more difficulty adjusting to the clinical teacher role. It is interesting to note that quantitative research by O'Shea (1982) reports a positive correlation between years of nursing practice and the amount of role strain when adjusting to the clinical teacher role (e.g., increased years of nursing practice results in increased amounts of role strain). O'Shea believes that clinical teachers with many years of nursing practice may experience more role strain because they self-impose their expectations for client care on students. These expectations make it more difficult for these teachers to let go and trust the students to care for clients. Similarly, some participants of the present study reported difficulty in learning to permit the students to function independently; however, the findings were not correlated to the years of nursing practice held by participants. Based on the findings of the present study and other literature, clinical teachers with experience in nursing practice have more self-confidence in their abilities as clinical teachers. Similarly, participants having background knowledge and experience with teaching reported higher degrees of self-confidence, comfort, and competence in the clinical teaching role. In surveying health educators, Jacobs and Wylie (1995) conclude that those with no background in health education showed significantly less self-confidence and competence in their teaching ability than those with some background in health education. 105 Qualitative research by O'Shea (1982) concludes that teachers with less teaching experience report increased amounts of role strain. Based on these findings, one could conclude that a variety of past experiences (e.g., clinical and teaching) enhances feelings of self-confidence. Summary While little empirically-based research explores the direct nature of the relationship between self-confidence and clinical teacher competence, these findings confirm and add to other findings that a reciprocal and interdependent relationship exists between these two concepts. This inner assurance, or self-confidence, has value because it promotes a sense of being able to influence and master the environment of clinical teaching. When participants' sense of competence and self-worth was strong, they were able to perceive themselves as being able to cope and mature as competent clinical teachers. The participants with stronger self-confidence also expressed higher degrees of clinical teacher competence. Consequently, I suggest that developing self-confidence is an antecedent to becoming competent clinical teachers. Concepts such as self-worth, self-efficacy, and locus of control are interrelated with self-confidence and are therefore antecedents to competence. Further quantitative studies are necessary to determine the exact relationship between these concepts. The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher This study revealed the existence of a three-phased, evolving process that clinical teachers' experience within a given situation and context. Due to a paucity of literature specific to the process of maturing as a competent clinical nursing teacher comparisons will be made between the overall process described in this thesis and three areas of the literature: (a) the process of adjusting to clinical teaching, (b) the experience of teaching, and (c) the development of a supervisory role. Specific strategies used within the 106 three-phased process will be discussed after this section. One of the most noteworthy findings regarding the overall maturation process was that the participants experienced varying degrees of anxiety. At first, I was unsure of the cause of these variations. Upon further exploration, the participants revealed their varying degrees of anxiety were related to their (a) self-confidence, (b) previous experiences in teaching and nursing practice, and (c) abilities to adjust to their new role. Participants who were adjusting to their new role as clinical teacher described a transitional period of uncertainty. To better understand this transitional period, I reviewed the literature on models of adjustment. Two models of adjustment related to the experiences of the clinical teachers in this study; they were the Brooke Model of Adjustment (Bentz & Ellis, 1991; Brooke, 1989) and the Community College of Philadelphia Model of Adjustment (Bentz & Ellis, 1991). Both models provided information relevant to understanding the feelings many clinical teachers' experienced as they moved through the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. As previously stated, participants new to clinical teaching often experienced feelings of anxiety and uncertainty. Furthermore, some participants expressed feeling a sense of loss when dealing with the transition from being an expert clinician to novice teacher. The two models of adjustment define this feeling of loss as a "transitional" feeling (Bentz & Ellis, 1991; Brooke, 1989). This feeling results from a loss of expertise (e.g., changing areas of nursing practice from familiar to unfamiliar) and a loss of relationships from the former familiar clinical setting. With a loss of the expert nursing role, clinical teachers often experience feelings of frustration, anger, and resistance (Bentz & Ellis, 1991). Hess (1986) found that psychotherapists who assume the additional role of supervising students also experience a transitional period. For supervisors, two factors that influence their adjustment to their role change were high expectations and lack of preparation for the role (e.g., education and practice related to the theoretical basis of supervision). As previously stated, 107 those having background preparation in education were better equipped to cope with the adjustment period. In addition, according to Bentz and Ellis, factors that facilitate faculty recovery from a loss of self-confidence are support and orientation to the clinical agency. Participants in this study also identified with the need for support and clinical orientation; however, taking time to deal with their self learning needs was viewed as a requirement to developing their teaching style. It is also interesting to note that participants teaching in a familiar area of nursing practice recalled a less traumatic transitional period. That is, they experienced fewer feelings of anxiety, higher degrees of self-confidence, and stronger perceptions of competence. These participants also progressed faster to phase two. Quantitative research by O'Shea (1982) concludes that teachers with less teaching experience report increased amounts of role strain when they are familiar with the substantive area. Additional research in nursing education has studied role transitions and nursing students. For instance, Mozingo et al. (1995) reveals that competency levels of students are affected by factors such as self-esteem, level of anxiety, and clinical and technical skill. In dealing with the transition from school to a work setting, Kramer (as cited in Mozingo et al.) found that many graduates with low self-esteem also felt inadequate. Other research on nursing student performance found that high levels of anxiety were also associated with low self-esteem (Mozingo et al.). In these cases, anxiety is shown to negatively effect the development of self-confidence and its components (e.g., self-esteem). One could assume that these findings also apply to clinical teachers. In extreme cases, anxiety may hinder the continuation in the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. In sum, empirical data from this study serves to support and strengthen the ideas proposed by Bentz and Ellis (1991) and vice versa. Specifically, the first phase of dealing with self learning needs was described as a period of adjustment. During this time, 108 participants dealt with the transitions or changes of adopting the clinical teacher role. Models of adaptation (Brooke, 1989; Bentz & Ellis) primarily resemble phase one of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. The models are helpful for explaining the variations some teachers may encounter during the process. For example, teachers may experience variations in their feelings while progressing through the maturation process. Anxiety and tension, and plateaus of comfort and a sense of empowerment are common feelings. This finding is common to the identified defining attribute of competence in Chapter I. Moreover, the findings from this study substantiated the claim that a defining attribute of competence is that it is an evolving process of continual development. Second, this evolution is influenced by clinical teachers' abilities to deal with their surroundings. While reviewing literature related to the overall maturational process a relevant study by Ferguson (1996) was discovered. Ferguson's findings of the lived experience of a clinical teacher revealed a similarity to phase two's subtitle, learning as you go. Ferguson's version of learning as you go documented the experiences of clinical teachers and how they evolved to achieve a firm grounding in their clinical teacher roles. Similar to Ferguson, this study viewed learning as you go as a necessary component of the second phase of building one's teaching style. While Ferguson's study describes characteristics similar to those in phase two, the specifics of these findings lacked depth and breadth. First, Ferguson focused primarily on the experiences of clinical teachers rather than their competence. Second, little was written to support the participants' descriptions of the events of phase three of the maturation process. In sum, the combined evidence from this study and Ferguson' study suggests that becoming competent is a process embedded in a deeper sense of being and is existential in nature. The most relevant piece of literature relating to the topic of this thesis was written by Hess (1986). Hess's model of supervisor development is comprised of three stages: Stage 109 A - Beginning; Stage B - Exploration; and Stage C - Confirmation of Supervisor Identity. This model incorporates existing knowledge from the literature with anecdotal comments from Hess's observations of supervisors of students in the field of psychotherapy and counselling. While the empirical basis for Hess's work is not parallel to that found in this study, several commonalties exist between the stages of supervisor development and the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Of significance are the similarities between beginning supervisors and neophyte clinical teachers (e.g., dealing with role change, emulating other teacher or supervisor behaviors they observed as students, and difficulties with student evaluation). As well, both supervisors and clinical teachers experience a phase where they shift their attention from their own learning needs to those of their students. Accompanying this shift in focus is the development of their teaching and supervisory abilities. Hess noted that the development of supervisory abilities included learning how to evaluate and tolerate students. In this study, it was revealed that developing trust and tolerance of students was necessary for gaining an understanding of students. Absent from the literature are other discussions related to the development of tolerance. Two other similarities between this study and Hess's study are the wording of descriptive phrases. First, while Hess's (1986) model uses terminology that reflects the stages of maturation for student supervisors, this study referred to the process of competence as the process of maturing. Second, in Hess's final stage of supervisory development and this study's third phase of the maturation process, supervisors and teachers respectively implement strategies directed towards the consolidation of their identity. Furthermore, the model development completed by Hess was the only source of literature found to parallel the findings in phase three of this study's maturation process. Additional similarities between these two studies are (a) the supervisors' willingness to confront evaluation issues such as inadequate student behavior, (b) the inclusion of the 110 students' evaluations as an ongoing component of the learning process, and (c) the focus of supervision on the students' learning agenda. To conclude, Hess's (1986) work is important to the findings of this study because it confirms the existence of a process for the development of one's abilities as a clinical teacher. Specifically, these findings support the experiences of phase three of the maturation process. Although Hess did not discuss competence or self-confidence directly, the combined findings of this study and Hess's work substantiated my claim that competence is an evolving process of continual development. Summary The overall process of maturing as competent clinical teachers bears a strong resemblance to the models of adjustment by Brooke (1989) and by Bentz and Ellis (1991), the model of supervisory development by Hess (1986), and the lived experiences of clinical teaching by Ferguson (1996). These similarities indicate that smaller components of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers are available in the current literature; however, this study is the only source to provide empirical evidence to describe the overall three-phased process. More specifically, previous research relates more to the first and second phase of the maturation process and less to that of phase three. It is my contention, however, that clinical teacher competence can be achieved by attending to all three phases of the maturation process. Strategies Specific to the Phases of the Maturation Process Since there has been little nursing research about the overall process of clinical teacher competence, the literature was classified according to three specific strategies: establishing and maintaining credibility, learning how to teach through reflection, and knowing the student. By comparing and contrasting the existing literature on these strategies important agreements were found in the data; however, there were also key 111 points of divergence to be considered. Establishing and Maintaining Credibility ^We judge ourselves 6y what we JeeC capabCe of doing, lYhiCe others judge us By what we have already done. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow As participants spoke with vigor about their experiences as competent clinical teachers, outcomes of competence were revealed. These outcomes included success, promotion opportunities, and credibility. As Longfellow suggests, most external judgments of competence focus on the perceived abilities of clinical teachers and are based on their accomplishments. The same was true for the participants of this study who believed they were judged on their abilities first, as a clinician and second, as a teacher. Regardless of others' perceptions about their credibility, participants stated that establishing and maintaining credibility refers not only to being up to date with current nursing practice, but also to being familiar with current teaching practice. This finding is incongruent with the current nursing literature which equates clinical teacher credibility with the ability to perform solely as a clinician (Cave, 1994; Fawcett & McQueen, 1994; Goorapah, 1997). A literature review by Fawcett and McQueen (1994) reveals that the term clinical credibility is descriptive of keeping up to date with both theory and hands-on nursing practice. Crotty (1993) holds similar beliefs about the importance of updating theoretical knowledge and basic skills to retain clinical credibility. Moreover, the nursing literature seeks to determine the amount and type of nursing practice necessary for clinical teachers. For example, to claim credibility, Green (as cited by Fawcett & McQueen) believes clinical teachers should 112 spend a specified amount of time in nursing practice2. The rationale behind these perspectives is that being clinically up to date will ensure that the theory taught in the classroom reflects what is being performed in practice; thus remaining current is thought to lessen the theory-practice gap. In this study, credibility is more than the fulfillment of practicing for a number of years as a clinical nurse. Rather, it is maintaining a blend of expertise as a clinician, a teacher, and an academic; all of these roles are necessary to uphold professional credibility. The outcomes of being perceived as credible affected the respective teachers, the agency staff, and the students. Participants who believed the agency staff perceived them as credible felt a sense of comfort. This comfort heightened their self-confidence and competence as clinical teachers. Being seen as credible became also a "tool" used by participants to foster camaraderie and develop respectful working relationships with the agency staff. According to Kramer et al. (1986), clinical teachers who engage in nursing practice are perceived as being credible. With this established credibility, teachers receive more positive reinforcement from agency staff than non-practicing colleagues (Kramer et al.). Moreover, teachers perceived as credible by students tend to develop a greater connection with students (Kramer et al.; Gillespie, 1997). Thus, being perceived as credible by both agency staff and students had professional implications on how clinical teachers demonstrate and maintain their competence. In this study, clinical teachers engaged in various activities throughout the three phases that allow them to gain credibility as clinical teachers. An indirect consequence of 2 In the nursing literature this is often referred to as faculty practice or clinical practice. A dichotomy of the meaning of the term faculty practice exists. The definition of faculty practice can range from moonlighting or working per diem over and above the faculty/clinical teacher role to joint employment as a clinical teacher combined with regularly scheduled nursing practice (e.g., direct client care or clinical nurse specialist role) at a clinical agency (Kramer et al., 1986). Kramer et al., states that teaching students in the clinical setting is not faculty practice because the central focus of the clinical teacher's time is on the students rather than performing direct client care. 113 credibility was a sense of power and greater self-assurance. Similarly, Kramer et al. (1986) believes that clinical teachers who are perceived as credible have a degree of social power within the system; that is, they are perceived as having sound judgment and as being effective change agents. Participants in this study stated that social power allowed them to be better able to advocate for a broad range of student learning experiences. In short, with credibility, clinical teachers gain more power and a sense of prestige, which in turn promotes an environment supportive of student learning. From a professional and personal point of view, maintaining and improving clinical and teaching skills leads to affirmation of one's professional credibility as a clinical teacher. I believe that credibility is more than being up to date with current nursing practices. Because of the dual role of the clinical teacher as a clinician and as a teacher, it is reasonable to conclude that clinical teachers have a professional obligation to keep abreast of the changes in nursing practice and teaching practice. Unequivocally, perceived credibility positively affects the teachers personally; it also affects the agency staff and students. Clinical teachers in this study establish credibility through competence and feel a sense of satisfaction from perceiving themselves as competent. While credibility was initially regarded as a consequence of competence (Chapter I), activities inherent to the strategy of establishing and maintaining credibility may also be a means for attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence. Thus, credibility may be a defining attribute of competence. Learning how to Teach Through Reflection Most of the nursing literature presents evidence for "how to" teach rather than addressing the process of determining what and how clinical teachers learn to teach. As the success of phase one is predicated on clinical teachers' foundations in nursing practice, the ability to reflect on one's teaching allows for the development of one's teaching style. To develop one's teaching style, clinical teachers in phase two needed to engage in some 114 method of critically appraising themselves; this self-assessment led to further skill and competence development. Thus, the cognitive flexibility to reflect on unchallenged assumptions about teaching is one way in which clinical teachers learn how to teach. Although several authors have written about the models of reflection and the use of reflection with students, the nursing literature does not discuss how reflection contributes to the process of becoming a competent clinical teacher. In this section, the importance of reflection in the context of competence is explored. Initially, neophyte clinical teachers begin teaching by emulating behaviors they viewed as students. Participants scrutinized their experiences as students to determine what behaviors they liked and disliked of their teachers. These likes and dislikes formed the framework for their teaching behaviors in phase one of the maturation process. In phase two, participants challenged old assumptions and discovered new alternatives by implementing, testing, revising, and refining their methods of teaching. The activities described by the participants' parallel Schon's (1987) concepts of knowing-in-action, reflection-in-action, and reflection-on-action. Knowing-in-action refers to tacit knowledge that clinicians bring to a given situation (Schon, 1989). In this study, clinical teachers with previous teaching experience or those who had received education in teaching practices reported a smoother transition to the clinical teaching role. Less time was spent focusing on the "self learning needs and teachers were better able to progress to the second phase of developing their teaching style. Clinical teachers also noted the importance of knowledge in the fundamentals of nursing practice. Reflection-in-action includes the activities used by clinical teachers who reflect upon what they are doing and who convey knowledge through their actions (Schon, 1987). This type of reflection is often described as a type of knowing that can not be explained with 115 words. When using this type of reflection, clinicians think about how to modify a given a situation without interrupting what they are doing at the time (i.e., on the spot experimentation) (Schon). Some participants in this study talked about the use of their intuitive actions, which were derived from years of experience, as a means for modifying a given situation while it was occurring. This type of intuitive knowledge was commonly used when participants talked about evaluating students' performance. Participants in this study also described behaviors known as reflection-on-action, that is, recalling what has been previously done to see how knowing-in-action contributed to the unexpected outcome (Schon, 1987). This type of reflection encourages a critical appraisal and the restructuring of thoughts to change the future actions of clinical teachers. For instance, in phase two, a necessary element for developing one's teaching style was the use of some method of critically appraising oneself (e.g., self-evaluation, reflection, or dialoging). When "self-appraisal" did not occur, participants did not develop their teaching style nor did they advance to the next degree of competence as clinical teachers. Scanlan and Chernomas (1997) suggest that reflection allows teachers, through conversing with the self, to evaluate their teaching. Through such reflective practices teachers are presumed to gain a better understanding of their teaching abilities. Furthermore, this insight is believed to facilitate further development of professional expertise (Scanlan & Chernomas). Saylor (1990) proposes that reflection is necessary for self-evaluation and that self-evaluation is necessary for competence. These findings are consistent with Toliver's (1988) beliefs that inductive reasoning skills such as reflection promote clinical competence. Similarly, Maynard (1996) reports that experience and education play an important role in competence development. Participants in this study claimed that education contributed to the process of competence because it creates an environment for challenging existing assumptions about their clinical teaching practices. 116 In conclusion, nursing practice is not enough to ensure competence as clinical teachers. Competence of clinical teachers in this study was dependent upon a cognitive process of awareness and critical analysis that ends in development. A result of this cognitive process is learning in the form of affective, cognitive, and/or behavioral changes. That is, clinical teachers learn how to teach. With ongoing development in one's abilities to teach, clinical teachers progress in the process of maturing as clinical teachers. At the same time, these findings support the claim that the actual ability to learn and to gain meaning from one's experiences (e.g., critical thinking, problem-solving, and reflection) is a defining attribute of competence. Reflective thinking is necessary for the attaining and maintaining of competence. Knowing the Student Another strategy found in phases two and three of the maturation process was a clinical teacher's ability to know the student. In this study, knowing the student encompassed the process of seeking to understand and know the student outside of their immediate role as a learner. Knowing the student also implies seeking to understand the student's perspective and acknowledging the student as a valued and unique individual. It was interesting to note that the participants' views on knowing the student were similar to those expressed in the literature. The literature, however, uses the terminology of knowing the patient in nursing practice (Benner, 1984; Radwin, 1996; Tanner, Benner, Chesla, & Gordon, 1993). Since knowing the student is a relatively new concept, particular attention was directed towards the literature on knowing the patient. Radwin's (1996) review of the research literature found that knowing the patient embodies two components: nurse's understanding of his or her clients and the individualization of client interventions. Additional phenomenological research by Tanner et al. (1993) indicates two similar yet distinct categories of knowing the patient: in-depth 117 knowledge of the patient's patterns of responses and knowing the patient as a person. Both notions represented some of the participants' accounts of the concept of knowing the student. In many instances, participants first needed to build their theoretical knowledge of teaching and learning as a means for better understanding their students. This finding supports the notion that theoretical knowledge forms the foundation of the tacit knowledge characteristic of competent clinical teachers (Tanner et al.). Knowledge gained from experience also contributes to how clinical teachers come to know their students. In this study, knowing the student as a person was one way in which clinical teachers became more involved with and concerned for students' learning. This familiarity allows the teacher to complete student evaluations by viewing the learner as a unique and distinct individual. Participants who understood the students in their clinical groups were able to assume a type of advocacy which reflected empathy and caring. The actions described by participants of this study are congruent with some of Paterson and Crawford's (1994) indicators of caring faculty. Specifically, Paterson and Crawford refer to faculty who know students as individuals, listen to students, and act as advocates. This suggests a relationship between being caring and being competent. Paterson and Crawford also explain how "few ontological definitions refer to teacher competence as an aspect of caring" (p. 165). Research by Gillespie (1997) also concluded that teacher competence is inclusive of the teacher's ability to recognize and respond to his or her students' learning needs. The factors that influenced a teacher's ability to respond to student needs are knowing the student and the teacher's abilities, skills, and confidence as an educator and a clinician. In addition, Gillespie reports mutual knowing between students and teachers is necessary for the formation of a student-teacher connection. Students who experience a connection with clinical nursing teachers perceived themselves to be known as whole persons. Gillespie 118 defined knowing the students as including teacher recognition of students as a person (e.g., lives outside of school), a learner (has individual learning needs), and a nurse (e.g., has knowledge and contributes to patient care) (Gillespie). Knowing is currently associated with building a caring student-teacher relationship. This type of relationship has been shown to affect student learning. It is also a strategy inherent to the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher (e.g., phase two and three). This study demonstrated that clinical teachers who achieved a higher degree of self-confidence and competence did so because they engaged in activities of knowing the student. Previous research and anecdotal literature on knowing reinforces the importance of the student-teacher relationships in the context of clinical teaching. New to the nursing literature is the clinical teachers' use of knowing the student as a strategy for developing their teaching style and integrating the complexities of the clinical teaching role. In short, knowing the student is inherent to the maturation process, the demonstration of competence, and may even be a defining attribute of competence. Teachers who are not able to engage in caring relationships with their students may demonstrate a lack of competence. Without understanding students as individuals, it is difficult to individualize the learning process and focus on student-centered learning. Summary Three strategies common to the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers have been discussed in detail: establishing and maintaining credibility; learning how to teach through reflection; and knowing the student. Existing literature is congruent with the findings of this study; all agree that nursing practice contributes to clinical credibility. However, the participants in this study differed by identifying that clinical teachers need to keep abreast of changes and trends in nursing education. At the same time, being perceived as credible influences the means by which clinical teachers attain, demonstrate, 119 and maintain their competence. New to the literature are discussions regarding how clinical teachers learn to teach. The existing literature and findings from this study support the premise that ongoing reflection and a spirit of inquiry is crucial for the development of a clinician's abilities and clinical teacher competence. Another component of the process of maturing is the teacher's ability to know and understand the student. Findings from this study correspond to studies on knowing the patient. Previous research by Paterson and Crawford (1994) and Gillespie (1997) acknowledges the significance of knowing the student as an element of caring behaviors of clinical teachers and for the development of student- teacher relationships. New to the nursing literature is the notion of knowing the student as a defining attribute of competence. Facilitative Factors The facilitative threads comprise factors that directly or indirectly influence the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher vis-a-vis the development of self- confidence. Some of the predominant external or internal factors influencing competence are: support, consistency in the teaching assignment, and clinical background. The salient features of these factors will be reviewed. Overall, the presence or absence of these factors can either facilitate or hinder a clinical teacher's ability to attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Support Participants' expressed that some form of support was necessary to facilitate the transition throughout the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. One significant finding of this study was that some neophyte clinical teachers spent a great deal of time and energy trying to figure out their clinical teacher role. A few participants expressed frustration and resentment when discussing this issue; support was not given to them in their new role. Colleagues who lacked empathy (e.g., forgot what it was like to be a new teacher) and 120 professional caring (e.g., non-supportive) left new clinical teachers to figure things out for themselves. This often resulted in the new teachers becoming isolated from others. While clinical teachers do need to figure out some elements on their own, it is important to support neophyte clinical teachers in a way that may expedite their progression to phase two. The significance of support in this study was revealed in the consequences experienced by the participants. Participants receiving support felt empowered; furthermore, feeling empowered helped to develop their self-confidence and their drive to control their development as competent clinical teachers. Langford, Bowsher, Maloney, and Lillis (1997) identified some of the consequences of social support as personal competence, perceived control, positive affect, sense of stability, recognition of self-worth, and decreased anxiety. At the same time, Mozingo et al. (1995) reveals the most salient factors that influence perceived competence are anxiety and social support. These findings are significant since anxiety is negatively correlated to competence while social support is positively correlated. It is reasonable to conclude that positive forms of support for clinical teachers are a factor that facilitates the process of maturing; however, support is not a consistent requirement of competence. Consistent Teaching Assignment One unexpected finding of this study was that competence of clinical teachers was dependent on external factors beyond individual control and is, to some degree, contextually determined. Lack of control of external factors bought about feelings of vulnerability. Jameton (1984) reports that in a setting with support, clinical teachers may be very competent. In a context where clinical teachers are continually being reassigned without appropriate support, a lack of competence may result. The participants of this study agreed with Jameton's findings. In addition, a previous discussion of the literature substantiates the claim that consistency in the teaching environment is necessary for self- 121 confidence and competence. Specific to this study, participants' perceptions of self- confidence and levels of anxiety also varied with the match between their teaching assignment and their clinical background (e.g., generalist versus specialist). White (as cited in Schwammle, 1996) suggests personal motivation and interest prompts the desire to explore a substantive area of nursing. Fidler (1981) proposes that competence in an area is more readily achieved when the topic has greater meaning to the individual (e.g., intrinsic gratification, personal pleasure, and satisfaction). Thus, being motivated, interested in, and familiar with an area of concern facilitates the development of self-confidence and minimizes anxiety. Bentz and Ellis (1991) recommend that during a clinical teacher's initial period of adjustment he or she should remain on one unit. Familiarity with an area is important because clinical teachers (including expert teachers) who are outside of their comfort zone can temporarily behave as novices (Bentz and Ellis). This research also reflects the participants' thoughts on being re-assigned to new clinical agencies. That is, clinical teachers experiencing the first and second phases need consistency in their teaching environment. Once clinical teachers develop their teaching style and enhance their self-confidence they are better equipped to handle the uncertainties associated with changes to their teaching assignment. Bentz and Ellis's research on the two models of adjustment provide new insight into the variations in comfort experienced by mature clinical teachers reassigned to an unfamiliar clinical area. This finding is significant because it is important to recognize there are differing degrees of competence which are dependent upon the teachers' abilities as nurses and teachers. Bentz and Ellis also found that clinical teachers in unfamiliar areas utilized new practice patterns which also resulted in new teaching strategies. Furthermore, these new patterns of teaching and nursing often led to 122 the development of collaborative partnerships among faculty, agency staff, and students (Bentz & Ellis). Based on the findings of several authors, matching clinical teachers' teaching assignments to their clinical background has some influence on their self-confidence (Fidler, 1981; Schwammle, 1996; Wood, 1987). In this study, when participants are matched with an area of familiarity less time is spent focusing on their self learning needs and more time developing their teaching style. Participants' abilities to deal with changes in their teaching assignments were enhanced by support. The participants' nursing background (e.g., generalist or specialist focus) also influenced their abilities to adjust. This will be elaborated upon in the following section. Clinical Background While the issue of nursing practice has already been discussed in the context of credibility, at this time I will discuss this study's findings on the amount of clinical expertise required of teachers in the clinical setting. Specifically, the debate of "how much" and "what type" of nursing practice is necessary to be competent as clinical teachers has not been determined. Participants in this study revealed two differing perspectives; one from a generalist and the other is from a specialist perspective. The participants' abilities to cope with changes in their teaching assignment were related to their nursing background as either a generalist or a specialist. Participants with a generalist background believed their breadth of past experiences contributed to increasing degrees of self-confidence and competence when coping with a variety of clinical courses and clinical agencies. Participants with a specialist background believed their qualifications also increased their self-confidence and competence when teaching in their specialty area. However, participants with a specialist background identified a decrease in their self-confidence and competence when reassigned to a different substantive area. 123 Both perspectives have merit. The data reveal that, for study participants, the importance lay not in whether they are a generalist or a specialist but in the participants' perceptions of their abilities as clinicians and teachers. Participants with either type of background went through a process of reviewing their past experiences and mobilizing their abilities to cope in a new teaching assignment. Thus, it is the participants' perceptions of self that affects the degree of self-confidence they have teaching in a new area and not their nursing background. Generalists typically work in a variety of clinical settings. Generalists identify that they may be limited in their abilities in certain substantive areas; however, they manage by capitalizing on the strength of their teaching abilities. Specialists, on the other hand, benefit from their expert knowledge base to maximize the learning opportunities available to students. Another important finding is that most participants believed that it is an unrealistic expectation to be both an "expert nurse" and "expert teacher". A few participants, who were specialists in their substantive area, thought they met the standards of being both an expert nurse and expert teacher. Regardless of the specific nature of nursing practice, all participants agreed due to the practice-based nature of nursing, clinical teachers needed to maintain their competence as clinicians to demonstrate competence as clinical teachers. It is reasonable to conclude that the answer does not lie in "how much" or "what type" but rather to what degree does each clinical teacher perceive the need for a maintaining a certain degree of expertise in their nurse practice to fulfill their role obligations. Summary Various factors in their presence, or absence, may either facilitate or hinder the maturation process. Undoubtedly, the presence of support is a positive factor that promotes the process of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence. At the same time, having consistency in one's teaching assignment is beneficial for attaining and maintaining 124 a certain degree of competence. Clinical background adds a new dimension to the construct of competence. In Chapter I, an individual's expertise in nursing practice was identified as an antecedent to competence. The findings of this study supported this claim; however, clinical teachers also need to perceive themselves as capable clinicians (e.g., generalist or specialist). This perception contributed to the attainment of competence and facilitated the maturation process. Incompetence "you get the four kinds ofpeopCe. T'he group who are competent who hate teaching and don't come Back; the group who are competent who stay; then you get the group that are incompetent that hate it andCeave... then you stuTget the group that are incompetent and stay Because they don't have the insight to readze they are incompetent" Participant Inferiority, unpreparedness, and unskillfulness are all subentries to the word incompetence (Nagelsmith, 1995). According to Mobily (1992) and Poteet (1987), incompetence is often attributed to a lack of requisite skill, knowledge, or the ability to enact the assumed role. The findings of this study are parallel to the findings of Mobily and Poteet. For some participants, incompetence stemmed from an inability to perform certain behaviors. These behaviors were most often clinically based. For others, incompetence was a result of a lack of commitment and a lack of job satisfaction. All of the participants in this study have experienced feelings of incompetence at some time in their career. This finding is not reflective of the current nursing literature where the concept of incompetence in the context of clinical teaching is rarely acknowledged. Three sources of literature useful for understanding incompetence are administrative incompetence (Poteet), understanding competence in nursing students (Girot, 1993), and uncaring behaviors of nursing faculty (Hanson & Smith, 1996). 125 It is interesting to note participants' varied responses to the word incompetence. Some participants were comfortable using the word to readily identify examples while other participants thought that the word was too harsh because it evoked a negative and hopeless connotation. Participants who viewed the word in a negative manner tended to have more difficulties in articulating examples of incompetence. There was also some reluctance in labeling someone as incompetent or for reprimanding teachers for isolated mistakes. This reluctance was justified by claiming that mistakes do happen. Participants in this study did not view others as incompetent when they learned from their mistakes, displayed a willingness to improve, and demonstrated insight into their behavior. The importance of having insight is supported by Girot (1993) who reports that incompetent student behaviors result from a lack of insight into their behaviors. Forgiving others for their mistakes, as described above, is indicative of the participants' cultural concept of responsibility. This feeling of responsibility tends to focus more on the goodness of one's intentions rather than one's ability to carry them out perfectly (Jameton, 1984). In this study, it was common to forgive mistakes unless they were seen as a continuous pattern of unacceptable behavior. Thus, the attribute determining incompetence is whether there is a consistent pattern of unacceptable behavior by a clinical teacher. Poteet (1987) and Huettl (1996) support the belief that behavioral patterns displayed over time are indicative of a persistent deficiency or lack of competence. Furthermore, Huettl states that the degree of seriousness of a single mistake also certifies incompetence. In other words, the seriousness of the actual or potential outcome of a single event may constitute incompetence (e.g., degree of harm to the client). Only one participant mentioned the seriousness of an event as a determining factor of clinical teacher incompetence. Another theme common to the participants' discussions of incompetence was that it was described as a product or end. For example, competence was discussed as a 126 developmental process while overall incompetence was described as a personal attribute or an outcome. Moreover, all instances of overall incompetence related to personal or internal factors whereas situational or external factors were influences contributing to occasional incompetence. Participants' views on occasional incompetence implied that when a clinical teacher is maturing as a competent clinical teacher they can also experience incompetence. Occasional Incompetence In most instances, participants who experienced occasional incompetence stated they were deficient in an area of knowledge or skill due to some unexpected external circumstance (e.g., change in teaching assignment or unexpected event in the clinical setting). Wood's (1987) description of clinical teacher accountability alludes to the effects of mismatching clinical placements for clinical teachers. However, the extent of these situational influences on clinical teacher competence has not been examined in the literature. Nonetheless, it is reasonable to infer from this study that external factors are significant contributors to some incidents of incompetence. The examples of incompetence given by participants related to clinical teachers' abilities as clinicians and, in some instances, their abilities as teachers. Mobily's (1992) review of the literature indicates that some clinical teachers may lack adequate formal preparation in the strategies of teaching; this may contribute to their lack of competence. As well, clinical teachers who are expert clinicians discover that competence in the practice of nursing (i.e., clinical competence) does not ensure competence in the clinical teaching of nursing (Mobily). On the other hand, some may believe that only the appearance of competence is needed to survive within the institutional system. Participants in this study who experienced occasional incompetence were committed to mobilizing the necessary resources to overcome this deficiency. Furthermore, participants were committed to maintaining a degree of competence that was adequate for meeting students' needs and 127 ensuring client well-being. Overall, most participants had a genuine desire to demonstrate legitimate competence and not merely the illusion of competence. Overall Incompetence New to the literature are four descriptions of overall incompetence: (a) lackadaisical or tough beyond reasonable expectations, (b) focusing on personal needs, (c) non-professional student-teacher relationships, and (d) not keeping current with nursing practice. Some elements of overall incompetence were similar to Poteet's (1987) descriptions of the five characteristics of incompetent administrative behaviors: uncommitted, absent, arrogant, fearful, and indecisive. In this study, a lack of commitment was described by participants as reflecting incompetence. The participants also defined teachers who were too lackadaisical or too tough or who did not keep current in their nursing practice as being incompetent. These teachers were seen to be uncommitted to their clinical teaching role. For example, they often abdicated their responsibilities to others and lacked accountability for their actions. Hanson and Smith's (1996) descriptions of uncaring behaviors (e.g., unavailable, hurried, condescending, disrespectful, rigid, defensive, and uninterested) of clinical teachers also correspond to participants' descriptions of incompetent clinical teachers. By applying these findings to the context of the participants' discussions on incompetence, clinical teachers who are uncaring would likely be seen to lack competence in the clinical teacher role. Summary The findings of this study supported the existence of incompetence in clinical teaching. Overall incompetence was described as an outcome (i.e., end product) whereas occasional incompetence was a part of the situational and dynamic nature of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. These findings prompt the question: Can incompetence and competence exist simultaneously? The participants' discussions suggest 128 these two phenomena can co-exist. This study reveals that deficits in clinical teachers' abilities as clinicians are not the only contributors to incompetence. Defining attributes such as inadequate teaching abilities and a clinical teacher's lack of ethical conduct within the student-teacher relationships are also significant. Further issues of concern are the antecedents to incompetence. For instance, what are the effects of support, situational factors (e.g., changes to teaching assignment, stability in the clinical areas, and involvement in curricular activities), and personal qualities on incompetence? Conclusion In this chapter, 11 clinical teachers' descriptions of the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers were presented. The identified process and strategies were discussed in relation to the current literature. There are many findings in this study that did not exist in or were contrary to the literature on competence. Other findings served to support various aspects of the literatures' conceptualization of competence. Some of the existing literature offered insights into clinical teacher competence that were not revealed in these findings. New to the substantive area of clinical teaching was empirical evidence from this study that clinical teachers become competent by experiencing a three-phased process. This process includes elements from various models of adjustment and supervisory development. There was evidence to substantiate the claim that self-confidence is an antecedent to competence. Confusion in the literature exists, however, regarding the nature and scope of self-confidence and competence relative to other concepts such as self-worth, self-efficacy, and locus of control. Nonetheless, many of the antecedents to competence are intrinsically related to personal feelings of confidence, worth, and control. Furthermore, this study indicates that support for clinical teachers is a factor facilitating the maturation process. At the same time, management of extrinsic factors such as consistent teacher 129 assignments and previous experiences are attributes to the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. The premise that teacher competence is situation specific and context bound is also supported as a defining attribute. By completing each phase of the maturation process clinical teachers attain a certain degree of competence. With continued use of various strategies, clinical teachers maintain their competence. One of the most common ways of demonstrating competence was through various teaching activities and interactions with student. This study's findings suggest that a clinical teacher's abilities and his or her competence, or lack thereof, can have an influence on the learning process. These findings have implications for nursing practice, research, education, and administration. A summary of this study, the conclusions, and the implications of the major findings will be discussed in detail in the following chapter. 130 CHAPTER V: SUMMARY, CONCLUSIONS, AND IMPLICATIONS Summary of the Study The purpose of this study was to describe the process, or processes, by which clinical nursing teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Indirectly, this research was aimed towards uncovering the factors and situations that either facilitate or hinder the process of becoming competent. Background In recent years there have been numerous changes in nursing education and the health system. These changes have promoted uncertainties which have, no doubt, contributed to an increased focus on determining the competence of those who teach in clinical settings. For example, these changes have resulted in an increase in the complexity of the role and responsibilities of clinical teachers. Consequently, administrators of post-secondary institutions and supervisors of clinical agencies want to be assured that students are being accompanied to the clinical setting by teachers who demonstrate competence. Furthermore, present-day students tend to be more vocal about wanting to receive quality education. While the scope and nature of clinical teaching has been studied in the past, research related to the process of attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence in clinical teaching is limited. Literature Review A review of the literature from education, nursing, psychology, and other health related disciplines revealed numerous attributes, antecedents, consequences, and empirical referents related to competence. Nearly all definitions found in the literature placed the responsibility for competence on the individual teachers. Teachers are expected to do something to be competent. Although most authors conceptualized competence as an action outcome or personal attribute, some studies recognized that competence evolves 131 and is influenced by various situations and contexts. Based on a review of the academic literature, a tentative definition of competence was developed: Competence is the actual, or potential, state of and ability to integrate and apply a blend of attributes identified in the cognitive, psychomotor, and affective domains through an evolving process. This process requires an individual to gain meaning from his or her experiences. Motivation, interest, energy, and commitment are required to help an individual deal with the internal and external factors that influence his or her state-of-being competent. Furthermore, competence is not a constant state. Rather, feelings fluctuate between anxiety and tension, comfort, and a sense of empowerment. Since concepts provide the building blocks from which theories can be built, the results of this concept analysis directed the remainder of this research study. Methodology A grounded theory design was chosen for this study because of its goals. The goals of grounded theory include (a) discovering theoretical concepts about phenomena and (b) exploring basic social processes derived from empirical evidence. The grounded theory orientation was best suited to answer the research question: What is/are the process, or processes, described by nurse educators for attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence in their role as clinical teacher? Eleven clinical nursing teachers from three nursing programs in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia were interviewed. Ten of the eleven participants were interviewed a second time. All interviews were audio-taped and transcribed verbatim. Since the objectives of this research were exploratory, the researcher used a method of constant comparative analysis designed by Glaser and Strauss (1967) to: (a) discover the categories, (b) integrate the categories and their properties, (c) identify the core category and delimit the theory; and (d) refine and write the theory. This method of analysis allowed the researcher to systematically generate theory by constantly comparing the data obtained during the interview process. In an analysis of the interview results, common themes were found to comprise the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. 132 The Process of Maturing as a Competent Clinical Teacher The participants' descriptions of their maturation as competent clinical teachers were complex and varied. Central to the participants' descriptions of their experiences were the three phases through which they all passed during the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Chapter III presented the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. This process was comprised of three phases characterized by key strategies, outcomes, conditions, and facilitative factors. The participants experienced the three phases in their own unique ways. For example, each participant progressed through the maturation process at a different pace. Furthermore, as circumstances continued to change, the clinical teachers continued experiencing the process. Thus, movement among the phases was multi-factorial and multi-directional with no predetermined end. Although the participants' circumstances varied, the core variable of developing self-confidence connected the participants' experiences and explained the variance in their movement through the process. A degree of self-confidence was required to enact strategies and to move from phase to phase. Outcomes of one phase became conditions for the next phase. As participants progressed through the three-phased process they simultaneously developed more self-confidence and competence. In other words, as clinical teachers developed self-confidence in their abilities their se/f-confidence and competence developed further. The first phase, dealing with "self learning needs, was best described as a period of adjustment. During this phase participants dealt with the transitions or changes in their current position. For example, changing from practicing as clinicians to working as clinical teachers. During this phase participants focused primarily on themselves. They dedicated the majority of their time and energy to fulfilling their learning needs rather than those of the students. To address their learning needs, participants employed three interrelated 133 strategies: developing abilities as a clinical teacher, gaining awareness about clinical teaching, and dealing with anxieties. According to the participants, these strategies varied according to the context of each participant. At some point in phase one, the participants needed to address their own needs and anxieties before they could progress from phase one to phase two; this condition was essential. Participants also needed to figure out what was expected of students in order to progress through the clinical course. The outcome of phase one was being able to know about and understand the clinical teacher role. This outcome promoted higher degrees of self-confidence as clinical teachers became more comfortable in their teaching role. Phase two, building one's teaching style, was primarily a time of trial and error. As clinical teachers became self-confidentwith the clinical teacher role, they progressed onward by challenging old assumptions, discovering new alternatives, and building one's teaching style (e.g., methods and philosophies). In this phase, participants focused on building a repertoire of teaching activities that fostered student learning. Participants used a combination of three interdependent strategies to develop their teaching style: maintaining credibility, learning how to teach, and focusing on student-centered learning. All participants dedicated time towards critically appraising themselves. When this reflection did not occur participants said they remained stagnant. The outcome of this phase was the acquisition of a variety of teaching methods. Furthermore, the participants felt self-confident when utilizing these methods in relevant learning situations. Self-confidence in one's teaching ability was a requirement for moving from phase two to phase three. Two additional conditions were needed to complete this progression: the commitment and the desire to advance the substantive area of clinical teaching. The third phase focused on integrating the complexities of clinical teaching into the practice of educators. During this phase participants developed a greater appreciation for 134 and understanding of how to consolidate their abilities as clinical teachers within the richness of the learning environment. The focus of this phase was on directing energy towards the student, but in a much broader context of the clinical teacher's professional nursing obligations. Participants who spoke of phase three had developed enough self-confidence and competence to confront student learning issues. The outcome of phase three was a continual development of self-confidence and competence - there was no predetermined end. As new factors were introduced to participants experiencing phase three, they would mobilize various strategies to maintain and enhance their self-confidence. These strategies contributed to their process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Facilitative threads consisted of various factors that influenced the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Factors common to most participants included: support; familiarity with the clinical agency; stability of teaching assignment; congruency between teaching assignments and the clinical teacher's substantive area of nursing practice; continuing education related to teaching and learning; personality traits; communication abilities; and involvement with additional curricular activities. The facilitative threads affected the maturation process in varying degrees for each individual participant; however, all participants experienced the influence of facilitative threads to some degree. During the three-phased process participants experienced occasional incompetence. This type of incompetence usually resulted from external influences or circumstances for which participants were unprepared. When the participants lacked preparation, they did not have the capacity to be self-confident or competent in completing the specific activity. Clinical teachers who demonstrated a consistent pattern of unacceptable behavior(s) experienced overall incompetence. Common descriptions of an incompetent clinical teacher included persons who did not have the capacities to fulfill the clinical teacher role. Both 135 types of incompetence indicate limited progression through the maturation process. Furthermore, this lack of progression was often accompanied by low degrees of self-confidence. Summary of the Major Findings The results of this study delineated the process by which participants matured as competent clinical teachers. Based on the study findings, the following conclusions can be made about clinical teaching in nursing. 1. Becoming a competent clinical teacher is an ongoing maturational process comprised of three phases: (a) dealing with "self learning needs, (b) building one's teaching style, and (c) integrating the complexities. While each clinical nursing teachers' progression is unique, all teachers experience elements of the three-phased process. During each phase the clinical teachers utilize various strategies. Competence development includes elements of education and nursing practice. Progression through the process is influenced by clinical teachers' desire to succeed and their respective commitments to teaching. 2. Developing self-confidence is both a condition and an outcome of progressing through the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Self-confidence increases during the three-phased process as competence builds. Development of self- confidence is also influenced by internal and external factors. 3. The process of maturing as competent clinical teachers is based on several conditions: clinical teachers may or may not experience each phase, the process is ongoing, movement is multi-directional and multi-factorial, and completion of each phase leads to the development of self-confidence and a degree of competence which is necessary to begin the next phase. 4. Clinical teachers who experience the maturation process encounter fluctuating feelings of anxiety and tension as well as plateaus of comfort and a sense of empowerment. 5. During the first phase of the maturation process, neophyte clinical teachers rely on their abilities as clinicians. Once the period of adjustment is complete, competent clinicians should not be assumed to be competent clinical teachers. Rather, the development of the teacher's competence is continual and is based on his or her cognitive ability to learn and gain meaning from his or her experiences. Gaining meaning from experiences is achieved through critical thinking, problem-solving, or reflection. These are the primary ways in which clinical teachers develop their teaching style. To learn and grow teachers must also have an attitude of inquiry, a willingness to improve, an ability to gain insight, and a commitment to lifelong learning. 6. Competence as a maturation process is situation specific and context bound. A variety of factors (e.g., internal and e'xternal) affect the course and outcome of the process. These factors include: support, nursing practice, familiarity with clinical agencies, stable teaching assignment, knowledge and education related to teaching and learning, personal qualities, communication abilities, and curricular involvement. In addition, others must perceive the teacher to be credible. 7. Clinical nurse teachers experience incidences of competence as well as incompetence. In many instances the word incompetence carries a pessimistic connotation. Incompetence among clinical nurse teachers is either occasional or overall. Occasional incompetence is conceptualized as a minor mistake lacking severe outcomes while overall incompetence has significant repercussions. Clinical nurse teachers who are "overall incompetent" lack commitment, lack accountability, and 137 demonstrate uncaring behaviors. While instances of incompetence are observed they are rarely taken seriously from an administrative standpoint. 8. These findings prompt the question: Do incompetence and competence exist simultaneously as suggested by the participants' discussions of occasional incompetence? This study reveals that deficits in clinical teachers' abilities as clinicians are not the only factor attributed to incompetence. Defining attributes such as inadequate teaching abilities and the clinical teachers' ethical conduct in student- teacher relationships are also significant. 9. During the maturation process, clinical teachers use a variety of complex and dynamic strategies for establishing and maintaining credibility. Strategies include remaining current with both nursing and teaching practices. Credibility is important since it affects teachers, students, agency staff, and clients. Credibility can not be established solely by practicing for a number of years as a clinician. Rather, credibility is established and maintained by demonstrating a combination of expertise as a clinician, a teacher, and an academic; these are necessary to uphold professional credibility. 10. The abilities of competent clinical teachers do have some affect on the learning environment. Furthermore, this may have some influence on student learning. 11. In most instances, clinical teaching is an enjoyable and liberating experience. Clinical teachers derive a sense of satisfaction from watching their students learn and contribute to nursing practice. Implications for Nursing The findings of this study have implications for clinical teachers, administrators of post-secondary educational institutions, and educators of clinical teachers. Included in this discussion will be suggestions for future research. 138 Clinical Teaching Practice According to the participants' descriptions, competence is embedded in a deeper sense of being and is existential in nature. While it is challenging to objectively evaluate this state-of-being, this view of competence becomes more possible with a realization that clinical teachers are continually developing their competence. Participants revealed that within each phase they implemented several strategies to attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Several elements of the three-phase process have implications for clinical teacher practice. The most significant implication of this study is that attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence is not the sole responsibility of the clinical teacher. In fact, competence is a diverse and complex process influenced by internal personal, structural, situational, and contextual variables. However, despite the variables beyond clinical teachers' control, educators must assume responsibility for helping to ensure their professional competence. First, clinical teachers need to be cognizant of the overall process of maturation to fulfill their role obligations. Second, clinical teachers need to be aware of the aforementioned factors that may influence this process. An awareness of this process, and the variables which may affect it, is crucial because it may lead to changes in the strategies used in each phase. These changes are also significant since, as clinical teachers use these strategies, they learn how to better adapt to their environments and how to maintain or enhance their degrees of competence. Third, clinical teachers realize that competence is not a final destination; once competence is attained, ongoing effort is required to maintain and enhance one's abilities. In other words, educators need to understand that the development of their teacher competence is an ongoing work in progress. 139 Gaining an understanding of the maturation process will not only assist with attaining, demonstrating, and maintaining competence, but will likely provide a sense of comfort to some clinical teachers. For example, clinical teachers often experience a period of adjustment when they begin their teaching role. During this time they need to identify and confront their own learning needs. Teachers also need to acknowledge to themselves that they do not know everything about their new position. Taking the time to deal with their own learning needs is essential for the development of their respective teaching styles, self-confidence, and competence. In addition, familiarity with the process of maturing could help to normalize the feelings of uncertainty, vulnerability, and anxiety clinical teachers commonly experience. Clinical teachers in this study believe it is unrealistic to expect them to be both an expert nurse and an expert teacher. All participants also agreed that to be competent clinical teachers they need to maintain their competence as clinicians. Therefore, according to these views, practicing clinical teachers should not focus on the number of hours performing nursing practice or the type of nursing practice. Rather, it is more appropriate to focus on the teacher's identified need and then implement strategies for improving his or her abilities as a clinical teacher. For example, a clinical teacher must take responsibility to overcome any deficiencies he or she may have in a specific area(s) of practice. Overcoming deficiencies may be achieved through individual efforts or by attending a professional development seminar. To date, the nursing literature has explored the impact of the clinical teachers' actions relative to the teachers themselves and the students' learning. The literature does not conclusively specify the exact influence of clinical teacher behaviors on student outcomes. However, this study does indicate various situational and contextual variables that alter how educators teach and how students learn. In light of this finding, clinical 140 teachers need to consider how their competence affects student learning. A further influence of teacher competence on students is the clinical teacher's ability to role model. Many participants stated that they initially learned how to teach by imitating the same behaviors they observed as students. It is important for clinical teachers to realize that in this role they are not only modeling nursing practice, but also teaching behaviors. Clinical teachers also need to consider the effects of their actions on the clinical agency and their staff, the educational institution, the professional regulatory and licensing bodies, the clients, and their colleagues. This study's findings suggest that one of the consequences of higher degrees of clinical teacher competence is varying degrees of power, authority, and respect. A clinical teacher who is viewed as an expert teacher (i.e., credible) will receive a higher level of respect from their colleagues and students and will consequently have more power in the learning environment. Therefore, it is important for clinical teachers to be aware that others' perceptions of their competence can have varying consequences for both student and teachers. For example, clinical teachers must correctly use their power and authority to benefit their students. Based on these findings, clinical teachers need to be aware of the necessity to engage in various activities to establish and maintain their credibility both as teachers and as nurses. This credibility is essential for progression through the process of becoming a competent clinical teacher and the facilitating of student learning. This study suggests that three strategies help clinical teachers develop their teaching style and competence. First, the findings support the claim that nursing practice does contribute to teacher competence. For example, clinical teachers who perceive themselves to be competent as either generalist or specialist clinicians have the self- confidence necessary to progress through the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Specifically, nursing practice is a prerequisite to becoming a competent clinical 1 4 1 teacher. Individuals attain competence in the first phase of the maturation process by relying on their abilities as clinicians to help them through the adjustment phase. Second, education and experience as a teacher facilitates competence as a clinical nursing teacher. This is knowledge is important for nurses interested in pursuing a clinical teacher role and those currently teaching. Despite these two findings, however, it is important to note that neither nursing practice nor teaching practice are adequate for ensuring competence as a clinical teacher. Teachers must also have the cognitive flexibility to engage in reflective thinking. Reflective thinking is the third, and most important, strategy for developing clinical teacher competence. Often this type of reflective examination allows clinical teachers to improve their teaching abilities and enhance competence. Thus, it is the responsibility of the individual to continue refining reflective thinking skills through his or her ongoing practice. Through reflective thinking clinical teachers gain meaning from their experiences which, in turn, help them to learn how to teach and develop competence. This notwithstanding, it is important to note that competence is more than an individual responsibility. I believe that administration also plays an important role in influencing the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. Administration The findings of this study are important for the preparation of neophyte clinical teachers and the ongoing development for current faculty members. Various external factors, which administration can influence, play an important role in the development and maintenance of clinical teacher competence. It is clear that faculty new to the clinical teaching role require support (e.g., institutional and collegial) to minimize their anxiety and maximize their self-confidence. Administration can assist by establishing various resources (e.g., forms of professional caring) to support the development of self-confidence and 142 competence. For example, establishing orientation programs and ongoing professional development programs can promote personal development, including the identification of personal learning needs. Administration could also encourage experienced clinical teachers to assume a supportive mentoring role for new teachers. To summarize, this study discusses the importance of helping clinical teaches feel supported. Clinical teachers receiving support feel empowered. This sense of empowerment helps to develop the clinical teachers' self-confidence. In turn, increases in self-confidence could help clinical teachers to feel more motivated to assume an active role in determining the course of their development as competent clinical teachers. This study also revealed that the context of clinical teaching influences clinical teachers' abilities to display competence. This finding indicates that unstable teaching assignments (e.g., reassignment, staff turnover, and part-time clinical teachers) do impact the self-confidence and competence of clinical teachers. This impact may be reduced by modifying such things as hiring practices and workload decisions. Contrary to the current trends of hiring clinical teachers on a contractual, short-time basis, I believe that it would be beneficial for administrators of undergraduate nursing programs to hire faculty on a full-time basis to teach in both clinical and classroom settings. The benefits of such hiring practices are two-fold. First, having faculty teach in both settings would (a) better prepare faculty for clinical and classroom teaching, (b) reduce the theory-practice gap, and (c) enhance the credibility of classroom teachers since others would view them as being competent in both the classroom and the clinical setting. In short, these changes would reduce the incidences of unfamiliarity clinical teachers have with the learning that occurs in the classroom setting and vice versa. Second, I believe that long-term positions benefits the educational institution because teachers have the opportunity to mature as competent clinical teachers. 143 Research suggests teachers would benefit from involvement in the decision-making process for such things as matching clinical teachers to clinical agency placements. This would include sharing decisions to identify the substantive area and type of agency in which specific teachers are most suited to being placed. This shared decision-making has been shown to increase faculty members' feelings of control, self-worth, and empowerment. Furthermore, clinical teachers who are motivated and interested in their teaching assignments are more likely to experience a degree of competence required to continue the maturation process. Another recommendation for improving competence is ensuring consistency in clinical teachers' assignment. Neophyte clinical teachers should be assigned to areas with which they are most familiar and competent. Changes to teaching assignments should be kept to a minimum or at least avoided until neophyte clinical teachers are established in their new role. More experienced clinical teachers are usually more adept at coping with changes; however, continual changes in substantive areas can also negatively effect their self-confidence and competence. Overall, the decisions made by administration have significant influences on the competence of clinical teachers and their progression through the three-phased maturation process. While competence is associated with success and promotion, incompetence creates work for others and imposes risks for the students, the clients, and the integrity of the nursing program (Jameton, 1984). For students, incompetence may hinder their learning. For clients, incompetence may hinder their well-being. Clinical teachers must be professionally accountable to ensure that quality education and client care is provided. The negative connotations often associated with incompetence make it less likely that instances will be reported. As a result, incompetent individuals are not likely to receive the assistance they need for professional development. The question not answered in this study was: How 144 long would clinical teachers observe the incompetent behavior of others before taking action (e.g., confronting the individual or reporting their observations to their administrator)? In most instances, incompetence is viewed as a personal responsibility. However, I believe that administration must assume some responsibility for dealing with issues of incompetence. Next, administration must review the various factors which may be contributing to a teacher's lack of competence (e.g., improper teaching assignment and frequent reassignment, a lack of time to orientate to clinical agencies, or a lack of credit for clinical teaching contributions). Finally, administrators must consider the means by which clinical teachers are to be evaluated. The methods utilized by administration for evaluating clinical teachers may also be influenced by the findings of this study. First, competence as a maturation process was described by participants as a state-of-being. While there are inherent difficulties in evaluating an individual's state-of-being at any point in time for a given situation and context, it is important to address this dimension in the evaluation process. Second, included in the evaluation of clinical teachers should be aspects of the maturational process. Third, consideration must be given to aspects of both teacher competence and nursing competence. Other questions that this study prompts is: Who should evaluate the clinical teachers' competence? Should the evaluator(s) be a nursing colleague, a teaching colleague, an administrator, or another individual? The findings of this study suggest that some incompetent clinical teachers do not have insight into their inadequate behaviors. Consequently, it is important for administrators to consider multiple evaluators to complete clinical teachers' evaluation. I believe using a panel of evaluators (e.g., students, colleagues, and administrators) will be beneficial since each type of evaluator will contribute to the evaluation process in differing ways. 145 Many administrators base hiring decisions on the assumption that competent nurses will be competent clinical teachers; however, the findings of this study may relate to the hiring practices of educational institutions. For example, as previously stated, clinical teachers do not learn how to teach solely from nursing practice. Clinical teachers learn how to teach by accessing a combination of knowledge and experience from nursing, teaching, and learning situations. Clinical teachers also learn to teach by using reflection; that is, their cognitive flexibility to gain meaning and insight from experiences. Education for Clinical Teachers The clinical teaching role places two differing demands on nursing faculty: (a) competence in nursing and (b) competence in teaching. Clinical teachers that have knowledge in and experience with teaching reported higher degrees of self-confidence, comfort, and competence in their clinical teaching role. Therefore, the findings of this study have direct implications for preparing nurses for a clinical teaching role. Evidence to suggest the need to better prepare faculty for the clinical teaching role was first introduced by Infante in 1975 and restated by Karuhije in 1986. Despite these appeals, little has been done to better prepare new clinical teachers. In some provinces, content related to teaching either does not exist in graduate curricula or is being removed from masters programs. I believe this has severe implications for the competence of clinical teachers responsible for teaching the next generation of nurses. Clinical teachers unprepared for the clinical teaching role may affect the quality of education students receive. Because of the demand for quality preparation of baccalaureate nurses, graduate nursing programs (e.g., masters and doctorate) need to offer courses relevant to clinical teaching. To ensure that professional practice is guided by theory, graduate nursing curricula for future clinical teachers should focus on both teaching and learning. The findings of this 146 study clearly indicate that those interested in clinical teaching also need to be knowledgeable about the process of maturing as competent clinical teachers. For example, graduate education in nursing should focus on the (a) knowledge and skills required for understanding students (e.g., student counselling, student evaluation, and negotiating a supportive learning environment), (b) various strategies used to develop one's teaching style, (c) educational theory applicable to the practice of clinical teaching, and (d) factors that facilitate or hinder teacher competence. Furthermore, graduate programs could offer opportunities for helping clinical teachers develop reflective thinking skills. Research Various researchers have studied the substantive area of clinical teaching. Empirical evidence from this study identifies a need for additional research into the basic social process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher. While the multi-dimensional nature of clinical teaching makes it difficult to explicate the process of competence in a straightforward manner, replication of this study with a larger and more diverse group (e.g., cultural and male perspectives) may reveal either a variation or a consistency with these findings. Additional research in the following areas would enhance the current knowledge on the maturation process: 1. Empirically-based research exploring the direct relationship between self-confidence and clinical teacher competence. This research should include an examination of the proposition that self-confidence is an antecedent to clinical teaching. 2. Examination of the relationship between self-efficacy and competence. 3. Research to more clearly describe the process of enacting the clinical teaching role (i.e., performance) in relation to the process of competence. 4. Advanced levels of cognitive thinking have been linked to the maturation process. Empirical evidence substantiating the link between critical thinking and clinical teacher 147 competence is necessary. Also, further research is needed to confirm the relationship between reflection and learning how to teach, and reflection and clinical teacher competence. 5. Examination of methods for evaluating competence from various perspectives (e.g., self, administrators, students, and colleagues). 6. Research to further explicate the situational and contextual nature of competence. 7. Due to increasing levels of client acuity in the clinical setting, clinical teachers are challenged to continually demonstrate credibility and competence. Research is needed to explore the importance of expertise as both clinicians and teachers and how this expertise contributes to credibility. 8. Exploration of the phenomena of incompetence, including, an examination of the defining attributes, antecedents, and consequences of incompetence. 9. Research into the differences between occasional and overall incompetence. Conclusion This study has explored the process by which clinical teachers attain, demonstrate, and maintain competence. Through the experiences of 11 clinical teachers the process of maturing as a competent clinical teacher was revealed. The findings illuminate the complex, unique nature of clinical teacher competence and the attributes, antecedents, and consequences of competence. 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(1986). Effective clinical behaviors of faculty: A review of the literature. Nurse Educator. 11(1). 31-34. 156 Appendix A Domains of Competence 1. Cognitive Domain • comprehension and application of nursing knowledge (e.g., theoretical, personal, and practical) • comprehension and application of teaching-learning knowledge (e.g., principles of adult learning and the learning process) • utilization of critical thinking which includes the ability to problem-solve and make clinical and teacher judgments 2. Affective Domain • interpersonal skills • critical reflection of one's personal characteristics • attitudes (e.g., enjoys nursing), values, and beliefs • professional behaviors (e.g., role model, responsible for actions, caring, ethical, genuine interest in student learning, and lifelong learner) 3. Psychomotor Domain • clinical skills • teaching skills • expert learner skills • physical and motor skills 157 Appendix B Letter of Request for Agency Consent Address of the Nursing Program: UBC BCIT Douglas College Dear As my thesis project at the University of British Columbia, Master of Science in Nursing Program, I am conducting a research project to learn more about nurse educator's perspective of competence in their role as a clinical teacher. At this time, I am seeking written permission to attend a faculty meeting at your educational institution as a means of recruiting potential research participants. In the event that I can not attend a faculty meeting I would like to leave a letter of information in each clinical teacher's mailbox or distribute this letter by email. Enclosed you will find a sample of the letter of information. In trying to meet deadlines for the ethics committee, I am requesting written permission be faxed to XXX-XXXX with a hard copy of permission sent in the mail. If you have any further questions feel free to contact me at XXX-XXXX, by email at awolff@unixg.ubc.ca or you may contact my thesis chairperson, Carol Jillings at XXX-XXXX. Thank-you in advance for your expedient reply. Sincerely, Angela Wolff MSN (student) University of British Columbia Enclosure (1) Return Mailing Address: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXX mailto:awolff@unixg.ubc.ca 158 Appendix C Letter of Invitation Dear Clinical Teacher: My name is Angela Wolff. As my thesis project at the University of British Columbia, Master of Science in Nursing Program, I am conducting a research project to leam more about nurse educators' perspective of competence in their role as a clinical teacher. I am inviting you to participate in this project (September, 1997 until March, 1998). The results of this study may provide nurse educators with a clear understanding of competence in their role as clinical teacher. With your input it is hoped that alternate ways of clinical teacher evaluation will be formulated. This study will prove to be beneficial to contributing to changes in nursing education. If you agree to take part in this study, I will interview you twice to explore your viewpoint of clinical teacher competence. Each tape-recorded interview will take about 1 hour of your time, and will be conducted at a location of your choice. The taped interview will be transcribed, with the omission of identifying information. After the first interview has been analyzed, the researcher will arrange for a second taped interview to clarify and verify the issues identified and described in the first interview. The total time required for each participant is estimated to two hours. Demographic data will also be collected to assist the researcher in analysis and description of the sample for this study. Your participation is strictly voluntary. You may withdraw from the study at any time without jeopardizing your position as a clinical teacher. Participation in this study will not have any effect on faculty performance evaluations. There will be no cost to you as a result of taking part in this study. Thank-you in advance for your assistance is furthering research in nursing education. If you would like to participate in this study or if you would like further information, I can be reached by email at awolff@unixg.ubc.ca, XXX-XXXX (work), collect at (403)XXX-XXXX (home), and XXX-XXXX (fax); or you may contact my thesis chairperson, Carol Jillings at XXX-XXXX. Sincerely, Angela Wolff, BScN, RN MSN (student) mailto:awolff@unixg.ubc.ca 159 Appendix D Informed Consent Attaining, Demonstrating, and Maintaining Competence: The perspective of Nurse Educators in the role as clinical teacher Researcher: Angela Wolff, BScN, RN Master of Science in Nursing Student School of Nursing University of British Columbia Vancouver, BC Phone: XXX-XXXX (home) Supervisor: Dr. Carol Jillings Associate Professor School of Nursing University of British Columbia Vancouver, BC Phone: XXX-XXXX As my thesis project at the University of British Columbia, Master of Science in Nursing Program, I am conducting a research project to learn more about nurse educator's perspective of competence in their role as a clinical teacher. I am inviting you to participate in this project. The results of this study may provide nurse educators with a clear understanding of competence in their role as clinical teacher. With your input it is hoped that alternate ways of clinical teacher evaluation will be formulated. This study will prove to be beneficial to contributing to changes in nursing education. If you agree to take part in this study, I will interview you twice to explore your viewpoint of clinical teacher competence. Each tape-recorded interview will take about 1 hour of your time, and will be conducted at a location of your choice. The taped interview will be transcribed, with the omission of identifying information. After the first interview has been analyzed, the researcher will arrange for a second taped interview to clarify and verify the issues identified and described in the first interview. The total time required for each participant is estimated to two hours. Demographic data will also be collected to assist the researcher in analysis and description of the sample for this study. Our conversations will be kept confidential as I will assign a code number to each participant, no names will be used on tape or in transcriptions of the interview. A list of the names and code names will be kept locked in a secure place. All tapes, transcriptions, and notes will be kept in a locked cabinet, separate from consent forms or code lists, for five years after the completion of the study. Typed notes and transcriptions will be kept under password on my computer hard drive. Consent forms will also be kept for five years. Only myself and my thesis committee will have access to the data collected during the interviews. Data may be used for another study in the future, if the researcher receives approval from the appropriate ethics review committee. When the study is finished and upon request, a written summary of the results can be sent to you. 160 Appendix D (continued) The information and findings of this study may be published or presented at conferences, but your name or any material that may identify you will not be used. If you have questions or concerns about this study at any time, you can call the researcher or supervisor at the numbers above. Your participation is strictly voluntary. You may withdraw from the study at any time without jeopardizing your position as a clinical teacher. Participation in this study will not have any effect on faculty performance evaluations. There will be no cost to you as a result of taking part in this study. Thank-you in advance for your assistance is furthering research in nursing education. If you have any questions or concerns, I can be reached at XXX-XXXX (home); or you may contact my thesis chairperson, Carol Jillings at XXX-XXXX. If you have any concerns about your treatment or rights as a research subject you may contact the Director of Research Services at the University of British Columbia, Dr. Richard Spratley at 822-8598. Consent The reason for this study is to explore nurse educator's perspectives of competence in their role of clinical teaching. I, the undersigned, have read the participant information letter and consent to participate in two taped-recorded interviews conducted by Angela Wolff. Any questions have been answered to my satisfaction. In addition, I know that I may contact the persons named above if I have further questions either now or in the future. I understand that my name will be kept confidential. I understand that participation in research is voluntary and I am free to withdraw from the study at any time. In addition, I understand that my signature indicates that I have received a copy of the consent form. This is to certify that I (print name) have read and understood this consent, the research study has been explained, and all my questions have been answered. I hereby agree to participate as a volunteer in the above named project. (Participant Signature) (Date) (Signature of a Witness) (1 copy to subject, 1 copy to researcher) (Date) 161 Appendix E Sample Interview Questions Attaining Competence • What experiences have you had as a clinical teacher that have enhanced or hindered your competence? • Who or what contributes to your competence? • What did you do to become competent? Demonstrating and Maintaining competence • Tell me about a time (an experience) when your were competent as a clinical teacher. • Tell me about a time (an experience) when you (or a colleague) was incompetent (compare with competent). Demonstrating Competence • How would you describe a clinical teacher that is competent? Could you tell me more about • How would you describe a clinical teacher that is incompetent? Could you give me an example... Types of Competence • Do you see a difference between teacher competence? Nursing competence? • How does your competence in teaching relate to your competence as a nurse? Evaluating Competence • Is competence more of a concern for licensing body, self, or students? • Who do you think should evaluate competence of a clinical teacher (e.g., self, students, peer, administration)? • How did you decide you were competent to become a clinical teacher? 162 Appendix F Demographic Form 1. Gender: Female Male 2. Level of education upon initial R.N. registration: Diploma in nursing Baccalaureate Degree in nursing Other (specify) Year of graduation ~~ 3. Level of education to date: Baccalaureate Degree in nursing Master's Degree in nursing Doctorate in nursing Degree (specify) Other (specify, includes certificate programs) Year of graduation ~ ' 4. Total number of years of clinical teaching experience _ _ _ Years Months 5. Total number of years of experience as a Registered Nurse (before the commencement of clinical teaching): Years Months 6. Program type currently teaching in: Diploma Nursing Program (length of program) Baccalaureate Nursing Program Collaborative Baccalaureate Nursing Program (specify if program offers first 2 J4 years or entire 4 years) Specialty Nursing Program (specify length) _ — _ Total number of years spent teaching clinical in the above program 163 Appendix F (continued) 7. Type of program taught in the past: Diploma Nursing Program (length of program) Baccalaureate Nursing Program Collaborative Baccalaureate Nursing Program (specify if program offers first 2 V% years or entire 4 years) Specialty Nursing Program (specify length) Total number of years spent teaching clinical in the above program 8. Specify past and current clinical settings in which you taught as a clinical teacher: 9. Level of student taught. Indicate the length of time you taught at this level. Year 1 Year 2 Year 3 Year 4 Other (specify) 
work_jfd2sjcfmbdb5fynu7mko6mjvm	----	Birth Trauma Canada- RV Detailing - RV Detailing Los Angeles - RV Detailing San Diego - Mobile Car Detailing - San Diego Mobile Car Detailing Los Angeles Blog About us Terms and Conditions Privacy Policy Contact us Select Page Blog Latest News How to Prevent Car Paint Oxidation by birthtraumacanada | Mar 29, 2021 | Car Detailing It’s always beautiful to look at the dazzling gloss and shine of your car. Unfortunately, it’s probably an indication of oxidation damage if your joy and pride are beginning to look a bit faded and dull.   This is called paint oxidation. This will cause the paint to lose its sheen. On severe occasions, car paint can have a cloudy or chalky look.  Aside from looking unappealing, paint oxidation will also greatly lower the resale value of your car.   Fortunately, we’re here to help. Aside from regular mobile car detailing Los Angeles, here are several tips you can follow to prevent car paint oxidation.  Choose High-quality Paintwork  You can make a lot of difference to your car if you have high-quality paintwork. It’s always a wise move to check out durable waterborne coating solutions. For those who don’t know, waterborne paints tend to have an excellent gloss level when it comes to overall quality and finishes. In addition to that, there’s less possibility for paint flaws. It also has excellent coverage. This improves the overall aesthetic appeal.  Avoid Using Harsh Car Cleaning Products  You should be careful of what car cleaning products you utilize if you’re wondering what causes paint oxidation. A couple of abrasive and stronger cleaners aren’t always kind to the paint surface of your vehicle. Thus, it is a wise move to switch to environmentally-friendly cleaning products. Typically, they’re gentle on car paintwork. In addition to that, you’re also helping the environment.   If you hire a professional to clean your car, make sure you look for an eco-friendly car detailing company.   Maintain Your Car Regularly  One of the main reasons why paint oxidation happens is the lack of car care. Unluckily, a lot of individuals don’t have the time to commit to routine car care.   If you do wash your car yourself, you can maintain it by waxing it after washing. You can also utilize a unique paint protectant. You can always hire a professional car detailing company if you do not have the time to do it on your own.   Avoid Accumulation of Contaminants  Accumulation of contaminants will affect the smooth look and shine of your car’s paintwork. You can easily avoid this from happening if you regularly wash your car. Car washing will help get rid of particles and pollution on the car’s surface. It is crucial to get rid of oxidation from car paint immediately if the paintwork is beginning to feel bumpy and rough.   Park in the Shade  Do you always park your vehicle outdoors? Street parking might be your only choice if you don’t have a driveway or garage. However, you need to park your car in the shade if you want to avoid paint oxidation. This is particularly true during the summer season where the rays of the sun are stronger.   If you can’t find shade in your area, you can invest in a car cover to protect the paintwork. You might have to leave car paint correction to the experts if serious UV damage has already caused paint oxidation.   Difference Between Detailing an Old and New Car by birthtraumacanada | Mar 26, 2021 | Car Detailing Aside from being a mode of transportation, your cars also serve as personal statements about who you are. Car owners with well-maintained vehicles are socially recognized as tasteful, detail-oriented, and responsible.   It does not matter if you’ve got an old or new car. It’s your job to maintain it as much as possible. Luckily, you can easily achieve this thanks to the advancements in car detailing technology and techniques.   Today, we’re going to share with you the differences between detailing an old and new car with the help of a mobile car detailing San Diego company.  Waxing  Most professionals suggest applying a coat of wax after polishing your car. This will help avoid corrosion from other substances like hot drinks, tree sap, and bird droppings, water spots, and sun damage.   Waxing includes the application of wax over the exterior of the car, letting it harden, and then buffing it out using a polisher or towel. Though the procedure for waxing old and new cars might look the same, the difference is in the forms of wax used.   Despite being long-lasting, the rubbing compound is abrasive. Thus, it’s not appropriate for an old car since most of its protective layers are gone. Typically, professionals prefer using liquid wax when detailing an old car since it’s an excellent filling agent to smooth out inconsistencies in the surface.   Polishing  Old cars have higher possibilities of suffering from paint oxidation since they’ve been braved in the rain, wind, and sun. Also, old cars typically have more scratches, swirls, and dents. Thus, they need more complex and lengthy polishing methods.   Before starting the process, a professional detailer needs to personalize their car polishing procedure depending on the car’s condition. When they are servicing an old vehicle, they need to spot test areas. This will help them figure out:  The speed combinations they need to use for the polisher  The forms of motions they need to use  The amount of pressure they have to use on the surface  How aggressive the products they need to use  Claying  It does not matter if you are detailing a new car or an old one. The first thing you’ve got to do is to wash it. Once you’re done washing the car, then the next thing you have to do is to clay it. First, a professional detailer will knead the clay bar into a soft malleable tool. They will utilize this tool to pick up tiny contaminants from the surface of the car. Therefore, this will help make the paint feel smoother and return to its original look.  Unfortunately, it is much more complex to clay an old vehicle. The reason for this is that older vehicles have higher possibilities of gathering more debris. Thus, it takes more materials to avoid the abrasion of the paint surface. The clay bar lubricant is one of these materials. Usually, they’re included if you purchase a high-quality car wash kit. This clay bar lubricant will help avoid the debris from damaging the paint coat of your old car.       Knowing the Basics of RV Detailing by birthtraumacanada | Mar 24, 2021 | Car Detailing If you want to maintain the excellent condition of your RV, the best thing you can do is to regularly detail its interior and exterior. Unfortunately, RV detailing is not as easy as it might appear to be. There are a couple of things you have to consider first before you can proceed with the task.   Detailing an RV is a process of cleaning thoroughly the exterior and interior of the vehicle to maintain and improve its look. The task is called “detailing” because it is all about perfecting the small details of your car. Because of this, there are a lot of steps included.   You can make your life easier if you hire a professional RV detailing San Diego company. However, if you want to do it yourself, here are several things you should know:  Interior Detailing  Usually, interior RV detailing includes at least a couple of tasks, such as odor removal, vent cleaning, crevice and dash cleaning, cup holder cleaning, seat cleaning, carpet cleaning, and much more.   Exterior Waxing  Once you are done cleaning thoroughly the exterior of your RV, you can wax it. You can either go for a simple spray–on and wipe–off form of wax or a wipe-on and buff–off form of wax. It depends on your preferences.   Tire Cleaning  Cleaning the tires of your RV should be the final step in the exterior cleaning process. The reason for this is that you have to work from top to bottom.  Awnings  You might have to utilize a cleaning product made specifically for RV awnings. This will help you deep clean the awning of your RV. Keep in mind that you need something that’s gentle on the fabric and paint.  Bug Removal  Getting rid of bug splatter will become much harder if you wait a long period to remove it from the front of your car. You can utilize a chemical bug remover or a car washing kit to get rid of bug splatters. However, you can also create your own solution using water and dryer sheets. You can easily avoid hard-to-remove bug splatters in the future if you wax and maintain the front of your RV.  Overall Exterior Washing  There are a couple of techniques when it comes to washing your RV. Some are wet and some are dry. Make sure you clean and dry full sections at a time if you are wet washing. This will help prevent streaks. Typically, you can utilize a regular RV washing soap. However, you still have to examine that you are utilizing the correct product for your form of RV siding.   Roof Cleaning  Typically, detailing goes from top to bottom. The ideal cleaning methods and products for your RV roof differ on whether you’ve got a rubber membrane-type roof, a fiberglass roof, or another form of roof. Thus, make sure you consider this. Fiberglass roofs are vulnerable to oxidation. You might require a strong cleaner if they look ashy or chalky. If you’re afraid of damaging the roof, you can always hire a detailer to do the job.  Tips for Detailing Your RV by birthtraumacanada | Mar 22, 2021 | Car Detailing Whenever you’re washing an RV, there are a couple of things you have to remember. It does not matter if you’re simply an RV owner that needs some recommendations or you’re an expert detailer trying to add RVs to your services.   Washing and detailing an RV is not the same as detailing a normal car. RVs are big and they’ve got a couple of components that are different from regular vehicles.   Lucky for you, we’re here to help. Here are several tips you can follow for RV detailing Los Angeles.  Take Your Time  As an RV owner or detailer, you’ve got to understand that detailing and washing an RV thoroughly will take around 6 to 8 hours. This is particularly true if you’re doing it alone. Thus, try to work in the shade as much as possible. Also, prepare some cold drinks if it’s hot. Don’t forget to take breaks as well.   Also, you should expect to pay more for RV detailing services as opposed to a regular car wash if you’re planning to hire a professional.   Know How to Clean the Roof of Your RV  Unlike regular vehicles, the roof of your RV is usually made out of some form of rubber. Typically, it’s white. It is also the dirtiest area of an RV. Thus, need a lot of care and attention. When cleaning the roof standing up, you’ve got to be very cautious. If possible, use kneepads when handwashing.   A lot of individuals will utilize normal dish soap when cleaning the roof. Unfortunately, it is not recommended for plastics. Dish soaps typically include degreasers. This can dry out plastic and rubber over time. Eventually, it will cause cracks. Perhaps you want to buy a jug of RV rubber roof cleaner when cleaning the roof. These cleaners are designed to protect and clean the roof of your RV.  Buy the Right Tools for RV Detailing  If you are detailing bigger cars, such as an RV, one of the most important tools to have is a high-quality pressure washer.   Typically, almost every professional detailer out there recommends buying a gas-powered pressure washer with wheels.   Aside from the pressure washer, there are several other tools you need to have as well. This includes:  Water deionizer to avoid water spots  Foam cannon for your pressure washer  5-gallon bucket for roof cannon  Cleaner wax for protection  Gel gloss for finishes  Huge water tanks for mobile detailing  Gas-powered pressure washer  If you’ve got a pressure washer, you can easily make the job faster and more efficient. This is particularly true since you are dealing with a quite tall car. However, you’ve got to ensure you use the right pressure. You might end up damaging your car if you use too much pressure.   Avoid Scratches by Using Lamb’s Wool  A lot of RV manufacturers suggest using lamb’s wool when cleaning RVs. In general, lamb’s wool is an ideal option for any type of vehicle. Keep in mind that RVs get dirty quite often. If you use a stiff-bristled brush, you might end up scratching the surface of your RV.     How to Detail Your RV by birthtraumacanada | Mar 19, 2021 | Car Detailing The spring season is already here and summer is simply creeping in the corner. If you’re a person who loves beach parties, reunions, and nature trips, it is perhaps time to give your RV good detailing. Of course, you and your loved ones would love to travel in comfort and style in a detailed and clean RV, right?  A couple of individuals believe that simply vacuuming the interior and hosing the exterior of their RV is clean enough. Unluckily, this type of cleaning method won’t remove any microorganisms, oil, grime, and dirt that can damage the interior and exterior of your RV.   A mobile RV detailing can get rid of these things. Aside from cleaning your car’s interior and exterior, you can also clean the under chassis and engine of your RV.   Here are several tips you can follow when you want to detail your RV:   Clean the Water System  Have you tried cleaning your car’s interior but still notice a musty odor inside? Well, you’ve got to examine the water system. It might contain water from your past trips. Thus, you have to drain the tank, water lines, and water heater. Fill the tank with water and apply several drops of bleach. Let the solution sit for a couple of minutes. This will guarantee that your water system is clean. After several minutes, drain the water and turn on the faucets and pump. This will get rid of the bleach from the system. Before you refill the tank with clean water, make sure you leave the system for 12 hours.   Keep Every Detailing Product Close  If you want to lower your detailing mistakes, there are a couple of things you need. This includes:  Car wax  Towels for drying  Brush with a long handle  Squeegee  Rubber gloves   A long garden hose  Wheel cleaner  Glass cleaner  Car wash soap  Tar remover  Bug remover  You can try moving the cleaning solutions in tiny containers and properly label them. Then, you can place these small containers in a basket or small bag that you can place put around your waste. With this, you can save a lot of time from walking around.   Cover Sensitive Spots When Detailing  Utilize plastic to cover the filter, electrical wirings, spark plugs, air intake, and alternator. With this, you can avoid oil and water remover from seeping in and causing damage to your vehicle.   Think About the Weather and Time  It’s preferable to detail your car before 8 am. This is typically a warm morning to do the job. Keep in mind that your RV is probably huge. You’ve got to complete the task before the sun gets too hot. Else, water spots might form or the cleaning solution may dry up. You need to avoid these things since they can damage your car’s exterior paint.   If you think that detailing your RV is too much work, don’t worry. You can always hire a professional car detailing company to detail your RV. Oftentimes, they’ll offer steam cleaning that makes the whole process more efficient and faster.   Recent Posts How to Prevent Car Paint Oxidation Difference Between Detailing an Old and New Car Knowing the Basics of RV Detailing Tips for Detailing Your RV How to Detail Your RV Search for: Recent Comments Birth Trauma Canada How to Prevent Car Paint Oxidation March 29, 2021It’s always beautiful to look at the dazzling gloss and shine of your car. Unfortunately, it’s probably an indication of oxidation damage if your joy and pride are beginning to look a bit faded and dull.   This is called paint oxidation. This will cause the paint to lose its sheen. On severe occasions, car paint can have […] birthtraumacanada Difference Between Detailing an Old and New Car March 26, 2021Aside from being a mode of transportation, your cars also serve as personal statements about who you are. Car owners with well-maintained vehicles are socially recognized as tasteful, detail-oriented, and responsible.   It does not matter if you’ve got an old or new car. It’s your job to maintain it as much as possible. Luckily, you […] birthtraumacanada Knowing the Basics of RV Detailing March 24, 2021If you want to maintain the excellent condition of your RV, the best thing you can do is to regularly detail its interior and exterior. Unfortunately, RV detailing is not as easy as it might appear to be. There are a couple of things you have to consider first before you can proceed with the […] birthtraumacanada Tips for Detailing Your RV March 22, 2021Whenever you’re washing an RV, there are a couple of things you have to remember. It does not matter if you’re simply an RV owner that needs some recommendations or you’re an expert detailer trying to add RVs to your services.   Washing and detailing an RV is not the same as detailing a normal car. […] birthtraumacanada How to Detail Your RV March 19, 2021The spring season is already here and summer is simply creeping in the corner. If you’re a person who loves beach parties, reunions, and nature trips, it is perhaps time to give your RV good detailing. Of course, you and your loved ones would love to travel in comfort and style in a detailed and […] birthtraumacanada Categories Car Detailing Archives March 2021 
work_jozzzekis5gmrb52jnjoqbkh3e	----	"Lady Teachers" and the Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization in Gilded Age Cities History of Education Society "Lady Teachers" and the Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization in Gilded Age Cities Author(s): Karen Leroux Source: History of Education Quarterly, Vol. 46, No. 2 (Summer, 2006), pp. 164-191 Published by: History of Education Society Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20462056 . Accessed: 05/08/2014 16:07 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp . JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org. . History of Education Society is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to History of Education Quarterly. http://www.jstor.org This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=hes http://www.jstor.org/stable/20462056?origin=JSTOR-pdf http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp "Lady Teachers" and the Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization in Gilded Age Cities Karen Leroux May the work of the L.T.A. go on ever upward and onward-gaining ground year by year; so that in future it will have its voice in the community, not low & sweet-but clear and resonant showing power and strength; may it gain that strength by increased membership, held together by strong bonds of love. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labor and to wait.' Miss Ophelia S. Newell believed that teachers occupied a public office of unappreciated responsibility. As the secretary of the Lady Teachers' Association (LTA) in Boston, she penned these hopeful remarks as a coda to her 1875 annual report, borrowing the last stanza of a popular Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem. For Newell and her fellow teachers, "learn to labor and to wait" underscored their steadfast commitment to the schools. They founded the association attempting to bring womewteachers "nearer together in sympathy and friendship and also for a mutual benefit in debate and parliamentary rules." Frustrated with being "accused of a lack of enthusiasm in our profession," they hoped such criticism could "be remedied by an organization of this kind."2 Honing their debating skills represented one of Karen Leroux is an assistant professor of history at Drake University. She received a Ph.D. in history from Northwestern University in 2005. She would like to thank Nancy K. MacLean and Stacey M. Robertson for their encouragement and suggestions. Financial support for this research was provided by the Massachusetts Historical Society, the Board of Alumnae of Northwestern University, and the Spencer Foundation. This essay won the History of Education Society's Henry Barnard Prize as the best essay by a graduate student. 48 February 1875 secretary's report, Volume I, Box 2, [Boston] Lady Teachers' Association [hereafter LTA] records, Massachusetts Historical Society. -'Minutes of first meeting [undated], Volume I, Box 2, LTA. Study of parliamentary rules was common in early teachers' organizations, see Marjorie Murphy, "From Artisan to Semi-Professional: White Collar Unionism Among Chicago Public School Teachers, 1870 1930," (Ph.D. diss., University of California-Davis, 1981), 161. History of Education Quarterly Vol. 46 No. 2 Summer 2006 This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 165 the women's objectives, but they aspired to do more than polish their chances for professional advancement. Through association, these women hoped to provide each other with the professional and social security they needed. The drumbeat of demands for teachers' selfless service to the public presupposed access to resources that most women teachers lacked. Most were unmarried or widowed; they did not enjoy the family support that enabled middle-class women to work for community betterment without concern about remuneration. School boards employed men with the presumption that they supported themselves and sometimes others, but they did not extend that recognition to women, regardless of their family status. Obtaining school employment required some education and social graces, marking women who taught as socially privileged while masking their financial plight. To protect their precarious independence in the wage-based urban economy, women organized among themselves to replace the kinds of family support they had foregone. Like many other nineteenth-century Americans, teachers looked to voluntary organization to fulfill needs unmet by either family or state. They enlisted the "sympathy and friendship" of other teachers as a substitute safety net. Most narratives of teacher activism begin at the turn of the twentieth century. Though historians acknowledge the formation of earlier local associations, they tend to dismiss them as merely "social organizations."3 The clubs that teachers formed between the 1870s and 1890s were indeed social, but I argue that their social character did not preclude serious occupational concerns. This research reveals urban women appropriating elements of educator associations, women's self-improvement societies, and fraternal orders to protect themselves against loss of income due to illness and infirmity, while attempting to strengthen their position as female professionals in the service of the public. Gilded-Age "lady teachers" began to develop a collective identity, construct networks to protect themselves from dependency, and formulate a critique of their peculiar employment relationship with the state. "It is a high crime and misdemeanor," one teacher wrote in 1879, "for the State to ask teachers to expend their best energies in the instruction of her youth, and then require them to use the balance in solving the problem of how to make the week's wages meet the week's necessary expenses."4 How could a self-supporting teacher labor selflessly and still fulfill obligations to her landlord and other creditors? Like professionals, women teachers viewed their skilled service to others as part of an exchange that ought to make possible the self-sufficiency required by good citizenship. Yet they were Tor one example, see Wayne J. Urban, Why Teachers Organized (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1982), 9. 4"The Teacher's Profession," Journal of Education, 15 May 1879, 312. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 166 Histowy of Edutcation Quarterly not like professionals; they were women obliged to sacrifice themselves in the service of the schools. Confronting this untenable dilemma, Boston teachers dubbed themselves "inexperienced citoyennes" and attempted to reconstruct genteel public service as a basis for their claims on the state and a means to their empowerment.5 Embracing the moral distinction between serving the public and working merely for wages, they hoped their public service would translate into desired professional privileges. From the 1 870s until the turn of the century, teachers' clubs formed in cities small and large, including Boston, Buffalo, Chicago, Cincinnati, Minneapolis, and St. Paul. These organizations, typically local, sometimes represented a single neighborhood. Highly attuned to hierarchy, they often defined themselves by their gender or rank in the schools. Status consciousness had implications for organization: by 1900, the city of Boston (not including its suburbs) had at least eleven different teachers' organizations and St. Paul had at least four.6 Most of these organizations either kept poor records or failed to preserve them, but two associations-one in Boston and one in St. Paul-kept detailed minutes of meetings which form the basis of this study. Seemingly unexplored by previous historians, these sources show strikingly similar concerns about teachers' income security and comparable strategies taken to address them. Indeed, teachers' clubs in different parts of the country shared advice on programs, organization, and membership.7 This essay peers into these local associations, where teachers began to trace the practical difficulties they experienced to their vulnerable status as professionals, women, and citizens. The Boston women who founded the LTA sought self-culture, friendship, and mutual aid-opportunities unavailable to them in the 5M.P. Colburn, "Lady Teachers' Associations," Journal of Education, 4 December 1875, 254. The Lady Teachers' Association in Boston formed in 1874, the Women Teachers' Association in Buffalo in 1889; the Chicago Teachers' Club in 1892, and the St. Paul Grade Teachers' Association in 1898. Minneapolis teachers organized sometime before 1879; and teachers in Chicago formed the School Mistresses' Club sometime in the 1880s. See "Teachers' Organizations in Buffalo," Education 16 (May 1896), 570; Julia E. Sullivan, "The Boston Teachers Club: 1898-1948," Boston Teachers'Newsletter 36:3 (December 1947), 17; Michael J. McDonough, "St. Paul Federation of Teachers, Fifty Years of Service, 1918-1968," 3 in Folder 1, Box 8, Series V, St. Paul Federation of Teachers Collection, [hereafter StPTF Collection] Walter Reuther Library; Financial Secretary to Mr. Thos. McLachlan, 18 November 1904, Folder: Sept-Dec 1904, Box 38, Chicago Teachers' Federation Papers, (hereafter CTF) Chicago Historical Society; John T. McManis, Ella Flagg Young and a Half-Century of the Chicago Public Schools (Chicago: A.C. McClurg & Co, 1916), 94; Ella F. Young, "Women in Education in Illinois," Journal of Proceedings of the 50th Annual Meeting of the Illinois State Teachers Association and Sections (Carbondale: ISTA, 1904), 16-17. 7The Lady Teachers' Association in Boston recorded inquiries from teachers in distant cities like Louisville KY, as did Chicago teachers. See minutes of meetings, March 1877 entry, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; J.E. McKean to Catharine Goggin, 25 December 1899, Folder: 1868 1899, Box 35, CTF. They also made inquiries with other associations, see minutes of meetings, 11 March 1890 entry, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; Sullivan, "Boston Teachers Club," 17. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 167 wor-kplace or from existing educator associations or women's clubs. All unmarried or widowed, they described yearning to create between them "a nearer bond than that which exists." Country schoolteachers endured long separations from friends and family, but even those in city schools complained of feeling isolated in their classrooms.8 Progressive educator Ella Flagg Young explained how teachers' working conditions left them feeling detached, powerless, and lonely in her 1900 book, Isolation in the Schools. Teaching in the Chicago area since the 1 860s, Young synthesized the problems she had seen throughout her career. By "establishing a means of mutual improvement and culture in teachers, and assistance as friends," these Boston teachers hoped to alleviate the sense of alienation Young would eventually address.9 State and national teachers' associations did not offer women a sense of belonging either. Quite the opposite, they kept women at the margins of membership. Dominated by men, annual meetings of the National Education Association (NEA) brought a few high-achieving women to the attention of the profession. But the NEA made no effort to develop local branches and thus held limited appeal for women whose small salaries left little to pay membership fees and travel to annual meetings. Moreover, the NEA downplayed problems of teacher pay and welfare, issues far more important to women than comparatively well-paid men. Though female teachers had outnumbered males since the Civil War, NEA meetings continued to attract more men until 1884, when organizers made an effort to appeal to female delegates as a "penance for past shortcomings."'" Larger numbers of women attended state association meetings. Yet even when the numbers of women exceeded the men, few women joined in discussions. In Massachusetts, well-known and accomplished teachers like Electa Walton and Annie E. Johnson might decry "the injustice which every woman teacher suffers in this Commonwealth," but the women for whom they claimed to speak often preferred to keep silent. Many urged the "necessity for both local and general organizations among lady teachers ... to accustom ... members to speaking on the various questions of the day, Constitutions 1874 and 1879, minutes of meetings 20 February 1874 and 11 March 1875, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. On feelings of isolation, see 11 December 1894, 12 December 1894,4 January 1895 and 6 February 1895 entries, Louise Bailey Diaries ( Microfilm edition, 1976) State Historical Society of Wisconsin; Katherine Reddington Morgan, ed., My Ever Dear Daughter, My Own Dear Mother: The Correspondence of Julia Stone Towne and Mary Julia Towne, 1868-1882 (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1996); and "A Fit of the Blues," Western Journal of Education, (August 187 5): 181 -2. 9Ella Flagg Young, Isolation in the Schools (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1900); Jackie M. Blount, Destined to Rule the Schools: Women and the Superintendent, 1813-1995 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), 167; Minutes of meetings 20 February 1874, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. 10"A Word from a Country Teacher," Woman's Journal, 26 November 1870, 370; Edgar B. Wesley, NEA: The First Hundred Years, The Building of the Teaching Profession (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1957), 334, quotation is from 260. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 168 History of Edication Quarterly and for systematizing plans for the improvement of their position." I1 Lack of practice in public speaking, however, was not the only problem women teachers needed to overcome. When male superintendents and principals controlled meetings, female teachers weighed carefully the costs and benefits of participation. Some teachers' meetings did not invite discussion. Male supervisors used the guise of voluntary association to bring teachers to administrative meetings, often on Saturdays, without having to pay for their time. Teachers were not invited to meetings like these to engage in discussions of interest to them but to receive instructions from their supervisors. Although deemed "voluntary" meetings, the men presiding often determined teachers' reemployment each year. Decades later, American Federation of Teachers activist Ruth Gillette Hardy labeled these male-led teachers' associations as "company unions," observing that they operated in the interest of school authorities, not teachers. The didactic nature of these meetings often carried over to state and national association meetings, suggesting why many women teachers chose not to attend and why the men leading them complained about women's lack of enthusiasm and commitment to teaching. In a session on primary teaching at a state association meeting, one woman observed that of the hundred or more women in attendance, only three joined in the discussion. In contrast, she noted that "every gentleman present spoke, some more than once, though probably, with [one] exception ..., not one of them had ever actually taught a primary school."''2 Women comprised the majority of teachers, but male educators' power inhibited their participation. Gilded-Age women's clubs offered teachers only slightly more of a sense of inclusion. In Boston, the New England Women's Club (NEWC) and the Woman's Education Association (WEA) sponsored public meetings on education, occasionally inviting teachers to speak. Strong supporters of self-improvement and community betterment initiatives, these elite groups also organized lectures to help teachers supplement their knowledge of ""Massachusetts Teachers Convention," Woman's Journal, 24 January 1874, 26. Annie E. Johnson became the first woman principal of a state normal school in Massachusetts in 1866. She quit in 1875 for a higher paying position. Electa Walton also taught in several Massachusetts state normal schools, serving temporarily as principal in 1849 when Cyrus Pierce became ill. She was passed over for the permanent appointment, which went to a man. See "Gov. Bullock's Remarks," Thirtieth Annual Report of the Board of Education [Massachusetts] (Boston: Wright & Potter, 1867), 37-40; "Framingham," Thirty-Ninth Annual Report of the Board of Education [Massachusetts] (Boston: Wright & Potter, 1876), 27-28; and Historical Sketches of the Framingham State Normal School (Framingham: Alumnae Association, 1914), 42, 51,96-97. 12"The Teachers Meeting Yesterday," St. Paul Daily Press, 13 October 1872, Roll 81, Frame 242, Annals of Minnesota microfilm, Minnesota Historical Society (hereafter Annals). For another example see Minute Books, Box 1, Folder 1, Atlanta Normal Schools, Georgia Department of Archives and History. Ruth Gillette Hardy, "Historical Setting of the American Federation of Teachers," Folder 1, Box 2, StPFT; "Massachusetts Teachers Convention," Woman's Journal, 24 January 1874, 26. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 169 advanced subjects like chemistry, geology, and rhetoric."3 Perhaps most importantly, women's clubs in cities around the nation organized to place members on school and library boards, hoping to bring their influence to bear on public education in ways that teachers could not. Focusing on shared educational attainments and moral values, many Americans regarded teachers and club women as natural allies, despite their class differences."4 At best, however, club women treated teachers as junior partners in educational reform. The WEA boasted that club work placed members "en rapport with the actual practical work of teaching," but the organization tended to treat teachers as objects of reform or as gatekeepers whose support was needed for reform initiatives to succeed. Even Ednah Dow Cheney, a NEWC member and long-time champion of gender alliances between reformers and teachers, thought teachers could benefit from the "advice and guidance" of club women but failed to consider how much club women could learn from teachers as well. The WEA claimed to seek teachers as members, even waiving membership fees for them, but like most elite women's clubs, it did not even schedule meetings so that working teachers could attend. Though it could count most of the city's female school officers among the membership, few public school teachers joined. Still, LTA members invited club women, as well as male educators, to their meetings as honored guests and speakers. Teachers cultivated these relationships for the social and professional advantages they might bring but always with the knowledge that economic necessity and lack of political influence rendered them "a group apart.""15 13"Report of the Committee on Education," Woman's Journal, 13 July 1872, 224; "Women and Public Schools: A Report to N.E. Woman's Club," Woman's Journal, 17 August 1872, 258; Third Annual Report of the Woman's Education Association of Boston, 1874 (Boston: Alfred Mudge & Son, 1875), 8-13; AnnualReport ofthe Woman's Educational Association (Boston: Alfred Mudge & Son, 1878), 6; Polly Welts Kaufman, Boston Women and City School Politics, 1872-1905 (New York: Garland, 1994), 68-69. On similar developments between club women and teachers in Chicago, see Maureen Flanagan, Seeing With Their Hearts: Chicago Women and the Vision of the Good City, 1871-1933 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 62. 14Julia A. Sprague, A History of the New England Women's Club from 1868 to 1893 (Boston: Lee & Shepard, 1894), 17; Kaufman, Boston Women; Flanagan, Seeing With Their Hearts, 33. The Minneapolis Woman's School and Library Organization worked to place women on school and library boards. See Box 2, Volumes 5 and 6, Political Equality Club of Minneapolis Records, Minnesota Historical Society. Atlanta women undertook similar initiatives in the 1890s. See Scrapbook 1 (1895), Atlanta Women's Club Collection, Atlanta History Center. xs Second Annual Report of the Woman's Education Association of Boston, 1873-74 (Boston: Alfred Mudge & Son, 1874), 9, 4-5. See also First Annual Report of the Woman's Education Association for the year ending January 16,1873 (Boston: W.L. Deland, 1873), 7,10; Third Annual Report of the Woman's Education Association of Boston, 1874. (Boston: Alfred Mudge & Son, 1875), 3, 8-13; and Annual Report ofthe Woman's Education Association for the year ending January 16, 1878 (Boston: Alfred Mudge & Son, 1878), 6; Ednah Dow Cheney, "Place of Women in our Public Schools," Woman's Journal, 23 October 1875, 341, 338; Sprague, History of the New England Women's Club, 17; Kaufman, Boston Women, 76; "St. Paul Federation of Women Teachers," p.l in Folder: 1, Box: 2, Series II, StPFT. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 170 History of Edlucation Quarter-ly The source of women teachers' marginalization was the simple fact that most women who taught were unmarried or widowed and needed to earn their living. The antebellum practice of hiring young women to spell off the men who taught winter schools paved the way for school boards to replace higher-paid male teachers with women in need of income."f The Civil War and western migration contributed to rising numbers of widows and spinsters seeking employment, casting new attention on the inequalities of a market economy which presumed "all men supported all women." The oversupply of unmarried women needing employment became the stock explanation for why women teachers were so poorly paid, but women's rights activists like Mary Livermore, a former teacher who became an honorary member of the LTA, countered that it was not the quantity of women seeking employment but the few lines of work open to them that fostered the excess of women workers and depressed their wages. In a narrow field of options, teaching became especially sought-after work because it conferred the respectability of motherhood on self-supporting women.'7 Teachers could take pride that their work served the nation's children and remained at a distance from the market. Women's work in schools set them apart from other wage-earning women, creating a new and growing category of economically needy but morally deserving single women. Some women taught until they married, but others saw in teaching a potential alternative to marriage and family life. After the Civil War, the prospect of living apart from family was becoming a real, though difficult, life choice for women. Changes in attitudes towards matrimony led the journal The Nation to ask "Why is the Single Life Becoming More General?" The answer described singlehood as a personal choice, not merely the result of a demographic shift: "Men and women can less easily find anyone whom they are willing to. take as a partner for life; their requirements are more exacting; their standards of excellence higher; they are less able to find any who satisfy their own ideal and less able to satisfy anybody else's ideal."'8 lfiAntebellum schools often employed a male teacher in the winter and a female teacher in the summer, when the older boys were likely to be working. Schools replaced male teachers with women to economize on labor costs. Kathryn Kish Sklar, "The Schooling of Girls and Changing Community Values in Massachusetts Towns, 1750-1820," History of Education Quarterly 33 (Winter 1993): 528-529. 17Lee Virginia Chambers-Schiller, Liberty, A Better Husband. Single Women in America: The Generations of 1780-1840 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), 29. Quotation is from Mary A. Livermore, What Shall We Do with Our Daughters? (Boston: Lee & Shepard, 1883), 59, also 85. See also Caroline H. Dall, "Woman's Right to Labor, " Or, Low Wages and Hard Work (Boston: Walker, Wise & Co., 1860), esp. 5-9; and Virginia Penny, The Employments of Women: A Cyclopedia of Woman's Work (Boston: Walker, Wise, & Co, 1863), 37-39; "Too Respectable!" Journal of Education, 16 October 1879, 207-8; Hiram Orcutt, "A Circular Letter to Public School Teachers," Journal of Education, 13 January 1881,21. l8The Nation, 5 March 1868, quoted in Zsuzsa Berend, "The Best or None! Spinsterhood in Nineteenth-Century New England," Journal of Social History 33 (Summer 2000): 948. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 171 Teachers' responses to marriage confirm the article's thesis. When members of the LTA announced nuptials, their colleagues celebrated their good fortune to find a man worthy of matrimony. Though marriage and motherhood were idealized, those who did not find a man were not pitied. Far better not to marry than to make a bad match or risk a "degrading alliance." No longer simply a temporary condition of women in their youth, singlehood became understood as a perfectly respectable decision not to settle for an unworthy man. Nineteenth-century spinsterhood, as historian Zsuzsa Berend has shown, signified a woman's "uncompromising morality," and came to represent "a respectable variation on motherhood rather than its antithesis."19 Calls for professionalizing the work of teachers reinforced the development of teaching as unmarried women's work. Harvard University President Charles W. Eliot denied women's potential as professional teachers because marriage prevented them from devoting their lives to work beyond the family circle. Putting Eliot's views into practice, one school superintendent explained: "[J]n every contract with a teacher there is an implied stipulation that he shall put his whole being into his work .... This is a service which admits no divided empire .... It must have the whole heart or it is nothing." While a man could marry and still "put his whole being" into his school or profession, few believed a woman could do both. The growing emphasis on affective labor in teaching and the rising respectability of spinsterhood, however, led the Reverend A.D. Mayo to spearhead arguments for single women as lifelong professionals in the service of the schools. He preached that "public instruction in America cannot be conducted by teachers who come to it with half a mind, regard it a hateful drudgery, and toil with mechanical stolidity while the soul is far away. It demands the complete consecration of human powers. It is a thing to work up to, to pray over, to purify one's self for."20 Alluding to male teachers who aspired to more lucrative and prestigious employment, Mayo envisioned a professional corps of spinster teachers wholly devoted to the vocation of teaching. Coupled with the assumption that respectable women had families to support them, Mayo's arguments helped shape postbellum education as a low-paying branch of public service employing mostly single women. 19"The Matrimony Clause," Brooklyn Eagle, 2 February 1876, 2; Minutes of meetings: 18 February 1875 entry; also see 10 June 1884 entry, Volume I, Box 2, and Annual Report of Secretary for Sept 1901, p.166, Volume II, Box 2, LTA; Berend, "Best or None," 941. Also on positive views of spinsterhood, see Ruth Freeman and Patricia Klaus, "Blessed or Not: The Spinster in England and the United States in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries," Journal of Family History 9 (October 1984), 395. 20Charles W. Eliot, "Wise and Unwise Economy in the Schools," Journal of 'Education, 29 May 1875, 254; "School Committees' Reports," Thirty-Ninth Annual Report of the Board of Education [Massachusetts] (Boston: Wright & Potter, 1876), 26; "American Teachers," Minnesota Teacher 1 (September 1868): 11. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 172 Histo;y of Education Quarterly Regarding teachers as models of purity and patriotism, northern school boards continued to hire teachers with the image of white republican motherhood in mind. The teaching corps in nineteenth-century city public schools remained far more segregated and ethnically homogeneous than their classrooms. School boards seldom hired women who were not native born and English-speaking. Even as late as 1910, one source reported nearly three-quarters of teachers were native-born, though growing numbers had one foreign-born parent. Only the daughters of Irish immigrants made significant inroads into teaching, comprising about one-quarter of the teachers in several northern cities in the early twentieth century. Yet even in Boston, where Irish families had settled for decades, school board preferences for hiring Yankee Protestants kept the numbers of Irish-American teachers low until the turn of the century.2' Very few black women found employment in northern public schools. Though a number attended state normal schools in Massachusetts-Charlotte Forten and Olivia Davidson among them-one black normal graduate who applied for a position in the Boston public schools was reportedly told, "Go down South among your own people."22 While some states willingly trained blacks as teachers, blacks stood little chance of teaching in public schools that were not strictly segregated. Some light-skinned black women probably worked in public schools while passing as white, but nineteenth-century northern school boards seldom knowingly employed blacks, unless they were hired to teach in all-black schools.23 21Urban, Why Teachers Organized, 16; Lotus D. Coffman, The Social Composition of the Teaching Population (New York: Teachers College, Columbia University, 1911), 55-56, 59. Irish-American women comprised about 20 percent of teachers in Boston and San Francisco and about 30 percent in Chicago and New York by the 1910s. See Janet Nolan, Servants of the Poor: Teachers and Mobility in Ireland and Irish America (University of Notre Dame Press, 2004); John L. Rury, Education and Social Change: Themes in the History of American Schooling (Mahwah NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2002), 97; Kaufman, Boston Women, 232-233, 240 n40, 241 3. "Before 1900, Boston public schools reportedly employed only one black teacher full time, as well as one substitute and three evening teachers who were black. Elizabeth Hafkin Pleck, Black Migration and Poverty: Boston 1865-1900 (New York: Academic Press, 1979), 34. Sarah Deutsch found four black women teaching in "greater Boston's public schools" by 1902; they included Miss Maria L. Baldwin, Miss Hattie Smith, and Miss Gertrude Mabel Baker. See Women and the City: Gender, Space and Power in Boston, 1870-1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 368, n232. Baldwin was principal of an interracial Cambridge, Massachusetts public school from 1887 until 1922. See Dorothy Porter Wesley, "Maria Louise Baldwin," in Black Women in America: An Historical Encyclopedia, Darlene Clark Hine, Elsa Barkley Brown, and Rosalyn Terborg-Penn, eds. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), 79-80. Forten attended the State Normal School at Salem. See Brenda Stevenson, ed. The Journals of Charlotte Forten Grimk? (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). Davidson attended the State Normal School at Framingham. See Olivia A. Davidson to Ednah Cheney, 28 August 1881, Folder #43, Ednah Dow Cheney Papers, Boston Public Library. 23John B. Reid found a few black teachers in nineteenth-century Detroit and Chicago; nearly all taught in segregated schools located in black neighborhoods. See John B. Reid, "A This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 173 School boards' preference for hiring white spinsters of respectability was inextricably tied to the women's race, class, and marital status. They assumed that without families in need of their labor, unmarried white women could choose to devote themselves to the public schools. The Boston school committee regarded normal school graduates as the "daughters of our citizens," presupposing their family dependency. School boards across the nation defended low salaries paid to women, contending that they lived in comfortable homes, had no dependents to support, and needed no more than a token wage for a few years until they found a husband who could provide as their father had. Even the Massachusetts Bureau of Labor Statistics acknowledged that women teachers did not earn enough to support themselves-sometimes less than needlewomen and factory operatives but justified their low pay arguing that teachers, unlike other working women, could rely on relatives and friends to meet living expenses.24 While school boards continued to imagine that teachers' families supported them, teachers' difficulties supporting themselves proved all too real. The lure of higher-paying work in city schools separated women from their homes. In 1882 Minneapolis teachers reported only 20 percent could live with family members if they chose; 80 percent had come to the city on their own. Newspapers poked fun at the things teachers did to supplement their earnings: "Schoolma'ams run reapers during vacation in Dougals county" sneered the Minneapolis Tribune. The image of refined city teachers running heavy farming equipment made for humorous headlines, but it spoke directly to the inability of women teachers to support themselves. Former teacher and suffrage lecturer Mary F. Eastman charged the nation treated teachers like half-paupers, denying them wages for two months of the year. Even teachers expert enough to lead state teachers' institutes, like Career to Build, A People to Serve, A Purpose to Accomplish: Race, Class, Gender and Detroit's First Black Women Teachers, 1865-1916," in "We Specialize in the Wholly Impossible": A Reader in Black Women's History, Darlene Clark Hine, Wilma King, Linda Reed, eds. (Brooklyn: Carlson, 1995), 310; and "Race, Class, Gender and the Teaching Profession: African American Schoolteachers of the Urban Midwest, 1865-1950," (Ph.D. diss., Michigan State University, 1996), 142. On black women's mostly private school teaching, see Stephanie J. Shaw, What a Woman Ought to Be and to Do: Black Professional Women Workers During the Jim Crow Era (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). On passing, James Weldon Johnson, The Autobiography of an Ex-Coloured Man (1912; New York: Vintage, 1989); Nella Larsen, Passing (1929; New York: Collier, 1971). 24"Reportof the Board," Thirtieth Annual Report of the Board of Education [Massachusetts] (Boston: Wright & Potter, 1867), 8, 12; "Report of the Committee on Normal School, 12 March 1872," Box: 1872, Boston School Committee Records, Boston Public Library (hereafter BSC); "Report of Visitors of the Normal Schools-Bridgewater," Thirty-Ninth Annual Report of the Board of Education [Massachusetts] (Boston: Wright & Potter, 1876), 40; "Teachers' Salaries," Journal ofEducation 1 June 1882, 345. For the criticism of Massachusetts Bureau of Labor Statistics see "New England Woman Suffrage Association: Address of Mary F. Eastman," Woman's Journal, 31 May 1873, 173. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 174 History, of Education Qzarterly May Church, had trouble piecing together a living. Emphasizing her plight as a widowed mother, she appealed to a new female county superintendent for help locating summer employment: "My wages amount to only three hundred and twenty dollars here and you know that will not with closest economy last twelve months when one has a family of four and board to pay. "25 Teachers' wage dependency became impossible to ignore after the depression of the 1870s, when numerous cities slashed women teachers' salaries while preserving other public employees' pay. Widespread retrenchments exposed the fallacy that women teachers enjoyed family support, but instead of placing them on an equal footing with other wage earners, revelations of their dependency put teachers in the ironic position of needing to defend their moral fitness to teach.26 Women's prowess as teachers had long been assumed to be rooted in domesticity, but neither the overcrowded classrooms of city schools nor the rough-hewn surroundings of country schoolhouses shared much in common with the fictive sanctuary of the middle-class home. Women perceived to work for material rather than spiritual rewards ran the risk of being dismissed as unfit to teach. In her pursuit of more money, May Church attempted to preempt criticism by emphasizing her tragic, "unprotected" status and all the professional institutes she had led. She also addressed her appeals to a superintendent who was a former teacher and had experienced her own share of financial troubles. Other educators proved less sympathetic. Addressing primary teachers in Boston, reformer and future school supervisor Louisa Hopkins acknowledged that teachers' pay ought to be better, but she blithely advised, "in the meantime you must bear up as best you may." Infusing feminine benevolence and middle-class morality into the definition of teacher professionalism, she insisted teaching was "too noble a work and too near your heart to be measured by money." Discounting women teachers' financial needs, Hopkins called for their sacrifices as proof of their fitness for the privilege of teaching. "If you merely 25Jurgen Herbst, And Sadly Teach: Teacher Education and Professionalization in American Culture (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 86; "Teachers' Salaries: What the Teachers of Minneapolis Have to ̂y," Journal of Education, 1 June 1882, 346; Minneapolis Tribune, 19 August 1878, Roll 80, Frame 1305, Annals; "New England Woman Suffrage Association: Address of Mary F. Eastman," Woman's Journal, 31 May 1873, 173; May Church to Sarah Christie Stevens, 15 February 1891, Folder Feb-Mar 1891, Box 14, James C. Christie and Family papers(hereafter JCC), Minnesota Historical Society. 26On depleted city treasuries and subsequent retrenchments, see Murphy, "From Artisan to Semi-Pro fessional," 18-19; David B. Tyack, The One Best System: A History of American Urban Education (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974), 177-178; Kaufman, Boston Women, 92; "Women Teachers," Woman's Journal, 28 December 1878: 413; Annual Report of the School Committee of Boston, 1878 (Boston: Rockwell and Churchill, 1878), 15-16; "Teachers' Salaries," Journal of 'Education, 24 March 1881:197. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 175 want high wages, and teach only because you can get your living by it, you are not a teacher in any high sense of the term."27 By organizing, women teachers attempted to defend themselves as female professionals. LTA founders agonized over the public image they conveyed. They considered calling themselves the teachers' club but decided that "club" had masculine connotations and might be perceived as a challenge to the existing principals' club. Their concerns had a precedent in Boston. Six years earlier NEWC founders had the same debate, some members shying away from the word "club" and others insisting that it would mark their organization with a "combination of sociability and freedom" and "a degree of exclusiveness." While the elite women of the NEWC decided the gamble worthwhile, teachers were unwilling to risk reproach for not knowing their place. They settled on calling themselves an "association," only to confront fears that a Women Teachers' Association would be confused with a Women's Suffrage Association. Ultimately they arrived at the name Lady Teachers' Association, a prudent choice they thought would reflect their genteel, not strident, pursuit of professionalism. Teachers in other cities likely went through the same process, for that name was not unique to Boston. But prudence failed the Boston teachers. Male principals mounted a "strenuous opposition" to their proposed organization, attempting to discredit the women as agitators.28 But as LTA president Lucy C. Bartlett explained, the LTA did not seek to be associated with either the woman question or the labor question, but rather to "be a teacher's union in the highest sense of that term." They worried that even the perception of political ambitions might hinder their occupational aspirations. Instead LTA members pursued an agenda of reform and self-help, emphasizing their ladyhood in an attempt to make it commensurate with professionalism and wage earning.29 27Karen Halttunen, Confidence Men and Painted Women: A Study of Middle-Class Culture, 1830-1870 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), 58-59; May Church to Sarah Christie Stevens, 15 February 1891, Folder Feb-Mar 1891, Box 14, JCC; Jean Christie, "Sarah Christie Stevens, Schoolwoman," Minnesota History 48 (Summer 1986): 246-48; Louisa P. Hopkins, "An Address to Primary School Teachers," Journal of Education, (4 November 1880): 309. See also Rev. E.A. Rand, "The Teachers High Privilege," Journal of Education, 18 September 1879: 145. 28Minutes of first meeting [undated], Volume I, Box 2, LTA; Sprague, 3; "Lady Teachers' Association," Woman's Journal, 22 November 1873: 348. For another women's club, Sorosis, with similar concerns about their name, see Karen J. Blair, The Clubwoman as Feminist: True Womanhood Redefined, 1868-1914 (New York: Holmes & Meier, 1980), 20-21. Isabella L. Bissett, "Fifty Years of the L.T.A.," Boston Teachers' Newsletter n.d. [1924?], 24, Massachusetts Historical Society. The formation of the Chicago Teachers' Club in 1892 also incited opposition from male principals. See Financial Secretary to Mr. Thos. McLachlan, 18 November 1904, Folder: Sept-Dec 1904, Box 38, CTF papers. 29Minutes of meetings, 20 February 1874, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. Also quoted in Bissett, "Fifty Years," 24. On concerns about being labeled as suffragists, see "School-teachers," This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 176 History of Education Quarter<ly The LTA attempted to fashion a public identity analogous to women's literary, self-improvement, and benevolent reform societies. Meetings featured readings of members' essays and staged debates on topics of pedagogical and cultural interest, ranging from whether unjust laws ought to be obeyed to whether keeping pupils after school served a useful purpose. Less experienced teachers could seek advice on delicate or difficult issues by submitting anonymous questions for group discussion. These self-culture activities confirmed for all present that they were not girlish, dime-novel readers whiling away their time until marriage but serious professionals worthy of contributing to the important debates of the day. Women teachers wanted a "voice in the community," rooted in professional attainments, not influence dependent on feminine charms. Patiently testing the best ways to improve themselves, teachers regarded these evenings as "the power house from which have come the currents of strength to help one another."30 LTA members espoused positive goals, disavowing conflict with principals and discouraging unseemly divisiveness or scrambles for power among themselves. They took pride in their mastery of parliamentary procedure and, above all, their commitment to building consensus. As one member recalled of their founding: "Then as now, there was no contest over elections." Historian Paul H. Mattingly has argued that postbellum schoolmen saw engagement in social conflict or partisanship as marks of poor character. Advice literature confirms the high value placed on avoiding conflict; educational journals insisted that good teachers elicited unconscious obedience from pupils. Clashes with pupils or administrators were the mark of a poor teacher. To "work well with others," articles urged teachers to respect their place in the school hierarchy, to stay out of others' classes, and most importantly, "to be absolutely silent on school affairs."'" Working well with others might seem synonymous with cooperation, but for teachers in the public schools, the desired form of cooperation more closely resembled Woman's Journal, 4 November 1871: 346. Even the comparatively militant Chicago Teachers' Federation tried to distance itself from the labor question as late as 1899. See Murphy, "From Artisan to Semi-Professional," 173. A leader of the Chicago Teachers' Club wrote that it "was organized on purely professional lines;" see Financial Secretary to Mr. Thos. McLachlan, 18 November 1904, Folder: Sept-Dec 1904, Box 38, CTF papers. St. Paul teachers put a similar premium on mutual improvement and professional development in their founding objectives. Minutes p.2, Volume 1898-1901, Series VI, Box 9, StPTF. 30Colburn, "Lady Teachers' Association," 254; Minutes of meetings, 6 February 1874 and 18 February 1875, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; "Massachusetts Teachers Convention," Woman's Journal, (24 January 1874): 26. On dime-novel reading, see Nan Enstad, Ladies of Labor, Girls of Adventure : Working Women, Popular Culture, and Labor Politics at the Turn of the Twentieth Century (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999). Bissett, "Fifty Years," 25. "Bissett, "Fifty Years," 24. See also minutes of meetings, February 1877 entry, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. Paul H. Mattingly, The Classless Profession: American Schoolmen in the Nineteenth Century (New York: New York University Press, 1975), xiii. H.E. Paine, "Requisites for Practical Success as a Teacher," Journal of 'Education, 11 September 1884:163-64. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 177 unquestioning obedience, an expectation difficult to reconcile with professionalism. Enjoined to submit to authority, women teachers were nonetheless expected to provide students with a carefully calibrated model of independence in the classroom. In contrast with Catholic teachers' supposedly unthinking obedience to the priesthood, leading educators, including William T. Harris, the United States Commissioner of Education, insisted that secular public school teachers cultivated "critical acuteness and independent thinking" in the classroom. At the same time, educators advised women against showing too much independence. One writer conceded: "it is a good thing to be a thoughtful, reasonably independent, and self-respecting teacher," but he reserved higher praise for the "teachable teacher." The paradox of being expected to educate without displaying any capacity for critical thought incited teachers' scorn. In lady teachers, LTA member Mary Colburn declared, there was "talent dormant which, for the well-being of the community, should be roused," as well as "latent energy, and insight and intelligence which would make us all more valuable members of society." Simmering under Colburn's assertions was the frustration of being underestimated by male colleagues. Critiquing the proceedings of a state teachers' association meeting, a teacher from Salem, Massachusetts prefaced her remarks by asking her readers whether she, as a female country teacher, had "any right to form or express an opinion on educational affairs." Being at the bottom of the educational hierarchy, she noted that "it does not become a country teacher" to question the esteemed gentlemen's remarks from the platform. But in her written review, she highlighted the gentlemen's flawed logic and unwarranted assumptions about gender, proving herself to possess a mind that rivaled theirs. In discussions at LTA meetings, women teachers resolved that they could not afford to ignore insults to their professionalism but needed to work together to demonstrate their accomplishments with tact.32 Cultivating sociability represented an important aspect of local association. LTA meetings featured an assortment of genteel parlor entertainments-singing, piano playing, and readings-followed by refreshments and informal discussions. Teacher Louise Hotchkiss contended that "there are two ways for a teacher to progress: one poring over her books, the other mingling with the world." After days spent delivering lessons to children, Hotchkiss insisted on the importance of sociable adult "Harris quoted in John T. McGreevy, Catholicism and American Freedom: A History (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2003), 118; "Teachable Teachers," Journal of Education, 22 May 1884: 329. Emphasis mine. Colburn, "Lady Teachers' Associations," 254; "A Word from a Country Teacher," Woman's Journal, 26 November 1870: 370; O.S. Newell, Report of the Secretary, February 1876, Folder 1876-1899, Box 1, LTA. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 178 Histoly of Education Quarterly interaction: "for a teacher to keep growing, she needs especially the quickening influence that comes from personal contact with live, human forces." St. Paul teachers' founding objectives for association included "the promotion of a more social spirit among the teachers." Likewise, retired Boston teachers described the "dear LTA" with affection, remembering old friends and the "social spirit" that infused their meetings. In the hopes that genteel association would compensate for the absence of family bonds, LTA members described themselves as feeling "more as a band of sisters than a mere gathering of teachers."3 Without the shelter of middle-class domesticity to shield against the self-interested world of market relations, teachers emphasized their shared gentility to establish their fitness to teach. Called upon to supplement the work of mothers, especially those working-class and immigrant mothers who "neglected" their home responsibilities in order to earn money, teachers knew they were expected to deliver more than lessons. "Unconscious character building" became an increasingly prominent part of teachers' work. "The teacher is an object lesson [herself]," one reformer explained, "eyes are following her as she is silently imparting ideas of life."34 If wage-dependent teachers were to measure up to that ideal of silent, effortless role modeling, they not only needed to embody the moral perfection ascribed to native born, middle-class women, but they also had to differentiate themselves from the racialized, working-class, and immigrant communities whose children they were charged with preparing for citizenship. To do so, teachers aligned themselves with middle-class reform. For example, LTA membership was initially open to all "lady teachers," but when the association revised its constitution in 1879, members clarified that only "women employed as regular teachers in the Public Schools of Boston" were eligible to join. By expressly excluding teachers of private and parochial schools, members affirmed their loyalty to reformers' agenda for nonsectarian public education. When LTA members voted to support the election of women to the school boards, they phrased their newspaper announcement to win reformers' approval. Downplaying teachers' interests in electing women, LTA members "O.S. Newell, Report of the Secretary, February 1876 and 1899 engraved invitation, Folder 1876-1899, Box 1; and minutes of meetings: 10 June 1875, December 1875 and January 1876, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; Louise Hotchkiss, "Teachers as Social Beings," Journal of Education 8 April 1876: 171; Minutes p.2, Volume 1898-1901, Series VI, Box 9, StPFT. Quoted phrases are from Helen A. Emery to Miss Haskell, undated, and Mary E. Perkins to Miss Haskell, 23 November [no year], Folder: undated, both in Box 1, LTA and Colburn, "Lady Teachers' Associations," 254. Similar phrasing also appears in minutes of meetings, 11 March 1875, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. 34Louisa P. Hopkins, "The Primary Teacher: Her Work, and Her Fitness for It," Journal of Education, 17 June 1880: 388; Rev. Smith Baker, "The Dignity of the Common School Teacher's Mission," delivered to the Minnesota Educational Association December 1891, Minutes of Annual Meetings, page 384, Minnesota Educational Association Records, Minnesota Historical Society [hereafter MEA]. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 179 resolved that "it is for the good of the schools that women be elected on the new board."35 LTA members cultivated relationships with female reformers, especially those in positions of state educational authority, while they took pains to keep their support for woman suffragists separate from their occupational activism. They extended honorary membership to school committeewoman and supervisor Lucretia Crocker and activist Mary Livermore, both former teachers, and invited nearly all the women elected to school offices to address the association. Many teachers became avid suffragists at the turn of the century, but until then teachers often downplayed their political convictions.36 Mary Colburn described the LTA as a "little corps of subordinates" who were "inexperienced citoyennes." Her choice of words suggested their desire for more participatory citizenship but marked it as an immature aspiration, far less threatening than a demand for women's rights. Nevertheless, most of the leaders of the LTA were also active in the South Boston Woman Suffrage Club.37 Concerned that suffrage activism could impede the LTA's objectives, they joined a separate organization, and in this case, "club" seemed a perfectly appropriate word to describe their group. With the well respected reformer Julia Ward Howe serving as their first president, these suffrage club members had no worries about social disapproval. LTA member Isabel Kelren played a large role in this organization: petitioning, lobbying legislators, and contributing articles to the Woman's journal. Kelren acknowledged she was a teacher in one report, but for the most part, LTA members kept their suffrage activism apart from professional goals. A canvass 35See original constitution, February 1874, and revised constitution, January 1879, in Volume I, Box 2, LTA. The Boston Primary Teachers Association, founded by LTA members in 1895, specified similar requirements for membership. See Bissett, "Fifty Years;" and Boston Primary Teachers Association Records, Massachusetts Historical Society. 11 November 1886 entry, Volume: Nov 1882-Apr 1887, Records of Meetings Box 1, Woman's Education Association records, Massachusetts Historical Society. See also: "St. Paul Federation of Women Teachers," p. 1, Folder 1, Box 2, Series II, StPFT; Baker, "The Dignity of the Common School Teacher's Mission," 384, MEA; Margaret J. Evans, "To the Women's Clubs of Minnesota?", September 1895, Box 1, Minnesota Federation of Women's Clubs Records, (hereafter MFWC); Minnesota Historical Society Minutes of meetings, November 1875, Volume I, Box 2, LTA records; "Learning Self-Respect," Woman's Journal, 20 November 1875: 369. 36Lucretia Crocker to Isabel Kelren, 17 February 1877, and Mary A. Livermore to Miss Lyon, 27 May 1889, Folder: 1876-1899, Box 1; Minutes of meetings, 8 June 1876, January 1877, March 1877, 12 March 1889, and 10 December 1889, Volume I, and 15 September 1890, Volume II, Box 2, LTA. Patricia A. Carter, "Everybody's Paid But the Teacher:" The Teaching Profession and the Women's Movement (New York: Teachers' College Press, 2002). 37Colburn, "Lady Teachers' Associations," 254. Among the LTA members active in the South Boston suffrage club's leadership were: Miss Julia M. Baxter, Miss E. Frances Blacker, Miss Mary L. Howard, Miss Isabel M. Kelren, Mrs. Ann Elizabeth Newell, Miss Mary G.A. Toland. The Woman's Journal frequently reported on their meetings. See Woman's Journal, 8 May 1875: 148; 12 June 1875, 189; 18 November 1876, 372; 16 December 1876,404-405; 13 January 1877, 13; 17 February 1877, 49; 7 April 1877, 112; 21 April 1877, 125; 12 May 1877, 148; 15 March 1879, 84; 19 April 1879, 126. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 180 Histo;y of Educationi Quarterly of over 800 Boston women, taken in preparation for an 1884 hearing on municipal suffrage, confirmed local teachers' support for suffrage as well as their hesitancy to engage openly in political activism. Suffragist Harriet Robinson reported overwhelming support for suffrage among teachers in South Boston, attributing it to equally strong support among local school committee members. She asserted that most teachers supported suffrage, "but do not dare even to sign a petition, because they are afraid of losing their places."38 Alliances with elite women strengthened teachers' belief in the value of their work, but those alliances alone did not embolden them to make demands on school boards or city governments. After all, female school officers were not that powerful themselves; they held minority status on school boards everywhere they were elected. As school committeewoman Abby W. May's failure at the polls in 1878 showed, even wealthy, well known women with long records of public service could not count on male support for reelection. The limits of female influence, however, represented only part of the problem teachers confronted. Philosophically, elite women's support for teachers stemmed from their faith in women's selflessness as a cornerstone of reform. Elite women perceived women's selfless labor for the schools as a bulwark against the partisanship, self-interest, and corruption in local politics that threatened to prevent the public schools from fulfilling their mission. Though many reformers held teaching in high esteem, their confidence placed weighty obligations on teachers. "We must not be mere operators or workers at a trade," Louisa Hopkins counseled teachers, "but members of a profession, masters of an art." Both male educators and elite women advised that "nothing great was ever done for wages" and insisted that teachers rise above self-interest. The Boston school committee agreed. "It is to be regretted," they warned, "to see so many of our teachers seeking personal gain."39 Genteel organization could not compensate for teachers' lack of political representation, but it enabled them to claim respectability and differentiate themselves from other female wage earners. Though generally more interested in mutual aid, LTA members raised money on behalf of Jennie Collins' Boffin's Bower, a charity for destitute girls, an endeavor that drew attention to the social distance between themselves and the recipients of their benevolence. Envisioning themselves on the favored end of the social ladder, teachers fumed at the "masculine autocrats" who failed to 38"Our Legislators in South Boston," Woman's Journal, 20 March 1875: 92; "Woman Suffrage Hearing, Woman's Journal, 9 February 1884: 45. 39Kaufman, Boston Women, 84-85; "An Address to Primary School Teachers," Journal of Education, 4 November 1880, 309; Rev. Smith Baker, "The Dignity of the Common School Teacher's Mission," 383, MEA; "Report on Salary Reductions," Annual Report of the School Committee of the City of Boston, 1878 (Boston: Rockwell and Churchill, 1878), 17-18. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 181 recognize their social and professional attainments and dismissed all wage earning women as "poor degenerate womankind." Privileged women were just as guilty of harsh judgments. When school committeewoman Dr. Mary Safford-Blake addressed the LTA, she stressed the precariousness of working women's moral conditions in the city. She commended LTA members for banding together, believing it was critical "that teachers, separated from their homes, would associate themselves in Clubs where they could have the privileges of home."' Her address belied her suspicions about unmarried women, while confirming reformers' belief in association as a substitute for the protections of family life. Organized teachers continued to seek alliances with more privileged women as confirmation of their moral character and class standing. Many teachers' organizations eagerly affiliated with the new State Federations of Women's Clubs in the 1 890s. When the Massachusetts Federation extended an invitation, the LTA joined at the first opportunity, and St. Paul teachers made affiliation one of their first orders of business. By 1900, the two largest clubs belonging to the Minnesota Federation were the Teachers Club of Minneapolis and the St. Paul Grade Teachers' Federation.4' Yet, teachers remained subordinate members despite their numbers. Focusing on industrial and moral education and improving school sanitation in the interests of children, club women called for "close sympathy" and "cordial cooperation" with teachers. Club women recognized reforms "undertaken in the spirit of criticism" would not meet with "the warm cooperation of teachers." But in adopting the motto "noblesse oblige," the educational committee of the Minnesota Federation revealed how class distinguished some members from others.42 Soon after joining, the LTA let its membership in the Federation lapse. St. Paul teachers voted to resign after a few years too, but careful to keep up appearances, they made certain their back dues were paid in full.43 ^Minutes of meetings, 10 December 1874, 14 January 1875, and 14 December 1876, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; "More Insults," Woman's Journal, 11 February 1871: 43. 41Even the organization that has become the epitome of teacher militancy, the Chicago Teachers' Federation, joined the Illinois Federation of Women's Clubs the same year that it affiliated with the Chicago Federation of Labor. On the elite membership of the General and State Federations of Women's Clubs and its interest in public schools, see Blair, Clubwoman, 95,101. Minutes of meetings, 17 September 1895 entry, p.81, Volume II, Box 2, LTA. Minutes of meetings: 4 October 1899, p.20 and 9 March 1900, p.28, Box 9, Series VI; and Typescript, page 2: "St. Paul Federation of Women Teachers," Folder 1 History, Box 2, Series II, StPFT; "Yearbook, 1900-1901," Box 3, MFWC. 42Newsclipping: "Meet Next at St. Paul," n.p., 6 October 1895; Newsclipping [undated]: Mrs. A.H. Pearson, Northfield, MN, "Relation of the Club to the Public School," delivered at First Annual Meeting, 29-30 Oct 1895 at Minneapolis; and 1897 Program of the Educational Committee, Box 1, MFWC. 43Minutes of meetings, 8 June 1897, p. 104, Volume II, Box 2, LTA, and minutes of meetings, 11 May 1908, p. 82, 1903-1915 Volume, Box 9, Series VI, StPFT. There is no record in their minutes that St. Paul teachers changed their decision to resign or that they This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 182 History of Edutcation Quarterly With an almost martyr-like conviction, teachers seem to have agreed that it was better to suffer injustices than indignities. In the popular Longfellow poem, "A Psalm of Life," teachers found meaningful counsel; verses from the poem appear in the reports and minutes of the LTA and the local suffrage club to which many of them belonged. "A Psalm of Life" urged readers not to submit to the empty life of a soulless laborer but to pursue their highest calling with patience for rewards. It celebrated class mobility as a product of self-improvement, perseverance, and moral leadership, describing how one individual could elevate an entire community: "Lives of great men all remind us /We can make our lives sublime .... /A forelorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again." Though written in a highly sentimental idiom, the poem does not address women nor does its imagery include any women, children, families, or homes. Situated "in the world's broad field of battle" and "in the bivouac of life," the poem seems to speak to a male audience.4 However, in blurring the entitlements and attributes of gender and insisting that class was a product of moral relations, Longfellow's tribute to character and duty resonated with women teachers. By embracing these same values as their own, women teachers asked that they be recognized for their commitment to public service, while they simultaneously implored those who had achieved higher stations in life to fulfill their duty toward them. "Let us then be up and doing, / With a heart for any fate" proclaimed their moral devotion to teaching. "Still achieving, still pursuing / Learn to labor and to wait" juxtaposed their devotion with their dependency on others. With patient fidelity to their work in the classroom, teachers endeavored to dispel criticisms of their professionalism and win social privileges they believed they deserved. In order to wait patiently, teachers organized to protect each other's financial and social well being. At the first LTA meeting, founding members discussed the pressing need for "financial protection for members in case of illness" and passed a set of by-laws providing for mutual relief. Women's rates of illness had not risen, but the meanings attached to women's health had changed. Medical men had entered into debates over women's education and employment, and Dr. Edward H. Clarke popularized the notion that attended any MFWC meetings after 1902, but they continued to be listed in MFWC directories for several years. The Minneapolis Teachers' Club also resigned in 1908. See Yearbooks, Box 3, MFWC. ^"South Boston Suffrage Club," Woman's Journal, 21 April 1877: 125. David B. Tyack argues that reverence for character in "A Psalm of Life" correlated with the self-image of nineteenth-century male school superintendents in "Pilgrim's Progress: Toward a Social History of the School Superintendency, 1860-1960," History of Education Quarterly 16 (Autumn 1976): 259. For useful critical discussions of "A Psalm of Life," see Matthew Gartner, "Becoming Longfellow: Work, Manhood, and Poetry," American Literature 72 (March 2000): 59-86; and David R. Peck, "Let us then be up and doing," ANQ 16 (Summer 2003): 30-35. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 183 "brain-work" interfered with women's health. Countering Clarke's claims, women's rights advocates argued that women's ill health was not a sign that women violated the laws of nature, but a measure of the obstacles women had to overcome if their intellectual and financial needs were not met by family. At the same time, disease became associated with immigrant homes and poor hygiene, while health became understood as a mark of good personal habits and self-control.45 For women teachers, good health became a crucial signifier of gentility, and when they did become ill, loss of income exacerbated their predicament. Some school boards simply did not pay absent teachers; others obliged teachers to pay for a substitute. To address the financial toll exacted by illness, LTA members agreed that whenever a member became ill for more than two weeks, other members would contribute a small sum each week for the benefit of the sick member. Focused on protecting sick teachers from descending into debt and dependency, the relief program grew more formal and elaborate, soon assessing members a flat fee, negotiating with local hospitals to provide preferential rates for teachers, and appointing a committee to visit sick members and to extend sympathy to survivors. Miles away, St. Paul and Minneapolis teachers would soon establish similar programs to meet social and economic needs that the schools did not.46 Stressing mutuality to share the burdens of illness, teachers' relief programs paralleled the postbellum development of fraternal orders, such as the Independent Order of the Odd Fellows, the Knights of Pythias, and the Foresters of America. Offering sickness, disability, and survivor benefits, these organizations helped replace a portion of the family breadwinner's wages when he was unable to work. Fraternal orders enrolled men for the most part. Some enlisted members' wives in auxiliaries to help provide benefits to elderly members but not as individuals entitled to membership benefits themselves. In the 1 890s, the Ladies of the Maccabees became the 45Bissett, "Fifty Years," 24, 25; Minutes of meetings: 20 March 1874 and 16 April 1874, Volume 1, Box 2, LTA. Martha H. Verbrugge, Abie-Bodied Womanhood: Personal Health and Social Change in Nineteenth-Century Boston (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 101 2,114,120-23,126; Edward H. Clarke, Sex in Education, or, A Fair Chance for the Girls (Boston: James R. Osgood, 1874). For a similar argument about women's employment from a medical perspective, see Azel Ames, Jr., Sex in Industry: A Plea for the Working Girl (Boston: J.R. Osgood, 1875). ^Bissett, "Fifty Years," 25; Constitution, article 1, and minutes of meetings, 16 April 1874 entry, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. Over time the LTA adjusted the amount contributed and the benefit paid, but the concept remained essentially the same throughout the nineteenth century. On the St. Paul Teachers' relief efforts, see Yearbook: St. Paul Teachers' Federation, 1905-1906, p. 7, Folder 7, Box 1, Series I, and Minutes of Meetings, 4 December 1899, p.26, 7 May 1900, p.34,2 December 1901, p. 54, 3 March 1902, p.59, 5 May 1902, p.65,29 September 1902, p.68, Box 9, Series VI, StPFT. On the Minneapolis Teachers' Club and hospitalization fund, see "Educational Work," undated newsclipping, Folder: Beginnings of MFWC, 1894 1901, Box 1, MFWC. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 184 History of Education Quar-ter-ly first exclusively female fraternal order.4 Seeking to be "to the working woman what the woman's club is to her sister of the leisure class," it might have appealed to teachers, but its membership was comprised of working class housewives. They stressed the importance of insuring a housewife's life for the security of her children, believing that men were "often more helpless than a mother" after a spouse's death.48 Whereas these working class women organized to protect their homes, which for them meant staying out of the labor force, women teachers sought to protect their incomes. Female teachers had long needed income protection more than their male counterparts. In the 1 870s, just three months before teachers organized the LTA, local newspapers exposed the gender inequity of school board policy on sickness. The headmaster of a South Boston school was stricken with typhoid fever, and while he was ill, two female subordinates performed his administrative and class work in addition to their own. The women received no additional pay and the headmaster's salary continued in full. Shortly thereafter, those two women teachers became ill and confined to bed rest, however, their salaries did not continue as the headmaster's did. They were required to pay for substitutes to take over their classrooms. The local newspapers shamed the school conmmittee for its heartless treatment of the women, arguing that one of them was a widow with as many dependents as the headmaster. Vhile the school board "freed" the sick man from financial worries, it "deprived" a sick woman of her salary under identical circumstances. However unjust the policy, no change was forthcoming.49 As the economy sank into a depression at the end of 1873, school board members were more likely to take away privileges granted to a few principals than extend them to an army of women. While teachers' immediate priority was to help their sick colleagues, suffragist Lucy Stone publicized this incident as evidence of why women needed political equality. Stone insisted that "charitable contributions for these wronged teachers" would merely provide temporary relief. The vote, she argued, could remedy the injustice. Stone's editorial calling on teachers 47As early as 1868, the Odd Fellows established female auxiliaries called Rebekah lodges. The Ladies of the Maccabees were founded in 1892. See George Neil Emery and John Charles Herbert Emery, A Young Man's Benefit: The Independent Order of Odd fellow and Sickness Insurance in the United States and Canada, 1860-1929 (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 1999), 21-22. Emery and Emery date the Foresters' inclusion of women to 1899, but Robert L. Reid indicates that the Women's Catholic Order of the Foresters operated in Chicago from 1891. Reid's evidence suggests that, like the Ladies of the Maccabees, the Women's Catholic Order of the Foresters provided insurance for women, and may have included more unmarried women. See Margaret A. Haley, Battleground: The Autobiography of Margaret A. Haley, Robert L. Reid, ed. (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1982), 29 nl 1, 31. 48David T. Beito, "To Advance the 'Practice of Thrift and Economy': Fraternal Societies and Social Capital, 1890-1920," Journal of Interdisciplinary History 29 (Spring 1999): 599. 49"Not An Uncommon Case," Woman's Journal, 1 November 1873, 348. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 185 "to make common cause with the suffragists" likely piqued principals' suspicions that the formation of the LTA threatened their privileges.50 Like Stone, the teachers did not want charity, but unlike Stone, they worried about preserving their tenuous independence. To LTA members, mutual aid was not charity; it demonstrated their commitment to middle-class values of self-reliance and cooperation. Moreover, mutual aid did not entail conflict with school authorities; the women created the LTA to operate independently of the schools. Most importantly, it represented a commitment to each other: "What stronger bond can bind us together-what tie of friendship is more sacred than when affliction & adversity assails us ... than the helping and sympathizing hand of a fellow sister stretched forth for succor & help united with love." Like a fraternal order, LTA members imagined themselves as an extended family, and they rejected the notion that teachers' financial needs signified moral failings, agreeing that sickness "comes to all some time or other."'5' St. Paul and Boston teachers both established "friendly" and "visiting" committees to visit and sympathize with sick members, turning the elite practice that emphasized surveillance of the poor into a supportive ritual among equally vulnerable women.52 In contrast with male-dominated educator associations, these local organizations championed members' economic needs. In 1878, LTA members strengthened the organization's provisions for mutual relief, agreeing that it had become the key advantage of their association. They also began publishing a monthly journal, aptly titled The Budget. The St. Paul Grade Teachers Federation placed an even higher premium on pay and welfare issues; their spirited discussions centered on new ideas to secure their income, increase it, or save more of it.53 After two failed initiatives, first to obtain employment contracts, then to secure pension legislation, St. Paul teachers turned to sickness provisions, developing programs that could be sustained "Ibid. 51Minutes of meetings, 18 February 1875. On teachers' use of the word "sister," see minutes of meetings, 18 February 1875, 11 March 1875, 10 June 1884; Report of Executive Committee Meeting for 1879 & 1880, and M. Bragdon to Sisters Howard and Danforth, undated and loose in Volume I, Box 2, LTA records; Colburn, "Lady Teachers' Associations," 254; Beito, "To Advance the Practice," 589. "Minutes of meeting, 19 June 1883, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; Minutes 4 Dec 1899, p.26, Volume 1898-1901, Series VI, Box 9, StPFT. On friendly visiting as social control, see Roy Lubove, The Professional Altruist: The Emergence of Social Work asa Career, 1880-1930 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1965); Clarke A. Chambers, "Toward a Redefinition of Welfare History," Journal of American History 73 (September 1986): 418. "Minutes of meetings, February and March 1878 and 14 December 1880, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. McDonough, p.3, Folder 1, Series V, Box 8, and Minutes 18 May 1898, p.l, 20 March 1899, p.ll, 4 December 1899, p. 26, 7 May 1900, p. 34, 2 December 1901, p. 54, 3 March 1902, p. 59, 5 May 1902, p. 65, 29 September 1902, 68, Series VI, Box 9, StPFT. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 186 Histoiy of Education Quarterly with or without school board support. 4 In Boston, as well as St. Paul, sickness benefits became the mainstay of their organizations, while pensions for elderly and disabled teachers remained goals for the future. Receiving relief was not their only objective; giving relief provided important returns. It demonstrated that wage work did not preclude ladylike selflessness. When Mary Howard proposed holding a fair to raise money for the LTA, she emphasized that her interest in fundraising "was not for the sake of increasing our bank account for ourselves, but that we might have more means with which to do good." Unlike fraternal orders, which restricted benefits to members, the LTA sometimes extended its protection to nonmembers, opening their purses to pay for substitutes or provide a small cash gift to teachers who might otherwise be "reduced to want." And even with nonmembers, the LTA attempted to "undertake the delicate task of bestowing the gift, so that it would not seem to be charity" but rather a symbol of their shared predicament as women who taught.55 In sickness, disability, and death, teachers asserted their collective entitlement to dignity. LTA by-laws codified procedures "to visit the sick and offer sympathy to them," so that no teacher would have to endure ill health without the assistance and comfort of friends. They also developed genteel mourning rituals to express their deep sense of loss. When Miss Mary E. Stubbs died, LTA members passed an elaborate resolution regarding their obligations to a fellow teacher. Seeking to "perform some act worthy of her memory," LTA members attempted to affirm their late colleague's gentility as well as their own. Likewise, when Isabel Kelren passed away, members declared her memory "a precious legacy to us." In mourning, LTA members transformed themselves into a genteel proxy family, providing each other with the assurance that no spinster teacher would go to a pauper's grave." 54Entries dated 6 November 1899, p. 26; 3 March 1902, p. 59; 5 May 1902, p. 65, 2 March 1902, p.72, Minutes 1898-1901 volume, Series VI, Box 9, and "Yearbook, 1905-1906," Folder 7, Box 1, Series 1, StPFT. See also entry dated 14 October 1907, p.69, Minutes, 1903 1915 volume, Series VI, Box 9, StPFT. 55Minutes of meetings, 15 September 1896, p. 96, Volume 2, Box 2, LTA. Beito describes how fraternal orders' reverence for mutuality also included "constant reminders of the sad fate suffered by those outside the reciprocal fraternal family." Beito, "To Advance the Practice," 589. In contrast, teachers repeatedly took up the cause of nonmembers. Murphy, "From Artisan to Semi-Professional," 161; Minutes of meetings, 9 June 1885, 15 December 1885, and 27 September 1886, Volume I, Box 2, LTA. 56By-laws and minutes of meetings, 19 June 1883 and 12 Sept 1883, 4 and 12 February 1875, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; "South Boston Woman Suffrage Club," Woman's Journal, 19 April 1879: 126. Halttunen argues that mourning was both a mark of respectability in the mid nineteenth century and a profound experience that could transform a common laborer into a genteel member of society. "Middle-class Americans," she explains, "were obsessed with mourning their dead because in their sentimental scheme of social status, the capacity to experience deep grief demonstrated true gentility. For the same sentimental reason, they were almost equally obsessed with the act of offering sympathy to those who mourned." Halttunen, Confidence Men, 13 4-13 5, 144. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 187 Mutual aid helped teachers maintain a semblance of collective self sufficiency while they sought to improve their financial conditions. In a halting and uneven manner, Gilded Age teachers began to make claims on the state in exchange for their services. In addition to "the assurance of a comfortable living so long as we continue to give our services for the good of our fellows," women teachers declared that after "serv[ing] our day and generation in school-work," they should be entitled "to have a sufficient reserve against the 'rainy days' of the teacher's life."57 They petitioned public officials asking them to acknowledge teachers' faithful service. Though their decision to petition followed the example of a generation of antislavery women, in this case they were not petitioning on behalf of disenfranchised others, but for their own benefit. The difference gave Boston teachers pause, but after a second round of salary reductions in 1878, they gathered more than 700 teachers' signatures. Their petition did not ask the school committee to reinstate their salaries; it asked only that the school committee make no further cuts in them. Still, the school committee denounced their petition as "evil," advised teachers to desist, and accused the teachers of putting their own pecuniary interests before the public schools. Boston teachers faced further salary cuts in 1881 and 1882. Rather than risk a similar reproach, this time teachers gathered the signatures of one thousand "citizens and taxpayers" to a statement asking that teachers be treated like the faithful public servants they were.58 While Boston teachers enlisted the help of elites, those in Minneapolis mounted their own defense. Attempting to stave off the wave of cutbacks that had already reached Boston and Chicago, Minneapolis teachers issued a bold free labor appeal. They alluded to Abraham Lincoln's famous claim that "there is no permanent class of hired laborers among us," protesting that was, in fact, their fate. While the generation that fought for the Union wanted to believe that free citizens could better their conditions if they worked hard, teachers insisted they were destined for public dependency because they gave their lives in the service of the schools. They appealed to the board of education: "most of us are women for whom there is no chance of 'growing into a larger business,' of 'being taken into the firm,' ... hopes which buoy up the clerk working upon a small salary. We always work upon small salaries-we always expect to. Is it your wish and intuition ""Salary of Teachers," Woman's Journal, 28 June 1879: 207, reprinted from "The Teachers' Profession," Journal of Education, 15 May 1879: 313. 58Minutes of meetings: 22 May 1878, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; Petition dated 11 June 1878, Box June-July 1878, BSC; "Report on Salary Reductions," Annual Report of the School Committee of the City of Boston, 1878 (Boston: Rockwell and Churchill, 1878), 17-18; Proceedings of the School Committee of Boston, 1881 (Boston: Rockwell & Churchill, 1881), 78; "Report on Sue?es," Annual Report of the School Committee of the City of Boston, 1881 (Boston: Rockwell and Churchill, 1882), 14-15; Proceedings of the School Committee of Boston, 1882 (Boston: Rockwell & Churchill, 1882), 32. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 188 Histoiy of Education Quarterly that the day we cease to teach we become paupers to be supported at the public expense?"59 Bolder than their counterparts in Boston, Minneapolis teachers stressed that their circumstances set them apart from both free laborers and protected women. Significantly, however, neither teachers' group used equal rights arguments to make their case. Pointing out that the city wanted only ladies as role models in its schools, Minneapolis teachers warned: "if we are so limited by circumstances that we lose caste and tone, you must see the adverse influence upon the future of your city." Even though many women would gladly take up their positions, teachers contended that few had the desired education or cultivation. If the city wanted cheap labor, it was available. If the city wanted "scholarship, morality and refinement, lifelong training and the faithful service of years," however, teachers warned that it should not expect to procure those merits with subsistence wages. If their argument for class and professional entitlements failed, they stressed the responsibility of supporting others: "there are very few of your teachers who are not aiding in the support of others; -here it is a daughter contributing to the necessities of a widowed mother, there, a sister helping to carry a young brother through college, or it may even be a widow struggling for the daily bread of her fatherless little ones. And who shall say that this is not a woman's right?" Likewise, Boston teachers insisted that their protests were not selfish but motivated by their private and public obligations: "the expense of living has not been reduced; [and] many teachers have others dependent on them." Manipulating constructions of gender and redefining needs as rights, teachers argued that the "right" to support one's family was not unique to male breadwinners but extended to professional women.60 Moreover, they contended that they deserved this right because of the special qualities they brought to the work of teaching, not because they possessed rights in equal measure with others. Attempting to distinguish themselves from other wage-seekers, these teachers pursued gentility, not equality, as a means of resisting wage exploitation. They insisted that the schools owed lady teachers a respectable standard of living. Teachers tallied up their living expenses against their small salaries, publishing their budgets in educators' and women's journals to highlight the unreasonable economies expected of them. Clara Jennison 59Lincoln quoted in Richard Hofstadter, The American Political Tradition and the Men Who Made It (New York: Vintage, 1973), 133; Petition addressed "To the Honorable Board of Education," and petition addressed "The Board of Education," Folder: March-May 1879, Box 1, Minneapolis Board of Education Meeting Files, Minnesota Historical Society (hereafter MPLS Ed). ^Petition addressed "The Board of Education," Folder: March-May 1879, Box 1, MPLS Ed; Minutes of meetings, 22 May 1878 entry, Volume I, Box 2, LTA; Kaufman, Boston Women, 84; Petition, 11 June 1878, Box: June-July 1878, Petitions, 29 March 1881, Box: March 1881, Petitions, 14 February 1882, Box: Jan-Feb 1882, BSC. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 189 of the Minneapolis Teachers' Club reported that a teacher's "necessary expenses" totaled $574 when the average salary was $483.61 Even more egregious, teachers complained that the Chicago school board took advantage of teachers' illness to control labor costs, ruling that any teacher returning from a period of illness should "not expect her place back, ... she must be willing to take any place the exigencies of the schools may afford." A teacher reportedly earning $800 a year returned from several weeks' illness to be offered the choice of accepting a position at $350 or resigning. Even capitalists showed employees more respect, declared a writer in the Journal of Education who followed up with a spirited inquiry into whether other employers used the illness of a "faithful servant" as a "pretext to place a fresher person in his place" or to cut their salaries. The correspondent found that "the soulless corporations don't do it; the dry-goods men don't do it; the hardware dealers don't do it; the butchers and the bakers and the candlestickmakers don't do it; the farmers don't do it; the contractors don't do it; the members of firms don't do it; the other city departments of even Chicago don't do it; nobody... does it but the executive officers of Chicago public schools." Drawing attention to this unjust treatment by the sheltering arm of a supposedly benevolent state, educators suggested that market employment now gave workers more respect than the state gave its loyal teachers. Their protests evoked the contradictions of an emerging state bureaucracy that clung to old status relations-such as those between master and slave, baron and feme-while discarding the paternalistic expectations those relations entailed in favor of unencumbered contract practices."2 Having achieved a lady's education through their own efforts, teachers argued that self-made ladies should be treated with nothing less than equal respect. Which woman made a better teacher, they asked: "a girl brought up in easy circumstances," or "one who through industry, perseverance, and real force of character, had acquired an education and reputation sufficient [for teaching]?" The ethos of self-help put a democratic gloss on class distinctions, justifying teachers' pursuit of ladyhood as a socially meaningful, not a frivolous, endeavor. It also dissociated them from the class warfare of the Gilded Age. Newspaper editors distinguished teachers' pleas for salary increases from workers' demands, contending that the 61"Teachers' Salaries," Journal of Education, 1 June 1882: 345; Untitled item, Chicago Teacher September 1873): 133; Solitude's Letter to the Editor, Chicago Teacher, December 1873: 191; "'Pauper Teachers' inNatick," Woman's Journal, 16 January 1875: 23; "Reducing the Pay of Teachers," Woman's Journal (30 October 1875): 345. On Jennison's membership in the Teachers' Club see Yearbook, 1897-8, Box 3, MFWC. 62"The Looker-On," Journal of Education (8 April 1880): 234-235. For a similar comparison of postbellum sickness policies in which schools emerge as punitive toward women, see "Our Boston Letter," Journal of Education (29 May 1884): 345. On status and contract relations, see Amy Dru Stanley, From Bondage to Contract: Wage Labor, Marriage, and the Market in the Age of Slave Emancipation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp 190 History of Education Quarterly teachers' "request is not made in the spirit of a strike. It comes from high minded women who are putting their best personal force into the work that they are doing, and who feel keenly that their services should be properly paid for." Teachers surely felt vindicated by newsmen's pronouncements that "teachers earn much more than they are paid for." Editors also contrasted teachers' high public service and public officials' poor treatment of them: "When exhausted [from] labor, broken down, perhaps in the prime of life, with nervous prostration or disease growing out of close school-rooms, bad ventilation and want of exercise, they are made promptly to retire for the successors, without a pension or the means to live, with youth wasted and power to charm gone beyond recovery." Teachers, they argued, deserved the nation's "gratitude" and ought to receive the same honors paid to "all brave, heroic, and resolute souls" in public service.63 Banding together, women teachers sought to justify, and sometimes replicate, the protections they felt they ought to enjoy as ladies but were compelled to do without as teachers. Rejecting the equation of moral and material worth, they insisted their moral responsibihties as teachers demanded better than their salaries would suggest. Refusing to be used up and disposed of like a broken machine part or thrown upon outdoor relief like an injured worker, women teachers attempted to distinguish themselves from the vulnerable industrial laborers around them and to protect each other from such ignominious fates. Their pursuit of gentility represented an effort to resist being proletarianized. They insisted that social and intellectual stimulation, as well as a respectable standard of living, were not luxuries but fair entitlements for women who taught. As loyal public servants, late nineteenth-century teachers began to feel justified in making claims on the state that other workers could not.f64 Some historians have portrayed women teachers at the turn of the century as nascent trade unionists, who occasionally "seemed to wander off the course" when leaders proposed alliances with women's clubs and the purchase of retirement homes where elderly teachers could live out their days in comfort.65 As this research shows, those proposals were not aberrations. They were directly in line with two decades of prior organizing among teachers. Not simply social clubs, Gilded-Age teachers' organizations 65"A Plea for Justice," Journal of Education, 17 July 1875: 39; "The Women Teachers of Boston," Boston Herald, (21 January 1896): 6; "Wages of Women Teachers," Woman's Journal (9 August 1879): 256. 64"The Necessity of Self-Culture," Journal of Education, 31 March 1881: 212; Mrs. Esther W. Matthews, "Sanitation and Education," Journal of Education, 18 October 1883: 244; Mrs. Eva D. Kellogg, "The Health of Teachers,?Who is Responsible?," Journal ofEducation 9 October 1884: 228. ^Quotation is from Marjorie Murphy, Blackboard Unions: The AFT and the NEA, 1900 1980 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990), 63. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp The Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization 191 advanced women's occupational interests by stressing feminine gentility, mutual aid, and service to others. Meant to distinguish and elevate teachers above ordinary wage workers, these strategies surely complicated teachers' subsequent efforts to affiliate with labor organizations. Understanding these Gilded-Age teachers' organizations should lead us to a much sharper assessment of the conflicts teachers confronted when forming unions at the turn of the twentieth century. This content downloaded from 192.84.11.60 on Tue, 5 Aug 2014 16:07:03 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp Article Contents p. [164] p. 165 p. 166 p. 167 p. 168 p. 169 p. 170 p. 171 p. 172 p. 173 p. 174 p. 175 p. 176 p. 177 p. 178 p. 179 p. 180 p. 181 p. 182 p. 183 p. 184 p. 185 p. 186 p. 187 p. 188 p. 189 p. 190 p. 191 Issue Table of Contents History of Education Quarterly, Vol. 46, No. 2 (Summer, 2006), pp. 155-310 Front Matter Editor's Farewell [pp. 155-161] Book Review Editor's Farewell [pp. 162-163] "Lady Teachers" and the Genteel Roots of Teacher Organization in Gilded Age Cities [pp. 164-191] The Proliferation of Case Method Teaching in American Law Schools: Mr. Langdell's Emblematic "Abomination," 1890-1915 [pp. 192-247] Women Teachers in Western Australian "Bush" Schools, 1900-1939: Passive Victims of Oppressive Structures? [pp. 248-273] Essay Reviews Learning in a Consumers' Republic [pp. 274-288] Little Beasties: Three Views into the Hidden World of Higher Education [pp. 289-297] Briefly Noted Review: untitled [pp. 298-299] Review: untitled [pp. 299-300] Review: untitled [pp. 301-301] Review: untitled [pp. 301-302] Review: untitled [pp. 302-303] Review: untitled [pp. 303-304] Review: untitled [pp. 304-305] Back Matter 
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work_k33qveilxng3fjxaeomiltgxdi	----	_________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR =DPERDQJD�6WDWH�&ROOHJH�RI�0DULQH�6FLHQFHV�DQG�7HFKQRORJ\��WKH�3KLOLSSLQHV Ateneo de Zamboanga University, the Philippines decastro@zscmst.edu.ph, aqohsidyep812@gmail.com Abstract English preposition is one of the hardest features to learn and master, especially by ‘nonnative’ speakers of the English language; hence, several Filipinos tend to interchange particle/preposition in phrasal verbs (PhVs) (e.g., ¿OO�XS�and ¿OO�RXW). As such, this study aimed to compare the semantic features and idiomatic status of selected same-verb different-particle PhVs, and describe their syntactic features utilizing the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (ICE- PHI) and the Global Web-based English Corpus (GloWbE) Philippines. This study revealed evidence that clearly shows the interchange of particle/preposition for the same verb. A new meaning has been found for two PhVs. Most of the PhVs follow the type 2 (transitive) pattern, while others follow the type 1 (intransitive) pattern. They generally occur in the medial position, rarely in the beginning position, and YHU\�UDUHO\�LQ�WKH�¿QDO�SRVLWLRQ��7KH�VWXG\�VXJJHVWV�WKDW�GHVSLWH�WKH�LQWHUFKDQJH�� Filipinos generally follow the American English (AmE) usage of PhVs. Also, GHVSLWH� WKH�IDFW� WKDW�3K9�LV�QRW�DQ�LQKHUHQW�FKDUDFWHULVWLF� LQ� WKH�¿UVW� ODQJXDJH�� )LOLSLQRV�VWLOO�VKRZ�DGHTXDWH�NQRZOHGJH�DQG�SUR¿FLHQF\�LQ�WKH�XVH�RI�3K9V�LQ� their utterances. The interchange of particle/preposition may be considered as an emerging feature of Philippine English (PhE). Keywords: Language variation, Philippine English, phrasal verbs, semantics 1. Introduction Since the emergence of the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (ICE-PHI) compiled by Bautista et al. (2004), and years before it was compiled, it can still be considered that relatively few studies have explored Philippine English (PhE) (e.g., Bautista, 2011; Biermeier, 2011; Borlongan, 2011; Collins, 2011; Coronel, 2011; David, 2019; Dita, 2011; Ella & Dita, 2017; Friginal, 2011; Gonzalez, 1996; Hundt, 2011; Llamzon, 1997; Munalim, 2019; Pauwels & Winter, 2011; Schneider, 2011), considering that PhE is so vast and has subvarieties (see Gonzales, 2017), although some claim (e.g., Paz, 2020) that studies in 3K(�DUH�TXLWH�H[WHQVLYH�DOUHDG\��%HVLGHV��3K(�FDQ�VWLOO�EH�FRQVLGHUHG�D�QHZ�¿HOG�LQ�WKH�VWXGLHV� of varieties of the English language. In these studies, pieces of evidence emerged that clearly show how English in the Philippines is unique and different, but mutually intelligible, from _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 222 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ other varieties. These variations may have been brought about by the country’s architecture of conventions of native languages, sociolinguistic variables, and other extralinguistic factors. It is also evident that some aspects of English in the Philippines are no longer the same as the AmE. Deviations from the so-called ‘standard,’ although there is no such thing as that as far as descriptive linguistics and World Englishes are concerned, are considered a language drift or a case of indigenization where an English variety has particular linguistic features, which are very unlike the AmE or British English (BrE) varieties (Malicsi, 2007). It is for this reason that the question “When does an error become a feature of PhE?” had been a subject of debates. Gonzalez (1983) answered this question arguing that errors become features when educated elites in society commit them. In effect, these errors, when diffused (Malicsi, 2007), will eventually be accepted by society as the ‘standard.’ Llamzon (1969) referred to this kind of English as “the type of English which educated Filipinos speak and which is acceptable in educated Filipino circles” (p. 15). This view is seen to be one of the major inadequacies in the study of PhE as it is generally reserved only to the educated few, disregarding the “class-based, regionally-marked, and other potentially differentiating varieties” of PhE (Paz, 2020, p. 49) and misrepresenting the true identity of PhE as a whole. To acknowledge other VXEVWUDWH�LQÀXHQFHG� YDULHWLHV� DQG� PDNH� 3K(� LQFOXVLYH�� *RQ]DOHV� ������� DUJXHV� WKDW� WKH� notion ‘Philippine Englishes’ should be adopted by scholars, invalidating the ‘standard’ PhE previously described by some Filipino scholars. Scholars have different views on the status of PhE in reference to Schneider’s (2003) dynamic model. Schneider (2003) located PhE in the nativization stage where it is fossilized. Martin (2014) supported this claim and debunked the concept that PhE is already at the endonormative stabilization stage citing that PhE is disregarded by Filipinos as an identity carrier by still choosing Anglo-American literature such as the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Washington Irving instead of those Philippine in origin, a case that is unlike the Singapore English. Borlongan (2016), however, debunked Martin’s (2014) claim and argued that PhE has already met the criteria of the endonormative VWDELOL]DWLRQ�VWDJH�LQ�WKDW�HYHQW�;��ZKLFK�LV�WKH�YHU\�VSHFL¿F�HYHQW�WKDW�WUDQVLWLRQV�DQ�(QJOLVK� using state or territory from phase 3 to phase 4 (see Schneider, 2007), has already taken place in the development of PhE. Gonzales (2017) showed evidence that PhE is at the dawn of differentiation stage on the basis of the birth of other PhE dialects and the construction of identities of communities, although some prerequisites were acknowledged to have not been met yet. In a more recent study, Tatel (2019) claimed that PhE is now entering the endonormative stabilization phase. The reason for this is the weakening of the complaint tradition or of widespread phenomenon where the public expresses its dismay in the apparent decline in the so-called language ‘standards.’ Nonetheless, PhE is recognized as a legitimate nativized variety of English (Bautista & Bolton, 2009; Borlongan, 2016; Gonzales, 2017; 0DOLFVL��������6FKQHLGHU��������������EHORQJLQJ�WR�WKH�RXWHU�FLUFOH�LQ�.DFKUX¶V�������������� 1990, 1992) concentric circle model and has different lexical, phonological, and grammatical features that are uniquely Filipino (Dita & Borlongan, 2020). In line with the present study, it has been observed that two different particles/ prepositions are used interchangeably for the same verb in the PhV constructions, but they refer to or convey the same meaning. These include make up of and make out of, come up ZLWK�and�FRPH�RXW�ZLWK, FRPSDUH�ZLWK�and compare to,�¿OO�XS�and ¿OO�RXW, connect to and _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 223 _________________________________________________________________________________ FRQQHFW�ZLWK, base on and base from, set up and set out,�ZRUN�RQ�and�ZRUN�RXW, hand in and hand over, end up and�HQG�ZLWK,�DVVRFLDWH�ZLWK and associate to, among others. Having observed these differences and the interchange of particles/prepositions for the same verb in the PhV constructions among Filipino speakers who naturally utter them, this study was formulated. Thus, the main aim of this study was to investigate the semantic and syntactic features of binary PhVs utilizing two large corpora of English in the Philippines. 1.1 Theoretical Framework Multi-word verbs (MWVs) are a combination of a verb and one or two particles or prepositions �4XLUN�HW�DO����������0:9V�DUH�FODVVL¿HG�LQWR�WKUHH�W\SHV��SKUDVDO�YHUEV��3K9V���SUHSRVLWLRQDO� verbs (PVs), and phrasal-prepositional verbs (PPVs). PhVs are multi-word units that consist of a verb followed by an adverbial particle, which have core spatial or locative meanings but generally used with extended meanings (e.g., carry out). PVs consist of a verb and a preposition (e.g., talk about). PPVs consist of both an adverbial particle and a preposition (e.g., FRPH�XS�ZLWK) (see Biber et al., 1999). In some cases, a PhV is used to refer to all three types of MWVs; hence, it is a multi-word unit consisting of a verb followed by a particle or a preposition. According to Cambridge Dictionary (2018), the most common particles used to form PhVs are around, at,�DZD\,�GRZQ, in, off, on, out, round, and up. PhVs consist of a verb and a particle (e.g., drop out, end up, live out,�SXW�GRZQ, etc.). There are two types of PhVs in terms of syntactic feature: type 1 (intransitive) and type 2 (transitive). Intransitive PhVs consist of a verb, and an adverb particle, which functions like a predication adjunct and is usually inseparable from its lexical verb. These are also considered as idiomatic and cohesive. Examples are cited below. 1. Elena has been dropped out. 2. I did my best, but I ended up unsatisfactory. Transitive PhVs, on the other hand, take a direct object, which can either be preceded or followed by a particle. This means that a phrasal verb may be split to insert in between the direct object. Examples are cited below. 3. Thank you for bringing that (matter) up. 4. Thank you for bringing up that matter. In terms of semantic features, meanings of MWVs can be determined in replacement by a single-word verb, e.g., request for appeal to, meet for bump into, HWF���4XLUN�HW�DO��� �������0:9V�DUH�FODVVL¿HG�LQWR�WKUHH�FDWHJRULHV��QRQ�LGLRPDWLF��VHPL�LGLRPDWLF��DQG�KLJKO\� idiomatic constructions. Non-idiomatic constructions are MWVs “where individual meanings of the components are apparent from their constancy in possible substitutions,” e.g., take out, bring in,�UXQ�GRZQ, HWF���4XLUN�HW�DO���������S���������6HPL�LGLRPDWLF�FRQVWUXFWLRQV�DUH� MWVs where “the relation between the verb and particle is similar to that between a stem RI�DQ�DI¿[�LQ�ZRUG�IRUPDWLRQ��LQ�WKDW�WKH�VXEVWLWXWLRQ�RI�RQH�YHUE�IRU�DQRWKHU��RU�RQH�SDUWLFOH� _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 224 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ for another, is constrained by limited productivity,” e.g., ¿QG�RXW�for discover, cut up for cut into pieces��HWF���4XLUN�HW�DO���������S��������������+LJKO\�LGLRPDWLF�FRQVWUXFWLRQV�DUH� “thoroughly idiomatic in that there is no possibility of contrastive substitution,” e.g., hang on for ZDLW�or hold tightly,�SDVV�DZD\�for die �4XLUN�HW�DO���������S�������. However, it is imperative to note that the difference in the use of particles or prepositions for the same verb in PhV constructions may be attributed to conformance to either AmE or BrE. For instance, the particles ZLWK�and to are used interchangeably for the verb compare when estimating the similarity or difference between things. When the PhV is in the intransitive form, the former particle is preferred in BrE, while the latter is slightly more frequent in AmE. However, in some cases, to is obligatory when used to make an analogy between two different things or to say that one thing resembles another (Oxford Dictionaries, 2018). The difference may also be attributed to deviations from these varieties, forming a feature uniquely of its own. For example, the particle out in the PhV ¿OO�RXW�is commonly interchanged with up, especially when the PhV is used for the word form (e.g., ¿OO�XS�WKH�IRUP���'HYLDWLRQV�RU�GLIIHUHQFHV�PD\�UHVXOW�IURP�LQVXI¿FLHQW�NQRZOHGJH�RI�RU� UHODWLYHO\�ORZ�SUR¿FLHQF\�LQ�XVLQJ�WKH�VR�FDOOHG�VWDQGDUGL]HG�(QJOLVK�YDULHWLHV��H�J���$P(� or BrE), but such view is error-oriented, static, monocentric, and dichotomous. Anchored in .DFKUX¶V��������������������������FRQFHQWULF�FLUFOH�PRGHO��WKHVH�GLIIHUHQFHV�RU�GHYLDWLRQV� are already a process called norm-developing. It is therefore essential to be reoriented and to recognize the different contexts (i.e., sociolinguistic, functional, pragmatic, and attitudinal) that contribute to the emergence of new English varieties. 1.2 Studies on Phrasal Verbs ,QWHUHVWLQJO\��VWXGLHV�LQ�3K9V�KDYH�VKRZQ�VLJQL¿FDQW�DQG�QRWHZRUWK\�¿QGLQJV�WKDW�DUH�SLYRWDO� in understanding the different roles and meanings of PhVs. Various theoretical perspectives and approaches have also emerged relative to PhVs’ linguistic features including lexicon, syntax, and semantics. For instance, according to the principle of lexical integrity, “the syntax neither manipulates nor has access to the internal structure of words” (Anderson, 1992, p. 84). Hence, analyzing the morphological aspect of PhVs is a violation (Iacobini, 2009, p. 99). However, in the case of Italian PhVs, the formation of such constructions has been determined by lexicalization and grammaticalization. Evidence of correspondences between PhVs and clear morphological structures revealed an overlapping between the range RI�GLUHFWLRQDO�PHDQLQJV�FRQYH\HG�E\�SUH¿[HG�YHUEV�DQG�3K9V��,DFRELQL�������� Following the cognitive-linguistics-based methodology, Mahpeykar and Tyler (2015) analyzed the semantics of verbs and particles in four PhV constructions and revealed the compositional nature of PhVs that show multiple meanings. Through the interaction of polysemic networks of component verbs and particles, these meanings can be systematically accounted for. Dagut and Laufer (1985) endeavored to classify 15 PhVs into three types, i.e., literal, ¿JXUDWLYH��DQG�FRPSOHWLYH��ZKLFK�FDQ�EH�D�EDVLV�IRU�VWXG\LQJ�RWKHU�3K9V�RI�(QJOLVK�DQG�DQ\� other languages in various approaches, especially corpus-based. For example, in the study of Liao and Fukuya (2004), it was revealed that Chinese learners tended to produce literal PhVs WKDQ�¿JXUDWLYH�RQHV� _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 225 _________________________________________________________________________________ In line with the present study, Ella and Dita (2017) investigated MWVs in PhE, VSHFL¿FDOO\�339V�XVLQJ�,&(�3+,��DQG�IRFXVHG�RQ�WKH�V\QWDFWLF�DQG�VHPDQWLF�IHDWXUHV�RI�WKH� six most frequent PPVs in the said corpus, i.e., FRPH�XS�ZLWK, get out of,�ORRN�IRUZDUG�WR, come RXW�ZLWK, hold on to, and FDWFK�XS�ZLWK. Most of which are used in the active voice. The study revealed that the semantic features of the said PPVs conform to standard meanings from online dictionaries. Ella and Dita (2017) noted that Filipinos show minimal usage of PPVs and are conservative in using them in their utterances as ‘nonnative’ speakers of English, the fact that phrasal verbs do not exist in Filipino. As such, Filipinos tend to deviate from the so- called standardized usage of phrasal verbs and to form new, unique features. 1.3 The Study 7R� GDWH�� QR� VWXG\� LV� DYDLODEOH� \HW� UHODWLYH� WR� WKH� VHPDQWLFV� RI� 3K9V�� VSHFL¿FDOO\� 3K9V� whose particle/preposition is often interchanged. Hence, this study aimed to investigate the ELQDU\�SKUDVDO�YHUEV�LQ�3K(��7R�DFKLHYH�WKLV��WKH�VWXG\�VSHFL¿FDOO\�DLPHG�WR�����FRPSDUH�WKH� semantic features of the binary PhVs, (2) determine their idiomatic status, and (3) describe their syntactic features. 2. Method This study utilized descriptive quantitative and qualitative methods following the corpus linguistics approach to analyze, compare, and contrast same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs. A total of 44,356,871 tokens were utilized for the data: 1,106,778 from ICE-PHI compiled by Bautista et al. (2004), and 43,250,093 from GloWbE. The data are considered naturally occurring language. The ICE-PHI consists of nonprofessional writing, correspondence, academic and nonacademic writing, reportage, instructional writing, persuasive writing, creative writing, private and public dialogues, and scripted and unscripted monologues; while the GloWbE consists of informal blogs, online news, magazines, and company websites (Davies, 2015). The list of PhVs investigated was derived from the researcher’s observation of everyday interaction. The particles/prepositions of these PhVs were found to have been frequently interchanged by Filipino speakers; hence, these items were examined in the corpora. The PhVs included were: base from and base on,�FRPH�RXW�ZLWK�and�FRPH�XS�ZLWK, compare to and�FRPSDUH�ZLWK, connect to and�FRQQHFW�ZLWK,�¿OO�RXW�and�¿OO�XS, leave to and OHDYH�ZLWK, made out of and made up of, relate to and�UHODWH�ZLWK, and talk to and WDON�ZLWK� These PhVs were individually searched using AntConc 3.5.8 and GloWbE search system designed to provide frequency counts and concordance samples. The PhVs in the past tense (e.g., compared to), third-person singular (e.g., compares to) and plural (e.g., compare to), and progressive aspect (e.g., comparing to) were included in the search and analysis. For the quantitative part, each PhV was analyzed using the observed absolute frequency (OAF) to determine the number of occurrences in both corpora. For the semantic IHDWXUHV��HDFK�3K9�ZDV�DQDO\]HG�LQ�WHUPV�RI�WKHVH�FDWHJRULHV�IROORZLQJ�4XLUN�HW�DO�¶V�������� semantic criteria for idiomatic status: “non-idiomatic, semi-idiomatic and highly idiomatic” (p. 1162). The meanings of the PhVs were described according to how they were used in _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 226 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ context. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary (2018) was consulted for the single-word meaning of each of the PhVs. Then the binary PhVs were compared in terms of meaning. For the syntactic features, each PhV was analyzed in terms of concord, transitivity and intransitivity, and separability and inseparability. 3. Results and Discussion The data in Table 1 show that same-verb different-particle PhVs were explicitly used in both corpora with GloWbE containing a higher number of occurrences for all PhVs as compared with ICE-PHI. This is possibly because the number of tokens in the former is greater than the latter. Nevertheless, an interchange of particles for the same verb is prevalent in PhE. Table 1 2EVHUYHG�DEVROXWH� IUHTXHQF\��DQG�V\QWDFWLF�DQG�VHPDQWLF� IHDWXUHV�RI�SKUDVDO�YHUEV� LQ� Philippine English Phrasal Verb ICE- PHI GloWbE Total Syntactic Feature Semantic Feature Idiomatic Status OAF OAF base from 6 119 125 T2 - To use particular ideas or facts to make a decision Semi- idiomatic base on 223 7623 7846 T2 come out with 23 346 369 T1 - To produce, create, devise, or think up Highly Idiomatic come up with 75 2151 2226 T1 - To produce, create, devise, or think up compare to 112 3783 3895 T2 - To equate or differentiate between things Non- idiomatic compare with 48 1097 1145 T2 connect to 26 1621 1647 T2 - To join two things together or to relate one thing with another Non- idiomatic connect with 17 1301 1318 T2 ¿OO�RXW 9 381 390 T2 - To complete a form or application Semi- idiomatic ¿OO�XS 13 679 692 T2 - To make something full - To complete a form or application Non- idiomatic Semi- idiomatic _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 227 _________________________________________________________________________________ Table 1 continued... Phrasal Verb ICE- PHI GloWbE Total Syntactic Feature Semantic Feature Idiomatic Status OAF OAF ¿OO�XS 13 679 692 T2 - To make something full - To complete a form or application Non- idiomatic Semi- idiomatic leave to 29 1713 1742 T2 - To leave someone or something to someone - To depart Non- idiomatic leave with 28 765 793 T2 - To leave someone or something with someone or something - To leave with someone or something - To depart with someone or something made out of 4 247 251 T1 - Something that has been changed or transformed one thing into another - Made from something Semi- idiomatic made up of 18 585 603 T1 - Consist of something - Something that has been changed or transformed one thing into another Highly Idiomatic relate to 110 4011 4121 T2 - To show or make connection between two or more things Non- idiomatic relate with 7 151 158 T2 talk to 156 4018 4174 T1 - To converse with someone Non- idiomatictalk with 34 809 843 T1 To better understand the similarities and differences of the two-type PhVs, the following subsections are presented: _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 228 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ EDVH�RQ and EDVH�IURP This study found that the PhVs base from and base on are semantically the same. The verb base means to make, form, or serve as basis for something. The particle from is used as a function word to indicate a starting point of something, while on is used as a function word to indicate position in contact with or supported by the top surface. Combining the verb to its preposition, the PhVs base from and base on mean to use particular ideas or facts to make a decision. Both are considered semi-idiomatic because the particles show limited productivity, and generally occur in the medial position (1, 2, 4, 5, 6) and rarely in the beginning position (3). They follow the type 2 (transitive) pattern and are separable when they are in the active voice. Examples are cited below. (1) Literature during the Colonial America were written EDVHG�IURP the experiences of the writer, that’s why it was called as the /LWHUDWXUH�RI�H[SHULHQFH�DQG�VRPHWLPHV�ZLWK�LPDJLQDWLRQ���,&(� PHI:W1A-015#84:2> (2) You may also agree that it’s not measured EDVHG�IURP where class RI�VRFLHW\�DQ�LQGLYLGXDO�EHORQJV�WR���*OR:E(��7KH�5ROOHU�&RDVWHU� Ride of a Happy and Matured Rider> (3) Based on the quotation submitted by PENTAGRAFIX, Inc. ( the company that will produce the said printed material), it seems that the most reasonable package to take is OPTION 2, considering WKH�SDSHU��VL]H��FRORU��QXPEHU�RI�SDJHV�DQG�SURFHVV�VSHFL¿FDWLRQV�� �,&(�3+,�:�%����������! (4) The latter is EDVHG�RQ algorithms determined by your website’s UHOHYDQF\� WR� WKH� VHDUFK� LWHP�� �*OR:E(�� 2QOLQH� 0DUNHWLQJ� Services You have to know about Social Media> (5) Such tables can be EDVHG� RQ� LPDJH� KLVWRJUDPV�� �,&(� PHI:W2A-034#19:1> (6) It EDVHV its decisions principally on the results of the Ateneo College Entrance Test, on past academic performances, on the recommendations of teachers, and on information contained in the DSSOLFDWLRQ�IRUP���,&(�3+,�:�'���������! Many dictionaries such as Macmillan Dictionary (2018), Thesaurus Dictionary (2018), and Cambridge Dictionary (2018) do not acknowledge base from as a standard PhV. Since the word base can imply a source of the basis or foundation of something, it may be the reason why the preposition from was/is used in some cases in PhE. Nevertheless, it can be assumed that such a feature of PhE is likely the same as the AmE variety considering that the PhV base on (OAF=7846) is preferred than base from (OAF=125). come up with and come out with It is worthy to note that the PhVs FRPH�XS�ZLWK (OAF=2226) and FRPH�RXW�ZLWK�(OAF=369) are semantically the same in PhE. Both mean to produce, create, devise, or think up; therefore, _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 229 _________________________________________________________________________________ they can be used interchangeably. The verb come means WR�PRYH�WRZDUG�VRPHWKLQJ. It also means to reach, approach, or advance. The particle up is used as a function word to indicate motion to or toward, or situation at a higher point. Linking the verb come to the particle up suggests a movement from a lower to a higher position. The particle out, on the other hand, is used as a function word to indicate an outward movement. Combining the verb come to the particle out means WR�FRPH�LQWR�SXEOLF�YLHZ. The particle ZLWK�is used to say that people or things are together in one place, or that two or more people or things are doing something together or are involved in something. It also means having (a particular characteristic, possession, etc.). Combining the three elements (i.e., FRPH�XS�ZLWK�and FRPH�RXW�ZLWK), they become PPVs and are therefore highly idiomatic. Both follow the type 1 (intransitive) pattern and are inseparable. However, while FRPH�XS�ZLWK�generally occurs in the medial position (7) DQG�UDUHO\�LQ�WKH�¿QDO�SRVLWLRQ������FRPH�RXW�ZLWK�generally occurs only in the medial position (9, 10). It should be noted that in other instances, the preposition ZLWK�is not really a part of the PhV come out, which, when put together, literally means to appear (11). (7) I am sure other banks will come up with a similar program soon. �*OR:E(��,QTXLUHU��0D\���������! (8) Then and then you integrate it with the visuals and I want to see you know I wanna hear my voice and then I wanna see what kind of visuals you come up with.��,&(�3+,�6�$�����������$! ���� 1RZ�XK���!�RI�FRXUVH�WKHUH�LV�WKDW�JHVWDWLRQ�SHULRG�WKDW�ZH�KDYH� to pass through uh we cannot avoid uh that uh stage even if we were to start after uh ten years we still have to pass through that uh gestation period uh but I I as I have said uh the government uh can uh if only it has the political will can uh come out with the necessary measures to cushion the impact of this on on the ZRUNHUV���,&(�3+,�6�%����������$! (10) Soon after the Manila Times came out with a public apology from its publisher Robina Gokongwei-Pe talk surfaced that the threat of an audit by the Bureau of Internal Revenue was the last straw WKDW��"!�EURXJKW���"!�WKH�IDPLO\�WR�SXEOLVK�DQ�DSRORJ\�WR� WKH� 3UHVLGHQW���,&(�3+,�6�%����������(! (11) The brand came out with a series of photos of her wearing giant PLII\�HDUV«��*OR:E(��https://triciagosingtian.com/> Cambridge Dictionary (2018) and MacMillan Dictionary (2018) suggest that the PhV FRPH�XS�ZLWK�means to think of or suggest an idea or plan. It also means to produce RU�SURYLGH�VRPHWKLQJ�WKDW�SHRSOH�ZDQW�(MacMillan Dictionary, 2018). Thus, the meaning of FRPH�XS�ZLWK�in this study is the same as the meaning in the said dictionaries. However, both dictionaries do not suggest that FRPH�RXW�ZLWK�means the same thing as what was found in this study (9). MacMillan Dictionary also suggests that FRPH�RXW�ZLWK�means to say something suddenly, usually something that surprises or shocks people or WR�LQWURGXFH�D�QHZ�SURGXFW�� For Cambridge Dictionary, it means to make something available to the public. As seen in the examples, it is apparent that the meaning is the same as the suggested meanings in the dictionaries. _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 230 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ compare to and compare with 7KH�¿QGLQJV�DOVR�UHYHDOHG�WKDW�WKH�3K9V� compare to and FRPSDUH�ZLWK�are semantically the same. The verb compare means to say that something is similar to something else, or to examine the character or qualities of something, especially in order to discover resemblances or differences. The particle to is used to indicate the place, person, or thing that someone or something moves toward. It is used as a function word to indicate similarity, correspondence, dissimilarity, or proportion. In addition, the particle ZLWK�is also used as a function word to indicate the object of a statement of comparison or equality, or to indicate a manner of action. When the verb is combined with the particle to or ZLWK��it becomes a PhV that means WR�HTXDWH�RU�GLIIHUHQWLDWH�EHWZHHQ�WKLQJV; hence, both are non-idiomatic or literal. Further, WKH�H[DPSOHV�LQ������DQG������DI¿UP�WKH�FODLP�RI�(QJOLVK�2[IRUG�/LYLQJ�'LFWLRQDULHV�������� that when the verb compare is used to resemble one thing with another or to make an analogy between two different things, the preposition to is obligatory. Examples are given below. (12) Compared to nucleotide sequencing which is labor intensive and UHTXLUHV� VWURQJ� DPSOL¿FDWLRQ� RI� WKH� '1$�� 3&5�66&3� DOORZV� SURFHVVLQJ� RI� D� ODUJHU� QXPEHU� RI� VDPSOHV� �� �IRUHLJQ!� H�J�� �� IRUHLJQ!������VDPSOHV�SHU�JHO����,&(�3+,�:�$���������! (13) You have to put it in perspective by comparing it to our economic RXWSXW�IRU�H[DPSOH��RU�YLV�D�YLV�JRY¾W�UHYHQXHV��HWF����*OR:E(�� Inquirer, September 13, 2012> (14) Compared with the performance for the same species in the whole of Asia, the country’s cattle industry again lagged behind whereas WKRVH� RI� JRDWV� DQG� �LQGLJ!� FDUDEDR� ��LQGLJ!� ZHUH� ZLWKLQ� WKH� $VLDQ�DYHUDJHV���,&(�3+,�:�$���������! (15) Management then compares their own processes with these industry best practices to identify areas of improvement or effective models that they should consider adopting or adapting for WKHLU�RZQ�RUJDQL]DWLRQV���*OR:E(��6*9��,QGXVWU\�EHQFKPDUNLQJ� of taxpayers, September 10, 2012)> Syntactically, both PhVs follow type 1 (intransitive) pattern and are separable, occurring most frequently in the medial position (13 and 15) and rarely in the beginning position (12 and 14). Semantically, PhE follows both AmE and BrE varieties; however, it appears that the PhV compare to (OAF=3895) is preferred than FRPSDUH�ZLWK (OAF=1145). connect to and connect with This study also revealed that the PhVs connect to and FRQQHFW�ZLWK�are the same in meaning. The verb connect means WR� MRLQ� WZR�RU�PRUH� WKLQJV� WRJHWKHU� or to place or establish a relationship. Having known the meanings of to and ZLWK�in the previous discussion, when the verb is linked to either of these prepositions, it becomes a PhV that literally means WR�MRLQ�WZR� things together or�WR�UHODWH�RQH�WKLQJ�ZLWK�DQRWKHU. Thus, both are interchangeable and non- _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 231 _________________________________________________________________________________ idiomatic. However, in the case where there is a physical connection (16), the preposition to is used and can be considered obligatory. Examples are given below. (16) This reactor is equipped with a motor on top where the propeller is connected to���,&(�3+,�:�$���������! (17) Doris Erestain-Reytas who is now the President of Ernie’s company but still connected to the Civil Service Commission was DOVR�SUHVHQW���,&(�3+,�:�%���������! (18) Mr. Chief Justice we have to object again on the ground that uh it does not have a tendency to connect the testimony of the witness to�DQ\�RI�WKH�SDUDJUDSKV�RI�DUWLFOH�WZR���,&(�3+,�6�%� 070#46:1:C> (19) With what agency or agencies are you connected with"��,&(� PHI:S1B-067#22:1:D> (20) It connects God with� QDWXUH� DQG� ZLWK� FXOWXUH�� �,&(� PHI:W1B-007#155:2> Since the PhV connect to means WR�MRLQ�WZR�WKLQJV�WRJHWKHU�and FRQQHFW�ZLWK�means WR�VKRZ�RU�SURYLGH�D�OLQN�RU�UHODWLRQVKLS�EHWZHHQ�WZR�WKLQJV, it can be assumed that these PhVs are the same in meaning with both the AmE and the BrE varieties. At a closer look, it can be gleaned that connect to (OAF=1621) is preferred than FRQQHFW�ZLWK (OAF=1301), DOEHLW�WKH�GLIIHUHQFH�LV�LQVLJQL¿FDQW��6\QWDFWLFDOO\��ERWK�3K9V�IROORZ�WKH�W\SH����LQWUDQVLWLYH�� and type 2 (transitive) patterns and are separable, occurring generally in the medial position ��������DQG�����DQG�UDUHO\�LQ�WKH�¿QDO�SRVLWLRQ�����DQG����� ¿OO�RXW�and ¿OO�XS Contrary to the assumption of several, if not all, Filipino English language teachers and VR�FDOOHG�(QJOLVK�SUR¿FLHQW�VSHDNHUV��¿OO�RXW�and ¿OO�XS�are the same in meaning and are employed interchangeably when both used with a form or document (21, 22 and 23). Both mean to complete a form or application, but in most cases, ¿OO�XS�means to make something full. In the same vein, the verb ¿OO�means to make something full, or�WR�VXSSO\�ZLWK�D� full complement. Having known the meanings of up and out earlier in the discussion, when the verb is linked to these prepositions, these PhVs can be considered as semi-idiomatic when they are used to complete a form or application because the particles do not indicate direction, hence limited in function. On the other hand, when ¿OO�XS�is used to indicate a greater amount or a higher level (24), it can be considered non-idiomatic. Cambridge (2018) and Collins (2018) dictionaries suggest that ¿OO�XS�means to make something full or become full, while ¿OO�RXW�means to make or become fuller, thicker, or rounder; to make more substantial; and to complete a form or application or to make (a GRFXPHQW��HWF���FRPSOHWH�E\�LQVHUWLQJ�RU�VXSSO\LQJ�LQIRUPDWLRQ. Thus, the PhV ¿OO�XS��which is used to complete a document or application, has a new or additional meaning. _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 232 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ In addition, the PhVs ¿OO�RXW�and ¿OO�XS�follow the type 2 (transitive) pattern and are separable. Both PhVs occur in the beginning and the medial positions. (21) Applicants for scholarship must ¿OO�RXW a Scholarship/Financial $LG�4XHVWLRQQDLUH���,&(�3+,�:�'���������! (22) Fill out and submit the form and exam permit, together with all RWKHU�UHTXLUHPHQWV��DW�WKH��EROG!�2I¿FH�RI�$GPLVVLRQ�DQG�$LG��� EROG!�RU�DW�WKH��EROG!�3URYLQFLDO�7HVWLQJ�&HQWHU���EROG!����S!�� �,&(�3+,�:�'���������! (23) Applicants will ¿OO�XS a form providing information like name, address, contact number, brand of the helmet, date the helmet was acquired and the name of the store where the helmet was bought. �*OR:E(��,QTXLUHU��-XO\���������! (24) FILL it up�ZLWK�ZDWHU�XS� WR� WKH�HGJH�RI� WKH�FRQWDLQHU���,&(� PHI:W2D-011#48:1> leave to and leave with This study found similarities and differences in meaning for PhVs leave to (OAF=1742) and�OHDYH�ZLWK (OAF=793). The PhV leave to means to entrust or delegate something to someone (25) and to depart (26). The PhV OHDYH�ZLWK�means to leave someone or something ZLWK�VRPHRQH�RU�VRPHWKLQJ�(27 and 29) or WR�OHDYH�ZLWK�VRPHRQH�RU�VRPHWKLQJ�(28), and WR�GHSDUW�ZLWK�VRPHRQH�RU�VRPHWKLQJ, especially when separable where a location or event is in between the verb and the particle (30). Hence, in some cases, these PhVs are used interchangeably, especially when the meaning does not vary whichever particle is used. (25) We leave it to the people’s judgment whether or not our Armed Forces have become modernized because of those exercises whether or not we learned of the latest technologies because even the guns and the tanks and the planes furnished us like the Huey helicopters are admittedly hand-me-down equipments destined to limit our progress and keep us attuned to mendicancy. ICE- PHI:S2A-068#86:1:A> (26) Today and happily for people leaving close to airports, or under ÀLJKW�SDWKV��WKHUH�LV�QR�PRUH�IDOOLQJ�PDQXUH���*OR:E(��$VLDVSLULW�� https://asiaspirit.com/lavatory.html> (27) To end, I’d like to leave everyone of you with these pieces of DGYLFH�� �*OR:E(�� ,QWHJUDWHG� &KHPLVWV� RI� WKH� 3KLOLSSLQHV�� October 12, 2012> (28) She left her room with Nisha Narvane along with riding the T for a Honda parked outside her own two-storey house off 1HZEXU\�VWUHHW��LQ�D�GLVWULFW�OLQHG�ZLWK�PDJQROLDV����S!���,&(� PHI:W2F-019#83:1> _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 233 _________________________________________________________________________________ (29) The Chinese were left with the minority group, who would HYHQWXDOO\�UHEHO�IRU�WKH�ORYH�RI�PXVLF���,&(�3+,�:�$���������!� (30) I can’t just leave this game with�\RX���*OR:E(��*DLD�2QOLQH�� https://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/soul-crash/spins-taking-1- cash-without-displaying-that-it-would/t.81488309/> Further, the verb leave means to depart,�WR�JLYH�E\�PHDQV�RI�D�ZLOO, or to permit to be or remain subject to another’s action or control. Having known the meaning of the preposition to, when the verb is linked to it, it becomes a PhV in the non-idiomatic category. Likewise, when it is combined with the preposition ZLWK��it becomes a non-idiomatic PhV. Mc- Graw Hill Dictionary (2002) suggests that OHDYH�ZLWK�means to leave someone or something ZLWK�VRPHRQH�RU�VRPHWKLQJ, or to depart in company of someone; while leave to means to leave someone or something to someone. In this study, it is evident that the meanings of the PhVs leave to and OHDYH�ZLWK are similar to those in the AmE variety. In terms of their syntactic function, it is noteworthy to determine that both PhVs follow the type 2 (transitive) pattern and are separable, occurring generally in the medial position. made out of and made up of Generally, the PhVs made out of (OAF=251) and made up of (OAF=603) are not the same in meaning, but in a very rare case, they are the same. As seen in the example cited below, the PhV made out of in (31 and 32) means something that has been changed or transformed from one thing into another �L�H���VKULPSV�DQG�¿VK��DQG�EDPERR��RU�something is an outcome of something. On the contrary, the PhV made up of in example (33) means consists of something. However, in example (34) it is apparent that the soda bottle is made out of polyethylene; therefore, it also means something that has been changed or transformed from one thing into another. In another view, the verb made means built, formed, or VKDSHG�LQ�D�VSHFL¿HG�ZD\� The preposition of is used as a function word to indicate origin. Having known the meaning of the prepositions out and up in the previous discussion, when the three elements are combined (i.e., made out of and PDGH�XS�RI�, they become PPVs. The PhV made out of is semi-idiomatic because the preposition out is limited in function. One can just say made of. On the contrary, the PhV made up of LV�KLJKO\�LGLRPDWLF�LI� WKH�¿UVW�PHDQLQJ�LV� meant like in example (33), while it is semi-idiomatic if the second meaning is conveyed like in example (34). Thesaurus Dictionary (2018) suggests that made up of means including, containing, etc. The PhV made out of means that something has been changed or transformed from one thing into another. Hence, the meanings of the PhVs made out of and made up of are the same as the suggested meanings in the dictionary, except in the case where made up of has a new or additional meaning. (31) They they have some that are made out of uh shrimps tiny tiny shrimps some that are made out of� ¿VK�� �,&(�3+,�6�$� 054#153:3:A> _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 234 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ (32) It is located in the Loboc River and as you can see is made out of�EDPERR���*OR:E(��http://allthings.clangsy.net/> (33) Not too long ago, in another Congress, largely made up of the same members, it was discovered that money made the rounds to JHW�DQRWKHU�ELOO�SDVVHG����S!���,&(�3+,�:�(���������! (34) Now the cover that they use for the soda bottle is made up of high- GHQVLW\�SRO\HWK\OHQH���,&(�3+,�6�$�����������$! Regarding their syntactic function, both PhVs follow the type 1 (intransitive) pattern and are inseparable, occurring generally in the medial position. relate to and relate with The PhVs relate to and UHODWH�ZLWK are semantically the same. The verb relate means WR�VKRZ� RU�PDNH�D�FRQQHFWLRQ�RU�UHODWLRQVKLS�EHWZHHQ�WZR�RU�PRUH�WKLQJV. Linking the verb to either the preposition to or ZLWK�means WR�VKRZ�RU�PDNH�FRQQHFWLRQ�EHWZHHQ�WZR�RU�PRUH�WKLQJV. Both PhVs are non-idiomatic because the meaning is apparent. The PhVs follow the type 2 (transitive) pattern, occurring generally in the medial position. Examples are given below. (35) Naturally, he related this to his elder brother Paciano, who it seems ZDV�DOVR�SV\FKLF�EHFDXVH�RQH�QLJKW�DIWHU��LQGLJ!��LW!�6LPEDQJ� *DEL� ��LW!� ��LQGLJ!� 5L]DO� UHODWHG� WKH� GUHDPV� KH� ZDV� KDYLQJ� DERXW� WKH� IDPLO\� JRLQJ� WKURXJK� D� SHULRG� RI� WURXEOH� �� �LQGLJ!� �LW!�NDJXOXKDQ���LW!���LQGLJ!���EXW�KH�FRXOG�QRW�PDNH�RXW�RU�WHOO� whether the family would lose or gain from this &ldquo; trouble. UGTXR���,&(�3+,�:�%���������! (36) Since the GLIP coverage is related to staff salaries, opportunities are given periodically for staff to increase the DLDIP coverage RI�WKHLU�VSRXVHV��LQ�SURSRUWLRQ�WR�LQFUHDVHV�LQ�VWDII�VDODULHV����S!�� �,&(�3+,�:�%���������! (37) Uh the proper format will be to give the data then after giving the data is to to try to relate that data with�RXU�VWXG\���,&(�3+,�6�$� 011#51:1:A> (38) Out of habit, I guess, since they normally relate with deaf children. �,&(�3+,�:�%����������! Merriam-Webster Dictionary (2018) suggests that the PhV relate to means to connect �VRPHWKLQJ��ZLWK��VRPHWKLQJ�HOVH�; to understand and like or have sympathy for (someone RU�VRPHWKLQJ�;�WR�GHVFULEH�KRZ�VRPHRQH�WDONV�WR�RU�EHKDYHV�WRZDUG��VRPHRQH�HOVH�; and WR�EH�FRQQHFWHG�ZLWK��VRPHRQH�RU�VRPHWKLQJ�. In several dictionaries and in the so-called standardized usage, the PhV UHODWH�ZLWK�is not recognized as a norm. This likely suggests that the PhV UHODWH�ZLWK�is an emerging feature and may be considered a variant for relate to in PhE. Nonetheless, PhE generally uses relate to (OAF=4121) than UHODWH�ZLWK�(OAF=158). _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 235 _________________________________________________________________________________ talk to and talk with This study also found that the PhVs talk to (OAF=4174) and WDON� ZLWK� (OAF=843) are semantically the same; however, the former is preferred than the latter. The verb talk means to converse, to speak, etc. When the verb is combined with either the preposition to or ZLWK�� it becomes a PhV that means WR�FRQYHUVH�RU�VSHDN�ZLWK�VRPHRQH. Both PhVs are considered non-idiomatic because the meaning is literal. Furthermore, both PhVs follow the type 2 (transitive) pattern and are inseparable. Moreover, they both occur generally in the medial position. Examples are cited below. (39) Lately I’ve been talking to Lourdes regarding their wedding. �,&(�3+,�:�%����������! (40) When I received the invitation I talked with Chairman Alcala I VDLG�GR�ZH�KDYH�D�QHZ�SROLF\�DQG�KH�VDLG�QRQH���,&(�3+,�6�$� 031#23:1:A> 7KLV�¿QGLQJ�DI¿UPV�WKH�FODLP�RI�$OOHQ��������DQG�(VSUHVVR�(QJOLVK��Q�G���WKDW�talk to and WDON�ZLWK�mean WR�FRQYHUVH�ZLWK�VRPHRQH and that in almost all cases, they can be used interchangeably. However, for Writing Explained (n.d.), talk to implies a one-sided conversation such as between a supervisor and an employee, while WDON�ZLWK�means holding a conversation and that it is likely used for conversation among peers, equals, or friends. This claim is contrary to example (40), which clearly shows a one-sided conversation. Nadiger (2016) also claimed that there is a subtle difference in meaning between these two PhVs. On the one hand, the PhV talk to implies a one-way communication, which can mean that one person is talking and the other is listening. On the other, the PhV WDON�ZLWK�implies a two-way conversation. 4. Conclusion This study aimed to compare the semantic features and idiomatic status, and to describe the syntactic features of same-verb different-particle PhVs in PhE by utilizing the ICE- 3+,�DQG�*OR:E(�FRUSRUD��7KH�¿QGLQJV�UHYHDOHG�WKDW�VRPH�SDUWLFOHV�SUHSRVLWLRQV�DUH�XVHG� interchangeably. At least two PhVs were found to have a new meaning (i.e., ¿OO�XS� and made up of), which may be considered as lexicalization cases. Most PhVs follow the type 2 �WUDQVLWLYH��SDWWHUQ�DQG�DUH�VHSDUDEOH��RFFXUULQJ�JHQHUDOO\�LQ�WKH�PHGLDO�SRVLWLRQ��7KH�¿QGLQJV� also suggest that the interchange of particles/prepositions for the same verb to form a PhV is a prevalent phenomenon in PhE. Despite this pervasiveness, PhE still generally follows or is the same as the AmE variety and somewhat the BrE variety in using PhVs. This likely VXJJHVWV�WKDW�DOWKRXJK�3K9V�DUH�JHQHUDOO\�QRW�DQ�LQKHUHQW�FKDUDFWHULVWLF�LQ�WKH�¿UVW�ODQJXDJH�� Filipino speakers still show adequate knowledge of its use, although alternative features are also exhibited. These new features may be taken as variational or alternative features as a result of lexical and semantic innovations and creativity, breaking the “normative perspective on language use” and “making English an Asian and a Philippine language” (Paz, 2020, p. 15). _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 236 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ Several factors can be drawn for the interchange of particles/prepositions. One example is the absence of PhVs in the native language, which has resulted in the conservative use of PhVs among Filipino speakers of English (Ella & Dita, 2017). From a deviational and learning-acquisition point of view, it can be assumed that the use of prepositions in a sentence is generally problematic among second language (L2) learners and speakers (Chua et al., 2015; Paz, 2020); hence, choosing an appropriate preposition for a PhV appears to be problematic as well among Filipino speakers. In fact, speakers of AmE do not always follow the doctrine, if there is such, in the use of prepositions. This aspect of the language seems to be “the most frequent lexical items” anomalous to an AmE speaker (Gonzalez, 1983, p. 177). $V�D�¿QDO�QRWH��WKH�¿QGLQJV�RI�WKLV�VWXG\�PD\�EH�RI�JUHDW�KHOS�IRU�RUJDQL]DWLRQV�RU� publishers in their quest to describe and establish a dictionary of PhVs in PhE. For language teachers, while it is good to teach the use of PhVs in the AmE variety, especially for academic writing, the counterparts or variants and emerging features should also be taught for purposes of raising awareness on how PhE is unique in the use of PhVs and strengthening learners’ SUR¿FLHQF\�LQ�XVLQJ�3K9V�LQ�GLIIHUHQW�YDULHWLHV�DQG�FRQWH[WV�DV�ZHOO� References Allen, S. (2016). Talk to vs. talk with–which should I use? https://www.grammarly.com/blog/ talk-to-vs-talk-with/ Anderson, S.R. (1992). A-morphous morphology. Cambridge University Press. Bautista, M.L.S. (Ed.). (2011). Some notes on ‘no’ in Philippine English. Anvil Publishing, Inc. %DXWLVWD��0�/�6��� �%ROWRQ��.���(GV������������Philippine English: Linguistic and literary perspectives. Anvil Publishing, Inc. Bautista, M.L.S., Lising, J.L.V., & Dayag, D.T. (2004). Philippine English data for the International Corpus of English project��8QLYHUVLW\�5HVHDUFK�&RRUGLQDWLRQ�2I¿FH�� De La Salle University. Biber, D., Johansson, S., Leech, G., Conrad, S., & Finegan, E. (1999). Longman grammar of VSRNHQ�DQG�ZULWWHQ�(QJOLVK��Longman. Biermeier, T. (2011). Lexical trends in Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the international corpus of English (pp. 223-247). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Borlongan, A.M. (2011). Some aspects of the morphosyntax of Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 187-200). Anvil Publishing, Inc. _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 237 _________________________________________________________________________________ Borlongan, A.M. (2016). Relocating Philippine English in Schneider’s dynamic model. Asian Englishes, 18(3), 232-241. https://doi.org/10.1080/13488678.2016.1223067 Cambridge Dictionary (2018). https://dictionary.cambridge.org/ &KXD��5�0���)HUUHU��5���4XLMDQR��/�-��� �6DQWRV��-�$����������,QWHUIHUHQFH�EHWZHHQ�)LOLSLQR�DQG� English prepositions: A comparative analysis of male and female Filipino bilingual learners in the World Englishes paradigm in the Philippine setting. Proceedings of the '/68�5HVHDUFK�&RQJUHVV, 3, 1-9. Collins Dictionary (2018). https://www.collinsdictionary.com/ Collins, P. (2011). Variable agreement in the existential there-construction in Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 175-186). Anvil Publishing, Inc. &RURQHO��/�0����������3DWWHUQV�RI�LQWHQVL¿HU�XVDJH�LQ�3KLOLSSLQH�(QJOLVK��,Q�0�/�6��%DXWLVWD� (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 93-116). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Dagut, M., & Laufer, B. (1985). Avoidance of phrasal verbs—A case for contrastive analysis. Studies in Second Language Acquisition, 7(1), 73-79. https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0272263100005167 David, A.C.M. (2019). The modal must in Philippine English: A corpus-based analysis. 7KH� Journal of English as an International Language, 13(2.2), 211-218. Davies, M. (2015). Introducing the 1.9 Billion Word Global Web-Based English Corpus (GloWbE). 21st�&HQWXU\�7H[W��. Dita, S.N. (2011). The grammar and semantics of adverbial disjuncts in Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 33-50). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Dita, S.N., & Borlongan, A.M. (2020). 7KH�OHJLWLPDF\�RI�3KLOLSSLQH�(QJOLVK [Special Online Lecture]. Ella, J.R., & Dita, S.N. (2017). The phrasal-prepositional verbs in Philippine English: A corpus-based analysis. 31st�3DFL¿F�$VLD�&RQIHUHQFH�RQ�/DQJXDJH��,QIRUPDWLRQ�DQG� &RPSXWDWLRQ��3$&/,&����, 34-41. Cebu City, the Philippines. _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 238 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ English Oxford Living Dictionaries. (2018). Compare with or compare to? https:// en.oxforddictionaries.com/usage/compare-with-or-compare-to Espresso English. (n.d.). 7DON� WR�RU� WDON�ZLWK"� https://www.espressoenglish.net/talk-to-or- talk-with/ Friginal, E. (2011). The modal verb ZRXOG in spoken and written Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 51-74). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Gonzales, W.D.W. (2017). Philippine Englishes. Asian Englishes, 19(1), 79-95. https://doi.or g/10.1080/13488678.2016.1274574 Gonzalez, A. (1983). When does an error become a feature of Philippine English? In R.B. Noss (Ed.), Varieties of English in Southeast Asia (pp. 150-172). RELC Anthology Series Number 11. Gonzalez, A. (1996). Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Readings in Philippine sociolinguistics (pp. 88-92). De La Salle University Press. Hundt, M. (2011). The committee has/have decided… On concord patterns with collective noun in inner- and outer-circle varieties of English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 117-144). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Iacobini, C. (2009). Phrasal verbs between syntax and lexicon. Rivista de Linguistica, 21(1), 97-117. .DFKUX��%�%����������5HJLRQDO�QRUPV�IRU�(QJOLVK��Studies in Language Learning, 4, 54-76. .DFKUX�� %�%�� �������� 6WDQGDUGV�� FRGL¿FDWLRQ�� DQG� VRFLROLQJXLVWLF� UHDOLVP�� 7KH� (QJOLVK� ODQJXDJH�LQ�WKH�RXWHU�FLUFOH��,Q�5��4XLUN�� �+��:LGGRZVRQ��(GV����English in the ZRUOG��7HDFKLQJ�DQG�OHDUQLQJ�RI�ODQJXDJH�DQG�OLWHUDWXUH (pp. 11-30). Cambridge University Press. .DFKUX��%�%����������:RUOG�(QJOLVKHV�DQG�DSSOLHG�OLQJXLVWLFV��:RUOG�(QJOLVKHV, 9(1), 3-20. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-971X.1990.tb00683.x .DFKUX�� %�%�� �������� :RUOG� (QJOLVKHV�� $SSURDFKHV�� LVVXHV� DQG� UHVRXUFHV�� Language 7HDFKLQJ, 25(1), 1-14. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0261444800006583 Liao, Y., & Fukuya, Y.J. (2004). Avoidance of phrasal verbs: The case of Chinese learners of English. Language Learning: A Journal of Research in Language Studies, 54(2), 193-226. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9922.2004.00254.x _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 Same-verb different-particle phrasal verbs in Philippine English 239 _________________________________________________________________________________ Llamzon, T.A. (1969). Standard Filipino English. Ateneo University Press. Llamzon, T.A. (1997). The phonology of Philippine English. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), (QJOLVK�LV�DQ�$VLDQ�ODQJXDJH��7KH�3KLOLSSLQH�FRQWH[W�(pp. 41-48). The Macquarie Library Pty. Ltd. MacMillan Dictionary. (2018). https://www.macmillandictionary.com/phrasalVerbsOne/ Mahpeykar, N., & Tyler, A. (2015). A principled Cognitive Linguistics account of English phrasal verbs with up and out. Language and Cognition, 7(1), 1-35. https:// doi.org/10.1017/langcog.2014.15 Malicsi, J. (2007). Philippine English: A case of language drift. Ritsume, 22(1), 29-58. Martin, I.P. (2014). Beyond nativization?: Philippine English in Schneider’s dynamic PRGHO��� ,Q� 6�� %XVFKIHOG��7�� +RIIPDQQ�� 0�� +XEHU�� �$�� .DXWV]VFK� �(GV����7KH� HYROXWLRQ�RI�(QJOLVKHV��7KH�G\QDPLF�PRGHO�DQG�EH\RQG�(pp. 70-85). John Benjamins Publishing Co. Mc-Graw Hill Dictionary. (2002). 0F*UDZ�+LOO�GLFWLRQDU\�RI�$PHULFDQ�LGLRPV�DQG�SKUDVDO� verbs. The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc. https://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/ Merriam-Webster Dictionary. (2018). https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ Munalim, L.O. (2019). Subject-auxiliary inversion in embedded questions in spoken professional discourses: A comparison of Philippine English between 1999 and 2016-2019. 7KH�-RXUQDO�RI�(QJOLVK�DV�DQ�,QWHUQDWLRQDO�/DQJXDJH, 14(1), 40-57. Nadiger, B. (2016). ,V�³WDONLQJ�ZLWK´�RU�³WDONLQJ�WR´�JUDPPDWLFDOO\�FRUUHFW�(QJOLVK"�https:// www.quora.com/Is-talking-with-or-talking-to-grammatically-correct-English Oxford Dictionaries. (2018). English Oxford living dictionaries. Oxford University Press. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/usage/compare-with-or-compare-to Pauwels, A., & Winter, J. (2011). Generic pronouns and gender-inclusive language reform in the English of Singapore and the Philippines. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 145-158). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Paz, R.M.O. (2020). A corpus-based analysis of prepositions of time and location in Filipino students’ written essays. International Journal on Language, Research and Education Studies, 4(1), 1-17. _________________________________________________________________________________ Asian Journal of English Language Studies (AJELS) Volume 8, December 2020 240 *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR _________________________________________________________________________________ 4XLUN��5���*UHHQEDXP��6���/HHFK��*��� �6YDUWYLN��-����������A comprehensive grammar of the English language. Longman. Schneider, E.W. (2003). The dynamics of new Englishes: From identity construction to dialect birth. Language, 79(2), 233-281. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4489419 Schneider, E.W. (2007). 3RVWFRORQLDO� (QJOLVK�� 9DULHWLHV� DURXQG� WKH� ZRUOG�� Cambridge University Press. Schneider, E.W. (2011). The subjunctive in Philippine English: An updated assessment. In M.L.S. Bautista (Ed.), Studies of Philippine English: Exploring the Philippine component of the International Corpus of English (pp. 159-174). Anvil Publishing, Inc. Tatel, F.B. (2019). One step closer to Phase 4 in Schneider’s dynamic model. Philippine Journal of Linguistics, 50, 67-83. https://www.pjl-phil.com/article/2019/50/NA/ One-step-closer-to-phase-4-in-Schneider%E2%80%99s-Dynamic-Model Thesaurus Dictionary. (2018). https://www.thesaurus.com Writing Explained. (n.d.). 7DON�WR�RU�WDON�ZLWK�±�:KDW¶V�WKH�GLIIHUHQFH" https://writingexplained. org/talk-to-talk-with-difference Declaration of Interest 7KH�DXWKRU�GHFODUHV�QR�SRWHQWLDO�FRQÀLFWV�RI�LQWHUHVW�ZLWK�UHVSHFW�WR�WKH�UHVHDUFK��DXWKRUVKLS�� and/or publication of this research article. *H¿OOR\G�/��'H�&DVWUR�is a graduate of Master of Arts in English Language Studies, and has completed the academic requirements for the degree Doctor of Philosophy in Language Studies at Ateneo de Zamboanga University, the Philippines. At present, he is a college instructor and internal quality auditor at Zamboanga State College of Marine Sciences and Technology (ZSCMST). He served as Target Language Expert Reviewer at the National Foreign Language Center, University of Maryland, USA. His research interests include language teaching, Philippine Creole Spanish, and Philippine English. 
work_k5b6ikgem5hjbjh3y7sbtj5k3i	----	Jo urna l DJ Claciology, Vo!. 6, No. 45, 1966 EA R LY D I SC O VERERS XXV STEPHEN REED, M.D . , AND THE "CELEBRATED" RICHMOND BOULDER TRAIN OF BERKSHIRE COUNTY, MASSACHUSETTS, U.S.A. * By G. WILLIAM HOLMES (U .S . Geological Survey, Beltsville, Maryland, U .S.A.) STEPHEN REED earned an honoured place in the history of western Massachusetts because of his contributions as a physician, schoolmaster, editor, scientific agriculturist, columnist, lecturer and sponsor of worthy causes and good works. Today he is but dimly rememb ered in the annals of American geology for his contribution to glacial theory and for his pioneering descriptions, published and unpublished , of the Richmond boulder train . This is a remark- able sequence of large amphibolite boulders that extend from a unique source point, The Knob or "Frye's Hill" in New York State, for several tens of kilometers south-eastward into Massachusetts (Fig. I ) . Reed first reported on this "chain of erratic serpentine rocks" in a local journal, the Lenox Farmer, in 1842. This article was n ot available to the writer, although several early accounts refer to this paper. Later, R eed ( 1845 ) read a scientific account of the boulder train at a national geological meeting. This p a per sparked a trans- Atlantic debate that involved man y leading geologists, including Sir Charles Lyell , Edward Hitchcock, Ebenezer Emmons, Jam es Hall and Louis Agassiz. This d ebate was not resolved until the concept of glaciation was widely accepted in the sixth and seven th d ecades of the last century. Boulder trains and other less well-defined sequences of erratic blocks had been described earlier, having been observed in the late eighteenth century by, among others, de Saussure ( 1803 , Vo!. I , p . 206 ) in the vicinity of L a ke Geneva, and by Duroch er ( 1842 , p. 94) in Poland and Russia at about the same time as R eed's first paper. Yet the Richmond boulder train probably created more interest, because it was studied in the field by a relatively large number of eminent and articulate geologists, because its discove r y and publish ed d escriptions happened to fall within the fermentative p eriod when the broader question of the origin of the drift sheets was being vigorously d ebated o n both sides of the Atlantic, and because of its con- spicuous nature . This last aspect is notable, for unlike many other c hains of erratics or in- dicator fan s (Flint, [1957], p. 12 3), which are traceable only by careful study of buried fragments in till, this feature is clearly a train of surface boulders. For example, it maintains its narrow width for at least 29 km ., and it is composed offragments typically 5 m. in diameter, a few being 15 to 29 m. across (Fig. 2). Today, in spite of powerful earth-moving equipment and dynamite , many boulders are conspicuous in the open fields (Fig. 3). Stephen Reed was born in Cornwall, Connecticut, in 180 1 and attended Yale University, graduating in 1824. There he received, for his time, a sound scientific education , coming in contact with Professor Benjamin Silliman, and taking courses in chemistry, mineralogy, geology and natural philosophy (p ersonal communication from Yale University Graduate School, 1966). He subsequently "passed through" medical school at Yale, practiced for a short while In Goshen and in Roxbury, Connecticut, and then moved to Richmond, Massachusetts, In 183 I. His interests apparently ranged far beyond medicine, for in 1838 he abandoned his * Publication a uthorized by the Director, U.S. Geological Survey. 43 1 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core 43 2 JO U R N AL OF GLA C IOLOGY '" ~ ..... '" 'r ~ I-.. '" ~/: ~ .U -:> g/.~ ~ 0 >-/~ ~ . l: 0 !/5 u ~/.~ '" /~ i ;... "- / '--~~.:L~ ~.........:O:L..: _ _ _ ~I "" LE ...... -'·$<..........>0'-_-'1 K"' . Fig. I. Sketch map showing the location of the principal boulder trains in the Richmond, M assachuse tts, area practice, after which , in Reed's words, he " left the people to go their own way to death" (personal communication from Yale University Graduate School, 1966) . He then founded a boarding school for boys , which was regarded as both " prosperous and useful" (Berkshire County Eagle, 1877 ) . It was during his years as a schoolmaster in Richmond that he ap- parently took notice of the lines of erratic boulders that crossed his farm fields and those to the north-west and south-east (Fig. I ) . His observations were unhampered by the dense forest that now covers much of the Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core EARLY DI SCOVE RER S 433 Fig . 2. One of the larger amphibolite boulders (from L.yell's ( 1871 ) account) Fig. 3. Typical distribution of amphibolite boulders in an open field. These are from the "second train" of R eed. December, 19 65 Berkshire Hills and Taconic Mountains, for upland pastures were then more extensive, not only because of more intensive grazing, but because of the demand for hardwood for the local charcoal-burning iron furnaces. More important, Reed's geo logic training sharpened his powers of observation, for a lthough the amphibolite boulders are different on close in- spection from th e local schist, limestone and quartzite, the weathered appearance of the erratics would not set them distinctly apart to the casual observer. As a farmer, Reed was Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core 434 JOURNAL OF GLACIOLOGY also aware of their unique size, because the larger boulders in the train could not be easily broken or transported to the edges of the farm fields . Dr. Reed also had the advantage of living during a golden age of intellectual d evelop- ment in Berkshire County. Literary figures of national reputation were his neighbors, writers whose subject matter frequently dealt with nature and natural phenomena (Tague and Kimball, 196 I, p. 27- 29). Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Cull en Bryant, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Oliver Wend ell Holmes lived nearby. As Reed was active in community and county affairs, he probably could not escape the influence of the intellectual climate these writers helped to create. Nature study and scientific outings were popular pastimes. A typical excursion occurred in 1869, when a young men's association from Pittsfield, in the company of Dr. R eed, celebrated the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Baron von Humboldt on Perry's Peak (Fig. I ), complete with refreshments and the reading of odes , and ending with a cross-country hike a long the boulder train (Annin, 1964, p. 133 )· Reed's first presentation of his observations to a geologic audience (Reed, 1845 ) noted the essential aspects of the boulder train: the great size of the boulders; their lithology, especially their hardness and toughness; their distribution along a length of 29 km.; the fa ct that the width of the train did not exceed about 100 m.; the concentration of the larger b locks on the sou th-eastern (or down-glacier) slopes; and significantly, the transport across hills higher than the source of the boulders. Except for careful plotting on accurate base maps and supplementary petrographic and particle-size studies, Reed's account needs little improvement. In later years when lecturing on the boulder train , he explained its origin in a manner any Berkshire County farmer could understand: " If you should find apples of a particular kind strewn along the road, and following them up should find a cart loaded with fruit of the same kind, you would have no doubt where they came from" (Pittsfield Evming Sun, 1877, p. 2). Dr. Reed's account in a local journal in 1842 caught the eye of Edward Hitchcock, the State Geologist of Massachusetts, who published an abstract (Hitchcock, 1844) and later a longer account (Hitchcock, 1845 ) . He made a few refinements in Reed's observations, notably that the boulders extended from their source more than 29 km. to the south-east, that there was a second train south-west of the original chain, and that the blocks were on the surface and not in the drift. In attempting to explain their origin he discounted iceberg transport, because of the large number of boulders and the straightness of the train . He rejected "packed ice" (probably meaning sea ice ) as a vehicle, because it would have to be much thicker than modern sea ice and because transport to the south- east would be b locked by the topography. He could not imagine that water currents could have transported such large fragments, and he rejected the idea that the bould ers were a medial moraine in a glacier, as he believed that the glacier could not have flowed up-hill over the ridges. He also did not believe they could be "streams of stones", such as Darwin had described from the Falkland Islands, as the boulders were not confined to the valleys. As an honest scientist, Hitchcock stated that he knew no explanation and that more information was needed. His failure to reach a conclusion may be puzzling, as he is on record (Hitchcock, 1841[a], p. 3a- 11a; 184I[b] ) as stating the first widely circulated explanation in America of the glacial origin of the drift. The persons who perhaps gave the most imaginative explanation were Rogers and Rogers ( 1845, 1846) . They observed that the two main trains came from depressions at the crest of the hill from which they originated, and that the trains were slightly sinuous. Rejecting g lacial transport and iceberg drifting, they held that the train was the result of a sudden discharge of the Arctic Ocean southward, as a wave of translation (not unlike a tsunami). The Arctic waters picked up speed sweeping down the south -west slopes of the Adirondack Mountains and drove enormou s ice islands against the summit of The Knob. This pro- Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core EARLY DISCOVERERS 435 duced a vortex "endowed with an excess gyratory or spiral velocity" which had a pendant column (similar to a tornado funnel or dust devil in the atmosphere) . The whirlpool then gath ered into its rotating column blocks from the summit and strewed them in a line along which its p endant apex dragged along the ground (Rogers and Rogers, 1845 , p . 79 ) . Only a few years later came the first published suggestion that the Richmond boulder train was of glacial origin . Desor ( 1848) stated that similar trains of boulders parallel the courses of glaciers in Switzerland. However, as frequ ently occurs in the history of science, the true origin was not generally accepted until several decades had passed. Sir Charles L yell was among those who did not accept a g lacial origin for the Richmond train (Lyell , 1855, 1871 ) . In th e company of R eed (whose name he spelled R eid ), Hitchcock and James Hall , Lyell carefully traversed th e Richmond area and plotted a total of seven parallel lines of boulders. However , th e additi o nal five train s, four of which were plotted south -west and one north-eas t of the main trains, were said to b e composed mostly of lime- stone blocks. As the lim es tone trains were not traced to a lithologically unique point source, limes tone b eing one of the commonest local rocks, they probably should not be regarded as bould er trains. P erhaps L yell' s chief contribution was his careful description , which was widely circulated in a journal ( 1855) and in his tome, The geological evidences cif th e antiquity 0] Man ( 1871 ) . H e described the larges t bould e r in th e train, the "Alderman" on " Dupey's Mount" (Fig. I ), which is 29 m . long, and noted that in some localities as many as 40 or 50 blocks could b e observed lying near each other " th e smallest of them larger than a camel" . H e also published a somewhat sp ec tacular sketch of a block, 16 m . long, near the Richmond Meeting House (Fig. 2). This information certainly stimulated wid e discussion and specula- tion. How ever , his explanation was that the blocks were transported from Th e Knob by "coast ice" which was able to drift south-westward through th e saddles of the ridges (Lyell , 1871 , p. 36 1) . H e rejected glacial transport, fo r h e believed that the flow of glacial ice would have caused the boulders to fan out rather th a n be deposited in a lin e (L yell , 1871 , p. 350) . Ind eed , many, if not most, of these features elsewh ere are in fan patterns, as implied in Flint's term , indica tor fan (Flint, [1957] , p. 12 3) . The R eve rend John B. Perry, like R eed an amateur geologist, n ex t made a contribution to the discu ssion of th e boulder train (Perry, 187 1) , publishing a year befor e the appearance of Agassiz's ( 1872 ) short but d efinitive opinion on its origin. P er r y postulated that the train was deposited b y a glacier that had thinned to about 200 m . and m oved around the summit of The Kn ob (P err y, 1871 , p. 168) . Agassiz ( 1872 , p . 385 ) disco unted an iceberg m echanism for transport of th e boulders, b ecause he observed the blocks w ere rounded and scratched. H e suggested that the boulder train was cau sed by an immense , not local , ice sheet, not less than about 3,300 to 4,000 m. thick. Agassiz also stated that R eed had not received due credit for his observations . Stephen R eed in 1873, n ow an elderly and distinguish ed citizen of Berkshire County, published anoth er scientific paper on the boulder trains. In the years since the publication of his first papers, he had b eco m e the editor and publisher of a weekl y j ournal , had pur- chased an agricultural supply house, had b ecom e active in community affairs in Pittsfield, and had lec tured and written newspaper articl es on geology and natural history. In his last paper, publish ed o nl y a year after Agassiz effec tively end ed the boulder-train d ebate, R eed d escribed a boulder train 2 mil es (3.2 km. ) south of the " main" train (Fig. I ) . He noted that glacial transport was supported by the fact that grinding and grooving w ere greater on the up-glacier slopes, that the larger blocks were found on the down-glacie r slopes, and that som e bould ers were found at hig her elevatio ns than their sources (R eed , 1873) . The most complete study of the boulder train was made by Benton (1878) in a paper published a year after the death of Dr. R eed . Benton mapped the bould ers, u sing his own remarkably good base map, and mad e measurements of bould er den sities and sizes. Although Benton was able to trace the main and (less continuous) secondary trains and fragments of Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core JOURNAL OF GLACIOLOGY two others, he could not find evidence for the other three trains of Lyell (Fig. I). He sub- stantiated Reed's observations, showing that boulders on the north-west slop e of the " Canaan Mountains" a veraged about 4 m . in diameter, whereas those on the south-east slope averaged about 5 m . Boulders in the Lenox-Stockbridge valley (near Tanglewood ) averaged only 60 cm. in diameter (Fig. I ). By the 1870's, the glacial hypothesis for the origin of drift was widely, although not univ ersally, accepted (Flint, [1957], p. 5) . Yet the Richmond boulder train continued to stimulate interest and discussion , locally and nationally. A d escription of the boulder train and a sketch of the life of Dr. Reed appeared prominentl y in a compre hensive history of Berkshire County (Smith, 1885, Vo!. I, p. 3; Vo!. 2, p. 237,418, 490- 91 ) and recently in a history of the town of Richmond (Annin, 1964, p. 132- 33 ) , and the feature is mentioned in most of the standard textbooks on glacial geology (Wright, 1889, p. 210; Flint, [1957], p . 126 ; Charlesworth , 1957, p. 365 ) . The erratic blocks were re-studied early in this century by Taylor ( 1910), who essentiall y supported the observations of Reed and Benton, and who presented evidence for a second diverging train of buried amphibolite boulders trending southward from The Knob. Taylor implied that the south-trending train was evidence for an advance of the ice sheet in western Massachusetts prior to the one that deposited the Richmond train. More recentl y, Chute (unpublished), in the course of investigations of the iron deposits of Berkshire County, reviewed the literature on the Richmond train and discussed some of its striking characteristics. Among all the participants in the boulder-train debate, Stephen Reed , amateur geologist, probably deserves the most credit for presenting, directly and indirectly, solid evidence supporting the theory of continental g laciation. MS. received 3 May 1966 REFERENCES Agass iz, L. 1872 . [Obse rva tions on boulders in Berkshir e Co unty.] Proceedings of the Boston S ocie ty of Natural H is tory, V ot. 14, p. 385-86. Annin , K. H . 1964. R ichmond , M assachusetts, the story of a Berkshire to w n and its people, 1765- 1965 . North Ada rns , Mass. , Excelsior Printing Co . Benton , E. R. 18 78. The Ri chmond b oulder trains. B ulletin of the lv[useum of Comparative Z oology, Ha rvard College , Vol. 5, p. 17-42. B erkshi re County E agle, 19 July 18n. [Obituary of Dr . Stephen Reed.] Cha rl esworth , J . K. 1957. Th e Quaternary era , wi th special reference to its glacia tion. London, E dward Arnold. 2 vols. Chute, N . E. Unpublish ed. Th e brown iron ore distri ct of Berkshire Co unty, Mass a c huse tts. [Massachuse tts D epartment of Publi c Works and U .S . G eological Survey C oop e rative Geo logical Proj ec t, Open File R ep ort, written 1945.] D eso r , E. 1848. On p a ra llel trains of boulders in Berkshire County, Mass. Proceedings of the B oston Society of Na tural H is tory, Vol. 2, p . 260- 6 1. Duroc h e r , M. 1842. Obse rvation s sur le phenomen e dilu vien dans le nord d e l 'Europe. Comptes Rendus H eb- do madaires des Stances de l ' A cademie des S ciences (Paris), T om. 14, No. I , p . 78- 110. Flint, R. F. [1957 .] Glacial and Pleistocene geology . N ew York , John Wil ey and Sons , Inc . Hitchco ck, E . 1841 [a]. Final report on the geology of Ma ssachusetts . Vol. I. Amherst, J. S. and C . Adams. Hitchcock, E. 184 I [b]. F irst annive rsary address b efore th e Association of American G eologists. American Journal of S cience, 1st Ser. , Vot. 41 , No . 2, p. 232-75 . Hitchco ck, E. 1844. Disp ersion of blocks of stone at th e drift p eriod in Berkshire County, Mass. A merican J ournal of S cience, 1st Ser. , Vot. 47, No . I , p . 132-33. [Abstrac t.] Hitchcoc k, E . 1845 . D escription of a singular case of th e dispersion of blocks of stone conn ected with drift in Berkshire County, Mass. American Journal of Science, 1st Ser ., Vot. 49, No. 2, p. 258- 65. Lyell , C. 1855. On cert a in trains of errati c blocks on th e wes tern borders of Massachuse tts, United States. Notices of the Proceedings at the Meetings of the M embers of the Royal Institution, Vol. 2, p . 86-97 . Lyell , C. 1871. The geological evidences of the antiquity of Man . Second edition . Philadelphia, J . B. Lippincott and C o . Perry, J . B. 187 I. Boulde r trains in Berkshire County, Mass. Proceedings of the American Associationfor the Advancement of S cience, Vol. 19, p. 167-69 . Pittsfield E vening Sun , 18 July 18n . [Obituary of Dr. R eed.] R eed , S. 1845. A chain of erratic serpentin e rocks passing through the center of Berkshire County. Proceedings of the Association of American Geologis ts , 6th annual m ee ting, p. 12. Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core EARLY DISCOVERERS 437 Reed, S. 1873. On trains of boulders and on the transport of boulders to a leve l above that of th eir source. American Journal of Science , 3rd Ser. , Vol. 5, No . '27, p . '218- 19. Rogers, H. D. , and Rogers, W. B. 1845. [On the boulder trains of Berkshire County, Mass .] Proceedings of the Boston Society of Natural H istory, Vol. '2, p. 79-80. Rogers, H. D. , and Rogers, W. B. 1846. An account of two remarkable trains of angular erratic blocks in Berkshire, Mass., with an attempt at an explanation of the phenomena. Boston Journal of Natural H istory, Vol. 5, P·3 Io- 30 . Saussure, H. B. de. 1803. Voyages dans les Alpes,preddes d ' un essai surl'histoire naturelle des environs de Geneve. Neuchatel , Louis Fauche-Borel. Smith, ]. E. A., ed. 1885 . The history of Berkshire County , Mass. New York, ]. B. Beers Co. '2 vols. Tague, W. H., and Kimball, R. B. , ed. 1961. Berkshire , two hundred years in pictures, 1761 - 1961. Pittsfield , Mass. , Eagle Publishing Co. Taylor, F. B. 1910 . Richmond and Great Barrington boulder trains. Bulletin of the Geological Society of America, Vol. '21, p. 747-5'2. Wright, G. F. 1889. The I ce Age in North America. New York, D . Appleton and Co . Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use. https://www.cambridge.org/core Vol 6 Issue 45 page 431-437 - Early discoverers XXV - Stephen Reed, M.D., and the 'celebrated' Richmond boulder train of Berkshire County, Massachusetts, U.S.A - G.William Holmes 
work_kaxsqdx77jgnpn42s4gdd3nomm	----	humanities Article There’s No Nostalgia Like Hollywood Nostalgia Thomas Leitch Department of English, University of Delaware, Newark, DE 19716, USA; tleitch@udel.edu; Tel.: +1-302-239-4100 Received: 15 September 2018; Accepted: 18 October 2018; Published: 19 October 2018 ���������� ������� Abstract: This essay argues that the complexities of the nostalgic impulse in Hollywood cinema are inadequately described by Svetlana Boym’s particular description of Hollywood as “both induc[ing] nostalgia and offer[ing] a tranquilizer” and her highly influential general distinction between restorative and reflective nostalgia. Instead, it contends that Hollywood departs in important ways from the models of both the restorative nostalgia established by the heritage cinema and Great Britain and the reflective nostalgia commonly found in American literature. Using a wide range of examples from American cinema, American literature, and American culture, it considers the reasons why nostalgia occupies a different place and seeks different kinds of expressions in American culture than it does in other national cultures, examines the leading Hollywood genres in which restorative nostalgia appears and the distinctive ways those genres inflect it, and concludes by urging a closer analysis of the more complex, multi-laminated nostalgia Hollywood films offer as an alternative to Boym’s highly influential categorical dichotomy. Keywords: American literature; heritage cinema; Hollywood; reflective nostalgia; restorative nostalgia Hollywood nostalgia deserves more respect. According to Svetlana Boym, the leading contemporary theorist of nostalgia: “Popular culture made in Hollywood, the vessel for national myths that America exports abroad, both induces nostalgia and offers a tranquilizer; instead of disquieting ambivalence and paradoxical dialectic of past, present, and future, it provides a total restoration of extinct creatures and a conflict resolution” (Boym 2001, p. 33). This dismissive characterization is rooted in Boym’s highly influential discussion of nostalgia, which she defines as “a longing for a home that no longer exists or has never existed. Nostalgia is a sentiment of loss and displacement, but it is also a romance with one’s own fantasy. Nostalgic love can only survive in a long-distance relationship. A cinematic image of nostalgia is a double exposure or a superimposition of two images—of home and abroad, past and present, dream and everyday life” (Boym 2001, pp. xiii–xiv). Boym distinguishes between two types of nostalgia: Restorative nostalgia puts emphasis on nostos and proposes to rebuild the lost home and patch up the memory gaps. Reflective nostalgia dwells in algia, in longing and loss, the imperfect process of remembrance. The first category of nostalgics do not think of themselves as nostalgic; they believe that their project is about truth. This kind of nostalgia characterizes national and nationalist revivals all over the world, which engage in the antimodern myth-making of history by means of a return to national symbols and myths and, occasionally, through swapping conspiracy theories. Restorative nostalgia manifests itself in total reconstructions of monuments of the past, while reflective nostalgia lingers on ruins, the patina of time and history, in the dreams of another place and another time. (Boym 2001, p. 41) Considering Hollywood nostalgia in the broader context of American cultural nostalgia challenges Boym’s dismissal of Hollywood nostalgia, reveals illuminating contrasts between the nostalgia of Humanities 2018, 7, 101; doi:10.3390/h7040101 www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities http://www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities http://www.mdpi.com http://dx.doi.org/10.3390/h7040101 http://www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities http://www.mdpi.com/2076-0787/7/4/101?type=check_update&version=2 Humanities 2018, 7, 101 2 of 13 American cinema and the nostalgia of American literature, and complicates the distinction between restorative and reflective nostalgia in rewarding ways. To speak of American cultural nostalgia already implies, as Boym acknowledges, that different national cultures and their cinemas are shaped by very different kinds of nostalgia. The most frequently discussed of these nostalgic cinemas, the so-called heritage cinema of Great Britain, began in the 1980s with movies like Chariots of Fire (1981) and A Room with a View (1985) that expressed what Cairns Craig called “the crisis of identity which England passed through during the Thatcher years” through sustained images of “film as conspicuous consumption, the country houses, the paneled interiors, the clothes which have provided a good business for New York fashion houses selling English country style to rich Americans” (Craig 2001, p. 3). The Britain of heritage films was rich, powerful, and untroubled, its citizens uniformly clean-cut, well-dressed, and good-looking, and the problems that drove their stories largely limited to private questions of morality, romance, or sexual identity with cautiously nationalistic overtones. Heritage films employed a “museum aesthetic” (Vincendeau 2001, p. xviii) combining exterior shots of spacious estates and stately homes with interiors marked by close attention to historically accurate furnishings, fashions, and music. The effect was to stage often intense interpersonal psychological and social conflicts against a placidly idealized Britain of day-before-yesteryear in which contemporary audiences could find comfort and refuge from the shocks and disappointments of the present. An important aspect of the heritage aesthetic was its new focus on television miniseries set in the past, often, though not always, based on classic English novels, and decorated with a finicky attention to visual and auditory detail quite new to the small screen. This aesthetic made British heritage cinema unusually distinctive. France, for example, has no comparable tradition of movies and television programs celebrating an idealized historical past. Films like Jean Renoir’s La Marseillaise (1938) are relatively rare, and no discernible pattern or general attitude toward the nation’s past emerges from the Gérard Depardieu department of history, which includes Le dernier métro (1980), Le retour de Martin Guerre (1982), Danton (1983), Camille Claudel (1988), Cyrano de Bergerac (1990), Tous les matins du monde (1991), Colonel Chabert (1994), and the 1998 miniseries Le Comte de Monte Cristo. Germany has a tradition of Heimat (“homeland”) cinema, but although the English word “nostalgia” represents Swiss medical student Johannes Hofer’s attempt in 1688 to translate the German word Heimweh, Eckart Voigts-Virchow has shown that “the term Heimat has different shades of meaning to the term ‘heritage’ in England” (Voigts-Virchow 2007, p. 126). To these different flavors of nostalgia, Primož Krašovec has added Yugonostalgia. Yugonostalgia, the remnants that survive “the process of depoliticization of the collective memory of socialism [ . . . ] is a form of popular memory that has been washed clean of all traces of political demands for social equality, workers’ participation in the production process, and internationalism, as well as [ . . . ] the antifascism, anti-imperialism, and anti-chauvinism that constituted the core of the revolutionary politics of socialism” (Krašovec 2011). Looking further east, Japanese cinema has a long and honorable tradition of jidai-geki, films about government officials and samurai warriors who ply their trades during their country’s Edo period, as opposed to the gendai-geki set in modern Japan. But no one would call Rashomon (1950) or Gate of Hell (1953) a heritage film, for the past they present as an alternative to the contemporary reality of postwar Japan is just as troubled, and in its way just as brutal, as the world of Ikiru (1952) or Tokyo Story (1953). The worlds of the Heimat film and the jidai-geki may be sources of nostalgia and national pride, but like French historical films, they do not offer visually idealized refuges of the same sort that British cinema finds in Jane Austen or Brideshead Revisited (1981). The real outlier among national cinemas is that of the United States, which for all the glories of Hollywood has never developed anything remotely comparable to heritage cinema. Heritage cinema has never taken root in the United States because so many factors combine to make it difficult for Americans—that is, for the purposes of this essay, citizens of the United States—to wax equally nostalgic over their own nation’s history, particularly as it is presented in the movies. Heritage cinema’s restorative nostalgia, which dreams ardently of an idealized home in an idealized past, has no clear Humanities 2018, 7, 101 3 of 13 counterpart in American culture, which “didn’t succumb to the nostalgic vice until the American Civil War” (Boym 2001, p. 6). Boym cites letter-perfect Civil War enactments and the CGI dinosaurs of Jurassic Park (1993) as characteristically American examples of restorative nostalgia that propose “a heroic American national identity” (Boym 2001, p. 34). But attempts to invoke this national identity through American nostalgia are complicated by several factors. For one thing, the unofficial culture of the United States is almost obsessively future-oriented, not past-oriented. Americans are famous for living in the present and dreaming of the future rather than the past. They are less rooted in their extended families than the English, or Europeans generally. They are more likely to move away from their birthplaces, and when they do move, they can move much further away without leaving their country. Americans are much less focused, less likely to define themselves, in terms of where they came from than in terms of where they see themselves going. Any nostalgic longing for the past has a strictly limited place in such a resolutely future-oriented world. This is true not only for Americans as individuals but for American culture in general. When they are not celebrating Independence Day on the Fourth of July—or, more recently and revealingly, on the first Monday in July, a holiday of convenience whose most notable trademark is the display of fireworks, an entertainment form notable for its glorification of evanescent spectacle—citizens of the United States display remarkably little investment in their shared country’s past. The continuing debates over the propriety of monuments to the heroes of the Confederacy during the Civil War dramatize the extent to which Americans define themselves in terms of local or regional rather than national ties. Nor does American history lend itself readily to restorative nostalgia. The epochal events prominently displayed in the textbooks through which American schoolchildren learn their nation’s history are largely disruptive and destructive. When Abraham Lincoln announced in the Gettysburg Address that the strife-torn United States had originally been “conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal” (Lincoln 1989, p. 536), he was rooting the national project in philosophical ideals Americans have felt obliged to enact in the present instead of celebrating their currency in the past, where they would be much more likely to regard them critically or reflectively. America lacks the primary motive behind Britain’s restorative nostalgia because although the United States may have given up the Panama Canal, it has not yet lost an empire. The Thatcherite cultural conservatism behind British heritage cinema was a reaction to the fear that the United Kingdom’s greatest days might have been behind it. Until very recently, it has been hard to get a critical mass of citizens of the United States to take the analogous proposition about their own country seriously. Most American Presidents have been widely identified as leaders of the free world. Flush with undiminished power, Americans have no need to take refuge in an idealized past. Even so, America has generated a widely acknowledged brand of nostalgia-based not so much of “the restoration of origins” Boym identifies as one of the “two main narrative plots” of restorative nostalgia but on the other plot: “the conspiracy theory, characteristic of the most extreme cases of contemporary nationalism fed on right-wing popular culture,” that proposes “a Manichean battle of good and evil and the inevitable scapegoating of the mythical enemy” (Boym 2001, p. 43). This myth of American supremacy, at once self-congratulatory and paranoid, has most recently been marketed by Donald Trump. In capitalizing on and amplifying a nostalgic undercurrent long dormant in the American public, Trump has ushered in a new era of restorative nostalgia. Under the revealing slogan Make America Great Again, he has campaigned and governed on the basis of an assumption that the United States is in decline and, as he told the Republican National Convention in accepting the party’s Presidential nomination in July 2016, “I alone can fix it.” Trump’s presidency has focused on rolling back federal regulations and protections, cutting taxes and government programs, withdrawing from foreign treaties, squeezing long-standing allies for more advantageous trade deals, promising to build an impermeable wall on the border between the United States and Mexico, appointing conservative federal judges and a remarkable number of Cabinet secretaries openly hostile to the mandates of the departments they have been chosen to head, defunding and suppressing initiatives designed to reduce unwanted pregnancies and climate change, and demonizing dissenters and opponents in an Humanities 2018, 7, 101 4 of 13 endless series of vituperative ad hominem tweets, all in the name of restoring a greatness America has presumably lost. Trump’s programs and policies are fueled by an unmistakably restorative nostalgia for an America that kept immigrants at bay, shunned political correctness and self-anointed East Coast elites, condemned political extremists on the left but not the right, prized individual initiative above paternalistic collective action, and promoted the promise of untrammeled material success to everyone lucky enough to grab the brass ring. Trump’s brand of MAGA nostalgia differs from heritage nostalgia not in being less restorative but in being more actively restorative. The idealized past the BBC dreams of finds its counterpart in an idealized American past, floating free of any limiting identification with a particular time or place, for whose return millions of Americans do not simply long but ardently work and pray. The emergence of MAGA should have come as no great surprise, for despite its self-avowed progressivism and its founding devotion to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—the last of these already an aspirational goal rather than a retrospective ideal—the United States has long found room within its culture for restorative nostalgia. But celebrations of this brand of nostalgia have rarely entered its literature because so many of these celebrations focus on artifacts rather than narratives. In accord with Boym’s observation that restorative nostalgia “gravitates toward collective pictorial symbols and oral culture” (Boym 2001, p. 49), American calls to restorative nostalgia are less closely associated with stories about America that with the icons, artifacts, and rituals revealingly labeled Americana, a term so common that a Google search for it reveals 300 million hits, though none at all for “Englishana” or “Britishana.” Giovanni Russonello roots the label for the late-twentieth-century music he discusses as “Americana” in an earlier history represented by “the comforting, middle-class ephemera at your average antique store—things like needle-pointed pillows, Civil War daguerreotypes, and engraved silverware sets” (Russonello 2013). This brand of Americana is familiar from American television series like The Waltons, Little House on the Prairie, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, Happy Days, and That ’70s Show. Contemporary expressions of American nostalgia by American politicians, editorialists, and citizens are remote from these incarnations, which they rarely invoke. What is even more remarkable, however, is the estrangement of Hollywood nostalgia from both the MAGA restorative nostalgia so stridently proclaimed by nativist politicians and the severely critical reflective nostalgia of Hawthorne’s novel The Scarlet Letter. This estrangement is particularly striking in view of the notorious economic conservatism of the American film industry, which has expressed itself most recently in a wholesale commitment to retro superhero franchises and other sequels and remakes. There are several reasons why Boym’s anodyne portrayal of Hollywood nostalgia as restorative requires complication, and why Hollywood nostalgia, when it does appear, is so distinctive. The first generation of Hollywood moguls were European émigrés who lacked any sense of nostalgia for a racially or ethnically pure United States, and when these moguls retired or died, they were replaced by liberals whose own nostalgia is quite differently oriented from either the BBC or MAGA. The capital-intensiveness of Hollywood filmmaking makes studios and bankers reluctant to gamble on projects they perceive as taking sides and preemptively alienating large portions of the audience. In the immortal injunction variously attributed to Samuel Goldwyn, Ernest Hemingway, Moss Hart, and Humphrey Bogart: “When you want to send a message, use Western Union.” Hollywood celebrations of history tend to focus on the history of the American film industry itself, a tendency abundantly on display during annual broadcasts of the Academy Awards ceremonies. This unusually single-minded focus tends to eclipse any traces of reflective nostalgia it finds in American culture or American literature. MAGA nostalgia finds a more ready home in popular music that evokes a favored earlier time either through its own conventions (as in country and western song and the blues) or through the conventions of its return as beloved oldies. The scarcity of MAGA nostalgia in Hollywood is illuminated by the production history of one film that traffics openly in this brand of nostalgia: Gabriel Over the White House, which Gregory La Cava Humanities 2018, 7, 101 5 of 13 directed in 1933 from a screenplay by Carey Wilson based on Rinehard, a novel by Canadian writer T.F. Tweed. The film focuses on Jud Hammond (Walter Huston), a do-nothing, don’t-rock-the-boat politician who has been elected President. Following a near-fatal car accident and a moment of possibly divine intervention, Hammond awakens from his coma suddenly determined to rescue his country from “big-business lackeys.” He purges his cabinet, responds to his impeachment by declaring martial law, suspends civil rights, revokes the Constitution, uses demonstrations of military force to blackmail world powers into disarming, and orders the execution of malefactors he personally identifies as “enemies of the people” before he suffers a fatal stroke, again of possibly divine provenance, and is eulogized as one of the greatest American Presidents. The film, produced by Walter Wanger for Cosmopolitan Pictures, whose head, reactionary newspaper publisher William Randolph Hearst, had played an important role in shaping its screenplay, was distributed by MGM. As his biographer Charles Higham recounts, however, studio chief Louis B. Mayer, who had not been consulted during its development, “was appalled when he saw the picture’s rough cut” (Higham 1993, p. 196). Realizing that it was a piece of agitprop designed to criticize President Herbert Hoover as timid and ineffective in combatting the ills of the Great Depression and encourage incoming President Franklin D. Roosevelt to assume unilateral powers, he “intervened seriously for the first time over [Irving] Thalberg in the cutting of the picture” (Higham 1993, p. 196). Although contemporaneous reviewers equated Hammond with Mussolini and saw the film as an advance advertisement for home-grown Fascism, Gabriel Over the White House was a popular success—but a success that Mayer was so eager to avoid repeating that after buying the rights to It Can’t Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis’s 1935 parable of local resistance to an American Fascist President, before the bestselling novel’s publication, he was intimidated by the monitory response of Hollywood censor Joseph I. Breen and the possible reactions of MGM’s profitable foreign markets. “Mayer cannot have forgotten Gabriel Over the White House; he must have seen the anti-Hooverish elements in even a story summary,” notes Higham. “Had he read the novel itself [ . . . ] he would certainly never have embarked on the picture at all” (Higham 1993, p. 250). Despite Lewis’s vigorous public protests, It Can’t Happen Here never went before the cameras. Like Gabriel over the White House, it is best remembered as a cautionary example of Hollywood’s avoidance of partisan politics. Apart from the studios’ unwillingness to offend large portions of the American audience by releasing more recent MAGA adaptations, Hollywood adaptations of American literature rarely display restorative nostalgia because American literature itself has long shunned restorative nostalgia. Theorists of American literature have frequently contrasted the American Renaissance of the mid-nineteenth century with contemporaneous Victorian literature. Novelists like Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville play a less dominant role in the American Renaissance than their English counterparts, Charles Dickens, William Makepeace Thackeray, the Brontë sisters, Elizabeth Gaskell, and George Eliot, because so many writers of the American Renaissance were poets or essayists like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, James Russell Lowell, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Although Thackeray’s view of the Napoleonic Wars, Dickens’s of the Poor Laws, and Eliot’s of the Reform Bill of 1832 are quite as jaundiced as Hawthorne’s view of the Salem Witch Trials or Harriet Beecher Stowe’s view of slavery, the social criticism of the great Victorian novelists from Dickens to Elizabeth Gaskell, Anthony Trollope, and Thomas Hardy is made more palatable by the satiric energy of Dickens and Thackeray and the detailed, integrative, largely sympathetic portraits of Victorian society in Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters, Eliot’s Middlemarch, and Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset. When American writers of the period turn to the shorter forms of fiction, they produce not Dickens’s nostalgic stories “A Christmas Carol,” “The Chimes,” and “The Cricket on the Hearth,” but the gothic horror tales of Edgar Allan Poe. The leading American novelists who follow the American Renaissance and who might have been expected to provide material for restorative Hollywood nostalgia adopt instead a more critically reflective nostalgia. Washington Square, the best-known of Henry James’s forays into the historical past, is sharply critical of the mores of the early nineteenth century. So is Edith Wharton’s The Age Humanities 2018, 7, 101 6 of 13 of Innocence, which looks back on the later nineteenth century with an equally cold eye fifty years after the fact. Mark Twain’s boyhood idyll The Adventures of Tom Sawyer views growing up in the Midwest of the early nineteenth century through the lens of restorative nostalgia, but its more ambitious sequel, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, adopts a much more critically reflective nostalgia in its faux-naïve exposé of the corrosive effects of slavery. Whatever nostalgia appears in The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane’s 1895 account of an episode from the American Civil War, is reflective rather than restorative. The same is true of the World War I fiction of Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, and John Dos Passos. The Great Gatsby has so often been filmed as an exercise in period nostalgia that it can be easy to forget that it is not itself a period piece but a sharply, if compassionately, observed portrait of a 1925 American present notable for its unblinking critique of the American dream of progress through individual self-actualization; like the novels F. Scott Fitzgerald revealingly titled This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, Tender Is the Night, and The Last Tycoon, its primary mode is elegiac rather than nostalgic—or, as Boym would say, a mode of reflective rather than restorative nostalgia. And Faulkner, whose anatomy of the catastrophic legacy of racial injustice on Mississippi’s Yoknapatawpha County rises to an obsession in novels like Absalom, Absalom! and Go Down, Moses, shows that a fixation on the American past does not guarantee anything like restorative nostalgia. Nor does this highly critical attitude toward the past undergo any substantial change in recent novelists from Thomas Pynchon to Philip Roth to Don DeLillo, all of whose excursions into American history could be described as curdled, sometimes withering exercises in reflective nostalgia. Apart from James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales about the relations between British American settlers and Native Americans in the later eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the most distinctive and distinguished American novelists have been not only non-nostalgic but anti-nostalgic. The great American novels from The House of the Seven Gables and Moby-Dick to The Plot Against America and Underworld have refused the cultural conservatism of their English counterparts and so left open few possibilities for restorative nostalgia in Hollywood adaptations—unless, like The Great Gatsby, they are pressed into service as the basis for period costume dramas. American literature may be employed as a site of restorative nostalgia in the same ways that any archive can be pressed into similar service, but that is not its own characteristic mode: when writers like Hawthorne and Faulkner and Roth plumb the American past, it is not to celebrate it but to mine it for previsions of contemporary social and cultural problems. If “nostalgia is a psychological mechanism that serves a motivational regulatory function by counteracting avoidance motivation and facilitating approach motivation” (Routledge 2015, p. 117), American literature, in general, facilitates approach motivation only in the most implicit, indirect, highly critical ways. So it is not surprising to find that Hollywood nostalgia, which in Clay Routledge’s terms “affirms feelings of belongingness” (Routledge 2015, p. 54), is distinct from both the restorative nostalgia of British heritage cinema and the critically reflective nostalgia of American literature. For all its enduring infatuation with British literature in general and the Victorian novel in particular as sites of nostalgia, cultural capital, and elitist cachet, Hollywood has had little use for American literature. When it has adapted American literary classics, the results have often been non-nostalgic, even anti-nostalgic. Roland Joffé’s The Scarlet Letter (1995) includes Demi Moore, Gary Oldman, Robert Duvall, an Indian attack, a hot tub, and a happy ending. The impetus behind Joffé’s adaptation, whose departures from Hawthorne’s novel Moore assured interviewers could safely be ignored because “it had been a very long time since people had read it” (Rubenstein 2017), was not a painstakingly recreated simulacrum of an idealized historical past but a determined, albeit anachronistic, attempt to improve that past by conferring on Hawthorne’s story the enlightened attitudes of the contemporary audience’s own beliefs about sex, love, adultery, social opprobrium, and true romance, an attempt, very typical of Hollywood, that ended up fetishizing the present rather than the past. Humanities 2018, 7, 101 7 of 13 A further look into Hollywood history reveals not so much a blanket dismissal of classic American novels as a highly discriminating selection of them and a strikingly consistent treatment of the properties that are actually selected. American regionalists like Sarah Orne Jewett, Eudora Welty, and Flannery O’Connor are rarely adapted to the screen. Instead, New England is represented by The Scarlet Letter and Peyton Place and the American South by The Birth of a Nation and Gone with the Wind. Edith Wharton’s most notable exercises in nostalgia, the four novella-length prequels to The Age of Innocence that she collected in the 1924 volume Old New York, have been largely neglected by Hollywood, although the longest of them, “The Old Maid,” was filmed as a period vehicle for Bette Davis in 1939, just as The Age of Innocence itself has been adapted three times, most recently and memorably by Martin Scorsese in 1993. Perhaps the most striking rejection of a truly nostalgic American author is Hollywood’s neglect of the novelist Willa Cather, whose sensitive, monumental Great Plains trilogy—O Pioneers! (1913), The Song of the Lark (1915), and My Ántonia (1918)—went unfilmed until 1991. Indeed the only two films before 1977 based on Cather’s work both adapted A Lost Lady, a romance that is the least historically resonant of her major novels, and every one of the ten Cather adaptations from 1977 to the present has been either a short film or a television original. Cather has fared better on the small screen than the big screen not because her novels are small-scaled themselves but because, like their British heritage counterparts, they use largely domestic settings to focus potentially large-scale cultural conflicts. They can be filmed on a limited budget on Nebraska locations, and their emphasis on strong women struggling to find themselves and their vocations makes them a natural for the Hallmark Channel and the Public Television Network alongside adaptations of Edna Ferber, the younger, Book-of-the-Month Club version of Cather. More important, successful television adaptations emphasize their worlds over their stories. Just as TV series from I Love Lucy to The Simpsons allow loyal audiences to enjoy their time with familiar characters by putting them every week into new situations that barely take them out of their comfort zone, television adaptations, whether they are miniseries or features, offer one more chance to spend quality time with characters they have already grown to love. Television episodes can be as densely plotted as feature films, but in situation comedies like All in the Family or dramas like Mission: Impossible, the goal of each episode is not to reach a new ending, but to return to the world as it was at the beginning of the episode. Sarah Cardwell contends that television “interacts with our present lives in a way that film does not. The transmission [ . . . ] of each text is perceived as being ‘present,’ due to its locus in television’s continuous flow. Added to this, our interpretation of the tenseless television image is that it is of the present tense” (Cardwell 2002, p. 87). Despite these insistent tokens of presentness, television, at least until the recent rise of cable miniseries like The Sopranos, The Wire, and Homeland, has been a nostalgic medium whose characters typically yearn to preserve their world rather than change it. Restorative nostalgia finds a readier welcome on television because its plots are less threatening, more predictable, more formulaic, and more ritualistic, like the stories parents tell their children at bedtime. Even though most viewers (the word is significant) think of cinema as a more visually oriented medium than television, television is particularly well suited to supplying visuals in a style their audience has already been trained to expect, and it is no coincidence that the great age of the British heritage adaptation was largely driven by television miniseries. More generally, because restorative nostalgia expresses its longing for the past by fixing on particular places and spaces—scenes, moments, situations, and tableaux it freezes and idealizes—rather than on the stories that complicate and disrupt these treasured moments, its natural vehicles are visual rather than narrative. The most characteristically nostalgic stories fall into two categories. The first is tales that have become so familiar that they can be fondly remembered as stories, whether the audience that greets their repetition with delight is children hearing the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears one more time or the adult fans watching Evil Dead II (1987) one more time. Even though all these audiences know exactly what is going to happen, that knowledge is itself a condition of their pleasure that frees them to savor every moment of the story, confident that it will end by arriving at its accustomed destination. The second kind of stories subject to nostalgia is those that showcase the largest possible Humanities 2018, 7, 101 8 of 13 number of privileged moments, lingering over them and inflating them before reluctantly revealing the less readily sentimentalized social forces that lead away from them. Apart from Eugene O’Neill’s Ah, Wilderness!, restorative nostalgia is not a particularly powerful force in the American theater. No one in the audience pines to return to the landscapes of The Hairy Ape or The Emperor Jones or The Glass Menagerie or A Streetcar Named Desire. The one great exception is the American musical theater, which systematically isolates moments of privileged emotional intensity from the rest of the story and then heightens them by embedding them in songs that will linger in the audience’s memory long after the final curtain. Broadway musicals that follow a line of descent from Rodgers and Hammerstein to Jersey Boys and Mamma Mia are repeatedly staged in what are aptly called revivals. The focus of communal nostalgia in the United States has been visual rather than narrative, spatial rather than temporal, and the American narratives most likely to invite a nostalgic response are those whose stories are ad hoc and ritualistic rather than end-oriented and definitive. Americana is typically envisioned in terms of places like Disneyland that foster or encourage idealized or sentimental dreams and memories rather than journeys into or within the spaces it envisions. The British, of course, have Austenland, incarnated both cinematically in an American movie and virtually in the online Republic of Pemberley, a discursive space revealingly named after a fictional place. Dickensland was the subject of an appreciative book by J.A. Nicklin over a century ago (Nicklin 2012). One factor that helps explains Hollywood’s relative neglect of the great American novels, in fact, is how few American authors could reasonably spawn their own lands. It is easy to envision Poeland but hard to imagine Hawthorneland or Melvilleland or Henry Jamesland or Flannery O’Connorland. And although it might be argued that Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, is Faulknerland, it is unlikely that spending time in that actual location would give readers anything like the same subjectively supercharged experience they treasure in reading Faulkner’s novels. Aristotle ruled that plots include a beginning, a middle, and an end that confer their definitive shape. But nostalgic audiences clearly treasure beginnings, endure middles mostly as exercises in deferred gratification, and prefer endings that close the circle by returning to the beginning rather than confirming the brave new world of an Aristotelian ending. If the locus of American nostalgia is indeed visual artifacts rather than stories, then the most nostalgic stories, and the most nostalgic moments in these stories, are those that are organized or crystallized around artifacts, objects endowed with frankly magical powers or objects whose psychological or spiritual magic depends on the rich web of associations the stories build up around them. Hollywood’s disinclination to celebrate any history but its own defines and markets Hollywood history as a series of aesthetic and technological triumphs interspersed with the inevitable losses like those commemorated in the Academy Awards ceremony’s annual necrology. But restorative nostalgia still appears in the American cinema, though typically with a distinctive twist. It appears most obviously in musicals, whose programmatic structural distinction between the timeless song-and-dance numbers that convey the characters’ deepest emotions, desires, hopes, and fears and the timebound continuity that motivates and separates these numbers makes the genre a natural for restorative nostalgia. But this tendency does not appear in nearly as many musicals as one might think. Film adaptations of the pioneering Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II musical Show Boat, like Broadway revivals of the show, are increasingly exercises in restorative nostalgia, but the more reflective nostalgia of the original show comes through in every one. The early twentieth-century revue musicals associated with Florenz Ziegfeld and George and Ira Gershwin are not especially nostalgic. With the exception of A Connecticut Yankee, neither are the musicals Richard Rodgers wrote with Lorenz Hart. Not until Hammerstein replaces Hart as Rodgers’s collaborator does the team turn to nostalgic musicals like Oklahoma! Carousel, and The Sound of Music and their film adaptations. This tropism toward restorative nostalgia crests in the Hollywood musicals that recycle familiar songbooks instead of emphasizing new music—Night and Day (1946), Till the Clouds Roll By (1946), The Jolson Story (1946), Three Little Words (1950), An American in Paris (1951), Singin’ in the Rain (1952), The Band Wagon (1953), The Glenn Miller Story (1954), The Benny Goodman Story (1956)—and Humanities 2018, 7, 101 9 of 13 persists in movie musicals from Guys and Dolls (1955) to Grease (1978), quasi-musicals like American Graffiti (1973), and revivals, readaptations, and remakes onstage and onscreen. Restorative nostalgia also appears in Westerns, though again not where one might expect. The Western as a genre gravitates toward valedictory, reflective nostalgia rather than restorative nostalgia: it is not aimed at audiences who wish they were battling Indians and searching for signs of drinking water on the prairie. Indeed, as Jane Tompkins has observed, the Native Americans who hover on the fringes of most Westerns function “as props, bits of local color, textural effects. [ . . . ] Indians are repressed in Westerns—there but not there—in the same way women are” (Tompkins 1992, pp. 8, 9). The golden age of the Hollywood Western during the 1950s, when widescreen and Technicolor carried the potential to turn the most routine Western into a visual spectacle, is marked by an increasing focus on the traumas of conquest, miscegenation, and slavery in films like Broken Arrow (1950), Shane (1953), The Searchers (1956), and Two Rode Together (1961) before reaching an anti-nostalgic apotheosis in Little Big Man (1970). Of more recent Westerns, The Shootist (1976) evinces nostalgia for the days of John Wayne’s movie-created youth, stirringly excerpted in the film’s opening sequence; Silverado (1985) nostalgia not for the old West, but for old Westerns; and Unforgiven (1992) an unblinking summation of the costs of waxing nostalgic about the code of the West. The predominant mode of Westerns from The Vanishing American (1925) to The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence (1962) is elegiacally reflective nostalgia rather than restorative nostalgia; if the reverse were true, they would all join Dances with Wolves (1990) in urging a return to the days when Native American culture flourished. Restorative nostalgia appears in movies about movies, though again its provenance and valence are unexpectedly complicated. Unlike The Artist (2011), which is nostalgic for the days of silent films, Singin’ in the Rain (1952) is nostalgic for the transitional period to the talkies, but not for the silents, which it considers primitive and dramatically limited in expressiveness. Sherlock Jr., perhaps the finest movie ever made about the movies, is state-of-the-1924-art rather than nostalgic; The Bad and the Beautiful (1952) and Two Weeks in Another Town (1962) are gimlet-eyed rather than nostalgic; and Norma Desmond’s genuine, deep-seated, and unbridled nostalgia for silent movies in Sunset Blvd. (1950) is ultimately pathological and murderous. Restorative nostalgia appears as well in children’s movies—or, more accurately, in the kinds of family movies represented by Little Women (1933, 1949, 1994, 2018), The Wizard of Oz (1939), Johnny Tremain (1957), and innumerable Disney films from Treasure Island (1950) to Davy Crockett: King of the Wild Frontier (1955). The past about which these films invite younger audiences to wax nostalgic is not remembered but constructed by films whose aim is as much educational, in Disney’s own particular manner, as nostalgic. Further from Disney, deeper into the world of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971), Matilda (1996), and A Series of Unfortunate Events (2004), childhood is much less likely to appear as an object of nostalgia. Finally, restorative nostalgia appears in many of the costume dramas based on novels by Kate Chopin, Henry James, Edith Wharton, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway, and even in Todd Haynes’s five-part 2011 television adaptation of James M. Cain’s Mildred Pierce (1941). Once again, however, this restorative nostalgia is always tempered and often overwhelmed by far more critical attitudes toward the past that has been so meticulously recreated. A particularly telling example is The Heiress, William Wyler’s 1949 adaptation of James’s 1880 novel Washington Square. Although the film’s opening credit sequence suggests its sentimental attachment to tokens of a vanished past, the film, whose screenplay is based on Ruth and Augustus Goetz’s 1947 theatrical adaptation of the novel, moves into considerably more brutal territory than James. When James’s heroine Catherine Sloper, romanced for her inheritance by the charming, penniless Morris Townsend, is threatened by her coldly remote father with disinheritance if she marries Morris, she quietly stands up first to her dying father, then to the importunate Morris, and placidly returns to her joyless life. In the film, Catherine is far more outspoken in her relations with both men, bitterly rejecting her unloving father and then tricking Morris into believing that she will elope with him so that the film ends with his standing outside her home in a downpour as she retires to her bedroom with a sardonic smile. Aaron Copland’s celebrated musical Humanities 2018, 7, 101 10 of 13 score for the film manages to be both nostalgically classical and unflinchingly modern, and Olivia de Havilland won an Academy Award for playing Catherine, first with restraint, then with an unbridled fury that moved even further than James from restorative nostalgia. Discussing the “particular practice of pastiche” he calls the “nostalgia film,” Fredric Jameson identifies American Graffiti as “one of the inaugural films in this new ‘genre’ (if that’s what it is)” (Jameson 1983, p. 116). More recently, Vera Dika has announced, “The nostalgia film seems to privilege a 1950s past” (Dika 2003, p. 122), and Christina Sprengler has agreed that “the Fifties” are the “privileged object” (Sprengler 2009, p. 6) of contemporary American films like Far from Heaven (2002), The Aviator (2004), and Sin City (2005). An even more striking example of restorative nostalgia that shows how complex Hollywood nostalgia can be even at its most straightforwardly restorative is Annie Get Your Gun, a film released in 1950, at the beginning of Dika’s and Sprengler’s favored decade. It is a costume drama that is also a musical, a Western, and a movie about an entertainer, though not a movie star, that happens to be highly suitable for children even though it was not made for them. The film is a palimpsest of multilayered nostalgia. It invokes nostalgia for its real-life heroine, the sharpshooter and entertainer Annie Oakley, played here by Betty Hutton; nostalgia for her earlier incarnation by Barbara Stanwyck in George Stevens’s 1935 film; nostalgia for the 1947 Irving Berlin Broadway musical on which it was more immediately based—the film that gave its star Ethel Merman her signature song, “There’s No Business Like Show Business”—and nostalgia for hypothetical alternative versions starring Judy Garland, who was originally cast in the role and filmed at least two musical numbers before she was replaced by Hutton, and Frank Morgan, best known for playing the Wizard of Oz, who was replaced by Louis Calhern as Buffalo Bill Cody when he died before shooting began. In addition, an audience watching the film in 2018 will find new layers of nostalgia: nostalgia for the film’s highly selective version of American history; nostalgia for the grand compromise in the battle of the sexes, here represented by the professional rivalry between Annie and sharpshooter Frank Butler, that Annie first rejects, then accepts by deliberately missing a target to throw a shooting match against Frank; nostalgia for the comparatively simple days of first-wave feminism, combined with a certain squirming discomfort at Annie’s compromise; nostalgia for Howard Keel’s debut as a singing star in the role of Frank Butler; nostalgia for musicals made, like this one, by MGM’s fondly remembered Freed Unit; and of course nostalgia for a 68-year-old movie, especially one that waited fifty years for its first video release. One important lesson of Annie Get Your Gun is that nostalgia need not focus on recalling a particular time and place: it can valorize many favored sites, from the Wild West to screen representations of Annie Oakley to the days when the relations between men and women were governed by a narrow range of male-authored scripts women challenged at their peril to a beloved show-stopping number in Irving Berlin’s 1947 musical, without inconsistency or self-contradiction, because the primary energy of even the most determinedly restorative nostalgia is not the celebration of past realities, even imagined past realities, but the refusal to accept present-day realities. Another equally important lesson emerges from the conflict between Annie Oakley and Frank Butler, whose professional status she first threatens, then deliberately retreats from threatening in order to win his heart: a given film can incorporate logically contradictory attitudes toward any given problem, situation, time, or place without compromising its own nostalgia, which is merely complicated rather than undermined by such contradictions. Effervescently diffuse and often contradictory as it is, Annie Get Your Gun is no more typical of Hollywood nostalgia than the homecoming of Odysseus is of European nostalgia. Even though it is generally remote from the elegiacally critical attitude American literature adopts toward the American past, Hollywood nostalgia is less restorative than reflective, less reminiscent of the homecoming of Odysseus than of the returns of Agamemnon and Ajax, stories whose grimness depends not on the perils of their journeys but on the failures of their homes to welcome them properly and confirm their sense of the identities they have forged during their absence. This brand of nostalgia owes less to the Civil War anthem “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” than to its Humanities 2018, 7, 101 11 of 13 savagely ironic transformation in the Irish song “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye.” The complexities of this reflective nostalgia are found not in Annie Get Your Gun but in the Western and non-Western novels of Larry McMurtry and Cormac McCarthy and in their film adaptations: Hud (1963), The Last Picture Show (1971), Terms of Endearment (1983), Lonesome Dove (1989), All the Pretty Horses (2000), No Country for Old Men (2007), and The Road (2009). This brand of nostalgia is eminently consistent and indeed codependent on a sharp criticism of the homes from which its heroes are estranged, and often on the whole idea of home in general. It is the driving force behind Hollywood movies as different as Sunrise (1927), Citizen Kane (1941), Vertigo (1958), Memento (2000), and Blade Runner 2049 (2017), a final example that deserves a closer look because the relations among its many different modes of nostalgia are so complex. Denis Villeneuve’s film is not only a sequel to Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982) but, like most sequels, an unofficial remake of the original film, a revisiting of Scott’s dystopian world a generation later in a film that was produced a generation after the film that inspired it. Like its own source, Philip K. Dick’s 1968 story “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” Blade Runner is a futuristic meditation on the difficulties of distinguishing the human from the non-human. Although it failed at the box office, it became one of the most highly regarded of all cult films, and the visionary dreariness of its imagined 2019 Los Angeles exteriors inspired a generation of neo-noirs. Blade Runner 2049, whose cityscapes are less spectacularly overstimulating but equally rain-soaked and dreary, opens with an explanatory title card that reminds audiences who have seen the earlier film, informs those who haven’t, and brings all of them up to date about its focus on replicants, “bio-engineered humans” who were created as slaves but attempted an abortive revolt in the earlier film. The “new line of replicants who obey,” the film’s opening titles promise, are a distinct improvement over the old “Nexus 8s with open-ended lifespans” of the earlier film. This reassuring news cannot help but make the audience nostalgic for the 1982 Blade Runner, whose potentially disobedient replicants promised the narrative complications the audience has come to the cinema to experience. The audience, as it turns out, need not worry, for a discovery the replicant blade runner K (Ryan Gosling) makes in the opening sequence raises disturbing new possibilities: the skeleton of a female replicant who died during a caesarean section, demonstrating that replicants can biologically reproduce. K’s boss, Lt. Joshi (Robin Wright), commands him to find and kill the replicant’s child and destroy all traces of the birth in order to head off the possibility of another, more massive rebellion of replicants. But K finds himself increasingly ambivalent about his mission. He identifies the skeleton as that of Rachael, who had been played by Sean Young in Blade Runner, and, increasingly convinced that he himself is her child, attempts to track down Rick Deckard, the title character of Blade Runner, who vanished soon after the events of the earlier film, and who K believes is his father. K’s trajectory thus neatly inverts the trajectory of the earlier film. Instead of raising the possibility that its hero, a killer of replicants, is himself a replicant, as Scott’s film did, it offers more and more hints that its replicant hero is actually human. These hints turn out to be red herrings. K is a replicant who only longs to believe he is human, just as Rachael longed to believe she was human back in 1982. Both films tease their characters and their audiences with memories that turn out to have been false or implanted, making them nostalgic for a past they never truly experienced in the first place. But Blade Runner 2049 puts several new spins on Svetlana Boym’s “longing for a home that no longer exists or has never existed.” Like all sequels and remakes, the film is a return-with-a-difference to an earlier film it nostalgically valorizes even as it attempts to revise and improve it by deepening its moral sensitivity to the pathos of replicants like K’s servant Joi, who loves him even though she is only a synthesized voice and a series of holographic images readily available for purchase by millions of other consumers. The casting in both films of Harrison Ford as Deckard both resurrects the emotionally intense hero of the 1982 film, an obvious contrast to the dead-eyed Ryan Gosling, and mourns Deckard’s limited abilities as an action hero thirty-five years later. Humanities 2018, 7, 101 12 of 13 Like many other sci-fi sequels and remakes from Jurassic Park (1993) to King Kong (2005), Blade Runner 2049 is nostalgic for the future—in this case, the older, more reassuringly stable dystopia of Blade Runner. In this it follows Star Wars (1977), which Jameson calls “metonymically a historical or nostalgic film: unlike American Graffiti, it does not reinvent a picture of the past in its lived totality; rather, by reinventing the feel and shape of characteristic art objects of an older period (the serials [featuring Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers]), it seeks to reawaken a sense of the past associated with those objects” (Jameson 1983, p. 116). But the metonymic nostalgia of Blade Runner 2049 is far more complex than that of Star Wars. Like Blade Runner, it is filled with allusions to other films and avatars of pop culture: Alien (1979), A Clockwork Orange (1971), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Treasure Island (1950), Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, and of course Blade Runner itself. Its most complicated citations, however, are to films and television shows made since the release of Blade Runner in 1982. Robin Wright’s performance as Lt. Joshi recalls her role as the brutally calculating First Lady Claire Underwood in the Netflix television series House of Cards. The importance of the toy horse K takes as a link between himself and Rachael’s missing child, which already echoes the origami unicorn Deckard had made in Blade Runner, is given even greater weight and foreboding for audiences who associate it with the totems the characters in Christopher Nolan’s 2010 film Inception used to determine whether or not they were dreaming. And Joi’s attempt to make love to K by entering the body of the human female Mariette (Mackenzie Davis)—a remarkable literalizing of Boym’s observation that “a cinematic image of nostalgia is a double exposure, or a superimposition of two images”—also recalls in uncomfortable detail a remarkably similar scene involving Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix), his operating system Samantha (Scarlett Johansson), and her ad hoc flesh-and-blood surrogate Isabella (Portia Doubleday) in Spike Jonze’s 2013 film Her. Citations like these go much further than the multiple nostalgic topoi of Annie Get Your Gun and the contradictory attitude that film adapts to professional rivalries, ritual courtship, and gender roles to broaden and deepen the resonance of Blade Runner 2049 in far more complicated ways by rooting it in a familiar mass-media culture, suggesting that contemporary culture has caught up with and perhaps even surpassed the visionary dystopia of Blade Runner, which after all was set in 2019. At the same time, they mark Blade Runner 2049’s distance from the earlier film, whose relatively black-and-white view of the differences between humans and replicants becomes the subject, amid increasingly urgent questions raised by the twenty-first century’s embrace of social media and the Internet of Things, of both nostalgia and critical distance. Despite generally positive and often rapturous reviews, Blade Runner 2049, like its predecessor, was a serious disappointment at the box office. Its American grosses totaled $92 million, less than two-thirds of its production costs. The moral commentators took from its underperformance was that the audience of 12-to-21-year-old males on which mainstream movies depend for their ticket sales were insufficiently invested in the earlier film, and that the cult audience that was invested in it was too small to make the film a success. Even so, the film is invaluable for several reasons. It provides a showcase for the remarkable complexities of reflective nostalgia, the audience’s longing for a past that at some level they know perfectly well never existed. It recreates the reflective nostalgia of the classic American novels, which know this lesson equally well, rather than following British heritage films in imposing a restorative nostalgia on authors like Dickens and Jane Austen who are not particularly nostalgic themselves. Its swooning embrace of a nightmarish dystopia suggests the rewards that Hollywood can reap by turning away from restorative and reflective nostalgia to a more complex, multi-laminated, sharply ambivalent amalgam of the two, even if Columbia Pictures did not reap those rewards this time. Its thematic focus on both the indispensability and the untrustworthiness of the audience’s most treasured memories, including their memories of the original Blade Runner, goes far to indicate why reflective nostalgia, so central to the American cultural experience, is so often complicated still further in American cinema. Eluding the categories of both the restorative nostalgia of heritage cinema and the reflective nostalgia of American literature, the film fuses the pleasure and pain of a perceived alienation from a homeland both idealized and dystopian that is at once a mourning of self-alienation and a cautiously reconstructive celebration of a self that may never have existed. Humanities 2018, 7, 101 13 of 13 Funding: This research received no external funding. Conflicts of Interest: The author declares no conflict of interest. References Boym, Svetlana. 2001. The Future of Nostalgia. New York: Basic. ISBN 0-465-00707-4. Cardwell, Sarah. 2002. Adaptation Revisited: Television and the Classic Novel. Manchester: Manchester University Press. ISBN 0-7190-6046-X. Craig, Cairns. 2001. Rooms without a View. In Film/Literature/Heritage: A Sight and Sound Reader. Edited by Ginette Vincendeau. London: BFI, pp. 3–6. ISBN 0-85170-841-2. First published 1991. Dika, Vera. 2003. Recycled Culture in Contemporary Art and Film: The Uses of Nostalgia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ISBN 0-521-81568-1. Higham, Charles. 1993. Merchant of Dreams: Louis B. Mayer, M.G.M. and the Secret Hollywood. New York: Donald I. Fine. ISBN 1-55611-345-5. Jameson, Fredric. 1983. Postmodernism and Consumer Society. In The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Edited by Hal Foster. Port Townsend: Bay Press, pp. 111–25. ISBN 0-941920-02-X. Krašovec, Primož. 2011. (Yugo)nostalgia. Atlas of Transformation. Available online: http: //monumenttotransformation.org/atlas-of-transformation/html/n/nostalgia/yugonostalgia-primoz- krasovec.html (accessed on 15 September 2018). Lincoln, Abraham. 1989. Address at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. In Speeches and Writings 1859–1865. New York: Library of America, p. 536. ISBN 978-0-940450-63-9. First published 1863. Nicklin, John. Arnold. 2012. Dickens-Land. Illustrated by Ernest William Haslehust. London: Forgotten Books. ISBN 978-1-4400-9893-2. First published 1911. Routledge, Clay. 2015. Nostalgia: A Psychological Resource. New York: Routledge. ISBN 978-1-84872-517-1. Rubenstein, Hal. 2017. New Again: Demi Moore. Interview, March 3. Available online: https://www. interviewmagazine.com/culture/new-again-demi-moore (accessed on 12 October 2018). Russonello, Giovanni. 2013. Why Is a Music Genre Called ‘Americana’ So Overwhelmingly White and Male? Atlantic, August 1. Available online: https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/08/ why-is-a-music-genre-called-americana-so-overwhelmingly-white-and-male/278267/ (accessed on 15 September 2018). Sprengler, Christine. 2009. Screening Nostalgia: Populuxe Props and Technicolor Aesthetics in Contemporary American Film. New York: Berghahn. ISBN 978-1-84545-559-0. Tompkins, Jane. 1992. West of Everything: The Inner Life of Westerns. New York: Oxford University Press. ISBN 0-19-507305-3. Vincendeau, Ginette. 2001. Introduction. In Film/Literature/Heritage: A Sight and Sound Reader. Edited by Ginette Vincendeau. London: BFI, pp. xi–xxxi. ISBN 0-85170-841-2. Voigts-Virchow, Eckart. 2007. Heritage and Literature on Screen: Heimat and Heritage. In The Cambridge Companion to Literature on Screen. Edited by Deborah Cartmell and Imelda Whelehan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 123–37. ISBN 978-0-521-61486-3. © 2018 by the author. Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland. 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work_kfci3b5kjre3xp3asdxl47rcxa	----	“All the Land Had Changed”: Territorial Expansion and the Native American Past in Pauline Hopkins’s Winona “All the Land Had Changed”: Territorial Expansion and the Native American Past in Pauline Hopkins’s Winona Colleen O’Brien Studies in American Fiction, Volume 41, Issue 1, Spring 2014, pp. 27-48 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ Access provided at 6 Apr 2021 02:01 GMT from Carnegie Mellon University ] https://doi.org/10.1353/saf.2014.0003 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/544426 https://doi.org/10.1353/saf.2014.0003 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/544426 “All the Land Had Changed” 27 Studies in American Fiction 41.1 (2014): 27–48 © 2014 by Johns Hopkins University Press “All the Land Had Changed”: Territorial Expansion and the Native American Past in Pauline Hopkins’s Winona Colleen O’Brien University of South Carolina Upstate The first chapter of Pauline Hopkins’s third and least-known book, Winona, A Tale of Negro Life in the South and Southwest (1902), seems not to fit its title. Although the magazine novel advertises “Negro” characters and the geography of the “South and Southwest,” its prehistory begins among aristocrats in England, and then recaps a particularly fraught historical episode that displaced the Seneca people of Western New York in the first half of the nineteenth century. The novel opens in the vicinity of what would become the Seneca Nation in 1848, extending from a crucial Underground Railroad station—the city of Buffalo, New York—to an island in the Niagara River that became part of the British colonies after the French and Indian War, and then returned briefly to the Seneca. Contested territory and unstable borders become a central theme in the novel, whose characters later traverse proslavery Missouri and John Brown’s Bleeding Kansas. The origin of the story, however, is a personal and familial conflict over land on an English estate, even further from the United States South. An aristocrat flees England and a set of trumped-up murder charges to find refuge among the Seneca, who rename him White Eagle. The fugitive, neé Henry Carlingsford, is innocent, but has been framed by his scheming cousin, Titus, who covets the estate he would inherit. Men greedy for land displace White Eagle again when he settles in New York. The fictional White Eagle experiences a very real moment in Seneca history: David Ogden, who had wrangled with the Seneca since at least 1818 because they essentially refused to sell their land, finally gained government support to expel them from that land. By 1838, as Matthew Dennis 28 Studies in American Fiction explains, “the Seneca lost all their remaining New York lands, except a one-square-mile reservation at Oil Spring, and were nearly removed to a trans-Mississippi reservation in Kansas.”1 Although they managed to reclaim two reservations by 1842, this dispute over land was a major blow to the Seneca that is still unresolved.2 White Eagle is exiled for the second time “[w]hen the Indians gave up Buffalo Creek Reservation to Ogeten [sic] in 1842, and departed from Buffalo” (290).3 Hopkins generalizes this specific Seneca event to point toward the United States government project of Indian removal: the second paragraph of the novel explains, “From 1842, the aborigines began to scatter. They gave up the last of their great reservations then before the on-sweeping Anglo-Saxon” (287). Yet she does not apply the image of the expansionist Anglo-Saxon to “White Eagle, who had linked his fortunes with the Seneca” (288).4 Not only does “White Eagle” find himself on contested Indian ground, he also “link[s] his fortunes” with an entirely different kind of disputed property. Within the next ten years, two unnamed women who are fugitive slaves redefine his life and identity as much as the people who named him “White Eagle.” He marries one of the women and adopts the other’s child. He never meets the woman who, during her flight from slavery, died and left an infant son named Judah. The woman who will become White Eagle’s wife carries the infant to freedom, and then the fugitive slave and exiled English aristocrat raise Judah as their own. She dies after bearing him a daughter, Winona, but he lives on with his two children, who are also his heirs. Ultimately, his cousin, the “on- sweeping Anglo-Saxon” destroys White Eagle (287). After framing Henry Carlingford in an attempt to steal his inheritance, Colonel Titus has moved to Missouri and become a slave owner. By a very Hopkinsian twist of fate, the fugitive slaves linked to White Eagle belong to Titus. When Titus learns that the two women left behind children whom he can claim as his own property under the Fugitive Slave Law, he strikes out to find them. The opportunity to dispose of his cousin only sweetens the deal, and Titus shoots White Eagle in the back of the head before he remands Winona and Judah to his plantation in Missouri. Winona and Judah are thus heirs to the Carlingford estate and heirs to “the condition of their mothers”—slavery. By the end of the novel, however, brother and sister have escaped to join John Brown’s militia in the Kansas/Missouri borderlands, where Judah has the opportunity to avenge his father’s death and Winona gains the right to claim what is rightfully hers. Two aspects of this complex and sometimes convoluted story make it particu- larly important to scholars of American culture. First, Hopkins’s literary engagement with Seneca history and culture, though limited and at times problematic, offers an early “All the Land Had Changed” 29 example of an African American activist writer attempting to represent Native American people and the issues of injustice they faced. While Lois Brown suggests that “Hopkins does not delve as deeply as she might into issues of Native American genocide, treaty conflicts, or wars,” this essay identifies subtle echoes of what Hopkins perceived to be Native American culture.5 The implicit parallel between Indian removal and “the mem- ory of recent happenings in the beautiful Southland, against the Negro voter” is fairly clear—both groups have been denied their land and their rights. By invoking Buffalo Creek, furthermore, Hopkins literally lays the groundwork for one of the novel’s main arguments—that connections to the land derived from work and respectful stewardship, rather than inheritance or conquest, are the foundation of freedom and justice. This emphasis on land rights leads to my second point, which is that the novel engages questions of nature and the environment in remarkable ways. Her ambiguous— Seneca, black, and English aristocrat—hero and heroine duo call dominant ideas of race and nature into question by their very existence.6 No good character falls “naturally” into the ethnic identity he or she supposedly “belongs” to (White Eagle sheds his Anglo-Saxon cultural past, for example), and characters can seemingly transform themselves from one cultural identity to another. They can make themselves at home in whatever landscape they occupy; the resonating history of the environment empowers them. Although, as Paul Outka argues, the laws of slavery rendered African Americans powerless by natu- ralizing the identity of the enslaved into the landscape and treating them as chattels, the convergence of black and Indian stories in Winona attempts to recast that relationship to the land.7 Written in 1902, when the United States consolidated its imperial power as far as the Philippines, the novel layers the historical moment of Seneca dispossession with the early tremors of the Civil War in Bleeding Kansas and a renewed eruption of white supremacist violence in the South. But the violated landscape in Winona strikes back, invigorating exploited people to claim what is theirs. To illustrate how Winona accomplishes all of this, section two of this essay discusses Hopkins’s representation of the First Nations. Her specific, though fleeting, concern for Seneca dispossession is not the only lens through which she invites the reader to see Native history. She also introduces an important natural symbol, a plant commonly called the Indian-pipe, known in Native American legend but not so familiar in non-Native literature. As a literary symbol, however, actual peace pipes would also have been familiar to Hopkins’s readers because pipes made from red stone are the first symbolic objects to appear in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s popular Song of Hiawatha. But Hopkins also seems to build on what Longfellow construed as the peace pipe’s 30 Studies in American Fiction legendary significance—a reminder not to fight over land. This is because she uses the Indian pipe plant (which does not appear in Song of Hiawatha) as a frame for the story’s action. For Hopkins, the story of the Indian-pipes plant is implicitly connected to land rights, stewardship, and retribution. Section two also discusses Winona’s perspective on environmental justice and the implicit meanings of nature and civilization, both as they are defined by her Seneca- identified sibling duo and by the coercive forces of Indian removal, slavery, or imperialism. In this respect, Hopkins’s literary engagement with nature reflects many of the aspects of contemporary African American ecological or environmental thought. For instance, Kimberly Ruffin prefers the term “ecology” to assert that “(1) humans are indeed ‘natu- ral’; (2) humans have developed a powerful and distinct culture within nature; and (3) cultural definitions of ‘humanity’ influence an individual’s experiences among humans and with nonhuman nature.”8 The way that Winona and Judah immerse themselves in a natural world that literally quakes with divine justice does cast them as “natural,” just as cultural definitions of “humanity” and, I would add, “civilization” propounded by Titus in particular and United States government policy in general stand in the way of their individual claims to the landscapes they inhabit. More importantly, Hopkins takes issue with conceptions of nature and civilization that justified Indian removal, slavery, and imperialism. The third section argues that, while Winona critiques the way that dominant cul- tural forces naturalize the exploitation of the earth and of specific groups of people, it also suggests a different way of relating to the land. In the midst of the righteous rebellion that Winona and Judah participate in so that they may re-establish their own (and symbolically a Native and African American) connection to the land, their interactions with the natural world become a significant part of the plot. The way that dominant culture naturalizes racial oppression and the onward march of “civilization” to exploit indigenous people and their land is at issue, yet the book also has a positive environmental aspect. Hopkins comments on the ways that humans interact with the natural world, either respecting the land and practicing good stewardship, or confronting it with the intent to conquer. This corresponds to contemporary definitions of environmental criticism and suggests that we might think of Hopkins as an environmentalist. By 1902, as Kimberly Smith il- lustrates, African American environmental thought was in the midst of a longstanding tradition of “black agrarianism” rooted in the belief that “achieving freedom would mean, prominently, achieving the right to the land on which they labored.”9 Winona and Judah learn, first through their experience as Seneca people, then as enslaved black workers, that “All the Land Had Changed” 31 the land can and should be the source of one’s freedom. As Smith states, “an attachment to place—an attachment based on one’s positive relationship to the land rather than on legal barriers to movement” can forge an ecological or environmental sensibility that also has important implications for racial and social justice.10 Winona and Judah commune with the environment, relating to nature in powerful and productive ways that are not mediated by the landscape of slavery or delimited by Hopkins’s flawed sense of Native American nature. By the end of the novel, they transcend national and racial affiliations to act on behalf of universal—and environmental—justice. Hopkins’s Indian-pipes Previous scholarship on Winona argues that Hopkins creates “imaginative alliances” among blacks, Native Americans, and even Filipinos. Her use of Native American figures may shortchange Indian culture, but it is her interest in unifying and breaking down boundaries between the “darker races” that merits further critical attention.11 I want to extend that discussion to consider how Hopkins uses popular conceptions of native people to critique encroachment and assert land rights. Because her representations of First Na- tions cultures are imaginative, not based on affiliation, I refer to the ecology of people and non-human nature as a landscape, an artistic representation of place that endows it with meaning. As she draws parallels among the historical landscapes of slavery, Indian removal, and United States territorial expansion in the aftermath of the Spanish-American War, she subsumes these historical forces within a natural symbol, the “Indian-pipe.” Simply put, the lesson of the Indian-pipe teaches that there are consequences for using violence to appropriate land. She also criticizes one form of appropriation while applying another. That is to say, her literary appropriation of Native American lore, particularly when it builds on Longfellow’s already botched appropriations, seems to come more from white authors than from actual native sources. As a novel themed largely around conflicts over land and property rights, Winona gestures toward The Song of Hiawatha’s symbolic Peace-pipes, an image that would have been quite familiar to her turn-of-the-century readers due to Hiawatha’s commercial suc- cess, Edmonia Lewis’s statues, the emergence of “Hiawatha Pageants,” dramatic readings of the poem by the likes of Frances Watkins Harper’s daughter, Mary, and the musical composition of three cantatas named for and inspired by “The Song of Hiawatha” by the renowned Samuel Coleridge Taylor.12 Within the creatively rendered landscape of her novel’s varied geographic settings, Hopkins employs a familiar story and plays on one of its major symbols. 32 Studies in American Fiction In the opening lines of Longfellow’s poem, the Creator calls the nations together at a sacred site and exhorts them to live in peace. (According to Native lore, this place is often identified as the Coteau des Prairies in South Dakota.) After the warriors are “cleaned and washed from all their war paint,” they take red pipestone from the quarry and “[s]moothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes” (12).13 The wisdom of the “creator of nations” admonishes them to recognize that “[a]ll your strength is in your union” and accept the “signal of the Peace-Pipe”—as a covenant and promise never to fight over land rights again (9). Because the Creator has given them an abundant natural world to live in, replete with “lands to hunt in / . . . bear and bison / . . . streams to fish in” and the like, they were commanded to be content and cease “wrangling and dissension” (10). But the landscape in Winona, whether it is claimed by an English aristocrat, the Seneca Nation, or John Brown’s freedom fighters, sees constant wrangling and dissension. When the natural world is converted to a capitalist landscape, just as when a person is remanded to slavery, all the greed and violence that precipitated Longfellow’s version of the peace pipes story resurfaces. Hopkins’ use of the Indian-pipe plant keys into a story of retribution absent from Longfellow’s poem.14 Whereas part of the novel draws from Longfellow, which is far from the most accurate or realistic way to portray Native culture, Hopkins’s version also echoes an addendum to the legend of the Creator instructing his warriors to live in peace. In some oral traditions, the Peace-pipes story has a sequel—another version in which conflicts over land resume, disturbing the era of peace initiated by the Creator. In this iteration of the tale, the Creator turns the leaders responsible for the strife into the plants as punishment.15 The way Hopkins uses the symbol of the Indian-pipe nonetheless signals her familiarity with this version of the story. Just before Titus lands on White Eagle’s island to commit murder and remand Winona and Judah to slavery, brother and sister uncover an Indian-pipe plant in the brush. The Indian-pipes appear again at the end of the novel, after Winona and Judah have fought for and regained their freedom, when they return home to see that “the plant stems lay concealed among the bushes as of old” (434) and justice has been restored. Men like Titus and his overseer, Thompson, who violate the sovereignty of free soil and personhood must, like the Native Americans who were transformed into Indian-pipes, be punished. The Indian-pipes create a frame for the novel, marking both the genesis and resolution of its crises over land and entitlement. They signify the power the landscape has over its inhabitants and the manner in which the righteous draw from nature and nature’s laws to protect their sovereignty of self and entitlement to specific parcels of land. Hopkins’s natural world is not a passive “other,” “All the Land Had Changed” 33 much as the land, as Robert Nelson explains in terms of Native American literature, “has a life of its own”; its “vitality,” as Nelson suggests, is “a quality imposed on the land by human imagination but not vice versa.”16 Hopkins’s Indian-pipes, like Longfellow’s Peace-Pipes, become a familiar trope of unity and harmony in the natural world that contrasts dramatically with discrepancies in human power relations enacted through Indian removal, slavery, and imperialism. As White Eagle raises them, Winona and Judah’s relationship to the land ostensibly derives from their relationship with the first people—the Seneca—among whom they have as- similated. Because they respect the land and experience union with nature rather than the urge to conquer it, Winona and Judah garner power from nature. In idealized and somewhat stereotypical fashion, brother and sister travel by canoe and wear moccasins; they eat fish from the lake, mushrooms from the earth, and drink “copious draughts of pure spring water from a nearby rill” whose “gentle gurgle” mingles with the roaring of nearby Niagara Falls (295). Because both of their birth mothers have died, their primary mother figure is the old Seneca woman Nokomis (named for Hiawatha’s grandmother and caregiver in the Longfellow poem), who tells Winona the story of the Indian-pipes. Nokomis serves as the memory of the landscape itself; her presence and that of the Indian- pipes at the very beginning of the novel recalls a time when people lived in peace with one another and with nature, much like in the story of the peace pipes. The reader can anticipate that this golden period of peace, Winona and Judah’s idyllic childhood, will be disturbed. Yet just as the people of the Seneca Nation who struggled to restore their own sovereignty, Winona and Judah fight to regain their inheritance of freedom as well as their father’s estate in England. In this sense, as I have indicated above, they reverse the trajectory of the “civilizing mission.”17 This triumph comes more through their “Indian training” than their father’s Anglo heritage. Although Hopkins represents Native American culture poorly, as did Longfellow, those problems are beyond the scope of this article.18 What I find intriguing, nonetheless, is the imagined alliance she attempts to construct between African and Na- tive American struggles for sovereignty. Drawing again from Longfellow by taking the name of one of his major characters, Hopkins introduces Indian ways of knowing early in the novel. A moment after the two children “push the leaves aside together, revealing the faint pink stems of the delicate, gauzy Indian-pipes,” they argue about whether “No- komis knows” and “speaks truly” of the natural world (291). Nokomis has admonished them not to touch the plants because disturbing them destroys them, much as greedily snatching up any natural resource disturbs peace. Winona believes Nokomis, but Judah 34 Studies in American Fiction doubts the tale because “in school you learn not to believe all the silly stories that we are told by the Indians” (292). Although he claims, a few pages later, that they are Indians, Judah has already learned from Anglo-American culture that Indians lie. The balance of the novel, however, illustrates the truth of the Indian-pipes story: that retribution awaits those who are aggressive and greedy. Within moments of the conversation about the Indian-pipes, Titus and his over- seer, Thomson, appear. The two embody the antithesis of Nokomis’s reverence for the sanctity of the natural world and the natural rights of its inhabitants. As I mentioned earlier, Titus kills White Eagle so he will become the sole heir to the Carlingford estate. When he finds Winona and Judah, he declares that he has “struck it rich” (296). He kid- naps the children, taking them back to “civilization”—the plantation he has purchased in Missouri (296). Civilization, as President James Monroe suggested to the Seneca in 1818, meant “improving land by Cultivation.”19 By the 1850s, this logic of capitalist agriculture justified slavery in Missouri. Exploitation and greed, in this story, escalate from the familial level to the national level. Like the US government, Titus combines the practices of Indian removal and remand to slavery when he steals Winona and Judah. His dishonest manipulation of the right to inherit property on a familial level mirrors the national practices of encroaching on Indian territory and promoting the Westward expansion of slavery that also take place in the 1850s.20 Titus and Thomson frequently assault Judah in an attempt to make him conform to a subordinate position as laborer. Judah never submits to the overseer, Thompson, despite numerous whippings, and instead showcases his ruggedly masculine talents by breaking horses.21 This is one of the ways he aligns his cultural knowledge with the landscape he inhabits. When the Colonel offers to let Judah tame a particularly wild horse that has beaten Thomson, he forgets that he has been enslaved and instead draws from (what Hopkins imagines as) his Native American background to outshow Thomson. First, “Judah stepped forward and began giving his orders without a shade of servility, seeming to forget in the excitement of the moment his position as a slave” (323). Next, ordering an audience of Thomson and Titus’s rowdy, gambling white friends to “stand back, all of you,” he hypnotizes his audience: “The power of the hypnotic eye was known and practiced among all the Indian tribes of the West. It accounted for their wonderful success in subduing animals” (324). Notably, the idea of his Native American past relieves Judah, if only momentarily, from his subjugated “position as a slave” and endows him with abilities unavailable to Anglo-Americans (with the exception, perhaps, of men like White Eagle and John Brown). The spirit he draws from is of “the West,” his current loca- “All the Land Had Changed” 35 tion, not Seneca territory; hence we might assume that it is exuded by the landscape itself. Yet the “power of the hypnotic eye” is not just a mystical, romanticized representation of Native Americans’ relationship to horses. Rather, it is the power of “mind over instinct,” which suggests that a form of wisdom undergirds these talents (324). Although his cultural background is Seneca, Judah’s powers are akin to the “tribes of the West” (324).22 Perhaps because he is in Kansas City, he is able to appropri- ate the “Western” Indian’s skill by proxy. The important point is that deploying these imagined cultural traits and connecting them to the landscape is an act of the mind, not instinct. In this way, constructions of identity are provisional and protean—the only thing that is “natural” is that the just can adapt and assimilate to a place when they aim to protect it from encroachment. Judah proves his power through his cross-cultural affilia- tions and his ability to function within different landscapes. He maintains his “Indian” qualities despite the fact that Titus has remanded him and designated him, according to the authority of the Compromise of 1850, a black slave. Even when the jealous and em- barrassed Thomson seeks vengeance by sending Judah to the slave jail for a whipping, Judah refuses to submit or be broken. “Strung up by his thumbs to the cross-beams,” he endures “torturing agony” without a sound, having “learned his lesson of endurance in the schools of the Indian stoic” (327). While these stereotypes may be disturbing to twenty-first century readers, it is important to remember that Hopkins’s access to, or knowledge of, the indigenous people she tries to valorize was limited in Boston in 1902. Hopkins’s tendency to borrow directly from other texts (like dime novels) partially explains these unfortunate inclusions. The suggestion that these qualities are of the mind—a form of wisdom—indicates that this connection to the landscape and its rightful inhabitants can be learned but must also be remembered. Particularly in contested territory, the upward spiral of history consolidates memories of injustice. In this way, Judah can simultaneously, or alternately, act as a Seneca, an African American, or a man allied with the tribes of the West. The trope of the Indian-pipes conveys an argument about the individual’s rela- tionship to the natural world that places Hopkins in dialogue with a set of issues raised in environmental studies. Her depiction of her characters’ relation to nature transcends what Lance Newman calls “the lithified historical experience of slavery in rural settings,” representing instead “the image of nature as a sacred space [that] produces militant politi- cal consciousness.”23 Hopkins imagines what Lawrence Buell calls “place knowledge” as the result of “long existential immersion” in a particular locale that makes “attachment to place” a “creative force.”24 Her depiction of Winona and Judah’s relationship to the 36 Studies in American Fiction landscape—first as Seneca children living a primeval existence, then as slaves on Titus’s Missouri plantation, and finally fighting in the woods against Missouri Rangers—gestures toward a new paradigm of entitlement and justice. Magnolia Farm Because Winona and Judah ultimately extirpate the forces that create “wrangling and dissension”—the proslavery Missouri Rangers who exploit and enslave workers on that land, they become Hiawatha figures for the twentieth century. Perhaps Hopkins under- stood Longfellow’s Hiawatha as a hero who forged a synergistic relationship to the land by cultivating corn, and then became a great leader by unifying his people. Perhaps she knew of the historical Hiawatha as the Mohawk founder of the Iroquois confederacy, who helped unite five nations who spoke different languages and practiced different customs. The latter historical possibility, which she might have read about in Lewis Henry Mor- gan’s League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee, or Iroquois (1851), would better suit her own vision of uniting “blacks in all quarters of the globe.” Like this Hiawatha figure, her hero and heroine offer a new model of civilization, wherein people of different “tribes” maintain their autonomy but coalesce in the interest of creating a society beyond the coercive, capitalist-agrarian models of civilization that justified Indian removal and slavery.25 I can only speculate on Hopkins’s knowledge of the Iroquois by looking closely at her choice to begin the story in the Seneca Nation, her use of the Indian-pipe, and the way that her Seneca-Black-Anglo characters differ from the likes of Titus. The figure of Titus clearly represents a particular kind of relationship to the landscape that produces imperialism and exploitation. While Hopkins is looking back on the antebellum period, Titus’s impulses display a type of capitalist white supremacy that would further expand after Reconstruction. Historian Gail Bederman describes the way that the advent of man- hood suffrage guaranteed by the Fifteenth Amendment conflicted with white Southerners’ need to control the political and economic landscape of the South.26 Nationalist rhetoric evidenced the “natural” superiority of the Anglo-American male through his relationship to the landscape—his ability to tame the wilderness and cultivate the “empty” space of the frontier. Hopkins’s representation of white expansion into the frontier has much in com- mon with the imperial expansion that was extending as far as the Philippines in 1902, and the landscape represents what W.J.T. Mitchell describes as a “fetishized commodity . . . what Marx called ‘a social hieroglyph,’ an emblem of the social relations it conceals.”27 Yet the relationship that Winona and Judah forge with the landscape actually reveals the “All the Land Had Changed” 37 workings of race and gender within social relations. Although “these semiotic features of landscape, and the historical narratives they generate, are tailor-made for the discourse of imperialism, which conceives itself precisely (and simultaneously) as an expansion of ‘culture’ and ‘civilization’ into a ‘natural’ space in a progress that is itself narrated as ‘natural’,” nothing about the white man’s world is natural for Hopkins.28 In Winona, the black Indian hero and heroine’s relationship to each landscape they encounter entitles them to define and disseminate a non-Anglo version of civilization wherever they go.29 As historical revision, Winona invokes Native American legend (or Longfellow’s version of it) to define a society’s level of civilization in terms of its ability to deal fairly and respectably in issues of property. The connection between stealing land from Na- tive Americans and stealing labor and self-sovereignty from African Americans impels Hopkins’s indictment of Titus’s version of “civilization.” Titus also represents the broader social and political context created by Anglo-American men like him in 1902. The rhetoric of civilization that justified slavery, manifest destiny and policies such as the Roosevelt’s corollary to the Monroe Doctrine characterizes a specifically Anglo-American form of nationalism, one intrinsically tied to the American landscape.30 In early twentieth-century Anglo-American rhetoric, as Eric Kaufmann suggests, a man’s ability to identify with his natural surroundings signified his sense of belong- ing in the context of a national identity. Kaufman describes an exceptionalist national ideal of Anglo-masculinity that fuses Thomas Jefferson’s yeoman farmer with Theodore Roosevelt’s frontiersman who draws an exceptionally American spirit from the untamed frontier.31 Hopkins plays with these ideals, unmasking the incipient capitalism in yeoman ideology as well as the economic impulse of the frontiersman. She connects Titus to agri- cultural production on his cotton plantation and places him in the Southwest frontier of Missouri. Ostensibly, Titus cultivates his plantation in Missouri (although, as discussed below, Hopkins makes it clear that his slaves really do the work that legitimates such a connection to the landscape). Ideally, per Roosevelt, he should also be able to master the rugged terrain of the woods in Kansas—and he has great confidence that, as the captain of a band of pro-slavery Missouri Rangers, he can do so—yet it is Winona and Judah who will draw from the natural power of the woods to defeat Titus. While Winona and Judah’s experience as members of a displaced Seneca Na- tion creates their initial understanding of injustice, their experience as enslaved laborers opens their eyes to the economic injustice of disenfranchising slaves whose labor created the nation’s wealth. The siblings witness the magnitude and sacrifice of uncompensated African American labor. Hopkins’s depiction of the capitalist slaveholder’s idyllically 38 Studies in American Fiction named “Magnolia Farm” swelters with indignation: “the summer sun hung evenly over the great fields of cotton” where the slaves produce their master’s wealth, but they are thoroughly disenfranchised from the benefits of that wealth. Even “the rambling house cast no shadow” on the fields, not even affording a little shade. As Titus watches people work, in contrast, “the broad piazza at the back afforded ample shade from the mid-day rays, sheltered as it was by great pines.” He is merely a passive observer in the produc- tion of wealth as he sits on “The porch, with its deep, cool shadows.” Titus epitomizes an inverted racist caricature of lazy former slaves who sit on the porch and refuse to work that would develop during Reconstruction as well as the Northern free labor stereotype of the aristocratic, languid southerner. He is in his element on the porch, which “commanded a view of the working force, and made it a favorite resting place for the Colonel” (317). While his slaves pick cotton in the sweltering sun, Titus lounges and sips a mint julep like the patriarch of a plantation romance.32 But as representative of the Anglo-masculine presence that supposedly built the United States and plans to civilize the Americas, he proves a casual (and notably lazy) observer of the labor and produc- tion that extracts wealth from the landscape. His fraudulent masculinity neither draws vigor from the land nor cultivates it to make it productive—the slaves are the only ones with a legitimate relationship to the land. Although, as Hazel Carby points out, Winona also invokes “the historical landscape of slavery to represent the contemporary social order,” Winona’s identity has not been circumscribed by that artificial landscape.33 Her landscape of identity is hybrid, liminal, and “natural” in a way that contradicts racial science’s claims about nature. Nor does Winona’s gender get in the way of her participa- tion in “organized and individual acts of resistance and self-defense against oppression”; because Hopkins endows Winona with the ability to fashion herself anew, she has a malleable gender and a racial identity that are ready-made to answer what Carby has termed the “call for organized acts of resistance against contemporary persecution”—the racial and gender repression within an increasingly expansionist, masculinist, and white supremacist nation.34 Like the errant chiefs who are punished by being turned into Indian-pipes, how- ever, the Colonel will face retribution. The narrator implies that the artificial claim Colonel Titus has upon the landscape, based on the ridiculous premise that he has produced its wealth, epitomizes the injustice of white territorial expansion in Missouri and the crime of slavery (this also parallels the project of imperialism in the early twentieth century, as I explain below). In Hopkins’s estimation, his illegitimate claim to the landscape, based on coercion and the curtailment of his slaves’ liberty, results in Titus’s daughter’s punish- “All the Land Had Changed” 39 ment. Titus suffers divine retribution even before Winona and Judah escape; his child is crippled, a condition that Hopkins attributes to her father’s moral degeneracy. Equating the child’s disability with a biblical curse and divine retribution, the narrator reminds us, “it is taught that evil deeds shall be visited upon the progeny of the doer unto the third and fourth generations” (318). From the perspective of twenty-first century ideas of disability, this is another instance of Hopkins lack of sensitivity, since she attributes a child’s disability to her father’s sin. It is important to emphasize, however, that this is a biblical rather than a Lamarckian inheritance: the curse references lingering proslavery arguments that Noah’s curse upon Ham relegated people of African descent to a condition of perpetual servitude, but it redirects the curse on the enslaver. The oppressed, in acts of divine justice, are scheduled to revisit this “evil” on their oppressors. Forebodingly, the narrator suggests that Colonel Titus’s slaves are about to strike back at him. “All the land had changed” Hopkins depicts Titus’s assertions of authority and entitlement as racist manifestations of exploitation and domination. She also destabilizes primitivist association between indigenous or African people and nature, as opposed to Anglo “civilization,” because she challenges the very idea of race as natural and thus undermines the myth of civiliza- tion. Because they grow up on a secluded island, Winona and Judah are not exposed to the logic of domination and mastery that defines African or Native American “blood” as inferior, nor do they even register the pseudo-science that assigns biological meaning to race. Raised among Seneca people on an island that provides sanctuary from slavery and the color line, Winona and Judah grow up oblivious to racial categories. As the rustic frontiersman Ebenezer Maybee explains, neither child “realizes what ‘bein’ a nigger’ means; they have no idee of their true position in this unfrien’ly world” (310). Although their experience with Titus apprises them of their supposed “position,” they do not accept it. Rejecting the artificial constructions of Anglo-American civilization, they negotiate their racial alliances through a relationship to the natural world whose laws they abide.35 Just as race is a lie perpetuated by the so-called civilized world, so too is gender. Winona undoes the stereotype of the hypersexual African American female. Although Titus tries to “cultivate” her into a sex slave, the assertion that she has “the pluck of a man” and that “[s]he doesn’t whimper, but jus’ saws wood and keeps to her instructions” suggests that she can be a nurturer, a provider, or a protector—but never a “fancy girl” (348). In this sense, the Indian pipes also foreshadow the threats to the sovereignty of Winona’s body. Just before they are kidnapped, she chastises Judah when he reaches to 40 Studies in American Fiction touch the Indian-pipes, telling him they will turn black. Indeed, handling destroys the flowers, which blacken as they die. Titus and his overseer, Thomson, likewise handle Winona by kidnapping and remanding her to slavery, legally blackening her, and then attempting to cultivate her exotic beauty by priming her in musical and other artistic skills in order to render her suitable for a New Orleans fancy girl auction. The Colonel’s investment in Winona’s musical skill, which he says will “pay ten dollars for every one invested” is telling, since cultivating land is also a justification for exploitation (320). Of course, Winona resists these attempts to commodify her body, and refuses to accept the racial or gender identity that Titus imposes on her. Dorri Beam has explicated the significance of flowers to nineteenth-century evocations of female sexuality, yet the ap- pearance of these particular flowers demands further consideration in terms of questions of land and landscape.36 Due to her vital connection to nature and her resistance to white society, Winona is no submissive “fancy girl,” nor is Judah a passive or obsequious black man. Hopkins connects both hero and heroine’s negotiations of gender identity to their “Indian training,” and their particular abilities seem to develop and expand as they move closer, geographi- cally, to Indian nations other than the Seneca (344). Meanwhile, their greater proximity to the system of slavery does not hinder their sense of personhood or self-sovereignty, although the Missouri plantation landscape familiarizes Winona and Judah with African American experience and the need for an insurgent black landscape. Ultimately, both brother and sister refuse to identify with the strictly delineated plantation landscape and its rigid system of production—whether physical or sexual. After the pair escapes Titus’s plantation, the insurgent historical landscape of antislavery Kansas becomes their third home. In Kansas, “all the land ha(s) changed” (375). The change in landscape is integral to Winona’s transformation into a freedom fighter, because “the woods calmed her,” reminding her of “the primal life she had led” on the island, where her mind has “not a thought of racial or social barriers” (376). Link- ing her cultural affiliation with the Seneca to her experience as an African American, she gains hope in the woods, where she hears “the whisper of a secret that has lasted from the foundation of the world”—a message of racial and gender equality grounded in natural rights (376). Winona challenges proscriptive definitions of race and gender, even in Brown’s camp. When the men convene to discuss breaking an English lawyer, Maxwell, out of the Missouri jail, “as was the fashion of the day, the women listened but did not intrude their opinions upon the men” (380). Breaking down this particular “social barrier,” Winona seeks counsel with Brown and “intrude[s]” her opinions, and her plan “All the Land Had Changed” 41 of action, upon him (380). He accepts her input and agrees. Perhaps Hopkins was aware that Seneca women traditionally offered counsel within tribal leadership. This passage substantiates the claim that Winona is an early black feminist text as well as a critique of economic and environmental exploitation. If we consider breaking gender barriers a form of feminism, would that not also apply to the way that Winona’s and Judah’s fluid racial identities break down racial barriers?37 Although the rhetoric of Anglo-masculinity attempted to naturalize racial and gender identities and use them to justify white men’s exclusive entitlement to resources and power, Winona is at once very connected to the natural world and living evidence that the “natural” qualities of race and gender are protean and provisional rather than immutable. If her “pluck” and readiness with a rifle are not sufficient evidence that a woman can cross gender lines, she actually masquerades as a man to rescue her love interest—a benevolent yet very vulnerable and helpless English lawyer, Maxwell. She devises a scheme to rescue Maxwell by disguising herself as a mulatto, Allen Pinks. Pinks claims to have been a “cook and a head-waiter on a steamboat aboard the Missouri river” who was “stopped on suspicion of being a fugitive slave” and delivered to the State prison, where the Rangers also hold Maxwell (386). When Winona joins him, Maxwell awakens from nightmares of “phantom terrors” to “the soft hush of a tender voice stilling the tumult” (386). This powerful voice is also connected to the landscape: like the naturalistic “whisper of a secret” that emanates from “the foundation of the world” and calms Winona, this voice gives Maxwell hope (386). It also disrupts the boundaries of racial and gender identity to enact a militant form of justice. A week later, after Pinks/Winona has nursed Maxwell to health, the healer be- comes a warrior. At midnight, Pinks, John Brown, and Ebenezer Maybee appear in the jail to save Maxwell who, “standing helpless in his cell,” recognizes Winona’s disguise. Awed by her bravery and overcome with love for her, “All the beauty and strength of the man, and every endowment of tenderness came upon him there as the power came upon Sampson” (392). Interestingly, the beauty, strength, and tenderness that at first seem odd qualities in Pinks then seem perfectly fitting to Winona, whom Maxwell still refers to mentally as “the man” Pinks. Something about this moment of recognition makes those gendered qualities acceptably masculine, and they “c[o]me upon” Maxwell. He, too, acquires the seemingly disparate powers of beauty, strength, and tenderness simul- taneously; shared between a man and a woman, the gender of the qualities themselves becomes ambiguous.38 Recalling the moments when nature, or the Native American past, endow Winona and Judah with the power of resistance, Maxwell absorbs power from Winona through her very presence. 42 Studies in American Fiction Winona plays an instrumental role in rescuing Maxwell, who previously has helped her escape slavery. She, Judah, Brown, and Maybee deliver “the invalid” to Kansas, where “freedom, cleanliness, and nourishing food” and most certainly free soil restore him to full health (397–398). As they work to protect freedom in Kansas, Winona continues to shift from identifying primarily as a black woman to reincorporating Seneca aspects of her self. Brown even calls her a “pretty squaw,” a word Hopkins does not seem to find derogatory although it does add to the list of negative terms and stereotypes that Hopkins applies to Indians (375). Winona regains her “Indian” qualities from the landscape she occupies. As was the case with her father, her connection to place signifies her freedom from socially constructed identity categories. The liberation of Maxwell is only the beginning of the insurgent activity inspired by the landscape. The manner in which the natural world endows Winona and Judah with the power to fight for natural rights suggests that Hopkins imagines nature or the landscape as a vital force and active participant in the struggle for justice. Free Soil Kansas also provides Judah a space and an outlet to act on his fantasies of revenge against the Missouri plantation and its despicable Anglo-masculine villains, Titus and Thomson. Accompanied by Brown’s freedom fighters in the woods of Kansas, Judah eventually avenges their father’s death by slaying Titus in hand-to-hand combat. Judah is not so transformed by slavery’s barbarism, however, that he can pull the trigger in cold blood when he corners Thomson, the overseer. Instead, he offers him a chance to escape by jumping off the edge of a ravine into “the Possawatamie gurgling along sixty feet below over pebbles” (413). Judah offers Thomson the chance to save himself by mastering a sublime and imposing landscape—a true test of Anglo-American manhood that Thomson fails miserably. At odds with the harmony and peace that attend Judah’s synergy with the land- scape, Thomson crashes into the stream in front of Winona, who happens to be patrolling the forest surrounding the Brown camp to look for the wounded. Judah then travels down the ravine and finds Winona trying to assist the man who helped murder their father and enslave them. Judah and Winona decide to show mercy to Thomson, which results in his deathbed revelation that Winona is the heir to a British fortune and land. Thomson dies a rather unheroic death, nonetheless, and he clearly does not belong in the natural space that ultimately conquers him. The artificial power he garners from slavery’s fraudulent and unnatural authority fails and he cannot survive on free soil. Unlike Thomson, who is defeated by his surroundings, Judah seems to draw energy from nature itself. Thomson literally and figuratively pales in comparison to “All the Land Had Changed” 43 Judah, whose “ebon visage” and “inexorable energy” connect him to the sacred free soil landscape (414). As Judah takes control of the scene, the world is set aright again, return- ing to the “golden period” described earlier in the novel when Winona and Judah find the Indian-pipes (291). The battle scene in the woods resolves into a description of the landscape that recalls the period of the Great Peace: “The morning sun broke in dazzling splendor over the earth; the birds were feeding their young families and flew from tree to tree in neighborly fashion; the murmur of bees humming and out of the stream far below mingled harmoniously. All was peace” (414). The climactic point of the novel invokes an idyllic and peaceful landscape as the backdrop for a scene of justice attained: Judah stands empowered to correct the wrongs of “a century of lacerated manhood” (414). Judah is the one who belongs in that beautiful setting—Judah, because he has labored there, has established a legitimate claim to the natural world around him. By making the natural environment an active character in the novel, Hopkins challenges conventional debates about race. The concept of the environment shaping race was longstanding (such as in the Count de Buffon’s early letters to Thomas Jefferson), but Hopkins challenges imperialist ideas about nature and culture that predominated in her historical moment. Rather than an entity that limits and circumscribes human develop- ment, the landscape of the New World is a source of power and self-determination for righteous rebels like Winona and Judah. The natural world is sacred—a source of vital inspiration and the embodiment of natural law—and capable of resisting the political boundaries that humans attempt to impose on it. Drawing a correspondence between sovereign territory and the concept of a sovereign people, Hopkins resists hierarchical classifications of human culture that are rigidly demarcated by supposed “natural” boundaries. By imagining themselves as connected to the natural world rather than attempting to master it, then, her heroic characters defy both political boundaries and identity categories, restoring a natural order in which one attains a sense of personal identity from a productive relationship to the land rather than artificial and externally assigned criteria. This creative force is both a way of imagining the natural environment and a way of understanding the relationship of the sovereign and inalienable self to a landscape imagined as sacred. Both the national issue of Indian removal and the individual issue of one vil- lainous Anglo-American man’s wrangling to steal his cousin’s inheritance create the backdrop for the novel’s explicit concerns: freedom in the new US territories in the 1850s and freedom from slavery for the hero and heroine. The parallel between these explicit concerns and the immediate concerns that Hopkins faced in 1902 is important—her 44 Studies in American Fiction concern for the sovereignty of colonial territories and the sovereign rights of African Americans also applies to US imperialism and the specific forms of violence aimed at US blacks during what is often termed the “nadir” of race relations in the years surround- ing 1900. Events from the mid-nineteenth century are measured against the aftermath of the Spanish-American War and the nadir of lynchings and race riots in the South; the narrator explicitly connects the 1850s to the “world now living in anxiety and toil” and interrupts the story midway to compare its plot to “recent happenings in the beautiful Southland” (291, 317). Thus Indian removal, slavery, the Spanish-American War, and the repeal of Black voting rights in the South are part of an historical continuum that reproduces violence and exploitation. It is therefore important to look at the way the landscape becomes a subject in Winona and ask whether Hopkins then becomes an early proponent of eco-literacy; the implicit awareness that racial subjugation goes hand-in-hand with the destruction of the natural world presages some of the most compelling messages of the twenty-first- century environmental movement. The interdependence between the economics of labor and politics of the environment is another lesson that manifests in Hopkins’s use of the Indian-pipes trope. The Euro-American imperialist mentality that governed national politics in Hopkins’s historical moment legitimated the appropriation of bodies of land and racially-marked bodies in the name of progress and productivity, but in the frame of the Indian-pipes story, these practices amount to nothing but greed and disrespect. In the twenty-first century, this mentality has precipitated a global economic and environ- mental crisis. As Vandana Shiva argues, “scientific and technological progress is guided by this narrow and distorted concept of productivity, which externalizes the social costs of livelihood destruction and the ecological costs of ecosystem destruction.”39 Hopkins does not address ecosystem destruction per se, but the way that she romanticizes the natural environment in glimpses of its “primeval” grandeur suggests a longing for the past, a period before the landscape became an object of expropriation and greed. Hopkins’s investment in rightful inheritance and entitlement to the country’s land provides Winona’s major organizing principle, and through this principle she voices a challenge to Anglo-American male political power and territorial expansion. At the same time, she conflates Native and African American history, which might conveniently explain away African American entitlement to the highly desirable land available in Indian Territory. The occasional similarities and collisions between Hopkins’s radical African American prose and Anglo-American national rhetoric, particularly when she broaches the topic of expansion as a violation of sacred landscapes and sovereign bodies, highlight “All the Land Had Changed” 45 the complexities of her position as an African American woman trying to negotiate the intersecting paths of race, class and gender at the dawn of the twentieth century. Notes 1. Paulina Hopkins, Winona, A Tale of Negro Life in the South and Southwest in The Magazine Novels of Pauline Hopkins ed. Henry Louis Gates (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1988), 193. Further refer- ences will be cited parenthetically in the text. 2. For more background on the Ogden Company and the Seneca nation, see James E. Manley, “History of Lein Park: Lot 329.” Town of West Seneca. http://www.westseneca.net/index.php?q=history_ of_lein_park%20 (accessed October 13, 2011); and Matthew Dennis, Seneca Possessed: Indians, Witchcraft, and Power in the Early Republic (Philadelphia, Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 2010). 3. Lois Brown’s extensive biography of Hopkins notes that Hopkins does not mention major events in Native American history, but this brief reference to the Seneca has been overlooked. See Lois Brown, Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins: Black Daughter of the Revolution (Chapel Hill: Univ. of North Carolina Press, 2008). 4. This English aristocrat’s conversion experience contrasts starkly with the English cousin who framed him for murder, took his family fortune, and assimilated to Anglo-American culture as a slave- holder. I am not arguing that “link[ing] fortunes with the Seneca” releases one from responsibility for the activities of Anglo-American culture, yet the fact that “White Eagle” discovers a different way of life and learns from the Seneca to understand the world differently deserves comment. 5. Brown, Hopkins, 368. 6. By this I mean that they have no genetic lineage in the Seneca Nation, but they are Seneca. To be enrolled as a citizen of the Seneca Nation, one needs to live and work on the reservation. The Seneca adopted white members because their criteria for membership are not based on blood, but it is unclear whether Hopkins was aware of this practice. 7. See Outka, Race and Nature from Transcendentalism to the Harlem Renaissance, (New York: Palgrave, 2008). 8. Kimberly Ruffin, Black on Earth: African American Ecoliterary Traditions (Athens: Univ. of Georgia Press, 2010), 18. 9. Kimberly Smith, African American Environmental Thought (Lawrence: Univ. of Kansas Press, 2007), 19. 10. Ibid., 27. 11. O’Brien, “‘Blacks in all Quarters of the Globe’: Anti-Imperialism, Insurgent Cosmopolitanism, and International Labor in Pauline Hopkins’s Literary Journalism,” American Quarterly 61.2 (2009): 245–270. 12. Michael David. McNally, “The Indian Passion Play: Contesting the Real Indian in Song of Hiawatha Pageants, 1901–1965,” American Quarterly 58.1 (March 2006): 105–136; Allen Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha: Staging Indians, Making Americans 1880–1930 (New York: Hill and Wang, 2004); “Debut of Miss Mary Harper” New York Globe 11 Aug. 1883, p. 1. 46 Studies in American Fiction 13. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Song of Hiawatha (New York: Bounty Books, 1968), 12. Further citations will be cited parenthetically in the text. 14. Hopkins refers to Longfellow’s poem in an installation of her “Famous Women of the Negro Race” series that features sculptor Edmonia Lewis. As she describes Lewis’s small statues entitled “Hi- awatha’s Wooing” and “Marriage,” Hopkins states “They are charming hits, poetic, simple, and no happier illustrations of Longfellow’s poem were ever made than those by Miss Lewis.” See Hopkins, Daughter of the Revolution, ed. Ira Dworkin (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers Univ. Press, 2007): 187–188. 15. For a written version of this story, see Corydon Bell, John Rattling-Gourd of Big Cove; A Collection of Cherokee Indian Legends (New York: Macmillan, 1955). 16. Robert Nelson, Place and Vision: The Function of Landscape in Native American Fiction (New York: Peter Lang, 1995), 8. 17. O’Brien, “Blacks in All Quarters of the Globe,” 254. 18. Philip Deloria’s Playing Indian (Yale Univ. Press, 1998) is a foundational discussion of the ways literature appropriates Native American culture. 19. Dennis, Seneca Possessed, 184. 20. Notably, similar circumstances resurfaced in 1902 with the opening of Indian Territory and the disenfranchisement of blacks in the South; lynchings and race riots often resulted in the confisca- tion of the black victims’ property by white aggressors. 21. Amy Kaplan uses the term “rugged masculinity” to describe this kind of figure, usually heroic, in other turn-of the-century texts. See Kaplan, “Romancing the Empire: The Embodiment of Ameri- can Masculinity in the Popular Historical Novel of the 1890s,” American Literary History 2.4 (1990): 659–90. 22. Other displaced nations, including the Cherokee, lived on lands near the Kansas/Missouri border in the 1850s; they would be displaced again when the government re-ceded those lands in 1866. 23. Lance Newman, “Free Soil and the Abolitionist Forests of Frederick Douglass’s ‘The Heroic Slave,’” American Literature 81.1 (2009): 128, 134. Newman points out that critics including Lawrence Buell in Writing for an Endangered World (Cambridge: Belknap-Harvard UP, 2001), T.V. Reed, Jeffrey Myers and Michael Bennett have called for a revisionist approach to ecocriticism and new para- digms of understanding nature in African American literature. See Bennett, “Anti-Pastoralism, Frederick Douglass, and the Nature of Slavery” in Karla Armbruster and Kathleen Wallace, eds. Beyond Nature Writing: Expanding the Boundaries of Ecocriticism (Charlottesville: Univ. of Virginia Press, 2001); Jeffrey Myers, Converging Stories: Race, Ecology, and Environmental Justice in American Literature (Athens, Univ of Georgia Press, 2005); T. V. Reed, “Toward an Environmental Justice Ecocriticism,” in Joni Adamson, Mei Mei Evans, and Rachel Stein, The Environmental Justice Reader: Politics, Poetics, and Pedagogy (Tucson: Univ. of Arizona Press, 2002). 24. Buell, Writing, 17. The “creative force” in Winona also presages the premises of landscape theory. Hopkins treats the idea of human relationships to land in much the way Barbara Bender describes it—as complex, sometimes contradictory, and multivalent. In European and Anglo-American cul- “All the Land Had Changed” 47 tural contexts, land becomes landscape through the play of human power relations, thus the way a subject relates to the land indicates his or her ability to negotiate personal power. See Barbara Bender, Landscape: Politics and Perspectives (Providence: Berg, 1993). Representations of idyllic land- scapes in Euro-America cultures, likewise, usually mask deep social striations and exploitation. The very presence of an idyllic landscape should send up red flags, as Don Mitchell in The Lie of the Land: Migrant Workers and the California Landscape (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1996) and Stephen Daniels in Fields of Vision: Landscape Imagery and National Identity in England and the United States (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1993) point out. As Denis Cosgrove states, “landscapes have an unquestionably material presence, yet they come into being only at the moment of their apprehension by an external observer”; see his “Modernity, Community and the Landscape Idea,” Journal of Material Culture 11.1 and 2 (2006): 50. 25. For more on Longfellow, Morgan, Marx, Engels, and the Hiawatha figure, see Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha, 16–29 and 50–97. 26. See Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the US, 1880–1917 (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1995). 27. W. J. T. Mitchell, Landscape and Power (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1994), 17. 28. Ibid. 29. Whereas, as Shirley Samuels points out, early nineteenth-century historical novels by white authors implicate women in “claims about citizenship and identity” that legitimate supremacist “claims about national territory,” Hopkins uses a female character to challenge the claims of Anglo- masculine civilization and entitlement. See Samuels, “Women, Blood, and Contract,” American Literary History 20 (December 2007): 57. The struggle for sovereignty among the Seneca and the Buffalo Creek case provide historical context to this challenge. 30. Roosevelt did not articulate the corollary as such until 1904, but the practices that precipitated the need to articulate it were certainly in play much earlier. 31. Eric Kaufmann, “‘Naturalizing the Nation’: The Rise of Naturalistic Nationalism in the United States and Canada,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 40.4 (1998): 666–695. For a reading of Jefferson’s yeomanry as proto-capitalist, see Timothy Sweet, “American Pastoralism and the Marketplace: Eighteenth-Century Ideologies of Farming,” Early American Literature 29.1 (1994): 59–75. The novel’s various settings also revise the Anglo-American emphasis on landscape as a signifier of national identity. Like Jefferson, who locates the spirit of American identity in the sublime beauty of Harpers Ferry and Niagara Falls and in the citizens’ ability to master such imposing landscapes, Hopkins refers to these same significant and highly symbolic places in her novel. The story opens “just upriver from Niagara Falls” and concludes as John Brown sets out for Harpers Ferry (405). 32. Hopkins’s critique of the figure of the aristocratic slaveholder has much in common with the argu- ments Jeremy Wells makes about the South in Romance of the White Man’s Burden: Race, Empire, and the Plantation in American Literature, 1880–1936 (Nashville: Vanderbilt Univ. Press, 2011). 33. Hazel Carby, Reconstructing Womanhood (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1987), 154. 48 Studies in American Fiction 34. Ibid., 155. 35. Carla Peterson characterizes Hopkins’s racial theory as a hybrid identity that “depends on a com- plex working out of both hereditary and environmental factors” in “Unsettled Frontiers: Race, History, and Romance in Pauline Hopkins’s ‘Contending Forces’,” in Famous Last Words: Changes in Gender and Narrative Closure, ed. Alison Booth, (Charlottesville: Univ. Press of Virginia, 1993), 184. 36. See Dorri Beam, “The Flower of Black Female Sexuality in Pauline Hopkins’s Winona,” in Recovering the Black Female Body: Self-Representations by African American Women, ed. Michael Bennett, Vanessa D. Dickerson, and Carla L. Peterson (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers Univ. Press, 2001), 71–96. 37. Lois Brown sees the fact that Winona and Judah’s identities are “frequently misread” as a form of silencing, in Brown, Hopkins 372. What she then describes as “narrative veils” make ethnic identity somewhat inscrutable for the characters, including Winona and Judah (376). In contrast, I suggest that this indeterminacy only makes them more capable of adjusting to different situations and different landscapes, always coming out stronger. 38. Siobhan Somerville discusses the jailhouse scenes, including Winona’s cross-dressing and refer- ences to homosexuality, in “The Prettiest Specimen of Boyhood’: Cross-Gender and Racial Disguise in Pauline E. Hopkins’s Winona,” in Skin Deep, Spirit Strong: The Black Female Body, ed. Kimberly Wallace-Sanders (Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan Press, 2002), 201–217. 39. Vandana Shiva, “Bringing People Back into the Economy,” Center for Ecoliteracy Publications, 2011, http://www.ecoliteracy.org/publications/print/vandana_shiva_print.htm (accessed October 13, 2011). 
work_ktbfu47vubbm3diotsclk35yfy	----	[PDF] What Is a Ballad ? | Semantic Scholar Skip to search formSkip to main content> Semantic Scholar's Logo Search Sign InCreate Free Account You are currently offline. Some features of the site may not work correctly. DOI:10.2307/817091 Corpus ID: 33359368What Is a Ballad ? @inproceedings{Wineman2016WhatIA, title={What Is a Ballad ?}, author={Andrew Wineman}, year={2016} } Andrew Wineman Published 2016 Meredith L. McGill, ‘‘What Is a Ballad? Reading for Genre, Format, and Medium’’ (pp. 156–175) In this essay I show how definitions of the ballad shift as critics take into account not only the place of ballads within the genre system but also the mediation of nineteenthcentury ballads across the full range of popular and elite print formats. Arguing that the ballad is a genre that flourishes with the rise of print, I show how Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s ‘‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’’ (1840… Expand View via Publisher ncl.ucpress.edu Save to Library Create Alert Cite Launch Research Feed Share This Paper Related Papers Abstract Related Papers Stay Connected With Semantic Scholar Sign Up About Semantic Scholar Semantic Scholar is a free, AI-powered research tool for scientific literature, based at the Allen Institute for AI. Learn More → Resources DatasetsSupp.aiAPIOpen Corpus Organization About UsResearchPublishing PartnersData Partners   FAQContact Proudly built by AI2 with the help of our Collaborators Terms of Service•Privacy Policy The Allen Institute for AI By clicking accept or continuing to use the site, you agree to the terms outlined in our Privacy Policy, Terms of Service, and Dataset License ACCEPT & CONTINUE 
work_ko7ngfvi3vckflkhlbzvsavuxq	----	Journal of Art Historiography Number 18 June 2018 Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston Deborah Hartry Stein In previous scholarship on the origins of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (‘Boston Museum’) — incorporated in February, 1870 as one of the nation’s first public art museums — art historians have frequently pointed to its similarity with London’s South Kensington Museum (‘South Kensington’), particularly as regards its mission to elevate the educational level of the public and the industrial design of everyday objects.1 While scholars have attributed this shared mission to the influence of the pioneering art historian and fine arts museum expert Charles Callahan Perkins (1823–1886), there has been no systematic and in-depth probing of the specific South Kensington museum practices adopted by Perkins, nor of the precise form that they took under his all-encompassing direction.2 This article undertakes to fill this lacuna in the belief that such a detailed exploration sheds much light on the particular Acknowledgements: I would like to express my appreciation to Elizabeth Heath for inviting my contribution to this edition of the Journal of Art Historiography, for her very helpful editorial comments on my article, and for her generous sharing of archival documentation of George Scharf’s relationship with Charles Callahan Perkins from her own doctoral research. I would also like to thank Keith Morgan, Professor Emeritus, History of Art & Architecture and American & New England Studies at Boston University, for his incisive comments from which this article has considerably benefitted. Sincere thanks are also due to Corina Meyer and Susanna Avery-Quash for their careful reviews and most helpful commentaries. 1 See, for example, Walter Muir Whitehill, Museum of Fine Arts Boston: A Centennial History, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1970, 8–10 and 26–27; Michael Conforti, ‘The Idealist Enterprise and the Applied Arts’, in: Malcolm Baker and Brenda Richardson, eds, A Grand Design: The Art of the Victoria and Albert Museum, New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1997, 40–44; and Hina Hirayama, With Éclat, The Boston Athenaeum and the Origin of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Boston: Boston Athenaeum, 2013, 83–88. I am indebted to Hina Hirayama for her unflagging support and enthusiasm for my research into Charles Callahan Perkins. 2 For the history of the South Kensington Museum see Baker and Richardson, eds., A Grand Design; Anthony Burton, Vision & Accident: The Story of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London: V&A Publications, 1999; Elizabeth Bonython and Anthony Burton, The Great Exhibitor: The Life and Work of Henry Cole, London: V&A Publications, 2003; and Susanna Avery-Quash and Julie Sheldon, Art for the Nation: The Eastlakes and the Victorian Art World, London: The National Gallery Company, 2011. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 2 character of the Boston Museum’s foundational years.3 It asserts, in particular, that the privileging of early Italian Renaissance art at the South Kensington had its distinct echo in Boston under Perkins’ management.4 In this regard, the article posits, as a second important institutional model for Perkins, the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition of 1857 (‘Art Treasures Exhibition’), one of the earliest exhibitions to showcase fourteenth and fifteenth-century art in a public exhibition in England.5 Moreover, the article highlights Perkins’ professional and personal relationships with, not only the individuals responsible for this emphasis at Manchester and South Kensington, Sir George Scharf, Jr. (1820–1895) and Sir John 3 The article builds on my recently completed dissertation — the first modern monograph on Perkins’ life and work — in which I claim that Perkins’ scholarship, illustrations, collections, and museum directorship shared the philosophical premise that the visual language of the fine arts, independent of the literary references that had so long been cherished by an elite heavily invested in classicism, could have an equal if not greater salutary impact on the citizenry. As such, he dramatically expanded the conception of exhibition-worthy art to include the early Italian Renaissance among other periods and genres previously undervalued, and he led the way to a museum of fine arts whose comprehensive collections were visually accessible to a much broader public. See Deborah Hartry Stein, ‘The Visual Rhetoric of Charles Callahan Perkins: Early Italian Renaissance Art and a new Fine Arts Paradigm for Boston’, PhD diss., 2017, Boston University. 4 By ‘early Italian Renaissance art’, I refer to works of the fourteenth, fifteenth, and early sixteenth centuries. For the role of early Italian Renaissance art in the formation of the South Kensington Museum see Helen Davies, ‘John Charles Robinson’s Work at the South Kensington Museum’, Parts I and II, Journal of the History of Collections, vol. 10, no. 2, 1998, 169–188 and vol. 11, no. 1, 1999, 111–114; and Charlotte Drew, ‘Displaying Italian Sculpture: Exploring Hierarchies at the South Kensington Museum 1852–1862’, PhD diss., University of York, 2014. 5 I am indebted to Susanna Avery-Quash for pointing out that the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition built upon an even earlier ground-breaking public display of fourteenth and fifteenth-century painting. This exhibit, entitled ‘a series of Pictures from the times of Giotto and Van Eyck’, was held at the British Institution in London in 1848. E-mail correspondence between Susanna Avery-Quash and Deborah Stein, 27 March, 2018. For the role of early Italian Renaissance art at the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition, see Elizabeth A. Pergam, The Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition of 1857: Entrepreneurs, Connoisseurs, and the Public, Farnham, England: Ashgate, 2011; Melva Croal, ‘“The spirit, the flesh, and the milliner”: hanging the Ancient Masters at the Manchester Art-Treasures Exhibition’, in: Helen Rees Leahy, ed. ‘Art, City, Spectacle: The 1857 Manchester Art- Treasures Exhibition Revisited’, Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester, vol. 87, 2005, 53-62; and Francis Haskell, The Ephemeral Museum: Old Master paintings and the rise of the art exhibition, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000, 82–97. For an analysis of the same issue at the London National Gallery, see Susanna Avery-Quash, ‘The Growth of Interest in Early Italian Painting in Britain with particular reference to pictures in the National Gallery’, in: Dillian Gordon, The Fifteenth Century Italian Paintings, vol. 1, London: National Gallery Company, 2003. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 3 Charles Robinson (1824–1913), respectively, but also the leading adviser to the British Government on the fine arts at this time, Gustav Friedrich Waagen (1794– 1868), who strongly influenced Scharf and Robinson. Insofar as Scharf and Robinson’s strategies at Manchester and South Kensington were designed in part to overcome resistance from a number of worthies in the English art world to the public display of early Italian Renaissance art, a challenge that Perkins himself faced in establishing a fine arts museum in Boston, his close relationship with these individuals adds much substance to this article’s focus.6 After a brief introduction to Perkins’ youthful milieu, the article details his extensive and first-hand involvement with northern European art historical and museological developments, connects the key elements of his programme for American fine arts museums to these developments, and concludes with a demonstration of the close ties between Perkins’ specific strategies at the Boston Museum and those inaugurated at the South Kensington. Figure 1 Charles Callahan Perkins, c. 1875. Photograph, 19.7 x 14 cm (mount). Boston: Boston Athenaeum. Gift of the Estate of Miss Eliza Callahan Cleveland, 1914. Photograph © Boston Athenaeum. 6 Biases against early Italian Renaissance art on both sides of the Atlantic had complex histories. Common to both were anti-papist sentiments as well as views on artistic merit that privileged the naturalism and polish of the High Renaissance and beyond over the less advanced technical virtuosity of the trecento and quattrocento. For a broad treatment of the phenomenon, see John Hale, England and the Italian Renaissance: The Growth of Interest in its History and Art, 3rd ed., London: Fontana Press, 1996. See also Robyn Cooper ‘The Growth of Interest in Early Italian Painting in Britain: George Darley and the Athenaeum, 1834-1846’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, vol. 43, 1980 and Avery-Quash, ‘Pictures in the National Gallery’, for a discussion of British views on early Italian art. See Stein, ‘A New Fine Arts Paradigm’, 2 and 331-332 on similar views in Boston. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 4 Charles Callahan Perkins (1823–1886) was born on Pearl Street in the Old South End of Boston.7 (Fig. 1) As the scion of a major Boston family, Perkins was part of an extraordinarily tight-knit community of elites, a community which shaped his cultural consciousness in a profound manner.8 In 1829, at the age of six, Perkins lost his father, a tragedy which naturally imposed a great emotional toll, but did have the salutary effect of exposing him in his youth to certain members of the cultural avant-garde of Boston who, as his guardians or close associates of the same, were a significant presence in his life.9 Furthermore, leadership in the fine arts was in Perkins’ blood. In 1822, Perkins’ grandfather, James Perkins (1761–1822), donated his residence on Pearl Street to the Athenaeum, Boston’s premier cultural organization founded in 1807, so that they might have the space needed for their growing book collections and at the same time deliver on their promise to support the fine arts. In 1827, Perkins’ great uncle, Thomas Handasyd Perkins (1764–1854), inspired and then executed the first annual fine arts exhibition, a tradition that continued until 1873, when the Athenaeum ceded its authority therein to the new 7 Perkins was the fourth of five children of James Perkins, Jr. (1791–1828) and Eliza Greene Callahan (1789–1860). Unless otherwise noted, biographical details cited in this article are gleaned from Samuel Eliot, Memoir of Charles Callahan Perkins, reprinted from the Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Cambridge: John Wilson and Son, 1887; Martin Brimmer, ‘Charles Callahan Perkins, A. M.’, Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, vol. 22, May–December 1886, 534–539; and Hirayama, With Éclat, 53–64. 8 This elite community was related by birth, marriage, and political, economic, and social values. For further treatment of the close-knit nature of the so-called ‘Brahmin’ elites, a sobriquet given to them by the esteemed physician, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809–1894), see Ronald Story, The Forging of an Aristocracy: Harvard and the Boston Upper Class, 1800–1870, Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1980; Frederic Cople Jaher, ‘Nineteenth- Century Elites in Boston and New York’, Journal of Social History, vol. 6, no. 1, Autumn, 1972, 32–37; Paul Goodman, ‘Ethics and Enterprise: The Values of a Boston Elite, 1800–1860’, American Quarterly, vol. 18, no. 3, Autumn, 1966, 437–451; and T. A. Milford, ‘J. S. J. Gardiner, Early National Letters, and the Perseverance of British-American Culture’, Anglican and Episcopal History, vol. 70, no. 4, December 2001, 407–437. 9 These men included Charles Follen (1796–1840), Harvard’s first professor of German Language and Literature and an outspoken Unitarian minister and abolitionist; Henry R. Cleveland (1808–1843), classical scholar and fine arts commentator; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882), esteemed poet and professor of modern languages at Harvard; and Cornelius Conway Felton (1807–1862), Eliot Professor of Greek Literature at Harvard as well as its 19th President. They were key players in Boston’s development as the so-called ‘Athens of America’, an appellation that has its origins in an 1819 comment made by William Tudor (1779–1830), one of the Boston Athenaeum’s founders. For a discussion of the influence that these and other cultural elites had on Perkins’ childhood, see Stein, ‘A New Fine Arts Paradigm’, Chapter Two. For a recent treatment of Boston’s cultural history in this period, see Thomas H. O’Connor, The Athens of America: Boston, 1825–1845, Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 5 Boston Museum.10 Together, these two Perkins brothers, James and Thomas, literally launched the institutionalisation of the fine arts in Boston. Charles Perkins went abroad a few months after graduation from Harvard College in 1843 with the explicit goal of garnering the expertise to build an academy of the fine arts in his native city. In this Perkins differed significantly from the preponderance of his fellow Bostonians who saw travel to Europe as civilising preparation for a gentleman who would return to a career in the law, medicine, commerce, or the church. Studying and working in Rome, Paris, Leipzig, Florence, and London for close to a quarter-century — albeit broken up by several lengthy returns home to Boston — Perkins came into contact, either directly or by association, with a complex web of early to mid-nineteenth century northern European painters, art historians, collectors and critics who, under the influence of late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century German Romantic philosophy and literature had rediscovered the early Italian masters, Raphael (1483–1520) in particular.11 For example, Perkins spent the year of 1846–1847 in the studio of the Dutch Romantic painter, Ary Scheffer (1795–1858), who, inspired in part by Raphael’s Madonnas, used large areas of pale and flat color and sharply outlined figures that stood out against stark backgrounds in a sculpturesque way to 10 For the history of the fine arts at the Boston Athenaeum, see especially Hirayama, With Éclat. See also Richard Wendorf, ed. The Boston Athenaeum Bicentennial Essays, Boston: Boston Athenaeum, 2009; Stanley Ellis Cushing and David B. Dearinger, eds, Acquired Tastes: 200 Years of Collecting for the Boston Athenaeum, Boston: Boston Athenaeum, 2006; Pamela Hoyle, Jonathan P. Harding, and Rosemary Booth, A Climate for Art: The History of the Boston Athenaeum Gallery 1827–1873, Boston: Boston Athenaeum, 1980; Robert F. Perkins Jr. and William J. Gavin III, The Boston Athenaeum Art Exhibition Index, 1827–1874, Boston: Library of the Boston Athenaeum, 1980; Jean Gordon, ‘The Fine Arts in Boston, 1815–1879’, PhD diss., University of Wisconsin, 1965 and Mabel Swanson Swan, The Athenaeum Gallery, 1827–1873: The Boston Athenaeum as an Early Patron of Art, Boston: Boston Athenaeum, 1940. 11 Leading figures in the German Romantic movement included Wilhelm Wackenrode (1773– 1798), Friedrich Schlegel (1772–1829), and Ludwig Tieck (1773–1853). In 1797, Wackenroder published the highly influential Herzensergiessungen eines kunstliebenden Klosterbruders (translated as ‘The Heartfelt Outpourings of an Art-Loving Monk’), in which he asserted that the most evocative art was religious art. Schlegel shared this belief in the power of religious art, claiming that the deeply-felt Christian faith of the early Renaissance masters shone forth with a purity as yet untainted by the revival of antique paganism. See Hale, England and the Italian Renaissance, 153–155 and and David J. DeLaura, “The Context of Browning’s Painter Poems: Aesthetics, Polemics, Historics,” PMLA, vol. 95, no. 3 (May 1980): 367–388. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 6 emphasize the spirituality of his subjects.12 In addition to this exposure to the early Renaissance revival in paint, Perkins was exposed to literary members of Scheffer’s circle, either in his studio or at one of his salons, who believed that the pure religiosity of Raphael and the early Italian masters was an essential curative in the ‘hurly burly’ of the industrial age.13 In 1857, Perkins and his wife Frances Davenport Bruen (1825–1909) — whom he had met in the late 1840s while they were both living in Rome as part of that city’s culturally rich Anglo-American community — and their baby daughter established residence in Florence. This was to be the lengthiest, final, and probably also most productive of Perkins’ European sojourns, only concluding in 1869 upon the family’s permanent return to Boston. They lived at the Villa Capponi, a storied estate in the hills above Florence that had been converted from mediaeval castle to Renaissance villa in the late sixteenth century by the Capponi family. Soon after arriving in Florence, Perkins determined to turn his talents and researches to the discipline of art history, focusing on early Italian Renaissance sculpture as his specialty and publishing two major texts on the subject, Tuscan Sculptors and Italian Sculptors in 1864 and 1868, respectively.14 Perkins spent a year during this time period (precise date unknown) studying engraving in Paris with Félix Bracquemond (1833–1914) and Maxime Lalanne (1827–1886), both leaders of the mid-century etching revival in France, so that he might ultimately engrave his own textual illustrations.15 We also know from Perkins’ ‘Preface’ to Tuscan Sculptors that he 12 See Patrick Noon, ‘New Discoveries: A Reduced Version of Ary Scheffer’s Christ Consolator’, Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide (August 2009): 1–10; accessed on-line 15/12/15 and 30/2/18 at http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org/ Noon also connects Scheffer to the Nazarenes, a school of German painters who, in the first quarter of the nineteenth century had pioneered the mission to bring back religious content to art, and whose philosophies also had their roots in German Romanticism. For Scheffer and the Nazarenes, see also Lionel Gossman, ‘Unwilling Moderns: The Nazarene Painters of the Nineteenth Century’, Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide, Vol. 2, No. 2, Autumn 2003, 4–5, accessed on 27/12/15 at http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org. 13 Such literary figures included the critic, George Darley (1795–1846), and the novelist turned art historian, Anna Jameson (1794–1860). For Scheffer, his circle, and his Parisian salons, some of the most vibrant such gatherings in Paris at the time, see Edward Morris, ‘Ary Scheffer and his English Circle’, Oud Holland, Jaarg. 99, no. 4, 1985, 294-304. 14 The full bibliographic details of Perkins’ texts are: Tuscan Sculptors: Their Lives, Works, and Times with Illustrations from Original Drawings and Photographs, London: Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts & Green, 1864, 2 vols; and Italian Sculptors: Being a History of Sculpture in Northern, Southern, and Eastern Italy, London: Longmans, Green and Company, 1868. 15 See Cosmo Monkhouse, Exhibition Illustrative of the French Revival of Etching, London: Burlington Fine Arts Club, 1891, 5–10 and Eric Denker, ‘Félix Bracquemond: Impressionist Innovator – Selections from the Frank Raysor Collection’, Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide, vol. 14, no. 3, Autumn, 2015, 1–10, accessed on 11/1/16 at http://www.19thc- artworldwide.org/. http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org/ http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org/autumn15/denker-reviews-felix-bracquemond-impressionist-innovator http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org/autumn15/denker-reviews-felix-bracquemond-impressionist-innovator Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 7 travelled extensively throughout Italy in this period to make ‘drawings and collect photographs’ as the basis for his illustrations and that he examined ‘all MSS., books, and pamphlets connected with the subject’, presumably also accomplished during these travels.16 The fairly small but significant collection of Italian Renaissance quattrocento sculpture in marble, terracotta, and bronze that Perkins brought home in 1869 was undoubtedly the product of these travels as well. Based on the following circumstantial information, it is clear that Perkins made several trips across the English Channel to London during this last sojourn abroad. First, his publisher, Longmans, Green and Company, was located in London, thus undoubtedly necessitating many visits to this venerable commercial establishment.17 Second, Perkins’ article, ‘American Art Museums,’ published in 1870 reviewed the strategies and operating practices of the South Kensington at a level of detail that could only have been personally observed.18 Third, in addition to his acquaintanceship with Scharf and Robinson, Perkins had developed a strong enough relationship with Henry Cole (1808–1882), Secretary of the South Kensington Museum and a formidable public servant in his own right, to call upon him for assistance in appointing Walter Smith (1836–1886), Headmaster at the Leeds School of Art in Britain, to direct Boston’s new drawing initiatives of the 1870s.19 Taken together, this stretch of time, 1857–1869, was an immensely fertile one during which Perkins soaked up the mix of intellectual, cultural, and institutional currents that proved to most powerfully influence his transformative leadership once home in Boston. In his art historical scholarship, Perkins was profoundly influenced by his friend, the French historian Alexis-François Rio (1797–1874), whose support he acknowledged with gratitude in the dedication to his first major work, Tuscan Sculptors (1864). Inspired, like the members of the Scheffer circle, by German Romanticism, Rio glorified the Christian poetry of religious art of the late mediaeval and early Renaissance periods and celebrated its rejection of the ‘debasing element of scientific or pagan interest’.20 Rio’s seminal treatise of 1836, De la poésie chrétienne, 16 Perkins, Tuscan Sculptors, vol. 1, viii–ix. 17 For a history of Longmans, see Asa Briggs, A History of Longmans and their Books, 1724– 1990: Longevity in Publishing, London: The British Library and Oak Knoll Press, 2008. 18 ‘American Art Museums,’ was published in the North American Review, vol. 111, no. 228, July 1870, 1–29. It will be more fully explicated later in this article. 19 Prior to his leadership post at the South Kensington, Cole (1808–1882) had served for 20 years as head of the Department of Science and Art and had been appointed by Prince Albert to mastermind the Great Exhibition of 1851. For Perkins’ relationship with Henry Cole, see Katrina L, Billings, “Sophisticated Proselytizing: Charles Callahan Perkins and the Boston School Committee.” Master’s thesis, Massachusetts College of Art, 1987. 20 Hale, England and the Italian Renaissance, 153–154. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 8 was highly influential in England.21 Amongst Rio’s devotées there was no less a luminary than the art critic John Ruskin (1819–1900). Also indebted to Rio for their introduction to the early Italian masters were Anna Jameson (1794–1860), novelist turned art historian, and Alexander William Crawford, Lord Lindsay (1812–1880), who, along with Jameson, was one of the first British authors to publish on these painters, and who also assembled an impressive collection of their works.22 Having been immersed in Scheffer’s circle and introduced to the field of art history by Rio, Perkins was strongly persuaded in his own scholarship of not only the merits of early Italian Renaissance art, but also of the self-absorption and paganism — in other words, decadence — of the artists who followed Raphael in the sixteenth century.23 At the same time, Perkins shared a great deal with the more neutral — that is the less polemic and romantic and more research-based, historicising, and encyclopaedic — art historical methods pioneered by the German art historians, Carl Friedrich von Rumohr (1785–1843), Gustav Friedrich Waagen — previously mentioned as the leading adviser to the British government and a personal friend of Perkins’ — and Franz Theodor Kugler (1808–1858).24 For example, Gustav Waagen’s On Hubert and Johann van Eyck (1822), which appreciated mediaeval art as a product of its environment rather than just evidence of a dark period in art, reflected the German’s staunch belief that to represent an artist one must ‘discuss political history, the constitution, the character of a people, conditions 21 Rio had married a Welsh woman in 1834, spoke English fluently, and from 1836 forward made many trips across the Channel, where he was well known and respected by such prominent figures as Prime Minister William Gladstone, the Romantic poet William Wordsworth, the Victorian poet Robert Browning, and the essayist Thomas Carlyle. For treatment of Rio’s influence in England, see especially Delaura, ‘The Context of Browning’s Painter Poems’, 367–374 and Camillo von Klenze, ‘The Growth of Interest in the Early Italian Masters: From Tischbein to Ruskin’, Modern Philology, vol. 4, no. 2, October 1906, 48–62. See also J. B. Bullen, Continental Crosscurrents: British Criticism and European Art, 1810-1910, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, 93; Hale, England and the Italian Renaissance, 153–154; and Wallace K. Ferguson, The Renaissance in Historical Thought: Five Centuries of Interpretation, Cambridge, MA: The Riverside Press, 1948, 141–143. 22 Lindsay’s work, Sketches of the History of Christian Art (1847), focused on German and Italian sculpture and painting through the fifteenth century. For Lindsay, see Hugh Brigstocke, ‘Lord Lindsay and the Sketches of the History of Christian Art’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, vol. 64, no. 1, 1981, 27–60 and ‘Lord Lindsay as a Collector’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, vol. 64, no. 2, 1982, 287–333. 23 Rio, for example, believed that Raphael’s Disputà, of the Stanze della Segnatura of the Vatican, had ‘fixed the limits, beyond which Christian art…has never since been able to advance’. See discussion of Raphael’s decline in Alexis-François Rio, The Poetry of Christian Art, Trans. Miss Wall, London: T. Bosworth, 1854, 85–94. 24 See Mitchell Schwarzer, ‘Origins of the Art History Text’, Art Journal, vol. 54, no. 3, Autumn 1995, 24–25. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 9 of the church, customs, literature, and the nature of the land’.25 However, as testament to the often fuzzy line at the time between romantic and polemical art history on the one hand and historicist art history on the other, Waagen’s scholarship also bore the imprint of the German Romantics in his condemnation of artists after Raphael as well as in his adoption of the philosopher Friedrich Schlegel’s almost mystical notion that artworks were ‘carriers of historical meaning much like texts’.26 A voracious reader of classical and modern texts who read Latin and Greek and was fluent in German, Perkins readily incorporated into his own scholarship the historicism, more neutral writing style, and meticulous research of these German historians and philosophers. While Perkins was earning his place as a highly respected scholar of early Italian Renaissance sculpture, he could not help but become intimately familiar with the institutional developments that ran parallel to the art historical trends of both Rio and the German scholars — those of the new public fine arts museum. In fact, scholars and museum directors were often one and the same person, thus embodying the symbiotic relationship whereby the former needed the latter to illustrate his histories and the latter needed the former to guide his acquisition and exhibition practices.27 Despite its short-term duration, the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition — His Royal Highness Prince Albert, an ardent backer of the Exhibition, opened it on 5 May 1857, and it closed on 17 October of that same year — stands tall as an example of commitment to the evocative nature of early Italian Renaissance art shared by art historians and museum founders and directors. As the scholar Elizabeth Pergam so thoroughly brings to light, this under-studied exhibition ‘was a blockbuster avant la lettre, with over 16,000 works of art’, comprising paintings, portraits, works on paper, decorative art, and sculptures visited by over 1,300,000 people.28 Among the many contributions of the Art Treasures Exhibition to the future of art museums highlighted by Pergam, several point most markedly to the importance of early Italian Renaissance art as a tool in the exhibition organiser’s kit. The first such contribution was the legitimisation of the early Italian Renaissance as an aesthetic category worthy of display, as illustrated by the sheer number of works in that category — roughly ninety-five paintings hung on the walls of the Gallery of Ancient Pictures — as well as the expansion of early artists considered noteworthy.29 Previous to the Art Treasures Exhibition there were many in arts leadership in England who believed that such 25 Schwarzer, ‘Origins’, 24–25. 26 Schwarzer, ‘Origins’, 28, f.n. 11. 27 Donald Preziosi, ‘The Question of Art History’, Critical Inquiry, vol. 18, no. 2, Winter, 1992, 7–11. 28 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 1–2. 29 Examples of artists now considered worthy of inclusion were Ugolino da Siena (1280– 1349), Taddeo Gaddi (1290–1366), and Taddeo di Bartolo (1362–1422). See Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 137–144. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 10 primitivism was only appropriate for a university gallery whose natural province — in their opinions — was the historical progression of art.30 Closely related to this first contribution and emerging in tandem with its corollary in art historical studies, was the privileging of a comprehensive, chronological display that would teach the history of art ‘as a modern day biblia- pauperum…whose visual nature made those lessons more accessible’.31 In order to achieve this kind of didactic display, clearly the early Italian Renaissance had to be strongly and unapologetically represented. The third contribution highlighted by Pergam was the conceptualisation of the exhibition as the ‘resolution of the traditional tension between exhibitions of modern and ancient art and between the fine and decorative arts’.32 In this case, early Italian Renaissance art was particularly apt for two reasons: it created the necessary bridge to an understanding of modern art and its production often existed at the boundary of fine art and craft.33 At the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition, Gustav Friedrich Waagen and Sir George Scharf were crucially important in bringing about the unprecedented numbers, range, and didactic bent of early Italian Renaissance art.34 As mentioned above, Waagen was a highly respected art historical scholar of the Northern Renaissance, who, along with Von Rumohr and Kugler pioneered a more historicist approach to the discipline. He was also passionate about the subject of early Italian Renaissance art. In 1821, when the massive collection of the British merchant, Edward Solly, comprised primarily of trecento and quattrocento art, became part of the royal art collection, the Prussian government engaged Waagen to catalogue it.35 In the 1830s, 1840s, and 1850s he further solidified his knowledge and appreciation of the early Italian Renaissance period as he engaged in a comprehensive research 30 Testimony to the prevalence of this view was that, despite protests from enthusiasts of the earlier styles, in 1853 the dearth of such works at the National Gallery occasioned the establishment of a Select Committee of Parliament to investigate. See Avery-Quash, ‘The Growth of Interest in Early Italian Painting in Britain’, xxvi–xxix. 31 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 22. 32 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 16. 33 The porous boundary between fine and decorative art is particularly well explicated in Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 133–203. 34 Francis Haskell, The Ephemeral Museum: Old Master Paintings and the Rise of the Art Exhibition, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000, 83–89. Haskell went so far as to call the Art Treasures Exhibition, ‘a German exhibition’ by virtue of the fact that it was ‘the first Old Master exhibition to have been directed by qualified experts open to the influence of German erudition and connoisseurship’. (83–85) Throughout her discussion of the exhibition in Manchester Art Treasures, Pergam makes clear that Waagen and Scharf were tremendously influential. For Waagen and the Art Treasures Exhibition, see also Giles Waterfield and Florian Illies, ‘Waagen in England’, Jahrbuch der Berliner Museen, vol. 37, 1995, 47–59. 35 The collection came into the hands of the Prussian government as payment of Solly’s debt to them. Carmen Stonge, ‘Making Private Collections Public: Gustav Friedrich Waagen and the Royal Museum in Berlin’, Journal of the History of Collections, vol. 10, no. 1, 1998, 63–64. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 11 project in which he catalogued most, if not all, of the important early Italian Renaissance works in both public and private settings in England.36 As the Solly collection figured prominently in the royal one, early efforts to form the Royal Museum in Berlin (later renamed the Altes Museum) in the 1820s brought Waagen to the attention of the museum’s architect, Karl Friedrich Schinkel (1781–1841), especially with regard to the layout of the painting galleries.37 Given his art historical predilections, Waagen advocated for a comprehensive display that systematically chronicled each successive art historical school from ancient to modern and that was ordered chronologically within each school, a practice that had been gaining traction since the latter part of the previous century in Northern European sites for art display, such as the Düsseldorf Gallery and the Imperial Picture Gallery at the Belvedere in Vienna.38 By definition, this meant that a dutiful curator had to represent works of the early Italian and Northern Renaissance periods which were generally slighted for their primitivism.39 In 1830 when the Royal Museum opened in Berlin, Waagen was named Director and in 1844 King Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia named Waagen the University of Berlin’s inaugural Professor of Modern Art.40 Waagen’s popularity in England as an art expert dated to the mid-to-late 1830s when he was asked to appear as a witness before a select committee of Parliament investigating the quality of design in manufacturing and when his treatise Art and Artists in England (1838) was translated into English. He went on to counsel the Ashmolean Museum of Oxford regarding lighting in its galleries in 1840, to testify at the Select Committee of 1850 on the reorganisation of the National 36 As early as 1835, Waagen catalogued the collection of William Young Ottley, one of the pioneering English collectors of early Italian Renaissance art, which included such masterworks of the period as the predella panels of Ugolino da Siena’s High Altar for Santa Croce in Florence — now of the Metropolitan Museum of New York. See Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 139–141. 37 Stonge, ‘Waagen and the Royal Museum’, 64. 38 See Andrew McClellan, Inventing the Louvre: Art, poliics and the origins of the modern museum in eighteenth-century Paris (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1994), 3-4, accessed 31/3/18 online at https://books.google.com/; Stonge, ‘Waagen and the Royal Museum’, 65–66; and Susanna Avery-Quash and Corina Meyer in their article in this journal edition, ‘“Substituting an approach to historical evidence for the vagueness of speculation”: Charles Lock Eastlake and Johann David Passavant’s Contribution to the Professionalization of Art- historical Study through Source-based Research’. 39 Waagen was far from perfunctory in his approach to the period, acquiring record numbers of early Italian and Flemish works and ensuring that they were displayed and labelled in such a way as to promote their didactic and aesthetic value. See Francis Haskell, ‘Museums and their Enemies’, Journal of Aesthetic Education, vol. 19, no. 2, Summer 1985, 18. 40 The University of Berlin was the first university in Europe to establish an Art History department. See Stonge, ‘Waagen and the Royal Museum’, 66-69. https://books.google.com/ Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 12 Gallery, and to serve as a juror for the Crystal Palace Exposition of 1851 in London.41 In the 1850s, his reputation took on even more lustre with his catalogue of Prince Albert’s collection of Byzantine and early German and Flemish paintings and with Lady Elizabeth Eastlake’s translation of his three-volume authoritative opus entitled Treasures of Art in Great Britain.42 Add to this his arts journal article of 1853 on best practices for the National Gallery in London, in which he highlighted his own pioneering curatorship of the collections at the Royal Museum, and it becomes clear that Waagen loomed large in the English art world of collecting and display.43 As such, it is not surprising that Waagen would have considerable impact on the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition. In fact, Francis Haskell, one of the foremost scholars on British artistic taste in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, credited Waagen’s Treasures of Art in Great Britain as the ‘foundation stone on which the Manchester exhibition was raised’. This view was shared by Pergam, who noted that the Exhibition’s ‘very title’ connected it closely to Waagen’s opus.44 Thus, Waagen’s precedents for display at the Royal Museum as well as his well-known expertise on early Italian Renaissance art were indelibly impressed on the minds of the Manchester organisers as they began to source and select art work and determine methods of display.45 Turning to Sir George Scharf, Jr., it was in his role as Secretary for the Department of Ancient Masters at the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition that he made his mark as an innovative force with regard to early Italian Renaissance 41 Waterfield, ‘Waagen in England’, 49. 42 Prince Albert had acquired the collection from Prince Ludwig-Kraft-Ernst von Oetingen Wallerstein in 1847. Lady Eastlake was the wife of Sir Charles Lock Eastlake, director of the National Gallery. All in all, Waagen’s ‘energy and imagination, as well as his ability to gain acceptance among the ruling classes of a foreign country’ were almost single-handedly responsible for ‘the flowering of museums and exhibitions, national and local in Britain in the 1850s and 1860s’. See Waterfield, ‘Waagen in England’, 47. 43 Gustav F. Waagen, ‘Thoughts on the New Building to be Erected for the National Gallery of England and on the Arrangement, Preservation, and Enlargement of the Collection’, The Art Journal, vol. 5, 1853. 44 Haskell, Ephemeral Museum, 83 and Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 33. 45 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 22–24 and Waterfield, ‘Waagen in England’, 58. Waagen was also more directly impactful in a number of ways. For example, he provided the Executive Committee with supplemental lists of artworks and collectors from his soon-to-be published addendum, Galleries and Cabinets of Art in Great Britain. Waagen also counselled the Committee on how to most strategically approach prospective lenders, and the Committee often used Waagen’s name in their independent entreaties of same. Those collectors, in turn, consulted with Waagen on occasion as to whether they should, in fact, accede to the Committee’s requests of them. See Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 33–35. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 13 works.46 The son of a Bavarian artist and a prolific illustrator, notably of archaeological excavations in Italy and Asia Minor as well as of the English edition of Franz Kugler’s Handbook of Painting: the Italian School (1851), Scharf had assisted with the ancient pavilions at the re-assembled Crystal Palace in Sydenham in southeast London.47 As Secretary in Manchester, Scharf shared responsibility for sourcing and selection of artworks with the Executive Committee.48 Through their combined efforts they brought in numerous works not yet represented at the National Gallery, which, in many cases, meant early Italian and Netherlandish paintings, making a high-profile emphasis on this period of art.49 In terms of arrangement of the artworks, Scharf chose not only to embrace Waagen’s didacticism in hanging the pictures according to art historical school, but also to augment the installation’s educational impact by positioning the different schools of a similar time period across from one another to stimulate visitors’ comparisons of styles with similar dates of production.50 In this, Scharf was aided by the architectural plan of the Exhibition’s huge purpose-built structure that was based on the basilican form with a wide central corridor that travelled the entire length of its east-west axis and was flanked by three galleries each to the north and south. Thus, Scharf was able to use the length of the southern wall of the southern galleries to feature Italian art from Cimabue (1240–1302) to the Mannerists of the sixteenth century, and to place the corresponding German, Netherlandish, Dutch, and French 46 For biographical details on Scharf, see: Haskell, Ephemeral Museum, 84–85; Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 61-62; Helena Michie and Robyn Warhol, ‘Adventures in the Archives: Two Literary Critics in Pursuit of a Victorian Subject’, Victorian Studies, vol. 52, no. 3, Spring 2010, 413–439; Michie and Warhol, Love among the Archives: Writing the Lives of Sir George Scharf, Victorian Bachelor, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015; and Philip Cottrell, ‘Art Treasures of the United Kingdom and the United States: The George Scharf Papers’, The Art Bulletin, vol. 94, no. 4, December, 2012, 618–640. The Ancient Masters section comprised the Italian, German, and Netherlandish works of the Renaissance (fourteenth through sixteenth centuries) and Baroque works of France, Spain, Flanders, and Holland. See Croal, ‘Ancient Masters’, 57. 47 Scharf also applied for the position of Secretary of the National Gallery in London in 1854 but did not win the post despite widespread support from the cognoscenti of the British art world, including a letter from Gustav Waagen, who waxed most enthusiastic not only on Scharf’s knowledge of the history of art, his successful lecture series, and his impeccable character, but also on his illustrations. However, this setback for Scharf was soon forgotten with the huge critical and popular success of the Exhibition, and in 1857 he was appointed Secretary and Director of the recently inaugurated National Portrait Gallery in London, serving in this position with distinction until the year of his death, 1895. Introduced to these letters by Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 61–62. 48 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 24–25. 49 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 65. 50 Haskell, Ephemeral Museum, 86; Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 62. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 14 masterworks on the northern wall of the same galleries.51 The didactic impulse served by this arrangement was not lost, as Pergam highlights, on members of the press who commented, for example, that it facilitated ‘the eye to take in at a glance the broad distinguishing characteristics of successive periods and schools of art’.52 Furthermore, given the plethora of collateral materials chosen by the Art Treasure’s Exhibition organisers and aimed at varying audiences, Scharf’s emphasis on these early works further augmented the knowledge and appreciation for them occasioned by the Exhibition.53 At the South Kensington Museum in London, Sir John Charles Robinson, the Museum’s first curator, also looked to early Italian Renaissance art, in particular sculpture, as a crucial tool. Resulting from the same impulse as motivated the Art Treasures Exhibition — that of improving industrial design and elevating public taste — but established on a permanent basis, the South Kensington Museum was founded by the British Government in 1857. In her recent dissertation, ‘Displaying Italian Sculpture: Exploring Hierarchies at the South Kensington Museum, 1852- 1862,’ (2014), art historian Charlotte Drew has provided an illuminating portrait of Robinson’s significant curatorial and scholarly contributions — despite considerable opposition — to foregrounding the early Italian Renaissance at the young South Kensington.54 As characterised by Drew, Robinson’s primary challenge was to negotiate the line between the museum’s stated commitment to improving industrial design through reproductions and his own view that original quattrocento sculptures had much to offer by not only modelling high quality designs, but also by demonstrating that the fine and the decorative arts were two sides of the same coin. Challenges notwithstanding, Robinson built the holdings of original quattrocento sculpture so that by 1862 they formed the largest part of the decorative arts collection at the Museum.55 He also documented the size and importance of the sculpture collection in his catalogue, The Italian Sculpture Collection, South Kensington Museum (1862), virtually reintroducing such quattrocento sculptural giants as Lorenzo Ghiberti (1378–1455), Luca della Robbia 51 See Helen Rees Leahy, ‘Introduction’, in: ‘Art, City, Spectacle’; Croal, ‘Ancient Masters’, 58–62; and Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 61–67 and 139–176. 52 ‘Exhibition of Art Treasures at Manchester’, The Times, 15 May 1857, 12 as quoted in Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 62. Scharf would have extended the Italian line even further if it had not been for the quantity of Spanish and Flemish paintings that he needed to accommodate and his desire to increase the drama of Van Dyck’s Charles I at the furthermost easterly end of the Ancient Masters’ galleries. (Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 85, f.n. 55) 53 Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 93–135. 54 Drew also explores Robinson’s professional practices at the South Kensington Museum in her article, ‘The colourful career of Sir John Charles Robinson: collecting and curating the early South Kensington Museum’, in this journal edition. 55 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 122–132. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 15 (1399–1482), and Andrea del Verrocchio (1435–1488) into art historical discussions of the day.56 Thus it was that Waagen, Scharf and Robinson and their respective emphases on early Italian Renaissance art dominated the art historical and museum world which Perkins chose to inhabit while building his professional dossier in Europe. That he knew these three pioneers of the arts personally had to have deepened the impressions that their scholarship and museum practices had on him. We do not know exactly how and when Perkins made Waagen’s acquaintance, but no doubt his good friend and fellow Boston elite, the historian, diplomat, and statesman, George Bancroft (1800–1891), had played a role as he had long-standing ties to the foremost intellectual centres in Germany, particularly ones made at the University of Göttingen, where he earned his PhD in 1820.57 Furthermore, Perkins himself spent considerable time in Germany during his second European sojourn of 1851 through 1854, by which time he was already a devotée of both the polemically and historically-inflected art historical movements.58 Fluent in German, and eager to learn from the best, it is likely that Perkins sought Waagen out at that time. Whatever the circumstances of their first meeting, Waagen and Perkins clearly shared a great deal of mutual respect and affection, as was patently evident in correspondence between Perkins and Bancroft, in which Bancroft played the epistolary go-between. Bancroft asserted in a letter to Perkins of 28 November 1867 that Waagen ‘overflows in his serene praise of you’. For his part, Perkins requested of Bancroft in his letter of 1 December 1867 to ‘pray remember us all most warmly to Dr. Waagen when you see him.’59 It is also not known when or how Perkins first made Scharf’s acquaintance, although the latter’s closeness to Waagen may well have occasioned the initial point of contact, perhaps even at the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition. Perkins returned to Europe in the fall of 1857 to make his home in Florence, having just delivered what was likely the first art history course in America at Trinity College in 56 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 123–132 and 214–227. 57 Bancroft was one of the first Americans to receive the PhD degree in any discipline. For further biographical details, see A. McFarland Davis, ‘George Bancroft’, Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 26, 1890, 355–70. 58 This second sojourn was dedicated to exploring his other major career interest, music. In this pursuit, he studied under the tutelage of the classical cum romantic composer Ignaz Moscheles (1794–1870) in Leipzig. 59 George Bancroft to Charles Callahan Perkins, 28 November 1867, Ward-Perkins Family Papers, Box 2, Folder 2; Charles Callahan Perkins to George Bancroft, 1 December 1867, Ward-Perkins Family Papers, Box 2, Folder 2. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 16 Hartford, Connecticut.60 This experience, in combination with the wealth of influences he had absorbed in Rome, Paris, Leipzig and London to that point, made it inconceivable that Perkins would not have visited the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition before turning south to Florence.61 That he did, in fact, ultimately make Scharf’s acquaintance has been confirmed by Elizabeth Heath, author of ‘A man of ‘unflagging zeal and industry’: Sir George Scharf as emerging professional within the nineteenth-century museum world’ in this journal, who not only brought Scharf’s scholarship, illustrations, and museum leadership to my attention, but also generously shared evidence of his close relationship with Perkins from her own doctoral research. As per Heath’s notes, on 20 August 1883, Scharf sent Perkins a copy of his essay published by the Arundel Society in 1882 entitled, ‘A description of the Wilton House Diptych, containing a contemporary portrait of King Richard the Second’.62 A letter of thanks from Perkins dated 6 September 1883 was tucked in the back of Scharf’s bound volume in which the American wrote of his own essay on Italian sepulchral monuments about to be published by the Arundel Society and his fond memories of time spent with Scharf in London.63 Heath also shared dated entries from Scharf’s diaries regarding meetings in London with Perkins in 1862 and 1881. These entries list the other Victorian cultural elites present, thus testifying to 60 In the summer of 1857, Samuel Eliot, then President of Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, invited his cousin and close friend, Perkins, whom he appointed a Lecturer on Art (without pay), to give a ‘short course of lectures’ on the ‘Rise and Progress of Painting to the Beginning of the Sixteenth Century’. According to Eliot’s memorial to Perkins, these lectures were ‘a turning point’ in the latter’s career in that ‘from the time of their delivery through all the years that lay before him, he was neither painter nor musician by profession, but a writer and a speaker upon Art.’ See Eliot, Memoir, 8–9. 61 Research into the Trinity College Archives has yielded no records of Perkins’ course materials, a disappointment as this early instance of teaching art history on Perkins’ part was pioneering, preceding not only Charles Eliot Norton’s first art history courses at Harvard (1876) but also the famed British art critic, John Ruskin, who became the first Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford University in 1869. 62 Elizabeth Heath to Deborah Stein, e-mail correspondence, 22 January 2015. The Arundel Society was founded in London in 1848 to circulate art historical monographs and engravings after iconic art works to subscribers for the purpose of promoting knowledge of art in Britain, with a particular bias toward the burgeoning interest in quattrocento works. See Tanya Ledger Harrod, ‘A Study of the Arundel Society, 1848-1897’, PhD diss., Oxford University, 1979, 1. 63 Charles Callahan Perkins to George Scharf, 6 September 1883, Scharf Library, National Portrait Gallery, uncatalogued, as transcribed by Elizabeth Heath in e-mail correspondence to Deborah Stein, 22 January 2015. Published by the Arundel Society in 1883, Sepulchral monuments of Italy; mediæval and renaissance was a photographic book (photographed and described by Stephen Thompson, a British artist active in fine art photography in the 1870s) in which Perkins wrote the preface and introduction containing full extracts from the manuscript notes of the recently deceased architect, George Edmund Street, RA (1824–1881). Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 17 Perkins having made the acquaintance of several members of Scharf’s business and social circle of antiquaries, scholars, and museum leaders. Two names stand out, that of Sir Augustus Wollaston Franks (1826–1897), a major collector and benefactor of the British Museum, and that of Sir Richard Wallace (1818–1890) of Hertford House, collector of mediaeval and Renaissance art and founder of the Wallace Collection.64 Scharf and Perkins were both instrumental in bringing early Italian Renaissance art to the attention of the public – Scharf with respect to painting, Perkins in terms of sculpture — and they were both skilled illustrators and musicians who enjoyed an active social life, shared qualities that suggest a warm personal as well as professional relationship. While we cannot state unequivocally that Perkins knew John Robinson personally, it is almost certainly the case given the American’s closeness to other British museum leaders, as just described. Further, Perkins acknowledged his debt to Robinson’s curatorial prowess and scholarly catalogue in his own work, Tuscan Sculptors: ‘The admirable collection of Italian sculpture at the South Kensington Museum, for which the public is chiefly indebted to J. C. Robinson Esq…makes it possible for a student to learn more about it in England than anywhere else out of Italy.’65 As a masterful scholar cum museum curator, particularly as related to early Italian Renaissance sculpture, whose landmark catalogue on the collection of these works at the South Kensington Museum was illustrated with outline drawings, and who was an expert on and collector of Raphael’s drawings, Robinson’s life and works stood out as a model to which Perkins would frequently look once back in Boston.66 64 George Scharf, diary entries dated 15 June 1862; 11 July 1862; and 31 May 1881, Scharf Library, National Portrait Gallery, XXIX-E-9, as transcribed by Elizabeth Heath in e-mail correspondence to Deborah Stein, 22 January 2015. 65 Perkins, Tuscan Sculptors, vol. 1, vii. 66 J. A. Gere and Nicholas Turner, Drawings by Raphael from the Royal Library, the Ashmolean, the British Museum, Chatsworth, and other English Collections, London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1983, 11–12. While uncredited as such, it is not inconceivable that Robinson was himself the illustrator of the 1862 catalogue as he had been a painter and teacher of design earlier in his career. As described by Gere and Turner, Robinson was also a collector of Old Master drawings, including at least one Raphael. Robinson was particularly familiar with Sir Thomas Lawrence’s collection of Raphael’s drawings housed in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford University, which he catalogued as part of a study of Raphael and Michelangelo’s drawings in 1870. In using the term ‘outline drawing’ I am referring to an early nineteenth-century style of illustration that had its roots in the neo-classical tradition of the eighteenth-century sculptor John Flaxman whose spare, clean, and linear minimalist drawings of scenes of Greek mythology and early Renaissance literature evoked the ancients’ nobility and clarity of expression. For an illuminating discussion of this neo-classical drive to reach an ever more minimalist expression, see Robert Rosenblum, Transformations in Late-Eighteenth Century Art, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967, 146–191. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 18 Figure 2 Charles Callahan Perkins, Roundel from the High Altar of the Certosa, by Omodeo, 1868. From Italian Sculptors, A History of Sculpture in Northern, Southern, and Eastern Italy, London: Longmans Green and Co., 133: Plate XV. Photograph of author. When Perkins returned permanently to Boston in 1869, he had published Tuscan Sculptors and Italian Sculptors to great acclaim in both Europe and in America and engraved his own ‘outline drawings’ as illustrations for these texts. (Fig. 2) He also had one more arrow in his quiver, that of his collection of early Italian Renaissance sculpture, briefly alluded to earlier. The collection comprised ten small- scale statuettes, plaques, and bas-reliefs sculpted from terracotta and marble, eight of which were devotional pieces and two of which were emblematic of civic life. In addition, there were eight bronze Renaissance medals of Italian nobles and religious dignitaries crafted in the style of Roman medallions.67 While small, the collection’s 67 This record of Perkins’ collections has been reconstructed from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston’s website and the Art of Europe’s curatorial files. Sincere thanks are owed to Marietta Cambareri, Curator of Decorative Arts and Sculpture at the Museum, for her generous sharing of these files. Dates of acquisition by the Museum also provide meaningful information, as at least half of the objects were donated by Perkins by the time that the Museum opened its doors to the public in July 1876. The remaining half of the collection came to the Museum from Perkins’ wife and children between 1889 and 1923. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 19 intense reflection of both devotional and civic life in quattrocento Florence, certainly speaks to the kind of object evocative of its time and place that Waagen, Scharf, and Robinson believed would, if displayed in a museum, educate and elevate the taste of the public and the design capabilities of industrial workers. Mindful of the prevailing taste for the classical in Boston and the corresponding lack of familiarity and appreciation for the religious art of the early Renaissance, Perkins appeared very strategic in his choice of devotional works, choosing ones that were as humanistic as they were pious. For example, the white glazed terracotta Virgin and Child of c. 1500 by a member of Andrea della Robbia’s workshop, which measures 20 by 14 inches, stresses the earthly love shared by mother and child. 68 (Fig. 3). The Virgin embraces Jesus, here the picture of baby chubbiness, in precisely the way an earthbound mother would do, that is firmly and lovingly under his arm and his 68 Perkins actually attributed the work to Luca della Robbia in the 1876 catalogue. See Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Second Catalogue of the Collection of Ancient and Modern Works of Art Given or Loaned to the Trustees, Boston: Alfred Mudge, 1876, 54. Figure 3 Workshop of Andrea della Robbia, Virgin and Child, c. 1500. Glazed terracotta sculpture, 52.1 x 36.2 x 12.7 cm. Boston: Museum of Fine Arts. Gift of Charles C. Perkins. Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 20 buttocks. The Child in turn nestles up against her cheek and grasps her around the neck, again a very natural gesture for a baby. His left foot even extends slightly beyond the framing ledge, suggesting that he might squirm his way out of his mother’s arms at any moment. The positioning of the left foot also serves to engage the viewer more closely, a feature that emphasises the work’s intended use as a devotional aide, as do the holes near the necks of the figures which would have been used to attach pieces of real jewellery as further gestures of reverence to the Madonna and Child.69 Perkins was also nothing if not strategic in timing his permanent return to Boston.70 His close ties to the Boston Athenaeum — in particular to his brother, Edward Newton Perkins (1820–1899), who was Chair of its Fine Arts Committee — meant that he would have been aware of the challenges to the fine arts there.71 Specifically, Perkins would have known of the pressure placed on the Committee by the Athenaeum Trustees since the mid-1850s to divest the institution of its fine arts functions, and that Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of 69 See http://www.mfa.org/collections/object/virgin-and-child-57552 (Accession #76.700). Accessed 12/3/13. 70 Family considerations also played a role in Perkins’ determination to return home in the fall of 1869 and settle his family permanently at 2 Walnut Street on Beacon Hill. Perkins and his wife had determined that their three children, Mary Eleanor (1856–1907), Edward Clifford (1858–1902), and Charles Bruen (1860–1929), between nine and thirteen years of age at the time, should be educated in the United States. See Perkins’ sister Eliza Perkins Cleveland to an unknown recipient (summer 1869), Cleveland-Perkins Papers, Manuscripts and Archives Division, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations, Box 6, Folder 12, as quoted by Hirayama, With Éclat, 73, f.n. 93. Walnut Street is an extant residence on Beacon Hill in Boston, still seemingly well maintained. Perkins found Boston greatly changed in terms of population, physical landscape, and demographics since he had last made it his permanent home, even since he had last seen it in 1857. See Paul Dimaggio, ‘Cultural Entrepreneurship in Nineteenth-Century Boston: The Creation of an Organizational Base for High Culture in America’, Media Culture and Society, vol. 4, 1982, 39– 40. 71 While the successful launching in 1827 of the first annual art exhibit under the direction of Thomas Handasyd Perkins had unleased great enthusiasm, not to mention exhibition fees, and acquisitions and exhibitions continued apace throughout the 1830s, the arts had been in something of a slump for the two decades preceding the Civil War. The limitations imposed at the institution’s founding in 1807, that the fine arts were to be encouraged as long as they did not impinge on the literary functions of the institution, was at the heart of the situation. Acquisitions had dwindled, exhibitions incorporated the same works —American portraits, copies of Old Masters, neo-classical sculptures, and casts of ancient statues — year in and year out, artworks were regularly banished to musty storage areas, and ever-increasing holdings of books pushed the limits of the facilities on Pearl Street. See especially Hirayama, With Éclat, 17–49. http://www.mfa.org/collections/object/virgin-and-child-57552 Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 21 Figure 4 Stephen Fellow Adams, Statuary Gallery, Boston Athenaeum, c. 1865. Stereograph, 8.6 x 17.3 cm. Boston: Boston Athenaeum. Photograph © Boston Athenaeum. Technology were seeking new homes for their art collections.72 As the brothers were close, the art historian would not have missed the fact that the time was particularly ripe for realising his long-held dream to build an academy of the fine arts in his hometown. Perkins was also well acquainted with the traditional appreciation amongst Bostonians for the visual language of classical statuary, neo-classical statuary and portraiture, and Old Master paintings of the High Renaissance and the Baroque, featuring literary and historical subjects as well as ones from the New Testament and lives of the saints. (Fig. 4) He was equally well acquainted with the long-standing distaste for early Italian Renaissance paintings and sculpture, as evidenced by the fact that elite Bostonians were not bringing such works home from European travels or seeking to exhibit them, despite the fact that they had been in 72 The pressures on the Fine Arts Committee to cede space to the literary side of the Athenaeum’s functions reached a head in the 1860s when the Civil War brought the Fine Art’s Committee’s efforts virtually to a standstill. In March, 1866, the Athenaeum’s Standing Committee ruled that the art collection should be removed. Hirayama, With Éclat, 42–49. Harvard College was in possession of the Francis Calley Gray (1790–1856) collection of prints, which later formed the nucleus of the Fogg Art Museum collection, but at the time, apparently, was peripheral to their mission. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology owned a significant collection of architectural casts it was seeking to relocate. See Marjorie Cohn, Francis Calley Gray and Art Collecting for America, Cambridge: Harvard University Art Museums, 1986, 257–268 and Hirayama, With Éclat, 129. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 22 Figure 5 Descent of Christ into Limbo. Left wing: Transfiguration, Right Wing: Seven Scenes from the History of Moses, second half sixteenth century. Tempera on wood, central panel: 25 x 16.8 cm, left wing: 22 x 16.7 cm, right wing: 20.6 x 15 cm. New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Art Gallery. Photograph © Yale University Art Gallery. vogue amongst private collectors across the Atlantic for half a century. The Bostonian James Jackson Jarves’ failure in 1859 to sell his large and impressive collection of early Italian Renaissance paintings to the Boston Athenaeum provides a compelling example of this distaste.73 Scholarly speculation aside as to personal factors impacting Jarves’ failure, there does seem to be consensus that the ‘primitive’ nature of the works overwhelmed their educational potential, which when 73 Following the rejection in Boston, Jarves exhibited the collection at the Düsseldorf Gallery in New York City in 1860, but was equally unsuccessful in arranging a sale there. Jarves returned to Europe in May of 1861, storing thirty of his pictures in his family home in Boston and the remaining 100 or so at the New York Historical Society, allowing him to exhibit in each city in 1862 and 1863 respectively. In 1867, a transatlantic shipboard acquaintance of Jarves’, Lewis R. Packard, Hillhouse Professor of Greek at Yale University, was so intrigued by what he learned of the collection that when he returned to Yale he brought the matter to the attention of his colleagues. After a thorough vetting process, the University offered to loan Jarves $20,000 with his entire collection as collateral. In 1871, when Jarves defaulted on the loan his collection, which had been exhibited at Yale in the intervening years, became the property of Yale University and is now considered one of the most significant of its kind outside Europe. See Francis Steegmuller, The Two Lives of James Jackson Jarves, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1951, 177–184 and Jarves to Norton, August 1859, in: Charles Eliot Norton, Letters Relating to a Collection of Pictures Made by Mr. J. J. Jarves, Cambridge, Massachusetts: private printing, 1859, 7–10. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 23 combined with their particularly Roman-Catholic form and contents made them quite foreign to most elite Bostonians.74 (Fig. 5) These entrenched views, notwithstanding, Perkins undertook a highly strategic and unrelenting campaign to achieve his goals. That the museum practices that comprised this campaign were, as his scholarship had been, significantly inflected by Waagen, Scharf and Robinson, becomes very clear — despite the absence of explicit documentary evidence to this effect — upon close examination of the practices themselves. To begin with, within a year of his return he had transformed plans for the new Boston museum from ‘preliminary’ to ‘incorporated’ (February, 1870) and had firmly established the museum’s mission as ‘Art, Education, and Industry’ — a trio of values prominently featured on its original seal and certainly bearing the imprint of his European models.75 (Fig. 6) By opening day of 1876, he had also moved the members of the Board of Trustees from a concept of exhibition-worthy art that included largely classical or neoclassical works of sculpture and painting to one that encompassed the fine and the decorative arts and represented not only the early Italian Renaissance, but also ancient Cyprus, Egypt, and the Far East.76 Such remarkable shifts spoke to Perkins’ unequivocal embrace of the philosophical underpinnings of the formation of the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition and the South Kensington Museum. 74 A rather curious, and certainly ironic, postscript to the tale of Jarves’ collection in Boston is that in 1859, when Jarves first offered his collection to the Athenaeum, Edward Perkins consulted his brother Charles, who was in Florence at the time, on the advisability of buying the collection. Charles Perkins advised against the purchase. As a fellow Bostonian and partisan of early Italian Renaissance art, it would seem that Perkins would have been thrilled to see the collection come to Boston. Perhaps professional jealousy was at fault, as Perkins of course had dreamed of establishing a gallery of the arts in Boston for some time. However, all other indications of Perkins’ professional persona are contra-indicative of such an attitude on his part. More likely, as a member of the tightly knit expatriate community in Florence he would have known, at the least, that Jarves had of late experienced financial and marital troubles. See Hirayama, With Éclat, 71–72. In terms of anti-Catholicism, Bostonians had harbored a deep-seated antipathy toward those who practised the faith since the time of the Puritans. Bringing with them to the New World their suspicions of Roman Catholics as heretics and subversives, the Puritans had taken pains to see that none were granted entrance to the Bay Colony. Fears that Catholics would undermine, if not destroy, American Protestantism continued to drive public policy and civil unrest throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a situation that only worsened in the nineteenth century, when the substantial immigrant waves from Ireland began in the 1820s. For further discussion of anti-Catholicism in Boston, see O’Connor, The Athens of America, especially chapter six, ‘Progress and Popery’, 127–148. 75 The seal was designed in 1871. See Hirayama, With Éclat, 95. 76 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Proceedings at the Opening of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston: Alfred Mudge and Sons, 1876, 5–11 and Hirayama, With Éclat, 131–134. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 24 Figure 6 Original seal of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 1871. Boston: Boston Athenaeum. Photograph © Boston Athenaeum. What specifically did Perkins do once back in his native city in order to achieve this result? 77 Perkins’ first move in the late summer of 1869, even before settling into Walnut Street, had been to join the American Social Science Association, headed by his cousin, close friend, and memorialist Samuel Eliot.78 By October, the Association’s Committee on Art in Education had made Perkins chair, from which position he orchestrated the incorporation of the Boston Museum in February 1870 and set the stage for his leadership of virtually every aspect of its first decade of operations. When he joined the Committee on Art in Education, the members were working to bring to fruition a plan proposed the year before to place casts of classical Greek sculpture in public high schools in order to produce ‘a 77 As the scion of the Perkins family who had played such a critical role philanthropically in Boston’s arts development earlier in the century, Charles Callahan Perkins was a well- known quantity in Boston, which certainly gave his speedy involvement and active leadership in cultural activities a boost. 78 The Association, typical of the immodest aims of mid-century social reform efforts on both sides of the Atlantic, had been formed in Boston in 1865 ‘to collect all facts, diffuse all knowledge, and stimulate all inquiry, which have a bearing on social welfare’. See ‘Officers and members of the Association’, Journal of Social Science: Containing the Transactions of the American Association, no. 1, June 1869, 195 and William B. Rogers, ‘Address of the Executive Committee of the American Social Science Association’, 22 November 1865, as quoted in Hirayama, With Éclat, 73, f.n. 96. Emphasis mine. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 25 favourable effect upon the mental and moral training of the young’.79 Given such a clear commitment on the part of Boston’s elites to broadening the impact of ancient art’s educational potential, it must have seemed to Perkins a natural bridge to what he intended to do at the Museum, albeit on a smaller scale. Thus, he selected, sourced, purchased, and transported twenty-two casts for this purpose.80 Ensuing difficulties in finding public school space actually played into his hands as Committee discussions in the fall turned to constructing a new purpose-built structure for the casts and then in late November to ‘the feasibility of establishing a regular Museum of Art’.81 From this point on, Perkins brooked no obstacles, even forming new committees every few weeks as needed, to keep the flame alive until on 4 February 1870, the Massachusetts legislature voted to incorporate the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.82 At the same time that he was pressing forward toward museum incorporation, Perkins was campaigning on several related fronts that underscored the importance of art to education. Very familiar with the central role of drawing instruction at the South Kensington Museum, Perkins joined the effort to implement the Massachusetts Drawing Act of 1870.83 This initiative, just like that of the South Kensington’s, was based on the view that improved draftsmanship was crucial to improvements in the quality of manufactured goods in America.84 Perkins’ employment of his own sketches of early Italian artworks as not only invaluable 79‘Collection of Casts’, Journal of Social Science: Containing the Transactions of the American Association, vol. 3, 1871, 202. 80‘Collection of Casts’, 202. 81 Charles Callahan Perkins, ‘Art in Education’, Reprint, vol. 2, Journal of the American Social Science Association, New York: Nation Press, 1870, 1-2. 82 Hirayama, With Éclat, 74–76. 83 The South Kensington system was described by Perkins in full in his 1870 article, ‘American Art Museums’, in the North American Review. He stated that in response to a poor showing of British industrial strength at the 1851 Crystal Palace Exhibition the government had stepped in to fund instruction in mechanical, architectural, and figure drawing within the South Kensington Museum itself. Further, support in the form of ambulatory collections of drawings, prints, photographs, and books was offered to cities, towns, and villages throughout the United Kingdom so that they might set up their own schools of art. Finally, instruction in elementary drawing was subsidised for poor children and working artisans. (15–17) 84 The Act, the first of its kind in the nation, mandated that instruction in drawing be made part of the required curriculum. It was the result of a petition organised by fourteen prominent members of Boston’s cultural elite in 1869. The petition organisers were: Jacob Bigelow; J. Thomas Stevenson; William A. Burke; James Lawrence; Edward E. Hale; Theodore Lyman; Jordan, Marsh & Co.; John Amory Lowell; John H. Clifford; William Gray; F. H. Peabody; and A. A. Lawrence & Co. See Katrina L. Billings, ‘Sophisticated Proselytising: Charles Callahan Perkins and the Boston School Committee’, Master’s thesis, Massachusetts College of Art, 1987, 44, 45, and f.n. 55. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 26 documentation, but also as the basis for the illustrations of his scholarship, was testament to his belief in the centrality of draftsmanship to the educational enterprise.85 Speculatively, it could have been Scharf’s commitment in this regard, as manifest in his archaeological drawings from Italy and Asia Minor, and in his inveterate sketching in service of the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition and the National Portrait Gallery, that inspired Perkins.86 Perkins also continued his teaching career, which he had begun in 1857 at Trinity College in Hartford. For example in 1871, Perkins lectured on Greek art at the Girls’ High and Normal School in Boston.87 Between 1871 and 1878, he also delivered three courses, twelve lectures each, at the Lowell Institute in Boston, on Greek Art, Italian Art and the History of the Art of Engraving.88 In all of these lectures, consistent with his unflagging commitment to the role of illustration, Perkins employed a stereopticon.89 Finally, in 1869, well before Harvard University appointed Charles Eliot Norton (1827–1908), the highly respected mediaeval scholar and frequent commentator on arts issues, to the newly created faculty chair in the History of Art (1875), they made Perkins University Lecturer in the History of Ancient Art and continued to employ him to teach the history of art for several years.90 Of Perkins’ initiatives that put art to work for the benefit of educating the public and improving industrial design, certainly one of the most important was his 85 Perkins’ commitment to drawing was also demonstrated in a lecture entitled ‘On Drawing as a Branch of General Education’, delivered in Fitchburg, Massachusetts on 27 July 1871. He claimed drawing was ‘the language of form’, and like words, ‘the slightest outline traced by a master hand speaks the thought which dictated it, with unmistakable clearness, to people of every nation and of every clime.’ This lecture was printed as part of a publication entitled, The Papers Read before the American Institute of Instruction at Fitchburg, Mass., July 26, 1871 with the Journal of Proceedings, Boston: American Institute of Instruction, 1872, 81, 85, and 86. 86 See for examples of Scharf’s Manchester sketches, Pergam, Manchester Art Treasures, 140– 143 and for his other sketches, https://www.npg.org.uk/research/archive/archive- journeys/sir-george-scharf/, accessed on 3/11/2017. 87 This was the school that was ultimately able to receive the antique casts secured by Perkins under the auspices of the American Association of Social Science. See ‘Collection of Casts’, 202. 88 The Lowell Institute was founded by John Lowell, Jr. in 1837 to support free lectures to the public. See the Lowell Institute website accessed 25/6/16 at www.lowellinstitute.org. 89 Eliot, Memoir, 13. Even in 1876 when Charles Eliot Norton was appointed the first Professor of Art History at Harvard, he did not use any imagery in the classroom to illustrate his lectures. 90 UA II.10.6.6 President and Fellows OV Reports; UA II. 10.7.2 President and Fellows II OV Reports. Archival details on the curricula for these courses are not available. Nor has documentation been found that would elucidate Harvard’s decision to appoint Norton — in lieu of Perkins who was already teaching the subject — although there is also no evidence that Perkins would have been interested given the heavy load of commitments, especially to the Boston Museum, that he was already carrying. https://www.npg.org.uk/research/archive/archive-journeys/sir-george-scharf/ https://www.npg.org.uk/research/archive/archive-journeys/sir-george-scharf/ http://www.lowellinstitute.org/ Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 27 article published in July, 1870, ‘American Art Museums’.91 In a move that reflected Waagen’s core museological values as further implemented by his British devotées, Scharf and Robinson, Perkins laid out his new visual paradigm in the foremost literary magazine of the city, The North American Review. In itself, this reflected another strategic choice on Perkins’ part as the magazine had been founded and edited by the same elites who founded the Athenaeum and who taught classical rhetoric at Harvard.92 Stressing that the arts of temples and cathedrals had served as ‘active agents in cultivating public taste’ in antiquity and in the mediaeval period, Perkins made the point that in today’s world it was up to museums to play that role.93 That the museum’s function was to promote an understanding of the work’s original setting, aesthetics, and purpose, was certainly a concept that could be traced back to Waagen’s historicism in general and his article (1853) on the proper disposition of the new London National Gallery building in particular.94 There the German scholar stated that a museum had responsibility to ‘realise in some degree the impression produced by a temple, a church, a palace, or a cabinet, for which 91 Charles Callahan Perkins, ‘American Art Museums’, The North American Review, vol. 111, no. 228, July 1870, 1–29. Somehow, Perkins also found time to edit the American editions of two important works in applied art history, Charles Locke Eastlake’s Hints on Household Taste in Furniture, Upholstery, and other Details (1874) and Jacob von Falke’s Art in the House: Historical, Critical, and Aesthetical Studies on the Decoration and Furnishing of the Dwelling (1879). Leading texts in the ‘household art’ movement of the second half of the nineteenth century, a movement motivated by the same concern for industrial design and belief in the moral influences of art that prompted the South Kensington Museum system, these volumes were intended to improve middle class taste. Eastlake (1836–1906), nephew of Sir Charles Lock Eastlake, was among the first to publish on household art, and the tenets of his interior design theories betrayed a strong Ruskinian bias for ‘truth’ and the Gothic style. As such, Perkins’ editorial work on these particular texts, which comprised in both cases lengthy prefatory remarks, formed a natural adjunct to his efforts at the public school and museum levels. See Martha Crabill McClaugherty, ‘Household Art: Creating the Artistic Home, 1868– 1893’, Winterthur Portfolio, vol. 18, no. 1, Spring 1983, 1–2. N. B. Charles Locke Eastlake is often confused, understandably so, with his uncle, Charles Lock Eastlake. The younger Eastlake spelled his middle name with an ‘e’ at the end, which to the extent that his full middle name is spelled out by authors, helps to ameliorate the confusion. 92 The Review was founded by William Tudor, Jr. in 1815 as a periodical ‘which should be distinctively American in character’. In 1819, Edward Everett, distinguished classicist and orator, became editor. He was followed by Edward Tyrrel Channing and the Reverend Jared Sparks, both classical rhetoricians, and in 1864 Charles Eliot Norton and James Russell Lowell, ‘men who at that time had taken a foremost place in American letters’, took over as co-editors. See Julius H. Ward, ‘The North American Review’, The North American Review, vol. 201, no. 710, January 1915, 123–134. The Review is still in publication today. 93 Perkins, ‘Museums’, 2. 94 Waagen, ‘National Gallery’, 101–103, 121–125. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 28 those works were originally intended’.95 Waagen reiterated this basic principle in his testimony before Parliament’s Select Committee on Accommodation of National Gallery (1850) when he stated that ‘in the ancient times of the Greeks, and during the middle ages, the monuments contributed a good deal towards the education of the lower class, and…in our modern times it might be done a great deal as well.’96 Following in Waagen’s footsteps, Robinson also acknowledged this as the ideal in a lecture on the Museum of Ornamental Art, as the previous home of the South Kensington Museum was called when it was housed at Marlborough House. Referring to ‘sculptures, arabesques, frescoes, and mosaics, in their original adaptations’, Robinson opined that ‘we [in London] must content ourselves with gathering such things into museums.’97 Perkins further drew a parallel in his article between the salutary impact that masterworks of music performed regularly by well-trained musicians had on Boston’s citizens and the kind of beneficial impact that the visual arts would make in his city.98 ‘Art is a unit…acting upon a unit, the spirit of man’, Perkins asserted. His statement betrayed not only the training in classical rhetoric that he had received at the hands of Harvard professors, but also the romantic premise that underlay virtually all of Waagen, Scharf, and Robinson’s museum practices, that an art object created a window into the history of the period in which it had been produced. In this regard, Perkins went on to say, Music, architecture, poetry, sculpture, and painting are but palpable modes of transmitting the thoughts of one mind to other minds, and whether these be conveyed through sounds or stones, verse, marble, or colour, the object of art is to move, raise, and instruct us, to take us out of ourselves, and thus make us share for a time in the lofty dreams of the privileged few who are called sons of genius.99 Such a transformative change could only be effected, in Perkins’ estimation, ‘by the organization of comprehensive museums’ whose mandate must be ‘before all else educational’ and must, owing to a dearth of resources — both in expertise and funds — make ‘reproductions of statues, architectural fragments, monuments, 95 Waagen, ‘National Gallery’, 101. 96 Gustav F. Waagen, Report from Select Committee on Accommodation of National Gallery, no. 606-607, as quoted by Waterfield, ‘Waagen in England’, 53. 97 John Charles Robinson, An Introductory Lecture on the Museum of Ornamental Art of the Department, London: Chapman and Hall, 1854, as quoted by Drew in ‘Italian Sculpture’, 133. 98 Perkins, ‘Museums’, 4. This state of affairs, not surprisingly, owed a great deal to Perkins himself, who, during his intermittent ‘home leaves’ in Boston, had involved himself actively with music. 99 Perkins, ‘Museums’, 4. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 29 gems, coins, inscriptions, etc., etc.’ a priority of their acquisition policies. Summarising all of these principles, Perkins stated: …a representative collection which shall illustrate the rise and progress of the arts and their gradual decadence. For this purpose the examples in each department must be arranged chronologically, so that the professor of art and archaeology may use them to point out the broad differences between the sculpture of Egypt and Assyria, may demonstrate in what measure each influenced early Greek sculpture…pointing out as he proceeds how and why sculpture steadily progressed until it culminated in the age of Pericles, and as steadily declined until it almost died out in the Dark Ages, then rose again in the Middle Ages from Niccola Pisano to Donatello, and fell away through the splendid extravagances of Michel Angelo and the corrupt principles of his successors.100 Here Perkins is certainly demonstrating his adherence to the teleological framework for historical analysis that characterised the scholarship and museum practices of Waagen, Scharf, and Robinson. In terms of his points regarding comprehensiveness and chronological ordering, Perkins’ debt to Waagen and Scharf is also indisputable. With respect to reproductions, Perkins’ North American Review article provided a series of detailed specifications for ancient cast collections and a review of the strengths of such collections at the various European museums.101 In this, his thinking was very much in line with Robinson, who, despite his proclivity for original quattrocento sculpture, was under no illusions regarding the necessity for reproductions. In the Introduction to his 1862 catalogue, for example, Robinson stated, ‘A systematic collection of mediaeval and renaissance sculpture, therefore, should comprise more than the actual marbles and terra-cottas; besides the original specimens, it should embrace a well-ordered series of auxiliary illustrations, especially of plaster casts.’102 Perkins concluded his extraordinarily comprehensive and prescriptive rationale for American art museums by noting that the South Kensington was ‘the prototype of the Continental museums, and the model upon which most of them have been formed’, and by providing a detailed verbal map of the collections and operating strategies of museums in Austria, Russia, and 100 Perkins, ‘Museums’, 9. 101 Perkins, ‘Museums’, 16. 102 John C. Robinson, Italian Sculpture of the Middle Ages and Period of the Revival of Art, London: Chapman and Hall, 1862, x. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 30 Germany that had followed in the South Kensington’s footsteps.103 His final recommendation for American art museums was to embrace the motto, ‘festina lente’, to make haste slowly, being sure not to sacrifice quality to quantity.104 As soon as was humanly possible after the February 1870 incorporation, Perkins set about bringing the precepts laid out in ‘American Art Museums’ to life at the Boston Museum with a programme of acquisitions and exhibitions that broke free of the old restrictions on exhibition-worthy fine art.105 In this, the Boston Athenaeum was his generous partner, lending space for collections and exhibitions on its third floor, and funding acquisitions with the intention of donating them to the Museum.106 The management of this process was handled jointly by the Committee of the Museum and the Fine Arts Committee of the Athenaeum. The committees were headed by Charles Callahan Perkins at the Museum and Edward Newton Perkins at the Athenaeum, certainly making for a close-knit collaboration. While the two committees were never officially joined, and thus had no appointed 103 Perkins discusses the formation, collections, and display of the Museum of Industrial Art in Vienna, the Museum at Moscow, the National Bavarian Museum (Munich), and the German Museum in Nuremberg. The following excerpt exemplifies his detailed descriptions. ‘Beginning with Roman antiquities, such as a mosaic pavement…, the visitor [to the National Bavarian Museum] passes on to the Celtic and Carlovingian remains, weapons…gold and silver ornaments found in tombs, ivory caskets, fragments of glass, and figures of saints and symbolic animals in wood and stone. He then visits the Romanesque department, where reliquaries…ecclesiastical vestments…illuminated manuscripts, and some Byzantine paintings of the twelfth or thirteenth century… are collected. In the Gothic division…stained glass windows…carved ceilings…and an immense collection of suits of armor, pieces of furniture, weapons, portraits of celebrated personages, besides divers objects of artistic and historical interest belonging to the Renaissance epoch.’ Perkins, ‘Museums’, 16–24. 104 Perkins, ‘Museums’, 28–29. 105 The discussion which follows is indebted to the thorough accounting of this transitional period in Hirayama’s text. See especially Chapter 4 (97–135). 106 The Museum, led by the Building Committee of which Perkins was a member, began immediately in 1870 to erect its own structure — including raising funds to build it — a complicated task as no sooner had this effort begun and the architects been chosen — Sturgis and Brigham of London and Boston — than the country suffered the economic panic of 1873 and the Boston and Chicago fires of 1871 and 1872, respectively, all of which siphoned off pledged and potentially pledged funds. When the building opened in 1876, only the northwest portion of the Sturgis and Brigham design was completed. Two expansions occurred subsequently in 1878–1879 and in 1888–1889, and even with these the total structure remained just over half of the original design. Within several years of the second expansion it became clear that the Museum would need to relocate, which it ultimately did in 1909 to its present location on Huntington Avenue. See Hirayama, With Éclat, 105–113. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 31 Chair, Charles Perkins was unquestionably in charge.107 On opening day, 4 July 1876, the several thousand works on display at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston formed the visual corollary — albeit on a much smaller scale — to Perkins’ textual prescription, as outlined in his 1870 article. That the Boston Museum was able to accomplish this level of comprehensiveness was certainly owing to Perkins’ acquisitive hand — during the period between incorporation and opening he had acquired three major collections of ancient and Renaissance decorative arts objects, the Cesnola (1870), the Way (1873), and the Castellani (1876) — but also to the Athenaeum’s institutional loan of more than eight hundred objects.108 The large majority of the loan comprised five-hundred photographs of Old Master works, but it also included approximately fifty original paintings, fifty Arundel Society chromolithographs, and twenty plaster casts.109 How then does the presence of trecento and quattrocento sculpture at the MFA function in comparison to art of the same period at the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition and the South Kensington Museum? To the extent that the early Renaissance works added to the comprehensiveness of the MFA’s opening exhibit, that they spoke eloquently to their time and place, and that they embodied the potential to ameliorate contemporary industrial design, Perkins was certainly heavily influenced by all three distinguished predecessors across the Atlantic. That said, given the emphasis on early Italian Renaissance sculpture that he shared especially with Robinson, it will be to Robinson’s textual and display strategies that we will look most particularly in this concluding section of the article. The most notable of Robinson’s strategies, as delineated by Drew, concerned the use of highly adroit language in his catalogues and equally skilful display practices. For example, Luca della Robbia, an artist whom Robinson considered critical to the progress of 107 When the Museum incorporated in 1870, Perkins was made Honorary Director, a title which totally understated the centrality of his functions and suggests, for today’s interpreter, a ceremonial role only. Nothing could have been further from the truth. As Chairman of the Committee on the Museum, Perkins’ scope was that of a Head Curator, in today’s museum parlance. In contrast, General Charles Loring was given the title, ‘Curator,’ but his role appeared to be more of an administrative one. Perkins also served on the Building Committee until it was disbanded in 1879. See Annual Reports of the Museum of Fine Arts, 1876 through 1886. 108 The Cesnola collection was purchased by Perkins for the Museum in June 1870. It comprised in excess of five hundred archaeological objects from Cyprus. The Way collection of close to 5,000 ancient Egyptian objects was donated to the Museum in June 1872. Following the lead of the South Kensington Museum, in 1876 Perkins persuaded the Athenaeum’s Fine Arts Committee to purchase, for the ultimate benefit of the Museum, thirty objects in metals, wood, and textiles from the Castellani collection. Dating from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century, these objects ranged from the secular to the sacred, and were, in the main, of fine design and craftsmanship. Hirayama, With Éclat, 99–103, 122–128. 109 Hirayama, With Éclat, 132. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 32 sculpture and whose work he acquired in significant numbers for the South Kensington, made heavy use of terracotta, a material that did not comport with the Victorian public’s bias for white marble sculpture.110 This bias was fostered by the highly influential British critic John Ruskin.111 Ruskin believed that the use of colour in a sculpture compromised the contrast of light and dark needed for the all- important creation of form, in accordance with the dictates of nature.112 In his 1862 catalogue, Italian Sculpture of the Middle Ages and Period of the Revival of Art, Robinson countered this barrier to the appreciation of Luca by making his first catalogue entry for the sculptor not one of Luca’s better known polychromatic works, but rather a sketch for the white marble Cantoria in the Duomo in Florence.113 Furthermore, Robinson incorporated Ruskin’s ideas into his own descriptive language in the catalogue by claiming for the sculpture that it was superior to Donatello’s similar frieze because of its ‘truthful rendering of Nature, and general elevation of conception’, thus reflecting Ruskin’s famed requirement that art be true to nature.114 Robinson’s second challenge — an ironic one, in light of the first challenge above — arose because his acquisitions policies privileged original historic sculpture, ‘fine’ art, over well-designed and decorated utilitarian objects, ‘applied’ or ‘decorative’ art. In this he was perceived by management, specifically Henry Cole, as working at cross-purposes with the museum’s mission to enhance British manufacturing through the study of applied art.115 This prompted Robinson’s use of language to blur the line between fine and applied art. Looking to Luca della Robbia’s work again as an example, in his 1856 catalogue of the newly acquired Jules Soulages collection of 200 works of majolica pottery, Robinson linked the 110 The details and interpretation of Robinson’s strategies at the South Kensington Museum are indebted to Drew, ‘Displaying Italian Sculpture: Exploring Hierarchies at the South Kensington Museum, 1852–1862’. 111 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 203–214. Drew cites the second volume of Ruskin’s Modern Painters (1846) as his first public declaration regarding the adverse impact of colour. She notes that Ruskin used Luca della Robbia’s works as examples of such an adverse impact. (206–207) 112 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 207–208. 113 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 219–220. 114 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 220. 115 The friction between Cole and Robinson over the interpretation of the Museum’s mission has been addressed frequently in scholarship. See for example, Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 79– 81; Bonython and Burton, The Great Exhibitor, 190 and 211–214; Davies, ‘Robinson’s Work’ Part I, 172 and 181 and ‘Robinson’s Work’, Part II, 111–114. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 33 majolica with the Museum’s holdings of — then only two — della Robbia reliefs by freely interchanging the use of the words ‘sculpture’ and ‘ware’.116 Robinson’s displays were perhaps the most important to his strategy of blurring the lines between the fine and decorative arts. For example, he sought to emulate the marriage of painting, sculpture, architecture and decorative objects found in situ all over Italy, a context that by definition did not discriminate between ‘high’ and ‘low’ arts.117 To achieve this goal, Robinson had to employ both originals and reproductions. For example, in the central court of the South Kensington Museum, Robinson anchored his display around two iconic masterworks of the Renaissance, the first a life-size (eighteen-foot) cast of Michelangelo’s David (1504) and the second, copies of Raphael’s arabesques from the Vatican loggia (1508– 1510).118 Strategically placed in the spaces between the David and the arabesques were a variety of decorative objects representing a range of materials — terracotta, bronze, and wood; a range of periods of art — the early Renaissance to the Baroque; and even a geographic range — that of northern and southern Europe.119 In this way, as Drew’s discussion highlights, Robinson made two points that were crucial to the success of his strategy for a museum intended to support industrial design. First, he demonstrated the degree to which the great masters were an inspiration to artisans of their day. Second, he demonstrated the fine line between artist and artisan — this was especially the case with these particular Raphael copies as they were, in their original location, strictly architectural ornament — and suggested that this porous model was particularly apt for the present day. Perkins, like Robinson, set the stage for easing the Boston elite into his new visual arts paradigm with language, beginning with the catalogues produced in the transitional period of 1870 to 1876. His preface to the 1873 catalogue, for example, was as extensive an introduction to the historical context of the art on exhibit as had been published in the entire run of exhibitions hosted by the Athenaeum since 1827.120 116 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 107–108. Jules Soulages (1803–1857) began collecting Italian and French Renaissance decorative art in 1825. The South Kensington Museum purchased his collection over the period of 1859 to 1865. See ‘Soulages at the V&A’, accessed 30 August 2016 at http://www.vam.ac.uk. 117 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 134–135. 118 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 175–201. 119 See Drew’s article in this journal edition, ‘The colourful career of Sir John Charles Robinson: collecting and curating at the early South Kensington Museum’, for an illustration of this skillful arrangement. 120 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Second Catalogue of the Collection of Ancient and Modern Works of Art given or loaned to the Trustees of the Museum of Fine Arts, at Boston, Boston: Alfred Mudge & Son, 1873, 3–19. http://www.vam.ac.uk/ Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 34 The collection herein catalogued…contains a series of objects which illustrate a wide range of artistic activity in point of time and use of material, including a very valuable collection of Egyptian antiquities, and many specimens of ancient and modern glass, bronze and pottery, Graeco-Italian vases, Italian Majolica, Venetian glass, illuminated manuscripts, tapestry, and pictures; and form an artistic microcosm, well calculated to teach the visitor something of the character and quality of the art-industry of many nations during a long period of the world’s history.121 In this introductory statement, Perkins made crystal clear his aims for displaying art in Boston, highlighting both the encyclopaedic and artisanal nature of the works on display, and tipping his hand to the chronological scope, mix of high and low art, and educational aims of the museum models that he had come to know and value so well in Europe. Additionally, the education of visitors was a clear goal of his catalogue. His preface provided the visitor with a map not only to the location of the objects in the exhibition, but also to the historical and aesthetical context in which each category of objects belonged. Moreover, for virtually every specific catalogue entry he included a title, a description, dates and artists and, in a number of instances, additional historical references.122 Throughout the catalogue, Perkins referred to relevant scholarship and museum exhibits and employed his matter-of- fact, descriptive, and easily-read style. With respect to the early Italian Renaissance, Perkins’ catalogue entries were even more carefully orchestrated to maximise the viewer’s comfort level with this previously disconcerting art. In this regard, he began the acclimatization process in his 1872 catalogue to the exhibition held in the Museum Room on the third floor of the Boston Athenaeum. In the catalogue preface, after establishing the importance of the ancient ceramic arts through a formal analysis of the Cypriote pottery and the Etruscan and Greek — of the Archaic and Classical eras — vases, he transitioned immediately to the collection of majolica plates and bottles, beginning his discussion by focusing on Moorish ware. ‘[It] is what is called Hispano-Moorish ware, [and] brings us to the origin of this beautiful art manufacture. The Moorish potters 121 Perkins, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1873, 3. 122 In support of the ancient works, Perkins addressed the three main divisions of Egyptian history and the related art production; the antique and decorative nature of the Cyprus terracotta pottery and figurative statuettes as well as the Greek glass from Cypriot tombs; and the varying influences and techniques with a bearing on Italo-Greek painted vases, including a glossary of terms for earthenware vessels. In support of the modern works, Perkins discussed the history of majolica wares, bringing the reader up to the fine and more decorative contributions of della Robbia; the aesthetic beauty, advanced modelling technique, and material quality of the early Renaissance bronze medals; and the production challenges encountered with the Gobelin tapestries that had come into the collection. See Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1873, 3–19. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 35 were…distinguished for the beauty of their metallic oxide glaze.’ He then traced the history of the glazing process through the first half of the sixteenth century, attributing its perfection to the patronage of such enlightened rulers as the Dukes of Urbino and Ferrara who, he pointed out, may have owed their interest in part to the mistaken notion that certain of the designs were Raphael’s.123 Perkins concluded his discussion of the majolica by introducing the creative genius of Luca della Robbia, both technically in terms of the glazing process, as well as aesthetically. Copying Robinson’s strategic employment of Luca’s Cantoria, as just discussed, he transitioned artlessly to the sculptor’s great masterpiece in marble, but also to the fact that this masterpiece was represented in the Boston Museum’s collection in a sculptural cast and that its expressiveness could be linked to that which Dante experienced in the Purgatorio. For excellence of composition and simple, unpretending truth to nature, this group of choristers is worthy of the highest praise. So earnestly do they sing, and so perfectly is the character of each voice conveyed by the facial expression, that like Dante when he looked upon those celestial bas-reliefs, which surpassed the works of Polyclete (Purgatorio, X.Canto), we are in doubt whether we do not hear as well as see...The other casts on either side of this relief are of works by celebrated Tuscan sculptors of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, from Orcagna to Benvenuto Cellini.124 Thus, in one masterstroke, Perkins linked the majolica to the glories of Greek art, the beauty of Raphael, and the enlightenment of the Italian nobility, while at the same time positioning the sculptural casts as being read by the viewer as original artworks encountered by Dante, the mediaeval poet much-beloved in Boston.125 Turning finally to Perkins’ display practices, as may be seen in the Museum floor plans published in 1876, on opening day the visitor progressed from the vestibule to the end of the entrance hall to begin his exploration with Egyptian 123 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Catalogue of the Collection of Ancient and Modern Works of Art, given or loaned to the Trustees of the Museum of Fine Arts, at Boston, Boston: Alfred Mudge, 1872, 11–14. 124 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1872, 14. 125 The Harvard language scholars George Ticknor and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow as well as the mediaevalist and art historian Charles Eliot Norton were largely responsible for the strength of the Dante phenomenon in mid to late nineteenth-century Boston. George Ticknor had corresponded with European Dantists and taught a Harvard course on Dante in the early 1830s, Longfellow started a Dante Club at his home in Cambridge, and Norton had known of Dante since his early childhood when his mother translated the poet and his uncle Ticknor, whose library he frequented, had introduced him. See James Turner, The Liberal Education of Charles Eliot Norton, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999, 33 and 198. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 36 Figure 7 Floor plans of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, First Floor. From: Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Second Catalogue of the Collection of Ancient and Modern Works of Art Given or Loaned to the Trustees, Boston: Alfred Mudge, 1876, n.p. Photograph of author. antiquities (the Way collection), then on to the ancient Cypriote works (the Cesnola collection) and to three galleries filled with eighty-one sculptural casts.126 (Fig. 7) Of these three galleries, the first two were entirely devoted to Grecian sculptures, while the third and last was split between Greco-Roman and Renaissance ones. As such, the latter, prominently positioned on the first floor with the ancient sculpture of Egypt and Greece, emphasised the continuity of the ancient and Renaissance periods. Even the room’s label on the floor plan, the ‘Greco-Roman and Renaissance Room,’ reinforced this continuity, especially as the number of objects that it contained was evenly split between the two. The Renaissance objects, numbering approximately forty, were almost all quattrocento sculptural casts. Sculptors represented included Ghiberti, Luca della Robbia, Donatello, Mino da Fiesole, and Michelangelo. The subjects of the works were primarily sacred ones from the New Testament, and included even a bust of Savonarola, whose uncompromising stance on the pagan nature of classicism would just two decades earlier have sent off the same anti-popery alarm bells for Bostonians as did the ritualistic works of the Jarves 126 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1876, 131. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 37 collection.127 However, presented within the context of an historical progression of the arts on the first floor and emphasising as they did the greater naturalism of the quattrocento, these works apparently passed muster with the elite members of the Museum Committee. Thus, between the name of the gallery and the close proximity to ancient objects familiar to and well accepted by the Boston public, the layout on the first floor served to greet the visitor with a comfortable continuity with the sculpture exhibitions of years past. Figure 8 Floor plans of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Second Floor. From: Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Second Catalogue of the Collection of Ancient and Modern Works of Art Given or Loaned to the Trustees, Boston: Alfred Mudge, 1876, n.p. Photograph of author. On the second floor, medium took over from chronology as organising principle. (Fig. 8) The visitor was greeted by a paintings gallery of 34 Old Masters and copies thereof, where, again, continuity with exhibitions of the past eased the visitor on his way to the so-called Loan and Lawrence Rooms. Between these two galleries, they housed the Castellani and Lawrence collections of embroideries, textiles, carved wood, and metalwork as well as majolica and Robbia ware, dating to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.128 It was here that Perkins recreated the marriage of the fine and decorative arts, already convincingly established in his catalogue language, by placing the majolica together with the original pieces from his own collection, the Virgin and Child from the Andrea della Robbia workshop and 127 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1876, 39–40. 128 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1876, 53–72. Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 38 the Nativity of c. 1520 from the lesser-known workshop of Benedetto Buglioni. The Virgin and Child, in particular, served Perkins’ purpose because, as a sculpture covered in a white glaze, it more closely resembled the marble statuary to which Bostonians were so closely attached. Furthermore, its lack of gilding or celestial references — for example, it had no niche to represent the heavens as some other comparable della Robbia works did — made it more compatible with Bostonian taste. Finally, its humanity, as was previously explored, distanced it from the Byzantine-like works that Bostonians had rejected in Jarves’ collection. While the Buglioni was polychromatic and not nearly as classically or skillfully rendered, it too avoided gilded references to divinity.129 Thus, as in his catalogue discussion, Perkins manipulated the objects’ placement to transfer the lustre of the ‘fine art’ by known artists onto the far less prominent and unattributed pieces of maiolica and to demonstrate that the differences between the two categories were not that great. In fact, Perkins used the heading ‘Robbia Ware,’ as versus ‘Robbia Sculpture,’ in his 1876 catalogue to denote his original works, perhaps reinforcing the same fine line, or perhaps simply acknowledging that the listing included one ‘modern imitation,’ presented by the Reverend Mr. Washburn.130 Either way, Perkins had once again followed an example set by Robinson, who conflated Robbia ware and sculpture in his 1856 catalogue of the Soulages Collection, among other examples of such linguistic conflation.131 One final example of Perkins’ bravura display practices involved the collection of eight panels from the Hôtel Montmorency in Paris. Seen through the doorway as affixed to the western wall of the Loan Room in an Enrico Meneghelli (1853–1912) painting of the Lawrence Room, these narrow twelve-foot tall painted and gilded oak panels were designed by Claude-Nicholas Ledoux (1736–1806), a leading French neo-classical architect, for his client Monsieur Bouvet de Vezelay in circa 1770.132 (Fig. 9) The panels were festooned with interlaced floral, figural, and armorial designs, which were highly reminiscent of Raphael’s arabesques in the 129 Furthermore, at the time of the 1876 opening the Buglioni Nativity had not been identified as such for Perkins lists the work as being by Andrea della Robbia, thus elevating its status for the viewer. See Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1876, 54. 130 Perkins, Collection of Ancient and Modern Works, 1876, 54. 131 Drew, ‘Italian Sculpture’, 108. 132 These panels were purchased at the time of the demolition of the Hôtel in 1848. The identity of the purchaser is disputed, but by 1876 they were in the hands of the Bostonian, Harleston Parker, who loaned them to the Museum at the time of its opening. At a subsequent point, the Boston Athenaeum and the Museum each bought four of the eight panels. The Athenaeum loaned their four panels to the MFA from 1876 until 1976 when the Museum purchased them back leaving them the owner of the full set, which they remain today. See these panels described on the MFA website as accessed 28/8/16 at http://www.mfa.org/ (Accession #79.326–79.329 and 1975.801–804). Journal of Art Historiography Number 18 June 2018 Figure 9 Enrico Meneghelli, The Lawrence Room, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 1876. Oil on canvas, mounted on Masonite, 40.96 x 50.8 cm. Boston: Museum of Fine Arts. Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Figure 10 Claude Ledoux (designer) and Joseph Méthivier (carver), Carved Panel, c. 1770. Painted and gilded oak, 365 x 81.3 cm. Boston: Museum of Fine Arts. Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Vatican loggie. (Fig. 10) Just as Robinson used the Vatican arabesque copies in the South Kensington’s central court in the expectation that visitors would see the close link between the fine and the decorative arts, so too did the Ledoux panels with their distinct Raphaelesque designs have the potential to remind viewers that Raphael, the unquestioned master of Renaissance painting, was not only a genius of history painting, but also a flawless executor of decorative design. The net effect of Perkins’ textual and display strategies was to demonstrate to his fellow elites and to the public that the Early Italian Renaissance formed a bridge between the classically-inspired sculpture that Bostonians had seen for decades at the Athenaeum’s exhibitions and the High Renaissance and Baroque paintings that had also been favoured there in significant numbers. Furthermore, through linking the fine and decorative arts in the Renaissance period and insisting upon — and securing — a comprehensive and representative display of the history of western art, whether through originals or reproductions, Perkins demonstrated that he had indeed been inspired by Waagen, Scharf, and Robinson. For Perkins, as for his distinguished predecessors, these strategies were essential to delivering on the promise of public fine arts museums, that of improving taste and elevating industrial design. While Perkins was the first to admit that his acquisition and display strategies were not entirely ideologically driven but rather were also Deborah Hartry Stein Charles Callahan Perkins: early Italian Renaissance art and British museum practice in Boston 40 impacted by funding constraints, he nonetheless believed wholeheartedly — in fact, he dedicated his entire career to the notion — that all of the arts, high and low, polished and rough-hewn, had the potential to enrich the citizens of Boston, and ultimately of the nation. Deb Stein received her PhD in the History of Art & Architecture in January, 2017 at Boston University. Her dissertation is entitled “The Visual Rhetoric of Charles Callahan Perkins: Early Italian Renaissance Art and a new Fine Arts Paradigm for Boston.” The first critical book-length study on this nineteenth-century cultural polymath (1823–1886), the dissertation goes beyond an accounting of Perkins’ role in founding and directing the new Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. It frames Perkins’ contributions as creating a paradigm shift in institutional display of the arts from one which privileged classical and neoclassical sculpture and paintings and thus limited viewership to those with literary knowledge. The new paradigm focused on a comprehensive history of art where viewers could apprehend a work’s meaning through their eyes alone, making for an unparalleled democratization of the arts in Boston. Deb has taught both American and Italian Renaissance art and cultural history at Boston University and has presented her scholarship to a variety of academic audiences. Since 2006, she has served as Gallery Instructor in the American and European galleries at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, where she also coordinated adult education programs. Prior to her career in art history, Deb founded and led a consulting firm serving major banks and has held management positions in the fields of corporate training, commercial banking, and university administration. She earned an MBA from Northeastern University, an MA in Educational Administration from Harvard University, and a BA in History from Carleton College in Minnesota. dhs@bu.edu This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- NonCommercial 4.0 International License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ 
work_le2qgjkjdze6tmg3b2tnan5bxu	----	PII: S0741-5214(95)70054-4 O R I G I N A L ARTICLES F r o m the Eastern Vascular Society From the vineyard-Reflections and perspectives D o m i n i c A. D e L a u r e n t i s , M D , Philadelphia, Pa. A farmer, b e i n g at death's d o o r , and desiring t o i m p a r t t o his s o n s a secret o f m u c h m o m e n t , called t h e m r o u n d h i m and said, "My s o n s , I a m s h o r t l y a b o u t t o die. I w o u l d have y o u k n o w , t h e r e f o r e , that in m y vineyard there lies a h i d d e n treasure. D i g , and y o u w i l l find it." As s o o n as their father w a s dead, the s o n s t o o k spade and f o r k and t u r n e d u p t h e s o i l o f the vineyard o v e r and o v e r again, in their search for the treasure w h i c h t h e y s u p p o s e d t o lie b u r i e d there. T h e y f o u n d n o n e , h o w e v e r ; b u t the vines, after s o t h o r o u g h a d i g g i n g , p r o d u c e d a c r o p such as had never before b e e n seen. - A e s o p 1 I d o n ' t k n o w the purpose o f a Presidential Address. T o make mattcrs worsc, I have always been wary o f reports in which the purpose is n o t clearly stated. I t appears that their function is to deliver a messagc, make a statement, communicate facts, or even serve notice. The subjects o f these addresses are quite disparate, and it is often possible to detect some personal blas or conviction o f the author at that m o m e n t in his or her career. It is in this light that I relate these personal reflections. I t is appropriate at this point to recite an early 19th century prayer uttered by t o u g h Scots-Irish pioneers w h e n they departed for the wild and primitive American frontier ofMissouri. " L o r d , grant that I m a y always be right, for t h o u knowest I am hard to turn. ''2 " C H A N C E F A V O R S T H E P R E P A R E D M I N D " ( L O U I S P A S T E U R ) Sorne o f y o u will interpret m y following remarks as war stories, b u t there are lessons t o be learned f r o m our surgical heritage. I am lucky to have had a From the Pennsylvania Hospital, University of Pennsylvania, School of Medicine, Philadelphia. Supported by a grant from the John F. Connelly Foundation. Presented at the Ninth Annual Meeting of the Eastern Vascular Society, Buffalo, N.Y., May 4-7, 1995. Reprint requests: Dominic A. DeLaurentis, MD, 700 Spruce St., Suite 101, Philadelphia, PA 19106. J VASC SURG 1995;22:643-8. Copyright © 1995 by The Society for Vascular Surgery and International Society for Cardiovascular Surgery, North Ameri- can Chapter. 0741-5214/95/$3.00 + 0 24/6]66749 professional career that spanned the era o f m o d e r n vascular surgery. I am saddened w h e n I read vascular reports with references n o older t h a n 10 years. H i s t o r y is valuable. A o r t i c a n e u r y s m In 1952, D u B o s t et al. 3 first reported the resection o f an abdominal aortic aneurysm. I had the g o o d formne to meet Dr. D u B o s t and hear hirn describe this first operation. The procedure was done in a retroperitoneal fashion w i t h a homograft. A l t h o u g h he performed several t h o u s a n d subsequent opera- tions, he joked about the fact that it was the first and only time that he ever used the retroperitoneal approach! In those early years, elective aneurysm resection was carried o u t as i f it were a cancer. The 1950s represented the pinnacle o f radical surgical treatment. It was n o t at all unusual during m y residency (1953 to 1958) to perform forequarter and hindquarter amputation for malignancies, 90% gas- tric resections for benign peptic ulcer, and pneu- monectomies for lung cancer. D u r i n g the early years o f m y training, ruptured abdominal aneurysms were n o t repaired. The diagnosis was made by laparotomy to exclude hemorrhagic pancreatitis, perforated vis- cus, and mesenteric infarction. After operation the patient was given lots o f opiates and allowed to die. In m y estimation the greatest breakthrough in abdominal aortic aneurysm surgery occurred in 1966 w h e n Oscar Creech, M D , applied his historical knowledge and described the nonresectionai treat- 643 •OURNAL OF VASCULAR SURGERY 6 4 4 DeLaurentis December 1995 m e n t o f abdominal aortic aneurysm. + This key change in technique led to dramatic lessening o f b l o o d loss, operating time, and m o r b i d i t y and mortality rates. I t is a technique that w e all use n o w , b u t it was first reported b y R u d o l p h Matas, M D , Dr. Creech's mentor, in 1902. 4 T h e prepared m i n d o f Oscar Creech, M D , modified this concept b y i n d u - sion o f a synthetic graft. W h e r e are w e g o i n g in 19957 The endovascular technique for treatment o f abdominal aortic aneu- rysm is interesting, b u t as a Pennsylvania D u t c h m a n w o u l d say " W h y d o w e d o this hard?" Endovascular surgery is here t o stay, b u t for abdominal aortic aneurysm management, I w o u l d keep m y eye o n the people w h o are talking a b o u t the cause and the pathophysiologic condition o f aneurysms. I believe the ultimate solution for aneurysms will be a genetic and biochemical prophylaxis and treatment. C a r o t i d a r t e r y s u r g e r y T h a n k goodness vascular surgeons are persistent souls! W e never were convinced that the disease f o u n d in ulcerating, debris-laden, stenotic carotid artery lesions was safe for the d o w n s t r e a m brain. N o r could w e be persuaded that aspirin, dipyridamole (Persantine), o r ticlopidine c o u l d really take o n this tiger. I n 1970 Fields et al. 5 r e p o r t e d the first large prospective randomized carotid s t u d y for patients w i t h transient ischemic attacks. Friedmann reminds us that in that study, if the perioperative mortality and stroke rates were ignored (they were high), the surgical survivors s h o w e d a definite and significant advantage. 6 I t t o o k m o r e than 25 years and at least four o r five large prospective randomized studies to p r o v e that surgery is superior in patients with s y m p t o m a t i c and asymptomatic stenoses if w e keep the perioperative mortality and m o r b i d i t y rates low. Dr. Jesse T h o m p s o n et al.7 said this in 1966. Yes, w e d o toil and learn hard! These carotid artery studies d e m o n s t r a t e d that the margin o f error in vascular surgery is often extremely small. The future? Preven- tion and treatment are o u t goals, b u t o u r immediate chailenge is to identify w h i c h o f the patients with significant carotid artery stenoses will go o n to have a stroke (approximately 2 0 % ) and which will n o t (approximately 80%). The identification o f these t m k n o w n risk factors will save m u c h time, money, and suffering. L o w e r e x t r e m i t y i s c h e m i a In 1 9 4 9 Kunlin s first r e p o r t e d a reversed saphe- nous vein bypass technique. By the 1960s, there were sporadic reports o f bypasses to the tibial vessels, and in 1966, R. R o b e r t Tyson, M D , and 19 reported a series o f 12 patients in which tibial bypasses were carried o u t for threatened limb loss. In nine patients (75%) the inflow originated f r o m the superficial femoral (n = 7) o r the popliteal arteries (n = 2). T h e n w e wandered! S o m e M o n d a y m o r n i n g quar- terback decided that the only p r o p e r w a y to perform these bypasses was t o use inflow f r o m the c o m m o n femoral artery. I k n o w ischemic extremities were l o s t trying to fulfill this precept w i t h a reversed saphenous vein. I t g o t so b a d and w e w a n d e r e d so far, that Paul Friedmann, M D , and 11° even invented a n e w operation to o v e r c o m e the inadequate saphenous vein. W e called it the sequential composite bypass. I t was the last President o f this Society, Frank Veith, M D , w h o b r o u g h t us back to the proper path w h e n he again d e m o n s t r a t e d that an u n o b s t r u c t e d super- ficial femoral artery o r a popliteal artery is an adequate inflow vessel for a distal bypass. H F o r me, o n e o f the m o r e recent comforting aspects o f l o w e r extremity ischemia is the security and complete confidence that almost any chronically ischemic limb can be revascularized. O u r persistence has p r o d u c e d notable technical advances such as pedal bypasses, p r o d u c t i o n o f arteriovenous fistulas at distal anastomoses, patches, and the in situ technique. Endovascular techniques should enhance o u t ability to offer patients a less traumafic alternative to surgical revascularization, b u t I h o p e these results are measured against o u r weil d o c u m e n t e d historical patency and limb salvage rates. Incidentaily, in o u r rush t o embrace endovascular grafting for lower extremity ischemia, w h a t h a p p e n e d to the gold standard g r a f t - t h e saphenous vein? W h a t the f u m r e holds for patients w i t h end-stage ischemia o f the l o w e r extremities is n o t clear. It seems that w e have extended the frontiers o f b y p a s s i n g as far as possible; however, w h o knows? Are w e at a stage similar to that o f arteriectomy, which was being p e r f o r m e d b y R e n e Leriche w h e n his pupil, Kunlin, p e r f o r m e d the first bypass in 19497 D o e s a n e w and m o r e bountiful field üe ahead for the treatment o f this type o f ischemic disease? F E A R S - - P E R C E I V E D A N D R E A L T h r o u g h o u t m y professional career, I have wit- nessed challenges to the independence o f the physi- cian. In the late 1950s and 1960s, w e feared the medical school deans w h o w a n t e d physicians to be fiall-time employees o f the medical school. Flush with federal research money, m a n y deans did indeed accomplish this feat. H o w e v e r , once this source o f m o n e y was shut o f f (early 1970s), m a n y deans lost JOURNAL OF VASCULAR SURGERY Volume 22, Number 6 DeLaurentis 6 4 5 power. By then the open-ended Medicare program was in full swing, and money started to flow into hospitaks and physicians' practices at an unprece- dented rate. Major growth in hospital facilities commenced. In university and teaching hospitals, income derived from the clinical activity o f the full-time faculty helped support those institutions. We feared that wc w o u l d become hospital employees and that all monies for clinical, education, and research activities would be controlled by hospitals. Our enemy became the hospital and its ever burgeon- ing administrative staff. Technical industries re- sponded to the huge amounts o f capital in hospitals and a massive medical technical complex developed. These were the glory days o f procedure-oriented specialists. Finishing residents often commanded starting salaries in excess o f that o f their full-time mentors. Hospitals were in fat city, but medical costs soon became intolerable for large corporations and all businesses. In the early 1980s, as a consequence o f the escalating cost o f medical care, entrepreneurs, somc hospitals, and many corporations, aided by grants from the federal government, started to look at alternative care systems such as health maintenance organizations (HMOs). At this point in time, Medi- care costs were becoming a major federal budget expense., so price controls were imposed on medical providers. With reimbursement caps in place, doctors simply found a way to perform more procedures. You all know the rest o f this s t o ß . Today, hospitals no longer have the control, and our new fear is "managed care", better described as "managed cost." A major reason the Clinton Health Care Reform Bill failed was that the cost ofmedical care for employees had already started to decrease after implementation o f managed care policies. Many o f these managed systems are making great profits. Some physicians believe this to be unconscionable. However, could these middlemen make these profits (30 cents on each premium dollar) if fat or waste did not exist in the dellvery o f traditional medical care? I think not. I define fi~t or waste as money earmarked for direct patient care that never reaches the patient because o f hospital bureaucracy, poor physician management, unreasonable government mandates, and practice liability insurance. Some will challenge the last point, that is, the cost o f medical liability. They will condescendingly remind us that medical liability represents only 1% o f total health care costs. These experts, however, just don't get it. For most sur- geons, the cost o f medical liability insurance repre- sents 10% to 20% o f their income. Consequently, that 1% is responsible for higher indirect costs imposed on patients and third parties by physicians and hospitals. What will happen after managed care sldms all the cream and moves on to cover senior citizens? What will happen after the big health care buyouts and conglomerates occur? Incidentally, i hear no media outcry over the huge profits ($7 billion in 1994) made by these H M O s . It makes the decade o f greed (1980s) look like child's play. What will happen when managed care profits decrease because their reim- bursements are dependent on and pegged to govern- ment-capped Medicare and Medicaid schedules? I suspect that when the managed care systems can no longer squeeze any profit from this source, they will fall and will be bought out by, guess w h o - y e s , g o o d old Uncle Sam! We will then face the mother o f all fears! I predict that many hospitals by that time will go broke, and their bond issue defaults may make the savings and loan debacle resemble a picnic! O n the other hand, when m y gout is untier control, and there is a g o o d warm wind filling the sails, I dream that we will be savvy enough to pass a medical saving account bill, reestabllsh a private market for medical care by removing price controls, and that most bright young physicians, will have double degrees, not M D , PhD, but MD, MBA. W E H A V E A R R I V E D - L E T ' S N O T BE T H E LAST O N E S T O K N O W ! I vividly remember the joint annual meeting o f the Society for Vascular Surgery/International Soci- ety for Cardiovascular Surgery held in Carmel, Calif., in 1972, not because o f any particular scientific report, but because the pillars o f modern vascular surgery came out o f the closet and started to lobby for partition o f vascular surgery from general surgery. The concept they proposed was and remains that specialized training in this field should occur and should be recognized because it leads to superior care o f patients with vascular disease. The political battles were especially debilitating because we were all trained as general or thoracic surgeons. Separation was difficult, but it has occurred in spite o f sporadic skirmishes that still occur with the American Board o f Surgery (ABS) and the Residency Review Commit- tee ( R R C ) ) 2 By 1983, under the auspices o f the ABS, a new examination and Certification for Special Qualifications in General Vascular Surgery was instituted. That same year, programs offering special training in vascular surgery were reviewed by the R R C , and approval was granted to approximately 45 programs. In January 1984 the first edition o f our official journal was published. H o w could the JOURNAL OF VASCULAR SURGERY 6 4 6 DeLaurentis December 1995 IOURNAL OF VASCULAR SURGERY not be a stellar peri- odical with Drs. Michael E. DeBakey, Emerick Szilagyi, and Jesse E. Thompson as the founding editors, followed by Drs. Iarnes C. Stanley and Calvin B. Ernst? Although some traditional general sur- geons still blame vascular surgery for fragmentation, it is apparent, as other chunks o f general surgery break oft', that specialization should not be confused with fragmentation. Can anyone really criticize the concept o f specialization in burn and trauma centers, pediatric hospitals, or transplant centers? Specializa- tion will continue because it represents the desire o f patients, physicians, and scientists. This innate drive to do something bet-ter or find out that it doesn't have to be done at all will not subside, and, indeed, it should be encouraged. Although muted, I believe this concept has been accepted by the surgical profession. One only has to review the January 1995 American College of Surgeons Bulletin where "What's N e w in Surgery" lists 17 specialties; vascular surgery is friere, but general surgery is not. 13 The latter was replaced by specialties ofcritical care and metabolism, gastrointestinal and biliary surgery, surgical oncol- ogy, transplantation, and trauma and bums. As I dictate this address, I received notification from the staff liaison to the Advisory Council for Vascular Surgery that m y request to change m y specialty designation in the College's Yearbook to Surg(Vasc) was confirmed. The specialty o f general surgery has tried to define itself for some time. Meanwhile in real life its boundaries become smaller and less inclusive. It appears to me that all surgical specialties would benefit by a period o f training in basic surgery (3 to 4 years) followed by different spedalty pathways. Whether some vascular specialty pathways should be in a freestanding mode is not completely settled yet. I believe that freestanding specialty programs with dedicated teachers and facilities, a good supply o f patients, and a scholarly milieu will evenmally receive approval. Unless they have additional approved training, fumre general surgeons will not commence practice with an announcement that «their practice will include all aspects o f vascular surgery." Why is this? (1) Patients demand surgeons with additional train- ing and certification. (2) Training o f general surgeons in laparoscopy and minimal invasive techniques has diminished their time on vascular surgery rotations. In some institutions, especially those with a vascular fellowship, the senior general surgery resident rotat- ing through vascular surgery is often a fourth-year post-graduate student. (3) Hospitals, HMOs, and group practices demand special training and certifi- cation in vascular surgery. (4) The cost o f liability insurance is high. (5) Well-trained vascular surgeons are moving to rural and suburban areas. (6) Advances in vascular surgery such as endovascular techniques have a steep and long learning curve. The fumre for the well-trained vascular surgeon is excellent because (1) the specialty is blessed with good genes; (2) our specialty is based on a system rather than an organ (diversification); (3) the popu- lation is aging; (4) minimally invasive surgical techniques are being accepted, albeit with some hesitation; (5) the number o f vascular surgeons graduating from approved programs is relatively small; and (6) fewer general surgeons are trained adequately in all aspects ofvascular surgery (i.e. "Just teach me the technique!"). I f I were to name one drawback, it is that we are still hospital dependent, but even that can change in the future. O R G A N I Z E D V A S C U L A R S U R G E R Y As your President, I recently received a commu- nication from Robert Rutherford, MD, with regard to getting more "grass roots" vascular surgeons involved in "organized vascular surgery." It is m y perception that we are pretty well organized, but problems do exist with communication and with the lack o f unified clout in socioeconomic, professional, and political matters. The pyramidal structure oflocal vascular societies, regional vascular societies, and the national societies resembles a loose federation and makes the national impact ofvascular surgery diflicult to measure, market, or use efficiently. Our societies, joumal, certification process, training programs, and Association o f Program Directors are all in place. It is now time to pull it together, and bring all vascular surgeons into the fold. We are at the brink ofmaking this commitment. It will take the unselfish efforts and leadership o f the two national sodeties with the help o f all regional and local vascular societies to accom- plish this project. Communication should not be limited to vascular surgeons in national and regional societies, nor should we depend on a trickle down process o f information and education. Organized vascular surgery must include all vascular surgeons, beginning with those in training. The toughest part o f this assignment is to define a «vascular surgeon." The abuse o f using membership in vascular societies by poorly trained vascular surgeons as a mode o f pseudocertification can be curtalled, but at the same time, we must assure all well-trained vascular sur- geons that they are included in the system. Perhaps we should think in terms o f a national association o f vascular surgeons. IOURNAL OF VASCULAR SURGERY Volume 22, Number 6 DeLaurentis 6 4 7 It would be a mistake to dismantle our relation- ship with the ABS and the R R C . However, they must appreciate the fact that we have grown up and have left the fold. I f a sincere bilateral relationship o f respect is achieved, there will be no need to waste the time, money, and energy to develop a separate credentialing board and residency review committee. Time, however, is rtuming short on this issue. N U C L E A R V A S C U L A R FAMILIES Departmental structure in medical schools and hospitals shonid change to meer the professional, educational, research, and economic pressures o f the next century. Modern departments have existed for most o f this century, but with the explosion o f spe- cialization, they have contributed to duplication in teaching, patient care, and research. In addition, these departments waste money, soak up resources, and have led to debilitating political fights over mrfl. Think o f the efficiency, cost saving, enhanced teach- ing, superior clinical invesfigation, and quality pa- tient care that could be attained if we were part o f a multidisciplined vascular department made up ofvas- cular and cardiac surgeons, angiographers, cardiolo- gists, vascular internists, anesthesiologists, hematolo- gists, and so forth. This may sound qnite unortho- dox, but in our vascular group we are seriously considering recruitment o f a vascular internist and an angiographer as equal partners rather than additional vascular surgeons. This concept could lead to bun- dling o f services, cross-fertilization between disci- plines, and less expensive comprehensive care for pa- tients with vascular disorders. In 1995 the biggest smmbling block in our practice is the poor coordina- tion with and isolation from cardiology, anesthesiol- ogy, and angiography. The noninvasive laboratory should also be included in this concept. In our Sec- tion o f Vascular Surgery at Pennsylvania Hospital, we have been formnate to have our o w n approved, noninw.sive, vascular laboratory in our patient office area. All o f this may sound bizarre and impossible, but competiuon and economic forces could easily effect this restructuring. In such a multidisciplined departmental scenario, a surgeon may give up his position as captain o f the ship, hut what g o o d is being at the helm when the rudder stock is broken and our course is controlled by the winds and currents o f anesthesiology, angiogra- phy, cardiology, hospitals, and HMOs? Besides, have you hugged a traditional department chair lately and asked h o w much fun he is having! Namrally, this concept will be resisted to the utmost by the disciplines I mentioned, but just think h o w difficult it is in 1995 to coordinate and collaborate with your medical comrades and coworkers. In my mind, this arrangement will fulfill the logical goals o f consoli- dation o f clinical forces, rather than the concept o f grouping specialists into large single specialty syndi- cates because that will only lead to bigger, bloodier, and more expensive torf wars. A T H E R O S C L E R O S I S I was motivated to become a surgeon by a former mentor and Dean at Temple University, Robert M. Bucher, MD. His definition o f an ideal surgeon is an internist w h o understands pathophysiology, is inter- ested in cause and prevention, and, in addition, is able to cut! Over the past 40 years, surgeons have refined cutting techniques and have recognized the impor- tance o f perfection in performance o f operations. Indeed this technical emphasis has become almost an obsession. 14 However, shouldn't we participate in the quest for the solution to atherosclerosis? Except for a few excellent role models, the study o f atherosclero- sis, by most vascular surgeons, has been neglected and consists only o f prelirninary preparation for our board examinations. Yes, we know something about lipids, we have a hazy idea o f the hemodynamic factors that contribute to atherosclerosis, and we certainly understand the general risk factors (smok- ing, diabetes, hypertension, obesity, lack o f exercise, and hyperlipidemia). Let's be candid: vascular sur- gery would not exist if atherosclerosis, a generalized systemic metabolic disease, did not produce localized areas o f obstruction and degeneration. In these specific sites, organ, limb, and, indeed, life are at risk. Organized vascular surgery was wise when it estab- lished a f o m m for venous disease. It is my opinion that a similar program should be implemented with atherosclerosis. There a r e a host o f people worldng on this problem unknown to us and not in our societies. Indeed they consider our main thrust as mechanical treatment o f end-stage disease. We should know more about the basic pathophysiologic condition we are treating. We should participate in the study o f the cause, prevention, and treatment o f atherosclerosis. Most o f the reports on atherosclerosis are specialized and are foreign to us. However, that is a poor reason for not giving this problem more priority. We understand more about the end stages o f atherosclerosis than perhaps any group o f physicians. With gene therapy, new pharmaceuticals, space age imaging, and increased blood chemistry knowledge, we must look more seriously at this aspect o f our specialty. Finally, I want to thank you for the privilege o f JOURNAL OF VASCULAR SURGERY 6 4 8 DeLaurentis December 1995 serving as the ninth President o f our Society and for the opportunity to address you. As he grew old, my father had a favorite saying: "When one has teeth, he has no bread. When one has bread, he has no teeth." But in my case, I don't think it applies. I prefer the last stanza o f a poem by H e n r y Wadsworth Longfellow (Morituri Salutamus) written in his later years for the fiftieth anniversary o f the class o f 1825 in Bowdoin College: 1S "For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress. And as the evening twilight rades away, the sky is filled with stars invisible by daß'. For me, being honored as your President is certainly a star that was invisible by day. R E F E R E N C E S 1. Aesop. The farmer and his sons. In: Bennett W, editor. The book of virtues. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1993:370. 2. McCoUough D. In: Truman. New York: Touchstone, 1992:16. 3. Dußost C, Allary M, Oeconomos N. Resection of an aneurysm of the abdominal aorta. Arch Surg 1952;64:405. 4. Creech O Jr. Endoaneurysmorrhaphy and treatment of aortic aneurysm. Ann Surg 1966;164:935-46. 5. Fields WS, Maslenikov V, Meyer IS, Hass WK, Remington RD, MacDonald M. Ioint study of extracranial arterial occlusion:V- progress report ofprognosis following surgery or nonsurgical treatment for transient cerebral ischemic attacks and cervical carotid artery lesions. JAMA 1970;211: 1993-2003. 6. Friedmann P, Garb MS, Berman J, Sullivan C, Celoria G, Rhee SW. Carotid endarterectomy-clinical results in a community-based teaching hospital. Stroke 1988;19:1323-7. 7. Thompson JE, Kartidiner NM, Austin DS, Wheeler CG, Patman RD. Carotid endarterectomy for cerebrovascular insufficiency: follow-up of 359 cases. Ann Surg 1966;165: 751-63. 8. Kunlin ~. Le traitement de l'arterite obliterite par la greife veinuse. Arch Mal Coeur !949;42:371. 9. Tyson RR, DeLaurentis DA. Femorotibial bypass. Circula- tion 1966;33(Supp 1):I-183-I-8. 10. DeLaurentis DA, Friedmann P. Arterial reconstruction about and below the knee. Am J Surg 1971;121:392-7. 11. Veith FR, Gupta SK, Samson RH, Flores SW, Janko G, Scher L. Superficial femoral and popliteal arteries as inflow sites for distal bypasses. Surgery 1981;90:980-90. 12. Porter IM. Editorial. J VAsc SURG 1993;18:100-1. 13. What's New in Surgery '95. Am Coll Surg Bull 1995;80:11- 85. 14. DeLaurentis DA. Choice and challenge in vascular surgery. Am J Surg 1989;158:84-6. 15. Longfellow HW. Morituri Salutamus. In: Untermeyer L, editor. The poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. New York: The Heritage Press, 1943:434. Submitted May 11, 1995; accepted May 26, 1995. ERRATUM It has been brought to the Editors' attention that the report entitled "Luminal surface concentration of lipoprotein (LDL) and its effect on the wall uptake of cholesterol by canine carotid arteries" by Xiaoyan Deng, PhD, Yves Marois, MS, Thien How, PhD, Yahye Merhi, PhD, Martin King, PhD, and Robert Guidoin, PhD, J VASC SUR6 1995;21:135-45, should have included as a coauthor Dr. Takeshi Karino, Professor, Research Institute for Electronic Science, Hokkaido University, Sapporo, Japan. 
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work_lmlk6ktnyjbxral6wsoahps5ha	----	ÇEVİRİ ELEŞTİRİSİ BAĞLAMINDA ELEŞTİREL BİLİNCİN OLUŞMASI ve ELEŞTİRİ, ÜST-ELEŞTİRİ, ÇEVİRİBİLİM İLİŞKİLERİ IŞ I N B E N G İ Boğaziçi Üniversitesi 1. Giriş Eleştirel bilincin 1 oluşması ve gelişmesi toplumların gelişmesinde kuşkusuz çok önemli bir rol oynuyor. Bu kadar önemli bir kavram olan eleştirel bilinç nedir ? Toplumlarda eleştirel bilinci oluşturmanın bir yolu var mıdır ? Bu yazıda yalnız çeviri eleştirisi bağlamında bu iki soruyu cevaplamaya çalışacağım. Çeviri eleştirisinin bilimsel bir uğraş olması gerektiği varsayımı incelemenin temelini oluşturmaktadır. Bu nedenle aşağıda önce çeviri kuramı - çeviri eleştirisi ilişkisi üzerinde duracağım [Kısım 2], Bu kısmı eleştiri normlarını betimlemek amacıyla, içinde eleştirel görüşlere yer verilen kimi yazılar üzerinde sürdüreceğim bir inceleme izleyecektir 2 [Kısım 3]. Son kısımda ise daha önceki kısımlarda elde edilen veriler ışığında eleştirel bilincin ne olduğu sorusunu cevaplamaya çalışacağım ve bu bilinci oluşturabilme sürecine katkıda bulunacağını düşündüğüm bazı önerileri tartışmaya sunacağım [Kısım 4], 2. Eleştiri-Kuram İlişkisi Çeviri çevrelerinde kuram sözcüğü kuşkuyla karşılanıyor. Bu tavır özellikle ülkemizde oldukça yaygın. Bir araştırma metninin, bir eleştiri yazısının içinde, bırakın kuramsal düzeyde tartışma yapmayı, yazının kuramsal çerçevesinin belirlenm esi bile bilimsellik uğruna yapılan anlamsız bir zorlama olarak değerlendiriliyor genellikle. Bilim-kuram-eleştiri arasındaki zorunlu ilişki gözardı ediliyor. Bunun bir nedeni sözcüğün sözlük anlamında yatıyor olabilir. Örneğin,Türk Dil Kurumunun çıkarttığı Türkçe sözlükte eleştiri sözcüğü şöyle açıklanmakta : "1. Bir insanı, bir konuyu, doğru ve yanlış yanlarını bulup göstermek maksadıyla 26 Işın Bengi inceleme işi, tenkid [...]. 2. ed. Bir edebiyat veya sanat eserini her yönüyle inceleyip açıklamak, anlaşılmasını sağlamak ve değerlendirmek amacıyla yazılan yazı türü, tenkit, kritik. 3. fel. Özellikle bilginin temellerini ve doğruluk durumunu inceleme, sınama, yargılama [...]. [Eren vd„ 1988:451]. Bu üç tanımda kullanılan inceleme, açıklama, anlaşılmasını sağlama, değerlendirme, sınama, yargılama sözcüklerini eleştiri bağlamında anahtar sözcükler olarak ele alabiliriz. Ancak tanımlarda bu anahtar sözcüklerle amaçlanan işin nasıl yapılacağı, amaçlanan duruma nasıl ulaşılacağı doğal olarak belirtilmemiştir. Günlük kullanım için hazırlanan bir sözlükte bu gibi bilgilerin bize verilmesini zaten bekleyemeyiz. Bu nedenle sözcüğün sözlük anlamını temel alarak, eleştiri yazısı hazırlamamız söz konusu olmamalıdır. Ayrıca bir incelemenin kuramsal çerçevesini ve yöntemini belirtmeden kaleme alınan eleştiri yazılarında bile örtülü olarak kuramsal bir çerçeve ve bir yöntem vardır. Çoğu durumda eleştirmenin bilgisi dışında oluşan bu örtülü kuramsal çerçeve ve yöntemin sorumlusu eleştirinin üretildiği toplumda geçerliliği olan, hatta dogma haline gelmiş belli bir kuramın eleştiri bağlamında eleştirmenlere sağladığı kalıplardır. Bu nedenle, kurama en yakın olduğumuz anlar, kuramın tuzağına düşme tehlikesiyle en fazla karşı karşıya kaldığımız durumlar gerçekte kuramsal bir çerçeve ve yöntem belirtmeden eleştirel görüşlerimizi kaleme aldığımız anlardır. Başka bir deyişle eleştirmenin kuramdan kaçması olanaksızdır. Bu durumda yapılacak en yararlı iş belki de kurama olabildiğince yakın olmaktm. Ancak böylelikle kuramdan yararlanabilir veya karşı çıkıyorsak görüşlerimizi belirtebilir veya başka varsayımlardan yola çıkarak incelememizi yapabiliriz. Öyleyse önce genel anlamda kuramın ne olduğuna bakalım. Kuram nedir ? Kuram sözcüğü Longman Dictionary o f Contemporary English' de şöyle açıklanıyor : "1. bilinen olguları temel alan, belli bir olgu veya olayı açıklamayı amaçlayan, bir nedene dayalı kanıtları olan bir ifade veya ifadeler bütünü [...]; 2. bir bilim veya sanat dalında uygulama karşıtı olarak genel ilke ve yöntemlerle uğraşan alan ; bir dalda çalışma yapılabilmesi için oluşturulan ilke ve kurallar bütünü [...]." [Procter vd.,1978: 1149].3 Bu tanımlardan birincisi "bilinen olguları temel" aldığı, bu olgu/ları "açıklamayı amaç"ladığı ve "bir nedene dayalı kanıtları" olduğu için, çeviribilim terimiyle açıklayacak olursak, betimleyici kuram tanımı özelliğini taşır. İkinci tanım ise "bir bilim [..] dalında uygulama karşıtı olarak genel ilke ve yöntemlerle uğraşfmayı]" ve [bilim dalında] "çalışma yapılabilmesi için" "ilke ve kural" oluşturmayı amaçladığı için, yine çeviribilim terimiyle açıklayacak olursak kuralcı kuram tanımı özelliğini taşır.4 Sözlükte verilen bu tanımı değerlendü'ebilmek için tarihi sürem içinde oluşan kimi çeviri kuramlarına kısaca değinebiliriz 5 Çeviri kuramına işaret eden çalışmalarla ilk kez İ.Ö. 2. yüzyılda Romalıların dünyasında karşılaşıyoruz. Ünlü bilge ve çevirmen Cicero [İ.Ö. 106-43] ve Horace [Î.Ö.65-8] kendi çeviri süreçlerini esas alarak çeviri üzerine yazdıkları yazılarla bugünkü anlamda çeviri kuramının temellerini atmışlardır. Cicero ve Horace için çeviride yanıtlanması gereken temel soru, çevirinin sözcüğü sözcüğüne mi yoksa anlamı anlamına mı yapılması gerektiğidir. Cicero ve Horace’ın bu soruya verdiği yanıtı onların çeviri yöntemi üzerine söyledikleri sözlerden çıkartabiliriz. Örneğin Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 27 Cicero kendi çeviri yöntemini şöyle açıklar : Çeviri yaparken ülküsel kaynak dil metni çevirmen tarafından öykünülmek üzere orada hazır beklemektedir, yoksa çok katı akılcı bir uygulamayla yok edilmek üzere değil [Bassnett-McGuire, 1980:43]. Horace da Art o f Poetry (Şiir Sanatı) adlı yapıtında genç çevirmenlere şu sözlerle öğüt v erir: Aşina olduğunuz bir konuyu beylik bir biçimde ele alıp vakit kaybetmezseniz veya özgün metni bir köle gibi sözcüğü sözcüğüne çevirmezseniz veya başka bir yazarı öykünürken, zorlukların içine dalıp, utancınızdan veya kendiniz için koyduğunuz kurallar gereği işin içinden çıkılmaz bir durumda kalmazsanız, ele aldığınız konu sizin malınız olabilir [Bassnett-McGuire, 1980:44]. Bu sözlerden Cicero ve Horace'ın sözcüğü sözcüğüne yapılan çeviriye karşı çıktığını anlıyoruz. Her iki bilge de çevirmenlerin, bugün kullanılan terimlerle açıklayacak olursak, çeviri süreçlerini yönlendirmek istemekte ve süreç sırasında da ereğe öncelik vermelerini kesin bir ifadeyle önermektedirler 6. Onlar için önemli olan çevirinin kendi kültürleri için, kendi okurları için yapılmasıdır. Ancak biz Cicero ve Horace'ın zamanında birbirinden farklı yöntemlerle çeviri yapıldığını biliyoruz. Yani Cicero ve Horace kendi dönemlerinde farklı yöntemlerle yapılan çevirileri göz önüne almadan, kendi deneyimleri doğrultusunda çevirmenleri yönlendirmek istemişlerdir. Her ne kadar bu iki bilgenin sözlerinden onların çeviriye karşı gerçekçi bir tavır takındıklarını anlıyorsak da çeviriye ilişkin doğrulan kesin çizgilerle belirleme girişimi onları kuralcı yapmaktadır. Kısaca, Cicero ve Horace'in çeviri kuramına işaret eden bu çalışmalarında benimsedikleri tavır, bugünkü çeviribilim terimleriyle açıklayacak olursak, süreç-ağırlıklı, ereğe yönelik ve kuralcıdır. Fransız Etienne Dolet [1509-1546] ise bugünki anlamda ilk çeviri kuramcılarından. Dolet'nin çevirmenlere çeviri süreci sırasında yol göstermek amacıyla 1540 yılında yayımladığı La Maniire de bien traduire d'une langue en aultre (Bir Dilden Diğer bir Dile İyi Çeviri Nasıl Yapılır) başlıklı çalışması ilk çeviri kuramı çalışmalarından olduğu için çeviribilimde önemli bir yere sahip. Dolet'ye göre bir çevirmenin iyi çevir i yapabilmesi için şu noktalara dikkat etmesi gerekiyor: 1. Çevirmen özgün yazarın ne demek istediğini, içlemi ve anlamı, tam olarak anlamalıdır. Çevirmen anlaşılması güç noktalara açıklık getirmek özgürlüğüne sahiptir. 2. Çevirmenin kaynak dil ve erek dil üzerinde tam bir hakimiyeti olmalıdır. 3. Çevirmen sözcüğü sözcüğüne çeviriden kaçınmalıdır. 4. Çevirmen günlük dilde kullanılan konuşma biçimlerini kullanmalıdır. 5. Çevirmen, çevirisinde doğru titremi verebilmek için sözcükleri doğru bir biçimde seçmeli ve düzenlemelidir [Krş. Bassnett-McGuire, 1980:54] Bu kurallardan öncelikle Dolet'nin de çevirinin okur için yapıldığının bilincinde olduğunu anlıyoruz. Ancak bu Dolet'nin çeviri metni kaynak metne göre 28 Işın Bengi önplana çıkarttığı anlamına gelmemektedir. Dolet'ye göre çevirmen, çeviri süreci sırasında her ne karar alırsa alsın, bu karar özgün metindeki titremi "doğru" olarak verebilmek için alınmalıdır. Dolet'nin çevirmene tanıdığı hak özgün metnin çeviriye "doğru" olarak aktarılabilmesi içindir. Bu tavır Dolet'nin kuramında kaynak-odaklı olduğuna işaret etmektedir. Dolet, temelde kaynak-odaklı olan kuramında birkaç maddeyle çevirmenleri çeviri süreçlerinde yönlendirebilmek için bir dizi kural sunmaktadır. Yani Dolet'nin kuramında amaç, çeviri yapılabilmesi için "ilke ve kural" oluşturmaktır. Kısaca bu kuram süreç-ağırlıklı, kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı bir kuramdır. 17. yüzyıla imzasını atan yazar, çevirmen, eleştirmen ve kuramcı John Dryden [1631-1700] çevirinin birkaç kuralla yönlendirilemeyeceğinin farkında olduğu için, çeviri sorunlarını yazılarında etraflıca tartışmıştır. Dryden’a göre kökleri Cicero ve Horace'in yazılarında olan ikili çeviri modeli, yani sözcüğü sözcüğüne veya anlamı anlamına çeviri modeli, çeviri gerçeklerine cevap verememektedir. Dryden, hem sözcüğü hem anlamı koruyabilmek için çevirmenin gerektiğinde her ikisinden de uzaklaşabileceğim düşünmektedir [krş. Bengi, 1990a: 138; 1990b:22], Bu durumda ortaya çıkan çeviri Dryden'in terimiyle öykünmeye (mimesis) örnek olarak verilebilir. Yani Dryden kendi gününe kadar kabul gören ikili çeviri modeline bir üçüncü boyut eklemiştir. Ancak bu yöntemin çevirmenler tarafından uygulanmasını Dryden "[...] bir ölünün anısına ve ününe karşı işlenebilecek en büyük suç" [krş.Snell-Hornb.y,1988:11] olarak değerlendirmektedir. Ayrıca, bu üçüncü yolu, yani öykünmeyi, yeğleyen kişilerin çevirmen olarak adlandırılıp adlandırılamayacağı konusunda da Dryden'in kuşkuları vardır [Krş. Bengi, 1990a: 138]. Yani öneri ile değerlendirme arasında çelişki gözlenmektedir. Böyle bir çelişkinin altında yatan ise süreç-ağırlıklı ve kuralcı bir tavadan başka bir şey değildir. Dryden'in çevirmenlere çeviri süreçleri sırasında yol göstermek üzere kaleme aldığı ve birkaç maddede toplayabileceğimiz "İlkeler", kuramın temelleri konusunda bizi aydınlatmakta. "İlkeler" şöyle: 1. Şiir sanatında dehasınını kanıtlamış olmasının yanısıra yazarın dilinde ve kendi dilinde usta olmayan hiçbir kimse şiir çevirmeye muktedir değildir. 2. Sadece şairin dilini anlamamız [çeviri yapmamız için] yeterli değildir. Onu diğer şairlerden ayıran ve şair kişiliğini belirleyen özel düşünce ve anlatım biçimlerini anlamamız gerekir. 3. Benzer bir titizliği dış süslemeler, yani sözcükler konusunda göstermeliyiz. 4. Yazarın [oluşturduğu metnin] içlemi kutsaldır ve çiğnenmemelidir [Snell-Hornby,1988:12]. Yukarıda yapılan açıklamaları ve 4 maddede topladığımız çeviri ilkelerini incelediğimizde, çeviri kuramına çok önemli katkısı olan Dryden'in, yukarıda incelediğimiz öteki kuramcılar gibi, kuramında çeviri sürecini yönlendirmeyi amaçladığını ve çeviribilim terimiyle açıklayacak olursak kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı olduğunu anlarız. Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 29 Bir başka kuram çalışması da 1791 yılında Alexander Tytler tarafından yapılmış. Tytler'ın Essay on t he Principles o f Trans! ation (Çeviri İlkeleri Üzerine Bir Çalışma) başlıklı yazısında çeviri ilkeleri şöyle belirlenmiştir: 1. Çeviri özgün çalışmadaki düşüncelerin tamamını içermelidir. 2. [Çevirinin] yazı biçemi ve tarzı özgün çalışmayla aynı karakterde olmalıdır. 3. Çeviri özgün çalışma kadar rahat olmalıdır. [Bassnett-McGuire, 1980: 63]. Tytler, sözlerinde /-mEli/ emir kipi ekini kullanarak çeviride amacın özgün metnin biçemini ve özgün metindeki düşünceleri, özgün metnin rahatlığıyla okura aktarmak olduğunu vurgulamaktadır. Yani Tytler'ın kuramı, çeviribilim terimiyle kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı bir kuramdır. Belki de bu iki özellik nedeniyle, bu kuramda ilk dikkatimizi çeken çevirmene sunulan çelişkili görüşlerdir. Şair ve çevirmen Henry Wadsworth Longfellow da [1807-1881] çeviri üzerine görüşlerini ayrıntılı olarak yazmıştır. Dante'den yaptığı Divina Comedia (İlahi Komedi) çevirisini ele alarak çeviriye ilişkin görüşlerini Longfellovv şu sözlerle dile getirir: Benim kitabımın değerli olduğu tek yön kitabın Dante'nin söylediklerini aktarmasıdır.f...] Daııte'yi çevirirken birşeyden vazgeçmek gerekir. Bu, çit boyunca çiçeklenmiş hanımeli gibi güzel dizem mi olmalıdır ? Evet, dizemden daha değerli bir şeyi, yani sadakati, gerçeği, daha doğrusu çitin kendisini koruyabilmek için dizemden vazgeçmek gerekir. Çevirmenin görevi yazarın söylediklerini rapor etmektir, yazarın ne demek istediğini açıklamak değil. Bu.kitap üzerinde yorumda bulunan kişinin işidir. Yazarın ne dediği ve nasıl d e d iğ i, işte çev irm en in üzerinde d u racağ ı konu b udur [Bassnett-McGuire, 1980:70]. Longfellov/ bu sözleriyle şiir çevirmeninin görevini kesin çizgilerle belirlemiştir. Şiiri oluşturan öğelerden dizemin çevirisi onun için önemli değildir. Onun önemle üzerinde durduğu konu, yazarın düşünce ve sözlerinin çeviri sırasında hiçbir yorum yapılmadan aktarılmasıdır. Longfellow'a göre "yazarın ne dediği ve nasıl dediği" çeviriyi esas yönlendiren etmen olmalıdır. Bu sözlerden anlaşılacağı gibi Longfellov/ kurama karşı takındığı tavırda kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcıdır. Ancak o, çevirmenin neyi nasıl dediğiyle , dizem arasında bağ kurmamaktadır. Bu sözlerdeki çelişkiyi görmemek pek mümküm değil. Ne var ki Longfellovv'un çeviri kuramına karşı takındığı tavırda kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı olması bu çelişkinin nedenini anlamamızı sağlamaktadır. Amerikalı çeviri kuramcıları Eugene Nida ve Charles Taber de yaptıkları kuram çalışmalarıyla 20.yüzyıla imza atmış iki bilim adamı. Nida ve Taber, kuramlarında dikkatleri alıcı dil üzerinde toplayarak çeviriye yeni bir bakış açısı getirmeye çalışırlar. Onlara göre çeviri "kaynak dil iletisine en yakın doğal karşılığın alıcı dilde öncelikle anlamı ve sonra biçemi ön plana alarak yeniden üretilmesiyle oluşur" [Nida ve Taber,1982:12], Nida ve Taber için önemli olan iletinin çeviride kaynak dile en yakın doğal karşılığıyla oluşturulmasıdır. Çeviriye bakış açılarını bu şekilde belirleyen kuramcılar çeviri eğdeğerliği kavramını iki düzlemde ele alırlar : 30 Işın Bengi Çeviride kaynak dil iletisinin biçimsel özelliklerinin korunduğu biçimsel eğdeğerlik, ve erek dilde kaynak iletiyle eşdeğer etkinin yaratılmasını amaçlayan devingen eşdeğerlik. Nida ve Taber'in tercihleri devingen eşdeğerliğin korunması yolundadır. Kuramcılar tercihlerini şu sözlerle dile getirirler : [Çeviri] okurun anlayabileceği bilgiyi sunmakla yetinmemelidir. Çeviride ileti öyle bir biçimde sunulmalıdır ki okur iletinin duruma uygunluğunu [..] hissedebilsin ve sonra bir eylemle tepki verebilsin [Nida-Taber,1982:24], Çeviri okurunun çeviriye bir eylemle tepki verebilmesi için, alıcı kültüre özgü öğelerin çeviriye yansıması Nida ve Taber için kaçınılmazdır. Bu tepkiyi alabilmek için, özgün metinde ima edilen bilginin çeviride açıkça ortaya çıkartıldığı çeviri türü için kullandıkları "dilsel çeviri" [Nida-Taber, 1982:134,203] yeterli olmayabilir; alıcı kültürü gözönüne alarak metin üzerinde değişikliklerin yapıldığı "kültürel çeviriye" [Nida-Taber,1982:134-199 7] gereksinim duyulabilir. Ancak, devingen eşdeğerlik bağlamında bütün söylediklerine karşın, kuramcıların gözünde sadık çeviri, yasal olan çeviri, "dilsel çeviri"dir. "Kültürel çeviri" ise çevirmenin değil, "din erbabının, hocaların" işidir [Nida-Taber, 1982:134], Bu nokta kuram bağlamında çelişkili bir görüş olarak dikkatimizi çekmekte. Nida ve Taber'den burada yaptığımız alıntıları incelediğimizde, kuramcıların çevirmene çevirisinde belli özgürlükler tanıdığını anlarız. Ancak bu özgürlükler kaynak iletinin alıcıya etkili bir biçimde aktarılmasını sağlamak içindir. Ayrıca Nida ve Taber bu amaç doğrultusunda kuramlarında çevirmene birdizi kural sunmaktadırlar. Yani, onlar da kaynak-odaklı olarak betimleyebileceğimiz kuramlarında bir dizi kural sunarak çevirmeni çeviri sürecinde yönlendirmeyi amaçlamaktadırlar. Kısaca, bu kuramı kaynak-odaklı, süreç ağırlıklı ve kuralcı bir kuram olarak tanımlayabiliriz. Yukarıda kimi yönleriyle değindiğimiz çeviri kuramlarının ve kuramlara temel oluşturan çeviri üst yazılarının özelliklerini kısaca belirleyecek olursak, şöyle bir genellemeye gidebiliriz: 1. Bu kuramların hepsi çevirmeni çeviri sürecinde yönlendirmeyi amaçlamaktadır, yani bu kuramların hepsi süreç ağırlıklıdır. 2. Bu kuramların hepsi çeviri sürecini yönlendirebilmek için bir dizi "ilke ve kural" sunmaktadır, yani kuralcıdır. 3. Süreç-ağırlıklı ve kuralcı olan bu kuramlar, ister çevirmeni kaynak doğrultusunda, ister erek doğrultusunda yönlendirmeye çalışsınlar, kaynak-odaklıdır. i) Ağırlık noktası kaynak olan kuramlar, ağalık noktası olarak kaynağı benimsedikleri için çeviri gerçeklerinden kopuktur. Bu kopukluk sözkonusu kuramları bir dizi çelişkili kural haline getirmiştir, ii) Ağalık noktası erek olan kuramlar ise çeviri ereğe yönelik bir eylem olduğu için çeviri gerçeğine daha yakındır. Ancak kuramcının önsel olarak benimsediği çeviri (çevirmen) tanımı, kuramında sunduğu kuralların belirlediği çeviri (çevirmen) tanımından farklı olduğu için, yukarıda sözünü ettiğimiz çelişki ağırlık noktası erek olarak belirlenen bu kuramların da önemli bir özelliğidir. Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 31 Kısaca. Î.Ö. 2.yüzyıldan başlayarak 20.yüzyılın kabaca ilk yarısını içine alan sürede oluşan kuramların hepsi kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı ve kuralcıdırlar. Bu nedenle de çelişki bu kuramların belirgin bir özelliği olarak dikkatimizi çeker. Bu yazının sınırları içinde ancak kimi yönlerine değinebildiğimiz kuramların terimlerine bir göz atacak olursak bu kuramlarda niteleme sıfatlarına yer verildiğini ve bu sıfatları İYİ. DOĞRU, SADIK sözcüklerine indirgeyebileceğimizi görürüz. Şöyle ki, bu kuramların hepsinde amaç iyi, doğru çeviri yapılmasını sağlamaktır. Ağırlık noktası kaynak olan kuramlarda iyi/doğru çeviri kaynak dil / kaynak metin / kaynak yazar / kaynak kültüre sadık üretilen çeviridir. Kuramlarında ereği ön plana çıkartan kuramcılar ise iyi, doğru çevirinin, kaynak dil / kaynak metin / kaynak yazar / kaynak kültüre tam sadakatle çözülemeyeceği görüşündedirler. Yani bu kuramların hepsinde iyi çeviri, doğru çeviri ve sadık çeviri kavramlarının kuramları oluşturucu işlevi vardır. Ancak kuramların sunduğu kurallar incelendiğinde, amaçlanan iyi, doğru çeviri düzeyinin, çevirmen tarafından ulaşılması mümkün olmayan bir düzey, daha doğrusu, ülküsel, soyut bir düzey olduğunu anlarız. Bu kuramlarda kullanılan ve sözkoııusu ülküsel, soyut düzeye işaret eden niteleme sıfatları bir bakıma kuramların özünde varolan çelişkiden kaynaklanmakta, bir bakıma da bu kuramlarda saptadığımız çelişkilerin oluşmasına neden olmaktadır. Bu kuramların ayrılmaz bir parçası olan "çelişki", özellikle çeviri eleştirisi alanında açık olarak kendini göstermektedir. Süreç-ağırlıklı, kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı kuramlar çerçevesinde yapılan çeviri eleştirisinde, eleştirmen çeviri gerçekleriyle hiçbir bağı olmayan eleştirel görüşlerini ve beğenisini' adeta çeviride ulaşılması mümkün ve değişmez özellik gösteren bir düzey varmışçasına (ama bu düzeye ilişkin bütünlük içinde somut örnek vermeden) sunmaktadır. Bu tür eleştirilerle karşı karşıya kalan ve hep "eksikli" durumda olan çevirmen ise kendisinden ne beklendiğini doğal olarak anlayamamaktadır. Bu tavır sözkonusu kuramların özünde varlığını sürdüren çelişkinin çeviri eleştirisine yansımasından başka birşey değildir. içinde bulunduğumuz yıllarda ise çeviribilimde ve çeviri kuramı çalışmalarında köklü değişiklikler gözlenmektedir.Bu değişiklikler içinde kimileri çeviri kuramlarına ilişkin yukarıdaki incelemede saptadığımız özellikleri temelde değiştirmemekte, ancak ayrıntıda kurama daha gerçekçi bir görünüm vermektedir. Kimi değişiklikler ise kurama bakış açısını ve kuramın çeviriye bakış açısını köktenci bir biçimde değiştirmektedir. Bu yazıda üzerinde durmak istediğimiz ikinci gruba giren değişiklikler. Bu değişiklikleri bize toplu olarak sunan kuram ise 1970'li yıllardan bu yana Israilli çeviri kuramcısı Gideon Toury'nin oluşturduğu erek-odaklı çeviri kuramı.8 Bu kuramın çeviriye bakış açısı kısaca şöyle : 1. Çeviri metin gözlemlenebilir bir olgudur. Çeviri süreci ise gözleme doğrudan açık değildir. Bu nedenle çeviriye ilişkin araştırmaların başlangıç noktasını gözlemlenebilir olguların, yani çeviri metinlerin, oluşturması doğaldır [Krş. Toury, 1985:18]. 2. Betimleyici alanını geliştirmeyen görgül bilimlerin tam ve özerk olabilmesi mümkün değildir. Görgül bilimlerin, görgül olmayan bilimlerden farkı, görgül bilimlerin bilim dalının alanını oluşturan 32 Işın Bengi nesneleri sistemli bir biçimde betimlemek, açıklamak, bu nesneler üzerinde araştırma yapmak üzere kurulmuş olmalarıdır [Krş. Toury,1985: 16]. 3. Görgül bir bilim dalı, kuramı temel alarak kendi konusuna gönderme yapar. Bilim dalının amacı nesnelerin betimlenmesi olarak belirlenmiştir. Betimleme eylemi sonucunda elde edilen veriler sayesinde kuram sürekli denetim altında tutulur ve gerektiğinde üzerinde değişiklikler yapılabilir [Krş. Toury, 1985:16]. Bu bilgiler doğal olarak çeviribilimin uygulamalı alanına yansır. 4. Madde 3'te verilen bilgilerden anlaşılacağı gibi, çeviribilimin alanları bilimdalının merkezi durumundaki ve olan ilişkilerin saptandığı betimleyici alan, olabilecek ilişkilerin belirlendiği kuram alanı ve olması gereken ilişkilerin belirlendiği uygulamalı alandır. Betimleyici alanda eşsüremli ve artsüremli olarak yapılan araştırmalarda elde edilen bilgiler kurama sağlam bir veri tabanı oluşturacak ve böyle bir veri tabanını temel alan kuram da uygulamalı alanda yapılan çalışmalara gerçekçi bir görünüm verecektir Krş.Toury, 1985:35]. 5. Çeviri amaca yönelik bir eylemdir ve çevirinin sadece erek dizgede gerçekliği vardır. Erek dizgenin gerçekliği olan çeviri, erek dizgenin öteki gerçekleriyle (aynı zaman diliminde ya da geçmişte üretilen çeviri ve özgün ürünlerle) etkileşim halindedir [Krş.Toury, 1985:18-19], 6. Çeviri erek dizgenin gerçekliği olduğu için, çeviri üzerine yapılacak betimleyici çalışmalarda, çeviri metin incelemenin başlangıç noktası olarak kabul edilir. Böylelikle, araştırmacının dikkati kaynak metnin (kültürün, dizgenin vb) çeviride yarattığı sorunlardan çok, çeviride saptanan çözümler üzerine çekilir [Krş. Toury, 1985: 21-32]. 7. Ancak bu [Madde 6] çeviri metnin kaynak metinle olan ilişkisini yadsımak anlamında değildir. Çeviri metnin çıkış noktası doğal olarak kaynak metindir ve çeviri metin kaynak metinle eşdeğerlik ilişkisi içindedir. Ancak, eşdeğerlik kavramı bağlamında çeviri araştırmalarını yönlendirecek soru, çeviri metnin kaynak metnin eşdeğeri olup olmadığı değil, iki metin arasında ne tür ve derecede eşdeğerlik olduğudur [Krş. Toury, 1980:115]. 8. Çeviri eşdeğerliği mutlak bir kavram olmayıp, değişiklik gösteren, tarihsel bir kavramdır. Erek metin ve kaynak metin arasında saptanan ilişkiler içinde hangilerinin eşdeğerlik ilişkisi olduğunu belirleyecek etmenler ise çeviri normları bağlamında ele alınabilir [Toury,1980:115]. 9. Çeviri normları çeviri süreci sırasında her aşamada etkin bir rol oynar. Normlar üzerine yapılacak bir araştırma iki yönlü olarak sürdürülebilir : i) Süreç-öncesi çeviri normları: çevirmenin çeviriye başlamadan önce aldığı çeviri kararlarını kapsar. Bu kararlar kısaca hangi metnin çevrilmek üzere seçildiğine ve seçimin nedenlerine, çevirinin hangi dilden yapıldığına, Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 33 çeviri için seçilen kaynak metnin ana metin mi ara metin mi olduğuna ilişkin kararlardır, ii) Çeviri-süreci normları : çevirmenin çeviri süreci sırasında, yani çeviriyi yaparken, aldığı kararlan kapsar. Bu kararlar dil malzemesinin metin içi dağılımına ve bu malzemenin metin içinde nasıl kullanıldığına, biçimlendirildiğine ilişkin kararlardır. Bu iki ana başlık dışında, bir de öncül norm'dan söz edilebilir. Bu norm, çevirmenin çeviriye ilişkin önsel olarak belirlediği tavrı konu alır. Çevirmen bu tavır doğrultusunda çevirisini ya kaynak-dizge normlarına öncelik vererek yapar ve yeterli çeviri üretir, ya erek-dizge normlarına öncelik vererek yapar ve kabul edilebilir çeviri üretir. Ortaya çıkan çeviri her iki durumda da kaynak metinle eşdeğerlik ilişkisi içindedir [Krş. Madde 6&7; Toury, 1980: 52-57; Türkçe terimler için krş. Bengi,1992b], Yukarıdaki maddelerden anlaşılacağı üzere, son yirmi yılın ürünü olan bu kuram, çeviribilimde bilim adamlarının kendi alanlarına bakış açısını değiştirmiştir. Bu kuram sayesinde dikkatler çeviri sürecinden, süreci de içine alacak biçimde çeviri ürünlerine; çeviri sorunlarından, sorunu da içine alacak biçimde çeviri çözümlerine; kaynaktan, kaynağı da içine alacak biçimde ereğe; eşsüremle sınırlı bir bakış açısından, eşsüremi de içine alacak biçimde artsüremli bir bakış açısına; kuralcı yaklaşımlardan, kuralcı yaklaşımları da içine alacak biçimde betimleyici yaklaşımlara yönelmiştir. Yani bu yaklaşım, ürün-, çözüm-, erek-odaklı, tarihsel, ilişkisel, işlevsel, devingen, dizgesel ve betimleyici bir yaklaşımdır. Çeviri değerlendirmesi bağlamında ise 22 yüzyıl boyunca etkisini sürdüren süreç-ağırlıklı, kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı kuramlar çerçevesinde yaygın olarak ve çeviride ülküsel,soyut, ulaşılması mümkün olmayan bir durumu nitelemede kullanılan İYİ, DOĞRU, SADIK gibi sıfatların bu kuram çerçevesinde kullanılmadığı dikkatimizi çeker. Erek-odaklı kuramda bu gibi niteleme sıfatları yerlerini tarihsel ve değişken özellik gösteren bir kavram olan çeviri normlarına ve ancak çeviri normları bağlamında anlam kazanan değişken, ilişkisel ve tarihsel bir kavram olan çeviri eşdeğerliğine bırakmıştır. Eşdeğerlik kavramı bağlamında tanıtılan ve yaygın olarak kullanılan terimler ise çevirmenin kaynak-dizge normlarına görece önem vererek ürettiği çeviriyi nitelemede kullanılan yeterli çeviri terimi ve çevirmenin erek-dizge normlarına görece önem vererek ürettiği çeviriyi nitelemede kullanılan kabul edilebilir çeviri terimleridir. Kısaca bu kurama göre önemli olan çevirinin nasıl yapılması gerektiği değil, çevirinin neden, nasıl yapıldığı ve işlevinin ne o ld u ğ u d u r. Y ani bu k u ra m ın ç e v ir iy e k a rşı b e n im se d iğ i ta v ır ve k u ra m çereçevesinde sunulan terimler gücünü çeviri gerçeklerinden almaktadır. Bu nedenle de yukarıda sözünü ettiğimiz süreç-ağırlıklı, kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı kuramların özünde bulunan çelişki bu kuram için sözkonusu değildir. Böyle bir bakış açısıyla yapılan çeviri eleştirisinde öncelikle çeviri metnin oluşumunda etkili olan normların ve kısıtlamaların belirlenmesi, çeviri metnin erek dizge/kültür içindeki yerinin ve işlevinin saptanması beklenmektedir. Doğal olarak bu yaklaşım doğrultusunda yapılan eleştirilerde çeviri metin-kaynak metin ilişkisi de 34 Işın Bengi önemlidir. Ancak bu ilişki eleştiride önemle üzerinde durulması gereken tek ilişki değil, üzerinde durulması gereken ilişkilerden sadece biridir. Çeviride ülküsel, soyut bir gerçekliği simgeleyen özgün metin, çeviri eleştirisinde yalnızca varsayımsal bir yapı özelliği taşır. Bu kuram çerçevesinde eleştirisini kaleme alan eleştirmen çevirilerin birtakım normlar ve kısıtlamalar altında üretildiğinin farkında olduğu gibi, kendi eleştirisinin de birtakım normlar ve kısıtlamalar altında kaleme alındığının çok iyi farkındadır. Böylelikle, çeviri eleştirisinde öznel görüş ve beğeniden, nesnelliğe ve bilimselliğe doğru önemli bir adım atılmış olur. 3. Bir Üst-Eleştiri Çalışması Yukarıda sözünü ettiğimiz gibi çeviri eleştirisinin bilimsel bir uğraş olmasıyla, çeviri kuramı-çeviri eleştirisi ilişkisi arasında doğrudan bağ kurulabilir. Ancak bu yazının konusu olan eleştirel bilincin oluşması belli bir kuramın hiç sorgulanmadan kabul edilmesi ve eleştiriye temel alınmasıyla değil, eleştirinin temelini oluşturan kuramların sağlıklı bir biçimde sorgulanabilmesiyle mümkündür. Eleştirilerin ne oranda bilimsel olduğunu ve eleştirmenlerin, eleştirel bilincin oluşmasına ne oranda katkıda bulunduklarını anlamak için öncelikle ülkemizde çeviri eleştirisinin durumunu belirlememiz gerekir. Böyle bir durum belirlemesi ancak geniş çaplı araştırmaların yapılmasıyla mümkün olabilir. Bu yazıda sınırlı bütünce üzerinde çeviri eleştirisi normlarını betimlemeye yönelik bir inceleme yapılacaktır. Elde edilen sonuçlar doğrultusunda çeviri kuramı-çeviri eleştirisi ilişkisi ve bu ilişki çerçevesinde eleştirel bilincin durumu konusunda kimi saptamalarda bulunulacaktır. İncelemenin temelini oluşturacak bütünce Metis Çeviri dergisinin 9.sayısında (1989 Güz) çıkan ve içinde eleştirel görüşlere yer verilen yazılardır.9 Bütüncenin belirlenmesinde öznellik ve raslantısallıktan bir ölçüde olsun kaçabilmek için böyle bir seçim yapılmıştır. Üst-eleştirinin konusunu oluşturacak bu metinlerin dökümü önce dergide yazının hangi üst başlık altında çıktığı belirtilerek, sonra yazarın ve makalenin adı ve sayfa numaralan verilerek aşağıya çıkartılmıştır. Köşeli ayraç içinde verilen sayı ise sözkonusu metinlerin bu incelemede ele alındıkları bölümü göstennektedir. ÇEVİRİ TARİHİNDEN Suat KARANTAY, "Türkiye'de Oyun Çevirisi Tarihine Kısa Bir Bakış", 87-91. [3.1] GENÇ ÇEVİRMENLER Azmi ÖZKARDEŞ, "Sözlüksel Uyumluluk Bağlamında 'Masa da Masaymış Ha!", 105-111. [3.2] ÇEVİRİYLE YAŞIYORUZ Necmiye ALPAY, "Türkçe Okurken, İkide Bir...", 112-123. [3.3] ÇEVRİLM EM İŞ YAPITLARA ÖNSÖZLER Suat KARANTAY, "Tennessee Williams ve 'Sırça Kümes", 124-128. [3.4] ÇEVİRİ ELEŞTİRİLERİ Berna, Sevil, "Karaağaçlar Altında", 129-131.[3.5] Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 35 İnceleme sırasında bütünceyi oluşturan metinlerin konusuna kısaca değinilecektir. Sonra bu incelemede belirlenen amaç doğrultusunda şu noktalar üzerinde durulacaktır: i) Yazının temelini oluşturan kuramsal çerçeve. (Bu noktayı aydınlığa çıkartabilmek için bu konuda yazarın okuruna doğrudan verdiği bilgiler, kullandığı kaynaklar ve kullandığı terimler dikkate alınacaktır.) ii) Eleştiriye temel alman metnin incelenmesinde kullanılan yöntem ya da incelemenin yapısı. iii) Yazarın eleştirel görüşlerini belirtmede, yani çeviri değerlendirmesinde kullandığı sözcükler, ifadeler. (Bu kısımda yalnızca yazarın değerlendirmesini gösteren sözcüklere, ifadelere yer verilecektir. Özgün metinden alınan örnekler ve Türkçe karşılıkları bu yazıda sürdürülen tartışmaya herhangi bir katkıda bulunmayacağı için yazının bütünlüğü bakımından gerekmedikçe alıntılanmayacaktır.) Bu incelemede, incelemeye konu edilen metinlerin yazarları (yani aşağıda 3.1; 3.2; 3.3; 3.4 ve 3.5 maddeleri altında incelenen metinlerin yazarları) "yazar" ya da "eleştirmen" olarak anılacaklardır. İncelemeye konu edilen metinler içinde görüşleri alıntılanan bilimadamlarına/araştırmacılara/eleştirmenlere/kuramcılara vd ise "uzman" olarak gönderme yapılacaktır. "Çevirmen" de "yazari’ın incelemesinde konu edilen metinleri çeviren kişilere gönderme yapmak için kullanılacaktır. Bu incelemede özgün metnin, özgün metin yazarının, çeviri metnin, çevirmenin ve incelemeyi yapan yazarın adına, gerekmedikçe değinilmeyecektir. 3.1 Suat Karantay, "Türkiye'de Oyun Çevirisi Tarihine Kısa Bir Bakış" Bu yazıda Türkiye'de oyun çevirileri tarihsel boyutta ele alınmıştır. Yazının amacı oyun çevirisi eleştirisi yapmak değildir. Bu nedenle olsa gerek sözkonusu yazı dergide ÇEVİRİ TARİHİNDEN üst başlığı altında çıkmıştır. Ancak yazar tarihsel incelemesinde oyun çevirilerine ilişkin eleştirel görüşlerine sıklıkla yer vermiştir. Bu nedenle de incelememizde konu edilmektedir. İncelemede, ne incelemenin temelini oluşturan kuramsal çerçeveye ne de incelemenin yöntemine ilişkin bilgi verilmiştir. Metin içinde kullanılan ve "Kaynakça"da dökümü yapılan kaynaklar da bu konuya açıklık getirmemektedir. Yazarın yaklaşımının temelini oluşturan kuramsal çerçeveyi belirleyebilmemiz için yazarın eleştirel görüşlerini belirtmede kullandığı dili incelememiz gerekiyor. Kullanılan dili belli bir çerçeve içinde sunabilmek için yazının yapısına kısaca değinelim. Yazıda, hem yabancı dillerden Türkçeye yapılan (oyun) çeviriler(i), hem de Türkçeden yabancı dillere yapılan (oyun) çeviriler(i) üzerinde durulmaktadır. Yabancı dillerden Türkçeye yapılan oyun çevirilerine ilişkin, yazıda, bir yandan Tanzimat dönemi, İstibdat ve Meşrutiyet dönemi, Cumhuriyet dönemi (1940 yılına kadar) olmak üzere dönemlerden, bir yandan da Tercüme Odası, Encümen-i Dâniş, Tercüme 36 Işın Bengi Cemiyeti, Tercüme Bürosu olmak üzere çeviri tarihimizde önemli birer yeri olan devlet kuruluşlarından söz edilmektedir. Türkçeden yabancı dillere yapılan çeviriler bağlamında ise Uluslararası Tiyatro Enstitüsünden söz edilmektedir. Yazı, Türk oyunlarının yabancı dillere çevrilmesinin önemini vurgulayan bir alıntı ve iki yönlü olarak istenilen düzeyde çevirilerin yapılabilmesini sağlayacak kimi görüşlerle son bulur. İncelemesinde yazar sözkonusu dönemlerde ve sözkonusu kuruluşlarda yapılan çevirilere ilişkin eleştirel görüşlerini belirtmiştir. Örneğin, Tanzimat döneminde yapılan oyun çevirilerinin "büyük bölümü", yazara göre, "ciddi çalışmalar olarak değerlendirilemez" [s. 87 10], Bu yargıdan hemen önce yazar Metin And'a gönderme yaparak K.Tüysüz adlı bir çevirmenin 1849 tarihinde yaptığı Zorla Hekim çevirisine değinmiş ve çeviriye ilişkin And'ın şu görüşlerini alıntılamıştır : "(...) [oyun] yer yer söz diziminde ufak tefek yanlışlara karşın, bugün bile sahnelerimizde oynanabilecek duru bir Türkçe'yle [çevrilmiştir]" [s.87]. Bu alıntı metinde Tanzimat dönemi çevirilerine ilişkin görüş belirtilen tek alıntıdır. Alıntıda aktarılan bilgiyle, Tanzimat döneminde yapılan oyun çevirilerine ilişkin yazarın öne sürdüğü görüşleri arasında büyük bir çelişki gözlenmektedir. Yazar, İstibdat ve Meşrutiyet dönemlerini içine alan ve 1940’lı yıllara kadar uzanan zaman diliminde üretilen oyun çevirilerinde de "çeviri niteliğinin yükseltmediği]" [s.87] görüşünde olduğunu belirtmiştir. Bu yargı temellendirilmemiştir. Yazara göre Cumhuriyet dönemi öncesinde çeviri alanında faaliyet gösteren Tercüme Odası (1832), Encümen-i Dâniş (1850), Tercüme Cemiyeti (1866) gibi devlet kuruluşları "çeviri tarihimizde iz bırakmamışlardır] [s.87]. En azından o dönemlerde çeviri yapan kişilerin çoğunun bu kuruluşlarda yetiştirildiği ya da çalıştığını bildiğimizden temellendirilmeyen bu yargıya nasıl varıldığı metinden anlaşılmamaktadır. Yazar belli bir tarihe kadar üretilen oyun çevirilerinin niteliğine ilişkin olumsuz görüşlerini metin içinde "Tercüme Bürosu döneminden önce Türkçe'ye çevrilmiş ve basılmış oyun sayısı fazla değildir; bu çevirilerin çoğu ciddi değerlendirmelere konu oluşturacak düzeyin çok altındadır" [s.89] diyerek yinelemiştir. Yazara göre, sözkonusu Tercüme Bürosu döneminde de, kimi "oldukça başarılı" çeviri dışında "sözü edilmeye değer çeviriler yoktur" ve "bu dönemde yabancı dil bilen herkes, rasgele oyun çevirmiştir" [s.89]. Yazar, içinde bulunduğumuz dönemde yapılan oyun çevirilerinde ise "belli bir düzeyin tutturulduğu" [s.89] görüşündedir. Yine yazara göre, bu dönemde kimi çevirmenler "titiz, dikkatli, başarılı oyun çevirisi örnekleri vermişlerdir" [s.89]. Yazar, oyun çevirilerinin niteliğine ilişkin görüşlerini bu sözlerle dile getirdikten sonra, Türkiye’de çeviri eleştirisinin durumuna ilişkin görüşlerini de belirtir. Yazara göre ülkemizde çeviri eleştirisi "genelde yıkıcı, yıldırıcı karalamalardan öteye pek geçmez - yapıcı çeviri eleştirisi neredeyse yok gibidir" [s.89-90]. Yazar, bu tutumu dilbilim kuramlarının çeviriye yansıması sonucu eleştirmenlerin eleştirilerine konu ettikleri çevirilerde sözcük ve tümce düzeyinde eşdeğerlik aramalarına bağlar ve böyle bir çözümleme sonucunda çevirinin "doğru" olup olmadığının saptanabileceğini belirtir [s.90], Ancak , yazara göre "çeviride salt doğru çeviri değil, güzel çeviri de amaçlanır"[s.90]. Bu sözlerden, yazana çevirmenden "doğru" ve "güzel" çeviri üretmesini beklediğini, eleştirmenden de eleştirisinde "doğru" ve "güzel" çeviri üretilmesini desteklemek amacıyla "yapıcı" Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 37 olmasını beklediği anlamını çıkartabiliriz. Yani yazar için çeviri eleştirisini yönlendiren anahtar sözcükler, tanımlanmamış "doğru" ve "güzel" niteleme sıfatlarıdır. Yazarın eleştirel görüşlerinin temelini oluşturan kuramsal çerçeveyi belirlemede yararlanmak üzere yukarıda örneklediğimiz alıntılardan şu sonucu çıkartabiliriz: i) Yazar, çeviriye çevirinin üretildiği dizgenin, çevresiyle devingen etkileşim halinde olan bir parçası olarak değil, çevresinden soyutlanmış bir olgu olarak yaklaşmaktadır. Bu nedenle olsa gerek, yazar, oyun çevirilerinin niteliğine ilişkin olumsuz görüşlere sahiptir, ii) Yazar için çevirinin neden ve nasıl üretildiği önem taşımamaktadır; onun için önemli olan çevirinin niteliğidir. Çeviri niteliğinden ne anlaşılması gerektiği ise yazıda belirtilmemiştir, iii) Yazarın önerisi, Türkiye'de oyun çevirisi niteliğini yükseltmek için çeviri sürecini yönlendirecek birtakım ilkelerin resmi kuruluşlar aracılığıyla oluşturulmasıdır. Kısaca, yazarın incelemesinin temelinde süreç-ağırlıklı, kuralcı, kaynak-odaklı bir yaklaşımın izleri görülmektedir. İncelemede saptanan çelişkili görüşler de ola ki bu yaklaşımdan kaynaklanmaktadır. 3.2 Azmi Özkardeş, "Sözlüksel Uyumluluk Bağlamında 'Masa da Masaymış Ha!" Yazar, dergide GENÇ ÇEVİRMENLER üst başlığı altında çıkan incelemesinde Türkçe bir şiiri ve bu şiirin bir çevirisini ele almakta; İngiliz dilbilimci M.A.K. Halliday'in metin çözümlemesi bağlamında önerdiği bir model doğrultusunda önce özgün metni incelemekte, sonra yine bu çerçeve içinde metnin çevirisine ilişkin eleştirel görüşlerini belirtmektedir. Yazar, metnin çevirisinde saptadığı "eksikler ve soruıılar"ı [s. 107] göz önünde bulundurarak yaptığı kendi çevirisini de ekte okurlara sunmaktadır. Yukarıda değindiğimiz gibi, inceleme belli bir kuramsal çerçeve içinde yapılmıştır. Hem metin içinde özetlenerek sunulan bu kuramsal çerçeveden hem bu çerçeve dışında sunulan kimi bilgilerden, yazarın çeviri ve çeviri eleştirisine karşı benimsediği tavır hakkında fikir sahibi oluyoruz. Metin içinde alıntı yapılan ve kaynakçada dökümü yapılan kaynaklar çeviriye karşı benimsenen tutumun açık bir göstergesi. Halliday'in "sözlüksel uyumluluk yordamı"na dayalı olan ve inclemenin temelini oluşturan görüşlere göre "...Kabul edilebilir bir sözlüksel anlam ilişkisi içinde bulunan her çift sözlük birimi arasında bir uyumluluk vardır [.. ve] herhangi bir metin içerisinde yer alan sözcükler arasındaki ilişki raslantısal değildir. Bu iliş k ile r b elirli alt b a şlık la r altın d a t o p l a n a b i l i r : ’y in e le m e '[..], ’eşdizimlilik’ [..], 'karşıtlık' [..], 'eşanlamlılık' [..], 'üstlük' [..]" [s.105]. Yazar, bu çerçeve içinde Türkçe şiirdeki "sözlüksel birimleri" saptar, saptanan kullanımların şiirin yorumlanmasındaki önemini belirler ve bu inceleme doğrultusunda özgün metin ve çeviri metin arasında bir karşılaştırma yapar. Bu karşılaştırma sonucu çeviri metindeki "eksikler ve sorunlar" belirlenir. İncelemeye aynı şiirin yazar tarafından yapılan bir çevirisi de eklemiştir. Yazıda, bu çevirinin karşılaştırmalı inceleme 38 Işın Bengi sırasında saptanan "eksikler ve sorunlar" göz önüne alınarak yapıldığı belirtilmiştir. Yazarın özgün metin üzerinde yaptığı incelemenin bilimselliği kuşku g ö tü rın ez,Ç ev rilecek metni yo ru m lam ad a bu gibi çözüm leyici yaklaşım ların ö n em ini yadsıyamayız. Ancak böyle bir yaklaşımla elde ettiğimiz sonuçların, çeviriye aynen yansımasını beklememiz, şiir çevirisini çeviri gerçeklerinden koparır. Özgün metni, metnin farklı boyutlarını ele alarak inceleyen bir başka araştırmacı / çevirmen /eleştirmen de yazarın "eksikler ve sorunların [...] ışığında" yaptığı çevirisini kendi incelemesi doğrultusunda eksikli ve sorunlu bulabilir. Bu gerçeğe yazar da incelemesinin "Sonuç" bölümünde şu sözlerle değinmektedir: "Bu yazı ve çeviri ile amaçlanan, çeviri olayına farklı bir yaklaşım, farklı bir bakış açısı getirmek, başka bir deyişle [çevirmenin] çevirisinin yanı sıra ve onunla birliklte, bu şiirin farklı da yorumlanabileceğini göstermekti. Özet olarak, doğruya giden yolun zenginlikten geçtiğini dile getirmekti istenen. Tek bir doğru olup olmadığı ise bu yazının boyutlarım aşan bir sorun" [s. 107], Bu sözleri incelemeyi değerlendirmede çıkış noktası olarak alırsak, inceleme içinde söz edilen "eksikler ve sorunlar" [s. 107] ifade olarak bu sözlerle çelişmektedir. Yazar, incelemesinde genelde çeviri ve çeviri kuramlarına ilişkin çeviri kuramcılarının, çeviribilimcilerin görüşlerine yer vermiş ve kendi görüşlerine de değinmiştir. Bu görüşleri yazarken kullanılan kimi ifadeler yazarın çeviri kuramına ilişkin tavrını aydınlatıcı niteliktedir. Örneğin, incelemenin "Sunuş" kısmında yazar, "[..] kuramların uygulayıcıları çevirmenler ise [..] çeviri süreci içerisinde, [..] bu kuramlar yelpazesinin şu veya bu noktasında yer alıyorlar", [s. 105] derken büyük bir olasılıkla çeviri sürecini yönlendirmeyi amaçlayan kuralcı kuramlardan söz etmektedir. Aynı biçimde,"[..] aynı çevirmen tarafından gerçekleştirilmiş farklı çeviri ürünlerinde çeviri kuramları açısından tam bir tutarlılık veya uyum olası değil", [s. 105] derken yine süreç-ağırlıklı, kuralcı, hatta kaynak-odaklı kuramlara gönderme yapmaktadır. Yazarın aynı bölümde yer verdiği "[..] çevirisiz de, çeviri ile de yapılamıyor" [s.105] ifadesi ve şiir çevirisi bağlamında "[..] çevrilemeyecek, çevrilmemesi gereken şiirler" [s.105] olduğunu düşünmesi incelemenin geniş çerçevesini süreç-ağırlıklı, kuralcı ve kaynak-odaklı kuramların bizlere aşıladığı görüşlerin oluşturduğuna işaret etmektedir. Kısaca, inceleme, süreç-ağırlıklı, kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı kuramların çizgisinde yapılmıştır. 3.3 Necmiye Alpay, "Türkçe Okurken, İkide Bir ..." Yazar, dergide ÇEVİRİYLE YAŞIYORUZ üst başlığı altında çıkan yazısında çeviri yoluyla Türkçeye giren dil yanlışları üzerinde durmakta. Yazıda "İyelik Sorunu (Sahip!)", "Adıl Sorunu (o, onlar ve halleri!)", "Sözdizimi Sorunları", "Fiillerde Çoğul Ekleri" gibi "yapısal olduğu düşünfülen]" sorunlar ve "yalnızca.... kalmayıp, aynı zamanda ...." kalıbı gibi kimi kalıplar; "İzin vermemek", "bir", "altında", "üye", "iyileştirme", "ödünç almak" gibi sözcük düzeyinde kimi kullanımlar üzerinde duruluyor. İnceleme sırasında önce çeviri (ya da özgün) metinden alıntı yapılıyor ve dil yanlışı belirtiliyor. Alıntıyı ise yanlışın düzeltildiği bir öneri izliyor. Dilbilim Anıştırmaları 1993 39 Metinde, incelemenin kuramsal çerçevesine ilişkin bilgi verilmemiştir; bu konuya açıklık getirebilecek bir kaynakça da yoktur. Bu nedenle, metnin kuramsal çerçevesini anlayabilmemiz için metin-içi inceleme yapmamız gerekiyor. İncelemede, dil yanlışlarına duyulan tepki şu sözlerle dile getiriliyor; "İkide bir. irkilten yanlışlar yüzünden kendini metnin içeriğini değil dilini okur durumda yakalamak ve bu yüzden sık sık, yanlışı kafada ya da metin üstünde düzeltip bu kez içerik için, yeniden okumak zorunda kalmak; böylece dil ve çeviri yanlışlarına gitgide artan bir tepki duymak [..]" [s.112]. Böyle bir tepkiyle incelemesine başlayan yazar, bu sözlerden de anlaşılayacağı gibi, incelemesinde yalnızca dil yanlışları üzerinde durur. Bu yanlışlar çeviri yoluyla Türkçeye, yani erek dile giren yanlışlardır. Bu bakımdan, incelemenin, erek dil kullanımına ağırlık verilen bir inceleme olduğu açıktır. Yazıda, kullanılan örneklerin hangi metinlerden alındığına, yazar/çevirmenin kim olduğuna, metnin yayım tarihine ve örneğin nasıl bir bağlam içinde kullanıldığına ilişkin bilgi verilmemektedir. Bu bilgilerin eksikliği, yazarın verdiği kimi örnekleri değerlendirmeyi güçleştirmekte. "İyelik Sorunu (Sahip!)” başlığı altında verilen bir örneğe bakalım ; "Birkaç kişi bu görkemli ahlaki niteliklere sahip olabilir. [..]" "Türkçesi: 'Birkaç kişide bu görkemli ahlaki nitelikler bulunabilir, [..]" [s.113] Burada, her iki örneğin de duruma göre kullanılabileceği dikkatimizi çekiyor. Birinci örnekte yazarın "sahip" sözcüğünü seçmesi ola ki aynı metin içinde yazarın önerdiği ve eşanlamlı öteki sözcükleri sıklıkla kullanmış olmasındandır. Ya da yazar böyle bir kullanımla sözcüğü vurgulamak istiyor olabilir. Ayrıca, "duruma uygunluk" dışında çevirmenin/yazarm sözcük seçimindeki tercihi de, başka şeylerin yanısıra, göz önünde bulundurulabilir, belki. Bu ve benzeri noktaların aydınlığa kavuşabilmesi için elimizde tümce parçasından daha geniş bir metin ve metnin üretilmesine ilişkin başka bilgilerin olması gerekiyor. Yazar, "sahip" sözcüğünün kullanımını pek çok örnekle sunduktan sonra, görüşlerini şöyle belirtiyor: Görüldüğü gibi "sahip" sorunu, Türkçe'deki iyelik anlatım olanaklarına sırt çevirmeye yol açmış. Üstelik bizi "olmak" gibi Türkçe'ye fazlaca yüklenen bir fiilden de kurtarmıyor. Kendi payıma, herhangi bir yararını göremiyorum. "Sahip" yaygınlığının başlıca nedeni, batı dillerinin yukarıda sözünü ettiğim etkisi altında, kolaycılığa kaçılması olmalı ("’to have", "avoir", vb okullarda "sahip olmak", "malik olmak" diye öğretilmiyor mu?). [..]. [s. 114], Yazar, "sahip" sorununun "Türkçedeki anlatım olanaklarına sırt çevirmeye yol aç"tığını düşünüyor. Ancak, bu sözcüğün Türkçedeki kullanımına ilişkin elimizde sayısal bilgi olmadan, yalnızca kendi seçtiğimiz örnekleri ele alarak genellemeye gitmemiz ve böyle bir genelleme sonucu sözcüğün yararlı olmadığı sonucuna varmamız, Türkçenin söz varlığına zarar verebilir. 40 Işın Bengi Bir başka örnek şöyle : "yalnızca adıl kullanımında yanlış yapmakla kalmayıp, aynı zamanda Bu kalıp da Türkçe'nin gereksiz yere kalabalıklaşmasına yol açanlardan. 'Kalmayıp' diyorsak, ’yalnızca'ya gerek kalmıyor. Bu 'yalnızca' korkarım 'not only ... but' tâki (non seulement, vb.) 'yalnızca'dır ve yalnızca, 'kalmayıp' değil de 'değil' kullanıyorsak yerli yeriııdedir: 'Yalnızca adıl kullanımında değil, iyelik kullanımında da yanlışlar yapılıyor,' gibi. 'Kalmayıp' kullanımına olumlu örnek : '[Çeviri] Öykünme sanatı da değildir, çünkü bir yapıtın düşüncelerini aktarmakla kalmaz, onu dönüştürür de' ('Onu'ya itirazım saklıdır !)" [s. 121, vurgu yazara aittir]. Yazarın "Türkçe'nin gereksiz yere kalabalıklaşmasına yol aç"tığını düşündüğü bu kullanım da, yazarın önerdiği kullanımlar da Türkçede kullanılmakta. Örnekler bağlam içinde sunulmadığı ve metine/yazara ilişkin elimizde bilgi olmadığı için bu kullanımlar üzerine fazla bir şey söylemek mümkün değil. İncelemenin genelinde dikkatimizi çeken, yazarın dile ilişkin mutlak doğrular olduğunu varsayarak örneklerini değerlendirmesi. İncelemede dilin zaman içinde değişebileceği, bu değişimde çevirinin önemli bir payı olduğu; çeviri yoluyla dilde görülen değişikliklerin her vakit olumsuz olarak değerlendirilemeyeceği vd. gözardı edilmiş. Verilen örnekler içinde Türkçenin yapısına uygun olmayanlar ya da bugünün normları doğrultusunda "yanlış" olarak değerlendirilebilecekler var, kuşkusuz. Ancak o durumda da verilen örneğin tarihine, kaynağına, yazarına, metnin amacına ilişkin bilgi verilmediğinden ve örnek "yanlış" sayılamayacak başka örneklerle birlikte sunulduğundan inceleme ile ilgili genel bir değerlendirme yapmak güçleşiyor. Yine de incelemenin çıkış noktasını oluşturan kuramsal çerçeveyi belirleyecek olursak, bu çerçevenin temelinde dile dural bir olgu olarak yaklaşan, amacını çeviri sürecini yönlendirmek olarak belirleyen, dilin, dili kullananla ve kullananın çevresiyle bağlarını gözardı eden vd. kuralcı bir tavırdan kaynaklandığını söyleyebiliriz: Kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı, kuralcı kuramların özünde bulunan kuralcılık. 11 3.4 Suat Karantay, "Tennessee YVilliams ve Sırça Kümes" Dergide, ÇEVRİLMEMİŞ YAPITLARA ÖNSÖZLER üst başlığı altında çıkan bu yazıda, yazar, İngilizce bir oyunun Türkçeye yapılmış çevirisini ele alır. Yazıda önce oyun ve yazan, çevirmen ve çevirisi hakkında kısa bilgilere ve kimi eleştirel görüşlere yer verilir. Sonra, bu bilgiler ışığında çeviri eleştirisi yapılır. İncelemede, incelemenin kuramsal çerçevesine ilişkin doğrudan bilgi verilmemiştir. "Kaynakça" da bu konuya açıklık getirmemektedir. Yazar, çevirmenin genel çeviri tutumunu açıklamak için uzmanların birbirinden tamamen farklı bakış açısı benimseyerek kaleme aldıkları eleştirilerinden yaptığı alıntılarda yansız bir ifade Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 41 kullanmıştır [s. 125-126].12 Bu nedenle, yazının temelini oluşturan kuramsal çerçeveyi anlıyabilmemiz için metin-içi inceleme yapmamız gerekiyor. Önce yazarın farklı çeviri yöntemlerine karşı genel tavrını belirleyici birkaç ifadeye değinelim. Yazar, tiyatroda başlıkların çevirisine ilişkin görüşlerini şöyle belirtir: Tüm yazın türlerinde olduğu gibi tiyatroda da başlıkların dikkatle çevrilmesi gerekir. Arthur Millerim 'Ali My Sons' adlı oyunu 'Bütün Oğullarım' ve 'Hepsi Oğlumdu' diye farklı biçimlerde çevrilmiştir. Birincisi sadık bir çeviridir; İkincisi oyunun içeriğine daha uygun, daha Türkçe bir başlıktır. J.M.Synge'in oyunu 'The Playboy of the Western World' Türkçe'ye sadık bir çeviriyle aktarılsa 'Batı İllerinin Oyuna Gelen Kişisi' gibi bir başlık çıkar ortaya. Oysa çevirmen Saffet Korkut 'Babayiğit' diye çarpıcı, içeriğe ters düşmeyen, güzel bir başlık seçmiştir. Ahmed Vefik Paşa, Moliere'in oyunu 'Le Misantrope'u 'Adamcıl' diye çevirmiştir. Bu, Osmanlıca açısından doğru bir başlıktır ama günümüz Türkçesi açısından değildir çünkü 'adamcıl' sözcüğünün Türkçe sözlükte karşılığı 'insandan ürkmeyen', 'insana sokulan'dır - oysa ilgili oyun kişisi insanlardan kaçan biridir [126-127]. Yukarıdaki alıntıda Arthur Millerim ve J.M.Synge'in ilgili oyunlarının başlıklarının çevirisine ilişkin belirtilen görüşlerden, yazarın çeviri yöntemlerini bir uçta "sadık" çeviri, diğer uçta "daha uygun", "daha Türkçe", "çarpıcı", "içeriğe ters düşmeyen", "güzel" çeviri olmak üzere iki kutupta değerlendirdiğini ve bu iki kutup arasında "sadık olmayanı", "sadık olana" tercih ettiğini anlıyoruz. Moliere'in ilgili oyununun çevirisine ilişkin belirtilen görüşlerden ise yazarın geçmişte yapılan çevirileri, çevirilerin yapıldığı zaman dilimi içinde değil, bugünün gözlükleriyle değerlendirme eğiliminde olduğunu anlıyoruz.33 incelemenin konusunu oluşturan metnin çevirmeninin genel çeviri tutumuna karşı görüşlerini yazar, "Çeviri anlayışı bir uç durum oluşturan Yücel, çılgın ama yer yer tadına doyulmaz çeviriler üretmiştir" [s. 125], diyerek belirtmiştir. Bu sözler, yazarın, çevirm enin genel çeviri stratejisini beğendiğine işaret olarak değerlendirilebilir. Ayrıca bu saptama yukarıda oyun başlıkları çevirisi konusunda, yazarın "daha uygun", "daha Türkçe", "daha çarpıcı" [..] çevirileri "sadık" çevirilere tercih ettiğine ilişkin yapılan saptamayla da uyum halindedir. Kısaca, yazar kaynak metne tam sadakatle yapılan çevirileri değil, daha uygun, daha Türkçe, çarpıcı, içeriğe ters düşmeyen, güzel çevirileri tercih etmektedir. Ancak, eleştirinin konusunu oluşturan oyun çevirisine ilişkin genel görüşünü yazar şu sözlerle dile getirir : Oyun ç e v irile rin d e de a ş ırılık la ra g id e n Y ü c e l'in 'Bahar Noktası’ adlı çevirisi onun özgül çeviri anlayışının da doruk noktasını oluşturur - 'Sırça Kümes' [...] çevirisi bir ölçüde 'daha ılımlı', 'daha kabul edilebilir' bir çeviridir [s. 126]. Bu sözlerdeki anlam yukarıdaki bilgiler ışığında değerlendirildiğinde biraz bulanık; Yukarıdaki saptamaları esas alarak bu sözleri değerlendirecek olursak, yazarın sözkonusu oyunun çevirisini belki yeterince aşırı uçta olmadığı için 42 Işın Bengi beğenmediği gibi bir anlam çıkartabiliriz. Yukandaki saptamaları göz önünde bulundurmadığımızda ise. bu sözlerden, "[çevirmenin] özgül çeviri anlayışının [..] doruk noktasını oluştur[aıı]" 'Bahar Noktası' çevirisini yazarın "kabul edilebilir” çeviri olarak nitelendirmediği, 'Sırça Kümes’ çevirisini ise 'daha kabul edilebilir' bulduğu anlamını çıkartabiliriz. 1-* Burada belirtilen görüş ya kendi içinde ya da yukarıda alıntı yapılarak verilen görüşlerle çelişki halindedir. İncelemenin temeli oluşturan kuramsal çerçeveyi anlayabilmek için, sözkonusu metnin çevirisine ilişkin yazarın görüşlerine kısaca yer verelim. Yazar, çeviri metin üzerinde yaptığı incelemede önce metnin başlığı üzerinde durur ve görüşlerini şöyle belirtir: "[çevirmenin] genel çeviri yaklaşımı [..] çevirilerine attığı başlıklara da yansır. 'Salozun Mavalı', 'Maksat Samimiyet', 'Saça Kümes' Yücelce başlıklardır" [s. 127]. Bu sözlerden, yazarın çevirmenin seçimine tepki duyduğu hissedilmekte. Yazar bu konudaki görüşlerini şöyle sürdürür: ’Menagerie' sözcüğünün Redhouse Sözlüğünde karşılığı 'yabanıl hayvanlar koleksiyonu'dur. Yücel'in başlıkta 'kümes' sözcüğünü kullanması aykırı düşmektedir oyunun içeriğine. Yücel 'Metis Çeviri' söyleşisinde şöyle savunur bu seçimini : 'Ev kümes gibi bir yer ve ben düşündüm ki sahneye konurken kümes mizanseni de tutabilir. Sırça Kümes... Ana kartlaşmış tavuk gibi, kız bir piliç. Öbür horozlar geliyor. Yani daha tiyalral bir planda düşündüm1 (s.16). Oyunun kişileri Laura. Amanda, Tom, Jim, hatta duvarda fotoğrafı asılı baba kapana kısılmış, çaresiz, kümese tıkılmış tavuklara benzetilebilir. Öyle de olsa Yücel'in bu yorumunu başlığa yansıtmaya hakkı yoktur; ayrıca 'kümes sözcüğü, bu şiir dolu başlığa ve oyunun bütününe hiç de uygun düşmez [s. 127], Yazar, çevirmenin açıklamasına ve bir anlamda başlık seçiminin içeriğe uygun düştüğünü kendisinin de kabul etmesine karşın yorumun başlığa yansıtılmasına karşı çıkmaktadır, Bu alıntıdan edindiğimiz bilgi, yukarıda yazarın çeviriye karşı benimsediği genel tavır konusunda edindiğimiz bilgiyle tamamen çelişmektedir. Burada yazarın aradığı özgün başlığa sadık üretilecek çeviridir. Yazar çeviri üzerine yaptığı incelemeyi çeviriden yaptığı kimi alıntılarla sürdürür. Bu alıntılardan bir bölümü okura "yeterli aklanın" olarak sunulmaktadır. Bu aktarımları esas alarak yazar çevirinin "kabul edilebilir bir çeviri örneği sa y ılab ileceğ in i sö y leri5 [s. 127]. Yapılan alıntıların yanında çeviriye ilişkin belirtilen görüşler şöyle : "biçem kaydırılmış"; "[çevirmen] ekinler arası farklılıkları gözeterek uygun bir kaydırmayla aktarmış"; [çevirmen] bu nedenle yadırgatıcı olmayan bir ad seçmiş [..]"; "[...] iyi bir seçim sayılmayabilir de”; "Dardaııelles’in İngilizce’de 'Çanakkale Boğazı' anlamına gelmesi nedeniyle, [çevirmen] böyle adlandırmış"; "uygun görülebilecek bir kaydırma"; "sevimli bir karşılık"; ilginç bir karşılık sayılabilir"; "güzel bir seçim"; "okur ya da seyirci bu kaydırma nedeniyle Emily'niıı Alman asıllı olduğunu anlamayacaktır, ama bu da pek önemli değildir" [s. 127]. Bu alıntılardan sonra, yazar, tek tek değerlendirme yapmadan çeviriden bir dizi alıntı daha yapar. Bu alıntılara ilişkin görüşlerini yazar şöyle belirtir : Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 43 Ne var ki dil kullanımındaki aşırı rahatlık [çevirmenin] Williams şiirselliğini gözardı etmesine yol açıyor - oyunun o özgül havasını Türk okuru tadamıyor. Oyunun başkişisi Amanda sık sık düzeysiz bir dille konuşuyor. (Yücel'in 'Metis Çeviri' söyleşisindeki gerekçelere ne yazık ki katılamıyoruz). Çeviri öylesine yerelleşiyor ki Tom Laura. Jim gibi adlar olmasa, okuduğumuz oyunu bizden bir yazarın sanacağız neredeyse. [..] [127-128], Yazar bu alıntılardan sonra, çeviriye ilişkin görüşünü "çevrilmemiş" bir yapıt 'Sırça Kümes' ne yazık ki.." sözleriyle noktalar. Kısaca, yazar çeviride genelde "daha uygun", "daha Türkçe" seçimleri tercih ettiğini belirtmekte; incelemeye temel alınan oyun çevirmeninin "çılgın ama yer yer tadına doyulmaz" çeviriler ürettiğini kabul etmekte; çevirmenin bu çevirisini çeviride sağlanan kimi "yeterli aktarımlar" nedeniyle "kabul edilebilir çeviri" olarak nitelem ekte; ama bu çeviriyi genelde "çevrilm em iş bir yapıt" olarak değerlendirmektedir. Buradaki çelişki, kaynak-odaklı,süreç-ağırlıklı kuralcı kuramların özünü oluşturan çelişkinin eleştiriye yansımasından başka bir şey değildir. 3.5. Berna Sevil, "Karaağaçlar Altında" Bu yazı dergide ÇEVİRİ ELEŞTİRİLERİ üst başlığı altında çıkan tek yazıdır. Yazıda 1945 yılında yayımlanan bir çeviri oyun eleştirilmektedir. Yazının kuramsal çerçevesi açık olarak belirtilmemiştir. Ancak inceleme sırasında genelde oyun çevirisine ilişkin yapılan alıntılar ve incelemenin konusu olan çeviri oyuna ilişkin eleştirmenin görüşleri yazının kuramsal çerçevesini anlamamızı sağlar nitelikte. Yazıda incelemenin amacı şöyle belirlenmiştir: Bu yazıda dil düzeyinin yanı sıra, ekiıısel farklılıklardan doğan çeşitli çeviri sorunlarına, yanlış çeviri diye nitelenebilecek örneklere, sahne diline uygun düşmeyen bazı sözcük kullanımlarına, eğretilemelerin çevrilmesine ilişkin sorunlara da değinilecektir [s.129]. Bu sözlerden, eleştirmenin özgün metnin ve çeviri metnin iki ayrı dil ve iki ayrı kültürde üretildiğinin bilincinde olduğunu anlıyoruz öncelikle. Çevirinin özüne ilişkin doğru ve önemli olan bu saptama doğrultusunda incelemede çeviri çözümleri üzerinde durulacağını bekliyebiliriz. Ancak eleştirmen, çeviriye ilişkin bu önemli saptamasına karşın, eleştirisini "dil" ve "ekinsel farklılıklardan doğan " çeviri "sorunları" ve "yanlışları" üzerinde yoğunlaşarak sürdüreceğini belirtiyor. Yani bu eleştiri sorun-ağırlıklı bir eleştiri olacaktır. Eleştirmen genelde oyun çevirisine ilişkin uzmanların görüşlerine de yer verir yazısında. Yapılan alıntılarda şu görüşler üzerinde durulmuşta : [..] çeviri metinde yer alan sözcük ve tümcelerin sessel niteliğinin , kaynak metinde yer alan seslerin anlam ve çağrışım gücünü aynı düzeyde koruyabilmesi gerekir. (Frajnd:329) [s. 129]. 44 Işın Bengi Eleştirmenin yazısında bu alıntıya yer vermesi, onun, çevirinin çıkış noktasını oluşturan kaynak metni varsayımsal bir yapı olarak değil, çeviriye aynen yansımasını beklediği bir yapı olarak ele aldığına işaret edebilir. Eleştirinin konusunu oluşturan oyunda kullanılan ve "standart İngilizce kalıpların [a]" uygun olmayan dilin çeviriye aktarılmasına ilişkin ise eleştirmen aynı uzmanın şu görüşlerine yer verir yazısında : [..] iki farklı konuşma biçimi arasındaki ilişki, daima belli bir anlam ifade etmektedir. Bu biçimlerden her birinin, belirli bir insan topluluğuna ilişkin , kendine özgü çağrışımları bulunmaktadır. Bu da salt bir konuşma biçimi değil, bu insanların yaşama ve düşünce biçiminin dışavurumudur aynı zamanda. Bu konuda izlenen yöntem, genelde erek ekinde farklı bir lehçe saptayarak bunu, özgün metinde var olan lehçe ile eşdeğer olabilecek bir biçimde kullanmaktır. (Frajnd:330) [s. 130]. Bu alıntıdan uzmanın, özgün metindeki söz konusu dil özelliğinin çeviride erek kültüre uygun düşecek ve kaynak metinle "eşdeğer" olabilecek bir biçimde aktarılmasını uygun gördüğünü anlıyoruz. Yani uzman için kaynak metin özelliklerinin erek metine yansıması önem taşıyor. Ancak bu görüşün ne çevirmenler ne de eleştirmenler için yeterince bilgilendirici olmadığı da açık. Doğal olarak eleştirmen de uzmanın bu görüşünü sorguluyor: [..] bu eşdeğerliği sağlayabilmek pek de kolay olmasa gerek. Bir SivaslI'nın, Trakyalı'nın ya da Karadenizli’nin özgül dili , O'Neill'in çiftlik dışında bir yaşam tanımayan, sürekli gökyüzüne bakıp uzaklarda, erişilemeyecek bir yerlerde güzel şeylerin olduğunu hayal eden, kısır bir döngü içinde sıkışıp kalmış basit insanlarını anlatmakta yetersiz kalacaktır. Bu konuda [çevirmen] yalın, standart bir Türkçe kullanmakla yetinmiş [130], Bu sözlerden eleştirmenin özgün metinde kullanılan "özgül dilin" çeviriye aktarılamayacağmı düşündüğü anlamını çıkartabiliriz. Kısaca, yukarıda görüşünü alıntıladığımız uzman böyle bir "özgül dil kullanımının" erek kültüre uygun ve kaynak metinle "eşdeğer" olabilecek bir biçimde çeviriye aktarılmasını uygun gördüğünü, eleştirmen ise aktarımın uzmanın önerdiği biçimde gerçekleşebileceğinin pek mümkün olmadığını söylemektedir. Biz, bu görüşler altındaki kuramsal çerçeveyi betimleyecek olursak bu çerçevenin her iki durumda da çeviri sürecini yönlendirmeyi amaçlayan, kuralcı kaynak-odaklı kuramların oluşturduğunu söyliyebiliriz. Kaynak metiıı/çeviri metin karşılaştırması sırasında eleştirmenin kullandığı ve onun çeviri değerlendirmesini yansıtan ifadeler ise şöyle: "Fazla sakıncalı olmamakla birlikte Amerikalıların sucuk demedikleri de göz önüne alınarak 'domuz pastırması' denilebilirdi": "İnşallah' sözcüğü Müslümanlara özgü bir deyiş olduğundan kullanılmasa yerinde olurdu"; "Bu örnekte de salt İslam dinine özgü bir deyiş var -'şükran günü' olarak çevrilebilirdi"; "Hava tutturmak' bütünüyle Türk diline özgü bir söyleyiş biçimi"; " Çevirmen oyunun başkişilerinden birini Türk toplumuna mal etmeye çalışmış - çeviriyi aksatan bir kullanım"; [..]. [s.13-131]. Bu ifadelerden eleştirmenin çeviride erek dil, erek kültür özelliklerinin göz önüne alınmasını oyunun Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 45 yerlileştirilmesi olarak değerlendirdiğini ve buna karşı çıktığını anlıyoruz. Bu tavır da kaynak-odaklı. kuralcı, süreç ve sorun ağırlıklı kuramların eleştiriye yansıması olarak değerlendirilebilir. Ancak, eleştirmenin eğretileme çevirisine ilişkin görüşleri biraz farklı. Eleştirmen özgün metindeki eğretilemelerin çeviri metinde "eşdeğer [..] eğretileme" ile karşılanmasını "en iyi çözüm" olarak değerlendamekte. İngilizce bir eğretilemenin karşılığı olarak çeviride kullanılan "Karşılığını da alırlar" ifadesini eleştirmen şöyle değerlendiriyor : "[Çevirmen] eğretilemeyi, Türkçe'de başka bir eğretileme bularak değil de anlamı karşılayarak çevirmeye çalışmış; ancak 'karşılığını almak' olumsuz bir durum değil; 'yaptıklarının karşılığım almak' anlamında olumlu bir kullanım. Oysa 'dişediş dövüşürüz onlarla' denebilirdi" [s.131]. Yani "dişediş dövüşürüz" ifadesi veya benzer erek kültüre özgü ifadeler kullanıldığında metnin yerlileşmeyeceğini düşünüyor eleştirmen. Bu görüş yukarıdaki görüşlerle çelişkili. Eleştirmen özel adların çevirisinin de çevirmeni "zorladığı" görüşünde. İçinde "Samson" özel adı geçen bir kullanımın "Sen pehlivansın değil mi?" olarak yapılan çevirisini eleştirmen şöyle değerlendirir: "Samson1 adı güçlülüğü simgeler İngilizce'de. Ancak 'pehlivan' sözcüğünün salt Türk ekinine ait olduğu düşünülürse burada yapılan seçim yanlıştır." [s. 131]. Bu değerlendirmelerini bir bütün olarak ele aldığımızda eleştirmenin çoğunlukla kaynak metin verilerine, zaman zaman da erek dile önem vererek yaptığı değerlendirmenin temelinde süreç-ağırlıklı, kaynak-odaklı, kuralcı kuramların olduğunu söyliyebıliriz. Çevirinin 1945 yılında yapıldığını metinde belirttiği halde eleştirmen, çevirmenin "bazı yerlerde eski, sahne dilini zorlayan sözcükler kullan[dığına]" değiniyor [s. 129]. Yani, çeviri metin bugünün dili esas alınarak ve bugünün normlarına göre değerlendirilmektedir. Bu da tarihselliği ve devingenliği göz ardı eden kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı, kuralcı kuramların bir özelliğidir. Eleştirmen, yukarıda özetleyerek verdiğimiz değerlendirmelerinden şöyle bir sonuç çıkartır eleştirisinde : Genelde [çevirm enin titiz bir çalışma yaptığı söylenebilir. Ancak çevirinin yeniden ele alınıp bazı düzeltmeler yapılması dile canlılık ve doğallık kazandırılması gerekir. [Çevirmenin] bütünüyle koyu bir lehçeyle yazılmış bu oyununu çevirmekte gösterdiği yürekliliği de kutlamak gerekir. Bir de çevirinin 1945 yılında yapıldığını anımsarsak, [çevirinin] yeterli 1? bir çeviri olduğu sonucuna varabiliriz [s. 131]. [Not bana aittir]. Eleştirmenin metin-içi sürdürdüğü incelemeden ve yaptığı değerlendirmelerden böyle bir sonuca nasıl vardığını anlamamız oldukça güç. Çeviriye getirilen eleştirilerle, varılan sonuç arasındaki çelişkiyi de belki eleştirinin temelini oluşturan kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı ve kuralcı kuramlara bağlayabiliriz. 4. Sonuç ve Öneriler Yukarıda, Metis Çeviri dergisinin 9. sayısında yayımlanan ve içinde eleştirel görüşlere yer verilen 5 yazı üzerinde çeviri eleştirisi normlarını betimlemek amacıyla yaptığımız incelemede, bu yazıların temelini kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı ve kuralcı kuramların oluşturduğunu saptadık. 46 Işın Bengi Bu sonuç bize (tabii elimizdeki bütünceyle sınırlı olarak) yüzyıllar boyunca çeviri dünyasını boyunduruğu altında tutan ve genel özelliği kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı olarak belirlenen kuralcı kuramların eleştirmenler üzerinde doğrudan etkili olduğunu göstermektedir. "Kuram" sözcüğünün sözlük anlamında dahi kuramın kuralcı özelliğine koşut olarak betimleyici özelliği üzerinde durulduğu [krş. Kısım 2] ve yaklaşık 20 yıldır çeviri kuramı alanında kuramın bu betimleyici özelliği üzerinde kapsamlı çalışmalar yapıldığı halde, eleştirmenler eleştirilerini özünü "çelişkili" kuralcı kuramların oluşturduğu paradigmanın çizgisinde yapmışlardır. Bu durumun ne oranda yaygın olduğunu anlamak için daha geniş bütünceler üzerinde inceleme yapılması gerekmekte. Ancak biz elimizdeki sonuçları esas alarak çözüme yönelik bazı önerileri burada sunabiliriz. Eleştiri tarihimize bir göz atacak olursak, ülkemizde eleştirinin oluşumunda ve yaygınlaşmasında çeviri eleştirisinin çok önemli bir yeri olduğunu görürüz. Hatta ülkemizde eleştirinin uzun yıllar sadece çeviri ile beslendiği görüşü oldukça yaygın. Ancak, gördüğümüz kadarıyla eleştiri yazılarının temelini eleştirel bilincin oluşmasına katkıda bulunacak, çeviri kuramlarının sorgulandığı bir yapı oluşturmamaktadır. Bu yazıların temelini böyle bir yapının oluşturabilmesi için çeviri kuramlarının ayrıntılı olarak incelenmesi, sorgulanması, çeviri eleştirisine yansıyacak yönlerinin belirlenmesi, gerektiğinde yeni varsayımların üretilmesi, yani kuramların oluşturulması gerekmekte, kanımca. Bu çalışmalar yapıldığı taktirde farkına varmadan benimsediğimiz ve hepimizde izlerine rastladığımız kemikleşmiş bir paradigmanın çevirinin her alanına yansıyan çelişkili görüşlerinden belki kendimizi kurtarabiliriz. Ancak eleştirel bilincin oluşmasında temeli hazırlayacak bu çalışmaların eleştiri yazılarında başlamasını beklemek gerçekçi olmaz. Bu çalışmaların bir "laboratuarda", bir üniversite "laboratuvarında" yapılması gerekir. Gerekli olan bu alt yapı nasıl oluşur ? Ülkemizde üniversite düzeyinde çeviri eğitimine geçmemizin yalnızca on yıllık bir geçmişi var. Bu on yıl içinde açılan sınırlı sayıdaki çeviri bölümlerinde sunulan eğitimin amacı nitelikli yazılı ve sözlü çevirmen yetiştirmek. Bu amaç doğrultusunda hazırlanan programlarda uygulamalı derslerin yanısıra kuramsal başka derslerle birlikte "Çeviri Kuramı", "Çeviri Eleştirisi" gibi derslere de yer verilmekte. Ancak ağırlık noktası uygulama olarak belirlenen bu bölümlerde sunulan birer dönendik "kuram", "eleştiri" gibi derslerde kuramların etraflıca sorgulanabileceğini, yeni varsayımların üretilebileceğini, vd., kısaca bu derslerin eleştirel bilincin oluşmasına doğrudan katkıda bulunabileceğini düşünmek pek çok nedenle inandırıcı değil. Sorgulayıcı bir uslup tam olarak benimsense bile, bu derslerde ancak bu bölümlerin alanı olan uygulamalı alanın, betimleyici ve kuramsal alanlarla ve bu alanların çeviribilimle bağları kurulabilir. Bu bağların kurulması, eleştirel bilincin oluşması için gerekli olan çalışmaların başlangıç noktasını oluşturabilir. Ama eleştirel bilincin oluşmasında yeterli olamaz. Bu konuyu etraflıca ele alabilmek için uygulama ağırlıklı çevdi bölümlerinin yanısıra, çeviri kuramlarının büyüteç altında incelenebileceği, sorgulanabileceği; kuramların temelini oluşturacak varsayımların üretilebileceği ve sınanabileceği; yalnızca çeviri tarihine değil, aynı zamanda Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 4 7 çeviribilim talihine her yönüyle ışık tutacak kapsamlı araştırmaların yapılabileceği; çeviribilim felsefesine doğru adımların atılabileceği, kısaca ilginin çeviribilimin alt alanlarından üst alanların a çevrildiği [krş. Bengi, 1992c:21,22,24] ÇEVİRİBİLİM 1 8 bölümlerinin kurulması gerektiğine inanıyorum. Ülkenin gereksinimine cevap verebilmek için belki öncelikle doktora programıyla başlayacak ama doktora programına koşut olarak lisans ve yüksek lisans programlarının da kurulmasıyla derinlik ve bütünlük kazanacak olan bir bölüm. Böyle bir bölümde yapılacak çalışmalar yalnızca ülkemizde eleştirel bilincin oluşmasına değil, aynı zamanda alanlarını uygulamalı çeviribilim olarak belirlemiş olan genç çeviri bölümlerinin sağlam temeller üzerine oturmasına da doğrudan katkıda bulunacaktır. NOTLAR 1. Bu yazıda "eleştirel bilinç" ve "eleştiri" terimleri aynı anlamda ve değiştirilerek kullanılacaktır. 2. Eleştiri normlarını betimlemek, eleştiri normlarını yeniden kurmak üzere eleştirileri temel alarak yapılan çalışmalar yansız olarak yapılabileceği gibi, sorgulayıcı bir üslupla da yapılabilir. Bu yazıda, böyle sorgulayıcı bir üslup benimsenmiştir. Bu nedenle, metin içinde yer yer üst-eleştiri ifadesi de kullanılmıştır. 3. Bu incelemede yabancı dilden yapılan alıntıların çevirileri, aksi kaynakçada belirtilmediyse, bana aiittir. 4. Kuralcı ve betimleyici kuram terimlerinin tanımı ve bu konuda terim düzeyinde sürdürülen tartışma için krş. Bengi 1992b: 3.5.2; 3.8]. 5. Bu kısımda Şiir Çevirisi için Bir Yöntem Önerisi başlığıyla yayımlanacak olan bir başka çalışmamdan yararlandım. Sözkonusu çalışma henüz yayımlanmadığı için kaynakçaya alınmamıştır. 6. Kuralcı ve süreç-ağırlıklı kuramlar, ağırlık noktaları ister kaynak, ister erek olsun, çeviribilim terimiyle açıklayacak olursak, kaynak-odaklı kuram özelliği gösterirler. Yani, çevirmene erek dil/melin/kültür/dizge özelliklerini önplana alarak çeviri yapmasının önerildiği kuralcı ve süreç-ağırlıklı kuramlar,ifadeyi teknik terim olarak kullanacak olursak, erek-odaklı değil kayııak-odaklıdır. Bu gibi kuramları zaman zaman erek-odaklı olarak nitelemekteyiz. Ancak bu yalnızca süreçi yönlendirmeyi amaçlayan kuralcı kuramın ereği vurguladığı anlamına gelmektedir. Yani böyle bir kullanımda "kaynak-odaklı" ifadesi teknik terim olarak ve "erek-odaklı" ifadesi de düz anlamıyla kullanılabilir. Bugün çeviribilimde "erek-odaklı" ifadesini teknik terim olarak kullandığımızda ise kuramda vurgunun süreçten ürüne; sorundan çözüme; durallıktan devingenliğe; eşsüremden artsüreme; kuralcılıktan betimleyiciliğe kaydığını anlarız. Bu nedenle, metin içinde kavramsal bulanıklığa yol açmamak için Cicero ve Horace'ın kurama işaret eden bu çalışmalarında dikkat her ne kadar erek üzerindeyse de ekonomik bir ifade olan erek-odaklı ifadesi kullanılmamış, açımlama yoluna gidilmiştir. Bu durum dikkatlerin erek üzerinde yoğunlaştığı öteki kuralcı, kaynak-odaklı ve süreç-ağırlıklı kuramlar için de geçerlidir [Kaynakodaklı ve erek-odaklı kuram tanımları için krş. Bengi 1992b:3.3], 7. Burada gönderme sözkonusun kitabın 1982 baskısına yapılmıştır. Ancak kitap ilk kez 1969 yılında çıkmıştır. Kuralcı kuramların etkilerini yaygın olarak gösterdikleri yıllar 48 Işın Bengi bağlamında aşağıda yapılan genellemelerde bu kitabın 1969 yılında basıldığı gözönünde tutulmalıdır. 8. Erek-odaklı çeviri kuramı terimi için krş. Bengi 1992b:3.3 ve bu yazıda Not 6. 9. Burada dökümü yapılan yazılardan yalnızca biri dergide "Eleştiri" üst başlığı altında çıkmıştır. Öteki yazılar başka üst başlıklar altında yayımlanmıştır. Ancak, incelemenin temelini oluşturan bu yazıların hepsinde eleştirel görüşlere yer verilmiştir. Bu nedenle de sözkonusu yazılar incelemeye alınmışlardır. Bu yazıların hangi üst başlıklar altında yayımlandıkları ve nedenleri üzerine yapılacak bir araştırma eleştirmenlerin eleştiri normlarından çok derginin eleştiri normlarını ortaya çıkarmada yararlı olabilir. Böyle bir çalışma için bkz. Dizdar,1992:124-134. Yukarıda belirtildiği gibi, bu yazıda yalnızca içinde eleştirel görüşlere yer verilen incelemeler ele alınmaktadır. Ancak, aynı sayıda çıkan söyleşiler de şöyleşiyi yapanların ve şöyleşiye katılanların eleştirel görüşlerine ışık tutmaktadır. Bu konuda yapılan bir inceleme için bkz. Bahadır, 1992:115-123. 10. Aksi belirtilmedikçe alıntı içindeki vurgu bana aittir. 11. Bu yazıda "uygulama" üzerinde durulmuştur. Uygulamalı çalışmalarda "kuralcı" olmak kaçınılmaz. Özelliklerini betimleyici, dizgesel, ürün-odaklı, tarihsel vd. olarak belirlediğimiz erek-odaklı çeviri kuramı çerçevesinde sürdürülen uygulamalı çalışmalarda da kaçınılmaz olarak kuralcı oluyoruz. Ancak bu kuralcılık betimleyici alanda yapılan çalışmaların sonucunu değerlendirdikten sonra günün normlarını göz önünde bulundurarak (uyum göstererek ya da karşı çıkarak) uygulanan bir kuralcılıktır. Kaynak-odaklı, süreç-ağırlıklı, kuralcı kuramlar ise "doğru" ve "yanlışlar"ı mutlak değer olarak sunmakta. Bu incelemenin kaynak-odaklı ve kuralcı olarak değerlendirilmesinde bu noktanın dikkate alınması gerekiyor. 12. Burada sözü edilen (üst)eleştiri yazıları için bkz. Paker,1983: 131-139 ve Doltaş,1988:134-143. 13. Adamcıl sözcüğü yazarın da belirttiği gibi "misanthrope" sözcüğünün tam karşılığıdır. Sözcüğün karşılığının bugünkü Türkçe Sözlük'te "insandan ürkmeyen", "insana sokulan" olarak verilmiş olmasının ne Ahmed Vefik Paşa üzerinde ne de bügünün okuru, araştırmacısı üzerinde bağlayıcı etkisi vardır. Sözcüğe yalnızca eski tarihli sözlüklerde değil, günümüzde basılan kimi sözlüklerde de "misanthrope” karşılığı olarak yer verilmektedir, [eski sözlükler içinde örn. bkz. Güntekin vd., (tarih belirtilmemiş, giriş misanthrope), Cilt 11:880; yakın tarihli sözlükler içinde örn. bkz. Alkım vd., 1974:12 (giriş adam altında adamcıl); Iz vd.,1960:275 (giriş misanthrope,-ist). Bu nedenle yazarın değerlendirmesi bugünün gözlükleriyle bile sınırlı bir değerlendirmedir. 14. Metinde kabul edilebilir ifadesi (ve daha ılımlı ifadesi) tırnak içinde yazılmıştır. Kaynağa gönderme yapılmamıştır. Bu nedenle sözkonusu ifadenin teknik terim olarak mı yoksa düz anlamıyla mı kullanıldığı, teknik terim ise hangi anlamda kullanıldığı açık değildir. Bu terimin farklı anlamları için krş. Bengi, 1992:3.9.2 ve Not 25. 15. Burada da "yeterli aktarım” ve "kabul edilebilir çeviri" ifadeleri açıklanmamıştır. Günümüzde "yeterli çeviri" ve "kabul edilebilir çeviri" ifadeleri düz anlamlarının dışında teknik terim olarak ve farklı anlamlarda kullanıldıkları için, terimlerin tanımlanması okur için önem taşımakta [Krş. Not. 14], 16. Metin içinde oyun çevirisine ilişkin Malcolm Griffiths ve Marta Frajd adlı araştırmacıların görüşlerine yer verilmiştir. Metne ekli "Kaynakça"da Griffiths alıntısı ile ilgili döküm verilmiştir, ancak Frajn'la ilgili döküm yoktur. Dilbilim Araştırmaları 1993 49 17. Burada kullanılan "yeterli" sözcüğüne ilişkin herhangi bir kaynak verilmemiştir; kavram tanımknmamışUr. Eleştiride dile getirilen ve genelde eleştirmenin çeviriye ilişkin olumsuz görüşlerini yansıtan ifadelerden, "yeterli" sözcüğünün teknik terim olarak değil sözcüğün düz anlamıyla kullanıldığını zannediyorum [krş. Not 15]. 18. 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Ankara: Hacettepe Üniversitesi. _____ 1992a "Üniversite Düzeyinde Çeviri Eğitimi Üzerine Gözlemler ve Yazılı Çeviri Dalında Bir Yüksek Lisans Programı Önerisi", Metis Çeviri, 1992 Bahar: 19,44-55. _____ 1992b "Çeviribilim Terimleri Sözlüğüne Doğru", Metis Çeviri, 1992 Yaz-Güz, 20/21:156-197. _____ 1992c "Çeviribilimde 'Bütünleyici Bir Yaklaşım' üzerine Eleştirel Görüşler ve Öneriler", Varlık, 1992 Temmuz, 1018:18-25. Dizdar, Dilek 1992 "Metis Çeviride Çeviri Eleştirisi", M etis Ç eviri, 1992 Yaz/Güz,20-21:124-134. Doltaş, Dilek 1988 "Yazın Çevirisine Farklı Bir Bakış: Esnek Aktarımın Sınırları", Metis Çeviri, 1988 Kış, 2:134-143. Eren, Haşan vd. 1988 Türkçe Sözlük (1). Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi. Güntekin, Reşat Nuri vd. (*) Fransızca - Türkçe Resimli Büyük Dil Kılavuzu. İstanbul, Kanaat Kitabevi (Cilt II). İz, Fahir and H.C. Hony 1960 English - Turkish Dictionary. Oxford at the Clarendon Press. Karaııtay, Suat 1989a "Türkiye'de Oyun Çevirisi Tarihine Kısa Bir Bakış", Metis 50 Işın Bengi Çeviri. 1989 Güz, 9:87-91. _____ 1989b "Tennessee Williams ve Sırça Kümes", Metis Çeviri, 1989 Güz, 9:124-128. Nida, Eugene A. & Charles R. TABER 1982 The Theory and Practice o f Translation. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Özkardeş, Azmi 1989 "Sözlüksel Uyumluluk Bağlamında 'Masa da Masaymış Ha!", Metis Çeviri, 1989 Güz, 9:105-111. Paker. Saliha 1983 "Çeviride 'Yaıılış/Doğru' Sorunu ve Şiir Çevirisinin Değerlendirilmesi", Yazko Çeviri, XIII, 131-139. Procter, Paul vd. 1981 Longman Dictionary o f Contemporary English. Great Britain : Longman Group Ltd. Sevil. Berna 1989 "Karaağaçlar Altında", Metis Çeviri, 1989 Güz, 9:129-131. Snell-Homby. Mary 1988 Translation Studies. An Integrated Approach. Amsterdam / Philadephia: John Benjamins Publishing Co. Toury. Gideoıı 1980 in Search o f a Theory o f Translation. Tel Aviv University. The Porter Iııstitute for Poetics and Semiotics. _____ 1985 "A Rationale for Descriptive Translation Studies", The Manipulation of Literatüre. Studies in Literary Translation. Der. Theo Hermans. London and Sydney: Croom Helm, 16-41. (*) (*) Tarih belirtilmemiştir. 
work_lz4trcxlmff7tjkraexuxfe3l4	----	[PDF] From Grand Dérangement to Acadiana: History and Identity in the Landscape of South Louisiana | Semantic Scholar Skip to search formSkip to main content> Semantic Scholar's Logo Search Sign InCreate Free Account You are currently offline. Some features of the site may not work correctly. DOI:10.1007/S10761-008-0063-9 Corpus ID: 55363641From Grand Dérangement to Acadiana: History and Identity in the Landscape of South Louisiana @article{Rees2008FromGD, title={From Grand D{\'e}rangement to Acadiana: History and Identity in the Landscape of South Louisiana}, author={Mark A. Rees}, journal={International Journal of Historical Archaeology}, year={2008}, volume={12}, pages={338-359} } Mark A. Rees Published 2008 History International Journal of Historical Archaeology Acadian expulsion from Nova Scotia and subsequent settlement in south Louisiana during the late eighteenth century have inspired numerous studies since the 1970s concerning their history, cultural practices, and ethnic identity. The transformative landscape of south Louisiana is the milieu where actions, experiences, and perception interconnect with collective memory and historical consciousness in the production of Cajun identity. The resulting historical narratives and commemorations… Expand View on Springer louisiana.edu Save to Library Create Alert Cite Launch Research Feed Share This Paper 1 Citations View All Figures from this paper figure 1 figure 2 figure 3 figure 4 One Citation Citation Type Citation Type All Types Cites Results Cites Methods Cites Background Has PDF Publication Type Author More Filters More Filters Filters Sort by Relevance Sort by Most Influenced Papers Sort by Citation Count Sort by Recency Material Culture of Socially Mobile Acadians in Ascension Parish Louisiana 1840-1860 : Landry Family Case Studies of Evolution into Landownership and Comfortable Wealth by William Henry Riehm W. Riehm 2010 PDF Save Alert Research Feed References SHOWING 1-10 OF 143 REFERENCES SORT BYRelevance Most Influenced Papers Recency Cultural Landscapes in the Ancient Andes: Archaeologies of Place J. Moore History 2005 22 View 1 excerpt, references background Save Alert Research Feed Interpreting the Landscape : Landscape Archaeology and Local History M. Aston Geography 1985 88 Save Alert Research Feed The Anthropology in American Historical Archaeology C. Orser History 2001 22 PDF Save Alert Research Feed The Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation M. Rockman, J. Steele History 2003 138 Save Alert Research Feed Public memory and the search for power in American historical archaeology Paul A. Shackel History 2001 92 PDF Save Alert Research Feed A PHENOMENOLOGY OF LANDSCAPE: PLACES, PATHS AND MONUMENTS A. Sherratt 2010 277 PDF Save Alert Research Feed Monuments as landscape: Creating the centre of the world in late Neolithic Orkney C. Richards History 1996 120 View 1 excerpt, references background Save Alert Research Feed Landscape Archaeology: Reading and Interpreting the American Historical Landscape E. Wein, Rebecca Yamin, Karen Bescherer Metheny History 1996 74 Save Alert Research Feed The making of the myth in postcolonial development: material-conceptual landscape transformation in sixteenth-century Veracruz Andrew Sluyter Sociology 1999 58 Save Alert Research Feed The Archaeology of inequality R. Mcguire, R. Paynter History 1992 198 Save Alert Research Feed ... 1 2 3 4 5 ... Related Papers Abstract Figures 1 Citations 143 References Related Papers Stay Connected With Semantic Scholar Sign Up About Semantic Scholar Semantic Scholar is a free, AI-powered research tool for scientific literature, based at the Allen Institute for AI. Learn More → Resources DatasetsSupp.aiAPIOpen Corpus Organization About UsResearchPublishing PartnersData Partners   FAQContact Proudly built by AI2 with the help of our Collaborators Terms of Service•Privacy Policy The Allen Institute for AI By clicking accept or continuing to use the site, you agree to the terms outlined in our Privacy Policy, Terms of Service, and Dataset License ACCEPT & CONTINUE 
work_doxlfou5wncdlkxgldafm5hvum	----	DARK MIMESIS: A CULTURAL HISTORY OF THE SCALPING PARADIGM by Thomas Peotto M.A., Lakehead University, 2007 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies (History) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) January 2018 ©Thomas Peotto, 2018 ii Abstract This thesis examines the history of scalp bounties, i.e., the payment of money or trade goods in wartime to volunteers, militias, and mercenaries, for the scalps of indigenous North Americans in the British North American colonies and the post-Revolutionary United States, from the mid-1630s to the end of the 19th century. Out of a general Euro-American colonial backdrop of military alliances with indigenous peoples against indigenous third parties and rival European colonies, and the offering of bounties for captives and proofs of death to indigenous and European volunteers, British colonists parted ways with other Europeans by grafting a specific request for scalps, per eastern North American practice, with a broader policy of ethnic cleansing against indigenous peoples, and the outsourcing of this work to frontier populations with a vested interest in seizing indigenous land and resources. Synthesizing and surveying primary and secondary sources, I argue that Euro-American scalp bounties and the pursuit of those bounties, popularly known as scalp-hunting, were informed by 16th-century designations of indigenous Americans as illegitimate combatants, cross-cultural misreadings of indigenous warfare as a primordial or dysfunctional version of Europeans’, and a broader context of genocidal intent towards indigenous peoples collectively. Imagining themselves as the potential victims of Indian uprisings, Anglo-Americans invoked scalping to metonymize nightmare images of indigenous warriors as merciless and cruel; in turn, scalping was invoked to justify vigilante killings, pre-emptive violence, slave trading, and scorched earth campaigns of extirpation. Whites scalping Indians, on the other hand, was imagined as historically inevitable, and portrayed in art and culture as exemplifying their inheritance and supersession of indigenous lands, resources, and ‘American’ identity. I argue that scalp bounties among Anglo-Americans, and their justification as historically inevitable, is best understood as mimetic re-enactment of the dehumanizing stereotypes which rendered indigenous peoples as illegitimate combatants and the negative mirror image of Euro- American settlers. I refer to this bundle of ideas, truisms, stock images and narratives as “the scalping paradigm.” iii Lay Summary This thesis examines the history of scalp bounties in North America, i.e., the payment of rewards by colonial authorities or private citizens for the scalps of indigenous North Americans; and the cultural history of mercenaries and racist vigilantes, popularly known as ‘scalp hunters.’ I argue that the historic phenomenon of offering scalp bounties against indigenous peoples, from the mid-1630s to the end of the 19th century, was a logical extension of a widely-shared European belief that ‘Indians’ were obstacles to progress if not illegitimate combatants, and that this designation informed disproportionate violence against indigenous peoples by Europeans, including scalping. Further, I outline how the isolated image of the Indian-killing vigilante, as either folk hero or outcast, allowed dissociation from a broader problem of structural racism expressed in casual prejudice and state-run campaigns to conquer and assimilate indigenous peoples—i.e., mass killings and cultural genocide. iv Preface In 2006, while finishing my Master’s degree at Lakehead University, I first conceptualized and articulated the central question of this dissertation as the history and historiography of scalping in colonial North America; the adoption and commercialization of scalping by Europeans; and the resultant double-standard by which scalping among indigenous North Americans was cited as justification for conquest and displacement, including the scalping of indigenous people by Europeans. My main thesis supervisor, Dr. Coll Thrush, pointed me in the direction of settler- colonial studies, genocide studies, intellectual and cultural history, and postcolonial theory. Other members of my thesis committee steered me towards the literatures of their own areas of study: Dr. Carole Blackburn on anthropology, indigenous ontologies, and the cross- cultural encounter; Dr. Neil Safier (who left the committee in 2015 due to time constraints) on early modern ethnography, European knowledge-creation regarding the Americas, the creation of Euro-American societies and trans-Atlantic empires, and indigenous resistance to and within those empires; the late Dr. Daniel Vickers (who passed away in February 2017) on cross-cultural contact, conflict, and cooperation between indigenous, European, and Euro- American societies, and the comparative study of rival European empires, particularly Spain and Britain; and Dr. Paige Raibmon, who joined on short notice in February 2017, on indigenous modernities, activism, and the “authenticity” trap of early 20th century anthropology and the settler imaginary. No content from this thesis has hitherto been published. As my research was confined to surveying the primary and secondary literature and contains no interviews with or photographs of living persons, or of human physical or skeletal remains, ethics approval by the UBC Research Ethics Board was unnecessary. v Table of Contents Abstract ..................................................................................................................................... ii Lay Summary ........................................................................................................................... iii Preface...................................................................................................................................... iv Table of Contents .......................................................................................................................v Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................. vi Dedication ............................................................................................................................... vii Introduction: “Who Invented Scalping” and why that question matters ...................................1 Chapter One: Scalping in the Iberian Atlantic .........................................................................59 Chapter Two: “A Trophy of their Victory”: 16th and 17th century accounts of scalping .......110 Chapter Three: Towards scalp-hunting: Settler colonialism and extirpationist warfare in Northeastern North America, 1585 – 1623 ...........................................................................152 Chapter Four: “A Pound of Flesh”: Slavery and scalp bounties in Anglo-American frontier warfare, 1636 – 1717 ............................................................................................................199 Chapter Five: Dark Mimesis: Scalp-hunting from the Seven Years’ War to the War of 1812 ................................................................................................................................................243 Chapter Six: Heading West: Scalp-hunting and Manifest Destiny, 1837 – 1876 .................289 Chapter Seven: Scalping Culture at Frontier’s End, 1893 – 1914 .........................................351 Epilogue .................................................................................................................................392 Bibliography ..........................................................................................................................410 vi Acknowledgements This thesis was made possible by a Four Year Fellowship from the University of British Columbia (September 2008 – August 2012), a 24-month grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (September 2010 – August 2012), grants from the UBC History Department’s Summer Research and Writing Fund (2013 through 2016), and the financial and moral support of my family. Of the potential supervisors I approached in the late summer and early autumn of 2007, Dr. Coll Thrush was one of three who saw potential in a methodologically- unsophisticated thesis proposal, and was the first and only potential supervisor who wanted to discuss it over the phone. Coll and I got along from the very beginning, and I couldn’t have asked for a more supportive graduate supervisor, no matter how busy he was. The same is true of all my committee members—Carole Blackburn, Neil Safier, Paige Raibmon, Daniel Vickers, all of whom took this project seriously from the outset, all of whom were role models of the successful academic’s work-life balance. My broader thanks must be extended to the faculty, staff, and graduate students of the History department during my time there, who offered me constructive and substantive assistance, feedback, critique, moral support, and guidance, whether I asked, or whether I didn’t. My sincere thanks and appreciation must also go to the staff, students, and faculty of St. John’s College, UBC, where as a Junior Fellow (from September 2008 to August 2016) I had community and good cheer in an often dark and drizzly city, and conversations which challenged and expanded my perceptions of the world and my place in it. Of the words of wisdom I soaked up there, an observation of Principal Henry Yu in a formal dinner address comes to mind, where he noted that the qualities that make for a good scholar—i.e., isolation and introspection—are not necessarily the traits that make one a good human being, “often the opposite.” In this light it’s hard not to think of Herman Melville’s warning, in The Confidence-Man (1857), of one ultimate conclusion of dedicatory obsession and repudiation of the things that make us human: “Ever on the noiseless trail; cool, collected, patient; less seen than felt; snuffing, smelling—a Leather-stocking Nemesis. In the settlements he will not be seen again…” I would be remiss not to note that my research, writing, and thinking about the difficult and ugly subject of the stereotyping and dispossession of indigenous North Americans, past and present, took place on unceded Musqueam territory on the shores of the Salish Sea, and on lands obtained in the Robinson-Superior Treaty of 1850 (Crown Treaty No. 60) in Ojibway / Anishinaabeg country, on the shore of Lake Superior / Gichigami. Last but by no means least, my deepest gratitude to my family east and west, who, to cut a long and sentimental story very short, were always there. ̶ Tom Peotto Thunder Bay, 27 July 2017 vii Dedication To my parents, who gave life lessons and library cards, and never lost faith; To my grandparents, who showed that life is a marathon, not a sprint; To my brothers, who never let me get too full of myself. (“Just because you use a lot of big words doesn’t mean you get to dress like a slob”). 1 Introduction: “Who invented scalping?” and why that question matters “The Scalping Knife! General Custer and His Command Annihilated.” —Headline of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 25 June 18761 “My people took scalps only to prove their stories that they had met the enemy and overpowered him. It is not different than the doughboys in the world war bringing back German helmets and other souvenirs.” —Luther Standing Bear (Miniconjou Lakota), 19282 Thesis Statement This thesis examines the cultural history of scalp bounties: the payment of money or trade goods in wartime to volunteers, militias, and mercenaries, for the scalps of indigenous North Americans in the British North American colonies and the post-Revolutionary United States, from the mid-1630s to the end of the 19th century. My approach is both chronological, i.e., when and where scalp bounties were first offered in the North American colonies, and cultural, e.g., how British colonists and their descendants rationalized scalping indigenous enemies as a form of racialized violence, and how their incorporation of scalping into a system of large-scale violence removed it from a secondary importance in such contexts as the eastern North American mourning-war complex or Great Plains coup warfare, and made it part of a distinctly British variation of a Euro-American system of total war centered on commodified indigenous bodies and the conquest of indigenous lands and resources. For Anglo-Americans in particular, the contradictory images, ideas, narratives, and truisms of scalping and scalp bounties both raised the specter of their terror of fighting frontier wars, and were used to justify violence on a much larger, more organized, and impersonal scale 1 Cited in James E. Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud: Custer, the Press, and the Little Bighorn (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2013), 35-36. 2 In Winners of the West 30 August, 1928, cited in Paul L. Hedren, “The Contradictory Legacies of Buffalo Bill Cody’s First Scalp for Custer,” 35, in Montana: the Magazine of Western History, Vol. 55, No. 1 (Spring 2005), 16-35. 2 than anything done by Indian enemies. Scalping became metonymic for the bundle of cultural givens and practices I refer to here as the scalping paradigm. Prologue: “The first scalp for Custer, boys!” Preparing to ride into the valley of the Little Bighorn on the morning of 25 June, 1876, the members of the U.S. Army’s 7th Cavalry regiment were in high spirits. Their path to the Little Bighorn had begun in the summer of 1874 when, in defiance of the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, their commander Lieutenant-Colonel George Custer had led an expedition into the Great Sioux Reservation which confirmed the rumours of gold deposits in the Black Hills, an oasis of wood, game, and sheltered valleys which held spiritual significance in Lakota and Cheyenne sacred geography. As gold miners and adventurers flooded into the Great Sioux Reservation, the federal government endorsed the violation of the treaty and the de facto annexation of Lakota treaty lands, first offering to purchase the Black Hills then, when the Lakotas inevitably refused payment, opting for conquest. An ultimatum, issued in the boreal chill of midwinter on the northern Plains, ordered all Lakotas to report from their winter camps to their agencies by 31 January, 1876, which could not have been done without considerable injury and loss of life. Inevitably ignored, this ultimatum served as casus belli for a summer 1876 expedition against the Sioux, Cheyennes, and Arapahos. Under the command of Major-General Philip Sheridan, the three columns of the U.S. Army mustered out in the early summer of 1876 had two intended goals. In the immediate circumstances of 1875-76, their task was to physically separate northern Plains Indians from the mushrooming Black Hills mining settlements of Deadwood, Custer, Hill City, Sheridan, etc., while their secondary goal was to encircle and defeat the resistance movement which had coalesced 3 around Sitting Bull and other traditionalist leaders in the Powder and Tongue River country since 1864.3 Trained since childhood to collect wild foods and use wild plants for medicine, to endure the elements without complaint, and to travel long journeys and fight on foot or on horseback with bows, firearms, and hand weapons, the average 19th century Plains Indian was adept, or at least competent, in a set of skills easily transferable from hunting to warfare. Among Europeans of American or Old World birth, this was the exception rather than the rule; thus, in 1876, following an Anglo-American frontier tradition dating back to the early 18th century, private donations among Deadwood pioneers funded $200 bounties for Indian scalps. The psychological role this grassroots form of violence played in shoring up the numerous-yet-individually-outmatched settlers’ courage was observed by General Crook’s adjutant, Captain John Bourke, while passing through the Black Hills that September (see Chapter 6). Bourke calculated that the bodies regularly found that year in ones, pairs and threes “in such and such a gulch” between the beginning of summer to September added up to around four hundred slain by Indians; whites, for their part, only “succeeded in killing an Indian” at “extremely rare intervals.” When they did, a carnival atmosphere broke out: 3 Political scientist Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik Stark observes the reinterpretation of western treaties in the 19th century to designate, in the United States, Indian resistance as invasion and, in Canada, Indian rebellion as treason, defining indigenous peoples as nascently criminal and deviant to justify conquest and dispossession in an age of mass migration—see Stark, “Criminal Empire: The Making of the Savage in a Lawless Land,” in Theory and Event, Vol. 19, No. 4 (2016), 17pp. For general background: Robert M. Utley, The Lance and the Shield: The Life and Times of Sitting Bull (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1993), 3-233, 115-131 on the Black Hills (a Lakota named Standing Elk, age 15 in 1875, later recalled “I heard Sitting Bull say that the Black Hills was just like a food pack and therefore the Indians should stick to it.” He puzzled over this until he figured it out: “Indians would rove all around, but when they were in need of something they could just go in there and get it”); entries “Cheyennes” (47-49), “Little Bighorn” (117-18), “Sioux” (184-87), “Sioux Wars” (187-88), in David J. Wishart ed., Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2007), entries “Arapahos” (22-24), “Cheyennes” (47-49), “Indian Scouts” (100-102), “Little Bighorn” (117-18), “Sioux” (184-87), “Sioux Wars” (187-88); Evan S. Connell, Son of the Morning Star (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1984), 232-76; Jerome A. Greene, ed., Lakota and Cheyenne: Indian Views of the Great Sioux War, 1876-1877 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1994), xiii-xxvi; Thomas Powers, The Killing of Crazy Horse (New York and Toronto: Random House, 2010), 289-329. 4 “Deadwood would go crazy with delight; the skull and scalp were paraded and sold at public auction to the highest bidder.”4 The widespread Anglo-American idea that scalping Indians signified victory, and was consistent with a carnival or jubilee atmosphere, also appeared among the 7th Cavalry. Since early May they had been traipsing across the northern Plains on long marches with cold rations and minimal sleep, and now that the Crow and Arikara scouts had found a large village of Lakotas, Cheyennes, and Arapahos in the river valley, it looked like the end was in sight. Custer’s orders were to wait for his commanding officer General Alfred Terry and join forces with General George Crook before marching on the village, but on the morning of 25 June no warriors could be seen through the officers’ binoculars, an observation that tempted Custer’s risk-taking sensibilities. It was decided: as at the Washita in 1868, the 7th would ride down, take the women, children, and elderly of the village hostage, and order the absent warriors, presumedly off hunting, to surrender when they returned. The 7th were therefore in a jovial mood that morning, bolstering their confidence with candid jokes about scalping the Indians and, per another longstanding tradition in Anglo-American frontier warfare, looting the village.5 4 On Bourke in Deadwood see John Gregory Bourke, On the Border with Crook (C. Scribner’s Sons, 1891, second edition 1892), 380; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 336-39; Jerome A. Greene, Slim Buttes, 1876: An Episode of the Great Sioux War (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1982), throughout. On Deadwood scalp bounties, see Ralph Adam Smith, Borderlander: the Life of James Kirker, 1793-1852 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999), 298 n. 50. General background: Connell, Son of the Morning Star, throughout; Wishart ed., Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, entries “Arapahos” (22-24), “Cheyennes” (47-49), “Indian Scouts” (100-102), “Little Bighorn” (117-18), “Sioux” (184-87), “Sioux Wars” (187-88); Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 3-233; Powers, The Killing of Crazy Horse, 289-329. 5 On the Washita, see Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 181-200; Wishart ed., Encyclopedia of the Great Plains entries “Arapahos” (22-24), “Cheyennes” (47-49), “Indian Scouts” (100-102), “Little Bighorn” (117-18), “Sioux” (184-87), “Sioux Wars” (187-88); Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 3-233; Powers, The Killing of Crazy Horse, 289-329. 5 Custer’s orderly, John Burkman, remembered the troopers predicting that they’d be back by lunch, and placing bets on who would collect the most scalps. Private Peter Thompson of E Company overheard one “old soldier” say that all they had to do was “reach old Sitting Bull.” Then another soldier chimed in: “If that is all, the campaign will soon be over, and Custer will take us with him to the Centennial.” “Of course, said a wag, “we will take Sitting Bull with us.” This created a roar of laughter among those who heard him. The conversation continued, each one telling his neighbour what he would take when Sitting Bull’s camp was captured. What the 700 men of the 7th did not know was why General Crook had been delayed in their rendezvous: the Indians had already repulsed Crook’s force at the Rosebud on 17 June, and were spoiling for another fight with the soldiers. In the massive village along the banks of the Little Bighorn, the largest collection of Plains Indians that the scouts had ever seen, an estimated 1,500 warriors who had stayed up dancing the night before were stirring in their tipis.6 Riding into battle after breakfast, First Sergeant John Ryan of Company M heard Second Lieutenant Charles Varnum calling out “‘Thirty days furlough to the man who gets the first scalp.’ We were very anxious for the furlough,” remembered Ryan, “but not so particular for the scalp.” Indeed, the soldiers had several reasons to be anxious. First, the 7th’s esprit de corps was sapped: several of Custer’s most experienced officers had been temporarily reassigned for the Centennial, and up to thirty percent of his troops were raw recruits, some of whom were native speakers of German, Italian, and Irish Gaelic with limited English. Due to budget shortcuts, some had never fired their dragoons’ carbines in 6 Thompson cited in Paul L. Hedren, We Trailed the Sioux: Enlisted Men Speak on Custer, Crook, and the Great Sioux War (Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2003), 17-19 (my italics); Burkman cited in Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 405-22; Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 3-233. 6 basic training, and the soft copper shells of their standard-issue carbine ammunition could jam during ejection when deformed by gunpowder or verdigris buildup. A third, nonmaterial factor was an omnipresent dread about what victorious Indians did to their white captives, reinforced by images and narratives repeated again and again in the American oral tradition and mass media. “As motivational tool,” writes historian Alan Taylor, “Indian-hating was double-edged.” Invoking scalping, either as a marker of Indian warriors’ putative ferocity or to promise an inevitable, just victory over them, “initially aroused white men to fight, but it ultimately invited them to fear.”7 Many of the 7th probably held a mental image of Seth Eastman’s 1850 engraving The Death-Whoop: of a Dakota warrior, holding his knife in his right hand and triumphantly raising his enemy’s scalp in his left, exulting over a slain Indian enemy. The scene, and its vivid and straightforward visual language of victor and vanquished, seems to have struck a chord in the Anglo-American imagination; in 1868, the federal government commissioned Eastman to rework it as an oil painting for display in the White House. Paul Hedren notes that it was regularly copied by 19th-century artists seeking to capture the merciless and savage qualities Europeans attributed to Indians at war—as in an 1873 Harper’s Weekly editorial illustration, “Modocs Scalping and Torturing Prisoners”. Replacing the slain Indian of Eastman’s original with a scalped American soldier and adding a background scene of gaunt, wolfish Indians immolating a naked white prisoner, the artist could capture and 7 Ryan cited in Hedren, We Trailed the Sioux, 17-19; Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 3-233; on carbines, see Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 306-310; “As motivational tool…” in Alan Taylor, The Civil War of 1812: American Citizens, British Subjects, Irish Rebels, & Indian Allies (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2010), 157-59. 7 express widespread public hatred for the Modocs in familiar terms of Indian cruelty and white victimhood which had little or no relevance to actual events in northeastern California.8 The Death-Whoop, like other Dakota scenes Seth Eastman engraved for Henry Schoolcraft’s six-volume series on Native Americans (1851-57), reappeared in The American Aboriginal Portfolio (1853), an illustrated tract co-authored with his second wife Mary promoting Protestant missions among the Sioux. Having been stationed at Fort Snelling, Minnesota from 1830 to 1849 where he was briefly married to a Dakota woman (1830-32), Lt. Eastman was considered an expert on the Dakotas and, by extension, Indians generally. Yet he and Mary’s ventriloquized Dakota perspectives merely reflected Anglo-American truisms: that scalping was vastly important to Indians, and was emblematic of the individual and cultural pathology the Eastmans attributed to “the warrior, with his ungoverned passions, […] delighting in war and glorious deeds,” and “the woman, with her superstition and degradation.” Mary’s accompanying 1853 text for The Death-Whoop declared scalping to express “all the horrible passions of the human heart.” Some authors had found a sort of pagan magnificence in such spectacles, but the Eastmans had only contempt and pity: after fighting like “savage beasts that war unceasingly in the forests of the uncivilized,” one kills the other, and the victor is in “the ecstasy of his triumph.” As “[e]very nerve in his body is thrilling with joy,” the warrior “shouts the appalling death-cry.” If this is the warrior’s first scalp, “the amount of his happiness” is almost “unendurable” since both his mother, “and the 8 The repetitive copying of The Death-Whoop was noted in 1941 by Gabriel Nadeau in “Indian Scalping: Technique in Different Tribes,” 185-89, in Bulletin of History of Medicine, Volume X, No. 2 (July 1941), 178- 194, reprinted in W.G. Spittal, ed., Scalping and Torture: Warfare Practices among North American Indians (Ohsweken, Ontario: Iroqrafts Indian Reprints, 1985), 18-34. Felicia Wivchar, “The House Indian Affairs Commission—Seth Eastman’s American Indian Paintings in Context,” in Federal History Issue 2 (January 2010), 16-27; Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer,” 23-25; “Modocs Scalping and Torturing Their Prisoners” in Boyd Cothran, Remembering the Modoc War: Redemptive Violence and the Making of American Innocence (University of North Carolina Press: Chapel Hill, NC, 2014), 50-75. 8 maiden he loves, will glory in his success.” With pious sarcasm, the Eastmans paraphrased Proverbs 31:10: “the fame of her son and husband is dear to the Indian woman, and the price of an enemy’s scalp is far above rubies.” The young man, adorning his first scalp with beads, “feast[s] his eyes upon the horrid sight.”9 Until age 16 Seth Eastman’s Dakota grandson Ohiyesa, the fifth child of Eastman’s daughter Wakantakawin who, under the baptismal name Dr. Charles Eastman, later became a Boston-College-trained physician, only knew Americans by reputation. In his memoir Indian Boyhood (1902) he quoted his uncle’s description of them as a wealthy, but very peculiar people, and as poor fighters not worth counting coup on. The “common warriors,” his uncle said, were “driven forward like a herd of antelopes” by their officers, and fought “from compulsion and not from personal bravery.” His uncle’s belief that individual shows of prowess and fearlessness, the metric of martial success among Plains Indians, were the exception rather than the rule among Americans, is widespread and implicit in testimonials from Indian combatants at Little Bighorn. Thus the Miniconjou chief American Horse could, with no contradiction, praise an officer who sacrificed himself to cover his men’s retreat as “the bravest man [the Sioux] have ever fought” while at the same time mentioning soldiers who “became foolish” with fear and begged to be taken prisoner; “none were left alive for even a few minutes.” Soldier Wolf, a Cheyenne, said Major Reno’s cavalry were so frightened they couldn’t shoot straight and “seemed to be drunk”; chasing them was “like chasing buffalo,” said another Cheyenne also named American Horse, a comparison echoed by the Cheyenne Little Hawk. “[I]t was just like killing sheep,” said an Unkpapa, known as 9 Mary and Seth Eastman, The American Aboriginal Portfolio (Philadelphia: Lippincott, Grambo & Co., 1853), iii (“ungoverned passions… degradation”), 26-27 (“all the horrible passions… horrid sight”); Proverbs 31:10: “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.” 9 Rain-in-the-Face, to the journalist W. Kent Thomas through an interpreter in 1894. “Some of them got on their knees and begged; we spared none [.]”10 Emotions ran high on both sides of the battlefield, and the Indians were both furious and frightened at how close the soldiers had come to attacking their families. A teenage Unkpapa named Iron Hawk later told John Neihardt of putting an arrow through a soldier, knocking him off his horse, and beating him long after he was dead: “I was mad, because I was thinking of the women and little children running down there, all scared and out of breath.” When a fiftysomething Cheyenne woman named White Necklace saw the stripped corpse of a soldier lying nude on the hillside, she remembered that her niece’s body had also been found stripped after Colorado militia had attacked Sand Creek in 1864. Her niece had also been decapitated, so “I jumped off my horse and did the same to him.” As defeat at Indian hands loomed, the soldiers’ morning confidence was replaced by panic, and the Indians began seeing things which made little or no sense to them. An Unkpapa remembered taking part in the pursuit of a cavalryman over a six or seven mile chase, and being the American’s last remaining pursuer as the other four Indians dropped out and turned back to the village. The lone Unkpapa had neither bow nor gun, and was on the verge of giving up when the soldier looked over his shoulder at him, drew his pistol, and shot himself in the head. Kate Bighead, a Cheyenne woman, not only saw soldiers committing individual 10 Charles Eastman, Indian Boyhood (1902) cited in Peter Nabokov ed., Native American Testimony: A Chronicle of Indian-White Relations from Prophecy to the Present, 1492-1992 (Penguin Books, 1991 [1978]), 21-24; on family background, see Carol Lea Clark, “Charles A. Eastman (Ohiyesa) and Elaine Goodale Eastman: A Cross-Cultural Collaboration,” in Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature Vol. 13, No. 2 (Autumn 1994), 271-280, and entry “Eastman, Charles (1858-1939)” in Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, 64-65; Greene ed., Lakota and Cheyenne, 31-72: American Horse (Miniconjou) 33-37, American Horse (Cheyenne) 49, Soldier Wolf 51-52, Little Hawk (“chased them like buffalo”) 62; Rain-in-the-Face quoted by W. Kent Thomas, “The Personal Story of Rain-in-the-Face,” in Cyrus Townsend Brady ed., Indian Fights and Fighters (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1971), 279-292 (285: “sheep… we spared none”); on Rain-in-the-Face see Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 380-400. 10 suicide, but also saw “several different pairs” of soldiers “fire their guns at the same time and shoot one another in the breast.” In the post-reservation period, a Cheyenne named Wooden Leg observed, Indians who “tried to tell of the soldiers killing themselves” learned that whites “always became angry and said the Indians were liars [.]” Fearful of reprisals or punishment, Little Bighorn’s Indian veterans stuck to flattering stories of 7th Cavalry heroism or held a discreet silence.11 On 27 June, General Terry and his forces entered the Little Bighorn valley to find a vast, abandoned village site, recently-interred Indians in burial lodges and scaffolds, and 430 survivors of the 7th Cavalry fortified on a blufftop. In the valley, Lt.-Col. George Custer and 268 scouts, soldiers, and civilians of the 7th lay dead. The news from Montana, arriving a week later, soured the afterglow of the double celebration of the Centennial and the 4th of July. Up to this point, the 1876 campaign had been considered as an unnecessary and embarrassing war spawned from the “Indian Ring” scandals of embezzlement and corruption in the Indian Department and the broader Grant administration. Now national attention quickly shifted to the martyrs of the 7th Cavalry, and Little Bighorn became a manifestation of America’s national nightmare: scalping, mutilation, and tortured death at the hands of Indians. “Massacre of Our Troops,” screamed the New York Times, and headlines across America made heavy use of “butcher,” “slaughter,” “annihilated,” and “massacre.”12 11 Iron Hawk cited in Nicholas Black Elk and John Neihardt, annotated by Raymond J. DeMallie, Black Elk Speaks: Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2008 [1932]), 94-97; White Necklace cited in Thomas Powers, The Killing of Crazy Horse (New York and Toronto: Random House, 2010), 289-329; Indians’ anger, battlefield suicides, Wooden Leg (308) and the horse chase (313-14) in Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 285-314, 410-22; Kate Bighead, as told to Thomas B. Marquis, “She Watched Custer’s Last Battle,” in Paul Andrew Hutton ed., The Custer Reader (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2004), 363-377. 12 Hugh J. Reilly, “The Press,” in Brad D. Lookingbill ed., A Companion to Custer and the Little Bighorn Campaign (Wiley Blackwell, 2015), 387-403; Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud, 31-54; Jim Piecuch and Jason Lutz, “Indian Ring Scandal,” in Spencer C. Tucker et. al., eds., The Encyclopedia of the North 11 Responses to Little Bighorn were informed by the broadly-shared Euro- and Anglo- American belief that Indians were their savage antithesis, defective shadows of civilization whose societies were barbaric and nascently criminal. Internal criticism regarding the 1876 war often stopped at a small group of malcontents within American society that respectable people wished to distance themselves from, such as the Indian-Ring embezzlers and the squatters of the Black Hills, frontier ruffians and crooked public officials who must be “snarling, villainous, immoral, ignorant, gauche”; by contrast, Indians’ normal state was presumed to be deviance, illustrated by such lateral comparisons as the use of the term “banditti” to describe both Plains Indian warriors and Civil War guerrillas. Hence the great evidentiary weight placed on the soldiers’ post-mortem mutilations at Little Bighorn, as when the editor of the St. Louis Dispatch raged that this “proves that the Sioux have learned nothing from civilization,” followed by a statement of explicit dehumanization and genocidal ideation: that “the hostile element of this race” should “be exterminated” like “other vampires of the woods.” Revenge for the 7th Cavalry by the conquest and forcible assimilation of the Indians from what the Montana Missoulian dubbed a “life of vagabondage” were called for in newspapers across America, particularly in the western states, as when the Bismarck Tribune demanded that treaties be torn up and the Indians be assimilated into American society “as they are, criminals and paupers,” which would require the government to “hang or shoot the murderers” and jail others. Whether indigenous peoples could become “modern” or were inexorably doomed by Manifest Destiny was an unresolved controversy of the late 19th century, but the essential benignity of American society, like the American Indian Wars, 1607-1890: A Social, Political, and Military History, volume 1, A-L (Santa Barbara, Denver, Oxford: ABC-Clio, 2011), 384-85. 12 imagined inevitability of the Indian’s extinction through cultural assimilation or armed counterinsurgency, was not up for debate.13 Bogeyman images of Indian war, some dating back 300 years, were swiftly attached in the public mind to Little Bighorn. As late as 1931, an Unkpapa woman, She Walks With Her Shawl, had to point out that “Very few soldiers were mutilated” and “Not a single soldier was burned at the stake” when characterizing Little Bighorn as “not a massacre, but a hotly contested battle between two armed forces.” Though Terry and Crook’s forces did report seeing at least some soldiers’ bodies posthumously mutilated, not even the most hostile witnesses at Little Bighorn—or, for that matter, in the Modoc War—had reported or claimed any evidence of victims burned at the stake. Here, She Walks With Her Shawl was struggling valiantly against the Anglo-American collective unconscious. By the late 18th century, a sense of potential victimhood vis-à-vis Indians had come to define European self-perception in British North America to a greater extent than in their Spanish and French counterpart colonies. Lurid scenarios of European settlers scalped, tortured, immolated, violated and murdered by fiendish, ogre-like Indians circulated in the Anglo-American oral tradition and the gruesome texts and illustrations of newspapers, pamphlets, and early commercial media. The somber Protestant considerations of the captivity narrative genre, of which Mary 13 Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud, 146-168, also notes that the by-now archaic term banditti was still being used as a pejorative—in 1875, General Sheridan had asked the secretary of war to set up military tribunals to try white supremacists in Louisiana as ‘banditti’ (Mueller 181). On the legal definition of 19th century Plains Indians as social deviants and criminals, see Stark, “Criminal Empire”; as will be noted in Chapters 1 and 2, the identification of “barbarians” with deviance and criminality to justify imperial violence as a civilizing mission, has a much longer history. “[T]he Indian was marked for gradual extinction by the uneasy coalition of his friends and foes”—Alden Vaughan, cited in Patrick Wolfe, “Land, Labor, and Difference: Elementary Structures of Race,” 885, in The American Historical Review, Vol. 106, No. 3 (Jun., 2001), 866- 905; on vanishing Indian mythology in the 19th century, see Brian W. Dippie, The Vanishing American: White Attitudes and U.S. Indian Policy (University Press of Kansas, 1982), esp. 3-78. For “snarling, villainous, immoral, gauche”: Ta-Nehisi Coates, “This Town Needs a Better Class of Racist,” in The Atlantic Monthly online, posted 1 May 2014, 11:30 am ET. 13 Rowlandson’s The Sovereignty and Goodness of God (1682) was archetypal, had swiftly given way to a saleable pornography of violence intended to instill pathos, horror, and terror to a degree which overwhelmed the reader’s sensibilities, an effect Peter Silver calls “the anti-Indian sublime.” While the austere early captivity narratives had sidestepped the question of motive by presenting Indians as God’s implements to test the faithful, the later, secular horror stories suggested only that the Indian was both implacably vengeful and innately depraved. By the time of the Seven Years’ War, notes Silver, “Every kind of writing placed immense weight on scalping, which, together with ‘murder,’ in fact became a metonym for Indian war.”14 As the first reports filtered back from Montana, events of 25-26 June were simplified and streamlined to confirm, or conform to, pre-existing narratives of frontier war and civilization’s struggle against savagery. A faded Civil War icon’s death in Montana became a mythic “last stand” combining elements of the Charge of the Light Brigade, Roncesvalles, and Thermopylae: following their orders to the bitter end, the 7th Cavalry had gone out swinging against a pitiless barbarian horde. This clash between civilized American order and barbarous Indian chaos, with the former on the defensive against the latter, was clearly delineated in the iconography of “Last Stand” artwork. In such famous examples as John Mulvany’s Custer’s Last Rally (1881) and Otto Becker’s Custer’s Last Fight (1896), the 7th 14 She Walks With Her Shawl cited in Greene ed., Lakota and Cheyenne, 31-72 (45: “Not a massacre”); Peter Silver, Our Savage Neighbours: How Indian War Transformed Early America (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2008), xix-xxvi, 49-94 (77-79: metonym; 83-85: “the anti-Indian sublime”); Richard VanDerBeets ed., Held captive by Indians: Selected Narratives, 1642-1836, revised edition (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1994 [1973]), xi-xxxix; Richard VanDerBeets, The Indian Captivity Narrative: An American Genre (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1984), ix-x, 1-50; “Captivity Narratives” in Edward Buscombe ed., The BFI Companion to the Western (Singapore: Da Capo Press, 1988), 78-81; Birgit Hans, “Captivity Narratives” (45-46) in Wishart ed., Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians; Sara Humphreys, “The Mass Marketing of the Colonial Captive Hannah Duston,” in Canadian Review of American Studies Vol. 41, No. 2 (2011), 149-178. 14 Cavalry, wielding sabers and rifles and buttoned up in their blue uniforms, were invariably encircled by warbonneted, painted Indians wielding a panoply of modern and primitive weapons. Periodically, participants from the Little Bighorn remarked upon the simplified binary of these pictorial conventions: too many warbonnets in Becker’s lithograph, observed Lieutenant Varnum, who also noted that the soldiers had doffed their gauntlets and blue coats in the summer heat. When Rain-in-the-Face, during his 1894 interview by W. Kent Thomas at the Chicago World’s Fair (see Chapter 7), was shown an artist’s impression of the last stand and asked his thoughts, he “studied it a long time, and then burst out laughing,” listing several errors and announcing “This picture is like all the white man’s pictures of Indians, a lie.” In doing so he punctured the stock iconography of Stone Age Indians and high-tech Americans: “This picture gives us bows and arrows. We were better armed than the long swords [i.e., soldiers].” The high-caliber repeating rifles distributed through Indian Department treaties for buffalo hunting, and carried by many Indian combatants at Little Bighorn, were much more reliable than the dragoons’ finicky carbines: “Their guns wouldn’t shoot but once—the thing wouldn’t throw out the empty cartridge shells.”15 Additional meaning was added by turning Little Bighorn into a clash of personalities between George Custer, the Union’s dashing “Boy General” of the Civil War, and a Lakota or Dakota leader known to the American public such as Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, or even Inkpaduta—despite the fact that Custer was almost unknown among the Sioux, Northern Cheyennes, and Arapahos in the summer of 1876. Though many Southern Cheyennes knew 15 Thomas, “The Personal Story of Rain-in-the-Face,” in Brady, Indian Fights and Fighters, 279-292 (285: “burst out laughing… shells”). On Little Bighorn iconography, see Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 354-69 (Varnum cited 365); Larry McMurtry, O What a Slaughter: Massacres in the American West, 1846-1890 (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2005), 37-40; Reilly, “The Press”; Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud, 193- 214. 15 and despised George Custer for his surprise attack on the Washita in 1868, calling him Long Hair or Creeping Panther, no Cheyenne archenemy seems to have been proposed; instead a potential nemesis was found in Rain-in-the-Face, who George Custer’s younger brother Tom had once arrested on charges of killing two fossil hunters who wandered too far from the 1874 Black Hills expedition. Rain-in-the-Face, who W. Kent Thomas deemed “utterly heartless and unprincipled,” seemed a fitting antihero: declaring his subject, then 60 years old, as “still a Hercules,” Thomas gave his 1876 measurements as 5’9”, 195 lbs with a forty- six inch chest, praising him as “the most pronounced type of the ideal Fenimore Cooper, dime novel Indian in America.” So, in 1876, the Omaha Daily Herald wrote that Rain-in-the- Face had cut out George Custer’s heart, mounted it on a pole, and held a war dance around it, an allegation Custer’s widow Elizabeth repeated in her memoir Boots and Saddles (1885), writing that Tom Custer’s heart had been excised to satisfy “The vengeance of that incarnate fiend.” The story was probably lifted from the biography of Washakie, a famous chief of the Eastern Shoshones, and Rain-in-the-Face alternately denied and claimed credit for it until the end of his life.16 16 Thomas, “The Personal Story of Rain-in-the-Face,” in Brady, Indian Fights and Fighters, 279-292 (281: “forty-six inch chest”; 291-92: “utterly heartless… still a Hercules… dime novel Indian”); Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 380-99, 409-422; Bighead and Marquis, “She Watched Custer’s Last Battle”; Powers, The Killing of Crazy Horse, 289-329; Jerome A. Greene, Washita: The U.S. Army and the Southern Cheyennes, 1867-1869 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2004), 1-60. Inkpaduta, a war leader in the Dakota Uprising of 1862, had fled to Canada to escape reprisals; though present at Little Bighorn along with two of his sons, in 1876 Inkpaduta was well into his sixties and almost blind. Taoyateduta or Little Crow, another Dakota leader during the Uprising, was shot and scalped by a Minnesota farmer in 1863, while Inkpaduta died of old age in Manitoba in the winter of 1881-82 – see Paul N. Beck, Inkpaduta: Dakota Leader (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2008), 121-139. Washakie reportedly danced with a Crow warrior’s heart at the tip of his lance after an Eastern Shoshone – Northern (“Bannock”) Shoshone victory in a border war with the Crows in March 1866, at present-day Crowheart Butte, Wyoming; “The story, often repeated, that Washakie ate a Crow’s heart is not given credence by those who knew Washakie,” writes his biographer Grace Raymond Hebard in Washakie: Chief of the Shoshones (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995 [1930]), 151-52; on the divisions of the Shoshones, see Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, entry “Shoshones” (181-82). 16 Two other trends involved dramatically overestimating the number of Indian combatants, and imagining Little Bighorn as a carefully-laid ambush, such as the claim published in the Miner of Butte, Montana that riverbanks had been hollowed out for cover and logs piled as breastworks. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow blended all these legends into a heady broth in his poem “The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face” (1880). At a council among “the mountains dark and high” the dyarchs of the Sioux, Sitting Bull and Rain-in-the-Face, swear revenge on “the White Chief with yellow hair!” Custer is lured “Into the fatal snare” of the valley of the Little Bighorn where, “Like a bison among the reeds, / In ambush the Sitting Bull / Lay with three thousand braves / Crouched in the clefts and caves, / Savage, unmerciful!” Their work done, the Indians “fled in the night” while Rain-in-the-Face “uplifted high in the air” Custer’s “brave heart” as a “ghastly trophy.”17 In his 1894 interview, Rain-in-the-Face subtly cast cold water on the American public’s obsession with the idea that Custer’s foes had scalped the strawberry-blonde curls which, in his iconography, cascaded from beneath his heroically oversized white hat. After boasting of how he had cut out Tom Custer’s heart, “bit a piece out of it and spit it in his face,” and felt “satisfied and sick of fighting; I didn’t scalp him,” he then implied an unmanly end for George Custer: the women, he said, “hunted for Long Yellow Hair [i.e., Custer] to scalp him, but could not find him. He didn’t wear his [uniform], his hair had been cut off, and the Indians didn’t know him.” The outlines of this were true: Custer had gone to battle in a scout’s buckskins, and with his hair cut short against his receding hairline he would have made a poor trophy even if recognized. But the idea that Custer had died anonymously and 17 Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 380-99; Reilly, “The Press”; Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud, 31-54. 17 maybe been scalped by women was too much for the reporters to bear. “[I]f you didn’t kill Long Yellow Hair, who did?” pressed W. Kent Thomas. “I don’t know. No one knows,” replied Rain-in-the-Face, to which another reporter persisted, asking why the hero Custer “wasn’t scalped, when everyone else was? Did you consider him too brave to be scalped?” “No, no one is too brave to be scalped, that wouldn’t make any difference,” answered Rain- in-the-Face. Reading between the lines, irritation radiates from his reply: he theorized that Custer’s heroic corpse “must have laid under some other dead bodies” and then threw an undetected jab, noting he didn’t know Custer hadn’t been scalped “till I heard it long afterward from the whites.”18 The myth of the last stand, with Custer himself as the central figure and icon of Anglo-American heroism, could inspire such relatively tasteful works as Mulvany’s tense, claustrophobic Custer’s Last Rally. Hemmed in by swirling clouds of prairie dust thrown up by the Indians’ horses, Custer and his grim, exhausted survivors prepare for the final battle, in a painting whose predominant tones are dusty greys and light browns with a few splashes of vivid red. However, Mulvany’s painting was gallery art which would of necessity reach a much smaller audience than Otto Becker’s kitschy, full-colour rendition Custer’s Last Fight. Reworked from a lost original by Cassilly Adams on commission from the Anheuser-Busch brewing corporation of St. Louis, Missouri, the former gateway to the West, mass production placed Becker’s lithograph across America on the 20th anniversary of Little Bighorn and for decades afterwards; it was seen by hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, in such formats as beer trays, calendars, and handouts, large-scale reprints for bars and saloons, and smaller 18 Thomas, “The Personal Story of Rain-in-the-Face,” in Brady, Indian Fights and Fighters, 279-292 (289: “satisfied and sick of fighting”), (290-91: “running in the dark… long afterward from the whites”); Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 380-99. 18 versions for rec rooms. Replacing Mulvany’s claustrophobic alkali dust clouds for a wide- open backdrop of blue prairie skies and rolling green plains, Becker proffers a collage of 19th-century imperialist imagery of the West against the rest, mixing the Sioux War of 1875- 77 with the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879. Custer, in golden buckskins, rages in the painting’s center with saber and spent, clubbed pistol in hand, as a horde of Sioux pour from all sides; while their feathered warbonnets, tomahawks, and knives, are recognizably “Indian,” the knobkerrie-style clubs and broad-bladed spears in their panoply, as well as their chocolate- brown skin and large, oval, Zulu-style leather shields, give the impression of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. In the foreground of the painting’s lower left quadrant, the Indians wield rifles, pistols, and war clubs, while the mirroring lower right quadrant is decidedly gorier: the Indians here wield mostly edged weapons, and two soldiers—it’s unclear whether they’re dead or merely unconscious—are being scalped, while a third is being stabbed with a knife. In the foregrounded right-hand corner are a heap of three dead, nude soldiers, at least one of whom has been scalped.19 That recent European immigrants such as the Irish-born Mulvany and the German- born Becker had publicly affirmed their American identity by illustrating heroic, gruesome images of Indians scalping whites was no accident. By the time of the Seven Years’ War, notes Peter Silver, the narrative of shared vulnerability to the literal and symbolic violations of Indian war was the common denominator for collective “white” Euro-American identity in 19 On Mulvany and Becker see Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 21, 361-69; McMurtry, O What a Slaughter, 37-40; and The BFI Companion to the Western, 87 (entry “Chromolithography”). On “savage war” see Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America (New York: Atheneum, 1992), 1-62, 112-14, 645, 729 n. 6. On 19th-century “West and the rest” sensibilities, see Patrick B. Sharp, Savage Perils: Racial Frontiers and Nuclear Apocalypse in American Culture (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2007), esp. 3-95; on their survival in the present, see Pankaj Mishra’s review of Niall Ferguson’s Civilisation: The West and the Rest (Allen Lane, 2011), “Watch this man,” in the London Review of Books Vol. 33, No. 21 (3 November 2011), 10-12. 19 Britain’s North American colonies, uniting newly-arrived migrants and American-born creoles and cutting across the lines of language, creed, political affiliation and nationality. The “indignant vulnerability” these stories engendered, “what could literally be called their violent self-pity,” was paired with a projective fantasy Richard Slotkin calls “savage war,” in which Europeans imagined indigenous resistance to encroaching settlement as invasion with genocidal intent—as when an 1857 New-York Daily Times journalist attributed Sioux attacks on Iowan and Minnesotan settlers to “a war of extermination on our North-Western frontiers.” This reverse-colonial nightmare went hand in hand with portrayals of Indians as dysfunctional, primitive versions of Europeans, whose land ownership was illegitimate, whose lifestyle was nascently criminal, and who had to be destroyed by any means necessary. This, in turn, sanctified warfare on a for-profit basis: Indian scalps redeemed for colonial bounties, captives sold into slavery, plunder of villages freely taken, widowed land opened to speculators and squatters.20 But colonists also killed, scalped and mutilated Indians when no bounty money was offered and when they risked the disapproval of their peers, acting out, projecting, and re- enacting their dark fantasies of Indian warfare upon indigenous victims. Drawing on the historic examples of ranger captains like Benjamin Church and Robert Rogers, and male frontier vigilantes such as Lewis Wetzel of Ohio and Thomas “Tom” Quick of Pennsylvania (Hannah Duston, a woman who slew and scalped her Abenaki captors in 1697, was too 20 Silver, Our Savage Neighbors, states (94) that this “indignant vulnerability” of pre-Revolutionary America “would be one of the new nation’s most characteristic and long-lasting cultural products”; Walter Hixson concurs in American Settler Colonialism: A History (New York, 2013), describing (197-98) an “[internalized] propensity for traumatic, righteous violence, and a quest for total security” through disproportionate force— cited in Walter L. Hixson, “Policing the Past: Indian Removal and Genocide Studies,” 440, in The Western Historical Quarterly Vol. 47, No. 4 (Winter 2016), 439–443. “a war of extermination” cited in Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud, 149. 20 Amazonian for most mythographers’ tastes), the Anglo-American oral tradition created the myth of the Indian-hunting, Indian-killing vigilante, who had so successfully adopted Indians’ woodcraft and fighting style that he could beat them in wilderness war. An ambivalent figure driven to violent obsession by the horrors of Indian war or a nemesis summoned by Indians’ aggression and hubris, the Indian-killer, who combined European superiority and rustic American virility, served as Anglo-American wish fulfillment as hero, antihero, or villain. He was a compensatory fantasy for settlers’ anxieties of being, almost invariably, outmatched when fighting Indians, and was nakedly white-supremacist: as Watts puts it, the frontiersman “who could out-savage the savage […] assured a white superiority and destiny, even at the atavistic level of individual combat.” But the “fierce, rude settler who drives the savage from the land” was also slated to pass away per Manifest Destiny’s teleology of a three-stage frontier pattern, in which Indian-killing frontiersmen were inevitably absorbed or driven off by urban-agrarian-industrial civilization. The white savage was as inexorably doomed as the Indians he slaughtered, allowing readers to “vicariously tremble” in safety.21 Elevated to American popular culture and literature during the Jacksonian period, the scalp-taking Indian-hunter joined the American popular imagination’s roster of white savages: the “half-horse, half-alligator” western boatman, the Rocky Mountain fur trapper, the scout, and the cowboy. All were the first iterations of the American superhero, who 21 “The fierce, rude settler”: Theodore Roosevelt, The Winning of the West, cited in John Shelton Lawrence and Robert Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero (Grand Rapids, Michigan and Cambridge: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2002), 49-64. Edward Watts, “Exploration, Trading, Trapping, Travel, and Early Fiction, 1780-1850,” (19: “out-savage the savage… vicariously tremble”), in Nicolas Witschi ed., A Companion to the Literature and Culture of the American West (John Wiley & Sons: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 2011), 13-28; Gary Hoppenstand, “Justified Bloodshed: Robert Montgomery Bird’s Nick of the Woods and the Origins of the Vigilante Hero in American Literature and Culture,” in The Journal of American Culture Vol. 15, No. 2 (June 1992), 51-61; Humphreys, “The Mass Marketing of the Colonial Captive Hannah Duston”. 21 operates outside of stifling laws and flawed institutions, wielding unconventional tactics and overwhelming power to successfully wage one-man wars against Indians, bandits, criminals, and other enemies of civilization. He appears as pure fiction as Natty Bumppo of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales (1823-1841) and as the Indian-killer Colonel John Moredock; the latter, originating in the repetitive writings of “professional Westerner” James Hall between 1828 and 1857, was combined with Natty Bumppo in his enduring form as a “Leather-stocking nemesis” in chapters 26 to 28 of Herman Melville’s The Confidence-Man (1857) regarding the “metaphysics of Indian-hating”. He appears as the Quaker antihero Nathan Slaughter in Robert Montgomery Bird’s Gothic novel Nick of the Woods (1837), as the ahistorically-chivalrous Seguin of Thomas Mayne Reid’s The Scalp-Hunters (1851), and as the central, Satanic figure of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian (1985): the hulking polymath-pedophile-murderer Judge Holden of Texas, who originated in Samuel Chamberlain’s highly embellished Mexican-American War memoir My Confession. Other famous Indian-hunters were real people whose lives had been transmuted into legends for their commercial, artistic, and folkloric possibilities: the heroes Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Kit Carson, and the villainous scalp-hunter captains James Kirker and John Joel Glanton, versions of whom peep out of Reid’s The Scalp-Hunters, Chamberlain’s My Confession and McCarthy’s Meridian. Through the accident of Little Bighorn, Custer, an undecorated Indian fighter in his lifetime, ascended into that pantheon. While his Civil War peers’ roles in the Indian wars were gradually forgotten, the mythic Custer, the Gilded Age’s 22 martyr-hero and the 1960s’ Indian-hating génocidaire, “stands forever on that dusty Montana slope.”22 “I stood between savagery and civilization most all my early days,” claimed a figure in silk and velvet who, on the morning of 17 July, allegedly took the first scalp for Custer. Fearing retaliations in the wake of Little Bighorn, several hundred Sioux and Cheyennes had fled north from the Spotted Tail and Red Cloud agencies heading for the Powder River. Not far from Red Cloud the 5th Cavalry, assigned to cut off the Cheyennes and drive them back to the agency, set an ambush on the hill overlooking Warbonnet Creek. Only one casualty resulted from the skirmish between the 5th and the Cheyenne scouts: a young warrior named Yellow Hair, distinguished by his American-flag breechcloth and the long blond scalp he wore at his belt. In a 1929 interview Beaver Heart, another of the Cheyenne scouts, recalled that morning’s events: his horse had just been shot beneath him, and Yellow Hair had reminded him “that we had to do some fighting to keep the soldiers away from the women and children, […] then rode down the line of the soldiers away from us.” Yellow Hair tumbled to the ground after his horse was shot, then was felled by a volley; “The bullets were flying all around him, [and] he was not killed by any one man as far as I could see.” A uniformed sergeant was the first to reach the body and hoist Yellow Hair’s warbonnet for the 22 Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 105-06 (“embedded like a fossil… dusty Montana slope”); Lawrence and Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero, 1-64; Michael R. Allen, Western Rivermen, 1763-1861: Ohio and Mississippi Boatmen and the Myth of the Alligator Horse (Baton Rouge and London: Louisiana State University Press, 1994 [1990]); 1-26, 214-224; Jon T. Coleman, Here Lies Hugh Glass: A Mountain Man, a Bear and the Rise of the American Nation (New York: Hill and Wang, 2012); Nathan E. Bender, introduction to the new edition of Raymond W. Thorp, Jr. and Robert Bunker, Crow Killer: The Saga of Liver-Eating Johnson (Indiana University Press, 2016 [1968, 1959]), ix-xiv; Zeese Papanikolas, Trickster in the Land of Dreams (University of Nebraska Press, 1998), Chapter Four: “Cowboys, Wobblies, and the Myth of the West,” 73-90; Hoppenstand, “Justified Bloodshed”; on James Hall, see Richard Drinnon, Facing West: the Metaphysics of Indian-Hating and Empire-Building (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1980), 191-215. 23 soldiers. Then another man, not in uniform, “came up to where Yellow Hair laid and sit down [sic] near his head.”23 Donald Brown, an enlisted man of the 5th, saw chief of scouts William Cody “ride up to Col. Merritt and hold up the scalp and heard him say “Here is one for Custer!” […] Merritt did not seem to appreciate the scene but apparently deprecated it.” Born on an Iowa farm in 1846, the violence of America’s midcentury frontier shaped the contours of Cody’s life: his father was stabbed in 1854 for giving an abolitionist speech in Kansas, and the lingering wounds killed him a few years later, driving William Cody to work at age 11. In quick succession he served as a teamster, a buffalo hunter for the Kansas Pacific Railroad, a guerrilla in a Union cavalry regiment, a scout for the postwar federal Army, and a hunting guide for eastern millionaires and European royalty. Through these upper-class connections, and his own skills as athlete and raconteur, William Cody in the late 1860s began transforming himself into “Buffalo Bill” Cody, the real-life incarnation of the Indian-slaying frontier hero, who appeared in stage plays and such licensed dime novels as 1872’s Buffalo Bill’s Last Scalp. This was a collaboration with several amanuenses: his agent Maj. John Burke, and the writers Ned Buntline, whose 1869 dime novel Buffalo Bill: King of the Border Men lifted heavily from tales of Wild Bill Hickock, and Prentiss Ingraham, author of Cody’s “savagery and civilization” credo. Ned Buntline had “created the theatrical Buffalo Bill from dime-novel stereotypes,” notes Sandra Sagala, “but William Frederick Cody took the fabrication and made him real.” At the centre of what Philip Deloria dubs this “deliberate confusion of fiction and action” was the living body of William Cody, in Jefferson Slagle’s 23 Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer,” 16-35; Beaver Heart cited in Greene ed., Lakota and Cheyenne, 80-84; “I stood between savagery and civilization” in Lawrence and Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero, 49-64; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 332-36. 24 words “both assert[ing] a version of western history and then claim[ing] that history [as] accurate because he performed it.”24 When the United States declared war on the Sioux and Cheyennes in the spring of 1876, Cody closed his show at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition and re-enlisted, “telling the audience his services were needed in the real West.” Events at Warbonnet Creek provided material to refashion into his self-made legend, in which he was aided by another amanuensis: First Lieutenant Charles King of the 5th Cavalry’s K Company. As war correspondent for the New York Herald, King wrote a version of events republished regionally in Wyoming’s Cheyenne Daily Leader, which clarified the heroism of Cody and the 5th by omitting Cody’s scalping of Yellow Hair and demonizing the Cheyennes. Accusing them of fleeing the reservation to prey on white settlers, King smeared them as traitors fattened on government rations: “beggarly, treacherous rascals” whose “ruling passion” was “love of rapine and warfare.” Transforming the 5th Cavalry into potential victims of the Indians, Crook surmised that the Cheyennes were not only trying to waylay two couriers, but fall on the 5th’s unprotected baggage train and “tear” American scalps with their “gleaming knives.” He ventriloquized for the Cheyennes as sadistic, cowardly liars: “Six to one we’ll slay and scalp them without danger to ourselves, and a hundred to one we will brag about it the rest of our natural lives.” Yet the paradoxes of King’s racism also held that Indians, like 24 Lawrence and Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero, 49-64; Sandra K. Sagala, Buffalo Bill on Stage (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008), 77-100 (100: “made him real”); Jefferson D. Slagle, “America Unscripted: Performing the Wild West” (435: “to both assert… performed it”), in Witschi ed., A Companion to the Literature and Culture of the American West, 427-442; Philip J. Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places (University Press of Kansas, 2004), 52-108 (58: “deliberate confusion of fiction and action”); Darlis A. Miller, Captain Jack Crawford: Buckskin Poet, Scout, and Showman (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2012), 67-90; Sarah J. Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business: A History of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West (New York, Westport, CT and London: Greenwood Press, 1986), 68-76; Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer,” 16-35; Wishart ed., Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, entries “Hollywood Indians” (82-83), “Summit Springs, Battle of” (198). 25 other colonised peoples, responded enthusiastically to force, and repeated a variation of a 400-year-old Euro-American myth: that Indians recognized Europeans as their equals, or superiors (see Chapters 1, 2). When the 5th cut them off and Cody slew their champion, the Cheyennes were “baffled and astounded, for once in a lifetime beaten at their own game.” When Cody appeared at Red Cloud agency the next day, King claimed that the Indians “followed” him “with awe-filled eyes.”25 Though eyewitness Donald Brown said he saw Cody kill Yellow Hair, Cheyenne observers, as well as several dissenting American voices, said Yellow Hair was killed in a crossfire of untraceable bullets. A scout named Richard Stirk accused Cody of taking credit for another’s shot, and a counter-claim attributed Yellow Hair’s death to a Corporal Wilkinson. Charles King relocated the scene to make Cody’s killing of Yellow Hair unimpeachable, writing that Bill broke ranks to pursue “a superbly accoutred warrior” a half- mile from the column, where he slew him in a rifle duel. King also effaced the identity of Yellow Hair by misidentifying him as a better-known Cheyenne chief named Yellow Hand, which he blamed in 1932 on mistranslation by the scout Baptiste “Little Bat” Garnier. An excerpt from a letter Cody wrote from Red Cloud agency to his wife Louisa on 18 July, “I killed Yellow Hand a Cheyenne chief in a single-handed fight,” indicates that the single- combat story and the misidentification of Yellow Hair were established as canonical almost immediately. After Cody’s discharge from service in late August these details were further embellished and reworked with Prentiss Ingraham into a new five-act play entitled The Red 25 Brown cited in Richard E. Jensen, ed., Voices of the American West, Volume 2: The Settler and Soldier Interviews of Eli S. Ricker, 1903-1919 (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 360-61, 420 n. 106; Captain Charles King, Campaigning with Crook (1891; Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1964 reprint), 23-52; Miller, Captain Jack Crawford, 67-90; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 68-76; Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer,” 16-35; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 332-36. 26 Right Hand; or Buffalo Bill’s First Scalp for Custer, whose fifth and final act was the “Yellow Hand fight.” Alternated with performances of his previous season’s show, Life on the Border, audiences across America from October 1876 to July 1877 saw Cody and an actor in redface re-enact the “first scalp for Custer.” It also appeared in his 1879 autobiography, with a comfortingly familiar illustration by Mark Twain collaborator Truman “True” Williams—an obvious copy, observes Paul Hedren, of Eastman’s The Death- Whoop.26 On stage and in print, Cody and Prentiss Ingraham’s version of events was a Homeric duel. Under Merritt’s orders to rescue the couriers, Cody and fifteen picked men had slain three Cheyennes already and were fighting their second skirmish of the morning a half-mile from the column when a “handsomely decorated” Cheyenne “war chief” recognized Cody by reputation. As a teenage buffalo hunter in the 1850s, Lakotas at Fort Laramie had known Cody as Pahaska, “Long Hair”; now, supposedly, Cody’s Cheyenne opponent “sang out to me, in his own tongue: “I know you, Pa-he-haska; if you want to fight, come ahead and fight me.”” Ingraham and Cody’s version of events occurred in three stages. First, both combatants charged at each other and fired their rifles; Cody’s shot killed Yellow Hand’s horse, Yellow Hand’s shot went wide, but Cody’s horse stepped in a hole and spilled him to the ground. Both stood up and fired a second volley; Yellow Hand missed again, while Cody’s bullet “struck him in the breast.” As Yellow Hand “reeled and fell,” Cody drove his knife “to its 26 Letter to Louisa cited in Jeff Barnes, The Great Plains Guide to Buffalo Bill: Forts, Fights & Other Sites (Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2014), 102-05; Stirk cited in Jensen ed., Voices of the American West, volume 2, 283, 420 n. 106; the Corporal Wilkinson theory and King’s identification of “Little Bat” as the weak link in the translation chain in Charles King, “My Friend, Buffalo Bill,” in Winners of the West 10, no. 1 (December 1932), in Peter Cozzens, Eyewitnesses to the Indian Wars, 1865-1890: the Army and the Indian (Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2001), 364-371; King, Campaigning with Crook, 23-52; Miller, Captain Jack Crawford, 67-90; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 68-76; Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer,” 16-35; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 332-36. 27 hilt in his heart,” before “I scientifically scalped him in about five seconds.” As the soldiers rode up, he “swung the Indian chieftain’s top-knot and bonnet in the air, and shouted: “The first scalp for Custer.””27 To prop up this story, Cody brought Yellow Hair’s scalp, warbonnet, shield, six- shooter, and other personal effects on tour with him. Initially displayed in theatre windows before shows, Cody removed them to a glass case kept stageside during performances after the New England press and clergy denounced (in King’s paraphrase) “the blood-stained trophies of his murderous and cowardly deeds.” Through what Jefferson Slagle calls “circular authentication,” the presence in the theatre of material objects from Warbonnet Creek, including the scalp of a once-living young man and the silk and velvet stage outfit Cody had donned just before the skirmish, served to imbue his retelling with a veneer of authenticity. Yet despite, or because of, the implausibilities, Cody’s legend resonated with such fans as Mark Twain, General Philip Sheridan and Theodore Roosevelt because it reflected what they wanted to believe about their nation’s unique combination of heroic violence and unbesmirched innocence: that three centuries of wars with indigenous peoples, like four years of internecine slaughter in the Civil War, were just bumps in the road of progress and had not negatively impacted the national psyche. The pairing of Buffalo Bill and Yellow Hand was, like the late-19th-century dyadic image of the cowboy and the Indian which Cody helped popularize, a comfortable myth of white savages subduing worse 27 The Life of Hon. William F. Cody, Known as Buffalo Bill, the famous hunter, scout and guide: An Autobiography (Frank E. Bliss: Hartford, Conn., 1879), 343-44, in Chapter 30, “A Return to the Plains,” 340- 53; Bobby Bridger, Buffalo Bill and Sitting Bull: Inventing the Wild West (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2002) xi, 6, 87-91 (notes that Pahaska was supposedly the Lakotas’ name for Custer, also); Jefferson D. Slagle, “America Unscripted: Performing the Wild West,” 435 (“to both assert… performed it”), in Witschi ed., A Companion to the Literature and Culture of the American West, 427-442. 28 savages, kitschy images described by Jodi Byrd as “synecdochal trophies of genocide that rewrite mastery into perpetual repetition.”28 Borrowing a concept from psychoanalysis, Lorenzo Veracini notes that such self- exculpatory stories function for settler-colonial societies as “screen memories,” proffering simplified versions of events to conceal a more complex and troubling reality. As noted above, the master-narrative justifying Anglo-American violence against Indians, Slotkin’s logic of massacre, held that the only way to save white families from the bereavement of Indians killing, mutilating, scalping and torturing white soldiers and civilians were retaliatory, or preemptive, massacres of Indians; the corollary, that Indians had families too, was unconvincingly explained away or subjected to a discreet silence by such mythologizers as Charles King and Ned Buntline. In 1929, Beaver Heart and Yellow Hair’s sister, Josie Yellowtanglehair, dismissed the story of a single combat and the heroic, lucrative “Buffalo Bill” image constructed atop it. Beaver Heart pointed out that Lakota and Cheyenne were mutually unintelligible languages, ruling out Yellow Hair’s supposed challenge to “Pa-he- haska”: “Buffalo Bill, who ever he was, could not talk Cheyenne and Yellow Hair could not talk English or Sioux, and I do not know how these two people could talk to each other.” Josie Yellowtanglehair concurred that her brother was killed by “one of the bullets fired by the soldiers,” not a single combat. Beneath the prairie chivalry was an ugly truth: a month after Warbonnet Creek, Josie Yellowtanglehair and other family members had collected 28 Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 56-58; Sagala, Buffalo Bill on Stage, 77-100; Slagle, “America Unscripted: Performing the Wild West,” 427-442; Lawrence and Jewett on Cody’s famous fans in The Myth of the American Superhero, 49-64; “synecdochal trophies” in Jodi A. Byrd, “Follow the Typical Signs: Settler Sovereignty and Its Discontents,” in Settler Colonial Studies Vol. 4, No. 2 (2014), 151-54. 29 Yellow Hair’s bones from the battlefield, and “we could see by marks on his skull that he had been scalped.”29 Introduction: “Who scalped who?” Problems, questions, and historiography More than three centuries before Custer, Cody, Beaver Heart and Yellow Hair, soldiers, missionaries, diplomats and explorers of 16th and 17th-century Europe noted that Indian warriors in North America, from the deserts of northern Mexico to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, brought enemies’ scalps back to their villages as trophies or proofs of victory. While not an exact analogy, the contemporary European practice of publicly displaying the severed heads of traitors, rebels, and bandits offered a familiar cross-cultural parallel (see Chapter 2). As Spain, France, Britain and the Netherlands’ North American colonies formed trading and military alliances with indigenous peoples, Indians and Europeans came to understand that their definitions of warfare and licit violence had broad commensurabilities, but also differences that each party found peculiar or disturbing. In some cases, these differences could be overlooked: joint expeditions of Europeans and Indian allies against indigenous third parties or rival European-Indian coalitions were the norm in North American warfare until well into the 19th century. To this end, early modern Indians and Europeans exchanged captive Indian and European enemies and dismembered enemy body parts, such as hands, feet, heads, and scalps, through what Andrew Lipman describes as “pidgin communications,” which “conveyed simple messages about trust and power” but “obscured many secondary meanings.”30 29 Beaver Heart and Josie Tangleyellowhair in Greene ed., Lakota and Cheyenne, 80-84; Lorenzo Veracini, Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview (Palgrave MacMillan, 2010), 75-94 (“screen memory” 86-90); Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 112-14. 30 Laura E. Matthew and Michel R. Oudjik, eds., Indian Conquistadors: Indigenous Allies in the Conquest of Mesoamerica (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2007); Ian K. Steele, Warpaths: Invasions of North 30 The idea that certain enemies could be enslaved under certain circumstances was not new to early modern Europeans or Native Americans, notes Alan Gallay, but the slave trades which arose from the encounter “[were] an entirely new enterprise” to both. Indian warriors continued to seek martial glory through such precontact channels as taking scalps and prisoners, adopting captives into their villages, and gifting their allies with enslaved mutual enemies, while the contact-period arms race necessitated trading other captives to European allies for firearms, horses, and trade goods. In the Spanish, French, and British colonies, these slave trades compensated for chronic labour shortages and offered material and status benefits for Euro-American slaveowners, although colonial laws prohibiting or regulating the enslavement of Indians required disguising slavery as indentured servitude or hard-labour sentences. Similarly, wartime rewards for Indian body parts, as when the governor of Nueva Vizcaya (today’s Mexican states of Chihuahua and Durango) offered trade goods for the heads of Tepehuanes in 1617 in the context of the Tepehuán revolt (1616-20), overlaid new material and commercial considerations onto indigenous warfare’s earlier, non-commercial motives. But 16th- and 17th-century Spanish wars against, and alliances with, indigenous peoples who scalped enemies in northern Mexico and the American Southwest did not automatically produce Hispanic scalp bounties. Until late in the 19th century, authorities in Spanish America and Brazil suppressed revolts by Ibero-Americans, mestizos and Indians by decapitating rebels and displaying their heads; in the case of Indians, bounties on paired ears America (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994); Colin G. Calloway ed., Dawnland Encounters: Indians and Europeans in Northern New England (Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 1991) 1-24, 133-176; Colin G. Calloway, White People, Indians, and Highlanders: Tribal Peoples and Colonial Encounters in Scotland and America (Oxford University Press, 2008), 88-116; Thomas W. Dudley, Wolves for the Blue Soldiers: Indian Scouts and Auxiliaries with the United States Army, 1860-90 (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1982); Andrew Lipman, “ ‘A Meanes to Knitt Them Togeather’: The Exchange of Body Parts in the Pequot War,” in The William and Mary Quarterly 3rd Series, Vol. 35, No. 1 (Jan. 2008), 3- 28 (5: “pidgin communications”). 31 coexisted with Indian slavery across Latin America. In Hispanic North America, scalp bounties only appeared with large-scale American migration in the later 19th century, as Anglo-American mercenaries were hired in Mexico in the 1840s and vigilantes and militias appeared in 1850s California, Arizona, and New Mexico following annexation by the United States (see Chapter 6).31 In his study of New France’s relations with indigenous peoples in the continental interior between the late 17th and early 19th centuries, Richard White proposed that “accommodation and common meaning” were created through “a process of creative, and often expedient, misunderstandings.” As the French “could neither dictate to Indians nor ignore them,” and vice versa, both parties deployed a shared set of protocols, symbols, ritual phrases, and images, reinterpreting them per the needs of the moment and “appealing to what 31 Andrés Reséndez, The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslavement in America (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2016); Alan Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade: The Rise of the English Empire in the American South, 1670-1717 (Yale University Press, 2002), 1-20 (8: the slave trade as “entirely new enterprise”); Colin G. Calloway, One Vast Winter Count: The Native American West Before Lewis and Clark (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2003), 205, 313-65; Brett Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance: Indigenous and Atlantic Slaveries in New France (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2012); Brett Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance,” 54, in The William and Mary Quarterly Third Series, Vol. 63, No. 1 (January 2006), 53-80; Brett Rushforth, “ ‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’: The Origins of Indian Slavery in New France,”782 n. 13, in The William and Mary Quarterly vol. 60, no. 4 (October 2003), 777-808; William A. Starna and Ralph Watkins, “Northern Iroquoian Slavery,” in Ethnohistory Vol. 38, No. 1 (Winter, 1991), 34-57; Daniel K. Richter, “War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience,” in The William and Mary Quarterly Vol. 40, No. 4 (1983), 528-559; Joaquín Rivaya-Martínez, “A Different Look at Native American Depopulation: Comanche Raiding, Captive Taking, and Population Decline” in Ethnohistory Volume 61, No. 3 (Summer 2014), 391-418; Smith, Borderlander, 270 n. 20, calls the Nueva Vizcaya bounty the first of its kind in North America, and lists the price of a Tepehuán head as four hatchets, four knives, four hoes, four machetes, and a coarse garment; as will be noted in subsequent chapters, allied Indians were often paid in trade goods rather than cash. Regarding ears, David Weber cites Ralph Smith (“in an article whose scope is larger than its title suggests”) that the bandeirantes, the 17th-century slave traders and explorers of interior Brazil, cut off Indians’ ears, as was done in the Viceroyalty of New Granada (northwestern South America) in the 18th century. Mark Santiago notes an account of an English merchant captain in North Africa during the Spanish-Algerian War in 1732: during dinner with the officers, they were notified of a victory over Ottoman forces near Oran by being presented with “two plates full of Turks ears instead of plates of cherries.” Whether this suggests a medieval Iberian origin for ear bounties in Latin America is outside the scope of this thesis. Ralph A. Smith, “The Spanish ‘Piece’ Policy in West Texas,” in West Texas Historical Association Year Book 68 (1992), 7-24, cited in David J. Weber, Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), 364 n. 247; Smith, Borderlander; Mark Santiago, The Jar of Severed Hands: Spanish Deportation of Apache Prisoners of War, 1770-1810 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2014), 81-97 (84-85: “Turks ears”). 32 they perceive[d] to be the values and practices” of the other. When Anglo-American settlers succeeded the French in the continental interior following the Seven Years’ War, a century and a half of negotiated indigenous and European coexistence was replaced by tension and periodic violence. Often in express defiance of British government policy, pre-Revolutionary Anglo-American vigilantes “adopted what they regarded as Indian means – massacre and torture – to keep the boundaries between Algonquian and white societies intact.” Joyce Chaplin concurs, describing “continual” warfare between British colonists and Algonquians in Virginia and New England as the “common mode of interaction” from the end of the 16th century until the Pequot War (1636-38). In White’s “middle ground,” French and Indians “had made an uneasy bargain to suspend some of their cultural differences […] to avoid self- defeating violence.” By contrast, notes Chaplin, British colonists aspired to “be like the enemy but not as him,” and styled themselves as “counterparts of Indians, not so as to express sympathy with them, […] but to fight and kill them.”32 As indicated by the appearance of a vaunting Indian warrior lifting his enemy’s scalp on the cartouche of Guillaume Delisle’s 1703 map of Canada, by the turn of the 18th century scalping served as visual and symbolic shorthand for North America’s primitive exoticism in European art, culture, and intellectual life, parallel to 16th-century images of Brazilian cannibalism and Mexican human sacrifice. But what John Grenier identifies as a distinct Anglo-American way of war, centered around the institutions of “extirpative war, ranging, 32 Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, empires, and republics in the Great Lakes region, 1650-1815 (Cambridge, Mass: Cambridge University Press, 1991), ix-x (“creative… misunderstandings,” 387-95 (391: “massacre and torture”); “Introduction,” Susan Sleeper-Smith, 3-8; Richard White, “Creative Misunderstandings and New Understandings,” 9-14, Philip J. Deloria, “What is the Middle Ground, Anyway?” 15-22, Catherine Desbarats, “Following the Middle Ground,” 81-96, in William and Mary Quarterly Vol. LXIII, No. 1 (January 2006), “Forum: The Middle Ground Revisited”; Joyce E. Chaplin, Subject Matter: Technology, the Body, and Science on the Anglo-American Frontier, 1500-1676 (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 2001), 79-115. 33 and scalp hunting,” had also come into existence by the turn of the century, sprung from Britain’s colonial policies of mass migration and perpetual land wars to annex more indigenous lands and resources. By the turn of the 18th century Britain possessed the most densely-populated, urbanized colonies in North America, which gave commercial and economic strength but military liability: Anglo-American colonists were mostly town- dwelling craftsmen and farmers with little or no military experience beyond militia drill, poorly prepared by training or lifestyle to fight wars with Indian neighbours. In the Pequot War (1636-38), Kieft’s War (1640-45), and King Philip’s War (1675-76), outmatched British (or, in the case of Kieft’s War, Dutch) colonists won by attrition, combining the scorched- earth campaigns of European total war with the mourning-war system of Indian allies by paying rewards for enemies’ heads, hands, feet, scalps, and prisoners. The first true scalp bounty, in which money was offered explicitly and solely for scalps, appeared in July 1689, the first year of King William’s War (1689-97), when Massachusetts authorities declared soldiers would receive £8 from the public treasury for every Indian scalp redeemed, and “whatever Indian plunder falls into their hands.” New France followed suit: according to the September 1688 deposition of an indigenous New England man named Magsigpen or Graypoole, New France’s Governor-General Denonville had already offered bounties to allied Indians for the scalps of British colonists and their Mohawk allies, which his successor Frontenac followed in 1691 with bounties for British prisoners.33 33 John Grenier, The First Way of War: American War Making on the Frontier, 1607-1814 (Cambridge University Press, 2005), esp. 1-52; Patrick M. Malone, The Skulking Way of War: Technology and Tactics among the New England Indians (Lanham, New York, London: Madison Books, 1991); Steele, Warpaths; Guy Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness: The Triumph of European Warfare in the Colonial Northeast (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003); on cartography and Guillaume Delisle, see Olive Patricia Dickason, The Myth of the Savage: and the Beginnings of French Colonialism in the Americas (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 1997 [1984]), 276-77, and Susi Colin, “Woodcutters and Cannibals: Brazilian Indians as seen on early maps,” in Hans Wolff ed., America: Early Maps of the New World (Munich: 34 From the dawn of the 18th century until the end of the 19th, Anglo-American colonists prosecuted wars of total destruction against Indians with a fervor that perturbed Spanish, French, and many Anglo-American observers. Both French and British authorities offered scalp bounties in wartime, but British settlers paired these with massacres and acts of ethnic cleansing that aimed to drive indigenous peoples beyond the western horizon. Spanish, French, and British colonies all traded in Indian slaves, but Anglo-Americans rendered even Indian slave labour superfluous by ramping up the scale of the African slave trade following the Yamasee War (1715-17). Anglo-American settlers antagonized allied and enemy Indians alike through squatting, poaching, robbery, assault, and crooked land deals, and genocidal ideation was openly voiced at all levels of public discourse, a phenomenon which increased after the American Revolution and became unofficial state policy in the Jacksonian period. Henry Knox, U.S. Secretary of War since 1786, made the “melancholy reflection” on retirement in 1794 “that our modes of population have been more destructive to the Indian nations than […] the conquerors of Mexico and Peru.”34 How and why it was that Euro-Americans in the late-19th-century United States could vilify Indians for scalping their enemies, while celebrating whites who scalped Indians, could be a touchy subject, particularly if the corollary question, of whether Europeans who scalped Indians had forfeited their presumed moral high ground, was raised. Luther Roby, the editor of an 1831 history of the Seven Years’ War, is typical in blaming the Indians to exonerate Prestel, 1992), 175-181; “Examination of Magsigpen, An Indian,” in John Romeyn Brodhead, Documents Relative to the Colonial History of the State of New-York; Procured in England, Holland and France, Vol. III (Albany, NY: Weed, Parsons and Company, 1858), 71-72. 34 Henry Knox cited in Michael D. Green, 482-83, in “The Expansion of European Colonization to the Mississippi Valley, 1780-1880,” in Bruce Trigger ed., The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas volume 1: North America, Part 1 (Cambridge University Press, 1996), 461-538; Alan Gallay identifies the end of the Yamasee War as “the birth of the Old South” (338) in The Indian Slave Trade, 315-44. 35 New England scalp hunters: if New Englanders of the era “sometimes deviated from the usages of civilized warfare, in making use of the scalping knife, the barbarity of the enemy, the law of retaliation, and the emergency of the time must be their apology,” stated Roby’s foreword. “They were compelled to fight the Indians upon their own terms.” Another theory suggested European settlers, in acclimating to the Americas’ natural and human environment, had adopted scalping as inevitably as tobacco, pumpkins, and indigenous loanwords. “The wilderness masters the colonist,” stated Frederick Jackson Turner, drawing an environmental-determinist link between American wilderness and human savagery in his address to the American Historical Association at Chicago’s Columbian Exposition in 1893: “Before long he has gone to planting Indian corn and plowing with a sharp stick; he shouts the war cry and takes the scalp in orthodox Indian fashion.”35 Earlier in the century, travellers and ethnographers on both sides of the Atlantic had been reconsidering scalping, speculating on its changes over time under European influence and per universalizing stadial theories of “primitive” warfare. Inevitably, George Catlin’s description of pre- and post-contact Plains Indian warfare and weaponry in an 1832 letter from the Upper Missouri discussed scalping. With a tinge of the 19th century’s endemic “vanishing Indian” myth, Catlin began by separating “authentic” indigenous weaponry made of wood, stone, and bone, and the mass-produced steel knives and axeheads “carried into the Indian country by thousands and tens of thousands, and sold at an enormous price.” Such were diabolical additions to Plains warfare, as the Indian’s “untutored mind […] has not been 35 Frederick Jackson Turner, 59 (“takes the scalp”) in “The Significance of the Frontier in American History,” 59-81, in Martin Ridge ed., History, Frontier, and Section: Three Essays from Frederick Jackson Turner (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 1993); Roby cited in Richard Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600 – 1860 (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1973), 4. 36 ingenious enough to design or execute anything so savage or destructive as these civilized refinements on Indian barbarity.” Catlin’s account becomes more interesting as he unravels European claims to moral superiority by outlining the ironies of their involvement and complicity in ‘savage’ warfare. The much-feared “scalping knife,” for instance, was simply a one-edged butcher knife, manufactured for “sixpence” in England, with “the impress of G.R.” [Georgius Rex] on the blade, “and sold to the poor Indian in these wild regions for a horse.” Scalping he assigned a functional purpose as confirming enemy slain in preliterate communities “where it is as lawful and as glorious to slay an enemy in battle, as it is in Christian communities.” He then attempted, inconsistently, to explain away the European nightmare images of scalping by claiming that Indians, by and large, only scalped live enemies after assuming they were dead—undercut by his illustrations of a dying warrior on hand and knees, with an arrow in his side and his scalplock removed, while his victorious enemy looms over him with his scalplock in his hand, adjacent to a drawing of a white man with a massive patch of scar tissue in the middle of his hairline. In passages heavily influenced by Montaigne, Catlin wrote that while he considered scalping “a disgusting custom,” an Indian’s scalping of a slain enemy was a lesser indignity to a corpse than many of those performed by Europeans, while scalping of a living person, who could survive the ordeal, was not necessarily as cruel as killing them. He then fired the last salvo by reminding his readers that the British and American governments, during the War of 1812 and the Revolutionary War, had both offered and paid scalp bounties to “thousands of their “red children” […] for every “scalp” of a “red” or a “blue coat” they could bring in!”36 36 George Catlin, “Letter No. 29: Mouth of Teton River, Upper Missouri,” in Letters and notes on the manners, customs, and condition of the North American Indians, Vol. 1 (London, 1841 [1892 reprint]), 232-40. Dippie, The Vanishing American, 3-78, and on Catlin, 25-31; see also Kathryn S. Hight, “ “Doomed to Perish”: George Catlin’s Depictions of the Mandan,” in Art Journal, Vol. 49, No. 2 (Summer 1990), 119-124; The “untutored 37 Other authors noted that a surprisingly high number of Europeans in the New World had scalped Indians, or mutilated other Europeans in fashions thought outré, and wondered what this said about European prehistory. “It is generally, but falsely, supposed that only Americans scalp,” declared the Victorian explorer Sir Richard Burton in a short 1864 monograph which made provocative and unverifiable claims; “the practice is Asiatic, European, and African.” He was on safe ground when citing Herodotus on the Scythians, a people of ancient Ukraine and southern Russia described in Greek and Roman ethnography as scalping enemies for trophies; cross-cultural comparisons between indigenous North Americans and the ancient Scythians had been made since the contact period (see Chapter 1). Burton’s evidence for Africa and Europe was much shakier: he reported that a Scottish traveller had seen Africans carrying dried enemies’ scalps in the 1840s, an assertion attested in no other source but Burton’s 1864 article, and identified scalping in the annals of the Franks and Anglo-Saxons and in the Visigothic law codes of the 7th to 9th centuries, not mainstream consensus among classicists or medievalists. Among Native Americans, said Burton, the “solemn rite of scalping” had declined over time as trade had replaced earlier blades of flint, obsidian, “or other hard stone” with iron and steel; in “the laxity of modern days,” warriors had abandoned the “humane custom” of an earlier period when “men scrupulously awaited the wounded man’s death” before scalping him.37 mind” is a reference to an oft-quoted snatch of verse from Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Man (1734), Epistle I, Chapter 3, verses 99-100: “Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind / Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind”—in The Works of Alexander Pope (Wordsworth Editions Ltd., 1995), 193. Nineteenth-century frontiersmen often sarcastically cited the poem to derogatorily refer to Indians, individually or collectively, as “Lo”—see Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 172. 37 Richard F. Burton, “Notes on Scalping,” in The Anthropological Review Vol. 2, No. 4 (February 1864), 49- 52. In a footnote to his 1885 multi-volume translation of The Arabian Nights he described certain men’s topknot or sidelock haircuts in the Near East as “a precaution lest the decapitated Moslem’s mouth be defiled by an impure hand; and thus it would resemble the chivalry-lock by which the Redskin brave (and even the “cowboy” of better times) facilitated the removal of his own scalp.” Richard F. Burton, The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, volume 1 (The Burton Club: United States, 1885), 308 n. 3. Scalping in Africa he attributes to a 38 The idea that European weaponry had eroded earlier moral or cultural restrictions on scalping was the central premise of Georg Friederici’s 1906 doctoral dissertation, Skalpieren und ähnliche Kriegsgebräuche in Amerika (“Scalping and Similar Warfare Customs in America”). From contact-period texts and comparison with Mesoamerican and South American archaeology and ethnography, Friederici theorized that in the precontact period entire heads had been the preferred trophy of war across the Americas, with scalping as a regional variation limited to North America’s Atlantic and Gulf coasts. He proposed that the casualties of indigenous warfare increased as Spanish, French, Dutch and English colonists introduced steel knives, axes, and firearms in the 16th and 17th centuries, replacing less- efficient weapons of stone, shell, and wood; then, when these colonies began offering bounties for scalps and heads to encourage indigenous allies in intercolonial wars, indigenous warparties weighed down by guns and ammunition phased out decapitation for scalping. ‘Mr Duncan’ [John Duncan] Travels in Western Africa in 1845 and 1846; a digitized copy of volume 2 (London: Richard Bentley, 1847) is available, but contains no reference to scalping. Axtell and Sturtevant noted in 1980 that “Georg Friederici reported that his extensive search for Burton's references – other than Herodotus – was fruitless. (Skalpieren und ähnliche Kriegsgebräuche in Amerika [Braunschweig, 1906], 134).” –James Axtell and William C. Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut, or Who Invented Scalping?” 452 n. 1, in The William and Mary Quarterly third series, vol. 37, no. 3 (July 1980), 451-472. Burton’s attribution of scalping to the Germanic tribes in the early middle ages was a citation from Abbé Emmanuel H. D. Domenech, Seven Years’ Residence in the Great Deserts of North America, Volume 2 (London: Longman, Green, Longman, and Roberts, 1860), 356-58: “It appears also that the decalvare of the ancient Germans is nothing other than the operation of the scalp mentioned in the laws of the Visigoths: Capillos et cutem detrahere. According to the Annals of Flude, the Franks still scalped about the year 879, and the Anglo-Saxons also.” The general consensus of medievalists is that the decalvatio of the 7th century Visigothic code, in its conjunction of being meted out with 100 lashes and its explicit intent to humiliate, probably means public shaming by shaving of the head rather than scalping, as long hair was seen among Germanic peoples as a sign of individual free status and high rank for members of a royal family—see Floyd Seyward Lear, “The Public Law of the Visigothic Code,” in Speculum, Vol. 26, No. 1 (Jan., 1951), 1-23, 6 n.34, 15-16; E.A. Thompson, The Goths in Spain (Oxford: At the Clarendon Press, 1969), 41, 104 n. 1; Peter Heather ed., The Visigoths from the Migration Period to the Seventh Century: An Ethnographic Perspective (Woodbridge: the Boydell Press, 1999), 378 n. 9, “Discussion” 390-99. Further, the meticulous lists of fines for injuries to specific body parts in other contemporary Germanic law codes do not list the scalp itself as a body part liable to injury, while distinctions were drawn between seizure of the hair, injuries which expose the bone of the head, and injuries which expose the brain—see Lisi Oliver, The Beginnings of English Law (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002), 71-73, 82, 99-102, 105; Theodore J. Rivers, trans. and ed., Laws of the Alamans and Bavarians (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977), 47-48, 52, 85-86, 130-39. 39 Though 20th century archaeology and ethnology indicate that artistic representations and osteological evidence of scalping across continental North America both predate the contact period by centuries, and Friederici overstates the impact of European scalp-bounty declarations on indigenous warfare, he appears to have been the first theorist to seriously consider indigenous North American warfare, and specifically scalping, as adaptive over time both in the contact and pre-contact period. Friederici also observed that European colonists went beyond simply scalping indigenous enemies, and listed documented cases from the Seven Years’ War to the War of 1812 where British colonists made mementoes of slain indigenous men’s skin, and how New Englanders and French-Canadians in the Seven Years’ War had flayed and scalped each other’s corpses. Why Euro-Americans should have scalped or skinned indigenous enemies in the first place, and why the practice was most prevalent in the British colonies, went unexamined.38 In 1910 George Bird Grinnell, an anthropologist and ethnographer of the Pawnees, Cheyennes and Blackfoot Confederacy, subtly observed in his article “Coup and Scalp Among the Plains Indians” that scalping had been much less important among 19th century Plains Indians than Europeans imagined: “To scalp an enemy was not an important feat and in no sense especially creditable.” Enemy bodies were often unscalped, and the scalp itself 38 Georg Friederici, “Scalping in America,” from the Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution (1906), 423- 439; Anastasia M. Griffin ed., trans., “Georg Friederici’s Scalping and Similar Warfare Customs in America with a Critical Introduction,” M.A. thesis, Department of Germanic and Slavic Languages and Studies, University of Colorado at Boulder (Proquest: UMI Dissertations Publishing, 2008). On the warfare practices of the contact period as continuations of warfare as discerned in the archaeological record, see Linda Cordell, “Indigenous Farmers,” 201-266, and Bruce Smith, “Agricultural Chiefdoms of the Eastern Woodlands,” 267- 324, in Bruce Trigger ed., The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas volume 1: North America, Part 1 (Cambridge University Press, 1996); Robert P. Mensforth, “Warfare and Trophy Taking in the Archaic Period,” in Olaf H. Prufer, Sara E. Pedde, and Richard S. Meindl eds., Archaic Transitions in Ohio & Kentucky Prehistory (Kent & London: The Kent State University Press, 2001), 110-138; Richard J. Chacon and Rubén G. Mendoza eds., North American Indigenous Warfare and Ritual Violence (Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona press, 2007); Richard J. Chacon and David H. Dye eds., The Taking and Displaying of Human Body Parts as Trophies by Amerindians (New York: Springer Science + Business Media, 2007). 40 was merely “a trophy, something to show, something to dance over—a good thing but of no great importance”; neither killing nor scalping an enemy “was regarded as an especially creditable act.” By contrast, counting coup, “to touch the enemy with something held in the hand, with the bare hand, or with any part of the body,” endowed the man or boy responsible with “the greatest credit,” especially to strike or touch an unhurt, living enemy this way “and to leave him alive,” which was “frequently done.” Grinnell noted that the rush for first coup, “the fact that, when an enemy was killed or wounded, brave Indians rushed toward him,” was thus mistaken by white observers as a race for the scalp, though “As a matter of fact they cared little or nothing for the scalp but very much for the credit of touching the fallen man. Most people are untrustworthy observers,” he noted acidly, “and draw inferences from their preconceived notions, rather than from what actually takes place.”39 Grinnell’s true target in “Coup and Scalp” was his readers’ preconceived notions that Plains Indians were either unimaginative holdovers from the Stone Age or cultureless hordes dedicated to violence. Having neatly sidestepped the tiresome, repetitive arguments about scalping, Grinnell supplanted it with a lively description of the complex rules, regulations, and institutions of coup warfare as practiced by Cheyennes, Arapahos, and other Plains peoples, depicted as human beings seeking personal recognition through a system designed to weed out liars and falsifiers and verify combat achievements. He noted the possibilities for heated arguments on who had struck the first coup, how many coups were permissible on a single enemy, and the mechanisms for adjudicating these disputes by panels of fellow warriors and holy men. Later on, reminding his reader that Indian dances were carefully- 39 George Bird Grinnell, “Coup and Scalp Among the Plains Indians,” in American Anthropologist Vol. 12, No. 2 (Apr. - Jun., 1910), pp. 296-310 (“untrustworthy observers” 303). 41 delineated ceremonies, “not merely haphazard jumpings up and down and posturings,” he leads us into a labyrinthine description of how Cheyenne scalp dances quickly turned to courtship: the “sweethearts’ dance,” the “matchmaking dance,” the “slippery dance,” the “galloping buffalo-bull dance.” Wryly, he ostensibly returned to his theme by concluding “These were all scalp dances.”40 A counter-narrative, which James Axtell and William Sturtevant place as early as 1820, conflated the European offering of cash for scalps with a European invention, or introduction, of scalping to the continent. In the aftermath of the American Revolution, when the once-militarily-powerful Six Nations had been scattered and restricted to reservations by the United States and abandoned by former allies in France and Britain, Cornplanter, a Seneca chief and the brother of the Longhouse prophet Handsome Lake, publicly burned his British military uniform and destroyed his officers’ regalia and medals; a series of religious visions had informed Cornplanter that war was antithetical to an indigenous way of life. There had been “no wars or fighting” in North America, he announced, before the arrival of Europeans such as the French, who “offered to furnish us with instruments of every kind and sharp knives to take the skins off their [enemies’] heads.” Cornplanter’s proposal that indigenous societies had been, or were, less warlike or violent than Europeans (taken by Cornplanter to an admittedly ahistorical extreme), and the repudiation of Europeans as fair- weather friends who would turn on indigenous allies when convenient, were the core elements of the European-invention-of-scalping counter-narrative, inverting Europeans’ claims to moral superiority. In Chicago in 1879, when Omaha activist Susette La Flesche denounced a recent large-scale killing of Utes in Colorado by federal troops, a journalist 40 Grinnell, “Coup and Scalp Among the Plains Indians,” 296-310. 42 interjected “But you are more barbarous in war than we,” citing “acts of atrocity upon captives and the bodies of the dead.” “Scalping, you mean, I suppose,” replied La Flesche, citing a 1755 Massachusetts scalp bounty against the Penobscots in her rebuttal “Don’t you know that the white man taught Indians that?”41 Revisionists aimed to directly challenge Euro-Americans’ traditional narratives of heroism and martyrdom at the hands of savages, and drew connections between the stock images of vicious, animal-like Indians and the cash paid out for the pelts of animals and the scalps of human beings. In 1969, the Lakota theologian and activist Vine Deloria Jr. cited the 1755 Penobscot scalp bounty to this effect: once Indians had been downgraded in the colonists’ imagination from pre-Lapsarian children of nature to a “picturesque species of wildlife, […] Scalping, introduced prior to the French and Indian War by the English,” confirmed “that Indians were wild animals to be hunted and skinned.” Deloria also noted the structural limitations of indigenous warfare to challenge the savage-war myth of genocidal Indians: members of war parties had to supply their own food and followed proven leaders as volunteers, rather than being drafted or fighting for wages; furthermore, they fought to protect game populations and for “courageous exploits,” not to take territory “which they could not settle,” which was “inconceivable” to most Indians. “Killing others simply to rid the land of them,” i.e., ethnic cleansing and genocide, “was even more inconceivable,” 41 Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 451-53; James Axtell, Natives and Newcomers: the Cultural Origins of North America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 259-333; On religious revivalism among the Six Nations and Ohio Valley peoples in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, see Green, 492-94, in “The Expansion of European Colonization to the Mississippi Valley, 1780-1880”; James R. Lewis and Ellen Dobrowolski, “Native American Prophet Religions,” in James R. Lewis and Inga B. Tøllefsen eds., The Oxford Handbook of New Religious Movements Volume II (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 495-515. 43 meaning Europeans’ and Americans’ ‘civilized’ warfare was “the deadly antithesis of the Indian’s.”42 The counternarrative that Europeans had, or could have, invented scalping itself, not just scalp bounties, gained ground in the aftermath of the termination era in the United States and Canada, and as opposition to the Vietnam War reached its zenith. This was not coincidence. By the 1960s, European and North American claims to be the most moral, benevolent societies in history were looking particularly shaky after two world wars; industrialized mass murders in the heart of Europe of such scope that the neologism genocide was required to explain them; the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the annual increase in the world-destroying power of Western and Soviet nuclear arsenals; brutal colonial counterinsurgencies in Algeria, Korea, and Indochina; and the violent suppression of civil rights movements in the United States and Canada. In North America, indigenous peoples had just weathered 20 years of attempts to legally dismantle their hold on 42 Vine Deloria, Jr., Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto (London: Collier-MacMillan Ltd., 1969), 6-7 (scalp bounties), 204-05. Other authors of the late 1960s endorsed the revisionist viewpoint, or at least strongly suggested it. In The Return of the Vanishing American (1968), “literary critic and moralist” Leslie Fiedler wrote scalping “seems not to have been an Indian custom at all until the White Man began offering bounties for slain enemies.” In that same year Peter Farb, an environmental writer, singled out New Netherland governor Willem Kieft as the prime suspect for spreading scalp bounties, though waffling on whether he had invented them: “whatever its exact origins, there is no doubt that [the spread of] scalp-taking… was due to the barbarity of White men rather than the barbarity of Red men”—Fiedler and Farb cited in Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 452. In 1970, Dee Brown (in Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West (Toronto: Bantam Books, 1973 [1970]) very strongly insinuated that the Spanish had introduced scalping to the American Southwest, in passages redolent of the Black Legend of the Spanish as uniquely cruel and medieval: “On August 18 the general decided to “stimulate the zeal” of his troops by posting prize money for captured Navaho livestock. […] As the soldiers’ pay was less than twenty dollars per month, the bounty offer did stimulate them, and some of the men extended it to the few Navahos they were able to kill. To prove their soldierly abilities, they began cutting off the knot of hair fastened by a red string which the Navahos wore on their heads. The Navahos could not believe that Kit Carson [the chief scout] condoned scalping, which they considered a barbaric custom introduced by the Spaniards. (The Europeans may or may not have introduced scalping to the New World, but the Spanish, Dutch, French, and English colonists made the custom popular by offering bounties for scalps of their respective enemies.)” (11) He followed by describing the Apaches as “veterans of 250 years of guerrilla warfare with the Spaniards, who taught them the finer arts of torture and mutilation but never subdued them.” (24-25) 44 the few lands and resources they had left, and they only had to turn on the nightly news to watch Southeast Asia become collateral damage as an anticolonial faction waged asymmetrical war against the industrial power of the United States – a situation not unlike theirs in the previous century. The overall message indigenous people were trying to send is succinctly expressed by Mi’kmaw historian Daniel Paul’s history of the Mi’kmaq, from Governor Cornwallis’ mid-18th-century scalp bounties against them to residential schools: We Were Not the Savages. The revisionists aimed to challenge the self-justifying traditional narratives of savage war: the hubris-nemesis sequence of Indian warriors’ cruelties and Indian-hunters’ revenge; the redrawing of all Indian victories as horrible massacres of whites; and white massacres of Indians as regrettable exceptions or heroic battles—for instance, General Nelson Miles’ description of the Wounded Knee Massacre (29 December, 1890), in which panicked soldiers opened fire upon a crowd of Sioux while disarming them, as a “battle” against “a hungry, wild, mad horde of savages,” for which he handed out eighteen Congressional Medals of Honor. At the center of Indian-war horror stories were the perfect victimhood of colonists and a scenario of reverse-colonialism: that the little Europes that migrants and refugees had created in the New World, even to the level of the nuclear family, would be ripped apart and destroyed by savage Indians. By invoking this nightmare, Europeans, particularly Anglo-Americans, had sanctified the for-profit destruction of indigenous communities and families through scalp bounties, slave trading, and land speculation.43 43 Daniel N. Paul, We Were Not the Savages: Collision between European and Native American Civilizations, third edition (Halifax: Fernwood Publishing, 2006); Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut, or Who Invented Scalping?”; General Miles’ “hungry, wild, mad horde of savages” were supposedly planning, via the Ghost Dance, ““a more comprehensive plot than anything ever inspired by the prophet Tecumseh”—cited in Hixson, “Policing the Past: Indian Removal and Genocide Studies,” 442. 45 But the European-invention-of-scalping argument was a weak vessel for this message. Firstly, simply inverting the iconography of savage war by replacing villainous Indian warriors with depraved white scalp-hunters did not challenge the traditional belief that scalping, like cannibalism and human sacrifice, was a cultural or personal mark of Cain for either indigenous warriors, or white criminals and frontier deviants (lumped together in lateral comparisons in traditional Winning-of-the-West narratives). As in post-structuralist revisionist arguments which uncritically conflate human sacrifice and anthropophagy with their polemical, colonial uses to erroneously reduce these entirely to European fictions (cf. William Arens’ 1979 salvo The Man-Eating Myth), the idea that European definitions of violence are the universal moral standard is unintentionally reified, and indigenous peoples’ “entitlement to have minds of their own,” in Reay Tannahill’s words, is rejected. Which brings us to the second problem: mainstream Western discourse on indigeneity, such as the Plains Indian imagery appropriated wholesale by the 1960s counterculture, was and is still dominated by fantasies of Indians as the West’s ultimate outsiders—as primordial, “Stone Age” peoples who lack historical agency. Taken at face value, the European-invention-of- scalping narrative reifies Enlightenment historicism by reducing them to collision victims of a world history driven by Westerners.44 44 José Rabasa, Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier: The Historiography of Sixteenth-Century New Mexico and Florida and the Legacy of Conquest (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2000), 31-83, on cannibalism (“the Indians embody European values” 63, 78-80); see also Bettina E. Schmidt, ““The Interpretation of Violent Worldviews: Cannibalism and other violent images of the Caribbean,” in Bettina E. Schmidt and Ingo W. Schröder eds., Anthropology of Violence and Conflict (Routledge: London and New York, 2001), 76-96; Richard J. Chacon and David H. Dye, “Conclusions,” in Chacon and Dye, Taking and Displaying, 630-654; Chacon and Mendoza, “Ethical Considerations and Conclusions Regarding Indigenous Wafare and Violence in North America,” in North American Indigenous Warfare and Ritual Violence 222-32; Donald W. Forsyth, “Three Cheers for Hans Staden: the Case for Brazilian Cannibalism,” in Ethnohistory Vol. 32, No. 1 (Winter), 1985, pp. 17-36; Laurence R. Goldman, “From Pot to Polemic: Uses and Abuses of Cannibalism,” 1-26, Don Gardner, “Anthropophagy, Myth, and the Subtle Ways of Ethnocentrism,” 27-50, and Michael Pickering, “Consuming Doubts: What Some People Ate? Or What Some People Swallowed?” 51-74, in Laurence R. Goldman ed., The Anthropology of Cannibalism (Westport, CN: Bergin & Garvey, 1999); 46 Westerners’ arguments about whether indigenous people past and present were either victims or villains have very real consequences for the living indigenous people invoked in these solipsistic spats. As Devon Mihesuah observes, appearances in the public arena of ostensibly well-meaning cultural productions, which simply recycle stereotypes, invariably prompt responses by reactionaries who proffer archaic stories of Indian criminality and dysfunction as “the truth”: in response to 1991’s revisionist Western Dances with Wolves, for instance, old Lakota horror stories were trotted out en masse by those who “feel the need to educate us about the “real” Lakotas.” The challenge for 21st century indigenous politics, note Darren Ranco and Beth Conklin, is to surmount the stereotypes which marginalize or discredit indigenous voices in mainstream discourse and, in so doing, “to expand outsiders’ notions of who native people are and what they want and need.” For Westerners, the terms of the challenge are those Chinua Achebe suggested regarding popular perceptions of Africans: to think of “people – not angels, but not rudimentary souls either – just people, often highly gifted people and often strikingly successful in their enterprise with life and society.”45 William Arens, The Man-Eating Myth: Anthropology and Anthropophagy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1979), pg. 9: “I am dubious about the actual existence of this act as an accepted practice for any time and place”, pg. 21: “I have been unable to uncover adequate documentation of cannibalism as a custom in any form for any society”, pg. 139: “the idea of “other” as cannibals, rather than the act, is the universal phenomenon,” cited in Goldman, The Anthropology of Cannibalism, 13; Reay Tannahill, Flesh and Blood: A History of the Cannibal Complex (Stein and Day, 1975), 105, cited in Kimberle S. López, Latin American Novels of the Conquest: Reinventing the New World (Columbia and London: University of Missouri Press, 2002), 191 n. 12, 192 n. 14, lit review on the cannibalism debates post-Arens 28-36. On Indians as counter-images of Westerners see Robert F. Berkhofer, Jr., The White Man’s Indian: Images of the American Indian from Columbus to the Present (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1978) and Daniel Francis, The Imaginary Indian: The Image of the Indian in Canadian Culture (Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press, 1993 [1992]). On historicism, i.e., the belief that “the task of the social sciences [is] to furnish us with long-term historical prophecies,” and that devotees “have discovered laws of history which enable them to prophesy the course of historical events,” see Karl Popper, The Open Society and its Enemies, vol. 1: The Spell of Plato (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966 [1945]), 1-5. 45 Mihesuah asks what value a 1988 history of the Southern Plains, which uses archaic, racialized language to characterize 19th-century Comanches as animal-like deviants, “lurking” Comanche men living in “lairs” with their “squaws,” holds for her Comanche father-in-law—in Devon Mihesuah, “Should American Indian History Remain a Field of Study?” in Devon Abbot Mihesuah and Angela Cavendish Wilson eds., Indigenizing the Academy: Transforming Scholarship and Empowering Communities (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 143-159. Her point is unintentionally proven by journalist S.C. Gwynne’s incredibly 47 Dark mimesis: Thesis statement and methodology European colonists and migrants in the 17th century, as noted above by Joyce Chaplin, Richard White, and Andrew Lipman, attempted to communicate with allied and enemy indigenous peoples through simplified, repeated acts, phrases, and symbols which they believed would convey clear messages. Through their efforts to define, and then approximate, Indian thought and culture as they understood it, Europeans and Euro- Americans also defined themselves through comparison. Among the predominantly French- Canadian and métis46 labourers of the 18th and 19th century fur trade, Carolyn Podruchny denotes an ethos of trying to “beat all Indians at the race” as the underlying logic in voyageur masculinity: not only to emulate and replicate indigenous men’s labour skills of hunting, fishing, snowshoeing, canoeing, and dogsledding, and their masculine virtues of athleticism, endurance, fortitude, good-humoured stoicism, and individual freedom, but to surpass them. On Mexico’s northern frontier in the 18th and 19th centuries, Ana María Alonso outlines how retrograde Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the rise and fall of the Comanches, the most powerful Indian tribe in American history (New York and London: Scribner, 2010) which expends hundreds of pages describing white Texas settlers “raped and disembowelled” by “Stone Age pagans on horseback”; on the pitfalls of midcentury Comanche ethnography and pervasive myths of the Comanches as some nadir of primitivism, see William C. Meadows, Kiowa, Apache, and Comanche Military Societies: Enduring Veterans, 1800 to the Present (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2002 [1999]), 251-73; Pekka Hämäläinen, The Comanche Empire (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008), 342-61; and Gary Clayton Anderson, The Conquest of Texas: Ethnic Cleansing in the Promised Land, 1820-1875 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2005), 172-84, 419 n. 45. On the need to avoid seemingly-benign stereotypes of indigenous and postcolonial peoples as well as negative ones, see Beth Conklin, “Speaking Truth To Power,” in Anthropology News Vol. 44, Issue 7 (October 2003), 5; Beth Conklin, “Body Paint, Feathers, and VCRs: Aesthetics and Authenticity in Amazonian Activism,” in American Ethnologist Vol. 24, No. 4 (November 1997), 711-37; Darren J. Ranco, “The Ecological Indian and the Politics of Representation: Critiquing The Ecological Indian in the Age of Ecocide,” in Michael E. Harkin and David Rich Lewis eds., Native Americans and the Environment: Perspectives on the Ecological Indian (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2007), 32-51; Chinua Achebe, “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness” (1977), in V. B. Leitch ed., The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2001), 1783-1794 (1793: “just people”). 46 I use small-m métis in this thesis to indicate people of mixed European and indigenous ancestry, cognate with mestizo in Spanish, and capital-M Métis for the historic Métis communities of the Red River and Western Canada. See Adam Gaudry and Mary Agnes Welch, http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/metis/ , published 11/07/09, revised 11/16/16, accessed 1:39 pm EST, 18 December 2017. http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/metis/ 48 norteños (northerners), specifically the serranos (mountaineers) of the Sierra Madre in Chihuahua state, defined their identity as white Hispanics through binary opposition against Apache and Comanche enemies. Far from the central government in the Valley of Mexico and beset by mounted Indian raiders, norteño violence became defined by egalitarianism and charismatic leadership, not unlike warfare in Apachería and Comanchería. At war, norteños, many of whom were of indigenous or mestizo ancestry, raided indigenous enemies’ villages to steal livestock and kidnap women and children, as Apache and Comanche enemies did. Correspondingly, norteños stressed that their Ibero-American culture and Catholicism elevated them as a civilized gente de razón (people of reason) above the unconverted, unconquered Apaches and Comanches, barbarous gentes sin razón (peoples without reason). In the British North American colonies, Philip Deloria has described how the figure of the Indian, reimagined per European carnival traditions, became the icon of the “absolute, anarchic freedom” that Anglo-Americans wished to appropriate for themselves in the New World. Simon Harrison also notes that European customs of making and selling mementoes from the personal possessions, skin, and body parts of famous criminals, which continued in Britain and North America until the end of the 19th century, provides a partial origin point for the scalping and flaying of trophies from slain Indians: such acts gained “new dimensions of meanings” when “re-imagined as acts of war,” becoming “militarized, […] strongly racialized and, in a certain sense, democratized.”47 47 Carolyn Podruchny, Making the Voyageur World: Travelers and Traders in the North American Fur Trade (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 1-17 (11: “beat all Indians at the race”), 52-85, 165- 308; Philip J. Deloria, Playing Indian (New York and London: Yale University Press, 1998), 1-70, 186 (“absolute, anarchic freedom”); Ana María Alonso, Thread of Blood: Colonialism, Revolution, and Gender on Mexico’s Northern Frontier (Tucson, AZ: The University of Arizona Press, 1995), 1-111; Simon Harrison, Dark Trophies: Hunting and the Enemy Body in Modern War (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012), 39-47. 49 Neil Whitehead, in his analysis of Sir Walter Raleigh’s 1596 account of his journeys in Guiana, pointed the way towards a succinct theoretical model. Through mimesis, Europeans borrowed indigenous words, place-names, ideas, symbols, and material objects to deploy in communication with indigenous peoples and each other, ascribed with what they believed were mutually-identifiable meanings. Indigenous peoples also mimetically engaged with European intellectual and material culture, and Whitehead notes, as per White’s middle ground, “the two-way, mutualistic, character of cultural transmission.” The meanings created from and communicated through mimesis were not necessarily accurate, or benign, an observation Whitehead accredits to Michael Taussig: during the Amazon rubber boom of the late 19th and early 20th century, overseers in the Putumayo region of northwestern Amazonia engaged in acts of violent mimesis to brutalize Indians who failed to meet rubber-tapping quotas. Overseers who imagined their lives as perpetually endangered by Indian plots, cannibals, vipers, jaguars, and the jungle itself reacted in a similar way to the violently self- pitying colonists of 1750s Pennsylvania: performing acts of “mimetic savagery” that approximated the savagery they attributed to and projected onto the enslaved rubber-tappers. These fictions of “colonial terror” and their associated panic and anxiety “were a potent political force without which the work of conquest,” i.e., the “killing and torturing” of people imagined as “phantoms of wild disorder,” “could not have been accomplished.” What mimesis looked like from the other side of the frontier is indicated by Castle McLaughlin in her study of ledgerbook art, the pictographic records of coups set down by Plains Indian warriors in accounts books plundered from teamsters. McLaughlin proposes a subcategory of “war books” with a dual purpose: by inscribing their exploits onto an instrument of 50 knowledge collection and dissemination, preliterate Plains resistance leaders mimetically expressed their dominance over, and laid claim to, an alien form of enemy power.48 Within this thesis I propose that scalp hunting in British North America, as set of practices and as collection of ideas, comprised an act of colonial mimesis which attempted to exorcise Anglo-American settlers’ nightmarish visions of savage warfare; to express their anger across a cross-cultural divide towards an enemy they believed only understood violent force; and enact their fantasy of Indian war as man-hunting, which explicitly and implicitly dehumanized their targets as quarry, animals to be hunted. Most importantly, the fantasy of the Indian-killing white savage as ersatz Indian articulated Manifest Destiny’s historicist myth of Anglo-Americans as rightful inheritors of the North American continent from peoples they both fetishized and loathed, while the idea of inevitable Indian disappearance sanctified violence—on the grounds that “killing speeds destiny”— from the grassroots to the highest levels of government. Combined with a grand teleology of Anglo-Saxon cultural and biological superiority over other Europeans and colonized peoples, these ideas and shared cultural attitudes, referred to here as the scalping paradigm, were omnipresent and ubiquitous, “a set of commonsense notions that [were] rarely examine[d].”49 48 Neil Whitehead trans., The Discoverie of the Large, Rich, and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana by Sir Walter Ralegh (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997), 1-116; Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 82-91, 121-23, and throughout; Castle McLaughlin, A Lakota War Book from the Little Bighorn: The Pictographic “Autobiography of Half Moon” (Harvard University Press, 2013), 6, 61-68, 79-80, and Colin Calloway’s review, Great Plains Quarterly Volume 35, No. 3 (Summer 2015), 309-310. 49 “commonsense notions” in Margaret D. Jacobs, citing and paraphrasing Wolfe’s “Land, Labor, and Difference”: “[H]istorical actors may not often state or even be aware of their intent but are influenced by a set of commonsense notions that they rarely examine.” –Jacobs, “Genocide or Ethnic Cleansing? Are These Our Only Choices?” 446-47, in The Western Historical Quarterly Vol. 47, No. 4 (Winter 2016), 444–448. In “Land, Labor…” Wolfe notes a cluster of these widely-accepted, commonsense ideas on race and ethnicity in an 1757 letter from white Virginian Peter Fountaine to his brother Moses, decrying Virginia’s “swarms” of “mulatto bastards”; Peter proposes white male intermarriage with indigenous women as the preferable alternative, not least because “We should become the rightful heirs to their lands and should not have smutted our blood, for the Indian children when born are as white as the Spaniards or Portuguese” and only darken through the use of 51 That indigenous peoples and Anglo-Americans were scalping each other in eastern North America by the early 18th century suggests a facile symmetry, but upon closer inspection the understanding and enactment of scalps and scalping were profoundly asymmetrical. The “mourning-war complex” of indigenous peoples of the Atlantic seaboard and midcontinental interior aimed to inflict reciprocal injuries on enemy polities, meted out higher honours for captive-taking than for scalping, and did not consider human cultural differences as signs of innate biological difference (see Chapters 2, 3, 4). By contrast, early modern Europeans considered Indians as innately inferior to themselves and inflicted wartime casualties on Indians disproportionate to injuries received; while all European colonies in the New World aimed for conquest of indigenous peoples and annexation of their lands and resources, Anglo-Americans worked towards extirpation through large-scale massacres and acts of ethnic cleansing. Anglo-American soldiers and militias, often unable to find, engage, or defeat Indians in battle, targeted their property instead, torching their villages and fields in campaigns of attrition to destroy stored food and winter shelter. Scalp bounties, offered by colonial officials and state governments during the 18th and early 19th centuries and by private donors in the late 19th century west, offered psychological and financial support to rangers, militiamen, settlers, and frontier vigilantes, incidentally providing source material for stories of heroic or antiheroic Indian-killing folk heroes (see Chapters 4, 5, 6). body-paint and exposure to the sun (for related early modern ideas of Indians’ essential whiteness, see Chaplin, Subject Matter, 157-198, 243-279). Among the themes Wolfe notes “would animate [Anglo-] American racial discourse for centuries to come” – and, as shall be seen later in this thesis, already existed and animated Latin America’s casta system—includes “the recruitment of Indians to furnish their usurpers with sovereign rights to the soil” (883-84). As Philip Deloria notes in Playing Indian, that recruitment could be entirely symbolic, as in the deployment of the Lenape sachem Tamenund for the Tammany Society fraternal organization of New York, and forego actual intercourse entirely; the same could be said of the apocryphal “Cherokee grandmother” stories that crop up in many family histories in the United States. “Killing speeds destiny”: see Benjamin Madley, “Patterns of frontier genocide, 1803–1910: the aboriginal Tasmanians, the Yuki of California, and the Herero of Namibia,” 168-69, in Journal of Genocide Research Vol. 6, No. 2 (2004), 167-92. 52 “[T]hat the Americas are built on the invasion and destruction of a populated land with hundreds of distinct, complex societies, and a centuries-long slave trade involving millions of Africans,” writes Comanche author and curator Paul Chaat Smith, “is the minimum requirement for making sense of the history of our countries.” Yet Walter Hixon notes that even when a general pattern of racialized violence, overt and institutional, by Europeans against indigenous North Americans is agreed upon, some Western scholars and many members of the public recoil at the concept of genocide, which North Americans largely reserve for others, e.g., “Turks, Nazis, Cambodians, Rwandans, and other truly evil peoples.” Boyd Cothran concurs, observing that the term genocide turns conversations “into a debate over definitions,” diverting attention from “the people for whom this is not merely an academic exercise” but impacts “their everyday lives.” Beyond ethnocentric insistence that “it can’t happen here,” arguments over North American genocide tend to bog down at three points: a) upholding the Third Reich’s centrally-planned, industrialized mass killings as the criterion of true genocide, what Ben Kiernan calls a “colloquial sense of total, state- organized, physical extermination,” and a corresponding difficulty of interpretation re: low- tech mass murders and grassroots mass killings, including those performed in defiance of central authority and/or in the absence of a strong federal state; b) the Sorites paradox of what proportion of a group must be killed to constitute genocide, or whether survival of the group somehow disproves genocide; c) whether every act of violence between indigenous peoples and Europeans from Mexico to the Arctic should be treated collectively as one continuous case, in what Benjamin Madley calls an “all or nothing” approach.50 50 E.g. dismissing genocide as “popular in academic circles,” followed by “there is no debate that at times the government and the citizens treated the Indians unfairly”—Mueller, Shooting Arrows and Slinging Mud, 195. “the minimum requirement” from “On Romanticism,” 13-27, in Paul Chaat Smith, Everything You Know About Indians is Wrong (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2009), 20; Hixson, “Policing the 53 Upon closer inspection, a series of North American genocides by different European colonies against specific indigenous groups, expressed through scalp bounties and other means, are readily apparent. Article 2 of the UN’s 1948 genocide convention itemizes, as (a) through (e), five means of attempting to destroy ethnocultural groups, of which only one (a) comprises actual killings and the other four, all of which were inflicted on indigenous groups and individuals in the Americans through deliberate colonial policy and unofficial vigilante actions, involve weakening and indirectly killing groups and their members by (b) causing serious bodily or mental harm; (c) deliberately subjecting members to living conditions calculated to bring about physical destruction in whole or in part; (d) imposing measures intending to prevent births; and (e) forcible transfer of children to other groups. All of these can occur in the absence or defiance of a strong central government—the grassroots implications of which, states Mahood Mamdani, are troubling and overlooked by many Past: Indian Removal and Genocide Studies,” 439; Boyd Cothran, “Melancholia and the Infinite Debate,” 436, in The Western Historical Quarterly Vol. 47, No. 4 (Winter 2016), 435-38; Benjamin Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate: Meaning, Historiography, and New Methods” (133: “all-or-nothing”) in The American Historical Review Vol. 120, No. 1 (February 2015), 98-139; Benjamin Madley, “Understanding Genocide in California Under United States Rule, 1846–1873,” in The Western Historical Quarterly Vol. 47, No. 4 (Winter 2016), 449-61; Gary Clayton Anderson, “The Native Peoples of the American West: Genocide or Ethnic Cleansing?” in The Western Historical Quarterly Vol. 47, No. 4 (Winter 2016), 407-433; Jacobs, “Genocide or Ethnic Cleansing?”; Ben Kiernan, Blood and Soil: A World History of Genocide and Extermination from Sparta to Darfur (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007), 1-40 (10: “colloquial sense”); R.J. Rummel, “When and Why to Use the Term Democide for “Genocide”,” 24-28, and Deborah Harris, “Defining Genocide: Defining History?”, 29-37, in William L. Hewitt, ed., Defining the Horrific: Readings on Genocide and Holocaust in the Twentieth Century (Prentice Hall: Upper Saddle River, NJ, 2004); Inga Clendinnen, Reading the Holocaust (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 6-18; Alexander Laban Hinton, “The Dark Side of Modernity: Toward an Anthropology of Genocide,” 1-40, David Maybury-Lewis, “Genocide Against Indigenous Peoples,” 43-53, and Nancy Scheper-Hughes, “Coming to Our Senses: Anthropology and Genocide,” 348-81, in Alexander Laban Hinton, ed., Annihilating Difference: The Anthropology of Genocide (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2002), 348-81; David Stannard, "Uniqueness as Denial: The Politics of Genocide Scholarship", 245-90, in Alan S. Rosenbaum ed., Is the Holocaust Unique? Perspectives on Comparative Genocide, second edition (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2001 [1995]), 245-290. For an example of Madley’s “all-or-nothing” approach, as well Devon Mihesuah’s warning against reiteration of 18th-century stereotypes and frontier horror stories as “setting the record straight,” see William M. Osborn, The Wild Frontier: Atrocities During the American-Indian War from Jamestown Colony to Wounded Knee (New York: Random House, 2000). The allusion to Sinclair Lewis’ novel It Can’t Happen Here (1935) is deliberate. 54 genocide theorists. That “most attacks on Indians led to 300 or fewer casualties and were isolated attacks,” as G.C. Anderson points out, does not disprove genocide, but is consistent with sociologist Leo Kuper’s 1981 model of the “genocidal massacre,” in which exemplary violence as “object lesson or warning” is performed against a section of a group, such as a village, a band, or a clan lineage, with intent to intimidate or weaken the broader corporate group. In the case of categories (d) and (e), Margaret Jacobs points out that the killing or removal of indigenous women and children in North American frontier wars, as in the indigenous slave trades and the tiered scalp bounty payments which offered successively lower sums for the scalps of adult men, adult women, and children, should not be considered as incidental, but placed “at the very center of our analysis” of attempts to destroy indigenous peoples “as distinct sovereign entities […] as long as women bore and raised children within Indian households and communities, tribal affiliation would remain.” Scalp bounties, enslavement, and mass killings are the most extreme consequences of, in Kai Erikson’s words, when “one people manages to neutralize the humanity of another,” and the most overt end of what Nancy Scheper-Hughes calls a “genocidal continuum” in which a larger proportion of bystanders convinced of the morality and necessity of genocide, assist, celebrate, or quietly condone the violent actions of a few—for instance, turning novels of heroic génocidaires, such as Bird’s Nick of the Woods (1837) or Mayne Reid’s The Scalp- Hunters (1851), into bestsellers (see Chapter 6).51 51 Hixson, “Policing the Past”; Cothran, “Melancholia and the Infinite Debate”; Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate” (cites Kuper, 110-11); Madley, “Understanding Genocide in California Under United States Rule, 1846–1873”; Madley, “Patterns of Frontier Genocide, 1803–1910”; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 1-40 (on Kuper’s “genocidal massacre,” 13-16); Mahmood Mamdani, When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism, and the Genocide in Rwanda (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 5-14; G.C. Anderson, “The Native Peoples of the American West: Genocide or Ethnic Cleansing?,” 411; Jacobs, “Genocide or Ethnic Cleansing?” (448: “center of our analysis”); Hinton, “The Dark Side of Modernity”; Scheper-Hughes, “Coming to Our Senses”; Bettina Arnold, “Justifying Genocide: Archaeology and the 55 In observing these patterns across the span of 500 years, specific case studies such as Madley’s comparative analyses of the Pequots in 17th-century New England and the Yuki in 19th-century California are necessary, both to remind us that genocide is not an abstract theoretical phenomenon but a conscious human action, and that beneath broad categories like “indigenous peoples” are several hundred ethnocultural groups whose historic experiences, pre- and post-contact, are idiosyncratic and distinct. Distinction and idiosyncracy also characterize the methodologies and strategies by which Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, French, and British colonies in the Americas tried to subdue indigenous societies, to assimilate their members into the lowest rungs of a Euro-American caste system, to exclude them as perpetual outsiders, or to annihilate them. “We do not suffer competitions between different types of cancer as to which is to be celebrated as unique or worst,” writes Israel Charny; “All cases of genocide are similar and different, special and unique, and appropriately subject to comparative analysis.”52 Chapter Outlines My first three chapters discuss how Anglo-American scalping imagery arose out of the first two centuries of trans-Atlantic encounter in North America. Chapter One, “Scalping Construction of Difference,” in Hinton ed., The Anthropology of Genocide, 96-115 (Erikson cited 101). On entrenched stereotypes as sanctifying or legitimizing mass killings, see also Alexander Tsesis, Destructive Messages: How Hate Speech Paves the Way For Harmful Social Movements (New York and London: New York University, 2002), 48-65. 52 Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate” (132: case studies of North American genocides “avoids problems associated with considering all Native Americans together”). Charny: “The central question in this book is whether it is possible to say, as one contributor says explicitly and several others say more guardedly, “Not all mass murders are genocide.” Can there be a case of mass murder which is not genocide? I do not believe so. […] it is no different than a book about cancer diseases that kill; the various killer cancers are similar and different. We do not suffer competitions between different types of cancer as to which is to be celebrated as unique or worst. I believe that all cases of genocide are similar and different, special and unique, and appropriately subject to comparative analysis.” Israel Charny’s foreword, Rosenbaum ed., Is the Holocaust Unique? Second edition, x-xi (Charny’s italics). 56 in the Iberian Atlantic,” notes how well-established Classical and medieval myths and images of primitivism, particularly skull-cups and anthropophagous feasts, often overwrote early mentions of scalping in Iberian soldiers’ and missionaries’ accounts from Mexico and Florida. Such accounts of American primitivism were informed by two interrelated processes I explain in Chapter 1: the anthropology of deficiency, in which other human societies are imagined and described as defective and primitive versions of the observer’s; and Savagism, the identification of members of “deficient” societies with half-human and liminal beings such as demons, ogres, witches, and the primordial humans of the dawn of time. But not all Iberian authors followed suit: the first mestizo historian, Garcilaso de la Vega ‘el Inca,’ was the first to cast scalping as anticolonial resistance. Chapter Two, “A Trophy of Their Victory,” notes the differing textual and visual treatments, ethnographies, and rationalizations of scalping in North America by a dozen 16th and 17th century authors from various European countries. Chapter Three, “Scalping and Settler Colonialism in Early British America,” outlines the formation of Britain’s distinctive land-grabbing colonial pattern in Virginia and New England from the founding of Jamestown (1607) to the Pequot War (1636-38), the development of for-profit Indian war in the form of slave trading and bounties offered to allies for body parts, and the appearance of the central elements of the scalping narrative: of innate Indian treachery and the unique victimhood status of Anglo- American settlers in Indian war. Chapters Four through Six describe the institutionalization of scalp bounties among colonial authorities and the entrenchment of scalp-hunting as practice and as idea among Anglo-Americans. Chapter Four, “A Pound of Flesh: Slave Hunting and Scalp Bounties in Anglo-American Frontier Warfare,” describes the dual role of enslavement and scalp 57 bounties as means of extirpation in 18th century Indian wars, the eclipse of the Indian slave trade and decapitation of Indians in Anglo-America, and the burgeoning grassroots-level hatred of Indians as an element of Anglo-American frontier life. Chapter Five, “Dark Mimesis: Scalp-hunting from the Seven Years’ War to the War of 1812,” analyses the rise of the Indian-killing frontiersman as a template for folk heroes in the Revolutionary era and in the Jacksonian-era United States, while accusations of scalping served as polemic: both British and Americans accused each other of complicity in scalping and war crimes, and of being true “white savages,” from the Revolution to the War of 1812. Counterpoints are raised in the 1833 memoirs of Sauk war leader Black Hawk, and the furor over the memoirs of the “white Indian” John Dunn Hunter. Chapter Six, “Scalping and Manifest Destiny,” looks at the spread of Anglo-American scalp-hunting in the Hispanic Southwest and Great Plains from prior to the Mexican-American War to the Sioux War of 1876, with an interest in four case studies: the scalp hunters James Kirker and John Joel Glanton, contracted in northern Mexico to hunt Apaches; the spread of scalp bounties in 1850s California; scalping in the Sand Creek massacre of 1864 Colorado; and treatment of scalping in the Slim Buttes incident of September 1876. Chapter Seven, “Scalping Culture at Frontier’s End,” examines how such notable public figures as Geronimo, Sitting Bull, Rain-in-the-Face, and Buffalo Bill Cody, all of whom were associated in the public imagination with larger-than-life stories of scalping, negotiated and renovated their public images at the World’s Fairs of the fin de siècle era. A brief epilogue traces the aftermath of scalp-hunting and scalp bounties in the 21st century, how indigenous artists and activists invoke it to point to past and present dispossession, and 58 the broader survival of colonial fantasies of a world divided between civilization and barbarian chaos. 59 Chapter One: Scalping in the Iberian Atlantic Other animals, in fine, live at peace with those of their own kind […] But with man, —by Hercules! most of his misfortunes are occasioned by man. –Pliny the Elder, Historia Naturalis (AD 77-79), Book VII53 Odysseus: Who is their leader? Do they have a democratic state? Silenus: They are nomads; nobody listens to anybody about anything. —Euripides, Cyclops (ca. 5th century BC)54 Prologue: Bring me the hair of Roque de Yelves In La Florida del Inca, his 1605 account of Hernando de Soto’s expedition to conquer Florida (1539-1542), the Peruvian man of letters Garcilaso de la Vega ‘El Inca’ writes that in March 1540, two conquistadores named Simón Rodríguez and Roque de Yelves ventured beyond the expedition’s winter camp near present-day Tallahassee to gather wild fruit in the forest. Clambering in the branches of a fruit tree, the two conquistadores were surprised by Apalachee warriors armed with their signature weapon, a powerful bow. Yelves leapt to the ground and began to run, but his flight was cut short by a flint-headed arrow in the back, “a quarter of it passing on through his chest.” Rodríguez, still in the tree, was shot at “as if he were some wild beast that had climbed there” and fell to the ground dead with three arrows “piercing him from side to side.” What happened next required some explanation from Garcilaso to his readers: Hardly had he fallen when they cut off his head, or rather I should say all the scalp in a circle, and carried it away as a testimony of what they had done. (It is not known by what skill the Indians remove the scalp so easily from a person.) Roque de Yelves they left prostrate and did not take his scalp, for a relief of mounted Spaniards who had not been far away was now coming too close to permit them to do so. Nevertheless, after giving his 53 John Bostock and H.T. Riley trans., The Natural History of Pliny, Vol. II (London: Henry G. Bohn, 1855), 120. 54 Cited in François Hartog, Janet Lloyd trans., The Mirror of Herodotus: the Representation of the Other in the Writing of History (Berkeley, LA: University of California Press, 1988), 193-206. 60 companions a brief account of what had occurred, this cavalier presently called for confession and expired. (Book II, Chapter XXV) 55 As 16th-century Spanish had no precise, succinct words for the hair-bearing skin of the head, like the modern English noun “scalp,” or a verb to describe its removal such as “to scalp,” Garcilaso had to make do with the vague circumlocution todo el casco en redondo, literally “all the skull in a circle.” The Inca cited another expedition survivor, Alonso de Carmona, to indicate other members of Soto’s army met a similar fate: …when our men went into the forest to cut firewood, these Indians rushed up at the sound of the axe and slew them. They removed the chains from the Indians who had been brought along to carry the wood on their backs, and they took the crown of each Spaniard (this being the thing they most prized), to decorate the arm of the bow with which they fought. 56 Carmona concluded that more than twenty conquistadores were killed this way during their time in Apalachee. “It is our opinion,” wrote John and Jeannette Varner, “that the Inca has used the word corona here to mean scalp.”57 In describing the Apalachees’ scalping of conquistadores The Inca, the first Hispanic writer born in the Americas and the first mestizo author in history, broke ranks with his peers in two significant ways. As will be indicated throughout this chapter, even mentioning scalping went against a prevailing trend in 17th century accounts of New World violence, 55 John Grier Varner and Jeannette Johnson Varner eds., trans., The Florida of the Inca (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1962), 257, footnote 12, my italics. Original text: “…lo derribaron muerto, y apenas hubo caído, quando le quitaron la cabeza: digo todo el casco en redondo, que no se sabe con qué maña lo quitan con grandísima facilidad, y lo llevaron para testimonio de su hecho. A Roque de Yelves dexaron caído sin quitarle el casco, porque el socorro de los Españoles á caballo, por ser la distancia breve, iba tan cerca que no lo dio lugar á los Indios á que se lo quitasen. Este en pocas palabras contó el suceso, y pidiendo confesion espiró luego.” In Historia de la Florida por El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, Book 2 of 4 (Madrid: Imprenta de Villalpando, 1803), 204-05. 56 Original text: “y quitavan al Español la corona, que era lo que ellos más preciavan, para traerla al brazo del arco con que peleavan.” Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 258-59, footnote 13, my italics. 57 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 258-59, footnote 13. On the struggle to find succinct, specific words and descriptors for scalping in Western European languages in the 16th and 17th centuries, Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut, or Who Invented Scalping?” 462-65. 61 where it was overlooked or overwritten in favour of ancient European signs of alterity, barbarism, and wildness: anthropophagous feasts, human sacrifice, and the fashioning of cups and bowls from human skulls. If mentioning scalping in the context of contemporary North America set The Inca decades ahead of his peers, his overall approach put him ahead by centuries. While not opposed to the peaceful incorporation of indigenous peoples into the Spanish Empire through conversion to Christianity, The Inca’s account, which Erin Vaccarella points out is disguised as an adventure narrative to avoid censure by the Inquisition, subversively critiques the morality of armed conquest, particularly in Garcilaso’s scenes where Indian rulers denounce the Iberians as brigands and robbers. The Inca, descended maternally from a long line of Inca warrior-nobility, also refuses the double- standard by which indigenous military traditions automatically prove the morality of European invasion and conquest. Designating the Apalachees and other peoples of the American Southeast as sovereign indigenous polities resisting Soto’s invasion, La Florida del Inca is arguably one of, if not the, first anticolonial works of Atlantic literature.58 This chapter describes how European travellers and geographers in the 16th century Atlantic world, particularly in the context of colonial encounters in the Iberian Americas, created the intellectual and cultural foundations for Euro-American ideas of and attitudes towards scalping in the 17th and 18th centuries (see Chapters 2 and 3). Imagining the Americas as primordial heterotopic spaces and indigenous peoples as fundamentally similar 58 On Inca Garcilaso: Erin Vaccarella, “Echoes of Resistance: Testimonial Narrative and Pro-Indian Discourse in El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega’s La Florida Del Inca”, 101, in Latin American Literary Review Vol. 32, No. 64 (2004), 100-119; D.A. Brading, “The Incas and the Renaissance: the Royal Commentaries of Inca Garcilaso de la Vega,” in Journal of Latin American Studies, Vol. 18, No. 1 (May, 1986), pp. 1-23; Weaver, The Red Atlantic, 100-103; Rabasa, “ “Porque soy indio”: Subjectivity in Garcilaso's La Florida del Inca," in Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier, 199-225; as first mestizo writer and first American-born Hispanic author, Lawrence A. Clayton et. al. ed., The De Soto Chronicles: The Expedition of Hernando de Soto to North America in 1539-1543, volume 1 (The University of Alabama Press, 1993), xxii. http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublication?journalCode=jlatiamerstud 62 to the liminal beings and prehistoric humans of European myths, descriptions of American violence focused on acts Europeans considered exotic, primordial, and frightening, meaning Europeans ultimately defined, and stigmatized, indigenous American warfare as irrational and focused on dismemberment. Reading off European myths of human wildness onto actual ethnocultural groups in real geographic spaces, colonial neologisms designated New World peoples as outré and at least half-mythic: anthropophagi became caníbales, homines sylvestres became salvajes.59 While scalping itself, as a marker of indigenous exoticism, was often sidestepped in 16th- and early 17th-century accounts (see Chapter 2) in favour of more traditional European signs of primitivism, the central narratives of Indian war were laid down early. The Indian was an illegitimate combatant; their retaliation or resistance was savage war; European invasion was reimagined as self-defense; and European violence against Indians, always conceived as retaliatory or preemptive and ranging from exemplary massacres, to slavery, to conquest, was justified in circular fashion: with the stigma of the Indian as illegitimate combatant. Introduction: Man-eaters, White Gods, and myth in 16th century America Understanding how and why a late-19th-century audience believed Prentiss Ingraham and William Cody’s story of a duel between Buffalo Bill and Yellow Hand requires investigation of how Europeans imagined the Americas and their place in it. On the surface level of Ingraham and Cody’s story are three fairly obvious themes: Cody’s moral righteousness in avenging, from an Anglo-American viewpoint, a past injustice (“the first 59 On European categories for New World peoples, see Richard Berkhofer, Jr., The White Man’s Indian: Images of the American Indian from Columbus to the Present (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1978), 12-14; and Olive Patricia Dickason, The Myth of the Savage: and the Beginnings of French Colonialism in the Americas (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 1997 [1984]), 63-80. 63 scalp for Custer!”); the aggression of Yellow Hand in challenging Cody directly; and Cody’s victory through means considered unconventional in European warfare, i.e., the weapons and tactics of “savage war”. Another message lies just beneath the surface when we consider that Yellow Hand specifically challenges Cody by his Indian name of Pahaska, saying “I know you” though they have never met. This implies that Cody is recognized, perhaps renowned, among the Indians—otherwise, why challenge him to a duel? Expressed here in the fiction of Yellow Hand’s recognition of Cody as a famous Indian-slayer, as in other Anglo-American works of art and literature cited throughout this thesis, is a European desire not only to imagine themselves possessing superior qualities—e.g., moral, intellectual, cultural, racial, etc.—which permit them to triumph over the Indians, but to be recognized as such by Indians, who in so doing endorse or reify colonialism. As will be outlined here, the myth of European superiority was paired with two myths of the Americas’ natural and human geography: that the Americas, unlike Europe, were a primordial space outside of, or staggered behind, historic time; and that the peoples of the Americas were accordingly primitive, closer to the primordial humans of Classical and Biblical etiological myths. In the case of the “duel with Yellow Hand,” Cody and Ingraham were peddling a story which their target audience took as partially or absolutely true—that is, a myth. “There are always multiple narratives of any historical moment,” notes Matthew Restall, “but that does not mean that as interpretations they cannot tell us something true.” Imagining Indians reifying, through conscious or unconscious recognition, Europeans’ putative superiority is to imagine a willing surrender to European master-narratives of colonialism in the Americas: the denial of coevalness between colonizer and colonized, and the overwriting or supersession of indigenous ontologies, geographies, and other forms of presence and 64 knowledge with European cartographies and ethnographic fantasies of Indians. These self- congratulatory scenes, often attached years or decades afterwards by mythographers, recur in 16th- and 17th-century European accounts.60 Columbus’ persona as a “master of signs,” who could perfectly understand the Indians’ gestures as early as landfall in October 1492, recurs in his later assertion that he overawed the Indians of Jamaica by predicting an eclipse with his almanac in 1504. Supposed Indian uncertainty as to whether Columbus and his crew were deities or demigods from the heavens serves as ancestor or forerunner to the mimetic claims of Hernán Cortés that Moctezuma and other Mesoamericans took them to be gods, followed by the post-1560 myth of Cortés being mistaken for Quetzalcoatl, and conquistadores from Peru to North America’s Great Plains introducing themselves as “hijos del Sol” or “sons of the Sun.” In Brazil, a 1663 account by the Jesuit Simão de Vasconcellos claimed that Diogo Alvares, a 16th-century interpreter and middleman between Portuguese colonial authorities and the Tupinambá, had so terrified the Indians by discharging a matchlock while bird-hunting that they prostrated themselves at his feet. Though the story postdated Alvares’ death by more than a century, it became a standard scene in the history of Brazil until the mid-1800s, and his Tupí name Caramuru (Eel) was fancifully retranslated as “son of thunder,” “man of fire,” “sea dragon,” etc., to express the Indians’ supposed amazement at his firearm. Europeans took these myths seriously: in Virginia in 1607, Columbus’ Jamaica story inspired John 60 Matthew Restall, Seven Myths of the Spanish Conquest (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), xiii-xix, and throughout; On the denial of coevalness (pace Johannes Fabian) and the goal of the decolonizing project as denial of the denial of coevalness, see Walter Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance: Literacy, Territoriality, and Colonization (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), ix- xxii, 1-25, and throughout; Camilla Townsend, “Burying the White Gods: New Perspectives on the Conquest of Mexico,” in The American Historical Review, Vol. 108, No. 3 (June 2003), 659-687 (660: In that this version of the conquest overwrites real issues of violence and inequality with an unreal fantasy of adoration and gratification, “It is essentially a pornographic vision of events, albeit in a political rather than a sexual sense.”) 65 Smith’s attempt to overawe his captor Opechancanough with a compass, and informed his perception of the adoption ceremony which birthed the legend of his rescue by Pocahontas (see Chapter 3).61 To point out that stories of Indians recognizing and corroborating Europeans’ right to rule them were infantilizing and, perhaps more importantly, untrue, misunderstands the function and purpose of myth. “In order to exist,” observes Janaína Amado on the myth of Caramuru, “a myth must correspond to profound social needs.” Bruce Lincoln offers a more succinct definition of myth: “ideology in narrative form.” While myth and history, observes Peter Bietenholz, both spring from a desire to render the past and present in understandable terms, and are more intertwined than many historians would like to admit, Paul Cohen and Richard Slotkin draw clear distinctions between the historian and the mythographer: the historian “streamlines the past into post hoc systems of narrative meaning,” notes Cohen, while myth, in Slotkin’s words, “expresses ideology in a narrative, rather than discursive or argumentative, structure.” Through isolating “one strand from a complex picture” and emphasizing it “to the exclusion of all else,” myth offers its audience an “emotional investment in an essentialized understanding of certain individuals and events.” This narrative strand may be drawn from, attached to, or encapsulated within a mythic scene, an action, or object, to “dramatize the world vision in a constellation of powerful metaphors.”62 61 Townsend, “Burying the White Gods,” 659-687; Janaína Amado, “Mythic Origins: Caramuru and the Founding of Brazil,” in The Hispanic American Historical Review, Vol. 80, No. 4 (November 2000), 783-811; see also Alida C. Metcalf, Go-Betweens and the Colonization of Brazil, 1500-1600 (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2005), 1-15, 80-95; on Columbus’ self-presentation as “master of signs” see Tzvetan Todorov, Richard Howard trans., The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999), 1-50. 62 Bruce Lincoln, Theorizing Myth: Narrative, Ideology, and Scholarship (University of Chicago Press, 1999), throughout (147: “ideology in narrative form”); Peter G. Bietenholz, Historia and Fabula: Myths and Legends in Historical Thought from Antiquity to the Modern Age (Leiden, New York, Köln: E.J. Brill, 1994), 401-06; Richard Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600 – 1860 66 Over time, the myth is “increasingly conventionalized and abstracted” until its origin as a work of creative expression has been forgotten, and allusions to the myth via symbols, keywords, icons, or historical clichés—e.g., Columbus’ compass, Caramuru’s matchlock, Custer’s saber, and Cody scalping Yellow Hand—serve as mnemonic devices which invoke a vast subtextual iceberg of meanings. Mythic scenes or myths of historic events can also be re-interpreted and approached from a different angle to offer new or revisionist myths, often as one-sided and factionalist as the myths they replaced (see Introduction pp. 43-44). Paul Cohen makes a particularly important observation when he notes that new myths, to be accepted among the pantheon of older myths, must “possess at least a degree of plausibility” in conforming to pre-existing beliefs: “They must be believable, even if not true.”63 The genesis of scalp bounties in North American frontier warfare dates back to the mid-17th century (see Chapter 3), but the ultimate source of late 19th century myths regarding Euro-American violence, particularly the Indian as barbarous illegitimate combatant and the European frontiersman as white savage, draw from much older sources in the European intellectual tradition. My first section in this chapter, “The myth of the man-eating horde: scalping in ancient and medieval thought,” surveys the intellectual history of European perceptions of primitivism, particularly two interrelated processes I describe as Savagism and (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1973), 1-56; Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America (New York: Atheneum, 1992), 1-26 (“narrative, rather than discursive or argumentative, structure”), 259-60 (“Myth is not only something given but something made, a product of human labour, one of the tools with which human beings do the work of making culture and society”); Amado, “Mythic Origins”; Paul Cohen, History in Three Keys: The Boxers as Event, Experience, and Myth (Columbia University Press, 1997), 64, 211-222, 293-95 (195: Cohen defines mythic power as “the emotional investment in an essentialized understanding of certain individuals and events that isolates out one strand from a complex picture and emphasizes it to the exclusion of all else.”). 63 “increasingly conventionalized and abstracted”: Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-26; I borrow “vast subtextual iceberg” from Bruce Lincoln, Holy Terrors: Thinking about Religion after September 11, second edition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006 [2003]), 30-32; Cohen, History in Three Keys, 211-222 (on one- sidedness, factionalism, and presentism in revisionist historical myths), 293-95 (“plausibility… believable, even if not true”). 67 anthropology of deficiency, and the ways in which accounts of scalping in ancient Greek and Roman texts only indirectly influenced 16th-century accounts of New World violence. My second section, “Sepúlveda’s false dilemma: Savagism and illegitimate combatants from Columbus to Valladolid,” describes the identification of indigenous peoples with ancient and medieval European myths of wild or primordial men, the relatively rapid creation of the ethnographic category of the “Indian,” and the enduring process I refer to as the Sepúlvedan false dilemma: attacking the European strawman image of the Indian as pure victim to justify the most hostile, contemptuous stereotypes of Indians and, in so doing, to justify enslavement and mass killings. My third section, “Skull-cups, cannibal feasts, and the logic of massacre,” shows how early accounts or references to indigenous violence sidestepped scalping in favour of older images of primitive violence—e.g., flaying, anthropophagy, skull-cup trophies and bacchanalian feasts, designated the Indian as barbarian in ways consistent with ancient European myths and narratives, prefiguring the later uses of scalping in North American frontier war stories. My epilogue observes how these images from the ancient world, particularly the barbarian invasions that ended the Roman empire in the West, were invoked and inverted for anticolonial purposes in Inca Garcilaso’s La Florida del Inca. The myth of the man-eating horde: scalping in ancient and medieval thought Through a trans-Atlantic interplay of images, ideas, and self-representations, European myths of primordialism and heterotopia were attached to the Americas and its peoples, creating new conceptual categories and colonial neologisms to name them: ‘the Indies,’ the ‘West Indies,’ the ‘New World,’ and ‘America,’ whose peoples were ‘Indians’ and ‘Cannibals,’ ‘savages’ marked by their ‘red skin.’ Various authors have noted, rightly, the influences of European geographical and ethnographic writing on early accounts of the 68 Americas, some dating back to Greek and Roman times, though encounter historiography should not be reduced to Westerners “talking about ourselves talking about ourselves”. “[N]o matter how much discursive construction may be involved in their representations,” warns Zhang Longxi, cultures and histories “are not in themselves entirely and exhaustively discursive.” Neil Whitehead concurs: for all the overstatement of the Americas’ familiarity which can recur in 16th-century accounts, “there yet remains a residual element in European description that can be taken only to refer to some new reality that was encountered,” like the cosmetic annatto paint which reddened Brazilians’ skin, the ethnonym Kalinago misheard and retransmitted as Caribe or Canibal, and Caribbean loanwords which proved useful in conceptualizing the mainland, such as cacique for an Indian headman or leader, canoa for small boats with neither sail nor rudder, Tabaco for the pan-American sacred herb which would benefit British colonialism in Virginia (see Chapter 3). Cultural construction and self- representation were joint projects: as Europeans were defining indigenous peoples as Indians and trying to extend power over them, indigenous peoples were resisting European dominion and, once educated in European literary modes, writing counter-histories of the Conquest like the 16th-century Nahuatl accounts of the conquest, or Inca Garcilaso’s accounts of Florida and Peru. “[C]olonial texts are complex documents,” noted Whitehead, “reflecting not only the desire of the conqueror but the recalcitrance of the conquered.”64 64 On the composite nature of early accounts of the Americas, see J.H. Elliott, The Old World and the New, 1492-1650 (Cambridge University Press, 1998 [1970]); Fredi Chiapelli ed., First Images of America: The Impact of the New World on the Old, 2 volumes (Berkeley, LA, London: University of California Press, 1976); Karen Ordahl Kupperman, ed., America in European Consciousness, 1493-1750 (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1995); Stuart B. Schwartz, ed., Implicit Understandings: Observing, Reporting, and Reflecting on the Encounters between Europeans and other peoples in the Early Modern Era (Cambridge: 1994), inc. Rolena Adorno, “The Indigenous ethnographer: The “indio ladino” as historian and cultural mediation,” pp. 378-402; Anthony Grafton with April Shelford and Nancy Siraisi, New Worlds, Ancient Texts: The Power of Tradition and the Shock of Discovery (Cambridge, MS and London, England: the Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1992); David Gordon White’s review of Bruce Lincoln, Theorizing Myth: Narrative, Ideology, and Scholarship (University of Chicago Press, 1999), in The Journal of Religion Vol. 81, 69 As Robert Berkhofer observed, European descriptions of the Americas’ natural and human geography from 1492 onwards, whether positive, negative, or ambivalent, were premised in a myth of binary opposition where the Americas were a primordial mirror of Europe, and its peoples were the primitive antithesis of Europeans. Arising from this widespread belief was the idea that the Americas shared similar or identical conditions to those of a primordial epoch, described in Classical, Biblical, and medieval myths of the Golden Age, Eden, and the Terrestrial Paradise, placing the Americas out of sync with European chronology. If the primordial argument made the New World seem older, the “telluric inferiority” hypothesis posited that the Americas had emerged later from the Biblical floodwaters and were still drying out, which had hindered the development of indigenous American societies. Early modern ethnography conceptualized and expressed these taken- for-granted assumptions of indigenous American primitivism through what Berkhofer calls “description by deficiency”: cataloguing, in pedantic detail, how indigenous societies did not measure up in Europeans’ estimations. Some of this was congruent with European criticisms of internal outsiders. Like Judaism, Islam, or rival sects of Christianity, indigenous religiosity was “superstition” or “idolatry”; indigenous lifeways involving seasonal movements between food sources was imagined as erratic wandering, like the movements of Tatars, Romani “Gypsies,” and other pastoralists; simple or sparse material culture was likened to the poverty No. 4 (Oct., 2001), 688-690 (“talking about ourselves talking about ourselves”); Zhang Longxi, Mighty Opposites: From Dichotomies to Differences in the Comparative Study of China (Stanford, 1998), 1-83 (2-3: “self-enclosed language game”), 14 (“not reduce China”), (55-56: cultural difference without absolute opposition), (83: “no such thing as the ‘Other’”); Neil Whitehead’s introduction, The Discoverie of the Large, Rich, and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana by Sir Walter Ralegh (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997), 1-110 (26: “colonial texts… recalcitrance”). 70 of European peasants, who were often directly or laterally compared to American “savages.”65 When the traits of liminal, half-human folkloric beings like the man-eating ogre, the witch or sorcerer, and the wild man were attributed to stereotyped groups, everyday contempt could merge with paranoid, monstrous images. Within Europe, the figure of the sorcerer or witch who harmed others with black magic and offered human sacrifice to the Devil was attached to Jews, heretics, and “Gypsies,” a fantasy with deadly consequences. Against a backdrop of legalized discrimination, European Jews were targeted in periodic massacres and persecutions inspired by rumours of child sacrifice, host desecration, or poisoning; Romanian nobility owned “Gypsies” as slaves until 1848; tens of thousands of Catholics and Protestants were condemned as Satan’s servants, tortured, and executed during the 16th and 17th centuries. As Catholics and Protestants condemned each other as the enemy within, the Ottoman armies marching through southeastern Europe were imagined as the forces of Antichrist.66 65 Antonello Gerbi, Jeremy Moyle trans., The Dispute of the New World: The History of a Polemic, 1750-1900 (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1973 [1955]), xv-xviii, 3-156; Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian, 3-47; Pagden, European Encounters with the New World, 117-140, where he crucially observes that 17th and 18th century missionaries read incommensurabilities between European and indigenous political and religious language as signifying absences from American societies (e.g., “without law, without king, without faith”), precluding the existence of analogues or functional equivalents; he calls these “anti-lexica”. François Hartog, in his study of Greek perceptions of the Scythians, notes that ancient ethnographers only imagined nomadism as an accumulation of negatives, i.e., things they do which are imagined to be absent from nomads’ lives: plough, eat bread, live in houses, build altars, etc.—in Hartog, Janet Lloyd trans., The Mirror of Herodotus: the Representation of the Other in the Writing of History (Berkeley, LA: University of California Press, 1988), 193- 206. Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man, 10-108: “Even among our own people, we can see many peasants who are little different from brute animals,” wrote Francisco de Vitoria (1492-1546), and Jesuit missionaries habitually spoke of the “savages” of southern Europe: Asturias, Calabria, Sicily, and the Abruzzi, or “these Indies.” Town-dwellers in France habitually called peasants sauvages until the end of the 19th century, despite this legally constituting slander, with fines or jail sentences if convicted—see Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870-1914 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1976), 3-8. 66 Ian Hancock, The Pariah Syndrome: An account of Gypsy slavery and persecution (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Karoma Publishers, Inc., 1987); James Parkes, The Jew in the Medieval Community, second edition (New York: Hermon Press, 1976 [1938]); Nico Voigtländer and Hans-Joachim Voth, “Persecution Perpetuated: The 71 European images of Turks combined medieval Islamophobia with much older stereotypes of Central Asians as pitiless destroyers, expressed in scenes in art and literature where Turks, Tatars, and Mongols ate their victims. Following what I call the anthropology of deficiency to its logical extreme, this portrait of animal-like Central Asians reduced them, like later defamatory images of indigenous peoples of the Americas, though in the general absence of Central Asians or a situation of colonial power over them (quite the opposite) into a monstrous anti-society. Identified in the early medieval Alexander legends with Christian eschatology’s Gog and Magog or, in the medieval Germanies, with the Lost Tribes of Israel, folklore placed these ferocious subhumans behind a great mountain range. Kept in place either by the armies of Prester John or the Iron Gate of Alexander, they lived without law, culture, religion, or cuisine on a raw-food diet of vermin, unclean bodily substances, and human flesh. Like the process of Orientalism described by Edward Said and other forms of the much-studied binary-opposition model, this myth of an antisociety reduces real ethnocultural groups to negative mirror-images of the normative self. What is specific about this form of binary opposition is captured by Gananath Obeyesekere in his definition of Savagism: the identification of specific peoples as possessing the animal-like, monstrous traits of folkloric liminal beings such as witches, ogres, and wild men, or representing human beings from a presocial primordial era, known in Western discourse as “the state of nature.” Savagism reads etiological human-origin myths and folkloric stories of liminal beings as Medieval Origins of Anti-Semitic Violence in Nazi Germany,” in The Quarterly Journal of Economics Vol. 127, Issue 3 (August 2012), 1339-1392; Norman Cohn, Europe’s Inner Demons: The Demonization of Christians in Medieval Christendom, revised edition (University of Chicago Press, 1993 [1973]), ix-xi, 1-50; Diane Purkiss, The Witch in History: Early Modern and Twentieth-Century Representations (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), 7-58; Walter Stephens, Demon Lovers: Witchcraft, Sex, and the Crisis of Belief (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2002); entry “Witch hunts” in Norman Davies, Europe: A History (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 436-37; Joshua Trachtenberg, The Devil and the Jews: The Medieval Conception of the Jew and its Relation to Modern Antisemitism (Cleveland and NY: Meridian Books, 1961 [1943]). 72 literally, rather than metaphorically, true, and identifies these mythic figures with extant ethnocultural groups. Savagist binary opposition uses anthropology-of-deficiency arguments to deny the most fundamental human traits to their targets, accusing them of ignorance of the use of fire, the incest taboo, language, law, etc., explaining these away with positive, negative, or ambivalent comparisons to children, animals, and liminal beings. Through this mutually-reinforcing process, real human societies are reduced to abstracted stereotypes influenced by myth, which are cited as evidence to confirm those myths. This forms the substratum of the North American scalping paradigm, and the broader horror-image of Indian war as savage war.67 67 “A key premise of evolutionary anthropology was the collapse of time and space whereby ethnography recapitulated prehistory—to leave Europe was to travel back in time. Hence the equivalence asserted between contemporary Aborigines and Europeans’ primal forebears was not just a projection onto colonized people of European fantasies of self. It also furnished an evidenciary supplement.” Patrick Wolfe, Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology, 25. John Block Friedman, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought (Harvard University Press, 1981); Gananath Obeyesekere, Cannibal Talk: The Man-Eating Myth and Human Sacrifice in the South Seas (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Gustav Jahoda, Images of Savages: Ancient Roots of Modern Prejudice in Western Culture (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), esp. 51-196. On the binary-opposition model see Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books (a division of Random House), 2003 [1978]), 1-7, 46-49, 92-95, 100-03, 203-04; Bietenholz, Historia and Fabula, 127-35; Seymour Phillips, “The outer world of the European Middle Ages,” in Stuart B. Schwartz, ed., Implicit Understandings: Observing, Reporting, and Reflecting on the Encounters between Europeans and other peoples in the Early Modern Era (Cambridge: 1994), 23-63; Stephen Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 26-51; Travis Zadeh, Mapping Frontiers Across Medieval Islam: Geography, Translation, and the ‘Abbasid Empire (London and New York: I.B. Tauris & Co. Ltd., 2011), 1-7, 42-43, 76-77, 83-84, 90-93, 144-46, 148-160. Andrew Colin Gow, The Red Jews: Antisemitism in an Apocalyptic Age, 1200-1600 (Leiden, New York, Köln: E.J. Brill, 1995), 1-82, 180-81, 1-7 (Luther and Gog and Magog), 76: Odoric of Pordenone’s account of his travels to China and Mongolia describes the Great Khan as “magnus Canis”; a middle High German translation by Konrad Steckel, in 1359, translates this as “der grosse hunt” or “the great dog”. On binary oppositions past and present, see Timothy Brook, Jérôme Bourgon, Gregory Blue, Death by a Thousand Cuts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2008); Zhang, Mighty Opposites, 1-83; Michel Wintroub, A Savage Mirror: Power, Identity, and Knowledge in Early Modern France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 1-14, 39-63, 179-83; Chinua Achebe, “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,” in V. B. Leitch ed., The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2001), 1783-1794. On contemporary Anglo-American self-identification as a modern, successful “First World” against a backwards, dysfunctional Latin American “Third World,” see Cañizares-Esguerra, Puritan Conquistadores, 215-233; on Eastern Europe as Western Europe’s dysfunctional mirror, Larry Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994), 357-61; 73 In outlining how indigenous Australians were defined by 18th century jurists and 19th century anthropologists as peoples so primitive they lacked understanding of land rights or conception, Patrick Wolfe crucially observes that such designations are not just “ad hoc rationalization[s]” but have “deep historical anchorage.” Just how deep that anchorage goes is indicated by Brent Shaw in his studies of Near Eastern accounts of pastoralists, in which an “organized and structurally consistent set of ideas,” and an associated “ideology” of nomad savagery as antithesis to civilization, has been repeated from the 2nd millennium B.C. to the Enlightenment. Pastoralists were imagined as “nomads,” which meant cultureless drifters who followed, rather than led, their herds, a mobile lifestyle which easily lent itself to brigandage and was thus nascently criminal. A series of binary oppositions also cast pastoralists as the rough antitheses of civilization who wore hides instead of textiles, had tents instead of houses, ate raw food, were ignorant of law and culture, and promiscuously mated within their wandering hordes without understanding of marriage or incest.68 Greek and Roman theorists added the stock phrase “women held in common” to describe these mixed matings, which allowed a possible positive interpretation (as in Plato) of lack of marriage as a form of autarky or primitive communism. Otherwise the model was unchanged: the shepherd’s life is the “idlest” of all economic modes, wrote Aristotle, as animals impose their will on humans who “are compelled to follow, cultivating, as it were, a living farm.” In theorizing mixed economies Aristotle can only suggest an aristocratic “ploughman-hunter” after “a shepherd and a robber.” Enlightenment social theorists would carry this forward with a four-stage model in which pastoralist “barbarians” were the second- 68 Wolfe, Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology, 1-128—he also warns of the dangers of anthropology as “discourse appropriated into state practice” (177); Wolfe, “Land, Labor, and Difference,” 869- 70 (“The point is rather to indicate the deep historical anchorage of settler-colonial discourse, which is much more than some ad hoc rationalization that sprang up spontaneously in the Australian context”). 74 most-primitive form of economic life, and hunter-gatherer “savages,” with the imaginary Indians of the New World as archetypal, were primitives par excellence. The early modern and Enlightenment category of “savagery” was consistent with the Greek and Roman theorists’ model of the state of nature, which envisioned a period in human history lacking fire, language, law, agriculture, when people had collected the produce of the uncultivated “virgin earth” as Varro put it, “acorns, arbutus berries, mulberries, and other fruits”. Drawing from the Golden Age myth, it captured its ambivalences: depending on the authors’ purpose, the state of nature could be an idyll of autarkic simplicity where, in the absence of personal gain and plunder, theft and murder were absent; a “savage and brutal” prehistory when, in Cicero’s words, “men wandered at random over the fields, after the fashion of beasts, and supported life on the food of beasts”; or a strange era mingling praiseworthy and bizarre qualities. Like the Biblical imagery of human primordialism which sprang from the same well of Near Eastern sources, mythic depictions of the state of nature are long-lived; as archaeologist Clive Gamble notes, “We still await the discovery of the first wooden club and fur wrap from the old Stone Age.”69 69 Primary sources: Aristotle, Politics Book I, 1256a – 1256b, William Ellis trans., Politics (London and Toronto: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1928 [1912]); Plato, Republic Book 2, 369c - 372e, Paul Shorey trans., in Plato in Twelve Volumes, volumes 5 and 6, and Laws Book 3, 677a - 684a, R.G. Bury trans., Laws, in Plato in Twelve Volumes, volumes 10 and 11 (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1967-69); Marcus Terentius Varro, De Re Rustica (on Agriculture), Book 2, Section 1. 1-5, W. D. Hooper and H. B. Ash trans., Cato and Varro on Agriculture (Harvard University Press: Loeb Classical Library, 1934); Marcus Tullius Cicero, De Inventione, Book 1, Chapter 2, C.D. Yonge trans., The Orations of Marcus Tullius Cicero, Volume 4 (London: George Bell & Sons, 1888). Benjamin Isaac notes in The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity (Princeton University Press: Princeton and Oxford, 2004), 406-10, that Plato’s prehistory was adopted without much change by Cicero (De Officiis 1.11-14, 2.11-15), Lactantius (Divinae Institutiones 6-10), Isidore of Seville (Etymologiae 14.2.4-6), Augustine (de Civitate Dei 14.44). Secondary sources: Stephanie Moser, Ancestral Images: the Iconography of Human Origins (Sutton Publishing, Limited: United Kingdom, 1998); Clive Gamble, “The Peopling of Europe 700,00 – 40,000 Years before the Present,” in Barry Cunliffe ed., Prehistoric Europe: An Illustrated History (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 5-41; Brent D. Shaw, “Fear and Loathing: the Nomad Menace and Roman Africa,” in C.M. Wells ed., L’Afrique romaine: les conférences Vanier 1980 (Ottawa: Éditions de l’Université d’Ottawa, 1982), 29-50, and Brent D. Shaw, “‘Eaters of Flesh, Drinkers of Milk’: the Ancient Mediterranean Ideology of the Pastoral Nomad,” in Ancient Society 13-14 (1982-83), 5-31, both reprinted in Brent D. Shaw, Rulers, Nomads, and Christians in Roman 75 The dyadic early modern image contrasting textile-clad Europeans with Indians in hides, feathers, or nude, is prefigured by Savagist imagery from the ancient world. The defeat of savages by civilization is metonymized in Mesopotamian and Egyptian imperial art where the king, heroically oversized and armed to the teeth, personally executes nude barbarian leaders while his troops pile up barbarian corpses and tally the dead with severed body parts. The Pylos fresco of the late Bronze Age, in which armed, armoured, and textile-clad Mycenaean warriors kill and rout poorly-armed, sheepskin-clad bandits or hill tribesmen implies that the dyad had gone west to mainland Greece by at least the 12th century B.C. By the 5th century B.C., Classical Greeks were using Savagist and anthropology-of-deficiency arguments to identify distant peoples and exotic geographical spaces with human or other- than-human monstrousness. Within Greece, Thessaly was envisioned as a land of witches and centaurs, while impoverished, rustic Arcadia was supposedly the last region to abandon human sacrifice and adopt agriculture. The peoples north of Greece, known as Thracians, were considered uniquely fierce and stupid, practitioners of both human sacrifice and cannibalism. That Thracians were overrepresented in the Greek slave trade was not North Africa (Variorum, 1995); H.W.F. Saggs, Babylonians (London: British Museum Press, 1995), 60, 75-76, 80-89, 91-94; Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity, 60-74, 82-109, 248-51, 406-10; On the “colour-blind” tendencies of Greek and Roman ethnography, which saw savagery in both Europe and Africa while praising Egyptians and Ethiopians as wise and sophisticated (negatively, as wealthy and decadent), see Frank M. Snowden, Jr., Blacks in Antiquity: Ethiopians in the Graeco-Roman Experience (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 1970), 169-195, and Frank M. Snowden, Jr., Before Color Prejudice: the Ancient View of Blacks (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1983), 49-59, 85-87, 99-108. On Enlightenment and post- Enlightenment social theories ranking “savagery” lower than “barbarism,” see Calloway, White People, Indians, and Highlanders, 77-81; Thomas, Skull Wars, 44-51; Wolfe, Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology, 43-68. Outside the scope of this thesis is the Savagist tradition in Asia. The earliest Confucian texts, the Four Books and Five Classics (ca. 300 BC), refer to barbarian peoples bordering China, some of whom eat raw food, do not eat grain, wear the skins of birds and animals, and live in caves or holes in the ground—see Mu-chou Poo, Enemies of Civilization: Attitudes toward Foreigners in Ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt, and China (Albany, NY: State University of New York press, 2005); Frank Dikötter, The Discourse of Race in Modern China (London: Hurst & Company, 1992), 1-29. On the deployment of these images in medieval and Meiji Japan to justify conquest of Hokkaido and the Ainu, and, in the latter period, Japanese academics’ localization of American racial pseudoscience vis-à-vis Native Americans to make anti-Ainu prejudice consistent with 19th-century thought, see Richard Siddle, Race, Resistance and the Ainu of Japan (London: Routledge, 1996), 26-29, 42-50. 76 coincidence, and Aristotle may have been thinking of Thracians when formulating his “natural slave” argument: that a certain rare type of human being, more often found among foreigners than Greeks, could be so animal-like that enslaving them was beneficial for both parties. If men “intended by nature for slavery” were unwilling to submit, “such a war is by nature just.”70 Exotic geographical spaces and their peoples were also identified with primordialism and liminal beings. Homer’s Cyclopes, giant shepherds who ate travellers, were located by 5th-century Athenian playwright Euripides on Sicily, where Greek colonies coexisted with native Sicels imagined as shepherd-brigands. The mythic Amazons, warrior-women who in legend had invaded Athens, were depicted in 5th-century art as Persians following Xerxes’ burning of Athens, while the lecherous, drunken satyrs sported Thracian shields and staves. In the Hellenistic period, the Greek king Attalus I commemorated a victory over a Celtic 70 On violent royal art in the ancient Near East see Poo, Enemies of Civilization; Bruce Lincoln, Religion, Empire, and Torture: The case of Achaemenian Persia, with a postscript on Abu Ghraib (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), 17-33, 67-96; Zainab Bahrani, Women of Babylon: Gender and Representation in Mesopotamia (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), 40-68; John F.X. McKeon, “An Akkadian Victory Stele,” in Boston Museum Bulletin Vol. 68, No. 354 (1970), pp. 226-243. On the Pylos fresco, see Jean Guilaine and Jean Zammit, Melanie Hersey trans., The Origins of War: Violence in Prehistory (Blackwell Publishing: 2005 [2001]), 212, and Carl W. Blegen, “The Palace of Nestor Excavations at Pylos, 1952,” in American Journal of Archaeology vol. 57, no. 2 (April 1953), 59-64; Aristotle, Politics Book I, 1256b, Ellis trans. On the ubiquity of enslaved Thracians in ancient Greek society and the corollary ubiquity of dehumanizing stereotypes of Thracians see Edith Hall, Inventing the Barbarian: Greek self-definition through Tragedy (Oxford: the Clarendon Press, 1989), 50-69, 103-67 (134: 5th-century BC depictions of Cyclopes as shepherds, Amazons as Scythians, satyrs as Thracians), 191-92, 202 n. 6, 211-13 and Clare Kelly Blazeby, “Woman + Wine = Prostitute in Classical Athens?” in Allison Glazebrook and Madeleine M. Henry, Greek Prostitutes in the Ancient Mediterranean, 800 BC –200 CE (Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011), 86-105. On Near Eastern influences on Bronze Age and Classical Greece see Walter Burkert, Margaret E. Pinder and Walter Burkert trans., The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992); Arthur Cotterell, Origins of European Civilization (London: the Rainbird Publishing Group, 1985), 10-116; Mary R. Lefkowitz and Guy MacLean Rogers, eds., Black Athena Revisited (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1996); Dennis D. Hughes, Human Sacrifice in Ancient Greece (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), particularly 71-138; John Boardman, The Archaeology of Nostalgia: How the Greeks re-created their mythical past (London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 2002); Erich S. Gruen, Rethinking the Other in Antiquity (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2011); on the Arcadian myth, see François Hartog, Janet Lloyd trans., Memories of Odysseus: Frontier Tales from Ancient Greece (University of Chicago Press, 2001), 133-50, 174-75; 77 kingdom in Asia Minor by commissioning a depiction of the Gigantomachy, a mythic battle of the Olympians against giants embodying primordial chaos. Through the presence of Greek colonies in southern Italy, Savagist ideology entered Roman thought. Roman descriptions of pastoralists repeated the nomad “ideology” by rote: on Corsica and Sardinia, in the North African deserts, and in mountain ranges from the Atlas to Anatolia to the Balkans, Roman writers saw nascently-criminal drifters always on the verge of banditry. The true savages of the Roman imagination were to their north: Celts, Germans, and Scythians, warrior tribes who sacrificed their enemies to the gods, or worse. Pliny the Elder’s Historia Naturalis (ca. A.D. 79) stated that many tribes of the Scythians beyond the Danube “feed ordinarily on mans flesh”, all the more believable since, according to Homer’s Odyssey, cannibal giants had once existed in Italy itself; on the other side of the Alps, Celtic and Germanic tribes “kill men for sacrifice after the maner of those Scythian people,” which Pliny thought little different than “chewing and eating their flesh.” Julius Caesar’s exaggerated, Savagist portrait of trans-Alpine Europe distinguished the Celts of southern and central Gaul, town-dwelling agriculturalists who traded with Rome and drank wine, from the Belgae of the northwest, who shunned Roman trade and herded cattle for meat and milk, against the feral Germans east of the Rhine, whose young men proved themselves by hunting aurochs, moose, and unicorns. Pomponius Mela wrote (AD 43) that the Germans ate raw meat, and the mind’s eye of Seneca the Younger, in De Providentia (ca. 1st century AD), saw Germans living in wagons like Scythians, roaming frigid woods and marshes, hunting wild beasts beneath overcast skies: “Are they unhappy, do you think? There is no unhappiness for those whom habit has brought back to nature…” It could get worse than this: according to Strabo, the 78 Celts of Ireland lived as a primordial horde who habitually practiced cannibalism and incest (see Chapter 2).71 Returning to Pliny the Elder: north of the Dnieper, far beyond the Roman empire’s frontiers, he placed the Anthropophagi, his habitual Scythian man-eaters who “use to drinke out of the sculs of mens heads, and to weare the scalpes, haire and all, in steed of mandellions or stomachers before their breasts, according as Isogonus the Nicean witnesseth.” Greek descriptions of Scythians ranged from ethnographies consistent with archaeological findings in Ukraine, southern Russia, and Central Asia, to wild stories in which scalping was merely a footnote to familiar Savagist tropes of barbarism and heterotopia. Beneath the legends, it must be emphasized that the Scythians were an actual historic people, identified by modern archaeologists and ethnohistorians as speakers of an Indo-Iranian language and as early exemplars of the distinct Central Asian cultural and economic pattern of pastoralism, equestrianism, and mounted archery. Elements of Herodotus’ ethnography in Book IV of his Histories have been confirmed by two centuries of archaeology: the Scythians, or at least the ruling class he dubs the “Royal Scythians,” did sport elaborate tattoos, interred their kings and queens in lavish burial mounds with sacrifices of horses and servants, and traded extensively with the Greek port towns of the Black Sea. Osteological discoveries from the Scythian periods of Ukrainian and southern Russian 71 Plato, Laws Book 3, 677a - 684a, R.G. Bury trans.; Euripides, E.P. Coleridge trans., The Cyclops, in Whitney J. Oates and Eugene O’Neill, Jr., eds., The Complete Greek Drama, volume 1 (New York: Random House, 1938), 393-420; Seneca, de Providentia 4.14, cited in Isaac, Invention of Racism, 427-39. On the inaccuracy of Julius Caesar’s ethnography of Europe, including the existence of unicorns in the Black Forest (Commentaries on the Gallic War, VI.25-28), see Barry Cunliffe, Greeks, Romans, and Barbarians: Spheres of Interaction (London: B.T. Batsford Ltd., 1988), 80-117, 174-192. On Pomponius Mela, see J. Otto Maenchen-Helfen, ed. Max Knight, The World of the Huns: Studies in their History and Culture (Berkeley, LA, and London: University of California Press, 1973), 2-19, 64-65. Pliny the Elder, Philemon Holland trans., The Historie of the World, Commonly called, The Naturall Historie of C. Plinius Secundus (London, 1601), VII.2. 79 archaeology also prove some of Herodotus’ darker tones: cut marks along the hairlines of skulls from southern Russia are consistent with accounts of Scythians scalping their enemies, while the remains of a Scythian town at the archaeological site of Belsk includes a workshop for converting skulls into lacquered drinking cups or bowls, which Herodotus proclaimed a Scythian warrior’s ultimate trophy of victory over his enemy.72 Per his mission statement to record “great and marvellous deeds” of both Greeks and barbarians, Herodotus’ Scythian ethnography was ambivalent. Though cataloguing various Scythian customs the Greeks considered outré—i.e., decapitating, flaying, and scalping enemies; fashioning cloaks and napkins, bowcases, and drinking cups as trophies from enemies’ scalps, skin, and skulls; drinking wine unmixed with water; drinking the blood of their enemies; and offering human sacrifices to Ares—he considered them and a related Central Asian people, the Massagetae, ultimately praiseworthy as, in his estimation, the only peoples besides the Greeks to successfully resist the Persian empire. Hartog notes that Herodotus defies the prevailing derogatory reading of pastoralism in Classical ethnography by elevating it from economic mode to military strategy: by packing their families and wealth onto wagons and driving great herds of livestock for dairy and meat, the Scythians can avoid Persian conquest by retreating into the steppes, harassing and starving out a larger, less mobile foe. While later generations of Classical ethnographers echoed Herodotus’ theme of unconquered Scythians, they were more interested in tropes and icons of Scythians’ monstrousness, some of which Herodotus repeated while professing to disbelieve: stories of Scythian tribes who were cyclopean, had cloven hoofs for feet, fought gryphons for gold, 72 Pliny, Holland trans., VII.2; On the historicity of Herodotus, see Robert B. Strassler, ed., The Landmark Herodotus: the Histories (New York: Pantheon Books, 2007), 752-55 (on Belsk). A digest of sources on skull- cups in Europe, primary (contemporary) and secondary (modern archaeology), is provided by M.L. West in Indo-European Poetry and Myth (Oxford University Press, 2007), 493. 80 were werewolves, or dined habitually on human flesh. Herodotus endorsed the existence of one tribe of man-eating Scythians, consistent with the Savagist criminalization of nomads: the Androphagi, “herdsmen without fixed dwellings, […] the most savage of men” with “no notion of either law or justice” and “the only people in this part of the world to eat human flesh” (IV.106-07). Scythians functioned for ancient Greeks and Romans as indigenous Americans did for early modern Europeans, as a focus on which to project their fantasies and thought experiments on primitivism and exoticism, and many of the same narratives about indigenous Americans are prefigured in the material on Scythians. Like the Greek myth of the Lapiths, a tribe of hardy Thessalian mountaineers, waging war upon and wiping out the Thessalian centaurs, the dyadic image of noble savages at war with savages appears in the Scythian corpus: Diodorus Siculus (ca. 1st century BC) reported that Euphorus of Cyeme (ca. 4th century BC), expanding on an allusion in Homer’s Iliad to two northern peoples, “Hippemólgoi, mare’s-milk drinkers” and “Ábioi” or “distant ones” (Iliad XIII.1-6), had decided the former must be benevolent, autarkic philosophers who ate dairy instead of killing animals for meat, and waged perpetual war against the man-eating Scythians. The uses of indigenous Americans, like Montaigne’s Brazilians or Baron de Lahontan’s Huron character Adario, as outsiders through which their authors ventriloquized European society’s flaws and contradictions, were foreshadowed by Scythian characters who examined the Mediterranean world and found it wanting: the legendary Scythian philosopher Anacharsis, and the characters of Lucian of Samosata’s Scythian romances Toxaris and The Scythian. Scythians, who in stereotype were pale-skinned, green-eyed, and red-haired, personified in the Greek imagination the extreme north just as “Ethiopians,” sub-Saharan Africans, personified the 81 extreme south; in the Hellenistic period this topos of bookending human geography with North Africa on one end and eastern Europe on the other had spread across the Mediterranean world, as expressed in a pairing of “barbarian” (read: Berber, i.e., North Africa) and “Scythian” by Paul to express the universal relevance of Christianity in Colossians 3:11.73 But as evidenced by Pliny’s repetition of old stories of man-eating Scythians scalping and trepanning their victims, the Scythians functioned in the Classical mind as embodiments of human wildness, as either ferocity or dysfunction. Such references were widespread in Classical Athens, where Scythia was omnipresent: Athens purchased vast amounts of Black Sea grain and fish from Scythia, as well as slaves. Some of these slaves served as an Athenian police force who wore distinct uniforms—perhaps, Balbina Bäbler points out, because the hardy Scythians were seen as incorruptible noble savages, which may explain the negative mirror image of Athenian comic playwrights, particularly Aristophanes, of Scythian police as gibberish-speaking, timid fools. Invoking scalping could be used to add exotic danger to updated versions of traditional myths, as in fragments of Sophocles’ lost play 73 On the myths of Golden Age conditions being applied to extant peoples by ancient ethnographers, see Paul T. Keyser, “Greek Geography of the Western Barbarians,” 37-70, in Larissa Bonfante, The Barbarians of Ancient Europe: Realities and Interactions (Cambridge University Press, 2011), and entry “Skúthes” [Scythians] in Gerhard Kittel, Gerhard Friedrich eds., Geoffrey W. Bromiley trans., Theological Dictionary of the New Testament vol. 7, (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1995 [1971]), 447-450. Ancient Greek medical theory believed mare’s-milk cheese, a rarity in the Hellenic world, had superb health benefits—see D. Braund, “Greeks, Scythians and Hippake, or ‘Reading Mare’s-Cheese’”, in Gocha R. Tsetskhladze ed., Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 521-530; Lucian, A.M. Harmon trans., “Toxaris, or Friendship” in Volume 5 of 8 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1955), 101-208; Lucian, K. Kilburn trans., “The Scythian, or the Consul,” in Volume 6 of 8 (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1959), 239-258; Richard I. Pervo, “With Lucian: Who Needs Friends? Friendship in the Toxaris,” in John T. Fitzgerald ed., Greco-Roman Perspectives on Friendship (Society of Biblical Literature Resources for Bible Study Number 34. Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press, 1997), 163-180; David Goldenberg, “Scythian-Barbarian: The Permutations of a Classical Topos in Jewish and Christian Texts of Late Antiquity,” in Journal of Jewish Studies 49 (1998), 87-102. Colossians 3:11, King James Bible: “Where there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all.” 82 Oenomaus, which mentions a head “shaved [or scalped] to make a napkin in the Scythian manner” and describes the titular legendary tyrant roofing his palace with human skulls “to dramatize his savagery.” A fragment of a painted cup, dated to the 490s BC, which Dyfri Williams interprets as an “unusually vivid Centauromachy,” the battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs, shows a fully-armoured Greek fighter whose helmet has been accessorized with a scalp—clearly not his, since tufts of his own hair peek out from around the edges of his helmet. But many invocations of Scythians, particularly the negative stereotypes of their wandering, drunkenness, and scalping, were comedic, contemptuous, or both. In Classical Athenian slang, “nomad,” a term considered synonymous with “Scythian,” referred to an itinerant craftsman or street prostitute. The verb skuthizo, and compound verbs aposkuthizo and periskuthizo, appear to have literally meant “to scalp” but could be used as figures of speech for shaving the head, for haircuts uncomfortably close to the scalp, or for drunkenness and hangovers; like Gauls and Germans, Scythians were believed to be intemperate drunks.74 Prefiguring Montaigne by millennia, Savagist discussions in antiquity raised the idea that civilized people could behave more cruelly than true savages. Denouncing political opponents he accused of arranging for Roman citizens to be robbed, imprisoned, and executed (Against Verres, 2.5.150), Cicero posited that if he were to tell this sad story to Scythians rather than jaded Romans, “I should move the pity of even those barbarous men.” The negative articulation of civilized cruelty as more barbarous than barbarians’ is central to the portrayal of Seleucid emperor Antiochus IV Epiphanes, and his persecutions of Jews 74 Balbina Bäbler, “Bobbies or Boobies? The Scythian police force in Classical Athens,” in David Braund, ed., Scythians and Greeks: Cultural Interactions in Scythia, Athens and the Early Roman Empire (sixth century BC – first century AD) (Exeter, UK: University of Exeter Press, 2005), 114-122; Dyfri Williams, “Onesimos and the Getty Iliupersis,” 47, in Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum, vol. 5 (Malibu: the J. Paul Getty Museum, 1991), pp. 41-64; “nomad” as “streetwalker” in Shaw, “ ‘Eaters of Flesh, Drinkers of Milk’,” 24; Hartog, The Mirror of Herodotus, 112-172; 83 during his reign in the 2nd century BC, in the stories of martyrdom and torture of the deuterocanonical Books of the Maccabees. In 2 Maccabees 4:47, Antiochus’ death sentences for political opponents are characterized as so unjust that “if they had told their cause, yea, before the Scythians, [they] should have been judged innocent” (King James translation). 3 Maccabees 7:5, as prelude to horrors to come, speaks of Antiochus’ forces rounding up and executing Jews without trial, “girding themselves with a cruelty more savage than that of Scythian custom” (Revised Standard Version).75 In its interconnections between the destruction of families, torture by fire, and scalping while living as a form of tormented death, the gruesome martyrdom story of 2 Maccabees 7:1-42 strangely and eerily prefigures the American frontier’s horror stories of the mid-18th century. Antiochus orders an exemplary Jewish woman and her seven sons brought before him, commands them to violate the Mosaic laws by tasting pork, and orders them whipped and scourged when they refuse. When one of the seven sons announces their readiness to die rather than break the sacred laws, Antiochus, flying into a fury, proves himself more cruel than the Scythians: ordering that “pans and cauldrons” be made red-hot, Antiochus commands his servants to cut out the young man’s tongue, scalp him—the Greek Septuagint text reads περισκυθίσαντας, “periskythísantas”—and cut off his hands and feet, then fry him in a giant skillet (2 Maccabees 7:1-5). A second brother is brought forward, scalped, and asked whether he will eat pork rather than meet a similar fate; he refuses, and is similarly “tormented and mangled” (2 Macc. 7:7-8, King James). One by one the five 75 Aubrey de Sélincourt trans., John Marincola ed., Herodotus: The Histories (Penguin: 2003 [1954]), 90-94; Hartog, Mirror of Herodotus, 156-70; entry “Skúthes” [Scythians] in Gerhard Kittel, Gerhard Friedrich eds., Geoffrey W. Bromiley trans., Theological Dictionary of the New Testament vol. 7, (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1995 [1971]), 447-450; Jan Willem van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco-Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity (London: Routledge, 2002), 66-70. 84 remaining brothers and their mother are killed horribly, while promising Antiochus of their imminent bodily resurrection in Heaven and the impending wrath of God. The King James translation of the early 17th century translated the first martyr’s scalping and dismemberment as “cut off the utmost parts of his body” (2 Macc. 7:4) but when describing the scalping of the second wrote “pulled off the skin of his head with the hair” (2 Macc. 7:7). With a post facto finality similar to those of the captivity narratives, the Biblical author concludes, “Let this be enough now to have spoken concerning the idolatrous feasts, and the extreme tortures” (2 Macc. 7:42).76 Early modern allusions and lateral comparisons between Scythians and indigenous Americans almost always sidestepped scalping itself in favour of ancient topoi of Scythian wildness: nomadism, cruelty, mobile warfare, and cannibalism. In Lafitau’s ethnographic study of the Iroquois, Moeurs des sauvages amériquains (1724), scalping was compared to Scythian headhunting, rather than scalping. Cotton Mather, in Magnalia Christi Americana (1702), invokes the Scythians to castigate American Indians’ general ferocity, calling them “those worse than Scythian Wolves” and lamenting “our Shepherds […] worried unto death by the Scythian Wolves of our Wilderness”. Building on José de Acosta’s 1590 suggestion that some ancient people had migrated to the Americas by an unknown overland route from Asia, Georgius Hornius proposed in 1652 that Scythians, as well as Chinese and Phoenicians, were the Indians’ ancestors, on the grounds that Herodotus’ description of the Scythians scalping their slain enemies “depicts for us precisely the Florida or Huron Scyth, cutting into the head of his dead enemy so that he can take the skin away with the hair.” The 76 entry “Skúthes” [Scythians] in Theological Dictionary of the New Testament vol. 7, 447-50; van Henten and Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death, 66-70; 85 Jesuit Relation of 1642 describes the Iroquois as “these Barbarians” who “carry on war in the fashion of the Scythians and Parthians,” referring not to scalping but to hit-and-run raids with bows and arrows. The fragmented, polyvalent corpus of Scythian knowledge in Classical and medieval geography meant that a one-on-one reading of one people’s relevance to the other was not systematically performed in the contact period; however, accounts of the Scythians prefigure images of American Savagism in intriguing ways.77 Sepúlveda’s false dilemma: Savagism and illegitimate combatants from Columbus to Valladolid In March 1493 the Genoese navigator and revisionist geographer Christopher Columbus arrived in triumph in Barcelona, presenting Ferdinand and Isabella forty tropical birds, strange gold jewellery, and six survivors of two dozen captives from, he thought, the Indian ocean. In his journals and his letters Columbus claimed to have understood the Indians’ signs and gestures from the very beginning, allowing his distinction between the Taínos (their word for “good”) and the Caribs. The former had welcomed his sailors with fresh provisions and were described in familiar Golden Age terms: gentle and friendly to the point of naïveté, quick to learn, and culturally blank, having no religion or technology. Columbus wrote in his diary on 14 October that some of the Indians, through the gestures that he somehow understood perfectly, “were asking us if we had come from the sky.” 77 Dickason, The Myth of the Savage, 32-35; David Allen Harvey, “Living Antiquity: Lafitau’s Moeurs des sauvages amériquains and the Religious Roots of the Enlightenment Science of Man,” in Proceedings of the Western Society for French History vol. 36 (Michigan Publishing: University of Michigan Library, 2008), 75- 92; Cotton Mather, Magnalia Christi Americana (London, 1702), Book 2 (64: “those worse than Scythian Wolves”), Book 7 (110: “those Scythian Wolves of our Wilderness”); Reuben Gold Thwaites ed., trans., The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents Volume XXII: Québec, Hurons, 1642 (Cleveland: the Burrows Brothers, 1898); Hornius cited in Grafton, New Worlds, Ancient Texts, 235; José de Acosta, Jane E. Mangan ed., Frances M. López-Morillas trans., Walter Mignolo commentary, Natural and Moral History of the Indies (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002), Book I, chapter 20-24 (pp. 61-72), Book VII, chapter 3 (pp. 385-86). 86 Columbus noted also a multitude of hamlets and villages, the seedbed of civilization in European thought, while Columbus’ second son Ferdinand described Indians shuttling between hunting and fishing spots “at fixed seasons, moving from one ground to another.” A traveller on the 1492 voyage, Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, compared them to ancient nomads: “We consider them to be like Scythians, wanderers without fixed habitations living off the fruits of the land.” As these cultureless Taíno Indians were not only gentle but also “lazy to the greatest degree” (“perezosos en grandísima manera”), converting them to Christianity and putting them to work tilling colonists’ fields, tending crops, and mining gold was in everyone’s best interest.78 As Nicolás Wey-Gómez critically observes, a key element in transmitting Old World mythology onto New World peoples was identifying physically-human beings as culturally- monstrous, thus enabling comparison to the Plinian monsters who prowled the tropics in the European imagination. As John Friedman observed in 1981, once European myths of primordialism and monstrousness were attached to real peoples in colonized Atlantic space through such composite colonial categories as The Indian, The Savage, and The Cannibal, European belief in the existence of half-human wild men went into decline. Columbus’ journals stated that he took the Taínos’ first sign-descriptions of the Canima, Caniba, or Caribe for creatures from medieval geography and sailors’ legends: man-eating Cyclopes or 78 Andrés Reséndez, The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslavement in America (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2016), 13-45; Francesca Lardici, ed., A Synoptic Edition of the Log of Columbus’ First Voyage (Brepols, 1999), 50 (“come from the sky”), throughout; J.M. Cohen ed., trans., The Four Voyages of Christopher Columbus (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1969), 80 (“one ground to another”), 134-35 (Taíno as “good”), throughout; Cioacchino Triolo, Luciano F. Farino trans., Christopher Columbus’ Discoveries in the testimonials of Diego Alvarez Chanca and Andrés Bernáldez (Rome, 1992); Yáñez Pinzón (“like Scythians”) cited in Peter Martyr’s First Decade, cited in Dickason, The Myth of the Savage, 32-35; Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions, 52-118; Nicolas Wéy-Gómez, Tropics of Empire: Why Columbus Sailed South to the Indies (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2008), 211-26 (“lazy to the greatest degree”) and throughout. 87 India’s dog-headed Cynocephali. Dismissing these as a mark of the Indians’ superstition, Columbus and Doctor Chança later wrote with horror of encountering the villages of the man-eaters. Though no direct anthropophagy was witnessed, they reported finding human bones hung like ancestral relics—which, Neil Whitehead noted, were often mistaken subsequently as evidence of cannibal feasts; some animal’s neckbone boiling in a pot; and captives from other islands, including three Taíno boys captured and castrated “as we do to capons or pigs which we want to fatten and make tender.” The detail of boys castrated to improve their taste is redolent of both nightmares of gustatory cannibalism and contemporary European sailors’ fears of emasculation in Muslim captivity; it is echoed nowhere else in even the most lurid accounts of man-eating in the Americas. Yet Columbus and Chança were certain that these physically-human yet culturally-monstrous beings were the Caribes or Caníbales they had been warned of; in their decision that other peoples who resisted by fleeing into the woods or fighting them with bows and arrows must also be Caribs or Cannibals, they linked Indian resistance with stigmatized violence. But conquering the Caribs should be easy, Columbus wrote in his March 1493 letter of relation to the Sovereigns: the Caribs were not necessary “bold” or “courageous” but only seemed that way because the Taínos were cowards. Tellingly, upon his return in spring 1493 his suggested returns on investment included “as many slaves as Their Majesties order to make,” as well as gold, spices, and cotton.79 79 Friedman, The Monstrous Races; Frank Lestringant, Rosemary Morris trans., Cannibals: The Discovery and Representation of the Cannibal from Columbus to Jules Verne (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997 [1994]), 15-49 (“like capons”); Whitehead, Empyre of Guiana, 103. On European anxieties regarding captivity, castration, and male rape in the Islamic Mediterranean, see Lisa B. Voigt, Writing Captivity in the Early Modern Atlantic: Circulations of Knowledge and Authority in the Iberian and English Imperial Worlds (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2008), 40-50, and Sophie Rose Arjana, Muslims in the Western Imagination (Oxford University Press, 2015), 1-83; Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 13-45; Greenblatt, 88 From the wreck of the Santa María Columbus had fashioned La Navidad, a small fort on Hispañola, and left a garrison there when he sailed back to Spain in the spring of 1493. Upon his return in November 1493 he found several sailors killed and La Navidad in ruins; evidently, the Taínos were not as helpless or docile as he had assumed. This Second Voyage was marked by Columbus’ first trans-Atlantic shipments of enslaved Indians he labelled as cannibals, “a people very savage and suitable for the purpose” of chattel slavery to pay the colony’s expenses. By the time of the Third Voyage (1498-1500), as the Indians rebelled against a Spanish colonial regime that worked them to death for gold, Columbus griped how misunderstood he was in a letter to the crown prince’s governess Doña Juana: he was no governor of a settled land, like Sicily, but a captain sent to conquer a “warlike and numerous” people “with customs and beliefs very different from ours [.]” Mention of the Indians’ villages and hamlets were absent as Columbus likened them to bandits, rebels, or wandering primitives: “a people, living in highlands and mountains, having no settled dwellings, and apart from us [.]” When the colonists also revolted against Columbus and his brothers, the Crown stripped them of their authority and put them on trial in 1500 on charges stemming from abuse of power and ignoring Isabella’s “neat legal distinction” between trading in foreign slaves and enslaving the Crown’s subjects. But the designations of suspected cannibals as fit subjects for conquest, and vice versa, was continued by his successors, who met labour shortages by declaring occupants of uncolonized islands as Caribs. Crown jurists concurred, issuing rulings from 1503 to 1506 legitimizing the “ransom” by Spanish colonists of Indians enslaved and owned by other Indians, the enslavement of Indians captured in just wars, and the enslavement of cannibals for their crimes against God and nature. Combined Marvelous Possessions, 52-118; Wéy-Gómez, Tropics of Empire, 221-26, 425-26 (the carta-relación of 4 March 1493). 89 with the as-yet burgeoning southern European trade in Muslim and African slaves, this marked the birth of the American caste system, as denounced by Capuchin and abolitionist Epifanio de Moirans in 1782: “[Europeans] seize the lands of the natives of the Indies once they have killed them or enslaved them, and they also expel the Blacks from their own lands and reduce them to the perpetual slavery of someone shipped to America or transported to Europe.”80 Binary opposition and savagism are not solely the preserve of Europeans, and early modern and 20th century accounts indicate a mutual or overlapping legibility in Iberians’ and indigenous peoples’ Savagisms. In 16th-century Brazil, Tupí-speaking coastal peoples told Portuguese explorers of the barbarous Tapuya or Tapuia of the interior, who lacked manioc agriculture and hammocks and slept on the ground. An etymology of Tapuia as simply “westerner” or “enemy” suggests that the category is “little more than a negative image of the Tupi,” but gave rise to a persistent, dyadic Brazilian historiographical myth contrasting the coastal Tupí and interior Tapuia as “good” and “bad” Indians; the former were valorous, only ate enemies for revenge, and had vanished after helping the early settlers, while the Tapuya, identified as Brazil’s Amazonian Indian enemy of the moment, were brutal primitives who ate human flesh for food. Such distinctions were also found in 20th-century fieldwork among the Mehinaku, one of ten allied villages in the Xingu headwaters region of Mato Grosso state, where Thomas Gregor describes a shared Xinguano culture which bridges 80 Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 13-45 (24: “very savage and suitable”), 40-42, 148 (Moirans); on Moirans as early abolitionist, see Liliana Obregón, entry “Colonial Critics of Slavery,” 158-161, in Kwame Anthony Appiah and Henry Louis Gates Jr., eds., Africana: The Encyclopedia of the African & African American Experience, second edition, volume 1 (Oxford University Press, 2004). Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions, 52- 118, 66 (“warlike and numerous… apart from us”); Irving Rouse, The Tainos: Rise & Decline of the People Who Greeted Columbus (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1992), 144-161; “COLUMBUS, CHRISTOPHER: Columbus in Spain,” in Silvio E. Bedini, ed., The Christopher Columbus Encyclopedia, volume 1 (Simon and Schuster, 1992), 187-98 (197: “neat legal distinction”); Wéy-Gómez, Tropics of Empire. 90 a divide of four separate language families through intermarriage, trade, manioc and corn agriculture, and a shared self-definition as possessors of empathy and compassion, imagined as absent among Brazilians and the non-Xinguano indigenous peoples who periodically raided Xinguano villages. Gregor’s informants distinguished between themselves as peaceful people who wear annatto, channel intravillage tensions into wrestling matches, and avoid foods which incite anger and aggression, while non-Xinguanos lack self-control: “He kills his own kin. War for him is a festival.” Mehinaku informants elaborated on how these peoples used rancid lard in place of annatto, ate vermin, slept on the ground, and defecated in their drinking water.81 When Iberians interacted with state societies with imperial ideologies, cross-cultural similarities were even greater. Sixteenth-century Spanish authorities readily accepted the Nahuatl ethnonym Chichimeca for the seminomadic peoples of the northern deserts, who the town-dwelling farmers of Central Mexico described as their primitive antitheses: eating raw or vile foods, wearing pelts or nude in lieu of textiles, and warring constantly. In 1970s Columbia Michael Taussig noted how the Spanish infieles (pagans) and the Quechuan word auca, for non-Quechuan-speakers who defied the Incas’ sacred order, could be 81 On Tapuya / Tapuia, see Peter Mason, Infelicities: Representations of the Exotic (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press, 1998), 42-63, and John M. Monteiro, “The Heathen Castes of Sixteenth- Century Portuguese America: Unity, Diversity, and the Invention of the Brazilian Indians,” in The Hispanic American Historical Review, Vol. 80, No. 4 (November 2000), 697-719. Gregor notes a limit to Xinguano pacifism: in the 1960s the Txicão, a Carib-speaking people, initiated contact by raiding Xinguano villages; Xinguanos from several villages responded by joining forces with a Brazilian to launch devastating counterattacks. Killings by Xinguano warriors and deaths by epidemic disease led the Txicão to sue for peace and settle among the Xinguanos. “In explaining this departure from the normal pattern of peacefulness, my informants emphasized that the Txicao had attacked first and that they would attack again unless destroyed. Moreover, the moral gulf between the wild Indians and the Xinguano made it permissible.” Thomas Gregor, “Uneasy peace: intertribal relations in Brazil’s Upper Xingu,” in Jonathan Haas, ed., The Anthropology of War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 105-124; Gregor notes that the stereotypes against non- Xinguanos were softening in the 1990s in Thomas Gregor and Clayton A. Robarchek, “Two Paths to Peace: Semai and Mehinaku Nonviolence,” in Thomas Gregor ed., A Natural History of Peace (Nashville and London: Vanderbilt University Press, 1996), 159-188. 91 synonymously used by Colombians to invoke a collage of Quechuan and European stereotypes about the wild Putumayo lowlanders: that such people could see in the dark or transform into jaguars, practiced sorcery and cannibalism, did not eat salt, and were still unaware of Christ or the Spanish language. Yet, notes Taussig, shamans in Colombia’s lowlands consider the Afro-Colombians of the Pacific as the true sorcerers. “As my good friend Orfir says, heaving with laughter, wherever you go, the great brujos are elsewhere.”82 The Americas of the European imagination at their most ambivalent mixed themes of a land resembling an earthly paradise with weird peoples from a bygone age; as in Amerigo Vespucci’s 1503 description of long-lived Brazilians who went to war for human meat, these themes were easily repackaged within the ancient Savagist myth of the man-eating horde . In the half-century of conquests that followed the Columbian encounter, European fantasies regarding the New World were further embroidered in their idealized and demonized extremes; by the time of the Valladolid debate (1550-51), a written exchange between two experts on matters of Americana, theology, and the law, these fantasies had been elevated to the status of institutionalized knowledge. The Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas, who had lived in the Americas since arriving in the Caribbean in 1502 and had served as bishop of Chiapas in 1545-46, could cite his own experience to authenticate claims which, to many Europeans and most of his fellow colonists, seemed unbelievable: that the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean, Mexico, and Peru served as living exemplars of such Christian virtues as communitarianism, gentleness, generosity, asceticism and selflessness. The existence of indigenous civilizations in Mexico and Peru, i.e., hierarchical, sedentary urban- agrarian societies with aristocracies, central government, codes of law and forms of writing, 82 Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism and the Wild Man, 44-45, 94-100, 230-36, 152-54, 171-187, 378-91. 92 clearly indicated that Indians possessed reason, which meant their inevitable conversion to Christianity and transformation into Spanish subjects could be performed by persuasion rather than conquest. His opponent, the theologian and legalist Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, had never been to the New World, but could draw on an already broad corpus of conquest, ethnographic, and travel literature to argue the opposite position: that Indians were Europeans’ moral and civilizational inferiors, and reducing them to serfdom was no crime.83 To dismantle the stigmata of the Indian warrior as encountered in the Caribbean, Mexico, and Brazil, Las Casas attempted to reread culturally-idiosyncratic violence in universalist terms of unconscious Christianity, while attacking the right of conquest by infantilizing Indians as unworthy foes. In his Brief Account of the Destruction of the Indies, Las Casas had described their warfare in the pre- and post-contact period as “no more deadly than our jousting, or than many European children’s games”; even the weapons of the Inca, who Las Casas and his peers considered the most advanced American civilization, were “a joke.” If comparison to European norms was meant to make Indian warfare nonthreatening 83 Friedman, The Monstrous Races; Viviana Díaz Balsera, “On Barbarism, Demons, and Natural Reason: Las Casas’ Rhetoric of Human Sacrifices in Pre-Hispanic Mexico,” in Santa Arias and Eyda M. Merediz ed., Approaches to Teaching the Writings of Bartolomé de las Casas (New York: The Modern Language Association of America, 2008), 159-166; Lawrence A. Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas: A Biography (Cambridge University Press, 2012), 43-46, 82-86, 234-38, 342-86; Anthony Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnography (Cambridge University Press, 1982), 119- 145; On the Indians as unworthy opponents and citations from Las Casas’ Brief History, see Hernán Cortés, Anthony Pagden ed., trans., Letters from Mexico (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001 [1986, 1971]), lxi-lxvi; Anthony Pagden, European Encounters with the New World (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1993), 69-89; Anthony Pagden, 93-95, in “Ius et Factum: Text and Experience in the Writings of Bartolomé de las Casas,” in Stephen Greenblatt ed., New World Encounters (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993), 85-100; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 72-100; John-Pau Rubiés review of Daniel Castro, Another Face of Empire: Bartolomé de las Casas, indigenous rights, and ecclesiastical imperialism (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2007), in Journal of Ecclesiastical History vol. 58, no. 4 (2007), 767-68; on the general consensus of contemporary theologians on the justifications of the conquests, see Etienne Grisel, “The Beginnings of International Law and General Public Law Doctrine: Francisco de Vitoria’s De Indiis prior,” 305-25, and Lewis Hanke, “The Theological Significance of the Discovery of America,” 363-74, in Fredi Chiapelli ed., First Images of America: The Impact of the New World on the Old, Vol. 1 of 2 (Berkeley, LA, London: University of California press, 1976). 93 and almost childish, Las Casas’ analysis of cannibalism and human sacrifice was intended to challenge Europeans’ sense of adequacy in their own religious practice. Alluding to Christian exegesis of the Binding of Isaac (Genesis 22) and Greek, Roman, and Biblical myths and accounts of human sacrifice and ritual cannibalism among the Greeks, Romans, Celts, Carthaginians, and other peoples, Las Casas proposed that human sacrifice was typical of a universal, albeit regrettable, stage in human history. Through natural reason, pagans, i.e. those as yet unaware of Christianity, intuitively grasped that human beings were made in the divine image, but had not yet been informed that the Crucifixion and the Eucharist had superseded and supplanted all forms of sacrifice and related ritual meals, especially human. Las Casas pointed to acts of devoted self-abasement found by missionaries in societies across the Iberian Americas as further evidence of the Indians’ religiosity. Acts like fasting, praying and singing, bathing in cold water, and self-flagellation seemed legible per contemporary Christian asceticism and penitence. Such knowledge offered trans-Atlantic benefits: Europeans could reform their Christian practice by taking example from such virtuous pagans, while the Indians’ energies could and should be redirected to true religion by missionaries and conversion.84 Las Casas’ critique of Christianity as practiced in Europe went further in his inversion of colonial victim and aggressor: the Spanish colonists, not the Indians, were the true barbarians, who had illegally invaded American lands and killed thousands by forced labour, 84 Díaz Balsera, “On Barbarism, Demons, and Natural Reason,” 159-166; Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas, 43- 46, 82-86, 234-38, 342-86; Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man, 119-145; On the Indians as unworthy opponents and citations from Las Casas’ Brief History, see Pagden, Letters from Mexico, lxi-lxvi; Pagden, European Encounters with the New World, 69-89; Pagden, “Ius et Factum” in Greenblatt ed., New World Encounters, 85- 100; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 72-100; Rubiés review of Daniel Castro, Another Face of Empire; Grisel, “The Beginnings of International Law” and Hanke, “The Theological Significance of the Discovery of America,” Chiapelli ed., First Images of America. 94 starvation, enslavement, and mass executions. Las Casas damned the conquistadores by comparison to “Mohammedans,” Europeans’ fantasy image of Muslims as a barbarous, schismatic horde: followers of a false prophet who had invented a bogus version of Christianity to gain wealth and power, “Mohammedans” in turn invoked their false religion to cynically justify conquest and self-aggrandizement. Las Casas further damned conquistadores with comparison to fierce beasts: wolves, tigers, lions, bulls, dogs, and dragons. In believing that Muslims were diabolical heretics and that Christians should crusade against them, Las Casas and Sepúlveda shared common ground; where they disagreed was on whether Reconquista arguments could be used to justify conquests in the Americas, as Sepúlveda argued. In Las Casas’ view, Muslims were clear aggressors, “heretics who seize our lands, persecute Christians and work for the destruction of our faith,” while in the Indies, the situation was reversed, and Iberian Catholics were the aggressors. Spreading Christianity by conquest, as Sepúlveda proposed, was to evangelize by the “Mohammedan method,” i.e., “with death and terror,” which made the conquistadores’ actions “worse than the assaults mounted by the Turk in his attempt to destroy Christendom.” To accuse other Europeans of being white savages, or worse than savages, had a certain rhetorical sting, but in reifying the validity of the savage as a category of analysis it proved problematic, as shall be noted later in this thesis.85 Las Casas’ and Sepúlveda also shared a belief that modern humans, in isolation and poverty, could degenerate to a pre-social, primordial state of being. Later in the 1550s, per 85 Pagden, Fall of Natural Man, 119-200; on Muslim stereotypes and Islamophobia in the late medieval and early modern world, see Arjana, Muslims in the Western Imagination, 1-83; Jerry Toner, Homer’s Turk: How Classics Shaped Ideas of the East (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 2013), 49-70; Tomaž Mastnak, “Europe and the Muslims: The Permanent Crusade?,” in Emran Qureshi and Michael A. Sells eds., The New Crusades: Constructing the Muslim Enemy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 205-248 (217-18: “Mohammedan method… destroy Christendom”). 95 Thomas Aquinas’ 12th century definition of the barbarian simpliciter, Las Casas wrote in Apologética Historia of rare but extant groups of humans who lived without law, justice, commerce, marriage, friendships, or society itself. Scattered in the woods and mountains, such wild men were “savage, ferocious, slow-witted, and alien to all reason” due to a barren environment or “impious or perverse understanding.” Like the natural slave of Aristotelian theory, they had to be forcibly brought to civilization for their own good, or at least to prevent them preying on others. Towards the end of his life, Las Casas proposed a mission to the Chichimecs, who he and other Spanish colonists imagined as New World incarnations of the barbarian simpliciter. Las Casas also noted missionizing them would also serve imperial purposes: in 1546 vast silverlodes had been discovered at Zacatecas in the Chichimecs’ country, and converting and settling the Chichimecs “would also facilitate reaching Florida which is very close.” So, while Las Casas certainly critiqued the excesses of Spanish imperialism, he was not a critic of imperialism per se.86 As Las Casas attempted to separate at least some Indians from dark fantasies of ogre- like wild men, Sepúlveda derided the idea that Indians were Europeans’ equals in anything: Indians were to the Spaniards, wrote Sepúlveda, as children are to adults, as females are to males, “almost as monkeys are to men.” Sepúlveda also deployed animal comparisons by scoffing that Indian handicrafts proved nothing, since even birds and spiders make nests and webs, and rhetorically asked what the existence of “some manner of community living” proved, “except that they are not bears or monkeys and that they are not completely devoid of reason?” In one of his most damning passages, Sepúlveda vilified the Indians by 86 Pagden, Fall of Natural Man, 119-200; Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas, 441-49 (“would also facilitate reaching Florida”); Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 13-75, 102-111; bulls, dragons, etc., see Peter Hulme, “Tales of distinction: European ethnography and the Caribbean,” in Schwartz ed., Implicit Understandings, 157-197. 96 combining the 16th century myth of the conquistadores with the ancient myths of the Golden Age and the cannibal Scythians: And do not think that before the arrival of the Christians they were living in quiet and the Saturnian peace of the poets. On the contrary they were making war continuously and ferociously against each other with such rage that they considered their victory worthless if they did not satisfy their monstrous hunger with the flesh of their enemies, an inhumanity which in them is so much more monstrous since they are so distant from the unconquered and wild Scythians, who also fed on human flesh, for these Indians are so cowardly and timid, that they scarcely withstand the appearance of our soldiers and many thousands of them have given ground, fleeing like women before a very few Spaniards who did not even number a hundred. 87 All the paradoxical imagery of the Indian as illegitimate combatant is present here: ferocious yet cowardly, monstrous yet easily defeated by a much smaller number of Europeans. Here also is a rhetorical device which will recur throughout this thesis, which I call the Sepúlvedan false dilemma: invoking and ridiculing the most idealized European fantasy of Indians to claim that the most depraved nightmare images must therefore be true. If so, victory by any means necessary is putatively justifiable. Richard Slotkin has referred to this as the logic of massacre, “the expectation that a people defined as savage will inevitably commit atrocities: acts of violence so extreme that they seem to violate the laws of nature.”88 Skull-cups, cannibal feasts, and the logic of massacre 87 Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Demócrates Segundo o de las Justas causas de la Guerra contra los indios, edited by Ángel Losada (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Instituto Francisco de Vitoria, 1951), p. 35, cited in Lawrence A. Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas: A biography (Cambridge University Press, 2012), 360. On Sepúlveda at Valladolid, see Ben Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 72-100; Friedman, The Monstrous Races, 197-207; Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man, 109-118; Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas, 43-46, 82-86, 234-38, 342-86. 88 “To achieve victory in such a war, [the civilized] are entitled and indeed required to use any and all means, including massacre, terrorism, and torture.” Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 112-14. 97 In 1519, Alonso Álvarez de Pineda sailed up the Pánuco River with 270 men to establish the second Spanish settlement on the Atlantic coast of continental North America, almost 500 miles north of Hernán Cortés’ Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz. In January 1520, Pineda and all but 60 of these colonists were killed in an uprising by the Mayan-speaking indigenes, who the Spanish knew by their Nahuatl name of Huastecas. The Spanish survivors fled to Vera Cruz in a supply ship and were impressed into Cortés’ army, marching to retake Tenochtitlán after La Noche Triste the previous June. In his Second Letter to Charles V (dated 30 October, 1520), Cortés only alluded in passing to the uprising, and in his Third Letter (dated 15 May, 1522) to its aftermath, presenting himself as rescuing Francisco de Garay’s lost colonists from certain death at the hands of the Indians. In 1522 Cortés, his lieutenant Gonzalo de Sandoval, 50 horsemen, 100 crossbowmen and arquebusiers with 4 artillery pieces, and two Mexican lords leading 30,000 warriors left Tenochtitlán to reconquer the Pánuco region; here, in his own words (the Fourth Letter, dated 15 October, 1524), they captured “some four hundred lords and chieftains,” and, after having extracted confessions of involvement or complicity in the killing of conquistadores, had them “burnt in punishment.” As Anthony Pagden notes, Cortés, who founded Villa de Santiesteban del Puerto on the Pánuco by the end of 1522, may have instigated the uprising to deny his rivals’ settlement of the region; two other conquistadores, García de Pilar and Alonso Perez, later reported that the Huastec chieftains had protested on the way to execution that Cortés had ordered them to act thusly.89 89 Pagden, Letters from Mexico, xxi-xxxii, 95, 157-62, 309-313, 501 n. 12, n. 13, 504-05 n.44; Robert S. Weddle, entries “Garay, Francisco de,” “Camargo, Diego de,” and “Alvarez de Pineda, Alonso,” in Handbook of Texas Online. 98 In the Fourth Letter, Cortés’ portrayed his predecessors as undisciplined brutes and the Huastecas as rebellious savages. Garay’s colonists had scattered inland “in bands of three and six in several different directions” and preyed on the Huastecs, “taking their women and supplies by force.” The Huastecs, he assured Charles V, were “so turbulent” that in precolonial times they had “never let an occasion for rebellion pass.” In reconquering the region and securing a good port at the mouth of the Pánuco, he had done good work. Furthermore, he had rescued Garay’s colonists from a dreadful fate, in which another piece of cranial skin approximates the role of a scalp: …our journey was of great benefit, for shortly afterwards a ship with many people and supplies aboard [the Garay expedition of 1523] was forced onto that coast. If the land had not been at peace, the crew would all have perished like those from the previous ship, the skins of whose faces we found in the native oratories [temples], preserved in such a fashion that many of them could still be recognized.90 The detail of the flayed faces was repeated in the accounts of Francisco López de Gómara (1553), Bernal Díaz del Castillo (written between 1555 and 1584, posthumously published 1632), and Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas (1601), with an added and grisly detail: that the conquistadores’ faces were recognizable as Europeans since their hair and beards were intact. Gómara repeated Cortés’ assertion that Garay’s men “had no discipline,” committed robbery and rape, and “wandered about like vagabonds”; infuriated, the Huastecs rose up, “and within a short time had killed and eaten four hundred Spaniards.” In a deserted town, Cortés’ forces found the weapons and clothing of Garay’s forces hanging as votive trophies in the temples, “and their faces, flayed and tanned and still wearing their beards, fastened to the walls, a mournful sight, for some of them could be recognized. It was evident that the men of Pánuco 90 Pagden trans., Letters, 296-97, my italics. 99 were as fierce and cruel as the Mexicans had said [.]” Gómara repeated the allegation of cannibalism, that the Huastecs “ate the Spaniards they had killed, and even hung their skins in the temples as mementoes or votive offerings.” In Historia General de las Indias Gómara links the putative ferocity of the Huastecs, who he calls “bravos and butchers” (my translation); their sacrifice and eating of the conquistadores, and making trophies of their skins; and “their cruel religion, or their religious cruelty” (my translation). Bernal Díaz reported that Sandoval’s forces, entering a temple, found “two faces which had been flayed, and the skin tanned like skin for gloves, the beards were left on, and they had been placed as offerings upon one of the altars.” He added, “Sandoval and all his soldiers were moved to pity by all this and it grieved them greatly.” In his Historia General, Herrara’s version of the discovery of the clothes, weapons, and preserved skins as trophies in the temples “moved their friends to tears” (my translation) and confirmed that the Huastecs were “so brave, and cruel” even by Mexican standards (my translation).91 91 Lesley Byrd Simpson trans., ed., Cortés: The Life of the Conqueror by his Secretary Francisco López de Gómara (University of California Press, 1964), Chapters 153-156, pp. 305-312; Bernal Díaz, Alfred Percival Maudslay’s translation, cited in Erik Seeman, Death in the New World: Cross-Cultural Encounters, 1492-1800 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010), 51-52; Gómara, chapter XLVII: “Pánuco” (my italics): “Quiso rescatar en Panuco, mas no le dejaron los de aquel río, que son valientes y carniceros, antes lo maltrataron en Chila, comiéndose los españoles que mataron, y aun los desollaron y pusieron los cueros, después de bien curtidos, en los templos por memoria y ufanía. […] y mataron los indios cuatrocientos españoles de aquéllos, muchos de los cuales fueron sacrificados y comidos, y sus cueros puestos por los templos, curtidos o embutidos; que tal es la cruel religión de aquéllos, o la religiosa crueldad.”—in Historia General de las Indias (1552); Herrera, Decada III, Libro III, from Capitulo XVIII: “Que Diego Velazquez quiere yr (sic) contra Cortes, y Francisco de Garay armaua (sic) para yr a Pánuco, y Hernando Cortes yr a esta provincia, con exercito, y la pacifico” (my italics): “Durmieron aquella noche en un lugar sin gente, en cuyos templos hallaron colgados los vestidos, y armas de los Castellanos de Garay, y las caras con barbas desolladas, curtidos los cueros, y pegados por las paredes, y algunos fueron conocidos, que movieron a lagrymas a sus amigos: y biése hechó de ver que (q con acento) los Indios de Panuco, eran tan bravos, y crueles, como lo auian (sic) significado los Mexicanos, que los probaban en la guerra, que muy de ordinario tenían con ellos.” Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas, Historia General de los hechos de los Castellanos en las Islas, y Tierre firme del mar Oceano. (Escrita por Antonio de Herrera, Coronista mayor de su Magestad de las indias, y su Coronista de Castilla. Decada Tercera.) en la Emplenta Real, edición de 1601. 100 Invasion becomes self-defense; Indian resistance becomes savage war; massacre and disproportionate revenge are claimed as justified. In early 1520, conquistadores marching inland from Vera Cruz to relieve the Iberians and their allies besieged within Tenochtitlán were ambushed near Texcoco. According to Cortés’ Third Letter, they later found, inside the temples, the tanned hides of five horses “and much clothing and other things belonging to the Spaniards” hung from the walls as trophies and votive offerings. During the final taking of Tenochtitlán in 1522, Cortés had “climbed that high tower which is close to the market, and there I found, as in other such towers, the heads of Christians as offerings to their idols, and also the heads of our Tascaltecan allies, for between them and the [Aztecs] there is a most ancient and bitter feud.” Díaz wrote with no small amount of outrage and horror, at least 35 years later, of what happened to those conquistadores who had not escaped during La Noche Triste: …with stone knives they sawed open their chests and drew out their palpitating hearts and offered them to the idols that were there, and they kicked the bodies down the steps, and Indian butchers who were waiting below cut off the arms and feet and flayed the skin off the faces, and prepared it afterwards like glove leather with the beards on, and kept those for the festivals when they celebrated drunken orgies, and the flesh they ate in chilmole. [After the victory, Cuauhtemoc] sent to all the towns of our allies and friends and to their relations, the hands and feet of our soldiers and the flayed faces with the beards, and the heads of the horses that they had killed, and he sent word that more than half of us were dead and he would soon finish us off.92 Earlier in his text, Díaz justified the Cholula Massacre (1519) as a pre-emptive strike: their allies, the people of Cempoala, had assured them that the Cholulans were planning to betray them. Unmentioned is the possibility that the Cholulans manipulated them into massacring 92 Cortés, Pagden trans., Third Letter, 256; Bernal Díaz, Davíd Carrasco ed., trans., The History of the Conquest of New Spain (University of New Mexico Press, 2008), 287-288, my italics. 101 the Cempoalans; Díaz assures his readers that the Cholulans “had already prepared the pots with salt and peppers and tomatoes.” Furthermore, “prisons of thick wooden beams which we found in the city, which were full of Indians and boys being fattened” for sacrifice and eating, implying that such people are so inhuman that they cannot be trusted.93 After the victory, the spoils. In the case of the Pánuco campaign, Cortés wrote of the conquistadores finding a graffito in charcoal on the wall of a Huastec house, reading “Here the unhappy Juan Yuste was held prisoner.” Cortés called this “Surely a sight fit to break the hearts of all who saw it.” Indian hubris then met Spanish nemesis: Sandoval and the allied Indians who then seized the town “took many women and children as slaves.” Gómara writes that the punitive expedition recouped the losses of 12 horses in the mountains en route to Pánuco by selling 200 Huastecs into slavery; later, when Nuño de Guzmán was made governor of Pánuco in 1527, notes Gómara, he and his eighty men “castigated these Indians for their sins, and made many of them slaves” (my translation).94 In 1549, Las Casas’ reports of successes in the peaceful conversion of Mayans in his bishopric of Chiapa (1543-46) had won over Crown support for a Dominican mission to evangelise La Florida, already ravaged repeatedly by slave-hunters and a graveyard for the expeditions of Juan Ponce de León (1514 and 1521), Pánfilo de Narváez (1528), and 93 Cortés, Pagden trans., Third Letter, 183-85; Díaz, Carrasco trans., 135-44 (on Cholula), on cannibalism and Mexican religion as synonymous: 6, 7, 81, 91, 103, 135, 140, 144, 171, 178, 181. 94 On 200 slaves for 12 horses, see Simpson trans., ed., The Life of the Conqueror, 305-12; on Gúzman’s retribution, see Gómara, Historia General, XLVII, “Pánuco”: “Nuño de Guzmán fue también a Panuco por gobernador el año de 1527; llevó dos o tres navíos y ochenta hombres; el cual castigó aquellos indios de sus pecados, haciendo muchos esclavos.” “[I]ndigenous self-defence was itself seen as invasion”—in Patrick Wolfe, Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology: The Politics and Poetics of an Ethnographic Event (London and New York: Cassell, 1999), 25-29; see also Lestringant on the reverse- colonialism theme in Cannibals, 137-43; Tom Engelhardt, The End of Victory Culture: Cold War America and the Disillusioning of a Generation, revised edition (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2007 [1995]), 1-53, 5 (“how few of us”), 39 (“total annihilation”), 40 (“flipped history on its head”); Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation. 102 Hernando de Soto (1539-43); these conquistadores had, in the later words of Dávila Padilla, “made the name of Christians loathsome with their cruelties, and the law of Christ suspicious for the infidels” (my translation). Even the promulgator of the mission, Luís Cáncer de Barbastro, who was granted 800 ducats of royal funding with which to purchase ten tons of trade goods as incentive for friendly relations with the Indians, could not quite believe his good fortune: “All Seville is surprised at this undertaking,” noted Cáncer in a letter shortly before departure; “those who most fear God approve of it; others think that we are going to the slaughter-house.” Going ashore in the Tampa Bay area in late May or early June 1549, friar Cáncer, along with friar Diego Peñalosa de Tolosa and a Dominican lay brother known only as Fuentes were beaten to death with clubs. According to Gómara (1552), the other expeditionaries were then informed by Johan or Juan Muñoz, a former page of Soto who had been held captive by the Indians for several years, “how the Indians put the skins of the heads of the friars with their crowns in a temple”.95 The incident was reported in Peter Martyr’s 95 Dávila Padilla: “haciendo con sus crueldades aborrecible el nombre de Christianos, y sospechosa para los infieles la ley de Christo,” in Book 1, Chapter 53, Fray Augustín Dávila Padilla, Historia de la Fundación y Discurso de la provincia, de Santiago de Mexico de la orden de predicadores: por las vidas de sus varones insignes y casos Notables de Nueva España, second edition (Brussels, 1625), 177-78; digitized by Google, Ghent University, 9 November 2010; My translation (my italics) of “Entonces se vino a la nave uno que fue paje de Hernando Soto, el cual contaba cómo los indios pusieron los cueros de las cabezas de los frailes con sus coronas en un templo, y que cerca de allí hay hombres que comen carbón.” –in Gómara, Historia General, Chapter 65, “The Discovery of Florida”. On general background and the 1549 martyrdoms: Lawrence A. Clayton, Vernon James Knight Jr., Edward C. Moore eds., The De Soto Chronicles: The Expedition of Hernando de Soto to North America in 1539 - 1543, Vol. I (Tuscaloosa and London: University of Alabama Press, 1993); Margaret F. Pickett and Dwayne D. Pickett, The European Struggle to Settle North America: Colonizing Attempts by England, France, and Spain, 1521-1608 (McFarland, 2011); Jace Weaver, The Red Atlantic: American Indigenes and the Making of the Modern World, 1000 – 1927 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2014), 54-62, 139; Erik R. Seeman, Death in the New World: Cross-Cultural Encounters, 1492-1800 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010), 107; Audrey Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea: Colonialism in the Virginian Atlantic (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2013), 109. On the expansive yet vague geographical sweep of La Florida, the present-day Southeastern United States from East Texas to the Florida peninsula and north to Newfoundland, see Charlotte M. Gradie, “The Powhatans in the Context of the Spanish Empire,” in Helen C. Rountree ed., Powhatan Foreign Relations, 1500-1722 (Charlottesville and London: University Press of Virginia, 1993), 154-172; Clayton, Bartolome de las Casas, 255-69, 285-341, and Hubert Howe Bancroft, ed., History of the Pacific States of North America vol. II: Central America, vol. II, 1530-1800 (San Francisco: A.L. Bancroft & Company, 1883), 356-57. 103 Decadas anthology, and from here was transmitted into English via Richard Eden’s 1555 translation: …[the Indians] caryed hym [Cáncer] away with three other of his companyons and dyd eate them, whereby they suffered martyrdome for the fayth of Chryst. […] There came of late from that shyppe, one that had byn the page of Ferdinando de Soto, who declared that the Indians hanged up the skynnes with the heades and crownes of the sayd fryers in one of theyr temples.96 The English slave trader John Hawkins’ 1565 account of his travels along coastal North America, reprinted in Hakluyt, repeats a variation of this story as evidence that the as-yet- unconquered Floridians were “of more savage and fierce nature, and more valiant than any of the rest”: “of their cruelty mention is made in the booke of the Decades [Peter Martyr], of a frier [sic], who taking upon them to persuade the people to subjection, was by them taken, and his skin cruelly pulled over his eares, and his flesh eaten.”97 Subsequent descriptions of the Tampa Bay martyrdoms by Las Casas’ fellow Dominicans would show two major trends: replacing scalping with images of cannibals drinking from skulls, and offering post facto rationalizations for these actions as rational, if bizarre. P. Alonso Hernandez, in Historia eclesiástica de Nuestros Tiempos (1611), says only that the victorious Indians “danced and made a festival in honour of their gods for delivering them their enemies, the Spaniards” (my translation). Antonio de Remesal, in Historia… de Chyapa y Guatemala (1619), explained that the Indians believed the Dominicans to be spies and so, after slaying them, brought them to their great Cacique, “so that he might look at the form of 96 From Edward Arber ed., The first Three English books on America. [?1511] – 1555 A.D., Being chiefly Translations, Compilations, &c., by RICHARD EDEN, from the Writings, Maps, &c., of Pietro Martire, of Anghiera, Sebastian Munster, the Cosmographer, Sebastian Cabot, of Bristol, With Extracts, &c., from the Works of other Spanish, Italian, and German Writers of the Time (Birmingham, 1885), 346. 97 From “The Voyage Made by M. John Hawkins Esquire, 1565,” in Henry S. Burrage ed., Early English and French Voyages, Chiefly from Hakluyt, 1534- 1608 (New York: Barnes & Noble, Inc., 1959 [1906]) pg. 119. 104 their habits and crowns, to understand that they offered him the heads more or less for his pleasure.” The Cacique, on the contrary, was very displeased—Remesal states that he had wanted to converse with the priests personally—and “to commemorate the memory of their deaths ordered them skinned, and their skins to be nailed to the walls of his house, and the heads stuffed with cotton and hung from a tree and they ate the flesh at a great banquet, after much dancing and celebrating.” Remesal added that Soto’s unnamed page had seen the walls of the cacique’s house “decorated with the skins of the priests, by the habits which they displayed, by the crowns which they had made into the stuffed skins of which they made the skulls into vessels for drinking” (my translation, my emphases). Dávila Padilla’s account, a full 70 years after the events it describes, has reworked them further per the hagiographical genre: Muñoz explains that God, in His mercy, has permitted him to live among the Indians completely unmolested, giving him perfect understanding of their language and thus allowing him to explain the fates of the missionaries. Rather than having them scalped, flayed, or cannibalized, “they cut off the heads of the three, and took them to present to the lord the great Cacique, who was in the land, and drank with the skulls in vengeance on their enemies: it was in this exercise that they dealt with the heads” (my translation, my italics). Yet Padilla notes that the Indians, driven from their villages into the hills and forests by conquistadores, had a legitimate grievance—which, unfortunately, fell on the missionaries.98 98 P. Alonzo Fernandez, Historia eclesiástica de Nuestros Tiempos (Impressos del Rey, 1611); Fray Antonio de Remesal, Historia de la prouincia de S. Vicente de Chyapa y Guatemala de la orden de nro glorioso padre Sancto Domingo: escriuense juntamente los principios de las demás prouincias desda religión de las yndias occidentales, y la secular de la gouernacion de Guatemala… (por Francisco de Angulo, 1619), From Complutense University of Madrid, digitized 21 Nov. 2009. Hubert Howe Bancroft’s translation of Remesal (my italics): the cacique “caused the skins of the victims to be stripped off and stretched upon the walls of his house, while their heads were stuffed with cotton and suspended from a tree.”—in History of the Pacific States of North America vol. II: Central America, vol. II, 1530-1800 (San Francisco: A.L. Bancroft & Company, 1883), 356-57; Fray Augustín Dávila Padilla, Historia de la Fundación y Discurso de la provincia, de Santiago de Mexico de la orden de predicadores: por las vidas de sus varones insignes y casos Notables de Nueva España. Por el Maestro FRAY AUGUSTIN DAVILA PADILLA. Al Principe de España DON FELIPE nuestro 105 Similar amendations appeared in the martyrdoms of two Jesuits in the Chesapeake Bay in February 1571. In 1570, on the orders of Pedro Menéndez de Avilés, governor of Cuba, eight Jesuits led by fathers Juan Bautista de Segura and Luís de Quirós were sent to missionize the Bahía de Santa María (Chesapeake Bay) and the surrounding land of Ajacán, as part of a plan to seize the Strait of Anián, believed by Spanish geographers to be the route to the Pacific. The expedition’s guide, assistant, and interpreter was to be a youth from a high-ranking Virginia Algonquian group, possibly Paspahegh, who had been groomed as an elite intermediary since 1561, but the young man who had left his people as Paquiquineo and returned as Don Luís, godson of the viceroy Luís de Velasco, was not as pliable or undivided in his loyalties as the Jesuits seemed to believe. Sent with two Dominican friars and 37 soldiers from Cuba to colonize Ajacán in 1566, he had scuppered the expedition by pretending not to know the route into the Bay. During the 1570 mission, he scandalized the Jesuits by returning to his brother’s village some 20 miles away, taking multiple wives, and trying to reclaim his hereditary rank, suggesting the attack February 1571 may have been a decisive test of his loyalties. In August 1572, Menéndez’s punitive expedition recovered the catechist, Alonso de Olmos, who had been living among the Indians, and hanged eight or nine Paspahegh men from the yardarm in retribution, but Don Luís was never seen again.99 Erik Seeman notes a tendency towards “increasingly baroque” details of the martyrdoms. The earliest account, by the Jesuit Juan Rogel, describes Don Luís personally killing Father señor. Edición segunda. EN BRUSSELAS. En casa de IVAN DE MEERBEQUE, MDCXXV [1625]. (Digitized by Google, Ghent University, 9 November 2010), pp. 177-189. 99 Frederic W. Gleach, Powhatan’s World and Colonial Virginia: A Conflict of Cultures (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1997), 2, 90-97; Gradie, “The Powhatans in the Context of the Spanish Empire”; Helen C. Rountree and E. Randolph Turner III, Before and After Jamestown: Virginia’s Powhatans and Their Predecessors (University Press of Florida, 2002), 51-53; Margaret Holmes Williamson, Powhatan Lords of Life and Death: Command and Consent in Seventeenth-Century Virginia (Lincoln & London: University of Nebraska Press, 2003), 143-44; Seeman, Death in the New World, 58-64. 106 Quirós with an arrow, then the other two Jesuits, then leading “a large group” of Indians into the Jesuit village and killing Father Segura with an axe. But he ordered the Jesuits to be buried without posthumous mutilation, and took no trophies from their bodies. In the 1600 account of Father Carrera, Don Luis had left the priests “all naked and cut to pieces,” but “wept copiously over them” and called them martyrs. In a 1610 account, the Indians ordered the priests to bless themselves before killing them, and then behaved like Scythians: “Fashioning their skulls into cups, [the Indians] waved them about in their drunken feasts.” The continued importance of the skull-cup, paired with drunkenness, as a sign of primitive cruelty recurs as late as Andrés Pérez de Ribas’ 1645 account of a martyrdom in the modern Mexican state of Sinaloa, which Ribas pairs with specifically North American imageries of scalping and dismemberment. In 1594, a Chichimec holy man named Nacabeba blamed disease epidemics on Jesuit baptisms and led a raiding party which killed the Jesuit Gonzalo de Tapia. Ribas begins by describing the Chichimecas as “beasts more ferocious than the lions and bears whose jaws David and Sampson had disjointed,” citing as evidence their “scalping their enemies and cutting off their heads,” feet, and arms in ways which “resembled multitudes of demons in Hell”. Ribas describes how Nacabeba and nine Chichimecs ambushed and slew Father Tapia with axes and clubs, and then cut off his head and left arm; because he had used that arm to say Mass, they attempted to roast it on a barbecue, implying, as Jorge Cañizares-Esgurra notes, an intention to mock the Eucharist and principle of transubstantiation. But God stymied the man-eaters: the arm’s flesh did not roast, and they contented themselves by flaying it and stuffing it with straw, then donning the priest’s stolen vestments and “dr[inking] wine from the skull of that holy head” during “a 107 great victory celebration,” accompanied by “dances, drunkenness, and superstition” (Reff et. al. translation).100 Epilogue: comparative barbarisms Worn out from three years of constant war, the adelantado Hernando de Soto died of fever on the west bank of the Mississippi in May 1542. According to the testimony of an anonymous Portuguese knight known as ‘The Gentleman of Elvas,’ the conquistadores feared the consequences if Soto’s claim to be an immortal son of the Sun was disproven. Disinterring his body, they wrapped it in blankets weighed down with sand, and after nightfall sunk his corpse into the middle of the Mississippi. Inca Garcilaso tells a slightly different story. The Indians had already rejected the conquistadores’ pretensions to godhood and had vowed to treat these brigands and “wandering thieves” as European rulers would: to kill them, dismember them, impale their decapitated heads, and use the trees as gibbets to hang their quartered bodies and limbs. For fear of the adelantado’s posthumous dishonour, his men disinterred him by night, placed him in a coffin made from the hollow bole of an oak, and sunk this improvised coffin beneath the Mississippi. This was, writes The Inca, “similar in almost all respects to those which the Goths, who were ancestors of the Spaniards, gave one thousand one hundred and thirty-one years before” to their king Alaric, who died of fever in Calabria following the sack of Rome in 410.101 100 Seeman, Death in the New World, 58-64; Carrera’s account cited from Clifford M. Lewis, S.J. and Albert J. Loomie, S.J., trans. and ed., The Spanish Jesuit Mission in Virginia, 1570-1572 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1953), 136, in Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 90-97. Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, Puritan Conquistadores: Iberianizing the Atlantic, 1550 – 1770 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 91-93, 111; Andrés Pérez de Ribas, Daniel T. Reff, Maureen Ahern, and Richard K. Danford trans., History of the Triumphs of Our Holy Faith Amongst the Most Barbarous and Fierce Peoples of the New World (Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 1999), Chapter VII, 124-27. 101 James Alexander Robertson trans., “True Relation of the Hardships Suffered by Governor Hernando De Soto & Certain Portuguese Gentlemen During the Discovery of the Province of Florida. Now newly set forth by a 108 Garcilaso’s out-of-left-field comparison between the conquistadores and the Visigoths had two potential meanings. On one hand, the Goths were a warrior people who had battled Huns, Romans, and rival German tribes and carved out a kingdom for themselves in southern France and Spain. Many of the noble families of Spain could trace their descent to Gothic landowners, though this was contested; according to the Romanized-Gothic historian Jordanes’ 6th century Getica, the Goths had originated in the Baltic before moving south into Poland and Romania, and rediscovery of Jordanes in the 1430s sparked an international debate between Spanish and Swedish historians as to who were more worthy heirs. But the Goths were also barbarian destroyers; antique sources had lumped them together with other trans-Danubian Europeans as “Scythians,” with all the wild opprobrium that that implied.102 To clarify his intentions to his readers, The Inca called Alaric a “famous prince” whose people who had performed “heroic feats,” and in case they weren’t aware of the pagan splendour of Alaric’s funeral as written by Jordanes, he repeated it “that the similarity may be seen more clearly”. After the Gothic king’s death, his weeping followers diverted the Busento River, interred him with the richest spoils of the sack of Rome, and then returned the waters to their natural flow—after killing the slaves, so his burial place would remain secret for all time. On the surface, Inca Garcilaso’s reference to the warlike “Scythian” Goths Gentleman of Elvas,” 138, in Lawrence A. Clayton et. al. eds., The De Soto Chronicles Volume I, 19-219; Varner and Varner trans., Florida of the Inca, 494-96, 501-06, 553. 102 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 501-06; Franklin Daniel Scott, Sweden: The Nation’s History (Southern Illinois University Press, 1988), 11, 115; Arne Søby Christiansen, Cassiodorus Jordanes and the History of the Goths: Studies in a Migration Myth (Museum Tusculanum Press: University of Copenhagen, 2002), 1-21; In Jordanes’ Origins and Deeds of the Goths (AD 551), the burial of Alaric beneath a diverted river (XXX.158) and the burial of Attila on the Hungarian plain (XLIX.258) share the same traits: the graves of both are heaped with the spoils of decades of war, and the diggers are executed so they cannot reveal the burial place. See also Peter Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History of Rome and the Barbarians (Oxford University Press, 2006), 341-42, 351-60. 109 reminded his patriotic Iberian readers of their long history of martial glory. Taken from another angle, though, a critique of Spanish imperialism emerges: what difference was there, really, between armed nobodies from Extremadura and other Iberian backwaters who raped, pillaged, mutilated, and enslaved the peoples of the New World, and those ancient freebooters from beyond the Danube who had drunk from their enemies’ skulls, used their scalps as napkins, and burned down the Eternal City? 110 Chapter Two: “A Trophy of their Victory”: 16th and 17th century accounts of scalping No one is forced into war by ignorance; nor, if he thinks he will gain from it, is he kept out of it by fear. The fact is that one side thinks that the profits to be won outweigh the risks to be incurred, and the other side is ready to face danger rather than accept an immediate loss. –Thucydides (ca. 404 B.C.), IV.4.59103 Introduction: an emerging Indian-war paradigm in early North America The approaches of a dozen different authors and illustrators towards scalping in the 16th and 17th centuries, namely, Jacques Cartier, Agustín Dávila Padilla, Ulrich Schmiedel, René Goulaine de Laudonniére, Marc Lescarbot, Samuel de Champlain, John Smith, Gabriel Sagard, André Thévet, Jacques le Moyne des Morgues, Theodor de Bry, and Harmen Mayndertsz van den Bogaert, are examined in this survey chapter. A broad consensus sketched the outline of a North American paradigm of warfare, in which scalps were a sign of achieved victory and vengeance. While European warfare held the seizure of land (failing that, movable property like livestock and specie) as its primary goal, North American warfare was aimed at satisfying feuds and taking prisoners; the ability to make war and the right to go to war was widely held among the male population of indigenous communities, and participated in to varying degrees by the women and younger members of the community; indigenous warfare was ‘irregular’ by European definition, preferencing ambush, stratagem, and deceit over pitched field battles, and with considerable free agency retained by individual war leaders to recruit for expeditions and by their followers to join or withdraw at will. That North American indigenous warfare differed in distinct ways from the prevailing norm in Europe required a battery of interpretive strategies Neil Whitehead summarizes as 103 Thucydides, Rex Warner trans., History of the Peloponnesian War (Penguin Books: London and New York, 1972 [1954]), 299. 111 mimesis and alterity: stressing the similarities or differences, real and imagined, between European and indigenous North American methods, goals, definitions, etc., which is to say the in/commensurability between the two. Analogy was one tool of similarity, as when medieval Christians assumed that Muslims worshipped Mohammad in the same way that Christians worshipped Christ, as were the paired processes of attachment and detachment: removing a concept from its original context, or physically removing an object from the cultural matrix in which it initially bore meanings, and conceptually or physically likening it to a new set of meanings or an alien cultural context. As Anthony Pagden notes, the ethnographies resulting from this process could reveal little more than what Europeans wanted to believe. Such a process led Oviedo, a Spanish historian particularly bigoted towards Indians, to declare that since the Taínos practiced polygamy as the ancient Greeks described the Thracians, their neighbours northwards in the Balkans, it followed that the repulsive practices Greeks attributed to the Thracians, such as sacrificing foreign visitors to the gods and holding banquets where children were cannibalized, must be practiced by 16th century Taínos. Anthony Pagden notes that such actions render the original indigenous ideas and practices unintelligible to their original actors; as noted in Chapter 1, such Savagist processes would have rendered these Greek conclusions unintelligible to Thracians of the 5th century BC as well. Such acts of decontextualization, notes Peter Mason, create the Exotic, a sign of an opaque Other which is really an illusion or pseudo-Other. But if the similarities created in these processes were not, in fact, real, they could at least provide a bridge to cooperation, in the same way that imagined and real incommensurabilities could exacerbate tensions and mutual suspicions.104 104 On analogy, see Edward Said, Orientalism, 53-59; Whitehead introduction, The Discoverie of the Large, Rich, and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana by Sir Walter Ralegh, 1-110; Pagden, European Encounters with the New 112 Prologue: Misinformation and myths-in-formation in the Atlantic world In the course of the 16th and 17th centuries, European explorers in North America described, in text and illustration, their encounters with the outré customs of the Indians, including the taking and displaying of scalps. While this chapter focuses on dissecting the meanings that early modern Europeans derived from or applied to these encounters, a prefatory comment should be made regarding the ideas that convinced Europeans to venture into unfamiliar Atlantic spaces, particularly the idea of encounter itself. Nervous explorers, and nervous investors in colonial ventures, could take heart from the myths which arose out of the Iberian encounter: the myth of Indians who imagined Europeans to be gods, at least at first glance, and the conquistador myth which promised that wealthy, centralized indigenous empires could be easily conquered by relatively small armies of Europeans. These myths cast a long shadow: Sir Francis Drake, writing of his encounter with indigenous Californians in 1579, described “signifying unto them we were no Gods, but men.” Alas, despite his best efforts, “nothing could perswade them, nor remove that opinion which they had conceived of us, that wee should be gods.”105 In 1633 the Jesuit Paul Le Jeune recorded a story of first contact between the French and the Innu, told him by a convert named Pierre Pastedechouan, in which the prevailing tones were not the worshipful awe of the white-god fantasy but monstrousness and dread. World, 17-49; Peter Mason, Infelicities: Representations of the Exotic (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press, 1998), 1-41, 64-89, 147-64. 105 “Sir Francis Drake on the California coast, 1579” an excerpt from The World Encompassed by Sir Francis Drake, carefully Collected out of the notes of Master Francis Fletcher, Preacher in this Imployment, and divers others his followers (London, 1628), in Henry S. Burrage ed., Early English and French Voyages, chiefly from Hakluyt, 1534-1608 (New York: Barnes & Noble, Inc., 1906 [1959], 159-160. 113 Pierre described a story, often told by his grandmother, of how four canoes of Innu paddled out to welcome the strangers to their village, which fizzled since neither side could understand the other. The French gave them a barrel of biscuit, which the Innu dumped into the ocean upon returning to shore. The all-male European crew wearing cuirasses, eating hardtack and drinking wine gave first impressions of the French as “prodigious and horrible” creatures who “were dressed in iron, ate bones, and drank blood,” or “ate wood and drank blood.” The wooden ship offered the Innu a name for these unprecedented people, which Le Jeune transcribed as ouemichtigouchiou, “a man who works in wood, or who is in a canoe or vessel of wood.” Other stories removed the sting of ontological uncertainty with prophecy narratives that placed Europeans on the previously-unknown edges of an indigenous universe, as when Black Hawk described a mutual first contact between the Sauk and the French in his 1833 autobiography. After his great-grandfather, Thunder, had dreamed for four years that he would meet a white man, the Great Spirit had directed him to take his two brothers and travel east to a designated spot. Here they met a self-identified son of the King of France who took Thunder by the hand, welcomed him into his tent, and told him that he, too, had been guided in his dreams for four years: the Great Spirit had directed him to come to this very spot to meet a nation who had never yet seen a white man.106 Both Europeans and indigenous peoples tried to reconcile the unprecedented other with pre-existing narratives, frameworks, and predictive words, a process Judith Binney referred to as plereomatic history and which John Sutton Lutz notes is well-attested, as 106 Thwaites, Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents vol. 5, 119-121, cited in Colin G. Calloway ed., The World Turned Upside Down: Indian Voices from Early America (Boston and New York: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 1994), 33; Black Hawk, J. Gerald Kennedy ed., Life of Black Hawk or Mà-ka- tai-me- she-kià- kiàk, Dictated by Himself (New York: Penguin Books, 2008 [1833]), 1; Colin G. Calloway, One Vast Winter Count: The Native American West Before Lewis and Clark (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2003), 213. 114 “intertextuality,” in European accounts of first contacts. In the anxiety of these encounters with the unknown, the possibility that these other people were monstrous offered some consolation to both Europeans and indigenous peoples, if only because such categories of analysis would render them familiar, and therefore understandable. These reference points were congruent, but not identical. A legend in Puerto Rico, recorded in Benzoni’s Historia del Novo Mondo (1565), that a conquistador named Diego Salcedo was drowned by a Boricua cacique to empirically disprove Spanish claims of divinity, is probably not true—as it reifies the myth that Indians took Europeans for gods in the first place—but points to indisputable historical trends. After initial uncertainty, indigenous North Americans seem to have determined that Europeans were just strange, shaggy humans with useful trade goods, and their ethnonyms for Europeans reflect this: the Mohawks called the Dutch assirioni (makers of cloth) or charistooni (ironsmiths); the French were called agnonha (people of iron) by the Hurons and mistogoche (wooden boats) by the Innu. Osage histories of the late 17th century recall the first two French traders as I’n-Shta-Heh (heavy eyebrows) whose obsequious attentions to buffalo robes reminded them of camp dogs fawning during butchering and whose whistling unnerved them, “since only ghosts whistled.”107 107 John Sutton Lutz, ed., Myth and Memory: Stories of Indigenous-European Contact (Vancouver: UBC press, 2007): Lutz, “Introduction: Myth Understandings; Or, First Contact, Over and Over Again,” 1-14, and “First Contact As A Spiritual Performance: Encounters on the North American West Coast,” 30-45, Judith Binney, “When the White Kawau Flies,” 140-159. The “narrative embodiments” of myth, notes Peter Nabokov, show “responsive and malleable” qualities: “if myths are to remain relevant and recited, they must be susceptible to internal tinkerings and updatings.” See Peter Nabokov, A Forest of Time: American Indian Ways of History (Cambridge University Press, 2002), 91-92 (“narrative embodiments… tinkerings and updatings”), and throughout; on ethnonyms, see Denys Delâge, Jane Brierley trans., Bitter Feast: Amerindians and Europeans in Northeastern North America, 1600-64 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1993), 128, Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 263-64; Diego Salcedo in Dickason, Myth of the Savage, 23; Coll Thrush, “Vancouver the Cannibal: Cuisine, Encounter, and the Dilemma of Difference on the. Northwest Coast, 1774–1808,” in Ethnohistory Volume 58, Issue 1 (Winter 2011), 1-35; Marshall Sahlins, How “Natives” Think: about Captain Cook, for example (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 127, 177-89; Obeyesekere, Cannibal Talk, 19-36. For general background on indigenous historiography and oral histories, see Nancy Shoemaker ed., Clearing a Path: Theorizing the Past in Native American Studies (New York and London: Routledge, 2002), introduction (vii- xiii), Julie Cruikshank, “Oral History, Narrative Strategies, and Native American Historiography: Perspectives 115 Europeans, on the other hand, envisioned indigenous peoples as Golden Agers, man- eaters, or wild men, encapsulated in terms like “savage” and “cannibal,” with associated imageries of stigmatized and primordial violence involving cruel dismemberment. The Savagist myths at the heart of the denial of coeval status found new expression and strength in the burgeoning social sciences of the Renaissance, which paired the discovery of the Americas with the rediscovery of the Classical world through widening literacy and the printing press. Reprints of such ancient writers as Herodotus, Livy, Ovid, Pliny, Strabo, Tacitus, and others, in Latin or in modern Spanish, German, Italian, French and English, were paired with fanciful illustrations of the ancient barbarians described within. National ancestors like Britons, Germanic tribes, Gauls, and Celtiberians were increasingly depicted in the same visual language as the peoples of the New World: heroically nude, wearing animal pelts, painted and tattooed. Meanwhile, neoclassical conventions of heroic nudity were being applied to indigenous Americans, reinforcing a simple and lateral comparison between the peoples of contemporary America and the Europeans of centuries past. For some European writers, description of primitive peoples past and present was inseparable from broader questions of human origins and human nature: had human beings declined from the autarkic conditions of the Golden Age to the violent acquisitiveness of the present, a Saturnian myth signalled artistically by happy, physically-idealized people frolicking in lush, blossoming landscapes? Or was the Promethean myth of an incremental climb from a bestial state, visually expressed by placing ragged humans in tattered pelts against rocky and barren landscapes, more accurate? Was exotic American violence to be interpreted as lamentable, from the Yukon Territory, Canada,” 3-28; Julie Cruikshank, Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination (Vancouver and Toronto: UBC Press, 2005), 127-210. 116 but understandable signs of primordial valour, or evidence of human wretchedness in the absence of the state?108 In Europe, deployment of Golden Age and Savagist myths onto peoples in the Atlantic was by no means new. The myth of the Isles of the Blessed, where Saturn and the conditions of the Golden Age still reigned, were identified by Greek and Roman geographers with the Canary Islands; by reporting spontaneously-generated crops, grapevines, and fruit trees on the Canaries, St. Isidore of Seville’s 8th-century account had continued this tradition into the Christian era. While the peoples of the Canaries, named Guanches during the 14th- century Iberian conquest, were subdivided between stratified agrarian societies and egalitarian hunter-gatherers, the latter prevailed in late medieval accounts and artistic depictions. Alluding to Ovid’s attribution of the decline from the Golden Age to the Iron Age to “destructive iron and harmful gold” in Metamorphoses 1.150-57, Boccaccio’s De Canaria (1341) described four Guanches taken captive to Lisbon as totally ignorant of precious metals and swords, yet “very intelligent,” egalitarian, “cheerful and lively and quite sociable – more so than many Spaniards are.” Petrarch agreed they were morally superior to civilized Europeans yet declared them “little better than beasts.” Felix Hemmerlin, a canon of Zurich, claimed pirates had described how Guanches “were wrapped in raw hides, howled like dogs, had flat faces like monkeys, and ate raw food,” as well as having sex in public, holding 108 Fredrik Svanberg, Decolonizing the Viking Age volume 1 (Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell International, 2003), 11-52; Peter Burke, “America and the Rewriting of World History,” in Karen Ordahl Kupperman, ed.,America in European Consciousness, 1493-1750 (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina press, 1995), 33-51; William Sturtevant, “First Visual Images of Native America,” Hayden White, “The Noble Savage theme as Fetish,” and Elliott, “Renaissance Europe and America: A Blunted Impact?,” in Chiapelli ed., First Images of America; Stephanie Moser, Ancestral Images: the Iconography of Human Origins (Sutton Publishing, Limited: United Kingdom, 1998); Jean Guilaine and Jean Zammit, trans. Melanie Hersey, The Origins of War: Violence in Prehistory (Blackwell Publishing: 2005 [2001]), 1-39; Bruce G. Trigger, Natives and Newcomers: Canada’s “Heroic Age” Reconsidered (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1985), 9-56. 117 women in common, and giving birth like “other brute beasts.” Hemmerlin disapprovingly cited Ovid to draw comparisons to that touchstone of barbarism, Scythia, “where men live in a beastly and cruel fashion, deeply differing from the way of life of all men.” But as a Dominican, he also tried to extemporize for topoi of barbarism taken at face value, suggesting that the Guanches’ holding women in common was simply primitive communism taken too far.109 In October 1589, the Spanish sea captain Francisco de Cuéllar wrote an account of his experiences while shipwrecked in the North Atlantic in 1588. There he had found “savages” whose “custom” was “to live as the brute beasts” among “very rugged” mountains: They live in huts made of straw… They cover themselves with “mantas” [blankets, cloaks] and wear their hair down to their eyes… The chief inclination of these people, is to be robbers, and to plunder each other… They have therefore, no other remedy but to withdraw themselves to the mountains, with their women and cattle; for they possess no other property, nor more moveables nor clothing. They sleep upon the ground, on rushes, newly cut and full 109 Beyond the division between hierarchical agrarian societies and egalitarian hunter-gatherer societies which Iberians would later see in Mesoamerica and Andean South America, other interesting parallels between the Guanches and indigenous peoples encountered in the 16th century present themselves: animal and sometimes child sacrifice was offered to volcanoes, and members of the elite were mummified as in Guanajuato and Peru. Earlier descriptions of Guanches, as in the accounts of Muhammad al-Idrisi, a 12th-century geographer employed by the Kingdom of Sicily, and of Spanish and Portuguese explorers in 1341, contain word-for-word similarities between Columbus’ description of the Indians’ physical beauty, athleticism, and physiognomy, particularly the description of their skin as “reddish-brown,” a point noted here by Fernández-Armesto and Peter Hulme. See Alfredo Mederos Martín, “Sacrificios de niños y sustitorios de ovicapridos al dios Sol šmš en el litoral atlántico norteafricano,” in Byrsa: Arte, Cultura e Archeologia del Mediterraneo Punico, 19-20, 2011 (Lugano, Switzerland: Agorà & Co., 2013), 79-127; for general background, see Felipe Fernández- Armesto, Before Columbus: Exploration and Colonization from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, 1229- 1492 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987), 223-251; on mummification, see Thomas Hodgkin, “On the Ancient Inhabitants of the Canary Islands,” in The Journal of the Ethnological Society of London (1848-1856), Volume 1 (1848), 167-181; James K. Coleman, “Boccaccio’s Humanistic Ethnography (De Canaria),” in Victoria Kirkham, Michael Sherberg, and Janet Levarie Smarr eds., Boccaccio: A Critical Guide to the Complete Works (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2014), 265-71; Peter Hulme, “Tales of Distinction: European Ethnography and the Caribbean,” in Stuart B. Schwartz ed., Implicit Understandings, 157-197. 118 of water and ice… The most of the women are very beautiful, but badly dressed… In short, in this Kingdom there is neither justice nor right, and everybody does what he pleases.110 These pastoral nomads beyond civilization were Gaelic Irish cattleherders and tenant farmers, subjects of a longstanding defamatory trend founded in Strabo’s assertion (1st century AD) that the Irish were more wild than the Britons, habitual practitioners of cannibalism and incest. The 12th century Welsh-Norman Geraldus Cambrensis had described the Irish as wandering pastoralists living “like beasts,” and similar traditions among the English and Scots Lowlanders coloured Gaelic-speaking Scots highlanders in similar terms of pastoralism, brigandage, and degeneracy. During a stay in Dublin and Armagh in 1517, Francesco Chiericati, papal nuncio to England, repeated Strabo’s calumny word-for-word: “I have heard that in places farther north people are more uncivilized, going about nude, living in mountain caves and eating raw meat.”111 In the Elizabethan era, the image of the Scythians was used to depict the Irish both as rootless nomads and unhinged man-eaters. William Harrison, in The Description of Britain (1587), called them “the most Scithian-like and barbarous nation,” identified them with the Anthropophagi, and claimed they “used to feed on the buttocks of [boys] and women’s paps, as delicate dishes.” In A View of the Present State of Ireland (1596), Edmund Spenser proposed that Scythians were the direct ancestors of the people of western Ireland, not Gauls and Britons as in the south and east; hence their “Scythian barbarisme” and “licensious barbarisme.” Fynes Moryson (1617) accused Irish herdsmen of “delighting in this roguish 110 Audrey Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea: Colonialism in the Virginian Atlantic (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2013), Cuellar, Moryson, Spencer, and Chiericati cited 31-35, 92 (Cuéllar’s experiences indicate the political disunity of the Irish north: “he was welcomed by O’Rourkes, rejected by the O’Cahans, and alternatively housed and robbed by Irish peasants.”). 111 Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea, 31-35; Strabo, Geography, Book IV, Chapter 5.4; Geraldus Cambrensis cited in Seymour Phillips, “The outer world of the European Middle Ages,” in Schwartz, Implicit Understandings, 23-63; Calloway, White People, Indians, and Highlanders, 3-116. 119 life,” “free from the hand of justice” to commit robberies and depredations. These were not new ideas (see Chapter 1) but the lexicon of barbarism was shifting westwards, as indicated by Cuellar’s use of the Ibero-American neologism salvajes (savages) to describe Irish primitivism. Where salvaje went, caníbal was not far behind: in 1612 Sir John Davies, the Attorney General of Ireland, disparaged the Irish as “little better than cannibals, who do hunt one another.” By 1649, pro-Commonwealth newspaper editorials were describing Irish rebels not only as “bloud-quaffing cannibals,” but also as “more bruitish than the Indians.”112 What were such trans-Atlantic encounters like from the other side of the frontier? In Mexico, a proliferation of Nahuatl accounts a generation after the Conquest describe their ancestors’ initial shocked and awed descriptions of galleons, metal armour, gunpowder, mastiffs and war horses, and their subsequent sufferings at the hands of capricious and cruel conquistadores. Camilla Townsend astutely notes that teotl (plural teteu’), the Nahuatl term which the Spanish glossed as teules or “gods,” is ambivalent, referring literally to an other- than-human being which can, in context, be a deity, a demon, or a god-impersonator who embodies a representation of the deity they’re slated to be sacrificed to. In Townsend’s analysis, calling the conquistadores teteu’ was meant to characterize them as “capricious immortals” and “bizarre sorcerers,” not awe-inspiring objects of worship. Bernal Díaz unwittingly alludes to this in boasting of how the Cholula massacre struck fear into their Indian enemies: “if we had a reputation for valour before, from now on they took us for 112 Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea, 31-35; Ben Kiernan, Blood and Soil: A World History of Genocide and Extermination From Sparta to Darfur (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007), 169-212; Rafael M. Girón Pascual, “El Capitán Francisco de Cuéllar antes y después de la jornada de Inglaterra,” in Antonio Jiménez Estrella and Julián J. Lozano Navarro eds., Actas de la XI Reunión Científica de la Fundación Española de Historia Moderna , Comunicaciones, Volumen II (Granada, 2010), 1051-59; William Harrison, “bloud-quaffing cannibals,” and “more bruitish than the Indians” cited in Ted Motohashi, “The Discourse of Cannibalism in Early Modern Travel Writing,” in Steven H. Clark ed., Travel Writing and Empire: Postcolonial Theory in Transit (New York and London: Zed Books, 1999), 83-99. 120 sorcerers.” Nahuatl sources, in addition to describing such massacres as at Cholula or Pedro de Alvarado’s May 1520 “massacre of the dancers” at a festival of Huitzilopochtli at the Great Temple, as unprovoked preemptive strikes, suggest in text and illustration their own Savagist perception of the conquistadores’ exotic, inexplicable behaviour. In text and art, the unprecedented capacity of Spanish swords to lop off heads and limbs recurs, and the Spanish seizure of gold, to pay the soldiers and the king’s royal fifth, becomes obsessive and bestial: “They picked up the gold and fingered it like monkeys; […] they hungered like pigs for that gold.” That the Nahuas called Alvarado Tonatiuh, like Huitzilopochtli one of the divine incarnations of the sun, also suggests the demonic rather than the divine: in Nahua thought the Sun in his various incarnations was a ferocious and implacable warrior.113 Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca, royal treasurer and chief constable for Pánfilo de Narváez’s 1527 expedition to colonize the mainland of La Florida, experienced something of the subjectivities of the other side of the frontier in his nine-year odyssey from shipwreck in coastal Texas to his eventual overland return to Mexico City. Through a series of inversions of the usual Indian-conquistador binaries—“it is the conquistadores who eat each other, undergo a complete loss of material civilization, suffer a political and ethical breakdown, and depend on Indian knowledge for survival,” notes José Rabasa—Cabeza de Vaca’s fortunes shift from slaveowning Spanish hidalgo to owned slave of the Indians, from Indian-slaying 113 “like monkeys…hungered like pigs”: Miguel León-Portilla, English translator Lysander Kemp, Nahuatl translator Ángel María Garibay K., The Broken Spears: The Aztec Account of the Conquest of Mexico (Boston: Beacon Press, 2006 [1961]), 51, ; On swords, see John F. Guilmartin, Jr., “The Cutting Edge: An Analysis of the Spanish Invasion and Overthrow of the Inca Empire, 1532-1539,” in Kenneth J. Andrien and Rolena Adorno, eds., Transatlantic Encounters: Europeans and Andeans in the Sixteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), 40-69, and Restall, Seven Myths of the Spanish Conquest, 142-43; Townsend, “Burying the White Gods”, 659-87; Inga Clendinnen, ““Fierce and Unnatural Cruelty”: Cortés and the Conquest of Mexico,” in Stephen Greenblatt ed., New World Encounters (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993), 12-47. 121 conquistador to Indian-saving folk healer, and, in his own estimation at least, from a killer to an evangelist. These reversals he attributes to the Indians themselves in a standoff between Diego de Guzmán and his slave-hunting conquistadores, and Cabeza de Vaca and his three remaining companions, in the Río Yaqui region in 1536: [The Indians said that] we [i.e., Cabeza de Vaca and companions] came from where the sun rose, and they [Guzmán’s slave hunters] from where it set; and that we cured the sick, and that they killed those who were well; and that we came naked and barefoot, and that they went about dressed and on horses and with lances; and that we did not covet anything but rather, everything they gave us we later returned and remained with nothing, and that the others had no objective but to steal everything they found.114 Considering that Guzmán’s forces were the first other Europeans that Cabeza de Vaca and his companions had seen since 1527, a reading of his account in reverse chronological order reveals a Spanish presence that becomes more unreal and monstrous the further in time and space we go. In 1536, in the Río Yaqui region, their meeting with Guzmán followed an encounter with the aftermath of one of his slaving expeditions three years prior: afraid to return to their villages and cornfields, the locals, emaciated and reduced to eating roots and bark, told the four travellers that half their men and all the women and boys had been carried off. In a village in Sonora around Christmas 1535, they saw relics of Spanish weapons of war threaded on an Indian man’s necklace: an iron horseshoe nail and the iron buckle of a swordbelt. Long before any Iberians were seen, Cabeza de Vaca relates hearing many references to them as as hijos del sol (sons of the sun) and gente del cielo (people of the sky, 114 Rolena Adorno and Charles Patrick Pautz’s translation, cited in Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 119-26; Rolena Adorno, “The Navigation of Fear in Cabeza de Vaca’s Naufragios,” in Greenblatt ed., New World Encounters 48-84; “saludadores” in Rolena Adorno, Colonial Latin American Literature: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2011), 56-63; José Rabasa, Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier: The Historiography of Sixteenth-Century New Mexico and Florida and the Legacy of Conquest (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2000), 31-83; Donald E. Chipman, entry "Cabeza De Vaca, Alvar Nunez," in Handbook of Texas Online. 122 or people of the heavens); as Rolena Adorno notes, this does not necessarily imply endorsement of the “white god” myth, at least on the Indians’ part, but only that such unprecedented and odd people might well have come from another world, like the rampaging extraterrestrials of 20th-century science fiction.115 At the furthest geographical and temporal remove in Cabeza de Vaca’s text, during the winter of 1534-35 on the Texas side of the Río Grande’s “big bend,” Cabeza de Vaca was told by their hosts the Avavares of being visited, or attacked, by what sounds like a demonic personification of Europeans’ contradictory messages and actions: promising eternal life while maiming and killing. The Avavares, related Cabeza de Vaca, simply named this entity Mala Cosa, “Evil Thing,” and described it as a short, bearded man who would not accept their food if offered, and identified his point of origin by pointing to the earth “and [saying] his home was there below.” Appearing without warning, sometimes during Indian ceremonies and sometimes dressed as a woman, Mala Cosa’s powers included the ability to send a hut into the air and ride it to the ground, but his attacks on the domestic sanctity of Indian villages were not restricted to property damage. Breaking through the walls of a family’s home, bearing a torch in one hand and a long flint knife in the other, Mala Cosa would select and seize a man and cut open his side with his knife. He then pulled out his victim’s entrails and cut out a piece to throw into the fire, then selected an arm, lacerated it in three places, and severed it at the elbow. He would then pass his hand over the wounded parts and restore all as it was before.116 115 Adorno, “The Navigation of Fear in Cabeza de Vaca’s Naufragios”; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 119- 26; Chipman, entry "Cabeza De Vaca, Alvar Nunez," in Handbook of Texas Online. 116 Adorno, “The Navigation of Fear in Cabeza de Vaca’s Naufragios”; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 119- 26; Chipman, entry "Cabeza De Vaca, Alvar Nunez," in Handbook of Texas Online. 123 Mala Cosa was so frightening, said the Avavares, that he set onlookers to trembling and their hair to stand on end; they had not seen him since 1519 or 1520, but the healers were shown scars on the Indians’ bodies which they attested had come from these attacks. And the Avavares, like other peoples of Texas in Cabeza de Vaca’s account, were quite capable of defending themselves against enemies they understood. While not explicitly mentioning scalping, he points the way towards its treatment in 16th century texts with his descriptions of Indian warfare as both skillful and cruel. Recalling his service in Italy, then a battleground for rival European powers, he says the peoples of the Gulf Coast and Texas “are as astute in guarding themselves from their enemies as if they had been reared in Italy in a time of continuous war.” He adds, with some vagueness, “Whenever any of these people have particular enmity, they snare and kill each other at night, […] and inflict great cruelties on one another.” The image of indigenous North American warfare that emerges from the authors surveyed in this chapter, like Cabeza de Vaca, was perceived as less like licit European warfare, with fanfares and pitched field battles, than the forms of violence the early modern state was attempting to proscribe: feuds and vendettas, brigandage, murders, and kidnappings. Scalping may not have been specifically on Cabeza de Vaca’s mind, but he and other authors surveyed here sketched an intermediate phase in European images of America: between the primordial war imagined in the Iberian Americas (see Chapter 1), and the scalping paradigm that would emerge in British North America.117 117 José Rabasa, Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier, 31-83, “reversals of the stock images” (33-35), “stock New World images” (52), on cannibalism (“the Indians embody European values” 63, 78-80), “resistance has no place” (80); Adorno, “The Navigation of Fear in Cabeza de Vaca’s Naufragios”; Chipman, entry "Cabeza De Vaca, Alvar Nunez”; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 119-26; Chapter Twenty-Four (“About the Customs of the Indians of that Land”), 85-86, in Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca (1555 edition), Martin A. Favata and José B. Fernández trans., The Account: Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca’s Relación (Houston, TX: Arte Público Press, 1993), 85-86. “From the time of first European contact with American Indians, Europeans had viewed Native Americans as peculiarly warlike people. Europeans were fascinated and 124 Accounts of North American scalping and warfare in the 16th and 17th centuries In the tradition of Herodotus’ express purpose to examine the praiseworthy deeds of both Greeks and barbarians during the Persian Wars, The Inca set out to demonstrate that, just as the Inca lords he claimed descent from matrilineally had had their own glorious military heritage before the Spanish conquest, so too were the Indians of Florida worthy foes and valiant adversaries. Early in his account of the Soto expedition to conquer North America’s Southeast, La Florida del Inca (1605), he banishes the spectre of the cannibal warrior by noting the revulsion Cabeza de Vaca reported when the Indians discovered the shipwrecked conquistadores’ starvation cannibalism. While he couldn’t rule out the possibility that cannibalism occurred somewhere else in North America, “for Florida is so broad and long that there is space within it for anything to happen,” he could safely conclude that the peoples of “the provinces our Governor discovered […] abominate this practice.” Describing the first battles between the Soto expedition and the peoples of Florida, he explained to his readers that he saw no contradiction in describing Florida’s Indian warriors as knights or cavaliers (lit. ‘caballeros’) though they had no horses, “since in Spain this term implies a nobleman and since there is a nobility among the Indians”. To emphasize the Floridians’ martial prowess and pride in terms readily legible to a contemporary Spanish- language audience while also reminding his readers of his mestizaje, The Inca used the Quechua term ‘curaca’ to denote the leaders of Floridian polities, rather than the Caribbean loanword ‘cacique’: both, noted The Inca, signified “lord of vassals,” but “since I am a Peruvian Indian […], I feel it my privilege to introduce into this work certain words of my terrorized by aspects of warfare they associated with Indians, including raids, scalping, torture, giving captives no quarter, and attacking in winter. Europeans associated these forms of warfare with those of their ancestors, as characteristics of “primitive” peoples for whom warfare was sport or the product of feuds.” Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade, 172. 125 own language so as to make it clear that I am a native of Peru and not of some other land.” As with his clear distinctions regarding the inapplicability of cannibal-warrior imagery to Florida, The Inca sets out to remind his readers that considerable difference exists under the umbrella term “Indian.”118 With this in mind, The Inca sets out to demonstrate to his readers that the Indians are rational human beings like themselves. His summation of the nature of war in the American Southeast, in its familiar and alien dimensions, comes fairly late in the text, after describing the Soto expedition’s having become involved or enlisted in the wars of one indigenous polity against another in their odyssey from Tampa Bay to the Mississippi. Since “almost all of the provinces that these Spaniards traversed were at war with each other,” notes The Inca, a synthesis of the commonalities that made Southeastern warfare unique “would be appropriate”: One should know that this was not a conflict of force against force with an organized army or with pitched battles, except in rare instances, or a conflict instigated by the lust and ambition of some lords to seize the estates of others. Their struggle was one of ambush and subtlety in which they attacked each other on fishing or hunting trips and in their fields and along their roads wherever they could find an enemy off guard. And those whom they seized on such occasions, they held as slaves, some in perpetual bondage with one foot maimed, as we have seen them in certain provinces, and some as prisoners to be ransomed and exchanged. But the hostility among these Indians amounted to no more than the harm they inflicted upon their persons with deaths, wounds, or shackles, for they made no attempt to seize estates. If 118 Varner and Varner trans., Florida of the Inca, 15-16 (“abominate this practice”), 62 (“nobility among the Indians”), 95 (“since I am a Peruvian Indian”); Juan Marechal, “The New World from Within: The Inca Garcilaso,” in Fredi Chiapelli ed., First Images of America: The Impact of the New World on the Old, Vol. 1 of 2 ( Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1976), 57-61; José Rabasa and Jehudah Abarbanel, “ “Porque Soy Indio: Subjectivity in La Florida del Inca,” in Poetics Today, Vol. 16, No. 1 (Spring 1995), 79- 108; Lee Dowling, “La Florida del Inca: Garcilaso’s Literary Sources,” 98-154, and José Rabasa, “The Representation of Violence in the Soto Narratives,” 380-409, in Patricia K. Galloway ed., The Hernando de Soto Expedition: History, Historiography, and “Discovery” in the Southeast (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2005 [1997]). 126 sometimes the battle were more heated, they went so far as to burn towns and devastate fields, but as soon as the conquerors had inflicted the desired damage, they regathered in their own lands without attempting to take possession of the lands of others. It appears, therefore, that their enmity and hatred spring primarily from a desire for ostentation, or in other words a wish to show their valor and strength of spirit and to gain experience in military science rather than from a desire to obtain the property and estate of another. The prisoners, they easily ransom simply by a system of exchange, and then all return to their ambushes. This warfare, they now look upon as the natural order of things and, as a result, regardless of where they are found, are always provided with arms, for in no place are they secure from enemies.119 While the Indians did not make war for the land itself as Europeans did, Inca Garcilaso noted another sign of victory besides prisoners: “the scalp is a symbol which among all Indians signifies a great victory and vengeance for injuries.” Considering the implication of “vengeance for injuries,” his description of the Apalachees, already devastated by previous conquistador armies in their lands, can make sense within a chivalric Renaissance framework of a warrior’s universal right to vengeance. And The Inca does remind us, with brutal succinctness, of previous offenses against the Floridians by Soto’s predecessors. A ruler in the Florida peninsula named Hirrihigua, he tells us, whose mother had “been cast to the dogs” by Narváez’s followers, remembered the cruelties of the Narváez expedition “each time that he attempted to blow his nose and failed to find it”.120 For the most part, The Inca renders the violence of the American Southeast transparently legible for a contemporary European audience, and highlights the rationality of the Southeastern Indians in universalist terms. The curacas label the conquistadores as bandits, robbers, and vagabonds, and signify this by ordering their subjects to quarter and 119 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 487-88 (my italics). 120 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 437 (“scalp is a symbol”), 68 (“blow his nose”). 127 dismember the conquistadores’ bodies, hang their limbs from trees in lieu of gibbets, and decapitate them—in other words, to act as rightful lords in Europe would to criminals and rebels. Hearing of the Soto expedition’s approach, Hirrihigua retreats into the forest and tasks his vassals with bringing him the Iberians’ heads in the European fashion—not their scalps. Another Floridian lord’s violence is even more consistent with contemporary European practice: he lets the Spanish know he has ordered his followers “to bring me two Christian heads weekly,” and during the 20 days it took to pass through his territory, “not a single Spaniard who strayed so much as a hundred yards from the camp escaped being shot and beheaded at once,” with other conquistadores suffering posthumous exhumation, dismemberment, and display. The Spanish were warned that the Apalachees, who spent the winter of 1539-40 waylaying, killing, and scalping conquistadores (see Chapter 1), “would shoot them with arrows, quarter, burn and destroy them.”121 Several episodes in the Inca’s text erode the certainty of the conquistador myth that a small group of horsemen, bearing modern European arms and armour, can easily defeat and dominate thousands of Indians. For instance, after the curaca of Ocali had submitted to Soto and agreed to have his vassals build a bridge over a river for them, more than five hundred of his subjects fired “a sprinkling of arrows” at the curaca and Soto from the safety of the other side of the river, promising “you thieves, vagabonds and foreign immigrants” that they would not see the bridge built “with our hands”; when asked how he could permit this, the curaca abashedly replied that many of his subjects “no longer looked upon him with respect” for conceding to the Iberians. The Inca describes Indian bows as powerful enough to put arrows 121 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 68 (“receive the heads of these Castilians”), 118-20 (“two Christian heads weekly… shot and beheaded”) 175 (“quarter, burn, and destroy them”). 128 through Spanish chainmail or through a horse’s ribcage; in the heat of battle, Indian archers were able to kill conquistadores by aiming for their unarmoured eyes and faces at Mabila, and for their unarmoured legs at Chicaza. The Indians’ local knowledge also becomes weaponized to nullify the mounted conquistadores’ advantages: ambushes are laid for the conquistadores in the swamps, while Plains peoples at the western extreme of their wanderings use buffalo-hunting techniques against the horsemen. The Tula people skewer Soto’s remaining horses with their lances, while the people of what The Inca calls “the Province of Herdsmen” (provincia de los Vaqueros) crept on hands and knees into the camp at night, as though stalking game, to shoot horses and conquistadores.122 The conquistadores’ invocations of the white god myth, particularly Soto’s claim to be a son of the Sun, receives a similarly dim reception. The curaca of Quigualtanqui replies he would believe that when Soto dried up the Mississippi; another cacique, Vitachuco, declared them “sons of the devil” rather than “our gods, the Sun and the Moon”, noting that if they really were as virtuous as they claimed to be, they would have stayed in their own country in peace “sowing the land and raising cattle” rather than “ma[king] highwaymen, adulterers, and murderers of themselves”. Even the possibility of reverse-colonialism is attributed by The Inca to the survivor Juan Coles, who recalled that during the escape by boat down the Mississippi a gigantic Indian warrior, “tall as a Philistine,” assured the fleeing conquistadores that if his people could build ships like theirs, “we would follow you to your own land and conquer it, for we too are men like yourselves.” Soto concedes that all this may 122 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 59-60 (arrows through horses), 122-23 (“sprinkling of arrows… respect”), 234-36 (arrows through chainmail), 352-58 (battle of Mauvila / Mobile), 377 (of 47 conquistadores killed in the battle, 18 shot with arrows through their unarmoured eyes or mouths), 415 (arrows and “harpoons” aimed at unarmoured thighs and legs at Chicaza), 454-66 (Tula, buffalo-hunters); swamp ambushes (103-05, 175-81). 129 fly in the face of his readers’ expectations, “For in general [Indians] are looked upon as a simple folk without reason or understanding who in both peace and war differ very little from beasts.”123 Scalps and scalping, when discussed by The Inca, are placed in the context of indigenous warfare at its most vengeful and internecine, where the Spanish win the support of one indigenous polity by offering military assistance against another: marching with the captain Patofa of Cofaqui against the neighbouring polity of Cofachiqui, and siding with the town of Casquin against the town of Capaha. In each case, the Soto expedition’s involvement decides a stalemated contest, and the victors express their pent-up vengeance by sacking their enemies’ towns and temples, which Soto characterizes as “sepulchres,” looting the burial goods of pearls and fine furs, and desecrating the aristocrats’ interred remains. As well as sacking the temples and burial sites, the victors also scalp their enemies: Patofa and his eight thousand warriors, writes The Inca, killed everyone they captured in their attacks on the villages of the Cofachiquis, and “took the scalps from the ears up with admirable skill and dexterity” so that the elderly and infirm curaca of Cofaqui, who had delegated Patofa to act in his stead, “should see with his own eyes the vengeance they had wrought on his enemies for the injuries he had received […] in sum they did everything they could think of that might injure their enemies and satisfy their own thirst for vengeance.” While the Cofaquis had taken no prisoners in their destruction of the Cofachiquis’ towns, the Casquins were more selective in their attack on Capaha: after slaying the town’s male defenders, “more than a hundred and fifty in all,” looting the town, and capturing the women and children, “they 123 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 134-35 (Vitachuco), 157-61 (“differ very little from beasts”), 495-96 (Quigualtanqui), 595 (“Philistine,” “men like yourselves”). 130 removed the scalps of these men to take to their land as an evidence of triumph, for the scalp is a symbol which among all Indians signifies a great victory and vengeance for injuries.” While not explicitly stated by El Inca, his readers might have drawn an implicit comparison to the sectarian wars of contemporary Europe in which Protestant and Catholic armies and mobs desecrated and destroyed each other’s sacred sites, tombs, and graveyards. Scalping, however, marked such immoderate vengeance as specifically North American.124 An early reference to scalping from present-day Canada appears in Jacques Cartier’s account of his second voyage (1535-36). A leader named Donnacona, whose sons Cartier had kidnapped to train as interpreters when returning to France from his first voyage in 1534, showed Cartier Lawrence at their village of Stadacona “the skins of five men's heads, stretched on hoops, like parchment (les peaulx de cinq testes d'hommes, estandues sus des boys, comme peaulx de parchemin)” and explained them to belong to “Toudamans,” enemies from the south “who waged war continually against his people.” Cartier writes that Donnacona explained that the Toudamans had inflicted a great defeat on the Stadaconans two years previously, surprising their fortified camp and slaying 200 men, women and children setting out on a war expedition against the Toudamans. Only five of the Stadaconans had survived, and “they still continued to complain bitterly” about this defeat, “making clear to us that they would have vengeance for the same.” Bruce Trigger has observed that Donnacona was probably asking Cartier for a military alliance, but Cartier was as uninterested in this as he was in the report of the Hochelagans, another Iroquoian people he met further downriver, of their enemies up the Ottawa River whom they called Agojuda, who wore armour of “cords 124 Varner and Varner, Florida of the Inca, 13-14 (“They do have temples but they use them as sepulchres and not as houses of prayer”), 292-96 (war of Cofaqui against Cofachiqui), 437 (“signifies a great victory and vengeance for injuries”). 131 and wood, laced and plaited together,” and whose tribes were continually at war with each other. His ethnography was curt and dismissive: the Stadaconans and Hochelagans had “no belief in God that amounts to anything,” “live with almost everything in common, much like the Brazilians,” “go clothed in beasts’ skins, and rather miserably,” ate their meat and fish “quite raw, merely smoking it,” and were “more indifferent to the cold than beasts.” In short, they had so little culture of their own that “they could easily be moulded in the way one would wish.”125 Cartier did draw critical distinctions in terms of sociocultural life. Though he considered the Stadaconans and Hochelagans poor, the former so poor that nothing they owned was “above the value of five sous, their canoes and fishing-nets excepted,” he did note that they lived in settled villages and had agriculture, growing tobacco, “melons” (i.e., squash) and “corn like pease, the same as in Brazil, which they eat in place of bread.” This he deemed an improvement over the nomadic, “wild and savage folk” he had met in 1534 on the barren, rocky coastland he dubbed “the land God gave to Cain,” where “I did not see one cart-load of earth”; they were themselves outclassed, in his estimation, by the people he had met at Chaleur Bay, who approached the French in canoes holding pelts on the end of sticks and speaking what 20th-century researchers identify as a Basque trade pidgin. The Hochelagans, further downriver from the Stadaconans, also had more valuable material 125 “the skins of five men’s heads”: Axtell and Sturtevant’s translation, “The Unkindest Cut,” 456; H.P. Biggar, in the 1924 bilingual edition, cites the French text from the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris for “les peaulx de cinq testes d’hommes” (177-78) in H.P. Biggar, The Voyages of Jacques Cartier (Ottawa: F.A. Acland, Printer to the King’s Most Excellent Majesty, 1924). Citations otherwise from Ramsay Cook ed., H.P. Biggar trans., The Voyages of Jacques Cartier (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993), 65 (Agojuda), 67-71 (Toudamans, “skin of five men’s heads,” “no belief in God that amounts to anything”); Bruce Trigger, Children of Aataentsic: A History of the Huron People to 1660 (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1987 [1976]), 183-201, 246-56; Bruce Trigger, Natives and Newcomers: Canada’s “Heroic Age” Reconsidered (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1987 [1985]), 129-35, 172-83. 132 culture in the form of esnoguy or wampum made from musselshells, which he believed was procured in a typically bizarre and violent American way: by making incisions in the thighs and buttocks of an executed criminal or prisoner of war, submerging the corpse into a waterway where the shellfish lived, and then extracting the mussels from the wounds. Deciding that the material wealth of the indigenous societies he encountered was correlated to the geographical distance of the journey upriver and into the continent, the sight of worked Great Lakes copper created in Cartier’s mind the idea that a version of Mexico or Peru, as advanced in comparison to the Hochelagans as he believed them to be to the coastal peoples, must exist upriver in the country they called the Saguenay. His visions of a “kingdom of the Saguenay,” who “go clothed and dressed in woollens like ourselves” and live in “many towns and peoples composed of honest folk who possess great store of gold and copper,” were fed by Donnacona, who by this point probably sought to rid themselves of the French, and his sons Taignoagny and Domagaya, whose time in France had stripped them of any illusions about what Europeans expected to find in the Americas.126 The Tristán de Luna y Arellano expedition to colonize the Southeast (1559-60) also witnessed scalping in the context of vengeful indigenous warfare, as reported by the expedition’s chaplain, Fray Domingo de la Anunciación, and as recorded by Fray Agustín Dávila Padilla in Historia de la Fundación… (1625). The expedition had planned to establish a colony at Coosa (Coça), partly because of its description in La Florida del Inca as agriculturally wealthy and densely populated, and the Coosans, according to Anunciación, placed the price of their allegiance as a request for Spanish assistance against a neighbouring 126 Cook and Biggar, Voyages of Jacques Cartier, 9-10 (“wild and savage… land God gave to Cain”), 62 (esnoguy), 67-71 (ethnography), 82 (Kingdom of the Saguenay). On Basque trade pidgin, see Erik R. Seeman, Death in the New World: Cross-Cultural Encounters, 1492-1800 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010), 107. 133 polity, the Napochies. Anunciación, according to Padilla, was quite taken by the Coosans’ military discipline, including an equal-arm-cross marching formation which he compared to that of the Biblical Israelites. Once at the abandoned Napochie village, however, he was struck by another display of their martial customs: on a tall wooden pillar in the town square they found many Coosas’ scalps (cabellos, “hair locks”). “It was the custom of the Indians to flay the head of the enemy dead, and to hang the resulting skin and locks (pellejo y cabellos) insultingly on that pole. There were many dead, and the pole was covered with locks.” The Coosans, much angered at “this evidence of affront” and reminder of “all the previous injuries” done to them, cut down the pole, and carried off the scalps (los cabellos) in order to bury them with proper ceremony.” The Coosans, writes Dávila Padilla, were “like raging lions” (leones rabiosos) at this sight, linking the Savagist comparison of purportedly wild men to wild animals with the by-now-rote description of Indian warriors as raging and vengeful.127 “The [Timucuan] kings make wars among themselves, always by surprise attack,” wrote René Goulaine de Laudonnière in his 1586 memoir of the French attempt to colonize Florida (near present-day Jacksonville) in the 1560s: They kill every male enemy they can. Then they cut the skin off their heads to preserve the hair, and carry this back on their triumphant homeward journeys. They spare the enemy women and children, feed them, and retain them permanently among themselves. 127 “Flay the head of the enemy dead”: Axtell and Sturtevant’s translation of Historia de la fundacion y discurso de la Prouincia de Santiago de Mexico (Madrid, 1596), 260, in “The Unkindest Cut, or Who Invented Scalping,” 457; Charles Hudson, “A Spanish-Coosa Alliance in Sixteenth-Century North Georgia,” in The Georgia Historical Quarterly Vol. 72, No. 4 (Winter 1988), 599-626; on the disputed historicity of Dávila Padilla’s account and its constant invocation of the miraculous, see Patricia Galloway, Choctaw Genesis, 1500- 1700 (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), 145; Patricia Galloway, “Agustin Davila Padilla’s Fabulous History of the Luna Expedition: Ideology in Two Centuries,” in Practicing Ethnohistory: Mining Archives, Hearing Testimony, Constructing Narrative (University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 78-96; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 131; “leones rabiosos” in Dávila Padilla, 1625 edition, 214. 134 In the scalp dances that commemorated victory, “They even make the old women dance while holding the enemy scalps in their hands” and praising the Sun, to whom “the honour of victory” was attributed. Laudonnière sabotaged the colony’s future by attempting to become trading partners of their neighbour Satouriona’s enemies, the Thimogona, instead of heeding his request for French gunmen to join him in a joint campaign against them. Accordingly, Laudonnière’s account dwells on the purportedly vengeful and implacable nature of the Timucuans. After one of his officers attempted to cover their delegation to Thimogona’s people by claiming it an unsuccessful raid, a vassal of Satouriona’s named Molona showed his displeasure at a victory feast by ordering a cupbearer to inflict a non-fatal knife wound on one of his guests, who turned out to be one of Molona’s sons. Every time an expedition returned from the Thimogona country without “the scalps of their enemies” or “some prisoner,” explained Molona, his ancestors’ injuries at their hands should be “renew[ed]” and “lamented afresh,” and “the best loved of all his children should be struck by the same weapon by which his ancestors had been killed.” A few weeks later, Satouriona set out against the Thimogona; they launched a surprise attack on a Thimogona village and “cut the enemy to pieces, excepting women and little children. […] When it was accomplished, the aggressors took the heads of their slain enemies and cut the hair off, taking a piece of skull with each scalp.” They also returned with 24 prisoners, of whom Satouriona kept 13 for himself and distributed the rest among his 10 chiefs, and bearing “the scalps at the top of their spears” which were set, crowned with magnolia, outside Satouriona’s house. Laudonnière then marched against Satouriona’s house with 20 arquebusiers and demanded 135 that Satouriona, on whose land Fort Caroline had been built and who supplied food and labour to the colony, turn over his prisoners to the French.128 This was the penultimate insult; the final insult was when the French began lending military assistance to another of Satouriona’s enemies, Outina, in late 1564 and the spring of 1565. Thirty French soldiers under a Captain D’Ottigni marched with an expedition of 300 Timucuan archers accompanied by their bearers (Laudonnière calls them “women, young boys, and hermaphrodites”) against another leader, Potavou. Close to his village, they surprised three men fishing; two of them escaped while the third was shot with arrows “and scalped by our Indians,” who cut off his arms and “preserv[ed] his scalp” for the victory dance. Outina, afraid that the escaped fishermen would alert Potavou to their presence, asked his jarua or diviner whether they should continue or retreat; the jarua replied that it was best to retreat and that Potavou, was waiting for him with at least 2,000 men. D’Ottigni then demanded a guide so that he and his 30 men could attack the Potavou, and Outina followed. Laudonnière notes that they met the enemy “at the exact place where the magician had said they would be,” and that Outina would have been defeated if not for the advantage of firearms. Having killed a large number of Potavou’s soldiers and routed the rest, Outina “was contented for the time being” and withdrew. This “greatly disgusted” d’Ottigni, “who had wanted nothing more than going on to complete victory.”129 128 Laudonnière, Charles E. Bennett ed., trans., Three Voyages (Gainesville, FL: the University Presses of Florida, 1975), 9-16 (“wars among themselves”), 76-82 (Molona and vindictiveness), 80-88 (Satouriona and conflict over slaves and scalps); Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 457-58; Margaret F. Dickett and Dwayne F. Dickett, The European Struggle to Settle North America: Colonizing Attempts by England, France and Spain, 1521-1608 (McFarland, 2011), 84-97; Laura Fishman, “Old World Images Encounter New World Reality: Rene Laudonnière and the Timucuans of Florida,” in The Sixteenth Century Journal vol. 26, no. 3 (Autumn 1995), 547-559; Dickason, Myth of the Savage, 192-202. 129 Laudonnière, Three Voyages, 117-120. 136 The short-lived Huguenot colony, wiped out in a sectarian massacre by Pedro Menéndez de Avilés with the guidance of Satouriona and other Timucuan leaders alienated by Laudonniére’s policies, was also depicted in a now-obscure collection of text and sketches by another expeditionary member, Jacques le Moyne de Morgues. Those illustrations were the basis for a series of engravings, still widely-reprinted in scholarly and popular works on the early Americas, in Theodor de Bry’s 1591 Latin translation of le Moyne’s account. De Bry’s depictions of heroically nude Timucuans recycled themes which were by this point standard Americana: in one engraving, Timucuans worship a monument placed by an earlier explorer in their territory; in another, a newborn baby is sacrificed in honour of a Timucuan chief. Of importance for this chapter are de Bry’s illustrations of war and hunting. De Bry’s depictions of both juxtapose the familiar and praiseworthy with brutal exotica. In Plate XIII Outina, his warriors, and Captain D’Ottigni’s arquebusiers form an orderly square formation against a vast army of Potavou’s followers, and Plate XIV, “Order of March Observed by Outina on a Military Expedition,” presents Indian warfare in a visually-familiar fashion. Plate XV, “How Outina’s Men Treated the Slain of the Enemy”, furthers the connection drawn between scalping, which le Moyne had said was performed “with pieces of reed sharper than any steel blade,” and inventive mutilation: the victorious warriors have already scalped and cut the limbs off of a dead enemy and are inserting an arrow into the corpse’s anus. The depictions of Timucuan hunters follow suit: Plate XXV, “Hunting Deer,” shows hunters dressed in deerskins stalking their unaware prey while drinking at a river, a matter of finesse and wit; the next plate, “Killing Crocodiles”, is a matter of naked force, as six nude 137 Timucuan hunters shove a sharpened log like a battering ram down a huge alligator’s throat.130 A related reading of North Americans’ lifestyle as equally defined by war and hunting was conveyed in André Thévet’s discussions and illustrations of the peoples of Florida and Canada in Les Singularitez de la France antarctique (1557), La Cosmographie universelle d’André Thévét, cosmographe du roy (1575), and Vrais Pourtraicts et vies des hommes illustres... (1584). Synthesizing the works of other authors on the Americas, Thévet added his own authorial-editorial touches to explain the differences between the already- discovered peoples of the equatorial Americas, such as Brazilians and Mexicans, and the more-recently-encountered North Americans. One way Thévet expressed this was visually, through the civilized-savage juxtaposition of textile clothing versus hides and pelts. In 1584’s Vrais Pourtraicts, Thévet depicts Montezuma wearing clothes and accoutrements which are more refined creations of human culture: a Mexican circular shield adorned with featherwork, a robe of woven cotton or linen knotted over his left shoulder in a Classical fashion, and a crown. The Timucuan leader Satouriona, by contrast, sports a full fur coat with sleeves to the wrists, and the skin of a large cat as a hood with its clawed paws knotted around his neck in the fashion of Hercules’ lion pelt, with a perfunctory American feather bonnet tucked on top of his cap. The peoples so far encountered north of Mexico, both the Floridians and the Canadians, wear “the skins of wild animals” to protect themselves against the cold, to which Thévet attributes “the statement of certain ignoramuses that the savages 130 Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 457-58; Plate VIII, “The Natives of Florida Worship the Column Erected by the Commander on his First Voyage”; Plate XXXIV, “First-Born Children Sacrificed to the Chief with Solemn Ceremonies”; Plate XIII, “Outina, With the Help of the French, Gains a Victory over His Enemy Potanou”; Plate XV, “How Outina’s Men Treated the Slain of the Enemy”; Plate XXV, “Hunting Deer”; Plate XXIV, “Killing Crocodiles” – from https://www.floridamemory.com/collections/debry/ , accessed 13 October 2012, 5:11 pm PST. https://www.floridamemory.com/collections/debry/ 138 had fur.” While Thévet considers the people of Canada as having almost no material or religious culture to speak of, besides vague veneration of the heavenly bodies, he makes this anthropology of defiency a positive thing: while some Canadians are idolatrous, they do not perform the idolatrous human sacrifices of the Floridians and Mexicans, or have dietary “superstitions” like Jews and Muslims. While “these Canadians, who are the fiercest known people and who have no arts or trades whatsoever, are always occupied in warring with some of their neighbours,” they are “rather good people and gracious if you do not irritate them,” certainly more praiseworthy than the Floridians, who he considers cruel and idolatrous. The Canadians are also more advanced than the Brazilians by wearing fur and leather clothing, while the Brazilians go about naked in the manner of “the first condition of the human race”; for reference, Thévet explains that the ancient French were nearly as savage as contemporary Brazilians and went about “almost naked” when “Hercules of Libya” first discovered them. Unlike the Brazilians, Thévet’s Canadians do not eat their defeated enemies—they scalp them instead.131 In his description of Canadian warfare in 1557’s Singularitez, wars begin when “the Agohanna (which means like king or lord)” commands his vassals to ready their fighting men and prepare provisions for an expedition. Marching four-by-four to the tune of drums and deerbone flutes and bearing ensigns made of birch branches and adorned with swans’ and other birds’ feathers, they fight with bows, clubs, spears, shields, and bearskin helmets. That stone and wooden weapons were as legitimate as those of iron and steel Thévet explained by 131 André Thévet, Roger Schlesinger and Arthur P. Stabler eds., trans., André Thévét’s North America: A Sixteenth-Century View (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1986), 11 (“certain ignoramuses”), 11-12 (“Hercules of Libya”… “first condition of the human race”), 13 (“superstitious nation of the Turks”), 23 (“Turks, Arabs … superstitious people”), 38 (“fiercest known people), 138 (“skins of wild animals”). On the accuracy of Thévet’s claims of travels in the Americas, see Tom Conley, “Thevet Revisits Guanabara,” in The Hispanic American Historical Review, Vol. 80, No. 4, November 2000, 753-781. 139 pointing to precedent of their use in the Old World in ancient texts: the Bible, Herodotus, Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, Justinian. Unlike the bloodthirsty peoples of South America, who make war for enjoyment, the Canadians only go to war “to avenge a wrong received”, and Thevet suggests the deep winter snows act as a natural barrier to more expeditions. “True, if they capture some of their enemies or are otherwise victorious, they skin their head and face and lay them out in a circle to dry. Then they carry them to their country, showing them proudly as a symbol of victory to their friends, wives, and old men, who in their weak old age can no longer carry the burden.” In 1575’s Cosmographie Universelle, Thévet added an illustration of Canadians at war. Their king, wielding what looks like a sledgehammer, is carried on the shoulders of bearers as a mark of his rank and status. Two musicians carry a drum of hide stretched on an oval wooden hoop the size of a dressing mirror while a third beats a marching rhythm with two deer femurs. Ghoulishly, the drum is echoed visually by a smaller oval wooden hoop on which is stretched the dried face of an enemy; in the background, ten similar hoops of dried faces hang from trees, testament to past victories.132 Like Theodor de Bry, Thévet also notes a connection between warfare and hunting in the life of indigenous North Americans, explained through humoral and climactic-determinist theory. All northern peoples, wrote Thévet, were made “courageous” to varying degrees by the inclosure of their body heat through thick clothing, “which therefore renders them robust and valiant: for the strength and virtue of all parts of the body depend on this natural warmth.” Southerners, which Lestringant notes could include Iberians and Italians as well as Brazilians in French polemics, were “the contrary,” writes Thévet: hot equatorial air drew out 132 Schlesinger and Stabler, Andre Thévét’s North America, 14-19 (“skin their head and face”), 44 (Thévet’s illustration of Canadians at war). 140 and “dissipated” their internal body heat, making them morally incontinent and cowardly. Thus Thévet’s engraving of native Canadians, wearing fur robes and toques and with snowshoes on their feet, hunting wild beasts in the winter snow. A deer hunter is in the background, while in the foreground three hunters target a wild boar with spears and a bow, one of the hunters killing the boar by shoving a spear down its throat in the same manner as de Bry’s alligator-hunters. Thévet also attributed such scenes, which he considered endemic to Canada, to climactic determinism: as proven by “the beautiful pelts” brought from perpetually-cold northern regions, fierce wild beasts “abound more in northern regions (except lions, tigers, elephants, rignoseros [sic])” than elsewhere. Wild men were typically depicted in battle with wild animals, like bears and bulls, and strange conflicts between northern savages and wild beasts had been a recurrent subtheme of European geography (see Chapter 1).133 The explanation of indigenous Canadian warfare by analogy to Rome’s enemies across the Alps was continued and extended by the French lawyer Marc Lescarbot in his account of his year in Acadia, Nova Francia (1606). The ‘Acadians’ he describes, probably Mi’kmaq and Maliseet, did not make war for land, but “as Alexander the Great did make it, that they may say I have beaten you, or else for revenge in remembrance of some injury received.” Their unwillingness to forgive or forget past injuries was “the greatest vice that I find in them,” wrote Lescarbot, but also excusable “because they do nothing but that which ourselves do also.” While in attacks on their enemies they slew as many of the male defenders as they could lay hands on, “They also use humanity and mercy towards their 133 Schlesinger and Stabler, Andre Thévét’s North America, 9-10 (“robust and valiant”), 58 (“beautiful pelts”); Lestringant, Cannibals, 86-93. On climactic-determinist theories on northerners, see Isaac, Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity, 55-168; Snowden Jr., Before Color Prejudice, 85-87. 141 enemies’ wives and little children” by taking them captive “for to serve them” per the “ancient right of servitude.” In describing the Acadians’ war customs, he took great pains to rule out the possibility of anthropophagy and human sacrifice: their war and victory dances, which he called Tabagies, were not cannibal bacchanalias, but a show of joy and thanksgiving, like the Israelites’ songs of praise after the death of King Sisera (Judges 4-5) or David’s triumph over Goliath (I Samuel 18:6-7), and served an educational purpose for the young, like the civic dances of the ancient Spartans. Cartier’s report of seeing preserved scalps, for instance, didn’t necessarily mean that the Stadaconans had sacrificed those men (a possible allusion to the flayed-face stories of Cortés), but that, like the “ancient Gauls,” they had “set them up in or without their cabins as a trophy, which is usual through all the West Indies.” Lescarbot reminded his readers that the ancient Gauls, who the French then and now considered as national ancestors, had been reported by various Greek and Roman authors, particularly Polybius, Caesar, Strabo, Diodorus Siculus, and Ammianus Marcellinus, to decapitate their enemies and preserve their heads as trophies: “Our ancient Gauls did make no less trophies with the heads of their enemies than our savages.”134 Going one step further, Lescarbot invoked the ancient symbol of barbarism, the gilded skull-cup, by reminding his readers that one of the Gallic tribes, the Boii, had been reported in Strabo’s Geography (III.3) to gild their enemies’ skulls and use them “in sacred things and holy solemnities. If any man thinketh this strange,” he interjected, as they might find strange the idea that the Acadians bite their enemies’ scalps during victory dances to show their rage, he should consider the report of Blaise de Vigenère, French scholar and 134 Marc Lescarbot, trans. P. Erondelle, Nova Francia: A Description of Acadia, 1606 (New York and London: Harper & Brothers, 1928), 168 (Gallic head trophies) 196-97 (head-taking among national ancestors of the French), 235-37 (Biblical (Judges V, 1 Samuel 18:6-7) and classical parallels), 264 (“ancient right of servitude”), 307-15. 142 diplomat, of events on the Hungarian frontier between Christian Europe and the Ottoman Empire: he saith that in the year 1566, being near Jauarin [Győr], they did lick the blood of the Turks’ heads which they brought to the Emperor Maximilian; which goeth beyond the barbarousness that might be objected to our savages. Yea, I must tell you that they have more humanity than many Christians, who within these hundred years have committed in divers occurrences, upon women and children, cruelties more than brutish, whereof the histories be full; and our savages do extend their mercy to these two sorts of creatures. The Acadians gain no material benefit from their moral superiority to Europeans, however, and their life is harder than that of soldiers “coming forth out of tents and pavilions”. Their manner of making war, by travelling over great distances to take their enemy by surprise, “keepeth them in perpetual fear,” and “at the least noise in the world,” like a moose passing through the forest, “they take an alarm.”135 In Des Sauvages, ou Voyage de Samuel Champlain de Brouage… (1604), Samuel de Champlain gave his account of such a victory ceremony which he had attended, as part of a French delegation to their North Atlantic allies in 1603. Prior to the arrival of the French delegation, a combined force of a thousand warriors from the Algonquin, Innu (“Montagnais”) and Maliseet (“Etchemins”) had met an Iroquois expedition at the mouth of the Iroquois River (later, the Richelieu River) and killed about 100 of their enemies, “whose 135 Lescarbot, Nova Francia, 307-15; on ‘Javarin,’ see: Entry “Gewer, Javarinum, called by the Inhabitants Raab; by the Germans Javarin, Giavarino; is a small, but very strong City, the Capital of a County in the Lower Hungary, and a Bishops See, under the Archbishop of Gran. It stands five miles from Comora to the West, where the Raab and the Rabnitz fall into the Danube. This City is called Gewer by the Hungarians.” – in Edmund Bohun, A Geographical Dictionary, Representing the Present and Ancient Names of all the Countries, Provinces, Remarkable Cities […] of the whole World (London: Charles Brome, 1688), GE to GH (no pagination). Listed as “Raab, Javarin, Györ, Jaurinum” in Denis Diderot and Fortuné Barthélemy de Félice, Encyclopédia ou Dictionnaire Universel Raisonné des connoissances humaines, Volume 36, ‘R’ (Yverdon, Switzerland, 1774), page 2. 143 scalps they cut off.” Champlain had little faith in the ability of France’s allies to fight the Iroquois—he characterized their wars as “altogether by surprises,” since otherwise they would be “too much in dread” of a numerically-superior foe—and the French, through their interpreter, reiterated the goals of their king: to trade with them, to populate their country with French colonists, “and to make peace with their enemies (who are the Iroquois) or send forces to vanquish them.” After listening with attentive and total silence, the Innu leader Anadabijou carefully and politely replied “that he was well content that His said Majesty should people their country, and make war on their enemies,” sidestepping entirely the proposal that the French king could or should establish peace between them and their longstanding enemies. Following the feast, they began to dance, “taking in their hands ... the scalps [testes, lit. “heads”] of their enemies, which hung behind them”. The Algonquins’ victory ceremony was much the same, except that their women, who danced with the scalps, stripped down to their jewellery, while their leader Tessouat, who “sat between two poles, on which hung the scalps [testes] of their enemies,” periodically stood up to exhort his assembled allies, presumably including the French, “See how we rejoice for the victory which we have obtained over our enemies; ye must do the like, that we may be satisfied.” Champlain’s literary response is to add a long, griping passage on the Indians’ perceived faults—the “one evil quality in them, which is, that they are given to revenge,” and their way of life as godless and lawless, “like brute beasts.”136 In 1606, Champlain sailed south as part of a trading expedition to the Wampanoag at Cape Cod. French sailors in the previous year had alienated the Wampanoag with their 136 H.P. Biggar et. al., The Works of Samuel de Champlain in Six Volumes, Vol. I (Toronto: the Champlain Society, 1922), 100-107; Annie Nettleton Bourne trans., Edward Gaylord Bourne ed., Algonquians, Hurons and Iroquois: Champlain Explores America, 1603-1616 (Dartmouth, Nova Scotia: Brook House Press, 2000 [New York: A.S. Barnes, 1906]), ix-xiii; Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 458. 144 behaviour, and the 1606 expedition followed suit, first attempting to intimidate them, then shooting two Wampanoag for theft. In retaliation, the Wampanoag ambushed and slew some French sailors. The French decided to make a show of punishment by capturing some Wampanoag and taking them back to Acadia to grind grain at Port-Royal; when the capture attempt failed, the French killed six or seven Wampanoag with their swords. They returned to Port Royal with four or five dead, four wounded, but Champlain noted that their Maliseet guide and interpreter Secoudon “was much pleased and well satisfied at having made this voyage with us, and carried off some scalps of the Indians (quelques testes des sauvages) who had been killed at Misfortune harbour.”137 Champlain’s later account of joining an Innu-Algonquin-Huron excursion into Iroquoia in the summer of 1609 drew further linkage between scalping, torture, and anthropophagy in the European perception of North American warfare. Champlain described elements of their military customs as sensible and praiseworthy, for instance, the allies’ tripartite division of their forces into scouts, a main body of troops, and hunters scattered behind the advance to provision them; their ability to palisade the landward side of their riverbank campsites “in less than two hours”; the captains drilling their followers on their battle formations in advance of the battle itself; and their use of parched cornmeal as a premade ration for when they entered enemy territory, to be mixed with water and eaten cold to avoid giving away their positions with woodsmoke. On the journey south Champlain had 137 My thanks to Kilroy Abney (UBC) for bringing this incident to my attention. Samuel de Champlain, Henry Percival Biggar et al., The works of Samuel de Champlain, Volume I (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1922), 325, 353-54, 420-28, 431-36; Marc Lescarbot, Henry Percival Biggar, and W. L. Grant, History of New France, Volume I (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1907), 277; Marc Lescarbot, Henry Percival Biggar, and W. L. Grant, History of New France, Volume II (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1911), 332-38; on the identification of agriculturalist New England Algonquians (French “Armouchiqouis”) as most likely Wampanoag, see Kathleen Joan Bragdon, Native People of Southern New England, 1500-1650 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1996), 25-26. 145 only two complaints: that the Indians didn’t post sentries at night, and employed Shaking Tent diviners (who he considered charlatans) to obtain any intelligence that escaped their scouts. After the battle with the Iroquois, another point of difference between Champlain and his allies became apparent: of the ten or twelve Iroquois taken prisoner, the allies selected one to execute by torture on the spot. As Bruce Trigger and other commentators have pointed out, Champlain’s objections were not to torture per se, as meted out in contemporary Europe for “treason, heresy, or sexual deviancy,” but for the torture of a prisoner of war and the anthropophagous elements of trying to force other prisoners to eat the dead man’s heart. Champlain also reported scalping as an element of the Iroquois’ execution by torture: “they flayed the top of his head and poured hot gum on his crown,” and after his posthumous dismemberment they retained “the skin of his head (la peau de la teste)” with those of other Iroquois slain in the battle. Bringing these scalps back to Tadoussac for a victory ceremony, Champlain noted that they gifted him with two of the scalps and two sets of Iroquois weapons to bring back to the French king. Describing the aftermath of a battle in 1610, Champlain noted that “These savages scalped the heads of their dead enemies, as they are accustomed to do, as a trophy of their victory, and took them away.” In 1611, Champlain described a scenario consistent with a coalescing European trope of indigenous American warriors as immoderately vengeful. The Huron leadership had been unsuccessful in persuading a small nine-man war party from setting out on an expedition into Iroquoia, since they feared its leader, who had been captured, tortured, and escaped from the Iroquois three times already, would lead them deep into enemy territory to certain death. Champlain was asked to intervene as a final persuading voice, but this Huron Ahab was undeterred: showing Champlain his scars and missing fingers, he said he could not live “without killing his 146 enemies and having his revenge.” As predicted, none of them ever returned from their doomed mission.138 Gabriel Sagard, a Recollet missionary who travelled up the St. Lawrence to the Huron country in 1623-24, later summarized the war customs and lifestyle of the Huron and Algonquians as revealing “the wretchedness of human nature, tainted at the source, deprived of the training of the faith, destitute of morality”. This portrait was not uniformly damning, and there were elements of Huron and Algonquian society that he considered exemplary and worth consideration for Europeans. He praised their self-control, which granted them more patience than most Frenchmen had, their “very kindly and polite” manner, and their quick wits, being “not so gross and dull as we in France suppose.” They built houses for the homeless, showed reverence for graveyards and the dead which “surpass[ed] the piety of Christians,” and avoided wet-nurses. In regards to warfare, he did think them “kind and merciful in victory towards the wives and little children of their enemies” for saving their lives, “although these remain prisoners and serve them.” He also favourably noted that warparties fed themselves with their own provisions of dried cornmeal, rather than plundering the countryside as European armies did. Like previous authors, he preferred sedentary urban-agrarian life, like that of the Huron, over seasonal movement between campsites and food sources like the Innu: “I consider the Hurons and other sedentary tribes as the aristocracy, the Algonquin peoples the townspeople,” and the Innu and ‘Canadians’ “the villagers and poor people of the country.” This was more or less the end of the list. Some of the faults he found among the Indians were those that a literate, well-educated 138 Bourne and Bourne, Champlain Explores America, 91-109; Axtell and Sturtevant, “Unkindest Cut,” 458-59; Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 246-330 (254: “treason, heresy, or sexual deviancy”). 147 European would have found among European peasants, like open belching, breaking wind in canoes, or wiping their hands on their dogs while eating. He faulted their past and present lack of Christianity and certain aspects of their culture: that they did not explicitly compliment each other, hired diviners to ascertain the whereabouts of stolen property, and were in his estimation “addicted” to revenge and “lying.”139 What horrified Sagard was the prosecution of warfare, which he considered “properly speaking, nothing but surprise and treachery” intended “to take revenge for some slight wrong or unpleasantness,” and the fate of prisoners. Every year in the spring, and throughout the summer, 500 to 600 Huron men scattered through the Iroquois country in bands of 5 or 6, lying low by day and “prowl[ing] about” by night to seize captives, even from the villages themselves, to bring back to the Huron country “to put them to death over a slow fire”. Those they couldn’t carry off they slew on the spot with arrows or warclubs and “carr[ied] away the head; and if they are too much encumbered with these they are content to take the scalps with the hair on them, which they call Onontsira, tan them, and put them away for trophies, and in time of war set them on the palisades of their town fastened to the end of a long pole.” He did note that women, girls, and children were usually spared from execution in the villages, and children were adopted as “substitutes”; but those not taken prisoner they “[put] to death on the spot, and take away the heads or the hairy scalp.” Like Champlain, Sagard mentioned scalping in the context of execution by torture: “and then they strip off all the skin of the 139 Gabriel Sagard, H.H. Langton trans., Sagard’s Long Journey to the Country of the Hurons (New York: Greenwood Press, 1968 [1939]), 15-17 (“wretchedness of human nature”), 64 (“kindly and polite”), 139 (“aristocracy… as we in France”), 68-69 (“surpass the piety of Christians”), 140 (“kind and merciful… prisoners… addicted”), 152-66 (war and execution); Axtell and Sturtevant, “Unkindest Cut,” 459-60. 148 head with the hair, and afterwards apply fire to it and hot ashes, or they drop upon it melted gum of a certain kind.”140 Two final references to scalping must be considered before we conclude this chapter. Ulrich Schmiedel, a Bavarian mercenary who served across South America from 1534 to 1554, took exception with Álvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca’s account of his tenure as governor of the Río de la Plata region, from 1540-44. Schmiedel wasn’t the only one to take exception to Cabeza de Vaca—his attempts to regulate the behaviour of other Iberians in the region and curtail labour abuses towards the Guaraní had led to his being expelled from South America in chains in 1545. In this case, Schmiedel disagreed with Cabeza de Vaca’s claim in his 1555 account of his governorship, Comentarios, that the Indians of the region in question decapitated their enemies for trophies. Schmiedel laid out an alternate explanation in his memoir, which appeared in a 1567 German anthology of American voyages: Mark you, now, what he does further with the man’s head, and to what use he puts it, namely, if he has any opportunity for so doing, after a skirmish. He takes off the skin with all the hair over the ears, then he fills the head out and leaves it to become hard; afterwards he puts this hard and dry skin on a little hoop as a souvenir, in the same way as here in Germany a knight or commander puts a scutcheon in the churches. 141 140 Langton, Sagard’s Long Journey, 148-166; Axtell and Sturtevant, “Unkindest Cut,” 459-60. 141 Ulrich Schmidel, “Voyage of Ulrich Schmidt [sic] To the Rivers La Plata and Paraguai [sic],” 1567, in Luis L. Dominguez ed., trans., The Conquest of the River Plate, 1535-1555 (London: the Hakluyt Society, 1891), 55; Gene Rhea Tucker, “The Discovery of Germany in America: Hans Staden, Ulrich Schmidel, and the Construction of a German Identity”, in Traversea: Journal of Transatlantic History Vol. 1 (2011), 26-45. Georg Friederici took note of this in his 1906 study of scalping: “In the meantime it was discovered by the German Ulrich Schmiedel that scalping was also a tradition of the South American Indians, while the secretary of Cabeza de Vaca was inadequately informed and in the same or similar circumstances spoke only of cutting off the entire head. This most likely refers to the Guaycurú-Mbayá who, along with all the Chaco tribes, first removed the head and afterwards scalped it.” Georg Friederici, Anastasia M. Griffin, “Georg Friederici’s Scalping and Similar Warfare Customs in America with a Critical Introduction,” M.A. thesis, Department of Germanic and Slavic Languages and Studies, University of Colorado at Boulder (Proquest: UMI Dissertations Publishing, 2008), 25. On Cabeza de Vaca in South America, see Rabasa, Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier, 31-83; Chipman, “Cabeza de Vaca”. 149 Another comparison between American scalping and European chivalry was made in the account of Harmen Mayndertsz van den Bogaert, the surgeon of the Dutch fur trading post of Fort Orange, of his journey into the Mohawk and Oneida country in the winter of 1634-35. At the palisaded Oneida village, which he calls a “castle,” at Oriskany Creek, he saw a single scalp (lock) hanging from the smaller east gate, while atop the main village gate “three wooden images carved like men, and with them… three scalps [locken] fluttering in the wind, that they had taken from their foes as a token of the truth of their victory.”142 Conclusions: White gods in Virginia The Spanish royal historian Oviedo, in relaying the account of Rodrigo Ranjel, Soto’s personal secretary and a survivor of the expedition, makes some pertinent editorial asides castigating Hernando de Soto and his “deluded” soldiers for wandering “from bad to worse” through a land he had never seen before, and where three other adelantados “more expert than he,” Juan Ponce, Garay, and Narváez, had been defeated. Oviedo was no Las Casas—he considered Indians to be congenitally stupid and immoral—but Soto’s excesses drew Oviedo to rebuke him as continuing the bad policies of his teachers. He deemed him “instructed in the school” of Pedrarías de Ávila “in the dissipation and devastation of the Indians of [Panama], graduate in the killing of the natives of Nicaragua and canonized in Peru, according to the Order of the Pizarros.” Returning to Spain from the Indies laden with gold from the conquest of the Incas, Soto had returned to the “hellish” Indies “to spill human blood, not content with that already spilled”. He thought, wrote Oviedo, that the knowledge 142 Bogaert cited in Axtell and Sturtevant, “Unkindest Cut,” 460; Dean Snow, Charles Gehring, William Starna eds., In Mohawk Country: Early Narratives about a Native People (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1996), 8. 150 of Panama and Peru “sufficed to know how to govern here on the coast of the North, and he deluded himself, as this history will relate.”143 By 1607, notes Audrey Horning, indigenous peoples in the North Atlantic “had amassed a considerable amount of knowledge about Europeans, certainly in comparison with what [European] colonists knew about them.” If Indians in the contact zone had had any doubts about Europeans’ status as humans, they had long been disillusioned, while Europeans were still peddling comforting stories to themselves about animal-like or childlike wild men. Richard Hakluyt, a major British proponent of American colonies and an early investor in the Virginia Company, used his armchair knowledge of the Americas to help draw up the 1606 Instructions for the colonists, which blended sensible observations about former failed ventures with endorsement of myths of savage Indians and white gods. The colonists’ objectives in Virginia, which included prospecting for minerals and looking for the northwest passage to the Pacific, were to be performed while preventing attacks by rival powers by sea— “that you not be surprized [sic] as the French were in Florida by Melindus [Governor Menéndez], and the Spaniard in the same place by the French”—and bracing for the inevitable hostilities that would break out. Surveyors were to be equipped with compasses, for instance, so they could find their way back to the colony if abandoned in “great woods or desert” by Indian guides, as the Coronado expedition (1540-42) had been in the Southwest. The day of disaster should be postponed as much as possible by colonists’ 143 “Account of the Northern Conquest and Discovery of Hernando de Soto” by Rodrigo Rangel, drawn from Historia general y natural de las Indias by Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés (1557), John E. Worth trans., in Clayton et. al. ed., The De Soto Chronicles volume 1, 273 (“and he deluded himself”), 289-90 (“Order of the Pizarros”); on Oviedo, see José Rabasa, “The Representation of Violence in the Soto Narratives,” 380- 408, in Galloway, Soto Expedition (2006); on Soto, see James Lockhart, The Men of Cajamarca: A Social and Biographical Study of the first Conquerors of Peru (Austin, TX, and London: University of Texas Press, 1972), 190-201. 151 taking “great care not to offend the naturals, if you can eschew it” and trading for food before the Indians “perceive you mean to plant among them.” Indians were never to be permitted to handle firearms, for instance, and only the keenest marksmen were to fire guns in the Indians’ presence. They were also enjoined to conceal any kind of sickness among the colonists and to hide the bodies of the dead, because “if they perceive that [they] are but common men, […] they will make many adventures upon you.”144 As Neil Whitehead observed, “first contact” scenarios “vastly over-privileg[e] the colonisers’ moment of ‘first contact’.” In the case of Virginia, these fantasies of a 1607 first encounter overlooked a history of European incursions into the Chesapeake and along the Atlantic seaboard going back to the early 16th century (see Chapter 3), including the failed Ajacán colony (see Chapter 1) and, as we shall see in the next chapter, the Roanoke colony of the 1580s. How and why the Virginia colony succeeded where its precursors had failed, by the incidental pioneering of a new form of British colonialism which would pave the way towards extirpationist warfare and scalp bounties, is the focus of the next chapter.145 144 Jace Weaver, The Red Atlantic: American Indigenes and the Making of the Modern World, 1000 – 1927 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2014), 54-62, 139; Audrey Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea: Colonialism in the Virginian Atlantic (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2013), 101-09; on Coronado, see Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 133-142; on the Virginia Company’s instructions, see Margaret F. Pickett and Dwayne D. Pickett, The European Struggle to Settle North America: Colonizing Attempts by England, France, and Spain, 1521-1608 (McFarland, 2011), 129-130. 145 Whitehead, introduction, The Discoverie of the Large, Rich, and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana by Sir Walter Ralegh, 97-110. 152 Chapter Three: Towards scalp-hunting: Settler colonialism and extirpationist warfare in Northeastern North America, 1585 – 1623 Their warres are far less bloudy, and devouring then the cruell Warres of Europe; and seldome twenty slaine in a pitcht field […] the Conquerour ventures into the thickest, and brings away the Head of his Enemy. –Roger Williams, Key Into the Language of America (1643)146 Introduction This chapter specifically focuses on foundational violent interactions between British colonists and indigenous peoples in eastern North America, from the failed Roanoke colony to the Virginia massacre of 1622, and the distinctively British attitude towards indigenous neighbours and land use which emerges, in Chapter 4, as the scalping paradigm. Following a prologue, my first section, “The mourning-war complex: violence in eastern North America,” summarizes the way in which warfare was defined and prosecuted in eastern North America at the time of the contact period, and the underlying logic by which indigenous polities in the contact zone operated in wartime. My second section, “Mourning-war and total war: regimes of violence in early America, 1585-1676,” notes the incommensurable differences in how Europeans and indigenous North Americans waged war, and how these differences fed British colonists’ belief that Indians were enemies better exterminated. My third section, “From middle ground to settler colonialism,” surveys how a British pattern of colonization, involving mass migration and annexation of indigenous land for farming and cash-cropping, rapidly developed in Virginia and precluded the “middle ground” relations Richard White notes in other times and places in North America. My fourth section, “Virginia, from landfall 146 James Hammond Trumbull ed., Key Into the Language of America (1643), in The Complete Writings of Roger Williams Volume One (New York: Russell & Russell Inc., 1963), 204; cited in Alfred A. Cave, The Pequot War (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1996), 39. 153 to massacre to vengeance, 1607 to 1622,” describes how settler-colonialism and a winner- takes-all approach to indigenous land ownership were answered by the Virgnia massacre of 1622, which in turn justified campaigns of unconventional war against indigenous Virginians. My epilogue, “peeces of ther heades,” notes an early expression of this sentiment in what may or may not be an early case of dark mimesis: colonists scalping Indians. Prologue On the night of 26 June, 1675, soldiers marching from Boston to fight King Philip’s147 Wampanoags witnessed a lunar eclipse. While this event was noted in two contemporary chronicles of the war, Cotton Mather’s A Brief History of the Warr with the Indians in New-England (Boston, 1676) and William Hubbard’s Narrative of the Troubles with the Indians (Boston, 1677), only Hubbard thought the omens the soldiers noticed were worth reporting: “that in the Centre of the Moon they discerned an unusual black Spot, not a little resembling the Scalp of an Indian: As some others not long before, imagined they saw the Form of an Indian Bow, accounting that likewise ominous.” That the bow and the scalp were metonymic symbols of the Indian warrior for late-17th-century New England colonists is not terribly surprising, but Hubbard had to remind his readers that the bow was already more reflective of myth than historical reality: due to the wide acceptance of early flintlocks among New England’s Algonquian neighbours by the 1670s, “the Mischief following was 147 My use of ‘Philip’ over ‘Metacom’ follows Jill Lepore’s observation that the latter only became standard in Anglo-American historiography in the mid-19th century “when white playwrights, poets, and novelists sought to make the war sound more authentically, and romantically, Indian” – by contrast, the historical figure signed documents with a ‘P,’ with scribes adding ‘alias Metacom’ “probably to accommodate the colonists, who were meticulous record-keepers.” Per Algonquian naming conventions he would not have returned to the name of his childhood as an adult, and if he took a different name during the war (“one small, uncorroborated bit of evidence suggests that he may have been renamed “Wewesawamit””) his followers, per another Algonquian rule, would not have used the name of a sachem after his death. See Jill Lepore, The Name of War: King Philip's War and the Origins of American Identity (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), xix-xxi. 154 done by Guns, not by Bows.” As for scalping itself, New Englanders still seemed to require precise explanations, as in William Harris’ convoluted report that some of the men of Swansy wear kild, And theyr heads (to Say) the Sculpes (that is) the skin & hayre of the top or crowne of the head flead of[f], as they use of all they kill (if they have time) to cut it rounde: & tear it of[f]; & carry away. 148 Harris was not the only English commentator to openly liken scalping to flaying; nor was he the only Puritan to draw a very specific Biblical-typological comparison in explaining scalps as “Sure signes of whome they have kild of both cects [sexes]; as formerlly foreskins of males.” Given the Puritans’ typological readings of their indigenous neighbours as Canaanites and Philistines, themselves as latter-day Israelites, and Puritan theologians’ relegation of the Books of the Maccabees to apocrypha, they made do with a very loose Biblical precedent for scalping: Saul’s attempt to rid himself of David (1 Samuel 18:25-27) by setting Michal’s dowry at 100 Philistine foreskins. When suggesting, in 1675, that neutral indigenous peoples be offered rewards for the scalps of warriors from King Philip’s coalition, Connecticut’s Lieutenant-Governor William Leete also drew this connection by suggesting the colony “purchase so many foreskins of these Philistines now in hostility.”149 148 Lepore, The Name of War, 21-23, footnote 103; William Hubbard, A Narrative of the Troubles with the Indians in New-England, from the first Planting thereof to the present Time (Boston, 1677) cited in Samuel G. Drake ed., The History of the Indian Wars in New England, Volume I (Clearfield, 2002 [1865]), 67-68, n.115 on Mather’s citation of the eclipse, minus omens, in Brief History volume I, 55-56. “How the Author could let this Occasion slip for indulging in Remarks upon supernatural Occurrences,” wonders Drake, “it is not easy to imagine.” Earlier, in a dedicatory bit of verse Hubbard places himself in the literature alongside Roger Williams, the missionary and translator of indigenous languages: “Their grand Apostle writes of their Return; William’s their Language; Hubbard how they burn, / Rob, Kill and Roast, Lead Captive, Slay, Blaspheme; / Of English Valour too he makes his Theme” (24). 149 Harris, A Rhode Islander Reports on King Philip’s War (“sure signes… formerlly foreskins”) cited in Lepore, The Name of War, n. 103; Leete cited in Armstrong Starkey, European and Native American Warfare, 1675-1815 (University College London Press, 1998), 71. 155 Early modern colonialism had “no accepted models,” notes Audrey Horning, and given its “often chaotic and haphazard” nature, “disaster was a frequent outcome.” Horning points out how the British colonies of northeastern North America, based on secondhand information regarding the Iberian colonies, vacillated between “an instilled, if naïve, belief” in their ability to reshape indigenous societies through trade and religious conversion, and an exaggerated sense of their capacity to exert power over them, as summarized in Hakluyt’s boasting 1587 prediction for the Roanoke colony: “One hundred men will doe more nowe among the naked and unarmed people in Virginiea, then one thousande were able then to doe in Irelande against that armed and warlike nation.” In addition to Elizabethan Britain’s conquests in Ireland, British proponents of New World colonialism considered the Spanish both as a model to emulate and as a “negative paradigm” to avoid, though a hazy understanding of Spanish colonialism complicated this. In 1612 William Strachey stipulated that “noe Spanish Intention shalbe entertained by us to roote out the Naturalls as the Spaniards have done in Hispaniola and other parts,” while outlining a plan to co-opt the weroances, the hereditary chiefs of Virginia, into the upper echelons of British colonial society “as free burghers and Cittizens” and isolating and destroying the indigenous priests – which was precisely what the Spanish had unsuccessfully attempted in the Caribbean and had successfully implemented on the mainland.150 Many early modern rivals of Spain imagined the mass killings of indigenous peoples in Iberian America as the end goal of Spanish colonialism, rather than a failure of its policy 150 Audrey Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea: Colonialism in the British Atlantic (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2013), 3 (“no accepted models”), 77 (“armed and warlike nation”); Ben Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213-48, 214 (“negative paradigm”), 221 (“root out the naturalls”); Jorge Cañizares- Esguerra, Puritan Conquistadores: Iberianizing the Atlantic, 1550 – 1770 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006); “murtherers of soules” in Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 69. 156 of subordination and enserfdom through the deadly synergy of forced labour, warfare, malnutrition, stressed immune systems, and new epidemic diseases. While from a very early period, voices from the British colonies decried this “Black Legend” of Spanish colonialism, those same colonies would soon far outstrip Iberian precedent in destructiveness to indigenous societies, following up mass killings and acts of ethnic cleansing with repopulation by immigration and forced migration. It is in this context that the first ad hoc wartime bounties for indigenous scalps and other body parts, the genesis of Euro-American scalp bounties, appear in eastern North America in the mid-17th century. In the context of Kieft’s War (1640-45), a five-year series of conflicts between New Netherland and its indigenous neighbours, the hiring of New England mercenaries as Indian fighters reflected a long and close relationship between England and the Netherlands: Protestant, maritime, North Sea peoples who traded, spoke closely related languages, and aided each other militarily against the Habsburg Spanish Empire. Until the late 1630s, the norm of the New Netherland colony (1614-1667) was a fur trade situation of limited European settlement in enclaves; Dutch territorial presence and the freebooting actions of Dutch traders were contested, countered, and hemmed in by such indigenous neighbours as the Pequots, the Lenape-Munsees (or “Delawares”), and the Mohawks. This was upset by a bid for a settler-colonial paradigm by the directors of the West India Company (henceforth WIC) in the late 1630s and early 1640s: as the value of Indians’ wampum, pelts, and corn declined, the WIC directors proposed to imitate the successful British example of stockbreeding, agrarianism, and cash-cropping on annexed Indian land, enabled by mass migration. When the “zero-sum contest” of settler colonialism pushed New Amsterdam’s neighbours and allies to declare war, governor Willem Kieft further imitated British 157 precedent by offering bounties to allied sachemships for enemy Indians’ heads and scalps, as well as prisoners; by encouraging the actions of Dutch vigilantes; and by hiring, at great expense, a company of New England mercenaries led by Pequot War veteran John Underhill to wage a winter war of attrition. In the shared Euro-American frontier of the Long Island Sound, and the broader trans-Atlantic imbrications of the Dutch and the British colonies, Kieft’s War was a laboratory for the total war and mass migration policies that would become standard in Anglo-America. The mourning-war complex: violence in eastern North America Accounts of exotic American violence heavily tinged the Virginia Company’s Instructions penned by Hakluyt and many of the colonists’ operational assumptions (see Chapter 2), and John Smith’s accounts appear to be particularly informed by Mesoamerican details. Moctezuma seems to loom behind his first impressions of Wahunsenecawh, the Powhatan Confederacy’s paramount chief whom the Virginians simply called “Powhatan” per conventions of the peerage; Smith calls him an “emperor” possessing “majestie” who metes out “very terrible and tyrannous” punishments to enemies of the state. Smith also misinterpreted a Powhatan puberty rite, the Huskanaw, as a literal child sacrifice, and took his generous diet of venison and corn while in Powhatan captivity as a sign he was being fattened up for some sacrificial feast. But Smith also described violence less similar to these fantasy composite scenes and more consistent with a style of warfare widely described by Europeans in northeastern and Atlantic North America. In early 1608, Wahunsenecawh ordered a surprise attack against an enemy village, Payankatank, on a night when “divers of his men” were guests in the village. Other Powhatan warriors surrounded Payankatank by night, “and at the houre appointed, they all fell to the spoile, 24 men they slewe, the long 158 haire of the one side of their heades with the skinne cased off with shels or reeds, they brought away.” The weroance, and the women and children, were brought as captives to Wahunsenecawh, who “became his prisoners, and doe him service.” The scalps were strung on two lines suspended between trees at Wahunsenecawh’s capital, his village of Werewocomoco, he “shewing them to the English men that then came unto them at his appointment, […] supposed to halfe conquer them by this spectacle of his terrible crueltie.” Henry Spelman, a British runaway who lived among the Powhatans, reported seeing criminals executed for such crimes as murder, robbery and infanticide scalped before their deaths: “Then cam the officer to thos that should dye, and with a shell cut of[f] ther long locke, which they weare on the leaft side of ther heade, and hangeth that on a bowe before the Kings house.” Contemporary European artists consistently depicted Powhatan warriors growing their hair long on the left side of their heads and shaving the right side so as not to tangle in their bowstrings, which presented some challenges for the artist when engraving a scene of John Smith seizing a rival, the weroance Opechancanough, by the scalplock and levelling a pistol at his chest to demand he fill a boat with corn. He compromised by drawing a long braid draped over the weroance’s neck and dangling from his right shoulder, so Smith could seize it with his left hand and draw his pistol with his right.151 151 John Smith, A True Relation of Such Occurrences and Accidents of Noate as Hath Hapned in Virginia… (1608), in Philip L. Barbour, ed., The Complete Works of Captain John Smith (1580-1631) in three volumes, Vol. 1 (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1986), 65 (“emperor… majestie”); Margaret Holmes Williamson, Powhatan Lords of Life and Death, 47-72; Lemay, Did Pocahontas Save Captain John Smith? ; Payankatank, scalping, and “terrible crueltie” in A Map of Virginia, With a Description of the Countrey, the Commodities, People, Government and Religion (1612), in Philip L. Barbour, ed., The Complete Works of Captain John Smith (1580-1631) in three volumes, Vol. 1 (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1986), 175; Spelman cited in Margaret Holmes Williamson, Powhatan Lords of Life and Death: Command and Consent in Seventeenth-Century Virginia (Lincoln & London: University of Nebraska Press, 2003), 138-48; on hair of Powhatan warriors, see Chaplin, Subject Matters, 79- 115. 159 The scalplock, a circular patch of hair that the warrior grew long, styled, and adorned amidst a plucked or shaven head, was observed by European explorers from the St. Lawrence corridor to Mesoamerica, indicating an underlying martial philosophy beneath shocked European impressions of American violence as characterized by sacrifice, dismemberment, and anthropophagy (Chapter 1). In the frontispiece illustration of the Codex Mendoza (1542), a history of Tenochtitlán from its founding to the conquest, nine seated lords attired as warriors encircle the divine event of the city’s founding, wearing their hair in the temillotl (“pillar of stone”) hairstyle signalling prior martial achievement. Below, the artist depicts Tenochtitlán’s foundational victories over Colhuacan and Tenayuca with the standard glyph of triumph: each city’s central temple afire, flames billowing from beneath its collapsing roof. The artist further metonymized these victories by adding, beneath each burning-temple glyph, a victorious Aztec warrior seizing an enemy by the head with his shield hand; behind the shields, suggests Davíd Carrasco, each victor may be seizing his enemy’s temillotl, equivalent in Nahua thought “to capturing the tonally, one of the essences or souls of the person.” As the post-conquest missionary-ethnographers would discover, the scalp-lock was a potent sign of the warrior’s prowess in both Nahua and Mayan societies. Before the Spanish conquest, the captor of a sacrificial victim received status and social promotion for his battlefield feat, and afterwards was given the shorn scalplock and femur as trophies to publicly display in his home; among the Aztecs, certain moral crimes were punished by law with a humiliating public beating, then burning the warrior’s piochtli (scalplock) down to the skin to prevent its regrowth. Its importance seems to have survived the Conquest: following 160 riots in 1692, authorities in Mexico City proscribed the wearing of the piochtli for its connections to surviving “secret ceremonials.”152 The scalplock as a physical token of victory, and more importantly the prestige gained from taking enemies as prisoners, was also present among the Algonquian, Iroquoian, Siouan, and Muskogean societies of the Atlantic contact zone, in what present-day historians, ethnohistorians, and anthropologists refer to as the mourning-war complex, summarized by Bret Rushforth as “low-level endemic warfare punctuated by periods of heightened violence.” A set of common rituals, practices, and definitions of war and diplomacy broadly shared from the St. Lawrence corridor to Florida and westwards to the Great Lakes and Mississippian midcontinent, the mourning-war complex’s primary concern was the regulation of grief, vengeance, and violence by the corporate unit of the clan, i.e., an extended family who shared an other-than-human being as a “totem,” a literal or symbolic common ancestor. A family member’s death by homicide, accident, or disease—and the latter two, if attributed to sorcery, also constituted homicide—threatened the equilibrium of village life by disordering relatives’ minds with grief, and weakened the corporate body’s ability to maintain itself in a world of enemies. If an allied clan or broader nation were deemed responsible for the death, the killer’s clan could offer to restore peace by paying an indemnity in trade and luxury goods, known as “covering the dead”; if this was refused, or if the killers were from a clan or nation with which the aggrieved were already at war, 152 Davíd Carrasco, City of Sacrifice: The Aztec Empire and the Role of Violence in Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1999), 23-26; Inga Clendinnen, Ambivalent Conquests: Maya and Spaniard in Yucatan, 1517- 1570, second edition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003 [1987]), 179-80, Inga Clendinnen, Aztecs: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, 1995), 96-97, 117-18, 140-47, 262; Clendinnen, ““Fierce and Unnatural Cruelty’” in Greenblatt ed., New World Encounters, 12-47. The 1692 proscriptions also banned the making of octli or pulque – see Daniel G. Brinton, Nagualism: A Study in Native American Folk-Lore and History (Philadelphia: MacCalla and Company, 1894), 32. 161 volunteers led a revenge raid to inflict a reciprocal injury on the guilty party by killing or capturing one or more members of his or her clan. Raids against enemies, or former allies turned enemies, could redress a slight to the honour of the clan or broader alliance network; in cases where certain clans or confederations had a noted advantage in strength over others, raids and the threat of further violence could establish or restore vassalage relationships, expressed through kinship metaphors, with the more powerful group as the “elder brother” to an unruly, yet subordinate, “younger brother.” While some collective material or economic benefits could accrue from tribute levied on defeated enemy polities and the unfree labour extracted from captives held in slavery, the greater motivating factor was the nonmaterial desiderata of personal and collective prestige, revenge for past wrongs, and humiliation of the enemy—in Gleach’s summary, “to right a wrong, to correct improper actions; [...] a means of restoring justice and teaching proper behaviour.” As Neil Whitehead and Beth Conklin observe of indigenous Amazonian warfare from the contact period to the 20th century, the stakes in such a system of conflict and captivity were and are intensely personal, and embedded within social relationships, when compared to the impersonal and market- driven violence of the early modern European nation-state—but, as Lestringant, Whitehead, and Conklin point out, are familiar or at least recognizable to early modern Europeans within the contexts of the chivalric tradition, which the state was attempting to co-opt, and feud and vendetta, which the state was trying to stamp out.153 153 On mourning-war, see Thomas S. Abler, “Scalping, Torture, Cannibalism and Rape: An Ethnohistorical Analysis of Conflicting Cultural Values in War,” in Anthropologica Vol. 34, No. 1 (1992), 3-20; Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 22-69 (51: “to right a wrong…”); Brett Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance: Indigenous and Atlantic Slaveries in New France (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2012), 3-71; ); Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance”; Rushforth, “ ‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’; Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 69-75; Daniel K. Richter, “War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience,” in William and Mary Quarterly 40.4 (1983), 528–59; Daniel K. Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse: The Peoples of the Iroquois League in the Era of European Colonization (Chapel Hill & London: University of 162 North Carolina Press, 1992), 31-38, 58-74. On totems and kinship networks, see Heidi Bohaker, ““Nindoodemag”: The Significance of Algonquian Kinship Networks in the Great Lakes Region, 1600-1701,” in The William and Mary Quarterly Third Series, Vol. 63, No. 1 (Jan. 2006), 23-52, esp. 31-38. Among the Arikaras and Pawnees in the 19th century, men who survived scalping were both disgraced and considered liminal figures neither living nor dead, made to live as hermits outside the village, while in folklore, the character Scalped Man serves functions of both a trickster figure and a Wild Man who has other-than-human power, which he can bestow on worthy individuals for success in medicine and war—see Douglas R. Parks, “An Historical Character Mythologized: The Scalped Man in Arikara and Pawnee Folklore,” in Douglas H. Ubelaker and Herman J. Viola eds., Plains Indian Studies: A Collection of Essays in Honor of John C. Ewers and Waldo R. Wedel (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1982), 47-58. On continuities of the scalplock in warfare in the American Southwest, Southeast, midcontinent and Northeast in the pre- and post- contact period, see Linda Cordell, “Indigenous Farmers,” 201-266, and Bruce Smith, “Agricultural Chiefdoms of the Eastern Woodlands,” 267-324, in Bruce Trigger ed., The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas volume 1: North America, Part 1 (Cambridge University Press, 1996); Robert P. Mensforth, “Warfare and Trophy Taking in the Archaic Period,” 110-138, in Olaf H. Prufer, Sara E. Pedde, and Richard S. Meindl eds., Archaic Transitions in Ohio & Kentucky Prehistory (Kent & London: The Kent State University Press, 2001); Richard J. Chacon and Rubén G. Mendoza eds., North American Indigenous Warfare and Ritual Violence (Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona press, 2007), see: Polly Schaafsma, “Documenting Conflict in the Prehistoric Pueblo Southwest,” 114-128, Thomas E. Emerson, “Cahokia and the Evidence for Late Pre- Columbian War in the North American Midcontinent,” David H. Dye and Adam King, 129-148, “Desecrating the Sacred Ancestor Temples: Chiefly Conflict and Violence in the American Southeast,” 160-181, George R. Milner, “Warfare, Population, and Food Production in Prehistoric Eastern North America,” 182-201, Patricia M. Lambert, “The Osteological Evidence for Indigenous Warfare in North America,” 202-221, Chacon and Mendoza’s “Introduction,” 3-10, and conclusion, “Ethical Considerations and Conclusions Regarding Indigenous Warfare and Violence in North America,” 222-232; Richard J. Chacon and David H. Dye eds., The Taking and Displaying of Human Body Parts as Trophies by Amerindians (New York: Springer Science + Business Media, 2007), see: Richard J. Chacon and David H. Dye, “Introduction to Human Trophy Taking: An Ancient and Widespread Practice,” 5-31, Polly Schaafsma, “Head Trophies and Scalping: Images in Southwest Rock Art,” 90-123, Douglas W. Oswley et. al., “Human Finger and Hand Bone Necklaces from the Plains and Great Basin,” 124-166, Mark F. Seeman, “Predatory War and Hopewell Trophies,” 167-189, Ron Williamson, ““Otinontsiskiaj ondaon” (“The House of Cut-Off Heads”): The History and Archaeology of Northern Iroquoian Trophy Taking,” 190-221, Robert P. Mensforth, “Human Trophy Taking in Eastern North America During the Archaic Period: The Relationship to Warfare and Social Complexity,” 222-277, James Brown and David H. Dye, “Severed Heads and Sacred Scalplocks: Mississippian Iconographic Trophies,” 278-298, Keith P. Jacobi, “Disabling the Dead: Human Trophy Taking in the Prehistoric Southeast,” 299-338, Nancy A. Ross- Stallings, “Trophy Taking in the Central and Lower Mississippi Valley,” 339-370. On the distinctions between material and nonmaterial desiderata in rationalizing war and conflict, and the distinctions between European and indigenous American violence in the early modern Atlantic, see Bruce Lincoln, Holy Terrors: Thinking about Religion after September 11, second edition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006 [2003]), 93-95 and throughout; Beth A. Conklin, Consuming Grief: Compassionate Cannibalism in an Amazonian Society (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001), 1-24; Neil L. Whitehead, “Hans Staden and the Cultural Politics of Cannibalism,” in The Hispanic American Historical Review, Vol. 80, No. 4 (November 2000), 721-51; Hans Staden, Neil L. Whitehead and Michael Harbsmeier trans., Hans Staden’s True History: An Account of Cannibal Captivity in Brazil (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2008), xv-civ, esp. lxvii, xcv; Jeppe Büchert Netterstrøm and Bjørn Poulsen, eds., Feud in Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press, 2007); Richard van Dülmen, Elisabeth Neu trans., Theatre of Horror: Crime and Punishment in Early Modern Germany (Oxford, UK: Polity Press, 1990 [1985]); Simon Harrison, Dark Trophies: Hunting and the Enemy Body in Modern War (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012), 39- 47; Obeyesekere, Cannibal Talk, 235-37, 244, 306 (note 44); Timothy Brook, Jérôme Bourgon, and Gregory Blue, Death by a Thousand Cuts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2008), 17-24; Regina Janes, Losing our Heads: Beheadings in Literature and Culture (New York and London: New York University Press, 2005), 36-70. On cross-cultural reading of indigenous warfare per the European chivalric tradition, see Lestringant, Cannibals, 1-12, 81-93. 163 As the whole point of mourning-war raids was to redress deaths within the raiders’ community, leaders aimed to avoid deaths or injuries among their warparty. Prefiguring, as Thomas Abler notes, the tactics of stealth and infiltration used by modern commando units, raiders quietly entered enemy territory. An illustration accompanying Jesuit missionary Pierre-Joseph Chaumonot’s 1666 report on the Iroquois succinctly and visually summarizes their goals: two Iroquois warriors return from a raid, the foremost bearing a pole from which two scalps are suspended; the second, with a musket slung over his shoulder, holds the halters of an enemy prisoner. War parties who returned from enemy territory unharmed were praised for bringing back live captives or physical proofs of slain enemies, such as scalps, heads, hands, or feet; those confirmed by their peers to have shown strength, fortitude, skillful leadership, and cleverness earned the right to commemorate their triumphs with new names, tattoos, and etchings on their war clubs.154 Like the theatrical executions of the early modern European state, the performative ferocity of mourning-war violence also expressed and set boundaries on the limits of possible violence: one person, or a few people, were killed horribly to warn that the same could be done to others. Close readings of the mourning-war complex’s symbols and metaphorical language indicates both a system which prioritized the forced incorporation of enemy prisoners into the captor’s body politic, and a cluster of metaphors with which young men 154 “Report on the nine Iroquois families, with totems, 1666,” FR CAOM COL C11A 2 fol. 263-269; Thanks to my colleague Dylan Burrows for providing me with a PDF of Father Chaumonot’s sketch and its bibliographical information. On Father Chaumonot’s report and its context, see Linda Gregerson and Susan Juster, Empires of God: Religious Encounters in the Early Modern Atlantic (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 117-19. Rountree and Turner III, Before and After Jamestown, 27, 108; Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 47- 50, 130; Abler, “Scalping, Torture, Cannibalism and Rape,” 3-20; Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 3-71; Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance”; Rushforth, “ ‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’; Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 69-75; Richter, “War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience,” 528–59; Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse, 31-38, 58-74; Starna, “Northern Iroquoian Slavery”; Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 172-95; Rivaya-Martínez, “A Different Look at Native American Depopulation.” 164 psyched themselves up for war. Before setting out on expedition, eastern North American war leaders feasted their volunteers on dog’s meat, a symbolically-dense meal, since damaging and weakening enemy communities by killing and kidnapping was metaphorized as “eating” the enemy, and enslaved enemies were derogatorily referred to as “dogs” who lived at the whim of their masters; like domestic animals, slaves were personal property of the captor and his immediate family, not collectively-held clan property. Masked beneath faces painted red for war and black for death and mourning, warparties tried to convince the enemy—and, ultimately, themselves—that they were terrifying and merciless. If several prisoners were taken after a battle, skirmish, or ambush, those too weak for the forced march back to their captors’ country would be summarily executed, with perhaps one prisoner theatrically killed as a warning. Among some, but not all, ethnocultural groups who practiced the mourning-war complex, the victors might ritually consume blood or body parts of enemies slain on the battlefield, or after their executions, to show triumph and to make literal their vow to “eat” the enemy. Warriors might publicly boast of the joy of eating a foe, as when Innu converts agitated their Jesuit in 1636 by describing the taste of Iroquois enemies “as they would praise the flesh of a deer or a moose”; but during the Seven Years’ War, some perceptive French and British counterparts noted the sense of distaste and obligation that underlay ritual anthropophagy. Stephen Brumwell writes that a few French officers observed young warriors vomiting after these rites; “It is solely through bravado & to harden their hearts that they sometimes consume such food,” concluded Captain Pierre Pouchot, France’s commandant of Fort Niagara. The fur trader Alexander Henry the Elder, taken under the protection of Ojibway friends during the sack of Michilimackinac in 1763, drew a similar conclusion in sketching scenes from Pontiac’s Rebellion. Wenniway, Henry’s friend and 165 ostensible captor, ransomed him to another friend, Wawatam, who told Henry to stay in the sanctuary of his wigwam while he attended an execution of British prisoners; Wawatam returned resignedly nibbling a roasted British hand. He “did not appear to relish the repast,” but justified it on the grounds of utility and tradition: such a “war feast” was customary, and “inspired the warriors with courage in the attack.”155 Those taken captive faced a harrowing journey back to their enemy’s country, with their chances of escape reduced by sleep deprivation, a bare minimum of food and water, restraint with ropes and halters, and injuries calculated to cause pain yet minimally impede their ability to walk and run: bruising blows to the torso, knife cuts to the shoulders or face, and such injuries to the hands as pulling-out of fingernails or the severing of a finger joint, or entire digit. Just as their captors’ performative ferocity was double-edged, aimed both at their enemies but also themselves, the expected behaviour of captives was intended both to steel their resolve and inflame their captors: when threatened with death and reminded of their people’s past offenses, captives responded with bluff humour, stoicism, and the self-mastery they had been taught since early childhood, singing and reminding their captors of the inevitability of revenge. Once in their captors’ villages, enemy prisoners were subjected to what Europeans likened to a form of military discipline known as “running the gauntlet,” after which the fates of the individual captives were decided by elders from bereaved 155 “a deer or a moose”: Jesuit Relations 10: 225 (1636) cited in Evan Haefeli, “Kieft’s War and the Cultures of Violence in Colonial America,” 21, in Michael A. Bellisles ed., Lethal Imagination: Violence and Brutality in American History (New York and London: New York University Press, 1999), 17-40; red as colour of war: Williamson, Powhatan Lords, 40-46; “It is solely through bravado” in Brumwell, White Devil, 92-93; “did not appear to relish” in Alexander Henry the Elder, Travels and Adventures in Canada and the Indian Territories, Between the Years 1760 and 1776 (New York: I. Riley, 1809), 85-105; Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 47-50, 130; Abler, “Scalping, Torture, Cannibalism and Rape,” 3-20; Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 3-71; Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance”; Rushforth, “ ‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’; Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 69-75; Richter, “War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience,” 528–59; Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse, 31-38, 58-74; Starna, “Northern Iroquoian Slavery”. 166 families, clan mothers, civil chiefs, and other authorities. On the sliding scale of severity determined by age and sex, the fate of older men, especially men known or recognized as veteran war leaders and national enemies, was almost invariably the worst: over the course of several hours, villagers took turns reducing their most hated enemy, with blades and fire, to burnt flesh and charred bones. The fates of children and adolescents, particularly children young enough to adopt a new national identity, were on the opposite end of the spectrum: adoptees given the names of lost relatives were thought in a sense to be their reincarnations, a concept translated by French missionaries with the verb ressusciter, which could mean both revival and resurrection. Captives not hateful enough to be executed or young enough to be adopted were simply living bodies who filled in demographic gaps—they “replaced” the dead, which French translators glossed as remplacer, but were held under perpetual scrutiny. Though they, like real adoptees, were assigned the names of dead relatives, their position in the bonds of fictive kinship were that of the “dogs” mentioned above: slaves given less food or rest than other people, subjected to unpleasant or humiliating physical work, and liable to be physically abused if insubordinate, or killed if caught trying to escape. Enslaved women, assigned as secondary wives and concubines, could face the threat of sexual violence from captors, while young men were often traded further from the borders of their country as gifts to their captors’ allies. Compared to the productive and reproductive labour of adopted or enslaved captives, scalps or other enemy body parts were a decidedly secondary prize.156 156 Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 3-71; Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance”; on ressusciter and remplacer, see Rushforth, “ ‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’”, 784 n. 23, 785; Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 69-75; Richter, “War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience”; Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse, 31-38, 58-74; Abler, “Scalping, Torture, Cannibalism, and Rape”; Starna, “Northern Iroquoian Slavery”; Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 172-95. 167 Death by torture understandably terrified early modern Europeans, and other worst- case scenarios of the mourning-war complex, particularly what appear to be its two states of exception, were also subjected to polemical treatment from the contact period onwards (see the captivity-narratives discussion in Chapter 5). Euro-Americans, particularly Anglo- Americans, who sought to justify large-scale killings and their deliberate killing of Indian children and women seized on cases where white children or women were killed, or such large-scale killings as the Virginia Uprising of 1622, or the Tuscaroras’ sack of New Bern in 1711, as post facto justification. But the false equivalence posited in this model, often paired with a claim that Indians hated whites as categorically and universally as whites hated Indians, disappears upon closer investigation. In Frederic Gleach’s analysis, given that the purpose of mourning-war violence was to compel enemies to correct their ways, such large- scale attacks as occurred in 1622 or 1711—both of which strained the organizational and manpower possibilities of Powhatan and Tuscarora society to their limits—were last-ditch attempts to force intransigent and bothersome outsiders to accept indigenous terms of engagement; in Rountree and Turner’s words, Powhatan attacks on English trading partners signified “loss of patience with newcomers who did not know how to behave.” In both cases, these attacks followed Indian leaders’ repeated requests, all ignored, that European colonists stop building settlements deep within their territory. In both cases, these exemplary massacres were one-off events not followed by subsequent large-scale attacks; and, in the 1711 case, the Tuscaroras almost immediately tried to negotiate new terms of trade (see Chapter Four). If only to obtain European trade goods and weapons, indigenous leaders 168 wanted continued coexistence, not the ethnic cleansing or racialized serfdom Europeans intended for Indians.157 Given the mourning-war complex’s preference for adopting children, and the relative ease of overpowering and transporting children over adults, the killing of children by raiders also constituted a state of exception or exigency: the cries of a child could give away their position while in enemy territory; the same is true of female captives, whose potential as childbearers made them much more preferable candidates for adoption than males. As noted by Richard White and Ian Steele, even in the context of the balkanized Pennsylvania and Ohio frontier of the mid-18th century, indigenous peoples who had been at war with Anglo- Americans for decades and, in the case of refugees like the Shawnees and Lenape-Munsees (or “Delawares”), had been driven to the Ohio Valley by white encroachment, still continued to adopt white captives, including teenage boys and adult men, into their villages. Ian Steele, in his study of Shawnee raids between 1754 and 1765, notes that “the Shawnees’ propensity for taking captives was not eroded by years of war in which their English-speaking enemies took no Shawnee prisoners at all.” This could be a point of pride, as some Lenape-Munsees chastised Moravian ambassador Christian Frederick Post in 1758: “We love you more than you love us; for when we take any prisoners from you, we treat them as our own children.” A broader point must be observed: while Europeans from the beginning of the contact period defined Indians as somehow categorically different, and innately inferior, to themselves, the reverse was very rare—as when Tenskwatawa, brother of Tecumseh, categorically ruled that 157 Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 22-60; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown, 123 (“loss of patience”) 169 while Indians, the French, the Spanish, and the British were fully human, only white Americans were “scum of the great waters” spawned from malicious underwater beings.158 In the conflicts which followed, Indians and Europeans would discover another rift in their cultures’ attitudes towards war: even the most hostile European eyewitnesses noted that indigenous war parties in eastern North America did not rape or sexually abuse female captives in raids or on the road back to the village, and the sexual violence that did happen was both restricted to certain classes of enslaved women and long antedated war parties’ return from the battlefield. Early modern British or French observers, from a cultural tradition which officially disapproved of rape but quietly condoned it as an inevitable evil of war, could only interpret this asymmetry in sexual violence as evidencing some kind of cultural pathology among Indians: unusual discipline, weak libido, or a putative bloodlust. Twentieth-century anthropologists and ethnohistorians have focused on a broad North American pattern of war parties’ ritual abstinence and how, in the context of the mourning- war complex, the later incorporation of female captives into kin networks might turn sexual assault into retroactive incest. As Thomas Abler notes, the question is implicitly Eurocentric: “I am not certain that we should assume it is “natural” to rape [.]”159 158 On violence and adoption, see Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 227-36; White, The Middle Ground, 387-95; “It is particularly revealing” (11-12) in Ian K. Steele, “The Shawnees and the English: Captives and War, 1753-1765,” 1-24, in Daniel P. Barr ed., The Boundaries Between Us: Natives and Newcomers Along the Frontiers of the Old Northwest Territory, 1750-1850 (Kent, Ohio: The Kent State University Press, 2006), 1-24; “we love you more than you love us” cited in Colin Calloway ed., The World Turned Upside Down: Indian Voices from Early America (Boston and New York: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 1994), 43, 77 n. 3. 133. On Tenskwatawa, see Gregory Evans Dowd, War Under Heaven, 94-105, 264-70; Green, “The Expansion of European Colonization to the Mississippi Valley, 1780-1880,” 493-95; Lewis and Dobrowolski, “Native American Prophet Religions,” 495-515. 159 Abler, “Scalping, Torture, Cannibalism and Rape,” 13-15 (13: cites Hugo Grotius, Law of War and Peace (1625): rape of women should not be permitted, though “you may read in many places that the raping of women in time of war is permissible”); Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 3-71. On European theories of male Indians’ or European creoles’ impotence or physical enervation, see Gerbi, The Dispute of the New World, 3-34, 111-22, 275-84, 402-17. In a scorched-earth campaign against the Onondagas during the American Revolution, Colonel Goose van Schaick’s forces apparently committed widespread rape of Iroquois women—despite a prior warning 170 “[A]lmost no one in eighteenth-century America or England,” writes Peter Silver, “seems to have realized that Indian war was designed by its practitioners to be precisely as terrifying as they found it.” In some cases, Indian warriors did manage to successfully communicate their frustration and contempt for Anglo-Americans through what Gleach calls “the violent application of irony.” In a mourning-war context, this appears in the arch sarcasm, faux-friendliness, and black humour expressed between captives and captors; in the case of frontier war with British colonists, Indians mocked Anglo-Americans’ insatiable desire for Indian land and its resources. During the Jamestown colony’s winter of 1609-10, the “Starving Time” of famine and disease which only 100 of 220 colonists survived, Captain John Smith sent groups of colonists out of the fort to sponge from the Indians’ food supplies. One of these bands, led by Captain John Martin, established winter quarters on an island at the falls of the James River after the Nansemonds had denied them permission to settle there. After a Nansemond counterattack, and after receiving news that two of their messengers had been killed by torture, Captain Martin’s band retaliated by sacking the sepulchers of the Nansemond weroances, stripping the pearls and copper left as burial goods. Shortly thereafter, George Percy wrote that Lt. John Sicklemore “and divers others were found also slain with their mouths stopped full of [corn] bread.” To Percy, this message was partially legible: it was “done as it seemeth in contempt and scorn that others might expect the like when they should come to seek bread and relief amongst them.” In the 1622 Uprising, British colonists were killed with their own hoes, hatchets, and shovels, other hand tools—the same by General James Clinton to Schaick that “Bad as the savages are, they never violate the chastity of any women, their prisoners” and that “it will be well to take measures to prevent such a stain on our army.” The Onondagas filed angry complaints with the American government immediately after the raid; in 1816 an Onondaga chief, Teyoninhokarawen, wrote that van Schaick’s soldiers had treated their female prisoners “with the most shameful Barbarity.” See Barbara Alice Mann, George Washington’s War on Native America (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 30-33, 90. 171 ones which they lectured the Indians to adopt while using those same tools to push them off their own land. In the 1670s, during King Philip’s War, land-hungry British farmers buried up to their necks were taunted, “let us now see how you will grow when Planted into the Ground.” In 1791, after a coalition of Ohio peoples inflicted the United States’ largest historic defeat at Indian hands, Arthur St. Clair’s slain soldiers were found to have sod stuffed in their mouths, “satisfying in death their lust for Indian land.” As late as the Dakota Uprising of 1862, such a display of “violent irony” was applied to Andrew Myrick, the trader and storekeeper at Minnesota’s Redwood and Yellow Medicine agencies, who on two occasions publicly refused Dakota requests for food aid by telling them to “eat grass”; on the morning of 18 August, a warparty including his former Dakota brother-in-law riddled him with arrows, finished him off with an old scythe, and stuffed his mouth with grass.160 As with so much else in this thesis, the above discussion of the mourning-war complex has focused on worst-case scenarios, which Bret Rushforth notes served, in their extremity, as a deterrent, “because war councils knew that they risked their own people’s enslavement each time they authorized a raid.” Shared rituals and implements of diplomacy and conflict resolution, such as calumet pipes and wampum belts, offered ways to regulate, mediate, and forestall violence. Rather than coercive force, which the leaders of egalitarian societies did not possess the right to, collective responsibility among clan members offered ways to shame and punish leaders of unauthorized raids: the malefactor’s clan was responsible for “covering the dead,” and he was then indebted to pay back his relatives. To “raise up the dead” by offering a slave from another nation, to replace or requicken a dead 160 Seeman, Death in the New World, 86-101; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 56-59; Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 22-60, 130 (“violent application of irony”); Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 69-75; White, The Middle Ground, 454-55 (“satisfying in death”); Lepore, The Name of War; Gary Clayton Anderson, Little Crow: Spokesman for the Sioux (St. Paul, Minnesota: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1986), 120-143. 172 relative as the bereaved saw fit, was also a potent gift, especially if the captive was of a nation both parties already disliked; returning a prisoner or adoptee to their own people was the most powerful gesture of goodwill. While Europeans imagined Indians as warlike and driven by their passions, indigenous people considered themselves as rational, logical, and peaceable, as a Lenape-Munsee diplomat spelled out at a 1668 peace conference in Burlington, New Jersey. He observed that wartime was as miserable for Indians as it was for Europeans: “we are only skin and bones, […] we are always in fear, […] we hide in holes and corners; we are minded to live at peace.” Addressing the post-1622 Anglo-American narrative of Indians as sneaks and pre-emptive massacrists, he stated plainly that if “at any time” his people wanted war with the English, “we will let you know of it, and the reasons why we make war with you”; if the English “make us satisfaction” for the inciting “injury done us, […] then we will not make war on you.” All he asked was that the English do the same: “if you intend at any time to make war on us, we would have you let us know of it and the reason”; if the Lenape-Munsee did not make satisfaction, “then you may make war on us, otherwise you ought not to do it”.161 In short, scalps and scalping, while having their own importance as trophies and tokens of victory, were almost incidental to this to this paradigm of warfare, which makes its later centrality in Anglo-American thought rather peculiar. A few basic observations could be made here as to commonalities between indigenous North American and European violence 161 Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 3-71, 103 (“because war councils…”); Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance”; Rushforth, “ ‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’; Trigger, Children of Aataentsic, 69-75; Richter, “War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience”; Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse, 31-38, 58-74; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 129-150; Abler, “Scalping, Torture, Cannibalism, and Rape”; Starna, “Northern Iroquoian Slavery”; Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 172-95; White, The Middle Ground, 77 (““to raise up the dead” […] or “to cover the dead””); J. Thomas Scharf and Thompson Westcott eds., Specimen Chapters of the History of Philadelphia (Philadelphia: L.H. Everts & Co., 1882), 33 (“we are only skin and bones… ought not to do it”, my italics). 173 in the early modern Atlantic. Both drew culturally-specific distinctions between licit and illicit forms of violence, e.g., between execution and murder. Both considered their own forms of violence as normative, even aesthetic in some ways, while considering the other’s as peculiar and immoral in ways that ultimately prolonged and exacerbated conflicts. Both early modern Indians and Europeans deemed some internal and external enemies fit to be relegated to enslavement and other forms of social death, to be subjected to perpetual harrying in states of exception or states of siege, or publicly executed in scenes which Richard van Dülmen has aptly described as “theatres of horror,” acts reflecting Achille Mbembe’s concept of necropolitics as the ultimate expression of sovereignty, “the power and the capacity to dictate who may live and who must die.” Most important for the purposes of this thesis are violence’s function as communicative action, its nature as transgressive act, and its related need for imbued or imputed meanings to elevate an act of violence to a socially-constructive act, or to denigrate it as an action justifying a retributive or recompensatory act of violence in turn. “All human action is both symbolic and technical,” states Bruce Lincoln: “that is, it simultaneously communicates something and accomplishes something.” But what happens when communications are, across a cross-cultural divide, illegible?162 162 “Culture is coercive and obligatory. People think and act in the terms presented by their culture because their culture provides the only way individuals have to think, speak, and act in a way that is intelligible to their peers.” –see Henry S. Sharp, Loon: Memory, Meaning, and Reality in a Northern Dene Community (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 177. Achille Mbembe, Libby Meintjes trans.,“Necropolitics,” in Public Culture Volume 15, Issue 1 (Winter 2003), 11-40; Renato Rosaldo, “Grief and a Headhunter’s Rage,” in Culture & Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Boston: Beacon Press, 1989), 1-24; Neil L. Whitehead, Dark Shamans: Kanaimà and the Poetics of Violent Death (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002), 245-48; “Every society is adept at looking past its own forms of violence, and reserving its outrage for the violence of others.” – Inga Clendinnen, Dancing with Strangers: Europeans and Australians at First Contact (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 190; “if combat is not quite as cultural as cricket, its brutalities are nonetheless rulebound.” – Inga Clendinnen, ““Fierce and Unnatural Cruelty””, 24; “both symbolic and technical,” see Lincoln, Holy Terrors, 90; Bruce Lincoln, Religion, Empire, and Torture: The Case of Achaemenian Persia, with a Postscript on Abu Ghraib (Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), esp. 83-96; “Introduction: Violent imaginaries and violent practices,” 1-24, and Bettina E. Schmidt, “The Interpretation of Violent Worldviews: Cannibalism and other violent images of the Caribbean,” 174 Mourning-war and total war: regimes of violence in early America, 1585-1676 As European and indigenous societies from Virginia to New England came into contact and into conflict in the first quarter of the 17th century, the sort of expedient misunderstandings which Richard White identifies in the interior in the later 17th century pointed the way towards short-lived middle grounds. In Virginia in December 1607, John Smith was imprisoned by a Powhatan Confederacy war party and held in captivity until January 1608. In his account relayed in A True Relaycion (1608) he initially attributed his survival, at least in part, to overawing his counterpart Opechancanough with a compass, a detail Philip Barbour notes he borrowed from Thomas Harriot’s 1588 account of Virginia. But Smith also described how Powhatan, “with a lowd oration,” “proclaimed me a werowances of Powhatan, and that all his subjects should so esteeme us, and no man account us strangers nor Paspaheghans, but Powhatans [.]” Twentieth century scholars interpret this as an act by Wahunsenecawh to subordinate the strangers by either recognizing Smith as an English weroance, a civil chief of a hereditary line, or deeming him the functional equivalent of one.163 Smith seems to have endorsed this, at least tacitly, in 1612’s A Map of Virginia, noting that in times of war, “the Werowances, women and children they put not to death but keepe them Captives.” In The Generall Historie of Virginia (1624), Smith presented a scene of his being threatened with execution, spared, and given a new name and title, in which the 76-96, in Bettina E. Schmidt and Ingo W. Schröder, Anthropology of Violence and Conflict (Routledge: London and New York, 2001), 76-96. 163 Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Williamson, Powhatan Lords; Barbour, Three Worlds; Barbour, Complete Works of; Fausz, “Opechancanough”; Margaret Holmes Williamson, Powhatan Lords of Life and Death, 47-72; J.A. Leo Lemay, Did Pocahontas Save Captain John Smith? (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 1992). 175 Powhatans’ actions were legible via universalist terms of mercantile self-interest and royal power. In the ruler’s presence a crowd armed with clubs placed Smith’s head against two anvil-stones “to beate out his braines”; Wahunsenecawh’s 11-year-old daughter Matoaka, better known by her nickname or child’s name, Pocahontas, interposed; “whereat the Emperour was contented he should liue to make him hatchets, and her bells, beads, and copper [.]” As instances of adolescents making foreign-policy decisions are as conspicuously absent in the North American ethnographic record as they are in late medieval Europe, this was probably a prearranged scene of ritual mercy, a point Smith drives further when describing an event two days later. Powhatan, wearing black bodypaint, declared in front of a crowd of 200 “as blacke as himselfe” that Smith would be returned to Jamestown in exchange for two cannons and a grindstone, “for which he would give him the Country of Capahowosick,” a village near his capital, Werewocomoco, and “for ever esteeme him as his sonne Nantaquoud.” If Smith’s description of events is accurate, the Powhatans had decided to rerender the English as trading partners, with Smith instated as a middleman—an English weroance.164 In northeastern North America, various underwater goods such as shell and Great Lakes copper had ritual power and significance, and cross-cultural exchanges of European metalwares could be informed by their categorization as prestige goods. In the case of the stratified Powhatan society of coastal Virginia, shell and copper prestige goods, including the mass-produced tin and copper ornaments and hawk’s-bells that British colonists traded for corn and food, cemented the power of chiefly lineages, a distinction lost on British observers 164 Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Williamson, Powhatan Lords; Barbour, Three Worlds; Barbour, Complete Works of; Fausz, “Opechancanough”; Margaret Holmes Williamson, Powhatan Lords of Life and Death, 47-72; Lemay, Did Pocahontas Save Captain John Smith? 176 who imagined the Powhatans as overgrown children fascinated by cheap gewgaws, in Smith’s words “such trash.” In the conflicts that arose as the New Netherland colony was established at New Amsterdam on Manhattan Island and at Fort Nassau on the Hudson River in the 1610s, another marine trade good with ritual significance came to prominence in cross- cultural encounters: wampum, made from certain species of shellfish and used ritually in exchanges between potentially hostile peoples to absorb or dampen anger and other hostile, negative emotions. In diplomacy, strings of wampum sealed peace treaties and alliances and could be used to ransom captives, as the Hontom brothers Willem and Hans, and a trader named Jaques Elekes or Jacob Eelkens, discovered in the spring of 1620 when they received it as ransom for kidnapped Indians. Employees of the Netherlands’ West India Company soon discovered that wampum was widely accepted in the interior, offering a hybrid role as a medium of exchange in the fur trade and a form of ersatz currency for Europeans in the northeast: much lighter than iron and copper kettles and other metalwares, and more valuable than duffel cloth. Having learned that the Pequots controlled the production of wampum on the Long Island Sound, in 1622 Eelkens kidnapped a Pequot sachem to extort a fortune in wampum. Subsequent relations were not uniformly violent, and Dutch-Pequot relations were mutually-profitable from the early 1620s to the mid-1630s: Dutch trade provided iron and steel awls and drills, which allowed the mass production of wampum. The Pequots also extended their tributary network throughout the Connecticut River valley and throughout eastern Long Island, which furnished additional wampum, through its ritual use in vassalage: conquered sachemships gave wampum as a sign of their subordination but also of fealty, as their sovereigns were obligated to protect them. I had initially assumed that firearms would have played a role in this extension of Pequot power, but as Brian Given points out, as late as 177 1637 the Pequots were estimated by contemporary New Englanders to have no more than 16 guns, and while there are plentiful references to Pequot use of bows and arrows in the Pequot War, there are no references to their using firearms.165 Relations with the Mohawks, focused on Fort Nassau and its successor Fort Orange on the Hudson River, sprang from similarly violent encounters, but the tenuousness of Dutch presence in the interior is less of a “middle ground” than what Kathleen DuVal models as a “native ground” where indigenous peoples dictated terms to Europeans rather than compromising. In 1622, for reasons unknown, Hans Hontom kidnapped a Mohawk chief and, after the ransom had been paid, killed him sadistically by emasculation. In 1626, two years into the Mohawks’ four-year war (1624-28) to subjugate the Mahicans of the Hudson Valley and bar them from trading for guns at Fort Orange, the Dutch attempted to intervene on the Mahicans’ behalf by dispatching the fort’s commander, Daniel Van Krieckenbeeck, and six traders bearing firearms to join a Mahican raid into Mohawk territory. Krieckenbeeck and three traders were killed, a fourth was “well roasted” and ritually eaten, and the triumphant Mohawks brought home a Dutch arm and leg to signify their victory. Fort Orange being only 80 miles from their homeland, the Mohawks were strongly motivated to seal it off from Algonquian enemies like the Mahicans or the French-allied Innu and Algonquin to secure a source of firearms and trade goods for themselves, a state of affairs they managed to impose on the Dutch by 1628. In 1633, when Hans Hontom was appointed as the fort’s commander, 165 Cave, The Pequot War, 13-68, notes that white wampum was made from two species of whelks, Busycon carica and Busycon canaliculatum, while purple wampum was carved from a coloured spot on Mercenaria mercenaria , a species of hard-shelled clam (51); Francis Jennings, The Invasion of America: Indians, Colonialism, and the Cant of Conquest (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1975); Richard Drinnon, Facing West: the Metaphysics of Indian-Hating and Empire-Building (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1980), 33-61; Brian J. Given, A Most Pernicious Thing: Gun Trading and Native Warfare in the Early Contact Period (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1994), 49-56. 178 the Mohawks made their displeasure plain by besieging Fort Orange, slaughtering the WIC company director’s cattle on his nearby estate of Rensselaerswyck, and burning the company yacht at anchor.166 In the later 1610s in Virginia and the 1630s in New England and New Amsterdam, British and Dutch colonists began turning their attention away from the products of indigenous land produced through indigenous labour, and towards acquiring indigenous land itself as a saleable commodity, or a source of saleable commodities to be produced by Europeans, free or indentured European labourers, and enslaved Indians and Africans. In this turn towards colonial policies of driving Indians off their lands by force, obtaining land through conquest or questionable legal methods, and repopulation through mass migration, we see a turn towards what a recent branch of scholarship calls settler colonialism: “a winner-take-all project whose dominant feature is not exploitation but replacement.” Whereas the dominant model of Iberian and French colonialism in the 16th through 18th centuries was the partial assimilation of indigenous peoples via civilizing missions which would Hispanicize or Gallicize Indians into functionally ersatz Europeans within a casta hierarchy obsessed with the intergenerational “breeding-out” of indigeneity among mestizos, the dominant model of colonialism in British North America, and less successfully in New Amsterdam, was a system of expansionist agrarianism which displaced indigenous peoples 166 The crisis was only averted after Hontom was killed in an unrelated brawl. Kathleen DuVal, The Native Ground: Indians and Colonists in the Heart of the Continent (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006); William Nelson Fenton, The Great Law and the Longhouse: A Political History of the Iroquois Confederacy (University of Oklahoma Press, 1998), 269-70; Bruce Trigger, Children of Aataentsic: A History of the Huron People to 1660 (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1988), 463-67; Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace, Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898 (Oxford University Press, 1999), 14-40; Andrew Lipman, The Saltwater Frontier: Indians and the Contest for the American Coast (Yale University Press, 2015), 85-164; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 33, 17-40; Bailyn, The Barbarous Years, 206-209; Steele, Warpaths, 114; Trigger, Natives and Newcomers: Canada’s “Heroic Age” Reconsidered, 260-281, 309-315. 179 and, through mass migration, rendered their presence and labour “superfluous.” The cultural implications of settler-colonial theory regarding the construction of European identity in the New World—summarized by Kevin Bruyneel as the dispossession of indigenous people and the subsequent appropriation of their iconography to manufacture an “indigenous” Euro- American identity—will be dealt with in later chapters. For the purposes of this chapter, I would like to note the relevance of Lorenzo Veracini’s observation that settler societies are “traumatised societies par excellence,” insofar as many of those early colonists willing to kill to take possession of a new land, and to stay permanently, have already been driven out of their own homelands for a variety of reasons (e.g., sectarian violence, dispossession, ethnic cleansing, deportation, enslavement) and may reenact the violence inflicted on them onto those they see as existential threats to their future survival.167 In London in 1617, a counsellor and relative of Wahunsenecawh known as Uttamatomakkin or Tocomoco expressed his surprise to John Smith: he had not yet had audience with the King or even been introduced to him, despite having brought him gifts from America. When Smith explained that he had, in fact, already seen James I from across a crowded room, “Then he replyed very sadly, You gaue Powhatan a white Dog, which Powhatan fed as himselfe, but your King gaue me nothing, and I am better than your white Dog.” In an insurrectionary 1642 speech calling to drive the land-grabbing 167 “Winner-take-all-project” (207-08) and “superfluous” (163) in Patrick Wolfe, Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology: The Politics and Poetics of an Ethnographic Event (London and New York: Cassell, 1999); “traumatized societies par excellence” (75) in Lorenzo Veracini, Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview (Palgrave MacMillan, 2010); see also Maya Mikdashi, “What is Settler Colonialism? (for Leo Delano Ames Jr.)”, 30, in American Indian Culture and Research Journal vol. 37, issue 2 (2013), 23-34; Scott Lauria Morgensen, Spaces Between Us: queer settler colonialism and indigenous decolonization (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2011); on the deployment of indigenous iconography and Euro-American myths of benign or inevitable dispossession in the present day, see Kevin Bruyneel, “Race, Colonialism and the Politics of Indian Sports Names and Mascots: The Washington Football Team Case,” in Native American and Indigenous Studies, Vol. 3, No. 2 (2016), pp. 1-24. 180 English out of the Long Island Sound in favour of the mercantilist Dutch, the Narragansett sachem Miantonomo explained the absolute, impersonal, and unreciprocal authority of the British monarch: even “if you would send him 100,000 fathom of wampum, he would not give you a knife for it, nor thank you.” A middle-ground relationship could not exist for long in conjunction with a settler-colonial paradigm of continual immigration and annexation of land for colonists’ exclusive use.168 In July 1585, during the early days of the Roanoke colony (1585-86), Sir Richard Grenville retaliated for the suspected theft of a silver cup by sacking Aquascogoc: “we burnt, and spoyled their corne, and Towne, all the people being fledde.” The friendliness of a local leader, Wingina, had made settlement at Roanoke seem possible, but by 1586 the indigenous people of the region had moved further inland and stopped paying tribute in food to English settlers, while Wingina signalled his changing attitude towards the newcomers by taking a new name, Pemisapan. As relations became mutually hostile, the governor Ralph Lane became convinced of a plot to destroy them which he dubbed “the conspiracy of Pemisapan,” and led a surprise attack on Pemisapan’s village on 1 June 1586. Lane later described the Indians’ deaths in terms which confirmed his certainty of their plot: “Pemisapan’s chief men and himself, had by the mercy of God for our deliverance, that which they had purposed for us.” Severely wounded, Pemisapan fled into the forest with Edward Nugent, “an Irish man serving me,” in hot pursuit; after a lengthy absence, Nugent returned from the woods “with 168 “Your king gave me nothing” in John Smith, The Generall Historie of Virgina, New-England, and the Summer Isles (London: 1624), 123; Daniel K. Richter, Facing East from Indian Country: A Native History of Early America (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 70-78; Miantonomo cited in Lipman, “A Meanes to Knitt Them Togeather,” 26-27. 181 Pemisapans head in his hand.” Lane, upon returning to Roanoke, impaled Pemisapan’s head on a pole, “the traditional English postmortem mutilation for treason.”169 Lane’s sign of mastery was empty: two weeks later, the colony was abandoned save for a 15-man garrison. A successive attempt to colonize Roanoke in 1587 only escaped total disaster through the ministrations of Manteo, a Carolina Algonquian who served as the expedition’s interpreter and negotiator, and John White’s description of events within the first six days of landfall on Roanoke Island invert Hakluyt’s boastful prediction of an easy victory over a “naked and unarmed” people. The fifteen soldiers left behind in 1586 were nowhere to be seen, and human bones were taken to be “one of those fifteen, which the Savages had slaine long before.” A few days later, the body of colonist George Howe was found in a tidal marsh, riddled with arrows and with his head bashed in. White attributed the killing to “divers Savages” who had crossed from the mainland, either to reconnoiter the English or to hunt deer, and had discovered Howe in the water looking for crabs “alone, almost naked, without any weapon, save only a small forked stick [.]” They “shotte at him in the water,” and after having “slaine him with their wooden swordes, beat his head in peeces,” before returning to the mainland. The colonists, including White, launched a surprise attack “so early that it was yet dark” on the village they thought responsible, only to find that they had accidentally attacked their allies the Croatoan.170 169 David B. Quinn, Set Fair for Roanoke: Voyages and Colonies, 1584-1606 (UNC Press Books, 1985), 55- 150; Lee Miller, Roanoke: Solving the Mystery of the Lost Colony (Arcade Publishing, 2000), 61-79, 97-135; Michael Leroy Oberg, The Head in Edward Nugent’s Hand: Roanoke’s Forgotten Indians (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), esp. 31-101; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213-48; Seeman, Death in the New World, 66- 77; Weaver, Red Atlantic, 138-42; Horning, Ireland, 121-25. 170 Kathleen Donegan, Seasons of Misery: Catastrophe and Colonial Settlement in Early America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 21-68; Quinn, Set Fair for Roanoke, 55-150; Miller, Roanoke, 61-79, 97-135 (131: “so early that it was yet dark”); Oberg, The Head in Edward Nugent’s Hand, 31-115 (115: “head in peeces”); Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213-48; Seeman, Death in the New World, 66-77; Weaver, Red Atlantic, 138-42; Horning, Ireland, 121-25. 182 In European – indigenous alliances, each party could be unnerved by the other’s actions against mutual enemies. At its 1621 founding the Plymouth colony established good relations and a treaty of mutual defense with its neighbours the Wampanoags, who had been particularly hard-hit by a coastal plague in 1618-19 and needed strong allies to maintain their independence against other, more-intact sachemships in the interior. In 1623, the Wampanoag sachem Massasoit warned Plymouth of a broad Indian conspiracy against them involving several sachemships but orchestrated primarily by the Massachusett, rivals of the Wampanoag who had escaped the epidemic relatively unharmed. They also stated that the Massachusett were about to attack the settlement of Wessagusset, which Bernard Bailyn characterizes as a rough outpost which had antagonized the Massachusett throughout the winter of 1622-23: when, for instance, one of the men stationed there was caught stealing the Massachusetts’ seed corn, his fellows hanged him “to give the Indians content.” Early in 1623 Plymouth dispatched Captain Miles Standish, a 36-year-old veteran of the Netherlands wars, to lead soldiers to Wessagusett, where they lured eight of the chief Massachusett warriors one by one into a blockhouse and stabbed them to death. Standish returned with the head of “the bloody and bold villain” Wituwamat, “the chiefest of them,” and impaled it atop Plymouth’s blockhouse, where it was publicly displayed for almost a year; when Massasoit came to visit Plymouth, Standish greeted him by hanging a linen cloth soaked with Massachusett blood from the fort. An observation by Thomas Morton, an Indian trader banished from New England for his Anglicanism and excessively-friendly relations with the Indians, points interestingly towards the later ethnonym “Big Knives” which would later be bestowed on Anglo-American frontiersmen: after Wessagusett, Morton wrote that 183 Algonquians began calling the English “Wotowequenage, which in their language signifies stabbers or Cutthroats.”171 Collisions between Algonquian and British rituals and definitions of licit violence continued during and after the Pequot War (1636-38) and King Philip’s War (1675-76). In October 1639 in Quinnipiac (later New Haven), “an Indian, called Messatunck, alias Nepaupuck,” was arrested and charged with murder for actions he had supposedly committed during the Pequot War: slaying a Mr. Finch in the attack on Wethersfield, complicity in killing three Englishmen in a shallop on the Connecticut, having “captivated one of Mr. Swain’s daughters,” and showing the Pequot sachem Sassacus the severed hands of Englishmen he had slain. The suspect, who had initially denied that he was Nepaupuck, confessed to be him, and resolved to meet his end in mourning-war fashion: he “boasted that he was a great captain” who had killed Finch “and had his hands in other English blood. He said he knew he must die and was not afraid of it, but laid his neck to the mantle-tree of the chimney,” and expressed a willingness to die by beheading or in any way save immolation, as “fire was God, and God was angry with him, therefore he would not fall into his hands.” He was beheaded on the following day and his severed head impaled in the town square. In July 1676, the Mohegans asked a Narragansett prisoner given them by the English whether he had enjoyed the war, to which he replied that he “found it as sweet, as the English Men did their Sugar.” The prisoner, who Jill Lepore suggests may have been a Narragansett stonemason known as Stonewall John, then boasted that he had killed nineteen Englishmen 171 Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 463-64; Chaplin, Subject Matter, 36-75; Lipman, “A Meanes to Knitt Them Togeather,” 8; Cave, The Pequot War, 46-47; Bernard Bailyn, The Barbarous Years: The Conflict of Civilizations, 1600-1675 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2013), 339-340; Alden T. Vaughan, ““Expulsion of the Salvages”: English Policy and the Virginia Massacre of 1622,” 82, in The William and Mary Quarterly Vol. 35, No. 1 (January 1978), 57-84; Daniel K. Richter, Facing East from Indian Country: A Native History of Early America (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 90-105. 184 during the war and killed a Mohegan to make an even twenty. William Hubbard, who Lepore notes took all this at face value, damned him as an “unsensible and hard-hearted Monster.”172 While the scalp was the visible symbol of a broader mourning-war system, the severed heads British colonists impaled on poles represented a hierarchical European system of warfare aimed at reinforcing the power of the monarchy and, in the early modern period, an increasingly-expanding state. While not all members of European fighting forces were military specialists, and could include a significant proportion of conscripts, peasants pressed into service by their lords, militias, and other volunteers, military campaigns against external and internal enemies were led and directed by a full-time warrior aristocracy. In those campaigns, both lords and commoners fed themselves and recouped their expenses by plundering the enemy, and towns and cities which refused surrender during sieges were subjected to merciless looting as punishment if the walls fell. The torture and public execution of enemies of the state, such as rebel leaders and heretics, were performed by a small group of professional executioners whose wages were supplemented by the sale of mementoes and body parts from the condemned which, notes Beth Conklin, could be treated as market commodities, as in August 1676 following the death of King Philip. After the ranger captain Benjamin Church ordered his “old Indian executioner” to quarter and suspend Philip’s body from trees, he then gifted the ranger who had fired the fatal shot, a Christian convert or “Praying Indian” named John Alderman, with Philip’s head and his scarred right hand, which bore distinctive marks from an exploding pistol. Philip’s wampum belt, bow, 172 On Nepaupuck’s trial, see Cave, Pequot War, 162-63; Jon C. Blue, The Case of the Piglet’s Paternity: Trials from the New Haven Colony, 1639-1663 (Wesleyan University Press, 2015), 26-32; Benjamin Trumbull, A Complete History of Connecticut, Civil and Ecclesiastical, Volume I (Hartford, Hudson & Goodwin, 1797), 112, and Leonard Bacon, Thirteen Historical Discourses, on the completion of Two Hundred Years, from the beginning of the first church in New Haven (New York: Gould, Newman & Saxton, 1849), 339- 344. 185 war club, and other personal effects were doled out among prominent New Englanders as trophies, and his head was purchased from Alderman to be impaled on a pole and displayed at Plymouth for Thanksgiving. But Alderman retained Philip’s hand, which he reportedly preserved in a bucket of rum, and earned “many a penny” for showing it to gentlemen. Pre- existing trends in European warfare suggest, but do not fully explain, the later instatement of scalp bounties.173 Virginia, from landfall to massacre to vengeance, 1607 to 1622 In May of 1607, the Virginia Company made first landfall at Cape Henry at the southern mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Returning to the boats around dusk, Captain Christopher Newport’s party of 30 men were, in the words of Captain John Smith, “assaulted by 5 Salvages; who hurt two of the English very dangerously.” On the first night at the Jamestown settlement site, Paspahegh messengers announced well after midnight that their weroance, whose village was on the mainland adjacent to the Jamestown peninsula, would shortly arrive with a “fat deer.” Instead he arrived with one hundred warriors, and a battle nearly began when an Englishman struck an Indian he accused of stealing a hatchet. After a few days of attempts to gain access to Jamestown under the guise of delivering venison, two hundred Paspahegh warriors attacked the as-yet unfortified site on 27 May. A boy and a man were killed and 10 were wounded with arrows; if not for cannonfire from the three ships anchored in harbour, wrote Smith, “our men had all beene slaine [.]” While the villages 173 On public executions and warfare in early modern Europe, see Conklin, Consuming Grief, 5-13 ; Harrison, Dark Trophies, 39-47; Janes, Losing Our Heads, 36-70; van Dülmen, Theatre of Horror, 1-73; Lauro Martines, Furies: War in Europe, 1450-1700 (New York and London: Bloomsbury Press, 2013). On King Philip’s War, Starkey, European and Native American Warfare, 1675-1815, 57-82; Grenier, First Way of War, 16-52; Steele, Warpaths, 103-07; Patrick M. Malone, The Skulking Way of War: Technology and Tactics among the New England Indians (Lanham, New York, London: Madison Books, 1991); Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 236-41; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness, 38-69. 186 closest to Jamestown were waylaying colonists found outside the fort, villages further away like the Arrohattoc and Pamunkey began trading with them. As violence had failed to dislodge this new wave of Europeans, the leaders of the Powhatan Confederacy accepted trade while considering their options.174 British consideration of the Indians was scattered, but fear and contempt were powerful trends from the beginning. William Strachey was an early advocate for contempt, imagining the Indians as a reflection of what the British might still be like if the Romans had never come to Britain: We might yet have lyved overgrowne Satyrs, rude and untutred, wandring in the woodes, and dwelling in Caves, and hunting for our dynners… prostituting our daughters to straungers, sacrificing our Children to our Idolls. In place of this Savagist fantasy, the Indians had to be civilized by force, an act Strachey likened to a father beating his child “to bringe him to goodnes.” Gabriel Archer, more apprehensive, summarized their “skirmishes” as “violent, cruel and full of celerity; they use a tree to defend them in fight, and having shot an enemy that he fall, they maul him with a short wooden sword.” In December 1607, Opechancanough’s war party preceded the capture of John Smith by executing a luckless member of John Smith’s foraging expedition named George Cassen. Smith described his death as that of an archetypal “malefactour”: tied to a tree, “his executioner,” using knives of sharpened cane or musselshell, cut off his fingers and toes and threw them into a fire, “then doth he proceed with shels and reeds to case the skinne 174 Barbour, Three Worlds of Captain John Smith, 122-57; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213-48; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Williamson, Powhatan Lords. 187 from his head and face” before disemboweling him and setting fire to the tree—“Thus themselves reported they executed George Cassen.”175 The pseudo-conquistador fantasy of the early years of the Jamestown colony, in which the colonists would buy or demand food from the Indians while they searched for minerals in the Piedmont, turned towards forced requisitions as the corn-to-copper exchange rate plummeted from a surfeit of cheap English trade goods. In January 1609, Smith and other Jamestown leaders began raiding and intimidating Powhatan villages, particularly Opechancanough’s village of Pamunkey and even Werewocomoco itself. Governor George Percy, in his “Trewe Relacyon,” wrote of dispatching Captain William West during the famine winter of 1609-10 to obtain corn from the Patawomecks, which he did, through “some harshe and Crewell dealing by Cutteinge of[f] towe of [the] Salvages heads and other extremetyes.” Other colonists were sent out to survive by esconcing themselves in Indian villages or camping alongside shellfish deposits, in defiance of Wahunsenecawh’s instructions that Smith was to limit his people’s presence to Jamestown; Smith even founded a settlement very close to Werewocomoco at the falls of the James River. Other colonists defected: as late as 1612, the Spanish ambassador to England informed Madrid that 40 to 50 men were now living with Indian women outside of Jamestown.176 After Smith’s return to England in October 1609, mutual hostility reached a new level after July 1610, when new governor Sir Thomas Gates and his compatriot Sir Thomas West, 175 Gabriel Archer, in A relatyon of the Discovery of our River… (1607), in Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 45; Smith cited in Philip L. Barbour ed., The Jamestown Voyages under the First Charter, 1606-1609 (Cambridge: Hakluyt Society, 1969), 91; “to bringe him to goodnes” cited in Bernard Bailyn, The Barbarous Years: The Conflict of Civilizations, 1600-1675 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2013), 74-75; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213- 48; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Williamson, Powhatan Lords. 176 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213-48; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Williamson, Powhatan Lords; Gleach, Powhatan’s World. 188 the Lord De La Warr, imposed martial law on the colony and inaugurated a campaign of total war against the Powhatans. Alongside the “casual labourers, rural vagrants, and urban drifters” who had travelled with De La Warr from Britain were “a large contingent” of perhaps 150 “old soldiers,” seasoned and hardened in the conquest of Ireland and the wars against Spain in the Netherlands, whom Hakluyt described as “hammerours” sent to “prepare” the Indians for “our preachers’ hands.” While De la Warr, Gates, and Sir Thomas Dale imposed a “draconian” code within the walls of Jamestown and the bounds of English settlement, meting out hanging, burning, staking, shooting, and breaking on the wheel for various criminal and moral offenses, the “hammerours” set out per the Virginia Company’s revised instructions: to obtain the Indians’ corn and labour through force, as “they will never feede you but for feare.” Furthermore, “in case of necessity, or conveniency, we pronounce it not crueltie nor breache of Charity to deale more sharpely with them.” Gates set out to reinforce the cultural divide by ordering Wahunsenecawh to return any fugitives among his people and the various firearms they had reportedly acquired; his response, that “we should depart his country, or confine ourselves to Jamestown only,” was ignored.177 George Percy and a body of 70 troops enacted an exemplary massacre in 1610 against the Paspaheghs, Jamestown’s long-suffering neighbours, when they refused to turn over an English runaway. Percy records that they “put some fifteen or sixteen to the sword”— historian Ian Steele tallies the total dead as over 65—then cut down the cornfields, burned the village, took the “queen and her children” as prisoners, then killed them, a clear violation of Powhatan rules regarding weroance lineages. Four other punitive expeditions, including one 177 Barbour, Three Worlds of Captain John Smith, 122-57; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 213-48; Bailyn, The Barbarous Years; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Williamson, Powhatan Lords; on “hammerours,” see Bernard Bailyn, Atlantic History: Concepts and Contours (London and Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005), 62-71; 189 to Powhatan’s village, were made in 1610 alone. The Powhatan point of view was further expressed in a victory song William Strachey recorded after three or four Englishmen were killed, and a sailor and a boy taken prisoner. This “scornefull song” mocked the British for being so well armed with guns, swords, and axes which now belonged to the Indians, and an aspects of the refrain, “Whe, whe,” onomatopoeically mocked the “lamentation our people made”—or, as Joyce Chaplin suggests, the shrieks of English captives during torture. Either way, the Powhatans appear to have expressed their disgust with a people so free with killing but so lacking in self-control.178 In the context of early modern European warfare, the scope and scale of British violence against the Powhatans followed partly from established practice and partly from recent experience. Many members of the Virginia Company had participated directly or indirectly in the conquest of Ireland, where the western half of the island was subjugated in scorched-earth campaigns which destroyed villages, forts, holy sites, fields, granaries, herds, and houses, then hunted displaced peasants or simply deprived them of food and shelter in the most inclement months; as the Lord Deputy of Ireland put it, “A Million swords will not do them so much harm as one winter’s famine.” This war had a certain xenophobic edge, as noted in Chapter 2: as well as the longstanding belief that the Irish were savages, sectarian and political designations made them thrice-damned as barbarians, rebels, and Papists. But, as Audrey Horning points out, comparison between Ireland and Virginia should not be pushed too far: English and Scottish settlers in Ireland coexisted with Irish neighbours, a 178 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 221; Vaughan, “Expulsion of the Salvages,” 67-68; Bailyn, The Barbarous Years, 66-68; George Percy, A Trewe Relacyon…, 271-72, cited in Tyler’s Quarterly Historical and Geneaological Magazine 3 (4), 1922, 259-82, in Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 78-79; Steele, Warpaths, 37-49; Rountree, Powhatan Foreign Policy, 183; Grenier, First Way of War, 21-52; Chaplin, Subject Matter, 256-69; “scornefull song” and Strachey’s transcribed lyrics with translation in Daniel K. Richter, Trade, Land, Power: The Struggle for Eastern North America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 13-14. 190 shared legal code and culture facilitated communications, and the Irish nobility could be co- opted into the British ruling class, none of which applied to Anglo-Powhatan relations. And where British colonists and soldiers in Ireland could travel back to England in a very short span of time, the same could not be said of the journey across the Atlantic, which essentially marooned them in a New World.179 The First Anglo-Powhatan War (1609-14 or 1610-14) ended in 1614 when Matoaka, captured by the British, was married to John Rolfe and christened Rebecca. But the seeds for future conflict—no pun intended—were sown by Rolfe’s introduction of “Orinoco tobacco” (Nicotiana tabacum). The old, pseudo-conquistador strategy of English rule over Indian farmers and labourers, who would ultimately extract and refine whatever saleable commodities the colonists eventually discovered, was replaced by a settler-colonial strategy of turning the land itself, particularly the fertile riparian soil which the Indians farmed and fished, into a saleable commodity for the cash-cropping of tobacco by petty criminals and the urban poor who would otherwise, in Hakluyt’s words, “be devoured by the gallows.” But these two incompatible strategies were pursued simultaneously between 1614 and 1622. While Powhatans were employed in English agricultural and artisanal labour and Protestant missions, including the kidnapping of children, were extended, the colony annexed thousands of acres of Powhatan land—“essentially the entire James River drainage in the coastal plain,” notes Gleach. As Powhatan labourers were steadily pushed off the land with which they fed themselves, legal reforms opened up Virginia to further investment and immigration. The headright system of 1618 pointed the way to Virginia’s future tobacco-planter oligarchy by 179 “one winter’s famine”: Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 169-212; Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea, 17-176; Bailyn, The Barbarous Years. 191 granting 50 acres of Virginian land to every immigrant who paid their own passage and stayed for at least 3 years, while giving 50 acres to entrepreneurs for each indentured servant’s passage they paid for.180 In 1618, Wahunsenecawh died and was succeeded by Opechancanough, whose publicly conciliatory attitude was taken at face value by British colonists. As Fausz observes, during his tenure the Powhatans were acquiring increasing numbers of firearms and becoming keen marksmen, as evidenced by the occasional shooting of a colonist; since, to the English, such one-off killings were not considered warfare, the colonists were blissfully unaware of the depth of actual Powhatan hostility against them. In 1621, Opechancanough took a new name, Mangopeesomon, and denied a report by the weroance of Accomac that he was planning a massive attack against the Virginia Colony, to be signalled by the reinterment of Wahunsenecawh’s bones. Mangopeesomon also insisted that the shooting of a holy man known as Jack of the Feathers, who was out of favour in Powhatan politics at that time anyways, would not imperil the peace. And so, on the early morning of March 22, 1622, Powhatan hired hands, employees, and neighbours appeared as they did every morning at the houses, farms, and tobacco plantations of the newly-established western settlements, “with Deer, Turkies, Fish, Furres, and other provisions, to sell, and trucke with us, for glasse, beades, and other trifles,” wrote the company secretary, Edward Waterhouse: yea in some places, [they] sate downe at Breakfast with our people at their tables, whom immediately with their owne tooles and weapons, eyther laid downe, or standing in their houses, they basely and barbarously murthered, not sparing eyther age or sexe, man, woman 180 Rountree, Powhatan Foreign Policy, 183-87; Bailyn, The Barbarous Years, 100; Horning, Ireland, 156-176; Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Vaughan, “Expulsion of the Salvages”; Steele, Warpaths, 37-49; Grenier, First Way of War, 21-52. 192 or childe: so sodaine in their cruell execution, that few or none discerned the weapon or blow that brought them to destruction. 181 The Powhatan Confederacy’s strike against the Virginia colony had been carefully planned and timed for maximum psychological impact to literally unsettle the colonists, particularly their sense of security and their convictions of religious superiority over the Indians. Not only were the colonists’ winter food supplies at their lowest point before spring planting, but 22 March that year fell between Ash Wednesday and Easter, the significance of which in the Christian calendar had long been drummed into the Powhatans by British missionaries. While Gleach notes that the oldest and most easterly settlements “emerged unscathed,” the western settlements recently established deep in Powhatan territory were hit hardest, and some were wiped off the map. Out of a total settler population of 1,240, over 320 were killed, and their bodies mutilated to show the Powhatans’ anger. Analysis of the skeleton of one colonist, found by archaeologists at the Martin’s Hundred plantation, showed he was killed by a blow to the forehead with an iron spade, then had the back of his head crushed by a club, and a portion of his scalp cut off on the left side of his head in the Powhatan fashion.182 After killing a quarter of the colony’s population, the Powhatans stopped, and no further attacks, beyond skirmishes or one-off killings, followed. Despite an apocryphal story which claimed that a loyal Powhatan domestic servant had saved Jamestown by informing his masters of the plot, Jamestown itself was never even approached by war parties. As the Powhatans obtained valuable trade goods and firearms from Jamestown, which they used 181 Waterhouse cited in Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea, 170-71, 285-86 (Opechancanough / Mangopeesomon’s preparations for the attack); Fausz, “Opechancanough”; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; 182 Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Seeman, Death in the New World, 86-101; Fausz, “Opechancanough”; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown. 193 against their Siouian Piedmont enemies to the west, containment of the Virginia colony was their purpose, not extirpation. While no mention of scalping appears to have been made in text or images depicting the 1622 attack, all the narratives scalping would later encapsulate were present: colonists’ accounts dwelt at great length on its unexpected and, in their minds, unprovoked nature, on the ingratitude and treachery of the Indians, and on their dismemberment of the colonists’ bodies which evidenced their irrational ferocity. Anglo- American perceptions of the attack as an anarchic, reverse-colonial invasion of their domestic space by the Indians are captured visually in Matthäus Merian’s 1628 engraving Indian Massacre of 1622, derived from an earlier illustration in Theodor de Bry’s America for a Dutch anthology published in Leyden.183 Michael Householder observes that this engraving denotes “an important shift in colonial British-American ideology that occurred between Jamestown and Mystic.” Early descriptions of violent encounters with indigenous people by George Best, Ralph Lane, John Smith, and others, had focused on the material causes for the violence of armed British soldiers and adventurers against Indians, e.g., property theft, exposure of a conspiracy, or general recalcitrance. But by emphasizing the helplessness and unpreparedness of those killed by the Powhatans, the British were encouraged “to imagine themselves as victims first.” In Merian’s foreground, loincloth-clad Indian warriors armed with knives and mace- shaped clubs, many sporting North American-style roached haircuts, a few with Brazilian- style feather bonnets and one wearing an entire bird as headgear, attack unarmed colonists at a set breakfast table and in the streets of what is meant to be Jamestown, while in the 183 Gleach, Powhatan’s World; Seeman, Death in the New World, 86-101; Fausz, “Opechancanough”; Rountree and Turner, Before and After Jamestown; Michael Householder, Inventing Americans in the Age of Discovery: Narratives of Encounter (Ashgate Publishing, 2011), 177-198. 194 background canoes packed with more warriors arrive from the Chesapeake Bay. The juxtaposition between peaceful English industriousness and warlike Indian savagery is made plain in the far right foreground, where an Indian warrior wielding a butcher knife is about to stab an Englishman in the back; the man, trimming wood with a broadaxe and preoccupied, is totally unaware of the Hell that has swallowed Jamestown. In the mid-left, a weeping mother and her baby lie on the ground pleading for mercy as an Indian warrior readies a two- handed blow with an enormous wooden mace. To the right, another woman and her child are being stabbed by another warrior with a gigantic butcher knife; between them, an Indian warrior drags a man by the arm, perhaps to dismember him.184 Working themselves into a fury over the Indians’ ingratitude towards them, Virginia Company directors and colonists dehumanized their enemy by Savagist comparisons to animals and called for their total annihilation: all Powhatans were now an obstacle to the development of Virginia. “[N]ow they feare we may beat them out of their dens,” wrote John Smith in 1622, “which Lions and Tygers would not admit but by force.” While even fierce beasts, as in the fable of Androcles and the lion, could feel gratitude, the Powhatans were “more fell than Lyons or Dragons,” wrote Edward Waterhouse in Relation of the Barbarous Massacre (1622); they had “not only put off humanity, but put on a worse and more then unnatural bruitishnesse” as evidenced by their treatment of the dead colonists. They “fell after againe upon the dead, making as well as they could, a fresh murder, defacing, dragging, and mangling the dead carkasses into many pieces, and carrying some parts away in derision, with base and bruitish triumph.” Waterhouse presented the death of Captain George Thorpe, 184 Householder, Inventing Americans in the Age of Discovery, 177-198, “as victims first” (187), “shared cultural identity” (198); Peter Silver, Our Savage Neighbours. 195 a prominent colonist and landowner, as typical of their ingratitude towards their benefactors: his killers were a “viperous brood” who “cruelly and fiercely, out of devilish malice, did so many barbarous despites and foul scorns after to his dead corpse, as are unbefitting to be heard by any civil ear”. The poet, Christopher Brooke, more succinctly called the Indians “the very dregs, garbage, and spawne of Earth.”185 From the level of Company directorship downwards, a perverse joy at no longer having to show any kind of restraint towards the Indians was openly expressed. The colony’s governor and council ruled in 1622 that “wee hold nothinge unjuste, that may tend to their ruine, (except breach of faith).” “Our hands which before were tied with gentlenesse and faire usage,” wrote Waterhouse in A Declaration of the State of the Colony and Affaires in Virginia (1622), “are now set at liberty by the treacherous violence of the Savages, not untying the Knot, but cutting it”; colonists “may now by right of Warre, and law of Nations, invade the Country, and destroy them who sought to destroy us.” Gifted a vast haul of military surplus from the Crown, e.g., swords, halberds, armour, firearms and a few cannons from the Tower of London, the directors of the Virginia Company wrote their deputies in August 1622 to wage “a perpetuall warre without peace or truce” against the Indians. Punitive expeditions set out from Jamestown to harry the Indians per the instructions issued by the Company’s directors in August 1622: surprisinge them in their habitations, intercepting them in theire hunting, burninge theire Townes, demolishing theire Temples, destroyinge theire Canoes, plucking upp theire weares, 185 Vaughan, “Expulsion of the Salvages,” 58, 76-78 (“burning theire Townes”); Captain John Smith, “An abstract of Letters sent from the Collony in New England, July 16. 1622,” cited in Barbour, ed., The Complete Works of Captain John Smith Vol 1., 415, 431-441; “dregs” in Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea, 285-86: “viperous brood” cited in Kingsbury ed., Records of the Virginia Company vol. III, 551-52. 196 carying away theire Corne, and depriving them of whatsoever may yeeld them succor or relief. As in the Irish wars, the Second Anglo-Powhatan War (1622-32) targeted an elusive foe indirectly by destroying food and shelter. Summer attacks were timed to destroy the growing corn when it was too late in the year to replant, while towns and stored food were burned in winter to drive Powhatans into the cold. John Grenier observes that the colony’s military rosters for 1623 denote 80 of the 180 men fit for military service as assigned to “carrying corn”: their sole task in these attacks was to destroy cornfields. In a special company of 60 Indian-fighters created by the Virginia Council in 1624, twenty-four were “employed only in the Cutting down of Corn [.]”186 The premise that the Indians had intended genocide against the English informed a further Company decree in October 1622, specifying that their “sharp revenge uppon the bloody miscreantes” should extend “even to the measure that they intended against us, the rooting them out from being longer a people uppon the face of the Earth.” Bernard Bailyn has observed that the ferocity of 17th-century European campaigns against Indians only had precedent in the states of exception in European warfare: “the merciless slaughter and devastation reserved for conquered towns and cities that refused to surrender when sieged; domestic rebels who openly challenged established regimes; or heretics whose radical doctrines threatened to destroy the stability of civil society.” Informed by the Iberian precedent of using mastiffs as weapons of terror in the Caribbean, Mesoamerica and Florida, and perhaps following the dehumanization of Indians to its logical conclusion, colonists’ 186 Grenier, First Way of War, (23: George Wyatt), 23-24 (corn); Vaughan, ““Expulsion of the Salvages”, 57- 84; William S. Powell (47-48), “Aftermath of the Massacre: The First Indian War, 1622-1632,” in The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography, Vol. 66, No. 1 (January 1958), 44-75; “wee holde nothinge unjust” in Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 222. 197 demands for vengeance began to include explicit calls to hunt the Indians. In A Declaration… Waterhouse proposed that in driving the Indians westward into the Piedmont and “animating and abetting their enemies against them,” the colonists should hunt them like animals, riding them down with horses and mastiffs to “seaze” them. The settlers’ “Game,” wrote George Wyatt to his son Francis, the governor of Virginia, “are the fierce and wild Savages haunting the Deserts and woods,” some of whom should be “taken in Nets and Toils alive, reserved to be made tame” and enslaved, while “the most bloody” should “be rendered to due revenge of blood and cruelty”. Captain John Martin’s “The Manner Howe to Bringe the Indians into Subjection” (December 1622) drew similar, slightly less genocidal conclusions: since “holy writt” precluded the total annihilation of the Indians and since their souls could be saved, they should be converted to Christianity and put to work clearing the forest for settlers and hunting bears and wolves.187 Conclusion: “parte of ther heades” In a letter dated 9 June, 1623, an English merchant and Jamestown colonist named Edward Bennett informed his brother Robert, after cataloguing their family business ventures on both sides of the Atlantic, that “Newse I have not anye worthe the wryting but onlye this”. What follows is a violent and, for the purposes of this thesis, infuriatingly cryptic story. On 22 May, 1623, a Captain Daniel Tucker had led 12 men up the Chesapeake River to negotiate terms with the Keskiack Indians regarding peace between them and the Virginia colonists 187 George Wyatt cited in Grenier, First Way of War, 23. On the use of dogs as weapons against Indians and the conquistadores’ aperrear as a precedent, Captain John Smith’s Generall History notes that the Indians were startled by the settlers’ mastiffs, and that the settlers castrated their fiercer dogs to win the Indians’ goodwill and reduce their aggression—cited in Vaughan, “ “Expulsion of the Salvages”, 57-84; Edward Waterhouse suggested mastiffs to “seaze” them, cited in William S. Powell (47-48), “Aftermath of the Massacre: The First Indian War, 1622-1632,” in The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography, Vol. 66, No. 1 (January 1958), 44-75. On states of exception in European warfare, see Bailyn, The Barbarous Years, 497-500. 198 and the return of British hostages. Tucker, however, had poisoned the wine with which the Keskiacks would toast their armistice. “yt is thought some tooe hundred weare poisoned,” wrote Edward, and on the way back to the colony Tucker’s men “killed som 50 more and brought hom parte of ther heades.” This, Bennett opined, wilbe a great desmayinge to the blodye infidelles. We purpose god willinge after we have wedid our Tobaco and cornne with the helpe of Captn Smythe and otheres to goe upon the Waresquokes and Nansemomes [Nansemonds] to cute downe ther corne and put them to the sorde. God sende us vyctrie, as we macke no question god asistinge. 188 Bennett’s letter never elaborates on which “pieces of their heads” Captain Tucker and his men took, and the backers of the Virginia Company condemned Tucker’s betrayal of the Keskiacks and censured the doctor who had provided the captain with the poison.189 Virginia would not be the last Anglo-American frontier where Indians were openly compared to dangerous animals, where poisoned food or drink were used to kill them in the manner of wolves, or where the use of attack dogs to “seaze” them would be at least proposed if not acted upon. In Virginia, whose tobacco economy had made it the prototypical British settler-colonial colony by the 1620s, the first stabs at extirpationist warfare had been taken. As shall be seen in Chapter 4, when combined with the attempted cross-cultural communication of ad hoc body-part bounties in the Pequot War and Kieft’s War, the stage was set for scalp hunting and dark colonial mimesis of Indian warriors’ imagined savagery to metastasize into a new, distinct form of Anglo-American colonial violence. 188 “Robert Bennett. A Letter to Edward Bennett, 9 June, 1623,” in Susan Myra Kingsbury ed., Records of the Virginia Company Volume IV (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1936), 221-22, cited and analysed in Bernard Bailyn, Atlantic History: Concept and Contours (Harvard University Press, 2005), 62-71. 189 Rountree and Turner, in Before and After Jamestown: “The colony’s governor later denied that it happened. Meanwhile, the colony’s backers, the Virginia Company of London, censured the doctor at Jamestown for having provided the poison” (175, note 2); Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 169-248; Horning, Ireland in the Virginian Sea, 3-176, 271-368. 199 Chapter Four: “A Pound of Flesh”: Slavery and scalp bounties in Anglo-American frontier warfare, 1636 to 1725 The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, Is dearly bought: ‘tis mine and I will have it. –Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice (1594), Act 4, Scene 1 Upon the Indian skins they carv’d their name. –Benjamin Tompson, New-England’s Crisis (1676)190 Prologue: the scalping chaplain In November 1724 John Lovewell II, the son of a ranger in Captain Benjamin Church’s company during King Philip’s War, petitioned the Massachusetts General Assembly alongside Joshua Farnwell and Jonathan Robbins for funds to lead 40 to 50 volunteers into Maine for an expedition against the Abenakis, “in order to kill and destroy their enemy Indians, provided they can meet with Encouragement suitable.” The Assembly negotiated their asking price of 5 shillings a day downwards to 2s6d per day, but offered piecework: £100 for each male Indian’s scalp they returned to Boston. Their first expedition returned with the scalps of a man and a young boy, for which they received £200 on top of their daily wages. Lovewell and his rangers entered Boston in triumph after their second expedition in February 1725, proudly displaying ten Abenaki 10 scalps hooped and displayed on poles; for this they received £1,000 from the public treasury, plus £7 each for the Abenakis’ French-manufactured guns. New England supporters claimed they must have forestalled some French plot: “some attempt against the Frontiers of New Hampshire was prevented,” eulogized Thomas Symmes in his 1725 sermon “Lovewell Lamented.” By contrast, in the 1780s Ecuadorian encyclopedist Antonio de Alcedo referenced the incident 190 James Frothingham Hunnewell ed., Early American Poetry: New-England’s Crisis by Benjamin Tompson (Boston: the Club of Odd Volumes, 1894), 10-21. 200 damningly: “The English boast of this stain on humanity, and they attack the cruelties of the Spaniards in America, which certainly occurred but did not reach that level of barbarism.”191 In the spring of 1725, Lovewell and a small party of 47 men, many of whom were Boston town-dwellers unfamiliar with ranging, set out against the Abenaki village of Pequawket. Ambushed by a much larger force of 100 warriors, Lovewell was killed in the first volley, and only 12 of the party returned to Massachusetts. The defeat of Captain Lovewell’s scalp hunters became a borderland ballad, “The Song of Lovewell’s Fight,” hailing the “worthy Captain Lovewell” and “his valiant soldiers,” who served “his country and his King” against the “rebel Indians.” Prefiguring Custer’s last stand, the balladeers rewrote events to transform Lovewell into a canny wilderness fighter who figured out the Indians’ ambush immediately (“This rogue is to decoy us, I very plainly see”). Interestingly, the roll call of heroic scalp-lifters included a priest: Our worthy Captain Lovewell, among them there did die; They killed Lieutenant Robbins, and wounded good young Frye, Who was our English chaplain: he many Indians slew, And some of them he scalped, while bullets round him flew. 192 Scalping was so publicly acceptable in frontier society by the 1720s that Lovewell wore a wig fashioned from Indian scalps, and the company chaplain Jonathan Frye, a 1723 graduate of Harvard College, was no less adept than his secular peers: he took his fatal wound after 191 Grenier, First Way of War, 47-52; Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 180-222; Axtell, Natives and Newcomers, 273. Antonio de Alcedo, Diccionario geográfico-histórico de las Indias Occidentales o América, volume 2 (Madrid, 1787), cited in David J. Weber, Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), 49-50, n. 165. 192 Older accounts stylize Pequawket as “Pigwacket.” A complete reprint of “The Song of Lovewell’s Fight,” cited as “from the valuable Historical Collections of Farmer and Moore,” is included in the Appendix of Samuel G. Drake’s 1829 reprint (Exeter, NH: J&B Williams, 1829) of Thomas Church, Esq., The History of Philip’s War, commonly called the Great Indian War, of 1675 and 1676. Also, of the French and Indian Wars at the Eastward in 1689, 1690, 1692, 1696, and 1704 (first edition Boston 1716, second edition Newport 1772), 330- 335. See also Grenier, First Way of War, 47-52; Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 180-222. 201 scalping two Abenakis. His fiancée elegized him as “that young student, Mr. Frye, / Who in his blooming youth did die, …/ A comely youth and pious too.” Other New Englanders seemed to see no contradiction in a man of the cloth scalping people; the town built on the site of Peqwauket was named ‘Fryeburg.’193 My first section, “Extirpationist genesis, 1636 – 1676,” surveys general patterns of European warfare against indigenous North Americans, and how and why the British colonies came to favour extirpation to a much greater degree than Dutch, French, and Spanish competitors, in the Pequot War, Kieft’s War, and King Philip’s War. Where the first section looks at war in the northeastern colonies, my second section, “The rise and fall of the British Indian slave trade, 1660 to 1717,” studies the British colonies of the Southeast from the foundation of the Carolina colony to the Tuscarora War and Yamasee War. In both theatres, British colonists paid allied Indians for prisoners to enslave and offered bounties for body parts, increasingly favouring scalps. My epilogue, “The Ranger tradition and the myth of the Indian hunter,” points to the beginnings of a distinct British North American military tradition which would provide the seedbed for the myth of the Indian hunter and dark mimesis. Exirpationist genesis, 1636 – 1676 193 “The Mournful Elegy on Mr. Jonathan Frye, 1725” cited in Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence, ibid. See also Drake ed., The History of Philip’s War, 330-335; Axtell and Sturtevant, “The Unkindest Cut,” 451- 472; As ‘Lovell’s Fight,’ the defeat at Peqwauket had a long literary afterlife in New England: it inspired the 13-year-old Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s first published poem, “The Battle of Lovell’s Pond” (1820) and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short story of two survivors of the defeat, “Roger Malvin’s Burial” (1832), published in his collection Mosses from an Old Manse (1846). “Captain John Lovewell not only paraded scalps through the streets of Boson, he also wore a wig made of Indian scalps”: Colin Calloway, Dawnland Encounters, 167, 268 n.20 citing James Axtell, “Scalping: The Ethnohistory of a Moral Question” in the European and the Indian: Essays in the Ethnohistory of Colonial North America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 207-41. 202 The use of scorched-earth tactics and the commodification of indigenous bodies, live or dead, in frontier warfare were not unique to the British North American colonies but general practice of Europeans following Iberian precedent. On New Spain’s northern borderlands in the present-day American Southwest such a pattern was set during the Chichimec wars (1546-1590): mounted troops salaried by the Crown rode from the presidios, which combined the functions of garrison, fortress, and prison, to join allied Indians to seek and destroy enemy villages. But the viceroyalty could or would not pay wages in full, and the most direct way for presidial soldiers to supplement their income was to sell prisoners of war into slavery, or retain them within the presidio as sweatshop labour under multi-year sentences of hard labour. As J.H. Elliott observes, “self-financing warfare guaranteed its own prolongation”; in 1587 Viceroy Marqués de Villamanrique determined that the slave trade was driving the Chichimec wars, as presidial troops attacked Chichimec bands uninvolved with or at peace with Spain to provoke retaliations and obtain captives. European campaigns of property destruction were also levied by New France in its wars with the Iroquois Confederacy in the second half of the 17th century, with the incursions of the Carignan- Salières regiment into Iroquoia in the 1660s and subsequent campaigns in the late 1680s through 1690s; as will be seen later in this chapter, New France also waged for-profit warfare in the form of its 18th-century slave trade, offered scalp bounties, and in the case of the Natchez Wars fought at least one extirpationist war where agricultural land and settler- colonial considerations were the motivating factors.194 194 On the Carignan-Salieres regiment and French campaigns into Iroquoia, see Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse, 98-102; Trigger, Natives and Newcomers, 283-89. On for-profit warfare on New Spain’s northern frontier, see Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 196-217; J.H. Elliott, Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America, 1492-1830 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2006), 59-64; Bret Blosser, ““By the Force of Their Lives and the Spilling of Blood”: Flechero Service and Political Leverage on a Nueva Galicia Frontier,” 289-316, in Matthew and Oudijk eds., Indian Conquistadors, 289-316. 203 But to a greater extent than either, the British colonies in this period of study instituted a distinct Anglo-American paradigm of warfare. Large-scale wars of extirpation, depopulation, and ethnic cleansing were combined with mass resettlement and large-scale land speculation. In the period of study I outline the process by which the cross-cultural pidgin of a trade in captives and, specifically, ad hoc scalp bounties, was pioneered in northeastern North America alongside British and Dutch settler-colonial colonies in the Pequot War (1636-38), Kieft’s War (1640-45), and King Philip’s War (1675-76). While the Pequot War (1636-38) saw joint participation between New England colonists, the Narragansetts, and the Mohegans against the Pequots, only the New Englanders sought to commit genocide against even the name “Pequot.” Through the early 1630s the Pequots’ monopoly over Dutch trade goods was being increasingly challenged by the Narragansetts, the region’s second sachemship in terms of wealth and power; the Mohegans, a restive tributary sachemship; and the Dutch, who sought break the Pequots’ monopoly and instate free trade. Accordingly, Pequot-Dutch relations grew increasingly hostile, culminating in the Dutch kidnapping the Pequots’ grand sachem Tatobem and delivering of his corpse upon payment of ransom; consequently, the Pequots turned towards New England. After neighbouring sachemships blamed the 1633 deaths of two piratical English traders, Captains John Stone and John Norton, on the Pequots, in 1634 the Pequots paid generous indemnities to Massachusetts Bay of wampum, pelts, and land cessions in the Connecticut Valley in exchange for New England’s intervention to re-establish peace with the Mohegans and 204 Narragansetts. But the prospect of expanding the new Connecticut colony (est. March 1636) at the Pequots’ expense preempted trade and coexistence.195 A casus belli was provided in July 1636 when an unsavory trader, John Oldham, was killed at Block Island by the Niantics, a tributary sachemship of the Narragansetts. The Narragansetts saw an opportunity, and their influential sachem Miantonomo told the New Englanders that the Pequots had put the Niantics up to it and had offered asylum to the killers. From Boston, the Massachusetts Bay colony authorities dispatched Captains John Endecott and John Underhill to obtain vengeance against the Niantics and issue their government’s exorbitant demands to the Pequots. After killing 15 people, burning wigwams, and despoiling granaries and cornfields on Block Island, Captains John Endecott and John Underhill led their Boston troops to the Pequots’ major fortified town, where a “grave senior” heard their demands: an indemnity of a thousand fathoms of wampum, child hostages, and the surrender of the killers of Stone and Norton. How sincere these demands were is an open question. In 1639 the Dutch navigator David de Vries, asking an Indian warrior near the mouth of the Connecticut how he’d come by his flamboyant scarlet mantle, was told “He had some time ago killed one Captain Stone, with his people, in a bark, from whom he had obtained these clothes.”196 At Block Island and at Pequot Town, the heavily-armoured British soldiers proved unsuccessful at engaging an unarmoured, agile foe in combat. While Endecott claimed two 195 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt,” 14-15; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61; Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 196 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt,” 14-15; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61; Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 205 Pequots slain in the fight at Pequot Town, Captain John Mason scoffed at Endecott’s results as “only one Indian slain and some Wigwams burnt,” which “inraged” the Pequots “against the English.” Lieutenant Lion Gardiner, the engineer and commander of Fort Saybrook on the mouth of the Connecticut River, credited allied Indian participation as decisive: “The Bay-men killed not a man, save that one Kichomiquim, an Indian Sachem of the Bay, killed a Pequit; and thus began the war between the Indians and us in these parts.” The disparity in their fighting styles was not lost on the Pequots: according to Massachusetts’ governor William Bradford, they proposed a Pequot-Narragansett alliance against the New Englanders, pointing out that “the English were minded to destroy all Indians” and that the Narragansetts “did but make way for their own overthrow” by helping them. Their counter-proposal was a guerrilla war against the settlers, to “fire their houses, kill their cattle, and lie in ambush for them,” which could be easily done “without any or little danger to themselves”; the British would “either be starved or be forced to forsake the country.”197 Roger Williams, a Puritan exile living among the Narragansetts, persuaded them to ally with the New Englanders, and both parties began working towards a modus vivendi between English and Algonquian ways of war. In 1636 Narragansett representatives at Plymouth agreed to the terms of a treaty to deny haven to any Pequots, to put to death or deliver to the English any Indians guilty of killing Englishmen or runaway English servants living among the Narragansetts, and to furnish guides for English expeditions against the Pequots. One of these guides, a Massachusett warrior named Cutshamakin, then ambushed, slew, and scalped a Pequot man in a swamp; having “flayed off the skin of his head,” he sent 197 Winthrop, History of New England vol. 1, 195, and Gardiner, Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society 3: 142, cited in Lipman, “Meanes,” 16-18. 206 it to Canonicus, the principal Narraganset sachem, who “presently sent it to all the sachems about him” through the Narragansett network of allied and tributary sachemships. When the Pequot scalp finally came to Boston, a sort of ad hoc scalp bounty was granted when Cutshamakin was rewarded with four fathoms of wampum.198 The stark distinctions between European and Algonquian concepts of licit violence were also revealed, to each side’s perturbation. When the Puritans and their Narragansett and Mohegan allies, surrounded Mystic in May 1637, the Narragansetts and Mohegans’ oft- quoted assessment of the Puritans’ actions in setting the fortified town on fire and killing anyone who escaped the flames—“it is too furious, and slays too many men”—reflected not only shock at the scale of killing, but fear for the implications of their complicity in it: in mourning-war terms, as Peter Lipman notes, the massacre could “potentially unleash never- ending cycles of retribution” against them by the Pequot. New Englanders rationalized this as self-defense: Philip Vincent invoked the Powhatans’ 1622 attack on Virginia to warn that Indians only understood force: “long forebearance, and too much leniency of the English” towards the “Virginian Salvages,” had almost destroyed the colony, since “These Barbarians (ever treacherous) abuse the goodnesse of those that condescend to their rudenesse and imperfections.” The New Englanders “are assured of their peace by killing the Barbarians,” i.e., the Pequots, “better than our English Virginians were by being killed by them.”199 198 Winthrop, History of New England vol. 1, 195, and Gardiner, Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society 3: 142, cited in Lipman, “Knitt,” 14-18; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Cave, The Pequot War, 60- 121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61; Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 199 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt,” 14-15; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61 (46: Philip Vincent); Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 207 A similar rift between the limitations of mourning-war and the scope of total war were revealed in an exchange between Sassacus, the Pequot paramount sachem, and Lion Gardiner when a Pequot war party raided Fort Saybrook in February 1637. After they “slew divers men,” they attempted a parley with Gardiner, whose attempt at vague and noncommittal language must have struck the Pequots as cold-blooded and monstrous: Then they [the Pequots] said, Have you fought enough? We [Gardiner] said we knew not yet. Then they asked if we did use to kill women and children? We said they should see that hereafter. So they were silent a small space, and then they said, We are Pequits, and have killed Englishmen, and can kill them as mosquetoes, and we will go to Conectecott and kill men, women, and children, and we will take away the horses, cows and hogs. 200 The Pequots replied to Gardiner’s passive-aggression by showing their keen understanding of the Puritan mind. The raiders, some dressed in clothes taken from soldiers they had killed, taunted the garrison of Fort Saybrook as “like women” and proclaimed that one of their warriors, if he killed one more Englishman, “would be equal with God”—a “blasphemous speech,” noted Gardiner, that “troubled the hearts of the soldiers.” Pequot raids in the Connecticut Valley in April killed thirty settlers but still showed the selectivity and limitations of mourning-war. In the raid on Wethersfield (see Chapter 3), two sisters were taken captive and later returned unharmed, through Dutch intermediaries, to Gardiner at Saybrook for a ransom; their Pequot captors had assumed they would know how to make gunpowder. A Boston merchant named Tilly, who in defiance of Gardiner’s orders went ashore, was a grown man and therefore liable to different treatment: seized by Pequot 200 “Gardener’s Narrative,” Orr ed., History of the Pequot War, 131-32. 208 warriors in sight of the fort, Gardiner later learned “by relation” that his captors had “tied him to a stake” and “flayed,” which probably means burned, “his skin off.”201 For both the New Englanders and the Mohegans and Narragansetts, the scope of destruction inflicted upon the Pequots at Mystic and the surety of Pequot retaliation informed subsequent events of summer and fall. A steadily-expanding network of sachemships bought allegiance with New England with a harvest of Pequot prisoners and body parts: scalps, heads, hands and feet. Prior to Mystic, both Roger Williams and Uncas, sachem of the Mohegans, had made gestures towards such an exchange. Williams had written letters to other New Englanders explaining the Indians’ customs of reciprocal gifting and the exchange of body parts as tokens of alliance and friendship; during the war, he “dutifully” passed three Pequot hands from the Narragansetts to the Boston authorities; Uncas had shown his friendship by appearing at Saybrook with a captive Pequot named Kiswas and four or five Pequots’ “heads”—which, per the contextual nature of this term in 17th-century English, could mean entire heads or simply the scalps—for which Gardiner gave him 15 yards of trade-cloth. Shortly thereafter, a party of Narragansetts entered Boston with “forty fathom of wampum and a Pequod’s hand,” for which the governor gifted them four coats.202 Others engaged in the trade out of fear. Wyandanch, the sachem of the Montauks of Long Island, visited Saybrook three days after Mystic asking whether the English were “angry with all Indians.” When Gardiner set the price of trade and alliance as the heads of 201 Cave, Pequot War, 43; Lipman, “Knitt”; “Underhill’s Narrative,” in Orr ed., History of the Pequot War, 61, 66-67; “Gardener’s Narrative,” 134-35. Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61 (46: Philip Vincent); Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92 202 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt”; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61 (46: Philip Vincent); Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90- 105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 209 Pequot asylum-seekers, and those of any Indians who had killed Englishmen, Wyandanch sent 12 Pequot heads to Saybrook shortly thereafter, for which Gardiner gifted him with trade goods. Subsequently, the Montauks killed so many refugees that Pequots began avoiding Long Island altogether. Sassacus and his followers sought asylum among the Mohawks, offering a generous incentive of wampum, but were outbid by the Narragansetts, and in August, several Connecticut traders brought to Boston “part of the skin and lock of hair of Sassacus and his brother and five other Pequot sachems, who, being fled to the Mohawk for shelter, with their women, were by them surprised and slain, with twenty of their best men.” Some of these “heads” were also taken by New Englanders on at least one occasion: in his “true Relation,” Philip Vincent praised the accomplishment of “Francis Waine-wright,” a “sturdy youth of new Ipswich” and “servant of one Alexander Knight” who, “going forth, somewhat rashly, to pursue the Salvages,” had expended all his powder and shot, then “so bestirred himselfe” with the spent arquebus as a blunt instrument “that hee brought two of their heads to the armie.” At a certain point, New Englanders stopped counting. When Mason crowed that “The Pequots [had] now become a Prey to all Indians,” he noted that their heads “came almost daily to Winsor, or Hartford.” John Winthrop made an offhand remark about “still many Pequods’ heads and hands [coming] from Long Island and other places.”203 Surviving Pequots were relentlessly pursued through woods and swamps, some survivors gifted to Narragansett and Mohegan allies, and a larger number sold into slavery in the Caribbean. In June 1638, Israel Stoughton and William Trask’s militiamen collected some 200 Pequot prisoners from the Mohegans and Narragansetts. The latter, perhaps to 203 Vincent, “true Relation,” 14-15; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 503 (“dutifully”); Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 406-07; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt”; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61 (46: Philip Vincent); Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 210 assuage their consciences, suggested to the New Englanders that the Pequot prisoners should “(as they say is their generall Custome) be used kindly, have howses and goods and fields given them”; instead, the New Englanders drowned and decapitated the men and sold the women and children. John Mason, surrounding 200 starving Pequots in a swamp with his 40 New Englanders, wrote that he was “loath to kill Women and Children” and therefore “spared” the 180 women and children while putting 20 old men to the sword. The terms of the Treaty of Hartford (September 1638) went even further: New England’s allies were to render up any Pequots still at large, “or take of[f] their heads,” while these survivors were not only banned from returning to their villages, which had been given to John Mason’s veterans to torch and resettle, but were banned from even using their tribal name. By renaming the Pequot River as the Thames and Pequot Town, their capital, as New London, the name “Pequot” was to be wiped from existence, decrees which were rescinded by 1640.204 By 1642, the Pequots’ prediction that the New Englanders would turn against the Narragansetts came to pass. Miantonomo, now the leading sachem, reportedly gave a speech on Long Island in 1642 calling for a pan-Indian uprising against British colonists. Warning they must be “all Indians as the English are, and say brother to one another; […] otherwise we shall be all gone shortly,” Miantonomo proposed the uprising be signalled in traditional mourning-war fashion: he “would kill an Englishman & send his heade & hands to Longe Iland,” and the Indians of Long Island and neighbouring New Netherland would do the same as “a meanes to knit them togeather.” In 1643, the commissioners of the United Colonies of 204 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt”; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61 (46: Philip Vincent); Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90- 105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. On the Pequot War’s intent of physical and cultural genocide, see Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate,” 120-26. 211 New England decreed that Uncas had their permission to kill Miantonomo, who was then assassinated by Uncas’ brother.205 In outlining large-scale British settlement’s existential threat to Algonquian economies, Miantonomo included the actions of Old World livestock as well as their owners: while British farmers scythed down the grass and cut down the trees which sheltered and fed deer, turkeys, and black bears, “their cows and horses eat the grass, and their hogs spoil our clam banks, and we shall all be starved.” While indigenous peoples of the northeast certainly did manage their landscapes’ carrying-capacity for game animals through seasonal burnings, Gardiner’s quotation completely elides Algonquian agriculture and the threat British livestock posed it. As noted by Virginia DeJohn Anderson, from the Chesapeake to New England a “penumbra” of untended or feral cattle, horses and swine extended several miles beyond the boundaries of almost every British town and settlement, rampaging through Indians’ unfenced cornfields and gardens. Pigs were the single most numerous animal, and the most dangerous and destructive, accustomed to foraging and fending for themselves; Indians told Roger Williams that two pregnant sows had been observed driving a wolf from a deer carcass. These aggressive, rooting swine raided fields, gardens, and clam-beds and dug into storage pits and granaries; Williams noted that Northeastern Indians considered pigs the “most hatefull” of all English livestock for their depredations and “their filthy disposition, […] and they call them filthy cut-throats &c.”206 205 Miantonomo’s speech, and context on New England land use pre- and post-contact, reprinted in William Cronon, Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England (New York: Hill and Wang, 1983), 162-63; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 227-30; Lipman, “Knitt”; Cave, The Pequot War, 60-121; Drinnon, Facing West, 33-61 (46: Philip Vincent); Jennings, The Invasion of America; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Steele, Warpaths, 91-92. 206 Cronon, Changes in the Land, 162-63; Virginia DeJohn Anderson, Creatures of Empire: How Domestic Animals Transformed Early America (Oxford University Press, 2004), 210-46 (221: “Beyond the official borders of nearly every New England town or Chesapeake plantation lay a penumbra of land, often several 212 As the backers of the New Netherland colony increasingly invested in settlement and intensive agriculture in New Amsterdam, settler-colonial wars would erupt along the Dutch frontiers as well. In the 1620s New Amsterdam had enjoyed profitable trade relations with its neighbours on the Long Island Sound, many of whom – Canarsees, Siwanoys, Rockaways, Tappans, and others—were speakers of related languages later known to British colonists as “Delawares,” referred to here as Lenape-Munsee. During the 1630s, the colony’s landholdings were extended under the directorship of Wouter van Twiller (1633-38) through purchases from Lenape-Munsee sachems, sowing seeds of future conflict: Algonquians considered themselves to be selling usufruct rights, not the land itself. In 1638, the ruling ‘Lords Nineteen’ of the Netherlands decided to invest in populating New Netherland and developing its economy, particularly the agricultural sector; under Twiller’s successor, Willem Kieft (1638-47), New Amsterdam’s population of free migrants, indentured servants, and African and Indian slaves doubled in his first five years in office. The garrison also increased, presenting problems of its own: having few opportunities to supplement their incomes legitimately, many of the WIC’s salaried soldiers and mercenaries were punished for contraband trade and theft. In wartime, they also had incentive to plunder pelts and wampum from Indian villages, even in direct violation of their orders.207 miles wide, that livestock effectively claimed as their own.”); Roger Williams, A Key into the Language of America (London: Gregory Dexter, 1643), 106-07 (“filthy cut-throats”), 165-66 (“two English swine, big with Pig, past by, assaulted the Wolfe, drove him from his prey, and devoured so much of that poore Deere, as they both surfeited and dyed that night.”) 207 On the Lenapes and Munsees, see Jean R. Soderlund, Lenape Country: Delaware Valley Society Before William Penn (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 1-35, and Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 5-13. “Delaware” is rendered as “Lenape,” “Munsee,” or “Lenape-Munsee” in the text of this thesis, unless in quotation from a primary source. See also Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 115-16; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 213 As in the British colonies, the transition between the older trade relationship and a new agrarian-annexationist relationship was riddled with contradictions. WIC traders continued to seek corn, pelts, and wampum while New Amsterdam’s farms, ranches, and agricultural estates expanded at the expense of Indians’ fields, woods, and fishing grounds, including the wampum-producing shellfish beds not claimed as spoils of the Pequot War by Massachusetts and Connecticut. The contradictions are captured by two policy decisions of 1639: the WIC company ended its fur trade monopoly, allowing formerly-unlicensed trappers known as bosch-lopers to openly, rather than covertly, compete with Indians for the remaining beaver population, while Kieft began demanding New Amsterdam’s neighbours pay tributes of wampum, corn, and pelts. Expansion of the colony had increased the operational costs of fortification and paying wages to its 60-man garrison; Kieft rationalized this tribute as a fee for defending New Amsterdam’s neighbours from their northern enemies, the Mahicans and Mohawks. David de Vries recorded a Tappan sachem’s displeasure with the kind of people who “come to live in this country without being invited by them, and now wish to compel them to give him their corn for nothing.”208 The first hostilities in the five years of off-and-on conflict known as Kieft’s War (1640-45) began when Cors Pietersen’s WIC yacht approached a village of the Raritans, a Munsee subgroup, to trade. Pietersen had been charged with robbing a Raritan man in 1638, and the signal for a Raritan war party to try to seize the yacht was a Raritan warrior striking Pietersen across the face with a handful of squirrel pelts in a show of violent irony. The attack was broken off when the Dutch readied their firearms; shortly thereafter, it was 208 Lipman, The Saltwater Frontier, 105-07 (on wampum), 85-164; Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 22-23 (on wampum), 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 115-16; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 214 reported that Raritans had killed pigs—for which David de Vries, among other colonists, blamed soldiers of the garrison—and burned down a slave’s house on Staten Island. Kieft dispatched the company secretary Cornelis van Tienhoven with 70 to 100 soldiers and armed sailors; if the Raritans did not provide “satisfaction,” Tienhoven’s orders were to burn their cornfields and loot the village. After killing three or four Raritans, Tienhoven’s men took the sachem’s brother, who owed Tienhoven large outstanding debts, as a hostage; while returning to New Amsterdam, one of the soldiers tortured the sachem’s brother by applying “a piece of split wood” to his genitals, and Kieft hastily returned him to the Raritans with an indemnity in wampum. The Raritans waited to avenge this insult until June 1641, when a raiding party attacked Kieft’s farm on Staten Island, killing four of his servants and torching the property. An Indian WIC employee served as intermediary for their declaration of war, in which they denied responsibility for killing the pigs in 1640 but announced that now, since they had reciprocally killed one colonist for every Raritan killed by Tienhoven’s soldiers, “[the Dutch] would now come to fight them on account of [their] men,” since they “had before come and treated [the Raritans] badly on account of the swine.” What the Raritans found most insulting, suggests Evan Haefeli, was “the message that a pig’s life was as significant as a Raritan’s.”209 Offering bounties of ten fathoms of wampum for a Raritan’s head—which, given the ambiguities of 17th century Dutch as well as English, could also mean “scalp”—and twenty 209 Bailyn, in The Barbarous Years (218), gives a different version of events: “…when his [Kieft’s] tax collector attempted to seize one village’s corn supplies and load them aboard his yacht, he was attacked by the local sachem and slashed across the face with a hunting knife. His vessel was attacked, and his party barely made it back alive to New Amsterdam.” The numbers of Tienhoven’s expedition are variously given as 70 (Lipman), 80 (Bailyn), “eighty-odd” (Burrows and Wallace) or 100 (Delâge). See Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 115-16; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 215 fathoms for live captives from “any of the Indians who have most barbarously murdered our people,” Kieft commissioned the Raritans’ neighbours and rivals from other Lenape-Munsee sachemships, or from other Algonquians of the region such as the Wappinger Confederacy, to resolve the conflict using mourning-war tactics: the exemplary killing of a few Raritans, to demonstrate their ability to kill a much larger number. During the summer of 1641, a war party from Long Island “voluntary killed [sic]” some Raritans; in November, Pieter de Vries reports that Pacham, a sachem of the Wappinger subgroup the Tankitekes, entered Fort Amsterdam “in great triumph” bearing a hand on a stick. It purportedly belonged to the leader of the Staten Island raid, and Pacham declared “that he had taken revenge for our sake, because he loved [the Dutch], who were his best friends.” In Evan Haefeli’s analysis, Kieft’s response showed an understanding both of the military limitations of a settler-colonial system, in which a few military specialists were to protect widely-dispersed settlements, and of the importance of indigenous allies in resolving such a conflict: “planters and farmers and other remote settlers,” he wrote in explanation of his decision, “stand in great danger of life and property, which we under the circumstances, on account of the density of the forest and the small number of men, cannot prevent.” After Pacham’s triumph, no further attacks on colonists were reported, and the Raritans made peace with New Netherland later in the year.210 In other cases, New Amsterdam rejected adjudication on mourning-war principles. In August 1641 New Amsterdam and the Wecquaesgeeks, a member of the Wappinger Confederacy, came into conflict when an elderly wheelwright named Claes Smits, who lived 210 Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 115-16; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 216 alone on Manhattan Island, was killed and “decapitated”—either literally beheaded, or scalped— by a Wecquaesgeek man. When told to turn over his killer, the Wecquaesgeeks refused, and the heated language of the negotiations suggests deeper anti-Dutch tension. A Wecquaesgeek sachem justified Smits’ murder on the grounds that his Wecquaesgeek killer had resolved the outstanding, unavenged murder of his uncle by three Dutchmen 21 years prior; he also reportedly said “he was sorry that twenty Christians had not been murdered.” Kieft then proposed to his governing council that they should “ruin the entire village” in retaliation; most agreed to this, so long as they waited until after the harvest and autumn corn trade had been concluded. Kieft waited until March 1642 to dispatch 80 soldiers to attack the Wecquaesgeeks’ village by night, an attack called off when the soldiers got lost in the woods due to an incompetent guide. In the morning, when the Wecquaesgeeks found the soldiers’ tracks in the snow, they promptly sued for peace, but again a refusal or incomprehension of mourning-war principles stymied negotiations: Tienhoven granted peace on the impossible condition that they either deliver the murderer or kill him themselves, which the Wecquaesgeek leaders, whose authority rested on persuasion and not coercion, had no right to do, and could not have done without starting a feud in their own village. Later in the spring of 1642, a colonist thatching a roof was killed with an arrow by a member of the Hackensack (a Lenape-Munsee subgroup). The Hackensacks were the first to respond, asking Peter de Vries to mediate their payment of 100 to 200 fathoms of wampum as compensation to the thatcher’s widow. Kieft again made the impossible, fruitless demand that the sachems turn over the killer to New Netherland. The 1642 killing had happened so soon after Miantonomo’s call for rebellion that Kieft believed it was some part of the conspiracy, and a 217 broad and increasing paranoia among New Netherland settlers regarding their indigenous neighbours would have deadlier consequences.211 After gun-armed raiders, variously identified as either Mahicans or Mohawks, descended from the north in February 1643, several hundred Lenape-Munsees fled to New Amsterdam seeking refuge. On February 24, three colonists led by Marijn Adriaensen petitioned Kieft for permission to avenge Smits and the thatcher by attacking the refugees encamped at Pavonia and Corlaer’s Hook, whom God had “delivered […] into our hands.” The massacres that followed on the night of February 25 were an act of joint participation by armed citizen volunteers and WIC troops: Adriaensen led a mob to attack the camp at Corlaer’s Hook, while a German mercenary named Sergeant Rodolff led the garrison to attack Pavonia. By morning, 120 Indians were dead, over 80 heads were publicly displayed in the streets of New Amsterdam, and 30 prisoners had been sold into slavery. Other Dutch colonists were emboldened by this: two days after the massacres, Long Island colonists asked permission to “ruin and conquer” the Indians “from time to time,” and when Kieft denied them permission they attacked a Canarsee village anyways, shooting three people while stealing winter stores of corn. Soon, reprisals by Canarsees and other Lenape-Munsee sachemships had driven Dutch settlers behind the walls of New Amsterdam as farms went up in smoke, and public ire turned against Kieft and Adriaensen, who had already led two further expeditions against the Indians.212 211 According to Peter de Vries, he had met the Hackensack before the killing, stumbling home to get his bow and arrows; the Hackensack claimed the Dutchman had plied him with brandy and then stolen his beaver coat. In Jochem Kuyter’s version of events, the Hackensack had been taunted by a colonist before firing off his bow, and “was not considered very sensible by the Indians themselves.” Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 114-18; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 212 The northern raiders are variously identified in the literature as Mohawks or Mahicans; given the Mohawks’ monopolization of the gun trade at Fort Orange after 1628, I think the former is more likely, but need additional 218 What Kieft and Adriaensen had thought they would achieve by massacring refugees who they had offered shelter to, or how they rationalized themselves as having the moral high ground in this situation, is unclear to me, but consistent with a pattern of European cognitive dissonance vis-à-vis frontier war which we will see recur throughout this thesis: indigenous warriors are perceived contradictorily as both bloodthirsty, implacable, and vindictive, but also as cowards who only understand the use of force. When put in dialogue with an unspoken or articulated European awareness of their shortcomings in prosecuting war on the Indians’ terms, the counter-argument that Indians must be defeated by any means necessary gains strength, particularly when bolstered by real or perceived victimhood at Indians’ hands and the need to recover national or personal pride. Haefeli points out that Kieft and other Dutch leaders often wrote of Indians “scoffing” at or mocking them, as when they made impossible demands—which, in early modern Algonquian culture, was a way to chide naughty children or particularly-obtuse adults out of public misbehaviour, but to early modern European sensibilities was an insult little less stinging than the stereotypical glove- to-the-face, which must be answered bloodily.213 Either way, by the spring of 1643 the New Netherland colony, which could count between 200 to 250 male colonists able to bear arms as well as their garrison, faced the majority of the Lenape-Munsee sachemships and an estimated 1,500 warriors. Further, the research before I can rule out the Mahicans. The literature also agrees that the Wecquaesgeeks were the asylum- seekers, but adds other peoples against whom the Dutch had grievances: Hackensacks (Burrows and Wallace, Lipman) and Raritans (Delage). Given the Lenapes’ and Munsees’ participation in the anti-Dutch coalition of 1643-45, it seems logical that at least some members of those groups would have been victimized as well in the February killings, but for the moment I have to be noncommittal. See Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 114-18; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 213 Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Benjamin Madley observes a pattern in 19th-century settler-colonial wars, where a settler population outmatched at guerrilla warfare decides to opt for a “final solution” which often inflames the situation and sparks further conflict, in “Patterns of Frontier Genocide, 1803–1910.” 219 training of European soldiers and militia for siege and field battles, and their equipment with armour and cumbersome early firearms, made them particularly ill-suited to fight the sort of hit-and-run raiding warfare Algonquians practiced. Through the mediation of Pieter de Vries, Kieft concluded peace in March with the Canarsee sachem Penhawitz, or “One-Eye,” through whom Kieft negotiated peace in April with the sachems of the Hackensacks, Tappans, and Wecquaesgeeks. But Kieft’s gifts were insufficient for the sachems to buy off their aggrieved subjects by covering the dead, making this peace decidedly fragile, while the greater portion of the Lenapes remained at war. In August, the Wappinger Confederacy joined the anti-Dutch coalition, first plundering WIC ships for beaver pelts and trade goods, then attacking Dutch settlements, killing men and capturing women and children. Through neutral sachemships, New Netherland’s enemies sent a message: there could be no peace until Kieft was removed from power.214 Kieft and his governing council decided to outsource the war to specialists. To fight their enemies on their own terms, the “Long Island savages” would be commissioned “to secure the heads of the [hostile] savages” while Captain John Underhill was commissioned to reprise his role in the Pequot War by a campaign of total destruction. Captain Underhill, who spoke Dutch fluently from his years fighting in the Netherlands and had settled as a landowner in New Amsterdam with his Dutch wife, would command a combined force of 150 Dutch and New England mercenaries whom Kieft had hired for a staggering sum of 25,000 guilders. The scope and scale of the destruction is suggested by an allegation by internal critic Jochem Kuyter that Kieft had, essentially, ordered Underhill to perform home 214 Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 114-18; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 220 invasions in Indian villages: as swords would be too unwieldy inside wigwams, Kieft had equipped them at his own expense with custom-made combat knives, prefiguring the short- sword-sized bowie knives of the later Southeastern frontier. Setting out in October 1643 after the harvest, Underhill’s forces stripped the stored corn from abandoned Tankiteke and Wecquaesgeek villages before razing them. In February 1644, they killed about 120 Canarsees in two separate attacks, suffering only one dead and three wounded, which suggests, notes Haefeli, “that the Indians were not expecting to be attacked”. In March, they surrounded a village in the hills outside Stamford, set it ablaze, and shot and stabbed anyone who escaped, inflicted an estimated 500 to 700 casualties. The Wappingers declared an end to hostilities after this massacre, but the Lenape-Munsee remained at war. In April, seven Long Island Indians, either Rockaways or Canarsees, were accused of killing hogs and taken prisoner, and turned over to Underhill’s men, who killed them in a succession of gruesome ways. Per the early modern British conflation of scalping with flaying, it is worth noting in this context that the mercenaries’ torture of the last of their seven captives included cutting off strips of his skin with their knives—a gruesome act of improvised torture which points towards the posthumous mutilations of the 18th century (see Chapter 5).215 In the spring of 1645, a Long Island sachem brought “a head and hands of the enemy” to New Amsterdam. Throughout the spring and summer, the intervention of the Mahicans and Mohawks on the side of the Dutch brought an end to the war by August. “Once again,” states Evan Haefeli, “sachems had brought the peace that Kieft was unable to secure for himself,” though exhaustion through campaigns of attrition and terror obviously played a part 215 Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 114-18; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 221 as well. If the conclusions drawn from the Pequot War and Kieft’s War were that attrition by mass killings and starvation could end Indian wars, nobody seems to have observed that those wars became inevitable when settler-colonial land annexations, in combination with an overweening and spiteful attitude towards Indians, made such wars a matter of eventuality – or that early massacres intended to forestall future hostilities or intimidate the Indians rarely, if ever, had any effect but the opposite.216 During the 40 years that followed the end of the Pequot War and the outbreak of King Philip’s War (1675-76), British colonists steadily encroached on their Algonquian neighbours’ lands, resources, and ways of life. In 1648, a law passed by the Massachusetts government which banned the sale of firearms and powder to Indians also stipulated “no Indian shall at any time powaw, or performe outward worship to their false gods; or to the devil in any part of our Jurisdiction” under penalty of a £5 fine, a ban extended to New York and Long Island in 1664. In 1653, the Narragansetts told Roger Williams that they feared to be “forced from their religion, and for not changing their religion, be invaded by war.” In that same year, a New England woman was charged, found guilty, and executed for worshipping the “gods” of the Indians and having taken as husband an Algonquian other-than-human being or manitou known as Hobbamock, whom the Puritans believed to be Satan himself.217 216 Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 14-40; Haefeli, “Kieft’s War,” 17-40; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164; Bailyn, Barbarous Years, 215-223; Steele, Warpaths, 115-16; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 234-36; Delâge, Bitter Feast, 286-90. 217 Lepore, The Name of War; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 236-41; on the “Hobbamock” case see Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 116-145. The charge of marriage and sexual intercourse between a Puritan woman and the Devil in the form of Hobbamock is consistent with early modern European belief on the nature of the relationship between heretics, witches, and Satan—see Stephens, Demon Lovers, and Cohn, Europe’s Inner Demons; on the sense of the conquest of the Americas as a literal war against Satan see Cañizares- Esguerra, Puritan Conquistadores, 1-82. This sense of divine mission was reflected in the seal of the Massachusetts Bay colony in which a stereotypical Indian archer, wearing leaves for clothing, alludes to Paul’s vision of a pagan Macedonian begging for Christianity (Acts 16:9) by saying “Come over and help us.” This allusion was further mirrored in Massachusetts Bay’s relationship with the Wampanoags and the choice of 222 But most conflicts were comparatively mundane and based around constant tensions with an ever-growing settler population. In the 1660s, New England Algonquians suffered two major blows to their sovereignty. First, they lost previous outside sources of support against the British as the Dutch surrendered New Netherland in 1664 and the Iroquois League, after the Carignan-Salieres incursions, adopted an official position of neutrality vis- à-vis the French and British colonies. Second, the value of wampum, pelts, and corn plummeted as the New England fur trade collapsed, as imported silver currency rendered wampum obsolete, and the New England colonies became self-sufficient in food production through agriculture, fishing, and stockbreeding. Land was now the only commodity Algonquians possessed that New Englanders wanted, and they began taking it through treaties of dubious legality, land claimed in lieu of payment for outstanding debts, and seizure of land from Indians convicted of crimes. Unfenced livestock prowled into lands the Indians still possessed, and in 1675, summoned to Plymouth to answer for the murder of John Sassamon, the Wampanoag sachem Philip described a litany of “intractable problems involving sovereignty, land, and animals.”218 Between 1667 and 1671, Philip was summoned to Plymouth three times to answer charges of a conspiracy against the English. In 1671 armed Wampanoags paraded through Swansea, an offshoot settlement of a village “notorious” for trespassing cattle on confiscated land deep in Wampanoag territory, on the doorstep of Philip’s own village on the Mt. Hope peninsula; for this, Philip was made to pay various indemnities, up to and including further land cessions around his own village. When John Sassamon, a Massachusett interpreter and famous Macedonian baptismal names, Alexander and Philip, for Massasoit’s descendants and successors: see Lepore, The Name of War. 218 Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 116-145; Lepore, The Name of War; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 236- 41; Lepore, The Name of War; “intractable problems” in DeJohn Anderson, Creatures of Empire, 239-40. 223 minister who had fought under John Underhill in the Pequot War, was found murdered in January 1675, Plymouth unilaterally accused, tried, condemned, and executed three of Philip’s chief advisors for the murder. The Wampanoags raided Swansea a few weeks later on 8 June, and the same soldiers who saw a vision of an Indian warrior’s bow and scalp in the eclipse en route to Philip’s town (see Chapter 3) were greeted with another unexpected spectacle: eight impaled English heads in the abandoned village. For the first time in New England’s history, Algonquians in King Philip’s coalition of Wampanoags, Narragansetts, Nipmucks, and Pocumtucks wedded the theatrical violence of mourning-war to an emulation of European-style total war, inflicting large-scale casualties and widespread property destruction. This was met by a military performance by the United Colonies (Massachusetts Bay, Plymouth, and Connecticut) defined by, in Guy Chet’s words, “inexperience and amateurism.” The previous generation of Elizabethan-era professional soldiers were, by 1675, either moribund from age or dead, and New Englanders’ militia training in volley-fire and line-marching tactics were ill-suited for wilderness warfare. Algonquians, on the other hand, had been familiarizing themselves with the use, maintenance, and repair of firearms since the 1640s, particularly snaphaunces, an early flintlock which offered significant advantages of mobility and ease of use over the matchlock. At the tactical level, James David Drake describes a “coherent and effective military strategy” of keeping the colonists on the defensive with surprise raids by small parties of warriors, which New Englanders pejoratively called “skulking”—“like Wolves, and other Beasts of Prey,” wrote Nathaniel Saltonstall— while focusing on large-scale attacks on towns.219 219 James David Drake, King Philip’s War: Civil War in New England, 1675-1676 (University of Massachusetts Press, 1999), 86 (“coherent and effective”), 57-167; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness; Lepore, The Name of War; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Malone, The Skulking Way of War, 42-98. 224 Daniel Richter observes that of some 90 New England towns, over 50 were attacked and at least 12 destroyed during King Philip’s War, and Jill Lepore gives a figure of 25 towns out of 50 destroyed by the war’s end. The cattle, horses, and swine who had invaded Indians’ fields and granaries were butchered, maimed, or locked in barns and burned alive, while houses and outbuildings were torched. Even the idea of “plantation” was mocked when some warriors buried New England prisoners up to their necks, taunting “let us now see how you will grow when Planted into the Ground.” Graves were dug up and the dead were decapitated and exposed; colonists slain in attacks were posthumously mutilated and their bodies left in the roads to be stumbled upon by their neighbours. In revenge for decades of English belittling of the manitous and Algonquian religious rites, Bibles were torn up and the colonists’ religion insulted. An attack on Rhode Island in June 1675 combined elements of all of the above: English forces found some “newly burned” houses, a torn-up Bible with its pages scattered “in Hatred of our Religion,” and two or three miles up the road “some Heads, Scalps, and Hands […] stuck upon Poles near the Highway, in that barbarous and inhuman Manner bidding us Defiance.”220 To win the war, the United Colonies needed Indian allies, but a general fear and loathing for Indians prolonged and exacerbated the conflict. When a Wampanoag sachemship near Dartmouth, a month into the war, offered to surrender to the Plymouth Colony through the negotiation of Benjamin Church, his superiors overrode his promises of good conduct and sold these Wampanoags into Caribbean slavery. Offers by members of Christian convert communities known as “Praying Indians” to scout for and fight alongside the English was 220 Drake, King Philip’s War, 57-167; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness; Lepore, The Name of War; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Malone, The Skulking Way of War, 42-98; on violent irony see Gleach, Powhatan’s World, 47-50. 225 rejected due to a belief that they were “preying Indians” whose Christianity was a façade to conceal murders and robberies. Over the objections of Thomas Danforth and Daniel Gookin, many Praying Indians were interned on Deer Island and other barren islands in Boston Harbour from autumn 1675 to the late spring of 1676, where at least half of them died from hunger, disease, and exposure, and others were seized by slave traders and sold abroad; Praying Indians not interned were attacked by neighbouring British settlers. As Indian refugees fled north to Abenaki country in 1675, Massachusetts colonists began demanding they relinquish their firearms as a show of good faith. When a boatload of English sailors deliberately drowned the wife and children of a Sokoki Abenaki sachem by ramming their canoe, Abenaki bands went to war with Massachusetts and began migrating northwards towards New France.221 Another step towards prototypical scalp bounties was taken early in the war when the Narragansetts, still the single largest sachemship in New England and able to field 3,500 warriors, sent 100 warriors as allies to Connecticut on the terms That for every Indians Head-Skin they brought, they should have a Coat, (i.e. two Yards of Trucking Cloth, worth five Shillings per Yard here) and for every one they bring alive two Coats; for King Philips Head, Twenty Coats, and if taken alive, Forty Coats: These went out, and returned in Fourteen Days Time, bringing with them about Eighteen Heads in all. 222 221 On conflict with the Abenaki, see: Entry “Squando (sometimes: Squanto)” in Dan L. Thrapp, in Encyclopedia of Frontier Biography Volume III, P-Z (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1988), 1350; Entry “Abenaki Wars” in Tucker ed., in The Encyclopedia of the North American Indian Wars, 1607-1890 […] Volume 1 (A to L), 3; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 418-21; Drake, King Philip’s War, 57-167; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness; Lepore, The Name of War; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Malone, The Skulking Way of War, 42-98. 222 Narratives of the Indian Wars, 35; Drake, King Philip’s War, 57-167; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness; Lepore, The Name of War; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Malone, The Skulking Way of War, 42-98. 226 Georg Friederici also reports that Connecticut soldiers were offered a bounty of 30 shillings per “head” against the 10-shilling value of the Indians’ bounties. As will be noted here and in Chapter 5, the bounties paid out to Europeans were typically higher than those paid to indigenous allies and were typically paid in cash rather than in equivalent trade goods. In part, this was because scalp bounties were meant to bolster the morale of Europeans, and because indigenous warriors, who supplied themselves and had military experience, were seen as potentially cost-effective mercenaries. Note also that the value offered for a prisoner was double that of a “head-skin” or scalp which suggests, in addition to reflecting mourning- war’s martial philosophy, that a preferred goal for the New Englanders from the outset was selling Indian prisoners into slavery.223 Connecticut fielded indigenous allies earlier in the war than either of its rivals, and in larger numbers. But the Narragansetts were made into enemies in September 1675, after a supply train guarded by United Colonies troops was ambushed and routed by Indians at Muddy Brook outside Deerfield, Massachusetts, the Commissioners of the United Colonies decided that the Narragansetts had sheltered the attackers and were “deeply accessory in the present bloody outrages.” Overturning their prior arrangement to pay the Narragansetts for scalps and prisoners, in November 1675 Massachusetts outsourced the job to a volunteer company, many of whom were convicted pirates; tasked with “destroying the enemy,” they were permitted to reward themselves by selling or enslaving their captives. Their leader, a Jamaican privateer named Captain Samuel Moseley, had already spent the month of October attacking neutral villages and Praying Indians, and been censured by the Massachusetts 223 Friederici, “Scalping in America,” 433-36; Drake, King Philip’s War, 57-167; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness; Lepore, The Name of War; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Malone, The Skulking Way of War, 42-98. 227 General Court for destroying a New Hampshire Indian village in defiance of express orders not to. A sense of Moseley’s attitude is given in his postscript to a self-justifying letter of October 1675, describing his interrogation of an elderly Indian woman who, after she had outlived her usefulness by answering his questions, he had “torn to peeces by Doggs”.224 In the Great Swamp Fight of 19 December, 1675, Connecticut brought 150 Mohegans and Pequots as scouts and infantry for the 1,000-strong United Colonies force that attacked the Narragansetts’ main fortified town, whose defenses had been modernized by the Narragansett stonemason, Stonewall John. As at Mystic and Stamford, New Englanders circled the village, fired the wigwams, and shot anyone who escaped. In addition to inflicting 300 casualties, attrition killed a greater number: Captain Benjamin Church said Narragansetts later told him that “nearly a third” of their population “were killed by the English and by the cold that night.” Andrew Lipman observes that this victory brought the war’s “single biggest haul” of prisoners to be sold into slavery. But it was also a Pyrrhic victory revealing the New Englanders’ amateurism. Having run out of provisions, the United Colonies troops deprived themselves of shelter and food by burning the village, leaving the survivors to eat their horses and endure a frigid night march which killed 20 and left others unable to campaign for the rest of the season. At some point “amateurism” became inseparable from “incompetence.”225 As in Kieft’s War, the combination of scorched-earth tactics and destruction of indigenous property, and the intercession of indigenous allies from outside the conflict and former combatants turned reluctant allies, turned the tide against Philip’s coalition. During the winter and spring of 1675-76 United Colonies forces harried Indian villages, with 224 Drake, King Philip’s War, 57-167; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness; Lepore, The Name of War; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Malone, The Skulking Way of War, 42-98. 225 On the semiotics of the eclipse: Drake, King Philip’s War, 73-74, 93; Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 85-164. 228 particular attention paid to food stores and their ability to maintain their guns: killing blacksmiths, carrying off tools, and throwing anvils and pigs of lead into swamps and rivers. In January 1676, the intercession of New York’s governor Edmund Andros brought the Mohawks into the fray. The possibilities of allied Indians in conjunction with New Englanders was shown in March of 1676, when Benjamin Church led a joint British-and- Indian ranger force into the Nipmuck country where they inflicted some small victories, which John Grenier credits as having “inaugurated the American ranger tradition.” In the spring of 1676 New England began recruiting Praying Indians, and former combatants seeking amnesty after the winter attrition campaign, placing the price of their freedom as the heads and scalps of those Indians still at war. Alliance was shown through acts of mimesis, or cross-cultural pidgin, like the quartering of King Philip, the trade in heads and scalps, and the exchange of prisoners. When Canonchet, a Narragansett sachem and one of the most successful raiders of New England towns during the spring offensive of 1676, was captured by Connecticut soldiers and Mohegans in April, his execution in Stonington, Connecticut through drawing and quartering provided a way for Connecticut’s allies—Mohegans, Pequots, and a band of Narragansetts led by a sachem named Ninnicroft—to show their commitment. According to one account, “the Pequods shot him, the Mohegans cut off his Head and quartered his Body, and Ninnicrofts Men made the Fire and burned his Quarters”; then Ninnicroft and his followers presented Canonchet’s head to the Council at Hartford, “as a Token of their Love and Fidelity.”226 226 Jenny Hale Pulsipher, Subjects Unto the Same King: Indians, English, and the Contest for Authority in Colonial New England (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014 [2005]), 202-04; Lepore, The Name of War, 173-80; Armstrong Starkey, European and Native American Warfare, 1675-1815 (University College London Press, 1998), 57-82; Grenier, First Way of War, 16-52; Steele, Warpaths, 103-07; Patrick M. Malone, The Skulking Way of War: Technology and Tactics among the New England Indians (Lanham, New York, London: 229 The rise and fall of the British Indian slave trade, 1660 to 1717 When offered as financial incentive for private citizens and proxies among allied indigenous groups to benefit from the targeted destruction of specific Indian third parties, slave hunting served a similar, though not identical, function as scalp bounties. While scalp bounties were only intermittently offered throughout King Philip’s War, particularly by Connecticut and particularly towards the war’s end, all members of the United Colonies aimed from the outset to sell Indian prisoners into slavery at home or abroad into the Caribbean. Thousands of Algonquians, observes Andrew Lipman, were sold into the Atlantic at an average price of 3 pounds sterling each, not all of them prisoners of King Philip’s war: some were Praying Indians scooped up from internment in Boston Harbour, while others were domestic servants kidnapped from colonists’ homes. As Jill Lepore points out, the Puritan claim that Philip’s coalition deserved enslavement as punishment for treason had a flimsy legal basis, since British law punished treason and rebellion with execution, while if the “rebel” Indians were sovereign peoples, they could not be consigned so easily to chattel slavery. As elsewhere in the North American colonies, the niceties of the law rarely impeded the potential profitability of the Indian slave trade.227 While British-indigenous relations were not uniformly hostile at all times and in an all places in the Southeast, Neil Salisbury marks two defining, incompatible trends in those relationships from the 1660s to 1715: in peacetime, British traders purchased allied Indians’ Madison Books, 1991); Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 236-41; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness, 38-69. 227 Lipman, Saltwater Frontier, 217-222; Seeman, Death in the New World, 175-77; Weaver, The Red Atlantic, 57-62; Lepore, The Name of War, throughout, on slavery, 153-166; Starkey, European and Native American Warfare, 1675-1815, 57-82; Grenier, First Way of War, 16-52; Steele, Warpaths, 103-07; Malone, The Skulking Way of War; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 90-105; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 236-41; Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness, 38-69. 230 deerskins and captive enemies for trade goods, particularly firearms, while at the same time an increasing settler population extended its reach into indigenous land of both allies and enemies by private purchase, squatting, and trespassing. By the time of the Third Anglo- Powhatan War (1644-46), Ian K. Steele observes that selling Indian captives into slavery was already “routine” in Virginian frontier warfare. In 1666, when Virginia’s governor William Berkeley dispatched Rappahannock County militia to settle disputes between squatters and “northern Indians” such as the Nansemonds and Rappahannocks, he advised “I think it is necessary to Destroy all these Northern Indians,” suggesting to offset the costs of the expedition by selling “the women and children” into slavery. Paul Kelton notes that though indigenous slavery on Chesapeake tobacco plantations is poorly documented prior to its enshrinement in law in 1682, all the evidence indicates that the trade was substantial; nor was it restricted to Indians defeated and captured in war by Virginians. In 1662, Virginians began purchasing prisoners of war from Indian trading partners, technically illegal since they hadn’t been taken directly by the English themselves in war, so their designation in the records as indentured servants served as a legal fiction which benefited the burgeoning industry.228 In Carolina, founded in 1663 but not populated by British settlers until 1670, the Indian slave trade played a foundational role. Early Carolina, particularly the southern part of the colony, was influenced from the beginning by the established Caribbean colonies and their existing systems of racialized, large-scale slavery, particularly by a group of Anglo- Barbadian deerhide merchants known as the “Goose Creek men.” In 1670, the Goose Creek traders offered the Westos, a people of uncertain ethnolinguistic identity who Neil Salisbury 228 Ian K. Steele, Warpaths: Invasions of North America (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 49; “destroy all these northern Indians” in Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 222; Paul Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement: Biological Catastrophe in the Native Southeast, 1492-1715 (Lincoln, NB: University of Nebraska Press, 2007); Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763”. 231 suggests were Eries displaced from the Great Lakes during the Beaver Wars, up to 15 trade muskets for every captive child or woman of an enemy community they brought in, as well as manufactured goods and rum; they then resold these captives into the Caribbean, to Virginia tobacco plantations, or within Carolina to their own cash-cropping ventures of rice and indigo. Resold for 5 to 10 pounds sterling and sometimes more, the Indian slaves went to Virginia tobacco plantations and to the Goose Creek men’s burgeoning cash-cropping of rice and indigo. Soon, notes David La Vere, Carolina was importing more slaves, both from the American Southeast and the African Atlantic slave trade, than any other British colony, even Virginia. By the end of the 1670s, the fate of the Westos also set a precedent within the Southeastern slave trade, for middlemen who had outlived their usefulness. In 1679, on the grounds that English settlers had been caught in the crossfire during the Westos’ slaving raids against coastal Cusabos, Carolina declared joint war against the Westos with the “Savannahs” or Shawnees, a people of the Savannah River to th south who had formerly been among the Westos’ targets for slave raids. Georg Friederici’s 1906 assertion that “In 1680, scalp bounties were offered in South Carolina” could well have been the case for the last remaining Westos, though my more recent sources make no mention of it. Alongside other Savannah River peoples like the Yuchis and the Yamasees, the latter a heterogeneous coalition of Savannah River peoples and Guale and Apalachee refugees from Spanish Florida, the once-powerful Westos were devoured by the Carolina slave trade, reduced by captivities and killings “to an estimated fifty people.”229 229 Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement ; David H. Corkran, The Creek Frontier, 1540-1783 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2016), 43-60; James H. Merrell, The Indians’ New World, 8-91; Daniel H. Usner Jr., American Indians in the Lower Mississippi Valley: Social and Economic Histories (University of Nebraska Press, 2003), 47-55; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 313-331; Ramsey, The Yamasee War, 34-53; J.R. McNeill, Mosquito Empires: Ecology and War in the Greater Caribbean, 1620-1914 (Cambridge University Press, 2010), 15- 60, 232 But these grim middle-ground relations of mutual benefit from the slave trade were restricted largely to a wealthy few; the dominant model of Anglo-American and Indian relations in the Southeast, as in New England, remained a settler-colonial model of land annexation or attempts at same, and a broader and collective hatred of Indians. These, and a desire to expand and democratize slaveowner status in Virginia, turned incidents on the Virginia frontier into Bacon’s Rebellion (1676). In 1675, a frontier conflict between a Virginia planter named Thomas Mathew and an Algonquian people, the Doegs, led to a cycle of reprisals which culminated with Virginia militia mistakenly attacking and killing several members of the well-armed and hitherto-uninvolved Susquehannocks. In April of 1676, after nearly 300 colonists had been killed in revenge and after the House of Burgesses had offered a reward of one matchcoat or 20 arms’ lengths of tobacco for each Indian prisoner, Nathaniel Bacon offered to lead volunteers against the Susquehannocks, promising war “against all Indians in generall”—deliberately and systematically targeting the tributaries and allies of Governor Bacon and his cronies. Bacon’s rebels were fighting the Virginia government and planter oligarchy’s reluctance to open up western land and the wealth they gained from the Indian trade, including their illegal sale of weapons to Indians. But this also comprised a genocidal crusade against all Indians. Bacon’s rebels shot Susquehannock and Doeg chiefs when they came to parley and, in one instance, Bacon hired the Occaneechees to capture Susquehannocks for him, executed the prisoners, then killed most of the Occaneechees. The refusal to distinguish between friend and foe indicates the extirpationist spirit that preceded the widespread institutionalization of scalp bounties on the Southeastern frontier.230 195-234; Robin Beck, Chiefdoms, Collapse, and Coalescence, 181-202; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763”. 230 Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 223-24; Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement; Grenier, First Way of War 16-52 (40: “one matchcoat”); Michael Leroy Oberg, Dominion and Civility: English Imperialism, Native America, and the 233 Governor Berkeley sided with the rebels by legalising widespread Indian slavery. Paul Kelton suggests that the Westos, and not Virginia’s planter gentry, may have been the example that Nathaniel Bacon and his rebels envisioned for themselves in their demands to expand the slaveowning franchise among white Virginians. In Kiernan’s words, Berkeley tried to “ride the rebel tiger” by publicly agreeing in writing in 1676 that Indians “generally conspired against us in all the western parts of America,” and were “now all our enemies.” To placate the rebels he ruled in 1676 that any Indians who left their towns without English permission were considered enemies; that Virginia troops would “have the benefit of all plunder either Indians or otherwise”; and that “all Indians taken in warr” would be automatically enslaved. Though Bacon died of disease in 1676 and Berkeley was recalled to England after the rebels burned Jamestown, legal reforms continued to extend slaveowning among white Virginians, ruling that soldiers could buy and sell slaves among themselves (1679); removing all restrictions on trade (1680, 1691); and declaring all Indians eligible to be sold into slavery, regardless of treaty, political affiliation, or conversion to Christianity before or after enslavement (1682).231 In 1680, following the annihilation of the Westos, the Lords Proprietor of the Carolina colony ruled slaves could only be imported from communities at least 200 miles beyond the limits of British settlement, and Charles Town’s trading network soon cris- crossed the Southeast, spreading what Paul Kelton and others call a “deadly synergy” of warfare, firearms, and disease. Targeted while tending their fields or hunting, communities First American Frontiers, 1585-1685 (Cornell University Press, 2003), 189-193; Steele,Warpaths, 49-57; Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse, 135-37; Richter, Facing East, 105-08; Merrell, The Indians’ New World, 8-91. 231 Grenier, First Way of War, 16-52; Elliott, Empires of the Atlantic World, 59-64; Kiernan, Blood and Soil; Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement. 234 attacked by slavers retreated into walled settlements, where malnutrition and stressed immune systems left the survivors liable to illnesses, including virgin soil epidemics of Old World diseases. The killing of men and the targeting of children and women for resale hindered the recovery of pre-war populations, while slave-raiding peoples found that they had struck a devil’s bargain: more of them died in battle, captives were sold off rather than adopted, and the fate of those who reneged on their debts to British merchants was an omnipresent fear. Following the Great Southeastern Smallpox Epidemic of 1696, which burned along the Southeastern trade networks of Carolina and Virginia, the slave trade became a source of diminishing returns and a trigger for conflicts. In 1707, the migration of Shawnees to Maryland and Virginia under pressure from Catawba raiders and recently- established Apalachee villages on the Savannah was taken by the South Carolina government as a “Savannah Revolt” instigated by rival traders out of Virginia. After a trader reported that Shawnees had killed “several Christians,” South Carolina sent Catawbas under Carolinian leadership to attack the “Deserted Shawnees”; when these Shawnees retaliated by attacking the “Northwards Indians” or Catawbas and other Siouians of the Piedmont, Carolina loaned the Piedmont peoples fifty muskets with flints, ammunition, and gunpowder, informing them that anyone who delivered a Shawnee scalp could keep his gun.232 In the early 1700s, settler-colonial conflicts brewed between colonists in northern Carolina and their indigenous neighbours: the Tuscaroras, an Iroquoian people who had enjoyed a middleman trading relationship since the decline of the Powhatan Confederacy in the 1650s, and smaller Algonquian vassal polities like the Neuses and Corees, who relied on 232 Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade, 209-212; La Vere, Tuscarora War, 16, 18-68; Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement. 235 the Tuscaroras for protection against the Iroquois and the English. In 1710, a Tuscarora leader named Hancock who headed their anti-British faction had already appealed to the Iroquois Confederacy and the government of Pennsylvania, sending wampum belts through Seneca and Shawnee intermediaries asking for guarantees of help against Carolina slavers. In the spring of 1711 the Surveyor-General of North Carolina settled 300 refugees from the Germanies and Switzerland at New Bern, dangerously close to Hancock’s Town; in September Hancock led a coalition of Tuscarora and Algonquian warriors which wiped out New Bern in an early-morning attack, killing 120 of the refugees and attacking and killing other white Carolinians outside New Bern. Like the 1622 Virginia massacre, the Tuscaroras’ exemplary 1711 attack was not followed up by others, and Hancock’s subsequent attempts to secure an agreement from the captive Surveyor-General to continue trade but not expand North Carolina landholdings further without “due warning” indicates that the Tuscaroras wanted continued coexistence. As in 1620s Virginia, the response from Carolina was a campaign of total war.233 In the subsequent Tuscarora War (1711-13), Virginia and Carolina offered scalp and prisoner bounties to militiamen and allied Indians. Virginia sent no troops, but Virginia’s Lieutenant-Governor offered £20 per scalp to British colonists, while uninvolved Tuscaroras on Virginia’s frontier were offered a bounty of 6 blankets apiece (a total value of about 40 shillings) for the scalps of Hancock’s warriors, and market prices for enslaved women and children. South Carolina234 dispatched British militias and officers leading larger collections of “warlike Indians” from allied nations, like Colonel John Barnwell and his allies of the 233 Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade, 209-212; La Vere, Tuscarora War, 16, 18-68. 234 North and South Carolina separated in 1712. 236 1712 campaign, a Catawba named Captain Jack and a Piedmont leader known as Captain Bull. Fighting for scalps and prisoners also offered a way to tally the dead: Barnwell’s forces recorded 52 scalps and 30 captives after victory at Torhunta in 1712, while Col. James Moore Jr.’s victory at Neoheroka in the spring of 1713 was measured in 392 Indian prisoners and 192 scalps. Scalps and prisoners were also exchanged as gifts and tokens of alliance: Tom Blount, the pro-English Tuscarora leader, had “about thirty scalps” delivered to South Carolina, and personally delivered eight captives to North Carolina’s acting-governor Thomas Pollock, who gave Blount £10 for each and resold them into the Caribbean. But for the British colonies, the ultimate goal was extirpation. During the course of the war, at least 1,000 or 1,200 Tuscaroras were sold into slavery, and the number may have been as high as 1,800 or 2,000. In 1712, the North Carolina government chided Barnwell for a negotiated truce with Hancock’s Tuscaroras, urging him instead to exterminate them, per the “laudable custom of South Carolina.”235 Scalp and slave bounties were paired again in the Yamasee War (1715-17), the final spasm of the Southeastern slave trade consuming itself. Relations between the Yamasees and Carolina had been declining since the Yamasees had begun trying to restore their population by placing a moratorium on war expeditions and adopting their captives. Various actions by Carolina colonists were readily legible to the Yamasees as ominous and signs of enmity: Anglican missionaries began kidnapping mixed-race Yamasee children for religious instruction; the trader Alexander Long hired Cherokee mercenaries from the interior to wipe out Chestowee, a Yuchi town, to recoup an outstanding debt he claimed against them in May 1714; in early 1715, when total Indian debt to South Carolina was estimated at £50,000, a 235 Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade; La Vere, Tuscarora War, 16, 18-68. 237 census of Southeastern Indians was interpreted as a literal headcount. On the night of 14 May, 1715, Indian agent Thomas Nairne promised the Yamasee headmen that South Carolina meant them no ill will; as soon as he retired for the evening, his abrasive, arrogant counterpart agent John Wright privately promised, in insulting language and with unmistakeably coarse hand gestures, that South Carolina would hang the Yamasees’ four principal micos (headmen) and sell their women and children into Caribbean slavery. Killing most of the delegates, the Yamasees led a coalition of “virtually every nation in the South,” in what Salisbury calls the most extensive pan-Indian uprising “yet in colonial North America” against South Carolina, in which the most determined fighters were the “Southern Indians” most heavily in debt to the Carolina traders: the Yamasees, Yuchis, Shawnees, Apalachicolas, Apalachees, and Lower Creeks. Within the war’s first few months, most of Carolina’s plantation districts were torched, and several hundred Creek and Apalachee warriors came within a few miles of Charles Town in August 1715.236 As in Bacon’s Rebellion and King Philip’s War, undifferentiated fear and hatred for Indians led the colonists to make counterproductive decisions in the war’s first year. That the colonists dreaded the Yamasees and their allies is indicated by South Carolina governor Charles Craven’s public description of them in the Commons’ House of Assembly as “monsters of man kind” and, privately, a colonist’s letter of that summer which demonstrates 236 Wright’s insult was transcribed by a captured English boy using watered gunpowder for ink, taking dictation from a Yamasee headman known as the Huspaw King: after Nairne had gone, Wright threatened “that the white men would come and [fetch] [illegible] the Yamasees in one night,” hang the four principal headmen, enslave the rest, and sell all of them into foreign slavery, “for he said that the men of the Yamasees were like women, and shew’d his hands one to the other” – in other words, Wright drove his point across with an obscene vaginal hand gesture, which “vex’d the great Warrier’s [sic].” In Ramsey, The Yamasee War, esp. 1-54, 227-28; Doris B. Fisher, entry “Yamasee War” (811-812) in Alan Gallay ed., Colonial Wars of North America, 1512 – 1763: An Encyclopedia (Routledge: 2015 [1996]); McNeill, Mosquito Empires; La Vere, The Tuscarora War; Ramsey, The Yamasee War, 1-53; Beck, Chiefdoms, Collapse, and Coalescence, 181-202; Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement; Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade. 238 how scalping had become a metonym for colonists’ anxieties of Indian torture by the early 18th century. Lion Gardiner, in his memoirs 20 years after the Pequot War, had not even mentioned scalping in his prayer to be spared the horrors of Indian torture: “not to have a sharp stake… thrust into my fundament and to have my skin flaid of[f] by piecemeale and cut in pieces and bits and my flesh rosted and thrust down my throat as thes[e] people have done.” A colonist’s letter from the summer of 1715, by contrast, uses the “scalped and [x]” formulation standard in Anglo-American horror stories from the 18th century onwards: he wrote how he dreaded not just being “massacred by savages” but “perhaps… being rosted in slow fires, scalp’d and strick with lightwood, and other inexpressible tortures.” In early, critical battles that halted the first Yamasee offensives, Indian warriors from several of the “settlement” nations that lived in the shadow of larger Carolina coastal towns fought alongside white colonists and armed African slaves, but by mid-July had gone over to the Yamasees, “alienated by the growing anti-Indian rhetoric of white Carolinians.”237 Walter Hixson describes the Carolina counterattack as “a boomerang of indiscriminate violence replete with massacres fueled by scalp bounties,” while offering no further explication in text or footnotes—perhaps Yamasee scalps were redeemed for outstanding bounties offered in Virginia during the Tuscarora War. As in earlier wars, the intervention of indigenous allies on the side of the colonists, with incentives of scalp and prisoner bounties to appeal to Indian allies and Europeans, turned the tide against the Yamasees’ coalition. In June, South Carolina obtained the assistance of the Mohawks and Senecas against the northerly, less-determined members of the Yamasee coalition: the 237 Craven, and colonist’s letter, cited in Ramsey, The Yamasee War; Lion Gardiner cited in Bailyn, The Barbarous Years, 501. 239 Piedmont Siouians, Catawbas, Upper Creeks, Cheraws, and Choctaws. As the Great Peace of 1701 prevented the Iroquois from warring with France’s allies in the Great Lakes and interior, fighting Carolina’s Siouian and Muskogean enemies would offer the Iroquois captives and war honours, and possible scalp and slave bounties, without jeopardizing diplomatic relations; in conjunction with casualties inflicted on them by Carolina militiamen, these Yamasee allies dropped out of the war by the end of the summer. Military assistance was also offered to Tom Blount’s Tuscaroras, whose incentives included not just scalp and slave bounties but the redemption of captive Tuscaroras in South Carolina and among the Southern Indians. The entry of the remote, numerous Cherokees on the British side in 1716 served to tie up the Creeks for the remainder of the war, while their raids via the Tennessee River intimidated New France and compelled several smaller nations in Louisiana to come to terms with the English. By 1717, the Creeks, Chickasaws, and many Piedmont nations were coming to terms with the British as well; the survivors of the Savannah River nations, on the other hand, had scattered beyond the reach of the Carolina traders, as refugees among the Lower Creeks and into the swamps of southern Georgia, while the remaining Yamasees returned to their homelands in Florida to take asylum in St. Augustine.238 South Carolina land speculators who had been eying the Yamasees’ well-watered lands on the Savannah River since 1707, ideal for rice production and cattle-raising, were now free to snap them up. Alan Gallay describes the conclusion of the Yamasee War as “both an end” to the Indian slave trade “and a beginning” of a new phase of British settler- colonialism in the Southeast, in which the mass importation of West African slaves would 238 Walter Hixson, American Settler Colonialism, 38-41; Ramsey, The Yamasee War, esp. 1-54, 227-28; La Vere, The Tuscarora War ; Beck, Chiefdoms, Collapse, and Coalescence, 181-202; Kelton, Epidemics and Enslavement ; Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade; Fisher, “Yamasee War”; Richter, Ordeal of the Longhouse; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763”. 240 replace indigenous slave labour on a vastly-expanded plantation system. While the Indian slave trade had been vastly destructive to communities and individuals, it had at least placed a perverse sort of value on living indigenous bodies. The scalp-hunting system, on the other hand, simply paid for dead bodies, and in a way that obscured the verifiability of the victim’s identity; this, in turn, presented no hindrance to the enactment of generalized Indian-hating among Anglo-American frontiersmen.239 Conclusion: the ranger tradition and the myth of the Indian hunter As noted above and in Chapter 3, one of the major problems for British colonists was that their success in replicating a British way of life in the New World, by transforming Indians’ mosaic landscapes of cornfields, managed woodlands, and forests into cleared fields, towns, and widely-dispersed farms, did little to prepare them for prosecuting war as Indians waged it. Scalp and slave bounties went partway towards bolstering the morale of militias and volunteers, but were more important in the contracting of military specialists on a piecework basis. While allied Indians remained a part of the Anglo-American way of war up to the end of the 19th century and beyond, British colonists also began forming specialist units of volunteers who tried to emulate or match Indian warriors’ mobility and woodcraft. Ian K. Steele dates the origin of ranging in Virginia to 1645 when a force of volunteer “rangers,” to be supported by the proceeds of the tobacco economy, were contracted to defend the colony for a year. John Grenier proposes an origin point of a distinctive Southeastern equestrian ranger tradition, which reached its full and bloody flowering with the Kentucky dragoons of the War of 1812 and the Texas Rangers, to Virginia’s war with the 239 Alan Gallay, The Indian Slave Trade; McNeill, Mosquito Empires. 241 Susquehannock in 1676. During the conflict, the House of Burgesses enlisted a force of 125 dragoons to “range” between the headwaters of the Piedmont’s major rivers, though Grenier notes that the Mohawks, at Governor Andros’ request, defeated and dispersed the Susquehannocks before the rangers’ mettle could be tested. With the Iroquois Confederacy declaring neutrality during King William’s War (1688-97), Benjamin Church led mixed English and Indian ranger companies into Maine to kill Abenakis and burn their villages on four expeditions (1689, 1690, 1692, 1696), during which time the Abenaki Confederacy, supported by New France, led retaliatory raids into New England. These raids were accompanied by incentives: the plunder of Indian villages, the slave trade in Virginia (mentioned above), and head and scalp bounties in Massachusetts. In 1694, notes Benjamin Madley, Massachusetts offered a £25 reward for women or children “under the age of fourteen years, that shall be killed,” perhaps the first Anglo-American bounty specifically for their deaths; in 1694 and 1695, Massachusetts also “offered equal monetary rewards for dead victims and living prisoners.” In 1697 Massachusetts offered bounty specifically for scalps of men, women, and “every child of the said enemy under the age of ten years.” In 1689, Massachusetts offered rangers “whatever Indian plunder falls into their hands [for] their own” as well as a scalp bounty of 8 pounds from the public treasury, for which Georg Friederici suggests “the successful scalp hunter could just buy himself a horse and a draught animal”. Consider, before we continue to Chapter 5 and pick up these threads again, that ranger is a 14th-century English term for a gamekeeper who patrolled royal estates to protect game populations from poachers and predatory animals. So, in one sense, “ranger” is cognate 242 with a perception of Indian warriors as nascently criminal, and a darker idea of Indians as beast-men—not just illegitimate combatants, but beyond humanity.240 240 Steele, Warpaths, 49; Magsigpen and Virginia bounties cited in Grenier, First Way of War, 39 n. 77 (8 pound scalp bounty, “whatever Indian plunder”); Friederici, “Scalping in America,” 433-36; Friederici, Skalpieren, Griffin trans., 73; Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate: Meaning, Historiography, and New Methods,” 114-117. 243 Chapter Five: Dark Mimesis: Scalp-hunting from the Seven Years’ War to the War of 1812 And comes the sacred spoil from friend or foe No marks distinguish, and no man can know. –Joel Barlow, The Columbiad (1807), VI.673-74241 The general strictly forbids the inhuman practice of scalping, except where the enemy are Indians, or Canadians dressed like Indians. –James Wolfe, 1759.242 Introduction By the time of the Seven Years’ War a powerful and self-reinforcing mythology regarding the horrors of savage war, Anglo-American victimhood, and the need for disproportionate retribution to be taken against Indians had coalesced into the paradigmatic ideas of scalping and scalp-hunting. Yet this mythology of the frontier was Janus-faced, as the essentialized Indian warrior, the center and target of the mimetic savagery of conquest and ethnic cleansing, was paired with his imagined counterpart, the fantasized Indian-slaying frontiersman, whom Herman Melville dyspeptically dubbed the “Leatherstocking nemesis.” This chapter will sketch the development of the Anglo-American myth of the Indian warrior and the Indian hunter in the first half of the 18th century; the ramifications of its enactment between the American Revolution and the Jacksonian era; and the elevation of these paired myths into American art and literature during the 1820s to 1840s. This chapter will conclude with selections from Black Hawk’s 1833 memoir to demonstrate an indigenous rebuttal to Anglo-American self-representations. 241 Joel Barlow, The Columbiad: A Poem (Philadelphia: Fry and Kammerer, 1807), 239-40 242 Seeman, Death in the New World, 264-89; Wright, The Life of Major-General James Wolfe (1864), 531, cited in Simon Harrison, Dark Trophies: Hunting and the Enemy Body in Modern War (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012), 39-47. 244 Britain was not the only colonizing power to experiment with, or implement, a settler- colonial system of colonization in North America; in the context of searching for successful imperial strategies, 18th-century France experimented as the Dutch had (on New Netherland, see Chapter Three) with the scalping paradigm’s system of land annexation, targeted destruction of specific ethnocultural groups, and scalp bounties. Despite its general pattern of negotiated coexistence with indigenous allies and neighbours in the continental interior, 18th- century New France entered into a settler-colonial struggle for land in Louisiana, and a genocidal war against the Mesquakies, or Fox, on the far-flung northwestern frontier of the Pays d’en Haut. In Louisiana, its southern continental frontier, New France obtained land for tobacco plantations and its port of New Orleans by offering its allies payments for scalps and prisoners from the Chitimachas, Alibamons, and Natchez, groups already decimated by war and disease. In the western Great Lakes, the French alternated throughout the first half of the 18th century between large-scale violence against the Mesquakies, in the form of military campaigns and the purchase of Mesquakie captives as slaves, and attempts to bring them into their western alliance network, which met violent opposition by western alliessuch as the Illinois Confederacy. If the wars in Louisiana and the upper Great Lakes indicate that the French, no less than the Spanish or the British, would not hesitate at ethnic cleansing by scalp bounties or slave trading to achieve imperial goals, it also demonstrates the particularly decentralized and nominal nature of French inland colonialism: the Indian allies who made these campaigns possible also renegotiated the terms of their engagement to an overstretched Gallic empire. Prologue: “white savages” and the Hairbuyer General 245 On the night of 19 April 1762, as the Seven Years’ War wound down to its end, persons unknown approached an Indian village in Pennsylvania’s Wyoming Valley, home of the influential Lenape-Munsee leader Teedyuscung, the self-proclaimed “King of the Delawares.” The intruders locked Teedyuscung in his cabin and burned down the town; within two weeks, settlers from the Connecticut-based Susquehanna Company had occupied the town site. More than 700 families had been slated to migrate from Connecticut to the Wyoming Valley, but after Ohio Valley war parties drove out or killed settlers across the northwestern frontier in the next two months, few dared to make the journey. By early October, only “thirty or forty stubborn farmers” remained to harvest their corn, confident that their blockhouse could protect them. On 15 October, a warparty led by Teedyuscung’s son, Captain Bull, proved them wrong, killing 9 men and 1 woman and driving the rest upriver to captivity at Wyalusing. A few days later, Pennsylvania provincial troops arrived to find the corn still standing, the town in ruins, and the bodies of the 10 posthumously and inventively mutilated: not only scalped, but impaled with such metalwares as hinges, awls, and pitchforks as well as spears and arrows. This repudiation of the settlers’ ambitions to build new homes on the ashes of theirs was read, on the other side of the frontier, simply as Indian horror and dubbed the first “Wyoming Massacre.”243 On the Pennsylvania frontier, even peaceable interactions had a phobic edge to them; when settlers and Indians drank together in taverns or at gatherings, notes Peter Silver, they often blustered about their supposed bloody deeds, those already performed and those which could be potentially performed. At other times, Indians or settlers dropped in on each other 243 Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 96-97, 160-65, 178-203; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 422-23, 444-45; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 191-213; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244-48; Fred Anderson, Crucible of War, 529-535. 246 unannounced to issue threats or, if they had a numerical advantage, to commit robberies, assaults, or murders. Such was the case on 7 July, 1763, when three Indians declared at a tavern and mill in Paxtang Township that an army of 900 Indians were coming to destroy the nearby fort, then burn Paxtang and other nearby towns on the Susquehanna River. In response, and with the memory of Wyoming and several prior years of conflict on their minds, Samuel Murray and three other local men replied with what they thought was a reciprocal threat: to scalp them to collect a nonexistent £50 bounty from Governor James Hamilton. Two days later, Murray and six other men caught up to the three Indians on the road, shot them, scalped them, and presented the scalps to the governor in Philadelphia. Claiming they had caught the Indians stealing, they demanded a reward, for which he gave them an ad hoc payment of £10 each.244 The locals of Paxtang also held deep suspicions regarding an Indian neighbour named Toshetaquah, also called Will Sock or Bill Soc. Officially a diplomatic envoy for the British government, Pennsylvania settlers were convinced this was a façade to conceal a default Indian malevolence, and that Sock had consorted with their enemies and taken part in the capturing and killing of Pennsylvanians in the Wyoming Valley raid and elsewhere. Sock did not live among these fearful Pennsylvanians, but at a village called Conestoga Manor, made up of twenty or so refugee Susquehannocks, Shawnees, and Senecas who had signed a treaty with Pennsylvania following the Great Peace of Montreal in 1701. In the middle of December, Matthew Smith and dozens of other Paxtonians reported seeing dozens of armed Indians at Conestoga. Deciding that Will Sock’s treachery had finally been proven, around 244 Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 96-97, 160-65, 178-203; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 422-23, 444-45; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 191-213; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244-48; White, The Middle Ground. 247 50 mounted vigilantes surrounded the village before dawn, killed and scalped six people they caught sleeping, and razed Conestoga Manor. According to a Quaker from Lancaster County named David Henderson, the Paxton County vigilantes, referring to themselves as the “Hickory Boys,” justified their attack by claiming Will Sock had “green [i.e., untanned] white scalps in his poss’n since the last breaking out of the Ind’n trouble.” Henderson called this a fabrication “to give a Colour to their enterprise,” and his letter also notes an ominous Biblical allusion: “They say their Name is Legion, & they are Many & will stand by one another.”245 The 14 Conestoga survivors, comprising three married couples and their eight children, appealed for government protection, and were placed under guard in a workhouse in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. On 27 December, 1763, a regiment of Royal Highlanders and all other local authorities stood aside as a well-armed mob from Paxtang, Donegal, and Hempfield townships marched into Lancaster, stormed the workhouse, massacred the unarmed Conestogas, and then, in actions which bewildered and revolted many contemporary British and Anglo-American observers, posthumously mutilated their bodies in an approximation of Indian warfare: chopping off their hands and feet, knocking their heads in, and scalping them. When news of the “Workhouse Massacre” circulated, 127 Lenape- Munsee converts to Moravian Christianity already living under government protection in Philadelphia, whose new faith’s values included pacifism, asked to take sanctuary in Britain; colonial authorities shuttled them between New York and New Jersey until returning them to 245 The Gospel of Mark 5:9: “And [Jesus] asked [the possessed man], What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.” Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 96-97, 160-65, 178-203; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 422-23, 444-45; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 191-213; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244-48; White, The Middle Ground; Henderson quoted in Jack Brubaker, Massacre of the Conestogas: On the Trail of the Paxton Boys in Lancaster County (Charleston, SC: The History Press, 2010), 61-67. 248 Philadelphia by January 1764. Upon receiving this news, the Hickory Boys began collecting volunteers, and in early February 200 armed riders and marchers appeared in Philadelphia, tacitly aided or openly supported by “perhaps three quarters” of the city’s population. The vigilantes were only prevented from reaching the Moravians by Governor John Penn and Benjamin Franklin’s hastily-gathered counter-protest of a thousand residents.246 The Hickory Boys insisted that their only intention had been to march the Moravians out of Pennsylvania, offered to put up a bond of 10,000 pounds as a sign of their sincerity, and agreed to disperse once their statement of grievances was read to the governor and distributed in Philadelphia. Their first demand became reality after 50 Moravians died of an epidemic while in confinement and gradually returned to the Susquehanna Valley. Their second was realized with the publication of “A Declaration and Remonstrance of the Distressed and Bleeding Frontier Inhabitants,” in which the Hickory Boys justified their acts of ethnic cleansing by rhetorically asking “Whoever proclaimed war with part of a nation, and not with the whole?” More alarming to Franklin was the wide support that ungeneralised hostility towards Indians enjoyed among Pennsylvanians. Some contemporaries argued that the existence of “independent Commonwealths” of Indians was itself not only dangerous, but an imposition on the freedoms of “Free-Men and English Subjects.” Others openly defended the killing of children as forestalling future retribution, as an anonymous Pennsylvania pamphleteer did by alluding to Isaiah 59:5: “out of a SERPENT’S EGG, there should come... a fiery flying SERPENT.”247 246 Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 96-97, 160-65, 178-203; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 422-23, 444-45; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 191-213; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244-48. 247 Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 96-97, 160-65, 178-203; Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 422-23, 444-45; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 191-213; 249 Franklin’s reply, a 1764 pamphlet entitled A Narrative of the Late Massacres, inverted the pieties of the 18th century’s Indian-war narratives—families sundered by massacres, pitiless destroyers and posthumous mutilation of the innocent, etc.—in a way that shocked a contemporary audience. Franklin began by reminding his readers that the Conestogas had done nothing wrong, and that killing them for injuries inflicted by the Lenape-Munsees, Shawnees, and Mingoes was comparable to the Dutch avenging a French assault by attacking the English, “because they too are White People.” While Indians acknowledged European nationalities’ distinctions between themselves, frontiersmen did not reciprocate, and Franklin pointed out their bigotry in stating that the “only Crime of these poor Wretches seems to have been [their] reddish brown Skin, and black Hair.” Invoking the by-now well-established literary conventions of the anti-Indian sublime, in which the details of Indian horrors were, in Peter Silver’s words, described in such “rich, hallucinatory detail” that they could be “mildly traumatic to read,” Franklin described the slaughter of the Conestogas by white frontiersmen as Pennsylvanians were accustomed to thinking of their own victimhood, e.g., “All of them were scalped and otherwise horribly mangled.” Franklin then rhetorically asked whether settlers had come to America “to learn and practise the Manners of Barbarians?” and turned towards his ultimate point: that the frontiersmen had proven themselves morally worse than Indians, whose cruelties “they practise against their Enemies only, not against their Friends.” Lest anyone had forgotten, the Indians had received the first settlers “with Kindness and Hospitality. Behold the Return we have made them!” Franklin then listed famous stories of hospitality and gratitude among peoples that Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244-48; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 201-213; “independent Commonwealths” and “fiery flying serpent” cited in Gregory Evans Dowd, War Under Heaven: Pontiac, the Indian Nations, and the British Empire (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press, 2002), 191- 203. 250 Enlightenment Europeans considered their cultural and moral inferiors: “ancient Heathens,” Muslims (“cruel Turks” and “Saracens”), “Popish Spaniards” and “Negroes of Africa.” His thundering conclusion was that Anglo-Americans had proven themselves the most brutal and ungrateful people on the face of the earth, and that the scalped and murdered Conestogas “would have been safe in any Part of the known World, – except in the Neighbourhood of the CHRISTIAN WHITE SAVAGES of Peckstang and Donegall!!”248 Nearly two decades later, Franklin imputed another sort of white savagery in an anonymous work of Revolutionary propaganda which articulated its audience’s fantasies and nightmares to unreal perfection. Per the Royal Proclamation of 1763, the British government’s diplomatic relations with indigenous polities west of the Appalachians, recognition of an Indian territory, and attempts to fence it off from squatters, hunters, and land-speculators aggrieved Anglo-American westerners, who felt their government was hindering the development of the nation’s economy and the yeoman landowners’ class for the benefit of wandering savages; more darkly, the British government could be imagined as complicit in Indians’ reprisals against squatters and trespassers, or as the guiding hand behind them. Last but not least of the Declaration of Independence’s list of 27 “injuries and usurpations” inflicted by George III against them had been the accusation that he “has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions.” In 1779, when Franklin and the Marquis de Lafayette had compiled a list of British atrocity narratives to be illustrated as prints for a children’s book, which Joyce Chaplin describes as 248 Benjamin Franklin, A Narrative of the Late Massacres, in Lancaster County, of a Number of Indians, Friends of this Province, By Persons Unknown. With some Observations on the same (Philadelphia, 1764), 12- 27; Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244-47; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 45-48 (“mildly traumatic to read”), 79-86, 183-203. 251 “a primer for little patriots,” British complicity in scalping and Indian horrors were featured prominently.249 While Franklin and Lafayette’s primer never got beyond the planning phase, their list of 26 outrages and their instructions to the artists survive, indicating the anxieties of Anglo- American colonial mind. Eight illustrations would depict racialized threats to the safety of white families, two of which involved the British “corrupting Negroes” and encouraging them to violently rebel. Print 8 would articulate the fear of interracial rape in a slave uprising: the “Master & his Sons” of a large house “lying dead” and their black slaves, armed with guns and cudgels, “carrying off” the “Wife & Daughters.” In the remaining six of these eight, the racialized violations of frontier society were the killing and scalping of “the Frontier Farmers and their Families, Women and Children” by Indians, aided and abetted by the British. Print 12 would show General Patrick Tonyn, Governor of East Florida, paying cash to “his Soldiers & Savages” for “Scalps of the Georgia People.” Events in the Wyoming Valley in 1778, when a mixed force of Loyalist rangers and Iroquois defeated a Continental army and conducted a scorched-earth campaign against the rebels, warranted two separate prints: Print 13 would show “the Commanding Officer at Niagara” paying cash for “the Scalps of the Wioming families,” while Print 18 would depict English complicity in a cannibal feast: “Prisonners kill’d and Roasted” for “a great festival” of “the Canadian indians” on “American flesh,” with “Colonel Buttler an english officer Setting at table.” Print 249 Joyce E. Chaplin, The First Scientific American: Benjamin Franklin and the Pursuit of Genius (New York: Basic Books, 2006), 271-72; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 244-251; “Franklin and Lafayette’s List of Prints to Illustrate British Cruelties (ca. May 1779),” from the Franklin Papers online (founders.archives.org). 252 14 would show the Secretary of War presenting George III “a Schedule intitled Acct. of Scalps. which he receives very graciously.”250 The idea of British officers shamelessly documenting their war crimes against white, Christian subjects of the King, utterly fearless of the reaction from the British general public or the Opposition party if such a communique were intercepted, became the seed of Franklin’s most grotesque propaganda piece: the anonymously-authored “Supplement to the Boston Independent Chronicle” published in April 1782. Purportedly a reprint of a manifest, written in plain English and unciphered, attached to a shipment of fur bales intercepted by the New England militia en route to Governor Haldimand in Quebec, the foreword by a fictional ‘Capt. Gerrish’ explained that upon examining the bales, “we were struck with horror to find […] 8 large ones containing SCALPS of our unhappy country-folks” of New York, New Jersey, Virginia and Pennsylvania, “taken in the last three years by the Senneka Indians” and sent as a gift to Haldimand for transport to England. The attached message, purportedly from a fictional Seneca chief named “Conejogatchie,” interpreted by “the elder Moore, the trader” and transcribed by a “James Craufurd,” itemized with pedantic detail the age, sex, and manner of death of over 1,000 settlers, supposedly marked on each scalp by a pictographic system of “Indian triumphal marks.” Only 43 belonged to soldiers of the Continental army killed in “skirmishes” (not, you’ll notice, “battles”), the vast majority belonged to civilian farmer families: nearly 400 scalps of young, mature, and old men killed in their houses or fields, 18 denoted by a yellow flame icon as “prisoners burnt alive, after being scalped, their nails torn out by the roots, and other torments”. Eighty-eight were of women killed by 250 Chaplin, The First Scientific American, 271-72; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 244-251; “Franklin and Lafayette’s List of Prints to Illustrate British Cruelties (ca. May 1779),” from the Franklin Papers online (founders.archives.org); 253 scalping-knife or tomahawk, 17 of those belonging to old women “knocked down dead, [or who] had their brains beat out.” An almost equal number were the scalps of children: 193 scalps of boys, 211 of girls, and 29 scalps of “little infants… rip’t out of their mothers’ bellies” and neatly stowed in a small birchbark box. The whole story was, of course, a hoax, but the sort of hoax that its readers wanted to believe.251 “they carved their name”: Scalp bounties and mimetic violence, 1689 to 1763 Guy Chet observes that for colonial administrators, the outsourcing of Indian-fighting by offering scalp bounties sidestepped various financial and political hurdles regarding the raising of troops. As the politically-problematic draft was rarely invoked in Britain’s American colonies, regular troops could only be raised by offering lucrative contracts with fixed terms of service. When their limited time in uniform was added to the financial problems of paying wages and provisions, administrators griped that these colonial troops cost four times as much as full-time soldiers in Britain and Europe. On the other hand, irregular companies recruited by ranger captains who, like privateers at sea, had obtained letters of marque from the government, were not on the colony’s payroll and, at least in theory, were paid only for success. With the average daily wage of a labourer in that era “rarely exceeding” 2 shillings a day, scalp and prisoner bounties were quite competitive. In 1689, Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut offered “eight pounds, per head, for every fighting Indian man,” and Connecticut offered scalp bounties in 1704, writes Benjamin Madley. In Massachusetts and New Hampshire during Queen Anne’s War (1702-13), initially Massachusetts offered £10, or 200 shillings, for “every Scalp of an Indian Enemy 251 Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 244-251; “Supplement to the Boston Independent Chronicle” (1782) in Benjamin Franklin and William Temple Franklin, Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Benjamin Franklin, Volume I (London: Henry Colburn, 1818), 337-341. 254 killed in fight, that is, ten Years of age” or higher, with a £10 bounty on the scalp of a woman age 10 or higher, and captured children to be taken to Boston to be sold into slavery. When this failed to yield a suitable number of volunteers, the Massachusetts General Assembly raised the bounty on each “adult” (however defined) male Indian, capable of bearing arms, to £20 per scalp, and eventually to £100.252 New France, which lacked the dense populations of the British colonies, had much better relations with its indigenous neighbours; through them, and its western alliance network, they developed a frontier-war style which relied much more heavily on indigenous allies and the mourning-war system of captive-taking and scalp-lifting. The first confirmed report of this came to British authorities in 1688 with the deposition of Magsigpen, a British- allied Algonquian known to the English as Graypoole and to the Dutch at Albany as Aert. Magsigpen told how he had gone north with a Mohawk war party to raid New France and their allies, and on his return had gone to Schaghticoke, a Mahican village on the Hudson which sheltered refugees from King Philip’s War. He and a dozen Schaghticokes, while hunting, were shadowed on the river by “Eleaven Indians that formerly lived in New England, and now in Canada,” who during a parley explained their purpose to avenge the “greate mischeife” of the Mohawks in Canada. They had been sent by Denonville himself, the Governor-General, and paraphrased his offer: “therefore goe yow revenge the same, either on Christians or Indians; kill all what you cann, bring noe prisoners but their scalps, and I’le give you tenn beavers for every one of them.” Georg Friederici calculated in 1906 252 Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness, 89-91, states in footnote 80 that volunteers without pay were to receive £50 per scalp rather than £10; my notes do not indicate whether this was adjusted upwards as the other scalp bounties were during the course of the war. See also Grenier, First Way of War, 16-52; Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate,” 114-117, notes that Massachusetts apparently paid for 208 Indian scalps between 1703-04, and passed additional scalp bounties throughout Queen Anne’s War: in 1706, 1709, and 1710. 255 that the 1688 value of ten beavers, the fur-trade medium of exchange, would be equivalent to a gun purchased in Montreal with 4 pounds of powder and 40 pounds of lead. In 1691 Denonville’s successor, Frontenac, offered colonists and Indian allies 10 crowns for every scalp, 20 crowns for a white male prisoner, and 10 for a white female prisoner; later, either due to a glut in the market or moral criticism, the government lowered the prices for scalps and prisoners to one crown apiece.253 The English precedent of scalp bounties and large-scale slave trading (see Chapter 4) also influenced French policy in their Louisiana colony and in the Pays d’en Haut in the early 18th century. Facing labour shortages in New France beginning in the 1670s and with a general monetary and credit crisis from 1700-10 due to a collapsing price of beaver, the French purchased thousands of slaves captured in the further west and south in their allies’ wars to bolster their domestic economy. In wars with the Alibamons (1702-12), and the Chitimachas (1706-18), Louisiana’s governor Jean Baptiste le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville offered allied Indians 10 crowns each for the scalps of “Alabamas” (the generic French term for Creeks) and Chitimachas. Elizabeth John, cryptically, noted without explication in 1975 that “one coarse black scalp lock looked much like another, and some grew upon the heads of Frenchmen, particularly some of the métis from Canada.” Being members of the powerful 253 Magsigpen cited in Grenier, First Way of War, 39 n. 77; Colin G. Calloway, The Western Abenakis of Vermont, 1600-1800: War, Migration, and the Survival of an Indian People (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1990), 91-94; “Examination of Magsigpen, An Indian,” in John Romeyn Brodhead, Documents Relative to the Colonial History of the State of New-York; Procured in England, Holland and France, Vol. III (Albany, NY: Weed, Parsons and Company, 1858), 71-72; Magsigpen was able to identify 10 of the 11 “northern Indians,” most of whom were members of the Wabanaki Confederacy, one of whom was “a Wappenger of Hudson’s River.” On general background see Salisbury, “Eastern North America 1600-1763,” 422; Steele, Warpaths, 49; Friederici, “Scalping in America,” 433-36; Friederici, Skalpieren, Griffin trans., 73; Jean-François Lozier, “Lever des chevelures en Nouvelle-France: la politique française du paiement des scalps” in Revue d'histoire de l'Amérique française, Vol. 56, No. 4, 2003, p. 513-542. On French colonial policy in North America (or the lack thereof), see James Pritchard, In Search of Empire: The French in the Americas, 1670-1730 (Cambridge University Press, 2004). 256 Creek Confederacy, the Alabamas could negotiate peace with Bienville by 1712; the isolated and unaligned Chitimachas, by contrast, were “decimated” by the war, allowing the Louisiana colony to found New Orleans, its capital and its artery to world markets, in 1722 on land seized from the Chitimachas.254 Scalp bounties were also deployed by the French in one of their few conflicts waged on settler-colonial terms: the Natchez Wars. After Fort Rosalie was erected on Natchez territory in 1716, tobacco plantations worked by African slaves followed, and by the early 1720s French colonists were demanding the Natchez relocate their villages so they could expand tobacco production. When war broke out in 1722-23, Bienville offered Natchez scalp and prisoner bounties to allied Indians, then sent a punitive expedition of 150 French troops to the Natchez capital to extract peace. As the Natchez were one of the few stratified Indian societies left in the 18th century Southeast, whose leaders could wield coercive violence against disobedient followers, Bienville could compel the Natchez ruler, The Great Sun, to accept his peace terms: that several named Natchez rebels were to be executed, and an escaped black slave, known for “seditious speeches” against the French, be brought in dead or alive. Continued French land acquisitions led to a Natchez revolt in 1729 and the burning of Fort Rosalie, while the French were temporarily distracted by a slave revolt in New Orleans. After putting down the New Orleans revolt the French set out to, in Gregory Waselkov’s terms, “methodically exterminate” the Natchez, most of whom were sold through New Orleans into Haitian slavery. Like other southeastern peoples devastated by the 254 Daniel H. Usner, Jr., American Indians in the Lower Mississippi Valley: Social and Economic Histories (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2003 [1998]), 15-32; DuVal, The Native Ground, 63-102; Corkran, The Creek Frontier, 1540-1783, 93-115; Elizabeth A.H. John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds: The Confrontation of Indians, Spanish, and French in the Southwest, 1540-1795 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1975), 199; Gregory A. Waselkov, “Louisiana,” in Alan Gallay ed., Colonial Wars of North America, 1512-1763: An Encyclopedia (Routledge, 2015). 257 disease epidemics, arms races, and slaving wars of the late 17th and early 18th centuries, the remaining Chitimachas and Natchez had a choice: of joining larger refugee confederacies like the Choctaws or Creeks, as the Natchez did, or becoming vassals of French Louisiana known as les petites nations, as did the Chitimachas.255 In the continental interior, between the densely-populated agrarian corridor of the St. Lawrence Valley and the Louisiana settlements which offered access to the Caribbean, the French did not have the manpower or institutional strength to impose their will on Indians— or, for that matter, on French settlers and merchants in the interior. Behind France’s claims of vast territorial control was a reality of French islands in an Indian sea: military forts, trading posts, and such enclaves as the Illinois Country, a center of French farming and fur trading settled by coureurs du bois without government permission in the early 18th century. Between the Illinois Country and Montreal was the Ohio Country, whose rivers connected Louisiana and Illinois to the St. Lawrence corridor but through which the French could only travel on sufferance of the peoples living there. After first contact in 1660, coordinated military campaigns with indigenous allies were necessary in wars with the Mesquakie of Lake Michigan’s western shore, an Algonquian people known to the French after the name of their military-specialist Fox clan. Colin Calloway observes that the Mesquakie, who controlled the Minnesota and Des Moines trade routes, killed French traders attempting to push past them to the Sioux and upper Mississippi markets. Yet French policy wavered, writes Brett Rushforth, between war with “les Renards” and the desire to bring them into their anti-Iroquois western network of trade and military allies; in 1679, French and 255 Usner, Jr., American Indians in the Lower Mississippi Valley, 15-32; DuVal, The Native Ground, 63-102; Corkran, Creek Frontier, 93-115; John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds, 199; Waselkov, “Louisiana,” in Alan Gallay ed., Colonial Wars of North America, 1512-1763. 258 Mesquakie diplomats smoked the calumet, and after the Great Peace of Montreal in 1701 French officials resumed these attemtps at glasnost. France’s northwesternmost trade and military allies, namely the Ojibway, Ottawa, Wyandot, Miami, and Illinois, had no intention of being supplanted as middlemen over the eastern trade in firearms and French trade goods; from the 1670s to the 1690s, France’s western allies fought the Mesquakie regardless of French policy. In the early 18th century, as New France’s population expanded following the Great Peace of 1701, New France’s restive allies were joined by a French settler population in the interior who also set their own foreign policy—and, like the people in the towns and cities of the St. Lawrence corridor, had an inexhaustible appetite for Indian slave labour. The In the “Fox Wars” of 1712-16 and 1728-33, the peoples of the Pays d’en Haut sold thousands of Mesquakies into French slavery, with French colonists in the Illinois, officers, and fur traders as direct beneficiaries or middlemen of the trade; New France’s allies raided Mesquakie villages, but French officers and armies brought total war to the interior, killing men en masse and razing villages, and a people several thousand strong in the 1710s were reduced to a few hundred by the mid-1730s.256 French traders among the Miami and Illinois also acted independently of their government in selling Indian captives into the British Southeastern trade; as late as 1715, notes Colin Calloway, one hundred French coureurs de bois left Michilimackinac to become slaving middlemen on the Missouri River, buying captives from the far west from French- allied Indians and ferrying them to South Carolina for resale. The limits of French power 256 James Pritchard, In Search of Empire: The French in the Americas, 1670-1730 (Cambridge University Press, 2004), xvii-xxii (“Only war…”), 70-71 (“populationists opposed to immigration”), 420-22 (“preoccupied with dynastic…”); Fred Anderson, Crucible of War, 11-21; Richard White, The Middle Ground, 142-185 ; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 321-24 (322: “resisted French efforts … never experienced before”); Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance”; Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 193-258. 259 appeared again when the British-allied Chickasaws refused to turn over their Natchez refugees to the French in the mid-1730s. When Bienville failed to defeat the Chickasaws through conventional European warfare, including building a road to drive artillery to their main village, he accepted a Quapaw counter-offer: they would send war parties of 30 to 50 men, and in return the French would pay them for Chickasaw and Natchez scalps and prisoners. “[E]ver since they observed how weakly the French made war on the Natchez,” Bienville noted wearily in a 1733 letter, “they have held our nation in supreme contempt.”257 If scalp and slave bounties were not necessarily synonymous with a settler-colonial system of land acquisition, neither was Euro-American mimesis of Indians at war. As early as Cotton Mather’s denunciation of “half Indianized French, and… half Frenchified Indians” in Decennium Luctuosum (1699), British colonists were perturbed by the number of French militia and volunteers who, thanks to years of living in Indian villages, were competent to join allied Indians in long-distance raids on New England settlements. Like John Butler’s Loyalists during the Wyoming campaign and, reportedly, bandits in the West during the 19th century (see Chapter 6), French militia and volunteers may have disguised themselves in warpaint to commit certain deeds under disguise, or to liberate themselves from the European conventions of warfare, as reflected in recurrent themes in 18th-century British accounts which cannot simply be ascribed to national and sectarian antipathies. In Reverend John Norton’s The Redeemed Captive (1748), his autobiographical account of his capture and 257 Usner, Jr., American Indians in the Lower Mississippi Valley,15-32; DuVal, The Native Ground:, 63-102; Corkran, Creek Frontier, 93-115; John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds:, 199; Waselkov, “Louisiana,” in Alan Gallay ed., Colonial Wars of North America, 1512-1763. On the slave trade, see Marcel Trudel, George Tombs trans., Canada’s Forgotten Slaves: Two Hundred Years of Bondage (Montréal: Véhicule Press, 2009 [1960]); Rushforth, “‘A Little Flesh We Offer You’”; Rushforth, “Slavery, the Fox Wars, and the Limits of Alliance,” 54; Rushforth, Bonds of Alliance, 3-71; Calloway, One Vast Winter Count, 316. 260 captivity by a French-and-indigenous war party in 1746, he states that after French-allied Indians scalped a slain Massachusetts colonist and cut off his head and arms, A young Frenchman took one of the Arms And flay’d it, roasted the Flesh, and offer’d some of it to Daniel Smeed, one of the Prisoners, to eat; but he refused it. The Frenchman dressed the Skin of the Arm (as we afterwards heard) and made a Tobacco Pouch of it. 258 A lieutenant in a Scottish Highland regiment wrote of post-mortem mutilations, “I dare say no human creature but an Indian or [French] Canadian would be guilty of such inhumanity as to insult a dead body.” Hence Wolfe’s retaliatory orders during the siege of Quebec, in July 1759: “The general strictly forbids the inhuman practice of scalping, except where the enemy are Indians, or Canadians dressed like Indians.”259 Broader Anglo-American detestation of the French for their military alliances with Indians informed a persistent Anglo-American myth that Indian campaigns or uprisings against them had to be the product of European guidance and tutelage. At first glance this belief, that an innately-warlike, vindictive people (as Indians were presumed to be) were also unable to plan and execute devastating campaigns against their British enemies, seems paradoxical, until one remembers that the Indians of the European imagination were irrational and easily overwhelmed by such emotions as vengefulness and sadism. As early as Benjamin Tompson’s epic New-Englands Crisis (Boston, 1676), the poet invoked the 258 John Norton, The redeemed captive. Being a narrative of the taking and carrying into captivity the Reverend Mr. John Norton… (Boston, 1748), 10, from Evans Early American Imprint Collection (Ann Arbor, Michigan); see also Friederici, “Scalping in America,” extract from the Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution, 1906, in Spittal, ed., Scalping and Torture, 1-16. 259 Treating this counterpart phenomenon to Anglo-American dark mimesis is, unfortunately, outside the scope of this thesis. “such inhumanity”, see Colin Calloway, White People, Indians, and Highlanders (2008), pg. 100; on warpaint as disguise for Butler’s Loyalists, see B.A. Mann, George Washington’s War on Native America (2005), 9-10, 115; on Wolfe’s order re: scalping, see Wright, The Life of Major-General James Wolfe (1864), 531 – these sources cited in Simon Harrison, Dark Trophies: Hunting and the Enemy Body in Modern War (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012), 39-47; Cotton Mather cited in Slotkin, Regeneration, 116-145. 261 possibility of a French or Spanish conspiracy behind King Philip’s War by rhetorically asking, while outlining possible causes, “Whither some Romish Agent hatcht the plot?” For Tompson, at least, the war’s outbreak was no great mystery, as “Indian spirits need / No grounds but lust to make a Christian bleed.”260 In Tompson’s New-Englands Crisis and Nathaniel Saltonstall’s “A True But Brief Account of our Losses…” (1676), the anti-Indian sublime springs fully formed from the Anglo-American collective unconscious. Here the foundational fears of Europeans in the Americas, of Indian war as reverse-colonial invasion, the destruction of European domesticity, cannibalism, and dismemberment, are combined with the particular fixations that would fuel Anglo-American nightmares for another 250 years: Indians as child-killers who interracially rape white women, flay settlers’ bodies, and scalp them while still living. Tompson’s prologue to the war is a Savagist burlesque in which King Philip, a “greazy Lout,” addresses his “pagan slaves” in ungrammatical English with pidgin Algonquian words thrown in, mixing legitimate causes for war with venal, criminal ones and thus discrediting the former. Philip complains that British settlers not only “enjoy the best” land in New England and “intend to have the rest” later, but have instituted English codes of law which issue whippings for drunkenness and hanging for rape—linking the Anglo-American fascination with the image of Indian sexual degeneracy with the corollary idea of the indigenous woman as a prisoner of her own society. He promises his barbarian horde that war will not only stop further British immigration, but will provide satisfaction in the form of material goods (“English coats” and “the richest merchants houses”), cannibalism (“wine to 260 James Frothingham Hunnewell ed., Early American Poetry: New-England’s Crisis by Benjamin Tompson (Boston: the Club of Odd Volumes, 1894), “New-Englands Crisis,” 10-21, “A Supplement,” 22-29. 262 drink out of their Captains throats,” i.e., blood), and interracial rape (“Wee’l have their silken wives”). This “native swarm,” boiling with “unbridled lust,” rampages through the “border towns,” where settlers’ babies are “Snatcht by a pagan hand to lasting rest,” villages are torched, and Tompson implies Philip’s “bruitish wolves” feed on human flesh: “What the inexorable flames doe spare / More cruel Heathen lug away for fare.” In short: “They strip, they bind, they ravish, flea [flay] and roast.”261 Nathaniel Saltonstall, in describing the “exquisite Torments and most inhumane Barbarities” inflicted upon New Englanders, is similarly inventive in describing Indian trophies: human-finger necklaces, belts of human skin. If Tompson implied scalping by “flea,” Saltonstall explicitly links interracial rape, scalping, and dismemberment: …the Heathen rarely giving Quarter to those that they take, but if they were Women, they first forced them to satisfie their filthy Lusts and then murdered them, either cutting off the Head, ripping open the Belly, or skulping the Head of Skin and Hair, and hanging them up as Trophies; wearing Men’s Fingers as Bracelets about their Necks and Stripes of their Skins which they dresse for Belts. They knockt one Youth of the Head, and laying him for dead, they flead (or skulp’d) his Head of Skin and Hair. After which the Boy wonderfully revived, and is now recovered, only he hath Nothing but the dry Skull, neither Skin nor Hair on his Head.262 As noted in Chapter 3, Tompson and Saltonstall’s prurient fantasies of interracial rape on the battlefield parted ways with reality, though they would remain a central image in savage-war narratives for another two centuries. In describing the New Englanders’ revenge Tompson 261 Tompson, “New-Englands Crisis,” 10-21 (“greazy Lout”…“flea and roast” 11-13), “A Supplement,” 22-29. “Supplement” adds weirder, more hallucinogenic detail, describing Philip’s warriors “besmear’d with Christian Bloud & oild / With fat out of white humane bodyes boil’d,” and wielding gory, bloodstained clubs “Like Vulcans anvilling New-Englands brains.” 262 Gardiner cited in Bailyn, The Barbarous Years, 501; Ramsey, Yamasee War, 159-182, 222-26; Nathaniel Saltonstall, “A True but Brief Account of Our Losses Sustained Since This Cruel and Mischievous War Began,” 97-98, in A New and Further Narrative of the State of New-England, By N.S., 1676, reprinted in Charles H. Lincoln ed., Narratives of the Indian Wars, 1675-1699 (New York: Barnes & Noble, Inc., 1952 [1913]), 77-98. 263 also points the way towards the mimetic violence of the 18th century: “Upon the Indian skins they carv’d their name.”263 One of the earliest cases of such mimetic violence among British colonists occurred in March 1697, the final year of King William’s War (1688-97). When an Abenaki war party raided Haverhill, Massachusetts, Thomas Duston led seven of his children to shelter at a garrison a few miles away, while his wife Hannah, who had given birth to their eighth child a week before, was taken captive with her nurse Mary Neff. With 150 miles to go, the raiders had no time for two prisoners and a baby on their return trip, and Cotton Mather writes in Decennium Luctuosum (1699) that an Abenaki “dashed out the Brains of the Infant, against a Tree” a mile from Haverhill. A few days later, the captives were given to a family of Catholic Abenakis comprising two men, three women, and seven children, including an English boy named Samuel taken in a raid on Massachusetts a year and a half earlier. One night, Hannah Duston, Mary Neff, and Samuel crept up on their captors in the dark with hatchets and wiped out the whole family, all but an old woman who escaped with wounds and a child Duston planned to sell into slavery in Boston, then fled down the Merrimack River, returning to Massachusetts with ten scalps. Though Massachusetts’ bounty of 10 263 Tompson, “New Englands Crisis,” 14. Sharon Block cites several sources from the 18th century observing the absence of sexual assault of female captives; William Martin, son of Virginia’s agent to the Cherokees, Joseph Martin, recalled a story of a “mighty” Cherokee warrior who had attempted “some rudeness” with a female prisoner of war in the Revolutionary era but was stopped by his comrades—“This, I believe is the only instance I have ever heard of an Indian’s treating a female captive immodestly.” Sharon Block cites multiple 18th-century sources noting Indian nonaggression towards English women in captivity, though observes that as the conceptual category of marital rape did not exist in the 18th century, Anglo-American captives’ forced adoption into Indian villages, including being married off without their consent, was not considered “equivalent to rape” – in Sharon Block, Rape and Sexual Power in Early America (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 210-38. 264 pounds per scalp had been rescinded in 1696, an exception was made, and Hannah Duston received a reward of 25 or 50 pounds from the governor.264 Events at Norridgewock, an Abenaki village on the Kennebec River, are more indicative of the norms of 18th-century Anglo-American mimetic violence. During the three- year conflict (1722-25) between New England and the Wabanaki Confederacy known variously as Dummer’s or Gray Lock’s War, Massachusetts raised ranger companies by issuing £60 bounties on Abenaki scalps, later raised to £100 for lack of volunteers, and offered an outstanding 1720 bounty of £100 for the death or capture of the Jesuit Sébastien Râle. Overlooking their own steady encroachment into Abenaki territory, New Englanders believed Râle, the resident missionary at Norridgewock, was the instigating force behind Abenaki raids. In the winter of 1721-22 Father Râle narrowly avoided being captured by the rangers, who looted his church and house and pinned a note to the door promising to return next spring “to relieve Father Râle of his scalp.” In a letter to his brother, Râle disdained New Englanders’ abilities at frontier warfare: “[If] they knew there were but twelve men in your dwellings, they dare not approach you with one hundred.” He was proven wrong in the late summer of 1724, when 200 New England rangers and three Indian guides ascended the Kennebec River by boat and sacked Norridgewock in a dawn attack praised by Samuel Penhallow, in History of the Indian Wars (1726), as “the greatest Victory we have obtained in the three or four last Wars.” The number of casualties inflicted is difficult to assess; the rangers returned to Boston with three English boys they found in the village, four Abenaki 264 Grenier, The First Way of War, 39-41; Chaplin, Subject Matter, 266-69; Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence, 94-115; Drinnon, Facing West, 435; Steele, Warpaths, 140-46; Ann-Marie Weis, “The Murderous Mother and the Solicitous Father: Violence, Jacksonian Family Values, and Hannah Duston’s Captivity,” in American Studies International Vol. 36, No. 1 (February 1998), 46-65; Humphreys, “Mass Marketing of the Colonial Captive.” Grenier sets the governor’s reward at £50; Humphreys says £25. Hannah’s surname has been variously spelled as Duston, Dustin, or Dustan. 265 prisoners, and 27 scalps, and one of the ranger captains “later lamented that the river’s swift current washed over 50 Indian bodies downstream” before they could be scalped. After inflicting large-scale Abenaki casualties by their surprise attack, the New Englanders, according to Father de la Chasses, the Superior-General of the Missions in New France, apparently singled out the elderly Jesuit’s corpse for particular mistreatment, expressing sectarian hatred through what Anglo-Americans imagined “savages” would do. After looting and desecrating Norridgewock’s Catholic church, the Protestant New Englanders gouged out Rale’s eyes, knocked in his head with hatchets, plugged his eye sockets with mud, and riddled his body with bullets.265 Ranger companies in present-day Canada were also launched against the Mi’kmaq and Maliseet in Nova Scotia during the 18th century. The cession of Acadia by France to Britain with the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 brought unprecedented numbers of British settlers and traders into Maine and Nova Scotia, and with them what Salisbury calls a “train of abuses” against French-allied members of the Abenaki Confederacy and Francophone Acadians, through unregulated private trade and British demands for land cessions and formal recognition of their sovereignty. Against this backdrop of hauteur and bigotry, Mi’kmaq historian Daniel Paul notes such cases of vigilante actions by British colonists as the serving of poisoned food to Mi’kmaq at a 1712 gathering and, citing the Catholic missionary Father Pierre Maillard, the killing of 200 indigenous people by distributing “poisoned [i.e., contaminated with disease] woollen goods”. These ongoing tensions meant that the war between Britain and France known as King William’s War, which began in 265 Grenier, The First Way of War, 47-52 (“they dare not approach you”); Stephen Brumwell, White Devil: An epic story of revenge from the savage war that inspired The Last of the Mohicans (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004), 31-37; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 164-74; details of the death of Râle in Calloway, Dawnland Encounters, 81-83. 266 1744 and ended elsewhere in 1748, continued in the Maritimes until 1755 as Father Le Loutre’s War, a rebellion against British settlers and administrators. As in previous wars against the Abenaki Confederacy, the British responded with scalp bounties. In November 1744, William Shirley, Captain-General and Commander in Chief of Massachusetts Bay, targeted the “Indians of the Cape Sables and St. John’s Tribes” by offering £100 from the public treasury for the scalp of a male Indian aged 12 years or up, and £50 for the scalp of an adult woman or child under 12. Shirley’s declaration also offered payments for live prisoners, set at £105 for each man and £55 for each child or woman; but a markup of only £5 for guarding and feeding prisoners while retreating under fire raises questions as to whether this was sincere or merely a merciful façade. Shirley’s scalp bounty was answered by Captain John Gorham, leading a mixed company of 50 British and Mohawk mercenaries, whose first victims, according to Father Maillard, were three pregnant women and two small children.266 In 1749, the Mi’kmaq of peninsular Nova Scotia and Île Royale were enraged when Lieutenant-General Edward Cornwallis, the Crown-appointed Governor of Nova Scotia, established Halifax on their land without their consultation or permission. To make their intentions clear, the Mi’kmaq formally declared war against the British; Cornwallis, who in 1745 had starved, terrorized, and laid waste to the Scottish Highlands to punish the Jacobite rebellion, likewise made his intentions plain. Initially requesting more arms for the colonists, he issued a proclamation “to Annoy, distress, take or destroy the Savages commonly called 266 Salisbury, “Native People and European Settlers in Eastern North America, 1600 – 1763,” 431-440; Daniel N. Paul, We Were Not the Savages: Collision between European and Native American Civilizations, third edition (Halifax: Fernwood Publishing, 2006), 107-122, 152-55, 194-96; A.J.B. Johnston, Endgame 1758: The Promise, the Glory, and the Despair of Louisbourg’s Last Decade (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2007), 23-45; Friederici, “Scalping in America,” 433-36; Anderson, Crucible of War, 110-115. 267 Mic-macks, wherever they are found”, on the grounds that, their declaration of war notwithstanding, “they ought to be treated as so many Banditti Ruffians, or Rebels, to His Majesty’s Government.” On 1 October he proposed to a governing council, which included John Gorham, to immediately raise a volunteer company “not exceeding fifty men” for immediate counterattacks, followed by a campaign of attrition for the winter of 1749-50; in company with 100 New Englanders, Gorham’s rangers should scour the province for “a reward of ten Guineas for every Indian Micmac taken or killed, to be paid upon producing such Savage taken or his scalp (as in the custom of America) if killed”. Paul lists various acts of “extreme barbarism and cruelty” attributed to Gorham’s rangers, including their reported cashiering of 25 scalps in a single day; on 21 June, 1750, the bounty was raised to £50 sterling per scalp. A heinous 1753 incident described by Daniel Paul illustrates the distinctions between a mourning-war rationale of reciprocal injury and Anglo-American scalp bounties’ potentiality for ghoulish opportunism. After stealing 40 barrels of provisions from a Mi’kmaq storehouse, two British colonists, James Grace and John Connor, were shipwrecked, then rescued and offered food and shelter by a Mi’kmaq family of two men, three women, a child and a newborn; in the night, they murdered their seven hosts to collect their scalps for bounty. Though a 1752 treaty promised prosecution of settlers who committed crimes against Mi’kmaq, British officials did nothing to punish Grace and Connor; in response, a Mi’kmaq war party killed seven British bargemen, sparing one Anthony Casteel because he was French. Eventually ransomed from the Mi’kmaq by a 268 French trader, Casteel reported his captors’ resolve to “never forgive or forget” Grace and Connor’s crime.267 As the war in the Maritimes continued, the scope and scale of British violence against Indians and Acadians expanded further. In 1755, observes Friederici, a bounty of £100 was placed on the scalp of Father Jean-Louis Le Loutre, who called for an insurrection to restore Acadia to French possession; for his part, Father Le Loutre offered a bounty of 100 livres for English settlers’ scalps. In 1756, as Acadians continued to be deported en masse to Louisiana, Nova Scotia’s Governor Brigadier-General Charles Lawrence issued another anti- Mi’kmaq scalp bounty offering £25 for the scalp of a man aged 16 and up, £30 for every male prisoner 16 and up, and £25 for every female or child prisoner. By authorizing “all Officers, Civil and Military, and all His Majesty’s Subjects, to annoy, distress, take and destroy” not just Indians, but “all such as may be aiding or assisting them,” the 1756 declaration also extended violence to the Acadians. As in French Louisiana and the Spanish colonies (see Chapter 6), French-indigenous intermarriage meant many Acadians’ hair was straight and dark enough to qualify for scalp bounties, and Paul notes that Acadian deputies regularly protested the bounty’s existence to the Governor; on one occasion, writes A.J.B. Johnston, “British soldiers shot twenty-five French and brought in their scalps, claiming they were Mi’kmaq.”268 267 Paul, We Were Not the Savages, 107-122, 152-55, 194-96; Johnston, Endgame 1758, 23-45; Friederici, “Scalping in America,” 433-36; Anderson, Crucible of Empire, 109-112; “to Annoy, distress, take or destroy” in Olive Patricia Dickason, Canada’s First Nations: A History of Founding Peoples from Earliest Times, second edition (Toronto, Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 134-35; Calloway, White People, Indians, and Highlanders, 94-95. 268 Paul, We Were Not the Savages, 107-122, 152-55, 194-96; Johnston, Endgame 1758, 23-45 (40: “on at least one occasion”); Kiernan, Blood and Soil, 244; Friederici, “Scalping in America,” 433-36; Brumwell, White Devil, 95; Benjamin Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate: Meaning, Historiography, and New Methods,” 114-117, in The American Historical Review Vol. 120, No. 1 (February 2015), 98-139. 269 As Peter Silver observes, “almost no one in eighteenth-century America or England seems to have realized that Indian war,” with surprise attacks and mutilated bodies left in the roads, “was designed by its practitioners to be precisely as terrifying as they found it”; imagining Indians to be unhinged wild men rather than rational actors, panic was as likely a reaction as bravado to the unexpected appearance of Indians in frontier districts. In 1727, when a conclave of Munsees travelled through northern New Jersey celebrating the accession of their new sachem, settlers took them for a war party and fled to New York and Long Island. In 1728, after hearing reports about Indian attacks on charcoal-burners in northern Pennsylvania, the brothers John and Walter Winter were visiting a neighbour when they spotted Indians near the woodpile; believing them to be lurking warriors, they fired their muskets and then finished off the wounded with a gun butt and an axe, by which point they realized they were killing two old women who had lived in the district for years, a “horrible accident” and “wicked murder” they apologized for on the gallows. In other cases, settlers could become paralysed with fear during actual Indian attacks, even when family members were dying. Correspondingly, during the 1740s and 1750s the emotions frontiersmen felt while scalping and posthumously mutilating Indians’ bodies could be “straightforwardly described as satisfaction or happiness.”269 269 A parallel present-day phenomenon to colonial frontier panics is the disproportionate shooting of black males by police, security guards, and armed members of the general public, informed by stereotypes of black men as hypermasculine, aggressive, and nearly superhuman in strength. These reactions often occur with such speed that it is clear that subconscious considerations, rather than careful deliberations, inform them. “Unarmed people may be more likely to be judged as physically formidable, and thus subjected to force, if they belong to groups stereotyped as threatening.” See John Paul Wilson, Kurt Hugenberg, and Nicholas O. Rule, “Racial Bias in Judgments of Physical Size and Formidability: From Size to Threat,” in Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 13 March 2017 (published online); Silver, Our Savage Neighbors, 45-48 (“horrible accident”), 56- 59 (“almost no one”), 77-79 (“satisfaction or happiness”). 270 Settlers’ subjective experience during frontier clashes can only be fully understood if we consider the ways in which they articulated their sense of powerlessness and victimization in diabolical, nightmarish terms. The first “communal reading experience” of British North America, the captivity-narrative genre, began with Mary Rowlandson’s The Soveraignty and Goodness of God (Boston, 1682); describing her captivity among the Nipmucks during King Philip’s War as a trial from God, the tone of the early captivity narratives was a stark Biblical typology. But this soon gave way to a saleable pornography of violence. By 1758, standards had sunk so low that Robert Eastburn’s captivity narrative was prefaced with an endorsement by the Rev. Gilbert Tennent, reminding the reader that Eastburn is a deacon and thus his testimony “may with safety be depended upon.” While the documentary record shows that the majority of Indian attacks on the mid-18th-century northwestern frontier occurred during broad daylight against men working in the fields, that the majority of casualties were adult men, and that the majority of captives and subsequent adoptees in Indian villages were children and women, captivity narratives inverted the priorities of the mourning-war complex with scenes of children and women scalped and tormented. Eventually, themes of home invasion, infanticide and male powerlessness became the stock scenario of captivity narratives and frontier horror stories: in midnight attacks, Indian warriors burned family cabins, took white men prisoner, and forced them to watch their wives and children being sadistically tortured and murdered. In a typically lurid story, The Affecting History of the Dreadful Distresses of Frederic Manheim’s Family, the titular “industrious German” immigrant, his wife, and his three daughters are carried off with 23 neighbours by “hostile Canasadaga Indians” from the New York frontier in October 1779. After the Indians quarrel over “whose property” the 16-year-old Manheim twins Maria and 271 Christina should become, their chiefs command the “hapless virgins” be burned alive with pinewood splinters and turpentine. Typically for the genre, after describing this scene in gruesome detail the writer then called it “a scene of monstrous misery, beyond the power of speech to describe, or even the imagination to conceive.” The protagonists of these stories often emphasize their inability to articulate the horror and pathos of their scenes of incredible and unbelievable tortures, a strategy to overwhelm the reader which Peter Silver describes as “the anti-Indian sublime.”270 Collections of these lurid stories, such as the Manheim Anthology (1793) and A Selection of Some of the Most Interesting Narratives of Outrages Committed by the Indians in Their Wars with the White People (1808), regularly beggar belief. Sufferings of Peter Williamson, the overall credibility of which is questioned strongly by James VanDerBeets, includes multiple scenes of old men being made to watch their wives and small children “inhumanly scalped and murdered”; one of these old men begs his captors for death, who ignore him and load him like a mule with their plunder. Sufferings also describes Indian warriors roasting a merchant alive and “[making] of his head what they called an Indian 270 Ian Steele’s study of clearly-identified Shawnee attacks between 1754 and 1765 shows very few children under 16 were killed (9 out of 103) though their cries gave away warparties’ locations; four times as many women over 16 were captured than killed (7 out of 28); men were nearly twice as likely as women to be killed in Shawnee attacks, and adult men were more likely than women to be killed—see Steele, “The Shawnees and the English: Captives and War, 1753-1765,” 11-12; Dorothy M.F. Behen, “The Captivity Story in American Literature, 1577-1826” (Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 1951), 41, 190, “roguery” 133, cited in Richard Drinnon, White Savage: The Case of John Dunn Hunter (New York: Schocken Books, 1972), 106, footnote 25; Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian, 85; Richard VanDerBeets, The Indian Captivity Narrative: An American Genre (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1984), ix-x, 1-50; Archibald Loudon ed., A Selection of Some of the Most Interesting Narratives of Outrages Committed by the Indians in Their Wars with the White People, two volumes (Arno Press and the New York Times 1971 [Harrisburg Publishing Company, 1888 [Carlisle, 1808]]), volume I, iv-v (Introduction), 58-60 (“Affecting History of the Dreadful Distresses of Frederic Manheim’s Family”), 66-69 (“Narrative of the Adventures of Capt. Isaac Stewart; taken from his own mouth, in March, 1782”), 74-87 (“Sufferings of Peter Williamson, one of the Settlers in the Back Parts of Pennsylvania. Written by Himself”), 119-251 (“An Account of the Remarkable Occurrences in the Life and Travels of Col. James Smith During his Captivity with the Indians, in the years 1755-59”), 252-301 (“A Narrative of the Captivity of John M’Cullough, Esq., written by himself”). Henceforth abbreviated as Loudon Anthology. 272 pudding” by eating his brains, while another man is buried up to his neck and a small fire placed adjacent until “his brains were boiling in his head.” Symbolic emasculation of Anglo- American men was also performed through stories of the killing of women, which Ann- Marie Weis notes as a departure from the earlier narratives of resilient Puritan women surviving captivity among pagans and Catholics. By contrast, the Gothic or sentimental tendencies of the 18th and early 19th-century accounts changed the stock female character to a “passive mother” who witnessed “a cruel monster-man” slaughtering her infant and abducting her older children, a “frail woman submissively kneeling before her Indian captor.” The disparity between the physical power and cruelty of the Indian warrior and the physical helplessness of the female victim could reach queasy extremes, as this lurid bit of prose, printed in Detroit in 1811: The tenderest infant, yet imbibing nutrition from the mamilia of maternal love, and the agonized mother herself, alike await the stroke of the relentless tomahawk…Nothing which breathes the breath of life is spared… It is in the dead of the night, in the darkness of the moon, in the howling of the [wolf] that the demoniac deed is done. The anti-Indian sublime conflated violence with violation.271 Captivity narratives also presented the killing of white women and children as the whole purpose of mourning-war raids rather than a state of exception. “[A] boy, about three years old, being unwilling to leave the house, they took it by the heels, and dashed it against the house, then stabbed and scalped it,” stated the Account of the Sufferings of Massy Herbeson and her Family, adding that when a five-year-old later “began to mourn for his 271 Weis, “Murderous Mother and Solicitous Father,” 50-54; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 244-251; Entry “Captivity Narratives” in BFI Companion to the Western 78-81; Alden T. Vaughan and Edward W. Clark eds., Puritans Among the Indians: Accounts of Captivity and Redemption, 1676-1724 (Harvard University Press, 2009 [1981]), 25 (“passive mother… Indian captor”); “stroke of the relentless tomahawk” in Cited in Taylor, Civil War of 1812, 204. 273 brother [,] one of the Indians then tomahawked and scalped him.” “My dear and effectionate [sic] wife, with five children, all scalped in less than ten minutes,” laments the account of the Reverend John Corbly, of events of July 1785. In Alexander Tsesis’ summary, through these stories “Indians became the bogeymen” of American society, “specters sweeping up children and women in the middle of the night only to scalp them and then whoop it up around a fire afterwards.” In his 1846 memoirs, T.L. McKenney, chief administrator of Indian affairs from 1816-1830, wrote that the greatest single obstacle to the assimilation of Indians as full equals into American society were the “nursery stories” which “told of the Indian and his cruelties”; with “his tall, gaunt form, with the skins of beasts dangling from his limbs, and his eyes like fire,” the Indian warrior “stood for the Moloch of our country.”272 These stories of child-killing, torture, rape, and the scheming of Catholic priests and French administrators behind it all, informed Anglo-American atrocity stories of the Seven Years’ War, the paramount and central tale being the surrender at Fort William Henry. Infuriated that after travelling hundreds of miles to fight for the French and asking only for ammunitions, rations, and whatever gifts Montcalm bestowed, they would be denied the ransoms and loot that they fought for in lieu of wages, Montcalm’s allies were able to impose their will on the French by ransoming at least 200 prisoners at Montreal, each bringing in an average of 130 livres of trade goods and 30 bottles of brandy. French accounts, like that of the missionary Pierre-Joseph-Antoine Roubaud, described a very short burst of violence 272 Thomas Loraine McKenney, Memoirs, Official and Personal, with Sketches of Travels among the Northern and Southern Indians; embracing a war excursion, and descriptions of scenes along the western borders, Volume 1 of 2, second edition (New York: Paine and Burgess, 1846), 233, cited in Alexander Tsesis, Destructive Messages: How Hate Speech Paves the Way For Harmful Social Movements (New York and London: New York University, 2002), 56; Engelhardt, The End of Victory Culture, 18 (“specters… whoop”); Loudon Anthology Volume I, 69-73 (“Account of the Sufferings of Massy Herbeson and her Family”), 74-87 (“Sufferings of Peter Williamson”). 274 followed by prisoner-taking, looting, and haggling: Roubaud ransomed a six-month-old English baby, held in the arms of a Wyandot warrior and calmly playing with the warrior’s necklaces, by buying an English scalp from an Abenaki to trade. Penobscots had also joined Montcalm’s army, and later told Roubaud that they were more than justified to do so, citing Massachusetts’ 1755 scalp bounty against them. Fred Anderson observes that Montcalm angered these allies by only informing them of his generous surrender terms to the British after concluding the capitulation and immediately before it was signed; Ian Steele notes that officers were warned that Indians would have to be gratified from among the baggage, and “if any resistance was made by which a single Indian should be killed, it would not be in the power of M. De Montcalm to save a man from butchery.” David Starbuck dubs Montcalm “exceptionally naïve” in believing a few hundred French soldiers could prevent 1,600 Indian warriors from taking what they wanted. Anglo-American accounts, on the other hand, dealt in all the clichéd images of Indian warfare as dark carnival: prisoners “stripped, killed and skalpt” by the “savage blood hounds” (John Entick’s General History of the Late War, 1763), dead bodies “violated with all the wanton mutilations of savage ingenuity” (David Humphreys’ Essay on the Life of Israel Putnam, 1778), babies dashed against trees and rocks, and an English prisoner cannibalized “on Montreal plains” (John Maylem’s Gallic Perfidy: A Poem, 1758).273 During the American Revolution, the British took the part of the French in colonists’ conspiratorial fantasies. A cycle of Revolutionary propaganda and subsequent American 273 David R. Starbuck, Massacre at Fort William Henry (Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 2002), 1-35, 110-12; Anderson, Crucible of War, 187-201; Maylem, Entick, Carver, Humphreys, Dwight, Mante, Smollett, and Cooper cited in Ian K. Steele, Betrayals: Fort William Henry and the “Massacre” (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 149-185; Roubaud cited in Brumwell, White Devil, 92-96. 275 folklore grew out of the 1778 Wyoming Valley campaign of Iroquois warriors and Loyalist militia led by Colonel John Butler, “a Connecticut Tory.” One account claimed that “all but the women and children [were] massacred in the most inhuman manner” at a fort along the Susquehanna, while another account reprinted in Loudon’s anthology made Colonel Zebulon Butler, commandant of Fort Kingston, into the cousin of John Butler, and claimed he fled the scene when the Loyalists and Iroquois displayed, “for their contemplation, the bloody scalps of [196] of their late friends and comrades.” It was left to the commanding officer Col. Nathan Dennison to ask the Loyalists’ surrender terms, “to which application Butler answered, with more than savage phlegm, in two short words – the hatchet.” The anonymous author then claimed that after taking Fort Kingston, “the barbarous conquerors, to save the trouble of murder in detail,” locked most of the survivors in the buildings and set the fort on fire. Though the Mohawk chieftain Thayendanegea or Joseph Brant was nowhere near the Wyoming Valley at the time, confused early reports made him Butler’s co-demon, “a half blooded Indian, of desperate courage, ferocious and cruel beyond example.” Brant’s brother- in-law Sir William Johnson, Superintendent of Indian Affairs, also provided ample ammunition for Revolutionary propagandists, as did other British officers like Henry Hamilton, who offered pre-war feasts in the traditional style – substituting steers for a previous era’s white dog—where warriors metaphorically feasted on their enemies. In December 1775 at the urgings of Congress, a letter from General Philip Schuyler was printed in most American newspapers reporting that at a conference at Montreal, William Johnson’s son had given each British-allied tribe’s delegate “a war belt and a hatchet (…) After which they were invited to FEAST ON A BOSTONIAN AND DRINK HIS BLOOD. An ox being roasted for the purpose, and a pipe of wine being given to drink, the war song was sung…” 276 That the inroads of Christianity into Iroquois towns had rendered ritual eating of enemies defunct was of no importance to such critics as Jamaican plantation owner Edward Long, who in 1778 called the British army “patrons and abettors of Wanton Homicide […] stretching forth Cannibal Indians to scalp, tomahawk, and torture, with undistinguishing fury.”274 A flurry of trans-Atlantic Anglo-American attention focused on the death of Jane McCrea, the fiancée of a young Loyalist lieutenant in the Fort Edward garrison, in 1778. General John Burgoyne’s controversial boast of his “thousands” of Indian warriors standing by to inflict “devastation, famine, and every concomitant horror” on the North American rebels became a public-relations nightmare when Jane McCrea was mistakenly captured, shot, and scalped by Burgoyne’s forces in the Saratoga campaign. Revolutionary propaganda held her Tory fiancée complicit and claimed he and the redcoats had watched the murder, while in Britain an Opposition political cartoon placed Jane McCrea’s scalping in a “diorama of horrors” including an incident from the Quebec campaign where prisoners were stuck full of flaming pine splints and burned alive. The scene was depicted in standard Savagist dichotomy in John Vanderlyn’s 1804 oil painting The Death of Jane McCrea. The Indian warriors both sport multicoloured feathers in their straight black hair and are clad lightly in tradecloth breechcloths and leggings, with only one wearing moccasins, permitting Vanderlyn to show off the clearly-delineated muscles rippling underneath their bronze skin. The two warriors glower fiercely as they set themselves to their task: the moccasined warrior 274 Edward Long’s English Humanity No Paradox, or An Attempt to Prove that the English Are Not a Nation of Savages (1778) cited in Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 232-51; Loudon’s anthology Vol. II, “Account of the Dreadful Devastation of Wyoming Settlements, in July, 1778. From Gordon’s History of the American War,” 100-06; Seeman, Death in the New World, 264-89; Steele, Warpaths, 193; Bernard Sheehan, “"The Famous Hair Buyer General": Henry Hamilton, George Rogers Clark, and the American Indian,” in Indiana Magazine of History, Volume 79, Issue 1 (1983), 1-28. 277 has firmly seized McCrea’s blond hair with his left hand and pulled it taut from her hairline, with his drawn knife in his right hand ready to make the incision, while his barefoot partner pinions McCrea’s right arm with his left hand and has his tomahawk readied to strike.275 In contrast to their physical hardness, power, and cruelty, Vanderlyn’s Jane McCrea embodies aspirational bourgeois feminity. Wearing rich fabrics contrasted against the Indians’ tradecloth and leather, her apparel is both demure and revealing, with short sleeves and generous neckline displaying ivory-white skin undamaged by the sun, including her entire right breast exposed all the way to the nipple. The physical contrast of light and dark is completed by the icy-blue eye shown fixed on the tomahawk, and her blonde hair, which Steven Blakemore notes was given a “fetishistic focus” in contemporary accounts of her death. Vanderlyn’s painting was originally commissioned to accompany Joel Barlow’s depiction of the scene, with Jane McCrea renamed ‘Lucinda’ and her fiancée as ‘Heartly,’ in Book VI of his epic poem The Columbiad (1807). Lucinda, watching Heartly from the sidelines during the Battle of Saratoga, is separated from him just as the “kindred cannibals” of Sir William Johnson scatter to “scour the waste for undistinguish’d prey” and “scalp every straggler” they can lay hands on. When two Mohawks seize her, Barlow depicts the scene in lurid terms: “Her kerchief torn betrays the globes of snow, / That heave responsive to her weight of woe.” Barlow then leers, “Does no superior bribe contest her life?” There does: the scalps by British gold are paid; A long-hair’d scalp adorns that heavenly head; And comes the sacred spoil from friend or foe, 275 Weis, “Murderous Mother and Solicitous Father,” 50-54; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 244-251; Entry “Captivity Narratives” in BFI Companion to the Western 78-81; Alden T. Vaughan and Edward W. Clark eds., Puritans Among the Indians: Accounts of Captivity and Redemption, 1676-1724 (Harvard University Press, 2009 [1981]), 25. 278 No marks distinguish, and no man can know. “With calculating pause and demon grin,” Barlow’s Indians violently destroy her feminine beauty (“thro her face divine / drive the descending axe”) and scalp her. Heartly, sword in hand, arrives just in time to avenge her by killing “The yelling fiends; who there disputing stood / Her gory scalp, their horrid prize of blood.” “Are these thy trophies, Carleton!” bellows Heartly, denouncing the British commanders who brought these “scalpers and ax- men” to the battlefield.276 General Henry Hamilton wrote Haldimand from Detroit in June 1778 to the effect that “Some Delawares […] who are desirous of showing their intention” for British alliance “have presented me two pieces of dryed meat (scalps) one of which I have given the Chippoweys, another to the Miamis, that they may show in their villages the disposition of the Delawares.” Hamilton accepted enemy body parts while feasting his allies with roasted steers and gifting them with trade goods, while believing he could constrain Indian warriors through orders to “cease to act as Wolves” and placing British officers in command of mixed parties of Indians and French militia. But stories of Hamilton gifting Indian warriors with trade goods, including “scalping knives,” were transformed into tales of Hamilton offering bounties for settlers’ scalps, and Revolutionary propagandists indelibly dubbed him “the Hair Buyer General.” In return, Hamilton smeared his counterpart across the Ohio frontier, Lieutenant-Colonel George Rogers Clark, as the other sort of white savage. One of Hamilton’s French-and-Indian war parties had returned to Vincennes unaware that Clark had 276 Barlow, The Columbiad, 236-240; Steven Blakemore, Joel Barlow’s Columbiad: A Bicentennial Reading (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2007), 173-177; Weis, “Murderous Mother and Solicitous Father,” 50-54; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 244-251; Entry “Captivity Narratives” in BFI Companion to the Western 78-81; Alden T. Vaughan and Edward W. Clark eds., Puritans Among the Indians: Accounts of Captivity and Redemption, 1676-1724 (Harvard University Press, 2009 [1981]), 25. 279 captured it, and were ambushed by the rebels. Two Indians were shot and scalped, two Frenchmen were released, then on Clark’s orders the remaining four Indian warriors were publicly tomahawked, scalped, and their bodies thrown in the river. Loyalist propagandists could embellish as well as the revolutionaries, and retellings claimed Clark personally wielded the hatchet while smearing his face with blood and “yelping as a Savage,” while an Indian victims pulled the axe out of his own head and handed it back to Clark. Francis Maisonville, one of Hamilton’s French militiamen, was also targeted as a partisan and scalped, though accounts differ as to whether he was only partially scalped, as Clark and Hamilton told the story, or fully scalped by the ferocious Americans, as Hamilton’s aide Lieutenant Jacob Schlieffen claimed.277 Such accusations of British perfidy continued throughout the period between the end of the Revolutionary War and the outbreak of the War of 1812. Following the fight at Prophetstown dubbed the Battle of Tippecanoe, the Chillicothe Scioto Gazette of Ohio reported on 27 November that 100 newly-manufactured British muskets were found afterwards on the battlefield. Accounts of well-armed Indian fighters using British firearms been reported after St. Clair’s defeat (1791) and after Anthony Wayne’s victory at the Battle of Fallen Timbers (1794), and the frontier population and the War Hawks seized on this as confirmation of British collusion in savage war. Felix Grundy of Tennessee stated in November 1811 in support of a House Committee on Foreign Affairs report that the British should no longer be permitted to “setting on the ruthless savage to tomahawk our women and children.” In an open letter published in the Western Intelligencer of Worthington, Ohio on 277 Sheehan, “The Famous Hair Buyer General”; White, The Middle Ground, 377; Axtell, Natives and Newcomers, 277-78. 280 25 December, 1811, Harrison claimed that “within the last three months, the whole of the Indians on this frontier, have been completely armed and equipped” from the king’s stores at Amherstburg. The breakdown of the votes that decided the War of 1812 show that a desire to wage war was pronounced among inland states and particularly pronounced in the south. Following Madison’s approval of the resolution to wage war against Britain, Jefferson wrote John Adams that America would be “obliged to drive [the Indians], with the beasts of the forest into the Stony [i.e., Rocky] mountains,” while the conquest of Canada “secures our women and children for ever from the tomahawk and the scalping knife, by removing those who excite them.”278 A propaganda cartoon printed in Philadelphia in 1812 sums up these attitudes in visual form. Sarcastically entitled A Scene on the Frontiers as Practiced by the Humane British and Their Worthy Allies, it depicts a well-fed, sideburned, John-Bullish British officer cheerfully cashiering scalps from two well-plumed Indian warriors. “Bring me the Scalps and the King our master will reward you,” he says pleasantly to one of the warriors, bearing a musket slung over his shoulder helpfully identified by a placard as “Reward for Sixteen Scalps,” while a similar label, “Secret Service Money,” dangles from the officer’s coat pocket. The other Indian is sawing away at a dead American soldier’s hairline with a knife while, in the background, two British soldiers and two Indian warriors hold hands and dance around a campfire. “Arise Columbia’s sons and forward press!” reads the attached verse: Your country’s wrongs call loudly for redress; The Savage Indian with his Scalping knife Or Tomahawk may seek to take your life. 278 Eugene M. Wait, America and the War of 1812 (Commack, NY: Kroshka Books, 1999), 79; Robert S. Allan, His Majesty’s Indian Allies: British Indian Policy in the Defence of Canada, 1774-1815 (Toronto & Oxford: Dundurn Press, 1992), 117; Glenn Tucker, Poltroons and Patriots: A Popular Account of the War of 1812 (Indianapolis: the Bobbs-Merrill Company Inc., 1954), 125; George G.F. Stanley, The War of 1812: Land Operations (Macmillan of Canada: National Museum of Man, 1983), 35-41; Jefferson to Adams cited in Drinnon, Facing West, 96-98. 281 But the author-engraver William Charles assures his titillated readers of a swift resolution: American bravery will drive them back “to the Woods in Flight,” leaving their “British leaders” to “quickly shake” and make restitution. In fact, this bravado was less certain. Revolutionary War hero William Hull, governor of the Michigan Territory, was famously tricked into surrendering Detroit to a much smaller British and Indian force led by Isaac Brock and Tecumseh after a campaign of psychological warfare against him; on 5 August, ten days before Hull’s surrender, Tecumseh and his followers routed an American guard south of Detroit, killed 17 men, staked their bodies to the ground, and showily mounted their scalps on long poles which waved in the breeze. On 29 May, 1813, 115 well-armed Americans surrendered to British naval officer James Richardson, commanding a warship on Lake Ontario, after they had suffered light casualties skirmishing with 36 Indians on the shore. Richardson noted that his American counterpart was “armed to the teeth, with a hanger by his side and pair of pistols on his belt,” yet shook with fear as he told him that the woods were full of Indians and that they preferred British captivity to capture and massacre.279 Actual British policies during the war were meant to forestall American propaganda: no bounties were offered for scalps or dead soldiers, whereas prisoner bounties were highest when the captives were unharmed. The first scalp of the war, Alan Taylor points out, was not lifted by an Indian warrior. During General Hull’s invasion of Upper Canada in July and August 1812, Captain William McCulloch scalped a Menominee warrior, outraging the Menominees, who had honoured a British request not to scalp any of Hull’s men. They carried the corpse back to Amherstburg, confronted the British officers, and vowed to resume scalping their enemies. Ten days later, McCulloch fell into an Indian ambush and lost his 279 Carl Benn, The Iroquois in the War of 1812 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), 52-53; Taylor, Civil War of 1812, 153-66, 203-33. 282 own scalp, to the Menominees’ delight. While the War Hawks accused the British of buying American scalps for $6 apiece, officers in the American army were looking the other way as their troops scalped British-allied Indians. Brigadier General Alexander Smyth, fighting on the Niagara front, bolstered his volunteers’ morale by offering $200 for every horse taken from the British, and $40 “for the arms and spoils of each savage warrior,” a clear allusion to their scalps. American soldiers’ looting and burning of York in 1813, and the theft of the ceremonial mace from the Parliament building, was justified by the claim that Major Benjamin Forsyth had found a white man’s scalp suspended over the speaker’s chair in the Parliament house.280 In January 1813, General James Winchester and his Kentucky volunteers were defeated at Frenchtown, on the River Raisin in the Michigan Territory, by General Henry Procter’s combined force of indigenous fighters, British troops, and Canadian militia. Able- bodied prisoners were taken to Amherstburg, while 80 of those too badly wounded to travel were left under guard at Frenchtown. About 200 of Procter’s allied Indians stayed behind and when the militia who guarded the Kentuckian prisoners fled in fear of the Indians, they fired the two buildings housing the wounded and killed and scalped any who managed to escape the flames. American popular opinion held this to be a latter-day Fort William Henry orchestrated by the British, as indicated by the engraving Massacre of the American Prisoners, at French-Town, on the River Raisin, by the Savages. In July, Congress claimed General Procter had personally masterminded the “Raisin River Massacre,” and “Remember the Raisin” became the battlecry of Kentuckians for the rest of the war.281 280 Benn, Iroquois in War of 1812, 83-85; Taylor, Civil War of 1812, 192, 209; Sarah McCulloh Lemmon, Frustrated Patriots: North Carolina and the War of 1812 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1973), 102. 281 Taylor, Civil War of 1812, 209-220. 283 The Kentuckians force-marched to Canada were subjected to other shows of animosity by Procter’s allies. The Indians stripped them of their coats, pants, and shoes in the middle of winter, and killed any prisoner found to have a scalp in his possession. Then, at Amherstburg, angry Indian women attacked them; Procter noted that the Indians hated Kentuckians “as a band of banditti.” Descended from Virginian and other Anglo-American “long hunters” and trans-Appalachian settlers, Kentuckians took great pride in their history of warring with American Indians, transforming a warning from the militant Cherokee leader Dragging Canoe (that they would find the settlement of his land “dark and bloody”) into a self-congratulatory folk etymology of Kentucky as “the dark and bloody ground.” Kentuckians had inherited the Virginians’ indigenous ethnonym of Big Knives, and they were regular users of the gigantic knives they ported everywhere. In 1813, after a reprimand by British officers for mutilating an American corpse, the Ottawa war chief Black Bird replied that Kentuckians had disinterred Indians’ graves and cut up the bodies: “If the Big Knives, when they kill people of our colour, leave them without hacking them to pieces, we will follow their example. They have themselves to blame.” John Ketcham, a mounted ranger during the war, recalled later in his memoirs that “In my first month’s service, I killed and scalped an Indian—was very proud of it—got leave to go to Kentucky to show it to my Daddy and Mamma, I guess they thought I had done about right.” George McFeely, an officer at Fort Niagara, entertained one of the paroled prisoners of Frenchtown, who had taken two scalps there and, despite the danger of discovery, had managed to conceal them in his waistband on the march to and from Amherstburg: While in the fort with us he ripped open his waist band, took out the scalps, fleshed them with his knife, salted them, and set them in hoops in true Indian style. He said he had twenty-eight 284 scalps at home, and these two would make thirty he had taken off with his own hands in his time, and that he would raise fifty scalps before he would die. 282 On at least one occasion, Kentuckians sought out the Indians’ supposed puppetmasters. Major Peter Chambers of the British army’s 41st Regiment reported in 1814 that Sergeant Collins of the 41st Foot and Private Barto of the Canadian militia were killed on the north shore of Lake Erie by Kentuckians “in the most horrible manner.” Postmortem examination showed that Barto had not been shot before he was “actually butchered,” and both men were “scalped and cut shockingly.”283 Conclusion: Black Hawk’s memoirs, or “Sauk Humanity No Paradox” Native American stories from the other side of the frontier rarely held frontiersmen in high esteem. The Pequot William Apess, later a famous memoirist and Methodist minister, enlisted in the American army as a drummer during the War of 1812, tried to leave when transferred to the ranks, and was arrested on charges of desertion in 1813. His fellow soldiers, clearly readers of captivity narratives threatened him with the pine-knot torture. Every day during the “dreary march” to Canada, Apess wrote later in his memoir A Son of the Forest (1829), “the officers tormented me by telling me that it was their intention to make a fire in the woods, stick my skin full of pine splinters, and after having an Indian powwow over me, burn me to death.” During the Black Hawk War, in May 1832, after scouts under a flag of truce were shot at by American militiamen, Black Hawk’s counterattack of 40 warriors “on the prairie, […] about sundown” provoked a panicked rout of 300 armed men 282 Reginald Horsman: Kentuckians and Tennesseeans “hated the Indians with a passion,” and “wanted to expel Indians, not transform them” through the eastern seaboard’s Enlightenment schemes of religious and cultural conversion—in Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Cambrige, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1981), 103-114. 283 On Chambers, see Allen, His Majesty’s Indian Allies, 138. 285 known as Stillwell’s Run. Black Hawk was baffled by this, since his own forces had lacked tree cover and since “the Americans, generally, shoot well.”284 Black Hawk’s 1833 memoir, dictated to a French/Potawatomi interpreter named Antoine LeClaire and transcribed by Illinois newspaper editor John B. Patterson, though admittedly a “mediated” text, has a critical advantage over Franklin’s Narrative of the Late Massacres: it gives a look at what the experience of being on the other side of Anglo- America’s frontier was like. That the image was doubtless disturbing and troubling for many Anglo-American readers is perhaps reflected in Illinois governor (1842-46) Thomas Ford’s insistence in 1854 that the book was a forgery. Black Hawk describes relatives and neighbours being assaulted by white frontiersmen and robbed of pelts and trade goods, farmland ploughed under after Sauks planted corn to deny them their harvest, and himself given a humiliating beating after three frontiersmen ambushed him alone while hunting and accused him of killing their hogs. Black Hawk relayed a story told him by Gomo, a Potawatomi leader whose band had been contracted to supply the nearby Fort Clark with venison; a hunting party of 9 men and their wives led by Má-ta-táh, a well-respected leader, had met some cattleherders on the prairie, and when he tried to be diplomatic—he surrendered his gun and “endeavoured to explain that he was friendly”—they shot him, then pursued and killed almost all of the hunters. Gomo, said Black Hawk, then blackened his face in mourning and went to Fort Clark to report this to the lieutenant. “His countenance changed; I could see sorrow depicted in it,” Gomo reported; “He tried to persuade me that I was mistaken, as he ‘could not believe that the whites would act so cruelly.’” Black Hawk, 284 Alan Taylor, The Civil War of 1812, 203-33; Kennedy ed., Life of Black Hawk, xi-xii, 75-79; Carl Benn, Native Memoirs from the War of 1812: Black Hawk and William Apess (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2014), 25-80. 286 himself, had suffered a great personal loss at their hands: his adopted son had disappeared while deer hunting one winter, and the trackers found he had been taken captive and murdered by settlers. “His face was shot to pieces—his body stabbed in several places—and his head scalped! His arms were tied behind him!”285 Well-aware that many members of the American public considered him, like other Indian warriors, a cruel barbarian, Black Hawk’s memoir carefully deploys and rearranges the by-now-familiar images and narratives of scalping and savage war to illustrate the Sauk experience. “I must contradict the story of some of village criers”—i.e., journalists—“who (I have been told,) accuse me of “having murdered women and children among the whites!” This assertion is false!” Responding to an Anglo-American public equally horrified and fascinated by the idea of Indian warriors who scalped and killed women and children, Black Hawk emphasized the mercies that he had shown to his enemies, particularly the unarmed or outnumbered and particularly children and women, ever since his beginning of his military career at 15. In describing the revenge raid he led following his adopted son’s murder, Black Hawk also took pains to delineate something that might have taken many of his readers by surprise: that Indians could find scalping just as disturbing and ugly as white people did. At one point during the raid, Black Hawk and some of his followers surprised two white men riding on one horse, startling them so that they fell off and then both ran in different directions. In Black Hawk’s account, he recognized the man he was pursuing and allowed him to escape: “He had been at Quàsh-quà-me’s village to learn his people how to plow. We 285 Kennedy ed., Life of Black Hawk, 30, 42-43, 53-57; Benn, Native Memoirs from the War of 1812, 25-80. 287 looked upon him as a good man.” He returned and met one of his followers, who “said he had killed the other man, and had his scalp in his hand!” This turned out to be premature: We had not proceeded far, before we met the man, supposed to be killed, coming up the road, staggering like a drunken man, all covered with blood! This was the most terrible sight I had ever seen. I told my comrade to kill him, to put him out of his misery! I could not look at him. This mercy-killing was followed by another, less sanguine act of empathy, but also one which doubtless surprised his readers. When he spotted two young boys hiding in the bushes, “I thought of my own children, and passed on without noticing them!”286 Black Hawk’s raid was not a rampage, nor did it result in indiscriminate killing. Only two scalps were brought back: that of the unfortunate horseman, and another from an American killed in the ‘Battle of the Sinkhole’ between Black Hawk’s war party and a local militia. Against this carefully-delineated reciprocal justice, Black Hawk contrasts the continual and prevailing unjustness by which the United States had treated him and his people: women and children indiscriminately killed, refugees driven across the Mississippi to be attacked by Sioux on the other side, and that a people who had “fine houses, rich harvests, and every thing desirable” would drive them across the Mississippi, taking “our village and our grave-yards from us” “for which me and my people had never received a dollar.” In the tradition of Inca Garcilaso’s La Florida del Inca (1606) and as Geronimo’s memoir would do in 1906 (see Chapter 7), Black Hawk’s Life went beyond apologia to become an appeal to the American public that indigenous people were, like themselves, human beings who performed violent acts to defend their homelands from invasion. 286 Kennedy ed., Life of Black Hawk, 30-33; Benn, Native Memoirs from the War of 1812, 25-80. 288 Chapter Six: Heading West: Scalp-hunting and Manifest Destiny, 1837 to 1876 And where is the satisfaction, / And how are we going to get square? By giving the Reds more rifles? / Invite them to take more hair? --Jack Crawford, “The Death of Custer” (1876)287 Introduction This chapter surveys the gulf between Anglo-American self-perception of themselves as a people between savagery and civilization; the national myth of the Indian-killing frontiersman as folk hero or antihero; and what happened when Anglo-Americans identified with or informed by these myths collided with indigenous societies in the Southwest, California, and the Great Plains, where settler-colonial landholding patterns and the scalping paradigm’s policies regarding Indians supplanted earlier Euro-American systems of violent, yet negotiable, coexistence between Europeans and indigenous peoples: the Hispanic pattern of military alliances, serfdom, and mestizaje, and the fur-trade system commercial cooperation and rivalry over furbearers between indigenous peoples and itinerant male trapping parties. My prologue, “Indian-hating at midcentury,” discusses the genesis of the fantasy of the white frontiersman as ersatz Indian from the end of the Seven Years’ War to the Jacksonian period; while Chapter 6 discussed the actual history of this period, this chapter discusses its apotheosis in Anglo-American national mythology. The first section, “Heroic genocide: the Indian-killer in fiction at midcentury,” discusses the treatment of the scalp-taking Indian-killer in mid-19th-century fiction, in particular the highly-successful novels Nick of the Woods (1837) and The Scalp-Hunters (1851), Samuel Chamberlain’s claims to have been a scalp-hunter in his unpublished Mexican-American War memoir My Confession, and Herman Melville’s warnings of the omnipresence of evil in The Confidence- 287 Jack Crawford, The Poet Scout: A Book of Song and Poetry [New York: Burr Printing House, 1889], 106-08. 289 Man: His Masquerade (1857). The second section, “Scalping in the Southwest: Kirker, Glanton, and California,” discusses the actual histories of the scalp-hunting mercenaries of the American Southwest, and their vigilante and militia counterparts in post-1849 California, and how and why Anglo-American styles of Indian war supplanted, and worsened, Hispanic precedent. The third and final section, “Scalping on the Great Plains: Sand Creek (1864) and Slim Buttes (1876),” discusses two one-sided mass killings of Plains Indians by American armed forces, both in retaliation for perceived prior outrages. In both cases, participants’ clear-cut sense of moral superiority over a barbarous enemy was replaced by a realization that they bore the stigmata of the savage warrior, complicit in scalpings and killings of children and women. How they, and contemporary observers, tried to excape or explain this stain away by insisting on the Indians’ guilt, expressing remorse, or silencing themselves will be examined. Prologue: Indian-hating at midcentury Looking back in 1892 at his 1840s Philadelphia childhood, Howard Paul remembered childhood association with two major American literary figures through his uncle, Thomas Cottrell Clarke, editor of the weekly literary journal The Saturday Museum. The first was Edgar Allan Poe, who “supplied the book reviews and occasional essays”; in Paul’s recollection his “amiable” uncle often took exception to Poe’s “needless severity in reviewing. His favourite expression was “I have scalped him!” – referring to the author under examination.” Though his Gothic literature focused on such European medievalisms as creaky castles, torture chambers, ghosts, and mad aristocrats, Poe was a member of an Anglo-American popular culture fixated on scalping as an omnipresent, perennial feature of American history. Intriguingly, Paul wrote that Poe had “sketched out the scenario of a 290 tragedy” with Richard Montgomery Bird, author of the American Gothic frontier novel Nick of the Woods (1837). Whether its Gothicism would be European-oriented like Poe’s or American like Bird’s is unknown to Paul, as this “never got beyond outlines and much talk.”288 Paul was avuncularly acquainted with another soon-to-be-successful novelist of bloody American frontier tales: the Anglo-Irish traveller and adventurer Thomas Mayne Reid, who departed Philadelphia in 1846 to fight in the Mexican-American War. Sometime after dropping out of the Presbyterian seminary in 1838 Reid had left Ireland for America and claimed to have travelled widely from Canada to Mexico, though Poe, a frequent dining and drinking companion, enjoyed chiding the colourful and unverifiable nature of his stories. “Now, Reid, give us one of your Mexican adventures,” Poe would say, […] “and keep as near the truth as you can.” Poe, in Paul’s recollection, assessed Reid as “a colossal but most picturesque liar. He fibs on a surprising scale, but with the finish of an artist, and that’s why I listen to him attentively.” Reid, on the other hand, described his style as “fact, enamelled by fiction – a mosaic of romance and reality,” an approach he applied to his own life; wounded in the storming of Chapultepec and promoted to first lieutenant, he billed himself as “Captain” Mayne Reid from his discharge in 1848 to his death in 1883. Pointing to his travels and military service to verify himself as an expert on frontier adventure, Reid’s first two novels, The Rifle Rangers (1850) and The Scalp-Hunters (1851), made him a bestseller. In his foreword to the second, which explicitly drew on his Mexican-American service, he 288 Howard Paul, “Recollections of Edgar Allen Poe,” in Munsey’s Magazine Volume VII, April to September 1892 (New York: Frank A. Munsey & Company, 1892), 554-558; Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence, 147-164. 291 promised his readers “I have endeavoured to enamel its pages with a thousand facts—the result of my own experience.”289 As in The Scalp-Hunters, a tale of a young English gentleman-adventurer named Henry Haller joining the motley crew of a Franco-American gentleman, “Seguin, the Scalp- Hunter,” to rescue his daughter Adèle from captivity among barbaric Navajos, Reid helped, in Elizabeth Freeman’s synopsis, to “pioneer fictions of empire” not just for an American readership but a broader British and, through translation, global audience. To do so, Reid applied the well-established clichés of the older frontiers of the Appalachians and the Mississippi to the new, exotic frontier of the Great Plains and American Southwest. Among those most cherished clichés was a long-lasting cultural artifact of the Jacksonian period: the idea of the white, Indian-hunting, Indian-hating frontiersman as the inheritor and supersessor of his morally inferior prey.290 In the Revolutionary era, the mythic figure of the Indian-like, Indian-hunting frontiersman reconciled to Anglo-Americans’ satisfaction a trans-Atlantic debate going back to the 16th century: whether the cultural influences of Indians and transplanted Africans, or climate as neoclassical humoural and geographical theory proposed, made American-born Europeans qualitatively different, and specifically worse, than Europeans per se. As 289 Paul, “Recollections of Edgar Allen Poe”; Thomas Mayne Reid, The Scalp-Hunters: or, Romantic Adventures in Northern Mexico (Philadelphia and London, 1851), Volume 1 (of 3), vii; the Western Literary Association, A Literary History of the American West (Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 1987): J. Golden Taylor (on Ruxton, 90-91), Richard H. Cracroft (on Reid, 171-72); Andrea White, Joseph Conrad and the Adventure Tradition: Constructing and Deconstructing the Imperial Subject (Cambridge University Press, 1995 [1993]), 8; “fact, enamelled by fiction” in Robert W. Johannsen, To the Halls of the Montezumas: The Mexican War in the American Imagination (Oxford University Press, 1998), 191-94; Thomas W. Cutrer, “Reid, Thomas Mayne” in Texas State Historical Association Online; “Elizabeth Freeman, “Honeymoon with a Stranger: Pedophiliac Picaresques from Poe to Nabokov”, in American Literature Vol. 70, No. 4 (December 1998), 863-897. 290 Paul, “Recollections of Edgar Allen Poe”; “helped pioneer […] fictions of empire” in Freeman, “Honeymoon with a Stranger: Pedophiliac Picaresques from Poe to Nabokov”, 867. 292 Benjamin Isaac notes, since Greek and Roman times migration had been assumed to cause degeneracy; thus the 16th-century Portuguese term crioulo, used to distinguish Brazilian-born black slaves from African-born, implied insubordinate, licentious, and rebellious behaviour thought to be acquired through American birth. When transferred into Spanish as criollo to differentiate American-born Spaniards from peninsulares, it imputed similar qualities of moral inferiority, crime and vice to American-born whites; these criollos, wrote royal geographer Juan López de Velasco, in Geografía y descripción universal de las Indias (1570), “turn out like the natives even though they are not mixed with them [by] declining to the disposition of the land.” Translations of Acosta’s Historia Natural y Moral de las Indias (1590) spread criollo into French and English, though as early as 1589 a sermon of Cotton Mather’s warned of decline from Puritan ideals into “criolian degeneracy.”291 In the British North American colonies, the rambunctious and violent behaviour of the early frontier population was imagined both as some kind of American creolism and, among Scots Highlanders, Gaelic Irish, and “Scots-Irish” Protestant settlers from northern Ireland, as typifying the savagery of the Celtic fringe. Thomas Cradock’s Maryland Eclogues, written in the 1740s but left in manuscript until 1983, conclude with the lovelorn planter-protagonist’s decision to flee the Atlantic lowlands for the interior to live among the “Scotch-Irish, […] Wild as they are, quite good enough for me”; his fictional editor, the 291 Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity, 8-13, 45-47, 60-69, 304-323; Ralph Bauer and José Antonio Mazzotti eds., Creole Subjects in the Colonial Americas: Empires, Texts, Identities (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 1-57 (“Introduction: Creole Subjects in the Colonial Americas”), 118-134 (Raquel Chang-Rodríguez, “Cruel Criollos in Guaman Poma de Ayala’s First New Chronicle and Good Government”), 135-61 (Jeffrey H. Richards, “Barefoot Folks with Tawny Cheeks: Creolism in the Literary Chesapeake, 1680 – 1750”), 219-40 (Jim Egan, “Creole Bradstreet: Philip Sidney, Alexander the Great, and English Identities”); Karen Ordahl Kupperman, “The Changing definition of America,” in Kupperman ed., America in European Consciousness, 1493-1750, 1-29; Joyce E. Chaplin, “Creoles in British America: From Denial to Acceptance,” 51, in Charles Stewart ed., Creolization: History, Ethnography, Theory (Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, 2007), 46-65; Chaplin, Subject Matter, 1-35, 157-98. 293 creole Sly Boots, interjects “tis hard to say whether the Indians or they are greater Savages.” John McDonald, a descendant of Highland immigrants who later scouted with the Kentuckian Simon Kenton, proclaimed in the mid-19th century that “a wild highlander of that day wanted but little training to convert them into genuine frontiersmen”: they “considered no arts of any value except prepairing amunition [sic], fighting, hunting, fishing, raising cabins and a little corn,” and were as unaffected by killing Indians “than a butcher would [be] after killing a bullock. It was their trade.” Colonial authorities saw this in grimmer terms: Sir William Johnson denounced Virginians in a 1772 letter as “a lawless sett of people” defined by “ignorance, prejudice, democratical principles, & their remote situation” while Timothy Pickering, in 1778, described the northwestern frontier’s settlers as “a wild ungovernable race, little less savage than their tawny neighbors; and by similar barbarities have in fact provoked them to revenge.”292 Prior to and during the American Revolution, the frontier population’s mimesis of Indian material and cultural life, particularly the approximation of indigenous masculinity as settlers imagined it, was used to signal Anglo-American identity as somewhere between European civilization and American virility, defying colonial authority in acts of “playing Indian.” Dressed in the frontier’s mesclage of European and Indian styles, wearing moccasins and Indian leggings with tradecloth coats and blankets, settlers disguised themselves with feathers and war paint to perform acts of property destruction prefiguring the Boston Tea Party. In February 1765 in Cumberland County, Pennsylvania, a group variously known as 292 Cradock cited in Richards, “Barefoot Folks with Tawny Cheeks,” 159-60; McDonald cited in Alan D. Gaff, Bayonets in the Wilderness: Anthony Wayne’s Legion in the Old Northwest (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2004), 93-94; Sir William Johnson, Thomas Gage, David McClure, and John Armstrong cited in White, The Middle Ground, 315-22, 340-50, 415-20; Timothy Pickering cited in Charles Patrick Neimeyer, The Revolutionary War (Greenwood Publishing Group, 2007), 92. 294 the Black Boys, Brave Fellows, or Loyal Volunteers accoutered themselves with charcoal, leggings, and strouds to attack British convoys sending diplomatic gifts to the Ohio Country, firing off their guns and making war-whoops as they burned twenty to thirty thousand pounds of trade goods. One of their leaders, James “Jimmy Boy” Smith, had spent much of the Seven Years’ War as a captive of Indian communities on the Ohio River; later becoming commander of a ranger or “riflemen” company during the Revolutionary War, he wrote in his 1799 captivity-narrative and autobiography that “the Indian discipline in the woods” was key to the United States’ future sovereignty just “as the British discipline in Flanders”; if “only part of our men [were] taught this art, accompanied with our continental discipline, […] no European power […] would venture to show its head in the American woods.” Yet Anglo-Americans should restrict themselves to “what is useful and laudable,” and avoid Indians’ “barbarous proceeding. It is much to be lamented, that some of our frontier rifle-men are too prone to imitate them in their inhumanity.” Smith alluded here to the Gnadenhütten massacre of 1782, when a gang of frontier vigilantes, many of whom had been members of the Hickory Boys, methodically killed and scalped 96 Lenape-Munsee Moravian converts, pacifists who sang hymns while awaiting death: “This was an act of barbarity beyond any thing I ever knew to be committed by the savages themselves.”293 The Revolutionary era also saw the rehabilitation of Michael Cresap, an Ohio Valley vigilante who, in the company of Daniel Greathouse and a gang of accomplices, led a series of premeditated ambush killings of Lenape-Munsees, Shawnees, and Mingoes in the spring of 1774, including the murder of a pregnant woman. In retaliation for the deaths of 13 friends 293 James Smith, “An Account of the Remarkable Occurrences in the Life and Travels of Col. James Smith During his Captivity with the Indians, in the years 1755-59” (Lexington, 1799), in Loudon anthology, ; Dowd, War Under Heaven, 203-210; Philip Deloria, Playing Indian. 295 and family members, including his sister and her unborn child, the Mingo chief known as Logan had exacted mourning-war revenge by killing 13 settlers; in return, Virginia’s governor Lord John Murray, the Earl of Dunmore led an army to exact large-scale casualties on the Indians and extract land cessions in a post-war peace treaty. In the summer of 1774, newspapers in Boston, Philadelphia, and Charleston had blasted Cresap for his excessive cruelty, the Pennsylvania Gazette tellingly denouncing Cresap and his accomplices as a “gang of worse savages.” In early 1775 Logan’s written response to Dunmore was published as “Logan’s Lament” and hailed among American literati as masterful oratory.294 But with the outbreak of war against Britain in 1775, Cresap captured public attention by organizing a Maryland rifle company and marching for Washington’s Continental Army in Massachusetts. Performing rifle exercises at various stops along the way, their most dramatic show of Indian mimesis was performed in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, site of the 1763 workhouse massacre. Here, stripped to the waist and war-painted, they pantomimed Indian war as they understood it: a war dance, a chiefs’ council, an ambush, and subsequent scalping. When Cresap, only in his early 30s, died of exhaustion in New York City in October, he received a hero’s funeral. In 1797, Cresap’s son-in-law Luther Martin, Attorney General of Maryland, accused Thomas Jefferson of maligning Cresap by reprinting “Logan’s Lament” in Notes on the State of Virginia (1787) and claimed the famous oratory must be a fabrication. George Rogers Clark, Revolutionary-era hero of the Northwestern frontier, waded in with a strong letter exculpating Cresap of wrongdoing. Dr. Samuel Brown of Lexington, Kentucky, who forwarded Clark’s letter to Jefferson from Indiana Territory, 294 Parkinson, “From Indian Killer to Worthy Citizen,” 119-122; “The declaration of Mr. John Heckewelder,” in Thomas Jefferson, Notes on the State of Virginia: A New Edition prepared by the author (Richmond, VA: J.W. Randolph, 1853 [1782]), 259-63 296 added his own commentary reminding Jefferson that of the “two parties on the frontier” only one considered Cresap “as a wanton violator of treaties [and] as a man of cruel and inhuman disposition”; the other held him “an intrepid warrior and a just avenger of savage barbarities.”295 Richard Slotkin notes that the captivity genre’s traditional Indian-war narratives of suffering in the wilderness were amended and extended during the Revolutionary era with the myth of the Anglo-American frontiersman as white savage, “the solitary, Indian-like hunter of the deep woods” who was the equal, or superior, of Indians at hunting beasts, rescuing captives, and killing and scalping enemies. As Mary Rowlandson’s account had transformed the captivity-narrative genre, a series of biographies between 1784 and 1833 apotheosized Daniel Boone, a Kentucky fur trapper and long-hunter, into the prototypical Indian-hunter—through excising certain inconvenient details. While the real Daniel Boone did fight in the Seven Years’ War, guide Virginia settlers through the Cumberland Gap, and lose a son at the Battle of Blue Licks in 1782, he also had an economic and political life within the mainstream of American society: he engaged in large-scale land speculation, served several terms in the Virginia legislature, and attained the offices of sheriff and county lieutenant. This included cultivating and promulgating his own myth; in his later years, he wished aloud to a visitor that he could sue Daniel Bryan for slander over The Mountain Muse (1813), a Boone-themed epic poem he detested.296 From the 1820s to the 1860s, the United States rapidly industrialized and urbanized while annexing thousands of acres of land obtained by deporting Southeastern Indians, the 295 Parkinson, “From Indian Killer to Worthy Citizen,” 119-122; Dr. Brown cited in Drinnon, White Savage, 116-117. 296 Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence; Drinnon, Facing West. 297 Louisiana Purchase, and the Spanish-American war. As Anglo-Americans “yearned […] for what they perceived to be a simpler frontier past” in the Appalachians, the Ohio Valley, and the Mississippi, this nostalgia was partly expressed at the ballot box. Andrew Jackson and William Henry Harrison, Indian-killing heroes of the War of 1812, ascended to the presidency, and Richard Mentor Johnson, a “second-tier Kentucky politician,” became Martin Van Buren’s vice president through the hideous 1836 campaign slogan “Rumpsey dumpsey, Colonel Johnson killed Tecumseh.” In a decidedly less polished vein, in 1862 an old man beseeched President Lincoln for clemency for his grandsons, held as Union prisoners of war, on the grounds that he was complicit in the heroic killing and flaying of Tecumseh’s body after the Battle of the Thames in 1813: “I hope [helped] Kill Tecumseh and hope Skin him and brot Two pieces of his yellow hide home with me to My Mother & Sweet Hart.”297 Any anxiety over treatment of Indians was partially assuaged by an increasingly circular and negative portrait of Indians as eternal savages. The poverty of conquered eastern Indians or the beggars at western forts and stagecoach stations were cited as proof, as in Mark Twain’s bilious descriptions of Shoshones in Roughing It (1872), not that Indians’ livelihoods were being destroyed by invasion and colonization but that their deviance was timeless. Archaeological theories projected this back into the pre-Columbian past by proposing that the “Mound Builders” of the Southeast and the “Anasazi” of the Southwest had been higher races wiped out by the genocidal ancestors of modern Indians. Imagined Indians were also becoming more physically contemptuous, if not animal-like, compared to 297 Guy St-Denis, Tecumseh’s Bones (McGill-Queen’s University Press: Montreal & Kingston, 2005), 4-9; Harrison, Dark Trophies, 39-47; Richter, Facing East from Indian Country, 227-36; Taylor, Civil War of 1812, 244-46. 298 frontiersmen. In Horatio Greenough’s statuary group The Rescue, commissioned in 1837, carved in the 1840s, and unveiled at the Capitol in 1853, a huge, powerful backwoodsman pinions a reedy Indian warrior in his arms, caught red-handed attempting to tomahawk a white woman and her baby. An 1873 editorial cartoon during the Modoc War, entitled “The Two Vultures” shows a Modoc warrior, as a generic fur-clad Indian with hook nose, askew feathers tangled in his hair, and a curved scalping knife in his hand, seizing a dead soldier’s hair and glowers fiercely at a nearby vulture. The juxtaposition, notes Boyd Cothran, “would have been lost on few readers.” This increasingly animal-like assessment of the Indian was paired with popular justifications of ethnic cleansing and genocide. As early as the Jesuit Relation of 1662, Indians’ way of war had been dismissed as “nothing but a manhunt”; in Jacksonian-era fantasies of Indian war, whites turned the tables by making Indians into their prey.298 Heroic genocide: the Indian-killer in fiction at midcentury Andrew Jackson’s unofficial campaign anthem, “The Hunters of Kentucky” (Samuel Woodworth, ca. 1820) struck a chord by describing western frontiersmen as they liked to imagine themselves: strong, tough, keen-eyed sharpshooters who were half-horse and half- alligator, a common Mississippi Valley boast for “great strength and amphibious attributes.” Period literature, dominated by western authors, described such men as skilled at hunting and killing Indians. The Cincinnati journalist Timothy Flint claimed in Biographical Memoir of 298 “nothing but a manhunt” in Reuben Gold Thwaites ed., trans., The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents Vol. 47, pp. 221-231, cited in Wendell S. Hadlock, “War Among the Northeastern Woodland Indians,” 213-14, in American Anthropologist Volume 49, Issue 2 (April-June 1947), 204-221; Allen, Western Rivermen, 1763- 1861, 4 (“Jacksonian wish-fulfillment”), 1-26; Thomas, Skull Wars; Drinnon, Facing West, 119-129; Cothran, Remembering the Modoc War, 50-75; on Mark Twain, see Ned Blackhawk, Violence Over the Land: Indians and Empires in the Early American West (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 3-9, 272-77. 299 Daniel Boone (1833) that his subject had once shot two Indians with the same bullet; in Indian Wars of the West (1833), he called Boone “More expert at their own arts, than the Indians themselves, to fight them, and foil them [.]” The theme of Indian-killing as manhunting rather than war is explicit in the work of William Gilmore Simms, whose historical romance The Yemmassee (1835) included a bloodhound named Dugdale trained to rip Indians’ throats out. Simms described Boone in “The First Hunter of Kentucky” (1845) as an occasional “hunter of men” who, while not “fond of this sport,” “could take a scalp with the rest, and might feel justified in the adoption of a practice which, when employed by whites, had the very great influence in discouraging the Indian appetite for war.”299 Various unsavory frontier characters were elevated alongside Boone to the pantheon. In 1761 Tom Quick of Milford, Pennsylvania began exchanging drunken threats with an Indian named Madlin or Maudlin, who claimed complicity in the killing of Quick’s father in 1755 and imitated the “grimaces of the dying man”; after he left, Quick followed him, shot him in the back, robbed him and hid his corpse in a pit. Silver notes this as Quick’s only recorded killing of an Indian, from which a legend developed of Quick slaying 99 Indians before dying of smallpox; when vengeful Indians dug up his corpse, an epidemic killed even more. Mike Fink, born near Fort Pitt ca. 1770, served as a scout in western Pennsylvania, then worked as a boatman on the Ohio and Mississippi, becoming a folk hero in his own lifetime for his rough practical jokes, marksmanship, and skill at drinking and fighting; two years before his 1823 shooting death in an argument on the Upper Missouri, he appeared as a minor character in a play in St. Louis, The Pedlar (1821). Magazine writers developed Fink’s aspect as an Indian-hunter: Morgan Neville, in “Last of the Boatmen” (1828), told how Fink, 299 Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence; Drinnon, Facing West; Allen, Western Rivermen, 1-26, 214-24. 300 who like other frontier scouts “thought it as praiseworthy to bring in the scalp of a Shawnee as the skin of a panther,” obtained venison by stalking and shooting an Indian who was stalking and shooting a deer. In T.B. Thorpe’s “The Disgraced Scalp-Lock” (1842), Fink earned the enmity of an exiled Cherokee warrior named “Proud Joe” by shooting off his scalplock at the hairline; when told Proud Joe was still alive, he “seemed perfectly indifferent,” only regretting that he’d missed the Cherokee’s head and calling it his “first bad shot in twenty years.” Daniel Brodhead, an American officer adopted into the Lenape- Munsees’ Turtle clan, was in the middle of negotiating an alliance against the Wolf clan at Coshocton in April 1781 when an Ohio Valley vigilante named Lewis Wetzel, “in many ways the prototypical Indian hater,” tomahawked a chief from behind. A century later Wetzel had been elevated, in Henry Howe’s 1855 account, into “the most indefatigable Indian hunter on the frontiers.”300 These stories’ fictive Indian killers not only emulated the fictive Indians they slew, but absorbed the cultural and physical traits of their prey. Like the fictional Indian, they also yielded to Manifest Destiny: after waging one-man wars against entire tribes, they voluntarily banished themselves further West at the approach of urbanization. In “Last of the Boatmen,” Neville’s version of Mike Fink is nearly transformed into an idealized Indian warrior, with fetishized physical and cultural traits of virile power and weaponry: Neville’s Fink was over six feet tall with “a large knife” hanging from his “broad leathern belt,” 300 Henry Howe, Historical Collections of the Great West, Volume 1 (James A. Roberts: Greenville, Tennessee, 1855), 136-39; Richard White, the Middle Ground, 388-89; Silver, Our Savage Neighbours, 125-27; Allen, Western Rivermen, 1763-1861, 1-26, 214-24; Walter Blair and Franklin J. Meine eds., Half Horse Half Alligator: The Growth of the Mike Fink Legend (The University of Chicago Press, 1956), “The Last of the Boatmen” (Neville, 1828), 43-55 (52: “skin of a panther”), “The Disgraced Scalp-Lock” (Thorpe, 1842), 67-82; T.B. Thorpe, The Mysteries of the Backwoods; or, Sketches of the Southwest (Philadelphia: Carey and Hart, 1846), 118-136. 301 possessing the “symmetry of an Apollo” and the “limbs of a Hercules”; sun and weather had given him the skin tone of a “complete mulatto” and “but for the fine European cast of his countenance, he might have passed for the principal warrior of some powerful tribe. Although at least fifty years of age, his hair was as black as the wing of the raven.” Thorpe’s Fink, in “The Disgraced Scalp-Lock,” possesses the stereotypical Indian warrior’s bloodlust and callousness. “Where’s the fun, the frolicking, the fighting?” he asks, agitated to see development along the Ohio, and fantasizes of waging a one-man war against the Choctaws from a fortified hilltop cabin “just to have something to keep me from growing dull […] What a beautiful time I’d have of it!” He rationalizes the slaughter of Native Americans as a law of the wilderness: “Its natur [sic] that the big fish should eat the little ones.” Henry Howe’s Lewis Wetzel was “very broad-shouldered and full breasted,” with a complexion “dark and swarthy as an Indian’s” and face “pitted” with smallpox scars. His hair “reached, when combed out, to the calves of his legs,” and he had “remarkably black” eyes, which “would sparkle with such a vindictive glance as almost to curdle the blood of the beholder.” But since his preferred targets were Indians, he was not a fundamentally bad person; Howe called him “a true friend, but a dangerous enemy,” and “a social and cheerful companion.”301 Wholly invented Indian-killers adhered even more closely to frontier literature’s Gothic clichés of obsessively-vengeful antiheroes, or Manifest Destiny’s insistence that Indian slaughter did not impact the benignity of Anglo-American society. The protagonist of Timothy Flint’s “The Indian Fighter” (1830), “sojourn[ing] on the prairies of Illinois,” hears the autobiography of the fictional Hermit of Cap au Gris, son of a ruined British aristocratic 301 Howe, Historical Collections of the Great West, Volume 1, 136-39; Allen, Western Rivermen, 1763-1861, 1- 26, 214-24; Blair and Meine eds., Half Horse Half Alligator, “The Last of the Boatmen” (Neville, 1828), 43-55, “The Disgraced Scalp-Lock” (Thorpe, 1842), 67-82; T.B. Thorpe, The Mysteries of the Backwoods, 118-136. 302 family who sought their fortune in America. After experiencing the usual Indian-war horrors, family wiped out, fiancée dying in his arms, captivities and near-death, etc., he leads a ranger company to pursue the Indians with such ferocity “that I bore in their language an appellation which means Indian Fighter.” Finally brought to bay at their tribal graveyard, the chief challenges “Indian Fighter” to single combat after his people fulfill Manifest Destiny by committing mass suicide. His vengeance achieved, the Indian Fighter converts to Christianity to await his own death: “That whole race is wasting away about me, like the ice in the vernal brooks. I shall soon be with them.”302 James Kirke Paulding’s series of character sketches set in pre-Revolutionary New York, The Dutchman’s Fireside (1831), included the fictional Timothy Weasel of Vermont. After Canadian Indians had wiped out Weasel’s family and neighbours, Sir William Johnson told Paulding’s protagonist, he now hunted “those tarnal kritters” with “inconceivable” “avidity,” against which “the keenest sportsman does not feel a hundredth part of the delight in bringing down his game [.]” A fictional Kentucky frontiersman, Ambrose Bushfield, expressed those sentiments unmediated in Paulding’s novel Westward Ho! (1832) in a scene employing two clichés in frontier adventure: the education of a greenhorn by a dialect- speaking old veteran, and the frontiersman’s voicing of the Sepúlvedan false dilemma, establishing for the audience the righteousness of killing Indians: There isn’t a soul in all Kentucky but has lost some one of his kin in the Ingen wars, or had his house burnt over his head by these creturs. When they plough their fields, they every day turn up the bones of their own colour and kin who have been scalped, and tortured, and whipped, and starved by these varmints, that are ten thousand times more bloodthirsty than tigers, and as cunning as ‘possums. 302 Drinnon, Facing West, 119-129; Timothy Flint, “The Indian Fighter,” in The Token (Boston, 1830), 37-58. 303 Declaring that he is “the last of my family and name,” Bushfield establishes the stakes of savage war: if not hunted, Indians perform white genocide.303 That these stories peddled fantasies of Anglo-American wish fulfillment and overwrote actual events with simplified narratives of inevitable, guiltless genocide was further exposed in James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales (1823-1841) and James Hall’s oft-repeated Colonel Moredock story. Natty Bumppo, aka “Hawk-Eye,” “Leatherstocking,” or in D.H. Lawrence’s words “a saint with a gun,” slays dozens of Indians but never once scalps them, though his Indian companions do eagerly. His decided asexuality also rules out interracial sex, a possibility constantly banished by proclaiming himself of the purest white blood, “a man without a cross.” Instead, he takes something else from the Indians. In The Deerslayer (1841), an old warrior he has bested gives young Natty, and by extension Manifest Destiny, his blessing with his dying breath: “ –eye sartain –finger lightning—aim, death—great warrior soon. No Deerslayer—Hawkeye—Hawkeye— Hawkeye. Shake hand.” Natty Bumppo’s Indian companions show “willingness to immolate themselves” by aiding in Manifest Destiny, quite literally in The Pioneers (1823) when the elderly Chingachgook, bearing the baptismal name “Indian John,” throws himself into a forest fire. His “bad” Indians conform to Savagist stereotypes perfectly, as in a scene in The Last of the Mohicans (1827) where Magua and his Hurons wolf down the raw, still-warm venison of a fawn before deciding to immolate Cora and Alice Munro with the pine-splint torture (see Chapter 5), prevented by the heroes’ nick-of-time arrival. Cooper’s critics who derided the fakeness of his “good” Indians— as when General Lewis Cass, prior to being 303 Drinnon, Facing West, 119-129, “scalped and tortured” my italics; Timothy Flint, “The Indian Fighter,” in The Token (Boston, 1830), 37-58. 304 made Jackson’s Secretary of War, called them “beings with feelings and opinions, such as never existed in our forests”— typically had no complaints about his “bad” Indians. In an 1852 essay Francis Parkman, the dean of 19th-century frontier historians, declared Cooper’s novels “a faithful mirror of that rude transatlantic nature.” Denouncing the “good” Indians of Last of the Mohicans, i.e., Uncas, Chingachgook, and the ancient, fatalistic Lenape sachem Tamenund, as the sort of “aboriginal heroes, lovers, and sages, who have long formed a petty nuisance in our literature,” he had nothing but praise for the novel’s villain Magua, a scheming, vindictive alcoholic who plans to avenge himself on Colonel Munro by violating his daughter Cora. This struck Parkman as a simple statement of fact, since “It is well known that Indians, in real life as well as in novels, display a peculiar partiality for white women…”304 The themes of inevitable ethnic cleansing, and contradictorily disavowing and celebrating the Indian-killing vigilante, appear in James Hall’s 1834 essay “Brief Account of Colonel Moredock.” Hall began by designating the backwoodsmen as a “peculiar race” within America, a self-contained relic population holding who combined 17th-century total war with 18th-century British Enlightenment belief in free markets: “[he] does not believe that an Indian, or any other man has a right to monopolize the hunting grounds, which he considers free to all.” Raised from the cradle with “horrid tales of savage violence,” Hall 304 D.H. Lawrence, “Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Novels,” 100, in Michael Herbert ed., D.H. Lawrence: Selected Critical Writings (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 97-112; Leslie A. Fiedler, “James Fenimore Cooper: The Problem of the Good Bad Writer,” in George A. Test ed., James Fenimore Cooper: His Country and His Art (1979), 1-10, reprinted in The Last of the Mohicans (New York: the Modern Library, 2001), xi-xxii; Slotkin, Regeneration, 466-516; Drinnon, Facing West, 147-164. On Parkman, see Roderick Frazier Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind, fifth edition (Yale University Press, 2014), 94; Renata R. Mautner Wasserman, Exotic Nations: Literature and Cultural Identity in the United States and Brazil, 1830-1930 (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1994), 154-185 ; “peculiar partiality for white women” in Wilbur R. Jacobs, Francis Parkman, Historian as Hero: the Formative Years (University of Texas Press, 1991), 49-50, where Jacobs notes that Parkman may have had Magua in mind while writing The Conspiracy of Pontiac (1851). 305 allowed that the Indian-hating frontiersmen had “heard only one side” of events, but the appearance of even-handedness is illusory. While Black Hawk’s memoir or the writings of William Apess were available in English by 1834, Hall made no effort to suggest what life on the other side of the frontier might look like, while repetitively invoking the Indian as illegitimate combatants (“a midnight prowler, watching to murder the mother as she bends over her helpless children”; “yelling fiends in human shape,” etc.) He then shifted to the “many instances of individuals who, in consequence of some personal wrong, have vowed eternal hatred to the whole Indian race,” as proven by an entirely fictional story: of one John Moredock, who had gone through a succession of stepfathers (his mother “was married several times, and was as often widowed by the tomahawk of the savage”) before his mother “and all her children,” except John, were massacred horribly by an intertribal collection of Indian bandits on the Mississippi. After describing Moredock’s manly vitality, and his systematic hunting of the thirty Indians responsible in a one-man campaign of ethnic cleansing—up to his death from old age he “never in his life failed to embrace an opportunity to kill a savage”—Hall then made his most surprising assertion: that Colonel Moredock, for all this, “was a man of warm feelings, and excellent disposition,” promoted to Colonel as a ranger during the War of 1812, serving in the legislative assembly, and almost becoming governor of Illinois.305 These themes of the Sepúlvedan false dilemma, nostalgia for 18th-century frontiers, the obsessed vigilante compelled to kill Indians, the inevitability and normality of frontiersmen scalping Indians, and Slotkin’s model of regeneration through violence – that 305 James Hall. “Indian Hating. – Some of the Sources of this Animosity. –Brief Account of Col. Moredock,” from Sketches of History, Life and Manners, in the West, (Philadelphia: Harrison Hall, 1835), volume 2, chapter 6, 74-82, in Hershel Parker and Mark Niemeyer eds. Norton Critical Edition of The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade, second edition (W.W. Norton and Company: New York and London, 2006 [1971]), 456-61. 306 Anglo-America can only advance by civilized whites’ descent into barbarism—all reached their logical extremes in Bird’s Nick of the Woods; or, the Jibbenainosay: A Tale of Kentucky (Philadelphia, 1837). The novel begins with the heirs of a wealthy Virginia family, Captain Roland Forrester and his cousin Edith, arriving in 1782 Kentucky in a wagon train resembling a past age of white savagery: “Vandals in quest of some new home to be won with the edge of the sword.” Roland, a decorated hero of the Revolutionary War, is well aware of Virginian and Kentucky virtues: “to fell trees, raise corn, shoot bisons and Indians,” but is a stripling in heroic Indian-killing-- whereas the novel’s Kentuckians are all of the mold of Mike Fink and Davy Crockett. Colonel Tom Bruce, chieftain of a fort on the edge of the wilderness, is hypervirile: of “colossal” stature, “at least fifty,” but “as hale as one of thirty, without a single gray hair” in his “raven locks.” Like Daniel Bone, a succession of his sons have been slain in the Indian wars; Tom Jr., renamed after an older brother slain in war, killed and scalped “a full-grown Shawnee before he war fourteen y’ar old.” The brawling horse-thief Ralph Stackpole “killed two Injuns once, single-handed, on Bear-Grass” and, towards the novel’s end, beats an Indian to death with his fists; Stackpole steals other Kentuckians’ horses, is a braggart and a ruffian, but his faults are overlooked as he “fights Injuns like a wolverine.” A dissenting note is struck by “Bloody” Nathan Slaughter, a Quaker and pacifist, despised as “the only man in all Kentucky that won’t fight!” And an unknown presence the Shawnees call the Jibbenainosay or “Spirit-that-Walks” stalks the Kentucky wilderness, scalping and mutilating Indian victims, particularly Shawnees, with a cross- shaped mark across the chests of “all the meat of his killing.” Bruce scorns the accounts of “such lying devils as Injuns” (“for the truth ar’nt in ‘em”) but notes that dozens of settlers, 307 who call the creature Old Nick, have “all had a glimpse of him stalking through the woods, […] always found in the deepest forests”.306 In an unsurprising twist, the true architects of the looming threat of a pan-tribal Indian invasion of Kentucky are white villains: the Forresters’ lawyer Braxley, who has stripped them of their fortune, and the “white Injun” Abel Doe, Braxley’s henchman. In a more unusual development, the Jibbenainosay or “Old Nick” is revealed to be none other than Nathan Slaughter, imbuing his stereotyped Indian-like traits with retrospective meaning: his clothes, “fragments of tanned skins rudely sewed together”; his tall and lanky build; his “long hooked nose” and “black staring eyes.” Nathan explains how ten years ago, he handed over his rifle and knife as a show of good faith to the ghoulish Shawnee chief Wenonga, who then promptly killed and scalped his wife, old mother, and five “little innocent babes.” The memory triggers an epileptic fit, “brought on by overpowering agitation of mind,” and Nathan falls to the ground, revealing beneath his broad-brimmed hat horrible scars left by “the savage scalping knife” on the “mangled head.” Once recovered, Roland agrees to Nathan’s plan to rescue Edith and other captives from Wenonga’s village, a scenario identical to that of Reid’s The Scalp-Hunters (1851) and expressing the reverse-colonial theme: most of Wenonga’s men are with the pan-tribal army invading Kentucky, “scalping and murdering as they come: their villages are left to be guarded by women and children, and old men no longer fit for war.”307 306 Robert Montgomery Bird, Nick of the Woods, or The Jibbenainosay: A Tale of Kentucky, volume 1 of 2 (Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard, 1837), 13-14 (“won at the edge of the sword”), 24-25 (“raven locks… fourteen y’ar old”), 42 (“shoot bisons and Indians”), 50-53 (“meat of his killing”), 50-53 (“such lying devils… deepest forests”), 53-60 (“Bear-Grass”), 91-92 (“like a wolverine”); Bird, Nick of the Woods (1837), volume 2, 89-90 (“his blows falling like sledge-hammers or battering-rams”). 307 Bird, Nick of the Woods, Vol. 1 (61-75: “fragments of tanned skins… eyes”), Vol. 2, 70-72 (“overpowering agitation of mind… mangled head”), 74-83 (“no longer fit for war”); Drinnon, Facing West, 119-129. 308 Slaughter’s traits, as well as his physiognomy, are those of the stereotypical Indian warrior: his skills in wilderness survival, stealth, and combat; and his sudden swings from self-controlled placidity to a dissociative state of violent insanity. He scalps every Indian they kill, which Bird rationalizes as “the practice of the border” which “was, and is, essentially a measure of retaliation, compelled, if not justified, by the ferocious example of the red-man.” At the Shawnees’ village, Slaughter doffs his tattered leather for stolen Indian clothes and war paint in “figures of snakes, lizards, skulls, and other savage devices,” consistent with Roland’s description of Shawnees as “crawling reptiles […] in spirit as in movement.” When added to his “lofty stature,” “the metamorphosis was so complete” that Captain Ralph confessed a desire “to be at his top-knot.” The Indians are also fooled until a failed rescue attempt of Edith, then show “unconcealed wonder and awe” when Nathan alarms Wenonga with “a look more hideous than his own” and falls into an epileptic fit. Taking his unknown prisoner to be “great Medicine,” Wenonga orders Nathan to summon the Jibbenainosay so he can avenge the deaths of all his sons and grandsons—not knowing that the painted frontiersman is the killer. Seeing the scalps of his wife, mother, and children hanging from Wenonga’s housepost, Nathan seizes his opportunity, telling Wenonga in perfect Shawnee that if untied, “The chief will see the Jibbenainosay!” Slaughter then brutally kills, scalps, and dismembers Wenonga with his own tomahawk and knife, seizing “the bundle of withered scalps—the locks and ringlets of his own murdered children” in one hand, and “the reeking scalp-lock of the murderer” in the other. Before fleeing the village to summon help he issues a death whoop worthy of the Eastmans: “in the insane fury of the moment, given forth, a 309 wild, ear-piercing yell, that spoke the triumph, the exulting transport, of long-baffled but never-dying revenge.”308 But in the pandemonium of Wenonga’s village, Nathan’s insane screams are “such sounds […] too common to create alarm or uneasiness.” Bird’s depiction of Indians as a vile antisociety is consistent with Lawrence and Jewett’s theme of Tertullian ecstasy: “the enjoyment in seeing the punishment of the wicked,” which “works towards its climactic visceral gratification by a kind of inverted foreplay […] requir[ing] revulsion triggered by negative stereotypes.” From the novel’s early references to the tortured death of Colonel Crawford and Indians’ supposed love of killing women and children, Bird’s Shawnees are loathsome, ruled by their passions for murder and torture. While all of Bird’s Indians are racist caricatures, the most contemptuous is an old Piankeshaw chief, mourning his son’s killing and scalping by “Long-knife man Kentucky” in scenes which reduce the mourning- war complex to irrationality and chaos. Swilling from Braxley’s keg of rotgut, the Piankeshaw alternately promises to adopt Nathan as his son or to torture him horribly, while praising his slain son’s ability to “kill bear, kill buffalo, catch fish” and “take scalp, squaw scalp, papoose scalp, man scalp, all kind scalp,” laterally comparing hunting to war, reducing Indian warfare to scalping and infanticide, and implicitly attributing both to bloodlust and sadism. Bird’s sketch of the Shawnee village, a disordered collection of hovels inhabited by 308 Bird, Nick of the Woods (1837), Vol. 1, 158 (“crawling reptiles”), Vol. 2, 106 (“practice of the border”), 115- 16 (“Then, daubing over his face, arms and breast with streaks of red, black, and green paint, that seemed designed to represent snakes, lizards, and other reptiles; he was, on a sudden, converted into a highly respectable-looking savage, as grim and awe-inspiring as these barbaric ornaments and his attire, added to his lofty stature, could make him. Indeed, the metamorphosis was so complete, that Captain Ralph, as he swore, could scarce look at him without longing, as this worthy personage expressed it, ‘to be at his top-knot.’” My italics), 161-62 (“snakes, lizards, skulls”), 195-207 (“long-baffled but never-dying revenge”); Drinnon, Facing West, 119-129; On Slaughter’s metamorphosis into simulacrum of an Indian warrior, see Shirley Samuels, Facing America: Iconography and the Civil War (Oxford University Press, 2004), 36. 310 “male vagabonds,” “naked children,” and “oppressed and degraded women,” use literal or spiritual intoxication as his master-theme of Indian dysfunction and wickedness. The eye of the “squalid sot” Wenonga gleams with “mingled drunkenness and insanity,” while the Indians, preparing to burn Roland, Edith, and Ralph, are swept away in “the drunkenness of passion,” as though possessed in “the sway of unchained demons, or […] the horrible impulses of lycanthropy.” This Tertullian foreplay reaches its climax when, just before the pyre is lit, Slaughter arrives with Colonel Bruce and an army of Kentuckians itching to avenge the defeat at Blue Licks. Transfixed by their “universal devotion to the Saturnalia of blood,” the Indians are caught by surprise.309 Omitting the sexual abuse of women and killing of children and women which were endemic to frontier war, Bird’s audience is entreated to celebrate sanitized ethnic cleansing. Roland kills Wenonga’s “witch-like” wife, a “hag” more sadistic than her husband, while she tries to light his pyre; the Kentuckians take a harvest of warriors’ scalps; Braxley, who could “pass for an Indian” with his height and “uncommon darkness of skin and hair,” is scalped by mistake by an over-eager Massachusetts greenhorn. But a larger number of Indians are made prisoners, “including all the women and children”—no collateral damage here—as “the surest means of inducing the tribe to beg for peace.” With Nathan in the forefront (“his step was fierce, active, firm, and elastic, like that of a warrior leaping through the measures of the war-dance”), the Kentuckians loot and torch the village and its cornfields to inflict winter hunger on the Shawnees. “[R]estore[d] once more to his wits” by completing his mission of 309 Bird, Nick of the Woods (1837), Vol. 1, 39-40 (death of Colonel Crawford), Vol. 2, 34-37 (“Long-knife… kill bear… all kind scalp”), 116-17 (“oppressed and degraded women”), 121-36 (“male vagabonds… naked children”), 140-43 (“squalid sot”), 176-78 (“unchained demons… lycanthropy”), 195-207 (“drunkenness and insanity”, “such sounds […] too common”), 215-19 (“drunkenness of passion… Saturnalia of blood”); Lawrence and Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero, 309-337. 311 vengeance, Nathan finds his neighbours’ praise more upsetting than their former taunts and insults. Fearing that his story will “scandalize and disparage” the Society of Friends, Nathan asks Roland not to repeat it and disappears into the wilderness like Natty Bumppo, Mike Fink, and other Indian-killers, “going no man knew whither.”310 In his foreword to a revised 1853 edition, Bird insisted on the historical accuracy of his fictional story. Nathan, his antiheroic Daniel Boone, represented a real “class of men” such as “Boone and Kenton, McColloch and Wetzel,” who were “scattered along the extreme frontier” of every state “from New York to Georgia, […] men in whom the terrible barbarities of the savages […] had wrought a change of temper as strange as fearful.” He professed himself innocent of the charges arrayed against him in the foreword of a British edition of Nick of the Woods, “of influencing the passions of his countrymen against the remnant of an unfortunate race, with a view of excusing the wrongs done to it by the whites, if not of actually hastening the period of that “final destruction” which it pleases so many men […] to predict.” He unwittingly proved his British critic’s point by invoking the Sepúlvedan false dilemma, contrasting Cooper and Chateaubriand’s dying-Indian characers Uncas and Atala against his “real” Indians: “ignorant, violent, debased, brutal,” whose “miserable” lives were devoted to “the pleasures of the chase and of the scalp-hunt—which we dignify with the name of war.” His 1837 foreword had more explicitly damned the Indian warrior as a habitual child-killer who “wages […] systematic war […] upon women and children […] we look into the woods for the mighty warrior, ‘the feather-cinctured chief,’ rushing to meet his foe, and behold him retiring, laden with the scalps of miserable squaws 310 Bird, Nick of the Woods (1837), Vol. 2, 121-36 (Braxley “could pass for an Indian”), 144-47 (“witch-like”… “hag”), 224-33 (Braxley scalped), 230-33 (“taken prisoners… beg for peace”), 234-42 (“measures of the war- dance… restore him once more… no man knew whither”). 312 and their babes.” His 1837 text was, in fact, guilty of normalizing genocide, declaring scalping as part of “the mortal feud” which will only end “with the annihilation of the American race” by “the white invader.”311 Reid’s The Scalp-Hunters (1851) offered a similarly sanitized story with clear-cut heroes and villains in a fantastical version of the Southwest. Knifed by a Mexican bravo at a Santa Fé fandango, Henry Haller, a young British gentleman-adventurer travelling in America, recovers in the home of a French-American creole named Seguin, a Santa Fé gentleman with a sinister reputation as “the Scalp Hunter.” As in Westward Ho!, Seguin deploys the Sepúlvedan false dilemma—the demolition of the saccharine Indian stereotype to justify the demonic Indian stereotype—to educate the greenhorn Haller: If you knew the history of this land for the last ten years; its massacres and its murders; its tears and its burnings; its rapes and spoliations; whole provinces depopulated; villages given to the flames; men butchered on their own hearths; women, beautiful women, carried into captivity to satisfy the lust of the desert robber. Merchants from Bent’s Fort have already introduced Haller to Southwestern barbarism: Hispanics are both primitive and decadent, Pueblo Indians are natural serfs, while the Comanches, Apaches, and Navajos are the warrior-races of the Southwest, descendants of the Aztecs who scalp men, kidnap women, commit cannibalism and worship Quetzalcoatl with human sacrifice. As per usual Anglo-American stereotypes, behind the Indians’ depredations is a white mastermind: Governor Manuel Armijo, New Mexico’s governor from the late 1830s throughout the 1840s. Andrés Reséndez notes that Navajos had raided New Mexico with increasing frequency from 1846 until 1849, and Reid’s imagination drew a link: his 311 Robert Montgomery Bird, Nick of the Woods, or, The Jibbenainosay: A Tale of Kentucky; A new edition, revised by the author (New York: 1853), iii-vii; Bird, Nick of the Woods (1837), Vol. 2, 106 (“mortal feud…invader”); Drinnon, Facing West, 119-129. 313 Navajos, the main antagonists of The Scalp-Hunters, raid the province at will and serve as Armijo’s bodyguards and private army via his brokered peace treaty which prohibits the army from fighting them. At Armijo’s instigation the Navajos destroyed Seguin’s mines and carried off his daughter Adèle. After years “hunting for my child,” Seguin was offered the command of a ranger unit paid in scalp bounties, and accepted this “strange guerilla […] in the hope that I might yet recover my child, I accepted it—I became a scalp-hunter.”312 Seguin enlist Haller as his second-in-command for his long-awaited expedition into “Navajoa,” as circumstances have moved in his favour. According to his informant, a foul- mouthed and leathery trapper named “Old Rube” recently escaped Navajo captivity minus scalp and ears, the Navajos and their allies are on the verge of a great expedition to the gates of Durango. As in Nick of the Woods, this will leave their villages unguarded save for women, children, and old men; as in Nick of the Woods, perfect chivalry is to be observed from the outset: Seguin forbids the scalping of women and noncombatants, or the mistreatment of women, stipulating that he will only pay for warriors’ scalps (at $50 apiece) and unharmed hostages to extort a prisoner exchange from the Navajos. A recent drop in the price of beaver pelts has brought Anglo-American fur trappers from the eastern plains, who “find ‘red-skin’ pays better”; with no sense of contradiction, he describes these Anglo- American trappers as essentially benign: “bold, but good-humoured and generous.” The company, whose three largest ethnic contingents are Anglo-American trappers, Mexican norteños, and “Delaware” Indians, with a babel of French-Canadians, Southwestern Indians, 312 Reid, The Scalp-Hunters (1851), volume 1, 79-82 (cannibalism, human sacrifice), 206-220 (“rapes and spoliations”, “human monster,” “strange guerilla”); Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 242; On Reid’s fanciful Southwestern ethnography as common in the writings of Mexican-American veterans, see Robert W. Johannsen, To the Halls of the Montezumas: The Mexican War in the American Imagination (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 152, 179-80. 314 escaped Louisiana slaves, Hawaiians, and others, resembles both the polyethnic fur trappers’ brigades of the intramontane West and the similarly polyethnic scalp-hunter companies of James Kirker and John Joel Glanton, described below. Kirker, “a rough, brutal-looking fellow,” appears briefly as the one bad apple in the bunch. While the other scalp-hunters are content to follow Seguin’s orders, harvesting scalps from the Indian warriors who inevitably show up when the action starts to flag, Kirker threatens mutiny at the Navajo village, where Adèle is found to have become a sort of white goddess: the high priestess of the shrine of Quetzalcoatl. Kirker’s mutiny is swiftly put down—“you are a cowardly brute, for all your bluster”—and in the Indian counterattack he is swept to his death in a flash flood. As in Nick of the Woods, white villains are deserving targets of scalping; “They’ll lift his har to a sartinty” eulogizes one of the party.313 Villainous treatment of scalp-hunters, like Reid’s version of Kirker, required their treatment as outsiders self-deported from American society. Samuel Chamberlain, the Mexican-American war veteran, sketched a gallery of grotesques in his unsubstantiable claim that he had ridden with John Joel Glanton’s gang of scalp-hunters in 1848-49 after deserting from the army. Chamberlain claimed to have first laid eyes on Glanton in a saloon in Bexar in 1846, on a night when it was filled with Texas Rangers and “a motley crowd of desperate characters” better suited for “the Infernal regions”; Glanton supposedly picked a fight with another Ranger, killed him with a bowie knife, then resumed drinking and playing cards. This “famous Indian fighter and desperado of the frontier,” Chamberlain wrote, in a 313 Reid, The Scalp-Hunters (1851), vol. 1, 236-40 (“find ‘red-skin’ pays better”), 254-60 (“bold, but good- humoured and generous”), Vol. 2, 16-18 (“rough, brutal-looking”), 163-67 (“Fifty dollar a plew!” [Old Rube] muttered, unsheathing his knife and stooping over the body. “It’s more’n I got for my own. It beats beaver all hollow. D—n beaver! say this child.”), 248-54 (the siege of Navajoa; “the gal is what they call Mystery Queen”), 265-88 (Kirker’s mutiny), 308 (“lift his ha’r to a sartainty”). 315 biography Goetzmann notes is unsubstantiable from extant records but is consistent with the origin stories of Indian-haters, was once a pious and respectable youth from South Carolina, until his fiancée, a 17-year-old Texan orphaned in childhood by Lipan Apaches, was carried off by the Lipans. By the time Glanton and other Texans caught up to them, she and the other captive white women after suffering horrible outrages […] were tomahawked and scalped while the fight was raging. Glanton rescued the gory locks of his beloved from the death clutch of a painted demon that he slew, and ever afterwards wore the sad memento next his heart. From this tragic scene, Glanton returned a changed man, no longer the happy farmer and kind neighbour, he became a gloomy monomaniac hating all mankind. Like other literary Indian-killers, Glanton could wage one-man wars against entire tribes. Chamberlain writes that Glanton’s expeditions into the Texas wilderness “invariably” returned with fresh scalps; rather than turn them in for money, he collected a “mule-load,” smoke-dried in a hut on the Guadelupe River.314 Unlike Colonel Moredock, Chamberlain’s Glanton had a “diseased state of mind”: his former piety became “horrid blasphemy,” and he “drank deeply,” seeking the company of “the most hardened desperadoes of the frontier.” Under commission from the Mexican state of Sonora, he led a motley crew of “Senorrans, Cherokee and Delaware Indians, French Canadians, Texians, Irishmen, a Negro and a full blooded Comanche” to hunt Indians for $50 a scalp. Chamberlain’s half-fictionalized Glanton was given a wholly fictional, grotesque second-in-command: “Judge Holden of Texas,” an enormous man whose face was “destitute of hair and all expression” and whose “hoglike eyes” gleamed at the sight of blood. A polymath who gave impromptu lectures on Southwestern botany, archaeology, anthropology, 314 Chamberlain, Goetzmann ed., My Confession, 1-25, 61-63, 298-309. 316 and geology, Chamberlain’s Judge Holden, “[t]his intellectual beast,” was also guilty of rape and murder, yet “lecture[d] me on the immorality of my […] drinking and gambling!” The real Glanton gang had reputedly begun killing Mexican citizens to pass off their scalps as Apaches’, and Chamberlain paints a Satanic picture of this phase in their careers: disguised as Apaches, the gang began robbing, murdering, and preying upon Mexican civilians in “brutal Saturnalias” and “hellish orgies.” On one hand, this story makes scalp hunters into freaks rejected by both American and Hispanic society, absolving the Mexican state of its role in commissioning them in the first place. On the other, Goetzmann notes that Chamberlain’s story is consistent with the “melodrama” of sin and salvation: “the innocent who becomes hardened, corrupted, a sinner who becomes a murderer and foul scalp-hunter, who then repents but is nonetheless consigned to hell—in this case the Mojave Desert.”315 “Hate Indians? Why should he or anybody else hate Indians? I admire Indians,” the cosmopolitan Francis “Frank” Goodman ingenuously tells an Arkansan, Charles “Charlie” Noble, in Herman Melville’s The Confidence-Man (1857): “really, I would like to know something about this Indian-hating. I can hardly believe such a thing to be.” Through inter- textual interrogation of James Hall’s oft-repeated story of Colonel Moredock, chapters 25 to 28 of Melville’s dense, deliberately cryptic satire took aim at the clichés of the frontier horror story, particularly the Sepúlvedan false dilemma and the moral righteousness of the obsessive Indian-killing vigilante. James Hall was a friend of his father, replies Noble, and Hall repeated the story so often at dinner parties that he “heard his history again and again” and can recite it from memory—a sly dig at Hall rewriting and republishing the Colonel Moredock or Indian-hater story under varying titles at least five times between 1828 and 315 Chamberlain, Goetzmann ed., My Confession, 1-25, 61-63, 298-309. 317 1857. As Richard Drinnon notes, through the “puzzle-box device” of the Arkansan Charlie Noble quoting James Hall on Moredock, i.e., a westerner quoting a westerner “on yet another Westerner,” Melville established that all “shared a doctrinal hate for Native Americans.” Melville then raised questions of confirmation bias and indigenous agency as Noble explained Indians’ crimes, real or imagined, by comparison to famous criminals incarcerated in notorious British and American prisons, while frontiersmen are compared to famous pagans: Alexander the Great, the Roman emperor Julian, and Polynesian surfers. The righteousness of frontiersmen’s hatred of Indians is called into question by Noble’s observation that Indians, “quite unanimously [...] protest against the backwoodsman’s view of them,” and that “some think that one cause of their returning his antipathy so sincerely as they do, is their moral indignation at being so libeled”—though whether Indians may testify in their own defense is a question for the Supreme Court (here Melville sarcastically alludes to Cherokee Nation v. Georgia (1831), in which the Supreme Court ruled they could not). Frontiersmen, for their part, prefer to believe that whether laying traps for animals or deceiving enemies, deceit is the “general conduct of life” of Indians they think of as snakes and red devils. The risk is too great to believe otherwise: … scarce a family he knows but some member of it, or connection, has been by Indians maimed or scalped. What avails, then, that some one Indian, or some two or three, treat a backwoodsman friendly-like ? He fears me, he thinks. Take my rifle from me, give him motive, and what will come? If the frontiersman is driven by fear and self-righteousness, the Indian-hater is a more chimerical creature. The Indian hater par excellence never returns from the wilderness; Moredock, having a life within frontier society, is a diluted or apostasizing Indian-hater, though still dysfunctional. In Melville’s version, he turned down the governorship of Illinois 318 because it would interfere with his quest: “there would be an impropriety in the Governor of Illinois stealing out now and then […] for a few days’ shooting at human beings.” Noble also remembers visiting Moredock’s house as a child to find a decoy of moss and twigs in his bed; the skittish vigilante had fled at the approach of a small boy and his father.316 Frontiersmen might be suspicious and paranoid, but at least they can recognize human potential for evil among white Americans as well as Indians. The supposedly frank, good man who shares wine and cigars with Charlie Noble is, in fact, the same shapeshifter who has been travelling the steamboat Fidèle (“Faith”) since the novel began at dawn on April Fool’s Day, chiding suspicious travellers for their lack of faith in his goodness while gulling them into signing over money—or a more precious commodity, since “Frank Goodman” is actually Satan at large on the Mississippi. Tellingly, one of the only cases of recognition is when a giant, sickly frontiersman, “an invalid Titan in homespuns” and his child “of alien maternity, perhaps Creole, or even Camanche,” knocks him to the boards with a haymaker for selling painkilling patent medicine: “Profane fiddler on heart-strings! Snake!” But the titan is in the minority on a ship whose passengers are taken by feel-good transcendantalist mysticism, get-rich-quick schemes, and an unwarrantedly sunny view of American history. Melville noted that “where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase”: Manifest Destiny had driven off the Mississippi’s Indians, bandits, and frontiersmen, but replaced them with rubes who eagerly purchased cheap biographies of famous Mississippi robbers and river pirates—Measan, Murrell, the Harpe brothers—while pickpockets worked the crowd of “farm-hunters and fame-hunters; heiress-hunters, gold-hunters, buffalo-hunters, 316 Drinnon, Facing West; Parker and Niemeyer eds., Norton Critical Edition of The Confidence-Man, 137-165. 319 bee-hunters, happiness-hunters, truth-hunters, and still keener hunters after all these hunters.”317 Melville was disturbed by his fellow Americans’ inability to acknowledge that their actions could have negative consequences, particularly for peoples they deemed savage or primitive, and their refusal to recognize that racism stained the soul of the racist. His observations in Typee (1846) and Omoo (1847) that colonization had brought starvation, disease, and poverty to Polynesia, including a story of a missionary’s wife being taken to church on Sundays in a buggy pulled by Hawaiians, had led to a backlash from American Protestant churches for his defense of “cannibals,” and their successful boycott of Moby-Dick reduced him to borrowing money. Textual violence against Native Americans also perturbed him. He took exception to Francis Parkman’s assertion that acquaintance with Indians should automatically breed contempt in a white observer: “when we are told too, that to such a person, the slaughter of an Indian is indifferent as the slaughter of a buffalo; with all deference, we beg leave to dissent. […] though in many cases this feeling is almost natural, it is not defensible; and it is wholly wrong.” Francis Goodman, in The Confidence-Man, cannot believe Noble’s declaration of Moredock as “to all but Indians juicy as a peach”: “if ever there was such a man as Moredock, he, in my way of thinking, was either misanthrope or nothing; and his misanthropy the more intense from being focused on one race of men.”318 317 James Hall, “Indian Hating. – Some of the Sources of this Animosity. –Brief Account of Col. Moredock,” from Sketches of History, Life and Manners, in the West (Philadelphia: Harrison Hall, 1835), volume 2, chapter 6, 74-82, cited in Parker and Niemeyer eds., Norton Critical Edition of The Confidence-Man, 456-61; Philip F. Gura, Truth’s Ragged Edge: The Rise of the American Novel (Macmillan, 2013), 179-215. 318 Herman Melville, “Mr. Parkman’s Tour,” in the New York Literary World (31 March, 1849), 291-93, review of Francis Parkman Jr., The California and Oregon Trail; being Sketches of Prairie and Rocky Mountain Life (New York: Putnam, 1849), in Hershel Parker and Mark Niemeyer eds., Norton Critical Edition of The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade, second edition (W.W. Norton and Company: New York and London, 2006 [1971]) 461-62; Hershel Parker, “The Confidence-Man’s Masquerade,” in Norton Critical Edition, 293-303 ; James Hall, “Indian Hating. – Some of the Sources of this Animosity. –Brief Account of Col. Moredock,” from 320 Scalping in the Southwest: Kirker, Glanton, and California In November 1846 General John Wool’s Chihuahuan expedition, a 3,400-man force comprised of two Illinois volunteer infantry regiments, an Arkansas volunteer cavalry regiment, and a small contingent of the regular U.S. army, occupied Coahuila’s state capital of Saltillo and remained in place during the winter of 1846-47, awaiting further orders from General Zachary Taylor. Wool’s forces chafed at garrison duty, and a widespread Anglo- American contempt for Mexicans which combined British sectarian-national hatred for “Spaniards” with North American prejudice against mestizos and Indians, motivated volunteers from all companies to begin preying upon the civilian population of Saltillo and its environs. In a letter to his parents back in Illinois, Second Lieutenant Adolph Engelmann wrote that “an old gray headed” Mexican shepherd had been shot “because he objected to the shooting of his sheep.” The culprit had not yet been discovered, wrote Engelmann, “though I think he is an Illinois man.” The single worst offenders were the Arkansas Mounted Rifles, whose insubordination and inept leadership by Colonel Archibald Yell earned them Wool’s unfavourable nicknames of “Arkansas Devils” and “Colonel Yell’s Mounted Devils”; among many crimes to their credit, the Devils robbed the Agua Nueva ranch, 17 miles south of Saltillo, around Christmas Day and committed several sexual assaults of Mexican women while doing so. As Engelmann observed, such crimes did not go unpunished: “from time to time” lone Arkansas volunteers caught outside of camp “would be lassoed and dragged by the Mexicans.”319 Sketches of History, Life and Manners, in the West (Philadelphia: Harrison Hall, 1835), volume 2, chapter 6, 74- 82, cited in Parker and Niemeyer eds., Norton Critical Edition of The Confidence-Man, 456-61. 319 Karl Jack Bauer, The Mexican War, 1846-1848 (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1992 [1974]), 145-63, 201-210; Samuel Chamberlain, William H. Goetzmann ed., My Confession: Recollections of a Rogue (Austin, TX: Texas State Historical Association, 1996), 18, 132-34, 358 n. 271; on the historicity of 321 When in early 1847 the Arkansas Volunteers were mustered south to engage Santa Anna’s northward-marching army and encamped at Agua Nueva, a well-liked private of Yell’s regiment was found dead outside the camp on 9 February, “badly mangled from dragging over the brush and rocks.” On the following day, about 100 members of the regiment went looking for the culprits, and they opened fire when the Arkansan private’s carbine sling was found on a Mexican citizen near the village of Catana. By the time the officers arrived to stop them, they had pursued the survivors into a cave. The official investigatory report listed four dead, but most eyewitness accounts, notes Karl Bauer, “speak of 20 or 30” casualties. Engelmann, for instance, writes of a body count “variously placed at from 18 to 30 though it may be more.”320 Samuel Chamberlain, then a member of the Illinois volunteers, wrote in his Confession that his company was ordered forward to arrest the rampaging Arkansans. Placing the number of irregulars at 109, his numbers leap upwards again when describing what they saw upon approaching the cave: “a greasser, shot and scalped, laying on the ground yet alive” and twenty other Mexicans “dead and dying in pools of blood.” Out of the darkness of the cave emerged an irregular, “a brutal looking Rackansacker” who “advanced Chamberlain’s memoir see Goetzmann, and Lynda Lasswell Crist, review of My Confession: Recollections of a Rogue by Samuel Chamberlain and William H. Goetzmann, in The Journal of Southern History, Vol. 64, No. 2 (May, 1998), 365-366. For background on the “massacre of the cave,” see Michael L. Collins, Texas Devils: Rangers and Regulars on the Lower Rio Grande, 1846-1861 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2012), 9-16; David Stephen Heidler and Jeanne T. Heidler, The Mexican War (Greenwood Publishing Group, 2006), 81-82; entries “Wool, John Ellis” and “Wool’s Chihuahua Expedition” in Spencer C. Tucker ed., The Encyclopedia of the Mexican-American War: A Political, Social, and Military History, volume 1: A-L (Santa Barbara, Denver, Oxford: ABC-Clio, 2013), 735-37; Walter Lee Brown, “The Mexican War Experiences of Albert Pike and the “Mounted Devils” of Arkansas,” in The Arkansas Historical Quarterly Vol. 12, No. 4 (Winter 1953), 301-315; Otto B. Engelmann ed., trans., “The Second Illinois In the Mexican War: Mexican War Letters of Adolph Engelmann, 1846-1847,” 424 (“old gray headed”), 439 (“lassoed and dragged”), in Journal of the Illinois State Historical Society Volume XXVI, April 1933 – January 1934 (Springfield, IL: the Illinois State Historical Society, 1934?), 357-452. 320 Otto Engelmann, “Letters of Adolph Engelmann,” 439 (“badly mangled”), 440 (“18 to 30”); Bauer, The Mexican War, 201-210. 322 towards us brandishing a huge knife, dripping with gore in one hand, and a bunch of reeking scalps in the other.” Chamberlain illustrated this as a watercolour copying Seth Eastman’s iconic Death-Whoop, his bearded, buckskinned irregular holding the scalps in his left hand and his bowie knife, or “Arkansas toothpick,” in his right. Chamberlain adds they found an additional thirty Mexicans inside the cave “butcherd [sic] on the floor, most of them scalped.” As in the wars between New England and New France, sectarian anti-Catholic violence and racialized anti-Indian violence had hybridized: “some irreverent wretch had crowned” a roughly-hewn crucifix at the back of the cave “with a bloody scalp, the gore trickling down the pale features of the Saviour.”321 American volunteers from other states reportedly scalped Mexicans during the war, citing Mexican collective guilt and past offenses with the violent self-pity usually deployed against Indians. When American occupational authorities established a court in Monterrey to settle disputes between Mexican citizens and American soldiers, claims filed against Texans predominated; Ohio volunteer Luther Giddings acidly noted that Texans’ self-justifications for their abuses and depredations “invariabl[y] began, continued and ended with the Alamo, or Goliad or Mier.” As Texas Ranger Creed Taylor recalled, after the battle of Resaca de la Palma in May 1846, General Taylor was revolted to learn that a Texan scout named John Bate Berry had scalped a Mexican after the battle. When Taylor demanded an explanation, Berry tearfully reiterated his grievances—“I was at Mier where my brother was butchered like a dog,” etc.—and stated “I have sworn by the eternal to kill Mexicans as long as I live.” In 1847 General Zachary Taylor’s adjutant-general William Bliss commented on the transfer 321 Goetzmann ed., My Confession: Recollections of a Rogue, 132-34. On Samuel Chamberlain’s enlistment in the Illinois volunteers, see Paul Foos, A Short, Offhand, Killing Affair: Soldiers and Social Conflict During the Mexican-American War (University of North Carolina Press, 2002), 49-52. 323 of Major Chevallié to General Wool after a series of depredations on Mexican citizens; while Chevallié was “a good partisan officer,” he and his Rangers “have the fault of all Texans i.e. an indifference to human life.” Chevallié, a major in the first Texas Ranger battalion in federal service, resigned his commission after Wool, in Goetzmann’s words, “deplored his assaults on Mexican citizens.” Chevallié and one of his officers, John Joel Glanton, were to find a lucrative trade south of the border.322 By the late 18th and early 19th centuries, the Ibero-American patterns of conquest and assimilation we noted in Chapter 1, including Indian slave trades and body-part bounties, were still well-entrenched. But where the Indian enemies of the Chichimec wars had been pedestrians armed with bows and arrows, Spain now faced equestrians with arsenals of firearms. The introduction of donkeys and Iberian horses, creatures used to hot and dry climates, into the arid Southwest, had given indigenous peoples a superior beast of burden to the dog and a means for escaped mission Indians in California, Apaches and Navajos in the Southwest, and the Comanches in the southern Plains to resist Iberian imperialism. Comanchería’s possession of vast horse herds, the best buffalo territory, and dominance of trade routes in the southern Plains made the Comanches too numerous, powerful, and well- armed for the Spanish government to inflict any lasting defeats on them. In 1786, peace was brokered with Comanchería on the premise of war against mutual enemies: the Osages of Spanish Louisiana and the evasive Apaches of the Southwestern mountains. In the case of the Apaches, the Comanches were promised a bounty of a bridled horse and pair of belduques, 322 Jimmy L. Bryan, Jr., More Zeal Than Discretion: The Westward Adventures of Walter P. Lane (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 61-62 (“began, continued and ended”, “as long as I live”), 59-76; Smith, Borderlander, 218-34, 292-93 n. 7. 324 single-edged multipurpose knives similar to the Anglo-American “scalping knife,” for every Apache prisoner delivered to Santa Fe.323 This state of affairs was an end result of a series of late 17th century Apache defeats by Comanches who seized rich grassland for their horse herds, bison which provided food and bison products for export, and Apache captives to increase Comanchería’s population through adoption and enslavement. In the time of Coronado, Athabaskan-speaking peoples collectively known as Apaches had occupied a continuous swathe of territory from Arizona to north Texas; now, the western and eastern divisions of the Comanches operated as a federation of autonomous tribes who met annually to determine national policy, while the Apaches were scattered culturally and politically. The Lipan and Plains (or Kiowa) Apaches remained on the plains of Oklahoma and Texas, while the various Apache groups of the mountains of New Mexico and Arizona relied heavily on livestock stolen from Hispanic ranches, partly for war and transportation, but largely for food. The Hispanic public considered Apaches as barbarians lacking the useful economic skills of town-dwelling farmers like the Pueblos or the Nahuas of central Mexico, and policies of extirpation were popular. From Mexico City the Viceroy, Bernardo de Gálvez, crowed his approval of the Apaches’ “special ruination” per the 1786 Comanche treaty, as the “happiness” of the north depended on their “voluntary or forced submission,” or “total extermination.” During the 323 Silvio R. Duncan Baretta and John Markoff, “Civilization and Barbarism: Cattle Frontiers in Latin America,” in Comparative Studies in Society and History, Vol. 20, No. 4 (Oct., 1978), 587-620; Pekka Hämäläinen, The Comanche Empire (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008); Weber, The Mexican Frontier, 207-216; Calloway, Winter Count, 376-395; Thomas A. Britten, The Lipan Apaches: People of Wind and Lightning (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2009), 124-140; David J. Weber, Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005); Ralph Adam Smith, Borderlander: the Life of James Kirker, 1793-1852 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999), 55-65; John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds, on de Croix (602-03) and Apache deportation (751); Shelley Bowen Hatfield, Chasing Shadows: Indians Along the United States-Mexico Border 1876-1911 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998), 11-21. 325 1770s and 1780s, as the northern provinces of New Spain from the Californias to Texas were placed under the direct control of the Crown and the military, strings of dried Indian ears sent by field commanders to confirm their official reports’ kill counts had adorned the doorway to the Governor’s Palace in Santa Fé, a grotesque counterpart to the ristras of dried chilies that hung in ordinary New Mexican homes. Ear bounties coexisted quite comfortably with decapitation: in the 1770s the commander of Tucson presidio, Pedro de Allande, boasted of placing Apache heads on the battlements, and Antonio Cordero y Bustamante, commander of Janos, hung severed Apache heads from mesquite trees along the road to the fort. Private bounties could be also be offered to raise the troops’ spirits: in 1780, during Governor Juan Bautista de Anza’s punitive expedition, Commandant-General Teodoro de Croix offered his men cash bounties for live Apache prisoners or for the heads and ears of the dead. The carrot was alternated with the stick: Apaches who turned themselves in received rations, land, and peace in return for military alliance against Apaches still at large. Such regimes of violence also existed in California, where escaped mission Indians stole livestock for food. In January 1834, a few volunteers from Joseph Walker’s beaver-trapping brigade joined a Californian punitive expedition, seeking Indians who had stolen 300 horses from Mission San Juan Bautista. With the Americans’ assistance, the Californians tracked the raiders to their camp where, according to participant Zenas Leonard, most of the horses had already been killed and butchered for meat, and only a few women, children, and “old and feeble” Indians remained. Leonard later recalled that the incensed Californians opened fire on them with an artillery piece and, contrary to Governor Figueroa’s instructions that stock-stealing Indians 326 be taken to the presidios for punishment, killed the survivors and cut off their ears “to show the Priests and Alcaldes, that they had used every effort to regain the stolen property.”324 Following the end of their rebellion against Spain in 1821, newly-independent Mexico was “born bankrupt” due to the flight of Spanish capital, no longer able to maintain peace with Apache and Comanche bands in the north by offering trade goods and rations for treaty Apaches. During the thirty years of peace established on the northern frontier between the 1790s and the 1820s, Mexico’s north had been rapidly repopulated and its ranching and mining economies developed, with American merchants and mercenaries flocking around the vast copper mine of Santa Rita del Cobre in the New Mexico Territory, many of them having wandered south from Bent’s Fort in Colorado. Now, throughout the the 1820s and 1830s northern Mexico was devastated annually by mass incursions of Apaches, Comanches, and various peoples of the southern Plains seeking horses, cattle, captives, and plunder. In New Mexico, Apache raiders returning from Chihuahua and Sonora sold stolen mules to the copper miners for guns, powder, and lead as well as food and whiskey, in express defiance of Mexican contraband laws. As the state governments of Mexico’s north increasingly devolved 324 Santiago, The Jar of Severed Hands, 81-97; Weber, Mexican Frontier; Weber, Bárbaros; Ned Blackhawk, Violence Over the Land; Edwin R. Sweeney, Cochise: Chiricahua Apache Chief (Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press, 1991), 15-58; Lance R. Blyth, Chiricahua and Janos: Communities of Violence in the Southwestern Borderlands, 1680 – 1880 (University of Nebraska Press, 2012), 87-154; Matthew Babcock, “Blurred Borders: North America’s Forgotten Apache Reservations,” in Juliana Barr and Edward Countryman eds., Contested Spaces of Early America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 163-183; on Apaches’ preference for horsemeat over beef, see Matthew Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 156; Apaches preferred to take the fattest horses, since they were easier to herd, tastier, and would have more energy reserves on a long flight back to their villages—on this and Apache warfare terminology, see Grenville Goodwin, Keith Basso ed. Western Apache Raiding and Warfare (Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press, 1973 [1971]), 13-19, 258; Hatfield, Chasing Shadows, 11- 21; Weber, The Mexican Frontier, 1821 to 1846; E.A. Schwartz, The Rogue River Indian War and its Aftermath, 1850-1980 (Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997); On Zenas Leonard, see James J. Rawls, Indians of California: The Changing Image (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1984), 54-59, and George Harwood Phillips, Indians and Intruders in Central California, 1769-1849 (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1993), 157-58, and Zenas Leonard, Milo Milton Quaife ed., Narrative of the Adventures of Zenas Leonard (Chicago: R.R. Donnelly and Sons Company, 1934), 189-91, cited in Phillips, 90. 327 responsibility for recovering stolen stock and captives onto parties of armed citizens bearing licenses from state authorities, the question of what constituted evidentiary pieces to confirm kills of enemy Indians began lurching towards the Anglo-American style of scalp bounties. In 1837, John Johnson, a Kentucky-born naturalized citizen of Moctezuma, Sonora, turned in four scalps of known Apache leaders, with ears attached to fulfill the technicalities of Mexican ear bounties, and asked for compensation. The incident provoked Apache retaliations across the north, not least because Johnson had obtained these scalps by posing as an unlicensed trader and offering dry goods before opening fire on the crowd with an artillery piece stuffed with scrap metal and glass. Mexican authorities were also uncertain as to whether they should encourage armed American adventurers so soon after the secession of Texas, but ultimately rewarded Johnson and his party.325 In August 1837, having gained the approval of the Chihuahuan War Tribunal, a cabal of private citizens in Chihuahua State, comprised of various high members of government and the American and French naturalized citizens who owned Santa Rita del Cobre, proposed in the state newspaper El noticio the first scalp bounty program in Mexican history. In addition to the pre-existing regulated prices paid by ranchers for animals recovered from Indians, volunteer expeditions against the Apaches would receive fixed prices for scalps: $100 for a man’s, $50 for a woman’s, and $25 for “each Indian [captive] under twelve years old.” The owners of Santa Rita proposed the company be led by a security guard for their mule train to Chihuahua City named James Kirker, the sort of sleazy individual too weird to 325 Matthew Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Smith, Borderlander, 68-70, 268-69 notes 10, 11, 16, 17; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Joseph C. Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico: Chiricahua Apache Personal Narratives of Horrors,” in Western Folklore vol. 54, no. 3 (July 1995), 169-196; Rex W. Strickland, “The Birth and Death of a Legend: The Johnson “Massacre” of 1837,” in Arizona and the West Vol. 18, No. 3 (Autumn 1976), pp. 257-286. 328 make up: born in northern Ireland, he had gained American citizenship as a teenager by fighting as a privateer in the War of 1812, left behind a wife and child in New York City to go west as a beaver trapper in the early 1820s, and was one of the Mexican frontier’s most notorious Apache contrabandists. An eastern Indian variously identified as a Shawnee or “Delaware” named Spie-buck or Spybuck, who Kirker had met working as a hunter and trapper at Bent’s Fort, was chosen for his second-in-command, to lead a polyglot company of mercenaries. The law was struck down by the central government in Mexico City in October 1837, who objected on moral grounds and that it would attract armed “foreigners and adventurers,” so the initial outings of Kirker and Spybuck’s company, like those of civilian volunteer parties, aimed to take captives to sell into slavery and livestock to resell, keep, or return to ranchers for recovery fees. The central problem was that Kirker avoided fighting the Apache bands actually at war with the Mexican state, like those of Pisago Cabezón, as they were his contraband partners; instead, Kirker and Spybuck attacked peaceful or neutral Apaches, embroiling the state in wider conflicts.326 In December 1839 the Chihuahuan state threw misgivings to the wind and renegotiated Kirker’s contract. His 250-man army, including a hiring quota of 50 Mexican citizens, would receive daily wages double those of Mexican soldiers and officers, and were guaranteed $50 for each confirmed kill or capture of an Apache male age 14 or up, and $25 for death or capture of women or children under 14. The authorities would accept scalps, with both ears attached, as a pieza, provided they were confirmed by the inspection of a committee of four esteemed residents of Chihuahua City. On 9 January 1840, while the 326 Smith, Borderlander; Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico”. 329 Chihuahuan army was conducting peace negotiations with Pisago Cabezón, Kirker, ordered to stay out of the field during peace talks, attacked Pisago’s village in the Chihuahuan mountains, killing 10 warriors and carrying off 20 prisoners and 70-odd head of livestock; in a further defiant flourish, he captured Pisago’s teenage son Janaso Marcelo from Janos for the $50 bounty for male prisoners. Chihuahua’s new governor Francisco García Conde swiftly cancelled his contract, and when the rates were sharply reduced later that year, to $5 for every scalp or prisoner of any age or sex and $2.50 for every recovered mule, Kirker promptly fled Chihuahua. Leaving Mexican citizens to cope with attacks by Apaches he had armed or antagonized, the company dispersed for five years.327 By 1842, Governor Conde had managed to negotiate an incomplete peace with Pisago Cabezón, Ponce, and some other leaders, whose bands received slim, often late weekly rations of corn, sugar, tobacco, and meat. But other Apache bands remained at war with Chihuahua, and both parties continued to raid Sonora, fencing their stolen stock and loot with friendly Chihuahuan towns and settlements, even Janos presidio. Such bilateral agreements between Hispanic towns and Indian raiders had occurred across the north since the 18th century, but in the 1820s and 1830s the Apaches began to warn each other of the possibility of betrayal in what was known as a mescalería: Mexicans showed generous hospitality to Apache guests, plying them with food and liquor, then attacked them with knives and clubs. In some instances, like the killing of four Apaches by a mob at Santa Rita in 1836, civil authorities were openly defied and threatened with violence by citizen vigilantes, an event which seems eerily similar to the vigilante killings in 1763 Pennsylvania. In December 1845 327 Smith, Borderlander; Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico”. 330 the state of Chihuahua had contracted Kirker again for his services while opening the $50 bounty on Apache captives or piezas, including scalps, to the general public to wean themselves from their dependency on Kirker. While Kirker was in the field in the summer of 1846, Chihuahuan authorities began peace negotiations with Chiricahua Apache leaders, and in the later recollection of such Chiricahua notables as Mangas Coloradas, Yrigóllen, and Jason Betzinez, those Chiricahuas who went to trade at the Chihuahuan town of Galeana in early July were assured of the protection of a treaty with state authorities. On this point the British traveller George Frederick Ruxton concurred, writing in 1847 that they had come to Galeana to trade “in good faith.” The Galeaños apparently offered the Chiricahuas copious amounts of mescal or whiskey and the mescalería which followed killed 130 Apaches. Kirker was in the area pursuing Apaches who had stolen cattle at nearby Encinillas, but his actual role in the massacre is disputed. Ruxton described him as a co-conspirator or tactician who planned the massacre with the Galeaños, provided the “several kegs of spirits,” directly participated in the riot with his scalp hunters, and then rode into Chihuahua City in triumph bearing scalps on poles. Edwin Sweeney considers Kirker’s provisioning of the liquor “unlikely” but agrees otherwise with Ruxton and contemporary accounts by Chihuahuan officials which implicated Kirker in the massacre.328 Sweeney notes self-justifying statements made by or attributed to Kirker reprinted in the state newspaper El provisional, proclaiming a “kill or be killed” situation where, unless they struck first, they would all “perish at the hands of the ten [Chiricahua] chiefs with their hordes of warriors,” a surety since “more than one hundred times had the Indians been 328 Smith, Borderlander; Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico”. 331 treasonous to us.” Kirker’s biographer Ralph Smith is the lone dissenting voice, arguing that most of the killing was done by Galeaños and that Kirker was unable to stop them; “as part of their job,” Kirker and his men subsequently descended like vultures to scalp the Apache dead. The Chiricahuas always denied that they had stolen the cattle from Encinillas, and Galeana further entrenched mutual suspicion between Mexicans and Apaches while moderate leaders were further discredited or alienated. As Lance Blyth writes, while Mexicans considered Apaches as “barbarians” and “savages” whose lives revolved around war and robbery, Apaches came to believe that “all Mexicans in their hearts simply ‘wanted’ to kill Apaches.” Even among other Apaches, the Chiricahuas became particularly implacable; for the rest of the 1840s, observes Sweeney, “every Chiricahua band went to war with Mexico.”329 And then, as in 1840, Kirker promptly abandoned Mexico to deal with the revenge attacks he had provoked. Offered a colonelcy in the Mexican army, Kirker deserted to the Doniphan Expedition and the American army. With a $10,000 reward offered by the state of Chihuahua for his death or capture, Kirker’s army now acted as scouts, foragers, and interpreters for Doniphan’s Missouri volunteers and aided in enforcing the occupation code, flogging and hanging Mexican citizens they had been contracted to protect months before. The Mexican population dreaded as the Missourians as “Texans, Yankees, heretics and pirates,” and a recurrent fear that Kirker was passing off Mexican citizens’ hair as Apache resurfaced. It had first appeared in print in 1841 when George Wilkins Kendall, an editor for the New Orleans Picayune and correspondent with the Texan Santa Fé Expedition, cited a 329 Lance R. Blyth, Chiricahua and Janos: Communities of Violence in the Southwestern Borderlands, 1680 – 1880 (University of Nebraska Press, 2012), 152 (“all Mexicans in their hearts”); Smith, Borderlander; Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico”. 332 “half-blood Delaware” named Charley Tirrell to the effect that Mexican officers “jealous” of Kirker’s successes against the Apaches had invented a rumour “that [Kirker] was in the practice of bringing in counterfeit scalps,” taken from the “lower order of Mexicans” to “pass off their topknots for those of true Apaches.” In 1846, Mexican popular opinion held that Kirker’s horde would scalp Mexican men and enslave their wives and daughters, branding them with cattle irons. The reality was less dramatic: at war’s end in 1848, Kirker resumed his trade of guns and powder for stolen livestock. As well-armed Southwestern and Southern Plains raiders under increasing pressure from California-bound American migrants inundated the northern frontier in 1848 and 1849, northern Mexican states began contracting American mercenaries as scalp hunters.330 In early May 1849 two former Texas Rangers en route to the California goldfields, Lt.-Col. Michael Hancock Chevallié and Lt. John Joel Glanton, arrived in Chihuahua City leading an armed company and expressed a willingness to kill Indians for money. Striking while the iron was hot, American and Mexican businessmen in Chihuahua City backed the formation of a new scalp-hunter company to be funded by contributions from wealthy citizens. Over the veto of Chihuahua’s Governor Ángel Trías Álvarez, on 25 May 1849 the state congress ratified a new scalp-contracting policy dubbed “the Fifth Law” or “the Kirker bill.” Article 2 of the bill required the governor to contract with national and foreign volunteers to fight “the barbarous Indians,” while Article 5 offered generous terms: $200 for each slain Indian warrior confirmed by evidentiary piezas, $250 for a warrior taken alive, and $150 for a female captive or child of either sex 14 years old or less. On 30 June, after 330 Smith, Borderlander; Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico”. 333 promoters in Durango had floated the idea of contracting “some skilled foreign riflemen,” particularly “some hundreds of Americans or Irishmen” to fight Indians, Durango passed its own “Kirker law” on 30 June, instructing its governor to contract with “national or foreign partisans” to fight “the barbarous Indians” and pay them $200 apiece for kills or captives. Denounced in the Mexico City press as “blood contracts,” “the vile industry of selling scalps,” quirquismo, and an invitation to another American invasion, the federal government’s declaration of the Chihuahuan law as unconstitutional in late July was ignored in the north.331 As Chevallié’s company brought back scalps, prisoners, and livestock from several 1849 expeditions against the Apaches, the floodgates were opened to imitators. Records indicate that the state of Chihuahua alone paid out $17,896 for scalps in 1849, and the implication that scalp-bounty policies were an effective alternative to funding the military spurred the declaration of scalp bounties in Nuevo Leon and Coahuila, and inspired new scalp-hunter companies to seek contracts in the northern states. These included Anglo- American Forty-Niners, Texas Rangers, and naturalized citizens like James Johnson of Moctezuma, as well as the first Mexican companies of scalp-hunters. In 1851, a Comanche “generaless and prophetess” named Tave Peté and her grandsons Bajo el Sol and Magüe became contracted scalp hunters with Chihuahua, agreeing by treaty to stop raiding the state in exchange for hunting Apaches. The scalp bounties levied in Mexico’s northern states against Apaches, Comanches, and the Seri peoples of southwestern Sonora for the rest of the century were collected by companies of other nations as well: Seminoles and Kickapoos 331 Smith, Borderlander; Babcock, Apache Adaptation to Hispanic Rule (Cambridge University Press, 2016), 172-249; Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace, 157-184; Sweeney, Cochise, 15-58; Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico”. 334 given reservations in Mexico, black ex-slaves who had fled to Mexico seeking emancipation, and Anglo-Americans from across the border. Scalp bounties also inflected wars between indigenous peoples: Akimel and Tohono O’odham, Pueblos, and Rarámuris (Tarahumaras) targeted by Apache and Comanche raids turned in their defeated enemies’ scalps or ears for bounty, while Apaches and Comanches at war with each other did likewise.332 Among all of Kirker’s successors, Chevallié and Glanton stood apart for their indiscriminate violence. Alfonso Anderson, a self-declared participant in Chevallié’s second 1849 scalphunting expedition, described seeing “a child no higher than his knee killed in cold blood and scalped.” When Chevallié went west to California, where for reasons unknown he reportedly “blew out his own brains” on the road, Glanton succeeded him, leading a mixed Company of Anglo-American Forty-Niners, Mexican citizens, and Native Americans into the field. In 1850 state troops drove the Glanton gang out of Chihuahua after reports that they were killing agriculturalist Indians and mestizos for their scalps. After contracting with Sonora to hunt Apaches at rates of $150 for warriors dead or alive and $100 for female captives or live children under 14, the Glanton gang were driven out of Sonora after rumours of mestizo-scalping surfaced there as well. Continuing on to California, Glanton and his followers seized a ferry at the Yuma Ford at the intersection of the Colorado River and the Gila Trail, and descended into brigandage against Hispanic and Anglo-American travellers. 332 Babcock, Apache Adaptation, 250-264; William B. Griffen, Apaches at War and Peace: The Janos Presidio, 1750-1858 (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 1988), 223-246; Edwin R. Sweeney, Cochise: Chiricahua Apache Chief (Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press, 1991), 59-98; Hämäläinen, Comanche Empire, 307; John Emil Sepich, Notes on Blood Meridian, revised and expanded edition (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2008 [1993]), 5-11, 44; John Emil Sepich, “ ‘What kind of indians was them?’ : Some Historical Sources in Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian,” in Edwin T. Arnold and Dianne C. Luce ed., Perspectives on Cormac McCarthy (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1999), 123-143; Ralph A. Smith, revised by Sloan Rodgers, entry “Glanton, John Joel” in Handbook of Texas Online; Smith, Borderlander, 218- 234. 335 On the morning of 23 March, 1850, Quechans (or “Yumas”) who the Glanton gang had violently antagonized swept the Crossing in a dawn attack and wiped out the scalphunters.333 Where Mexican scalp bounties had been offered at the state level, Californian scalp bounties were offered by municipalities or wealthy private individuals. As elsewhere, Anglo- American scalp hunters proudly displayed scalps no matter the circumstances of their taking, as the Sacramento Union reported in December 1852 had happened in Yreka. Led by a Benjamin Wright, a party of 18 volunteers had paraded through the streets of Yreka in triumph, each of them carrying an Indian’s bow and arrows “and the muzzle of his gun decorated with a scalp taken from the enemy.” According to General Ethan Hitchcock, they had invited these Indians to a peace conference and then turned on them, and claimed 30 kills to their credit. In 1855, when municipal officials of Shasta City offered $5 for Indians’ heads, one resident claimed to have seen a mule train enter town with each beast burdened by 8 to 12 heads. One California county, notes Lindsay, “paid 50 cents for every Indian scalp and $5 for every Indian head brought in,” perhaps because the latter were surer proofs of death than scalps. In 1859, a community near Marysville paid bounties, collected by public subscription, “for every scalp or some other satisfactory evidence” of an Indian’s death. In 1861, plans were made in Tehama County to raise a fund “to be disbursed in payment of Indian scalps”, and in 1863 the citizens of Honey Lake paid $0.25 per scalp. While, notes Lindsay, a California gold miner made an average of $3 per day, and thus $0.25 to $5 per scalp was a fair amount of money, these rates paled in comparison to the $200 to $250 that Apache scalps brought in contemporary northern Mexico, or the rates of up to $200 that Indian 333 Goetzmann ed., My Confession; Ralph A. Smith, “Glanton, John Joel,” in Handbook of Texas Online; Bryan, More Zeal than Discretion, 61-66, 200 n. 17. 336 children fetched in the California slave trade. Some ranchers also hired individuals to patrol their lands and kill Indians on sight, as the Daily Alta California reported in 1853: two ranchers in Colusa county, “Messrs. Thomas & Toombe,” having lost $5,000 worth of stock to Indian rustlers, had hired two men “at $8.00 per month to hunt down and kill the Diggers, like other beasts of prey.” Perhaps these low rates simply speak to Californians’ contempt for “Diggers” as easy prey. The prices Frank and Pierce Asbill offered at their Summit Valley ranch for other threats to their livestock are instructive: $5.00 for the scalps of bears or panthers, $1.50 for those of “wildcats” and eagles, $10 for those of coyotes. In other words, the life of a coyote was considered harder to take than the life of a human being.334 Rather than note the challenges endemic Indian-killing raised for the professed benignity of Anglo-Californian society, contemporaries preferred to attribute such actions to unsavory characters unrepresentative of American society as a whole, distanced from the mainstream with racialized epithets like “thug,” “squaw man,” or “white Indian” and regularly described as worse than Indians, reifying Indians as the yardstick of savagery. An example appears in a San Francisco Bulletin article of 1859, telling of a party led by John Breckenridge, one of Toombe’s salaried Indian-killers, who had ambushed and slain a party of five Indians and their white leader. The latter was unknown to them but believed to be a member of the “Butte Creek squaw men,” a gang of “some forty or fifty white brutes” who kept Indian women “in a state of concubinage” and armed and protected the Indians “in all 334 Clifford E. Trafzer and Joel R. Hyer, eds., Exterminate Them! Written Accounts of the Murder, Rape, and Enslavement of Native Americans during the California Gold Rush (East Lansing, Michigan: Michigan State University Press, 1999), 28-29, 67-68 (Daily Alta California 6 March, 1853: “Sacramento News [per Adam’s & Co.’s Express] “Exciting News from Tehama—Indian Thefts—Terrible Vengeance of the Whites”); James J. Rawls, Indians of California: The Changing Image (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1984), 185-86; Lynwood Carranco and Estle Beard, Genocide and Vendetta: The Round Valley Wars of Northern California (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma press, 1981), 183. 337 their depredations.” According to the Bulletin, Breckenridge scalped him “[a]s a trophy, or sort of remembrance that there was a man so base as to lead on a band of savages to deeds of butchery and theft”. In an 1860 editorial in the New York Century, “Indian Butcheries in California,” denouncing the Eureka volunteers’ Humboldt Bay massacre, the editors thundered that “civilized humanity” could “scarcely believe it possible” for white men to be degraded so far below savages” as the “filthy wretches who infect the frontier settlements.” A letter to the Sacramento Union from the Mattole region of Humboldt County in 1862, asking for government assistance to protect settlers, noted that while Indians “hovering around the mountains and on the beach” occasionally killed cattle, “we have some among us claiming to be white men who are worse than Indians. Last Monday night one of them set fire to the school house.” As late as 1870, the appearance of Missouri hide-hunters in the Yolla Bolly mountains prompted derision in the press of the “buckskin gentry,” “squatters” and “squaw men.”335 A larger proportion of the population took mental refuge in the cognitive dissonances Manifest Destiny permitted, which proclaimed Anglo-Americans’ God-given destiny to scalp and extirpate Indians but, when Anglo-Americans acted upon these beliefs, proclaimed such events as unfortunate accidents or historical processes that went beyond human agency. Governor Burnett, author of the 1850 Act which made massacre, for-profit Indian hunting, and Indian slave labour the norm in the state of California, declared in 1851 that “the inevitable destiny of the race,” i.e., extinction, “is beyond the power or wisdom of man to avert.” Such self-exculpatory thinking also appears in the 1894 memoirs of John Bidwell, an 335 Trafzer and Hyer, Exterminate Them!, 34, 67-68, 126-27; Robert F. Heizer, ed., They Were Only Diggers: A Collection of Articles from California Newspapers, 1851-1866, on Indian and White Relations (Ramona, CA: Ballena Press, 1974), 88; Rawls, Indians of California; Carranco and Beard, Genocide and Vendetta. 338 influential Anglo-Californian farmer, philanthropist, temperance activist, and Senator who had settled in California in the 1830s. Looking back, he recalled that the term “Digger,” applied on the other side of the Rockies to pedestrian Great Basin peoples, had been brought to California by “specimens of an abandoned class of the mountaineer type of white men” who “seemed to think no more of killing an Indian than shooting a coyote.” He recalled meeting one of these “degraded” individuals who “boasted of the number of Indians he had killed,” tallied with nearly 100 “notches which he cut on his tomahawk handle.” Bidwell, by contrast, avoided bloodying his own hands: as Brendan Lindsay notes in Murder State, on one occasion he issued and paid out a private $500 bounty for the scalp of a known Indian stockthief from Mill Creek.336 An officer stationed in northern California’s Humboldt Bay had a fright one night in 1852 when an owl flew into his cabin and landed on his head in the dark. Fresh out of West Point and having heard constant stories of “the treachery and cruelty of the Indians” since leaving New York, George Crook wrote decades later that his younger self “felt the sensation of my scalp leaving my head” at the prick of the owl’s talons. Such preconceived notions began to erode under the observed realities of life in the Humboldt Bay, where he saw the Wiyots, who he called “my first Indians,” attacked by Eureka volunteers. Crook wrote in his memoirs that another local group, the “Bald Mountain Indians,” were in fact “more or less hostile” and “killed a good many whites,” while the Wiyots were in his words “harmless,” “miserable,” “defenseless beings” who probably thought “their very condition would be their safeguard.” Instead, the Eureka vigilantes who sailed out to attack them on the night of 25-26 336 Lindsay, Murder State; Rawls, Indians of California; Carranco and Beard, Genocide and Vendetta; Trafzer and Hyer, Exterminate Them!; Heizer, They Were Only Diggers. 339 February 1860 targeted them for precisely this reason, while convincing themselves that the Wiyots were in collusion with the Bald Mountain tribe to justify massacring them; nor was this injustice isolated to the killers, as Crook noted that local newspapers “lauded” the massacre. Such injustice was endemic to the state of California, as Crook explicated: it was “no unfrequent occurrence” for indigenous men to be shot “in cold blood” or women raped “by some brute.” And as “Such a thing as a white man being punished for outraging an Indian was unheard of,” wars between Indians and settlers were endemic up and down the Pacific coast. Crook sympathized with the Indians: “the outrages of the whites” prompted Indians to either “take the war path or sink all self respect.”337 Scalping on the Great Plains: Sand Creek (1864) and Slim Buttes (1876) An outsider arriving in or passing through the young state of Colorado in 1867 would have noticed a flurry of public interest regarding scalp bounties. A mass meeting in Denver promised $10 for each Arapaho or Cheyenne scalp remitted, while in Central City a gathering of locals raised $5,000 to pay bounties of $20 per scalp, and took out ads in the regional press. On 4 May, another regional Colorado newspaper promised $10 per Indian “crown.” Since the winter of 1864-65, Coloradans and the federal Army had been at war with Cheyennes, Arapahos, and Lakota, with the advantage held by the Indians: federal troops were spread too thin to achieve substantive victories, while the highly-mobile Plains lifestyle meant that Indian raiders and war parties essentially controlled the countryside. As in 18th century Pennsylvania, two of scalping culture’s central narratives, i.e. that Anglo-Americans were the only real victims of frontier warfare and that Indians only understood violence, had 337 George Crook, Martin F. Schmitt ed., General George Crook: His Autobiography (University of Oklahoma Press, 1986), 11-16; Brendan C. Lindsay, Murder State: California’s Native American Genocide, 1846-1873 (University of Nebraska Press, 2012), 70-123, 304-312 340 in a self-confirming way led firebrands to commit a massacre which guaranteed the all-out war they feared. In the case of 1860s Colorado, the Sand Creek massacre of 1864, in which 900 predominantly-Coloradan militia led by Colonel John Chivington launched a surprise attack against a 500-strong village of the Cheyenne and Arapaho accommodationist factions, created a situation of all-out war between southern Plains Indians and the United States. For decades afterwards, Chivington and his defenders clung to two articles of faith to justify this disastrous and counterproductive massacre: that Sand Creek had achieved its aims of intimidating Indians, and that an exponentially increasing number of white settlers’ scalps had been found in the village, proving the wickedness of the people of Sand Creek.338 The details of Sand Creek have been formidably well-documented in Stan Hoig’s The Sand Creek Massacre (1961) and Ari Kelman’s A Misplaced Massacre (2013) and are only perfunctorily reiterated here; what I focus on is the way in which the question of who scalped who was used by Chivington’s defenders to assign absolute guilt to the Indians and degrees of innocence to the perpetrators. Chivington’s first official report to General Curtis, dated 29 November, crowed of a victory over “[a] Cheyenne village of 130 lodges and 900 to 1,000 warriors strong.” He and his men had killed several chiefs and “between 400 and 500 other Indians,” seizing an equal number of horses and mules, at a cost of “9 killed, 38 wounded. All died nobly.” Clearly, these Indians had deserved their fate: his forces had “found a white man’s scalp, not more than three days’ [sic] old, in one of the lodges.” As the general public 338 On scalp bounties in 1867 Colorado, see Ralph Smith, Borderlander: the Life of James Kirker, 1793-1852 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999), 298 n. 50; on Sand Creek, see Jerome A. Greene, Washita: The U.S. Army and the Southern Cheyennes, 1867-1869 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2004), 1-60; Stan Hoig, The Sand Creek Massacre (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1961); entry “Sand Creek” in Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians; Ari Kelman, A Misplaced Massacre: Struggling over the Memory of Sand Creek (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 2013); Ned Blackhawk et. al., Report of the John Evans Study Committee (Northwestern University: Evanston, Illinois, 2014), 37-95. 341 heard the grotesque details of what had been done to the Indians by Chivington’s troops at Sand Creek and as Chivington and his troops came under three separate federal investigations, one military and two congressional, the number of scalps began climbing steadily upwards. Chivington’s report to General Curtis of 16 December, 1864 changed the “one white man’s scalp” of his initial report into “several scalps of white men and women in the Indian lodges” and “articles of clothing belonging to white persons”; he also castigated the whistleblower Captain Silas Soule as an Indian-lover, “more in sympathy with those Indians than with the whites.”339 On the witness stand in January 1865, Chivington’s scalp count leaped upwards again to 19 scalps of white settlers, “one of them still fresh with gore,” and, perhaps meant to retroactively justify their killing of Indian children, “a child captured at the camp ornamented with six white women’s scalps.” On the stand and in their depositions, Chivington’s supporters also claimed to have seen white settlers’ scalps at Sand Creek: “a number of white person’s scalps—men’s women’s and children’s” (Stephen Decatur); “a good many white scalps” (Thaddeus Bell); “one new scalp, a white man’s, and two old ones” (Luther Wilson). While cross-examining Soule, Chivington pushed the principle of reasonable doubt to its logical extreme, pressing Soule’s admission that while he “saw soldiers with children’s scalps during the day,” he “did not see them cut off.” The Indians’ rifle pits hastily dug in the sandbanks with knives or by hand were transformed into evidence of a preexisting conspiracy: like Little Bighorn, Sand Creek was really an ambush, and the half-Cheyenne eyewitness George Bent was really a Confederate agent orchestrating a vast Plains Indian 339 Greene, Washita, 1-60; Hoig, The Sand Creek Massacre; entry “Sand Creek” in Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians; Kelman, A Misplaced Massacre; Blackhawk et. al., Report of the John Evans Study Committee, 37-95. 342 plot to destroy a new Union state. Nor did Chivington ever recant this position. In 1883, still imposing at age 62, he travelled from Cincinnati to Denver to give the keynote address for the 25th anniversary dinner of the Colorado heritage organization “the Pike’s Peak Pioneers of ’58,” where he fulminated at length on the Indians’ treachery and wickedness, concluding with “I stand by Sand Creek!” What proof did he have? The “scalps of white men, women, and children, several of which they had not had time to dry and tan since taken.” Speaking as though certain that his audience knew exactly what he was alluding to, he asked, “What of that Indian blanket that was captured, fringed with white women’s scalps?”340 The central paradox was that nobody but Chivington or his partisans ever reported seeing these phantom scalps, and not one of the alleged several dozen was ever brought back from Sand Creek to Denver. On the other hand, contemporary accounts indicate that the volunteers had no compunctions about publicly, proudly, and shamelessly displaying dozens of Cheyenne and Arapaho scalps and other body parts they took as trophies at Sand Creek— including the genitalia and pubic hair of both men and women—as they rode in triumph through the streets of Denver upon their return from Sand Creek, even using them as props in two Denver theatrical productions re-enacting their version of events, one of which was entitled The Battle of Sand Creek. Over the decades, the Colorado oral tradition embroidered the spoils supposedly found in the village, as indicated by William Byers, editor of the Rocky Mountain News, in a published dispute in the New York Tribune with Helen Hunt Jackson, Indian-policy reform activist and author of A Century of Dishonor (1881). In early 1880, after Jackson had criticized Colorado’s collective punishment of the White River Utes by 340 Greene, Washita, 1-60; Hoig, The Sand Creek Massacre; entry “Sand Creek” in Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians; Kelman, A Misplaced Massacre; Blackhawk et. al., Report of the John Evans Study Committee, 37-95. 343 noting that the same principle of collective punishment could be used to hold all white Coloradans responsible for the Sand Creek Massacre, Byers, who in 1864 had described Chivington and his men as having “covered themselves in glory,” fired back. Byers invoked a standard justification for Sand Creek: the killing of ranch foreman Nathan Hungate, his wife, and two young children, whose bodies had been publicly displayed in Denver as in 1750s Pennsylvania and whose killers, later found to be Arapaho raiders with an outstanding grievance against the ranch’s owner, were assumed in 1864 and thereafter to be the very same Cheyennes who had surrendered themselves to Army custody. While Jackson cited the testimonies recorded in the Joint Commission’s official records, Byers went for alternative facts: “scalps of white men” which “had not yet dried,” “an Indian saddle-blanket fringed entirely around the edges with white women’s scalps, with the long, fair hair attached,” and a story of how a white woman’s skin had been found stretched over the pommel of a Cheyenne’s saddle. Given that several eyewitnesses reported the posthumous trophies made of indigenous women’s private parts by the volunteers, Byers’ unsubstantiable story of the flaying of a white woman by the Indians is testament to denial and projection filtered through a bowdlerizing Victorian imagination.341 For Byers and many other Westerners, it was certain that the people of Sand Creek were the “confessed murderers of the Hungate family,” and if Jackson had seen the “cut, mutilated and scalped” bodies of the Hungate family, “the work of those same red fiends who were so justly punished at Sand Creek,” she would change her mind. Other authors piled on: W.B. Vickers, a Coloradan who wrote a history of the state in 1881, justified the 1879 White 341 Kate Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson: A Literary Life (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 2003), 227-28; Hoig, The Sand Creek Massacre; Greene, Washita, 1-60; Kelman, A Misplaced Massacre; Blackhawk et. al., Report of the John Evans Study Committee, 37-95. 344 River War and the subsequent deportation of Utes from the state by reference to the “Sand Creek fight” which “some” had “called a massacre”: “If so, it was a massacre of assassins, for fresh scalps of white men, women and children” – again, the scalps whose existence was never verified—“were found in the Indian camp after the battle.” The single-longest chapter of J.P. Dunn’s Massacres of the Mountains (1886) cited, as proof of Cheyenne guilt, the murder of the Hungates and the supposed presence of a vast haul of white women’s scalps at Sand Creek; he scoffed at “certain Indian-ring gentlemen,” for promulgating the lie “that the Cheyennes were ever friendly to the whites, […] Many well-meaning but poorly-informed people,” a possible allusion to Jackson, “have been drawn into this delusion.” Claiming that “Scalping and mutilation also strike terror to the Indian heart” Dunn also insisted, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that Sand Creek had halted further warfare: “The Cheyennes and Arapahoes got over into Kansas and Indian Territory as quickly as possible,” – which was true – “and stayed there,” which was decidedly not true. Theodore Roosevelt repeated this line of argument in one of the many attacks on contemporary Indian policy he inserted into his 1900 biography of Thomas Hart Benton, a Missouri politician and major proponent of Manifest Destiny, declaring “the so-called Chivington or Sandy Creek Massacre” as, “in spite of certain most objectionable details, […] as righteous and beneficial a deed as ever took place on the frontier.”342 Similar patterns of mind, where implications of scalping or brigandage were used to inflate Indians’ putative guilt while real or imagined hardships on the Anglo-American side 342 J.P. Dunn, Massacres of the Mountains: A History of the Indian Wars of the Far West (New York: Capricorn Books, 1969 [1886]), 332-373, 614 (“No warlike Indian… his spirit must be broken”); Theodore Roosevelt, Thomas Hart Benton (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1900), 211-12; Thomas G. Dyer, Theodore Roosevelt and the Idea of Race (Baton Rouge and London: Louisiana State University Press, 1980), 79-81; Roger L. Di Silvestro, Theodore Roosevelt in the Badlands: A Young Politician’s Quest for Recovery in the American West (Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 2011), 190-97, 318 n. 94. 345 were used to obscure Indians’ victimization, including scalping by Anglo-Americans, appear in accounts of Slim Buttes, an inglorious skirmish between General Crook and Lakotas in September 1876. In August, attempting to catch up to retreating Lakotas following Little Bighorn, General Crook and 2,200 men had begun pursuit through the Dakota badlands with minimal provisions and gear in unseasonally cold and rainy weather which turned badlands clay into clinging mud. In what became known as the “Horsemeat March,” Crook’s herd of packmules and horses were gradually reduced by lack of forage, exposure, and exhaustion while the troopers, eating half-raw meat from played-out animals, fared little better. By 5 September Crook decided to bivouac for the winter in the new mining towns in the Black Hills, which the Sioux had not yet ceded legally to the United States (and, at the time of this writing, still have not).343 On 7 September Crook had ordered Captain Anson Mills to take 150 men on the strongest remaining horses and head to the Black Hills’ northernmost mining camps to purchase fresh provisions. Unnoticed in the fog and rain, Captain Mills’ scouts stumbled on the morning of the 8th upon a 37-lodge village led by a Lakota named American Horse the Elder, or Iron Plume, nestled on the eastern side of what the Lakotas called Paha Zizipela, translated by the scouts as Slim Buttes. Though they technically enjoyed a four-to-one numerical advantage over their enemies, Crook’s 2,200 men and their remaining horses were so enervated that in their attack on the morning of 9 September they could do no more than 343 Smith, Borderlander, 298 n. 50; Kingsley Bray, Crazy Horse: A Lakota Life (University of Oklahoma Press, 2011), 240-47; Jerome A. Greene ed., Battles and Skirmishes of the Great Sioux War, 1876-1877: The Military View (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1993), 96-115; Charles F. Finerty, War-Path and Bivouac, or, The Conquest of the Sioux (Chicago, 1890), 249-66; Jerome A. Greene, Slim Buttes, 1876: An Episode of the Great Sioux War (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1982); Darlis A. Miller, Captain Jack Crawford: Buckskin Poet, Scout, and Showman (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2012), 41-66. 346 take about 20 prisoners from the village, and hold their ground against a counterattack of 500 Lakotas and Cheyennes from Crazy Horse’s village 20 miles away in the afternoon. And their attack on the village comprised a victory that none of them seemed keen to remember in later years: while most of the residents had fled, about 28 people, very few of them men of fighting age, had been mercilessly besieged when they took shelter in a brushy ravine. The Lakota chief Moses Flying Hawk later observed that “had [the roles] been reversed, [Slim Buttes] would have been called by the whites a terrible massacre.”344 Charles Finerty, correspondent for the Chicago Tribune, noted acts of bravery by various troopers in the siege of the ravine, including the “ingenious” stratagem of the scout, Baptiste “Big Bat” Pourier, of using a woman as a human shield (“a captive squaw as a living barricade”) while he scalped a man he had killed “in a manner that displayed perfect workmanship. Scalping is an artistic process, and, when neatly done, may be termed a satanic accomplishment.” Finerty admitted that “the savages acted purely in self defense” in defending their families, but insisted that, “until their cries were heard above the volume of fire,” Crook and his officers did not think women and children were in the gully –which, given Crook’s long history as an Indian-fighter, seems implausible. Finerty’s feelings were 344 Lakota veterans interviewed in the early 20th century unanimously disagreed that either the elder or younger American Horse was present or died at Slim Buttes, but differed on the identity of the man in the ravine. According to Has Horns, he was a Sans Arc named Iron Shield, a respected man but not a leader—see Richard G. Hardorff ed., Lakota Recollections of the Custer Fight: New Sources of Indian-Military History (Spokane, Washington: the Arthur H. Clark Company, 1991), 151, 161-62 (footnote 9). According to Short Buffalo, the fatally-wounded leader at Slim Buttes was named Iron Plume, and his brother was Charging Bear—Paul D. Riley, “Oglala Sources on the Life of Crazy Horse: Interview Given to Eleanor H. Hinman,” 205, in R. Eli Paul ed., The Nebraska Indian Wars Reader, 1865-1877 (University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 180-215. Greene (Slim Buttes, 49, and 159, footnote 61) names him as “the Minneconjou American Horse, also known as Iron Plume, Iron Shield, and Black Shield.” Charging Bear, one of the captives who remained with Crook during the retreat, helped negotiate the surrender at Slim Buttes and later became a corporal in Crook’s scouting division— Greene, Slim Buttes, 77, 168 (footnote 77). Durwood Ball and Paul Andrew Hutton eds., Soldiers West: Biographies from the Military Frontier, second edition (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2009), 189-90; Greene ed., Battles and Skirmishes of the Great Sioux War, 96-115. 347 decidedly mixed: the scene of Slim Buttes, “if properly put on canvas, would […] give the civilized world a faithful picture of the inevitable diabolism of Indian warfare.”345 The newspaper correspondents and the memoirists preferred to focus on moments that could be inflated or reshaped into clear-cut examples of heroism and villainy. The fatally-wounded Minniconjou leader American Horse, who gripped a stick between his teeth to cope with the pain of his fatal abdominal injury and refused the surgeon’s chloroform, was unanimously praised by Finerty, King, Bourke, and other eyewitnesses for his stoicism and “Spartan courage” – that, perhaps, he feared losing consciousness in the Americans’ custody does not seem to have been voiced in writing. Much attention was given to the death of the scout Charles White, a hanger-on of “Buffalo” Bill Cody who bore the nickname “Buffalo Chips” and was one of the only soldiers killed in the siege of the ravine; Finerty, Bourke, King, and others wrote him heroic, melodramatic death scenes. All attempted to distance themselves from the scalping that took place during and after the battle, which Finerty restricted to “a few – a very few – brutalized soldiers.” He claimed that they drew inspiration from a scout named “Ute John” who “scalped all the dead, unknown to the General or any of the officers.” Ute John functioned as something of a scapegoat figure for Finerty, who attributed to him a desire to scalp the slain baby yet noted that American Horse’s death was so noble, “Even Ute John respected the cold clay of the brave Sioux leader and his corpse was not subjected to the scalping process.” Captain Bourke couldn’t resist getting his own licks in even while defending “the much-disparaged” Ute John: noting that while he had a reputation as a rogue who had “murdered his own grandmother and drunk her blood,” this 345 Finerty, War-Path and Bivouac, , 257 (“volume of fire”), 259 (“inevitable diabolism”), ; Moses Flying Hawk cited in Major Israel McCreight, Firewater and Forked Tongues: A Sioux Chief Interprets U.S. History (Trail's End Publishing: Pasadena, CA, 1947), 153-54. 348 was “somewhat exaggerated, and he was harmless except when sober, which wasn’t often.”346 Charles King, on the other hand, attributed a hunger for scalps to all the “rabid Indians” they had faced both in and out of American Horse’s village, calling them “the Dick Turpins of the Plains”. In a short few sentences written in an 1880 retrospective, he managed to cast aspersions on the Indians who had had the courage to surrender by portraying them as treacherous, filthy, and sadistic: Here’s one grinning, hand-shaking vagabond with one of Custer’s corporals [sic] uniforms on his back—doubtless that corporal’s scalp is somewhere in the warrior’s possession, but he has the deep sagacity not to boast of it; and no man in his sound senses wants to search the average Indian. They are our prisoners. Were we theirs, by this time we would be nakedly ornamenting a solid stake and broiling to a juicy death to the accompaniment of their exultant howls. King also made much of the idea that “the skulking rascals” would “come prowling” as soon as the soldiers left to dig up, scalp, and mutilate the three American dead before leaving them “to their four-footed relatives, the prairie wolves” – again, using traditional Savagist language to criminalize and animalize them.347 346 Bourke, On the Border With Crook, 349-50 (“which wasn’t often”), 356 (“much-disparaged”); Finerty, War- Path, 289; Greene, Slim Buttes, 169 (footnote 83) identifies “Ute John” as Nicaagat, also known as “Captain Jack,” a traditionalist Ute leader during the White River War of 1877—see Robert Emmitt, The Last War Trail: The Utes and the Settlement of Colorado (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1954), 14, 39-40, 55, 96, 172, 197, 301-02. On Charles “Buffalo Chips” White, whose nickname was variously attributed to General Sheridan and Lieutenant Alfred Norton and apparently a bowdlerized version of “buffalo shit,” see entry “WHITE, Charles” in Charles M. Robinson III ed., The Diaries of John Gregory Bourke volume 2: July 29, 1876 – April 7, 1878 (Denton, TX: University of North Texas Press, 2005), 454. 347 Richard C. Stirk, 10 November, 1906, cited in Richard E. Jensen ed., Voices of the American West Volume 2: The Settler and Soldier Interviews of Eli S. Ricker, 1903-1919 (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 282-85. Stirk, who was at Fort Robinson when Buffalo Bill “is said to have had his fight with Yellow Hand,” noted, “He did not see this; but say some of the men claimed that they killed the Indian and that Bill merely took his scalp.” Captain Charles King, Campaigning with Crook (1891; Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1964 reprint), 114-15. Most of this was a reprint of an 1880 edition, compiled from articles published that year in the Milwaukee Sentinel—Don Russell’s introduction, xv-xvi, in Paul L. Hedren ed., 349 In possible imitation of Buffalo Bill, “Captain Jack killed and scalped an Indian a mile from the column,” reported Reuben Davenport of the New York Herald of the battle with Crazy Horse’s relief force on the afternoon of the 9th. Crawford, another friend of Bill Cody’s, had succeeded him as the 5th Cavalry’s chief of scouts when Cody, having taken his “first scalp for Custer,” left the service and returned east in August. In his function as correspondent for the Omaha Daily Bee, he told his readers in passing that he had taken “one top-knot” during a fight in which he “came near losing” his own hair. Crawford’s poetry, in 1876 and afterward, wrote of the need to slay Sioux to avenge Custer and Buffalo Chips, but in real life he found the act more morally-troubling than he let on. “He later regretted this bloody deed,” notes his biographer Darlis Miller, “and never spoke of it in his public performances.” Similarly, Batiste Pourier seemed troubled by his scalping of an old Lakota man in the siege of the ravine, which was no secret: an article in The Saturday Review (12 July, 1890) looking at memoirs of the Sioux Wars had noted Finerty’s account of Slim Buttes in War-Path and Bivouac and noted “Mr. Finerty regrets that some of the soldiers scalped the dead. White men have usually been very prone to adopt savage customs.” Donald Brown, a former member of the 5th Cavalry, told historian Eli Ricker in 1907 that “he thinks Bat brought back a scalp” from the gully, but Pourier was conspicuously silent on this point in his two interviews with Ricker in that same year.348 Campaigning with King: Charles King, Chronicler of the Old Army (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1991). 348 Miller, Captain Jack Crawford, 59-60; Jensen, Settler and Soldier Interviews, 255-282, 361; “The Conquest of the Sioux” 48-49, in The Saturday Review (12 July 1890), collected in John Douglas Cook et. al., The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science, and Art, vol. 70 (1890). 350 Chapter Seven: Scalping Culture at Frontier’s End, 1893-1914 It’s true they’ve killed and scalped a fioux, But they’ve joined a church or twioux --A bad bit of poetry on the Sioux in the Washington Post, 17 October, 1888349 White men seem to have difficulty in realizing that people who live differently from themselves still might be traveling the upward and progressive road of life. --Luther Standing Bear, 1933350 Prologue: The Triumph of Mythology, and the Myth of Triumph One morning at the World’s Columbian Exposition, popularly known as the Chicago World’s Fair, in September 1893, a group of visitors began speculating aloud on the ethnicity of a Native American man standing outside of a tent. All secure in their assumption that he did not speak English, the debate raged furiously: was Sioux or Cheyenne? Reaching no consensus, the discussion shifted to whether he was “really very ugly,” all involved agreeing he looked quite “savage”; the debaters then fled in terror when he threw what they took for a harvest of scalps at them. The man in question was Antonio Apache, a self-identified grandson or great-grandson of Cochise and assistant to Professor Frederic Ward Putnam, the director of the Fair’s Department of Ethnology and Archaeology, who had hired him after a meeting at the Peabody Museum in December 1892. Among his other duties at the Fair, Putnam had most recently asked him to organize an Indian pageant, which posed an unexpected problem. Antonio had hired 24 Native American men to perform, but as their modern short haircuts—the sort that were now standard-issue at Indian boarding and residential schools, as well as the height of male fashion—made them look too “civilized” 349 Commemorating a deputation of Sioux chiefs to Washington to negotiate the terms of their landholdings under the threat of further amendments (the General Amendment Act, aka the Dawes Act). Cited in Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 275. 350 In Luther Standing Bear, Land of the Spotted Eagle (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1978 [1933]), xxi. 351 and therefore inauthentic, he had purchased an assortment of long-haired black wigs for them. Furious at the tourists’ insults and condescension, Antonio turned into his tent and scooped up an armload of long-haired black wigs. Whether he was throwing the wigs away or throwing them deliberately at the tourists is unclear, but the fairgoers shrieked and fled regardless.351 At least, so said Teresa Dean in a Chicago Daily Tribune article, “Antonio Has Fun with a Choice Set of Wigs.” Such an encounter between the traditional horror-imagery of Indian warfare and the smug complacency of jaded dilettantes does sound like the sort of story which captured the spoken and unspoken contradictions and ironies of a World’s Fair, particularly what the Anglo-American public liked to imagine as the collision of America’s frontier past, embodied by the Indians, with its modern and industrial present, while more progressive readers could enjoy a self-satisfactory chuckle at an educated, modernized Apache getting the better of bigots. But questions of wigs and authenticity would come back to haunt Antonio Apache, whose life upon closer inspection contained some contradictions of its own. After acting as a promoter and recruiter for the Carlisle Indian Industrial School throughout the 1890s, in January 1901 the Carlisle school newspaper ran a disclaimer stating “We are credibly informed that the man calling himself Antonio Apache is not Indian; that he wears a wig of straight stiff, black hair; that the real hair when permitted to grow is curly.” Mary Cota Weed, a Native American woman he married in 1919, filed for an annulment on grounds of fraud less than a year later, echoing the 1907 allegations of Western artists 351 Melissa Rinehart, “To Hell with the Wigs! Native American Representation and Resistance at the World’s Columbian Exposition,” 403, 405-06, 429, in The American Indian Quarterly Volume 36, Number 4 (Fall 2012) 403-442; David L. Browman and Stephen Williams, Anthropology at Harvard: A Biographical History, 1790- 1940 (Cambridge: Peabody Museum Press, 2013), 250-53; Nancy J. Parezo and Don D. Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair: The 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2007), 1-163. 352 William Cary and Edwin Deming: Antonio was really Tony Simpson, a Southerner of African and European ancestry. Like Warner McCary and Sylvester Long, also Southerners who had escaped “the stigma of blackness” in the Jim Crow era by passing as Native Americans and entering the entertainment industry as, respectively, the Choctaw chief’s son Okah Tubbee and the Blackfoot chief’s son Chief Buffalo Child Long Lance, Tony Simpson had apparently become an Apache via a shaven head and an assortment of wigs. “He wore a wig of straight black hair plastered close to the scalp,” reads a handwritten note discovered by historian Kathleen Howard in the archives of Los Angeles’ Southwest Museum; the note goes on to state that Deming “once saw him with his wig off.”352 That the self-appointed experts of Indian authenticity had been taken in by a confidence man with a shaven scalp is fitting per Melissa Rinehart’s description of the World’s Fairs as “essentially contradictory sites in a colossal heterotopia” where ironies “abounded.” And such ironies as the demand to find “authentic” long-haired indigenous men in the assimilation-focused Allotment era (1886-1933), which stigmatized and all but outlawed such long hair, were products or reflections of the unspoken anxieties regarding the closing of the frontier that freighted the minds of American visitors to the World’s Fairs. To 352 Rinehart, “To Hell With the Wigs!”; Browman and Williams, Anthropology at Harvard, 250-53. Born in North Carolina, Sylvester Long was of partially indigenous (Croatan) descent; after learning some Cherokee from performers in a Wild West show he enrolled at Carlisle as a Cherokee. After being adopted by the Blood subgroup of the Blackfoot Confederacy in 1922 he identified as a Blackfoot, writing a fictitious autobiography describing his Blackfoot childhood in 1927—see Donald B. Smith, “Long Lance, Buffalo Child” (1991), in William S. Powell ed., Dictionary of North Carolina Biography (University of North Carolina Press, 1979- 1996). Okah Tubbee, aka Warner McCary, a former slave from Natchez, Mississippi, was possibly of partial indigenous ancestry, but in all probability not the son of prominent Choctaw chief and cattleman Mushulatubbee as he claimed in his autobiography, as “It stands to reason that a man of such prominence would have complained, petitioned, or at least alerted someone that his cherished young son had been kidnapped” (22). While McCary / Okah Tubbee’s authenticity was periodically questioned, that of his wife, a white Mormon named Lucy Stanton who presented herself as a Mohawk / Delaware chief’s daughter named Laah Ceil, rarely if ever was—pointing to the ways “in which “white Indians” are more readily accepted than “black Indians,” even among modern scholars.” See Angela Pulley Hudson, Real Native Genius: How an Ex-Slave and a White Mormon Became Famous Indians (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2015), 1-42, 171-75 (172: “stigma of blackness”, 175: “white Indians”). 353 be clear, when I discuss “the frontier” in this chapter, I don’t mean the historic zones of contested control between expansionist Euro-American empires and colonies and as-yet unconquered indigenous peoples and polities, but the fantasy of benevolent assimilation and benign, unavoidable ethnic cleaning that in Anglo-America frontier culture was known as Manifest Destiny. In the frontiers of actual history, indigenous communities formed friendly and hostile relationships with individual members or groups of polyglot, polyethnic male sojourners, predominantly but not exclusively Euro-American, such as fur traders, garrison troops, explorers, merchants, and missionaries, as well as small communities of religious minorities, fugitives, contrabandists, squatters, and so on. Eventually, a creeping tide of Anglo-American settlers had disrupted these previous relationships, displaced indigenous peoples from their lands and resources, and replaced older forms of racialized violence like scalp hunting and slavery with new forms of racialized legislative violence such as reservation pass certificates and rations, blood quantum, and selectively-applied laws. Yet North American settler societies defined themselves and their local histories by the deployment, borrowing, and appropriation of their versions of indigenous foods, symbols, placenames, and so on. Both at the grassroots and at the governmental level, belief in the mythology of Manifest Destiny meant minimizing or explaining-away ongoing indigenous presence by insisting on a rigid definition of “authenticity” which went beyond ancestry and phenotype. Simply put, “Indians” and “modernity” were incompatible, and Manifest Destiny’s success was supposed to mean that Indians vanished—but to prove Manifest Destiny’s success, one required Indians.353 353 Rinehart, “To Hell With the Wigs!”; Michael D. Green, “The Expansion of European Colonization to the Mississippi Valley, 1780-1880,” 467. 354 This essentialized late-19th-century version of the past, which contrasted an Anglo- American society which had always been technologically-advanced and morally superior vis- à-vis Indians who had always been primitive and culturally inferior, served in part as a charter myth of American history, particularly in terms of the frontier violence which, whether implicitly or explicitly, was both omnipresent and sanitized. Through the old reverse-colonial scenarios of the burning cabin and the wagon-train raid staged in Wild West shows, fin-de-siecle Anglo-Americans could remind themselves of their past victories; by seeing their defeated enemies engaged in handicrafts at World’s Fairs, they could reassure themselves of their benevolence in civilizing such benighted folk. There was a precedent in putting figures like Sitting Bull and Geronimo on display, dating back at least to the Removal era of the 1830s. In 1834, Black Hawk, the Sauk leader of 1833’s Black Hawk War, was taken on a tour of the eastern cities, culminating in New York, where a balloonist named Mr. Durant proclaimed, literally from on high, a valedictory ode hailing Black Hawk for having “fought for Independence” and “struck for Freedom” with “a few unconquered souls.” What this was all about was perhaps more plainly illustrated in a photograph of Sitting Bull and Buffalo Bill shaking hands; taken in Montreal during the Lakota celebrity’s tour with Cody’s Wild West show in 1885, it was widely reprinted on posters with the caption “Foes in ’76, Friends in ’85.”354 As Patrick Wolfe has observed, the settler-colonial desire to seek some kind of absolution from people they had displaced and killed is inextricable from a desire to nominate themselves as legitimate inheritors of that land. As the actual “frontier” era of 354 Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 260-67; Utley, Geronimo, 258-61; Clements, Imagining Geronimo, 18; Kennedy ed., Life of Black Hawk, vii-xxvii; J. Gerald Kennedy, Strange Nation: Literary Nationalism and Cultural Conflict in the Age of Poe (Oxford University Press, 2016), 176-219. 355 contested control by unconquered peoples ended, it was assumed that these fictions of the past could go unchallenged. But there was a fly in the ointment: indigenous peoples not only continued to exist, but continued to offer their own interpretations of past and present while exploiting Manifest Destiny for fun and profit. As Gerald Vizenor writes, the “simulations of dominance” with which Anglo-Americans fantasized about indigenous peoples, including the “bankable simulation” of that “occidental invention,” the “Indian,” could be opposed or even “ousted” by alternative narratives of “survivance”: the continuation of indigenous identities and ontologies grounded in culturally- and historically-specific traditions.355 The contrast between such expectations and realities appears in Seattle’s 1909’s Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition, as residents of the largest city of the final northwestern frontier trumpeted their status as “Queen City of the Pacific.” A collage of indigenous imagery abstracted from its contexts included Edwin S. Curtis’ photographs of modern Native Americans shepherded into “authenticity” via his trunks of buckskins, headdresses and props; ubiquitous Pacific Northwest woodcarvings, including the amusement strip’s South Gate combination of two totem poles propping up a Tori arch as an example of “Jap- Alaskan” architecture; and live human exhibitions including schoolchildren from the Tulalip Reservation north of Seattle, a small number of Inuit and a large number of Siberians performing handicrafts in a plaster “Eskimo Village”; and a Wild West show of stagecoach- fight re-enactments by Lakota, Arapaho, and Cheyenne horsemen. In case the connection 355 Paige Raibmon, Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late-Nineteenth- Century Northwest Coast (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2005), 1-14, 198-207; Paige Raibmon, “Theatres of Contact: The Kwakwa̱ka̱’wakw Meet Colonialism in British Columbia and at the Chicago World’s Fair,” in The Canadian Historical Review 81:2 (University of Toronto Press, June 2000), 157-190; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation: , ; Gerald Vizenor, Manifest Manners: Narratives on Postindian Survivance (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1999 [1994]), 1-44; Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 3-14, 52-108. 356 was incomplete, the Government Building’s Dead Letter department was, in perhaps someone’s idea of a sick joke, turned into a display area for dried scalps.356 That the Fair’s organizers and spectators had less absolute claim over indigenous peoples than they imagined is illustrated by the complicated participation of Nancy Columbia, a 16-year-old Labrador Inuit performer who spoke publicly against management’s ignoring of Inuit contributions to Arctic exploration. Nancy, who won the Seattle Exposition’s Queen of the Carnival beauty contest, had been born at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, educated at a boarding school in Coney Island and apparently her English bore a New York accent. On the other side of the fairground, twenty-three of thirty Ghost Dancers held at Fort Sheridan north of Chicago had been paroled into Buffalo Bill Cody’s custody for his 1893 Rough Riders of the World season, and many of his troupe of almost 200 Indians had signed on to travel, earn wages, and escape the constant scrutiny of Indian agents on Pine Ridge and other reservations. During the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, not only did significant numbers of Native Americans participate in order to sell artwork and handicrafts, but significant numbers paid their entry fees and attended as spectators, meaning that Indians were paying to look at other Indians. Most conspicuous were the Osages from Oklahoma, whose oil money meant that they were both the most well-dressed Indian attendees and the most lavish purchasers of Native American art—leading to more than a few discontented grumblings, prefiguring the casino debate, about Indians with money.357 356 Coll Thrush, Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 2007), 113-148; Rinehart, “To Hell With the Wigs!”, ; Lisa Blee, ““I came voluntarily to work, sing and dance": Stories from the Eskimo Village at the 1909 Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition,” in The Pacific Northwest Quarterly, Vol. 101, No. 3/4, “Race and Empire at the Fair” (Summer/Fall 2010), 126-139. 357 Rinehart, “To Hell With the Wigs!”, ; Lisa Blee, ““I came voluntarily to work, sing and dance"; Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 1-163 (on Osages, 118-120). 357 This chapter will investigate these settler anxieties of past triumphs and an uncertain, post-frontier future with a more granular focus on two specific case studies in eccentric chronological order: the participation of the Apache leader Goyathlay or Goyaałé, better known as Geronimo, in the Louisiana Purchase Exposition of St. Louis, Missouri in 1904, and the participation of Buffalo Bill Cody and Rain-in-the-Face in the World’s Columbian Exposition of Chicago in 1893 – abbreviated at times throughout the text as “St. Louis World’s Fair” or “Chicago World’s Fair.” In all cases, the question of who had scalped who before the closing of the frontier, which was in strict chronological terms not that far distant but in symbolic terms now part of a past epoch, were inseparable from these three old men’s public appearances. Of course, their public reputations, within which the who-scalped-who question was integral, were the whole reason they had been asked to participate in these festivals of curated American history. All three, who were getting on in years, were also engaged in acts of self-representation and management of their reputations, for which participation in the World’s Fairs offered something more than just financial compensation. “no trouble with the cowboys”: Geronimo, Roosevelt, and St. Louis, 1904-06 News that Geronimo would be at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904 doubtless caused the public much nervous excitement and consternation. Geronimo had gained a reputation in Mexico and the United States as the hardest and most vindictive leader of reservation “breakouts” from the San Carlos and Turkey Creek communities of the Fort Apache reservation in 1878-79, 1881-84, and 1885-86, and a grisly mythology had coagulated around him. Rumours had circulated in the American press during the summer of 1900 that the restless old war leader, who the Salt Lake Herald called “one of the most bloodthirsty Indians that ever figured in history,” had gone insane in captivity—though an officer from Fort Sill, 358 quoted in the New York Herald, suggested “that he is planning to fool his guards and escape.” In 1901, the newspapers again were reprinting rumours about Geronimo, this time regarding his supposedly extensive scalp collection. Stories from the Kansas City Journal reprinted in Pennsylvania and Ohio claimed that Geronimo’s buckskin coat, with “more than forty scalps” “dangling from the shoulders,” had been sold for $500 by “a collector of Indian curios” in San Francisco, or stolen from the collector. The Davenport Daily Republican of Iowa said Geronimo had woven his scalps into a mat upon which he “plant[ed] his feet” every morning. When N.F. Shabert, an Oklahoma businessman who lived near Fort Sill, recommended Geronimo’s participation at the St. Louis Fair to Samuel M. McCowan, superintendent of the Chilocco Academy Indian school in Oklahoma and administrator of the St. Louis Fair’s model-Indian school, he touted Geronimo as having “between eighty-five and one hundred white scalps to the credit of his savagery; also a vest made of the hair of the whites whom he has killed.”358 McCowan’s initially considered Geronimo unsavory, and when he insisted on a salary for appearing at the Fair, McCowan called him a “blatant blackguard, living on a false reputation.” But when Geronimo agreed to attend the St. Louis Fair without salary, McCowan began to reconsider his opinion of a man often referred to as a “human tiger” and “the worst Indian who ever lived.” Marshall Everett, author of a popular exposition guidebook, promised the presence of “The Red Devil” Geronimo, “whose presence made every white settler tremble with fear, as his extreme cruelty was dreaded.” Ticketholders 358 William Clements, Imagining Geronimo: an Apache Icon in Popular Culture (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2013), 57-137; Richard W. Etulain and Glenda Riley eds., Chiefs & Generals: Nine Men Who Shaped the American West (Golden, Colorado: Fulcrum Publishing, 2004), 85-104; Utley, Geronimo, 196- 98; Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 1-163; Edwin R. Sweeney, From Cochise to Geronimo: The Chiricahua Apaches, 1874-1886 (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2012). 359 awaiting a terrible brigand chieftain didn’t quite know what to make of the old man who crossed the fairgrounds in a suit. Unstooped from age and still energetic at 75, his skin deeply creased from a lifetime of desert sun and wind, Geronimo appeared every morning at 9 in the Indian School building to carve souvenirs, namely canes and bows and arrows, to sell alongside his portrait photographs and autographs. He refrained from maiming or killing rude tourists who insulted his “feeble” appearance, who asked for war-whoops, or tried to cut off locks of his hair, instead holding a taciturn silence which prompted one reporter to declare that “the wild Indian has always been overestimated” and “those lofty and laconic speeches […] in those Canonicus, Uncas, and Powhatan stories” had to be nothing but lies: “Geronimo never perpetrated an epigram.” Grasping at straws, reporters claimed the Apache songs he sang while playing his violin were war chants, and that his Western clothing was due to government orders forbidding him “to wear his regalia on account of the bad effect it has on his emotions.”359 Goyaałé’s lack of subversiveness was, in itself, deeply subversive. Now a member of the Dutch Reformed Church, he said “God bless you” when parting ways and publicly took off his hat for “The Star Spangled Banner,” a scene which impressed a New York Times reporter who wrote of “this old warrior, standing in the rays of the setting sun […] in silent salute to the flag he so long defied.” Nor could the national press resist the human-interest element of his public reunion with his teenage daughter Lenna, who he had not seen since her birth in 1886. “[S]aid to be one of the most cruel and heartless of the chiefs who fought the whites, […] tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks, and the broken old warrior seemed 359 Utley, Geronimo; Clements, Imagining Geronimo; Sweeney, From Cochise to Geronimo; Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 1-163 (114: “lofty and laconic speeches”). 360 entirely overcome with […] joy,” wrote the Arizona Republican: “The long record of his prowess in many wars and the story of his cruelty were all forgotten by those who saw the old soldier weep with joy at the sight of the daughter he had not seen since she was a baby.” On the surface, there is nothing unusual or surprising about the joy of a 75-year-old man, who had seen many members of his family die violently, at being reunited with one of his children. But in his deliberate and conspicuous shows of his newfound Americanness, Goyaałé had launched his final campaign: the war for his public image.360 At age 14, Goyaałé already went by the name Geronimo, at least among Hispanics, as evidenced by his appearance under that name on the ration rolls of Corralitos, a mining town near Janos presidio, dated 13 August 1843. Warfare between Mexicans and Apachería continued into the first decade of the 20th century, and on 20 January 1851, the Chiricahuas won the largest Apache victory over Mexican forces in history. At Pozo Hediondo in Sonora state, 26 of 100 Sonoran troops, including the state’s military commander, were killed and 46 seriously wounded by 150 Apaches led by a who’s who of Chiricahua leadership: Mangas Coloradas, Cochise, Juh, Miguel Narbona, and Geronimo, then 22 years old and a father of three. A month later, they rode to Janos in Chihuahua state to sound out the local authorities regarding the possibility of peace talks and, in time-honoured fashion, to fence their Sonoran loot to the merchants of Janos. After the commander’s saddle was recognized, his successor Col. José María Carrasco hastily gathered his forces, crossed the state line into Chihuahua, encircled the encamped Apaches near Janos while the men were absent, and attacked. “[M]y 360 Utley, Geronimo; Clements, Imagining Geronimo; Sweeney, From Cochise to Geronimo; Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 1-163. 361 aged mother, my young wife, and my three small children were among the slain,” said Geronimo in his autobiography fifty years later; “I had lost all.”361 At some point during his period of mourning and the retaliatory raids he led, Geronimo perceived himself, and was perceived by other Chiricahuas, as having become a diyin, a person gifted with other-than-human power. Many diyin were healers, and one manifestation of Geronimo’s personal power was a well-known skill in healing battlefield wounds and extracting bullets and arrowheads. But his unyielding and unforgiving qualities, galvanized by the events of 1851, were also manifested as Enemies-Against Power, whose possessors were exceptional in raiding and war, and shared their gift with others by manufacturing blessed shields and protective amulets for adult warriors, and the sacred objects born by adolescents during their war apprenticeship. Even among diyin with Enemies-Against Power, Geronimo seems to have stood out; during a raid, one of his followers later claimed that he had on one occasion used his Power to hold back the sunrise for two or three hours. Yet the warfare activities of all Apaches, whether possessors of Enemies-Against Power or not, were also hemmed in by a complex array of prohibitions regarding death and the possessions of the dead, which were believed to cause debilitating or fatal illnesses collectively known as “ghost sickness.” Paradoxically, this meant that a people 361 This ordering of events is conspicuously at odds with Geronimo’s sequence of events: that the massacre of his and other Bedonkohes’ families at “Kas-Ki-Yeh” preceded a retaliatory victory at Pozo Hediondo. See below, and S.M. Barrett, Frederick W. Turner III eds., Geronimo: His Own Story (New York: Ballantine Books, 1971 [1970, 1906]), 87-95. Andrés Reséndez, The Other Slavery, 230-37, 395 n. 28: “Geronimo’s own account is demonstrably inaccurate and needs to be used with caution.”; Sweeney, Cochise, ; Robert M. Utley, Geronimo, 23-29; Sweeney, Cochise, notes that in 1863 in Chihuahua Cojinillín, a leader of the Carrizaleño band of the Nednhi Apaches, was killed by Joaquin Terrazas and his volunteers for a 500 peso bounty on his scalp (212) and points out an incident in 1871 where a Tohono O’odham (Papago) war party slew five or six Apaches and turned in their paired ears—not their scalps—for the bounty (323). As late as the aftermath of October 1880’s Tres Castillos Massacre, according to Asa Daklugie, over 90 Apache women and children were marched south by their Mexican captors to be sold into slavery in Chihuahua—see Eve Ball, Indeh: An Apache Odyssey, 78-84. 362 that Mexicans and Anglo-Americans considered a barbarian horde of scalp-takers were the most reluctant scalp-takers in the Southwest, far more so than the mercenaries who hunted Apaches for theirs. As Apaches also believed that anything but total abstinence would make members of war parties sluggish and doom their martial efforts, the endemic rapes of Euro- American women attributed to savage Apaches by Hispanic and Anglo-American writers appear to also have been groundless, as were previous and similar accusations in eastern North America (see Chapters 3 and 4).362 While the Comanches to the east took scalps as secular trophies and agricultural peoples to the west curated enemy scalps for rain-making and warfare purposes, Apache rites regarding scalps and scalping were almost perfunctory in comparison. Two of Grenville Goodwin’s informants in the early 20th century drew a connection between scalping and Enemies-Against Power, noting that a warrior looking to cultivate this power might perform the scalping, and that someone already possessing Enemies-Against Power might whisper words to the scalp to weaken the enemy’s people, such as Americans, Mexicans, Navajos, or other foes, before hanging it high in a tree where coyotes couldn’t reach it. This was pointedly restricted to external enemies, as Apaches never scalped each other in feuds between bands. When in hostile territory, one scalp, physically distanced from the warriors by being placed on the end of a pole, was sufficient for a scalp dance and then disposed of immediately afterwards. Major John Cremony, an officer during the 1860s Apache wars, 362 On diyin, Enemies-Against Power, and the metaphysical dimension of Apache warfare, see Grenville Goodwin, Keith Basso ed., Western Apache Raiding and Warfare (Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press, 1973 [1971]), 223-298; Etulain, Chiefs and Generals, 85-104; James L. Haley, Apaches: A History and Culture Portrait (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997 [1981]), 63-75. In the words of Asa Daklugie, Juh’s son and Geronimo’s nephew, “Geronimo personally directed much of the training of the young boys for the warpath.”—cited in Eve Ball, with Nora Lynn and Lynda A. Sánchez, Indeh: An Apache Odyssey (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988 [1980]), 86. 363 characterized the scalp dances of the Apaches as “strictly religious” against the “grand rejoicing, a triumphal jubilee” of other western Indians. The same was true for an enemy prisoner back to a village for a slain kinsman’s sister or close maternal cousin to deliver the killing blow; his scalp might be danced with after his death, but only briefly, and disposed of immediately. “No Apache would keep them,” noted Geronimo in 1906, “for they are considered defiling.” Needless to say, Geronimo’s putative overcoat or floormat of scalps were ruled out by the reality of Apache warfare and religious beliefs.363 As American settlers, ranchers, miners, and soldiers entered the Arizona and New Mexico Territories in the later 1850s, tensions grew between Anglo-Americans and Apaches. War broke out between the Chiricahuas and the United States two months before the outbreak of the Civil War in the “Bascom Affair” between First Lieutenant George Bascom and Cochise at Apache Pass in February 1861. During the Confederate occupation of Arizona Territory from 1861 to spring 1862, exterminationist sentiments towards Apaches became bipartisan. Lieutenant-Colonel John Robert Baylor, a Confederate Texan of Kentuckian origin, ordered one subordinate, Captain Mastin, to “kill [Apaches] anyway he could; and did not care whether he made them drunk, poisoned them, or shot them on sight.” Three months before Confederate forces retreated from the Territory, in March 1862, Baylor chastised the commander of the Arizona Guards at Pinos Altos for reportedly pursing peace talks with an Apache band. Declaring them “cursed pests who have already murdered over 100 men in this Territory,” he instead ordered him to lure the Apaches “or any tribe” into ambush under the 363 Goodwin and Basso ed., Western Apache Raiding and Warfare, On the curation of scalps in warfare rituals among Cocopas, Quechans, and Akimel and Tohono O’odham (“Pimas” and “Papagos”), see Clifton B. Kroeber and Bernard L. Fontana, Massacre on the Gila: An Account of the Last Major Battle Between American Indians, with Reflections on the Origin of War (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1986), 89-94; Barrett and Turner, Geronimo, 167-68; on abstinence see Goodwin, Basso ed., Western Apache Raiding and Warfare 311 n. 78, and Utley, Geronimo, 264, on the Peck massacre: “Apaches neither raped nor scalped.” 364 guise of peace talks, to “kill all the grown Indians” and sell their children into slavery “to defray the expense of killing the Indians.” The Union forces who retook Arizona after the Confederate retreat in 1862 also thought in extirpationist terms: Brigadier-General James Carleton gave orders in October 1862 to reject all flags of truce and kill all male Apaches capable of bearing arms.364 In January 1863, the 70-year-old Chiricahua leader Mangas Coloradas was taken prisoner during parley with the Army on orders of Brigadier-General Joseph West, who instructed his soldiers to present Mangas Coloradas “dead or alive” the next morning. Tortured with hot bayonets in full view of other Apache captives that night, Mangas Coloradas was shot “while trying to escape.” After his death, one soldier scalped him, perhaps for a rumoured hefty bounty being offered on the Mexican side of the border, while others cut off and boiled his head to send east to the Smithsonian. Asa Daklugie, Juh’s son and Geronimo’s nephew, told oral historian Eve Ball in the 1940s that while the betrayal and murder of Mangas Coloradas was bad enough, the Apaches considered his posthumous decapitation as “much worse,” as it doomed him to be “forever headless” in the next world. Carleton’s plan of spring 1864 “to hunt and destroy all but the women and children” met with popular approval in the territories; Secretary of Arizona Territory Richard McCormick summed up popular opinion as “[in] favour of an utter extermination of the ruthless savages.” An 1864 editorial in the Arizona Miner of Prescott stated this explicitly: the only solution to conflict between settlers and Apaches was “to exterminate nearly if not the whole race of savages… and the sooner this is accomplished the better for the whole country.”365 364 Sweeney, Chochise, 187 (“kill them anyway he could”), 195 (“kill all the grown Indians”), 203-04. 365 Sweeney, Cochise, 220; Daklugie cited in Ball, Indeh: An Apache Odyssey, 83; The Prescott Arizona Miner, 1864, cited in Bil Gilbert, Westering Man: The Life of Joseph Walker (New York: Atheneum, 1983), 263, cited 365 Whether raiding to steal livestock or in revenge for a relative’s death, the whole purpose of Apache raids was to strike and retreat, which precluded lingering to perform the inventive tortures which Arizona and New Mexican territorial newspapers constantly reported. “[I]f an Indian scalps an American soldier, outrages and then burns at the stake an American woman, or brains an American baby,” stated an editorial in the Miner, the government will “give him some beads and a new scalping knife, and let him go.” In 1871 Arizona residents sent a memorial to Congress tallying 178 whites killed by Apaches in Arizona Territory in the past two years. Tellingly, as Clare McKanna notes, of these 178 documented killings only eight were listed as mutilated, though the report tried to compensate for this by dwelling in great detail on the details of the mutilations (e.g., “scalped,” “partially burned,” “all mutilated in a horrible manner”). Daklugie, observing that post-mortem mutilations were regularly confused by American settlers for marks of torture, noted to Eve Ball “And then there are these many stories of torture and mutilation. Well, some of the torture stories are true, but they were done in retaliation for worse crimes.”366 Apaches had a long list of grievances of their own to point to. Mixing dry goods with strychnine, a poison used to kill wolves and other animals, was a widespread practice in the West, and in 1864 a prospector named King Woolsey sold some Apaches piñole mixed with strychnine. In 1866, after a proposition for Apache scalp bounties was narrowly defeated in the Arizona Territory’s legislative assembly, a public gathering in Prescott raised a fund by voluntary subscription to hire thirty “Rangers” for ninety days, to take and deliver “bounty pieces.” In 1871, a mob from Tucson of 40 Anglo-American and Hispanic citizens and 100 in Clare V. McKanna, Jr., Homicide, Race, and Justice in the American West, 1880-1920 (Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 1997), 117-154. 366 Sweeney, Cochise, 220; Ball, Indeh: An Apache Odyssey, 83; McKanna, Jr., Homicide, Race, and Justice in the American West, 1880-1920, 117-154. 366 Tohono O’odham descended upon Apaches encamped near Fort Grant and killed and scalped 85 people in a single day—a number equal to almost half of that 1871’s memorandum’s 178 total casualties. Very few of the victims were men of fighting age, and none of the killers were found guilty by an Arizona jury. In an 1883 report to the Adjutant General’s office, General George Crook, then head of the Arizona Department, explained to his superiors that “public sentiment in frontier communities does not consider the malicious killing of an Indian, murder, nor the most unblushing plundering, theft.” The same was true in the territorial press: Arizona newspapers disseminated “all sorts of exaggerations and falsehooods” about Apaches, “while the Indian’s side of the case is rarely ever heard.”367 Apache horror stories about Americans expressed their bewilderment regarding these uncanny, “strange people,” who “respected nothing and nobody.” Both Daklugie and Big Mouth, a Mescalero scout for the Army in the 1880s, told of a terrible incident that happened during the Mescaleros’ confinement near Fort Stanton: “a drunken soldier,” in Big Mouth’s words, killed an Apache baby by “dashing its head against a wagon wheel. He said, “Nits make lice”,” said Daklugie. Big Mouth also heard this story, and told another of a Mescalero warrior, who believed he was travelling under protection to Fort Stanton, being betrayed like Mangas Coloradas and killed; the soldiers were butchering hogs, and the Mescalero was thrown into the “big kettle of boiling water” they were using to scald the hog carcasses. He also remembered that Mescalero mothers silenced crying children by warning that the soldiers would overhear, find them, and kill them. “They hunted us through the forests – our own forests – like wild animals,” added Big Mouth. “And they spared nobody.” Looking 367 Sweeney, Cochise, 317-18; Donald E. Worcester, The Apaches: Eagles of the Southwest (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1979), 72; Crook cited in McKanna, Homicide, Race, and Justice in the American West, 132-33. 367 back from the 1940s, Asa Daklugie also connected dehumanization and hunting: “Both in this country and in Mexico, a bounty was offered for Apache scalps, just as there is today for those of some animals. And it was collected, too.”368 In the recollections of Charlie Smith, child of a Chiricahua Army scout and a Mescalero mother, Geronimo only recrossed the American border “to get ammunition. I do not think that he wanted to kill, but there were cases where he had no choice.” Smith was four or five years old in 1885 when his mother and some other Mescalero women, gathering piñon nuts in the mountains off-reservation, were impressed into Geronimo’s band, and he had inescapable memories of what happened on these cross-border forays: If [Geronimo] were seen by a civilian, it meant that he would be reported to the military and they’d be after us. So there was nothing to do but kill the civilian and his entire family. […] I do not like to talk of it. I do not like to think of it. But the soldiers killed our women and children, too. Don’t forget that. 369 By the 1880s, Geronimo and his small group of followers became automatically responsible in the public mind for any act of homicide that occurred in the Territories if he was off- reservation at the time, particularly those committed or believed to have been committed by Apaches. By the time of his surrender to Lieutenant Charles Gatewood in 1886, the press had laid at his feet responsibility for around 400 murders, with particular weight placed on home invasions like the “Peck Ranch massacre” of late April 1886. Geronimo’s followers had killed a rancher’s hired man, baby, and pregnant wife and taken his 10-year-old niece hostage, but spared his life for unclear reasons. Geronimo had addressed the rancher, who 368 Ball, Indeh, 78-84 (Daklugie), 200-01 (Charlie Smith). Asked by Ball sometime after 1944 whether he thought “it was the intention of the white race to inflict genocide upon the Indians?” and being given a definition of genocide as “The intention of one race to exterminate another,” Daklugie replied, “I never heard the word before, but I am thoroughly familiar with its practice.” 369 Charlie Smith cited in Ball, Indeh, 102-04. 368 sported red rolled-up sleeves from his undershirt, as “Mangas Coloradas” (coloured sleeves), and Clements suggests nostalgia for his slain relative as moving him to uncharacteristic pity. But according to stories reprinted in Maryland, Illinois, and Colorado, Artisan Peck had been tied up and made to watch his wife “outraged and killed” or subjected to “indescribable tortures” by the Apaches, driving him temporarily insane and inducing the superstitious Apaches, who considered his madness as a danger to them or as a sign of divine favour, to spare his life.370 Across the border in Mexico, bounties on Apache scalps were offered until 1891, but a public perception that the government was either unable or unwilling to protect them from the Apaches prompted, within months of Geronimo’s final breakout in May 1885, the reinstatement of scalp bounties in some counties in Arizona. A story reprinted in the New York Times in October 1885 reported that armed bodies of ranchers and cowboys were forming up for “a real old-fashioned Indian hunt” in Cochise, Pima, and Yavapai counties, having “brought to light an old law” offering a $250 reward for each Apache scalp. Tombstone, the center of Cochise county, had offered to double that reward to $500 for every “buck Indian” scalp, which Pima and Yavapai would match; reportedly, the counties of Yuma, Apache, and Maricopa intended to follow suit. “This reward system, while it may seem savage and brutal to the Northern and Eastern sentimentalist,” the writer continued, was considered the Arizona settler’s only means “of ridding Arizona of the murderous Apaches.” 370 Utley, Geronimo, 196-98; Clements, Imagining Geronimo, 62-67; Sweeney, From Cochise to Geronimo, 537-38. 369 Benjamin Madley writes that these were probably the last publicly-offered scalp bounties in United States history.371 By the time he appeared at the 1904 World’s Fair, Goyaale / Geronimo was well aware that many members of the American public viewed him with considerable distaste – as did many Chiricahuas, who were collectively punished after his 1886 surrender with exile, first to Florida and then to Oklahoma. In 1905, after a controversial public appearance riding in Theodore Roosevelt’s inaugural parade alongside five other famous Native American leaders, his personal entreaty to the president to allow himself and his people to return to Arizona was rebuffed. The decision to publish his autobiography came in the summer of 1905, after Geronimo’s return from the Roosevelt inauguration, and required the permission and final approval of the War Department; his nephew Asa Daklugie, now a Carlisle alumnus, served as translator for the passages Geronimo composed ahead of time and recited as monologues to S.M. Barrett, a friend and superintendent of schools in nearby Lawton, Oklahoma. From his first chapter to the last, Geronimo’s ultimate goal was an appeal to allow himself and his people’s return to their homeland in Arizona. Of course, this would require winning over President Roosevelt, a man who once likened indigenous land claims to those of “every white hunter, squatter, horse thief or wandering cattleman” and as having no basis beyond “having butchered the previous inhabitants.”372 371 “Money for Indian Scalps: Arizona and New-Mexico settlers propose to destroy the savages. –Deming, New-Mexico, October 11,” in the New York Times, 12 October, 1885; Madley, “Reexamining the American Genocide Debate,” 117. 372 Barrett, Geronimo: His Own Story; Utley, Geronimo, 258-61. On Roosevelt’s views on Native Americans, see Theodore Roosevelt, Thomas Hart Benton , 211-12; Thomas G. Dyer, Theodore Roosevelt and the Idea of Race (Baton Rouge and London: Louisiana State University Press, 1980), 79-81, and Roger L. Di Silvestro, Theodore Roosevelt in the Badlands: A Young Politician’s Quest for Recovery in the American West (Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 2011), 190-97, 318 n. 94. 370 The version of Geronimo’s life that appeared in Geronimo: His Own Story therefore made careful omissions of content regarding his long campaigns of war and his own role as a diyin, incompatible with his new image as a convert to Christianity. Only a hint peeps out in his description of traditional Apache medicine as half-herbalism, half-prayer: “Some of the Indians,” he noted, were skilled in extracting “bullets, arrow heads, and other missiles” from injured warriors, and “I myself have done much of this, using a common dirk, or butcher knife.” Of his early life before the massacre of his family, which he dated to 1858, nostalgia for his youth is obvious: of his first marriage he simply states “We followed the traditions of our fathers and were happy.” In his retelling the sequence of events was reshuffled: the great defeat of the Mexicans at Pozo Hediondo was placed after Carrasco’s massacre at Janos, not before, to occlude the inciting incident, simply calling them “Mexican troops from some other town” and referring to the site of the massacre as “another Mexican town” called “Kas- ki-yeh.” Given that this version of events was dictated fifty years after the fact, it is possible that he had rearranged these events in his mind over the decades, consistent with his image of Mexicans as “treacherous and malicious.”373 By emphasizing his doctrinal hate for the Mexicans, of whom he could not recall how many he had killed (“for frequently I did not count them. Some of them were not worth counting”), Geronimo carefully drew a contrast between Mexicans and Anglo-Americans, the former his preferred foes, the latter minimized as his enemies. Interestingly, Geronimo and his amenuenses Barrett and Daklugie isolated stories of scalping to this early phase of his career. Of the Apache warriors he led to fight the Mexicans in his version of Pozo Hediondo, 373 Barrett, Geronimo, 64 (“Usen gave homes in the land of the West”), 67-68 (“the Apaches and their homes each created for the other”), 70 (“Usen does not care for the petty quarrels of men”), 73-74 (“I myself have done much of this”), 75-84 (laws, customs, marriage), 87-95 (Chapter 6: “Kas-Ki-Yeh”), 125-26 (“treacherous and malicious”) 371 Barrett’s text states that “their long scalp-locks” were “ready for the hand and knife of the warrior who would overcome them” – something of a Fenimore Cooper touch, as Apache men grew their hair long and not restricted to one tuft or lock. He signalled his victory over the Mexicans by “[giving] orders for scalping the slain.” He floridly sums up another fight, which he dated to 1860, by stating “When the Apache war-cry had died away, and their enemies had been scalped…” While waiting in the mountains to learn of the fate of Mangas Coloradas, he described himself and his followers as stumbling upon four herdsmen and their cattle: “We killed all four, but did not scalp them; they were not warriors.” Of a defeat inflicted upon Mexicans by himself and Juh in what he describes as the Battle of White Hill, dated 1872, he notes “we scalped the slain, carried away our dead, and secured all the arms we needed.” This was the last incident of scalping his enemies he described in his memoir, well aware that it would inflame the sensibilities of many Anglo-American readers against him. In contrast to an unvaried hatred for Mexicans, his perception of Americans was more ambivalent: he spoke favourably of the surveyors who met the Chiricahuas in the late 1850s (“they were good men”) and ambivalently of the soldiers who followed: “At first they were friendly [.]” The soldiers, he told his readers, “never explained to the Government when an Indian was wronged, but always reported the misdeeds of the Indians.” He also played into the settler-colonial desire to project frontier violence onto white undesirables rather than structural racism by stating “Much that was done by mean white men was reported at Washington as the deeds of my people.”374 374 Barrett, Geronimo, 91 (“long scalp-locks”), 95 (“I gave the orders”), 100 (“their enemies had been scalped”), 119 (“we scalped the slain”), 129-142 (“They were good men”; “At first”; “misdeeds of the Indians”); 140-160 (“pure, honest white man”), 134-38 (136: “They were not warriors”). 372 When presenting his escapes from San Carlos Geronimo described his emotions and motives in universalist terms. The 1881 break he attributed to fears that troops stationed at San Carlos were preparing to arrest them and put them on trial for actions in past wars; this “served to revive the memory of all our past wrongs,” such as the Bascom Affair, the assassination of Mangas Coloradas, and his own arrest at Ojo Caliente in 1877. “We thought it more manly to die on the warpath,” Geronimo summed up, “than to be killed in prison.” Otherwise, he simply mentioned crossing the border while omitting any mention of escape or pursuit by the Army. Of his break from the Fort Bowie Reservation in June 1876: “I took my tribe back to Hot Springs [Ojo Caliente] and rejoined Victorio’s band.” Of the flight from San Carlos: “In 1883 we went into Mexico again,” and a brief return in 1884 was to recruit other Apaches to fight the Mexican army. On the 1885 break, prefaced by a complex plan by Geronimo and which prompted Crook’s replacement by Nelson Miles who afterwards punished the Chiricahuas collectively: “In Arizona we had trouble with the United States soldiers and returned to Mexico.”375 Of the violence that occurred during these breakouts, he would only admit to violence against Mexicans, and hedged these confessions with caveats. Saying he believed that the Mexican government had asked American troops to pursue them across the border, “We were reckless of our lives, because we felt that every man’s hand was against us”—an interesting and probably deliberate self-comparison to Ishmael (Genesis 16:12). If he returned to the reservation, “we would be put in prison and killed.” He said he was certain that Crook had planned to get rid of him by “issu[ing] the orders for me to be put in prison, or to be killed in 375 Barrett, Geronimo, 122 (“we went into Mexico again”), 123 (“returned to Mexico”), 142 (“rejoined Victorio’s band”), 145 (“memory of our past wrongs… killed in prison”). 373 case I offered resistance,” and Barrett had to add a disclaimer footnote to avoid a libel suit. If they stayed in Mexico, soldiers would be continually sent to fight them, “so we gave no quarter to anyone and asked no favors.” Geronimo fully admitted to his persona as a public menace only when acknowledging killings south of the border: “we attacked every Mexican found, even if for no other reason than to kill.” But conflicts with American citizens who were not members of the armed forces were elided, downplayed, or denied. His skirmishes with Mexican “cowboys” across the border in 1868 and 1869 could be admitted, but the Peck Ranch massacre could not, and therefore he declared that while pursued by Captain Lawton and his scouts, “We passed many cattle ranches, but had no trouble with the cowboys.”376 The final element of his rehabilitation strategy was describing his adaptation to American society: conversion to Christianity, learning to farm, and making money. By contrast, the terms of his 1886 surrender had been violated: Nelson Miles had promised him land, hired hands to work it, freedom from arrest while in federal custody, and reunion with his and his followers’ families if they surrendered. Instead he was sent to Pensacola for 2 years’ hard labour, Alabama, and then Oklahoma, where “I have been arrested and placed in the guardhouse twice for drinking whisky.” Yet he praised the essential benignity of American society, which he knew his audience wanted to hear, at the expense of his old enemies the Mexicans: I saw many interesting things and learned much of the white people. They are a very kind and peaceful people. During all the time I was at the Fair no one tried to harm me in any way. Had this been among the Mexicans I am sure I should have been compelled to defend myself often. I wish all my people could have attended the fair. 376 Barrett, Geronimo, 113-16 (Mexican cowboys), 122-23 (“In 1883… In Arizona…”), 141-42 (“back to Hot Springs”), 148-49 (“in case I offered resistance”), 150 (“no trouble with the cowboys”), 150-51 (“every man’s hand… no quarter”). 374 As the editor of the 1970 reissue of Geronimo, Frederick Turner III, noted here, “His statements about white culture often have the appearance of cutting several ways.” Beneath the surface, Geronimo may have been amazed that people who thought him a bloodthirsty monster would line up to purchase tchotchkes and autographs and offer him nothing sharper than the occasional bit of rude language.377 The first scalp for Custer, redux: the Chicago World’s Fair and Buffalo Bill, 1893-1914 The only late-19th-century Native American treated with more public opprobrium than Geronimo, notes Clements, was Sitting Bull, and even he was publicly feted. In 1884, the Standing Rock Indian agent James McLaughlin and the St. Paul hotelier Alvaren Allen toured New York and Philadelphia with a troupe called “The Sitting Bull Combination,” witnessed in Philadelphia by a then 16-year-old Luther Standing Bear, attending while on leave from Carlisle. Sitting Bull, who could sign his name for autographs but whose spoken English was limited, was introduced to the crowd as the slayer of Custer and then asked to give a speech. As the only Lakota speaker in the audience, Standing Bear was the only one to perceive its dishonest translation: Sitting Bull’s oration about the need for reconciliation between American settlers and Plains Indians became a confession about the ambush and gory killing of the 7th Cavalry. The translator “told so many lies that I had to smile,” Standing Bear wrote years later, and then things became stranger to him: Then the white man said that all those who wished to shake hands with Sitting Bull would please line up if they cared to meet the man who had killed Custer. The whole audience got in line, as they really believed what the white man had told them. It made me wonder what sort 377 Barrett, Geronimo, 153-60 (surrender and exile, 154: “arrested twice”), 171-77 (World’s Fair); Nana, quoted by James Kaywaykla, in Jastrzembski, “Treacherous Towns in Mexico,” 176; on Tres Castillos, see Kathleen Chamberlain, Victorio: Apache Warrior and Chief (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2007), 195-220 375 of people the whites were, anyway. Perhaps they were glad to have Custer killed, and were really pleased to shake hands with the man who had killed him! 378 Three years after Sitting Bull’s death, the curious could do one better and visit Sitting Bull’s home at the Chicago World’s Fair. Through the largesse of the Indian Office, the managerial board of the 1893 Columbian Exposition obtained Sitting Bull’s log house from Pine Ridge. Purchased from his widows log by log, it was shipped to Chicago and reassembled on the Midway as the “Sitting Bull Cabin Exhibit.” The attraction’s carnival appeal was obvious and ghoulish: as this was the house in which Sitting Bull had been assassinated by tribal police in December 1890, visitors were offered the authentic site of a famous murder and a chance to look for bullet holes. Somewhat cheapening the effect was the fact that two other attractions on the fairgrounds also claimed to be the authentic Sitting Bull cabin. As if proving that the distinction between “highbrow” and “lowbrow” is largely a matter of class, the assemblers of this grisly monument barred Cody’s Wild West show from the fairgrounds, on the pretext that its presence would (in Melissa Rinehart’s paraphrase) “cheapen the progressive theme of the fair.” Directed by P.B. Wickham, the Cabin Exhibit employed Oglala Lakotas and Crows who had fought at Little Bighorn as performers. Just outside the fairgrounds’ southwest gate, Buffalo Bill opened his 1893 iteration of his show, flamboyantly titled “Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World,” with another material artifact of the life 378 Utley, Geronimo, 258-61; Clements, Imagining Geronimo, 18; Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 260-67; Luther Standing Bear, E.A. Brininstool ed., My People the Sioux (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2006 [1928]), 177-190; Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, entry “Standing Bear, Luther (1863/1868 – 1939),” 197-98. Connell notes in Son of the Morning Star (227-28) that while Sitting Bull may have understood French and English “better than anyone suspected,” his spoken English appears to have been limited in the latter years of his life to “Hello,” “Sitting Bull” with a heavy accent, the surprisingly-peppy “You bet,” and, for autograph seekers, “How much?” When the artist DeCost Smith identified him in a general store at Standing Rock (“Yes, it’s Sitting Bull”), the old statesman rapidly clasped his hand in a vigorous handshake and replied “Sitting Bull, you bet!” 376 of Sitting Bull: a light-gray circus horse he had grown fond of and which Cody had gifted to him at the end of the 1885 tour. Purchased from Sitting Bull’s widows, the horse led the procession of Cody’s 500 performers into the arena, carrying a rider bearing an American flag.379 The physical line that separated “highbrow” World’s Fair and “lowbrow” Wild West show was then cris-crossed repeatedly, most notably by Cody’s nearly 200 Native Americans; not formally permitted to perform at the Exposition, they were frequently invited to parade through the fairgrounds, attend dedications, and even stand in for the Taínos, warbonnets and buckskins notwithstanding, to welcome Columbus’ shore party on Italian Day. Early in the season, the Columbian Exposition and the Congress of Rough Riders’ interests intersected when the Midway’s Sitting Bull Cabin was the site of a public reconciliation between the indigenous combatants of the Little Bighorn. Crows and Arikaras shook hands with Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho counterparts, the two most notable figures in this respect being Curly, Custer’s favourite Crow scout, and Rain-in-the-Face, who had inherited from Sitting Bull the role of nemesis of the Custer brothers. When Curly, a performer in the Sitting Bull Cabin Exhibition, demanded to be released from contract to return to North Dakota “in search of the villain who had slain his happiness in this world” upon learning that his wife had eloped with another man, a vacancy was left open and in midsummer, Rain-in-the-Face crossed the fairground. After his petition to the World’s Columbian Exposition Company management for more indigenous control over Indian 379 Reportedly, during Sitting Bull’s assassination, this old circus horse had taken the gunshots as its cue and begun going through its act: “He solemnly sat down in the middle of the bloodbath, and raised his hoof,” which thoroughly unnerved the tribal police. See Bridger, Buffalo Bill and Sitting Bull: Inventing the Wild West, 384- 86; Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 260-67, 312; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 63-87; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 393-97; Rinehart, “To Hell with the Wigs!,” 410-14. 377 exhibits and for an honoured Native American day was turned down, he lost interest, and his “spiritless performances” towards the end of the exposition were noted.380 Up until the end of his life, Rain-in-the-Face could not escape the legend of his killing of the Custer brothers, and alternated between gruesome, embroidered variations on the legend, and denying it altogether. In 1894, he told journalist W. Kent Thomas that he had killed Tom Custer, “cut out his heart and bit a piece out of it and spit it in his face,” then “rode off shaking it” (see Introduction). When Ohiyesa / Dr. Charles Eastman visited Rain- in-the-Face two months before his death in 1905, he denied it: “Many lies have been told about me.” A missionary named Mary Collins, however, claimed that on his deathbed he had confessed to killing George Custer: “I was so close to him that the powder from my gun blackened his face.” Either way, DeCost Smith, an artist who painted three portraits of Rain- in-the-Face, shared Luther Standing Bear’s appreciation of the ludicrousness involved in a full crowd of Chicago World’s Fair attendees coming to the Sitting Bull Cabin to meet the killer of Custer: “while believing the tales of his horrid deeds were willing to treat him as a friend, shaking his hand and gazing in his face, while marvelling at the mildness of his expression.”381 Just outside the fairgrounds proper, Buffalo Bill Cody offered not only a troupe of nearly 200 Native Americans, but three hundred other sharpshooters, trick riders, and entertainers: Anglo-Americans, British, Russians, French, Germans, and Arabs, support staff, a herd of horses and ponies, and a small herd of bison. From 1 May to 30 October Cody’s 380 Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 63-87; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 381-99; Rinehart, “To Hell with the Wigs!” 381 Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 296-98, 381-99; Rinehart, “To Hell with the Wigs!”; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-122. 378 show was seen by five million spectators, including Spanish and Italian nobility, outgoing president Benjamin Harrison, and incoming president Grover Cleveland. With a keen sense of the zeitgeist and its anxieties, Cody’s refurbished 1893 show offered both nostalgia for America’s past frontiers and a confident look at a future of new frontiers which would keep America from degenerating into moral and physical decadence. An 1886 editorial reprinted in the densely-packed 64-page programme captured the contradictions in celebrating Manifest Destiny. “And what a history America has, to be sure!” crowed the editor. “From the mouth of the Hudson River to the shores of the Pacific, men, women and children have conquered the wilderness by going to the front and staying there. Not by crowding into cities and living as do worms, by crawling through each other and devouring the leavings.”382 The experience of Cody’s British and European tour of 1886-87 provided ways for the Chicago season to balance frontier nostalgia and confident futurism. Through scenarios which placed athletes and performers of different American and European nationalities in friendly competition with each other, Cody offered a vision of reconciliation inside and outside of the United States, as America and its former enemies—i.e., Native Americans, Hispanics, the British Empire – became peers and equals in the European-dominated international system. Fittingly it was in Bismarck’s Germany, a nation as anxious as the United States about its rapid industrialization and its recent place on the world stage which also compensated with a homegrown military tradition and fetishization of its idealized preindustrial past, that the “imperial circus” of the “Congress of the Rough Riders of the World” first appeared, including Arab performers and Georgian horsemen deliberately 382 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 10 (“as do worms” – my italics), reprinted from an editorial of the New York Democrat, 5 June, 1886; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 81; Robert W. Rydell and Rob Kroes, Buffalo Bill in Bologna: The Americanization of the World, 1869-1922 (University of Chicago Press, 2005), 105-117; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-122. 379 misidentified as “Russian Cossacks” who Cody had hired on in Europe. In England, the Wild West show had staged a six-day race between two cowboys and two cyclists (the cowboys won); in Paris, some of Cody’s Indians had climbed the Eiffel Tower. In Chicago in 1893, viewers were promised an assortment of such competitions interspersed throughout the schedule, including a horse race between “a Cowboy, a Cossack, a Mexican, an Arab, and an Indian” on respective breeds of horses, and a ladies’ race between “Prairie, Spanish, and Indian girls” i.e., Anglo-American, Hispanic, and Native American; and a display of military maneuvers by cavalry of the United States, German, French, and British armies. Bookending the 1893 show were the grand entrance and exit by the performers, both mounted and afoot, and both civilized and savage—British, French, and Germans representing civilization, the Arabs, “Cossacks,” and Native Americans representing the primitive, and Buffalo Bill and his Americans as intermediaries. All reconciled into an elite regiment of regiments, Cody offered a vision latter-day chivalry brought into the 20th century.383 The second major change made in Cody’s show was its simplified chronology of American history. In the 1880s tours Cody’s American history had been divided into the two major periods of the popular imagination: the first frontier of the 1820s-1840s familiar from Fenimore Cooper and his imitators, and the more recent prairie frontier or “wild West.” But even then the lines between “forest primeval,” as the 1880s shows labelled it, and the recent 383 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, page 2; On the Georgians’ billing as “Russian Cossacks,” see Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 81; Rydell and Kroes, Buffalo Bill in Bologna, 105-117; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-122. Just as the Georgians acted as stand-ins for Russian Cossacks, the Arab horsemen troupe of “Sheik Hadji Tahar” was made up of town-dwelling entertainers, predominantly from North Africa and some from the Levant, who were performing a role that they considered equally alien and exotic: Bedouin pastoralists. One of the performers, a Lebanese acrobat named George Hamid, later explained that he had never ridden a horse until hired on to perform in Buffalo Bill’s Congress of Rough Riders. See Susan Nance, How the Arabian Nights Inspired the American Dream, 1790-1935 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 111-135. 380 Western frontiers, were not so clear-cut: Plains Indians in warbonnets had greeted the first settlers on an imaginary Atlantic coast, and a short essay reprinted from the 1886 programme (“The Rifle as an Aid to Civilization”) had anachronistically attributed America’s constant westward movement to a quartet of simple technologies: “the rifle ball,” the axe “that cleared the forest,” and “the family Bible and school book.” No inconvenient mentions were made of the long history of cumbersome pre-rifling firearms like arquebuses and flintlocks, or the absence of organized American public schools until fairly recent times. This essentialized image of an America that had always been technologically and culturally advanced vis-à-vis the Indians was simplified it further in the 1893 show by omitting any of the “forest primeval” segments. For the first time, the western United States from around 1800 to the present stood as synecdoche for all of American history, with the gun-armed representatives of Anglo-American urban-industrial civilization against the bow-and-arrow-wielding Native American warriors as synecdoche for some 400 years of conflict. And the core of the Wild West show’s history was the standard narrative of Manifest Destiny: westering settlers suffered the unprovoked aggression of the Indians, after which the Army’s scouts and soldiers righteously defeated the Indians to clear a path for Anglo-American civilization, morality, and progress.384 Cody, to be clear, was not the sort of unrepentant bigot or cynical profiteer of such latter-day depictions as 1976’s Buffalo Bill and the Indians (dir. Robert Altman). Aside from the simple good business sense of treating indigenous employees well, offering competitive wages and the opportunity to make money in side ventures like selling autographs and 384 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 13 (“The Bow and Arrow”), 22-23 (“The Rifle as an Aid to Civilization”); Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 81; Robert W. Rydell and Rob Kroes, Buffalo Bill in Bologna: The Americanization of the World, 1869-1922 (University of Chicago Press, 2005), 105-117; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-122. 381 mementos, his Indian employees remember that he insisted on their equal treatment to his white performers when it came to catering and accommodations. And he seems to have taken the idea of postwar reconciliation seriously. The succinct caption of an illustration of a mounted, warbonneted Plains warrior in the programme tried to convey this sentiment: “The former foe—the present friend, the AMERICAN.”385 But calls for reconciliation ended where the need to endlessly commemorate white victimhood at Indian hands began. Three of the four 1880s staples of Cody’s Wild West show, listed in the 1893 programme, involved a formula of Indian aggression and American retaliation: an attack on an emigrant train by “marauding Indians repulsed by “Buffalo Bill” with Scouts and Cowboys”; the capture of the Deadwood stagecoach by Indians and its recapture by Buffalo Bill “and his attendant Cowboys”; and a heroic re-enactment of Custer’s Last Stand billed as historically accurate. Like the Midway’s Sitting Bull cabin exhibit, both the wagon-train scene and the Deadwood stagecoach act attained to authentically titillating edutainment. The programme promised that the wagons were “the same as used 35 years ago” and that the old stagecoach was the same “scarred and weather- beaten veteran” in which a “great number of people […] lost their lives on the road between Deadwood and Cheyenne 18 years ago.” The Little Bighorn battle scene, as heroic as the Anheuser-Busch lithograph of Custer’s Last Stand, was imbued with putative authenticity by inflating Cody’s presence in the 1876 campaign: he and his cowboys arrived at the battlefield just as the smoke was clearing, to gaze on the desolation. Confusing the issue further, Cody 385 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 10; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 81; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-122. 382 had appropriated Custer’s iconography for his own since the 1880s: the long, curled hair, buckskin jacket, broad-brimmed white hat and neatly-trimmed moustache and goatee.386 The Indians’ villainy was further embellished, or perhaps buried, in the articles reprinted throughout the 60-odd pages of the programme, which through many curious omissions tried to downplay or elide any possible reasons the Indians might have for making war on the Americans. A reprinted excerpt from General Sheridan’s autobiography repeated the hagiography of Charley “Buffalo Chips” White while presenting a heavily sanitized version of Slim Buttes. The elephant in the room, the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890, was never mentioned in the show itself, while the programme described the euphemistic “Indian troubles” of 1890 in self-justifying terms. Reprinted newspaper and magazine articles quoted such Army figures as Colonel Dodge and Cody’s business manager Major John Burke to praise Cody’s indirect aid: his Lakota employees, “improved by travel,” had countered the “unruly Indians” of the Rosebud and Pine Ridge agencies and prevented an “immediate outbreak among the red men.” A reprinted article from Harper’s hailed the role of “that most faithful servant—the only good Indian except a dead one—the Indian scout” in suppressing the Ghost Dance. Six pages of material condensed from Illustrated America magazine held the Ghost Dance as a sinister conspiracy by “medicine men and politicians” whose eagle- feather fans had been wielded like mesmerists’ watches to entrance the participants and transform the ceremony “from a sacred rite to a warlike demonstration”; Wounded Knee was 386 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 2, 23-25 (“A Historical Coach of the Deadwood Line”); Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business, 81; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 1-122; Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 52-108; Connell, Son of the Morning Star, 356-58. 383 called both “an unlooked-for accident” and “one of the best marked triumphs known in the history of Indian campaigns.”387 The programme gave the Sioux themselves a flurry of descriptors for irrationality and savagery: “excusably excited,” “unintentionally wronged,” “headstrong and misguided,” and “warlike.” Buried in the middle of a promotional essay on Cody’s 1889-90 tour of Europe was a glimpse of the ugly reality: a forlorn illustration of three Army scouts watching snow cover frozen bodies and burned-out tipis. No mention was made of a little-known incident which cast a further unfavourable light on the whole affair: Peter McFarland, an Army teamster, told oral historian Eli Ricker in 1905 that he had seen “one Indian who was scalped,” “lying in the gulch on his back.” He went from bystander to participant when he spotted an amateur “trying to get a scalp from an Indian without success, not knowing how to do it,” and offered his assistance. Indian agent Valentine McGillycuddy later attributed the discovery of these scalped bodies to what happened in the aftermath of the aftermath: on 30 December, the day after Wounded Knee, the body of Private Domenic Francischetti was abandoned in the soldiers’ retreat from the White Clay Creek Fight or Drexel Mission Fight between the 7th Cavalry and the Lakotas. It was recovered seven days later, scalped and mutilated. This never made the brochure, either.388 While Indians’ actual suffering at the hands of American settlers or soldiers was deliberately downplayed or ignored, a fictitious story of Lakota baby-killing from a poem by 387 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 32-34 (“improved by travel”, “Indian trouble,” “Sioux troubles”), 38-44 “Ghost-Dances in the West: Origin and Development of the Messiah Craze and the Ghost-Dance,” Illustrated America magazine) 388 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 46-49 (Buffalo Chips), 61 (“excusably excited… unintentionally wronged… headstrong and misguided… warlike”, Wounded Knee engraving “After the Battle. – Field of Wounded Knee. – Campaign 1890-91”); Jensen, Settler and Soldier Interviews 6, 10; retaliation in Jerome A. Greene, American Carnage: Wounded Knee, 1890 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2014), 292-94, 503 n. 9. 384 “Buckskin Sam,” entitled “Cody’s Corral, or The Scouts and the Sioux” was reprinted. In the classic scenario of defensive invasion, it told of Cody and his scouts being ambushed by “a hundred hideous, painted, and fierce” Sioux warriors in a scenic mountain valley. Inevitably emerging the victors, Cody and his men looked upon “their dead and mangled enemies, whose corses [sic] strewed the ground.” This bloodletting was sanctioned by a fictional “Medicine Hill” massacre: “I had sworn I would avenge them,”—were the words of Buffalo Bill— / The mothers and their infants they slew at Medicine Hill. / Our work is done—done nobly [.]” To complete the fantasy of heroic Indian-killing, the programme trotted out Buffalo Bill’s self-created legend: the scalping of “Yellow Hand.” The programme reminded the audience that the Deadwood stagecoach, in which a fortunate few would be chosen to ride in during the show, had begun its journeys “made famous by the scenes of slaughter and the deviltry of the banditti” in 1875, even passing through War Bonnet Creek—“the place where “BUFFALO BILL” killed the Indian Chief, “Yellow Hand,” on July 17, 1876.” Cody himself had ridden in this very coach in August 1876 while returning from scouting for General Crook, “bringing with him several of the scalps of the Indians whom he had met.”389 While none of those “several” Indians were named, the programme offered multiple and contradictory versions of the duel with, and scalping of, Yellow Hand. Captain George Price’s “Across the Continent with the Fifth Cavalry” praised Cody for having “killed in a hand-to-hand combat the Cheyenne Chief, Yellow Hand.” A poem marvelled at Cody’s gentleness with his infant daughter, Irma Cody, with the same hand “that seemed harsh and cruel, / Nerved by a righteous hate / As it cleft the heart of the Yellow Hand, / In revenge of 389 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 12 (“Cody’s Corral, or The Scouts and the Sioux”), 24 (“Yellow Hand… banditti… scalps of several”). 385 Custer’s fate.” Another poem, by “an Old Comrade,” William Annin, described a long-range rifle shot: “I saw Bill’s fight with “Yellow Hand,” you bet it was a “mill” / He downed him well at thirty yards, and all the men cheered Bill.” With no contradiction, this was followed by the knife-fight version, reprinted from General Sheridan’s autobiography: “It is now close quarters, knife to knife. After a hand to hand struggle, Cody wins, and the young chief “Yellow Hand” drops lifeless in his tracks after a hot fight.” A passage from Buell’s History also granted Cody the dubious heroism of personally knifing the long-suffering Cheyenne leader Black Kettle as he fled the Washita in 1868. The illustration of the scalping of Yellow Hand which appeared in the 1893 programme was more gruesome than usual, showing his enemy stretching out his hands in a final agony.390 Yet the “Scalping of Yellow Hand” act was not performed in Chicago, and had not been performed by Cody on stage since 1877; Paul Hedren states that Figure 7.4 was “the last “first scalp” image to grace a Wild West program.” Further, Hedren notes that Cody had grown increasingly uncomfortable with this element of his legend, as indicated in a statement Cody made in a 1903 letter to his friend and portraitist Irving Bacon: Yellow Hand was the only Indian I ever scalped. I did not believe in scalping. But it was only the day before that we heard of Custer and his entire command being wiped out. And I wanted revenge for I loved Custer and many of his brave men. Charley Reynolds his chief of scouts was an old time friend of mine. Hedren points out some “muddied” details in Cody’s chronology, written almost 30 years after Warbonnet Creek. At odds with Cody’s implication of scalping Yellow Hair in the heat 390 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West… Programme, 5 (“when he killed Yellow Hand in front of the military command in an open-handed fight”), 8 (“killed in a hand-to-hand combat”), 14-15 (supposed killing of Black Kettle), 19 (“Nerved by a righteous hate”), 37 (“you bet it was a “mill””), 47 (“close quarters now, knife to knife”), 48 (scalping of Yellow Hand, 1893 illustration); Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer”. 386 of the moment after learning “the day before” of Little Bighorn, Hedren notes that Cody had carried the news of Little Bighorn to the commander, Col. Wesley Merritt, on 6 July; not only was he the first in the company to hear of it, ten days separated Cody and the 5th from the Warbonnet Creek skirmish and the ‘first scalp for Custer’ on 16 July. Further, Cody’s claim that “Yellow Hand” was “the only Indian I ever scalped” contradicted the details of his 1879 autobiography, where he claimed to have killed and scalped Indians and taken weapons and personal possessions as trophies in several other incidents. Hedren suggests that in the intervening years between 30-year-old Cody scalping Yellow Hair and 57-year-old Cody disavowing this to Bacon, the cultivation of good working relationships and personal friendships with his former Lakota and Cheyenne enemies had given him an “evolved disdain” towards scalping. He may have felt remorse and regret for “a legacy he created but then could never shake.”391 It was not just Cody’s decision to make. For many members of the general public, the simplified, morally clear-cut stories of barbarous Indians and heroic frontiersmen spoke to a national need to believe that the chaos and genocidal violence of the past 400 years had all had a higher purpose and grand-historical meaning than just one people pushing another people off their land, or that Anglo-American scalping culture signified some sort of creole seasoning process rather than a forfeiture of their imagined moral high ground over the Indians. Whether he took the form of ranger, forester, scout, or cowboy, the idealized frontiersman was a figure in whose historical existence many Anglo-Americans, and a viewing public in Europe and around the world, wanted to place their faith. Cody, for better 391 Hedren, “The First Scalp for Custer,” 16 (“a legacy he created but then could never shake”), 21-29. 387 or for worse, had claimed to be the living incarnation of that figure, and was now irrevocably chained to it. While the dime novel and its successor the paperback would continue to flourish as vehicles for frontier adventure in the 20th century, the Wild West roadshow-circus format was waning by the first decade of the 20th century. In 1894 Cody had glimpsed the future when he and some of his Indian troupe were filmed at Thomas Edison’s studio for the kinetoscope parlours which had first appeared at the 1893 World’s Fair and were now springing up across America, followed by full motion pictures. Silent Westerns on film, most famously 1903’s The Great Train Robbery, did not offer all of the three-dimensional sensory thrills—gunsmoke, full-colour sweat, hoofbeats, etc.— of attending an actual Wild West show, but were much cheaper to distribute than traincars full of actors, props, horses and bison. This new market cut into Cody’s profit margin at the same time that rising costs, stiff competition from other cowboy-circus outfits, and poor financial decisions ate away at his earnings. A joint film-company venture formed with Pawnee Bill Lillie in 1909 appears to have been unsuccessful; by 1913, he was so hard-up for cash that he placed the Wild West show property itself as his collateral for a $20,000 loan, which was sold at public auction when he was unable to pay the interest. He and his creditors then decided to recoup their losses and restore Cody to fiscal solvency by forming the Colonel W. F. Cody (Buffalo Bill) Historical Pictures Company, to transpose the scenarios from his Wild West show to the big screen. Like his Wild West shows, their film would have an edutainment angle that reflected favourably on the federal government’s civilizing mission on the Great Plains, and his 388 longstanding relationships with the Army meant that the Departments of War and the Interior leapt eagerly to assist him.392 In October 1913, filming of The Indian Wars began on the Pine Ridge Reservation, with script to be written by Charles King, now a highly-successful writer of frontier romances with much manly action and Indian-killing. Nelson Miles, the interpreter Philip Wells, Cody himself, and others were tapped to appear onscreen and provide authenticity, as well as the 12th Cavalry to play the Army, and a host of Lakotas, many of whom had been in show business since the 1880s; one advertisement promised “1000 Indians, many of whom were leaders in the original battles.” The question of “battles,” and whose definitions were to prevail, were the subject of intense controversy during the film’s production. As well as Little Bighorn and the Battle of Summit Springs, the latter of which Cody had actually taken part in and which had been an element of his show in 1907, the film would stage the Army’s versions of Warbonnet Creek. Most troubling to the Lakotas, the film would include Wounded Knee, which some early reports said had been sanitized in the scripting process to remove the women and children from the scene and present the Indians as the aggressors. Apparently, General Miles and Cody were to be added anachronistically to the site of this “battle,” and Miles had reportedly insisted on filming at the site of the massacre and its mass grave.393 Assessing the accuracy of The Indian Wars is a near impossibility, as only two minutes of footage survive in the archives of the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody, 392 Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer,” ; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, ; Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 52- 108; Andrea I. Paul, “Buffalo Bill and Wounded Knee: The Movie,” in Nebraska History 71 (Nebraska State Historical Society, 1990), 182-190. 393 Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer”; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation; Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 52-108; Paul, “Buffalo Bill and Wounded Knee: The Movie”; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business. 389 Wyoming. Promotional materials such as posters and still photographs leaned heavily on Cody’s pre-established iconography, including the “First Scalp for Custer.” A promotional illustrated poster from 1913 promised “The Life of Buffalo Bill in Three Reels” with a prominent portrait of an ageless, buckskin-clad Buffalo Bill. About one-third of the poster illustrated Warbonnet Creek with Cody’s familiar vaunting pose, clarifying with the caption “First Scalp for Custer.” A still photograph from filming at Pine Ridge in 1913 shows a re- enactment of the foundational scene of Cody’s career, to tragicomic results. With the ridges of the South Dakota prairie stretching out in the background like those of the Anheuser- Busch corporation’s Custer’s Last Fight, an unnamed Lakota performer lies in the grass at Cody’s feet playing dead, with the toes of his moccasins sticking up in the air. As in the poster, the familiar vaunting pose, copied from True Williams’ woodcut, which in turn was copied from Eastman’s The Death Whoop, is re-enacted by Cody himself. Yellow Hair’s scalp and war bonnet are raised in his left hand, yet the effect is somewhat undone by the burgeoning paunch held back by Cody’s impressive belt buckle.394 Chauncey Yellow Robe, a Lakota graduate of Carlisle, became the lodestone for criticism of The Indian Wars when he lit into it at the third annual meeting of the Society of American Indians in October 1913. Yellow Robe’s speech, reprinted in South Dakota’s Rapid City Times and sparking further critiques, accused Cody and Miles of seeking “their own profit and cheap glory” at the expense of the victims of Wounded Knee, and trying to make themselves into “heroes for a moving picture machine.” His concerns regarding representation also extended to the Wild West format more broadly; in 1914 he wrote that 394 Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer”; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation; Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 52-108; Paul, “Buffalo Bill and Wounded Knee: The Movie”; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business. 390 such shows taught young children “that the Indian is only a savage being.” Prefiguring the concerns of late 20th century parents regarding violent media and impressionable children, in 1914 he blamed such shows for the occasional news reports of a child “who is hurt playing savage.” Pointing to an 1894 story of a boy named Charles Benney “burned at the stake” by playfellows after seeing the Wild West show, he warned that such were the “direct consequences” of Wild West shows and movies “that depict lawlessness and hatred” on the part of the Indians. That America had been created by 200 years of scalp-hunting adults “playing Indian” was perhaps left unsaid.395 395 Hedren, “First Scalp for Custer”; Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation; Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places, 52-108; Paul, “Buffalo Bill and Wounded Knee: The Movie”; Blackstone, Buckskins, Bullets, and Business. 391 Epilogue “Some violence is the product of psychopathology: paranoia, sadism, wildly displaced rage, and the like. Violence of this sort accounts for a very small portion of the total and holds relatively little theoretical interest. The designation of violence as irrational, however, is attractive to certain theorists and policy-makers since it removes such acts from the realm of the comprehensible and relieves them of the responsibility to have prevented or understood them.” –Bruce Lincoln (2003)396 From the spring of 1972 until February 1974 the Criminal Investigation Command of the U.S. Army collected evidence for an investigation, shelved in the wake of the Watergate hearings, into the conduct in 1967 of a reconnaissance platoon of the 101st Airborne in Vietnam. Created for counterinsurgency purposes in 1965, the platoon codenamed “Tiger Force” was intended to combine reconnaissance and commando functions—“not just to search, but to destroy,” in Michael Sallah and Mitch Weiss’s summary, and were encouraged to behave in a way assumed to terrify the enemy. According to 27 separate witness statements, in 1967 the “Tiger Force” inflated the “kill counts” of their official reports by tallying as Viet Cong several hundred uninvolved villagers in the Central Highlands region, and “were observed in possession of human-ear, scalp, and gold-teeth collections” which were actively condoned and overlooked by their superiors. Such behaviour was not exclusive to the Tiger Force, and military authorites reportedly confiscated Vietnamese scalps, dried ears, and skulls decorated with graffiti from other soldiers returning stateside. That Baby Boomers nurtured on a steady media diet of Westerns in which one-dimensional Indians were gunned down in droves by heroic cowboys drew a connection between the racialized enemies of past and present, both conceived as existential threats within a Manichaean struggle between savagery and civilization—the Plains wars of the 19th century, the Cold 396 From “14 Theses on Religion and Violence,” in Bruce Lincoln, Holy Terrors: Thinking about Religion after September 11, second edition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006 [2003]), 93. 392 War of the 20th—is unsurprising even in the absence of such nightmarish Indian play by the Tiger Force.397 Increasingly critical assessments of violence in Westerns on television and at the movies had begun appearing in the 1950s, though such portraits of morally-conflicted violence by characters such as the mercenary, the “gunfighter” who develops killing into an art, and reluctant heroes tormented by guilt, were reserved for Anglo protagonists. Frontier society’s imagined enemies, all of whom stood outside of a presumedly-benign American moral order or as corruptions within it, remained uncomplicated and straightforwardly evil: corrupt railroad tycoons, rustlers, Mexican bandits, rampaging Apaches, and so on. And the traditional tropes remained: “good” Indians subordinated themselves to manifest Destiny and assimilated; “bad” Indians were invariably implacable, phlegmatic, or cruel; and interracial sex inevitably led to tragedy. The stabs of revisionism present in John Ford’s The Searchers (1956), where John Wayne appeared as an openly-racist Confederate holdout planning an honour killing of his niece for the crime of interracial sex, were undone by a traditional portrayal of the ‘bad’ Indians, the Comanches, as a barbarian horde, leaving no doubt where the audience’s sympathies should lie when Wayne scalps his Comanche antagonist, ‘Scar,’ at the climax. Outside the Hollywood studio system, Europe’s picaresque ‘Spaghetti Westerns’ went further with full-colour fake blood, nudity, and scenes of cruelty and torture. In the first two minutes of Sergio Corbucci’s Navajo Joe (1966) Mervyn Duncan (Aldo Sambrell), the 397 On Anglo-Americans taking trophies from East Asians in the 20th century, specifically American troops committing scalping and other mutilations in the Philippines and British sailors decapitating pirates in the South China Sea, see Stuart Miller, Benevolent Assimilation: the American Conquest of the Philippines, 1899 – 1903 (Yale University Press, 1982), 58-95, 188 and Richard J. Chacon and David H. Dye eds., The Taking and Displaying of Human Body Parts as Trophies by Amerindians (2007), 16-20. On the “Tiger Force,” see Michael Sallah and Mitch Weiss, Tiger Force: A True Story of Men and War (New York and Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 2006), 1-34, 169-322. On the linkages between “savage war” in frontier America and 20th-century Vietnam see also Richard Drinnon, Facing West, 355-56, 374-79, 435, 456-57. 393 leader of an army of scalp hunters, has shot and scalped a woman in cold blood, replicating the Death Whoop pose for the camera, as prelude to his gang massacring a village. Contracted to hunt Indians for “a dollar a scalp,” the Duncan brothers and their followers are outraged to learn that a bounty has been placed on them for “attacking peaceful tribes,” and go on the rampage. Against them stands the lone hero, Navajo Joe (Burt Reynolds), husband of the woman killed in the opening scene, who offers the townsfolk of Esperanza a deal: he’ll wipe out the bounty hunters for “a dollar a head” plus the rewards for the Duncan brothers. On top of this laboured irony is a hoary stereotype: Mervyn is a self-hating “half-breed.” Towards the end of the 1960s, the impacts of the Civil Rights movements, the counterculture, and the dizzying realization that Americans were losing the sort of war they imagined themselves as best at, a battle in the wilderness against a racially-alien and savage foe, became increasingly reflected in revisionist Westerns where the true enemy was not savagery, but white supremacism. In 1968’s The Scalphunters, the illiterate fur trapper Joe Bass (Burt Lancaster), robbed of his fur bales by Kiowa warriors who press the erudite, well- educated escaped slave Joseph Lee (Ossie Davis) on him as compensation, find themselves caught up in the clashes between the Kiowas and a gang of mercenaries, perhaps ironically led by the resplendently-bald, malevolent Jim Howie (Telly Savalas). The film runs against traditional racial roles in the Western: the Kiowas are rogues, but have a sense of fair play; Lee, perhaps prefiguring quick-witted Sheriff Bart (Cleavon Little) in Mel Brooks’ Western spoof Blazing Saddles (1974), is invariably the smartest man in the room as he evades the white characters’ plans to resell him into slavery and dismantles Bass’s pro-slavery arguments, while Bass is clearly threatened by a black man who is, in matters of taste and education, his superior. The most sinister character is Howie, who brandishes an enormous 394 knife and giggles malevolently while threatening to skin Bass alive. Two-thirds of the way through Little Big Man (1970), after our sympathies have been securely placed with the Indians, several of whom are played by Asian or Eurasian actors to complete the identification of the Indian Wars with Vietnam, a scalp appears as a teaching tool for perhaps the first (and last) time in film history. The Cheyenne chief Old Lodge Skins (Chief Dan George (Tsleil-Waututh)) holds up a hank of red hair to explain to his adopted son Jack Crabbe / Little Big Man (Dustin Hoffman) that while Anglo-Americans see the world and the people in it as “dead” objects to exploit for profit, to Indians, “ever’thing is alive. Not only man and animals, but also water, earth, stone, and also the things from them—like that hair.” In succinct and folksy language, an acknowledgement of an ontological difference between indigenous American and European societies is made by the use of a white settler or soldier’s scalp, the Western’s traditional sign of moral outrage and frontier chaos. Of course, both of these films’ real subjects are arguably the civil rights and antiwar movements, not the Indian Wars per se.398 These films’ then-groundbreaking upheavals of race in the Western went against the general grain of the revisionist Westerns of the late 1960s and 1970s; beneath a veneer of putative “historical accuracy,” most repackaged old fantasies about Indian disappearance and alternate fetishization and fear of interracial sex while treating violence in an exploitative and myopic fashion. In films like Duel at Diablo (1966), Cry Blood, Apache (1970), Chato’s Land (1972) and Ulzana’s Raid (1972), Apaches wreaked the stereotypical Indian warrior’s merciless revenge, usually against white hillbillies and frontier trash the audience were 398 Richard Gilmore, Searching for Wisdom in Movies: From the Book of Job to Sublime Conversations (Palgrave MacMillan, 2016), 93-114. 395 expected to detest, through guerrilla warfare and booby traps considered stereotypically Apache: trussing up white victims with rawhide or ropes to dangle head-downwards, throwing rattlesnakes at them, scalping them, etc. In Cry Blood, Apache and Chato’s Land (the latter starring Charles Bronson, whose Lithuanian-Tatar ancestry and Eurasian features guaranteed him the major “Indian” roles habitually reserved for non-Indians), the rape, abuse, and murder of the indigenous hero’s family members, inverting the traditional violation of white owmen in the anti-Indian sublime, spurs his revenge. This queasy fascination with sexual violence directed against fictitious indigenous women also appeared in another revisionist Western, Soldier Blue (1970), which staged lurid scenes ostensibly based on Sand Creek and the Washita. Given the statistically high rates of sexual violence inflicted against indigenous people in the 20th century, such lurid scenarios, ostensibly to raise a non-indigenous audience’s disgust and outrage, could also function as titillation.399 Meanwhile, the producers of the Richard Harris star vehicle A Man Called Horse (1970), whose central premise was that an English aristocrat captured by Sioux could rise from enslaved captive to village chief in under a year, touted the historical and cultural accuracy of a film whose major indigenous spoken roles were redface performances by Corinna Tsopei (Greek-American), Jean Gascon (French-Canadian), Manu Tupou (Fijian- American), Dame Judith Anderson (Anglo-Australian), and Iron Eyes Cody, a Sicilian- American actor (born Espera Oscar di Corti) whose real-life redface performance was, like Antonio Apache’s, so convincing that he became one of Hollywood’s go-to Indians. Clyde 399 Entry “Apache” (58) in Buscombe ed., BFI Companion to the Western (“though films such as Duel at Diablo or Chato’s Land represent the Apache as more sinned against than sinning, still they go out of their way to depict Apache tortures”); David H. Budd, Culture Meets Culture in the Movies: An Analysis East, West, North and South, with Filmographies (Jefferson, NC, and London: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2002), 176; Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, entry “Soldier Blue” (190-91). 396 Dollar, Horse’s technical director and the resident historian on the Rosebud Reservation who obtained Lakota extras to perform in non-speaking background roles, called it “one of the most researched films about the early Plains Indians” and “hopefully therefore, one of the most authentic dramas about such people.” Yet beneath superficial elements like stretches of dialogue in unsubtitled Lakota, the film reprised traditional stereotypes of Indian societies as defined by cruelty and indifference to suffering, evidenced onscreen by the limping of Harris’ fellow slave (Jean Gascon), hamstrung as punishment for an escape attempt, and a scene, which reportedly infuriated AIM member Russell Means, where fellow villagers abandon an old Lakota woman (Dame Judith Anderson) to die in a snowstorm. The scenes of Harris in a Sun Dance, called the “Sun Vow” and heavily promoted as mark of Horse’s historical-cultural accuracy, sets it in a subterranean earth lodge per the Mandan version of the rite and stages it not in indigenous terms of an act of self-sacrifice on behalf of the community, but in New Age terms of the white hero’s journey of self-discovery. Compare, for instance, Sitting Bull’s historic vision at the Sun Dance before Little Bighorn of a great battle and “soldiers upside down,” against Harris’ character’s cynical, self-gratifying visions of himself as ruler of the Indians with soft-focus, slow-motion shots of Corinna Tsopei topless. How deeply ingrained and unquestioned such Manifest-Destiny narratives of Indian barbarism and white supersession were is indicated by the producers’ baffled, scrambling reaction when Native Americans responded to the film. Singer and activist Buffy Sainte- Marie (Plains Cree) called it “the whitest” movie she had ever seen; AIM picketed a Minneapolis theatre screening Horse, handing out a leaflet accusing the movie of attempting to “Totally humiliate and degrade an entire Indian nation.” Others concurred: in a printed dispute in an archaeological journal, the anthropologist Melburn D. Thurman dismissed 397 Dollar's claims of authenticity, stating that if A Man Called Horse “is considered in terms of cultural context, the claim of “authenticity” is absurd.” Yet those invested in the success of Horse could only reply with other Manifest Destiny narratives of vanishing Indians and “authenticity.” Producer Sandy Howard declared that “Indians themselves do not really know their past” and that AIM members, being Ojibwe, Winnebagos, and ‘urban Indians,’ had no grounds to identify with the Sioux, Mandans, and Crows portrayed in Horse (Clyde Dollar)… though, apparently, Anglo-American fantasists had every right to.400 Contemporary indigenous artists redeploy imagery of scalps and scalping to illustrate contiguities between the violence of the past and the ongoing violence and dispossession of the present, often challenging more broadly the platitudes of Anglo-American benevolence. Sherman Alexie’s 1996 novel Indian Killer, in which a serial killer stalks, scalps, and mutilates white businessmen in contemporary Seattle, subverts the conventional murder mystery by challenging the genre’s foundation in Enlightenment-rationalist positivism: not only is the true killer is never captured, their identity is never confirmed, and a chilling epilogue confirms that a pan-Indian uprising looms over the horizon. The never-identified killer combines two figures of colonial fear: the stealthy, merciless warrior who stalks, murders, mutilates, and evades capture to strike again; and the holy man or woman, the 17th century’s “sorcerer” and the 20th’s century’s “shaman,” who uses ritual paraphernalia and the power of other-than-human beings, in this case owls, to enhance their stealth and lethality. 400 Angela Aleiss, Making the White Man's Indian: Native Americans and Hollywood Movies (Greenwood Publishing Group, 2005), 129-133, 130 (“infuriated Indian activist Russell Means”); Andrew Patrick Nelson, Still in the Saddle: the Hollywood Western, 1969-1980 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2015), 81-111; Ralph E. Friar and Natasha A. Friar, The Only Good Indian: the Hollywood Gospel (New York: Drama Book Specialists, 1972), 94-120; the Thurman-Howard debate cited in Stanley South, An Archaeological Evolution (Springer Science, 2005), 207-208; on Sitting Bull’s vision, see Utley, The Lance and the Shield, 131-44; Wishart, Encyclopedia of the Great Plains Indians, entries “Architecture, Traditional” (27-28), “Earth Lodges” (62-64), “Okipa” (137-38), “Sun Dance” (198). 398 The novel’s indigenous characters all suffer from personal variations of a post-Indian malaise, grappling with American settler society’s appropriations of indigenous identity, bogus and self-serving definitions of “authenticity,” and the gaslighting of indigenous people to believe that they are not “real” Indians. This crisis of identity is the defining trait of the protagonist, ironically named John Smith: adopted as the only child of a wealthy white couple in the Seattle suburbs in Alexie’s deliberate allusion to mid-20th-century policies of adopting-out indigenous children, known in Canada as the “Sixties Scoop,” Smith has no knowledge of his biological parents and his tribal identity, and has tried to cobble together “authentic” Indianness from mainstream American culture. He passes up college scholarships to work high-rise construction in imitation of the famous “Mohawk ironworkers” photos, and tells whites informed by Dances with Wolves that he’s Lakota, which invariably impresses them. Tall, handsome, athletic and long-haired, Smith on the surface is America’s ideal assimilated Indian, but by his early 20s his inner turmoil and self-loathing has manifested as mental illness, spawning a quest to kill a scapegoat figure to punish Anglo-America for stealing his identity.401 The novel’s cast of Anglo-American antagonists includes “Truck” Schultz, a racist radio demagogue who encourages vigilante activity against Seattle’s Native American homeless population; in flashbacks, the abusive white father of mixed-race Native American activist Reggie Polatkin, who punctuated his lectures on Indian inferiority and white 401 Sherman Alexie, Indian Killer (New York: The Atlantic Monthly Press, 1996). On Indian Killer, see Daniel Grassian, Understanding Sherman Alexie (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2005), 104-126; Michele Fazio, “Homeless in Seattle: Class Violence in Sherman Alexie’s Indian Killer,” in Michelle M. Tokarczyk ed., Critical Approaches to American Working-Class Literature (New York and London: Routledge, 2011), 141-158; James R. Giles, The Spaces of Violence (Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, 2006), 128-144; Patrice Hollrah, “Sherman Alexie’s Challenge to the Academy’s Teaching of Native American Literature, Non-Native Writers, and Critics,” in Jeff Berglund and Jan Roush eds., Sherman Alexie: A Collection of Critical Essays (Salt Lake City: The University of Utah Press, 2010), 159-170. 399 supremacy by beating his son; and Clarence Mather, a ponytailed anthropology professor who habitually disdains his indigenous students, who drove Reggie out of graduate school and regularly spars with Reggie’s cousin Mary. But the novel’s most influential promulgator of the false “Indian knowledge” used to dispossess Native Americans is a retired white policeman, Jack Wilson (the baptismal name of Wovoka, the founder of the Ghost Dance) who writes dreadful, bestselling murder-mysteries starring a private detective-slash-medicine man named Aristotle Little Hawk, the last of Alexie’s fictional Shilshomish Indians, who uses Enlightenment positivism and broadly stereotyped shamanism to solve mysteries. Wilson also appropriates Indian identity through a spurious “blood quantum” claim of distant descent from a Shilshomish man who lived in Seattle in the 1880s, and his naïve, phony Indianness is taken as the genuine article by the novel’s white characters—tellingly, both Dr. Mather and John Smith’s mother are big fans—while considered hilarious by the patrons of an “Indian bar” he hangs out in, including a woman known as “Beautiful Mary,” “who was still beautiful, even though a keloid scar ran from the corner of her left eye to her chin.” At Indian Killer’s climax, Wilson is involuntarily initiated into the world of deprivation overwritten by his fantasies when Smith selects him as the bearer of his message to settler society to “Let me, let us, have our own pain”—a statement which Helen Hoy describes as “a grimly ironic defense of at least a minimal entitlement.” Bearing an ornately-decorated long knife which both replicates and fetishizes the stereotyped attribute of the Indian warrior, Smith slashes Wilson’s face from eyebrow to neck, scarring him in a way serendipitously mirroring Beautiful Mary. Smith intends this as a mark of Cain to reveal Wilson as a cultural 400 thief: “No matter where you go… people will know you by that mark. They’ll know what you did.” His work completed, Smith throws himself off the skyscraper he helped build.402 But Smith’s suicide brings no resolution, despite the assumption of the novel’s white characters, Wilson included, that Smith was the Indian Killer. In a bleak conclusion, Mary Polatkin dismisses the idea of reconciliation as too little, too late, and predicts that copycats will take up the Indian Killer’s mantle, a prediction proven right in a chilling epilogue. The still-unidentified Indian Killer, bearing a “beautiful knife” and “carr[ying] a pack filled with a change of clothes, a few books, dozens of owl feathers, a scrapbook, and two bloody scalps in a plastic bag,” recruits followers in graveyards on unnamed reservations into what is implied will be the Ghost Dance fully realized: “Other Indians arrive and quickly learn the song. A dozen Indians, then hundreds, and more…” Alexie’s own feelings on Indian Killer have grown decidedly mixed over the years. Having facetiously called it “a feel-good thriller about interracial murder,” he began stepping away from it after the 9/11 attacks, which he said in a 2008 Guardian interview showed him the “end game of tribalism - when you become so identified with only one thing, one tribe, that other people are just metaphors to you.” Having written Indian Killer at age 30, he reassessed it as “a very fundamentalist, binary book, the product of youthful rage.”403 In a more playful vein, a single released in 2014 by the Canadian indigenous- electronica collective A Tribe Called Red also deployed the imageries of scalping to mock the straight-faced pieties of Anglo-American triumphalism. “Burn Your Village To The 402 “grimly ironic”: Helen Hoy, How Should I Read These? Native Women Writers in Canada (Toronto, Buffalo, London: University of Toronto Press, 2001), 8. 403 “a feel-good thriller about interracial murder” in Timothy Egan, “An Indian Without Reservations,” 18 January 1998, The New York Times; Maya Jaggi, “All Rage and Heart,” 3 May 2008, The Guardian. 401 Ground” is an auditory collage mixing electronica beats and war cries with a monologue, from 1993’s Addams Family Values, mocking Anglo-American bourgeois aspirationalism. During a dreary, self-righteous Thanksgiving pageant at a summer camp, disaffected Goth tween Wednesday Addams (Christina Ricci), playing Pocahontas as merciless avenger, leads a “revolt of the repressed”. Dressed as Indians, the camp’s outcast collective of nerds, the physically-disabled, and ethnocultural minorities run riot against the wealthy, conventionally attractive WASP children whose parents own the campground. Wednesday sparks the riot with her self-revised monologue, which concludes with her advancing on her long-haired, bourgeois female antagonist with a raised knife: You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now, my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations; your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the roadsides; you will play golf and enjoy hot hors d’oeuvres. My people will have pain, and degradation; your people will have stick-shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken. They have said, Do not trust the Pilgrims […] And for all these reasons, I have decided to scalp you, and burn your village to the ground. Released during the quincentennial celebrations of Columbus’ “discovery” in the Caribbean, such content in Addams Family Values could not have been coincidental. Similarly, A Tribe Called Red cheekily timed the release of “Burn Your Village to the Ground” for 2014’s Thanksgiving weekend, which they dubbed ““celebrating” in our own way” in a press release.404 404 Further: “In a way, each day is a day of thanksgiving to the Creator for the original people of Turtle Island. This doesn't mean that we don't enjoy turkey, pie and family as much as the next person, but at the same time the Thanksgiving myth largely shared in mainstream culture perpetuates a one sided view of a complicated history surrounding this holiday.” From https://soundcloud.com/a-tribe-called-red/burn-your-village-to-the- ground , 25 November 2014. https://soundcloud.com/a-tribe-called-red/burn-your-village-to-the-ground https://soundcloud.com/a-tribe-called-red/burn-your-village-to-the-ground 402 Grim realities The later 20th century has seen a concerted effort by members of indigenous communities to repatriate and rebury relatives and ancestors’ scalps, bones, and physical remains. One case in point is the fate of Little Crow, a leader in the Dakota War, shot by a Minnesota farmer in July 1863 for the state’s outstanding $75 bounty on Indian scalps. After gross mistreatment of his body by the citizens of Hutchinson, Minnesota on the 4th of July, Little Crow’s killer was given a $500 bounty by state authorities; by 1896, his scalp, skull, and forearm bones ended up behind glass in St. Paul as a centerpiece display of the Minnesota Historical Society. By the early 20th century, Minnesotans were increasingly uneasy about such displays and the complicated questions they raised vis-à-vis their supposed moral superiority over Indians, and when Little Crow’s grandson Jesse Wakeman complained in 1918, they were quietly removed from public eyes and shuttered in a storage closet. There they remained until 1971, when Wakeman, then 88 years of age, appealed to the Minnesota Historical Society for their return. Alan Woolworth, an archaeologist and Society member, drove Little Crow’s remains to South Dakota where his descendants had been exiled post-war; here, a reburial ceremony was held in a family plot, and Woolworth hired a cement truck to fill in the grave to pre-empt the grave robbing and vandalism that had befallen Sitting Bull’s grave. “It was not so much that the whites killed Grandfather,” Wakeman told a reporter, “[but] what they did to his body and remains that rankles me and our people.” Following the passage of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act in 1990, the process began of reclaiming remains of Cheyennes and Arapahos killed at Sand Creek and reburying them at a cemetery at the massacre site itself. After a few years of arbitration with the Smithsonian to repatriate scalps and skeletal remains, a further obstacle 403 had to be surpassed: the massacre site was by then privately owned by a Colorado ranching family who, while made sympathetic to Native American perspectives through interactions with Southern Cheyenne chief Laird Comatsevah, were still the ultimate arbiters of access. Larry McMurtry writes that at an unspecified date in the 1990s, a private, ad hoc reburial ceremony was held on the property by an Ojibway woman named Connie Buffalo, who had been given two scalps by an owner of a small motel near the massacre site who remorsefully told her they had been taken at Sand Creek in 1864. As traffic to the massacre site increased, however, the Dawson family began a lengthy legal dispute with the federal government and the Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes over the sale of the land, only resolved in 2007.405 But what happens when scalping is passed over in public memory as a part of a nation’s history, as in much of present-day Canada? Just as I was completing this draft, I learned that an indigenous artist in Calgary, Lee Deranger, has just completed an artwork reminding Canadians of the scalp bounties instated against Mi’kmaq people in Nova Scotia by Lord Cornwallis. Already a cause of national embarrassment in 2011 when Cornwallis Junior High was officially renamed, the bounties have never technically been repealed. Her artwork depicts a barn door on which has been nailed a flag of Nova Scotia besmirched by a trickle of fresh red blood (red paint, thankfully). Below the flag are three artificial scalps nailed to the door to dry, which the artist says represent the Crown, the federal government of Canada, and the provincial government of Nova Scotia. In mind of the impending 405 Gary Clayton Anderson, Little Crow: Spokesman for the Sioux (St. Paul, Minnesota: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1986), 7-8, 176-181; Curt Brown, “Little Crow’s Legacy,” in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, 24 April 2015, http://www.startribune.com/little-crow-s-legacy/166467906/ ; Kelman, A Misplaced Massacre; Chip Colwell, Plundered Skulls and Stolen Spirits: Inside the Fight to Reclaim Native America’s Culture (University of Chicago Press, 2017), 67-124; McMurtry, O What a Slaughter, 92. http://www.startribune.com/little-crow-s-legacy/166467906/ 404 celebrations for the 150 year anniversary of Confederation, the artwork is completed below the scalps with “Reconcile This” painted in vivid red.406 The Future “White people no longer feared Indians,” Alexie’s John Smith thinks to himself on the streets of late-20th-century Seattle. “Somehow, near the end of the twentieth century, Indians had become invisible, docile.” From the beginning of the 20th century, Indians’ previous role as the bogeyman within America has been applied to other groups given Indian-like traits. The crime fiction genres of film noir, the hard-boiled detective story, and vigilante films like the Death Wish series or Stallone’s Cobra, continue in an urban setting the Western’s central narrative of weak or corrupt institutions and unscrupulous enemies, often depicted as racial or cultural aliens, who must be fought outside the law. The commando protagonists of films such as Chuck Norris’ Missing In Action trilogy, Stallone’s Rambo series, and Schwarzenegger’s Commando and Predator, are visually identified as white savages by their costumes—minimal clothing and war paint, ostensibly for camouflage—and their methods of waging one-man wars against bandits, communists, and other dishonourable antagonists who capture and torment their victims. The racial-alien theme is made literal in Predator, where a savage warrior from space uses lasers and a high- tech spear to kill, then mutilate his victims for trophies.407 406 On “Reconcile This,” see Tamara Pimentel, “One flag, 3 bloody scalps, and an artist who wants to change the law,” APTN National News, 30 January 2017, http://aptnnews.ca/2017/01/30/one-flag-3-bloody-scalps-and- an-artist-who-wants-to-change-the-law/ , accessed 11 February 2017, 1:20 pm EST. My thanks to Kaitlin Khubyar for bringing this story to my attention. 407 Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation; Lawrence and Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero; Hoppenstand, “Justified Bloodshed.” http://aptnnews.ca/2017/01/30/one-flag-3-bloody-scalps-and-an-artist-who-wants-to-change-the-law/ http://aptnnews.ca/2017/01/30/one-flag-3-bloody-scalps-and-an-artist-who-wants-to-change-the-law/ 405 The military tactics of America’s overseas wars from the Spanish-American War to the War on Terror have emphasized victory through overwhelming firepower, and popular histories of those wars stress the racially alien and therefore dishonourable nature of the foe, the need for the enemy’s total defeat and unconditional surrender, and may cast the conflict as part of a Manichaean global struggle between good and evil. While these arguments, arguably, exist in any country, what sets the United States apart is a popular belief, per Lawrence and Jewett’s “American monomyth,” that institutions are inherently untrustworthy, weak, and corruptible, and that therefore actions performed outside the law, such as Oliver North’s Iran-Contra scheme and the Bush administration’s unilateral decision to defy the United Nations and go to war with Iraq in 2003, are excusable if not explicitly preferred. Also not unique to the United States, though consistent with the American monomyth’s savage-war mythology, is a conviction that people designated as savages, however defined, best respond to exemplary shows of force. What arguably sets the United States apart from other countries in the British settler- colonial world is a tendency to justify exttralegal action and savage war through a paradoxical celebration of America’s unique power and moral superiority, set against an overwhelming conspiracy of forces arrayed against it—what Richard Hofstadter identified as “the paranoid style in American politics.” In the tradition of the anti-French Jesuit and Indian-trader conspiracies of the Seven Years’ War and the British Indian-trader and Freemason conspiracies of the Jeffersonian period, the current President of the United States, an international businessman with hotels in several Muslim-majority countries worldwide, has spoken at length, as a candidate and as president, of a vast conspiracy by Hillary Clinton, George Soros, and other “globalists” to destroy the Western world from within through 406 Muslim immigration and free-trade agreements. He punctuated these by suggestions that what the War on Terror needs is increased collateral damage and deliberate, exemplary massacres: citing an apocryphal story of an American general in the Philippines who supposedly put down a Muslim resistance by executing his prisoners with bullets dipped in pigs’ blood, he also declared he would order the Air Force to target and kill the families of ISIS fighters. Perhaps most exemplary of the survival of Indian-war fantasies of violent self- pity was candidate Trump’s claim in a 2015 campaign speech that thousands of Muslim- Americans danced and cheered in New Jersey while watching the 9/11 attacks. As political analyst Matt Taibbi observed, while police were, in fact, dispatched to Muslim-majority neighbourhoods in New Jersey following 9/11, their assignment was to protect Muslim- Americans from reprisals by their neighbours, which “is one of the reasons we know Muslims weren't dancing en masse in the streets. […] To believe there was a mass demonstration of open, gloating defiance right across the river from Manhattan while the Towers smoldered, speaks to a powerfully crazy fantasy both about American impotence and about a brazen, homogenous evil in Muslim-American communities.” If one were to change “Muslim” or “Muslim-American” to “Native American,” the timelessness of such a fantasy is revealed.408 According to journalist Matthew Cole, “dark mimesis” in a peculiarly retrograde form appeared among SEAL Team 6, the elite of America’s Navy SEALs, during the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Tasked with taking fingers, skin, or sections of scalp from slain combatants for DNA identification purposes, team members reportedly flayed large pieces of 408 Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation; Engelhardt, The End of Victory Culture; Lawrence and Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero; Matt Taibbi, “America is Too Dumb for TV News,” 25 November 2015, http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/america-is-too-dumb-for-tv-news-20151125 . http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/america-is-too-dumb-for-tv-news-20151125 407 skin from enemy combatants’ bodies in imitation of a 1971 Vietnam War novel Devil’s Guard, billed as the true account of an S.S. officer who joined the French Foreign Legion postwar to mutilate and terrorize the subhuman Vietnamese. As deaths of Afghan and Iraqi men, regardless of whether or not they bore arms, increased among all divisions, Red Squadron, sporting badges of a stereotypical Indian warrior with crossed stone-headed tomahawks, issued steel tomahawk sidearms to chop up dead and dying enemy combatants.409 The danger, of course, of any study on the exotic or the bizarre is that one looks for it in others rather than oneself, and looks for it abroad rather than at home. As sociologist Thomas Dunk observed in his 1991 ethnography It’s a Working Man’s Town: Male Working- Class Culture in Northwestern Ontario, white Canadians—in this case, in my hometown of Thunder Bay, Ontario—carry on the tradition of defining themselves through definition of indigenous peoples as their negative mirror image. The consequences of this have been spilling into the national media for the past year: among others, the Thunder Bay police department is currently being investigated over whether “systemic racism” has precluded investigation a series of mysterious deaths of indigenous teenagers in the city in the past decade. We are dealing here with a 500-year-old problem in Canadian and, ultimately, Western thought: a tendency to consider indigenous peoples as something other than fellow human beings living in the same historic time that other people are. And once an indifference 409 Matthew Cole, “The Crimes of SEAL Team Six,” 10 January 2017, https://theintercept.com/2017/01/10/the- crimes-of-seal-team-6/ , accessed 4 March 2017, 11:13 pm EST. https://theintercept.com/2017/01/10/the-crimes-of-seal-team-6/ https://theintercept.com/2017/01/10/the-crimes-of-seal-team-6/ 408 to indigenous lives can be cemented in the mind as quotidian “common sense,” the consequences are dire—for indigenous people, and for everyone.410 I tend to agree with the summary of Laura McCloud (Tulalip), describing fish and game wardens trying to provoke Native American activists into arrestable offenses after a judge ruled in their favour over the “fish-in” of 1965: “the history books are wrong when they talk about “the last Indian wars.” They have never stopped!” At root is a need to define oneself by negative definition of others: the master-key which unlocks the dark side of human existence. In this light, the assessment of Herman Melville’s Arkansan con man, Charlie Noble, must also be considered: “…that Indian-hating was no monopoly of Colonel Moredock's; but a passion, in one form or other, and to a degree, greater or less, largely shared among the class to which he belonged. And Indian-hating still exists; and, no doubt, will continue to exist, so long as Indians do.”411 410 David Halle, review of "It's a Working Man's Town: Male Working-Class Culture in Northwestern Ontario.Thomas W. Dunk ," in American Journal of Sociology 98, no. 2 (Sep., 1992), 432-433. The second edition of It’s a Working Man’s Town (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003) unfortunately changes the subtitle to the vaguer “Male working-class culture.” 411 Laura McCloud cited in Peter Nabokov ed., Native American Testimony, 362-66; Melville in Parker and Niemeyer eds., Norton Critical Edition of The Confidence-Man, 147-48. 409 Bibliography Primary Sources Acosta, José de, Jane E. 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work_lmpdufad55dldh25bkizmnvvty	----	i\ •· ,. ~·~. ~~~ . \ ·-, ' CELIA THAXTER'S ISLAND GARDEN: A 19th CENTURY FLOWER GARDEN & ITS HISTORIC RESTORATION BY TESSA IZENOUR SENIOR SEMINAR: FALL 2004 INSTRUCTOR: SINCLAIR ADAt\1 TEMPLE UNIVERSITY: DEPARTMENT OF LAt'IDSCAPE ARCHITECTURE & HORTICULTURE ABSTRACT: Celia Thaxter, perhaps the most renowned and popularly successful female poet of her time, was also a passionate and knowledgeable gardener, naturalist, and painter. In 1893 , a year before her death, she wrote what today is still considered a garden literature classic, An Island Garden, in which she described what she called her "old-fashioned" small garden, roughly 15' x 50', on Appledore Island, Isles of Shoals, Maine. This book was beautifully, and famously, illustrated with paintings of her garden and home by the American impressionist Childe Hassam, and served as a popular literary chronicle of an famous American garden as well as an emrninently practical horticultural how-to guide. This small garden, lying roughly ten miles off the coast of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, was renowned in its day and a mecca for the pre-eminent artists, writers, and musicians of late 191h century New England, for which it was a profound inspiration. Likewise, the recreation ofher garden, begun in 1976, continues to attract increasing throngs of visitors to this day. This paper attempts to examine, deconstruct, and evaluate Celia Thaxter' s original garden-- i.e. , what she grew, how she grew these plants in such a harsh North Atlantic island situation, and to discuss the garden's on-going horticultural, art-historical, and cultural significance. It is the author's proposition that Celia's island garden serves as an eminent example of the dynamic dialogue between the mediums of painting and gardening, which also succinctly and emblematically, embodies the essentially ephemeral nature of gardens as works of art and their simultaneous profound potential for affecting lasting impression and significance upon culture. Celia's island garden is further analyzed in regards to issues of gender and the Victorian ' door-yard ' garden. Finally, the garden's recreation and its popular success is critically examined and discussed in relation to the amply documented and described original garden, and its effectiveness as a historical restoration effort is evaluated. 1 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman's Work,· Th e Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter, Portsmouth, NH: Peter E. Randall, Pub!. , 2001 , p. 84 . INTRODUCTION: A small, almost insignificant plot of land in a most unlikely and remote location was transformed over time into a lush, overflowing flower garden by the daughter of a lighthouse keeper. Celia Laighton Thaxter was an extremely talented woman who led a remarkably unconventional and independent life by Victorian New England standards. She plied multiple trades and artistic media (including: running a hotel, writing poetry and prose, painting porcelain, and flower arranging) to support herself and her mentally handicapped son, and was long estranged from her husband. Yet, her garden and its creator were famous in their time, and became a tiny beacon for the greatest talent of New England who came to see it, paint it, and simply bask in its color and beauty. Indeed Celia Thaxter's garden and flower-filled parlor constitute one of the first great artistic 'salons' of 19'h century America, and arguably can be said to have inspired some of the best American Impressionist paintings ever created. Ultimately this garden was to become a romantic icon of an ' old-fashioned' flower garden which continues to find admirers, and emulators, today. Indeed, her garden can be considered an archetypal model of an idealized and nostalgic American garden type, the 'Grandmother's' garden. Thus, Celia Thaxter's island garden, and its restoration, provide a fascinating context in which to investigate many complex issues surrounding landscape and garden history, botanical and horticultural history, garden literature, the relationship between painting and gardening, concepts of gender as expressed in attitudes towards gardening, and historic landscape restoration. Celia Thaxter Cottage. Isles-of-Shoal s, N.H . A postcard view of Celia Thaxter's 'cottage' and ga rden (from the late 19'h century?).2 2 0tis, Denise. Grounds for Pleasure: Four Centuries of the American Garden. New York~ Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 2002,p.67. 2 APPLEDORE ISLAND, OR, "THE SHIFTING INTERFACE BETWEEN LAND, SEA, AND AIR"3 : A brief history of Appledore Island and its vegetation: r- - _...._.___ - · ,.... ~··· I ~,] .. I .......... ----~-,~·- ._,____.!--=:" .. · -=-=---~- --==-· ~__::,_·). I 1779 map of Portsmouth & the Isles of Shoals.4 The first place I set my foote upon in New England was the lies ofShoulds, being Ilands in the Sea, about two Leagues from the Mayne. Upon these Ilands I neither could see one good timber tree, nor so much good ground as to make a garden. -Christopher Levett, A Voyage to New-England, 16285 The Isles of Shoals, "nine glacier-scaned granite domes"6 lying roughly ten miles off the coast of Portsmouth, were among the very first, although under-publicized, places visited and settled by Europeans. The Shoals were well known and used by English, French, Portuguese and Basque fishermen during the 1500s. Captain John Smith first described the Isles of Shoals in writing in 1614 as "a many of 3 Kingsbury, John M . Th e Rocky Shore. Old Greenwich, CT: Chatham Press, Inc., 1970, p. 7. 4 Faxon, Susan C. A Stern and Lovely Scene: A Visual History of the Isles of Shoals. Durham, New Hampshire: University Art Ga lleries; University of New Hampshire, 1978, p. 10. 5 Ibid. , p. 9. 6 Howard, Richard A. Flowers of Star Island, The Isles of Shoals. Jamaica Plain, MA: Arnold Arboretum, 1968, p. 1. 3 barren rocks, the most overgrowne with such shmbs and sharpe whins (vines) you can hardly passe them; without either grasse or wood but three or foure short shmbby old Cedars." 7 However, despite this disparaging description, he attempted to claim and name them for himself, 'Smythe's Isles', a name which did not stick, as the fishermen who had preceded him had already bestowed the name ' The Isles of Shoals', or 'Shoalds' to the archipelago, perhaps because it aptly described to navigators the perils of the semi-submerged rock ledges surrounding the islands, and to fishermen, the schools, or shoal(d)s, offish which were to be found in ample abundance in the region surrounding the islands. The early colonization of the Isles of Shoals was a by-product of the western European fishing industry. The region offered both a seemingly inexhaustible fishery and a convenient and safe stop-over for the processing and curing of the catch, as well as a resting spot for these mariners, before returning to Europe. Landing for the first time, the stranger is struck only by the sadness of the place, --the vast loneliness; for there are not even trees to whisper with familiar voices, -- nothing but sky and sea and rocks. But the very wildness and desolation reveal a strange beauty to him. Let him wait til evening comes, "With sunset purple soothing all the waste," and he will find himself slowly succumbing to the subtile charm of that sea atmosphere. -Celia Thaxter, Among the Isles of Shoals, 18739 As one approaches the Isles of Shoals by boat they gradually emerge from the sea and perhaps the most immediate impression is one of surprise and alarm at the apparent barrenness of the place. 7 Smith, Captain John. Travels and Works of Captain John Smith. Edinburgh: Jolm Grant, 1910. p. 947. 8 Photograph taken by Tessa Izenour, 9/2004. 9 Thaxter, Celia. Among the Isles of Shoals. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., 1897, p. 26. 4 Appledore is the largest of the nine Isles of Shoals, roughly a mile wide and app. 95 acres. There are no canopy trees, and the islands contrast markedly with islands further up the coast which are characteristic of Maine and dominated by more-or-less mature spruce, fir, and pine trees. It is unclear whether there ever existed such a tree canopy on the Isles of Shoals. One initially wonders if the complete deforestation is the result of their long history of human settlement. However, early settlers were likewise startled by the absence of vegetation, and there are records of long-ago vanquished attempts to plant orchards, ornamental trees, and gardens on the Isles of Shoals over the centuries. The open low-lying profile of the islands, their lack of protection from the sea and winter storms, and the large migratory bird populations which they harbor (and the high-Nitrogen guano loads they deposit), as well as the islands' long history ofhuman habitation and abuse of the land may all be factors which have contributed to promoting and sustaining their relatively barren vegetative character. Celia Thaxter, who was a more-or-less life long resident, historian, and naturalist of the Isles of Shoals, apparently believed that the islands were once tree covered-- she wrote, ""It is very probable that the islands were wooded many years ago with spruce, and perhaps a rugged growth. I am certain that cedars grew then (by cedars, she possibly meant Chaemycyparis thyoides, Atlantic Cedar, or Juniperus virginiana, Eastern Red Cedar), for I found on the highest part ofSmuttynose Point, deep down in a crevice in the rocks, a piece of a root of cedarwood, which, although perfectly preserved, bore marks of great age, being worn smooth as glass with the rain drops that had penetrated to its hiding place... I have seen the crumbling remains of the stumps of some large trees in the principal gorge or valley at Appledore." 10 The botanist Richard A. Howard weighed in on the question of whether or not the Isles of Shoals once supported woody growth in his 1968 plant inventory of neighboring Star island-- "The question may never be answered whether the Isles of Shoals were densely wooded in a fashion comparable to islands off the Coast of Maine. The available historical records suggest that they never possessed a forest as such but at best had only a vegetation of shrubs with a few larger specimens contorted by the wind." 11 The island vegetation is today dominated by shrubby woody plant species which get to some height, up to 13 ' or so. Dominant woody species include: Staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina) and flex verticillata, along with wild berry producers such as, Amelanchier & Aronia spp., Choke Cherry (Prunus virgininiana), Blackberry, Raspberry, Myrica pennsylvanica, and of course, Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans), which is today rampant on the island. European plants introduced by early settlers have also naturalized on the islands such as apple trees, and herbaceous species such as Anagallis arvensis (Scarlet 10 Thaxter, Celia, as quoted by Howard, Richard A. Flowers of Star Island, Th e Isles of Shoals. Jamaica Plain, MA: Arnold Arboretum, 1968, p. 3. 11 Howard, Richard A. Flowers of Star Island, The Isle of Shoals. p. 3. 5 Pimpernel), and two plants which have survived and spread from Celia Thaxter's original garden-- Humulus lupulus, and Clematis vitalba. The islands provide a fascinating case-study of the effects of both a unique micro-climate and isolation upon species, as we II as the naturalization and stabilization of introduced species over almost four hundred years time. The aesthetic impression of the contemporary wild flora of the island is unique, magical, and unlike anything experienced on the mainland. Botanists who have addressed the Isles of Shoals flora have noted and discussed this phenomenon. Richard A. Howard of the Arnold Arboretum observed in Flowers of Star Island, "the rugged environment of the Shoals has led to specialization of flower forms not often seen on the mainland. Some plants react by growing bushier and larger, in others the flowers become more briiliant, in stiii others flowers don't appear. . . Well known species may be stunted, contorted, compacted, or unusuaily fleshy. In fact, familiar plants may appear quite different when seen growing on these Atlantic coastal rocks ... Strangely, plant forms found on one island are not always found on another. ... altogether, over 250 different species have been identified on the Shoals. Most of these are naturalized. " 12 One may be surprised to learn that despite the Isles of Shoals North Atlantic location in the Gulf of Maine, it has a relatively mild climate (although the islands have historicaily experienced hurricane force storms at least once every ten years) 13 • The sea moderates temperature extremes, and both winter lows and summer highs vary significantly from the mainland. Celia Thaxter herself noted in 1873 that winter average temperatures on the Isles of Shoals were a surprising twelve degrees warmer that those on the mainland, and a corresponding approximate twelve degrees cooler during the summer. 14 Archived data accumulated by the Isles of Shoals C-MAN Station, and reported by the environmental monitoring portion of the Open Aquaculture Program of the University of New Hampshire, state that "the annual mean air temperature of8.7° C (48° F) lays between a minimum monthly average of -1.6° C (29° F) during February and a maximum of 19.2° C (67° F) during August." 15 The average minimum temperature of29° F would seem to place Appledore Island in an amazing USDA zone 9b, however, this is misleading, as "extrema of -20.9 ° C ( -6° F) occurred during January 1988 and 32.3 ° C (90° F) occurred during June 1988" 16, and nearby Portsmouth lies within zones 5a-6a. Spring, however, arrives at the Isles of Shoals roughly a month later than on the mainland, as the sea takes longer to warm, but, the reverse is also true, as fail temperatures linger approximately a month later than on the mainland, as the sea holds onto its warmth ... 17 12 Ibid., pp. 1-2. 13 Boden, Gary. The Vascular Flora of App!edore Island, p. 15. 14 Ibid. 15 Site Description and Environmental Monitoring Report, Larry G. Ward, et. a!. 200 1. <http://www .ooa. unh.edu/environmentaVtechnical_ report/chapter_ 4.html> 16 Ibid. 17 Boden, Gary. The Vascular Flora of App!edore Island, p. 15 . 6 CELIA THAXTER: A Brief Biography of a Writer-Gardener-Artist: Celia Laighton was born in I 835 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire to T homas B. and El iza Laighton. In 1839, when Celia was four years old, her father moved the young family to tiny White Island, Isles of Shoals, when he accepted the position of lighthouse keeper. Her isolated childhood on White Island cultivated in her an intense interest in observing nature, and she discovered the joys of gardening here early in life. "A lonely child, living on the lighthouse island ten miles away from the mainland, every blade of grass that sprang out of the ground, every humblest weed, was precious in my sight, and I began a little garden when not more than fi ve years old. From this, year after year, the larger one, which has given so much pleasure to so many people, has grown. The first small bed at the lighthouse island contained only Marigolds, pot Marigolds (Calendula officina/is), fire-colored blossoms which were the joy of my heart and the delight of my eyes. This scrap of garden, literally not more than a yard square, with its barbaric splendors of color, I worshipped like any Parsee. " 18 Celia Thaxter, An Island Garden In 1839 her father purchased Hog, Smuttynose, and Malaga Islands, with the intention of developing the Isles of Shoals as a vacation destination for the emerging New England bourgeoisie looking to escape urban and increasingly industrialized centers duri ng the summer months. At the age of 12 in 1847, she moved with her family to Hog Island, which her father had renamed Appledore (after an early, and abandoned 1 i 11 century name for the entire group of islands), where he built Appledore House, which was to become one of the very first resort hotels in America. View towards Appledore House Hotel across Celia ' s garden earl y in the season.19 18 Thaxter, Celia. An Island Garden, Boston: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1894, pp. v-vi. 19 Bardwell, John D. The Isles ofShoals; A Visual History. Portsmouth, NH: Peter E. Randall, Pub!., 1989, p. 104. 7 In 1847 Levi Thaxter, a young Harvard graduate who had come to the Isles of Shoals to recuperate from 'nervous exhaustion', was engaged as the tutor of Celia and her two brothers. He was obviously quickly smitten by Celia and they were engaged in 1848. There is some conjecture that their engagement may have been in part to consummate a business deal between her father and Levi who helped fund the building of the Appledore House Hotel.20 They were married in 1851 when Celia was 16 years old (and Levi 27) and the marriage was unhappy trom the beginning. Their first child, Karl, suffered brain damage at birth, and was to be a profoundly difficult child who would be forever dependent upon his mother. Two other sons were soon born (John and Roland), and Celia found herself shouldering the overwhelming burdens of raising three small children and managing a Victorian household whi le still herself a teenager. Levi Thaxter, although a Harvard graduate from a well-off Boston family, refused to work for a living and the family was consistently strapped for money and often had to stay with family and friends. Eventually, Levi's parents bought the young couple a house in Newtonville, Massachusetts, where Celia was never happy and always longed for the Isles of Shoals. Levi, meanwhile would often leave his young family to take extensive, months-long hunting and naturalist collecting trips, leaving Celia without any form of financial support in his absence. Over the years Celia and Levi were to become increasingly estranged and she would return with Karl more and more frequently, and for longer durations, to Appledore Island, ostensibly to care for her aging parents and help run the hotel. Celia Thaxter with sons Karl (right) and John (left) in 1856.21 20 Vallier, Jane E. Poet on Demand: Th e Life, Letters and Wo rks of Celia Thaxter. Portsmouth: Peter E. Randall Pub!., 1994, p. 33. 21 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman 's Work; The Vis ual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. p. 27. 8 Celia's domestic unhappiness and desperation, along with the need to earn money, seems to have stimulated her initial urge to write. In letters to her editor and friends she describes having found her poems "among the pots and pans" of her dreary and physically exhausting daily labors. Her first poem, "Land-locked", was published in 1861, and it eloquently eluded to her longing and home-sickness for her island home. It was submitted anonymously to the Atlantic magazine and catapulted her to relatively instant literary celebrity. The publication of "Land-locked" initiated a period of literary output which was to enable her a means of gaining financial independence and transformed her into perhaps the most successful and popular female writer of her time. However, despite her writing having provided essentially the only means of financial support for the family, her husband still forbade her to hire any household help. Celia had returned to Appledore every summer since leaving the Isles of Shoals to help her family run the hotel, and beginning in the 1870s she returned there on a more-or-less permanent basis, ostensibly to assist and care for her aging parents. Thus, her family obligations allowed her to escape the drudgeries and unhappiness of her life with Levi and pursue a separate existence of her own (with Karl) back on the Isles of Shoals. On Appledore "she wrote, read, and discussed her work with friends. She cultivated her legendary garden which produced the flowers which decorated the cottage. Celia began to feel indispensable at the Shoals, and in the mid-1870s she spent four consecutive winters on Appledore while Levi lived in the shabby house in Newtonville."22 After her mother's death in 1878, Celia took full possession of the house which her parents had built in 1863. From the late1870s until her own sudden death in 1894, her garden on Appledore was to be arguably the focus of her creative energies, and the source of her greatest happiness. On Appledore Celia settled into a comfortable existence surrounded by her son Karl , and her many artist, musician, and writer friends. During this period she would return to Appledore in March each year, where she helped her brothers run the Hotel, cultivated her garden, and decorated her famous parlor with flowers from her garden. In November she would generally return to Portsmouth with Karl to an apartment where they would spend the winter. She continued to write poetry and prose, and began to paint porcelain as well. In 1893 she wrote her last book, An Island Garden, which poetically described her garden on Appledore and provided much practical horticultural advice as well. In August, 1894, surrounded by many of her artist friends , (including the American Impressionist Childe Hassam) she died suddenly at the age of 59, and was buried in the Laighton family plot on Appledore Island. 22 Bardwell, John D. The Isles of Shoals: A Visual Histmy. p. 7 1. 9 CELIA'S ISLAND GARDEN: \\·het·ein so m:my flowers fonnd A miracle it seemed to be ! Up from the ground, alert and bright~ The pansies lunghe<l in go!.l and jet, Purple and pied, and mignonette Breathed like n. spirit of tleligbt. Flaming the rich nasturtiums ran Along tl1~ fence, am\ m.u·igolds "Opcnc<l afresh their stn.rry fold:!" In beauty as the day bcgttn; \\' hile ranks of scarlet poppies gay ". aved wheu the soft south wind dill blow, A page of poetry written and illustrated by Celia Thaxter, !886.23 It is unclear exactly when Celia's garden was begun, however it seems that it evolved over many years, probably from the time the house was built by her parents in 1863. The garden occupied the space immediately in front of the house, and likely evolved into its mature form from the 1870s onwards, when Celia spent increasingly longer periods of time back on Appledore caring for her ailing mother and helping to run the hotel. In March each year she would return to Appledore bringing the seedlings which she had started in her windows on-shore during the winter, and in April she would transplant them into her garden. "In planting her seeds, nurturing her flowers , and finally transporting them to her parlor, Thaxter achieved a harmony with nature and with herself that she was unable to reach during the earlier, turbulent years of her life."24 23 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman's Work; The Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. p . 129. 24 Mandel, Norma H. Beyond the Garden Gate; The Life of Celia Laighton Thaxter. Hanover: University Press of New England. 2004, p. 138. 10 Celia Thaxter's garden was an intimate extension of her vine covered piazza and house. It was enclosed by a simple plank board fence and measured 15 x 50 feet. The house was only reached through the garden which was accessed by two gates located to the south and west. Within the fence 9 raised beds were created out of additional wooden planks, to which Celia added amended soils. These nine individual beds were dominated by annuals and planted with from two to four different species which were massed into drifts. Around the perimeter of the garden, inside the fence, was a border which inter-mingled roses, vines, annuals and perennials. Further plantings spilled out beyond the confines of the fenc e "and tumbled down the bank toward the sea where artemisias and California poppies bloomed."26 25 Curry, David Park. An Island Garden Revisited. New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1990, p. 60. 26 Hill, May Brawley. Grandmother 's Garden; The Old-Fashioned American Garden: 1865-1915. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1995, p. 119. 11 Steps PLAN OF GARDEN WlTH LlST OF FLOWERS I~ :lQ ,g 19 10 r-------~~6-----;, 27 44 r···-·-·· I l l ' H f ~s I 1 Akebia Quinata •5 Echinoc;ysWs Lobata • :\sa Gray Nasturtium• tb Foxglovea 3 Asters 17 Golden ~aoner Coreopsis • Asrers and Lavatera •8 Helianthus 5 Bachelors' Button •9 Hollyhocks 6 Bride Poppies zo Honeysuckles 1 Oematis, white • r Hop 8 Clematis, blue 2a Hugelia 9 l.1eome Pungens 23 Iceland Poppies '" Columbine 2-4 Jacqnerninol, Dama~k. ~nd La r 1 Corellpsis Coronal.'\ and Cora. France Roses ftuwen; ~s Japan Honeysuckles " t::oreopsi3 Lanceolata 26 Iapan Hop •3 Crimson Phlox 27 Larkspur ·~ Damask R.o~" ~8 Lavender tQ Lilies 10 I.Qve-in·a-Mist 31 Margaret Pinks 3a Mangolds .13 Mip>enette 14 Onental Poppy 35 Peon\<!& 36 Picotee Pinks 37 Poppies 38 Rose-<:olored Iceland Poppie~ 39 Rose Campiou 40 Scotch Roses 41 Shirley Poppies -~-t Single Dahllll!l 43 Snowdrops, etc. 3l H Sweet Pc~s ~S Sweet Ro•:kct 41> Sweet W iilm.m 47 Sunf\oweN -.s Tall Phlox 49 Tea Roses so Travelers' Joy 5' VerbenM 52 Vines 53 V:olet~ 51 Watlllower:< 55 Wat~r Lili~s S(• White Lilie• 57 Wi5t?.ria [ 5 41 NoTE -The gardcu is ;o ft. long hy r; ft. v.;de, and is ~urroundcd by a border oi all .,>rts of mix•<! fi••W<r.s. ;\ ban~ of flower~ at the southwest corner >lupes fmm the garden l~nc~ . Celia's 1893 plan of her garden from An Island Garden. The garden 's modest size and simplicity of design were substantially camouflaged by its abundant style of planting which eschewed the geometric underpinnings of the plan. "The garden was without formality except for the narrow paths that separated tiny beds, but even those were half hidden by the spreading plants."2 7 The overall effect of the garden was not formal, geometric, or rational, but rather, that of a shifting riot of color. "She never combined more than four kinds of plants in one bed, allowing each type maximum room to grow during the short island season. Plants clambered high on judiciously placed trellises, and Thaxter planted species for a succession of bloom. While the garden was highly structured, the overall impression was one of artless beauty."28 Denise Otis describes Celia Thaxter' s planting style and its visual impact in Grounds for Pleasure; Four Centuries of the American Garden-- "What really gave the garden its visual richness in her day was the massing of each kind of flower , the explosions of poppies, the arm loads of coreopsis and cornflowers, the groves of hollyhocks. "29 27 Howard, Richard A . Flowers of Star Island, Th e Isle of Shoals. p. 7. 28 Gardner, JoAilll. "In Grandmother's Garden." Old-House Journal. October, 2000, p. 51. 29 Otis, Denise. Grounds for Pleasure; Four Centuries of the American Garden. p. 70. 12 Abstract, exuberant color was perhaps the most dominant element of the garden, and also a significant part of its appeal to the many artists who painted it. Anecdotes of those who saw the garden in its glory during the early 1890s reflect its colorful, impressionistic effect-- "It has been said that once through the gate a visitor would find himself in a new world of color."30 " Her garden, too, was unl ike any other garden, although more beautiful, perhaps, than the more conventional gardens I have seen lately; for it was planted all helter-skelter, just bursts of color here and there,-- and what color!" 31 Dexter 's (Celia's) Garden, 1892. By Ch i Ide Hassam32 Old Photographs reveal the 'Loggia' , or expansive porch, of Celia's ' Cottage' to be literally dripping with vines. The cultivation of vines in this abundant fashion was commonplace in Victorian 30 Howard, Richard A. , p. 7. 3 1 Maud Appleton McDowell as quoted in Gerdts, William H. Down Garden Paths; The Floral Environment in American Art. Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 1983, p. 65. 32 Curry, David Park. An Island Garden R evisited. p. 65 . 13 American gardens, and worked to soften the hard lines of the architecture and integrate (and ofte n, almost consume!) the house within the landscape. Vines of all kinds were a dominant architectural feature of Celia Thaxter's garden and provided a lush green backdrop, or 'vine-scape' for the flowers of the garden proper. Celia wrote about her vines which she described as making "a grateful green shade doubly delightful for that there are no trees on my island .. . The whole of the piazza is thickly draped with vines, hops, honeysuckles, blue and white clematis, Cinnamon vine (by which I think she meant Dioscorea batatas33) , Mina Iobata, Wistaria, Nasturtiums, Morning-glories, Japanese hops, Woodbine (by which she may have meant Parthenocissus quinquefolia?) and the beautiful and picturesque Wild Cucumber (Echinocystus lobata, one of the rare natives she grew) which in July nearly smothers everything else."34 May Brawley Hill in Grandmother 's Garden; The Old-Fashioned American Garden: 1865-1915 adds to the list sweet peas, passionflowers, and Dutchman's-pipe, and Virginia Chisholm, who was involved in the garden restoration, adds Akebia quinata. The arch which covered the steps extending down from the piazza was likewise "embowered with the Tropaeolum cultivar ' Luc ifer', Cobaea scan dens, and Mexican morning glories" 35 . The ample use of vines in her garden allowed Celia to exploit vertical space and helped to amplify both the real and perceived proportions of her garden . View of Celia's garden and vine-draped Loggia ca. 1890s?36 33 Adams, Denise Wiles. Restoring American Gardens; An Ency clopedia of Heirloom Ornamental Plants: 1640- 1940. Portland, OR: Timber Press, 2004, p. 142. ~4 Howard, Richard A. F lowers of Star Island, Th e Isle of Shoals. p. 7. ,s Hill, May Brawley. Grandmother's Garden; The Old-Fashioned American Garden: 1865-1915. p. 119. 36 Thaxter, Celia. An Island Garden. 1894. Ithaca, NY: Bullbrier Press, 1985. No page Number. 14 It is obvious from the visual documentation of her garden and her writing in An Island Garden that Celia was a gifted gardener and an avid plants-woman, however, it is nonetheless surprising to learn of the tremendous variety of plants which she grew in such a relatively small (15'x 50') space. Although her plan in An Island Garden lists only fifty varieties, in other parts of the book she mentions many others which are not included on the plan. A Mrs. Larz Anderson related that " she often counted as many as one hundred and fifty different flowers."38 Her small garden even included water plants! " She had ten tubs of water plants: the pink lotus of Egypt, purple lily of Zanzibar, and a red one, golden Chromatella, pure white African variety, smaller native white one, yellow water poppy, parrot' s feather that creeps all about over the water, water hyacinths, Cape Cod lilies." 39 (*See Appendix B for list of additional plants mentioned in An Island Garden, but not included her plan) 37 Bardwell, John D. Th e Isles of Shoals; A Visual History. P. 102. 38 Howard, Richard A. Flowers of Star Island, Th e Isle ofS/wals. p. 7. 39 Ibid. 15 Home of the Hummingbird, 1893, by Childe Hassam. 40 Larkspurs and Lilies, 1893, by Childe Hassam. 4 1 The garden proper was dominated by annual flowers of all kinds, particularly in the central nine beds, and these were harvested extensively and used in arrangements which she decorated her parlor with and sold as bouquets in the hotel. Woody plants were limited but she apparently grew quite a number of different kinds of roses, including: 'Bon Silene' , 'Catherine', Damask, ' Jacqueminot', 'La France ', "Mermets", Polyantha, rugosa, Scotch, "Sunsets", Tea, 'Tuscany'42 . Other woody plants included Weigela jlorida43 , and vines such as Honeysuckle, Clematis and Wisteria. Perennials included columbines, peonies, Campanula persicifo/ia, Phlox paniculata, oriental poppies, and daylilies. Classic cottage-garden biennials such as hollyhocks, Lychnis coronaria, Sweet William, and foxgloves were also grown. She loved white flowers which she thought "looked lovely in the moonlight. She had a tall white opium poppy she called "The Bride", white petunias, white phlox and white mignonette. Another white plant was the clematis or travellor's-joy (Clematis vitalba)."44 Celia Thaxter was a dedicated seed-starter and although she collected and saved many, if not most, of her own seeds, she must also surely have known and enjoyed reading the many catalogs of her day during the winters. Annuals were particular favorites of the era, and "the Victorians were well aware 4° Curry, David Park. An Island Garden Revisited. p. 74. 41 Ibid. 42Ibid, p. 10. 43 Fell, Derek. The Impressionist Garden. New York: Carol Southern Books, 1994. P. 38. 44 Chisholm, Virginia. "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." Plants & Gardens, Brooklyn Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens, 46, no. 1, 1990, pp. 66. 16 of both the old stock of classic annuals and the horticultural gems newly available to them." 45 Celia herself described the plants she grew as "mostly the old-fashioned flowers our grandmother's loved," 46 but she also grew many of the newest plant introductions and hybrids as well as her old-fashioned favorites. "Although Thaxter sought out and revived old plants, such as the rare black hollyhock, like most gardeners she was keen to grow new varieties'>47 like Eschscholzia californica, phlox dummondii, and zinnias. Poppies, ca. 1890, by Chi Ide Hassam. 48 Poppies, of all kinds, however, were perhaps Celia Thaxter's favorite flowers above all else, and her garden plan in An Island Garden lists five different species, (although she may very well have grown more as the plan omits many flowers she was known to have grown). Poppies were a favorite flower of the arts-and-crafts movement, along with the sunflower, and her poppies were painted frequently by artists visiting the Isles of Shoals. Celia used poppies, above all else, to decorate her parlor. She wrote about them in ecstatic terms and devoted a full chapter to them in An Island Garden. "I am always planting Shirley Poppies somewhere! One never can have enough of them, and by putting them into the 45 Forsell, Mary. "The Victorian Legacy," Plants & Gardens, Brookly n Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens, vol. 48, 1992, p . 11 . 46 Thaxter, Celia. An Island Garden. 47 Gardner, JoAnn. "In Grandmother's Garden." Old-House Journal. October, 2000, p. 51. 48 Curry, David Park. An Island Garden Revisited. p. 103. 17 ground at intervals of a week, later and later, one can secure a succession of blooms and keep them for a much longer time,-- keep, indeed their heavenly beauty to enjoy the livelong summer ... " 49 The Isles of Shoals offered uniquely challenging conditions in which to garden. "The soil is thin" (if any) "and dries quickly; the rock is hard and often heats up unmercifully; the wind is strong and laden with salt spray and lee nooks are few, while the fog reduces the sunshine, and off-shore winds quickly change temperatures."50 Her garden was sheltered, however, from north winds by her house and piazza, and using raised beds allowed her to grow a huge variety of plants which she certainly could not have grown otherwise. She amended the thin island soil with seaweed, "well-rotted" manure, compost,51 and "food ashes"52 and by adjusting and varying the amendments and soils she placed within the raised beds, she was able to grow species with drastically different soil requirements in close quarters with one another (such as poor soil loving t1owers like California Poppies (Eschscholzia) and rich soil lovers like Roses, Delphiniums and Sweet peas). Her garden fence, constructed simply of wide boards, is thought to have been designed to provide a further buffer from the constant ocean winds which otherwise would have f1attened and dessicated her plants. Water availability was less of a problem on the island during Celia's time then it is today, as "there was a large reservoir and rain water was collected from the roofs."53 Other horticultural challenges which Celia Thaxter faced included pests-Slugs, in particular, were her nemeses and she went to elaborate measures to defeat them. Eventually she was to go so far as to import toads , on several occasions, from the mainland in an effort to protect her plants from them. She wrote in 1889 to her friend Annie Fields, "Oh Annie, you would have laughed to see the box of toads which came for me night before last! Ninety toads, all wired over in a box and wondering what fate was in store for them, no doubt. Soon as the mowing was done all the million slugs in my grass charged into my poor garden and post haste, I sent for more of my little dusty pets, my friends, my saviors! And I turned the 90 loose in the fat slugging grounds and such a breakfast as they must have had! If there's one thing I adore more than another, it's a toad! They eat every bug in the garden."54 One advantage to gardening on the Isles of Shoals was the effect of the sea in moderating temperature extremes. The cool island summer temperatures were ideal for growing f1owers, and in all probability contributed to producing the intensely vivid colors for which Celia's t1owers were famous. The peculiar, and magical, effect which the sea has upon f1owers has been noted by many, myself included, over time. Both the pureness and intensity of the f1ower color in seaside gardens may be the 49 Thaxter, Celia. An Island Garden. Boston: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1894, 1988, p. 50. 50 Howard, Richard A. Flowers of Star Island, The Isle of Shoals. p. 1. 5 1 Chisholm, Virginia. "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." Plants & Gardens, Brooklyn Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens, 46, no. 1, 1990, pp. 66. 52 Dunhill, Priscilla. "Poet Celia Thaxter: An Island Gardener." Victoria, July 1990, pp. 32-39. 53 Chisholm, Virginia. "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." pp. 66. 54 Mandel, Norma H. Beyond the Garden Gate; The Life of Celia Laighton Tha:~:ter. Hanover: University Press of New England. 2004, p. 157. 18 combined result of cooler summer temperatures which favor the production of higher amounts of anthocyanin pigments, greater atmospheric moisture availability, and both the amount and quality of light which is reflected by the sea. This particular effect was invoked in a Boston review of an exhibit of Childe Hassam' s paintings of her garden-- "the watercolors of Mrs. Celia Thaxter's garden will give the world which cannot get to Appledore Island an idea of the peculiar wealth of color which the marine atmosphere, or else some fairy spell of the place, lends to the poppies and marigolds which grow in the poet's garden ." 55 STYLISTIC INFLUENCES & PRECEDENTS FOR CELIA THAXTER'S GARDEN: Celia Thaxter self-consciously created what she called in I 893 an 'old-fashioned' garden which, in its simplicity of design, in what was grown, in how it was planted, as well as in its connection to the house, exhibited the characteristics of a traditional American 'dooryard' garden. This kind of 'old- fashioned' garden was an example of a well-defined and understood vernacular American horticultural tradition of the I 9th century which has been called a ' Grandmother's Garden' and described as a "uniquely American synthesis of the English cottage garden and the colonial settler's garden which emerged at the end of the l91h century ... While its antecedents were planted to be practical as well as beautiful, the point of the Grandmother's Garden was sheer Ioveliness."56 The art historian May Brawley Hill has given an exhaustive treatment of this type of garden in Grandmother 's Garden; Th e Old- Fashioned American Garden: 1865-1915 and traces its origins to earlier in the 191" century. In her treatment of the ' Grandmother' s Garden ' she firmly establishes that although this type of garden was perhaps not one of the dominant 'high-style' garden styles of the 19th century, it certainly represented a coherent and continuous horticultural tradition which possessed cultural significance and meaning. Two other, much grander, stylistic approaches have traditionally been presented as the prevailing modes of 19th century American landscape design: the formal garden and the informal, or landscape garden. Patticia M. Tice in Gardening in America: 1830-1910 presents a summary of these two horticultural styles as practiced in the 19th century. She writes, "The formal and informal styles were derived from the gardening traditions o f seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Europe, and each was practiced simultaneously in the United States throughout the nineteenth century. In the formal style, symmetrical walks, paths, and various types of flower beds were arranged to form intricate designs. The main types of flower beds described by horticulturists included the carpet bed in which low, dwarf flowers were massed to create brilliantly colored beds, the ribbon bed in which flowers of contrasting colors were planted in strips or ribbons, and the parterre, a series o f elaborate ly shaped beds in which flowers were panted in designs and patterns within the beds ... By contrast, the informal, or landscape, school of garden planning stressed a less structured approach to garden design. T rees, shrubs, and flowers were planted to suggest a natural setting ... Like formal gardens, ~ 5 Faxon, Susan C. A Stern and Lovely Scene: A Visual Histmy of the Isles of Shoals. p. I I 8. ~6Gardner, JoAnn. " In Grandmother' s Garden." Old House Journal, Oct 2000, p. 5 1. 19 landscape gardens, which usually relied upon large tracts of land for effect, indicated status. " 57 A V ictorian carpet- bedding scheme. 58 By contrast, the ' Grandmother' s Garden' was an intimate and personal expression of its owner, usually a woman, who was generally its sole creator and maintainer. In all likelihood, the ' Grandmother ' s garden ' had been a vibrant vernacular mode of horticultural expression practiced alongside these two dominant, more 'high-design ' , landscape traditions throughout the nineteenth century. In many ways, the late 19th century revival of interest in the ' Grandmother' s garden ' was a reaction against the oppressive formality of the ostentatious carpet bedding schemes which had dominated horticulture in the Victorian era. Celia Thaxter hersel f alluded to the drastic differences between these two gardening approaches when she wrote in An Island Garden, " I have not room to experiment with rock works and ribbon borders and the like, nor should I do so if I had all the room in the world . For mine is just a little old-fashioned garden." 59 In his 1884 article "The Gardens ofOur Grandmothers" in The Ladies' Floral Cabinet, Fred M. Colby likewise contrasted the ' Grandmother' s garden ' to the popular bedding schemes of the day- "What roomy, grand old gardens were those of our grandmothers, and what beautiful things grew in them!. .. How di fferent they are from the studied, stereotyped gardens o f today with their showy beds of Coleus or ribbons of richly-colored plants, gaudy Geraniums and Tulips flanked by every variety of Centaurea and contrasted with the dense blue o f Lobelia!. .. Disappeared are 57 Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America: 1830- 1910. Rochester, NY: The Strong Museum, 1984. P. 68,70. 53 Otis, Denise. Grounds for Pleasure: Four Centuries of the American Garden, p. 148 59 Thaxter, Celia. An Island Garden. Boston: Houghton Millin & Co., 1894, 1988, p. 7 1. 20 those pretty, unaffected gardens ... disappeared, too, are the old-time flower-beds of Lavender, Thyme, Sweet-William, Batchelor's-Button and Sweet-alyssium- at least, they are no longer fashionable." 60 In 1872 Anna Bartlett Warner wrote Gardening By Myselfwhich was "certainly the first book devoted completely to the old-fashioned garden"61 • In it she likewise championed the virtues of the old- fashioned garden over the prevalent formal carpet bedding schemes. She wrote, " Not trim shapes, and inlaid figures, and gorgeous masses of colour; but rich, soft mingled bloom, and tender tints, and wafts of nameless sweetness ... Fair, rich confusion is all the aim of an old-fashioned flower garden, and the greater the confusion, the richer. .. No stiffness, no ceremony-flowers, and not a garden-this is the beauty of the old style."62 Charles Sprague Sargent, Director of the Arnold Arboretum of Harvard University, also reflected the revival of interest in this style of gardening in his editorial titled "Old- fashioned Gardens" which appeared in an 1895 edition of Garden and Forest. He wrote: "Contemporaneously with the reappearance of our grandmothers' sleeves and petticoats the taste for old-fashioned gardens is revived .. . We are apt to think that we know a good deal more about flowers than our progenitors, but the fact is there was, perhaps, more variety than there is to-day in many of their collections .... The charm of those old gardens was in their wealth and tangle of bloom. One plant leaned upon another. There was no room for weeds, for each flower stood cheek-by-jowl with a neighbor and frowned on the intruders ... and always there was perti.1me and wild charm and lonely grace in unexplored corners, and to one 's dying day certain flowers, with their familiar odor, recall a scene perhaps vanished forever, and the old garden rises before the mind's eye ever fresh and fair and fragrant. " 63 The 1876 Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia introduced to a wide audience of Americans many aesthetic concepts of decorative art and life which can be correlated to the nostalgic design inspirations of the 'Grandmother's Garden'. Although carpet bedding on a vast scale was a major focus of the horticultural exhibits, a strong nationalistic current also ran throughout the exposition which promoted the revival of more truly "American" decorative styles such as those embodied in the idealized colonial gardens of our past. In fact, many historians "attribute the beginnings of the colonial-revival movement" 64 to the Philadelphia exposition of 1876. The 1892 Columbian Exposition in Chicago appears to have likewise wielded broad influence in horticultural taste, and "reinforced the popularity"65 of the 'Grandmother's Garden' . The Grandmother's garden had probably always existed as a vernacular, and eminently practical, gardening style, however, the revival of interest in this kind of garden in the horticultural press from the 1870's onwards was in all likelihood fueled by a nostalgia for the old which was in part a response to the 6° Colby, Fred M. "The Gardens of Our Grandmothers." The Ladies' Floral Cabinet, July 1884: p. 222. 6 1 Hill, May Brawley. Grandmother's Garden; T11e Old-Fashioned American Garden : 1865- 1915. p . 28. 62 Ibid., p. 29. 63 Sargent, Charles Sprague. "Old-Fashioned Gardens." Garden and Forest. July, 1895: p. 281. 64 Newcomb, Peggy Cornett. Popular Annuals of Eastern North America: 1865-19 14. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1985. P. 70. 65 Adams, Denise Wiles. Restoring American Gardens; An Enclyclopedia of Heirloom Ornamental Plants: 1640- 1940. Portland, OR: Timber Press, 2004, p. 159. 2 1 rapid rate of cultural and technological change brought on by the industrial revolution. It is interesting to consider that Celia's island garden was created concurrently with the first mass-production of the lawn mower in the 1870s, the one invention which was truly to mark the death knoll of the traditional dooryard garden, and emerge to drastically transfigure and redefine the American front-yard. Celia's close friend and fellow writer Sarah Orne Jewett evoked nostalgia for a quickly disappearing, ' old-fashioned' way of life in her essay titled "The Mournful ViJlager" which was published in the Atlantic magazine in 1881. In it she "laments the demise of front yard gardens and "the type of New England viJlage character and civilization with which they are associated."66'' Patricia M. Tice in Gardening in America 1830-1910 describes the horticultural passion for the new which had seized the middle classes during the second half of the l91h century, which was concurrent with an emerging nostalgia for the 'old' flowers. "New forms of specimen plants--<iifferent strains of caJla lilies, roses, fuschias-were continually sought, so much so that horticulturist Edward Rand commented (in 1864) " . .. we find our gardeners exerting themselves to meet any demand for new, rare, and expensive plants, to the neglect of our old and well-tried favorites .. . Tomorrow some new taste wiJJ develop, and before our new plants ... have time to grow into good-sized specimens, they are out of date, and are discarded or neglected as old-fashioned.""67 It is particularly interesting to note the interest in antique, or 'old-fashioned', flower varieties at the end of the 19th century, which paraJlels the same revival of interest in heirloom varieties which we are currently witnessing today ... "There is a particular charm to all those old-fashioned flowers that grew in our grandmother 's gardens. London-Pride, Bache lor's-Button, and the sweet bells of the Columbine affect one as the more showy modem ones do not, for they remind one of their lost youth. Each one has associations that stir the memory and set the heart a beating ... Many of these humble flowers of our grandmothers' day, though outlawed from our gardens, live in the poet's pages immortalized by genius." -Fred M. Colby, "The Gardens of Our Grandmother's, 188468 Needless to say, Celia Thaxter knowingly created her ' old-fashioned' garden admist a period of interest in, and active discourse surrounding this type of garden. Her close friend the writer Sarah Orne Jewett revealed her understanding, and by association, Celia's, of this type of garden when she wrote to her artist friend Sarah Whitman about her own garden in South Berwick, Maine, "the garden is so nice- old-fashioned indeed with pink hoJJyhocks and taJJ blue larkspurs. You might make a sketch with but slight trouble, with figures of old ladies wearing caps in the long walks."69 66 Nagel, Gwen L. "Sarah Orne Jewett 's New England Gardens. " Colby Litermy Quarterly. 22 (March 1986): p. 45. 67 Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America; 1830-1910. p. 58. 68 Colby, Fred M. "The Gardens of Our Grandmothers." The Ladies Floral Cabinet. July 1884: p. 223. 69 Nagel, Gwen L. "Sarah Orne Jewett's New England Gardens." p. 44. 22 AN ARTISTS' GARDEN, AND A GARDEN FOR ARTISTS: Celia Thaxter, the daughter of a lighthouse keeper, was to become a colorful and prominent personality within a particularly rich community of literary, artistic, and musical talents of late 19111 New England. She was introduced to the leading lights of literary America at an early age. She first met Nathania! Hawthorne as a child when he visited the Isles of Shoals, and after her marriage to Levi Thaxter and moving to their Newtonville home outside of Boston, she became immersed in a wide literary circle which included some of the most successful writers in New England. Her literary contacts and friends were numerous and eventually included such luminaries as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, John Greenleaf Whittier, Sarah Orne Jewett, among many others. She was even to dine with Charles Dickens on his North American tour and met Robert Barrett Browning during her one visit to Europe. The many painters with whom she was to become close friends, and for whom her island garden was a muse and inspiration, included William Morris Hunt, Frederick Childe Hassam, Ellen Robbins, 70 Blanchan, Neltje. "The Old-Fashioned Garden", The American Flower Garden , 1913. 23 Ross Turner, and J. Appleton Brown, among others. Through Celia, many of these artists were introduced to the Isles of Shoals and became frequent summer visitors to Celia's Appledore parlor. Eventually, many of her painter friends would build their own small studio/cottages on the island. Thus Appledore Island became in the late 19th century a vibrant artists' colony which attracted the cultural elite of Boston and New York and which was centered around the magnetic figure and personality of Celia, her garden and parlor. Celia Thaxter was herself an extremely talented woman who excelled in many creative mediums, chiefly, poetry, prose, china painting, and gardening. She began wTiting poetry as a young wife and mother, and later in life took up the painting of china and volumes of her own poetry on commission. Her skill as a painter was noted in an 1873 article about her in the Portsmouth Journal of Literature & Politics which noted, "Not only is she a writer, but an artist of delicate taste. She decorated a volume of her poems in dainty fashion, painting across the pages so skillfully that they seemed like pressed flowers."71 IN Y car after year life's long prp.tio'JI To hide itself beneath the Upon the gm,•e's inexorable Amazed with loss the human creature stands; Vainly he ~t:rives to reason or to thiuk, Left wit.h his aching heart and empty hands; He calls his lost in vain. In sorrow drowned, Darkness and silence all his sense confound. Till iu Deat.h's roll-<!all stern he hears Ius natne, In tum he follows and is lost to sight; I ! Page of her poetry illustrated with watercolor by Celia Thaxter.72 71 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman 's Work; The Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. p. 98. 72 lbid., p. 128. 24 Indeed, she had studied painting formally with many well-known artists-Ross Sterling Turner, J. Appleton Brown, William Morris Hunt, and Childe Hassam, all of whom were to become her close friends. She wrote in 1874 in ecstatic terms of her enjoyment of this medium-" ! can scarcely think of anything else. I want to paint everything I see; every leaf, stem, seed vessel, grass blade, rush, and reed and flower has new charms, and I thought I knew them all before. Such a new world opens, for I feel it in me .. . "73 Interestingly, her china painting almost exclusively featured botanical subjects, such as her favorite poppies, sea weeds, and olive branches, which were depicted "with a delicate realism and a naturalist's eye for detai\."74 Art-historical interest in her painting has recently been stirred with a 2001 major loan exhibition and a book on her painting titled One Woman 's Work; The Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter, edited by Sharon Paiva Stephan. 73 Ibid., p. 114. 74 Ibid., p. XV. 75 Ibid,, p. 143. Stoneware vase painted by Celia Thaxter, ca. 1880-87. 25 The art of floral arranging was another of Celia Thaxter's chosen mediums. Throughout the growing season she was known to be out in the garden each morning by 4 or 5 am, working and cutting flowers (most often poppies) for a daily ritual of decorating her parlor with a succession of exquisite floral displays. In fact Celia herself said that her garden was primarily a cutting garden and despite its small size "it yielded a hundred or more bouquets of freshly cut flowers each week." 76 Her flower arrangements were perhaps as famous as her garden. Candace Wheeler, a leader of the American Arts and Crafts Movement, whom Celia had entertained on Appledore wrote of her flower filled parlor "I have never seen such realized possibilities of color! The fine harmonic sense of the woman and artist and poet thrilled through these long chords of color and filled the room with an atmosphere which made it seem like diving into a rainbow."77 Photograph and Hassam painting of Floral Arrangements in Celia Thaxter's parlour. 78 Any discussion of the artistic significance of Celia Thaxter's garden must include the numerous paintings which it inspired. Her garden is practically synonymous today with the paintings of the 76 Fell, Derek. The Impressionist Garden . p. 37. 77 Wheeler, Candace. Content in a Garden." New York: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1902, pp. 56-57 78 Curry, David Park. An Island Garden Revisited. pp. 46-5. 26 American Impressionist Frederick Childe Hassam ( 1859-1939) which are considered to be among the best of his work. Indeed, the watercolors he painted of her garden between 1890 and 1894 have been described as "the richest and most colorful excursions into this genre, and probably the most exquisite works of his career."79 Childe Hassam is generally considered to be among the best American Impressionist painters, and the artist who ftrst introduced the ideas of the French Impressionists to America. His work, however, is also firmly grounded in the American Arts-and-Cra fts, or Aesthetic, Movement of the 1870s and 80s. "Hassam' s paintings of the Shoals are imbued with a sense of nostalgia for pre-industrial landscapes and New England ' s rural heritage. Celia Thaxter's cottage at Appledore embodied Aesthetic ideals, and in his representations of her garden especially we see Hassam echoing those tenets of spontaneity, harmony, and refuge from urban modernity. "80 ;g Clayton, Virginia T uttle. " Rerrriniscence and Revival: The Old-Fashioned Garden, 1890-1910." The Magazine Antiques (April, 1990), p. 903 . 80 Gibson, Robin. "Inside a Nineteenth Century Sa lon and Garden: Ce lia Thaxter and Childe Hassam." Winston- Salem, NC : Reynolda House Museum of American Art, 1994, p. 13. 81 Curry, David Park. An Island Garden Revisited. pp. 33. 27 Celia Thaxter herself is now considered to be very much at the center of the Arts-and-Crafts, or Aesthetic, movement in the United States, and her work in the medium of china painting and her "old- fashioned" garden are in this tradition. Celia was a lifelong reader and devotee of the concepts of John Ruskin, an intellectual, art-critic, and naturalist who advocated for the close study of nature, rejection of modernity and industrialization, and revival of the traditional handicrafts at which Celia excelled. Ruskin was a progenitor of the Arts and Crafts movement in England and his writings and ideas were central to the artistic milieu in which she traveled. Indeed, Thaxter quoted Ruskin several times in An Island Garden. * * * Celia Thaxter's garden on the Isles of Shoals provides a fascinating context in which to examine and discuss the affinities between painting and gardening and the broader distinctions between artistic media. Where do the boundaries of one medium to another lie? Are these boundaries artificial or superficially imposed? What are the relationships between painting, poetry and gardening? The art historian William H. Gerdts has explored some of these issues in Down Garden Paths; The Floral Environment in American Art and has noted the horticultural focus of so many artists working in a variety of media during this era. He writes "American poets took naturally to garden imagery, which in turn, reflected the art of the period, two faces of a single coin, and each honoring the fourth art of garden design." 82 (emphases my own.) Derek Fell in The Impressionist Garden also has examined the relationship between gardening and painting which many impressionists explored. He writes, "The great French Impressionists- painters such as Monet, Renoir, Pissaro, their immediate successors Cezanne and Van Gogh, and American Impressionists such as Frieseke and Hassam not only revolutionized the art of painting, they also introduced innovative ways oflooking at gardens. The new vision which they brought to their art was reflected in their gardens, both on canvas and in reality."83 I would suggest, however, that in fact, the reverse was true- it was the gardens, and the act of gardening, which initiated change in their painting. 32 Gerdts, William H. Down Garden Paths; The Floral Environment in American Art. Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 1983, p. 118. 83 Fell, Derek. The Impressionist Garden. p. 6. 28 -· The Artist 's Garden, by Claude Monet, 1880. Celia Thaxter, I would like to suggest, occupies a prominent place in the tradition of artist- gardeners, for whom there existed no real distinction between painting and gardening. Indeed, for the great painter-gardeners, Monet being perhaps the most famous, gardening was the freest, and ultimately most satisfying, medium in which they worked. I believe the same to have been true for Celia Thaxter-- her garden was the particularly successful consummation of a lifetime of creative inquiry and exploration into the world which she was attempting to understand and render comprehensible. This is what artists do, and what gardeners do-we attempt to synthesize and distill the random data, stimuli, and experience to which we are all exposed into a coherent expression, which is at best, both meaningful and beautiful. The mediums of painting and gardening, it is my feeling, have a special affinity. Both forms of visual expression are fundamentally concerned with manipulating and synthesizing the essentially abstract elements of color, texture, pattern, and form to create a cohesive, and hopefully, transcendental, statement. "The artists used plants as they used paints: to manipulate color effects and to introduce new color schemes - by using hues that intensified by contrast with one another, or that blended and harmoni zed with each other ... "85 Gardening, however, has the added layer of interest and excitement of 84 Curry, David Park. An Island Garden Revisited. p. 96. 85 Fell, Derek. The Impressionist Garden. p. 6. 29 working with living entities, which are dynamic and evolving in their own right. This is something which Celia Thaxter, and all great gardeners, implicitly understood and reveled in as an opportunity to engage in a never-ending dialogue with plants, the landscape, the public viewers of their garden(s), and their own creative visions. ISSUES OF GENDER AND THE LATE 19TH CENTURY FLOWER GARDEN: One of the earliest, and most fascinating , court documents pertaining to the Isles of Shoals (dating from the early 1 i 11 century) declares that "no wimin (women) shall live upon the Isles of Shoals"86• It is fascinating that perhaps the earliest civic documentation of the Isles revolved around a gender dispute, which no doubt reflected multiple interests in preserving the islands as a male-only haven and long-held bastion of the young, migratory fishermen populace of the islands who were perhaps threatened by the increased influx of European, non-fishermen, colonists (including 'their' women/wives). This earliest historical record is rendered all the more poignant and ironic, when we consider that the Isles of Shoals were eventually to become renowned and synonymous with the life, words, and creations of one woman, Celia Laighton Thaxter, the "Island Queen."87 Celia Thaxter, at first glance, might seem to have led an exceedingly non-conventionallife for a Victorian woman-- her unusual childhood isolated from society on a small island, her successful career as a poet and writer, her financial self-sufficiency, her having led a quite separate and independent existence from her husband, and her role as diva in her own artistic salon. Yet, for all these apparently non- traditional roles, her life was still very much defined and circumscribed by the societal mores of her day. Celia Thaxter' s artistic ouvre was entirely relegated to those mediums which were considered socially acceptable for a woman, and generally inferior to other male-dominated mediums-- poetry, china painting, gardening, and floral arranging. Indeed, the very life and garden which she created satisfied a Victorian concept of femininity-- "The ideal image projected by popular literature and material culture of the time was that of a lady surrounded by flowers."88 8~ Faxon, Susan C. A Stern and Lovely Scene: A Visual Hist01y of the Isles of Shoals. p. 11. 8 ' Older, Julia. The Island Queen. Hancock, NH: Appledore Books, 1994. 88 Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America; 1830-19/0. p. 58. 30 Hand-tinted photograph of Celia Thaxter in her garden ca. 1890. Interestingly, all of her creative efforts, except for gardening, were motivated, at least in part, by the need to make money. She began writing poetry as a young, overworked wife and mother, and her success in this field substantially enabled her to develop an independent persona and escape her domestic burdens. However, despite her success and popularity as a writer, she was relatively underpaid for her efforts, typical of all female authors during the 19th century.90 She began to tum to other artistic mediums which were more lucrative, and took up china painting. A contemporary female writer, Lucy Larcom, wrote, "Mrs. Thaxter was at Mrs. Fields ' s painting china plates by the dozen; she seems to have exchanged poetry for pottery. I doubt not she finds it more profitable business.'m China painting was 89 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman 's Wo rk; The Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. p. 90. 90 Ibid. , p. 98. 9 1 White, Barbara A. "Legacy Profile: Celia Thaxter (1835-1894). Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers. 7 : 1, 1990. p. 62 . 31 during this era considered to be a socially acceptable means for women to earn money. Celia Thaxter's talents as a flower arranger were also to evolve into yet another method of augmenting her income. A Mrs. Emma Anderson noted, "At first, the garden was started entirely for pleasure, but in after years it became quite a source of revenue, as the hotel guests gladly availed themselves of the privilege to possess the lovely corsage bouquets arranged by her own hands."92 In a 1900 essay titled "The Artistic Impulses of Men and Women" the author reveals the cultural bias and devaluation of these fonns of artistic expression-- "China painting and decorative art in general are the specialty of woman, who excels in the minor personal artistic impulses and in this way gives vent to her restrictive life.'m (emphases my own) Floriculture, in particular, was encouraged as an acceptable past-time, with surprisingly moral dimensions, for 19th century women. In his 1876 catalogue, seedsman D. M. Ferry extolled the virtues of gardening as an outlet for Victorian women-- " Ladies should cultivate flowers as invigorating and inspiring out-door occupation. Many are pining and dying from monotony and depression, who might bury their cares by planting a few seeds, and secure bloom in their cheeks by their culture ... The beautiful flower, unfolding to the brightness of the sun, will illustrate the pure heart, unstained by immorality, and uncontaminated by vice."94 And, Patricia Tice in Gardening in America: 1830-1910 wTites that during the Victorian era, " the societal roles for women became more clearly defined as those of nurturer, arbiter of taste, and guardian of morals. Few activities were deemed as tasteful, or refined, or as wholesome as the cultivation of flowers ... The gentility and spiritual beauty of the rose transferred, in part, to the woman who tended it. She herself became like the rose, the emblem of gentility and an ornament of the home."95 The lives of Victorian American women were incredibly circumscribed and the flower garden was one arena in which they held dominance and were able to express themselves both physically and creatively. For Celia Thaxter, Sarah Orne Jewett, and Emily Dickinson, three contemporary female New England women writers, gardening was a shared passion and perhaps the creative avenue which allowed them their freest expression. Gardens, and an intense appreciation for the beauty of the natural world, featured prominently in the writing of all three women. In her essay titled ' By Pen and Spade' Patrice Todisco writes, "The gardens they [Jewett and Thaxter] created were an integral part of their daily lives and surfaced in their writings as part of the intimate landscape which was celebrated in their work. In this world of household chores and endless rounds of social duties, to be alone and to be creative was an incredible act of freedom ... To Claim nature within a personal space was the joy the garden provided, 92 Gerdts, William H. Down Garden Paths; The Floral Environment in American Art. p. 62. 93 Randall, E. A. "The Artistic Impulses of Men and Women." ( 1900), as quoted by Hill, May Brawley in Grandmother 's Garden; The Old-Fashioned American Garden 1865-1915. New York: Harrry N. Abrams, Inc. , Publ. , 1995. p. 36. 9 ~ Norcross, Marjorie R. "Cataloging America' s Cultural Roots." Cornell Plantations, vol. 47, no. 1, 1992, p. 18. 9~ Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America; 1830-1910. p. 58. 32 enabling them to construct an intimate environment from which to observe and record the universe beyond the garden gate."96 Gardens featured particularly prominently in all of Sarah Orne Jewett's writing in which "she explicitly identifies the New England front yard garden with women: "It was not man-like to think of the front yard, since it was the special domain of the women, -- the men of the family respected but ignored it.'m Despite her popular success as an artist and personality, Celia Thaxter was always hounded by the need to support herself, and her dependent son Karl, and never enjoyed the level of financial independence and freedom which would have been necessary to fully explore herself as an artist. Barbara A. White in her profile of Celia Thaxter's legacy writes, "Thaxter' s true profession was the creation of beauty from chaos, to please those around her. Her production of a lush garden from barren rock is the most powerful symbol ... This continual beautification was what her friends and readers wanted from her. .. but it was not the way of growth and development for. .. a serious and self-conscious artist.''98 Interestingly, however, she revisits her somewhat dismissive analysis of Celia Thaxter's ouvre several years later and writes, "I suspect that 'serious' may be synonymous with 'male' and wonder if(the) complaint that Thaxter "chose to pursue minor art forms" really means that she chose art forms often preferred by women and thereby defined as minor."99 This is a fascinating and complex point, which is further highlighted when one considers the increased appreciation which the garden as an art form has gained in the 201h century, as more and more men have ventured professionally into this field. * * * Celia Thaxter was obviously an extremely talented woman, and her garden and floral arrangements were perhaps her most successful artistic expressions. However, considering that Celia Thaxter was also a gifted painter and a natural colorist, one can ' t help but wonder what the paintings she could have made would have looked like if she had been encouraged to channel these same talents into this traditionally male-dominated medium. Indeed, it is fascinating to consider the relationship of Celia ' s garden to the many paintings of it. It is ironic that the garden that inspired what are considered to be among the best American Impressionist paintings ever made, was created by a woman, and painted exclusively by men. Ellen Robbins was the sole female member of the artistic circle surrounding Celia on 96 Todisco, Patrice. "By Pen and Spade." Hortus: A Gardening Journal. (Summer 1990): 34-44. 97 Nagel, Gwen L. "Sarah Orne Jewett's New England Gardens. " Colby Literary Quarterly. 22 (March 1986): p. 45. 93 White, Barbara A. "Legacy Profile: Celia Thaxter ( 1835-1894). Legacy : A Journal of American Women Writers. 7 : 1, 1990. p. 62. 99 Ibid. 33 Appledore and she worked exclusively in the genre of flower still life painting, a genre which was considered acceptable for female painters in the late l91h century. Ultimately, her work, her gender, and her times provocatively raise many questions which make her contribution "difficult to assess." 100 Jane Vallier in her comprehensive treatment of Celia Thaxter's literary output described her "career as a sign and symbol for all that women in the nineteenth century could- and could not- accomplish." 101 AN ISLAND GARDEN: A CLASSIC HORTICULTURAL TREATISE: Gold-embossed fabric cover of the 1894 edition of An Island Garden. 102103 An Island Garden was published by Houghton Miftlin in 1894, the year of Thaxter's death at the age of fifty-nine. It was gorgeously illustrated with watercolors of her garden by Childe Hassam, and the edition was beautifully designed by the arts-and-crafts designer Sarah Wyman Whitman. An Island Garden is considered a classic horticultural treatise which some believe "set a standard for American garden writing that has never been surpassed."104 Of all of Celia Thaxter's literary output, An Island Garden has proven to be perhaps her most lasting work, and while "her verses seem sadly outdated 100 Ibid. 101 Vallier, Jane E. Poet on Demand: The Life, Letters and Works of Celia Thaxter. 1994. 102 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman's Work; Th e Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. p. 85. 103 Ibid., p. 85. 104 May, Stephen. "An Island Garden, A Poet's Passion, A Painter's Muse," Smithsonian, 2 1, Dec. 1990, p. 75. 34 nowadays, her prose ... has a timeless quality that makes delightful reading today." 105 An Island Garden remains a seminal work in an illustrious tradition of female American garden writers, which includes other such writer-gardeners as Helena Rutherford Ely, Anna B. Warner, Alice Morse Earle, and Louise Beebe Wilder, who came to dominate this genre of literature from the late 191h century until the end of World War II. In An Island Garden Celia Thaxter "distilled a lifetime of practical gardening experience"106 and lyrically described her island garden, offered much practical cultural advice, provided a plan of her garden, listed and described the many flowers she grew, as well as their use in decorating her home. Allen Lacy in his essay "Celia Thaxter and Louise Beebe Wilder: Romanticism in the Garden", writes-- "Many of the best passages in An Island Garden are rich and glowing portraits of individual plants, where Thaxter writes with very close observation and an obvious satisfaction that is purely aesthetic."107 May Brawley Hiii in her discussion of Celia's garden in Grandmother's Garden; The Old Fashioned American Garden: 1865-1915 describes Thaxter's language in An Island Garden, as "painterly in its descriptive power, ... a moving testament not just to the seductive beauty of such an old-fashioned American garden, but to the spiritual grace to be derived from its creation and nurture." 108 An Island Garden was successfully received upon publication and has been reprinted many times over the last century. Garden writer Almon Dexter who wrote And the Wilderness Blossomed ( 1901) included Thaxter's An Island Garden "among the six books he considered indispensable for a gardener's Iibrary." 109 (Also included in this list were, "William Robinson 's The English Flo wer Garden, just beginning to be widely known .. . Gray's Botany, Liberty Hyde Bailey' s Cyclopedia of American Horticulture, Dana's How to Know the Wild Flowers, and Charles Dudley Warner's My Summer in the Garden. ''1 1~ Interestingly, Virginia Chisholm, who was instrumental in the restoration of Celia Thaxter's garden, has noted the usefulness of An Island Garden as an essential text for " those who wish to restore or create a garden ofthis period." 111 The restoration of Celia Thaxter's garden has been based entirely on the 1893 plan, planting list, and additional descriptions of plants which Celia included in An Island Garden. 105 Ibid., p. 7 1. 106 Ibid. 107 Lacey, Allen. The Gardener's Eye and Other Essays. New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1992, pp. 144-45. 108 Hill, May Brawley. Grandmother's Garden; The Old-Fashioned American Garden: 1865- 191 5. p. 119. 109 Ibid. , p. 140. 11 0 Ibid. 111 Chisholm, Virginia. "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." Plants & Gardens, Brooklyn Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens, 46.1 ( 1990): p. 66. 35 THE GARDENS' RECREATION: Celia Thaxter died in 1894 and was buried in the Laighton family cemetery on Appledore Island. For some time after her death her sister-in-law attempted to maintain her house and garden as she had left it to satisfy the visitors who continued to flock to see it. One anonymous author who made the pilgrimage to Appledore to pay homage to Celia Thaxter's garden wrote in 1899, "I leaned with eager interest over the fence inclosing a little garden just before her island home. If the spot of burial just visited told of something gone, the garden told of something going on, continued, life taking such beautiful forms. What a blaze and bewilderment of phloxes, larkspurs, sweet peas, marigolds, nasturtiums, while humble censers were breathing out the fragrance of mignonette; and oh! The tall hollyhocks with blossoms that had generous doors of colors thrown wide open to every bee that might call! This might suggest a tangle, that there was no order of arrangement, that handfuls of miscellaneous seed had by her been thrown off from the piazza into its drapery of green foliage . No, the seed had been dropped into divided space, and then each space had been expected with the help from the sun and the rain, in its own way, to do its best. The favorites were children of the generation of flowers preceding this day, and not Japanese importations. "Old-fashioned," their title, but new-fashioned in their freshness and tinting. Yes, flowers do grow at the Shoals, and Celia Thaxter' s flowers grow right along in their own willful way of vivid color. I found a teacher in that luxuriant old-fashioned garden, a teacher that said to me that the gifts and graces of a rare woman who loved flowers will in another life continue finding more beautiful expression than ever. After I had left this fascinating spot I turned and gave one more look at the tall hollyhocks so resplendent and soldierly, like sentinels set on guard by a beloved mistress over her treasures ." 11 2 In 1914, however, a fire destroyed both Celia's house and the grand Appledore House hotel which her family had built and run since 1848. This marked the end of an era and the island and remaining houses gradually fell into abandon and ruin. The old foundations were quickly obliterated by staghom sumac, poison ivy, and other indigenous and naturalized species which had long been held at bay by the Thaxter' s and other island residents. 11 2 "Celia Thaxter's Grave and Garden." Literary World. 19 Aug., 1899. 11 3 Faxon, Susan C. A Stern and Lovely Scene: A Visual History of th e Isles of Shoals. p. 82. 36 Then, in 1966 Appledore Island began to be reclaimed with the founding of the Shoals Marine Laboratory, a summer institute for the study of Marine Sciences jointly administered by Cornell and the University of New Hampshire. Dr. John Kingsbury, founder and Director of the Shoals Marine Lab possessed an interest in Celia Thaxter and restoring her garden, and in late 1976 he initiated the restoration with the aid of students such as Gary Boden (author of the The Vascular Flora of Appledore Island) and volunteer members of the Rye Driftwood Garden Club, particularly Virginia Chisholm. Plants for the first season's planting in 1977 were propagated at Cornell; however, Chris Robarge of the Thompson School of Applied Science of the University of New Hampshire and his students took over this responsibility early on. Each year he and his students continue to deliver the season ' s plants by boat at the end of May. Mr. Robarge has also assisted in the installation of an irrigation system for the garden. Virginia Chisholm took charge of the garden in 1979 when Dr. Kingsbury retired, and the Rye Driftwood garden club members continue to supervise the garden's yearly planting and maintenance, as well as conduct guided tours of the garden, all proceeds from which are donated to a scholarship fund for the Marine Laboratory. Cleared and Rototilled plot of the first garden restoration, 1976. 114 The original garden had been amply documented both in the paintings of Childe Hassam and the many photographs made by Celia's son Karl. Although her original garden spilled outside her fence and downwards towards the sea, the garden restoration has been limited to the area inside the confines of the fence which was described, along with a planting list, in Celia's 1893 book on her garden An Island 114 Kingsbury, John M. Here's How We'll Do It; An Informal History of the Shoals Marine Lab. Ithica, NY: Bullbrier Press, P. 325. 37 Garden. The old foundation of her house was easily located from the many old photographs of the house and garden which have survived. It was, however, completely overgrown with staghorn sumac, and other naturalized species which had reclaimed the island in the intervening time. The restoration effort first involved the removal of these woody plants with a backhow. Fascinatingly, during the restoration process, several of Celia's original garden plants were rediscovered once the site was cleared-- among these were her Hops vine (Humulus lupulus), snowdrops (Galanthus spp.), tawny daylilies (Hemerocallis fulva/ 15, and a "tiny blue scilla" 116 which had survived the 90 odd years since her death! In fact, her hops has become somewhat naturalized on the island. An interesting early anecdote arising from the restoration process related by Dr. Kingsbury was the discovery of why her simple garden fence was constructed of such wide boards. Many had long assumed it was to keep wayward livestock from wandering into her garden, which no doubt it served to do, but the garden's restorers soon discovered that the fence was also almost certainly designed to help diminish the effects of wind, as the garden ' s restorers discovered that the relentless sea breezes flattened and dessicated the flowers without the protection of this wide board fence. One of the first major challenges which the garden's restorers faced was identifying appropriate flower hybrids which Celia grew, or might have grown, in 1893 . Many, if not most, of the varieties available in 1893 were no longer available when the garden restoration was initiated. Indeed, Victorian gardens such as Celia's present a specific restoration challenge, as the late 191h century was an era of "tremendous horticultural instability ... According to Dr. Kingsbury, the garden was more difficult tore- create than a Colonial garden from the 1660's when plants were more botanically stable. "In Celia' s time, plants were 'Luther Burbanked,' with a lot of genetic cross-breeding and experimentation .. . New plants coming on the market were discarded a few years later.""m Substantial archival research into the historic varieties which Celia would most likely have grown was conducted in the early days of the garden's restoration by Joanna Kingsbury Smith, Dr. Kingsbury's daughter and then botany student at Colgate University, and she published her findings in her paper, "Restoring a Flower Garden of 1893". Using the extensive seed catalog collection of the Bailey Hortorium at Cornell University, she researched what varieties would have been available to Celia Thaxter in 1893. (*See Appendix C: "List of seeds Celia grew and three companies which carried them", which lists the flowers Celia included in her garden plan in An Island Garden and some possible 1893 sources for these plants.) In her paper Joanna Kingsbury poignantly eluded to the substantial challenges of locating Victorian seed varieties at the time of the initial garden restoration and hinted at the vagaries of horticultural taste which have historically encouraged the development of always newer, ' improved' 11 5 Kingsbury, Joanna. Anecdote relayed via email correspondence. 11 6 Rayfield, Susan. " Blossoms by a Summer Sea," Americana, 18, May/June 1990, p. 33 . 11 7 Dr. John Kingsbury~ as quoted by Rayfield, Susan in "Blossoms by a Summer Sea," Americana, 18, May/June 1990, p. 33 . 38 hybrids. Thus, the old flowers are lost as " the last few packages of seeds gather dust until the seeds are no longer viable, and finally the strain dies out and disappears forever." 118 Celia Thaxter's restored island garden.11 9 11 8 Kingsbury, Joanna. Restoring a Flower Garden of 1893. , p. 20. 39 Peggy Cornett Newcomb in Popular Annuals of Eastern North America: 1865-1914 specifically discusses the dilemma of attempting to restore gardens which were predominately populated by old annual flower varieties. She writes in her introduction, "In examining sites that were the gardens of a century or more ago, landscape historians look to the physical remnants for indications of the shapes of the past. But annuals, the most ephemeral of ornamental plants, leave no impressions on the historic landscape- no discolored imprints of their decayed roots in the soil, no vegetative regenerations of woody crowns. If escaped flowers persist, reseeding themselves yearly among the weeds, it can be argued that they are descendants that prove their ancestors once existed in cultivation. But these echoes of the past fix neither time nor place. Generations of reversion have most likely taken the flower ' s present aspect back toward its aboriginal state, its state before the forms were developed that the late-nineteenth century gardener knew. The dilemma remains. Among the tangible artifacts yielding to the archeologists ' s trowel, annuals will remain the most elusive of garden elements." 120 Marilyn Barlow, founder of Select Seeds, an heirloom seed company, in her article titled " In Search of Antique Annuals" describes the processes involved in reintroducing to trade lost antique annual varieties-"Once an antique annual is rediscovered, period catalogs provide the means to authenticate it. Trialing (growing the variety and comparing it with as many written descriptions and illustrations as possible) is also necessary. If all goes well, these varieties end up in my seed stocks and catalog and/or those of heirloom seed merchants around the world, ready to flourish once again." 121 Modem breeding efforts have been rather singularly focused on producing shorter, more compact plants with larger flowers . These cultivars and hybrids have a dramatically different effect in the landscape from the blousy old-fashioned flowers which Celia Thaxter grew. Virginia Chisholm wrote of the difficulty in finding "seeds of some of the old-fashioned flowers that had not been d warfed, doubled or so developed that they lost their scent."122 Where possible, species and comparable historic varieties were identified and have been used. As interest in heirloom plants has grown in recent years, locating appropriate varieties has become easier. Dr. Kingsbury estimated that in 1977, the garden's first season, "the garden had about one-quarter of the right plants .. . By 1984 there were many more." However, "finding the last of the more than fifty kinds listed in An Island Garden may be a long task . .. As a last resort, it may even be necessary to breed back toward certain plant materials, if they can no longer be found." 123 119 Otis, Denise. Grounds for Pleasure: Four Centuries of the American Garden. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 2002, p. 67. 120 Newcomb, Peggy Cornett. Popular Annuals of Eastern North America: 1865-1914. Washington, D.C. : Dumbarton Oaks, 1985. P. 1. 12 1 Barlow, Marilyn. "In Search of Antique Annuals," Plants & Gardens, Brooklyn Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens, vol. 48, 1992, pp. 25-29. 122 Chisholm, Virginia. "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." Plants & Gardens, Brookly n Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens, 46, no. 1, 1990, pp. 66. 123 Dr. John Kingsbury, as quoted by Rayfield, Susan in "Blossoms by a Summer Sea," Americana, 18, May/June 1990, p. 33. 40 One-by-one, however, historically appropriate plants have gradually been located. Dame's Rocket, for instance, was donated by someone whose grandmother was given seeds by Celia Thaxter herself. "The correct sunflower variety was found at historic Hamilton House in South Berwick, Maine." 124 Marilyn Barlow, founder of Select Seeds (a Union, Connecticut based heirloom seed catalog business) has consulted on the garden's recreation, and her catalog, along with the British seed company Thompson & Morgan, are used as primary seed sources for the garden today. (*See Appendix D & E: 2004 Planting List and Seed sources for Celia Thaxter's Garden.) The recreated garden "has been planted according to her diagram (in An Island Garden), but as the summer goes on, it is supplemented with other plants which she wrote about but did not include in the diagram.'' 125 * * * The recreation of Celia Thaxter's island garden has been a popular success. Full to capacity tours are led throughout the summer, and apparently many more people are turned away because of the garden's limited viewing times (it is open for tours only one day a week). When one considers the garden's meager size, relatively restrained plantings, (particularly when compared to the lush, over- flowing character of Celia's original garden), and the difficulty in getting there, this success might be considered somewhat surprising. The garden restoration, although beautiful, has a manicured appearance which is not characteristic of Celia's original garden, and presents a sparse, somewhat arbitrary and forlorn appearance in the landscape today without being anchored to her house. The abundance of vines, which was such a dominant feature of the original garden, and characteristic ofVictorian gardens, is notably absent. If Celia's cottage were recreated, it would not only provide the appropriate architectural backdrop and context for the garden and vines, it would also provide substantial protection from north winds and recreate the micro-climate that would allow the plants to achieve the lusher, fuller proportions which were so characteristic of Celia's original garden. Celia's garden was the idiosyncratic and unique creation of one individual, and the successful restoration of such an individual garden may present specific interpretive challenges, unlike the restoration of a more generic landscape. It is my feeling that the many paintings of the garden by Childe Hassam document and reveal the lush aesthetic and stylistic character of the garden and constitute a unique and historic resource which should be used as a guide for a painterly reinterpretation of Cel ia Thaxter's garden. "It is by studying the gardens ... as well as the potent images that the painters made, that it becomes possible to reinterpret their vision in gardens today." 126 124 Rayfield, Susan. "Blossoms by a Summer Sea." p. 34. 125 Chisholm, Virginia. "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." p. 66. 126 Fell, Derek. The Impressionist Garden. p. 6. 41 Thus, as a restoration effort the garden proves to be a fascinating study. What is it that draws so many people across the ocean to see this small garden on a sparse granite rock? It is my assertion that Celia Thaxter's garden restoration is successful for several reasons. First of all, the recreated garden is emblematic of her original garden, and is informed by its lasting legacy and mythic aura. Certainly much of the influence of the original garden is linked to the powerful and gifted personality which Celia Thaxter obviously possessed and transmitted through her garden and writing, as well as in the paintings which she inspired others to create. I would also attribute part of the garden restoration's success to the attraction, romance, and relative exoticism of the island locale. And finally, it is my feeling that Celia's self-described "old-fashioned" (in 1893) cottage garden remains a powerful nostalgic archetype of a timeless garden style, the 'Grandmother's Garden', one which still resonates profoundly today. "A large part of the charm of old-fashioned gardens .. . arises not so much from their splendor and luxuriance as from the affectionate toil and care they represent, which hallows the ground to us who remember the toilers . Into our modem grounds must be put the same thought and supervision if they are to mean anything to our successors or to bear real significance even to ourselves. Only by entering into the spirit which created the old-fashioned gardens can we ourselves leave behind others which shall be valued by future generations as those of a former day are now ." 127 -Charles Sprague Sargent, "Old-fashioned gardens", 1895. 127 Sargent, Charles Sprague. "Old-Fashioned Gardens." Garden and Forest, July, 1895: p. 282 . 42 CONCLUSION: Celia Thaxter's island garden stands as an icon and model of an historic and still very vital American garden style. Indeed, the 'old-fashioned', or 'Grandmother's garden' continues to be a popular American horticultural aesthetic which is particularly dominant in New England. The garden of Beth Straus, Senior Vice Chairman of the New York Botanical Garden, for instance, in Sommesville, Maine, has a rectangular cutting garden which is "in feeling, very much like Celia Thaxter's rectangular garden as portrayed in Childe Hassam's paintings, burgeoning with the brilliant seaside hues of poppies and roses against the silver gray of a weathered board fence." 128 Thus, Celia ' s island garden stands as a model and paradigm with lasting influence which continues to be emulated . An example of a contemporary New England door-yard, or 'Grandmother's' garden, which is very much in the tradition of Celia Thaxter's. 129 128 Dietz, Paula. "A Cultivated Coast; Between Meadow and Water, Beth Straus's Garden Continues a Maine Tradition." House & Garden, Sept 1991: 126-131. 129 Fell, Derek. The Impressionist Garden. p. 115 43 At the very least it can be said that Celia Thaxter's small island garden is a complex entity which embodies many idealized concepts and symbols of l91h century American art and culture. The original garden and its recreation serve as an archetypal model of a 'Grandmother's garden', an American garden type which remains a powerful cultural symbol signifying a nostalgic and idealized vision of American life which continues to be a vibrant and influential horticultural mode today. Patricia M. Tice wrote in Gardening in America, 1830-1910, "The cyclical life-giving properties of the garden cut across time and space to touch upon emotions as basic as the human condition itself. " 130 This statement ultimately alludes to the potential which gardens, and their restorations, have to wield lasting influence upon culture, and points to the case for the preservation, and restoration, of such gardens as Celia Thaxter's. "And yet, for all the changes and challenges which the nineteenth-century gardener encountered, the traditional image of the garden held fast, like a fixed point, and anchor in the tempests of change. This steadfast ideology of the garden underscores not only the w1changing bond with the organic but also the human striving to turn the environment into a true garden, a paradise, a place of delight." 131 -Patrice Trice, Gardening in America, 1830-1910 Celia seated on her vine-clad porch, date unknown. 130 Ibid., p. 12. 131 Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America, I 830- I 9 I 0. p. 73. 132 Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman's Work; Th e Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. p. 17 1. 44 35 _,., 34 33 32 APPENDIX A: AN ILLUSTRATED PLAN & PLAL'l'T LIST OF CELIA'S FLOWER GARDEN (from The Impressionist Garden, by Derek Fell, p. 38) 3 4 5 12 n 14 1; t6 t7 15 16 18 19 8 11 3 f 30 18 24 29 8 27 26 8 2.5 24 CELIA Tl-IAXT[;R'S CUTTING CARDf:N 21 T agetes erecta 42 Papaver nudicaule Akebia quinata 22 Helianthus annuus 43 C lematis terniflora 2 Rosa x damas cena 23 Phlox paniculata 44 Delphinium hybrtds 3 Humulus japonicus 24 Lathyrus odoratus 45 Nigella damascena 4 Hemerocallis citrina 25 Lilium Asiatic hybrids 46 Papaver somniferum 5 Weigela florida 26 Lavate ra trimestris 47 Paeonia lactiflora (pink) 6 lberis sempervirens 27 Lilium longiflorum 48 Dianthus plumarius 7 T ropaeolum majus 28 Aquilegia vulgaris 49 Digitalis purpurea 8 C onsolida ambigua 29 Rosa pimpinellifolia 50 Coreopsis grandiflora . 9 C leo me hassleriana 30 Helianthus x multiflo rus 51 Shirley poppies 10 Lonicera japonica 31 Dianthus barbatus 52 Reseda odorata 1·1 Alcea rosea 32 Paeonia lactiflora (silvery-pink) 12 Echinocystis lobata 33 Centaurea cyanus 13 Clematis x jackmanii 34 Coreopsis tinctoria 14 Rosa hybrids 35 Sweet violets 15 Verbena x hybrida 36 Callistephus chinensis 16 Lonice ra sempervirens 37 Es chscholzia califomica 17 Wisteria sinensis 38 Wallflowers 18 Red dahlias 39 Lavendula angustifolia 19 C lematis 'Henryi' 40 Linum perenne 20 Papaver orientale 4 •1 Silene coe li-rosa 3 1/ 20 2 ·1 22 23 24 H 45 APPENDIX B: OTHER PLANTS CELIA GREW AND MENTIONED IN AN ISLAND GARDEN: (Sources: An Island Garden, by Celia Thaxter; The Flowers of Star Island, by Richard A. Howard; Jamaica Plain, MA: Arnold Arboretum, 1968; Restoring American Gardens: An Encyclopedia of Heirloom Ornamental Plants: 1640-1940. by Denise Wiles Adams; The Impressionist Garden, by Derek Fell; Botanica, by R.G. Turner, Jr.) Aspemla Begonia - tuberous rooted Candy-tuft Carnations - 'Margaret' Cinnamon vine Chrysanthemums Cohea Scandens Crocus Daffodils Dahlias- 'Star of Lyon' Delphinium Erysimum Erythronium Eschscholtzia (Californa Poppy) Eyebright (Euphrasia) Flax - crimson and blue Forget-me-knot - blue and white Gaillardia Gill-over-the-ground Gillyflower (Annual Stocks) Gladiolus Hyacinth Lavatera Mina lobata Morning fringe Mourning Bride Mullein pink Nasturtium Nicotiana Nigella Pansy Penstemon Phlox 'Dmmmond's tall' Plumbago 'Lady Larpent' Zinna Water Plants mentioned: 'Pink lotus of Egypt' 'Purple lily of Zanzibar' 'a red one' (assuming Water lily; Nymphaea) 'Golden Chromatella' (Nymphaea 'Chromatella') ' Pure white African variety' (assuming Nymphaea) 'smaller native white one' (Nymphaea odorata) Poppies-- 'The Bride' (somniferum) Iceland Oriental Shirley Thorn Primrose- English Ragged Robin (Lychnis jlos-cuculi) Rose - Bon Silene Catherine Damask Jacqueminot La France Mermets polyantha mgosa Scotch Sunsets tea Tuscany Scilla siberica Stock Sweet pea (Lath1yrus odoratus) ' Adonis' 'Blanche Ferry' 'Butterfly' 'Carmine Invincible' 'Orange Prince' 'Princess Beatrice' 'Queen Victoria' Thunbergia Tropaeolum lobanum lucifers Tulips Weigela florida 'yellow water poppy' (Hydrophyllum nymphoides or Nuphar lutea?) 'parrot's feather' (Myriophyllum aquaticum) 'water hyacinths' (Eichhornia crassipes) ' Cape Cod lilies' (??) 46 APPENDIX C: APPENDIX OF PLANTS AND HISTORIC VARIETIES POSSIBLY GROWN BY CELIA THAXTER IN 1893 (Used here with permission of the compiler, Joanna Kingsbury Smith): Name of plant Seed catalogues Burpee's Burpee's Greer's Gardener's Farm Autumn Garden. Gard. Annuals. Annual Bulbs Calendar & Fall Bulbs 1893 1893 1893 1893 Akebia quinata - X A1cea rosea X X X X Aquilegia sp. X X Argemone mexicana Callistephus chinensis X X X X Cheiranthus cheiri X X X X Clematis Xjackmanii (white) X X Clematis X jackmanii (blue) X X Cleome spinosa X X X Coreopsis basalis - X X X Coreopsis coronata X Coreopsis lanceolata- X X Centaurea cyanus X X X DahJia pinnata X X X X Delphinium exa1tatum X X X X Dianthus barbatus X X X X Dianthus caryophyllus (Picotee) X X Dianthus sp (marguerite) X X X Digitalis purpurea X X Echinocystus lobata Eschscholtzia californica X X X Gilia sp. X X X Helianthus annus X X X X Hesperis matronalis X X Humulus japonica- X X Humulus lupulus X Lathyrus odorata cvs: Adonis X X X X Blanche Ferry X X X Butterfly X X X X Carmine Invincible X X X X Orange Prince X X X X Primrose X X X X Princess Beatrice X X X X Queen Victoria* Lavatera trimestris *Celia could easily have confused the Queen Victoria with the Queen of England variety which fits her description and was available from each of the four catalogues above. 47 Burpee's Burpee's Greer's Gardener's Annual Bulbs 1893 1893 1893 1893 Lavandula angustifolia Lilium auratum X X X X Lilium candidurn X X X Lilium longiflorurn X X Lonicera sp. Lonicera japonica Lychnis coeli-rosa Nigella darnascena X X X X Papaver alpinum X Papaver nudicaule X Papaver orientale X X X Papaver pavonium X Papaver rhoeas var. Com X Scarlet X Shirley X X X Papaver somniferurn X X Papaver sp. Cv. Carnation X X X Snowdrift X X X Paeonia lactiflora X X Phlox drumrnondii X X X X Phlox paniculata X X Ranunculus asiaticus X Reseda odorata X X X X Rosa centifolia parvifolia Rosa darnascena X Rosa gallica Rosa odorata var. Bon Silene X Catherine Mermet X- X Gabrielle deLuizit' X X General Jaqueminot X X La France X X Sunset X X Rosa X rehederana X X Rosa spinosissirn Tagetes erecta X X X X Tagetes patula X X X X Tropeolum lobianum X Verbena X hybrida X X X X Viola odorata Cv. White Czar X Wisteria sinensis - X 48 APPENDIX D: THE 2004 PLAN AND PLANTING LIST OF THE GARDEN RESTORATION: 49 14 53 17 18 34 51 35 49 35 THE PLAN OF THE GARDEN AND THE LIST OF FLOWERS Celia Thaxter's garden (15x50) is planted by the plan in her book AN ISLAND GARDEN. It is very evident in reading her book that she grew many more plants than are listed on her plan. Over the years these "other" flowers have made their way back into the garden. It is hoped that by updating her plan it will be easier to find the nowers that interest you. 36 36 36 18 1 34 72 75 63 74 -5- 34 -79- 71 18 11 .48 63 49 80 18 49 13 34 35 51 88 70 711 28 84 --19-- 82 54 78 I~ 61 41 37 I 83 23 58 58 • 57 · 67 66 47 I 52 22 126 26 261 88 26 42 45 43 21 24 64 60 57 67 88 57 57 89 88 82 4 66 16 15 7 10 48 5 1 5 80 I 1-89- 331 I 7 j 65 12 14 67 40 57 58 57 57 89 88 67 57 '58 62 47 31 30 -19- 49 --80-- 73 80 ;; _13-60~ 18 76 21l 59 ~ ~a.---.6~9~·~6--~65-~a ~ Gelo 21l 48 48 80 49 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. - 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. '39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 35 Akebia, Vine Anemone, Japanese Artemesia Aster Balsam Begonia, Tuberous Calendula, Pot Marigold Campanula, Persicifolia Candytuft Chrysanthemum, Annual Clematis, Paniculata Cleome, Spider Flower Columbine Coreopsis, Perennial Coreopsis, Calliopsis Cornflower, Blue Cornnower, Pastel Mix Cosnios Dahlia, Single> Day Lily, Celia's Delphinium Dianthus, Pinks Diantl'iu$, Sweet William Digitelis, Foxglove Flax, Blue Flax, Crimson Four 0' Clocks GamardTa, Blanket Flower Geranium Helianlhus, Perennial Helianthus, Sun Flower Heliotrope, Garden Heliotrope, Marine Hesperia, Sweet Rocket Hollyhock Hops\ Japanese, Celia's Lantana Larksj)\Jr, Giant Imperial Larkspur, Blue Cloud Lavatera, Pink & White Lavender Lily, Auratum Lily, Rubrum Lily, Easter Marguerite 35 46. Marigold 4 7. Mignonette 48. Moonftower 49. Moming Glory 50. Nasturtium 51. Nicotiana, Alata 52. Nigella, Love-in-a-Misl 53. Pansy 54. Peony, R&d 55. Penstemon 56. Petunia, Single, White 57. Phloll, Drummondii, Tapestry 58 . Phlox, Drummondii, Leopoldii 59. Phlox .• Perennial, White 60. Plumbago 61 . Poppy, Eschscholzia, California 62. Poppy, Iceland 63. Poppy, O'riental 64. Poppy, Peony, Pink 65. Poppy, "The Bride' 66. Popp~ Prickly,Wh~e 67. Poppy, Shirley, Mixed 68. Poppy, Shirley, Double 69. Rose Campion, Lychnis 70. Rose, Damask 71. Rose, Polyantha, "The Fairy" 72. _ fiose._Rugosa _ 73. ,Rose, Scotch 74. Rose, York 75. Rose, Lancaster 76. 5cabious, Pin CushiOn, Dark Maroon 77. SCabious. Pin Cushion, Pink & White 78. Snowdrops, Celia's 79. Stock; Gillyftower 80. Sweet Pea, Annual 81. Sweet Pea, Perennial 82. Venidium 83. Verbena 84. Viola 85. Violet 86. Viscaria, lychnis "Rose of 1-teaven' 87. Wisteria 88. WoodrufY 89. Zinnia Select See>ds 180 Stickney Hill Rd. Seed Companies Thompson & Morgan POBoxj~ ~ackson, NJ 08527-0308 Pinetree Garden See>dS. P.O. Box300 Union, CT 06076-4671 New Gloucester, ME 04260 35 13 49 ;z ~ ~ ~ Co-' 00 ~ ~ ~ ~ 0 0 N 0. .., 1/J 6 0 e 0 .D "' -l ~ .., :t: ·§ E-< "' ~ ~ - -....J ~ ~ ..<: u ~ ~ -5 0 'o ~ t:: Co-' ~ ;z __g - -E-< E r:r; 0 - <.':: ....J c r:r; •• - ~ ,_, ;z ::l -0 ·-;::_§ ~E-<g_ - ~..<: ~~.";::: ~0 ~ >E-<"E ~ oo ·a Q~O = u N ~ ~ ~ -Q ;z ~ =-=-~ : Utltlnn m· Ihgqppt Qiijjj OPNAME. OI'Jt .. -rfijd -- 'NAM~ ~IIDr.:ll= IQ.I\11.,.. .... r~ (}Luj_~ 0rc1 ~~ .,.. - ''1..()" ~bii !Vlemone ~ ,-Select Seeds I I I n ; (/\A lh~ Vine . . . re T-Stokes I ./ ..._..,.I'L.-V y '- Anemone & M-Thompson & Mora an ~r B8llim Beaonia. Tuberous :alendula :ampanula • .. ~1ft 'mum :tematis :otum~bl~ne"':-::=== ' l8nceolatll ~al ~flower :O.mo$ __ _ »>''lia >ahJta lianthUIIS. WUiiam Uver Queen - -- - --- n . . ~T -Pine Tree-Garden Seeds 4iladv Mix & M SA5-UNH Greenhouse >bl Camellia t:lfd Mix 1ST_ IVC-Vlrglnla Chisholm I INon-StoPMix IP~ _ !MS-Mary Smith ncfian. Prinoe IS ---lPB-Pam Boutilier IPirCicifolia jApgfedore --ll\ppledore-Winterover rose/perennial ~lWfixed - -- ~ & M IE-EIIison's Greenhouses. Exeter ummer Festival & ~- Wliculala-Autumn IAi)pledore Vhllle Queen --Queen ICIPB lalli8 {C8fllooslsl unburst :ut Flower-Mbcad lueOtadem ~edore iT &-M &M &M .llisons t8ved) 'ianthus 5.~~ Pinks(pheasaut eyed)' :?igita!is rea:!;IYbrid ~ & M 'lax. Sc:arfet ed scarlet flax. & M lax, Blue Annual IUI'Ium anmdiflorum_ 'Blue Dress' ----If & M ·~ax. Perennial --ILinum:Derenne-- rr & M our O'Ciocks !Broken Colors IS IG8illardial8i8nket Fl Mortarch IE Geraniums rtSAS Geraniums Pink & Red lfSAS ~el~s Gmon .Queen, Annual SUnflower ~ I Hehanthus rennal ppledore 1ium arine · arcten-Valeriana otficinafis ledore Sweet Rocket - PPiedore IHollyhOeks IAicea-rosea- Fia "HaooY LiQhts" --l$ '·" ' ·· .. \._.../ 0 V) Hollyhocks IAicea-rosea-Fig "Nigra" s ·r--- Hops !Japanese (Celia's) IAppledore +-- Lantana Mixed Hybrids E V) Larkspur Giant Imperial s larkspur Blue Cloud ~ Lavatera !Mont Blanc IT&M Lavatera Silver Cup s Lavender English 'Lady' PB lily, Auratum Appledore LilY, Rubrum Appledore LilY. Easter Appledore Ma~ !Yellow E Marigold ITSAS Marigold Yellow Bonanza ITSAS MiQnonette Machet ~ Moonflower IPOmOea Alba s Mominc GlorY Scarlet O'Hara s Morning Glory PearlY Gates PT !Morning Glo,Y HeeverilV Blue IS Na$turtium LJewet of Africa IS NicOtiana !Jasmine Tobacco IS NiQella Damaseena Persian Jewels PT Pansv rTSAS Pansv Mix ITSAS Penstemon Earlv BirdMfxed rr&M Peonv Red ~ppledore Petunia !White-Celebrity E Phlox Orummondii laoestrv s Phlox Drummondii Leoooldii s Phlox, Per. !White "Miss Lingard" E Plumbago Plum68ao IAppledore Poppy White Cloud s PODDV PrickiVPOPPY 'Purity' s Poppy/rhoeas Sinale Shirley Poppy/rhoeas SinQie _5hirtev 'Anael Wings' Poppy/rhOeas Double Shirfev Mixed PT Poppy Peonv Tvoe Pink s Pop~/Eschscholtzia Californ_ia 'Golden West' s Poppy/Eschscholtzia Aurantica PT Poppy Iceland Meadow Pastels s Rose Campion Lvchnis Coronaria MS Rose, Damask IAppledore Rose, Polyantha The Fairy" Rose, Rugosa Transplanted from Star-Most likely Celia's Rose, Scotch Rose, York Rose, Lancaster Scabious, Sweet Black. Knights Scabious atropurp_urea Summer Sundae Snowdrops Celia's Stock Trysomic-"7 week stock" Tall Stock L~acy Crimson-12" Sweet Pea, Ann. Old Spice Mix Sweet Pea Ann. Mammoth Mix Sweet Pea Per. Lathyrus Latifolius Sweet Rocket HesQ_eris Matronaliks Venidium Fastuosum 'Jaffa Ice' \[erbena Dwarf Jewels ~sea ria Lychnis coelirosa 'Rose of Heaven' Viola Lemon Swirl Viola Hybrid-Mixed !Wisteria !Woodruff, Sweet Galium odoratum ~innias Senary Giant Mix lApp led ore IAppledore IAppledore IAppledore ~ppledore s s Appledore E E s PT PT Appledore l&M rr&M HUMESEEDS PT E ~ppledore PB s ~~· - -~ -..... - - : I N V) BIBLIOGRAPHY: Adams, Denise Wiles. Restoring American Gardens: An Encyclopedia of Heirloom Ornamental Plants: 1640-1940. Portland, OR: Timber Press, 2004. Arber, Edward, ed. Travels and Works of Captain John Smith. Edinburgh: John Grant, 1910. Bailey, Liberty Hyde, ed. How to Make a Flower Garden. New York: Doubleday, Page, 1903. Bardwell, John D. 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New York: Charles Scribner's & Sons, 1910. Kent, Crystal Ward. "The Restoration of an Island Garden." Accent on Home & Garden. July/ August 2004: 62-72. Kingsbury, Dr. John. Foreward. An Island Garden. By Celia Thaxter. 1894. Ithica, NY: Bullbrier Press, 1985. ---. E-mail interview. Sept. 2004. ---. Here's How We'll Do It: An Informal History of the Shoals Marine Laboratory, Appledore Island, Isles of Shoals , Maine. Ithica, NY: Bullbrier Press, 1991. Lacy, Allen. "Celia Thaxter and Louise Beebe Wilder: Romanticism in the Garden" The Gardener's Eye and Other Essays. New York: Henry Holt & Co., Inc. , 1992. Leighton. Ann. American Gardens of the Nineteenth Century: "For Comfort and Affluence." Amherst, University of Massachusetts Press, 1987. Long, Elias. Ornamental Gardeningfor Americans. New York: Orange Judd, 1893. Loudon, Mrs. Jane. Gardeningfor Ladies, and, Companion to the Flower Garden. New York: John Wiley, 1862. ---. The Ladies' Flower Garden of Ornamental Annuals. 2nd Edition. London: W.S. Orr, 1849. Mandel, Norma H. Beyond the Garden Gate: The Life of Celia Laighton Thaxter. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 2004. Marranca, Bonnie, ed. American Garden Writing. New York: Penguin Books, 1988. Martin, Tovah. Victoria: Mom ents in a Garden. New York: The Heart Corp., 1991. May, Stephen. "An Island Garden, A Poet's Passion, A Painter' s Muse," Smithsonian. 21 Dec. 1990: 68- 76. McGuire, Diane Kostial, ed. American Garden Design: An Anthology of Ideas 111at Shaped Our Landscape. New York: MacWilliam, 1994. Moberly, Susan 0. "The Bed of Annuals." The Mayflower. April 1899: 172. 55 Nagel, Gwen L. "Sarah Orne Jewett's New England Gardens." Colby Literary Quarterly 22 ( 1986): 43- 62. Nevins, Deborah. " Poet's Garden, Painter's Eye." House & Garden. August 1984: 93ff. ---. "The Triumph of Flora: Women and the American Landscape, 1890-1935." The Magazine Antiques. April1985 : 904-19. Newcomb, Peggy Cornett. Popular Annuals of Eastern North America: 1865-1914. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1985. Norcross, Marjorie R. "Cataloging America' s Cultural Roots." Cornell Plantations. 4 7 .I ( 1992): 15-22. Norwood, Vera. Made From This Earth: American Women and Nature. Chapel Hill, University ofNorth Carolina Press, 1993. "Old-fashioned Flowers." Vick's Monthly Magazine. Dec. 1882: 360-2. Older, Julia, ed. Celia Tha'Cter: Selected Writings. Hancock, New Hampshire: Appledore Books, 1997. ---. The Island Queen. Hancock, NH: Appledore Books, 1994. "An Ornamented Cottage". New England Farmer. May 1856: 224-5 . Otis, Denise. Grounds for Pleasure: Four Centuries of the American Garden. New York: Harry N . Abrams, Inc., 2002. Packard, Wilnthrop. Literary Pilgrimages ofa Naturalist. Boston: Small, Maynard & Company, 1911. Parker, Constance. "The Garden of Forgotten Flowers." Good Housekeeping. April 1907: 390-96. Piscataqua Garden Club. Gardening from the Merrimack to the Kennebec. Bowie, MD: Heritage Books, Inc. , 1978 . Plan of the Garden and List of Flowers. Appledore Island, ME: Shoals Marine Laboratory, 2004. Rand, EdwardS. Popular Flowers and How to Cultivate Them. New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1876. Rayfield, Susan. "Blossoms by a Summer Sea," Americana. May/June 1990: 28-34. Reed, Helen Leah. "Celia l11axter and Her Island Home." New England Magazine. Nov. 1893 : 208 . Robarge, Christopher. E-mail interview. Sept./Oct., 2004 Robbins, Ellen. "Reminiscences of a Flower Painter." New England Magazine. July 1896: 532. Sargent, Charles Sprague. "Old-Fashioned Gardens." Garden and Forest. July 1895 : 281-82. Schenker, Heath M. & Ouellete, Suzanne C. "The Garden As Women ' s Place: Celia Thaxter and Mariana van Rensselaer." Proceedings of the 'Gendered Landscapes; An Interdisciplinary Exploration of Past Place and Space' Conference. State College, PA.: Pennsylvania State University, 2000. 56 Scott, Frank J. The Art of Beautifying Suburban Home Grounds of Small Extent. New York: John B. Alden, 1886. Shurtleff, Arthur A. "Some Old New England Flower Gardens." Ne~v England Magazine. 21 Dec. 1899: 422-24. Sitwell, Sacheverell. Old Fashioned Flowers. London: Country Life Limited, 1939. Smith, Joanna M. (nee Kingsbury). "Restoring a Flower Garden of 1893", or "The Identity and Source of Plants Celia Thaxter Grew in Her Garden." Honors paper, Colgate University, 1979. ---. E-mail interviews. Sept.-Oct., 2004. Smith, Mary. Telephone and E-Mail interviews. Sept./Oct., 2004. Smith-Rosenberg, Carroll. Disorderly Conduct: Visions of Gender in Victorian America. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1985 . Sorelle, Eugene. "An Old Fashioned Garden and What Grows in It." Indoors and Out. Mar. 1907: 278- 80. Spain, Daphne. Gendered Spaces. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992. Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman 's Work: The Visual Art of Celia Laighton Thaxter. Portsmouth, NH: Peter E. Randall Publisher, 2001. Stuart, David. Gardening with Heirloom Plants. Pleasantville, NY: Reader 's Digest Assoc., 1997. Tabor, Grace. Old-fashioned Gardening; A History and a Reconstruction. New York: McBride, Nast & Co., 1913 . Tankard, Judith. "An Impressionist' s Garden: Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." Labyrinth 2 (1992): 8-9. Taylor, Geoffrey. The Victorian Flo wer Garden. Essex: Anchor Press, 1952. Thaxter, Celia. Among the Isles of Shoals. Boston : Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., 1897. ---. An Island Garden. Boston: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1894, 1988. (facsimile reproduction with original Childe Hassam watercolor illustrations.) ---.Letters of Celia Thaxter Edited by Her Friends A.F. (Annie Fields) and R.L. (Rose Lamb). Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1895. Thaxter, Rosamond. Sandpiper: The Life and Letters of Celia Thaxter. Hampton, NH: Peter E. Randall Pub!., 1999. ---. "My Grandmother's Garden on the Isles of Shoals." New Hampshire Profiles. April, 1989: 48ff. Thomas, H.H. Everybody 's Flower Garden. New York: Funk & Wagnalls Co., 1916. Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America, 1830- 1910. Rochester, NY: The Strong Museum, 1984. 57 Todisco, Patrice. "By Pen and Spade." Hortus: A Gardening Journal. Summer, 1990: 34-44. Turner, R.G., Jr., and Ernie Wasson, eds. Botanica. New York: Random House Australia, 1997. Vallier, Jane E. Poet on Demand: The Life, Letters, and Works of Celia Thaxter. Portsmouth, NH: Peter E. Randall Publisher, 1994. Vick, James, ed. "Flowers and Flower-beds." Vick's Monthly Magazine. 1878, Feb.: 39-41. "The Victorian Lady and Her Flowers;" American Heritage. Aug./Sep . 1978: 99-103 . Ward, Larry G. , Raymond E. Grizzle, FrankL. Bub, Richard Langan, Gwynne Schnaittacher, and Jennifer A . Dijkstra. Site Description and Environmental Monitoring Report, Open Aquaculture Program, University of New Hampshire. 2001. <http://www.ooa.unh.edu/environmental!technica1_report/chapter_ 4.html> Westbrook, Perry D. "Celia Thaxter, Seeker of the Unattainable." Colby Colleg e Quarterly 6 (1964): 500-12. Wheeler, Candace. Content in a Garden. "New York: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1902. White, Barbara A. "Legacy Profile: Celia Thaxter (1835-1894)." Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers 7 ( 1990): 1. Williams, H.T. "Climbing Plants as Helps to Home Adornment." The Gardener 's Monthly. Dec. 1870: 361-65 . 2004 Varieties Listing/or Celia Thaxter 's Garden Restoration. Appledore Island, ME: Shoals Marine Laboratory, 2004. (Copied with permission from the staff of the Shoals Marine Laboratory, Sept., 2004) 58 Ter-.a Izenour (Completed, Fall 2004) BIBLIOGRAPHY: "Celia Thaxter's Island Garden: A 191h Century Flower Garden and its Historic Restoration" Adams, Denise Wiles. Restoring American Gardens: An Encyclopedia of Heirloom Ornamental Plants: 1640-1940. Portland, OR: Timber Press, 2004. Arber, Edward, ed. Travels and Works of Captain John Smith. Edinburgh: John Grant, I 9 I 0. 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Sept 1991: 126-131. Downing, Andrew Jackson. A Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening, Adapted to North America; with a View to the Improvement of Country Residences." New York: Orange Judd Agricultural Book Publisher, 1865. ---. Cottage Residences, Rural Architecture & Landscape Gardening. 1842. Watkins Glen, N.Y.: Library ofVictorian Culture, 1967. ---. "On the Drapery ofCottages and Gardens." The Horticulturist. Aug. 1849:353-59. Dunhill , Priscilla. " Poet Celia Thaxter: An Island Gardener." Victoria. July I 990: 32-39. Earle, Alice Morse. Old Time Gardens. Newly Set Forth: A Book of the Sweet O 'the Year. New York: Macmillan, I 928 (ca. I 901 ). Elliot, Charles. "Field Notes: Lost Gardens," Horticulture. Jan . 1989: 22-25 . Emmet, Alan . So Fine A Prospect: Historic New England Gardens. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1996. Farr, Judith & Louise Carter. The Gardens ofEmily Dickinson. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004. Favretti, Rudy & Joy. For Every House a Garden: A Guide for Reproducing Period Gardens. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, I 990. ---. Landscapes and Gardens for Historic Buildings. Second Edition, Revised: A Handbook for Reproducing and Creating Authentic Landscape Settings. Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press, 1997. Faxon, Susan C. A Stern and Lovely Scene: A Visual History of the Isles ofShoals. Durham, NH : University of New Hampshire Art Galleries, I 978. Fell , Derek. The Impressionist Garden. New York: Carol Southern Books, 1994. Forsell, Mary. "The Victorian Legacy," Plants & Gardens, Brooklyn Botanic Garden Record: American Cottage Gardens. 48 ( 1992): 6-11. Gardner, JoAnn. "In Grandmother's Garden." Old-House Journal. Oct. 2000: 49-53. Genders, Roy. The Cottage Garden and the Old-Fashioned Flowers. London : Pelham Books, 1969. Gerdts, William H. Down Garden Paths: The Floral Environment in American Art. Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, Inc., 1983. Gibson, Robin. "Inside a Nineteenth Century Salon and Garden: Celia Thaxter and Childe Hassam." Win ston-Salem, NC : Reynolda House Museum of American Art. 1994. 2 Griswold, Mac & Eleanor Weller. The Golden Age of American Gardens: Proud Owners, Private Estates 1890-1940. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc. , 1991 . Hill, May Brawley. Grandmother's Garden: The Old-Fashioned American Garden 1865-1915. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1995. Hoopes, Josiah. ''How to Plant a Rural Home." The Horticulturist. June 1872: 164-7. Hottes, Alfred C. A Little Book of Annuals. New York: A.T. DeLaMare Co., 1925. Howard, Richard A. Flowers of Star Island, The Isles ojShoals. Jamaica Plain, MA : Arnold Arboretum, 1968. Jacobs, Katherine L. "Celia Thaxter and Her Island Garden." Lands·cape 24 ( 1980): 12-1 7. Johnson, Mrs . S.O. Every Woman her Own Flower Gardener: A Handy Manual of Flower Gardening for Ladies, 1h ed New York: Ralph H. Waggoner, 1889. Keeler, Harriet L. Our Garden Flowers. New York: Charles Scribner's & Sons, 1910. Kent, Crystal Ward. "The Restoration of an Island Garden." Accent on Home & Garden. July/August 2004: 62-72. Kingsbury, Dr. John. Foreward. An Island Garden. By Celia Thaxter. 1894. Jthica, NY : Bull brier Press, 1985. ---. E-mail interview. Sept. 2004. ---. Here's How We 'II Do It: An Informal History of the Shoals Marine Laboratory, Appledore Island, Isles of Shoals, Maine. lthica, NY : Bull brier Press, 1991 . Lacy, Allen. "Celia Thaxter and Louise Beebe Wilder: Romanticism in the Garden" The Gardener's Eye and Other Essays. New York: Henry Holt & Co., Inc., 1992. Leighton. Ann. American Gardens of the Nineteenth Century: "For Comfort and Affluence." Amherst, University of Massachusetts Press, 1987. Long, Elias. Ornamental Gardeningfor Americans. New York: Orange Judd, 1893. Loudon, Mrs. Jane. Gardening for Ladies, and, Companion to the Flower Garden. New York: John Wiley, 1862. ---. The Ladies' Flower Garden of Ornamental Annuals. 2"d Edition. London: W.S. Orr, 1849. Mandel, Norma H . Beyond the Garden Gate: The Life of Celia Laighton Thatter. Hanover, NH : University Press of New England, 2004. Marranca, Bonnie, ed. American Garden Writing. New York: Penguin Books, 1988 . Martin, Tovah. Victoria: Moments in a Garden. New York: The Heart Corp., 1991 . 3 May, Stephen. "An Island Garden, A Poet's Passion, A Painter's Muse," Smithsonian. 21 Dec. 1990: 68- 76. McGuire, Diane Kostial, ed. American Garden Design: An Anthology ofldeas That Shaped Our Landscape. New York: MacWilliam, 1994. Moberly, Susan 0. "The Bed of Annuals." The Mayflower. April 1899: 172. Nagel, Gwen L. "Sarah Orne Jewett's New England Gardens." Colby Literary Quarterly 22 ( 1986): 43- 62. Nevins, Deborah . "Poet's Garden, Painter's Eye." House & Garden. August 1984: 93ff. ---. "The Triumph of Flora: Women and the American Landscape, 1890-1935." The Magazine Antiques. April1985: 904-19. Newcomb, Peggy Cornett. Popular Annuals of Eastern North America: 1865-1914. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1985. Norcross, Maijorie R. "Cataloging America's Cultural Roots." Cornell Plantations. 4 7.1 ( 1992): 15-22. Norwood, Vera . Made From This Earth : American Women and Nature. Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1993 . "Old-fashioned Flowers." Vick 's Monthly Magazine. Dec. 1882: 360-2. Older, Julia, ed. Celia Thaxter: Selected Writings. Hancock, New Hampshire: Appledore Books, 1997. ---. The island Queen. Hancock, NH: Appledore Books, 1994. "An Ornamented Cottage". New England Farmer. May 1856: 224-5 . Otis, Denise. Grounds for Pleasure: Four Centuries of the American Garden. New York: Harry N . Abrams, Inc., 2002 . Packard, Wilnthrop. Literary Pilgrimages of a Naturalist. Boston: Small, Maynard & Company, 1911. Parker, Constance. "The Garden of Forgotten Flowers." Good Housekeeping. April 1907: 390-96. Piscataqua Garden Club. Gardeningfrom the Merrimack to the Kennebec. Bowie, MD: Heritage Books, Inc., 1978. Plan of the Garden and List of Flowers. Appledore Island, ME: Shoals Marine Laboratory, 2004. Rand, Edward S. Popular Flowers and How to Cultivate Them . New York: Hurd and Houghton , 1876. Rayfield , Susan. "Blossoms by a Summer Sea," Americana. May/June 1990: 28-34. Reed, Helen Leah . "Celia Thaxter and Her Island Home. " New England Magazine. Nov. I 893: 208. Robarge, Christopher. E-mail interview. Sept./Oct., 2004 4 Robbins, Ellen. "Reminiscences of a Flower Painter." New England Magazine. July 1896: 532. Sargent, Charles Sprague. "Old-Fashioned Gardens." Garden and Forest. July 1895: 281-82 . Schenker, Heath M. & Ouellete, Suzanne C. "The Garden As Women ' s Place: Celia Thaxter and Mariana van Rensselaer." Proceedings ofthe 'Gendered Landscapes; An Interdisciplinary Exploration of Past Place and Space' Conference. State College, PA.: Pennsylvania State University, 2000. Scott, Frank J. The Art of Beautifying Suburban Home Grounds of Small Extent. New York: John B. Alden, 1886. Shurtleff, Arthur A. "Some Old New England Flower Gardens." ,\few England Magazine. 21 Dec. 1899: 422-24. Sitwell, Sacheverell. Old Fashioned Flowers. London: Country Life Limited, 1939. Smith, Joanna M. (nee Kingsbury). "Restoring a Flower Garden of 1893", or "The Identity and Source of Plants Celia Thaxter Grew in Her Garden." Honors paper, Colgate University, 1979. ---. E-mail interviews. Sept.-Oct., 2004. Smith, Mary. Telephone and E-Mail interviews. Sept./Oct., 2004 . Smith-Rosenberg, Carroll. Disorderly Conduct: Visions ofGender in Victorian America. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1985. Sorelle, Eugene. "An Old Fashioned Garden and What Grows in It." Indoors and Out. Mar. 1907: 278- 80. Spain, Daphne. Gendered Spaces. Chapel Hill : University of North Carolina Press, 1992. Stephan, Sharon Paiva. One Woman's Work: The Visual Art of Celia Laighton Tha'Cter. Portsmouth, NH: Peter E. Randall Publisher, 200 I . Stuart, David. Gardening with Heirloom Plants. Pleasantville, NY: Reader' s Digest Assoc., 1997. Tabor, Grace. Old-fashioned Gardening: A History and a Reconstruction. New York: McBride, Nast & Co., 1913 . Tankard, Judith. "An Impressionist' s Garden: Celia Thaxter's Island Garden." Labyrinth 2 (1 992): 8-9. Taylor, Geoffrey . The Victorian Flower Garden. Essex: Anchor Press, 1952. Thaxter, Celia. Among the Isles of Shoals. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., 1897 . ---. An Island Garden. Boston: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1894, 1988. (facsimile reproduction with original Childe Hassam watercolor illustrations.) 5 --- . Letters ofCelia Thaxter Edited by Her Friends A.F. (Annie Fields) and R.L. (Rose Lamb). Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1895 . Thaxter, Rosamond. Sandpiper: The Life and Letters of Celia Tha-.:ter. Hampton, NH : Peter E. Randall Publ., 1999. ---. "My Grandmother's Garden on the Isles of Shoals." New Hampshire Profiles. April, I 989: 48ff. Thomas, H.H. Everybody's Flower Garden. New York: Funk & Wagnalls Co., 1916. Tice, Patricia M. Gardening in America, 1830-1910. Rochester, NY: The Strong Museum, 1984. Todisco, Patrice. "By Pen and Spade." Hortus: A Gardening Journal. Summer, 1990: 34-44. Turner, R.G., Jr., and Ernie Wasson, eds. Botanica. New York: Random House Australia, 1997. Vallier, Jane E . Poet on Demand: The Life, Letters, and Works of Celia Thaxter. Portsmouth, NH: Peter E. Randall Publisher, 1994. Vick, James, ed. "Flowers and Flower-beds." Vick 's Monthly Magazine. 1878, Feb.: 39-41 . "The Victorian Lady and Her Flowers;" American Heritage. Aug./Sep . 1978: 99-103 . Ward, Larry G., Raymond E. Grizzle, FrankL. Bub, Richard Langan, Gwynne Schnaittacher, and Jennifer A. Dijkstra. Site Description and Environmental Monitoring Report, Open Aquaculture Program, University of New Hampshire. 200 I . <http://www .ooa. unh .edu/environmental/technical_report/ chapter_ 4 .html> Westbrook, Perry D . " Celia Thaxter, Seeker of the Unattainable." Colby College Quarterly 6 ( 1964): 500-12. Wheeler, Candace. Content in a Garden. " New York: Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1902. White, Barbara A. " Legacy Profile: Celia Thaxter ( 1835-1894)." Legacy: A Journal ofAmerican Women Writers 7 (1990): 1. Williams, H.T. "Climbing Plants as Helps to Home Adornment." The Gardener 's Monthly. Dec. 1870: 361-65 . 2004 Varieties Listing for Celia Thaxter's Garden Restoration. Appledore Island, ME: Shoals Marine Laboratory, 2004. (Copi ed with permiss ion from the statT of the Shoals Marine Laboratory, Sept. , 2004) 6 
work_lvwklahxajdwba3xwl4fhdmxbq	----	1 “If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her”: Dickinson and the Poetics of Celebrity Páraic Finnerty Abstract This essay throws new light on Dickinson and her writings by viewing them in the context of nineteenth-century celebrity culture. The first part of the essay focuses on Dickinson's participation in a culture of literary fandom driven by a powerful attraction to and near- obsession with admired writers and all things associated with them. In the context of contemporary celebrity tourism, it examines her presentation of speakers who elegiacally describe journeys to sites connected with Charlotte Brontë and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and considers how these poems relate the workings of literary fandom to loss, absence, and death. The second part of the essay considers the ways in which Dickinson deploys celebrity discourse to foreground her poems as enticing spaces that exhibit that which attempts to evade public scrutiny or knowledge. Building on connections between Dickinson's concern with literary immortality and her arresting poems, the final part of the essay focuses on her personification of death as a mysterious celebrity-like figure (Fr166) and her presentation of the experience of death as a "famous - Sleep" (F463) and of the dead as achieving "strange fame" (Fr1398). The various strands of the essay coalesce in pointing not only to Dickinson's complex engagement with and response to the workings of celebrity, but also to her provocative foregrounding of interconnections between her culture's obsession with the dead and its construction of celebrities as absent-present, ghost-like figures who are intimately known individuals, but also otherworldly, transcendent strangers. In a Northampton church, on July 3, 1851, Emily Dickinson had her most significant known celebrity encounter when she attended, along with her father, mother, and sister, a concert by 2 the soprano Jenny Lind, who was known as “the Swedish Nightingale.” The show was part of Lind’s 1850-52 American tour, which had been carefully organized and publicized by the media-savvy, commercial impresario P.T. Barnum. Tapping into a desire in the US for popular entertainment and European celebrity, Barnum did everything he could to encourage “Lindomania,” which began even before her arrival in New York in September 1850 and which continued throughout her tour (see Bechtold 497-8). Like other American newspapers, the Springfield Republican updated readers, including Dickinson, about Lind’s tour and the nuances of her performance, and met but also increased the demand for information, anecdotes, and gossip about the singer (see Pascoe 3, 14). The Republican emphasized the frenzy that her presence caused and mentioned the volumes of fan letters she received, and also printed poetic homages to her. A few weeks before the concert, Dickinson expressed a level of skepticism about Lind to Austin Dickinson, who had just heard the singer in Boston, and had in an earlier letter suggested that his sisters accompany him to this event. Dickinson hyperbolically praises Austin’s disparaging review of this concert in defiance of the publicity and celebrity that surrounded the singer: permit me to accord with your discreet opinion concerning Swedish Jennie, and to commend the heart brave eno’ to express it - combating the opinion of two civilized worlds, and New York into the bargain, must need considerable daring - indeed it had never occurred to me that amidst the Hallelujahs one tongue would dare be dumb - and much less I assure you that this dissenting one should be my romantic Brother! (L44) Dickinson praises her brother’s bold stance, but also the eloquence of his epistolary performance, what she calls the “very high style of rapture in such a youth as you.” She celebrates her brother’s letter in and through the discourse associated with Lind’s fame. Their father is a fan who “perused the letter and verily for joy the poor man could hardly contain 3 himself - he read and read again, and each time seemed to relish the story more than at first.” Fearing that such frenzy and over stimulation would have an adverse effect on this reader and the manuscript, Dickinson, a less impassioned admirer, tells Austin that she “seized the exciting sheet, and bore it away to my folio to amuse nations to come.” The letter, according to their father, is newsworthy and had it arrived earlier would have been “‘transferred to the Paper’ to tell this foolish world that one man living in it dares to say what he thinks.” Their father then proclaims Austin’s letter aloud and is transformed, through his daughter’s hyperbolic language, into a star entertainer: encomium followed by encomium - applause deafened applause - the whole town reeled and staggered as it were a drunken man - rocks rent - graves opened - and the seeds which had’nt come up were heard to set up growing - the sun went down in clouds - the moon rose in glory - Alpha Delta, All Hail! Although in her secluded life, elusive writings, and decision not to publish, Dickinson expresses a class- and gender-inflected refusal to become a public figure such as Lind, this essay focuses on how, as in this letter, she engages with contemporary discourses of fame and fandom, and responds to celebrity culture’s blurring of distinctions between public and private life. After she and her family attended the Northampton concert, Dickinson writes again to her brother. Although concurring with his less than favorable opinion of Lind’s musical style, Dickinson is in awe of Lind as a public figure “meant to be observed, brushed up against, talked about, and above all recognized” (Dames 33): how Jennie came out like a child and sang and sang again, how boquets fell in showers, and the roof was rent with applause - how it thundered outside, and inside with the thunder of God and of men - judge ye which was the loudest - how we all loved Jennie Lind, but not accustomed oft to her manner of singing did’nt fancy that 4 so well as we did her - no doubt it was very fine … Herself, and not her music, was what we seemed to love - she has an air of exile in her mild blue eyes, and a something sweet and touching in her native accent which charms her many friends (L46). Capturing the contradictory essence of the celebrity, Dickinson’s Lind is worldly and otherworldly, an intimate and a stranger, a naïf and a professional. The account shows Dickinson’s participation in her community’s brush with fame and presents it as communal worship, akin to religious experience. As well as being enthralled by Lind as a child-like, foreign woman, who inspires applause, flowers, love, and friendship, Dickinson was fascinated by the audience’s response; she tells her brother that their father “sat all the evening looking mad, and silly, and yet so much amused you would have died a laughing.” Her letter, however, also underlined the commercial side of this mysterious woman, pointing out that Lind “took 4000 $ ... for tickets at Northampton aside from all expenses.” Dickinson’s description of the spiritualistic and materialistic side of Lind shows her involvement in her culture’s attempt, encouraged by Barnum’s publicity and Lind’s self- staging, to reconcile the reality of a profit-making, public female figure with ideals of femininity associated with domesticity, purity, reticence, and altruism. Barnum, for example, manufactured and marketed Lind as separable from “commercial ends,” knowing the lucrative nature of emphasizing her as “untouched,” “divine,” and “charitable” (Brodhead 282). Print culture stressed Lind’s angelic, supernatural, and ethereal stage persona, which was underscored by her appearance dressed in white, while publicizing Lind’s income from the tour and its generation of merchandise associated with the star, such as gloves, bonnets, hats, shawls, and cigars, newspapers (Pascoe 2; Bechtold 497). Lind’s celebrity is inextricably connected to the marketability in US culture of innovative, exotic performers and of physical and public embodiments of respectable womanhood and its ideals. She offered 5 Dickinson an important example of the complexity but also marketability of contradictorily maintaining allure, privacy, and mystery, while becoming a spectacle of communal fascination. There exists much evidence of Dickinson’s “anxiety about the value of literary performances and the nature of celebrity in a market where status is transitory and contingent on (changing) public tastes” (Mitchell 165). Her writings also indicate that she “worried obsessively about immortality after death – both her poetry’s and her own,” and that she regarded immortality as the reserve of great artists who dedicated themselves to art rather than pursuing worldly renown (Bennett 228). Recent work on nineteenth-century transatlantic celebrity culture, however, offers an important new context for re-considering her epistolary and poetic constructions of immediate and posthumous fame, and showing not her opposition to but rather her appropriation and unsettling of the workings of celebrity and fandom. It explores her responses to celebrities such as George Eliot, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Charlotte Brontë, showing the ways in which she plays with and problematizes relations between the admirer and the admired. Connecting her concern with literary immortality with her provocative writing style, especially her poetry’s many publicity-grabbing opening lines, imagery, metaphors, and concepts, the essay focuses on her poetic showcasing of privacy and that which evades public scrutiny and knowledge: the interiority of her “supposed persons” and secret lives of natural phenomena. In this context, it also focuses on her mapping of celebrity discourse on to the practices and rituals associated with death and the representation of the dead. Poetics of Fandom Recent scholarship suggests that a “new category of public experience called the celebrity” emerges at the end of the eighteenth century, accelerated by technological developments in 6 print media and mass circulation, and inextricably connected with democratization, urbanization, individualism, and consumerism (Dames 25). By the early nineteenth century practices and institutions were in place to produce, reproduce, and commercialize a multiplicity of ways for admirers, later called fans, to access the lives, works, homes, and bodies of the famous individuals. Photography, biography and autobiography, travel guidebooks, newspapers, journals, illustrated periodicals, interviews, carte-de-visite, fan letters, autographs, souvenirs, celebrity sightings, the tourist industry, and gossip columns worked as part of a celebrity system that generated fans’ feelings of intimacy, affinity, sympathy, and identification with celebrities. Having a value in proportion to their association with, or what they might reveal about the famous, such commodities relied for their continuation as much on the marketing of a celebrity’s personal accessibility as on the promotion of his or her unknowability and mystery. The American response to Lind’s tour implies that by the mid-nineteenth century celebrity culture was already in place in the US as “an extensive, industrialised, and intertextual mode of gossip, disseminating information, facilitating identifications, channelling desires, defining relations within a community, proscribing behaviours and legitimating values” (Goldsmith 22). Dickinson’s attention to the audience’s captivation with Lind rather than her singing taps into a historical moment at which distinguished individuals’ achievements, talents, or abilities led to, and were often eclipsed by, increased fascination with their personalities, lifestyles, preferences, and tastes (Franssen & Honings 1-8). Following the pattern of Dickinson’s response to Jenny Lind, there is ample evidence of Dickinson turning to textual and visual sources from print media or to what she could glean from the experiences of others to satisfy her fascination with renowned individuals. Her growing reclusion, if anything, intensified her interest in the private lives, appearances, and places associated with celebrities. While her letters show her 7 observation of and participation in the commercialized and industrialized worship of public figures, her poems indicate her complication of the mechanisms of fandom. Although Dickinson refers to and admires American literary celebrities such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Helen Hunt Jackson, her most enthusiastic approbation is lavished on contemporary British writers, especially Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Eliot, Emily Brontë, and Charlotte Brontë. The newspapers and periodicals Dickinson read would have kept her abreast of any available information about these public figures and their private lives. Dickinson’s letters suggest that although she was centrally attracted to their literary works, she was also fascinated with their biographies and appearances, and sites associated with them. Sometime after Barrett Browning’s death on 29 June 1861, Dickinson writes the following to her cousin Louise Norcross: That Mrs. Browning fainted, we need not read Aurora Leigh to know, when she lived with her English aunt; and George Sand “must make no noise in her grandmother’s bedroom.” Poor children! Women, now, queens, now! And one in the Eden of God. I guess they both forget that now, so who knows but we, little stars from the same night, stop twinkling at last? (L234) Reading sections from Aurora Leigh biographically and alluding to an extract from Sand’s memoir that had been published in the Atlantic Monthly in November 1861 (Leyda II 37), Dickinson is the fan finding points of identification in available information about the suffering of and restrictions placed upon these great writers, particularly during their childhoods, as well as discovering inspiration in their eventual triumph over adversities to earn regal-like literary greatness. There are numerous other examples of her interest in biography. She gave Elizabeth Gaskell’s The Life of Charlotte Brontë (1857) as a present to her sister-in-law, Susan Gilbert Dickinson, inscribing it “Sister, from Sister” (Capps 174). 8 Again, blurring the lines between artistic and biographic works, she described A. Mary Robinson’s biography of Emily Brontë (1883) as “more electric far than anything since ‘Jane Eyre’” (L822). In the final four years of her life, the pre-publication publicity about John Walter Cross’s biography of his wife, George Eliot (1885), transformed Dickinson into an obsessive enthusiast eagerly seeking more information and the book. In April 1883, she asks Higginson if he would allow her, as a gesture of gratitude for his mentorship, to send him a copy of “‘Life of Mrs Cross’ by her Husband, which the Papers promise for publication?” (L819). Although Thomas Niles, an editor at Roberts Brothers publishers in Boston, was very interested in publishing her poetry, Dickinson was primarily interested in playing an Eliot admirer rather than a prospective author. After earlier exchanges (L749a 749b) about the Eliot biography, in March 1883, he informs her: “I do not hear anything about the Life of George Eliot by Mr Cross - at least only rumors that he is at work upon it. We shall publish on Saturday a life of her by Mathilde Blind wh. will be worth your reading.” (L813a). When Dickinson acquires Blind’s biography, she responds to Niles that it “had much I never knew - a Doom of Fruit without the Bloom, like a Niger Fig,” and with a poem, “Her Losses make our Gains ashamed” (L814), which contrasts Eliot’s great artistic achievements with her personal losses. Blind’s work does not abate Dickinson’s fixation on Cross’s biography, presumably because she felt that having been written by someone so close to Eliot it would offer the most intimate and accurate knowledge: in January 1885, Dickinson tells Louise Norcross: “Loo asked ‘what books’ we were wooing now - watching like a vulture for Walter Cross’s life of his wife” (L962). When in February 1885 she eventually read this biography and then sent a copy as a gift to Higginson, she commented: “Biography first convinces us of the fleeing of the Biographied” (L972), pointing to this genre’s paradoxical associations with life and death, presence and absence, exposure and suppression. 9 As well as being a self-styled predator of celebrity biographies, Dickinson also presented herself as someone drawn to visual representations of and geographical locations associated with those she admired. Even more so than biographies, photography at this time “produced a still more radical apprehension of intimacy between literary celebrities and their readers,” allowing a sense of “proximity” to photographed figures who were rendered singular and unique, while also being reproducible images (Salmon 169-70). Participating in this visual route to intimacy (see Leyda II 139), Dickinson, according to her niece, Martha Dickinson Bianchi, hung pictures of Barrett Browning and Eliot (along with one of Thomas Carlyle) on her bedroom wall (83). Knowing she was a great admirer of the recently deceased Barrett Browning, Dickinson’s friends, by August 1862, had sent her three “portraits” of the English poet (L271). In 1870, she gave Higginson a picture of Barrett Browning’s “tomb,” which had been given to her by Josiah Holland after a visit to Europe (L342b). Ambivalent about seeing the face of Eliot, while also aware of the gossip about the writer’s unattractive appearance, Dickinson, in April 1881, tells Elizabeth Holland, whose husband Josiah was the editor of Scribner’s Monthly, “Vinnie is eager to see the Face of George Eliot which the Doctor promised, and I wince in prospective, lest it be no more sweet. God chooses repellant settings, dont he, for his best Gems” (L692). When the portrait was published in the November 1881 issue of the magazine, it was removed by someone in the Dickinson household (Leyda II 357). Stemming from the same desire for closeness to the famous, Dickinson vicariously participated in the popularity of literary tourism. She asked friends who were visiting Europe to act as her proxies seeing and touching its sites and cultural treasures (see L487, 1004). For her, these ambassadors went where she could not and always with the possibility of discovering new information about or having an unexpected encounter with those she admired. In 1862, she asks Samuel Bowels, the editor of the Springfield Republican: “Should anybody where you go, talk of Mrs. Browning, you must 10 hear for us - and if you touch her Grave, put one hand on the Head, for me - her unmentioned Mourner” (L266). In 1878, Dickinson writes to Higginson “I hope your rambles have been sweet and your reveries spacious - To have seen Stratford on Avon - and the Dresden Madonna, must be almost Peace - And perhaps you have spoken with George Eliot. Will you ‘tell me about it’?” (L533). Dickinson’s letters suggest her cognizance that her favorite authors existed in a field of celebrities in which commercial, visual, and informational systems and the workings of fandom mediated fame. Dickinson would have also been very sensitive to the fact that female celebrities in this marketplace “found it necessary to balance privacy with visibility to enhance public interest in their lives and work. Too little exposure could mean invisibility in a fiercely competitive literary marketplace, yet too much exposure could mean being cast aside as the latest vulgar literary fad” (Easley 12). As a result, Dickinson’s constructions of fandom in her poetry are often more ambiguous, as she interrogates the desire for ever-closer proximity to admired, but elusive figures. “All overgrown by cunning moss” (Fr146) and “I went to thank her” (Fr637), although usually read as elegies, poetic tributes, or declarations of influence, feature speakers who are literary tourists, one journeys to Haworth to Charlotte Brontës grave and the other goes to Barrett Browning’s Florence residence; both poems associate intrusive admiration with disappointment, absence, and death. These poems draw on tropes, images, and ideas associated with celebrity tourism and fandom, but also on constructions of celebrities, in particular female celebrities, as absent-present, seen and yet unseen, ghostly figures, who haunt the texts that attempt to materialize them. Dickinson seems to be gesturing to the fact that “the discourse on literary celebrity was as much premised on what could be seen and known about popular authors as it was focused on the mysterious and unknowable aspects of their lives and works” (Easley 12). 11 Written in the late 1850s, “All overgrown by cunning moss,” (Fr146), presents a speaker who has gone to a weed-grown grave at “Haworth,” the “little cage of Currer Bell.” Brontë is presented as a bird who in dying has followed other birds, perhaps her sisters and brother, to “other Latitudes” and has not returned: All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid. This Bird - observing others When frosts too sharp became Retire to other latitudes - Quietly did the same - But differed in returning - Since Yorkshire hills are green - Yet not in all the nests I meet - Can Nightingale be seen - Or Gathered from many wanderings - Gethsemane can tell Thro’ what transporting anguish She reached the Asphodel! Soft fall the sounds of Eden 12 Upon her puzzled ear - Oh what an afternoon for Heaven, When “Bronte” entered there! (Fr146) In the first part of the poem, the speaker discovers only profound lack in the green “Yorkshire hills,” as well as levels of secrecy and hiddenness provided by the “cunning moss” and interspersed “weeds.” The pilgrimage ends as an unfulfilled quest for intimacy or connection with the departed “Nightingale.” Tapping into the expectations and disillusionments of nineteenth-century celebrity-led travel, the devotee presents the unkept cage-grave and Haworth not as sites of inspiration and inclusion, but as ones of indifference and exclusion. Interestingly, the poem’s suggestive placement of “Or” between stanzas three and four marks a shift of focus and perspective: the fan’s discovery of an environment’s disregard for and destruction of human commemoration and fame is eclipsed by the fan’s vision of Bronte’s triumphant entry into heaven. Stanzas four and five imply that it is the now unnecessary male pseudonym that is dead and buried, as the female author, after her “many wanderings” and anguish, arrives in Eden, a paradisiacal site Dickinson associates with radical possibility and desire (see Fr205, Fr269). Stressing heaven’s benefit in gaining Brontë rather than Brontë’s in entering into heaven, the poem also indicates that this writer is puzzled because she had not expected such celebration, perhaps owing to the moral controversy her works caused or to personal humility. Reversing a Christianization and feminization of Brontë in Gaskell’s biography, the poem presents an influential, authoritative, and even unsettling “Brontë,” who has achieved immortality associated with heaven but also with the asphodel of Greek Elysium. While contrasting the literary tourist’s fruitless expedition with Brontë’s posthumous acclaim, the poem also points to the fact that at this time fans conferred celebrity on individuals and were the agents of remembrance and apotheosis in the face of time’s and 13 nature’s obliteration. Dickinson’s “Or” aptly connects fans’ intimacy-seeking activities with their new roles as the arbiters of fame. Like the first part of the Brontë poem, Dickinson’s 1863 poem “I went to thank Her -” (Fr637), emphasizes a fan’s devastation at the eternal loss of a beloved writer: I went to thank Her – But She Slept - Her Bed - a funneled Stone - With Nosegays at the Head and Foot - That Travellers - had thrown - Who went to thank Her – But She Slept - ’Twas Short - to cross the Sea - To look opon Her like - alive - But turning back - ’twas slow - Here, Dickinson constructs another literary devotee turned tourist or, perhaps more worryingly, an intrusive admirer wishing to experience the intimacy of a private audience with a worshipped writer. Unfortunately, the speaker arrives too late, perhaps at the writer’s residence, and unexpectedly attends the poet’s funeral and becomes part of an occasion of communal mourning. The hoped-for private encounter with the living celebrity is transformed into a public event involving other “Travelers” who have also come to thank the now-dead idol. Dickinson creates a speaker who both fulfils her 1862 request to Bowles to represent her grief for Barrett Browning by touching the poet’s grave and head, and participates at Barrett Browning’s funeral, which had been described in articles from newspapers and periodicals Dickinson read, such as Kate Field’s 1862 Atlantic Monthly essay 14 “Elizabeth Barrett Browning” (see Finnerty 115). The journey to Italy is short, full of anticipation and excitement with the prospect of seeing “Her like - alive -”; however, returning home is a slow, presumably melancholy trip. Even more strongly than in the Brontë poem, here Dickinson uses death as the ultimate barrier protecting writers from their fans and re-establishing personal privacy. Yet Dickinson, who wrote two other elegies for Barrett Browning (Fr600, Fr627), knew that death, like any reinforcement of the division between private and public life, only intensifies worship and the mythologizing work of fandom. Both poems evoke and are condensed, sparse versions of the more elaborate and detailed descriptions of literary tourism that were ubiquitous at this time. Authors of such accounts act as conduits for their readers, visiting literary shrines and sometimes even having intimate encounters with celebrity authors. As Easley notes the “growth of the literary tourism industry was inseparable from the practice of bio-geographical criticism that emerged in the periodical press during the same period” that connected an author’s life and works with geographical locations associated with them (13). Rather than offering an intrusive touristic or celebrity encounter, however, Dickinson’s poems stress the writer’s ghostliness, at a time when ghosts were ubiquitous within literary tourism and when a visit to the writer’s home or meeting with a celebrity was akin to a spiritual encounter with the dead. Dickinson’s Brontë and Barrett Browning are “spectral presences, neither fully present nor absent”; their “ghostly invisibility” is a result of “the intersecting discourses on literary tourism and domestic ideology,” which “mandated women’s absence in the public sphere” (Easley 14, 49). Both poems interconnect renown with fandom, remembrance, and death, while the Brontë poem offers the notion of posthumous fame that blends Christian religion and Greek mythology, demonstrating Leo Braudy’s claim that from the eighteenth century onwards “hope of heaven, hope of immediate fame, and hope of fame in posterity were becoming difficult to distinguish” (379). Positioning Brontë’s and Browning’s lives and deaths within the context 15 of actual and published transatlantic pilgrimages to literary sites, the poems draw on imagery of personal and communal, internal and external, intimate and distant, and perceptible and imperceptible to stress the inaccessibility and mystery of these writers who transcend, evade, and defy the intrusive fandom they inspire. While underlining the attractions of the suffering Brontë bird and of an inspirational figure such as Barrett Browning, the poems dwell not on the cliché of the suffering, dying, or dead woman, but rather on the disillusionment of the archetypal fan seeking access to or knowledge and access to a celebrity’s inner essence, private life, and personality. Interestingly, if celebrity culture legitimizes the fans’ transformation of private spaces, graves, and residences into places of worship, Dickinson’s poems, particularly the Barrett Browning one with its reference to communal mourning, hint at the way an admirer’s individuality and singularity are also threatened by the highly imitative nature of admiration. Mother and I for greater celebrity are remaining at home When Dickinson began a correspondence with Higginson in 1862, she primarily wanted to know if the poems she sent him were “alive” and if they “breathed” (L260). She “hoped to find a critical audience without the risk of exposing herself to public scrutiny through publication” (Lundin 115). When he discouraged her from publishing, she made her career- long position on fame very clear: I smile when you suggest that I delay “to publish” - that being foreign to my thought, as Firmament to Fin - If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her - if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase - and the approbation of my Dog, would forsake me - then - My Barefoot-Rank is better - (L265). Suggesting embarrassment and a preference for deprivation, Dickinson’s formulation evokes the new opportunities for women to receive mass acclaim and become celebrated public 16 figures, but also the difficult requirement that they embody feminine ideals, in particular domesticity, modesty, and humility. Her statement perfectly encapsulates the fact that for women, fame “[had] to be a matter of fate rather than of design, of rewards passively received rather than conquests actively pursued” (Weber 4). Dickinson does not disallow fame but rather delays it, reiterating her remark a year earlier to her sister-in-law Susan Gilbert Dickinson: “Could I make you and Austin - proud - sometime - a great way off - ’twould give me taller feet -” (L238). Her patient and careful attitude towards fame echoes ideas Higginson puts forward in his 1862 Atlantic Monthly essay, “A Letter to a Young Contributor,” which is believed to have inspired her to write to him. Here, Higginson explains to would-be authors that the commercial marketplace has become not only the formidable tribunal for “transitory reputations,” but also “the organ of eternal justice and infallibly awards posthumous fame” (404). While noting “the habit to overrate the dramatis personae of the hour,” Higginson evokes the context of posthumous existence and fame to offer solace: “Yet, if our life be immortal, this temporary distinction is of little moment, and we may learn humility, without learning despair, from earth’s evanescent glories” (410). In lines Dickinson quoted from in a later letter to him (L488), Higginson advises honor-led hesitancy: “Such being the majesty of the art you seek to practise, you can at least take time and deliberation before dishonoring it” (403). Although Higginson would later play a key if cautious role in Dickinson’s posthumous publication, his importance to her in her lifetime stemmed from her use of his critical and literary authority to validate her resistance to publication and her preference for circulating her poems as part of epistolary exchanges (see Crumbley 154-169). Discussing Dickinson’s attitudes toward publication and publicity, Leo Braudy, in his ground-breaking history of fame The Frenzy of Renown (1986), categorizes Dickinson as a reluctant celebrity: she one of many “writers in the nineteenth century… beginning to turn 17 neglect into a banner of ultimate value, for themselves as well as for others” (424). Dickinson’s hand-stitched books are an “attack [in the name of artistic integrity] against commercial reproduction” and her social withdrawal a perfectly understandable move in a context in which “To be too clearly visible, to be too easily understandable, in short, to be containable by the great and growing public, was beginning to be a mark of shallowness and insignificance” (424). Rather than being exceptional, Dickinson’s distancing and differentiating herself from the competitive “fame-choked world” was an extreme enactment of a Romantic belief in an author’s self-sufficient singularity and the concomitant notion that “anonymity and neglect [were] emblems of true worth” (425). Dickinson is the neglected- genius type who strives not to appeal to the masses, but to “rare Ear / Not too dull” (Fr945) or the “sole ear I cared to charm” (Fr324) and, ultimately, to a discerning posterity. Immediate fame in one’s lifetime is a “fickle food / Upon a shifting plate”; “Men eat of it and die,” and it is rejected by cynical crows (Fr1702); it is bee whose pleasurable “song” does not compensate for its “sting” and fleeting nature (Fr1788). Instead, True artists “Work[s] for Immortality” and “Slow [but everlasting] Gold” rather than striving as most do “for Time” and its immediate compensations of fame, the former being an eternal “Mine”, while the latter is merely the “Bullion of Today” (Fr536 see also Fr1707). Although Braudy uses Dickinson’s lines “To earn it by disdaining it / Is Fame’s consummate Fee -” to summarize a “distinctive strain in many nineteenth-century literary careers,” (464) the full poem from which these lines are taken highlights that withdrawal from the public, commercial world is a tactic aimed to attract and quantify the world’s pursuit: To earn it by disdaining it Is Fame’s consummate Fee - He loves what spurns him - 18 Look behind - He is pursuing thee - So let us gather - every Day - The Aggregate of Life’s Bouquet Be Honor and not shame - The poem recalls Dickinson’s words to Higginson about fame’s pursuit of her, but adds the idea of keeping one’s eye continually on the world one has evaded or rejected. While the daily assembly of “Life’s Bouquet” is about measuring the gaining of honor and avoiding shame, the practice implies that the attention of the world is an ongoing concern, tally, and temptation. While her correspondents were aware of Dickinson as an individual who carefully guarded herself against and sought to be protected from all types of publicity (L225, 573a), they also knew her as someone who often drew attention to the power of refusal to increase demand. One 1859 letter to Mrs. Joseph Haven draws attention to Dickinson’s awareness of the function of denial in celebrity culture. Thanking this correspondent for a delightful letter associated with remembrance, surprise, and grace, Dickinson compliments Haven on her husband’s letter that was so full of mirth that it belonged in the family library. Recalling her Lind letter in which she transforms her father and Austin into celebrated entertainers, Dickinson writes: “Father is in New York, just now, and Vinnie in Boston - while Mother and I for greater celebrity, are remaining at home” (L200). What Dickinson hints at here and which is central to her writings and her relationships with others, is the idea that that which “resists” most “attracts” (Fr844). As she put it to her friend Judge Otis Lord: “you are happiest while I withhold and not confer - dont you know that ‘No’ is the wildest word we consign to Language?” (L562). Dickinson’s life and writings suggest that she did not stand apart from the marketplace of fame and fandom, but recognized the increasingly 19 significant role celebrity played in cultural reception, and was not averse to using publicity- seeking mechanisms to her advantage. Scholars of the history of celebrity have shown that Dickinson was not the only reluctant celebrity to strategically engage with and become fascinated by the workings of celebrity. Recent research shows the inextricable intersections between celebrity and poetry in nineteenth-century Anglo-American culture and the ways poets experimented with and incorporated these associations into their poetry. David Haven Blake has shown that relations of affection, sympathy, and intimacy were central to both the workings of celebrity and of poetry, at a time when “the combined forces of industrialization and print capitalism were creating increasingly abstract forms of public life” (“When Readers Became Fans” 110). The focus of poetry, particularly lyrics, on selfhood and personality “compensate[d] for this dehumanization structural shift” and “poets could accrue a quasi-religious aura, especially if they presented themselves (or had been presented) as distinctive cultural personalities” (110). Moreover, poetry that “arouse[d] intense feelings of closeness and devotion in readers,” offered “an emotional immediacy and sense of mutuality,” and was “intensely personal and deeply felt” had a huge commercial appeal (“When Readers Became Fans” 108, 109, 108). Although presented as a counter to the “alienating effects of mass-mediated, consumer society,” the imagined intimacies of nineteenth-century poetry were continuous with “the structure of mass-mediated celebrity” (Eisner 18, 15). Noting the “significant overlap in the ways literary works and market structures conjure seductive forms of poetic presence,” Eric Eisner argues that Poems and market institutions both work through essentially impersonal mechanisms to create forms of presence that are at once compelling and ephemeral, and that exercise power by virtue of being, in face, mere systems effects. Like lyric poetry 20 itself, the poet’s charisma depends on an impossible intimacy, where what seduced us is a presence we know is not really there (13). The publication and reception history of Dickinson’s writings highlight the interconnection between her seductive personal address and the ways in which readers have responded personally with feelings of intimacy, familiarity, and passion, often interpreting the poems as personal embodiments of the poet (see Smith 127, 151). The fact that her poems exist in manuscript form and only ten were published in her lifetime has meant that, even more so than the poems of her contemporaries, Dickinson’s seem to embody the “idea of the lyric as ideally unmediated” and of “lyric poetry as a discourse immediately and intimately addressed to the reader” (Jackson 7, 51). Although she regarded publication, as “the Auction / of the Mind of Man” (Fr788), Dickinson wrote as she did because she, like other contemporary poets, she recognized the viability, popularity, and marketability of poems that established intimate, personal, immediate relations between poet and reader, disguising the formal, artistic, and linguistic means and strategies that facilitated such an intense connection. For Blake, part of Dickinson’s engagement with celebrity culture is precisely the ways she entices the reader into her exhibition of a “soul’s dramatic conflict” and her displays of the self “as a kind of audience-directed performance” (Walt Whitman 52, 53). Moreover, he pinpoints her celebrity-informed tactics: Despite her focus on Parnassus, Dickinson remained strikingly aware of the need to court and please an audience. The poet may have limited her self-promotional activities to a series of private letters, but her poems reveal a stunning mastery of the language of publicity” (Walt Whitman and the Culture of American Celebrity 52). These insights allow Dickinson’s poems to re-emerge as not merely intimacy-creating texts, but publicity-astute ones. Many of her poems begin with incredible opening-line pitches, spoken by intimate, direct, open, confiding first-person speakers, who reveal as much as they 21 conceal. Her constructions of intimacy are accompanied by promotional obstructions, involving outlandish, unexpected, and paradoxical imagery, metaphors, and ideas. As Cristanne Miller puts it “The extraordinary power of Dickinson’s language stems largely from her success in balancing the contradictory impulses towards the privacy of self- protection and the publicity of fully expressed intimacy or articulate pronouncement on the broader concerns of her life” (39). Dickinson’s linguistic balancing of “private life” and “public spectacle” shows that in her culture these are “two sides of the single process”; as Brodhead puts it, “a more publicized and spectatorial entertainment order and a more leisured, privatized domestic model arose at the same time in [nineteenth-century] America because it was the nature of that domestic model to create a need for” its opposite (288). Fitting into a trajectory in which domestic privacy has a mass marketability and entertainment value, Dickinson’s constructions of privacy and the private life could not help but be orientated towards the public sphere. Although rejecting the role of the public and commercial performer, Dickinson, in her life and writings was culturally predisposed to occupy imaginatively, rhetorically, and poetically just such a position. Reflecting the public visibility and mass appeal of female celebrities such as Lind, Eliot, Brontë and Barrett Browning, Dickinson, in poems such as “No matter now - Sweet -” (F734), “I’m saying every day -” (F575), and “You’ve seen Balloons set - Haven’t You?” (Fr730), “I would not paint - a picture -” (F348), creates speakers who imagine what it would be like to suddenly become public figures enjoying adulation and acclaim. In these performance poems, privacy is constituted in terms of spectacle, commerciality, display, and audience (see Jessee 18-19). Yet what Dickinson specializes is the representation, advertisement, and publicization of selves and entities that are most reluctant to go public. In the preface to the 1890 initial publication of Dickinson poems, Higginson predicts that her “verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew 22 and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed” (Eberwein et al 57). Unknowingly he points to the unearthing of that which is hidden as not only that which did and continues to attract readers, and also to her poetic penchant for exhibiting the unseen. The rhetoric of Dickinson’s poems is driven by an intrusion into that which seeks to remain private and avoid exposure. As if explaining her predominant use of personally confiding, first-person speakers, in key poems she celebrates the attractions of the secret performers and hidden performances, implying that the “Vitallest” dramas are those “infinite[ly] enacted,” in the “Human Heart,” the “Only Theatre recorded / Owner cannot shut -” (Fr776). In “I cannot dance opon my Toes -” (F381), while the speaker, outwardly or publically, has no outward talent or achievement, she can imagine having “Ballet Knowledge” and performing for “Audiences” as part of a “Troupe” and wearing a “Gown of Gauze.” The poem publicizes a speaker who can go “out of sight, in sound, / The House encore me so -”, a figure that “none know” and whose secret and operatic “Art” no “Placard boast[s].” In her most famous rejection of the cult of personality, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” (Fr260), Dickinson satirically states that the desire to be somebody makes one (“like a Frog”) dependent on the validation of others (“To tell one’s name – the livelong June - / To an admiring Bog!”). Yet she also implies that in a culture of promotion and advertisement (which act as forms of surveillance) even nobodies (such as the poem’s speaker and possibly its addressee) need to be wary of the attractions of inconspicuousness and anonymity: I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – Too Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! They’d advertise - you know! 23 Interestingly the alternative word for “advertise” is “banish,” suggesting that nobodies are threatened by both being included and excluded from celebrity. While in “The Clover’s simple Fame” (Fr1256), “The Martyr Poets - did not tell -” (Fr665), and “A Spider sewed at Night” (Fr1163), Dickinson contrasts the vulgarity of literary dependence to the idea of self- reliance, art for art’s sake, and literary immortality (see Mitchell 150; Bennett 230), these poems also place that which is concealed and secretive on display. Even when making an argument for fame that derives from notions of personal integrity, self-respect, and honor rather than from public acclaim, Dickinson’s specialty is the exhibition of an autonomous, reluctant self: Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous - An Incense Beyond Necessity - Fame of Myself to lack - Although My Name be else supreme - This were an Honor honorless - A futile Diadem - (Fr481) In other poems, Dickinson strategically showcases moments of intense covert, personal experience through analogy with mysterious natural phenomena: Best Things dwell out of Sight The Pearl - the Just - Our Thought - Most shun the Public Air 24 Legitimate, and Rare - The Capsule of the Wind The Capsule of the Mind Exhibit here, as doth a Burr - Germ’s Germ be where? (Fr1012) Following this poem’s logic, her poetry acts as rough external “Burr” teasingly advertising that that which is “best” or “rare” eludes the public gaze or realm. The function of such poems is to highlight and increase the desire to make tangible the intangible “Capsule” or “Germ.” Similarly, in “A transport one cannot contain” (Fr212A), “Though God forbid it lift the lid, / Unto it’s Extasy!”: the speaker imagines the commercial benefit of prohibitively depicting “Rapture”: A Diagram - of Rapture! A sixpence at a show - With Holy Ghosts in Cages! The Universe would go! Again, the poem evokes the lucrative nature of giving the public that which is seemingly impossible, unavailable, paradoxical: the impracticality of materially containing a spirit recalls the aberration of an ethereal public performer such as Lind, or the illusion of a text containing an internal, personal, or psychological presence. Often Dickinson’s parading of the interiorities of her retiring “supposed persons” is accompanied by her promotion of the sequestered, unrecognized, and secreted within the natural world. In “The tint I cannot take is best” (Fr696), what is being revealed and publicized is the speaker’s inner experience of sublimity: 25 The Moments of Dominion That happen on the Soul And leave it with a Discontent Too exquisite - to tell - Although both exposing and concealing something happening “on the Soul” that is “Too exquisite to tell,” the poem also draws comparative attention to the commercial viability of covert natural phenomena: “The Color too remote / That I could show it in Bazaar - / A Guinea at a sight -.” In other poems, Dickinson juxtaposes the mediated nature of celebrity and publicity and the unconscious workings of the nature to unveil unknown and overlooked entities. “Forever cherished be the tree” (Fr1600), for example, exposes the forces that protect what is unobserved: the poem announces that a “Winter worn” apple is eaten by two breakfasting robins breakfasting, even though “Angels have that modest way / To screen them from renown.” Similarly, in “Bloom opon the mountain stated” (Fr787), Dickinson foregrounds the viability of unnoticed things like the bloom that will “Come - and disappear - / Whose be her Renown - or fading - Witness is not here -” Drawing on celebrity discourse, such poems point to precarious or easily missed moments and function as obtruding eye-witness testimonies. Dickinson’s speakers are intruding figures, comparable with contemporary journalists or fans, exposing the environment’s secret processes: We spy the Forests and the Hills The Tents to Nature’s Show Mistake the Outside for the in And mention what we saw. 26 Could Commentators on the Sign Of Nature's Caravan Obtain “admission” as a Child Some Wednesday Afternoon. This poem’s incorporation of the language of fame and public acclaim into natural spaces to which it is opposed is also evident in “There is a flower that bees prefer” (Fr642), in which the fragile flower’s “Progress” is associated with “newer fashions,” having a “public,” being “proclaimed,” before finally, as if an unsuccessful show, “cancelled by the Frost -”. What becomes explicit in “Of Bronze and Blaze” (Fr319) is the rewards available for the tactic of publicizing that which is disregarded and overlooked: My Splendors, are Menagerie - But their Competeless Show Will entertain the Centuries When I, am long ago, An Island in dishonored Grass - Whom none but Daisies, know - Posthumous fame, her poem implies, lies in the poet’s ability to entertain “Centuries” of readers with her “Competeless Show” of unseen natural “Spendors,” as well as with her “Menagerie” of otherwise indiscernible “supposed persons.” Dead Celebrities Dickinson scholars have noted that she incorporates the topic of death into almost six hundred poems, viewing it form multiple angles and making it “the most important single factor in shaping the contours of her poetry” (Ford 14). Unsurprisingly, since she associates death with the speechless, silent, secretive, the reportless (Fr422, 1315, 543, 1315, 1654) and 27 describes the dead as going “Further than Guess can gallop / Further than Riddle ride” (Fr1068), this subject has an important role in her strategies of poetic display. Although usual her fascination with death has been connected with nineteenth-century cultural activities, genres, practices, protocols, and beliefs regarding lamentation and bereavement, what has not been fully considered is how her death poems relate to the workings of celebrity culture. For Braudy, “What Byron, Napoleon, Emily Dickinson, or a hundred others felt in their marrow now blithely becomes part of a song called ‘fame’ in which going to heaven and having your name remembered amount to the same thing” (392). In her work, “[Dickinson] manages to present the urge for earthly success in the most appealing possible terms—as a subcategory of the striving for heaven” (Braudy 419-20). Unsurprisingly because so many of Dickinson’s poems present similar ideas, Braudy calls Dickinson “the show-off of eternity for the innumerable ways she devised to humble herself in the world even as she asserted herself to posterity and to heaven” (472). Dickinson’s poems about personal immortality or a relationship with a Christ-like lover or God, for Braudy, are inseparable from other poems that explore the eventual literary recognition of the ignored, or overlooked figure. Fleshing out Braudy’s idea, Blake suggests that Dickinson aligns Christian notions of eternal life with the idea of literary immortality (Walt Whitman 51-2); posthumous reward, in both cases, is through the earthly accomplishments and talents of the “effaceless Few” (Fr1552) who earn Fame’s “deathless syllable” (Fr1227). A typically neglected Dickinson speaker asserts that her “Holiday” will be “That They remember me” and Paradise will be “the fame - / That They - pronounce my name” (Fr389) or argues that if worldly fame “does not stay” and will die, there is the possibility that one can in death gain true fame: “out of sight of estimate / Ascend incessantly” (Fr1507). What has not been discussed, however, is Dickinson’s use of the language of celebrity and fandom to represent the dying and the dead and to map and conceptualize posthumous existence. 28 While in many of her poems on death, she presents the dead rendered into impersonal, inanimate objects (Fr431, Fr658) and Death as an equalizer removing earthly distinctions (Fr836), in others she focuses on death as the “famous sleep” (Fr463A), and puts on display the mysterious, private, and secret moments the dead move “out of story” into what she calls “that strange Fame - / That lonesome Glory / That hath no omen here – but Awe -” (Fr 1398). In “Ambition cannot find him” (Fr115), there is a sense in which the dead have been rhetorically and poetically transformed into renowned figures: “Yesterday, undistinguished! / Eminent Today.” Dying “Reorganizes Estimate” and unsettles “The Admirations - and Contempts - of time” (Fr830). Death offers the “unknown Renown” (Fr1363) and confers fame (Fr1006): “The first We knew of Him was Death - / The second, was Renown - / Except the first had justified /The second had not been -”. Everything associated with the dead takes on new significance (Fr640): the books they read and marked, the “little workmanships / In Crayon - or in wool - / With ‘This was last Her fingers did’ - / Industrious until - /The Thimble weighed too heavy - / The stitches stopped - themselves -.” The dead become the newsworthy: “Read - Sweet - how others strove” (Fr323) as “Brave names of Men - / And Celestial Women - / Passed out - of Record Into - Renown!”. In other poems, such as “It feels a shame to be alive” (Fr524A), it is being alive that is “dishonourable”: “When Men so brave - are dead - / One envies the Distinguished Dust - / Permitted - such a Head.” Entering the “Mystery” of death, the dead become “mystic creature[s]” (Fr315). As Dickinson puts it, “the Dead [are] exhilirants - they are not dissuaders but Lures - Keepers of that great Romance still to us foreclosed - while coveting (we envy) their wisdom we lament their silence” (PF50). In transforming the dying and dead into celebrity-like figures and the living into their admirers, Dickinson’s poems underline a connection between a culture of a celebrity and nineteenth-century cult of the dead, which privatizes and domesticates the mechanisms of 29 fandom. Her culture’s powerful feelings of fascination, obsession, and love towards the dead are expressed through the use of fan-like practices, pilgrimages, communal rituals, and a range of media that attempt to do homage and get close to the diseased. Having poetically made her the dead renowned figures, Dickinson also creates fan-like speakers who scrutinize and archive the activities of the dying, and mourn, eulogize, elegize, commemorate, idolize, and fetishize the dead; her speakers visit locations (homes, graves) associated with the departed, and examine, venerate, treasure their possessions, remains, and keepsakes (see Ford 72-184). In other poems, Dickinson imagines what the hereafter might be like, most pertinently in “I went to heaven - Twas a small town,” which charts the space of the afterlife in a similar way to a travel writer or literary tourist (Fr577): Stiller - than the fields At the full Dew - Beautiful - as Pictures - No Man drew - People - like the Moth - Of Mechlin - frames - Duties - of Gossamer - And Eider - names - Almost - contented - I - could be - 'Mong such unique Here, as in “Who occupies this House” (Fr1069), the afterlife is a place of stillness and its unique occupants are pioneers, settlers “Liking the quiet of the place / Attracted more unto.” If the dead are famous, then it is because their association with the “Majesty of Death” (Fr169). While in some poems Death is personified as “the postponeless Creature” (Fr556), a 30 “supple Suitor” (Fr1470), in “Dust is the only Secret” (Fr166), Death is the ultimate reluctant celebrity whom “You cannot find out all about [him]/ In his native town - Nobody knew his Father - Never was a Boy - Had'nt any playmates Nor “Early history” - Industrious - Laconic - Punctual - sedate - Bolder than a Brigand - Swifter than a Fleet – As if a biographer, celebrity journalist, or fan, the speaker attempts to the get at the personality or private life of death. Death occupies the celebrity’s ghost-like position between the seen and the unseen, visible and invisible, known and yet unknown. Never does Dickinson more intriguingly explore interiority, secrecy, and privacy, though, as in her poems spoken by those who are dying or have died. Complicating the incommunicability, inactivity, and stillness she associates with the dead (Fr238), these poems position Dickinson as the most innovative and inventive user of one of the most powerful literary devices in nineteenth-century poetry. Dickinson’s posthumous speakers have been interpreted as allowing her to explore and test, often skeptically, the central ideas of Christianity (Bolton, Fuss); to challenge a traditional anesthetization or poeticized of the dead woman’s body (Raymond 22-24); and to redress an objectification, reification, and silencing of women and the woman writer in a male-dominated social, political, or literary tradition (Raymond 127). What has not been stressed, however, is the shocking and publicity-grabbing posthumous speakers performatively create the space of their own posthumous fame. What 31 needs to be added to current scholarship on the influence of the spiritualist movement on Dickinson and her poetic appropriation of its language, ideas, and the authoritative and public role of the female medium (Crumbley 107-132) is more recent research on the shared emphases of celebrity culture’s and spiritualism’s on “personality, magnetism, and the real fellowship that can arise from phantom intimacies” and their origins in the decline of traditional religious authority and influence (Blake 112). Drawing attention to the public careers of the Fox sisters, public séance as spectacular and theatrical entertainments, and internationally famous mediums such as Eusapia Palladino, Simone Natale offers compelling evidence of “how mechanisms of celebrity and publicity that were typical of show business were also at play within the spiritualist movement” (83). In this context, her deployment of the vogue of spiritualism and communication between this world and the next, Dickinson, like Edgar Allan Poe, Sarah Helen Whitman, and Sarah Gould, aims to attract, intrigue, and get a reader’s attention (Blake 112-116), Dickinson’s speaking cadavers are the ultimate in spectacle and performance: they are the dead celebrities in her Barnum-like show. In poems such as “I cried at Pity - not at Pain” (Fr394), “’Twas just this time, last year, I died” (Fr344), “Dropped into the Ether Acre” (Fr286), “Because I could not Stop for Death” (Fr479), “I heard a Fly buzz - when I died” (Fr591), and “I died for Beauty” (Fr448), Dickinson’s speakers are not mediums bridging “the Distance / between Ourselves and the Dead,” they are dead. In these poems, Dickinson’s makes public the “solitude of death” (Fr1696), exposing readers to a brief glimpse at the most revered type of interiority, offering a poetic exclusive from the lips of those who have gained “Renown” (Fr1006). Her poetic revelations of experiencing things “By Ear unheard, / Unscrutinized by Eye” (Fr132) tend to divulge as much as they mask, maintaining the death’s unknowability and privacy. They are dramatic feints in which speakers describe a life they have left or are no longer part of, usually from a space connoting timelessness or eternity, or as part of a last glimmer of consciousness; the 32 poems then dramatically peter out into a break-taking silence before the mystery of nothingness or of something else. What this essay has emphasized is Dickinson’s interest in and appropriation of the commercialized and industrialized processes that inextricably connected celebrities and fans, and that also ensured that a level of mystery, ambiguity, and allure remained to maintain and perpetuate such relationships. In line with her secluded life and indeterminate writing style, there is evidence in Dickinson’s writings of her attempts to counteract the types of intrusion and fandom celebrity culture promoted and validated. Her poetic focus on and the language she used to depict the interiority of the living or dead, and concealed natural phenomena, however, show her awareness of the marketability of and her ability to publicize that which evades the public’s attention and scrutiny. Although rejecting a commercial world of mass culture, star entertainers, and celebrities emerging around her, she exhibited and marketed herself and her poems as exceptional, rare, and veiled things coming to light. If anything, her focus on the hidden and the private, in fact, underscores her life and writings orientation towards the idea of eventually coming before the public’s attention. The documents included in the recently published Dickinson in Her Own Time (2016), moreover, offer ample evidence that editors, publishers, other writers, friends, family, neighbors admired Dickinson’s literary abilities and powers, and that she “developed a reputation as a remarkable writer even while maintaining extreme levels of privacy” and “made considerable provision for the survival of her poems and laid the groundwork for their eventual publication” (xvi). What also emerges is that Dickinson’s extreme privacy meant that she was identified in her lifetime as an incomparable and mysterious figure, and that fascination about her character and personality was coterminous with discussion of her literary works. Placed in the context of nineteenth- century categories of fame outlined by Nicholas Dames, Dickinson, in her lifetime, was a notable, a person whose fame was within a “circumscribed sphere” and was “deeply 33 relativistic” and “limited to a particular circle” (28-9). Although certainly seeking to create glorious artworks, akin to George Eliot’s Middlemarch, through which she imagined a “‘mortal” could “put on immortality’” (L389), she also recognized that the notability she achieved in life was a necessary step that invited fame’s pursuit of her. Works Cited: Fr The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Ed. R. W. Franklin. 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. Citation by poem number. L The Letters of Emily Dickinson. Eds. Thomas H. Johnson and Theodora Ward. 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1958. Citation by letter number. Bechtold, Rebeccah. “‘She Sings a Stamp of Originality’: Sentimental Mimicry in Jenny Lind’s American Tour.” ESQ: A Journal of the American Renaissance Volume. 58. 4 (2012). 493-528 Bennett, Paula Bernat. “Emily Dickinson and Her American Women Poet Peers.” The Cambridge Companion to Emily Dickinson. Ed Wendy Martin. Cambridge UP, 2002. 215-235. Bianchi Dickinson, Martha Dickinson. The Life and Letters of Emily Dickinson. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1924. Blake, David Haven. “When Readers Become Fans: Nineteenth-Century American Poetry as a Fan Activity.” American Studies. 52.1 (2012). 99-122. Blake, David Haven. Walt Whitman and the Culture of American Celebrity. Princeton: Princeton UP. 2006. 34 Bolton, Matthew J. “The Conscious Corpse in Browning, Housman, and Dickinson.” Ed. J. Brooks Bouson. Hackensack: Salem Press. 97-112. Braudy, Leo. The Frenzy of Renown: Fame & Its History. New York: Vintage Books, 1997. Brodhead, Richard H. “Veiled Ladies: Toward a History of Antebellum Entertainment.” American Literary History 1.1 (1989). 273-94. Capps, Jack L. Emily Dickinson's Reading, 1836-1886. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1966. Crumbley, Paul. Winds of Will: Emily Dickinson and the Sovereignty of Democratic Thought. Tuscaloosa: U of Alabama P, 2010. Dames, Nicholas. “'Brushes with Fame’: Thackeray and the Work of Celebrity.” Nineteenth Century Literature 56.1 (2001): 23-51. Easley, Alexis. Literary Celebrity, Gender, and Victorian Authorship, 1850-1914. Newark: U of Delaware P, 2011. Eisner, Eric. Nineteenth-Century Poetry and Literary Celebrity. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Finnerty, Páraic. “Transatlantic Women Writers.” Emily Dickinson in Context. Ed. Eliza Richards. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2013. 109-118. Franssen Gaston, and Rick Honings, Eds. Celebrity Authorship and Afterlives in English and American Literature. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Fuss, Diana. Dying Modern: A Meditation on Elegy. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2013. Goldsmith, Jason. “Celebrity and the Spectacle of Nation.” Romanticism and Celebrity Culture, 1750-1850. Ed. Tom Mole. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2009. 21-40. Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. “Letter to a Young Contributor.” Atlantic Monthly 9 (April 1862): 401-11. 35 Jackson, Virginia. Dickinson's Misery: A Theory of Lyric Reading. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2005. Jessee, Jessica L. “‘an orator of feather unto an audience of fuzz’: Performance as Subject and Setting in Emily Dickinson’s Poems.” The Emily Dickinson Journal. 23.2 (2014). 1-23. Leyda, Jay. The Years and Hours of Emily Dickinson. 2 vols. Yale: Yale UP, 1960. Lundin, Roger. Emily Dickinson and the Art of Belief, 2nd edition. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004. Miller, Cristanne. “‘A Letter is a joy of Earth’: Dickinson's Communication with the World.” Legacy, A Journal of Nineteenth-Century American Women Writers 3.1 (1986). 29-39. Mitchell, Domhnall. Emily Dickinson: Monarch of Perception. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 2000. Natale, Simone. Supernatural Entertainments: Victorian Spiritualism and the Rise of Modern Media Culture. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State UP, 2016. Pascoe, Judith. “‘The House Encore Me So’: Emily Dickinson and Jenny Lind.” The Emily Dickinson Journal. 1.1 (1992): 1-18. Raymond, Claire. The Posthumous Voice in Women's Writing from Mary Shelley to Sylvia Plath. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006. Salmon, Richard. “Signs of Intimacy: The Literary Celebrity in the ‘Age of Interviewing.’” Victorian Literature and Culture 25.1 (1997). 159–177. Smith, Robert McClure. The Seductions of Emily Dickinson. Tuscaloosa: Alabama UP, 1996. 36 Weber, Brenda R. Women and Literary Celebrity in the Nineteenth Century: The Transatlantic Production of Fame and Gender. Farnham: Ashgate, 2012. 
work_lz2zcrhic5apxnq66kksfgngfi	----	Outselling the Modernisms of Men: Amy Lowell and the Art of Self-Commodification Outselling the Modernisms of Men: Amy Lowell and the Art of Self-Commodification Melissa Bradshaw Victorian Poetry, Volume 38, Number 1, Spring 2000, pp. 141-169 (Article) Published by West Virginia University Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ This content has been declared free to read by the pubisher during the COVID-19 pandemic. ] https://doi.org/10.1353/vp.2000.0002 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/36017 https://doi.org/10.1353/vp.2000.0002 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/36017 141 Outselling the Modernisms of Men: Amy Lowell and the Art of Self-Commodification MELISSA BRADSHAW The famous 1912 New Poetry Fire kindled by the good and great Harriet Monroe was burning up the prairie, and anything any poet did was tempo- rarily news, at last. New Books of Poetry were popping like Popcorn. Amy Lowell was telling Massachusetts just where to get off. Ezra Pound had broadcasted imagism from London. In just two months [Edgar Lee Master’s] Spoon River [Anthology] was to start in Reedy’s Mirror, and to be read to tatters in Chicago and London before it came out in Book Form. Frost was coming out in England and was about to be lionized in Boston, Sandburg was soon to receive his first prize, that for His poem on Chicago, from Harriet Monroe, and all the poets in America for the first time in thirty years were looking one another in the eye. Vachel Lindsay 1 PERHAPS THE MOST STRIKING FEATURE OF VACHEL LINDSAY’S GLOWINGdescription of the American poetry scene during the first few decades of the twentieth century is the way Ezra Pound, Edgar Lee Masters, Robert Frost, and Amy Lowell peacefully coexist in the same paragraph. There is no sign here of the bifurcation between high art and popular culture that characterizes canonical modernism. Lindsay’s letter takes for granted that these poets appear in the same periodicals and enjoy a collective audience. He also, significantly, describes this movement in terms of commodification and the poets’ interactions with a larger public: new books of poetry are “popping,” apparently both off presses and bookstore shelves; Pound broad- casts a new style of poetry as Poetry’s foreign correspondent; Lowell tells Massachusetts where to get off, presumably in her controversial speeches before local poetry societies and university audiences; Masters’ verse novel is serialized; and so on. Lindsay only references a specific poem when he notes that Sandburg won Poetry’s annual cash prize for his poem “Chicago.” While it would be naive to ignore issues of canonicity and the power exercised by figures like Pound and Eliot and Ford Madox Ford in shaping current understandings of modernist poetics, and while the paper trail left behind in letters by Monroe, Lowell, Pound, Frost, John Gould Fletcher, 142 / VICTORIAN POETRY and Margaret Anderson, among others, certainly deflates Lindsay’s claim that American poets were “looking one another in the eye” (p. 455), I want to indulge in the reconceptualization of modernist poetry hierarchies sug- gested by his narrative. Doing so levels the playing field and allows us to imagine the cultural space of early twentieth-century poetry not as an oli- garchy presided over by alienated expatriates writing against the philistinism of the masses, but as a capitalist marketplace in which poetry is a commod- ity. Recently, literary critics have begun deconstructing canonical modernism’s disavowal of marketing strategies, what Michael Murphy calls “classic market-phobic modernist discourse” which insists on a pure art, unfettered by the demands of a mass audience.2 This critical juncture, when the legend of the modernist artist as impervious to public opinion and oddly untouched by the commercial realities of a capitalist society is fading rap- idly, marks the perfect moment for a reconsideration of Amy Lowell, a woman so utterly unabashed in her approach to poetry as a business as to exclaim, “Publicity first. Poetry will follow.” T. S. Eliot dubbed her the “de- mon saleswoman”; she herself conceded, “I made myself a poet, but the Lord made me a business man.”3 While this commitment to the business end of poetry has been used to distinguish Lowell from “real” poets, and has served to justify her exclusion from anthologies and genealogies of modern poetry, in this essay I argue that the categories of entrepreneur and poet need not be mutually exclusive. I begin by exploring the specific strategies by which Lowell marketed herself and her poetry, drawing on accounts of her infamous public lectures and readings. I then read these public appear- ances and literary proclamations alongside those of her contemporaries in the new poetry movement, Ezra Pound in particular, suggesting that Lowell was not alone in her commodification of modern poetry, only exceptionally skilled. “Poetry is at once my trade and my religion” 4 Lowell’s earliest childhood journals reveal an anxiousness to find a career. In her fifteenth year she vacillates between wanting to be a poet, a photographer, and a competitive coach racer. 5 At the same time, she could not help but be aware of the expectations and limitations placed on her as a woman and as a Lowell, a family whose wealth and social prominence certainly precluded their female members from having careers. Those same “limitations,” however, afforded her the time and space to hone her artistic talents, even if they were never meant to be more than private accomplish- ments. Having decided definitively to become a poet at twenty-eight, Lowell spent the next ten years slowly and methodically schooling herself. By the MELISSA BRADSHAW / 143 time she felt ready to publish her first volume of poetry, A Dome of Many- Coloured Glass (1912), her parents had died, her siblings had left to start their own families, and she had bought out their shares in the family estate. As the head of her own household, she had the economic wherewithal to eschew social strictures and pursue a career as a professional poet. Had she been born male, her biographers suggest, it is possible she might have put the same kind of energy into pursuing medicine or law or business. As Harriet Monroe puts it, “the force which Miss Lowell’s New England an- cestors put into founding and running cotton-mills, or belike into saving souls, she [put] into conquering an art and making it express and serve her” (Monroe, p. 79). Poetry became the consuming passion of Lowell’s life, and when she was not writing it, she was promoting it—both her own and that of those contemporaries whose projects complemented hers, among them Sandburg, Masters, Lindsay, Frost, H.D., D. H. Lawrence, and John Gould Fletcher. In magazine reviews, short articles, two prose volumes of poetry criticism, and most especially on the lecture circuit, Lowell preached the gospel of the new poetry. Her friend, the actress Eleanor Robson Belmont, describes her as “perform[ing] the service of a barker at a circus, as from the lecture platform, in the press, and almost the street corner, she cried aloud, ‘Poetry, Poetry, this way to Poetry.’” 6 From the beginning of her career, Lowell’s poetry readings were the- atrical events. In fact, in her first public reading she arranged to have a musician friend stand behind a curtain and simulate the sound of bombs dropping by beating on a bass drum as she read a series of war poems.7 Coached by her companion, Ada Dwyer Russell, who retired from a suc- cessful career as an actress in order to move in with Lowell, she turned her readings into dramatic performances. According to biographer C. David Heymann, Russell showed her how to incorporate song, chants, shouts, silence, breaks (aposiopesis), stops, starts, and whispers into her act in an effort to push back the boundaries of coherence. Amy learned how to vary her volume, increase her pitch and tempo, shift tone with dramatic suddenness. Ada demonstrated the use of gesture, pace, mime, taught Amy how to cakewalk and how to stamp out the rhythm of her beat.8 Lowell’s narrative poems especially lent themselves to dramatic inter- pretations. “Appuldurcombe Park,” a soliloquy of a woman yearning for love while caring for her invalid husband, titillated audiences with its re- frain, “I am a woman, sick for passion,” and its themes of adultery and abandonment. 9 “After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok” chronicled the rising hysteria of a murderer in time to a waltz tempo: “One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God!” (CPW, p. 57). “Patterns,” Lowell’s most requested poem, ended its narration of an eighteenth-century noblewoman learning of her fiancé’s death in battle with the daring exclamation, “Christ! What 144 / VICTORIAN POETRY are patterns for?” (CPW, p. 77). Her lyrics shocked audiences as well with their sensual imagery and their lavish descriptions of female nudity, as in “A Bather,” (CPW, p. 223) where she describes the advance of a naked woman through a garden: A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once blotted into The filmy and flickering forest . . . Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and your breasts, Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves of ripe fruit (ll. 4-8) Such theatricality, along with the forcefulness of her sweeping pronounce- ments about the state of contemporary poetry, weakened Lowell’s credibil- ity among academics and austere, conservative poetry-types, but it also earned her a devoted, almost fanatical following of fans who mobbed train stations in search of her autograph, often necessitating police escorts, and who packed auditoriums to standing-room-only capacity in order to hear her speak. Poet John Brooks Wheelwright joked that she was “the Biggest Traveling One-Man Show since Buffalo Bill caught the Midnight Flyer to Contact Mark Twain,” while Van Wyck Brooks writes, “she whizzed and she whirred, and she rustled and rumbled, and she glistened and sparkled and blazed and blared” (Heymann, pp. 225, 239). Louis Untermeyer in- sists that she was “not merely a lecturer, she was an event, a national phe- nomenon, a freak of nature, a dynamo on the loose.” 10 In articles written after her death, he often refers to Lowell’s showmanship, claiming this very boisterousness in life as justification for her critical neglect after her death: “When she died her poems died with her because they needed her flamboy- ant personality; they needed all her feminine-masculine vigor.” 11 She her- self once told an admirer, “I enjoy reading poetry to an audience as I should enjoy acting a play to an audience, because it is one side of my genius.”12 Even the preparations for Lowell’s readings were theatrical. S. Foster Damon, her official biogapher, reports that although she was always un- characteristically punctual for these events (arriving with an entourage consisting of her companion, Ada Russell, one or two maids, and as many extra hands as needed to carry her props), audiences inevitably waited while first, the traditional slanting lectern was replaced by a large table, (which usually had to be carried in over the heads of the audience) so that there was no danger of her papers falling to the floor, out of her reach. Then her high-powered reading lamp had to be plugged in (Damon, p. 392). At one reading, with a horrified Frost standing by, the lamp short-circuited the building’s electricity, leaving the two poets to entertain the audience by trading wise-cracks in the dark until the lights came back on (p. 602). During the course of a reading Lowell went through a series of increasingly strong, color-coded pince-nez, which she carried with her in a basket, MELISSA BRADSHAW / 145 explaining to the audience, “These are my eyes!” (p. 392). Throughout these preliminaries, Lowell often joked with her audience, but once she began reading her poems, they often did not know how to respond. She ended their confused silence by admonishing them with what soon became a trademark phrase, “Well?—Clap or hiss, I don’t care which; but do some- thing!” (p. 393). The reading-lamp, the eye-glasses, the infamous cigars she smoked before and after the readings (and which fans clamored to see), as much as the witty repartee and the intensity of her dramatic readings, endowed Lowell’s public performances with an aura of spectacle. She had to have been aware of the extent to which these trademarks shaped the general public’s perception of her. For example, although biographers disagree over whether or not she smoked the huge, black cigars so often attributed to her in newspaper reports, most insisting that she preferred instead small cigarillos, she must have appreciated the value of the mistake in bolstering her repu- tation as a no-nonsense, hard-driving business woman. She also appears to have recognized the leeway that eccentricity could grant her, a woman whose birth dictated that she should have been a society matron, a patron of the arts, not an artist. It was not only the spectacle of her readings that shocked some listen- ers and enthralled others, it was the kind of poetry she read. For although she may have appeared to be following in the footsteps of popular turn-of- the-century poet-entertainers like James Whitcomb Riley, she was, she con- tinually reminded her listeners, different, representative of an entirely new, modern poetry. Prominent in avant-garde journals like The Egoist and The Little Review this poetry aggressively marketed itself as high culture. Conse- quently, Horace Gregory remembers, it was a “poetry few people knew and few people cared to read” (p. 117). Lowell took upon herself the task of teaching audiences to appreciate it. While Pound, as I will discuss in the second half of this essay, “fought the standards of merely ‘popular taste,’” Lowell fought to transform them (Gregory, p. 85). In analyzing the effectiveness of Lowell’s excessive theatricality it is helpful to think of her as the Liberace of modern poetry. Like the pianist, who often reminded his audiences that classical music was his first love, that he had learned to enjoy popular music, Lowell clearly aligned herself with the highbrow, but presented it in such a way as to make it appeal to a broad audience. Using props, theatrics, and a flamboyant personality, she rendered an otherwise inaccessible (or rather, intimidating because marked as high culture) art form accessible. Liberace, after all, had plenty of Chopin, Strauss, and Debussy in his repertoire, but by encasing classical music in mind-boggling spectacle—colored fountains; mink and diamond-covered capes; multiple, rotating stages; the on-stage appearance of antique limou- 146 / VICTORIAN POETRY sines—and interspersing it with popular songs like “Let Me Call You Sweet- heart,” he removed it from its conventional signifiers and repackaged it for his middle-class audience. This is not to say that either Lowell or Liberace necessarily dismantled categories of “high” or “low” in their performances. In fact, their effectiveness hinged on a recognition of their transgressing such boundaries, as Margaret Thompson Drewal explains in Liberace’s case, illuminating the arbitrariness of these categories while “at the same time preserving the distinctions for those who wanted to distinguish.” 13 Describing Lowell’s popularity as a lecturer, Damon writes that even the most skeptical audiences were quickly won over by the accessibility of her readings. They were “converted left and right by the relief of hearing verse they could enjoy without getting into any special and suspect state of mind” (p. 393). He similarly praises her prose writings. In Six French Poets, for example, he contends that she surprised audiences by being “clear, sin- cere, direct, and absolutely intelligible” (p. 321). Familiar with her only through her poems, he explains, they could only suppose that she was a frail, nerve-wracked poetess. Or conversely, seeing that she had written a book of criticism, they expected it to be unapproachably academic and were startled to see that she did not “treat poetry as some Pentecostal descent or Platonic seizure, nor yet as finger-counting and source-tracing. Instead she spoke of it familiarly, as something sane people do” (p. 322). Damon’s ambiguous tone is telling: while ostensibly praising Lowell, he seems to im- ply that she succeeded with a mass audience because she wrote for the lowest common denominator, that high modernist poetry demanded a cer- tain level of concentration and thought which hers did not. That Lowell’s most fervent supporter (some would say apologist) has difficulty reconciling her status as a popular culture icon with his volume’s aims to memorialize her as a major canonical poet, not to mention his obvious struggle with what he seems to think is a paradox—the possibility of being a female poet and a strong, level-headed woman—demonstrates the extent to which Lowell frustrated stereotypes of how a public intellectual, a poet, a female poet, should look, talk, and act. On the flip-side of Lowell’s extravagant stage persona was an earnest professional with an indomitable business acumen. As fond as she was of describing art as an impulse, something to be obeyed (“I do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking point”), her ro- manticization of poetry never precluded turning a profit or negotiating a deal, for herself as well as for others. 14 Although generous in donating to causes she deemed worthy, particularly literary magazines, she resisted be- ing cast as everybody’s benefactress, a role which she perhaps feared would undermine her relevance as a poet, reducing her tentative acceptance in MELISSA BRADSHAW / 147 high modernist circles to a condition of her being generous with her money. Ford Madox Ford’s vicious depiction of a London dinner party given by Lowell as an affair at which “several someones were intensely anxious each to get money out of the monstrously fat, monstrously moneyed, disagree- ably intelligent” host, directing all their after-dinner speeches “at [her] breeches pockets” shows that this fear was not unfounded.15 Whether or not these nameless “someones” were after Lowell’s money, Ford’s 1919 En- glish Review essay suggests that it was at least a rumor and that the issue lurked below the surface of her relationship with other moderns. Certainly financial issues, as much as power, were at the root of her problems with Pound, who gravely underestimated her ambitiousness by writing her off as an easily manipulated rich woman who would fund a journal and allow him to run it. In a letter to Margaret Anderson, editor of The Little Review, he explained his plans for Lowell: “Re/Amy. I DON’T want her. But if she can be made to liquidate, to excoriate, to cash in, on a magazine . . .THEN would I be right glad to see her milked of her money, mashed into moonshine, at mercy of monitors.”16 In turn, Lowell dismissed Pound as financially naive: “Like many people of no incomes, Ezra does not know the difference between thousands and millions, and thinks that any- one who knows where to look for next week’s dinners, is a millionaire” (Damon, p. 237). She was, however, generous with more tactful poets who struck up an alliance with her. As general editor for Some Imagist Poets 1915, 1916, 1917, she meticulously divided the profits between the six con- tributors, John Gould Fletcher, H.D., Richard Aldington, D. H. Lawrence, F. S. Flint, and herself, often including a little more of her own money for H.D., Aldington, and Lawrence, as they struggled through World War I in England (Damon, p. 368). Her generosity with these poets extended be- yond finances as she walked their manuscripts to American publishers, checked on delayed royalty checks, and relentlessly promoted their work during her lectures. Significantly, Lowell demanded that she receive a portion of the prof- its as well. She also insisted that her work as a lecturer be compensated. In the brief ten years of her career as a public speaker her rate quadrupled, gradually increasing from fifty dollars per engagement to two hundred. While she would sometimes speak for less at an educational institution, she rarely spoke for free and expressed deep resentment on those occasions when she did (Damon, pp. 364, 394-396). This insistence on being paid for her time and efforts reflects not only her desire to be taken seriously as a poet, but the depth of her commitment to poetry as a legitimate vocation. It reflects as well her heritage as a Lowell, one of Boston’s oldest and most financially powerful families. At all times she shows an awareness of herself as circu- lating within, and profiting from, a capitalist economy. 148 / VICTORIAN POETRY Lowell’s books were published by Houghton Mifflin and Macmillan and Company, but she retained ownership of them for the first half of her career. Although she wholly fronted the cost of printing, she received eighty- five percent of the profits, ninety percent through her London publishers (Gregory, pp. 107, 123). She relinquished ownership only when it became apparent that her publishers would push the books harder if they owned them. In a letter to her brother, Lawrence, she attributes her publishers’ sudden change of heart to the fact that in the past year she had sold over seven thousand volumes. “I have been through all the burden and heat of day with these books, and backed them when they had no sale, and now I naturally want to reap the benefit” (qtd. in Damon, p. 545). Lowell’s in- volvement in the production of her books extended well beyond turning in her completed manuscripts. She picked the paper, the typeset (enough space between words to not strain the eyes, but print small enough to allow a whole line to be seen at a glance), the format (she commissioned the illustrator Berkeley Updike to model all her books on the first edition of Keats’s Lamia, small and light enough to fit into a coat pocket, differing only in color and label fonts) and all the minute details in between, from insisting that the printers drop stanzas which began at the top of a page a few lines to having the pages pre-cut (Damon, p. 186). Lowell similarly left little to chance when one of her books hit the stores. The publication of each new book was preceded by an elaborate trip to New York where she summoned reviewers, newspaper editors, colum- nists, and publishers to her hotel suite so that she could discuss what she felt needed to be stressed in reviews, as well as explain any nuances of the poetry that she was afraid they might miss. Joyce Kilmer is one such re- viewer who fiercely resented Lowell’s dictatorial approach to reviews, com- plaining to Louis Untermeyer that not only had she tried to run the inter- view by insisting that he question her specifically about the new poetry, but that she had wrangled from him a promise to let her see the manuscript and approve it before submitting it to The New York Times (Untermeyer, p. 106). Lowell once justified this type of blatant self-promotion to Untermeyer, ex- plaining that she had to be her “own impresario. There’s no point in hav- ing a trumpet—or any brass—if you don’t blow it” (qtd. in Heymann, p. 240). Chiding Pound on his tactlessness, she told him, “I consider you an uncommonly fine poet who ought to have an impresario, for your knowl- edge of how to ‘get yourself over,’ as we say in this little country, is nil” (qtd. in Damon, p. 600). As such comments reveal, Lowell strategically constructed her public image. Above all, she sensed that literary success, measured in terms of sales and public recognition, had very little to do with the inherent merit of a work. In a letter to John Gould Fletcher she warns him that being MELISSA BRADSHAW / 149 expatriate is a mistake with regard to his popularity in America: You went away just at the moment when your reputation was being made; if you do not come back soon you will lose what you have gained . . . . It is the excellence of the work which will keep you in a permanent place, if you once gain it by your own efforts other- wise; but if you wait for the excellence of the work alone to put you where you want to be, it will be a posthumous thing. (Damon, p. 372) Reputations, then, are based on the cumulative effect of repeated exposure and the ability to draw return audiences. However, Lowell is just as ada- mant in encouraging artists to carefully monitor what they are remembered for. Though much of the drama from her poetry comes from themes of adultery and sexual longing, she scolds Aldington for writing poetry that is too sexually explicit, warning him that in doing so he will alienate the aver- age reader. She points to the example of D.H. Lawrence, whose novel The Rainbow could not find a publisher because it was considered obscene (Damon, p. 449). Anticipating Aldington’s response as “Oh Lord, Puritan New England!” Lowell insists she is not a prude. She sanctimoniously adds that, in fact, only she and a few other very discerning readers actually un- derstand what Lawrence is trying to do, but that without an appreciative popular audience, he cannot succeed. To Lawrence she writes, I think you could top them all if you would be a little more reticent on this one subject. You need not change your attitude a particle, you can simply use an India rubber in certain places, and then you can come into your own as it ought to be. . . . When one is surrounded by prejudice and blindness, it seems to me that the only thing to do is to get over in spite of it and not constantly run foul of these same prejudices which, after all, hurts oneself and the spreading of one’s work, and does not do a thing to right the prejudice. (Damon, p. 483) This is a pivotal quote in readings which posit Lowell as, above all, a lesbian poet who imbues her love lyrics with coded sexual allusions. 17 Reading this passage as an admission of her own commitment to sublimating sexual themes in her work, and using it to authorize sexual decodings of her poetry, has been crucial in recuperating Lowell’s writings. At the same time, I believe it is important not to take for granted the extent to which this advice sums up Lowell’s marketing imperatives: she has things to say and she will say them, but she will not do so at the expense of her career. This places her on the opposite end of the spectrum from Pound, Lawrence, and most espe- cially, James Joyce, writers who made much of their refusal to compromise the integrity of their work in order to gain public acceptance. But as I will discuss more fully later, their refusal is as much of a marketing strategy as Lowell’s writing with a popular audience in mind. Nor should it be forgot- ten that in the case of Joyce, the loss in finances and reputation fell not on him as much as on his female patrons: Sylvia Beach, Harriet Weaver, Mar- garet Anderson, and Jane Heap. In this light, Lowell’s reticence appears 150 / VICTORIAN POETRY less a matter of prudishness, or lack of integrity, than as a strategy of self- preservation, a recognition that there is no safe space outside of the literary marketplace, that believing in such a place is a fantasy contingent on some- one else doing the work of finding publishers, fronting costs, directing ad- vertisements, and shielding artists from controversies provoked by their work. “A modern of the moderns” 18 Michael Levenson observes that modernist intellectuals routinely is- sued manifestos, each one a definitive, final word, rather than offering mal- leable opinions. “Beliefs changed markedly, only the tone of conviction was unchanged. . . . The critical pronouncements were not the insights of Olympian minds, but more often the hasty formulae of polemicists.” 19 A Genealogy of Modernism, Levenson’s detailed, manifesto-by-manifesto analy- sis of the rhetoric of modernist poetic theory, notes that the most stable feature of any version of modernism is that it reifies itself by repudiating an immediate past and erasing its origins. In broadest terms, modernist poets position themselves against their contemporaries, in particular the Georgian poets, by accusing them of fol- lowing in the footsteps of such nineteenth-century giants as James Russell Lowell, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and John Greenleaf Whittier and essentially reiterating themes and styles of British poetry. Amy Lowell de- scribes these earlier poets as “English provincial poets, in the sense that America was still a literary province of the mother country.” By the begin- ning of the twentieth century, writes Lowell, American “poets were largely phonographs to greater English poets dead and gone.”20 Decrying most of contemporary poetry as overly sentimental and morally didactic, Lowell maintains that in modern poetry, “because the artist speaks no moral, it does not mean that none exists. . . . The world of ‘The New Poetry’ is like the world of reality: the morals are there, but it is for us to pronounce them” (qtd. in Damon, p. 339). By this she means that any moral lesson or signifi- cance beyond aesthetics must be a product of the reader’s interaction with the poem. Pound similarly insists that “beauty should never be presented ex- plained . . . . Always the desire to know and understand more deeply must pre- cede any reception of beauty. . . . woe to that artist whose work wears its ‘heart on its sleeve.’”21 The modern poet, Lowell writes, has “a passionate desire for truth, and a dispassionate attitude toward whatever his search for truth may bring him. He records; he does not moralize. He holds no brief for or against, he merely portrays” (qtd. in Damon, p. 339). The imperative toward objectivity, toward impartiality, emerges as the primary litmus test of a “modern” poet and a particularly pliant one at that, as a work may even include the objective presentation of the artist’s subjectivity. Pound at- tempts to palliate this contradiction by describing the modern artist as MELISSA BRADSHAW / 151 “scientific in that he presents the image of his desire, of his hate, of his indifference as precisely that, as precisely the image of his own desire, hate or indifference.” 22 Levenson paraphrases T. E. Hulme’s characterization of the new po- etry as a “modern retreat from ‘epic subjects,’ ‘heroic action,’ ‘big things’” and the valorization of personal expression, a poetic strategy “founded on a radical literary individualism” (p. 46). One of the most consistent asser- tions of this individuality is poets’ championing of “everyday speech.” In fact, the first principle of the 1915 Imagist credo calls on poets to not only “use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word” (Tendencies, p. 239). Lecturing in the United States in 1935, Gertrude Stein explains that be- cause “after hundreds of years had gone by and thousand of poems had been written, [the poet] could call on . . . words and find that they were just wornout literary words,” the contemporary poet “has to work in the excitingness of pure being; he has to get back that intensity into the lan- guage. . . . You have to put some strangeness, something unexpected, into the structure of the sentence in order to bring back vitality.”23 Although Eliot’s arrival on the poetry scene in 1914 and his alliance with Pound would mark a vehement revalorization of classical forms, in the early stages of the poetic renaissance modern poets championed free verse and a movement away from rhyme and set meters. As Pound remembers in The Pisan Cantos, “To break the pentameter, that was the first heave.”24 In language that demonstrated poetry’s alliance with abstractionism in sculp- ture and painting, this change in poetic form was conceptualized in terms of having the courage to break away from rhyme, allowing thoughts to de- velop into new and invigorating shapes. Shifting subject matter to reflect life in the twentieth century, focusing on images rather than establishing character or narrative, and experiments with poetic forms became codified in memorable catch phrases like Pound’s “make it new” and William Carlos Williams’ “no ideas but in things.” In answer to the question “What is the new poetry? and wherein does it differ from the old?” Harriet Monroe and her coeditor in the 1917 New Poetry Anthology, Alice Corbin Henderson, offer similar features to those mentioned above: form, diction (“the truly modern poet rejects the so- called ‘poetic’ shifts of language—the deems, ’neaths, forsooths, etc.”) and subject matter. But ultimately, they claim, the difference lies far deeper than these details as “the new poetry strives for a concrete and immediate realization of life.” 25 The new poetry “has set before itself an ideal of abso- lute simplicity and sincerity—an ideal which implies an individual, unstereotyped diction; and an individual, unstereotyped rhythm. . . . It looks out more eagerly than in; it becomes objective” (p. xxxvi). 152 / VICTORIAN POETRY Certainly, staking claims to one’s identity by setting oneself up as revo- lutionary, and creating value for one’s own work by insisting on its absolute originality and integrity in the face of innumerable lesser, derivative artists, is an old story. In the 1802 Preface to the Lyrical Ballads Wordsworth cloy- ingly worries that his poems, “so materially different from those upon which general approbation is at present bestowed,” will not meet the expectations of the average reader, accustomed to “the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers.”26 The attempt to capture the nuances of every- day life in common language again echoes Wordsworth in his commitment “to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or de- scribe them, throughout, as far as possible, in a selection of language really used by men” (p. 115). Lowell and Pound’s sanctimonious repudiation of moral didacticism in poetry is also a common cry of romantic poets, most famously as the premise of Keats’ “Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason.”27 These similarities are not lost on at least one disgusted letter-writer to the New York Nation who accuses the new poetry of being “the morbid hypertrophy of romanticism.”28 Nor are they entirely lost on the poets mak- ing these claims. The 1915 Imagist credo, for example, states: “These prin- ciples are not new; they have fallen into desuetude” (Tendencies, p. 240). In public lectures Lowell often traced a lineage for Imagism, citing Col- eridge, Poe, Whitman, and Dickinson not merely as ancestors of the new poetry, but in some cases, practitioners (Damon, p. 360). She once went so far as to claim Theocritus as a progenitor (p. 442). Monroe and Henderson also take great pains to convince readers that the new poetry differs only from its immediate predecessors, reminding them that now-canonical po- ets like Burns, Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley at first met with critical con- tempt. They even push the historical model as far as Chaucer and Langland in order to convince readers that poetry “is older than rhyme, older than iambic measure, older than all the metrical patterns which now seem so much a part of it” (p. xxxviii). Predictably, the new poetry’s claims of raw artistic integrity in the face of academic sloth and decay incited controversy. And according to Pound, at least, this was the desired response: “We artists who have been so long the despised are about to take over control. . . . And the public will do well to resent these ‘new’ kinds of art” (qtd. in Levenson, p. 76). Sending Harriet Monroe a batch of poems in 1913 for her magazine, Poetry, he writes, “I give you your chance to be modern, your chance . . . to produce as many green bilious attacks throughout the length and breadth of the USA as there are fungoid members of the American Academy” (qtd. in Perkins, p. 299). Tellingly, Pound presents this as a gift, anticipating that the ensuing MELISSA BRADSHAW / 153 controversy over his polemical poems will not only incite members of the “fungoid” academy to fight back, but will simultaneously create, radicalize, and/or panic a readership that previously may not even have been inter- ested in poetry. The hope is that people will not only read poetry, but develop strong opinions about it. Ford Madox Ford remembers this as ex- actly what happened: “In 1914, Les Jeunes had succeeded in interesting a usually unmoved but very large section of the public—and had forced that public to take an interest not in the stuff but the methods of an Art” (qtd. in Levenson, p. 137). In her autobiography, A Poet’s Life, Monroe quotes an angry letter writer who begs readers to “throw aside the products of distorted imaginations, even if they are fascinatingly novel and full of color and noise” (p. 302). She quotes this particular letter in order to point out the irony of the author’s attack. Is she, Monroe’s inclusion of the letter implies, really so corrupt in wanting to bring audiences “fascinatingly novel” poems “full of color and noise”? Amy Lowell’s public lectures and readings, which inevitably ended with conservatives leaping to their feet, accusing her of attempting to de- stroy poetry, are the extreme version of how poets courted, manipulated, and capitalized on controversy. In a letter to Fletcher she describes the atmosphere of her lectures as “a gladiator fight and wild beast show” (qtd. in Gould, p. 188). Commenting on this phenomenon, Louis Untermeyer mused, “It does not seem possible that this set of honest and almost platitu- dinous principles (the Imagist credo) could have evoked the storm of argu- ment, fury and downright vilification that broke after the indomitable Miss Lowell began to champion them.”29 Lowell’s effect seems less surprising, however, given the rhetoric of her lectures, the sharpness of her responses to rebuttals, and the context in which she delivered them. For example, her first “public row,” as Damon calls it, took place at the 1915 meeting of the Poetry Society of America, a conservative group of poets and poetry readers. Eager to plug the first installment of Some Imagist Poets, Lowell talked the society’s secretary, Jessie Rittenhouse, into letting her have five minutes at the end of the already full program. Once there, Lowell used her allotted five minutes to read several Imagist poems, includ- ing “Bath,” a bather’s meditation on sunlight reflected in bath water which shocked and scandalized the audience who could not separate the nude speaker in the poem from Lowell. In addition, she outlined the principles of Imagism. Rittenhouse reports that she did this in a manner that “bristled with so much provocative dicta that the right wing was stirred to action and primed for reply” (qtd. in Damon, p. 292). Or as Damon puts it, “the little Chams who felt their prestiges endangered rose and thundered against this power that shocked and surprised them”(p. 293). Heymann claims that audience members were so enraged that they charged the podium 154 / VICTORIAN POETRY after Lowell finished speaking (p. 212). That Lowell’s impromptu speech, the specifics of which have not sur- vived, was deliberately polemical is corroborated by accounts that empha- size the lack of controversy in the preceding speeches, even though they were about Masters’ Spoon River Anthology, whose subject matter (govern- ment corruption, adultery, religious hypocrisy) and free verse rhythms made it as potentially controversial as Imagism. Says Damon, “So skillfully did these two men [who preceded Lowell] speak, that . . . the more conserva- tive were hardly made aware that it was free in form and content” (p. 292). Lowell, on the other hand, made freedom of form and content, which she believed most defined the new poetry and distinguished it from the rest of contemporary verse, the primary focus of her brief comments. As a result, “the conservatives . . . rose in clamorous unity to attack Imagism, and Amy Lowell’s poetry in particular, far beyond the allotted five minutes” (Damon, p. 293). On another occasion, invited to speak before the MacDowell Club in New York, on the assigned topic “Poetry and Polemics,” Lowell bypassed subtlety and began her speech by addressing the conflict directly, thus put- ting the audience on the defensive before she even began her lecture: I realized that under the guise of poetry you were all asked here to witness a cockfight, with the odds running high against the imported bird. And yet how you have worked to make these odds secure! Here are nine poets lined up against the bottom of your postal- card, of which one, possibly two, may fight on my side. That leaves seven. Seven lusty natives to down one alien woman. Thank you for the compliment. (Damon, p. 338) Being compared in rapid succession to first cockfight enthusiasts and then natives would have been unspeakably offensive to Lowell’s 1916 audience (The racial and class assumptions of her metaphors are obviously still dis- turbing today, though for different reasons.) With the cockfight metaphor Lowell undermines the class pretensions of an audience gathered to hear a poetry lecture. After all, the kind of crowd that goes to a cock fight would not be seen as respectable as, say, an audience at a tennis match, a game which might have served her purpose just as well. She also questions their motives. This is not about advancing the cause of poetry, it is about turn- ing bloodshed into sport. She strips away any the possibility of rationalizing the ensuing conflict as enriching either the audience or the participants, leaving them stronger after having learned from each other: a cockfight lasts until one of the cocks dies. With her next breath she similarly de- grades the other poets on the program. They too fall under the heading “uncivilized” as her words transform them into not only natives, but “lusty natives.” They are barbaric, driven by primal passions; she (and here she plays a trump card), the Lowell, is genteel, cultivated, intellectual. If they are natives, then she is the colonizer and ultimately she will subdue their MELISSA BRADSHAW / 155 savageness and teach them her ways. In her last “public row,” at the Contemporary Club of Philadelphia’s 1920 celebration of the Whitman Centenary, Lowell stood before club members, knowing they were fiercely proud of Whitman having belonged to their organization, and gave a lecture on how little an influence he ex- erted on contemporary poetry (Damon, p. 515). Insisting that Whitman “was chiefly propagandist and only afterwards poet,” Lowell dwelt at length on his success in legitimating the American experience as a proper object of poetry.30 But at the same time she took great pains to distance his work from her own, stopping just short of calling him an idiot savant, insisting that his “mind was of too harsh and primitive a texture to grasp fully” his own poetic innovations (p. 65): I believe that Walt Whitman fell into his own peculiar form through ignorance, and not, as is commonly supposed, through a high sense of fitness; in this point he is at complete issue with the moderns who are supposed to derive from him, since they are perfectly conscious artists writing in a medium not less carefully ordered because it is based upon cadence and not upon metre. (p. 62) As usual, Lowell’s comments led to intense debating, with the other speak- ers abandoning their prepared speeches in order to denounce Lowell and the new poetry—one even called her a “literary hand-grenade thrower.” “And then I slammed back good and plenty,” Lowell later told Carl Sandburg (Damon, p. 517). The next day the story made Philadelphia papers with headlines reporting “Tears Punctuate Stormy Spots in Vers Libre Debate” and articles depicting Lowell sobbing on stage, some even swearing she had a nervous breakdown. Lowell was upset by these claims, and spent the next afternoon trying to refute them (“Do I look as if I were a weeping woman?” she asked the reporters whom she summoned to her hotel room). But the immediate effect of the speech, controversy, and newspaper coverage dem- onstrates how the furor surrounding Lowell’s lectures worked to her advan- tage: her books quickly sold out in Philadelphia, with booksellers shipping books in from New York to meet customers’ demands (Damon, pp. 518- 519). Amy Lowell’s attitude towards such public rows is complicated. By all appearances she seems to have invited conflict and profited from the ensuing publicity. But after the first few years of being a “storm centre,” as she called herself, Lowell began accepting speaking invitations only if there were to be no question and answer periods afterwards. As she wrote H.D. after the Whitman lecture, “I had especially stipulated that there should be no discussion. I think that the time for discussing the new poetry has gone by. I am willing to talk about it, even explain it, anything, but I will not stand up to be badgered even with the result, as always happens, of my beating my opponents” (qtd. in Damon, p. 515). Striking back at 156 / VICTORIAN POETRY journalists who, Damon reports, “found the New Poetry excellent material for . . . wise-cracks” and Lowell “particularly good copy,” she ended an interview in the New York Evening Post by threatening, “If I had my way, there would be no mention of literature at all in the American newspapers” (Damon, p. 523). Journalists, of course, called her on this stance, claiming her anti-publicity tirade was merely another strategy for publicity. Com- ments like this suggest that although Lowell initially used public debates and controversy generated in newspaper gossip columns to bring attention to her cause, as she became more secure in her role as a public lecturer and a best-selling poet she increasingly demanded the right to issue polemicisms without being contradicted. A memorial tribute to Lowell in The Literary Digest describes her power in the “principality of modern poetry” as “almost autocratic,” a characterization with which Lowell apparently would have agreed.31 It is not surprising, then, that some of her poems echo the polemicism of her public persona. In “The Dinner Party” (Men, Women and Ghosts, 1916), for example, she caricatures conservative academics’ resistance to the new poetry. With a stanza for each stage of the evening, she, as repre- sentative of the new poetry, faces the contempt and disdain of the acad- emy, which she characterizes as “ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts,” “mildly protesting against my coarseness / In being alive” (ll. 39, 33-34). During “Fish” the staid, snobbish champions of tradition bait the outsider with feigned interest in her project: “So. . . .” they said, With their wine-glasses delicately poised, Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. “So . . . .” they said again, Amused and insolent. (ll. 1-5) With “Game” the attack begins as a “gentleman with grey-and-black whis- kers / Sneer[s] languidly over his quail,” his cool, impenetrable, demeanor driving the narrator into an emotional outburst: Then my heart flew up and laboured, And I burst from my own holding And hurled myself forward. With straight blows I beat upon him, Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him. But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, And I recoiled upon myself, Panting. (ll. 12-19) By the time dinner is over and they have retired to “The Drawing Room,” the narrator has retreated into herself, nursing her wounds. Here the nar- rative switches to the third person: MELISSA BRADSHAW / 157 In a dress all softness and half-tones, Indolent and half-reclined, She lay upon a couch, With the firelight reflected in her jewels. But her eyes had no reflection, They swam in a grey smoke, The smoke of smoldering ashes, The smoke of her cindered heart. (ll. 20-27) Lowell uses this sudden switch to the third person in order to show that this defeated woman whose “eyes had no reflection” is not her, but is instead a projection of how her antagonizers want her to be: passive, soft, and vacu- ous. They want her to be “indolent,” causing no commotion, reverent to- wards tradition, satisfied with pretty words and phrases, content to sip “black- ness out of beautiful china” (l. 32). They want to believe that they have extinguished her passion, reducing her to “smoldering ashes” and a “cindered heart” (ll. 26-27). But as the narrative slips back into the first person Lowell insists that her hosts, with “dead men’s souls / . . . pinned . . .on their breasts for ornament,” are intellectually dead, so certain of themselves and their opinions that they cannot conceive of something new. She, on the other hand, as she reminds herself by running her palms along the sharp metal of the railing as she leaves the house, “again and again / Until they were bruised,” is alive, “for only living flesh can suffer” (ll. 52-53, 56). But in Lowell’s narrative of modern poetry, paralyzing smugness and intellectual stasis are not solely the domain of conservative academics. Her poem “Astigmatism,” dedicated “To Ezra Pound with Much Friendship and Admiration and Some Differences of Opinion” depicts her rival as so fix- ated on his narrow definition of art as to be unable to see the beauty around him (CPW, p. 34). The poem tells the story of a poet who goes out walking, with his “walking-stick / Of fine and polished ebony,” looking for roses. Although he never finds exactly what he is looking for, the poet encounters several other flowers on his journey: “daisies, / Open-mouthed, wonder- ing,” “Dahlias ripened against a wall, / Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, / And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour / With the red and gold of its blossoms” (ll. 23-24,42-45). The poet brutally destroys each flower with his walking stick because “They are useless. They are not Roses” (l. 29). Each stanza ends with the refrain “Peace be with you Brother,” and a swipe at Pound as the narrator simultaneously claims kinship with the poet and distances herself from his actions, as in stanza three where she warns him, “Peace be with you Brother. / But behind you is destruction, and waste places” (l. 55). Later that night, the reflection of candlelight in the cane’s ivory head momentarily gives the impression of life, “But these things are dead, / Only the candle-light made them seem to move”(ll. 63-64). As the poet laments his luckless day (“‘It is a pity there were no roses’”), the 158 / VICTORIAN POETRY poem ends with a remonstrance: “Peace be with you Brother. / You have chosen your part” (l. 66). Pound’s infamous cane, remembered vividly in H.D.’s Asphodel, HERmione, and End to Torment, of course symbolizes the damning power of Pound’s opinion: For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. His wealth had gone to enrich it, His experiences to pattern it, His labour to fashion and burnish it. To him it was perfect, A work of art and a weapon, A delight and a defence. (ll. 12-18) As the inclusion of this poem in Lowell’s 1917 Sword Blades and Poppy Seed demonstrates, modern poets also manipulated, courted, and exploited controversy within the ranks of “high” culture, compelled not only to dis- tinguish themselves from their more obvious conservative nemeses, but from each other as well. As the claim of modernity was itself a marketing strat- egy, poets had to continually redefine what it meant to be modern in order to maximize its effectiveness, refining and revisioning in ever more exclu- sive and particular terms. In this way their current projects and interests become quintessentially “modern.” And in order to be truly modern, the edge against which they sharpened their blades ultimately had to be other moderns. I want to consider this poem’s twofold function as, on the one hand, it very publicly disavows any sympathies with an increasingly elitist Pound, while on the other, it memorializes (cashes in on?) their brief alliance.32 In this way Lowell doubles her odds of maintaining cultural currency. Pound’s zealous pronouncements and seemingly ineffable sense of what is “modern” make him a feared and respected leader of the new poetry movement. By this poem’s publication in September 1914 he had earned a reputation as a poetic talent scout, ushering in the newest, most progressive trends, most visibly through his key editorial roles in prominent contemporary literary journals: Poetry, The Little Review, Blast, and The New Freewoman, which he wrested away from Dora Marsden and turned into The Egoist. By asserting her connection to such a dominant cultural figure—the epitome of modern in the general public’s eyes—and denigrating his artistic judgment as a fatal flaw that keeps him from appreciating all but the most narrow definition of art, Lowell sets herself up as a more competent, because wiser, more careful, judge. She becomes more modern than the most modern. As we will see, this goes both ways: Lowell and Pound’s infamous clash of wills provides each of them with an easily-identifiable Other against whom they define themselves. But what especially interests me about their “war” is the way it echoes the cultural conflict between high art and mass MELISSA BRADSHAW / 159 culture, particularly as the terms of this conflict are saturated with gender stereotypes. As Andreas Huyssen explains in After the Great Divide, during the nineteenth century “a specific traditional male image of woman served as a receptacle for all kinds of projections, displaced fears, and anxieties (both personal and political), which were brought about by modernization,” as well as social conflicts, such as the rise of the new woman, and move- ments for reform among the working classes.33 Mass culture became more and more closely associated with passivity, subjectivity, and emotion, rep- resenting vague, nebulous forces encroaching upon male ascendancy and privilege. High art, then, became the cherished refuge of objectivity, viril- ity, and intellect. Pound’s infuriated reaction to Lowell’s proposal that in future Imagiste34 anthologies, after the original, Des Imagistes, each poet receive equal space, and that they collectively choose the poems to be included suggests just this sort of anxiety as he insists that he wants “the name ‘Imagisme’ to retain some sort of meaning. It stands, or I should like it to stand for hard light, clear edges, I cannot trust any democratized committee to maintain that standard.”35 Just a year earlier, however, in “The Serious Artist,” Pound’s position is considerably less emphatic. In this essay he carefully mediates between “hardness” and “softness,” calling for poetry that evokes images in an indeterminate way—“you can be wholly precise in presenting a vague- ness”—producing an “impression as hard and definite as a tin-tack.”36 That Pound’s unequivocal valorization of hardness coincided with his anger at females challenging his authority— Lowell, Monroe, and Marsden in par- ticular (“damd female tea parties who . . . committeeize themselves”)—is over-determined, to say the least.37 Declaring that the new artist “must live by craft and violence. . . . He has dabbled in democracy and he is now done with that folly,” he next turned to Vorticism (Levenson, p. 75). As Shari Benstock observes, Pound’s new poetic theory “preserved that which was masculine about Imagism (its hard, clear, concrete, and unsentimental treatment of the subject).” 38 It also, most importantly, repositioned him as the authority on what it means to be hard and unsentimental, on what qualifies as a “clear edge” in a poem. Pound must rally against what he calls a “democratic beer garden” approach to art because it suggests that the value of art is subjective and undermines the value of authoritarian pro- nouncements such as good/bad, authentic/inauthentic, hard/soft (qtd. in Levenson, p. 147). It is not enough that he disassociate himself from Imagism: he must denigrate it by feminizing it as “Amygism,” that is to say, “emotional slither,” “mushy technique,” and “general floppiness” (pp. 152- 155). It is “the fluid, fruity, facile stuff we most wanted to avoid,” he rages in a letter to Aldington. 39 Pound endows Lowell, her poetry, and that of her “followers” with qualities associated with mass culture: “monolithic, 160 / VICTORIAN POETRY engulfing, totalitarian, and on the side of regression and the feminine” (Huyssen, p. 58).40 Pound’s dislike of Lowell, then, runs far deeper than a personality conflict; it smacks of what Huyssen calls the “anxiety of contamination” in an almost absurdly literal sense (p. vii). Notice the words he chooses to bash Amygism. He describes it as floppy, mushy, soft, without clear lines. Certainly Pound tosses around phrases like this before meeting Lowell, and certainly the misogyny they suggest runs far deeper than their encounters, but when he continues to use these words (which more completely describe Lowell’s five foot, two-hundred pound body, than say, H.D’s) in the con- text of his specific dislike of Lowell, they take on a more sinister cast. Their use suggests that Pound’s antagonism, his anxieties of being overwhelmed and supplanted by Lowell’s money, her American publishing connections, or even by the sheer force of her personality, are informed as well by a fear and loathing of her on the most basic and primary of levels: a fear of her in her very embodiment. Perhaps all women threaten Pound, but with a body like the Venus of Willendorf, Lowell is the ur-woman: excessively fleshy, excessively female. Just as Pound’s beloved Odysseus (whom he compares himself to in Hugh Selwyn Mauberly and “Canto I”)39 must battle female forces which threaten to keep him from his destiny—Calypso, Circe, the Sirens—so must Pound escape the “damd female tea-parties” which threaten his mission to champion a poetry “as much like granite as it could possibly be” by diluting it and rendering it soft (Levenson, p. 155). Lowell’s shameless self-promotion and her willingness to market her- self to a commercial audience threaten to contaminate his project, since Pound’s self-commodification strategy hinges on erasing any evidence of self-commodification, on naturalizing his opinions as nondebatable artistic truths. He has an investment in casting himself as the “artist-philosopher- hero, the suffering loner who stands in irreconcilable opposition to modern democracy and its inauthentic culture” (Huyssen, p. 51). This is not to say that Pound claimed to be above propagandizing, however. In a letter to William Carlos Williams he talks about having to “work hard . . . to escape, not propagande, but getting centered in propagande” (qtd in Materer, p. 27). Trying to talk Lowell out of using the term Imagisme for her anthol- ogy, he admits that the term’s chief value is as a marketing tool, and that her appropriation of it “would deprive [him] of [his] machinery for gather- ing stray good poems and presenting them to the public in more or less permanent form” (qtd in Levenson, p. 147). He certainly appreciated Lowell’s marketing abilities when they worked in his favor. She “would advertise us like HELL. It is her talent,” he wrote Margaret Anderson in 1917 (LRL, p. 141). But Pound’s methods are at odds with Lowell’s: his cultural indispensability is contingent on continually producing new and MELISSA BRADSHAW / 161 improved criteria for artistic excellence and marketing himself as the only person who can understand/interpret/disseminate them. Once these crite- ria have gained widespread acceptance, however, they become obsolete. This method builds up an audience that thrives on defining itself against the vulgar tastes of the masses, that sees itself as select and elite, a demo- graphic which responds approvingly to vintage Pound sound bites like “There is no misanthropy in a thorough contempt for the mob. There is no respect for mankind save in respect for detached individuals.”42 In fact, shortly after accepting the position as foreign editor for The Little Review he changes the masthead to read “Making No Compromise with the Public Taste” (Materer, p. 23). In order to maintain his status as a true avant-garde he must court this readership and vehemently disavow any connection to “Amy- just-selling-the-goods.”43 Amygism, therefore, serves as a catch-all term for everything Pound defines himself against; it represents the actualization of his worst night- mare, that “of being devoured by mass culture through co -option, commodification, and the “wrong” kind of success” (Huyssen, p. 53). But if Lowell represents Pound’s worst nightmare, she is also his dream-come- true in that she serves as the perfect foil. Canonically, she helps crystallize his position as the ultimate high modernist. According to this formula, what she considers successes become evidence of her failure: if she fills auditoriums to standing-room only capacity, if her volumes sell out within days of publication, this serves as evidence either of her lowering her stan- dards to conform to the demands of popular culture, or of popular culture’s lack of discernment. Conversely, Lowell has an investment in Pound as a forbidding, men- acing arbiter of high culture. Next to him, she comes off as a reasonable, fair, benevolent leader in the new poetry movement. While Pound and Eliot’s writings become more and more elitist with their return to classical meters and allusions, aimed at an educated, multi-lingual audience, Lowell carves a niche for herself as introducing poetry to “people with a spark of poetry in them, be they blacksmiths or millionaires” (qtd. in Damon, p. 486). Lowell criticizes Harriet Weaver and Margaret Anderson for allow- ing Pound to control their magazines, The Egoist and The Review respec- tively, and refuses to publish in them as long as he and Wyndham Lewis are in heavy rotation and their elitist attitudes condoned (Damon, p. 423). As she explained to Richard Aldington, chastising him for writing poetry she believed would alienate the average reader, “Great poetry is and must be universal, above the customs and cliques of the initiated” (qtd in Damon, p. 449). Horace Gregory, in many ways one of Lowell’s less-sympathetic biog- raphers, attempts to position Lowell as a minor poet by characterizing her 162 / VICTORIAN POETRY poetry and prose as aimed at women’s clubs (p. 144). But to a certain extent, I believe, this is precisely the point: this is Lowell’s primary market- ing strategy and, if we cast off Gregory’s narrow canonical value system, her greatest triumph. That Lowell, a cigar-smoking, opinionated, outspoken, publicity-seeking woman who eschews the dictates of her upper-class birth by speaking in public, reading poems about female nudity, and living openly with another woman (an actress no less), finds an audience among early twentieth-century ladies clubs is no minor feat. Lowell’s initial success with this demographic came from her appro- priation of Imagism. Pound introduced Imagisme gradually, in bits and pieces—the first edition of Poetry printed two “Imagiste” poems by Pound, the next featured one by Richard Aldington, two months later a batch of poems signed H.D. Imagiste appeared. Finally in March 1913 the magazine printed two seminal articles: Pound’s “A Few Don’ts by an Imagiste” and F. S. Flint’s “Imagisme.” In this way Pound slowly built suspense, teasing read- ers into wanting to know more about these mysterious poets. Flint’s article, in addition to stating the basic premises of Imagisme—“direct treatment of the ‘thing’. . . .To use absolutely no word that did not contribute to the presentation,” to use an organic rhythm, not that of a “metronome”—hinted at an undisclosed “Doctrine of the Image” “which they had not committed to writing; they said that it did not concern the public, and would provoke useless discussion.”44 Timothy Materer points out that cloaking Imagism in mystery, insinuating that there was more, if only readers were prepared to accept it, was merely a rather obvious, but successful, marketing strategy (p. 18). In fact, Lowell journeyed all the way to England in 1913 hoping to learn the secrets of this doctrine, which probably never existed beyond its name. When Lowell brought the movement back to America, however, she switched gears. If the original Imagists garnered attention by being enig- matic, she would employ precisely the opposite strategy and stress the com- mon sense behind its principles. Defining Imagism as a movement only in the loosest of terms, Lowell explains in Tendencies in Modern American Po- etry that it “refers more to the manner of presentation than to the thing presented,” and places highest importance on “a clear presentation of what- ever the author wishes to convey” (p. 244). Further, she insists Imagism is “only one section of a larger movement” (p. 249). With this move she loosens the term, making room for Frost, Sandburg, Masters, and Robinson in the above-mentioned book and in her poetic pantheon. Armed with a concept that already has proven name-recognition, she makes it even more pliable, more useful as a buzz word. To Pound’s mind she empties it of meaning, returning to America “with the Imagist ark of the covenant, var- nished and empty,” but I think, rather, that she rescues a term on the verge MELISSA BRADSHAW / 163 of self-destructing because of its vacuousness and makes that very weak- ness work for her (EP/ACH, p. 142). Now her poetry, as well as H.D.’s or Aldington’s or Pound’s, qualifies as Imagist as long as it offers a clear pre- sentation of whatever she wants to say—an impossibly easy “rule” to com- ply with. In the same way, Lowell can gain even more credibility for the term by claiming Dickinson, Coleridge, Whitman, and Poe as practitioners as well. In Damon’s words, “having got the best out of Imagism, Miss Lowell used it for her own ends” (p. 253). She justifies this appropriation by assert- ing that Pound’s version of Imagism lacks “the quality of soul, which, I am more and more fain to believe, no great work can ever be without”( p. 254). John Gould Fletcher describes Lowell’s own poetry as a hybrid of Imagism, “an encyclopedia of poetic modes rather than a mode in its own right.”45 Interestingly, once the term is solidly identified with Lowell, she works to distance herself from it. The preface to her second volume of poetry, Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914), makes no mention of Imagism. She even goes so far as to claim “schools are for those who can confine themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot.”46 As self-proclaimed promoter of the new poetry, Amy Lowell aims for the public’s trust by fostering a sense of dialectic between the conservatism of the academy and the elitism of the avant-garde. She positions her brand of poetry as the only logical response to these two extremes. In this Lowell is rather too successful, as she inspires audiences once intimidated by the complexities of poetical meters and forms not only to read poetry, but to write it as well. Horace Gregory contends that one of Lowell’s more unsa- vory triumphs was unwittingly prompting “a children’s crusade for ‘free verse,’” as “her spontaneously written verses encouraged school girls to write millions of impressionistic fragments” (p. 144). Damon captures the en- thusiasm spawned by the new poetry campaign when he breaks from his narrative of Lowell’s life to exclaim, “Free Verse suddenly had taken! . . . [People] found that all their lives they had been talking poetry. Fresh ca- dences fitted fresh subjects: in Free Verse one could write of shoes and automobiles and skyscrapers and one-self, whereas in meter and rhyme one could mention only sandals and winged horses and Greek deities” (p. 309). But in her response to this phenomena, Lowell proves to be just as invested as Pound in differentiating between “true” artists and those who dabble as a hobby. Macmillan’s book-jacket advertisement for Sword Blades and Poppy Seed claimed Lowell as “the foremost member of the ‘Imagistes’—a group of poets that includes William Butler Yeats, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Hueffer” (qtd in Perkins, p. 332). When an irritated Pound suggested that he might have grounds to sue Lowell for stealing the term she responded, “So far as I 164 / VICTORIAN POETRY know you have not copyrighted the name ‘Imagiste.’ . . . But if you should feel inclined to sue, I should be exceedingly delighted, as then they would put new jackets on the book, which I would greatly prefer. Also it would be a good advertisement” (Damon, p. 275). However, within a year she her- self made legal inquiries into the possibility of copyrighting the term in or- der to safeguard it from weak imitators, complaining to Richard Aldington, “all the questionable and pornographic poets are trying to sail under the name just now” (qtd in Damon, p. 311). Returning a batch of poems to Barrett Wendell, who had forwarded them from a young female poet soliciting Lowell’s critical perspective, she firmly explains why these poems are not “true” poetry. The young poet’s writing is apparently infused with emotion, but this, she claims, “is not enough; one must also be an artist. . . . The writer belongs to the large class of amateurs, namely, those people who write to relieve a strain of feeling, whereas, to my mind, a professional in art is a person who writes in obedi- ence to the impulse of the creative faculty” (qtd in Damon, p. 417). That self-expression should not be mistaken for artistic creation she again em- phasizes in her advice to another aspiring poet, insisting that the urge to create is not the same as the urge to “free [oneself] from an oppressive state of mind.” The “great artist . . . is creating something outside of himself” (qtd in Damon, p. 651). In her poetry as well she repeatedly describes the impulse to write as an all-consuming power coming from outside the artist. In “The Poet” she asks, “What instinct forces man to journey on, / Urged by a longing blind but dominant! / . . . Forever done / With simple joys and quiet happiness” (CPW, p. 20). In “Fatigue” she pleads with the poetic muse, “Dower me with strength and curb all foolish eagerness— / The law exacts obedience. Instruct, I will obey” (CPW, p. 3). Lowell seems to suggest that one is called to be a poet, but in thus romanticizing the vocation of poetry she contradicts her insistence elsewhere that she made herself a poet. This contradiction reveals that she too has anxieties about her success in selling the new poetry. The gentle banter with her audiences, the encouragement to voice their reactions through boos or hisses, and the memorable, quot- able sound bites on modern poetics put Lowell’s audiences at ease, but what follows is a tricky balancing act. Her struggle is to maintain her place as a popularizer of poetry—to continue to bring poetry to a wide audience, to make it accessible—but to maintain as well a certain distance, to keep in- tact the hierarchical division between the artist/performer and the audi- ence. Through her critical writings and public lectures Lowell must con- struct a readership that understands its role in modern poetry: they “are not the creators, they are the appreciators” (qtd. in Damon, p. 341). This MELISSA BRADSHAW / 165 strategy attempts to circumvent enthusiastic audiences from mistaking them- selves as poets and producing inferior imitations that detract from what she considers true, pure art. She must make audiences care enough to listen and buy, all the while keeping their own creative impulses in check. Like Pound, she “tries to stake out [her] territory by fortifying the boundaries between genuine art and inauthentic mass culture” (Huyssen, p. 53). Al- though Lowell expends a great deal of energy promoting the idea that po- etry is for everyone, in her speech before the MacDowell Club, discussed earlier in this essay, she discloses her belief that ultimately No art can be democratic. Is it possible that there is anybody so blinded by a beloved theory as to think for a moment that the great mass of people has any artistic desire, any real artistic taste? . . . That there are men in every walk of life with real poetic feeling in their hearts I do not for a moment deny, and it is to these men that poets with the welfare of the people at heart should address themselves. For poetry should try to lift men to its level, not sink itself to theirs.” (pp. 340-341) My inclination as I began reading and thinking about Amy Lowell was to romanticize her as a hero of the down-trodden, a poetic Robin Hood who stole ideas from High Culture and brought them to the starving deni- zens of popular culture. I did this, in part, because I had an investment in reading Lowell as the anti-Pound, in reading her career as the feminist/ populist response to the arrogance and misogyny of canonical modernism. But this narrative of modern poetry that I had hoped to suggest as an alter- native to the Pound/Eliot continuum would have merely switched the key players and the targeted demographic. Rather than romanticizing Lowell’s role in modernism—claiming her as representative of a more inclusive mod- ern poetry movement which sought to democratize poetry’s audiences, as well as revolutionize its forms—a reconsideration of her career needs to be willing to consider the ways her and Pound’s ends, if not their means, are similar as they manipulate the terms of the twentieth-century literary mar- ketplace. Here, for example, we see her lecturing other poets that “aver- age” people exist in a debased state, that it is the noblesse oblige of artists to raise them out of their filth. As much as Lowell courts the general public and markets herself for a mass audience, she, too, violently disidentifies herself from that mass culture. My point here is not that Lowell was a hypocrite, that she put on one face in order to exploit the public and then put on another in order to gain critical currency. Nor even do I want to single out Lowell as exceptional in this regard. Andreas Huyssen observes that “mass culture has always been the hidden subtext of the modernist project” (p. 47). By this he means that the success of high modernism is always contingent on its ability to deny or erase its own embeddedness in commercial culture. “The autonomy of the modernist art work, after all, is always the result of a resistance . . . to the 166 / VICTORIAN POETRY seductive lure of mass culture, abstention from the pleasure of trying to please a larger audience” (Huyssen, p. 55). Lowell stands out in that, while she is every bit the modern in disassociating herself from the masses, she remains forthright about targeting them as viable consumers of her prod- uct. While one can almost imagine Poetry in its first few decades of publica- tion, for example, as a popular magazine, as it came to look next to The Little Review, The Egoist, and Blast, it is important to remember that when Harriet Monroe first conceived of it, she envisioned an alternative to the “ordinary magazines [which] must minister to a large public little inter- ested in poetry”(Monroe, p. 251). Even that most humble of poets, Vachel Lindsay, who traveled on foot so that he could truly be among “the people” and who so eschewed materialism that he traveled penniless, trading his poems for bread and lodging, called his product “high vaudeville” and saw his role as one of elevating popular tastes (Perkins, p. 61). The very act of singling oneself out, insisting on one’s identity as a poet, attaching one’s name to a poem, invokes a hierarchy between artist and audience, putting into play an economy of ownership. A signed work of art is a commodity; it participates in a system of exchange. Monroe’s insistence on paying her contributors well for their poems, Lindsay’s liter- ally trading poems for bread, Lowell’s involvement in the printing, design, marketing, and distribution of her poems, to name just a few examples, make this explicit and frustrate the high modernist project of defining itself as autonomous from, as flourishing despite, commercial mass culture. This, of course, is why there are few contemporary narratives of modern poetry which posit these figures as central. What is so exciting about the Vachel Lindsay letter cited at the beginning of this essay is that it describes a mod- ern poetry far removed from what Cary Nelson so succinctly describes as “the extraordinarily restricted (and exclusively male) canon of American modernism that came to dominate academic literary study in the 1940s and 1950s and that has been aggressively marketed as the entirety of mod- ernism ever since.”47 Instead, Lindsay offers us a glimpse of a dynamic cul- tural movement in which poetry captured the public’s attention and in which poets appear to be consciously marketing tastes and constructing audiences. And in this narrative Amy Lowell emerges as a major presence: a popular lecturer, a best-selling poet, a prolific literary critic, and a market-savvy business woman. Notes 1 Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Letters of Vachel Lindsay, ed. Marc Chénetier (New York: Burt Franklin, 1979), p. 455. 2 Michael Murphy, “One Hundred Per Cent Bohemia” in Marketing Modernisms: Self- MELISSA BRADSHAW / 167 Promotion, Canonization, and Rereading, ed. Kevin J. H. Dettmar and Stephen Watt (Ann Arbor: Univ of Michigan Press, 1997), p. 61. 3 Stanley Olsen, Elinor Wylie: A Life Apart (New York: The Dial Press, 1979), p. 218; David Perkins, A History of Modern Poetry (Boston: Harvard Univ. Press, 1976), p. 327; Harriet Monroe, Poets and Their Art (New York: Macmillan, 1926), p.78. 4 Amy Lowell, “The Poetry Bookshop,” The Little Review 2 (May 1915): 19. 5 S. Foster Damon, Amy Lowell: A Chronicle, with Extracts from Her Correspon- dence (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1935), p. 91. Commissioned by Lowell’s com- panion and literary executor, Ada Dwyer Russell, and written by a friend of Lowell’s, this exhaustive, day-by-day account of her life is the standard biogra- phy. 6 Eleanor Robson Belmont, The Fabric of Memory (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Cudahy, 1957), p. 187. 7 Horace Gregory, Amy Lowell: Portrait of the Poet in Her Time (New York: Thomas Nelson, 1958), p. 122. 8 C. David Heymann, American Aristocracy: The Lives and Times of James Russell, Amy, and Robert Lowell (New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1980), p. 208. 9 Amy Lowell, The Complete Poetical Works of Amy Lowell (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1955), p. 234. Subsequent references appear parenthetically in the text as CPW. 10 Louis Untermeyer, From Another World (New York: Harcourt Brace & Com- pany, 1939), p. 113. 11 Susan Edmiston and Linda D. Cirino, Literary New York: A History and Guide (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1976), p. 226. 12 Jean Gould, Amy: The World of Amy Lowell and the Imagist Movement (New York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1975), p. 258. 13 Margaret Thompson Drewal, “The Camp Trace in Corporate America: Liberace and the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall,” The Politics and Poetics of Camp, ed. Moe Meyer (New York: Routledge, 1994), p.154. This essay analyzes Liberace’s performances, and argues that while they are ostensibly campy, they remove camp from its queer signifiers, ultimately disseminating the ideology of corporate capitalism. 14 Amy Lowell, John Keats (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1925), quoted in George H. Sargent, Amy Lowell: A Mosaic (New York: William Edwin Rudge, 1926), p.14. 15 Ford Madox Hueffer (Ford), “Henri Gaudier: The Story of a Low Tea-shop,” The English Review (October, 1919): 297. 16 Ezra Pound, The Letters of Ezra Pound to Margaret Anderson: The Little Review Correspondence, ed. Thomas L. Scott and Melvin J. Friedman (New York: New Directions, 1988), p. 178. Subsequent references appear parenthetically in the text as LRL. 17 See Lillian Faderman, Surpassing the Love of Men, chapter two, “Writing Les- bian” (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1981); Judy Grahn, The Highest Apple: Sappho and the Lesbian Poetic Tradition (San Francisco: Spinsters Ink, 1985). 18 Caption underneath Lowell’s picture in an unsigned memorial tribute, “Amy 168 / VICTORIAN POETRY Lowell,” published in The Literary Digest, May 30, 1925, eighteen days after her death. 19 Michael H. Levenson, A Genealogy of Modernism: A Study of English Literary Doc- trine 1908-1922 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1984), p. ix. 20 Amy Lowell, Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (New York: Macmillan, 1917), p. 5. Subsequent references appear parenthetically in the text, abbreviated as Tenden- cies. 21 Quoted in Glenn Richard Ruihley, The Thorn of a Rose: Amy Lowell Reconsidered (Hamden, Connecticut: Archon Books, 1975), p. 80. 22 Ezra Pound, Literary Essays of Ezra Pound, ed. T. S. Eliot, (New York: New Direc- tions, 1954), p. 46. 23 Quoted in Renate Stendahl, ed., Gertrude Stein in Words and Pictures (Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 1984), p. 165. 24 Ezra Pound, The Cantos of Ezra Pound (New York: New Directions, 1975), p. 518. 25 Harriet Monroe and Alice Corbin Henderson, eds., The New Poetry: An Anthology of Twentieth Century Verse in English (New York: Macmillan, 1932), p. xxxv. 26 William Wordsworth, Wordsworth’s Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, ed. W.J.B. Owen, (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1957), p. 114. 27 John Keats, letter to George and Thomas Keats, December 21, 1817, in The Selected Letters of John Keats, ed. Lionel Trilling (Garden City: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1956), p. 103. 28 Harriet Monroe, A Poet’s Life: Seventy Years in a Changing World (New York: Macmillan, 1938), p. 302. 29 Clement Wood, Amy Lowell (New York: Harold Vinal, 1926), p. 29. 30 Amy Lowell, Poetry and Poets: Essays by Amy Lowell (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1930), p. 64. 31 See note 18. 32 “Astigmatism”’s over-determined phallic imagery, and the feminization of the hap- less flowers who never know what hit them (“they lay/Dying, open-mouthed, won- dering”) suggest Lowell’s consciousness of the misogyny behind much of Pound’s editorializing/artistic authority, a point taken up by Andrew Thacker in his essay “Amy Lowell and H.D.: the Other Imagists,” Women: A Cultural Review 14, no. 1 (1993): 49-59. 33 Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1986), p. 52. 34 Pound used the spelling Imagisme/Imagiste, hinting at a French origin for this type of poetry. When he refused to participate in Lowell’s series of anthologies and pro- tested against her using the term, she deferred to him only by dropping the final “e.” I therefore spell the term with the final “e” only when referencing Pound’s use of the term. 35 Ezra Pound, Selected Letters of Ezra Pound: 1907-1941, ed. D. D. Paige (New York: New Directions, 1971), p. 38. 36 Literary essays of Ezra Pound, p. 44; Levenson, p. 119, my emphasis. 37 Timothy Materer, “Make It Sell! Ezra Pound Advertises Modernism,” in Marketing Modernisms: Self-Promotion, Canonization, and Rereading, ed. Kevin J.H. Dettmar and MELISSA BRADSHAW / 169 Stephen Watt (Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan Press, 1997), p. 20. 38 Shari Benstock, Women of the Left Bank: Paris, 1900-1940 (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1986), p. 317. 39 Quoted in E. Claire Healey and Keith Cushman, eds., The Letters of D.H. Lawrence and Amy Lowell (Santa Barbara: Black Sparrow Press, 1985), p. 8. 40 Levenson’s chapter “The War Among the Moderns,” demonstrates the persistence of such characterizations as well as the continuing tendency to make gross generali- zations about modern poets who do not find their way into the Pound/Eliot con- tinuum. Throughout this chapter he uses the term “Lowellites” to describe an un- specified group of poets whose only identifiable feature, as far as I can tell, is that their poems fall beyond the scope of the critical writings of Pound, Eliot, and Harold Monro that he builds his chapter around. As this is a term I have not run across in any other poetical studies, I assume it is Levenson’s creation. Its use implies a ho- mogeneity among poets who associated with Lowell, however loosely, that would be impossible to substantiate with concrete examples. 41 Although he gestures towards Odysseus in the first section of Hugh Selwyn Mauberly, “E.P. Ode pour l’election de son sepulchre,” where he describes himself as briefly swayed by the siren call of the classics early in his career, he returns to it more fully in “Canto I” where he translates Andreas Divius’ translation of Homer. Blurring the lines between himself and Odysseus, Pound appropriates the prophecy of Tiresias, “Lose all companions,” for himself. 42 Margaret Anderson, ed., The Little Review Anthology (New York: Hermitage House, 1953), p. 102. 43 Ezra Pound, The Letters of Ezra Pound to Alice Corbin Henderson, ed. Ira B. Nadel (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1993), p.137. Subsequent references will appear par- enthetically in the text, abbreviated as EP/ACH. 44 F. S. Flint, “Imagisme,” in Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1, no. 6 (March 1913): 198- 200. 45 John Gould Fletcher, Selected Essays of John Gould Fletcher, ed. Lucas Carpenter (Fayetteville: Univ. of Arkansas Press, 1989), p. 215. 46 Amy Lowell, Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (New York: Macmillan, 1914), p. xii. 47 Cary Nelson, “The Fate of Gender in Modern American Poetry,” in Marketing Mod- ernisms, p. 324. 
work_mdc7fza2xbbzzlqz2tcbd7ghi4	----	Catch and release: how do kinetochores hook the right microtubules during mitosis? TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 Catch and release: how do kinetochores hook the right microtubules during mitosis? Krishna K. Sarangapani and Charles L. Asbury Department of Physiology & Biophysics, University of Washington, Seattle, WA, USA Review Sport fishermen keep tension on their lines to prevent hooked fish from releasing. A molecular version of this angler’s trick, operating at kinetochores, ensures accu- racy during mitosis: the mitotic spindle attaches ran- domly to chromosomes and then correctly bioriented attachments are stabilized due to the tension exerted on them by opposing microtubules. Incorrect attachments, which lack tension, are unstable and release quickly, allowing another chance for biorientation. Stabilization of molecular interactions by tension also occurs in other physiological contexts, such as cell adhesion, motility, hemostasis, and tissue morphogenesis. Here, we review models for the stabilization of kinetochore attachments with an eye toward emerging models for other force- activated systems. Although attention in the mitosis field has focused mainly on one kinase-based mecha- nism, multiple mechanisms may act together to stabilize properly bioriented kinetochores and some principles governing other tension-sensitive systems may also apply to kinetochores. ‘‘Esa! Esa! Shame upon on you! You are but the pike, Kenozha, You are not the fish I wanted You are not the King of Fishes!’’ – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, TheSongofHiawatha Tension-dependent stabilization of kinetochore– microtubule attachments Mitosis research has been guided for over half a century by the idea that mechanical tension signals proper attach- ment of chromosomes to microtubules of the mitotic spin- dle and selectively stabilizes these attachments. Chromosomes are coupled to spindle microtubules via kinetochores, which are multiprotein complexes that form persistent attachments to growing and shortening 0168-9525/$ – see front matter � 2014 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved. http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.tig.2014.02.004 Corresponding author: Asbury, C.L. (casbury@u.washington.edu). Keywords: cell division; mitotic spindle; meiosis; chromosome; biorientation; Aurora B; tension; mechanobiology; mechanosensor; catch bond. microtubule tips, thereby harnessing the dynamics of the filaments to produce force and movement. Accurate mitosis requires all kinetochores to become properly ‘bioriented’, with replicated sister chromatids attached to opposite sides of the spindle (or with homologous chromosomes attached to opposite sides during the first meiotic division of gametogenesis). Dietz [1] was the first to recognize that chromosomes repeatedly reorient on the spindle, in a trial- and-error process that ceases only when proper biorienta- tion is achieved because only this arrangement is stable [2,3]. Dietz also suggested a possible cause for this differ- ential stability: mechanical tension. Bioriented chromo- somes come under tension and their sister kinetochores are stretched apart by opposing spindle forces, whereas incorrectly attached chromosomes are relaxed (Figure 1A). Direct evidence that tension indeed confers stability to chromosome–spindle attachments came from classic micromanipulation experiments using grasshopper sper- matocytes [3]. The idea has since become a central tenet of mitosis research. An attractive molecular explanation for how tension may stabilize bioriented attachments began to emerge when genetic studies uncovered a kinase, Aurora B, whose activity prevents errors in chromosome segrega- tion [4–7]. Aurora B phosphorylates key microtubule- binding elements within the kinetochore [5,8–11], reduc- ing their biochemical affinity for [9,12], and promoting their detachment from, microtubules [12–16]. If the de- tachment-promoting activity of Aurora B is directed selectively toward kinetochores lacking tension and sup- pressed at kinetochores bearing tension, then it could explain why only relaxed attachments are unstable in vivo. Experiments in a variety of cell types are consistent with this idea (see especially [17–19]), but do not yet provide final proof (see below). Nevertheless, the hypoth- esis that tension suppresses Aurora B-triggered detach- ment has become so popular among mitosis researchers that it is difficult to find skepticism about it in current literature. Meanwhile, numerous instances have been uncovered in other physiological contexts where mechanical tension stabilizes molecular interactions. In some cases, force acts via regulation of kinase enzymes [20,21], as proposed for kinetochores. Other cases involve specialized ‘catch bonds’ that are directly stabilized by force [22–28]. Force on a protein can also promote or inhibit its proteolytic Trends in Genetics xx (2014) 1–10 1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.tig.2014.02.004 mailto:casbury@u.washington.edu Low tension High tension Microtubule Kinetochores Phosphorylated by Aurora B kinase Kinetochores Separated from Aurora B kinase Directly stabilized by tension Intrinsically unstable Pole Sister chroma�ds Sister kinetochores Incorrect (syntelic) Correct (bioriented) High tension Low tension Detach A�ach (A) (B) (C) TRENDS in Genetics Figure 1. Tension-dependent error avoidance during mitosis. (A) The accuracy of mitosis depends on trial-and-error and selective stabilization of correctly ‘bioriented’ attachments (i.e., those with sister kinetochores attached to microtubules emanating from opposite sides of the mitotic spindle). Bioriented kinetochores come under tension due to forces exerted on them by opposing microtubules, which somehow stabilizes the attachments. Conversely, a lack of tension on incorrectly attached kinetochores fails to stabilize them, so they release quickly, giving another chance for biorientation. For simplicity, we focus here on one type of incorrect attachment, called ‘syntelic’, with both sister kinetochores bound exclusively to microtubules from a single pole. Another incorrect attachment, ‘merotelic’, occurs when a single sister binds microtubules from both poles [83]. Although merotelics are geometrically distinct from syntelics, they may or may not be corrected by similar mechanisms [84]. (B,C) Two models for how tension may stabilize bioriented attachments. (B) Spatial separation model where a pool of Aurora B kinase located in-between the sister kinetochores (i.e., at the inner centromere) selectively phosphorylates the kinetochores of relaxed chromosomes, weakening their grip on the microtubules and promoting their release. Tension on correctly bioriented chromosomes causes them to stretch, spatially separating their kinetochores from Aurora B and preventing kinase-triggered detachment. Other mechanisms for tension-dependent suppression of Aurora B are also possible (Figure 2F,G). (C) Catch bond-like model where tension acts directly and independently of phosphoregulation on the kinetochore–microtubule interface, causing it to adopt a more stable configuration (Figure 2H). Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 cleavage [29,30], or enable its binding to another protein [32,33]. Although understanding of how tension-activated molecules contribute to cell morphogenesis is far from complete, it is clear that many different schemes have evolved for sensing and responding to mechanical force [34–36]. Here, we review current ideas about how tension sta- bilizes kinetochore–spindle attachments. Key experi- ments that form the basis of the popular kinase-based model are examined. We also consider alternative mecha- nisms suggested by work outside the mitosis field and by recent experiments where reconstituted kinetochore–mi- crotubule attachments were directly manipulated in vitro. We do not discuss how the ‘wait anaphase’ (checkpoint) signals generated by kinetochores may be suppressed by tension, a topic already covered by several excellent reviews [37–39]. 2 Evidence for tension-dependent suppression of Aurora B kinase Aurora B is widely conserved, even across evolutionarily distant eukaryotes [40,41], and is clearly important for promoting proper attachments between chromosomes and spindle microtubules. Mutating it [4,5], depleting it from dividing cells [6], or inhibiting its activity [6,42] causes severe chromosome missegregation, although the spindle remains fully capable of attaching and pulling on kinetochores [5–7,17]. Many pairs of sister kineto- chores in Aurora B-deficient cells fail to biorient and the cells accumulate erroneous attachments where both sisters are bound to microtubules emanating from the same spindle pole [5–7]. In normal cells, such aberrant configurations are short lived [1–3], but Aurora B defi- ciency makes them unusually stable [42]. Aurora B phosphorylates key microtubule-binding elements within Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 kinetochores in vivo, including the widely conserved Ndc80 and Knl1 subcomplexes [11,43,44] and the yeast Dam1 subcomplex [8]. Phosphorylation [9,12] and phosphomi- metic mutations at Aurora B target sites [15,16,44] reduce the biochemical affinity of kinetochore subcomplexes for microtubules [9,12,44] and also accelerate detachment of subcomplexes [12,16] and larger kinetochore assemblies [15] from microtubules in vitro. Altogether, these data sug- gest that Aurora B promotes detachment of kinetochores from microtubules and that this activity is somehow restrict- ed in vivo to erroneously attached kinetochores. The idea that tension might regulate Aurora B arose from studies of yeast engineered to enter mitosis without prior replication of their DNA or without sister chromatid cohesion [7,45]. The resulting unpaired chromatids cannot biorient, so the spindle exerts little or no tension on them, and they associate with either of the two spindle poles randomly [7]. However, upon Aurora B inhibition, they associate almost exclusively with the ‘old’ pole, that is, the one leftover from the previous cell cycle (rather than the ‘new’ pole formed de novo during the most recent S phase). Aurora B activity is evidently needed to break their attach- ments to the old pole, which they inherit from G1. This Aurora B-dependent turnover is reminiscent of the classic observations in insect spermatocytes, where unpaired X chromosomes undergo rapid pole-to-pole movements [46] because they lack the tension normally required for stabi- lizing chromosome–spindle attachments in these cells [2,3]. The similarity suggests a unified explanation: Aurora B may promote kinetochore detachment universally (dur- ing insect, yeast, and perhaps all eukaryotic cell division), and its activity may be universally inhibited by tension. The evidence that tension suppresses the detachment- promoting activity of Aurora B, although entirely circum- stantial, is compelling. Formally, any property absent from correctly attached kinetochores but shared by unpaired and erroneously attached kinetochores could underlie their differential susceptibility to detachment by Aurora B. Whatever the key difference, it does not depend on pre- cisely how kinetochore pairs are linked: bioriented kineto- chore pairs are resistant to Aurora B-dependent turnover regardless of whether they are linked naturally, through replicated sisters bound by cohesion [7], or artificially, through a single ‘dicentric’ DNA molecule or through DNA entanglements (created by inhibiting topoisomerase) [17]. This adaptability again mirrors the situation in insect spermatocytes, where erroneous attachments can be arti- ficially stabilized either by applying tension with a micro- needle [3] or by arranging a pair of maloriented chromosomes such that they become mechanically inter- locked [2]. Incorrect attachments can also be artificially stabilized in Drosophila S2 cells by overexpressing NOD [19], a kinesin-10 motor that localizes on chromosomes. Chromosome-anchored NOD is normally thought to help align chromosomes at the spindle equator by pushing them away from the poles. NOD overexpression may elevate this polar ejection force and significantly increase tension at kinetochores, thereby suppressing Aurora B and prevent- ing erroneous attachments from releasing [19]. Given the similarity of these observations, it seems likely that ten- sion somehow suppresses Aurora B. Notably, however, definitive evidence showing that direct application of me- chanical tension is sufficient to suppress chromosome re- orientation has only been obtained in meiotic grasshopper spermatocytes. Whether reorientation in these particular cells depends on Aurora B has not, to our knowledge, been proven. More generally, it remains unproven whether direct application of mechanical tension is sufficient to inhibit any Aurora B-dependent activity. Is kinetochore phosphorylation sensitive to tension? Immunostaining with the ‘3F3’ antibody confirms that ten- sion, either from a micromanipulation needle or from nor- mal spindle forces, can inhibit kinetochore phosphorylation [47–49]. 3F3 antibody specifically detects phosphorylated kinetochore proteins [50], but probably not Aurora B sub- strates. (It recognizes spindle checkpoint proteins phosphor- ylated either by Plk1 or Mps1 [51–54].) Nevertheless, key ideas that could apply to Aurora B are illustrated by experi- ments where chromosomes from lysed cells are washed, directly manipulated, and then immunostained with 3F3. Relaxed kinetochores on the washed chromosomes are de- void of 3F3 phosphoepitope, but they can be rephosphory- lated by incubation with ATP if a phosphatase inhibitor is also present [49]. Applying tension with a microneedle prevents rephosphorylation. The rephosphorylation of re- laxed kinetochores by incubation with ATP shows that the chromosomes retain a complete phosphorylation system, including substrate and kinase. The requirement for a phosphatase inhibitor shows that a phosphatase is also retained and does not require tension for its activity. Rather, tension must prevent phosphorylation in this case by inhi- biting the kinase, deforming the substrate, or repositioning the substrate relative to the kinase [49]. To our knowledge, such direct tests of tension sensitivity have not been performed using phosphospecific antibodies against bona fide Aurora B substrates. However, antibo- dies that recognize phosphorylation of several Aurora B substrates, including Ndc80 and Knl1, reveal correlations that are mostly consistent with tension-dependent sup- pression in vivo [11,44]. High levels of phosphorylation on Ndc80 and Knl1 correlate with unaligned, relaxed chromo- somes. Low phosphorylation is seen at metaphase, when most kinetochore pairs are aligned, stretched apart, and probably bioriented. An exception is anaphase, when low tension correlates with low Ndc80 phosphorylation [11], presumably because Aurora B delocalizes from the chro- mosomes at this time (binding instead to microtubules in the spindle midzone, together with other members of the ‘chromosomal passenger complex’ [41]). More puzzlingly, in cells treated with nocodazole to depolymerize their microtubules, the level of phosphorylation on Ndc80 is low [11], whereas high levels are seen for Knl1 [44]. Ten- sion should be absent after microtubule depolymerization, so the low phosphorylation of Ndc80 is incompatible with a strict model in which Aurora B always phosphorylates all its targets at relaxed kinetochores. The spatial separation model for suppression of Aurora B activity In mitotic animal cells, Aurora B localizes prominently on inner-centromeric chromatin, midway between sister 3 Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 kinetochores. This pattern is the basis for an appealing ‘spatial separation’ model explaining how Aurora B may selectively phosphorylate the kinetochores of relaxed chro- mosomes: sister kinetochores on relaxed chromosomes are close enough to the inner centromere to be phosphorylated by Aurora B located there (Figure 1B). Tension stretches the chromosomes and this deformation spatially separates the kinetochores from centromeric Aurora B, thereby inhi- biting their phosphorylation. Aspects of this model have been tested using a Förster resonance energy transfer (FRET)-based biosensor for Au- rora B [18,44]. When the sensor is targeted to kinetochores (by fusion with the kinetochore proteins, Mis12 or Ndc80), its behavior matches the predictions for native kinetochore substrates, reporting high phosphorylation on unaligned kinetochores or after drug treatments that relax the chro- mosomes (e.g., nocodazole or monastrol), and reporting low phosphorylation on kinetochores that are properly aligned and bioriented. If instead the sensor is targeted to inner centromeres (by fusion with the centromere-targeting do- main of CENP-B) then its phosphorylation remains high, even on stretched chromosomes [18]. This observation indicates that the inner-centromeric Aurora B is constitu- tively active and that proximity of a substrate to this active pool is sufficient to cause its phosphorylation. The data are also nicely consistent with the spatial separation model, but a key question remains: in the normal physiological situation, is the Aurora B at the inner centromere directly responsible for phosphorylation of relaxed kinetochores? Two recent observations suggest that the Aurora B di- rectly involved in error correction is distinct from the prom- inent pool at the inner centromere. First, an antibody that specifically recognizes the phosphorylated active form of Aurora B labels not only the inner-centromeric pool between sister kinetochores, but also the outer kinetochore [11]. The outer-kinetochore population of Aurora B diminishes as kinetochores become properly aligned and less phosphory- lated on Ndc80, whereas the inner-centromeric pool remains prominent. The correlation between Ndc80 phosphorylation levels and enrichment of outer-kinetochore Aurora B sug- gests that this population, rather than the inner-centromer- ic pool, is responsible for phosphorylating Ndc80. A second recent observation is that Aurora B supports normal cell growth [55] and accurate chromosome segregation [56] even when its targeting to inner centromeres is disrupted (by mutations that interfere with the binding of INCENP to the centromere-targeting factor, survivin). Whether inner-cen- tromere localization of Aurora B is completely abolished in this case remains uncertain. However, if localization at the inner centromere is truly dispensable, then tension-depen- dent stretching of inner-centromeric chromatin cannot be the basis for suppression of Aurora B, and a key assumption of the spatial separation model would be wrong. Clearly, even with impressive advancements in understanding of Aurora B, we lack a complete picture of how tension confers stability to kinetochore–microtubule attachments. Mechanically regulated molecular systems outside of mitosis The notion that mechanical force can regulate molecular interactions and cellular activities is pervasive in many 4 fields besides mitosis. In a growing number of cases, ten- sion-dependent molecular behaviors have been demon- strated by the application of force directly to purified proteins. What can those of us interested in chromosome segregation learn from studies of other micromechanical systems (and vice versa)? One lesson is that nature has produced a variety of molecular mechanisms for sensing mechanical force (Figure 2A–E). There are examples where phosphorylation is regulated by force, similar to the proposal for kineto- chores, but not necessarily via spatial separation of the kinase from its substrates. Adherent cells, for example, sense their mechanical environment through a series of biochemical events that includes tension-dependent phos- phorylation of the focal adhesion protein p130Cas [57]. Tension acts in this case by ‘substrate priming’: the relaxed p130Cas substrate domain is normally resistant to phos- phorylation, but becomes susceptible under load (Figure 2E) [20]. Another phosphoregulatory mechanism occurs in muscle cells, where a kinase domain within the giant elastic protein titin senses mechanical strain and initiates a cascade of downstream biochemical events to control transcription of adaptive genes [58]. Force is trans- mitted directly through titin kinase itself, causing its activation by pulling an autoinhibitory domain away from its active (ATP-binding) site (Figure 2D) [21]. More gener- ally, force on a molecule can expose a previously buried ‘cryptic’ binding site for another molecule. Thus, stretching of the focal adhesion protein talin activates its binding to vinculin (Figure 2A) [32], and stretching an F-actin net- work activates the binding of b-integrin to the actin cross- linking protein, filamin [33]. Of course, force can also disrupt binding sites. The stretching that activates binding of b-integrin to filamin also causes the simultaneous un- binding of another filamin-binding protein, FliGAP [33]. Tension-dependent stabilization outside of mitosis As in mitosis, the concept that force can stabilize load- bearing molecular structures is central to many other areas of biology and the effect has been demonstrated in various molecular systems. Tension-dependent stabilization proba- bly explains how fibrils of collagen, the most abundant structural protein in vertebrates, are preferentially oriented along directions of load transmission [59]. Tension stabilizes collagen fibrils indirectly, by rendering them resistant to cleavage by collagenolytic enzymes [30], possibly because it inhibits the partial unfolding of the triple-helical structure of collagen (Figure 2C) [60]. Tension can also cause stabili- zation more directly, via specialized molecular interactions called ‘catch bonds’ (Box 1) [34,35]. Catch bonds were first demonstrated in single molecule experiments involving selectins [22], adhesion molecules that support tethering and rolling of leukocytes on vascular endothelium during inflammation. Lifetimes of individual selectin–ligand bonds initially increase and then decrease with tension, giving rise to a biphasic lifetime versus force curve [22,24]. Around the same time, it was also discovered that adhesion of fimbriat- ed bacteria to host cells is enhanced by hydrodynamic force [23], in part because a protein at the tip of the fimbria, fimH, forms catch bonds with mannosylated glycoproteins on the host cell surface. P Talin Vinculin Cryp�c site, exposed Without force With force Ti�n kinase ATP P Without force With force p130Cas Src kinase P P P Substrate access, gained Autoinhibited Ac�vated fimH Strengthened Mannose Autoinhibited Collagen Protected Proteolysis P P P Without force With force Aurora B kinase Micro- tubule Ch ro m os om e Kinetochore Substrate deforma�on inhibits phosphoryla�on Phosphoryla�on weakens microtubule binding P Kinase deforma�on inhibits phosphoryla�on P Bonds added or intrinsically strengthened (F) (A) (B) (D) (E) (C) (G) (H) Phosphoryla�on weakens microtubule binding TRENDS in Genetics Figure 2. Gallery of mechanosensitive molecules and models for mechanosensation at kinetochores. (A) Force exerted on talin exposes a cryptic binding site for vinculin [32]. (B) Force strengthens the fimH–mannose bond by pulling away an autoinhibitory domain [61]. (C) Force on collagen protects it from proteolytic cleavage [30]. (D) Force activates titin kinase by pulling away an autoinhibitory domain [21]. (E) Force on p130Cas promotes its phosphorylation by Src kinase [20]. (F–H) Speculative models for how force-dependent deformations could strengthen a kinetochore–microtubule attachment. (F) Kinetochore tension could deform Aurora B substrates, preventing the kinase from weakening their grip on the microtubule. (G) If Aurora B at the kinetochore–microtubule interface bears mechanical load, then the kinase itself could be inhibited by load. (H) Tension can also stabilize the kinetochore–microtubule interface directly [66], perhaps by altering the conformation of the microtubule tip or the kinetochore microtubule-binding elements in a way that strengthens existing bonds or promotes formation of additional bonds. Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 Multiple force-sensitive molecules are often combined A second lesson that mitosis aficionados can learn from studies of other mechanically regulated systems is that multiple tension-controlled molecules often participate together in the same cellular process. Thus, bacterial adhesion is enhanced not only by fimH catch bonds at fimbrial tips [61], but also by mechanically responsive fimA molecules, which form a helical polymer comprising most of the length of the fimbriae. The fimA polymer acts as a near-perfect shock absorber, uncoiling and recoiling dynamically to maintain the optimal force at the tip (i.e., the force where fimH–mannose bonds are longest lived) [62]. Likewise, the blood clotting potential of von Will- ebrand Factor is regulated not only by the catch/flex bonds it forms with platelet glycoproteins [31,63,94], but also by a proteolytic cleavage process that is enhanced by shear forces [29,95]. Mechanosensation by adherent cells via integrins is perhaps the most multi- faceted example currently known. A dizzying number of force-sensitive molecules participate, including (i) force- activated binding of integrin to actin via filamin [33]; (ii) force-stabilized binding of integrin to fibronectin [64]; (iii) force-activated self-assembly of fibronectin [65]; (iv) force- activated binding of vinculin to talin [32]; and, possibly, (v) force-dependent regulation of focal adhesion kinase [36]. The cooperation of so many mechanically regulated proteins in one pathway may seem surprising. However, the experimental tools for studying force-sensitive mole- cules are relatively new. As they become more wide- spread, coincidence of multiple force sensors in a single pathway may turn out to be the norm rather than an exception. 5 Box 1. A conflagration of catch bonds Bell [85] first theorized that force would accelerate the dissociation of receptor–ligand bonds by tilting their energy landscape and lowering the energetic barrier for dissociation. Such interactions are known as ‘slip bonds’, and their lifetime typically decreases exponentially with tension. Later, it was proposed that tension could also do the opposite (i.e., prolong bond lifetime) by triggering a conformational change that tightens the ligand-binding pocket [86]. This counter-intuitive behavior can be likened to a finger trap gag toy: the harder one pulls, the more stable the interaction becomes. Since the initial discovery that force stabilizes selectin– ligand and fimH–mannose bonds (Figure 2B and main text), catch bonds have been found in many other biological contexts. Two prominent examples are the binding of integrin to fibronectin [64], which supports cell adhesion to the extracellular matrix, and the binding of von Willebrand factor via its A1 domain to platelet glycoprotein Ib [63,94], which initiates blood clotting preferentially in areas of high flow. Catch bond-like behavior is also common in ATP-powered motor proteins. Many muscle and nonmuscle myosins attach to actin filaments more stably when force opposing their motion is applied [25–28]. Opposing force generally prolongs the attachment lifetime of myosin by slowing its release of ADP and thereby preventing it from binding ATP, which is normally required for detachment of myosin from actin. The result is a ‘latch’ effect that allows these myosins to consume less ATP while sustaining loads for long durations (e.g., while maintaining vascular tone). A particularly dramatic example is myosin1b, whose actin-attachment lifetime increases >75-fold in response to small opposing loads (<2pN) [28]. Similarly, opposing force applied to the kinesin motor domain favors its tight binding to microtubules [87], in this case by accelerating its release of ADP (which has the opposite effect on kinesin as on myosin). This tension-dependent stabilization prob- ably helps to coordinate the hand-over-hand stepping of the twin motor domains of kinesin over the microtubule lattice [88]. Some of the earliest demonstrations of force-stabilized motor-filament attachments [25] pre-date the initial discovery of catch bonds. Most have not been described using the term ‘catch bond’, but their similarity is obvious. Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 Kinetochore-microtubule attachments display catch bond-like behavior Given the diversity of force-sensing mechanisms across biology, it is natural to ask whether selective stabilization of proper kinetochore–microtubule attachments during mitosis relies solely on tension-dependent regulation of Aurora B, as is generally assumed, or whether other tension-dependent effects are also involved. Until recently, addressing this question would have been prohibitively difficult due to the lack of suitable in vitro assays for applying precisely controlled forces to kinetochore–micro- tubule interactions. Reconstitution of kinetochore–micro- tubule coupling using recombinant subcomplexes [13,16] and native kinetochore particles isolated from budding yeast [15,66] has made direct tests possible for the first time. One way to study purified kinetochore particles in vitro is to link them to polystyrene beads, which serve as artifi- cial cargoes (mimicking the chromosomes) and as handles to apply force (Figure 3A). Using a servo-controlled laser trap, bead-linked kinetochore particles can be attached to the tips of individual microtubules grown from coverslip- anchored seeds. The particles track with growing and shortening filament tips even when tension is applied continuously with the trap, to mimic the physiological situation. In addition, similar to kinetochores in vivo, 6 the purified particles can maintain persistent, load-bear- ing tip attachments through periods of microtubule growth and shortening [15,66]. To measure the effect of tension on attachment lifetime, the laser trap can be programed to operate as a force ‘clamp’, applying a chosen level of force for the duration of each event. A large number of events is recorded, and mean attachment lifetimes are calculated at each force by dividing the total observation time by the number of detachments. Considering that the purified kinetochore particles lack detectable Aurora B kinase [66], one might expect the lifetime to decrease monotoni- cally with force (similar to a typical ‘slip bond’; Box 1). However, attachment lifetimes initially increase and then decrease with tension, lending a biphasic shape to the lifetime versus force curve (Figure 3C) [66]. These results indicate the existence of a direct, catch bond-like stabili- zation mechanism that may act in parallel with Aurora- based phosphoregulation to help ensure mitotic accuracy. Catch bonds are often described by a two-state kinetic scheme where the bond switches between a weak and a strong state and force favors adoption of the strong state [24,67,68]. As force increases from zero, the average bond lifetime initially grows because the bond spends an in- creasing fraction of time in the strong state. Eventually, a critical force is reached, above which the lifetime decreases because the strong state is overpowered. This same model can describe the behavior of kinetochore–microtubule attachments (Figure 3B). Microtubule tips switch between two states, growth and shortening. Kinetochore particles detach from growing tips more slowly than from shortening tips (Figure 3E) [15,66], so tip growth corresponds to a strongly attached state. Moreover, tension decreases the likelihood that a growing tip will begin shortening (an event called a ‘catastrophe’) and increases the likelihood that a shortening tip will resume growth (a ‘rescue’), thereby causing the kinetochore-tip attachments to spend more time in the strongly attached state [66]. The resulting lifetime versus force relations for both kinetochore-micro- tubule attachments and canonical catch bond systems are well described by mathematically equivalent functions. However, the two systems differ in at least one way: canonical catch bond systems typically switch rapidly be- tween their weakly and strongly bound states, and because the associated conformational changes are subtle, it is not usually possible to directly measure kinetic rates for switching or detachment specifically from the strongly or weakly bound states. Given that microtubule tips in vitro switch relatively infrequently between growth and short- ening, distinguishing between the two states is straight- forward, and the specific kinetic rates can be directly measured [66]. Alternative mechanisms for regulation of kinetochore– spindle attachment stability The catch bond-like behavior observed using reconstituted kinetochore–microtubule attachments arises because their attachment stability depends on microtubule tip dynamics. This dependence implies more generally that altering microtubule tip dynamics by any means could affect kinet- ochore attachment stability. The core microtubule-binding kinetochore elements, Ndc80 and Dam1, for example, 0.01 0.1 1 10 100 Sw itc h ra te (h –1 ) 12840 Force (pN) 0.01 0.1 1 10 100 Sw itc h ra te (h –1 ) 12840 Force (pN) (D) (G) 0.1 1 10 100 D et ac hm en t r at e (h –1 ) 12840 Force (pN) 0.1 1 10 100 D et ac hm en t r at e (h –1 ) 12840 Force (pN) (E) (H) 50 40 30 20 10 0 Li fe �m e (m in ) 121086420 Force (pN) 50 40 30 20 10 0 Li fe �m e (m in ) 121086420 Force (pN) (C) (F) (A) (B) A�ached, growing �p A�ached, shortening �p Detachedk1 k2 k3 k4 k1 k2 k3 k4 k1 k2 k4 k3 Δx Laser trap Tens ion Mic ro- Kinetochore par�cle tub ule Bead TRENDS in Genetics Figure 3. Catch bond-like behavior of kinetochore–microtubule attachments, and how it may be regulated. (A) Schematic of laser trap assay. A bead decorated with native kinetochore particles or recombinant kinetochore subcomplexes is attached to the dynamic tip of a coverslip-anchored microtubule. As the microtubule tip grows and shortens, the kinetochore-bead moves with it. During bead movement, the laser trap can be automatically steered to keep a fixed bead-trap distance (Dx), thereby maintaining a constant tensile force on the kinetochore–microtubule interface. (B) A kinetochore-attached microtubule tip can grow (assemble) or shorten (disassemble), with transitions between these states governed by the rates of catastrophe, k1, and rescue, k2. The kinetochore can detach from either state, with rates k3 and k4. Given that k4 is generally much faster than k3, the overall rate of detachment can be reduced by inhibiting catastrophe (k1) or promoting rescue (k2). (C) The mean lifetime of reconstituted kinetochore–microtubule attachments initially increases and then decreases with force in a catch bond-like manner (gray curve, adapted from [66]). In principle, the lifetime versus force relation could be tuned to selectively stabilize relaxed attachments (blue) or those bearing higher loads (red). (D,E) Force inhibits catastrophe (k1, solid gray line), promotes rescue (k2, dashed gray), accelerates detachment during growth (k3, solid gray), and slows detachment during shortening (k4, dashed gray). Simultaneously adjusting the rates of catastrophe and detachment during growth across all forces as shown (blue and red lines in D and E) would shift the lifetime versus force relation leftward and rightward (blue and red curves in C). (F–H) Selective phosphorylation of relaxed kinetochores by Aurora B could accelerate detachment [green curve in (H)] or induce catastrophe [orange curve in (G)] at kinetochores that bear low forces (e.g., <4pN). In either case, the net effect would be to sharpen the lifetime versus force curve, increasing its sensitivity to force in the low-force regime where tension prolongs attachment [green and orange curves in (F)]. Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 affect tip dynamics in ways that promote microtubule growth [16], which in turn promotes attachment stability. Tip stabilization by Ndc80 and Dam1 is partially reversed by phosphomimetic mutations at Aurora B target sites on these subcomplexes, suggesting that Aurora B promotes kinetochore release not only directly, by accelerating de- tachment, but also indirectly, by destabilizing kinetochore- attached microtubule tips [15,16]. Other candidates for affecting attachment stability via this mechanism are microtubule regulators of the Kinesin-13 [69] and Kine- sin-8 families [70], and plus end-binding proteins, such as XMAP215 and EB1 [71]. In principle, dividing cells might exploit the interplay between tension, microtubule tip dynamics, and kineto- chore attachment stability in interesting ways. Simulta- neously promoting catastrophes while inhibiting detachment during assembly, for example, is predicted to shift the lifetime versus force curve rightward (Figure 3C, red curve), so that the optimum force (where attachment lifetime is longest) occurs at higher tension. Conversely, inhibiting catastrophes while promoting de- tachment during assembly would shift the curve leftward. If the rate changes were large enough, then the catch-bond effect would be abolished, and lifetime would decrease monotonically with force (Figure 3C, blue curve). We spec- ulate that such shifts in the lifetime versus force relation may be biologically important. A leftward shift could allow stable attachment of relaxed kinetochores, perhaps pro- moting the formation of initial attachments during spindle assembly. A subsequent rightward shift could selectively destabilize kinetochores that have failed to biorient. A cell could tune the lifetime versus force relation for all kine- tochores simultaneously, by globally modulating the dy- namics of all kinetochore-attached microtubules [72]. The relation for a particular kinetochore could be tuned by post- translational modifications or by local binding of cofactors that alter detachment rates or the dynamics of attached microtubules. 7 Box 2. How tension-dependent modulation of microtubule tip dynamics could help stabilize biorientation If both sister kinetochores attach to the tips of microtubules emanating from the same spindle pole (syntelic, Figure 1A, main text), then opposing spindle forces will not develop and tension on both tip attachments will be low. Both tip attachments will tend to remain in the disassembling state and, consequently, both will be weak (Figure 3E, main text, k4>>k3). Correctly bioriented sister kinetochores will come under tension. In cells such as yeast, where microtubule minus ends are anchored statically at the spindle poles (i.e., in cells without poleward flux), the growth of tips attached to one bioriented sister kinetochore must be balanced by shortening of those attached to the other sister. This balance is probably achieved through tension-dependent modulation of tip dynamics [89–91]. The attachment on the growing side will be dramatically stabilized (Figure 3E, main text, k3<<k4), and this effect alone will reduce the likelihood relative to the syntelic case that the pair will revert to a singly attached (‘monotelic’) state. Although the attachment on the shortening side will be weaker than its sister, it may still be moderately stabilized relative to a syntelic attachment, because tension moderately inhibits detachment during shortening (Figure 3E, main text, k4 decreases with force). In many cell types, a continuous poleward flux of microtubules occurs, driven by traction forces and balanced by disassembly at the poles [92,93]. In such cells, the growth of tips attached to bioriented kinetochores is not a zero-sum game: poleward flux may allow the simultaneous assembly of tips attached to both sisters. In this case, attachments on both sides would be dramatically stabilized and the pair would be far less likely to revert to a singly attached state. Review Trends in Genetics xxx xxxx, Vol. xxx, No. x TIGS-1107; No. of Pages 10 Aurora B on the horizon: new concepts in the light of mechanobiology As discussed above, current models for how Aurora B pro- motes accurate chromosome segregation are dominated by two concepts: that Aurora B phosphorylation causes kineto- chore detachment from the spindle, and that tension sup- presses this activity, possibly by spatially separating centromere-bound kinase from its substrates in the kineto- chore. These relatively simple ideas emerged before a com- plete picture of the kinetochore was available and are probably inadequate to explain fully the dynamics of kineto- chore phosphorylation and error correction in vivo [11,56]. We now know that the core kinetochore comprises >80 proteins, arranged in at least eight subcomplexes that as- semble hierarchically into a large structure [73,74]. Why all this molecular complexity? One possibility is that it enables kinetochores to sense and respond in a sophisticated manner to a variety of mechanical and biochemical cues. We imagine two alternative mechanisms, besides spa- tial separation, by which mechanical tension could sup- press Aurora B phosphorylation of kinetochores (Figure 2F,G). First, tension could deform the substrates of Aurora B within the kinetochore to render them inac- cessible to phosphorylation (or to render them more sus- ceptible to dephosphorylation by phosphatases). Consistent with this view, kinetochores exhibit deforma- tions that correlate with their attachment state [75–78] and could affect Aurora B kinase substrate access [39]. Tension-dependent control of substrate access at kineto- chores would be similar to the protection of tension-bearing collagen molecules against proteolytic cleavage [30,59] and to the priming of tension-bearing p130Cas for phosphory- lation by Src kinase [20]. A second possibility is that tension on Aurora B itself, or on its activator INCENP, could directly inhibit its kinase activity (Figure 2G). Auro- ra B and INCENP bind not only to chromatin and kine- tochores (as discussed above), but also to microtubules [79,80], so they could bear some mechanical load at kineto- chore–microtubule attachment sites. Direct mechanical control of Aurora B kinase activity would be similar to the load-dependent activation of titin kinase [21]. Assuming that Aurora B is indeed regulated by tension, how might it work together with the intrinsic catch bond- like behavior of kinetochores? The intrinsic catch bond-like behavior by itself produces only a modest stabilization in vitro (at the optimum force the mean attachment lifetime is increased approximately threefold relative to zero force) and the degree to which it will help stabilize biorientation in vivo is uncertain (Box 2). However, if Aurora B phos- phorylation has a strong enough effect on the rates of kinetochore detachment and microtubule switching, and if its effects are sufficiently inhibited by tension, then the lifetime versus force relation could be substantially sharp- ened. (Two examples of such sharpening are depicted in Figure 3F–H.) Another intriguing possibility is that kine- tochores may include canonical catch bonds that are stabi- lized by force even without changes in microtubule switching. If canonical catch bonds exist between kineto- chores and microtubules, they could have a profound influ- ence on attachment stability (Figure 2H) [81] and also chromosome movement [82]. 8 Concluding remarks In many ways, our understanding of how kinetochores ‘catch and hold’ the correct microtubules but release erro- neous attachments remains in its infancy. Various lines of evidence suggest that erroneous attachments are selec- tively eliminated through tension-dependent control of the spatial separation between Aurora B kinase and its kinet- ochore substrates. Considering the molecular complexity of kinetochores, the importance of mechanical cues during mitosis, and the diversity of force sensors in other areas of biology, it would not be surprising to find numerous other tension-sensing mechanisms operating at kinetochores as well. 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http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0460 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0465 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0465 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0470 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0470 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0470 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0475 http://refhub.elsevier.com/S0168-9525(14)00027-4/sbref0475 Catch and release: how do kinetochores hook the right microtubules during mitosis? Tension-dependent stabilization of kinetochore-microtubule attachments Evidence for tension-dependent suppression of Aurora B kinase Is kinetochore phosphorylation sensitive to tension? The spatial separation model for suppression of Aurora B activity Mechanically regulated molecular systems outside of mitosis Tension-dependent stabilization outside of mitosis Multiple force-sensitive molecules are often combined Kinetochore-microtubule attachments display catch bond-like behavior Alternative mechanisms for regulation of kinetochore-spindle attachment stability Aurora B on the horizon: new concepts in the light of mechanobiology Concluding remarks Acknowledgments References 
work_mjd5qwoewrf2di2xu3mgnzzdje	----	We’re All Anglo-Saxons Now: Alfred Tennyson and the United States We’re All Anglo-Saxons Now: Alfred Tennyson and the United States Owen Clayton Victorian Review, Volume 43, Number 1, Spring 2017, pp. 87-110 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ Access provided at 6 Apr 2021 02:01 GMT from Carnegie Mellon University ] https://doi.org/10.1353/vcr.2017.0012 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/685907 https://doi.org/10.1353/vcr.2017.0012 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/685907 Victorian Review 43: 87–110 © 2018 Victorian Studies Association of Western Canada We’re All Anglo-Saxons Now: Alfred Tennyson and the United States o w e n c l a y t o n • In 1862, one year into the American Civil War, Alfred Tennyson attempted to travel incognito while on holiday around Yorkshire and Derbyshire. Ever wary of public attention, the Poet Laureate refused to tell strangers his name. At a hotel in Buxton, his enigmatic appearance led one of the guests to mistake him for a member of the Confederate States of America (Monckton Milnes 81–82). It is apt that Tennyson was confused for a secessionist, since the American Civil War had marked a turning point in his relationship with the United States, particularly with the South. Having previously considered America to be an undifferentiated mass of money-grubbing “Yankees,” the war highlighted to Tennyson that there were, in fact, Americans like him: that is, men sceptical about the expanding capitalist world of finance and speculation, who retained “Old World” virtues of gentlemanly behaviour and a belief in traditional forms of authority. This article will analyse Tennyson’s changing relationship to the United States, arguing that he mixed different forms of Anglo-Saxonism, cultural and racial, throughout his work. The poet first associated Americans with what he saw as the exploitative practices of the transatlantic literary market- place, but the Civil War caused him to modify his opinion. After this con- flict, he would maintain a personal preference for Southerners along with a distaste for “Yankees.” This discrimination paralleled an increased suspicion of the United States’ imperial ambitions, though his attitude to post-bellum America was mixed with admiration and feelings of Anglo-Saxon solidarity. As a result of what he understood as its superior federal system of political organization, he came to see the United States as the likely successor to a declining British Empire. He would eventually adopt an ideology akin to Manifest Destiny in “Kapiolani” (1892), a work that encapsulated his sense of a coming shift in global power. The issue of copyright affected Tennyson’s early views on America. Due to the absence of an international copyright treaty, his work was reprinted in the United States without the need to pay royalties. This benefited Tennyson’s reputation, but not his bank balance (see Ledbetter). At the start of his career, he received a more favourable reception in the American than the British press, and by mid-century he had become the most imitated poet in America. Yet like many British writers, he was aghast at the apparent theft of his work in newspapers and pirate book editions. victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 88 Significantly, Tennyson had felt bullied by the American editor Charles Wheeler into an early publication of his two-volume Poems (1842). Wheeler wrote to Tennyson to declare that if he did not allow Poems to come out, the firm of Little & Brown would produce an unauthorized version based on previously published works. The poet reluctantly agreed, correcting some of the earlier works for the new volume, while adding and abandoning others. Tennyson expressed his anger in an 1841 letter to Edward Fitzgerald, pointing out the civil-yet-threatening tone of Wheeler’s letter (Letters 1: 188).1 He would always associate Americans or, rather, the figure of the “Yankee,” with the commercially driven maltreatment that he had experienced in the early 1840s.2 Yet though it was no doubt important, copyright was not the main factor influencing his feelings about the United States. Of greater importance and complexity, as I will discuss below, were questions of Empire and the future of the Anglo-Saxon “race.” There has been a great deal of work on Tennyson and colonialism, but little on his association with Britain’s most power- ful former colony.3 The only book-length study of Tennyson’s American reception is John Eidson’s Tennyson in America (1943). When scholars have read Tennyson transatlantically, the focus has been on his influence upon American writers.4 This has tended to obscure the fact that Tennyson was more popular in America than he was in Great Britain.5 Though his influ- ence in the United States was, as the essayist Hamilton Wright Mabie wrote in 1892, “diffusive, pervasive, atmospheric” (553), the poet’s own relation- ship to America has been neglected. Scholars have claimed that Tennyson was not interested in the United States, or even that he had an active aver- sion both to it and to its people.6 While he did associate those from New England and surrounding states with financial acquisitiveness, he differen- tiated between Americans from the North and those from the South. He based this distinction, as I will show, on what he perceived as the North’s corruption of traditional Anglo-Saxon values. Though I will deal largely with letters and “minor” poems, the implica- tions of my argument extend further. As we shall see, Britain’s national poet was deeply involved in transatlantic dialogue, debate, and exchange, both of a poetic and political nature. Tennyson’s representation of the British Empire cannot be seen in isolation from the threats that it faced, particularly from the growing power of the United States. This sense of impending threat was important beyond the poems discussed here, most obviously in Tennyson’s own Idylls of the King (1859–85), as well as for a broad range of literary repre- sentations of the British Empire, America, and the Anglo-Saxons. a n t e b e l l u m a t t i t u d e s : a n g l o - s a x o n i s m a n d “ h a n d s a l l r o u n d ” (185 2) During the nineteenth century, according to Donald Scragg, the Anglo- Saxons achieved “a standing and cultural significance higher than at any owen clayton 89 time before or since” (21). Tennyson is a notable example, with a clear interest in Anglo-Saxon affairs being evident in many of his poems and plays, including “Godiva” (1842), Harold (1877), “The Battle of Brunanburh” (1880), and The Foresters (1881). This interest affected his early attitude toward America, which, despite concerns about the transatlantic exploitation of his poetry, was informed by a thoroughgoing Anglo-Saxonism. This ideology saw Britain and America as sharing a particularly close bond—as being two societies born out of shared principles of religion, cultural values, and law. According to this view, for example, Protestantism was a purer and more democratic form of religion, having thrown off elaborate forms of worship and belief in the authority of Catholic popes and priests. Seeing the Anglo- Saxons as the most democratic group in history, Victorian Anglo-Saxonists produced historical studies that idealized the witenagemot as a forerunner of representative democracy. These scholars believed that the legal framework of the Anglo-Saxons had provided a guarantee against authoritarianism, at least until the invasion of England by William the Conqueror. The Anglo- Saxons were guardians of liberty against more dictatorial cultures, such as the Catholic French or, worse still, the Islamic Turks. From mid-century, a more racialized form of Anglo-Saxonism developed. Texts of scientific racism such as Joseph Arthur comte de Gobineau’s The Moral and Intellectual Diversity of Races (English translation 1856), as well as anthropolog- ical studies such as Josiah Clark Nott and George Robins Gliddon’s Indigenous Races of the Earth (1857), suggested that the Anglo-Saxon or Aryan branch of the Caucasian race was inherently superior to other ethnic groups in terms of energy, morals, and intellect, a fact that explained the dominance of Great Britain and the United States in world politics. These two strands of Anglo- Saxonism, one cultural and the other racialist, coexisted throughout the rest of the century. They often appeared in overlapping forms, as in the work of the Orientalist Max Müller, active at the University of Oxford from 1850 until 1875, who believed that possession of a unified language equated to racial unity. By the end of the century, however, racialist arguments had overcome philological ones, as summed up by Isaac Taylor’s influential The Origin of the Aryans (1890), which argued that “Language . . . is mutable, race persistent” and that the most reliable method to determine the latter was the “shape of the skull” (45, 63). The eventual victory of anthropometry and craniometry over language and law has overshadowed cultural Anglo-Saxonism in later scholarship, which has tended to concern itself with nineteenth-century anthropological explanations of racial difference. Both of these traditions influenced Tennyson. He had imbibed cultural Anglo-Saxonism from a young age, and he was an avid reader of the racial philologists. His father’s library, which is in the Tennyson Research Centre (TRC), and which formed the basis of his home schooling, contains several foundational Anglo-Saxonist texts. These include Tacitus’s Germania (circa 98) and Paul de Rapin-Thoyras’s History of England (2nd ed., 1832–3; items 335, victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 90 277). Tennyson’s own library holds Sharon Turner’s The History of the Anglo- Saxons (2nd ed., 1807; item 2238), a seminal work of cultural Anglo-Saxonism, as well as later texts by racial philologists including Rasmus Christian Nielsen Rask’s A Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Tongue (1830; item 1854), Samuel Laing’s Modern Science and Modern Thought (1855; item 1344), John Mitchell Kemble’s The Saxons in England (1849; revised ed., 1876; item 1307), and several historical works by Edward Augustus Freeman (items 955–59).7 In addition, Tennyson was personally familiar with Müller and Kemble, the latter being a fellow Cambridge “apostle.” Damien Love argues that claims of “Anglo-Saxon origins . . . barely estab- lished a foothold” in Britain, while “the Vikings have attained a much more potent hold on popular culture than the Anglo-Saxons have ever done” (463). Love goes on to suggest that Tennyson’s acceptance of racial blending in “A Welcome to Alexandra” (1863) is incompatible with Anglo-Saxonist thought. Although this poem does construct Britons as a mixture of “Saxon or Dane or Norman we, / Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be,” none of these sources, not even the “Celt,” is necessarily outside of Anglo-Saxonism (Poems 2: 31–32). This body of thought was broader and more complicated than Love’s confla- tion of it with ideas of racial purity suggests. Some strands, such as the one promoted by the mid-century magazine The Anglo-Saxon, included the Celts in a broad Caucasian family. Moreover, Anglo-Saxonist ideology contained both polygenetic and monogenetic strands. Turner, for example, argued that the human race was one and attacked previous writers for denigrating and denying Britain’s Celtic origins (Turner 3–4). Taylor, in an attempt to mend a schism between the racialists on this point, later argued that the Celts were the original Aryans (Taylor 296). Even Josiah Strong, one of the most virulent proponents of the Anglo-Saxons’ providential duty to dominate the globe, claimed that “The marked superiority of this race is due, in large measure, to its highly mixed origin” (171).8 Furthermore, Tennyson’s views on race were more complex than the reading of a single poem will attest. In Idylls, for example, he portrays the defeat of the noble Celtic King Arthur by the Saxon invader as a tragic but necessary stage in the development of Great Britain, a land in which the logical-yet-savage Saxon could dominate, but also benefit from, the suppos- edly ineffectual and more-naturally poetic Celt. Tennyson felt that the Celt’s supposedly artistic temperament, which many “Celticist” writers, includ- ing James MacPherson and Matthew Arnold, argued for, was an important part of the national and literary character of nineteenth-century Britain, yet he also distrusted the Celt and warned against interbreeding. “The Celtic race,” as Tennyson once stated in order to explain his opposition to William Gladstone’s Home Rule policy, “does not easily amalgamate with other races, as those of Scandinavian origin do” (qtd. in Hallam Tennyson 338). Yet despite advocating a belief in fixed bloodlines here and elsewhere, at other moments Tennyson represented the terms “Celt” and “English” as abstract owen clayton 91 cultural values related to character, behaviour, and law—even, as Matthew Reynolds has convincingly shown, to the extent that to be English meant “the subjugation of the Celt within” (216).9 That Tennyson contradicted himself at various points on the issue of race is unsurprising, given the length of his life and the confusions of racialist thinking during the Victorian period. Tennyson’s poetry wavers between cultural and racialist forms of Anglo- Saxonism. Some texts advocate law and liberty as the binding qualities of the English nation. This is the case in “Hail Briton!” (1832), for instance, which idealizes feudal England as a land in which “The cords of order and of law” were knitted around the “will” of every peasant (Poems 1: 28). Similarly, “You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease” (written 1833, published 1842), describes England as “The land, where girt with friends or foes / A man may speak the thing he will; / A land of settled government” (Poems 1: 7–9). Other works advocate a more essentialist view. In “The Palace of Art” (1833–42), for example, the speaker refers to “the supreme Caucasian mind” (Selected Edition 126) while an unpublished draft of “To the Queen” (1851) states that “The noblest men are born and bred / Among the Saxo-Norman race” (Selected Edition, 1–2). The latter reference to a “Saxo-Norman race” aligns Tennyson with a British tradition of Anglo-Saxonism, overlooked by Love, which understood the Normans to share a common Viking ancestry with the Saxons, and which claimed that the events of 1066 had reunited ancient Germanic-Norse tribes.10 In Harold, Tennyson’s play about the Norman inva- sion, William the Conqueror states his belief that “Of one self stock at first,” the Conquest will “Make them again one people—Norman, English ; / And English, Norman” (Works 5.2). However, Tennyson’s work is also inconsist- ent about the Normans. In The Foresters, he mixes the legend of Robin Hood with an Anglo-Saxonist interpretation of Magna Carta. Discussing King John, Robin prophesies: “For aught I know, / So that our Barons bring his baseness under. / I think they will be mightier than the king” (Works 1.2). Robin’s prediction is that Saxonism, with its associated elements of freedom and lib- erty, will defeat John’s Norman tyranny through the signing of Magna Carta. Tennyson’s confusion around the status of the Normans—Vikings, English, French, or whatever they be—is a confusion at the heart of Anglo-Saxonism itself. This confusion is appropriate, since fear of a French invasion played a crucial role in shaping his early attitude to the United States. In 1851, Napoleon III came to power in France following a coup d’état. Tennyson was outraged, as is clear from his colourful reference to the President of the Second French Republic as a “French Dutch pseudo- Corsican-bastard-blackleg kite-eaglet” (Letters 2: 47). He had literal night- mares about a French invasion of Britain, a prospect that was still troubling him in 1859, when he asked the Duke of Argyll whether someone might put a “bullet into Louis Napoleon’s forehead before he gets to London?” (Letters 2: 236). In his desperation, Tennyson wrote a number of nationalistic works: “the most contemptuously depreciated poems of his career,” according to victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 92 J. Timothy Lovelace (7). One of these, “Rifle Clubs!” (1852), advocated for the formation of a domestic defence force and the arming of British citizens, perhaps on the model of the United States (Poems 2: 469–70). In another poem—“Hands All Round,” published in the Examiner 7 February 1852 under the pseudonym “Merlin”—he overcame his annoyance at American publish- ers and called for aid from those whom he saw as Britain’s closest relations: Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood! We know thee and we love thee best; For art thou not of British blood? Should war’s mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers To fight thy mother here alone, But let thy broadsides roar with ours. Hands all round! God the tyrant’s cause confound! To our great kinsman of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. Oh rise, our strong Atlantic sons, When war against our freedom springs! Oh, speak to Europe through your guns! They can be understood by kings. You must not mix our Queen with those That wish to keep their people fools: Our freedom’s foemen are her foes; She comprehends the race she rules. Hands all round! God the tyrant’s cause confound! To our great kinsman in the West, my friends, And the great cause of Freedom, round and round. (Poems 2: 37–60) The proposed American military intervention is a “great cause,” part of the progress of a Hegelian “Freedom,” the cause’s greatness emphasized by the biblical “flood” used to describe the Atlantic. Written in iambic tetrameter, the first eight lines of the poem’s final two stanzas maintain a safely tradi- tional rhythm, one that emphasizes a common poetic history between the two English-speaking nations. A triple-stressed refrain immediately follows, with the contrast between these lines emphasizing a sense of urgency in the imperative “Hands all round!” Indeed, the frequency of imperatives (“Permit not,” “let thy broadsides roar,” “Oh rise,” “Oh, speak,” “You must not mix our Queen”) gives the poem a hectoring tone: though Tennyson is owen clayton 93 willing to ask for transatlantic assistance, the United States must nevertheless obey Britain’s commands. This presumed hierarchy stems from the respect owed to the older nation for its tradition of liberty, its long experience as an imperial power, and, above all, its political system. The poem states, “You [Americans] must not, mix our Queen with those / That wish to keep their people fools.” This attempt to distinguish between the liberal British and despotic Continental monarchies becomes muddled in the line “Our freedom’s foemen are her foes,” in which the terms “our” and “her” create a tangled sense of subject, a confusion that is not helped by the line’s allitera- tive pace. The justification for this distinction is that Victoria “comprehends the race she rules,” implying, presumably, that Napoleon III does not. In an earlier draft, Tennyson had written, “comprehends the land she rules” (The Tennyson Archive Harvard bMS Eng 952.1 (75–78), VIII 207–212). Though it was a term with a broad meaning in the mid-nineteenth century, this change to “race” nevertheless enhances the sense of an essential difference between Britain and France. Tennyson feels more aligned with Britain’s “strong Atlantic sons” than he does with France because Americans are, as the poem puts it, “of British blood.” The poem’s use of familial and sanguinary figures is significant. According to Ansgar Nünning, the family was the most commonly applied metaphor used by imperialists to describe the British Empire. Kinship metaphors, as Nünning argues, naturalized and simplified complex political dynamics by implying “that the relationship between England and her colonies was based on unity, harmony, and, above all, love” (77). Tennyson’s use of mother-child metaphors to describe a former colony suggests the relationship of an experienced and responsible party to a youthful, perhaps naïve one. The United States may be fully independent (or fully-grown) but, the poem implies, it should still learn its place in the imperial pecking order. As I will discuss later, Tennyson’s con- fidence in the relative position of the two nations would change radically by the time of his final poetic output. First, however, I will examine Tennyson’s reaction to the War of Secession, an event that was crucial in forming his distinction between the American North and South. t e n n y s o n a n d t h e a m e r i c a n c i V i l wa r Stories of the American tourists who plagued Farringford were legendary.11 As a result of his frequent battles with transatlantic autograph hunters, schol- ars have tended to conclude that Tennyson disliked Americans.12 Yet during the American Civil War, he came to develop a fondness for Southerners, while increasing his brusque attitude toward those from the North and East. Though often passed over by embarrassed Tennysonians, there is little doubt which side of the war the Laureate was on. He adopted a similar stance to that of the Southern General Robert E. Lee: while both men opposed slavery in principle, they felt that the rule of law and the right of (white) self-determination were more important. In an 1862 letter to the Duchess victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 94 of Argyll, Tennyson asked whether the secession of the Southern States con- stituted treason against the Union: If I read rightly what has been truly written of the Constitution of those Southern States—No. Slavery there was recognised when each state was received—a sovereign state abdicating part of its sovereignty and laying it before the throne of the Union with a right to resume it at will. I love not slavery more than Charles Sumner does; but here a cool spectator—not an actor all on fire among these fiery scenes— small praise to me if I love justice more than he. (Letters 2: 318)13 Like many British Confederate sympathizers, Tennyson believed that slav- ery would end sooner if the South became independent. A nation’s devel- opment, according to this conservative view, must occur naturally, rather than being forced by the interference of well-meaning politicians. In 1864, as part of his increasingly partisan involvement with Southerners, he met John Reuben Thompson, a Dixieland poet and propagandist, and Walker Fern, a diplomatic representative of the Confederacy. He liked both men, describing them as possessing “the finest gentlemenship, perfectly simple and noble- mannered” (Letters 2: 385). The reference to Thompson and Fern as possessing the qualities of gentlemen encapsulates the distinction that he was beginning to make between North and South. While Northerners were, he felt, largely responsible for robbing him of justly deserved roy- alties through their pirate publishing activities, Southerners had a more old-fashioned, even Old World belief in simplicity, nobility, and good man- ners. According to Thompson’s account of this meeting, Tennyson “talked much of the American war, which he deplored, and of the Yankees, whom he detested” (1864; Wilson 13). Though given from the perspective of a Confederate, this is nevertheless the first recorded instance of Tennyson distinguishing between North and South. Whereas before the Civil War he had used the term “Yankeeland” to refer to the United States generally (see Letters 1: 338), here he uses “Yankee” to mean Northerner. The word “detested” parallels the strength of feeling that Tennyson displayed in his 1862 letter to the Duchess of Argyll, in which he went on to say that he was “disappointed nay disgusted with the Northerners ever yelling and mouthing against their old European mother” (Letters 2: 318). His disgust related to the bad feeling that sprang up between the Union and Great Britain during the war, over what Northerners perceived as Britain’s friendly relationship with the South. The biggest flashpoint occurred when a Confederate warship, the Alabama, was built at Birkenhead in 1862. After leaving port, the ship went on to capture or sink sixty-five merchant ships working for the Union. This caused great bitterness in the American North and a decade-long period owen clayton 95 of “Anglophobia,” a phenomenon that was widely reported back in Britain (see Foreman, Rugemer, Tuffnell).14 Highly sensitive to criticism, whether personal or political, Tennyson felt enormous resentment at Union censure of Great Britain. Following the end of the conflict, Tennyson referred to the South’s failed war for independence as a “heroic struggle” and expressed a desire to read the memoirs of the Confederate officer Heros Von Borcke, which had been ghostwritten by John Thompson (Letters 2: 408). Tennyson’s hostile attitude to Northerners crystallized following the American publication of an unau- thorized magazine account of his Farringford home. He declared on 3 June 1866, “I shall admit no more Yankees into my house until they learn to rev- erence the hearth” (Letters 2: 438). This prohibition clearly did not apply to Southerners, though, since Thompson’s diary indicates that he was “cordially received by the poet” later that same month (Wilson 30).15 This prejudicial attitude continued for at least two decades, as indicated by the account of William Gordon McCabe, Headmaster at the University School in Petersburg, Virginia, and a former Confederate officer. McCabe and Tennyson met in 1884 and got on extremely well, McCabe becoming a regular guest at Farringford and Aldworth, Tennyson’s home in Surrey.16 During their first meeting, the pair, according to McCabe, “talked of the South” and “of Negro franchise” (memorandum dated 12 September 1884, cited in Gordon 349). McCabe did not record precisely what was said on these topics, but the attitude that both men took to “Negro franchise” can be inferred from Tennyson’s infamous argument with Gladstone about the 1865 Eyre rebellion (“Niggers are tigers, niggers are tigers,” the poet was heard to say) and McCabe’s description of Reconstruction as “dark days” in which the North had sought to impose “humiliations” upon the South (Gordon 53).17 Upon another visit by McCabe in 1885, Tennyson repeated the comment about disliking Yankees and confessed to his friend: “ ‘I can trust you because you are a Southerner and a gentleman,’ ” terms which he conflated easily (Gordon, 352). His use of “Yankee” to refer to Americans from the North was unusual among his countrymen. According to the OED, in Britain the term had referred to all Americans from the War of Independence onward. It did not acquire a more specific meaning, as in the United States, though even there the term began to lose its regional denotation in the 1880s and 1890s.18 Using “Yankee” in its American, antebellum sense in late nineteenth- century Britain seems politically significant, not to say bloody-minded, on Tennyson’s part. For Tennyson, the “Yankee” figure embodied a corrupted Anglo-Saxon culture, one that had allowed itself to mix with Celtic blood and Celtic values—including Catholicism, as I will discuss in a later section. In 1862, for example, he blamed Northerners’ Anglophobia on “the overpropor- tion of Celtic blood among them” (Letters 2: 319). This attitude continued for many years. In 1887, he was strongly critical of the United States’ favourable victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 96 attitude to Home Rule, attributing it to the high number of Irish immigrants in the North (Letters 3: 354). By contrast, he felt that the South had maintained a rigid social hierarchy based on Anglo-Saxon superiority, creating a culture that encouraged the rule of law, moderate behaviour, and respect for the individuality of persons. Among many other things, this belief overlooked the question of master- slave sexual relations. Tennyson was both aware of and attracted to ideas of miscegenation, as both “Anacaona” (circa 1830; Poems 1: 309–11), an eroti- cized, unpublished poem about a female chief of Xaragua, and the speaker’s declaration in “Locksley Hall” that he will “take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race” attest (Poems 1: 168). Given this, it is surprising that the topic of interracial sex does not emerge from any of the extant material documenting his thoughts about US slavery. This may be a gap in the historical record, or perhaps his Southern friends reassured him that miscegenation did not occur within the Confederacy. Alternatively, most troubling of all, it is possible that Tennyson had heard about the institution- alized rape that was common on Southern plantations but simply did not care. Whatever the truth of the matter, Tennyson’s postbellum poetry, as the following section will demonstrate, shows an increased distrust toward the American “Yankee,” whose victory over the South and overthrow of chattel slavery meant that economic, political, and military conflict with Britain now appeared inevitable. “ y a n K e e s h a r p e r s ”: p o s t b e l l u m i m p e r i a l r i Va l r y In 1871, the New York Ledger offered Tennyson £1000 for a three-stanza poem. The subsequent work, “England and America in 1782” (1872) has received little critical attention, partly because it is a rewritten version of a poem composed in the early 1830s. As I will now argue, the poem’s meaning in 1872 was different from its original unpublished incarnation, not because of textual amendments (of which there are relatively few) but because of the different political context for the later version.19 “England and America in 1782” promotes the benefits of self-rule. The poem addresses a personified Britain, the “strong mother of a lion-line” (Poems 2: 3). It asks the nation to “Be proud of those strong sons of thine / Who wrench’d their rights from thee!” and suggests that during the War of Independence America had “Retaught the lesson thou had’st taught” (4–5). This renders the American Revolution British: another event in the progress of the freedom-loving Anglo-Saxons. Tennyson again mixes racial and cul- tural forms of Anglo-Saxonism, on the one hand praising common traditions of law and on the other noting that Americans “sprang from English blood.” (10) Ledbetter claims that Tennyson sent this poem to the Ledger because he “hoped for better relations between the two countries” after the Civil War (190). This is, I suggest, only partly true, since it overlooks the gibe hidden in the final stanza: owen clayton 97 Whatever harmonies of law The growing world assume, Thy work is thine—The single note From that deep chord which Hampden smote Will vibrate to the doom. (16–20) Christopher Ricks notes that Tennyson was going to use this stanza for the “Ode on the Death of Wellington” (1852, 1853, 1855) but that he removed it from that poem (Selected Edition, 320). Being in the “Ode” would, he claims, have confused the sailor/soldier balance of that poem. John Hampden’s connection with ships is indeed a crucial connotation. Ricks argues that “Hampden’s honourable rebellion against royal tyranny is pertinent to the American rebellion” (320). Yet by the time that “England and America” was published, Hampden represented to Tennyson a figure of resistance not only to the tyranny of Charles I, but that of the United States as well. Killed on the battlefield during the English Civil War, one of Hampden’s most significant contributions to history was his refusal to pay “ship- money.” This was the King’s right to raise ships from maritime towns and cities without Parliament’s consent. Since additional ships were frequently unavailable, money was often paid instead—so that ship-money became a form of taxation without representation. Though there are obvious historical links with the American Revolution here, for Tennyson the contemporary resonance— or vibration, to use the poem’s own language—of ship-money came during the “Alabama Claims.” From 1869 to 1872, the United States sought damages from Great Britain for losses suffered as a result of actions taken by the Alabama. Tennyson was incandescent at this legal action, which America eventually won through international arbitration. A month after the publication of “England and America,” he wrote to Gladstone who, as Prime Minister, was involved in the final negotiations. After first wishing him luck, Tennyson advised his friend: “if you let those Yankee sharpers get anything like their way of you in the Alabama Claims, I won’t pay my ‘ship- money’ any more than old Hampden” (Letters 3: 24).20 As Matthew Bevis notes, Hampden was, for Tennyson, a law-abiding rebel, a man willing to stand up for the law even when great powers did not (154). Seen in this context, the reference to Hampden in “England and America” was, rather than a call for transatlantic solidarity, actually a critique of “Yankee sharpers” who were attempting, once again, to enrich themselves. It positioned the United States as a modern Charles I, seeking ship-money from innocent Britons who had little power to resist. The poem’s reference to “Whatever harmonies of law / the growing world assume / Thy work is thine” is ironic, since Tennyson understood the 1871 Treaty of Washington and the 1872 international arbitration in Geneva to be discordant rather than harmonious.21 “Thy work is thine” suggests that Albion will maintain its tradition of resistance to tyranny no matter what victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 98 the rest of the world, apparently now ganging up on the Empire in the arbi- tration process, might do. Hampden’s “deep chord” now takes on a more ominous meaning, enhanced by the change in pace that occurs with the line break after “smote” and the elongated double vowel sound of “doom,” which enacts the vibration of the line’s beginning. Struck when Britain was the centre of the world, the chord of freedom had vibrated outward to the peripheral parts of the globe, including the Americas. But now, as W. B. Yeats might put it, the centre could not hold. The phrase “to the doom” implies the end of British dominance in the face of a “growing world,” particularly the rising power of “Yankee sharpers.” This was a challenge to Tennyson’s Anglo-Saxonist views because since the Civil War he had understood the American North to be an Anglo-Celtic culture. Troubled by a perceived grow- ing threat to the British Empire, Tennyson’s sense of the inevitability of conflict between the two imperial rivals increased as the decade went on. In the late 1870s, the Laureate was pressed by “certain prominent Americans” to write a poem commemorating “the discovery of America in verse” (Hallam Tennyson 255). The resulting work, “Columbus” (1880), wrote back against Walt Whitman’s “Prayer of Columbus” (1874), problema- tizing the earlier poem’s idealism and revelling in the troubled history of continental discovery. Whitman’s Columbus claims to have opened up the American continent to the superior productive capacity of private owner- ship and capitalist agriculture, setting it free to achieve its potential.22 This was, of course, the ideological justification behind the seizure of land from indigenous peoples in the Americas and elsewhere. Although he cannot see the future clearly, Columbus has a vision at the poem’s rapturous conclusion. Adopting the language of Manifest Destiny, the speaker hopes that “the life- less cross I know—Europe’s dead cross—may bud and blossom here” (40), leading to a renewal of the Christian faith. Unsurprisingly, Tennyson objected to Whitman’s optimism, his favour- able comparisons of the United States (in its “Yankee” formulation) with Europe, and in particular to his assumption of a superior religious atmos- phere in America.23 “Columbus” links his fears about American morality and the consequences of an American-dominated globe to the discovery of the New World. He follows his acknowledged source, Washington Irving’s A History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (1828), in absolving the explorer of personal responsibility for atrocities. Nevertheless, Tennyson’s Columbus, unlike Whitman’s, is aware of what came after him: “the lust / Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain / Pour’d in on all those happy naked isles,” whose inhabitants are “quench’d in blood” (Poems 3: 169–72). The poem begins with the word “Chains,” a term that is repeated throughout as the speaker describes being brought back from the New World in irons to face accusations of abuse and mismanagement. He has hung the chains by his bed after his release, with the eventual intention of being buried with them. He imagines a future visitor to his grave asking, “what do they mean – the owen clayton 99 chains?” (207). For Columbus they are a symbol of his poor treatment and the ingratitude of the Spanish King, but their prominence suggests that the chains may have additional meanings as well. The speaker claims that he “unchained” the “Atlantic Sea” (210–11), an ironic statement given what was to follow his voyage. The image of chains stretching across the Atlantic is metonymic of transatlantic slavery, which the poem implies is the result not of Columbus himself but of the Catholic state that employed him. Indeed, at the start of the poem the speaker positions himself as straining against limitations imposed by the Roman Catholic Church, whose theologians use archaic arguments out of Lactantius and St. Augustine to prevent him from making his journey. Marion Sherwood rightly connects the poem’s anti- Catholic message to Tennyson’s fears about Irish Home Rule, but there is also a critique of “Yankee” America in this anti-Catholic sentiment (168). The corrupted Celtic-Catholic culture that led Columbus’s followers to enslave the native populations of the Americas (and the subsequent African slave trade) is the same culture that Tennyson saw as being instrumental in the United States’ aggressive foreign policy toward Britain during his own day. Yet Tennyson’s realization of America’s rise would lead him to a stunning volte-face, one that meant he would come to idealize American political struc- tures and even, in his final published poem, to imply once again that Britain and the United States were indeed a single, Anglo-Saxon culture. What united them was not race, however, but Protestant Christianity. t e n n y s o n , f e d e r a l i s m , a n d t h e n e w a m e r i c a n e m p i r e For Tennyson, America’s growing power, as well as that of Germany and Russia, was occurring in inverse proportion to the decline of the British Empire.24 Pessimism pervades his late imperial poetry, including the Laureate Ode “On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria” (1887). Despite public exhortations from Gladstone to keep the Ode upbeat, “On the Jubilee” begins with the image of a rose blooming and dying fifty times, implying that all things undergo a Gibbonesque “Decline and Fall.” It ends with foreboding ques- tions for the Empire: “Are there thunders moaning in the darkness? / Are there spectres moving in the darkness?” (Poems 3: 66–67). Similarly, accord- ing to Aidan Day, “the impending fall of Britain and its Empire” is both the “nightmare and the intended warning” of the Idylls (Day 192).25 The only chance to prevent decline, for Tennyson, was to refashion the Empire into a federation: a unified state spanning several continents, with an imperial parliament in which all members had an equal voice. What was needed, in other words, was a United States of Great Britain. In 1884, he and his son Hallam joined the Imperial Federation League, a group created with the aim of advancing the cause of “Greater Britain.”26 Robert Inglesfield, Marion Sherwood, and Cornelia Pearsall have analyzed Tennyson’s commit- ment to federation, though each has tended to underplay the importance victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 100 of America in the poet’s vision of global unity. The United States, as Duncan Bell notes, was “the archetypal federal state,” which served as “a construc- tive template for the future” of the British Empire (100, 208).27 While some Britons saw the Civil War as evidence of disunity, federalists such as Tennyson understood it to demonstrate the strength of America’s political system.28 The conflict had been a great test, one that the United States—and par- ticularly the principle of federation—had passed convincingly. Late in life, Tennyson spoke in glowing terms about the American Constitution, which, following the 1867 Reform Act in Britain, he had come to see as a bulwark against excessive democracy.29 The poem “Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibition by the Queen” (1886) shows Tennyson’s anxiety for the future of Britain’s overseas domains if imperial federation (“One life, one flag, one fleet, one throne”) is not adopted (Poems 3: 39). As Sherwood notes, the imagery of “Sons, be welded each and all / Into one imperial whole” (Tennyson 36–37) implies the violence that may be necessary to bring about such a unified structure (Sherwood 167). This is also an image of modern industry, which can make use of the “Produce of your field and flood / Mount and mine, and primal wood / Works of subtle brain and hand” (5–6) to create a new global polity. Technology, in particular steamships and the telegraph, now made a state spanning several continents a practical possibility. The poem’s call for unity is set against its anxious “Brothers, must we part at last?” (32), a question that stems from the loss of the American colonies: Britain fought her sons of yore – Britain fail’d; and never more, Careless of our growing kin, Shall we sin our father’s sin, Men that in a narrower day – Unprophetic rulers they – Drove from out the mother’s nest That young eagle of the West To forage for herself alone; Britons, hold your own! (21–30) The eighteenth-century was a “narrower day” not only because British rul- ers were complacent about American political demands, but also because the material conditions of the era meant that communication across a great divide was much more difficult. Now that barriers of time and space had been overcome by “Works of subtle brain and hand,” all that was needed was sufficient political will. Britain’s political leaders had therefore to learn from the “Unprophetic” rulers of the past, observe the direction in which history was moving, and help to bring about a new global order. The poem’s call for imperial unity may even include bringing the United States back owen clayton 101 home, since the language of “sons” used to describe British colonial nations is the same as the “sons of yore” used to describe the former colonists. Indeed, as in “Hands all Round,” the text’s confusing melange of subjects— “Britain,” “Sons and brothers,” “our,” “we,” “her sons,” “the mother’s nest,” “our father’s sin”—points to an identity crisis of which the poem is aware but which it cannot resolve. Just who, or what, is Greater Britain? Is it a racial polity, or one that accommodates India, South Africa, and the West Indies? And what of the United States, which remained a stubbornly independent nation? The poem does not answer these questions. In order to see how Tennyson dealt with them, I turn to “Kapiolani,” one of his final and most politically enigmatic works. Posthumously published in 1892, “Kapiolani” concerns the legendary actions of its eponymous heroine, a native Hawaiian chief who converted to Christianity in 1824. According to contemporary accounts, Kapi’olani braved the wrath of the native god Pele by daring to pray beside the crater of the active volcano Kīlauea, in which the spirit of Pele was believed to reside. Emerging unharmed from this journey, Kapi’olani scored a valuable propaganda victory for the islands’ protestant missionaries, who had arrived in Hawai’i only five years before. Tennyson portrays this as a victory of the Christian God over “a Spirit of Evil”: a “demon” that had set itself up as a Deity (Works 3, 57). The fact that Tennyson pays no attention either to the politics of Kapi’olani’s own day or to Hawai’i’s contemporary status as a de facto American outpost will seem unsurprising. He does not overlook these issues out of mere ignorance, however, but rather to avoid admitting the United States’ victory in a century-long imperial struggle. America’s awkward absence is, I contend, an implicit admission that the future of world imperialism belongs to that nation. While Sally Engle Merry argues that the poem portrays Kapi’olani as a “model of British heroism” and a woman who defines “the essence of Britain,” I claim that it in fact attempts to unite Britain with America in response to a perceived decline in the former’s global reach (56). Tennyson was reasonably familiar with Hawai’i’s internal and external politics, his knowledge coming from personal contacts and his own reading. In late 1865, he and Emily had hosted the Hawaiian Queen Emma and her entourage at Farringford for several days. They gave the Queen an ilex-wood throne to use for the duration of her visit, an artefact which remains at the Tennyson Research Centre.30 “Kapiolani” indicates that Tennyson paid atten- tion to Hawaiian pronunciation during Queen Emma’s visit, especially in its repetition of the phonetic epistrophe “Hawa-i-ee” (15, 33, 57–58). The dou- ble vowel sound operates as a performative sign of Otherness, one that enacts Hawai’i’s exotic strangeness in a similar way to Tennyson’s Lincolnshire dialect poems. The visit also provided Tennyson with a long-term interest in the Hawaiian Islands, and he continued to read about them during later years.31 Given that he had a fair degree of knowledge about the islands and victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 102 was sensitive to matters of imperial power, Tennyson was unlikely to be ignorant about Hawai’i’s tentative political position, perched as it was on the brink of annexation by the United States.32 References to political actors are absent from Tennyson’s poem. Instead, “Kapiolani” presents the actions of its eponymous protagonist as part of a global Manifest Destiny, in which savage customs and religions are beaten down by Christian progress. The poem also underplays the internal politi- cal changes that occurred in Hawai’i just prior to the missionaries’ arrival, changes which made the job of conversion significantly easier.33 Having been united as a single state under King Kamehameha I in 1810, the islands of Hawai’i faced the prospect of falling back into separate nations upon his death in 1819. The arrival of Protestant missionaries was in one sense for- tuitous for the ruling ali’i, a group to which Kapi’olani belonged, because Christianity provided a new ideology that could consolidate Kamehameha I’s recent conquests. Summarizing this history, Tennyson’s poem asserts: “One from the Sunrise / Dawn’d on His people, and slowly before him / Vanish’d shadow-like / Gods and Goddesses / None but the terrible Peelè remain- ing” (43–48). The imagery of pagan gods vanishing like shadows before the sun implies that the islanders’ conversion was a natural, even automatic, process, though this is contradicted by the reference to “One,” presumably Christ via his missionaries, arriving “from the sunrise.” The poem displays an internal tension, then, about the extent to which Hawai’i’s religious and social changes were driven by human or divine intervention. Either way, the poem serves to justify past interventions while also anticipating America’s 1898 annexation. In its varied line length, trochaic rhythm, and sparing use of rhyme, “Kapiolani” demonstrates the development of Tennyson’s late style. It imitates, according to Charles Tennyson, the Hawaiian songs that the poet had heard during Queen Emma’s visit (523). Commenting on its flexible and irregular lines, Jason Nabi writes that “ ‘Kapiolani’ is one of the last poems Tennyson ever wrote, and it is as close to the poetic future, and as close to finished free verse, as he gets” (195). The poem’s looser structure edges toward a federalism of verse: a form in which the relationship of the parts to the whole is decentralized. This structure, which Nabi neatly characterizes as Tennyson’s “freer” verse, has consciously Whitmanesque overtones (177).34 It represents an acknowledgement of Whitman’s increasing cultural power and, through him, that of the United States itself. Given the United States’ increasing influence in Hawaiian affairs, it is unsurprising that “Kapiolani” is Tennyson’s most “American” poem. Thanks to its unspoken transatlantic ideology, “Kapiolani” breaks from the pessimism that marks “Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibition” and “On the Jubilee.” Genuinely jubilant this time, “Kapiolani’s” tone sug- gests that the removal of Hawai’i’s old gods laid the groundwork for a better future. Though it alludes to the work of American missionaries, they are not owen clayton 103 identified by nationality. By suggesting that the missionaries’ nationality is less important than their Protestant religion, the poem sidesteps the likely decline of the British Empire, uniting (or reuniting) Britain and America. It is important to note that Tennyson sets Kapi’olani’s individualistic rebel- lion against a corrupt and decadent “Priesthood” (34, 50), the latter being a recognizable stereotype of Catholicism. By making Kapi’olani into a native version of Martin Luther, then, the poem aligns itself with cultural rather than racial Anglo-Saxonism: even a Hawaiian chief can be an Anglo-Saxon. Indeed, Tennyson equates Kapi’olani’s defiance of Pele to “the Saxon who hurl’d at his Idol, a valorous weapon in olden England!” (7–9). This com- parison aligns Saxon England with pre-Christian Hawai’i in order to suggest that divine providence was at play in Christianizing both societies. In other words, the poem presents a vision of Manifest Destiny in which a trans- national Protestant civilization, the Anglo-Saxons understood as a cultural rather than a racial force, must spread inevitably Westward. c o n c l u s i o n As this article has shown, Tennyson’s relationship to the United States was complex and mutable, influenced by different strands of Anglo-Saxonist thinking while also reacting to important political events. In his early career, the poet was angered by unauthorized American printings of his work, but he also responded to the call for racial solidarity implicit in Anglo-Saxonist ideology. These two factors pulled him in opposite directions, leading to contradictory statements and attitudes. After the Civil War, he differenti- ated between the North and South, developing a particular fondness for Southerners. This allowed him to vent his spleen at “Yankee sharpers,” a mixed group of Anglo-Celts who were willing to sacrifice everything to what Washington Irving called “the almighty dollar.” It also led him to idealize the South as a land of honest gentlemen, the New World’s final bastion of Anglo-Saxon values. Utterly lost in this analysis, of course, were America’s non-white peoples. Indeed, in “Columbus,” in which Tennyson makes a rare acknowledgement of slavery, he puts the blame for the slave trade on Catholicism in order to preserve his Anglo-Saxonist principles. Tennyson came to respect the American political system, particularly fed- eration. His poem “Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibition” argues that the Empire must adopt a federal system of government or else collapse. In advocating for this system, Tennyson opened the door to British-American reunification. In “Kapiolani,” America’s invisible presence speaks volumes, signifying Tennyson’s concern that the United States would soon surpass Britain as the world’s dominant power. The poem’s solution is to present Protestant Christianity as the driving force of history, bringing Britons and Americans together under the same religious culture. Tennyson’s poetry was popular in part because it serviced the cause of Empire; its didacticism served as effective schoolroom propaganda in victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 104 Britain, the United States, and elsewhere.35 Notably, many writers who took a different view of imperialism or colonialism felt the need to tackle the ideology of Anglo-Saxonism imbedded in Tennyson’s work.36 Mark Twain, for example, parodied the British Poet Laureate as the reactionary figure of Merlin in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889), a text in which the time-travelling Hank Morgan’s belief in his superiority over the Arthurians is based not upon race, but on his possession of nineteenth-century scientific knowledge. As this article has indicated, scholars have overlooked cultural Anglo-Saxonism, which has been left in the shadow of its racial counterpart. Future research might analyze this complex body of thought in the work of other “long nineteenth-century” writers. This would better our understand- ing of the waves and ripples of transatlantic literary relations and provide new ways to think about what it meant to create a “national” literature in the context of Anglo-Saxonist empire. Notes My thanks to Alice Crossley and Jim Cheshire for their supportive feedback on this article, and also to Jim for allowing me to read part of his (at the time) forthcoming monograph on Tennyson and publishing. I am also grateful to Grace Timmins, the (sadly now former) curator of the Tennyson Research Centre (TRC), for all of her wonderful assistance. At the time of writing, the TRC has been moved from its longstanding location above Lincoln Library and placed at a temporary site, following the UK Conservative Government’s cuts to local council funding. A longer-term solution must be found to this situation, which threatens the integrity of the world’s primary collection of material on Tennyson. TRC item numbers are taken from Nancie Campbell’s 2 volume Tennyson in Lincoln, A Catalogue of the Collections of the Research Centre (1971). 1 Tennyson was still angry in 1892, when, reflecting on his treatment by Wheeler over half a century earlier, he wrote (but never published) the lines: “I weeded my garden for hours and hours / To make it a pleasure for women and men; / But a Yankee planted the weeds again, / Little he cared for the flowers” (Poems 3: 244). 2 This is despite the fact that Tennyson was well treated by Ticknor and Fields, his Boston-based publishers, who paid him royalties during the 1850s and 60s even though they were under no legal obligation to do so. This practice was known as the “courtesy of the trade” (see Cheshire). 3 See Brantlinger, Ebbatson, Hughes, O’Brien, Reynolds, Riede, Rowlinson, Shaw, and Shatto. 4 See England, Finnerty, Gravil, Hood, and Joseph. 5 The tipping point was 1856, the year in which Tennyson’s new edition of Poems sold more copies in America than it did in Britain. My thanks to Jim Cheshire for this information. 6 The latter was an accusation that was put to Tennyson during his lifetime. The widely reported idea “that I dislike Americans,” he wrote to Henry Van Dyke on 19 August 1889, “is wholly without foundation” (Letters 3: 403). owen clayton 105 7 From pencil marks alongside the text, seemingly made by Alfred Tennyson or by his son Hallam (who often assisted his father), volume 2 of Edward Augustus Freeman’s History of the Norman Conquest (TRC item 956) appears to have been consulted for Tennyson’s research into Harold. 8 Strong argues that Tennyson’s “A Welcome to Alexandra” is insufficiently inclusive, having apparently failed to spot the reference to Celts at the end of the poem. 9 In “Locksley Hall – Sixty Years After” (1886), Tennyson describes the French Revolution as the result of “Celtic Demos,” which “rose a Demon, shriek’d and slaked the light with blood” (Poems 3: 90). 10 This was a common position. In 1839, Thomas Carlyle described the Normans as “Saxons who had learned to speak French” (247) while in Hereward the Wake (1866) Charles Kingsley’s narrator asserts that Duke William is “the descendent of Rollo the heathen Viking” (323). 11 So much so that they later found their way into Virginia Woolf ’s drawing-room comedy Freshwater (1935), in which the character of Tennyson states that “six American professors are in the summer house” while “the bathroom is occupied by the Ladies drawing room Circle from Ohio” (1.8). 12 See Clark 1; Eidson 124–25; and Martin 319, 469, 565. 13 The legality of unilateral secession was much disputed. It was only explicitly outlawed by the United States Supreme Court in 1869 (Texas v. White), four years after the war’s conclusion. For more on the legal background to secession, see Stampp. 14 The most infamous incident of antebellum Anglophobia was the Mayor of Chicago’s refusal, following the 1871 Chicago Fire, to accept a gift of books sent by Queen Victoria for a new city library. 15 An enlightening example of the distinction that Tennyson drew between North and South is his reaction to receiving gifts of tobacco and smoking pipes. That the Laureate was a heavy smoker was well known, and he was inundated with tobacco from admirers. His American donors included Henry Wadsworth Longfellow who, in 1866, perhaps as a gesture of goodwill during the period of “Anglophobia,” sent Tennyson a Calumet, commonly (and inaccurately) referred to as a peace pipe. Rather than being grateful for this gift (which remains in pristine, seemingly unused condition in the TRC), Tennyson complained: “It is odd that the Americans always send me pipes and tobacco, as if I cared for nothing else in the world; and their tobacco is not my tobacco, nor their pipes my pipes” (Letters 2: 445). Later, he apologized to Longfellow for having neither acknowledged nor indeed used the pipe (Letters 2: 448). In contrast, he prized tobacco from Southerners highly. In 1884, for example, he thanked the Southern writer and editor Paul Hamilton Payne for his gift of “North Carolina tobacco,” which he called “very good” (Letters 3: 307). He was similarly grateful to his good friend McCabe, who sent him Durham and Lone Jack tobacco on different occasions: “whenever the smoke of your Durham ascends to Heaven from my pipe, I shall remember the giver and wish him health and happiness” (Letters 3: 365). Tennyson apparently not only received Southern tobacco, but he inhaled it as well. 16 Obsessed with militaristic poetry, McCabe had previously published Tennyson’s “ ‘The Revenge:’ A Ballad of the Fleet” in his collection Ballads of Battle and Bravery (1879). 17 For more on Tennyson’s argument with Gladstone, see John Addington Symonds’s account (dated 8 December 1865) in Letters (2: 415–21). As he had done with Thompson in 1864, Tennyson told McCabe that “He disliked the Yankees extremely” said he had “refused to see them” in recent times (Gordon 350). victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 106 In 1887, McCabe became the Commander or “Colonel” of the “A. P. Hill Camp” for Southern war veterans, which consisted of those who “refused to admit for one moment the unrighteousness” of the “principle” of Secession or their “patriotism” toward the Confederate States of America (Gordon 53). 18 See “Yankee.” 19 As far as I am aware, the fact that the poem was originally a poetic response to Edward Wakefield’s England and America: a Comparison of the Social and Political State of Both Nations (1833) has escaped critical attention. Wakefield’s book, operating on the principle that “the Americans and the English have a common interest in understanding the art of colonization” aimed to increase each nation’s understanding of the political conditions of the other (vi). The American War of Independence, Wakefield claimed, had demonstrated that ruling a colony over a great distance was impossible and that local self-government was therefore inevitable for all Anglo-Saxon peoples. Britain could, however, be satisfied with its status as the originator of this lineage. 20 Given that America’s original claim for damages was $2,000,000,000 and was centred upon a baseless suggestion that the actions of the Alabama extended the war by two years, Tennyson’s anger is understandable. The final settlement was $15,500,000. See Foreman 812. 21 Tennyson owned Consequential Damages (1872), attributed to the pseudonymous “Saxe Brit,” which stated its contempt for the legal process by which the Alabama Claims were decided. Denying the existence of a mandate for any form of International Law, Brit argued that the Alabama Claims were “a case, not of law, but of courtesy” (9) and that America was not being gentlemanly in its pursuit of reparations. Tennyson’s possession of this volume, along with his letter to Gladstone, is an indication that he agreed with this assessment. See Tennyson’s copy at the TRC (item 609). 22 This echoes William Foster Lloyd’s 1833 argument about common land, famously reformulated in 1968 by Garrett Hardin as “The Tragedy of the Commons.” 23 He had already stated as much in an 1872 letter to Whitman, which he wrote shortly after the United States was awarded damages over the Alabama dispute. After first praising his interlocutor for his “large faith in the future of the world and your own country,” Tennyson commented that “there is a chance that your country may turn out the most immoral the world has ever seen” (Letters 3: 36). 24 Tennyson feared that the US would annex Canada and that Britain had neither the sufficient military resources nor political will to defend its far-flung territories. In 1884, he told McCabe that “England . . . had reached her zenith, and was going down hill” (Gordon 350). 25 Several critics have noted Tennyson’s contradictory use and denial of Epic over the half-century construction of the Idylls (see Graham, Day, Dentith, Tucker)— an ambiguous, even apologetic relationship with the poetic genre most associated with nation building and imperialism, which is reflective, among other things, of a loss of confidence in the project of empire. Tennyson’s other major concern was generic: a fear that writing Epic in the nineteenth-century was anachronistic. 26 The term came from Charles Dilke’s popular Greater Britain: A Record of Travel of English Speaking Countries, During 1866 and 1867 (1890), which was later reused for his two- volume Problems of Greater Britain (1890). Tennyson’s library contains a copy of the later (TRC item 861) but not the earlier work. 27 In his popular The Expansion of England (1883), a copy of which Tennyson owned (TRC item 1985), John Seeley wrote that “The United States is a great example of a system under which an indefinite number of provinces is firmly held together” (160). There are numerous pencil marks in Tennyson’s copy of this book, owen clayton 107 including alongside the lines just quoted. This suggests a thorough engagement with the text, but whether these marks are by Alfred Tennyson, Hallam, or someone else is unclear. Tennyson admired Expansion of England enough to send it to Gladstone, though the book did not change the latter’s anti-federalist principles (Hallam Tennyson 301). 28 Tennyson’s views on federalism date from the end of the American Civil War. In 1865, he told William Allingham that “England ought to keep her colonies and draw them closer. She ought to have their representatives sitting in London, either in or in connection with the Imperial Parliament” (William Allingham’s diary, 29 July 1865; Letters 2: 404). There are references to federation in “The Day Dream” (1842) and, most famously, “Locksley Hall” (1842), though neither of these poems indicates an explicit political agenda regarding federalism in Tennyson’s early career. 29 See his letter to Walt Whitman, 15 November 1887, in Letters 3: 359. This letter was published in The Times on 22 November 1887, with Tennyson’s permission. 30 Since the visit consisted mostly of tea and polite conversation, interspersed with the performance of Hawaiian songs and poetry, it has been dismissed by Tennyson biographer John Batchelor as “utterly pointless” (279). This was not a view held by Emma, however. Partly English herself, she wanted Hawai’i to seek an alliance with Britain rather than America. In 1874, she would unsuccessfully contest the Hawaiian throne against Kalākaua, who at that time was supportive of American influence. Queen Emma’s visit to Britain was aimed at securing the Empire’s good will, and her visit to see the Poet Laureate should be seen in this context. 31 In 1871, Tennyson wrote to Manley Hopkins, British Consul General in Hawai’i (and father of the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins), to accept a position on a Committee responsible for building a new church in Honolulu. Confirming his yearly subscription, Tennyson claimed that “neither my wife nor myself has lost the interest in Queen Emma and that which concerns her” (Letters 3: 21). His library contains numerous books on Hawai’i, including Oceana; Or, England and Her Colonies (1886; TRC item 964), a popular work by the federalist James Anthony Froude. In this book, Froude wrote that “The whole Sandwich group is under the protection of the Americans. Guarded by the stars and stripes, a phantom royalty maintains itself at Honolulu” (300). The TRC also holds William Ellis’s two- volume Polynesian Researches during a Residence of Nearly Six Years in the South Sea Islands (1829; item 904), James Jackson Jarves’s History of the Hawaiian or Sandwich Islands (1843; item 1252), Edward Clifford’s Father Damien: A Journey from Cashmere to His Home in Hawaii (1889; item 764), and Manley Hopkins’s Hawaii: The Past, Present and Future of Its Island Kingdom (1862; item 3226). 32 Given the name “The Sandwich Islands” by Captain James Cook, Hawai’i was indeed sandwiched between a number of powers. It was a site of contention for rival imperialisms, including Britain, America, Japan, China, and even between the Hawaiian Islands themselves. “Discovered” by Cook in 1788, in the course of a century the islands had been threatened with invasion by Russia and France, briefly annexed by Britain in 1843, abortively declared an American protectorate in 1851, subject to significant waves of Asian immigrants, and largely Christianized by American missionaries whose descendants would dominate Hawai’i’s economy by mid-century. In the 1880s, fearing a growing American hegemony, King Kalākaua attempted to forge an alliance of Asian countries, to construct a submarine telegraph cable to Japan, and to annex the Micronesian states of New Hebrides and the Solomon Islands. He also considered bringing in Indian immigrants to work Hawaiian sugar plantations, thereby increasing British influence over the islands. These geopolitical moves led American businessmen victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 108 to stage an armed revolt in 1887, during which Kalākaua was forced to sign a new Constitution, widely known as the “Bayonet Constitution.” This turned him into a figurehead and reduced the voting rights of native Hawaiians and, especially, Asian immigrants. 33 The breaking of aikapu (sacred eating) restrictions, the destruction of traditional religious idols and temples, and the adoption of a legal framework based on Christianity were pragmatic political moves on the part of Hawai’i’s native ruling elite, the ali’i, in particular by Kamehameha I’s widow Ka‘ahumanu, who became an unofficial joint ruler with her son Liholiho (Kamehameha II). Ka‘ahumanu consolidated power by overthrowing the tradition of dividing a dead ruler’s lands among his chiefs. Her attempts, often resisted, to impose “Christian morality on the islands was,” as Kamanamaikalani Beamer notes, “a means of advancing her own political agenda” (114). 34 Tennyson’s remarks about Whitman’s poetry varied from the ambiguous to the derogatory. During the last few months of his life, he told Hallam that “Walt neglects form altogether, but there is a fine spirit breathing through his writings. Some of them are quite unreadable from nakedness of expression” (Hallam Tennyson 424). This letter suggests that Whitman’s seemingly wild free-verse style (his famous “barbaric yawp”) was on Tennyson’s mind during the period that he composed “Kapiolani.” 35 See Daniel Hack 184. The self taught writer Jack London frequently referred to Tennyson in his fiction and non-fiction, which suggests that the British Laureate was influential outside of the American classroom as well as inside of it. 36 For James Joyce, the best weapon was not direct attack, but general ridicule— hence his reference to “Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet” in Ulysses (50, 193). Joyce did not coin this phrase, which first appeared in Judy in 1877 (see “Lawn Tennis”) and was repeated in numerous publications thereafter. Works Cited Batchelor, John. Tennyson: To Strive, To Seek, To Find. Chatto and Windus, 2012. Beamer, Kamanamaikalani. No Mākou Ka Mana: Liberating the Nation. Kamehameha Publishing, 2014. Bell, Duncan. The Idea of Greater Britain: Empire and the Future of World Order, 1860–1900. Princeton UP, 2007. Bevis, Matthew. The Art of Eloquence: Byron, Dickens, Tennyson, Joyce. Oxford UP, 2010. Brantlinger, Patrick. Rule of Darkness: British Literature and Imperialism, 1830–1914. Cornell UP, 1988. Brit, Saxe. Consequential Damages: Three Letters on the American Doctrine. Smith, Elder, 1872. Campbell, Nancie. Tennyson in Lincoln, A Catalogue of the Collections of the Research Centre. Tennyson Society, 1971. 2 vols. Cheshire, Jim. Tennyson and Mid-Victorian Publishing: Moxon, Poetry, Commerce. Palgrave Macmillan, 2017. Clark, Barbara. “Tennyson across the Atlantic.” Tennyson Research Bulletin, vol. 1, Nov. 1987, pp. 1–8. Day, Aidan. Tennyson’s Scepticism. Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Dentith, Simon. Epic and Empire in Nineteenth-Century Britain. Cambridge UP, 2006. Ebbatson, Roger. “Knowing the Orient: The Young Tennyson.” Nineteenth-Century Contexts: An Interdisciplinary Journal, vol. 36, no. 2, 2014, pp. 125–34. Eidson, John Olin. Tennyson in America, His Reputation and Influence from 1827 to 1858. U of Georgia P, 1943. England, Eugene. “Tuckerman and Tennyson: ‘Two Friends . . . on Either Side the Atlantic.’ ” The New England Quarterly vol. 57, no. 2, 1984, pp. 225–39. owen clayton 109 Finnerty, Páraic. “ ‘Dreamed of Your Meeting Tennyson in Ticknor and Fields—’: A Transatlantic Encounter with Britain’s Poet Laureate.” The Emily Dickinson Journal, vol. 20, no. 1, 2011, pp. 56–77. Foreman, Amanda, A World on Fire: An Epic History of Two Nations Divided. Allen Lane, 2010. Froude, James Anthony. Oceana; Or, England and Her Colonies. Longmans, Green and Co, 1886. Gordon, Armistead C. Memories and Memorials of William Gordon McCabe. Vol. 2, Old Dominion Press, 1925. Graham, Colin. Ideologies of Epic: Nation, Empire, and Victorian Epic Poetry. Manchester UP, 1998. Gravil, Richard. “Emily Dickinson (and Walt Whitman): The Escape From Locksley Hall.” Symbiosis, vol. 7, no. 1, 2003. Hack, Daniel. “The Canon in Front of Them: African American Deployments of ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ ” Early African American Print Culture, edited by Lara Langer Cohen and Jordan Alexander Stein, U of Pennsylvania P, 2012, pp. 178–91. Hood, James W. “Overreading Tennyson: Antebellum American Appropriations of the Lady Poems.” Victorian Poetry, vol. 32, no. 1, 1994, pp. 75–87. Hughes, Linda K. “Victors and Victims: Tennyson’s ‘Enid’ as Postcolonial Text.” Victorian Poetry, vol. 31, no. 4, 1993, pp. 419–26. Inglesfield, Robert. “Tennyson and the Imperial Federation League.” Tennyson Research Bulletin, vol. 7, no. 2, Nov. 1998, pp. 83–86. Joseph, Gerhard J. “Poe and Tennyson.” PMLA, vol. 88, no. 3, 1973, pp. 418–28. Joyce, James. Ulysses. The Egoist Press, 1922. Kingsley, Charles. Hereward the Wake: “Last of the English.” Vol. 1, MacMillan and Co., 1866. “Lawn Tennis, By Our Own Lawn Tennison.” Judy, or the London Serio-Comic Journal, 24 Oct. 1877, p. 19. Ledbetter, Kathryn. Tennyson and Victorian Periodicals. Ashgate, 2007. Love, Damien. “Hengist’s Brood: Tennyson and the Anglo-Saxons.” Review of English Studies, vol. 60, no. 265, 2009, pp. 460–74. Lovelace, Timothy J., The Artistry and Tradition of Tennyson’s Battle Poetry. Routledge, 2003. The Letters of Alfred Lord Tennyson. Edited by Cecil Y. Lang and Edgar F. Shannon, Jr., Clarendon Press, 1980, 1987, 1990. 3 vols. Mabie, Hamilton Wright. “The Influence of Tennyson in America: Its Sources and Extent.” Review of Reviews, vol. 6, Dec. 1892, pp. 553–56. Martin, Robert Bernard. Tennyson: The Unquiet Heart. Clarendon P, 1980. Merry, Sally Engle. “Kapi’olani at the Brink: Dilemmas of Historical Ethnography in Nineteenth-Century Hawaii.” American Ethnologist, vol. 30, no. 1, Feb. 2003, pp. 44–60. Monckton Milnes, Richard. The Life, Letters, and Friendships of Richard Monckton Milnes, First Lord Houghton. Edited by T. Wemyss Reid, vol. 2, Cassell, 1891. Nabi, Jason. “Tennyson With the Net Down: His ‘Freer’ Verse.” Victorian Poetry, vol. 51, no. 2, 2013, pp. 177–200. Nünning, Ansgar. “On the Discursive Construction of an Empire of the Mind: Metaphorical Re-Membering as a Means of Narrativizing and Naturalizing Cultural Transformations.” Metamorphosis: Structures of Cultural Transformations, edited by Jürgen Schlaeger, Tübingen, 2005, pp. 59–97. O’Brien, Lynne. “Male Heroism: Tennyson’s Divided View.” Victorian Poetry, vol. 32, no. 2, 1994, pp. 171–82. Pearsall, Cornelia. “Blank Verse and the Expansion of England: The Meter of Tennyson’s Demeter.” Meter Matters: Verse Cultures of the Long Nineteenth Century, edited by Jason David Hall, Ohio UP, 2011, pp. 217–36. Reynolds, Matthew. The Realms of Verse, 1830–1870: English Poetry in a Time of Nation-Building. Oxford UP, 2001. Ricks, Christopher. Tennyson. U of California P, 1989. Riede, David G. “Tennyson’s Poetics of Melancholy and the Imperial Imagination.” SEL Studies in English Literature 1500–1900, vol. 40, no. 4, 2000, pp. 659–78. victorian review • Volume 43 Number 1 110 Rowlinson, Matthew. “The Ideological Moment of Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses.’ ” Victorian Poetry, vol. 30, no. 3/4, 1992, pp. 265–76. Rugemer, Edward Bartlett. The Problem of Emancipation: The Caribbean Roots of the American Civil War. Louisiana State UP, 2008. Scragg, Donald. “The Anglo Saxons: Facts and Fiction.” Introduction. Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century, edited by Donald Scragg and Carole Weinburg, Cambridge UP, 2000, pp. 1–21. Seeley, John. The Expansion of England: Two Courses of Lectures. Macmillan, 1883. Shatto, Susan. “The Strange Charm of ‘Far, Far Away’: Tennyson, the Continent, and the Empire.” Creditable Warriors, edited by Michael Cotsell, Ashfield, 1990, pp. 113–29. 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work_mvpayopxgvfwdj5dvs43jbbwta	----	Wood engraving as ghostwriting: the Dalziel Brothers, losing one's name, and other hazards of the trade Wood engraving as ghostwriting: the Dalziel Brothers, losing  one's name, and other hazards of the trade Article (Published Version) http://sro.sussex.ac.uk Stevens, Bethan (2019) Wood engraving as ghostwriting: the Dalziel Brothers, losing one's name, and other hazards of the trade. Textual Practice, 33 (4). pp. 645-677. ISSN 0950-236X This version is available from Sussex Research Online: http://sro.sussex.ac.uk/id/eprint/69962/ This document is made available in accordance with publisher policies and may differ from the published version or from the version of record. If you wish to cite this item you are advised to consult the publisher’s version. Please see the URL above for details on accessing the published version. Copyright and reuse: Sussex Research Online is a digital repository of the research output of the University. 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Copies of full text items generally can be reproduced, displayed or performed and given to third parties in any format or medium for personal research or study, educational, or not-for-profit purposes without prior permission or charge, provided that the authors, title and full bibliographic details are credited, a hyperlink and/or URL is given for the original metadata page and the content is not changed in any way. http://sro.sussex.ac.uk/ Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at http://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rtpr20 Download by: [University of Sussex Library] Date: 31 August 2017, At: 07:48 Textual Practice ISSN: 0950-236X (Print) 1470-1308 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rtpr20 Wood engraving as ghostwriting: the Dalziel Brothers, losing one's name, and other hazards of the trade Bethan Stevens To cite this article: Bethan Stevens (2017): Wood engraving as ghostwriting: the Dalziel Brothers, losing one's name, and other hazards of the trade, Textual Practice, DOI: 10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 © 2017 The Author(s). Published by Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group Published online: 31 Aug 2017. Submit your article to this journal View related articles View Crossmark data http://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rtpr20 http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rtpr20 http://www.tandfonline.com/action/showCitFormats?doi=10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 http://www.tandfonline.com/action/authorSubmission?journalCode=rtpr20&show=instructions http://www.tandfonline.com/action/authorSubmission?journalCode=rtpr20&show=instructions http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/mlt/10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/mlt/10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756&domain=pdf&date_stamp=2017-08-31 http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756&domain=pdf&date_stamp=2017-08-31 Wood engraving as ghostwriting: the Dalziel Brothers, losing one’s name, and other hazards of the trade Bethan Stevens School of English, University of Sussex, Brighton, UK ABSTRACT This paper focuses on the work of the Dalziel Brothers, the foremost wood engraving firm in the Victorian period. It explores the problematics of authorship in an art factory with many employees who all signed ‘Dalziel’. Examining wood engraving formally, theoretically and technically, it proposes ghostwriting as an analogy for the work done by facsimile engravers. Their work is read alongside the literature they illustrated, including Wilkie Collins’s After Dark (1856), Anthony Trollope’s Orley Farm (1861–1862) and Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass (1871). I investigate the wood engraver’s business of artistically producing someone else’s lines, and carving other people’s signatures. Mechanics, or creation? The line, the autograph, and the signature are powerful elements of the way we understand artistic identity. A wood engraver who signs for someone else is a paradox, undermining assumptions about creative work. Orley Farm, one of Dalziel’s most successful illustrated novels, is itself a meditation on the fraudulent act of signing another’s name. This paper compares different ‘Dalziel’ signatures, proposing the signature as a kind of self portrait that can help uncover the voices of unknown engraver-employees; it also presents new archival evidence about some of these employees, such as Ann and Mary Byfield from Islington. ARTICLE HISTORY Received 26 September 2016; Accepted 14 February 2017 KEYWORDS Wood engraving; illustration; Victorian literature; signature; authorship 1. The Victorian wood engraver had the curious business of artistically produ- cing someone else’s lines, and carving other people’s signatures. Is this mech- anics, or creation? How does it relate to authorship, and to the culture of names and signatures that has dominated the consumption of art and texts for centuries? Victorian book illustrations often carry two signatures. First, there is that of the draughtsman or draughtswoman. They designed their © 2017 The Author(s). Published by Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group This is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution License (http:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original work is properly cited. CONTACT Bethan Stevens b.k.stevens@sussex.ac.uk TEXTUAL PRACTICE, 2017 https://doi.org/10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1080/0950236X.2017.1365756&domain=pdf http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ mailto:b.k.stevens@sussex.ac.uk http://www.tandfonline.com own monogram or signature, and drew it on the block, but it was concretised by the engraver who cut it, defining the edges and texture of the lines that comprised it. Second, there is the signature of the engraver. In the cases con- sidered in this essay, this is ‘Dalziel’. It appears to be a signature like any other. Its distinctive, autographic look alludes to the idea of a person, and this is reinforced by the signature’s position next to that of the draughtsman – doubly so when the latter was a celebrated individual like John Everett Millais or Dante Gabriel Rossetti. But ‘Dalziel’ is not a person. It stands for Dalziel Brothers, and this signature marked the work not only of the four Dalziel engravers – George, Edward, Margaret or John Dalziel – but equally, any of the very differently named employees who engraved in their factory. These were anonymous, and often unidentifiable. Working from annotations in Dalziel’s archive, my research so far has found names for 26: Aldridge, Anderson, Andrews, Boucher, Brown, Mary and/or Ann Byfield, William Burnett, James Clark, Coombe, Josiah Coppleston, Eastop, Harry Fenn, Francis Fricker, Gould, William Hardy, Philip(?) Hundley, Knight, Manelli, Martin, Arthur Oswin, Pierce, William Quick, Henry William Royle, Charles and/or William Tilby, White, and Walter Williams. Engravers sometimes worked individually on a block, and sometimes the work was shared according to specialist techniques, or to save time. What was it like to be one of these artists, signing double signatures that weren’t theirs? For decades, the humanities has critically questioned our fetishisation of names and signatures, but it endures. Within studies of illus- tration, relatively little attention is paid to the engraver in comparison with the draughtsman. It seems to me that this minimisation of the engraver’s artistic role is caused by a desire to link works to a named individual. It’s easier to think of an Alice illustration as ‘by’ Tenniel, or the Moxon illustration to ‘The Lady of Shalott’ as ‘by’ Rossetti. And in the nineteenth century, an emphasis on the designer was encouraged by cultural producers, including the Dalziels themselves, keen to exploit big household names. But this essay investigates the peculiarity of a whole group of people signing their work with another’s name. The gesture is one of a rigid capitalist system. It is also a theatrical gesture, in which artists are masked and slippery, suddenly exchanging places without our knowledge, and usually with an unknowable relation to any embodied or biographical person. 2. Dalziel was the dominant London wood engraving firm of the Victorian period. Their archive in the British Museum of around 54,000 proofs made between 1839 and 1893 includes their whole oeuvre, all sorts of images, including plumbers’ diagrams of taps and toilets, microbiology, fitness manuals and advertisements for Cadbury’s Cocoa. Dalziel’s role in visualising 2 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 literary texts can hardly be overestimated. Not only did they engrave all the images for Lewis Carroll’s Alice books (1865, 1871) and many Pre-Raphaelite illustrations to Moxon’s edition of Tennyson’s Poems (1857), but also first edi- tions of contemporary writers such as Charles Dickens, Charles Kingsley, Christina Rossetti and Anthony Trollope. Their illustrations of historical lit- erature reinterpreted texts for contemporary audiences, with wood engravings for Cervantes, Chaucer, Defoe, Milton, Shakespeare and A Thousand and One Nights – or more recently canonised writings, by Walter Scott, Letitia Eliza- beth Landon, Byron, Wordsworth, etc. They mediated international writing for British audiences, including Hans Christian Andersen, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mark Twain and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.1 3. Dalziel’s relationship with literature can be tangential and unexpected. For instance, census returns suggest Margaret and John Dalziel were living together in 1861 on the Dalziel engraving premises, 53 Camden High Street. John was widowed, and there were also John junr and Amy, his five- and six-year-old children. In addition, the household included a 19-year-old neice, Martha Moffit, an 18-year-old servant, Sarah Percival, and another servant employed as a ‘nurse maid’ – Alice Gladden – who was only 12 years old herself. Imagine working as a nursemaid at the age of 12. Alice was a child already living as a worker outside her family, grown up in relation to the children she raised. I cannot discover what happened to Alice Gladden immediately after this (she later married under her maiden name at the age of 60, to a John Garlick Pack). In 1869 John Dalziel died, so by the time of the 1871 census the household at 53 Camden High Streen had broken up. But it is fascinating to speculate whether Alice remained with the family until 1865 – fairly likely – when Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was engraved within the walls of her home. Even if she had moved on, surely this famous project would have involved recollections of their Alice for the Dalziels. What’s in a name? For me, Gladden offers a different story to set beside Alice Liddell’s. Who knows what she was like and how she lived, but she remains an alternative Alice, one whose childhood ended early with labour and responsibility, and whose adventures begin in the engravers’ workshop. 4. I want to begin my exploration of wood engravers, ghostwriters and the sig- nature with Wilkie Collins’s early collection of gothic stories, After Dark (1856). It was re-issued as an illustrated edition in 1862, with four wood engravings by the Brothers Dalziel: a title page after Walter Crane (Figure 1), and four illustrations after Arthur Boyd Houghton. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 3 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 After Dark has an intricate frame narrative that tells the story of an ama- nuensis. William Kerby, an itinerant portrait painter, is losing his sight, and with it his ability to feed his family. He is an excellent storyteller, and his wife Leah has the idea that he could support them as a writer. To safeguard his sight, she becomes his amanuensis, and they do all their writing ‘after dark’, when her housework is over. The third character is the painter’s doctor, who advises and supports the project. As a portraitist, William had been a patriarchal provider, but because of his disability, his writing is collaborative. Leah Kirby is intrigued by this distinction: An artist lies under this great disadvantage in case of accidents – his talents are of no service to him unless he can use his eyes and fingers. An author, on the other hand, can turn his talents to account just as well by means of other people’s eyes and fingers as by means of his own.2 Leah’s conclusion that the visual arts are individualistic, in contrast with writing, becomes ironic in this second edition that includes five wood engrav- ings in which the designer’s work is literally produced ‘by means of other people’s eyes and fingers’. Leah Kirby’s feminine role as amanuensis is structurally submissive. However, she is not circumscribed by William’s writing. After all, she narrates the frame narrative, and this is situated outside the fictional book William writes to save his family (the latter forms the greater part of After Dark). Even in her role as amanuensis, Leah does not consent to be only a writing machine. At the end of the first tale, she inserts a note of her own that, since her husband is blind, he can neither see nor effectively forbid. This ‘Note by Mrs Kerby’ tells an anecdote about when he told his tale orally: it is a spooky coincidence, of how one of his listeners had a phobia of four- poster beds, an article of furniture that in the story turns out to be a murder weapon. Her husband wanted to exclude this anecdote, but she puts it in. After recounting it, she writes: [H]e says it is scarcely worth while to mention such a trifle in anything so important as a book. I cannot venture, after this, to do more than slip these lines in modestly at the end of the story. If the printers should notice my few last words, perhaps they may not mind the trouble of putting them into some out-of-the-way corner, in very small type. (AD, Vol. 1, p. 78) This is a delightfully fake apology. Leah’s husband is the author, and on his authority, this ‘trifle’ does not belong. Leah’s tale may be short, but her claim to slip it in ‘modestly’ is laughable; modesty would exclude it, whereas she puts it at the end, as a conclusion or another frame. She talks of ‘slip[ping] these lines in’. In a book about writing and art (many of the short stories are about artists, and all are about the subjects of William’s por- traits), this word ‘lines’ connects the literary and visual arts – lines are a 4 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 building block of each. Lines are also a repetitive punishment, and children were commonly given lines to write in school. This punishment disciplines children – some children – to do repetitive, mechanical work. To work on a line. Such a punitive meaning of lines is important to so-called mechanical producers of them, like the amanuensis or indeed the wood engraver, whose job was to concretise lines designed by other artists. Leah Kirby and Dalziel in their different roles are given lines to repeat. These lines are what they do, what they hold themselves to: their discipline. For them, being given lines is not exactly punitive; on the contrary, it could be a source of profit and pleasure. But it is at least plausible to see Leah’s lines as a punish- ment for being a wife, and to see the anonymous wood engravers who worked for Dalziel Brothers as being punished for lacking the social connections and financial backing to embark on more ambitious careers as painters or sculp- tors, involving expensive training and a high risk of failure. And yet. This does not encompass it. The ‘Note by Mrs Kerby’ – delight- fully addressed to the ‘printers’ (who set type in lines) – undermines the very possibility of an amanuensis. The text is William Kerby’s, but Kerby’s book always only ever contains what Leah Kerby puts in it – and anything extra she chooses to add. Refusing to be an amanuensis, she becomes something more: a ghostwriter. 5. The task of the wood engraver, to turn a drawing into print, was literally impossible. On a practical note, many draughtsmen and women used tone on their woodblocks: there can be no faithful transcription of tone into line. Even with those designers who knew to use strict line drawing, every cut of the graver altered the line. Wood-engraved lines have textures and depths that are unlike those in pen or pencil. Even the straightest have distinct qualities when magnified, with different shapes and viscosity along the edges of the line and on its surface. This amounts to a whole different look, which is visible to the casual observer, even if the reason for it isn’t clear. The finished drawing made on the whitened woodblock was usually destroyed as part of the production process.3 Some photographs of these remain as evidence, as well as drawn blocks that were never engraved.4 They suggest that draughts- men often remained oblivious to the difficulties of distinguishing between a dark or a light line in this medium. This could be achieved through lowering a line so that it printed more lightly, but a shift from black to grey was not feasible. In the best of Dalziel’s work, the beauty of it is inseparable from the quality of the wood-engraved line. And yet their role is somehow only to provide the medium. As if medium could ever be an empty container. As Antony Griffiths has discussed, scholars who write about printmaking from earlier centuries have followed a long tradition of using a literary TEXTUAL PRACTICE 5 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 metaphor for copperplate engravings that reproduce paintings, describing this as ‘translation’.5 This makes sense; as with a literary translation, when copper engravings translate paintings we get two distinct, related products, in differ- ent media (or ‘languages’). This analogy does not work for most Victorian wood engraving, since it only rarely translated originals that existed in another medium. There is no ‘original and translation’, since wood engraving results in one product rather than two. The drawing was just part of the process, and was destroyed in it. Instead, we have a single collaborative work, in which, supposedly, one artist provides the medium, the other the content. I would like to propose a new analogy for this, to complement the idea of translation; I see the wood engraver as an artistic equivalent of the ghostwriter, whose story is not his or her own, but who is responsible for the entire texture and fabric of the text we read. Every mark is theirs, though always in the weirdly negative kind of line-avoidance that the medium entails (wood engravers did not cut the line, but rather everything around it). Style is there in a peculiar double-voiced way. 6. What I would love is to be a ghostwriter for wood engraving, for a medium that literally shares a bed with writing (in letterpress printing, the ‘bed’ is where type and woodblocks are placed and locked for printing), but in which the printed line will not curl neatly into the ordered shapes of letters. 7. After Dark’s illustrated title page (Figure 1) is engraved by Dalziel after Walter Crane, a draughtsman who learnt his trade from a wood engraver (William James Linton). The title page introduces the idea of narrative framing for- mally, with its curtains and ever decreasing rectangles. William and Leah Kirby lean over their own title, held by the doctor. Oddly, William is por- trayed to resemble a wood engraver. His globe lamp is positioned on the table exactly where a wood engraver would place their engraver’s globe (a glass vessel filled with water, that directed light and resembled this style of lamp). His eyeshade is like those engravers wore, to protect their sight from light, and focus their vision. For example, there is a similar illustration of an engraver who sits in front of a globe wearing an eyeshade in Jackson and Chatto’s foundational manual Treatise on Wood Engraving, Historical and Practical (1839).6 William Kirby as a disabled artist might have struck a chord with Crane and Dalziel. Crane later described in his Reminiscenses how it was ‘very usual to apprentice deaf and sometimes even dumb youths to wood-engravers’.7 Wood engravers often damaged their sight, and the job became associated 6 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Figure 1. Dalziel after Walter Crane, illlustrated title for Wilkie Collins, After Dark (London: Smith, Elder & Co, 1862). Dalziel Archive Vol. 15 (1862), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.176, print no. 943. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 7 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 with the constriction and isolation of certain senses. In addition to eye masks, engravers commonly wore nose and mouth masks to protect the block from damaging condensation from their breath.8 Symbolically, these masks can be seen as barriers between the body of the artist and their work, cutting off the idea of vision, and the breath of inspiration. Crane and Dalziel’s title page, with its group of three people standing in front of an artistic work, visualises the collaborative process of the engraving we are looking at. William, as painter-writer, does not touch the work (his hands held away), but the doctor steps in as proxy. As he holds the paper, his thumb casts an uncanny pointed shadow. It is perhaps intended to show a crease on the page, but this long black shape on the smooth white paper makes little sense. It looks like an erroneous line, or a monstrous overgrown thumbnail that’s not truly positioned on the digit. To me, its triangular point, beautifully sharp, is reminiscent of the shape of the graving tool. It is also an ostentatious moment of pure line that stands as a signature for medium and maker. The line cannot just be a mistake; wood engravers work from black to white, so that correcting an unwanted white line was laborious, whereas a small black line could be easily cut away. Once you’ve noticed this one, it stands out. Within the pictorial image, the tiny page with the title draws our eye because of its text, and its status as a title page within a title page. Compositionally, it is almost dead centre. Together with the lamp, it draws our eye through its emphatic whiteness, when most of the image is shaded, busy with lines. Who, proofing this block, could fail to notice this little line? And yet, when Crane touched one proof with white for corrections (see the impression in the Harold Hartley Collection, in the Boston Museum of Fine Art), he lightens the coat and other elements, but no one cor- rects, erases or comments on this line. 8. To explore the idea of the line as name and signature, I will revisit a founda- tional moment in art theory: one of Pliny’s anecdotes about the painter Apelles. Apelles visits his rival, Protogenes: Protogenes was not at home, but a solitary old woman was keeping watch over a large panel placed on the easel. In answer to the questions of Apelles, she said that Protogenes was out, and asked the name of the visitor: ‘Here it is,’ said Apelles, and snatching up a brush he drew a line of extreme delicacy across the board. On the return of Protogenes the old woman told him what had hap- pened. When he had considered the delicate precision of the line he at once declared that his visitor had been Apelles, for no one else could have drawn anything so perfect. Then in another colour he drew a second still finer line upon the first, and went away, bidding her show it to Apelles if he came again, and add that this was the man he was seeking. It fell out as he expected; Apelles did return, and, ashamed to be beaten, drew a third line of another 8 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 colour cutting the two first down their length and leaving no room for any further refinement.9 In this anecdote the line is identified with the name. Implicitly, the old woman (nameless and line-less herself) is expecting to receive a word: ‘Apelles’. But as Apelles leaves a line in place of the name, he does not perceive this to be a substitution. ‘Here it is’, he says; the line is the name. In this he is unlike Pro- togenes, the lesser artist; Protogenes needs to translate the ‘delicate precision of the line’ into a ‘declaration’ of the word ‘Apelles’. We could say that Pro- togenes is beaten not only because his line is duller than Apelles’s, but equally and indissociably, because he fails to realise that a line, a name, a message and an artist are all the same thing. This identification is crucial for understanding the work and the signature of the wood engravers Dalziel Brothers. In addition, it is worth noting that the translation of linea into line, used in the above 1896 translation by Katherine Jex-Blake, and now standard, was by no means straightforward for Victorians. The dominant translation of Pliny through the nineteenth century was by John Bostock and Henry Riley. Perversely, this translates linea as outline rather than line; it includes a footnote explaining this choice, and suggesting: it is not unlikely that the ‘linea’ or outline drawn by each was a profile of himself, and that the profile of Protogenes was drawn within that of Apelles; who, on the second occasion, drew a third profile between the other two.10 This refusal to see the line as anything other than figurative (an outline) is not unexpected in the century of realism. But it suggests an intellectual bias towards composition over line that helps us understand why wood engravers were ignored in favour of designers in nineteenth-century culture. On the other hand, the translators’ whimsical suggestion that this outline was a profile of the artist – a self portrait – is a perhaps unconsciously sympathetic reading of Pliny. What the translators are grasping at – and literalising in a slightly ridiculous way – is the message that the line itself is the self portrait in this anecdote. Curiously, another word of Pliny’s puzzled over in Bostock and Riley’s footnote is the word ‘secuit’, the verb used to describe the third and finest line drawn by Apelles, and which literally means ‘he cut’. 9. My readings of Dalziel’s work adopt Apelles’s strategy: the line itself is a sig- nature and a self portrait. Naturally, as a writer, I bring narrative links to embellish. Take this satire after Tenniel (Figure 2), in which an allegorical figure with a sash labelled ‘Dividend’ holds moneybags aloft, striding through a ruined interior in which the timbers of buildings mingle with body- parts. As with many wood engravings, there is play with Dalziel’s signature, which appears to be inscribed not on the picture surface but on one of TEXTUAL PRACTICE 9 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 timbers that the mythical woman is striding across. This signature on a piece of wood emphasises the engravers’ literal daily activity of signing on wood, and the Pre-Raphaelite figure clutching moneybags is an apt symbol for the Dalziel Brothers, a fraternity of capitalist artists. She becomes a self portrait of Dalziel, who did actually make a profit out of the eroticised Pre-Raphaelite body in illustrations such as those designed by Arthur Hughes. Figure 2. Dalziel after John Tenniel, illustration for Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell, Puck on Pegasus (London: John Camden Hotten, 1868). Dalziel Archive Vol. 21 (1866), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.182, print no. 59. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. 10 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 In Pliny’s foundation myth of art, the finest line, the one that surpassed all others, is not drawn, or painted, but cut. We’ve already examined the cutting thumbnail of the doctor in After Dark. We could equally apply this thinking to the lines of ‘Jabberwocky’ (Figure 3), a block that reads area by area like a showcase for the various technical capabilities of wood-engraved lines. Figure 3. Dalziel after John Tenniel, ‘Jabberwocky’, illustration for Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass (London: Macmillan, 1871). Dalziel Archive Vol. 28 (1871), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.182, print no. 624. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 11 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Reading it as such, it’s hard not to see the Jabberwocky’s sharp, tapering talons as representing the set of multiple gravers on the artist’s table, deadly sharp tools that cut the finest of lines with a destructive precision, destroying the draughtsman’s work (the drawing on the surface of the block) with the same strokes that, by re-making it as a printable image, complete it. 10. Here are Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s oft-quoted verses on the experience of having his designs engraved on wood by the Brothers Dalziel. They were com- posed during the production of the famous Moxon Tennyson (1857)11: Address to the D–l (Dalziel brothers) O woodman, spare that block O gash not anyhow! It took 10 days by clock— I’d fain protect it now. (Chorus of wild laughter— the curtain falls)12 Often cited as a curiosity of illustration history, or evidence of Rossetti’s dis- satisfaction with Dalziel, these lines have more to tell. It is worth noting that the easy literary skill of the verses is part of the history of how wood engraving has been narrated by writing, which is in many ways alien to the medium. As anyone will know who has read their memoir, the Dalziel Brothers were ter- rible writers, and their only way of replying to Rossetti effectively is through their wood engraving.13 Here, I want to draw attention to just three aspects of Rossetti’s verses: the wood engravers’ relationship to a proper name; their anonymity; and the collective nature of their work. The first line of Rossetti’s ‘Address’ anonymizes Dalziel’s well-known name, and makes it diabolical; ‘D – l’ is interchangeably ‘devil’ or ‘Dalziel’. Not content with this gesture, and weirdly uncertain about whether ‘Dalziel’ should be erased, anonymised, or emphasised, Rossetti reinscribes it in parentheses underneath. Then, in the first line of the short poem, the engravers are referred to with the word ‘woodman’. Not a word usually used in this context, it is clearly chosen for scansion. It has other effects, however. Again, it anonymises the artist, linking them with the less skilled, less fine work of an axeman, whether executioner or tree-cutter. The violent implications are comically reinforced by the word ‘gash’, and finally by the draughtsman’s futile desire to ‘protect’ his drawing. What Rossetti cannot accept, is that in embarking on a wood engraving, he is making a col- laborative work that intrinsically requires the destruction of his drawing. 12 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Rossetti’s final stage direction is curious. Of course, it makes Dalziel into a theatrical character, playing a role. But the ‘Chorus of wild laughter’ also speaks perceptively to the situation of wood engravers as an unnamed collec- tive of artists, a chorus. Rossetti captures the impossibility of seeing the wood engraver as any kind of individual; the wild laughter also nicely figures the non-linguistic nature of the engraver’s diabolical response. One thing Rossetti found particularly offensive was the Dalziel signature. He wrote in a letter to William Allingham at the same period (Figure 4): Figure 4. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, letter to William Allingham, December 1856, The Morgan Library & Museum. MA 381.32. Purchased by Pierpont Morgan, 1909. Photo- graphic credit: The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 13 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 I took more pains with one block lately than I had with anything in a long while. It came back to me on paper the other day, with Dalziel [imitates Dalziel’s sig- nature] performing his cannibal jig in the corner, and I have really felt like an invalid ever since.14 What villainous energy Rossetti attributes to Dalziel’s signature! Not only is Dalziel dancing a jig, but the dance is powerful enough to be magical – syn- tactically, the dance renders Rossetti an invalid. Othered as cannibal, Dalziel is also uncannily embodied in Rossetti’s work of art; Dalziel is the signature at the corner of the wood engraving, the letters spreading to infect all the lines of the illustration. Within the letter to Allingham, Rossetti’s visual car- icature of the Dalziel signature is brilliant. It’s immediately recognisable, but instead of sloping forward, the letters of ‘DALZIEL’ pull away at bizarre angles, each doing its own dance. From the first and last letters of the name, lines jump out away from it, bleeding into the letter – just as Dalziel’s signature tended to bleed out and blend with the other lines on the block. 11. As I’ve mentioned, draughtsmen and engravers frequently had fun with mono- grams, placing them underfoot, or on pictorial gravestones, trees, or slabs of wood. But I have never seen monogram play quite like that produced by Dalziel and Henry French, in illustrations for Elizabeth Eiloart’s The Young Squire: Or, Peter and his Friends (1872). Generally, French has a simple but memorable ‘HF’ monogram. The letters are distinct, while drawing attention to the similarity between the ‘H’ and ‘F’ shapes. The characters are boxy rather than slanting (the strokes almost at right-angles to each other) but posi- tioned on the block diagonally. In six out of eight of the illustrations, French follows his usual monogram practice. However, in one illustration, the mono- gram is oddly similar in its form to the blades of grass that surround it (Figure 5, bottom left). And another of the illustrations takes this to extremes. Figure 6 is the only illustration in The Young Squire that has no ‘proper’ HF monogram anywhere. But once you start looking for a signature, it becomes apparent that all the loose foliage, from the bottom half of the block and extend- ing up to the top right, is overrun by diagonals and crosses that resemble letter shapes and particularly the H and F of French’s monogram. There are H’s and F’s everywhere. Once you see this, the block shouts its signature; all thought of picture or illustration is overwhelmed by and indeed fabricated by the letter. As with Apelles, line and signature are indistinguishable, but here in a highly textual way. French was a far less prestigious designer than someone like Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The title page of Eiloart’s The Young Squire advertised the presence of ‘original illustrations’ but did not bother naming French.15 French’s lawn of monograms is perhaps a protest at the frequent lack of authorial acknowledge- ment given to minor illustrators in the book trade. 14 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 12. Elsewhere, the Dalziel Archive includes a rare correction to a signature. On a proof with corrections by designer James Godwin, there are many frustrated annotations. Displeased, he blanks his name out with white bodycolour, Figure 5. Dalziel after Henry French, illustration for Elizabeth Eiloart, The Young Squire: Or, Peter and his Friends (London: Frederick Warne, [1872]). Dalziel Archive Vol. 30 (1872), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.191, print no. 486. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 15 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 demanding ‘Take out the name please !!!’ (punctuation in original). He follows this up with a joke around his name, requesting: ‘For God – win’s sake revise it carefully.’16 Figure 6. Dalziel after Henry French, illustration for Elizabeth Eiloart, The Young Squire: Or, Peter and his Friends (London: Frederick Warne, [1872]). Dalziel Archive Vol. 30 (1872), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.191, print no. 489. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. 16 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 13. When I began this project, I thought that the names of employee-engravers who created Dalziel productions were probably unknowable. An exciting dis- covery in the Dalziel Archive has been several proofs with pencilled names of the individual who engraved them. Alongside the names are a few terse refer- ences to hours and money. A few of the names are of other established engrav- ing families. And some of them, like William Arrowsmith, Harry Fenn, Francis Fricker and James Clark, are briefly mentioned in the Dalziels’ memoir, A Record (1901). This memoir cursorily describes Fricker and Clark as having been ‘pupils’ for half a century; ‘pupil’ had by this time become a euphemism for factory employee.17 Let’s take a wood engraving made in 1882, of a sea serpent attacking a ship (Figure 7, bottom). It was engraved by Byfield and Hundley. ‘Hundley’ may refer to Philip Hundley, who made a few contemporary illustrations as a draughtsman (artists often trained as draughtsmen and engravers). Byfield probably refers to Ann Byfield, who lived in Islington. Usually, where blocks are shared, the engravers’ names are scrawled together at the bottom of the proof. But in this case, the names are far apart, and ‘Byfield’ is beside the serpent, while ‘Hundley’ is beside the ship. This would appear coincidental except that it is repeated on a neighbouring proof (Figure 7, top). Blocks were sometimes divided according to specialism, with master engravers working the face and figure. Perhaps Byfield was better at creating the more difficult curving shapes required by the serpent; Hundley’s name appears seldom in nineteenth-century illustration, and he was probably less experienced. I like the idea of the two elements of the design standing for the two engravers who realised them. Making works of art collaboratively is a fraught business, as anyone knows who has tried it. These proofs invites us to imagine Byfield’s aesthetic and her lines as battling and conquering Hundley’s. Byfield had been a big name in wood engraving earlier in the century. The previous generation – John, Ebenezer and Mary Byfield – made celebrated work for the Chiswick Press in the 1830s. They signed many blocks (including a wood engraving made after William Blake in Thornton’s Pastorals of Virgil (1821)). Mary Byfield taught the next generation to engrave: Edward, Ann and Mary Byfield junr, and their cousin Louis. By 1882, the older generation was dead, Edward too, and Louis had changed his profession to ‘undertaker and engraver’.18 The Byfield engravers were then Mary Jnr and Ann, who lived and worked together in Islington at least until the early 1860s. Working from the same address, the sisters might have engraved interchange- ably, sharing blocks according to convenience, skill and inclination. At some point in the sixties, Mary married and changed her name to Bowyer. She still lived nearby, but there is no evidence whether or not she continued to engrave, whereas Ann’s occupation continued to be listed on the census as TEXTUAL PRACTICE 17 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 ‘Engraver on Wood’ until 1881. Ann probably engraved the serpents in Figure 7. The identification of a female member of the family as working for Dalziel Brothers is strengthened by an image in the 1877 album, annotated in a differ- ent hand from usual, specifying ‘Miss Byfield’, and noting, ‘Paid Cash’.19 Since the Byfields had been an elite family of artists, it must have been difficult to accept small jobs from another firm. This would inevitably result in a lower fee, and meant signing her own work ‘Dalziel’ instead of ‘Byfield’. It turns out that these wood engravings were for a work of science or pseudo-science by the geologist Charles Gould, Mythical Monsters (1886). Gould uses evolutionary theory and historical sources to argue that many folktales of marvellous creatures were derived from real or extinct species. Figure 7. Byfield / Hundley / Dalziel, illustrations for Charles Gould, Mythical Monsters (London: W H Allen, 1886). Dalziel Archive Vol. 42 (1882-3), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.203, print nos. 625-6. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. 18 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Most illustrations are copied from earlier sources; Figure 7 is after Conrad Gessner’s Historiae Animalium (1551–1587). Mythical Monsters advertises its ‘ninety-three illustrations’, but does not mention the name of Dalziel, let alone Byfield or Hundley, who created the contours of the lines of the image before us.20 The book is frequently reprinted until today, complete with reproductions of the wood engravings. 14. Like in Wilkie Collins’s After Dark, in Anthony Trollope’s Orley Farm, the possibility of a good amanuensis is discounted. Here, the failure leads not just to ghostwriting, but forgery. The novel climaxes in a trial, but before this even begins, the judge attributes all the problems to the use of an ama- nuensis (as ever, a gendered relation). He declares: [I]t shows how careful men should be in all matters relating to their wills. The will and the codicil […] are both in the handwriting of the widow, who acted as an amanuensis not only for her husband but for the attorney. […] The attorney who advised Sir Joseph should have known better.21 Orley Farm was published over 1861–1862 with 40 illustrations by Dalziel after John Everett Millais. The plot explores Mary Mason’s forgery of a codicil, allowing her son to inherit property. Everyone loves Mary, but she is portrayed as a fake woman. She is always ‘plainly dressed’ but so as to subtly seduce and win support from powerful characters, since ‘to her belonged the great art of hiding her artifice’ (OF, Vol. 1, p. 31). Everyone is shocked when they discover her fraud. The issue of guilt hangs around several signatures, and the novel becomes preoccupied with the idea of signing: By whose hand in such case had those signatures been traced? Could it be poss- ible that she, soft, beautiful, graceful as she was … could have done it, unaided, – by herself? – that she could have sat down in the still hour of the night, with that old man on one side and her baby in his cradle on the other, and forged that will, signatures and all, in such a manner as to have carried her point for twenty years … ? (OF, Vol. 1, p. 103) Mary’s guilt is attached to the act of signing another’s name: ‘What; forged his name!’ exclaims her son, ‘It must be a lie!’. Then he asks for clarification: ‘What all; all the names herself?’ (OF, Vol. 2, p. 263). Perhaps criminal forgery is a long way from what an engraver does when they sign another’s name. But it is curious that Orley Farm features an engra- ver as a minor character: Snow (he is given no first name) is an alcoholic engraver working hand to mouth, obviously on cheap productions on wood, for example, ‘assist[ing] in the illustration of circus playbills’.22 (Inci- dentally, while I haven’t found a circus playbill in Dalziel’s archive, in the TEXTUAL PRACTICE 19 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 same year they engraved Orley Farm, Dalziel illustrated a souvenir book about circus performer Blondin; see Figure 8). Snow is a leech praying on Felix Graham, an idealistic lawyer, and the star of a major subplot. Felix adopts the engraver’s only child, Mary Snow. His plan for ‘educating this damsel for his wife, – moulding her, so that she might be made fit to suit his taste’ is one of the ostensibly comic, and unwit- tingly terrible, parts of the novel. Felix intends this as an act of charity and radicalism, but it is turned by the ‘impoverished’ and ‘cunning’ engraver into a financial transaction; Snow insists on a marriage contract before handing over his child. (OF, Vol. 1, pp. 139, 258). Snow and Mary Snow both eventually become intolerable to Felix, who gets out of the marriage, and condemns Snow as a ‘begging imposter’. Imposter? Logically, the wood engraver must be an ‘impostor’ in the unusual sense of ‘one who imposes on others’ (OED). He begs, but never deceives Felix, nor ‘assumes a false character’, the more common definition. And yet his daugh- ter, Mary Snow, does turn out to be an imposter, a kind of inauthentic woman. She is shown up at every moment as (in a pre-Jamesian way) not the real thing. This is emphasised in many details. One will suffice: Her letters were always of the same length, filling completely the four sides of a sheet of note paper. They were excellently well written; and as no one word in them was every altered or erased, it was manifest enough to Felix that the orig- inal composition was made on a rough draft. (OF, Vol. 2, pp. 259–60) Figure 8. Dalziel, illustrations for C Linnaeus Banks (ed.), Blondin: His Life and Perform- ances (London: Routledge, 1862). Dalziel Archive Vol. 15 (1862), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.176, print no. 606. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. 20 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Mary Snow’s crass fakeness becomes a foil for the subtle, impressive fakeries of the antiheroine, the forger Mary Mason. And the presence of the wood engrav- ing impostor in the background structurally and thematically echoes all this impostorship. Like Mary Mason, he signs the names and lines of others. In a culture that for centuries has metaphorically linked artistic and generative pro- creation, it is no accident that the daughter of the engraver is a fake. Trollope presents the forging of signatures as a specifically night-time work. Mary is ‘this midnight forger’, ‘a perpetrator of midnight forgery’, who ‘wrote it herself, in the night’, ‘executed it’ with ‘midnight care’. Earlier, Snow had been described as an artist who ‘executed flourishes’, and this deathly verb is fre- quently used in printmaking for production without invention (OF, Vol. 1, p. 257, Vol. 2, pp. 123, 177, 218, 263). Mary’s night labour has echoes in the work of the wood engraver, for whom publication deadlines demanded it. Dal- ziel’s memoir is just one source for this, commenting how ‘a large amount of wood engraving being done on the rush, it was a common thing to “burn the midnight oil” and the engraver’s eyes at the same time’.23 All these Marys make me remember the two generations of Mary Byfields. Structurally, the novel demands someone more natural and authentic to set against the faked signatures and feminity of the Snows and Mary Mason. This is Madeline Staveley, the perfect girl, and Felix wins her. Just as Mary Snow the wood engraver’s daughter – an undesirable bride – is contrasted with Madeline Staveley as the perfect match, so Mary Mason’s faked signatures are contrasted to the true signature of Madeline. This is Madeline’s response to Felix’s mar- riage proposal: ‘very slowly she raised her little hand and allowed her soft slight fingers to rest upon his open palm. It was as though she thus affixed her legal signature and seal to the deed of gift’ (OF, Vol. 2, p. 268). Madeline’s signature is true because it’s unwritten (there is a fantasy about signature and presence in this novel that anticipates Derrida’s ‘Signature, Event, Context’). When engravers produce the lines of someone else’s signature – their employer’s, a designer’s, or one of the many reproduced signatures fashion- able in nineteenth-century books and periodicals (Figure 9) – of course it isn’t a crime, not even when they’re exploiting it for money. Dalziel illustrated both Trollope and Dickens, and then in 1884, after the writers had died, started producing their signatures commercially, for example making adverts for Brandauer & Co fountain pens (Figure 10). 15. Ironically, one area of a block in which an engraver had relative freedom was in producing the signature ‘Dalziel Sc’ (‘Sc’ stands for ‘sculpt’). All broadly confirm to the distinctive flourish that marked the firm, but close examination reveals startling differences, even within a single book. Look at Figure 11, all for the Household edition of Dickens’s Bleak House; some are spidery, some TEXTUAL PRACTICE 21 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 angular, some open, some bold and graphic. They suggest different voices, Often the signature gets mangled; sometimes this happens to the extent of illegibility, and it’s fascinating to speculate on any motivations behind such carelessness. Figure 9. Dalziel, album page with miscellaneous signatures, including many after artists. Dalziel Archive Vol. 23 (1867), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.184, print nos. 868-99. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016 22 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Figure 10. Dalziel, Brandauer pen advertisements, with signatures of Dickens, Trollope and Sala. Dalziel Archive Vol. 43 (1884), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.204, print nos. 505, 515-6. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 23 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Figure 12 is an unidentified proof by Dalziel, probably designed by the draughtsman in the family, Thomas Dalziel. There is no evidence of the engraver, but extraordinarily, it includes two ‘Dalziel’ signatures, side by side (see bottom right). They were clearly made by different hands. The upper signature has a more elongated, elegant ‘D’, and more pronounced looping in the ‘D’ and the ‘S’. It also uses more acute angles in all the Figure 11. Dalziel, various engravers’ signatures, all from illustrations after Frederick Barnard for Charles Dickens, Bleak House, Household Edition (London: Chapman and Hall, 1873). Dalziel Archive Vols. 30 and 31 (1872-3), British Museum reg. nos. 1913,0415.191-2, print nos. 128-60, 50-77. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. 24 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 letters, with a greater tendency to upward-sloping strokes. For instance, see the sharp shapes of the ‘Z’ and the second ‘L’; in both cases the lower examples are more open and boxy. The letters in the upper signature are better spaced, and have been more carefully engraved, so the lines print evenly. Given the way hierarchical specialisms dictated who did what on a block, we can specu- late that the upper ‘Dalziel’ is the signature of a more experienced engraver who might have created the druidic figure and his harp, and perhaps the fire and tree trunk, whereas the lower ‘Dalziel’ may be the signature of the engraver of the foliage, or background tint work. In all probability, this double signature was spotted and one of them removed at the proofing stage. But the two signatures remain here as visual evidence of the multiple artist that was Dalziel. In a profound way, Dalziel actually did become the name of the artists who worked for the firm, and the clues about their unique signatures are one of the only ways of remembering the distinctive delineations that make up the firm’s oeuvre. Simultaneously, we must recognise the oddness and personal efface- ment for any creative artist in constantly signing their work with someone else’s name. Given the pencilled annotations in the Dalziel Archive with particular engravers’ names, it would be fantastic to be able to identify particular styles of signature with particular artists. For instance, where Byfield signs ‘Dalziel’, we get a strongly curving version, with bold, rounding loops.24 Unfortunately, the number of prints with an engraver’s name written on is Figure 12. Dalziel, unidentified illustration. Dalziel Archive Vol. 7 (1855), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.169, print no. 422. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 25 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 only a tiny proportion of the Dalziel Archive (a minority of prints from the 1870s and 1880s, when the medium was starting to lose its commercial stronghold). And among these, there are relatively few ‘Dalziel’ signatures; the majority are the banal, simple illustrations of the sort that Dalziel never signed. I wonder whether the use of penciled names is connected with a system of freelancing, especially since costs or hours are sometimes given too, and it makes sense that the least complex images would be sent out. But this is speculation, and the evidence is sporadic and contradictory. Dal- ziel’s annotation practices were by no means consistent. Intellectually, the archive’s refusal to restitute named bodies to each signature may be pro- ductive, reminiscent of literary theory’s long project, as Peggy Kamuf puts it, ‘to unnerve discourses about textual authorship, to unsettle the institution of the author’s rights to some property […]. There is indeed something unnerving about a signature that remains to return to no one’.25 16. Dalziel often left album pages unannotated, but sometimes a name or heading is used. The proofs to Through the Looking-Glass are titled with Dodgson’s first name for his book, ‘Behind the Looking Glass’. The looking glass is an important symbol for the wood engraver, since everything on the block must be in reverse, a mirror image of the printed picture. Printmakers inhabit a world in which writing and pictures all go backwards (not unlike the backwards ‘Looking-glass book’ that Alice finds in the novel).26 The title Through the Looking-Glass suggests a fantasy world outside actual space, entered through the mirror. In comparison, Behind the Looking Glass sounds prosaic, promising to reveal the plain wooden backing that supports the mirror. To look behind the looking glass is not to enter a dream, but to examine the dusty infrastructure that supports it. Behind the Looking Glass there is the factory and woodblocks of Dalziel. Let us consider the iconic images of Alice as she enters the glass and is seen from both sides of it (Figure 13). In the mirrored world, all is reversed, not only Alice and the furniture, but even Tenniel’s monogram, which is pre- sented as a mirror image and flipped over to the opposite side of the block (one of the monograms is very lightly printed on the proof, but both are clearly visible in published versions). This playful detail of inverting the sig- nature would have been a joke for all involved in illustration; while this has obviously been done deliberately, it is extremely common to see blocks in which the signature is reversed accidentally (photographic evidence of draw- ings on woodblocks suggests that it was the designer’s responsibility to reverse their own signature in preparation for engraving, and sometimes they just did not bother).27 Dalziel follows the logic of Tenniel’s looking glass pairing to some extent, in that the position of their signature is mirrored on the block. 26 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 But the actual letters are not mirrored, as Tenniel’s are. Whether deliberate or careless, this is an interesting refusal on the part of the engraver to enter into the reversing spirit of the block. What we do see in the proofs is a brilliant representation of the looking glass world as more vibrant than the ordinary one, not just in details such as the sudden anthropomorphisation of the vase, clock and fireplace, but in the use of bolder lines and more contrast. The latter distinction is far more visible in the hand-printed burnished proofs than it is in the published book; the electrotyping process and commercial printing make the lines more uniform in the book. Curiously, whereas published editions naturally order the two illustrations to show the actual world first, and the looking- glass world second, Dalziel’s album reverses this. Again, this may simply be a mistake or a lack of interest in following narrative (the latter, very significant itself here). But the revised narrative in the album, whether intentionally or not, re-works the order to privilege the wood engraver’s point of view. For the wood engraver, an image always begins, on the block, with the looking- glass version. A reversed reality is how every published picture starts, it is only after the engraving is finished and printed that the normal orientation of the world is re-established. 17. Dalziel’s bizarrely disembodied signature goes hand in hand with an approach to character that empties it of signification, in favour of formal aspects. I’m using the word ‘character’ with three OED definitions in mind: Definition 3a: ‘A member of a set of symbols used in writing or printing … ’. Figure 13. Dalziel after John Tenniel, illustration for Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass (London: Macmillan, 1871). Dalziel Archive Vol. 28 (1871), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.189, print nos 625- 626. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 27 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Definition 4b: ‘A particular person’s style of handwriting’. Definition 14: ‘A person portrayed in a work of fiction, a drama, a film, a comic strip, etc.’. In various ways, ‘character’ disappeared from line in the wood engraver’s art. Many proofs survive that have marginal annotations, the designer’s instruc- tions for improving the print. These annotations discuss narrative images in a way that is impersonal and clinical. They refer to things like ‘nostril’, ‘the figure’, ‘the sole of the foot’, ‘the old man’, etc. – not to anything like a literary character. One example is striking; in Tenniel’s annotations to another set of proofs of Through the Looking-Glass (in the Morgan Library, New York), he repeatedly refers to the figure of Alice as ‘the child’.28 This was in 1871, by which time Carroll’s Alice was already a huge cultural hit, inspiring multiple imitations. Tenniel and Dalziel had collaborated on the first set of images in 1865, and here they were six years later, making the sequel. No-one involved could fail to be familiar with Alice (though one can imagine engravers of other books not knowing the stories or characters). So why did Tenniel write ‘the child’? Why not ‘Alice’ or even ‘A’ – these were informal notes – which is shorter and quicker? To me, this speaks to a way of looking and working which wood engraving embraces, a method that rejects character, name and narrative for form. A different example (this time taking character as symbols used in writing or printing) is in a dull illustration after James Abbott Pasquier, of ‘Ben and Bessie going to Church’, for Emma Marshall’s Happy Days at Fernbank (1861, Figure 14). If you examine the bottom right corner you will see, within the frame of the image, some reverse writing: ‘P. 137’. Though printed, the lines capture someone’s informal handwriting. To anyone familiar with con- ventions of Victorian books, it is obvious these characters were not meant to be engraved. The designer probably wrote the page number in pencil as a reference, so the engravers knew where this belonged in the book. Any page references that were printed with wood-engraved illustrations were always added outside the frame in letterpress. We can interpret the mistake as careless engraving of a mediocre image. But it’s also more than that. Wood engravers looked at lines, shapes, textures and tones for their own sake, considering how to re-create them in wood, in print. This relates to another practice wood engravers’ offices, what Gerry Beegan calls the ‘frag- mentation’ of the medium, when a single, drawn block was cut into several pieces and distributed to different engravers, either to meet a short deadline or to create a larger picture than the small pieces of boxwood allowed.29 For the working engraver, it could mean that sometimes, their contribution to a realist, narrative-based art was small blocks with startling line-work but little pictorial meaning. 28 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Figure 14. Dalziel after James Abbott Pasquier, ’Ben and Bessie going to Church’, for Emma Marshall, The Happy Days at Fernbank: a story for Little Girls (London: James Hogg, 1861). Dalziel Archive Vol. 14 (1861), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.175, print no. 657. By permission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 29 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 18. The status of the facsimile wood engraver in Victorian culture and later his- toriography has much to do with their relationship to the signature and to narrative composition. Their work goes against a mainstream visual culture invested in the following: in myths of the authority of singular artistic produ- cers; in a belief in the importance of names and identifiable personalities in art; in autographic expression; and in a nineteenth-century prioritisation of composition over formal or material aspects of work. If the signature is the ultimate self portrait in western culture, one that makes aesthetic and legal claims, the wood engraver’s signature is always a self portrait of the other, and this extends to all the lines they made. Nevertheless, these artists were responsible for creating thousands of images that shaped their culture and continue to shape ours. Researching, reconstructing and imagining the way engravers worked is one way of acknowledging this debt and their work. It is a method in sympa- thy with other recent research that investigates collaborative and corporate authorship, for example, in sculpture, photography and periodical writing.30 One thing that for me is distinct and irreducible about wood engraving is the way that – during the great historical moment of narrative, realist and fig- urative art – it produced superb artists whose labour was all about line and abstraction. The facsimile system produced many artists who were not required to go out and witness what they portrayed; instead, their continual labour was to be in the office, at the table – at the block. Supposedly they were mechanical artists, puppets for other artists whose creative gestures they realised. This paper acknowledges, explores and contests the way such that role has been defined. To end, I want to offer some speculation about the other side of print culture, involving a shift of focus from the printed wood engraving – which could have an audience of tens of thousands – to the woodblock, whose tiny audience was limited to engravers themselves and others who made, printed and published them in books and periodicals. Woodblocks are more than mere matrices for a burgeoning public print culture. What if, instead of considering an illustration in relation to a narra- tive, a printed page, book or periodical, or the market (and the political and social realities it exploited), we think of the engraver’s relation to this visually different, more abstract world? Take one Dalziel illustration. The print is a stereotypical patriarchal image illustrating a poem by James Montgomery, ‘The World Before the Flood’. Now see how the block looks, in two photo- graphs by Ornan Rotem from Sylph Editions, lit from different angles (Figure 15). In one, the figure is dark, his hands and face engulfed by fog, and sharp rays of brightness dominate the background. In the other, the patri- arch glows softly, light emanating from his hands towards the edges of the 30 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 block. The blocks have intriguing textures that will never be printed. Before being proofed, the colour was golden brown, rather than black. They are dynamic objects, holding multiple shifting images within themselves. Looked at straight on, they give little away. But every oblique angle offers a new picture, as does different lights (best at sunset). This is not a composition for mass readerships or viewers; it’s a secret experience of the engravers’ and printers’ offices. As a work of art, it is a gorgeous off-shoot entirely different from the fantastic commercial illustrations that these artists shaped. Notes 1. For an early overview of the Dalziel Archive, see Paul Goldman, ‘The Dalziel Brothers and the British Museum’, The Book Collector, 45 (1996), pp. 341– 50. For my catalogue of the Dalziel Archive with many attributions of designers and publications, see Bethan Stevens, ‘India-Proofs of Wood-Engravings by the Brothers Dalziel’ (British Museum, Collection Online, 2015–2016), at http:// www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/search.aspx, using author or title (in quotation marks) as search term. 2. Wilkie Collins, After Dark (London: Smith, Elder & Co, 1856), Vol. 1, p. 23. Hereafter referred to as AD. 3. There was a growing technical capability to photographically transfer drawings to blocks, especially from the 60s and 70s onwards, but results were mixed and difficult to handle; for practical purposes, drawing on the block continued to be the norm until around 1880. Figure 15. Dalziel after John Gilbert, The World Before the Flood’, for James Montgom- ery, Poems (London: Routledge, 1860). British Museum reg. no. 1996,1104.52. By per- mission of the Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. © Sylph Editions, 2016. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 31 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/search.aspx http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/search.aspx 4. For one example of many, see William Holman Hunt, ‘Godiva’, photographic reproduction of a drawing on a woodblock, Harold Hartley Collection, Boston Museum of Fine Arts (Accession number 55.2038). Note especially the light lines in the scene outside the window, which cannot appear this way in the printed version. 5. Antony Griffiths, The Print Before Photography: An Introduction to European Printmaking 1550–1820 (London: British Museum Press, 2016), pp. 464–5. 6. John Jackson and William Andrew Chatto, Treatise on Wood Engraving, His- torical and Practical (London: Charles Knight, 1839), p. 635. This pictorial initial opens the chapter that teaches the practice of wood engraving. 7. Walter Crane, An Artist’s Reminiscences (London: Methuen, 1907), p. 48. 8. Jackson and Chatto, Treatise on Wood Engraving, p. 651. 9. Katherine Jex-Blake (trans.), The Elder Pliny’s Chapters on the History of Art (London: Macmillan, 1896), p. 123. 10. John Bostock and H T Riley (trans.), The Natural History of Pliny (London: Bohn, 1857), Vol. 6, p. 257. 11. There are several excellent analyses of this landmark book. See for instance Julia Thomas, Pictorial Victorians: The Inscription of Values in Word and Image (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2004), pp. 53–64; Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, Poetry Pictures and Popular Publishing: The Illustrated Gift Book and Victorian Visual Culture (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2011), pp. 34–78. 12. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, letter to William Bell Scott, February 1857, Princeton University Library. Digitised in Jerome McGann et al. (eds.), Rossetti Archive, at www.rossettiarchive.org. 13. See George and Edward Dalziel, The Brothers Dalziel: A Record (London: Methuen, 1901). 14. Rossetti, letter to William Allingham, 18 December 1856, The Morgan Library, New York (accession number MA 381.32). 15. See Elizabeth Eiloart, The Young Squire: Or, Peter and his Friends (London: Frederick Warne, [1872]), title page. 16. Dalziel after James Godwin, unidentified wood engraving. Dalziel Archive Vol. 13 (1860), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.191, print no. 1631. 17. Dalziel, The Brothers Dalziel, pp. 343–51. 18. For the biographical information about the Byfields cited here, see census returns and Rodney K Engen, Dictionary of Victorian Wood Engravers (Cam- bridge: Chadwyck Healy, 1985), pp. 39–40. 19. Byfield/Dalziel, unidentified commercial wood engraving, showing a hotel. Dalziel Archive Vol. 36 (1877), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.197, print no. 9. 20. See Charles Gould, Mythical Monsters (London: W H Allen, 1886), title page. 21. Anthony Trollope, Orley Farm (London: Chapman and Hall, 1862), Vol. 1, 148–9. Hereafter referred to as OF. 22. Snow is carefully defined against upmarket copperplate engravers. He is ‘not an artist who receives four or five thousand pounds for engraving the chef-d’œuvre of a modern painter, – but … a man who executed flourishes on ornamental cardsfortradespeople,andassistedintheillustrationofcircusplaybills’.Felixassoci- ates with him through ‘transactions … with the press’ (OF, Vol. 1, pp. 257–8). 23. Dalziel, The Brothers Dalziel, p. vi. 32 B. STEVENS D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 www.rossettiarchive.org 24. See, for example, Byfield/Dalziel, illustrations for Charles Gould, Mythical Mon- sters (London: W H Allen, 1886). Dalziel Archive Vol. 42 (1882–3), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.203, print nos. 625–6. 823, 827, 844, 848, 850, 852. 25. Peggy Kamuf, Signature Pieces: On the Institution of Authorship (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1988), p. 14. 26. Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice found there (London: Macmillan, 1871), p. 21. 27. For two examples of many where the designer’s signature is casually reversed, see an illustration after Phiz (Hablot K Browne), Dalziel Archive Vol. 17 (1863), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.178, print no. 405; or, an illustration after Frederick Barnard, Dalziel Archive Vol. 36 (1877), British Museum reg. no. 1913,0415.197, print no. 136. 28. Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice found there (1871; London: Macmillan, 1872), extra-illustrated copy with proofs annotated by John Tenniel, The Morgan Library (Accession number PML77537). 29. Gerry Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduc- tion in Victorian London (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2008), pp. 47–71. 30. See for instance Jordan Bear, Disillusioned: Victorian Photography and the Dis- cerning Subject (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2015), pp. 80–118; Rachel Sagner Buurma, ‘Anonymity, Corporate Authority and the Archive: The Production of Authorship in Late-Victorian England’, Victorian Studies 50.1 (2007), pp. 15–42. For collaboration in Victorian illus- trated periodicals, see Simon Cooke, Illustrated Periodicals of the 1860s: Con- texts & Collaborations (London: British Library, 2010). Acknowledgements The Dalziel project would not be possible without funding from the AHRC (Arts and Humanities Research Council), as well as the generous support of our project part- ners, The British Museum and Sylph Editions. In particular, I am grateful for the help and expertise of Esther Chadwick, Hugo Chapman, Sheila O’Connell, Isabel Seligman and Monica Sidhu at the Prints and Drawings department at the British Museum; Chiara Manco, Ornan Rotem and Num Stibbe at Sylph Editions; and Hannah Field, George Mind and Lindsay Smith at the University of Sussex. Disclosure statement No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author. Funding Funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) [grant number AH/ M008584/1]. TEXTUAL PRACTICE 33 D ow nl oa de d by [ U ni ve rs it y of S us se x L ib ra ry ] at 0 7: 48 3 1 A ug us t 20 17 Abstract 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. Notes Acknowledgements Disclosure statement 
work_j62uqhp6onef3o7f3hzlub4asu	----	Microsoft Word - DISSERTATION -FINAL FOR THE LOVE OF ONE’S COUNTRY: THE CONSTRUCTION OF A GENDERED MEMORY IN PHILADELPHIA AND MONTGOMERY COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA, 1860-1914 _______________________________________________________________________ A Dissertation Submitted to the Temple University Graduate Board ________________________________________________________________________ In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor Of Philosophy ________________________________________________________________________ By Smadar Shtuhl May, 2011 Examining Committee Members: Susan E. Klepp, Advisory Chair, History Wilbert L. Jenkins, History Jonathan Daniel Wells, History Rebecca T. Alpert, External Member, Temple University ii © by Smadar Shtuhl 2011 All Rights Reserved iii ABSTRACT The acquisition of the home of George Washington by the Mount Vernon Ladies Association in 1858 was probably the first preservation project led by women in the United States. During the following decades, elite Philadelphia and Montgomery County women continued the construction of historical memory through the organization and popularization of exhibitions, fundraising galas, preservation of historical sites, publication of historical writings, and the erection of patriotic monuments. Drawing from a wide variety of sources, including annual organizations’ reports, minutes of committees and of a DAR chapter, correspondence, reminiscences, newspapers, circulars, and ephemera, the dissertation argues that privileged women constructed a classed and gendered historical memory, which aimed to write women into the national historical narrative and present themselves as custodians of history. They constructed a subversive historical account that placed women on equal footing with male historical figures and argued that women played a significant role in shaping the nation’s history. During the first three decades, privileged women advanced an idealized memory of Martha and George Washington with an intention to reconcile the sectional rift caused by the Civil War. From the early 1890s, with the formation of the Daughters of the American Revolution, elite women of colonial and revolutionary war ancestry constructed a more inclusive memory of revolutionary iv soldiers that aimed to inculcate the public, particularly recent immigrants, in patriotic and civic values. An introductory chapter demonstrates the social, political, and economic vulnerability of the elites and the institutions and historical memory they forged to shore up their privileged status from the colonial period to the Civil War. Through the organization of the Great Central Fair held in Philadelphia in 1864, the fundraising campaign on behalf of the Centennial Exposition, the preservation of George Washington’s Headquarters at Valley Forge, the formation of the Historical Society of Montgomery County, and the activities of the Valley Forge Chapter DAR the dissertation demonstrates that women employed their experience to expand their activities beyond regional boundaries while also tending to local history. The dissertation contributes to the discussion regarding the construction of memory by adding gender and class as categories of analysis. It also adds to the historical debate regarding the professionalization of history by exploring women’s historical writings during the period of institutionalization of history. v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS During the work on this study I have been extremely fortunate to have the support of many individuals and organizations. I am most fortunate to have insightful committee members who provided me with support, guidance, and encouragement. This project may not have existed without my main advisor, Dr. Susan Klepp. An accomplished scholar and mentor, she offered me invaluable advice and support. Our meetings kept me focused and enabled me to develop and grow. I particularly appreciate her patience and encouragement with my writing. As an immigrant who arrived at this country with rudimentary knowledge of the English language, I have continually strived to improve my vocabulary and writing skills. Dr. Klepp’s continuous support sustained me through months of struggle of finding my voice in a rich language, filled with subtle nuances that often eluded me. I am grateful for all she has done. I very much appreciate Dr. Wilbert Jenkins for his support, enthusiasm, and helpful comments. As his TA, I observed a caring professor whose passion about his subject sparked interest among his students. He was similarly passionate about mentoring his TAs and about the success of my project. I would like to thank Dr. Jonathan Wells, who graciously agreed to serve on my committee when the dissertation had been in its last stages. I greatly appreciate his insight and suggestions. Thanks to my external reader, Dr. Rebecca Alpert, for her meticulous editing and insightful comments – they improved my work at its last stage. I would like to thank Dr. Elizabeth Varon whose remarks on the introductory part of my dissertation helped vi shape my thinking on historical perspectives. I would also like to extend special thanks to Dr. Richard Immerman who, as a department chair and graduate chair, provided me with all the help I needed to continue my project. None of this work would have been possible without the funding and the help of librarians and archivists from various institutions. The Library Company of Philadelphia and the Historical Society of Pennsylvania awarded me the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation Fellowship, which enabled me to conduct research in their incredible collections. This financial assistance was greatly appreciated. I would like to thank the librarians of both institutions for taking interest in my project and help with my research requests, and particularly to Nicloe Joniec, who accommodated my request for image copies. I offer a special thanks to Florence R. J. Young and Jeff McGranahan who willingly shared their great knowledge and enthusiasm about the history of Montgomery County. Their warm welcome and unrelenting assistance advanced my project and made my time at the society exciting and enjoyable. I very much appreciate the help provided by Donna McDermott and Scott Houting from the Valley Forge National Park who patiently filled my research requests and willingly shared their perspective of public history. I would also like to thank Rebecca Baird of the DAR Office of the Historian General for filling my research requests. Thanks to Kate Shier, the Regent of the Valley Forge Chapter DAR, for allowing me to access the chapter’s archival materials. I extend special thanks to Deb Scholl, a chapter member, who graciously opened her home and allowed me to research the materials for as long as I needed. Special thanks to Celia vii Mullins at the Stack’s Bowers and Pontorio for giving me permission to include the image of Martha Washington’s medal in this work. I would like to thank the support of fellow graduate students and my friends who encouraged me and were willing to listen and discuss my research and findings. Thanks to my Diana Reinhard, Janet Galley, Jen Fry, Uta Kresse, Darryl Mace, Lynette Deem, Julia Oestreich, and Sharon Sidorick. Thanks to Pat Williams and Vangie Campbell, the department coordinators, for their assistance and support. Special thanks to my dear friends Sarah Kligman, Lydia Sardinas, Neil Sardinas, and Liz Ziets for their friendship and encouragement. They never tired of hearing about my findings and my writing process and provided me with great advice and encouragement. Finally, I would like to thank my family who supported me throughout my entire college career. Thanks to my sons, Orr, Tal, and Nir who had seen me studying through most of their lives and encouraged me to pursue my goals. Special thanks to Orr and Nir, who edited my work, and to Nir, who also patiently helped me decipher some of the difficult manuscripts. And above all, I thank my husband, Shlomo, who encouraged me to pursue my interest. Thank you for your patience, your help in keeping things in good order, and for your endless support. I could not have done it without you! viii TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE ABSTRACT……………………………………………………………………...iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS……………………………………………………….v LIST OF FIGURES……………………………………………………………….x INTRODUCTION………………………………………………………………..xi CHAPTER 1. FORGING ELITES: CLASS AND GENDER FROM THE COLONIAL ERA TO THE CIVIL WAR……...……………………..1 2. CIVIL WAR : LOCAL MEMORY ON DISPLAY…………………54 3. BOSTON TEA PARTY REVISITED: WOMEN’S CAMPAIGN FOR THE CENTENNIAL EXPOSITION……………...…………...96 4. HISTORICAL PRESERVATION IN MONTGOMERY COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA………………………………………………….158 5. PATRIOTIC HONOR: THE VALLEY FORGE CHAPTER DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1894- 1914…………………………………………………………………229 ix 6. CONCLUSION……………………………………………………..276 REFERENCES CITED…………………………………………………………287 APPENDICES A. PERMISSION FROM THE LIBRARY COMPANY OF PHILADELPHIA……………………………………………….….309 B. PERMISSION FROM STACK’S BOWERS GALLERIES……….312 x LIST OF FIGURES Figure Page 1. CIRCULAR OF THE WILLIAM PEN PARLOR COMMITTEE……………….79 2. MRS. LARDNER BROWN IN A MARTHA WASHINGTON COSTUME……....................................................................................................120 3. MARTHA WASHINGTON MEDAL……...……………………………............134 4. GEORGE WASHINGTON’S HEADQUARTERS, VALLEY FORGE NATIONAL PARK……………………………………………………………....171 xi INTRODUCTION On the evening of March 30, 1875, a large group of enthusiastic privileged women and men congregated at the residence of Mrs. J. G. Thorp in Madison, Wisconsin. They intended to form a Woman’s Centennial Club that would lead the fundraising campaign for the Centennial Exposition in the state. The first speaker, General Atwood of the National Centennial Commission, who was grateful for the assistance the women offered the enterprise, asserted: Nothing of vital importance has transpired in the land, unless it received, in some way, the aid of women…During the revolutionary war women took a prominent part. If they did not go into the field of battle, they encouraged their fathers, brothers, sweethearts, and friends to do so; and they molded bullets from pewter ware, for them to use in battle for freedom… It is reasonable to presume that, but for the hearty cooperation of women, we should never have had in the first place a free republic here. 1 Atwood’s acknowledgement of the contribution of women to the formation of the country was uttered at the wake of the centennial year, when elite Northern Americans emphasized their link to their revolutionary ancestors and established themselves as custodians of the national historical narrative. While both men and 1 Anna B. Butler, Emma C. Bascom, and Katherine F. Kerr, eds., Centennial Records of the Women of Wisconsin (Madison, Wisconsin: Atwookd and Culver, 1876), 87. xii women can be made into public figures by the prominence of their actions, men – who traditionally occupied civil, political, and military positions – served as prominent subjects of historical accounts. The social convention that placed women in the domestic sphere generally omitted them from those chronicles. During the last four decades of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century privileged women attempted to include colonial women, who made proper marriages and appropriate social connections, in the nation’s history. While engaging in this process they ensured their own inclusion in the narrative. By forging their own classed and gendered memory centered on female participation in the national polity, these activists legitimized their social status and gave themselves public exposure. They also created organizations that transcended regional boundaries and established an efficient network that supported their campaigns. Over the past two decades, scholars have explored the relationships of history and the political aims and impact of the construction of collective memory. These studies link individuals to group identities and primarily examine the process of the construction of memory within its chronological context. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger emphasize state rituals as a means of constructing collective memory. In their volume The Invention of Tradition they argue that traditions invent historic continuity, legitimize institutions and authority, and inculcate value systems. 2 They also enhance patriotism and ritual and may assist in social cohesion while obscuring fragments of the past that contest 2 Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, the Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 7-9. xiii their historical version. History, on the other hand, is an ideological social construct that is often popularized by the state or a movement. The scholars assert that traditions are employed to provide the community with a shared identity at a time of social or political instability. Hobsbawm argues that the DAR created a tradition of a superior class of native Protestants based on genealogy to distinguish themselves from the masses of immigrants. The scholars offer a framework for interaction between memory and history. However, they do not distinguish between the use of material culture – customs, rituals, and monuments – and the use of historical figures in the process of construction of traditions. While Hobsbawm and Ranger perceive the construction of history and traditions as separate processes, David Lowenthal argues that they are interconnected. Memory, he argues, provides the awareness of the past, history offers the knowledge of it, and relics assist in believing in the past’s existence. 3 The past is not fixed but is in a state of constant change according to the emerging needs of the present; the depiction of history, memory, and relics in addition to disregarded material may transform to fit changing agendas. In their search for the past, Lowenthal asserts, people do not seek the truth but individual and collective identity. He draws his evidence from a large historical and geographical area – the Renaissance, Victorian England, and the Founding Fathers – which inevitably leads to some generalities. By contextualizing the American Revolution within the metaphor of a mother – child relationship he sheds light on its cultural aspects but ignores economic, political, and military considerations. 3 David Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). xiv With close attention to French history, Pierre Nora argues that history and memory are different entities: the former is an incomplete representation of the past based on analysis and criticism, while the latter is ever changing, occuring in space, images, and objects, and constructs and deconstructs its meanings. Lieux de memoire, places of memory, Nora argues, are attempts to preserve memory such as archives, museums, memorials, and anniversaries. 4 Nora locates memory in public places and considers its creation within a national context. He ignores the existence of contesting versions of memory by groups whose representation had been eliminated. Michael Kammen pays close attention to the emergence of contesting memories in his comprehensive study Mystic Chords of Memory. He argues that there is a tendency in America to depoliticize traditions and seek reconciliation. In constructing the memory of the Civil War, Northern and Southern whites, who intended to reconcile their differences, excluded African Americans. For their part, African Americans created the Juneteenth celebrations. Between 1870 and 1915, white elites created traditions by collecting colonial furniture and memorializing their ancestry in order to halt change brought by increasing industrialization and urbanization. They wanted their ideal version of the past to mitigate social and political unrest and promote stability. 5 Memory, Kammen argues, replaced faith and history inspired with knowledge of the past. 4 Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire,” Representations, Special Issue: Memory and Counter Memory, 26 (Spring 1989): 7-24. 5 Michael G. Kammen, Mystic Chords of Memory: The Transformation of Tradition in American Culture (New York: Knopf, 1991), 59. xv Historians who have explored the construction of memory, history, and traditions have paid attention to the collective process of identity formation and emphasized institutional and group involvement. But because the ‘collective’ spells the ‘official’, many have ignored gender altogether because most women did not formally participate in political, military, and public campaigns. W. Fitzhugh Brundage, one of the few scholars who explore the relations between gender and memory, demonstrates that elite women assumed dominance over the representation of history in the post-bellum South and disseminated their version through textbooks and essay contests. They also exerted their influence over the rhetoric of the academic staff of Southern universities. 6 He argues that by portraying an ideal picture of the antebellum South with its dignified plantation owner, refined mistress, contented mammies, and satisfied slaves, elite Southern women were able to re-imagine the old social hierarchy and ignore the violence of slavery. In the process they emerged as custodians of history, the authors as well as active participants in the narrative of Southern history. In an additional article Brundage admits that whites had the upper hand in a contestation over public representations of slavery because African Americans did not have the means to erect impressive statues. 7 6 Brundage tells the story of a young history professor, Enoch M. Banks, in the University of Florida who in 1911 concluded that the South was wrong to secede, and consequently resigned his post under the pressure of women’s organizations. See: W. Fitzhugh Brundage W. Fitzhugh Brundage, “White Women and the Politics of Historical Memory in the New South, 1880-1920,” in Jumpin’ Jim Crow: Southern Politics from Civil War to Civil Rights, ed. Jane Dailey, Glenda Elizabeth Gilmore, and Bryant Simon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 127. 7 W. Fitzhugh Brundage, “Woman’s Hand and Heart and Deathless Love,” White Women and the Commemorative Impulse in the New South,” in Monuments to the Lost Cause: Women, Art, and Landscapes of Southern Memory, ed. Cynthia Mills and Pamela H. Simpson, eds. (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2003), 70-71. xvi Brundage demonstrates that class and race were prime factors in motivating the women to act but asserts that gender was significant to a lesser degree because men had their own historically-oriented groups. 8 Brundage assumes that because men and women worked for the cause gender was not a crucial factor in their activism. He attributes women’s activism to the Victorian gender role that ascribed mourning to women and argues that the men did not realize the potential impact of the construction of history in affecting how generations of Southerners would perceive their past. He does not emphasize the quality of the work executed and the means by which it had been achieved as an issue of managerial and political ability. However, his work demonstrates that women crafted a political approach that exceeded that of male clubs’ members and succeeded in gaining authority over the construction of the past. Brundage’s article suggests that women constructed memory that often differed from that of men. 9 Privileged Philadelphia and Montgomery County women, who were often ignored by historical accounts, created memory that inserted their ancestors into history. Their memory represented class and pedigree that intended to create class hierarchy and establish them as birthright aristocracy. 10 Between 1860 and 1890, they concentrated their effort on regional reconciliation with Martha and George Washington 8 Ibid. 71. 9 Susan Stabile demonstrates that women were able to create their own domesticated memory in the eighteenth century. By writing the history of their homes and recreating early republican gardens they were able to create local space for memories. See: Susan Stabile, Memory’s Daughters: The Material Culture of Remembrance in Eighteenth-Century America (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004), 12, 234. 10 E. Digby Baltzell, Philadelphia Gentlemen: The Making of a National Upper Class (Glencoe, Illinois: The Free Press, 1958), 225-227. See also: Ralph E. Pyle, Persistence and Change in the Protestant Establishment (Westport, Connecticut: Praeger, 1996), 4-5, 36, 45-47. xvii as representatives of revolutionary unity. Increasing immigration from Eastern and Southern Europe and anxiety over the changing social and political landscape of the city and, to a lesser degree, of Montgomery County, prompted privileged women to intensify their effort to inculcate the newcomers. Elizabeth Robins Pennell possibly uttered the feelings of many privileged Philadelphians when she wrote: It is the Russian Jew who, with an army of aliens at his back – thousands upon thousands of Italians, Slavs, Lithuanians, a fresh emigration of negroes from the South, and statistics alone can say how many other varieties - is pushing and pushing Philadelphians out the town… until who can say where there will be any room for them at all? 11 The women aimed to instill loyalty and patriotism through the work of historical preservation, erection of monuments to revolutionary ancestors, and authorship of local history. This study argues that history and memory are similar in that they are generated as a result of a political standpoint. Both are also selective, emphasize certain elements and obscure others. Their difference lies in their objective. Professional history seeks an analysis of new sources and exploration of old ones from new perspectives. As other scholars have pointed out, it is written for knowledge but is also subjected to revisions. In agreement with Nora, the study assumes that memory is generated by a group or the state, and its products – monuments, commemorations, rituals, historical exhibits or other artifacts – offer the public ultimate, irrefutable conclusions. The creation of memory, as 11 Elizabeth Robins Pennell, Our Philadelphia (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Company, 1914), 486. xviii Brundage demonstrates, depends on access to political and financial resources. The women in this study possessed both due to their husbands’ wealth, status, and ancestry. This study explores the paradoxical gendered and classed perception of the separate sphere ideology. The women who are the subject of this study had seemingly supported the ideology, but their actions contradicted its premises. Eager to address regional reconciliation during and after the Civil War and inculcate the increasing numbers of immigrants, they employed their skills in the public sphere but were sure to command respect as proper women who value conventional gender roles. I use the word “proper” as it is employed by Cleveland Amory to describe elite Bostonian men from “First Families” who exerted great influence on the city and the nation and represented traditional conduct that commanded respect to the family and its achievements. 12 Nathaniel Burt argues that the use of this term does not apply to the relaxed and friendly city society that did not care for title or money but for birth and the family. 13 Burt is in fact in agreement with Amory since birth and family are more exclusive than money and title; the former is inherent and cannot be acquired by any means while the latter might be difficult to attain but may be accessible to selected few. Furthermore, in his study he demonstrates that birth and family translated to economic and political power, and friendliness was reserved to those included in elite social circles. 12 Cleveland Amory, Proper Bostonians (New York, E. P. Dutton, 1947). 13 Nathaniel Burt, The Perennial Philadelphians: The Anatomy of an American Aristocracy (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1963), 15-16, 40. xix The Philadelphia area was chosen for its association with the nation’s history. A considerable number of nineteenth-century members of local families could trace their ancestry to colonial America and the Revolution. Swedes were the first to arrive to the area in 1638, encouraged by King Gustavus Adolphus, who authorized the Swedish West India Company for the purpose of missionary activity and trade. 14 In 1682 Charles II granted William Penn 50,000 acres known as the Welsh Tract, which is considered central to the Philadelphia’s suburbs’ aristocracy. Some of the first settlers in the Philadelphia area were Dutch, Finnish, Swedish, and English. 15 William Penn traveled to Holland and Germany to publicize his colony and created great interest particularly among those suffering from religious persecution such as the Mennonites. In August 1683, Germans, led by Francis Daniel Pastonius, were given a township northwest of the city, later to become Germantown. Many of Philadelphia’s elite families originate from the settlers who came to the city in this period. 16 The existence of a prosperous privileged society in Philadelphia and Montgomery County, as vulnerable as it was to economic, political, and social changes, provides an opportunity to explore how women of 14 Dutch and Swedes preceded Penn in the Delaware by more than fifty years. The Swedes settled in Christiana (Wilmington), Tinicum, and Wicaco; the Dutch resided near the bay. See: Ellis Paxsen Oberholtzen, Philadelphia: A History of the City and its People, vol. 1 (Philadelphia: The S. J. Clarke Publishing Company, 1911), 20. 15 Penn wrote in 1685 a description of the province once he returned to England, pointing to French, Dutch, Germans, Swedes, Danes, Finns, Scot, Irish, and English settlers. See: Lippincott, Philadelphia, 16. See also: Gary B. Nash, First City: Philadelphia and the Forging of Historical Memory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 15, 26. Roger Daniels, Coming to America: A History of Immigration and Ethnicity in American Life (New York: Perennial, 2002), 66-79, 87, 103. 16 Including among them are: Cadwalader, Biddle, Morris, Roberts, Pugh, and Evans. Burt, The Perennial Philadelphians, 54, 59. For Quaker names who bought part of Penn’s land in 1862 see: Horace Mather Lippincott, Philadelphia (Philadelphia: Macrae Smith Company Publishers, 1926), 13. Some families of German origin include Pepper, who anglicized their name from Pfeffer, Wistar-Wister, Lewis, Rittenhouse, and Pennypecker. Ibid., 63. See also: Russell A. Kazal, Becoming Old Stock: The Paradox of German- American Identity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 22. xx established families attempted to magnify the reputation of their male and female ancestors. Philadelphia, the second-largest city in the United States in the second half of the nineteenth century, became a center of manufacturing that attracted immigrants of European descent. The need for armaments, uniform, and the transportation of goods and wounded soldiers during the Civil War stimulated industrialization and building of railway lines. In the post-Civil War decades Philadelphia witnessed growing numbers of factories due to the expansion of commerce precipitated by the convenient railway transportation. 17 By the mid-1870s the city’s economy was based firmly on dozens of major enterprises in the textile, metal products, machine goods, printing and chemical industries. Most laborers lived in the neighborhoods in which they worked while skilled workers moved to the western and northwestern parts of city. 18 In the 1880s Eastern European Jews and Italians were also among the newcomers. 19 In the last decades of the nineteenth century one’s social standing in Philadelphia was determined by ethnicity as well as economic status and professional skills. 17 In the 1850s Philadelphia was the nation’s second largest city, surpassed only by New York in population, commerce, and manufacturing. Elite capital in the city was drawn to build transport networks. See: Philip Scranton, Proprietary Capitalism: The Textile Manufacture at Philadelphia, 1800-1885 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 133. By 1880 the city had less than 2 percent of the nation’s population but produced nearly 5 percent of its products. See: Bruce Laurie and Mark Schmitz, “Manufacture and Productivity: The Making of an Industrial Base, Philadelphia 1850-1880,” in Philadelphia: Work, Space, Family, and Group Experience in Nineteenth Century, ed. Theodore Hershberg (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), 45. 18 For a discussion on the Irish immigration into the area see: Noel Ignatiev, How the Irish Became White (New York: Routledge, 1995). 19 By 1900 the Germans, Irish, and British still made up well over two-thirds of Philadelphia's foreign-born but close to 30,000 Russian Jews and 20,000 Italians already lived in the city. Ibid. xxi The creation of railroad lines was a major developer of rural areas outside of Philadelphia. Between 1838 and 1856 a railroad from Philadelphia to Harrisburg was constructed. The accessible transportation led to the expansion of Montgomery County industries. Immigrants were attracted to its iron and steel factories, textile mills, and stone quarries that provided economic opportunities and potential social mobility. 20 Decades before the Civil War the county was home to Germans, Irish, and African Americans. Italians, Austro-Hungarians, and Russians (as well as Poles, Slovaks, Ukrainians, Croats, Slovenes Serbs, Czechs and Hungarians) who immigrated during the last three decades of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century precipitated social tension between themselves and established Americans over cultural and religious practices. The region resembles other urban centers in the northeast United States. 21 Raymound A. Mohl finds that there were similar patterns of development in major American urban areas in the nineteenth century. 22 Heavy immigration in the 1830s, which coupled with internal migration from rural to urban areas, weakened the social, ethnic, 20 By 1880 Montgomery County employed 11,000 manufacturing workers in iron, steel, textile, and apparel industries. Toll and Schwager, Montgomery County the Second Hundred Years,1039. 21 A study of fifty American cities with populations exceeding 10,000 and 20,000 by 1860 found that they all had similar economic structure. Cities manufacturing employment between the years 1860 and 1870 is attributed to increase of city size and industrialization. see: Jeffrey G. Williamson, “Antebellum Urbanization in American Northeast,” The Journal of Economic History 25 (Dec. 1965), 603. Roger F. Riefler who examined a system of cities in the Northeast was able to identify causes of urbanization patterns in the nineteenth century. He demonstrates that the cities had similar characteristics of development. See: Roger F. Riefler, “Nineteenth-Century Urbanization Patterns in the United States,” The Journal of Economic History 39 (Dec. 1979): 961-974. 22 Major urban centers in America shared similar circumstances; most urbanites came from rural America and from peasant villages in Europe, the development of transportation led to structural and spatial change, and physical growth of the city promoted social fragmentation, community life segregated by class, ethnicity, and race. See: Raymond A. Mohl, ed., The Making of Urban America, 2d ed., (Wilmington, Delaware: A Scholarly Resources Inc., 1997), 94-96. xxii and religious homogeneity of northeastern and Midwestern cities. In the period between 1860 and 1920 urban regions split between the center, constituted of low income housing with commercial and business establishments, and suburbs where the wealthy and the middle class lived. 23 Large urban centers developed similar economies, highly diversified, that provided regional financial and marketing services. With comparable spatial, social, economic, and transportation development, the case of Philadelphia can provide a reflection of other American cities in the period studied. The study explores the period between 1860 and 1914, a time of increased opportunities in public activism for women. The first chapter explores the factors that led to the vulnerability of elite Philadelphia and Montgomery County and the social and political institutions they forged to shore up their elite status. It demonstrates that the boundaries between the privileged classes and the lower ranks were unstable and largely dependent on unpredictable political and economic forces. It also shows that the elites often faced contestation to their social and political dominance. The chapter discusses the effort that privileged Philadelphians invested in attempting to instill a memory of revolutionary consensus and present themselves as custodians of historical accounts. The Civil War was a watershed for women’s public activity as urgent demand for assistance justified their involvement in public affairs. The second chapter demonstrates that the effort to promote a memory of revolutionary consensus continued during the war. Embroiled in a serious long-lasting crisis with a vast amount of casualties, privileged men and women constructed an ideal past of simplicity, domesticity and unaffected by 23 Ibid., 96. xxiii political and military conflicts. It intended to provide a respite from their daily violent reality. Following the war, privileged women employed their newly acquired organizational skills in additional, more encompassing projects. The third chapter explores the preceding fundraising campaign organized by women in support of the Centennial Exposition held in Fairmount Park in 1876. The popular events raised large sums of money for the enterprise and argued that elite women assumed a significant role in the nation’s history. By offering women of other localities a historical framework, which they could adopt to their own political and social views, Centennial women were able to expand their local operation into a successful national campaign. The fourth chapter focuses on the preservation of George Washington’s Headquarters at Valley Forge and the formation of the Historical Society of Montgomery County. It explores the activities of privileged rural women whose role in the preservation movement and the construction of memory has largely been ignored. Believing in the historical significance of the site, they worked tirelessly to raise money that would enable them to own the Headquarters and purchase additional land to create a memorial park. The women had also continued to construct local historical narrative amid the process of professionalization of history. Influenced by early scientific historians, they wrote historical accounts that focused on local women’s contributions to history, their ancestral accounts, and their patriotic service. They intended to include women in the local history, assume elite status, and instill social hierarchy. xxiv With increased immigration primarily from Eastern and Southern Europe in the last quarter of the nineteenth century the founding of hereditary societies proliferated. The fifth chapter explores the historical work of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It closely follows the work of the Valley Forge Chapter, which had been founded by Anna Morris Holstein who headed the campaign for the purchase of the Headquarters at Valley Forge. The erection of monuments, marking of revolutionary graves, and writing local history were among the tasks the women undertook as patriotic projects. They advanced rhetoric of revolutionary heroism in order to inculcate immigrants to the American culture and promote loyalty to official institutions. Their message differed from the Progressive historians who criticized revolutionary figures for acting on behalf of personal gain. In their construction of historical memory, the DAR inserted their ancestors and themselves into the local historical narrative and the narrative of the history of preservation. The memory women created was designed to portray their contribution to the foundation of the nation. It blurred the boundaries between the domestic and the public spheres and demonstrated that political and heroic deeds can be located at both. 1 CHAPTER 1 FORGING ELITES: CLASS AND GENDER FROM THE COLONIAL ERA TO THE CIVIL WAR From the 1790s onward, urban elites faced threats to their social and political status from the lower classes who perceived the end of the revolution as an opportunity for a new order. “Elite,” for the purpose of this study, represents multiple privileged groups from urban and rural Pennsylvania, characterized by wealthy families who often produced business, professional, political, and religious leaders. These families fashioned social and cultural institutions intended to mitigate economic and political instability by the display of wealth, the forging of family networks, and the cultivation of a culture of genteel comportment. 1 The chief distinction between high-ranking urban residents and their rural counterparts is in the extent in political and benevolent involvement and habits of sumptuous display. Philadelphians tended to be more active in national (during the colonial and the early republic eras) and city affairs and support education, charity, and the arts. For practical purpose, the lower sorts are defined as the laboring classes, which included skilled and unskilled workers, artisans, shopkeepers, servants, and individuals of other occupations. 2 The wealthy sought to construct a memory of revolutionary 1 Elizabeth M. Geffen, “Industrial Development and Social Crisis 1841-1854,” in Philadelphia: A 300-Year History, ed. Russell F. Weigley (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1982), 330; Daniel Kilbride, An American Aristocracy: Southern Planters in Antebellum Philadelphia (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2006),18. 2 Billy Gordon Smith, The “Lower Sort”: Philadelphia’s Laboring People, 1750-1800 (New York: Cornell University Press, 1990), 4. 2 consensus that would emphasize broad support of the revolution’s fundamental values and political goals. In promoting their own historical view, the elites attempted to eliminate the radical aspects of the revolution, and promote law and order with wealthy, educated, and virtuous individuals like themselves in positions of political and economic power. Women, typically wives, who moved in elite social circles, did not confine themselves to the domestic sphere. They closely followed political events, shared their opinions with like-minded individuals, and diligently advanced their husbands’ interests through personal contacts and social events. Married women, who derived their social status from their husbands, could venture into the public sphere as long as their husbands approved their activities. Single women had to tread judiciously to avoid tainting their reputation. Daniel Kilbride appropriately terms them the leisure class, for they possessed ample time which they could dedicate to friendly calls and ceremonial social events or volunteer on behalf of worthy causes. 3 In the nineteenth century, these women became increasingly more interested in their families’ and local histories. They focused on the domestic arena, where they initially charted their family genealogies or preserved papers of noted family members. In the middle of the nineteenth century they expanded their activities and joined a national campaign to save Mount Vernon, George Washington’s home, from ruin. 3 The “leisure class” is Daniel Kilbride’s term to the upper classes during the early republic period. See: Kilbride, An American Aristocracy, 3. 3 Men and women of high social status possessed a combination of family name, wealth, travel experience, education, and a manner of conduct. Elites included old families, whose members arrived to the country during the colonial era as well as those who accumulated their wealth during the early republic and the antebellum periods. Great merchants, land speculators, and major industrial manufacturers attempted to influence public policies through professional and political organizations in order to manipulate outcomes that would favor their business interests. Power and wealth often translated into political divisions among elites who withstood to lose greatly by shifts in major national and international policies. Rural elites, represented by prominent residents of Montgomery County, typically focused on local affairs and appealed to the state in attempt to shape policies that directly affected them. They measured their wealth by their sizeable land holdings and, like their city counterparts, valued pedigree and education but refrained from extravagant social conduct. They mostly lived in disperse farms, relied upon mutual assistance, and shared common heritage with their communities. 4 In provincial Philadelphia of 1770, considerable demand for imported commodities enabled shrewd merchants to accumulate substantial wealth. Skillful management certainly contributed to success, but even the most talented of businessmen was powerless when the effects of international conflicts and economic slumps hit their 4 James T. Lemon’s study focuses on Chester and Lancaster counties due to the availability of documentation. It is fairly safe to assume that Montgomery County residents acted similarly for their communities included European immigrants of different backgrounds and the county’s proximity to the ones researched. See: James T. Lemon, The Best Poor Man’s Country: A Geographical Study of Early Southeastern Pennsylvania (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1972). 4 colonial niche. The accumulation of wealth was matched by the difficulty of keeping it. The lack of proper credit and insurance, the dependence on shifts in weather patterns, and changes in the political landscape in Europe all stood to affect Philadelphia merchants and the industries that served their extended shipping fleet. Philadelphia’s wealthy elites, however, were not exclusively merchants. The definition of elite - an elusive social construction - is complicated in the case of the colonial city and its surrounding rural areas, where social groups that represented wealth, land, manufacturing, religion, and political affiliation often overlapped. In addition, ubiquitous political and economic instability permitted the rise of wealthy social climbers and the fall down the social ladder of those whose wealth was reduced. * * * It was known that “dukes don’t emigrate,” but common people considered settling in the Americas in their search for economic opportunity and social mobility. 5 Swedes, the earliest settlers, arrived in the Delaware Valley in 1638 by encouragement of King Gustavus Adolphus, who recognized the potential of trade and missionary activity in the New World and incorporated the Swedish West India Company for this purpose. 6 In 1682 William Penn organized an English colony and Philadelphia under an official charter. 5 The saying meant that Scot-Americans consisted of common people. See: Ferenc Morton Szasz, Abraham Lincoln and Robert Burns: Connected Lives and Legends (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2008), 88. 6 Dutch and Swedes preceded Penn in the Delaware by more than fifty years. The Swedes settled in Christiana (Wilmington), Tinicum, and Wicaco. The Dutch resided near the bay. See: Ellis Paxsen Oberholtzen, Philadelphia: A History of the City and its People, vol. 1 (Philadelphia: The S. J. Clarke Publishing Company, 1911), 20. Richard S. Dunn and Mary Maples Dunn, eds. The World of William Penn (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1986). 5 Germans led by Francis Daniel Pastorius settled northwest of the city in August 1683, in a town they appropriately called Germantown. 7 The Germans received part of the Welsh Tract granted to William Penn in the previous year by Charles II. Prospects of success contributed to the emigration of diverse talented immigrants of Welsh, Scot, English, German, Swedish, French, Danish, Jewish, and Irish Catholic origins. 8 Penn envisioned a community of prosperous landlords who would frequent the city to settle their business dealings. He granted ten acres in either Northern or Western Liberties for every five hundred acres of rural land purchased. 9 Wealthy individuals who acquired land tracts provided their descendents with valuable assets that would serve as a foundation for a family fortune. Many of Philadelphia’s enduring elites came from settlers in this period, such as the Roberts, Pugh, Price, Evans, Lloyd, Biddle, Cadwalader, Morris, Ingersoll, and Chew families. Eighteenth-century leaders of the city served as a major force in finance, politics, business, military affairs, law, and medicine. 10 7 By 1760 the “German Crescent” included the counties Northampton, Berks, Lancaster, and York. See: Russell A. Kazal, Becoming Old Stock: The Paradox of German-American Identity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 20. 8 Horace Mather Lippincott, Philadelphia (Philadelphia: Macrae Smith Company Publishers, 1926), 16. See also: Gary B. Nash, First City: Philadelphia and the Forging of Historical Memory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 15, 26. Roger Daniels, Coming to America: A History of Immigration and Ethnicity in American Life (New York: Perennial, 2002), 66-79, 87, 103. 9 Oberholtzen, Philadelphia, 29-30. Nathaniel Burt, The Perennial Philadelphians: The Anatomy of an American Aristocracy (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1963), 71. 10 Ibid., 54,59. For Quaker names who bought part of Penn’s land in 1862 see: Lippincott, Philadelphia, 13. Some families of German origin include Pepper, who anglicized their name from Pfeffer, Wistar-Wister, Lewis, Rittenhouse, and Pennypecker. Ibid., 63. See also: Kazal, Becoming Old Stock, 22. For additional names of early settlers see: Amy Oakley, Our Pennsylvania: Keys to the Keystone State (New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc. Publishers, 1950), 79. For a list of names of Philadelphia elite members from the end of the seventeenth century to 1940 see: E. Digby Baltzell, Philadelphia Gentlemen: The Making of a National Upper Class (Illinois: The Free Press, 1958), 71-77. 6 During its first decades, Philadelphia was governed by the Quakers who built it and transformed it into a busy trading post. They expanded the commerce with the West Indies during the eighteenth century to include Great Britain and southern European countries. Quaker merchants linked wealth with virtue and public service, and several of them assumed public positions, such as Samuel Carpenter, the deputy governor, assemblyman and provincial treasurer, James Logan, Secretary of the Province and Chief Justice of Pennsylvania, and David Lloyd, the Attorney General of Pennsylvania. Quakers controlled the legislature until the revolution despite the presence of a majority of Germans and Scots in the city from the mid-eighteenth century. The Society of Friends, their religious institution, sought public order and discipline and opposed theater, gambling, drinking, smoking in public, and engaging in competitive games. 11 It emphasized the inner spirit and simplicity rather than extravagant appearance. Plainness permeated all aspects of Quaker life and included speech, dress, and architecture. Wealthy individuals often found it difficult to reconcile these demands with their desire to exhibit their affluence in luxurious consumption and extravagant conduct. The Keithian controversy, which turned into a question over the extent of political authority, stemmed from the desire of conservative Friends to draw more defined boundaries for members of the community. In 1691, George Keith, a Scot Quaker, introduced a more hierarchical and committed form of practice. It included a confession of faith from those who wanted to join the Society of Friends and silencing of new members or those unsure 11 Ibid., 31, 45. 7 of their beliefs. 12 His measures provoked a long debate over Quaker secular and religious practices. Keith’s opponents, led by Thomas Lloyd, accused him of heresy, and he returned to England where he was disowned by the Quakers in 1694. Gary B. Nash argues that those who followed Keith intended to challenge the individuals in positions of power. 13 The Quaker ethic of tolerance did not extend to groups that threatened their political dominance. The restrictions of Quaker doctrine compelled a number of Friends to abandon their faith and join the more lenient Church of England. When Episcopalians decided to build a church, Quaker magistrates attempted unsuccessfully to halt it by appealing to the King William III in 1695. Christ Church was built by a few mostly wealthy individuals, among them Robert Quary, a representative of a group of English merchants who competed with Quaker merchants. They included Jasper Yeats, a wealthy merchant from Wilmington, and William Trent, the founder of Trenton, New Jersey. From the outset, the church established a direct link with British authorities. Sir William Keith, lieutenant-governor of Pennsylvania, frequented the church, and William of Orange supported its clergy. Episcopalians demonstrated their increasing power and wealth when they erected a new building, which according to an observer was “the handsomest structure of the kind that I ever saw in any part of the world.” 14 Built in stark 12 Ibid., 137. 13 Gary B. Nash, The Urban Crucible: the Northern Seaports and the Origins of the American Revolution (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1986), 30-31. 14 Quoted in Deborah Mathias Gough, Christ Church, Philadelphia: the Nation’s Church in a Changing City (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 49. 8 contrast to its surroundings, the ornate Georgian-style edifice featured bricks imported from England. With a large Palladian window, urns adorning its railing, and a brick tower topped by wooden spire, it rejected Quaker simplicity. A crown adorned the top of the tall steeple that dominated the city’s skyline. The church’s opulent interior fit its impressive exterior. Elaborate paintings, velvet drapery, and a twenty-four-branch imported chandelier decorated the vast space. Several pews were upholstered with silk lace and velvet and the state pew of the governor was decorated with a wood carving of the royal arms of William and Mary. While the church attracted prominent and wealthy members such as Benjamin Franklin and Benjamin Rush, the signers of the Declaration of Independence, John Penn, the grandson of Pennsylvania founder William Penn, Payton Randolph, a prominent Virginia planter, and James Biddle, a commodore in the American navy and the brother of the banker Nicholas Biddle, it also served a large number of people of lesser means. It reinforced specific social hierarchy through conduct and outer display. Until 1701, Quaker merchants and farmers composed nearly all of the members of the city’s elected Assembly. Penn’s Pennsylvania Charter of Privileges (1701) acknowledged proprietors’ privileges but instituted an appointed governor and elected assembly for the colony. In 1703, the Quakers split between David Lloyd, who was supported by provincial farmers, and James Logan, the backer of the urban merchants’ 9 interests. The constant conflict between the two factions demonstrates the split among the interests of wealthy proprietors and their opponents. 15 The French and Indian War presented a greater challenge. When Governor Robert Hunter Morris encouraged the formation of independent militia companies led by his proprietary friends in 1756, Quaker membership in the Philadelphia Assembly declined. Twenty four members withdrew on a pacifist principle. Assembly leadership remained in the hands of war supporters like Isaac Norris II and Benjamin Franklin. 16 Elite Philadelphia also included several Jewish merchant families who kept business and social ties with Quakers, Anglicans, and Presbyterians. David Frank, a New York merchant, and Solomon Henry Gratz, who emigrated from Karkow via Austria, were among the most prominent merchants. When the Dancing Assembly was formed in 1748, David Frank and Samson Levy were among its original subscribers. Jews did not practice in public and several were absorbed into Christian community. Rebecca Frank, David Frank’s daughter was baptized at Christ Church. However, there was no outward evidence of anti-Semitism in colonial Philadelphia. When the Jewish community needed funds to complete Mikveh Israel, its first synagogue, in 1788, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas McKean, Charles Biddle, and David Rittenhouse came to their aid help. 17 15 For a detailed description of the political conflicts of colonial Quakers in Philadelphia see: Edward Digby Baltzell, Puritan Boston and Quaker Philadelphia: Two Protestant Ethics and the Spirit of Class Authority and Leadership (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2004), 150-155. 16 Ralph L. Ketcham, “Conscience, War, and Politics in Pennsylvania, 1755-1757,” The William and Mary Quarterly, 20 (July 1963): 436-437. 17 William Pencak, “Jews and Anti-Semitism in Early Pennsylvania,” Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, 126 (July 2002): 372. 10 Montgomery County, the rural backcountry of the city, was part of Philadelphia County until 1784. Early settlers were of English, Welsh, and German origin, among them the Roberts and Hughes of Wales. In 1712, a group of Swedes settled in Upper Merion. Peter Rambo, Gunner Rambo, Matthias Holstein, and Peter Yocum purchased an estimated thousand acres each at the bank of the Schuylkill, where the land was fertile, and pursued farming. However removed from Philadelphia, Upper Merion inhabitants stayed active in township affairs. In 1711, the Pennsylvania Assembly appointed tax collectors at the county level to replace the justices of the peace who presided at the Courts of Quarter Session. These commissioners were elected, unlike the justices, who were appointed officeholders. Joan de Lourdes Leonard persuasively argues that the commissioners, who scrutinized the activities of the executive officials, were de-facto representatives of local colonists and acted on behalf of the voters’ interests. She also stresses that when the Proprietary faction controlled the Assembly, the number of justices increased. 18 In 1726, Edward Roberts of Upper Merion was commissioned one of the justices of Philadelphia County, and kept his appointment until 1741. 19 It correlates to Leonard’s findings that justices who were selected from the city’s surroundings tended to be large farmers of higher social status than commissioners. Justices continued to fill their position as long as they served the government loyally. Wealthy farmers tended to support the Proprietors in the Assembly and were less likely to be elected as local commissioners than small farmers and artisans. 18 Joan de Lourdes Leonard, “Elections in Colonial Pennsylvania,” The William and Mary Quarterly, Third Series, 11 (July 1954). 19 William J. Buck, History of Montgomery County within the Schuylkill Valley (Norristown, Pennsylvania: E.L. Acker, 1859), 41. 11 Large farmers assumed leadership and acted decisively when they perceived a threat to their rural settlements. When tension arose due to the threat of the French and the Indians on the frontier, Upper Merion prominent residents organized a volunteer company in 1747 with John Hughes as captain, Matthias Holstein as lieutenant, and Frederick Holstein as ensign. 20 Religious practice was generally institutionalized with the building of a house of worship. In 1760, Swedes built Christ Church in Bridgeport, known as Swedes’ Church, on Morris Rambo’s property. It was built of stone in the form of a cross with a tall spire. Upon petitioning to Governor John Penn, the Swedes’ churches in Bridgeport, Wicaco, and Kingsessing in Philadelphia were incorporated in 1765 as the Swedish Lutheran Churches. Prosperous Philadelphia elites adopted cultural and conspicuous conduct that separated them from their lesser sorts. 21 Stephanie Grauman Wolf and Richard Bushman argue that the elites depended on fortune, birth, occupation, manners, education, and lifestyle to establish their status. 22 While wealth ranked highly, gentility was an essential 20 Ibid., 25. 21 Louise Kantrow, “Philadelphia Gentry: Fertility and Family Limitations Among an American Aristocracy,” Population Studies, 34 (March 1980): 22; Louise Kantrow, “Life Expectancy of the Gentry in Eighteenth and Nineteenth-Century Philadelphia,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 133, Symposium on the Demographic History of the Philadelphia Region, 1600-1860 (Jun., 1989): 312- 313. 22 Daniel Kilbride asserts likewise about the early republic period, See: Kilbride, American Aristocracy, 18. In 1676 only 4,300 out of population of 2.5 million were wealthy gentry. The top two percent of the population controlled quarter of the wealth and top one percent controlled about fifteen percent. See: Stephanie Grauman Wolf, “Rarer than Riches: Gentility in Eighteenth-Century America,” in The Portrait in Eighteenth-Century America, ed. Ellen G. Miles (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1993), 92, 95. Stephanie Grauman Wolf, As Various as Their Land: The Everyday Lives of Eighteenth-Century Americans 12 mode of conduct, which included cultivated taste, refinement, and good breeding. Conventional decorum called for an upright posture, disciplined manner, sensibility, and a keen interest in polite conversation. 23 Social gatherings were the sites of the creation of social hierarchy, where inclusion and exclusion determined rank and status. Balls, assemblies, tea parties, and formal dinners were important to the hosts and attendees alike. “Calling,” a mere social visit, held such significance that individuals shared their excitement about visits in their diaries and often saved their cards as a token of recognition and popularity. 24 With the lack of formal professional or political interaction to mark prestigious hierarchy, women employed social circles to generate rank order. They signaled social standing through intricate connections that were directly linked to family, marriage, and wealth, but had been further enhanced by admittance into highly selected groups. Polly Shippen’s numerous calling cards reveal that she “was a favorite in society” who had been accepted into exclusive social circles. 25 Houses were noticeable emblems of wealth and refinement. City elites boasted their status with grand houses furnished with valuable articles and surrounded by lush gardens. International commerce that flourished after the depression of the 1720s and (New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 1993), 268. Wealthy Philadelphians modeled themselves after the English upper class. See: Kantrow, “Philadelphia Gentry,” 22. 23 For a description of genteel life in eighteenth-century America see: Richard L. Bushman, The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1992), 31-99. 24 Calling carried strict gendered and deference rules. For nineteenth-century calling etiquette see: Kenneth L. Ames, Death in the Dining Room and Other Tales of Victorian Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992), 40-41. 25 Thomas Willing Balch, The Philadelphia Assemblies (Philadelphia: Allen, Lane and Scott, 1916), 93. Polly (Mary) Shippen was the daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Shippen, a member of a prominent Philadelphia family, who participated in the Battle of Fort Duquesne during the French and Indian War. 13 increased wealth brought sophisticated tastes and a desire for European comfort and luxury. Yet even with their splendor, city mansions could not match the status of owning a country estate. The Schuylkill River area attracted prosperous individuals who wished to own a secluded residence removed from the city’s occasional epidemics, to display their accumulated wealth, and to savor the view of the waterway. Prosperous owners enjoyed entertaining their peers and have them marvel at their houses’ architectural designs, comfort, and extravagance. North of Philadelphia, Germantown had also emerged as a fashionable location for its proximity to the city and its country atmosphere. 26 Montgomery County residents did not abide by the city decorum. They often met at church services and conducted informal visits. The original settlers built modest stone houses, which were enlarged throughout the years to meet the needs of their growing families. Wealth was marked by the size of land holding rather than of the residence. The only entertainment venue available, a tavern named Swedes Ford, opened in 1760 in Bridgeport in a log cabin. 27 Most social interactions occurred during Christian holidays and around community activities anchored in seasonal chores. Log rolling, wood 26 Sidney George Fisher notes in his diary in 1839 that many villas were erected particularly on lanes leading from Germantown to Ridge Road. See: Nicolas B. Wainwright, ed., A Philadelphia Perspective: A Diary of Sidney George Fisher Covering the Years 1834-1871 (Philadelphia: Historical Society of Pennsylvania, 1967), 74. 27 The tavern was turned into a stone structure in 1777. The Holstein family owned it throughout most of the eighteenth century. See: ; E. George Alderfer, The Montgomery County Story (Norristown, Pennsylvania: The Commissioners of Montgomery County, 1951), 48. 14 chopping, apple cutting, and quilting provided opportunities for hospitality in addition to completing necessary tasks. Urban elites tended to socialize amongst themselves. They encouraged establishment of close ties at an early age through school and church attendance. Since the colonial government did not exert power over education, churches dominated it in Pennsylvania until the formation of a public education system. 28 Colonial education reinforced socio-economic distinction and gender inequalities. Elite boys attended grammar schools and colleges while women were educated in primary schools in domestic and religious instructions. Elite American boys, who were expected to excel in their professions, travelled to Britain for education in medicine and law and continued their apprenticeships in London. The oldest private school for boys in Philadelphia, William Penn Charter School, chartered by Penn in 1689, was the only grammar school for boys in the first half of the eighteenth century. In 1754, it began offering education for girls. The Quakers indoctrinated their charges with the history and beliefs of the Society of Friends. They diligently guarded against the introduction of any foreign ideas and promoted discipline and obedience. 29 Additional sectarian schools were established by Lutherans and Baptists during the mid-eighteenth century. Benjamin Franklin was the first to lay the foundation for a secular liberal arts curriculum, differentiated from sectarian institutions such as Harvard, Yale, and William 28 Philip S. Klein and Ari Hoogenboom, A History of Pennsylvania (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1980), 238. 29 Lawrence Cremin, American Education: The Colonial Experience, 1607-1783 (New York: Harper & Row, 1970), 305. 15 and Mary. 30 The Academy and Charity School opened 1751as the first nonsectarian college in America with the support of prominent Anglican Richard Peters and Presbyterians William Allen and the Shippen family. Most Quakers opposed it for fear of loss of power over education to the Anglican-dominated board of trustees. The Germantown Academy followed with non-sectarian education in 1760. These institutions largely served paid male students who often pursued further education and work experience in London. Medicine, law, and merchants’ apprenticeships constituted a foundation for a successful career in the growing colony. 31 In the absence of a central education system, residents of rural Pennsylvania often organized and hired a teacher who held classes in a farmer’s home during the winter. This individual served as hired worker in the farm during the rest of the year. Some churches built a modest school house to instruct children in reading. They attempted to dispense education at the church in the absence of a separate structure in order to enable students to read the scriptures. Great attention was given to the education of boys who needed to obtain a profession. Girls were offered the ornamental curriculum of embroidery, dancing, and painting. By the middle of the eighteenth century, some Philadelphia elite women adopted the British education model that called for learning the sciences, natural 30 In his essay “Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania,” published in 1749, Benjamin Franklin proposed English instruction of history, logic and philosophy. See: Benjamin Franklin, “Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania,” (Philadelphia, 1749). 31 The sons of Pennsylvania’s Chief Justice William Allen studied in Middle Temple in London. See: Julie M. Flavell, “The ‘School for Modesty and Humility’: Colonial American Youth in London and Their Parents, 1755-1775,” The Historical Journal, 42 (June 1999): 379. 16 philosophy, astronomy, botany, and biology. The acquisition of such knowledge, prescriptive authors suggests, would demonstrate the qualities of well-bred girls and would distinguish them from their social inferiors. 32 More importantly, it would produce informed republican mothers who would educate their sons and influence their husbands. 33 The separate education men received and their commercial and political positions resulted in exclusive social networks. Philadelphia elites founded institutions that extended their economic ties into leisure activities. One of the most restricted institutions, the club, constituted a male social space where members could connect in a cordial atmosphere. Its significance lay in the implicit authority of its members and in their exclusivity. 34 The “Society of Ancient Britons” was possibly the first Philadelphia club, formed in 1729 by a Welshman who wished to observe St. David’s Day, the celebration of the patron saint of Wales. 35 This gathering was an attempt at preserving the members’ cultural heritage and origins. The prestigious Dancing Assemblies, dominated by male managers, reinforced women’s secondary status. The Philadelphia Assembly, perhaps the oldest of its kind in America, served as social gathering for the city’s leading families. Formed in 1748, with 32 Sarah E. Fatherly, “’The Sweet Recourse of Reason’: Elite Women’s Education in Colonial Philadelphia,” Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, 128 (July 2004): 229-256. 33 Linda Kerber, “The Republican Mother: Women and the Enlightenment – An American Perspective,” American Quarterly, 28 (summer 1976), 187-205. 34 Membership in the lucrative clubs was limited and sons and grandsons joined to keep the privileged family’s position. See: Shackleton, The Book of Philadelphia, 201. 35 Edwin B. Bronner, “Village into Town, 1701-1746,” in Weigley, Philadelphia, 55. 17 subscribers such as the Shippens, Willings, Swifts, and Hopkinsons, the Assembly employed the stricter rules of Bath for a model rather than those of the more lenient London Assembly. A few years later, Quaker families who left their religion including the Rawles, Norrises, Logans, and Whartons joined the lucrative institution. In keeping with gender traditional roles, managers issued subscriptions for male participants as representatives of their family members. Women drew their position from the men who controlled their lives, their fathers or their husbands, a fact clearly apparent in the assembly’s unwritten rules. If a man married outside of the inner circle his wife was asked to the Assembly regardless of her origin, but a woman rarely brought a husband of a lesser status into the exclusive circle. Divorce and remarriage warranted a prompt exclusion since the value of the traditional family was the only acceptable arrangement among the genteel. 36 Tradition also prevailed in the selection of married men to managerial positions and by the admittance of men at age 21 and women at 18 years of age, signaling that the male should be older than his female partner. It also hinted that women were ready for marriage earlier than men, who required time to complete their higher education. 37 The assemblies provided an elite woman with opportunity to secure an advantageous matrimonial match, which would permit her to remain within the social 36 Baltzell, Philadelphia Gentlemen, 164. Divorce also meant social exclusion in general “whatever the provocation.” Wecter, The Saga of American Society, 175. 37 John F. Watson. Watson’s Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania: A Collection of Memoirs, Anecdotes, and Incidents, of the City and Its Inhabitants and of the Earliest Settlements of the Inland Part of Pennsylvania from the Days of the Founders (1857), Chapter 26. 18 circle into which she was born. Chevalier de Chastellux, an officer during the Seven Years’ War, remarked: “Dancing is said to be at once the emblem of gaiety and love: here it seems to be the emblem of legislation and marriage.” 38 By wearing fashionable clothes and quality jewels, and presenting superb dancing skills, women could distinguish themselves and capture the attention of young suitors. Once married, the assemblies provided women with a social opportunity to demonstrate their status acquired by their new family. Because wealth translated into status an affluent woman could command deference. It was said that Mrs. Morris was honored “as she is the richest woman in the city, and all ranks here being equal, men follow their natural bent, by giving the preference to riches.” 39 Susan E. Marshall argues that etiquette increased woman’s role in status maintenance and rewarded those who conformed to agreed set of rituals. 40 It also reinforced women’s gender role and emphasized the husband’s position as the head of the patriarchal family. Philadelphia elites did not limit their social interactions to the Assemblies. Upper rank women often held private balls, formal dinners, and tea parties for great numbers of guests, demonstrating their impeccable taste and endless budget. As the most fashionable city in the colonies prior the revolution, social gatherings often served as an amicable space for informal political dealings. Women exploited these domestic, social gatherings 38 Balch, The Philadelphia Assemblies, 85. In 1839 a Bachelor’s Ball was given in the Franklin Institute. It was given probably every year until the Civil War. Ibid. 118-121, 137. 39 Balch, The Philadelphia Assemblies, 86. 40 Susan E. Marshall, Splintered Sisterhood: Gender and Class in the Campaign against Woman Suffrage (Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997), 37. 19 for political ends. They sought to advance their husbands’ political agenda through their social contacts and charm. They closely followed colonial politics and eagerly discussed political issues with guests. Sarah Fatherly argues that elite women’s experience in managing private property and country estates helped them gain insight into the effects of government measures. Their experience helped them in assessing the implications of the Stamp Act and the Townshend duties inflicted by the British. In the 1760s, wives of Philadelphia merchants refused to buy imported goods and several joined the non- importation association. 41 Apart from social engagements, privileged women were expected to limit their activities to the private sphere. Mothers encouraged their girls to embroider, practice their musical instruments, and read. Leisure was the reward of good management as well as a mark of idleness. Balancing the household budget offered women a challenge, particularly to those whose husbands limited their spending either by inadequate earnings or by will. Deborah Read Franklin, the wife of Benjamin Franklin, administered her household during Franklin’s long stay in London, a task that grew more demanding as she aged and suffered a stroke. Franklin did not offer her any sympathy but was quick to reprimand her when she ran over her budget in 1771: “You were not very attentive to Money-matters in your best Days… and I apprehend that your Memory is too much 41 Sarah Fatherly, Gentlewomen and Learned Ladies: Women and Elite Formation in Eighteenth-Century Philadelphia (Bethlehem, Pennsylvania: Lehigh University Press, 2008), 134. 20 impair’d for the Management of unlimited Sums, without injuring the future Fortune of your Daughter and Grandson.” 42 Although colonial settlement in America dated back to the seventeenth century, the idea of chronicling its history did not emerge until the middle of the eighteenth century. Early initiatives were closely associated with the heightened conflict between the proprietary faction of Penn’s family and the executive branch and Franklin and Quakers in the elected Assembly. Joseph E. Illick argues that Pennsylvania colonial history writings reflected contestation of burgeoning political positions of leading groups over colonial rule. 43 The first work, William Smith’s A Brief State of the Province of Pennsylvania, was published in London in 1755. Smith, who established the Pennsylvania Academy with Benjamin Franklin, criticized the provincial Assembly, mainly composed of non-violent Quakers, and argued that it had become too powerful in the generations that followed Penn. Franklin, who opposed Proprietors’ power and supported the elected representatives in the Assembly, wanted to have a contested view published. He approached the British author Richard Jackson, who authored An Historical Review of the Constitution and Government of Pennsylvania in 1759, a partisan depiction of William Penn and the proprietary element. This political history of the colony emphasized the years of Franklin’s public work. It sets a contested paradigm of despotic proprietors versus the people’s representatives. 42 Gordon S. Wood, The Americanization of Benjamin Franklin (New York: Penguin Press, 2004), 132. Benjamin Franklin Papers “Deborah Franklin’s Expenses,” 1. 43 Joseph E. Illick, “The Writing of Colonial Pennsylvania History,” Pennsylvania History of History and Biography, 94 (Jan. 1970): 3-25. 21 Samuel Smith and Robert Proud, the two other eighteenth-century Pennsylvania historians, mirror Quaker dissatisfaction with the colony’s politics. Smith, a Quaker merchant, received a large collection of significant Quaker documents on which he based his manuscript. Despite his attempt to keep his work impartial his laudatory view of Penn and the avoidance of portraying conflicts fault his work. The History of the Province of Pennsylvania, which was published in 1776 after his death, was authorized by the Friends Yearly Meeting. Proud, a Quaker who arrived Philadelphia in 1759, was not pleased with the radical political changes that overtook the country. He faulted immigrants from other countries and their descendants who joined the Assembly in the province’s political woes. He praised William Penn for his restraint and leadership. 44 While men sought to recognize their political contributions, women’s earliest constructed memories were an outgrowth of their immediate domestic setting. Laurel Thatcher Ulrich shows that in the beginning of the eighteenth century elite New Englanders constructed a memory that accommodated domesticity at a time when the household served as a foundation of a couple’s economy. She demonstrates that women used their heirloom artifacts to establish female lineage over generations of kin. 45 For example, in Philadelphia Mary Hopkinson, the wife of the prominent lawyer and merchant Thomas Hopkinson, created the genealogy of her family. 46 44 Robert Proud, The History of Pennsylvania in North America (Philadelphia: Zachariah Poulson, Junior, 1797). 45 Women derived their identity by belonging to different membership groups. Ulrich, The Age of Homespun, 108-141. 46 Fatherly, “The Sweet Recouse of Reason,” 250. 22 At the conclusion of the Seven Years’ War, Britain imposed the Stamp Act on the American colonies in order to offset the costs of maintaining its army in the territories it gained. Some of Philadelphia’s political elites opposed agitation and replacement of the provincial government that enabled them to manage their internal affairs. They were compelled to join the boycott of British goods at the behest of less prosperous city merchants who organized the protest. City Council and elite merchants, who almost unanimously ignored the Townshend Acts, were moved by threats of mob violence and by the local press to join the non-importation agreement in 1769. In June of 1776, supporters of independence withdrew from the Assembly and rendered it ineffective. During the revolution, influential elites had to tread judiciously to avoid anger by the winning side. When a formal poll was taken in the Assembly on June 2, 1776, over the question of whether to support the Declaration of Independence, Benjamin Franklin and John Morton backed it, Thomas Willing opposed it, and John Dickinson and Robert Morris abstained. Notable members of the Continental Congress and signers of the Declaration were Benjamin Rush, Thomas McKean, Robert Morris, James Smith, and Benjamin Franklin. Willing stayed in Philadelphia during its occupation by the British and conducted his business despite his refusal to take an oath of allegiance to the king. His assistance to the Continental Army earned him a position of president of the Bank of North America in 1782. The Quakers did not posses influence. Their Meeting urged them to avoid participation in rebellion against the Crown. Their stance raised suspicion of British support, and a number of Quakers including three Pembertons, two Fishers, Henry 23 Drinker, and Thomas Wharton were arrested and exiled to Virginia for eight months without trial. Philadelphia’s social and political elites lost their power to the radical Whigs, the Constitutionalists, between the years 1775 and 1777. They stood behind the state’s new constitution with its single-house legislature and a sweeping franchise of almost every male tax-payer over the age of twenty-one. By November 1872 John Dickinson was elected president of the Executive Council of Pennsylvania. When the Constitutional Convention was held in the city in 1787, Robert Morris, Thomas Fitzsimons, Jared Ingersoll, Thomas Mifflin, George Clymer, and John Dickinson attended it and signed the federal Constitution. In 1790, with a conservative majority in the State Assembly, a new state constitution that provided for a second legislative house and a strong executive was adopted. While some of Philadelphia’s prominent leaders and merchants did not welcome the revolution, others fully supported it. Upon anticipating a shift in political circumstances, a group of twenty-eight gentlemen met on November 17, 1774, when the Continental Congress convened, and founded one of the city’s most esteemed organizations, the First City Troop Philadelphia City Calvary. Troopers participated in the Battles of Trenton, Princeton, and Brandywine. Distinguished from troops organized in subsequent years, they paraded before the Continental Congress and General Washington in 1775. Further assistance came from troop members in contributions for the organization of the Pennsylvania Bank in 1780 in order to provide funds for the 24 Continental Army and save the national credit. Twenty-eight members provided a fourth of the bank’s total capital. The alliance with the French during the American Revolution brought new fashion and dancing to the city. The dramatic appearance adopted by both men and women in the 1770s consisted of ample of luxurious fabrics and elaborate hair-styles. Men’s wigs were effortless compared to women’s hair styles. Their high rolls called for the addition of cow tail and horse hair, and often weighed more than a pound. Following laborious hours of construction, women had to carry their heads gracefully, as though oblivious to the discomfort. The long combs they carried provided some relief to their irritated skin but the city’s humid weather posed a considerable challenge as it "itch & ach & burn like anything". 47 Observing the habits of his daughters, Charles Shippen commented in 1778, “the style of life my fashionable daughters have introduced into my family, and their dress, will, I fear, before long, oblige me to change the scene.” 48 Maintaining extravagant appearance functioned not only as an expression of high status but also as a political posture. With the advent of the French Revolution, women visibly articulated their support through their attire wearing the turbans, cockades, and sashes in balls and ceremonies. 49 47 Kate Hauman, “Fashion and the Culture Wars of Revolutionary Philadelphia,” William and Mary Quarterly, 62 (Oct. 2005): pt.16. http://shelob.ocis.temple.edu:2321/journals/wm/62.4/haulman.html accessed on: 6 April, 2007. 48 Lynn Matluck Brooks, “Emblem of Gaiety, Love, and Legislature: Dance in Eighteenth-Century Philadelphia,” Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, 115 (Jan. 1991): 77. 49 Susan Branson, These Fiery Frenchified Dames Women and Political Culture in Early National Philadelphia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 75. 25 In the last two decades of the eighteenth century, elite Philadelphian women expressed their views in public spaces through their clothes, plays, and salons. Susan Branson points that “family position and wealth provided women with connections to the centers of national political, social, and cultural power that were taking shape in the capital city… they took full advantage of the opportunity.” 50 The first woman to hold a social gathering in the new republic was Martha Washington, who invited noted women of every state and “numerous attended by all that was fashionable, elegant, and refined” a mere two days after her arrival in Philadelphia. 51 Impressed by the event, Sally McKean wrote: it was brilliant beyond anything you can imagine, and though there was a great deal of extravagance, there was so much of Philadelphia taste in everything that it must have been confessed the most delightful occasion of the kind ever known in this country. 52 Known as the Republican Court, Martha Washington’s weekly formal receptions included elite Philadelphians, politicians, and foreign dignitaries. While Mrs. Washington set the tone for social gatherings, other society women opened their homes for dignitaries and elite society. The organization of a salon provided a challenge. A talented salonnière possessed the ability to provide not only an appropriately amiable atmosphere and delectable food but also bring together an agreeable group of people. As a hostess she could facilitate meaningful political 50 Branson, These Fiery Frenchified Dames, 3. 51 Wecter, The Saga of American Society, 303. 52 Lillian Ione Rhoades, The Story of Philadelphia (New York: American Books Co. 1900), 333. 26 discussions and express ideas to key political figures. The most accomplished hostess of the early republic, Ann Willing Bingham, the wife of Federalist senator William Bingham, drew to her Mansion House scores of dignitaries, including Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton. She married at age sixteen and spent five years with her husband among the top European society, including an introduction to King Louis XVI. She cultivated aristocratic manners and taste maintained by the immense wealth at her command. When Mrs. Adams introduced her to London society in 1786 she captivated the guests. ‘There she goes,’ cried one; ‘what an elegant woman!’ Some gentlemen told mamma she had presented the finest woman they had ever seen… The intelligence of her countenance, or rather, I ought to say, its animation, the elegance of her form, and the affability of her manners, convert you into admiration. 53 Her entertainments in Lansdowne, the Bingham’s summer country estate, and their spacious city house gained reputation for their refinement and selection of guests. Another socialite, Mrs. James Rush, the daughter-in-law of Benjamin Rush, established the European custom of entertaining on “Saturday morning at eleven.” Her exclusive salons attendees enjoyed guests such as Joseph Bonaparte, Charles Dickens, Harriet Martineau, and Longfellow. She was also “independent enough to carry [her ideas about democracy] into her drawing-room.” 54 Mrs. George Logan’s salon at Stenton and Mrs. Elizabeth Graeme’s salon attracted scientists, writers, and members of the Assembly. 53 Ellet, The Queens of American Society, 138. 54 Ibid., 368. 27 Women, Branson argues, fulfilled a much-needed service in a new republic. Unlike the European salons, which were strictly limited to intellectual discussions, the American salons of the late eighteenth century accommodated the politicians with an appropriate social setting for negotiations and lobbying. Once the Revolution ended, an interest in constructing a conservative historical narrative of its events emerged. 55 Charles Wilson Peale, a painter and naturalist, initially hung pictures of George Washington and the comte de Rochambeau, the commander of the French force, in his windows signaling full support of the revolution. In 1786 he opened a museum in Independence Hall. Charlene Mires argues that the exhibitions conveyed “order and harmony” in contrast to political events that surrounded the state house. Portraits of revolutionary leaders were in display as part of the natural museum, memorializing accomplished human species. 56 * * * Many pre-revolutionary colonists supported classical republicanism, adopted by English country gentlemen who mistrusted the merchants and political patronage in London. 57 This form of republicanism relied on elected virtuous elite defined by property 55 Conservatism in this study means support of the status quo and attitudes to change. See: David Y. Allen, “Modern Conservatism: The Problem of Definition,” The Review of Politics, 43 (Oct. 1981): 600-601. 56 Charlene Mires, Independence Hall in American Memory, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 42-43. 57 Linda K. Kerber, “The Republican Ideology of the Revolutionary Generation,” American Quarterly, 37 (Autumn, 1985): 479. 28 and gentility, and by the recognition of deference. 58 The Revolution challenged the legitimacy of the American elite and weakened their grip on the ruling institutions. The modern form of republicanism, held by the emerging commercial middle class, advanced an ideal based on individualism and merit “in which social mobility was possible and rightful reward for ingenious people of talent and hard work” and supported democratic policies. 59 A major crisis undermined the elites’ rule in Philadelphia and enabled anti- Federalists to unite the lower sorts and gain control of city politics. A severe economic crisis in 1791 left many in jeopardy. Those who suffered held Federalist policies responsible for their misfortune. Hamilton’s proposed excise on whiskey was unpopular among many of the city’s residents who perceived it as similar to the hated British taxes. Anti-Federalists led by Dr. James Hutchinson, a fellow of the College of Physicians, John Swanwick, a merchant, and Alexander Dallas, a rising lawyer, disputed elite rule. During the French Revolution they organized “democratic societies” in support of the French and American revolutions. Swanwick bested merchant Thomas FitzSimons in the Congressional elections of 1794. Federalists’ grip over city politics had increasingly been 58 Marshall Smelser argues that the Federalists did not accept equalitarian principles and held aristocratic attitudes. He approves of the Republicans’ use of Edmond Burke’s description of the French aristocracy’s contempt of the masses in connection with the Federalists. Marshall Smelser, “The Federalist Period as an Age of Passion,” American Quarterly, 10 (Winter, 1958): 391-392. 59 Isaac Kramnick, Republicanism and Bourgeois Radicalism: Political Ideology in Late Eighteenth- Century England and America (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1990), 4. Kristen A. Foster argues that Philadelphia middling sort constructed their own class identity around a hybrid republican culture. See: Kristen A. Foster, Moral Visions and Material Ambitions: Philadelphia Struggles to Define the Republic, 1776-1836 (Lanham, Maryland: Lexington Books, 2004), 190-143. Drew McCoy argues that this form of modern republicanism was rooted in commerce, the key for providing opportunities for farmers and entrepreneurs. Drew R. McCoy, The Elusive Republic: Political Economy in Jeffersonian America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980). 29 weakened in the last years of the eighteenth century and the elections of 1800 and 1801 ended their control. In 1801 Republicans controlled the Common Council for the first time in Philadelphia. The political revolution of 1800 was an outright rejection of the ruling merchants and large landowners by the small farmers and the city’s lower sorts and their allies. 60 The mayors were still prominent elite figures, such as merchant Robert Wharton, who served several terms between 1798 and 1824, but the downturn signaled the Federalists’ gradual decline. 61 Although Benjamin Rush commented in 1801, early into Jefferson’s first presidential term, that the revolution “will certainly fail. It has already disappointed the expectations of its most sanguine and ardent friends,” the idea of social mobility gained popularity during the first decades of the century. 62 Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography, which highlighted the notions of industry and education as a means of acquisition of wealth and social status, became attractive to entrepreneurs of all sorts and was published in twenty-two editions between 1794 and 1828. 63 Hundreds of successful northern entrepreneurs followed with the publication of their own memoirs emphasizing their 60 Edgar P. Richardson, “The Athens of America 1800-1825,” in Philadelphia, 222. 61 Daniel Kilbride, “Cultivation, Conservatism, and Early National Gentry: The Manigault Family and Their Circle,” Journal of the Early Republic, 19 (summer 1999): 255 and An American Aristocracy, 6. Digby Baltzell argues that Victorian elite withdrew from public service. See: Baltzell, Philadelphia Gentlemen, 188. 62 Gordon S. Wood, “The Significance of the Early Republic,” Journal of the Early Republic, 8 (Spring 1988): 19. 63 Gordon S. Wood, The Americanization of Benjamin Franklin (New York: Penguin Press, 2004), 237. 30 humble origins, talent, and diligence. Thomas Mellon placed Franklin’s statue in front of his newly founded bank to acknowledge the inspiration he derived from his deeds, while Patrick Lyon, a successful Philadelphia manufacturer, had his own portrait painted, not in the traditional image of a well-dressed gentleman but as a blacksmith. During early 1800s several talented industrialists gained wealth and social and political influence. Philadelphia County’s population expanded as new residents found employment in the steel, cotton, and wool industries. Matthias William Baldwin built his first steam engine in 1832 and became one of the largest producers of engines in the country. Textile mills were also financed by individual entrepreneurs who operated outside of the inner circle of society. Faced with rapid industrialization, urbanization, and rise of new wealth, Philadelphia elites, descendants of colonial families who comprised the local aristocracy in the 1820s and 1830s, cultivated their social connections and maintained their intellectual control through exclusive organizations and clubs. 64 Members of families such as Chew, Rush, Cadwalader, Biddle, Morris, Pemberton, Norris, Drinker, McKean, Ingersoll, and Willing comprised the exclusive group who institutionalized their status. Members of the early Junto, Benjamin Franklin’s organization which evolved into the American Philosophical Society (APS) in 1743, promoted discourse among American intellectuals. With self-selected membership of amateur scholars in science, literature, linguistic, medicine, law, and philosophy, it encouraged a sense of elitism and American 64 Nicholas B. Wainwright, “The Age of Nicholas Biddle 1825-1841,” in Philadelphia, 258. 31 identity. 65 The main objectives of the society, “sociability and promotion of learning,” were implemented by the weekly meeting at the house of its president Dr. Caspar Wistar. Distinguished invitees included Dr. Benjamin Rush, Dr. Adam Kuhn, Nicolas Biddle, and both William Shippens, the father and the son. After Wistar’s death in 1818, his friends continued to convene at homes of various society members. Exclusivity was assured by the requirements of membership in the Philosophical Society and a unanimous vote of the membership. Guests received an invitation “beautifully engraved and styled “Wistar Party,” in the centre of which was a portrait of the doctor, and a pretty good likeness.” 66 Members included Benjamin Franklin Bache, Franklin’s grandson, René La Roche, a physician and epidemiologist, and George B. Wood, a prominent professor of chemistry. The parties’ reputation was so great that noted European scholars who visited Philadelphia made sure to attend them. One British guest, Captain Basil Hall of the Royal Navy, commented: “Certainly nothing can be imagined more advantageous than these parties for all travelers properly introduced to the agreeable society of Philadelphia.” 67 Intellectual activities notwithstanding, elites sought to socialize in an amicable space that demonstrated a lack of concern with others outside of their own circle. Perhaps the most prestigious institution formed for this purpose was the “Philadelphia Club,” 65 Kilbride, An American Aristocracy, 106-107. 66 H. E. Scudder, ed., Recollections of Samuel Breck: with Passages from His Notebooks (1771-1812) (Philadelphia: Porter & Coates, 1877), 288. 67 He also noted that he met Mr. Du Ponceau, one of the “most learned philologists alive” at one of the parties. See: Basil Hall, Travels in North America in the Years 1827 and 1828 (Edinburgh: Cadell and Co. 1829), vol. II, 339, 368-9. The naturalist Baron von Humboldt and the botanist Bonplaud were some of the notables who visited the Parties. See: Lippincott, Philadelphia, 143. 32 founded in 1833 by individuals from the oldest and most prominent families in the city, including James Markoe, Joseph Parker Norris, Joseph R. Ingersoll, George Cadwalader, and Commodore James Biddle. 68 Its elders perpetuated membership by enlisting young men, relatives of current members, when they reached their twenties and thirties. An exceptional outsider could enter the exclusive circle if he proved highly successful in business and his close friendship with members resulted in a membership recommendation. This prestigious confirmation meant acceptance into a restricted clique not only for the individual but also for his sons, who would become members in due time. Philadelphia elites believed in providing civic leadership. The Quakers who opposed slavery were the first in the country to form an abolitionist organization, the Pennsylvania Abolitionist Society, in 1775. In the nineteenth century its supporters included the Pemberton brothers, descendants of a wealthy merchant family, the prominent lawyer William Rawle, Caspar Wistar, a physician and a political figure, Roberts Vaux, a philanthropist, legislator William B. Reed, Samuel McKean, and Jonathan Roberts (a Senator from Upper Merion who traced his line to colonial Welsh ancestry). They applied their professional experience to fight in the courts and the legislature. 69 A welcome addition to the cause was the respected Unitarian minister, 68 Among its prominent members were thirty five Biddles, seventeen Morrises, sixteen Coxes, fourteen Peppers, thirteen Cadwaladers, twelve Whartons, eleven Ingersolls, ten Bories, ten Willings, seven Rushes, and six Drexels. See: E. Digby Baltzell, ed., The Protestant Establishment Revisited (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 1991), 104. 69 Richard S. Newman, The Transformation of American Abolitionism: Fighting in the Early Republic (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2002), 28, 29. 33 William Henry Furness, who became a passionate and outspoken advocate of abolition in 1839. In the first half of the nineteenth century, schools remained sectarian and exclusive, particularly after Pennsylvania provided for a public education system in 1834. Elite boys who reached the age of ten customarily attended a sequence of institutions: local academy, boarding school, and a military appointment. 70 Women were educated in separate institutions. Advocates of women’s education, like the physician Benjamin Rush, argued in his Thoughts upon Female Education (1787) for educated republican mothers who would raise proper republican citizens. 71 Other supporters argued that women would acquire household management skills and would serve as stimulating conversation mates for their husbands. Parents enrolled girls in reputed private institutions, where they could socialize with mates of their social rank such as the Young Ladies’ Academy of Philadelphia, the first chartered school for higher education of women in the United States. 72 Mme. Rivardi’s Boarding School, an additional elite academy, offered not only the traditional disciplines of dance, music, drawing, and needlework, but also reading, writing, mathematics, geography, French, history, and science. 70 Betty-Bright P. Low; Margaret Manigault; and Josephine du Pont, “The Youth of 1812: More Excerpts from the Letters of Josephine du Pont and Margaret Manigault,” Winterthur Portfolio, 11 (1976): 177. 71 Kerber, “Women of the Republic,” 11. See also: Benjamin Rush, Thoughts upon Female Education, Accommodated to the Present State of Society, Manners, and Government, in the United States of America. Addressed to the Visitors of the Young Ladies' Academy in Philadelphia, 28 July, 1787, at the Close of the Quarterly Examination (Boston: Samuel Hall, 1787), 6-7. 72 It was chartered five years after its founding in 1792. Nearly four decades had past before a second girls’ school had been granted a charter in 1829. Marion B. Savin and Harold J. Abrahams, “Young Ladies’ Academy of Philadelphia,” History of Education Journal, 8 (Winter 1957): 59. 34 Parents showed great concern for their daughters’ education. Thomas Jefferson wanted his daughter Martha, who studied in a boarding school in Philadelphia, to make the most of her studies. He offered her a daily regimen from the early morning until bedtime and urged her to inform him of her readings and send him copies of all her lessons. He also warned: “Take care that you never spell a word wrong… It produces great praise to a lady to spell well.” 73 When Elizabeth Ridgely expressed her desire to leave her Philadelphia boarding school her mother admonished her: “You will have to devote much of your time to study when you return home to improve your mind.” She added that Elizabeth would be able to learn from her brother who “is so intelligent and very correct in his conduct.” 74 Formal education was not the sole opportunity for gaining knowledge. Wealthy women could study with male relatives and attend local lectures and lyceums given by men if accompanied by friends or family members. 75 Reading offered exposure to different cultures, particularly for women who mastered a foreign language. Fluency in French enabled Margaret Izard Manigault and Josephine de la Fite de Pelleport du Pont to read a variety works of female French writers, including the infamous Madame de Staël. They also read the journals Edinburgh Review, Port Folio, American Review, and 73 Wecter, The Saga of American Society, 300. See also: “To Martha Jefferson, Annapolis, Nov. 28, 1783,” http://www.yale.edu/lawweb/avalon/jefflett/let20.htm Jefferson held that good education would enable people to appreciate their rights and prevent tyranny. See: Susan Douglas Franzosa, “Schooling Women in Citizenship,” Theory into Practice, 27 (Autumn, 1988): 276. 74 Mrs. Henry M. Ridgely, Dover, to Elizabeth Ridgely, Dover, Jan. 13, 1828, folder 218; quoted in Bushman, The Refinement of America, 218. 75 Lyceums traditionally excluded controversial religious and political issues. They primarily offered lectures in the sciences. See: Vern Wagenr, “The Lecture Lyceum and the Problem of Controversy,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 15 (Jan, 1954): 122. 35 Atlantic Magazine. 76 Women could also take advantage of over three hundred private libraries that existed in the city by the end of the eighteenth century. Subscription requirements of an annual fee and purchase of shares precluded all but prosperous Philadelphians from their services. 77 Country houses provided ample grounds for exploration, allowing women with an interest in science to focus on gardening, botany, mineralogy, and wildlife. Margaretta Hare Morris, a descendent of a wealthy colonial Welsh family, received her rudimentary education in Germantown schools and often attended Charles John Wister’s lectures on geology and mineralogy. She published a few articles that described her findings under the abbreviated M. H. Morris to conceal her gender. 78 Montgomery County residents relied on private schools until public education was enacted. 79 Norristown’s Academy, chartered in 1804, educated the acclaimed John James Audubon. The Common School Law of April 1, 1834 did not take effect in Upper 76 Low, “The Youth of 1812,” 177, 199. 77 Three hundred seventy six libraries were established between 1731 and 1800; two hundred sixty six of them opened in the 1790s. See: Branson, These Fiery Frenchified Dames, 22-23. 78 Kohlstedt, “In from the Periphery,” 85. The article was published in the society’s journal. See: M. H. Morris, “On the Cecidomyia Destructor, or Hessian Fly,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 8 (1843): 49-51. A decade later she presented her findings on locust before the American Association for the Advancement of Science and later published an additional article. See: M. H. Morris, “The potato Curculio,” American Agriculturist, 9 (Apr 1850): 113-114. 79 Land Ordinance of 1785 organized territories into “congressional townships” of six square miles. Later Congress provided that a sixteenth of each township’s revenue will be given to the state for maintenance of schools within that township. Following the ratification of the U.S. Constitution and its lack of mentioning education the responsibility of the schools shifted to the states. Donald Hugh Parkerson and Jo Ann Parkerson, The Emergence of the Common School in the United States Countryside (Lewiston, New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 1998), 6-7. 36 Merion until 1836. 80 Patrons who built local schoolhouses typically selected trustees to manage the institutions and their property. These establishments provided grade-school education and employed teachers who often doubled as laborers, tavern keepers, or craftsmen to supplement their low wages. 81 While education helped in maintaining class status, political decisions carried great implications for the future of Philadelphia elites. One of the major setbacks for the city’s elites was the fall of the Second Bank of the United States. The row over the bank entered national politics when President Andrew Jackson vetoed Congress’s renewed charter. Convinced that it concentrated power in the hands of unelected and unregulated Northeastern bankers who operated without checks and balances, he was determined to bring its downfall. The bank’s president Nicholas Biddle, son of the successful merchant and Federalist Charles Biddle, was supported by Philadelphia elite’s politicians George 80 Norris, “New Ways to Foster Education Found for Old Upper Merion Legacy,” Montgomery County Scrapbook, Vol. B-8: 36, The Montgomery County Historical Society, Norristown, Pennsylvania. See also: Sarah H. Tyson, “An Upper Merion Reminiscences,” Historical Sketches of Montgomery County, vol. iv, (1910): 147. In 1836 there were seven schools with 285 students in Upper Merion. See: See: “Tax Records of Upper Merion Township,” Bluebook 2, Local History Files, Upper Merion Township Library, King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. On legislation that affected education see: Jean Barth Toll and Michael J. Schwager, eds., Montgomery County: The Second Hundred Years (Norristown, Pa.: Montgomery County Federation of Historical Societies, 1983) Vol. 2: 1032, 1038. For Thomas Jefferson’s attempts at establishing a public school system see: Daniel Walker Howe, “Church, State, and Education in the Young American Republic, Journal of the Early Republic, 22 (Spring 2002): 1-5. 81 Carl F. Kaestle, Pillars of the Republic: Common Schools and American Society, 1780-1860 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1983), 20-21, 26-27. A case in point is the biography of John Roberts Morris whose father held managerial position in Swedes’ Furncace at Swedeland and later operated kilns near King of Prusssia. He was born in 1856 and his early years were spent in the school of Mrs. Allen at Swedeland, Mrs. Craig at Norristown, and Professor George Baker at Germantown. See: Ellwood Roberts, ed., Biographical Annals of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania: Containing Genealogical Records of Representative Families ,Including Many of the Early Settlers and Biographical Sketches of Prominent Citizens (New York: T. S. Benham & company and The Lewis publishing company, 1904), Vol. 3, 139. Morris’s parents were able to provide him with adequate elementary education and he later attended Oak Street public school in Norristown and after working as a bookkeeper he entered a partnership in manufacturing and dealing with lime in Charles E. Morris & Sons. 37 Mifflin Dallas, Charles J. Ingersoll, and Richard Rush. Jackson won a landslide victory in the election of 1832 on a platform that attacked Biddle. Subsequently, he withdrew government deposits from the bank and led Whigs to disassociate themselves from Biddle and the financial institution. The bank’s demise was near. Nathaniel Burt argues that the destruction of the bank brought an end to the rule of Old Philadelphia. 82 During the first years of the nineteenth century, Philadelphia elites continued their attempt to construct their own version of memory that conveyed consensus with former revolutionary Federalist leaders. Members of the American Philosophical Society, the Library Company, and the Historical Society of Pennsylvania collected sources that deemphasized conflict and contention. 83 Samuel Breck, a prominent merchant, commissioned Peale to paint a portrait of George Washington, the figure that increasingly came to symbolize revolutionary consensus in subsequent decades. An attempt to memorialize the history of early Philadelphia was made by Benjamin Rush who collected funds to commission the artist Benjamin West to execute a series of paintings on the revolution. Penn’s treaty with the Indians had long intrigued Roberts Vaux, a Quaker, who wanted to commemorate the state’s early history and its link to the Quaker forefather. When a large elm tree, held by popular belief as the very tree under which Penn signed his treaty, was felled by a storm in 1810, Vaux had small boxes crafted from it and presented them to his friends. Taking advantage of the enthusiasm over Lafayette’s visit 82 Burt, The Perennial Philadelphians, 52. 83 Nash, First City, 25-28, 133. Kilbride, American Aristocracy, 120. 38 that raised new interest in local history, Vaux and fellow American Philosophical Society member and antiquarian John Fanning Watson formed the Society for the Commemoration of the Landing of William Penn, better known as the Penn Society. It aimed to commemorate Penn’s landing in 1682 as well as his legacy and virtues. Its twenty-two members included President John Quincy Adams, Peter S. du Ponceau, J. Francis Fisher, J. Parker Norris, and Charles Jared Ingersoll. Vaux and Watson corresponded on having Penn’s landing painted in Philadelphia rather than in its actual location in New Castle. 84 The men who were determined to raise Philadelphia into prominence in the state’s and the nation’s history were willing to overlook a few facts in order to create a perfect historical image. The society erected a monument to commemorate Penn’s treaty in Kensington, in 1827. In addition to the construction of Quaker memory, city professionals published articles and books that commemorated famous Philadelphians and fostered tradition of professionalization and leadership. William Rawle, the first president of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, contributed articles to its publication Memoirs, Joseph R. Ingersoll, its fifth president, wrote an essay on the society, and Horace Binney authored The Leaders of the Old Bar of Philadelphia (1859). Private collectors such as John McAllister, a retired wealthy businessman, started to gather materials related to the history of the city in 1835 and amassed an impressive collection of documents and ephemera. 84 Doris Devine Fanelli and Karie Diethorn, History of the Portrait Collection, Independence National Historical Park (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2001), 25-27. 39 Women were often interested in their family history. The first female historian in Pennsylvania, Deborah Norris Logan, the daughter of Charles Norris and Mary Parker and the wife of Dr. George Logan, himself the grandson of the Secretary and Chief Justice of Pennsylvania, started her work when she found a bundle of papers at Stenton, her country estate, in 1814. It “had been much neglected, and treated as useless waste- paper, and were pile away in the garrets as worthless rubbish.” 85 Recognizing its historical value, she meticulously arranged, transcribed, and annotated thousands of the worn pages that consisted of James Logan’s correspondence with William Penn. Her work was published by the Historical Society of Pennsylvania in the early 1870s. She also attempted to document her reminiscence of the signers of the Declaration of Independence but concluded that her memories were too faded to produce a valuable monograph. The city’s rapid growth continued in the two decades before the Civil War. The population of the city and its surrounding area increased 58 percent in the decade of the 1840s and additional 38.3 percent in the 1850s. In 1850 the city population topped 121,000 and its surrounding regions 287,000. By 1860 the city numbered over half a million inhabitants. Much of the increase was by immigrants, mainly from Ireland but also from Germany and England. 86 The arrival of a large number of Catholics caused religious tension in the city where Protestants had long held the upper hand in defining civic rules. In addition, nearly 20,000 African Americans found their homes in 85 Sarah Butler Wister and Agnes Irwin, eds., Worthy Women of Our First Century (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1877), 319. 86 Elizabeth M. Geffen, “Industrial Development and Social Crisis 1841-1854,” in Philadelphia, 309. 40 Philadelphia in 1840. By 1860 they numbered over 22,000. The unprecedented expansion brought social and racial agitation that challenged political leaders. Several of Philadelphia elites who could trace their line to colonial families held key positions in national and local politics. The Whigs experienced difficulty in finding a politician to replace U.S. Representative John Sergeant who resigned in 1841. At length, Joseph Reed Ingersoll joined his brother, Charles Jared Ingersoll in Congress. The Democratic party attracted more members of local elites. Richard Rush, son of Benjamin Rush, served as U.S. Attorney General, as minister to both Great Britain and France, and as Secretary of the Treasury. A descendant of the colonial merchant family, John Cadwalader, started his civic service as a solicitor for the Bank of the United States and continued as a Congressman and a federal judge on the U.S. District Court for Eastern District of Pennsylvania. The Democratic mayor of Philadelphia (1856–1858), Richard Vaux, the son of the Quaker jurist Roberts Vaux, served as a representative of Pennsylvania between 1890 and 1891. And perhaps the most distinguished, George Mifflin Dallas, of Scottish ancestry, served in various positions in his long civic career, among them mayor of Philadelphia, senator, vice president of the United States under President James K. Polk, and minister to Britain and Russia. Anti-Catholic and anti-immigrant sentiments permeated local politics. In 1837 a Nativist society formed in Germantown, and two years later the American Republican Party was established with a platform of curtailing immigration and appointment of American-born citizens to office. Nativists drew support from workers and artisans who feared that immigrants threatened the security of their jobs. In July 1844 the city saw one 41 of its most violent anti-Catholic riots, resulting in twenty dead and the burning of a few churches and private homes of Irish residents. Philadelphia elites valued temperance and Protestantism but civic order occupied higher degree of concern. 87 They wanted to eliminate social unrest, particularly of those associated with labor, for fear of impacting business and commerce. As the party’s influence waned in the second part of the 1840s, anti-immigration and anti-Catholic sentiments were rekindled with an increase of immigration in 1848 and 1849 due to political instability in Europe. It led to the formation of secret societies, which turned into the Know-Nothing party in the early 1850s. In 1856, the societies formed the American Party and selected Millard Fillmore for the presidency. He carried only Maryland in the election, bringing an end to the party. The riots of 1844 demonstrated the inadequacy of the city’s police force in maintaining public order. Eli Kirk Price, a State Senator, and Matthias Baldwin and William C. Patterson, State Congressmen fought for the consolidation of all the counties and boroughs of Philadelphia County under the city’s government. The act that was approved in 1854, conferred executive power to the mayor and considerable control over the police department and civic administration. It also placed the districts dominated by Democrats under the city’s Whig control. Industry, real estate speculation, and mercantile ventures created a number of wealthy individuals by the 1840s. Among them were merchant Richard Ashhurst, druggist George W. Carpenter, physician James Rush, banker Francis M. Drexel, and 87 Noel Ignatiev, How the Irish Became White (New York: Routledge, 1995). 42 Joseph Harrison, Jr., a mechanical engineer. Wealth, however, did not assure embrace by the city’s elites. Family lineage proved more valuable than wealth. Engulfed in unprecedented social transformation, an accelerated industrialization and urbanization, and a rise of new wealth, Philadelphia elites were compelled to increase the membership of their exclusive institutions and form new ones to answer the growing needs of their strata. By the 1850s the Dancing Assemblies customarily drew crowds of a few hundred guests, mostly from Philadelphia but occasionally from other major cities such as Boston, New York, and Baltimore. 88 However, the list of managers from the late 1840s and early 1850s reads like those of the colonial elites: Cadwalader, Willing, Ingersoll, Waln, Biddle, Swift, Rawle, Vaux, and Shippen. Old Wealth gave in to expansion of membership but did not relinquish power and status. In Philadelphia, breed and ancestry led the hierarchy of status. It was known that wealthy Philadelphians evaluated their peers by their “social status, their business, their trustworthiness, [and] their clubbability.” 89 New clubs accommodated the elite’s social and recreational needs when they retired to their country estates. William Wister was among the few who attempted to teach his friends cricket on his estate in Germantown. Wealthy Philadelphians initially snubbed the game, which was introduced by English mill workers in the eighteenth century, but it gained popularity when affluent English merchants founded the Union Cricket Club in 1842. The formation 88 The Bachelor Assembly of 1839 had between four to five hundred attendees. 89 Cornelius Weygandt, Philadelphia Folks: Ways and Institutions in and About the Quaker City (Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1970), x. 43 of the Junior Cricket Club at the University of Pennsylvania, the Philadelphia Cricket Club, and the Germantown Cricket Club followed. However, the clubs’ popularity declined as rapidly as it rose probably because it could not maintain an exclusive appeal. 90 The Germantown Cricket Club took an unprecedented measure when it welcomed both gentlemen and sons of English weavers to its facilities. The lack of costly equipment made it affordable for them to join. 91 When cricket failed as a leisure pastime, rowing emerged as an acceptable alternative. Glossy boats, fancy uniforms, and extravagant regattas accommodated the need for display and exclusivity. In 1854 the University Barge Club was founded complete with its own restored farm house above West River Drive. Membership had to be approved unanimously and was most exclusive. Upon entering a boat everyone was required to wear uniform that “would bring a smile to the face of any one of you had you seen it in all its grotesqueness and absurdity.” 92 It included white sailor’s shirt and pants, white broad leather belt with large metal letters “U.B.C.”, straw hat with long ribbon ends carrying the same letters, and a jacket with brass buttons. The outfit might have been a class indicator, but by no means accommodated the sport the wearers were to perform. 90 Only the Philadelphia and the Germantown clubs survived beyond the 1850s. By the 1880s, the major cricket clubs in Philadelphia adopted tennis as a primary sport. 91 The social class of fourteen charter members of the Philadelphia Cricket Club included ten upper-class members but it also comprised of three middle-class members and one of lower class origin. See: J. Thomas Jable, “Social Class and the Sport of Cricket in Philadelphia, 1850-1880,” Journal of Sport History, 18 (Summer, 1991): 215. 92 John B. Thayer, “The Early Years of the University Barge Club of Philadelphia,” Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, 29(1905): 287. 44 Elites tended to settle among peers of similar religious background. George E. Thomas argues that the pattern of settlement and the concentration of denominational churches in certain demographical areas correlated class with religious affiliation. He shows that in a span of two decades prior to the Civil War, thirty new Episcopal congregations were formed within five blocks of Rittenhouse Square, a noted elite area. North of Market Street, typically avoided by city elite society, they were outnumbered six to one, while Methodist and Baptist churches mainly appeared near factory districts. 93 Most of antebellum Philadelphia’s elite population was affiliated with the American version of the Church of England, keeping allegiance to their ancestry’s origin. 94 They resided within certain city blocks, south of Market Street between Chestnut and Pine Streets. The wealthy sorts who lived north along Arch Street did not belong to the city’s elites. Harriet Martineau who observed the emergence of caste in the city pointed out that girls in different sections never met each other because “the fathers of the Arch Street ladies having made their fortunes, while the Chestnut Street ladies owed theirs to their grandfathers.” 95 93 George E. Thomas, “Architectural Patronage and Social Stratification in Philadelphia between 1840 and 1920,” in The Divided Metropolis: Social and Spatial Dimensions of Philadelphia, 1800-1975, eds. William W. Cutler III and Howard Gillette, Jr. (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1980), 97. The most affluent belonged to the Quaker and Anglican religions. See: Theodore Thayer, “Town into City,” in Philadelphia, 100. 94 Miller assets it for New York but it can be extended to the major cities in the northeast. Douglas T. Miller, Jacksonian Aristocracy: Class and Democracy in New York, 1830-1860 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967), 8. 95 Harriet Martineau, Society in America, Vol. III, Part III, Chapter I, Section I,"Caste" http://www2.pfeiffer.edu/~lridener/DSS/Martineau/v3p3c1s1.html accessed on: March 20, 2007. 45 As the number of wealthy individuals steadily increased, a leisure industry emerged that intended to provide relief from the sweltering city summers. Cape May, located in a comfortable distance of nine hours by a steamer or three hours by locomotive (in 1863), became a popular location in the 1840s and 1850s. Nine large modern hotels gained popularity for their splendor and location. 96 Another attractive destination, Atlantic City, boasted a two-mile promenade where ladies could showcase their elegant dresses on an afternoon walk. Bristol, a quaint Delaware town, lured visitors with cool breezes and the placid waters of its nearby river. 97 Obligatory locations for the fashionable elites in mid-century were the hot springs. Philadelphians frequented Saratoga Springs in New York, Newport in Rhode Island, and nearby Yellow Springs in Chester County, Pennsylvania. 98 Affluent vacationers brought extravagant parties and wealthy display. At a Saratoga Springs party in August 1849, “some of the costumes could not be surpassed for costliness of material and exquisite designs… Mrs. Rush of Philadelphia, wore a scarf of rich lace worth its weight in – gold will not answer here – its weight in diamonds. The jet and jewels upon her bosom seemed absolutely sparkling 96 For a description of Cape May in the middle of the nineteenth century see: Edward Strahan, ed. A Century After, Picturesque Glimpses of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania including Fairmount, the Wissahickon, and Other Romantic Localities, with the Cities and Landscapes of the State: a Pictorial Representation of Scenery, Architecture, Life, Manners, and Character (Philadelphia: Allen, Lane & Scott and J. W. Lauderbach, 1875), 73-78. 97 Mrs. Manigault in her letter to Mrs. du Pont wrote in the summer of 1813 that the “Brilliant Ladies of Philadelphia” are in Bristol. See: Low, “The Youth of 1812,” 196. 98 Miller points that Saratoga Springs was at its highest popularity in the 1840s when elites from the North and South frequented its hotels. Newport surpassed it by the late 1850s as the center of fashion. See: Miller, Jacksonian Aristocracy, 174-175. Carol Shiels Roark, “Historic Yellow Springs, the Restoration of an American Spa,” Pennsylvania Folklife, 34 (Autumn 1974): 28-38. 46 through a wreath of mist.” 99 Thomas A. Chambers argues that the springs supported a “national aristocracy” that attempted to create a culture based on economic success and moral and cultural superiority. Their class experience articulated status in a contested space between old and new money. 100 However, the springs and the ocean resorts may have also been an extension of a culture shaped by regional settings. The resorts’ public spaces may have been used as a stage to assert predominance in front of an eager, large audience whose sole purpose was to follow their betters in curiosity. The pompous arrival of the wealthy in their elegant carriages, rich attire, fine jewelry, and selective company sufficed to attract plenty of attention. The resorts provided an opportunity for elites of North and South to mingle, network, and exchange the latest news from distant regions about individuals’ fortune or misfortune. The idea of a creation of a “national aristocracy” prior to the Civil War may be questioned on the grounds of nascent political differences. A Southern gentleman, Mr. Jones from Savannah, Georgia, who spent his summers in Newport, Rhode Island, declared “that there was no such thing as good society in New York or other Northern cities; that New Yorkers and Northern people were simply a lot of tradespeople, having no antecedents, springing up like the mushroom.” 101 99 Ellet, The Queens of American Society, 369-370. 100 Thomas A. Chambers, Drinking the Waters: Creating an American Leisure Class at Nineteenth-Century Mineral Springs (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2002), xviii-xx. 101 Ward McAllister, Society as I have found It (New York: Cassell Pub. Co., 1890), 95-96, 98-99. 47 City entertainment flourished particularly in the second quarter of the nineteenth century. The theater, circus, public lectures, Vaux Hall Garden’s gatherings, tours of Apollonian Gallery, or a visit to Peale’s Museum provided leisure venues. The opening of the Musical Fund Hall in 1824 served as center of culture, but the American Academy of Music, which opened in 1857 with large and elegant interiors for spacious audience of 3,000, superseded all other city venues for opera, concert, and ball events. Those who attended the opera at the Academy of Music demonstrated their cultivation for the arts and exhibited their exquisite fashions and jewelry. Beyond the city limits activities such as riding, walking, and bathing were favorite pastimes in mild weather, while sleighing and skating could be enjoyed during the winter months. 102 The entertainment of rural Pennsylvanians often centered on their agricultural occupations. Agricultural fairs were held in various counties, where locals competed for the best crops in various categories as well as in baked goods, preserves, and crafts. 103 In the beginning of the nineteenth century the influence of the separate-sphere ideology had emerged as a result of a division of physical location of work that heightened gender difference. 104 It located women within the domestic environment as 102 Low, “The Youth of 1812,” 186. 103 In 1855 William H. Holstein won the prizes for the best tomatoes and quinces while his wife received an award for the best peach butter. See: “Montgomery County Agricultural Society,” The Norristown Herald and Free Press, 9 October 1855, 2. 104 Barbara Welter was the first to analyze domesticity and link it to women’s appropriate sphere. Welter and historians who followed her footsteps in the 1980s analyzed white middle-class women. See: Barbara Welter, “The Cult of True Womanhood: 1820-1860,” American Quarterly, 18 (Summer, 1966): 151-174 and reprinted in Barbara Welter, Dimity Convictions: the American Woman in the Nineteenth Century (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1976) and Ann Braude, Radical Spirits: Spiritualism and Women's Rights in Nineteenth-Century America (Boston, Mass.: Beacon Press, 1989). Emphasizing the separate sphere 48 moral and educational influence and the proper caretakers of the household. Alexis de Tocqueville observed in 1835 that the Americans applied the “principles of political economy… by carefully dividing the duties of man from those of woman, in order the great work of society may be the better carried on.” He also pointed that “whilst they have allowed the social inferiority of woman to subsist, they have done all they could to raise her morally and intellectually to the level of man.” 105 And although Barbara Bodichon, an English supporter of women’s rights, noted in 1859 that “there is in America, a large class of ladies who do absolutely nothing,” a different picture is revealed on a closer inspection. 106 The responsibility for the upkeep of a household required managerial skills to oversee the work of servants, plan budgets, and produce elegant parties for tens, sometimes hundreds of guests. Daily interactions between masters and servants often produced discontent for all involved. Most employers perceived their servants as intellectually inferior and loathed the tiresome task of training them. Many complied with mediocre service for fear of hiring an even inferior replacement. Sidney George Fisher refused his servant’s request for a raise and confided in his diary that he “would not keep him at all only that I fear to get a worse… [The servants’] stupidity, insubordination, impudence, & incompetency are unbearable. Poor Bet is harassed by them to such an extent that she is almost tempted to give up ideology: Carroll Smith Rosenberg, “The Female World of Love and Ritual: Relations between Women in Nineteenth-Century America,” Signs 1 (1975):1-29, argued that the domestic sphere was a nurturing environment for women. 105 Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, ed. Richard D. Heffner, 4 th ed. (New York: The New American Library, 1961), 244, 246. 106 Douglas T. Miller, Jacksonian Aristocracy: Class and Democracy in New York, 1830-1860 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967), 177. 49 housekeeping & go to a hotel, much as she values home.” 107 Entertaining demanded not only great attention to detail but also social skills. A successful party required a splendid meal, an amiable atmosphere, and respected company. A rewarding evening reflected on the husband, and a wife would invest great effort into pleasing her visitors and leave an impression of an effortless undertaking. The mistresses of large estates carried heavier burdens than those of modest households. Henry C. Fisher’s mansion, Brookwood, included a stable with ten to twelve horses, a greenhouse, conservatory, grapery, and gate lodges. Daily dinners, served by two waiters, consisted of three to four courses in addition to elaborate desserts prepared by a French cook. Maintenance of his farm cost between forty and fifty thousand dollars annually. His uncle privately pondered: It is impossible to have such an establishment in this country without a vast deal of trouble, without devoting to its management a great deal of thought that might be better employed. Sarah Ann does all this. She has much energy & seems to like it, but I think she would be better pleased if she had less to do. 108 Those with lesser responsibility grew frustrated with their chores. Elizabeth Morris, the daughter of an old colonial family, sounded her frustration to her male friend in the mid-1840s: All out of doors looks wintery and dreary, and in the house woman’s work must continue for some time to engross every faculty so completely, that it 107 Wainwright, A Philadelphia Perspective, 524. 108 Wainwright, Philadelphia Perspective, 268. 50 will be more by good luck than good arrangement if I lose not the little brains I have, and degenerate into a complete household drudge. 109 Historians have shown that while women seemingly accepted their gender role, they did not comply with its constraints, and found means to act publicly in ways that neither compromised their own nor their husbands’ social status. 110 Publicly, elite women assumed leadership positions in benevolent work that fitted their status, wealth, and connections. They commanded several of the city’s private institutions in the aid of destitute women and children, extending their nurturing role into the public sphere. Their seemingly independent managerial role had been typically limited by a male board of trustees who controlled the funds of these establishments. One of the socially prominent women, Elizabeth E. Hutter, was among the founding members of the Northern Home for Friendless Children in 1854 and an accomplished president of its Board of Managers for over a quarter of a century. Decades later she would return and serve as the president of the unsuccessful Newboys’ Aid 109 Elizabeth Morris to William Darlington, November 3, 1845, William Darlington manuscripts, New York Historical Society Library; quoted in Branson, These Fiery Frenchified Dames, 85. 110 Both Mary Ryan and Rosalind Rosenberg demonstrate that women did not accept the notion that their home was the boundary of their world: Mary Ryan, The Cradle of the Middle Class: the Family in Oneida County, New York, 1790-1865 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981). Rosalind Rosenberg, Beyond the Separate Spheres: Intellectual Roots of Modern Feminism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982). Historians have proved that women extended the boundaries of their sphere and acted publicly in the eighteenth century. Some of the works include: Paula Baker, “The Domestication of Politics: Women and American Political Society, 1780-1920,” American Historical Review, 89 (June 1984): 620-647. Joan R. Gundersen, To Be Useful to the World: Women in Revolutionary America, 1740-1790 (New York: Prentice Hall International, 1996). Tina Stewart Brakebill, "Circumstances are Destiny": an Antebellum Woman's Struggle to Define Sphere (Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press, 2006). Mary Kelley, Learning to Stand and Speak: Women, Education, and Public Life in America's Republic (Chapel Hill: Published for the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture, Williamsburg, Virginia, by the University of North Carolina Press, 2006). 51 Association. Women also gravitated to charities that involved religious affiliation. Julia Rush served as the second director of The Orphans’ Society for ladies associated with the Presbyterian Church. Privileged Jews such as Mrs. Henry Cohen, Mrs. E. Simpson, Mrs. E. J. Etting, and Rebecca and Louisa Gratz served on the Board of Managers in the Jewish Foster Home. Occasionally, family members raised interest in a particular project among their relatives. Mr. James Lawrence Claghorn, a leading businessman and banker, was a trustee of the Home for the Friendless Children along with C. Eugene Claghorn. Louise E. Claghorn and Mrs. J. R. Claghorn were both members of its Board of Managers. Charity provided a moral cause, but women were also enthusiastic about saving buildings that significantly related to the nation’s past. Mount Vernon, one of the first preservation projects in the United States, marked women’s initial involvement in shaping public memory. The project was the brainchild of a South Carolinian socialite Louise Dalton Bird Cunningham, who urged her daughter Ann Pamela Cunningham in late 1853 after seeing the deteriorating building: "The thought passed through my mind: Why was it the women of his country did not try to keep it in repair, if the men could not do it?" 111 Cunningham’s intention to provide a goal for her daughter, bedridden for twenty-one years after a riding accident, paved the way for a national undertaking. The work of the Mount Vernon Ladies' Association had expanded to include Northern women on behest of Northern newspapers. Under the direction of the Pennsylvania Vice Regent, 111 “Ann Pamela Cunningham, Phoebe Apperson Hearst, and Frances Payne Bolton,” http://www.smithsonianmag.si.edu/smithsonian/issues03/feb03/mall.html accessed January 9, 2008. 52 Ms. Lily Macalester, women organized in clubs and set collection boxes in public places, including Independence Hall, where George Washington had been appointed commander in chief of the Continental Army in 1775. Leading men in the city censured the activity “because it was a women’s effort, and they disapproved of women mixing in public affairs.” 112 Their hostility ended when the women raised ten thousand dollars for the association. The women hoped that a memory of unity, when colonists banded against a common foe under George Washington, would convince the increasingly estranged sections to overcome their differences. In April 1860, when a group of Congress members and civic and military officials visited Mount Vernon with their wives, Cunningham doubted that her project could inspire a political compromise. She wrote to one of her vice regents: “All seemed to enjoy the excursion, I trust the good effect of it will be confined to Washington city. Time will tell whether my hopes (which induced all this daring on my part) are delusive.” 113 Privileged Philadelphians developed genteel culture to convey exclusivity and status. They provided their boys with outstanding education and the connections and opportunities that would enable them to remain within the social circle in which they were brought up. Women, whose future depended on their marriage, did not lead life of 112 Karal Ann Marling, George Washington Slept Here: Colonial Revivals and American Culture, 1876- 1986 (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1988), 78. 113 Historical Sketch of Ann Pamela Cunningham “The Southern Matron” Founder of “The Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association” (New York: Printed for the Association, 1911), 25. 53 ignorance. They followed current affairs closely, read literary and philosophical manuscripts, and managed their husband’s vast estates. Precarious economic and political circumstances often caused the loss or gain of wealth and fortune. Philadelphia elites emphasized their families’ names as an indicator of status and stability at a time when their civic and political dominance was threatened by social unrest due to increased urbanization, industrialization, and immigration. They attempted to create a memory that would emphasize consensus with the revolution and downplay radical figures such as Thomas Paine and Patrick Henry. Such memory would emphasize hierarchical society, in which the masses follow educated and virtuous leaders like themselves. Women interested in memory started with the preservation of papers and genealogies of their prominent ancestors, typically of the families they married into, not their birth families, as required by social conventions. With their involvement in the Mount Vernon project they hoped to avert the impending regional conflict by uniting the nation behind its revolutionary past. Unsuccessful, many joined the war effort eager to stand behind the Union cause. CHAPTER 2 CIVIL WAR: LOCAL MEMORY ON DISPLAY Early in the morning of April 12, 1863, the first shots fired at Fort Sumter indicated that political compromises had given way to a full-fledged military conflict. Union supporters enthusiastically lent political, military, and material support to the government in order to secure victory. Serious political differences not only plagued the warring sides but also caused internal conflicts, particularly in Philadelphia, where many members of the privileged classes identified with the Democratic Party. 1 During the war, when fierce battles resulted in heavy casualties and endless suffering, the memory of consensus had gained popularity as a representation of an ideal period. Northerners evoked the memory of the American Revolution as a time of cooperation that transcended economic, cultural, and geographic boundaries for the creation of a democratic nation. The revolutionary memory was central to the work of affluent Republican men and women who volunteered to make the lives of soldiers more bearable. Anna Morris Holstein, who nursed soldiers in the field hospitals of the Army of 1 Philadelphia’s lawyers, merchants, and manufacturers, among them Charles J. Biddle, Edward Ingersoll, Richard Vaux, and J. Francis Fisher supported the Democratic platform. See: Gary B. Nash, First City: Philadelphia and the Forging of Historical Memory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 231. Russell Weigley argues that the Democratic campaign of 1856, when James Buchanan won 53 percent of the city’s vote, was a rebuke of the antislavery party and its antislavery stance. He concludes that Republicans did not advance their cause in the 1850s in the city. See: Russell F. Weigley, Nicholas B. Wainwright, and Edwin Wolf, eds., Philadelphia: A 300-Year History (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1982), 385, 392. 55 the Potomac, had an acute sense of a unified history during the war and in her later published memoir. Philadelphia elite women who assisted the war effort through the city’s offices of the United States Sanitary Commission (USSC) also constructed memory of consensus whereby prominent women led by Martha Washington occupied central stage. One of the major fund-raising events held in Philadelphia, the Great Central Fair, was a locus for the construction of colonial, revolutionary, and Civil War memories. Historians have argued that the Civil War was a watershed for women’s public work. 2 Women also found opportunities to fashion a national past that placed revolutionary women and domesticity on equal footing with major revolutionary leaders. By so doing they empowered themselves as the authority in construction of the national historical narrative. In the few years that preceded the Civil War the city of Philadelphia had vastly grown. The Act of Consolidation of February 2, 1854 incorporated the large populations of adjacent townships and boroughs under the city’s jurisdiction. In the 1850s Philadelphia was the nation’s second largest city, surpassed only by New York in 2 Elizabeth Leonard and Jane E. Schultz argue that women expanded their sphere through nursing. The opportunity to practice medicine had helped to alter attitudes toward the nursing profession. Elizabeth D. Leonard, Yankee Women: Gender Battles in the Civil War (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1994); Jane E. Schultz, Women at the Front: Hospital Workers in Civil War America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004). Jeanie Attie argues that it was the first American war where women expected their work to affect their political rights. See: Jeannie Attie, Patriotic Toil: Northern Women and the American Civil War (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1998), 52, 89. Judith Giesberg perceives women’s work for the Unites States Sanitary Commission as a link between antebellum voluntarism and temperance and suffrage movements. Judith Giesberg, Civil War Sisterhood: The U.S. Sanitary Commission and Women's Politics in Transition (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2000). 56 population, commerce, finance, and manufacturing. 3 Entrepreneurs such as Samuel Merrick, Matthias Baldwin, and Alfred Jenks pioneered production of metal and metal products in their foundries in the 1820s and 1830s. Their use of steam in production expanded their enterprises and attracted more capital than older industry. 4 Elite city capital was drawn to build transport networks that linked the Philadelphia with Chicago via Pittsburgh by a railroad system by 1858. New transportation encouraged commerce and opened distant areas to development and expansion. By 1860, eighteen street railways operated in the city, reaching the most heavily populated areas. 5 Politically, great numbers of the city’s wealthiest families supported the South and opposed abolitionism due to commercial ties and social connections. Baldwin locomotives and Philadelphia carriages and wagons were in use in many parts of the South. Southerners engaged in business in the city trading their cotton where it was much in demand for the textile industry. 6 The support proved so solid that in the 1850s the Republicans did not gain additional followers in the city. Two years later Republicans managed to replace the Democratic Mayor Richard Vaux with Alexander Henry and 3 Philip Scranton, Proprietary Capitalism: The Textile Manufacture at Philadelphia, 1800-1885 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 133. 4 Thomas C. Cochran, “Philadelphia: The American Industrial Center, 1750-1850,” The Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, 106 (July 1982): 329. 5 Weigley, Philadelphia, 368-369, 379. Urban growth In America between 1820 and 1860 depended on manufacturing, not commerce. By 1860 all cities had manufacturing with diverse production methods. See: Zane L. Miller, The Urbanization of Modern America: A Brief History (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973), 26. 6 Frank H. Taylor, Philadelphia in the Civil War, 1861-1865 (Philadelphia: The City, 1913), 11-13. 57 defeat four of the city’s Democratic congressmen. 7 In the federal election, however, Democrats had the upper hand. Democratic elected representative of Philadelphia Charles John Biddle, son of Nicholas Biddle, president of the Second Bank of the United States, and nephew of Congressman Richard Biddle, served as Congressman from 1861 to 1863. While acting as a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, he opposed the overturning of the Fugitive Slave Act and the Second Confiscation Act that freed slaves from their owners. Once war broke out and massive military mobilization mounted, a spontaneous desire to contribute engulfed the Republican public. Anna Morris Holstein, a thirty- seven-year old resident of Upper Merion, Pennsylvania, shared this “irresistible impulse to do, to act. Anything but idleness.” 8 The excitement caused people in the nearby town of Norristown to crowd the streets following the news of the U.S. Army Major Robert Anderson’s surrender at Fort Sumter. They immediately organized a public meeting where an effigy of a traitor, possibly Jefferson Finis Davis, was hanged from the gallows to the sound of the town’s Brass Band march in support of the Union. 9 It was the departure of the Fourth Regiment of Pennsylvania Volunteers that stirred the local 7 Democrats of old families included Charles Ingersoll, William B. Reed (prominent former Whig), George M. Wharton, and Benjamin H. Brewster. For a political map of Philadelphia in the decade that preceded the Civil War See: Weigley, Philadelphia, 369-372, 383-385, 388-394. 8 Mrs. H. Three Years in Field Hospitals of the Army of the Potomac (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1867): 1; Anna Morris Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” Historical Sketches of the Montgomery County Historical Society, vol. 1 (Norristown, Pennsylvania: Published by the Society, 1895), 219-231; Linus Pierpont Brockett and Mary C. Vaughan, Woman's Work in the Civil War: A Record of Heroism, Patriotism and Patience (Philadelphia: Zeigler, McCurdy, 1867), 252. 9 “The War Excitement in Norristown – Public Meeting,” National Defender, 23 April, 1861, p.3. Public meetings in support of the Union were organized in nearby towns as well. See: “Meeting in Norritonville,” National Defender, 21 May, 1861, p. 3. 58 women into action. Although the Swedeland Aid Society had been organized through her church, Holstein chose to join the society that was formed in her own village. Aid societies proliferated on both sides during the war; historians estimate that ten thousand were created in the first year alone. 10 The overwhelming eagerness to help in war relief often left women disorganized and bewildered as Katherine Prescott Wormeley, a war nurse from New York, observed - “women mustered in churches, school-houses, and parlors, working before they well knew at what to work, and calling everywhere for instructions. What were they to make? Where were they to send?” 11 Holstein and her neighbors organized with the objective of non-consumption and patriotic display without delay. On April 19, 1861, she assumed a position of vice president of the Upper Merion Aid Society. 12 The society’s members took an immediate action. On their first meeting they resolved to …devote their utmost energies to aid and encourage the brave men who have gone to meet a treacherous and rebellious foe; that no new bonnets should be procured or dresses purchased while the war continued, excepting calico; while the money these articles would cost should be used in our Army Aid Society.” “Resolved, That our Union colors, emblematic of our national flag, should be worn by us until peace was re-established.” A tiny silk flag was placed upon the left shoulder, or arranged among loops of ribbon in front of hat or bonnet. 13 10 Schultz, Women at the Front, 14. 11 Katherine Prescott Wormeley, The Other Side of War: With the Army of the Potomac; Letters from the Headquarters of the United States Sanitary Commission During the Peninsular Campaign in Virginia in 1862, 3 rd ed., (Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1898), 5. 12 Alice Lees Eastwick, History of Christ Church (Old Swedes) Upper Merion, 1760-1960 (Upper Merion, Pennsylvania, 1960), 37. 13 Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” 220. 59 In order to establish a continuous source of funds, they resorted to a measure inspired by patriotic colonial women – they resolved to avoid purchasing any apparel except inexpensive calico until the end of the war. The funds saved would be donated for the war effort. Colonial women had joined non-importation agreements as a protest against the Stamp Act in 1765 and the Townshend duties in 1767. By boycotting British goods and producing their own homespun attire leading society women politicized their mundane domestic duties and consumerism. 14 The calico, an imported British fabric during the colonial period, linked Upper Merion aid society women’s decision to the colonists. The Upper Merion women had probably mistaken it for homespun cotton due to its wide use in the colonial and early republic periods and because of its original unfinished quality. 15 The aid society women demonstrated their Union support with thrift and domesticity. They curtailed their spending and symbolically agreed to obtain articles that recalled a homespun look. Upper Merion women did not need to limit their consumption in order to raise funds for their organization. The members could have easily provided for its solvency by 14 Karin Wulf, Not All Wives: Women of Colonial Philadelphia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), 183. 15 Colonists did not produce it readily, but rather purchased or exchanged their own homespun wool for the more desirable printed calico. When Britain amended its Sugar Act of 1733 with the American Revenue Act of 1764, calico was among the products included in the levy. Admittedly, a Revolutionary soldier, John Hewson, established a calico printing workshop in Philadelphia, in 1788, but neither its size nor its productivity could be considered a major American industrial enterprise at the time. Evidence of fabric exchange can be found in: Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, The Age of Homespun: Objects and Stories in the Creation of an America Myth (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2001), 232. For the development of the production of printed fabrics in Philadelphia during the Revolution and the early republic period see: Thomas J. Scharf, and Thompson Westcott. History of Philadelphia, 1609-1884. Vol. II (Philadelphia: L. H. Everts & co., 1884), 2316-17. 60 personal donations or through fundraising activities. On their first meeting they contributed a large sum and on the following day two members singlehandedly collected five hundred and thirty five dollars – estimated at over ten thousand dollars in 2011 – from Upper Merion residents. 16 Their anti-consumption act had been a political demonstration of Union support, which they had linked to astute revolutionary women. In wearing calico throughout the war, they sought to uphold the values of their predecessors – domesticity, simplicity, self-sacrifice and patriotism – at time of a national crisis. They also deemed the preservation of the Union essential to the protection of the Revolution’s legacy. Overwhelmingly, historians have shown that Northern women teamed up in local and state organizations to help the war but have not noticed that women related their actions to revolutionary historical discourse. 17 Through the symbolic non-purchase act the Upper Merion women intended to establish continuity between themselves and their colonial predecessors and attribute historical significance to their local organization. Equally important was the women’s decision to wear a silk American flag throughout the war. It resembled the act of Philadelphia women in the 1790s who wore sashes, cockades, and turbans at public affairs to show their support of the French revolutionaries. Men and women have long expressed their political identity through their 16 Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” 220. 17 Some of the studies are: Attie, Patriotic Toil, Ginsberg, Civil War Sisterhood, Elizabeth D. Leonard, Yankee Women: Gender Battles in the Civil War (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1994), Matthew J. Gallman, Mastering Wartime: A Social History of Philadelphia During the Civil War (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 61 clothes. 18 The union flag selected by the Upper Merion women was a visible statement of Republican support. Holstein’s testimony in 1895 that – “The [flag] which I wore continuously throughout the war is still preserved among war relics in our home. As far as I know among those with whom I was most intimately associated the members of Upper Merion Army Aid continued true to their pledge” demonstrates that the women faithfully demonstrated their Republican support even after the Emancipation Proclamation. 19 The officers of the aid society - Eliza H. Roberts, president, Anna Morris Holstein, vice president, and Sarah H. Tyson, secretary – were all locally prominent women due to their husbands’ occupations. Roberts’ late husband, Jonathan Roberts, had served in both houses of the state legislature and acted as a U.S. Senator from 1814 to 1821. Tyson was her daughter. Holstein, wife of a farmer from a prominent local family, had gained considerable recognition and valuable experience in raising funds when she joined the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association in 1855. As the Lady Manager for Montgomery County she participated in a successful effort to acquire George Washington’s estate for preservation. Holstein’s first public role marked her interest in the commemoration of structures of revolutionary significance. She might have been instrumental in the aid society’s decision to adopt the symbolic non-purchase rule and the wearing of the Union flag. 18 For a discussion of Philadelphia women and their display of support of the French Revolution see: Susan Branson, These Fiery Frenchified Dames Women and Political Culture in Early National Philadelphia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 68, 71, 75-76. 19 Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” 220. 62 During the first months of the Civil War Holstein stayed with her husband, William Hyman Holstein, on their Upper Merion farm and collected items for soldiers’ benefit through the aid society. Her experience, she emphasized, was “blended as it is, (and should be) so intimately with [the experience] of my husband”. 20 With her parenthesized remark Holstein disclosed her traditional view of woman’s gendered role, acknowledged man’s leading role within the family and affirmed ascribed gender differences. The Holsteins were dedicated members of the Christ (Swedes) Church in Bridgeport, Pennsylvania – an Episcopalian institution formed with the help of William Holstein’s ancestors. 21 In the summer of 1862, Lincoln called for three hundred thousand volunteers when the Peninsula Campaign of General John Pope near Washington D.C. failed and Confederate forces advanced into Maryland. The forty-six-year-old William Hyman Holstein joined the Seventeenth Regiment of the Pennsylvania Militia organized at the call of Governor Andrew Gregg Curtin on September 17 th . On the same day thousands of wounded soldiers who required vital medical care were scattered on the fields of Sharpsburg following the bloodiest single-day battle in the nation’s history, the Battle of Antietam. An urgent appeal for nurses and supplies quickly followed. Holstein did not accompany her husband and the six Montgomery County women who volunteered to 20 Brockett, Woman’s Work in the Civil War, 251. 21 William Holstein bequeathed money in his will to the church’s fund and ordered that $1,000 will be added annually to the rector of the church in perpetuity. See: William H. Holstein, Will, Registered Wills file no. 19143. The Montgomery County Court, Norristown, Pennsylvania. 63 nurse the wounded even though half of them were married and intended to travel without their husbands. 22 Nursing presented medical, physical, and moral difficulties. Opponents of female nurses – particularly male doctors – insisted that women would not have the strength to lift patients, would volunteer with intention of finding mates, and would inevitably be exposed to the naked male body. They also believed that women were naturally frivolous and would not keep their composure at the sight of blood; instead, they would react with hysterics or fainting since their delicate nature would not be resilient enough to sustain their composure. 23 These were serious considerations because they targeted the core of femininity and threatened women’s morality. Holstein’s mother, who repeatedly commented on her daughter’s volunteerism with “I hope, my child, it will not be in the hospitals”, alluded to her own disapproval of such work. 24 In the context of the battlefield, nursing was unfit for a respectable woman. It put women in a position of power, treating helpless men in a masculine environment. Holstein acquiesced to the prevailing gender ideology that described women as frail creatures, who themselves required protection, when she initially rejected nursing. Her recollection - “the idea of seeing and waiting upon wounded men, was one from which I shrank instinctively” 22 The married women were Rachel P. Evans, Anna Carver, and Alice Hallowell Holstein, Holstein’s sister in law. Theodore W. Bean, ed. History of Montgomery County Pennsylvania, Illustrated, 1884 (Philadaelphia: Everts & Peck, 1884), 295. 23 E. Clark, “Hospital Memories,” Atlantic Monthly 20 (August 1867): 144-156. George Worthington Adams, Doctors in Blue: the Medical History of the Union Army in the Civil War (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University, 1980), 177. See also: Leonard, Yankee Women, xxii. Nina Silber, Daughters of the Union: Northern Women Fight the Civil War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 113. 24 Brockett, Woman’s Work in the Civil War, 251. 64 promptly demonstrated her version of femininity. 25 Nina Silber argues that Northern women upheld traditional ideas of womanhood and gender hierarchy but felt compelled to help the war effort. 26 Holstein eventually relented: But when my husband returned from the battle-field of Antietam, whither the six women had gone, with the sad story that men were dying for food, home comforts and home care, lying by the road-side, in barns, sheds and out-houses, I hesitated no longer. 27 She consented to undertake the challenge only upon learning of the urgent need for nurses and, perhaps more importantly, her husband’s plea. However, she expressed the soldiers’ need for female domestic tasks of “home comfort” and “home care”. Holstein rationalized her work in the battlefield by asserting these as an extension of her domestic tasks. The pressing need for work only women could perform was precisely the reason for her public involvement. Holstein embarked on her nursing duties in September 1862 with prudent foresight. She sought an interview with the United States Sanitary Commission (USSC) to establish her official placement. It was an essential step for any respectable woman who chose to assist the military. Katherine Prescott Wormeley held firm opinions about 25 H., Three Years in Field Hospitals, 10. 26 Silber, Daughters of the Union, 11-12. 27 Bean, ed., History of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, 296. For a close versions of this see: H. Three Years in Field Hospitals, 11; Brockett, Woman’s Work in the Civil War, 252. The significance of a relative’s judgment is also evident in Marry Gardner Holland’s account, an unmarried Civil War nurse who emphasizes her mother’s approval: “Well, my daughter, if you can go under government protection, your mother is willing.” See: Mary A. Gardner Holland, Our Army Nurses: Interesting Sketches, Addresses, and Photographs of Nearly One Hundred of the Noble Women Who Served in Hospitals and on Battlefields during Our Civil War (Boston: B. Wilkins & Co. Publishers, 1895), 18. 65 the issue: “No lady should attempt to come here unless accepted or appointed by the government or the Commission. Ardent women with a mission should not come in any other way, if they value their own respectability.” 28 Women who independently offered their help came under attack for their doubtful character and questionable motives. Dorothea Dix, the Superintendent for Army Nurses, devised strict guidelines for the hiring of nurses: “No woman under thirty years need apply to serve in the government hospitals. All nurses are required to be very plain-looking women. Their dresses must be brown or black, with no bows, no curls, or jewelry, and no hoop skirts.” 29 Dix’s demands created dignified space for women in military hospitals and legitimized volunteering for privileged women. Holstein was interviewed and appointed in Washington D.C. before she arrived at Antietam in the beginning of October 1862. Holstein proved adept to the arduous work of caring for a large group of patients with limited supplies and minimal means to alleviate pain. She never ceased to link the war to the Revolution, justifying the suffering and the large number of casualties as a means to protect the union fiercely fought for during the Revolutionary War. While serving as a matron of Camp Letterman, Gettysburg, in charge of feeding three thousand soldiers, several local residents recommended hanging a flag on Round Top to honor the soldiers who “fought and won this great battle for our liberties.” Holstein must have communicated the idea to the Norristown aid society who routinely furnished her with 28 Anna Morris Holstein, to Mrs. Harry, Army Aid Society, Minute Books, Letters, Ect., Letters to Army Aid Society Mrs, C. P. Harry Secretary, Montgomery County Historical Society, Norristown, Pennsylvania( MCHS). Wormeley, The Other Side of the War, 127. 29 Dix’s rule: See: Margaret Muckenhoupt, Dorothea Dix: Advocate for Mental Health Care (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 102. 66 provisions for her patients. Shortly thereafter her sister-in-law, Alice H. Holstein, arrived at the hospital along with Mrs. Harry, the secretary of the Aid Society of Norristown with an impressive flag that measured twenty four feet long and thirteen feet wide. 30 Soldiers from Camp Letterman prepared and erected a fitting flagstaff for an impressive ceremony. On the morning of October 26 th , 1863, the flag was carried with great fanfare throughout the hospital area and up the hill where addresses were delivered. David Wills, a noted local attorney; John F. Seymour, the brother of the Governor of New York; and Henry C. May, a surgeon from the 145 th New York State Volunteers addressed the crowd. 31 Holstein took great pride in the flag and emphasized that donating it was an act expected of “a circle of patriotic ladies of a township of Montgomery County, - the immediate vicinity of ‘Valley Forge,’ of precious revolutionary memory, - that they would contribute a flag for this purpose.” 32 She believed that knowledge of historic events of a site might shape people’s understanding of their past and affect their conduct. Pierre Nora argues that memory is not fixed but is being manipulated for the changing needs of the present. Its presentation is selective and absolute. 33 Holstein’s memory and 30 Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” 223; Anna M. Holstein, “The Flag on Round Top, Gettysburg,” Historical Sketches: Collection of Papers Prepared for the Historical Society of Montgomery County Pennsylvania 2 (1900): 359-361. 31 Holstein does not mention the date of the dedication. For a date see: Frank L. Klement, “Ohio and the Dedication of the Soldiers' Cemetery at Gettysburg,” Ohio History 79: 81 at: http://publications.ohiohistory.org/ohstemplate.cfm?action=detail&Page=007981.html&StartPage=76&End Page=100&volume=79&newtitle=Volume%2079%20Page%2076 accessed on August 19, 2007. 32 H. Three Years in Field Hospitals of the Army of the Potomac, 53. The women of Montgomery County include only those of Upper Merion, Bridgeport, and Norristown. See: Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” 223. 33 Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire,” Representations, Special Issue: Memory and Counter Memory, 26 (Spring 1989): 9-10. 67 inspiration were politically charged and significantly selective. She perceived the events that occurred at the site as significant episodes in the annals of the American Revolution and in the creation of the nation. The Civil War intended to preserve the result of the revolutionaries’ sacrifice, which induced the creation of a democratic country, and no state held the right to question the integrity of the Union. She upheld George Washington as the symbol of unification, a virtuous leader who “could not tell a lie,” an ardent supporter of democracy, and a patriotic commander who remained with his troops throughout the entire revolutionary campaign. 34 While in Fredericksburg, Virginia in March 1864, Holstein dedicated time to visit the Mary Washington’s grave. She was dismayed to find it “in unfinished state in the outskirts of town.” She proceeded to Washington’s house, where she raised her son George, and found it “stands in primitive state” yet unscathed by shelling. She could scarcely hide her awe and bewilderment when she stepped into the historical structure: …a small monument marks the spot where stood the noted cherry-tree cut down by the young Washington, the history of which is familiar to every school-boy. I plucked a bough from a tree planted by his own hand, and for a brief moment set in the room where he nightly knelt in prayer by the side of his sainted mother. What a crowd of thoughts come rushing through the brain as one stands upon a spot so consecrated! 35 Holstein articulated her feelings in a sentimental and religious manner. She probably read the account written by Elizabeth Fries Ellet that attested that Mary Washington’s household was “a sanctuary of domestic virtue” where she taught her son duty, 34 Mason Locke Weems, The Life of George Washington with Curious Anecdotes (Philadelphia: Joseph Allen, 1840), 16. 35 H. “Letter from Fredericksburg,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 31 March 1864, 3. 68 obedience, and religious reverence. 36 Washington’s image shaped, by the story of the cherry tree and at prayer at Valley Forge, was considered historical facts by the 1860s. They were first published in a biography authored by supposed clergyman Mason L. Weems in 1800. Although he claimed to embellish some of the stories in A History of the Life and Death, Virtues and Exploits of General George Washington no one seemed to question the images of the moral and pious leader. 37 The monograph was highly popular and was published in more than forty editions. Weems, however, did not emphasize Mary Washington. Holstein constructed a Christian imagery of a sainted mother, Mary, who raised her moral son in a charitable manner. Washington became a leader sent by God to lead the American people into freedom and democracy. In the midst of the turmoil of war, he did not neglect his duty and prayed in solitude among the trees of Valley Forge, hoping for divine assistance in achieving his goal. The deteriorated condition of Mary Washington’s grave and home was a metaphor for the painful disunion of the country. Holstein shared her anguish on the pages of a local newspaper about the debilitated houses in Fredericksburg “so full of historical interest and incidents connected with the memory of the past”, which now stood in ruin from bullets and shelling. Sharing her thoughts on the pages of a local Norristown newspaper, she reminded readers of Mary Washington’s significance to the nation’s history and alerted them of the danger of losing noteworthy historical buildings. In her mind, the preservation of sites related to notable revolutionary men was equally 36 Elizabeth Fries Ellet, Women of the Revolution, Vol. I (New York: Baker and Scribner, 1819), 27. 37 For the stories of Washington and the cherry tree and the prayer at Valley Forge see: Mason Locke Weems, A history of the life and death, virtues and exploits of General George Washington (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1918), 22-23, 232-235. 69 important to those relating to women and could potentially contribute to overcome the differences of the current conflict. A memory of consensus portraying colonial unity could evoke a past of shared cultural and political experiences and reinforce public sentiments. The war brought Holstein in contact with African Americans. Antebellum society was a racist society and free African Americans in the North were consistently discriminated against in education, hotels, public accommodations, and transportation. The Emancipation Proclamation did not change whites’ racial attitudes. Wilbert L. Jenkins argues that African Americans, who were eager to fight in Union ranks at the beginning of the war, experienced inequality once they were recruited. Despite the deplorable treatment, they fought bravely to contribute to their earned freedom. 38 At Port Royal, Virginia, in 1864, Holstein saw many former slaves, who took the opportunity of the advancing Union forces, leave their masters. Holstein did not share the freedmen’s happiness. She reported that they were observed - “…all along the river banks, rushing down from every plantation and village, with cheers, waving hats, and other demonstrations of pleasure, manifesting their joy at sight of the old flag, which now meant freedom to them.” 39 She termed the event a “strangely exciting scene” – unable to appreciate the meaning of freedom for people who had never known it. 40 38 Wilbert L. Jenkins, Climbing Up to Glory: A Short History of African Americans during the Civil War and Reconstruction (Wilmington, Delaware: SR Books, 2002), 29-31. 39 Three Years in Field Hospitals of the Army of the Potomac, 63-64. 40 For an insightful description of the plight of African Americans see: Jenkins, Climbing Up to Glory, 79- 106. 70 The African American soldiers comprised ten percent of the Union army but their losses were high - close to a third of all enlisted men. Holstein witnessed it in City Point. “…four out of every five” – she commented – “were either killed or wounded; yet the men behaved bravely.” 41 More revealing is her reaction to the capture of a large number of Confederate soldiers by one African American regiment: Eight hundred captured rebels brought in, guarded by a negro regiment – the most humiliating thing to them that could have occurred; the sight was so novel that we all left our tents to look at them, one of our men, recognizing his former owner, ran up with a pleased look to speak to Massa Charles, but he refused to recognize him, and moved on with the crowd. 42 Holstein and her colleagues did not praise the heroic deed of the African American troops who fought courageously without supervision but rather sympathized with the Southerners, whom the African Americans guarded. In addition, Holstein’s criticism of slavery was not based on the mistreatment of slaves or their lifelong bondage. She believed that Southerners’ treatment of their slaves had made them indifferent to human pain and, thus, capable of starving their Union prisoners. With great anger she wrote: “…distant lands might learn what refinements of cruelty SLAVERY had educated a people!” 43 Her perception of the immorality of 41 Ibid., 82. 42 Ibid., 72. 43 Ibid., 109. 71 slavery solely upon the treatment of Northern whites may suggest that she believed in the inferiority of African Americans. 44 Holstein’s attitude toward African Americans was no different than that of many Northern whites. She was sympathetic to whites, enemy soldiers as they were. However, while appreciating the courage and great sacrifice of African American soldiers, she could not consider them superior to whites, let alone to Southerners. Her racial sympathy crossed regional boundaries at the expense of racial heterogeneity. When Northerners needed additional troops, Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation set a political climate that tolerated African Americans’ service but did nothing toward their social acceptance. Military necessity enabled African Americans to demonstrate their character and skills, but those did not suffice to alter whites’ deep-seated racial assumptions. The Holsteins served in army hospitals until July 3, 1865, when the end of the war brought “for the first time in all those long, eventful years, to overtasked mind and wearied body, the perfect rest of home! “ 45 Upon their return, Holstein gathered all the notes she meticulously wrote during the long nights by candle light and compiled them into a memoir of the war. To remove any suspicion of seeking publicity, an unfit act for a 44 This remark was uttered within the context of the arrival of three hundred starved prisoners from Andersonville. Evidence of Holstein’s direct view of slavery could not be found. 45 For duration of Holstein’s service see: “Report No. 1045,” Senate Committee on Pensions, Serial 2915, Congress 52-1 (1891-1892) vol. 5; H. Three Years in Field Hospitals, 131. 72 proper wife, she assured the readers that the notes as well as the book were “slight memento… for friends at home” and signed it as “Mrs. H.” 46 An ardent Republican, she viewed Lincoln’s administration as the “best government the world has ever yet beheld,” and believed that “devotion to the country and the flag” warranted the greatest of sacrifices – “life was at stake, homes deserted, property destroyed, and friends of early, happier years, all given up.” 47 Lyde Cullen Sizer asserts that women’s nursing memoirs emphasized self-sacrifice and pain rather than authority and strength. However, by publishing their work the nurses challenged the separate sphere ideology and received work opportunities. 48 Indeed, Holstein’s nursing work and published articles and book enabled her to demonstrate her reverence for revolutionary figures, male and female, to call attention to historical preservation, and to showcase her political loyalty and organizational skills. * * * While Holstein devoted her time to working in the fields of war, a score of privileged Philadelphia elite women worked incessantly to ensure that a steady stream of supplies reached Union hospitals. They witnessed the greatest crisis in the history of the nation and could not remain on the sidelines. As Wormeley attests - “As men sprang to 46 The prevailing gender ideology located women at the domestic sphere. Seeking public role could potentially injure a woman’s reputation. For the premise of the ideology see: Barbara Welter, “The Cult of True Womanhood: 1820-1860” American Quarterly, 18 (Summer, 1966), 151-174 47 H. Three Years in Field Hospitals, 9-10, 24. 48 Lyde Cullen Sizer, The Political Work of Northern Women Writers and the Civil War,1850-1872 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina, 2000), 196. 73 arms, the women rose to find what they should do; nor had they far to seek … it is their right and their place to render to suffering.” 49 The women collectively turned to the Philadelphia Agency of the United States Sanitary Commission offices and “volunteered to undertake the work, if the gentlemen of the Commission thought proper to place it in their hands.” 50 On March 26, 1863, the Committee on Supplies transferred their own department to the Women’s Pennsylvania Branch (WPB) and gave the women a new storage facility. Like Holstein, they sought public work while acknowledging men’s leadership as befitted their appropriate gender role. The Executive Committee of the WPB included leading society women such as the vice president Mrs. Robert M. Lewis, whose husband raised over million and a half dollars for the USSC; Mrs. William H. Furness, the spouse of a prominent abolitionist; Mrs. Charles Janeway Stillé, whose attorney spouse would be a recognized author by the end of the war; and Elizabeth Duane Gillespie, the great granddaughter of Benjamin Franklin. They delivered steady shipments of supplies to regiments by coordinating a large number of Associated Managers and nearly 400 local organizations. 51 As the war prolonged and the need for additional funds persisted, the Pennsylvania women could not ignore the sanitary fairs successfully held in Chicago and 49 Katherine Prescott Wormeley, The United States Sanitary Commission: A Sketch of Its Purpose and Its Work (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1863), 1-2. 50 Report of the General Superintendent of the Philadelphia Branch of the United States Sanitary Commission February 1 st , 1864 (Philadelphia: King and Baird, 1864), 7. 51 In 1864 their network boasted thirty-nine associate managers in major Pennsylvania towns, six in New Jersey, three in Delaware, and even one in San Francisco. List of Officers and Associates of the United States Sanitary Commission in Philadelphia and the Officers and Aids of the Women’s Pennsylvania Branch of the United States Sanitary Commission, January 1, 1864 (Philadelphia: King & Baird, 1864), 14- 15. 74 Boston at the end of 1863. Jeanie Attie points out that the fairs initiated by northern women were common antebellum fundraising events for benevolent organizations and a variety of reform movements. They typically featured entertainment, restaurants, and ample donated items for sale. The Chicago Sanitary Fair served as a model for the multiple fairs that followed in other urban centers across the Northern states. The Executive Committee of the WPB invited Jane C. Hoge, who along with Mary Livermore, managed the Great Northern Fair in Chicago. In a meeting held on January 25 th , 1864 in Philadelphia, Hoge shared her experience and encouraged them to hold their own fair. Convinced they had acquired sufficient information about staging the event, the Executive Committee of the WPB urged the male Executive Committee of the Philadelphia Branch of the USSC to organize a fair. The men initially refused, but the women exerted their influence through the Union League of Philadelphia. The League’s members’ promise to secure contributions forced the reluctant Sanitary Commission to hold the event. 52 In the beginning of 1864 the Commission announced their plan to hold the Great Central Fair in June due to “outside pressure in this matter which they did not feel at liberty to resist.” 53 The organization of the Great Central Fair commenced with the appointment of an Executive Committee of twenty leading merchants and manufacturers, presided over by John Welsh, one of the principle founders of the Union League. They appointed nearly one hundred committees from most fields of industry by drawing upon the contributors to the popular annual exhibitions of manufactured goods sponsored by 52 Charles J. Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair for the U. S. Sanitary Commission, Held at Philadelphia, June 1864 (Philadelphia: U. S. Sanitary Commission, 1864), 14-15. 53 “The Great Fair in Philadelphia,” Our Daily Fare, June 20, 1864, 81-82. 75 the Franklin Institute. 54 Directorship in boards that often organized exhibitions such as the Franklin Institute, the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, and the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society provided managerial experience and social ties. The Executive Committee attempted to form corresponding committees of women but found it a “difficult and delicate task.” Instead, they selected ten prominent women, designated them as the Committee on Organization, and left the matter in their hands. 55 The committee included Mrs. J. C. Stillé, Mrs. Aubrey H. Smith, the wife of a prominent attorney, Mrs. Henry P. M. Birkenbine, whose husband was Chief Engineer for the Philadelphia Water Department, and Mrs. Henry Cohen, an acknowledged benevolence activist for Jewish causes. Though the organizers’ goal was to secure funds for the Sanitary Commission, an undercurrent of competition was apparent when they summed up their objective as attracting visitors “at least equal to that which has attended similar undertakings in other cities.” 56 Department committees were required to collect a large number of appealing articles that would attract visitors to their displays and could be easily sold. The Sanitary Fairs differed from traditional exhibits of trades and commerce by featuring exhibits related to local and national history. The displays promoted a new kind of memory, an idealized version of the past that appealed to Northerners living through 54 Matthew Gallman argues that they relied on antebellum organizational patterns and associational networks. See: Gallman, Mastering Wartime, 162-163. 55 Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair, 19-20. 56 John Welsh et al. USSC Philadelphia Agency, 1 March 1864, McAllister Collection, Box 1, The Library Company of Philadelphia (LCP). 76 the daily consequences of a serious military conflict. The success of the Brooklyn and Long Island Fair’s New England Kitchen confirmed that a portrayal of tranquil domesticity appealed to fairgoers. The Philadelphia Restaurant Committee may have surmised that guests would enjoy a colonial meal served by women adorned with colonial costumes. Guests could sit by the hearth and visualize better times when the daily tasks amounted to spinning wool and baking bread. They organized the Pennsylvania Kitchen in order to commemorate the life of German settlers, reminding local visitors of the state’s early colonists. The scene was meticulously choreographed with artifacts that celebrated a “happy age before tallow candles had succumbed to gas at three dollars per thousand feet, and government tax added.” 57 A sizeable fireplace figured prominently in the dining room with pots and kettles by the hearth and an old German Bible, signaling the Protestant faith, by the mantelpiece. Next to it stood a cupboard filled with century-old china and a dresser topped with Pennsylvania Dutch plates. Benjamin Franklin’s old desk and chair, placed in a prominent position opposite to the fire place, drew attention to the domestic life of the famous Philadelphian, while spinning wheels, flax hacking tools and cards, and balls of raw material indicated household production. Women dressed in colonial costumes would spin wool, peel apples, and knit stockings in front of the curious crowd. On the walls “Grandmother’s Picture,” as well as pictures of the “Happy Family,” “Cook at Work,” “German Reformed Dutch Church at Reading, Built in 1761,” a map of Philadelphia from 1750, and a portrait of George Washington, linked the domestic ideal 57 “Pennsylvania Kitchen,” Our Daily Fair, 14 June 1864, 45. 77 with local and national history. The two muskets hung by the mantle and the copper kettle used by revolutionary soldiers, hinted on consensus in the battle for independence. A commentator concluded that the kitchen “provokes that hearty good feeling… a feeling of home.” 58 The chairwoman of the Pennsylvania Kitchen sub-committee, Mrs. Henry P. M. Birkinbine, and her team of over twenty members, did not neglect any aspect of the dining experience. From the bare pine tables and a lack of napkins and table cloths to noodle soup, summer wurst, and a variety of baked German goods – all awaited eager diners. The kitchen brings “enjoyableness which more elegant apartments sometimes fail to excite,” commented a visitor who neglected to notice that the space was constructed for display and not for food preparation. 59 The actual cooking took place in a back kitchen equipped with technologically advanced amenities while Americans of German descent supplied specialty food throughout the opening period. An additional exhibit staged by the Restaurant Committee featured the parlor of William Penn. It originated in the correspondence between the antiquarian John A. McAllister and the American historian Benson J. Lossing. 60 Similar to the Kitchen, Penn’s Parlor enabled the audience to enter a private space, but in contrast to the customary feminine domain this period room was intended to impress the audience with a domestic masculine space of the state’s founder. In reality, it was a demure room 58 “The Pennsylvania Kitchen,” The Press, 8 June 1864. 59 Colionian, “The Great Central Fair,” New York Times, 19 June 1864, 3. 60 Jno A. McAllister, Philadelphia to Mr. Lossing, 19 March 1864, Benson J. Lossing Papers, Box 1, HSP. 78 decorated with artifacts gathered by the subcommittees’ chairs, Philadelphia attorney Eli Kirk Price and Ellen M. Price, who did not attempt to recreate Penn’s original dwelling. An observer described the exhibit as “True to Quaker modest conduct no room [was] allowed for fancy display. All furnishing of the apartment [was] quiet and subdued.” 61 Their circular called for heirlooms of “historic interest connected with them from association with any of the prominent Men or families of the early settlers of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware.” 62 It was possibly the only circular printed with colonial lettering, for added old-fashioned charm, and perhaps the only one to post Penn’s portrait as its letterhead instead of the fair’s emblem. Realizing the sentimental value of the artifacts solicited, the organizers assured prospective donors that the articles could be returned if owners did not want to part with them. The committee claimed that it intended the exhibit to represent all settlers of the Province since individuals of all origins helped the soldiers. Yet, Price publicly emphasized that: Individually many of us are descendants of the early settlers, and have sincere respect and veneration for the character of William Penn and his associates, who instituted the government of the infant province… The principles of these governments, State and National, owe their origin to William Penn more than to any one who preceded their formation. 63 61 “Principle Feature in the Memory of Great Fair,” newspaper clipping, McAllister Collection, Box 4, LCP. 62 Memorial of the William Penn Parlor in the Great Central Fair, Held in Logan Square, June 1864, for the Benefit of the United States Sanitary Commission (Philadelphia: Published for the Benefit of the Fair), 4. 63 Eli K. Price, “William Penn Parlor,” Our Daily Fare, 23; “An Epistle to Friends,” Our Daily Fare, 23. 79 Figure 1. Circular of the William Penn Parlor Committee THE LIBRARY COMPANY OF PHILADELPHIA 80 Price emphasized Pennsylvania’s first settlers as the individuals who set the foundation for American governing institutions. By linking fair organizers to the settlers, he established a distinct social hierarchy based on ancestral origins. The exhibit portrayed a peaceful understanding between early Pennsylvania settlers and the Native American inhabitants. Two of Penn’s letters to the Indians prior to his arrival demonstrated his “desire to win [their] Love and friendship by just and Peaceable Life” while the Wampum belt given to him when he made the treaty with the Native Americans, and a cup presented to him during the event served as additional attested that Penn was true to his words. Benjamin West’s painting, Penn’s Treaty with the Indians, further reinforced this image. Philadelphia’s charter, portraits of Penn family members and those of the city’s first two mayors pointed to the origins of the urban center. Reminiscence of the city’s central role in the birth of the country was represented in a mantelpiece from Carpenter’s Hall, where the First Continental Congress was held in 1774, and chairs from the noteworthy gathering. The exhibitors further emphasized their colonial origin with the display of the Great Dish of William Penn. The plate, owned by the State In Schuylkill, was the “most ancient and highly respectable social society existing in the United States.” 64 The catalogue presented a lengthy history of the club and urged visitors to: Think of a single white perch carried in state on this great dish by our worthy ancestors, and delivered to the Baron with grave decorum and 64 Memorial of the William Penn Parlor in the Great Central Fair, 11. For more details on the prestigious club see Chapter 1, pp.17-18. 81 graceful eloquence! The Patriots of the Revolution were funny fellows, after all! 65 It concluded that the club’s “active successors” – hinting at the fair’s organizers – should hold a similar prominence to that of their ancestors. In the spirit of historic significance, the organizers of the fair used the exhibit as a stage to advocate historic preservation. In 1857 local newspapers had raised concern that the Slate-Roof House, the city residence of Penn during his second visit to the city (1699- 1701), was in danger of demolition. Members of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania contemplated moving the structure to Fairmount Park and restoring it as a “unique monument to the memory of the Founder of the State.” 66 The committee placed a model of the house in the Penn Parlor to raise public awareness of the project and help its future funding. 67 The Penn Parlor exhibit was among the three exhibits that were allowed to feature items intended exclusively for display. 68 All the articles displayed by other exhibits were to be offered for sale and their donors would have willingly donated them. The relics collected for the parlor could be on loan, demonstrating that the fair organizers sought to 65 Memorial of the Penn Parlor, 13. 66 News clipping in Juno A. McAllister, Philadelphia, to Mr. Lossing, 10 April 1864, Benson J. Lossing Papers, Box 1, HSP. 67 The required sum was never collected and the house was demolished in 1867. 68 The other exhibits were organized by the Committee of the Relics, Curiosities, and Autographs and the Art Department. 82 disseminate an agenda beyond patriotic consumerism. 69 The men and women who meticulously selected and arranged the artifacts constructed a commemorative space that portrayed the founding of Pennsylvania from their own perspective, out of peaceful consent, by a wise proprietor. Subtly, in two different publications, they reminded fairgoers of their link to the colonial past. The message was sanctioned by an observer who speculated that Penn’s Parlor “will prove one of the great attractions, and having visited most of the other great fairs, I can safely say it has not been surpassed by anything of the kind.” An additional visitor confirmed that it is “a tribute to [Penn’s] memory which all who visit this department will delight to recognize.” 70 The Fine Arts Committee, like the creators of the Penn Parlor, did not aim to portray the development of local or international artistic trends but called for paintings of certain type. A circular signed by Joseph Harrison, the chairman of the committee, declared that – It is particularly desirable, to obtain for exhibition as many portraits of distinguished Philadelphians and Pennsylvanians as possible, illustrating the history of our City and State, from the earliest Colonial times to more recent periods, as well as portraits of eminent persons of our sister States of New Jersey and Delaware. 71 69 Elizabeth Milroy, “Avenue of Dreams: Patriotism and the Spectator at Philadelphia’s Great Central Sanitary Fair,” in Making and Remaking Pennsylvania’s Civil War, eds. William Blair and William Pencak, (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2001), 23. 70 Colionian, “The Great Central Fair,” 3; “Principle Feature in the Memory of Great Fair,” newspaper clipping, McAllister Collection, Box 4, LCP. Gary Nash points that the Penn’s Parlor was the first attempt by the Historical Society of Pennsylvania to utilize artifacts in a didactic exhibit to foster public unity. See: Gary B. Nash, First City: Philadelphia and the Forging of Historical Memory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 248. 71 “Fine Arts Committee of Great Central Fair,” McAllister Collection, Box 1, LCP. 83 The committee aimed to fashion a historical interpretation that would emphasize patrician ancestors and foster state and local pride. 72 The organizers paid tribute to the Native Americans as part of portraying historical figures. Although they relegated the Indian Department to the Children’s Department, their intention was educational. 73 Under philanthropist Clement B. Barclay’s supervision, a group of Native American dancers, who had excited audiences with their war dance at the Metropolitan Fair in New York City, was brought to Philadelphia. The large crowd of children they attracted proved that “even the representation of savage life was made to help forward the great cause which all had at heart.” 74 While the Native Americans’ contribution to the cause was acknowledged, albeit as “savage,” African Americans’ effort was ignored. African Americans did not hold any leadership role in the fair except for a single member of the Labor Income and Revenue Committee. 75 Restaurant Committee members, however, found them suitable as waiters in their upscale main establishment, groomed and neatly dressed in white jackets and aprons, black pants, and tri-color rosettes. They were relegated to service rather than managerial tasks. 72 For a full description of the work of the art committee see: Milroy, “Avenue of Dreams: Patriotism and the Spectator at Philadelphia’s Great Central Sanitary Fair,” pp. 37-49. 73 “Plan of Great Central Fair,” Sanitary Fair – Committees, McAllister Collection, LCP. 74 Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair, 58. 75 Organizers listed Josiah Miller on the Committee roll as “colored”, see: Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair, 175. 84 Women shared responsibilities with their male counterparts but the extent of their work is often difficult to assess. The effort of the Ladies’ Committee of the Relics, Curiosities, and Autographs Department emphasizes that influential women initiated projects independently and contributed greatly to the content of exhibits. In a joint circular of the men’s and women’s committees the chairman, Franklin Peale, solicited “Memorials of the present Rebellion, and of the former wars of this country, or any memento of our conquests by Land or Water.” For his display of American prowess he called for a wide variety of artifacts, from coins to documents to china and manuscripts. He defined relics as “all objects connected with the public or private life of distinguished individuals, of ancient and modern times: and with noted places, periods, and events, in the history of nations and of the world.” 76 The chair of the Ladies’ Committee, Isabella James, an accomplished botanist, offered a more focused approach when she announced that “It is believed that many articles, valuable for their historic associations, (particularly with the times of the Revolution,) are in the hands of individuals in the City.” 77 She also advised her potential donors that they might loan their cherished heirlooms if they did not wish to have them sold. Eli K. Price, the chairman of the William Penn Parlor Committee, stressed quantity in his appeal – not historical context. 78 76 Franklin Peale, “Circular of the Committee on Relics, Curiosities, and Autographs;” McAllister Collection, Box 2, LCP. 77 Mrs. Thomas P. James, “Circular of the Committee on Relics, Curiosities, and Autographs,” McAllister Collection, Box 2, LCP. An obituary of Mrs. James states that both she and her husband were botanists. See: “Mrs. Thomas P. James,” Meehan’s’ Monthly, XI (1901): 159. 78 Price’s appeal included: “It is believed that there is a sufficient number of such articles in this city and vicinity, to fit up and furnish a Room in a manner that will be at once interesting and attractive, and render it prominent feature of the Great Exhibition” see: “Circular of the William Penn Parlor Committee,” McAllister Collection, Box 2, LCP. 85 Privately, James corresponded with influential acquaintances requesting particular artifacts she knew they had in their possession. J. Lacy Darlington, the son of William Darlington, a recognized botanist and physician and a member of Congress, consented to donate two (unspecified) portraits in addition to forty letters from twenty five soldiers and civilians of the revolutionary period. When Darlington donated George Washington’s letter he expressed his enthusiastic support of the fair: “I would not part with it under any consideration, except for the noble purpose to which I now most cheerfully devote it.” Eliza Susan Quincy, the daughter of Josiah Quincy, a Massachusetts judge who served as the mayor of Boston and president of Harvard College, could not offer her ailing father’s signature but contributed his photograph with a copy of his autograph. 79 The significance James placed on George Washington is evident in light of her decision to create a Washington Album that would feature mementos related to the revolutionary hero. In order to meet her goal she requested the historian Benson J. Lossing donate the engravings of his Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution. Perhaps she hoped that her candid confession would convince him to assent: I make a request as if I did not anticipate a refusal, for everyone to whom I apply have so far acceded at once to my wishes, and I begin to take it as a matter of course that all the world are interested in the fairs for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission. 80 79 J. Lacey Darlington, West Chester, to Mrs. Thomas P. James, 10 April 1864; Eliza Susan Quincy, Boston, to Mrs. James, 5 April 1864, United States Great Central Fair, Box 1, HSP. 80 Isabella James, Philadelphia, to Mr. Lossing, 10 April 1864. Benson J. Lossing Papers, HSP. 86 Lossing promptly refused but her final product was nevertheless impressive. The album contained portraits of Washington, an autographed letter by him, a lock of his hair, original manuscript pages from Jared Sparks’ The Life of George Washington, fifteen original watercolor paintings of places associated with him, and photographs of interest connected with his name. The album was bound in Washington’s colors of crimson and white and decorated with his shield at its center. 81 The presentation of the album was equally imposing – a draped platform held the first president’s portrait and underneath an American eagle with its wings spread looked over the precious volume. At length, Edward Everett, a Whig politician from Massachusetts and an orator in Gettysburg, won the volume. The album was not the only display of Washington by the women of the Relics, Curiosities, and Autographs Department. They celebrated him in a special exhibition under the supervision of Mrs. John Fallon. A lock of his hair, his portraits, busts and sketches decorated the department alongside several domestic articles from Mount Vernon including his china, sofa and bureau. One of the most impressive items was the Revolutionary War quilt pieced by a group of women who lived in Martha Washington’s house while their husbands volunteered to fight. They used scraps of Washington’s shirts and chintz from his mother’s and wife’s dresses. Camaraderie, frugality, and the extraordinary circumstances under which the quilt had been produced reinforced that women and not only men were greatly affected by hostilities. The quilt emphasized domesticity in the service of the war and drew attention to female revolutionary actors. 81 “Our Own Great Fair,” Our Daily Fare, 23, 94. 87 James’s committee effort brought to public display “more Washington relics than were ever gathered together north of the Potomac.” 82 But theirs was not the only display of past notable figures. To remind visitors of Philadelphia’s prominence in the nation’s history, the department chose to display the chair and table on which Thomas Jefferson drafted the Declaration of Independence and the chair used by Benjamin Franklin in the American Philosophical Society (and by every society president thereafter). Franklin was the delegate to the Second Continental Congress chosen by the Pennsylvania Assembly and later was one of the members who assisted in drafting the Constitution. The presence of his articles linked Philadelphia to the nation’s foundation and to the single most significant legal document that guides its political system. A vase of Marie Antoinette’s, the property of Mrs. George Worley, suggested a link between privileged Americans and French nobility. A shell-work monument erected to the memory of General Edward Dickinson Baker who fell in Ball’s Bluff concluded the history of celebratory individuals with a contemporary representation. An effective aspect of contemporary memory was the initiative of the Committee of Women of the Newspaper Editorial Corps. They prepared a Book of Honor, where for one dollar, a soldier who had served in the war, or anyone otherwise active in favor of the Union cause, was eligible for inscription. A brief account of his service would illustrate the individual’s deeds. The book was intended to be placed in the Philadelphia Library for utmost public visibility and for posterity. 83 Though a fund-raising initiative, the 82 “The Department of Relics and Curiosities,” Ibid., 93-94. “Curiosities, Relics, and Autographs,” The Press, 8 June 1864, McAllister Collection, Box 4, LCP. 83 “Book of Honor,” McAllister Collection, Box 1, LCP. 88 women’s understanding of commemoration as a process of emphasizing individualism and gaining public recognition was unusual. Enabling ordinary people to memorialize their loved ones at a time when only past military and political leaders received recognition was a form of patriotic consumption – the popularization of memory to fund a patriotic cause. A large number of organizers were profoundly aware that their deeds ought to be documented for future generations. Isabella James, who also served on the Committee of Women of the Newspaper Editorial Corps and was responsible for the publication of the fair’s newspaper, wanted to ensure “that the journal shall preserve in as complete a form as possible everything relating to this great event.” 84 The first edition of Our Daily Fare, published from the eighth to the twenty-eighth of June, proudly announced that it would be “a lasting memorial of the Great Fair," and would enable future historians to learn about the event and the origins and means of operation of the Sanitary Commission. 85 To encourage individual entries an appeal by the newspaper committee urged readers to write “short and spirited articles” about the benefits of the USSC “which may never be known to the public, unless our friends will kindly record them for us.” 86 The Newspaper Committee documented “The Fair Movement in the Loyal States” in a series that featured 84 April 26, Great Sanitary Fair, USSC Newspaper Commission Minutes, HSP. 85 “A Word for “Our Daily Fare,” Our Daily Fare, 8 June 1864, 4. 86 “Great Central Fair, to Be Held in Philadelphia, June 1864,” McAllister Collection, Box 2, LCP. 89 detailed descriptions collected by Mrs. Clapp, Mrs. Randolph and Mr. A. I. Fish, members of the Newspaper Editorial Corps. 87 In a less publicized measure, the Penn Parlor Committee resolved to present the catalogue of their exhibit to the Pennsylvania Historical Society, the donor of most of their displayed articles and a leading archival institution, “for the purpose of preserving historical memoires of the Sanitary Fairs.” 88 At the same time, the Executive Committee desired to preserve a recorded history of the fair in a printed pamphlet for general distribution among fairgoers. 89 Ultimately, they planned to have the affair comprehensively documented in a bound publication. Charles Janeway Stillé was reputed for the “The Fair Movement in the Loyal States” series, which he may have only edited. As mentioned above, three members of the Newspaper Committee collected descriptions of fairs held in different Northern American cities. The accounts were occasionally published in the Fair’s newspaper under the authorship of Stillé. The series gained recognition and earned him the task of writing the history of the fair. He admitted that his Memorial of the Great Central Fair for the U. S. Sanitary Commission was “not merely […] a recognition of the faithful services of those to whom its success was due, but also 87 4 May, Great Sanitary Fair, USSC Newspaper Committee Minutes, HSP. 88 Samuel L. Smedley, Philadelphia, to the Executive Committee of the Great Central Fair, 7 July 1864, McAllister Collection, Box 1, LCP. 89 “Meeting Executive Committee,” June 25, 1864, Box 1, McAllister Collection, LCP. 90 an example to those who should come after us.” 90 Like Holstein, he insisted that the history of a place shapes the character of its inhabitants: The occasion proved the great fact that here, where American Independence and the true principles of our republican life had their birth… the spirit which gave that freedom birth and organization, still survives in freshness and vigor. There seemed to be a peculiar fitness, that on a spot sacred to such historical recollections, there should take place an imposing demonstration of popular sympathy towards those who were defending with their lives that nation which also assumed here later, the garb and force of true empire. 91 The organizers of the fair wholly supported the Republican cause and labored enthusiastically to raise funds for the USSC. The devastation of three years of combat with thousands of wounded soldiers and a great loss of life compelled them to provide assistance to the military on its “second War of Independence.” 92 Whether watching the hundreds of battle-experienced soldiers who took respite at the refreshment saloons, oversaw volunteers in one of the city hospitals, or assisted impoverished widows, the consequences of combat produced profound emotional feelings and led prominent city inhabitants make significant contributions to the war effort. Organizing the fair with its countless articles, departments, and events required great effort from a large group of people. Its successful outcome – the most ever earned proceeds from any Sanitary Fair up to that date – over one million dollars was an evidence of the complex organization, performance, and diligence of everyone involved in the project. 90 Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair for the U. S. Sanitary Commission, 5. 91 Ibid., 11. 92 The term was probably coined by Henry W. Bellows in a letter signed by him and several other men to the Secretary of War with a proposal for establishment of the Sanitary Commission on May 18, 1861. See: Wormeley, The United States Sanitary Commission, 9. 91 The organizers employed the fair as a stage to construct a revolutionary memory of consensus, to offer a unified idealized past in the face of a country torn by military conflict. It ignored political and racial differences and proposed an era of collective action toward a mutual goal of creating a union led by the successors of early Protestant settlers. By defining their Protestant identity in opposition to Catholicism they articulated influence, status, and leadership to Catholic immigrants. They fitted the exhibits to local audiences by featuring artifacts related to the history of Pennsylvania stressing its founder. They also included Philadelphia in the national historical narrative by emphasizing its significance in the creation of the nation. The absence of war was filled by the presence of George Washington, who prevailed after the revolution as a civilian leader. Equally important was their attempt to convey themselves, men and women, as a body of civic authority – the true heirs of past colonial and revolutionary leaders. Their historical memory held significant consequences for women. The narrative inserted women into history, emphasizing domesticity and household production as an essential role in the colonial and revolutionary narrative. On the other hand, it reinforced traditional gender roles by placing women in their supposedly appropriate sphere performing characteristically female tasks. One might wonder why women of privilege, who occupied highly skilled public positions as heads of committees, coordinators of thousands of donations, and editors of a daily newspaper, would construct a conservative narrative where women were relegated to traditional household tasks. During the Civil War Americans upheld a separate spheres ideology and adhered to rigid assumptions about gender roles. Women’s domestic 92 exhibits fitted these conventions but also empowered them with patriotic significance. By locating the Pennsylvania Kitchen and Penn’s Parlor across from each other along the main artery of the structure, appropriately named Union Avenue, they demonstrated these exhibits as equally meaningful. And by placing Franklin’s desk in the Kitchen and a quilt and dresses in Penn’s Parlor, they domesticated leading historical male figures and emphasized the role of women in the nation’s history. By blurring the boundary between the public and the private, female fair organizers asserted that domestic female work occupied a ratified place in the nation’s historical narrative and articulated a polity of shared gendered responsibility for the creation of the nation. Organizers exerted great effort in publicizing the fair. Generating a large number of visitors was important not only for the fair’s coffers but also to the dissemination of its historical message. Admission tickets, priced at fifty cents, with additional charges for special exhibits such as the Art Gallery and the Horticultural Department, excluded many working class families. 93 Aware of this aspect, fair organizers made provisions that allowed public school children to attend. Stillé notes that due to “a very small admission price” public school students from different sections of the city frequented the fair. Organizers had also extended free admission tickets – possibly to low-income schools they thought would otherwise forgo the opportunity to attend the event. 94 Teaching working class children to unconditionally revere elite historical figures and accept the 93 An admission price of $6.50 per person in today’s value in addition to admission tickets to many exhibits, refreshments, and transportation fees was an expensive preposition for families of modest means. 94 Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair for the U. S. Sanitary Commission, 107; In a folder of Tickets at the collection of the Library Company of Philadelphia one can find a Free Admission ticket for public school students for one day. see: Box 1, MacAllister Collection, LCP. 93 memory exhibited was at the heart of the school publicity effort undertaken by fair organizers. Children might bring the message home, but more importantly, may internalize it and recognize privileged Americans as guides to the past and as leaders of the future. If collecting funds to help the soldiers was the primary goal of the fair’s immense undertaking, showcasing an authoritative memory was by no means a subordinate one. Fair organizers sought local audiences in order to increase the financial capability of the Philadelphia branch of the USSC, mobilize state citizenry behind the Sanitary Commission’s cause, exhibit their own historical perspective, and demonstrate their organizational skills to privileged Americans of other Northern cities. Surpassing the accomplishments of previously held fairs in other urban centers, particularly those of New York City, was on the minds of many of the managers and is plainly evident in their circulars and communications with the press. 95 Fair organizers could have devised a less grandiose and far less challenging operation if fundraising was their only goal. It was privileged Philadelphia women who first thought to hold the event, where they wanted to demonstrate their competence to elite women from other cities and advance their historical perspective, albeit with men’s leadership and assistance. Indeed, they could not have launched their plan without the endorsement of Union League members. The fair 95 A sense of urgency to reach every possible individual who might spare even a scant donation is evident in an early Circular which details the amount of money that had been raised in Chicago, Boston, and Cincinnati and urges an appeal to the “great industrial classes” for donations. “Circular,” March 1, 1864, Box 1; “The Great Central Fair,” City Bulletin, Box 4; Another observer pointed: “we have determined that this Philadelphia exhibit shall surpass that of New York, not only in extent and beauty, but also in profit,” “The Great Central Fair,” Evening Bulletin, June 3, 1864, Box 4; L. Montgomery Bond, Chairman of the Labor, Income, and Revenue Committee, proudly announced in his Farewell Speech on September 1864: “Philadelphia Fair will produce more than a million dollars the same of that of New York” see: L. Montgomery Bond, “Farewell Speech,” Box 2; McAllister Collection, LCP. 94 rewarded them with the opportunity to initiate historical projects and incorporate women and the domestic sphere into the national historical narrative. Politically, fair organizers supported the Republican Party. A large number of them belonged to the Union League, which was formed in November 1862 to support Lincoln’s policies and his party. However, in order to garner utmost support for their project they claimed to appeal “in the interest of no party, Radical or Conservative, Republican or Democratic, Administration or Anti-Administration,” but merely to provide relief for the soldiers as a “work of intelligent patriotism.” 96 Matthew J. Gallman agrees with this statement, but a closer inspection reveals that it was a Republican enterprise. 97 Democrats would have argued that the war could have been avoided if the government was willing to negotiate with Southern politicians and offer them proper concessions. The Book of Honor, with its descriptions of individuals’ contribution to the Union Army, praised volunteers who probably supported Lincoln’s political and military policies. The proceeds from the fair were intended to help the USSC and – in essence – the soldiers who fought for the Union. Charles Janeway Stillé possibly uttered the thoughts of many of his colleagues when he dedicated his monograph on the fair “to those who still rally round that flag, and to the memory of those who have fallen while shielding it from dishonor.” 98 He clearly devoted it to Republicans who still supported the Union at the time of publication, in November 1864. 96 Ibid., 18. 97 Gallman, Mastering Wartime,163. 98 Stillé, Memorial of the Great Central Fair for the U. S. Sanitary Commission, 3. 95 Scholars have demonstrated that had women actively created memories from colonial times throughout the antebellum period but historians have paid little attention to the construction of memory during the Civil War. Anna Holstein’s concern for historical structures and several of the exhibits of the Great Central Fair demonstrates that the military crisis did not halt the need for preservation, but rather rendered it more urgent and poignant. Privileged Philadelphia men and women constructed an ideal revolutionary memory that placed domesticity and household production at the center of historical discourse. It evoked a scene of ideal social and economic relations, unaffected by political and military conflicts and, more importantly, it argued for the centrality of women in the chronicles of the nation. Affluent men attempted to legitimize their civic authority as successors of Philadelphia’s colonial and revolutionary leaders. Privileged women, whose task was to make historical women visible, argued for shared gendered contribution to the historical narrative. This image would gain greater popularity during the celebration of the nation’s centennial year. CHAPTER 3 BOSTON TEA PARTY REVISITED: WOMEN’S CAMPAIGN FOR THE CENTENNIAL EXPOSITION The occasional rain did not deter the hundreds who had arrived at the gates of the Centennial Exposition in Fairmount Park in Philadelphia, hours before the opening-day ceremony on May 10, 1876. After an artillery salute of one hundred guns, the assembled crowd dispersed in various directions, some eager to examine the exhibits and others to get a closer glimpse at the assembled dignitaries. Years of planning and organization had produced a grand international exhibition intended to demonstrate that a century of democracy wrought progress and achievements that were equal to, or may have even surpassed, Old World civilizations. The organizers had also hoped that cooperation among the states would aid sectional healing “so that the utmost harmony throughout the nation shall prevail in regard to this, the greatest event of the century.” 1 By February 1873, the organizers’ enthusiastic approach failed to raise adequate funds to make the project feasible. Matters greatly improved after the recruitment of a selected group of Philadelphia society women. All had proved their managerial expertise as officers for the Great Central Fair, held in the city in June 1864. They organized a successful campaign to raise funds by increasing interest in the nation’s centennial celebration and improve sales of the Centennial Stock. Encouraged by the accomplishments of their local effort, they broadened the geographical scope of their operations to the states and territories. 1 Journal of the Proceedings of the United States Centennial Commission at Philadelphia, 1872. 97 The women organized lavish colonial- and revolutionary-themed events, which appealed to the historical sensibilities of potential subscribers by constructing a glorified past of revolutionary unity. The women took the opportunity to further develop the historical presentation they had exhibited in the Great Central Fair, claiming a space for respectable women in the national historical narrative. Historians who have studied the Exhibition have emphasized its educational objectives within the national and international frameworks and stressed the issues of race, consumerism, and politics. Elitist and racial attitudes found their way into the exhibits from nations from all over the world. The displays of new products and inventions encouraged consumption. One of the key scholars of America’s fairs, Robert Rydell, convincingly argues that the Centennial Fair emphasized American progress through the vision of wealthy and powerful elites. The organizers promoted patriotism through exhibits that featured American ingenuity in industrialism, commercialism, agriculture, and technology. They believed that the growth of business and commerce depended on social and political stability. In his synthesis Fair America, Rydell reiterates his findings about the intention of organizers to advance economic expansion and adds that they also sought to win the support of white America. Racial attitudes of white superiority, promoted by some exhibits, targeted white sensibilities at the expense of other races. The organizers demonstrated that white Protestants would guide progress by placing Anglo-Saxon nations in central locations of buildings. 2 2 The Death of Cleopatra, by the female African American artist Edmonia Lewis was the only African- American work represented in the fair. Racial bias of fair organizers prevented African American artists’ 98 Methodology and ideological dissemination are at the crux of more recent studies. Bruno Gilberti asserts that the elaborate system of classification of the artifacts used by the organizers was influenced by the Enlightenment’s perception of world order. They created a taxonomy of goods by dividing the exhibit into four major groups and listing the order of exhibits under each section. They also adopted dual systems of classification, by country and by type, that established a grid in the exposition’s space. Gilberti utilizes Tony Bennett’s idea of the “exhibition complex,” the juxtaposition of an object within a contextual public display to disseminate a message of power. Early museums, Bennett argues, demonstrated knowledge that emphasized institutional power and aimed at self - regulation of racial groups. The Centennial introduced Africans and groups from other parts of the world as subordinate people to the Teutonic and Anglo-Saxon races. 3 Bridging sectional animosity is the subject of Gary Nash’s analysis. He stresses the role of the construction of a unified past to a nation still divided over social and political issues in the wake of the Civil War. A nostalgic past with a depoliticized Washington and women dressed in colonial attire fit the image of patriotic simplicity and consensus. 4 In her recent dissertation, Susanna Gold disputes this view. She argues that past was constructed with a vision of progress, not sentimentality. The organizers representation. Robert W. Rydell, All the World's a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876-1916 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984); Robert W. Rydell, John E. Findling, and Kimberly D. Pelle, Fair America: World's Fairs in the United States (Washington D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000). 3 Bruno Gilberti, Designing the Centennial: A History of the 1876 International Exhibition in Philadelphia (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2002); Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (London: Routledge, 1995). 4 Nash, First City, 261-277. 99 intended to project a strong nation with a bright future. 5 Indeed, the organizers, who were influenced by world fairs of Paris (1867) and Vienna (1873), wanted to place America as an accomplished contender among advanced nations of the world. However, as Nash argues, they also aimed at domestic reconciliation with a unifying memory of the Revolution. The role of women at the fair is the subject of Mary Cordato’s study, which analyzes the exhibition of Women’s Building and follows the events and obstacles that led to its construction. She finds that the separate space allowed women to interpret progress in their own terms without the limits set by the classification system that restricted all other participants. Since the women did not receive any monetary assistance in funding their building and exhibits, they were free to shape their exhibits to suit their needs. She argues that the women’s display challenged patriarchal domination by offering women new avenues of employment. She also emphasizes that the organizers were careful to avoid the issue of suffrage. Celebrating womanhood, however, came with a price; the exhibit overlooked class, race, and ethnic differences and did not address the economic hardship of waged workers. 6 5 Susanna W. Gold, “Imagining Memory: Re-presentations of the Civil War at the 1876 Centennial Exhibition” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 2004). 6 Mary Cordato, “Representing the Expansion of Woman’s Sphere: Women’s Work and Culture at the World’s Fairs of 1876, 1893, 1904” (Ph.D. diss., New York University, 1989). 100 In recent years scholars have increasingly related Centennial exhibits to colonial revival, a building style that employed elements from colonial buildings into the design of contemporary houses. Their analysis overwhelmingly focuses on architecture. 7 Remarkably, scholars almost completely ignored the events that preceded the Centennial Exposition. Organizing a major exhibition required a large sum of money which neither the public nor the federal government were prepared to grant. Added to the difficulty was the economic crisis that started in 1873 and brought a long depression, which hit commerce and industries. When a fundraising effort by Philadelphia elites proved unsatisfactory, the organizers recruited several of Philadelphia’s privileged women and trusted them with publicizing and raising money for the exposition. The women extended their vision of the past and produced sophisticated fund-raising galas that emphasized the significance of women in America’s past. They inserted women into the national historical narrative while, at the same time, ensuring their own place in history. In the decade between 1860 and 1870 the population of Pennsylvania increased by nearly twenty percent. Immigrants amounted to 15.5% of state’s population in 1870, a 7 Several scholars point to the firm of McKim, Mead & White as the one responsible in introducing the colonial revival to America in the 1880s. Mardges Bacon, “Toward a National Style of Architecture: The Beaux-Arts Interpretation of the Colonial Revival,” The Colonial Revival in America, Alan Axelrod, ed. (Winterthur, Delaware: W. W. Norton & Company, 1985), 91. Edward Teitelman and Betsy Fahlman, “Wilson Eyre and the Colonial Revival in Philadelphia,” Axelrod, The Colonial Revival in America, 72. William B. Rhodas shows that appreciation for colonial-style buildings had existed the 1840s, but points to the restorer of Independence Hall, Frank M. Etting, as the catalyst for the increased interest in old architecture. See: William B. Rhodas, “The Colonial Revival and American Nationalism,” The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 35 (Dec. 1976): 239. 101 slight rise from 14.8 % a decade earlier. 8 In 1860 two-thirds of Philadelphia’s population was native born, 16.7% were Irish immigrants, 7.5% German, and less than 4% African Americans. 9 By 1880 the city contained more than a third of the state’s foreign born. 10 In contrast, Montgomery County had not seen a change as a result of the war, and remained a rural, sparsely populated, area. In 1876 the county had a total of eight stores, three coal yards, and three dealers in flour and feed. 11 Philadelphia emerged from the Civil War as a manufacturing center. The need for armaments, uniforms, and the transportation of goods and soldiers stimulated rapid industrialization and the building of railway lines. In the post Civil War decades the city witnessed growing numbers of factories due to the expansion of commerce precipitated by improved transportation. 12 Capital released from war investments along with the arrival of immigrants and invention of new machinery enabled industrial growth. Banking institutions, maritime commerce, shipbuilding, and large companies as the Baldwin Locomotive Works and the Philadelphia Transportation Company provided 8 Frank B. Evans, Pennsylvania Politics, 1872-1877: A Study in Political Leadership (Harrisburg: The Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission, 1966), 2. 9 Matthew J. Gallman, J. Mastering Wartime: A Social History of Philadelphia during the Civil War (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 1. 10 Frank B. Evans, Pennsylvania Politics, 1872-1877: A Study in Political Leadership (Harrisburg: The Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission, 1966): 2. By the 1870s the city’s population was nearly 675,000 inhabitants. Russell F. Weigley, Nicholas B. Wainwright, and Edwin Wolf, eds., Philadelphia: A300-Year History (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1982), 427-428. 11 Blue book # 2, Tax Records, Local History, Upper Merion Library, King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. 12 In the 1850s Philadelphia was the nation’s second largest city, surpassed only by New York in population, commerce, and manufacturing. Elite capital in the city was drawn to build transportation networks. See: Philip Scranton, Proprietary Capitalism: The Textile Manufacture at Philadelphia, 1800- 1885 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 133. 102 work to thousands of skilled and semi-skilled employees. In 1870, the city had over eight thousand business enterprises with total annual product valued at more than three hundred and twenty million dollars. 13 In the mid 1870s its economy was firmly based on dozens of major enterprises in the textile, metal products, machine goods, printing and chemical industries. European immigrants constituted a pool of cheap labor that contributed their skills and sweat to industrial growth. 14 German immigrants, refugees of the Franco-Prussian War, often possessed formal skilled trades, unlike many of the Irish, who were primarily employed as farm laborers or domestic servants. Theodore Hershberg divides Philadelphia’s workforce into two distinct groups. By 1880, highly skilled workers moved to better housing in the suburbs while the greater number of workers resided close to their workplace. 15 For those who could acquire social and residential mobility the city offered new neighborhoods, across the Schuylkill River, with street railways for easy access to the center. Agents of industrial and commercial growth associated in the Philadelphia Board of Trade, the largest one in the country, where they found a forum for their interests. At their annual meeting in June 1869, they formed the National Board of Trade with Frederick Fraley, president of the Schuylkill Navigation Company and a principle 13 Ibid., 5. 14 Philadelphia businessmen relied on immigrants for cheap labor. As late as 1876 representatives of the National Board of Trade from Philadelphia and other major cities opposed a federal proposal of an immigration law. See: Morrell Heald, “Business Attitudes Toward European Immigration, 1880-1900” The Journal of Economic History, 13 (Summer, 1953): 294. 15 Theodore Hershberg, Philadelphia: Work, Space, Family, and Group Experience in the Nineteenth Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), 152, 165-166. 103 founder of the Philadelphia Board of Trade in 1833. Fraley, who was also a founding member of the Union League, served in the Executive Committee of the Great Central Fair. John Welsh, a prominent merchant and the chairman of the Central Fair, had also served as president of the national board. In a city where power and prestige had been largely represented by commerce and manufacturing, a war of great length and proportions had produced wealth in new hands and diminished the capital of others. Social climbers, shoddy aristocracy as they were contemptuously called by privileged Northerners, could afford the luxuries their counterparts had acquired but lacked education, refinement, and decorum according to the old elites. The description of the Philadelphian Republican journalist, Alexander K. McClure, leaves no doubt about the disdainful spectacle social ascendants had created in the eyes of established society: Wealth came suddenly, and in large measure, to a class of our industrial people who had never dreamed of gaining more than a generous competence in their business. Many of them possessed little or no culture themselves, and they and their children, with rare exceptions, plunged into the most extravagant display in effort not merely to imitate, but to surpass the hospitality and social distinction of the cultured families of the city. 16 In contrast to those who found their fortunes during the war stood those who lost it. Sidney George Fisher commented on Mrs. Jno. Butler, who despite of having a father and several brothers in the South and owning half of the Butlers’ estate, including its slaves, was loyal to the Union and approved of emancipation. However, her income had 16 Alexander K. McClure, Old Time Notes of Pennsylvania, vol. II (Philadelphia: The John C. Winston Company, 1905), 245. 104 probably been reduced and she “will not be able to live at her place, a great misfortune to her as she likes it very much. She never expects to get anything more from her property in Georgia.” 17 The war changed the social orientations of Philadelphia’s leadership. Peace Democrats could watch in dismay as the city’s leadership turned to Republican hands. In the years that followed the Civil War, the leaders of the old families of Philadelphia had almost disappeared from the city’s civic and political life. 18 Many did not approve the new city governance and its political machine and sought reform through the state legislature. Henry Charles Lea, a scholar and a publisher, founded the Citizen’s Municipal Reform Association in 1870, and two years later, the Reform Club, a subsidiary organization with prominent members as Joshua B. Lippincott, and George W. Childs, Joseph Harrison, and John Welsh, all former officers of the Great Central Fair. Lea advanced a new state constitution that would rid City Hall of corruption. Scores of Quakers and the Reform Club supported the initiative and the effort produced a new constitution and election law in 1874. The idea to mark the nation’s centennial with an international exhibition was conceived over a decade before the intended celebration. Professor J. L. Campbell of Wabash College in Indiana wrote the mayor of Philadelphia with the suggestion in December 1866 and reiterated his call for action two years later. The endorsement of the Select Council of Philadelphia, the state legislature, and Franklin Institute hastened an 17 Sidney George Fisher, Jonathan W. White, A Philadelphia Perspective: the Civil War Diary of Sidney George Fisher (New York: Fordham University Press, 2007), 201. 18 Weigley, Philadelphia, 437. 105 introduction of a bill in Congress. After the passage of the bill into law on March 3 rd , 1871, commissioners from the states and territories were selected. Joseph Roswell Hawley, former governor of Connecticut and a Republican congressman, was appointed president of the Centennial Commission and Alfred T. Goshorn was elected director general due to his extensive experience in organizing the Cincinnati industrial expositions. The Commission estimated that they would require raising a sum of $10 million from the public in order to make the project a reality. The commissioners established a quota for the states and territories in respect to their populations to facilitate a fair share of the burden. Supporters could purchase a subscription to the Centennial Stock valued at $10, paid in $2 installments. In June 1, 1872, Congress created the Centennial Board of Finance (CBOF) to manage the subscriptions and selected John Welsh to preside it. His success in overseeing the Great Central Fair, held in Philadelphia during the Civil War and as a prominent merchant, demonstrated that he was deeply involved in the city’s civic life. Likewise, several of the members of the Board of Directors were prominent city merchants, including John Wanamaker, Clement M. Biddle, Henry Winsor, and Amos R. Little. Working with an extremely tight schedule, the CBOF faced a difficult task; it needed to secure funds sufficient to erect the buildings at the earliest date to allow adequate time for foreign countries to prepare their exhibits. The Act of Congress of March 3, 1871 stipulated that the president of the United States would officially invite the nations to participate in the exhibition only after the Governor of Pennsylvania had 106 notified him that the money for the exhibition buildings had been secured. 19 The effort to collect subscriptions in Philadelphia commenced without delay. A Subcommittee of Twenty- Five was responsible for mapping a plan to popularize the exhibition. 20 The members followed a similar strategy employed in the Great Central Fair. Several of them had worked to publicize it. In their attempt to reach the greatest numbers of people, they classified professional men under their trades, occupations, and social interests. The Centennial Stock’s value made it prohibitive for workers. The task of organizing the one hundred and seventy - eight sub-committees fell in the hands of the Citizens’ Centennial Finance Committee of Three Hundred. 21 In the meantime, Pennsylvania Commissioners divided the states into county, ward, division, and township committees for efficient canvassing. 22 In addition to finance, the event and its purpose had to be nationally publicized. The Centennial Executive Commission (CEC) was responsible for issuing an appeal to deliver throughout the country. Astutely, the Commission chose to direct its first address to the agricultural and mechanical associations in October, approximately a month before 19 United States Centennial Commission, Appendix to the Reports of the United States Centennial Commission and Centennial Board of Finance (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1879), 102. 20 The Executive Documents Printed by the Order of the Senate of the United States for the Third Session of the Forty-Fifth Congress, 1878-’79 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1879), 123. 21 Appropriately, J. Edgar Thompson, the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad, served as the head of the Rail Road and Canal Companies Committee while the physician and charity activist, Dr. Henry T. Childs, headed the Arbitrations and Indian Affairs Committee. Robert M. Huston, ed., The Medical Examiner and Record of Medical Science, vol. III – New Series (Philadelphia: Lindsay & Blakiston, 1874), 86; “News,” The Medical and Surgical Reporter, LXII (Jan. –June 1890): 762; List of Members of Various Committees on Trades, Occupations, Professions, & c. Appointed under the Resolution of the Citizens’ Centennial Finance Committee of Three Hundred, November 18, 1872 (Philadelphia: King Baird, Printers, 1873). 22 United States Centennial Board of Finance Board of Corporators for Pennsylvania, Minutes for the proceedings of the Corporation for Pennsylvania of the Centennial Board of Finance. (Philadelphia, 1872), 3. 107 the beginning of the stock sale. These associations included salaried professionals, skilled workers, and farmers, the majority of the nation’s workforce. In November the Commission addressed “the people of the United States” from the pages of local newspapers. The CBOF had officially opened the books of subscriptions of the Centennial Stocks for one hundred days on November 21, 1872. At the end of the period, a board of trustees was to be elected by the stockholders. If the committee had hoped for an overwhelming response from the public, it would have certainly been gravely disappointed. The prospects of the monumental event neither attracted an adequate amount of speculators nor did it appeal to men’s patriotic sentiments. The commissioners, however, believed that with an efficient campaign they could accrue the considerable amount of funds required. On the Commission’s annual meeting, on March 1872, its president-elect, Joseph R. Hawley, stated confidently: That there will be a formal National Celebration of the Centennial Anniversary there is no doubt. That, as a part or accompaniment thereof, there will be a grand International Exhibition, is equally certain… I can use no language too serious and vigorous in assuring the public that this is to be, in every true and satisfactory sense of the word, a great National and International Exhibition. 23 Upon invitation the commissioners visited two of Philadelphia’s significant historical sites, Independence Hall and Carpenters’ Hall. Following their excursion Orestes 23 Journal of the Proceedings of the United States Centennial Commission. At Philadelphia, 1872 (Philadelphia: E. C. Markley & Sons, Printers, 1872), 42. 108 Cleveland, the Commission’s first vice president, passionately expressed his delight at the exceptional tour: I was impressed with the grand and glorious memories clustering round about Philadelphia, all pointing with solemn significance to the occasion we are preparing to celebrate. May we all have light and strength to appreciate that occasion, as it approaches! No such family gathering has ever been known in the world’s history, and we shall have passed away and been forgotten when the next one recurs. 24 It was regrettable that the commissioners did not convey their enthusiasm over the nation’s past in their first two, and perhaps most important, appeals. In his appeal to agricultural and mechanical associations, William Phipps Blake emphasized the opportunity to participate in an international exhibit with a flat statement: “Patriotism, as well as an appreciation of the industrial, educational, and moral influences of well- organized exhibitions, should impel all citizens to lend a helping hand.” 25 In contrast, president Joseph R. Hawley in his public message via local newspapers attempted to entice people’s imagination with descriptions of artifacts from exotic countries and foster national pride among the “harmonious” union of “one united body politic.” 26 In presenting their enterprise to the nation the commissioners chose to promote the idea of an American world’s fair rather than the reason for the celebration, the 24 Ibid., 79. 25 United States Centennial Commission, International Exhibition, 1876: Reports of the President, Secretary, and Executive Commission Together with the Journal of the Final Session of the Commission, Vol. II, Appendix B (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1880), 21. 26 Ibid., 23. The message was to appear at all local newspapers on November 13, 1872. See: Report of the Centennial Commission to Congress, 15-16, United States Centennial Commission, Correspondence & Papers – Reports to U. S. Congress, Record Group 23—1.2, City Archives, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (CA thereafter). 109 country’s centennial year. The commissioners were frank about their goal: a demonstration of America as a source of industrial and scientific advances in a grand show that would equal that of European exhibitions. In this vision the past existed as an elementary foundation worthy only as a comparison with the improvements that followed. The commissioners presented patriotism as an abstract obligation, not as an expression of national pride. Their assumptions might have also generated adverse reactions from residents of Southern states and territories who might not have perceived themselves as complacent members of the union. Several of the circulars that followed contained short historical references. In their 130,000 copies of the appeal to “the people of the United States” the CEC referred to the “self-sacrificing ancestors” in its last paragraph. On February 1873, when the Commissioners realized they had failed to raise public interest and were desperate for a solution, Blake appealed to all the clergy and the religious associations in the country for assistance. In the longest of all addresses, which rings like a fine sermon, he describes the centennial as a “momentous import in universal history” for its establishment of freedom of religion. Out of all the officers, the Pennsylvania agents for CBOF were the only ones to seriously attempt to tailor their appeal to their constituency by mentioning Philadelphia’s sites and their meaning. Daniel M. Fox linked the exhibition to European world fairs and emphasized the significance of its historical location: The eyes of the world are upon this, the chosen State, which, above all, should be true to its heritage of that holy temple of freedom, Independence Hall, the sacred spot from which emanated that sublime Declaration, the 110 corner-stone of our nationality and progress, the palladium of our liberties and our rights. 27 Enamored of the Vienna International Exhibition of 1873, which had been visited and thoroughly studied, the members of the CEC intended to produce an event that would rank America among the advanced nations of Western Europe. 28 Their foresightedness was difficult to interpret to a people who, for the most part, lived several days’ travel from Philadelphia and were interested primarily in local affairs. The commissioners scarcely capitalized on the significance of the centennial as an American historical milestone and thus failed to highlight an event more familiar to the public than a world’s fair: the founding of the nation. In a confidential report to Congress, the Centennial Commission recognized two factors in the failure to raise interest in the exhibition: the lack of paid advertising and the inability of volunteers to reach great numbers of people. 29 The reliance on volunteers who could canvass only after other avocations, they suggested, prevented them from completing their assignments. By February 1873 the city of Philadelphia, its residents, and its local railroad companies had contributed $1.75 million, nearly double the quota of the state, but outside Pennsylvania the effort of 1,714 agents proved ineffective. 30 27 Ibid., 27. 28 J. E. Mitchell and Charles H. T. Collis, Vienna Exposition: Report of the Commission to Vienna (Philadelphia: King & Baird, Printers, 1873). 29 Report of the Centennial Commission to Congress, 24. 30 “The Nation’s Centennial,” Public Ledger, 24 February 1873, 2. “Report of the Secretary,” Journal of the Proceedings of the United States Centennial Commission. At Philadelphia, 1872, 37. 111 In the middle of that month the CBOF decided to procure further assistance to promote the exhibition and increase the sales of its stock. It summoned thirteen leading Philadelphia society women – thirteen to symbolize the colonies – who had all earned respect for their work during the Great Central Fair. The nine women who responded met CBOF president John Welsh, Secretary Meyer Asch, and Mr. Ziegler. Welsh admitted to the women that the Centennial Commission and the CBOF failed to raise adequate interest in the enterprise and asked for their help. At the behest of Mr. Ziegler, Welsh added: “Ladies, you will see that Mrs. Gillespie’s name is at the head of each list on your invitation.” Welsh hinted the ladies that the Centennial Executive Committee wanted Elizabeth Duane Gillespie to lead the women’s operation. With such endorsement he ensured that no other woman would challenge her leadership. The women were promised space in the main building devoted to their own exhibit as a reward for their assistance. Gillespie attested that she “went home depressed and with much of the astrakhan fur trimming on my coat picked off, leaving the skin as bare of fur as was my poor brain of ideas.” Her despair did not last long. Shortly thereafter she disclosed that she had “a plan [she] had formed several years before, hoping that some turn in the wheel of fortune might give me the contract for cleaning the streets of Philadelphia. I had even gone so far in this ambitious dream that my arrangements were made for the fulfillment of it.” 31 Gillespie, who had worked for the USSC and the Great Central Fair during the Civil War and had to support her daughter and niece had probably designed a municipal project that could provide her with a paid position fitted for her managerial skills. 31 Ibid., 271. 112 Gillespie revealed her strategy to the organizational body the women had formed, promptly named the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee (WCEC). The officers, all experienced managers from the Sanitary Fair, included the treasurer, Mrs. J. Edgar Thomson; the secretary Mrs. Aubrey H. Smith; Mrs. Henry Cohen; Mrs. John W. Forney; and Mrs. John J. Stillé. 32 A reputable officer would head each of the city’s wards and would form a committee of women of her choice. Ward committees would be limited to thirty six members, equal the number of states in the Union. The aides would canvass their respective areas in an attempt to reach working women at factories and assist them in teaming up for purchasing stock subscriptions. The plan, implemented after prominent citizens and businessmen had already given their share, succeeded in raising over $42,000 in the first three months of its operation. 33 Gillespie’s plan differed from that of the CBOF in its target population. While the CBOF approached professional men they reached through their business networks, the ward aides offered a larger constituency, previously ignored by the men, an affordable opportunity to contribute for the cause. By emphasizing that the campaign was a women’s effort the organizers could gain support of those who wanted to demonstrate women’s ability and competence. An initial mass meeting to launch the campaign was scheduled for February 22, , at the Academy of Music, a reputable hall for scores of respectable society’s events. Gillespie, who headed the post office women’s committee in the Great Central Fair and was a member of the fine arts committee, was well aware of 32 Other members included the Vise President, Mrs. John Sanders, Mrs. Matthew Simpson, wife of the prominent Methodist Episcopal Bishop, and Mrs. Richard P. White. Ibid., 271. 33 The Women’s Branch United States Centennial Commission, Final Report of the Women Centennial Executive Committee, March 22, 1877 (Philadelphia: Press of Henry B. Ashmead, 1877), 6. 113 the popularity of the fair’s historical presentations. She must have been convinced that promoting an ideal past would appeal to society women once more. The meeting was held on Washington’s Birthday. In her first public appearance, Gillespie briefly recounted the events that led to the gathering and introduced the goals of the committee and the chairmen’s tasks. The reward for their effort, she emphasized, would be the opportunity to exhibit the work of American women and gain world-wide respect. She also announced her plan to turn the local effort into a national operation and shrewdly juxtaposed it in a significant historical framework: Just as the Declaration of Independence brought freedom to all the States, so will this Exposition bring high consideration for each State of the Union. Each signer of that precious old document did not insist upon trotting to his own State, there to give his signature. It was given here for the welfare of all; and here for the honor of all shall these commemorative ceremonies be held; and here we shall presently ask the women from our sister States to come up to help us. 34 Gillespie reinforced the historical character of the Centennial by empowering women with a stately national role. In linking women’s enterprise with that of the signers of the Declaration she conferred women with authority to impress history similar to the actions taken by the Founding Fathers. Focusing on the notion of a revolutionary union allowed her to disregard the recent sectional strife and offer Southern states an implicit reprieve and public acceptance. It was a minor gesture for Southerners, who experienced the results of a debilitated economy and the legislation of the Radical Republicans. Gillespie, 34 Ibid., 276. 114 however, did not expect reconciliation but hoped that the opportunity to participate in a national campaign would convince Southern women to join the enterprise. At length, she asserted the leadership of Philadelphia women and her own by declaring that “any organization which might grow from this proposition must originate with us.” 35 The intersection of women and history would be a repeated theme in meetings and balls organized by Centennial women all over the country. Linking women’s Centennial effort to the contribution made by colonial women to the Revolution celebrated their current project as a selfless patriotic act done for a country in need. Centennial officials praised the deeds of colonial women in publicized fundraising meetings. They were careful, however, to emphasize their femininity in order to demonstrate that bold acts did not transform their identity. In his speech on the WCEC’s first mass meeting at the Academy of Music on April 1873, Henry Armitt Brown, a renowned orator, illustrated women’s assistance to the revolution by singling out a mother who had sacrificed her three sons, Rebecca Matt for sacrificing her home, and Lydia Darrah, who saved Washington’s “little army.” And though one woman was praised for checking the advancement of the British Army by taking her dead husband’s “place beside the gun,” the orator insisted that a spirited woman “has to stamp her little 35 Women’s Executive Committee, “Address of the Women’s Executive Committee to the Chairmen of the Several Committees of Women in Philadelphia,” HSP. 115 foot” and men would do as she desires. 36 Brown did not neglect to mention the connection between the Centennial women and their colonial female ancestors: In season and out of season, in joy and sorrow, in peace and war, you have proved yourselves worthy descendents of the women of our earlier days. It is right that the daughters of those whose patriotism and fortitude contributed so much to the foundation of the Republic should share its maturer glories… It is blessing of America that her women have not yet fallen bellow the standard of her simpler days.” 37 The WCEC’s subsequent event proved pivotal to the success of their national campaign. In response to the historical association of the Centennial, Reverend Reeves of Gloucester, New Jersey, proposed that Gillespie commemorate the approaching centennial of the Boston Tea Party in each city ward. 38 Gillespie sensed the occasion would be a fitting theme for a grand fund-raising gala, and the WCEC promptly organized a joint-ward affair at the Academy of Music. Gillespie generated great publicity by limiting the amount of tickets each patron could acquire. When demand for tickets exceeded expectations, the Executive Committee sought to utilize the adjacent Horticultural Hall for additional space. No detail escaped the women, as concern over winter chill prompted them to engage in a building project. They approached city officials and pulled a shelved plan to build a bridge between the Academy of Music and the Horticultural Hall. Overcoming all obstacles, they helped fund the erection of an iron 36 “Patriotic Women at Work. Women’s Centennial Mass Meeting,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 21 April 1873, 2. 37 Ibid., 2. 38 First Annual Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1874), 4. Gillespie, Book of Remembrance, 283. 116 bridge that would allow the guests a safe crossing between the buildings. Befitting a grand social event, Gillespie invited governors, Centennial commissioners, senators, government representatives, and other prominent men from all parts of the country. On December 17, 1873, the celebration commenced with a program for children including choruses by public school students and a performance of waltz “Centennial Tea Party,” composed and dedicated to the WCEC by Simon Hassler, a local composer. It also featured an address by a prominent Philadelphia woman who impersonated a witness to the events that unfolded in Boston Harbor in 1773. 39 The performance followed with a reading of an essay written by a public school student entitled “Why is the Centennial to be held in Philadelphia?” describing the impact of the city on national history and, as expected, concluding that the city is the most suitable site for such a momentous event. This portion promptly closed with “The American Hymn.” In the evening, a magnificent spectacle awaited hundreds of guests who arrived at the Horticultural Hall. Flags of all nations and coats of arms of the states and territories decorated the walls, indicating of the national and international character of the Centennial. Elegantly decorated tea tables with abundance of evergreens, banners, flowers, fruits, lights, and objects of interest filled the gallery. The tables, arranged by different city wards, represented the states and territories. On the balcony, a model of the Dartmouth, a merchant British vessel, complete with boxes of tea dangling over its deck and a youth dressed in an Indian costume, indicated the theme of the celebration. 39 “The Tea Party,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 17 December 1873, 2. 117 Near the entrance, the Massachusetts table, presided by Mrs. A. Rand of the Fifteenth Ward, exhibited a two-foot long candy miniature of the Dartmouth, a representation of Bunker Hill made of flowers, an array of flags obtained from Boston including one dated from the colonial period, silver tea pieces, and confections. The women of the ward selected Massachusetts, an ally state of Pennsylvania, but were careful to ignore “her degenerate son, John Quincy Adams.” 40 They criticized President Adams for losing his re-election as president to the Democrat Andrew Jackson. He was the first president since his father, John Adams, to serve one term. The Twenty-Second Ward featured Rhode sland. They emphasized the significance of colonial household production with a spinning wheel at the center of their display “suggestive of the industry of the state.” 41 At other tables visitors could enjoy a display of a portrait of Washington painted by Charles Wilson Peale, spoons that had belonged to George Washington engraved with his initials, a huge cake with an image of Goddess of Liberty supported by the figures of Washington and Franklin, an election cake, and a number of other artifacts. Show pieces were attractively arranged among the sellable merchandise to entice patrons. The ward chairwomen and their aides served tea dressed in Martha Washington costumes including caps, kerchiefs or in Dolly Varden calico dresses. 42 They filled tea cups imprinted with John Hancock’s signature served on 40 The Women’s Branch United States Centennial Commission, Report of the Fifteenth Ward Special Committee (Philadelphia: A. T. Zeising, 1877), 7. 41 The Women’s Branch United States Centennial Commission, Report of the Twenty Second Ward Special Committee (Philadelphia: E. M. Gans, Printers, 1877), 5. 42 Dolly Varden was a character from the novel Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of ‘Eighty, written by Charles Dickens, who wore colorful clothes with calico pattern. 118 saucers marked with the event’s date. Copies of a poem “The Cup of Tea”, written particularly for the occasion by Eli Kirk Price, were offered for sale. It directly linked Centennial women to colonists’ revolutionary deeds – “That men, down east, poured out the tea… But women now help out the tea” – and concluded with the theme of the event “For sacred now’s this cup of tea, / Memorial of our Liberty!” 43 On the stage, the tables of the Board of Managers of the National Museum and the WCEC drew much attention. The National Museum was the brainchild of Frank M. Etting, a descendant of a colonial Jewish family, who served as chairman of the Committee on Restoration of Independence Hall. He sought to transform the building into a major repository of historical artifacts that would represent the nation’s history from the colonial period through War of 1812. 44 The women’s Board of Managers consisted of prominent society women including Mrs. Frank Etting, Mrs. Albert Biddle, Mrs. Owen Wister, Mrs. Samuel Chew, and Miss Agnes Irwin. Their table displayed revolutionary artifacts, portraits of Robert Morris and Martha Washington, a candlestick that once belonged to Benjamin Franklin, and the tables of James Logan and William Penn. The former was decorated with evergreens and a floral representation of the Liberty Bell and the year 1776. The WCEC’s table, presided by Gillespie, featured the 43 “The Tea Party. Repetition of the Entertainment,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 19 Dec. 1873, 2. 44 For a detailed account of the National Museum see: Mires, Independence Hall in American Memory, 121-34. 119 dining table of William Penn. A portrait of Sarah Franklin Bache, the daughter of Benjamin Franklin and grandmother of Gillespie, hung conspicuously above it. 45 The ceremonial march from the Horticultural Hall of several hundred women, all dressed in Martha Washington-like costume, marked the beginning of the main program. Nearly five hundred ward committee aides occupied their reserved spaces on the parquet at the Academy of Music. Impressed by the sight, John Welsh excitedly remarked “I have never seen so lovely a flower garden.” 46 The stage was filled with members of the WCEC and heads of ward committees, the Restoration Committee of Independence Hall, male members of the Centennial Executive Committee and the CBOF, and prominent citizens including Rev. Bishop Simpson. Former mayor Daniel Fox. William Hepburn Armstrong, a former Republican Congressman from Pennsylvania, spoke about the Centennial and its educational merit, and Mayor William S. Stokley surprised Gillespie with a gavel made of the original wood upon which the Liberty Bell hung when it proclaimed “Liberty throughout the land.” 47 Perhaps even more welcoming was the approval for the WCEC to nationalize their enterprise and pursue the assistance of the states and territories. 45 “The Centennial Tea Party at the Academy of Music and Horticultural Hall,” Public Ledger, 18 Dec. 1873, 1. 46 Gillespie, Book of Remembrance, 285. 47 “’The Cup That Cheers’ The Philadelphia Tea Party,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 18 Dec. 1873, 2. 120 Figure 2. Mrs. Lardner Brown in a Martha Washington costume LIBRARY COMPANY OF PHILADELPHIA 121 The event that “might have carried [guests], mentally, back to the times of one hundred years ago” proved exceptionally successful. The party was extended for a second day when an estimated additional three thousand children and caretakers participated in the early program and five thousand adults attended the evening ball. 48 The tea party proved highly successful. Adults and children relished the event, and the Centennial project received a boost of publicity. The women earned over $10,000. 49 The tea cups had to be repeatedly ordered and brought additional profit. 50 The money was used to purchase Centennial Stock in the name of the Mount Vernon National Association, the first women’s organization dedicated to preservation, that of George Washington’s home. The sum of money the women raised was significant considering the state of the nation’s economy. On September 18, 1873, the Philadelphia banking firm Jay Cooke went bankrupt. This event along with the meltdown of the Vienna Stock Exchange in Austria in May of the same year led to an economic depression that lasted several years. 51 Selecting a revolutionary incident as a theme for a highly publicized fundraising gala was undoubtedly the key to its success. The WCEC capitalized on the interest in colonial artifacts they had seen in the Great Central Fair and prominently displayed them 48 “The Tea Party,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 19 Dec. 1873, 2. 49 First Annual Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee, February 16, 1874 (Philadelphia: press of J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1874), 5. 50 Gillespie attests that ten thousands cups were sold. See: Gillespie, Book of Remembrance, 284. 51 For a better understanding of the panics in the latter part of the nineteenth century see: Elmus Wicker, Banking Panics of the Gilded Age (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 122 with decorations of familiar icons such as the Liberty Bell to emphasize unity in battling the British. Defining Martha Washington as a prime historical actor provided a stark reminder of the participation of women in the revolutionary past to those who increasingly considered George Washington as a representative symbol of the era. The reign of women and domesticity presented a refreshing change from the stern image of revolutionary political leaders typically exhibited in the National Museum. Similar to the Great Central Fair, the WCEC domesticated local revolutionary leaders by presenting their portraits, characteristically hung in parlors, along with their home furnishings and household items. Martha Washington costumes and the spinning wheel portrayed ideal past but also hinted at the importance of women’s work. Hierarchy and pedigree had also been conspicuously expressed in the costumes and exhibits. Attendance in colonial costume was the sole privilege of officers of the Executive Committee, ward chairs, and aides. Gillespie, who was the only one to prominently exhibit her ancestor, left no doubt about her high position in the organization. Her bold choice of displaying her ancestor Sarah Franklin Bache, and not Benjamin Franklin, had symbolically created a lineage of women, asserting that women were as significant as men. Elizabeth Robins Pennell, who was not asked to participate in the enterprise due to her father’s loss of the family fortune, commented: “I could not help knowing that she was [Benjamin Franklin’s] descendant, for no one could mention her 123 without dragging in his name.” 52 Gillespie presented an additional name, that of her grandmother instead. Laurel Thatcher Ulrich argues that eighteenth-century New England women used their heirloom pieces to construct female lineages of their families. They often gave their homespun articles, which they claimed as their own (not their husbands’), to female relatives for safekeeping. These objects linked women over time and enabled their owners to perpetuate family relations. 53 Since married women did not own property and could not bequeath to their daughters and female relatives valuable estates, they left their property – their own handiwork and those of their female ancestors. Ulrich asserts that through their bequests, New England women established a female ancestral line. Gillespie’s link to her grandmother was not based on domestic production but on patriotic public activity. Bache’s deeds on behalf of the revolutionary soldiers matched Gillespie’s work on behalf of the Centennial. There was little reason to include public school children in a social event of proper Philadelphia, unless the WCEC saw an opportunity for educating the masses. As with the Sanitary Fair, the women made use of the opportunity to inculcate young minds in the history of the nation and the significance of the city to the creation of the nation. As Hon. W. H. Armstrong, one of the dignitaries to address the crowd in the Academy, said, “The commemoration of leading events in national history tends to perpetuate the love of liberty and impress on our children virtuous emulation of the heroic examples of 52 Elizabeth Robins Pennell, Our Philadelphia (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Company, 1914), 215. 53 Ulrich, The Age of Homespun, 135-141. 124 patriotic devotion.” 54 Exposing young students of humble means, particularly at a time when many families suffered from the recent economic depression, to the frills and wealth of the Horticultural Hall would possibly have left them with a lasting impression. They would have been aware of the distinct sense of entitlement that the guests imparted through their opulent attire, their attitude, and above all, their conduct. 55 The women would probably have liked to believe that the children would have perceived them and their male counterparts as authority and leadership figures. The WCEC did not ignore leading men despite celebrating the deeds of female ancestors. They decided to mark George Washington’s birthday, February 22, with an additional fund-raising event, the Washington Assembly, scheduled due to the beginning of Lent for January 26 in 1874. Unlike their tea party, this celebration was limited to Centennial Stock holders and the number of Centennial managers was limited to thirteen, to symbolize of the number of colonies. However, exclusivity did not bring substantial profit, and ten days prior to the event the prerequisite of stock ownership was dropped and the required eighteenth-century costumes were made optional. 56 Curiously, major city newspapers and the WCEC’s reports remained silent about the event and Gillespie sole comment that “the entertainment was not a failure” did not reveal additional 54 Frank M. Etting, “The Tea Party,” newspaper clipping, The Philadelphia Tea Party of 1773 – A Chapter of the Old State House. LC. 55 For a detailed description of gentility see: Chapter 1, 11-12. 56 “The Washington Assembly,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 17 January 1874, 3. 125 information. 57 It is possible that the combination of the selective list of guests and the persistence of the national crisis, which had greatly affected professionals and corporate profits, contributed to the celebration’s meager success. As women in Northern states joined the effort, the WCEC, the ward chairs, and their aides continuously labored to raise additional funds. On their second celebration of Washington’s Birthday, February, 1875, the WCEC celebrated the global aspect of the Centennial with the International Assembly Tea Party. Each city ward selected a country, collected representative articles for sale and display, and had the officers dressed in national costumes. The women’s selection of countries was overwhelmingly influenced by a view of the centrality of Western nations in world affairs. France, Britain, Holland, Sweden, Ireland, Austria, Russia, Italy, and Germany were several of the chosen representatives from the western world, while Egypt, India, and China, were chosen because they were all under British influence. North and South America were represented by Mexico in addition to the U.S. 58 America’s colonial past occupied center stage in the Executive Table under the chairmanship of Gillespie, and represented both France and the United States. In recognition of the assistance France gave the colonies during the Revolution, thirteen arches made of evergreens and flowers, decorated with shields and the French and 57 Second Annual Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee (Philadelphia: Thomas S. Dando, 1875), 5; “First Annual Meeting. Anniversary of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 17 February 1874, 2. 58 Tunis and Liberia might not have been enticing spots to represent Africa, but Peru, Brazil, Argentine Confederation, Cuba, Chili, and Venezuela exhibited in the Centennial but were not chosen by the women. 126 American flags, rose from the table. Gas jets spelled “France and the United States – Sister Republics” above the stage, in a recognition of the newly created French Third Republic. The British table similarly presented the British and American flags as a signal of mutual political and cultural interests. The women’s contemporary worldview, more than a historical one, could be observed in the North American table, where a lady dressed as Goddess of Liberty, and other ladies appeared in Native American costumes without any apparent conflict. 59 The women did not perceive any conflict between Liberty and the confiscation of the Native American lands. By the end of the 1860s and the early 1870s Americans considered reservations the most suitable place for the Native Americans to live. 60 Philadelphia elite women, like other Americans, did not consider the Native Americans as people who possessed rights to own their lands and did not see any wrong in their expulsion from it. Refusing to acknowledge German eminence in Europe, the women dedicated three tables to the united German nation: Prussia, North Germany and South Germany. For almost eighty years, prior to the Franco-Prussian War (July 1870- May 1871), France led Europe in military matters. Prussia, on the other hand, was one of the weakest European military forces in 1860. Otto Eduard Leopold von Bismarck, the Prime Minister of Prussia, managed to industrialize his country, build a greater Prussia following the war with Denmark in 1864, and create the German Confederacy after a war 59 The Centennial International Entertainment Brilliant Gathering at the Academy of Music,” Public Ledger, 23 February 1875, 1. 60 Mark David Spence, Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of the National Parks (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 4. 127 with Austria in 1866. Within a month into the Franco-Prussian War, he established the imminent unification of Germany under Prussian leadership and demonstrated military superiority in Europe. 61 Although a unified Germany was in existence for two and a half years, the women chose to present the country as divided and as insignificant as it had been before its remarkable military campaign. By doing so, they demonstrated their support of France, the American ally during the revolution and the former military power in the Continent. The women understood that a lavish affair would not only promote the Centennial but would also reach deeper pockets. On the opening evening they announced on the pages of a city newspaper: The ladies have taken unwearied pains to make this spectacle one of the most beautiful ever seen in Philadelphia. If the guests appear in their street costumes the beauty of the house will be destroyed. The ladies do not desire to exclude those who by reason of age desire to wear their bonnets, but they earnestly entreat the younger members of society to wear “demi- toilettes,” short dress and without bonnets. 62 Indeed, the guests attended in full evening dress and in large numbers. The program opened with a concert in the Academy of Music. Invited dignitaries sat on the stage, among them members of the Centennial Executive Committee and the CBOF, the Austrian Minister to the U.S. and the Consul of the Argentine Republic at Philadelphia, 61 Michael Howard, The Franco-Prussian War (London: Rupert Hart Davis, 1961; reprint, New York: Routledge, 2004), 1, 21 (page references are to reprint edition). 62 “Centennial International Assembly,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, 22 February 1875, 8. 128 Military officers, and officers of the Navy stationed at the Navy Yard. Ward aides sat in the parquet in front of the stage. Following the concert, the women, nearly a thousand in number and wearing costumes of different nationalities formed a procession on the stage and proceeded to the Horticultural Hall for refreshments at their respective tables. The evening commenced with dances that lasted until one in the morning. One impressed guest commented that “the gathering was exceptionally striking and brilliant.” The International Assembly was the “largest entertainments ever held in the city” and netted a considerable $14,000, half of which the women donated to the Centennial Building Fund. 63 With momentum high, media applause, and large sums in their coffers despite the ever-increasing economic difficulty, the women eagerly planned an event of a different sort, a Loan Exhibition for April, 1875. With the help of the managers of the National Museum, they solicited articles of historical interest through their ward managers and arranged them at the residence of George G. Franciscus in Rittenhouse Square, an upscale city neighborhood. 64 The effort produced an exhibition of paintings from galleries and individual owners as well as the Sommerville Collection of antique gems. The items on display included historical portraits, antique furniture, old books and manuscripts, and historical artifacts. 63 Second Annual Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee, 12, 13. 64 Neither the catalogue of the exhibition nor the women’s reports divulge the identity of the owner of the residence where the exhibition was held at 218 West Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. For the owner see: Charles J. Cohen, Rittenhouse Square Past and Present (Printed Privately, 1922), 154. 129 As visitors stepped in, the first collections encountered were the portraits associated with national, state, and city history executed by some of the country’s most illustrious artists. They could observe George Washington and Henry Clay painted by Charles W. Peale, Dr. Benjamin Rush painted by Benjamin West, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison painted by Gilbert Stuart, George Washington painted by Thomas Sully. They could also view three leading women: Cleopatra, the queen of Ancient Egypt, Ariadne, a Greek mythological queen, and a bas-relief of Gillespie, the president Centennial Committee. The bas-relief was made in Rome for the WCEC and was presented to her by her Centennial female friends as a token of their appreciation. 65 On the second floor, audiences could stroll leisurely among the private collections of several of the city’s wealthy individuals and respect their appreciation for art. 66 Additional rooms displayed portraits of notable women including Mrs. Arnold, the daughter of Chief Justice Shippen sketched by Major John Andŕe, Mrs. Fanny Kemble, a famous British actress who married Pierce Butler, heir of one of the large plantation in Georgia, Sarah Franklin Bache, daughter of Benjamin Franklin, and Mrs. Thomas Fitzgerald all painted by Sully; Miss Elizabeth Bordley, wife of James Gibson, a respected city lawyer, by Stuart; and the European Duchess of Sutherland and Mme de Sévigné, a French aristocrat. The American ladies had all earned respect for their social standing and several for their support of the revolution. Alarmed by the prospect that Esther de Berdt’s war effort would pass unnoticed due to her maiden name, the catalogue 65 “The Centennial Loan Exhibition,” Public Ledger, 17 April 1875, 1; Catalogue of the Centennial Loan Exhibition 218 Rittenhouse Square (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1875), 3-4. 66 The collections exhibited belonged to James Lawrence Claghorn, a businessman and banker and a recognized art collector, John Welsh, the President of the CBOF, and the gallery of M. W. Baldwin. 130 pointed out that she was the wife of General Joseph Reed and the president of the Women’s Association for alleviating the suffering of Revolutionary War Soldiers. 67 Visitors could also explore miscellaneous articles such as a portrayal of the reception given to Lafayette at the Chew house in Germantown and some personal articles that belonged to Benjamin Franklin, William Penn, Thomas Jefferson, and General Washington. Viewing Mount Vernon furnishings – a cup, two glasses, a chair and a few pieces of Martha Washington’s dress – visitors could imagine her domestic domain, while the pictures of the signers of the Declaration of Independence with their autographs and the original manuscript of the Oath of Allegiance would remind them of the founding of the nation. 68 Gillespie’s goal in creating the exhibition was to gather - the portraits of those who ninety-nine years ago were struggling for our freedom. Animated by the example of the men and women of the Revolution, we must hope for a better inheritance for our native land than now belongs to it. Let us devote our lives to restoring the purity and simplicity of 1776. 69 She aimed at an instructive exhibit where portraits of both men and women would inspire the audience with the mythic unity and legacy of the revolution. If Gillespie sought to inspire viewers with great historical leaders, she did not shy from her inclusion among them. Her image was situated between two queens and among some of the greatest 67 Catalogue of the Centennial Loan Exhibition, 14. 68 “Centennial Loan Exhibition,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 12 April 1875, 2. 69 Second Annual Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee, 13-14. 131 figures of the nation’s history. This leaves no doubt that the WCEC highly valued her leadership and probably perceived her achievements comparable to those of the esteemed male leaders. The presentation of privileged colonial women shaped a narrative of female heroines with an air of aristocracy hinted by the European portraits. Elite Philadelphia women created the exhibit in demonstration of their class and status. They considered themselves the American aristocracy of their period. The exhibition marked a transitional stage between that of the private collection and the institutional phase, the museum, termed by Tony Bennett the “exhibition complex.” He argues that in the nineteenth century, institutions of exhibitions arranged artifacts, previously displayed in private for a restricted audience, in a manner that would serve the elite’s interests, such as the innovation of Centennial in its display of racial groups where oriental, black, and aboriginal populations of conquered territories were subordinate to displays of imperial powers. 70 Unlike the museum, where space was abundant and staff - professional, the Loan Exhibition was limited to one city mansion and was privately organized and displayed. But similar to a nineteenth-century art institution, it was an instrument in the hands of the privileged to disseminate their particular agenda to the general public. Authority rested in the hands of organizers and collectors who selected particular works and methodologically arranged them to construct their own national historical narrative. Limited space contributed to higher selective process and possibly a honed message that focused on fewer but more significant 70 Bennett, The Birth of the Museum, 60-61, 82. 132 artifacts. Judging by the impression of the women of the Third Ward, the exhibit raised general interest and was “an instructive and pleasant place of resort.” 71 The Loan Exhibit catalogue served as a site where class, memory, and authority intersected. It linked owners, people of extraordinary wealth and privilege, to most exhibited articles, remnants of the revolutionary era. Thus, one might learn of Mrs. Edward Shippen’s and Mrs. McClure’s connection to the colonists for the former owned a bottle that came over on the Mayflower and the latter possessed a few artifacts from Mount Vernon. The link of Mr. W. J. Phillips to George Washington was evident by his holdings of the General’s autographed letter, a piece of his sofa cover, and a lock of his hair. Gillespie’s ancestry was demonstrated in several of Benjamin Franklin’s items she loaned for display. The Exhibition Committee, sensitive to the importance of crediting owners for their items, placed an announcement of regret about articles that did not accompany names of owners at the end of the catalogue. 72 The catalogue linked wealth and pedigree with privilege and authority. It established the current generation of colonial descendents not only as custodians of American history but also as agents of social transformation, the creators of “better inheritance for our native land”. 73 With the rising popularity of Martha Washington, the WCEC initiated a production of a commemorative medal struck by the U.S. Mint with the head of Martha 71 Women’s Branch United States Centennial Commission, Report of the Third Ward Special Committee (Philadelphia: A. T. Zeising, 1877), 15. 72 Catalogue of the Centennial Loan Exhibition, 218 West Rittenhouse Square (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1875), 39. 73 See quote: p. 132. 133 Washington on one side and “In Honor of the Women of the Revolution” written on the other. Patrons could purchase it in either silver or gilt. 74 The official medals feminized American Independence and American Liberty by depicting them as Greek mythological goddesses: one, ready to fight, and the second, a woman welcoming the arts and sciences. 75 The former holds a sword in one hand and raises the other toward 13 stars that represent the colonies. On its circumference appears the caption: “These United Colonies Are, and Of Right Ought to Be, Free and Independent States,” while 1776 marks the creation of America. The Liberty in the second medal represents the present. No longer in need of a sword, Liberty has it tied to her girdle and the shield of Stars and Stripes is causally leaning by her side. She extends her hands to welcome the figures of Arts and Sciences who came to present themselves in the Centennial. The year 1876 appears under the scene. Liberty has been associated with American freedom from the time of the Revolution during the 1760s. America often appeared with the Goddess of Liberty and more importantly, the Goddess was occasionally Americanized. 76 The official medals expressed a unified humble beginning of the nation’s history that led to the essence of progress in all areas of learning. While a memory of consensus, CBOF members ignored the role of women whose assistance to the Revolution did not depend on the use of weapons. The WCEC’s medal singled out Martha Washington to personalize the 74 Gillespie, Book of Remembrance, 306; Minutes of the Women’s Centennial Committee of Philadelphia, 1875-1877, Feb. 1, 1876, HSP. 75 For details of the medal and illustrations of both sides of the medal see: “Current Memoranda,” Potter’s American Monthly, V (Nov. 1875): 871. 76 Ray Broadus Browne, ed. Frontiers of American Cultures (West Lafayette, Ind.: Purdue University Studies, 1968), 12. 134 Figure 3. Martha Washington Medal STACK’S BOWERS GALLERIES, STACK’S – BOWERS AND PONTERIO 135 revolutionary effort of all women. 77 It aimed at inserting women into the national revolutionary history. In June 1875, a serious setback prompted Gillespie to take extreme measures. Mr. Goshorn, the Director General of the Exhibition and Mr. Cochran, the chairman of the Committees on Grounds, Plans, and Buildings of the CBOF separately wrote Gillespie that due to overwhelming response from foreign countries there would be no space for the women’s display in the Main Building. They suggested that the women could collect the sum of $30,000 to erect their own building. They were apologetic that CBOF could not assist her financially for its funds were tied in contracts beyond the amount they possessed. Gillespie was flabbergasted. Years later she reminisced: I was alone when I read those letters, and it was fortunate that I was, for I have lived many years since and have never forgotten the utter misery of those first moments, for the women of the whole country were working not only for patriotic motives, but with the hope that through this Exhibition their own abilities would be recognized and their work carried beyond the needle and thread. I felt disposed to rebel, for my co-workers had the promise through our Philadelphia organization that space in the Main Building was to be ours. 78 After considering the situation Gillespie, the WCEC, and the chairmen of the ward committees agreed to raise money for a separate building. It was a difficult task. The Exhibition was scheduled to open in less than a year and the funds they needed were 77 The women earned a total of $6000 from their sale. Final Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee, 9. 78 Gillespie, Book of Remembrance, 313. 136 three fourths the amount they had collected since they had formed their organization over a year before. With the approach of the holiday season, the WCEC set to organize a spectacular event to raise the needed amount. They decided to hold a Martha Washington Tea Party, a commemoration of her first official reception after George Washington became president of the United States. 79 The WCEC was resolved to keep a strictly professional program and refused requests for performances submitted by residents of various wards. 80 They hired an orchestra under the direction of Mark Hassler, a known Philadelphia musician of German Jewish origin who had performed in their previous galas. 81 A local newspaper commented that “The affair created quite a stir in fashionable circles, and as had been anticipated, the spacious Academy was crowded with ladies and gentlemen in costume and otherwise magnificently attired… The scene was such a one as had not been witnessed in this city during the present century.” 82 A drawing room scene and a single painting of George Washington painted by Charles Wilson Peale adorned the stage. Following some introductory music, the eminent Martha Washington, represented by Mrs. John Sanders, entered the stage wearing black silk dress adorned with lace ruffles and cap. Once she took her place on the platform, 79 The Women’s Branch United States Centennial Commission, Report of the Twenty Second Ward Special Committee (Philadelphia: E. M. Gans, Printers, 1877), 7. 80 Minutes of the Women’s Centennial Committee of Philadelphia, 1875-1877, HSP. 81 Henry Samuel Morais, The Jews of Philadelphia Their History from Earliest Settlements to the Present Time (Philadelphia: The Levytype Company, 1894), 386-7. 82 “Martha Washington Her Reception Last Night at the Academy. Dancing the Minuet in Costume A Beautiful Scene,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 15 December 1875, 3. 137 several hundred costumed men and women paid their respect to their hostess. Following the reception, a group of men and women in Continental costumes danced the minuet, originated at the court of Louis XIV in 1653 at Versailles. 83 The evening concluded with dances while tea and refreshments were offered by colonial costumed women in the foyer. The WCEC placed Martha Washington on a symbolic pedestal perhaps as a reaction to their disappointment by the Centennial Executive Committee for going back on their promise for exhibition space, or by the influence of the tea party celebrated in New Haven, Connecticut, a few months earlier, where Martha Washington was the queen of the evening, or it might have been a conflation of both. 84 But situating Washington high on a platform with men and women treating her like a monarch, her husband a mere backdrop for the scene, clearly declared that women held influential positions, separate from those of their husbands. If only as a hostess, a characteristic feminine role expected of a politician’s wife, Centennial women elevated it to a form of art; graceful, refined, and respectable. Appropriately dressed, she received hundreds of guests with patience and elegance. The WCEC sought to represent the “Court of the Republic.” 85 In the local media they claimed that the event should be “instructive” and intended the “costumes worn in the minuet [to] give an accurate idea of what society was a century ago.” 86 Their historical construction spelled an elitist view, one led by selected educated and wealthy 83 Ibid. 84 For Connecticut’s celebration, see ahead. 85 Minutes of the Women’s Centennial Committee of Philadelphia, 1875-1877, HSP. 86 “The Martha Washington Reception,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 14 December 1875, 2. 138 individuals, much in contrast to the idea of a popular revolution. The Sons of Liberty, the patriot colonists who organized to protect the rights of the colonists, originated from the professional and elite classes. They sought the support of the lower classes in order to demonstrate a forceful opposition to the British. Patrick Henry and Thomas Paine attempted to approach the masses and incite them into a revolution. Their radical approach was one which elite Philadelphians attempted to dismiss. In their version, the revolution was led by educated and experienced men and women who would lead the country for the betterment of all. Washington signaled that women possessed power and influence that could markedly shape historical circumstances. The women blurred the boundaries between the private and the public by presenting Washington’s parlor as a site of social and political exchange. An affair of cosmopolitan flavor, the Carnival of Authors, was the Executive Committee’s theme for Washington’s Birthday in February 1876. Ward committees chose authors as themes for their tables and appeared in costumes that resembled characters of fiction, poetry, and history. William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Alfred Tennyson, Molière, George Coleman, and Arabian Nights, represented world literature with overwhelming western European representation and a stereotypical image of the Levant. The American representatives typically had written about the colonial period and the encounter with Native Americans. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the popular poet, was featured by the Fifteenth Ward. They presented a wigwam and thatched cottage for his poems “Hiawatha's wooing!” and “Evangeline”, and the hardworking Priscilla sitting by her spinning wheel with John Alden by her side 139 to recall “The Courtship of Miles Standish,” “Courtship” narrates a love story in the Plymouth Colony. Because it was established by the Mayflower pilgrims, most of the aides wore Puritan costumes while several consented, somewhat reluctantly, to represent the Native Americans. 87 Native Americans constituted an impediment to American westward expansion. After the Mexican-American War (1846-1848) the lands of the Plain Indians were gradually confiscated by the government and its inhabitants were, removed to reservations, often forcefully. With little respect to the Native Americans by officials and the public, it is not surprising that the women preferred to wear the costumes of the esteemed pilgrims rather than the “savage’ Indians”. Colonial life continued in the table of the 27 th Ward with James Fennimore Cooper, a prolific novelist of the frontier. They also constructed a wigwam equipped with tomahawk, bow and arrow, camp fire, and moccasins. The Indian friend of the English from The Last of the Mohicans and women with aboriginal costume completed the scene. 88 Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote about New England and the Puritans was the subject of the 18 th Ward. Transforming popular American poetry and literature into an imagined world of pilgrims, colonists, and peace-making Native Americans constructed an ideal past. It promoted simplicity, tranquility, and domestic harmony. The carnival, which ended with over a thousand colorful costumed characters marching on the stage, perpetuated this myth. 87 The Women’s Branch USCC, Report of the 15 th Ward Special Commission, Third Report (Philadelphia: A. T. Zeising, 1877), 16. 88 The Women’s Branch USCC, Report of the 27 th Ward Special Commission (Philadelphia: Press of Henry B. Ashmead, 1877), 9-10. 140 The impressive events organized by the WCEC raised interest in the Centennial all over the country attracted large attendance, and raised the total of $30,000 required for the Women’s Building. The success was partially due to continued city wards fundraising events and canvassing that took place in Philadelphia, Boston, and Minersville, Pennsylvania. The plans for the building were finalized in September 1875 and at the end of February of the following year the completed construction was ceremoniously given to the WCEC by Thomas Cochran, one of the directors of the CBOF. The idea of a Martha Washington tea party grew in popularity. Women in other parts of the state and the country organized local parties on behalf of the Centennial. They fashioned their events on the original Philadelphia tea party but constructed their own version of history, often with a local perspective, and portrayed their own historical and political views. Such was the party held in February 1874 by the WCEC of Norristown, Pennsylvania, under the chairwomanship of Mrs. Cadwalader Evans. The two-day event featured tables themed after major revolutionary leaders and battles including Valley Forge, Brandywine, Bunker Hill, and Chadds Ford in addition to George Washington. The Yorktown table featured flags decorating pictures of Gen. Washington but also of the county-born Union general Winfield Scott Hancock and John Frederick Hartranft, the newly elected governor of Pennsylvania. The Gen. Wayne table, managed by Mrs. Dr. Lees and Anna Morris Holstein, a volunteer nurse in the Civil War and an associate manager for Norristown for the Women’s Pennsylvania Branch of the United States Sanitary Commission, attracted attention to pistols used by Gen. Anthony 141 Wayne during the Revolution and loaned by Holstein’s husband. 89 The stage, illuminated with gas jets, exhibited portraits in hierarchical importance. A gilt eagle suspended from George Washington’s portrait topped the arrangement. Underneath her husband’s picture was the portrait of Martha Washington, and below was a picture of General Philip Henry Sheridan, a Civil War officer whose cavalry was instrumental in forcing Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. The women of Montgomery County held a more gender-conservative approach to the nation’s history than their Philadelphia counterparts, and refrained from placing Martha Washington on the same footing with her husband. They perceived the recent war as a battle to uphold revolutionary values. Their belief in the union prevented them from realizing that a tribute to a Civil War hero was an affront toward Southern sensibilities. Although the women held traditional gender roles, they did not ignore revolutionary women altogether. They acknowledged their contribution in the John Adams table with a cup and a saucer that belonged to Mrs. Haddon “who gave information to the American forces of the approach of the British at Germantown.” The table represented the domestic space of the revolutionary statesman, while the china that adorned it belonged to a woman who helped the Continental Army. By blurring the boundary between the public and the private, Montgomery County women demonstrated that men and women are capable to perform in both spheres without altering their character. The officers who wore a Martha Washington costume paid further tribute to 89 Annual Report of the Women’s Pennsylvania Branch, USSC (Philadelphia: Henry B. Ashmead, 1864), 18. “The Tea Party,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 24 Feb. 1874, 1. 142 revolutionary women. Several proudly displayed their ancestry as they wore original period dresses and jewels. 90 Gillespie and Mrs. Col. John W. Forney of the Centennial Executive Committee visited the celebration along with additional local dignitaries. As the leading manager of the WCEC, the presence of Gillespie commanded respect and provided legitimacy to the event, while local officials demonstrated their support of the cause. Like the officers in Montgomery County, the women of Trenton, New Jersey, highlighted local history in addition to women’s deeds. Trenton women recalled the event of Washington’s passing through the city in April 1789 on his way to his inauguration in New York. Leading society women erected a triumphal arch on the bridge he crossed decorated with the inscription “The Defender of the Mothers Will Be the Protector of the Daughters.” 91 The women and their daughters, all dressed in white, strewed flowers in his path as they sang an ode composed especially for the event as he passed through the arch. The Centennial women promptly erected an arch on the stage, decorated it with flowers, and staged a group of young girls outfitted with white dresses to strew flowers. But instead of respecting Washington alone, they threw their flowers in front of both George and Martha and sang the poem, written for the inauguration of the first president, for both of them. They changed the original inscription into “The Heroes who defended the Mothers will Protect the Daughters,” emphasizing the willingness of young men to protect their families if the need arose when they are older. Perhaps they thought of the 90 Ibid., 1. 91 For a full description of the event see: David W. Belisle, History of Independence Hall From Earliest Period to the Present Time (Philadelphia: James Challen & Son, 1859), 365-369. 143 Civil War and wanted to convey that the men would always be ready to fight for the women’s safety. Additional artifacts included a life-size figure of Abigail Smith, the future wife of John Adams, dressed in her original dress, an array of revolutionary artifacts, and a cake that represented the temple of liberty. 92 In his speech, Governor Joel Parker announced enthusiastically: “In those initial steps of the Revolution, the heroic ladies of America took the lead. The ladies – God bless them! – are always in advance of us men in every good patriotic work.” 93 Trenton’s privileged women constructed a narrative that highlighted colonial women. The juxtaposition of Martha Washington into a scene of a hero’s welcome and the presentation of Abigail Adams prior to her marriage marked women’s significance not as wives but as historical figures in their own right. Unlike Trenton, the women of New Haven, Connecticut, chose to exhibit their European heritage. The event, held in June 1875, was cast in a courtly manner of the old regime with curtseying and “ladies being led in by the tips of their fingers.” A group of over fifty men and women who elegantly impersonated figures of America’s revolutionary elite entered the stage. They were all dressed in revolutionary costumes, several with authentic attire that confirmed their colonial roots. All the pomp and stately 92 “Centennial Tea Party Taylor Opera House Packed in Every Part the Display Grand and Befitting,” Trenton State Gazette, 26 February 1874, 3; Benson J. Lossing, The Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution (New York: Harper & Brothers, Publishers, 1852), Vol. 2, 245-6. 93 New Jersey Centennial Tea Party Held at Taylor Opera House, Trenton (February 25-26, 1874) (Trenton, New Jersey: Naar., Day & Naar, 1874), 13. 144 ritual reached its pinnacle with the appearance of the honorable guest, Martha Washington: ..the queen of the evening, led by the gentleman who represented President Washington, advanced and took her place upon the dais followed by the members of her suite. She was elegantly attired in a robe of her white satin, with a train of lavender brocade, her hair surmounted by a tasteful cap. The President withdrew to a respectful distance, leaving to her the honors of the evening. 94 Significantly, it was the first incident where George Washington disappeared into the background, leaving his wife in the spotlight. The receding president signaled that a woman could occupy the center stage both literally and figuratively. With her regal attire and courtly etiquette, Martha’s status resembled that of a European monarch. Her association with the nobility implied similar association for other colonial families. A gala of particular interest was celebrated by the women at Mt. Auburn, in Cincinnati in May 1875. Historians have long considered the city the center of Copperheadism for its population’s sympathy with the South and its economy. Most of the settlers of the city arrived from the South and had similar customs, traditions, and prejudices as their ancestors. The city had long traded with the Southern states through the Ohio and Mississippi rivers and, in the mid-nineteenth century, via railway to New Orleans. 95 The women planned an International Bazaar, where they divided the United 94 George D. Curtis, Souvenir of the Centennial Exhibition or Connecticut’s Representation at Philadelphia, 1876 (Hartford, Connecticut: Geo. D. Curtis, 1877), 58-60. 95 Eugene H. Roseboom, “Southern Ohio and the Union in 1863,” The Mississippi Valley Historical Review, 39 (June 1952): 1. 145 States into three main sections: the New England and the Northern States, the Southern States, and California and the Pacific Slope. The center of the hall “on a high pedestal… stands the Goddess of Liberty in wax, while at her side, but lower down, stands George Washington also in wax, with his face turned toward the wall in disgrace. He has plainly been dissipating, and appears to be anxious to slink behind some protecting mountain.” 96 The privileged women identified with the South as it had been long believed that trade with the South would increase significantly after secession. By positioning Washington away from Liberty, the women demonstrated their disapproval of the war via the first president who had fought for the nation’s independence. Similar to Northerners, who argued that the Union was the original principle of the Founding Fathers, Mt. Auburn women employed Washington to claim that state’s right to secede was a tenet on which the country had been established. The table of New England and the Northern states was presided over by four Northern women, a woman each from Massachusetts and New Hampshire, E. D. Gillespie, and Susan Hale, a niece of Edward Everett, a Whig Party politician from Massachusetts and a former U.S. secretary of state. Most articles on the table were of New England manufacture. The Southern States included a painting of George Washington and the California and the Pacific exhibited gold and silver from local mines, fruits, and trees. The ladies who tended the tables of the three United States sections wore 96 “Centennial Glory. Bewildering Beauty in Exposition Hall. Thousands of Spectators Astonished by the Wonderful Scene,” Cincinnati Daily Gazette, 21 May 1875, 4. 146 Martha Washington costumes, acknowledging the revolutionary consensus. 97 An additional department of Relics carried an autographed letter of Washington, his tent flag, Masonic emblem, sash, and sleeve buttons. They also displayed a writing desk that belonged to Martha Washington and a tea kettle brought over on the Mayflower. 98 In contrast to other tea parties, gender was not the focus of the Cincinnati tea party. The women demonstrated indisputable support for the construction of a consensus and a revolutionary narrative by placing a picture of George Washington on the Southern table and with their Martha Washington costumes. They indicated their support for sectional healing with their invitation of Northern women to preside over their regional table. But their most conspicuous comment, at the center of their display, was George Washington, who remained speechless and dismayed because of the last war and could not face Liberty. The women believed that the war, which forced them to stay in a Union against their will, did not resonate with freedom and democracy. They placed Washington, who could not justify Northern actions to liberty, with his face toward the wall in an attempt to avoid her. This reproach had reminded the influential Northern guests that disgruntled feelings over the conflict were strongly held by great many supporters of the Southern cause. Back in Philadelphia, the WCEC labored enthusiastically to furnish the Woman’s Building with exhibits devoted to woman’s labor. Their goal was to offer women ways 97 “The May Tea Party. What the Ladies Propose for the General Entertainment,” Cincinnati Daily Gazette, 3 March 1875, 3. 98 “Centennial Glory” Cincinnati Daily Gazette, 4-5. 147 “to earn their livelihood in branches of business yet unknown to them.” 99 Thus, among an array of needlework and lace one could find wood carvings, an exhibit of the School of Design of Massachusetts, and a pharmaceutical exhibit of the Woman’s Medical College of Philadelphia. However, in the pages of their daily newspaper, The New Century for Women, the ideal past infrequently appeared. In their first issue, an unknown writer heaped derision on current men and trumpeted colonial women’s character: If men are what their mothers are surely something must have been wrong with some mothers of boys thirty and forty years ago, - some moral defect, some lack of honest fibre, some confusion of ideas on the subject of integrity … The women of a hundred years ago had purpose, endurance, and power, they were part of the nation’s life. 100 The journalists were all Northern women who actively assisted in the long fundraising campaign on behalf of the board of managers for a promise of space to exhibit in the main building in return. When their hope had been rebuffed and they were left to raise additional sum to erect a building without any assistance from the executive directors, they turned their dismay, anger, and disappointment toward additional appeals and events. The Centennial Executive Committee would not even extend complementary entrance tickets to the women, who were required to purchase them each time they arrived to maintain their exhibits. 101 Perhaps the author wanted to point to her anger over the lack of honesty and integrity of the men who so blatantly recanted on their promise 99 Third Annual Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee, March 31 st , 1876 (Philadelphia: Press of Henry & Ashmead), 5. 100 “The New Century for Woman,” The New Century for Woman, 13 May 1876, 4. 101 In the beginning of September, four months into the exhibit, Gillespie requested that ward chairmen and aides would receive reduced-rate tickets for the remainder of the exhibition and was flatly refused. See: September 4, September 11, Minutes of the Women’s Centennial Committee of Philadelphia, 1875-1877. 148 due to the women’s fundraising success. Unable to criticize nationally respected and well-connected men, the author blamed their mothers, on the premise that they must be blamed for their upbringing. 102 The author also used the opportunity to contrast the inept mothers with an idealized image of the women of the revolution. An additional article about Martha Washington reinforced domesticity and simplicity when it discussed her residency in Mount Vernon. The author commended on her frugality and resourcefulness during the war and praised her sixteen spinning wheels and home-made dress. She also pointed to George Washington’s home-spun suit, worn while the president was in New York, in order to demonstrate Martha’s skillful frugality. The author mentioned that Washington had servants, but ignored their contribution when character of Martha is concerned. In addition, the author firmly maintained that Washington and his wife each had a “public career.” 103 The concluding event of the women’s work for the Centennial was a Calico Party, celebrated in Philadelphia on February 22, 1877 with the intention that women outfitted with calico dresses would dance the minuet. An observer commented that participants who “were garbed in the court dress worn one hundred years ago in this country” paid respects to the receiving party before they danced. The ladies wore the long, flowing, gown-like dresses of rich material in style in the Martha Washington period, with the high powdered coiffures 102 Although John Welsh, who headed the CBOF, was 71 years old, the President of the Centennial, Joseph R. Hawley, celebrated his 50 th birthday, and Alfred Traber Goshorn, the Director General was 43 years old. 103 E. E. G., “A Night at Mount Vernon,” The New Century for Woman, 24 June 1876, 51-52. 149 of the same day, and the gentlemen appeared in full Continental costume – silk, satin and velvet coats profusely laced, knee breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, &c., all surmounted with powdered wig and ribboned queue… In the extent to which calico was worn the party was not a success. 104 Despite the attempt to produce a celebration with inexpensive costumes in memory of the simple colonial attire, many guests ignored the decision and attended in luxurious evening gowns and Continental costumes. Most Philadelphia elites did not feel comfortable to attend a formal society event with attire made of inexpensive material. Luxurious clothes articulated their class identity and social status. The wards shared the proceeds to help their needy population with winter heating and additional essentials. Befitting leading society women, racial attitudes and class distinction were rarely discussed, but they were not issues to be ignored. Initially, the WCEC appointed Rebecca J. Cole, who graduated from the Woman's Medical College of Pennsylvania and became the second African American to receive a medical degree in United States, to lead an African American woman’s committee. Cole started to organize branches of women who were “ready to canvas the city.” 105 Unbeknown to her recruited women, she agreed that the Colored Women’s Centennial Commission would be limited to fundraise solely within the African American community. Once the African American activists learned about her plans, they refused to abide her terms claiming that “our womanhood would be compromised, our citizenship ignored or our rights questioned.” The African American 104 “Washington’s Birthday,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 February 1877, 3. 105 “Another Branch. Organization of Colored Women’s Centennial Commission,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 5 April 1873, 2. 150 recruits were deeply offended by the segregation placed upon them. They linked their womanhood to their citizenship and felt that preventing them equal participation in fundraising activities compromised both. The women attempted to explain their position by holding a meeting and protesting to Gillespie but received no reply. At length, they disclosed on the pages of a local newspaper that they were deceived by Cole and Delia Chew, who agreed on terms that were “unauthorized, and in no way binding or representing us.” 106 Gillespie acted swiftly. She allowed the African American women to canvass “among our colored population and with any others whom the committee might be able to influence through friendship” while promptly discharging Cole from her duties. The resistance of elite African American women to accept racial boundaries forced them to abandon the enterprise altogether. The Centennial women refused to admit their support of racial segregation. When questioned about the incident, Miss McHenry stated that when the organization formed and the most suitable women for each ward were selected “they all happened to be white persons, and had colored women presented themselves they would… just as readily been appointed.” 107 That the issue was settled without further deliberation demonstrates the existence of racism among white elites. The prominent men of the Centennial Executive Committee, the national body that could influence the women, never got involved. And since the Centennial was an official 106 Open Doors to Correspondents. The Centennial,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 May 1873, 3. 107 Ibid. 151 enterprise, partially funded, at the time, by the local and state governments, the exclusion of African Americans from its ranks was essentially sanctioned by these bodies. Officers of the WCEC, heads of wards, and their aides were all white, privileged society women, who carefully guarded their ranks. Elizabeth Robins Pennell could trace her ancestors to colonial families in Virginia and Maryland and was the niece of the folklorist Charles Godfrey Leland. Her father, a Philadelphia stock broker lost his fortune when Jay Cooke’s Bank bankrupted in September 1873, a mere six months after the formation of the WCEC. She was promptly removed from the lists of elite society, including that of Centennial activists. Pennell realized her misfortune when she was barred from the Dancing Assembly. Sitting on the sideline she commented: …my gay friends, who were well on the inside, busy going to Centennial balls at the Academy of Music in Colonial dress… while I stayed at home and, seeing what lovely creatures powder and patches and panniers made of Philadelphia girls with no more pretence to good looks than I. 108 She later recalled that canvassers came to her door with “voluminous furs,” clear evidence of their affluence. Centennial women contributed over $95,000 to the treasury of the CBOF and raised a total of $126,000. 109 Their meticulous organization and diligent canvassing resulted in remarkable success where male canvassers experienced low participation. But it was their magnificent tea parties with Martha Washington costumes that generated the 108 Pennell, Our Philadelphia, 206. 109 J. S. Ingram, The Centennial Exposition Described and Illustrated Being a Concise and Graphic Description of This Grand Enterprise Commemorative of the First Centennary of American Independence (Philadelphia: Hubbard Bros., 1876), 745. 152 excitement and publicity the Centennial enterprise lacked. They were the leading factors in the sales of its stock. The cult of Martha Washington represented integrity and simplicity but its celebration was anything but plain. Elaborate costumes were produced for the affairs while the women assured the audience of their high value. 110 The reverence of Martha was fairly similar to that of Mary Washington. When Mary died a neighbor wrote in her memory, “There is no fame in the world more pure than that of the Mother of Washington, and no woman since the mother of Christ has left a better claim to the affectionate reverence of mankind.” 111 By comparing Washington to the Biblical figure she evoked a memory of the sacrifice of a son for a higher cause. While Jesus died for his people, Washington gave his life to the American people in battle and in executive leadership. On May 7, 1833 in a ceremony with distinguished guests and between ten and fifteen thousand people, a cornerstone was laid on Washington’s grave. Mr. Bassett, a relative of Washington and the chairman of the Monument Committee spoke about a memory of “her fortitude, her piety, her every grace of life” and “her sure hope of a blessed immortality.” 112 In March 1899, The Post Advocated for a fitting memorial to Mary Washington after a firm placed an advertisement announcing that the property containing Mary Washington’s grave would be sold in an auction. 113 The following year, after the Fredericksburg Mary Washington Association was formed, an appeal for aid for 110 In New Haven “Miss Hadley wore a dress embroidered by Miss Nabby Wadsworth before the Revolutionary War – coarse cotton cloth (then very expensive).” Curtis, Souvenir of the Centennial Exhibition or Connecticut’s Representation, 59. 111 Marion Harland, The Story of Mary Washington (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1893), 145. 112 Ibid., 149. 113 “The Mary Washington Monument,” in The Post Almanac Weather Forecasts and Book of Facts of the Office, Home, and Farm, 1899 (Washington, D. C.: The Post Company, 1899), 21. 153 the women of the country circulated. The significance of the project was as “the first monument ever erected by woman to a woman.” 114 The Daughters of the American Revolution designated the monument as their first national project and helped raise the required funds that enabled to complete it. It was dedicated by President Grover Cleveland on May 10, 1894. While Mary and Martha Washington both projected unity and simplicity, the latter also projected opulence and extravagance. These qualities enabled Martha to appeal to privileged classes in Northern and Border States. Affluent women marveled at the opportunity to organize luxurious galas for a patriotic cause, particularly ones that emphasized their ancestors and complimented their virtues. The cult of Martha Washington had been forged when George Washington had increasingly come to symbolize the unified past revolutionary past. People flocked to view his portraits at the Sanitary Fair and the National Museum in Philadelphia, and his refurbished home, Mount Vernon, attracted growing number of visitors. Like the practice of leading men, Centennial women constructed their own heroines, white, Protestant, and largely active in the public arena, to represent colonial womanhood. Many privileged women agreed that Martha Washington was regal and resourceful, but other localities did not necessarily follow the lead of Philadelphia women when it came to gender hierarchy and regional harmony. Women of urban centers tended to convey an image of an assertive Martha Washington, while rural women could not 114 Margaret Hetzel, “Mary Washington,” American Woman Magazine, II (March 1893): 263. 154 fathom placing a woman on equal status with her husband. When W. H. Armstrong announced at the first tea party, in February 1873, that “the North and the South are fast forgetting that they ever were estranged” followed by Alexander H. Stephens of Georgia, who echoed his predecessor with “the nation, North and South, will drop the curtain upon all that is bitter in the past, and will rise to new interests, new friendships, new hopes, and new affections,” their words seemed more hopeful than factual. 115 The Cincinnati tea party proved that animosity held strong, and neither Martha nor George could evince a meaningful change. The women of Mt. Auburn, Cincinnati, consented to participate in the campaign to raise money for the Centennial, but their blatant exhibit of Washington articulated a message of strong disagreement with the Civil War. With such a harsh display from a border city and without meaningful help from Southern states, it was clear that a mere decade left Southerners bitter and un-reconciled over the long military conflict. As the Exposition neared the end, the WCEC contemplated future goals for a national organization. In a meeting held in mid-October, the Philadelphia officers decided to continue the Centennial’s goal of “uniting of the people of our country” under the name Women’s Centennial National League. 116 Mrs. Rand suggested teaming with the women of Massachusetts to preserve the Old South church in Boston which is “a legacy 115 “The Tea Party,” newspaper clipping, Etting, The Philadelphia Tea Party of 1773, LC. 116 October 13, Minutes of the Women’s Centennial Committee of Philadelphia, 1875-1877, HSP; the media called the organization Women’s National Centennial League. “Report of the Adjourned Meeting of the Women’s Centennial Committee,” The New Century for Woman, 4 November 1876, 199. 155 to our country as Independence Hall”. 117 In a later meeting, which included the WCEC and delegated from the states, the issue was raised again by Rand. Opponents argued that the first project of an organization founded on “no creed” should not be the restoration of a church. Proponents contended that the Old South is not a church but a historical relic. 118 This remark was of utmost importance. Possibly for the first time in the history of the preservation movement the idea of religious affiliation was linked to historical site. Religious affiliation could present a controversial issue for a historical preservation project executed by a national organization that aimed at pleasing members from all over the country. Though elite women were typically Protestant, they may have belonged to several different denominations. Further, the women might have used religion as a pretext to oppose a project in the northeast of the country. The debate underpinned a more poignant issue – the politics of memory: the choice of preservation project, its interpretation, and the public support it can garner were all inextricably enmeshed and could directly affect a preservation effort’s outcome. The plan to assist in the restoration of the Old South was not accepted; the women were not ready to face such complex issues when the future of their organization had not been firmly established. In a following general meeting with representative of states and officers of Philadelphia wards, Gillespie indicated that the men would leave Memorial Hall as a monument for their work in the Exposition and “women should leave such a memorial as 117 October 30, Minutes of the Women’s Centennial Committee of Philadelphia, 1875-1877, HSP. 118 The names of the women who voiced their opinions are absent. See: “Report of Adjourned Meeting of the Women’s Centennial Committees,” The New Century for Women, 4 November 1876, 199. 156 would testify a hundred years hence to what the women of to-day had done.” 119 To some of the participants’ surprise, she announced that a national organization had been organized. It would consist of thirteen representatives of each state, and that of Pennsylvania would be selected by the chairwomen of the wards. Following some tension over the elections, most of Philadelphia officers were elected with Gillespie as president. Despite of the women’s lofty aspirations, their organization fizzled rather quickly. In their final report, the WCEC established a Memorial Fund for “erection of this city of some useful Memorial of the work accomplished by the women of America for the proper celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the establishment of our Government.” 120 New York and Connecticut withdrew, possibly in defiance of Philadelphia’s leadership. Requesting funds from women of the states for a commemorative project that would benefit the people of Philadelphia did not spark great interest, even on the grounds of meeting the challenge of the men’s imposing Centennial building. Despite the demise of the new organization, Centennial women had achieved several impressive goals. They increased national interest in the Exposition and raised a considerable sum to defray its expenses. They also erected a Woman’s Building and arranged its American and international exhibits. They employed the organizational experience they had obtained during their work for the Great Central Fair in appealing to greater and diverse population and in overcoming unpredicted setbacks. The work on 119 “Centennial Women,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 16 November 1876, 3. 120 Final Report of the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee, March 22, 1877 (Philadelphia: Press of Henry B. Ashmead, 1877), 16. 157 behalf of the Centennial enabled them to increase their managerial skills, produce a feminine historical version that crossed state boundaries, and demonstrated that they could bring a failed project to a successful conclusion. Centennial women organizers constructed a subversive memory by arguing that women played a significant role in the national historical narrative. Their account transformed into a national campaign, which enabled elite women in other towns and states to alter its presentation to suit their local history and social and political leanings. Elite professional and public activist men did not object to the campaign because the representation of the historic women remained within their gendered roles. Revolutionary women appeared largely in social scenes or as the makers of homespun articles. However, Centennial women inserted themselves and their talented and formidable leader, Elizabeth Duane Gillespie, into the historical narrative. They asserted that elite women have been influencing national history from the colonial era to their contemporary time. The Centennial raised greater interest in revolutionary sites and brought attention to their neglect. Near the hills of Valley Forge, where George Washington encamped during the harsh winter of 1777 and 1778, a group of men and women would employ the memory of the military leader as a means to preserve his former headquarters. 158 CHAPTER 4 HISTORICAL PRESERVATION IN MONTGOMERY COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA “Our People Had Not Begun to Remember” - this concise and profound observation, published in the preface to Worthy Women of Our First Century, comes from editors who lamented the loss of invaluable historical evidence and deeply felt the urgency to preserve salvageable records before the past would be erased forever and the annals of significant individuals could never be told. 1 The Centennial Exposition, held in Philadelphia in 1876, portrayed colonial life in architecture, artifacts, and food and inspired a nostalgic interest in returning to the idealized simplicity of the past. Termed the Colonial Revival, this movement was manifest in the arts, architecture, and history, and was visible in enthusiastic attempts to preserve colonial and revolutionary period buildings, objects, and family papers. A strong popular interest in genealogy also developed during this period. Prompted by shifting social and economic conditions, privileged white Americans attempted to expose the immigrant working classes to this idealized version of the 1 Sarah Butler Wister and Agnes Irwin, eds., Worthy Women of Our First Century (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1877), 6. The book was a project initiated by the Women’s Department of the Centennial Commission “to offer to [their] young country women honorable models and examples.” The editors conducted a lengthy correspondence campaign before they finalized the women to be included in the monograph, a fact that undoubtedly delayed its publication to the following year. Ibid., 3. 159 nation’s early past as a means of inculcating patriotism, self-sacrifice, and hard work. 2 The educated and powerful believed that exposure to evidence of the supposed virtues of the colonial and revolutionary period would impress upon youth and immigrants the need to appreciate their country and lead a civic-minded life. Enthusiasts in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, started the restoration of George Washington’s headquarters in Valley Forge and formed the Montgomery County Historical Society. Public-spirited influential white women, when approached by their fellow male organizers, applied the organizational skills they had acquired in previous projects and diligently worked to raise public interest and gain the needed funds for the acquisition and preservation of George Washington’s headquarters. As members of the historical society, women contributed articles on different subjects than their male counterparts, favoring social, cultural and familial histories over political and military history. These experiences taught women that despite the growing interest in the nation’s past it was difficult to transform public enthusiasm into a continuous flow of donations. Involvement in local historical organizations offered public exposure of their knowledge, research, and experience at a critical time when the professionalization of the historical field was taking place. 3 2 Harvey Green, “Looking Backward to the Future: The Colonial Revival and American Culture,” in Creating a Dignified Past: Museums and the Colonial Revival, ed. Geoffrey L. Rossano (Savage, Maryland: Fowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 1991), 1-16. 3 The most prominent historical writers of the nineteenth century are George Bancroft, the author of the ten- volume History of the United States from the Discovery of the American Continent (1834-1875), Francis Parkman who authored the nine-volume France and England in North America 1865-1892), and Henry Adams the author of the nine-volume History of the United States during the administrations of Thomas Jefferson and James Madison (1889–1891). David W. Noble argues that they related to the world view of the Puritans in New England who believed that they had a covenant with God to lead pure and simple life. See: David W. Noble, Historians against History: The Frontier Thesis and the National Covenant in American Historical Writing Since 1830 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1965), 3. See also in 160 The Centennial Exposition’s main goal was to commemorate “the birthday of our nation, after a century of such prosperity, expansion, and progress, and after such a development of the material resources of this mighty continent.” 4 Organizers sought to demonstrate that in merely a century a resourceful people living under a democratic system had reached, and perhaps surpassed, the cultural, economic, technological, and educational achievements of the competent and well-established Old World. In articulating America’s progress, some exhibits portrayed the past as an initial point of comparison with a century of accomplishments. The audience, however, was fascinated by the colonial and revolutionary era scenes and artifacts. The exhibitions aroused general public interest in American history and genealogy, particularly among white men and women of the leisured classes who possessed the time and the means to invest in them. Elizabeth Pennell Robins observed that due to the Centennial “[Philadelphians] devoted every hour of leisure to the study of genealogy, they besieged the Historical Society in search of inconsiderate ancestors who had neglected to make conspicuous figures of themselves and so had to be hunted up, they left no stone unturned to prove their Colonial descent.” 5 Evidence of lineage that reached revolutionary or colonial eras his work: The End of American History: Democracy, Capitalism, and the Metaphor of Two Worlds in Anglo-American Historical Writing, 1880-1980 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985), 18. For an analysis of the three historians’ works see: Richard C. Vitzthum, The American Compromise: Theme and Method in the Histories of Bancroft, Parkman, and Adams (Norman, Alabama: University of Oklahoma Press, 1974). For late nineteenth-century historians see: Ellen Fitzpatrick, History’s Memory: Writing America’s Past, 1880-1980 (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2002). 4 United States Centennial Commission, Appendix to the Reports of the United States Centennial Commission and Centennial Board of Finance (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott &Co., 1879), 34. 5 Elizabeth Robins Pennell, Our Philadelphia. Philadelphia (J. B. Lippincott & Company, 1914), 216. 161 became an additional requisite to social elite memberships. Prominent citizens, ignorant of their family history, saved no effort into finding ancestors who would enhance their social status. Prior to the exhibition, only a small number of groups and individuals acted to preserve of historical buildings and battle sites, but the Centennial’s colonial state houses, the historical exhibition in the main building, and the New England Kitchen exhibit raised awareness of an ideal simplicity and domestic harmony. Opinions of scholars who argued against the existence of an original colonial architecture did not resonate with activists who rallied behind historical projects. 6 Historians agree that during the last three decades of the nineteenth century, a new style of architecture and art resulted from longing for an ideal past. Old structures or newly designed colonial-styled houses, furnishings, and domestic articles were sought for their ability to project the values of that image. The growing of industrialization and the immigrant population of American cities ended the “Protestant consensus” that controlled urban centers and the nation since its formation. 7 Scholars agree that Anglo-Protestants embedded objects and physical surrounding with the power to influence immigrants’ belief system, culture, and character. 6 Richard Morris Hunt, a prominent American architect who designed the façade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, argued that the Massachusetts building in the Centennial was a combination of a Gothic villa and Italian tower while the building that represented Connecticut was in a romantic revival style. Edith Wharton and Ogden Codman discarded the idea of colonial style for the Georgian style, prominent in the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth century in England. See: Wayne Andrews, “Reflection on the Colonial Revival,” Archives of American Art Journal, 4 (Apr. 1964): 1-4. 7 Nathaniel Burt and Wallace E. Davis, “The Iron Age, 1876-1905,” in Philadelphia: A300-Year History, eds. Russell F. Weigley, Nicholas B. Wainwright, and Edwin Wolf (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1982), 494. 162 One prominent study about the Colonial Revival, an edited volume by Alan Axelrod, demonstrates the influence of the movement on American culture and artistic practices. As one of the first to tackle the subject, it includes a variety of case studies that suggest the movement, which had been initially popular in the original colonies in the 1870s, spread to include mid-Western states via the Chicago Exposition of 1893. The collected essays demonstrate that architecture and artifacts were used to project the attitudes of Anglo-Saxon Protestants who feared the disappearance of their culture and resorted to using them as a means to escape the growing cities and Americanize immigrants. Drawing from architecture, paintings, sculpture, and furniture, scholars detail how architects, installers of exhibitions, and collectors sought to inspire the foreign-born with colonial virtues of morality and democracy. 8 The essays conclusively show that the past had been idealized and different versions of it often evolved as a result of the regional messages proponents wished to convey. 9 A later collection of essays, Creating a Dignified Past, arrives at similar conclusions to Axelrod’s while exploring museums and renovated museum houses that idealized the colonial period or reflected the ideas of the occupants of houses rather than those who first lived in them. Harvey Green argues that urgency in preserving the republic was at the heart of the movement. With an accelerating rate of immigration, urbanization, and industrialization, growing numbers of Anglo-Saxon Americans 8 See: Alan Axelrod, Colonial Revival in America (New York: Norton, 1985), 20. 9 For example, as settlement houses received “picturesque” façade and great fireplaces, intended to inspire with simplicity and hospitality, the Philadelphian architect Wilson Eyre incorporated gothic motives in designs that sought to instill past values of the city’s inhabitants of comfort and prosperity. Ibid., 349, 74. 163 believed that the survival of the country was in danger if a decidedly action of instilling values of loyalty and support in peaceful democratic process among the foreigners had not taken place. The sedentary lifestyle of the upper and middle classes in the industrial age made America susceptible to less developed yet physically stronger nations. 10 Additional essays about colonial houses and museums argue that preservationists manipulated the past to answer the needs of the present. The evidence of the two essay collections suggests that by the 1870s native-born Protestant Americans, alarmed by the changing physical and social landscape of the cities, went into action in ways that permeated public and private living spaces. Their attempts aimed to affect immigrants on rational and emotional levels in order to regain their political dominance. Invariably, an amorphous movement, its manifestations appeared wherever a need arose although it tended to concentrate in the Northern parts of the country. The studies focus mainly on male projects, creating the impression that women’s contribution was less significant. Charlene Mires, who examines the changes to Independence Hall over an extended period of time, asserts that ancestry and Protestant hegemony prompted the buildings’ preservation efforts in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. During the celebration of the Constitution’s centennial Supreme Court Justice Samuel F. Miller linked the historical document to Protestant rule and tradition, an observation that had 10 Harvey Green, “Looking Backward to the Future,” in Creating A Dignified Past, 15, 6. 164 been further reinforced in the occupation of Independence Hall by hereditary societies in the 1890s. The building, she concludes, symbolized order and consensus. 11 Seth Bruggeman demonstrates that powerful elite women could shape historical memory and construct a mythic past in the face of contradictory evidence. Bruggeman shows that the colonial house erected at the birthplace of George Washington in Wakefield, Virginia was constructed in the wrong spot and in a colonial style that did not resemble architectural findings of the original house. The lack of documents led George Washington Curtis to place a birthplace marker at Popes Creek, several hundred feet away from the house’s original place. In the early twentieth century, local elite women raised the funds to build the house, which they donated to the National Park Service in 1932. The NPS continued the women’s historical vision by portraying the house as an ideal plantation that evoked the memory of Washington, who had lived in Wakefield until age three. They neglected to emphasize slavery due to the effect of racial segregation, preferring to ignore the issue rather than face negative criticism. 12 The preservation of Valley Forge reflected similar goals. Lorette Treese follows the attempts at the park’s preservation from its outset, in the 1870s, to the late twentieth century. She asserts that the preservation of Valley Forge was motivated by the idea of constructing an image of selfless suffering soldiers led by an inspirational leader, George 11 Charlene Mires, Independence Hall in American Memory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania press, 2002), 138, 145. 12 Seth C. Bruggeman, Here, George Washington Was Born: Memory, Material Culture, and the Public History of a National Monument (Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 2008). 165 Washington, in order to inculcate the masses – particularly the foreign born – with civic loyalty and patriotism. Treese reveals that the park was a contested terrain where several organizations and individuals, eager to capitalize on the success of the first celebration of Evacuation Day of the Colonial Army from Valley Forge, invested a great effort in promoting their view and gaining support of wealthy individuals and state and federal politicians. Her detailed and thorough study, however, does not delve into the actions taken by women involved in the national preservation attempt. 13 With greater attention to gender issues, Karal Marling argues that the colonial revival of the 1870s and 1880s shifted the view of the American Revolution from the battlefront to domesticity. In her discussion about the creation of the memory of George Washington in the last decades of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries she demonstrates that class distinction was a significant aspect of the history that women had constructed. Similar to the Centennial tea parties, where women recreated the “Republican Court,” the Lady Managers of the Chicago Exposition of 1893 wore old ball gowns to emphasize the ruling elite and discourage immigrants’ social mobility. 14 Marling’s focus on the role of women in the movement is one of the study’s greatest strengths. By emphasizing domesticity, women offered the orderly home as a refuge from progress and shifted the view of the revolution from military campaigns 13 Lorette Treese, Valley Forge: Making and Remaking a National Symbol (University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995). 14 Karal Ann Marling, George Washington Slept Here: Colonial Revivals and American Culture, 1876- 1986 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), 87-88, 97. The argument that immigrants threatened the cultural hegemony of Protestant elites is cited by: Jacqueline Calder, “Evolution of a Colonial Revival Home, 1882-1995,” in Creating a Dignified Past, 30. 166 toward domesticity and social balls. 15 She also argues that between the years 1853 and 1890 women domesticated history through their preservation of Mount Vernon, Washington’s Headquarters at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, Newburgh, New York, and the Old South Meeting House in Boston, Massachusetts. Marling’s thorough study mainly focuses on urban women while the work of rural women remains largely obscured. In general, historians who study the preservation movement with gender as a category of analysis find a significant difference between men’s and women’s projects. Barbara J. Howe concludes that middle and upper middle class women typically acted alone or as auxiliaries to male organizations, mainly because men formed exclusive associations that barred women’s membership. The preservation projects that men selected focused on political power and economy, apparent in the restoration of the George Marshall House and Colonial Williamsburg. Women centered on issues that appealed to their lives, the family and religion, as they chose to focus on Mary Washington’s house and Anglican churches. Howe agrees with other scholars when she finds that white female preservationists often excluded those who came to America after the Revolution and ignored Native Americans and African Americans. 16 The popular New England Kitchen exhibit in the Centennial Exposition is often mistakenly cited as the main source that inaugurated the colonial revival. The exhibit 15 Marling, George Washington Slept Here, 52, 97. 16 Barbara J. Howe, “Women in the Nineteenth-Century Preservation Movement,” in Restoring Women’s History through Historic Preservation eds. Gail Lee Dubrow and Jennifer B. Goodman (Baltimore, MD: The John Hopkins University Press, 2003), 27, 35-36. 167 originated over a decade earlier in New York. The Kitchen had been the brainchild of Mrs. Ray Potter, the president of the Sanitary Aid Society in Brooklyn, whose Sanitary Fair in February 1864 featured the exhibit. The enthusiastic committee that orchestrated the project promised that “The grand old fire-place shall glow again – the spinning wheel shall whirl as of old – the walls shall be garnished with products of the forest and the field… We shall try to reproduce the manners, customs, dress, and if possible, the idiom of the time.” 17 Though she had not realized it, Potter introduced a construction of the past that would resonate with American audiences for decades thereafter. When visitors who viewed the exhibit agreed that “the old is better,” they uttered a sentimental feeling shared by many who endorsed the Colonial Revival – preservationists, architects, artists, authors, and general audiences. 18 Versions of the Northern Kitchen appeared in subsequent Sanitary Fairs and over a decade later in the Centennial Exposition. In her Centennial application for a “New England Home of one hundred years ago” Emma D. Southwick of Boston, Massachusetts suggested having a house fitted and furnished “as nearly as possible to the style in 1776.” 19 The exhibit included a supposedly typical colonial setting in addition to an array of artifacts including English china, quilts, and furnishings mostly owned by political and military leaders. Similar to the Brooklyn Fair, women in colonial costumes spun, weaved, 17 History of the Brooklyn and Long Island Fair, February 22, 1864 (Brooklyn: “The Union” Steam Presses, 1864), 73. 18 Ibid., 75. 19 “Exhibitor’s Application for Space # 3425,” U. S. Centennial Commission, Record Group 230, City Archives, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 168 quilted, cooked, and baked by the hearth. A keen observer commented: “it would have been a sacrifice of more than half the good things that delight the visitors, to have kept the log house, only a New England log house.” 20 His remark demonstrates that proponents of the movement did not seek an accurate representation of the past but rather an idealized domestic space created by the warmth of the hearth, the plain clothes, domestic production, and walls lined with period artifacts. It provided a stark contrast to the economic hardship that followed the Civil War. The celebration of America’s centennial inaugurated scores of celebrations linked to events that occurred during and following the American Revolution. At the same time, Valley Forge, the encampment site of the Continental Army during the winter of 1777- 1778, became the subject of a preservation attempt by a local group of historical-minded men. The site had received recognition when Henry Woodman published a series of letters in 1850 describing the encampment area through the eyes of a child who hunted revolutionary relics and as a mid-century quaint village. Local residents, people from other parts of the country, and legislators took notice. Valley Forge received further acknowledgement by the popular historian Benson J. Lossing‘s biography of George Washington who emphasized the soldiers’ self-sacrifice and heroism. The site became a popular destination for picnic groups who could easily reach it via a train operated by the Philadelphia and Reading Railroad Company. 21 20 “New England Log House (Concluded),” The New Century for Woman, 15 July 1876, 75. 21 Treese, Valley Forge, 7-9. 169 The first to advocate its preservation was Isaac A. Pennypacker, a physician from Phoenixville, who wrote to the local historian John Fanning Watson in 1844 about the possibility of protecting the area. 22 The advent of the Civil War prompted local residents to congregate on the camp’s grounds. Within days after the fall of Fort Sumter, they held a grand parade with musical fanfare and a thirty-four guns’ salute, “and pledge[d] themselves to stand by the stars and stripes as those before them had done in 1777.” In the meeting that ensued at the Valley Forge Mansion, known as George Washington’s Headquarters, local dignitaries pledged to “remember unparallel suffering of our revolutionary forefathers at Valley Forge and elsewhere” and support the Union. 23 Once sectional differences broke into full-fledged war, Republicans inextricably linked their political stance to that of the revolutionary colonists to rationalize their prowess and their resolve to support military conflict. Valley Forge represented the connection to their forefathers and their determination to protect their achievements. The grounds became the subject of increased attention when the Centennial Exposition had closed its doors. In December 1877, several prominent men, among them Theodore Bean, a lawyer and solicitor for the Montgomery County treasurer, Daniel Webster, an Agent of the Railroad Company stationed at Valley Forge, Isaac W. Smith, Dr. Nathan A. Pennypacker, and Major R. R. Corson, met and formed the Valley Forge 22 Ibid., 7. 23 “Patriotism at Valley Forge,” The National Defender, 23 April 1861, 2. 170 Centennial Association with the goal of commemorating the one hundredth anniversary of evacuation day by Washington’s troops in an impressive civic, religious, and military celebration. In a subsequent meeting a seemingly insignificant controversy arose over the phrasing of the invitation for the affair, but its resolution affected the construction of the memory that generations of Americans would internalize for decades thereafter. The invitation had originally named the event the Centennial celebration of the occupation and evacuation of Valley Forge. Upon a call to strike out the word “evacuation” one board member opposed by claiming that the soldiers were happy to leave the camp. Others argued that the planned event should commemorate the occupation of the grounds rather than mark its end. Celebrating the evacuation would have inevitably shifted the attention from the soldiers’ self-sacrifice to subsequent – and perhaps more impressive – achievements such as the Battle of Monmouth in New Jersey. It would have presented the encampment as a prelude to future events rather than as a significant site for what had transpired on its grounds during the encampment. At length, a compromise had been reached and the final version, proposed by J. P. Hale Jenkins, emphasized the winter camp and mentioned the evacuation day as the date of celebration. 24 24 The invitation called to attend the “Centennial celebration of the occupation of Valley Forge by the Continental army under Washington, June 19, 1878, the date of the evacuation.” See: “Valley Forge. Meeting of the Centennial Association,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 February 1878, 2. 171 Figure 4. George Washington’s Headquarters, Valley Forge National Park PICTURE TAKEN BY AUTHOR 172 The following item on the agenda of the Committee on Memorial Design and Erection was finding the right monument for the park grounds – a small Georgian stone house that once belonged to Isaac Potts. It served as Washington’s headquarters during his winter stay at the camp. The members were aware that Hannah Ogden, the property’s owner, requested a higher price than its value due to the interest of several potential buyers. The committee laid out a detailed plan for a national fundraiser headed by women because “Ample evidence has been shown in the past that where patriotism inspires their labors success will crown their efforts.” 25 It followed the structure of the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association (MVLA) whose members successfully purchased the first president’s house with public donations in 1858. A lady regent would supervise managers for the city in Philadelphia, Montgomery, Chester, Delaware, Lancaster, Berks, Bucks, Lehigh, Northampton, and Schuylkill counties, including the cities within them. Local managers would recruit canvassers who would approach their respective districts. The regent would recruit vice regents in other states to supervise the campaign in their territories. The success of the MVLA inspired other organizations that sought public support of preservation projects. Ann Pamela Cunningham founded the association in 1853 with a call to the Southern women to rescue the grave of the “Father of his country” and a declaration that “It is a woman’s office to be a vestal, and even the “fire of liberty” may need the care of her devotion and the purity of her guardianship.” 26 Morality and 25 Mrs. William H. Holstein, “Valley Forge Centennial Preparations,” Daily Local News, 30 April 1878. 26 An Appeal for the Future Preservation of the Home and Grave of Washington (Philadelphia: T. K. and P. G. Collins, Printers, 1855), 9. 173 domestic care caught the attention of Northern newspapers and the campaign turned into a national undertaking. By 1855, the first Pennsylvania Vice Regent, Lily Lytle Macalester (later Berghman) encouraged women to organize clubs to oversee the state’s counties. 27 Anna Morris Holstein, a farmer’s wife in her early thirties, was appointed Lady Manager of Montgomery County. 28 She enthusiastically devoted her time to the cause despite a loud opposition of prominent Philadelphia men who “disapproved of women mixing in public affairs.” 29 Valley Forge Centennial members hoped that Holstein, with her past experience and connections she had developed, would successfully orchestrate a national operation and appointed her regent of their organization on the following month. 30 In some ways, the members on the Committee on Memorial and Design’s high expectations of Holstein were not realistic. Only three months short of the centennial celebration of the encampment, the establishment of a national network of talented and well-connected vice regents who would be willing to orchestrate extensive campaigns in their states was utterly impossible. In addition, Holstein had to establish the campaign in 27 Ms. Macalester collected $10,000 for the cause. In 1873, when Cunningham resigned, she was elected Regent of the Association by the Grand Council. See: Thomas J Scharf, and Thompson Westcott, History of Philadelphia, 1609-1884(Philadelphia: L. H. Everts & co., 1884), Vol. II, 1701. 28 H. J. Stager, History of the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge: From Its Origin In 1878, and Reorganization In 1886 Particularly to the Date of Voluntary Dissolution in 1910. Preceded by Album and Biography of Directors (Pennsylvania: 1911), 18. 29 Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association of the Union, Historical Sketch of Ann Pamela Cunningham ”the Southern Matron,” (Printed for the Association, 1911), 8. 30 “Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 18 March 1878, 2. Stager, History of the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge, 82. 174 Pennsylvania, organize the fundraising operations for the Centennial events, negotiate the acquisition of the Headquarters, and recruit civic organizations to join the effort. Even with the most dedicated staff and ample time it would have been a challenge to accomplish all the required tasks. Under the constraints of time acute shortage of funds and with only several dedicated women by her side, Holstein had to prioritize, delegate, and act swiftly to accomplish as much as possible before the celebration. Without delay, she recruited her husband and Rebecca McInnes and entered negotiations to purchase the Headquarters. They resolved to pay the exorbitant price of $6,000 and an agreement of sale was signed in less than two weeks following her appointment. 31 With a major obstacle removed, Holstein set out to raise the funds for the purchase. She sought the help of nearby relatives and friends, some of whom had assisted her when she nursed soldiers during the Civil War. They included Rachel Evans, Abby (Mrs. George) W. Holstein, Alice Hallowell (Mrs. Isaac) Holstein, Helen Cushman Hooven, Rebecca McInnes, and Mrs. Mercer. The women met regularly in order to coordinate the effort of collecting provisions for sale on the day of the Centennial celebration. In the meantime, Holstein attempted to recruit men’s organizations in order to capitalize on their national networks and reach a greater number of influential people of 31 The final agreement stipulated that the first payment of $500 will be made on May 1, 1878, the second payment of $1,000 on August 1, the third payment of $1,500 on October 1, and the VFCMA will mortgage the remaining $3,000. Local Daily News, 18 March 1878, Valley Forge, County Clippings, Revolutionary Wars Collection, West Chester Historical Society (CCHS), West Chester, Pennsylvania. William Hayman Holstein received the deed for the property from Hannah Ogden and passed it to the CMAVF on May 1, 1879. See: Ibid., 16. 175 means. She approached the Freemasons (of which Washington had been a member), the Society of the Cincinnati, the Order of Odd Fellows, and other secret societies, but none extended a helping hand. When the state’s Superintendent of Education agreed to back her effort, Holstein encouraged schools to organize fundraising events citing his auspices. She enthusiastically promised that once the headquarters was purchased it would become “an attractive point in the historic region” since it would “restore, in measure, the appearance it wore when Washington was resident beneath its roof.” 32 Signs that the task the association had undertaken would not be easily achieved appeared rather quickly. In April, a Norristown newspaper reported that, except for J. N. Smith of Valley Forge and Joseph E. Thropp, who owned property in the neighborhood, …none of the people in the vicinity take any interest in the matter… Men who boast of holding their lands by deeds long ant[e]-dating the revolution feel no patriotic pride, and evince no respect to the memory of the men by whose courage and endurance on that very ground enables them now to hold their tenures securely. 33 Philadelphians did not exhibit great interest either. In the following month, the Society of the Cincinnati accepted the invitation to attend the Centennial but was “more occupied with other affairs” and did not extend further assistance. At the same time, a Philadelphia 32 Holstein, “Valley Forge Centennial Preparations.” 33 “Meeting of Centennial Committees at Valley Forge,” Norristown Register, 16 April 1878, 3. 176 newspaper reported that subscriptions to purchase the headquarters “do not come in very brisk.” 34 However, Holstein was not discouraged. She decided to capitalize on her ties to the MVLA. She obtained a copy of the organization’s constitution, charter, and by-laws and handed them to lawyers to use as a guide for the Valley Forge Association. In May, she contacted Margaret J. M. Sweat, the Vice Regent of Maine and requested the names and addresses of women from across the country that were instrumental in furnishing the rooms at Mount Vernon. She hoped they would assist furnishing the Headquarters. In her letter she reminded Sweat that she had served as regent of her county in the initial Mount Vernon fundraising campaign and that she has “continued to feel the deepest interest in all pertaining to it.” 35 When Sweat decidedly replied that all the contributions they receive would remain in Mount Vernon and neglected to disclose names of any women, Holstein inquired the names of women from the thirteen colonies who would be suitable to serve as vice regents for her organization. Holstein’s focus on the original colonies would ultimately become the organization’s strategy. At the same time she recruited additional acquaintances to persuade potential candidates from various states to head campaigns in their regions. Thus, Sweat received a 34 “The Triennial Session of the Society of the Cincinnati,” North American, 23 May 1878, 1; “State and Vicinity,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 13 May 1878, 4. Following the centennial celebration at Valley Forge, an observer determined that “Philadelphia and Norristown took little interest in the movement.” See: “Valley Forge 1778-1878,” Norristown Register, 23 June 1878, 2. 35 A letter from Mrs. Holstein to Mrs. Lorenzo Sweat from May 20, 1878, quoted in: Charles B. Hosmer, The Presence of the Past: The History of the Preservation Movement in the United States before Williamsburg (New York: Putnam, 1965), 58. 177 letter from David G. Haskins of Boston in which he expressed his hope that she would serve as a Vice Regent for Maine. He also sent her CMAVF’s shares of stock that he was selling. 36 Despite her difficulty in recruiting managers, Holstein was able to fill several positions before the centennial celebration on June 19 th , 1878. Three vice regents for Massachusetts, Maryland, and Ohio joined the campaign and representatives from West Chester, Philadelphia, and Reading volunteered in Pennsylvania. 37 The women who joined Holstein were connected to public figures and deeply involved in civic and historical issues. Isabella James, the Vice Regent of Massachusetts, was a descendant of Isaac Potts, the original owner of Washington’s Headquarters, and the author of her family’s history. 38 Harriet Lane Johnson of Baltimore, who joined as Vice Regent of Maryland, was the niece of President James Buchanan. Known for her beauty and decorum, she served as a hostess in the White House during his presidency and had been a close friend of Lily Berghman, who served as the Regent of the MVLA from 1874 until her death in 1891. 39 36 Ibid. 37 “Woman’s Work at Valley Forge,” Daily Local News, 24 June 1878. 38 The historical volume of nearly 400 pages includes an illustration of the Headquarters at Valley Forge. See: Mrs. Thomas Potts James, Memorial of the Thomas Potts, Junior, Who Settled in Pennsylvania (Cambridge: Privately Printed, 1874), 216. 39 “Capricious Washington,” Table Talk IX (April 1894): 142. Lily Macalester, the daughter of Charles Macalester, the government director of the Second Bank of the United States in Philadelphia, was later known as Mrs. Berghman and, after the death of her first husband, as Mrs. Laughton. See: Milton Stern, Harriet Lane, America’s First Lady (2005), 57. Harriet Lane was one of the bridesmaids in Macalester’s wedding to Berghman. See: “Notable Marriage,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 29 Dec. 1860, 1. 178 Locally, Mary Rose Smith, daughter of Justice Robert C. Grier of the U.S. Supreme Court and formerly a member of the Executive Committees of the Great Central Fair and the Centennial Exposition, volunteered to occupy the Vice Regency of Philadelphia. Committed to women’s work, she edited the volume of the history of world charities that were founded and managed by women, which was later published for the Centennial in 1876. 40 Adelaide Ermentrout, wife of Democratic State Senator Daniel Ermentrout, filled the position of the Vice Regent of Reading. Her husband, who served as a member of the Pennsylvania Statuary Commission, worked closely with four commissioners interested in commemorating distinguished historical figures. 41 A vice regent with a strong interest in education, Sarah W. Starkweather of West Chester, was the superintendent of the county’s public schools. 42 At the end of May, the Valley Forge Centennial Association issued an invitation calling for a “general holiday” to unite “all people” to celebrate on the encampment grounds. 43 Despite their declaration for a national celebration, the association’s focus had been much narrower. Their advanced invitation list included the National Guard, local 40 See: Catalogue of Charities Conducted by Women, as Reported to the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee of the United States, International Exhibition, 1876 (Philadelphia: Collins, printer, 1876). 41 The additional commissioners included Simon Cameron, former Secretary of War for Abraham Lincoln, George De B. Keim, a leading Philadelphia lawyer who had ties to the coal and railroad industries, J. R. Hager of Lancaster, Dr. William McKenna of Washington County, and Col. Francis A. Osbourne of Philadelphia. See: “Statues of Distinguished Pennsylvanians,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 8 August 1878, 2. 42 S. W. Streeter, “West Chester Public Schools, From 1860-1866,” in West Chester, Past and Present: Centennial Souvenir with Celebration Proceedings (West Chester: Local Daily News, 1899), 34. 43 “Valley Forge – Invitation of the Centennial Association,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 May 1878, 4; “Local Summary,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 24 May 1878, 3. 179 public schools, the American diplomatic corps, and Governors and cabinets of the thirteen original states in additions to militias in full regalia. 44 CMAVF members approached these states because they were where individuals of colonial ancestry were most likely to reside. There was a greater chance that these individuals would be interested in undertaking the preservation project because it implied hierarchy of status and rank. With the special day quickly approaching, the association struck a commemorative medal to be sold at the Headquarters. Its center had a raised bust of Washington, surrounded by a border with the words “George Washington Commander – in-Chief” with two stars between the name and the title. On the reverse, the center was engraved with “In commemoration of the departure of the Continental Army, June 19”. It was surrounded by olive branches and laurel wreath. A raised border carried the words “Valley Forge Centennial, 1778-1878.” 45 Similarly to the Centennial Exposition medals, such memorabilia struck a chord with an audience captivated by a momentous experience. Interestingly, the medal did not mention the encampment but its end, commemorating the survival of the Continental Army. Intended to be sold on Evacuation Day, it memorialized the day on which it would have been purchased. Americans had idealized George Washington since he became president and continued to do so throughout the nineteenth century. The Washington 44 “The Valley Forge Centennial,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 24 Jan. 1878, 2. 45 “Valley Forge. The Centennial Today, Medals Stuck at the Mint,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 19 June 1878, 2. 180 image constructed by religious and civic leaders corresponded to their political and cultural needs. Since the new republic period, the image of a self-sacrificing, self- controlled, and religious leader had emerged to preclude the idea of a general who sought political power. Over time, as conflicts between Northerners and Southerners persisted, he also came to represent political consensus in order to bridge sectional differences and political disagreements. 46 By the 1850s he was the most popular historical figure in the country. The Executive Committee of the Valley Forge Association selected him to decorate their medal trusting that he would better inspire visitors rather than the image of the Headquarters. Despite the mounting tasks that awaited their attention, association leaders managed to incorporate their organization on the eve of the celebration on June 18 th , 1878. They changed its name to the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge (CMAVF) denoting their intention to continue their effort of memory following the centennial celebration. Their objective, as stated in the Act of Incorporation, was “to purchase, improve and preserve the lands and improvements thereon, occupied by General Washington, at Valley Forge, and maintain them as a memorial park for all time to come.” Clearly, the organizers sought to manage the memorial park they envisioned for perpetuity. On the morning of June 19 th , a loud salute of thirteen guns signaled the commencement of the celebration. An impressive march of thousands of troops and 46 Barry Schwartz, George Washington: The Making of an American Symbol (New York: Free Press, 1987), 24, 27, 190. 181 members of civic societies passed for review by Governor John F. Hartranft and General Winfield Scott. In full uniform and regalia the marchers presented an impressive procession of military and civic-minded men that they felt was sure to impress the thirty thousand visitors who were arriving at the site. Susan G. Davis, who studies nineteenth- century parades in Philadelphia, recognizes the impression created by volunteer militia who interpreted patriotism and tied themselves to the historical narrative of the American Revolution. She argues that they conveyed discipline and order through their impressive uniform and ceremonial parades. 47 In contrast to the apparent military prowess, women tended to the memorial aspect by decorating local graves and scattering flowers on the ground, symbolically sanctifying the site. In the afternoon, Henry Armitt Brown, a prominent orator, addressed the large crowd. He opened with a detailed description of the hungry and cold soldiers, praising their courage, virtue, and suffering. In an attempt to find common grounds for all religious denominations, he suggested that site was as sacred as that of Moses’ Burning Bush: if freedom be any longer precious and faith in humanity be not banished from among you, if love of country still find a refuge among the hearts of men, “take your shoes from off your feet for the place of which you stand is holy ground.” 48 47 Susan Davis, Parades and Power: Street Theatre in Nineteenth-Century Philadelphia (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1986), 67-70. 48 “One Hundred Years Ago At Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 20 June 1878, 2. 182 Discussing more recent times, he included the memory of Valley Forge with that of Lexington, Bunker Hill, and Saratoga, where significant attempts of commemoration had taken place. 49 It placed Valley Forge, where no battle had ever transpired, on the same level as pivotal battlefields of the Revolutionary War. He concluded with a message about future generations “to them the Union will seem as dear and Liberty as sweet and progress as glorious as they were to our fathers.” By linking the notions of liberty and union Brown connected the Revolutionary War with the recent Civil War and reiterated the anti-secessionist position. Holstein, who had worked in the Headquarters preparing the reception, later commented – “That was indeed a grand oration of Armitt Brown, it thrills one to read it; what must it have been to have heard it, amid such surroundings.” 50 During the entire day the women of CMAVF operated the open Headquarters for hundreds of visitors who paid ten cents to view the structure and an exhibition of revolutionary period artifacts arranged in its first floor. Holstein sold stereoscopic images and medals of bronze and silver while others served dinner in a large tent nearby. Their 49 The imposing Bunker Hill monument had been completed in 1843. Lexington had erected the first memorial to the war on July 4, 1799, and at its centennial celebration it unveiled the statues of John Adams and John Hancock. See: “What a Glorious Morning. This is For America! The Centennial Everybody Goes,” Boston Daily Advertiser, 20 April 1875, 1. In Saratoga, New York, a cornerstone for a foundation of a memorial that “will be visible for miles around” was laid at its centennial celebration. See: “An interesting Centennial Celebration,” New York Herald, 16 Oct. 1877, 6. 50 Anna M. Holstien, Bridgeport, PA, to Francis M. Brooke, June 26, 1878, Francis M. Brooke Collection, Box 1, Valley Forge National Historical Park (VFNHP). 183 effort netted $710, a sum that covered the $500 payment Isaac W. Smith had advanced for the purchase of the Headquarters. 51 With the main event behind them and a pending mortgage of $3,000, CMAVF members had to organize impressive events that would attract donors. 52 Following the MVLA’s footsteps, they might have hoped that Armitt’s oration would move people to support their effort similarly to the manner in which Edward Everett’s oration of Mount Vernon benefited its cause. Everett’s speech tour and article series published in the New York Ledger raised nearly $70,000. 53 However, Brown’s death a mere two months after the celebration terminated all plans if any had been considered. In November, Mary Rose Smith, the Vice Regent of Philadelphia, organized a meeting at the Historical Society of Philadelphia (HSP) in the memory of Brown in order to raise awareness of the association’s efforts in the city. A large gathering assembled to hear Brown’s Valley Forge address delivered by Daniel D. Dougherty. Theodore Bean, one of the principal founders of the CMAVF, presented the audience with the association’s goals and the stock offered for purchase. 54 Several days later, Smith opened 51 “Celebration at Valley Forge,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 25 June 1878, 1; The Headquarters collected $410 and the dinner $300. “Receipts at the Ladies’ Tent and at Headquarters,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 25 June 1878, 3. 52 According to their agreement, the CMAVF was to pay Ogden a total of $3,000 by October 1878 and obtain a mortgage on the remaining sum of $3,000. See: Treese, Valley Forge, 20-21. 53 Kenneth R. Bowling and Donald R. Kennon, eds., Establishing Congress: the Removal to Washington, D.C., and the Election of 1800 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2005), 178. 54 “Washington at Valley Forge,” North American, 9 Nov. 1878, 1; “Memorial Association of Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 9 Nov. 1878, 2. 184 her residence for an exclusive meeting. She wanted the fundraising effort managed by privileged and experienced women. The invitees included former participants of Centennial Exposition committees and current members of the New Century Club, where she had been a member of the Board of Directors. 55 The women who answered the invitation were called to plead with state officials for appropriation for the project at a special dinner in Wilkes-Barre. On the morning of November 22, their special train left Philadelphia. On its way, it collected additional activists in Norristown, Phoenixville, Pottstown, and Reading. In the interim, it stopped at Valley Forge where the travelers visited Washington’s Headquarters. 56 The meeting did not bring material results despite the presence of the influential city women. Philadelphia women organized into committees under the direction of Smith and Louisa Claghorn, the former chairwoman of the Ninth Ward for the Centennial Exposition, who served as treasurer. By the winter, sixteen city wards had been actively canvassed for contributions. The HSP assisted by offering stocks for purchase on their premises. 57 While the women of Philadelphia labored to raise funds in the city, Holstein turned to rural Pennsylvania, a population generally kept at the fringe of major urban campaigns. With the help of Mrs. Ermentrout, wife of a state senator, a lavish evening 55 “The Valley Forge Project,” North American, 11 Nov. 1878, 1. 56 “Washington’s Headquarters,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 Nov. 1878, 2. 57 “Washington’s Headquarters at Valley Forge,” North American, 15 Feb. 1879, 1; “Washington’s Headquarters at Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 15 Feb. 1879, 2. 185 ball was organized in Reading that had excited women far and wide across the countryside. In covering the preparations for the event, its main cause - historical preservation - was not mentioned. Instead, The Daily Eagle dedicated two lengthy articles with detailed descriptions of dresses, hair-style, and jewels, emphasizing young women’s care for display. It portrayed the ball as an elite society’s social event where extravagant fashionable appearance would dominate the scene. Ironically, it equated freedom with the privilege of attending such occasion – “Go for you are like Washington ‘holding the proud rank of independent, free American women and men.’” 58 It seemed that the preservation of Washington’s Headquarters occupied the minds of the ball’s organizers, but not those of their guests. The prosperous families of rural Pennsylvania were given a rare opportunity to mingle and they took full advantage of it. On the appropriate April evening, a large crowd gathered on the sidewalk by Maennerchor Hall, to view the guests who arrived at the ball. Hundreds loudly commented in excitement on the silk, satin, and velvet gowns, amazed at the lacey trains, and dazzled by the array of diamonds, pearls, corals, and opals. Upon entering the hall, the visitors were reminded of the fundraiser’s purpose by a program engraved with Washington’s Headquarters on its front page and a picture of a continental soldier on its last. 59 Additional colonial and revolutionary mementos were scarce. The flags and a bugle that decorated the walls belonged to Civil War generals, and although one sword dated back to the revolutionary period, the second originated in the Napoleonic Wars. 58 “The Grand Ball. All the Excitement,” The Daily Eagle, 22 April 1879, 4. 59 “The Patriotic and Vigorous,” The Daily Eagle, 23 April 1879, 1. 186 The most obvious link with Valley Forge was the portraits of George and Martha Washington, each hung at the center of a wall, across from each other and equally important. They were garlanded with evergreens and two American flags crossed above them. The ball was a rare event. CMAVF members realized that “There may not be another ball like this in Reading for many, many, years” and perhaps preferred to keep the invitees excited about the opportunity in anticipation of obtaining large amount of funds. 60 The hall was filled with dignitaries who arrived from Massachusetts, Maryland, New Jersey, and New York, and included cabinet, Senate, House, and army and navy officials. Pennsylvania was represented by a large number of guests; two hundred visitors arrived from Norristown in addition to Lancaster, Harrisburg, Pottsville, Lebanon, Columbia, Allentown, and Philadelphia, all “fair women and brave men, representing the elite of society.” 61 The “Grand March” of those who presided over the ball, among them Governor Hoyt, former Governor Hartranft, Holstein, and local women activists, was a faint remainder of the ball’s objective. Noticeably missing from the party were privileged Philadelphians, the very women Smith recruited for the project. They probably attended the Carnival of Authors orchestrated on behalf of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA), which took place at the Horticultural Hall on the same evening. Louisa E. Claghorn, the 60 “What To Wear,” The Reading Daily Eagle, 21 April 1879, 4. 61 “Valley Forge – Reading Last Night’s Memorial Fete,” Reading Times and Dispatch, 23 April 1879; “Gala Night To-morrow,” Reading Time and Dispatch, 21 April 1879, 1. 187 Philadelphia CMAVF branch’s treasurer, directed the gala along with other members of the General Committee of Arrangements. Remarkably similar to the carnival organized by the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee on February 1876, it featured costumed characters such as Pickwick and Macbeth, enacted or portrayed Longfellow and Whittier, and exhibited a model of the departure of the Mayflower. 62 Literary and historical memory had no direct link to the SPCA’s agenda but Revolution-themed events popularized by the Women’s Centennial Executive Committee became attractive fundraisers. 63 One can only imagine Holstein’s frustration when she learned that Philadelphia’s wealthiest and exclusive elite easily shed thousands of dollars to help stray dogs and abandoned cats, while remaining unmoved by her organization’s patriotic cause. Ironically, the sum spent on the event’s decorations alone, over $3,000, could have satisfied the amount owed on the mortgage CMAVF struggled to raise. The absence of the city’s wealthy and powerful elites deprived the project of a legitimacy that only an endorsement of the socially prominent could have bestowed. It also shaped its production. Unlike the tea parties carried out on behalf of the Centennial, the organizers of the ball lacked the funds and connections that could have enabled them to produce an opulent historically-centered affair. Whereas the Centennial committees had flowers, foods, and decorations brought from afar, occasionally from out of the state, Reading women depended on local suppliers and a limited budget. The abundance of 62 “Author’s Carnival. The Opening of Horticultural Hall This Evening. Scones Inside,” North American, 22 April 1879, 1; “Carnival of Authors. Brilliant Opening Scenes at the Horticultural Hall,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 April 1879, 3. 63 See: Chapter 3. 188 valuable revolutionary articles in the hands of old Philadelphia families, and the access the privileged city women had to prominent people in other parts of the state and the country enabled them to obtain the most appealing of artifacts for their displays. These circumstances, however, did not prevent CMAVF women from presenting the Headquarters and its planned memorial park in a more forceful manner. They could have organized a display of colonial and revolutionary artifacts and dedicated a table for articles found in Valley Forge. Holstein’s husband held in his possession two cannon balls, a piece of shell, and a small hatchet found at the camp grounds in addition to Anthony Wayne’s pistols and many additional artifacts could be obtained from area inhabitants. 64 The women could have loaned a great number of articles from their friends and acquaintances, similar to those loaned for the Montgomery County centennial celebration a few years later. 65 In addition, communication with the media could have been handled more judiciously. Holstein and Ermentrout could have informed the press about their organization’s goals and described the preparations for the event in order to promote their enterprise. They could have also employed the opportunity to appeal for public support. The expression of excitement over the ball that culminated in a fashionable display could 64 William H. Holstein loaned the cannon balls, the shell, and the hatchet to the exhibit arranged for the Montgomery County Centennial celebration in September 1884. Bean, History of Montgomery County, PA, Appendix 2, xxi; His pistols appear at his will, where he left them to George Meade Holstein. See: William Hayman Holstein, “Will.” 65 Centennial of Montgomery County organizers displayed 1240 exhibitors. For the list of artifacts see: Freeland Gotwalts Hobson, William Joseph Buck, and Henry Sassaman Dotterer, eds., Centennial Celebration of Montgomery County at Norristown, Pennsylvania, (Norristown, PA: Published by the Centennial Association of Montgomery County, 1884), 112-420. 189 have been channeled toward a historically meaningful exhibition similar to the one undertaken by the Centennial Women’s committees. Requirement for colonial costumes for women and Continental Army uniform, or any old-style attire, for men could have helped construct a memory not only in visitors’ minds but also in the hundreds of spectators who came to observe them. It was clear that an opportunity went amiss when a local newspaper dedicated more space to lengthy lists of persons who attended the ball rather than to the account of the event itself. Following the ball, the women could have also encouraged the media to discuss the total funds raised and to communicate that the ball had been part of a long, continuous effort. They could have called for additional support and spark public anticipation of future communal events on behalf of the cause. 66 The silence that followed did not help to publicize the subsequent local event the women organized. In June, an outdoor event suffered from similar detachment from historical context and disconnect from the media. Planned as a country festival, Fête champêtre, near the mountains of Pottsville, Pennsylvania, it featured archery, races, and dancing. The only link to the preservation effort was the publication of three editions of Edwin Kirkman Hart’s The Sleeping Sentinel of Valley Forge: A Romance of the Revolution on the festival’s grounds. 67 The event took place a mere six days after the dedication of the Headquarters on the one hundred and first anniversary of the evacuation of Valley 66 Each couple paid $3 for attending the ball. A CMAVF stock valued at $1. The event must have been lucrative and raised a substantial sum. See: “Grand Ball in Aid of Centennial Memorial Association of Valley Forge,” Revolutionary War Collection, Valley Forge, Box 5, CCHS. 67 The short story was publically published in 1897. 190 Forge. 68 It was a well-publicized ceremony that included a relay of a lost cornerstone with a granite replacement by master masons. The dedication could have served as an opportunity to disclose information about the upcoming event and encourage the public to attend. Curiously, a leading Philadelphia newspaper learned about it nearly a month later. The disclosure ended as a short notice under its “miscellaneous” items after the editors had confirmed the information with Holstein. 69 It seems that no activist from the Valley Forge Association communicated with the media during the festival either. Left without comments from CMAVF women, a local journalist concluded his report with a historically-irrelevant comment on “How many pretty ladies Pottsville has.” 70 In the meantime, continuous grass-roots activities raised additional funds and hope for success had not diminished. Dedicated individuals organized events in their rural communities, which served in lieu of city canvassers in areas where great distances between residences made canvassing inefficient. Lectures, readings, and recitals presented by locals raised rural audiences’ curiosity in America’s past and educated attendees in history constructed by, typically, affluent white Protestants. Indeed, the effort of county superintendent of education in Berks County demonstrated the merit of such initiatives. He ordered certificates of membership for public and other schools under his jurisdiction and brought the project to the attention of his teachers. In addition, he 68 “Valley Forge Dedication,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 24 June 1879, 3. 69 “Miscellaneous,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 24 July 1879, 3. 70 “$2000 for Valley Forge,” The Reading Daily Eagle, 26 June 1879, 1. The amount mentioned refers to the sum raised by the women of Philadelphia. See also: “The Centennial Memorial Association of Valley Forge,” Lowell Daily Citizen and News, 11 June 1879, 1. 191 delivered two lectures, “Valley Forge in History,” in a local grammar school and for a library society. The funds collected at these events purchased additional CMAVF stock. 71 Another fundraiser was the reading of poetry on an undisclosed subject by Ms. M. Fannie Boice at the residence of Rebecca McInnes in conjunction with the twenty third annual meeting of the Teachers’ Institute of Montgomery County. The proceeds of the evening were dedicated to the CMAVF. 72 Despite these efforts, the economic difficulties of the early 1880s gravely affected the association. The members had leased the Headquarters and property, but the sluggish stream of funds was not sufficient to cover the mortgage payments and there was fear that it could be foreclosed. 73 At length, when all venues had been exhausted, Holstein and her women associates considered approaching the Patriotic Order of the Sons of America (POSA) of which Theodore W. Bean, a principal founder of the CMAVF, had been an active member. Established in Philadelphia in 1847, the POSA fraternal organization advocated anti-Catholic and anti-foreign sentiments. Its goals included inculcation of American principles of patriotism and government, and opposing foreign interference in U.S. policies. 74 The remaining male directors of the CMAVF had no reason to oppose the appeal since they had also been active members of the POSA. In a meeting held at the 71 “Valley Forge Memorial Association,” The Reading Time and Dispatch, 21 April 1879, 1. 72 “Miss Boice’s Reading,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 4 Nov. 1879, 3; Stager, History of the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge, 85. 73 Harland D. Unrau, Administrative History Valley Forge National Historical Park, Pennsylvania (U. S. Department of the Interior: National Park Service, Northeast Team), 38. 74 Scharf and Westcott, History of Philadelphia, Vol. 3, 2075; Kate M. Scott, History of Jefferson County, PA (Syracus, NY: D. Mason & Co. Publishers, 1888), 318. 192 Headquarters in January 1886 between Holstein, Bean, and the State Executive Commission of the POSA, the CMAVF received a promise for full monetary support. 75 The president of the Pennsylvania POSA, Henry John Stager, whose ancestors settled near Valley Forge, recognized an opportunity for maintaining a site of civic significance which “will give to [POSA] honor as enduring as the Republic.” 76 He issued three appeals before the organization’s 181 camps (chapters) collected the required sum. 77 During the campaign, Camp News, the organization’s newspaper, published a series of articles authored by Bean about Washington at Valley Forge titled “Footprints of the Revolution” in attempt to spark further interest in the project. 78 In return for rescuing the CMAVF the POSA entered joint ownership of the Headquarters and formed a thirteen- member trustee committee whose members were also part of the directorship of the association. It gave the POSA full control over the organization’s decisions, accepted by a board of eighteen, and later, twenty-one officers and directors. The association between the CMAVF and the powerful and well-connected POSA was a great relief to Holstein. She cheerfully expressed it upon the pages of the Camp 75 A detailed description of events can be found in: James H. Wolfe, In the Matter of the Audit of the Account of the CMAVF Appeal by Henry J. Stager and Henry J. Stager, Trustee from the Court of Common Pleas of Montgomery County, as of June Term, 1910, No. 32,” Box 20, Valley Forge National Park (VFNP), Pennsylvania. 76 The description is cited from Holstein’s letter. See: Anna M. Holstein, Bridgeport, PA, to H. J. Stager, 5 April 1886. Ibid., 86. 77 The camps collected $3,370.98 with no help from the organization’s State Treasury. See: Ibid., 92. 78 The book had been originally published during the Centennial year in anticipation of peak interest in the subject. See: Theodore W. Bean, Washington at Valley Forge One Hundred Years Ago or The Foot-Prints of the Revolution (Norristown, PA: Charles P. Shreiner, 1876). 193 New, comparing the celebration of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee to that of the transformation of “the apathy and indifference, which rested like a weight upon the work” with “the earnest enthusiasm of those who are now taking part in the movement.” 79 The involvement of the POSA brought not only an end to the CMAVF’s monetary troubles but also additional benefits through the new members’ political connections. In 1887, McInnes with the Committee of State Appropriation secured $5,000 from state legislature for restoration work on the Headquarters. Within a few years, CMAVF were able to purchase additional property and create a park around the Headquarters. There was no reason for Holstein to worry when the state formed the Valley Forge Commission of ten members in 1893 with the initial goal of mapping the military camp and, in later years, increasing the acquisition of the camp’s lands. The commission’s first president, Francis Brooke, was Holstein’s cousin, and more importantly, the land owned by the CMAVF had been excluded from the commission’s jurisdiction. Holstein did not live to see the Pennsylvania Legislature‘s condemnation and acquisition of the CMAVF grounds and Headquarters in 1905. 80 At the time, J. P. Hale Jenkins, one of the principal members of the CMAVF, served as a commissioner for the park. In 1905, an act of the state legislature condemned the Headquarters for the use of the Park Commission and awarded damages to the CMAVF. 81 The remaining funds of the association were awarded to the Park Commission by Montgomery County Courts in 79 Anna M. Holstein, “The Headquarters at Valley Forge,” The Camp News, 1 July 1887, 155. 80 She died on Dec. 31, 1900. 81 Stager, Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge, 160-165. 194 June of 1911. Henry Stager, the former president of the POSA, handled the appeal on behalf of the CMAVF to the state Supreme Court. It was settled on February 1912 with the dissolution of the organization and the transfer of its funds to the Valley Forge Park Commission. 82 Holstein and her associates sought to link George Washington with the Headquarters because he resided there during most of the winter of 1777 and 1778 and because they could present him as a symbol of virtue, a man who sacrificed himself to defend freedom. Holstein perceived Martha Washington as a traditional wife caring for the domestic sphere although she had slave laborers with her to do much of the work – “by her presence imparted something of a home appearance to her husband’s lonely dwelling among the forests. At her suggestion, an addition of logs was placed on the north side, and used as a dining room.” 83 Holstein, who had read Benson John Losing’s new monograph Mary and Martha and found it “charming,” knew that the wives of other officers stayed at the encampment throughout the winter to raise the morale of their husbands and the troops. 84 However, she never attempted to mention them or any of the other officers. The popularity of Washington must have been at the heart of her decision; she hoped his name would attract public attention and funds. 82 Unrau, Administrative History Valley Forge National Historical Park, 51. 83 Holstein, “The Headquarters at Valley Forge,” 155. 84 Holstein mentions the book in her letter to Mrs. James: Anna M. Holstein, Bridgeport, Pennsylvania, to Mrs. James, 12 July 1887, Society Collection, HSP; Benson John Lossing, Mary and Martha, The Mother and the Wife of George Washington (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1886), 172. 195 Immortalizing Washington as the sole hero of the encampment was not accepted by all women. Mary Thropp Cone, whose ancestors settled in the area before the revolution, attempted to expand Valley Forge memory. In her opinion, advanced by the editor of the Phoenixville Messenger, John O. K. Robarts, the headquarters did not truly represent “the names of the Generals, regiments, the States represented there.” 85 In a letter published in major local newspapers she argued for a fitting memory “in the honor of these grand men, unspeakably brave and true” in the shape of a granite shaft that would tell the story and names of “the prominent actors in that scene of the war drama enacted upon those bleak hills.” Cone wanted to recognize the officers of the eleven states whose regiments camped at Valley Forge. Such a memorial would have demonstrated a memory of “consensus” of a united North and South behind the cause of independence. 86 Like Holstein, she also intended the memorial to educate foreign-born to trust governing institutions: It promotes the elevation of the human race, it educates the immigrants from all nations in honesty and virtue; it inculcates industry and expels foreign prejudices by the force of advancing intelligence. It provides for the visiting generations of Europe and America a shelter and a home under ‘a government of the people and by the people.’ 87 85 The Phoenixville Messenger, 22 July 1882. 86 It would have excluded South Carolina and Georgia whose regiments did not participate in the encampment. For complete list of regiments who camped at Valley Forge see: Frank Hamilton Taylor, Valley Forge, A Chronicle of American Heroism (Philadelphia: James W. Nagle, 1905), 101-102. 87 “Valley Forge,” The Phoenixville Messenger,15 July 1882; “Open Doors to Correspondents. The Neglected Monument of Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 24 July 1882, 7; Edward Payson Cone, Workizier, Thropp & Cone Families: Biographical Notes (New York: Privately Printed, 1905), 31. 196 Cone formed the Valley Forge Monument Association and with the help of prominent civic leader among them John F. Hartranft, a former state governor, George W. Childs, the editor of the Philadelphia Public Ledger, and CMAVF members Theodore W. Bean, Isaac W. Smith, Anna M. Holstein, Mrs. Hugh McInnes, and Mary Rose Smith. In 1882, when Cone commenced her efforts to raise funds for a monument, the nation experienced an economic downturn and CMAVF struggled to keep the Headquarters. She might have thought that by rallying Childs and Hartranft and including Southern states she could recruit a larger group of people. Holstein joined the association despite of a personal attack by Robarts who claimed that “the Lady Regency fashioned after that of Mount Vernon, while pretty in outline, in substance and practice does not come up to expectation.” 88 Pragmatically, she wanted to leave her mark on any campaign linked to the site. If the CMAVF faced financial difficulty, the Valley Forge Monument Association met similar fate. Both organizations vied for attention from the same historically-minded constituents for nearly identical goals. As public funds declined, the organizations resolved to cooperate in requesting appropriation from Congress. On December 1882, the one hundred and fifth anniversary of General Washington’s entrance to the encampment, locals gathered for a town hall meeting at Valley Forge. They decided to request Congress to include the encampment among the revolutionary battlefield sites it 88 The Phoenixville Messenger, 22 July 1882. 197 considered to help commemorate. 89 Four days later, a meeting of the Council of the HSP resulted with an official request to Congress. 90 Following an inquiry, government officials concluded that an appropriation would be awarded to CMAVF, which would satisfy their mortgage. Upon receiving the funds from the proposed bill, they would forward funds to the Monument Association. Both organizations were satisfied with the arrangement. However, the bill did not pass, and the Monument Association attempted to obtain state appropriation. Their effort resulted in the state act of 1893, which established the Valley Forge Park Commission. 91 The episode demonstrates that Valley Forge was the grounds for contestation over the construction of memory among elite rural women. As different as their approaches had been, the women selected to memorize officers, emphasizing leadership and class distinction. They wanted their example to instill social hierarchy, discipline, and deference. Holstein intended to furnish the headquarters with period articles to inspire visitors, similar to the rooms at Mount Vernon. She had hoped that the MVLA would assist in this task, but when her attempt to acquire assistance from the organization had been rebuffed by Mrs. Sweat, she tirelessly corresponded to achieve her goal. Reminding 89 No names of attendees are mentioned. “Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 22 December 1882, 2. 90 Congress, House, Monuments for Battle-Fields of the Revolution; Also for Valley Forge and Washington, Headquarters at Morristown, 48th Cong., 1st sess., no. 2123, (2 July 1884), 3. 91 William Herbert Burk, Historical and Topographical Guide to Valley Forge (Philadelphia: The John C. Winston Co., 1912), 159. Francis M. Brooke, Holstein’s cousin and a descendant of General Wayne, lobbied in 1892 for a state park. Governor Robert E. Pattison created the Commission and appropriated $25,000 for acquisition of land. See: Lyman P. Powell, “The Renaissance of the Historical Pilgrimage,” Review of Reviews, VIII (October 1893): 413. 198 Mrs. James of her Potts ancestry, Holstein wrote, “Your influence, may possibly procure some things for the Headquarters from the Potts family.” 92 Her efforts succeeded in the acquisition of documents and pictures from the librarian and officer of the Pennsylvania Historical Society, Frederick D. Stone. 93 At length, local Daughters of the American Revolution chapters received permission to decorate the rooms. 94 While decorating fitted women’s traditional role, it gave the press a hook for the publicity of the women’s campaign. When the Reading Daily Eagle reported that the “patriotic women” would preserve the Headquarters, it added that once they obtain the title for the property “it will be signal for the housekeepers of the whole country-side round about to look through their stores of time-honored furniture, so as not to be outdone in generosity by the Bay State.” 95 The rural press chose to emphasize women’s domestic task rather than the traditionally male roles of fundraising, public relations, and meetings with key political figures. Holstein took great pride in her preservation of Valley Forge and in her conviction that it belonged to the whole nation was unwavering. She passionately wrote 92 Holstein to Mrs. James, 12 July 1887, HSP. 93 She also urged him to donate a clock. See: Anna M. Holstein, Bridgeport, to Mr. F. D. Stone, 21 June 1892, and 25 June, 1892. 94 See Chapter 5. 95 “The Great Ball,” The Reading Daily Eagle, 17 April 1879, 4. 199 on the pages of the Camp News, the organ of the Pennsylvania branch of POSA: No State can have sole title to the old headquarters and hills of Valley Forge. They belong to the nation as much as does the name and fame of Washington. ‘No North, no South, no East, no West,’ can claim them. 96 Her words suggest that she considered the site an ideal representation of the revolution, when colonies from North and South joined in battle for independence. With such a firm stand, it appears striking that she allowed Civil War articles to decorate the walls of the Reading ball. On the one hundred and ninth celebration of Evacuation Day, in June 1887, upon receiving an American flag on behalf of the CMAVF, she mentioned the soldiers of Valley Forge who fought for a just government but gave longer description of Civil War heroes who “risked life and limb in [the flag’s] defense, when the last conscious word and loving look has been give to its care.” She continued with descriptions of the hospitals and “the starved Andersonville men” who returned from the Southern prison. 97 Holstein could have used the Headquarters and Washington as an ideal consensus behind the Revolutionary War to foster reconciliation between North and South, but, curiously, she did not suppress her feelings about the Civil War. The public honor given to Civil War generals at the celebration did not suggest the existence of any sentiments of compromise or intention of unity on the part of the organizers or their guests. Elizabeth 96 Anna M. Holstein, “The Headquarters at Valley Forge,” Camp News, Valley Forge Special Edition, 18 June 1887, 3. She would reiterate this statement in almost the exact words in the DAR magazine eight years later. See: Anna Morris Holstein, “Reminiscences of Valley Forge and General Washington’s Headquarters,” The American Monthly Magazine, 6 (May 1895): 550. 97 “Valley Forge. Many Thousands Massed Upon the Famous Hills,” Norristown Herald and Free Press, 20 June 1887, 3. 200 Varon’s findings that for many Northern Americans, disunion was associated with “fears of extreme political factionalism, tyranny, regionalism, economic decline, foreign intervention, class conflict, gender disorder, racial strife, widespread violence, and civil war, all of which could be interpreted as God’s retribution for America’s moral failings,” may hold the answer. Holstein could not have accepted secession as a viable solution to the regional political crisis. To her, it meant a rejection of the very idea for which the revolutionaries had fought. She probably blamed the South for the war that generated great numbers of casualties, who she had witnessed suffering and, often, dying. Valley Forge, where no battle had been fought, was significant for the spirit of self-sacrifice for a greater cause. Edwin Kirkman Hart expressed what a large number of Valley Forge preservationists wanted to memorialize in his introduction to his story of the The Sleeping Sentinel of Valley Forge: “the scene of trials and dangers of the little army which clung together, despite every hardship and discouragement and which was actuated by the love of country, love of home and love of mankind.” 98 The act of self-sacrifice had been largely associated with female gender role. Wives and mothers were often expected to serve the needs of their husbands and children before tending to their own necessities. The title of Frank Moore’s renowned monograph on the work of women in the Civil War, Women of the War: their heroism and Self- Sacrifice, rationalized women’s participation in acts of male aggression by conveying socially accepted female attributes. Men’s self-sacrifice in war typically carried the 98 Hart, The Sleeping Sentinel of Valley Forge, 5. 201 burden of the battlefield and possible disfigurement or death. Valley Forge preservationists altered the definition of self sacrifice without changing its function. Male self-sacrifice had no longer been directly linked to combat but had been articulated as any risky deed taken on behalf of the war effort. It blurred the boundary between men’s and women’s contribution to the war effort; if soldiers were ceremoniously commended for self-sacrifice without fighting, there were plenty of women whose contributions were no less significant and equally instructive. In the last decades of the nineteenth century, the public had become increasingly aware of preservation of the American past and culture as immigrants appeared in greater numbers in city streets and towns. Most immigrants who arrived to Pennsylvania after the Civil War settled in Philadelphia where they could easily find work and affordable housing, but enough individuals of Irish, Italian, Slovak, and Ukrainian descent chose to settle in rural areas such as Montgomery County that antagonism arose. 99 With the bondage of slavery removed, a few African Americans migrated northward and settled in Norristown, the county seat of Montgomery County, where sawmills, textile plants, furnace building, flour mills, and expanding retail business offered economic opportunity. 100 Propagating the fear of immigrants’ political power, Rev. John P. Newman observed in his speech during George Washington’s day of 1888, celebrated by 99 The Borough of Bridgeport increased its population by more than twofold from 1860 to 1890. De Tweiler, Jr., Borough of Bridgeport, Box 8, Bridgeport H MO-UM, Montgomery County Historical Society, Norristown, Pennsylvania. 100 Jean B. Toll and Michael J. Schwager, eds., Montgomery County: The Second Hundred Years (Norristown, PA: Montgomery County Federation of Historical Societies, 1983), vol. 1, 455. 202 the POSA, that there would be forty-three million foreigners in a population of sixty- seven million in twelve years. “Who are these foreigners?” he asked only to describe unskilled and uneducated laborers. He reached the inevitable conclusion that “Women and Chinese are not allowed to vote… but the rum-drinking foreigner is allowed to vote. This should be remedied.” 101 Newman did not offer viable solution, but in a sermon he preached on Thanksgiving of 1886 he suggested to extend the naturalization term, which had originally lasted five years, to ten or fifteen years in order for immigrants “to become indoctrinated in our free institutions… and then be prepared to love America for America’s sake.” 102 If the newly arrived had to be inculcated in the political tradition of freedom, it had to be by established inhabitants connected to the values of the founders, mainly Protestants of the wealthy leisure classes. They could command large sums when they found a worthy goal. Valley Forge, though an ideal site for patriotic education, lacked historical drama and suffered from a geographical disadvantage. It served only as a winter camp. As Charles Hosmer argues, it did not witness a monumental battle as Bunker Hill, nor did it claim to be a home for the first president, as Mount Vernon. And when empathetic descriptions of soldiers’ suffering in heavy winter months are the sole account for heroism it might have seemed to some history-minded preservationists that the attempt to portray the site as a pivotal point in the annals of the revolution was 101 “Washington’s Memory. How It Was Celebrated at the Academy of Music,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 Feb. 1888, 8. 102 John P. Newman, America for Americans! The Typical American. Thanksgiving Sermon (Washington D.C.: Rufus H. Darby, Printer, 1886), 20. 203 exaggerated and, perhaps, unjustified. Armies have long been known to suffer during winter time when roads froze and delayed the arrival of provisions and the turning point for Washington had actually occurred upon crossing the Delaware River with the victory in Trenton. If the uneventful encampment months could have posed a question on the legitimacy of site’s historical value, its geographical position could have discouraged Philadelphia visitors from frequent excursion due to its inaccessibility. 103 When Philadelphia’s elite had sponsored patriotic causes, such as the Sanitary Fair and the Centennial Exposition, they chose projects that had been located in the city. It enabled the city’s public school children to visit them and internalize the messages the exhibits presented. An excursion to Valley Forge would have been financially prohibitive for the public schools’ budgets. 104 Philadelphia’s leading social and financial elites preferred to support local causes that would instruct the city’s immigrant population and prevent new conflicts, such as the riots of the mid-1840s, from erupting. Valley Forge was not an attractive investment from the standpoint of distance and perhaps education. In addition, it is possible that the link between the Civil War and the encampment by Brown along with the focus on George Washington did not encourage privileged city women to join the cause. The women, who participated in the Centennial campaign, expressed a 103 When Philadelphia HSP members wanted to visit Valley Forge they had to schedule a special trip with train officials beforehand. Many had not visited the site since 1878, when it became the property of the CMAVF. “Historic Valley Forge,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 19 June 1892, 2. 104 The Centennial Committee who wanted to ensure that children of Philadelphia’s public schools attend the exhibits issued greatly discounted tickets for them. 204 consensus historical memory centered on Martha Washington in order to reconcile with Southern elite women. Teaming with the CMAVF could have lead to mistrust and a possible rift between themselves and their Southern counterparts, and jeopardized the relationships they had worked so diligently to establish. In addition, the relegation of Mary Washington to an almost obscure position in the historical memory of the site might have irritated Philadelphia women who believed that women’s influence on history was as significant as that of men. During the years that the CMAVF struggled to establish fiscal existence, Holstein and some of the members of the association immersed themselves in establishing a local historical society. The advent of the County’s centennial on September 1884 prompted a meeting to create a body that would organize a fitting celebration and would oversee the collection of historical evidence. 105 On George Washington’s birthday, February 22, 1881, several prominent county men among them Theodore W. Bean, William H. Holstein, Hiram Corson, Isaac Chism, Isaac Roberts, and Samuel M. Corson decided to form the Historical Society of Montgomery County for the purpose of “the preservation of the civil, political and religious history of the County, as well as the promotion of the study of History, local, national and universal.” 106 Bean, who presided at the first meeting, spoke about the obligation and urgency in rescuing evidence before it was lost. 105 The county was originally organized by William Penn as Philadelphia in 1682 and continued as such until September 10, 1784, when it was organized as Montgomery County. See: Samuel T. Wiley, ed., Biographical and Portrait Cyclopedia of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: Biographical Publishing Company, 1895), 5. 106 “Constitution of the Historical Society of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania,” Minute Book – Historical Society of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, 1881-1907, MCHS. 205 The attendees resolved to admit women as members, but restricted the acceptance of new members and recognition of permanent ones. Candidates required the support of two- thirds of the vote of members present at any meeting; honorary members required three- quarters of the votes, and life membership required paying $25 in addition to two-thirds of members’ vote in a meeting. 107 Although the officers of the society were all male and included Bean, William H. Holstein, Reuben Kanibel and R. F. Hoffecker, the constitution was signed by eighty-four members, among them thirty women. The centennial celebration of the county was successful and netted the organizers $1,200. It enabled the members to purchase Historical Hall in Norristown for use as a repository of documents and historical artifacts. 108 In 1895, the society launched the publication of Historical Sketches, a collection of articles on local history, prepared by members, and often previously read during society meetings. It served to document local historical research. The subjects of its articles varied, but men typically focused on military and political history such as officers and the events that occurred at Valley Forge, while women emphasized women’s history and their own ancestors. One of the first speakers, Margaret D. Rex, narrated the deeds of Lydia Darrah that she possibly gleaned from previous publications. Her conclusion, an admonition of historical neglect, was directed at the public at large:”Shame on the 107 Historical Society of Montgomery County, Minute Book 1881-1907, p.53, Montgomery County Historical Society History, MCHS; Charter and By-Laws of the Historical Society of Montgomery County of Pennsylvania,(Norristown, PA, 1900). 108 Joseph Fornance, ed., “Introductory,” Historical Sketches: A Collection of Papers Prepared for the Historical Society of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, IV (1910), ix. 206 American people that this brave woman should have gone to her grave without a mark of reward for this unselfish act of devotion to her country, while Captain Mollie, in the battle of Monmouth, was rewarded for an act of bravery done impulsively to avenge her husband’s death.” 109 In Rex’s eyes, Darrah’s act of risking her life in order to warn the Continental Army commanded more respect than Mollie, who was recognized for operating her husband’s post after his death out of revenge, not a result of a calculated act. Rex’s article on Lydia Darrah was intended to include her in history as a selfless woman whose decisive judgment surpassed that of her husband’s. It was her fearless actions that saved Washington and his troops. The author demonstrated that Darrah’s femininity did not affect her determination and courage: “She was a small delicate woman, but the cold December morning with the snow on the ground several inches deep did not deter her from her noble purpose.” 110 Rex’s historical account demonstrated that women could not only keep their composure under adverse conditions but could also act decisively and fearlessly in service of the common good. Substance of a different sort was Margaret B. Harvey’s work on the history of Lower Merion. Drawing from an old map, several interviews of older residents, and even local vegetation, she wrote a romantic history of her area, exonerating early settlers from blame for altering the environment, and prominently interweaving her own family history 109 Margaret D. Rex, “The Story of Lydia Darah,” Historical Sketches: A Collection of Papers Prepared for the Historical Society of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, I (1895), 93. 110 Ibid. 207 and luxurious home into the tale. While outlining a detailed description of Margaret Boyle, her grandmother, and lamenting that “her beauty and accomplishments are alike forgotten,” she interrupted her glorified account to add a claim to aristocratic descent: And, now, do you ask, am I describing my ancestress simply because she was noted for her beauty? Oh, no! But because it may be a matter of historic interest to the people of Lower Merion to know that such was the appearance of a descendant of the great Earl of Cork, who lived in Lower Merion. 111 Parochial as her approach may seem, she haphazardly notes bits of local Quaker history, the development of local infrastructure, and the history of architecture, higher education, and botany. Harvey’s goal was to insert her affluent family into the narrative of local history. “My dear old home,” she writes “…represents better than any other example of which I know the very ideal of a Pennsylvania mansion of time past – of a time extending from the days of Penn himself to the last decade.” 112 Her argument that “Lower Merion but repeats the history of the world at large; my grandfather’s farm, Lilac Grove, repeats the history of Lower Merion” demonstrates her generalization and ambiguity of the historical process. 113 She argues that history repeats itself in the expansion of new patterns of settlement, in regional development, and in the resentment of newcomers by established 111 Margaret B. Harvey, “Something About Lower Merion,” Ibid 157. For Harvey’s family history see: Dora Harvey Develin, Margaret B. Harvey, A. M.: A Sketch of Her Life and Work (West Park, Philadelphia: 1913), 8. 112 Harvey, “Something About Lower Merion,” 150-151. 113 Ibid., 151. 208 inhabitants. She also laments the gradual disappearance of “gray stone mansions of ample proportions, built only for comfort and hospitality.” Politely, she chooses to discuss the architecture as a comment on the new residents’ ostentatious character. Her criticism is also evident in her idealization of her ancestor: My grandfather’s house, once considered elegant, has given place to a modern palace, a triumph of art and wealth; the trees and shrubs tended by his hand as a labor of love, are replaced by the marvelous leaf and color creations of the landscape gardener. 114 Facing rapid development due to settlement of wealthy neighbors who abandoned Philadelphia and moved to the suburbs of the Main Line, she wants to distinguish herself through her family’s pedigree and luxurious estate. 115 Harvey realizes that acculturation would eventually occur and predicts that the new form of architecture would replace the old, hinting that the new way of life would prevail. While Rex and Harvey attempted to insert a revolutionary woman and family ancestors into history, Holstein wanted herself memorialized through her activities in the Civil War in addition to documenting local history. In her presentation in the Montgomery County Historical Society on February 22, 1892, she disclosed names of prominent women who joined local aid societies or volunteered as nurses and reports about women’s contribution of an enormous flag for Round Top at Gettysburg and about mothers’ sacrifice of their fighting sons. Upon conveying her nursing account, she 114 Ibid. 115 Philadelphia elites moved also to Chestnut Hill. See: Baltzell, Philadelphia Gentlemen, 204-205. 209 reiterated her reservations to join the war effort for “the idea of seeing and nursing wounded men…from which I shrank instinctively.” 116 With over three decades of public work experience, Holstein remained precisely as she had always been: a model of an appropriate female role who acted in the public sphere out of a need to benefit her country. At length, she laments the “meager accounts” of Revolutionary War women’s work and urges those who live in “every township and county,” members in other historical societies, to collect the evidence of the last conflict “without delay, now while many who took part in the work can recall all that was done.” 117 Holstein considers women’s work the “wonderful narrative of self-sacrifice and devotion” as significant as that of the soldiers who fought the war and wants it documented for posterity. If urgency prompted Holstein to describe women’s Civil War activities, it was her husband’s colonial ancestry that motivated her to write her second monograph Swedish Holsteins in America, from 1644 to 1892. She modeled her work after the Lives of the Lindsays, a genealogy written by Alexander Crawford Lindsay who traced his English lineage back to the tenth century. It was privately published in four volumes in Britain in 1840 and publicly in three volumes, in 1849 and 1858. Like Lindsay, Holstein adds to her 116 Holstein, “Women of Montgomery County in War Time,” 226. 117 Ibid., 230. 210 dedication a quote from Proverbs “The glory of children are their fathers,” and includes in her introduction some of his introductory thoughts, though without citation: We do not love our kindred for their glory or their genius, but for those domestic affections and private virtues that unobserved by the world expand in confidence toward ourselves… Why should we not derive benefit from studying the virtues of our forefathers? 118 Conceding Lindsay’s view that family history was a “most powerful but much neglected instrument of education,” and that the fathers, not mothers, should be memorialized, she commenced the work of collecting stories from families across the Northeast, conducting oral histories, and searching wills, Bible records, inventories, and local libraries, including the American Philosophical Society and the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. But unlike Lindsay, who cited his material with extensive footnotes, Holstein did not cite her evidence, but added an appendix that included some of her sources. Holstein divided her book by families and subdivided it by generations, an organization that resulted in a fragmented historical account. She expanded on the life and work of John Hughes, the Stamp Officer of Pennsylvania, and included several letters he received that demonstrated his high regard among the wealthy and highly connected individuals of his day. Holstein based his association with General George Washington on a family tradition “whose authenticity has never been questioned,” rather 118 Anna Morris Holstein, Swedish Holsteins in America, from 1644 to 1892 (Norristown, Pennsylvania: 1892), 6; Alexander Crawford Lindsay, Lives of the Lindsays or Memoire of the Houses of Crawford and Balcarres (London: John Murray, Albemarle Street, 1849), vol. I, xi. 211 than on written documents. Washington, while encamped at Valley Forge, often frequented the residence of John Hughes’ son, Isaac Hughes at his Upper Merion farm. Colonial pedigree notwithstanding, Holstein followed the family ancestry back to Europe and provided links with nobility through a legend that claimed the family originated from an aristocratic line, and more substantial evidence that King Charles XI of Sweden sent one of the Holsteins to America. 119 She did not neglect to include her own story, pointing out that she and her husband settled on a farm that was part of the original Holstein tract of one thousand acres dated to 1709. In great detail she described her nursing work, the camps where she and her husband had served, and their march with the troops when the Confederate Army headed toward Pennsylvania. She emphasized the fact that at Gettysburg she sat within a few feet of President Lincoln when he delivered his renowned address. But perhaps the most revealing is her disclosure that her husband, who worked for the United States Sanitary Commission (USSC), traveled to Philadelphia to bring supplies while she nursed the soldiers. 120 In her previous war accounts, she mentioned him as her partner, and created the impression that they worked in tandem in the camps and returned home when he fell sick and required rest. She never admitted to staying among the soldiers without his presence. Nearly three decades after her nursing service, with much more experience in public roles, when scores of graduates of women’s colleges had changed the face of 119 Holstein, Swedish Holsteins in America, 9-10. 120 Ibid., 113, 115. 212 education, and with increasing agitation for women’s suffrage, Holstein might have allowed herself to be more candid about her unconventional nursing assignment. Holstein’s genealogical monograph demonstrates her adherence to Victorian ideals of feminine deference. She chose to write about her husband’s ancestry, acknowledging male authority in the family, and believed that children were judged by their fathers, not their mothers. Writing about her husband’s family was a significant decision, considering the distinction of her own Quaker ancestors. The head of her father’s family, Thomas Ellis, arrived in Pennsylvania from Merionethshire, Wales. He befriended William Penn and was appointed Registrar General of the province in 1687. 121 Thomas’s grandson, William Ellis, settled in the frontier, near Fort Muncy, Pennsylvania. When he learned of an impending Indian raid he rode through the night to the Jersey shore and back to warn settlers about the danger. He consented to stay at the fort upon the settlers’ request only to find his house and orchards destroyed by the invaders. 122 Her father, William Cox Ellis, the first lawyer in Muncy, had been elected to the Seventeenth Congress as a representative of the Whig Party in 1820, but gave up his seat when his opponents questioned the election results. He failed to regain the seat when the election was repeated. 123 Subsequently, he was elected to the Eighteenth Congress in 1823 and 121 Stager, History of the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge, 18. See also: Anna Schall Fisher and Mrs. John Rex, “Anna Morris Holstein,” in Gertrude Bosler Biddle and Sarah Dickinson Lowrie, eds., Notable Women of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania press, 1942), 166. 122 Junior League of Williamsport, Homes and Heritage of the West Branch Valley (Williamsport, PA: Junior League of Williamsport, 1968), 22. 123 George G. Wood, “A Partial List of Muncy’s Founders,” Then and Now, VII (Oct. 1944): 256. 213 served until 1825. Outside of politics, Holstein’s cousin, William Ellis Tucker, was the first manufacturer of china in America. Of her mother’s family, Holstein was a direct descendant of Captain Samuel Morris of the First City Troop of Philadelphia, who fought with Washington at the battles of Princeton and Trenton, and served as Washington’s bodyguard during the Revolution. 124 Samuel Wells Morris, her uncle, was a district judge and a Congressman from 1837 to 1841. Once she married, Holstein became part of her husband’s family. Like many women of her period, she internalized how society viewed women, and pursued her interests within acceptable paradigms. She worked on her genealogical manuscript for a long period, researching, writing, and editing. At the time of its publication, in the early 1890s, genealogy became a popular interest and various works written by both men and women had already been published. Holstein, however, apologetically recalls in her introduction that once her work was completed it “was put aside, thinking it would never be published. But at the solicitation of some of the descendants it was again taken in hand.” 125 Such a claim from a respectable woman in her late sixties, who had been involved in public affairs for most of her life and had published a book and scores of articles, might seem pretentious and disingenuous. But Holstein was a product of the Victorian Age, and she was raised and lived in a rural setting, where deviating from gender role boundaries could seriously tarnish one’s reputation. Her public work had been cautiously calculated to create the impression that she undertook new projects 124 James Grant Wilson and John Fiske, eds., Appletons’ Cyclopaedia of American Biography, Vol. IV (New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1888), 409. 125 Holstein, Swedish Holsteins in America, 6. 214 seemingly at the behest of others, not out of her own ambition. This enabled her to step outside the domestic sphere, while keeping her proper image intact. Rex, Harvey, and Holstein belong to a long tradition of women’s historical writing. American women have written histories since the earliest years of the republic, and women’s political, abolitionist, and literary writings proliferated during the nineteenth century. Historians have long acknowledged that women received more recognition for their historical writings before the professionalization of the field in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Nina Baym finds that the difference between women authors of the early republic and those of the first half of the nineteenth century stems from the influence of gender ideology. Early writers were believed to be mentally equal to men due to teachings of the Enlightenment. Primarily of Anglo-Protestant faiths and of middle or upper class origin, early writers penned novels, short stories and reflections on social, religious, and political topics. With the rise of the separate sphere ideology and ascribed gender roles, women perceived themselves as spiritual, but different from men in their analytical faculties. In the act of publishing, they undertook a progressive step that enabled them to participate in the public historical discourse and insert themselves into history as record keepers. In the nineteenth century, women writers continued to explore the work of women who acted publicly and without contesting the limits set upon them by conventional gender roles. Baym argues that Elizabeth Fries Ellet’s history of the women of the American Revolution was designed to oppose women’s rights. It demonstrates that women contributed to the body politic without 215 possessing the privileges of full citizenship. 126 Ellet emphasized aristocratic, pioneer, and revolutionary women and excluded working women and African Americans. Baym expands the writings of history to include fiction, plays, poetry, travel narratives, and religious histories. Bonnie Smith adds gender to the discourse on historical writings. She argues that in the nineteenth century, male historians employed gender roles to claim professional status through the practice of scientific history and the exclusion of women from seminars and archives. During the last quarter of the nineteenth century, historical works by women were increasingly considered amateur and trivial. Amateur historians differed from male professional historians in their tendency to write on worthy women in a descriptive manner. Like Baym, Smith argues that amateur historians were conservative, particularly in their compliance with class and gender hierarchies. They also explored a wider range of topics than did their professional counterparts, including everyday life, material culture, the life of working class women, and women’s activism. 127 While Baym investigates the works of women from the republican period to 1860, Smith extends the time period to the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. Julie Des Jardins studies the period between 1880 and 1945. In focusing on the last two decades of the nineteenth century, she argues that with the 126 Nina Baym, American Women Writers and the Work of History, 1790-1860 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1995), 217. 127 Bonnie G. Smith, The Gender of History: Men, Women, and Historical Practice (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2000), 177, 183. 216 increase of immigration and the fear of the loss of American culture women sought historical authority in order to teach the public civic values. Women writing in the 1890s on colonial history shifted the focus from the Founding Fathers and military history to women whose deeds proved extraordinary. 128 In the twentieth century, women writers developed social and cultural perspectives and new methodologies using sources from everyday life, diaries, and oral histories. Ultimately, these women shaped the profession, when decades after their work had been published, professional historians began to adopt their new approaches. The popularity and recognition that authors such as Lydia Maria Child, Alice Morse Earle, Sarah Josepha Hale, Elizabeth Ellet, and Martha Lamb attained did not resemble the respect and authority that George Bancroft, Francis Parkman, Henry Adams and other prominent historians received. Female American historians of the late 19 th century primarily examined the lives of women who, like themselves, were excluded from institutions of government and the armed forces and, for the most part, did not have direct impact on the outcomes of the nation’s major political and military events. Male scholars studied influential leaders who fully participated in the national executive, legislative, and military branches and who created a democratic nation and governed its institutions. The privileged backgrounds of Bancroft, Parkman, and Adams reinforced their similarities. Having been sons of wealthy and politically connected families and Harvard graduates, and having been invested with personal experience with European 128 Julie Des Jardins, Women and the Historical Enterprise in America: Gender, Race, and the Politics of Memory, 1880-1945 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina, 2003), 17. 217 social and political institutions, they acquired the tastes of the educated ruling elite. Their belief in increased progress through civilization of the wilderness by educated elite leaders shaped their historical writings. These historians, asserts Richard C. Vitzthum, favored political actors who were dedicated to the common good, demonstrated self- discipline, and opposed the British. They perceived the American past as a conflict between anarchic forces on one extreme and tyranny on the other, and argued that America chose the middle course – centralization without subordination. 129 The most influential among them, George Bancroft, believed that the American people escaped the Old World, governed by historical traditions of political and military conflicts, into a simple world governed by the natural frontier. The natural world in America shaped spiritual progress for white man. He identified George Washington, Daniel Boone, and Thomas Jefferson as products of the frontier and agents of liberty. He also recognized the influence of God in history. Bancroft interpreted the American Revolution as a spontaneous rise of the American people against the encroachment of the British in order to establish Protestant freedom. God led the American people to military and political progress and to the establishment of a free nation. 130 He adopted a romantic style through the influence of his studies in Germany and wrote to instruct his readers. 129 Richard C. Vitzthum, The American Compromise: Theme and Method in the Histories of Bancroft, Parkman, and Adams (University of Oklahoma: Norman Press, 1974), 6-7. 130 David W. Noble, Historians against History: The Frontier Thesis and the National Covenant in American Historical Writing Since 1830 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1965), 23, 32; Russle B. Nye, “The Religion of George Bancroft,” The Journal of Religion, 19 (July 1939), 232; Vitzthum, The American Compromise, 211. 218 Self-sacrifice for a better future was one of his major themes. In his speech before the New York Historical Society in November 1854, he professed that: Since progress of the race appears to be the great purpose of Providence, it becomes us all to venerate the future. We must be ready to sacrifice ourselves for our successors, as they in their turn must live for their posterity. 131 Bancroft conducted meticulous research in multiple archives and studied private papers but did not reference them in footnotes or bibliographies. He focused on political and military history and excluded Native Americans and women from his narrative. While the works of male historians gained respectability, women’s histories generated their own devoted readership but were increasingly considered amateurish. At the end of the nineteenth century, the professionalization of history in the United States was institutionalized with the formation of the American Historical Association in 1889. Professional historians, largely influenced by the German historian Leopold von Ranke, called for scientific examination of economic and political documents. They insisted on training in methods and a body of knowledge to produce objective narratives. The acquisition of an advanced degree of Doctor of Philosophy provided professionals with authority, privilege, and access to exclusive associations and archival materials. Although most women could not receive professional training and were barred from conferences and historical discourse, their marginalization provided them with 131 George Bancroft, Oration Delivered before the New York Historical Society November 20, 1854 (New York: Printed for the Society, 1854), 36. 219 freedom to pursue their subjects without restrictions. As avid historians, women writers must have read at least several volumes of George Bancroft’s History of the United States from the Discovery of the American Continent, the definitive monograph of colonial and revolutionary history. The women of the Montgomery County Historical Society employed several of his methods in their historical writings. Rex shares Bancroft’s belief in the guidance of God in historical circumstances. She points out that Darrah decided to listen to the conversation of the British by “a higher impulse than that of curiosity.” More important, she emphasizes the theme of self sacrifice – “noble service she had rendered her countrymen,” a deed, she insists, that should be recognized. 132 Like Bancroft, Rex’s article is clearly written and lacks footnotes and includes personal admonition to those who forgot the brave woman. Harvey’s work is more aligned with Bancroft’s style and beliefs. She describes a romantic ideal past where “towering trees,” “old-fashioned roses,” and “long, rambling stone mansion” decorated the landscape of Lower Merion. 133 She fully believes in God’s direction of history and supports the newcomers, despite her subtle reservations. Her declaration echoes Bancroft’s 1854 speech: It is not without effort that I say it, but I, who represent the remaining few in Lower Merion, standing as it were between the past and the future, looking lovingly, even tearfully backward, and yet lovingly, trustfully, forward – I can say that God may have a use for a red-and-yellow palace, just as he had for a gray farm house. If, by removing the latter to make way for the former, He saw fit to indicate one of the means by which 132 Rex, “The Story of Lydia Darrah,” 91, 92. 133 Harvey, “Something about Lower Merion,” 149. 220 humanity might go forward from a beautiful but still an imperfect past to a far more beautiful, a glorious future – still will I say, God’s will be done! 134 Holstein’s early monograph on her Civil War activity is written in a romantic style with a strong religious leaning. She often describes soldiers’ fates as God’s will, as in the case of a soldier who died at White House who commended “his soul to God, and committing wife and children to the same loving care.” Reiterating Bancroft’s link between religion and history, she found her field nursing effort to be a manifestation of a divine will. Upon her arrival at Antietam to nurse the wounded, Holstein reached the conclusion that “this is the work God has me to do in this war.” 135 Holstein’s later work did not resemble Bancroft’s style. Her genealogical manuscript, though opened with a biblical quote, is grounded in documents and family histories. Holstein cites dates and great number of her sources in the body of the text, referring to archives where appropriate. The details collected from family members in a manner of oral traditions are carefully cited as such. 136 Only seldom does she revert to first person, as in her introduction to the DeHaven family – “as I have been able to obtain it.” 137 Her article about women’s work 134 Ibid., 151. 135 Holstein, Three Years in Field Hospitals of the Army of the Potomac, 70, 11. 136 ‘Family legend,’ ‘family history states,’ or ‘it is said that’ are some of Holstein’s descriptions of the undocumented sources. See: Holstein, Swedish Holsteins in America, 9. 18, 25. 137 Ibid., 30. 221 during the Civil War demonstrates an additional attempt at detailed documentation. She had collected reports from several county aid societies in its preparation and had noted that Lower Merion’s activity is absent for the lack of their report. The theme of self-sacrifice is the only element reminiscent of Bancroft’s historical moral. She lists the women who lost family members in the war as their contribution to the collective effort. Montgomery County women’s historical accounts fit the histories of women of their time. They acted radically in publishing their manuscripts and in establishing themselves as custodians of historical records. However, they remained conservative in the history they authored, portraying women within conventional gender roles and sanctioning men’s leadership in public and within the family. During the last decades of the nineteenth century, women’s public visibility had significantly increased. Women attended colleges in increasing numbers, although by the end of the nineteenth century very few of them entered graduate schools and joined college faculties. The founding of Bryn Mawr College in 1885, in Montgomery County, drew local attention to the advancement of women. It was the first institution to offer graduate degrees to women and quality education to “girls from wealthy and aristocratic homes of the country.” 138 These decades also saw, the movement for woman suffrage increased its public influence. The Pennsylvania Woman Suffrage Association was 138 “Women Students Aim for Rostrum. Public Speaking Chief Ambition of 83 Industrial Workers at Bryn Mawr,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 16 June 1921, 6. 222 organized in 1869 under Mary Grew. In 1885 Matilda Hinderman and eleven association members appeared before the Joint Committee of the State Senate and House to urge legislature to strike the word “male” from the suffrage clause of the state’s constitution. The bill passed the House but lost in the Senate. In 1888 the Montgomery County Woman Suffrage Association was organized with Holstein and her husband among its nine charter members. 139 The organization’s effort gained influence, and by 1895 out of twenty county newspaper editors only three declined to publish articles in favor of woman suffrage. 140 Perhaps this public move, more than any other, reveals Holstein’s true feeling about the impeccable image a woman of her class had to keep. Suffrage would have meant license for women’s public involvement, for it would sanction their participation in electoral politics. Such a law would undermine gender assumptions and serve to eliminate the artificial boundaries between the public and the private. It would enable women activists to expand their involvement in public affairs without fear of social disapproval. Although a radical step, Holstein joined the association with her husband, continuing to appear in tandem with him and not striking out on an unconventional path on her own. * * * The historical work of Montgomery County women during the last decades of the nineteenth century demonstrates that the manner in which women envisioned their role in 139 “First D.A.R. Regent Active in Many Patriotic Causes,” Scrapbook B8, A-10, p.209, MCHS. 140 “Woman Suffrage,” Norristown Weekly Herald, 20 May 1895, 2. 223 society shaped the memory they had constructed. Holstein and her female associates, whose lives were passed in rural Pennsylvania, tended to follow the expectations of contemporary gender roles more closely than did affluent Philadelphia women. Women of the Centennial committees, who felt entitled to recognition for their engagement in cultural, benevolent, and educational work, sought to create a historical memory that focused on both Martha and George Washington. They perceived Martha as a significant player in the history of the revolution and its aftermath and placed her on equal footing with her illustrious husband. Montgomery County women who took part in the preservation of Valley Forge, the formation of the local historical society, and the publication of local histories held a more traditional view of women’s role in society. Their construction of the history of Valley Forge reflected this social view. They cared for the preservation and the interior appearance of the Headquarters and for the education of the public, an expansion of women’s role as housekeepers and instructors of children. They trusted George Washington, the commander of the Continental Army, to occupy center stage as an accomplished leader who inspired the suffering forces and guided them through the difficult and crucial period of the revolution. Martha Washington was linked to the Headquarters in a secondary role, domestic and lacking the emblem that came to symbolize colonial productivity and revolutionary political posture – the spinning wheel. Holstein ignored her presence in the organization’s events and Evacuation Day celebrations. 224 With the Centennial Tea Parties as a model, it is difficult to comprehend the absence of a historical ball among the attempts to draw attention and contributions to the Valley Forge cause. Perhaps, the recognition of Martha Washington did not resonate with Montgomery County women’s perception of appropriate gender roles. They could not resolve to shift the focus from Washington and the suffering soldiers to the dutiful wife, as dedicated as they might have been able to present her. Initially, they had staged her in a subordinate status to her husband in their own Centennial tea party. They possibly found it inappropriate to have her equally important as her husband in a site dedicated to a military episode. The contestation over Valley Forge the memory between the Valley Forge Monument Association and CMAVF further validates rural women’s conservative attitude. The memory of war officers, not the soldiers’ wives or the women who had sacrificed their loved ones during the winter encampment, was the center of disagreement. They also completely ignored the presence of the wives of common soldiers and those of the laundresses and prostitutes. Holstein did not even pay tribute to women in, what appears to be her only public speech, the acceptance of the American flag at the one hundred and ninth celebration of the Valley Forge Evacuation Day. Mary Thropp Cone, the founder of the Valley Forge Monument Association, focused solely on the morals of the historical episode and its value in inculcating immigrants with loyalty and self-sacrifice. The memory of the Valley Forge demonstrates a shift in the representation of revolutionary history from consensus to Northern Unionist. The new 225 position linked the restoration of the Union in the Civil War to the preservation of the values upheld by the founders in their fight against the British. The campaign of the CMAVF demonstrates that during the last decades of the nineteenth century the politics of preservation required the unequivocal support of urban elites in order for women-led campaigns to succeed. Wealthy Pennsylvanians, owners of iron, railroad, and textile enterprises, who lent support, sought to mitigate the effects of labor agitation and trade unionism. Their efforts were motivated as well by their intended moral inculcation of the European immigrants who comprised part of their work force. Further, they possessed the political influence and financial means to support the campaigns. Since socially prominent urban women played a significant role in charitable institutions and their husbands had long-held social and political ties with leading men of public and private enterprises, they could have easily commanded their talents and institutional access to benefit a project and increase its visibility and prospects of success. Several Philadelphia women, among them the respected Mary Rose Smith, joined the campaign but failed to gather sufficient enthusiasm and funds. Their preference for the SPCA event over the CMAVF Reading ball demonstrates that they favored the company of their social peers rather than that of rural Pennsylvania elites. Although their absence from such a monumental event was out of the ordinary, their involvement in terms of fund raising was impressive, considering they raised $2,000 by the summer of 1879 compared to a mere $1,000 raised by Holstein, Pennsylvania, and out-of-state members 226 over a period spanning from 1879 to 1885. 141 CMAVF vice regents from other states, undoubtedly experienced in fundraising activities and familiar with key community and political officials, encountered difficulty in raising support from urban prominent citizens in their states. Boston women, for instance, valued the cause but preferred to donate furnishings rather than funds. Their generosity was intended to display their colonial lineage through period artifacts and forgo the work of fundraising altogether. 142 Rural women’s public work experience and their access to men and women of highest social rank did not resemble that of privileged Philadelphia activists. Holstein, whose experience as a vice regent for the MVMA had been limited to a sparsely populated area, did not move in the same social circles as the city’s privileged elite who could boast the “Old Philadelphian character…where nearly everyone was slightly related or connected to everyone else and they all [had] grown up together.” 143 Yet, she managed to obtain the support of distinguished politicians and generals and produced a memorable ball and outdoor country event. But the funds raised at the parochial events were limited and amounted to a fraction of what similar celebrations would have netted in Philadelphia. The members of the CMAVF worked at the dawn of the preservation movement. They brought the Valley Forge site to public consciousness and constructed a male- 141 “The Centennial Memorial Association of Valley Forge,” Lowell Daily Citizen and News, 1. 142 The women collected such a great number of artifacts that they even considered to apply furnish a second room. Ibid. 143 Nathaniel Burt and Wallace E. Davis, “The Iron Age 1876-1905,” in Philadelphia, 522. 227 dominated memory of a military encampment that incorporated the Republican Civil War position, but they failed to gain federal government support. In the 1890s the building remained women’s domain. As at Mount Vernon, women would furnish its rooms and construct – what they perceived – as a colonial domestic home. Pennsylvania gradually acquired the lands of the encampment and developed an accessible memorial park on the site. The members of the CMAVF were the first to popularize the site as a valuable historical space and were the ones responsible for the annual increase of visitors through the first two decades of its existence. The diligence of Holstein and her associates helped define early historical preservation as the rescue of a structure or a site linked to the Revolutionary War, but not necessarily focused on a battle. Their memory also presented a shift from the idealized revolutionary consensus, oriented at avoiding conflict with Southern whites, toward an ideology that emphasized the role of the North in the preservation of the union in the Civil War. The formation of the historical society, which played a leading role in orchestrating the Centennial celebration of Montgomery County, proved a more manageable project since it could commence with modest means and expand with the availability of funds. The need for an adequate repository for documents and artifacts valued by local prominent citizens arose from sentiments similar to those that drove the Valley Forge preservation - the inculcation of immigrants with the shared values of white Protestant Americans with colonial and revolutionary ancestry. Local history authored by 228 the female members of the society aimed to foster social distinction and include women in the historical narrative. They conducted their historical research at a time when professional historians had been increasingly defining history as the domain of academically trained, privileged professional men. The historical work of the Montgomery County women shifted professionals’ focus from political history to accounts of women’s contributions and personal experiences. Their history, however, remained conservative, portraying women within their gender roles. Although conservative in her historical writings, Holstein joined the suffrage movement, asserting women’s right for full citizenship. In doing so, she demonstrated that privileged women who were concerned with the nation’s past were assuming important leadership roles that would shape the status of women in the present. With the increase of immigration and anxiety over the possible loss of the American identity, women would expand their efforts to educate the masses in civic values and patriotism. The organization of the Daughters of the American Revolution would enable greater and more focused efforts to influence the foreign born and their children. 229 CHAPTER 5 PATRIOTIC HONOR: THE VALLEY FORGE CHAPTER DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1894-1914 On a cold and windy November day in 1891, a special train arrived at Norristown, Pennsylvania. Its passengers, who boarded an exclusive car in Washington D.C., were eager to meet Anna Morris Holstein, the regent of the Centennial Memorial Association of Valley Forge. As members of the newly formed Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR), they were excited about touring local historic places and particularly the Continental Army generals’ headquarters at Valley Forge. Following a tour that included the houses occupied by general Henry Knox, Marquis Lafayette, and General Anthony Wayne they arrived at their final destination, General Washington’s headquarters. The guests were served lunch, courtesy of Holstein and Mrs. Hugh McInnes, a trustee and the secretary of the association. They “examined the interior of the headquarters with the deepest interest” and at the end of their tour were “enthusiastic in their determination to have some action taken which will lead to beneficial results as far as the historic sites of Valley Forge are concerned.” 1 The centennial of the country, celebrated in a monumental exhibition in Philadelphia, evoked the creation of a great number of hereditary societies in the last 1 “Patriots Visit Valley Forge: a Distinguished Party Inspects Historic Spots,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 18 November 1891, 6. 230 quarter of the nineteenth century. As descendants of individuals who contributed to the formation of the nation, members of these groups cherished an identity of birth and implicitly suggested themselves to be at an advantageous position in a hierarchical society. The DAR, an organization created when the Sons of the American Revolution refused women membership, proved to be one of the largest and most influential of the hereditary organizations. Comprised of over 80,000 members just two decades after its formation, it consistently followed its main goals of recounting the memory of revolutionary ancestors, marking and preserving the graves of soldiers, and educating the public about the revolutionary past. True to these objectives, the Valley Forge Chapter in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, set priorities and acted with enthusiasm on behalf of projects that appealed to their sense of historical significance. They marked meaningful revolutionary spots, preserved a room in George Washington’s headquarters in Valley Forge, and researched local history. The history the DAR promoted – one of altruistic military brigades fighting for a greater cause – did not resonate with the socio-economic status of countless Americans who observed the increased power of monopolies and great corporations in contrast to their own limited economic advancement and shrinking options of social mobility. The message of patriotism and government loyalty did not offer concrete solutions to the disproportionate political influence of the wealthy on governing institutions, the ongoing labor disputes, and the bursts of racial conflicts. The DAR’s vision likewise contrasted with that of the New Historians, the Progressives, whose work had been affected by the circumstances that surrounded them. Interpreting American history through an economic 231 perspective and through conflicts of interest rather than admiring virtuous historical figures, they reflected on the urgent need for reform rather than complacency. The historiography of the DAR is marked by the history of female authors and professional male historians. While the former focuses solely on the Daughters and typically includes interviews but lacks society’s files and footnotes, the latter explores several hereditary societies and draws on organizational publications. Wallace Evan Davies authored the first comprehensive study of hereditary societies, which explores their patriotic ideas within their social, economic, and cultural context. He asserts that their effort to inculcate patriotism was “sort of secular religion to unite the American republic” in order to bring together a population diverse in national origin, religion, and cultural background. 2 They believed that substance would follow the acts of singing patriotic songs and saluting the American flag. Davies attributes the proliferation of hereditary societies in the 1890s to the great numbers of immigrants, the emergence of nationalism, and the culmination of the woman’s club movement. In contrast to public perception, he argues that most members joined for the social attraction and prestige, but also recognizes the societies’ contribution of preservation of revolutionary landmarks. The book’s great value is enhanced by its abundance of sources: a collection of reports of hereditary societies, societies’ magazines, and manuscripts. While Davies’ monograph was a valuable milestone, its scope ended in 1900. Female authors, whose focus solely on the DAR and its attitudes toward education, 2 Wallace Evan Davies, Patriotism on Parade: the Study of Veterans’ and Hereditary Organizations in America, 1783-1900 (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1955), 216. 232 immigration, race, and political issues, extended the organization’s history. Martha Strayer, a reporter for the Washington Daily News, did not receive any assistance from the society. She drew her information from two decades of reporting on the society to produce a history from 1890 to the end of the 1950s. She asserts that the popularity of the organization was due to its publicity and objectives. The founders recruited the First Lady, Caroline Harrison, as their president general and benefited from two receptions at the White House. 3 Following her, every president general was the wife of a politician or a diplomat until 1905. The historical projects the members selected were likewise of prestigious women. The first grave they marked was that of Abigail Adams in Quincy, in Massachusetts, noting her management of the family farm when President John Adams worked in Congress. Strayer argues that the DAR upheld the notion of consensus during the Revolution as an effort to unite the divided sections, still in conflict over the political and economic issues that stemmed from the war and Reconstruction. Strayer’s journalism background is evident when she traces the society’s origins in great detail but emphasizes the 1920s in the greater portion of the book because of she spent most of her career with the DAR during that period. Consequently, the society’s attitudes toward foreign born Americans commence with the Immigration Act of 1924 and its involvement with the Spanish American War is absent. Margaret Gibbs also asserts that national exposure influenced the DAR’s recognition but points to the presidents’ receptions, a tradition that commenced with 3 They were held in October 1891 and February 1892. These gave the organization national exposure. See: Martha Strayer, The D.A.R. An Informal History (Washington D.C.: Public Affairs Press, 1958), 20. 233 Benjamin Harrison and ended only when Eleanor Roosevelt left the society. She argues that education was the main goal of the Daughters and hereditary societies. Borrowing Wallace’s argument, she maintains that in the last quarter of the nineteenth century patriotism became “a secular religion”. 4 The lack of citations in this monograph is partially compensated with a bibliography. Gibbs did not consult organizational files save a number of DAR pamphlets. Most of her study is drawn from secondary sources and periodicals. With no major findings, the book’s merit is the added decade of the society’s history. Peggy Anderson, another journalist, attempts to understand the activities of the DAR within their social and cultural context. Writing in the early 1970s, she focuses on the history of the past four decades, demonstrating that despite their racist image a number of members volunteer in African American communities. 5 She also indicates that the Daughters built and have supported two schools in Appalachia for destitute children. Like Gibbs, Anderson employs mainly periodicals and newspaper articles. Her attempt to distance the Daughters from past controversies by emphasizing their quality educational work is not entirely convincing. The schools the Daughters had built supported white children, and additional schools they have approved for charitable purposes included institutions for immigrant children or descendants of foreign-born parents. The few women who helped African Americans seem an exceptional minority rather than an extensive change of society’s core dogmas. 4 Margaret Gibbs, The DAR (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969), 33. 5 Peggy Anderson, The Daughters: An Unconventional Look at America’s Fan Club – the DAR (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1974), 156-169. 234 The increasing interest of social historians in the processes of the construction of memory in the 1990s has generated studies on traditions, nostalgia, and patriotism. 6 They have explored the creation of ideologies, national identities and monuments and their employment by selected groups in shaping the past to advance their preferred views. Two studies have investigated the function of hereditary societies in this context. Stuart McConnell does not accept the explanation that native-born anxiety over increasing immigration combined with class antagonism resulted in the burst of patriotic sentiments in the 1890s. In his essay “Reading the Flag: A Reconsideration of the Patriotic Cults of the 1890s” he claims that patriotic societies started to organize in the 1880s, well before the great wave of immigration reached urban America. He also points out that Republican industrialists did not support a curb on the arrival of cheap workers even at the peak of immigration. McConnell argues that a new definition of “Americanism,” which appeared in the 1890s, manifested in different and interconnected ways. 7 Initially, a shift in the view of the flag from a symbol of family and a place of historical incident to a representation of national pride, gradually emerged. No longer an emblem of domestic heirloom and a regimental link of individuals to local history, the flag represented Anglo- American whites who sought to establish a hierarchical social order. Hereditary societies, the DAR included, came to represent the nation as an extended family that excluded 6 The body of literature about memory is extensive. Several important works include: , eds., The Invention of Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983); David Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Michael G. Kammen, Mystic Chords of Memory: the Transformation of Tradition in American Culture (New York: Knopf, 1991). 7 Stuart McConnell, “Reading the Flag: A Reconsideration of the Patriotic Cults of the 1890s,” in Bonds of Affection: Americans Define Their Patriotism, ed. John Bodnar (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1996), 104. 235 African Americans. Patriotism also meant military obligation and support of the national government. Privileged groups, defined by their ancestry and social status, employed youths’ military drills to instill patriotism and civic values. McConnell’s does not identify why the emergence of patriotic sentiments occurred in the 1890s and not in the preceding decade, when labor unrest seen in events such as the Haymarket Riot of 1886 was prevalent, or the following decade, when a wave of Russian pogroms signaled by the massacre of Kishinev on Easter of 1903 prompted scores of Jewish immigrants to reach American shores. However, the value of his study is in the analysis of the flag as an emblem of collective identity and shifting social attitudes. Woden Teachout answers this question in his recent dissertation. He points to the Depression of 1893 as a major shifting point in hereditary societies’ social and political activism. Examining the Sons of the Revolution, the Sons of the American Revolution, the Daughters of the Revolution, and the Daughters of the American Revolution between 1876 and 1898, Teachout argues for three overlapping phases in their focus on an ideal revolutionary past. The societies aimed to reconcile sectional division caused by the Civil War and distance Americans from the materialism of the Gilded Age. At first, they memorialized the Revolution by finding and preserving period relics. In agreement with Davies, Gibbs, and McConnell, Teachout finds that with the accumulation of historical artifacts members wanted to create a national civil religion. Originally not anti- immigrants, members believed they could ameliorate cultural diversity through the promotion of the flag, patriotic songs, and by placing George Washington’s portrait in schools. However, the Depression and its resultant social and labor unrest led members of 236 hereditary societies to perceive immigrants and labor unionists as a threat to the nation. They aligned themselves with the Republican Party whose platform included limited immigration and prevention of flag desecration. 8 Teachout’s significant study draws heavily from family papers of key national officers, organizational magazines, and newspapers. Teachout explores the DAR primarily from the national perspective. His meticulous evidence from particular chapters is mostly collected from the organization’s magazine. Individual chapters, although subordinate to the policies of the national office, selected and funded their own projects. They included members of different generations who often held dissimilar views on various political issues. This chapter will explore the historical work of one chapter from its inception to the beginning of World War I. It will demonstrate that only a small number of members invested their energy in the painstaking work of historical research, attempting to reveal the stories of past men and women. It will also show that impressive projects such as erecting large monuments drew membership in large numbers. According to the official publication of the DAR, the society was organized in August 1890 in Washington D.C. by Eugina Washington, Mary Desha, and Helen H. Walworth. 9 Their meeting was prompted by William O. McDowell, the great grandson of 8 Woden Sorrow Teachout, “Forging Memory: Hereditary Societies, Patriotism, and the American Past, 1876-1898,” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2003). 9 Early History: Daughters of the American Revolution (Washington, D.C.: DAR): 4. Flora Adams Darling, who had contacted Eugina Washington about forming a national Revolutionary Relic Society, also claimed to have founded the DAR as an expansion of her original idea. She eventually resigned her Vice Presidency at the society in June of 1891. See: Flora Adams Darling, Founding and Organization of the American 237 Hannah Arnett, a revolutionary wife who threatened to leave her husband had he quit fighting for Independence. Arnett’s story was published in the Washington Post by Mary S. Lockwood in reaction to the exclusion of women from the Sons of the American Revolution in April 1890. Writing in the Post, McDowell urged every woman “who has the blood of the heroes of the Revolution in her veins” to contact him. Five eligible women returned his call, among them Mary Desha who passionately declared: “it has made my blood boil whenever I have seen the ‘buttin’ worn by the ‘Sons,’ and felt I was left out because I happened to be a woman.” 10 The women met officially on October 11 th – on the anniversary of the discovery of America – adopted a constitution, and elected a board of management. They articulated their mission in acquisition and preservation of historical places and erection of monuments, conducting and publishing of historical research, preservation of revolutionary documents and artifacts, education of youth for citizenship, and fostering of “patriotism and love of country.” Its first president general, Caroline Lavinia Scott Harrison, the wife of the U.S. President Benjamin Harrison, considered the acquisition of Valley Forge one of the society’s patriotic efforts. 11 The activities of the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge (CMAVF) and the Valley Forge Monument Association undoubtedly brought the encampment to public attention, which resulted in the increase of its popularity. On November 1891, seventeen interested members arrived at the site from Washington D.C. Revolution and Daughters of the Revolution (Philadelphia: Independence Publishing Company, 1901): 13- 35. 10 Early History,4. 11 “Valley Forge Must Be Sold,” The Historical Record, 4 (1893): 127. 238 At the conclusion of their visit the women were “very enthusiastic in their interest in the acquisition of the historic premises of Valley Forge.” 12 The DAR wanted to purchase the first site of Washington headquarters, which included the spot where he prayed for the survival of his troops, the old forge, and the sites of two additional camps. But they were not the only public body to have shown interest in the property. The Postmaster General, John Wanamaker, promoted the site’s acquisition to the Philadelphia Board of Trade, while a New York brewery company and a hotel keeper had also showed interest in the property. 13 While various patriotic and commercial organizations vied for a share at Valley Forge, Anna Morris Holstein and members of the DAR found mutual interest in creating a national memorial at the encampment. Holstein set to form a DAR chapter under her own leadership. At first, she acquired the title of Regent for Montgomery County from the National Society. In the course of 1893, under instruction of the National Society, she organized a few meetings in attempt to recruit the additional twelve members required for a formation of a DAR chapter. 14 In May, they elected a secretary, Katherine Corson, and adopted the name Valley Forge. Predictably, it was Holstein who suggested the name as 12 Randolph Keim, “They Want to Buy Valley Forge: Plans of the Daughters of the American Revolution,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 11 October 1891, 8. 13 “Valley Forge Must Be Sold,”; “Valley Forge’s Peril: The Historic Spot in Grave Danger of Descration,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 9 February 1890, 12; “Valley Forge Must Be Sold: The Historic Spot at the Option of Patriotic Bodies,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 3 November 1891, 7. 14 A chapter could be formed with thirteen members, similar to the number of colonies. The minutes mention that four members were absent, and the list of charter members includes 13 members. See: Mary T. McInnes, “History of Valley Forge Chapter Daughters of the American Revolution from 1894 – 1919,” DAR Papers, MCHS. 239 “the one most suitable”. 15 By the end of 1894 Holstein was ready to launch the chapter. In December 1894 she met with eight local women and Emma L. Spear of the Philadelphia Chapter in the house of Julia A. Hayman, the great grand-niece of General Anthony Wayne, in Norristown and formed the new chapter. They elected Holstein as their regent, Margaret Schall Hunsicker as Vice Regent, Ellen Knox Fornance as treasurer, Katherine Corson as secretary, and Rebecca McInnes as historian. 16 True to the national society’s historical objective, Holstein, who missed the second meeting due to illness, read her essay “Interesting Notes on the Early History of Valley Forge” during the subsequent meeting in February. The reading intended to spark historical interest among the members in the site for which their chapter had been named. The following week, the women held a public meeting in the Fornance Building in Norristown to encourage eligible women to join. They chose one of their most prominent members, Annie Wittenmyer, the first president of the Women's Christian Temperance Union and the president of the Woman’s Relief Corps and an auxiliary of the Grand Army of the Republic, to speak at the event. She spoke of her service in the Civil War as a member of the Iowa Sanitary Commission. 17 The women chose to present recent history at their public meeting hoping to draw attention to their new chapter by an illustrious speaker. 15 Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Exhibition of American Wars (1908): 3. 16 “Minute Book Valley Forge Chapter D.A.R., Dec. 17, 1894 - Oct. 2, 1899, No. 1” Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Norristown, Pennsylvania. (Min.1 thereafter). 17 Wittenmyer requested to transfer from Washington Chapter. She was voted an official member on the October meeting. See: 21 October 1895, Min.1. 240 In the meantime, the national DAR abandoned their design on Valley Forge. Initially, the Daughters did not publicize their trip and their plan about the encampment because they waited for the results of a pending bill in the Pennsylvania legislature. 18 In May 1893, when the state formed the Valley Forge Park Commission with the intention of acquiring the grounds and creating a historic park, the DAR retreated. By the time the Valley Forge Chapter was organized the society’s national leadership had diverted their focus to aid the National Mary Washington Memorial Association in erecting a fitted memorial in Fredericksburg, Virginia. The Valley Forge Chapter members’ attachment to the encampment at Valley Forge shaped the identity of the chapter in its first few years. The Daughters conferred symbolic meaning on tangible artifacts made from materials taken from the military camp that enabled them to foster the chapter’s identity and promulgate their values publicly. The women used the wood gathered in the encampment to evoke a message of reverence of the sacrifice of the Continental Army and particularly of its commander. When they received their charter, in June 1895, one of the members, Sarah Byrnes E. Groverman, gave the chapter a silver bound gavel. Its head was made from “the historic oak at Valley Forge, under which Washington so often received his suffering Army” and its handle of “wood from the floor of his private room at the Headquarters where he passed anxious days, planning and consulting with his brother officers.” 19 An additional member, Rebecca McInnes, presented the chapter with a frame made from a chestnut tree standing 18 “Editors Note Book,” American Monthly Magazine, XVIII (August 1900): 180. 19 McInnes, “History of Valley Forge Chapter Daughters of the American Revolution from 1894 – 1919”; Katherine C. Corson, “Valley Forge Chapter,” American Monthly Magazine, VIII (Jan. 1896): 75-76. 241 on the grounds of the historical site. It was prepared for the chapter’s Charter and hung for thirteen years at the chapter’s meeting place in Norristown. 20 Both articles were intended for the members’ private use, linking the chapter with Valley Forge and, by extension, with its history. The women shared the representation of the shrubbery of Valley Forge beyond their private quarters. They arranged for a large wreath made of laurels from the encampment to be placed on the Washington Monument in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, during its unveiling. The ceremony drew hundreds of thousands to the city to observe an impressive military parade, catch a glimpse of state and national dignitaries, and hear President McKinley address the crowds. The wreath, decorated with the official blue and white ribbon of the DAR, was the only embellishment allowed on the monument that day. 21 The national DAR formed with the goals of preservation, education, and fostering patriotism. 22 Their preservation aimed at sources from white American families who supported the revolution. Teachout points out that the requirements for membership in addition to proof of ancestry included “personal acceptability.” This translated into social 20 3 April 1899, Min. 1; McInnes, “History of Valley Forge Chapter Daughters of the American Revolution from 1894 – 1919”. 21 McInnes, “History of Valley Forge Chapter Daughters of the Revolution from 1894 – 1919”; “Magnificent Tribute to the Memory of Washington: With Due Ceremony, and in Presence of Many Thousands,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 16 May 1897, 1. 22 “Constitution,” Report of the Daughters of the American Revolution 1890-1897 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1899), 19-20. 242 standing, and in Valley Forge Chapter it required the affirmation of two members. 23 It ensured class and racial exclusivity of the members. They intended to construct a narrative that would glorify revolutionary soldiers as a means to instruct the host of immigrants who arrived from Southern and Eastern Europe. Teachout argues that after 1894, due to the economic depression and social unrest primarily in urban centers, the Daughters came to perceive immigrants as a threat and politicized their message to equate Americanism with the Constitution and self-control rather than personal liberty. 24 But evidence suggests that the Daughters recognized the immigrants as a serious problem prior to the onset of the depression. On February 22 nd , 1893, during the Second Continental Congress, Mary S. Lockwood, the Historian General, warned the members in her annual report: there is danger ahead! Our country is being denationalized by Hungarians, Poles, and Italians, who have never read their first letter of the spirit of Americanism. What is this spirit? It is the responsibility of every individual toward this Government. She confidently added:”Now, who can better do this work than the Daughters of the American Revolution?” 25 The following day, the Pennsylvania Reading Railroad collapsed, causing the panic that led to the four-year worst economic depression of the nation’s history. On the 23 Teachout, “Forging Memory,” 122-124. 24 Ibid., 292, 327-329. 25 S. M. Lockwood, “Report of Historian General,” American Monthly Magazine, II (April 1893): 450. 243 same day, Mrs. John M. Chrelien of the Sequoia Chapter in San Francisco ardently argued that a sound historical education would forge a love of country that “will guard it faithfully from political corruption within, and the assault of ignorant, vicious, and diseased immigration that threaten it from without”. 26 The Daughters were not the only ones who predicted disastrous consequences prior to the depression. In 1891 Congress created the Immigration Bureau and stipulated that it would monitor the country’s borders and screen immigrants. The first years of the 1890s witnessed elevated immigration numbers; while in 1890 over 455,000 entered the country, the number increased to over 560,000 in 1891 and to almost 580,000 in 1892. 27 The addition of over 1.5 million immigrants who mainly headed to the crowded city neighborhoods alarmed government officials and social commentators. In December 1892, during the 21 st annual congress of the National Prison Association Judge Francis Wayland, the chairman of the Committee on Criminal Law Reform raised his concern about the increasing immigration from Hungary, Russia, Poland, and Italy. He clearly indicated his support for limited immigration when he declared: We are, and for years have been, receiving the very dregs of European society, the scum of European cities – the destitute, the ignorant, the nihilist, the anarchist – by scores of thousands annually. 28 26 “An Unsealed Book,” American Monthly Magazine, III (September 1893): 267. 27 Reports of the Immigration Commission, 4 28 Arthur MacDonald, Abnormal Man Being Essays on Education and Crime and Related Subjects (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1893), 191. 244 Arthur Cassot, a social commentator, echoed Lockwood’s dissatisfaction in a contemporary political journal several months later: The most embarrassing of all this immigration comes from Southern Italy, Poland, Russia, Hungary, and Ireland, in which countries the people are more illiterate and on a lower social level than most civilized nations, and certainly below ourselves… The whole country is at the mercy of this foreign degradation. 29 The sharp increase in immigration served as a pretext of alarm for officials and the Daughters who observed the sheer numbers of newcomers and their impact on cities like New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and Chicago. The depression, however, exacerbated the immigrants’ precarious situation as unemployment soared and harsh winters added greater difficulty. Teachout meticulously demonstrates the shift in DAR rhetoric from shared history to ethnic based nationalism of the native-born but points that individual chapters did not necessarily follow suit. In 1907, the Pennsylvania State Historian of the DAR urged chapters to send in for preservation their historical presentations and ancestral papers since “the true history of Pennsylvania is not yet written and these papers will be valuable material for whoever will be that historian.” 30 While insisting on the inclusion of their ancestors in the historical narrative, the DAR held a scientific view of historical practice whereby a 29 Arthur Cassot, “Should We Restrict Immigration?” The American Journal of Politics, III (Sept. 1893): 250. 30 First Annual Report of State Historian DAR (1907), 4. 245 historian “must read the lesson of the past in order to teach the present how to shape the Future.” 31 With a large body of immigrants present in American cities, Historian General Mary Cooley Bassett advised the members to view the country’s history through eugenics which she termed “the winnowing of the Almighty.” She also sought to promulgate a plan for the study of history through the Magazine. “We are a hereditary patriotic order and should merit the first rank as an authoritative reference on all matters of genealogy and historical data, accuracy, completeness of records and authenticity of all facts,” concluded Bassett. 32 Like scientific historians, DAR members believed that history should be employed as an inspiration with themes of morality, patriotism, and providence. Their attempt to educate the immigrants in conjunction with the divine sanction of eugenics placed them at odds with the Progressive Historians who emphasized the self-interest of respected revolutionary leaders and demonstrated that the concerns and demands of large groups of people remained overlooked. Aligning with the society’s objective, Holstein considered historical research one of the most prominent goals of the chapter. The Daughters often encouraged their members to write histories and publish it in their magazine. In May 1893, Ellen Hardin Walworth, the vice president General of the DAR, spoke before the members about the women’s contribution: “It has come to tell our country men that we, the Daughters of the 31 Mary Cooley Bassett, “Report of the Historian General, 1912-13,” (Baltimore): 3, DAR Scrapbook. 32 Ibid., 4, 7. 246 founders of the Nation assert our rights – our right to a recognition of the work our mothers did for this country.” 33 She continued pointing to women’s valuable faculty: The women of America have been long and unconsciously the sentinels on guard for our liberties, while the men have fought the battles of politics and legislation. These men have talked with their wives and daughters, mothers and sisters, and these women have listened to the legislators, read the newspapers, watched the effect of new laws, and over all, they have had time to ponder …to think about issues… While the men have been gathering money the women garnered wisdom. 34 In concluding her address she outlined the task of the Daughters: “Your work… is to bring forward the history of families, localities, counties and states; thus, each one will offer a tribute to the general history of the nation” in order to “educate the children of the nation to a love of country.” 35 Walworth carefully demonstrated women’s gender qualities, placing men in the public arena and women as moral protectors who initially consulted their husbands’ opinions and then turned to outside information. At the same time, she insisted that the Daughters’ historical ancestry, the missing element from the national historical narrative, should be documented for the sake of a civic purpose that would foster national unity. 33 Ellen Hardin Walworth, “The Magazine,” American Monthly Magazine, II (June 1893): 608 34 Ibid., 612. 35 Ibid., 613. 247 The following month, Lucia E. Blount reiterated Walworth when she reminded the Daughters that: The work of women never has been rated at its real value, and it never will be until women themselves come forward and put their own estimate upon it…Just think what a flood of light would be thrown upon the early history of our country were the stories of the pathetic struggles and sacrifices of the heroic women of the Revolution brought out from the hidden corners of the earth and made a part of history. 36 Blount argued for moving colonial and revolutionary women irrevocably out of obscurity. Implicit in her words was an understanding that the annals of white women, possibly of Western European origin, were of interest, not those of African Americans or any other ethnic groups. It is not surprising, however, that the Daughters did not publish numerous articles on their female ancestors. Male ancestors typically received recognition by mid-nineteenth century scientific historians as heads of families who arrived in America or through their public role. They ignored the work of women, who generally lived and acted within the domestic arena. The Daughters, who accepted the practice of these historians, faced a conundrum – if they followed the footsteps of the historians they would have had to disregard a significant body of knowledge. Ignoring them was too radical an act. The women decided to work on the memory of all actors, but tended to focus on men whose profession, public prominence, or patriotic activities were deemed appropriate to emphasize. 36 Lucia E. Blount, “The Eligibility Amendment,” American Monthly Magazine, II (June 1893): 692. 248 Most members of the Valley Forge Chapter, however, were reluctant to undertake the painstaking work that historical research entailed and Holstein had to persistently encourage them to contribute papers for their monthly meetings. Holstein attributed the initial reluctance to a period of adaptation and familiarity with the society’s demands. She reported optimistically on the pages of the DAR magazine that “some few papers have been read and more will be presented as our members better understand what is expected of them.” However, her repeated requests demonstrate that only a small number of women were genuinely devoted to the task. 37 In November 1895 she attempted to entice the Daughters to conduct local historical research “particularly of the events of the Revolution in connection with Valley Forge from which the name of our chapter is taken and which should therefore be of peculiar interest to us.” Two members answered her call and in the following year Ellen Knox Fornance presented papers on the topics of finding graves of revolutionary soldiers and the origin of Egypt Road or Main Street, and Rebecca McInnes spoke of General Green after whom Green Street was named. The Daughters’ disinterest in historical topics persisted and on the meeting of Januarys 1897, during Holstein’s absence, Mrs. Strassburger requested that the chapter present literary and other readings besides historical papers. 38 The women did not act on this suggestion, but the contention over the subject might have caused undercurrent of discontent as members refused to confront Holstein out of respect to the chapter’s organizer. Holstein grew impatient. Perhaps her advanced age of seventy three and her 37 Anna Morris Holstein, “Valley Forge Chapter,” American Monthly Magazine, VII (July-Dec. 1895): 554. 38 4 January 1897, Ibid. 249 frail health made her wish to see the historical issue settled satisfactorily. Her frustration must have reached new heights when even her suggestion of writing about the women’s own ancestors had been met with a disappointing response of two members. 39 By 1898, Holstein’s failing health forced her to resign from the regent position. Knowing she would miss the January meeting, she wrote the Daughters a forceful letter. As her frustration with the chapter members – some of whom shared years of activity with her on Board of Directors of the CMAVF – grew more profound, she called “the attention of the chapter to the fact that it was a Historical organization, not a social one and that the work of the chapter should be in a Historical line.” 40 Holstein saw the DAR as a vehicle for women’s involvement in memorializing the fading narrative of local revolutionary history. The women refused to comprehend the significance of the task they had to fulfill. They had to research, write, and present their findings in order to leave a record not only for the purpose of educating the young but also for future generations. Throughout her life Holstein had been passionate about the preservation of the past, its historical sites, its material culture, and her husband’s genealogical heritage. She could not comprehend the women’s reluctance and lack of interest, particularly those of the older generation whose exemplary action should have provided an inspiration for the younger chapter members. The women who attended the meeting pondered Holstein’s remarks and upon a suggestion of Mrs. Eisenberg decided to avoid engaging in historical work. 39 Katherine Cady Corson and Fornance conducted genealogical research. 5 April 1897, Min. 1. 40 3 January 1898, Ibid. 250 Holstein, as expected, did not concede even when attendance in meetings decreased. The meetings generally drew fourteen and often even fewer members. The continuous decline of interest presented a serious problem to the future survival of the chapter. It reached its lowest point on September 1899 when the Daughters canceled a meeting due to the appearance of only five members. If Holstein had realized that the demand for historical work presented a heavy burden on the women she did not let any sign of it show. She continued with a request for full chapter representation at the annual celebration of the Valley Forge encampment on June 19 th and “urged a more earnest study of the history of Valley Forge by our chapter on account of its name.” On May, she read an essay on Valley Forge and in June she laid her concluding goal for the chapter - to be more prominent in the national society and “to make it the most active chapter in the State”. 41 Holstein was an energetic woman who invested great effort into bringing her ambitious projects to life and demanded likewise from others. She devoted her time, talent, diligence, and political acumen and worked tirelessly to see her goals met. Her vision for the Valley Forge Chapter was similar. The Daughters should delve into research, publish their findings in the society’s American Monthly Magazine and serve as an example for other chapters with their enthusiasm and achievements. Holstein’s active days were behind her. She needed capable chapter members to lead the group – probably Mrs. McInnes, who had been among the principal founder of the CMAVF and Mary Kraus Preston who had also been among its members. 41 5 March 1898; 6 June 1898, Ibid. 251 Holstein’s efforts were not met with complete passive disengagement. Members occasionally presented papers in meetings. Mrs. Eisenberg and Mary P. Beaver presented “Colonial Philadelphia” and “Colonial Times” respectively, and Beaver read unidentified historical letters in another meeting. In December 1899, the Daughters resolved to commit to scheduled presentations. They raised an impressive line of subjects - Pennsylvania as A Colony, Pennsylvania Churches of the Revolution, Washington at Valley Forge, Lafayette at Barren Hill, revolutionary Landmarks in Pennsylvania, History of the Flag, Whitemarsh during the Revolution, Independence Hall, and the Pennsylvania signers of the Declaration of Independence. 42 Clearly, the subjects focused on local revolutionary history with an emphasis on male leaders and material culture. They did not attempt to unveil the story of local revolutionary women, but possibly intended to draw on published materials for their presentations. As determined as the women seemed, their decision lasted two meetings in which the first two subjects were presented. In the following year, in January 1901- a week after Holstein’s passing - regent Hunsicker requested that historical papers be read at every meeting. However, with only eight members present in the February meeting, she stressed that the women should have a social hour which “would increase interest in work of the order and create greater sociability among the members.” 43 Hunsicker had to strike a fine balance between serious historical lectures and social mingling. The alarmingly low attendance at meetings threatened the chapter’s existence and insistence on educational agenda could 42 4 December 1899, Minute Book Valley Forge Chapter D.A.R., Dec. 17, 1894 - Oct. 2, 1899, No. 2,” Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Norristown, Pennsylvania. (Min.2 thereafter). 43 8 February 1901, Ibid. 252 have potentially led to the chapter’s demise. The members decided to hold a social hour following their business meeting, but the number of women in attendance increased only seven years later when new interested members gradually joined. Holstein’s sense of history corresponded Pierre Nora’s argument in his landmark essay collection Realms of Memory, where he includes under lieux de memoire, memory sites, a large variety of iconographic representations such as monuments, street names, photographs, maps and signs. 44 In the spring of 1895, she recognized that historical memory was embedded in public spaces when she spoke of Montgomery County “as being one of the most Historic [Counties]” and urged the members to find the origin of its name and those of its streets and write their historical accounts. 45 If Holstein’s approach seems contemporary, her articles remained rooted in nineteenth century historical methods. The history promoted by the Valley Forge Chapter Daughters was increasingly falling out of favor by professional historians. As they faced social unrest created by industrialization, urbanization, and the growing impact of large corporations on political and economic practices they wanted their work to contribute to social change. Allan Trachtenberg indicates that the incorporation of America developed through contestation in cultural assumptions, often expressed by farmers, laborers and radicals. 46 The 44 Pierre Nora, ed., Realms of Memory: Rethinking the French Past, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 3 vols. 45 4 November 1895; 6 April 1896, Min. 1. 46 Allan Trachtenberg, The Incorporation of America: Culture and Society in the Gilded Age (New York: Hill and Wang, 1982), 5-8. 253 Progressive historians, as they were called, took a stand against big corporations and political corruption. The historians believed people needed a change that would consider their interest, not stories about liberty and heroism. They criticized the past in hoping to induce a transformation of the present. 47 Progressive historians also insisted that progress guides human history and offers a paradigm for analysis. 48 In contrast to Rankean practices, Charles A. Beard argued that historians should write an interpretation and not a recreation of the past. He claimed that historians could not write objective works since they hold private opinions and beliefs that bear on their interpretations. Criticizing Ranke’s method in great detail, he calls for history that would venture beyond politics into economic, racial, sexual, and cultural fields. 49 His volume – An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution – he asserted, presented one model of inquiry. Beard argued that the Constitution was the product of wealthy merchants and landowners who wanted a government that would serve their interest against the common people. Vernon L. Parrington generalized American history as a political contestation between Jeffersonian and Hamiltonian practices. It was represented by a debate between Federalists and Republicans, Whigs and Jacksonians, and Progressives and Conservatives. Looking at the environmental circumstances, Frederick Jackson Turner claimed that they affected inhabitants and shaped a national history through sectional 47 Francis C. Couvares and others, eds., Interpretations of American History: Patterns & Perspectives (New York: The Free Press, 2000), 9. 48 Ernest A. Breisach, American Progressive History: An Experiment in Modernization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 49. 49 Charles A. Beard, “That Noble Dream,” American Historical Review, 41 (October 1935): 87. 254 differences. Dealing with the Rankean premise of the objectivity of history, Carl A. Becker asserted that historical facts receive their meaning from historians’ interpretation. The narrative lacks objectivity but is influenced by the contemporary political, social, and cultural milieu. The new approaches to historical writing did not resonate with the DAR’s attempt to chronicle American history. Theirs remained conservative in their political history that glorified great leaders. Mary Elizabeth Springer, who published an article that surveyed the history of America in the society’s magazine, asserted that the Revolutionary War “leveled social distinctions” and claimed that the people’s Constitution was made “for the people by the people.” 50 Over a decade later, Mary Cooley Bassett, the society’s Historian General, spoke highly of the revolutionary ancestors, whose “noble lives” should be made public by the Daughters – “the history of their time, full and perfect reference authority, their virtue, their standing reference authority.” 51 Her words echoed American orators of the 1880s and 1890s who glorified revolutionary soldiers on battle days or on the Evacuation Day at Valley Forge. Holstein’s writings fit this pattern. In her article “Reminiscences of Valley Forge and General Washington’s Headquarters,” which she published in the DAR’s American Monthly Magazine, she added the memory of the common soldiers to that of George 50 Mary Elizabeth Springer, “Glimpses of the History of the United States,” American Monthly Magazine, XVI (January 1900): 14-15. 51 Mary Cooley Bassett, “National Board Magazine, Daughters of the American Revolution Magazine, XLIII (Nov. 1913): 691. 255 Washington and General Lafayette. She employed the idea of self-sacrifice as an overarching theme and a moral for readers. No martial music led them in triumph; no city full of good cheer and warm and comfortable homes awaited their coming; no sound kept time to their weary steps save the icy wind rattling the leafless branches and the dull tread of their tired feet on the frozen ground. 52 Holstein indicates that the soldiers suffered for the sake of a higher cause without receiving any recognition for their deeds. However, she also recognizes “The leaders of the men whose heroism can sanctify a place” who “were striving to establish and found a nation and a government.” 53 In the spirit of the DAR, Holstein paid tribute to revolutionary soldiers but revealed her utmost respect for authority and leadership. Several years later, Emma L. Newitt, whose article mistakenly appeared in the DAR’s magazine under the authorship of the Regent Eisenberg, demonstrates historical skill in the variety of sources she consulted to describe the “Life at Valley Forge.” 54 She draws on diaries, correspondence, orderly book, and George Washington’s papers to produce an impressive article that attempted to convey the soldiers’ experience. Like historians of the nineteenth century, she mentions God when she claims that the hardship at the encampment would have discouraged most people but it caused “in Washington’s 52 Anna Morris Holstein, “Reminiscences of Valley Forge and General Washington’s Headquarters,” American Monthly Magazine, VI (Jan. - June, 1895):549. 53 Ibid., 550. 54 Harriet D. Eisenberg, “Life at Valley Forge,” American Monthly Magazine, XXXI (Oct.1907): 597-604. A correction of the author’s name: American Monthly Magazine, XXI (Dec. 1907): 585. 256 case to make him put firmer trust in an Almighty Power and in the justice of his cause.” 55 However, she criticized Peggy Shippen and Sally Chew for they “danced the night away with the scarlet-coated officers of the British army, while fathers and brothers were suffering on the hills above the Schuylkill.” In contrast, she commended Mrs. Washington who “busied herself all day long, with errands of grace.” She also did not fail to include the story of her resourceful ancestor, demonstrating her distinguished lineage, a Continental Valley Forge officer Captain Piercy. A manufacturer of pottery, he wanted to produce bowls for his peers and built a kiln at his leisure in the encampment. The soldiers never enjoyed his workmanship; other soldiers tore it down and took the few items he had produced. Through her extensive research she reveals, without citing any sources or great detail, intriguing information about the daily life in the encampment. She discloses that soldiers who carried money could buy food and clothing to help them during the harsh season and that they disobeyed orders, liked to play card games and dice, and lived in an inevitable state of filth. She reveals that one soldier was held in court martial for stealing and an officer was found guilty of robbery. However, she protects the integrity of Anthony Wayne by simply indicating that he was acquitted of “conduct unbecoming an officer.” 56 She also suggests that the soldiers did not live in complete isolation since Friday was “Flagg day” when mail exchange took place in Philadelphia. The disclosure of dishonorable conduct of soldiers and the fact that relief was available for those with 55 Eisenberg, “Life at Valley Forge,” 604. 56 Ibid., 603. 257 means conflicted with the long-held image of cold, hungry, and isolated military troops. The option of relief for wealthier soldiers contradicts the democratic ideal of equality and the existence of military discipline. The letters soldiers received from loved ones must have helped to uplift their morale and endure the ordeal. These disclosures paint the soldiers in a more realistic manner than the images created by the CMAVF members and Evacuation Day orations two decades earlier. After years of ideal glorification of the soldiers at the encampment, a new generation of women pursued the documented of a more accurate portrayal. The Daughters accepted the revisionist article since it was based on sources of military officers, all respected leaders of the Continental Army at the encampment. Newitt employs methods borrowed from scientific historians in her reliance on primary sources, stating that “No historian can picture the life of any period so vividly as it may be described by those who were participants in that life.” 57 She fills her article with several quotes, some are paragraph long. Her perspective, however, is influenced by leaders of high command, and the experience of common soldiers is viewed through the perspective of George Washington and other officers. Newitt also protects General Wayne’s image by concealing the offense for which he faced court martial. On the other hand, she does not impose any moral lesson and refrains from lengthy depictions of suffering or the harsh weather. 57 Ibid., 597. 258 Newitt’s historical writing practices fit professional standards better than Holstein’s. As a daughter of a younger generation, she is less concerned with an impeccable notion of self-sacrifice of the Continental Army and more focused on portraying an accurate depiction of life on the encampment. It is doubtful that Holstein would have authored such a piece. Holstein’s image of the troops had been shaped by her reverence of authority, her Civil War experience, and nineteenth-century historians’ writings. Even in her late article, published after her death in Stager’s history of the CMAVF, she sought to create a version of reality that promoted the virtue of George Washington. She describes the floors of Washington’s Headquarters as “those which the great chieftain has walked in many weary hours” and the windows “unchanged since the days when anxious eyes looked through them at the soldiers’ huts upon the hills.” 58 She probably would have chosen to ignore the unscrupulous conduct of military personnel in order to keep the image of the army untainted. During the first decade of the twentieth century several members occasionally presented historical papers. Most of them were readings from published historical books such as excerpts from the Sleeping Sentinel of Valley Forge and an account of Montgomery Farm from a “geography of Pennsylvania published in 1835.” 59 However, when a younger member, Emma L. Newitt, an enthusiastic amateur historian, joined a slight change occurred. First she delivered a paper on the “Army of Valley Forge during 58 Anna Morris Holstein, “Washington’s Headquarters at Valley Forge, 1777-78,” in History of the Centennial Memorial Association Valley Forge, 90. 59 5 February 1904, Ibid. 259 the Winter of 1877-1878.” 60 Based on diaries and period letters, she presented a detailed account of the soldiers at the encampment. Impressed by her work, the Regent - Harriet Eisenberg - submitted it for publication in the DAR magazine. 61 On the subsequent month Newitt read a paper written two years earlier by Herman Vandenburg Ames titled “Some Peculiar Laws and Customs of Colonial Days.” Her third presentation marked a turning point in historical subjects when she introduced the “Women of Philadelphia during revolutionary Times”. 62 This was possibly the first instance in which the chapter to delved into the history of women. As part of a younger generation, raised at the turn of the century when women’s public role included involvement in temperance, women’s clubs, settlement houses, and suffrage, she valued women’s role and sought to make an impact with her writings. Newitt also initiated her own research and produced a personal genealogical presentation that paid homage to the country’s historical founders. In contrast, when Holstein had urged the members to write about their ancestors none of the two women who worked on the project presented their findings. While other members occasionally paid homage to traditional revolutionary leaders in subjects such as “Washington at Prayer at Valley Forge” and “Philadelphia Assembly,” Newitt delivered a paper of a trip taken by one of her ancestors, John Harper, a Quarter Master of the Pennsylvania 60 Newitt, a bachelor, received her teacher’s certificate in 1882. See: Sixty-Third Annual Report of the Board of Public Education, First School District of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: E. C. Markley & Sons, Printers, 1882), 81-82. 61 1 February 1907, Min. 2; see also footnote 54. 62 1 February 1908, Minute Book Valley Forge Chapter D.A.R., Dec. 6, 1907 - Dec. 1, 1916, No. 3,” Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Norristown, Pennsylvania. (Min.3 thereafter). 260 Battalion, in 1776. 63 In the following month, Fornance presented her family history perhaps as a result of Newitt’s focus on her ancestors, or out of a desire to enter her relatives into the local historical narrative. As the hostess of the meeting, she introduced the history of her house on Main Street in Norristown titled “Selma and the Porters.” Mrs. Harry S. Righter, the hostess of the subsequent meeting, presented the history of her house in Spring Mill titled “A Sketch of the Legaux Homestead”. 64 The Daughters continued their focus on local history by reading selections from the Real Daughters of the American Revolution, penned by a member of the Merion Chapter, Margaret Harvey, in October. In the end of the year the members featured “reminiscences by those who were associated with Anna Morris Holstein, organizer and first regent of Valley Forge Chapter.” Hunsicker read “three very interesting letters” written by Holstein and the account of the first meeting of the Valley Forge Chapter while McIness spoke of the initial meeting. Members also read the early history of the chapter and a biography of Holstein from the Centennial and Memorial Association Valley Forge. The tribute to Holstein posed a unique opportunity to introduce an exclusive history. The society fostered historical memory and the recovery of any evidence before it was lost. The women could have organized a memorable evening to celebrate their 63 6 February 1914, Min. 3. 64 See minutes of 1914, Ibid. The ancestors of Ellen Knox Fornance lived on Selma Farm. See: M. Auge, Life of the Eminent Dead and Biographical Notices of Prominent Living Citizens of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania (Norristown: Published by the Author, 1879), 593-594. Peter Legaux, a French viticulturalist, planted large vineyards on his estate, Montjoy, in Spring Mill, Pennsylvania, in the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century. His attempts to produce American wine were unsatisfactory and he died in debt. See: Thomas Pinney, A History of Wine in America from the Beginnings to Prohibition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 107-114. 261 chapter inception and produce a collection of reminisces written by those who shared years of public activity with their first regent. Fornance, McInnes, Hunsicker, Sarah R. E. Groverman, Mary Kraus Preston, and Mrs. P.Y. Eisenberg were all members of the Montgomery County Historical Society and all but the Eisenberg had been charter members of the chapter. Moreover, McInnes treaded by Holstein through most of her public career. During the Civil War, she joined the United States Sanitary Commission and often visited soldiers in Union camps. 65 She was also among the incorporators and first directors of the Centennial and Memorial Association of Valley Forge and served as Holstein’s vice regent between 1897and Holstein’s death in 1900. 66 These women could have vividly portrayed Holstein through their powerful stories and shared experiences. They could have reflected on the complexity of her personality and testify about her intriguing interest in history. Regrettably, they chose to memorialize her on the last meeting of the year, when the lengthy business section of the meeting included the annual election of officers. They read Holstein’s letters without interpretation or comment and left the minutes of the first meeting to represent the inception of their chapter instead of reminisce about the trials and tribulations of its first six years under the leadership of its founder. Perhaps they considered conferring attention upon their own history an impertinent act. Several years earlier, the Daughters refrained from contributing funds for a tribute to Julia K. Hogg, the former Pennsylvania State Regent, despite repeated requests from the State Office. They insisted that it was “not in line of their work, being 65 “Obituary,” DAR Scrapbook, Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Norristown, Pennsylvania. 66 Holstein was the Regent of the CMAVF from its inception until her death. 262 engaged in Historical research rather than in work of a personal nature.” 67 They held a gendered view of keeping contemporary women’s work inconspicuous. They approved the acknowledgement of colonial and revolutionary women’s acts as a means of inculcation, but did not want to present themselves as the ones to assume outright acknowledgement. Consequently, the history of the chapter remained factual, concise, and lacking personal experience of members. During their twentieth year, 1914, excluding a presentation on Valley Forge and one on Historic Churches, the Daughters documented members’ family history and the history of their chapter. In the formative years of the chapter’s existence, between 1895 and 1913, the women dedicated their historical effort primarily to the memory of soldiers who encamped at Valley Forge. In the twenty-first Continental Congress, on April 1912, Mary C. Bassett, the Regent of the Baltimore Chapter, asserted members’ historical consciousness and self-appreciation: We have become a conventionalized organization with customs, usages, methods, which are beginning to count for very much. Let us look at our own Society’s history. What purpose was fundamental in the organization of the Daughters of the American Revolution? What set it in motion? What will distinguish it through the years and mark it off as characteristic? 68 With over a decade of historical work, the Daughters had come to recognize the significance of their organization to the nation’s history. They were 67 6 February 1899, Min. 1. They eventually acquiesced and contributed a minor sum of $5. See: 6 November 1899, Min. 2. 68 Proceedings of the Twenty First Continental Congress of the Daughters of the American Revolution (Washington, D. C., 1912), 45. 263 ready to include themselves in the national historical narrative as the “contributors of the future by being conservators of the past history of America”. 69 Valley Forge members internalized her significant message and followed suit. The following year several members wrote their family history. It provided them with the construction of their origin and a trace of their pedigree. It also established their connection to the land and defined their exclusive identity. The members often used their family estate as a focus of their project, which proved that property and class were directly linked to comportment and good breeding. After decades of attention to revolutionary soldiers and sites, most linked to Valley Forge, they started to memorialize themselves through their male ancestors. 70 The encampment, however, remained the most exciting historical site for the members partly due to the chapter’s name and partly due to its increasing popularity. In January 1900, Hunsicker, the second regent, suggested that the chapter furnish Washington’s bedroom at the Headquarters. 71 The women proceeded to receive permission from the CMAVF and organized a concert to raise funds for the purchase. Inspired by a visit to Mount Vernon, Mary McInnes proposed to have a rag woven for the bedroom on Martha Washington’s loom. In replicating the work of the accomplished wife, the Daughters could reinforce the value of domestic production and inform future visitors of women’s contribution to the creation of the nation. In furnishing Washington’s most private space in the encampment the Daughters could have emphasized Martha’s 69 Ibid., 46. 70 The histories of Selma Farm and Montjoy emphasize the work of men who lived in them. 71 8 January 1900, Min. 2. 264 dedication to her husband during his difficult hour. They never questioned whether she had actually woven a rag; producing the item would have served to present her as a domestic ideal wife and therefore suited the room. In addition, by carrying Martha’s work and preserving her memory for posterity, the Daughters could exhibit continuity in women’s service to the nation. They could also emphasize their role as preservationists by linking their work with that of the lucrative preservation project of Mount Vernon. Unfortunately, the idea never materialized as the carpet weaver was absent from the premises for several months. Unable to utilize Martha’s loom, the women decided to hold a rag-sewing party instead. By making the essential item they took ownership of the room and projected domesticity and continuity of women’s patriotic work. Once permission was granted by the CMAVF the members agreed “to use only genuine old furniture if possible”. 72 The Daughters encountered difficulty in finding an appropriate colonial bedroom set, but in June 1901 they finally settled on furniture from a Pottstown antique dealer. Their painstaking work proved worthy. When the state took over the Headquarters it found the furnishing suitable and left the bedroom intact. As an additional indication of their work the women enlarged a “good picture” of Holstein into a life-sized photograph, and hung it in the newly preserved room. 73 The presence of Holstein’s photograph in Washington’s bedroom at the Headquarters emphasized her public life activity which, apart from the Civil War, had been linked to the memory of the Continental Army General. The Daughters had included her in the historical narrative of 72 1 October 1900, Min. 2. 73 7 June 1901; 3 April 1903, 5 June 1903, Min. 2. Sixth Annual Report of the National Society of the Daughters of the Revolution, October 11, 1902-October 11, 1903 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1904), 303. 265 preservation. Similarly to Washington, who commanded the army in the encampment, Holstein directed the women of the CMAVF and the DAR in the preservation of his headquarters. Her large image left no doubt of her prominence; like an exquisite portrait of a distinguished military leader or politician, it commanded the room with a presence of female authority. It also resembled the act of the Centennial women who included Gillespie’s bust in the Loan Exhibit, asserting the continuity of women’s activism throughout history. The furnishing of the room constituted only part of the chapter’s preservation work. Memorializing burial places of revolutionary soldiers remained one of the chapter’s main goals. The memorials they erected marked a significant shift in revolutionary memory. Instead of George Washington, the commander of the army, they memorialized the unknown common soldiers. With a great number of immigrants coming into the country mainly from Southern and Eastern Europe, hereditary societies’ members sought to teach patriotism and loyalty en masse. 74 Focusing on dying for a cause without recognition presented the most selfless act of sacrifice for the common good and a proper lesson on loyalty for those who were required to conform to new cultural and political practices. In the summer of 1906 Fornance, the chair of the Committee on Markers, suggested to mark the graves of revolutionary soldiers buried in the yard of St. James Church in Evansburg. The women had a stone quarried in Schwenksville and concluded 74 America accepted over 3.5 million immigrants during the years 1891 and 1900 and almost 8.8 million in the following decade between 1901 and 1910. See: Reports of the Immigration Commission, Statistical Review of Immigration 1820-1910 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1911), 7-8. 266 that for a national historic memorial the inscription should be cut to appear shiny. 75 In the dedication ceremony that was held on June 6 th , 1908, former Pennsylvania Governor Samuel Whitaker Pennypacker addressed the audience with a poignant question, which would have been unthinkable two decades earlier – “Why is it that we should give our honor to the successful general at the head of the army, with the stars of a major general on his shoulders? He has his reward.” He continued decisively: Vastly more is credit due to him who surrenders everything – and that was the fate of these men who gave their lives, their homes, their name for their country to lie far away in unknown graves. 76 In elevating unknown soldiers above high officers, Pennypacker presented the act as distinguished. And by arguing that “causes are maintained by the individual men” he suggested that men carry the responsibility to protect the cause – their nation. With an impressive project behind them, the Daughters considered their next memorial. In 1909, Magdalena S. Stauffer’s suggested to memorialize the unknown dead in Valley Forge. This was undoubtedly the most exciting project the women ever considered and “was discussed with much enthusiasm and was unanimously carried.” 77 During the first decade of the twentieth century, with 75 “Meeting of Boulder Committee,” 28 August 1907, Min. 2. 76 Emma L. Newill, “Valley Forge Chapter,” American Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXXII (August 1908): 447-448. 77 8 January 1909, Min. 3. 267 popularity of the site increasing, private organizations and the state hastened to stake a claim in the encampment and erect fitted monuments to the Continental Army in order to show their respect and demonstrate their authority as custodians of historical memory. The Daughters of the Revolution were the first hereditary organization to act. They erected the Waterman Monument, a fifty-foot high obelisk carved with a colonial flag and decorated with a bronze seal of the society. With an impressive 360-foot walkway leading to it, the imposing monument dominated the landscape. It was dedicated to the soldiers of Washington’s Army and to John Waterman, the only soldier whose grave was marked in the encampment. In 1908 the State of Pennsylvania dedicated an impressive equestrian statue of General Anthony Wayne to honor his service during the Revolutionary War. 78 The Daughters requested permission from the Valley Forge Park Commission, and in March, approval in hand, they excitedly discussed the means to raise the money for “such a noble cause.” 79 The project became their main goal and, for the first time, the Daughters refused requests for donations from other chapters and were reluctant to allocate money for requests from the national headquarters. When a letter arrived from the State Regent for contribution for Memorial Hall they decided that since they had always been generous and because “of the proposed memorial at Valley Forge” they would give only $15. 78 William Herbert Burk, Historical and Topographical Guide to Valley Forge (Philadelphia, 1910), 39, 89- 92. 79 5 March 1909, Min. 3. 268 Upon a request to contribute toward recognition of the past president general, Mrs. Donald McClean, they declined due to other projects. At the same time, the Daughters took measures to raise their funds. They resolved that each chapter member should raise $10 for the cause. By May, Stauffer’s unrelenting fundraising effort had collected $185, $50 of which was donated by U.S. Senator Philander C. Knox. 80 The regent, Mrs. Howland Brown, announced that more than $500 had been raised and hoped that the chapter would “make this memorial a credit for years to come.” 81 The members agreed that a Boulder Committee would be formed under Stauffer’s chairmanship with Fornance, Eisenberg, Miss McInnes, and Miss Emeline Henry Hooven as members, but by the summer of 1910 they resolved with great enthusiasm that all members of the chapter would be included in the committee. As the Valley Forge Chapter, placing a memorial at the encampment held special significance for the Daughters and they wanted to enable all their members to participate in the unique project. The Daughters chose the unveiling day, June 17 th , 1911, the anniversary of the Battle of Bunker Hill, to signify the importance of Valley Forge in the revolutionary narrative and tie a historic battlefield to the encampment site. Samuel W. Pennypacker and Rev. Charles H. Roer of the First Methodist Church in Norristown addressed the crowd of several thousands. Five decades after the Civil War, Roer did not overlook the opportunity to link the Union position to the 80 Stauffer raised a total of $300 from outside sources. See: Magdalena S. Stauffer, “Report of Valley Forge Chapter, DAR, 1910,” DAR Scrapbook, Valley Forge Chapter, DAR. 81 7 May 1909, Min. 3. 269 revolutionary episode: “Valley Forge tested the sons of the fathers. It educated a generation for new problems in the new nation, with a new flag, that has never lost a star.” He also recognized revolutionary women who “in the houses of the spinning wheel, graduates in the art of housekeeping, gave us husbands, fathers, sons, brothers and lovers for the common cause. Woman’s faith, love and sacrifice were placed on the altar with man’s strength, devotion and courage. Their patriotism was one.” 82 By drawing on an image of domesticity and by gendering patriotism Roer appealed to the Daughters whose local historical memory activism had been focused primarily on male ancestors and who had been careful to frame female ancestors within conventional gender roles. Arguing for keeping the union intact resonated with the older generation who remembered the war and was a subtle reminder of government loyalty to the younger one. The following speaker, the Valley Forge Regent Ellen Knox Fornance, described a romantic perception of the battlefield. Her description of the soldiers who lost their lives “not in glory of the battle with drums beating and banners flying” seemed like a battle scene taken from the paintings of John Trumbell or the popular The Spirit of ’76 (1875) by Archibald Willard. Glorifying death in the battlefield emphasized loyalty and patriotism. Sarah J. Purcell argues in her important study Sealed with Blood that military memories played a role in the creation of a national ideology and identity. She demonstrates that a shift toward democratization of the nation’s political culture during the Jacksonian era brought 82 Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Unveiling of the Marker of the Unknown Dead. 270 forth a similar change in the portrayal of Revolutionary War memories. The previous emphasis of military leaders gave way to the common soldiers in a process of “democratization of public memory.” 83 Contrasting with Purcell’s observation, the DAR’s goal was to instruct from the top down rather than enable a popular-generated process. The women intended the unknown dead to serve as an illustration of ultimate loyalty to the nation and its leaders, an example that would develop political culture of support of governing institutions. * * * During the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century women were active in temperance, suffrage, and social justice fighting for government intervention on issues such as compulsory education, minimum wage, and the restriction of child labor. But even those involved in reform issues often found means to incorporate their conservative views to advance their goals. Southern members of the National American Woman Suffrage Association (NAWSA) exploited racial attitudes in order to further women’s suffrage. Leaders of the Southern suffrage movement originated from prominent families. They received quality education, were economically secure, and possessed ties to key political figures. 84 As founders of the NAWSA reached advanced age in the end of the 1890s, the movement entered a period of doldrums, a lack of interest 83 Sarah J. Purcell, Sealed with Blood: War, Sacrifice, and Memory in Revolutionary America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2002), 2. 84 Marjorie Spruill Wheeler, New Women of the New South: The Leaders of the Woman Suffrage Movement in Southern States (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 39. 271 due to a pressing need to fill the ranks with younger members. 85 The southern flank of the organization, carried by several enthusiastic leaders, developed the “white supremacy strategy”. They stipulated that enfranchisement of educated tax-paying women would bar most African American women from voting and effectively increase the number of white voters in their region. One of the proponents of the tactic, Anna Howard Shaw, the vice president of the NAWSA addressed male politicians in 1903 at the organization’s conference in New Orleans: You have put the ballot into the hands of your black men, thus making them the political superiors of your white women. Never before in the history of the world have men made former slaves the political masters of their former mistresses! Acknowledging the humiliation of the situation, she added: If American men are willing to leave their women in a position as degrading as this they need not be surprised when American women resolve to lift themselves out of it. 86 The NAWSA never adopted this posture but did not repudiate it either. It claimed to recognize states’ rights and regional differences. The strategy did not gain legislatures’ support – they believed that literacy tests, grandfather clauses, and poll taxes guaranteed to bar African Americans from voting. 85 Elna C. Green, Southern Strategies: Southern Women and the Woman Suffrage Question (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997), 3-4. 86 Anna Howard Shaw and Elizabeth Garver Jordan, The Story of a Pioneer (New York: Harper’s & Brothers Publishers, 1915), 312, 313. 272 The DAR did not form a public strategy for racial exclusion but discreetly guarded their ranks via the requirement for members’ recommendations. Davies asserts that the organization’s conservative tone was evident from the outset by their choice of leadership. The positions of the president general and the vice president general had been filled by women who received their public acclaim through their husbands’ success. Lockwood’s comment on Harrison, the first president general may serve to describe the Daughters’ general view “a conservative woman, standing on the threshold of a new era, still holding fast to the old ideals, even while stretching forth a timid hand towards some things new.” 87 The Valley Forge Chapter DAR linked the main body of their work to the encampment. In recognition of Washington, they replicated the work of the Mount Vernon Women’s Association and furnished the Commander’s private quarters in his headquarters at Valley Forge. But the revolutionary furniture, beddings, rag, and curtains were not the only articles they placed in the space. They hung an impressive portrait of their leader, Anna Morris Holstein, as a monument of her successful effort in preserving the mansion. Like portraits of colonial and revolutionary leaders memorialized by Charles Wilson Peale and Thomas Sully, the Holstein portrait championed women’s historical work and inserted the chapter and its leader into the continuous history of the Revolution. 87 Quoted in: Davies, Patriotism on Parade, 96. 273 Washington’s Headquarters constituted only part of the encampment. The Continental Army included over ten thousand soldiers who camped on the site, waiting for an appropriate opportunity to strike the enemy. The Daughters sought to commemorate the unknown soldiers who demonstrated the ultimate dedication for the revolutionary cause. The monuments at Evansburg and Valley Forge were made of local granite left in their original state as boulders. Their sheer size and natural resilience hinted at the traits of the soldiers – enduring, persevering, determined, and decisive. Their untreated surface suggested their anonymity. By seeking to honor the nameless forgotten casualties the Daughters shifted their attention from the leader to the common soldiers – to serve as a reminder to the public, particularly to immigrants, that loyalty to one’s country is a selfless act embedded in discipline and loyalty. Their sites, at a church and at the “sacred ground,” suggested places of honor and reverence. 88 The DAR prized revolutionary artifacts for the period values and ideals they projected. They often discussed the issue in the American Monthly Magazine where they praised “what is valuable through association, a veneration for the links which ‘bind us to past generations.’” 89 The members of the Valley Forge Chapter chose to promulgate the lessons of self-sacrifice through artifacts made of shrubbery grown on the encampment’s grounds and part of the Headquarters’ floor that required replacement. To compensate for 88 During the Civil War the image of grounds sanctified by the soldiers who died on it. The DAR often referred to various Revolutionary War sites in similar term. The Historian General named the encampment ‘sacred ground’. See: Mary Jane Seymour, “Report of the Historian General,” American Monthly Magazine, XVIII (January 1901): 87. 89 “The Mission of the Daughters of the American Revolution is That of Restoration, Preservation and Education,” American Monthly Magazine, III (July 1893): 3. 274 the lack of articles that belonged to any of the Continental Army’s soldiers or officers the Daughters resorted to other elements connected to the site. They believed that the intersection of the artifact and its historical landscape would translate into patriotic values once viewers were exposed to them. Their approach implicitly suggests that those who observed their artifacts knew of the history that transpired at the encampment. Since the article made, the laurel wreath, was used in a local official occasion, its symbolism probably did not escape the crowds. The Daughters’ historical research proved taxing on most members. At a time when “the historical memories that cluster around Valley Forge become more and more interesting as years go by” only a few members assumed the task. 90 Their history resembled that of the scientific historians, aimed at the reconstruction of historical truth from documents for a contemporary moral example. While continuing to discuss the suffering Continental Army, the Daughters accepted new documented information that modified the image of isolation and law-abiding troops. At a time when Progressive historians interpreted revolutionary leaders as actors on behalf of their own interests, the DAR remained convinced that the very same commanders and politicians acted for the betterment of all. The idea of the Revolution as an element of unification of all regions of the country did not lose its luster, particularly among the older members of the chapter. “The American citizens or their ancestors were in Colonial days all represented in the struggle for freedom” – reiterated Holstein on the pages of the DAR magazine. Hers was 90 “Valley Forge To Be Made a State Park,” Philadelphia Inquirer, 7 January 1900, 4. 275 a fading voice among those who demanded a radical transformation of the political and economic practices to better address society’s social ills and injustices. 91 While historians wrote women out of history and interest in the memory of the Civil War was fading, the Daughters insisted on researching and writing their own history. Ignoring male professional historians, they asserted their status of ancestral origin to fill in the gap in the historical record and write revolutionary women and their successors into the national historical narrative. 91 “Reminiscences of Valley Forge,” 552. 276 CHAPTER 6 CONCLUSION On the morning of June 19 th , 1916, on the 138 th anniversary of the evacuation of Valley Forge by the Continental Army, a large group of history-minded people gathered at the temporary structure of the Washington Memorial Chapel for the dedication ceremony of a prayer desk. The Valley Forge Chapter DAR donated the article in the name of is founder, Anna Morris Holstein. The chapel, intended as a collection of individual memorials connected with the American Revolution, was the brainchild of Rev. W. Edmund Burk, a well-connected pastor who worked diligently to raise the money and build the monumental building. 1 The guests included a large attendance by the Valley Forge Chapter DAR, representatives of nearby chapters, and relatives of Holstein. Members of local organizations such as the Sons of the American Revolution, Society of the Cincinnati, the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, the Historical Society of Montgomery County, and Valley Forge Park Commission were also present. The Regent of the Valley Forge Chapter, Mrs. Fisher, unveiled the desk. It bore the insignia of the DAR and its book-shelf was sustained by two angels with outstretched wings. An inscription cut in brass filled in pewter read: To the Glory of God and in Memory of Anna Morris Holstein, who in War served the Nation as a nurse and in Peace preserved Washington’s 1 For a full description of the chapel and its memorials see: Lorett Treese, Valley Forge: Making and Remaking A National Symbol (University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania University Press, 1995), 99- 101. 277 Headquarters. This desk is given by the Valley Forge Chapter, DAR, of which she was the founder and first Regent, 1916. 2 The dedication of the desk, a fitting memorial in an Episcopalian church dedicated to the Continental Army and the thirteen colonies, marked the symbolic continuity of women’s role in the service to the nation. The Daughters placed the desk in a chapel adorned with glass windows that portrayed the life of Christ, George Washington, and Revolutionary War soldiers. The ceiling above it – the Roof of the Republic – was adorned with the seals of the states to symbolize national unity. The addition of the desk introduced Holstein into the chapel’s masculine memory as a female patriotic actor who served her country in war and in preservation of its history. Unlike the chapel’s memory, which honored the deeds of past historical male figures, the meticulously crafted article epitomized a single woman’s contemporary work. It represented Holstein’s service, historical foresight, and remarkable achievements in preservation – qualities that placed her on equal footing with the men memorialized in the chapel. Indeed, women had come a long way since the Civil War, when they had to ask male organizers of the United States Sanitary Commission for permission to assist in the war effort. 3 During the period between 1860 and 1914, Philadelphia and Montgomery County women constructed a gendered and classed 2 Ellen Knox Fornance, “Valley Forge Chapter,” Daughters of the American Revolution Magazine, L (January 1917), 44. The inscription was suggested by Rev. Burk. See: Jan. 1916, Minute Book Valley Forge Chapter, 3, Valley Forge Chapter DAR, Norristown, Pennsylvania. 3 See: Chapter 2, P. 74, Report of the General Superintendent of the Philadelphia Branch of the United States Sanitary Commission February 1 st , 1864 (Philadelphia: King and Baird, 1864), 7. 278 historical memory that aimed at including white women of colonial and Revolutionary War periods in the national historical narrative and presenting themselves as custodians of history. They evoked a subversive history that placed women and domesticity at the center of the historical discourse, arguing that women were significant actors in shaping the national historical narrative. In the first three decades, they advanced an ideal memory of consensus, represented by Martha and George Washington, in order to reconcile the rift caused by the Civil War. In the early 1890s, with the formation of the DAR, white women of colonial and Revolutionary War ancestry had assumed legitimacy as custodians of historical memory. They constructed a more inclusive memory of revolutionary soldiers with the intention of inculcating the public, particularly recent immigrants, in patriotic and civic values. During the Civil War, Philadelphia and Montgomery County women sought an ideal memory of consensus as a means of escaping the horrors of the protracted military conflict. The simplicity of Quaker culture of colonial domestic production provided a respite for Sanitary Fair visitors and enabled them to imagine an ideal colonial past. On the front lines, the experience of Anna Morris Holstein demonstrated how women identified the debilitated state of revolutionary sites with the tattered state of the nation, feelings that possibly contributed to women’s preservation impulse. The historical exhibits and writings of women during this period established continuity with the successful preservation project undertaken by Ann Pamela Cunningham and the Mount 279 Vernon Ladies’ Association. While Cunningham hoped that the restoration of George Washington’s home would encourage regional reconciliation, Philadelphia and Montgomery County women employed their historical memory to establish domesticity as a site of historical significance and assert themselves as guardians of history. The advent of the centennial of the nation’s independence presented an additional opportunity for elite women, who were called to assist in promoting and fundraising for the planned Exposition. The women utilized the experience they had gained during the war in a national campaign that spawned great interest in the enterprise and raised a considerable amount of funds. They advanced the cult of Martha Washington at a time when her illustrious husband had been increasingly becoming a symbol of a unified past. With period artifacts and costumes and staged period receptions, they evoked a subversive memory that placed Martha on equal footing with period male historical figures. By recalling the memory of the Court of the Republic, the women asserted their privileged social status as a birthright from their colonial and revolutionary ancestors. In addition, they provided women in other parts of the country with a narrative they could alter to fit their political views and their concepts of historical memory. Their interpretation, however, was not limited to the past. They also included their leader, Elizabeth Duane Gillespie, into the annals of the Centennial. The women argued that their meaningful work had been part of a long tradition of elite 280 women’s participation in the history of the nation from colonial times to the present. Eager to reconcile the schism caused by the Civil War, Philadelphia women refrained from mentioning the past conflict and appealed to their sisters in Southern states with a reconciliatory tone, recognizing their economic hardship. They had the foresight to realize the value of creating a national network ready for mobilization when future projects or political objectives arose. Privileged rural women employed different means to achieve their goals. More conservative in their social outlook, they emphasized the memory of George Washington and the soldiers who encamped at Valley Forge, portraying Martha as inconspicuous and almost trivial in the annals of the encampment. Additionally, their political position was far from conciliatory. They insisted that the anti- secessionist stance protected the values of the Revolution, a view which probably cost them the support of some of elite Philadelphia women. Several Montgomery County women were also interested the in recovery and documenting of local historical narratives. The findings of this study are consistent with the works of Nina Baym, Bonnie Smith, and Julie Des Jardins. 4 The women of the Montgomery County Historical Society aligned their work with that of nineteenth-century scientific historians as they stressed the guidance 4 Nina Baym, American Women Writers and the Work of History,1790-1860 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1995); Bonnie G. Smith, The Gender of History: Men, Women, and Historical Practice (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2000); Julie Des Jardins, Women and the Historical Enterprise in America: Gender, Race, and the Politics of Memory, 1880-1945 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina, 2003). 281 of God in the progress of nations, presented history in a romantic style, and based their work on available primary sources. They aimed to include women in the local historical narrative and assert class distinction as custodians of history and successors of families of colonial origin. Similar to the celebrated nineteenth- century historian Elizabeth Fries Ellet, they were radical in seeking publicity, but their material remained conservative in its portrayal of women within their conventional gender roles. Between the years 1860 and 1890, elite women’s historical practices were consistent with those of professional historians. Similar to the male historians, who emphasized influential male figures, Philadelphia elite women sought to present worthy women who contributed to progress. They primarily focused on Martha Washington and her Court of the Republic. More conservative in their outlook, the women of Montgomery County dramatically described the heroic deeds of George Washington and the soldiers at Valley Forge, emphasizing fortitude and self-sacrifice. Like George Bancroft, they described the events with a dramatic tone and acknowledged providence as a force in shaping history. In the 1890s, with the emergence of the Progressive historians, women’s historical work diverged from that of professional historians. While Progressive historians challenged scientific historians’ ideas by stressing the common people’s struggle against the elite, Montgomery County women emphasized utmost loyalty to the republic and its leaders. As Progressives sought reform and social change, women sought a conservative agenda of strengthening governing institutions and 282 maintaining social hierarchy. Their historical activity focused on inculcating immigrants and maintaining their own elite status through their revolutionary ancestors. Regardless of their conservative effort, some women sought to improve their political, legal, and social status. Anna Morris Holstein joined the suffrage movement in her effort to enable women to play a greater role in public life. Though elite women aimed to include colonial and revolutionary women in the national historical narrative, they probably did not express their intentions in writing until women’s public activism became more prominent through suffrage organizations, women’s clubs, and the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. In addition, hereditary societies legitimized members’ pursuit of historical effort by arguing for the importance of immigrants’ inculcation. With a spike in immigration from eastern and southern Europe and an economic depression that exacerbated cultural and political tensions, established Americans were increasingly anxious over the decline of their political and cultural influence. Free to initiate their local projects, the members of the Valley Forge Chapter DAR erected memorials to the unknown soldiers of the revolution. They shifted the construction of historical memory from a focus on George Washington to anonymous soldiers in order to introduce immigrants to the concept of self- sacrifice of common people and inculcate them with patriotic and civic values. Work of a domestic character accommodated the Daughters’ conservative stance. When they received permission to furnish the most exclusive part of 283 George Washington’s quarters, his bedroom, at the Valley Forge headquarters they embarked on the mission with great enthusiasm. They painstakingly searched for appropriate period furniture and articles that would best represent a colonial room. They also included a large picture of Holstein, the founder of their chapter and the force behind the preservation of the structure. Similar to the Centennial women, who exhibited Gillespie’s bust at their exhibition, the Daughters entered Holstein into the historical memory and claimed a tradition of women’s contribution to the national historical narrative. By honoring Holstein, whose lifelong activity had been focused on patriotic causes, in the Commander of the Continental Army’s center of domesticity, the Daughters left no doubt as to the meaningful role she had played in the history of the nation. This dissertation expands the knowledge of gender, class, and memory studies. Historians have started to explore memory in the 1990s. They have only recently employed gender as a category of analysis in connection to it. 5 This dissertation fills the gap by examining the construction of gendered and classed historical memory by elite women at a critical period, during the Civil War and its aftermath, when the processes of urbanization, industrialization, and immigration, and economic depression rapidly transformed the urban and rural landscapes. 5 One publication attempts to include articles from different parts of the world to demonstrate that the construction of memory within a gendered context has been a universal phenomenon. See: Selma Laydesdorff, Luisa Passerini and Paul Thompson, eds., Gender and Memory (Oxford, England: Oxford University Press, 1996). Southern history, race and iconography are linked in this recent study: Kimberly Wallace-Sanders, Mammy: A Century of Race, Gender, and Southern Memory (Ann Arbor : University of Michigan Press, 2008). A more recent monograph that explores gender and ethnicity demonstrates how women in Zoot Suit threatened traditional gender roles and called Chicano identity into question. See: Catherine Sue Ramirez, The Woman in the Zoot Suit: Gender, Nationalism, and Cultural Politics of Memory (Durham: Duke University Press, 2009). 284 The study also adds to the historiography of Martha and Mary Washington. In recent years, historians have become interested in their lives but little is known about the way in which had been perceived by later generations. 6 James Michael Lingren’s discussion of the cult of Mary Washington illuminates the effort of the Association for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities in the preservation of Mary Washington’s home as a museum and their interpretation of her life. 7 Karal Ann Marling demonstrates that Martha Washington fundraising galas for the Centennial Exposition took place in other parts of the country. 8 Further research would contribute to the burgeoning field of notables‘ gendered memory. The study also demonstrates the different social attitudes and the degree of adherence to gender roles that existed between urban and rural women. And since the geographic scope of the study resembles other urban centers in northeast United States, it can be used as a fundamental base for exploring how local historical events shaped the construction of gendered memory of urban and rural women in other regions during this period. 9 The work of women in other regions of the country could further enrich historians’ knowledge about the impact of 6 For a collection of her papers see: Joseph E. Fields, ed., “Worthy Partner”: The Papers of Martha Washington (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1994). Recent studies about Martha Washington include: Helen Bryan, Martha Washington: The First Lady of Liberty (New York: Wiley, 2002); Patricia Brady, Martha Washington: An American Life (New York: Viking, 2005); Betty Boyd Caroli, First Ladies: From Martha Washington to Michelle Obama (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). 7 James Michael Lindgren, Preserving the Old Dominion: Historic Preservation and Virginia Traditionalism (Charlottesville, Virginia: The University Press of Virginia, 1993). 8 Karal Ann Marling, George Washington Slept Here: Colonial Revivals and American Culture, 1876-1986 (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1988), 38-52. 9 See Introduction, footnote 21. 285 political, cultural, and economic factors on urban and rural women’s attempts to memorialize their ancestors and provide an insight into the forging of a gendered and classed identity. The dissertation contributes to a better understanding of the development of the professionalization of history and the inevitable trivialization of scholars who were excluded from the privileged academic circle. It demonstrates that between the Civil War and the early 1890s, women adopted research methods employed by early scientific historians and altered them to fit their needs. The institutionalization of the profession under the American Historical Association in 1889 and the advent of Progressive history in the 1890s did not affect the Daughters’ perception of history, who neither considered themselves marginalized nor perceived their history inferior. They recognized the civic education of American youths as a significant contribution to the nation’s future existence. The Sanitary Fair exhibits, Centennial galas and Loan Exhibit, and the fundraising events and celebrations that surrounded the preservation of Valley Forge headquarters and the monuments erected by the DAR add to the studies of the preservation movement and museum studies. The various exhibits created by the Sanitary Fair committees and the Centennial Women enhance museum studies as an interim phase between the private collection, viewed by a select few, and the institutionalization of the museum as a permanent space for public view. 286 Lastly, the dissertation expands the knowledge on the history of Philadelphia. Undoubtedly, the thorough volume Philadelphia: A 300-Year History edited by Russell Weigley and fellow historians represents a comprehensive historical volume about the subject. In addition, growing body of literature has explored the economic, social, political, and cultural history of the city in different periods. 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Beyond the Separate Spheres: Intellectual Roots of Modern Feminism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982. Ryan, Mary. The Cradle of the Middle Class: the Family in Oneida County, New York, 1790-1865. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981. Rydell, Robert W. All the World's a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876-1916. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984. ________, John E. Findling, and Kimberly D. Pelle. Fair America: World's Fairs in the United States. Washington D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000. Schultz, Jane E. Women at the Front: Hospital Workers in Civil War America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004. Schwartz, Barry. George Washington: The Making of an American Symbol. New York: Free Press, 1987. Scott, Ann Firor. Making the Invisible Woman Visible. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1984. 306 ________. Natural Allies: Women's Associations in American History. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991. Scott, Kate M. History of Jefferson County, PA. Syracuse, NY: D. Mason & Co. Publishers, 1888. Scranton, Philip. Proprietary Capitalism: The Textile Manufacture at Philadelphia, 1800-1885. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Silber, Nina. Daughters of the Union: Northern Women Fight the Civil War. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005. Sims, Joseph Patterson. The Philadelphia Assemblies, 1748-1948: An Account of the Assemblies Printed for the Two Hundredth Anniversary, January 2nd, 1948, By Order of the Managers. Philadelphia, 1947. Sizer, Lyde Cullen. The Political Work of Northern Women Writers and the Civil War, 1850-1872. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina, 2000. Smith, Billy Gordon. The “Lower Sort”: Philadelphia’s Laboring People, 1750-1800. New York: Cornell University Press, 1990. Smith, Bonnie G. The Gender of History: Men, Women, and Historical Practice Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2000. Spence, Mark David. Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of the National Parks. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Stabile, Susan. Memory's Daughters: The Material Culture of Remembrance in Eighteenth-Century America. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 2004. Stern, Milton. Harriet Lane, America’s First Lady. 2005. Strayer, Martha. The D.A.R. An Informal History. Washington D.C.: Public Affairs Press, 1958. Struthers, Burt. Philadelphia, Holy Experiment. Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc., 1945. Sweet, William Warren. Religion in Colonial America. New York: Cooper Square Publishers 1965. Szasz, Ferenc Morton. Abraham Lincoln and Robert Burns: Connected Lives and Legend. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2008. Taylor, Frank Hamilton. Philadelphia in the Civil War, 1861-1865. Philadelphia: The City, 1913. Tocqueville, Alexis de. Democracy in America, ed. Richard D. Heffner, 4 th ed. New York: The New American Library, 1961. Toll, Jean Barth and Michael J. Schwager, eds., Montgomery County: The Second Hundred Years. 2 Vol. Norristown, Pa.: Montgomery County Federation of Historical Societies, 1983. Trachtenberg, Allan. The Incorporation of America: Culture and Society in the Gilded Age. New York: Hill and Wang, 1982. Treese, Lorett. Valley Forge: Making and Remaking a National Symbol. University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995. Ulrich, Laurel Thatcher. The Age of Homespun: Objects and Stories in the Creation of an merica Myth. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2001. 307 Unrau, Harland D. Administrative History Valley Forge National Historical Park, Pennsylvania. U. S. Department of the Interior: National Park Service, Northeast Team. Varon, Elizabeth R. Disunion! The Coming of the American Civil War, 1789-1859. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina, 2010. ________. We Mean to Be Counted: White Women and Politics in Antebellum Virginia. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998. Vitzthum, Richard C. The American Compromise: Theme and Method in the Histories of Bancroft, Parkman, and Adams. University of Oklahoma: Norman Press, 1974. Wainwright, Nicolas B. ed. A Philadelphia Perspective: A Diary of Sidney George Fisher Covering the Years 1834-1871. Philadelphia: Historical Society of Pennsylvania, 1967. Wallace-Sanders, Kimberly. Mammy: A Century of Race, Gender, and Southern Memory. Ann Arbor : University of Michigan Press, 2008. Warner, Sam Bass. The Private City: Philadelphia in Three Periods of Its Growth. 2 nd ed. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania press, 1987. Wecter, Dixon. The Saga of American Society: A Record of Social Aspiration, 1607- 1937. New York: C. Scribner, 1937. Wheeler, Marjorie Spruill. New Women of the New South: the Leaders of the Woman Suffrage Movement in Southern States. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. Weigley, Russell F., Nicholas B. Wainwright, and Edwin Wolf, eds. Philadelphia: A 300-Year History. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1982. Welter, Barbara. Dimity Convictions: the American Woman in the Nineteenth Century. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1976. Weygandt, Cornelius. Philadelphia Folks: Ways and Institutions in and About the Quaker City. Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1970. Wicker, Elmus. Banking Panics of the Gilded Age. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Wolf, Stephanie Grauman. As Various as Their Land: The Everyday Lives of Eighteenth- Century Americans. New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 1993. Wood, Gordon S. The Americanization of Benjamin Franklin. New York: Penguin Press, 2004. Wulf, Karin. Not All Wives: Women of Colonial Philadelphia. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000. Figures Circular of the William Penn Parlor Committee. 1864. The Library Company of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Martha Washington Centennial Medal http://s7d2.scene7.com/is/image/Stacks/1502401576-oz?$thumbnail$ Mrs. Lardner Brown in a Martha Washington Costume. 1873. The Library Company of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 308 Shtuhl, Smadar. George Washington’s Headquarters, Valley Forge National Park. 2011. Smadar Shtuhl. 309 APPENDIX A PERMISSION FROM THE LIBRARY COMPANY OF PHILADELPHIA 310 311 312 APPENDIX B PERMISSION FROM STACK’S BOWERS GALLERIES 
work_mrw3h4vfrvcu3jd3furcjvhsau	----	RESENAS AFRANIO COUTINHO, A literatura no Brasil. Editorial Sul Americana, S. A., Rio de Janeiro, Vol. I, t. i, 1956. 540 pp. Vol. II, I955- 394 PP. Sob a direcgo do professor e critico literario Afranio Coutinho, com a assistincia dos criticos literirios Eugenio Gomes e Barieto Filho, esta em elaboracgo uma revisao da literatura brasileira. Cerca de cincoenta colaboradores e especialistas foram encarregados dos diversos temas. A obra esti dividida em tres partes, a saber: I parte: introdu§co compreen- dendo o estudo dos temas de ordem geral; II parte: a literatura no Brasil segundo os v6rios estilos em que foi produzida: Renascenga e Barroco, Classicismo e Arcadismo, Romantismo, Realismo, Naturalismo, Parnasia- nismo, Simbolismo, Modernismo; III parte: capitulos s6bre temas isola- dos: a critica, o ensaismo, a orat6ria, as relag6es da literatura com a filo- sofia, com as id6is politicas e juridicas, com o jornalismo, com as artes, etc. Entre os colaboradores mais importantes salientam-se: Luis da Ca- mara Cascudo, Hern.ni Cidade, Clovis Monteiro, Otivio de Faria, Pere- grino Jinior, Andrade Muricy, Luis Delgado, Gilberto Freyre, Augusto Meier, Afonso Arinos de Melo Franco, Olivio Montenegro e outros. A literatura no Brasil representa, segundo o diretor, "mais uma tenta- tiva de reacgo contra o sociologismo, o naturalismo e o positivismo, e contra o historicismo, em nome dos valores est6ticos, em nome da critica intrin- seca ou est6tico-literaria, ou po6tica". No estagio atual tem crescido tanto o acervo de trabalhos publicados que a um s6 homem a tarefa de escrever uma hist6ria literaria se afigura insuperivel. Por isso decidiram numa obra coletiva. Apesar de que esta obra foi escrita por virios colaboradores hi, mesmo assim, uma unidade de planejamento. Mas esta submissao ne- cessiria ao conjunto nao diminui o valor de cada critico. O resultado 6 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA uma colefio de excelentes artigos escritos por especialistas -uma colecgo que, ao mesmo tempo, nos fornece una admirivel hist6ria da literatura no Brasil. A literatura no Brasil 6, sem divida alguma, una obra impres- cindivel a t6da pessoa interessada na vida liternria brasileira. Valicsas sao as ilustrag6es que documentam os temas e os autores. Tamb6m de grande valor s.o as bibliografias incluidas. Dos volumes de que constar, a obra faltam o t. 2 do primeiro que tratar, do Romantismo, e o terceiro volume que abrangeri o Simbolismo, o Modernismo e as tendencias contemporineas. ALBERT R. LOPES Universidade de Novo Mixico ANGEL MARIA GARIBAY, Historia de la literatura nahuatl, Primera parte (etapa aut6noma: de c. i430 a 1521, Editorial Porruia, S. A., Av. de la Repiblica Argentina 15, M6xico, D. F., 1953). Obra fundamental es 6sta del padre Garibay que viene a proyectar luz meridiana sobre la literatura elaborada por los nahuas en los mo- mentos en que alcanzaron su apogeo en el Valle de M6xico. El libro inicia la "Biblioteca Porruia". Creemos que con este volumen -dicen los editores- se realiza una feliz conjunci6n; en el tema, de prioridad obvia y en las calidades del autor. Le conocen y aprecian muchos por su personalidad y por su talento; pero, no obstante, es grata y necesaria exigencia presentar su perfil biogrifico a mis numeroso piblico antes de hablar de su obra. Angel Ma. Garibay K., sacerdote cat61lico, ha de- dicado su actividad principalmente a sus ministerios. Despues del profe- sorado en el Seminario y de una vida de contacto con los indios durante su servicio parroquial, es hoy dia Can6nigo Te6logo del Cabildo de Gua- dalupe. Especialmente dado a las letras cl.sicas, ofreci6 a la luz piblica una versi6n de la Trilogia de Orestes, directamente hecha del griego y en versos castellanos. Por lo que toca a la directa exploraci6n de los monu- mentos literarios de la antigiiedad mexicana, ademis de este libro, que da suficiente idea de su trabajo, tiene mucho escrito sobre estos temas y principalmente versiones de todos los documentos de mayor importan- cia. Todo lo cual fue como la preparaci6n para esta obra, primer volu- men de la Biblioteca Porria. En la introducci6n de la obra el P. Garibay trata de la manera como 160 RE SENAS fue trasmitido por los nahuas su pensamiento a trav6s de las genera- ciones. Hubo ya una forma escrita, el c6dice, la alfabetizaci6n del idioma al pasar a los escritos castellanos. La lengua nihuatl era clara, concisa, capaz de miltiples sugestiones, ficilmente apta para la expre- si6n de las imigenes, afecta al "paralelismo" que da belleza al concepto, grave por su acento. El autor divide su estudio en dos etapas: i a Vida aut6noma de la mente nahuatl y 2. El trauma de la conquista espafiola en la mente ni.huatl. Inicia la primera con el sefiorio de Izcoatl, momento en que se des- truy6 la documentaci6n antigua para iniciar una nueva historiografia. El periodo se cierra en 1521. La segunda epoca de la literatura n.huatl se inicia en el mismo afio de la conquista y lo cierra el P. Garibay en 175o, afio en el que hace crisis la ensefianza del nihuatl. Sigue la introducci6n hablando de las fronteras de la expresi6n nahuatl y de las fronteras de la producci6n literaria y sus centros prin- cipales de realizaci6n: Tenoxtitlin, Texcoco, Cuauhtitln y lugares ve- cinos, Azcapotzalco, Tlacopan; despues Chalco y otros lugares mis ale- jados, Huexotzingo y Cholula. Se ocupa despues de los origenes lite- rarios, obscuros por insuficientemente explorados. Fueron los huastecos los iniciadores? JInfluyeron los otomies en la producci6n nahuatl? Pasa despues a estudiar las fuentes de su investigaci6n: anales, sagas heroicas, cantos 6picos, relatos y anecdotas. Ocupan lugar importante en este campo las cr6nicas de los misioneros y posteriormente los trabajos de los antrop6logos nacionales y extranjeros: Chavero, Orozco y Berra, Gar- cia Icazbalceta por un lado, Prescott, Brinton, Seler, Cornyn. Particu- larmente interesante es la n6mina de estas fuentes, con que cierra su introducci6n el autor, que ademis de dar valor documental a la obra, servirin para que futuros investigadores se adentren en el estudio de varios de los temas que admiten futura valoraci6n. Entrando ya al examen de la obra, que tiene que ser naturalmente somero, expresaremos que en diez densos y exhaustivos capitulos realiza el examen de los diversos aspectos de la literatura nahuatl. En el pri- mero se ocupa de generalidades de la poesia: el verso, la m6sica y la danza, y por tanto el ritmo, el paralelismo, las "palabras broches", las metiforas, el uso de ciertas particulas, que servian tal vez, para medir y modular el verso. Por iltimo nos da el P. Garibay los nombres que se daban a los poemas. "Poesia religiosa", "Poesia lirica", "Poemas Otomies", "Poesia 161 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA 6pica", "Poesia dramtica", "La prosa en general", los "Discursos di- dicticos", la "Prosa hist6rica", la "Prosa imaginativa", constituyen los nueve capitulos restantes de esta monumental obra, cuya publicaci6n ha constituido uno de los acontecimientos literarios de mayor envergadura de los iltimos tiempos. La conclusi6n a que llega el autor al final de lo que l llama modestamente "una serie de capitulos monograficos sobre diversos temas" de la Historia de la Literatura nahuatl es muy sugestiva, a saber: "a pesar de la deficiente y precaria base de nuestros conocimien- tos, tenemos suficientes testimonios para juzgar del valor literario de la antigua producci6n en nahuatl. No es una cultura que se pueda poner sobre la griega, la romana o la indostinica; es un aspecto del pensa- miento humano suficientemente conservado y que, para nosotros, tiene valioso interns de dar lo que pensaron nuestros predecesores en este suelo mexicano. Tengamos o no sangre india, tenemos una herencia que nos toca a todos y de la que todos podemos gloriarnos". JULIO JIMENEZ RUEDA, Universidad Nacional Autdnoma de Mexico. CARLOS GARCiA PRADA, Poetas modernistas hispanoamericanos. Antolo- gia. Introduccidn, selecciones y notas criticas y bibliograficas, Edi- ciones Cultura Hispinica, Madrid, I956. 355 PP- El profesor de la Universidad de Washington, Dr. Carlos Garcia Prada, que fue meritisimo primer director de esta Revista Iberoamericana, acaba de publicar la antologia cuya referencia encabeza estas lineas. Comienza el libro con un breve ensayo en el que el Sr. Garcia Prada delinea primero el prop6sito de su publicaci6n: presentar con fines docentes quince poetas con los cuales puede comenzarse el estudio del modernismo hispanoamericano. Tritase pues de un libro de intenci6n pedag6gica, des- tinado a estudiantes y a otros lectores que se inicien en el conocimiento del modernismo. Con tal fin continuia Garcia Prada su pr61ogo dando su propia definici6n, ambientaci6n, caracterizaci6n e historia del modernismo. Estampa luego el compilador las selecciones de poesias de quince poetas, precedida cada una de su breve nota critica sobre el poeta antologizado y de la lista de sus principales obras. Son dichos poetas los siguientes: Gon- zalez Prada, Marti, Diaz Mir6n, Gutierrez N.jera, Casal, Silva, Dario, 162 RESENAS Nervo, Jaimes Freyre, Gonzalez Martinez, Valencia, Lugones, Herrera y Reissig, Chocano y Porfirio Barba Jacob. Termina el libro con una bi- bliografia seleccionada de obras que pueden permitir al estudiante conti- nuar el iniciado conocimiento de los escritores modernistas y el moder- nismo. El ensayo introductorio a que antes me referia es breve y sustancioso. Si este libro se usa, como seguramente ha de usarse, en clases de literatura hispanoamericana, dicho ensayo resulta aptisimo para que el maestro lo explique, lo comente y lo discuta parrafo por parrafo. Su misma nece- saria brevedad ha forzado indudablemente al Dr. Garcia Prada a ex- presarse en forma concisa, en frases epigramiticas, que tanto si se esti de acuerdo con su contenido como si no se esti de acuerdo, pueden ser excelente motivo de exegesis. Las tesis basicas de Garcia Prada son: 19, que el modernismo es una de las manifestaciones de una constante de la cultura occidental que desde el alejandrinismo va hasta el superrealismo pasando por la edad de plata latina, por el barroquismo, el romanticis- mo y el mismo modernismo, constante cultural que se opone a otra cons- tante, la del clasicismo; 29, que el modernismo es la expresi6n hispanoame- ricana de esa constante cultural resurgida simultineamente en varias litera- turas occidentales en el 6ltimo tercio del siglo xIx, literaturas que debido a esa simultaneidad del fen6meno pudieron inter-fertilizarse; y, 39, que precisamente por ser la expresi6n de una constante cultural, el modernis- mo-en lo que tiene de esencial- no esta liquidado. Estas tres tesis pueden dar ocasi6n al profesor para exposiciones y discusiones en pro y en contra en su clase, afiadiendo asi al goce est6tico de la lectura de las poesias contenidas en la antologia el interns intelectual de los temas de historia de la cultura y de la literatura que esas afirmaciones de Gar- cia Prada suscitan. Las notas del compilador que preceden a cada una de las selecciones de poesias son claras, adecuadas a su prop6sito docente, y est.n escritas tambien con la caracteristica elegancia de la pluma de su autor.1 Las 1 Una sola observaci6n respecto a dos de esas notas. En las pigs. 32 y 214 se afirma que Ricardo Jaimes Freyre en sus Leyes de la versificacidn castellacna (1912; 1919), present6 como suya, aduefiindose de ella, la teoria del verso.:que Manuel Gonzilez Prada habia explicado en las notas a Exdticas (1911). La pu- blicaci6n en libro de las Leyes data, en efecto, de 1912 con segunda edici6n en 1919; pero la primera publicaci6n de su teoria la habia hecho ya Jaimes Freyre en 1905 (afios antes, por lo tanto, de la aparici6n del citado libro de 1911 de GonzAlez Prada), en dos articulos: "La ley del ritmo", Revista de Letras y Ciencias Sociales, La Habana, Nim. 15, septiembre 1905, pigs. 177-193, y "Leyes de la 163 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA selecciones muestran el mismo buen sentido pedag6gico -y alto nivel de valor estetico-- en la presentaci6n de las diversas facetas de la obra de ca- da autor y del conjunto de esa obra dentro del complejo modernista. En resumen, el profesor Garcia Prada proporciona con esta antologia un 6til instrumento de enseiianza a los maestros de literatura hispanoame- ricana, un eficaz y c6modo texto a los estudiantes de la materia, y, final- mente, una prueba mis de su experta docencia y de su fino gusto literario. Luis MONGUI6 Mills College CARLOS MAZZANTI, El sustituto, Ediciones Botella al Mar, Buenos Aires, 1954. 136 pp. Con El sustituto, el joven escritor argentino Carlos Mazzanti . (1926- ) ha logrado retratar al hombre angustioso de la 6poca actual. Como "Jesus agobiado por la incomprensi6n del pueblo que lo cruci- ficaba",1 el hombre pasa por la vida sin que nadie le comprenda: ni aun sus padres ni su esposa. El siente personalmente los dolores del mundo. "Creia experimentar cada uno de los dolores humanos, y cualquier perro desamparado en una esquina solitaria que encontraba cuando regresaba por las noches a su cuarto haciale revivir esos confusos tropeles de conoci- mientos donde se mezclaba la sangre, el polvo y las lIgrimas de todos los siglos".2 El sustituto es un libro intenso, escrito en un solo pirrafo, que surge totalmente del interior del protagonista. El contenido de la obra puede dividirse en cuatro planos: los movimientos del protagonista, que trans- curren, a excepci6n de las uiltimas piginas, en un solo dia; la preocupa- ci6n por su vecino que va a morir ahorcado a las nueve y media de la noche por haber asesinado a un viejo; los recuerdos de toda la vida del protagonista; la semi-conciencia del protagonista de ser represen- tante de toda la humanidad. versificaci6n castellana", ibid., Num. 16, octubre 1905, pigs. 287-307. Ver. Dorothy Clotelle Clarke, Una bibliografia de versificacion :espaola (Berkeley [University of California Publications in Modern Philology, Vol. 20, Ncm. 21, 1937), pag. 81. No parece, pues, justificada aquella afirmaci6n. 1 Carlos Mazzanti, El sustituto (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Botella al Mar, 1954), p. 119.- 2 Ibid., pp. 102-103. 164 R E s E A S Los movimientos del protagonista constituyen al principio el:plano menos significante del libro mas van acelerindose hasta culminar en un final heroico y glorioso, en el cual se reinen los cuatro pianos del libro. Una mafiana el protagonista se rasura, toma una taza de cafe, se viste y sale de su departamento. Baja la escalera, sale a la calle y se sienta en un banco en la plaza. A las once pasa por un jardin y luego entra en un caf6 donde pide una cerveza y toma una aspirina. A las cinco va a la bi- blioteca y lee todos los peri6dicos que l1evan datos sobre el crimen. En la calle otra vez, se encuentra con la esposa del reo. Alocado, le grita que ~1 mismo fue el asesino. Huye por las calles. Recoge todo su di- nero y se lo da a la lavandera. Entonces se dirige a la c.rcel y se en- trega a la autoridad. Algin tiempo despus lo llevan al cadalso y lo ahorcan. Desde el principio del libro, el protagonista piensa en la suerte de su vecino sentenciado a morir a las nueve y media de esa misma noche. El vecino no ha confesado el asesinato y por eso el protagonista lo cree ino- cente y quiere ayudarlo. Al bajar la escalera el protagonista recuerda que hace seis meses, la mafiana despues del crimen, habia encontrado alli una moneda de cincuenta centavos agujereada. Durante el dia sigue pen- sando en el crimen cuyas circunstancias recuerdan Crimen y Cartigo de Dostoyevsky. El viejo asesinado fue hallado con el crineo hundido y un martillo a su lado. Al leer el reportaje sobre el proceso, el protago- nista se convence de la inocencia del acusado. Este, en su defensa, dijo que habia bajado al departamento del viejo para recoger una moneda de cin- cuenta centavos agujereada. Su niiio la habia dejado colarse por una de las rajaduras del piso. Al entrar en el departamento del viejo, se aturdi6 al ver a este asesinado. En ese momento entr6 otro vecino y llam6 a los policias. El protagonista, convencido de la inocencia del acusado, ve la oportunidad de quitarse la mayor preocupaci6n de su vida: el nunca ha- ber hecho nada por nadie, y sustituye al vecino en el cadalso. Al realizar este acto heroico y glorioso -insisto en la palabra glorioso por su insinuaci6n religiosa- el protagonista da sentido a su vida. Durante el dia, poco a poco, van surgiendo los recuerdos de su existencia. De nifio vivia con sus padres en una casa entre el mar y un bosque de pinos. No tenia hermanos y andaba solo y desnudo por la playa, hablando con el viento y devolviendo los mariscos y las conchas al mar. Cuando tenia doce afios, muri6 su padre. Su madre alquil6 una habitaci6n en la ciudad y re- gresaban a la playa los fines de semana. Laura, una amiga que lo seguia por la playa, deja de aparecer un dia. La madre de la muchacha le informa 165 166 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA que muri6 asfixiada en la ciudad. Sin embargo, cuando piensa en los horrores que sufri6 su amigo en una ciudad ocupada por los nazis, le parece poco importante la muerte de Laura. La madre del protagonista muri6 antes de que e1 cumpliera los diez y seis afios. Hace unos seis afios e1 se estableci6 en la ciudad. Recuerda a su amante Elena quien le visita en la circel despues de su confesi6n. Despues de unas alusiones muy va- gas en distintas partes del libro, acabamos por saber la historia de su es- posa M6nica en las 61timas quince piginas. Despues de casarse, fueron a vivir en la casa de la playa. M6nica, lo mismo que la madre del protago- nista, tiene que acostumbrarse a vivir sola mientras que este no puede dejar de comunicarse con la naturaleza. Ni el nacimiento de su hijo puede cambiarlo. Un dia mientras 1l vaga por la playa en medio de un huracin, M6nica se asusta, trata de huir con el niflo y los dos mueren en la tem- pestad. La vida y la muerte del protagonista tienen una trascendencia filos6- fica. Representan la vida y la muerte de la humanidad. El protagonista aspira a la libertad de todo, inclusive su alma. Le atormenta el recuerdo del barquito metido en la botella, el cual el queria devolver al mar tanto como habia devuelto los mariscos y las conchas. Por todo el libro se oyen variaciones del motivo "Cuando las estrellas comiencen a llorar... verbs, pequefio mio, que sus lIgrimas son gotas de rocio que regresan desde el tiempo hacia el mar". 3 De igual manera los hombres regresan a su padre despues de haber obrado bien. Asi Cristo, asi el sustituto. Los dos murie- ron por una humanidad que no los comprendia y los dos fueron consolados en sus 1ltimos momentos por una prostituta. Al lado de este concepto cristiano, se siente la coexistencia del materialismo que sefiala el mar como la cuna de la humanidad. Al captar con gran sensibilidad la angustia del hombre del siglo veinte, Carlos Mazzanti, con su primer libro, se ha colocado al lado de novelistas argentinos tan distinguidos como Manuel Gilvez (El mal metafisico) y Eduardo Mallea (Bahia de silencio, etc.). Datos autobiogrificos de Carlos Mazzanti: 4 "Como datos biogrificos le dir6 que naci en Buenos Aires, pero que la mayor parte de mi vida transcurri6 en la Patagonia, pues mi padre es 3 Ibid., pp. 75-76. 4 Carta dirigida al autor de esta resefia, fechada en Buenos Aires, 16 de sep- tiembre de 1955. RESE E AS agrimensor. Hemos recorrido gran parte de la zona cordillerana, sobre el limite con Chile efectuando la medici6n de tierras para entregarla a los po- bladores. Me parece dificil que yo pueda liberar jamis mi obra de ese paisaje grandioso y de la deplorable miseria en que viven la inmensa mayo- ria de sus pobladores aut6ctonos o descendientes en forma directa o indi- recta de los indigenas que antafio poseian todas esas magnificas tierras. Puedo decirle que he recorrido una buena parte de los bosques templados de la cordillera a lomo de caballo ayudando a mi padre. Naci en el afio de mil novecientos veintiseis y mis estudios no han pasado de los secundarios. Actualmente poseo un pequefio taller de marcos para cuadros aqui, en Bue- nos Aires. Eso es todo lo que puedo decirle respecto a mi vida. En cuanto a mi obra, ya le he manifestado mas arriba que El sustituto es mi primera novela. Tengo escritas, ademis, tres obras de teatro: La comisidn de men- suras, La piel oscura y Paralaje 66, ninguna de las cuales ha sido publicada o representada. Poseo algunos cuentos, una novela terminada, El emisa- rio, y otras tres en preparaci6n; Al final de la calle, La casa en el bosque, y Sobre la misma tierra. De estas tres, Sobre la misma tierra transcurre en la Patagonia y La casa en el bosque, en un pueblo cercano a Buenos Aires. Al final de la calle, al igual que El sustituto, no tiene ubicaci6n ni en el tiempo ni en el espacio, aunque puede presumirse que transcurre en Eu- ropa, entre las tres filtimas guerras. Ha acertado Ud. en lo que se refiere a Kafka y Dostoyevski, pero no he leido a Joyce. Son tambien mis autores predilectos Faulkner y Jocelyn Brooke, el autor de El chivo emisario'". SEYMOUR MENTON Universidad de Kansas Cuentos de TomLs Carrasquilla "N~ufrago asombroso del siglo de oro' (Colecci6n popular de clasicos maiceros, IV), editado por B. A. Gu- ti&rrez. Medellin: Editorial Bedout, 1956. 510 pp. Desde hace mis de cuarenta afios Benigno A. Gutierrez consagra sus energias (infinitas parecen ser juzgando por el alcance de sus labores lite- rarias) a los valores culturales de su patria chica, Antioquia, "este terruiio, embotellado en los Andes y harto diverso en un todo al resto del pais". La substanciosa lista de sus publicaciones comprende vol6menes dedica- dso a los escritos de Juan de Dios Uribe ("el Indio") y de Antonio Jose Restrepo, asi como varias compilaciones folkl6ricas y populares que reu- nen las ma's insignes firmas de la literatura antioquefia. Tales titulos como 167 168 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA Notas regionales, Antioquia tipica, Pro patria, De todo el maiz, Arrume folkidrico -De todo el maiz (Nueva edici6n notablemente aumentada), Gente maicera, Serie tipica colombiana, abarcando el periodo entre 1912 y 1952, proclaman elocuentemente el rumbo de su entusiasmo y de su pa- triotismo. En 1954, Guti&rrez inici6 su Colecci6n popular de clisicos maiceros con la edici6n de Cuentos y novelas de Francisco de P. Renddn, publica- da con motivo del primer centenario del natalicio del escritor antioquefio. Los tomos II y III de la misma serie salieron en 1955, consagrados a la obra del "ito" de Concordia, el escritor, orador y diplomatico Antonio Jos6 Restrepo. Ahora el cuarto volumen de los Clasicos maiceros acaba de salir de los talleres de la Editorial Bedout, Medellin. Revela el mismo esmero y el mismo carifio que los anteriores. Hermosamente empastado en piel roja, bien impreso, ilustrado y escrupulosamente corregido, el tomo con- tiene una selecci6n tipica de la prosa de Tomas Carrasquilla, ofrecida en orden cronol6gico. Est. por demis decir que tales compilaciones como 6sta, las que condensan la producci6n literaria de un autor, no pueden me- nos de ser subjetivas, incorporando ciertas obras y omitiendo otras. Me parece que, dejando aparte preferencias puramente personales, la selec- ci6n esti muy acertada. Benigno A. Gutierrez se propone presentar a Tomis Carrasquilla "cuentista", y los ejemplos que escoge para ilustrar su tesis confirman el entusiasmo de los juicios criticos que adornan el vo- lumen. Veinte y una obras tomadas de la entera carrera artistica del autor, cecsde 1890 hasta 1937, componen el libro. "Entrafias de nifio", "El padre Casaffis" (incorporado bajo el titulo original de "Luterito"), "Dimitas Arias" y "Salve, Regina", escritos todos durante la primera poca, tienen .ivs alcance que los demas y, por esto, son clasificados a veces de "nove- las cortas". Al lado de 6stas figuran diecisiete cuentos no menos caracte- r~sticos por los dones de estilo que exponen. He alli "Sim6n el mago" (fir- rmado con el seud6nimo de Carlos Malaquita), el inmortal cuento de Peral- ta, el monmovedor relato de Blanca, el cuento "poco antioquefio" que se titula "A la plata", "El rifle" (que tard6 tanto en aparecer), "La Mata" y otros. El sefior Guti&rrez basa su edici6n sobre las principes, apuntando en el indice el afio de la primera publicaci6n de cada uno de los cuentos y enumerando, al final del volumen, las obras publicadas por el autor. Incorpora los dibujos de Gabriel Montoya y de Horacio M.. Rodriguez R E S ENR A S que acompaiaron la primera publicaci6n de los cuentos respectivos, y afia- de algunos hechos por I. G6mez Jaramillo, Humberto Chaves y Horacio Longas. De entre las demis ilustraciones que realzan el tomo se destacan la partida eclesiastica (p. XXIII) que descubre la verdadera fecha del na- talicio del autor, la reproducci6n de una p6gina del manuscrito de La mar- quesa de Yolombd (p. 471) que revela su modo de escribir "borrando, componiendo y enmendando", asi como el inolvidable perfil de Carras- quilla visto por el doctor Filix Mexia A. con ojo de artista y con amor de familiar. Aparecieron los primeros productos de la pluma de Carrasquilla en El Casino Literario, La AMiscelinea, El Montanes y Alpha, revistas lite- rarias que florecian en Medellin durante las iltimas d6cadas del siglo pasado y la primera del actual. Las notas del compilador que utilizan, en parte, esas fuentes contemporneas, y, en parte, la correspondencia intima del autor, no s61o alumbran los principios literarios de Carras- quilla, aludiendo a la genesis de "Sim6n el mago", "En la diestra de Dios Padre", "A la plata" y "Entraiias de nifio", asi como al "doloroso alumbramiento" de "Blanca", sino que tambien le permiten al lector una ojeada de la fase formativa de la literatura antioquefia. Se han deslizado en la edici6n muy pocos errores y menos lagunas. En el indice (p. VI) figuran "Mineros" bajo el afio de 1934 y "El .prefacio de Francisco Vera"- bajo 1937. Segin mis apuntes bibliogri- ficos salieron los dos, por primera vez, en El Espectador de Medellin en 1914. El. indice (p. VI) apunta correctamente el afio que corresponde a la primera publicaci6n del cuento "El rifle", o sea 1915, pero la nota de la pagina 447 (nota tan generosa como inmerecida) sefiala el afio equivocado de 1913. Una importante nota del compilador se encuentra en las p.ginas 425-426 sin dato correspondiente en el indice, y los deli- ciosos apuntes "El viejo Carrasca" por Cano, Rend6n y Mexia no estin ubicados en la p.gina 425, sino al frente de la pagina 426. Al indice de las obras publicadas por el autor (p. 509) se debieran afiadir la edici6n Ligia Cruz, Rogelio (Dos novelas cortas), Bogota, Edi- ciones Colombia (I3), .926, la titulada Novelas (que contiene la auto- biografia, "Salve, Regina" y "Dimitas Arias"), Bogota, Editorial Minerva, -S. A., 1935, y, tal vez para aclarar la cronologia a los nimeros V y VI (p. 509) el afio de 1914. En la secci6n Post mortem (p. 510o) pudie- ran mencionarse al lado de las Obras compleas de 1952, las dos ediciones de La marquesa de Yolombd, publicadas en Buenos Aires por W. M. Jack- sn, Inc. en 1945 y 1946 respectivamente, con el pr6logo de Rafael Maya, 169 REVISTA IB EROAMERICANA asi como la edici6n de Entrafas de nifio; Salve, Regina, Bogota, Biblio- teca Popular de Cultura Colombiana, 1946. El hermoso libro de Gutirrez no s61o es un homenaje "al viejo Ca- rrasca" que anuncia dignamente el primer centenario de su natalicio en el mes de enero de 1958, sino tambien uno a Antioquia y a "la gran alma de Nuestra America". La cordial invitaci6n: "Compre, lea y regale li- bros nacionales" que se encuentra en la cubierta, no tardara en aceptarse, quedando todos los "libros nacionales" tan atractivos de forma y tan subs- tanciosos de fondo como la edici6n ilustrada de los Cuentos de Tomds Carrasquilla. KURT L. LEVY, University of Toronto Toronto, Ont., Canada DAVID VnIAs, Los anos despiadados, Edici6n Prensas Universitarias, Bue- nos Aires, 1956. El autor, que hace poco tiempo nos diera a conocer Cayd sobre su rostro, fuerte y vigorosa expresi6n de nuestra novelistica, hace entrega ahora de una nueva obra, Los anos despiadados. El mismo titulo va a in- dicarnos el desusado descubrimiento de un adolescente -protagonista sobre la ciudad, la cual presta marco al relato. Aqui vive un Buenos Aires aut6ntico, con sus barrios y lugares caracteristicos, con un vocabulario sim- ple y cotidiano, al cual hemos ya acostumbrado el oido, con la cita de nombres que significan o simbolizan solamente al portefio una trayectoria o un desarrollo ciudadano. Los personajes tienen por ello un decir fresco y que va cobrando autenticidad, a pesar de que el estilo a veces suele volverse confuso y pierde agilidad. Este enumerativo planteo, nos recuerda a Faulkner, por una parte, y siempre, lo cual podria reconfortar al autor, a otro novelista ejemplar y productor del medio ambiente, Roberto Arlt, quien dedic6 su obra a la descripci6n de nuestras barriadas, costumbres y personajes, con una verdadera pasi6n y esfuerzo. David Vifias vuelve a ese camino. Los anos despiadados muestra el proceso de un sector, una calle, una familia. Alli, los pintados gestos, el grotesco tratamiento, la sabiduria popular, el "despiadado" aprendizaje, vienen lentamente en busca de una soluci6n, el rechazo diriamos de esa existencia angustiada o bien la tolerancia, llamada a profetizarle una formaci6n cruel e insatis- fecha. Algunos dibujos de ambiente, "el guapo del barrio", fuente de 170 RESENAS anecdotas, la amistad con el hijo del portero, su madre y la hermana, tocan humanamente al adolescente que sufre una realidad social cruel, que el autor sabe presentar y que ha de producirle una permanencia entre los j6venes valores argentinos. HoRAcIo JORGE BECCO Buenos Aires DORA ISELLA RUSSELL, Oleaje. Pr6logo de Ventura Garcia Calder6n, Im- presora Uruguaya, S. A., Montevideo, 1949. 152 pp. Este libro de Dora Isella Russell, autora ya de Sonetos (1943), El canto irremediable (1946) y un ensayo sobre "Peer Gynt" (I944), es el testimonio po6tico de la desorientaci6n de la juventud actual en una epoca que le niega el cultivo del coraz6n y la obliga a vivir una ma- durez prematura. Dora Isella Russell ha nacido con la angustia moderna por patrimonio, y la nostalgia rom.ntica para castigo de su joven sensibilidad. Su adolescen- cia sentimental casi parece no haber existido, pues hoy mas que nunca es "breve" la "rosa" gongorina. La vida acelera tanto su ritmo que ya no se es- pera la muerte para morir. Se muere con cada hora ("tantos pasados van hacia su rio"), y uno a uno van cayendo los suefios, improvisados casi entre cataclismo y cataclismo; o mejor dicho, llegan casi en "cenizas", sin la esperanza de prolongar por unos instantes la ilusi6n humana. En el mundo de hoy, que s61o puede ofrecer "la triste seguridad de lo inmediato", re- gido por estas desconcertantes leyes de relatividad, hasta en el terreno psiquico, mas que nunca tambi6n y con mayor urgencia que antes "reclama" el ser humano sus "eternidades". Ya nada le pertenece al hombre. Todos van por la finica senda "de soledad y desencanto" que les queda, sin fe en el absoluto. Como poeta, Dora Isella Russell necesita "el suefio" y "la canci6n". Como mujer, le sigue fiel a Peer Gynt que supo crear un mundo de encanto y de fantasia. Si Ruben Dario se lamentaba en I905 de que ya no hubiera una "princesa que cantar", Dora Isella se lamenta hoy de la perdida, no ya s61o de la belleza estetica ("ya no hay cisnes, ni g6ndolas, ni liras") sino hasta de los sentimientos mas profundos del hombre, como lo es el de la naturaleza ("No existen ya... ni las montafias / ni las selvas ni el bosque..."). Los "Sonetos del encuentro" de la segunda parte del libro ponen de relieve la tendencia de su espiritu al equilibrio, a la belleza, a la gracia ele- gante, casi renacentista, de la expresi6n selectiva. Representan lo que es 171 172 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA Dora Isella, lo que aspira a ser en su alma, y explican el sentido de los poe- mas de la primera parte, "Voz de Solveig", que, sin nombrarlo, hablan del destierro en que vive el poeta de hoy dentro de su propio ambiente y del todavia mayor destierro de la mujer en un mundo sin amor. El acento aut6ntico de Dora Isella Russell, la originalidad del pensa- miento, la transparencia y simplicidad de la expresi6n, la emoci6n conte- nida que encierran muchos versos, revelan a un gran poeta. HELENA PERCAS Grinnell College EL PAISAJE EN NUESTRA LITERATURA (A prop6sito del libro de Enrique Williams Alzaga, La pampa en la novela argentina, Buenos Aires, Estrada, 1955). Son numerosos los articulos y ensayos breves sobre el paisaje ar- gentino en general, asi como los analisis e interpretaciones restringidas, ya en raz6n de la zona geogrifica, ya del aspecto paisajistico consi- derado. Faltan libros organicos que afronten el fecundo tema desde el punto de vista estetico y en su relaci6n con la literatura. No me refiero por cierto a descripciones literarias, recuerdos de turistas o memorias de viajeros, cuya abundancia torrencial todos conocemos. Aludo al analisis del paisaje desde el punto de vista est&ico, a la clarificaci6n de su con- cepto y a la determinaci6n de los elementos que lo integran. Vinculando ese estudio con la literatura, esperamos el ensayo que explique estos ilti- mos en funci6n de los rasgos estilisticos que el analisis critico puede re- velar en las obras mis representativas de los diversos imbitos regionales argentinos. Este apasionante programa de investigaci6n puede aprovechar valio- sas contribuciones existentes. Algunas obras cumbres de nuestras letras, como La cautiva, Facundo, Martin Fierro, Don Segundo Sombra, Zogoibi, han suscitado paginas interesantisimas desde este punto de vista. Por otra parte, ningn paisaje como la pampa ha inspirado a tantos escritores ar- gentinos y extranjeros, ansiosos de captar y expresar su fisonomia esencial y su poderosa sugesti6n. La abundancia de material, tanto descriptivo como exegetico, justi- fica su exposici6n ordenada, su selecci6n antol6gica y su examen critico. Es la dificil empresa que ha cumplido Enrique Williams Alzaga en su R E S E R AS reciente libro La pampa en la novela argentina. Se trata de una tesis universitaria que el autor present6 en 1949 para optar al titulo doctoral en nuestra Facultad de Filosofia y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. En pirrafo intercalado en el actual Prefacio cuenta el autor que don Ricardo Rojas le habia sefialado como tema "El paisaje nativo en la literatura argentina" y esa sigue siendo sugerencia que mantiene su validez. Debemos agradecer a Williams Alzaga el serio avance que ha hecho en ese rumbo con su importante libro. E1 mismo ha considerado conveniente reducir aquel vasto programa en dos sentidos: circunscribirlo a la pampa y estudiarlo solamente en la novela. Este volumen, de 380 paginas, con- firma la amplitud del tema, que se despliega notablemente si lo conce- bimos proyectado a los demis paisajes caracteristicos del pais (por ejem- plo selva, puna, montafias y valles, lagos, mar) y los rastreamos en obras literarias de todos los g6neros. Aun demarcando el sector de "la pampa en la novela" resulta vas- tisimo. "No ha sido mi intenci6n -dice el autor- realizar una obra ex- haustiva. (Estimo, asi, innecesario disculparme de las omisiones)". Esta franca declaraci6n hace redundante, pues, el recuerdo de novelas no tra- tadas, aunque son ricas en material descriptivo de la pampa. El autor ha preferido elegir "obras y autores que signifiquen puntos de vista distintos, enfoques diversos del tema" (p. i6). Para lograr este objetivo, Williams Alzaga ha estructurado su trabajo dedicando las Ioo primeras piginas a temas introductorios, como la presentaci6n de la pampa geogrifica y su rastreo a trav6s de los viajeros extranjeros. Aborda el campo literario con un capitulo sobre La cautiva y Facundo, p6rticos por los cuales la pampa irrumpe en nuestras letras. El tema principal se desarrolla desde ei capitulo IV hasta el X, con inclusi6n de uno sobre narraciones de "fron- tera" (con las contribuciones tan valiosas de Mansilla y Zeballos) y otro muy justificado sobre Hudson. Por fin, el iltimo capitulo, de caricter complementario y tambien muy 6til como esquema panormrnico, se refiere a la pampa en el cuento. El criterio general adoptado es el hist6rico. Va presentando las obras a lo largo de 6pocas literariamente significativas, desde el romanticismo al modernismo, pasando por el aporte realista y naturalista. En cada caso, agrupa las novelas rurales separandolas de aquellas en que s61o acciden- talmente aparece la pampa. Es muy loable la seriedad con que el autor se ha documentado y la probidad con que ha cumplido su tarea, bien ardua por cierto. Analiza 173 174 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA los pasajes atinentes de cada novela tratada, destacando los rasgos que se explican por el enfoque est6tico o las particulares condiciones del escritor. Sus observaciones suelen apoyarse en la transcripci6n adecuada, con lo cual el lector dispone de una verdadera antologia. Cualquier estudio futuro tendr, en este libro s61lido punto de par- tida. El autor cumple el objetivo que se propuso. No es mengua de este esfuerzo bien logrado el considerar que mantiene su vigencia la sugesti6n recordada de Ricardo Rojas. El tema del paisaje en la literatura justifica el aporte de nuevas investigaciones. La que comento lo encara a trav6s de periodos est6tico-literarios y nos ofrece un verdadero inventario del contenido de cada novela en relaci6n con el paisaje pampeano. Por mi parte creo que se podria abordar el asunto desde otros flancos. Dejo de lado la posibilidad de extender el campo de estudio a otros paisajes, tambien caracteristicos del pals. Aun con respecto a la pampa, se ve la posibilidad de profundizar en el analisis con penetraci6n esti- listica. Tomando un caso cualquiera, Zogoibi por ejemplo, he compro- bado de que manera prodigiosa se enriquece el paisaje, aparentemente esquemitico y mon6tono de la pampa, si a trav6s del estilo de Larreta vamos poniendo de relieve los integrantes sensoriales. No s61o las sensa- ciones visuales, con sus variedades luminidas y crom.ticas, sino los ma- tices de la luz, cambiante seguin se ofrezca al alba, en los crepusculos estremecidos de presagios o en las noches hondas; la luz como reveladora visual de las cosas y las cosas mismas dotadas de una interna vislumbre. Caben tambien las sensaciones kinestsicas, olfativas, termicas y desde luego las auditivas como refuerzo de la percepci6n del paisaje a travs de los ruidos del campo, de las voces y cantos de pijaros y animales y aun del silencio mismo, que por asociaci6n sinestesica puede sugerir el transcurso del tiempo o la idea de distancia. El entrecruzamiento de sen- saciones de diverso orden es otro magnifico recurso para captar y ex- presar los aspectos mis sutiles del paisaje, hasta llegar a la concepci6n de la realidad geogrifica con sentido trascendente y noci6n metafisica. Las posibilidades de buceo son innumerables y no pretendo ni si- quiera indicarlas. Aunque algunas veces Williams Alzaga recurre a este procedimiento de anlisis, queda en este sentido, tanto en extensi6n como en profundidad, mucho por hacer. La presentaci6n cronol6gica de las obras se explica por exigencias del enfoque hist6rico ya dicho; pero no cabe duda que el lector agrade- ceria, ademis, el agrupamiento temitico comparativo de los aspectos m6.s R E SE N AS caracteristicos del paisaje pampeano. Asi por ejemplo, la luz, el color, el cielo, el horizonte como perspectiva dominante, la vida vegetal y animal, la obra del hombre incorporada plisticamente a la realidad geo- gr.fica. El paisaje ofrece tambien momentos y aspectos inusitados, me- te6ricos o accidentales, como las tormentas, las inundaciones, las sequias, el incendio del campo, que por si solos enriquecen una antologia descrip- tiva. Estos y otros aspectos estin sefialados en el libro de Williams Alzaga, pero es menester recorrerlo integro para localizar los pasajes o referencias correspondientes. Las citas bibliogrificas de esta obra provocan a reparos t&cnicos en cuyos detalles no puedo entrar aqui. La Ndmina de ediciones utilizadas muestra deficiencias en los encabezamientos, en las notas tipogr.ficas y de paginaci6n; desconcierta al lector pues no guarda ningfin orden visible: ni alfab6tico, ni cronol6gico, ni temitico; las ediciones tenidas como base no son siempre las mis autorizadas ni definitivas. Las referencias a obras y articulos criticos incluidas en el texto o en notas se pierden por la falta de una n6mina general de autores citados. Por lo mismo que las novelas estudiadas representan una selecci6n, hubiera sido conveniente incluir en la n6mina obras no examinadas, pero que de pleno derecho pueden ampararse bajo los terminos del titulo, pues son novelas y se refieren a la pampa. El lector siente tambien la ausencia de una sintesis final que apro- veche el fruto de los anilisis. Si se tiene en cuenta que el libro fue ori- ginariamente una tesis, pareciera que falta precisamente una breve con- clusi6n que la exponga. Formulo estos reparos secundarios precisamente porque siento sincero respeto por la importante obra realizada y considero que por su docu- mentaci6n y probidad seri este libro indispensable fuente de consulta sobre el tema que trata. El lector no sale defraudado y por el contrario, al provecho de la lectura afiade el agrado de manejar un volumen de extraordinaria dignidad tipogrifica, enriquecido con fotografias e ilus- traciones documentales y sugeridoras. El autor y la casa editora pueden tener la satisfacci6n de haber realizado un importante aporte a la critica literaria en particular y a la cultura argentina en general. AUGUSTo RAIL CORTAZAR Universidad de Buenos Aires 175 REVISTA IBE:ROAMERICANA EUGENIO GOMES. Prata de Casa (Ensaios de Literatura Brasileira), A Noite, Rio de Janeiro, [1953], 181 pp. e particularmente feliz o titulo que o eminente ensaista deu a este novo livro. A maior parte dos seus estudos tinha versado sobre literaturas estrangeiras; este volume examina virios assuntos de literatura brasileira. Eis o que explica a "casa". E a "prata"? Esta foi escolhida pelo pr6prio autor; nao foi imposicio do acaso. Por isso 6 que s6 encontramos aqui prata de lei: Alvares de Azevedo, Castro Alves, Olavo Bilac, Machado de Assis, Raul Pomp6ia, Joaquim Nabuco entre outros. Com a modestia de todo intelectual s6ido, o sr. Eugenio Gomes teme que esta prata perca porventura o brilho e o valor entre as suas maos (p. 7). Quem lhe con- hece os livros anteriores passa adiante sem receio algum; e quem tomar contacto com o autor atrav6s deste, nao querert perder os seguintes. Pois a prata que ele trata com tanto carinho sai-lhe das maos com um novo lustre e novas qualidades ainda nao percebidas. O sr. Eugenio Gomes examina um aspecto s6 da obra de dado es- critor (o humorismo de Alvares de Azevedo, as imagens do movimento em Castro Alves, por exemplo), mas 6 tao profundo conhecedor da obra estudada que sente a faz sentior as repercussoes desse aspecto na producao total do autor; assim alguns dos estudos chegam a ser visoes integrais de um poeta atrav6s de certo elemento de sua feigao literaria. Nio se trata de aspectos ja estudados por outros e repisados nos manuais de hist6ria literaria; sao lados que, apesar de despercebidos pelos criticos, nao deixam por isso de ser caracteristicos. Nem todos os estudos sao desta natureza. Um traco notavel do livro 6 mesmo a variedade; a curiosidade do autor se manifesta em varios ra- mos e com admiravel virtuosidade. Pesquisador paciente, tira de versos atribuidos a Castro Alves, de um soneto esquecido de Bilac, de um inddito de Raul Pompeia, considera~6es gerais sobre a criacio dos respectivos es- critores. Sensibilidade aberta tanto ao prosaico como ao et6reo, leva-nos a passear pela Pasirgada dos poetas ("O mundo das sereias...") e pouco depois nos oferece um ensaio espirituoso sobre o trocadilho e as suas peripicias. Baiano que preza as tradic6es da sua terra, escreve notas sim- piticas sobre Xavier Marques e Artur de Sales. Conhecedor entusiasta da literatura inglesa, analisa de perto traducSes de Shakespeare para o por- tugues( de Machado de Assis para o inglis; aos olhos de um estrangeiro, pelo menos, esses comentarios constituem proveitosa li§;o de portugues. De prop6sito deixei para o fim dois autores de minha particular 176 RES E NAS afeicao, Machado de Assis e Joaquim Nabuco. Este forneee o assunto de breve mas substancioso ensaio sobre a papel da Inglaterra e dos ingleses na formacao de um espirito essencialmente frances. Aquele, ja dsde hi muitos anos longamente meditado, toma conta de sete ensaios. Saa todos sugestivos, especialmente o sobre a metafora em Machado de Assis, um dos raros estudos de valor sobre o estilo do grande artista. O que diz o sr. Eugrnio Gomes -ao lado de tantos outros, alias- das reag6es de Machado perante a natureza ("Machado de Assis em Friburgo") sofre, penso, ligeiras restrio6es em vista de um trecho de carta de Machado a Magalhaes de Azeredo citado a pagina 169 da quinta edicao (Rio de Janeiro: Jose Olympio, 1955) do Machado de Assis da sra. Lucia Miguel Pereira. Em um dos estudos machadianos o autor volta a um tema pre- dileto: as influencias estrangeiras que Machado assimilou. Em escritos anteriores ja tinha assinalado rastros de leituras inglesas e francesas (ver Influencias Inglesas em Machado de Assis [Bahia: Imp. Regina, 19393 e Espelho contra Espeiho [Sao Paulo: Instituto Progresso Editorial, I9491). Aqui e a vez de Voltaire, que teria influido, atraves de Candide, na con- cepcao da filosofia do Humanitismo e em outros aspectos das Memorias Postumas de Bras Cubas. Alusoes especificas provam que Machado con- heceu essa deliciosa satira; mas nao foi, penso, a unica fonte do Humani- tismo-como alias o reconhece o pr6prio sr. Eugenio Gomes (p. 93)- nem mesmo a principal. Com outros eu ja inclinava a ver nessa filosofia uma satira as desumanas teorias cientificas do fim do seculo XIX, e especialmente ao positivismo,1 quando um velho amigo encontrou entre seus papeis e me mandou um artigo de Joaquim Mattoso Camara Jr., "Quincas Borba e o Humanitismo", publicado no Boletim de Filologia (Rio de Janeiro), Ano II, fasciculo 7 (setembro de 1947), paginas 131- 138.2 0 autor aponta nao s6 o positivismo mas tambem conceitos de Schopenhauer e Nietzsche como possiveis componentes de uma filosofia que provocou a indignaca do humanista radical que foi Machado de Assis. Quanto aos estudos do sr. Eugenio Gomes sobre as influencias estrangeiras, permito-me, salvo o respeito devido a um dos poucos verdadeiros conhece- dores da obra de Machado, achar que o distinto ensaista exagera. Alias, 1 Ver, por exemplo, Raymundo Magalhaes Jinior, MAachado de Assis Descon- hecido (Rio de Janeiro: Civilizaao Brasileira, 1955), pp. 201-203; Ant6nio Noronha Santos, "Quincas Borba: o personagem", Correio da Manha (Rio de Janeiro), 26 de janeiro de 1947, 2.a secao, pp. 1, 2. 2 O artigo foi reproduzido quase textualmente no Diario de Noticias (Rio de Janeiro), 15 de marco de 1953, Suplemento literario, pp. 1, 4. 177 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA alguns criticos brasileiros ja disseram a mesma coisa quando do apareci- mento das Influencias Inglesas em Machado de Assis. Ao lado de acertos incontrovertiveis o sr. Eugenio Gomes revelou o que nao passa, a meu ver, de interessantissimos paralelos; dai a influencia, ha um grande salto. Parece-me que proclamar influencia onde nao ha prova irrecusavel e en- fraquecer um argumento ji de si valido. Mas tudo e matiz em se tratando de Machado; ninguem pode ter a certeza de estar corn a razao, e eu nao exprimo senao uma opiniao pessoal. Sobre a questao muito delicada das influencias, ver um estudo do sr. Augusto Meyer, "0 delirio de Bris Cubas", publicado no Diario Carioca (Rio de Janeiro), em 22 de julho de 1951, 2. secao, paginas 3 e 8, e reimpresso na segunda edigao (Rio de Janeiro: Organiza6oes Simoes, 1952) do Machado de Assis do autor. E, alias, num estudo que aponta paralelos e nega influencias que o sr. Eugenio Gomes nos da toda a medida da sua capacidade de critico: "Adelino Magalhaes e a moderna literatura experimental". Confesso que antes de ler esta interpretacao nao conhecia nem o nome de Adelino Ma- galhaes; pois bem, o ensaio e prova cabal de que nenhum estudioso da literatura mundial contemporanea tem o direito de ignorar esse escritor que por certos aspectos antecipa a gigantes como James Joyce e Virginia Woolf. Espero ter mostrado que Prata de Casa e um livro sugestivo; leva a pensar. Nao me desculpo de discordar aqui e acola; tenho a certeza de que, para um escritor da estatura intelectual do sr. Eugenio Gomes, a ver- dadeira recompensa de seus esforcos reside nao na aceitacao cega de tudo quanto diz, e sim no estimulo que fornece aos seus leitores para pensarem por si. BENJAMIN M. WOODBRIDGE, JR. Universidade da California, Berkeley FRANCISCO MANRIQUE CABRERA, Historia de la Literatura Puertorriquena, New York, Las Americas Pub. Co., 1956, 384 pags. (I: Biblioteca Puertorriquefia). La publicaci6n de esta obra marca un jal6n importante en la cultura iberoamericana por tratarse de, la primera historia de la literatura puerto- rriquefia escrita hasta la fecha. Con ella se inicia la colecci6n de la Bi- blioteca Puertorriquena, bajo la direcci6n de Gaeteano Massa. El profesor Manrique Cabrera del Departamento de Estudios Hispa- 178 RESE AS nicos de la Universidad de Puerto Rico ha hecho un estudio met6dico de la evoluci6n de las letras de la isla borincana desde la 6poca colonial hasta el presente. Los movimientos mas significativos y las corrientes est6ticas predominantes aparecen descritos en relaci6n a la historia literaria del mundo hispinico, aportando Cabrera la interpretaci6n ajustada a la rea- lidad puertorriquefia. El par6ntesis folkl6rico y el capitulo sobre el modernismo superan otros aspectos de la obra, aunque en toda ella se aprecia el esfuerzo del escritor por interpretar y definir los hechos literarios en el devenir cul- tural de su patria ajustindose a un criterio objetivo. La lectura de la Historia de la Literatura Puertorriqueia confirma lo que siempre hemos creido: la injusticia cometida por los antologistas y los historiadores de la literatura iberoamericana, quienes s61o esporadica- mente recuerdan la existencia de Puerto Rico. Un poeta de la calidad de Jose Gautier Benitez, un ensayista de la talla de Brau o de Hostos, y li- ricos contempordneos de la talla de Llorens Torres, Virgilio Divila o Ribera Chevremont bien merecen figurar junto a sus pares en las letras del Nuevo Mundo. En el cuento, el teatro, la novela y el ensayo del si- glo xx, Puerto Rico tiene igualmente escritores de primer orden. Al recoger el fruto de sus investigaciones en esta obra y al dar a co- nocer el desarrollo del quehacer literario en la vida de Puerto Rico, el profesor Manrique Cabrera facilita el estudio futuro de autores y temas puertorriquefios, ademAs de dar fe de la existencia de una fructifera y valiosa actividad creadora en Puerto Rico que data del pasado y se inten- sifica con el correr de los afios, llegando a su plena madurez estdtica en la 6poca contemporanea. MARIA TERESA BABIN New York University FRANCISCO ROMERO: Alejandro Korn. Fildsofo de la libertad. Colecci6n Radar, Editorial Reconstruir, Buenos Aires, 1956. Korn muri6 el 9 de octubre de 1936. Recuerdo el dia de fria pri- mavera en La Plata, la suspensi6n de las clases en la Facultad de Huma- nidades y la grave figura de Coriolano Alberini, a contraluz, en la puerta de la sala de profesores, esperando, con el sombrero puesto, el momento de ir a la casa del gran hombre, "el hombre del cual podemos decir con raz6n 179 180 RE VISTA IBEROAMERICANA que, entre todos los de su tiempo que nos fue dado conocer, era el mejor, el mas sabio y el mas justo", como dijo Plat6n acerca de S6crates, y Ro- mero repite como acapite de su libro mas reciente sobre Korn. Romero se ha ocupado de Korn muchas veces. Aun en vida del fil6- sofo habia publicado un articulo en Nosotros, que debi6 aparecer trunco, pues Korn le pidi6 que lo suspendiera cuando se enter6 de que Romero lo, estaba escribiendo. Despus de la muerte de Korn, Romero ha escrito en diversas ocasiones sobre el maestro y ha hablado de 61 quiza mas ain. En el otofio de 1937, probablemente en abril, muy poco despues que Eu- genio Pucciarelli me lo presentara en la Facultad de Humanidades, a la salida de una de sus clases, Romero me invit6 a acompafiarlo hasta la casa de Korn, donde se reunian los amigos que habian fundado la "Sociedad de Amigos de Alejandro Korn", a la cual me incorporaba. Esa noche estaban presentes los duefios de casa: Guillermo Korn y Emmy Neddermann; ami- gos platenses, como los universales Pedro Henriquez Urefia y Arnaldo Or- fila Reynal; los abogados Enrique Galli, Julio Ratti, Ernesto Malmierca Sanchez y Juan Manuel Villarreal; los profesores de Filosofia Segundo Tri, Eugenio Pucciarelli y Anibal Sanchez Reulet; el profesor de Historia Luiz Aznar y el profesor Angel Vasallo, que, si no me equivoco, venia de Buenos Aires para hacer oposiciones a la catedra de Etica. QuizA habia otras personas a quienes ahora no tengo presentes. A casi todos ellos, y a muchos otros, los encontre en afios siguientes en la Universidad Popular Alejandro Korn o en la Facultad de Humanidades, al cumplirse aniver- sarios de su muerte. Hablaban Henriquez Urefia, Alfonso Reyes y, nue- vamente, Romero. Dos meses despues de la muerte de Korn, la Universidad de La Plata resolvia publicar las obras completa de su ex-profesor, y encargaba la tarea a tres de sus amigos inmediatos: Romero, Pucciarelli y Sanchez Reulet. A principios de 1938 apareci6 el primer tomo con un extenso pr61ogo de Francisco Romero, en el que, aparte de unos pocos datos biogrAficos, bos- queja la personalidad moral de Korn. Este trabajo fue reimpreso en el libro Alejandro Korn, por Francisco Romero, Angel Vasallo y Luis Aznar (Losada, Buenos Aires, 1940), y ahora aparece impreso por tercera vez, como la contribuci6n mas extensa al volumen titulado Alejandro Korn, fildsofo de la libertad, que, ademas, contiene tres opfisculos: "El testa- mento de un fil6sofo" (Los Apuntes filoscficos), que se habia publicado como apendice del volumen Alejandro Korn; "Tiempo y destiempo de Alejandro Korn", articulo de 1942 reimpreso anteriormente en Filosofia de ayer y de hoy (Argos, Buenos Aires, X947) y "Alejandro Korn en la RESEWAS vida y en la muerte", que, probablemente, reproduce un texto ya publi- cado, pero que no recordamos haber visto con anterioridad. En todos los ensayos de Romero acerca de Alejandro Korn encon- tramosel mismo tono de calida admiraci6n por su maestro y amigo. En ellos se destaca mucho mas la personalidad moral de Korn que su obra como pensador y como docente, aunque se nos dice m.s de una vez que en ambas su importancia ha sido muy grande. La exaltaci6n que Romero hace de los valores morales de Korn corresponde muy bien a su con- cepto de persona, tal como lo ha expresado en otros libros, siguiendo las ensefianzas de Max Scheler y Nicolai Hartmann. Pero no se encuentra todavia en estas piginas sobre Korn una biografia completa o siquiera un bosquejo equilibrado de los diversos aspectos de su rica personalidad. Es una pena que Korn, tan capaz de dialogo brillante, no haya tenido cerca un Boswell.* Romero lo sabe y no deja de advertirnos al final de esta nueva recopilaci6n que s610o debe tomarse como "anotaci6n de algunos rasgos suyos, pues su figura presenta muchas vertientes que aqui han sido omitidas". Sin embargo, en el mismo libro de Romero se encuentran sefialadas dos lineas que me parecen fundamentales para una comprensi6n adecuada de la vida espiritual de Korn. Por una parte, sus condicionamientos so- ciales, desde sus origenes familiares, su vida profesional y su status eco- n6mico en una 6poca relativamente respetuosa de los valores intelectua- les, si se la compara con la que le sigue y nos envuelve. "La familiaridad sefiorial de don Alejandro, su continente amable y majestuoso, sus diva- gaciones ante el grupo cordial circundado por los libros de su biblioteca, la marcha lenta con los amigos... estaban muy en su punto en su casa de la calle 6o y a lo largo de la calle 7, y no lo hubieran estado tanto en un departamento portefio ni entre el apresurado anonimato callejero de Buenos Aires. En La Plata se constituyeron los grupos que animaba y consolidaba Korn, aunque participaban tambien de ellos gente de Buenos Aires (pigs. 41-42". La historia de estos grupos intelectuales de La Plata esta por hacerse, pero ella seri necesaria para comprender la vida y la obra de Alejandro Korn. Por otra parte, su vocaci6n metafisico-religiosa, que tambien ha- .sido sefialada por Romero cuando, dice, despubs de indicar su gusto por las * Lo mas parecido que nos queda son los testimonios de Angel Poncio Fe- rrando en el pequefio volumen Alejandro Korn (en colaboraci6n con Ana Maria R. de Aznar y Maria de Villarino, UPAK, La Plata, 1942). 181 REVIS TA IBEROAMERICA NA ciencias positivas: "Pero no era s61lo un hombre de hechos. No podia serlo el lector asiduo de Plotino y del maestro Eckart, el consumado co- nocedor de la mistica de todos los paises y de todos los tiempos... Y acaso su humorismo no era sino la versi6n profana y cotidiana de una inconfe- sada metafisica, de una visi6n de lo trascendente que mantenia relegada a los estratos mas hondos de su conciencia" (pig. 19). Eugenio Puccia- relli, en un articulo sobre Korn, expresa que "afirmando de un modo absoluto -extrafia paradoja- la relatividad del conocimiento, s61o queda una salida para la exigencia metafisica que el hombre no puede reprimir: la inmersi6n mistica en lo absoluto". Y afiade: "Korn, a quien eran fa- miliares los textos de Plotino, Eckart, Silesio, Santa Teresa y San Juan de la Cruz, poseia la disposici6n feliz para comprender la experiencia mistica, a la que asignaba valor como fuente de revelaci6n de lo absoluto. En sus iltimos afios prepar6 lecturas y orden6 experiencias y meditaciones con la esperanza de ahondar ese problema. La vida no le dio tiempo, y en su obra es facil advertir una ausencia, que, de haber sido realizada, nos habria dado el fruto mejor sazonado de su huerto". (Congreso; Interna- cional de Filosofia. Annais. Instituto Brasileiro de Filosofia, So Paulo, 1956, tomo III, pags. 1,144-I,x45.) Pero, en realidad, hay en las obras de Korn mas de una referencia al saber absoluto, y entre sus poemas en alemin hay uno que dice: "Was ich getriumt, ward mir beschieden, / Was ich ersehnt, ich habs erreicht / Und fessellos, in reinem Frieden, / Hebt sich die Seele frei und leicht." (Lo que sofii me fue otorgado, / obtuve al fin lo que anhelaba; / y sin cadenas, en clara paz. / libre y ligera se alza mi alma.) La cuarta y filtima cuarteta reza asi: "Num m6gen dumpf die Jahre schleichen. / Vom alten Joche neu beschwert, / Ich trag des Gliickes heilig Zeichen, / Ich bleib im Kapfe unversehrt." (Ya pueden seguir, bajo el viejo / yugo los afios su caravana. / Yo, con el signo de la dicha, / Me yergo, ileso, en la batalla.) Estos versos, de 1893, se encuentran en la pagina 12 del vo- lumen de Poemas, de Alejandro Korn, publicados con traducci6n espafiola de Ernesto Palacio por el Instituto de Estudios Germinicos de la Uni- versidad de Buenos Aires en 1942. Seria muy deseable que el mismo Romero nos diera mas recuerdos de Korn, aunque no se ocupara sino de aquellos aspectos que se revelaron en el dialogo. Pero el lector tiene el derecho de ser informado por el autor si el nuevo titulo que se publica contiene material nuevo o reimpre- siones. Esta vez Romero no nos dice nada acerca de los lugares y fechas donde los trabajos recopilados vieron la luz por primera vez. Y ya que 182 RESE N AS al trabajo mis extenso siguen los opisculos mencionados, el impresor hu- biera hecho bien en poner un indice a este simpatico volumen. JUAN ADOLFO VAZQUEZ Universidad de Cdrdoba, Argentina FRED P. ELLISON, Brazil's New Novel, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1954, I9I pp., $3.75. No pref.cio, o autor declara que 6ste trabalho lhe foi sugerido por uma votacao literaria de 194I, na qual i80 escritores brasileiros esclo- lheram os dez maiores romancistas do seu pais. Os quatro romancistas contemporneos que conseguiram a decisao foram, nesta ordem, Graci- liano Ramos, Jose Lins do Rego, Jorge Amado e Rachel de Queiroz, todos da regiao do Brasil chamada "o Nordeste" -- que abrange os Estados da Bahia, Sergipe, Alagoas, Pernambuco, Parahyba, Rio Grande do Norte, Ceari e as ireas costeiras de Piauhy e Maranhao. O Nordeste 6 terra de contrastes golpeantes -o litoral tr6pico e ameno, com a sua cultura agricola, antigamente o centro da produc.o da cana de acucar- e o sertao do interior, exposto a secas trigicas, quando morre o gado e corre em fuga o faminto povo para outras partes do pais, s6 voltando talvez anos depois, quando chegam as chuvas torrenciais que fazem renascer o sertao esbraseado. Alem dos fatores geogrificos e econ6micos que a distinguem, esta regiao nordestina, desde os seus pri- meiros dias, encontra-se tamb6n num remoinho de correntes sociol6gicas particulares, cujos efeitos sao necessariamente refletidos nas obras dos quatro romancistas que estuda o professor Ellison no seu livro. Para compreender e avaliar os temas e os personagens duma regiao peculiar, 6 preciso conhecer o ambiente hist6rico, politico, econ6mico e social que se respira nestas obras. No seu primeiro capitulo, realiza isto o professor Ellison com grande sucesso. O leitor, ao termini-lo, esti esplandidamente preparado para a analise pormenorizada da materia literiria. Clara e s6lidamente explica o autor o que 6 o Nordeste, usando como base os trabalhos dos eminentes escritores brasileiros que se tmrn preocupado com esta regiao. Destila para n6s as conclus6es principais das obras de Gilberto Freyre sobre a civilizacao e tradicges dos senhores de engenho -a convivencia dos brancos e pretos na casa-grande e senzala, os resultados da mesticagem. Sublinha o professor Ellison a importicia 183 184 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA de Os Sertees de Euclydes da Cunha, essa obra de objetividade cientifica que agitou o Brasil inteiro com as suas descri§6es da miseria e ignorancia dos sertanejos e f-lo consciente dum problema que havia de trazer re- formas sociais e fomentar um espirito de auto-critica que sem duvida inspirou a criasco dos romances nordestinos. Outra influencia mais recente, do ano 1928, foi o romance A Bagaceira de Jose Americo de Almeida, hist6ria de retirantes que sofrem sob a autoridade tirinica do engenho onde trabalham -uma sintese da vida do sertao e do litoral. Sao discutidas as varias rebelioes militares da segunda d6cada deste seculo contra o gov&rno e a famosa marcha de Luis Carlos Prestes e os seus I500 homens, que por dois anos tratavam de levar a revolucao poli- tica e social ao povo atrasado do interior. Com a revolucao de 1930, apodera-se Getilio Vargas do pais e faz-se ditador. Estabelece o Depar- tamento de Imprensa e Propaganda que censura revistas, jornais e livros e , especialmente feroz contra o que se chama "literatura proletiria". Entre outros escritores, Graciliano Ramos, Jorge Amado e Rachel de Queiroz deixam de publicar. Os liberais que continuam a escrever aban- donam temas sociais com inteno6es politicas e substituem tramas psico- 16gicas. A Semana de Arte Moderna, celebrada em Sao Paulp no ano de 1922, que tinha como prop6sito original a renovacao da misica, pintura e es- cultura na vida artistica brasileira, chegou tamb6m a transformar a lite- ratura e encaminh-l1a pelas sendas j a assinaladas pelos vanguardistas eu- ropeus. Os poetas comecaram a luta, despedacando os velhos moldes simbolistas para empreender temas brasileiros e canti-los no vernaculo do seu pais. Os romancistas, sem demorar demais, ligaram-se as filas dos poetas para ocupar-se com os povos, as regi6es, a psicologia e os pro- blemas sociais do Brasil, e, estre tSda a producao modernista, acha o professor Ellison que a forca predominante liter.ria era o romance do Nordeste porque os escritores dessa terra, por convicc6es sociais prvias e experiencia pessoal no seu meio cultural, eram os mais capacitados. Nos capitulos seguintes, o proffesor Ellison se entrega ao estudo minucioso de cada um dos quatro escritores nordestinos. Desenha os temas principais dos romances,.. d relvo aos acontecimentos na vida dos autores que constituem a base essencial da suas invenc6es ficticias, exp5e com sagaz criterio as faltas e as primazias das suas obras e examina corn cuidado e objetividade as opini6es dos criticos brasileiros e norteameri- canos que tam julgado a literatura e a cultura do Nordeste. Desenrolou o vasto panorama sociol6gico desde regi.o Jos6 Lins do RESEW AS Rego com seus -inco romances do ciclo da cana de acucar. Apareceram um por ano, entre 1932 e i936, atraindo a atencao de todo o pais para a velha civilizacio dos senhores de engenho que ia desaparecendo sob a agencia de novos impulsos econ6micos e sociais. Nestes romances deu vida Lins do Rego a tres figuras inolvidiveis -o coronel Jos6 Paulino, prototipo do altivo latifundiario patriarcal, seu neto Carlos de Mello, melanc61lico, achacoso, inapto para administrar o engenho decadente, e o moleque Ricardo, membro da classe baixa desgracada. E nao 6 menos perito o autor na caracterizaiao das numerosas pessoas secundirias, tao importantes como as principais para integrar o quadro dos romances. O professor Ellison aponta como defeito na obra de Lins do Rego sua pritica de narrar con excessiva repetigao o estado mental dos perso- nagens, em vez de usar mais diilogo que teria a vantagem de introduzir variedades e deixar que os individuos mesmos se revelem. Mas os cri- ticos brasileiros preferem disculpar isto como toque artistico do romancista, herdado dos profissionais recitadores orais que tinha ouvido na sua meni- nice em Parahyba. Outra imperfeiao 6 a pressa com que escreve Lins do Rego e a ausencia de revisao se faz sentir. Tamb6m, em virios roman- ces posteriores aos do ciclo da cana de acucar, onde o autor se afasta da terra oriunda e das lembrancas autobiograficas, ha claras evidencias de debilidades e incerteza na construcao e desenvolvimento das obras. E possivel, afirma o professor Ellison, que outros escritores nordes- tinos contemporaneos superem Lins do Rego em ticnica estilistica e arte literria, mas 6le fica sem rival como interprete da sua regiao -na sua esplendida evocacao fisica do mundo do engenho, dentro do qual fervil- ham as paixoes daquela sociedades singular de brancos e pretos, de sonho- res e descendentes de escravos, na sua compreensao do ambiente e na sua simpatia humana por todos os seres que se agitam nas intensas comple- xidades daquela organizacao social. Dos quatro escritores nordestinos, o melhor conhecido no estrangeiro 6 Jorge Amado. Os seus romances se acham traduzidos em vinte e quatro idiomas. Esta fama, segundo o professor Ellison, 6 devida talvez mais a natureza esquerdista e revolucionaria dos seus livros que a qualidades lite- rarias. Havendo sido escritos os mais violentos nos anos de crise econ6- mica mundial e de grandes agita§6es politicas, quando pareceu a muitos que a peleja entre o Comunismo e o Fascismo ia acabar forcosamente no triunfo do partido dos obreiros, foi natural que este autor propagandista chamasse a atencao e entusiasmo de leitores radicais do Brasil e das outras nacoes. 185 186 REVIS TA BEROAMERICANA Quase todos os romances de Jorge Amado baseam-se numa critica enraivecida das instituic6es sociais e politicas que prevaleciam na regiao baiana--sejam nas fazendas de cacau com o seu proletariado rural ou na cidade da Bahia, comrn o proletariado das fibricas e do mar. Para Amado s.o inteiramente bons os grevistas, os pobres -especialmente os negros-, os operarios militantes duma revolug marxista, tamb6m os seus simpatizadores de classes mais altas e abastecidas. Nao omite os crimi- nosos da categoria dos benignos, porque les resultam dum injusto sistema social. Completamente maus para Amado sao os explotadores dos pobres -os fazendeiros, os feitores, os capitalistas, a igreja e finalmente a po- licia e o :exercito, obedientes aos ricos. Estas prevenc6es ideol6gicas perjudicam perceptivelmente a maioria dos romances de Jorge Amado. Nao dao lugar para caracterizac6es sutis, nao permitem um estudo equinime de situaq6es e pessoas. Ele tem que pregar a revolu§ao a brados -insinu.-la nao basta. Todavia, nasceu Ama- do com talento de romancista. Os seus personagens, ainda que sejam estere6tipos, tem forca, tem vida. Interresam-nos, porque sao homens e mulheres de aqio e energia. A sua linguagem verdadeira, robusta, exatamente como fala o povo. A criticada frecii ncia de palavras obscenas provem deste realismo, nao indica nada' de prop6sitos pornogrificos. O lirismo e a imaginacao de Jorge Amado ficam a suas qualidades salientes. A sua prosa canta, simples e poderosa, como os velhos bardos, sobretudo nas suas descri§6es de elementos folcl6ricos -as macumbas, as supersti6es, as po6ticas tradic6es do mar. Eu concordo absolutamente com o professor Ellison quando assevera que ao considerar a producao total de Jorge Amado, pensamos numa sucessio de epis6dios, dos quais alguns sao pequenas obras-primas. Graciliano Ramos, que morreu em 1953, 6 entre os quatro roman- cistas do Nordeste o escritor mais consciente e polido, possivelmente por- que dispunha duma cultura literaria muito mais ampla que 6les. Nos seus livros percebem-se particularmente influencias de Dostoevski, Balzac e Eca de Queiroz. Nascido nos soalheiros do imenso sertio e passados la os seus anos formativos, foi esta terra, que tao bem conhecia Ramos, que the proporcionou o ambiente, os temas e os personagens para seus escritos mais notaveis, ainda que flagelasse tamb6m em outros os homens e as instituicoes do litoral. Preocupam-no as press6es da sociedade nordestino s6bre a alma e o carAter das pessoas que estio condenados a viver neste meio de miseria econ6mica e de desmoralizac.o espiritual. Ramos nao se presta a solu- RESE 1AS cionar 6stes problemas. E misantropo demais, 6 pessimista. O homen, para 6le, nunca pode gozar da felicidade. Nos seus romances a justica 6 iksoria. Sempre se extravia, sempre falha. T6da a sua critica dos males da sociedades e implicita; nao se descobre nada de propaganda politica direta. Segredo n.o 6 que Ramos foi partidirio ardente do movimento revolucionario e ha quem encontre dificil reconciliar a filosofia inuma- nitaria des seus livros com as suas crengas radicais, mas aclara o professor Ellison que, alum dos seus enraizadas dividas intimas pelo diz respeito a melhoramentos, foi Graciliano Ramos artista literAria demais para inserir serm6es doutrinarias nas suas obras. Graciliano Ramos 6 o mestre do romance psicol6gico. Revela e ex- plora o agitadissimo mundo mental dentro do qual sofrem os seus ator- mentados protagonistas. O brilhante emprego do mon6logo interior em dois niveis de acao para entretecer as recordac6es, pensamentos e terrores do passado e do presente, dando a tudo a qualidade de sonho ou delirio, 6 a sua contribuic;o especial ao romance brasileiro. E o seu estilo s6brio, esmerado e refinado, em perfeita harmonia com o assunto, os personagens e o lugar, alcanca uma forma artistica de beleza parnasiana. Com Rachel de Queiroz, filha do sertio, alarga-se o horizonte do romance nordestino. Entra nele o estudo penetrante da psicologia feminina e da posik;o da mulher naquela sociedade t.o restringida, dominada pelos homens que guardam para si todos os privil6gios, e na qual a mulher tem representado o papel tradicional de ente submisso e inferior. Nas obras de Rachel, a mulher, seja noiva casta numa procissao faminta de retiran- tes da seca, seja prostituta numa aldeia, seja esp6sa dum caixeiro numa cidade, seja colegiala num convento, protesta e rebela contra as convenc6es que lhe tiram o direito de desempenhar livremente a sua personalidade e que a sujeitam a escravidao sexual. A autora nio suaviza as desgradaveis realidades da vida total do Nordeste, nem o sofrimento humano que 6 conseqiincia fatal desse am- biente. Mas ela nao acusa chiadamente; a sua protesta social se patentea nas hist6rias convincentes dos seus personagens. Sabe pintar as profundas emo6bes de amor, de aflilgo, e de desesperanca com sinceridade e com- paixio. Nunca se serve das falsas cores de sentimentalidade. A mao de artista de Raquel de Queiroz 6 certa, 6 segura; para realizar o efeito dese- jado escolhe matizes, omite detalhes. Possuida ela dum senso dramatico, os seus romances escapam A monotonia e a sua mestria dos muitos ritmos da fala popular veste a sua prosa flexivel de variedade. Entre as 34 obras dos quatro romancistas do Nordeste examinadas 187 188 REVISTA I EROA MERICANA e analisadas pelo professor Ellison, estas sao as que considera de mais merito literario e significacao social: de Jose Lins do Rego, Menino de En- genho (1932), Doidinho (x933), Bangue (1934), O Moleque Ricardo (1935), Usina (1936), Pedra Bonita (1939) e Fogo Morto (1944); de Jorge Amado, Jubiab (1935), Mar Morto (1936), Terras do Sem Fim (1943), e Sao Jorge dos Ilhdus (1944); de Graciliano Ramos, Sao Bernar- do (I934), Ang istia (1936), e Vidas Secas (1938); de Rachel de Queiroz, 0 quinze (1930), Joau Miguel (1932) e As Tres Marias ( I 939). No seu capitulo final, o professor Ellison sintetiza as caracteristicas principais desta ficcao nordestina -a importancia sociol6gica da luta en- tre o homem e o ambiente, a critica aguda da sociedade, a nova atitude humanitiria e a grande simpatia pelos parias e oprimidos. Todos n6s que apreciamos a literatura brasileira contemporanea havemos de ficar agradeci- dos ao professor Ellison pelo seu estudo substancioso -bem pensado, bem escrito e excelentemente documentado. LEO KIRSCHENBAUM Universidade da California Los Angeles HECTOR RAUIL ALMANZA Brecha en la roca. Colecci6n Ahuizote. Obre- g6n, S. A., Mexico, 1955. El tema es lo mas interesante de la presente novela de H&ctor Raul Almanza. Tratase de las dificiles experiencias que han de sufrir los obreros petroleros en busca de su libertad econ6mica, arrancando antes sus garantias que como seres humanos les corresponden, de manos de las empresas extranjeras. La culminaci6n de tantos intentos por mejorar la situaci6n, como todos sabemos, es la expropiaci6n petrolera decretada por el gobierno del Presidente Lizaro Cardenas, el 18 de marzo de 1938. El asunto, a mas de tener un interes nacional en si mismo, profundiza oe el problema desde sus origenes, a raiz de la Revoluci6n de 1910, cuando las compafias extranjeras aprovechan las anormalidades por las que atraviesa el pais para hacerse de las tierras convenientes y emprender la explotaci6n del petr6leo para su unico beneficio. Como centro o nucleo de esta historia aparece la de la familia de Antonio G6mez, cuya muerte y la de sus hijos mayores a manos de cri- rninales a sueldo de las compaiias extranjeras por arrebatarles la tierra, R E S E.i..A S deja en completo abandono a dofia Teresa, que fuera mujer de G6mez, y a su pequefio hijo Arturo, quienes, huyendo de sus recuerdos, se refugian en Ebano, San Luis Potosi,. a rehacer su vida destrozada apro- vechando el menguado patrimonio que logr6 salvarse del desastre. La to- talidad de la obra se desarrolla en el Ebano, centro petrolero potosino muy adecuado para mostrar la vida de los obreros, su miseria, abandono, deso- rientaci6n, atropellos a que son sometidos constantemente, y, por fin, el aprovechamiento de su sordo rencor contra las empresas, encauzado, des- pues de vencer muchos obsticulos, en especial el de los obreros "ven- didos", hacia la uni6n de esfuerzos para llegar al bien colectivo, no s61o de los trabajadores de este:lugar sino el de toda la industria petrolera de la Repiblica, al lograr la formaci6n de un sindicato inico, el STPRM. Aunque la novela busca la expresi6n de una clase social, en este caso la obrera, y conduce al lector por todos los caminos que puedan ex- plicarle una situaci6n o el por que de detalles mediatos o inmediatos, y aun cuando el vasto material empuja a la continuaci6n del relato antes que a su consideraci6n, destaca una figura que por su situaci6n y simbolismo debe entenderse como personaje principal: dofia Teresa, la madre. Por su inter- x enci6n directa o por su solo recuerdo o presencia, las escenas se dig- nifican y ennoblecen. Astuta, audaz, inflexible, comprensiva o tierna, esta en el primer plano cuando se trata de hacer un sacrificio o de prestar luna ayuda. El puesto de comidas que regentea le sirve de tribuna y le da oportunidad para ejercer su positiva influencia en la vida del pueblo, tan afligido siempre por la miseria y la injusticia. Esta mujer, recuerda por ms de una circunstancia a Pelagia Nilovna V1asof, herencia de la novela de Maximo Gorki, La madre. Ambas sirven con entusiasmo a una causa colectiva de caracteres semejantes, exponen sus vidas en misiones dificiles de propaganda buscando las conexiones de elementos claves; evitan actos de crueldad infitil; su edad y modestia las hace pasar inadvertidas para los contrarios, pero consiguen, en cambio, el aprecio cordial de los directores de los movimientos obreros. Su intervenci6n en los asuntos amorosos de sus hijos se reduce a discreta comprensi6n y, sobre todo, el sentimiento material que las anima no limita sus beneficios a sus hijos, abarca a todo aquCl que est. caido, que es d6bil, que necesita ayuda. Los otros personajes, con ser muchos o quizi por ello, estan al servicio de una idea, de una tesis, y destacan mas o menos en alguno de los tres grupos que el autor ha querido presentar: los norteamericanos di- rigentes de las empresas petroleras, los obreros y--diriamos--, los trai- dores, espias o guardias blancas al servicio de los patrones. 189 R E V I S T A IB E ROM A M ME RI C A NA Bien se ve que la novela lieva una finalidad y para conseguirla, el autor se vale de artificios un tanto convencionales. Para demostrar, por ejemplo, cuin nociva e injusta es la explotaci6n de los obreros mexicanos por parte de las empresas extranjeras y cuan dura e inhumana es la vida del trabajador, colmara de equivocaciones y vicios a unos para exaltar las virtudes de los otros. Es decir, encontraremos a los buenos oponiendose a los malos en contrastes continuos. En alguna parte, hacia el final del libro, se usa el paralelismo simb61lico recogiendo dos de los temas prin- cipales: el nacimiento de un niiio y el nacimiento de una industria me- xicana. Procedimiento este, poco itil, cuando la fuerza de los asuntos, en lugar de sumarse, se resta. Pero, no hay en Brecha en la roca, general- mente, alardes tcnicos y es evidente que se ha atendido al mensaje antes que a la forma. Los capitulos se encadenan con la 16gica natural de la cronologia y se cifien a la historia en las 380 p.ginas de verdadero conte- vido que forman el libro. Algunos fragmentos emotivos y humanos marcan una tregua en la acci6n y nos ofrecen el entusiasmo sano y fresco de un hombre que cree en la generosidad de la tierra y se acerca a ella con amo- rosa esperanza. Brecha en la roca pertenece al grupo de las novelas interesantes que deben leerse para conocer uno de los problemas mis intensos de nuestra economia nacional en todos sus pasos por conquistar una libertad dificil de alcanzar. Almanza es un hombre que tiene fe y muestra, lo mismo aqui que en sus otras obras: Huelga blanca y Candelaria de los pates, c6mo, a pesar de una realidad poco risuefia, se imponen, lenta pero seguramente, el sentido de responsabilidad, la aspiraci6n hacia algo mejor y la conciencia de unidad. MARfA DEL CARMEN MILLAN Universidad Nacional Autdnoma de Mxico Luis MARIO LozzIA, Domingo sin fzitbol, Editorial Sudamericana, Buenos Aires, 1956. La trama simple de una barriada portefia que por circunstancias comu- nes, queda sin el partido de fitbol caracteristico, dan origen a Luis Mario Lozzia para descubrirnos una emotiva y autentica realidad nacional. Quizi la primera soluci6n de esta novela se desprenda del ambiente, pues alli, en ese pequefio mundillo que sin darse cuenta se entrega a las alternativas 190 R E S E AS de un torneo deportivo, hemos de atrapar algunos personajes especificos e imborrables. Luego, una tarde de liuvia, cierra para las criaturas del libro su evasi6n. La cancha cerrada obliga a proyectar otros planes, y el cambio desconocido sirve para organizar la trama novelistica. Buenos Aires aguarda entonces con frialdad el destino que fabrica un autor. Lozzia sabe predisponer de esta tarde, sin fallas documentales ni falsas pinturas, con una expresiva fidelidad narrativa. Anteriormente habia publicado un libro de cuentos, Estas noches que em piezan, donde se revelaba como justificado escritor y cuentista, teniendo siempre a la ciudad sembrada en sus manos. Ahora, no puede decirse que la proyecci6n no tuvo exito. Al encontrar a los personajes vemos como todos ellos deben por prefijado azar unificarse con ese domingo sin f6tbol. Asi, el jugador y su padre, el cronista deportivo y su mujer, el duefio de la cantina con su familia, las hijas, la tia y su amante, s6lo reflejan estados equilibrados del destino. Surgen entre ellos, una muchacha y su hermana, nifia ain, hijas del canti- nero, para quienes en aquel dia total adquieren conciencia de un mundo cercano y palpable, dando dentro de una descripci6n descarnada la en- trega fisica de la adolescente, y proyectando la realidad algo incierta de la relaci6n humana, en la segunda. Seguro como novelista, sabe apreciar la sencillez del medio ambiente y con una limpieza literaria sin recargos coloristas, ha cumplido en forma singular mostrindonos con gran autenticidad local, una empresa de crea- ci6n plena y valedera. HORACIO JORGE BECCO Buenos Aires MAHFUD MASSIS, Elegia bajo la tierra, Ediciones Pol6micas, Santiago, 1955. La publicaci6n mis reciente del poeta chileno Mahfud Massis es su volumen Elegia bajo la tierra, poema en veintisiete partes, con pr6logo del autor. El leitmotiv de esta poesia, como dice el mismo Massis, es la muerte, pero no la muerte en su calidad de acontecimiento, de hecho final, sino una muerte que es a veces indistinguible de la vida. Como a conti- nuaci6n indica el poeta, en su obra encontrarA el lector muertos que pa- recen vivos y vivos que tienen a veces el rostro de los espectros". En efecto, el poeta se sitia en la confluencia de la vida y la muerte, lugar de interpenetraci6n de dos mundos. Por esta area limitada se mue- 191 RE VISTA IBEROA MERICANA ve sin salir nunca .de su circulo subterraneo de oscuridad finebre. En su trayectoria horizontal se encuentra con angeles y antepasados que legan a su nivel desde arriba o desde abajo, segin el caso. El poeta ni asciende ni desciende a la manera dantesca en el mundo de ultratumba, y su poema, mas que escatologia, es una simbiosis de vida y muerte. Massis no canta a 6sta ni la glorifica, porque no concibe una muerte que se distin- ga netamente de la vida. Tampoco hay en su poema una vida despues de la muerte. Si actian en 61 los muertos, esto no es sino una indica- ci6n mas de la continuidad vida-muerte. A trav6s de los veintisiete fragmentos del poema se desarrollan varios temas que establecen claramente la posici6n del poeta. Primero, Massis se define a si mismo como un paria, un primitivo que esti fuera de lugar en la sociedad contemporinea: "Yo era el Hombre de Java de la fa- milia". Sin embargo, le es imposible cambiar sin "enviar al mercado mi alma". A continuaci6n se identifica con un perro, simbolo doble aqui del proscrito y de la muerte. En su calidad de perro errante cava en la tierra y exhuma "cabezas, fragmentos de antepasados, una lengua cadavrica, morada por el tiempo, que alcanza s61o a susurrar imaldito!" Asi introduce en su poesia el tema de los antepasados arabes que le fascinan y que significan en su poesia la maldici6n, la condena ab utero. Condena doble para Massis, poeta e hijo de inmigrantes y por esto doble- mente desarraigado. Mis fuertes que 61 son los antepasados, "maliciosos y dulces, Agiles y contumaces, celebrando los ritos de la muerte en veloces danzas a caballo". Le muerden la cabeza, "mi cabeza de pobre americano, porque en mi hundida frente de pastor s61o anid6 la muerte y el cuervo desplumado de la belleza". En estas lineas encontramos sintetizada la posici6n de Massis, atacado por la fuerza ancestral, a la vez americano y pastor (Arabe). Tambi6n se debe notar este pijaro que no es ya el cisne modernista ni el buho de la sabiduria, sino el cuervo, simbolo de la muerte. Hasta en el cuervo se ve la confluencia de vida y muerte: el pa- jaro ha perdido sus plumas de color finebre y muestra la carne desnuda. Entonces el poeta les pide a los antepasados que le den su poder y su "es- tructura vegetal contra el destino, a mi, sofiador extenuado, defensor de de- rechos indtiles, vendedor de sudarios y bolsas de colores". La muerte, que Massis simboliza por medio del perro ya mencionado, tambi6n aparece en forma de toro; pero el toro, como el cuervo, ha perdido su tradicional color negro. Aparte de esto, la muerte vuelve siempre a manifestarse en el vocabulario del poeta, como se ha visto en las lineas ya citadas. 19.2 RE SE AS En esta atm6sfera de muerte y de condena ancestral el poeta se ve pequefio y perdidot consciente ademas de la contingencia de toda su acci6n vital. Si bien dice a veces: "Soy un toro con el pecho de jade", o Ilega a ser un angel para los sapos, la identificaci6n en general es entre el yo y un perro, o se compara con "un pequefio dios celeste y pilido" de ojos de perro, o con un pequeio salvaje, un enano, un moscard6n. Hasta en el amor la muerte causa en Massis un sentimiento de inferioridad, de contingencia: Gladiadora en el lecho nupcial, las hienas vienen a comer de tu carne amorosa en la noche... Sobre tu vientre caen aves de pico rojo, y la boca que balbuce6 la frase perdida y querida tiembla bajo el diente fino de los roedores. Ah, c6mo amarte con mi transitoriedad, con mi pobre medula de gusano, si la eternidad esti raida, y el porvenir ondula como una culebra en la resina funeral. El amor aqui no es un esfuerzo para escaparse de la muerte. Representa en la poesia de Massis quizis lo mis vital; pero hasta en este aspecto mis vivo de la vida, este presente la muerte, el deslizarse continuo de un estado hacia el otro, el confluir, en efecto, de los dos mundos de vida y muerte, el cual Massis acepta francamente, aun cuando limite sus posibilidades de actuar en la vida. La muerte que de esta manera, junto con el poder de los antepasados, domina la poesia de Massis, no es en su obra un problema. Es mis bien un hecho que surge en la conciencia del poeta de varios incidentes que entre si no tienen conexi6n necesaria: la contemplaci6n de la propia muerte, la muerte de un ser querido, un paseo por la ciudad, el amor. El hecho de que el poeta est6 consciente de la presencia de la muerte en cada incidente le permite evocar el simbolismo de los acontecimientos y reinterpretarlos, recrearlos para formar un todo podtico. S61o dos veces parece rebelarse Massis activamente. En una ocasi6n exclama: Maestro en lenguas feroces, no siempre me contengo, acuso a mis antecesores, juzgo, olvido, asesino, invito a la extenuaci6n, s61o tengo el veneno de mis palabras iOh, lama mia! iCufnta justificaci6n para vivir! Pero en seguida aparece la inevitable muerte y arrastra el alma del poeta. 193 RE V I S TA IB ER OA M ERICAN A Otra vez en una reminiscencia del sueiio de Jacob, el poeta dormido derriba a un angel y su alma herida asciende cantando. El lenguaje de Elegia bajo la tierra esti cuidadosamente trabajado. No hay palabra que no lleve su carga emocional, no hay frase que no est6 llena de sugerencias simb61licas y metaf6ricas. N6tese por ejemplo la fuerza emotiva de las lineas siguientes: y una pavana de costumbres estoicas caia del naranjo Puedes tocar mi rostro, su lejana mariposa de hueso muertos planetas de hueso de mi contextura [dientes]. Nuestros cuernos chocan contra el 6nix sombrio, y nos amamos. Estoy muerto, pero me crece la barba. Encontramos tambien lo que en otros poetas llamariamos juegos de pa- labras, aunque en Massis nada tiene aspecto de juego: Si entrara al cementerio en la noche, entre el oxidado aroma del oxiacanto Como una flor sobre la negra caja estis en mi coraz6n, y te ciernes, entre ciervos de oro, desciendes al olivar obscuro Leyendo a Massis, se nota sobre todo que la suya es una poesia que no admite los limites de lo tradicional y lo trillado, pero que tampoco siente la necesidad de abrirse camino por medio del exceso. Las imigenes de Mas- sis pueden ser osadisimas; pero al mismo tiempo se caracterizan por su gran sobriedad. Es la sobriedad de un poeta que sabe encontrar la expre- si6n justa para el concepto que expresa y rechazar siempre lo innecesario. Massis es un poeta fuerte, duro, pero un poeta que opera ya en completa libertad. No tiene que derrumbar idolos. S61o crea poesia. Esta poesia, tan avanzada en cuanto a la forma, es a la vez clasica en su utilizaci6n de experiencias personalisimas para el desarrollo de un tema universal. Es una poesia que es imposible leer sin compartir la emoci6n del poeta y sin sentir en su fuerza, su enfoque original de lo eterno, la obra de una per- sonalidad poderosa y segura de si. La misma lucidez que caracteriza la poesia de Mahfud Massis se ve tambi6n en el pr6logo que acompafia al poema. Bajo el titulo sugestivo y polemico de "Palabras en el muro", contiene una cantidad de auto- 194 RES E AS an.lisis de gran perspicacia, evidenciando la clara conciencia que tiene el poeta de sus procedimientos. Sin embargo, se encuentran tambien palabras como 6stas: Ciertamente, si el poeta reparara en esas tristes merluzas [los criticos], estaria perdido. Por tal raz6n, pongo un muro de asbestos entre ellas y mi poesia, grandes piedras refractarias entre su cerebro pardo y mi conducta como individuo... En las paginas que siguen, elaboro una experiencia po6tica en que el regimen de las visiones satisface mi necesidad de ex- presi6n, y ello me basta... En consecuencia, no arguyo ni explico nada: s61o trato de levantar mi grito en medio de la noche. En estas lineas hallamos tres ideas en demasia comunes -y muy discu- tibles- en nuestros tiempos: que el artista crea s6lo para expresarse, que por lo tanto su creaci6n es puramente personal, y que como consecuencia nadie tiene el derecho de criticar la obra de arte. La noci6n de la crea- cion artistica por el solo motivo de la expresi6n, amenaza ahora asumir todas las caracteristicas de un mito, como lo hizo en el siglo pasado "la inspiraci6n". Claro es que la critica puede ser estiipida y que nadie puede vedarle al artista el derecho de expresarse de la manera que mas le guste. Pero abandonando la mitologia poetica que sobre la creaci6n artistica se ha construido, y volviendo a los hechos, tendremos que reconocer que con contadas excepciones los artistas no crean solamente para expresarse, sino tambien para comunicarse con un piiblico, por restringido que sea. Parece demasiado obvio, y sin embargo se olvida a menudo, que al artista que publica su obra no se expresa ya in vacuo, sino que trata de expresarse a alguien, es decir, de comunicarse. En el momento de creaci6n, la obra podr ser una expresi6n pura y nadie tendri derecho de criticarla, como tambi6n nadie la conoceri. Pero en el momento de comunicarse, de pu- blicar deliberadamente su obra, el artista entrega a su publico el derecho de leer o verla y tambien el derecho de criticarla en sentido favorable o adverso. No pasa, por lo tanto, de ser pueril la actitud de exhibirse y luego de negarles a los espectadores la capacidad intelectual de formar un juicio, por tonto que sea, sobre la exhibici6n. Es por esto que tales sen- timientos nos extraian en un autor tan poco pueril como lo es Mahfud Massis, sobre todo cuando tiene la ocurrencia rara de publicar al final de su libro toda una antologia de juicios criticos (favorables) sobre sus obras anteriores. Sin embargo y a pesar de la poca estimaci6n en que tiene 195 196 R E V I STA IBEROAM ERICANA Massis a los criticos, el lector tendri que agradecerle la publicaci6n de un volumen de poesia fuerte, libre, y de una trascendencia sugestiva. JOHN H. R. POLT University of California, Berkeley MANUEL DE CASTRO, El padre Samuel, Ediciones Pauta, 24 ed., Monte- video, 195, 194 pigs. Entre los pocos autores en el campo de la literatura novelesca del Uruguay que han alcanzado notoria fama en este pais apenas descuellan otros nombres que los de Carlos Reyles y Javier de Viana. Puede extra- fiar al lector, por eso, saber que hay otros escritores y otras novelas que merecen atenci6n. Una de ellas, que consideraremos brevemente aqui, ha ganado fama considerable, a lo menos dentro de su propio pais; publi- cada en 1937, al afio siguiente fue premiada por el Ministerio de Edu- caci6n y la nueva edici6n aparecida en el afio i951 da ain m~s prueba de la popularidad que sigue disfrutando. Conviene decir que en la his- toria de la novela uruguaya, El padre Samuel gozar, de una preeminencia segura. El padre Samuel es Ia segunda novela que ha salido de la pluma de Manuel de Castro, autor contemporaneo nacido en 1896. Como ha pa- sado en la carrera de otros muchos escritores de Sud America, las primeras obras de Manuel de Castro fueron escritas en forma po6tica. La primera novela, Historia de un pequeio funcionario, vio la luz en 1930 y poco despubs al autor le fue otorgado el Premio Centenario. A pesar de su escasa producci6n, esta le revela como autor de fina sensibilidad y posee- dor de un claro y penetrante entendimiento del coraz6n humano. La historia politica en ambos margenes del Rio de la Plata ha sido tal que en tiempos pasados el Uruguay ha dado asilo a los desterrados de la Argentina y tambi6n ha enviado a sus propios sibditos en exilio forzoso a la margen meridional del rio fronterizo. Pero el termino region rioplatense ignora las fronteras nacionales, y hace dificil, por lo tanto, la exacta localizaci6n de un autor en una sola de las dos repiblicas ribere- fias. Tenido por uruguayo, ciudadano del pais en donde reside y trabaja, Manuel de Castro naci6, sin embargo, en Rosario, Argentina.' Luisa Luisi 1 Barbagelata, Hugo David, La novela y el cuento en Hispanoamirica, Mon- tevideo, 1947, p. 149. RESENAS le designa compatriota suyo en su excelente articulo, The literature of Uruguay in the year of its Constitutional Centenary 2 y Alberto Zum Felde le concede una posici6n prominente en sus libros sobre la literatura del Uruguay. 3 Cuando El padre Samuel sali6 de las prensas, el autor anunci6 la publicaci6n de otras tres obras, El garrote magico (Cuentos), Gabriel, buscavidas (Novela picaresca) y Cantos del. Retorno (Poesia), de las cuales s61o el tomo de poesia ha llegado a mi conocimiento. El titulo completo de la obra de Castro es el Padre Samuel (su vida sacra y profana evocada por un llamado su sobrino) Novela picaresca americana, y mas adelante en la nota, -Esta obra fue escrita bajo la ad- vocacidn del Presbitero don Manuel de Castro y Cobas, oriundo de Noya y ordenado en Santiago de Compostela el 30 de marzo de 1885. (Titulo Servitii Ecclesiaet indulto apostdlico) y fallecido en Montevideo el 2 de junio de 1908. Gustd el vino de la tierra y comic el pan de los Angeles. Llaman nuestra atenci6n la coincidencia de la patria chica y de la iglesia del ordenamiento asi como de la localidad y la fecha del fallecimiento de ambos el personaje real y el ficticio, aunque no pueda saberse a ciencia cierta hasta qu6 punto haya podido servir el Presbitero de modelo para el Padre Samuel. En cuanto a la calidad picaresca, designada en el sub- titulo, cabe algo de duda. El sentimiento con que queda el lector de El padre Samuel es mas bien el de haber conocido en el protagonista a una buena persona, intensamente humana y dibujada con sensible linea por un autor hibil e inteligente. Alberto Zum Felde caracteriza la novela como sigue: "Su novela (El padre Samuel) puede colocarse, en cierto modo y hasta cierto punto, dentro del g6nero de la novela picaresca espa- fiola, por primera vez abordado en nuestros paises americanos, y con buen 6xito; y no porque campee en su novela nitngin picaro, sino por el sentido de ironia sabrosa con que la vida parece encarada". 4 Se podria afiadir que la ironia misma cae siempre dentro de los limites del buen gusto, no faltando por eso situaciones risibles que frisan en lo picaro. El primer intento del autor, sin embargo, parece haber sido crear un perso- naje de came y hueso, una persona fuerte y debil a la vez, noble pero impresionable. Y asi lo hizo. 2 Luisi, Luisa, The literature of Uruguay in the year of its Constitutional Centenary, Bulletin of the Pan American Union, vol. 64, pp. 655-695. 3 Zum Felde, Alberto, La literatura del Uruguay, Buenos Aires, 1939, p. 66. -, Proceso intelectual del Uruguay y critica de su literatura, Montevideo, 1941, p. 558. 4 Zum Felde, Alberto, Proceso intelectual del Uruguay y critica de su litera- tura, Montevideo, 1941, p. 558. 197 REVISTA I B E R O A M E R IC ANA La delineaci6n de El padre Samuel es bastante sencilla. La acci6n empieza en Rosario, Argentina. Gabriel, el narrador de la historia, tiene nueve afios cuando contempla a su madre muerta. Su padre, despu6s de asegurar al hijito que su madre se ha ido al cielo y alli le espera, se dis- pone para emprender un viaje largo dejando a Gabriel en casa de un matrimonio, amigos oriundos de Galicia. Sollozando el ninio se despide de su padre que promete volver por el. Pasados unos meses, le dicen a Gabriel que ahora es hu6rfano de padre y el nifio solitario se siente tras- pasado de tristeza y de confusi6n. Con el tiempo un rayo de luz penetra su noche. Desde Chile, un tio suyo, sacerdote, sabiendo el estado lasti- tnoso del huerfano manda una carta en que ofrece cuidar y educar a Gabriel con tal que se reina con 1l. Los preparativos se hacen y Gabriel, acompafiado de Villalonga, el muletero principal, que es tambien amigo del tio Samuel en Chile, se pone en marcha. En el camino, Villalonga se muestra locuaz. Pinta al padre Samuel como var6n guapo y alegre que en su juventud tenia entusiasmadas a cuantas muchachas le conocie- ron. Antes de llegar a Concepci6n, Gabriel ya se ha formado una idea algo concreta de c6mo sera su tio, pero no esti preparado para el encuen- tro que sigue. En el and6n ve acercarse a un hombre distinguido en quien reconoce a su padre por la forma de hablar. Desde ese momento se establece entre ellos una relaci6n como entre padre e hijo que se con- servara a lo largo de la novela; para el piblico, Gabriel es sobrino; para esos raros momentos preciosos cuando los dos se hallan en conversaci6n intima, es el hijo amado. La juventud pasada del padre Samuel se desenvuelve o por confi- dencias hechas en conversaci6n con Gabriel o por conversaciones entre Samuel y viejos amigos, escuchadas de paso por el nifio. De joven, no estaba Samuel de talante para ser sacerdote, muy al contrario, pero ce- diendo al anhelo de una madre ciega, el hijo inimo acab6 por servir de cura en Corufia, en la querida "tierruca" en donde naci6. Trasladado a Ambrica sirvi6 en una parroquia en Montevideo. De visita en Galicia, Samuel sinti6 un amor humano tan profundo que juzg6 justificado "colgar la sotana", casarse con Soledad y volver con ella a America. Pa- saron diez afios idilicos. Soledad, moribunda, pidi6 a Samuel la promesa de volver a la iglesia y despues de pasar 61 un afio piadoso y penitente, le recibieron otra vez en el oficio sacerdotal. El amor por el padre y la admiraci6n hacia el sacerdote tienen su influencia sobre el nifio. "-No tienes pasta para ello", replica Samuel a la petici6n de Gabriel de seguir estudios teol6gicos, pero un cambio 198 RE S E AS de localidad geogrifica trae otros cambios. En Victoria, en el sur de Chile, el hijo, ayudando al padre en la misa comete errores ridiculos, y presencia la muerte trigica de su querida amiguita, Blanca. El padre Samuel suefia con volver a Galicia. En la "tierruca" de su madre debe educarse el hijo, y Samuel emprende el viaje a Montevideo por barco adonde lega en plena gloria de la primavera. La casa de ami- gos gallegos es suya y alli se congregan los compatriotas, entretenidos en forma brillante por Samuel que cuenta an6cdotas, canta y se rie con todos. Solo, con el amo de la casa y su esposa, Samuel les abre el coraz6n calmando sus sospechas y revelindoles la verdadera identidad de Gabriel. Un mal de coraz6n le aflige y la condici6n es agravada por noticias de Espafia. La madre de Soledad escribe para advertirle que fuera mejor no volver. "Arrepentido al fin de esas sus andanzas por tierras de Ame- rica" el buen padre Samuel fallece. Otra vez el nifio se halla solo. Resulta obvio que El padre Samuel no puede considerarse como no- vela picaresca de la misma manera que consideramos el Lazarillo o el Buscdn. Hay en la obra de Castro una ternura y tono lirico que nos hace pensar en el fondo po6tico del autor. Del cariiio por parte de Samuel hacia su hijo hay muchos ejemplos. Vueltos al Uruguay desde Chile, el padre disimula su enfermedad y sus dudas de llegar vivo a Galicia, ani- mando a Gabriel, -"Non te afligas, rapacifio. Llegaremos a Galicia con el florecer de los almendros. Ten por cierto que las mismas estrellas que guiaban a Carlomagno nos conducirdn hasta la tierra de su santa madre". Falta un picaro en el libro pero verdad es que hay incidentes narrados por un nifio inocente e ingenuo que colman lo c6mico. La primera prueba de Gabriel como monacillo trae confusi6n completa y dice: -"Pretendi ioh infeliz! levantar el extremo de la casulla antes del debido tiempo, pero la voz del padre Samuel me hizo volver en mi, en tanto-mi rostro se puso al rojo vivo. -Mejor seria que levantaras la cola a los perros- dijome por lo bajo y echindome una mirada fulminante". El conflicto en las novelas picarescas espafiolas se origina entre el picaro y una sociedad que le desdefia por su ociosidad y que a la vez 61 mira desdefioso. Conflicto hay en la vida del padre Samuel pero surge del intento de suprimir un espiritu entusiasta y alegre entre los limites algo estrechos del regimien pastoral. Bien sabia el padre lo que decia cuando contest6 la petici6n de Gabriel con "No tienes pasta para ello". El conflicto se declar6 en rebeli6n abierta durante los afios de su matri- monio y cuando, despubs, volvi6 a ponerse la sotana ya tenia como con- suelo el fruto de esos afios. Aun en Victoria, el puro gozo de vivir le hizo pasar de los limites de la circunspecci6n. En unos juegos inocentes, 199 REV I S T A I BEROAMERICANA el padre Samuel sorprende a Gabriel besando a Blanca, su compafiera, en los labios. Esa noche Samuel invita a Gabriel a confesarse y siguen unas preguntas. "- Quien te enseii6 a besar asi? -Las palomas, tio. -Las palomas? Sabes que tiene crispa tu confesi6n? ,De modo que las palomas te ensefiaron a besar? -Si, tio, -afirm6 azoradisimo. -Sin embargo, tengo para mi que las palomas no se cogen de la cintura para besarse. Tu sabes algo mas. Acaso alli en C6rdoba, en casa de Palacios... -No, no, tio; es la primera vez que beso a una nifia. -~Nunca viste besar a una pareja de enamorados? Enmudeci de nuevo. Todo se con- fundia en mi mente, pareci6me que aquella confesi6n no terminaba nunca. Ante el apremio de la pregunta, me arm6 de valor y dije con toda la ver- dad: -Si, tio, he visto. Una mafiana observ6 que besabas a Isabel; quise hacer lo mismo y Dios me castig6. Perd6name... -exclam6 en tono de contrici6n. El padre Samuel dio un salto sobre la silla y frunci6 e! cefio: ... Al fin me dijo: -Si asi, como ti dices, hijo mio, no me queda mas remedio que absolverte y sin latines... Lev~ntate y sigue jugando con Blanca. Eso si: ten cuidado y no des en imitar demasiado a las palomas". Zum Felde le llama "el buen cura espafiol, de recia contextura y noble fondo, pero no muy severo en sus disciplinas...".5 Por medio de Samuel y sus amigos esparcidos por el Uruguay, Chile y la Argentina, sabemos lo que es la nostalgia por Galicia, la "tierruca" amada. Nunca cesa de llamar a sus hijos. En America el gallego busca amigos entre otros gallegos y sus entretenimientos son las canciones y reminiscencias de su tierra. Manuel de Castro, narrador y creador de personajes, nos permite comprender lo que es el alma de un hombre. A pesar de unos detalles t&cnicos, por ejemplo el uso por el narrador de la primera persona del singular, claramente El padre Samuel rebasa los limites del genero pica- resco y queda como documento humano que merece larga vida y el interes del lector inteligente. MARGARET M. RAMOS Dickinson College, Pa. RALPH E. WARNER, Bibliografia de Ignacio Manuel Altamirano, Impren- ta Universitaria, M6xico, 1955, 218 pp. Ralph E. Warner, ampliamente conocido por su colaboraci6n en la Bibliografia de la Poesia Mexicana (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 5 ibid., p. 558. 200 RESENAS _ 1934) y por su valioso estudio Historia de la Novela Mexicana en el Si- glo XIX (Robredo, Mexico, 1953), es, sin duda, uno de los estudiosos mns capacitados para la tarea que da sus frutos en este libro, instrumento indispensable no s61o para el conocimiento de uno de los mas polifac&- ticos autores del siglo pasado en M6xico, sino tambien para la total comprensi6n de un periodo orientador y decisivo en el desarrollo de las letras patrias. Como especialista en Altamirano, Warner cuenta en su haber una tesis doctoral (The Life and WIorks of Ignacio Manuel Altamirano, Uni- versity of California, 1936) que, tal vez por permanecer inedita, no aparece en el presente libro entre los estudios sobre la vida y las obras de Altamirano, cuyas fichas integran la segunda parte de esta Bibliogra- fia; el pr6logo y recopilaci6n de Paisajes y Leyendas (Tradiciones y Cos- tumbres de Mexico, Segunda Serie) (Robredo, M6xico, 1949) aparte de otras contribuciones al estudio de este autor, estos si incluidos en la secci6n correspondiente. Esta obra viene a completar la magnifica labor de Rafael Heliodoro Valle en el Homenaje a Ignacio M. Altamirano (Imprenta Universitaria, M6xico, 1935) y en la Bibliografia de Manuel Ignacio Altamirano (D. A. P. P., M6xico, 1939) y la del propio compilador Warner, "Bibliografia de las obras de Ignacio Manuel Altamirano", en Revista Iberoamericana, vol. III, niim. 6 (mayo 1941), pp. 465-512. En la "Introducci6n" Warner apunta el metodo que sigue en la or- denaci6n de su acerbo bibliografico, repartiendolo en las siguientes sec- ciones tradicionales: I. Colecciones de generos varios. II. Poesia. III. No- vela y novela corta. IV. Paisajes y Leyendas. V. Critica literaria. Biblio- grafia, Biografia, Cr6nicas y revistas. VI. Pr6logos, cartas-pr61ogos, in- troducciones, etc. VII. Discursos. VIII. Cartas. IX. Articulos varios. X. Traducciones y adaptaciones, secciones que constituyen la primera parte de la obra, estando la segunda, como ya se dijo, dedicada a los escritos sobre Altamirano. Se incluye tambien un itil indice de personas. Con visi6n discernidora Warner ha omitido numerosas entradas que figuraban en las bibliografias previas, explicando en la misma "intro- ducci6n" la raz6n de su procedimiento. Son de especial interns algunas de las notas explicativas que el compilador afiade a ciertas fichas. A pesar de algunas erratas, son de alabarse la atractiva presentaci6n tipogr- fica y la esmerada edici6n de esta obra. MANUEL DE EZCURDIA University of California, Berkeley 201 202 REVISTA IBEROAMERICANA ROBERT G. MEAD, JR., Breve historia del ensayo hispanoamericano, M6- xico, Ediciones de Andrea, 1956, 143 pp. La Breve historia del ensayo hispanoamericano, de Robert G. Mead, Jr., la tercera de la serie de resimenes hist6rico-criticos que viene publi- cando la Libreria Studium de la capital mexicana, nos merece una acogida muy calurosa a todos los que profesamos un amor entrafiable a las letras hispanoamericanas, seamos estudiosos o curiosos, profesores o estudiantes. A los estudiosos porque este pequefio libro, tan denso como lo es breve, es en realidad una especie de diario de navegaci6n que documenta el rumbo seguido por el pensamiento en Hispanoambrica, desde el descu- brimiento hasta nuestros dias, siendo asi tanto por su tema como por su contenido una manifestaci6n mis de que la America de habla espaiiola ha llegado a la madurez intelectual; a los curiosos porque les ofrece la ocasi6n de hacer una excursi6n doblemente provechosa, puesto que es amena, por entre los mojones ensayisticos colocados por algunos de los pensadores ms recios que haya producido Hispanoamerica; a los pro- fesores porque puede que les sefiale nuevos derroteros hacia una mejor comprensi6n, mediante las bibliografias criticas generales e individuales, de nuestros ensayistas mis destacados; y a los estudiantes porque les suministra la indispensable orientaci6n hist6rico-critica, sugiriendoles a la vez selectas lecturas representativas y conduciendoles a las principales fuentes bibliograficas de la critica que se ha publicado respecto a cada ensayista comentado. Todo esto lo ha logrado admirablemente el autor y, en realidad, es algo mis de lo que, con modestia, dice haberse pro- puesto, pues habia pretendido ocuparse particularmente de las necesida- des de los profesores y de los estudiantes a fin de ofrecerles un libro lo mis itil posible que les sirviera de guia y que les ayudara a ponerse en condiciones de ahondar en un g6nero poco estudiado y cuyo signifi- cado est6tico y cultural, por consiguiente, todavia sigue desconocido en gran parte. La organizaci6n del libro es la siguiente: en los ocho capitulos de que consta se trata del ensayo como genero literario (I), de la prosa de la Colonia y de la Emancipaci6n (II), de los grandes precursores (III), de los primeros ensayistas (IV), de la generaci6n de i88o (V), del ensayo durante el modernismo (VI), durante el posmodernismo (VII) y del ensayo de hoy (VIII), llegando en este iltimo a los ensayistas nacidos por el afio de 1900. Ademas, se presentan una bibliografia general y el igualmente indispensable indice onomistico. Los escritores a quienes RESE1NAS el autor considera como los mis importantes van sefialados con dos as- teriscos, las lecturas sugeridas de igual importancia, con uno. Las lectu- ras asi indicadas el autor proyecta reunirlas en antologia como comple- mento de la Historia del ensayo. Sumamente interesantes son las piginas que el autor dedica al en- sayo como genero literario. Alli pasa revista a la historia antigua y mo- derna del desarrollo de la clase de escritos que hoy dia denominamos ensayos. Traza su desenvolvimiento desde la antigiiedad clisica hasta nuestros dias, para lo cual sefiala a los autores que mas se han destacado a lo largo de los siglos en los paises diferentes. Respecto a Espafia, des- pues de indicar la importancia de Feij6o como precursor caracterizado del g6nero, hace hincapie en la poca atenci6n prestada a esta clase de prosa hasta fines del siglo pasado, epoca en que aparecieron figuras tan nobles como Giner de los Rios y Joaquin Costa; estos habian de influir de un modo profundo sobre los conocidisimos ensayistas de la generaci6n del 98, de la misma manera que estos filtimos a su vez habian de ins- pirar y servir de modelo a los ensayistas espafioles que les siguieron. Es curioso notar, como lo ha observado muy atinadamente el profesor Mead, que la palabra "ensayo", en el sentido de describir un g6nero literario, no logr6 plena aceptaci6n en Espafia hasta despues de x900. Ademis del aspecto hist6rico del tema, se plantea en este capitulo el problema dificilisimo de los generos literarios y de si hay un g6nero ensayistico susceptible de definirse. Partiendo de la base de que la literatura, proteica por un lado y una manifestaci6n de intuici6n pura por otro, es incontenible dentro de marcos fijos y arbitrarios, se afirma que a los g6neros literarios les falta un sentido de realidad y de valor inherente. El autor cree que las clasificaciones tienen, por lo menos, al- guna utilidad, porque en seguida empieza a analizar lo que se considera como ensayo y se propone ofrecer una definici6n. Principiando con la ms corriente y amplia, le poda unas ramas y presenta otra mas literaria, aunque todavia bastante difundida, para legar a la intrinsecamente lite- raria que ha formulado Enrique Anderson Imbert, a quien cita al res- pecto para dar remate a su discusi6n del ensayo como g6nero literario. No todos los 55 escritores estudiados concuerdan con la descripci6n alu- dida, la cual hace hincapie en los aspectos literarios y de alto valor est- tico del ensayo. No debe extrafiar a nadie que la mitad de ellos, quizis, no alcance el alto nivel artistico que exige. Mead lo sabe y lo deja explicito. Hace historia y esta tarea supone, sobre todo, la organizaci6n y ordenaci6n de los datos interesantes al desarrollo del genero, lo mismo 203 204 REvIsTA IBEROAMERICANA que del fondo sobre el cual actian los maestros del ensayo de las iltimas d&cadas. Asi, ha incluido a no pocos escritores que, importantes para el desenvolvimiento del genero ensayistico en America, han permanecido en las regiones limitrofes del ensayo propiamente dicho. La actitud es sanisima y el resultado es feliz, produciendo un cuadro rico en detalles y matices de las valiosas aportaciones a la madurez del genero que han hecho en su pro infatigables trabajadores de la pluma. Para cuando el autor piense en una segunda edici6n -que ojala sea pronto, pues seguramente la primera se agotari en breve- aprovecha- mos para sefialarle dos defectillos que nos han llamado la atenci6n: el c'lebre predicador padre Vieira no era brasilefio, sino portugues, si bien es verdad que pas6 gran parte de su vida en el Brasil colonial (pAg. 22), y las Obras de Sarmiento no suman 57 volimenes, sino 52 (pag. 33). Tambi6n, y con el mismo prop6sito, queremos participarle algunas ob- servaciones que se nos impusieron mientras leiamos su libro. Como es de esperar en cuanto a manuales hist6rico-criticos, no todos los lectores estarin contentos con los autores elegidos para integrar el libro; es inevi- table. Unos se preguntarin por qu6 se ha dedicado todo un capitulo a los prosistas del periodo colonial, puesto que en Espafia apenas habia asomo del ensayo en la forma en que lo comprendemos hoy, y mucho menos en Hispanoamrica. A otros les extrafiara que se haya incluido a cierto escritor o que se haya dejado de mencionar a otro. A nosotros, por ejemplo, nos parece imprescindible la inclusi6n de Francisco Bilbao en la n6mina de los precursores hispanoamericanos del ensayo, no s61o por sus escritos de caricter ensayistico, sino tambien por su vinculaci6n con el desarrollo de las ideas filos6ficas en America y por haberse ocupado de temas que con los afios les habrian de interesar hondamente a algunos de nuestros pensadores modernos mas caracterizados. Tampoco les agradara a todos, quizis, cada detalle de los analisis hist6rico-criticos que se han hecho de las corrientes literarias y de los escritores tratados. Sin entrar en pormenores, sefialaremos los sitios en donde, a nuestro juicio, el autor podria haber robustecido sus interpre- tciones. En las introducciones a los capitulos III ("Los grandes precur- sores") y IV ("Los primeros ensayistas") no quedarian mal cuatro pala- bras relativas a la importancia de las diversas filosofias (principalmente las humanitarias y las positivistas) que estaban en pugna a principios del siglo xix, las cuales han dejado sus huellas indeleblemente impresas en la vida de occidente desde aquellos tiempos. En las piginas que dedica al modernismo (Cap. VI) habria resultado mas equilibrado el analisis RESENAS si se hubiera prestado mis atenci6n a la gran deuda del modernismo al romanticismo, siendo aqu6l en el fondo mas bien una liberaci6n y una superaci6n del estado de inimo romintico. Tambi6n, si bien nos damos cuenta de las limitaciones de espacio que se le impusieron al autor, no deja de extrafiarnos un poco que no se haya vinculado de alguna manera el desarrollo del pensamiento de fines del siglo xx y principios del actual y, por consiguiente, el del ensayo, su instrumento de expresi6n por excelencia, con los prosistas de la genera- ci6n espafiola de 1898. Poniendo a un lado las influencias, es inne- gable, a niuestro parecer, que nuestros autores y los espaiioles de aque- lla epoca arrostraban no pocos temas parecidos y que los m6viles y la actitud frente a la vida de ambos grupos eran demasiado semejantes para que se les pasara por encima sin mentarlos. Ademas, consta que a partir del modernismo, y desde ambos lados del Atlintico, se empez6 a reparar y a estrechar los lazos, en especial los culturales, no s61o entre los paises hispanoamericanos, sino tambien con Espaia, lazos que habian permanecido o rotos del todo o muy mellados desde la epoca de las gue- rras de la independencia. A la casa editora, tambien, cuatro palabras. De gran provecho hu- biera sido la utilizaci6n de alguna clase de tipo especial para asi distin- guir y poner aparte las paginas en las que se encuentra el comentario principal respecto a cada escritor; de esta manera el lector curioso no se veria en la necesidad de hojear tantas piginas para hallar lo medular. Tambien, el indice de materias habria sido mas itil si tuviera una lista completa de los autores comentados, ordenados por capitulos, para que asi el lector se formase de un vistazo una idea global de la trayectoria que lleva el libro. No obstante los reparos que acabamos de indicar (ninguno de los cuales disminuye el alto valor intrinsico de la Breve historia del ensayo hispanoamericano), la selecci6n de los autores tratados, asi como las des- cripciones hist6rico-criticas de los mismos y de las corrientes literarias, son excelentes y Ilenan por completo los requisitos de un manual de esta indole. El profesor Mead ha obrado con buen tino y con rigurosa hon- radez e imparcialidad frente a problemas de an.lisis y de sintesis no siempre f ciles de resolver. El resultado es un libro sumamente fitil y provechoso. CLAUDE L. HULET Washington University, St. Louis, Missouri. 205 RE VIS TA IBEROA MERICANA RODRIGO M. F. DE ANDRADE, As artes plAsticas no Brasil. Emp. Grif. Ouvidor, Rio de Janeiro, 1952. 296 pp. Esti a venda o primeiro dos tres volumes que constituir.o um estudo s6bre a evolucgo das artes pl6sticas no Brasil. Sob a dire. o de Rodrigo Melo Franco de Andrade, vinte-e-cinco especialistas trabalham na ela- boracgo desta obra gigantesca. O primeiro volume estuda a evolucgo das artes plisticas no Brasil desde as primeiras manifestac6es arqueol6gicas (por Frederico Barata) e da arte indigena (por Gastio Cruls). Seguem capitulos s6bre as artes populares (por Cecilia Meireles), os antecedentes portugueses e ex6ticos (por Reynaldo dos Santos), mobiliario (por J. Wasth Rodrigues), ourivesaria (por Jose e Gizella Valladares), e o 1lti- mo capitulo, louga e porcelana (por Francisco Marques dos Santos). Cada capitulo termina corn uma bibliografia das obras mais importantes que tratam de cada assunto. Este primeiro volume e de grande formato, enriquecido por nume- rosas e excelentes ilustracges. Os volumes que devem aparecer incluirao capitulos s6bre a pintura, a escultura e a arquitetura no Brasil desde o periodo colonial ate hoje. E, realmente, uma obra monumental -um gran- de servico prestado a cultura brasileira. ALBERT R. LOPES Universidade de Novo MAxico STANLEY T. WILLIAMS, The Spanish Background of American Literature. Yale University Press, New Haven, 1955, 2 vols., xxvii + 433 Y viii + 441 pp. $Io.oo. Segfn observa la Enciclopedia Universal Ilustrada (Barcelona, I925), los Estados Unidos de Norteambrica han tomado la delantera en el cam- po del hispanismo literario: "En el desarrollo de este articulo ["Hispanis- mo", t. XXVII, p. 17671 se sigue el orden marcado por la importancia que la tendencia misma tiene en los varios paises. Se da, pues, la pre- ferencia a los Estados Unidos, siguiendo luego Francia, Alemania, Ingla- terra, Italia, etc." Y son algunos estudiosos norteamericanos los que han logrado acabar con la leyenda de la crueldad espafiola en el nuevo mun- do: "Una pujante, fecunda y reivindicadora hispanofilia hase desarrollado en la gran Repiblica norteamericana. Tratase no s6lo de la exaltaci6n de nuestras glorias literarias, sino de la reivindicaci6n de nuestra historia, es- pecialmente en lo que concierne al descubrimiento, conquista, colonizaci6n 206 R E S E AS 2 y civilizaci6n de America. No solamente se estudia y admira nuestro idio- ma y literatura, se traducen sus principales producciones y se realizan tra- bajos de investigaci6n de las letras espafiolas, sino que tambien sacan a luz de los archivos los documentos que hablan la verdad acerca de la actuaci6n de Espafia en America y se destruye la famosa leyenda negra que nuestros enemigos y envidiosos habian forjado." Sin embargo, salvo la obra de Miguel Romera-Navarro, un esfuerzo inicial titulado El Hispanismo en Norteamrica (917), algunas alusiones de Van Wyck Brooks en sus famosas historias de la literatura norteame- ricana, unas tesis doctorales ineditas y varios articulos, los criticos esta- dounidenses, atraidos por el prestigio de otras culturas europeas, no han visto bien el constante interes que en nuestro pais se ha sentido por el mundo hispanico. Ahora, con los dos grandes tomos de The Spanish Background of American Literature (1955), esta laguna se ha llenado casi completamente, gracias a Stanley T. Williams, profesor de Literatura Norteamericana en la Universidad de Yale y celebre autoridad sobre Wash- ington Irving. Asombrosa es la extensi6n de este campo de especializaci6n y ca6ticas las innumerables ramificaciones. No obstante, con su libro met6dicamente dividido en cuatro partes, con 260 piginas de notas, indices y documen- taci6n esmerada, Williams ensaya comprender todo y nos ofrece un ver- dadero compendio de esta inmensa cantidad de materia. Estudia el pe- riodo entero, es decir, desde el siglo diecisiete hasta ahora; incluye no s61o las influencias peninsulares, sino tambien las de igual o mayor importan- cia, las hispanoamericanas y las del suroeste hispanizado de los Estados Unidos; ademis de los escritores de novelas, dramas y poesia, trata tam- bien de los otros que, en su opini6n, constituyeron las fuentes principales de inspiraci6n en los siglos diecinueve y veinte: los autores de literatura de viajes, los periodistas, los creadores de historias "rom6nticas" de Espafia, un genero muy en boga durante el siglo pasado, los modificadores de la "leyenda negra" y los maestros, traductores y criticos. Sin limitarse a la literatura, pasa al campo de los pintores, miisicos, escultores y arqui- tectos que tambien han vuelto hacia lo espaiol. Sin duda, lo muy significativo de este analisis es el reexamen, en estilo biogrifico, del mas conocido contingente de hispanistas: Washington Ir- ving y William Hickling Prescott, historiadores "rominticos" de Espafia; George Ticknor, historiador de la literatura castellana; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow y William Cullen Bryant, traductores y poetas inspirados por temas hispinicos; James Russell Lowell, poeta y maestro del castellano; 207 REVISTA IBEROAME RICAN A Francis Bret Harte, cuentista de la California hispanizada, y William Dean Howells, critico de la novela realista espafiola. Tambien nos llama la atenci6n la interpretaci6n de Williams de las preocupaciones de los no- velistas del siglo veinte por Espafia: John Dos Passos, inspirado por la corriente del liberalismo de la Peninsula; Ernest Hemingway, estimulado por el drama de la sangre y la muerte en la plaza de toros; Gertrude Stein y su afinidad con la mente espafiola, y Willa Cather, conmovida por el mundo religioso y misionero del Estado de Nuevo Mexico. Se ve que este tremendo trabajo ha resultado de un verdadero amor por el tema, y quiz, del inters del autor, desde hace muchos afios, por Irving, en quien la inspiraci6n hisp6nica tuvo su 6xito mas brillante. El autor ha recogido todos los hilos de influencias para tejer un libro tan agradable y f cil de leer como esas historias "rominticas" de Espafia de las cuales nos habla. Indudablemente, ha introducido al mundo intelectual un nuevo campo de especializaci6n sumamente extenso y rico. FREDERICK S. STIMSON Northwestern University LA CULTURA Y LA LITERATURA IBEROAMERICANA. Memoria del Septimo Congreso del Instituto Internacional de Literatura Ibero- americanas. Berkeley, California, 1955. M6xico, Ediciones De An- drea, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1957, 237 pigs. (Coleccion Studium, No. I6). El titulo de esta memoria fue el tema central del congreso reunido en Berkeley los dias 29, 30 y 31 de agosto de 1955, y su contenido es el texto de los trabajos leidos entonces; se han ordenado cronol6gicamente, "segin la fecha del aspecto del problema" tratado en ellos, dice Luis Mongui6, autor de la Advertencia preliminar, pp. 7-8, y presidente de la Comisi6n de Trabajos. El volumen lleva como pr61ogo una meditaci6n general sobre El tema de la cultura, pp. 9-i9, de Arturo Torres Rioseco, presidente del Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana .y del Septimo Congreso. Las piginas de Torres Rioseco, aunque referidas a la cultura en la America hispinica, plantean el problema de la libertad intelectual en todo el mundo moderno: "Una vez perdida la libertad, el artista o el pensador ya no tie- nen raz6n de ser" y "el profesor que transige se convierte en un ser las- timoso". 208 RE S E AS La Seccin hispanoamericana reine dieciseis trabajos y la brasilefa, cuatro. Es de notarse que seis de la primera se refieren en especial al mo- dernismo o a sus grandes figuras, y que s61o tres escritores contemporineos merecieron la atenci6n de los especialistas en literatura de lengua espafiola o brasilefia: Mario Monteforte Toledo, Marques Rebelo y Manuel Bandeira. El orden cronol6gico de la Seccidn hispanoamericana nos presenta en primer t&rmino El .espiritu sentencioso de Martin Fierro, pp. 21-32, segun Maria de Villarino; sea nuestro inico comentario la desaprobaci6n que daria Jorge Luis Borges a la cita mutilada de Calixto Oyuela, extraida de El "Martin Fierro" (Buenos Aires, Editorial Columba, 1953, p. 71), que la autora da sin fecha y sin paginaci6n. Enrique Anderson Imbert nos muestra La originalidad del "Tabari", pp. 35-55, reconociendo que "el tema no tiene importancia" y que "s61o comprendiendo su firme concep- ci6n cat61lica de la vida puede apreciarse el valor de Tabard". Tres nom- bres en Varona [Renan, Shakespeare y Nietzsche], pp. 57-67, por Jose Ferrer Canales. Kurt L. Levy ejemplifica Revuelta y tradicidn: Dos valores del mosaico cultural iberoamericano, pp. 69-79, con la figura de Juan de Dios Uribe, el Indio Uribe colombiano. Los seis estudios dedicados al periodo modernista vienen a conti- nuaci6n: El Mexico de Gutierrez Najera, pp. 81-88, de Julio Jimenez Rue- da, sugerente evocaci6n que completa al de Alfredo Maillefert, al frente de los Cuentos, crdnicas y ensayos, de Gutierrez Najera (M6xico, 1940). El arte literario en la poesia de Diaz Mirdn, pp. 89-105, de Fran- cisco Monterde, se public6, bajo el titulo de La estetica de Diaz Mirdn, en su poesia, en su Salvador Diaz Mirdn. Documentos. Estitica (M6xico, Ediciones Filosofia y Letras, 1956, pp. 37-80). Una posible rectificaci6n, la fecha de Al chorro del estanque..., ya fue hecha por el propio autor en su Diaz Mirdn. El hombre. La obra (Mexico, Ediciones De Andrea, 1956, p. 88). En El signo de la cultura en la poesia hispanoamericana, pp. 117-122, Bernardo Gicovate al proponer el elemento cultural como definitorio de "lo esencial de nuestra tradici6n po6tica", cita a Heredia, Bello, Alfonso Reyes, para concluir asi: "El significado del modernismo entonces es, m.s que nada, la vuelta a nuestra tradici6n de cultura". George D. Schade estudia La mitologia clcisica en la poesia modernista hispano- americana, pp. 123-29. Edmundo Garcia-Gir6n considera El modernismo como evasidn cultural, pp. 131-137. Y Donald F. Fogelquist insiste sobre El caraicter hispanico del modernismo, pp. 139-I45. (Esta lista no es sim- plemente enumerativa; los tiempos verbales, a su modo, valorizan los ilti- mos trabajos). 209 REVISTA IBER.OAMERICAN A Max Henriquez Urefia (Urefi en la firma; Urena en el indice) ofrece un panorama sint6tico de las Influencias francesas en la novela de la Ame- rica hispanica, pp. o107-I6, desde las traducciones de Jacobo de Villa- urrutia (1792) y de fray Servando (iSoi) hasta La sangre hambrienta (1950), de Enrique Labrador Ruiz. Igual panorama de las letras brasile- fias nos da Erico Verissimo en su ensayo O novo descobrimento do Brasil, pp. 231-236. El resto de los trabajos son monografias sobre autores relacionados con el tema de la cultura o la vida: David Bary, con informaciones de pri- mera mano, escribe sobre Vicente Huidobro, agente viajero de la poesia, pp. 147-153; Hugo Rodriguez Alcala, en Sentido y alcance de las compa- raciones en "Don Segundo Sombra'", pp. 155-63, ve a Giiiraldes utilizando los elementos de la pampa para enriquecer la realidad; Alfredo Roggiano estudia La idea de la cultura en Baldomiero. Sanin Cano, pp. 164-173, par- tiendo de los propios textos del maestro desaparecido, y llega a la conclu- si6n de que fue "un espiritualista con ribetes neokantianos, un tanto sedu- cido por Nietzsche, sin duda, pero mas cerca de la escuela inglesa de Bradley y Royce; Augusto Tamayo Vargas puntualiza las relaciones entre Maritegui y la cultura peruana, pp. 175-182; Gustavo Correa hace un detenido estudio de La novela indianista de Mario Monteforte Toledo y el problema de una cultura integral en Guatemala, pp. I8 3-95; Jack H. Parker en Manuel Antonio de Almeida, Balzac brasileiro, pp. I97-203, compara las Memrias de um sargento de milicias con pasajes de Eugenie Grandet (1834) y Pere Goriot (1834-1835); Leo Kirschenbaum se ocupa detalladamente de Marques Rebelo e a vida carioca, pp. 205-215; y Gerald M. Moser traza la imagen de O Brasil do poeta Manuel Bandeira, pp. 217- 229, con abundantes transcripciones y referencias bibliogrificas. Imposible en breves lineas describir y valorar acertadamente los tra- bajos del apretado volumen que constituye esta memoria; estamos de acuerdo con Luis Mongui6 al afirmar que "hay en este libro trabajos, que en las mismas premisas o en las conclusiones, parecen divergir de otros aqui tambien impresos; todos ellos, sin embargo, asedian igualmente con inteligencia y con amor una cultura que por su complejidad de origen y de desarrollo admite en su estudio diversas hip6tesis de trabajo y diversos caminos de entrada. Mis investigaciones, mas descripciones, mas inter- pretaciones, mas evaluaciones como stas son precisamente la via que nos ha de llevar paso a paso al coraz6n de la historia de la cultura literaria iberoamericana". Una observaci6n, que por cierto no invalida el merito de estos tra- 210 k EsE A S bajos, de investigaci6n en su mayor parte, es la referente a la calidad del espafiol en que estan redactados. Es visible el decoro lingiiistico de los profesores de la America hispinica que viven en ella y el esfuerzo de los norteamericanos que escriben en una lengua que no es la suya; no asi el de los latinos que viven en los Estados Unidos, quizi pensando en ingles: propensidad 'propensity' por propensidn (Garcia-Gir6n), o han olvidado que los apellidos ya no se pluralizan: "los Martis y los Darios" (Gicovate), por ejemplo. ERNESTO MEJiA SANCHEZ El Colegio de Mexico LuIs LEAL, Breve historia del cuento mexicano, Manuales Studium, 2; Ediciones De Andrea, M6xico, 1956, I66 pp. El pequefio volumen de Luis Leal es una guia valiosa para quien se interese en el tema. Utilisimo como recuento de las distintas manifesta- ciones del g6nero desde los tiempos prehispinicos hasta nuestros dias, como indicador bibliogrifico y consejero de lecturas, resulta a veces poco homogeneo y original. El prurito de encasillar en rigurosos grupos a los diversos autores y de reducir a una ficha minima -aunque no siempre completa- la presentaci6n de cada uno, la tendencia a echar mano de opiniones ajenas, disminuyen en ciertos momentos los meritos de la obra. Por ejemplo, no vemos con demasiada claridad por que Juan Jose Arreola (pp. 13-x32) figura, sin mis, entre los escritores expresionistas, cuando su producci6n sobrepasa ese limite; no convence tampoco la inclusi6n ro- tunda de Juan Rulfo (pp. 141-142) entre los continuadores del realismo, sin que por lo menos se advierta que el suyo es un realismo muy parti- cular. Pero como el autor reconoce en la Introducci6n (p. 9) que "la clasificaci6n... es hasta cierto punto arbitraria" y no del todo "precisa", preferimos no insistir en el asunto. El af~n de sintesis lleva muchas veces a Luis Leal a conceder espacio equivalente a autores de muy distinta cate- goria: Alfonso Reyes, maestro consagrado, merece apenas unas lineas mis que Emmanuel Carballo, escritor principiante que nada ha publicado en materia de cuentos despubs de Gran estorbo la esperanza (pp. 90-91 y 147). Por otra parte, nos hubiera gustado conocer mejor las opiniones del autor, pues por lo general prefiere recurrir a juicios de otros, no siempre lo suficientemente equilibrados por la edad y el rigor critico para servir de apoyo a un libro serio. 211 212 R E V I S T A IB E R O A M E R I C A N A Como Luis Leal se propone completar su obra, le recordamos que al mencionar a Arreola ha omitido su primer libro (Varia invencidn, Tezon- tie, 1949), publicado hoy junto con Confabulario en la serie Letras mexi- canas del Fondo de Cultura Econ6mica y le indicamos que falta en la bi- bliografia de Juan Rulfo el estudio mis importante que se haya escrito sobre Cl: el articulo de Carlos Blanco Aguinaga aparecido en la Revista Mexicana de Literatura, nuim. I, 1955. Todas las observaciones que hemos hecho no invalidan en modo al- guno el mcrito informativo del libro que, volvemos a repetir, es una guia de extrema utilidad. EMMA SUSANA SPERATTI PIrERO El Colegio de Mdxico, 
work_mzaese4ekjdgdaht7hvovgz63a	----	Discovering Viking America Critical Inquiry 28 (Summer 2002) � 2002 by The University of Chicago. 0093–1896/02/2804–0003$10.00. All rights reserved. 868 This project was supportedby grants from the Departmentof Archives and Special Collections of the ElizabethDafoe Library,Universityof Manitoba; the MinnesotaHistoricalSociety; and Mount Royal College; and by the efforts of numerous friends and colleagues.I would also like to say a special word of thanks to Cathy Jurca. 1. RasmusB. Anderson, America Not Discovered by Columbus: An Historical Sketch of the Discovery of America by the Norsemen in the Tenth Century (1874; Chicago,1877), p. 63; hereafter abbreviated A. 2. There is a vast and fraught literatureon the question of the immigrantcultural response to relocation.In the main, historianshave set up this problem as a dialecticbetween assimilationand resistance,exemplified at either pole by Oscar Handlin’s seminal The Uprooted (1951; Boston, 1973), and John Bodnar’s The Transplanted: A History of Immigrants in Urban America (Bloomington,Ind., 1985). Even as “resistance”emerged as the dominantparadigmin the 1980s (seen, for example, in the hostile response to Richard Rodriguez’sHunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez [Boston,1982]), however, it proved to be unsustainableas a fit-all Discovering Viking America J. M. Mancini In 1874, Professor Rasmus Bjørn Anderson of the University of Wiscon- sin offered the following unapologeticassessmentofhisancestors,theNor- wegians. “Yes,” he wrote, “the Norsemen were truly a great people! Their spirit found its way into the Magna Charta of England and into the Dec- laration of In[d]ependence in America. The spirit of the Vikings still sur- vives in the bosoms of Englishmen, Americans and Norsemen, extending theircommerce, takingboldpositionsagainsttyranny,andproducingwon- derful internal improvements in these countries.”1 Anderson’s statement providesthetemplateforanimmigranthistoricalliteraturethatwouldspan two centuries and two nations and would provide Scandinavians with a powerful strategy for the attainment of ethnic autonomy. Arguing that the Norsemen had discovered America nearly five centuries before Columbus, Anderson rejected more familiar immigrant literary strategies of assimila- tion or resistance and attempted to win a place for New World Norwegians by rewriting the very foundation myths of the American nation.2 By dis- Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 869 theory, and signs of its instabilitymark much of the literatureof the past two decades. Both Roy Rosenzweig,Eight Hours for What We Will: Workers and Leisure in an Industrial City, 1870–1920 (New York, 1983) and David Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working Class (London,1991), two otherwisebrilliant works, stumble on their inability to reconcile a desire for (authentic) immigrantresistanceto the reality of assimilation.Thus when Rosenzweig’smakers of ethnic saloons, fraternalassociations,and foreign-languagepresses are inevitably ground down into a homogenizedarmy of cinema-watching,motorcar-drivingrobots, and assimilationturns Roediger’smusic-sharing,race-mixing, land-lovingIrish into psychologicallydamaged,race-baitingIrish Americans,both seem to suggest that this representsa falling away from immigrants’“true” selves. This problem is not limited to contemporary scholarshipbut is rooted in historicalanalyses of immigrationand assimilation,such as Randolph Bourne’s seminal essay “Trans-NationalAmerica,” in War and the Intellectuals,ed. Carl Resek (New York, 1964), pp. 107–24. Indeed, it is possible that Bourne furnished contemporary immigrationscholarshipwith one of its central ironies: its insistence,on the one hand, on the “constructedness”of ethnicity—seen,for example, in Mary Waters’s fascinatingEthnic Options: Choosing Identities in America (Berkeley, 1990), or David Hollinger,Post-Ethnic America: Beyond Multiculturalism(New York, 1995)—and its clear suggestionon the other that assimilationis defined by a loss of authenticity. covering Viking America, Anderson was able, at the most vulnerable mo- ment in the trajectory of acculturation, to fashion an immigrant historyof his own and to script his group’s entry onto the American stage. AndersonhimselfwasthebeneficiaryofanearlierNorwegianimmigrant strategy that began to come to fruition in his own generation: the choiceto move west rather than to settle in the urban industrial centers of the east. This decision placed Norwegian immigrants at the physical and political margins of the nation. Within this frontier context, which had the added benefit of seeming less threatening to the native born than the wards that bore America’s urban immigrant politicians, Norwegian Americans en- joyed their first major political successes. Indeed, their ascent within the American power structure in the second generation was predicated not on their assimilation (as frontier theorists might have expected), as much as ontheirabilitytoconsolidatethepoliticalmargin.Inparticular,theyproved adept at using ethnic bloc voting, enabled by the unusuallyhighpercentage of immigrants and relative lack of an entrenched power structure in the upper Midwest (fig. 1) to gain access to local, state, and national politics. Thus, it is no accident that Minnesota congressman, governor, andsenator J. M. Mancini is college lecturer in the departmentof history at University College Cork—NationalUniversityof Ireland,Cork. She has just completed a book manuscriptentitled The Structure of an Artistic Revolution: The Critical Origins of American Modernism. She is currentlyworking on a book to be entitled The Global Anthology: Hearing Country, Folk, and World Music Metadiscursively. “DiscoveringViking America” is the first in a series of essays that will consider the historiographyof migrationfrom an internationalperspective.Her email is j.mancini@ucc.ie 870 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America figure 1. The foreign-bornpopulationin 1900. create, rather than merely to bend to, the social, cultural,political,and economicstructuresof the community.See David M. Emmons, The Butte Irish: Class and Ethnicity in an American Mining Town, 1875–1925 (Urbana, Ill., 1989). 4. Clearly there were differences between the constituentScandinavianimmigrantgroups, and I do not wish to suggest that there were not. What is importantin this context, however, is that authors from a number of different backgrounds—Norwegian,Swedish, Danish, Icelandic,and mixed—used the Vikingsand used the more general strategiesoutlined here. KnuteNelson,whoasaNorwegianAmericanwasunabletoreachCongress in the more settled district that included MinneapolisandSaintPaul,made his first successful entry into national politics in 1882 only after thecreation ofabrandnewcongressionaldistrict inMinnesota’sheavilyimmigrantUp- per Country.3 Norwegians and other Scandinavian immigrants employed a similar strategy within higher education, first by founding a host of long-lived in- stitutions of their own and then by making a place for themselves within the newly forming, less dug-in public universities of the west such as Min- nesota, Iowa, Wyoming, and Anderson’s own University of Wisconsin, which itself had created Anderson’s position as a response to immigrant pressure.4 If figures like Nelson acted as political brokers between the im- 3. See Millard L. Gieske and Steven J. Keillor, Norwegian Yankee: Knute Nelson and the Failure of American Politics, 1860–1923 (Northfield,Minn., 1995), p. 99. As David Emmons has shown, this consolidationof the marginscan also be seen in Irish America in the case of Butte, Montana, where the fact that the Irish were the “first” immigrantsmeant that they were able in large part to Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 871 5. Of course, there were other factorsthat increased Scandinavians’“ethnic options.”On the most obvious level, their ethnic and religiousmakeup make them less vulnerable to racismthan other immigrants;as white Protestants, they managedto avoid the most abusive programsof assimilationother groups suffered, particularlybefore the First World War, and they were never in the racially liminal position occupiedby Jewish or Irish immigrants.Nonetheless, the choices they made within this context were instrumental.For a fascinatinglook at how the limits placed on other immigrantgroups could influence the outcome of such choices, see Michael Rogin, Blackface, White Noise: Jewish Immigrants in the Hollywood Melting Pot (Berkeley, 1996). 6. O. M. Norlie, History of the Norwegian People in America (Minneapolis, 1925), p. 73. migrant west and the established east, so too did Scandinavian American cultural politicians, and it was within this context thattheybegantopursue the Vikings. The literature of Viking discovery made a number of claims about the Scandinavian origins of the American past. First, it argued that theVikings hadbeenthetruediscoverersofAmerica.Second,itarguedthat Scandinavians, as the progenitors of the American “race” and the creators of democracy itself, were America’s ancestors in body and mind. And, fi- nally, it argued not only that Scandinavians had arrived first but they had doneitbetter,bysuggestingthattheVikingshadnegotiatedthemostvexing aspect of New World discovery—contact with Native peoples and itsgeno- cidal implications—more successfully than their later rivals. In this way, Viking theorists inverted a discourse of discovery that usually limited the options of immigrants. For Scandinavians, discovery did not begin with Columbus and did not end in genocide.5 ButifScandinavianimmigrants’claimtoaspecialplacewithinAmerican culture was not based on assimilation to NorthAmericannorms, itwasnot based on an assault on the native born, either. If discovery theorists were happy enough to blame Columbus for the bloodier aspects of the conquest of America, they were reluctant to condemn their Anglo-American hosts directly. Professor O. M. Norlie of Luther College, for instance, shuddered at the horror of the Columbian conquest but described the settling of the United States as harmonious andconflict-free.Withastrikinglackofirony, he wrote in his 1925 History of the Norwegian People that “the great mi- grationsoftheearlycenturieswerenearlyalwaysaccompaniedbyviolence andbloodshed,byconquestandsubjugationofthenativepopulation.The immigration to America has been peaceful.”6 Indeed, in both form and content, immigrant arguments for Viking discovery took the shape of a compromise with the elite. Discovery theorists were much more likelythan immigrant novelists and poets to write in English, and they celebrated American institutions. Even the choice of Viking discovery as a theme for Scandinavianimmigrantliteraturewasgovernedbyitssimultaneousappeal to both immigrant and native-born constituencies; although Viking dis- coverybecameanethnicliterature, itwasalsoapowerfullyAmericantheme 872 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 7. For a concise history of this revival as well as its transplantationto the United States, see Matti Enn Kaups, “Shifting Vinland—Traditionand Myth,” Terrae Incognitae 2 (1970): 29–60. As Kaups notes, there was a long-standingScandinavianand European debate on the Viking discovery of America well before such accountsbecame generally familiar to Americans,and as early as the late eighteenth century some Americans,most notably BenjaminFranklin, had a passing familiaritywith the Vinland sagas. Still, it was not until the 1830s and 1840s that such accounts began to be widely spread. 8. See Antiquitates Americanae sive scriptores septentrionalesrerum ante-Columbianarumin America, ed. Carl ChristianRafn (1837; Osnabrück, 1968), selectionsof which appear in The Discovery of America by the Northmen, in the Tenth Century, with Notices of the Early Settlements of the Irish in the Western Hemisphere, trans. North Ludlow Beamish (London, 1841); see also Snorre Sturlason, The Heimskringla, or the Sagas of the Norse Kings, trans. Samuel Laing, 4 vols. (London, 1839). Another popular translationwas The Finding of Wineland the Good: The History of the Icelandic Discovery of America, trans. Arthur MiddletonReeves (London, 1895). 9. This included William Morris’shandsomelyproduced Saga Library, published between 1891 and 1905. See The Saga Library, ed. Morrisand Eirı́kr Magnússon,6 vols. (London,1891–1905).The Vikings enjoyed a similarpopularityat this time in Germany, leading to the translationof several accounts of Viking discoveryinto English. See, for example, Joseph Fischer, The Discoveries of the Norsemen in America, trans. Basil H. Soulsby (London,1903), and J. G. Kohl, A Popular History of the Discovery of America, trans. Major R. R. Noel (London,1865). by the end of the nineteenth century, appearing in numerous works by the native born. Within their discussions of Viking discovery, moreover, im- migrant writers embraced contemporary elite discourses and cast their ar- gument for acceptance in terms that clearlyhadbeensetbythenativeborn. It was this strategy of compromise and appropriation that set Viking the- orists apart and allowed them to make a case for their presence in America without embracing ethnic assimilation per se. Teutons, Brahmins, Skraellings, and Others ThestrategyofcompromiseandappropriationthatunderlayVikingdis- covery narratives began with the choice of this theme as a subject for Scan- dinavian immigrant writings. Although Viking discovery had a special meaning for Scandinavian immigrants, it also exerted a powerful pull on Americansengagedinthesearchfornationalmythsfromthemid-nineteenth century onward, and by choosing it immigrant authors accessed a sym- pathetic audience of native-stock readers. American fascination with the Viking discovery of the New World had begun in earnest in the middle of the nineteenth century, following in the footsteps of a Scandinavian redis- covery of the medieval past starting in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.7 Increasing scholarly attention to the sagas in Scandinavia, fol- lowed bytheir translationintoEnglishbyN. L.Beamish,SamuelLaing,and others,8 opened a new audience in both Britain and the United States for themasterworksofOldNorseliterature,sothatbytheendofthenineteenth century readers of English could avail themselves of dozens of translations and treatments of the sagas.9 Whetted by the publication of Danishscholar Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 873 10. See Antiquitates Americanae sive scriptores septentrionalesrerum ante-Columbianarumin America. Although the fact that this volume was initially published in Latin and Danish would have reduced its direct readershipin the United States, soon after its publicationextracts were translatedand the volume was reviewed in English-languagejournalssuch as the Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London, the North American Review, the Knickerbocker, the New York Review, and elsewhere, so that many more Americanswould have been exposed to the ideas therein. For bibliographicinformationon Rafn’s receptionin English,see Halldór Hermannsson, “The Northmen in America (982–c. 1500): A Contributionto the Bibliographyof the Subject,” Islandica 2 (1909): 6–7, 65–68. 11. It also invited direct correspondencewith Rafn himself on the part of American scholars eager to identify various archaeologicalfinds that might point to Viking or other European presence. See, for example, Henry R. Schoolcraft,“Brief Notices of a Runic InscriptionFound in North America,” Memoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord (1840–44):119–27. 12. See Charles W. Elliott, New England History from the Discovery of the Continent by the Northmen, A.D. 986, to the Period When the Colonies Declared their Independence,A.D. 1776, vol. 1 of The New England History (New York, 1857). See also the first volume of William Cullen Bryant and Sydney Howard Gay, A Popular History of the United States from the First Discovery of the Western Hemisphere by the Northmen, to the End of the First Century of the Union of the States, vol. 1 of The Popular History of the United States (New York, 1876). 13. A. Davis, A Lecture on the Antiquities of Central America, and on the Discovery of New England by the Northmen, Five Hundred Years before Columbus (New York, 1840), p. 21. 14. See Robin Fleming, “PicturesqueHistory and the Medieval in Nineteenth-Century America,” American Historical Review 100 (Oct. 1995): 1061–94.See also Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny (Cambridge,Mass., 1981). Carl Christian Rafn’s American Antiquities,10 an 1837 compendium of his- torical and literary documents proposing that the Vikings had discovered the shores of America five hundred years before Columbus, this general literaryappetiteforNorseliteraturequicklyturnedintheUnitedStatesinto a wide and sometimes contentious debate on the nature and scope of the Vikings’ New World adventures.11 Thus the Vikings began to find a promi- nent position within general histories of the United States and of New En- gland,12 literary works like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1841poem“The Skeleton in Armor,” inspired by the discovery of a “Viking” grave in Mas- sachusetts in the 1830s, and lectures such as Asahel Davis’s admiring but vague dissertation on “the discovery of New England by the Northmen,” which went through at least twenty editions by the end of the 1840s.13 As the century wore on, Viking discovery became intertwined withlines of historical inquiry that linked race and politics in an attempt to explain American democracy as an outgrowth of a distant Anglo-Saxon,Teutonic, or Nordic past. As Robin Fleming has argued, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century medieval history enjoyed a lengthy heyday, as Henry Adams and others strove to bolster the authority of the Brahmin elite by forging a direct and unbroken link between the present, the intermediary past of the founding fathers, and a medieval past in which Teutonic tribes had planted the original seeds of contemporary democracy.14 With their 874 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 15. See Eben Norton Horsford, Sketch of the Norse Discovery of America (Boston, 1891), p. 25 and Leif’s House in Vineland (Boston,1893). For informationon Horsford,see Stephen Williams, Fantastic Archaeology: The Wild Side of North American Prehistory (Philadelphia,1991), pp. 206–10. On the “Viking Revival” in architecture,see Richard Guy Wilson, “Oscar Wilde, Colonialists,and Vikings: Newport and the Aesthetic Movement,” Nineteenth Century 19 (Spring 1999): 4–11. 16. Thisorganization,establishedin 1858, was an affiliated society of the New-EnglandHistoric, GenealogicalSociety, named in honor of the eighteenth-centuryantiquarianThomas Prince. Its purpose was “the publicationof rare works” relating to the history of America and particularly New England, with the purpose of, as Slafter put it, “the perfectingof what we have begun as a library of New-Englandhistory.”Members included Charles Francis Adams, Charles Eliot Norton, and Francis Parkman (Edmund Slafter, Discourse Delivered before the New-England Historic, Genealogical Society [Boston,1870], pp. 24, 31; see also Voyages of the Northmen to America, ed. Slafter [1877; New York, 1967], pp. 144–49). 17. See Slafter, The Discovery of America by the Northmen, 985–1015 (Concord, N.H., 1891). 18. See Slafter, Discourse Delivered before the New-England Historic, Genealogical Society, p. 12. This project began with the history of his own family in his Memorial of John Slafter, with a Genealogical Account of His Descendants(Boston,1869). 19. Slafter, The Discovery of America by the Northmen, 985–1015, pp. 3–4. supposed discovery of America nearly five hundred years before the more swarthy Columbus, the Vikings offered a special fascination to New En- glanders. Notable citizens like Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Low- ell, and Edward Everett Hale clamored for a statue of Leif Erikson to commemorate Boston’s other founding father (fig. 2), Viking-style trim- mings adorned the fashionable homes ofNewport,andHarvardUniversity hoarded great numbers of “Viking” artefacts uncoveredbyM.I.T.professor Eben Norton Horsford, who devoted decades to proving through publi- cations, tours, and large-scale endeavors in amateur archaeology that Leif Erikson not only had stumbled upon American shores, but had settled Cambridge itself (fig. 3).15 This craze for Viking discovery was joined to a surging interest in New England history and genealogy, exemplifiedbytheworkofEdmundSlafter. Slafter, who as an officer of Boston’s Prince Society16 promoted the Viking discovery of America through his republicationofBeamish’sEnglishtrans- lation of the sagas and who celebrated the eventual success of the Erikson statue movement,17 devoted most of his literary and historical attention to producinganintricatefamilyhistoryofNewEngland.18 InSlafter’swritings, the historical triangle described by Fleming revealed itself in an emphasis on the primacy of the desire for freedom among the Vikings, the “Anglo- Saxon” colonials, and their present-day descendants. Thus, just as he char- acterized the Vikings’ gradual westward movement as a reaction to the “despotic rule” of King Harald Haarfagr (rather than,say,aseriesofbloody and piratical quests for economic and political power), and the primary qualities of the colonial “patriarchs” as their “love of liberty,” he also putin a strong word for the continued democratic tendencies of contemporary NewEnglanders.19 Indeed,Slafterwentsofarastosuggestthatthehistorical figure 2. Boston’sother founding father. f ig u r e 3. H o rs fo rd ’s C am b ri d ge . Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 877 20. Slafter, Discourse Delivered before the New-England Historic, Genealogical Society, pp. 19, 11. 21. Slafter, The Discovery of America by the Northmen, 985–1015, p. 3. 22. Duringhis long life, Anderson (1846–1936)was also United States minister to Denmark (1885–1889)and long-time editor of Amerika, a prominentNorwegian-Americannewspaper enterprise itself, as practiced in that region, was successful because its practitioners had sprung from “a people of unusual political and social equality, coming of the Anglo-Saxon stock, with an inheritance of many elements of character in which they always feel a just but not ostentatious pride.”20 Slafter was so convinced of this connection between New Englan- ders and the Vikings, in fact, that he insisted that the Leif Erikson statue “should be placed in Boston, the metropolis of New England,” despite har- boringadeepskepticismtowardsmostofthearchaeologicalevidenceinfavor of the New England thesis.21 The prominent map of Cape Cod and Massa- chusetts Bay facing the title page of his Voyages of the Northmen to America, bearing the unequivocal title “A Map of Vinland, from accounts contained in Old Northern M.S.S.,” made the same point in visual terms (fig. 4).Thus, while earlier writers such as Davis had represented the Norsemen as an ap- pealing, though strange and distant people, towards the end of the century they were coming to resemble old friends or, more precisely, family. The mainstreaming of Viking discovery in the last quarter of the nine- teenth century served a similar purpose as that served by the larger trend towards racialized history. At a moment of increasing fear that the nation was committing race suicide, the thought of Viking ghosts roaming the streets of a city increasinglyfilledwithIrish,Italian,andJewishhordesmust have been comforting to an Anglo-Saxon elite whose political power, at least, was decidedly on the wane. At the same time, claims to such virile ancestors as the Vikings also answered charges of effeminacy on the partof the literary elite, itself seen as part of the dangerous trend towards racial degeneration. Native-stock writers, however, were not the onlyonestoem- ploy the Vikings for political purposes. Significantly, at the same time that native-stock writers were using Viking discovery to cope with the massive social and political transformations of the late nineteenth century, immi- grants, who themselves comprised a major force behindthesechanges,also began to see that the Vikings could serve their interests. The first volume by an American author of immigrant stock to turn to these themes was Rasmus B. Anderson’s provocatively titled America Not Discovered by Columbus, first published in 1874 and reissued in severalsub- sequent editions (fig. 5). Like native-stock writers, Anderson, the son of Norwegian immigrants and professor of Scandinavian languagesattheUni- versityofWisconsin,arguedthataseriesofNorseadventurers,from986until the fourteenth century, had seen, touched, and settled America.22 With its uncritical catalogue of four decades of “evidence,” including Viking place- 878 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America figure 4. “A Map of Vinland from accountscontainedin Old Northern MSS,” Voyages of the Northmen to America, frontispiece. (1898–1922).For biographical informationon Anderson, see Lloyd Hustvedt, Rasmus Bjørn Anderson: Pioneer Scholar (1966; New York, 1979); Paul Knaplund, “Rasmus B. Anderson, Pioneer and Crusader,”Norwegian-AmericanStudies and Records 18 (1954): 23–43; Einar Haugen, “WisconsinPioneers in ScandinavianStudies: Anderson and Olson, 1875–1931,”Wisconsin Magazine of History (Autumn 1950): 28–39; and C. W. Butterfield, Literary and Biographical Sketch of Prof. Rasmus B. Anderson (Madison,Wis., 1879). names on Cape Cod and Viking tablets in the Taunton River in additionto the standard “skeleton in armor,” Anderson’s volume was tinged with an air of fantasy, and some contemporaries were quick to accuse him of an Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 879 figure 5. Prof. R. B. Anderson, Madison,Wis. and the Newport Tower, which Anderson insisted was a Norse, rather than a colonial,edifice. See Thomas Wentworth Higginson, letters to Anderson, 5 May 1877 and 10 June 1877, Anderson correspondence,State HistoricalSociety of Wisconsin,Madison(SHSW), reel 1. See also Voyages of the Northmen, p. 137. For another skepticalview of the time, see Charles Rau, “Observationson the Dighton Rock Inscription,”Magazine of American History 2, no. 1 (1878): 82–85. 24. Althoughskeptics such as HigginsonquestionedAnderson’scredulity, he was hardly the last Viking theorist to see Norse ruins everywhere he looked. The Newport Tower, the Dighton Rock, and many other “Viking” sites and artefactshave had their promotersthroughoutthe twentieth century and continue to inspire heated defences. See, for example, A. C. Clausen, Leif Erikson’s Discovery of America (Spokane, Wash., 1938); BarthiniusL. Wick, Did the Norsemen Erect the Newport Round Tower? (Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 1911); and Carl H. Strandbergand Glyn Nelson, “Possible Norse Settlement Traceson Cape Cod,” unpublishedms., 196–?, MinnesotaHistorical Society (MHS). Even the usually sober Royal Ontario Museum produced a pamphlet in the 1960s that giddily suggestedthat a trove of Viking swords and axes might actually have been left by Norse travellers to Northern Ontario. See A.D. Tushingham,The Beardmore Relics: Hoax or History? (Toronto,1966). For a more skeptical analysisof these remains,see Johannes Brønsted, “Norsemen in North America before Columbus,”Smithsonian Institution Annual Report for 1953 (Washington,D.C., 1954), pp. 367–405. 23. ThomasWentworth Higginson,for example, chided Anderson for his uncriticalacceptance of two particular“finds”: the Dighton Rock, which Anderson claimed to have runic inscriptions, excess of enthusiasm.23 Yet, although Anderson may have approached the limits of contemporary credulity with some of his claims,24 the work was well within the boundaries of the discovery discourse as practiced by the native-born cultural and social elite, an elite which surely was Anderson’s intended readership. That Anderson saw this elite as a significant audience for his work can be seen not only in the work itself but in his actions surroundingit.Forone 880 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 25. Thisfact is noted in Butterfield, Literary and Biographical Sketch of Prof. Rasmus B. Anderson, p. 4. 26. For informationon the Norwegianimmigrantpress, see Arlow W. Andersen, The Immigrant Takes His Stand: The Norwegian-AmericanPress and Public Affairs, 1847–1872 (Northfield, Minn., 1953), and Odd S. Lovoll, The Promise of America: A History of the Norwegian- American People, trans. Lovoll (Minneapolis, 1984). 27. See RutherfordB. Hayes. letter to Anderson, 15 Oct. 1878, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, reel 1. 28. Longfellowrefused on the groundsthat he had never written a letter “of that nature” but assuagedAnderson’s fears by writing that the book was “interestingand valuable,” that it would “make its own way in the world,” and that Anderson’swork would give “name and fame to you and to your University”(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, letter to Anderson,11 Aug. 1875, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, reel 1). Anderson continued to send later works and informationto Longfellow,who received his correspondenceenthusiastically.See Longfellow, letters to Anderson, 1 Nov. 1876, 28 Nov. 1876, and 15 Dec. 1879; see also Edith Longfellow, letter to Anderson, 19 May 1875, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, reel 1. 29. GeorgeBancroft, letter to Anderson, 26 Apr. 1877, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, reel 1. Even the doubter Higginsonwrote, “the book as a whole seems to me of value as popularizing certain facts and traditionswith which people ought to be familiar,and I thank you for your courtesy in sending it” (Higginson, letter to Anderson, 10 June 1877, Anderson correspondence, SHSW, reel 1; see also Charles W. Tuttle, letter to Anderson, 9 Mar. 1878, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, reel 1). Anderson also correspondedon Northern matters with Bayard Taylor, a self-described“admirerof the Scandinavianrace and poetry” (Bayard Taylor, letter to Anderson, 12 Dec. 1874, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, box 19), successfullyproposeda book swap with Universityof PennsylvaniaanthropologistDaniel G. Brinton (see Daniel G. Brinton, letter to Anderson, 13 Dec. 1882, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, box 26), and had a lengthy correspondencewith E. N. Horsfordand his daughterCornelia, who carried on the Viking project after her father’s death. 30. An idea for which Butterfieldsomewhat dubiouslycredits Anderson in the first place. See Butterfield, Literary and Biographical Sketch of Prof. Rasmus B. Anderson, p. 5. thing, Anderson chose to write the volume in English, something he had not done with his previous books.25 Given the period’s still-flourishing Norwegian-language press and the lack of English facility among many Norwegian immigrants, this decision suggests that Anderson did not view immigrants as his most important audience.26 Moreover, Anderson en- gaged in a crusade of publicity to bring the book to the attention of the native-born elite, sending copies and correspondence to numerouspromi- nent historians, writers, and others (including President Rutherford B. Hayes),27 and even attempting to enlist Longfellow to write a letter of en- dorsement for it.28 Although the success of this campaign is hard to gauge, Anderson must have found it flattering to discover that a historical lumi- nary such as George Bancroft would have “immediately secured it” upon its release and that the book gained a sufficiently positive response to gain him election to the Prince Society.29 Just incasetheseprivatemeasureswere not enough to soften up these valued readers, Anderson added a lengthy preface in the second edition praising the worthy men of Boston who had contributed to the Erikson statue movement,30 just as he had dedicated his Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 881 31. A dedicationto which Longfellowseems to have respondedfavorably.The title of the volume was Norse Mythology: The Religion of Our Forefathers Containing All the Myths of the Eddas, Systematized and Interpolated(Chicago,1875). See Longfellow, letters to Anderson, 10 Mar. 1873 and 11 Aug. 1875, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, reel 1. 32. Sometimes,Anderson’spleas to the native born to accept the continuityof immigrantways took a more direct form. In his First Norwegian Settlements in America within the Present Century, for instance,Anderson directly addressed the native-bornreader with the admonitionthat “you should not blame the foreignersfor clinging to their language and traditions.By doing so they bridge the Atlantic ocean and bring to this country the fruits of all the progressmade from year to year in Europe,” without which American society would be immeasurablypoorer (Anderson, The First Norwegian Settlements in America within the Present Century [1898; Madison,Wis., 1899], p. 167). For a thorough overview of Scandinavianimmigrant literaturein its other guises, see Dorothy Burton Skårdal, The Divided Heart: ScandinavianImmigrant Experience through Literary Sources (Lincoln,Nebr., 1974). 33. Due to the successof his Viking writingsand his “authentic”position as a scholar of Scandinavianliterature,Anderson also had somethingmore concrete to offer to certain native- stock enthusiastsof the Vikings:positive reviews of their books. Rabid anti-ColumbianViking theorist Marie Brown Shipley, for example, virtually begged Anderson to review her translations of Swedish literature,“and in the ‘Nation,’ by preference,”so that she could successfullyself- publish them and avoid the “treachery”of greedy publishinghouses (Marie A. Brown, letters to Anderson, 29 Nov. 1878, 3 Feb. 1879, and 15 Mar. 1879, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, box 22). 34. And, it might be added, contrastswith the tendency of twentieth-centuryViking theoristsof immigrantdescent to emphasizethe hypothesis that, wherever they may have landed initially, the Vikings somehow managed to wind up in Minnesotaor other parts of the Middle West with a deeper connectionto the immigrantcommunity itself. 35. As BarbaraMiller Solomon writes, the relative distanceof most Scandinaviansfrom the teeming masses of immigrantsin the eastern cities did not always prevent them from being seen as objectionable.While Charles FrancisAdams, Henry Cabot Lodge, and other late nineteenth- century defenders of Teutonicsuperiorityfrequently saw Scandinaviansand Germans, particularly in the rural west, as the last hope for raciallyhealthy immigration,other observers in the late nineteenth century blamed all non-English“‘old’” immigrants, includingScandinavians, for “the degradationof American civilization,”which the arrival of even strangernew groups in the last decades of the century had only furthered (BarbaraMiller Solomon, Ancestors and earlier book on northern mythology to Longfellow.31 Thus, unlike many purveyors of immigrant literature, Anderson did not primarily reach in- ward with his work in order to bolster an insecure ethnic community throughaccountsofhardshipandsurvivalanddidnotproposeassimilation as the path by which that community would gain a solid foundationwithin American society as a whole.32 In Anderson’s hands, immigrant literature was a project that reached outward to those who set the boundaries of im- migrant participation in American life, while working to stretch those boundariesbyredefiningtheimmigrantcommunityintermsthatflattered, rather than challenged, the native-born elite.33 This strategy can be seen most readily in the text itself. Anderson’s des- ignation of New England as the site of Viking landing, for instance, can hardly have been accidental.34 Indeed, it seems that Anderson’svolumewas a plea to the same Brahmin audience that in its softer moments produced sentimentalized accounts of Viking discovery and the democratic inheri- tance of the Teutonic race but that in everyday practice was not alwayswel- coming to newcomers from the fjords and farms of Norway.35 Thus, just as 882 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America Immigrants: A Changing New England Tradition [Cambridge,Mass., 1956], p. 159; see also pp. 31, 160). For a comprehensivelook at attitudes towardsimmigrants in the Midwest in the nineteenth century, see Jon Gjerde, The Minds of the West: EthnoculturalEvolution in the Rural Middle West, 1830–1917 (Chapel Hill, 1997), esp. chaps. 1–2. 36. Andersonwas not the only ethnic writer to situate the Viking discoveryof America within the context of an inevitable westwardAryan progression.This cause was also taken up by the Danish/Norwegian-AmericanHarold W. Foght, who wrote that the Aryan migration,although it commencedthousandsof years ago while the history of man was young, has not yet come to an end . . . the overflow is being dispersed over the whole earth, peopling America and Australia,setting up there and elsewhere, a new and powerful dominion over the aborigines.Wherever they go the Aryans carry with them their enlightenment.[Harold W. Foght, The Norse Discovery of America, with Some Reference to Its True Significance(Blair, Nebr., 1901)] For a comprehensivediscussionof the idea of the westwardprogressionof the Aryan people and their origins, see Horsman,Race and Manifest Destiny. 37. Elsewhere,Anderson also made the more conventionalclaim that Norwegianswere patriotic, industrious,and quick to learn English. See Anderson, First Norwegian Settlements within the Present Century, p. 167. 38. Certainlater Norwegian-Americanwriters such as Olaf Morgan Norlie, who sweepingly attributed Norse origin to the “PilgrimFathers” and their descendants,did not show this restraint (Norlie, History of the Norwegian People in America, p. 24). Adams’sworkwasintendedtodrawadirectlinkbetweentheTeutonicdem- ocrats of the medieval past and the Brahmins of the nineteenth century, Anderson’s tract was meant to remind people like Adams that those Nor- wegians who had just stepped off the boat were the direct descendants of the original settlers, who were the descendants of a branch of the Teutonic race that, in early times, emigrated from Asia and traveled westward and northward, fi- nally settling down in what is now the west central part of the king- dom of Norway . . . . They were a free people. Their rulers were elected by the people in convention assembled, and all public matters of im- portance were decided in the assemblies, or open parliaments of the people.[A, p. 49]36 With its emphasis on the freedom-loving racial characteristics of the Norwegians, Anderson’s account seems designed to suggest to Americans that their own racialist ideology implied that race, rather than ethnicity or nationalorigin,shouldbetheprimarycategoryforjudgingimmigrantsand thatScandinavians’racialheritagewouldmakethemgoodAmericanswith- out abusive programs of assimilation. After all, as the quotation at the be- ginningofthisessayshows,Americansthemselvesowedtheirbestqualities, at least in part, to the Norsemen.37 Lest anyone should mistake the persis- tence of the Norse “spirit” for a vague or coincidental sympathy of mind, Anderson made sure to mention that both Englishmen and Americans owed not only their habits but their actual lines of descent to the Norman conquest and earlier Norse incursions, stopping just short of claimingthat George Washington himself was descended from the Vikings.38 Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 883 39. One other risk of this strategy was that it would lead to a cartoonishtypecastingof Norwegiansand their culture. Indeed, although Anderson’sViking campaignwas successful in creating a positive image of Scandinavians, it did nothing to further his simultaneousgoal of spreadingthe good word about contemporaryScandinavianculture. As it turned out, editors such as S. S. McClure and J. B. Gilder of the Critic wanted “stirringviking stories of adventure,”but not Ibsen (S. S. McClure, letter to Anderson,17 Oct. 1890, Anderson correspondence,SHSW, box 32; see also J. B. Gilder, letters to Anderson,14 Apr. 1882 and 18 Dec. 1882, Anderson correspondence, SHSW, boxes 25 and 26). 40. It should be pointed out that at least one critic of Anderson and his fellow Viking theorists was unpersuadedby this line of argumentnot just because the critic disputed Anderson’sevidence for Norse discoverybut because he scorned the Norse character itself. Rather than a culture of “freedom and enlightenment,”J. P. MacLeaninsisted that the Vikings were “lawless in a bad sense,” their natures “more savage than that of any North American Indian at the time of the discovery,”and ridiculed Anderson and others like him for attributingall progressand enlightenmentto the “fable” of “our Saxon inheritance.”As MacLeanhimself indicated,however, his view was not a common one (J. P. MacLean, A Critical Examination of the Evidences Adduced to Establish the Theory of the Norse Discovery of America [Chicago,1892], pp. 52, 53, 54). 41. Olson himself was preoccupiedwith this issue and believed that the Viking discoveryof America was the best tool to put Norwegians“in the front part of American history books” and to thereby erase the backwoodsimage of Norwegiansamong “Plymouth-Rock-Americans”(Julius Olson, “The Vinland Voyages,”speech delivered at Leif EriksonDay Festival, Chicago,1923, unpublished ms., Olson Papers, NorwegianAmerican HistoricalAssociation,Northfield, Minn. [NAHA]). Anderson’s strategy of compromise without assimilation may have placed him in the somewhat undignifiedroleofasalesman,forcedtoflatter the racial, social, and political vanities of his most desirable customers,but it would be a mistake to think that he expected nothing in return.39 In fact, Anderson made significant demands in this exchange, asking specifically that Americans not only accept Scandinavians as their brethrenbutrewrite their own history. It was not enough for a few books here and there to toss in a word or two about the Vikings; Anderson demanded that the proto- typicalagentofassimilationandAmericanization,thepublicschool,should teach American children that the Norse were Americans’ common ances- tors.40 Charging that Leif Erikson, his brother Thorvald, and others like them should “become household words in every house and hamlet inthese United States,” he exhorted Americans to “let every child learn the stories abouttheNorsediscoverersofVinlandtheGood”(A,p.34).Althoughthere is no evidence to suggest that the historical profession dropped everything to follow his command, it should be noted that many of the native-stock Viking books, including Slafter’s, were published after Anderson’s. More- over, the American Historical Association invited Anderson’s son-in-law, Julius Olson, to coedit the first volume of J. Franklin Jameson’s Original Narratives of Early American History series, The Northmen, Columbus,and Cabot, 985–1503, published in 1906.41 Anderson’s text also employed more specific strategies for insinuating the Norsemen into the heart of American national history. In particular, 884 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 42. In this, Anderson foreshadowedsimilarargumentsattributingNorse ancestryto various Indian languagesand linking English place-namesto the Norse discovery.See, for example, Wilfred Harold Munro, Tales of an Old Sea Port (Princeton,N.J., 1917), which claimed that Rhode Island’s Mount Hope was originally“Hóp,” from the Icelandicfor “bay,” a claim echoed in Matthias Thórdarson,The Vinland Voyages, commissionedfor an American audience by the American GeographicalSociety (MatthiasThórdarson,The Vinland Voyages, trans. Thorstina Jackson Walters [New York, 1930], p. 42). 43. Andersonwas not the last to argue for a Norse origin to Native languages.In the 1940s and 1950s, Norwegian-AmericanReider ThorbjornSherwin compiled an eight-volumelexicography outlining the “Old Norse origin of the Algonquinlanguage.”See Reider ThorbjornSherwin, The Viking and the Red Man: The Old Norse Origin of the Algonquin Language, 8 vols. (New York, 1940–56). 44. That Anderson had tapped into a powerful vein of anti-Catholicismin his support of the Vikings can be seen in the commentsmade by Marie Brown (later Shipley) before the U.S. Senate during an 1888 hearing to decide whether to recognizeofficially the discoveryof America by Leif Erikson: The vital and all-absorbingquestionnow is, whether this American Republic, founded on surely secular principles,wishes to pay posthumoushonors, on a scale of unprecedented magnificence,and at the bidding of the pope, and the countriesunder his dominion. . . to the Roman Catholic missionaryand devotee, ChristopherColumbus, who was sent out by the Church of Rome to convert the natives of a land whose localityhe knew, having ascertainedit definitely in Iceland before he started forth on his voyage to the western continent.[To do so] would be to publicly sanctionthe claims of the Church of Rome to this land, and virtually to invite the pope to come and take possessionof it. [Brown, “Leif Erikson,”speech delivered 23 Mar. 1888, MHS] Anderson appealed to historical connections among race, geography, and religion,constructingtheVikings’foraysintoNewEnglandasapreparation for the Puritan arrival. In the first instance, Anderson argued that the Vi- kings had taken possession of the landscape by giving it place-names that survived to the modern era, presumably passed down through the Native population.42 Quoting at length from a tract sent to him by “Joseph Story Fay,Esq.,ofWood’sHoll,Massachusetts,”Andersonpromotedtheideathat this town’s name had been “given” to the Indians by the Vikings, forwhom the word holl signified hill, andthat ithadstuckbecauseoftheIndians’own linguistic weakness (A, p. 24; see p. 28).43 Anderson also suggested that the Vikings had prepared New England for the Puritans by bringingChristian- itytoitsshores.Despiteanodtothe“flowerofTeutonicheathendom”(and despitethefactthatChristianityhadatbestonlypartiallypenetratedViking culture by the time of the Vinland voyages), Anderson repeatedly empha- sized the Christianity of the Norsemen. More than that, Anderson implied that the Vikings had been the right kind of Christians to bring religion to America by distinguishing them from Columbus, who “talkedofhimselfas chosen by Heaven to make this discovery” but was “subservient to the do- minion of inquisition.” What Anderson avoided saying, of course,wasthat the Vikings were as Catholic as Columbus (A, pp. 57, 91),44 even if their Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 885 See also Shipley, The Norse Colonization in America by the Light of the Vatican Finds (Lucerne, 1898). While this suspicionof Rome persisteduntil well after the turn of the century in Viking narratives,by the 1930s authors had come to embrace a more inclusive view of discovery and its symbols. The vice presidentof the MinnesotaLeif EriksonMonument Association,for instance, insisted in 1934 that “there is ample room for honoringboth of these men” (E. Klaveness, “Leif Erikson and ChristopherColumbus,”radio address,St. Paul, 1934, MHS); see also Ola Johann Saervold, The Discovery of America (Minneapolis, 1931), who suggeststhat Columbus learned about America from the Icelandersbut that this was a sign of his “earnestnessand diligence” (p. 14). For a twentieth-centurydiscussionof the Vikings that preceded this change of heart, see Olson, “The Teutonic Spirit: An Address Delivered on the Occasionof the Unveiling of a Statue to Rollo of Normandy,at Fargo, N. Dakota, July 12th, 1912” (Minneapolis, 1912). 45. While Anderson’sconvenient neglect of the Catholicismof the Vikings seems calculatedto provide a means of distinguishingProtestantNorwegiansfrom other groups of immigrants, the fact that they were followers of the Church of Rome was picked up by Catholic writers and used to demonstratethe fitness of Catholicsas Americans.The renowned Catholic historianJohn Gilmary Shea’s 1855 History of the Catholic Missions, for instance,began with a chapter on the “Norwegian Missionsin New England.”In it, Shea explicitly attempted to restore Catholics to their proper place in American history by arguingthat the Vikings were Catholicsand that the Catholic Church had as a result been the first European institutionnot only in the New World generally, but in the United States itself. See John Gilmary Shea, History of the Catholic Missions among the Indian Tribes of the United States, 1529–1854 (1855; New York, 1969). Other Catholicappropriations of the Vikings include Vincent A. Yzermans,“Our Lady of the Runestones,”Marian Era 5 (1964): 73–73, 106–7; Sister Mary Jean Dorcy, “Ave Maria, Save Us from Evil,” Our Lady’s Digest 38 (Fall 1983): 37–42; and Raphael M. Huber, “Pre-ColumbianDevotion to Mary in America: The Testimonyof the KensingtonStone,” American EcclesiasticalReview 118 (July 1947): 7–21. 46. The desire to clean up the violent reputationof the Vikingsalso penetratedthe accountsof later Norwegian-Americanauthors such as Knut Gjerset, whose Norwegian Sailors in American Waters: A Study in the History of Maritime Activity on the Eastern Seaboard (Northfield,Minn., 1933) fulminated against“the fallaciousnotion . . . that they were merely adventurersand lawless buccaneers”(p. 8); a similartendency can be seen in the official statement of purpose of the descendants had turned away from the Church of Rome to areligionseem- ingly more appropriate for aspiring Americans.45 Although the mere presence of Christian Norsemen in Anderson’s nar- rativewouldhaveservedtoconnecttheVikingsandthePuritans,Anderson strengthenedthisassociationbyrepresentingVikingNewEnglandasaplace steeped in sanctifying Christian blood. The death of Leif Erikson’s brother Thorvald, he suggested, had been one of the most significant episodes in the Vikings’ New World history because it had consecrated America as a Christianlandand,byimplication,setthestageforthearrivaloflaterChris- tians.Thorvald,heexclaimed,“wasburiedinVinland,andtwocrosseswere erectedonhisgrave,—oneathisheadandoneathisfeet.Hallowedground, this, beneath whose sod rests the dust of the first Christian and the first European who died in America!” (A, p. 75). In describing the VikingChris- tianization of New England in these terms, Anderson provided an addi- tional incentive for native-stock Americans to accept the Vikings as the “discoverers” of New England; his account of this incident sidesteppedthe increasingly sensitive issue of anti-Native violence on the part of European colonists.46 In direct contrast to known accounts of the post-Columbian 886 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America MinnesotaLeif Erikson Monument Association,which complainedthat “the general understandingof Leif Erikson seems to be that he was an adventurer, a sea-roverof some kind, an uncouth Viking. This is a complete misunderstandingof the man” (MinnesotaLeif Erikson Monument Associationpamphlet, 1931, p. 2, MHS; see also Louis H. Roddis, The Norsemen in the New World [Minneapolis, 1923], pp. 22–23). 47. Concernover this issue can be seen in governmentand pedagogicalpublicationsof the time, as well; for example, the Departmentof the Interior’srepresentativeat the Philadelphia Exhibition of 1876, John Eaton, published a dire volume entitled Are the Indians Dying Out? (Washington,1877), and the introductionto a mid-nineteenth-centuryedition of Robertson’s Discovery of America intended for use in the schools included the warning that perceptive readers had found Robertson’sdescriptionsof Cortez and other Spanish conquerorstoo forgiving;see John Frost, “The Life of Dr. Robertson,”in William Robertson,The History of the Discovery and Settlement of America (1777; New York, 1858), p. xxiii. 48. WilliamJ. Miller’s Notes Concerning the Wampanoag Tribe of Indians, with Some Account of a Rock Picture on the Shor of Mount Hope Bay, in Bristol, R.I. (Providence,R.I., 1880), for instance, combined a regretful and nostalgic look back at the noble life and shockingdeath of King Philip with a somewhatextraneous account of the discoveryof America by the “hardy Norse” (p. 5). In an interestingtwist, Miller located Leif Erikson’ssettlement at the same spot as Philip’s death, the aforementionedMount Hope/“Hóp.”Similarly,Charles G. Leland’s disquisitionon the Norse origin of Algonquinreligionand myth mournfullyasked, when the last Indian shall be in his grave, scholarswill wonder at the indifference of the “learned” men of these times to such treasuresas they have allowed to perish. What the world wants is not people to write about what others have gathered as to the Indians,but men to collect directly from them. (Charles G. Leland, “The Edda among the AlgonquinIndians,” Atlantic Monthly 54 [Aug. 1884]: 234). This associationof Norse discoveryand Indian disappearancecan also be found in Shea’s History of the Catholic Missions, which explicitly argued that the Catholic colonizationof the New World had been far less devastatingthan its Protestantcounterpart,and implied that a successful Viking colonizationmight have prevented the later decimationof Northern tribes. Christianization of the New World, in Anderson’s tract the event that en- abled the sacralization of the American landscape was not the brutal con- version and death of American Indians, but the European Thorvald’s murder at the hands of marauding Natives, the Skraellings of the sagas. Writing that “the Norseman had no fire-arms, and their higher culture could not defend them against the swarms of savages that attacked them,” Anderson suggested that New World Christianity had been born not in the brutalconversionanddecimationofAboriginalpeoplesbutinbloodspilled by European Vikings upon the shores of Massachusetts (A, p. 91). In thus offering victimized Vikings as the true colonizers of New England, Ander- son offered a salve to Americans’ (and particularly New Englanders’) in- creasingly guilty conscience about “the future of the Indian,” whose degradation and disappearance were becoming causes célèbres (due to the work of Lewis Henry Morgan and other practitioners of the emergingfield of anthropology),47 and whose fate was frequently pondered by defenders of the Viking theory of New World discovery.48 This imaginative refiguring of discovery provided the basis for an inter- esting bargain between Norwegians and the native born, for it suggested Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 887 49. See Ole Edvard Rølvaag, Giants in the Earth: A Saga of the Prairie, trans. Rølvaagand Lincoln Colcord (New York, 1927). Not all immigrantwriters were as ambivalentabout western land taking as Rølvaag.As April Schultz points out, the authors of the 1925 pageant celebratingthe centennial of Norwegiansettlement in North America representedNorwegianpioneers as peaceful civilizersof the wilderness,who shared peace pipes and plans for cultivationwith Indians who had already agreed to leave without a struggle.See April Schultz, Ethnicity on Parade: Inventing the Norwegian American through Celebration(Amherst, Mass., 1994), pp. 5–6, 120–21. 50. HillaryRodham Clinton, “Remarks,”NationalMuseum of Natural History,Baird Auditorium,NMNH, Washington,D.C., 8 Apr. 1999, http://www.mnh.si.edu/exhibits/vikings/ firstlady.html.That is not to say that the show did not attracta fair amount of public interest, including cover stories in Time and National Geographic. See Michael D. Lemonich and Andrea Dorfman, “The Truth about the Vikings,”Time, 8 May 2000, pp. 68–78, and Priit J. Visilind,“In Search of Vikings,”National Geographic 197 (May 2000): 2–27. thatbyacceptingtheNorsemenasancestorsandbrethren,Americanscould rid themselves of one of the most troubling aspects of their collective past. It also served the needsof ScandinaviannewcomerstotheWest,whothem- selves grappled not only with real Natives but with the sticky issue of their own complicity in the brutal conquest of Indian lands. As the uneasy en- counter with a Native grave by the pioneer Hansa family in Ole Edvard Rølvaag’s Giants in the Earth indicates, immigrant writers would become preoccupied over the ensuing decades with the sense that there was some- thing ominous about staking claims to landwhichhadbeendeclaredbythe authorities to be empty but which, uponcloser inspection,containedliving Indians as wellas their history.49 WhileRølvaag’sconclusion,madeinhind- sight in the 1920s, seems to have been that complicity in manifest destiny and a too-uncritical attitude towards the ideals of the native born had brought Norwegians only insanity and death, Anderson’s tract of the 1870s suggested that Norwegian-American history itself held the key to theprob- lem of cultural contact. A compromise with America was the only route to immigrant success. Westward the Course At the end of the nineteenth century, then, it appeared as though the Viking discovery of America was poised to play an important role within American literary and historical consciousness. And, yet, it has not. While American popular culture is glutted with the cast-off symbols of Scandinavian-American nation-building—the horned hats that the Vi- kingsfamouslyneverwore—ashistoricalfigurestheVikingsbarelyappear on the American radar. Indeed, although Norse discovery was the subject of a recent Smithsonian exhibition, which was preceded by rousing press releases of Hillary Clinton praising “the power of the human spirit,” the exhibitiondidlittle eithertopromoteastrongnarrativeofVikingdiscovery or to grapple with the historical and cultural meaning of that discovery.50 Asidefromafewcasesfilledwitharchaeologicalcopies,abitoflonelynorth- 888 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 51. On the Enola Gay controversyand the limits of public history in the United States, see David Thelen et al., “Historyafter the ‘Enola Gay’ Controversy:An Introduction,”Journal of American History 82 (Dec. 1995): 1029–115. 52. See HjalmarR. Holand, Norse Discoveries and Explorations in America, 982–1362: Leif Erikson to the Kensington Stone (New York, 1968). This volume was originallypublished in 1940 under the title Westward from Vinland: An Account of Norse Discoveries and Explorations in America, 982–1362 and as a pamphlet called “The KensingtonStone” in 1932. 53. Holandwas neither the first nor the last to promote the authenticityof the Kensington Stone. Over the past hundred years it has had many adherents and detractors,and it still inspires heated and sometimesunfriendly debate. Indeed, it seems that nearly every citizen of the Midwest has weighed in on the KensingtonStone at some point, includingFrederick JacksonTurner. This is particularlytrue in Minnesota,where it has become a significantpart of the local popular culture and where narrative legitimizationsof the stone are abetted by a shrinelikemuseum and ern video footage, and some panels vaguely praising Native culture, the most the exhibition seemed to offer was the bland suggestion that the Vi- kings were farmers and traders, farmers and traders, farmers and traders. Even the saga storytelling hut cut off its narrative before the killings began and contact really happened. The result was a history that, literallywithout blood, could not either present a coherent vision of cultural contactorfur- ther our understanding of its historical implications. There are several reasons for this. The first has to do with the climate surrounding public history that has developed during the past decade or so. The Enola Gay controversy and the preceding furore over the West as America exhibit most certainly have undermined the potential for all but the blandest kinds of public history in the United States.51 With itsBarney- ized content and its casual corporate references, Vikings: The NorthAtlan- tic Saga seemed better designed to sell Volvos, Husqvarma chain saws, and LeifEriksonpuppetsthantodelveintothefraughtquestionofculturalcon- tact. Yet, the degradation of public history after Enola Gay can onlyexplain so much. After all, the exhibit reflected more than it created, and what it reflected is the larger absence of the Vikings from academia, the schools, or, with a few exceptions, American public history. So, then, how to explain this disappearance of the Vikings from Amer- ican historical consciousness? It certainly cannot be explained by a falling away of interest on the part of Scandinavian-American authors after An- derson. The twentieth century has seen the growth of a vast literature of this kind, exemplified by the most widely circulated of all the Viking dis- covery narratives, Hjalmar R. Holand’s Norse Discoveries and Explorations in America, 982–1362,52 still in print after sixty years and superficially very similar to Anderson’s work. Like Anderson’s narrative, Holand’sworkpro- posed an archaeological argument in favor of Viking discovery, this timein the form of the Kensington Stone, a 202-pound runestonepurportedlyun- covered by a Minnesota farmer in 1898.53 And, like America Not Discovered Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 889 monument erected near the site of its “discovery.”As a result, nearly all discussionsof the stone have been cast in terms of truth versus falsehood,and with few exceptions little has been said about its cultural significanceindependent of its status as an authentic relic from pre-Columbian times. What is usually left unsaid in these discussionsis the fact that the very persistenceof the stone in the face of its highly dubious origin is what makes it interesting.A brief selection of these treatises includes TheodoreC. Blegen, The Kensington Rune Stone: New Light on an Old Riddle (St. Paul, Minn., 1968); George T. Flom, The Kensington Rune-Stone: A Modern Inscription from Douglas County, Minnesota (Springfield,Ill., 1910); S. N. Hagen, “The KensingtonRunic Inscription,”Speculum 25 (July 1950): 321–56; Carl ChristianJensen, “Rune Stone Controversy,” unpublished ms., July 1969, MHS; History of Douglas and Grant Counties, Minnesota: Their People, Industries, and Institutions,ed. Constant Larson,2 vols. (Indianapolis,1916), 1:72–122;Vincent H. Malmstrom,“In Quest of Vikings:A Personal Inquiry into the Mystery of the KensingtonStone,” Middlebury College Newsletter(Spring 1970): 19–26; Erik Moltke, “The KensingtonStone,” Antiquity 25–26 (June 1951): 87–93; Jeffrey R. Redmond, “Viking” Hoaxes in North America (New York, 1979); Erik Wahlgren, The Kensington Stone: A Mystery Solved (Madison,Wis., 1958) and “The Case of the KensingtonRune Stone,” American Heritage 10 (Apr. 1959): 34–35, 101–5; The Museum Committeeof the MinnesotaHistoricalSociety, The Kensington Rune Stone: Preliminary Report to the Minnesota Historical Society (St. Paul, 1915); and “The Story of the Kensington Runestone,” a pamphlet printed by the Alexandria,MinnesotaChamber of Commerce(n.d.), MHS. Turner’s views can be found in his letter to Gisle Bothne, 10 Feb. 1910, Gisle Bothne Papers, MHS. 54. Holand,Norse Discoveries and Explorations in America, 982–1362, p. 188. by Columbus, Holand’s narrative also argued strenuously both for the Vi- kings’ Christianity and for their victimization. To Holand, the Kensington Stone embodied the Vikings’ Christian martyrdom, representingthedying lament of a party of Vikings who, having “been suddenly overwhelmed, killed and scalped by a party of Indians,” had managed to carve a runic account of their demise and appeal to the Virgin before disappearing into the mists of time.54 For all of these similarities, however, Holand’s text differed from An- derson’s in two key respects. Ironically, these differences account both for thepopularityofthebookandforitsfailureasaworkofimmigrantpolitical claim staking. The first difference was its originality. Unlike Anderson, whose work was in the main a glossed translation of the Vinlandsagas,Ho- land created his own narrative, out of local sources, in order to forge a new narrative of Viking discovery. This decision to stray from the sagas, which even in translation could be cumbersome and inscrutable, enabledHoland to perform the narrative chases and leaps that make the book such a good read: the visceral scenes of bloody Vikings, imagined by Holand as victims not of extinct New England tribes but ofstill-fearedandadmiredSioux;the titillating suggestion that the Vikings’ survivors had intermarried with the Mandans, producing a fair race of “White Indians,” still extant in the days of Lewis and Clark; and the absurd but locally pleasing claim that Vikings had penetrated deep into the continent, naturally choosing Minnesota as their western home. 890 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 55. HomiBhabha, “DissemiNation:Time, Narrative,and the Marginsof the Modern Nation,” The Location of Culture (New York, 1994), p. 145. 56. LawrenceVenuti, “Translation,Community,Utopia,” in The Translation Studies Reader, ed. Venuti (London,2000), p. 477. Indeed, with the obvious exception ofJuliusOlson’scontributiontoThe Northmen, Columbus, and Cabot, twentieth-centurytextsintheVikingcor- pus tended to shy away from translation in favor of originality. Although this decision probably enhanced the popularity of the genre, itwasacrucial mistake as a political strategy. For in asking readers to believe that the Vi- kings hadpenetratedtheinterioroftheNorthAmericancontinent,Holand and others who deviated from translation abandoned not only standard explanations of American history but the verysourcesofauthoritythathad allowed Anderson to credibly demand that readers make such a departure. What this abandonment suggests is that Holand and other twentieth- century authors failed to appreciate the key element that hadsustainedAn- derson’snineteenth-centuryVikingnarrative:itsabilitytonegotiateacanny bargain between immigrants and the native born and, more specifically, its careful doubling, what Homi Bhabha has described as “the continuist, ac- cumulative temporality of the pedagogical, and the repetitious, recursive strategy of the performative.”55 Asanontranslation,Holand’stextlostthree important sources of authority on which Anderson’s had drawn. First, the text departed from the long line of saga translations that flooded the English-speaking world in the nineteenthcentury, thuslosingtheauthority of Beamish, Morris, Slafter, and its progenitors. Second, it lost the sedi- mentaryweightofthesagasthemselves,the“ancientmanuscripts”thatSlaf- ter’s map accepted and whose own origins resided in the depths of oral tradition. Third, Holand’s decision to chart a new course for the Vikings deprived him of one of the key sources of credibility that immigrants do have in cultures that receive them: that of speakers and translators of their “own” languages and literatures. Significantly, Anderson’svolumewasable to capitalize on his authority as both a native speaker of Norwegian and a professional translator of the Norse languages, while at the same time ef- facing his performative role as a producer of an agonistic narrative of im- migrant nationalism. As Lawrence Venuti has proposed more generally regarding translations“thathaveachievedmasscirculation,”inthiscontext Anderson’sdiscoverytranslationwasabletobecome“thesiteofunexpected groupings, fostering communitiesofreaderswhowouldotherwisebesepa- rated by cultural differences and social divisions yet [we]re now joined by a common fascination,” even though “the forms of reception” that these readers employed were “not . . . entirely commensurable.”56 Separated by class, ethnicity, and region, Anderson’s readers were nonetheless joined by Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 891 57. The Arctic-routetheory was also developed by others who wished to prove Viking landfall in Minnesota,such as Andrew Fossum, author of The Norse Discovery of America (Minneapolis, 1918) and “The Route from Vinland to Minnesotain 1362,” unpublished ms., Andrew Fossum papers, NAHA. The debate over the locationof the Vikings’ travels and Vinland in particular is almost as voluminousas Viking discoveryliteratureitself. It is thoroughlydiscussedin Kaups, “Shifting Vinland—Traditionand Myth.” A few examples of efforts to locate Vinland include W. A. Munn, Wineland Voyages: Location of Helluland, Markland, and Vinland (St. John’s, Nfld., n.d.); Anderson, Where Was Vinland? A Reply to Prof. Gustav Storm Refuting His Arguments in Favor of Locating Vinland (Minneapolis, 1891); Olson, Review of the Problem of the Northmen and the Site of Norumbega (Chicago,1890); and A.D. Fraser, “The Norsemenin Canada,” Dalhousie Review 27 (1937): 175–86. 58. A few examples of the KensingtonStone’s penetrationinto the local popular culture include MargaretLeuthner, Mystery of the Runestone (Alexandria,Minn., 1962), a comic book for children; Bert Merling, “The Runestone Pageant Play,” unpublishedms., 1962, MHS, 1962; and “Runestone Festival Commemoratingthe 600th Anniversaryof the KensingtonRunestone,”festival program, MHS. For a few brief examinationsof the culturalsignificanceof the stone, see Iver Kjær, “Runes and Immigrantsin America: The KensingtonStone, the World’s ColumbianExposition,and Nordic Identity,” The Nordic Roundtable Papers 17 (July 1994): 7–31, and Michael G. Michlovicand Michael W. Hughey, “Norse Blood and Indian Character:Content, Context, and Transformation of Popular Mythology,”Journal of Ethnic Studies 10 (1982): 79–94. 59. See Michlovicand Hughey, “‘Making’History:The Vikings in the American Heartland,” Politics, Culture, and Society 2 (Spring 1989): 338–60; see also Rhoda Gilman and James P. Smith, “Vikings in Minnesota:A ControversialLegacy,” Roots 21 (Spring 1993). Correspondence demandingofficial recognitionof the KensingtonStone is in possessionof Debbie Miller, MHS. the translated text. Without this bond (and without the comfort of Ander- son’s institutional location), Anderson’s fragile reading community could not persist. Holand’s work thus splintered the once unified constituencies of western immigrants and eastern Brahmins. Holand’sfailuretoappreciatetheimportanceofcompromisecanbeseen in another element of his work. Not only did his text discard translationas a model for immigrant writing, but it also introduced a new geography of discovery that too obviously rejected Brahminhierarchies.Instead,Holand proposed an aggressive regionalism that privileged the upper Midwest, home to so many of his fellow Norwegian and other Scandinavian Amer- icans. Brushing aside the eastern voyages of Leif Erikson and his contem- poraries, Holand devoted not only Norse Discoveries but the better part of his adult life to proving how, through a complicated Arctic route, the Vi- kings had been able to leave the Kensington Stone inthegeographicalheart of the North American continent.57 This choice reflected the emergence of a growing regional immigrant popular culture that continues to thrive to this day.58 On a nice summer day it is not hard to find true believers at the Kensington Stone museum and site. Indeed, as Michael Michlovic andMi- chael Hughey have argued, Minnesota has been able to develop an entire tourism network based on the Viking appeal; the Minnesota HistoricalSo- ciety, moreover, is regularly besieged by letters and missives demanding to know why, as the official representative of the state’s history, it has not em- braced the authenticity of Minnesota’s Viking heritage.59 892 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 60. Indeed, that is exactly the angle pursued in one of the longest press articles to arise from the show: Mark K. Stengel, “The DiffusionistsHave Landed,” Atlantic Monthly 285 (Jan. 2000): 35–48. Nonetheless, despite the occasional seepage of runes and rune-chasing into the wider popular culture (fig. 6), it is difficult to find many people of non-Minnesotan, non-Scandinavian heritage who are deeplyengagedwith the Viking debate as history. Quite simply, it has become a curiosity of re- gional and immigrant culture.60 Unlike Anderson’s comfortably colonial plottingofVikingdiscovery,Holand’smappresentedthelessrepresentative and less represented terrain between the Great Lakes and the Arctic— terrain that, unlike Cape Cod, would not have been immediately recognis- ableasastand-alonegeography—asthenewcenterofitall(fig.7).Holand’s work therefore asked Americans not only to accept a new version of their history, but a jarringly new cultural geography, as well. Even leaving aside the issue of its believability, Holand’s Arctic map challenged, rather than conformed to, the “normal” geography of American discovery and de- manded that Americans create a new mental map of the American past.All in all, it was too much to ask. A Canadian Coda This was not the Vikings’ final NorthAmericanhurrah,however(fig.8). Although by midcentury the Norsemen had reverted to an ironically pop- ular obscurity in the United States, they did make another, more fleeting appearance upon the stage of national history, this time in 1960s Canada. Of course, 1960s Canada wasa completelydifferentworldthan1870sAmer- ica. Canadians had their own men in leaky boats to remember and two divergent and competing sets of discovering ancestors. More than that, by the 1960s it was no longer so fashionable to cast national origins in racial- ized, teleological tones. Or was it? Consider the similarities between 1870s America and 1960s Canada. For each nation, these were times of rapideco- nomic, political, and geographical expansion. They were points at which the nations stood on the brink of massive demographic change. For both nations, these were timesofself-conscioushistoricalreflectionandpolitical redefinition, not only because they marked the nations’ respective centen- nials, but because each nation’s one hundredth anniversary was preceded and shaped by significant challenges to national sovereignty. And for both nations these were periods of expansion in the public higher education sector; while the Morrill Act of 1862 set the stage for massive academic growth and for greater student and faculty diversity in the years after the Civil War, so too did Canada’s ambitious program of university building and deprivatization in the 1960s. Consider as well the similaritiesbetween Norwegian Americans in the 1870s and Icelandic Canadians in the 1960s. figure 6. 894 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America figure 7. “Sketch Showing Route by Way of Hudson Bay,” from HjalmarR. Holand, Norse Discoveries and Explorations 982–1362, p. 141. 61. See TryggviJ. Oleson, Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632 (Toronto,1963). During these two periods, each group was experiencing a moment when Old World tongues were giving way to English (a situation that was par- ticularly acute for Icelandic Canadians in the wake of the Second World War); when elite members were emerging within the educational and pro- fessional hierarchy of the nonimmigrant community; when, inshort, iden- tities were in flux and deals could be struck. It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that the Viking cause was resurrected at exactly this point, in Tryggvi J. Oleson’s 1963 Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632.61 As the first volume in the series that defined aca- demic history in 1960s Canada, W. L. Morton and D. G. Creighton’s Ca- nadian Centenary series, Oleson’s work gained the imprimatur of both the historicalprofessionandacademicpublishing.Itwasalsoasignificantwork of immigrant historiography. For, just as Anderson had identified history as a suitable vector for the improvement of his group’s status in the New World, so too did Oleson, who was a professor of history at the University Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 895 figure 8. “A Viking ship and a Red River Cart, sometimesused for transportationin the early days.” From Lundar Diamond Jubilee (Lundar, Manitoba,1948). 62. On Oleson, see W. J. Lindal, The Icelanders in Canada (Ottawa, 1967), pp. 298–99. 63. See “Arts IIIH,” 16 May 1963, box 2, collectionA95–26, departmentof history,Universityof Manitoba,Departmentof Archives and Special Collections,ElizabethDafoe Library,Universityof Manitoba (EDL-UM). of Manitoba.62 As a founding officer oftheIcelandicCanadianClub(begun in1938topromoteknowledgeoftheIcelandicheritageinCanada),aformer vice president of the Icelandic National League, and a member of a de- partment whose honors students had names like Douglas, Gadadhar, Kar- piak, Kung,Moore,Parasiuk,Salzberg,andWagschal,butwereveryseldom of obvious Icelandic descent, Oleson embarked on this project not only as an academic historian but as an Icelandic Canadian.63 896 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America figure 9. From TryggviJ. Oleson, Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632, pp. 2–3. 64. AlthoughOleson did not claim Anderson as an influence, he was known to the Icelandic community in Manitobain his own lifetime through its first newspaper,Framfari. See untitled item, Framfari, 28 Mar. 1878. The entire run of the newspaper has been translatedinto English by George Houser in one volume (Winnipeg, 1986). The item on Anderson appears on p. 168. 65. The classicessay on the North in Canadian politicalconsciousnessis Carl Berger, “The True North Strong and Free,” in Nationalism in Canada, ed. Peter Russell (Toronto,1966), pp. 3–26. Visual imagerywas used frequently as a tool in the formationof Canadian national identity as a “Northern” phenomenon.For an interestinganalysis that links this process to similar issues in Scandinavia,see Roald Nasgaard,The Mystic North: Symbolist Landscape Painting in Northern Europe and North America, 1890–1940 (Toronto,1984). More generally, see Thomas H. B. Symons, “The Arctic and CanadianCulture,” in A Century of Canada’s Arctic Islands, 1880–1980, ed. Morris Zaslow (Ottawa, 1980), pp. 319–37. Oleson’s project was also similar to Anderson’s work in another respect. Just as Anderson had chosen the imagined Teutonic past as a fertileground for compromise between Norwegians and nineteenth-century New En- glanders, Oleson too chose compromise as his strategy,settinghisnarrative in terms that would appeal to mid-twentieth-century Canadian elites.64 Most importantly,OlesonappealedtoCanadians’ongoingfascinationwith the North, proposing a theory of Viking exploration that recast the discov- ery of America as the discovery of the Canadian Arctic.65 Fromtheveryfirst illustration of his book (fig. 9), a map that cast Arctic Canada as the virtual center of the world, Oleson offered the North not only as the cornerstone of Canada’s past but as the key to its future. Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 897 66. W. L. Morton, The Canadian Identity (Madison,Wis., 1961), pp. x, vii, 92. See also “Annual Report of the Departmentof History, 1959–1960,”“Annual Reports”file, box 1, collectionA95–26, department of history,Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM. 67. Oleson, Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632, p. 63 68. Morton,The Canadian Identity, p. 93. In choosing the North as the geographical and historical center of his treatise,OlesonreachedouttotwosignificantCanadianelites.First,hepro- vided historical support to his fellow academics, then engaged in agrowing effort to define the Canadian identity. Indeed, Oleson’s colleague and the coeditor of the Centenary series, W. L. Morton, had published a highly in- fluential work entitled The Canadian Identity in 1961. Like other historical works of the time, this volume identified the North as the key to Canada’s pressing need to “achieve a self-definition of greater clarity and more ring- ing tone than it has yet done.” Following an imperative that had lurked in CanadianhistoriographyatleastsinceC. P.Stacey’sTheUndefendedBorder: Myth and Reality, booklet #1 in the Canadian Historical Association’s fa- mous series of orange-covered primers, Morton argued that historians couldprovideacrucialservicetoCanadabydistinguishingitsdevelopment, and particularly its origins, from the United States. Somewhat ironically, then, as the book was written while Morton was Visiting Commonwealth Professor at the University of Wisconsin, Morton described (Canadian) Northerners as “a new breed of man” and offered readers a distinct para- digm of discovery that emphasized not only the familiar forays of JohnCa- bot and others but included a nod to the less well-studied voyages of the “Viking frontiersmen” who opened the northern reachesoftheNewWorld to the English and the French.66 Oleson’s work answered Morton’s call for an exceptionalist Canadian history. Arguing that medieval Icelandic settlers in Greenland (following the same “natural” westward movement ascribed to Scandinavians by Ho- land andothers)hadmovedfromGreenlandtoBaffinIslandandLabrador, Oleson provided Canadians with an alternative history to both theColum- bian conquest and American accounts of Viking discovery. Although Ole- son did not deny the possibility of Viking’s landing in New England, he argued that their only certifiable New World landfall was not in Massachu- setts, but in Canada. In Oleson’s account, then, these voyages formed the prehistory, not of Puritan America, but of the Canadian Arctic.Describing the period of Icelandic discovery and contact as “the mediæval phase of Ca- nadian history,” Oleson implied that “Canada” preceded “America,”67 thus offering bold support to Morton’s assertion that “Canadian history is not a parody of American, as Canada is not a second-rate United States.”68 Like Anderson’s work, Oleson’s treatise thus used native-stock historians’ own agendas to further his own. While this version of Canadian history sup- 898 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 69. See Lyle Dick, “‘A Growing Necessity for Canada’: W. L. Morton’sCentenary Series and the Forms of National History, 1955–80,” Canadian Historical Review 82 (June 2001): 223–52; hereafter abbreviated“GN.” ported wider appeals for a separate identity for Canada, it placed Icelandic Canadians at the very center of the social order as the descendants of the people who literally had put Canada on the map. Indeed, Lyle Dick’s very interesting recent work on the Centenary series suggests that the publication of Oleson’s work in the series was directly at- tributable to its support of Morton’s vision of both Canadian identity and academic history’s role in realizing it.69 Not only did the series, and the works contained within it, support Morton’s desire tocombat,asDickputs it, the “advancingAmericancultural juggernaut[that]spelledadiminished role for Canada’s writers, including historians, in the Canadian body pol- itic” (“GN,” p. 251), but Oleson’s volume in particular proved to Morton “the existence of the northern seaway for almost five hundred years before Columbus. I find this of significance both for the history of the latter dis- covery and for the nature of Canadian ties to Europe. It has not been ac- cidental that we have not separated from Europe, as has the United States, and Latin America” (quoted in “GN,” p. 234). In Dick’s view, this was significant for two reasons. First, as I have sug- gested, it provided Morton with evidence of Canadian exceptionalism in the Americas. More than that, however, Dick argues that this formulation also offered epic history as a solution to the brewing separatist conflict in Quebec.AsDickargues,“inMorton’smindtherewereintegralconnections between early Viking approaches to northern North America, its subse- quent colonization by French and British settlers, and the incorporationof First Peoples into the eventual country of Canada.” Thus Morton selected volumes, like Oleson’s, that enhanced his vision of Canadian history “as a logical, even inevitable, progression to the modern nation-state,” and “re- jected topics he considered incompatible with his principal leitmotives of French-Englishdualityandintegrationoftheregions”(“GN,”pp.234,235). Dick concludes that this vision of Canadian history as the epic prefig- uring of the nation-state led to Morton’s marginalization of “alternative national aspirations, the history of Aboriginal peoples, or other groups or regions that did not fit in with its emphasis onAnglo-Frenchdualitywithin the Canadian nation-state” (“GN,” p. 237). In general, I would agree with this assessment. Regarding immigrants, however,whomDickdoesnotspe- cifically mention, I would make a further argument. Within the context of Morton’s epic history, immigrants could make claims to Canadianidentity. However, they could only do so effectively when those claims supported Morton’s (and, because of Morton’s influence, the historical profession’s) Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 899 70. Interestingly,the French also occasionallyconceivedof themselvesas Viking descendants (“Normans,”of course),using this claim to shore up the more common claim of the French to Canadian discovery. In his Les Vikings des grandes étapes, vol. 1 of Les Northmans en Amérique (Montreal, 1954), Eugène Achard emphasizedthe common racial ancestryof French Canadians and the Vikings,writing that “Canadiens-françaisou Anglo-Canadiens,nous sommes les rameaux détachés d’une même race: la race normande,et, par le fait même, les frères de ces hardis Northmansqui sillonnèrent les mers du nord et, vers l’an mille, vinrent planter leurs tentes en Amérique” (p. 28). 71. It is importantto recognizethat Oleson was, in fact, very successfulas an academic.Not only did he publish Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632 alongsideCanadian historiography’srising elite, but in the eleven years following his receipt of the Ph.D. in 1950 he was the beneficiaryof numerousprestigiousgrants, including“a research grant of $6000.00by the Social Science Research Council of America,”a GuggenheimFellowship, three grants from the Ministry of Educationin Iceland, a Nuffield Travel Grant, and a grant from the CanadianSocial Science ResearchCouncil. He was also elected Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada in 1959 (Annual Report of the Departmentof History, 1960–1961,”“Annual Reports” file, box 1, collection A95–26, departmentof history, Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM;see also “CurriculumVitae: Tryggvi Julius Oleson,” 8 Dec. 1960, UA 20 004–047,EDL-UM). 72. It is importantto note that, outside academia, this was not necessarilythe case. Although Oleson pitched his vision of Icelandic-Canadianidentity in terms that meshed with prevailing academicdiscourse,other Icelandic-Canadianauthorsaligned themselves with different discourses,with very interestingresults. Most notably, Winnipeg judge and amateur historian W. J. Lindal, who was a vocal supporterof the chair of Icelandic languageand literatureat the University of Manitoba(1951) and the author of both The SaskatchewanIcelanders: A Strand of the Canadian Fabric (Winnipeg, 1955) and The Icelanders in Canada offered one of the most important alternative visions of Icelandic-Canadianidentity to that proposed by Oleson. Drawingon the many local historiesof the Icelandiccommunities in Manitoba,which in the traditionof Framfari, emphasizedthe Icelanders’compatibilityrather than their competitionwith the “valiant” Sitting Bull and later populationsof Ukrainians,Poles, and other immigrants,and drawing also on his firm convictionthat Canada’s ethnic diversity was the key to resistingtotalitarianism,Lindal’s work is characterizedby a strong multiculturalaspect. While Oleson’s narrative emphasizesthe inevitability(and danger) of racial fusion and the hegemony of certain strictly limited racial categories,Lindal’s vision promotes a much more fluid notion of both ethnicity and of identity. Thus Lindal’s work, which foreshadowsthe ascendanceof multiculturalismas perhaps the wider agenda. For Oleson (as for Anderson), then, who was deeply com- mitted to his own success (and the success of the Icelanders) within aca- demic discourse, this meant that the only way to make Icelanders fit was to figure them as forefathers in a master narrative whose endpoint was the predetermined coming together of the British and the French in an inte- grated, Europe-linked nation-state. Because of the twin threats of Quebec nationalism and the “American juggernaut,”mainstreamacademichistory intheearly1960swasonlypreparedforatheoryofCanadianethnicidentity that supported the dually racial, yet nonetheless racialized epic of French- English synthesis.70 Thus, for an immigrant historian like Oleson with as- pirations towards the academic elite,71 multiculturalism was simply not an option.72 There was also a more pragmatic element to Oleson’s appeal. For while Morton worried, as Dick shows, about America, about biculturalism, “the 900 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America defining element of Canadianidentity discoursesince the 1970s, shows that “popular”immigrant historiographydoes not have to either take its cues from academicwriting or to consist in a watered-downversion of it. Indeed, unlike Holand’s tract, which in relationshipto Anderson’s work marked the marginalizationof the Viking narrativesfrom mainstreamdiscourse,Lindal’s work (and the local histories it drew upon) may hold an importantkey to the popular originsof Canadian multiculturalism.See “News of the Indians,” Framfari, 28 Mar. 1878, p. 171. For Lindal’s views on totalitarianism,see his Two Ways of Life: Freedom or Tyranny (Toronto,1940). 73. Departmentalenrollmentsare from “Departmentof History:Annual Report, 1958–59”; “Annual Report of the Departmentof History, 1959–60”;“Annual Report of the Departmentof History, 1960–1961”;“Departmentof History, 1961–62”;“Annual Report: Departmentof History, 1962–1963”;and “Annual Report: Departmentof History, 1963–1964,”in “Annual Reports” file, box 1, collectionA95–26, departmentof history,Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM. Manitoba numbers are from the excerpt from “Universitiesand Colleges,”ManitobaEconomicConsultative Board 5th Annual Report (1967), table C-1, in “University in Community”file, box 4, collection A95–26, departmentof history, Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM. 74. See RichardE. Bennett et al., A Guide to Major Holdings of the Department of Archives and Special Collections (Winnipeg, 1993), p. 102; “NorthernStudies Committee,”box 1, folder 1, mms. 41, Northern Studies Committee,EDL-UM; and G. W. Leckie, letter to Northern Studies Committee Planning Sub-Committee,7 May 1971, in “Northern Studies” file, box 3, collection A95–26, departmentof history, Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM. 75. See Oleson, letter to Elizabeth Dafoe, 20 Oct. 1959; David W. Foley, letter to Morton, 2 Apr. 1962; Morton, letter to Foley, 14 Oct. 1961; and Dafoe, letter to history department, 15 Apr. 1957, in “Library—Universityof Manitoba”file, box 2, collectionA95–26, departmentof history, University of Manitoba,EDL-UM. See also Morton, letter to dean of the Faculty of Arts and even more hideous monster of ‘multiculturalism,’” and the role history could play in fashioning the Canadian nation, his relationshipwithOleson was forged within another context: the rapidexpansionofCanadianhigher education (“GN,” p. 243). For these were boom times. Between 1958 and 1964, student numbers in the department of history increased from 312 to 850;withinManitobaasawhole,full-timecollegeanduniversityenrollment between1957and1967jumpedfrom4,870to12,400.73 Asaresult,thisperiod saw not only the expansion of existing departments at the University of Manitoba but the emergence of entirely new ones like the department of anthropology and sociology, established in 1962, and the Northern Studies Committee, founded in the same year with Morton as chair.74 Morton, who was the head of the history department during this entire period, seems immediately to have realized that this expansion couldwork to the benefit of his department and his discipline and that Oleson could be an important ally in history’s ascent. Indeed,Olesonprovedtobeavalu- able pointman not only on seemingly mundane, local issues like library funding—with Oleson as his spokesman, Morton managed to increase the department’s library allocation five-fold between 1957 and 1961, to $5,200, which gave it the biggest budget in the faculty—but in a more global sense.75 For if the North offered a point of reentry for historians into the wider political culture, it could also provide something equally important: cold, hard cash. The fruits of expansion hadtobedividedupsomehow,and Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 901 Science, 12 Apr. 1957 and n.d., 1956, box 1, collectionA95–26, department of history,Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM. 76. Materialson this initiative, formed in 1967 to study “problemsassociatedwith human settlement” focusingon western and northern Canada, can be found in UA 33, EDL-UM. 77. “NorthernStudies Committee,”box 1, folder 1, mss. 41, Northern Studies Committee, EDL-UM. To put this sum in context, Morton’ssalary as head of the HistoryDepartmentwas $8,700 in 1957–58, and Oleson’s prestigiousSSRC grant for 1961–62was $6,000. See W. J. Condo, letter to W. L. Morton, 22 Mar. 1957, in “President: History—Administration”file, box 3, collectionA95–26, departmentof history, EDL-UM,and “Annual Report of the Departmentof History, 1960–1961,“Annual Reports” file, box 1, collectionA95–26, departmentof history, University of Manitoba,EDL-UM. 78. See “Applicationfor Grant in Aid of Northern Research by a Northern Research Institute,” signed by J. A. Hildes, 6 Jan. 1967, box 3, folder 2, mss. 41, Northern Studies Committee,EDL-UM; “Report of the Committee on Northern Studies—TheUniversityof Manitoba,Fiscal Year 1962– 63,” box 5, folder 1, mss. 41, Northern Studies Committee,EDL-UM; and “Grant Applications 1966,” box 3, mss. 41, Northern Studies Committee,EDL-UM. 79. Who claimed, as opposed to sociologists,to be “the only professionalgroup with training and residentialexperience among non-literatecultures”(Grant applicationsigned by John H. Steinbring,8 Dec. 1966, box 3, mss. 41, Northern Studies Committee,EDL-UM). 80. See “Annual Report of the Departmentof History, 1960–1961”;“CurriculumVitae: Tryggvi Julius Oleson”; and Morton, letter to dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science, 12 Apr. 1957 and n.d., 1956. if departments and individuals could find a good argument on behalf of their particular field of expertise, they were more likely to gain support for their work. The North seems to have been just such a winner,asmoneywas handed over for institution-building projects like the Northern Studies Committee and the Centre for Settlement Studies, which had a significant Northern component,76 and for a multitude of individualprojects.Funded by the University of Manitoba, as well as government agencies like the De- partment of Indian Affairs and NorthernDevelopment, theseinitiativesof- fered excellent opportunities to faculty, with Northern Studies alone disbursing $116,000 in aid between 1962 and 1970.77 And yet, as Morton certainly realized, expanding opportunities also meant increased competition. Indeed, while annual funding for Northern Studies increased by fifteen or twenty timesin itsfirsttenyears,applications for funding would escalate one-hundred-fold in its first five.78 To get their sliceofthepie,historianslikeMortonwouldhavetojostleamongscientists, geographers, their new colleagues in anthropology,79 and numerous others and thus had to make sure that their language could accomplish not only the lofty feat of building the nation but the more pragmatic task of writing successfulgrantapplications.AsbothapersuasivetheoristoftheNorthand, like Morton himself, an experienced academic funding entrepreneur, Ole- son was a natural ally.80 Indeed, Morton certainly plannedonOleson’shelp inhisbidtoputthehistorydepartmentatthecenteroftheNorthernnexus, including Oleson in his 1962 plans for a program in Northern Historical 902 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 81. See “Faculty of Graduate Studies and Research proposedCourse Changes for the 1962–63 Calendar,” 2 Feb. 1962, “Calendar Material,New Course Proposals,Etc., 1957–1965,”box 1, collectionA95–26, departmentof history, EDL-UM. 82. W. L. Morton, “TryggviOleson, Scholar,” Winnipeg Free Press, 7 Dec. 1963, file UA 20 004– 047, Office of the President, President’sOriginalFiles, EDL-UM. 83. The quote is from Vincent Massey,first Canadian-borngovernorgeneral and “Honorary President of the CanadianCentenary Council,” speakingat Carleton UniversityConvocation,24 May 1963. See “Awarenessof Canada,”programfor a symposiumheld in Winnipeg, Oct. 1963, “Academic Year, Committee on Meetingsand Reports” file, box 1, collectionA95–26, department of history,Universityof Manitoba,EDL-UM. Studies that he hoped would eventually produce Ph.D.s.81 It is in this insti- tutional context, then, as well as in the context of the historical discourse, that we also must read Morton’s publication of Early Voyages and Northern Approaches. For while Oleson’s narrative supported Morton’s vision of the North as the founding region of an integrated, exceptionalist Canada, this vision itself supported Morton’s more personal ambitions for history as a discipline, a profession, and a component of his own institution. For Oleson, collaboration with Morton promised its own rewards: not onlythetangiblebenefitsofacademicsupportbuttheongoingopportunity to disseminate his views on Viking discovery (and Icelandic originality)to wider and wider audiences of students and readers. While he did not live to see its final results, dying prematurely at fifty-one in 1963, he died com- mitted to this project; for as Morton wrote in Oleson’s obituary, “in his last weeks with us, [. . .] he talked confidently of a book on the Vikings,[which] wouldhavegivenaverydifferentpictureofthoseseafaringsettlersandtrad- ers than do the histories of English and French scholars, derived from the chronicles of terrified monks.”82 Had he lived, one can be certain that Ole- son would have carried out this plan. While his work seems mainly to have been directed at fellow historians, Olesonalsoundoubtedlyrecognizedthattherewasawiderconstituencyfor works that offered answers to questions of identity and that provided le- gitimization for Canadian claims to the North. During the 1950s and 1960s politicians, like historians, seem continuously to have been asking “‘our- selves when we say “I am a Canadian” what do we really mean,’” and his- torians’ fetishizationoftheNorthmatchedapreoccupationwiththeregion among the nation’s political and bureaucratic elite.83 This is certainly true of John Diefenbaker, who represented the North as both “New Frontier” and “national consciousness” and who made northern development a ma- jor campaign issue in 1957 and 1958. For Diefenbaker, as for many others in Canada’s political class, the North represented not only an economic and political bonanza but the mythical soul of Canada. As the former prime minister reflected in his autobiography, he had spent a boyhood dreaming Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 903 84. John G. Diefenbaker, One Canada: Memoir of the Right Honourable John G. Diefenbaker,3 vols. (Toronto,1976), 1:11–17,83–85. Stefánsson’sViking theories are explained in My Life with the Eskimo (1913; New York, 1971). See also Morton, letter to H. H. Saunderson,13 Apr. 1959, in “President: History—Administration”file, box 3, collectionA95–26, departmentof history, EDL- UM. Incidentally,Morton also had contactswith the MinnesotaHistoricalSociety, attendingtheir centenary celebrationsin 1949; see A. H. S. Gillson, letter to Morton, 4 Oct. 1949, box 3, collection A95–26, departmentof history, EDL-UM. 85. On the strategic importanceof the North in the twentieth century, see Shelagh D. Grant, Sovereignty or Security: Government Policy in the Canadian North, 1936–1950 (Vancouver,1988), and Matthew D. Evenden, “Harold Innis, the Arctic Survey, and the Politics of Social Science during the Second World War,” Canadian Historical Review 79 (Mar. 1998): 36–67. 86. See Frank James Tester and Peter Kulchyski, Tammarniit (Mistakes): Inuit Relocation in the Eastern Arctic, 1939–1963 (Vancouver,1994), pp. 320–25. 87. See Oleson, Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632, chaps. 7–12. oftheNorthPole, lookingtoVilhjálmurStefánsson(whohimselfpromoted aversionofVikingdiscoveryonwhichOlesonwoulddrawandwhomMor- ton personally visited in 1959) as a Canadian “hero.”84 Yet Canada’s compelling need for the North was complicated by thefact that its sovereignty over its Arctic territory was not entirelycertain.85 Asthe work of Frank James Tester and Peter Kulchyski has shown, thethreatening cold war presence of significant numbers of American military personnel, combinedwithencroachmentsbyforeignscientistsandthelingeringeffects of a scramble for the Arctic that had left the region littered with the flagsof a half a dozen nations, contributed to a feeling of insecurity that spawned a body of defensive Northern policies. Indeed, Tester and Kulchyski com- pellingly argue that disastrous efforts to relocate Inuit families into the far reaches of the high Arctic in the 1950s, which led to acute hardship and dislocation, were motivated as much by the desire to demonstrate a sov- ereignCanadianpresenceintheregionasbythewishtopromoteInuitwell- being.86 At the same time that it proposed the Vikings as Canada’s progenitors, Oleson’s medieval history provided a remedy for this uncertainty and an in- tellectual justificationforthepoliciesthatresultedfromitontwolevels.First, like Anderson’s place-names, itcircumventedthetangledwebofnineteenth- and twentieth-century discovery claims by suggesting that medieval Ice- landic—Icelandic-Canadian—forays rendered this modern crazy quilt of island-namingand flag-planting a dead issue. Second, justasAndersonhad offered the discovery of a “Viking” corpse as proof that the Norsemen had arrived and persisted in America, Oleson proposed his own body of evi- dence in the form of “white” Eskimos, suggesting that the bestevidencefor Viking discovery (and Canadian sovereignty) lay not in archaeology but genealogy.87 DenyingthatCanada’sVikingdiscoverershadsimplyvanished, Oleson argued that they had fused with the original people of the New World Arctic—the Skraelings of the sagas—whom he classified as the pre- 904 J. M. Mancini / Discovering Viking America 88. The prevailingview is that malnutrition,rather than amalgamationor extermination, spelled the end of the Viking colonies in what is now Canada and Greenland. See, for instance, Robert McGhee, “They Got Here First, But Why Didn’t They Stay?” Canadian Geographic 108 (Aug.–Sept. 1988): 13–21, and David B. Quinn, North America from Earliest Discovery to First Settlements: The Norse Voyages to 1612 (New York, 1977), p. 35. 89. See Oleson, Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632, p. 76. 90. Oleson, Early Voyages and Northern Approaches, 1000–1632, pp. 81, 88. 91. A useful discussionof Northern development in the postwar period, as well as its impact on Aboriginalpeoples, may be found in Peter Clancy, “NorthwestTerritories:Class Politics on the Northern Frontier,” in The Provincial State: Politics in the Provinces and Territories, ed. Keith Brownsey and Michael Howlett (Mississauga,Ont., 1992), pp. 297–322. decessors of the First People met by later European explorers.88 Citing nu- merous accounts of encounters with “white” or “blond” Eskimos in the annals of European exploration, Oleson insisted that the only plausibleex- planation for the disappearance of the Vikings in the Western Hemisphere was that they had literally become part of the Aboriginal population.89 Al- though it is clear that Oleson found race mixing distasteful—akin todeath for the Vikings—he argued that it had been a blessing to the Inuit. This mixture of virile Icelanders and “dirty black dwarfs, some three feet in height,” he argued, owed not only its European racial characteristicsbutall that was worthy of its culture, politics, and religion to its Nordic heritage, even going so far as to claim that “the coiffure of the Eskimos is Icelandic, going back to Germanic times.”90 Aside from the pure appeal of spurious race theory, by the 1960s there were powerfulpoliticalreasonsforembracingsuchaposition.Likehistem- poral claim of Viking “discovery,” Oleson’s genealogicalargumentjustified Canada’sclaimstotheNorthbothbyundercuttingclaimsofrivalEuropean discoverers (who in his history had arrived in the Arctic too latetodiscover the Arctic or its true Others, meeting instead only a Viking rearguard) as well as the Inuit themselves (who were descended from Vikings, just like Olesonhimself,andthuscouldbeexpectedtosharethebountyofNorthern development with their southern cousins). At a time whenthegovernment needed the Inuit in the North to prove its sovereignty—yet their presence posed one of the few potential challenges to Diefenbaker’s “uniquely Ca- nadian dream” of emptying the North of its resources for the benefit of the settler population—91 the idea that the Inuit were no more Aboriginalthan their immigrant neighbors to the south must have seemed appealing in- deed. Although it is not clear that Oleson’s work had a direct impact on pol- iticians, there is evidence that the historical community, at least, was sat- isfied with his very strange account. First, as we have seen, Oleson was able to win over the single most important arbiter of Canadian historical dis- Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 905 92. Morton,“TryggviOleson, Scholar.” 93. See Morton, letter to the dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences, 18 May 1951, box 1, collectionA95–26, EDL-UM. 94. Not the University of Manitoba. 95. See The Norsemen in America/Les Scandinaves en Amérique (1963; Ottawa, 1970). course at the time. At Oleson’s untimely death in late 1963, Morton wrote admiringly that he had made “clear to the worldofscholarship—andtothe people of his own stock—all that the great folk-wandering of the Scandi- navian peoples in the ninth and tenth centuries meant to Europe and to thiscontinentinparticular.”92 It is infactquitepossible,even,thatMorton’s own formulation of Northernness, asexpressedinhisCanadianIdentity,was forged in his relationship with Oleson; after all, by the time Morton wrote that book, the two men had been colleagues and allies fortenyears.93 Indeed, Oleson seems to have succeeded in planting the seeds of a minor Viking obsessioninMorton’sbrain,evidencednotonlybyMorton’spublishedand editorial work but by what leaked out onto the paperwork during dull de- partmental meetings (fig. 10). Beyond personal influence, the publication of Early Voyages inMorton’s series gained Oleson something else: long-term access to Canada’s univer- sity libraries and to its students. Nearly forty years after Oleson’s death, a perusalofone suchlibrary94 turnedupnofewerthanfivecopiesofthebook on the shelves. Perhaps more disturbingly, the narrative gainedanother,par- allel set of lives when the Canadian Historical Association printed a con- densed, but substantively similar version of his theory in its familiar, orange-covered primer series, as Historical Booklet #14, The Norsemen in America/LesScandinavesenAmérique(figs.11–12).95 Thispamphlet,likeother tracts in the series, was distributed throughout schools and universities, where it was quite improbably still in use in classrooms as late as the 1980s (and may yet find its way today). Thus, there is no doubt that Oleson’s fantasy of disappearance, like An- derson’s discovery narrative, was successful. Unlike most historical works, nottomentionimmigrantnationalistpedagogies, itclearedthegatekeepers who controlled access to academic publishing and reachedat leasttwogen- erations of students. In the end, this success suggests that those immigrant authors who succeeded in making the Vikings part of New World history succeeded precisely because of the compromises they made. Just as “the appropriation of a dominant language [. . .] and the shift of dominant po- etics towards the standards of a minority or post-colonialpeoplearepotent means of realigning power structures in a shared cultural field and of as- serting an independent world-view,” Scandinavian-Americans’ appropri- figure 10.W. L. Morton, “Sub-Committeeof the Honours Committee,”“Honours Committee” file, box 2, coll. A95–26, EDL-UM. Critical Inquiry / Summer 2002 907 figure 11.“The Norsemen in America.”From The Norsemen in America, p. 23. figure 12.“Les Scandinavesen Amérique.” From Les Scandinaves en Amérique, p. 24. 96. MariaTymoczko,“Post-colonialWriting and LiteraryTranslation,”in Post-colonial Translation: Theory and Practice,ed. Susan Bassnettand Harish Trivedi (London, 1999), p. 35. ation of North American English as the language of immigrant literature and their shifting of a dominant pedagogy towards the standards of a mi- nority marked a significantplayforsovereignty.96 Althoughtherewereclear limits to this strategy, in significant ways both Anderson and Olesonfound a successful way to negotiate the path between assimilation and resistance that leads to immigrant autonomy. 
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work_ncnyimopvbbqrcasdxm2sr7gb4	----	Research on Aging, Volume 28, Number 6, November 2006, p. 730-748 730 Long-Standing Nonkin Relationships of Older Adults in the Netherlands and the United States Jenny de Jong Gierveld Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, the Netherlands Netherlands Interdisciplinary Demographic Institute The Hague, the Netherlands Daniel Perlman University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada The main research questions of this study were (1) How long have adults in the Netherlands and the United States known members of their nonkin net- works? (2) What are the predictors of long-standing nonkin relationships? and (3) Which predictors are recognizable in both societies? The data came from the NESTOR-LSN survey (3,229 adults aged 55 to 89 years in the Netherlands) and from the Northern California Community Study (n = 1,050, with 225 respondents aged 55 to 91 years in the United States). In both countries, the duration of nonkin relationships was related to the absence of network- disturbing variables (e.g., the number of years since the last move), network- sustaining variables (e.g., distance to nonkin), and other network properties (e.g., homogeneity). Nationally based differences were also observed (e.g., hav- ing a car was related to stable relationships only in the United States, and the spe- cial integrative functions of exclusive friendships were elicited only in Europe). Keywords: social integration; cross-cultural; duration; nonkin relationships Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Yes’m, old friends is always best, ’less you can catch a new one that’s fit to make an old one out of. —Sarah Orne Jewett Long-standing nonkin relationships, with their built-in convergence of experiences, can supply individuals with ties for ongoing integration in Research on Aging Volume 28 Number 6 November 2006 730-748 © 2006 Sage Publications 10.1177/0164027506291873 http://roa.sagepub.com hosted at http://online.sagepub.com de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 731 society and can be enduring avenues for avoiding and alleviating loneliness. It is in the areas of reducing tension, socialization, and integration, includ- ing the reaffirmation of an individual’s personal worth, that friendship and, to a certain extent, long-term relationships with neighbors can play the most significant role (Cantor 1979). Kin relationships can only partially compensate for the absence of long-term relationships with friends, neigh- bors, and other nonkin. Older adults characterized by only kin relations are reported to be lonelier than older adults with varied social networks of kin and nonkin relationships (Dykstra 1990). This underlines the salience of nonkin relationships for older adults’ well-being. Background Classical Conceptual Perspectives At least three classical views of personal relationships bear on the issue of relationship duration. First, Kahn and Antonucci (1980), in introducing the concept of a person’s life-course convoy of supportive relationships, differentiated between the size, connectedness, stability, and duration of memberships in the convoy. People who change roles (e.g., by passing through phases of life) will face the disappearance of members of the con- voy who were role dependent. Sooner or later, they will be replaced by oth- ers (new neighbors, new colleagues). The inner circle of the convoy consists primarily of stable, highly valued relationships that persist despite occupational or geographical changes. An old friend who now lives far away and is seen only rarely may nevertheless be the person to whom one turns in a crisis (Kahn and Antonucci 1980). Weiss (1974) is a leading proponent of attachment theory, a second clas- sical perspective for understanding relationships. He believes that there are Authors’ Note: Part of the data for this study were collected in the context of the research program Living Arrangements and Social Networks of Older Adults. This research program is conducted at the Department of Sociology and Social Gerontology, and the Department of Social Research Methodology at Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, and the Netherlands Interdisciplinary Demographic Institute in the Hague. The research is supported by a program grant from the Netherlands Program for Research on Ageing, funded by the Ministry of Education, Culture and Sciences and the Ministry of Health, Welfare, and Sports. Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to Jenny de Jong Gierveld, Netherlands Interdisciplinary Demographic Institute, P.O. Box 11650, 2502 AR, The Hague, the Netherlands; e-mail: gierveld@nidi.nl. different provisions of relationships (e.g., attachment, a sense of worth), each associated with a specific type and duration of relationships. Weiss argues that from nonkin, we can obtain the guidance we need during stress- ful situations. Litwak and Szelenyi (1969) provided a third classical perspective: the structural-functional approach. They argued that each type of relationship has its own areas in which it can serve our needs better than others. For short-term emergencies, in-town or nearby family members and neighbors play the most important role. Litwak and Szelenyi saw friends as valuable for intermediate-length problems. Friendships are bound together by posi- tive affect and by tasks that require the closest manifest agreement and moderately long-term involvement. Weiss (1974), as well as Kahn and Antonucci (1980), largely ignored cultural variations in their analyses. The structural-functional approach, however, sees societies as having structures and functions that need to mesh together and that may change over time. Cultural Differences Between the Netherlands and the United States Since the mid-20th century, a series of noteworthy sociological and jour- nalistic books, including The Lonely Crowd (Riesman, Glazer, and Denney 1950), The Pursuit of Loneliness (Slater 1970), and Bowling Alone (Putnam 2000), have examined the nature of U.S. society with special reference to the social relationships of its members. Harking back to the view of de Tocqueville (1835/2004), people living in the United States may form rela- tionships readily: “Two Americans are at once friends simply because they are Americans.” Yet a key, recurring theme among the aforementioned 20th- century authors has been the unfulfilling, often ephemeral, nature of social lives in the United States. Social analysts have implicated geographical mobility, inner-city high-rise buildings, commuting times, and the compet- itive nature of society as possible factors leading to this state. Johnson and Mullins (1987) and Rifkin (2004) suggested that individu- alistic communities, such as the ones in North America, are less oriented toward social integration than communities in Europe. Rokach et al. (2001) depicted social relationships in North America as oriented toward individual achievement and impersonal relationships. Social relationships in European countries have been shown to be oriented toward social integration and social support (Van Tilburg et al. 1998). Consistent with the differing views of social life in the United States and various European countries, residents 732 Research on Aging of the United States are more prone to loneliness than people living in the Netherlands (Brehm et al. 2002:402). Even the way people define friendship varies. Adams, Blieszner, and de Vries (2000) found that U.S. adults were more apt to see it as involv- ing shared activities, whereas Canadians emphasized affective bonds. Thus, many relationships qualify as friendships in the United States. In contrast, in Western European societies, friendship appears to be defined in a more restrictive manner, with a greater discrimination being made between friendships involving intimate ties and more casual acquaintances (Höllinger and Haller 1990). The importance attached to friends and other nonkin rela- tionships may differ. In Litwak and Szelenyi’s (1969) data, Hungarians were 50% more likely to believe that they could get short-term help from neighbors than were Americans. This raises the possibility that neighbors are more important in the nonkin networks of Europeans than in those of Americans. Thus, a picture emerges of U.S. men and women being more emotionally independent and preferring less demanding relationships, whereas European men and women are presumed to build more reciprocally dependent rela- tionships, including many with neighbors. Although these differences have seldom been the focal point of studies, country differences in orientation toward social integration and the duration of long-standing nonkin rela- tionships must be taken into consideration. Earlier Work on Long-Standing Relationships Here, the interest is in the duration of relationships with nonkin network members. Long-standing friendships tend to be rated more positively than newly formed friendships (Mendelson and Aboud 1999), and, at least among residents of one retirement community, old friends are loved more than new ones (Shea, Thompson, and Blieszner 1988). Ferrand and Mournier (1996) indicated that “friendships formed in childhood or youth, have a high chance of lasting if the partners enjoy a degree of convergence in the course of their respective life-cycles” (p. 286). Schutz (1967) con- ceptualized these lifelong bonds as consociates: In growing older together, people are supposed to partake of each other’s inner time. Empirical evi- dence shows that the longevity of bonds is determined by personal factors on one hand (Geers, Reilley, and Dember 1998) and external constraints, such as geographical mobility, entering and leaving a position in the labor market (de Jong Gierveld and Dykstra 1993), and starting or ending partner relationships (Morgan, Neal, and Carder 1996) on the other. de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 733 Several longitudinal surveys have investigated the extent of stability in social networks. Examples include the study of Morgan et al. (1996) among recently widowed women; a 10-year panel study among women who returned to school in midlife (Suitor and Keeton 1997); two investigations 10 years apart of residents of Toronto (Wellman et al. 1997); a three-wave, 4-year longitudinal study among older adult men and women (Van Tilburg 1998); and the three-wave study by Van Duijn, Van Busschbach, and Snijders (1999) that included four subgroups: retired men, women expecting their first babies, people who had recently moved, and randomly selected com- munity members. Each of the studies concluded that some network members are likely to be named in every elicitation of the network. The “persistent core” (Suitor, Wellman, and Morgan 1997) of the convoy encompasses “ascribed” relationships within the family and kinship and “acquired” rela- tionships with friends, neighbors, and others. Men and women in the oldest age groups report older social networks and fewer proximal social relationships than younger people (Ajrouch, Blandon, and Antonucci 2005). Not surprisingly, as people age, the dura- tion of their relationships has been shown to increase, but in general, it does so at a slower pace than the increase in age (Ferrand and Mounier 1996). Laumann (1973) found that ethnoreligious homogeneity was associated with having known friends longer. He reported that the density of a network (e.g., how many of one’s network members have relationships with one another) is linked to having bonds of longer duration. Some researchers argue that more highly educated people have a higher chance of short-lived nonkin relationships because of their increased likelihood of mobility; other researchers, however, contend that more highly educated people have a higher chance of sustaining nonkin ties because they have resources for travel and modern communication. Klein Ikkink and Van Tilburg (1999) reported that the higher the socioeconomic status of an older adult, the more of a chance there is of relationships continuing. Klein Ikkink and Van Tilburg (1999) and Van Duijn et al. (1999) reported no effect on the dura- tion of other relationships of either living with or without a spouse or partner. Some authors (Ferrand and Mounier 1996) have mentioned that women more frequently renew their network members than men do; other researchers have reported no gender differences in the duration of nonkin relationships (Klein Ikkink and Van Tilburg 1999; Van Duijn et al. 1999). Treiman (1985) showed that women’s nonkin relationships are more likely to be interrupted because of moves caused by their partners’ careers. Antonucci (1994) argued that women have better interpersonal skills than men and therefore are more likely to have longer duration nonkin relationships. Monsour 734 Research on Aging de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 735 (2002) identified numerous social and structural barriers to cross-sex rela- tionships in adulthood and old age, suggesting that such relationships are both less common and less likely to endure than same-sex ties. Hypotheses Because stable network members outside the circle of family members have seldom been the focal point of studies, our aim was to explore the characteristics of nonkin network members. The first question we asked was, To what extent are (older) adults inte- grated in important nonkin relationships, and what are the descriptive char- acteristics, including duration, of these relationships? Our second research question was, What are key predictors of long-standing, important nonkin relationships? Attention was directed to network-disturbing (climbing the social ladder, moving to another place, divorce, and becoming widowed) and network-sustaining (having more nonkin network members at a short dis- tance, having a car) factors, as well as other characteristics of a network (size, proportion of kin and nonkin, age and gender homogeneity), and of the older adults themselves. The third question addressed which of these predictors are central in the two societies. We expected U.S. relationships to be more tran- sient and European relationships to be more enduring. Given the mobility and the sprawling nature of many U.S. communities, we expected that people living in the United States would need to travel longer distances to main- tain contacts with network members, compared with Europeans. Finally, we expected U.S. compared with Dutch respondents to report higher proportions of their network members as being friends. We summarize our expectations as follows: 1. The core of a personal network will encompass the most highly valued network members: first, family and other kin and second, nonkin. 2. Although friends are associated with long-term involvement and shared histories, neighbors’ functioning is connected to changes in living situa- tions. Consequently, we expected the mean duration of friendships to be longer than relationships with neighbors. 3. The mean duration of nonkin relationships will be related to age and the age and gender homogeneity of a network. Moreover, nonkin relationships will be more long-standing when people are supported with network- sustaining factors and not confronted with network-disturbing factors. 4. Respondents from the United States, compared with respondents from the Netherlands, will report (a) higher proportions of friends in their core net- works, (b) shorter mean durations for their nonkin relationships, and (c) a higher proclivity to travel long distances to meet with nonkin relationships. 736 Research on Aging Data and Methods Samples Large-scale studies of the duration of relationships are rare. We were for- tunate to have two such studies that are comparable, asking very similar ques- tions of U.S. and Dutch respondents. The studies were done at different times and involved different cohorts of adults. Given that individualization, with its attention to broader ranges of human bonds than the family, started earlier in the United States, it is good to compare an older U.S. survey (1977) with a later Dutch survey (1992) rather than comparing both countries in the 1990s. Dutch respondents. This study used data from the Dutch NESTOR–Living Arrangements and Social Networks survey (Knipscheer et al. 1995). In 1992, face-to-face interviews were conducted with 4,494 respondents, constituting a stratified random sample, selected from the registers of 11 municipalities, of men and women aged 55 to 89 years. The response rate was 62%. The sample can be considered representative of the older popu- lation of the Netherlands. American respondents. The Northern California Community Survey (Fischer 1982), conducted in 1977, included 1,050 randomly selected adults aged 16 to 91 years. The sample was drawn from communities vary- ing in size, but towns under 2,500 in size were excluded. Interviews were completed with 75.8% of the eligible respondents. The sample was gener- ally representative of the population on key demographic characteristics. For this study to be comparable with the Dutch sample, we selected respon- dents aged 55 years and older (n = 225). Measures In the NESTOR study, the key question for constructing the dependent variable was “How many years have you known . . .?” A comparable question was asked in the U.S. study. Given the response, the average length of time that respondents had known nonkin members was computed. The studies had several background variables in common: educational level, measured in years of education (range = 5 to 17 for the United States; range = 5 to 18 for the Netherlands), and marital status. Network identification. To delineate respondents’ social networks in the NESTOR survey, the following question was asked: “Name the persons with whom you are in touch regularly and who are important to you.” Network members were classified as partners, children, siblings, other rel- atives, neighbors, friends, and other nonkin. In the next step, a maximum of 12 network members per respondent were selected for in-depth investi- gation, prioritizing the network members with whom the respondents had the most frequent contact. Basic information about the top 12 network members included their relationships to respondents, gender, ages, marital status, length of time known, and distances from respondents. This article is based on the 3,229 respondents who had at least 1 nonkin network member named in the top 12. In the northern California study (Fischer 1982:145), interviewers elicited the names of key network members via six question sequences that pertained to visiting or going out socially, discussing hobbies, discussing personal matters, giving advice, lending money, and watching the house. An illustrative sequence is “Sometimes people get together with others to talk about hobbies or interests they have in common. Do you ever do that? (If yes): Whom do you usually do this with?” After interviewers had lists of each respondent’s network members, they picked the first name given in response to each question, excluding household members, until they had a maximum-sized set of five. These five network members were classified as relatives, friends, neighbors, or others. The number of respondents aged 55 years and older with complete information was 222. Other network characteristics. A small number of years since the latest move served as an indicator of a network-disturbing variable. The California study had multiple measures of mobility, and a change in living unit was used; we calculated years lived in the current location. Network- sustaining variables in both studies included the availability of a vehicle (in the household), the proportion of nonkin living within 5 minutes’ traveling distance, and the proportion nonkin at more than 60 minutes’ distance. General network characteristics included the total size of the network, the proportion nonkin as related to total size, the proportion of friends and the proportion of neighbors among the top nonkin members, as well as the mean frequency of contacts with nonkin. The frequency indicator in the NESTOR study ranged from one (never) to eight (daily contact). In the northern California study the scale ranged from one (less than once a year) to seven (more than once a week). Homogeneity between the respondents and network members was described through mean age deviation and the proportion of same-sex relationships. de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 737 738 Research on Aging Key Findings Demographic and Network Characteristics of Respondents Table 1 presents characteristics of the samples used. The social integra- tion of older adults is represented in the characteristics of the top nomina- tions of the social networks. The proportion of nonkin among the top nominations was 42% for Dutch respondents and 66% for U.S. respondents. So, both kin and nonkin were important components of the respondents’ net- works. Among the nonkin, the percentages who were friends were 22% for Dutch respondents and 56% for U.S. respondents. So, the U.S. respondents reported higher proportions of their nonkin network members as being friends, as hypothesized. The percentage of neighbors among nonkin was about 40% for both countries. The mean frequency of contacts with nonkin was twice per month for U.S. respondents and four times per month for Dutch respondents. Older adults had long-standing relationships. The mean duration of friendships was longer by roughly 50% than the mean duration of neighbor relationships. This finding held across both nations. Network homogeneity. The mean age difference between respondents and nonkin top nomination network members (friends, neighbors, col- league volunteers), was about 12 years, in both the Netherlands and the United States. As explored more fully in a related article (Uhlenberg and de Jong Gierveld 2004), this age difference between respondents and nonkin network members is usually larger for older than for younger respondents. The proportion of same-sex relationships out of all the nonkin relation- ships, the second indicator of network homogeneity, exceeded the propor- tion of cross-sex relationships: 68% of the Dutch respondents’ and 69% of the U.S. respondents’ nonkin relationships were same sex, and 32% of the Dutch respondents’ and 31% of the U.S. respondents’ nonkin relationships were cross sex. Again, the trend was the same in both countries. Network-sustaining and network-disturbing variables. Many nonkin lived within a 5- or 60-minute commute and had fairly frequent contact with the respondents, more than twice a month. The percentage ever divorced among older adults was much higher in the United States than in the Netherlands. The percentage of widowed older adults was more or less comparable in both countries. Table 1 illustrates some cultural differences between the two samples: U.S. respondents less frequently lived in large cities, had more years of de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 739 education, were more frequently church members, had moved to new loca- tions more recently, and were more likely to have access to cars than was the case for Dutch respondents. There were cultural differences in network composition, too: Dutch respondents had a noticeably higher proportion of kin among the top nominations in their networks. Among the nonkin, the Dutch respondents had lower proportions of friends. Dutch respondents had larger proportions of their nonkin network members who lived within a five-minute distance. The mean duration of nonkin relationships in the Netherlands was longer than those of U.S. nonkin relationships. These find- ings held for friends as well as for neighbors. Table 1 Demographic and Network Characteristics of Dutch and U.S. Respondents Aged 55 Years and Older (means and percentages) The Netherlands United States Variable (n = 3,229) (n = 222) Background characteristics Mean age 71.7 66.3 Proportion living in large cities 53.1 36.4 Mean years of education 8.8 12.4 Proportion church members 62.6 87.1 Network disturbing Proportion divorced 4.8 12.5 Proportion widowed 29.5 26.2 Proportion never married 6.3 4.0 Mean years since last move 19.3 13.3a Network sustaining Proportion with car in household 55.6 74.7 Proportion of nonkin within 5 minutes’ 56.1 33.7 traveling distance Proportion of nonkin more than 60 minutes’ 7.3 4.2 traveling distance away Characteristics of top-nominations Propotion nonkin in top nominations 41.8 65.8 Proportion friends in nonkin 22.0 56.0 Proportion neighbors in nonkin 41.5 40 Mean frequency of contacts with nonkin Weekly 1 per 1 to 2 weeks Mean years of friendships 28.5 18.0 Mean years of neighborships 18.4 13.0 Network homogeneity Mean years of age deviation re nonkin 12.0 11.9 Proportion same-sex nonkin 68.0 69.0 a. Years interpolated. 740 Research on Aging Multivariate Analysis The results of a hierarchical regression analysis for the Netherlands and the United States are shown in Table 2. Controlling for age and sex, we found that respondents who did not live in large cities in the Netherlands, and those who did live in large cities in northern California, as well as those with low levels of education (model 1) were more likely than others to have longer durations of nonkin relationships. Adding network-disturbing and network-sustaining variables to the equation (model 2) increased our abil- ity to predict the duration of nonkin relationships from 4% to 17% for the Dutch sample and from 4% to 31% for the U.S. sample. The divorced and widowed older adults were characterized by shorter mean durations of the nonkin relationships (significant in the Netherlands, not significant in the United States). Being never married was significantly related to duration in the United States but not in the Netherlands. Those who continued to live in a particular place had a higher likelihood of long nonkin durations than older adults who had moved recently, both in the Netherlands and in the United States. Duration was negatively associated with the proportion of nonkin network members within 5 minutes’ traveling distance (significant for older adults in the Netherlands, not significant for older adults in the United States) and positively related to the proportion of relationships at travel distances of more than 60 minutes (significant in the Netherlands, not significant in the United States), indicating that long-standing nonkin rela- tionships had successfully survived the moving of one of the relationship partners to another place. Additionally, having a car was associated with longer durations of nonkin relationships (significant in the United States, not significant in the Netherlands). Apparently, those with cars in the United States are better able to continue contacts with nonkin after moving. The characteristics of the top nominations in the social network, included in model 3, increased the explained variance to 29% for the Netherlands and 36% for the United States. More friends among the nonkin as well as less frequent contacts with nonkin were indicators that increased our predictability of longer durations of nonkin relationships. Density among network members (e.g., how many of one’s network members had relationships with one another) was associated with longer average durations of nonkin network relationships in the United States. The age homogeneity of the network members was associated with longer durations of nonkin relationships (significant for the Dutch respondents, not significant for the U.S. respondents). This finding is consistent with the idea that “old” friends, originating from young adulthood, and student days in particular, are long-standing friends because the relationships are grounded in shared T ab le 2 O u tc om es o f H ie ra rc h ic al R eg re ss io n A n al ys is o n D u ra ti on o f N on k in R el at io n sh ip s in t h e T op N et w or k N om in at io n s (t h e N et h er la n d s n = 3 ,2 29 , U n it ed S ta te s n = 2 22 ) T he N et he rl an ds U ni te d S ta te s V ar ia bl e M od el 1 ( β) M od el 2 ( β) M od el 3 ( β) M od el 1 ( β) M od el 2 ( β) M od el 3 ( β) (C on st an t) A ge o n da y of i nt er vi ew .1 4* ** .1 8* ** .2 3* ** .0 7 –. 01 .0 2 S ex ( m al e/ fe m al e) –. 04 * –. 01 –. 07 ** * –. 14 * –. 11 † –. 16 * L iv in g in l ar ge c it ie s –. 12 ** * –. 13 ** * –. 11 ** * .1 9* * .1 1† .1 2* E du ca ti on i n ye ar s –. 04 ** –. 07 ** * –. 06 ** * –. 07 –. 17 ** –. 13 * C hu rc h m em be rs hi p .0 1 .0 2 .0 1 –. 06 –. 12 * –. 08 N et w or k di st ur bi ng E ve r di vo rc ed –. 08 ** * –. 05 ** .0 2 –. 00 E ve r w id ow ed –. 05 * –. 03 –. 06 –. 08 N ev er m ar ri ed .0 0 .0 4* .1 7* * .1 3* Y ea rs s in ce l as t m ov e .2 9* ** .3 1* ** .4 9* ** .4 7* ** N et w or k su st ai ni ng C ar i n ho us eh ol d .0 4 .0 2 .1 3* .0 8 P ro po rt io n no nk in w it hi n –. 13 ** * .0 1 –. 06 –. 05 5 m in ut es ’ tr av el in g di st an ce P ro po rt io n no nk in m or e th an .1 4* ** .0 7* ** .0 9 .0 9 60 m in ut es ’ tr av el in g di st an ce a w ay (c o n ti n u ed ) 741 T ab le 2 ( co n ti n u ed ) T he N et he rl an ds U ni te d S ta te s V ar ia bl e M od el 1 ( β) M od el 2 ( β) M od el 3 ( β) M od el 1 ( β) M od el 2 ( β) M od el 3 ( β) T op -n om in at io ns T ot al n et w or k si ze .0 2 .0 6 P ro po rt io n no nk in –. 10 ** * .0 2 P ro po rt io n fr ie nd s in n on ki n .1 4* ** .2 8* P ro po rt io n ne ig hb or s in n on ki n –. 05 * .2 4* F re qu en cy o f co nt ac ts w it h no nk in –. 14 ** * –. 10 D en si ty — .2 1* ** N et w or k ho m og en ei ty A ge d ev ia ti on –. 26 ** * –. 09 P ro po rt io n sa m e- se x no nk in .0 5* * .0 3 A dj us te d R 2 .0 4 .1 7 .2 9 .0 4 .3 1 .3 6 N ot e: D as h in di ca te s no d at a av ai la bl e. *p < . 05 . ** p < . 01 . ** *p < . 00 1. † p < . 10 . 742 life histories. Another interesting finding in model 3 is that it was especially the same-sex, nonkin relationships that were an important factor behind long-term durations (significant in the Netherlands, not significant in the United States). In this model, never-married older adults in both countries were characterized by a significantly higher likelihood of maintaining long- standing nonkin relationships. This is in line with the findings of Wagner, Schütze, and Lang (1999) that singles are most likely to mention long- standing friendships in their networks. Comparing the results for the Netherlands and the United States, some cultural contrasts are worth noting. The first is the association between community size and the average duration of the nonkin relationships (neg- ative in the Netherlands but positive in the United States). This difference masks a curvilinear relationship between community size and the duration of nonkin relationships in the United States whereby suburbanites in medium-sized communities had relationships of short duration. In both countries, however, residents of small communities had long-duration nonkin relationships. The second difference is that owning an automobile was associated with longer durations of nonkin relationships in the United States but not in the Netherlands. The third contrast is that the network composition in terms of kin and various subcategories of nonkin had dif- ferent consequences in the Netherlands and in the United States for the duration of nonkin relationships. For instance, the proportion of neighbors in the Netherlands was modestly related to having a shorter average dura- tion of the network of nonkin, whereas in the United States, the proportion of neighbors was related to longer average durations of nonkin relation- ships. Although this finding is somewhat surprising, in the United States, having numerous neighbors in one’s network is associated with residential stability, which gives a chance for these relationships to continue for long periods. Discussion Networks, Duration, and Social Embeddedness The size and composition of a social network is directly affected by important transitions during the life course and depends also on the dura- tion of a given life phase. This research investigated differences in durations of nonkin relationships, insofar as important personal relationships (top nominations) are concerned. The durations of important relationships are de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 743 affected by the norms and standards of the society in which one is involved. Differences between North America and Europe were expected, on the basis of contrasts in orientation toward individual achievement compared with an emphasis on continuing social integration and a hesitation to rebuild a network of friends and other nonkin, respectively. Support for the Hypotheses The outcomes indicate that nonkin are named as important network members in both settings. Nonkin form a minority of all members in the core of Dutch respondents’ networks, but the share of nonkin is neverthe- less over 40%. In the northern California data set, nonkin outnumbered kin as network members. In the United States, friends in particular are a higher proportion of nonkin relationships than in Europe. However, in both coun- tries, pathways to social integration encompass long-standing intimate friendships with less than weekly contacts: “sleeping contacts,” but con- tacts that are definitively activated when help is needed. The duration of bonds with nonkin differs between friends and other nonkin in both countries, as expected. The mean duration of friendships among older Dutch adults proved to be more than 28 years, a good basis for shared histories. The mean duration of contacts with neighbors named as important network members proved to be 18 years. The comparable figures for older adults in the United States were 18 years for friends and 13 years for neighbors. We interpret these findings as supportive for the long-term integration of adults. The level of education is inversely related to the duration of nonkin rela- tionships. This finding is consistent with the statement that highly educated people have a greater chance of the discontinuation of nonkin relationships because of higher mobility. The network-disturbing factors worked as hypothesized: Moving to another place or having been confronted with divorce or widowhood decreased the mean duration of one’s nonkin rela- tionships, be it significantly or not significantly (Wellman et al. 1997). Apparently, the impact of changes in marital and partner status on the dura- tion of relationships with nonkin is more pronounced in the Netherlands, where divorce is considerably less common (Brehm et al. 2002:372) than in the United States. In the domain of the network-sustaining factors, the availability of a car in the household proved to be more decisive for the respondents in the United States than for the adults in the Netherlands. The fine-tuned public transport systems in Europe compared to the more car- oriented standards in the United States might be important factors behind 744 Research on Aging this difference. Moreover, a lower frequency of contacts and a small age deviation between respondents and nonkin network members increases the likelihood of long-standing relationships in both samples (significant in the Netherlands, not significant in the United States). This research has pointed out that many aspects of the functioning of the convoy are parallel in both regions. Friendships and neighbors are important to adults, on the basis of the varying functions of both types of relationships. Adults who manage to build personal networks including long-standing rela- tionships with friends, neighbors, and others enhance their personal integra- tion in society (see also Thomése, Van Tilburg, and Knipscheer 2003). Building such ties seems to ensure the social cohesion and structural embeddedness (Feld 1997) of younger and older adults. Do national differences on predictor variables explain national duration differences? On key predictors of duration (e.g., moving to a new resi- dence), the Dutch and U.S. respondents differ. The older age, greater geo- graphical stability, and lower educational levels of the Dutch may partially explain why they have longer lasting nonkin relationships. One exception to this pattern is that having a car, a duration-sustaining factor, is more common in the United States, where relationships are of shorter duration. Of the forces leading to the longer duration of nonkin relations, however, having an automobile accounts for only a small part of the variance. Methodological Issues Differences in the methodology and samples across the two studies may confuse the interpretation of outcomes. The relatively small number of older adults aged 55 years and older in the U.S. sample reduced the gener- alizability of the findings and the power of the statistical analysis. Yet the methodological differences between the two studies also have a positive side: They give greater confidence in the robustness of the findings. In the future, obviously, it would be desirable to have a single, multinational study designed primarily to investigate duration. Moreover, both studies relied on cross-sectional research. So, the set of network members investigated can only be referred to as a personal net- work drawn from a larger “underlying network.” Some of the network members drawn will not be found at other points in time, as they become inactive. In this study, we concentrated on the core of most frequently con- tacted network members. In doing so, we had a certain guarantee that this core would consist of the closest of the important long-standing ties. de Jong Gierveld, Perlman / Nonkin Relationships 745 746 Research on Aging Implications for Policies and Programs The number of years since one’s last move is a strong correlate of rela- tionship duration. Policies might minimize the impact of such moves. Programs that help people maintain contacts following moves would be helpful. At the meso-level, the persistence of relationships may be pro- moted, for example, by class reunions and veterans getting together. In the Netherlands, reduced bus fares in nonpeak hours help people living in dif- ferent areas maintain their ties. To sum up, in response to our three questions, we conclude that (1) most older adults have inner cores of nonkin network members of long-standing duration; (2) many factors contribute to the duration of nonkin relation- ships, chief among them years since people last moved; and (3) many pre- dictors of the duration of nonkin relationships operate in a similar manner in both the United States and the Netherlands, but a few culture-specific associations were found (e.g., the greater importance of cars in the United States). 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Jenny de Jong Gierveld is a professor emeritus in the Faculty of Social Sciences, Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and an honorary fellow of the Netherlands Interdisciplinary Demographic Institute, the Hague. Her research interests include demo- graphic aspects of aging populations and the relationship between living arrangements, part- ner relationships, familial embeddedness, and the loneliness of older adults. Daniel Perlman is a professor of family studies at the University of British Columbia. He is trained in social psychology. His research interests have focused on close relationships, includ- ing such topics as loneliness, intimacy, and problematic aspects of relationships. 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work_nj43wlkjyfcrjjidlm7sl6pte4	----	When Readers Become Fans 99 0026-3079/2012/5201-099$2.50/0 American Studies, 52:1 (2012): 99-122 99 When Readers Become Fans: Nineteenth-Century American Poetry as a Fan Activity David Haven Blake Poetry Fans In his autobiography Random Memories (1922), Ernest Longfellow re- counted life with his famous father, the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ernest was a painter of modest reputation, and he filled his memoir with stories about the overseas travels that had played such an important role in his art. But to most readers, the memoir’s real appeal was its portrait of life inside Craigie House, the Cambridge mansion the Longfellow family had owned since 1843. Ernest devotes special attention to his father’s acquaintances, treating readers to brief, at times amusing, sketches of his many prominent visitors. We learn about such steadfast family friends as Charles Sumner, Louis Agassiz, and Oliver Wendell Holmes. We learn about visits from the Prince of Wales, the Hungarian revolutionary Lajos Kossuth, and the violinist Ole Bull. Ernest pays tribute to the actress Fanny Kemble and fondly recalls her compassion when as a boy he suffered from a stomachache. Not all of the portraits are admiring. Anthony Trollope comes off as tedious, loud-mouthed, and boastful. The humorist Bret Harte seemed so lost and dis- oriented that Ernest had to guide him back to his hotel. Considered to be among the closest of Longfellow’s friends, James Russell Lowell was capable of being extraordinarily gauche and inexplicably snubbed the family after Henry’s death. 100 David Haven Blake Not only was the actress Sarah Bernhardt a guest, Ernest tells us, but she was rumored to have kissed his widowed father during her visit (E. Longfellow 20-47). But whatever ambivalence the son felt about these celebrity friends, Ernest was far more impatient with the demands that public life made on his father. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow experienced celebrity like no other American writer before Mark Twain. By 1857, he had sold a staggering 326,258 books, a figure that would grow dramatically in the next decades (Calhoun 198-99). Even more significantly, however, Longfellow’s works were known among large segments of the population that traditionally would not have considered buy- ing a book of verse. His poems were memorized, imitated, and parodied until they became part of the culture at large. The Hutchinson Family singers turned Longfellow’s poem “Excelsior” into one of their most rousing and popular an- thems. The circus performer Dan Rice named his trick horse after the poem in a bid to capture a middle-class audience (Carlyon 237-39). After the Civil War, “Excelsior” would become a staple of schoolroom recitations and appear in advertisements for everything from a New York insurance company to a Mas- sachusetts clothing store (Sorby 1-34; Irmscher 61-66).1 There were beautiful, illustrated copies of Evangeline and touring theater groups that performed The Song of Hiawatha in native costume. As Ernest reminds us, Longfellow was one of the United States’ leading citizens, a poet whose reputation and accomplishments made him a favorite among other notables and celebrities. What particularly interests me, however, is the considerable power Longfellow’s fame exerted over private individuals. Amid the visits from glittering actresses and princes, the poet inspired thousands of men and women who thought of him with such enthusiasm that they believed his fame granted them a kind of personal accessibility. By the end of his life, Longfellow had received letters from over 6,200 correspondents, a number that does not include the more than 1,300 requests for autographs (Irmscher 24). With a combination of responsibility and resignation, he shouldered this fame stoically. He seems to have written a personal response to every request that came to him, a generosity, one friend believed, that contributed to his death (Irmscher 24, 36).2 Longfellow was hardly an intimate poet, and on at least one occasion he with- held a poem from publication because he deemed it too revealing (Calhoun 230). And yet, thousands of people wanted to connect with Longfellow personally, as if his fame were less the stature granted to a gifted individual than the web of relationships he owed to his followers. Longfellow’s fame highlights the puzzling intersection between poetry and fandom in the middle of the nineteenth century. We tend to regard nineteenth-century celebrity as a largely public phe- nomenon, one that involved the gathering of crowds and the performance of personality. There is ample material to warrant such a belief—from Edwin For- rest triumphantly appearing as the Indian warrior Metamora to the delight of his working-class admirers to Adah Isaacs Menken scandalizing male and female audiences with her exotic sexuality in Mazeppa.3 But amid all the accounts of Jenny Lind, Bayard Taylor, and Henry Ward Beecher, Ernest’s anecdotes remind When Readers Become Fans 101 us that the culture of celebrity emerged as a domestic phenomenon as well, one that stretched into the parlors, libraries, and diaries of the middle class home.4 In nineteenth-century poetry, scholars have an especially good subject for shift- ing their attention from the collective experience of fame to its personal impact. Crossing the threshold between public and private life, poetry allows us to see the rise of celebrity as a cumulative process, a singular achievement that thousands of dispersed individuals bestowed on poets both together and apart. Richard Schickel has used the term “intimate stranger” to characterize the personal relationship fans think they have with stars. According to Schickel, celebrities and their handlers cultivate an “illusion of intimacy,” for they see it as being crucial to maintaining a following (4). To those of us accustomed to this illusion of intimacy in its innumerable twenty-first century forms, Ernest’s stories tend to have a familiar trajectory. In their subtle, strategic way, they open the doors to Craigie House and raise the window shades. The son hears about Bernhardt’s stolen kiss and commits it to memory, to the site at which cultural gossip overlaps with family history. He tells the tale from the heights of Parnas- sus for a public eager to know how the gods and muses behave. But what of the hundreds of strangers who contacted Longfellow directly, the men and women who wanted to connect the private man with the poet on the page? These men and women played a major role in creating nineteenth-century literary celebrity. In recent years scholars such as Thomas Baker and Charles Ponce de Leon have suggested that the construction of intimacy was vital to the growth of nineteenth-century celebrity culture, for it was intimacy that reading audiences especially liked to consume (Baker 44-45; Ponce de Leon 29-34). Longfellow’s fans not only welcomed the intimacy they found in newspapers, magazines, novels, memoirs, and poems, but they performed that intimacy as well. Although more commonly associated with individualism, celebrity is, as Longfellow’s followers demonstrate, a collaborative form of identity, one that resides with fans as much as it does unique personalities. I want to use this essay to reflect on the questions and, indeed, opportuni- ties that nineteenth-century poetry fans raise for scholars of literature, cultural studies, and media. The most prominent scholars of fandom have traditionally avoided literary topics in their quest to elevate popular culture. Committed to reversing what many regard as “invidious cultural hierarchies,” they have fo- cused on the fan communities surrounding television shows, movies, and popular music (Pearson 99-100). Scholars such as Cornel Sandvoss have demonstrated the ways in which fan studies can benefit from literary theory, but there is still widespread belief that literary readers are so immersed in systems of privilege and aesthetic value that they would largely be irrelevant to cultural studies. However, as Lawrence Levine explained nearly two decades ago, many nineteenth-century Americans viewed literature as part of popular culture rather than the refuge of the elite.5 This was particularly the case for poetry, which readers encountered in advertisements, newspapers, broadsides, commercial pamphlets, and magazines. Poetry played a prominent role in middle-class life, and publishers worked to 102 David Haven Blake market their books to a wide range of consumers. In 1878, for example, a reader could purchase a book of Longfellow’s poems for as little as fifteen cents or as much as ten dollars (Irmscher 57). Poetry’s ability to express class aspirations, self-reflection, and pious domesticity helped extend it deep into the population, producing followers for such poets as Martin Tupper and Lydia Sigourney.6 In the nineteenth-century United States, poetry was an extraordinarily pervasive cultural form, one that could include elements of artistry, spiritualism, promo- tion, humor, history, melodrama, socio-political commentary, and entertainment. Thinking about readers as fans is equally valuable to the task of develop- ing a social history of poetry.7 Yopie Prins has challenged scholars to develop an historical poetics that examines how cultures have perceived genre across an array of time periods. Rather than assuming that genres are transhistorical, transcultural phenomena, she urges us to recognize their “cultural specificity.” The history of genre occurs alongside “shifts in the production and circulation of poetry” so that, for example, our conceptions of both “the lyric” and prosody are embedded in material history (Prins 233-34). I want to take Prins’ challenge in a different direction by arguing that the rise of celebrity and fandom in the antebel- lum United States created an important shift in the culture of nineteenth-century poetry. Such a view requires us to expand our inquiries beyond the production, distribution, and theorizing of poems to acknowledge the myriad ways in which poetry was consumed. As publishers began to realize the commercial power of fame, they increasingly emphasized an author’s background and personality. One consequence of this development was that learning about poets and reading poetry could take place under the sign of celebrity. My discussion explores a small but fascinating subset of individuals who claimed such intimacy with the poets who attracted them that they breached the conventional distance separating public figures from their fans. Longfellow was especially vulnerable to encroachments on his privacy, and as his son’s memoir tells us, countless visitors came to greet the poet at his Cambridge home. Craigie House had been the former headquarters of General Washington during the Revolutionary War, and Longfellow was deemed a wor- thy keeper of that heritage, a poet who had the gravitas of a national institution. Pictures and engravings of Craigie House appeared in books, magazines, and calendars throughout the country (Irmscher 44). People thought they knew Long- fellow because he was famous, and they felt a claim upon his home because it was in effect a national monument. Longfellow found so many visitors on his doorstep that he began to keep a box of pre-signed autographs on the mantelpiece. As Ernest reflected years later, however, some callers expected more than a signature. “Every person of prominence has queer experiences with cranks and otherwise unintentionally humorous persons. My father was no exception, and indeed suffered more than others, because of his kindness of heart” (E. Longfel- low 81). Ernest describes the “rustic” newlyweds who showed up one afternoon and asked for a tour of his study (82). He tells a story about a gigantic Russian (who turned out to be the anarchist Mikhail Bakunin) who arrived for a visit, When Readers Become Fans 103 accepted an invitation to lunch, and then stayed past eleven that night (82-83). Longfellow had been famously widowed when his wife’s dress caught fire in 1861, and the tragedy became part of his public identity. With good humor, Ernest recounts the story of “the crazy woman” who arrived at Craigie House “with all her baggage and announced that she was married” to the poet and “had come to stay.” The woman was so insistent that she was Longfellow’s wife that the police had to remove her forcibly (84). Figure 1: The entryway to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Craigie House with a view towards the parlor. Note the prominent bust of George Washington. 1910-1920. Courtesy, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, DC. LC-D4-73274. 104 David Haven Blake It would be easy to dismiss this woman on the basis of pathology and re- turn her to the single paragraph she receives in Ernest’s book. But her presence in Longfellow’s hallway, her stubborn conviction that she belongs, insists that we regard her as more than an amusing footnote to literary history. She serves as an emissary from an obscure collection of nineteenth-century women who identified so intensively with Longfellow, Walt Whitman, and Edgar Allan Poe that their responses seem downright bizarre. And yet these responses, at once crazed and devotional, literal and profound, can help us consider how the imagined intimacies of fandom developed alongside—and at times in concert with—mid-century attitudes towards poets and poetry. In recent years, scholars have shown how nineteenth-century poetry encouraged readers to cross class and spatial boundaries, how it helped them navigate issues of sexuality, psychol- ogy, nationalism, politics, race, sympathy, mortality, and faith.8 But of all the public and private thresholds this woman must have crossed on her journey to the halls of Craigie House, perhaps the most momentous was the one separating those who are famous from those who are not. Laden with baggage and personal effects, the faux Mrs. Longfellow impels us to consider the shared histories of nineteenth-century fandom and poetry. In the pages that follow, I explore three instances of fandom in the lives of Longfellow, Whitman, and Poe, and with them, three distinct versions of inti- macy. Whitman and Poe tell us that the emergence of celebrity in the antebellum United States allowed the reading of poetry to become a fan activity. Rather than culminate in a comprehensive thesis or explanatory narrative, this essay explores the benefits of thinking about fandom as a way of reading, a way of approach- ing both the poem and the institution of poetry with intensive personal urgency. One of the pleasures of working with the history of fandom is the complicated evidence it can yield, and scholars might best address this evidence with a range of critical perspectives and theories. Turning to Whitman, the next section asks whether fandom itself provided a model for how to value and read poetry. Performing Whitman’s Intimacy Longfellow was not unique in attracting admirers who transgressed the boundary separating them from stars. Celebrities and their followers have what psychologists describe as a parasocial relationship. Fans may feel that they “know” a star, but they almost always comprehend that that relation exists out- side of any social context. Although they may fantasize about such encounters, they rarely expect to be recognized themselves. In the middle of the nineteenth century, observers were stymied by the men and women who presumed to breach this divide. Jenny Lind’s American tour was threatened by overeager admirers who intruded into her hotel room (Willis 231-33). Lydia Sigourney received roughly two thousand letters a year from admirers asking for literary favors and souvenirs (Sigourney 377). In Letters of Life (1868), Sigourney surveys some of the more outrageous requests: a poem written for a Maine couple to be read When Readers Become Fans 105 at their wedding, an elegy for a boy who “drowned in a barrel of swine’s food,” a poem on the “dog-star Sirius,” and an elegy for an underfed canary (369, 370, 373). By insisting upon their connection to figures such as Sigourney and Lind, fans claimed the right to be recognized, to turn the illusory intimacy at the heart of celebrity culture into a substantially personal bond.9 Figure 2: Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 1855-1865. Courtesy, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, DC. LC-DIG-cwpbh-02747. 106 David Haven Blake This historical context is important in understanding Walt Whitman’s efforts to address his audience with intense familiarity. Depicting them as lovers and camerados (Whitman’s word for comrades), the poet proclaimed that he himself would cure readers of their social estrangement. He was at once responding to the beginnings of celebrity culture and anticipating an illusion that would become one of its most fundamental conventions. Some readers, however, confused the poetic expression of intimacy with the thing itself. After reading the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass, a Hartford woman named Susan Garnet Smith wrote Whitman a highly erotic fan letter in which she offered to bear him a child: Know Walt Whitman that I am a woman! I am not beautiful, but I love you! I am thirty-two years old. I am one of the work- ers of the world. A friend carefully lends me Leaves of Grass for a day. Stealing an hour from labor I take it out for a walk. I do not know what I carry in my arms pressed close to my side and bosom! I feel a strange new sympathy! A mysterious delicious thrill! It is the loving contact of an affinite soul blend- ing harmoniously with mine. I begin to know Walt Whitman. Know Walt Whitman that thou hast a child for me! A noble beautiful perfect manchild. I charge you my love not to give it to another woman. The world demands it! It is not for you and me, is our child, but for the world. My womb is clean and pure. It is ready for thy child my love. . . . . Our boy my love! Do you not already love him? He must be begotten on a mountain top, in the open air. Not in lust, not in mere gratifica- tion of sensual passion, but in holy ennobling pure strong deep glorious passionate broad universal love. (Traubel 312-314) Whitman was shocked by the letter and wrote “?Insane Asylum” on the en- velope. Nearly thirty years later, the presumption of Smith’s letter still bothered him. “Isn’t it crazy?” Whitman asked his friend, Horace Traubel. “No,” Traubel responded, “it’s Leaves of Grass” (Traubel 313). Traubel keenly understood the promise that Whitman made to his readers. The poet had developed an especially hybrid sense of address, one that encour- aged a public of individuals to read him personally. Smith had taken the poet at his word, responding to Leaves of Grass with exuberance and zeal. Her desire to bear Whitman’s child seems a natural, though forward, response to a poet who routinely described himself in erotic terms. In “Song of Myself,” Whitman had boasted of his power to jet “the stuff” of future republics (Complete 73). He had proclaimed that the American poet would “plunge his semitic muscle” into the United States (Complete 23). “Come closer to me, / Push close my lovers and take the best I possess,” he commanded readers in what would eventually be titled “A Song for Occupations.” “Yield closer and closer, and give me the best you possess” (LG 1860 143). The erotic metaphors urge us to regard Leaves of When Readers Become Fans 107 Grass as a man, not a book, insisting that we perform the intimacy they suggest. Smith transformed Whitman’s affective sexuality, seeing it not as a metaphor for reading but as a promised sexual act. Her letter associates poetry with the dissolving of rules and boundaries: she steals an hour from work, she wants to conceive the poet’s child, she hopes to blend with the poet’s soul. Her fandom challenges the distinctions between author, audience, and text. Smith’s desire to make love to Whitman on a mountaintop extended the vision he offered readers in the poem he would later title “Whoever You Are, Holding Me Now in Hand”: But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles around, approach unawares, Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss, For I am the new husband, and I am the new comrade.10 (1860 345) Building off the familiar book/body trope that he had used in earlier editions of Leaves of Grass, Whitman encouraged his audience to read him personally—to allow him to cross the threshold from public poet to husband and friend. After providing the textual foreplay, however, he shrank from the invitation to com- plete the sexual act. The ardency of Smith’s response had even deeper textual roots than Whit- man’s promise of a hilltop kiss. “Whoever You Are” is typical of the Calamus cluster in its portrait of an audience burning to know the poet’s secrets.11 The poet describes his readers as “novitiates,” warning them that their path to find him is so “long and exhausting” that they have little chance of reaching their goal (1860 345). The poem suggests that to read Whitman is to pursue him, to follow him avidly, even fruitlessly, with little hope of reaching their goal. “I will certainly elude you,” he confesses. “Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! / Already you see I have escaped from you” (346). Whitman challenges traditional poetic genres throughout Leaves of Grass, often mixing elements of history, epic, platform address, and personal confession. With its individualized voice, insistent privacy, and interest in psychological exploration, Calamus may be Whitman’s most lyric cluster of poems, though he coyly acknowledges and questions the anonymous audience that seems to overhear him.12 “Whoever You Are,” for example, asserts a coherent “I” and then plays with the possibility of lyric disclosure, erotically asserting a genuine connection and then asking if it is illusory. “I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,” Whitman tells readers. “I am not what you supposed, but far different” (1860 344). Like Ernest Longfellow, Whitman appears to open the window shades on his private life—only to ask whether readers can trust what they see. But while Ernest revealed secrets about his famous father, Whitman 108 David Haven Blake was not famous when he received Smith’s letter. The poem suggested a mode of reading in which the elusive prophet was one step ahead of his love-struck followers. Smith’s response confirmed the role Whitman suggested for readers in inviting them to collaborate on his celebrity. The story of Susan Garnet Smith offers a valuable perspective on genre, fame, and the expectations of intimacy. When compared to other poetic genres, the nineteenth-century lyric received special praise for its ability to arouse in- tense feelings of closeness and devotion in its readers. As Virginia Jackson points out, mid-century poetry was unusually “dependent on the mediating hands of editors and reviewers,” but it was during this period that “an idea of the lyric as ideally unmediated by those hands or those readers began to emerge” (7). Jackson presents this idea as a critical fiction that would unfortunately come to dominate twentieth-century literary scholarship. But the poets themselves were equally responsible for promoting their work as intensely personal and deeply felt. Whitman describes being “chilled with the cold types, cylinder, wet paper” that separated him from his readers (1860 143). Comparing the poem to a blacksmith’s forge, Emily Dickinson dared readers to look inside and see her soul at white heat (Fr401). With their hyper-intensified voice and concentrated emotional power, such poems engage the audience’s sensibilities, asking them to enlarge and, indeed, perform their sympathy with the selves presented on the page. Some poets cultivated lyric intimacy for political purposes. Building on Karen Sanchez-Eppler’s study of women abolitionists, commentators from Janet Gray to Mary Loeffelholz have demonstrated how abolitionist poets used the lyric to convey the dehumanizing effects of slavery by establishing a sense of kinship and familiarity with black families (see Gray 32-59, 84; Loeffelholz 67-93). Mid-century readers gravitated to the intimacy they found in poems. Coaxed to engage emotionally with the speaker (either through reverence, identification, fascination, repulsion, or desire), readers appraised these widely circulated texts by their personal impact. Dickinson described the poem in somatic terms. As she wrote to Thomas Higginson, “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me . . . I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry” (Higginson). Dickinson’s statement is usually presented as a unique window into her own aspirations as a poet, but it can also tell us what she as a reader expected from verse: a poetry that was visceral in impact, emotionally intense, and physically felt. To borrow a phrase from Hans Robert Jauss, the mid-century lyric created for readers a horizon of expectation in which they found themselves momentarily immersed in an intimacy that was secular and sacred, personal and collective, familiar and transformative at the same time. It was no accident that Americans wrote Sigour- ney asking her to copy out her poems by hand or to commemorate the death of their child by writing a poem they would hang by the fireplace (Sigourney 377, 373). Sigourney’s readers found comfort in both her fame and her poetry, and they wrote in the hopes that a personal connection would deepen and legitimize their attachments. They wanted handwritten versions of poems because they, When Readers Become Fans 109 like Whitman, wanted to move beyond the cylinder and wet types, and yet they paradoxically cherished those handwritten poems precisely because Sigourney was a public figure. The poet’s fans wanted a famous poet to bless and articulate the most meaningful moments in their private lives. In the nascent culture of celebrity, Whitman and Smith were novitiates strug- gling to understand the relationship between lyric performance and fan response. Whitman rejected aesthetic approaches to his work, claiming that “No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or as aiming mainly toward art or aestheticism” (Complete 671). And yet, even after he had considerable experience with celebrity, he viewed Smith’s letter as irrational and fanatic, claiming that his fictive persona was never meant to live beyond the page. Just as Whitman could not discern the emergent figure of the fan, Smith struggled to make sense of Leaves of Grass. She felt tremendous sympathy with the book, but like many critics, she did not recognize it as a work of art: “I do not know what I carry in my arms pressed close to my side and bosom!” Smith read Leaves of Grass with a different interpretive apparatus, one in which the voice of Calamus was not a lyric abstraction, but the voice of a charismatic, desire-filled man. Her response confirmed the power of Whitman’s poems even as it underscored the question of how they should be read. According to Marc Jeffreys, it was in the nineteenth century that the lyric began to be “mythologized as the purest and oldest of poetic genres” (197-98). Following recent interrogations of that mythology, Jackson has argued that the elevation of the lyric was responsible for the decline of such mimetic and histori- cal genres as the ballad, satire, and epic, for it posited the lyric as “the one genre indisputably literary and independent of social contingency” (7). Measuring all poems by the lyric, she explains, enforced the idea that poems were self-referential aesthetic objects suspended in space and time (9, 90). As Jackson demonstrates, the practice of lyric reading would develop into a dominant mode of criticism that shifted poetic value from temporality and referentiality to “personal and cultural abstraction” (71). Smith offers an alternative to the twentieth-century scholarship that Jackson describes. Like the professional scholar, she values the lyric, but she displays little interest in literary abstraction and aesthetics. What Smith discovered in Leaves of Grass was an emotional immediacy and sense of mutuality that seemed to bind her life with the poet’s. The qualities that led critics to describe Whitman’s works as being universal and removed from time and place are ironically the same qualities that allowed fans like Smith to read these works as intensely personal and destined especially for them. The poet, of course, did not direct the Calamus poems to Susan Smith, but the open quality of their address encouraged readers to complete the text themselves, to imagine themselves alone on that hilltop receiving the poet’s kiss. Reading as a fan, Smith responded to Whitman’s lyric intimacy by personalizing his voice and rooting it in the specific historical condi- tions in which she consumed Leaves of Grass. In an emergent age of celebrity, she turned his lyric invitation into something powerfully urgent to herself. 110 David Haven Blake Rather than see the lyric as simply the product of intervening editors and PhDs, we might ask why nineteenth-century readers were so fond of the intimacy they found in both celebrity culture and lyric poetry. One wonders whether the lyric’s capacity to summon intimacy helped privilege the genre at a time when the combined forces of industrialization and print capitalism were creating increasingly abstract forms of public life. Perhaps the lyric poem—with its vigorous semblance of selfhood and personality—helped compensate for this dehumanizing structural shift. For fans inclined to seek personal fulfill- ment through public life, poets themselves could accrue a quasi-religious aura, especially if they presented themselves (or had been presented) as distinctive, cultural personalities.13 Nineteenth-century readers enthusiastically welcomed writers such as Fanny Fern and Harriet Beecher Stowe who used the tools of print capitalism to connect emotionally with the public. Smith’s story might lead us to ask whether the lyric poem was especially effective among poetic genres in creating the selfhood and mutuality that so many readers desired. Poe and the Metaphysics of Fan Communities Mid-century poetry in the United States was an art form bordered on one side by Byronism and on the other by the canonization of the Schoolroom Poets, New Englanders such as Longfellow, William Cullen Bryant, James Russell Lowell, and Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose formal, rhyming verse made them favorites in classrooms around the country. In the decades between these somewhat dis- tinct modes of reception, readers viewed poets as conduits into another world, geniuses gifted with a divine or oracular truth. Emerson, Whitman, and Dickinson all subscribed to the notion that poets’ gifts set them apart from their readers. The poet “is a seer,” Whitman wrote in 1855. “He is not one of the chorus” (Complete 10). Noah Porter, the author of an 1871 book titled Books and Reading, offered a similar portrait of the poet’s singularity. The “poet’s genius,” he explained, “impels him to employ a dialect of his own which no man can imitate” (as cited in Rubin 21). In her remarkable study, Songs of Ourselves, Joan Shelley Rubin argues that this emphasis on the poet as both a sage and seer helped affiliate “poetry with the domain of the sacred and esoteric” (24). For centuries, the word “celebrity” had religious connotations, and indeed a number of theorists have traced the growth of celebrity to the decline of religious institutions.14 Celebrities serve secular cultures like Greek gods and goddesses; their stories supply innumerable object lessons in communal principles and values. Chris Rojek has suggested that fans find in celebrity culture the kind of “collective effervescence” that Emile Durkheim saw in religion, “a state of popular excitement, frenzy, even ecstasy” (56-57). Rojek addresses the overtly communal aspects of celebrity and the experience of affirming collective life whether through political rallies, theatrical performances, or sporting events. The analogy to religion may be equally revealing when we turn to the con- ditions of reading poetry in the decades surrounding the Civil War. Nineteenth- When Readers Become Fans 111 century poetry appeared in newspapers, magazines, trade journals, and adver- tisements as well as in scrapbooks, diaries, letters, and commonplace books. The popularity of poetry led Edmund Stedman to claim at the century’s end that poetry led all other forms of American literature between the years 1835 and 1875 (Anthology xix). For many Americans, reading poetry was both a solitary and communal act, one that fused a quest for personal inspiration with devotional practice. In the growing secularism of the United States, poetry often appeared as a special discourse, a mode of expression set off from the prose surrounding it. Men and women read poems at weddings, ceremonies, and funerals. They chiseled lines onto gravestones and monuments commemorating the dead. They put their favorite poems to music and copied out passages into elegantly bound scrapbooks and portfolios containing other cherished thoughts. For some nineteenth-century readers, poetry was especially suited to convey- ing spiritual truths. The popularity of sentimental verse, with its air of religious and domestic piety, has received a good deal of scholarly attention.15 But there were pockets of readers and writers who seized upon the poem as a mechanism for exploring the spirit world. Perhaps the most celebrated of these poets was Edgar Allan Poe. From “Al Aaraaf” to “The City in the Sea,” Poe expressed his fascination with pursuing a spiritual beauty that removed him from the earth. The poet scorned the revelations of science for “treasure in the jewelled skies” (“Sonnet—To Science”). He imagined the dim vales and cloudy woods of fairy land, delighting in the “forms we can’t discover” (“Fairy-land”). He wondered about the shadowy realm of “Eldorado” and the “Out of SPACE – out of TIME” atmosphere of “Dream-Land.” Poe’s speakers pine to sing like the angel Israfel whose lyre casts a spell over the cosmos. To Poe, the poetic imagination continu- ally crossed the threshold of metaphysics and consciousness, striving to usher readers into other realms. In “The Poetic Principle,” he notoriously limited poetry to brief works that achieve the singularly unified, but transient, effect of producing an “elevating excitement” (71). Not only did this definition privilege the lyric, but it strongly suggested that the genre was constituted around its capacity for psychological (and sometimes metaphysical) transport: “A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites by elevating the soul” (71). Poe’s fascination with crossing spiritual boundaries inspired a circle of women poets who, after his death in 1849, claimed that they were communicat- ing with his spirit telepathically. The center of this group was Poe’s former lover Sarah Helen Whitman, though it grew to include such poets as Mary Forest, Lizzie Doten, and Sarah Gould. As Eliza Richards has explained, the group’s mesmeric contact with Poe helped them form a “mystic kinship system” that stretched up and down the Atlantic seaboard (130-31). In poems and letters to each other, the women conveyed the messages Poe had sent them from the spirit world, often adopting key symbols and techniques from his poems. “Pray for me, Helen; Pray for me,” Poe’s spirit told Gould, who reported the message to his former lover, a woman whose eyes he once described as ministering to his benighted soul (see “To Helen”). Multiple messages arrived in the trochaic lines 112 David Haven Blake of “The Raven” in which Poe’s voice seemed both to possess and facilitate the poems of his admirers. With their shared emphases on personality, magnetism, and the real fel- lowship that can arise from phantom intimacies, mesmerism played a crucial role in the growth of celebrity in the United States. Poe had an active interest in mesmerism and its association not only with what we would call hypnosis, but also spiritualism, the occult ability to speak with the dead. He addressed mesmerism in three short stories written in 1844-45. Two of these stories, “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” and “Mesmeric Revelation,” brought Poe considerable attention from readers who thought they were the records of ac- tual scientific experiments (Silverman 230-31, 296). Poe had attracted sizeable crowds as a lecturer, and he was notorious for his biting literary criticism. But the primary site of his feverish fame was New York City and its private salons. At these polished, domestic gatherings, Poe’s wit and charm were on display to an invited group of writers and intellectuals. After “The Raven” appeared in 1845, Poe became an especially feted guest at Anne Lynch’s salons in which he added to his indecorous reputation by carrying on a number of flirtations with married women (Silverman 279-81). Sarah Helen Whitman and her circle of spiritualists ushered Poe’s spirit back into this familiar network of affectionate, feminine bonds. Poe had satirized the coterie aspects of fame in stories such as “Lionizing” and “Nosology,” but after his death, these bonds helped bolster his beleaguered reputation. As fanati- cal as they might seem, Gould, Doten, and Whitman drew themselves into the collaborative performance of Poe’s celebrity. They circulated their paranormal transmissions, reported their contacts in the newspapers, and published the poems that they received from the departed author. As Richards has demonstrated, they created a body of work that was critical both to consolidating Poe’s reputation and building an expanded community of fans. In 1873, the English writer John Ingram initiated a correspondence with Mrs. Whitman that would last until her death in 1878. In his second letter, he included two poems, explaining, “I send these verses to show you how long I have been under the weird influence of Poe” (Miller 10). Sarah Helen Whitman had an especially intimate relationship with Poe, and we would not want to confuse her with the fandom of Susan Garnet Smith and Longfellow’s would-be wife. She had long been interested in mesmerism, and in 1848 she wrote Lynch inquiring whether “Mesmeric Revelation” was true. Lynch arranged an introduction, and the two writers quickly came to regard each other as soul mates (Silverman 348-49). The couple often described their relationship in mesmeric and spiritualist terms as if their attraction could only be explained by a telepathic magnetism. As Poe described it in a twelve-page love letter, he felt a “praeternatural thrill” from Helen’s touch; when her hand rested in his, his “whole soul shook with a tremulous ecstasy” (Silverman 364). Despite their passion, she rejected Poe’s marriage proposal a year before his death, citing the gossip about his weak moral principles (Silverman 366). While interest in spiri- When Readers Become Fans 113 tualism and the paranormal swept across the United States in the 1850s, there was something quite personal in Whitman’s attraction to the practice. In claiming mesmeric communications with Poe, she was actualizing the spiritualistic idiom in which their romance had expressed itself. Whatever qualifiers we might place around Sarah Helen Whitman, it can be illuminating to think about her coterie of friends and poets as a literary fan group. Their collective vision of Poe as an otherworldly source of spiritual and poetic powers is a revealing example of what Henry Jenkins has described as “textual poaching,” a practice in which consumers appropriate cultural products and deploy them for items of their own making. “Media fans,” Jenkins explains, “are consumers who also produce, readers who also write, spectators who also participate” (“Strangers” 208). Poe’s circle of admirers fits many of the criteria Jenkins sees at the heart of fan communities: a distinctive mode of reception (poetic transmissions from the beyond), a particular interpretive community (admirers who recognize the key tropes and symbols embedded in the poet’s psychic communications), and an alternative social community (a predominantly female group defined against a male literary establishment that expressed dis- dain for both them and Poe). Susan Smith found in Leaves of Grass “an affinite soul” and a way to understand the “universal love” she saw encircling the world. Through their shared performance of Poe’s celebrity, these women established their own aesthetic identities. Sarah Gould’s poem “The Serpent Horror” is an especially good example of the creative possibilities of fandom. First published in Asphodels (1860), the poem tells the story of a reluctant female medium who is overtaken by a coiling black snake. In loose but infectious trochees, the poem narrates how this spiritual possession interrupts the speaker’s reverie and fills her with overwhelming dread. In letters and conversation, Gould and Whitman identified this otherworldly serpent as the lost, unsettled Poe: “Still more tightly did he fold me! / Tightly, and more tightly still! / And I had not the strength to hold me / In resistance to his will” (18). As the serpent coils around her, writhing in her heart, the speaker feels that she is “sinking, soaring, flying” in a state that is neither death nor sleep (19). The medium’s vision is so strong that when she turns back to nature, it appears to be crawling with decay: Earth, on which I feared to tread, Seemed a monster, dark and dread, Brooks and rivers, and the ocean, Took a twining, slimy motion; Ay, the clouds above them all, Changed to serpents, great and small. (19) Nathaniel Hawthorne suggested in The Blithedale Romance (1850) that the spiritual transference at the heart of mesmerism expressed itself as a kind of public performance. Hawthorne’s Veiled Lady gains her celebrity by astonishing 114 David Haven Blake Figure 3: Sarah Helen Whitman dressed for a mesmeric experiment in auto- matic writing. Courtesy, John Hay Library, Brown University Library. When Readers Become Fans 115 eager audiences in town after town. The spiritual possession described in “The Serpent Horror” explores celebrity from the perspective of the fan. Just as the serpent seizes the speaker’s body, drawing her into the “subtle cords of sleep,” Poe’s spirit enters the mesmerist Gould, and she herself becomes a Poe-like snake. “‘Oh, ye heavens! I shuddering moan, / I too am a serpent grown’” (19). She hisses and coils in a poem that artfully establishes her own voice in relation to the spirit’s power. The poem echoes “The Raven” to the extent that some might call it derivative, but as Richards has explained, “The Serpent Horror” implicitly questions the poetic value of originality in creating a “doubled-lyric voice” in which the poet becomes the ghost and the ghost a poet (133). In this allegory of fandom, Gould temporarily relinquishes personal control and produces a tormented, divided work about finding herself as a fan and a poet. Gould’s poem exemplifies the intertextuality that scholars have long seen at the heart of fandom.16 “The Serpent Horror” resembles other examples of fan fiction and poetry in combining literary consumption and production at the same time. The poet creates a hybrid text that relies on Poe’s fame but also works to create its own discursive space. The poem’s mesmeric setting implies that Poe wields a subconscious influence over Gould, that fandom is indeed an irrational, haunted state. And yet, in dramatizing her possession, the poet engages in an act of self-creation that gives her an autonomous, albeit networked, sense of aesthetic identity. Jenkins has written that “Fans are poachers who get to keep what they take and use their plundered goods as the foundation for the construction of an alterna- tive cultural community” (Textual Poachers 223). Literary scholars might reflect on Jenkins’ comments as they investigate the important cultural work achieved by nineteenth-century readers who integrated poetry into their communal lives. The circle that gathered around Poe’s spirit kept his reputation alive when the established critics viewed him with contempt. We find similar strains of fandom, mysticism, and self-improvement in the group of men from Bolton, England who supported Walt Whitman’s works in the face of critical neglect.17 If we can regard these groups as fan communities, then what of the people who gathered around literary genres rather than celebrities? Does fan theory help us understand the nineteenth-century students who shared the scrapbooks of verse they had lovingly clipped from newspapers and magazines? And how might we assess the dialogue between the students’ handwritten poems and the printed texts they had pasted on opposing pages? As Ellen Gruber Garvey has suggested, perhaps gleaning is a better metaphor than poaching to describe such activities, for it exchanges a metaphor of violent appropriation for one that recognizes that texts have surplus meanings (Garvey 207-08). “The Serpent Horror” may depict Poe as a metaphysical threat, but the poem implicitly encourages fans to see him as a literary benefactor. Along with their compatriots, Sarah Helen Whitman and Sarah Gould used Poe’s poetry to cross between mystic conceptions of death and the gendered world in which they lived. In elevating Poe’s fame, they developed a method of reading—and writing—that insisted on their own creative personali- 116 David Haven Blake ties. The intimacy they felt during their mesmeric encounters ultimately became the intimacy they produced among themselves. Gender and the Institutionalization of Poetry Next to the robust Susan Smith and the talented Sarah Gould, the faux Mrs. Longfellow seems dowdy, parochial, and confused. In her very anonym- ity, however, she suggests the breadth of Longfellow’s popularity and the role he carved out for verse. We have no records of this woman beyond Ernest’s memoir, and we do not know whether she read Longfellow’s poems at all. But crossing the poet’s threshold and laying claim to his home, she exemplifies the bridge Longfellow created between the nation’s leading authors and the grow- ing middle class. It was an unusual role for him to play. Longfellow possessed tremendous sophistication and learning, but he had little interest in the kinds of public performance that marked Poe’s and Whitman’s careers. In both his verse and social interactions, he tended to deflect attention away from himself, and he shunned the lecture circuit that helped enrich such friends as Holmes, Emerson, and Lowell. Longfellow may have been comfortable writing letters, sitting for portraits, marketing his poems, and meeting fellow dignitaries, but he was reluctant to perform the rites of celebrity that would dominate the United States in the coming century. In many ways, Longfellow reflected the inchoate nature of celebrity culture in the middle of the nineteenth century, a time when there were few precedents guiding the relations between writers and their fans. He rejected the public per- formance of celebrity only to situate that performance at home. As if it could magically reconcile the hazards of public life, Craigie House became the site of Longfellow’s publicity. With his box full of autographs and congenial manners, the poet greeted the public like a benevolent lord. Longfellow’s diary records that he received as many as fourteen visitors a day, and yet he managed to in- tegrate the distractions into his life as the nation’s most prominent citizen-poet. His resilience is particularly impressive. “In the evening numerous callers,” he wrote in his December 19, 1878 diary entry. “Notwithstanding all these interrup- tions I contrived to write a part of ‘Herod’s Banquet’ [for the Divine Tragedy]” (Longfellow Memorial 148). Longfellow came to represent a fusion of patrician eminence, bourgeois domesticity, and the institutionalization of poetry. As Irmscher has pointed out, “For Longfellow, being an author meant being a father,” and readers looked to him as a wise and stable patriarch, a man who presided over poetry as if it were part of his household affairs (76). One of the ironies of Longfellow’s career is that this reputation may actually have encouraged readers to breach his privacy. He had long associated his authorial persona with the domestic labors of raising children. Pictures of his study and family circulated throughout the world in books and cartes-de-visite so that the atmosphere of Craigie House came to play a foundational role in his public image. To cross the threshold into Longfellow’s When Readers Become Fans 117 Figure 4: An undated lithograph of Longfellow in his study, entered into the Library of Congress collections in 1887. Courtesy, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, DC. LC-DIG-pga-01596. study was to enter the mystery and institution of authorship in the United States. It was to understand the charms and curiosities of a poet’s life. Longfellow was a professional author whose work hearkened back to pre-professional times. He built his fame on a collection of attractive emotions and ideas: a nostalgia for the past, a faith in traditional authority, a desire for self-improvement, and a recognition of the family as a source of personal sentiment and national meaning. Longfellow had long appealed to the aspirations of the American middle class, urging his readers to strive for greater and greater accomplishments. Although we know nothing of her reading habits, the faux Mrs. Longfellow in many ways presented herself as the ultimate aspirant, a woman ready to take her place in Craigie House’s established social order. Rather than express newly awakened spiritual or sexual desires, she claimed to be already married to Longfellow, already integrated into his cultured, bourgeois life. When the poet’s friend George Washington Greene asked her to leave the premises, she wanted to know “what right he had to interfere” as if he were intruding in her domestic space. “Get away, you old green snake,” she rebuked him, and as Ernest tells it, “the old man fled” (E. Longfellow 84). Her story underscores the perception that the world of poetry could elevate readers’ lives. “The poem,” Theodor Adorno famously remarked, “is a protest against a social situation that every individual experiences as hostile, alien, cold, op- 118 David Haven Blake pressive” (39-40). Longfellow did not protest social alienation as much as he symbolized poetry’s association with the meaning, sentiment, and stability of the middle class. Poetry became an institution, a vehicle for overcoming social divisions, not through the merger of language and metaphysics, but through the evocation of character, virtue, and refinement. To Longfellow’s fans, poetry meant reading by the fireside to family and friends. As he wrote in the Dedication to The Seaside and the Fireside, “I hope, as no unwelcome guest, / At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, / To have my place reserved among the rest / Nor stand as one unsought or uninvited” (Longfellow Complete 99). Poetry was both the means to social advancement and one of advancement’s most cherished prizes. Reading poetry—or simply following the lives of poets—was the reader’s counter against a hostile social environment. My discussion of Susan Smith, Sarah Gould, Sarah Helen Whitman, and the faux Mrs. Longfellow has been guided by the materials available to me, and it would be a mistake to conclude that fandom was an explicitly female identity. In their own ways, however, each of these stories points to larger questions about the erotic undercurrents in the celebrity-fan relationship: one woman fantasizes about marriage; another pledges to bear a child; another wrestles with the poet in the form of a writhing, rapacious snake. To varying degrees, the cultures of celebrity and mid-century poetry worked together like a braided strand in which each created and reinforced the other’s professions of intimacy. Some might be tempted to dismiss these relationships as insignificant, to see them as symptoms of a patriarchal popular culture that continues to associate the entertainment pref- erences of women with hysteria and frenzy. Fandom, from such a perspective, is rooted in a compulsive irrationality, a fanaticism without volition or insight. I would argue differently. The experience provided an arena for self-determination, a means through which women such as Gould and Smith came to orient their lives and desires. No matter how ecstatic, agonized, or deluded their responses may seem, they created the necessary discursive space to navigate their own identities. Reading as fans provided these women with a path to subjectivity. As the archive opens up, scholars will want to think more about the nineteenth-century men and women who announced themselves to the nation’s leading poets with a list of requests and demands. The relationships these fans imagined often suggested a latent desire to control the public writer and, by extension, lay claim to the public sphere. As if they were democratic patrons, they viewed the famous as friends they could trust, heroes they could admire, and pens they could borrow to commemorate their own lives. Sigourney seems to have attracted an inordinate number of these requests, perhaps because as a woman and an educator, she was more easily accepted into domestic space—or perhaps because male fans found it more appealing to contact—and in one sense possess—female celebrities. Scholars of the nineteenth century have the opportunity to cross the threshold between sociological and literary analysis, to understand the ways in which the When Readers Become Fans 119 intimate registers of fandom both contributed to—and resisted—the institution- alism of poetry. As we continue to research the emergence of different reading practices, we will want to better understand the continuum that links the fireside reader, the industrious student, and the exuberant fan. Central to this activity will be determining how to balance an appreciation for poetry as both a form of art and a form of media. The impact of such work extends beyond the nineteenth- century United States. Exploring the world of fans demonstrates the vibrancy and diversity of poetry, its remarkable capacity to reinvent itself in so many personal, cultural, and historical settings. In The Philosophy of Literary Form, Kenneth Burke declared that poets create “equipment for living,” implying that poems are the means through which poets confront life’s perplexities and risks (61). The history of fandom reminds us that poetry is equally interesting when readers seize upon it as their own crucial equipment. Notes The author wishes to thank Mike Chasar, Eliza Richards, and Heidi Bean for their many help- ful suggestions on this essay. 1. The Hutchinson Family singers were a group of brothers and sisters from New Hampshire who performed at sold-out concerts throughout the United States during the antebellum era. They were frequently heralded for their nativist pride and commitment to both abolition and women’s rights. Originally a huckster and clown, Dan Rice (1823-1900) became one of the wealthiest American circus owners in the 1850s, turning his traveling shows into respectable middle class entertainment. His cultivation of a southern audience during the Civil War led to charges that he was a “secession showman,” but by the end of the 1860s he had largely rehabilitated his reputation by making sub- stantial donations to veteran Union soldiers. On Longfellow’s absorption into schools, see Angela Sorby’s discussion in Schoolroom Poets. Christoph Irmscher discusses Longfellow’s popularity in his revelatory study Longfellow Redux, a work to which I am enthusiastically indebted. 2. John Greenleaf Whittier believed that the incessant demands of correspondence contributed to Longfellow’s death. 3. Edwin Forrest (1806-1872) was a charismatic American actor who was especially celebrated by the Bowery B’hoys of lower Manhattan. A lifelong Democrat and fierce defender of American nationalism, he created a rivalry with the English actor James Macready that helped ignite the As- tor Place Riot of 1849. Adah Isaacs Menken (1835-1868) was an actress of uncertain origin who was largely touted as the United States’ first sex symbol, appearing (as she did in Mazeppa) in a skin-colored costume to audiences throughout the United States and Europe. On the rise of celebrity culture in the antebellum period, see Blake, 21-58; on Adah Isaacs Menken, see Sentilles. 4. One of the stars of the lyceum circuit, the poet and adventurer Bayard Taylor (1825-1878) chronicled his extensive international travels in a series of highly popular newspaper columns and best-selling books. 5. See Levine’s discussion of Shakespeare in nineteenth-century America in Highbrow/ Lowbrow, 11-81. 6. Martin Tupper (1810-1889) was an English poet whose Proverbial Philosophy was one of the best-selling poetry books in the United States during the middle of the nineteenth century. His popularity resulted in invitations to the White House and friendships with some of the nation’s most influential families. Lydia H. Sigourney (1791-1865), the “sweet singer of Hartford,” published her first book of poems anonymously in 1815. By the 1840s, she had abandoned her anonymity and become one of the nation’s most famous writers, renowned for her ideas about education, abolition, and, most of all, her religiously themed elegies. 7. My interest in the “social history of poetry” echoes David D. Hall’s “social history of culture,” a phrase he uses throughout Cultures of Print, 1. 8. See, for example, the readers Ceniza and Robertson describe in their respective works on Whitman. 9. On Lind’s intruders, see Willis, 231-33. On parasocial relationships, see Giles, 126-42 and Leets, de Becker, and Giles, 102-23. 120 David Haven Blake 10. I quote from the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass, the text Smith must have read. For the reader’s convenience, however, I refer to the poem by the title, “Whoever You Are Now Holding Me in Hand,” that Whitman gave it in 1867. 11. For a discussion of how Calamus creates the sensation of public intimacy, see Blake, 145-73. 12. On the history of equating the lyric with overhearing, see Jackson’s discussion of John Stuart Mill, 129-33. 13. My comments here echo Walter Benjamin’s discussion of movie stars in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”: “The film responds to the shriveling of the aura with an artificial build-up of the ‘personality’ outside the studio. The cult of the movie star, fostered by the money of the film industry, preserves not the unique aura of the person but the ‘spell of the personality,’ the phony spell of a commodity” (231). 14. Braudy talks about the celebrity as an extension of Christianity throughout The Frenzy of Renown. Gabler in Life: The Movie argues that celebrity is a response to the secularization of society, 173-76. 15. Among many excellent sources, let me highlight two landmark studies: Ann Douglass, The Feminization of American Culture, 240-49 and Lawrence Buell, New England Literary Culture, 107-19. 16. On intertextuality and fandom, see Sandvoss, 23-26. 17. On the Eagle Street College, see Robertson, 198-231. Works Cited Baker, Thomas N. Sentiment and Celebrity: N.P. Willis and the Trials of Literary Fame, New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Print. Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. New York: Schocken Books, 1969. Print. Blake, David Haven. Walt Whitman and the Culture of American Celebrity. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006. Print. Braudy, Leo. The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and Its History. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. Vintage reprint, 1997. Print. Buell, Lawrence. New England Literary Culture: From Revolution through Renaissance. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986. Print. Burke, Kenneth. The Philosophy of Literary Form. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1941. California reprint, 1973. Print. Calhoun, Charles C. Longfellow: A Rediscovered Life. Boston: Beacon Press, 2004. Print. Carlyon, David. Dan Rice: The Most Famous Man You’ve Never Heard Of. New York: Public Affairs, 2001. Print. Ceniza, Sherry. Walt Whitman and 19th-Century Women Reformers. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1998. Print. Dickinson, Emily. The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Ed. R.W. Franklin. 3 Vols. Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1998. Print. Douglas, Ann. The Feminization of American Culture. New York: Avon, 1977. Print. Gabler, Neal. Life: The Movie: How Entertainment Conquered Reality. 1998. New York: Vintage, 2000. Print. Garvey, Ellen Gruber. “Scizzoring and Scrapbooks: Nineteenth-Century Reading, Remaking, and Recirculating.” New Media, 1740-1915. Eds. Lisa Gitleman and Geoffrey B. Pingree. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2004. Print. When Readers Become Fans 121 Giles, David. Illusions of Immortality: A Psychology of Fame and Celebrity. London: Macmillan, 2000. Print. Gould, Sarah. Asphodels. Poems. New York: Rudd & Carleton, 1860. Print. Gray, Janet. Race and Time: American Women’s Poetics from Antislavery to Racial Modernity. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2004. Print. Hall, David D. Cultures of Print: Essays in the History of the Book. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1996. Print. Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. “Emily Dickinson’s Letters.” The Atlantic Monthly/October 1891. Web. 17 April 2011. http://www.theatlantic.com/ unbound/poetry/emilyd/edletter.htm. Irmscher, Christoph. Longfellow Redux. Champagne-Urbana: University of Il- linois Press, 2006. Print. Jackson, Virginia. Dickinson’s Misery: A Theory of Lyric Reading. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005. Print. Jeffreys, Mark. “Ideologies of Lyric: A Problem of Genre in Contemporary An- glophone Poetics.” PMLA 110. 2 (March 1995). 196-205. Print. Jenkins, Henry. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge, 1992. Print. ____________. “‘Strangers No More We Sing’: Filking and the Social Con- struction of the Science Fiction Fan Community.” The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media. Ed. Lisa A. Lewis. New York: Routledge, 1992. Print. Leets, Laura, Gavin de Becker, and Howard Giles, “Fans: Exploring Expressed Motivations for Contacting Celebrities.” Journal of Language and Social Psychology. 14.1-2 (March 1995): 102-123. Print. Levine, Lawrence. Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1990. Print. Loeffelholz, Mary. From School to Salon: Reading Nineteenth-Century American Women’s Poetry. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004. Print. Longfellow, Ernest Wadsworth. Random Memories. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1922. Print. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. The Complete Poetical Works. New York: Houghton and Mifflin, 1903. Print. ___________. Final Memorials of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ed. Samuel Longfellow. Boston: Ticknor and Company, 1887. Print. Miller, John Carl. Poe’s Helen Remembers. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1979. Print. Pearson, Roberta. “Bachies, Bardies, Trekkies, and Sherlockians,” Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World. Eds. Jonathan Gray, Cornel Sandvoss, and C. Lee Harrington. New York: New York University Press, 2007. 98-109. Print. Poe, Edgar Allan. Poe: Essays and Reviews. Ed. Gary Richard Thompson. New York: Library of America, 1984. Print. 122 David Haven Blake ___________. Poe: Poetry and Tales. Ed. Patrick Quinn. New York: Library of America, 1984. Print. Ponce de Leon, Charles L. Self-Exposure: Human-Interest Journalism and the Emergence of Celebrity in America, 1890-1940. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002. Print. Prins, Yopie. “Historical Poetics, Dysprosody, and The Science of English Verse,” PMLA 123. 1 (January 2008): 229-234. Print. Richards, Eliza. Gender and the Poetics of Reception in Poe’s Circle. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Print. Robertson, Michael. Worshipping Walt: The Whitman Disciples. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008. Print. Rojek, Chris. Celebrity. London: Reaktion Books, 2001. Print. Rubin, Joan Shelley. Songs of Ourselves: The Uses of Poetry in America. Cam- bridge, MA: Belknap/Harvard University Press, 2007. Print. Sandvoss, Cornel. “The Death of the Reader? Literary Theory and the Study of Texts in Popular Culture.” Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Medi- ated World. Eds. Jonathan Gray, Cornel Sandvoss, and C. Lee Harrington. New York: New York University Press, 2007: 19-32. Print. Schickel, Richard. Intimate Strangers: The Culture of Celebrity. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1985. Print. Sentilles, Renée M. Performing Menken: Adah Isaacs Menken and the Birth of American Celebrity. New York: Cambridge University Press. 2003. Print. Sigourney, Lydia Howard. Letters of Life. New York: D. Appleton, 1866. Print. Silverman, Kenneth. Edgar A. Poe: Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance. New York: Harper Collins, 1991. Print. Sorby, Angela. Schoolroom Poets: Childhood, Performance, and the Place of American Poetry, 1865-1917. Hanover: University Press of New England, 2005. Print. Stedman, Edmund Clarence. Introduction. An American Anthology. Ed. Edmund Clarence Stedman. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1900. Print. Traubel, Horace. With Walt Whitman in Camden. Vol. 4. Ed. Sculley Bradley, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1953. Print. Whitman, Walt. Complete Poetry and Collected Prose. Ed. Justin Kaplan. New York: Library of America, 1982. Print. ____________. Leaves of Grass: A Facsimile of the 1860 Text. Ed. Roy Harvey Pearce. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1961. Print. Willis, N. Parker. Memoranda of the Life of Jenny Lind. Philadelphia: Robert E. Peterson, 1851. Print. 
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work_nki726wl7vf53mnklhdavch7mq	----	Opportunity, motivation and ability to learn from failures and errors: Review, synthesis, and the way forward. King’s Research Portal DOI: 10.5465/annals.2016.0049 Document Version Peer reviewed version Link to publication record in King's Research Portal Citation for published version (APA): Dahlin, K. B., Chuang, Y., & Roulet, T. J. (2018). Opportunity, motivation and ability to learn from failures and errors: Review, synthesis, and the way forward. Academy of management annals, 12(1), 252-277. https://doi.org/10.5465/annals.2016.0049 Citing this paper Please note that where the full-text provided on King's Research Portal is the Author Accepted Manuscript or Post-Print version this may differ from the final Published version. If citing, it is advised that you check and use the publisher's definitive version for pagination, volume/issue, and date of publication details. 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Download date: 06. Apr. 2021 https://doi.org/10.5465/annals.2016.0049 https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/publications/opportunity-motivation-and-ability-to-learn-from-failures-and-errors(efe80078-ea36-4a8f-95c0-e2d8ae4877d4).html https://doi.org/10.5465/annals.2016.0049 Opportunity, motivation and ability to learn from failures and errors: Review, synthesis, and the way forward. Journal: Academy of Management Annals Manuscript ID ANNALS-2016-0049.R4 Document Type: Article Keywords: Organizational < COGNITION, Team < COGNITION, Organizational < LEARNING, Group < LEARNING, Individual < LEARNING Academy of Management Annals 1 Opportunity, motivation and ability to learn from failures and errors: Review, synthesis and ways to move forward Kristina B. Dahlin*, You-Ta Chuang** & Thomas J. Roulet*** * University of Oxford ** York University *** King’s College London Acknowledgment The authors are grateful for valuable comments and support from Elizabeth George, the editor, as well as from two reviewers. The authors have also benefited from discussions with Joelle Evans, Kristin Bondesson, Linda Argote, Matt Cronin, Ned Welch, Shitij Kapur and any health care worker we encountered while working on the manuscript. Abstract While organizations and individuals tend to focus on learning from success, research has shown that failure can yield crucial insights in various contexts that range from small mistakes and errors, product recalls, accidents, and medical errors, to large-scale disasters. This review of the literature identifies three mechanisms—opportunity, motivation, and ability—through which individuals, groups and organizations learn from failure, and it bridges the gaps between different levels of analysis. Opportunity to learn from failure mostly takes the shape of more information about errors and failures that are generated by one’s own and others’ prior failures or near-failures. Motivation to learn from failure is hindered by punitive leaders and organizations. Finally, ability to learn from failure partly relies on inherent attitudes and characteristics; but can be further developed through thoughtful analysis and transfers of successful routines. Our review leads us to distinguish between erroneous versus correct processes and adverse versus successful outcomes to better understand the full gamut of events that are faced by organizations. We identify the existence of noisy learning environment, where spurious successes (when erroneous processes still lead Page 1 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 2 to successful outcomes) and spurious failures (when correct processes are combined with adverse outcomes) lower the opportunity to learn. Considering noisy learning situations is helpful when understanding the differences between slow- and fast-learning environments. We conclude our review by identifying a number of unexplored areas we hope scholars will address to better our understanding of failure learning. INTRODUCTION Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Individuals and organizations repeatedly confront failures that range from small technical errors and mistakes to product breakdowns to large-scale disasters. Failure can stigmatize individual and organizational reputations, and it can be extremely costly for organizations and society. Failure is also more noticeable than success because negative information is more salient than positive information (Ito, Larsen, Smith & Cacioppo, 1998). As a consequence, individuals and organizations strongly prefer success, which makes learning from failure difficult because both the reporting of errors and other failures as well as the correct analysis and response are risky and emotionally fraught. However, learning from failures is critical for both operational performance and safety—failure learning is necessary for quality improvements and efficiency gains in production processes, and systematic failure reporting and analyses have been key for reductions in transportation accidents and adverse events in hospitals. Because of failure’s significance, the research on the topic spans many fields such as psychology (cf. Ellis & Davidi, 2005; Hofmann & Mark, 2006), organizational studies (cf. Reason, 1997; Zhao & Olivera, 2006), strategic management (cf. Muehlfeld, Sahib, & van Witteloostuijn, 2012), sociology (cf. Perrow, 1999), and health care management (cf. Hoff, Jameson, Hannan, & Flink, 2004; Kohn, Corrigan, Donaldson, 1999). Importantly, failures provide valuable learning opportunities: individuals and organizations modify their practices Page 2 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 3 to prevent similar future failures and to improve performance (Sitkin, 1992). Without examining failure learning, our understanding of success learning is also inherently biased (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Denrell, 2003). Recognizing the potential of failure to improve performance, recent studies on failure have begun to shift their focus from why and how failure occurs in organizations to how individuals and organizations do (or do not) learn from failure. Failure learning has become a distinct area in the organizational learning literature, and it has attracted growing attention from scholars who seek to understand the phenomenon in various contexts such as product recalls (Haunschild & Rhee, 2004), project failure (Shepherd, Patzelt, & Wolfe, 2011), bankruptcies (Kim & Miner, 2007), healthcare errors and incidents (Chuang et al. 2007; Vogus & Sutcliffe, 2007), and accidents (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Haunschild & Sullivan, 2002). The studies on failure learning cover multiple levels of analysis and draw from a variety of theoretical frames to understand how actors do (or do not) learn from failure. While an array of factors that affect failure learning has been identified, there is a lack of systematic integration across levels of analysis and settings; hence, the collective wisdom about how to best learn from failure is limited and fragmented. Importantly, the studies on failure learning borrow much from traditional learning studies, but the links and dissimilarities are not clearly understood. Studies that have attempted to combine success and failure learning lack conclusive findings and theory exploring how these events are related. To that end, there is a greater divide between traditional learning studies and failure learning studies than is currently being theorized. We conduct a review of failure learning studies and synthesize them to better understand the underlying mechanisms that influence failure learning. We apply the framework of opportunity, motivation, and ability to integrate and discuss learning factors at the individual, group, and organizational levels. Specifically, opportunity represents a Page 3 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 4 mechanism that provides information or sufficient time to analyze the cause-effect of failures; motivation captures different actors’ willingness to act on failure information and to engage in failure learning activity; and ability represents actors’ skills or knowledge base to change their actions based on failure information (Argote, 2012; Reinholt, Pedersen & Foss, 2011). Mapping the studies of failure learning at multiple levels of analysis with this framework can generate new insights for future work. We argue that it is important to clearly separate between processes and outcomes and to acknowledge that bad processes do not always lead to failed outcomes and, conversely, that correct processes might still result in failed outcomes. A traditional focus on “successful processes—successful outcomes” versus “failed processes—failed outcomes” overlooks the fact that “successful processes—failed outcomes” and “failed processes—successful outcomes” are common. We call these last two process-outcome combinations spurious failures and spurious successes. When they are common, these combinations produce noise in traditional learning processes that negatively affects opportunity, motivation, and ability to learn. A complete understanding of process-outcome relationships in organizational learning helps to address a fundamental critical question of why we see a systematic decrease in failures in one setting, whereas in another we do not. While the risk of dying in a car accident has diminished by 50% over the last 25 years, and the risk of train accidents has been reduced by 70% (NCSA, 2015; FRA, 2016), the risk of dying from a hospital error has increased by 350% 1 (Binder, 2013; Kohn, Corrigan & Donaldson, 2000). Below, we begin our review by defining failures and failure learning as well as errors and error learning, followed by a review of the failure and error learning literatures at three levels of analysis, clustering mechanisms under the opportunity-motivation-ability headings. We highlight the key constructs and mechanisms that can be identified as influencing learning 1 Part of the increase is due to new definitions and better measurement of preventable hospital errors. The numbers are also challenged; however, overall it is clear that there is little to no improvement, which still demonstrates the contrast with transportation accidents. Page 4 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 5 processes and outcomes. From there, we discuss how the four process-outcome combinations influence the opportunity, motivation, and ability that are associated with failure learning. Finally, synthesizing and assessing the literature as a whole, we identify the research challenges in failure learning and discuss the promising research opportunities that may advance our understanding of failure learning. DEFINING SCOPE: FAILURE, ERRORS, AND FAILURE LEARNING There is a literature on errors and another literature on failures in organizations. They are related, and many of the mechanisms and findings overlap. In fact, they often use the same definition for errors and failures, that they “deviate from expected and desired goals” (Rasmussen, 1982; Reason, 1990; Leape, 1974; Zhao & Olivera, 2003; Sitkin, 1992). The literatures do also differ since errors are incorrectly executed tasks or routines (such as a train engineer who drives a train over the speed limit or a nurse who gives the incorrect medication to a patient), while failures are undesired performance outcomes (a train accident occurring instead of the train getting from point A to point B as planned; a patient who dies after surgery instead of leaving the hospital healthier than before entering it). With regard to errors, they have been classified by Rasmussen (1982) into rule-based errors (breaking a known rule), skill-based errors (making a mistake or forgetting) and knowledge-based errors (not knowing enough). Another error typology is whether the error is action-based or related to decision-making (Lei, Naveh, & Novikov, 2016; Zhao & Olivera, 2006). Nevertheless, not all errors, mistakes or incidents necessarily lead to failure. Some errors and mistakes can even produce positive outcomes, such as the discovery of new organizational processes and innovation, or be too insignificant have any impact on an event’s eventual success or failure (Cannon & Edmondson, 2005). Page 5 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 6 Failures may be caused by a combination of errors such as incorrectly executed routines and tasks, violations, risks, or chance factors (Frese & Keith, 2015; Hofmann & Frese, 2011). It can be avoidable or unavoidable, intentional or unintentional. It can involve human action and organizational processes and arrangements (e.g., Ramanujam & Goodman, 2003; Reason, 1997). We define error and failure learning as the process by which individuals, groups, or organizations identify error or failure events, analyze such events to find their causes, and search for and implement solutions to prevent similar errors or failures in the future. This definition is consistent with the definitions of learning in the organizational learning literature (Argote, 2012). The outcomes of error and failure learning can therefore include changes in understanding (Huber, 1991), behaviors (Chuang & Baum, 2003; Ginsburg et al., 2009; Shepherd, Patzelt, & Wolfe, 2011) or performance improvement (Cannon & Edmondson, 2001; Dahlin & Baum, 2007; Heimbeck, et al., 2003; Zhao, 2011). We aimed to be inclusive, if not exhaustive, in identifying studies on error and failure learning and searched key management, health management and safety journals for relevant studies, focusing mostly but not exclusively on the period from year 2000. All identified articles were sorted by their level(s) of analysis. We reviewed the learning mechanisms in the articles and categorized them according to failure learning triggers, clustering them under three headings: opportunity to learn, motivation to learn, and ability to learn. OPPORTUNITY TO LEARN FROM FAILURE Opportunity to learn refers to the scope of information and the time that allows actors to learn from failure events. Information-based opportunity refers to the amount of information that is available about similar failure events because such events can provide information about failure causes (Argote, 2012). Time-based opportunity refers to the time that is given to Page 6 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 7 actors to reflect upon failure events and to analyze the information that can be derived from the events to learn from them and the time in which to execute an action that is related to a failure learning activity (cf. Carroll, 1963). Information-based opportunities are usually studied by quantifying the amount of available information about similar failure events (number, frequency, recency), information access owing to group composition, organizational members’ networks and information diffusion inside or between organizations. By contrast, time-based opportunity refers to how much time that is available to process information and/or carrying out a task (Carroll, 1963). Information-based learning opportunities are often measured as one’s own or others’ prior experiences with similar failure events (counted as the of number of events or the number of cumulative events in previous time periods) and as how organizational structures and routines influence the diffusion of failure-learning-related information. Experience and its effect on learning are the most common empirical approach, and while this was first studied in production settings that range from classic cases of airplane construction to that of liberty ship builders (Wright 1936; Thompson, 2001) and learning curves, which refers to the idea that cumulative experience affects performance at a decreasing rate, the experience and its effect on learning have come to be applied across levels of analysis, and used across a large number of settings—among them failure learning. Two different processes convert experiences into better performance: learning-by-doing and analytical learning. Learning-by-doing is mostly automatic and tacit, while analytical learning involves active decision-making that uses information about a prior event to reshape future routines (Thomson, 2012; Reason, 1990). Failure learning theories are much more concerned with the active decision-making theory, especially on the individual and group levels, while few organizational learning curve studies separate empirical and theoretically Page 7 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 8 between learning by doing and analytical learning (see Lapré, Mukherjee & Van Wassenhove, 2000; or Sinclair, Klepper & Cohen, 2000 for exceptions). 2 Time-based, or temporal, learning opportunities are concerned with the amount of time that an actor has to execute a routine or to process information about a routine that has gone wrong. Outside of the realm of student learning, relatively few studies have examined temporal mechanisms. Exceptions in failure learning a small number of studies that analyze the impact of workload and slack (Malone et al. 2007; Lawton, et al. 2012) and how the speed of assimilating and analyzing relevant information affects work processes and routines (Edmondson, et al. 2001). In addition, autonomy provides the mental and operational space that can allow individuals to prioritize their tasks, allowing them the time that they need to learn from failure (Kerr, 2009; Stern et al., 2008). Individual and group level opportunities to learn from failure A wide range of studies have examined how information-based and time-based opportunities lead to failure learning. While some learning opportunities lead to automatic reduction of errors and failures, this concerns mainly errors such as slips and mistakes. In contrast knowledge-based errors and failures require more deliberate reflection to reduce the likelihood of repeating them (Iedema et al. 2006). A study examining the effect cardiac surgeons’ prior experience had on learning, demonstrated that past surgery failures improved a surgeon’s future surgery outcomes (KC, Staats, & Gino, 2013). Moreover, other cardiac surgeons’ failures interacted with the surgeon’s own prior failures to further improve the surgeon’s surgery outcomes. In other words, one’s own and others’ failure experiences can have a joint effect on learning: any related failure provides an opportunity to reflect on what 2 Page 8 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 9 has gone wrong and how to improve procedures. Interestingly, the positive interaction effect suggest that information-based experience can have an increasing return on failure learning. Temporal opportunities such as working conditions affect how experiences are converted into lower error rates. Residents with greater work autonomy, that is, they “perceive that they have the freedom and discretion to plan, schedule and carry out their jobs” were found to have higher error reduction (Stern et al., 2008, p. 1554). Task autonomy allowed the residents to reflect on errors and learn from them by making procedural changes. When the organizational climate was such that learning was encouraged, the residents took more time to reflect on work processes and errors and further reduced their own errors, thus, motivation (climate) and opportunity (time) interacted to accelerate learning (ibid.). Teams play an important role in error learning (Edmondson et al. 2001); however, when the environment is ambiguous and changing, team information processing becomes complicated, which hampers learning. Individual and group levels of learning are intertwined as individual characteristics and team composition jointly determine teams’ error reporting (Edmondson, 1996). Good member coordination (Baker et al. 2006) and common goals (Tjosvold, et al. 2004) enable teams to benefit from the full potential of each of their members. In the same way, team stability and work processes enable the group to better process information (Edmondson, 1996). When error information gathering activity is not a part of existing team routines (Lawton, et al. 2012), or the team does not have enough autonomy to allow it to collect critical information (Kerr, 2009), learning might not occur. In other words, having neither established nor improvised ways to gather failure information reduces opportunities to learn from failure experiences. Group characteristics can also influence information-based learning. Group diversity and intergroup linkages are two mechanisms that provide teams with access to a wide range of information which, in turn, reduce failure rates (Chuang, et al., 2007; Tucker & Page 9 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 10 Edmondson, 2003). Member rotation is another way to expose teams to a greater flow of information that can enable them to better analyze problems (Argote & Todorova, 2007). In addition, the time aspect matters here—being exposed to many different but related experiences in a short amount of time benefits learning. Experience also transfers across levels: group-level success experience has been found to help individual-level failure learning, which ultimately benefits the learning rate of the organization as a whole (Zheng et al., 2013). Organization-level opportunity to learn from failure In our review of the literature, it emerged that information-based opportunity is the most studied organizational learning mechanism. To summarize across the organizational opportunity studies: experience matters in most cases and across a wide array of settings; however, it does so somewhat differently in different settings and organizations. The nature of an experience event, its outcome, rareness, and complexity, influence its learning impact. A trend in organizational-level studies is to separate one’s own versus others’ experiences and to focus on in which case one matters more than the other and when (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Chuang & Baum, 2003; Kim & Miner, 2007; Madsen & Desai, 2010; Madsen, Dillon & Tinsley, 2016). Prior failure events provide opportunities to learn. Over time, as many problems are resolved or better managed, we would expect a diminishing return to experience, which yields a learning curve that is similar to that in production learning. In fact, there is rich empirical support that shows that learning curves have a similar shape with regard to failure reduction. Train, mining, and airline accidents have been found to reduce future accident propensity on the industry and firm levels (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Desai, 2016; Madsen, 2009; Haunschild & Rhee, 2004). The failure-reducing effect is strongest for recent accidents (Haunschild, Page 10 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 11 Polidoro & Chandler, 2015), accidents of larger magnitude, which are measured in terms of accident cost and level of injuries (Madsen, 2009), and events of high visibility (Desai, 2011), which are measured in terms of the media scrutiny of the accidents. There are two mechanisms that can induce organizations to learn from highly visible failures: in such cases, the information about causes and remedies is more available; however, the motivation to counteract accidents may also increase when outsiders pay more attention and reputations are at stake. When there is more press attention to an accident or a product recall, organizations invest more in activities that can reduce the risk of future accidents, such as a train line installing new track (Desai, 2011). The effect of recency, that more recent events have greater impact than older events on failure reduction, can also have multiple explanations. For instance, there is the proposition that new routines and practices make past experiences less relevant as time passes, or, as suggested by Haunschild et al. (2015), that an adverse event attracts an organization’s attention and motivates the organization to reduce the risk of future accidents; however, this motivation weakens over time as other important organizational goals take precedence. Complex problems provide a greater opportunity to learn. A notable study supporting the argument that complex challenges trigger faster and more efficient learning is an investigation of British IVF clinics, which demonstrates how opportunity affects learning (Stan & Vermeulen, 2013). The key performance metric of IVF clinics is live births per treatment cycle, and a key aim is to lower the number of failed cycles. Whereas private clinics could choose to accept only patients with good prognoses, which meant fewer failures, public clinics were not allowed to screen patients and therefore had higher failure rates at the start of their activities. However, working with more difficult cases enhanced the information-based learning of the public clinics, and they increased their ability to successfully treat any patient, which resulted in higher learning rates than those of private clinics. Working on complex Page 11 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 12 problems provided greater opportunity to find solutions to difficult problems and led to faster failure reduction across problems. The concept that complex failure situations provide richer information is in line with the finding that airlines learned more from complex accident causes than from simpler ones (Haunschild and Sullivan, 2002) and that this was especially true for specialist airlines. Complex problems offered more venues for learning and counteracted simplified cause-effect analyses (e.g., simplifying failure attributions to factors that are beyond the organization’s control such as patient age in hospital cases or to pilot error in the case of airlines). Whose experiences matter. Not only do failures that are experienced by an individual organization provide opportunities to learn, but the failures that are experienced by other organizations provide information for learning. Airlines learn both from their own and other airlines’ accidents (Haunschild & Sullivan, 2002). Based on the behavioral theory of firm logic, which states that organizations are more likely to look further for better solutions when their peers outperform them, train companies that had more accidents compared to their peers were found to learn more from such peers rather than from their own accidents (Baum & Dahlin, 2007). Ontario nursing home chains learned from both their own and others' businesses with respect to naming their units. The learning effect, or willingness to change was dampened when the chain had followed a strategy for a long time (Chuang & Baum, 2003). Learning from near misses. It is not only failure events that provide information-based opportunities to learn, but such information can also be gleaned from events that are neither purely successful nor wholly failures (Rerup, 2006). Most attention has been given to near misses—when there is almost a failure but there are no direct negative consequences (Kessels-Habraken, et al. 2010). The opportunity to learn from near misses (especially those of others), or what is also known as latent errors (Reason, 1997; Ramanujam, 2003), is only Page 12 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 13 possible if such actions are recorded or easily observed. Kim and Miner (2007) used the ratings of banks to capture whether they were close to failing and found that near failures affected learning more than actual failures did. Building on industry insiders’ quotes, they found that near failures have greater informational content—whereas failed firms disappear from the industry and are forgotten, near failures remain and can tell their story and at the same time they also remind others of their survival. Perhaps more importantly, near failures combine bad performance with remedies for restoring performance after a period of trouble. Rather than telling a story of how to fail, they tell a story of redemption when one is close to failure. The greater informational content of the near failures means that there is a greater opportunity to learn from them. However, the reporting of near-misses and thus the information gathering process is more difficult because of the challenges in defining the scope of such events (Kessels-Habraken, et al. 2010). MOTIVATION TO LEARN FROM FAILURE Motivation is the desire or willingness to act in a certain way and, in the context of error and failure learning, the desire or willingness to invest in reducing adverse event frequency. Motivation to learn from failure therefore refers to the resource levels that are devoted by individuals and organizations to failure learning activity; such resources include attention and operational investments (Kanfer and Ackerman, 1989). Effective learning processes require individuals and organizations to allocate cognitive resources to (i) correctly identify and analyze error and failure causes and (ii) search for and implement solutions that prevent similar errors or failures in the future. Failure learning studies concerning motivation address contextual factors such as safety climate, psychological safety, leadership style and attitudes; cognitive and emotional barriers such as attribution errors (internal versus external); information processing in groups and, for organizational-level studies, factors that trigger Page 13 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 14 motivation such as high visibility events and public attention. Other organization-level motivation triggers include threats to ones’ reputation, social comparisons (doing worse than the competition), the recency of an event, and climate variables. Individual and group level motivation to learn from failure. Most individual-level studies on error and failure learning study motivational factors. In two laboratory studies, using a computer simulation task, Zhao (2011) found a positive association between participants’ self-reported motivation to learn from errors and their actual failure learning. In a field study of an Australian hospital, employees’ safety motivation had a positive effect on their safety participation, which was measured as behaviors that promote a safety-oriented environment (Neal & Griffin, 2006). While individual motivation affects learning behavior in both the lab and inside organizations, organizational factors affect individual motivation to learn from failure. For example, safety climate, which is defined as “perceptions of policies, procedures, and practices related to safety” (Neal & Griffin, 2006; 956), plays an important role in motivating individual learning. Group-level safety promotion is positively associated with individual safety motivation and safety participation in hospitals (Buljac-Samardzic et al., 2012). There are both bottom-up and top-down processes between individuals and groups that help to produce a safety climate (Neal & Griffin, 2006). Group climate has been found to affect both individual motivation and individual behavior, and in a study of 33 organizations, individuals were more likely to report accidents when supervisors enforced safety policies (Probst, 2015). Adding the organizational level of analysis, individual attitudes to safety affects organizational learning by promoting a safety climate at the group level (Zohar & Luria, 2005). Individual safety motivation and engagement in failure learning activities both affect and are affected by group, managerial and organizational attitudes. Page 14 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 15 Motivation to learn from failure is also driven by individuals’ causal attributions concerning failures. In attribution theory, individuals cope with outcomes by making causal attributions to guide their future behaviors (Ilgen and Davis, 2000; Nisbett and Ross, 1980). Causal attribution involves how an individual allocates causes for a certain outcome, which, in turn, influence his or her motivation to learn. Specifically, individuals tend to attribute success to internal causes such as ability and effort, and failure to external causes such as environmental factors and luck (cf. Jones & Harris, 1967). At the same time, individuals often turn this around and attribute others’ successes to external causes and others’ failures to internal causes. Such attributions affect individual motivation to engage in failure learning activity (Chuang et al., 2007; Zhao and Olivera, 2006). Attribution theory helps us to better understand the previously discussed result that surgeons’ cumulative number of successful cardiac procedures had a greater impact on their future success rate than failed procedures had, while other surgeons’ cumulative number of failed procedures significantly helped to improve a cardiac surgeon’s subsequent success rate (KC et al., 2013). One can argue that surgeons attributed the prior successes to their own effort and actions, while the prior failures were attributed to uncontrollable factors. Thus, the surgeons assumed that there was little to learn from own failed procedures. In contrast, other surgeons’ failures were attributed to their efforts and actions, which made the focal surgeon more willing to review and learn from others’ failure causes. In a similar vein, individuals who work in teams attributed failure to actions that are taken by other individual team members rather than by the team when they experience poor team performance in a laboratory setting (Naquin and Tynan, 2003). However, this tendency decreased as subjects’ knowledge of teamwork increased. Another sign that attribution biases can be alleviated is a study in which individuals were better able to make internal attributions after failing in a task when they received after-event reviews that helped them to understand what contributed to their performance (Ellis, Mendel, and Nir, Page 15 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 16 2006). Individuals who made more internal than external attributions improved their performance more. In a study of CEO attributions and organizational performance, Salancik and Meindl (1984) found an even stronger learning effect from internal attributions: when CEOs attributed poor firm performance to internal causes even when the low performance was clearly caused by an external factor, their firms performed better in subsequent periods. Internal attributions are clearly important for behavioral change. Failures often generate strong negative emotions (Paget, 1988) as individuals experience feelings of guilt, embarrassment or fear when they are involved in failures or make errors (Edmondson, 1996; Paget, 1988). Negative emotions prompt individuals to become more risk averse (Loewenstein et al., 2001), affect judgment (Forgas, 1995), and lower engagement in failure learning. In general, failure-induced negative emotions should lower individuals’ motivation to learn. However, in a laboratory study, negative emotions were instead positively associated with the motivation to learn (Zhao, 2011). The author explains this effect by suggesting that the strength of emotions matters, not just whether an emotion is negative, and negative emotion only affects learning above a relatively high threshold. If the strength of emotion matters, the finding that managerial error intolerance increases negative emotions suggests that managers’ attitudes can push staff into non-learning (Keith & Frese, 2005). There are individual differences in the emotional response to failure and individual differences in coping orientations that help to explain the different emotions that are generated by failure as well as differences in the motivation to learn from failure: Individual affective organizational commitment—how loyal they feel towards their organizations— decreased with negative emotions about failure (Shepherd et al., 2011); however, this link between negative emotions and failure was moderated by coping orientations when dealing Page 16 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 17 with failure. Negative emotions also decrease when individuals perceive that failure is a normal occurrence in their work environment (Shepherd et al. 2011). Individuals’ motivation to learn from failure is affected by psychological safety. Not to be confused with safety climate, psychological safety refers to the perception that it is safe to take interpersonal and professional risks in the workplace (Edmonson, 1999; Edmonson and Lei, 2014). Psychological safety has been found to positively influence failure learning by increasing an individual’s motivation to engage in failure learning activity (reporting failures and errors; willingness to discuss possible solutions) because the fear of negative consequences to self-image, status, or career are lower when psychological safety is high (Edmondson, 1996; Tjosvold, et al. 2004). Surveying three firms in the software, electronics and finance industries, Carmeli and Gittell (2009) found that psychological safety was positively associated with failure-based learning behaviors. At the group level, group norms shape learning from failure: compliance with norms motivates individuals to identify and record failures and to act to prevent them (e.g., Katz- Navon et al., 2009; Vogus & Sutcliffe, 2007; Zohar, 2002). When studying groups in different functions in the same organization, sharing the same beliefs about how to cope with failure exerted great influence on failure learning (Cannon & Edmondson, 2001). Information sharing and interpersonal relationships within groups is another key element impacting how motivated teams’ are to learn from failures. Teams with cooperative rather than competitive goals learn more (Tjosvold, et al. 2004). Trust between the members of a team affects learning motivation (Carmeli et al. 2012). Comparing hospitals with similar characteristics but different failure learning rates, Edmondson et al., (2001) found that team member error information sharing affected the learning rate. In a similar fashion, managerial safety practices also affect the motivation to learn—managers who demonstrate that safety is important positively affect error reduction (Katz-Navon et al. 2009). Lack of information Page 17 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 18 sharing depends on the routines, awareness of others’ knowledge and status dynamics within groups: a study found that slower-learning groups had team members that did not bring attention to errors since they assumed, often incorrectly, that other team members are already aware of them (Cannon & Edmondson, 2001; Edmondson, et al. 2001). According to Gersick & Hackman (1990), routines are double-edged swords: on the one hand, they can prevent team members from addressing failure by reducing their motivation to learn because change would upset the routine; however, on the other hand, routines create comfort within a group and lead to a climate where group members are more comfortable sharing what went wrong. A high team workload not only decreases the opportunity to learn, it also considerably reduces team motivation to learn from failure (Lawton et al. 2012), and it may ultimately affect the ability to change because the team might be unaware of the need to improve existing routines (Edmonton, et al. 2001). Team’s ability to manage its workload is also important, and teams that do better at his were found to improve their error rate faster (Lawton, et al. 2012). To reduce errors and failures routines often need replacing, but renewing routines is cumbersome, with preexisting routines being obstacles to change; thus, unless there is a clear rationale for why routines must change, groups are likely to resist change and may even implement defensive strategies with respect to learning processes, for example, by shifting responsibility and finding arguments to defend failing mechanisms (Hodgkinson & Wright, 2002). Workload is a time-dependent opportunity but also impacts motivation to learn since decisions that are made under time pressure may require individuals and groups to focus on a shorter-term horizon (Malone et al. 2007). Organization-level motivation to learn from failure. Page 18 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 19 A majority of the studies on how motivation affects error and failure are conducted in the health care context. There is a very real concern that hospitals are not reducing their error rates and are causing patient harm at a high rate (Leape, 1994; Kohn et al., 2000). The focus is often on how individual motivation to report errors is affected by organizational factors. The problem of non-reporting is high (Zhaou & Olivera, 2006; Ramanujam, 2003), which renders the analysis of error causes incomplete. The reason for an individual to not report an error that he or she made, or which was made by someone close, is often a lack of trust that responsible managers in the organization will conduct proper analyses to determine the true causes. It is a common and simple solution for organizations to blame an error on an individual (Hofmann & Stetzer, 1998; Rathert & May, 2007). The belief that organizations prefer to blame individuals rather than to find organizational causes is supported by data: Perrow (1999) reported that a re-examination of industrial accident causes where 70% to 80% were attributed to operator errors, in contrast found that operators had caused less than half of the accidents they were blamed for, or that 30% to 40% of accidents were caused by operator errors. In line with the tendency to blame the person who is closest to an error, factors that impede error reporting and analysis at the organizational level can be linked to the culture of blaming individuals rather than exploring other error causes (Khatri et al., 2009), ward climate (Lawton et al. 2012), whether health care work units are patient-centered (work is planned around the patient’s needs) (Rathert & May, 2007) and that when greater distance between professional groups in health care reduces the willingness of orderlies and nurses to admit to or discuss errors with doctors (Khatri et al., 2009). Organizational climate is a determinant that trickles down to affect both group and individual-level learning from failure. Motivational factors that have been studied outside health care are different. Based on the behavioral theory of firms, which states that organizations are more motivated to act and Page 19 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 20 change when they perform worse than they did in the past or when they perform worse than their competitors or peers (Cyert & March, 1963), Baum and Dahlin (2007) found that train companies that have higher accident costs than their peers learn faster but mainly from others’ experiences. Learning from others’ and not one’s own experiences might be due to poor failure performance: the organization might need external ideas of how to change behaviors. Another motivation study found that when an automobile manufacturer were forced to recall products and thus its reputation was challenged, the likelihood of future recalls was lowered (Haunschild & Rhee, 2004; Rhee, 2009). The effect in the auto recall case was curvilinear: low- and high-reputation car companies reduced recalls less than companies with medium reputations did. In a study that focused on how motivations change over time, Haunschild et al. (2015) found that a recent failure (in their case, a pharmaceutical product recall) made the organization work to reduce future such events; however, as time passed, other performance metrics, such as profits, reclaimed the organization’s attention and lowered the focus on failure reduction. Some findings on how attention impacts motivation contradict one another. While more media coverage after an accident motivates greater investment in infrastructure for train companies, thus reducing accident risks (Desai, 2011); more media coverage of the near- misses involving air traffic controllers instead reduced the effect of prior near-misses on learning (Desai, 2014). This divergence could be explained by near- misses looking alarming to outsiders since an actual failure (airline accident) would have catastrophic consequences, while organizational members, in contrast, see a near-miss as a success since an error was rectified and a failure was avoided (Kessels-Habraken, et al. 2010; Dillon & Tinsley, 2008) . ABILITY TO LEARN FROM FAILURE Page 20 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 21 Ability to learn from failure concerns the capacity to identify and report failure; understanding failure leads to finding and implementing solutions to prevent future failures. Individual and group level studies are concerned with training, emotional responses, shared goals and managerial style, as well as the interaction between ability and motivation. Organization-level studies rarely measure directly ability but rather conclude that the unobservable variances across units or organizations are due to differences in ability. In health care, where geography makes competition between hospitals less of an issue, checklists are used for the transfer of best practices across units, which raises the ability to learn in organizations. Individual- and group-level ability to learn from failure The question of how to improve individuals’ ability to learn from their errors and failure experiences has led to a series of studies that focus on comparing different training methods and the role of post-event reviews. Keith and Frese (2005) compared error management training, which explicitly addresses individuals who make errors during training and uses these errors as learning exercises and error avoidance training, which instead focuses on preventing participants from making errors. Error management training enhanced individuals’ capacity to cope with, and generate solutions to, new problems. Error management training also led to better emotion control and metacognitive activity, which in turn improved individuals’ ability to cope with new problems. Individual differences interact with training method so that individuals with better cognitive ability and higher openness to experience were found to perform better during error management training than if they had received no training or only training with a focus on error avoidance situations. Error management training not only provides trainees with opportunities to make errors but also to receive informative feedback; overall, these programs increase an individual’s ability to learn from Page 21 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 22 failure. Thus, the ability to learn from failure can be actively developed, and such training is more effective when it is paired with high motivation to learn from failure (Katz-Navon, et al. 2005). A laboratory study on how to enhance individuals’ ability to draw lessons from previous experiences found that after-event reviews of both successful and failed events had a positive impact on individual learning (Ellis and Davidi, 2005). The after-event reviews followed a similar but more extensive process than that of error management training because it also included successful events. While the participants’ mental models of failure events were richer than those of success events, the performance improvements were greater when the after-event reviews focused on both failures and successes. In a follow-up study, any type of after-event review (success, failure or both types of events) was found to lead to better performance compared with no after-event review. Interestingly, for individuals who experienced successful events, the after-event reviews that focused on the failure factors that led to the greatest performance improvements had a greater impact than no reviews, reviews that focused on success factors, or on both success and failure factors (Ellis et al., 2006). Individual differences in how failure is processed has an impact on failure learning. Studying three types of coping orientations: loss, restoration, and oscillation, Shepherd and colleagues (2011) analyzed how these orientations affected (self-reported) learning. Loss orientation refers to the explicitly processing of a failure to break the emotion that is associated with the failure (a failed project). Restoration orientation refers to suppressing feelings of loss and instead proactively focusing on the tasks that arise as a consequence of the failure rather than preventing future failures. An oscillation orientation refers to moving back and forth between loss and restoration orientations. Individuals who have stronger loss and oscillation orientations reported a better ability to learn from previous project failure than those with a restoration orientation. Apparently, the necessary element is the capacity to Page 22 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 23 emotionally disconnect from the failure, which suggests that effective learning involves managing the emotions that are evoked by a failure. An individual’s ability and motivation to learn from failures are affected by emotional states. The ability to learn is enhanced when the environment is emotionally supportive: Individuals must feel comfortable applying their knowledge and acquiring new knowledge to learn from failures. An individual’s perception of psychological safety and the quality of his or her relationships with others in an organization are positively associated with failure learning (Carmeli and Gittell, 2009). High-quality relationships, which are manifested in shared goals, shared knowledge, and mutual respect, not only promote psychological safety but also enhance information processing and coordination capacity, which in turn have positive effects on the capacity to learn from failure. Individuals can also encourage failure learning at the group level with a positive leadership style, which includes clear direction and effective coaching (Cannon & Edmondson, 2001; Katz-Navon et al., 2009): leadership style can motivate learning; however, it also reflects the group’s ability to learn and a leader’s ability to enhance group learning. For example, when a CEO fosters psychological trust in a top management team (between the CEO and the team, and within the team), the team is more likely to engage in failure learning and to produce high quality strategic decisions (Carmeli, et al. 2012). Because individuals in organizations are embedded in groups, studies have stressed teamwork to be an important factor for failure learning (Baker, et al. 2006; Morey, et al. 2002). Many studies of ability involve overlapping and interactive effects between motivation and ability, and some determinants are related to both mechanisms. Efficient teamwork relies on coordination and communication, which can be actively promoted (Baker et al. 2006) using formal training to improve team collaboration (Morey et al. 2002). Ability to foster cooperative goals also triggers failure learning (Tjosvold, et al. 2004). Most ability-type Page 23 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 24 factors can be taught, and they can, in turn, nurture group motivation to learn. Other group- level factors that improve group learning ability are group member stability, understanding of team processes, and training to reduce attribution biases (Buljac-Samardzic, van Woerkom, & Paauwe, 2012; Morey, et al, 2002; Naquin & Tynan, 2003). A process study of of how ability is developed focuses on Israeli fighter crews (Ron, Lippschitz & Popper, 2006). To reduce errors in flight procedures, crews not only relied on their own learning based on flying more missions and thus learning through direct observation and experience; rather, because they knew that subjective perceptions are incomplete and sometimes faulty, given the intensity and massive information processing that is required when piloting a fighter jet, after each mission the entire cadre held a debriefing. In the debriefing crews watched footage from aircraft cameras while talking through their perceptions of what had occurred. The review process allowed them to compare their perceptions with the footage, clearly see how imprecise real-time perceptions are, which helped them to make corrections, and convert subjective experiences to objective ones. The review process and the debriefing are imposed by the organization, it enhanced the teams’ abilities and also increased information-based opportunities since the debriefing sessions provided the crews with additional information. Organization-level ability to learn from failure We found fewer studies on organizational-level ability than on organizational-level opportunity or motivation. A study analyzing failure reduction across clinics that use a new heart surgery method used an indirect measure of clinic ability (Pisano et al., 2001). Carefully establishing that given the same opportunity (cumulative number of procedures, which had a large impact on learning) and motivation, organizations differed in how well they converted experience into higher performance: the 16 clinics in the study demonstrated different Page 24 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 25 learning curve slopes. After ruling out other opportunity-based explanations, the conclusion was that differences across clinics must be due to (unobserved) ability. A paper argues that organizational form, whether an airline is a specialist or generalist, can influence its ability to learn from failure (Haunschild and Sullivan, 2002). Generalists have a more complex organizational structure with the potential to complicate information processing and coordination, which in turn hampers learning. In the airline industry specialists compared to generalists were better able to learn from failures with heterogeneous, that is, more complex causes. Similarly, smaller hospitals (more specialized), compared to large hospitals (more generalists), have been found to engage in more learning behaviors related to major adverse events and near-misses (Ginsburg et al, 2010). More detailed measures of ability demonstrate that ability affects the absolute number of errors as well as the reduction of errors: hospitals achieve faster learning and fewer errors by implementing protocols and checklists developed from best practices across the industry (WHO, 2017; Thornlow & Merwin, 2009; Thomassen et al., 2-13). Checklists were originally introduced in aviation, where they have been partly credited with the rapid decline in accidents (Clay-Williams & Colligan, 2015). Hospitals with patient-centered units were better at processing and reporting errors and near misses, which suggests that the organization of work matters for an organization’s ability to manage failures (Rathert & May, 2007). SYNTHESIS ACROSS LEVELS OF ANALYSIS A large body of literature finds that individuals, groups and organizations learn from prior failure experience. Information opportunities positively affect learning rate. The richer the information, the faster the reduction in errors and failure. Failure experiences generally contain more information than successful experiences (Kim & Miner, 2007). Most successes are “business as usual” contributing to learning by doing and other automatic responses, thus Page 25 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 26 enforcing existing routines. In contrast, failures trigger analyses and have greater potential to improve routines (Stan & Vermuelen, 2013). A lack of routines for error and failure management stops the information from passing through an organization (Gersick & Hackman, 1990; Kim & Miner, 2007). Larger-magnitude, more frequent and salient errors have greater information content and, hence, learning opportunities (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Chuang & Baum, 2003; Madsen, 2009; Desai, 2011). Near misses also provide information about how to recover from a bad situation, which increases opportunities to learn (Kim & Miner, 2007). In general, studies find that “more is better” in regard to information-based learning opportunities; however, we would expect an overload when failures and errors are too frequent (Dahlin & Roulet, 2014). Information overload that leads to limited failure learning can hamper the ability to learn from failure. Accepting frequent errors due to information overload, that is, not learning from them, can also be a sign of low motivation to learn. These two factors—low ability and low motivation to learn—may be difficult to distinguish (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Dahlin & Roulet, 2014). Time-based, or temporal, learning opportunities operate in the same direction and in a similar fashion as information-based learning opportunities: a lower work load leads to fewer errors and failures since work load reduces the time that is available for learning (Malone et al. 2007; Lawton, et al. 2012). Nevertheless, some groups are able to analyze and process information faster, taking advantage of temporal learning opportunities to enhance their future performance (Edmondson, et al. 2001). Whether temporal opportunities can trigger learning also depends on whether individuals in organizations have autonomy to process and reflect on the errors and failures that they encounter (Kerr, 2009; Stern, et al., 2008). To that end, organizational design (e.g., workload, task autonomy) has the potential to lead to latent failure that hampers learning opportunities. Page 26 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 27 Even when opportunity to learn from failure—whether information- or time-based—is high, learning may not occur. While opportunity studies are more concerned with what enables learning, motivation studies focus on why learning does not happen. Conditions under which individuals attribute the causes of errors and failures to other factors, groups attribute the causes of errors and failures to factors other than the group collective, and organizations attribute the causes of errors and failures to individuals rather than organizational factors, reduce the motivation to learn, which leads to low error and failure reporting and lower learning rates (Chuang et al., 2007; Ellis et al., 2006; KC, Staats & Gino, 2013). A cost- benefit model that is proposed by Zhou and Olivera (2006) offers an overarching explanation to this problem: the unbiased reporting of errors is only expected when the perceived reporting cost is low to both an individual and his or her organization, and the perceived benefits for reporting is high to both as well as to any victim(s) who are associated with the errors. All other combinations of costs and benefits distort the motivation to report and what will be reported, which in turn affects the opportunity to learn from failure. In empirical studies, climate or psychological safety can be thought of as a reporting cost. Patient-centered climate (Rathert & May, 2007), low hierarchical distance, non-blaming cultures (Kathri et al. 2009) and high psychological safety (Tjosvold et al. 2004) lead to better reporting and learning. The perception of the benefits to reporting are affected by the same factors; however, this side of the explanation for failure learning is less investigated. On the organizational level, conflicting goals, often safety and profitability, affect the motivation to learn from failure: A recent failure highlights safety goals for employees; however, as time passes, the focus reverts to financial performance metrics (Haunschild et al., 2015). This highlights the risk of taking failure reduction for granted, assuming that learning is irreversible. Unless learning is embedded in physical artifacts (better brakes, a new IT Page 27 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 28 trading system) or it becomes a part of organizational routine, there is always the risk that error and failure rates will reverse. Ability studies show that training programs and after-event analyses can improve individual and group abilities to correctly analyze situations (Keith & Frese, 2005). It is clear that such training is quite common, with checklists being used in different industries, such as aviation and health care, to enhance organizational safety work (Clay-Williams & Colligan, 2015). Integration across mechanisms Most studies focus on one or (at most) two mechanisms, either opportunity, motivation or ability, and we know that they all matter for failure learning. We know less about how the mechanisms affect one another. While some studies have considered moderating effects (KC, et al., 2013; Madsen & Desai, 2010; Shepherd at al., 2011), mediation is more seldom mentioned. If opportunity to learn sets the stage (providing information for failure analysis that can improve routines and failure responses), motivation causes actors to be willing to attend to such information, and ability is the conversion of opportunity into higher performance. What we do not clearly know is how, and whether, these three mechanisms jointly affect failure learning. Theoretical arguments about how to combine the different mechanisms argue for a three-way interaction (Blumberg & Pringle, 1982; Reinholt et al., 2011). However, it may just as well be a moderation-mediation process where the opportunity to learn interacts with the motivation to learn, and such interaction is mediated by the ability to learn, which results in failure learning. The empirical research focuses on one or two of the mechanisms, at most testing two-way interactions (for instance, how ability and motivation jointly determine learning). The notion that reality is complex is illuminated by different findings, some of Page 28 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 29 which find interactions between factors, others of which find that one factor affects learning but is mediated by a second factor. Motivation is thus found to affect ability, but ability also affects motivation (Lawton et al., 2012; Hofman & Stetzer, 1998) with both paths leading to learning. Further, motivation and opportunity jointly lead to learning (Haunschild et al. 2015), opportunity affects ability, which leads to learning (Stan & Vermuelen, 2013) and opportunity and motivation interact to produce learning (Baum & Dahlin, 2007). It is clear that the interplay between the mechanisms is more complex than we originally thought, and this promises many different ways to stimulate failure learning. MOVING BEYOND THE THREE FAILURE LEARNING MECHANISMS The papers in the review section covered both error and failure reduction. While there are many similarities between them, errors and failures are different types of events (Zhao & Olivera, 2006). Errors are mistakes, slips or violations of procedures, and they might or might not lead to an adverse outcome (Rasmusen, 1982; Reason, 1990). Failures are adverse outcomes 3 , such as accidents, unexpected patient deaths or bankruptcies (Tucker & Edmondson, 2003). While reducing errors should reduce failures, in this section we will discuss how these two types of events have a complex relationship; through a better understanding of this relationship, we can also better understand the differences in learning rates. Differentiating process and outcomes When we study failures, that is, adverse outcomes such as product recalls, accidents, bankruptcies or unexpected hospital deaths, we assume that the cause of an adverse outcome is an erroneous process. Correspondingly, when we study traditional learning with successful outcomes, we assume that processes that lead up to the outcomes are correctly executed. 3 We use the terms adverse outcomes, failures and undesirable outcomes interchangeably. Page 29 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 30 Questioning the strong link between the correctness of processes and outcomes, there is an increasing interest in situations in which erroneous processes can still result in good outcomes, such as near-misses (cf. Kim & Miner, 2007) and latent errors (Ramanujam, 2003; Reason, 1990). It is also possible, but rarely discussed, that a correct process can lead to an adverse outcome, such as a patient dying, even after well-executed surgery 4 . We propose that to better understand failure learning we must decouple processes and outcomes, or, more precisely, independently assess whether a process is correctly performed and whether an outcome is desirable. We also argue that different settings have different frequency distributions for the process-outcome pairs and that opportunity, ability and motivation to learn from failures (and successes) depend on this distribution, which explains why lessons in failure learning in one setting can be difficult to translate to another. If we regard processes as either correct or erroneous, and outcomes as successes or failures, we end up with four possible process-outcome combinations (see Table 2). ———————————————————————- TABLE 2 TO BE INSERTED HERE ———————————————————————- Success and failure learning. A correct process with a favorable outcome represents traditional learning in which the outcome motivates actors who continuously improve and/or exploit the process to further enhance the outcome. This is what we expect from production learning curves (box 1 in Table 2). A faulty process with an undesirable outcome represents the “normal” failure learning case—an error is made, which yields a bad result (a train driver falls asleep, ignores a signal, and collides with another train; box 4). The main thrust in success learning is on how to improve existing processes to enhance the number of successful operations per time unit and thus lower the cost per unit produced (Argote, 2012; Yelle, 4 Over time the number of different health interventions has greatly increased, many of which have been directed towards terminally ill patients (Maile, 2012). Page 30 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 31 1979). The main thrust in failure learning is the analysis of how to improve the processes, reduce errors, and thereby lower the risk of failure or reduce the number of failed operations per time unit (or as a share of all operations) (Reason, 1997). The assumption is that box 4 is a good representation of failure situations: if there is a failure outcome, there must be a preceding error. As a consequence, failures should be reduced when errors are reduced, and this approach of error reduction lies behind much successful failure reduction (Reason, 1997; Van Dyck et al. 2005). Similarly, the assumption is that successful outcomes are due to an error-free process. However, there are two other possibilities in the matrix that complicate learning: the off-diagonal combinations where (1) an error has no effect on the outcome, that is, does not lead to a failure (Ramanujam, 2003), or (2) when there is a failure outcome without an error that has been committed (e.g., an “act of God”). The very existence of the off-diagonal combinations weakens the link between a process as being either correct and not, and its outcome as being either successful or not. We label the off-diagonal combinations spurious successes and spurious failures. An increase in spurious events leads to noisier learning processes because the cause-effect analysis becomes more complex, which in turn introduces difficulty in learning from both successes and failures. We expect that both spurious successes and failures complicate learning in general and failure learning in particular. Spurious successes and failures are likely to shift the attention of individuals and organizations away from the “true” causal-effects of failure, making failure learning challenging. Because successes tend to be vastly more common than failures, 5 we failure learning should be more sensitive to the occurrence of spurious events. Spurious success. Not all errors lead to bad outcomes. We expect that both the motivation and ability to learn from an erroneous process is lower when an organization experiences a spurious success, that is, there is no negative outcome (Table 2, box 3). Further Page 31 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 32 lowering learning ability, many process errors are unreported (and sometimes also unobserved) and unreported errors are known as latent errors (cf. Ramanujam, 2013; Reason, 1997). Latent errors can lower failure reduction because a near-failure without an adverse outcome can strengthen an erroneous behavior.. The lower the likelihood that an error will lead to a failure, the more the error is accepted and the lower the motivation to correct the error or to learn from it is (Dillon & Tinsley, 2008; Banja, 2010). The motivation to reduce errors is also compromised because risk perception changes when actors experience errors without negative effects (a train driver falls asleep but wakes up before missing the signal, or, if the driver misses the signal, no other train is on the line, thus, there is no collision—the conclusion is that being tired on the job is not such a dangerous thing). Japanese nuclear firms did not learn from other firms’ errors without adverse outcomes when these errors were similar to non-adverse outcome errors the focal firm had experienced itself (Mitsuhashi, 2012). This suggests that spurious success also lowers the motivation to learn from others’ errors: Knowing that other firms in the industry experience similar errors without adverse consequences signals that these errors pose no real risk and thus require little attention. When latent errors start being accepted by organizational members as not leading to adverse events, we obtain what is called normalization of deviance (Banja, 2010; Vaughan, 1996). Normalization of deviance involves accepting errors and rule breaking. Deliberate rule breaking is usually a dismissal of rules that are considered to be ill-conceived or overly complex. It is a gradual process (Vaughan, 1996) and in the majority of cases, normalized deviance has no negative outcome. Normalized deviance is often exposed after a dramatic failure event leads to patient death (Maxfield, Grenny, Patterson, McMillan, & Switzler, 2005), nuclear meltdown (Dekker, 2011), spectacular trading losses (The Economist, 2014) or the crash of a space shuttle (Vaughan, 1996). Normalized deviance means that there is an implicit or explicit Page 32 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 33 agreement among organizational members to ignore certain safety procedures or regulations. One effect of normalized deviance is that it complicates cause-effect analyses when a failure strikes: it is easy for analysis to focus on the deviance behavior, which might not be the main cause of the failure. After all, some procedures or regulations are probably outdated or ineffectual and ignored for good reasons. In health care, normalized deviance often involves the violation of safety rules that impede work flow and signal a lack of trust in operators (Banja, 2010). Normalized deviance can also come from institutional logics that became dominant over time inside an industry despite their clashing with broader order values and beliefs that lie outside of the industry (Roulet, 2015; Shymko & Roulet, 2017). Despite a weak link between latent errors and failure outcomes (cf. Dekker, 2011), some settings still exhibit strong learning under such circumstances (airline safety, automobile safety), and it would enhance learning if we can determine factors that trigger learning from latent errors. First, the human error and safety literature is focused on errors regardless of outcomes, with a clear acceptance that adverse outcomes are quite infrequent; however, despite the low probability of an error that leads to a failure, there is nevertheless a link (Reason, 1997). When the focus is on errors rather than outcomes, both motivation and ability to learn should be enhanced. Creating agencies whose mission is error detection and reduction, such as the NTSB in transportation, leads to a low tolerance for errors. Some agencies have the power to close down or fine error-prone organizations with the aim of limiting such trade-offs in organizations, thus enhancing the organizations’ motivation to engage in failure reduction. Organizations’ and their members’ ability to reduce errors is also improved as regulators help with cause-effect analyses and recommend or regulate safer behaviors (FRA, 2016). Spurious failures. The fourth process-outcome combination is the case where a faultless process produces an adverse outcome (Table 2, box 4). For instance, well-executed surgery Page 33 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 34 can still lead to a patient dying, or correct driver behavior can produce an accident. We call this a spurious failure, and this particular outcome is problematic for failure learning for a number of reasons. A failure outcome often triggers a search for causes even if there is none. Such a search risks misattributing the process as faulty, and there is a risk that the organization will replace a good routine with a worse one or make inefficient changes, and thus the ability to learn is compromised. The good-process-bad-outcome option is fairly rarely studied; however, it is likely to be frequent in complex settings where many processes co- occur and involve many different actors. Because organizations are twice as likely as an impartial observer to assign blame to an operator after a failed event (Perrow, 1999), spurious failures are risky for individuals who might be unfairly blamed for adverse outcomes when the organization looks for failure causes. Thus, spurious failures can lead to lower trust and lower reporting of actual errors, which lowers the motivation to learn (Hofmann & Stetzer, 1998). Health care is an obvious case where we expect frequent spurious failures because very sick patients eventually tend to die regardless of treatment. Staff is acutely aware that many failures (such as death) occur for reasons that are unrelated to any procedures that they perform, and this leads them to accept bad outcomes as an unavoidable part of everyday activities. While the acceptance of adverse outcomes is necessary, there is a risk of acceptance spilling over and allowing errors and latent errors to be forgiven: Because death is an expected and even unavoidable outcome for many patients, even when the cause of death is an error instead of an underlying disease and the outcome should be recorded as a failure, the high incidence of spurious failures might mean that errors are not detected. In addition, even if an error is detected, it might be ignored and therefore not corrected (Kohn, Corrigan & Donaldson, 2000). In other words, normalized deviance can be affected by spurious failures as well as by spurious successes. Page 34 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 35 In summary, the more frequent spurious learning and failure, or bad-good combinations, there are (boxes 2 and 3), the more difficult it is to perform a correct causal analysis. The combination of process error—good outcome is probably more common than that of the process error—bad outcome. An analysis of airline crews found that an error was made in the cockpit during a flight at least every four minutes but that very few incidents or accidents resulted (Bird, 1969; Reason, 1997). Similarly, nurses commit errors once every hour; however, this rarely leads to bad outcomes (Tucker & Spear, 2006). In contrast, we have almost no information about how often a correct process results in an adverse outcome. Learning motivation is low when the off-diagonal events are frequent, as is the opportunity to learn given the noisy information. When there are many processes that can simultaneously go wrong, attending to all potential errors becomes cumbersome and this also makes cause-effect analyses difficult. Simulations are well suited to investigating these trade-offs as well as experimenting with the complexity of tasks, the number of involved parties, risk levels and how these factors affect motivation and ability to learn (cf. Denrell, 2003). The impact of spurious successes and spurious failures on slow- and fast-learning settings Noise and uncertainty in the process-outcome relationship help to explain learning-rate differences across settings. In settings with more off-diagonal outcomes (boxes 2 and 3), we expect lower learning rates since both ability and motivation to learn are lowered, and causal inferences are more difficult to draw. Spurious success (box 3), for example, is more likely to occur in situations in which tasks are easy and the rate of success is naturally high, while spurious failures (box 2) will, by contrast, be more common when tasks are complex, the chance of making an error is high and the risk of failure is also high. In the health care sector, Page 35 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 36 relatively routine procedures would be expected to lead to a higher rate of spurious success. By comparison, complex and high-risk surgical operations are more likely to lead to spurious failures. Those contexts offer fewer opportunities to learn because there is less information on which to draw for further success. The learning process is also hampered by the difficulty in assessing and taking stock of ability: the more spurious failures there are, the greater the doubt about current abilities will be. We also expect that motivation to learn will be lower in settings with high rates of spurious failure and success given the ambiguity with regard to cause and effect. FUTURE RESEARCH DIRECTIONS How can organizations best learn from errors and failures? We will suggest a number of approaches that are based on the ideas of maximizing the triad of learning mechanisms, opportunity, ability and motivation while taking into account the role of spurious failures and spurious successes. Opportunity to learn from failure Using multiple sources of event information and the role of regulations. What can organizations do when they experience few failures but still want to reduce future failure risk? There is an increasing emphasis in learning studies on vicarious learning in the form of organizations’ learning from similar others’ failures, successes and near-miss experiences (Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Haunschild & Sullivan, 2002; Kim & Miner, 2007; Madsen & Desai, 2010), and thus one way to increase learning opportunities is to learn from others. Moreover, information about events is also provided by an array of industry stakeholders such as the press, unions, regulators, industry associations, insurance companies, equipment manufacturers, trade press and academics. All of these groups have an interest in failure Page 36 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 37 reduction, and some are mandated to collect data, investigate accidents and issue recommendations. They provide information, analysis and suggestions on how to reduce failures, and some of them are very active. However, management scholars have mostly ignored these stakeholders and the role that they play in identifying, analyzing and suggesting remedies for failures. As a consequence, there is an omitted variable bias in many studies, which overestimate the effect of one’s own or others’ ability to learn from failures (Dahlin & Roulet, 2014). In addition, it would be interesting to examine the relative impact of different learning sources on failure learning to better understand stakeholder roles. We call for future studies in management to include more industry stakeholders, or at least to control for their actions to better understand the sources of learning. While policy studies are engaging with this question to study the effect on an entire industry (Silbey, 2009; Dekker, 2011) they rarely analyze firm-level factors. Some key questions to ask when investigating the role of multiple parties are: Given different learning rates across industries: are there fewer sources of learning in slow-learning settings? Can a slower learning rate be explained by a lower opportunity to learn? Noise also lowers opportunity to learn: If slow-learning settings are more likely to combine a high failure volume and a high spurious failure volume, is it possible that lower failure learning rates are due to the difficulty to learn from spurious failures? Spurious failures create a great deal of noise, which makes cause-effect analyses complicated and makes more common failure cases (erroneous process—adverse outcome) difficult to analyze. Exploring these questions can further advance our understanding of the differences in failure learning across settings. Opportunity and the transfer of learning. One way to transfer best practices developed in a high-performing organization or industry to a lower-performing organization or industry is to use checklists (Degani & Wiener, 1993; Thomassen, Storesund, Søfteland, & Brattebø, 2014). Page 37 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 38 Checklists are required in aviation and their success has led to their adoption in health care. They are, for example, increasingly used in surgical procedures. Checklists have been effective in accelerating learning, with more rapid failure reductions in units that use surgery checklists than in units that do not use surgery checklists (Walker, Reshamwalla & Wilson, 2012). However, in a meta-analysis of checklist studies, Thomassen et al. (2014) reported either improvement or no effects in the use of checklists. When some non-learning situations were more closely analyzed it was found that the checklists were not properly implemented— some surgeons have resisted their use (Leape, 2014). Checklists are also used for data collection and analysis by US transportation safety agencies, such as the National Transportation Safety Board when they investigate accidents and has helped to reduce airline and train accidents (NTSB, 1998). Since the transportation sector is heavily regulated, all agencies are tasked with safety interventions and trained in using systematic tools while it is not clear if enforced checklists use by external agencies would be as effective in the health care setting. Maybe health care is too complex (different professional groups, hierarchical structures that complicate communication between groups, a large number of diagnostic and treatment options, complex information flow), thus requiring different tools to facilitate failure learning beyond learning on the procedural level? At the same time there are few other tools to facilitate information transfer that have been as extensively developed and whose impact is as well understood as the learning effects of checklists (Leape, 2014). We wonder what other methods and/or tools could be used to increase learning opportunities in general and which methods and/or tools might be effective for slow-learning environments in particular. Ability to learn from failure Page 38 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 39 Ability is the learning mechanism that is most difficult to investigate, and we find a large gap in our understanding of how to improve ability. While there are case studies that conclude that failure learning is difficult, with many factors that are used to explain when learning will not occur (cf. Baumard & Starbuck, 2005), there are fewer studies that explain high learning rates (i.e., a better ability to learn from failure). Can ability to learn from failure be improved? After-event analysis and error management are ways to improve failure learning. Our review revealed that psychological safety and non- hierarchical environments with good communication and coordination within and between teams also lead to more learning from errors and failures. This result then begs the question for organizations that lack good communication and have low psychological safety: how can they increase their failure learning ability? Can psychological safety be promoted by the same manager who pushes the norms of non-reporting? What types of action are necessary for organizations that wish to adopt the climate and norms of more successful failure learning organizations? Conversely, in organizations with good managerial support for error reporting and psychological safety, how can learning ability be further enhanced? Page 39 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 40 How much of learning is automatic? How does ability evolve? Some performance improvements in the learning-curve literature are virtually automatic; learning-by-doing is played out at the individual level (Thompson, 2012), and learning-by-doing implies that individuals’ abilities increase by themselves (but plateau after fairly few experience cycles, ibid.). How important is automatic learning in the context of failure learning? We expect some types of errors to diminish as operators gain experience. For instance, car drivers lower their accident risk within the first five years of driving, and we tend to ascribe this to success experiences. However, the failure learning studies have ignored the automatic learning effect. A general assumption is that performance improvements are due to active learning attempts. One of the most studied groups in the error research is nurses (e.g., Edmondson, 2004; Tucker & Spear, 2006); however, we see little discussion with regard to whether nurses’ error rates go down with tenure in the profession. Surgeons demonstrate failure reduction over time, thus it would be surprising if we would not see the same for nurses with respect to errors. However, if the link between errors and failures is weak, the effect of professional tenure may not be a reduction in errors but a reduction in errors that result in failed outcomes, that is, in converting potential failures into near-miss events. Again, considering the difference between settings, is there less room for automatic learning in slow-learning settings, thus requiring more deliberate learning for failure reduction? Examining these questions is both theoretically and practically meaningful. These questions help to advance our understanding as to how different types of learning occur. The answers to these questions have implications for practices as they help to develop intervention in organizations to enhance failure learning. Motivation to learn from failure Page 40 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 41 Scholars assume that safety and risk avoidance are central to any organization, such as airlines, mining companies, hospitals, or banks, and they often ignore that most organizations to some degree accept failure. Safer practices compete with productivity-enhancing investments and since viable operations are necessary for the future of organizations, productivity is usually prioritized over the potential risk of a future failure, impacting the motivation to invest in failure reduction (Haunschild et al., 2015). This is illustrated by airlines that experience more accidents after filing for Chapter 11 protection (ABCnews, 2005) and by a famous quote in the freight rail industry: “Uphill slow, downhill fast, freight comes first and safety last” (Ahear & Schick, 2014). Low-prime-lending practices are risky behaviors that lead to short-term gains but jeopardize organizations and the banking industry. In other words, failure reduction attempts will almost always compete with other activities, which is a situation that we must acknowledge when theorizing about and investigating failure learning. In addition, some failures are seen as being unavoidable by managers, and they are relegated to productivity equations’ error terms and more or less accepted as a necessary evil rather than something to improve upon (cf. Jovanovic & Nyarko, 1995). Trade- offs therefore help to explain the low motivation to reduce failure risks (Haunschild et al., 2015). In many settings, regulators move in to change the balance, for instance, imposing fines if safety targets are not met. However, it ultimately comes down to decisions that are made by individuals and organizations on the costs that they are ready to allocate to learning and further improving their learning rate. This leads us to ask if slow-learning settings face stronger trade-offs between productivity-enhancing activities and failure reduction. Motivation and the case of non-learning: is motivation THE key factor in failure learning? A handful of empirical studies describe settings without failure learning even when similar events provide learning opportunities (Baumol & Starbuck, 2005; Tucker & Edmondson Page 41 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 42 2003). Their findings led some scholars to question if it failure learning is generally to be expected at all (Baumold & Starbuck, 2005). Analyzing these studies, we find that they describe situations with low motivation to learn (Baumold & Starbuck, 2005; Eggers & Song, 2015), limited opportunity to learn in combination with low motivation to solve underlying problems (Tucker & Edmondson, 2003) and potentially an inability to learn due to low motivation (Eggers & Song, 2015). A conclusion is that failure learning is difficult since is only likely to happen when all three mechanisms are sufficiently activated, and that motivation is a necessary condition for deliberate learning. In an in-depth case study of a large European telecom firm that suffered 14 strategic failures with no learning, Baumol & Starbuck (2005) describe lack of systematic reporting about failed projects, lack of interest in better understanding what went wrong and managers making external attributions to explain away bad outcomes caused by internal factors. The authors find opportunity but low-to-no motivation to learn, which in the end resulted in no learning. Low motivation involved managers expecting that admitting failure would have negative career ramifications and possibly also harm the organization (many projects were imposed by external stake-holders and the firm was publicly listed). Applying Zhao & Olivera’s (2011) cost-benefit reasoning, the cost to the individual managers was high, the benefit to the organization not clear and, hence, low motivation to report was to be expected. We find a similar argument around individuals using external attributions rather than changing their own behaviour among Chinese serial entrepreneurs (Eggers & Song, 2015). Entrepreneurs with failed start-ups were less likely to alter the way they structured their companies than were entrepreneurs with successful start-ups. Rather, they pursued the same firm strategies and structures when launching a new venture which, in turn, increased the risk for failure. They preferred a new industrial setting which made the authors conclude that this inability to learn is in line with self-serving attribution theory: Using external attributions to Page 42 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 43 avoid altering ones’ method of working is an individual-level defense mechanism demonstrating both lack of motivation and inability to learn. In contrast, entrepreneurs with successful ventures who stayed in the same industry kept enjoying more success. Tucker and Edmondson (2003) report high incidences of errors without organizational-level learning in a study of nine hospitals known for nursing excellence. Front line nurses that constantly saw patients were confronted with many problems, such as errors and mistakes made by others, when executing their tasks. Surprisingly, the nurses’ error learning was low despite their skill and motivation. The reason for low error learning is that the nurses solved the problems themselves on an ad hoc basis since they rarely had time to deal with the underlying causes. As a consequence, the same errors were repeatedly made and failure rates remained high. The insight from this study is that the nurses were highly motivated to execute their work, got a confidence boost in effectively managing problems created by others, and had little time to provide feedback to the organization. This is both a story of lack of motivation that emphasizes that the motivation in question is about addressing underlying problems caused by others, and that the support structure did not offer sufficient opportunity to get to the root cause of the problems, both in terms of managerial support but also the lack of time-based opportunity to analyze errors and come up with solutions to reduce their recurrence. Across these three non-learning cases motivation plays different roles: ego protection, career protection, protecting the organization and focus on other parts of the job than error, or problem reduction. In what way besides motivation do these non-learning cases contrast with learning cases? Are there more competing motivations in non-learning cases? Is it an illustration of how motivation is a necessary factor for learning to occur and without it neither opportunity nor ability matter? Also, how common are non-learning outcomes and Page 43 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 44 when do they matter? In the telecom case, the firm still did well and clearly was not very concerned with the failed strategic projects. When do organizations ignore failures? The nature of the failure event We suggest three areas of research to expand how we study failure events to improve causality in studies: using counterfactuals by applying the process-outcome matrix in Table 2 when selecting events; extending our failure measures to also consider per-event learning; and standardizing or at least improving the measures of the learning process. Selection of the dependent variable. Few learning studies allow for both successes and failures to be key events in the research design (Denrell, 2003). Most studies choose to focus on either successful or failed outcomes (sometimes controlling for the other), and the set of factors that cause such outcomes. However, to extend our understanding of the relationship between processes and outcomes, the inclusion of both types of events in the research design would allow for stronger causal linkages. Currently, this is done in studies in which an intervention is randomly assigned to different organizational units and the outcomes are monitored, such as the introduction of checklists in health care into one subset of hospitals, while the comparison group works as before, and the reduction of adverse events is monitored (cf. Walker, Reshamwalla & Wilson, 2012). In checklist studies an outcome is either a success or a failure, thus the rate includes both possibilities while the focus remains on the effect of a single mechanism, the use of a checklist or not. The initiation of such studies are usually third-party organizations, such as the WHO, in the health care checklist example (WHO, 2017). Including both successful and failed outcomes would also allow for a study of the role that is played by noise in the learning process (the off-diagonal outcomes in Table 2) to cover the full range of process-outcome combinations, thus allowing us to better understand disturbances in learning processes. Page 44 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 45 Extending failure measures. The failure learning literature covers a diverse set of events, from bankruptcies to patient deaths to large-scale accidents that involve hundreds of victims who have been injured or killed. Some events occur once per hour and some occur once per week, while others occur once per decade. While the magnitude of events matter for learning, higher-impact events motivate organizations to respond more forcefully. An important question to ask is whether the sensitivity to failure events varies across industries, and, if so, what determines the level of sensitivity. In settings with many adverse events that are caused less by errors and more by the nature of operations (very elderly patients dying in health care, for instance), we expect a greater insensitivity to the adverse events that are caused by errors. Three dimensions that should matter when considering events are (1) the frequency with which failures occur; (2) the frequency with which adverse events that are NOT caused by errors occur; (3) the magnitude of the failure, including the failure magnitude when compared to industry averages (killed, injured, failure costs). Few studies show us how much a single failure event affects learning (see Dahlin & Baum, 2012 for an exception), which might provide a clue to how frequency and magnitude matter. A per-event measure would also make comparisons across setting more applicable. Here, a meta-analysis could reveal the different effects of failure events. We expect the industries that experience a combination of high failure volume and high spurious failure volume to have an elevated error acceptance. Elevated error acceptance reduces the motivation to learn, which would explain a lower learning rate in such settings. Are learning rates overestimated? A paper critiquing the methods used in econometric studies of failure learning, argues that statistical estimations used in failure learning studies are prone to yielding falsely positive results (Bennett & Snyder, 2017). The authors point out that the classical learning model where current performance (cost per unit) is a logarithmic Page 45 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 46 function of accumulated experience (number of units produced) has some econometric issues when translated to failure learning and risk overstating the case for failure learning. Similarly, they point out the risk for false positive coefficient results increase when including successful as well as unsuccessful learning opportunities in the same equation. They recommend using moving time windows of past failures, and separating the success and failure opportunities into different estimations. Most studies already use moving windows and also discount events further back in time (albeit they do this for theoretical and data rather than estimation reasons) (cf. Baum & Dahlin, 20017; Kim & Miner, 2007). Even if Bennett and Snyder overstate the risk of falsely positive results, their paper raises a more fundamental question about econometric failure learning models. Usually a learning curve is assumed (often without this functional form being established as the one best-fitting the data) which means that a key assumption is that success and failure learning follow the same learning pattern. Similarly, when including both successful and failed prior events these are seen as additive which is an untested assumption. For instance, in traditional success learning, failed outcomes can be seen as reducing the learning rate but it is usually relegated to the error term. To model the interaction between success and failure, we need to develop new models accounting for both failure and learning as potential complements rather than substitutes. This way we could for instance see spill-overs from number of successful repetitions in learning-by-doing (such as driving a car) – when skills increase, errors and mistakes decrease as a function of more successful events. Rather than substitutes, there is complementarity with success learning leading to fewer failures and also enhancing failure learning. Conversely, we can observe that failure has a complex effect on normal operations, slowing down success learning since overall output might be reduced after a serious accident. The recommendation from Bennett and Snyder (2017) is to, for econometric reasons, not include both successful and failed events in the same estimations, we would argue that they Page 46 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 47 should also be estimated separately for theoretical reasons – we simply don’t know how they relate. Measuring failure and its responses. The empirical studies on failure learning face two measurement issues. First, individuals and organizations often fail to identify or report all failure events. This makes examining failures’ effects on learning processes more of a challenge. Common approaches to collecting failure and error data include using public archival data (e.g., Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Desai, 2015; Lawton et al., 2012), experimental designs (Dillon & Tinsley, 2008; Ellis et al., 2006), or employee recall (Ginsburg, et al., 2010). Archival data and employee recall increase under-reporting biases, and the question is how to account for this when interpreting studies. Audits are, for instance undertaken in a number of industries, with the Federal Railroad Administration performing spot-checks on regulation compliance (FRA, 2017). Legal cases where non-reporting leads to penalties usually state the expected underreporting. Union representatives also have addressed underreporting. Second, our review revealed that there is a lack of common measures with regard to failure learning behaviors, such as the schemas that are used when responding to failures. Without common measures, it is difficult to compare the results from studies with different research settings. With few exceptions (cf. Ginsburg, et al, 2010; Shepherd et al., 2011) most studies measure broad learning behaviors, such as whether employees can challenge work processes or if they have improved work procedures, rather than learning behaviors that are specifically related to failures, such as the identification of an adverse event, cause analysis and corrective action. Most importantly, to better understand errors and failure learning requires a research design with an explicit link between failure events and the different Page 47 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 48 elements of learning behavior, such as Israeli flight crews’ post-event analyses (Ellis et al., 2006). CONCLUSION Reviewing the literature on error and failure learning, we clustered learning mechanisms into three categories of opportunity to learn (the factors of information and time), motivation to learn (willingness to act) and ability to learn (competence to act). Failure and error learning have been studied across academic areas and address multiple levels of analysis, from individual, group and organizational perspectives. While motivation and ability factors dominate studies at the individual and group levels of analysis, opportunity factors dominate studies at the organizational level. Studies in health management are also concerned with procedure-level studies, with a wealth of data showing time trends for procedures on the national level, where learning diverges greatly across treatment types from negative, over no improvement, to some positive learning (Downey et al., 2012). In summary, the findings suggest that more information about errors and failures in the form of one’s own and others’ prior failures or near failures facilitate learning. They go on to report that leaders and organizations with a punitive attitude toward errors and failures obtain less information because individuals in such organizations consider the cost of reporting to be too high. Additionally, they state that the ability to process and learn from errors and failures is partly based on attribution and inherent attitudes; however, this ability can be boosted through active post-event reviews. We argue that the cross-industry differences in learning rates depend on a number of factors. Among those factors, a noisy learning environment in which organizations experience spurious successes and spurious failures exerts a strong influence on failure learning. Noisy information about cause-effect makes failure information more difficult to interpret, which lowers learning opportunities and Page 48 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 49 ability. Spurious successes and failures also create ambiguity, which lowers the motivation to learn because the awareness of weak error-failure connections risks leading to normalized deviance, and it can also lower individuals’ motivations to report errors and failures. An organization that seeks to enhance error and failure learning should analyze the causes of its most common errors and failures. To maximize the opportunity to learn, the organization should not only study its own but also the events of similar organizations. Further, including near-misses would add information and suggestions for ways to avoid an adverse outcome after a process error has occurred. When attributing causes, management must ensure that operators are not unduly blamed and if the cause is found to be operator error, look for systematic such errors to find if there are structural or organizational factors leading to operator error. We propose a number of unexplored research areas in error and failure learning, some of which are related to a lack of linkages across academic disciplines. In short: management scholars tend to ignore the role that is played by regulators in failure reduction; policy scholars tend to ignore organizational differences and the role that is played by management in failure reduction; safety scholars have devised methods for the transfer of learning and for the development of ability; however, they have not yet fully established the efficacy of these tools. To that end, scholars across academic disciplines have “failed” to learn from each other’s failure research. Through our review, we have found fruitful opportunities for future research to learn from the extant failure studies to enhance our understanding of failure learning in organizations. Page 49 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 50 References Ahear, A. & Schick T. 2014. Rail workers raise doubt about safety culture as oil trains roll on. EarthFix, July 2. Retrieved February 25, 2015 from http://www.opb.org/news/article/workers- question-safety-culture-in-railroads-hauli/ Argote, L. 2012. Organizational learning: Creating, retaining and transferring knowledge. New York, NY: Springer. Argote L, McEvily B, and Reagans R. 2003. 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Page 63 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 64 Table 1. Factors investigated in failure learning studies classified by level of analysis and mechanisms. Opportunity Motivation Ability Individual level Perceived autonomy (Stern at el., 2008) Situational learning (Stern at el., 2008) Experience (KC, Staats, & Gino 2013) Motivation to learn (Zhao, 2011) and safety motivation (Buljac-Samardzic, et al. 2012; Neal & Griffin, 2006; Probst, 2015) Attribution (Ilgen and Davis, 2000; Nisbett and Ross, 1980; Ellis, Mendel & Nir, 2006; KC, Staats, & Gino 2013; Naquin & Tynan, 2003) Emotion (Edmondson, 1996; Paget, 1988; Keith & Frese, 2005; Neal & Griffin, 2006; Shepherd et al., 2011; Zhao, 2011) Psychological safety (Carmeli & Gittell, 2009) Perception of outcomes (Dillon & Tinsley, 2008) Coping orientation (Shepherd et al. 2011) Training (Gully, et al., 2002; Keith & Frese, 2005) After-event reviews (Ellis & Davidi, 2005; Ellis, Mendel, & Nir, 2006) Coping orientation (Shepherd, et al., 2011) Relationships with others (Carmeli & Gittell, 2009) Group level Member rotation (Argote & Todorova, 2007) Group diversity and intergroup-linkages (Chuang et al. 2007; Tucker & Edmondson, 2003) Team stability (Edmondson, 1996) Routines to gather information (Lawton, et al. 2012; Edmondson, et al 2001; Tucker & Spear, 2006) Autonomy (Kerr, 2009) and load (Malone et al. 2007) Group norms and team orientation (Katz-Navon, et al., 2009; Vogus & Sutcliffe, 2007; Zohar, 2002; Tjosvold et al. 2004) Psychological safety (Edmondson, et al. 2001) Tacit belief about failure (Cannon & Edmondson, 2001; Edmondson, et al., 2001) Leadership style (Cannon & Edmondson, 2001; Katz-Navon et al., 2009; Carmeli et al., 2012) Safety climate (Zohar & Luria, 2005) Status dynxamics (Edmondson, et al. 2001) Routines (Gersick & Hackman, 1990) Debriefing and reviewing abilities (Ron, et al. 2006) Resistance to change (Hodgkinson & Wright, 2002) Workload (Lawton et al., 2012) and autonomy (Kerr, 2009) Failure climate (Buljac-Samardzic et al., 2012) Leadership style (Buljac-Samardzic et al., 2012; Zhao, 2011; Cannon & Edmondson, 2001) Training (Morey, et al. 2002) Membership stability (Buljac-Samardzic et al., 2012) Understanding of team process (Baker et al., 2006) Workload (Lawton et al., 2012) and work process (Edmondson, 1996) Coordination and communication (Baker et al. 2006) to develop cooperative goals (Tjosvold et al. 2004) Page 64 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 65 Organizational level (includes inter- organizational factors) Own and others’ failure experience and processes to collect information on those failures (Tucker & Spear, 2006; Baum & Dahlin, 2007; Chuang & Baum, 2003; Haunschild & Rhee, 2004; Haunschild & Sullivan, 2002; Kim & Miner, 2007; Madsen & Desai, 2010; Madsen, Dillon & Tinsley, 2016) Own success experience (Madsen & Desai, 2010; Pisano et al., 2001) Recency of event (Haunschild, Polidoro & Chandler, 2015) Magnitude of event (Desai, 2011; Madsen, 2009) Complexity of problems (Stan & Vermuelen, 2013) Organizational size (Desai, 2009; Slonim, 2007) Near failures / near misses (Kim & Miner, 2007; Kessels-Habraken, et al. 2010) Geographic proximity (Kim & Miner, 2007) Performance aspirations (Baum & Dahlin, 2007) Media attention (Desai, 2011 and Desai 2014; opposite results) Reputation (Haunschild & Rhee, 2004; Rhee, 2009) Safety climate (Hofman & Stetzer, 1998) Other’s similar errors (Mitsuhashi, 2011) Organizational form (Hanschild & Sullivan, 2002) Failure climate (Khatri et al., 2009) Error management culture (Dyck et al., 2005) Leadership style (Desai, 2015) Culture, work load (Kralewski, et al. 2005; Malone et al. 2007) Post-experience reviews (Ron, Lipshitz & Popper, 2006) and external pressures (Haunschild & Rhee, 2004). Patient-centered hospitals, climate (Rahert & May, 2007; Lawton et al., 2012) Standardized procedures/protocols (Thornlow & Merlin, 2009) Organizational size (Ginsburg, et al., 2010) Page 65 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 66 Table 2. 2x2 table of four process and outcome combinations. Outcome of event Success Failure Process/behavior/routine Correct 1. Traditional learning 2. Spurious failure Faulty 3. Spurious success 4. Traditional failure learning Page 66 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 Authors JOURNAL YEAR LEVEL OF ANALYSIS O/M/A 1 DATA/SETTING METHOD N RESULT Edmondson Journal of Applied Behavioral Science 1996 Group O, A Patient care groups Survey 8 units L=O, A Hofman & Stetzer Academy of Management Journal 1998 Group M Utility company Field experiment Safety communication and attributions in 159 groups L: A�M Edmondson, Bohmer & Pisano Administrative Science Quarterly 2001 Group M Team in hospitals Qualitative 16 hospitals L=M Cannon & Edmondson Journal of Organizational Behavior 2001 Group M, A Organization teams Field study 51 groups L=M+A Haunschild & Sullivan Administrative Science Quarterly 2002 Organization O, A airlines Archival data 310 airlines L=O*A, Specialist airlines learn more from heterogeneous accidents Tucker & Edmondson California Management Review 2002 Group O, M Hospitals Qualitative 9 hospitals No learning Zohar Journal of Organizational Behavior 2002 Group M Work groups Survey 49 groups L=M Gully, Payne, Kiechel Koles & Whiteman Journal of Applied Psychology 2002 Individual A Undergraduate students Experiment 188 L=A Morey, et al. Health Services Review 2002 Group A Emergency departments in hospitals Field experiment 9 emergency departments L=A Hodgkinson & Wright Organization Studies 2002 Team M Top management teams Qualitative 1 team L=M 1 Please note that this is our interpretation of how to classify a study’s mechanisms. Page 67 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 Naquin & Tynan Journal of Applied Psychology 2003 Individual M Graduate students Experiments 131 L=M Chuang & Baum Administrative Science Quarterly 2003 Organization O Naming strategy Archival data 32 nursing home chain L=O Tjosvold, Yu & Huy Journal of Management Studies 2004 Group O and M Organization teams Survey 107 teams L=M,O Keith & Frese Journal of Applied Psychology 2005 Individual A Undergraduate students Experiment 55 L=A Ellis & Davidi Journal of Applied Psychology 2005 Individual A Organizations Experiment 98 L=A Van Dyck, Frese, Baer & Sonnentag Journal of Applied Psychology 2005 Organization A Organizations Survey 112 companies L=A Zohar & Luria Journal of Applied Psychology 2005 Multilevel M Production workers in plants Survey 3952 individuals in 401 group L=M Ron, Lippshitz & Popper Organization Studies 2006 Group, organization M, A Fighter crews Observations of after-event reviews 13 pilots and navigators L=A, M Neal & Griffin Journal of Applied Psychology 2006 Individual M Hospital Longitudinal survey 135 staff L=M Ellis, Mendel & Nir Journal of Applied Psychology 2006 Individual M, A Undergraduate students Experiment 119 L=M, A Tucker & Spear Health Services Review 2006 Multilevel O Nurses in Hospitals Qualitative 6 hospitals L=O Baum & Dahlin Organization Science 2007 Organization O, M train accidents Archival data 189 railroad years L=M*O Underperforming train companies learn more from others’ failure experiences Page 68 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 Rathert & May Health Care Management Review 2007 Individual A hospitals Survey 304 nurses, 3 hospitals, same chain A gives M Kim & Miner Academy of Management Journal 2007 Organization O Bank near-failures and failures Archival data 2696 banks L=O with near-failures being the important events Vogus & Sutcliffe Medical Care 2007 Group M Hospitals Survey 78 units in 10 hospitals L=M Malone, Abarca, Skrepnek, Murphy, Armstrong, Grizzle, Rehfeld & Woosley Medical Care 2007 Multilevel O Pharmacy and pharmacist Survey + archival 672 pharmacies L=O Stern, Katz-Navon & Naveh Management Science 2008 Individual O Residents in 25 departments of two teaching hospitals Survey 123 resdients L=O Dillon & Tinsley Management Science 2008 Individual M Students and NASA Experiment 292 L=M Thornlow & Merlin Health Care Management Review 2009 Organization A hospital routines Archival data 1430981 patient records, 115 hospitals, 20 states L=A as a function of procedure Rhee Journal of Management Studies 2009 Organization M Car recalls Archival data 54 U.S. automakers L=M, inverted U Madsen Organization Science 2009 Organization O Mining accidents Archival data Recency of events L=O Kerr Social Science and Medicine 2009 Group O, M Hospitals Qualitative 2 clinics L=O+M Carmeli & Gittell Journal of Organizational Behavior 2009 Individual M, A Organizations and graduate students Survey 228 L=M+A Katz-Navon, Naveh & Stern Journal of Applied Psychology 2009 Group M Hospitals Survey 123 residents, 25 medical wards L=M Page 69 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 Madsen & Desai Academy of Management Journal 2010 Organization O Orbital launch Archival data 26 launch vehicle organizations L=O Ginsburg, Chuang, Berta, Norton, Ng, Tregunno & Richardson Health Services Research 2010 Organization A Patient safety Survey 69 hospitals L=A Desai Academy of Management Journal 2011 Press release Organization O, M Railroad accidents Archival data 234 press releases, 391 firm-years L=M, O Mitsuhashi Industrial and Corporate Change 2011 Organization M and O Japanese nuclear plants Archival data 56 reactors L=M, O has no effect Banja Business Horizons 2011 Event A, M Health care Case histories and theory Description of systematic rule breaking L=M, A Carmeli, Tishler & Edmondson Strategic Organization 2011 Group M Top management teams Survey 77 TMTs L=M*A Zhao Journal of Organizational Behavior 2011 Individual M Undergraduate students Survey with experiment 127 L=M Shepherd, Patzelt & Wolfe Academy of Management Journal 2011 Individual M, A Research institutes Survey 585 L=M+A+M*A Downey, Hernandez- Boussard, Banka & Morton Health Services Research 2012 Procedure Trends, no mechanism Medical failure trends using US national data Archival data 7.6 million adverse events for 69 million hospitalizations 14 procedures: 6 with decrease 1 with no change and 7 with increases in adverse events Muehlfeld, Sahib & Van Witteloostujin Strategic Management Journal 2012 Transaction O Newspaper merger and acquisitions Archival data 4973 m&a attempts 1981-2008 by 1964 firms L=O, U-shaped relationship Buljac-Samardzic, Van Woerkom & Paauwe Health Care Management Review 2012 Group A Hospitals Survey 152 teams L=A Page 70 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 Lawton, Carruthers, Gardner, Wright & Mceachan Health Services Research 2012 Group O, A Hospitals Qualitative 3 wards L=O*A Stan & Vermeulen Management Science 2013 Organization O Fertility clinics Archival data 116 UK fertility clinics 1991-2006 O--> A --> L Zheng, Miner & George Industrial and Corporate Change 2013 Patent (IVs on individual and group levels) M, O University technology transfer office Archival and interviews 778 patents of which 170 were licensed L=M*O Kc, Staat & Gino Management Science 2013 Individual O, M Hospitals Archival data 71 cardiac surgeons L=O+M+M*O Desai Journal of Management 2014 Organization M Air traffic controllers, near misses Archival data US class I railroad firms L=M Haunschild, Polodori & Chandler Organization Science 2015 Organization O Pharmaceutical firms, drug recalls Archival data 146 firms L=O, M Motivation varies over Time. Eggers & Song Academy of Management Journal 2015 Individual M, A Serial entrepreneurs in China Survey 253 entrepreneurs L=M, A tested, no learning Probst Journal of Applied Psychology 2015 Individual M 33 organizations Survey 1238 L=M Desai Academy of Management Journal 2015 Organization O Heart bypass surgeries Archival data 116 hospitals L=O Madsen, Dillon & Tinsley Risk Analysis 2016 Organization O Airlines Archival data 64 commercial airlines L=O Page 71 of 72 Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 Khanna, Guler & Kerkar Academy of Management Journal 2016 Organization O Pharmaceutical industry Archival data 97 pharmaceutical firms L=O Desai Industrial and Corporate Change 2016 Organization O Railroad accident Archival data US railroad firms L=O Bennett & Snyder Strategy Science 2017 Event O Liver transplant data but mainly methods paper Simulated and archival data 111619 US liver transplants No learning + risk of type I errors in learning studies Page 72 of 72Academy of Management Annals 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 
work_ohwtalvymjgqbo4dw3lfg7mokm	----	096363u116 Cell, Vol. 100, 113–127, January 7, 2000, Copyright 2000 by Cell Press Signaling—2000 and Beyond Review a large family, and, indeed, with the recent addition ofTony Hunter The Salk Institute odorant receptors, this has become by far the largest receptor family, numbering over a thousand. Analysis10010 North Torrey Pines Road La Jolla, California 92037 with purified components showed that the liganded re- ceptor interacts directly with the heterotrimeric G pro- tein leading to the exchange of GTP for GDP bound toShips that pass in the night and speak the a subunit, which thereupon dissociates from theeach other in passing b/g subunits, allowing both the a.GTP and the b/g com-Only a signal shown and distant voice plexes to signal to downstream effectors, such as ade-in the darkness nylyl cyclase, again by direct interaction. Sustained sig-—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, naling in response to a stimulus is generally undesirable,“The Theologian’s Tale” (1863) and therefore mechanisms for signal termination are required. The study of G proteins revealed that signalingThe Past is turned off when the a subunit hydrolyzes the boundWhen the history of signal transduction is written in GTP, either spontaneously or upon interaction with a2100, what will be remembered of the exciting advances GTPase activating protein (GAP), permitting the b/gthat occurred in the latter half of the twentieth century? complex to rebind.Everyone will surely have their own list of landmark find- Transmembrane Signaling by Phosphorylationings that have contributed to our current picture of signal During the 1980s and 1990s several other distinct princi-transduction. Undoubtedly there are seminal earlier ples of transmembrane signaling have been uncovered.events, but from my own perspective this era began The discovery of a new class of protein kinases associ-with the discovery in the mid-1950s that phosphorylation ated with the polyomavirus, v-Src and v-Abl viral trans-can reversibly alter the activity of an enzyme through forming proteins that phosphorylate tyrosine immedi-the combined action of a protein kinase and a protein ately suggested that tyrosine phosphorylation plays aphosphatase (Krebs and Beavo, 1979). At much the role in growth control (Hunter and Cooper, 1985). Tyro-same time the hormones adrenalin and glucagon were sine phosphorylation was quickly revealed as a majorfound to increase the level of intracellular 3959 cyclic mechanism of transmembrane signaling. The demon-AMP, and the concept of the second messenger was stration that EGF stimulated tyrosine phosphorylationborn. About 10 years later the cAMP-dependent protein- serine kinase (PKA) was isolated as a target for cAMP, EGF receptor in membrane preparations led to the iden- tification of a large family of ligand-stimulated receptorand through its pleiotropic substrate specificity PKA was shown to be responsible for many of the effects of protein-tyrosine kinases (PTKs). Receptor PTKs are all type I transmembrane proteins with a cytoplasmic do-cAMP. With these findings the field of signal transduc- tion was born. main that has intrinsic catalytic activity that is activated upon ligand binding. This established that intracellularSince these early days, progress in understanding mechanisms of signal transduction has been astonish- protein phosphorylation can be used as a direct means of transmembrane signal transduction. Another impor-ingly rapid. In the past 40 years many important themes and principles of signal transduction have emerged. The tant step forward in understanding how signals are transmitted across the membrane came with the discov-highly conserved nature of eukaryotic signaling path- ways has been revealed, and defects in signaling have ery that receptors lacking intrinsic catalytic activity can be coupled to nonreceptor PTKs via noncovalent asso-been found as the underlying basis of cancer and other human diseases. Progress has benefited tremendously ciation with the cytoplasmic domain of a receptor sub- unit, thus forming “binary” receptors (Neet and Hunter,from structural and genetic analysis, the development of analytical techniques and reagents, and the availabil- 1996). For instance, cytokine receptors use members of the JAK PTK family. The discovery of transmembraneity of pharmacological modulators of signaling. What are some of the major milestones? protein-serine kinases, first in plants and then as recep- tors for TGFb family cytokines in vertebrates, providedG Protein–Coupled Receptors The identification of G proteins and their role in activat- another example of the use of ligand-induced intracellu- lar protein phosphorylation as means of transmembraneing membrane bound adenylyl cyclase to synthesize cAMP in response to hormonal stimulation in the mid- signal transduction. The fact that receptor PTKs proved to be type I trans-1970s was another great step forward in understanding transmembrane signal transduction (Gilman, 1987). The membrane proteins raised the conundrum of how a the- oretically flexible protein with a single transmembranestudy of G proteins revealed the principle that hydrolysis of protein-bound GTP could act as a signaling switch, domain could propagate a signal across the membrane in response to ligand binding. The seminal finding wasand also brought us very near to the membrane receptor itself. The cloning of hormone receptors that are coupled that activation of receptor PTK cytoplasmic catalytic domains requires ligand-induced dimerization (Schles-to adenylyl cyclase as well as several neurotransmitter and drug receptors revealed that they all had a close singer, 1988). This juxtaposes the two catalytic domains allowing mutual transphosphorylation of residues in therelationship to rhodopsin, the seven transmembrane do- main G protein–coupled light receptor. This suggested activation loop of the catalytic domain, leading to enzy- matic activation, and autophosphorylation of tyrosinesthat serpentine G protein–coupled receptors would be Cell 114 Figure 1. Protein Modules and Signal Trans- duction This figure of a cell, showing how modular protein and lipid interaction domains are used in a variety of cell signaling pathways, has been modified from a concept provided by Tony Pawson. outside the catalytic domain, which are the key to down- With the identification of the SH2 domain came the stream signaling. Receptor protein-serine kinases are realization that most protein–protein interaction do- also activated by ligand-induced dimerization. Subse- mains involved in signal transduction are modular in quently, ligand activation of many types of surface re- nature (Figure 1). The study of signaling initiated by ceptor, including those that do not activate protein kinases receptor PTKs and other protein kinases has uncovered directly, has been found to involve oligomerization. a plethora of different protein interaction domains, rang- Protein Signaling Modules ing in size from 40 to 150 residues, used for inducible or The discovery of the SH2 domain as a means of recog- constitutive interactions involved in signaling (Pawson, nizing specific phosphorylated tyrosines in activated 1995). Examples are SH2, PTB, SH3, WW, FHA, SAM, receptor PTKs and receptor PTK targets was a break- LIM, PX, EH, EVH1, and PDZ domains. Like the SH2 through in understanding how activated PTKs propa- domain, most of these domains recognize short linear gate signals, since it revealed how the association of sequences from 4 to 10 amino acids in length, in some two proteins could be induced by phosphorylation thus cases requiring phosphorylation of a specific Ser/Thr propagating a signal (Pawson and Gish, 1992). Indeed, or Tyr within the recognition sequence, thus providing this discovery illustrated a totally new function for pro- inducible association. These domains fold indepen- tein phosphorylation, namely the regulation of protein– dently and their N and C termini protrude from one side protein association. Other types of phosphotyrosine of the domain with the interaction surface on the oppo- (P.Tyr)-binding domain have subsequently been found site side, allowing them to be assembled almost like (e.g., PTB domains), but SH2 domains are the most beads on a string (Kuriyan and Cowburn, 1997). prevalent type of P.Tyr-binding domain involved in sig- Another important step forward was the discovery naling downstream of activated receptor PTKs. SH2 do- that domains involved in membrane signaling can recog- mains bind in a sequence-specific fashion, recognizing nize molecules other than proteins. For instance, plecks- one or more residues in positions 1–6 C-terminal to the trin homology domains (PHD), found in many signaling P.Tyr. PTB domains recognize residues up to 5 away proteins, recognize specific phospholipids and thus on the N-terminal side of P.Tyr, but only a subset of allow inducible membrane association dependent on PTB domains (e.g., the Shc and IRS-1 PTBs) bind to their the formation of lipid second messengers (Ferguson et target proteins in a phosphorylation-dependent manner al., 1995). For example, the PHDs of the PDK1 and Akt/ (van der Geer and Pawson, 1995). PKB protein-serine kinases bind PIP3 and this promotesSH2 and PTB domain interactions are used as a means their membrane recruitment in response to PI-39 kinaseof recruiting target proteins to activated PTKs, thus per- activation and leads to activation of Akt/PKB by PDK1.mitting their phosphorylation, and also for translocation Ca21 elevation can regulate membrane association ofto the plasma membrane, where many effector proteins proteins via Ca21-dependent interaction of C2/CalB do-activated by receptor PTKs, such as phospholipase Cg mains with phospholipids.and PI-39 kinase, have their substrates (Schlessinger, Recently, phosphoserine (P.Ser)-binding domains have1994). SH2/PTB domains are present not only in proteins also been identified, and these too play roles in signalwith intrinsic enzymatic activity that can be regulated propagation, by facilitating phosphorylation-dependentby tyrosine phosphorylation, such as phospholipase Cg, protein–protein interactions (Yaffe and Cantley, 1999).but also in so-called adaptor proteins, such as Grb2, The first example was the phosphorylation-dependentthat bind to and thereby bring effector enzymes to the binding of the CBP coactivator protein to the CREBplasma membrane. Receptor-induced recruitment of transcription factor when phosphorylated at Ser133.proteins to the plasma membrane as a mechanism of Subsequently, other families of P.Ser/P.Thr-binding do-activating signaling pathways has emerged as a major theme in signaling. mains have been found. Review 115 Intracellular Signaling Pathways translocates to the nucleus. An important step in under- standing the cAMP pathway was the identification ofFollowing the identification of the transmembrane re- ceptors, and their proximal targets, intracellular signal- the CREB transcription factor, which binds to cAMP response elements in inducible genes, and the demon-ing pathways were the next to come on stage. The emer- gence of a large family of small monomeric G proteins, stration that it is a nuclear target for PKA. Once the C subunit enters the nucleus it phosphorylates CREB atheralded by Ras, was an important step in understand- ing transmembrane signaling. Ras is anchored via C-ter- Ser133, triggering binding of the CBP/p300 coactivator and transcription of cAMP-responsive genes. This find-minal lipid modifications to the inner face of the plasma membrane, and, like heterotrimeric G proteins, is acti- ing reinforced the notion that transcytoplasmic signaling pathways could use transcription factor phosphoryla-vated by GTP-GDP exchange catalyzed by GTP ex- change factors. Ras.GTP levels are increased upon tion as a regulatory mechanism. Many transcription fac- tors are now known to be directly regulated by phos-activation of many types of receptor. A key to under- standing how Ras is activated was the finding that the phorylation, through positive or negative control of nuclear import or export, DNA binding, or transactivationCdc25-related Sos protein has Ras.GTP exchange fac- tor activity, and that the Grb2 SH2/SH3 adaptor protein activity (Karin and Hunter, 1995). MAP Kinase Pathwaysis constitutively associated with Sos via its SH3 domains (Schlessinger, 1993). The Grb2/Sos complex is recruited Two separate lines of inquiry, namely analysis of protein- serine kinases activated by receptor PTKs and the studyto an activated receptor PTK upon binding of the Grb2 SH2 domain to an autophosphorylated tyrosine in the of transcription factor phosphorylation, converged to establish that the MAP kinase pathway is a major mech-appropriate sequence context, thus bringing the Sos catalytic domain into proximity with Ras at the plasma anism for controlling transcription in eukaryotes (Seger and Krebs, 1995). MAP kinase was originally discoveredmembrane and stimulating GTP exchange. Once acti- vated, Ras.GTP interacts with a series of effector pro- as an insulin-activated protein-serine kinase, and bio- chemical studies, reinforced by genetic analysis of theteins, including the Raf protein-serine kinase and PI-39 kinase, which initiate downstream signaling (Witting- pheromone response in budding yeast, showed that this pathway consists of a cascade of three protein kinases,hofer and Nassar, 1996). Analysis of Ras function also led to the discovery of the first GAP, which stimulates a MAP kinase kinase kinase (MAPKKK), a MAP kinase kinase (MAPKK), and a MAP kinase (MAPK) (WaskiewiczGTP hydrolysis and thus acts to terminate Ras signaling (McCormick, 1989). Other small G proteins also function and Cooper, 1995). These protein kinases are activated in series, such that the MAPKKK phosphorylates theas signaling switches that are activated by receptor- induced GTP exchange. For instance, the Rho family MAPKK at serines in its activation loop, which is thereby activated and phosphorylates the MAPK at a threoninesmall G proteins, Rho, Cdc42, and Rac, are all activated via receptor signaling pathways, and, like Ras, induce and tyrosine in its activation loop, leading to its activa- tion. Every eukaryotic organism has multiple MAPKdivers signaling pathways, which lead to gene expres- sion and, perhaps more importantly, cause dramatic pathways, which are largely separate from one another. The elucidation of the modular MAPK cascade with itsrearrangements in the actin cytoskeleton. Ras was the first signaling protein whose function was three consecutive protein kinases had immediate impli- cations for understanding signal amplification and switch-shown to be conserved from yeast to vertebrates, and this presaged the identification of many highly con- ing, and most importantly for nuclear signaling, because the terminal MAPK, once activated, can migrate into theserved signaling pathways throughout the eukaryotic kingdom. A prime example is the receptor PTK-Ras- nucleus, and there phosphorylate and activate tran- scription factors.MAP kinase pathway, where genetic and biochemical analysis has revealed that this pathway exists in essen- Nuclear Translocation of Transcription Factors Receptor-induced nuclear translocation of a latent cyto-tially identical form in species ranging from nematodes to vertebrates, with most of the components being func- plasmic transcription factor into the nucleus emerged as a different transcytoplasmic signaling principle. Thetionally interchangeable between organisms. Transcriptional Regulation by Surface Receptors NF-kB activation pathway provided the first example of a cytoplasmically sequestered transcription factorvia Transcytoplasmic Signaling Upon binding ligand, many receptors invoke gene ex- (Karin and Hunter, 1995). In this case, NF-kB is held in the cytoplasm through binding to an inhibitor protein,pression responses. Indeed, the discovery that growth factors induce de novo expression of a specific set of IkB, which masks the nuclear localization signal in the NF-kB heterodimer. Activating stimuli induce phosphor-genes independent of new protein synthesis led to the search for transcytoplasmic signaling pathways that ylation of IkB, at specific sites, which targets it for ubiqui- tin-mediated degradation, thus releasing active NF-kBregulate transcription (Karin and Hunter, 1995). In the past 10 years, there has been spectacular progress in to migrate into the nucleus. The simplest pathway of this sort is the JAK/STAT system, in which ligand bindingunderstanding how plasma membrane signals are trans- mitted to the nucleus. The first and simplest transcyto- to a cytokine receptor activates associated JAK family PTKs, which first phosphorylate receptor subunits andplasmic nuclear signaling mechanism to be identified was the PKA/CREB system (Montminy et al., 1990). In then specific STAT transcription factors, whereupon the STATs dimerize, migrate to the nucleus and activatethis pathway, cAMP, elevated in response to receptor stimulation, activates the R2C2 PKA holoenzyme local- transcription (Karin and Hunter, 1995). Other examples are activation of the Wnt/Frizzled pathway, which resultsized in the cytoplasm by binding to the regulatory (R) subunits, thus releasing the catalytic (C) subunit which in translocation of b-catenin/LEF1 transcription factor Cell 116 complexes into the nucleus, and activation of TGFb fam- 1989). The discovery of calmodulin as a major Ca21- ily receptors, which leads to phosphorylation of recep- sensing protein in the cells, and identification of protein tor-specific Smad transcription factors, which then as- targets for Ca21/calmodulin complexes, including a fam- semble with the common Smad4 subunit, translocate ily of Ca21/calmodulin activated protein kinases, has into the nucleus, and induce transcription of target provided us with an explanation for how Ca21 release genes. is translated into molecular consequences. Moreover, Signaling via Notch family receptors utilizes the novel the development of cell-permeant Ca21 sensor fluoro- principle of ligand-induced proteolytic cleavage releas- phores has afforded us with the most detailed spatio- ing the Notch cytoplasmic domain, which acts as a pro- temporal picture of signaling events occurring in the tein second messenger that migrates to the nucleus and cell. The intricate and dynamic real-time patterns of local regulates gene expression by binding into and con- and global Ca21 release and resorption and the propaga- verting the suppressor-of-hairless transcriptional re- tion of Ca21 waves and oscillations are surely the harbin- pressor into a transcriptional activator (Artavanis-Tsa- ger of how other signaling systems work at the subcellu- konas et al., 1999). lar level. Nuclear Receptors New Second Messengers The finding that lipid-soluble ligands, such as retinoic With cAMP, cGMP, and IP3 the concept of the second acid, estrogen, and other hormones, can traverse the messenger was well established. However, the discov- plasma membrane without utilizing surface receptors ery that NO is the endothelial cell–derived relaxing factor and induce cellular responses by binding to and activat- for vascular smooth muscle and that NO activates solu- ing members of a family of zinc finger transcription fac- ble cytoplasmic guanylyl cyclase to elevate cGMP re- tors revealed yet another nuclear signaling mechanism vealed, somewhat unexpectedly, that a gas could act (Mangelsdorf et al., 1995). These so-called nuclear re- as a second messenger (Murad, 1994). This finding re- ceptors prove to be a huge family that transduce tran- kindled interest in cGMP-mediated signaling, which is scriptional responses to an astonishing variety of chemi- mainly effected by the cGMP-dependent protein kinase, cals. In principle, the nuclear receptors represent the although there are other targets for cGMP. simplest possible mechanism for nuclear signaling, al- Signaling in Prokaryotes and Plants though analysis of how ligand binding activates recep- Although much of the emphasis in signal transduction tor-mediated transcription of target genes reveals a sur- has been on eukaryotes, prokaryotes should not be ne- prisingly complex machinery in which the unliganded glected in this litany of progress. For instance, an impor- receptor heterodimer acts as repressor as a result of tant new signaling principle was established with the its association with histone deacetylases, and ligand discovery of the two component histidyl-aspartyl phos- binding converts the receptor into an activator by trig- phorelay systems, comprised of a sensor “histidine” gering dissociation of histone deacetylases and recruit- protein kinase that phosphorylates a response regulator ment of histone acetylases. on an aspartate residue (Stock et al., 1990). These sys- Phospholipid- and Ion-Based Signaling tems allow prokaryotes to respond to a wide variety of The discovery in the 1960s of the phosphatidylinositol extracellular stimuli. However, somewhat surprisingly, (PI) cycle, which results in stimulus-induced turnover of two component systems are rare in eukaryotes, and PIP2, was the harbinger of the finding of a series of for the most part seem to have been superseded by phospholipid-derived second messengers, including di- conventional protein kinases. acylglycerol (DAG), IP3, and PI3,4,5P3, and more recently Likewise, although animals and fungi have received IP4 and IP6 (Liscovitch and Cantley, 1994). The identifica- the lion’s share of attention, plants have also taught us tion of protein kinase C as a DAG-regulated enzyme new principles in signal transduction. For instance, the provided another example of a second messenger-regu- first receptor protein-serine kinases were found in lated protein kinase. Phospholipase action on PIP2 not plants, and one type of leucine-rich receptor kinase may only generates DAG but also IP3, which acts as a second be directly regulated by plant steroid family ligands. messenger to release Ca21 from intracellular stores, thus Moreover, ethylene, an important plant hormone, was triggering a program of Ca21-activated events. The un- the first gas shown to induce cellular responses, and expected discovery of PI-39 kinases and the family of significant progress has recently been made in under- 39 phosphoinositides they generate led to the elucida- standing how ethylene signals.tion of a new phospholipid-based signaling system in which proteins are recruited via PIP3-binding PH do- The Futuremains to the membrane where they are activated (e.g., What does the future hold? There are many areas inthe Akt/PKB protein-serine kinase) (Kapeller and Cant- signaling where it is safe to predict that rapid progressley, 1994). will be made, but because of its preeminence as a mech-The regulated entry and exit of ions across the plasma anism of signal transduction, most attention will be paidmembrane, through ligand-gated, voltage-sensitive and to protein phosphorylation and its role in intracellularstretch-activated ion channels and via ion pumps, has signaling.important signaling functions, particularly in impulse Modular Protein Interaction Domains in Signalingpropagation in the nervous system and in muscle con- A central theme in receptor-initiated signaling is the usetractility. Receptor-induced changes in cytoplasmic and of modular protein–protein interaction domains, eithernuclear Ca21 levels as a result of release of membrane- for inducible or constitutive interactions (Pawson, 1995).bound Ca21 stores through IP3 or entry of extracellular Well over a hundred putative protein domains have beenCa21 through plasma membrane ion channels constitute an important signaling mechanism (Berridge and Irvine, defined by comparative sequence analysis (http://smart. Review 117 EMBL-Heidelberg.de). Although the function of many of signaling complexes. FHA domains bind pTXXD motifs these domains is known, many remain uncharacterized in proteins, such as Rad9p involved in DNA damage and a majority of them could prove to be new protein– responses. One group of WW domains bind P.Ser/ protein interaction domains utilized in signaling path- P.Thr.Pro motifs in mitotic phosphoproteins and in the ways. Partners for these domains can be identified by RNA polymerase II large subunit CTD. A subset of WD40 two-hybrid screens and affinity methods combined with domains and leucine-rich repeats can also recognize the use of degenerate peptide libraries to establish a P.Ser. Given the great potential and specificity of phos- binding consensus sequence. Several phospholipid in- phorylation-induced protein interaction as a signal trans- teraction domains, including PH and FYVE domains, are fer mechanism, it is a good bet that additional P.Ser/ already known that provide inducible membrane associ- P.Thr-binding domains will be discovered. ation in response to generation of lipid second messen- Induced Protein Proximity in Signaling gers (e.g., PIP3) or stabilize membrane association of Another overriding principle that has emerged from anal- signaling proteins via binding to constitutive membrane ysis of receptor-activated signaling pathways is that phospholipids. Given the importance of membrane re- signaling can be initiated and propagated using the prin- cruitment in signaling, additional lipid recognition do- ciple of induced protein proximity (Austin et al., 1994). mains seem certain to be discovered. Identification of As described above, ligand binding to receptor PTKs nonprotein targets for such domains should be aided initiates signaling by causing dimerization, which facili- by affinity chromatography combined with mass spec- tates transphosphorylation. Recruitment of proteins trometric analysis. with P.Tyr-binding domains to activated membrane- The finding that short linear motifs were sufficient localized receptors where they can be phosphorylated for recognition by protein interaction domains came as or act on membrane targets is another example. This something of a surprise, given the complex nature of mechanism elevates the local concentration of proteins the subunit interaction surfaces found in multisubunit at the membrane thereby increasing the number of pro- proteins. However, the fact that recognition only re- ductive signaling complexes. SH2 domain binding also quires such short sequences combined with the func- greatly increases the affinity of these proteins as sub- tional independence of these domains presumably strates for phosphorylation by activated receptor PTKs. facilitated the rapid genesis of new protein–protein A dramatic illustration of the importance of protein prox- interactions during evolution. Indeed, how easily these imity has been afforded by the use of artificial ligand- domains could be duplicated and used to evolve new binding domains fused to signaling proteins that can signaling proteins is illustrated by the experimental por- then be induced to oligomerize by membrane-permeant tability of these domains. For example, replacement of dimeric chemical ligands. In several cases, this has been the C terminus of the Sos Ras activator with the Grb2 found to trigger the activation of signaling pathways just SH2 domain yields a fusion protein that largely rescues as efficiently as extracellular ligands (Spencer et al., the defects in Grb22/2 ES cell differentiation (Cheng et 1993). al., 1998). The ability to make chimeric signaling proteins Induced protein proximity is used to activate signaling of this sort to test hypotheses about specific signaling pathways by many other receptor systems, particularly connections will be increasingly useful as an analytical the TNF, IL-1, Toll, and death receptors, where initial tool. signaling events are critically dependent on oligomeric Phosphorylation-Dependent Protein– protein–protein interactions. The subset of TNF family Protein Interaction receptors that promote cell death use homotypic inter- In just 10 years it has become apparent how widely used actions between death domains, death effector domains sequence-dependent P.Tyr recognition is for tyrosine and CARD domains to trigger an intracellular signaling phosphorylation-mediated signaling. To add to the well- cascade that involves sequential proteolytic activation established SH2 and PTB domains, novel P.Tyr-binding of a series of proenzymes in the caspase protease fam- domains have recently been identified in c-Cbl, IRS-2, ily. In death receptor-induced caspase activation, pro- and Gab1. Interestingly, structural analysis indicates tein proximity is used to accentuate the low basal that the P.Tyr-binding domain in c-Cbl is a variant SH2 catalytic activity of a procaspase leading to efficient domain (Meng et al., 1999), whereas the Gab1 P.Tyr- autoprocessing in the context of an oligomer (Salvesen binding domain appears to have a novel structure. Addi- and Dixit, 1999).tional P.Tyr-binding domains are likely to be identified, A new concept in protein proximity has emerged fromalthough they probably will not be large families. A dis- the study of signaling by receptor PTKs. Although ittinct type of P.Tyr-binding domain is exemplified by the is well established that ligand-induced dimerization is“anti-phosphatases”, which are proteins structurally re- required for activation of receptor PTKs, recent evi-lated to the PTP or dual-specificity phosphatase fami- dence suggests that dimerization per se may not belies, but which lack one or more of the residues essential sufficient for activation, and that there is an additionalfor catalytic activities, and therefore can bind but not requirement for the relative orientation of the two dimerhydrolyze P.Tyr-containing proteins (Hunter, 1998a). subunits to be such that the catalytic domains are cor-Although it has only recently been appreciated that rectly juxtaposed (Jiang and Hunter, 1999). In fact, thereP.Ser/Thr can also be recognized by modular binding is good evidence in some systems that receptor dimersdomains, three families of sequence-specific P.Ser/Thr- can exist in the absence of ligand, and that ligand-binding domains are already known (Yaffe and Cantley, induced conformational switches in preformed recep-1999). 14-3-3 proteins, which recognize RSXpSXP and tors are critical for activation of the catalytic domains.RXY/FXpSXP motifs, bind many protein kinases, and as a result of their dimeric nature can potentially assemble In this context, an understanding of the way in which Cell 118 Figure 2. Ribbon Diagram Showing the Struc- ture of the c-Src Protein-Tyrosine Kinase in Its Inactive State Bound to AMP-PNP This figure is reproduced with permission from Xu et al. (1999). multimeric ligands are presented to receptors will be Structural analysis of protein kinase and phosphatase catalytic domains bound to inhibitors and protein inter-increasingly important. Structural Analysis of Signaling Proteins action domains bound to ligands is now a routine step in the development of drugs that inhibit activity or blockMany of the most important advances in understanding signaling pathways initiated by tyrosine phosphorylation interactions, for therapeutic use in diseases where sig- naling is deregulated. The structures of protein kinaseshave come through the determination of the three- dimensional structures of PTKs and PTPs, their immedi- bound to protein (e.g., p16/Cdk6) and chemical (e.g., FGFR1 receptor PTK bound to SU5402 and PD173074)ate targets, including modular domains such as SH2, SH3, PTB and PH domains, and downstream components, inhibitors have provided insights into how inhibition is brought about and how selectivity is achieved, and thisincluding protein-serine kinases and phosphatases. Structural analysis of signaling proteins has already promises to accelerate the pace of development of spe- cific small molecule or peptide-based inhibitors (Mo-revealed new and unexpected principles of regulation. For instance, the structures of several protein kinases hammadi et al., 1997, 1998; Russo et al., 1998). More- over, based on inhibitor-bound protein kinase structureshave shown how the “activation” loop acts as a negative regulator of activity, by blocking ATP and/or substrate it is possible to make mutant protein kinases resistant to a specific inhibitor that can be expressed and usedbinding, and how rotation of the C helix in the N-terminal lobe is used as a regulatory principle. The structure of to pinpoint which responses are a direct consequence of that protein kinase (Eyers et al., 1999).the c-Src PTK in its inhibited P.Tyr527-phosphorylated state revealed that the SH2 and SH3 domains bound to Structures of most of the well-characterized protein and lipid interaction domains have been generated.P.Tyr527 and the SH2-catalytic domain linker, respec- tively, lie on the backside of the catalytic domain, instead Comparative analysis of multiple examples of these do- mains bound to their ligands has given us importantof blocking substrate access to the catalytic cleft as had been expected (Figure 2). In fact, c-Src activity is insights into ligand binding specificity. Indeed, analysis of SH2 domains bound to P.Tyr-containing peptides hasinhibited indirectly as a result of a conformational change propagated through the small N-terminal lobe made it possible to make designer point mutations that alter SH2 domain sequence-binding specificity in a pre-that leads to rotation of the C helix and distortion of the active site (Xu et al., 1999). The dimeric structure of dictable way. Likewise, a point mutation in the WW do- main can transform its ligand specificity (Espanel andcatalytic domain 1 of RPTPa led to the prediction that receptor PTP activity can be negatively regulated Sudol, 1999). This heralds the possibility of designing unique signaling pathways with customized signalingthrough a symmetrical D1 dimer interaction in which a helix-turn-helix motif blocks access to the catalytic cleft components. An area of structural understanding that has lagged(Bilwes et al., 1996). Likewise, the N-terminal SH2 do- main was found to be bound to the catalytic cleft of the behind is the molecular basis of functional regulation by protein phosphorylation. There are very few struc-Shp2 PTP thus blocking substrate access, an interaction that is reversed upon the binding of a P.Tyr-containing tures of proteins in both their phosphorylated and un- phosphorylated states. The structures of the phospho-protein ligand to the SH2 domain leading to exposure of the active site (Hof et al., 1998). The structures of Ras and dephospho-forms of glycogen phosphorylase and isocitrate dehydrogenase kinase show that addition ofand trimeric G proteins bound to GTP and GDP have revealed how GTP hydrolysis results in a conformational a phosphate can induce a local conformational change increasing substrate affinity or a steric block to substrateswitch that blocks binding of effector proteins. Undoubt- edly additional regulatory principles will be identified binding, respectively. Several protein kinases structures reveal how activation as a result of phosphorylation ofthrough structural analysis. Moreover, as molecular docking programs become more sophisticated it may be residues in the catalytic domain activation loop occurs through a local conformational change that allows ATPpossible to predict which signaling proteins can interact. Review 119 and protein substrate access to the active site. Struc- particular, the PP2A protein-serine phosphatase has a large number of regulatory subunits that dictate sub-tures of many more proteins in their phosphorylated and strate specificity and localization. There are severalunphosphorylated states will be needed to determine known inhibitor proteins for PP1 (e.g., inhibitor 1 andthe structural principles underlying functional regulation inhibitor 2), some of which require phosphorylation toby phosphorylation. be active, and there is some evidence for PTP inhibitorProtein Kinase and Phosphatase Regulation proteins. PTPs are also regulated by phosphorylationProtein kinases can be regulated by second messen- and by subcellular localization. There is a large familygers, by allosteric mechanisms, by intrasteric inhibition of receptor-like PTPs whose activity could theoreticallythrough pseudosubstrate sequences, by positive and be regulated by ligands. In some instances receptor-likenegative phosphorylation events, by regulatory subunit PTPs appear to be negatively regulated by dimerizationbinding, by inhibitor proteins and by subcellular localiza- (e.g., RPTPa and CD45) (Majeti et al., 1998), in a mirrortion through targeting domains and anchoring proteins. image fashion to the activation of receptor PTKs byWill new mechanisms of protein kinase and phospha- dimerization. The identification of ligands that regulatetase regulation emerge? Additional second messengers receptor PTP dimerization will be an important step for-and nonprotein regulators are likely to be added to the ward in understanding these enzymes.current list, which includes cAMP, cGMP, DAG, Ca21/ Spatiotemporal Aspects of Signalingcalmodulin, polyamines, double-stranded RNA, and An area that will be increasingly important is the spatio-double-stranded DNA ends. Sphingosine and ceramide temporal aspects of signaling by protein kinases andare potential second messengers that reportedly regu- phosphatases. Over the past few years, it has beenlate protein kinases; cyclic ADP-ribose and sphingosine appreciated that protein kinases and phosphatases and1-phosphate and other recently described second mes- their substrates are often discretely localized in the cell,sengers, such as IP6, may also prove to regulate protein and that this is critical for specificity of phosphorylation.kinases. New second messengers may be identified The finding that signaling components are highly orga-through mass spectrometric analysis of total low molec- nized at the plasma membrane, in the cytoplasm, and ular weight compounds in extracts of stimulated cells. in the nucleus suggests that there are discrete signaling Conversely, one should be aware that second messen- domains within the cell. Traditionally, the transduction gers known to regulate protein kinases might have other of signals was thought to involve freely diffusible enti- functions. For example, that most venerable of second ties, and this is indeed the case for second messengers messengers, cAMP, has recently been shown to regu- like cAMP. However, pathways that involve predomi- late a Rap1 guanine-nucleotide-exchange factor (de nantly protein components may signal in a semi–solid Rooij et al., 1998), suggesting that cAMP, like cGMP, state fashion with minimal free diffusion. Moreover, sig- has multiple intracellular targets. naling proteins may be directionally transported via fila- Protein mass spectrometry is leading to the identifica- ment-bound motor proteins or by vesicular transport. tion of new types of posttranslational modification, and This leads to the idea that signals can be channeled some of these modifications may be used to regulate through specific routes from the membrane to the nu- protein kinase and phosphatase activity. An attractive cleus and other destinations and that there may be spe- possibility is that nuclear protein kinases and phospha- cific cellular compartments that are competent to relay tases involved in transcription might be regulated by signals. This mechanism would be expected to greatly acetylation. Additionally, the HIPK2 protein-serine ki- enhance the efficiency and specificity of signal trans- nase is modified by SUMO-1 (Kim et al., 1999), sug- mission. gesting that modification by members of the ubiquitin Anchoring and Scaffolding Proteins. Anchoring pro- family might also regulate protein kinase function. teins are often used to localize protein kinases and phos- Intracellular protein inhibitors of protein kinases have phatases to their substrates in particular places in the been known for many years (e.g., PKI for PKA, p21, and cell (Pawson and Scott, 1997). This increases the effi- p16 family Cdk inhibitors). Generally, these inhibitors are ciency and specificity of substrate phosphorylation and highly specific for individual protein kinases, as would coordinates the actions of protein kinases and phospha- be expected given that they work on the principle of tases. The best studied anchoring proteins are the protein–protein interaction. New protein kinase inhibitor AKAPs that are used to localize PKA, via its R subunits, proteins continue to be reported, and increasingly these and its substrates to particular places in the cell. For are likely to be of physiological importance. example, AKAP18, a myristoylated protein is localized Protein Phosphatases and Signaling to the plasma membrane where it binds PKA and the In any process governed by protein phosphorylation, L-type Ca21 channel, a PKA target (Colledge and Scott, regulation of the protein phosphatase(s) is just as likely 1999). Anchoring proteins are also known for TGFb RI, to be important as regulation of the protein kinase where SARA is used to recruit Smad proteins and to (Hunter, 1995). Indeed, although initially regarded as localize the signaling complex to discrete membrane constitutively active enzymes that reversed the action regions via a FYVE domain (Tsukazaki et al., 1998), and of inducibly activated protein kinases, the regulation of for protein kinase C, where RACKs are used for mem- protein phosphatases is proving to be highly sophisti- brane localization. Undoubtedly, many more anchoring cated. Protein phosphatase activity can regulated by proteins await discovery. posttranslational modification (e.g., phosphorylation and A different means of bringing signaling components methylation), second messengers (e.g., Ca21/calmodulin together is through the formation of multiprotein com- plexes through protein–protein interaction domains. Inand PP2B), targeting subunits, and inhibitory proteins. In Cell 120 this regard, one important principle is the use of scaf- of the FKHR transcription factor by Akt/PKB results in nuclear export (Brunet et al., 1999). Vesicular proteinfolding proteins to assemble sequential components of a signaling pathway (Garrington and Johnson, 1999). trafficking may also be used as a mechanism of signal transduction. For instance, most ligands induce endocy-The best characterized example is Ste5, a scaffolding protein that interacts with the Ste11, Ste7, and Fus3p/ tosis of their receptors, and there is increasing evidence that receptors internalized in endocytic vesicles carryKss1p protein kinases in the mating pheromone MAPK pathway. Scaffolding proteins are known for the JNK/ out specialized signaling functions. Temporal Aspects. Historically, signaling has beenSAPK and ERK MAPK pathways as well. Individual mem- bers of a MAPK pathway can also serve as scaffolds studied in populations of cells, but it is clear that there is significant kinetic variation in the responses of individualby interacting with other protein kinases in the same pathway. An important property of many scaffolding cells to a stimulus. This underscores the importance of developing tools to study signaling at high resolutionproteins is their ability to dimerize, which allows phos- phorylation in trans between protein kinase molecules in single cells, as has been done for Ca21 signaling. Extensive use is already being made of GFP-fusion pro-bound to different subunits in the dimer. A deeper under- standing of how assemblies of signaling proteins are teins to study the real-time movement of signaling mole- cules such as protein kinases in single living cells inbuilt up is clearly important. Plasma Membrane Signaling Domains. Another higher response to extracellular stimuli. For instance, translo- cation to the plasma membrane of various isoforms oforder principle of signal localization is afforded by plasma membrane signaling domains. Membrane mi- PKC fused to GFP can be detected in response to recep- tor stimulation (Sakai et al., 1997; Oancea and Meyer,crodomains known as caveolae, marked by the pres- ence of an intracellular protein coat comprised of caveo- 1998). SH2-GFP fusion proteins are being used to study the localization of tyrosine phosphorylation eventslin, can be isolated in a detergent-insoluble cholesterol/ glycolipid-rich fraction (Kurzchalia and Parton, 1999). (Stauffer and Meyer, 1997), and PH domain–GFP fusions to study where PIP2 and PIP3 are generated in vivoBy virtue of this property, caveolae are found to be enriched for many membrane signaling proteins, usually (Stauffer et al., 1998). A better knowledge of the exact timing of the onset and termination of signaling andlocalized by GPI linkages or palmitoyl groups. These lipid rafts are estimated to contain 50–100 protein mole- the speed of movement of signals combined with their precise location will be a key to understanding signalingcules, and this could be a means of concentrating signal- ing proteins for more efficient interaction. Another exam- output. Signaling Networks and Signaling Specificityple of a discrete plasma membrane signaling domain are focal adhesions, which are organized membrane- One of the major challenges in understanding signaling networks is to elucidate how signaling specificity isassociated structures where clustered integrins bind to extracellular matrix proteins and to the actin cytoskele- achieved when many of the same core signaling path- ways are activated by receptors that elicit different cellu-ton, and which mediate integrin signaling through tyro- sine and serine phosphorylation. lar responses (Tan and Kim, 1999). For instance, why does activation of the PI-3 kinase pathway by the insulinYet another mechanism of organizing proteins on the inner face of the membrane is through the use of proteins receptor PTK lead to metabolic responses such as trans- location of the GLUT4 glucose transporter, whereas acti-with multiple PDZ domains (Fanning and Anderson, 1999). PDZ domains bind to short C-terminal E.S/T.X.V/ICOOH vation of PI-3 kinase by growth factor receptor PTKs in the same cell does not? Signaling specificity can inmotifs, and a single protein can have up to 20 PDZ domains. A good example of a submembraneous PDZ principle result from the activation of unique signaling pathways by a receptor. Alternatively, since cellular re-organizing protein is InaD, which contains 5 PDZ do- mains with different specificities and can also dimerize. sponses reflect an integration of outputs from all the pathways activated by a single receptor, signaling spec-InaD interacts with multiple components of the visual signaling system in photoreceptors in the Drosophila ificity can also result from a unique combination of sig- naling pathways activated by the receptor. Receptoreye, including rhodopsin, thus concentrating all the nec- essary components into complexes and thereby speed- PTKs use not only autophosphorylation site tyrosines but also phosphorylate-specific docking proteins (e.g.,ing up signal transmission. An understanding of how membrane proteins involved in signaling are organized IRS1/2 for the insulin receptor PTK and FRS2 for the FGF and NGF receptor PTKs) to diversify signaling andon the inner face of the membrane will be increasingly important. provide specificity. The exact location of ligand-acti- vated receptors on the cell surface may dictate whichSignaling Protein Translocation. Regulated protein lo- calization has emerged as a fundamental principle in pathways can be activated, thus using spatial separa- tion as another means of generating specificity. Cellsignaling, and spatial separation of proteins is com- monly used as a mechanism for preventing spontaneous type–specific nuclear responses to activation of a given receptor can be explained by the expression of differentsignal activation. In addition to local movement of pro- teins, exemplified by inducible membrane association repertoires of downstream signaling proteins including transcription factors, and by which active chromatin do-of cytoplasmic P.Tyr-binding domain proteins, longer range movement of activated signaling proteins within mains are accessible for transcriptional induction by transcytoplasmic signaling pathways in each cell type.the cell is essential, particularly for transcytoplasmic signal transmission, where phosphorylation triggers the The apparent redundancy in signaling pathways is another challenge in understanding specificity. Redun-translocation of proteins in and out of the nucleus. For instance, tyrosine phosphorylation of Stats induces their dancy is evident from the finding that mutation of individ- ual tyrosine phosphorylation sites in a receptor PTKdimerization and nuclear import, and phosphorylation Review 121 often does not abolish a specific response, or even af- through phosphorylation and dephosphorylation and also fect the spectrum of genes induced upon receptor acti- by protein degradation. Thus, ligand-induced receptor vation (Valius and Kazlauskas, 1993; Fambrough et al., PTK signaling can be negatively regulated by receptor 1999). This may be explained by the existence of more endocytosis, dephosphorylation, feedback serine phos- than one means of activating a critical pathway (e.g., phorylation, by binding of inhibitory proteins including the Ras MAP kinase pathway can be activated by several inhibitory ligands, and through phosphorylation-depen- distinct mechanisms). Where there are several closely dent ubiquitination and degradation. The recruitment related proteins in a family, there can also be functional of nonreceptor PTPs such as Shp1 either to receptors redundancy. A good example is the Src PTK family, themselves or to inhibitory receptors (e.g., KIRs) or in- where c-Src, Fyn, and c-Yes are commonly coex- hibitory signaling proteins (e.g., SIRPs) is one mecha- pressed, and where any one of the three can be sufficient nism to downregulate receptor PTK signaling (Moghal to propagate a signal requiring a Src family PTK (Kling- and Sternberg, 1999). Interestingly a number of SH2 hoffer et al., 1999). domain proteins, including Socs, Cbl, and Dok family Signal pathway cross-talk will become increasingly members have recently been shown to act as negative important for our understanding of signaling networks. regulators of PTK signaling. Negative regulation of sig- Cross-talk can occur between pathways activated by a naling may well turn out to be as important as positive single receptor, or more commonly by pathways acti- regulation in understanding the specificity of signaling vated by different receptors. Indeed, integration of cellu- networks. lar responses elicited by different receptors must occur Role of Protein Kinases and Phosphatases by cross-talk. There are already well-established links in Disease between G protein–coupled receptors and receptor Increasing numbers of human diseases are known to PTKs, and between integrin adhesion receptors and re- involve mutations, overexpression, or malfunctioning of ceptor PTKs, to name just two examples (Luttrell et al., protein kinases and phosphatases, and their regulators 1999; Moghal and Sternberg, 1999). Cross-talk can take and effectors. The realization that protein kinases might place at many levels from the membrane to the nucleus, play a direct role in disease came with the discovery and involve components that are in common between that the v-Src oncoprotein is a PTK. Subsequently, a two pathways, as well as positive and negative feedback plethora of diseases have been show to be due to muta- signals that can act at many steps in a pathway from tions that activate or inactivate PTKs and PTPs, or lead transcription factors to the receptors themselves. On to their misexpression and/or overexpression (Hunter, the other side of the coin, pathway insulation to prevent 1998b). At least 18 PTK genes have been identified as cross-talk is proving an increasingly important concept. oncogenes either in acutely transforming retroviruses For instance, scaffolding proteins that assemble protein or in human tumors. Mutations in PTKs are also involved kinase signaling cascades insulate related MAPK path- in other diseases. In particular, mutational inactivation ways (Whitmarsh and Davis, 1998). of nonreceptor PTKs is observed in several immunodefi- Another important concept in signaling specificity is ciency diseases. Inactivation of both copies of ZAP70 signal thresholds. In many systems a 2-fold decrease or JAK3 causes severe combined immunodeficiency, in the level of a signaling protein can be sufficient to and mutation of the X-linked BTK gene results in agam- abrogate signaling, and conversely a 2-fold increase can maglobulinemia. initiate signaling. Moreover, signaling thresholds may Given the importance of activated PTKs in cancer, be different in different cell types. Productive signaling one might have anticipated that PTP genes would be can occur with only a few hundred activated receptor found as tumor suppressor genes. So far this has not molecules per cell, and therefore there has to be signifi- proved to be the case. However, there has been recent cant signal amplification. In this context, one aspect of excitement over the finding that the PTEN/MMAC gene, receptor PTK signaling that is not well understood is which is mutated in a variety of sporadic cancers and in the fact that growth factor receptor signaling is needed the hereditary Cowden’s hamartoma cancer syndrome, for 6–8 hr before a cell is committed to respond, even encodes a member of the dual-specificity protein phos- though all the early signaling events that have been so phatase family. However, PTEN’s main function in intensively studied are over by 1–2 hr, and the receptor negative growth regulation appears to be as a 39 phos- itself and the signaling pathways have been downregu- phoinositide phosphatase, rather than as a proteinlated by degradation and negative feedback loops. It phosphatase (Maehama and Dixon, 1998).remains unclear exactly what signal(s) is sensed by the Many genetic diseases also result from mutations incell at later times. This also highlights the fact that most protein-serine kinases and phosphatases. For instance,studies of ligand-induced signal transduction use acute the Coffin-Lowry syndrome is due to inactivation of thestimulation with saturating doses of ligand, and often X-linked Rsk2 protein-serine kinase gene, and myotonicoverexpressed receptors and heterologous cell types, dystrophy is due to decreased levels of expression of theand one can question whether all of the responses that myotonic dystrophy protein-serine kinase. In addition,are detected are physiologically relevant. overexpression of the aurora2 protein-serine kinase isFinally, temporal aspects of signaling are also impor- implicated in colon carcinoma, and the Lats1 and Lkb1tant in defining cellular responses. For instance, tran- protein-serine kinases have both been identified as tu-sient activation of ERK MAPK by a receptor PTK in PC12 mor suppressors. Conversely, inactivating mutations incells fails to induce differentiation, whereas sustained the Pr65 PP2A regulatory subunit are found in lung andERK MAP kinase activation induces neurite outgrowth colon cancers.(Marshall, 1995). Signaling kinetics are governed by neg- ative feedback systems that downregulate signaling As molecular analysis of human disease proceeds, Cell 122 one can predict that many additional somatic and hered- kinases and phosphatases are likely to be approved for clinical use in the near future. In the next few years, weitary mutations with causal roles in disease will be found in protein kinases and phosphatases, and in other sig- can anticipate that the rational structure-based design and development of highly specific protein kinase andnaling proteins. These enzymes and proteins will be- come candidates for the development of therapeutic phosphatase inhibitors (and activators) will become rou- tine, and that drugs that intercede in phosphorylation-drugs. Clinical Implications. In general enzymes make good mediated signaling pathways will become a major class of drug.targets for drugs, and the widespread involvement of protein kinases and phosphatases in disease has led to Genomics and Phosphorylation Complete genome sequences have the potential to re-a massive effort to develop drugs that either activate or more usually inhibit individual protein kinases and veal the totality of protein kinases and phosphatases and phosphorylation-related signaling proteins expressedphosphatases. Drugs designed to target these enzymes fall into two categories—monoclonal antibodies or mod- by a single organism. However, a priori assignment of function to a gene product relies on its sequence beingified protein ligands, and small molecules. Significant success has been achieved with the development of related to a protein of known function, and it clear that not all of the types of proteins that mediate phosphoryla-small molecule inhibitors of a number of PTKs, and sev- eral PTK inhibitors are either in or are beginning to enter tion-dependent signaling have yet been described. Novel Protein Kinases and Phosphatases. Biochemi-clinical trials. One group of small molecule inhibitors in cancer therapy trials target the EGF receptor or EGF cal and genomic analysis has already uncovered novel types of protein kinases and phosphatases, distinctreceptor PTK family members. Another group of inhibi- tors is directed against the VEGF receptor PTKs that from the major protein-serine/tyrosine kinase superfam- ily and the known protein phosphatase families, and willare essential for tumor angiogenesis (Fong et al., 1999). One receptor PTK antagonist, Herceptin, a monoclonal undoubtedly continue to do so. For example, one newly described group of protein kinases (MHCK A, eEF-2antibody that blocks the function of the ErbB2 receptor PTK, is already on the market, and is being used as an kinase, NFK, etc.) have a conserved catalytic domain that is completely unrelated to that of the protein-serine/adjuvant breast cancer therapy in the significant fraction of breast carcinomas where ErbB2 is overexpressed. tyrosine kinase superfamily (Ryazanov et al., 1999). Re- cent sequence analysis has uncovered a set of microbialAnother disease being treated with a PTK inhibitor is chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML), where a chromo- “protein kinase” families (ABC1, piD261, RIO1 families, and aminoglycoside kinases) that are all very distantlysomal translocation results in the expression of a chime- ric Bcr-Abl protein that is a constitutively activated PTK related in sequence to the protein-serine/tyrosine kinase superfamily catalytic domain, which are also repre-(Sawyers and Druker, 1999). CGP57148, a Bcr-Abl PTK inhibitor, is proving very effective as a treatment for sented in budding yeast and C. elegans (Leonard et al., 1998). These may represent the evolutionary origin of theCML. There are also protein-serine kinase inhibitors in cancer clinical trials, including flavopiridol, a Cdk2 in- eukaryotic protein kinase superfamily. Histidine, lysine, and arginine can be phosphorylated in proteins; how-hibitor. A number of diseases are due to insufficient receptor ever, with the exception of a yeast histidine kinase that phosphorylates histone H4, little is known about thePTK signaling, including noninsulin-dependent diabetes and peripheral neuropathies. If it were possible to en- protein kinases that phosphorylate these residues, and this will be an important task for the future.hance signaling through the receptors in question, this could serve as a viable therapy. One way to do this New types of protein phosphatase will also emerge to add to the currently known families of protein-serine,would be to find inhibitors of the cognate PTP for a receptor PTK. One candidate emerges from the recent protein-tyrosine, and dual-specificity phosphatases. For instance, the recently described CTD phosphatase,exciting finding that the knockout of PTP1B nonreceptor PTP in the mouse results in insulin hypersensitivity, indi- which dephosphorylates the CTD of the large subunit of RNA polymerase II, is a new type of protein-serinecating that PTP1B is a major insulin receptor PTK phos- phatase (Elchebly et al., 1999). A PTP1B-specific inhibi- phosphatase (Cho et al., 1999). Moreover, like PTEN, some members of the PTP superfamily may have non-tor has just entered clinical trials for diabetes. Another candidate is the NGF receptor PTK, and a drug that protein phosphate ester substrates. Protein Kinase and Phosphatase Catalogs. One excit-enhances NGF receptor signaling is also about to start clinical trials. ing outcome of the ongoing genomic sequencing proj- ects is that complete catalogs of protein kinases andSmall molecule activators of receptor PTKs have also been developed. For instance, an activator of the insulin phosphatases will become available for increasingly complex eukaryotic organisms. We already know thatreceptor PTK has recently been reported, which could in principle act as an orally available insulin mimetic S. cerevisiae has 114 conventional protein kinase genes (but no bona fide PTKs) out of 6,217 genes (1.8%)(Zhang et al., 1999). Interestingly, this pseudodimeric molecule acts intracellularly, apparently by reorienting (Hunter and Plowman, 1997). The recently completed sequence of C. elegans reveals that the worm genomethe two subunits of the insulin receptor dimer into an active configuration in a redox-dependent manner. Like- encodes 400 protein kinase catalytic domains (92 are PTKs 5 23%) out of 19,099 genes (2.1%) (Plowman etwise, small molecule activators of the G-CSF (Tian et al., 1998) and erythropoietin (Wrighton et al., 1996; John- al., 1999). Based on the existence in public human EST databases of .650 distinct protein kinases (.98 areson et al., 1998) binary receptor PTKs have been de- veloped. PTKs 5 z16%) and extrapolation from C. elegans, the human genome is predicted to encode .1100 proteinThe first small molecule drugs that act on protein Review 123 kinases (z150 PTKs), assuming the human genome has genes are expressed in a particular cell, and sophisti- about 80,000 genes. Indeed, it is almost inevitable that cated bioinformatics analysis. The new discipline of pro- the ballyhooed millenary of protein kinases will be teomics, where protein modifications and interactions reached! Analysis of the C. elegans genome shows that are analyzed in a high throughput format to provide the number of protein phosphatases encoded is surpris- protein linkage maps and other information, will be of ingly high, being more than half the number of protein fundamental importance in this endeavor. Databases kinases. Indeed, there are hints that there can be one that catalog protein–protein and protein–small molecule to one relationships between protein kinases and phos- interactions will also be an important step in this direc- phatases (e.g., the Clr-1 receptor PTP and Egl-15 FGF tion. The availability of consensus sequences for induc- receptor PTK in C. elegans) (Kokel et al., 1998). ible and constitutive protein–protein interactions and for Comparative analysis of protein kinase and phospha- phosphorylation by particular protein kinases will also tases from different species will tell us more about the be useful in predicting signaling connections. evolution of different protein kinases. For instance, it is One of the major challenges will be to model protein– already clear from the lack of bona fide PTKs in the protein interactions in vivo, where protein concentra- yeasts and their presence in the simplest of multicellular tions are much higher than those used in vitro. High eukaryotes that protein-tyrosine phosphorylation evolved protein concentrations favor low affinity interactions, hand in hand with multicellularity, presumably in re- which are hard to measure in vitro and yet are likely sponse to a need for intercellular communication. In to be important in signal propagation. Indeed, many keeping with this idea, a majority of PTKs play a role in signaling assemblies may rely on a combination of multi- transmembrane signaling in response to ligands that ple low-affinity interactions for their existence. Knowl- bind to surface receptors. We will also learn which pro- edge of the concentration of a given protein at a particu- tein kinases have been conserved throughout evolution, lar location in the cell will be critical information to and which ones have a specialized function in a particu- obtain. Incorporation of kinetic and particularly spatial lar type of organism. aspects of signaling into models will also be a serious Such catalogs of protein kinases and phosphatases challenge; and given that several thousand different pro- used in conjunction with detailed cellular expression teins could be involved in signaling in a single cell, the patterns derived from expression array analysis will cir- computational difficulties will be immense. Nonetheless, cumscribe which protein kinases and phosphatases are successful in silico analysis of signaling pathways and present in a cell and can therefore be involved in any networks must be a major goal for the future. particular phosphorylation event. This information, in Protein Phosphorylation Methodology combination with the available repertoire of protein ki- Advances in methodology play a key role in progress in nase target proteins and algorithms for simulating sig- most fields of biology, and this has certainly been true naling networks, may allow predictions of signaling out- in the field of signal transduction in general and protein comes in response to individual stimuli or combinations phosphorylation in particular. New methods will surely of stimuli. also play a key role in future advances. Signal Network Modeling: E-Phosphorylation. Analo- Genetic Analysis. Our understanding of signaling gies have been drawn between cellular signaling net- pathways has benefited enormously from the use of works and electronic circuits. Indeed cellular signaling organisms where genetic analysis is feasible. The highly pathways have many of the attributes of electronic cir- conserved nature of most of the major signaling path- cuits. Individual proteins can act as amplifiers or ways in eukaryotes allows use of genetic information switches, and protein kinase cascades can act as serial obtained in one organism to predict the existence of amplifiers or switches. Signal pathways can have posi- pathways and specific components in other organisms. tive and negative feedback loops, and networks can be A good example is the elucidation of the MAPK path- built up out of multiple signaling pathways. ways where genetic analysis in yeast, C. elegans, and Even though cell signaling networks are multidimen- Drosophila was combined with biochemical analysis of sional rather than two dimensional, their properties have growth factor–stimulated protein kinases in mammalian encouraged attempts to develop predictive algorithms. cells to provide a complete picture of this pathway. Efforts have been made to model MAPK cascades and Genetic analysis of signaling systems will increasingly the regulation of cell cycle transitions, and informative be used to investigate the nature and function of signal-predictions have emerged. For instance, theoretical ing pathways in vivo. Gene disruption through homolo-analysis of the ERK MAPK cascade has shown that it gous recombination, selection of null mutants, or theacts as a switch to provide a very sharp activation curve powerful new interfering double-stranded RNA (RNAi)in response to increasing levels of stimulus, rather than “knockout” technology can be used to determineacting an amplifier (Huang and Ferrell, 1996). Ultimately, whether a protein is essential for a given response. Inhowever, useful prediction of signaling pathways and vertebrates, increasing use will be made of tissue-spe-networks will require a knowledge of all the players, cific conditional knockouts, to circumvent potential de-their kinetic properties, their interaction partners and fects in embryogenesis. Future genetic analysis of sig-mechanisms of positive and negative regulation, and naling pathways will rely more and more on makingtheir subcellular localizations and concentrations. With subtle germline mutations in organisms or cells (e.g.,the availability of complete genome sequences, efforts inactivating point mutations) so that the gene productare underway to define all of the proteins involved in is expressed at physiological levels at the correct timesignaling responses induced by specific receptors (e.g., and place, thus mitigating the potential problems withG protein coupled receptors). These efforts will be aided by the use of expression array analysis to define which using overexpressed proteins and heterologous cell Cell 124 types. In the phosphorylation arena, the function of indi- (FRET) to monitor the timing and location of an intramo- lecular interaction dependent upon protein kinase acti-vidual phosphorylation sites will be studied by mutating them to a nonphosphorylatable residue to block phos- vation or phosphorylation. For instance, the localization of activated protein kinase Ca has been imaged by ex-phorylation or an acidic residue that can mimic phos- phorylation. Such an analysis of the functions of individ- pressing a GFP-tagged PKCa and microinjecting Cy3- labeled anti-P.Thr250 antibodies, which recognize acti-ual tyrosine phosphorylation sites in the PDGF b receptor PTK has recently been carried out by making vated phosphorylated PKCa (Ng et al., 1999). Specific cell-permeant inhibitors of protein kinasesknockin mutations in the mouse germline (Heuchel et al., 1999). Finally, genetic screens for suppressors and and phosphatases, and other signaling proteins are ex- tremely powerful tools for analyzing signal transductionenhancers of sensitized conditional mutations, synthetic lethal screens, and analysis of modifier genes will remain processes in intact cells. Many such inhibitors are al- ready available and are extensively used. For instance,important tools in our armamentarium for analyzing sig- naling pathways. there are nearly 2000 papers reporting the use of the Parke-Davis MEK inhibitor PD98059, and over 1500Biochemical Analysis. Many new techniques have been developed in the protein phosphorylation arena. where wortmannin has been used as a PI-39 kinase inhib- itor. Phosphopeptides or other peptides that block pro-Traditionally, 32P labeling has been used to study protein phosphorylation both in vivo and in vitro, but techniques tein–protein interactions are also increasingly used to interdict signaling pathways. Conversely, rapid and re-that emphasize nonradioactive detection of phosphory- lation are becoming more and more prominent (e.g., versible activation of exogenously expressed protein kinases and phosphatases can be achieved by usingmeasurements of protein kinase activity using fluores- cence anisotropy with fluorescently tagged peptides chemical inducers of homo- or heterodimerization, or using 4-hydroxy tamoxifen to activate protein kinasesthat bind to phosphospecific antibodies upon phosphor- ylation). Anti-P.Tyr antibodies have been widely used to and phosphatases fused to the estrogen receptor hor- mone binding domain.detect tyrosine phosphorylation, but attempts to de- velop anti-P.Ser and anti-P.Thr antibodies for similar The ongoing efforts of the pharmaceutical industry to develop drugs that act as highly specific inhibitors (anduses have been less successful, because these antibod- ies tend to recognize other phosphate esters, and are activators) of protein kinases and phosphatases has already had significant benefits in basic research bygenerally of low affinity. Of much greater value have been antibodies directed against specific P.Ser- and providing inhibitors as research tools. In many cases a potent inhibitor of a target protein is developed, but forP.Thr-containing peptide sequences, corresponding to known or suspected sites of phosphorylation. Phospho- a variety of reasons is not taken forward into clinic trials or fails in trials. Such inhibitors as well as early deriva-specific antibodies against single or closely spaced sites will be increasingly useful tools for studying serine/ tives of successful drugs are perfectly suited for analyti- cal research. In the coming years, we can expect to seethreonine and tyrosine phosphorylation of individual proteins by immunoprecipitation, immunoblotting, and increasing use of compounds from the pharmaceutical industry as tools for investigating signaling processes.immunofluorescence staining. Analysis of histidine, ly- sine, and arginine phosphorylation would be greatly fa- Protein Kinase and Phosphatase Substrates. Protein kinases recognize their substrates in part through thecilitated by the development of antibodies against these phosphoamino acids. primary sequence surrounding the phosphorylatable residue. An emerging theme is that protein kinases alsoThe mapping of phosphorylation sites is a critical endeavour, which traditionally has been done using recognize substrates via secondary docking sites dis- tinct from primary phosphorylation sites (Holland and32P-labeling either in vivo or in vitro. However, within the past few years mass spectrometry has emerged as the Cooper, 1999). This concept is well developed for PTKs where SH2 and PTB domains are used to recruit sub-best method for identifying phosphorylation sites, and, in the future, phosphorylation site mapping and mea- strates to specific P.Tyr residues in activated receptor PTK dimers, triggering their phosphorylation. Protein-surements of phosphorylation stoichiometry will be ac- complished routinely using mass spectrometry. serine kinases also recognize substrates through dock- ing sites. For instance, JNK1/2 MAPKs interact specifi-Single Cell Analysis. It is imperative that we devise better methods to study the kinetics and intracellular cally with a short LXL motif in the d region of c-Jun via a loop in their C-terminal lobe, and ERK MAPKslocalization of signaling processes in single living cells, so that spatiotemporal aspects of signaling can be de- recognize substrates via at least two distinct motifs (e.g., FXFP and LAQRRXXXXL/I) (Kallunki et al., 1994; Yangtermined. New assays to determine in real time where in the cell a protein kinase is active using fluorescent et al., 1998; Gavin and Nebreda, 1999; Jacobs et al., 1999; Smith et al., 1999). In addition, the G1 cyclin/reporter proteins will be important (e.g., using engi- neered GFP derivatives with a grafted protein kinase Cdks select substrates through interaction of the cyclin subunit via a ZRXL motif (Adams et al., 1996), and theconsensus sequence that exhibit fluorescence changes upon phosphorylation by a specific protein kinase). The L45 loop in the N-terminal lobe of the TGFb type I recep- tor catalytic domain interacts with a short sequencelocation and kinetics of specific phosphorylation events can be monitored simultaneously in living cells using in the Smad2/3 MH2 domain (Chen et al., 1998). The emerging picture is that a variety of surface loops onexpressed or microinjected fluorescent reporter pro- teins (e.g., natural or artificial P.Ser or P.Tyr binding the catalytic domain as well as sites elsewhere in a protein kinase can be used for selection of substrates.proteins and phosphospecific antibodies). Better yet, one can use fluorescence resonance energy transfer Protein kinase catalytic domains interact with many Review 125 types of protein including activators, inhibitors, tar- sequencing will probably be expressed and function in specific neurons. From a technical standpoint a majorgeting proteins, and substrates. An important challenge for the future will be to understand the structural bases requirement is the development of assays that allow temporal analysis of signaling events at high spatial res-for these multiple protein kinase catalytic domain inter- actions. olution in single cells. Also better methods for rapid detection of phosphorylation, phosphorylation site map-One major problem in the protein phosphorylation field is the difficulty in identifying true substrates for ping, and protein kinase and phosphate substrate identi- fication are essential. The evolution of theoretical meth-individual protein kinases and phosphatases in vivo. Specific protein kinase inhibitors can be useful, but it ods for analyzing signaling networks and sophisticated protein interaction databases to support modeling ef-is hard to prove that they are truly selective in vivo. A new substrate detection method has recently been forts is another obvious need. From a practical stand- point, one can foresee that the accumulating knowledgedeveloped in which the ATP-binding site of a protein kinase is “enlarged” by mutation to accept an N6-modi- about signaling networks and the proteins involved will permit development of potent and specific pharmaco-fied ATP analog, which can be used as a phosphate donor for the mutant protein kinase when expressed in logical modulators of signaling that can be used thera- peutically. Finally, we should not be so arrogant as tovivo but which cannot be used by other normal cellular protein kinase (Liu et al., 1998). This method has been think that we already know all the possible principles of signaling, and we should certainly expect totally newvalidated with members of the Src PTK family, and ef- forts are currently being made to extend this to other types of signaling systems to be uncovered. PTKs and to protein-serine kinases. 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work_lndjzqzwpvhrppf4w5v64bab4m	----	THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES: MUSIC AND THE GENDERED MIND IN NINETEENTH-CENTURY BRITAIN A Dissertation Submitted to the Temple University Graduate Board in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY by Anna Peak August, 2010 Examining Committee Members: Dr. Sally Mitchell, Advisory Chair, English and Women‘s Studies Dr. Peter M. Logan, English Dr. Steve Newman, English Dr. Ruth A. Solie, External Member, Music and Women‘s Studies, Smith College ii © by Anna Louise Peak 2010 All Rights Reserved iii ABSTRACT This interdisciplinary study examines how nineteenth-century British ideas about music reflected and influenced the period‘s gendering of the mind. So far, studies of Victorian psychology have focused on the last half of the century only, and have tended to elide gender from the discussion. This study will contribute to a fuller picture of nineteenth-century psychology by demonstrating that the mind began to be increasingly gendered in the early part of the century but was largely de-gendered by century‘s end. In addition, because music was an art form in which gender norms were often subverted yet simultaneously upheld as conventional, this study will also contribute to a fuller understanding of the extent to which domestic ideology was considered descriptive or prescriptive. This work makes use of but differs from previous studies of music in nineteenth- century British literature in both scope and argument. Drawing throughout on the work of contemporary music historians and feminist musicologists, as well as general and musical periodicals, newspapers, essays, and treatises from the long nineteenth century, this dissertation argues that music, as a field, was increasingly compartmentalized beginning early in the century, and then unified again by century‘s end. This division and re- unification reflected changing conceptions of the mind, and coincided with the waxing and waning of domestic ideology. Analyzing a range of literary texts, both canonical and non-canonical, in this context demonstrates that music was portrayed increasingly negatively over the century as it became harder and harder to contain the increasing threat iv that music posed to traditional gender norms, a threat based in a view of music that began to imply mental equality between men and women. This implication was embraced by some, particularly homosexuals, and feared by others, who tried to rescue traditional norms by displacing gender ambiguity onto foreigners and Jews. Thus, the rise and fall of domestic ideology as well as end-of-century changes in the manifestation of xenophobia and anti-Semitism are related not only to industrialism and Evangelicalism and other historical events but also to changing ideas about the gender of the mind, reflected in and influenced by changing ideas about music. v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS My interest in this project began when I was an undergraduate at Rosemont College. Dr. Richard Leiby of the history department first suggested that I study the history of music. Dr. Mary Ann Macartney, my advisor of four years, encouraged my interest in music and literature. She, Dr. Jackie Murphy, and Prof. Timothy O‘Hara have supported me throughout my academic life in more ways than they can know. My friends Alisa Doyle (class of ‘01) and Judith Graeter Cayer (Head Reference Librarian at Rosemont) have provided me with constant friendship, making this whole process much easier. The members of the Victoria listserv and the listserv of the North American Society for the Study of Romanticism took time to suggest many useful texts to me. Heather Bowlby, a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Virginia, suggested I look at Vernon Lee. Dr. Keely McCarthy of Chestnut Hill College provided me with employment when I most needed it. My dissertation chair, Dr. Sally Mitchell, has helped me in innumerable ways. Her scholarship, her wisdom, and her constant kindness made my entire experience in graduate school better – I do not know if I could have done it without her. I am very fortunate to have had in her the best dissertation director I could possibly have had, as well as a role model for how to be a scholar and a mentor. Dr. Steve Newman constantly gave his time to help me as both a teacher and a scholar. His comments on this project were always helpful, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. Dr. Peter Logan similarly lent his sharp eye to the work and provided valuable comments and criticisms. The members of Temple‘s British Writing vi Group also provided useful criticisms that helped me rethink what became the second chapter of this project. These past seven years would have been much rougher without the friendship and support of my fellow graduate students. In particular, I was fortunate to have three insightful friends and fellow students of the nineteenth century in Dr. Andrea Cabus, Dr. Margaret Godbey, and Dr. Kathy Malone. We shared many experiences together as students of Sally Mitchell and teaching assistants to Steve Newman, and going through the program alongside them has been as much a pleasure as it was an honor. Their comments on my work, too, were as helpful as they were generous – even in the midst of finishing their own dissertations, they took time out to read my work and to offer support and helpful criticisms, and I‘ll always be grateful. Last but not least, I have two other exceptional people to thank. My mother and friend, Rebecca Peak, taught me to read and to love reading. My husband, Andrew Dixon, not only asked thoughtful questions and helped me to think through this work, but encouraged me in every way; he has made me think better of myself as a person than I ever thought possible. vii DEDICATION To my dear husband. viii TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE ABSTRACT ............................................................................................................................. iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ..................................................................................................... v DEDICATION ....................................................................................................................... vii INTRODUCTION.................................................................................................................. ix CHAPTER 1. A LAND OF MUSIC ....................................................................................................... 1 2. THE IMPROVISATRICE ............................................................................................. 41 3. THE LISTENING ANGEL ........................................................................................... 73 4. MUSIC AND MANLINESS ........................................................................................ 121 5. MUSIC AT THE FIN DE SIÈCLE ............................................................................. 156 CODA ................................................................................................................................... 189 BIBLIOGRAPHY ................................................................................................................. 206 ix INTRODUCTION Plato calls music an imitation; and if it does not imitate the strong, it must the weaker propensities of our nature: and accordingly there are grave, religious, inspiring sounds which ennoble us; there are gay notes which make the spirit dance with exhilaration; but there are ―softly soothing‖ Lydian measures which, laden with emotion, travel lightning-like to that undiscovered bourn where similar emotions can be awakened – to that ultima thule of the human microcosm where emotion and mind, the two irreconcilable powers, meet, and where emotion is strong enough to disturb the equilibrium of mind. ~ Edward John Tilt, Elements of Health, and Principles of Female Hygiene1 No one today will win any points for originality by calling music a universal language; the phrase is a commonplace. The usual narrative surrounding the origins and history of this phrase, when the phrase is remembered to have a history at all, is this: American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was the first to call music ―the universal language of mankind,‖2 and the phrase became a truism for the nineteenth century and the twentieth: [b]elief in universal traits of music was characteristic of nineteenth-century scholarship…. and even some teachers of music appreciation in North America as late as the 1980s might have been quite prone to consider music as a ―universal language.‖ In contrast to the languages of the world, which were mutually unintelligible, musics of all kinds were thought intelligible to anyone.3 1 Edward John Tilt, Elements of Health, and Principles of Female Hygiene (Philadelphia: Lindsay and Blakiston, 1853), 215. 2 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Outre-Mer: A Pilgrimage Beyond the Sea, rev. ed. (New York: Houghton, Mifflin, and Company, 1893), 197. This attribution of this phrase to Longfellow began early and has continued late. For an early ascription of this phrase to Longfellow, see Jehiel Keeler Hoyt, The Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations, rev. ed. (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1896), 405; for a recent one, see pioneering ethnomusicologist Bruno Nettl‘s The Study of Ethnomusicology: Thirty-One Issues and Concepts, 2nd ed. (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2005), 42. 3 Nettl, 42. x The first challenge to this universalization of Western musical standards came in the 1940s with the advent of ethnomusicology, continues the narrative, although that challenge faded in the late 1960s as musicologists began to argue that a new universal, or set of universals, could be constructed, along lines similar to Noam Chomsky‘s universal grammar or Claude Lévi-Strauss‘s universal mythology.4 In its characterization of the twentieth century, this narrative is accurate, but its picture of the nineteenth century does not fit the facts. Longfellow, for example, was far from the first to call music a universal language; descriptions of music as a universal language are scattered throughout the pages of nineteenth-century English periodicals. An article on music in The Musical World for 26 August 1841, for example, is headed ―The Universal Language‖ and goes on to explain that musical sounds are ―instinctive, from an impress which nature gives to them.‖5 Such statements were common throughout the nineteenth century; a search on Google Books, for example, for the word ―music‖ and the phrase ―universal language‖ from 1750 to 1900 turns up hundreds of hits, clustered primarily in a 60-year period from the 1840s to the 1890s,6 although the concept goes back at least as far as Emanuel Swedenborg, who called music ―the language of the affections.‖7 4 Nettl, 43-44. 5 ―The Universal Language,‖ The Musical World n.s. 191 (26 August 1841): 134. 6 A little under 700 results come up, but of these about half are from American sources. ~Of course, I did not rely on Google‘s search result transcription of the dates of given works, as these are unreliable; rather, I clicked through each result to verify that a text listed as being published in, say, 1850, said so on the title page of the work itself and not just on the search results page, as well as verifying country of origin. 7 U.S.E., Emanuel Swedenborg: The Spiritual Columbus: A Sketch, 2nd ed. (London: James Speirs, 1877), 87. xi More interestingly, the nineteenth century was far from universally accepting the idea of music‘s universality. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the phrase was uncontroversial, if infrequently expressed;8 the poet James Thomson, for example, speaks in passing of music as ―the universal language of the heart.‖9 Later, however, particularly in that period from the 1840s to the 1890s, the phrase was more commonly used in part because it became commonly debated. Opinion became divided,10 with many subscribing to the idea that music is ―the universal language of the heart,‖ but with at least as many expressing considerable skepticism. As Berthold Seeman, chair of the Anthropological Society of London, put it, ―[t]hat every feeling which agitates the human heart, good or bad, can be expressed in music … few will venture to dispute. But it is quite an open question whether it is a universal language, understood by all mankind alike.‖11 Such doubts were not entirely new to the nineteenth century, but their extent was. By the very end of the century, however, the debate had died down, and Longfellow‘s espousal of the concept became the reference point for future assumptions about music on both sides of the Atlantic. 8 At least in England; many European commentators expressed the idea in the eighteenth century. See Mark Evan Bonds, Music as Thought: Listening to the Symphony in the Age of Beethoven (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 13. 9 The Complete Poetical Works of James Thomson, ed. by J. Logie Robertson (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1908), 364. 10 Only in Britain, interestingly; Google Books does not yet allow searching by country of publication, but by reading through the results, checking publishers, and verifying authors‘ nationalities through the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, it becomes clear that the debate over music‘s universality was a British debate. The Americans tended almost exclusively to write about music as a language of the heart, often using that exact phrase, and often suggesting that this makes music an ideal vehicle for the transmission of Christianity. 11 Opening remarks at annual meeting, Journal of the Anthropological Society of London 8 (1870), clv. xii What sparked this concern over music and its universality, and what factors contributed to the sudden decrease, even disappearance, of this concern? One way to answer this question – the way that this project will take – is to consider the role of gender in this debate. At the beginning and end of the nineteenth century, music was largely assumed to be a universal language, and those are also the periods of the century when music was viewed with most suspicion. As a perceived nexus of mind and emotion, music was an art form fraught with disruptive possibilities. It threatened ideas about the power of reason by suggesting that a simple tune could overthrow rationality, and because emotion and reason had long been gendered feminine and masculine respectively, music therefore had the symbolic potential to suggest that femininity could exercise power over masculinity or (more troublingly) that the two might be inextricable and indivisible. If music were truly a universal language, it could therefore imply not only a connection between mind and emotion but suggest that men and women were mentally not that different. As we shall see in coming chapters, this possibility was seized upon eagerly by women authors, even as male figures expressed concern about music‘s power over the emotions, a concern that was really a fear that the feminine could influence the masculine. Music at the beginning and end of the nineteenth century is therefore sometimes seen, primarily by men, as a dangerous force. As chapter one argues, however, the mid-nineteenth century (here defined as the period from roughly 1840 to 1890) managed music‘s disruptive, unifying powers by dividing music into forms considered more or less reasonable than others, and then xiii gendering the ―reasonable‖ forms as both masculine and artistically superior. Such divisions were not new, but they differed markedly in extent from older genderings of music because they were tied to a division between performance and composition and of listening from both, a division that implied a compartmentalization and specialization of minds that underwrote gender and class divisions in music and which helped underpin, even as it was influenced by, domestic ideology at large. Maintaining these conceptual divisions in music was a juggling act, however, especially as these musical divisions interacted with gender and class ideology. By the end of the century, there was increasing skepticism about these musical divisions; this skepticism is what made possible a resurrection of the idea that music was a universal language after all. This return to the concept of music‘s universality was not, of course, a simple replaying or rewinding of history; it sprang from a different historical context, as we shall see, and a different conception of music. Performance and composition were once again seen as complementary, rather than separate, skills, and the training of music in universities, for example, changed accordingly.12 Medical discourse and educational theory alike began to insist that listening to music was not a passive skill but one tied both to other musical skills (composition, performance) and to other mental skills (such as speech), leading to the birth of both ―music appreciation‖13 and music therapy.14 12 See Rosemary Golding, ―Musical Chairs: The Construction of ‗Music‘ in Nineteenth-Century British Universities,‖ Nineteenth-Century Music Review 6 (2009): 19-37; Susan Wollenberg, Music at Oxford in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 13 For the origins of music appreciation in education, see Bernarr Rainbow, ―The Rise of Popular Music Education in Nineteenth-Century England,‖ Victorian Studies 30 (Autumn 1986): 25-49; also Wollenberg. xiv As a result, gender divisions in music became harder to sustain as the musical divisions on which they were based themselves lost their force. These changes, of course, did not take place in isolation, but were part of many changes taking place at the fin de siècle, among which was a new sense of collectivity based on perceptions of the interconnectedness of mind, emotion, and body.15 These changing ideas about the mind blurred gender distinctions in music as elsewhere, and likewise changing ideas about music helped blur gender distinctions in the culture at large because, as it will be one of this project‘s tasks to show, ideas about music were an important part of the culture at large. This gender destabilization explains the surge, well documented by Paula Gillett, in the numbers of women who participated publicly in musical activities at the end of the century, whether as performers, composers, or concert organizers,16 as well as the increased suspicion with which music was viewed. Sadly, this discomfort with music‘s gender implications led to the construction of a new set of divisions, this time based on constructions of race; music was institutionalized and simultaneously masculinized in part by being constructed in opposition to feminized Others, particularly Jews. The cultural history of nineteenth-century British music is therefore a significant part of the history of nineteenth-century Britain. In particular, this pattern of musical and gender unity, division, and transmogrified unity has an important bearing on the twin 14 This will be more fully discussed in chapter 5. 15 See Alison Winter, Mesmerized: Powers of Mind in Victorian Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 16 Paula Gillett, Musical Women in England, 1870-1914 (New York: St. Martin's Press, 2000). xv histories of domestic ideology and psychology, histories often considered in isolation. Discussions of the history of psychology prior to Freud – perhaps because there are so few of them – tend to assume that nineteenth-century psychological debates were about ―the‖ mind, without taking gender into account and as often without considering the ways early psychologists (or philosophers of mind, as ―psychologist‖ is an anachronistic term) themselves made assumptions about gender.17 Even Rick Rylance‘s excellent Victorian Psychology and British Culture, 1850-1880 fails to take gender into account in his otherwise admirable work. Likewise, histories of domestic ideology, following Catherine Hall18 and others, focus on the tremendous changes to institutions – particularly the rise of industrialism and Evangelical movements – that shaped the formation of domestic ideology. More recently, historians have begun to question the doctrine of the separate 17 Henri F. Ellenberger‘s The Discovery of the Unconscious: The History and Evolution of Dynamic Psychiatry (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1970) is the most comprehensive of the histories of pre-Freudian psychology, but Ellenberger‘s massive scope (both geographical and chronological) focuses more on naming early psychologists and detailing their theories and experiments; Ellenberger keeps commentary to a minimum. Katherine Arens‘s Structures of Knowing: Psychologies of the Nineteenth Century (Dordrecht and Boston: Klewer, 1989) focuses on the history of German psychology and its relation to philosophy; gender does not figure into her discussion. The collection The Problematic Science: Psychology in Nineteenth-Century Thought, ed. by William R. Woodward and Mitchell Ashe (New York: Praeger, 1982) likewise focuses on prominent male European psychologists and their ideas, without questioning those figures‘ assumptions about gender. Elaine Showalter‘s The Female Malady: Women, Madness, and English Culture, 1830-1980 (New York: Penguin Books, 1985) does take gender into account, but focuses on the history of hysteria and insanity, and – properly for the time – only discusses gender in terms of women. Christopher Lane‘s The Burdens of Intimacy: Psychoanalysis and Victorian Masculinity (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1999) likewise takes gender into account, but not pre-Freudian psychology, instead reading Victorian works through the lens of modern psychoanalysis. Other works discussing gender and nineteenth-century psychology focus on those elements of psychological discourse that best fit their analysis of a particular author – see Michael Davis, George Eliot and Nineteenth-Century Psychology: Exploring the Unmapped Country (Aldershot, Hants., England: Ashgate, 2006) and Sally Shuttleworth, Charlotte Brontë and Victorian Psychology Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) – and even these tend to focus on gender in relation to the female author under discussion, rather than in the psychological discourse that they use as background. 18 See Catherine Hall, White, Male and Middle-Class: Explorations in Feminism and History (New York: Routledge, 1992). xvi spheres; Amanda Vickery‘s work19 has been particularly influential among historians for its argument that such doctrines did not inhibit women from participating in activities outside their sphere and that domestic ideology is more a current historical paradigm than a reflection of past reality. Literary critics such as John Tosh have followed in a similar vein, arguing, for example, that the doctrine of separate spheres did not keep the domestic sphere from being just as important to men as to women.20 While these arguments have their validity, they do not explain why the doctrine of the separate spheres existed and held such a prominent place in written discourse. In other words, while women and men may indeed have routinely acted in ways that did not fit this discourse, they still often believed in it and certainly knew of it. A fuller understanding of domestic ideology, therefore, must look not only at the history of institutions and broad social changes (religion; industrialism; the home; etc.) but also at the history of ideas. Music, because it was in practice a highly gendered set of activities that were theorized in relation to their effects on the mind, provides an excellent area for investigating the intersections between the history of domestic ideology and the history of psychological thought, as it not only reflects those histories but is partly constitutive of them. Avoiding anachronistic readings of nineteenth-century British literature depends on knowing as much as possible about these histories. Accordingly, this study is an interdisciplinary one that examines literature from the long nineteenth century in the 19 See particularly Vickery‘s widely-cited essay, ―Golden Age to Separate Spheres? A Review of the Categories and Chronology of English Women‘s History,‖ The Historical Journal 36 (June 1993): 383-414. 20 John Tosh, A Man‟s Place: Masculinity and the Middle-Class Home in Victorian England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999). xvii context of music‘s cultural history. Such a study would not be possible without the pioneering work of feminist musicologists,21 and particularly the work of scholars who have even more recently begun to explore the rich cultural history of nineteenth-century British music, most notably Derek Scott and Ruth Solie.22 This is not the first study of music in nineteenth-century British literature, but it differs from previous studies of music in literature in focus, scope, and argument. Studies of music in nineteenth-century British literature have so far tended to focus on the female performer (the usual argument is that the female performer both transgressed and upheld traditional gender roles by putting herself on display but doing so to catch a husband).23 Other studies focus on music in the work of a handful of specific authors, usually George Eliot or Thomas Hardy. Beryl Gray and Delia da Sousa Correa have written full-length studies of music in the works of George 21 The earliest work of feminist musicology is Sophie Drinker, Music and Women: The Story of Women in Their Relation to Music (1948. Repr., New York: The Feminist Press at The City University of New York, 1995). The book fell out of print quickly, however, and was not reprinted until feminist musicology began to gather steam in the 1990s. Marcia J. Citron‘s Gender and the Musical Canon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) is one of the first, and most comprehensive, accounts of the construction of a gendered musical canon. Susan McClary‘s essay ―Constructions of Subjectivity in Schubert‘s Music,‖ presented to the American Musicological Assocation in 1990 (reprinted in Queering the Pitch: The New Gay and Lesbian Musicology, rev. ed., New York: Routledge, 2006), raised hackles for her suggestion that Schubert‘s lesser reputation compared to composers such as Beethoven is due to sexism and homophobia regarding the perceived feminine/homosexual qualities of Schubert‘s music. McClary further explores the relationship between gender and the musical canon in her book Feminine Endings: Music, Gender, and Sexuality (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991). Susan C. Cook and Judy Tsou‘s early collection, Cecilia Reclaimed: Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994), is another valuable early work, as is Musicology and Difference: Gender and Sexuality in Music Scholarship (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), edited by Ruth A. Solie. 22 See especially Derek B. Scott, ―The Sexual Politics of Victorian Musical Aesthetics,‖ Journal of the Royal Music Association 119 (1994): 91-114, reprinted in From the Erotic to the Demonic: On Critical Musicology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), and Ruth A. Solie, Music in Other Words (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2004). 23 The first essay of this kind has served as a pattern for later ones: Mary Burgan‘s ―Heroines at the Piano: Women and Music in Nineteenth-Century Fiction,‖ Victorian Studies 30 (Autumn 1986): 51-76. xviii Eliot; Mark Asquith has explored music in Thomas Hardy‘s novels. Alisa Clapp-Itnyre‘s Angelic Airs, Subversive Songs focuses on music in Gaskell, Eliot, and Hardy and argues that music was simply an instrument of patriarchy that upheld an angel/demon dichotomy. Phyllis Weliver‘s Women Musicians in Victorian Fiction, 1860-1900 and The Musical Crowd in English Fiction, 1840-1910: Class, Culture and Nation are the primary broader studies of music in Victorian fiction; Weliver is attentive to the role of ideas about the mind in literary representations of music and her work is both pioneering and insightful. I differ from her second work in my focus on gender and from her first in my basic argument. The central thesis of Women Musicians is that music was perceived negatively at the end of the century because of an increase in the number of women who participated in music publicly, as performers or concert organizers. However, as Gillett documents, women continued to increase their public participation in music well after music began to be discussed as dangerous, which reverses the cause and effect pattern that Weliver implies. Further, music was portrayed as dangerous to both women and men, and male musicians were also increasingly represented in negative terms. There is therefore more going on than a simple cause and effect relationship; rather, what spurred women to participate more publicly in musical activity was also what led to fear regarding music, namely, the belief that music was a meeting point for mind and emotion that could have a powerful effect on the body. Music thus again became a space where gendered values were blurred, thus making it easier for women to conceptualize themselves as composers or public performers while at the xix same time leading to fear that music was contributing to the breakdown of traditional gender values. Literature illuminates this process because literary texts24 tend to explore imaginatively moments of fissure in the discourse at large. Some texts try to patch those fissures in order to maintain gender and class ideologies; others exploit them, but they tend to focus on the same issues and problems. Accordingly, this study looks at poems and short stories as well as novels, both canonical and non-canonical, in order to demonstrate that changes in the representation of music point to shifts in the gendering of the mind; when music as a field is most unified, arguing for gender and sexual equality is more possible because the unification of music implies a unity in and among minds. Because this project traces the history of ideas about music and the mind alongside the history of domestic ideology, it focuses on the middle classes, for the doctrine of separate spheres was primarily a middle-class concept. The following chapters attempt to demonstrate this pattern of unification, division, and reunification by examining the ways that music was represented in literature over the course of the long nineteenth century in the context of the cultural and conceptual history of music. Chapter 1, ―A Land of Music,‖ provides a background history of nineteenth-century ideas about music and draws on a range of nineteenth-century periodicals, essays, articles, treatises, and novels in order to 24 I am of course aware of the argument that all written work is literature, or that one cannot precisely define ―literature‖ and therefore cannot categorize any particular type of text as ―literature‖ (a classic example of the fallacy of the beard). However, as Wittgenstein long ago pointed out, precise definitions are always impossible; their boundaries will always be fuzzy, and yet we can still name categories. I take ―literature‖ or ―literary texts‖ to mean novels, short stories, poetry, and plays; I do not deal with plays in this project because music primarily shows up in Victorian drama as background music (often lost) rather than being represented in the plays themselves (although there are a few exceptions, such as the two contrasting scenes where Paula plays the piano in Arthur Wing Pinero‘s The Second Mrs Tanqueray). xx show how performance, composition, and listening were compartmentalized and gendered during the early- and mid-Victorian eras. Chapter 2, ―The Improvisatrice,‖ examines poems about Sappho, Corinne, and the improvisatrice figure generally in order to show how the unification of performance and composition in this figure is first used by Romantic women poets to argue for female mental and artistic equality. Victorian men then re-cast the figure as primarily a performer in the domestic mold, thus removing a threat to male artistic superiority. By the end of the century, however, as musical divisions lose their force, the figure of the improvisatrice takes on a different significance and suggests that divisions between public and domestic, mind and emotion, are unsustainable. Chapter 3, ―The Woman Listener,‖ explores the significance of women‘s listening in the nineteenth century. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, sensitive listening denoted a harmonious mind that united sense and sensibility; in such works as Ann Radcliffe‘s The Italian (1796), therefore, the ability to listen signals the androgyny of the well-regulated mind. By the Victorian era, however, women were encouraged to play music, but not to listen to it, a distinction made possible by nineteenth-century ideas about automaticity. As listening was increasingly seen in physical terms, however, it was also seen as something that women not only did not do, but should not do, as listening meant vibrating. Victorian portrayals of the woman listener therefore present the woman listener in sexualized terms, sometimes to argue for women‘s sexual freedom but sometimes to suggest that women‘s freedom is limited by their physical sensitivity and weakness. Fin de siècle portrayals of the woman listener, however, take advantage of the theoretical importance that listening xxi assumes at this period to argue that women‘s physical sensitivity to music augurs their sexual and creative potential. Chapter 4, ―Music and Manliness,‖ explores the changing ways masculinity was negotiated in relation to music as music became compartmentalized. Class and gender associations served to make music largely the province of middle- and upper-class women and lower- and professional-class men; gentlemen risked both their class and gender status by participating in music. The portrayal of gentleman musicians in literature, therefore, shows ways in which Victorian authors played with and modified contemporary definitions of middle-class masculinity. Finally, Chapter 5, ―Music at the Fin de Siècle,‖ looks at the changes in the conceptualization of music at the end of the century. Increasingly, music was defined as masculine on the ground that men were most capable of true emotion; the result was a blurring of the divisions between masculine and feminine in music. Music was seized upon by homosexual authors such as Vernon Lee and Oscar Wilde as part of a larger discourse defining homosexuality as a spiritual orientation, rather than a physical act. Because music was also increasingly defined in terms of its effects upon the body, some feared that music could affect physical and sexual behavior. The end result was that music was increasingly seen as a fearful and negative force for both women and men, and this threat to gender and sexual categories was met in literature by the creation of such figures as Svengali, whose transgression of gender and sexual categories is vilified through anti-Semitism. By opposing themselves to the figure of the effeminate, foreign musician, the late Victorians constructed a new musical Other against which men could define themselves as masculine even in their most sensitive moments. Taken together, xxii these chapters show that the doctrine of separate spheres both created and reflected the doctrine of separate musical and mental spheres, and that the fin de siècle‘s new attitude toward gender was related, in part, to its changing ideas about music. 1 CHAPTER 1 A LAND OF MUSIC Novels, music, poetry, and gallantry, all tend to make women the creatures of sensation, and their character is thus formed in the mould of folly…. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman1 With what a languid yawn have I seen an admirable poem thrown down that a man of true taste returns to again and again with rapture; and whilst melody has almost suspended respiration, a lady has asked me where I bought my gown. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman2 Whether we shall ever attain to the wisdom of the old Greek philosophers, who recognised the great value of music in general education … we cannot tell; but I believe if such should ever be the case … that then we shall no longer be offended by the way in which music is too commonly referred to by professional novelists and others, who garnish their writings with allusions to music more or less wrong, and for the most part ridiculous. ~ Thomas Lea Southgate, ―The Treatment of Music by Novelists‖3 Music was both denigrated and lauded in the long nineteenth century, not infrequently by the same persons or for the same qualities. This often contradictory treatment of music has two root causes, one illogical and the other logical: the first was the need to force ideas about music into conformity with nineteenth-century ideas about gender, class, and race; the second was that ideas about music reflected and helped constitute nineteenth-century ideas about the nature of the mind. Understanding both these causes will shed fresh light on the authors examined in later chapters, whose literary 1 Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792. Repr., New York: Penguin Books, 1992), 154. 2 Ibid., 291. 3 Thomas Lea Southgate, ―The Treatment of Music by Novelists,‖ Musical Association: Proceedings 22 (1895/1896): 23-24. 2 portrayal of music is, as Mr. Southgate complained, not always strictly accurate, but instead a use of ideas about music and the mind. The tension over music is similar, in some ways, to the tension over reading. Like music, reading was seen as both something to be encouraged and something to be controlled: ―[a]ttempts to legislate about reading and its effects can be seen on the one hand as a means of gaining control over subjectivity, and, on the other, as a means of obtaining access to different types of knowledge, and through this, to different social expectations and standards.‖4 Reading is dangerous because of its private effect on the emotions, but useful because of the knowledge that can be gained from it. While knowledge of the kind gainable by reading is not easily obtained from music, music nonetheless provided a training ground for the discipline of the emotions, and its effect on the emotions was, if anything, considered greater than reading‘s. As the Rev. H.R. Haweis, author of the widely-disseminated5 and transatlantically popular work Music and Morals, put it firmly in an essay on music, ―[t]he future mission of music for the millions is the DISCIPLINE OF EMOTION,‖6 and this goal was seen as important not just for ―the millions‖ but for middle- and upper-class women and men as well, as we shall see. Like reading, then, music was a locus of tension and concern about how to manage subjectivity in relation to 4 Kate Flint, The Woman Reader, 1837-1914 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 11. 5 Haweis‘s book, itself a reworking of a series of essays published in the Quarterly Review (and already reproduced, sometimes in condensed form, in other British and American periodicals such as Good Words and Appleton‟s Journal), ―went through 16 editions between its 1871 publication and the author‘s death in 1901‖ (Gillett, 4) and was frequently excerpted and cited in numerous books and journals. 6 H.R. Haweis, ―On Hearing Music,‖ Good Words 16 (January 1875): 380. His emphasis, needless to say. 3 social duty. Unlike reading, however, music was an activity most encouraged in those who would have been supposed to be most vulnerable to its dangerous effects. Women might find or achieve time for reading; time for piano playing, however, was notorious for being forced upon them, talented or not, interested or not. What ideas of the mind make this possible? Over the course of the long nineteenth century, a division was increasingly made between performance, listening, and composing, and a further division was made between music and poetry, long considered sister arts. The mind was held to do different things in each category. Examining these ideas helps to reconcile certain contradictions; for example, why music was considered a feminine and emotional art, and yet women were not considered suited to composing music. Composing Most discussions of music composition, in the nineteenth century and today, focus on the composition of art music. Occasionally (then as now), someone ventures to discuss ―popular‖ music, that is, music that may or may not have actually been popular but which is considered to be not very good. The two are seldom considered together, except to point out that there is overlap between the two concepts. Examining both types of composition in the nineteenth century together is useful, however, precisely because it reveals that there was not a universal ideal of composition that art music conformed to and popular music fell short of. Instead, there were two ideals of composition; each ideal assumed a different audience and was aimed at affecting that audience in a particular way. Art music was 4 defined as such not exclusively because of its ostensible quality, but because of its audience and its putative effect on that audience; likewise, popular music was again not judged primarily on aesthetic grounds but defined in terms of its different effects on a largely (not entirely) different audience. The eighteenth century and early nineteenth century focused less on the emotional discipline or manipulation of audiences and more on other issues, such as community and nationhood. Thus through the long eighteenth century one sees productions that, to a degree, intermingle high with low, art with the popular, in an attempt to create an art that taps into the power and authority of the spontaneous productions of a nation, whether the eminently socially acceptable productions of Felicia Hemans or the more dubious, off-color works of Thomas Moore.7 Such attempts, however, by their very editing or imitation of indigenous productions, implicitly concede a distinction between high and low by the very act of trying to marry the two. Further, nationalistic songs and ballads were an essentially masculine genre whose ability to mingle high and low stemmed from a common root of these high and low genres in masculinized values (such as nationhood) and masculine authority (the voice of the bard, not bardess). The few women, like Hemans, who attempted this genre were women who wished to don the cloak of masculine authority, not challenge it.8 7 For a comprehensive discussion of these and similar works, as well as a more thorough explication of their functions, see Steve Newman, Ballad Collection, Lyric, and the Canon: The Call of the Popular from the Restoration to the New Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007). 8 Of course, Hemans is always a complicated poet to discuss, because her desires were so conflicted and her poems, to use Isobel Armstrong‘s phrase, so ―doubled.‖ Hemans‘s portrayal of the improvisatrice, a feminine analogue of sorts to the bard, is discussed in chapter 2; briefly, however, for Hemans, the 5 During the Victorian period, however, matters changed; increasingly, Victorian commentators voiced concern that England was producing no art music at all. As historians of nineteenth-century British music have pointed out, however, England was in fact a center of musical production and performance to which many composers and performers of other nations flocked, yet the English themselves did not view their nation as a musical one.9 What lay behind this seeming contradiction was a shift in the conceptualization of high and low in music towards an emphasis on music‘s effects on listeners; art music was thought to effect listeners in a disciplinary fashion, low or popular music in manipulative one, and the English felt that their nation was primarily producing works that manipulated rather than disciplined the emotions. The common root of masculinity that had allowed high and low to rub shoulders throughout the eighteenth century was troubled at the end of that century as more and more women began to compose and perform music,10 and the end result was a division or re-separation of high from low that served to separate the sexes into their own musical spheres. Art music, of course, was the domain of Great Music by Great Men. This ideal aimed at modifying music‘s emotional power by intellectualizing it. An increasingly evolutionary (not necessarily Darwinian) view of music allowed for the idea that emotion in music could be subsumed to a large degree, just as brute passions could be controlled by improvisatrice dies because she has no audience – she is not a man speaking to men, but a woman speaking to no one. In part, then, the desire of Hemans‘s female artist figures, such as Sappho, Corinne, and Properzia Rossi, for a supportive lover and domestic setting is a desire for an audience. 9 For a brief but comprehensive overview of England‘s musical activity in this period, see Ruth A. Solie, ―No ‗Land Without Music‘ After All,‖ Victorian Literature and Culture 32 (2004): 261-276. 10 See Ritchie. 6 reason, and that music could move away from its emotive roots. This was to be accomplished by a new kind of musical composition, rather than by the older solution of marrying music to words of socially acceptable import.11 This change in ideals also explains why music became, in some ways, less feared for its emotional power than it had long been, and was an attempt to remove a perceived feminine taint that had begun to cling to music as women were increasingly involved in music‘s consumption and production. The Female Mentor of 1793 provides a summary of these fears – ―The antients were of opinion, that nothing could be more pernicious to a well ordered republic than the introduction of an effeminate music, as it tended to enervate the mind, and render it too susceptible of voluptuous softness‖12 – before going on to argue that music‘s overly- softening power could be overcome by the addition of appropriate lyrics: ―[m]usic when aided by poetry, if divested of every improper ornament, is capable of raising in the soul the most lively and sublime emotions of virtue!‖13 This was an old solution, dating back to the introduction of the Book of Common Prayer and the need for a style of singing in church that would be somehow differentiated from Roman Catholicism. John Merbeck‘s 1550 The Book of Common Prayer Noted featured a new psalter that eschewed despised ―papistical‖ complexity14 and instead made use of the one-syllable-one-note style of singing 11 This shift away from vocal music or music with lyrics towards purely instrumental music was not exclusive to England, but part of a larger European phenomenon. See Bonds, 4-13. 12 ―On Music. Conversation 26.‖ The Female Mentor 2 (1793): 150-151. 13 Ibid., 152. 14 Morrison Comegys Boyd, Elizabethan Music and Musical Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1962), 26. 7 recommended by no less an authority than Thomas Cranmer in a letter to Henry VIII.15 Centuries later, the same approach prevailed, in ideals if not in practice; the 18th number of The Spectator was devoted to a criticism of the popularity in England of the Italian opera, on the grounds that its lyrics and music did not match. Poor translations of Italian lyrics could result in an English singer singing of pity in music originally intended to express rage, and, perhaps worse, Italian music was filled with unnecessary trills that could have no one- on-one correspondence with a word‘s sense, and thus were doing something musically outside the rational control of language: ―I have known the word ‗and‘ pursued through the whole gamut, have been entertained with many a melodious ‗the,‘ and have heard the most beautiful graces, quavers, and divisions bestowed upon ‗then, for, and from;‘ to the eternal honour of our English particles.‖16 Music and poetry should ideally be enmeshed, ―lovely twin-sisters, the pride of the arts / … / Two utterances, yet the result of one soul,‖ as composer Charles Dibdin‘s poem The Harmonic Preceptor put it.17 That was the old solution to managing music‘s power. But this long association between music and poetry largely ended in the nineteenth century, at least for art music, as the focus shifted towards an ideal of rationalized music that would not be so dependent upon the addition of words in order to mitigate music‘s affect but which would in itself combine emotion with reason. Increasingly, the highest form of music, under this first 15 E.D. Mackerness, A Social History of English Music (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1964), 56. 16 Joseph Addison, No. 18, The Spectator (London: John C. Nimmo, 1898), 1:96. 17 Charles Dibdin, The Harmonic Preceptor, A Didactic Poem, in Three Parts. 1804. Literature Online. 8 ideal, was held to be some kind of absolute music, that is, music unmixed with any other art form (poetry and theater and so on). The term absolute music ―is of German origin, first appearing in the writings of Romantic philosophers and critics such as J.L. Tieck, J.G. Herder, W.H. Wackenroder, Jean Paul (Richter) and E.T.A. Hoffmann,‖18 and most English commentators of the time did not use the term itself, nor did they subscribe to the idea, as did some proponents of absolute music, that music was meaningless. They were, on the contrary, deeply upset by the idea that music ―is nothing more than a transient titillation of the acoustic nerves…. [with] no greater meaning or dignity than any product of the confectioner‘s art.‖19 They did, however, describe the concept of absolute music and subscribe to the ideas that music need not be mixed with any other art and that music, at its best, was an art form whose power was capable of being managed independently of any other art form. Music and poetry were partly separated as a very practical response to the fact that the respected composers of the nineteenth century were not English; chafing under this humiliation, many English commentators broke poetry away from music in order to console themselves for being good at that, at any rate. There ―is but one of the Fine Arts in which John Bull* can be said to have any instinctive sense of aesthetic excellence, and that is Poetry,‖20 and that was fine, because music is the outgrowth of inarticulate emotion and ―poetry and oratory, the more independent efforts of the human 18 Roger Scruton, The Aesthetic Understanding: Essays in the Philosophy of Art and Culture (London: Methuen, 1983), 37. 19 G.D. Haughton, ―Atheism, Poetry, and Music,‖ Fraser‟s Magazine o.s. 90 (July 1874): 50-51. 20 ―Are the English a Musical People?‖ Fraser‟s Magazine 43 (June 1851): 677. 9 mind.‖21 Looking at the matter another way, ―[i]t is a mistake to suppose that the music itself always gains by being associated with words, or definite ideas of any sort. The words often gain a good deal, but the music is just as good without them.‖22 Behind these authors‘ different attitudes towards English musical production is an agreement on the idea that music and language are separate art forms, even though they can be used together. Music had once been seen as much more closely tied to language, as having developed alongside language and from a common root, the vocal expression of the passions. Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, for example, completely eliminates the sounds of the wind and of other animals from his origin of language and music. The presupposition of [his] Essai is that music and language are properly considered not as sounds that materially resemble other noises found in nature, but rather as artifacts relating to the history and development of culture.23 During the nineteenth century, however, music was increasingly seen, not as allied to language, but as having developed prior to language and as being fundamentally different from it, a view most influentially outlined in Herbert Spencer‘s 1857 essay, ―The Origin and Function of Music.‖ Spencer argues that ―[a]ll music is originally vocal. All vocal sounds are produced by the agency of certain muscles. These muscles, in common with those of the body at large, are excited to contraction by pleasurable and painful feelings.‖24 21 Jonathan Peel, ―Taste and Music in England [Part II],‖ Blackwood‟s Edinburgh Magazine 53 (January 1843): 132. 22 Haweis, Music and Morals, 28. 23 Downing A. Thomas, Music and the Origins of Language: Theories from the French Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 63. 24 [Herbert Spencer,] ―The Origin and Function of Music,‖ Fraser‟s Magazine 56 (October 1857): 397. 10 Dogs bark; people grunt and sing. Music is thus for Spencer an expression of irrational, primitive emotions, while language is the expression of rationality. One would think, then, that women and ―savages‖ would be ideally suited to music composition, yet they were not. As pianist Anton Rubinstein put it, how was it that ―music – the noblest, most beautiful, most refined, soulful, loving art that the mind of man has created, is so unattainable to woman [as composers and high-level performers], who is still a combination of all these qualities[?]‖25 The answer is that the very location of music‘s roots in the primitive implies an evolutionary schema where advanced music will have moved away from those roots. Somewhat strangely, music does not move away from those roots by the incorporation of its descendant, language, but by the honing of sounds into ever more complex structures that could not possibly arise spontaneously. It is for this reason that women and lower groups generally were not considered capable of this type of composition; their works would necessarily partake of the primitive and therefore function in different, less rational ways. Women were also considered incapable of art composition thanks to a method of argument widely popular among scholars today, Argument by Pun. As pianist and conductor Hans von Bülow wrote in 1880: ―[W]e may allow that the fair sex possess reproductive genius, just as we unconditionally deny that they possess productive genius.‖26 The ideal art composition is therefore written by a productive man of genius for men of somewhat lesser (reproductive?) genius to perform and listen to. Music should forge order out of chaos, something most effectively, obviously, and even visually accomplished 25 Anton Rubinstein, quoted in Gillett, 27. 26 Quoted in Gillett, 22. 11 by having a large group of various instruments play multiple harmonic lines without descending to cacophony; therefore, it is music written ―for a full orchestra and divided into a series of well-worked out movements‖ that reveals ―the man of genius.‖27 This type of music should also be long. A piece need not be very long – in fact Beethoven‘s Ninth Symphony was originally considered too long28 – but some length is necessary. ―[V]elocity … is the … one art which music alone possesses,‖29 so it must be taken advantage of, and ―[m]usical beauty is dependent upon the melodic and contrapuntal development of melodious phrases, which in themselves will have no character at all unless extended to a certain length.‖30 Music should take a while to listen to, to maximize music‘s ability to take emotions and steadily put [them] through definite stages, just as definite and just as salutary to the realm of feeling, just as well calculated to bring it into discipline and obedience, as the athlete‘s progressive exercises are calculated to strengthen and discipline the muscles of the body…. The emotions are not allowed to run wild…. it is this power which raises music, through, but beyond, connection with the senses, into a moral agent.31 27 J[ohn] M[oore] Capes, ―Roman, Anglican, and Protestant Sacred Music,‖ Fortnightly Review os 8 (July 1867): 5. 28 Solie, Music in Other Words, 10. 29 Haweis, Music and Morals, 154. 30 Capes, 35. 31 H.R. Haweis, ―Music: its Origin and Influence,‖ Quarterly Review (July 1871): 156. 12 In this way, music could transcend its origins and become an art almost totally different from the organ-grinder‘s songs, the folk-songs of the Irish, the love-songs played by girls at their pianos, and the seldom-discussed but very popular ―Negro Melodists.‖32 But music‘s low origins and associations were not always considered a deficit; in fact, they were sometimes a boon, and provided a way to control a different audience with a different type of music. When England was dubbed the ―land ohne musik,‖ the land without music, it was the first type of music, outlined above, that England was held to be without. This does not mean, however, what many critics have for too long assumed, that England‘s ―popular‖ music was somehow either failing to be good music or bucking the establishment (retrospectively, anyway) by embodying a different aesthetic. On the contrary, low or popular music was extremely successful on its own terms; it was low because it was designed for a different audience (mainly women and the working-classes), was in fact made low for that audience, and was used both to justify the idea that this audience was in fact lower, and to control that audience through exploiting, rather than disciplining, the emotions. Again, this trend begins with the inception of the Church of England. Congregations were suddenly required to sing in their own language rather than listening to a priest sing in Latin, and it very soon became clear that some general musical instruction was in order, the weekly discord having raised ―the question of musical literacy 32 Haweis, Music and Morals, 507-508. 13 in an acute form.‖33 New psalters took this need for instruction into account, the 1562 Whole Book of Psalms featuring a ―‗Short Introduction to the science of Musicke‘ in which it is taken for granted that men will want to sing psalms ‗aswel in common places of prayer … as privately by themselves or at home in their houses.‘‖34 The emphasis, however, was not so much on instruction as on writing simpler music so that less instruction would be needed – this is the original, practical reason behind the lofty denunciation of papistical complexity and trills in favor of one note per syllable. Increasingly, however, music was also made low for secular purposes. Simple songs, it was recognized, made for more easily memorized lyrics35 and thus were an ideal vehicle for indoctrination. Those who were considered most in need of such treatment were also, pleasingly, those considered most susceptible to it. This is another reason why art music increasingly distanced itself from songs with lyrics36 – songs with lyrics increasingly had in mind a specific, low audience and the manipulation of that audience, whereas art music increasingly had in mind a specialized audience that did not consider itself in need of the moral improvement that songs strove to engineer. 33 Mackerness, 57. 34 Ibid. 35 Ritchie, 80. 36 Of course, there are famous exceptions, such as Schumann‘s lieder. But nineteenth-century music was theoretically more interested in longer, instrumental works, and the newly-invented form of the symphony. Also, Schumann was not English; English theorists and art composers were not interested in songs. 14 One such type of song was the magdalen song, taught to girls and women in homes for fallen women. The world was gifted with a whole sub-genre of these edifying songs, which typically featured lyrics like these: O God of Mercy, hear my Pray‘r, Thy weak, thy sinful Creature save; Thy Voice can raise me from Despair, Raise me triumphant from the Grave.37 Such songs were meant to be sung partly in chorus and partly as a series of solos,38 presumably to enforce the ideas that the women were collectively a sinful group and that this collective guilt did not at all abate their individual sin. Somewhat surprisingly, such songs were also given to schoolgirls to sing, partly because they were written for large groups of female voices (as opposed to most songs, which were solos), and partly as warnings.39 Another low song sub-genre was what might be called the Pity-the-Poor song. These songs featured pathetic, low protagonists, frequently female, such as madwomen and beggar girls. In fact, the ―beggar girl image was so pervasive and acceptable a lyrical subject that even a child could write a song on this theme, and two did.‖40 Such works were intended, in theory, to harness music‘s ability to over-ride rationality in the service of right- mindedness, and could therefore be used to manipulate a middle- or upper-class audience as well as a working-class one. Such songs‘ ability to effect members of different classes did 37 Quoted in Ritchie, 94. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid., 95-96. 40 Ibid., 101. 15 not, however, mean that they were equally directed at all classes; the middle- and upper- classes might be manipulated through such songs occasionally, by one of their own (certainly not by working-class productions), but in general these compositions were designed to take advantage of the pleasures of music to instruct those who enjoy music but are not capable of the ―emotions of sedate pleasure resulting from the fullness, gravity and expression of sacred musick,‖41 such as oratorios (quite a change from the eighteenth century, during which Charles Dibdin could brag, probably not completely truthfully, that common people up and down the country knew and could sing their voice‘s part to the Messiah). Even love songs served this auto-suggestive function, by encouraging girls to think about their only true road to happiness.42 Music was also recognized as an outlet for emotions that might otherwise find more dangerous outlets. This is another reason for the different treatment of reading and music when it comes to women: reading, it was feared, might stir up emotions; music, it was hoped, would evaporate them. The Rev. H.R. Haweis, speaking of music‘s cathartic function in his very popular work Music and Morals, argues that [a]s a woman‘s life is often a life of feeling rather than of action, and if society, whilst it limits her sphere of action, frequently calls upon her to repress her feelings, we should not deny her the high, the recreative, the healthy outlet for emotion which music supplies…. A good play on the piano has not unfrequently taken the place of a good cry up-stairs, and a cloud of ill-temper has often been dispersed by a timely practice.43 41 Anselm Bayly, quoted in Ritchie, 101. 42 Ritchie, 85. 43 Haweis, Music and Morals, 516. 16 Women themselves often valued music for this very reason, as entries in commonplace books, for example, attest. One woman‘s poem on music begins, ―Blest Harmony how oft Thy chearfull Strain / has rais‘d my Sad, desponding Heart, when thoughts / of Sullen discontent, had sunk it down.‖44 Composing such ―low‖ music as short, relatively simple songs with lyrics was not, therefore, something wholly despised. Low music served several useful ends. It took the ―primitive,‖ unthinking side of music and made that a plus rather than a minus. Music was recognized as having an ability to unconsciously increase a person‘s memory of a text and to release pent-up emotion. It was seen as a useful aid in inculcating religious doctrine and in changing personal behaviour to be both more self-monitored, penitent, and decorous, and also more charitable and thoughtful toward others – and was considered the more effective in these aims, the less intellectual the music was. Low music aimed at heightening music‘s affect and simultaneously directing messages towards the unconscious mind. That these kinds of songs were so widely circulated and highly regarded explains why there were so many women composers. Contrary to most music textbooks, whose general attitude towards nineteenth-century English music is charitable silence, there were very many composers in England during the long nineteenth century, and many of them were women. Women who attempted to compose art music usually failed to get it published,45 but music publishers opened their doors wide to women who composed low 44 Quoted in Ritchie, 34. 45 Gillett, 29. 17 music. In the late eighteenth century, most women composers gave their names rather than registering their works as by ―‗A Lady‘ or ‗A Woman of Quality,‘‖46 and this trend continued throughout the nineteenth century; one late nineteenth-century music scholar compiled a partial list of 300 women composers‘ names just to show how easy it was to find them.47 Women were frequent composers of hymns, for example – Cecil Frances Alexander‘s ―All Things Bright and Beautiful‖ is only the most famous of many hymns written by women – and perhaps particularly of hymns for children; one of the most popular children‘s hymnals of the nineteenth century was Anne and Jane Taylor‘s Hymns for Infant Minds.48 Women were also heavily, publicly, and acceptably involved in arranging and performing benefit concerts of these types of works.49 If it had proved possible to keep low music entirely separate from art music, and likewise the audiences for each, all would have been well. But such was not the case. With constant dismay, commentators note transgression of these careful boundaries: women attempting to compose serious music or who do not seem to feel sufficient pity or guilt or other demure emotions when singing songs, but instead enjoy putting themselves on display and don‘t pay attention to the lyrics at all; men who seem content to enjoy low music in music-halls instead of using their masculine brains to create a national music that 46 Ritchie, 72. 47 Gillett, 24. 48 Susan S. Tamke, Make a Joyful Noise Unto the Lord: Hymns as a Reflection of Victorian Social Attitudes (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1978), 83. 49 Ritchie, 123-126. 18 does not ―[vibrate] between ‗When other lips‘ and ‗Champagne Charley,‘‖50 and who seem not only content, but downright incapable of enjoying any other kind of music. Low music was made low to serve various ends, but also to justify them; for example, music that was more and more written simply to save the trouble of instructing women in music‘s complexities51 was taken as proof that women were incapable of understanding music‘s complexities. The transgression of these musical boundaries therefore harmed low music‘s ability to justify social stratification, and called into question the underlying concepts of the mental and emotional differences between men and women, rich and poor, white and non-white. The problem of nineteenth-century music was thus how it was to be capable of all the things people wanted it to be capable of, without any cross-contamination. Men‘s intellects should be stimulated, women‘s emotions soothed or cathartically erased, by the self-same medium; rich people should be moved to think of others and perhaps try not to criticize those others too much, poor people to think of themselves and take up the slack left by the rich by being extra self-critical. How was music to do so many different things without any mix-ups? The nineteenth century sought an answer to this problem, and had two, which often went together. One, which is not really an answer, of course, was not to examine these contradictions or transgressions too closely; in fact, many contemporary writers seem not to notice any problems, so close were they to the gender, class, and race 50 Haweis, Music and Morals, 493. 51 Arthur Loesser, Men, Women, and Pianos: A Social History (1954. Repr., New York: Dover Publications, 1990), 73-76. 19 ideologies that help make the contradictions possible. The other was to assume that different types of minds must react differently to the same stimuli. But the fears of cross- contamination remained, showing an underlying fear that minds are all the same and that subjectivity does not mediate the perception of objects as much as, in this case, the nineteenth century would have liked. Performance Performance was highly valued as a creative endeavor in Western music before the nineteenth century. Medieval chants were sometimes improvised in whole or in part; certain genres included improvisation as part of the genre, such as the ricercare in the sixteenth century,52 and in general the performer of a work was often called on to contribute to the work. This practice did not die out in the nineteenth century, but it became less and less common as performance and composition became more separated. No longer were the great composers necessarily also great performers, as, for instance, Bach and Mozart had been (Bach in fact having been much more famous as a performer than as a composer); instead, performers were ―relegated in the Romantic model of musical artistry to reproduction, rather than co-creation.‖53 At the same time, the role of the performer gained a new importance in that he or she was supposed to take an intellectual art composition and infuse it with emotion, a role previously ascribed to the composer, who was supposed in the eighteenth century to 52 Stephen Blum, ―Recognizing Improvisation,‖ in In the Course of Performance: Studies in the World of Musical Improvisation, ed. by Bruno Nettl and Melinda Russell (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 38. 53 Ritchie, 12. 20 suffuse a work with emotion by writing it in a suitably emotional state: ―Mattheson, in the eighteenth-century treatise on composition entitled Vollkommene Capellmeister, ‗even recommended that composers ―sink themselves‖ into various passions, taking on emotional roles in order to invent melodic expressions for them.‘‖54 In the nineteenth century, however, the task of infusing works with emotion shifted to the performer (although certainly the composer was supposed still to have some role, in that performers were not expected to interpret works in any way they pleased but rather in a way appropriate to the nature of the work itself), while the composer was increasingly expected to treat composition as a mathematical endeavor, for it is the ―connexion between sound and numbers . . . [that] invests music with the highest dignity.‖55 Before this shift, men sang and played without shame; as this distinction becomes more clearly drawn in the nineteenth century, men might still play, but they needed more and more to justify themselves.56 Women, however, were considered ideally suited to emotive reproduction. 54 James Winn, quoted in Sara K. Schneider, Concert Song as Seen: Kinesthetic Aspects of Musical Interpretation (New York: Pendragon Press, 1994), 14. 55 [Eastlake,] ―Music,‖ 483. 56 This discomfort with male musical performance in fact began in the eighteenth century, as discussed by Richard Leppert in his chapter ―The Male at Music‖ in Music and Image: Domesticity, Ideology, and Socio-Cultural Formation in Eighteenth-Century England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). As we shall see in chapter 4, ―Music and Manliness,‖ this discomfort only increased during the nineteenth century and particularly in the Victorian era. Men who wished to play therefore justified themselves in various ways, also discussed in chapter 4, but one way was to form professional music societies, unions, and periodicals. These periodicals were filled with demands for respect, and most of them were formed in the nineteenth century. Cyril Ehrlich‘s The Music Profession in Britain Since the Eighteenth Century: A Social History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985) and Deborah Rohr‘s The Careers of British Musicians, 1750-1850: A Profession of Artisans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) detail many of these efforts, albeit without suggesting, as I do, that part of the impetus behind this rush of institutionalization and formalization was unease with being both men and musicians. 21 Performance was forced upon middle- and upper-class women as a necessity, but, given the new ideas about its nature and the focus on performance as an activity perfectly suited to the domestic female, performance was not respected as it had been when it was a more creative, masculine endeavor. In fact, many people were irritated by performance, as it was inextricably bound up with the need for practice, with the result that all over the kingdom girls could be heard thumping out chords or practicing songs. One essayist asks plaintively, ―reader, have you ever lived next door to a family of orthodox ladies who every afternoon sing a selection of Hymns Ancient and Modern, artfully so contrived that there is at least one note in each tune half a tone beyond the compass of the performer‘s voice?‖57 The budding pianist, painfully plunking out ditties, does not escape condemnation, either: ―[w]ould not the composer of Home, Sweet Home, whoever he may be, turn in his grave if he knew that his innocent composition was daily torturing the most Christian souls into mingled thoughts of hatred and revenge?‖58 Despairingly, some people went so far as to suggest that England submit to learn a lesson from French and German towns ―where practicing is prohibited by law except at certain stated hours.‖59 Women‘s practicing and performances contributed largely to a new phenomenon of noise pollution that the nineteenth century viewed with alarm.60 Yet no one seems to have thought of the obvious: stop forcing girls to practice and perform. 57 L[ionel] T[ennyson], ―Plea for Musicians,‖ Cornhill 41 (1880): 549. 58 Ibid., 548. 59 Florence A. Marshall, ―Music for the Masses,‖ The Nineteenth Century (July 1892): 72. 60 John Picker, Victorian Soundscapes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 6. 22 Why was it so important to the nineteenth century that girls practice and perform music? They knew not only that practice was capable of endlessly irritating listeners, but that performance had its dangers. Thomas Doubleday‘s 1824 essay ―Music, a Satire‖ quotes a poem that sums up some of those dangers: Sense, poetry, and feeling – what are they? Your true musician‘s key-note is display. Hear Madame, in the intervals of song, Lug in cadenzas, twenty minutes long; See Signor, gaping in an endless swell, To show us that his lungs are like a bell….61 Part of the fear expressed in this little poem is that women will display their bodies, and that is how nineteenth-century fears of women‘s performances are generally read; but the poem seems more concerned with the man‘s display of his body. The poem‘s more immediate concern when it comes to Madame is not with the display of her body, but with those cadenzas. Cadenzas are a form of improvisation, so one of the fears that this poem expresses is that uppity Madames will start to think that they can produce work – lengthy work at that – rather than sedately reproducing others‘ compositions. However, these dangers were obviously not considered insurmountable. The risk that women would ―lug in cadenzas‖ was seriously lowered by reducing women‘s musical knowledge; traditionally, performers were able to improvise at will by drawing on their knowledge of various musical rules and forms. Without this technical knowledge, improvisation was more difficult, and women were less and less taught those rules while the music available for them (or any amateur performers) to buy was increasingly 61 [Thomas Doubleday,] ―Music: A Satire,‖ Blackwood‟s Edinburgh Magazine 16 (August 1824): 186. 23 simplified,62 so that there was little chance that a woman might pick up technical knowledge on her own. The problem of women putting themselves on display was also largely surmountable. Women were simply encouraged to think of such behaviour as despicable and low: high-class women feel it a ―keen‖ trial to ―perpetually [feel] their better selves overlooked in the homage paid to an adventitious gift…. [This is] an unfailing humiliation to a delicate mind.‖63 By mid-century, ―an unwholesome craving for individual display‖ could also be counteracted by the encouragement of ―[p]art-singing and part-playing‖ as a member of a group, which could even, in the service of such a worthy cause, include men: ―[i]t is a great gain that . . . boys are permitted to be taught the art; and that it is now generally held to be a rational and humanizing occupation for men of all conditions.‖64 Display, however, was only a problem in need of correction when women risked thinking too well of themselves or their talents. Display of the body, however unmentionable, was not necessarily a problem. Few English sources acknowledge this,65 that is, except for novels. There the situation is made clear. Performance is necessary 62 Loesser, 75-79. 63 [Elizabeth Eastlake,] ―Music,‖ Quarterly Review (September 1848): 490. That this quotation comes from one of the few essays on music in a nineteenth-century periodical written by a woman is telling in its demonstration of internalized values, and Eastlake received her reward for her views. Her essay, in addition to being reprinted, was highly-regarded and cited decades after its publication, and she was ―among the first to be invited, two decades later, to charter membership in the newly formed Musical Association‖ (Gillett 146). 64 [Hamilton Aidé,] ―Amateur Music,‖ Cornhill 8 (1863): 98. 65 Solie, Music in Other Words, 115-116. 24 because it is a tool to help a woman catch a husband. The goal once met, the means can – often thankfully – be dropped, as Jane Austen sardonically indicates in Sense and Sensibility: The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforté, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother‘s account she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.66 The usually unspoken importance of music as a means to marriage could be humiliating to the young women forced to practice it and forced therefore into consciousness of themselves as commodities with a short shelf-life. Edith Skewton Granger in Charles Dickens‘s Dombey and Son plays the harp and piano at the request of her hated suitor, Mr. Dombey, and shortly afterwards he and her mother arrange for her to marry him. The night before Mr. Dombey is supposed to call to acquaint Edith formally of their marriage, Edith turns angrily on her mother, speaking with scorn of her musical accomplishments: ―I was a woman – artful, designing, mercenary, laying snares for men – before I knew myself, you, or even understood the base and wretched aim of every new display that I learnt. You gave birth to a woman. Look upon her. She is in her pride tonight…. Is it not so? … Have I [not] been hawked and vended here and there, until the last grain of self-respect is dead within me, and I loathe myself? … He sees me at the auction, and he thinks it well to buy me. Let him! When he came to view me – perhaps to bid – he required to see the roll of my accomplishments. I gave it to him…. I will do no more….67 Edith‘s self-loathing does not remove the fact that her musical accomplishments are practical. However mortifying it might be to a young woman to hawk herself, a 66 Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility (1811. Repr., Oxford: Oxford World‘s Classics, 2004), 27. 67 Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son (1846-1848. Repr., Oxford: Oxford World‘s Classics, 1982), 333. 25 conscientious parent who could afford a piano or music lessons would do well to provide them to a daughter who, unallowed to mix with the world and expected not to talk too much or put herself forward, would otherwise be in danger of silently making her way towards servant status within the family, if lucky, or hard labor, prostitution, or starvation, if not. Performance‘s dangers were thus outweighed by its gains; its dangers were also contained by being largely, especially in theory, confined to the domestic sphere. Granted, there were a number of women performers who attained great popularity and critical acclaim, such as Jenny Lind, Clara Schumann, and Lady Hallé, formerly Wilma Norman- Neruda, while [t]he personal lives and finances of Adelina Patti, Christine Nilsson, and their colleagues and rivals received close scrutiny in the press; newspapers and journals featured gossip about and interviews with these fascinating women, whose magnificent musicianship evoked extravagant adulation, even when their power to command enormous fees was deplored.68 Such stars, however popular in England, were, however, not English. Further, women performers attained such status only by the end of the century (and even then only to have their money-making power ―deplored‖), and, further, almost all famous women performers were either pianists or singers. In keeping to the two most approved musical outlets for women, these performers helped make themselves more acceptable and were able to evoke the domestic sphere even while performing in public. In the nineteenth century, musical instruments were not created equal – at least as far as women were concerned. Women were encouraged either to sing or to play certain 68 Gillett, 1. 26 instruments, and were outright forbidden from others – the cello, flute, and violin in particular. The cello and flute were both considered too sexually suggestive: When a woman plays the flute, she must purse her lips; and she must do so likewise when she blows a horn, besides also giving evidences of visceral support for her tone. What encouragement might that not give the lewd- minded among her beholders? When she plays a cello, she must spread her legs: perish the thought! ‗In thousands of people it calls up pictures that it ought not to call up,‘ primly said the anonymous Musikalischer Almanach für 1784.69 Bear in mind that the modern transverse flute, which is held sideways, was not designed until 1847; before then, and to some extent after, the flute was played by blowing into one end,70 as the recorder still is. Even after the introduction of the more decorous transverse flute, however, the flute was still strongly frowned upon, along with wind instruments generally, because they were considered to require too much stamina and playing them might injure delicate female organs.71 The violin was verboten for less clear reasons; in fact, nineteenth century commentators themselves did not give or even, sometimes, seem to know a reason.72 Nonetheless, the violin was considered a highly transgressive instrument for a woman to play. One late-nineteenth century commentator wrote, ―‘I have … known girls of whom it was darkly hinted that they played the violin, as it might be said that they smoked big cigars, or enjoyed the sport of rat-catching.‘‖73 The reasons are probably a 69 Loesser, 65. 70 Don Michael Randel, The Harvard Dictionary of Music, 4th ed. (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2003), 320. 71 Phyllis Weliver, Women Musicians in Victorian Fiction, 1860-1900 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 54. 72 Gillett, 81. 73 Quoted in Gillett, 81-82. 27 combination of the following: the violin was strongly associated with art music; the strings were often metaphorically treated as female and the bow as male – therefore the bow- wielding controller of the strings should be male;74 and the violin is a member of the same family as the cello and allowing access to the one would make it harder to keep women from playing the other. These various limitations on what instruments women could becomingly play help to explain why women composed the type of music they did – and that in turn helps explain why they were limited in their access to instruments. Music instructors at institutions such as the Royal Academy of Music were fully aware that a good composer of art music must know something of the various instruments he will be composing for; it was only prudent therefore, not only to deny women access to composition classes, but to allow them only to study voice, piano, and harp,75 effectively almost erasing the chance that any women could become the next Beethoven. There were other reasons for pushing the piano besides eliminating the ability to compose art music. ―The instrument was a house furnishing, and [women] were mostly at home;‖76 of course, women could quite easily have kept a violin at home. But a violin can be easily moved outside the home, whereas pianos are big and heavy and, to all intents and purposes, immobile. A girl who plays the piano is guaranteed to be in her sphere. Usefully, 74 Ibid., 85. 75 Ibid., 80. The harp was not necessarily the large instrument seen in orchestras today, but was available in a smaller model that could be placed decorously upon the lap. 76 Loesser, 64. 28 a piano could also double, in many popular early models, as a sewing or tea-table, or as a writing-desk.77 The piano was also by its very name considered ideally suited to women. Pianoforté means soft-loud; the great technical innovations of the piano were that it allowed much greater range of sound volume and that a note could be made to linger. It was associated from the beginning with fine, emotional feeling, and from fine, emotional feeling to women was less than a step. Furthermore, the piano did ―not present the perpetually acute problem of the stringed or wind instruments – namely, that of making the true pitch. A key marks it ready-made, and any infant can press down a light lever‖78 – if commentators hated to hear piano- or singing-practice, at least those two were better than the screech of an untamed violin or a piercing flute. And, as mentioned earlier, music publishers increasingly published easier and easier sheet-music, almost all of it for piano; the relative easiness of this music then served as a further reason why women were considered better off playing the piano – it would not be too intellectually taxing. The piano had even more advantages. It ―makes a girl sit upright and pay attention to details.‖79 While practicing, a girl ―could not be out on the town spending money or engaging in flirtations. Her behavior could be aurally supervised without the physical presence of a guardian.‖80 As one German commentator put it, forthrightly, piano-playing 77 Ibid., 245. 78 Ibid., 73. 79 Haweis, Music and Morals, 515. 80 Ritchie, 36. 29 should be encouraged in young women because it ―will keep the student at home‖81 – pianos, after all, are not easily moved. Piano practice could in fact keep a girl or young woman at home for a significant portion of her life. Hannah More outlined what she considered a fairly typical, if not generous, schedule: Suppose your pupil to begin at six years of age, and to continue at the average of four hours a-day only, Sunday excepted, and thirteen days allowed for travelling annually, till she is eighteen, the state stands thus; 300 days multiplied by four, the number of hours amount to 1200; that number multiplied by twelve, which is the number of years, amounts to 14,400 hours!‖82 Maria Edgeworth suggested that the figure could be nearer eight hours a day for fifteen years.83 Most of the girls compelled to undergo this labor were not, of course, particularly talented, as was fully recognized: ―‘How frequently in the present state of narrow feeling do we witness the sad spectacle of a girl, entirely devoid of all musical ability, compelled to drudge away for hours daily at the piano because forsooth, every young lady ought to be able to play.‘‖84 The discipline of talentlessness and constant practice largely vitiated music‘s emotional power in many individual cases – thumping scales and playing the same piece over and over again (with good posture) are not conducive to emotional wallowing – as 81 ―Suggestions on Female Education. German Authorities,‖ The American Journal of Education 13 n.s. (New York: F.C. Brownell; Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.; Boston: E.P. Dutton; London: Trübner and Company, 1863), 502. 82 Hannah More, Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education (1799. Repr., Salem: Samuel West, 1809), 1:49. 83 Maria Edgeworth, Essays on Practical Education (1798. Repr., London: R. Hunter, 1822), 2:373. 84 M.A.E.L., quoted in Solie, 88. 30 working off emotion through music was not necessarily considered dangerous but could be seen as safe outlet for the release of pent-up frustration, as the Rev. Haweis recognized in the passage quoted earlier. In such cases, the piano fulfilled much the same theoretical function as the vibrator did later – the acknowledgement and attempted dissipation of instincts and feelings otherwise repressed. What made music a safe valve for women was its ability to channel those emotions, discipline them, and cathartically dissipate them. This was another reason why performance was removed from creative composition – the women who were increasingly performing were not meant to come up with their own musical expressions of frustration, but only to follow in the path trod by a more intellectual male composer. Further, music could also deaden emotion, rather than channel its release. Music was in many cases treated as an activity that did not need to involve feeling or even, after a certain point, thought. Through practice, the nineteenth century recognized that playing would become automatic and some unconscious part of the brain would take over: ―Music- making as representative of automotive processes was a significant and recurring example in scientific studies which led to an understanding that there can be multiple levels of consciousness coexisting within one person.‖85 The conception of musical performance as mechanical may also have been influenced by the invention of musical automata. While musical automata of a sort have a history that goes back to Ancient Greece, such automata could only whistle, and only as 85 Weliver, Women Musicians, 8-9. See also Henri F. Ellenberger, The Discovery of the Unconscious: The History and Evolution of Dynamic Psychiatry (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1970). 31 long as a pump or other device forced air through a hole in the figure or statue.86 Not until the eighteenth century did it become possible to construct automata that could be programmed to play sheet music.87 The first of these musical automata were created by Jacques de Vaucanson early in the eighteenth century. Vaucanson‘s first automaton was a flute player, which he exhibited in Paris in either 173788 or 1738;89 the figure was life-sized, with leather lips, and could play eleven different melodies on the German flute (notorious for its difficulty).90 Vaucanson could even vary such features as the flute-player‘s ―pitch, speed, timing, echo, and crescendo,‖ and later constructed an automaton that could play the drums and tabor simultaneously.91 The next musical automaton seems to have been created by Johann Maetzel, friend of Beethoven and probable inventor of the metronome,92 who exhibited a life-size automaton trumpeter in Vienna in 1809 whose performance was said to be ―fuller and richer than could have been got from human lips.‖93 A mechanical woman built at the turn of the century was able to play eighteen 86 Anthony Baines, The Oxford Companion to Musical Instruments (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 206. 87 Baines, 206. 88 Margaret A. Boden, Mind as Machine: A History of Cognitive Science (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 1:84. 89 James Burnley, The Romance of Invention: Vignettes from the Annals of Industry and Science (London: Cassell and Company, 1886), 212-213. 90 Boden, 83. 91 Boden, 83. 92 Burnley, 215. 93 Burnley, 216. 32 different tunes on a piano and could play for an hour at a time when once wound up. The lady was described in the following terms: ―all her movements were elegant, graceful, and almost lifelike; before beginning a tune, she made a gentle inclination with her head to the auditors; her bosom heaved, and her eyes followed the motion of her fingers.‖94 These and other musical automata were ―very popular from the middle of the eighteenth century until the early nineteenth,‖95 at which point, not coincidentally, the growing affordability and middle-class prestige of the piano meant that women could be trained to memorize and re- gurgitate music just like automata, as commentators occasionally consciously recognized. Young Jane, in Anna Bache‘s didactic novelette Clara‟s Amusements (1853), for instance, is recommended by her mother not to study music, and she agrees: ―‗Mother,‘ said she, slowly, ‗you are right, I know. It would not do for me to give up reading, and sewing, and other things. I should grow up ignorant and useless, like the lady father called a musical automaton. I don‘t want to be a musical automaton.‖ (73) The novel‘s concern is that music, divorced from mental activity, will not be sufficiently morally improving to be worth a young girl‘s time. In general, however, automatic musical activity in women was encouraged; it placed women in the position of machines whose winding was commandable by men, at lesser expense that a real automaton and with the additional side benefits of keeping women at home and vitiating any dangerous effects of listening to music by making performance into an automatic activity through which emotion could be expressed and thus cathartically removed but whose ability to redound 94 ―Oddities in Music,‖ Chamber‟s Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Arts 11 (January-June 1859): 312. 95 Baines, 206. 33 upon the emotions or mind and thus effect them was at the same vitiated by making domestic female performance into an automatic and sometimes expressive activity rather than one that involved active listening. Listening Listening was primarily the domain of men. Women played, men listened. Women were expected to play not only for the reasons outlined earlier in this chapter, but because in so doing they gave pleasure and healing to men. The playing of music was portrayed a moral duty, a gift that could help carry the listener ―beyond the somewhat prosaic routine of their daily lives‖ and open up to them ―some vista of awe, wonder, and peace,‖96 and was therefore one of the ways in which an Angel might help to control and influence her more savage male counterpart. Emily Melville, in William Godwin‘s Caleb Williams, uses music in just such a way. Her intractable guardian having refused to listen even for a moment to the idea that Emily not be forced to marry a boy she has hardly met, Emily is advised by the housekeeper to try music‘s softening influence. Accordingly, [o]ne morning immediately after breakfast, she went to her harpsichord, and played one after another several of those airs that were most the favourites of Mr Tyrrel.… [Mr Tyrrel‘s] mind was untuned, and he did not take the pleasure he had been accustomed to take in the musical performances of Emily. But her finger was now more tasteful than common. … It was easy to trace the progress of his emotions. The furrows into which his countenance was contracted were gradually relaxed; his features were brightened into a smile; the kindness with which he had upon former occasions contemplated Emily seemed to revive in his heart.97 96 Octavia Hill, ―Colour, Space, and Music for the People,‖ The Nineteenth Century 15 (May 1884): 745. 97 William Godwin, Caleb Williams (1794. Repr., New York: Penguin Books, 2005), 55. 34 Of course, what this passage also illustrates is that music was not only a means for influencing a man‘s moral character, but a means for women to manipulate themselves into some power over their otherwise largely powerless situations. One unspoken reason, therefore, why so many girls were forced to spend so much time practicing their music by their mothers was that their mothers hoped thereby to give their daughters a measure of control over their situations. Behind the pious talk about woman‘s moral duty to influence her mate may often have been a desire to influence that mate into listening to her, in a broader sense. More grimly, the regimen at the piano may have been enforced by mothers in the hope that it might spare their daughters a future beating. Men‘s listening therefore had many important ramifications for women; one of them was encouraging men to come home – a desire that reflected an, again, usually unspoken economic fear (men who don‘t come home are squandering the food money as well as endangering their souls). As such, the duty to learn music and play well could be highly daunting. The diary of one Lizzie Mason, who was sixteen at the time of this entry written in 1850, expresses how daunting this responsibility could be: I feel that, situated as I am, an only daughter, with a mother often sick and depressed, never gay, it rests upon one, to make our home bright, cheerful and attractive to the boys, and comfortable to Father. When I think how much boys are exposed to, how much a happy home may keep them from, and how much depends on me for making it happy, I feel almost discouraged by my own responsibility.98 Music was a diversion with a very serious point. It could keep men from exposure to the temptations of the public sphere, and its ―sobering influence [so to speak] … was … 98 Quoted in Solie, Music in Other Words, 106. Italics in original. 35 espoused by temperance workers since the participation in music-making by large numbers of the working-class population was thought to provide a social event that would replace other, less virtuous forms of entertainment.‖99 Women obviously had a vested economic interest, therefore, in learning to play music and participating in a system that encouraged men‘s listening. Listening was also considered important for the working classes, whose different frustrations and savageries were seen as equally in need of a musical check. As one commentator put it, ―Many a childish passion has been quelled by the tones of a street organ, and many a bad feeling has been checked by the unscientific tones of a street minstrel.‖100 Music (it was hoped) could therefore function as an opiate for working-class grievances. On the other hand, those who argued for the equality of the classes also pointed to music, suggesting that the masses were capable of enjoying not only low music of the type that would manage frustrations, but also could enjoy and respond seriously to art music. Social reformers John Malcolm Forbes Ludlow and Lloyd Jones, for example, pointed to working men‘s ability to appreciate art music as a sign of their moral progress: in a class on music at Anderson‘s University, Glasgow, they write, the working men ―were listening intently to a fugue of Bach‘s, watching the treatment of subject and counter- subject, and showing by their eager looks during the performance, and their strong 99 Catherine Dale, Music Analysis in Britain in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (Aldershot, Hants., England: Ashgate, 2003), 11. 100 ―On the Cultivation of Music by the Working Classes,‖ The Magazine of Domestic Economy 7 (1841): 193. 36 applause afterwards, that they fully understood the points to which I had drawn their attention, and thoroughly enjoyed the old Leipzig organist.‖101 In general, however, the listening of the lower classes was viewed with suspicion precisely because for most commentators that listening was unintellectual and capable of unconscious influencing the listener‘s morals. The music-halls were a focus of concern. The music-hall was problematic because it was filled with men listening to low music – the objection was not to women who played low music at home – and low music with lyrics that were not edifying: ―One man ‗likes‘ music because of the thoughts of the dance ‗with merry maids amid the tedded hay‘ which it evokes; another because of the ballad or other poetry with which it is connected; another for the sake of his ‗dear Anne‘ and other home associations.‖102 Even less intellectually, commentators were well aware that the music-hall goer was not always interested in the music, for in the music-halls ―smoking and drinking season the pleasure afforded by song‖103 – as did the young women who worked at the halls. Some responded to this problem by suggesting that the male listener and the music- hall were really more intelligent than they seemed (they were men, after all). The music-hall, one commentator even hopefully suggested, was actually analogous to the morality play. Like the morality play, the music-hall replaced older, more serious performances, and in time would come to seem as a worthy form, just as the morality play became such despite 101 John Malcom Forbes Ludlow and Lloyd Jones, Progress of the Working-Class, 1832-1867 (London: Alexander Strahan, 1867), 193. 102 ―Are the English a Musical People?,‖ 676-677. 103 [John Oxenford,] ―Popular Music of the Olden Times,‖ Quarterly Review 106 (July 1859): 82. 37 replacing solemn mystery and miracle plays with ―jests as rare as those of the ‗very peculiar American comedian,‘ with buffoonery as wild as the pranks of the Blondin donkey, [and] . . . with gymnastics as startling as the acrobatic death of Paul Martinetti.‖104 Furthermore, even the ―humblest connoisseur who frequents music-halls . . . would not be content unless some specimen of a higher class of composition varied the ordinary Irish air.‖105 Blood will tell. By the end of the century, however, music-halls became less controversial as they began to serve a more upper-class clientele made up of both men and women.106 Towards the end of the century, listening in general became more intellectualized; philosophers of mind such as Alexander Bain included listening in their theories about the mind, suggesting that listening skill demonstrated an ability to perceive ―the more Intellectual sensations of sound,‖107 as opposed to sound‘s affect. This change took place as instruction in listening became increasingly common. Such instruction was seen as necessary, despite the possible dangers, in order to improve the state of musical instruction in the country generally and therefore increase the likelihood of producing a great composer. For most of the century, teachers of music who focused on training lower-class 104 Elizabeth Robins Pennell, ―The Pedigree of the Music-Hall,‖ Contemporary Review 63 (1893): 577. 105 [Oxenford,] ―Popular Music,‖ 82-83. 106 Dagmar Kift, The Victorian Music Hall: Culture, Class and Conflict (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 62, 68. Though there were music halls during the early and mid-Victorian periods that catered to both genders and a more upper-class crowd, they were not financially successful, and did not become so until the 1890s (Kift 63, 68). 107 Alexander Bain, Mental Science; A Compendium of Psychology, and the History of Philosophy (New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1884), 54. 38 students to sing had done so without instructing them in technical matters, such as how to read music; the sol-fa (or doe-ray-me) system, introduced in the 1870s, was an outgrowth of these efforts, and began to affect the teaching of music to all classes. The system was introduced by D. Sower and John Hullah (the latter having picked up the idea from observing instructors in France), developed by Sarah Ann Glover, and later modified by John Curwen, and covered both major and minor scales.108 In addition to modifying and popularizing Glover‘s tonic sol-fa system, Curwen also began to stress that learning music‘s technical side was not as important as learning to appreciate music, an idea new to England but being practiced in the United States.109 The idea of teaching music appreciation continued a trend begun by publishers of less and less technically demanding music and continued by the proponents of tonic sol-fa, and ―[b]y the end of the nineteenth century the focus of music was beginning to shift from the acquisition of technical proficiency on an instrument or the voice to the cultivation of an appreciative, aesthetic understanding of music.‖110 By the end of the century, the middle- and upper-classes received instruction in listening in the hope that those who could understand art music aurally would be better able to compose it. Students of music composition at Oxford now faced exams that would test their listening knowledge as well as their ability to compose mathematically-structured works.111 108 Bernarr Rainbow, ―Tonic Sol-Fa.‖ Grove Music Online. 109 Dale, Music Analysis, 26. 110 Ibid., 25. 111 Wollenberg, 102. 39 Nonetheless, listening continued to be dangerous, because it was still held to exercise power over the body and to have the ability to over-ride the mind‘s rational processes. As listening was encouraged in both men and women, then, much anxiety surrounded listening in some quarters as music‘s affect became aligned with mesmerism, as Phyllis Weliver argues in The Musical Crowd in English Fiction. If, like mesmerism, music was able to reach an unconscious part of the mind, how could it be controlled at all, when control implies consciousness on someone‘s part? On this question, as well as other musical matters, poets and novelists weighed in. We have already seen one such instance – the way that novelists made explicit the socially- sanctioned display of the female body for purposes of husband-hunting – and there are many more instances of literature drawing upon this body of ideas about music, and often in the process revealing or commenting upon its contradictions. Whether, in the end, they uphold conventional or unconventional views, literary texts tend to focus on music‘s disruptive potential. Nineteenth-century discourse about music was full of implications for other issues, such as authority, sexuality, and the intersection of gender and class roles. The common thread was mind – as music was defined so largely in terms of its effects, almost every definition of music implied a view of the mind that then opened up other questions. The ability of emotion to influence the mind opened up worrying symbolic, yet practical, questions about whether femininity (emotion) could have authority over masculinity (intellect), and if not, how one could prevent femininity from having authority over masculinity while still arguing that music‘s affect was powerful enough to over-ride the 40 intellect. Music‘s ability to influence the body opened up other worrying issues, as it suggested that music could influence or prompt sexual behavior, leading to worries about women‘s listening and, later, men‘s. Further, music‘s gender and class associations made it difficult to solve such difficulties by assuming that music would be controlled by gentlemen, and yet control of music‘s affect by gentleman was the surest route to safety. While the broader discourse focused on one element or another of music‘s nature, literary texts focused on the difficulties created by the intersections of those separate discussions, teasing out the wider implications of these ideas about music. 41 CHAPTER 2 THE IMPROVISATRICE Or again, if we should declare that the poetic or the prophetic art is not one art when practised by men and another when practised by women, but the same, and if we should put the poems of Sappho side by side with those of Anacreon, or the oracles of the Sibyls with those of Bacis, will anybody have the power justly to impugn the demonstration because these lead the hearer, joyous and delighted, to have belief in it? ~ Plutarch, Moralia1 When Letitia Elizabeth Landon published The Improvisatrice in 1824, she sparked the interest not only of her fans but of a century. For decades afterwards, poems on the figure of the improvisatrice continued to be written and published. Many of these poems took Sappho as the type of the improvisatrice, as Landon had done; others focused on the figure of Corinne, following Madame de Staël‘s novel; a few wrote about nameless improvisatrices. These poems were written by a number of authors, from Felicia Hemans and Matthew Arnold to Richard Monckton Milnes, Baron Houghton, and Michael Field; some poets, such as Landon, even wrote multiple poems about the figure of the improvisatrice. Why was this figure so fascinating to nineteenth-century poets? A few critics have attempted to answer this question, and the answer that they have given is that women poets used the figure of the improvisatrice to explore the conflict they themselves experienced between womanhood and art. In this view, the poems are ―gloomy [analyses] of what it meant to be a Romantic hero trapped in a woman‘s body,‖ for whom ―art and love 1 Plutarch‟s Moralia, trans. by Frank Cole Babbitt (Cambridge, Massachusetts: W. Heinemann, 1976): 3:243B. 42 were mutually exclusive‖2 because art was the domain of the masculine, a view that dovetails with a more general critical sense that ―passivity and [a] sense of enclosure, exclusion, frustration and impotence … debilitated so much of the work of the nineteenth- century women poets.‖3 The poems that focus on Sappho, in particular, are so associated with this paradigm about female frustration that ―it is hard to imagine an article or book about nineteenth century women‘s poetry that would deny that ‗Sappho belonged peculiarly to women and to ―the feminine.‖‘‖4 Going even further, the Sappho narrative has been called ―the master narrative of nineteenth-century women‘s poetry.‖5 The figure of the improvisatrice in general, and Sappho as improvisatrice in particular, certainly held great resonance for women poets, and previous critics, in discussing the contradictions of being both a woman and an artist, have certainly hit upon an important reason for that fascination. However, these poems were also written by men, who are unlikely to have the same concerns. Something more is going on here, and that something more has to do with music. No previous commentator has pointed out that, 2 Margaret Reynolds, ―‗I Lived for Art, I Lived for Love‘: The Woman Poet Sings Sappho‘s Last Song,‖ in Victorian Women Poets: A Critical Reader, ed. by Angela Leighton (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1996), 278. 3 Dorothy Mermin, ―The Damsel, the Knight, and the Victorian Woman Poet,‖ in Victorian Women Poets: A Critical Reader, ed. by Angela Leighton (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1996), 211. 4 Linda H. Peterson, ―A Sappho History [review],‖ CLIO: A journal of literature, history, and the philosophy of history 34 (Fall 2004): 138. 5 Adriana Craciun, ―Romantic Satanism and the Rise of Nineteenth-Century Woman‘s Poetry,‖ New Literary History 34 (Autumn 2003): 708. 43 while the historical Sappho was a poet and musician,6 the nineteenth-century poems about Sappho emphasise the latter, often to the exclusion of the former. Indeed, the function of music in these improvisatrice poems has not really been discussed at all.7 Why does music matter? Because music was gendered differently from other arts. When previous critics have argued that these improvisatrice poems portray a conflict between being a woman and being an artist, what they mean, either explicitly or implicitly, is that the poems portray a conflict between being a woman and being a poet. But the improvisatrice is not exclusively a poet; she is also a singer or musician of some kind. Poetry has long been an art associated, somehow, with every feminine quality (sensitivity, emotion, etc.) and yet also with masculine abilities (genius, intellect, and so on). Music, however, was an art that was, by the beginning of the nineteenth century, very much associated with women, both in terms of music‘s nature itself (likewise emotional) and in actual practice: in 1824, when Landon published The Improvisatrice, people in England who heard music generally heard it coming from the throat or hands of a woman. The improvisatrice is thus a more complicated figure than she has been made out to be. She is a woman and a poet and a musician, and each term fights with the other: 6 Poetry does not seem to have existed separately from music in Ancient Greece. In fact, scholars of ancient Greek poetry sometimes refer to the ―Sappho lyre‖ and the ―Sappho scale‖ in discussing the type of instrument and musical accompaniment Sappho may have used, as inferred from her surviving fragments of poetry. See, for example, George Thomas Carruthers, The Ancient Use of the Greek Accents in Reading and Chanting (1897. Repr., [Charleston, SC:] BiblioBazaar, 2008), 28. See also John G. Landels, Music in Ancient Greece and Rome (New York: Routledge, 1999). 7 The nearest approach is Angela Esterhammer‘s Romanticism and Improvisation, 1750-1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); in her introduction, Esterhammer discusses the importance of improvisation in pre-nineteenth-century music going back to Johann Sebastian Bach (3, 5). However, Esterhammer only mentions music to argue for improvisation‘s wider importance and prestige; music does not figure in her later discussion of the improvisatrice figure in British poetry. 44 ―woman‖ and ―poet‖ do not sit comfortably together in a society which makes the phrase ―woman poet‖ both possible and oxymoronic; poetry, a masculinized art, and music, a feminine one, give different answers to the question of woman‘s proper relationship to art; and while women and music were considered a fine and laudable combination in the domestic sphere, the improvisatrice operates in the public sphere. Any portrayal of this figure, then, has important implications for questions about the relation of art to gender and for questions about the proper relation of art to audience. The portrayal of the improvisatrice changes significantly over the century, indicating a changing conception of the nature of and audience for art, as well as changes in the conception of gender. First, a group of women writing in the first third of the century employs the figure of the improvisatrice in ways that revalue femininity by giving it authority, that simultaneously critique the contradictory construction of femininity in the culture at large, and that point to the gendered nature of the implicitly universalized artist figure. Second, a group of men writing primarily in the mid-nineteenth century portray the improvisatrice in ways that seem similar on the surface but which must be understood in the context of a changing discourse about music that serves to redefine the improvisatrice into a feminized figure without authority or autonomy. Finally, by the end of the century, the discourse about music has shifted again in such as a way as to again revalue the improvisatrice and argue for a view of the woman artist as both commanding authority and an audience. 45 The Authoritative Improvisatrice The improvisatrice was in many ways the opposite of the nineteenth-century female performer. Performance was an exercise in discipline; as we saw in chapter 1, four to eight hours a day of practice was not uncommon. The result was a frequent mechanization of music: throughout the century, ―every young lady [learned] to play and sing, by a certain mechanical process, similar to that by which she acquires dexterity in Berlin-wool work or crochet-knitting.‖8 The young woman at the piano was often considered a ―musical automaton‖9 whose playing served almost any purpose except that of producing art and whose time at the heavy, unmoveable piano served to ensure that she was at home readying herself for the marriage market. The improvisatrice was the opposite of this obedient figure. This is not to say that the improvisatrice does not conform to certain conventional gender expectations. The improvisatrice‘s spontaneous poetic/musical productions are frequently aligned with the breath of nature in these poems, making the figure of the improvisatrice into a kind of human Aeolian harp. The improvisatrice‘s productions are portrayed, usually, as the result of her close ties to nature, to her status as nature‘s vessel, and to her ability to feel strongly. In these respects, the improvisatrice is a passive and conventionally feminized figure. Yet her very location out-of-doors, as opposed to sitting for hours in a drawing room, and her ability to stop or start her song at any time (rather than 8 Frances Hullah, quoted in Sarah McNeely, ―Beyond the Drawing Room: The Musical Lives of Victorian Women,‖ Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies 5 (Summer 2009), paragraph 11. 9 Bache, Clara‟s Amusements, 73. 46 following a prescribed schedule) complicate her gender role by going against the historical model of the period. As Isobel Armstrong has argued of Romantic women‘s poetry in general,10 these early improvisatrice poems by women are double poems – they conform to conventional gender expectations only to undermine them. Landon‘s 1824 poem ―Sappho‘s Song,‖ for example, continually points to the contradictory nature of constructed femininity. Written as a dramatic monologue, the poem assumes the reader‘s knowledge of the story first told by Ovid, that Sappho fell hopelessly in love with a man named Phaon and threw herself over a cliff in despair when he did not return her love. The poem is set in the moment before Sappho kills herself and gives Sappho‘s farewell to her lute. At first, conventionally enough, Sappho seems to blame her lute for her current state of unrequited love: ―Poison has been upon thy sigh / And fever has breathed in thy words‖ (3-4). But quickly Sappho avoids imputing the lute‘s ―poison‖ to the detrimental influence of art. Being an artist has not poisoned her life; ―I should have been the wretch I am, / Had every chord of thine been mute‖ (7-8). Having rejected a conventional explanation, Sappho tries a new explanation and blames fate: It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song. (9-12) The line, ―It was not song that taught me love‖ seems puzzling. The poem began with Sappho giving a conventional account of her misery and then rejecting it; in this line, she 10 Isobel Armstrong, ―‗A Music of Thine Own‘: Women‘s Poetry – an Expressive Tradition?‖ In Victorian Women Poets: A Critical Reader, ed. by Angela Leighton (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1996). 47 seems to be following the same pattern of setting up a conventional explanation in order to replace it with another in the next line, one that avoids blaming herself for being unfeminine. But the first explanation does not seem quite conventional, this time. A nineteenth-century commentator would have been ready enough to blame a woman‘s being an artist for her troubles in love, but no one would have suggested that artistry teaches a woman love. This is one of Landon‘s first tricks in the poem; having set up a pattern of conventional account / revised account, she encourages the reader to take this second ―conventional‖ account at face value, but here the conventional account is phrased in such a way as to undercut itself. Even before the next line, which makes the point more strongly, this line suggests that song is not, in fact, the problem here, because the only way song even could have been a problem is by leading Sappho to her real problem, love. Thus the poem suggests both that it is impossible to be a woman and an artist, and (because the art in question is a feminized one) that is impossible for a woman not to be an artist. Caught in the nexus of these impossibilities, Sappho cannot but die. The grave is ―glorious‖ (19) because only there can Sappho – in all sides of her femininity – sleep ―calm‖ (20). Likewise, Felicia Heman‘s 1834 poem ―The Last Song of Sappho‖ portrays Sappho as both unable to be an artist, because a woman, and unable not to be an artist, for the same reason. Before killing herself, Sappho laments the waste of her talents, and orders the sea to Give to that crown, that burning crown, Place in thy darkest hold! Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. (29-32) 48 At this moment, the poem is clear; Sappho is a Christ-figure, with her burning crown and her anguish, and her artistic gifts are like gems and gold whose only ―fault‖ is having been, not unrecognized, but hidden and wasted by others. Yet Sappho also has a ―winged nature‖ (37) and watches with envy a bird that, by implication, lives the life that Sappho wants for herself: ―Thou sea-bird on the billow‘s crest, / Thou hast thy love, thy home‖ (33-34). The ideal of conventional domestic femininity has been denied Sappho, but she envies domesticity nonetheless. She seeks death, in the end, as a way of obtaining domesticity: just as the sea-bird has offspring that ―wait thee in the quiet nest, / … I, th‘unsought, unwatch‘d-for – I too come‖ (35-36). With that, she leaps from the cliff to her ―nest‖ in the final line of the poem: ―Alone I come – oh! give me peace, dark sea!‖ (40). Yet Sappho‘s suicidal achievement of domestic peace equates conventional femininity with death. As in Landon‘s poem, the underlying problem is the impossible but real tie between femininity and art: Sappho, in this poem, reflects that her lyre is broken because ―The heart whose music made them [the strings] sweet, / Hath pour‘d on desert sands its wealth away‖ (23- 24). The feelings of the heart are described as being music in themselves, and they lead to the production of an audible music which is both inevitable and feminine and yet, because it is a form of art, simultaneously inappropriate for a woman. Women‘s improvisatrice poems do not only point out the contradictions of female involvement in a feminized art form; they also take advantage of that oxymoronic association of ―feminine‖ and ―art‖ to revalue femininity by giving it an intrinsic artistic authority (albeit one unrecognized by society at large, represented by the indifferent 49 beloved, Phaon). The popular choice of Sappho as the type of the improvisatrice lent to the woman artist the authority of the ancient Greeks, who considered Sappho perhaps the greatest poet – male or female – of all time.11 (Perhaps it was also a secret satisfaction that the language Sappho could manipulate so fluently was Greek, the language deemed too hard for nineteenth-century women and their ovaries.) Similarly, the poems that took Corinne for their model of the improvisatrice tapped into nineteenth-century fascination with, and respect for, ancient Italy and Rome. In Felicia Hemans‘s 1830 poem ―Corinne at the Capitol,‖ the Capitol is Rome, which crowns this ―Daughter of th‘ Italian heaven‖ (1) with laurel. The poem, as is usual with Hemans, attempts to undercut this masculinization of Corinne by telling readers that Happier, happier far than thou, With the laurel on thy brow, She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth! (45-48) but at the same time the poem has revised what ―femininity‖ means: instead of a simple opposition between masculine and feminine women, with only the feminine ones truly happy, the poem blurs male / female distinctions by placing Corinne in the position, not only of artist, but of triumphant military hero and ruler. Corinne is repeatedly likened to a fire, something bright and destructive; her car traces the path ―Where the conqueror‘s pass‘d of old‖ (4) and she walks the road where ―Freedom‘s foot so proudly trode‖ (10). She is surrounded by the ―tombs of heroes‖ (11) and is, by implication, the living hero, the successor to ancient warriors and emperors. At the same time, however, Corinne is 11 For a discussion of Sappho‘s ancient reputation, see Greek Lyric I: Sappho and Alcæus, ed. by D. A. Campbell (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1982). 50 contrasted with these heroes, as well as being compared to them: the earth of the heroes‘ tombs has given forth flowers, which Corinne wears upon her head like ―a soft and rosy rain‖ (15). While Corinne is saluted with ―victorious notes‖ (21), her own voice, responding, has a ―low and lovely tone‖ (27), and she is a musician whose lyre‘s deep silvery string, Touch‘d as by a breeze‘s wing, Murmurs tremblingly at first, Ere the tide of rapture burst. (29-32) All of this serves to make clear that Corinne is both a worthy successor to the great heroes of old and that she is a proper lady, nonetheless, whose musical talent is expressed fully only after some feminine diffidence. Thus, as Glennis Stephenson has argued,12 when the last verse of the poem tries to imply that Corinne is unhappy because she is too masculine, the moral rings hollow because the poem has already both argued that Corinne is feminine and has blurred the distinctions between masculine and feminine, warrior and peacemaker, hero and housewife. The poem, in short, tries to grant Corinne authority as a woman artist by muddling both terms – femininity and masculinity are blurred just as the artist is compared to a warrior as well as a musician – but the same muddling that makes female authority possible also undercuts it. The improvisatrice‘s freedom from the discipline of a schedule performs a similar function in both granting the improvisatrice authority and autonomy and taking it away at 12 Glennis Stephenson, ―Poet Construction: Mrs Hemans, L.E.L., and the Image of the Nineteenth- Century Woman Poet,‖ in ReImagining Women: Representations of Women in Culture, ed. by Shirley Neuman and Glennis Stephenson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993), 63. Stephenson backs away from this point, however, arguing that Hemans ultimately is a conventional poet who conforms to conventional expectations. 51 the same moment. In ―Corinne at the Capitol,‖ Corinne‘s playing of the lyre is likened to the movement of a breeze along the strings, placing Corinne‘s music in the position of Aeolian harp, moved from without by forces more powerful than Corinne herself. At the same time, however, Corinne‘s hand is likened to the breeze, aligning Corinne with those powerful forces of nature and turning her instrument into the obedient vessel of her own gift. This comparison of the woman artist to a natural force clearly works two ways: it undermines the authority of the woman artist by making her art something primitive, emotional, inarticulate, and (in sum) ―feminine.‖ At the same time, this comparison to nature comes at a historical moment when such comparisons are being made regarding men and an implicitly male vision of Art. To receive Nature‘s imprimatur is to receive an irreducible authority. Caroline Norton‘s 1840 poem ―The Picture of Sappho‖ employs the figure of the Aeolian harp to imply that the creation of art is not only natural to women, but necessary to the world. In this poem, Sappho is described as sitting alone, at sunset, looking at the fading sky with her ―harp neglected by thee idly lying‖ (15). The wind then with low rustling wings, Among the quivering strings The murmuring breeze faint melody was making, As though it wooed thy hand To strike with new command, Or mourn‘d with thee…. (19-24) This descriptive scene allows the poem to suggest that nature itself desires Sappho to make music, thus making human opinions (even Sappho‘s own) irrelevant. Nature even seems to suggest that Sappho should perform publicly, by giving her permission to ―strike with new command‖ – those who can command need not obey, and therefore need not be confined 52 to the domestic sphere. If Sappho does not ―strike with new command,‖ then nature mourns. The poem also suggests that public performance is natural by conflating Sappho‘s touch on the harp with nature‘s. The association between women and nature is an old one, but by drawing on it here the poem suggests that a woman‘s performance may or even should be similar to nature‘s, and nature does not confine itself to drawing rooms. As a final touch, the poem‘s first mention of romance comes in line 22, ―[a]s though it wooed thy hand.‖ Like Landon, Norton suggests that romance itself provides the inspiration for public musical performance. Art is therefore not only natural to women, but so is performance – even public performance. As prolific and popular composers of published songs, Norton13 and Hemans14 had both experienced the double bind of being a woman whose performance of music was encouraged and yet discouraged – women were supposed to perform for others, just not very many others – and these poems respond to this bind by making nature, rather than the size or location of the audience, the criterion for whether a performance is proper or not. Many of these poems use the presence or lack of an audience to question, ultimately, what it means to be an artist at all. In so doing, these poems point to an awareness of the ways that art and artistry are implicitly gendered as male and ponder what such male definitions mean for the female artist. There has been much debate recently over the Romantic conception of the artist, as modern critics point out that the Romantic artist 13 Derek B. Scott, The Singing Bourgeois: Songs of the Victorian Drawing Room and Parlour, 2nd ed. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 65. 14 Steve Newman, Ballad Collection, Lyric, and the Canon: The Call of the Popular from the Restoration to the New Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 183. 53 was not necessarily conceived of as a lone individual expressing himself, but also as a social individual whose art depended upon communication as much or more than on self- expression. The poet of the time, as typified by such figures as William Wordsworth and William Blake, has thus often seemed a contradictory figure, ―both an isolated consciousness, and … a socially orientated poetic radical.‖15 At times, critics have tried to resolve this seeming contradiction by describing an individual poet as evolving away from an isolated self towards a communitarian one, or vice versa, depending largely on the critic‘s personal preference for one type of self over the other. Some critics have argued that the solitary self (to use Anne Janowitz‘s terms) is really a male self and the communitarian self, a female one: Anne Mellor, for instance, argues that the concept of selfhood most common in women‘s poems of the nineteenth century is of a ―self that is interactive, absorptive, constantly changing, and domestic. … a self that is embodied. … a self that does not name itself as a self‖16 but instead is other-directed and defined in relation to others, in contrast to the disembodied, static, ego-ridden self of men‘s poems. Taking the opposite tack, Kari Lokke has argued that a discourse of solitary transcendence pervades Romantic women‘s writing, a discourse which should be understood as a response to and rejection of the community of patriarchy by positing the possibility that women can free themselves of patriarchal restrictions through art.17 Yet other critics have argued that many Romantic 15 Anne Janowitz, Lyric and Labour in the Romantic Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 11. 16 Anne K. Mellor, Romanticism and Gender (New York: Routledge, 1993), 156, emphasis in original. 17 Kari Lokke, Tracing Women‟s Romanticism: Gender, History, and Transcendence (London and New York: Routledge, 2004). 54 writers exhibit both types of selfhood simultaneously and that ―the dialectic of romanticism in its formation, and in its life through the nineteenth century, is linked to individualism and communitarianism as integrally related – neither fully opposed nor chronologically successive – models.‖18 Each argument depends, of course, to some extent on the texts it examines: Mellor compares men‘s poetry to women‘s novels; Lokke analyses women‘s novels from three different countries; Janowitz examines men‘s poetry only.19 Clearly, the answer to this question about the early nineteenth-century conception of the artist depends in part on the combination of genres and countries under examination. The improvisatrice poems of this period provide a way to examine this question by seeing how women themselves portrayed the female artist‘s role through the medium of poetry, a traditionally male genre. In all these poems, the improvisatrice‘s relation to an audience is important; in many, what is important is the lack of an audience. Sappho, for example, in most of these poems, performs for herself alone before killing herself. This lack of audience makes the improvisatrice a solitary, expressive figure. This solitude, however, should not be seen simply as an expression of sadness and depression,20 but (to borrow Lokke‘s terms) as a transcendence of a historical condition – in this case, the demand that women put themselves on display and practice and perform music for others rather than for themselves. At the same time, these poems imply that community, and community 18 Ibid., 11-12. 19 Female literary figures such as Joanna Baillie and Anna Barbauld rate only brief mentions in Janowitz‘s book, being generally dealt with in a few sentences or the occasional paragraph. Extended discussion and analysis is reserved for men‘s writings. 20 As, for example, Margaret Reynolds argues. 55 response, are necessary for full artistry. The difficulty for the improvisatrice is that the community whose response she desires is really a male community. In Landon‘s 1835 poem ―Sappho,‖ Sappho becomes more solitary the more she wants love, for a soul So gifted and so passionate as her‘s Will seek companionship in vain, and find Its feelings solitary. (66-69) There is no community for someone like Sappho, because community is male (signified here by Phaon), and men see women as existing only in relation to men, as being only a ―young bird, whose early flight he trained‖ (31). The bind here is that respectful community response requires recognition of legitimate autonomy, and yet the improvisatrice‘s autonomous expression is itself grounded in love, which implies the insufficiency of autonomy and the need for acceptance by others. The improvisatrice is a lady minstrel; as a minstrel, she should have an authoritative ability to use art, or rather the allied arts of music and poetry, to speak to the community. Various critics have argued persuasively that this kind of community role accounts for the popularity of the figure of the minstrel in Romantic poetry and for the frequency with which ―canonical‖ poetry borrows from ballads.21 The lady minstrel, however, is a different breed altogether; the modifier ―lady‖ means that the minstrel is no longer a man speaking to men, but a woman speaking to men who aren‘t listening. There can be no community 21 For further discussion, see Maureen N. McLane, Balladeering, Minstrelsy, and the Making of Romantic Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), Newman, Ballad Collection; and Erik Simpson, Literary Minstrelsy, 1770-1830: Minstrels and Improvisers in British, Irish, and American Literature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 56 under such circumstances, and yet solitude is not able to sustain its ability to transcend patriarchal deafness; the result is death. Despite all these contradictions, there is one way in which the improvisatrice is an unambiguous figure: her status as improvisatrice means that she is both performer and composer, and in most of these poems the improvisatrice also listens to her own songs. Her complete and unfragmented musical ability signals a valuable harmony of mind. If music is ―undoubtedly the most intellectual of all the pleasures to which the senses serve as avenues,‖22 the improvisatrice is a figure who unites intellect and emotion, mind and body, in a combination whose threat to binaries results in a death that symbolizes the ultimate erasure of all binaries as much as the unforgiving nature of patriarchy. In the words of Yopie Prins, ―the success of Victorian women‘s verse depends on the repetition of a loss or failure that is the very means of its literary transmission…. If all such poems are doomed to fail, then nothing succeeds like failure.‖23 The Commandable Improvisatrice By mid-century, as we saw in Chapter Two, the discourse about music shifted considerably as music was fragmented into the separated disciplines of performance, composition, and listening. A number of men write poems about the improvisatrice at this point, and they too portray the improvisatrice as a musician. Because the discourse about music has changed, however, their portrayal of the improvisatrice carries a very different 22 J.W.T., ―On the Amusements of the Studious,‖ The New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal 7 (January 1823): 52. 23 Yopie Prins, Victorian Sappho (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), 244-245. 57 resonance. In these men‘s poems, the improvisatrice‘s voice is a soft, quiet voice whose existence is usually dependent in some way upon either a male auditor or a male recorder. This both reflects and reinforces the relegation, or re-relegation, of women and their productions to the domestic sphere; music becomes more tied to the body and thus women‘s voices are portrayed as lovely, but too weak to be widely heard and thus literally incapable of participation in the public sphere. Women‘s songs can only reach a wide or public audience through being heard, recorded, and disseminated (pun intended) by men. Further, as music was increasingly seen as a primitive, semi-articulate art that preceded and was therefore inferior to language and poetry, defining the woman artist as a musician served to relegate her to a safely feminine place and thus largely vitiate the threat that figures such as Sappho posed to a patriarchy whose admiration for the Greeks and their opinions was only increasing. In David Moir‘s 1852 poem ―The Improvisatrice,‖24 for example, the nameless improvisatrice is portrayed as an ―enchantress‖ (206) with a face that looks ―fair and feminine‖ (207) but which hides a ―fathomless abyss of passion‖ (207) – qualities implicitly contradictory. This improvisatrice sings with ―syren witchery‖ (206) her songs about battles and deeds of long ago. The improvisatrice‘s blurring of male/female boundaries in her choice of subject matter is thus explained, after a fashion, by making the improvisatrice a creature not quite human and definitely a little dangerous. This element of danger 24 David Macbeth Moir, ―The Improvisatrice. Illustrative of a Picture by Bone, Engraved by Romney,‖ in The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir, ed. by Thomas Aird (Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1860). All references are to page numbers, rather than line numbers (not given in this edition). 58 disappears, however, when the poem reveals that this vision of the improvisatrice is really the creation of a male artist‘s trompe l‘oeil painting. The ―syren‘s shape‖ is now ―in Memory‘s love enshrined‖ (208) because now not a real woman, but rather a ―brilliant dream‖ created by ―the power of Genius‖ (207) – the man who paints the improvisatrice. The gender uncertainty of the figure is now explained; the improvisatrice is not a woman with manly qualities or a figure who blurs the boundaries between masculine and feminine, but rather a inevitably masculinized vision of woman by a man whose intractable masculinity is proved thereby. Other men‘s poems likewise make the improvisatrice‘s existence or reputation in some way dependent on men. Charles Christopher Bowen‘s 1861 poem ―Sappho‘s Last Elegy‖ emphasizes the importance of men in allowing Sappho to be remembered at all. This poem begins as the historic Sappho, about to kill herself because Phaon will not love her, speaks some last words. She begins by trying to console herself with the thought of her future fame: The future‘s glory Shines around me here to-day; And I hear them sing my story In the ages far away. (9-12) This future fame will be dependent on others, however: Bards of foreign aspect telling Of my hapless love to thee; And the Sapphic numbers swelling In a tongue unknown to me. (17-20) 59 Bowen, of course, is one of those ―bards of foreign aspect.‖ Subtly, Bowen grants himself legitimacy here; he manages the problem of Sappho‘s ancient reputation by becoming the voice of Sappho, and by pointing out that her voice is dependent on others such as himself. He is able both to be Sappho, and to be superior to her. Of course, in a sense Bowen is too clever by half here; he needs to assume Sappho‘s legitimacy in order for it to mean anything that he can both imitate and be superior to her (there is no merit in imitating or transcending slop), but he undercuts Sappho‘s legitimacy by pointing out that her song only exists because of those after her retelling it – and thus neatly undercuts the platform he was building to stand on. In this circular poetic reasoning, there is no very firm base. Critics such as Yopie Prins have argued that this problem is characteristic of women‘s Sappho poems, that to ―claim authorship on the model of Sappho is to predict one‘s own death,‖25 but clearly this particular problem applies to Bowen‘s poem as well and is thus not gender-specific. The poem continues by imagining the role of the poet as Sappho imagines a future where Down the paths of human story Hand in hand, we wander on; The Poet-god unites our glory, Bids our poet-souls be one. (29-32) The ―Poet-god‖ may, modestly, not mean Bowen, but the Poet as Concept, who rolls through the ages ―uniting‖ comparatively little (uncapitalized), individual ―poet-souls‖ like Sappho‘s. Or the ―Poet-god‖ may in fact mean Bowen. Or, in yet another possibility, the 25 Prins, 179. 60 ―Poet-god‖ may mean Sappho‘s beloved (who, in this poem, is named Alcæus, not Phaon), since Sappho‘s reflection about Poet-gods is brought on by listening to Alcæus: Hark! Alcæus‘ strains, ascending, Mingle on the same sweet lyre, Like a mighty furnace blending With my trembling love-lit fire. Bolder words to bolder numbers – Numbers tuned to victory. Gently waking Lesbian slumbers…. (21-27) Sappho‘s song is ―trembling,‖ a product of her love, and ultimately ineffectual – it does not stir Alcæus and is only preserved by other men – , in contrast to the bolder words and numbers of Alcæus, which nevertheless are capable of blending with Sappho‘s strains even as they surpass them, ―ascending.‖ In all cases, however, the Poet-god is masculine. Similarly, in ―A Dream of Sappho‖ (1876), by Richard Monckton Milnes, Baron Houghton, Sappho‘s voice is only heard because a man is there to hear it. The poem begins with a sailor gazing at the moon. His comrades are either asleep or dozing, and all is so pleasantly quiet that the sailor prayed that not a soul might wake,– To be left utterly alone,– That not the faintest human tone, The silence of that time might break. . . . (13-16) Yet, beginning to listen to the sounds around him, he ―began, in that light breeze, / Glancing along those noted seas, / To trace a harmony distinct‖ (25-27). The sound grows clearer, becoming ―Two murmurs beautifully blent, / As of a voice and instrument,– / A hand laid lightly on low chords‖ (37-39). The voice is Sappho‘s. She recounts her story, but 61 this time with a new aftermath: after throwing herself off the cliff, she sought entrance into Heaven. Some underlings are willing to let her in because of her beautiful songs, but the ―queenly form and stern‖ (110) of the gatekeeper, Themis, stops her and asks if Phaon ―[w]as clear forgot‖ (124). Sappho admits that she still loves him and belongs to him: ―For I was Sappho, – Phaon‘s Sappho still‖ (132). Themis is highly displeased, but Sappho cries out that ―‗Heaven was not Heaven, if Phaon was not there‘‖ (136). Themis, unmoved, refuses Sappho a place in heaven, not for blasphemy or placing Phaon above God, but because ‗Thou hast defiled the Gods‘ most choicest dower, Poesy, which in chaste repose abides, As in its atmosphere;–that placid flower Thou hast exposed to passion‘s fiery tides. . . . (141-144, my emphasis) Sappho is instead condemned to wander, and so she does, relating this story in order provide context for her eventual question, ―Dear Stranger, tell me where is Phaon now?‖ (152). Having related her story and asked her question, Sappho the Voice suddenly is heard no more, and the sailor ―started to my feet;–the tall white Rock / Walled the far waste of silent sea, the morn / Light-lined the East, on grey-white wings upborne‖ (156- 158). The poem establishes male control over Sappho in a number of ways. Sappho is only heard through a male listener, and her words are reported through him. The very title of the poem, ―A Dream of Sappho,‖ in tandem with the poem‘s plot, emphasises that this is not a dream made by Sappho but a dream about her: Sappho is the male speaker‘s creation. Although the poem suggests at one point that the voice of Sappho came out of 62 nowhere, in fact it is the speaker‘s finely discerning ear that precedes there being anything to hear and thus his hearing that allows Sappho‘s voice to come into being, drawing it into existence, just as of old the alien maids, Who sanctified Dodona's shades, Drew out the tale of human fate, From sounds of things inanimate. . . . (17-20) The sailor-speaker is thus compared to the oracular priestesses of Dodona who made predictions and recommended actions based on the rustling of tree leaves. To paraphrase the quotation from Plutarch at the head of this chapter, the oracles of the Sybils may not be placed side by side with those of Bacis, for the power of a Sybil may be matched by even a humble sailor. Further, Sappho‘s very voice, her ability to sing, is an ability made possible by a male listener and a male creator, and is limited to a natural, emotional song that is compared to a ―blossom‖ (33) and to a flowing stream (47, 58-60). After death she becomes part of another stream, ―whose æthereal flow / Came to my senses like a perfumed sigh, / From the rich flowers that shed their light below‖ (93-95), but she is later excluded from the ―tide of sound‖ (97) when she is cursed. Music is natural to Sappho, to the extent that her song is narrowly feminine, but access to this part of her own nature is constantly mediated by others. Sappho‘s involvement in music is also largely passive; she is more likely to be a disembodied spirit floating in the ―tide of sound‖ than a woman actually creating music. In fact, when Themis first begins to question Sappho about Phaon, Sappho regains consciousness: ―Then I into my conscious self returned‖ (116). The fact that she was 63 unconscious before helps to characterize Sappho and her music as so much more emotional than analytical as to be entirely unthinking and unconscious. Music is thus an outgrowth of femininity (unthinking and unconscious as it is), and yet Sappho can be divorced from the ―tide of sound‖ and therefore part of herself at any time, because her self is not fully her own at any time. Sappho is only a voice in this poem, which might seem to tie her identity more strongly to music. But she uses that voice only to speak to a man in order to ask about another man. And limits are placed on her song; her song is only acceptable when it ―in chaste repose abides‖ (142), thus making clear the covert rationale for the insistence that women make music only in domestic settings. It may seem odd that Sappho‘s song is condemned for an unchastity of feeling that has ―defiled the Gods‘ most choicest dower‖ (141) and yet no criticism is implied of her ceaseless search for Phaon, the man who inspired the ―fiery tides‖ (144) that ―defiled‖ her music, but making Sappho‘s song and voice only tools in her search for Phaon makes her song both Low and domestic and therefore avoids having it be Art. In short, Sappho‘s song should be limited while her self should be male-focused – two goals that, here, would ideally work hand in hand to restrict Sappho‘s self and her self-expression to a domestic sphere where she is dependent on men. Part of the reason the improvisatrice is dependent on men, not just emotionally but as an artist, is because the nature of her art is feminine. With the doctrine of the separate spheres now firmly in place in a way it had not been for the women Romantic poets who took the improvisatrice as their theme, making the improvisatrice‘s song feminine implies 64 that it belongs to the domestic sphere. Its presence in the public sphere must therefore be explained as a result of men‘s hearing, men‘s written records, or men‘s memories – all of which can take place in the public sphere. Making the improvisatrice dependent on men for entry into the public sphere not only explains away the improvisatrice‘s blurring of gender boundaries; it also ensures that the improvisatrice‘s art will be of a more specifically feminine and therefore lesser kind. In Henry Ellison‘s two Petrarchan sonnets ―Sappho‖ and ―Sappho Antique,‖ both published in 1875, Sappho‘s music is ―rainbow-hued‖ but ―of less circumference‖ (―Sappho‖ 10) than men‘s. The music of Sappho, and women generally, is ―pure, primitive, direct, intense‖ and – perhaps most importantly – ―Innocent as the flowers‖ (―Sappho Antique‖ 6-7). This purity and delicacy, combined with ―subtleties of brains / And hearts more finely strung with fancies rare‖ (―Sappho‖ 7-8), is the justification for Sappho‘s singing: It were a loss unto the Muses, were A void in life; a chord that mute remains, With subtle-sweet vibrations, joys and pains, Were Woman Museless. (―Sappho‖ 1-4) The woman is given license to sing by men, because her song is of a limited, female nature that does not overlap or compete with men‘s, and which may benefit men by teaching those who ―little care / To know, nor could he, many things which are / In Woman‘s heart and being‖ (―Sappho‖ 4-5). More importantly, however, men will not so much learn about women as learn about themselves; the sestet of ―Sappho‖ makes this clear in the first line: ―Our life is from a different standpoint seen‖ (9). With such laudable goals to achieve, this Sappho has no need to commit suicide. 65 After reiterating the limited nature of women‘s music (―Its center, Love, supreme in soul and sense‖ [12]), the poem concludes by kindly giving Sappho and women permission to ―Take then thy lyre‖ (13), as long, that is, as they are chaste: ―Love be, as it hath been, / Thy prompter, in its strength and innocence‖ (13-14, emphasis in original). Low music, as we have seen, is music with a practical purpose that will inculcate good morals, in contrast to High music, which (while it should not be immoral) is above such earth-bound considerations. The women‘s Sappho poems we have so far seen do not limit Sappho‘s music in this way; in their poems, Sappho‘s music is inspired by love, but that does not de- value her music. Love has been the muse of many a man, and in portraying Sappho‘s music as springing from love the women poets subtly undercut traditional femininity one last time by making Sappho like every other male artist even as they emphasise her femininity. Ellison, in contrast, has no wish whatever to undercut or expose problems with traditional femininity; in order to avoid doing so, he must define Sappho‘s music more narrowly. Ultimately, the improvisatrice‘s art is limited by the weakness of her voice, which simply cannot carry far enough to be heard without manly aid. In Bowen‘s poem, for example, Sappho‘s ―trembling love-lit‖ music only gains auditory strength when joined by Alcaeus‘s ―bolder numbers.‖ Matthew Arnold‘s 1849 poem ―A Modern Sappho‖ similarly portrays the female voice as effective only when deepened into masculinity. The poem is not about Sappho per se, but about a modern nineteenth-century woman who shares a similarity with Sappho in that she is suffering from unrequited love, and is, in a sense, gender-neutral: the poem seems too gloomy in its outlook to establish anyone‘s superiority 66 over anything. The Modern Sappho‘s best hope is that her beloved will love her once he is crushed by life and becomes as miserable as she. Optimistically, in a way, she seems confident that, eventually, life in this ―gloom-buried world‖ (24) will deal him its ―full measure‖ (33) and that ―[a]s he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, / [he will] be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!‖ (19-20). However, this modern Sappho is a ―Sappho‖ purely by virtue of her unrequited love: she is lovelorn like the original Sappho, but lacks altogether that Sappho‘s musical or artistic ability. The Modern Sappho has no song; instead, she listens to ―what notes down the wind, hark! are driving‖ (29) and tells herself, ―Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order, / Ere their boat music sound‖ (7-8) – the boat music26 of her male (non)lover and his friends or, perhaps, of him and his new lover. If a woman is involved in this boat music, however, it is only by virtue of being connected to the male. Lacking this connection to another, specifically, a male, this Sappho has not lost the ability to create, as in the women‘s poems, but is wholly passive and altogether outside artistic creation. As a result, while she has a voice in that she is the speaker of the poem, the modern Sappho is not a self to the extent that she is merely a voice: Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing, Perceive but a voice as I come to his side– But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing, Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. (25-28) 26 Handel‘s Water Music is the most famous example of boat music, but hardly the only one. The tradition of music written and performed by men for the casual – if elaborate and expensive – entertainments of other men, including boating excursions, is surprisingly sizeable. 67 Implicitly, the poem argues that femininity is inferior to masculinity, because Sappho‘s best hope for self-improvement is that, as she suffers, ―deeper [her] voice grows‖ (27). A deeper- voiced, more masculine self is a better self. Nor does this line seem to suggest that Sappho will ―find her voice,‖ in modern terms; rather, she already is a voice, just one that could, and should, become more masculine. Significantly, for all the gloom and doom of the poem, there is no suggestion that Sappho will die; conventional femininity need not implode when a woman has the hope of transcending herself by becoming more like a man. In different ways, then, these men‘s poems revalue the figure of the improvisatrice by revaluing femininity. The improvisatrice, in effect, is no longer an improvisatrice in the sense that she does not sing freely, but in ways that are controlled by men. No longer the combination poet / musician, performer / composer, she is reduced to a musical performer only, whose performance and aims (love) are made to mirror the domestic performances of young girls whose talents, scanty though they might have been, were put in the service of the marriage market. Re-authorizing the Improvisatrice Turning the semi-Bardic improvisatrice into an analogue for the female domestic performer served not only to remove the threat that Sappho‘s ancient reputation, in particular, posed to a patriarchy that increasingly valued the opinions of the ancients; it also implied that women‘s domestic position and lesser, feminized artistic abilities were a historical, rather than simply current, fact, and worked to give women‘s place in the domestic sphere the imprimatur of the ancient Greeks. The destabilization of Hellenism, 68 however, together with further changes in the conceptualization of music and gender, changed yet again how the improvisatrice would be viewed. Part of this change in the conceptualization of music had to do with mesmerism. Though mesmerism had been discussed periodically throughout the century, it gained its greatest prominence in discussion during the last half of the nineteenth century. Long associated with music, this association became even stronger as the symphony became a more prominent form, thus leading to a change in the conception of musical conducting. No longer a fellow performer with an optional conducting function, the conductor now took on the role of musical god. Despite resistance, the conductor‘s baton became standard in the 1840s, when conductor Michael Costa ―refused to join the London Philharmonic without ‗sole and undivided control.‘‖27 Increasingly, the baton was described in mesmeric terms: the ―‗necromantic baton‘ was … said to contain a ‗mysterious virtue,‘ like mesmerism‘s ‗secret influence.‘‖28 Wielded by men, this mesmeric musical power could influence all subjects: the sleeper is invariably much more strongly affected by music than when in his ordinary state. … Thus, a reel or quadrille will set them dancing…. A solemn strain, again, will readily cause them to kneel and pray…. All this will take place, more or less, in persons who have in their ordinary state, no love for music, or care, at all events, little for it.29 27 Winter, 311. 28 Ibid. 29 William Gregory, Animal Magnetism; or, Mesmerism and Its Phenomena, 3rd ed. (London: The Psychological Press Association, 1884), 15. 69 Though men and women were described as reacting differently, both sexes were seen as susceptible: To the sounds of music, sometimes soft, sometimes animated, but generally melancholy, Mesmer walked about, dispersing the magnetic fluid from right to left with a glass or iron wand. The men seemed to feel little or nothing at the time, yet many went away cured; but nearly all the women slept, some tranquilly, others in convulsions.30 In Michael Field‘s poem number 34 from their 1889 collection Long Ago, Sappho‘s status as an inspired improvisatrice is described in terms that give to the improvisatrice the kind of mesmeric power conductors were often thought to wield over audiences as well as performers. Control over the audience is important for this Sappho: There is a gift the crowd can bring, A rapture, a content; Pierian roses scarcely fling So ravishing a scent As that with which the air is stirred When hearts of heavenly things have heard…. (9-14) When, however, Sappho is inspired to sing a new song, her audience initially fails to respond appropriately, something Sappho had not anticipated: ―I knew not there were men who jeer; / Nor dreamed I there were mortals born / To make the poet‘s heart forlorn‖ (6-8). Sappho continues her song nonetheless, but is surprised to notice that now no subtle incense rose; I heard a hostile sound And looked – oh, scornfuller than those ‘Mong men I ne‘er have found. (17-20) 30 ―A History of the Marvellous,‖ The Church of England Magazine 76 (7 February 1874): 86. As an official organ of the Church of England, the article, after lingering on many ―marvellous‖ events, is careful to note quickly at the end that ―[t]here appears on every page of this part of the history of the human mind, weakness, inconsistency, and error‖ (86). Nonetheless, the picture of mesmerism given in the article is meant to reflect both actual behavior at mesmeric events as well as common, insufficiently Christian people‘s beliefs. 70 Despite their greater numbers, the crowd is ultimately unable to affect Sappho‘s mood or perception of herself because they do not possess the power of music, as she does. Instead, Sappho simply paused: the whistling air was stilled; Then through my chords the godhead thrilled, And the quelled creatures knew their kind Ephemeral through foolish mind. (21-24) Sappho can control the crowd through a process of ―thrilling‖ them, rather than through brute force or through intellectual or emotional appeals. Rather, a mysterious force emanates from her chords, one to which the crowd obediently responds even though it is not aligned with their conscious reactions. Though Sappho, as the speaker of the poem, courteously implies that ―the godhead‖ is responsible for her power, the syntax of the line suggests that even the godhead is dependent on her chords; ―through‖ has the force of ―by means of.‖ The close association between men‘s music and mesmerism, coming at a time when women still were more likely to be taught music than men, blurs the gendering of musical authority and allows the poem to grant the improvisatrice authority by exploiting the fact that music in itself was held to possess a mesmeric force. The Sappho of this poem takes a hermaphroditic role: she is analogous both to male conductors and female performers, to both the bard and the woman in the drawing room. As such, the improvisatrice figure unsettles gender categories, but only by being located at the intersection of an already existing contradiction. 71 Adding to the destabilization of gender categories here is the association between music and the body; while entranced, subjects were supposed to react physically as well as emotionally to the music they heard, pointing to a connection between the unconscious mind and the body. Though men and women could react differently to the same stimuli, all were susceptible, and all were physically affected; further, groups of people, no matter their socio-economic or educational background, were thought to react in much the same way to mesmeric stimuli, functioning as ―an assembled collectivity.‖31 Thus, through mesmerism in general and music‘s mesmeric qualities in particular, ordinary differences and categories could be temporarily erased. One such difference was sexual orientation. Though not openly much discussed, homosexuality was beginning to be named and defined, and defined in terms of qualities of mind rather than simply physical behavior. Michael Field, of course, wrote the poems of Long Ago in the wake of the first correct English translation of the historical Sappho‘s poems, a translation that finally used the pronoun ―she‖ to describe Sappho‘s beloveds. Long Ago number 34 is different from previous women‘s Sappho poems, not just in its origins or subject matter, but because this Sappho is able to avoid the destructive conflict of earlier women‘s poems. That destructive conflict, in all previous women‘s poems, is caused and revealed by Sappho‘s love for Phaon and thus the love that inspires Sappho‘s creative gift also destroys it. But this Sappho is not concerned about Phaon (he does not even make the book); she is, as other poems in the collection make explicit, homosexual. The Sappho of previous women‘s poems is in the dismal position of wanting and needing 31 Winter, 312. 72 the approval of men, who wish her to be other than what she is. This version of Sappho solves the problem by simply not caring what men think. More than that, however; as an improvisatrice, the reason she need not care is because her gift – now under her control, not men‘s, and thus truly improvisatory – gives her power over minds and bodies, a power that has its source partly in its revelation that there is little difference between those minds and bodies. 73 CHAPTER 3 THE LISTENING ANGEL The sound of Charlotte‘s really beautiful voice powerfully affected Grace, and it was only by a strong effort she controlled herself; but she did; and it never seemed to occur to any one that it might be trying to her to listen to music. ~ Georgiana Dalrymple, The Livingstones1 The woman listener is a contradiction. Where the Angel serves, the woman listener is served. While listening to men‘s speech is seen as proper and necessary for women, listening to men‘s music is often seen as decadent and dangerous. Yet the woman listener is not simply a transgressive figure, even though her listening is unusual and considered dangerous. She reverses traditional gender roles because, instead of playing music to please a man, she is pleased, almost invariably by men, yet in her largely passive recipience of men‘s feelings and thoughts, expressed and transferred through music, she is obedient and controllable. As such, the figure of the woman listener, like the figure of the woman reader, has important implications for how the nineteenth century gendered the mind. For much of the century, the listening woman is a comparatively rare figure. Performing women litter the pages of nineteenth-century fiction and poetry, but they were not thought, by and large, to be listening to their own works; listening and playing were considered, not without reason, as separate mental activities. The strain of performance, for example, was often distracting; Molly in Wives and Daughters is a conscientious and accurate pianist who, when forced to play for company, first begs others to talk through her 1 [Georgiana Anne Dalrymple,] The Livingstones: A Story of Real Life (London: Colburn and Company, 1851), 1:69-70. 74 playing so that no-one can hear it and then, when refused, ―went through her performance heavily, [hating] her handiwork more than anyone‖ in the pain of self-consciousness.2 Women who listened to other women perform were often caught up in evaluating their competition rather than truly listening, as Jane evaluates Blanche Ingram‘s looks and demeanor in Jane Eyre. Performance was in general considered an automatic skill, and as girls were more and more encouraged to play the piano and select other instruments their involvement with music became more automatic and thus less noticed by themselves. At the beginning and end of the century, however, as we have seen, listening held more theoretical importance. During the Romantic era, listening to music was often associated with a laudable sensibility. During the fin de siècle, listening began to be considered an active and even intellectual activity, not a passive and emotional one. The listening woman is portrayed more frequently during these periods because listening holds more importance during these periods, and specifically holds an equalizing potential. When the ability to listen to music (as opposed to simply hearing it, a distinction made frequently by the late- Victorians) denotes an active, intelligent mind, a woman‘s ability to listen can signal not only her equality to men but the similarity of her mind to what a man‘s mind is supposed to be. Likewise, when the ability to listen to music denotes sensibility and when sensibility is simultaneously valorized in men by men, a woman‘s ability to listen can signal a similar equality to men in the sense of sameness to them. Various authors at both the beginning and end of the century use the figure of the woman listener in order to argue for equality 2 Elizabeth Gaskell, Wives and Daughters (1865. Repr., London: Smith, Elder, and Company, 1897), 243-244. 75 between the sexes, although the contradictory nature of the woman listener undercuts those attempts to some extent. Mid-century representations of the woman listener, though few, do exist; unlike earlier and later representations, however, these depictions of the woman listener do not treat the male and female minds as the same, but rather assume a difference between men and women that goes beyond the physical. Thus, over the century, the listening mind is first ungendered, then gendered, then degendered. The Romantic Era: Equality Through Sensibility Musicologists and other critics have recently begun to discuss the nature of listening in the nineteenth century. In general, scholars of nineteenth-century listening practices argue that ―listening practices changed radically during the Romantic period, and Romantic narratives of listening really emerged in Europe only with the cult of Beethoven.‖3 During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Europe, audiences were not expected to listen attentively to the music being played, whether at the opera- house or in private homes, but rather were expected to chatter, flirt, and wander in and out4 – when Evelina in Fanny Burney‘s Evelina (1778), for instance, attempts to actually listen to the opera she is attending with her relatives, she finds that she is ―the object of general diversion to the whole party.‖5 The general lack of attentiveness at musical performances was not greeted with enthusiasm by either composers or performers, but it 3 Gillen D‘Arcy Wood, e-mail message to author, 16 April 2010. 4 Peter Gay, The Naked Heart: The Bourgeois Experience: Victoria to Freud (New York: W.W. Norton, 1996), 14-15. 5 Fanny Burney, Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady‟s Entrance into the World (1778. Repr., New York: Oxford World‘s Classics, 1982), 93. 76 was accepted with resignation – so much so that composer Gioacchino Rossini, in his 1812 opera Ciro in Babylonia, included an ―aria del sorbetto,‖ a sherbet aria, designed ―to give the audience time and opportunity to converse and spoon ices.‖6 Yet at some point behavioral standards, and actual behavior, started to change: writing of France in particular, musicologist James Johnson argues that during the period from 1750 to 1850 audiences became silent as physical conditions in concert halls became less distracting – as, for instance, lavatory facilities became less liable to spontaneous overflowing, lighting was made safer, and general social unrest died down.7 Others argue that the idea that audiences should silently listen to music owed more to a change in conceptions of music and the self as music became associated with a new emphasis on the self‘s interiority8 and the act of listening to music became a badge of sensibility and thoughtfulness, and for some ―the most privileged form of introspection.‖9 At the same time that listening assumed a new importance, women‘s involvement in music increased. The Romantic era in music saw a dramatic increase in the mass- production of instruments and sheet music. The result was a shift in the primary physical 6 Gay, 16. 7 James H. Johnson, Listening in Paris: A Cultural History (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996), esp. 3-4. 8 See Michael P. Steinberg, Listening to Reason: Culture, Subjectivity, and Nineteenth-Century Music (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004) and Gillen D‘Arcy Wood, Romanticism and Music Culture in Britain, 1770-1840: Virtue and Virtuosity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 9 Gay, 18. See also Mark Evan Bonds, Music as Thought: Listening to the Symphony in the Age of Beethoven (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). 77 location of music from concert-halls or aristocratic settings to the domestic sphere.10 This shift meant that men, long in control of music‘s composition and performance, now had to follow music into the domestic sphere. At the same time, music‘s shift to domestic settings made possible the tremendous surge of women who began both to play and compose. Thus, in the first decades of the nineteenth century, women and men shared the same musical sphere, the home, already and increasingly associated with women. As a result, gendered distinctions between men and women were difficult to make when it came to music. In tandem with this change in setting and erasure of gender roles came an increased emphasis on music as an inward art that was less communicative than expressive.11 This does not mean, of course, as Carl Dahlhaus points out, that Romantic music ceased to require ―detachment, analysis, and calculation‖12 for its creation; rather, the description of Romantic music as expressive refers, paradoxically, to its ―mode of perception,‖13 to how such music was heard and perceived by listeners. Listening to music was seen as requiring intense, emotional attention, and music was increasingly thought capable of enforcing such attention from auditors. Indeed, certain types of music, especially 10 See Richard Taruskin, Music in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 63; William Weber, ―Wagner, Wagnerism, and Musical Idealism,‖ in Wagnerism in European Culture and Politics, ed. by David C. Large and William Weber in collaboration with Anne Dzamba Sessa (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1984), 31-32. 11 Taruskin, 63-65. 12 Carl Dahlhaus, Nineteenth Century Music (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991), 16. 13 Dahlhaus, 16. 78 when played on the right instrument, were associated with the creation of trance-like states; Mesmer, for example, used the armonica, a glass harmonica, to aid in inducing trances, and ―[i]n many late eighteenth-century ‗magic operas‘ and early romantic operas beginning with Mozart‘s Magic Flute (1791), the armonica was used to accompany scenes of spell- casting or entrancement.‖14 This emphasis on music‘s connection to the innermost self tended to obscure physical differences: ―all early researchers into hypnotism believed … that it proved the existence of a level of reality that transcended the world of the senses. That level was where the true self lay.‖15 Music provided an ungendered aural and theoretical space where men and women, minds and emotions, could meet. Likewise, the conception of music as a unified field in which performance and composition16 or listening and performance were considered allied skills meant that music was an art form in which there was, if briefly, space for gender equality: listening to music was not yet something men did while women played, but something that all minds could do, participating in an experience that required both intellect and sensitivity. As a result, the portrayal of the woman listener in literature of this period tends to argue, not only for women‘s mental equality with men, but for a lack of gender differentiation (there may of course be individual mental differences, but not so much gendered ones). 14 Taruskin, 73. 15 Taruskin, 73. 16 Paula Gillett points this out, but not the tie between listening and either composition or performance. 79 Not everyone, of course, believed in such equality in practice. The woman listener is rarely portrayed in works by Romantic men; rather, the many works addressed to a female auditor or in which women are in the presence of music assume that women will or can listen, but do not portray them actually doing so. In Samuel Taylor Coleridge‘s ―The Eolian Harp‖17 (1795, 1796), for instance, the speaker opens by addressing ―My pensive Sara!‖ whose ―soft cheek [is] reclined / Thus on mine arm‖ (1-2). After describing the scene before them, the speaker turns his attention to that simplest lute, Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark! How by the desultory breeze caressed, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, It pours such sweet upbraiding…. (12-16) Though Sara is also in the presence of the Eolian harp‘s music, she does not seem to be listening to it. The Eolian harp is feminized, and even its silence is described as that of ―Music slumbering on her instrument‖ (32). Sound is thus portrayed as feminine, listening by extension masculine, an implication reinforced by the fact that the introspections into which the speaker is led by the Eolian harp are not shared by Sara, whose reproving glance reminds the speaker not only that his thoughts may be dangerous ones but also that they are the products of a listening process into which Sara has not entered. Similarly, when Shelley addresses Jane Williams in ―With a Guitar, to Jane‖18 (1819), he assumes that Jane 17 Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ―The Eolian Harp,‖ in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 8th edition, ed. by Jack Stillinger and Deidre Shauna Lynch (New York: W.W. Norton, 2006). All citations in parentheses are to line numbers in this edition. 18 Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Works of P.B. Shelley (Hertfordshire: Wordsworth, 1994). All citations in parentheses are to line numbers in this edition. 80 will be listening, but at the same time what she will be listening to is his association of sound with femininity; the language of the guitar is ―language gentle as thine own‖ (61), and the poem, written as from Ariel to Miranda, asks the woman to become a teacher of music whose smiles and songs will, by virtue of their connection to that gentle womanhood, influence the rougher male into ―all harmonious thought‖ (44). In a sense, this poem gives to women control of harmonious thought, but the woman‘s role here is that of Angel, serving men through a natural talent that is aligned with ―The clearest echoes of the hills, / The softest notes of falling rills, / The melodies of bird, and bees‖ (69-71) rather than indicative of conscious power – indeed, its unconsciousness is implied by the fact that Ariel must inform Miranda of the effect her unconscious womanhood has on men. Though, again, the address of this poem to a woman implies a female ability to listen, the poem itself has trouble imagining female interiority and is therefore unable to portray a woman‘s listening because unable to imagine women‘s listening as anything other than a passive, obedient act, even as the poem uses that passive obedience to inform women that they can and should exercise a degree of control over men. Works by women tend to portray the woman listener more directly, and in so doing to present listening as an intelligent and imaginative act. Mary Robinson‘s 1800 poem ―To the Poet Coleridge,‖19 for example, gives an imaginative response to Coleridge‘s ―Kubla Khan.‖ The speaker imagines herself wandering ―Where the blue, wavy, lucid stream, / ‘Mid forest glooms, shall slow meander‖ (3-4) and listening ―to the minstrel‘s lay, 19 Mary Robinson, ―To the Poet Coleridge,‖ in British Women Poets of the 19th Century, ed. by Margaret Randolph Higonnet (New York: Penguin, 1996). All citations in parentheses are to line numbers in this edition. 81 / Hymning the gradual close of day‖ (29-30). As she wanders through the sunny dome and caves of ice, she finally comes across the Abyssinian maid, who with lofty tones inviting, … her dulcimer swift smiting, Shall wake me in ecstatic measures! Far, far removed from mortal pleasures! … She sings of thee, O favored child Of minstrelsy, sublimely wild! Of thee, whose soul can feel the tone Which gives to airy dreams a magic all thy own! (59-72) The speaker‘s listening is part of her ability, not merely to read, but to imaginatively construct the world of Kubla Khan and create again what Coleridge has previously created; her imaginary listening is not a passive act but part of her ability to create the Abyssinian maid‘s music and reproduce not only the world of Kubla Khan but Coleridge‘s own poem.20 Indeed, in one way she goes Coleridge one better: Coleridge‘s speaker believes that Could I revive within me Her symphony and song To such deep delight ‘twould win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air…. (42-46) Robinson‘s speaker, on the other hand, has in her mind built that dome in air with her own song, giving herself the power of the damsel and the minstrel, and, like the improvisatrices we saw in chapter 2, combining masculine and feminine gender roles through the imaginative space of mental music. The final lines of Robinson‘s poem might equally describe her own poem; though in a sense she is only listening to and reproducing 20 Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ―Kubla Khan,‖ in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 8th ed., ed. by Jack Stillinger and Deidre Shauna Lynch (New York: W.W. Norton, 2006). 82 Coleridge, her manner of so doing implies her imaginative creativity and equality with Coleridge, the original poem‘s powerful potentate, and the Muse-figure of the Abyssinian maid. Listening can not only denote creative ability, but internal harmony, a combination of sense and sensibility. Mary, in Jane Austen‘s Pride and Prejudice (1813), for example, is an embarrassing performer because oblivious to the sounds she produces, while her sister Elizabeth not only plays with more skill but is capable of listening to others‘ playing (specifically, Miss Darcy‘s) with understanding and appreciation.21 The ladies in Susan Ferrier‘s 1818 novel Marriage22 are characterized in part by their ability or inability to listen to music. Lady Juliana‘s lack of discipline shows early when she interrupts a song, ―scarcely waiting till the first stanza was ended‖ (80), to ask if the singer can play the harp. A few pages later she is frightened by hearing for the first time the sound of bagpipes (82), a dire signal that the English Lady Juliana finds her husband‘s native land of Scotland to be incomprehensible because not conducive to her flightiness. Her faults are the ―sad fruits of 21 Examples like this imply that women, in order to perform well, were expected to listen to their own performances somewhat, but Mary is hardly the only character who is represented as playing without listening: the excerpt from Sense and Sensibility quoted in chapter 1 is another example; the contrast between Laura and Miss Goldthorp in Charlotte Smith‘s 1798 novel The Young Philosopher is another; and in general women performers are usually represented as listening to other sounds than their own playing (Amelia, in Vanity Fair, for example, in one scene plays while listening, not to her music, but for George‘s footsteps) or listening is simply not mentioned at all, sometimes to make a point: Rosamund Vincy in George Eliot‘s Middlemarch, for example, plays with such seeming feeling that Lydgate assumes that Rosamund must feel and respond to her music as he does, but after their marriage he realizes that Rosamund‘s playing is a purely mechanical skill. There is a difference, further, between listening and merely hearing; for the explicit distinction, see ―French Comic Actors,‖ New Monthly Magazine 6 (July-December 1823): 341, for an early example, and G.E. Johnson, ―Contribution to the Psychology and Pedagogy of Feeble-Minded Children,‖ Pedagogical Seminary 3 (1894): 260, for a late-century example. 22 Susan Ferrier, Marriage (1818. Repr., Boston: Little, Brown, 1893). All citations in parentheses are to page numbers in this edition. 83 a fashionable education‖ (161), as are her daughter Adelaide‘s, who likewise prefers Italian music to Scottish (78, 306).23 Like her mother, Adelaide plays only because of the opportunities for display that playing affords (343) and continues playing ―as if nothing had happened‖ even when her sister Mary faints from illness (289). Mary, in contrast (who has been raised by a sensible, Scottish female relative and only visits her mother and sister for the first time as a teenager), is a sensitive performer who ―sings in a style full of simplicity and feeling‖ (224) rather than simply learning notes by rote as her aunts wish her to (225), and who has an ability to listen to music, as well as people, appreciatively and with understanding. Mary‘s favorite music, unsubtly, is church music – ―The music consisted of an organ, simply but well played, and to Mary … it seemed the music of the spheres‖ (321) – because her ability to listen is part of her disciplined and moral character. Other women authors go even further, portraying the ability to listen not only as the sign of internal harmony and self-control in contrast to a love of outward display, but more explicitly as a sign of mental equality with men. Ann Radcliffe‘s 1796 novel The Italian is a case in point. Like her attitude towards religion and class relations, Radcliffe‘s gender ideology has been the subject of much debate, if, that is, a comparatively little- studied Romantic author can be said to have sparked ―much‖ debate about anything; many critics have argued that Radcliffe strives to rework the rough and sensational Gothic novel into something proper, dignified, and delicate, de-sexualizing the female body and inculcating traditional gender values as a way to make her use of the Gothic more 23 As we saw in chapter 1, Italian music was frequently associated with irrationality in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. 84 acceptable.24 Others, however, have argued that Radcliffe, while paying lip-service to some traditional values, in fact undermines patriarchy in her novels. Anne K. Mellor, for example, argues that [t]he vulnerability of the Edenic home to the ‗snake‘ of patriarchal power is underlined in The Italian where the ‗father‘ is a priest as well as the murderer of his brother, the rapist of his brother‘s wife, and the man who both encourages and almost carries out the desire of the Marchioness di Vivaldi to murder her putative daughter-in-law.25 (94) Following Susan Greenfield, Claudia L. Johnson has argued that Radcliffe rejects heteronormativity altogether: ―Caught up in the disfiguring exacerbations of gender that followed in the wake of the political upheaval of the 1790s, Radcliffe‘s fiction … increasingly turns to the alternative of homo-erotic relations.‖26 All of these arguments have an element of truth to them. An examination of the way that Radcliffe represents her characters in relation to music in The Italian shows that Radcliffe is doing more with gender than marketing herself as a proper lady while critiquing patriarchy. Music serves many functions in The Italian, but one of those functions is to demonstrate, not only that men and women can be equal, but that men and women can be, and ought to be, much the same. 24 See, for example, the various studies comparing Radcliffe‘s The Italian to Matthew Lewis‘s The Monk. Among them are Vartan P. Messier, ―The Conservative, the Transgressive, and the Reactionary: Ann Radcliffe‘s The Italian as a Response to Matthew Lewis‘ The Monk,‖ Atenea 25 (December 2005): 37-48, and Yael Shapira, ―Where the Bodies are Hidden: Ann Radcliffe‘s ‗Delicate‘ Gothic,‖ Eighteenth-Century Fiction 18 (Summer 2006): 453-476. 25 Mellor, Romanticism and Gender, 94. 26 Claudia L. Johnson, Equivocal Beings: Politics, Gender, and Sentimentality in the 1790s: Wollstonecraft, Radcliffe, Burney, Austen (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 136. 85 The heroine of The Italian, Ellena di Rosalba, is strongly identified with music, so much so that music is her alter ego. She is first described, not as beautiful, but as having a beautiful voice; when the hero, Vincentio di Vivaldi,27 first meets her, the ―sweetness and fine expression of her voice attracted his attention to her figure, … but her face was concealed‖ (9).28 When Vivaldi later goes to call on her, Ellena is not physically present, but her music is: ―He trembled as he took up the lute she had been accustomed to touch, and, when he awakened the chords, her own voice seemed to speak‖ (31). In one sense, the replacement of Ellena‘s body with representations of sound provides Radcliffe with a way to describe sexual desire without being explicit or unladylike; on the other hand, this elision of Ellena‘s body by sound replaces a gendered body with genderless sound. Moreover, Ellena‘s musical, androgynous self is both more literally attractive and more profoundly affecting than her gendered body. Ellena not only embodies music, she is a sensitive and constant listener. During her frequent and varied trials, the only thing possibly more affecting to her than a rugged landscape is music, or, even better, gazing upon a rugged landscape while listening to music: The silence and deep repose of the landscape served to impress this character [of melancholy] more awfully on the heart, and while Ellena sat wrapt in the thoughtfulness it promoted, the vesper-service of the monks, breathing softly from the cathedral above, came to her ear; it was a music 27 Radcliffe‘s biography is so sketchy it is difficult to say anything about her, let alone whether she would have known of the composer Antonio Vivaldi, and thus whether Vincentio di Vivaldi is meant to evoke the Italian composer. Vivaldi does not appear to be mentioned in any English-language publications from the eighteenth century, although he is mentioned in a number of French and Italian ones. Whether Radcliffe knew either language is unclear; her husband‘s brief account of her life, the primary source for Radcliffe‘s biography, does not say (―Mrs. Radcliffe,‖ The Annual Biography and Obituary, for the Year 1824). 28 All quotations taken from Ann Radcliffe, The Italian, or The Confessional of the Black Penitents (1796. Repr., New York: Penguin Books, 2004). 86 which might be said to win on silence, and was in perfect unison with her feelings; solemn, deep, and full, it swelled in holy peals, and rolled away in murmurs, which attention pursued to the last faint note…. (78) Vivaldi is also a constant listener. One of music‘s functions in the novel is to provide a sort of running soundtrack of grim foreboding; in scene after scene, far-off monks can be heard chanting ominously or a mysterious, sad song plays in the distance. Such written sound effects, however, are primarily heard by Ellena and Vivaldi, because only they are attentive listeners who expect to hear music: The solemnity of the scene accorded with the temper of [Vivaldi‘s] mind, and he listened in deep attention for the returning sounds, which broke upon the ear like distant thunder muttering imperfectly from the clouds. The pauses of silence, that succeeded each groan of the mountain, when expectation listened for the rising sound, affected the imagination of Vivaldi at this time with particular awe…. (15) Indeed, the only music that is not listened to in the novel is the serenade Vivaldi and his comic-relief friend Bonarmo give to Ellena; Vivaldi and Bonarmo play their best, but there is no hint that Ellena hears them. Radcliffe wisely here implies that her heroine is much too proper even to notice such a sexualized overture, but in implying that Ellena‘s interest in music is not sexual the novel further rejects a traditional gendering of its protagonists. The serenade is an activity divided upon very simple gender lines; Vivaldi, encouraged by his brasher friend, attempts to play (in more than one sense) the man and expects that Ellena will listen as a woman. Ellena does not, and Vivaldi abandons the attempt. For the rest of the novel, both characters listen and play in a way that is not divided along gendered lines. 87 Besides Bonarmo, Ellena and Vivaldi are the only two characters in the novel who play instruments; Ellena‘s sensitive character implies that she plays the lute with skill and feeling, although we do not actually hear her play, and Vivaldi has ―a fine tenor, and the same susceptibility, which made him passionately fond of music, taught him to modulate its cadence with exquisite delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the most simple, pathetic expression‖ (22). Their love for music, the sweetness of their voices, their ability to listen sensitively, all serve not only to make clear that Ellena and Vivaldi are meant for each other but that they have similar minds; the fact that music signifies this similarity also indicates that the similarity of their minds is due to the way they both unite emotional and intellectual qualities. Vivaldi and Ellena are sensible in every way – sensibly rational in their avoidance of the passionately evil deeds of Schedoni and the Marchesa (Vivaldi‘s mother) and their ability to withstand the threats and temptations of superstition; emotional sensible in their susceptibility to every sight and sound. Only the novel‘s villains are gendered: the Marchesa is a jealous and conniving wife and mother who, though she fancies she has the strength of a man, is too weak to carry out her own villainy, while Schedoni‘s murders and rapes (both attempted and accomplished) all associate virility and violence. Ellena and Vivaldi‘s musical androgyny is thus presented as morally superior to either traditional femininity or masculinity. The importance of listening in relation to the interiority of the self combined with women‘s increasing involvement in music provided, then, an opportunity for women authors in the early nineteenth century to use the figure of the listening woman as a 88 symbol of women‘s mental abilities by portraying the woman not merely as an obedient figure, physically present and attentive, but as a being with an inner self that is introspective and creative. The listening woman, when directly portrayed, is a figure with a selfhood that is made visible and portrayed as active, thoughtful, disciplined, and sensitive in ways that are aligned either implicitly or explicitly with men‘s highest ideals for themselves. The Victorians: Music and the Body Like so many of the most important historical changes, no precise date can be assigned, but as the Romantic era gave way to the Victorian listening was no longer considered part and parcel of the total musical experience. Rather, it was seen as a separate activity that did not coincide with either performance or composition, and was considered in some ways positively antithetical to those activities (and vice-versa). As we‘ve seen, this division was not motivated entirely by pure, exalted theory, but largely by a practical, if unspoken or unconscious, desire to preserve and to an extent re-create differences between the sexes as changes to modern life and to women‘s level of education made older differences seem in danger of obsolescence. One motivation for, and consequence of, treating listening as a separate mental activity was to provide a new way of thinking of women as physically and mentally weak. This new way of thinking about music and listening not only reflected current scientific thinking about women‘s bodies and minds, but also helped to bolster and add to that thinking. 89 Beginning in the 1830s, music began to be defined more and more frequently in terms of its physical effects.29 Music was defined as a series of rhythmic vibrations that caused other objects, including people‘s bodies, to vibrate rhythmically in turn30 and was distinguished from mere noise by considering only certain types of vibrations, separated from each other at regularly-spaced intervals, to be musical vibrations.31 Those instruments previously most associated with their effect on the mind were now associated primarily with their effect on the body: the armonica, for example, previously associated with mental trances, was now especially associated with these physical vibrations.32 Some even posited the existence of a ―sonorous fluid,‖ analogous to the ―electric fluid, the luminous fluid, and 29 Scholars usually see this change happening in the late nineteenth century, rather than at the beginning of the Victorian era, as I do; see Dale, Music Analysis, 4, and Nicholas Dames, The Physiology of the Novel: Reading, Neural Science, and the Form of Victorian Fiction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 143- 144. According to Dames and Dale, physiological musicology ―gathered force only after Hermann von Helmholtz‘s 1863 Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen was translated into English as On the Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music in 1875‖ (Dames, 143-144). Dames acknowledges that the trend actually began at least as early as the 1860s (144); I argue that it begins at least as early as Herbert Spencer‘s widely-disseminated essay ―The Origin and Function of Music‖ (1857) in which Spencer argues that music arose from involuntary muscular contractions of the vocal chords produced by strong emotion, and Spencer himself was not the first to define music as a physiological phenomenon; see, for example, George Moore, The Use of the Body in Relation to the Mind (London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman‘s, 1846), esp. 173. Discussions of acoustics in particular assume a physiological musicology as early as the 1830s, and discussions of Mesmer and his use of musical magnetism treat music as a physiological as well as mental phenomenon even earlier than that. See also the sources cited below. 30 See, for example, ―Acoustics,‖ The Penny Cyclopedia of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge (London: Charles Knight, 1833): 1:89-90; John Weeks Moore, Complete Encyclopædia of Music, Elementary, Technical, Historical, Biographical, Vocal, and Instrumental (Boston: Oliver Ditson, 1854): 889; T., ―On Musical Glasses,‖ The Magazine of Popular Science, and Journal of the Useful Arts 6 (1837): 352-359, esp. 356. 31 Hermann L.F. Helmholtz, ―A Course of Two Lectures on Musical Acoustics, and on the Physiological and Psychological Causes of Musical Harmony and Discord. Lecture I,‖ The Chemical News: and Journal of Physical Science 3 (4 May 1861): 279. 32 T., ―On Musical Glasses,‖ 352. 90 the caloric fluid,‖ through which, by a species of ―musical magnetism,‖ vibrations were transferred.33 This emphasis on physics and the body in relation to music allowed gender divisions to come back into the equation, and women‘s physical weakness was held to make listening dangerous as their weaker bodies were more susceptible to vibration. Edward John Tilt, the physician who championed the use of speculum in Britain and a founding fellow of the Obstetrical Society of London,34 warned his readership that listening to music could be as deleterious in its effects on the delicate female nervous system as novel-reading and could even accelerate the onset of puberty.35 Certain chords could have an especially injurious effect: We read that some great virtuoso of olden time was banished [from] the Spartan territory for attempting to corrupt the morals of youth – he had but added one string to the Doric lyre, which till then had only echoed that ‗Harmony which breathes Heroic ardour to adventurous deeds.‘ That addition must have been the chord whose vibrations have been considered injurious to young and sensitive girls; but as we are not musical, we cannot note it down.36 Tilt is here thinking of Timotheus, who was legendarily banished from Sparta for adding an additional string to his instrument;37 the addition was frowned upon for introducing 33 ―Phenomena of Music,‖ The Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art 9 (January 1869):371. Reprinted from All the Year Round. 34 D‘A. Power [sic], ―Tilt, Edward John,‖ rev. Susan Snoxall, The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. 35 Tilt, Elements of Health, 179. 36 Tilt, 215. 91 chromaticism and for making music too soft and delicate.38 Tilt thus associates this chord with women but revises its significance so that, rather than effeminizing men, it sexualizes women. An article on frivolous widows in an American periodical, Current Literature, likewise speaks in passing of ―[that] minor chord in a piece of music that sets the [woman‘s] pulses throbbing‖39 – women and girls are uniquely susceptible to musical vibrations because of their more fragile physical constitution. At the same time, of course, playing music was not considered dangerous for girls – quite the contrary – while playing was considered problematic for men and boys: as one commentator notes with puzzlement, ―we have no corresponding case in which any particular study is seriously considered to be highly beneficial to female intellect and yet worthless or injurious to men.‖40 The seeming contradiction here points to the fact that women were not considered capable of producing harmful vibrations themselves, only that they were capable of being strongly affected by them – the strong, powerful, and likely sexual vibrations were only produceable by men, who should, however, not thus take advantage of women‘s weakness in this regard. Women were also protected, when playing, from the vibrations they produced not only by the weakness of those vibrations (another reason for gendering the organ as male, the piano as female), but also by the various distractions of performance. The playing of music was encouraged for numerous reasons, as we‘ve seen, but perhaps foremost among them 37 Warren Anderson and Thomas J. Mathieson, ―Timotheus,‖ Grove Music Online. 38 Vincenzo Galilei, Dialogue on Ancient and Modern Music, trans. and ed. by Claude V. Palisca (1581 or 1582. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), 253-254. 39 ―The Fascinating Widow,‖ Current Literature: A Magazine of Record and Review 2 (June 1889): 483. 40 Leonora Schmitz, ―On the Study of Music,‖ The Fortnightly Review 4 (March 1866): 222. 92 was the hope and belief that playing was precisely a way to keep women from listening, at least to keep women from listening to men‘s vibrations with their bodies. As a result, women are rarely portrayed as listening to music in Victorian literature, partly because women were encouraged to perform and are usually therefore portrayed as performers, but also because the new emphasis on the body in relation to listening meant that authors were chary of portraying women as listeners because they were reluctant to deal with the sexual implications of physical rhythms. Those texts that do portray women as listeners, accordingly, often use the figure of the woman listener to suggest something about women‘s sexual desires and rights. Robert Browning‘s little-studied 1849 poem ―The Flight of the Duchess‖ is a case in point. Usually considered both a rather inept prelude to ―My Last Duchess‖ and a (highly) poeticized account of the poet‘s romance with Elizabeth Barrett,41 the poem uses the figure of the woman listener to argue that traditionalism and propriety are in fact unnatural and that female sexuality is natural and its repression deadly. The poem‘s plot concerns a self- centered Duke who marries a shy young woman from a convent. Their marriage, predictably, is miserable for the Duchess and irritating to the Duke; as in ―My Last Duchess,‖ the Duchess treats servants with friendliness and courtesy while the Duke wishes 41 The criticism is decidedly uncopious, but see, for example, Claude de L. Ryals, Becoming Browning: The Poems and Plays of Robert Browning, 1833-1846 (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1983), 218 ff., and Fred Manning Smith, ―Elizabeth Barrett and Browning‘s ‗The Flight of the Duchess,‘‖ Studies in Philology 39 (January 1942): 102-117. 93 her to maintain her, and his, social position. When a band of Gypsies42 appears on the scene, the Duke seizes what he sees as a marvelous opportunity by asking an ancient Gypsy woman to find the Duchess and frighten her into her wits. The Gypsy woman seemingly agrees, but when servants observe the meeting between the Gypsy and Duchess, the Gypsy is singing a mysterious song with words that can only periodically be understood. The Duchess is entranced, and shortly after the song ends, physically and psychologically transformed, she rides off from the castle, and the poem ends. The poem suggests that the Duchess‘s flight is away from moralistic standards of propriety, symbolized by the Duke. The Duke‘s only concern is for appearances: ‘Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out…. (114-117) The Duke‘s favorite word is ―proper;‖ he lives in a castle with ―proper towers‖ (109), considers that ―We must revert to the proper channels‖ (232), and even encourages his dogs with ―the properest chirrup‖ (237). He has revived customs which are ostensibly medieval (―The Mid-Age was the Heroic Time‖ [106]) but which bear a suspicious resemblance to nineteenth-century British life: the Duke is fond of hunting and lives on a country estate funded by his workers, miners who live in a Dickensian world of smut and grime. The Duke‘s concern for medieval propriety is likewise a stand-in for Victorian propriety (what Browning means by this, as will become clearer, is the Victorian double 42 Following Deborah Epstein Nord, I am using the term Gypsy for the sake of simplicity, rather than one of various other terms such as Romany, Romanichal, Rom, Roma, etc. See Nord, Gypsies and the British Imagination, 1807-1930 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 18-19. 94 standard of sexual propriety), and an unsubtle hint that readers should regard Victorian propriety as retrograde rather than progressive. The Duke‘s marriage is an extension of his problematic concern for propriety. He has married because he considers it the right thing to do, and he views his wife as a possession: And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, To meet his eye, with the other trophies, Now outside the hall, now in it, To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, At the proper place in the proper minute, And die away the life between. (186-191) Of course, the Duke‘s attitude implies that the Duchess is being stifled by patriarchy, but it also implies that the Duke is uncertain what to do with a wife – first he stands her here, then there, then sends her off. The poem suggests the Duke has no idea of the sexual side of marriage by repeatedly implying the Duke is at a loss to discover what the Duchess is for. When he plans a large hunting party, for example, someone suggests that the Duchess should perhaps be included; the Duke agrees, but is deeply puzzled. At last, And, after much laying of heads together, Somebody's cap got a notable feather By the announcement with proper unction That he had discovered the lady's function…. (258-261) This discovery is the suggestion that, according to certain ―ancient authors,‖ When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, ―Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, ―And, with water to wash the hands of her liege ―In a clean ewer with a fair toweling, ―Let her preside at the disemboweling.‖ (263-267) 95 The Duke‘s befuddlement as to the question of his wife‘s ―function‖ is thus solved by looking her up in an old book; the Duke‘s sexual ignorance is contrasted with the faux- medieval language of this ―ancient‖ text, with its suggestion that the lady of the castle ought to ―prick forth on her jennet,‖ further emphasizing the Duke‘s ignorance of sexual matters and reliance instead on literal interpretations of authority. The Duchess‘s reaction to her marriage is thus explained: she enters it a creature who is ―active, stirring, all fire – / Could not rest, could not tire‖ (174-175), and quickly becomes ―silent and thin / Paling and ever paling‖ (208-209). The physical change is directly attributable to the Duke‘s lack of love for his lady, as implied in the passage quoted above; the Duchess‘s life with her husband consists only of a public life – ―To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, / At the proper place in the proper minute‖ (189-190) – not a private one. Listening to the Gypsy woman‘s music, however, completely transforms the Duchess, physically as well as psychologically. When the servant-narrator enters the room where the Gypsy has been singing, he is startled to observe the change in the Duchess: more than mortal Stood, with a face where to my mind centred All beauties I ever saw or shall see, The Duchess: I stopped as if struck by palsy. She was so different, happy and beautiful, …. I saw the glory of her eye, And the brow's height and the breast‘s expanding, And I was hers to live or to die. (714-725) 96 The Duchess‘s physical transformation and re-discovered energy are the result of the physical changes that come upon her as she listens to the Gypsy‘s music. The Gypsy music explicitly gives the Duchess life, a life that is implicitly sexual: For it was life her eyes were drinking From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, – Life‘s pure fire received without shrinking, Into the heart and breast whose heaving Told you no single drop they were leaving, – Life, that filling her, passed redundant Into her very hair, back swerving Over each shoulder, loose and abundant, As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving; And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, Moving to the mystic measure, Bounding as the bosom bounded. I stopped short, more and more confounded, As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, As she listened and she listened…. (540-554) The music, as Edward John Tilt had feared, is a rhythm that causes the female listener to move with its ―mystic measure‖ in a clearly pleasurable series of vibrations. Unlike Tilt, however, the poem does not condemn these vibrations. Instead, the Duchess‘s sexualized experience of listening to music enables her to take her ―flight,‖ a metaphor that implies something less neutral than simple escape: while living with the Duke, the Duchess is compared to a cooped-up hawk with ―cut … claws, and sealed … eyes, / And clipped … wings, and tied … beak‖ (273-274), is able not only to escape but to fly after listening to this bird-like (691) music. The association of the Duchess and music with birds also implies that her sexual power is natural and part of a more fruitful view of the world than the Duke‘s. The Duke lives in 97 one vast red drear burnt-up plain, Branched through and through with many a vein Whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; Look right, look left, look straight before,--- Beneath they mine, above they smelt, Copper-ore and iron-ore, And forge and furnace mould and melt, And so on, more and ever more, Till at the last, for a bounding belt, Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore, ---And the whole is our Duke's country. (21-31) The Duke‘s country, then, is a country in which the physical world is a source of ore to be mined, and nothing more; a dirty world of utilitarian use. There is no room in this description for birds or nature, or, by implication, female sexuality. The Gypsies, on the other hand, use earth in a different fashion: But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground, And nowhere else, I take it, are found With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned: Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on The very fruit they are meant to feed on. For the earth – not a use to which they don‘t turn it, The ore that grows in the mountain‘s womb, Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it…. (356-364) Rather than mining the earth, the Gypsies come from it, making the earth fruitful of more than iron and metal. The metaphors are softer – the mountain has a womb, pits are compared to honeycomb – in keeping with a different attitude towards the use of the physical world: earth is transformed rather than mined; baked, a domestic image, rather than smelted, a masculine one. The Duchess‘s flight mirrors her shift from the Duke‘s 98 artificial, masculine, sterile world to the natural and fruitfully sexual world of the Gypsies; indeed, the old woman sings to her that the Duchess has now become a Gypsy: I trace them the vein and the other vein That meet on thy brow and part again, Making our rapid mystic mark; And I bid my people prove and probe Each eye‘s profound and glorious globe Till they detect the kindred spark…. (574-579) The Duchess‘s honorary Gypsyhood serves to reinforce the sexual overtones of listening to the Gypsy woman‘s music. In part, the poem makes this explicit by having the Gypsy woman, in a moment where the words of the song are distinguishable, sing about the goal she has in mind for the Duchess: Wilt thou fall at the very last Breathless, half in trance With the thrill of the great deliverance, Into our arms for evermore; And thou shalt know, those arms once curled About thee, what we knew before, How love is the only good in the world. (610-615) The fact that the Duchess listens not just to music, but Gypsy music, is also important in that Gypsy music in general was frequently credited with the ability to galvanize its listeners into sexualized dance, with the strong possibility that sexual excitement would continue after the dancing and music had ended. This view further demonstrates a change in the way the Victorians viewed music and listening, a change that tied the body and the unconscious mind together. The fear that Gypsy music had the power to force the body into sexual movement had its basis in two considerations. First, was the nature of the music itself. Unlike ―real‖ 99 music, Gypsy music employed a larger scale of notes, and thus employed a greater number of vibrations than the twelve-tone scale; Gypsy music was thus seen as adding notes whose sound was strange, whose purpose was mysterious, and whose effect was unclear and for that reason feared. While European and Russian composers showed interest in Gypsy tunes, partly to tap into nationalistic roots and partly to save the trouble of composing tunes themselves, British commentators tended to be less kind in their attitude towards Gypsy compositions, some going so far as to call the music flatly ―unintelligible and barbarous.‖43 More specifically, the extra notes in the Gypsy scale of music were often described, not as musical, but as evocative of talking, recitative, or incantation; one commentator describes the sounds as: monotonous, quaint, and full of minute inflections, almost too subtle to be distinguished except by a practiced ear; at times exciting and passionate, yet generally more like an incantation than pure honest music, and there can be no doubt profoundly corrupt in its mystic significance.44 Gypsy music was frequently described as wild, frenzied, and electrifying.45 Nearly always, descriptions of Gypsy music describe Gypsies dancing to their own music in terms that suggest that the dance is a reflection or creation of the music, leading to the second reason for fearing Gypsy music: its vibrations were thought to have the ability to galvanize the body of the listener, even the non-Gypsy listener, and both the vibrations emanating from 43 John Pentland Mahaffy, Twelve Lectures on Primitive Civilizations and Their Physical Conditions (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1869), 283. 44 ―A Gipsy Concert in Moscow,‖ All the Year Round (26 March 1864): 160. 45 See, for example, George Borrow, The Zincali: or, An Account of the Gypsies of Spain, 3rd ed. (London: John Murray, 1843), 1:12; Lou Charnon-Deutsch, The Spanish Gypsy: The History of a European Obsession (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), 127; Henry Ecroyd, ―From Vienna to Pesth,‖ Temple Bar 19 (March 1867): 328. 100 the music and the vibrations created in the body of the dancer/listener were considered sexual in a completely and disturbingly unfettered way (unlike, say, the waltz, which, although some considered it too sexual a dance,46 was seen as a series of conscious movements which could be managed, rather than something unconsciously induced). Descriptions of Gypsy dance make clear that the cause for concern is the link between certain dances and the music, a link forged by the music‘s ability to control unconscious physical and muscular processes. French diplomat Jean-François de Bourgoing‘s description of the Spanish fandango, written in the late eighteenth-century, was seized upon by multiple nineteenth-century commentators as being perfectly descriptive of Gypsy dance:47 A male and female dancer spring onto the stage from different directions, both in Andalusian costume, typical of the dance; they fly to their encounter as if driven to it. The man extends his amorous arms towards the woman, who proceeds to abandon herself in his embraces; but suddenly she swirls and escapes him. In turn, the dancer, as if incensed, retaliates by withdrawing. The orchestra pauses, the couple stops as if undecided, the music soon renews their movements. Next the man expresses his desires with force and vivacity. The woman appears more eager to respond. A more voluptuous languidness is painted in her eyes, her breast heaves more violently, and her arms extend towards the object that beckons…. The sounds of the orchestra rise persistently; the music soars to keep pace with their steps. Filled with desire, the male dancer thrusts himself again in front of the woman. The same feeling draws her to him…. She is once more weakly held back by a semblance of modesty…. The musical fracas accelerates, and with it the vivacity of their movements. A sort of vertigo, a drunken voluptuousness, seems to lock them together: all their muscles summon and express their pleasure; 46 For a discussion of nineteenth-century view of the waltz and its sexual overtones (men held their partners close), see Cheryl A. Wilson, Literature and Dance in Nineteenth-Century Britain: Jane Austen to the New Woman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), chapter five. 47 Charnon-Deutsch, 49. 101 their gaze is confounded. Suddenly the music stops, the dancers relax in a languorous swoon: the curtain falls and the spectators revive.48 Such a description confounds what it means to listen to music; in this description, clearly, listening is as much a matter of physical, muscular tension as of hearing. Rather than fading, such descriptions of Gypsy music gained currency over the century; Franz Liszt‘s 1859 Des Bohémiens et de leur Musique en Hongrie, for example, which was translated into both English (as The Gipsy in Music) and German and is referred to or quoted in many Victorian discussions of Gypsy music, echoes de Bourgoing in its assumption that listening to Gypsy music necessitates moving to Gypsy music: in a section headed ―Description of an orgy,‖ Liszt describes Gypsy dancing as a response to ―rhythms [that] become more pressing‖ and which affect even (non-Gypsy) listener / onlookers with a desire for ―voluptuous sensation.‖49 Whether dancing or watching, the music not only mirrors physical movement but helps to create it, almost without conscious volition. This is why Fedalma, in George Eliot‘s The Spanish Gypsy (1868),50 is spurred by Gypsy music into dancing. It is not just a matter of Gypsy blood calling to Gypsy blood, although that is certainly part of it, as Bernard Semmel has argued;51 all the listeners are physically affected by listening to the music in some degree as ―[v]ibrations sympathetic stir all limbs‖ (48). Fedalma, as a more sensitive instrument, is simply affected more strongly 48 Quoted in Charnon-Deutsch, 49-50; my emphasis. 49 Liszt, The Gipsy in Music, vol. 1, 153. 50 George Eliot, The Spanish Gypsy (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1868). All parenthetical references are to page numbers, rather than line numbers (not given), in this edition. 51 Bernard Semmel, George Eliot and the Politics of National Inheritance (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 109. 102 that the rest. Listening and moving are one for her because in her ―[f]eeling and action [flow] into one‖ (49), a sign of her ―harmoniously bodied soul‖ (49). The poem refuses to make a mind/body distinction for Fedalma because such a distinction would imply that no necessary connection exists between perception and action. The poem also refuses to make traditional distinctions between sensuality and purity; Fedalma also unites these qualities: ―Ardently modest, sensuously pure / With young delight that wonders at itself / And throbs as innocent as opening flowers‖ (49). Gypsy music and its related dances were often considered not only galvanizing but lascivious, even incestuous;52 Fedalma‘s combination of sensuality and purity revises this view, not by describing the listening movement as something free from sensuality and thus pure by Victorian standards, but by redefining sensuality so as it to make sensuality itself both pure and natural, ―as innocent as opening flowers.‖ While the Gypsy association reinforces the link between listening and the body, it does not create it; Gypsy music was particularly associated with physical and sexual effects, but a sensitive woman listener could be physically at the mercy of a range of music. In Thomas Hardy‘s Desperate Remedies (1871),53 for example, Cytherea Graye is caught in a thunderstorm and forced to stay briefly at the manor-house where her employer‘s new steward, Aeneus Manston, is living. Manston insists on improving the shining hour with a little organ music. Amid thunder and lightning, Manston, who has already made his 52 Charnon-Deutsch, 50, 67-70. 53 Thomas Hardy, Desperate Remedies (1871. Repr., New York: Harper and Brothers, 1905). All references in parentheses are to this edition. 103 attraction towards Cytherea clear, begins ―extemporizing a harmony which meandered through every variety of expression of which the instrument is capable‖ (160). He then searches for a particular piece of music, and, finding it, directs Cytherea to ―look at me – look in my face – now‖ (161). Cytherea ―seemed compelled to do as she was bidden, and looked in the too-delicately beautiful face‖ (161) as lightning flashes near them. Following this, Manston ―now played more powerfully‖ (161) and Cytherea, primed by the lightning and Manston‘s mesmeric gaze, is powerfully affected: Cytherea had never heard music in the completeness of full orchestral power, and the tones of the organ, which reverberated with considerable effect in the comparatively small space of the room, heightened by the elemental strife of light and sound outside, moved her to a degree out of proportion to the actual power of the mere notes, practiced as was the hand that produced them. The varying strains – now loud, now soft; simple, complicated, weird, touching, grand, boisterous, subdued; each phase distinct, yet modulating the next with a graceful and easy flow – shook and bent her to themselves, as a gushing brook shakes and bends a shadow cast across its surface. The power of the music did not show itself so much by attracting her attention to the subject of the piece, as by taking up and developing as its libretto the poem of her own life and soul, shifting her deeds and intentions from the hands of her judgment and holding them in its own. (161-162) As Mark Asquith notes, the scene ―does not signal the happy reunion of lovers mutually attracted, but rather it explores Cytherea‘s overmastering attraction to a man whom she regards in normal circumstances as unpleasant.‖54 More is going on here, however, than Hardy‘s usual interest in the voyeuristic spectacle of an aroused woman. The scene suggests that listening is, for the woman, a physical activity; the ―mere notes,‖ that is, the aural sounds, are less important to the listening experience than the physical reverberations of 54 Mark Asquith, Thomas Hardy, Metaphysics, and Music (New York: Palgrave, 2005), 22. 104 the organ, which are transferred to Cytherea‘s body and ―shook and bent her.‖ The effect is further heightened by the storm, whose electricity has also transferred itself to Cytherea‘s and Manston‘s bodies. The result is that Cytherea moves towards Manston without conscious volition, and for a moment they are about to kiss: [Cytherea] was swayed … new impulses of thought came with new harmonies, and entered into her with a gnawing thrill. A dreadful flash of lightning then, and the thunder close upon it. She found herself involuntarily shrinking up beside him, and looking with parted lips at his face. (162) When Manston stops playing, however, Cytherea‘s attraction to him ends (not coincidentally, so does the storm); although Manston endeavors to show Cytherea how impressed he is with her, she becomes embarrassed that she had been ―excited by a stranger,‖ but ―[h]is influence over her had vanished with the musical chords, and she turned her back upon him‖ (163). This association between listening and the body reinforces and is influenced by an emphasis on gender difference. Romantic authors were able to use music as a trope for mental equality, even sameness, between the sexes because their view of music focused on music‘s effect on the mind and emotions, not the body. The Victorians‘ interest in links between mind and body served to reconstitute gender difference, however those differences were valued. In ―The Flight of the Duchess,‖ for example, masculinity is associated with barrenness and femininity with fruitfulness and productivity; although the Gypsy hints that the Duchess will someday fall into someone‘s (presumably a man‘s, although it is not clear) arms, men are not necessary, symbolically, to fruitfulness. Rather, the bond created 105 between the two as the Duchess sits ―coiled at [the Gypsy‘s] feet‖ (524) strengthens and renews the Duchess, while interactions between men in the poem are ineffective and bemused, as they ponder questions to which they have no answers and can only look to the past for suggestions. Cytherea in Desperate Remedies is susceptible to Manston‘s music in part because she is physically, mentally, and emotionally weak; the novel suggests that in this Cytherea is like all women, ostensibly placing this weakness on a pedestal: ―Perhaps the moral compensation for all a woman‘s petty cleverness under thriving conditions is the real nobility that lies in her extreme foolishness at these other times … her exercise of an illogical power entirely denied to men in general‖ (251). Manston‘s power over her stems from his manhood; his instrument, for instance, is the manly organ, not the piano. As Manston tells Cytherea, ―You would soon acquire the touch for an organ, though it would spoil your touch for the piano. Not that that matters a great deal. The piano isn‘t much as an instrument‖ (159). By implication, the organ requires a more forceful touch, and it is capable of producing reverberations the piano cannot match. This is, of course, yet another reason why the piano could be safe for women to play and sit near, and another reason why men were in control of the organ and the vibrations it could produce in the listening bodies of women. There are, of course, contradictions in the discourse surrounding the listening woman. The listening body of a woman is more susceptible, for example, to the vibrations of music because it is weaker than a man‘s body, yet the listening woman is in a position of power as normal roles are reversed and men, in effect, audition for the listening woman‘s 106 approval. While to some extent this is just another form of wooing that supposedly puts the weaker sex on a pedestal immediately before signing the contract of ownership, in another respect the performing man is placed in the position of an Edith Dombey or the countless real young women who played or sang for male attention, approval, and marriage. In The Mill on the Floss (1860), George Eliot explores these gender complications surrounding the figure of the listening woman in order to comment on the sociological and biological ways gender is constructed. The novel‘s copious use of musical metaphors and motifs has been often noted, specifically the way Eliot foreshadows the plot by references to Handel‘s Acis and Galatea, but not the gender implications thereof.55 When not focused on Eliot‘s use of Handel, discussions of music in The Mill on the Floss focus on Eliot‘s use of evolutionary discourse and assume that Eliot more or less uncritically adopts that evolutionary discourse. The common critical picture of music‘s function in the novel, accordingly, focuses on music as a primitive mode of communication56 whose power is greater than that of society in that it taps impulses that precede civilization.57 Maggie‘s 55 See, for example, Gillian Beer, ―The Mill on the Floss: ‗More Instruments Playing Together,‘‖ in Victorian Turns, NeoVictorian Returns: Essays on Fiction and Culture, ed. by Penny Gay, Judith Johnston, and Catherine Waters (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008). Beer focuses on how knowing the libretto to Handel‘s Acis and Galatea reinforces the sexual desire between Maggie and Stephen as well as suggesting the unhappy end to which it will come, as does Delia da Sousa Correa in both George Eliot, Music and Victorian Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2003) and ―‗The Music Vibrating in Her Still‘: Music and Memory in George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss and Daniel Deronda,‖ Nineteenth-Century Contexts 21 (2000): 541-63 and Beryl Gray in George Eliot and Music (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1989). 56 Jodi Lustig, ―The Piano‘s Progress: The Piano in Play in the Victorian Novel,‖ in The Idea of Music in Victorian Fiction, ed. by Sophie Fuller and Nicky Losseff (Aldershot, Hants., England: Ashgate, 2004), 96; Sousa Correa, ―‗The Music Vibrating,‘‖ 548. 57 Sousa Correa, ―‗The Music Vibrating,‘‖ 544; Weliver, Women Musicians, 184. 107 responsiveness to music thus indicates that she is a sport with a level of mute emotion58 and primitivity that make her out-of-place in society.59 While true, none of these observations really depends for its existence on an examination of music in the novel; what critical attention to music in the novel has accomplished is not so much insight into the novel‘s themes as to show how far-reaching and consistent Eliot‘s intellectual achievement is even in this early novel, in which every musical allusion is rich in cultural references and literary foreshadowing. The focus on Eliot‘s use of evolutionary discourse, while useful, has in this case tended to obscure the ways that Eliot uses music to question and expand upon, rather than simply parrot, evolutionary discourse. Critics who discuss the use of music in The Mill on the Floss have so far tended to discuss the evolutionary discourse surrounding music as if gender were not part of that discourse. They therefore treat Eliot‘s use of musical evolutionary discourse in a universalizing fashion; Delia da Sousa Correa, for example, whose otherwise insightful work on music in Eliot has many virtues, points out that Eliot is aware of the physiological discourse that linked mind and body through music60 without considering the ways that said discourse drew on assumptions of gender difference in both body and mind. As a result, discussions of Eliot‘s use of music, particularly in The Mill on the Floss, have tended both to universalize and de-gender the Victorian discourse surrounding music, and to assume that Eliot does the same. In fact, however, neither the Victorians nor Eliot considered music in a universalizing or 58 William J. Sullivan, ―Music and Musical Allusion in The Mill on the Floss,‖ Criticism 16 (1974): 232. 59 Sousa Correa, ―‗The Music Vibrating,‘‖ 106-107; Weliver, Women Musicians, 184. 60 Delia da Sousa Correa, George Eliot, Music and Victorian Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2003), 108. 108 androgynous fashion; Eliot uses music in The Mill on the Floss precisely, in part, to comment on the convolutions and contradictions of Victorian ideas about music, evolution, and gender through her portrayal of Maggie‘s listening mind and body. The novel begins its examination of evolution and gender by insistently reversing gender roles when it comes to music: whereas women most commonly played, at least in domestic settings, while men listened, in The Mill on the Floss men play while Maggie listens. Sousa Correa argues that this role reversal is Eliot‘s literary embodiment of Darwinian sexual selection;61 although Darwin does not discuss the role of music in sexual selection at length until The Descent of Man (1871), he does argue briefly in The Origin of Species (1859) that music originated from the need of males to attract mates.62 However, attributing this unusual role reversal solely to Darwinian sexual selection focuses on the motives of the male characters to the exclusion of the gendered implications of the listening act. Eliot, instead, draws readers‘ attention to the ways that male control over sexual selection affects women. Further, listening, in The Mill on the Floss, is portrayed a physical act, in keeping with both her and George Henry Lewes‘s views on the tie between mind and body,63 and this physical side to listening indicates a tie between mind and body which is not universal, but which differs for men and women, further exacerbating women‘s vulnerability to male control over sexual selection. 61 Sousa Correa, ―‗The Music Vibrating,‘‖ 549. 62 Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species, 6th ed. (London: John Murray, 1891), 1:253. 63 For a discussion of Eliot‘s and Lewes‘s views on the connection between body and mind, see Michael Davis, George Eliot and Nineteenth-Century Psychology: Exploring the Unmapped Country (Aldershot, Hants., England: Ashgate, 2006), 12-18, and Rylance, chapter seven. 109 Listening is physical for Maggie; she responds to music by vibrating. When she lacks access to music, what she misses is the physical sensation it creates: ―There was no music for her any more – no piano, no harmonized voices, no delicious stringed instruments, with their passionate cries of imprisoned spirits sending a strange vibration through her frame‖ (286). Maggie responds to music in this way because she is like an instrument; she ―had little more power of concealing the impressions made upon her than if she had been constructed of musical strings‖ (410). Maggie‘s vibrating response to music has obvious sexual implications, not only because vibrations ―are only spoken of in terms of Maggie‘s relationship with her lovers‖64 but because of the cultural discourse surrounding women‘s response to music. Maggie‘s physical, inarticulate response to music is also of a piece with her portrayal as a primitive65 (she often, for instance, reads or plays from books of music exercises rather than sheet music ―that she might taste more keenly by abstraction the more primitive sensation of intervals‖ [410]), but her physical reaction to music coupled with the fact that men control the production of vibration in the novel implies that women‘s bodily weakness is inextricably bound up with women‘s societal disadvantages. While Stephen is susceptible also (―Stephen had a fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to her appeal‖ [450]), what he responds to is not so much music‘s vibrations (which, after all, come from him in the novel, not from Maggie, who does not perform) but rather to the response he has engendered in Maggie. In other words, the vibration between 64 Weliver, Women Musicians, 194. As the above quotations from the novel indicate, however, Maggie‘s vibrations are not exclusively spoken of in the context of her lovers, as Weliver argues. 65 For a discussion of Eliot‘s use of ideas about the primitive, see Peter M. Logan, Victorian Fetishism: Intellectuals and Primitives (New York: State University of New York Press, 2009), 67-87. 110 Maggie and Stephen does not originate in a shared point but rather originates in Stephen, who sets off a reaction in Maggie that redounds back upon him. But Stephen is still the originating point, the striker of the tuning fork, as it were; women in the novel do not have this level of control. Instead, men control music throughout the novel.66 Mr Pullet, for example, whose name is indicative of an avian level of intelligence and sensitivity, possesses a music box whose operation he carefully controls. Only good little girls get to listen to the music box, which is why Maggie realizes that she had better get Lucy to ask Mr Pullet to wind it up, and even then the music is only obtained by recourse to the child version of feminine wiles: ―Lucy, who always did what she was desired to do, went up quietly to her uncle‘s knee, and, blushing all over her neck while she fingered her necklace, said, ‗Will you please play us a tune, uncle?‘‖ (93). By extension, men have control over women‘s responses as well; the Pullet music-box is part of a snuff-box, and as soon as Maggie reacts to the music with happiness, she and her feelings are quickly snuffed. On a literal level, she makes the mistake of trying to share her happiness with her brother and spills his wine in the process, leading him to be angry with her; on a symbolic level, however, Mr Pullet‘s musical snuff- box gives the ability to stimulate women‘s reactions, both physical and emotional, to men, makes the privilege of reaction dependent upon participation in gender norms, and then punishes that same reaction. Likewise, music is also associated with Thomas à Kempis and 66 Alisa Clapp-Itnyre argues that the novel portrays a conflict between the ―idyllic pastoral musician‖ symbolized by Maggie and the ―middle-class, music-making community bent on reducing women to the objects of male gazes‖ (Clapp-Itnyre, 129), but this view ignores the fact that Maggie is not a musician. Rather, the consistent dynamic in the novel is that men play and women listen, regardless of male gazes, class status, or type of music. 111 the church; reading à Kempis makes Maggie feel ―as if she had been wakened in the night by a strain of solemn music‖ (289) and when she is without other music she still has ―the organ at church‖ (305). Both of these sources of music, either literal or figurative, are associated with masculine or patriarchal entities, and both are problematic. The church and religious writings fail to adequately address Maggie‘s needs and lead her into a renunciatory state that is saved from being deadly only by its being impossible for Maggie to keep up. Part of what leads Maggie out of this dull, renunciatory state is also music, and this fact has led various critics to see the novel‘s portrayal of music as inconsistent or ambiguous.67 What underlies the seeming contradiction here is the relationship between mind and body. The music associated with à Kempis and the church is a music that is divorced from the senses and the body; Stephen‘s music, which rouses and arouses Maggie, is too closely allied to the body. In neither case is there unity between mind and body and in both cases this disunity is bound up with music, men‘s control of music, and thus with men‘s power over the mind/body relationship. The only woman who performs in the novel is Lucy, but her singing is given a negligible role. Usually she plays accompaniment for Stephen, in every sense, and is not a prime mover. The girlish Philip plays and sings, but his very girlishness and physical weakness vitiate his music‘s ability to move Maggie; she does not vibrate to his music as she 67 See Sousa Correa, George Eliot, Music and Victorian Culture, 110. 112 does to the deep-voiced Stephen‘s.68 Stephen‘s more masculine voice allows him to produce, not simply music, but vibrations, and this is the physiological reason why the sensitively receptive instrument that is Maggie is so immediately responsive to Stephen. Moreover, Stephen is aware that his voice gives him the ability to make Maggie react: One other thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that was, to sing: it was a way of speaking to Maggie. Perhaps he was not distinctly conscious that he was impelled to it by a secret longing – running counter to all his self-confessed resolves – to deepen the hold he had on her. (459) The narrator later tells readers that Stephen is not a hypocrite, although critics have sometimes disagreed,69 and he is not; Stephen‘s problem is that his mind and body are connected enough that he cannot keep himself from responding physically to the vibrations he has stirred up in Maggie, but not enough that he feels a completely consistent approval of that response. Maggie, to a degree, has the same problem, with the difference that while Stephen can create initial vibrations, Maggie can only vibrate in response. The repeated association of effective musical performance and creation with men and strength rather than women or weakness indicates that this inequality is not peculiar to Maggie and Stephen, but is a result of the physical nature of music: only men – manly men – have 68 Phyllis Weliver argues that Maggie does vibrate in response to Philip because that afore-quoted statement in the novel that Maggie is as if ―constructed of musical strings‖ occurs ―when she first encounters Philip as an adult‖ (Women Musicians, 195). However, this statement occurs, in my edition of the novel, on page 410, whereas she meets Philip when they are both adults on page 299. Further, Maggie is compared to a musical instrument in part to indicate that she is upset that Philip, rather than Stephen, has come to see her. Weliver also points to the conversation between Maggie and Philip after they have begun to spend time together as adults in which ―Philip‘s words … set [Maggie‘s] own discontent vibrating again as it used to do‖ (327). In general, the closest Philip can come to evoking a response in Maggie is to remind her that she wants something that he cannot produce in her. 69 See, for example, David Carroll, George Eliot and the Conflict of Interpretations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 128. 113 voices deep enough to produce vibration, and while men are still affected by their bodies they are not as helpless because not as receptive; Stephen‘s feeling for Maggie is less intense than hers for him because he is not a stringed instrument. In the end, Maggie‘s suicide is a way for her to end the control that others have over her physical being by destroying that being. Her suicide does not signify a refusal on Eliot‘s part to provide readers with successful women characters who can serve as role models;70 rather, it is Maggie‘s way of exerting strength in a system where physical weakness is directly tied to physical, emotional, and intellectual vulnerability. While Herbert Spencer and George Henry Lewes argued for a connection between body and mind that treated the body as a single entity, Eliot in The Mill on the Floss adds a consideration of gender to the body that argues, if depressingly, that woman‘s position in society is due to her physical weakness. The association of women‘s listening with physical weakness and sexuality continues through to the end of the century. As listening begins to assume greater theoretical importance, however, the danger of women‘s listening is portrayed as coming, not from the act of listening itself, but from what one is listening to. Listening at Century‘s End In a speech given in 1879 at Anderson‘s University, Glasgow, on the establishment of the first ―popular music‖ courses (what we would now call music appreciation classes), J. Spencer Curwen spoke of the importance of beginning to teach music, not through teaching performance or composition, but listening. One of his arguments for emphasizing 70 For an overview of critical responses regarding George Eliot and gender, see Kate Flint, ―George Eliot and Gender,‖ The Cambridge Companion to George Eliot, ed. by George Levine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 114 the teaching of listening is that it is necessary in order to encourage compositional ability, and this leads him to say a few words about women composers of art music and why there are so few of them: I have often wondered why it is that women – who as musical executants hold their own with men in all departments – have never come to the front rank as composers. Here is an explanation of the fact which I offer with some diffidence, and which, if true, shows the truth of my position [that listening is the primary musical skill which will lead to skill in other musical areas]. All our great composers have held appointments as conductors of orchestras, and have lived and breathed in an atmosphere of sound. Their genius has been trained and fed by constant listening and judging. Women have never had the opportunity of becoming thus intimate with orchestral effects, and hence they have had no chance of measuring their powers with men.71 Curwen is not alone in the importance he ascribes to listening: as we shall see in chapter 5, music appreciation classes do not peter out but increase in frequency and importance; music therapy begins at this time; and university musical curricula change to require listening knowledge and comprehension as well as compositional or performative ability. In relating the importance of listening to the ability to create, Curwen is at the vanguard of an idea that will only gain prominence. At the same time, the idea that women are uniquely sensitive listeners to music because of their physical and sexual constitution continued unabated. Writing as late as 1905, Havelock Ellis takes women‘s physical and sexual susceptibility to music to be an obvious truth: So far as my own inquiries go, only a small proportion of men would appear to experience definite sexual feelings on listening to music. And the fact that in woman the voice is so slightly differentiated from that of the 71 J. Spencer Curwen, ―On Method in Musical Study,‖ The Musical Standard: A Newspaper for Musicians, Professional and Amateur 17 (third series) (November 1879): 278. 115 child … sufficiently account for the small part played by the voice and by music as a sexual allurement working on men. It is otherwise with women…. The change in the voice at puberty makes a deeper masculine voice a characteristic secondary sexual attribute of man, while the fact that among mammals generally it is the male that is most vocal … renders it antecedently likely that among mammals generally, including the human species, there is in the female an actual or latent susceptibility to the sexual significance of the human voice, a susceptibility which, under the conditions of civilization, may be transferred to music generally.72 Ellis goes on to cite Eliot‘s The Mill on the Floss and to refer to women‘s enthusiasm for popular singers; his statements are significant not because they are new – they are in line with the views we earlier saw expressed by Darwin and Tilt as well as Eliot and Hardy, for example – but because they show the continuity of the idea of women‘s peculiar susceptibility to music through the end of the nineteenth century and into the twentieth. In conjunction with the new emphasis on the foundational importance of listening to creativity, this concept of women‘s unique ability to listen takes on a new significance – even as women as portrayed as being vulnerable to music‘s affect, that very vulnerability speaks to the potential in woman for creativity, artistic ability, and even superiority to men. In Mona Caird‘s 1894 New Woman novel The Daughters of Danaus,73 for example, music at first appears to be portrayed in a contradictory fashion. The heroine, Hadria, struggles to become a composer, but is hampered on all sides by her family‘s disapproval, society‘s hostility, and the difficulties caused by motherhood and poverty. The novel‘s 72 Havelock Ellis, Sexual Selection in Man: Touch, Smell, Hearing, Vision (1905. Repr., Philadelphia: F.A. Davis, 1920), 128-130. 73 Mona Caird, The Daughters of Danaus (1894. Repr., New York: The Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 1989). All citations in parentheses are to this edition. 116 condemnation of a society that thwarts the woman composer thus assumes that composing music is good. Yet listening to music, in the novel, is very bad. In part one, Hadria is pursued by the callous and conventional Temperley, who has tried unsuccessfully to win her hand. Hadria holds out until the night of a party at which one Mrs. McPherson plays ―strange old tune[s]‖ (136). The music has a powerful effect: ―A new and wilder spirit began to possess the whole party‖ (136), but particularly Hadria, who becomes almost a different person. She dances passionately: ―Hadria‘s reels were celebrated, not without reason. Some mad spirit seemed to possess her. It would appear almost as if she had passed into a different phase of character. She lost caution and care and the sense of external events‖ (136). Temperley seizes the opportune moment created by the music, and presses his suit once more. Hadria tries to resist, but she can only speak ―in a dreamy tone‖ (137). Temperley sees that Hadria ―might almost [accept] him in sheer absence of mind‖ while Hadria feels that she is ―in the thrall of some dream‖ due to the ―bizarre old music‖ (137). She rouses enough to tell Temperley plainly that she does not view believe in conventional marriage and does not view marriage as binding (142). Temperley eagerly brushes this aside and tells Hadria that he loves her nonetheless (142-143); Hadria considers, and at this moment music becomes again audible: ―Mrs. Gordon was now playing a sentimental waltz, with considerable poetic license as to time. As everyone said: Mrs. Gordon played with so much expression‖ (143). Hadria‘s siblings take worried note, particularly her sister Algitha, who ―knew Hadria‘s emotional susceptibility‖ (143). Part one ends, and part two begins with Hadria now Mrs. Temperley, a wan and repressed woman whose ―face bore signs of 117 suffering, and … a look of baffled and restless longing‖ (147). Hadria‘s susceptibility to music is thus portrayed as having led her to make an unfortunate, stifling marriage. Like Maggie, Hadria‘s susceptibility is compared to a quivering instrument: ―Every wind that blows uses you as an Aeolian harp,‖ her friend Miss Du Prel tells her at one point (61). Hadria‘s vulnerability is tied to a physical and sexual vulnerability; her intense physical reaction to music leads not only to ―mad‖ dancing but to marriage, implying that sexual desire has overtaken her intellect. At the same time, the music that she composes has a salutary effect on its listeners, in particular her friend and mentor Professor Fortescue. As he is dying, he asks for Hadria‘s music over and over again, telling her at one point, ―‗I can‘t tell you what pleasure and comfort your music is to me…. It has been so ever since I knew you‖ (484). The novel thus suggests that composition and listening are still two very different activities, as far as Hadria is concerned, with composition being safe because it is intellectual and rational and listening dangerous for women because their bodies and their sexuality are vulnerable to music‘s rhythms. However, the novel also suggests that what makes music dangerous is its participation in a patriarchal system in which women play but do not create (Temperley and his sister early on suggest that Hadria channel her musical interest into playing, as a more appropriate activity for a woman [119]). Music created by a woman and listened to by a man has no deleterious effects. In one sense, this seems to fit the paradigm of the Angel soothing savage breasts, but Hadria‘s compositions are ―bizarre‖ and full of ―daring innovation‖ and jar upon her conventional husband (166). The intellectuality of her compositions is what makes them superior to sentimental folk music 118 with its primitive influences.74 At the same time, Hadria is still susceptible herself, through her body, to those primitive influences. In a way, the novel undercuts itself, arguing both that women should be equal and that they are weaker than men. Yet Hadria‘s very susceptibility unfits her for Angelhood, as do her keen intellect and unconventional beliefs. Further, her susceptibility is what fits her to be a composer; her family members and acquaintances lack her genius for composition in part because they lack her quivering sensitivity to music. When Miss Du Prel compares Hadria to an Aeolian harp and suggests to Hadria that she try to control her susceptibility, Hadria responds that ―One would run the risk of many things rather than let one‘s strings lie dumb‖ (62). Hadria‘s quivering strings, to her, are not simply at the mercy of every wind that blows, but capable of being played by herself. Lacking those strings, she would also lack the ability to create. Likewise, in George Egerton‘s 1893 short story ―A Cross Line,‖75 the unnamed heroine is highly susceptible to music. Playing in her mind ―an uncouth rhythmical jingle with a feverish beat; a song to the untamed spirit that dwells in her‖ (19), she imagines herself on the stage of an ancient theatre, dancing with ―parted lips and panting, rounded breasts, and a dancing devil in each glowing eye, [swaying] voluptuously to the wild music‖ (20). Music is thus associated with the heroine‘s primitive, sexual side, with ―the untamed primitive savage temperament that lurks in the mildest, best woman‖ and which is ―the 74 For more on the way the novel juxtaposes the modern and the primitive, see Lisa Surridge, ―Narrative Time, History, and Feminism in Mona Caird‘s The Daughters of Danaus,‖ Women‟s Writing 12 (2005): 127-141. 75 George Egerton [Mary Chavelita Dunne], Keynotes & Discords, with an introduction by Martha Vicinus (1893 and 1894. Repr., London: Virago Press, 1983). All citations in parentheses are to this edition. 119 keynote of woman‘s witchcraft and woman‘s strength‖ (20). Music and sound also play an important part in the plot and symbolic meaning of the story. At the beginning of the story, the heroine meets a man (unnamed, as are all the characters) to whom she is attracted and who is even more attracted to her. On the other hand, the heroine is married, and feels genuine affection for her husband, who is devoted to her. In the end, the heroine chooses to send the new man away and stay with her husband and their coming child. Her decision, however, is not meant to imply any subscription to conventional morality. Rather, the woman‘s decision is based in part on the replacement of her interest in the new man with a stronger interest in her coming child; the maternal instinct is stronger than the sexual one. Her feeling for her husband is likewise strongly maternal; his ―eyes are fine, in colour and shape[,] with the luminous clearness of a child‘s‖ (13) and ―[t]here is a singular soft monotony in his voice; the organ with which she replies is capable of more varied expression‖ (11). That monotony signals his lack of sexual interest for her, while his child- like physiognomy explains her platonic affection for him and her choice to continue with him. The new man, in contrast, is introduced singing; she hears him before she sees him, and the description of his song takes up the first paragraph of the story: The rather flat notes of a man‘s voice float out into the clear air, singing the refrain of a popular music-hall ditty. There is something incongruous between the melody and the surroundings. It seems profane, indelicate, to bring this slangy, vulgar tune, and with it the mental picture of footlight flare and fantastic dance into the lovely freshness of this perfect spring day. (1) This man‘s ability to sing, as opposed to the husband‘s vocal monotony, is part of his capacity to sexually attract the heroine. On the other hand, his tune is still flat; only the 120 heroine is associated with a music that is varied and wild and fully sexual. As a result, she has no proper mate; neither man is her sexual equal, and this is why her maternal side is particularly important and valuable: it provides the only fulfilling way for the woman to relate to men and children. The strength of the maternal instinct and woman‘s control over reproduction is, for Egerton, the basis of woman‘s superiority.76 Music is part of that superiority, partly because it is a symbol of the strong sexuality that leads to motherhood; the music the heroine hears in her brain is music such as has never been composed by a man, but a ―strain of that old-time music that she has never heard in this life of hers, save as an inner accompaniment to the memory of hidden things, born with her‖ (21), and birthed by her. Her inner music thus marks her creativity and her superiority – not as a sport like Maggie or a racial Other like Fedalma, but as nameless Everywoman – to men. The association of listening with equality that women authors made in the early part of the century is back again, but refigured; women are equals of (or superiors to) men, but not necessarily the same as them. The mid-Victorian focus on the body introduced division into listening and made women‘s listening different from men‘s; the late-Victorian belief in the connection between mind and body makes women still different from men, but because bodily sensitivity is now connected to creative potential women can now be portrayed as being, as a sex, just as capable of being lovers and geniuses. 76 Patricia Marks, Bicycles, Bangs, and Bloomers: The New Woman in the Popular Press (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1990), 38. See also Vicinus‘s introduction to Keynotes & Discords. 121 CHAPTER 4 MUSIC AND MANLINESS All musicians are effeminate. ~ ―A Famous First Night,‖ The Musical Times1 [M]anliness was a virtue in which one had to be laboriously instructed. Like so many other virtues, it did not seem to correspond with the natural instincts of the human being. I came to the conclusion that ‗manliness‘ was a very complicated ideal…. Why were music and painting held to be effeminate when all the greatest painters and composers had been men? ~ Lord Berners, First Childhood2 Because music has long been considered an emotional art form, it has long had a fraught relationship with masculinity. As long as performance, listening, and composition were considered allied skills, however, music could be considered an art form that required both emotional and intellectual abilities of various kinds. Through the idea that music harmonized passion and reason, music could therefore be a means of creating harmonious beings and a harmonious society,3 thus associating music with power and by extension with masculinity. With the Victorian division of performance, listening, and composition from each other came a new set of problems and concerns. Listening and composition, as we saw in chapter 1, were appropriate for men as the one soothed their savage instincts and the other exercised their intellects. Performance, however, was trickier. The increasing number of professional societies served on the one hand to emphasize that male musical 1 ―A Famous First Night,‖ The Musical Times 32 (March 1891): 141-144. The article does not espouse this statement, but rather sums up a common view. 2 Quoted in Byron Adams, ―The ‗Dark Saying‘ of the Enigma: Homoeroticism and the Elgarian Paradox,‖ Queer Episodes in Music and Modern Identity, ed. by Sophie Fuller and Lloyd Whitesell (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 225. 3 Ritchie, 3. 122 performance was part of the public sphere; on the other hand, the professionalization of male performance carried class implications that worked to exclude gentleman from performance. Among middle- and upper-classes, music could be performed by middle-class amateurs, but doing so risked aligning men‘s music-making with that of middle- and upper- class women in the domestic sphere. As a result, when middle-class men are depicted playing music in the Victorian period, their masculinity is in some peril, whereas the opposite is true for early nineteenth-century texts. However, not everyone found this to be a problem; instead, some authors take advantage of the disassociation between middle-class men and performance to argue for a modified vision of manhood. Harmony In 1597, composer Thomas Morley warned in his Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke of the embarrassment that could result to any young man who did not study music. Morley pictures for the reader a dinner party, at which, supper being ended, and musicke bookes (according to the custome) being brought to the table, the mistresse of the house presented me with a part, earnestly requesting me to sing. But when, after many excuses I protested unfainedly that I could not: every one began to wonder. Yea, some whispered to others, demaunding how I was brought up.4 Morley, of course, relates this tale in order to convince readers of the value of his book, and some critics have argued that the passage is ―more likely to be in the nature of a ‗puff‘ for his book than a strictly accurate record of the prevailing … state of affairs.‖5 Morley, however, is unlikely to have been exaggerating much; his ―puff,‖ after all, would have been 4 Quoted in Edmund H. Fellowes, The English Madrigal (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1925), 19. 5 Mackerness, 53. 123 unsuccessful if readers had felt his scenario to be unlikely. Further, Morley was not the only person at the time to assume that men should be musically knowledgeable: Henry Peacham wrote in The Compleat Gentleman in 1622 that every gentleman should be able ―to sing your part sure, and at the first sight, withal, to play the same upon your viol, or the exercise of the lute.‖6 Both men advocated skill in performance in part because both felt such skill was necessary to musical composition, and both saw composition as an art in which the English could and did excel,7 to the credit of the nation. Because of these nationalistic implications, music was for the Elizabethans a manly and a gentlemanly art.8 Not every man lived up to these ideals preached by Morley and others, one can safely assume, but still the ideals (and the books) existed, and were aimed at men. Associated as it was with the sacred and the bawdy, music had much in common with the masculine, a situation that continued throughout the eighteenth century. During that timeframe, no shame need accrue to the man who studied music or played an instrument as music continued to be associated with nationhood and with social harmony. 6 Quoted in Dorothy E. Mason, Music in Elizabethan England (New York: The Folger Shakespeare Library, 1958), 4. 7 For further discussion of this first English musical renaissance, see Boyd; James Day, „Englishness‟ in Music from Elizabethan Times to Elgar, Tippett and Britten (London: Thames Publishing, 1999); Fellowes; Mason. 8 There were, of course, those who disagreed, namely, the Puritans. The Puritan objection to music was less biblical than political; as one Puritan put it, ―If you would have your sonne softe, wommanishe, uncleane, smothe mouthed … if you would have hym, as it were transnatured into a Woman … sett hym … to learne Musicke, and then shall you not faile your purpose‖ (quoted in Linda Phyllis Austern, ―‗Forreine Conceites and Wandring Devises‘: The Exotic, the Erotic, and the Feminine,‖ The Exotic in Western Music, ed. by Jonathan Bellman [Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1998], 41). The Puritans, however, were in the minority; music was generally conceptualized in ways that made it masculine, and some even pointed to the Bible for impeccably masculine authority that music was manly: ―They [the Puritans] doe abhorre, as devilles doe all, / The pleasant noyse of musique‘s sound / Although kinge David and st Paule / Did much commend that art profound‖ (quoted in Norman Hyde, Music Hath Charms: Some aspects of the music of the British Isles [Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1956], 72). 124 Music could foster ―the Sociable and happy Passions,‖9 for ―there is no science or faculty whatever the more improves the tempers of men, rendering them grave, discreet, mild, and placid.‖10 Listening, performance, and composition itself could compose the mind and the emotions, making it an endeavor associated with power over self and others and therefore one seen as particularly appropriate for men. During the eighteenth century, however, commentators increasingly voiced concerns that music‘s masculinity was being breached, mostly by a horde of poncing Italians and Frenchmen.11 Music itself was still considered capable of being a noble art; as Addison put it, ―that kind of music, which would have its foundation in reason, … would … improve our virtue in proportion as it raises our delight.‖12 Implicit in this conception of good music, however, was a gendered value system in which rational music was gendered masculine and irrational music as feminine; behind the critique of irrational Italian operas and emotional French ones, therefore, was a sense that music was being tainted with femininity. Edmund Burke, reviewing John Brown‘s An Estimate of the Manners and Principles of the Times, quotes with melancholy approbation Brown‘s summation of the current musical situation: No wonder, if these leading characters of false delicacy influence our other entertainments, and be attended with a low and unmanly taste in music. That divine art, capable of inspiring every thing that is great or excellent, of 9 Charles Avison, quoted in Ritchie, 3. 10 Sir John Hawkins, quoted in Ritchie, 3. 11 See Leppert, The Sight of Sound, 66, for a brief discussion of this trend. 12 Joseph Addison, No. 405, The Spectator (London: John C. Nimmo, 1898), 6:48. 125 rousing every nobler passion of the soul, is at length dwindled into a woman‘s or an eunuch‘s effeminate trill.13 As long as music was associated with rationality, however, it could still be salvaged for manliness. One way of making music rational was to carefully match (English) words to music, such that short words were carried by short notes, and so on, as we saw in Chapter Two. Another was to emphasise the importance of harmony. Through harmony, ―[m]usic … aligned the body in motion with the harmonious movement of the universe as it had been set in motion by the Creator‖;14 music was therefore an emblem of God‘s will and methods, an association which automatically served to masculinize music. Harmony was also closely associated with reason, another masculinizing factor. Thomas Holcroft‘s 1797 Jacobin novel The Adventures of Hugh Trevor15 provides an example of how musical discourse was gendered in masculine terms through the portrayal of harmony, or, in this case, discord. When the young hero, Hugh, is invited to the home of the Rev. Enoch Ellis, he meets the reverend‘s daughter Eliza. Eliza, like Fanny Squeers after her, is a plain young woman with an exaggerated sense of her beauty and accomplishments, and, again like Fanny Squeers, she seizes relentlessly upon the first attractive young man she sees and tries to ensnare him. To do this, she decides to impress him with her musical prowess, demanding that Hugh and her father should accompany her 13 Quoted in Edmund Burke, The Annual Register … for the Year 1758, 9th ed. (London: J. Dodsley, 1795), 446. 14 Thomas Alan King, The Gendering of Men, 1600-1750: The English Phallus (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2004), 146. 15 All quotations taken from Thomas Holcroft, The Adventures of Hugh Trevor (1797. Repr., [South Carolina:] BiblioBazaar, 2006). 126 on violin and bass, respectively, while she plays the piano and sings. Eliza believes herself to be quite a musician, for her master, Signor Gridarini, has told her himself that ―among all the dilettanti in Europe, there was not so great a singer as herself‖ (136-137). Hugh is impressed by this account, and happily agrees to play. Eliza‘s confidence erodes somewhat after they begin, however, and Hugh soon realizes that his initial faith in Eliza‘s opinion of herself could not have been more mistaken. The very first difficult passage she came to shewed me she was an ignorant pretender. Time, tune, and recollection were all lost. I was obliged to be silent in the accompaniment, for I knew as little what was to become of her as she herself did. Enoch [her father] knew no more than either of us, but he kept strumming on. He was used to it, and his ears were not easily offended. (138) Eliza, disconcerted and annoyed by Hugh‘s silence, stops the concert to rebuke him, and her father for good measure (he has thrown her off with his bad playing, she says). Hugh realizes that the quickest, and only, way to get through the piece is to play the violin, no matter how discordant the results: ―My ears were never more completely flayed! But what could be done? Miss panted for fame, and the company wanted music!‖ (138). The piece over, Eliza then insists that she, her father, and Hugh sing an Italian trio, with similar results; meanwhile, the ladies of the company ―had frequently in full gabble joined the con strepito16 chorus, and quite completed that kind of harmony in which our concert excelled‖ (139). Hugh‘s more sensitive ear and greater musical talent are contrasted, not only with Eliza‘s lack of skill, but with the irrationality of her entire family and circle of friends. 16 Noisy, forceful. 127 Eliza‘s opinion of herself shows vanity and the inability to discern the difference between a genuine compliment and an employee‘s flattery. Her grammar is poor (137), and she looks forward to card parties because at each and every one she works off the same lone witticism (―I declare … that old Tabby is never contented but when she is at her honors and her tricks! But let her alone! … She has more tricks than honors!‖ [139]). The reverend Enoch, as Hugh later discovers, prostrates himself before political figures, eager to please them and do their bidding, and his wife, Mrs Ellis, is a pretender to culture who speaks French and Italian with equal lack of skill (136). The family‘s insensitivity to music, both as players and as listeners, as well as their interest in French and Italian language and music, is then a symptom of their general irrationality; the discordant sounds of the concert symbolize the discordance of the passions when not subsumed into harmony by reason. Although women increasingly positioned themselves as morally required and mentally able to harness music‘s power to effect individual and social harmony,17 the perceived power of music‘s affect meant that it was more often considered best managed by men. As a Jacobin novel written by a friend of William Godwin, Holcroft‘s Hugh Trevor does not explicitly argue that men are best suited to making music because the novel ostensibly favors sexual equality; Holcroft‘s elevation of reason, however, fits easily into a worldview in which reason is masculinized and superior to the feminine, just as Hugh is musically superior to Eliza even more than to the equally inept Rev. Enoch. 17 Ritchie, 87-132. 128 Matthew Lewis‘s The Monk (1796),18 as a Gothic novel, deploys the same dichotomy of reason vs. emotion in a different way. Lacking any Jacobinite interest in sexual equality, the novel explicitly genders these values, portraying music as dangerous and evil when associated with women, yet safe and soothing in the hands of a man. When Matilda wishes to seduce Ambrosio, she begins by playing music. The music has an immediate effect: ―Ambrosio, while he listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom‖ (68). While he is in this susceptible state, Matilda pulls back a sleeve to reveal an arm ―formed in the most perfect symmetry‖ (69), and the monk is inflamed with the desire that leads to his downfall, as Matilda (and Satan) had planned. Later, when Matilda summons a demon, he appears to the sound of ―a full strain of melodious music‖ (237). Matilda demands something of the demon, which he does not wish to give; Matilda, however, threatens him in an unknown language and the demon at last reluctantly gives her the myrtle that will allow Ambrosio to rape Antonia, an act which, as Matilda knows, will cement his doom. As the demon complies with Matilda‘s demands, ―the music was again heard‖ (237), signifying Matilda‘s triumph of evil over the conscience of a demon. Music is therefore associated with female will, the demonic, and male downfall. Contrariwise, the novel portrays men‘s music as lovely and pure. When Theodore visits a convent, he plays a song for the nuns, who applaud the beauty of his song. Likewise, when Lorenzo serenades Antonia, she listens with pleasure before going peacefully to bed, her 18 All quotations taken from Matthew Lewis, The Monk: A Romance (1795. Repr., New York: Penguin Books, 1998). 129 purity so undisturbed that she does not even realize Lorenzo is trying to woo her. Evidently, only strong, manly hands can tame a dangerous art form. Division With the division of performance, composition, and listening from each other came a set of class and gender distinctions that served important functions even as they could be difficult to maintain. Listening, for example, became increasingly associated with the domestic sphere as the domestic sphere was more and more seen as a place where men would be served and soothed by women; music‘s ability to compose the mind and emotions was thus seen as especially necessary to men. This idea was not entirely new – Sophia, for example, soothes Mr. Western with music in Henry Fielding‘s Tom Jones – but it gained importance as the home gained status as a haven from the public sphere. Young women needed to know some music so that they might be able to fully carry out their duty of providing a restful and refreshing home; when Mr. Brooke tells Dorothea that it would really better if she could play, he is thinking of this function: Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it‘s a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung – that kind of thing, you know – will not do.19 In his typically muddled fashion, Mr. Brooke wishes to advocate music because a wife who plays can soothe a scholarly husband‘s fevered brain even as he does not wish to advocate music because in this case the husband has no interest in it; nonetheless, Mr. Brooke is worried that Casaubon, lacking music, will be too high-strung. 19 George Eliot, Middlemarch, in Works of George Eliot (New York: The Century Company, 1910), 6:91. 130 At the same time, listening to music was not exclusively associated with the domestic sphere, for men. Both men and women attended concerts, but only men were generally credited with either the sense or the ability to listen properly (women were too distracted, it was claimed, by looking at other women‘s clothes).20 Listening to music was also, less intellectually, associated with the institution of the music hall and thus a system where men bought the right, not only to listen, but to watch a pretty woman perform for them. Although some music halls catered to a more upper-class market and therefore strove to be what is now called ―family-friendly,‖ most music halls, for most of the century, were places patronized primarily by men, and primarily lower- and working-class men.21 Listening‘s associations with physical vibration also reinforced not simply the masculinity of listening to music-hall tunes, but also the lower-class nature of the music hall. Musical composition was a very different matter. Although the often bawdy works that found their way into music halls were presumably composed by men, composition was conceived of as an intellectual act, and was thus strongly associated with masculinity – arguably more so than any other art form, as there are fewer women composers of Art music than there are women painters or poets. As women were encouraged to perform in order to soothe men‘s savage breasts, men ―were provided scant encouragement to study music as a performed practice; instead they were invited to approach it cognitively.‖22 By implication, then, composition was conceptualized in such a way as really only to include 20 See, for example, ―Winter Music,‖ 188. 21 Kift, 62-63, 68. 22 Leppert, The Sight of Sound, 64. 131 the composition of art music. Musical composition was constructed as a scientific endeavor, and through the combination of science and genius music composition continued the older association between music and the order of heaven represented on earth by men. In Elizabeth Sheppard‘s popular and widely-reprinted 1853 novel Charles Auchester, for example, composition is characterized as a solemn duty: Be assured that in all works that have endured there is something of the nature of truth; therefore acquaint thyself with all, ever reserving the right to honor with peculiar investigation those works in which the author by scientific hold upon forceful imagination intimates that he wrote with the direct intention to illustrate his art, not alone for the love of it, but in the fear of its service. Thus apply thyself to the compositions of Palestrina, of Purcell, of Alessandro Scarlatti, and the indefatigable Corelli; thus lend thyself to the masterpieces of Pergolesi, of Mozart, and Handel; thus lean with thine entire soul upon the might and majesty of John Sebastian Bach. All others in order, but these in chief; and this last generalissimo, until thou hast learnt to govern thyself.23 This power over the self that musical composition, or the study of it, was supposed to give, and its association with divine service and by extension the divine, served to make composition not only a manly but an upper-class endeavor. Composition of art music was an activity that required a high degree of specialized education, thus excluding women (very intentionally), and leisure, thus excluding the lower classes. Although late in the century composition was constructed as a form of arduous physical labor (as we shall see in the last chapter), for most of the century composition was not considered to involve physical labor at all, cementing its status as an upper-class activity. 23 Elizabeth Sheppard, Charles Auchester: A Memorial (1853. Repr., Chicago: A.C. McClurg, 1891), 1:254, my emphasis. 132 The figure of the bard complicates the upper-class associations of art music in ways that have been more fully explored elsewhere,24 but, despite the attempts of some women poets to take on the bardic role (Felicia Hemans, for example, with such poems as ―The Rock of Cader Idris‖), the figure of the bard remained intractably masculine. This was because the bard was increasingly associated with what Katie Trumpener has called ―bardic nationalism.‖ The compositions of the bard figure were useful precisely because they were not art music (in which other countries now excelled), that is, artificial products of education, but were rather associated with the natural productions of national character and served, among other things, to provide a more masculine alternative to an art music that some feared was ―slip[ping] into effeminacy.‖25 In part, what complicates the bard‘s role is the fact that he is not simply a composer, but a performer – a problem because performance was associated not only with middle- and upper-class women, in the domestic sphere, but, in the public sphere, with lower-class men. Male performers in Victorian England were generally professionals or members of the working class; even then, the masculinity of their musical activity had to be reinforced in some fashion. The crew of the Agra in Charles Reade‘s Hard Cash26 (1863), for instance, sings, but their masculinity is secure: they are sailors, first of all, whose song aids their work on deck; they sing about rum and brandy (the reader is even treated to the sheet music, so 24 See Newman, Ballad Collection. 25 Newman, Ballad Collection, 11, 68. 26 Charles Reade, Hard Cash: A Matter-of-Fact Romance (1863. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1876). All citations in parentheses refer to this edition. 133 that he can sing along); and they sing in a manly fashion, ―with true nautical power‖ and ―lusty harmony … [that] made the air ring‖ (61). This strategy was hardly original to Reade: the massive trend towards military imagery in Victorian hymns was likewise a way to safeguard men‘s masculinity in the musical forum they could least easily escape or ignore.27 Brass bands, such as those of the Salvation Army, likewise carried military associations28 but also were associated with the lower classes.29 As William Booth, the Army‘s founder, put it, ―I found that ordinary working men in their corduroys and bowler hats could command attention from their own class which was refused point-blank to me with my theological terms and superior knowledge;‖30 the choice of brass bands therefore was consciously a choice to perform music that was both masculine and lower-class and which lower-class men already knew how to play and could be readily found to play.31 Orchestras, too, although a step up on the social scale, were filled with professionals and not with gentlemen. The swell of interest in professional music societies may indicate, however, that professional men were not fully at their ease with a profession that was associated with lower-class men on one hand and with middle- and upper-class women on the other. 27 Tamke outlines this trend without discussing gender; J.R. Watson‘s ―Soldiers and Saints: the Fighting Man and the Christian Life,‖ in Masculinity and Spirituality in Victorian Culture, ed. by Andrew Bradstock, Sean Gill, Anne Hogan, and Sue Morgan (New York: St. Martin‘s Press, 2000) does discuss gender. 28 Trevor Herbert, ―God‘s Perfect Minstrels: The Bands of the Salvation Army,‖ in The British Brass Band: A Musical and Social History, ed. by Trevor Herbert (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 192. 29 Herbert, 193. 30 Quoted in Herbert, 193. 31 Herbert, 191-192. 134 The great difficulty came with the performance of music by gentlemen. It was done; but it was fraught with pitfalls to the performer‘s masculinity and class status. Some men dealt with this difficulty in creative fashion; a great many nineteenth-century pianos, for instance, were painted with hunting scenes, guns, and the bodies of dead animals,32 an indication that men did in fact sometimes play the feminine instrument, and were uncomfortable about their desire to do so. More often, perhaps, performance by gentlemen (or would-be gentlemen) was avoided altogether; numerous commentators took for granted, even if they deplored, the fact that men generally avoided performing music and in fact often prided themselves on their ignorance.33 The threat to masculinity was strong. In Lord Leighton‘s painting Music, for instance, the young man in the picture illustrates, not so much How Not to Do It, as Why Not to Do It. As Richard Leppert points out, the young man is consistently feminized in ―his body, his pose, his gesture, and his expression‖ and in his conspicuous (indeed, central) lack of a penis; the handle of the mandolin is unrealistically elongated, ―not to compensate for lack, but to confirm it.‖34 His femininity serves to mark the limit of masculinity; even a masculinized music, a phallic instrument, will un-man the performer. William Holman Hunt‘s The Awakening Conscience provides a similar object lesson in the incompatibility of music and masculinity. In this painting, the young woman‘s 32 Leppert, The Sight of Sound, 119 ff. 33 John Antes Latrobe, The Music of the Church Considered in Its Various Branches (London: R.B. Seeley and W. Burnside, 1831), 403, 406. 34 Leppert, The Sight of Sound, 225. 135 awakened conscience leads her to turn, enraptured, away from a sinful past. She has seen the light, quite literally, a light visible in the painting through the mirror behind her. The sinful past is represented in the figure of a young man at the piano. Previous critics have argued that the painting ambiguously represents music as dangerous and sinful and yet also as the moral influence that leads the young woman to reject her sinful life,35 but there is no indication in the painting itself that the music has led to the young woman‘s transformation; rather, it is the light, in contrast to the music, that awakens the young woman‘s conscience. What makes the music appropriate to sin is not only music‘s ability to sound sensuous and awaken physical vibrations in the (female) listener. Further, the piano, as the instrument most associated with women, was notoriously ―shunned by almost every one, who desires to preserve his character [from] a charge of effeminacy,‖36 yet the young man‘s comfortable demeanor indicates he is quite at home in front of the piano. Nor is this some passing fancy or joke; the blue bag lying on the floor is filled with sheet music, indicating that the man has brought additional music with him, either to ensure that there will be plenty of music or that his favorites will be played, or both. Even in dallying with his mistress he has gravitated towards music rather than (or perhaps as a prelude to) sex, and the glove that lies on the floor has been removed, not on the way to the bedroom, but to the piano. His very effeminacy backfires, however; in responding to the music, the woman in the painting turns away from the effeminate man whose clueless hand is still on 35 See Asquith, 21; Kate Flint, ―Reading The Awakening Conscience Rightly‖ in Pre-Raphaelites Re- Viewed, ed. by Marcia Pointon (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), 59. 36 Latrobe, 403. 136 the keys. The woman‘s conscience is thus awakened, not just to a born-again state of sexual purity, but to a rejection of blurred gender roles and a recognition of her (and his) proper sphere. Further, sin is not even exciting; the man‘s place at the piano represents a lack of virility equally unattractive to heterosexual male and female viewers. The picture is thus moral, not only in its portrayal of a woman turning from sin, but in its method of doing so.37 Gender roles are at once transgressed and reinforced, as the transgression of gender roles is portrayed as leading to male effeminacy and subsequent female rejection of the male. Lord Byron snarkily informed a piano-playing Leigh Hunt that ―all lovers of music were effeminate,‖38 and while he may not actually have believed this, most Englishmen throughout the century did think that ―musicians are as a class wanting in the manlier qualities.‖39 To ask a gentleman if he played an instrument was considered an insult,40 and school music masters found it difficult to persuade talented boys to study music at all because, as one Harrovian put it, ―A Harrow boy who went in for the study of music in those days would have been looked upon as a veritable milksop.‖41 A few, of course, 37 Hunt‘s very moral refusal to portray a paramour as virile may, in fact, account in part for the puzzlement with which the painting was originally viewed; for a discussion of contemporary reactions, see Flint. 38 Leigh Hunt, Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries (Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Carey, 1828), 70. 39 ―Manliness in Music,‖ The Musical Times and Singing Class Circular 30 (August 1889), 460. 40 Derek B. Scott, From the Erotic to the Demonic: On Critical Musicology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 38. 41 Walter Macfarren (brother of the composer George Macfarren), quoted in Scott, From the Erotic to the Demonic, 39. Macfarren is one of the few defenders of music‘s manliness. 137 defended music‘s manliness against the charge that it was ―a very soft and effeminate study,‖42 but, again, the very need for a defense shows how widespread was the belief among the middle- and upper-classes that musical performance was not manly. Redefinition Nonetheless, gentlemen still played music. Their playing could be masculinized in part, as we saw in Chapter Two, by the careful selection of the appropriately masculinized instrument, but the gentleman performer‘s theoretical distance from commercialism placed his musical masculinity in a limbo uncomfortably near the domestic sphere. This state of limbo, however, provided a space where the definition of masculinity could be played with and modified. Because of the tension between class and gender inherent in the figure of the gentleman performer, literary portrayals of this figure often, intentionally or not, function in such a way as to take advantage of the figure‘s ambiguous status to redefine masculinity itself. The figure of the church musician worked particularly well for this purpose because it was another locus of tensions regarding definitions of masculinity: on the one hand, God, priests, and other churchly servants were defined as masculine, and hymnal imagery espoused an ideal of violent Christianity, yet, on the other, God‘s earthly representatives were also often seen in feminized terms as gentle, kind, and nurturing. Mr. Harding in Anthony Trollope‘s The Warden (1855),43 for example, is a gentle man whose love of music 42 Joseph Proudman, Musical Jottings, Useful and Humorous (London: W.M. Hutchings, 1872), 34. 43 All quotations taken from Anthony Trollope, The Warden (1855. Repr., Ontario: Broadview Press, 2001). 138 emphasizes his difference from the more forcible, virile men around him: while John Bold bustles about talking with lawyers, Mr. Harding plays a concert for the bedesmen; when Archdeacon Grantly harangues him, Mr. Harding plays his imaginary violoncello. His love of music is, moreover, impractical; he has spent an unspecifiedly large number of guineas on printing his beloved Harding‟s Church Music. Male musicality is associated with a ―kind and sweet‖ (96) and largely passive, impractical nature which is continually contrasted with the bossy and decidedly male figures of John Bold and Archdeacon Grantly. Yet Mr. Harding is not thereby made an entirely feminine character; he is, after all, a church musician and a priest, male functions, and his instrument of choice is the manly cello, forbidden to women (his daughter, of course, plays the piano). Even his extravagant Harding‟s Church Music, with its emphasis on a pretty appearance and careful attention to ―all possible additions of vellum, typography, and gilding‖ (42), is an entrance into the public sphere theoretically more proper for the male of the species. As precentor, Mr. Harding directs the choir, giving him a masculine level of control over the feminine art. Yet, in turn, Mr. Harding thinks of his musical endeavors as part of the ―worship of St. Cecilia‖ (56), and thus casts even the church and worship in feminine terms at the same time that the church is portrayed as a male enclave. The inherent androgyny of the church musician makes that profession an appropriate choice for a character who models a modified, more feminized form of masculinity.44 44 For an extended discussion of Mr. Harding‘s androgynous characteristics, see Jim McDermott, ―New Womanly Man: Feminized Heroism and the Politics of Compromise in The Warden,‖ VIJ: Victorians Institute Journal 27 (1999): 71-90. McDermott includes Mr. Harding‘s cello in his discussion, but without noting the ways that the cello helps to masculinize Mr. Harding‘s love of music. 139 The church organist Tom Pinch in Charles Dickens‘s Martin Chuzzlewit (1843- 1844)45 seems a less likely candidate for the espousal of a revised, more androgynous view of manhood; Dickens‘s views on gender have often been called to account for sexism. In part, this is because discussions of Dickens‘s views on gender have focused on his portrayal of women, and the consensus for many years has been that ―[Dickens] shows a strong emotional response towards certain female stereotypes but is, for the most part, not concerned to explore through his imagination female nature as a whole.‖46 Other critics, such as Sylvia Jarmuth, have argued that Dickens‘s portrayal of women, while initially lacking psychological depth, progresses over the course of the novelist‘s career as ―[Dickens] manifests greater moral intensity and begins to examine from a feminine perspective the destructiveness of moral indifference in Bleak House, Hard Times, and Little Dorrit.‖47 More recently, critics have begun to argue that Dickens‘s portrayal of women even in the earlier novels is disruptive of conventional gender roles: ―Dickens‘ women are anything but stereotypical. They cause disruptions in the text that make their reality ever so accurate, their silences ever so telling.‖48 Still more recently, critics have begun to examine Dickens‘s 45 All quotations taken from Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit (1843-1844. Repr., Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982). 46 Michael Slater, Dickens and Women (London: J.M. Dent, 1983), 240. 47 Matthew J. McGuire, The Role of Women in the Novels of Charles Dickens (London: Minerva Press, 1995), 10. McGuire is summing Jarmuth‘s views. 48 Brenda Ayres, Dissenting Women in Dickens‟ Novels (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1998), 7. See also the chapter on deviant women in Juliet John‘s Dickens‟s Villains: Melodrama, Character, Popular Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 140 portrayal of gender by examining his portrayal of male characters; Holly Furneaux‘s Queer Dickens, for example, argues that Dickens‘s portrayals of nurturing masculinity and his concern with touch and affect between men challenge what we have been used to thinking about Victorian ideals of maleness. At the same time, tender male touching calls into question current understandings of the sexual, suggesting the difficulty of fully demarcating the erotic.‖49 David Rosen and others have argued that Dickens found problematic an ―idea of progress [that] seemed to Dickens to split men and women apart and to split human beings down the middle.‖50 Rosen cites Hard Times as an example; like most critics, he finds Dickens‘s more mature novels to be the ones in which Dickens questions conventional gender roles. However, through the portrayal of the church organist, Tom Pinch, in Martin Chuzzlewit, Dickens redefines masculinity even in one of his early novels. Tom Pinch is feminized in two ways: through his occupation of church organist and through the contrast between his behavior and that of the more virile Pecksniff and young Martin Chuzzlewit. Unlike Pecksniff and young Martin, Tom is gentle and considerate of others at all times; he is a ―mild figure‖ (715) who believes, falsely, that he owes everything he has in life to the kind offices of Pecksniff. Tom believes he is and ought to be dependent on Pecksniff, and sees his own role in life as that of a ministering angel who performs little offices of affection and gratitude for the man who supports him and who defends Pecksniff from all criticisms and accusations of hypocrisy with the loyalty of a 49 Holly Furneaux, Queer Dickens: Erotics, Families, Masculinities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 7. 50 David Rosen, The Changing Fictions of Masculinity (Champaign: The University of Illinois Press, 1993), 146. 141 wife. All this makes Tom feminine; yet he is still contrasted favorably and repeatedly with the self-confident, faux-humble Mentor-to-the-World Pecksniff. Tom‘s femininity is not made the object of ridicule, but rather serves to highlight his innocence and Pecksniff‘s selfishness. Likewise, when Tom first meets Martin Chuzzlewit in a tavern, Martin is swaggeringly bossy and self-absorbed; he sits in front of the fire, blocking a shivering Tom from heat while toasting himself, and guzzles wine with his meat while Tom picks at a much humbler meal. Later, when they are both installed in Pecksniff‘s household, Tom humbly serves Martin a meal and then, when Martin takes over the bench before the fire (again blocking the heat) and begins to snore, Tom sits quietly, hardly moving a muscle for fear of waking the sprawled figure before him. Again, however, Tom‘s silent, humble ministrations serve not only to feminize him, but to emphasize the contrast between his unselfishness and Martin‘s selfishness – values that Dickens finds it difficult to personify except in gendered terms: feminine, Angel, unselfish; man, beast, selfish. Indeed, Tom is contrasted indirectly but favorably with nearly every other character in Martin Chuzzlewit; in the novel which Dickens intended to be a study in selfishness and its variations, only Pecksniff‘s ward Mary, Tom‘s sister Ruth, and the Angelic Tom himself are presented as unselfish people.51 Tom is a more important character than either Mary or Ruth, however, a fact due to his role in the novel as a model, not simply of unselfishness, but of unselfish, idealized manhood; Dickens, like many of his readers, expects unselfishness from women; the 51 For a general discussion of Tom‘s centrality to the novel‘s theme of selfishness, see Jerry Beasley, ―The Role of Tom Pinch in Martin Chuzzlewit,‖ Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 5 (1974): 77- 89. See also Sylvère Monod, Martin Chuzzlewit (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1985), 125, 128. 142 achievement of feminine unselfishness by a man is a deviation the normal run of manhood, as portrayed in the novel, and thus of great importance. To succeed as a model of both unselfishness and manhood, therefore, Tom needs to embody a feminized manhood that is nonetheless recognizably differentiated from the femininity of women. Tom‘s role as a church organist serves to continue his characterization as feminine while simultaneously introducing elements that help to emphasize his manhood. Tom plays the church organ for free, which he imagines to be a great privilege granted him by the benevolent Pecksniff but which in reality is a task Pecksniff is supposed to pay someone to do; the fact that Tom gladly plays the organ for free makes him more of a Christian and a gentleman than the money-minded Pecksniff while it also allies him with the horde of women amateur musicians. Like them, or rather like the idealized version of them, Tom plays sensitively, with ―great expression and tenderness‖ (419); his music is not rationalized in any fashion, but is rather the outpouring of a simple heart (715). At the same time, however, he plays an instrument that was the domain of men52 in a setting that was also the domain of men. The church setting masculinizes Tom‘s sensitive performances by associating this mild, gentle figure with the highest kind of male authority. In short, Dickens imagines unselfishness as feminine and therefore needs Tom to be feminine in order to portray him as unselfish; the music reinforces this femininity, yet Dickens also wants to imagine this central, unselfish figure as masculine, and he therefore associates Tom with the church and justifies Tom‘s femininity by making him a mild, Christ-like figure who is used by selfish 52 There were a few exceptions. For a discussion of the female church organist in nineteenth-century England, see Judith Barger, Elizabeth Stirling and the Musical Life of Female Organists in Nineteenth-Century England (Aldershot, Hants., England: Ashgate, 2007). 143 men. Indeed, the end of the novel emphasizes the Christ parallel heavily, focusing on Tom as a figure close to Heaven who is simply marking time on earth; the last few paragraphs of the novel describe Tom the nurse who cares for the sick and needy, Tom the lover of flowers who values God‘s creation, Tom the lover of children – all parallels to Christ and all parallels to women. Pinch is a character meant to be reverenced, as indeed Dickens reverenced him.53 Perhaps sensing that this association with the church undercuts Tom‘s masculinity as much as it creates it (for in justifying Tom‘s femininity as Christ-like Dickens must also define Christ and the church as feminine), Dickens also uses Tom‘s music and the church setting to clarify Tom‘s heterosexuality. Tom‘s tender music (it is difficult to imagine organ music being tender; but no matter, that is how Dickens describes it) speaks particularly to the feminine soul of Pecksniff‘s ward Mary, who comes to the church whenever Tom is practicing and listens, entranced, to his playing. Their mutual love of music leads to friendship and is part of a general similarity in their characters (Mary is a typically gentle Dickens heroine, primarily different from Tom in that she has chubby cheeks and ringlets and he does not); because of their similarities, this relationship in part further feminizes Tom, but it also masculinizes him, for he falls in love with Mary. Tom‘s feelings for Mary in fact lead him to adulthood, figuratively speaking, for through those feelings he finally realizes that Pecksniff is a hypocrite. The scene in which this happens is in fact the pivotal moment in the novel, coming at almost exactly the half-way point in the text. Pecksniff, out for a stroll, hears Tom practicing the organ and listens with a degree of contempt: he ―had 53 Monod, 125. 144 no objection to music…. He considered it a vagabond kind of trifling, in general, just suited to Tom‘s capacity‖ (419). What respect Pecksniff has for music is based on its soporific abilities: ―he had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but he knew when it had a tranquillising influence on his soul; and that was the case now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore‖ (419). Pecksniff‘s insensitivity to music is of a piece with his insensitivity in general; it is also a sort of insensitivity that many men, as we have seen, prided themselves upon as part of their masculinity, and Pecksniff‘s masculinity in this scene is reinforced by the sense of control and ownership that he feels as he enters the church. Unobserved in the dimness, he prepares for a nap, when Mary enters and, after some hesitation, tells Tom that Pecksniff has been sexually harassing her. No other accusation leveled at Pecksniff has ever before carried any weight with Tom, but this one he believes instantly. Ostensibly, Tom believes Mary because of her ineffable air of truth; on another level, however, he believes her because his masculinity is at stake – not perhaps to him, but to the novel. Only by believing Mary can Tom take on a chivalrous role; his immediate acceptance of her statement also reflects his sexual feelings for her and his anger that another man also feels sexual interest. The moment is Tom‘s apotheosis of manhood; he becomes more perceptive as he becomes more clearly heterosexual, and his role as confidante in a church setting gives him a priestly role as well as a chivalrous one. At the same time, however, the priestly role is gentle, and Tom‘s chivalry manifests itself in quiet, steady behavior when he meets Pecksniff later, rather than in, say, a physical fight. Nor does Tom ever reveal his own feelings towards Mary; Pecksniff is more obviously and 145 openly heterosexual than Tom. Herein lies the problem; Tom‘s masculinity comes through two associations, his association with the church and Christ on the one hand, and his association with heterosexuality on the other. Yet his sexuality cannot be emphasized without endangering his Christ-like status, a status which is necessary to the overall moral that unselfish (and therefore feminine) men are good and should be emulated. Further, by drawing parallels to Christ that emphasize Christ‘s kindness and love of children, Christ and the church are effectively feminized, thus castrating their ability to masculinize Tom. The figure of the church organist represents Dickens‘s attempt to work out an insoluble problem: how to revise manhood towards the model of a mild Christ by incorporating and glorifying a feminine sensitivity, while avoiding over-feminization by portraying (hetero)sexuality, a sexuality which in turn cannot be emphasized without endangering ideal manhood‘s kinship with the divine, which is itself feminized. In short, Tom Pinch the church organist represents an attempt to feminize manhood without emasculating it, an attempt that runs into continual difficulties because the gendered discourses with which Dickens is playing are themselves so tangled and confused. The result is an oddly androgynous figure who is presented as a role model, yet for whom the novel must constantly make excuses. J. Hillis Miller once remarked that Tom Pinch exemplifies ―the impasse to which total unselfishness leads;‖54 the reason unselfishness is an impasse, for Tom, is that Dickens can only associate it with a feminine sensitivity that he both lauds and with which he is somewhat uncomfortable. 54 J. Hillis Miller, Charles Dickens: The World of His Novels (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1958), 121. 146 More of a gentleman that Tom Pinch is Guy Morville in Charlotte Yonge‘s The Heir of Redclyffe.55 Guy‘s musical talent, associated exclusively with the domestic sphere and therefore aligned almost exclusively with women‘s musical activity, serves to undercut the novel‘s otherwise conventional approach to gender roles. Throughout the novel, Guy and his cousin Philip are contrasted in terms of their aptitude for and attitude towards music. Philip dislikes, despises, and fears music; Guy loves music and has a natural talent for playing and singing (the two types of performance most associated with women and femininity). The end result is to masculinize Philip and feminize Guy; Guy‘s struggle against himself throughout the novel is a masculine struggle, as various critics have argued,56 but the self that Guy is manfully striving to achieve is a feminine one. His victory in the end, when he sacrifices himself as Philip‘s nurse, is a victory over manhood and a culmination of the novel‘s feminization of the character. While Yonge undoubtedly intended to espouse domestic ideology, and does so explicitly at various moments in the novel, the portrayal of men in relation to music throughout the novel undercuts this project, arguing for a world where men have rightful superiority over women only when they are like women.57 55 All quotations taken from Charlotte Yonge, The Heir of Redclyffe (1853. Repr., New York: BiblioBazaar, 2008). 56 See, for example, Catherine Wells-Cole, ―Angry Yonge Men: Anger and Masculinity in the Novels of Charlotte M. Yonge‖ in Masculinity and Spirituality in Victorian Culture, ed. by Andrew Bradstock, et al (New York: St. Martin‘s Press, 2000). 57 June Sturrock, in “Heaven and Home”: Charlotte M. Yonge‟s Domestic Fiction and the Victorian Debate over Women (Victoria, British Columbia: University of Victoria, 1995), argues that Yonge often portrays ideal manhood as domesticated and the patriarchal male as ―in need … of conversion‖ (107); she does not, however, discuss The Heir of Redclyffe, except to mention it in passing. 147 Music is specifically constructed as feminine in the novel, for it is seen as part of an Angel‘s duties. Guy himself gives voice to this idea: ―there were higher ends for music, which made it come under Mrs. Edmonstone‘s rule, of a thing to be used guardedly, not disused‖ (107). Yet, though explicitly associated with women and the domestic, music shows up for most of the novel in relation to Guy. Music is in part the cause of the cloud of suspicion that surrounds Guy when he comes to live with the Edmonstones after his grandfather‘s death; the family is wary partly because of fears about the famous Morville temper, but partly also because Guy is the son of a violinist, or, as old Sir Guy had put it, a fiddler58 (12). Guy seems to inherit this talent for music; when Laura and Amy begin to play and sing for the first time since Guy‘s arrival, ―his look of delighted attention struck everyone‖ (30). When Guy at last ventures to join in the singing, it is with ―so full and melodious a voice‖ (30) that Laura is incredulous when Guy tells her he knows nothing of music. The young women are ―charmed and surprised‖ (30) at his native talent, and instantly bond with him. The women in the family, far from finding that Guy‘s musical talent confirms his low origins, see it instead as a gift. The travelling violinist is suspicious because part of the public sphere; with this first demonstration of his musical ability, Guy‘s talent is firmly domesticized and feminized. Rather abruptly, the paragraph in which this incident is related ends by pointing out how kind Guy is to his crippled cousin Charles, and how sad he is for the death of his grandfather (31). This abrupt ending serves to emphasize and valorize Guy‘s emotional nature and his tenderness, reinforcing the 58 Already long a term of contempt. See Brenda Neece, ―The Cello in Britain: A Technical and Social History,‖ The Galpin Society Journal 56 (June 2003): 77-115, 199-214, for a discussion of the nineteenth- century implications of various musical terms. 148 feminine sensibilities of which his musical talent is part, as those around him recognize: ―‗He is sensitive,‘ said Laura. ‗I don‘t mean only in temper, but in everything. I wonder if it is part of his musical temperament to be as keenly alive to all around, as his ear is to every note‘‖ (74). Because of these feminine sensibilities, Guy is immediately close to Amy, Laura, and Mrs. Edmonstone, in a way he is not with Mr. Edmonstone, Philip, or Charles. Guy often relies on music to soothe himself away from fits of temper. As we saw in Chapter One, music was often used as an emotional outlet by women who could not otherwise express their feelings, and was indeed encouraged partly for that purpose. Likewise, Guy uses music to work off frustrations, as Mrs. Edmonstone advises him to do: ―‗She treated him as an old fairy might, and advised him in a grave, mysterious way, always to go and play the ―Harmonious Blacksmith,‖ whenever he found himself getting into ―a taking‖‘‖ (90). In one way, Guy‘s choice of music is suitably masculine; the Harmonious Blacksmith,59 as the title indicates, is a piece that allows those who wish to pound the piano to fulfill themselves. Handel was also, though not British, England‘s closest thing to a national composer of international renown, and was thus often associated with Englishness and (since also associated with greatness) masculinity.60 Yet this choice of a piece of music that could be seen as masculine is made, not to encourage Guy‘s masculinity, 59 The nickname for the final movement of Handel‘s Keyboard Suite No. 5 in E Major, HWV 430. 60 Alexander Pope was one of the first to construct Handel in these terms; in a footnote to the Dunciad (in which Handel figures prominently as one of the few non-Dunces) he suggests that Handel‘s move to Ireland was due to an effeminate society‘s inability to appreciate true manliness in music: ―Mr. Handel had introduced a great number of Hands, and more variety of Instruments into the Orchestra, and employed even Drums and Cannon to make a fuller Chorus; which prov‘d so much too manly for the fine Gentlemen of his age, that he was obliged to remove his Music into Ireland‖ (The Dunciad: in four books, ed. by Valerie Rumbold [New York: Longman, 1999], 282, n. 54). 149 but to control and disperse it, in a manner generally advocated for young women. Further, to assume that Guy‘s choice of a relatively lively and loud piece masculinizes his activity is to assume that women usually expressed their feelings through soft, flowing, delicate pieces of music; in fact, young ladies might crash and bang their way through the more emotional (and loud) works of the composers, just as Lucy Honeychurch (much later) expresses herself through Beethoven in E.M. Forster‘s A Room With a View. Like many a young woman, then, Guy controls, channels, and lessens his feelings of impatience and frustration through the instrument most associated with womanhood, and, as we have seen, most avoided by men. Guy is often at his happiest when absorbed by music; when a concert is to be given nearby, he can think of little else for weeks (170). At the concert, Guy is delighted to discover a relative whom he has never met, a violinist named Sebastian Bach Dixon; his absorption is thus rewarded by the discovery of a congenial relative who makes Guy feel that he has familial ties still, despite his grandfather‘s death. In a novel that ordinarily condemns being absorbed by any one activity and preaches self-discipline and self- abnegation, it is significant that Guy‘s absorption in music in not condemned, except through the irritation of Philip, whose behavior and feelings the novel criticizes with increasing openness. Philip‘s concerns are enhancing and displaying his learning and tending to business matters; Guy struggles with the classics and is uninterested in business, a contrast which genders the two characters very differently and allows the novel to critique an intellectual manhood of the public sphere, representing as the ideal instead a manhood 150 that is domestic, happy, and largely unable to express itself61 except through music. Guy‘s tendency to use music to express or soothe his emotions is tied explicitly to the feminine when Sebastian Bach Dixon tells Guy that Guy has inherited, not his father‘s musicality, but his ―dear mother‘s talent and taste‖ (173). This inheritance is the exact opposite of the curse Guy fears he has inherited from his male relatives; music has the power to save souls and dispel evil. When Guy is in one of his darkest moments, he is roused from sinful despair by the sound of carolers, in whose song he joins; afterwards, though he still feels somewhat depressed, ―the anguish of feeling, the sense of being in the power of evil, had insensibly left him‖ (314) through music‘s agency. Music, then, is portrayed in the novel in terms that associate it with both women and goodness. Likewise, Philip‘s disapproval of music demonstrates not only flaws in Philip‘s character; it is tied to his masculinity as well. Philip is clear from the very beginning of the novel that he disapproves of music; when Amy and Laura praise Guy‘s ability (an ability which, with their feminine training, they are able to appreciate as Philip cannot) and discuss his talent, Philip responds: ―‗Ah! inherited, poor fellow‘‖ (30). When Amy, amused, questions whether Philip can actually pity musical talent, Philip responds, ―‗Do you forget? … I would not advise you to make too much of this talent in public; it is too much a badge of descent‘‖ (30). Philip holds fiddling men in contempt, and therefore pities the 61 Guy of course talks in the novel, but he struggles constantly with so doing. Countless are the moments when Guy bites his lip till it bleeds or runs upstairs and locks himself in his room, unable to express the ideas and feelings behind his anger without simply exploding; even when he is able to explain what about the behavior of Philip (surely the most irritatingly superior character in all fiction) has particularly hurt him, he finds difficulty in doing so to anyone but Mrs. Edmonstone, and even then he often speaks with hesitation. Guy does not intellectualize his feelings, nor does the novel expect him to; instead, he must learn to replace feelings of anger and violence with gentle, loving feelings – a project in which music is, in every sense, instrumental. 151 son of a fiddler. In a time period when travelling violinists were very often the objects of contempt for their effeminacy, poverty, and their obvious profit-motive, Philip‘s concern, although not spelled out, is clear: Guy‘s background is unmanly, not only because it involves money-grubbing but because it is effeminate money-grubbing. Because Philip genuinely pities this background, he makes an effort to masculinize Guy shortly after this incident by talking to Guy seriously about the need to study the classics rather than hanging out at the piano with (other) young ladies – a sub-text that explains Guy‘s burst of anger. The reader, however, is not told to sympathize with Philip‘s beliefs; rather, Philip‘s disapproval of music is undercut when he admits, after compassionating Guy, that he himself has no talent for music (30). His disapproval is thus portrayed as impure because grounded largely in envy, an envy which becomes more explicit when Philip reflects that Guy‘s musical talent has led to Laura‘s admiration for Guy and the quick closeness that Laura and Guy have forged at the piano (121); these reflections lead Philip into what is, in the novel‘s terms, the novel‘s great sinful moment, that of Philip‘s premature and secretive declaration of his feelings to Laura. Philip is not presented as wrong in thinking of music as a feminine activity, for the novel feminizes music as well; but he is presented as wrong and self-interested in therefore condemning music and musicians. Further, his disapproval of music is grounded in sexual jealousy; he feels inferior in manhood to Guy because Guy has captured so much of Laura‘s attention; in his greatest moment of jealousy, Philip therefore emphasizes Guy‘s musical ability repeatedly and contemptuously: ―‗How conceited they have made that boy about his fine ear…. I wonder he is not ashamed to 152 parade his music, considering whence it is derived‘‖ (130). When Philip feels inferior in manhood to Guy, he vents his feelings by casting Guy in feminized terms. Philip himself is a paragon of manly virtues, so much so that Charlotte Yonge wondered if readers would think he was supposed to be the novel‘s role model,62 but his more conventional manliness (classically learned, absorbed in business, continually dispensing advice to Guy and other women) is not necessarily as attractive as Guy‘s more feminine character (emotional, music- loving, domestic). The novel continually critiques what Catherine Wells-Cole calls Philip‘s ―authoritative manhood;‖63 as Wells-Cole points out, part of the reason that Philip and Laura‘s secret relationship is portrayed so negatively is that, once their relationship ceases to be aboveboard, Philip is able to be ―at his most securely masculine,‖64 controlling Laura without check. In the end, however, Philip‘s masculinity largely disappears;65 his illness weakens his bossy tendencies and removes him from the public sphere. While in the domestic sphere, tenderly nursed by Guy, Philip learns the value of Guy‘s more womanly masculinity. After his illness, Philip learns to treat Laura differently; rather than being lordly and treating Laura like his ―slave and automaton‖ (472), he becomes gentle with her, treating her as an 62 Christabel Rose Coleridge, Charlotte Mary Yonge: Her Life and Letters (London: Macmillan, 1903), 175. 63 Wells-Cole, 77. 64 Ibid. 65 Jeanette Shumaker, in ―Illness as a Crucible in Novels by George Meredith, Frances Trollope, and Charlotte Yonge,‖ Nassau Review: The Journal of Nassau Community College Devoted to Arts, Letters, and Sciences 8 (2001): 16-26, has argued that Philip is portrayed as a feminine character because he becomes ill; Shumaker does not, however, discuss how Philip was gendered before or after his illness, nor does she suggest that anything, other than simple illness, changes about his character or situation. 153 equal and, as Wells-Cole points out, encouraging Laura to study math and strengthen her mind rather than look to himself for all guidance.66 The novel ends by discussing Philip‘s kindness to children, particularly Guy‘s daughter, and thus casts Philip in more womanly terms to prove that he has learned a lesson about what manhood should truly be. Likewise, Guy achieves a victory over manhood, the culmination of a masculinity that, throughout the novel, has been cast in feminized terms. Catherine Wells-Cole rightly argues that Guy‘s manliness is defined in terms of anger67 and hidden, seething strength – ―It seemed as if it was the perception that so much was kept back by strong force, that made Guy‘s least token of displeasure so formidable‖ (89) – and for Wells-Cole, this is enough to masculinize Guy in conventional terms. However, anger is not the full measure of manhood for Yonge – certainly not of ideal manhood. Even Guy‘s anger is feminized because it is employed for compassionate ends, such as defending animals from teasing (89). While compassion can certainly be a masculine trait in nineteenth-century terms, the fact that Guy‘s seething anger boils over, not into fights or quarrels, but demonstrations of love and affection for little creatures helps to feminize even his anger. Further, as the novel proceeds, Guy learns not to feel anger, but only gentleness; to the extent that his anger defines his masculinity, then, he progressively loses his masculinity as he loses his anger. Like an Angelic woman, Guy is a moral influence on those around him; men find that they cannot curse before Guy any more than before a lady: ―had it not been for a sort of involuntary respect to the gentle compassion of the softened hazel eyes regarding him so 66 Wells-Cole, 77. 67 Ibid., 74. 154 kindly, he would have used the violent expletive that trembled on his lip‖ (99). Guy‘s eventual death, through nursing his cousin Philip back to health, is the culmination of this feminization. Silent, self-sacrificing, performing the services of an Angel, moving constantly in the domestic sphere rather than the public one, Guy‘s death is his apotheosis as a feminized and simultaneously valorized man. The novel does not similarly valorize its female characters, because Yonge‘s own prejudices will not allow her consciously to do so, but the male person of Guy serves to justify the feminine virtues and portray them as superior to those of conventional masculinity. The Heir of Redclyffe struck a deep chord with readers.68 Women whose lives felt stifled could sympathize with Guy‘s attempts to subdue his own frustrations,69 but even more, they could see Guy as a figure like themselves (ignorant of classical learning, unable to express strong feelings, loving music and using it as an emotional outlet, tending silently to the needs of others) whose femininity is championed. Why, however, did men, too, take so much to the novel? Some men had read the novel so many times that one sailor was able to write out a missing page from his ship‘s copy from memory70 – why did male readers evidently respond so passionately to the feminized figure of Guy Morville? The answer is, at least in part, because nineteenth-century constructions of masculinity had more relation to theory than fact. The fact that women were supposed to be more emotional does not mean, 68 For an account of the novel‘s massive popularity, particularly with male readers, see Alethea Hayter, Charlotte Yonge (Plymouth, England: Northcote House, 1996), 1-2. 69 Wells-Cole, 74. 70 Hayter, 1-2. 155 of course, that they were; part of the reason for The Heir of Redclyffe‘s popularity may be that, in portraying the emotional and Angelic Guy, the novel portrayed manhood much more as men actually felt it, and much more as they wished it to be, than did many other novels with more conventionally masculine heroes. The feminization, or effeminization, of musical performance was therefore not something that was deplored by all. On the contrary, authors such as Yonge, Dickens, and Trollope take advantage of this process to question contemporary definitions of manhood, and the popularity of all three novelists may have something to do with their willingness to redefine masculinity at a period when class and gender distinctions could work to take away traditionally male activities from men; these authors not only suggest that men can be more like women, but also that men can re-claim their ancient provinces. This trend would only continue. 156 CHAPTER 5 MUSIC AT THE FIN DE SIÈCLE [T]he musician has not been rendered nervous by his music, but he owes his nervousness (as also, it may be added, his disposition to homosexuality) to the same disposition to which he owes his musical aptitude. ~ Havelock Ellis, The Psychology of Sex1 By the end of the nineteenth century, music began to be redefined as it was increasingly included in curricula, at varying educational levels. As music was institutionalized and formalized as a field of study, it was also, utterly unsurprisingly, masculinized – or at least, attempts were made to redefine music‘s previously ―feminine‖ characteristics as in fact masculine. This attempt, however, was doomed by its own nature, for in attempting to redefine, for example, music‘s affect as masculine on the grounds that men were the only ones capable of true emotion2 had the undesired and unforeseen result of destabilizing gender categories. This in turn destabilized sexual categories, and music became associated with (male) homosexuality; works by homosexual or bisexual authors began to seize upon musical imagery and motifs as part of the construction of an argument in favor of homosexuality that argued for the spirituality of that orientation. As with most progressive moments, however, there was a backlash, and the association of music with homosexuality and destabilized gender roles led to an increasingly negative perception of music, the more so as music was increasingly seen as a force that affected both mind and 1 Quoted in Adams, 224. 2 See, for example, Edith Brower, ―Is the Musical Idea Masculine?‖, The Atlantic Monthly 73 (March 1894): 332-339. Although Brower was an American and her essay was published in The Atlantic Monthly, it was widely reprinted both in whole and in part in a number of British as well as American journals and anthologies. 157 body. Music could bypass the rational part of the mind, access hidden depths, and simultaneously exert control over the body; thus, listening to music could, it was feared, lead not only to problematic or dangerous emotions but to socially taboo behavior as well – just as some parents and theorists of the twentieth century feared that rock music, because of its sound as much as or more than its lyrics, would lead to loose or deviant sexual behavior.3 This unstable situation was dealt with in various ways. One way was to accept the redefining of music as masculine. Another was to embrace music as a symbol of sexual equality, both between men and women and between those of varying sexual orientations. The final, and perhaps most successful strategy, was to find a new musical Other to take the place of women, against which men could define themselves as masculine anew. The Reunification and Institutionalization of Music For much of the century, listening to, composing, and performing music had been considered separate mental skills. By the end of the century, however, this began to change, partly due to medical research. Those who studied cases of aphasia, for example, in which a 3 See, for example, Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987): 68-81. Bloom ―argues‖ that what ―youths‖ (it is unclear whether Bloom includes women in this designation) respond to in music is not the lyrics so much as the ―beat‖ (70). Listeners to rock music find their minds and bodies taken over as their bodies ―[throb] with orgasmic rhythms [as their] feelings are made articulate in hymns to the joys of onanism‖ (75). While Bloom does briefly refer to lyrics, he cannot make them the linchpin of his argument, as too many of the rock songs Bloom knows (not very many) have lyrics that consist of social critique. These Bloom dismisses as promulgations of ―a smarmy, hypocritical version of brotherly love‖ (74) whose real problem, Bloom reveals, is its interest in a vision of a ―classless, prejudice-free, conflictless, universal society‖ (74), a vision Bloom abhors. Bloom‘s real concern with rock music is shown by his repeated association of it with the creation of what he calls ―polymorphous attractions‖ (74) and ―strange young males‖ (76) whose masculinity Bloom deeply questions. Likewise, many fundamentalist debates over the music of Christian pop singer Amy Grant (prior to her divorce, at least) focused on the sound of her music, music whose beat was feared even though the lyrics were generally considered by the same commentators as praiseworthy or at least harmless. 158 patient‘s ability to speak or process language was impaired, noticed that ―[o]ccasionally the musical faculty, which seems to reside in the left first temporal convolution, is lost or sensibly impaired,‖ leading to speculation that aphasia and ―amusia, or musical aphasia‖ might be two manifestations of the same underlying problem.4 Thus, while for much of the century the idea that music was a more primitive communicative skill than language had held sway,5 now the medical community began to argue that in fact music and language were connected skills. This kind of research into the ties between music and other mental abilities led to the beginnings of what is now known as music therapy. Increasingly, medical journals suggested that music‘s ability to affect both body and mind could be made part of medical treatment. C. Theodore Williams, writing in the British Medical Journal, for instance, recommended that consumptives listen to music,6 while others went even further. James T.R. Davison, writing in The Lancet, suggested that music be made part of the treatment of all sick persons as harmonic sounds could diminish both the perception of sickness and physically affect the body in such as a way as to harmonize the body‘s rhythms and thus help heal physical problems.7 Davison, like any good British intellectual, grounds his argument with reference to the ancient Greeks, who ―discriminated several forms of music 4 P. Blaikie Smith, ―Auditory Aphasia with Amusia,‖ British Medical Journal (April 1897): 842. 5 Largely due to Herbert Spencer‘s essay on ―The Origin and Function of Music,‖ although many other writers expressed the same idea. 6 C. Theodore Williams, ―Remarks on the Open-Air Cure or Hygienic Treatment of Consumption,‖ British Medical Journal (April 1899): 833, 834. 7 James T.R. Davison, ―Music in Medicine,‖ The Lancet (October 1899): 1159-1162. 159 according to their influence on the body, under the names of Phrygian, Lydian, Æolian, and Doric styles.‖8 He then goes on to cite case histories where music was able to excite patients into the manifestation of latent symptoms and then calm the now-visible symptoms, citing victims of dancing diseases such as St. Vitus‘s dance and tarantulism as among those most susceptible to musical cures.9 Likewise citing ancient authority, this time the Hebrew Bible, W.M. Dale, also writing for The Lancet, suggests that doctors return to the example of King David, who soothed Saul with his harp, and realize that ―music might be made more serviceable in treatment, provided it were judiciously employed and kept from assuming the garb of quackery or mystery‖10 because music‘s soothing qualities will calm nerves, eliminate distractions, and thus enable patients and doctors to concentrate on the healing process.11 Others suggested that listening to music might help developmentally- delayed children to progress mentally12 and that music could be used to treat fever, melancholia, and depression.13 All of this discussion points to a change in the conception of music. No longer could music be considered a compartmentalized skill set separate from other mental and 8 Davison, ―Music in Medicine,‖ 1159. 9 Davison, ―Music in Medicine,‖ 1160. 10 W.M. Dale, ―Psycho-therapeutics,‖ The Lancet (August 1892): 419. 11 Dale, ―Psycho-therapeutics,‖ 420. 12 Fletcher Beach, ―The Treatment of Feeble-Minded Children,‖ The Lancet (July 1893): 191-192. 13 Edwin Goodall, ―Music as a Therapeutic Agency,‖ British Medical Journal (October 1891): 920; Frederick K. Harford, ―Effects of Music upon the Circulation and Nervous System,‖ British Medical Journal (November 1891): 1068; J. Ewing Hunter, ―Is Soft Music a Calmative in Cases of Fever?‖, British Medical Journal (October 1892): 923; Henry Rayner, ―A Discussion on the Treatment of Melancholia,‖ British Medical Journal (September 1895): 760-766. 160 physical abilities. In keeping with the medical world‘s changing conception of music, musical theorists and commentators also began to discuss music in terms that argued for the removal of the definitional divisions between composition, listening, and performance and thus for a more unified conception of music as a field. In particular, commentators began to suggest that listening was a primary skill without which one could never achieve the highest level of composition or performance: ―By the sole agency of hearing music can the highest musical culture be attained.‖14 Those who wished to make this claim for the inter-relatedness of musical skills, however, felt the novelty of their claim and knew that they faced resistance from concert-goers and professional musicians alike: [This idea] may be doubted by such martyrs to fashion as, having sat through ten seasons of grand opera and symphony concerts, of solo recitals by world-famous artists and unnumbered classic musicales, without appreciation or pleasure, have risen from the last with ears stunned and distracted and with faculties harassed and stupefied. While the proposition will be disputed [also] by many professional musicians who, though devoted to so-called music study, the major part of their lives, though they are of the Brahmin caste in the art world (disdainfully rejecting all things common, thanking God every day they are not as other men), are yet unable to comprehend music in its higher forms well enough to enjoy it….15 The response to this skepticism was to redefine listening in such a way that it was not a merely passive activity, but one involving numerous mental skills. John Stainer,16 for example, an early proponent of the connection between listening, composition, and 14 Richard Welton, ―Hearing Music,‖ Music: A Monthly Magazine 11 (February 1897): 388. 15 Ibid. 16 Founding member and president of the Musical Association. Stainer, in addition to writing a number of hymns and serving as choir director and professor of music at Magdalen College, Oxford, wrote a number of treatises on music theory. For more on his life and career, see Jeremy Dibble, John Stainer: A Life in Music (Woodbridge, Suffolk, England: Boydell Press, 2007). 161 performance, argued that listening to music is a skill comprising four elements: ―(1) Sensation, (2) Intellect, (3) Sentiment of the Beautiful, (4) Emotion.‖17 Thus, listening and composition or listening and performance could no longer be considered separate skills because mind and body were linked. One reason for the revaluing of music and listening was a renewed desire to extend music‘s moral influence to the masses by exposing the masses to good singing in churches18 – singing that unfortunately was provided by the masses themselves, and which was often uninspiring at best. As Thomas Wyse had put it to the House of Commons earlier in the century, ―[t]he people roar and scream, because they have heard nothing but roaring and screaming … from their childhood.‖19 Listening therefore was increasingly considered a necessary precursor to good, or at least decent, performance. England‘s continued failure to produce a composer of international renown provided a motive for seeing listening and composition as related skills; proponents of the importance of listening argued that a nation of trained, intelligent listeners would spur composers to compose better works.20 As a result, the teaching of music began to change, at all levels. At more elementary levels, the teaching of listening skills, which had been taught only sporadically throughout the century, began to assume the status of orthodox pedagogy (culminating in the 17 Charles W. Pearce, ―On Listening to Music,‖ Proceedings of the Musical Association 19th session (1892-1893): 53. 18 Rainbow, ―The Rise of Popular Music Education,‖ 31. 19 Quoted in Rainbow, ―The Rise of Popular Music Education,‖ 25. 20 Pearce, 63. 162 twentieth century‘s many Music Appreciation classes).21 At the university level, musical study became more rigorous and generalized. For much of the century, one could receive a bachelor‘s or doctoral degree in music for simply writing a composition and giving a public performance; music students at Oxford were not even required to spend any time at their degree-granting college: Last Friday a small harvest of new Doctors and Bachelors of Music was announced…. There is one true story of the new recipients which should not be passed over. Last Thursday we discovered a pathetic figure wandering vaguely in the vicinity of Broad Street…. He explained that he was a Mus. Bac. of New College, and was anxious, before ascending to the Doctor‘s degree, to see the college to which he was a credit, but that he could not find it anywhere, as he had never yet entered its precincts.22 By the end of the century, a residency requirement had been introduced, and students at all levels were required, for the music degree, not only to be able to perform and to write a composition but to pass a series of examinations in music theory, music history, and knowledge of individual works – not just as compositions on paper, but as performances with sound.23 The skills of performance and composition, which had been treated as separate, were now constructed as related through a historical and theoretical framework that included listening to and understanding other works. These changes were made in part to make the degree more difficult and therefore more respectable, an endeavor which seems to have succeeded; they were also part and parcel of a growing interest throughout Europe, towards the end of the century, in the idea 21 Rainbow, ―The Rise of Popular Music Education,‖ 48. 22 Oxford Magazine 15 (11 November 1896), 57, quoted in Wollenberg, 109. 23 Wollenberg, 102. 163 that the arts are all related. Wagner‘s music of the future posited a fusion of instrumental and vocal music with poetry and drama; composers such as Liszt, Mahler, Respighi and others were increasingly interested in representative music, music that would not be pure sound but which could through its form evoke specific locales, stories, or moments in history and therefore take on many of the signifying functions more commonly associated with poetry, prose, and the visual arts. In keeping with this renewed interest in music as a form of art, commentators began redefining even those aspects of music that had previously been considered feminine as masculine,24 and in general treating music as an art form for which gentlemen were best suited – in contrast to the situation we saw earlier in the century in chapter 4. Much of this redefinition was done through practical means – girls‘ schools did not often teach music and boys‘ schools increasingly did, a fact which caused Clara Macirone, headmistress of Aske‘s School for Girls and the Church of England‘s London girls‘ high school, to lament that girls were in danger of being excluded from music as a field.25 At stake was the 24 Defenses of music at the end of the century tended, still, to argue that music was ―not altogether a feminine pursuit‖ (―Carafa,‖ The Musical World 50 [Sept. 1872], 577). Articles and essays were written on both sides of the pond, deploring the feminization of music. Americans seem to have been particularly fearful – numerous articles appeared in U.S. journals with such pointed titles as ―The Feminization of Music,‖ ―Is Music an Effeminate Art?‖ and ―Why Do Not More Men Take Up Music?‖ (cited in Gavin Campbell, Music and the Making of a New South [Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004], 147, n. 11; Catherine Smith, ―‗A Distinguishing Virility‘: Feminism and Modernism in American Art Music,‖ in Cecilia Reclaimed: Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music, ed. by Susan C. Cook and Judy Tsou [Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994], 94). 25 Macirone, ―A Plea for Music,‖ quoted in Sarah McNeely, ―Beyond the Drawing Room: The Musical Lives of Victorian Women,‖ Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies 5 (Summer 2009), paragraph 6. McNeely argues that Macirone‘s concern was equality of education between boys and girls; I agree, but add that Macirone‘s language suggests that she still holds the view made popular by the Rev. Haweis, that music is a moral and disciplinary agent, and that her concern is that women‘s moral authority is being undermined by the giving over of musical authority to men. 164 question of moral authority; if music was, as Macirone and many others argued, a ―good physician, a tender friend, [that] comes to the aid of all classes, a gentle minister of consolation…. [that] draws the bonds of social family life more closely together,‖26 then the shift of music away from the domestic sphere to the world of boys‘ schools and men‘s colleges signaled a removal of a large portion of what moral and cultural authority women had gained due to the doctrine of the separate spheres to the hands of middle- and upper- class men.27 Nonetheless (or perhaps ―therefore‖), the institutionalization and at least attempted masculinization of music proceeded apace, due in part to the tie between music and the body begun earlier in the century. Much of this sort of argument took place through the strategic use of adjectives: listening, for instance, was no longer an activity, but a ―strenuous activity‖28 that could exhaust the mind29 and that required strength and sinew of both mind and body. Strong, large hands, always useful to the piano-player, were now 26 Macirone, ―A Plea for Music,‖ quoted in McNeely, ―Beyond the Drawing Room,‖ paragraph 6. 27 The fin de siècle did see an increase in women‘s participation in music, but that increase was in women‘s public participation, indicating both that women were entering men‘s turf and that the turf had shifted. For a discussion of how women could try to enter music as a field (implying that music was seen now a primarily masculine and public endeavor), see, for example, ―Music as a Profession,‖ Work and Leisure: A Magazine Devoted to the Interests of Women 5 (1884): 186-188. The field was still dominated by men, however, more so in England than in Europe; see, for example, Margaret Myers, ―Searching for Data about European Ladies' Orchestras, 1870-1950,‖ in Music and Gender, ed. by Pirkko Moisala and Beverley Diamond (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2000). 28 Mary L. Regal, ―An Undeveloped Field for the Music Teacher,‖ Public Opinion: A Weekly Journal 22 (May 1897): 598. 29 Douglas Galton, ―The Teaching of Defective Children,‖ in Progress in Women‟s Education in the British Empire, ed. by the Countess of Warwick (London: Longmans, Green, and Company, 1897), 64. 165 emphasized as such, as piano-playing was constructed as an activity best suited to men.30 Science was called in to explain: Dr. Neitzel, struck, as many of us cannot fail to have been struck, by the prodigious power displayed by many of our latter-day [male] pianists, has devoted his leisure to an exhaustive investigation of the subject. He has based his calculations on the minimum weight necessary to depress completely one of the keys of the pianoforte so as to produce a pianissimo sound. Having settled this, and all the other degrees of expression up to fortissimo, Dr. Neitzel advances to the consideration of particular works. For example, he takes a passage from the funeral march of Chopin, the prevailing nuance of which is pianissimo, and discovers that if faithfully executed – for Dr. Neitzel is a musician as well as a man of science – it will demand from the executant the expenditure of a force equal to about seven and a half cwt. Etude 12 (Opus 25), by the same composer, contains a passage the performance of which lasts two minutes five seconds, and which, so to speak, weighs upward of two tons.31 The sledgehammer at the piano is thus designated a ―musical athlete.‖32 Others argued that composition, far from being a cerebral activity, was in fact a physically rigorous one. Previous decades had argued for a connection between the mind and the body for women, in that women‘s intellectual activity was often seen as sapping their physical and reproductive resources; men‘s intellectual activity, however, had not been constructed as similarly draining on the body. Now, however, the mental activity of composing music was discussed as one that could only be done well by men of tremendous physical stamina: musicians must be ―robust,‖ as were the great composers; Beethoven, for 30 An article by W.S.B.M. on ―Sherwood An American Master of Piano [sic],‖ published in Music: A Monthly Magazine 11 (February 1897): 339-347, for example, stresses how the master has overcome the handicap of relatively small hands and has strengthened them through years of manful toil; the article is littered with photos of what the captions describe, with almost fetishistic admiration, as ―The Sherwood Hands.‖ 31 ―A Famous First Night,‖ 144. 32 Ibid. 166 example, ―did not lack virility‖ and ―Handel was made of sturdy stuff, capable of volcanic explosions of fury.‖33 Music was now defined as requiring tremendous physical strength;34 even copying out a previously-worked-out composition is ―manual labour,‖ and the actual activity of composition (when done well) generally takes place while striding about in invigorating open air – not surprisingly, as any good musician is probably also a ―keen [sportsman].‖35 Importantly, the manly physique not only makes music possible but is more important than music: ―Berlioz mentions Staudigl‘s eager devotion to the chase, and the apparently reckless way in which he exposed his throat in the pursuit of his favourite recreation.‖36 In short, ―the manlier an artist has proved himself to be, the better musician, ex ipso facto, has he generally been,‖37 while at the same time the manly man is superior to music, thus ensuring that any woman who achieves musical greatness will have achieved in a field to which men are superior and will have done so by virtue of being, not just mentally or spiritually, but physically masculine.38 33 ―Manliness in Music,‖ 461. 34 Stratton, 127; Stratton cites a common view to which he dissents. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 ―Manliness in Music,‖ 460. 38 The many mocking drawings and descriptions of New Women as mustachioed, portly cigar- puffers were not simply an angry response to the New Woman herself; the anger took the form it did as part and parcel of the move away from emphasizing mental difference between the sexes (since that argument was now less sustainable) and towards emphasizing physical difference. The New Woman is portrayed as erasing physical differences between the sexes rather than mental ones as the most effective way to argue that the erasure of difference more generally is both unnatural and fatally unattractive. 167 This association of music with patriarchal, middle- and upper-class masculinity explains why transgressive women in fin de siècle stories are sometimes punished for their transgressions by being forced to listen to music. In Thomas Hardy‘s 1893 short story ―The Fiddler of the Reels,‖ for instance, Car‘line Aspent is forced to dance by her former lover, Mop Ollamoor, till she collapses with exhaustion. This denouement is Car‘line‘s punishment for her various transgressions against domesticity, sexual purity, and class boundaries. Car‘line first rejects her ―manly and simple wooer‖ (170) Ned Hipcroft for the ―woman‘s man‖ (166), Mop Ollamoor, ostensibly because Mop‘s music has such a powerful, implicitly sexual effect on her that she cannot help but experience a ―galvanic shock‖ when she so much as hears his footstep (169). The attraction is not simply sexual, however; Car‘line also feels no interest in becoming the wife of the simple Ned, whose simpleness designates not only his intellect and character but also his class status. Though Mop Ollamoor is a horse-doctor and Ned a much more financially-stable mechanic (170), Ollamoor is only a ―nominal‖ horse-doctor (170), implying that he is really of better stock that his public profession implies. Car‘line eventually sleeps with Ollamoor and gives birth to a daughter, after rejecting Ned‘s proposal of marriage. Abandoned by Ollamoor, however, after a few years she reconsiders her rejection of Ned and writes to him, asking him to take her back (without mentioning the child). Ned has not exactly been pining for Car‘line – ―his was a nature not greatly dependent upon the ministrations of the other sex for its comforts‖ (171) – but he agrees to marry her as long as she will make up for her past transgressions by coming to him (rather than being fetched by him), admitting her faults 168 and begging his pardon in person (in addition to the letter), and promising to be a good little wife. All this Car‘line promises, and the two are married, although not without a slight hesitation on Ned‘s part when he sees the child. Car‘line‘s motives for marrying Ned at this juncture are mixed; in part, she hopes to see Mop Ollamoor again, although she ―always stoutly denied that her readiness to go and meet Ned in town arose from any rumor that Mop had also gone thither‖ (177). More importantly, she now sees Ned as the likelier financial prospect, and after their marriage she looks forward to a return to the country as ―a smiling London wife with a distinct London accent … a triumph which the world did not witness every day‖ (178). Her pretensions are dashed when Ned lingers behind to make some business inquiries and Car‘line, with the child, continues on to the symbolically-named Quiet Woman, ―a certain half-way house widely known as an inn‖ (178). There Car‘line is reduced to silence and humility when Mop Ollamoor appears and begins playing his fiddle. Car‘line feels compelled to dance, although the impetus comes partly from her own sense of guilt: ―A terrified embarrassment as to what she could say to him if she were to leave off, had its unrecognized share in keeping her going‖ (182). She is stripped of the sense that she is ―mistress of herself in the dignity her London life had given her‖ (179) and though she attempts to smile while dancing in ―as a feint to signify that it was still her own pleasure which led her on,‖ in fact she is dancing ―slavishly and abjectly, subject to every wave of the melody, and probed by the gimlet-like gaze of her fascinator‘s open eye‖ (182). Finally Car‘line collapses, having been taught a lesson about her class pretensions and her sexual past, both of which stemmed from what she is forced 169 to learn was a false sense of personal autonomy. This lesson seems superfluous, in that Car‘line has already begged pardon from Ned and has in fact been making him a good wife, but an autonomous apology is not enough: a punishment must be imposed upon her from without by a male force.39 Disruptions: Masculinity and Sexuality Ollamoor‘s musical power over Car‘line is one instance of the way that music was aligned with mesmerism at the end of the century, and his power over her fits the pattern of male mesmerist and female patient that has been described by Elaine Showalter and others.40 This pattern reflects real-life mesmeric practices, and the alignment of music with mesmerism at the end of the century is made possible in part by the increasing masculinization of music in that the mesmerist (male) could now be seen as analog to the musician (also male). Although music could, of course, affect men just as mesmerism could, the locus of anxiety in both cases was women. Again, this comes as no surprise. Middle- class Victorians feared mesmerism‘s and music‘s power over the female because they were most anxious about controlling women‘s bodies and subjectivity and because they saw women‘s bodies and subjectivity as particularly vulnerable to men‘s superior mental and physical strength. In other words, what could have been a symbolic criticism of patriarchy 39 Michael Benazon argues that Car‘line has not sexually transgressed in any reprehensible sense, but rather that ―sexual attraction is [a] demonic force that disrupts perfectly sound and rational matrimonial arrangements‖ (77). However, though Car‘line is impelled by music to sleep with Ollamoor, she is nevertheless punished for her actions. The story is, in short, in one sense but another variation on Hardy‘s usual theme that ―dicing Time for gladness casts a moan‖ (―Hap‖ 12). 40 See Michael Donnelly, Managing the Mind: A Study of Medical Psychology in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain (London and New York: Tavistock Publications, 1983); Elaine Showalter, The Female Malady: Women, Madness, and English Culture, 1830-1980, 2nd ed. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1987). 170 actually functioned in the opposite way, by suggesting that women‘s purity could be attacked by outsiders. Mop Ollamoor, for example, is not exercising the power of a middle- class gentleman, but that of an outsider – a man of dubious origins and class status, and even dubious masculinity – his name is derived from his mop of long ringlets. What complicates the picture, however, is the fact that this paradigm of male mesmerist / female patient (or victim) is one that assumes heteronormativity. However, masculinity in music as elsewhere became more and more associated with a less heteronormative model, with consequent disruption of traditional gender roles. The new unity of listening, composition, and performance, and of music with other arts meant that music, specifically composition, became increasingly difficult to construct as exclusively cerebral. Previously, a man could compose music and in so doing construct composition as a highly intellectual activity, divorced from the affect of listening and very different from, say, his sister‘s emotion-laden performances; now it much more difficult to separate men‘s musical activity from sensitive emotional expression. Further, this new (or rather, return to) musical unity meant that men were less and less able to construct their musical activities in contrast to women‘s; the gendering of the division between composition and performance, for example, was only possible as long as there was a division between composition and performance. A further problem for the project of masculinizing music as a field (rather than the previous masculinization of divisions of music) was the long-vexing problem of musical nationalism. Numerous essays, throughout the century, pondered whether or not the 171 English were a musical people;41 implicit in such essays was the dismissal of the ubiquity of music among women of the middle- and upper-classes and a desire or hope for England to produce a great male composer of art music. Any attempt to essentialize music as a masculine field, therefore, posed a significant problem for British masculinity as long as Britain failed to produce such a composer, or even a great male performer such as Russian pianist Anton Rubinstein. One result of this instability and uncertainty was that women began to perform publicly with increasing frequency, and to write and publish art compositions, which were even occasionally performed.42 This, of course, coupled with the number of women entering music colleges, posed a further problem for the masculinizing of music. Adding to all this was the increasing prominence of Hellenism. As the Greeks were more venerated, their opinions of music were likewise; this had uncomfortable results, for the British had spent most of the century constructing vocal music as feminine and instrumental music as masculine, only to be reminded that the answer from the Greek point of view is conclusive against us. Though much stress was laid upon the noble words which were sung, the music was known to have the principal effect. Plato in a celebrated passage even 41 For examples, see ―Are the English a Musical People?‖, 675-681; composer George Alexander‘s Macfarren‘s ―The English are not a Musical People,‖ Cornhill 18 (1868): 344-363; Marshall, ―Music and the People,‖ 921-932. 42 Phyllis Weliver, in Women Musicians in Victorian Fiction, 1860-1900, points out, as does Paula Gillett, the sudden increase in the numbers of women who participated in music‘s public sphere at century‘s end. Neither, however, argues that this increase was part of a breakdown in the stability of domestic ideology, as I do. 172 inveighs bitterly against the gross immorality and luxuriousness of all mere instrumental music.43 The male musician was therefore posed with a problem: one could not simultaneously be seen as masculine by both Victorian and Hellenistic standards. Further, Hellenism was by century‘s end more and more associated with homosexuality, as Linda Dowling has demonstrated;44 homosexual authors and critics such as John Addington Symonds took advantage of the untouchability of Hellenism to point out that the Greeks admired homosexuality and thought of it as spiritual, not merely physical, suggesting that those who agreed with the Greeks (regarding the problem of effeminacy, for example) should logically also agree with the Greek ideal of masculinity (which included a homosexuality that was decidedly not part of the usual Victorian vision of manliness). Homosexuality began to be more openly discussed, and was routinely defined in terms of mental attributes rather than physical activity.45 This was another reason straight male music lovers and closeted homosexual ones shied away from discussing their musical activities in mental terms, preferring to emphasise the physical; homosexual musicans and composers such as Edward Elgar,46 for example, relentlessly ―affected the role of the tweed-clad sportsman‖ and 43 John Pentland Mahaffy, Old Greek Education (London: Kegan Paul, 1881), 70. Mahaffy ultimately disagrees with Plato, but others were not so quick to dismiss the great one. See, for example, Karl Julius Belling, ―Plato‘s Position with Reference to Art, and in Particular to Music,‖ Music: A monthly magazine (January 1892):197-203. 44 See Linda Dowling, Hellenism and Homosexuality in Victorian Oxford (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1994). 45 See, for example, John Addington Symonds, A Problem in Modern Ethics: Being an inquiry into the phenomenon of sexual inversion, addressed especially to medical psychologists and jurists ([N.p.,] 1896). 46 For the argument that Elgar was homosexual, see Adams. 173 ―demonstrated the requisite fascination with golf, billiards, and fishing, as well as hearty bicycling and robust tramping over the Malvern hills.‖47 This focus on the physical was an attempt to move away from discussions of musical men that, in focusing on qualities of mind associated with artistic ability, increasingly conceded that ―[s]ome of the finest work in art and literature, indeed, has been produced by men who could not, from any standpoint, be pronounced normal.‖48 Indeed, as the headnote to this chapter indicates, some had begun to suspect that musical ability and homosexuality were but two facets of one sort of mind. Music‘s mesmeric power, then, could be used to redefine masculinity by disrupting heteronormativity, and a number of homosexual authors turned to music as a trope for gender and sexual uncertainty. In Vernon Lee‘s ―A Wicked Voice‖ (1890),49 for instance, a woman is killed and a man haunted by the sound of the castrato Zaffirino‘s wicked voice. In this story, however, there is no transgression for which music could be the punishment, as in Hardy‘s ―The Fiddler of the Reels.‖ Rather, music is a form of torture that ―est donc d‘autant plus étrange et inquiétante qu‘elle leur est infligée par leur propre voix, aliénée, devenue autre, méconnaissable, et qui les aliène‖ (is all the more strange and disturbing in that it is inflicted on [these characters] by an unrecognizable and alienated version of their 47 Adams, 225. 48 Ernest Newman, A Study of Wagner (New York: G.P. Putnam‘s Sons, 1899), 385. 49 All quotations taken from Vernon Lee, ―A Wicked Voice,‖ in Hauntings and Other Fantastic Tales, ed. by Catherine Maxwell and Patricia Pulham (Ontario: Broadview Press, 2006). Lee originally published the story in French under the title ―Voix maudite,‖ but soon after translated it herself with the title ―A Wicked Voice.‖ All references therefore are to Lee‘s own translation. 174 own voice).50 As Catherine Maxwell has pointed out, what the narrator, Magnus, is haunted by in Zaffirino‘s voice is its sexual attractiveness, a homoeroticism that reflects not only the male homoeroticism found in texts by such friends of Lee as Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde, but also functions as a stand-in for Lee‘s own lesbianism.51 The choice of music as a vehicle for homoeroticism is less accidental than previous critics have implied, however; in this case, vehicle and tenor are very closely tied. While previous critics have attempted to understand the story‘s negative attitude towards Zaffirino‘s voice in terms of Lee‘s ambivalence about her own lesbianism,52 they have largely treated the story‘s musical themes and sexual undertones as separate53 when in fact the descriptions of music are part of the story‘s sexual theme. Zaffirino is a castrato, a fact to which the story only delicately alludes; he is also frequently compared a woman in both looks and voice. His face is variously described as ―sensual, effeminate‖ (162) and as a ―wicked woman‘s face‖ (163), a face that fulfills Magnus‘s ―boyish romantic dreams‖ (162), and his voice is ―a man‘s voice which had much of a woman‘s‖ (170) and that is called by audiences ―all sorts of names …; people went to so 50 Sophie Geoffroy-Menoux, ―Les Voix maudites de Vernon Lee: Du Bel canto à la mal‘aria dans ‗Winthrop Adventure‘ (1881), ‗La voix maudite‘ (1887), ‗The Virgin of the Seven Daggers‘ (1909),‖ Alizés: Revue Angliciste de la Réunion 22 (June 2002): paragraph 19. My translation. 51 Catherine Maxwell, ―Sappho, Mary Wakefield, and Vernon Lee‘s ‗A Wicked Voice,‘‖ Modern Language Review 102 (October 2007): 960. 52 See Carlo Caballero, ―‗A Wicked Voice‘: On Vernon Lee, Wagner, and the Effects of Music,‖ Victorian Studies: A Journal of the Humanities, Arts, and Sciences 35 (Summer 1992): 385-386. 53 For a discussion of the lesbian undertones to the story, see Maxwell. For a discussion of the story‘s treatment of singers, opera, and Wagner, see Cabellero; Grace Kehler, ―Occult Charm and Social Ills: Vernon Lee‘s ‗A Wicked Voice‘ and George du Maurier‘s Castrated Texts,‖ Romanticism on the Net 34-35 (May 2004); and Emma Sutton, Aubrey Beardsley and British Wagnerism in the 1890s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 65-68. 175 far as to dispute whether the voice belonged to a man or to a woman‖ (170). The homoerotic implications of Magnus‘s attraction to Zaffirino are clear in this casting of Zaffirino as a feminine figure. However, Zaffirino‘s voice is also described frequently in phallic terms: Zaffirino never simply sings, but gives forth a ―long note [that] swelled slowly by insensible degrees‖ (165), ―a thread of sound … which expanded slowly, insensibly, taking volume and body, taking flesh … full, passionate‖ (167). The constant association of this hermaphroditic voice with wickedness and danger reflects Magnus‘s own discomfort with his sexuality – Zaffirino‘s melodies ―sickened but intoxicated my soul‖ (163) – but also reflects the resurrection of a cultural anxiety about blurred and destabilized gender and sex roles that took music as its focus. The Italianate eighteenth-century music that Zaffirino sings was music that Lee herself loved and admired54 and which was in its time condemned as overly effeminate, as discussed in chapters 1 and 4. In opposition to this music is the Wagnerian-style opera that Magnus wishes to compose. Critics such as Carlo Caballero and Emma Sutton have argued that in fact these two types of music are not in opposition, that the eighteenth-century music of Zaffirino is described in Wagnerian terms and that the portrayal of this music as dangerous is Lee‘s way of arguing against a decadence she is secretly fascinated with, but overtly condemns. However, if musical distinctions are collapsed in order to associate all music with a mentally, emotionally, and sexually invasive experience,55 it is unclear why the story‘s narrator insists so vociferously and frequently on a difference between Zaffirino‘s 54 Caballero, 386. 55 Caballero, 393-394. 176 music and his own. The answer is that, for all Lee‘s fears of Wagner‘s musical emotionalism, as detailed in her essays on music, Wagner‘s music offers, potentially, a way out of the musical and sexual magnetism of music in its attempts to wed music to poetry and visual art. Poetry, for Lee, was different from and superior to music in that ―poetry, even while rousing emotion, brings into play what is most different to emotion, … reason,‖56 a quality which, for Lee, could separate and thus tame the emotions, the unconscious mind, and the body. Zaffirino‘s music is problematic because it is vocal rather than instrumental, ―begotten of the body‖ (156) and yet capable of influencing the mind as well as controlling the body. The Duchess whom Zaffirino killed with his voice and Magnus, whose mind is overtaken by thoughts of Zaffirino as well as with a sexualized obsession, are not separate victims except in terms of the literal plot; rather, they are twin aspects of music‘s power. For Lee, music differs from all the other arts in its revelation, however dangerous or disturbing, that body and mind cannot be separated. Further, there are not two sets of bodies and therefore two sets of minds, as there had been for most Victorian writers earlier in the century, but only a body / mind equally vulnerable in men and women and which thus makes impossible traditional gender distinctions as well as heteronormativity. 56 Vernon Lee, ―Beauty and Sanity,‖ Laurus Nobilis: Chapters on Art and Life (London: John Lane, 1909), 138. 177 For similar reasons, music is the motif perhaps most frequently associated with homoeroticism in Oscar Wilde‘s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891).57 As Joe Law points out, Dorian is introduced by Lady Brandon as a musician, and at key points in the novel Lord Henry‘s temptations are voiced in a ―low, musical voice‖ (29; also 222).58 Law argues that Dorian thus takes the feminized position in the paradigm of male musical mesmerist / female victim,59 and yet such paradigms do not quite fit because neither character is traditionally gendered. Lord Henry‘s aestheticism and interest in Dorian and other men over women obviously do not fit conventional masculine paradigms even as his power over others cements that masculinity. Dorian likewise is portrayed as simultaneously homosexual and yet very much masculine; the tie between the two is indicated through his association with music. For instance, when Lady Brandon introduces Dorian to Basil Hallward, she cannot remember what instrument he plays: ―Quite forget what he does – afraid he – doesn‘t do anything – oh, yes, plays the piano – or is it the violin, dear Mr Gray?‖ (17). The question is answered at the beginning of next chapter: ―He was seated at the piano‖ (26). Through musical imagery and engagement with the cultural associations of the two instruments in question, a question about Dorian‘s sexuality has been asked and answered. At the same time,the very name Dorian evokes ancient Greece and its intellectual, spiritual, and sexual associations. The Dorian or Doric was a mode of music in 57 All quotations taken from Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891. Repr., New York: Barnes and Noble Collector‘s Library, 2003). 58 Joe Law, ―The ‗perniciously homosexual art‘: Music and homoerotic desire in The Picture of Dorian Gray and other fin de siècle fiction,‖ in The Idea of Music in Victorian Fiction, ed. by Sophie Fuller and Nicky Losseff (Aldershot, Hants, England: Ashgate, 2004), 175-176. 59 Law, 182. 178 the ancient Greek system, equivalent to today‘s concept of keys (A minor and so on). The Dorian mode was associated in particular with masculinity;60 Plato contrasts it with such feminine modes as the Lydian and Phrygian and argues that the Dorian is not only most masculine but also most suited to war-like tempers,61 a judgement with which much later commentators agreed.62 The name ―Dorian‖ is thus closely tied to a Greek ideal of masculinity that combines the warrior with the homosexual, and therefore disrupts Victorian gender categories by suggesting that the sensitive Dorian is nonetheless a firmly masculine, albeit homosexual, figure. The mesmeric power of Lord Henry‘s musical voice thus no longer suggests a powerful male figure corrupting a vulnerable female one, but rather becomes a symbol for the disruption of such gender dichotomies altogether. Music‘s Hellenistic associations and the unity of performance, listening, and composition that implied that men, to be superior at music, must be superiorly emotional and sensitive, all served to undercut the masculinization of music. Such disruptive possibilities were not, of course, greeted with enthusiasm by all. The association of music with foreign, lower-class male figures, though not new, could now perform two functions: associating musical power with these male figures meant that power over music‘s affect was kept symbolically out of women‘s hands at a cultural moment when that power, because of its association with mesmerism and its perceived ability to over-ride rational and conscious 60 Jennifer Nevile, Dance, Spectacle, and the Body Politick, 1250-1750 (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 2008), 275-276. 61 The Republic of Plato, trans. by Benjamin Jowett (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1908), 1:398E. 62 See, for example, Thomas Busby, A General History of Music from the Earliest Times to the Present (London: G. and W.B. Whittaker, 1819), 1:192. 179 processes, was seen as particularly great; associating musical power with foreign, low-born figures meant that anything ―unmanly‖ could be ascribed the effeminacy of foreigners rather than posing a threat to white British masculinity. In this sense, the problems that the masculinization of music posed for definitions of masculinity were managed, as we shall see in a minute, by constructing a new musical Other against which middle-class British masculinity could be defined. This method of managing music‘s disruptive possibilities took place within a wider discourse of the feminization of foreigners, particularly Jews. As Marjorie Garber puts in it in her book Vested Interests, ―the desire to resolve category crises by displacing blame onto a minority group from which one can distance oneself, seems to have operated with uncanny effectiveness in the recoding of the Jew as a ‗woman,‘ the ostensible opposite of the ‗manly‘ Aryan.‖63 One reason, in fact, for the universalism of Freud‘s theories is his desire ―not to be categorized and stigmatized as a feminized Jew,‖64 a desire that also drove his interest in the phallus as a marker of maleness for all males in a world where the circumcised penis was routinely compared to a clitoris.65 The feminization of the Other in general and Jews in particular thus contributes to a late- century psychology that treats the body/mind as one entity for both men and women, with only a few sexual differences. 63 Marjorie Garber, Vested Interests: Cross-dressing and Cultural Anxiety, Part 13 (New York: Routledge, 1997), 228. 64 Marjorie Garber, ―Category Crises: The Way of the Cross and the Jewish Star,‖ in Queer Theory and the Jewish Question, ed. by Daniel Boyarin, Daniel Itzkovitz, and Ann Pellegrini (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 32. 65 See, for example, Jay Geller, On Freud‟s Jewish Body: Mitigating Circumcisions (New York: Fordham University Press, 2007); Sander L. Gillman, Freud, Race, and Gender (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995). 180 George du Maurier‘s 1894 novel Trilby66 is therefore an interesting case study. In some ways it seems an obvious novel about male musical and mesmeric power exercised over a female patient / victim. However, despite his masculine power, Svengali is portrayed in ways that feminize him and his femininity is specifically tied to his Jewishness. In turn, Trilby is portrayed in ways that masculinize her, and her masculine qualities are tied to her Britishness. In some ways, therefore, Trilby not only reacts but contributes to the feminization of the Other that served to bolster disrupted gender categories at the fin de siècle by displacing that disruption onto the Other. In other ways, however, Trilby suggests that mind and body, masculine and feminine, are inextricably intertwined; music is the symbol of that intertwining. Svengali is both a musician and a mesmerist with a power over women that aligns him with other male mesmerists in the paradigm described by Elaine Showalter and Alison Winter, among others. In other ways, however, he is feminized through the detraction of his particular type of musical ability.67 Svengali plays short pieces for the most part, [l]ittle fragmentary things, sometimes consisting of but a few bars, but these bars of such beauty and meaning! Scraps, snatches, short melodies, meant to 66 George Du Maurier, Trilby (1894. Repr., London: Everyman Library, 1992). All quotations in parentheses are taken from this edition. 67 Jonathan Freedman argues that in fact Svengali‘s musical and artistic powers are lauded by the novel, because Svengali is given credit for musical ability at a time when Jews were in general considered musical geniuses; see The Temple of Culture: Assimilation and Anti-Semitism in Literary Anglo-America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 105-111. While Freedman is right insofar as the novel is fascinated with that which it condemns, he overlooks the ways that Svengali is condemned, not only as a villain but as a musician. Further, Freedman assumes that the association between Jews and musical ability was an association between Jews and High, art music – which it was not. Rather, and predictably, Jews were associated with music of limited artistic value but great power – an anti-Semitic application and extension of the ideas about low music discussed in chapter 1. The association between Jews and music becomes more fraught as ideas about high and low music change at the end of the century and boundaries are blurred; I will discuss these issues further in the coda. 181 fetch, to charm immediately, or to melt or sadden or madden just for a moment, and that knew just when to leave off – czardas, gypsy dances, Hungarian love-plaints, things little known out of Eastern Europe in the fifties of this century, till the Laird and Taffy were almost as wild in their enthusiasm as Little Billee…. (14) As we saw in chapter 1, short pieces were associated primarily with low and feminine music, whereas length was a pre-requisite for the art music of men. Svengali‘s feminine musical preferences are implicitly tied to his Jewishness by contrast with ―British provincial home- made music‖ (13). Svengali also prefers works by such Romantic composers as Chopin. Although Svengali was ―the best pianist of his time at the Conservatory in Leipsic, … [and] was able to lend a quite peculiar individual charm of his own to any music he played,‖ he cannot do so to the highest and best of all, in which he conspicuously failed. He had to draw the line just above Chopin, where he reached his highest level. It will not do to lend your own quite peculiar individual charm to Handel and Bach and Beethoven; and Chopin is not bad as a pis-aller. (47) Chopin, though considered great, was also considered one of the most feminine of composers.68 Svengali‘s music is thus powerful, feminine, and Jewish, and would have been read in the context of a general turn-of-the-century discourse which linked ―the concept of ‗the Jew‘s‘ biological essence to broader notions of a destructive femininity afloat in European culture.‖69 68 See, for example, Henry Theophilus Finck, Chopin, and Other Musical Essays (New York: Charles Scribner‘s Sons, 1894); Frederick Niecks, Frederick Chopin, as a Man and Musician (London and New York: Novello, Ewer, and Company, 1890); Ernst Pauer, ―Characteristics of the Great Composers and Their Works,‖ Atalanta 6 (April 1893): 513-516. 69 Neil R. Davison, ―‗The Jew‘ as Homme/Femme-Fatale: Jewish (Art)ifice, Trilby, and Dreyfus,‖ Jewish Social Studies 8 (Winter-Spring 2002): 77. 182 In contrast, Trilby, although technically a woman, is portrayed in ways that masculinize her and that associate masculinity with white, non-gentile Britishness. Indeed, the first fictional character named Trilby appears to be the eponymous male hero of Charles Nodier‘s Trilby, ou le lutin d‟Argeil (1822), a sprite who loves a human maiden, although it is not known if Du Maurier was familiar with this work.70 Du Maurier‘s Trilby is, however, immediately introduced as a creature who ―would have made a singularly handsome boy,‖ with ―a voice so rich and deep and full as almost to suggest an incipient tenore robusto; and one felt instinctively that it was a real pity she wasn‘t a boy, she would have made such a jolly one‖ (16). In fact, as Dennis Denisoff points out, ―[t]o many of Du Maurier‘s readers, Trilby, who herself spends a period of time disguised as a man … would have suggested a contralto performing en travesti,‖71 that is, as a male. Amid the Trilbymania sparked by Du Maurier‘s work was a parodic play entitled Twillbe in which the title role, as prescribed by the play, was played by a man.72 70 The work had attained some notoriety in that it was the basis for the Taglioni ballet La Sylphide and a later ballet, Trilby, by Marius Petipa, staged a few years before Du Maurier‘s Trilby appeared; in La Sylphide, as the name indicates, the sylph is made female. I have not yet been able to find much information about Petipa‘s ballet. Books on ballet give Petipa only brief mention, if any, although he seems to have been both popular and successful, and periodicals of the time do not seem to mention the work either. However, in her serialized memoirs, ballerina Yekaterina Vazem mentions Petipa‘s Trilby thus: ―Popular with the public was Trilby, in which the marriage of a Swiss maiden is nearly disrupted by a fantastic being who loves her‖ (Vazem 28), which seems to imply that Petipa‘s version followed Nodier‘s original story more closely than Taglioni‘s in having Trilby the sprite be male. I have found no record of Du Maurier‘s certain familiarity with any of these previous Trilbys; however, the unusual name and the French setting of Du Maurier‘s tale hint strongly that he was through one medium or another at least passingly familiar with Nodier‘s cont de fée. 71 Dennis Denisoff, ―‗Men of My Own Sex‘: Genius, Sexuality, and George du Maurier‘s Artists,‖ in Victorian Sexual Dissidence, ed. by Richard Dellamora (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1999), 160. 72 Denisoff, 160. 183 Trilby is further masculinized through the portrayal of her entire body as well as her voice and face. She enters dressed in military uniform and men‘s slippers, and, as Nina Auerbach points out, she is always drawn as imposingly tall, even giant, when compared to most of the male characters.73 Trilby, who would have made a handsome boy, towers in every picture over the cowering Svengali. In such visual depictions, the power relations in the text are reversed: Svengali is placed in the feminine position, thin and delicate, looking up at the square jaw and broad frame of the tall Trilby. Svengali‘s power over Trilby is thus not a simple matter of masculine mind triumphing over weak feminine body, and the pair do not therefore quite fit the mold of male mesmerist and female patient described in non-literary texts of the time. What has happened here is that a literary text has seized upon a point of fissure in the discourse at large – how can masculine power be trusted when masculinity itself is taking on or taking over previously feminine characteristics and activities? The wedding of intellect and emotion that music now more forcibly symbolized called traditional masculinity into question, and therefore masculine power into question. A novel like Trilby helps make possible the masculinization of music at a time when music is being institutionalized as a field by displacing femininity onto the Other. It is not the only, or even the first, text to portray the male musician as an effeminate or racially inferior foreigner – the music of the half-savage Margrave in Bulwer-Lytton‘s 1861 A Strange Story, for example, has the power to 73 Nina Auerbach, Woman and the Demon: The Life of a Victorian Myth (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1982), 17-21. 184 turn a drawing-room gathering into a dancing orgy likened to a ―witch‘s sabbat,‖74 and the dishonest Italian Castellani uses music to gain and hold the fascinated love of Pamela in Mary Braddon‘s 1888 novel The Fatal Three. What was different about Trilby was the way it insistently conflates femininity with a construction of race, and the response it received, a response that suggests that it struck a deep chord with readers in the 1890s in a way that the figure did not resonate with readers of earlier decades. The figure of La Svengali – Trilby when under Svengali‘s influence – reflects a fear about the union of body and mind, masculinity and femininity. Phyllis Weliver argues that when Trilby is under Svengali‘s hypnotic control she does not so much become ―La Svengali‖ as both Trilby and Svengali become a fused, interdependent entity; ―[i]n ‗La Svengali,‘ … a superior being to either mesmerizer or subject is created, and it is one whose identity depends upon her female voice.‖75 Trilby‘s voice, however, as we have seen, is hardly unambiguously female, nor does La Svengali depend on Trilby‘s voice any more than it does on Svengali‘s control of that voice. Rather, La Svengali is a blend of masculine and feminine – the feminized man Svengali and the masculinized woman Trilby, dissolved together. La Svengali also unites of body with brain: Trilby‘s voice is a product, not of thought or feeling, but of a capacious mouth and chest and strong lungs – Svengali compares her body to a sounding-board (58) – while Svengali, who ardently wishes to be a singer, can in fact only think about singing (47). When mind and body are fused, La 74 Edward Bulwer-Lytton, A Strange Story (1861. Repr., Boston: Dana Estes and Company, 1898), 127. 75 Weliver, Women Musicians, 266. 185 Svengali is able to sing thanks to Trilby‘s voice-box, and what it sings is a mixture of Chopin and other Romantics with ballads such as ―Ben Bolt;‖ the style, however, is Svengali‘s, full of improvisational turns to notes and phrases. In a sense, what happens to Trilby is not that her brain is taken over, but that the feminine Svengali becomes the brain within her boyish body. When her ―brain‖ is removed with Svengali‘s sudden death, Trilby, quite naturally, dies. Throughout the novel there is an emphasis on Trilby as a body and Svengali as a brain. In a novel written and illustrated by an artist, it is not surprising that the characters are described in great visual detail, with an accompanying drawing. Little Billee, Taffy, the Laird, and Trilby are all, upon their introduction to the reader, described at length and shown to the reader through a drawing. Svengali, however, is not. Although the novel features some striking visual images of Svengali (including a drawing of him in the center of a web, with hairy spider legs), Svengali is not shown in a picture until some pages after his introduction, and even then he is not the focus of the picture: he is in the background, Trilby is in the foreground. The physical description of him, too, while it manages to pack in a thorough catalogue of anti-Semitic stereotypes, is short compared with the description of the other main characters. Instead, the focus is on Svengali as a mind and a controller of minds, as a musician and a magician (―There was nothing so humble, so base even, but what his magic could transform it into the rarest beauty without altering a note‖ [47]), and, underneath that, there is an assumption that Svengali is merely a trader in and conduit for physical commodities without significant physical reality of his own except what is twisted 186 or borrowed. Svengali is characterized in terms of a mysterious (unexplained because unexplainable) essence of Jewishness of which his greasy physical appearance is portrayed as but a symptom; he poses little physical threat (the burly and hairy Taffy and equally burly and hairy Laird can, and do, overpower him effortlessly), but a great mental one. In the text, Svengali eventually, by implication, takes possession of Trilby‘s body, in which he has a sexual interest; because the pictures portray a small, long-haired Svengali and a tall, imposing, short-haired Trilby, another reason becomes possible for Svengali‘s interest in Trilby‘s body: envy, desire on the part of the feminine for the masculine. Svengali is also fascinated by the whiteness of Trilby‘s body: one fine day you shall lie asleep on one of those slabs – you, Drilpy, who would not listen to Svengali, and therefore lost him! … And over the middle of you will be a little leather apron, and over your head a little brass tap, and all day long and all night the water shall trickle, trickle, trickle, all the way down your beautiful white body to your beautiful white feet till they turn green…. (86) In this fantasy of death, Svengali imagines with pleasure the removal of Trilby‘s whiteness at the same time that he is drawn to that whiteness. Again, the fascination is not only sexual; Trilby‘s whiteness is insisted upon repeatedly in the text, even down to the whiteness of her teeth. By the end of the text, as Sarah Gracombe argues, Trilby‘s Irish ancestry has been erased as Trilby is ―converted‖ to a true Woman of Britain; in the process (although Gracombe makes no special comment on the apotheosizing of Trilby‘s whiteness), Trilby‘s big white teeth ―get even whiter‖ and her white bosom ―is now properly 187 ‗English.‘‖76 Svengali‘s interest in Trilby‘s whiteness, then, is also a racialized, spiteful envy of (Jewish, feminine) mind for (British, masculine) body. The fact that La Svengali unifies all these qualities – mind and body, masculine and feminine, British and Other – in unifying Svengali and Trilby means that novel in some ways undercuts itself. It displaces anxiety about changing gender roles and especially a changing definition of masculinity by ascribing male ―femininity‖ to race; at the same time, the novel does this by portraying the union of masculinity and femininity in one blended body/mind that suggests that the mind influences the body just as Svengali influences Trilby, rather than the body determining the sex of the mind, and therefore opening up the possibility of a universalized body / mind. Trilby thus is able to appeal to a wide audience of contradictory beliefs. The novel stands at a crossroads. On one hand it takes part in and is made possible by a fundamental change to psychology, the sense of universal laws that apply across genders and nationalities.77 On the other, it provides a way to redraw boundaries around masculinity by displacing femininity onto a racialized Other. Thus music at the fin de siècle is not simply portrayed as negative or dangerous, as Phyllis Weliver has argued; rather, the discourse of music‘s danger is used to argue that middle- class gentile masculinity can most appropriately wield musical power. 76 Sarah Gracombe, ―Converting Trilby: Du Maurier on Englishness, Jewishness, and Culture,‖ Ninteenth-Century Literature 58 (June 2003), 85. 77 This is true more of Freudian psychology than of Jungian – see, for example, Samuel Slipp, The Freudian Mystique: Freud, Women, and Feminism (New York: New York University Press, 1993), 153 – but it is a trend in fin de siècle generally. 188 Trilby is only one example of a broader phenomenon. Anxiety over gender and music, which had waxed and waned for centuries, and which the Victorians thought that they could manage in part through the idea of separate spheres, musical and otherwise, finally became unmanageable except through a growing emphasis on race, the urgency of which indicates how deep was the need to preserve a discourse of difference and how difficult the discourse of gender difference had become. Despite the more-than-unfortunate success of both strategies, their ultimate success in preserving a place for normative masculinity in music is perhaps indicated by the effective death of classical music in the early twentieth century, as composers struggled to differentiate themselves from their ―weak, trite, and effeminate‖78 predecessors by composing ever more brash, jarring works. 78 Charles Ives, quoted in Lawrence Kramer, Classical Music and Postmodern Knowledge (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996), 184. 189 CODA All the others translate: the painter sketches A visible world to love or reject; Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches The images out that hurt and connect, From Life to Art by painstaking adaption, Relying on us to cover the rift; Only your notes are pure contraption, Only your song is an absolute gift. Pour out your presence, a delight cascading The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine Our climate of silence and doubt invading; You alone, alone, imaginary song, Are unable to say an existence is wrong, And pour out your forgiveness like a wine. ~ ―The Composer,‖ W.H. Auden (1939)1 Auden‘s poem provides a way to think about the way music was defined going into the twentieth century. ―The Composer‖ assumes a view of music as a wordless, experiential art form that is not culturally dependent and can therefore be that universal language that nineteenth century had doubted it could be. Debate on the subject dies down; music‘s universality is less discussed, but more assumed.2 John Stainer, for example, writing in The Musical Times in 1900, accepts in passing that music is a ―language of the emotions‖ which are ―much the same all the world over‖ and then questions whether it is possible to extend that universality ―to employ music as a universal language of the intellect as well as of the 1 W.H. Auden, Poems (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995). 2 Another search on Google Books for the word ―music‖ and the phrase ―universal language‖ for the period 1900-1940 (that being chosen as the cut-off point because of the emergence of ethnomusicology in the 1940s) turns up over 700 hits; these, however, are almost all from American sources. Interestingly, in a reversal of the situation earlier in the century, the Americans are now very much debating whether music can be a universal language, while the British are assuming that it is. 190 emotions[.]‖3 With very few exceptions, almost all incidences of the phrase use it without disagreement or criticism but instead regard it as axiomatic, only debating whether music is a universal language of the emotions, of the intellect, of both, or of ―mankind‖ more vaguely. What led to this shift? Part of the answer lies in a change in music criticism. At the forefront of this change was George Bernard Shaw, who served as music critic for The Star from 1888 to 1890 and then for The World from 1890 to 1894. In an acerbic essay on a performance of Bach, Shaw outlines some of the duties of a music critic: When I last had occasion to criticize [the Bach choir‘s] singing, I gathered that my remarks struck the more sensitive members as being in the last degree ungentlemanlike. This was due to a misunderstanding of the way in which a musical critic sets about his business when he has a choral performance on hand. He does not on such occasions prime himself with Spitta‘s biography of Bach, and, opening his mouth and shutting his ears, sit palpitating with reverent interest, culminating in a gasp of contrapuntal enthusiasm at each entry and answer of the fugue subject. On the contrary, the first thing he does is put Bach and Spitta and counterpoint and musical history out of the question, and simply listen to the body of sound that is being produced.4 Shaw is here arguing that considerations of cultural or historical context allow too much reverence for tradition and take focus away from the skill (or lack thereof) of the performers. Music criticism followed his lead, although not necessarily from the same motives; although Shaw‘s reviews were published in relatively unprestigious periodicals (The Star, for example, was a ha‘penny Labour newspaper), they attracted considerable notice and influenced the course of music criticism. Auden, in fact, was later to call him 3 J[ohn] F.R. Stainer, ―Speech in Song,‖ The Musical Times 41 (March 1900): 170. 4 Shaw on Music, ed. by Eric Bentley (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 38. 191 ―probably the best music critic who ever lived,‖5 and Shaw‘s work is still taken as a benchmark for the judgement of music‘s aesthetic qualities.6 In his insistence that one should ―simply listen‖ and not pay attention to cultural and historical context, Shaw is credited with shifting music criticism towards a pure consideration of sound and artistic quality because ―[he raised] the most important question of all: what is musical greatness?‖7 In effect, this shift in musical criticism served to reinforce the idea that music is an art form uniquely independent of cultural and historical context, a shift that was to serve effectively to write women out of musical history (though such would never have been Shaw‘s intention). This change in the focus of music criticism took place in the context of wider changes in thinking about art in general and music in particular. Walter Pater‘s The Renaissance8 was influential on both counts. In The Renaissance, Pater writes that in listening to music one should note ―the musical charm, that essential music, which presents no words, no matter of sentiment or thought, separable from the special form in which it is conveyed to us‖ (83). Any verbal message attached to music is not truly part of the music itself; there can be no wedding between the two because no art is on a level with music. 5 Auden, quoted in Bentley, iv. 6 The Harvard Dictionary of Music, for example, lists Shaw as the first and one of the three greatest British music critics, alongside Ernest Newman and Neville Cardus. See Willi Apel, The Harvard Dictionary of Music, 2nd edition (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1969), 554. 7 Louis Crompton, Introduction, The Great Composers: Reviews and Bombardments (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1978), xxiv. 8 Walter Pater, The Renaissance (1873. Repr. Oxford: Oxford World‘s Classics, 1986). All citations in parentheses are to this edition. 192 Rather, Pater argues that ―All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music‖ (86, his italics) because ―while in all other kinds of art it is possible to distinguish the matter from the form … yet it is the constant effort of art to obliterate [this distinction]‖ (86). Music is the art ―which most completely realises this artistic ideal, this perfect identification of matter and form…. In music, then, rather than in poetry, is to be found the true type or measure of perfected art‖ (88). This is important for Pater because ―[e]xperience … is ringed round for each one of us by that thick wall of personality through which no real voice has ever pierced on its way to us…. Every one of those impressions in the impression of the individual in his isolation, each mind keeping as a solitary prisoner its own dream of a world‖ (151). Therefore, Pater concludes, ―[n]ot the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end‖ (152). Music is the ideal art form because it does not seek to transfer impressions or beliefs or ideas, but merely provides a pure experience. Of course, as Linda Dowling argues in Hellenism and Homosexuality at Oxford, Pater‘s elevation of experience is not simply an abstract idea but served to elevate homosexual experience, as his contemporaries recognized,9 within a framework in which experiences cannot be wrong.10 Pater‘s views were influential as part of the rise of modernism and modernism‘s interest in music, and his definition of music as an experience in itself was taken up by many others as modernism became increasingly interested in music for its temporal nature 9 Dowling, 99. 10 Auden‘s interest in music‘s formal side springs from a similar interest in his sexuality, although Auden is more torn, given his interest in and eventual conversion to Christianity. 193 and formal possibilities.11 As an evanescent art form that must constantly be recreated, music took on great importance for modernists.12 Because, following Pater, music was thought of as the art form that expressed itself through form alone, composers began experimenting much more with form, with the result that [t]he overlay of incomprehensible counterpoints, the juxtaposition of bizarrely mismatched material, the flaunting of forbidden notes, the creating of undreamed-of notes in the interstices of the scale – these were once fringe phenomena of the art of music; but from 1890 on, they became a central line of development.13 This focus on music as pure form free of and transcending cultural factors could have meant that women were more welcome in the world of art music, and to some extent this was the case in Europe and the United States, as women like Germaine Tailleferre, Lili Boulanger, Cécile Chaminade, Marion Bauer, and Amy Beach gained some fame for their compositions. In England, the relative success of Dame Ethel Smyth was more exceptional.14 For all these women, what success they attained was quickly forgotten; their reputations, for the most part, died with them because their music could not be understood within the standards for canonization being developed at the turn of the century. 11 David Albright, Introduction, Modernism and Music: An Anthology of Sources (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 1. See also Christopher Butler, Early Modernism: Literature, Music, and Painting in Europe, 1900-1916 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). 12 Albright, 1. 13 Albright, 9-10. 14 Unlike the other women listed, Smyth did not submit her compositions for publication under her own name but under the initials E.M. (Gillett 226) and was subject to such demands as that her Mass in D would only be published at the publisher‘s expense if its first performance was attended by the Queen (Gillett 226). 194 Instead, the increased interest in music as a universal language of pure form coincided with a new-found confidence that music was the domain not only of men but of gentlemen. Although certain composers had always been considered better than others (not, of course, always the same composers), such judgements became more frequent and, importantly, more codified at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. This codification was a response to the changes in musical curricula we saw in chapter 5 – music appreciation classes, now that they existed, needed of course to teach appreciation of the best music, and students of composition, now that they were expected to learn from listening to others‘ works, should of course study the best works. These decisions were made simply enough; critics decided which were the feminine qualities in music and which the masculine, and made judgements accordingly. Arguments over Chopin‘s worth as a composer, for example, focus on deciding whether his works are masculine or feminine, his defenders arguing that Chopin‘s music ought to be given its due because it is really more masculine than it seems: Karasowski and Klescynski rightly remonstrate with that class of foreigners who love to dwell on the delicate constitution, the ultimate illness and the alleged morbidity of Chopin, emphasizing the feminine and ignoring the masculine characteristics of the composer…. This writer believes that Chopin‘s poetry and sweet melancholy have injured him in the estimation of musicians outside of Poland, and begs us to recall the robust nature that shows forth in the earlier compositions….15 15 Edgar Stillman Kelley, Chopin the Composer: His Structural Art and its Influence on Contemporaneous Music (New York: G. Schirmer, 1913), 57-58. 195 Ultimately, however, the music of such composers as Chopin and Schumann was deemed insufficiently masculine to be really first-tier.16 Margaret Tilly, a concert pianist in Britain in the twenties whose playing was perceived as insufficiently vigorous17 and who later legitimized her involvement in music by focusing on teaching rather than public performance (she was one of the first music therapists and is most famous for having convinced Carl Jung that music could provide a form of psychological therapy),18 laid out this approach to music in the following chart: Masculine Qualities Neurotic Feminine Qualities (As found in the man) Form Mood Impersonality Personal approach Direct approach Indirection Drive Sentimentality Rhythmic power Rhythm subservient to Sustained thought and melody and harmony Sustained thought and emotion Quickly shifting emotions Superior thinking Love of decoration, per se Greater output of large works Small output, with short works predominating19 As composers of art music – already defined partly by considerations of length, as we saw in chapter 1 – were male, the qualities in the right-hand column are therefore inevitably 16 For a detailed discussion of the construction of Schumann‘s reputation, see Susan McClary, ―Constructions of Subjectivity in Schubert‘s Music,‖ in Queering the Pitch: The New Gay and Lesbian Musicology, rev. ed. (New York: Routledge, 2006). 17 ―Music in the Provinces,‖ The Musical Times and Singing-Class Circular 61 (January 1920): 53. 18 Leslie Bunt, Music Therapy: An Art Beyond Words (New York: Routledge, 1994), 36. 19 Tilly, quoted in Alan P. Merriam, The Anthropology of Music (Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 1964), 256. 196 neurotic and of lesser artistic value. Thus such composers as Chopin, Tchaikovsky, and Liszt are defined as feminine and Bach, Handel, and Beethoven as masculine,20 and valued accordingly as second-tier or first-tier composers. The concept of music as a universal language becomes less controversial, then, at the turning point of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as the musical canon was formed and as great music was defined as masculine in its essence. Only when music was associated with women and working- and professional-class men was the idea of its universal power worrisome; once great music, written, performed, or listened to, was more commonly seen as a province of gentlemen,21 the idea of its universal power was no longer as troubling. This masculinization of music was made possible in part by the displacement of perceived feminine musical qualities onto foreigners as music was increasingly seen in racialized terms. We saw part of this process in chapter 5, but only a part. At first glance, it would seem that a belief in racial difference would preclude a belief in music‘s universality, but racism is hardly known for the keenness of its logic. Instead, the discourse of music‘s universality worked to define other nations and cultures as inferior by arguing that their music was not really music. Westerners‘ first horrified, baffled reactions to Beijing opera, 20 Merriam, 256. 21 One need only look at the titles of England‘s prominent composers of the late nineteenth century – Sir Edward Elgar, Sir Arthur Sullivan, even perhaps Sir George Macfarren, who, though composing earlier in the century, becomes a more established figure and a professor of music in the late nineteenth century. The association of music with gentlemen, not coincidentally, is part of what musicologists have long called England‘s late-nineteenth-century musical renaissance. 197 for example,22 show, not that they did not believe in music‘s universality, but that they could only conceive of Chinese music as meaningless noise. Such noise was not feminized, but other music, perceived as foreign, was. In particular, Jewish and Gypsy music was increasingly seen as similar in its primitive effeminacy, an effeminacy that was explicitly racialized. Both groups were seen as having a natural affinity for music, but music that was not very evolved and therefore a primitive expression of emotion which makes it effeminate.23 This association the primitive and the effeminate with race served, of course, to denigrate the groups in question, but constructing these qualities as racial simultaneously undermined itself, for it also served to imply that racially inferior groups were superior musically at a time when music‘s formerly feminized qualities, including its affect, were being masculinized and canonized. The distinction between High or art music on the one hand and low music on the other – in the Victorian sense of music that spoke to the intellect versus music that spoke to the heart – grew blurry at the end of the century with the re-unification of music as a field; music‘s affect bled into High, art music, 22 For an account of the opinions of George Bernard Shaw and other Western music critics regarding the first Western viewings and hearings of Beijing (or Peking) opera, see Kay Li, ―Globalization versus Nationalism: Shaw‘s Trip to Shanghai,‖ in Shaw: The Annual of Bernard Shaw Studies, ed. by Gale K. Larson and MaryAnn K. Crawford (University Park: Penn State Press, 2002), esp. 22:165. Contemporary Chinese critic Tsao Ju-ren responded to Shaw‘s criticisms (that Beijing opera was not music but chaotic, cacophonous noise in which audiences participated) by arguing that ―Shaw appreciated art from a capitalistic urban angle‖ in which audiences pay to be served rather than to participate, ―while Chinese drama is the art of agrarian society performed in open fields‖ and thus noisy because intermingled with the sounds of work and nature (Li, 165). In other words, though Shaw did not understand Beijing opera, he judged it according to a universalized Western standard rather than realizing that his own lack of understanding revealed the cultural dependency of that standard. 23 See Jonathan Freedman, The Temple of Culture: Assimilation and Anti-Semitism in Literary Anglo- America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 107-111; Emma Sutton, Aubrey Beardsley and British Wagnerism in the 1890s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 11; Richard Wallaschek, Primitive Music: An Inquiry into the Origin and Development of Music, Songs, Instruments, Dances, and Pantomimes of Savage Races (London: Longman, Greens, and Company, 1893), 61-63. 198 necessitating the masculinization of music‘s previously feminized qualities and making music more powerful, unified, and universal. Therefore, linking the Other to music became threatening, as it implied the power of the Other over the whole mind, and, through mind, body. This fear was tied also to the increase of Jewish involvement in British musical life at the end of the nineteenth century;24 Trilby‘s feminization of and ascription of tremendous power to Svengali was a perfectly-timed expression of a more general growth in anti-Semitism that not only expressed itself through musical examples but which changes in ideas about music influenced. Feminizing the Other was not exactly a logical response. However, it served to displace personal discomforts over the equally problematic process of masculinizing music‘s affect while providing a way to denigrate that which was feared. Though not British, Richard Wagner provides a good case study for this process because of the influence of his music and ideas in England and the way that that influence coincided with changes in musical and psychological thinking in England at the time. Though Wagner had of course been composing for some time, and had been written about in England at least as far back as 1855 when George Eliot published her essay on ―Liszt, Wagner, and Weimar,‖ in general Wagner did not receive much attention in England, being regarded as ―a kind of impracticable musical madman.‖25 In the 1890s, however, interest in Wagner surged.26 24 Sutton, 110-111. 25 [H. Heathcote Statham,] ―Wagner, and the Modern Theory of Music,‖ Edinburgh Review 143 (January 1876): 143. 199 In part, Wagner became of interest because his person and his music were perceived as effeminate; fin de siècle aesthetes such as Vernon Lee and Oscar Wilde seized upon Wagner‘s music and use it in their writing for this reason (the music that Dorian listens to in The Picture of Dorian Gray, for example, is Wagner‘s). The Germans had made this connection first; cartoons and newspapers mocked Wagner for having played women on stage, for his fastidious taste in textiles, for his letters to young men, and for the affect of his music.27 So established was the association of Wagner with effeminacy and homosexuality in fin de siècle England that the question ―Are you especially fond of Wagner?‖ could be used to determine a person‘s sexual orientation.28 The intense emotionalism – or what was perceived as the intense emotionalism – of Wagner‘s music contributed to this perception. That affect, of course, was not universally celebrated, in part because of its associations with effeminacy, the feminine, and the savage. Influential music critic Ernest Newman, for example, in his A Study of Wagner, damns Wagner with faint praise by calling him a mediocre man of even more mediocre abilities in all fields save music, where he has a true gift; Newman makes the praise even fainter when he then goes on to argue that a gift for music is not something to be particularly proud of. Newman argues that because of 26 See John Louis DiGaetani, Richard Wagner and the Modern British Novel (New Jersey: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1978), 15-16; Anne Dzamba Sessa, Richard Wagner and the English (New Jersey: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1979). 27 See Mitchell Morris, ―Tristan‘s Wounds: On Homosexual Wagnerians at the Fin de Siècle,‖ in Queer Episodes in Music and Modern Identity, ed. by Sophie Fuller and Lloyd Whitesell (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 275-278. 28 Sutton, 86. 200 the great effect of music upon the savage mind, … the susceptibility of animals to its influence, … [and] the existence of musical prodigies, who, at an age when Shakespeare or Shelley would be perfectly unintelligible to them, can play Mozart and Beethoven, and even compose for themselves … music is really the least intellectual of all the arts.29 Instead, music, particularly Wagner‘s music, is emotional. As we saw in chapter 1, however, emotional, Low music had not been seen as a problem for most of the century; what is different at the end of the century is the blurring of the boundaries between the emotionalism of Low music and the elite status of High, art music; in short, the application of music‘s affect to a more elite audience which is in danger of being controlled instead of doing the controlling. Newman expresses further concern that the emotional power of Wagner‘s music is undeniable and worrisome because ―the undisputed hypnosis of the musician‖30 can reduce a civilized audience to a primitive state. Newman was not alone; the emotional ―affectivity of Wagner‘s music was depicted by numerous commentators, male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, as coercive, even invasive…. Wagnerism was … perceived as a feminizing, or effeminate, experience‖31 and celebrated or viewed with suspicion accordingly. What made this affect particularly dangerous was not only its more elite audience (for upper-class men had been previously included as an important part of the audience for Low music, because of their manly savagery, as well as the lower classes), but its blurring of mental difference. Wagner‘s whole project was the unification, not only of various art 29 Ernest Newman, A Study of Wagner (New York: G.P. Putnam‘s Sons, 1899), 371. 30 Newman, A Study of Wagner, 372. 31 Sutton, 86. 201 forms into his brand of music-drama, but also the unification of different sides of the mind. This attempt at a unified and unifying art was described by one commentator as requiring ―the subtle sublimation of that wonderful alembic, the ‗single mind,‘ to insure a compound.‖32 That ―single mind‖ is of course Wagner‘s, but the quotation marks indicate that it is also a wider concept and that listeners to Wagner‘s music will have to adopt that ―single mind‖ as well – a mind that unifies multitudinous faculties rather than only possessing certain gendered ones. The mind of the composer must be in a certain state to compose such music, and having done so the composer, the hypnotic musician, thus forces the listener into a similar mental state.33 Add to this the belief that ―Music can forcibly suggest the state of mind out of which an act springs,‖34 and the effeminacy of Wagner‘s music could be a cause for serious concern. Wagner himself had already anticipated this, and his vitriol towards Jews is explained in part, to the extent that it is explainable at all, by his discomfort with the perceived effeminacy of his music. Wagner was especially concerned about the fact that his music was not exclusively instrumental, but sought to be blend music and words according to an older ideal of art music. This ideal now held a different resonance, thanks to the feminization of vocal music in the nineteenth century, in Germany as in England. Vocal 32 Wilbur Fiske Stone, junior, Richard Wagner and the Style of the Music-Drama (London: William Clowes and Sons, Ltd., 1897), 1:3. 33 Stone, 18, 104. 34 Stone, 121. 202 music was also increasingly associated with ―primitive‖ groups, among them Jews.35 Wagner had therefore sought to displace the perceived effeminacy of his music and its power to disrupt gender boundaries in others by displacing all the criticisms of his effeminacy and dangerous power onto Jews. 36 The surge of interest in Wagner in fin de siècle England coincides with an increase in the reputation and number of prominent and successful Jewish composers and musicians in England.37 Anne Dzamba Sessa has argued that the English only evinced interest in Wagner‘s music and ―tended to ignore [his] racism,‖38 but the general silence is telling; Wagner‘s views were not obscure. Instead, English commentators debated whether the Wagnerian project of the unification of the mind through music, and consequent gender disruption, was a good project or not. Some, like the aesthetes, embraced the project because it legitimated their existence; more conservative figures such as Ernest Newman rejected it because of the threat it posed to gender divisions. Still others, however, wished on the one hand to enjoy Wagner‘s music and their own reactions to it without feeling uncomfortable about gender or sexuality. Embracing Wagner as an Aryan provided a way to do this; though no British commentator openly applauded Wagner‘s diatribe on Judaism in music, Wagner‘s characterization of such composers as Felix Mendelssohn and Giacomo Meyerbeer (active and popular in England) begins to color British discussions of those composers. Mendelssohn, for example, 35 See Israel Abrahams, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages (London: Macmillan, 1896), 253; Sutton, 112. 36 For a summary of Wagner‘s ―views,‖ see Henry Theophilus Finck, Wagner and His Work (New York: Charles Scribner‘s Sons, 1894), 1:324. 37 Sutton, 110. 38 Sessa, 11. 203 once a British darling, was increasingly referred to as a Hebrew and denigrated for ―tone- hebraism‖39 and for his effeminate, ―sickly sweet lamentabile,‖40 and his reputation diminished accordingly, as did Meyerbeer‘s, who is now almost forgotten. The project of masculinizing music discussed earlier was thus also an attempted Aryanization of music, and was part of a more general trend towards a new, more dehumanizing version of anti- Semitism that commentators such as Emil Reich perceived to be on the rise in England by the end of the nineteenth century. The discourse of racial difference, common throughout the nineteenth century, becomes more difficult when an important and widely-discussed art form is assumed to be universal and therefore implies that all minds are pretty much alike; prejudice can only survive, under those circumstances, by moving from a discourse of inferiority and difference to a discourse of inhumanity. Not everyone, of course, made this leap, which had as one of its roots a fear of gender disruption, because not everyone clung to conventional ideas about either gender or sexuality. Though Wagner was fascinating to the English, he was not universally admired; Mendelssohn had his detractors but also his eager defenders; women composers were being written out of the canon, but they were also composing and having their works performed in public and prestigious venues. None of the shifts that this project traces should be taken to indicate monolithic consensus at any point in time. People always disagree; but we can nonetheless trace shifts in points of contention. 39 Emil Reich, ―The Jew-baiting on the Continent,‖ The Nineteenth Century 40 (September 1896): 426. 40 Wallaschek, 62. 204 The cultural history of nineteenth-century British music and its representation in literature of the time points to important shifts in the conception and gendering of the mind. The unification, division, and re-unification of musical spheres coincides with an ungendering, re-gendering, and de-gendering of the mind. The first and third phases are not identical, as we have seen, nor was any phase uncontentious; nonetheless, a pattern emerges in which ideas about music are closely tied to, influenced by, and constitutive of, ideas about the mind. It would be a mistake to dismiss music as a peripheral reflection of the culture at large, or to insist that music be proven the origin of ideas about the mind in order for it to have had any influence. No such separation of cause and effect can properly be made, because music was integrally bound up with the construction of ideas about the mind, gender, and, by the end of the century especially, race. Research into the medical effects of listening, by leading to the formation of music therapy as a field, was part of a change in the way the medical profession viewed patients, as not just bodies but body/minds. Lack of proper musical training made it difficult or impossible for women to compose art music, leading not only to personal anguish and frustration and providing a way to argue for women‘s mental and physical inferiority that seemed (unlike painting or writing) to admit of no exceptions and thus to be unanswerable. The mid-century divide between High and Low music made it possible to dismiss the musical gains women had made in the early nineteenth century, and the consequent implications of gender equality. The emphasis on the physical side of composition and listening likewise dashed the idea of mental equality by making the body dependent on the mind. Ideas about the origins and 205 functions of music were an important part of early evolutionary theory, and the association of music with primitivity and femininity in conjunction with a belief in music‘s universality had a direct bearing on constructions of race. Thinking of music as separate from culture, and thus able to influence it or be influenced by it as a separate entity, is an idea that itself arose in the late nineteenth century, and has always performed some function, from personal ones (Auden) to larger, cultural ones, while simultaneously serving to mask that function. 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work_gymy6ufrufbgxp7k5qkfb5znfe	----	Chelsea Horton, PhD Dissertation, Final, 3 Aug 13 ALL IS ONE: BECOMING INDIGENOUS AND BAHA’I IN GLOBAL NORTH AMERICA by Chelsea Dawn Horton B.A. (Honours), Simon Fraser University, 2003 M.A., Simon Fraser University, 2005 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS OF DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (History) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) August 2013 © Chelsea Dawn Horton, 2013 ii Abstract This study offers fresh perspective on Indigenous identity, conversion, and community. It does so through the little-studied lens of the Baha’i Faith, a religion of mid-nineteenth-century Iranian origin based on principles of oneness and a global vision of “unity in diversity.” Several thousand Indigenous people “declared” (or converted, as other faiths more commonly put it) as Baha’is in North America during the second half of the twentieth century. This study considers, by way of oral history, how and why Indigenous individuals from a broad range of backgrounds in both Canada and the United States, people who now share a sense of community, became Baha’is in this period. It demonstrates the dynamic interplay between their practices of Indigenous identities and of the Baha’i religion. Indeed, challenging conventional (and colonial) readings of Indigenous conversion and identity, which frame the first as assimilation and the second as static, this study illustrates that for many Indigenous adherents the process of becoming Baha’i was at once a process of becoming Indigenous. For some, becoming a Baha’i served to strengthen an existing sense of self as Indigenous, outside colonial strictures. For others, it was in fact through their Baha’i observance that they came to openly identify as Indigenous for the first time. Baha’i declaration and practice also brought adherents into new Indigenous and intercultural interaction, both in and outside the Baha’i community. Indigenous Baha’is often worked to realize their religious vision of peace and unity in diversity through outreach and service among other Indigenous people, in North America and elsewhere. In the process, they produced a sense of global Indigenous identification and made multiple contributions to such fields as Indigenous health, education, and cultural revitalization. In building Baha’i community, specifically, they also forged striking relationships of mutual respect with non-Indigenous adherents, while also confronting colonial tensions of iii intercultural communication and normative patterns of non-Indigenous practice and privilege. This study, then, further illuminates the pain and the promise of forging unity in diversity in Indigenous, and global, North America. iv Preface All research was conducted in compliance with the Behavioural Research Ethics Board at the University of British Columbia. Certificate Number H07-01534. v Table of Contents Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... ii Preface ........................................................................................................................................... iv Table of Contents ........................................................................................................................... v Acknowledgements ..................................................................................................................... vii Dedication ....................................................................................................................................... x Chapter 1: Opening ....................................................................................................................... 1 Contexts and Contributions ....................................................................................................................... 7 The Baha’i Faith ................................................................................................................................... 7 Religious Encounter ............................................................................................................................ 12 Identity ................................................................................................................................................ 18 A Word on Words, and a Roadmap ........................................................................................................ 27 Inside/Out, Method/Me ........................................................................................................................... 33 Chapter 2: Genealogies ............................................................................................................... 40 Context for a Prophecy: A Baha’i Genealogy ......................................................................................... 43 Setting Settler Colonialism: A Genealogy of Indigenous Identity .......................................................... 70 Genealogies ............................................................................................................................................. 87 Chapter 3: Narratives and Narrators ........................................................................................ 89 Narratives ................................................................................................................................................ 90 Narrators ................................................................................................................................................ 102 Narratives and Narrators ....................................................................................................................... 118 Chapter 4: Choosing the Faith ................................................................................................. 120 Rational Religion: Two Tales ............................................................................................................... 126 Born Again Baha’is ............................................................................................................................... 142 Choosing the Faith ................................................................................................................................ 160 Chapter 5: Declaring Spirituality ............................................................................................ 163 A Family Heritage ................................................................................................................................. 170 Intertribal Tradition ............................................................................................................................... 184 Symbolism and Synchronicity .............................................................................................................. 194 Declaring Spirituality ............................................................................................................................ 206 Chapter 6: Practicing Culture .................................................................................................. 209 Conversion to Culture ........................................................................................................................... 213 Cultural Combination ............................................................................................................................ 233 Practicing Culture .................................................................................................................................. 250 Chapter 7: Building Baha’i Community ................................................................................. 252 Building Intercultural Baha’i Community ............................................................................................ 255 Building Indigenous Baha’i Community .............................................................................................. 271 Building Baha’i Community ................................................................................................................. 281 Chapter 8: Teaching and Traveling ......................................................................................... 283 Chapter 9: Closing ..................................................................................................................... 325 Bibliography ............................................................................................................................... 332 Interviews .............................................................................................................................................. 332 vi Archival and Library Collections .......................................................................................................... 332 Personal Collections .............................................................................................................................. 333 Journals, Magazines, and Websites ....................................................................................................... 333 Published Primary Sources .................................................................................................................... 334 Secondary Sources ................................................................................................................................ 337 Appendix 1: The Narrators ...................................................................................................... 374 vii Acknowledgements It is with great pleasure and deep gratitude that I acknowledge the many people and institutions that have helped usher this dissertation into being. First and foremost, to the Baha’is who are the subject of this study: thank you for sharing your stories so generously with me. Words that I offered in preface to the study that led me to this one resonate here as well: I recognize that this dissertation is a different one than you yourselves would have written and it is my sincere hope that you find what follows to be what Lakota Baha’i Jacob Bighorn once called an appropriate contribution. Jacob died in October 2008 and I dedicate this study to his memory, and to that of my dear grandfather, the gentleman (and gentle man) Terry Field, who also passed away during the course of my doctoral studies. I have been most fortunate to work with a supremely talented team of scholars at the University of British Columbia. My supervisor, Paige Raibmon, who I first met during my undergraduate studies at Simon Fraser University, helped set me on this research path in the first place and has continued to offer fresh and incisive feedback, ideas, and guidance over the past decade plus. Coll Thrush has similarly been a tremendous support and has inspired with his own sterling scholarship, pedagogy, and heart. Joy Dixon generously engaged with the project through all stages and, in addition to helping sharpen my prose, offered extremely valuable insight from her perspective as an historian of alternative religion. My dissertation defence was enormously stimulating and external examiner Philip J. Deloria and university examiners John Barker and Carole Blackburn have given me much valuable feedback to consider going forward. Beyond my dissertation committee, I was lucky to study Canadian history with Tina Loo, who supervised my comprehensive examination in the field, and learned much in graduate seminars with Jo-ann Archibald, Alejandra Bronfman, and Robert McDonald as well. I will viii always treasure the memory of studying Canadian women’s history in Veronica Strong-Boag’s living room and am grateful to Nikki, and Wendy Frisby, for offering me my first opportunity to teach at UBC. Thank you also to Danny Vickers and Anne Gorsuch, who invited me to teach in the History department, and to my fantastic students there and in Women’s Studies. Staff members in the History department have been helpful throughout and the late Jennifer Kho, in particular, is missed. A stimulating company of graduate students further invigorated my time at UBC. Thank you to Patricia Barkaskas, Desmond Cheung, Naomi Lloyd, Meghan Longstaffe, Sally Mennill, Danielle Metcalfe-Chenail, Jamie Sedgwick, Patrick Slaney, Carly Teillet, and Phil Van Huizen. Dave Luesink, Laura Madokoro, and Rick Ouellet have, each in their own way, been especially supportive colleagues and collaborators. I would also like to acknowledge the Musqueam people, on whose traditional unceded territories UBC stands. I have benefited from the assistance and support of many beyond UBC as well. Roger Dahl was of great assistance in helping me access relevant records at the American National Baha’i Archives in Wilmette, Illinois and Gerald Filson shared records from the Canadian Baha’i community. Baha’i scholar Will van den Hoonaard has been a stalwart supporter from the start and, in addition to sharing from his own extensive knowledge and archival collection, also offered valuable feedback on two dissertation chapters. Thank you also to Littlebrave Beaston, Christopher Buck, Roshan Danesh, Lynn Echevarria, Donald Smith, Robert Stockman, and Patricia Verge for sharing sources and ideas and to the many Baha’is who extended such warm hospitality during the course of my research. Special thanks to Donald Addison, Deloria Bighorn, Lee Brown, Linda Covey, Allison Healy, and Joyce Shales for their support of diverse form. Annette Herbert and Kathryn Paterson both offered cheerful counsel and skilled timely assistance. I have learned much from my ongoing collaboration with fellow scholar of ix Indigenous religious encounter, Tolly Bradford, and from conversations with Keith Carlson and Susan Neylan as well. I appreciate the warm welcome that University of Victoria historian John Lutz extended upon my move to Vancouver Island. And big thanks, too, to those friends outside the academy who have helped keep me grounded and energized (you know who you are). This dissertation was funded by a number of different sources and I gratefully acknowledge the financial assistance of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Department of History and the Faculty of Graduate Studies at UBC. Finally, to my incredible family in whose circle I am so proud and fortunate to stand. To the Hortons, to the Fields, to the Gloags, thank you all. Thank you for your sunshine, your grace, your laughter, your intelligence, your stories, your art, and your great big shiny hearts. Thank you for believing in me, even when my own confidence wavered. I owe a special debt to my parents, Mike and Cindy, and my sister, Brie (and it brings me huge joy that, as I write these words, she and my brother-in-law, Graham, are preparing to welcome their new son into the world). You have all lived closely with this project for many years, but none more so than my darling husband, Rowan, who has sustained me on every level. Rowan, for sharing the values that animate my work, for papaya at midnight, and for so much more, thank you. I love you. x Dedication In memory of Jacob Bighorn (1945-2008) and John Terrance Field (1921-2010) 1 Chapter 1: Opening It was a warm autumn morning in October 2008 when mourners gathered at the Eagles Hall in Duncan, British Columbia to honour and help usher Lakota Baha’i Jacob Morris Bighorn Jr., Tasunke Maza (Iron Horse), into the “other side camp.” The walls inside the hall were draped with Lakota star quilts, as was Bighorn’s casket. Flowers also rested there and flanked a main stage area. Above this hung a medicine wheel and a large projection screen with an image of the globe blazing. This image, Bighorn’s eldest son shared during the service, was a symbolic invocation of global community and the prayers that were flowing for his father from the four corners worldwide. The intercultural composition of those gathered was acknowledged, prior to the start of the service, as a speaker shared insight and instruction on Indigenous protocol. After the hall was smudged by an intertribal team, the service opened with a casket procession and words and a welcome song from a local Quw’utsun’ Elder. It then moved through a program that included invocations and reflections from relatives and friends, and a video from Bighorn himself, offered in languages ranging from two area Indigenous tongues, Hul’qumi’num’ and Nuu-chah-nulth, as well as Lakota, Dakota, English, and Arabic. Bighorn’s was a Baha’i funeral. But his service also paid homage to his Presbyterian and Plains heritage and included film footage of his home community in Montana, a sibling singing a Dakota hymn, and several rounds of Amazing Grace led by his children. After the service, the diverse assembly proceeded to a nearby cemetery, where Bighorn was buried while Indigenous and Baha’i prayers were offered. The group then retired back to the Eagles Hall for a feast and giveaway ceremony. Just how this moment came to be calls for contemplation. The idea that a Lakota man born on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation in Montana and raised in the Presbyterian Church was buried in such diverse spiritual context and company in traditional Quw’utsun’ territory on 2 Vancouver Island as a member of the Baha’i religion, a faith founded in mid-nineteenth-century Iran on a global vision of “unity in diversity,” is counterintuitive to say the least. Bighorn became a Baha’i in 1989 while living in Salem, Oregon and moved to Duncan with his wife and three children to work at Maxwell International Baha’i School, located on the shore of nearby Shawnigan Lake, several years later. As his funeral so powerfully attested, his Baha’i declaration (or conversion, as other faiths more commonly put it) did not mark a rejection of his Indigenous (or Christian, for that matter) heritage. Rather, in a broad context of Indigenous ethnic and cultural renewal in North America, Bighorn in fact cultivated a strengthened sense of Indigenous identity by way of his Baha’i observance. And he built new Indigenous and intercultural relationships as well. This study is concerned with precisely these points, and processes, of combination. It considers, by way of oral history, how and why Indigenous individuals from a broad range of backgrounds in both Canada and the United States became Baha’is in the mid-to-late twentieth century. It demonstrates the dynamic and mutually constitutive interplay between their practices of Indigenous identities and of the Baha’i religion. Over seven thousand Indigenous people joined the Baha’i Faith in North America in the second half of the twentieth century, but their histories have attracted little analysis.1 This owes in part to the religion’s fairly limited public profile and the fact that few of these thousands ultimately became active in Baha’i community life (though they may well have continued to identify themselves as Baha’is).2 But scholarly 1 Baha’i statistics are slippery and this is an approximate, if conservative, number based on figures supplied by the Canadian and American Baha’i National Centers (email to the author from Larry Clarke, Records Department, Canadian Baha’i National Centre, 5 November 2004; email to the author from Robert Stockman, Research Department, American Baha’i National Center, 28 February 2008). 2 Although the Baha’i Faith is the second-most geographically dispersed religion in the world after Christianity, proscriptions against proselytizing and the relatively small number of Baha’i places of worship worldwide have contributed to relatively a limited public profile. On the religion’s wide geographic distribution see Michael McMullen, The Bahá’í: The Religious Construction of a Global Identity (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 8, 199 (fn 1). While Indigenous Baha’i histories are all the more unknown within public and academic 3 neglect of Indigenous Baha’is also connects to a deeper layer of unexpectedness that this project aims to interrupt. Ideas of authenticity, longstanding assumptions that set Indigenous peoples beyond the bounds of modernity, relegating them to a rigid timeless tradition, maintain strong currency in North America today.3 From this colonial perspective, and a related, equally resilient, reading of religious conversion as rupture and assimilation, the very equation “Indigenous and Baha’i” is impossible (or, were the calculus conducted, would guarantee it would equal the latter). This study challenges this outcome, and advances another formulation altogether. Situating Indigenous Baha’i histories in a context of combination (as distinct from addition or subtraction), it reveals that neither the Baha’i Faith nor Indigeneity were static stable bases upon which new identities were simply grafted. The process of becoming Baha’i, I argue, was for many Indigenous adherents at once a process of becoming Indigenous. Established in a context of Muslim millenarianism in mid-nineteenth-century Iran, the Baha’i religion is based on a core tenet of “progressive revelation,” a teaching that acknowledges prior prophets as legitimate for their time, while advancing Baha’i founder, Baha’u’llah (1817- 1892), as the “Manifestation of God” for the modern age. Building on the vision of his precursor, the Bab (1819-1850), Baha’u’llah outlined a pacifist yet activist program aimed to erect a “New World Order” of spiritual unity and governance at once global and grassroots.4 Baha’u’llah’s son and successor, Abdu’l-Baha (1844-1921), further refined his father’s teachings in dialogue with circles, Baha’is themselves frequently point to the presence of Indigenous people within their fold as evidence of “unity in diversity.” The pamphlet available at the entry to the Baha’i House of Worship in Wilmette, Illinois, for example, notes that Baha’is “live in every state of the union, including on more than 100 Indian reservations.” It also includes a colour photograph captioned, “Navajo Bahá’ís of three generations participate in a study class.” “Welcome: The Bahá’í House of Worship for the North American Continent, Wilmette, Illinois,” Chelsea Horton Personal Collection. 3 I draw the language of “unexpectedness” from the Dakota Sioux historian Philip J. Deloria’s insightful cultural history, Indians in Unexpected Places (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2004). On authenticity see Paige Raibmon, Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late-Nineteenth-Century Northwest Coast (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005). 4 For introductions to Baha’i history and teachings see Margit Warburg, Citizens of the World: A History and Sociology of the Baha’is from a Globalisation Perspective (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2006); Peter Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 4 Western audiences and, in the wake of a 1912 journey to North America, articulated what later became characterized as a prophecy concerning the Indigenous peoples of the Americas. This brief yet layered statement stressed the innate spiritual capacity of “Indians” and went on, in the second half of the twentieth century especially, to inspire explicit Baha’i outreach efforts to Indigenous peoples in Canada and the United States, and Latin America as well. A handful of existing, primarily unpublished, studies have considered Indigenous-Baha’i intersections from the perspectives of anthropology, ethnomusicology, sociology, and religious studies, and in regional and tribal framework.5 Taking a broader geographic and more historical view, this project builds on this budding scholarship and brings Indigenous, religious, and global histories into fresh conversation. It does so, in part, by shifting analysis from standard frameworks of the local and the national to the transnational. Historians of Indigenous North America, specifically, tend to train their analysis either at the level of policy (a perspective that supports generalization across tribal difference, but can diminish Indigenous agency and specificity) or local, sometimes regional, community (a framework that allows for culturally-specific analysis, but which can obscure 5 See, in the North American context, Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011); Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 39-62; Chelsea Horton, “‘According to your faith so shall your power and blessings be’: The Aboriginal-Bahá’í Encounter in British Columbia” (MA thesis, Simon Fraser University, 2005); Andrew Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta; 1942-1992: The Ethic of Dispersion” (MA thesis, University of Alberta, 1992); Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000); Pauline Tuttle, “‘Beyond Feathers and Beads’: Interlocking Narratives in the Music and Dance of Tokeya Inajin (Kevin Locke),” in Carter Jones Meyer and Diana Royer, eds., Selling the Indian: Commercializing and Appropriating American Indian Cultures (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2001), 99-156; Pauline Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops: The Integration of Lakota Ancestral Knowledge and Bahá’í Teachings in the Performative Practices of Kevin Locke” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2002). Brief references within wider academic literature include Kirk Dombrowski, Against Culture: Development, Politics, and Religion in Indian Alaska (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 166; John Webster Grant, Moon of Wintertime: Missionaries and the Indians of Canada in Encounter Since 1534 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 201; Steve Pavlik, “Navajo Christianity: Historical Origins and Modern Trends,” Wicazo Sa Review 12, no.2 (1997): 58. 5 broader connections).6 Further, despite the colonial origins of the border that bifurcates them, Canadian and American historiographies seldom speak across the forty-ninth parallel. There are, to be sure, compelling reasons for pursuing analysis at the national, both Indigenous and state, level. And local and regional frameworks are particularly well suited to the study of land-based Indigenous lifeways.7 As emerging studies of Indigenous transnationalism suggest, however, too firm an “ethnospatial fix” can flatten Indigenous movement and mobility and alternative spaces of contact, community, and identity.8 This is particularly relevant during the second half of the twentieth century when increasing numbers of Indigenous people in Canada and the United States came to reside in urban and off-reserve environments and fomented new formulations of Indigeneity, in North America and globally.9 While an established literature has documented key events from the so-called Red Power era in North America, historians are just now turning their attention to the second half of the twentieth century more broadly and scholarship on Indigenous religious encounter in this period remains slim.10 6 Philip Deloria discusses such framing in Indians in Unexpected Places, 11-12. 7 On place-based Indigenous perspectives see, for example, Keith Basso, Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996); Vine Deloria Jr., God is Red: A Native View of Religion, 30th Anniversary Edition (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 2003 [1973]); Peter Nabokov, Where the Lightning Strikes: The Lives of American Indian Sacred Places (New York: Viking, 2006). 8 “Ethnospatial fix” is Donald Moore’s term, discussed in Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn, “Introduction,” in Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn, eds., Indigenous Experience Today (New York: Berg, 2007), 16. On Indigenous transnationalism and “alternative contact” see Paul Lai and Lindsay Claire Smith, eds., American Quarterly, “Special Issue: Alternative Contact: Indigeneity, Globalism, and American Studies” 62, no.3 (Sept 2010); Hsinya Huang, Philip J. Deloria, Laura M. Furlan, and John Gambler, eds., “Special Forum: Charting Transnational Native American Studies: Aesthetics, Politics, Identity,” Journal of Transnational American Studies 4, no.1 (2012); Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007). 9 I establish this context in greater detail in coming chapters. On urban migration and interaction see, for example, Craig Proulx and Heather A. Howard, eds., Aboriginal Peoples in Canadian Cities: Transformations and Continuities (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2011); Ramirez, Native Hubs. On shifting identification see, for example, Joane Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal: Red Power and the Resurgence of Identity and Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996); Ronald Niezen, The Origins of Indigenism: Human Rights and the Politics of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 10 This shift is evident in the focus of recent graduate theses. See, for example, Lianne C. Leddy, “Cold War Colonialism: The Serpent River First Nation and Uranium Mining, 1953-1988 (PhD thesis, Wilfrid Laurier University, 2011); Mary Jane Logan McCallum, “Labour, Modernity, and the Canadian State: A History of Aboriginal Women and Work in the Mid-Twentieth Century (PhD thesis, University of Manitoba, 2008). A 6 The current Indigenous Baha’i community in North America is composed predominantly of individuals and family groups spread throughout many Indigenous nations and communities. To capture and consider these contours, this study draws upon qualitative interviews with twenty-five Indigenous Baha’is from almost as many backgrounds, both urban and reserve, in Canada and the United States (brief biographical sketches of all narrators are available in Appendix 1). I recruited narrators (as I call my participants, following current oral historical practice) by way of chain referral (or, in less social scientific discourse, word of mouth), a method that itself lends coherence to what may otherwise appear an unwieldy and disconnected data set.11 Indeed, though Indigenous Baha’is did and do not regularly come together in physical space, they share a sense of conceptual community and, as my sample bears out, concrete relationships as well. Jacob Bighorn’s service was again a fine example of this: six people who I had previously interviewed (from Indigenous backgrounds ranging from Quw’utsun’ to Abenaki) were present at the gathering in person, while another three (from Yankton Sioux12 and literature on twentieth-century Indigenous Pentecostalism and Evangelical Christianity is emerging. See, for example, Kimberly Jenkins Marshall, “Performing Conversion Among the Diné Oodlání (Navajo Believers)” (PhD thesis, Indiana University, 2011); Andrea Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right: The Gendered Politics of Unlikely Alliances (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008); Clinton N. Westman, “Pentecostalism Among Canadian Aboriginal People: A Political Movement?” in A Liberating Spirit: Pentecostals and Social Action in North America, ed. Michael Wilkinson and Steven Studebaker (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2010), 85-110. The Red Power literature is vast. For two examples see Duane Champagne, Troy R. Johnson, Joane Nagel, eds., American Indian Activism: Alcatraz to the Longest Walk (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1997); Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allan Warrior, Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee (New York: New Press, 1996). 11 On chain referral, also known as chain sampling, see H. Russell Bernard, Research Methods in Anthropology: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches, Fourth Edition (New York: Altamira Press, 2006), 192; Monique Hennink, Inge Hutter, and Ajay Bailey, Qualitative Research Methods (London: Sage, 2011), 100. 12 As the Oglala Lakota scholar Karen D. Lone Hill explains, the term Sioux “is a fragment of the English and Ojibwa word nadouessioux, which is generally believed to be a derogatory term meaning ‘little snakes.’ The name resulted from a history of territorial conflicts between the Sioux and Ojibwas, who were located to the east of the Sioux. Contemporary Sioux prefer the terms Dakota, Nakota, and Lakota when referring to themselves as a people and a nation, for these are the names of group’s different dialects, regions, and economies.” “Before European contact,” Lone Hill adds, “the Sioux Nation consisted of seven major divisions, which called themselves the Oceti Sakowin, or Seven Council Fires.” Karen D. Lone Hill, “Sioux,” in Frederick E. Hoxie, ed., Encyclopedia of North American Indians (New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1996), 590. In this study, I employ the term Sioux where and when it is used by narrators and scholars themselves (thus, in this case, the Yankton Sioux), while avoiding it as a blanket designation for Dakota, Nakota, and Lakota peoples. 7 Chickasaw, Blackfoot, and Lakota heritage, respectively) were mentioned in the printed program.13 Several of these people I had met in the context of my relationship with Jacob and his wife, Deloria; others I was introduced to through separate (but, it turned out, connected) channels altogether. That narrators spoke, in their interviews with me, of a process of becoming Baha’i is not surprising. That they spoke, simultaneously, of process of becoming Indigenous is rather more. This is not to say that narrators did not identify in any way as Indigenous, or according to more specific tribal appellations, prior to joining the religion. Rather, in an ongoing context of settler colonialism and missionary traffic in Indigenous North America, they found the Baha’i vision of “unity in diversity” refreshing and saw space within the religion for both Indigenous people and perspectives. Some who had been racialized explicitly as “Indians” and experienced formal assimilation efforts first-hand came, by way of their Baha’i declarations and practice, to cultivate an empowered sense of Indigenous self outside colonial strictures. Others, conversely, who grew up disconnected from their Indigenous heritage, came to openly articulate and activate an Indigenous identity for the first time. Narrators simultaneously stimulated, through their Baha’i observance, a global vision of religious belonging and relationship. And they worked to realize this both within the Baha’i community and through interactions with other Indigenous people, in North America and abroad. Contexts and Contributions The Baha’i Faith At the risk of setting up precisely the sort of baseline that this study aims to undo, it is necessary, before proceeding, to establish some background on the Baha’i Faith. Baha’i 13 “Tasunke Maza, Iron Horse, Jacob Morris Bighorn,” Funeral Service Program, 8 Oct 2008, Chelsea Horton Personal Collection. 8 intersections with Indigenous North America, after all, are in part so unexpected simply because the religion is so unknown. While scholars have debated whether the Baha’i Faith is best characterized as a “world religion” or a “new religious movement,” either way it has developed from a mid-nineteenth-century offshoot of Shi’i Islam into a global faith with a following of over five million (with particular growth, since the mid-twentieth-century, in the global south).14 The historian Todd Lawson has described Baha’i-founder Baha’u’llah as a “Persian theorist of modernism and globalization” and, with several other scholars, has situated the Baha’i Faith in an accelerating context of what the geographer David Harvey calls time-space compression.15 Contrary to the assumptions of much scholarship on globalization (which has, on the whole, been curiously silent on the subject of religion), Baha’u’llah’s universal vision did not entirely flatten difference.16 Rather, as Abdu’l-Baha expressed by way of botanical and biological imagery that remain go-to metaphors among Baha’is today: Consider the flowers of a garden, though differing in kind, color, form and shape, yet inasmuch as they are refreshed by the waters of one spring, revived by the breath of one wind, invigorated by the rays of one sun, this diversity increaseth their charm and addeth 14 Todd Lawson, “Globalization and the Hidden Words,” in Margit Warburg, Annika Hvithamar, and Morten Warmind, eds., Baha’i and Globalisation (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2005), 37; Warburg, Citizens of the World, 65-68, 217-220. Anthony A. Lee characterizes the faith as a new religious movement in his recent study The Baha’i Faith in Africa: Establishing a New Religious Movement, 1952-1962 (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2011). For a useful overview of Baha’i expansion patterns see Peter Smith, Concise Encyclopedia of the Bahá’í Faith (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000), 137-154. 15 Lawson, “Globalization and the Hidden Words,” 38. See also Juan R. Cole, Modernity and the Millennium: The Genesis of the Baha’i Faith in the Nineteenth-Century Middle East (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); Warburg et al., Baha’i and Globalisation. On time-space compression see David Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change (Cambridge, UK: Blackwell, 1989), 147. As the anthropologist James Lorand Matory has argued eloquently, although global religious flows did accelerate at the turn of the twentieth century, they extend much earlier than this: Black Atlantic Religion: Tradition, Transnationalism, and Matriarchy in the Afro-Brazilian Candomblé (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005). 16 Despite the fact that, as the political scientist Susanne Hoeber Rudolph notes, “Religious communities are among the oldest of the transnationals,” most scholars of globalization and transnationalism have not attended carefully to religion. Susanne Hoeber Rudolph, “Introduction: Religion, States, and Transnational Civil Society,” in Susanne Hoeber Rudolph and James Piscatori, eds., Transnational Religion and Fading States (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1997), 1. For calls for heightened attention to this intersection see Thomas J. Csordas, ed., Transnational Transcendence: Essays on Religion and Globalization (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009); Manuel A. Vásquez and Marie Friedmann Marquardt, Globalizing the Sacred: Religion Across the Americas (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2003). 9 unto their beauty. Thus when that unifying force, the penetrating influence of the Word of God, taketh effect, the difference of customs, manners, habits, ideas, opinions and dispositions embellisheth the world of humanity. This diversity, this difference is like the naturally created dissimilarity and variety of the limbs and organs of the human body, for each one contributeth to the beauty, efficiency and perfection of the whole. When these different limbs and organs come under the influence of man’s sovereign soul, and the soul’s power pervadeth the limbs and members, veins and arteries of the body, then difference reinforceth harmony, diversity strengtheneth love, and multiplicity is the greatest factor for coordination.17 Abdu’l-Baha’s grandson and successor, Shoghi Effendi (1897-1957), cited a similar statement in a November 1931 letter to Baha’is, prefacing his grandfather’s words with the first explicit Baha’i statement of “unity in diversity.” “Let there be no misgivings,” he averred: as to the animating purpose of the world-wide Law of Bahá’u’lláh. Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system of national autonomy so essential if the evils of excessive centralization are to be avoided. It does not ignore, nor does it attempt to suppress, the diversity of ethnical origins, of climate, of history, of language and tradition, of thought and habit, that differentiate the peoples and nations of the world. It calls for a wider loyalty, for a larger aspiration than any that has animated the human race. It insists upon the subordination of national impulses and interests to the imperative claims of a unified world. It repudiates excessive centralization on one hand, and disclaims all attempts at uniformity on the other. Its watchword is unity in diversity such as ‘Abdu’l-Bahá Himself has explained.18 Unity in diversity, this study reveals, has yet to be fully achieved in practice. But this vision nevertheless served as a tremendous source of inspiration for Indigenous Baha’is. In line with the broad Baha’i vision of unity in diversity are a set of more specific teachings that Abdu’l-Baha distilled and disseminated during a series of early-twentieth-century travels in Europe and North America. Adherents, at least in the West, still describe these as the “twelve principles”: “(1) one God, (2) one humanity, (3) unity of the Manifestations of God, (4) 17 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Selections from the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1982), 291 (accessed online 6 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/SAB/). 18 Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh: Selected Letters (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1991 [28 Nov 1931]), 41-42. 10 harmony between science and religion, (5) the independent search after truth, (6) equality of men and women, (7) elimination of racial prejudice, (8) universal education, (9) international peace- keeping force, (10) international tribunal, (11) universal auxiliary language, and (12) world government.”19 The “Global North America” in the title to this study is a nod to this internationalist orientation and the global perspective and connections that narrators cultivated as Baha’is. This is something they activated both as “situated universalists” at home, and through travels abroad.20 There is a strong “ethic of itinerancy” in the Baha’i Faith that stretches back to journeys made by the religion’s core figures (the Bab, Baha’u’llah, Abdu’l-Baha, and Shoghi Effendi) and takes in and propels ongoing expansion efforts by Baha’is.21 There is no clergy or paid missionary staff in the religion; individual adherents hold responsibility for what Baha’is call “teaching” and “pioneering” (two thoroughly loaded terms in the context of colonial North America). This activist orientation also extends to the construction of what Shoghi Effendi dubbed the Baha’i “Administrative Order.” Envisioned by Baha’u’llah and elaborated over the course of the twentieth century, this order now consists, in its core elements, of a system of Local Spiritual Assemblies (composed of nine elected Baha’is from a local area), National Spiritual Assemblies (made up of the same on the national scale), and the Universal House of Justice (the international Baha’i ruling body, first elected in 1963 and based in Haifa, Israel; seemingly contradictory to 19 Will C. van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá’í Community of Canada, 1898-1948 (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1996), 203. 20 “Situated universalist” is the Baha’i sociologist Michael McMullen’s term: The Bahá’í, 12. 21 “Ethic of itinerancy” is the Baha’i law scholar Roshan Danesh’s term: “The Journey Motif in the Baha’i Faith: From Universal Revelation to Global Religion,” Journal of Baha’i Studies, forthcoming, 20. Baha’is refer to the Bab, Baha’u’llah, and Abdu’l-Baha as the “Central Figures” of the Faith; Shoghi Effendi is known as “the Guardian.” On “the guardianship,” an institution conceived by Abdu’l-Baha “to provide a line of future heads of the Faith,” see Smith, Concise Encyclopedia of the Bahá’í Faith, 169-170. 11 the teaching of gender equality, only men may be elected to this institution).22 Shoghi Effendi characterized the Administrative Order as “the nucleus” and “the very pattern of the New World Order destined to embrace in the fullness of time the whole of mankind.”23 Following his interpretation of Baha’u’llah’s teachings, Baha’is tend to exhibit an explicit sense of historical consciousness attuned to the relative youth of their religion, its position along a teleological prophetic trajectory, and a future period called the “Most Great Peace.”24 Their approach to this peace is, again, activist. Baha’is value education, in particular, as a tool to build understanding, an approach that narrators have applied in their own lives and through “service” among others as well.25 The Baha’i writings engage a constructivist discourse that stresses the gradual unfolding of the faith over time and call for creativity and flexibility as diverse peoples and cultures are brought into Baha’i community and in line with Baha’i law.26 Consistent with this aim, and 22 For an overview of the Administrative Order see Smith, Concise Encyclopedia of the Bahá’í Faith, 24-28. On the Universal House of Justice being confined to male membership see Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 613-614; William Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America (London: Praeger, 2005), 158-159. 23 Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh 144. 24 On Baha’i historical consciousness and sacred time see John Walbridge, Sacred Acts, Sacred Space, Sacred Time (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1996), 173. In expounding on the writings of Baha’u’llah, Abdu’l-Baha and Shoghi Effendi distinguished between millennial visions of the “Most Great Peace,” to be achieved through the erection of what Shoghi Effendi called the Baha’i “World Order,” and the “Lesser Peace,” an international political peace. These visions also contain apocalyptic elements. See William P. Collins and Peter Smith, “Babi and Baha’i Millennialism,” in Catherine Wessinger, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 484-486. 25 These threads have often intersected directly. A number of narrators, for example, have graduate-level degrees, and the majority of these are in education. Some narrators pursued their degrees prior to becoming Baha’is, but nevertheless went on to apply their education within explicitly Baha’i spheres. Jacob Bighorn, to give but one example, was already pursuing a Masters degree in education when he began investigating the Baha’i Faith; he and his wife, Deloria, who completed a Masters degree in community organization development and planning after becoming a Baha’i, later moved to British Columbia to work at Maxwell International Baha’i School. Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 11 Aug 2004; Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008. Narrator Scott Tyler, for his part, was raised as a Baha’i and noted the impact of engagement with the Baha’i writings on he and his sibling’s childhood reading and writing skills; Tyler is a medical doctor. Scott Tyler, interview with the author, Bellevue, Washington, 28 July 2008. I discuss the issue of education and service in further depth in Chapter 8. 26 For Baha’is, “the Writings” refer to those of the Bab, Baha’u’llah, and Abdu’l-Baha (which together constitute the sacred Baha’i texts); I use the term writings in a wider way to encompass works written by other leaders like Shoghi Effendi and institutions like the Universal House of Justice as well. 12 frequent framing of the Baha’i Faith as a modern rational religion free from the fetters of fear- based superstition and empty ritual, few set religious practices are prescribed.27 Some that are, such as the offering of obligatory daily prayers, maintain an Islamic flavour.28 Further, the dominant non-Indigenous demographic in the North American Baha’i community has substantially shaped Baha’i practice in this context. Most existing literature on the Baha’i Faith is prescriptive in orientation, while many academic studies are sociological.29 Training analysis on practice and power over theory and theology, this study, by contrast, offers new insight on the religion as constructed in historical context and through subsequent acts of memory that narrators articulated in their interviews with me. Religious Encounter Though literature on the Baha’i Faith is thin, recent scholarship on Christian contact zones illuminates how religion has historically functioned as an innovative, while always heavily freighted, site of colonial contact and exchange. The literary scholar Mary Louise Pratt articulated her influential concept of the contact zone – a space and perspective that considers interactions between diverse peoples “not in terms of separateness or apartheid, but in terms of copresence, interaction, interlocking understandings and practices, often within radically asymmetrical relations of power” – in specific relation to travel writing.30 Recent studies of Indigenous-Christian interaction, however, also bear the imprint of her thinking and share in a 27 McMullen, The Bahá’í, 7-8, 76-77. 28 Walbridge, Sacred Acts, Sacred Space, Sacred Time, 52. 29 As the Baha’i sociologist Will van den Hoonaard has observed, a practice of what he calls “biographical zoning,” where Baha’is privilege a person’s religious affiliation to the exclusion of other aspects of their lives (or, conversely, whereby non-Baha’i writers ignore or overlook the Baha’i aspects of their subjects’ lives) also characterizes much Baha’i scholarship. Will van den Hoonaard, “Biographical Zoning and Baha’i Biographical Writing: The Case of Rose Henderson,” Baha’i Studies Review 12 (2004), 51. Sociological studies of the religion include Lynn Echevarria, Life Histories of Bahá’í Women in Canada: Constructing Religious Identity in the Twentieth Century (New York: Peter Lang, 2011); McMullen, The Bahá’í, Warburg, Citizens of the World; van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá’í Community of Canada. 30 Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (New York: Routledge, 1992), 6-7. 13 wider related shift to postmodern and postcolonial perspectives attuned to hybridity, liminality, and the creative capacity of the in-between.31 Such analysis, like recent literature in the field of Indigenous history more broadly, has made important strides in nuancing strict binaries like Indigenous victimization versus resistance and tradition versus modernity.32 There remains a danger, though, of overplaying Indigenous agency to the point of diminishing colonial reality (and, as the historian Joel Martin has noted in a related vein, of overextending contact metaphors like Richard White’s resilient “middle ground”).33 As the historian Adele Perry has argued in the context of nineteenth-century British Columbia, “the seductive language of ‘contact’ and its various metonyms, including ‘encounter,’ implies a simplicity that belies the layered and fractured character of the meetings between Europe(s) and America(s) here and elsewhere.”34 It is necessary, the Dakota Sioux cultural historian Philip J. Deloria has suggested elsewhere, “to think beyond the familiar questions of resistance and the ‘cultural creativity’ that is all too often the only consolidation of the dispossessed.”35 This project, then, contributes to an effort to articulate a more nimble framework for understanding processes of religious encounter in the second half of the twentieth century, when colonialism continued in North America but took 31 See, for example, Emma Anderson, The Betrayal of Faith: The Tragic Journey of a Colonial Native Convert (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2007); Tolly Bradford, Prophetic Identities: Indigenous Missionaries on British Colonial Frontiers, 1850-75 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012); Allan Greer, Mohawk Saint: Catherine Tekakwitha and the Jesuits (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 32 For a review of literature that embodies this shift see Nicholas G. Rosenthal, “Beyond the New Indian History: Recent Trends in the Historiography on the Native Peoples of North America,” History Compass 4/5 (2006): 962- 974. 33 Joel W. Martin, “Visions of Revitalization in the Eastern Woodlands: Can a Middle-Aged Theory Stretch to Embrace the First Cherokee Converts?” in Michael Harkin, ed, Reassessing Revitalization Movements: Perspectives from North America and the Pacific Islands (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 86. Richard White applied the term the “middle ground” to describe a very specific, if fluid, site of mutual misunderstanding and exchange in the pays d’en haut between the mid-seventeenth-century and the early nineteenth: The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650-1815 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 34 Adele Perry, “Metropolitan Knowledge, Colonial Practice, and Indigenous Womanhood: Missions in Nineteenth- Century British Columbia,” in Katie Pickles and Myra Rutherdale, eds., Contact Zones: Aboriginal and Settler Women in Canada’s Colonial Past (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 109. 35 Philip J. Deloria, “Foreword,” in Lee Irwin, Coming Down From Above: Prophecy, Resistance, and Renewal in Native American Religions (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2008), xii. 14 substantially different form than during the earlier periods of exchange that have occupied most historians of Indigenous religious encounter. In the case of the Baha’i Faith, we find a new religious message emanating from the Middle East, not Europe, yet disseminated, at least in the early stages, largely by non-Indigenous adherents propelled by religious teaching to extend their faith to “Indians,” but prohibited by the same source from proselytizing. For a number of Indigenous Baha’is, further, it was factors like dream, vision, and prophecy, not Baha’i “teaching books” or “proclamation campaigns,” which moved them to become Baha’is. Where the history of Indigenous-Christian interaction was once predominantly written from church perspectives, then missionary-infused categories like “success,” scholars have begun to interpret the process more closely from Indigenous perspectives. A series of recent edited volumes, together with a growing collection of more focused monographs, confirm that substantial rethinking of Indigenous religious encounter is indeed afoot in North America and elsewhere.36 This literature rejects the lingering assumption that conversion to Christianity was an “either/or” proposition that necessarily marked assimilation, a position advanced several decades ago by early ethnohistorian of mission, James Axtell.37 Responding to rigid readings of cultural clash and conquest that emerged during the 1970s, scholars like Axtell began to probe motivations on both sides of “the Christian curtain” and demonstrate how Indigenous people (in 36 Tolly Bradford and Chelsea Horton, eds., Mixed Blessings: Indigenous Encounters with Christianity in Canada (under advance contract with UBC Press); Peggy Brock, ed., Indigenous Peoples and Religious Change (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2005); David Lindenfeld and Miles Richardson, eds., Beyond Conversion and Syncretism: Indigenous Encounters with Missionary Christianity, 1800-2000 (New York: Berghahn Books, 2012); Joel W. Martin and Mark A. Nicholas, eds., Native Americans, Christianity, and the Reshaping of the American Religious Landscape (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010). Recent monographs include Peggy Brock, The Many Voyages of Arthur Wellington Clah: A Tsimshian Man on the Pacific Northwest Coast (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011); Tracy Neal Leavelle, The Catholic Calumet: Colonial Conversions in French and Indian North America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012); David Silverman, Faith and Boundaries: Colonists, Christianity, and Community among the Wampanoag Indians of Martha’s Vineyard, 1600-1871 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 37 Historian Susan Neylan discusses this either/or dichotomy in The Heavens are Changing: Nineteenth-Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003), 16, 211. 15 New England, in the case of Axtell’s observations) actively adopted Christianity as a form of “protective coloration” in the face of what the anthropologist David Aberle earlier called “relative deprivation” incited by colonial factors like violence, disease, and dispossession.38 Though this analysis went a long way in acknowledging a more nuanced Indigenous agency and seeing converts as more than strictly dupes or sell outs, in treating Indigenous Christianity as “patina,” it typically reduced Indigenous motivation to strategy and parsed the political and the spiritual in a way inappropriate in many Indigenous contexts where there existed (and exists) no strict separation between the sacred and the secular.39 This study, by contrast, builds on more recent analysis that approaches religious encounter and conversion as a process of “making meaning,” not just “making do.”40 As part of this effort, it considers Indigenous Baha’i history in what the religious studies scholar Catherine Albanese has called combinatory perspective.41 In reframing religious encounter as more than a unilateral process of colonial imposition, many scholars have engaged 38 James Axtell, “Some Thoughts on the Ethnohistory of Missions,” Ethnohistory 29, no.1 (Winter 1982): 36, 39; James Axtell, The Invasion Within: The Contest of Cultures in Colonial North America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985); David Aberle, “A Note on Relative Deprivation Theory As Applied to Millenarian and Other Cult Movements,” in William Less and Evon Z. Vogt, eds., Reader in Comparative Religion: An Anthropological Approach, Second Edition (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), 537-541. For a helpful review of deprivation theories see also Gregory E. Smoak, Ghost Dances and Identity: Prophetic Religion and American Indian Ethnogenesis in the Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 198-201. 39 The religious studies scholar Michael McNally employs “patina” in a discussion of earlier acculturation analysis, but the term is apt to Axtell’s analysis as well. Michael D. McNally, “The Practice of Native American Christianity,” Church History 69, no.4 (Dec 2000), 844. On the inseparability of politics and spirituality in Indigenous contexts see, for example, Lee Irwin, “Native American Spirituality: An Introduction,” in Lee Irwin, ed., Native American Spirituality: A Critical Reader (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000), 3; Jace Weaver, ed., Native American Religious Identity: Unforgotten Gods (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1998). The historian Catherine Murton Stoehr makes a similar point, and offers a trenchant critique of Axtell, in “Salvation From Empire: The Roots of Anishinabe Christianity in Upper Canada, 1650-1840 (PhD thesis, Queen’s University, 2008), 23-25. With other recent literature that seeks to revitalize the mid-century “revitalization theory” of anthropologist Anthony Wallace, Murton Stoehr’s study presents Methodism as a source of Anishinabe revitalization. Michael Harkin, ed., Reassessing Revitalization Movements: Perspectives from North America and the Pacific Islands (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004). 40 This is the religious studies scholar Michael McNally’s phrase: “The Practice of Native American Christianity,” 852. 41 Catherine Albanese, “Exchanging Selves, Exchanging Souls: Contact, Combination, and American Religious History,” in Thomas Tweed, ed., Retelling U.S. Religious History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 200-226. 16 the concept of syncretism, a term that denotes the blending of religious “beliefs, symbols, rituals, and cultural expressions.”42 While effective in foregrounding Indigenous agency in contexts of spiritual exchange, syncretism, a concept with theological origins, also carries negative connotations of corrosion. It thus functions to implicitly rewrite a baseline of purity onto which hybrid innovations are then affixed. This, as the anthropologist Aisha Khan and others have observed, in turn invokes false binaries of “great” versus “little,” “authentic” versus “invented,” and “world” versus “other” religions.43 Baha’is, too, have their own reservations around syncretism, although for rather different reasons: in response to portrayals of their faith as “a simplistic mixture of ideas from other religions,” the Baha’i historian Robert Stockman explains, adherents seek to establish their own baseline and assert their status as an independent world religion.44 Instead of syncretism, then, we can think more productively in terms of all spirituality being forged in contexts of combination. Albanese made this point persuasively over a decade ago in the context of American history. She stressed that: 42 Neylan, The Heavens are Changing, 15. For discussions and applications of syncretism see, for example, Kenneth Morrison, “Baptism and Alliance: The Symbolic Mediations of Religious Syncretism,” Ethnohistory 37 (1990): 416-437; Laura Peers, “‘The Guardian of All’: Jesuit Missionary and Salish Perceptions of the Virgin Mary,” in Jennifer S.H. Brown and Elizabeth Vibert, eds., Reading Beyond Words: Contexts for Native History (Peterborough, ON: Broadview, 1996), 284-303. 43 Aisha Khan, Callaloo Nation: Metaphors of Race and Religious Identity Among South Asians in Trinidad (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004), 24. For further cogent critiques of syncretism see Talal Asad, “Comments on Conversion,” in Peter van der Veer, ed., Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christianity (New York: Routledge, 1996), 265; McMullen, Ojibwe Singers, 13-14; Matory, Black Atlantic Religion, 268, 278; Charles Stewart and Rosalind Shaw, eds., Syncretism/Anti-Syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis (New York: Routledge, 1994). For an article that thoughtfully engages such politics of synthesis in the context of colonial British Columbia see John Barker, “Tangled Reconciliations: The Anglican Church and the Nisga’a of British Columbia,” American Ethnologist 25, no.3 (1998): 433-451. 44 Robert Stockman, “The Baha’i Faith and Syncretism,” in Resource Guide for the Scholarly Study of the Bahá’í Faith (Wilmette, IL: Research Office of the United States Bahá’í National Center, 1997), accessed online 29 April 2013, http://bahai-library.com/stockman_bahai_syncretism. See also McMullen, The Bahá’í, 109. One characterization of the faith as syncretic is found in the anthropologist Kirk Dombrowski’s study of Indigenous Pentecostalism in Alaska: “The Bahai organization is a syncretic missionary movement aimed mainly at indigenous peoples in colonized areas of the world, and especially Native Americans. Mission dogma is fluid, an amalgam of spiritual beliefs and practices drawn mainly from many indigenous traditions, including Native American ceremonies.” While Dombrowski’s description offers a compelling hint of how the religion was presented and practiced in Southeast Alaska, it also overlooks progressive revelation and related Baha’i teachings. Dombrowski, Against Culture, 166. 17 to evoke the presence of syncretism is to suggest the non-normal and marginal, the unnatural and exotic. More, it is to imply a loss of self and soul, to call under judgment a decomposition of sorts. It is to say, in so many words, that elements of original and ‘pure’ religions have surrendered their previous integrity in bowdlerized and inferior blends that represent a religious devolution. Taking, instead, a constructivist stance, Albanese continued: To talk about ‘combination’ and ‘addition’ (and a related shedding of the no-longer- relevant), in contrast, is to move the analysis toward a different set of assumptions and assessments. It is to talk about a natural cultural process that occurs whenever and wherever contact comes. It is to own that – unless religious systems are relics to be admired in a taxonomy of the sacred that comes with museum shelves – they let go and add on; they lose; they gain; they exchange.45 Religion, in this formulation, is always, actively, under renovation. With this turn from syncretism to combination comes a shift from the realm of belief to practice. As Joel Martin has observed, studies of “lived religion” and the “ethnographic turn” in religious history have powerfully illuminated “what ordinary people did with and through religion” and “how religion was embodied, ritualized, and felt through powerful emotions.”46 The work of anthropologists Jean and John Comaroff has further proven particularly influential for scholars of Indigenous religious exchange. The Comaroffs’ analysis of historical mission and colonialism in southern Africa sparked productive attention to what the historian Susan Neylan describes in a study of nineteenth-century Tsimshian Christianity as the “politics of everyday life” and, as the religious studies scholar Michael McNally notes in a study of Ojibwe singing, how domination and resistance are worked out in sites like “clothing, music making, body posture, 45 Albanese, “Exchanging Selves, Exchanging Souls,” 224-225. 46 Martin, “Introduction,” 8. Compelling studies in this vein include Karen McCarthy Brown, Mama Lola: A Vodou Priestess in Brooklyn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); Robert A. Orsi, The Madonna of 115th Street: Faith and Community in Italian Harlem, 1880-1950 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985); Robert A. Orsi, Thank You, St. Jude: Women’s Devotion to the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996); Robert A. Orsi, ed., Gods of the City: Religion and the American Urban Landscape (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999); Thomas Tweed, Our Lady of the Exile: Diasporic Religion at a Cuban Catholic Shrine in Miami (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). 18 and the organization of time and space.”47 At the same time, the Comaroffs’ dialectic model results in a somewhat rigid reading of missionary modernity and what the Comaroffs call the “colonization of consciousness.”48 While certainly informed by the legacies and ongoing practice of Christian mission in North America, Indigenous-Baha’i interactions differed substantially from the earlier exchanges that the Comaroffs and others consider. Indeed, with a combinatory discourse and ambition all its own – one that augurs, and activates, the gradual construction of a global Baha’i world united in diversity – the Baha’i Faith is a particularly rich site through which to plumb the practice and the politics of religious combination. Far from assimilation, or even what Susan Neylan describes as “the co-existence of old and new forms of religious expressions,” what I illustrate in this study is the co-production of Indigenous and Baha’i identities.49 Identity The same intellectual currents that have informed recent rethinking of religious encounter have likewise contributed to what the cultural studies scholar Stuart Hall described over fifteen years ago as a “veritable discursive explosion” around the concept of identity.50 So saturated is the field of identity studies (if one can properly speak, across sub/disciplinary difference, of such a thing) that some scholars like the anthropologists Frederick Cooper and Rogers Brubaker 47 Neylan, The Heavens Are Changing, Chapter 8; Michael D. McNally, Ojibwe Singers: Hymns, Grief, and a Native Culture in Motion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 13-14. 48 Jean Comaroff and John L. Comaroff, Of Revelation and Revolution: Christianity, Colonialism, and Consciousness in South Africa, Vol.1 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), xi and Of Revelation and Revolution: The Dialectics of Modernity of a South African Frontier (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). For a nuanced critique of the Comaroffs’s texts by an historian of South African mission see Elizabeth Elbourne, “Word Made Flesh: Christianity, Modernity, and Cultural Colonialism in the Work of Jean and John Comaroff,” American Historical Review 108, no.2 (April 2003): 435-459. 49 Neylan, The Heavens are Changing, 14. Neylan herself takes up the subject of identity formation (and identification, discussed below) more explicitly in a later study co-authored with Melissa Meyer: “‘Here Comes the Band!’: Cultural Collaboration, Connective Traditions, and Aboriginal Brass Bands on British Columbia’s North Coast, 1875-1964,” BC Studies no.152 (Winter 2006/07): 35-66. 50 Stuart Hall, “Introduction: Who Needs ‘Identity’?” in Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay, eds., Questions of Cultural Identity (London: Sage, 1996), 1. 19 advocate jettisoning the term altogether.51 Taking in the study of personal subjectivity and group affiliation alike, identity studies are broadly concerned, in the social psychologist Margaret Wetherell’s words, with “‘names and looks’, and what is done with these.”52 The rise of literary and cultural studies, and postmodern analysis more generally, helped to destabilize the idea of any “integral, originary and unified identity,” with scholars illustrating instead how categories like race, class, gender, and, more recently, religion have been constructed in specific contexts of power.53 As Cooper and Brubaker observe, constructionist literature has offered the critical insight “that affinities, categories, and subjectivities develop and change over time.”54 In its attention to discourse and power, however, poststructural scholarship, in particular, has prompted pitched academic exchange concerning agency and experience. Feminist scholarship, for example, continues to grapple with whether and how women’s lives, and their roles in shaping them, can be retrieved and analyzed apart from language and discourse.55 These issues are deeply relevant to the study of Indigenous identity as well. Feminist antiracist activist and scholar Andrea Smith, for example, argues that some poststructuralists, engaging a stance she calls “vulgar constructionism,” go too far by suggesting that “because axes of identity (race, class, etc.) are socially constructed they do not ‘really’ exist.”56 As she adds, however, citing the critical race theorist Kimberlé Crenshaw, “‘To say that a category such as 51 Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” Theory and Society 29, no.1 (Feb 2000), 1-47. 52 Margaret Wetherell, “The Field of Identity Studies,” in Margaret Wetherell and Chandra Talpade Mohanty, eds. The Sage Handbook of Identities (London: Sage, 2010), 3. 53 Hall, “Introduction,” 1. For a classic interrogation of the category “women,” for example, see Denise Riley, “Am I That Name?”: Feminism and the Category of “Women” in History (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988). For a trenchant analysis of race and religion as “idioms of identity construction” in the Caribbean see Khan, Callaloo Nation, 13. 54 Cooper and Brubaker, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” 31. 55 See, for example, Joan W. Scott, “The Evidence of Experience,” Critical Inquiry Vol.17, no.4 (Summer 1991): 773-797; Joan Sangster, “Invoking Experience as Evidence,” Canadian Historical Review 92, no.1 (March 2011): 135-161. 56 Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right, 214. The religious studies scholar Richard King similarly cautions against extreme forms of postmodern analysis that overstate the fragmentary free-floating nature of identity: Orientalism and Religion: Postcolonial Theory, India, and ‘The Mystic East’ (New York: Routledge, 1999), 198. 20 race or gender is socially constructed is not to say that category has no significance in our world.’”57 Indeed, Indigenous identity is a category with teeth and teeth, in the Mohawk anthropologist Audra Simpson’s expressive phrase, “that bite through time.”58 “Indianness” itself is a category born of colonialism. There were no Indians in the Americas before Columbus’ storied geographic blunder in 1492.59 Rather, there were diverse peoples, with deep relationships to place, many of whose own group appellations translate as “the people.”60 As I elaborate in the next chapter, colonial constructions of Indianness closely contributed to the dispossession of Indigenous lands and the disruption (although not, as intended, destruction) of Indigenous peoplehood, erecting a rigid baseline of tradition and authenticity against which claims to rights, resources, self, and sovereignty continue to be judged. Indigenous identity, however, was not and is not static, something either strictly imposed or preserved over time. This study accordingly contributes to the project called for by the historian Alexandra Harmon to “chronicle the changing bases, parameters, manifestations, and uses of Indianness, especially from Indian points of view.”61 As Harmon argues, “Indianness” is not stable essence, “something that the descendants of aboriginal people have managed to preserve through centuries of assault on their identities. Instead, the lesson of history – when written as much as possible to give voice to all the participants – is that Indianness is an ongoing creation, and Indians are chief among its creators.”62 Harmon herself has richly illustrated this process in the 57 Kimberlé Crenshaw cited in Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right, 214. 58 Audra Simpson, “On Ethnographic Refusal: Indigeneity, ‘Voice,’ and Colonial Citizenship,” Junctures 9 (Dec 2007), 69. 59 Thinking, upon landing in the Caribbean, that he was in Asia, Columbus “called the peoples he met los indios.” Robert F. Berkhofer, Jr., The White Man’s Indian: Images of the American Indian from Columbus to the Present (New York: Vintage Books, 1979 [1978]), 4-5. 60 Bonita Lawrence, “Legislating Identity: Colonialism, Land and Indigenous Legacies,” in Wetherell and Mohanty, eds., The Sage Handbook of Identities, 508. 61 Alexandra Harmon, “Wanted: More Histories of Indian Identity,” in Philip J. Deloria and Neal Salisbury, eds., A Companion to American Indian History (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2002), 249. 62 Harmon, “Wanted: More Histories of Indian Identity,” 261. 21 context of Puget Sound in the Pacific Northwest, demonstrating how factors like kinship, trade, policy, and treaty all informed constructions of “Indianness” over time.63 Religion has likewise served as a source of shared Indigenous ascription. Where the Ghost Dance, a prominent prophecy movement in the mid-to-late nineteenth-century American West, for example, was long cast as a last whisper of Indigenous resistance or a descent into delusion and deprivation, the historian Gregory Smoak has instead recently illustrated how it functioned as a site of pan- Indigenous ethnogenesis and what he describes as “a vehicle for the expression of meaningful social identities.”64 Though it eschews the somewhat functionalist tone that the term “vehicle” invokes, this study shares in the effort to explore the religious construction of Indigenous identities, especially beyond the common ethnohistorical units of tribe and region. This is particularly pressing in the context of the second half of the twentieth century, a period when many Indigenous people in North America came into increasing intertribal interaction, often in urban and off-reservation environments, and when a substantial number of people came to openly identify as Indigenous for the first time. In addition to ethnohistorical analysis, my approach is informed by Brubaker and Cooper’s call for attention to “identification” over identity. As they explain, identification is “an active term, derived from a verb,” that emphasizes process over content and condition. “It invites us,” they continue, “to specify the agents that do the identifying” and recognizes that “self- and 63 Alexandra Harmon, Indians in the Making: Ethnic Relations and Indian Identities Around Puget Sound (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 64 Smoak, Ghost Dances and Identity, 3. Application of the concept of “ethnogenesis” in relation to Indigenous identity dates to the publication of the article, “Creeks into Seminoles,” by the anthropologist William C. Sturtevant in 1971. See Richard A. Sattler, “Remnants, Renegades, and Runaways: Seminole Ethnogenesis Reconsidered,” in Jonathan D. Hill, ed., History, Power, and Identity: Ethnogenesis in the Americas, 1492-1992 (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1996), 36. The concept’s attention to ethnic emergence relates to the anthropologist Fredrik Barth’s contemporary and equally influential formulation of “boundary maintenance,” which stresses the construction of ethnicity in contexts of encounter rather than in terms of static cultural content. Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Cultural Difference (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1969). 22 other-identification are fundamentally situational and contextual.”65 This distinction between self- and other-identification, and what Brubaker and Cooper call “categorization” carried out by institutions and discourse, is especially helpful in the context of the oral histories examined here.66 For in becoming Baha’is, narrators generated strengthened self-identification as Indigenous, outside of the colonial categorizing currents that had in some cases explicitly racialized them as “Indians” and in others circumscribed their prior connection to this aspect of their heritage. (At the same time, the fact that two narrators expressed to me directly before agreeing to be interviewed that they might not fit my sample on the basis on being “mixed-blood” is strong signal of the ongoing operation of racialized categories of “Indianness.”) The study of Indigenous identity is a charged enterprise and constructionist analysis, in particular, has drawn sharp critique from some quarters. In the Pacific region, for example, literature on the “invention of tradition” has generated criticism from Indigenous scholars who have accused White academics of attempting to defend their professional turf and “adjudicate authenticity.”67 In the United States, conversely, some White academics like the anthropologist James Clifton have leveled accusations of specious invention against a growing number of individuals and communities who claimed “Indian” identity during the last decades of the twentieth century.68 More recently, postcolonial theory has cultivated sophisticated analysis of 65 Brubaker and Cooper, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” 14. The concept of identification has roots stretching back to Freud and, in its psychoanalytic usage, also carries an affective dimension (“identifying oneself emotionally with another person, category, or collectivity”) that also resonates in the context of Indigenous Baha’i history. Brubaker and Cooper, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” 17. See also Stuart Hall’s framing of identification, which takes in both discursive and psychodynamic dimensions. Hall, “Introduction: Who Needs ‘Identity’?” 66 Brubaker and Cooper, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” 15. 67 Clifford, “Indigenous Articulations,” 480. 68 James A. Clifton, ed., The Invented Indian: Cultural Fictions and Government Policies (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1990). For discussion of this iteration of the “invention of tradition” see Garroutte, Real Indians, 165 (fn 17). For a thorough critique of Clifton’s text see Vine Deloria Jr., “Comfortable Fictions and the Struggle for Turf: An Essay Review of The Invented Indian: Cultural Fictions and Government Policies,” in Devon A. Mihesuah, ed., Natives and Academics: Research and Writing about American Indians (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 65-82. For a different take on the invention of tradition, one that highlights active processes of cultural construction on the Northwest Coast, see Michael Harkin, “A Tradition of Invention: Modern Ceremonialism on the 23 colonial systems of knowledge and power, as well as subaltern pasts, but has also been critiqued by a number of Indigenous scholars for keeping its view too tightly trained on colonial categories and such in-between conditions as hybridity.69 Plus, the “post” prefix, which for some postcolonial scholars denotes “that time of post-independence of the former colonial world, even if the struggle for decolonization is not yet complete,” simply does not apply in the settler colonial states of Canada and the United States.70 While the concept of hybridity can refer to “a space betwixt and between two zones of purity in a manner that follows biological usage,” it is typically taken in postcolonial iteration to denote transculturation.71 The Mi’kmaw sociologist Bonita Lawrence has underlined the high stakes of analysis focused on cultural hybridity in a context where Indigenous rights continue to be evaluated on the basis of authenticity. She also notes concern registered by a number of Indigenous scholars around approaches to hybridity that stress a liminal state of what she calls “mixed-bloodedness.” In the face of persistent colonial discourse and policy that sees Indigenous identity diminishing through “racial mixing,” Lawrence argues that “[f]or many mixed-blood Native people, Indigenous empowerment means demanding the right to be not defined solely by their hybridity and instead identifying entirely with their Indigenous nations.”72 A rich literature by Indigenous scholars working in a number of different fields, several of who have considered intersections with Christianity (and, in one recent case, the Baha’i Faith too), elaborates flexible formulations of Indigenous identity outside Northwest Coast,” in Marie Mauzé, ed., Past is Present: Some Uses of Tradition in Native Societies (Lanham: University of America, 1997), 97-111. 69 For assessments of the value and limitations of postcolonial analysis see Garroutte, Real Indians, 102-104; Paul Lai and Lindsay Claire Smith, “Introduction,” American Quarterly, “Special Issue: Alternative Contact: Indigeneity, Globalism, and American Studies” 62, no.3 (Sept 2010), 426; Jace Weaver, “From I-Hermeneutics to We- Hermeneutics: Native Americans and the Post-Colonial,” in Jace Weaver, ed., Native American Religious Identity: Unforgotten Gods (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1998), 11-15. 70 Weaver, “From I-Hermeneutics to We-Hermeneutics,” 13. See also the reflections of Maori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (London: Zed Books, 1999), 98. 71 Renato Rosaldo, cited in Vásquez and Marquardt, Globalizing the Sacred, 59; Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, Post-Colonial Studies: The Key Concepts (New York: Routledge, 2007), 118-121. 72 Lawrence, “Legislating Identity,” 511. 24 the colonial category of race.73 Ties to land are central to these various formulations of what it means to be, in Taiaiake Alfred’s application of the Mohawk term, Onkwehonwe, or “original people.”74 This marks another key point of tension with constructionist (and its recent cousin, transnational) analysis: perspectives that privilege routes over roots and diaspora over dwelling are slippery for those seeking, today, to defend and develop place-based Indigenous sovereignty and knowledge.75 Yet these positions are not necessarily mutually exclusive. The anthropologist James Clifford, for example, has collapsed strict binaries like roots versus routes, probing instead the conditions and possibilities of “dwelling-in-travel” and what he calls “articulated sites of indigeneity.”76 “In articulation theory,” Clifford explains (with a nod to Stuart Hall): the whole question of authenticity is secondary, and the process of social and cultural persistence is political all the way back. It is assumed that cultural forms will always be made, unmade, and remade. Communities can and must reconfigure themselves, drawing selectively on remembered pasts. The relevant question is whether, and how, they convince and coerce insiders and outsiders, often in power-charged, unequal situations, to accept the autonomy of a “we.” 73 See, for example, Eva Marie Garroutte, Real Indians: Identity and the Survival of Native America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), Chapter 6; Leanne Simpson, Dancing on our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re-Creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: Arbeiter Rin, 2011); Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right; James Treat, ed., Native and Christian: Indigenous Voices on Religious Identity in the United States and Canada (New York: Routledge, 1996); Jace Weaver, Craig S. Womack, and Robert Allan Warrior, American Indian Literary Nationalism (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2006); Jace Weaver, That the People Might Live: Native American Literatures and Native American Community (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Weaver, ed., Native American Religious Identity. In his recent study of Indigenous identity and nationalism, the literary scholar Scott Richard Lyons includes a brief discussion of prominent Lakota musician and Baha’i (and narrator in this project), Kevin Locke, pointing to Locke’s interpretation of Baha’u’llah (as the fulfillment of Lakota holy person White Buffalo Calf Woman’s covenant) as an example of the flexibility of Indigenous “constitutive myths.” Scott Richard Lyons, X-Marks: Native Signatures of Assent (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 141-142. 74 Alfred, Wasáse, 19. 75 For discussion of these concepts in the context of Indigeneity, and how are they invested differently in North versus Latin America see R. Aída Hernández Castillo, “Indigeneity as a Field of Power: Multiculturalism and Indigenous Identities in Political Struggles,” in Wetherell and Mohanty, eds., Sage Handbook of Identities, 379-403. 76 James Clifford, “Indigenous Articulations,” The Contemporary Pacific Vol.13 No.2 (Fall 2001), 470, 472. See also James Clifford, “Varieties of Indigenous Experience: Diasporas, Homelands, Sovereignties,” in Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn, eds., Indigenous Experience Today (NY: Berg, 2007), 197-224. 25 “This seems to me,” he adds, “a more realistic way of talking about what has been called cultural ‘invention.’”77 As Clifford argues, a shift from “invention” to “articulation” situates scholarship “on more concrete, because more dynamic, historical grounds.”78 My goal with this project, to be clear, is in no way to police the parameters of “real Indianness.” Rather, I aim to help undo what the anthropologists Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn have described as the “spurious calculus of authenticity and cultural purity” altogether.79 There is a difference between invention and change over time and to hold Indigenous peoples to a false standard of purity is both profoundly disingenuous and ahistorical. Scholars have done important work in analyzing the colonial regulation of Indigenous identity (the impact of legislation like the Indian Act in Canada, for example, and recognition processes in the United States) during the second half of the twentieth century.80 But we need to know more about Indigenous people’s own processes of identification in this period, and not just in Indigenous nationalist frameworks. Some contemporary Indigenous nationalists, for example, take issue with pan-Indigenous formulations of Indigeneity, arguing that they homogenize and deterritorialize distinct place-based Indigenous cultures.81 While this is a valid and important political critique, pan-Indigenous identities are nevertheless in need of historicization. Plus, as this study bears out, interaction across tribal lines and the development of shared Indigenous 77 Clifford, “Indigenous Articulations,” 479-480. For another study that thoughtfully applies articulation theory to the study of Indigenous identity see Gail Guthrie Valaskakis, Indian Country: Essays on Contemporary Native Culture (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2005), 4, 45, 71, 214, 240, 256. 78 Clifford, “Indigenous Articulations,” 480. 79 Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn, “Introduction,” in de la Cadena and Starn, eds., Indigenous Experience Today, 9. 80 See, for example, Garroutte, Real Indians; Brian Klopotek, Recognition Odysseys: Indigeneity, Race, and Federal Tribal Recognition Policy in Three Louisiana Indian Communities (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011); Bonita Lawrence, “Real” Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004); Pamela D. Palmeter, Beyond Blood: Rethinking Indigenous Identity (Saskatoon, SK: Purich, 2011). 81 See, for example, Bonita Lawrence, “Gender, Race, and the Regulation of Native Identity in Canada and the United States: An Overview,” Hypatia, vol. 18 no. 2, “Indigenous Women in the Americas” (Spring 2003), 5; Leanne Simpson, “Oshkimaadiziig, the New People,” in Leanne Simpson, ed., Lighting the Eight Fire: The Liberation, Resurgence, and Protection of Indigenous Nations (Winnipeg: Arbeiter Ring Publishing, 2008), 16. 26 spiritual practices and community did not necessarily extinguish tribal difference and identity. To signal this, I employ the term “intertribal,” as opposed to “pan-Indigenous,” in this study. I also engage the concept of Indigenous transnationalism as recently articulated by scholars such as the Winnebago anthropologist Renya Ramirez. In a study of contemporary Indigenous community in the Silicon Valley region of California, Ramirez challenges the lingering assumption that “urban Indians” are entirely cut off from traditional territory and reservation life and, by extension, assimilated into settler society or a generic pan-Indigenous culture. She argues suggestively, instead, that they are transnationals who negotiate ongoing tribal ties as well as new expressions of urban Indigenous community and belonging.82 This study is transnational on several scales: it examines the experiences of and connections between Baha’is from different Indigenous nations and across colonial state borders and takes in the global spiritual geography that narrators generated as Baha’is as well. Some participants in this project were raised in tribal contexts and made sense of the Baha’i Faith on this basis. For some who were not, the religion in fact propelled them to connect with their respective tribal territories and communities. Others still operated and identified primarily in intertribal arenas. The broad framing of this project means that I am constrained in my ability to situate each subject in his or her specific tribal context and I have, in effect, bracketed the issue of land throughout most of this study. Indeed, critical as land is to many formulations of Indigeneity, it is not a subject that emerged in depth throughout my interviews. I return to the question of what this means in the context of the global Baha’i vision and current decolonizing projects in my conclusion. In adopting the wide view that it does, this study uniquely illustrates connections across tribal lines and opens up the histories of people less readily recognized, in historical time and historiography, as Indigenous. Narrators not only deepened their personal 82 Ramirez, Native Hubs. 27 Indigenous identities by way of Baha’i declaration and practice, they forged new group identifications as well. This included a sense of faith-based affiliation with Indigenous and non- Indigenous Baha’is and, through Baha’i outreach, a sense of global Indigenous identification as well. This study suggests not simply that Indigeneity could stretch to take in new religious affiliation, but instead that both Indigenous and Baha’i identities were constructed in transnational contexts of combination. A Word on Words, and a Roadmap This study is concerned with identification, but is marked, like all writing, by the limits of language. As Alexandra Harmon has observed of the specific challenge of historicizing “Indianness,” “It is hard to portray an ethnic group as provisional and mutable when the only available vocabulary presupposes the group’s existence and continuity.”83 Adding to this challenge are different terminologies deployed on either side of the forty-ninth parallel. While the terms Indian, American Indian, and Native American are used widely in the United States, Aboriginal (a term that, since the patriation of the Canadian constitution in 1982, legally takes in First Nations, Métis, and Inuit people) and Native are more common, albeit contested, appellations in Canada. Narrators themselves deployed a range of these terms and I maintain their vocabulary when citing them directly. My own use of the term Indigenous is intended to avoid reduction to any single national vocabulary and follows a growing academic practice. The term Indigenous has gained significant traction with the growth of a transnational Indigenous movement (one that sheds expressly colonial language like “Indian,” but connects via a shared experience of colonialism) in recent decades and thus also carries a global valence appropriate to 83 Harmon, “Wanted: More Histories of Indian Identity,” 250. 28 the Baha’i context.84 Where possible and relevant, I deploy and discuss more specific tribal designations as well. Terminological challenges likewise dog the designation of non-Indigenous people in the settler colonial states of Canada and the United States. In order to stress this ongoing colonial context and acknowledge that not all non-Indigenous people are “White” (especially in the Baha’i community), I employ the terms settler and non-Indigenous alike in this study. When speaking specifically about Canadians and Americans of European heritage, I do use the term “White.” While this word problematically flattens difference, it also represents what the literary scholar Pauline Wakeman has described as a “tactical homogenization of that which often presents itself as a hegemonic norm.”85 In cases where I can be more specific (when speaking of Iranian Baha’is, for example), I am. My spelling of Baha’i terms follows current academic convention: in the interest of accessibility, diacritical marks are omitted (thus, for example, Baha’i not Bahá’í).86 I similarly observe current practice regarding the spelling of Indigenous terms, in this case maintaining diacritical marks. I identify narrators as such the first time that I introduce them in the study (narrator Jacob Bighorn, for example); after this, I refer to them simply by name (Jacob Bighorn). I do the same with the scholars who I discuss and distinguish 84 As Mary Louise Pratt explains, Indigenous is a “relational and retrospective” term that invokes “prior-ity in time and place”; “social groups become indigenous or aboriginal or native by virtue of the recognition that someone else arrived in a place and found them or their ancestors ‘already’ there.” Pratt, “Afterword,” in de la Cadena and Starn, Indigenous Experience Today, 398. For recent history of the term see Ronald Niezen, “The Global Indigenous Movement,” in Garrick A. Bailey, ed., Handbook of North American Indians, Volume 2, Indians in Contemporary Society (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 2008), 438-445. My capitalization of “Indigenous” signals that I am speaking of a human group and distinguishes the term from its usage in relation to flora and fauna “indigenous” to a particular place. 85 Pauline Wakeham, Taxidermic Signs: Reconstructing Aboriginality (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008), 38. In capitalizing White, I refer, to borrow the historian Paige Raibmon’s words, “not so much to a static racial group as to members of an immigrant, colonizing society.” Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 212 (fn 17). 86 In the case of references and direct quotes, I reproduce names and terms as they appear in the original source. On Baha’i transcription and transliteration see Warburg, Citizens of the World, 29-31; Lee, The Baha’i Faith in Africa, ix-x. 29 them from narrators by specifying their academic discipline (the literary scholar Pauline Wakeham, for example). This study proceeds thematically and is organized into a series of chapter pairings. The first of these establishes several intersecting contexts that inform the study at large. In Chapter 2 I detail, through the method and metaphor of genealogy, the emergence of Indigenous-Baha’i interactions and “Indianness” in North America. I illustrate how the Baha’i Faith, including the prophecy that inspired outreach to Indigenous peoples, was articulated and disseminated in contexts thick with power, contradiction, and contingency. Paying particular attention to colonial policy, I further track formulations of “Indianness” through the twentieth century. In setting down sharp and shifting parameters of “Indianness,” colonial policy contributed to common experiences and shared identification among diverse Indigenous peoples; narrators, in turn, inherited these historically specific identities. I ground these genealogies in Chapter 3 by way of a series of selective background portraits that demonstrate the diverse experiences of “Indianness” that narrators brought to their interactions with the Baha’i Faith. There was, this chapter illustrates, no single or set pathway to becoming Indigenous and Baha’i. The life story interviews that I analyze in this study are, further, the product of intersubjective interactions between narrators and me, a process I also reflect on in this chapter through meditation on my oral historical method. I turn, next, to “declaration stories” and the question of just how and why Indigenous people became Baha’is. Through close analysis of a handful of oral histories, Chapters 4 and 5 illuminate how narrators told composed stories of “rational” and “spiritual” declaration, respectively. Chapter 4 illustrates how four female narrators found the Baha’i Faith a “rational religion” that reconciled their experiences of racism and concerns about belonging, and offered 30 concrete “techniques for living” as well.87 The declaration stories that these women shared were narratives of empowerment that explicitly express their agency and the strengthened sense of Indigenous self that each cultivated by way of becoming Baha’i. Chapter 5 further illuminates articulations of Indigenous Baha’i identity, through what I am calling spiritual declaration stories. All declaration, of course, is in its own way spiritual and there is, in fact, overlap between even the specific stories I consider in these two chapters, as well as others that I do not examine in such close detail. In taking a tight view on these particular stories, and separating out the “rational” and the “spiritual,” I aim to highlight distinctions and convey the rich composure that characterized these stories. These distinctions, though, are not total and, approached together, these chapters underscore how conversion cannot be reduced to intellectual, utilitarian, or spiritual explanations alone. They also reveal a pattern of extending family histories of Indigenous Christian leadership by way of becoming Baha’i. Further, a simultaneous rejection and embrace of Christianity marked many declarations. A number of narrators described being turned off by violence and hypocrisy that they and their relatives had experienced at the hand of Christian churches and were attracted by Baha’i conduct and principles of belonging. At the same time, in coming to accept the principle of progressive revelation, which stresses the relative and evolutionary nature of religious truth, a number also described becoming “more” or “truly” Christian through becoming Baha’i. As I illustrate in Chapter 5, some also interpreted the Baha’i Faith as the fulfillment of teachings from various Indigenous traditions. The three subjects of this chapter, specifically, were inspired to declare as Baha’is by way of spiritual inspirations including dream, vision, and prophecy, idioms and experiences they expressly characterized as Indigenous. 87 “Techniques for living” is philosopher Jacob Needleman’s term, applied by Lewis R. Rambo in Understanding Religious Conversion (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993), 84. 31 Turning from the terrain of declaration to practice, the next pair of chapters examines efforts to live the vision of unity in diversity. More specifically, these chapters illuminate how narrators came into both Indigenous and Baha’i communities, and forged explicitly intersectional identifications as well, by way of their religious practice. In Chapter 6, I illustrate how a number of narrators deepened their own sense of Indigenous identification and cultivated connections with Indigenous communities outside the Baha’i Faith through the practice of what they called “culture.” Narrators, here, engaged a specific revivalist idiom of Indigenous culture that refers to practices such as drumming, singing, and dancing. They were encouraged, through their Baha’i observance, to take up such practices, yet, as I elaborate in the second half of this chapter, Baha’i proscriptions against ritual and superstition, coupled with a normative baseline of non- Indigenous Baha’i practice, meant that the place of Indigenous cultural practices within the Baha’i community was also an active subject of contemplation and sometimes contestation. Chapter 7 extends discussion of Baha’i community dynamics. It illustrates how narrators forged striking relationships of mutual respect with non-Indigenous Baha’is, while they also confronted tensions of intercultural communication and understanding. This study focuses, in a way, on the exceptions in the sense that it considers the histories of Indigenous people who became active Baha’is and continue to maintain connection with the religion. (Likewise, this project does not delve into the perspectives of Indigenous people who did not join the religion at all.) In this chapter, though, I also note a broader pattern of Indigenous retreat from Baha’i activity, something Baha’is themselves often attribute to challenges of what they call “consolidation” (follow up and “deepening” after the initial act of declaration), but which also had to do with uneven power relations within the Baha’i community. I also track the construction of a specifically Indigenous Baha’i community, itself infused by shared slights from non-Indigenous 32 Baha’is, by intertribal cultural exchange and connection, and by Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy. Though there have been and remain several pockets of cultural and geographic concentration among Indigenous Baha’is in North America (among the Tlingit and Tagish in the Yukon, for example, and the Diné in the Southwest), this community was and is transnational. The final pair of chapters in this study further engages this transnational framework. Chapter 7 examines “teaching” and “pioneering” that Indigenous Baha’is carried out among other Indigenous peoples, in North America and globally. Through this activity, which narrators often made great sacrifices and travelled great distances in order to participate in, Indigenous Baha’is deepened their religious identities and cultivated a sense of global Indigenous identification as well. Baha’i outreach work often took the subtle form of what Baha’is call “service” and this chapter also elaborates on a hidden history of Indigenous Baha’i activism woven throughout this study at large. Through their strong commitments to peace and justice, Indigenous Baha’is (and a number of non-Indigenous adherents as well) made and continue to make significant contributions in such fields as Indigenous cultural revitalization, community development, education, health, law, and reconciliation. Baha’is are forbidden from proselytizing and take this prohibition seriously; they are also instructed to refrain from partisan politics and see work as a form of worship. As a result, it was not uncommon for Baha’is to labour for years in support of principles such as cultural diversity and intercultural learning without explicitly labeling their efforts as Baha’i, or even, for that matter, mentioning their own religious affiliation. Baha’is worked for and continue to seek change in a rather different register than Indigenous nationalists, in the past and today. Indeed, as I posit in the conclusion to this study, the explicitly global orientation and ambition of the religion also prompts probing questions concerning the place of place (and, with this, land) in formulations of Indigeneity. 33 Inside/Out, Method/Me This project is a product of oral history. This methodology (and theory too), which I elaborate on in greater detail in Chapter 3, is suited to the study of Indigenous Baha’i history in several different ways.88 On one basic but important level, interviews with Indigenous Baha’is assist in the reconstruction of a history of religious encounter not readily accessible in documentary records. The decentralized nature of the Baha’i Faith at the local level, including an absence of paid “teaching” and administrative personnel, has made for irregular record-keeping practices. There are national Baha’i archives in both the United States and Canada, the former well organized and formally staffed and the latter not. I was granted access to the former but not the latter (staff at the Canadian Baha’i National Centre, though, did share some records via correspondence). Records like letters, committee reports, and Baha’i periodicals have proved tremendously helpful to my analysis of Baha’i outreach to Indigenous people, which I outline, together with the intersecting genealogy of “Indianness,” in the next chapter. But these records reveal little of the historical experiences of Indigenous Baha’is themselves. Herein lies the strength of oral history. Like other forms of historical research, oral history does not tap pure “lived experience.”89 Here, it offers rich insight into active, and ongoing, processes of Indigenous and Baha’i identification, stories shaped through specific interaction between interviewees and me.90 This project is ineluctably informed by my own social and spiritual location. There is a slippery line between reflexivity and self-indulgence that I do not seek to cross here, but it is 88 On oral history as method and theory see Lynn Abrams, Oral History Theory (New York: Routledge, 2010). 89 See, again, Scott, “The Evidence of Experience”; Sangster, “Invoking Experience as Evidence.” See also Sangster’s defense of historical materiality in oral history in “Telling Our Stories: Feminist Debates and the Use of Oral History,” in Robert Perks and Alistair Thompson, eds., The Oral History Reader (New York: Routledge, 1998), 87-100. 90 On the unique value and insight of the interactive genre of oral history see Alessandro Portelli, “What Makes Oral History Different,” in Robert Perks and Alistair Thompson, eds., The Oral History Reader (New York: Routledge, 1998), 63-74. I discuss these issues in further depth in Chapter 3. 34 critical I acknowledge that I am neither Indigenous nor Baha’i.91 I am a White woman of British heritage, born, raised, and still residing in Coast Salish territories on the west coast of what is now Canada, with settler roots stretching back to that charged colonial vessel, the Mayflower. I am a spiritual person, but do not belong to any organized religion.92 In the context of this study, then, I am a “dual outsider.” The question of what it means to do research from the inside and out has long animated the academic enterprise. In our current age of the “post,” with its heightened attunement to subjectivity and power, issues of researcher positioning, voice, and representation are especially charged. These issues, though, are variously charged across the disciplines. “Insider”/“outsider” dynamics are heavily freighted, for example, in both Indigenous and religious studies, but in rather different ways. In the face of centuries of colonial research, many Indigenous studies scholars now model and advocate collaborative research – and its correlate, insider investigation – as the ethical standard.93 In religious studies, conversely, outsider analysis is still routinely 91 Declaring and writing from within one’s own self-location is a common feature of Indigenous research methodologies and I do not mean to reiterate critiques of this approach as indulgent; rather, I make this statement as a settler scholar who seeks not to reinscribe colonial power by folding analysis too tightly back on herself. On Indigenous methodologies and critiques as indulgent see Margaret Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies: Characteristics, Conversations, and Contexts Kobo Edition (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 33-34 (Chapter 4). On the slippery line between reflexivity and self-indulgence see Devon A. Mihesuah, “Introduction,” in Devon A. Mihesuah, ed., Natives and Academics: Researching and Writing About American Indians (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 9; Katrina Srigley and Stacey Zembrzycki, “Remembering Family, Analyzing Home: Oral History and the Family,” Oral History Forum (Special Issue) 29 (2009), 8. 92 Though this statement may sound canned and cliché, there is in fact a long history in the coastal region I call home of “spiritual, but not religious” inclination. For contemporary reflection on this subject see Douglas Todd, ed. Cascadia: The Elusive Utopia: Exploring the Spirit of the Pacific Northwest (Vancouver: Ronsdale, 2008). 93 See, for example, Jo-ann Archibald (Q’um Q’um Xiiem), Indigenous Storywork: Educating the Heart, Mind, Body, and Spirit (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2008); Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies; Mihesuah and Wilson, eds., Indigenizing the Academy; Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. For self-reflexive observations on the complexity of insider Indigenous research see also Robert A. Innes, “Wait a Second. Who Are You Anyways?: The Insider/Outsider Debate and American Indian Studies,” American Indian Quarterly, “Special Issue: Working from Home in American Indian Studies” 33 no.4 (Fall 2009): 440-61; Lianne Leddy, “Interviewing Nokomis and Other Reflections: The Promise of Community Collaboration,” Oral History Forum, “Special Issue: Oral History and Environmental History” 30 (2010): 1-18. For a recent study by a non-Indigenous scholar that productively stretches the contours of intercultural collaboration see Sophie McCall, First Person Plural: Aboriginal Storytelling and the Ethics of Collaborative Authorship (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011). 35 vested with authority over its “confessional” counterpart.94 The field of Baha’i studies, further, is populated overwhelmingly by adherents and has seen animated exchange among some Baha’is, who are required by religious dictate to submit their work for “pre-publication review,” and former members of the religion (some who left by choice, others by excommunication), disillusioned by what they deem censorship, surveillance, and fundamentalism in the faith.95 Located at the intersection of these fields, and the practice of oral history, this project raises probing questions about just what it means to do such work in a good way. I am acutely attuned to the history of abuses committed in the name of research in Indigenous communities and have done my utmost to be respectful and responsive through all stages of the research process.96 It is my great hope that this work will contribute to productive dialogue and prove a relevant and respectful contribution that resonates with narrators. But, it is essential to recognize, this is not a collaborative project. As I discuss in more detail in Chapter 3, this study grows out previous research and I was encouraged to pursue this project based on Baha’i reactions to that earlier work. Although I remain unsure about the exact motivations that inspired each participant to take part in this project, narrators clearly had their own reasons for doing so (and not everyone who I approached agreed to be interviewed, though the majority did). As the Baha’i sociologist Michael McMullen has observed, Baha’is in general “recognize their own relative obscurity”; 94 See, for example, Russell T. McCutcheon, ed., The Insider/Outsider Problem in the Study of Religion: A Reader (London: Cassell, 1999); Russell T. McCutcheon, Critics Not Caretakers: Redescribing the Public Study of Religion (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001). For a defense of “outsider” research in specific relation to Indigenous religion see Sam Gill, “The Academic Study of Religion,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion (JAAR) 62, no.4 (1994): 965-975. See also the following responses: Christopher Jocks, “American Indian Religious Traditions and the Academic Study of Religion: A Response to Sam Gill” and Sam Gill, “Rejoinder to Christopher Jocks,” JAAR 65, no.1 (1997): 169-176, 177-181; Lee Irwin, “Response: American Indian Religious Traditions and the Academic Study of Religion,” JAAR 66, no.4 (1998): 887-892. 95 For useful reviews of these tensions and literature see Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 143-148, 162-166, 179-180. Margit Warburg, Citizens of the World, Chapter 2, esp. 68-70. For Baha’i writings on the subject of pre- publication review see Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 100-104. Theses are not subject to this review process. As a non- Baha’i, I do not intend to submit any future publications that I may pursue on the basis of this research for Baha’i publication review. 96 On the history of colonial research see Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies, Chapters 1-5. 36 similar to what McMullen encountered in the context of his research with the Atlanta Baha’i community, participants seemed pleased “to be ‘studied’ and ‘researched’ by someone who was not automatically going to label them as a ‘cult’ or ‘sect of Islam.’”97 A number of Indigenous Baha’is told me that they feel I am precisely the right person to be undertaking this project, for, as an “outsider,” I can be “objective” and “non-biased.” Demonstrating awareness of the currency of “outsider” analysis, some also explained that they are glad I have taken up this project as they feel my work will attract a wider readership and be taken more seriously than would any contribution from a Baha’i. Narrators, further, were keen to help document and open up the subject of Indigenous Baha’i history, specifically. And as I elaborate, again, in Chapter 3, several expressed to me explicitly their belief that I am particularly well poised (as a non-Baha’i, especially, they implied) to probe dynamics such as intercultural tensions within the Baha’i community, topics that are tough to broach from the inside. With issues of research from the inside and out come questions, in this case, relating to spiritual truth, agency, and causality. A growing Indigenous Studies literature calls for Indigenous ways of knowing and being to be taken as legitimate knowledge systems and insists that their “spiritual and sacred elements” not be sanitized.98 This directly challenges the contours of Western historicity, which, as the postcolonial historian Dipesh Chakrabarty has argued, cannot contain the spirituality of subaltern pasts. Chakrabarty himself endorses efforts to articulate subaltern (that is, spiritual) histories, but also draws attention to the high stakes involved. There are, for example, benefits, he observes, to the production of “minority histories” 97 McMullen, The Bahá’í, xii. 98 Garroutte, Real Indians, 104. For other calls and efforts to center Indigenous knowledge see, for example, Alfred, Wasáse; Archibald (Q’um Q’um Xiiem), Indigenous Storywork; Rauna Kuokkanen, Reshaping the University: Responsibility, Indigenous Epistemes, and the Logic of the Gift (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007); Mihesuah and Cavender Wilson, Indigenizing the Academy; Simpson, Dancing on our Turtle’s Back; Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. 37 that contribute to projects of democracy and social justice.99 In an article in which he explores competing Indigenous and settler interpretations of a 1906 meeting between a Coast Salish delegation and King Edward in London, the historian Keith Carlson likewise reflects on the risks of his approach as he describes being “agonized over presenting [his] thesis [that spiritual communication informed Salish interpretations of the London encounter] for fear that it would be incorrectly regarded as evidence of the unreliable nature of Native oral tradition, and used to discredit or undermine legitimate Aboriginal claims.”100 I fully support the project of articulating and applying Indigenous knowledge frameworks within the academic world and the pursuit of related queries concerning the agency of nonhuman beings and forces.101 I have tried, in what follows, to open and leave space for spiritual reality, but do not actually write from within this perspective, especially as a non-Baha’i. Indeed, this project presents the additional problematic of what it means to take Indigenous worldviews seriously when the focus of inquiry falls on conversion to another faith. Just where does the “confessional” line lie? Or should this language be banished altogether? Though I like the idea of it being otherwise, I recognize that I have, in the end, rather defaulted to what Chakrabarty describes as the “anthropologizing” impulse of belief.102 This forcefully hit home for me at an Indigenous Baha’i gathering at which I was invited to share some reflections on my research. During the Q & A that followed, one of the Indigenous Baha’is present explained that he found my findings useful, but considered them very linear (about as direct a characterization of 99 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), esp. Chapter 4 (“Minority Histories, Subaltern Pasts”). 100 Keith Carlson, “Rethinking Dialogue and History: The King’s Promise and the 1906 Aboriginal Delegation to London,” Native Studies Review 16, no.2 (2005), 25. 101 For a study that takes up the issue of nonhuman sentience see Julie Cruikshank, Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005). For a review that challenges, or at least reveals profound discomfort, with this subject of sentience see Cole Harris, “Do Glaciers Really Listen? A Review Essay,” BC Studies no.148 (Winter 2005/06), 103-106. 102 Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe, 105. 38 Western method and interpretation as they come), a perspective he contrasted from his own circular worldview. He went on to ask me if I believe in God. My answer was an honest, if perhaps unsatisfying to those present, “I don’t know.” I am very comfortable with concepts of spiritual mystery and interconnection, but, as I was reminded in this moment, still carry reservations around the language of God. Here, then, was the limit of my approach laid bare. Though I strive not to reduce spiritual experiences such as communication with ancestors or the power of prayer, prophecy, and dream strictly to “social facts,” without actually placing God at the center of my analysis, I cannot produce a history of Indigenous Baha’i conversion and practice that fully illuminates this process as my participants themselves understand it.103 (After all, as another person at this same gathering put it, the reason she became a Baha’i is not because of Indigenous interpretation or identity (though these, she noted, were indeed a factor), but because Baha’u’llah is the new Manifestation of God). Which brings me back to the anthropologizing realm (i.e. she became a Baha’i because she believes Baha’u’llah is the new Manifestation of God), but not necessarily recourse to belief. As the religious studies scholar Robert Orsi has reflected on this concept, with vocabulary specific to the Catholic context of his own research: “Belief has always struck me as the wrong question, especially when it is offered as a diagnostic for determining the realness of the gods. The saints, gods, demons, ancestors, and so on are real in experience and practice, in relationships between heaven and earth, in the 103 The religious studies scholar Robert Orsi, citing Chakrabarty, challenges the resilient academic assumption that “‘the human is ontologically singular, that gods and spirits are in the end ‘social facts,’ that the social somehow exists prior to them.’” Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the Scholars Who Study Them (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 150. The historian Coll Thrush and the anthropologist Colleen Boyd also invoke Orsi in a discussion in which they challenge scholars not to “punt” on the issue of nonhuman agency and their own spiritual locations. “Introduction: Bringing Ghosts to Ground,” in Colleen Boyd and Coll Thrush, eds., Phantom Past, Indigenous Presence: Native Ghosts in North American Culture and History (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2011), xxx-xxxiii. 39 circumstances of people’s lives and histories, and in the stories people tell about them.”104 It is this tack, with its attention to historical context, practice, and story, which I take in this study. What follows, then, is a, not the, history of becoming Indigenous and Baha’i, an interpretation that I offer in a spirit of respect and dialogue. This is a history of the unexpected that aims to interrupt the very idea of expectation itself. It is a history, put bluntly, of things that do not, according to colonial assumption, belong together, but which, approached in historical combination, are in fact found to fit, not as static pieces, but as flexible spaces of interaction, and identification. This is a process that was, again, eloquently invoked at Jacob Bighorn’s funeral. At the feast and giveaway ceremony that followed Bighorn’s burial, I sat in quiet conversation with a Hesquiaht man from the west coast of Vancouver Island, himself a Baha’i. Taking in the scene at Eagles Hall, he turned to me and shared: “It’s like we say in my language, heshook-ish tsawalk: all is one.”105 104 Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth, 18. 105 On the Nuu-chah-nulth concept of heshook-ish tsawalk, which speaks to the “unity of existence,” human and not, see Umeek (E. Richard Atleo), Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004), 117. 40 Chapter 2: Genealogies Although planning complications prevented a better-timed opening, by the summer of 1893, the World’s Columbian Exposition was ready to welcome the world and mark the four hundredth anniversary of its namesake’s “discovery.” Located on nearly seven hundred acres skirting Lake Michigan, the White City (an architectural reference with apt racialized resonance) paid homage to Old World influence, while celebrating progress and the upstart spirit of the New.1 Millions of pilgrims flocked to this sacred space where industry, art, and entertainment, and the politics that underlined them all, collided.2 East and West, and the category of religion itself, were under construction in Chicago that year.3 At the World’s Parliament of Religions, held in September in conjunction with the fair, over sixty religious leaders from around the world came together at what the religious studies scholars Catherine Albanese and Stephen Stein have described as an “ecumenical convocation before there was an ecumenical movement.”4 Competing visions of Indianness were also on display at and around the fair. In an address to the American Historical Association timed to coincide with the exposition, the historian Frederick Jackson Turner expounded upon the closing of the American frontier and the victory of civilization over savagery.5 Drawing on evolutionary discourse of the “vanishing Indian,” Canadian and American authorities, for their part, mounted live exhibits of Indigenous children 1 Paige Raibmon, Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late-Nineteenth-Century Northwest Coast (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), 34-35; Robert W. Rydell, All the World's a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876-1916 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 38-71. 2 The religious studies scholar Richard Hughes Seager, following Mircea Eliade, describes the exposition as a “sacred space” in The World's Parliament of Religions: The East/West Encounter, Chicago, 1893, Religion in North America (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995), 11. 3 Following the historian Joy Dixon, my use of the terms East and West is “always intended to signal their ambivalent and ambiguous status – as imaginary entities that nevertheless had very real effects.” Joy Dixon, Divine Feminine: Theosophy and Feminism in England (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 11. 4 Catherine L. Albanese and Stephen J. Stein, “Foreword,” in Seager, The World's Parliament of Religions, ix. 5 R. David Edmunds, “Native Americans, New Voices: American Indian History, 1895-1995,” American Historical Review 100, no. 3 (1995): 717. For a thoughtful rehabilitation of Turner see Kerwin Lee Klein, “Reclaiming the ‘F’ Word, or Being and Becoming Postwestern,” Pacific Historical Review 65, no. 2 (1996): 183-186. 41 in replica residential and boarding schools. This, these performances proclaimed, was progress in process. Elsewhere on the fair grounds, the influence of anthropology, with its newfound scientific gloss, and tourism, with its commercialized imperial gaze, produced competing representations of Indigenous people in “normal” domestic scenes. Here was the “before” upon which so many colonial binaries turned, the savage noble, traditional, and authentic.6 This may seem an odd, or at least somewhat obtuse, opening onto Indigenous Baha’i history. After all, the first recorded Indigenous enrollment in the religion did not occur until the 1930s and narrators in this study, specifically, all became Baha’is in the second half of the twentieth century.7 Yet Chicago in 1893 is an apposite entrée to the oral histories that follow in coming chapters in more ways than one: it was here, at the World’s Parliament of Religions, that a lecture delivered on behalf of Reverend Henry Harris Jessup, an American Presbyterian missionary stationed in Syria, made the first recorded mention of the Baha’i Faith in North America.8 Further, the performances of progress and authenticity on offer at the fair explicitly articulated colonial formulations of Indianness and allied assimilation efforts at the turn of the century. Jumping off from this point of intersection, this chapter tracks shifting formulations of Indigenous identity and the emergence of Indigenous-Baha’i interactions in North America by way of genealogy. This is, on one level, an apt, quite literal, metaphor: international Baha’i leadership resided within a single family, complete with sibling rivalry, for three generations. And the religion often spread in Indigenous North America by way of kinship networks. But 6 Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 34-49. 7 Research as to who was the first Indigenous Baha’i in North America is ongoing. While the historian Robert Stockman has speculated that a woman named Pocahantas Pope who became a Baha’i in Washington, DC in the early twentieth century may have had Indigenous heritage, Oneida woman Marion Steffes, who joined the religion in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in the 1930s, is generally credited with this status. Robert H. Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 2, Early Expansion, 1900 - 1912 (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1995), 225; “Marian Steffes, 1900-1978,” The Bahá’í World, Volume 17, 1976-1979 (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1981), 458-459. 8 Christopher Buck, Religious Myths and Visions of America: How Minority Faiths Redefined America's World Role (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2009), 193-194, 263 (fn 67 and 68); Robert H. Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, Origins, 1892-1900 (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1985), 32-33. 42 genealogy, in this case, is also effective method. Drawing on the work of the French philosopher Michel Foucault, the historian Paige Raibmon has recently advocated and applied this approach in a penetrating study of “Indian land policy and settler practice” in British Columbia. Genealogy, she explains, “is not the same thing as literally tracing family trees, but the metaphor is useful, because we need to map ‘family connections’ not only between people but among an array of past practices, policies, and even accidents.” Eschewing teleology, analysis falls on “constitutive ingredients,” not “final product[s].”9 Approached from this perspective, the Chicago World’s Fair becomes effective entry, not origin, point and the Baha’i religion and Indigenous identity alike are illuminated in specific, and sometimes intersecting, historical context. As I illustrate in the first half of this chapter, the Baha’i Faith did not arrive in Chicago preformed and prefigured (and there were, in fact, no Baha’is in the city until five months after Jessup’s address was delivered at the Parliament of Religions). Nor could Abdu’l-Baha, who was based in Chicago during a several month visit to North America in 1912, have known or fully understood the contexts into which Baha’is would subsequently carry the statement, mentioned in the introduction to this study, that he made about the Indigenous peoples of the Americas in 1916. Issues of translation, literal and symbolic, abounded as adherents carried this message into “Indian Country.” And, as I elaborate in the second half of this chapter, just who was an “Indian” proved a matter of substantial and shifting contestation over the course of the twentieth century. “Indianness” was forged out of hundreds of specific, varied Indigenous identities through the fire of colonialism’s common experience. I pay particular attention to the 9 Paige Raibmon, “Unmaking Native Space: A Genealogy of Indian Policy, Settler Practice, and the Microtechniques of Dispossession,” in Alexandra Harmon, ed. The Power of Promises: Rethinking Indian Treaties in the Pacific Northwest (Seattle: Center for the Study of the Pacific Northwest in association with University of Washington Press, 2008), 58-59. See also Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” in Paul Rabinow, ed., The Foucault Reader (New York: Pantheon, 1984), 76-100. 43 place of colonial policy in this process, tracing the sharp and shifting parameters of “Indianness” it set out, and its impact on the production of a sense of shared identification among Indigenous people. As I noted earlier, such identification did not necessarily mark a flattening of tribal difference, though it did sometimes designate new combinations. The policy context that I detail here helped produce the historically-specific Indigenous identities that narrators in this study subsequently inherited. The resemblance between the two family histories tracked in this chapter is nascent and will emerge further in coming chapters. Indeed, the many ways of being Indigenous and Baha’i that this study illuminates germinate from the genealogies plotted here. Context for a Prophecy: A Baha’i Genealogy The spirit of ecumenism with which the 1893 World’s Parliament of Religions has been associated tracks closely with the Baha’i vision of peace and the “oneness of religion.” As such, it is not surprising that Baha’is regularly trace their religion’s North American root to this gathering, even though there were two Baha’is of Syrian Christian heritage, Ibrahim Kheiralla and Anton Haddad, in the United States by the end of 1892.10 The Parliament both signaled and gave rise to growing Western interest in “alternative” religion.11 Not surprisingly, though, liberal Protestants dominated numerically and politically. They authorized the Parliament’s inclusions and exclusions (Hinduism and Buddhism were in, for example, but the Mormon church and 10 Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, Origins, 26. In his study of the early Canadian Baha’i community, the sociologist Will van den Hoonaard also details how several people who attended the World’s Parliament of Religions subsequently became Baha’is. Will C. van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 1898-1948 (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1996), 1-2, 16. 11 In contrast to contemporary movements like Theosophy, however, which looked to an imagined “mystic East” for spiritual direction, the Baha’i Faith emanated from Iran and expanded from a base in what is now Israel. On the construction of alternative, exotic, and mystic Eastern religion see, for example, Dixon, Divine Feminine; Richard King, Orientalism and Religion: Postcolonial Theory, India and “The Mystic East” (London: Routledge, 1999); Stephen R. Prothero, The White Buddhist: The Asian Odyssey of Henry Steel Olcott (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996); Thomas A. Tweed, The American Encounter with Buddhism, 1844-1912: Victorian Culture and the Limits of Dissent (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992). 44 Indigenous religions were not) and bolstered a core narrative of civilization, triumph, and progress.12 This perspective was clearly articulated in the address, “The Religious Mission of the English-Speaking Nations,” that Reverend George A. Ford, another missionary stationed in Syria, delivered on behalf of Reverend Henry Harris Jessup. In a logic reminiscent of reformers who advocated for the establishment of Indian boarding and residential schools in North America in the same period, the paper asserted the superiority and divine destiny of the “English-speaking race,” while acknowledging that “all men are made in God’s image” and deserving of salvation.13 Jessup’s address then turned to the context of his own mission field. “In the palace of Behjeh,” he explained: of Delight, just outside the fortress of Acre, on the Syrian coast, there died a few months since a famous Persian sage, the Babi saint, named Behâ Allah – the ‘Glory of God’ – the head of that vast reform party of Persian Moslems, who accept the New Testament as the Word of God and Christ as the delivered of men, who regard all nations as one, and all men as brothers. This man, Jessup continued, “gave utterances to sentiments so noble, so Christ-like,” that the missionary closed his address with words from the “Persian sage” himself. Citing British orientalist scholar Edward Granville Browne, who had recently visited Baha’u’llah in Bahji, Jessup concluded: “That all nations should become one in faith and all men as brothers; that the bonds of affection and unity between the sons of men should be strengthened; that diversity of religion should cease and differences of race be annulled; what harm is there in this? Yet so it shall be. These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come. Do you not in Europe need this also? Let not a man glory in this, that he loves his country; let him rather glory in this, that he loves his kind.”14 12 Richard Hughes Seager, “General Introduction,” in Richard Hughes Seager, ed., The Dawn of Religious Pluralism: Voices from the World's Parliament of Religions, 1893 (La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1993), 6-7. 13 Henry Harris Jessup, “The Religious Mission of the English-Speaking Nations,” in Seager, ed., The Dawn of Religious Pluralism, 38, 42. 14 Jessup, “The Religious Mission of the English-Speaking Nations,” 42. As Christopher Buck notes, this statement comes originally from Browne’s introduction to his 1891 translation of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s A Traveler’s Narrative Written to Illustrate the Episode of the Báb; Buck further notes, quoting the historian Robert Stockman, that 45 That these words were recorded by Browne and transmitted by way of an American Presbyterian missionary working in Syria suggests the accelerating global flow of religious people, ideas, and power in this period. The Baha’i Faith began not in Bahji, but in Iran, the place adherents call “the Cradle of the Faith.” It emerged in a context of mid-nineteenth-century Muslim millenarianism and was rooted in a movement initiated by the merchant Sayyid Ali Muhammad. This man sparked strong reaction from Shi’i authorities when he proclaimed himself, in 1844, “the Bab,” or gate, to the “Hidden Imam.”15 Opposition further mounted, four years later, when the Bab claimed to be the “Mahdi,” the reappearance of the Hidden Imam and a figure considered in popular Shi’i belief to be “the rightful ruler of the faithful and the inaugurator of the final days prior to the Resurrection.”16 The Bab also referred in his writings to the coming of “a further messianic figure” and in 1863, thirteen years after the Bab’s execution, one of his followers, the merchant Mirza Husayn Ali Nuri, or Baha’u’llah (the “Glory of God”), declared himself “He Whom God Shall Make Manifest” (man yuzhiruhu’llah).17 He made this proclamation in a garden outside Baghdad, where he had been exiled in 1853 after four months of incarceration in Tehran. Although Baha’i sources typically paint a portrait of smooth succession from the Bab to Baha’u’llah, then down through three generations of the latter’s family, contested claims to leadership arose at this early stage and after the deaths of Baha’u’llah, his son and heir, Abdu’l- Baha (the “Servant of Baha”), and his great-grandson and Abdu’l-Baha’s successor, Shoghi “‘Jessup did not reproduce the quotation exactly as Browne gave it.’” Buck, Religious Myths and Visions of America, 263. 15 Ira M. Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, Second Edition (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 473. 16 Peter Smith, An Introduction to the Baha'i Faith (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 4, 10, 11 (quote appears on 11). 17 Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith, 13, 14, 23. 46 Effendi, as well.18 Strict shunning methods were elaborated to isolate and excommunicate those deemed “Covenant-breakers” and, in the language of official Baha’i history, prevent schism.19 For Baha’u’llah, exile to Iraq marked the beginning of a series of forced migrations through the Middle East that culminated in the Mediterranean town of Akka (then in Syria, now in Israel). A close group of his loyal family and followers – known since 1866, when Baha’u’llah publicly proclaimed his station in Edrine, as Baha’is, or “the people of Baha” – were deported with him.20 After several years of confinement in the fortified port city, an elderly Baha’u’llah moved slightly north to the mansion of Bahji mentioned in Jessup’s address, where he remained until his death in 1892.21 Baha’u’llah revived and refined the Bab’s teachings. He wrote prolifically, in Persian and in Arabic. The focus and flavor of his writings vary from the mystical to the mundane and from the local to the global. In the Kitab-i-Iqan (Book of Certitude), for example, Baha’u’llah drew on the Qur’an to elaborate and defend the Bab’s claims and his own station as the new “Manifestation of God” to a Muslim audience.22 As the sociologist Margit Warburg has explained, in declaring himself “He Whom God Shall Make Manifest,” “Baha’u’llah abrogated the Bab’s shari’a [religious law] and with the Kitáb-i-Aqdas [the Baha’i “Book of Laws,” also 18 On these tensions see, for example, Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, 473; Smith, An Introduction to the Baha'i Faith, 14, 16-17, 23-26, 36, 43-44, 55-57, 66-69. 19 Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith, 44, 55, 61, 67-68, 173. Margit Warburg notes that although there have been relatively few Baha’is excommunicated over the course of Baha’i history, the discourse of “Covenant-breaking” has nevertheless served a significant boundary maintenance function. Warburg, Citizens of the World, 182. See also Margit Warburg and David Piff, “Enemies of the Faith: Rumors and Anecdotes as Self-Definition and Social Control in the Baha’i Religion,” in Eileen Barker and Margit Warburg, eds., New Religions and New Religiosity (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1998), 66-82. 20 The Azalis, the followers of Baha’u’llah’s half-brother, Mirza Yahya Nuri, or Subh-i-Aal (“Morn of Eternity”), who had jockeyed for Babi leadership from the family’s time in Baghdad in the 1850s, rejected this claim and were deported to Cyprus. Margit Warburg, Baha’i (Salt Lake City: Signature, 2003), 13. 21 For useful reviews of early Babi and Baha’i history see Peter Smith, The Babi and Baha'i Religions: From Messianic Shi'ism to a World Religion (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 5-71; Smith, An Introduction to the Baha'i Faith, 3-54; Warburg, Citizens of the World, 119-194. 22 Warburg, Citizens of the World, 168-169. 47 described as “the Most Holy Book”] he gave his adherents a new one.”23 Baha’u’llah’s religious law overturned a number of the Bab’s “strict ordinances,” including jihad (holy war), while maintaining a number of his innovations such as a calendar composed of nineteen months of nineteen days. The Kitab-i-Aqdas, which was not released in full English translation until 1992, also maintained elements informed by the broader Islamic context, including prescriptions for daily prayer, fasting, and pilgrimage.24 Baha’u’llah’s numerous deportations, combined with improvements in transportation and communication through the second half of the nineteenth century, exposed him to cosmopolitan ideas and influences that likewise informed his thinking.25 He engaged modern questions ranging from nationalism to women’s rights and negotiated a religious vision grounded in the fundamental principle of global unity.26 “The earth,” Baha’u’llah claimed, “is but one country, and mankind its citizens.”27 As the historian Juan R.I. Cole has observed, Baha’u’llah’s own liminality may have informed his understanding of “the malleability of identity and underlying human unities”: “Born an Iranian, he became an Ottoman subject. Born a speaker of the Mazandarani dialect, he learned literary Persian and then spent much of his life in Arabic-speaking environments, becoming fluent in Arabic. He probably also knew Ottoman well. Born a Shi’ite Muslim, he became a Babi and then created a new religion.”28 Baha’u’llah’s vision can likewise be located in a Muslim family tree with roots reaching back to the Mughal emperor, Akbar, who developed a striking ecumenism over the 23 Warburg, Citizens of the World, 178. 24 Denis MacEoin, Rituals in Babism and Baha'ism (London: British Academic Press, 1994), 178. For a study that usefully positions Baha’i ideas and practices in the broader Islamic and Babi milieu in which they emerged see John Walbridge, Sacred Acts, Sacred Space, Sacred Time (Oxford: George Ronald, 1996). 25 This is a point made by multiple contributors to Margit Warburg, Annika Hvithamar, and Morten Warmind, eds., Baha’i and Globalisation (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2005). See, in particular, Todd Lawson, “Globalization and the Hidden Words,” 35-53. 26 Juan R.I. Cole, Modernity and the Millennium: The Genesis of the Baha'i Faith in the Nineteenth-Century Middle East (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998). 27 Bahá’u’lláh, “Lawḥ-i-Maqṣúd (Tablet of Maqṣúd),” in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh Revealed After the Kitáb-i-Aqdas (Wilmette, Ill.: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1988), 167, accessed online 21 May 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/TB/. 28 Cole, Modernity and the Millennium, 116. 48 course of his sixteenth-century rule, and ahead to Amaddiyya, a Muslim revival movement that was launched in India in the late nineteenth century and, like the Baha’i Faith, spread to the United States (and Chicago specifically) at the turn of the twentieth.29 It was Baha’u’llah’s son and successor, Abbas Effendi, or Abdu’l-Baha, who took this new religion global. Baha’u’llah had overseen the spread of his nascent faith to India, Burma, and Russia and had initiated correspondence with European leaders as early as the 1860s.30 The years of Abdu’l-Baha’s ministry, however, corresponded with growing global interaction that the new leader considered especially ripe for Baha’i expansion.31 After the Young Turk Revolution abolished political restrictions upon his mobility in 1908, Abdu’l-Baha relocated from Akka to Haifa (also in Syria, now in Israel), where he began the work of building the Baha’i World Centre that his father had called for on the slopes of Mount Carmel.32 Abdu’l- Baha was based for the rest of his life in Haifa, but lived briefly in Egypt and travelled to Europe in 1911, 1912, and 1913. He spent close to eight months in North America in 1912.33 Ibrahim Kheiralla, who migrated to the United States in December 1892, initiated the first Baha’i teaching efforts in North America. An entrepreneur with professed healing powers, Kheiralla moved to Chicago in February 1894, where he began teaching the Baha’i Faith in the 29 On Akbar see Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, 372, 377-378. For a comparative analysis of the Baha’i Faith and Ahmadiyya see Morten Warmind, “Baha’i and Ahmadiyya: Globalisation and Images of Modernity,” in Warburg et al, eds., Baha’i and Globalisation, 141-152. Baha’is may bristle at the comparison of their faith (which they stress is an independent world religion) and Ahmadiyya (which remains under the umbrella of Islam); I am pointing here to a shared context and current of Muslim innovation and dialogue. See also Oliver Scharbrodt’s recent comparative analysis of Abdu’l-Baha and modern Islamic reformer Muhammad Abduh: Islam and the Baha'i Faith: A Comparative Study of Muhammad 'Abduh and 'Abdul-Baha 'Abbas (New Brunswick, NJ: Routledge, 2008). 30 His “Tablets to the Rulers,” which he began writing in 1867, included letters to Napoleon III, Queen Victoria, Alexander II, and Pope Pius IX. Smith, An Introduction to the Baha'i Faith, 28-31. 31 On Abdu’l-Baha and globalization see Warburg, Citizens of the World, 100-101; Juan R. I. Cole, “Globalization and Religion in the Thought of 'Abdu'l-Baha,” in Warburg et al., Baha'i and Globalisation, 55-75. 32 Warburg, Baha'i, 16. This move, telling of internal family tension, was also motivated in part by an effort by Abdu’l-Baha to distance himself from his half-brother, Muhammad-Ali, who (in a split reminiscent of tensions between Baha’u’llah and his half-brother, Subh-i-Azal) challenged Abdu’l-Baha’s leadership as laid out in Baha’u’llah’s will. 33 Peter Smith offers a useful outline of Abdu’l-Baha’s travel itineraries in Concise Encyclopedia of the Bahá’í Faith (Oxford, UK: Oneworld, 2000), 17. 49 afterglow of the World’s Fair.34 Through his efforts, which drew heavily on the Bible but included an “esoteric” flair, over fifteen hundred North Americans became Baha’is in the 1890s.35 Many were women and most were White, middle-class, and of liberal Christian heritage.36 Concerns over perceived inaccuracies in Kheiralla’s program led to long-distance attempts at codification by Abdu’l-Baha and a gradual sharpening of the boundaries of Baha’i membership, a shift that led a number of early (especially politically-oriented) adherents to pull back from active Baha’i participation.37 When Abdu’l-Baha would not grant Kheiralla leadership of the American Baha’i community, the latter shifted his loyalty to Abdu’l-Baha’s half-brother, Muhammad-Ali, who contested Abdu’l-Baha’s authority.38 Most North American Baha’is ultimately maintained allegiance with Abdu’l-Baha and Kheiralla is typically treated as somewhat of a black sheep in Baha’i sources.39 Amidst internal community tension, Abdu’l-Baha’s 1912 visit to North America thoroughly galvanized the host community and attracted significant public attention. For those Americans who looked “East” for inspiration and internal critique in this period of heightened antimodernist sentiment and anxiety, the exotic “‘white-bearded and snowy-turbaned’” Abdu’l- 34 Kheiralla and Haddad had hoped to sell one of the former’s “inventions” to fair organizers, what the historian Robert Stockman describes as a “ticket with space on it for advertising.” Stockman, The Bahá’í Faith in America, Volume 1, 26. 35 Stockman, The Bahá’í Faith in America, Volume 1, 20, 47, 50. 36 Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, 103-104; Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 2, 7; William Garlington, The Baha'i Faith in America (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2005), 80-81; van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 11-12, 223, 245, 283. 37 A teleological tone, characteristic of much Baha’i scholarship, shines through in Robert Stockman’s otherwise quite even-handed history of the early American Baha’i community as he discusses “inaccuracies and non-Bahá’í accretions” in Kheiralla’s program. Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, 188. On codification attempts and sharpened membership boundaries and their effects, see Cole, “Globalization and Religion in the Thought of 'Abdu'l-Baha,” 63; Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, 154-155, 167, 173, 183-184, 191- 193; Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 2, 166, 391; Will C. van den Hoonaard, “Biographical Zoning and Baha'i Biographical Writing: The Case of Rose Henderson,” Baha'i Studies Review 12 (2004): 50-66. Lil Abdo has documented a similar process of decreasing participation by early adherents as the boundaries of the British Baha’i community hardened in the same period: “Religion and Relevance: The Baha’is in Britain, 1899-1930” (PhD thesis, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 2003). 38 Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith, 44, 50. 39 See, for example, the derisive tone of Firuz Kazemzadeh’s discussion of Kheiralla in his foreword to Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, xiv. 50 Baha cut an attractive figure.40 Headlines that ran during his nine-day stay in Montreal, the only Canadian stop on his North American tour, captured this context and the tenor of Abdu’l-Baha’s own message: “Persian Prophet in Flowing Robes Calls for Unity,” the Montreal Daily Star reported on 2 September. “Racialism Wrong Says Eastern Sage,” proclaimed the Gazette on the same day.41 Abdu’l-Baha maintained a busy speaking schedule and during his public talks articulated his message in a format digestible for his overwhelmingly Christian audiences.42 It was through these talks and interactions that he distilled the Baha’i teachings down to “the twelve principles” outlined in the introduction to this study.43 If North American audiences projected their modern unrest and urban ennui onto Abdu’l- Baha (much as they did “Indians”), he in turn looked to the continent, and the United States especially, for inspiration.44 From his first visit with American pilgrims in Haifa in 1898, Abdu’l-Baha accorded the United States, with its “rational” administrative abilities, a unique 40 13 April 1912 article in the New York City Evening Mail, cited in Allan L. Ward, 239 Days: 'Abdu'l-Bahá's Journey in America (Wilmette, IL: Bahá'í Publishing Trust, 1979), 20. Ward’s text lacks comprehensive citations, but nevertheless provides a detailed (if partisan) portrait of Abdu’l-Baha’s journey based on contemporary media coverage and other archival sources. On American antimodernism see T.J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture, 1880-1920 (New York: Pantheon Books, 1981). And on “Eastern” inspiration see Susan Nance, How the Arabian Nights Inspired the American Dream, 1790-1935 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2009); Prothero, The White Buddhist; Tweed, The American Encounter with Buddhism. A novel by Gertrude Atherton published the year of Abdu’l-Baha’s visit, in which the main character travels to meet “the Master” (as Abdu’l-Baha is known to Baha’is) in Akka, also spoke directly to these sentiments. “‘Even a little of the wisdom of the east,’” protagonist Julia France proclaimed, “‘must widen our vision and prove an everlasting antidote to the modern spirit of unrest.’” Gertrude Atherton, Julia France and Her Times (New York: Macmillan, 1912), 276, cited in Ward, 239 Days, 199. 41 van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 300. 42 Some contemporary publications were likewise geared towards Christian audiences. See, for example, ‘Abdu’l- Bahá, Some Answered Questions, collected and translated from the Persian by Laura Clifford Barney (New Delhi: Bahá'í Publishing Trust, 2001 [1908]). Abdu’l-Baha also met with a number of Theosophists (including, on the European leg of his journey, the movement’s leader, Annie Besant) and Kahlil Gibran. Ward, 239 Days, 44, 55, 75, 117, 131, 145, 167-168; van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 31; Smith, An Introduction to the Baha'i Faith, 51. 43 van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 203. As Peter Smith notes, the number of principles that Abdu’l-Baha presented during his public talks ranged between 9 and 14, An Introduction to the Baha'i Faith, 52. 44 As Christopher Buck observes, the definition of “America” in Baha’i history and writings varied by context and included, at turns, the nation (the United States of America), the continent (North America; and/or Canada and the United States), and the hemisphere (the Americas). Buck, Religious Myths and Visions of America, 180. 51 station in growing the global Baha’i community.45 During his travels, he critiqued American materialism, but regularly praised the United States for its commitment to freedom and justice and, in the shadow of brewing political tensions in Europe, called for the country to release the “light of peace” to the world.46 He also drew consistent attention to race relations. Speaking at an interracial gathering in Washington, D.C., for example, Abdu’l-Baha asserted that, “In the sight of God there is no distinction between whites and blackes; all are as one. Anyone whose heart is pure is dear to God – whether white or black, red or yellow.”47 Abdu’l-Baha concluded this talk with a call for unity and his favoured botanical metaphor in which he invoked the image of a technicolour rose garden.48 While his vision was expansive, and included “the red men, the Indians,” Abdu’l-Baha’s activity during his time in America concentrated mostly on Black- White interactions.49 In an act of silent erasure, his evaluation of American politics and peacemaking potential likewise overlooked the country’s policy of Manifest Destiny and its own internal history of settler colonialism.50 It was after his journey to North America that Abdu’l-Baha articulated what Baha’is would come to describe as his prophecy concerning the Indigenous peoples of the Americas. Upon his return to Haifa and in the midst of the First World War (a conflict that further 45 Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, 152-153; Buck, Religious Myths and Visions of America, 180- 186. This first pilgrimage by American Baha’is was led and financed by wealthy philanthropist, Phoebe Hearst. For a recent Baha’i account of this journey see Kathryn Jewett Hogenson, Lighting the Western Sky: The Hearst Pilgrimage and Establishment of the Bahá’í Faith in the West (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 2010). 46 Mírzá Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, Maḥmúd’s Diary: The Diary of Mírzá Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, Chronicling ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Journey to America, Mohi Sobhani, translator, with the assistance of Shirley Macias (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1998), 98. See also Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, Maḥmúd’s Diary, 41, 88, 122, 235, 306, 277-278, 299; Ward, 239 Days, 143, 186, 235, 377-378, 399. 47 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “10 November 1912, Talk at Home of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph H. Hannen, 1252 Eighth Street, NW, Washington, D. C. (Notes By Mr. Joseph H. Hannen)” in The Promulgation of Universal Peace: Talks Delivered by Abdu'l-Baha During his Visit to the United States and Canada in 1912 (Wilmette, IL: Baha'i Publishing Trust, 1982), 425, accessed online 15 Feb 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/PUP/). 48 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “10 November 1912, Talk at Home of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph H. Hannen,” 427-428. 49 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “10 November 1912, Talk at Home of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph H. Hannen,” 428. On Black-White interactions see, for example, Ward, 239 Days, 26, 40, 43, 48, 49, 65, 102, 110, 120, 145, 159, 177, 187. 50 See Anders Stephanson, Manifest Destiny: American Expansionism and the Empire of Right (New York: Hill and Wang, 1995). 52 propelled his pacifist perspective), Abdu’l-Baha dictated a series of letters, a common Baha’i communication tool, to Canadian and American Baha’is in which he cemented their role in global Baha’i expansion. Five of these letters were published in English in the Baha’i periodical Star of the West in 1916; translator Miraz Ahmad Sohrab presented the remaining letters in English at a convention in New York City three years later.51 In this second set of letters, midway through an address titled, “First Tablet to the Assemblies of the United States and Canada in reference to Alaska, Mexico, Central America, South America, the West Indies and other islands of the Western Continent,” Abdu’l-Baha offered the following instructions: You must give great importance in teaching the Indians, i.e., the aborigines of America. For these souls are like the ancient inhabitants of Peninsular Arabia, who previous to the Manifestation of His Holiness Mohammed were treated as savages. But when the Mohammedic light shone forth in their midst, they became so illumined that they brightened the world. Likewise, should these Indians and aborigines be educated and obtain guidance, there is no doubt that through the Divine Teachings, they will become so enlightened as in turn to shed light to all regions.52 The historian Andrew Pemberton-Piggot has characterized this statement as the sole “racial” prophecy in the Baha’i writings.53 In an earlier letter, which would later inspire a narrator in this study to move to the Arctic for the purpose of Baha’i outreach, Abdu’l-Baha also signaled his hope that, “Perchance, God willing, the call of the Kingdom may reach the ears of the Eskimos, the inhabitants of the Islands of Franklin in the north of Canada, as well as Greenland.”54 His statement about “the Indians,” however, is especially striking, both for the vigor with which it was taken up by later Baha’is and for its resonance in the context of colonial North America. 51 “Tablets Revealed by Abdul-Baha to the Bahais throughout the United States and Canada,” Star of the West 7, no. 10 (September 8, 1916): 87-91; “Unveiling of the Divine Plan, Bahai Congress New York City, April Twenty-Sixth to April Thirtieth, Inclusive Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen,” National Bahá’í Library, United States. 52 “Unveiling of the Divine Plan,” 47. 53 Andrew Pemberton-Pigott, “The Bahá'í Faith in Alberta, 1942-1992: The Ethic of Dispersion” (MA thesis, University of Alberta, 1993), 34. 54 “Tablets Revealed by Abdul-Baha to the Bahais throughout the United States and Canada,” 89. 53 In urging Baha’is to “give great importance in teaching the Indians,” a people “treated as savages” until a new religion “shone forth in their midst,” this passage readily invokes the image of outsiders descending upon Indigenous communities in order to spread truth and light and seems to identify itself as an iteration of missionary imperialism. In suggesting that Indigenous peoples are in need of education and guidance from “the Divine Teachings,” it positions them as the subjects of external enlightenment and appears to aligns itself with the assimilationist aims of Christian missionaries intent on Indian civilization and uplift. And in asserting that Indigenous peoples possess unique spiritual capacities, and have the potential to “shed light to all regions,” this statement further conjures a romantic noble savage discourse that casts “authentic Indians” as refuge and foil for settler discontent and imperial longing.55 Despite such shared heritage, however, the actual history of Indigenous-Baha’i encounter defies any such straightforward categorization. The letter in which Abdu’l-Baha’s prediction appears has not drawn detailed academic attention and the specific inspiration for his statement about “Indians” remains unclear.56 While Abdu’l-Baha’s own account of his time in North America has yet to be translated into English, available sources do not indicate that the Baha’i leader interacted directly with Indigenous people on this trip.57 Although he traveled as far west 55 See discussion of religion, colonialism, and authenticity below for further context on these intersections. 56 For analysis of another “tablet” by Abdu’l-Baha relating to Indigenous peoples and religion in North America see Donald Addison and Christopher Buck, “Messengers of God in North America Revisited: An Exegesis of ‘Abdu’l- Bahá’s Tablet to Amír Khán,” Online Journal of Bahá'í Studies 1 (2007): 180-270. 57 The recent centenary of Abdu’l-Baha’s visit to North America sparked a number of Baha’i commemorations, awareness campaigns, and publications. See, for example, the American National Spiritual Assembly-sponsored website, “Commemorating ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in America, 1912-2012,” accessed online 8 May 2013, http://centenary.bahai.us/, and Negar Mottahedeh, ed., ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Journey West: The Course of Human Solidarity (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). The extant record on his journey, however, remains limited. Ward notes, for example, that Abdu’l-Baha penned an account of his journey, but that it remains among his many papers that have yet to be translated into English: Ward, 239 Days, 175. Neither the media coverage that Ward cites in 239 Days nor the published diary of Mirza Mahmud-i-Zarqani, who Baha’i authorities consider the official chronicler of Abdu’l-Baha’s trip, suggest direct interaction with Indigenous people. In his history of the early Canadian Baha’i community Will van den Hoonaard recounts the story of Jim Loft, a Mohawk man who became a Baha’i in 1948, who told of seeing Abdu’l-Baha pass by his community, near Belleville, Ontario, on a train; Abdu’l- Baha reportedly waved at a young four-year-old Loft, who, startled, fell off the fence on which he was perched. 54 as California, the Baha’i leader was based predominantly in cities in the American Midwest and along the Eastern Seaboard where, owing to formal policies and informal practices of removal, Indigenous populations were limited (although by no means, as settler society and scholarship once assumed, nonexistent).58 The extant record, however, does indicate engagement with “imaginary,” if not “real” Indians.59 That Ibrahim Kheiralla included Hiawatha, the subject of a massively popular nineteenth-century poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in his list of prophets predating Baha’u’llah, for example, suggests an interest in and awareness of things Indian among early Baha’is.60 Given the close company that Abdu’l-Baha kept with his followers during his North American tour, they may well have discussed such ideas, albeit through an interpreter given Abdu’l-Baha’s limited command of the English language. Abdu’l- Baha is also reported to have praised Indigenous collections, described as Mexican in one source and the products of “early American civilization” in another, during a visit to the American Museum of Natural History in New York.61 Perhaps his greatest source of Indian information and inspiration, however, was Honoré Jaxon. Born William Henry Jackson, Jaxon was a Canadian of British heritage who took up an While it is possible that Loft did see Abdu’l-Baha in person (van den Hoonaard correlated Abdu’l-Baha’s travel schedule with Loft’s account), this story, which continues to circulate in the Loft family and the Baha’i community more broadly, is more interesting in the context of memory and claiming such connection several decades on. van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 62; Evelyn Loft Watts and Patricia Verge, Return to Tyendinaga: The Story of Jim and Melba Loft, Bahá’í Pioneers (Essex, MD: One Voice, 2011), 25. 58 Hazel Hertzberg, for example, notes the existence and activity of urban Indigenous populations in cities like Chicago and New York (two major stops for Abdu’l-Baha) in the early twentieth century in The Search for an American Indian Identity: Modern Pan-Indian Movements (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1971), 213-236. More recently, Coll Thrush has demonstrated the mutually constitutive nature of urban and Indigenous histories in Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007). 59 On the concept of “imaginary Indians” see Daniel Francis, The Imaginary Indian: The Image of the Indian in Canadian Culture, Second Edition (Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press, 2011). 60 Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, 67. 61 The diary of Juliet Thompson describes the exhibit as Mexican, while that of Mirza Mahmud-i-Zarqani calls it “a collection of relics of early American civilization.” Christopher Buck’s suggestion that the exhibit was Blackfoot (based on the fact that the museum’s curator, Clark Wissler, had done research on this tribe) seems, in the absence of further evidence, a stretch. Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, Zarqani, Maḥmúd’s Diary, 159; Juliet Thompson, The Diary of Juliet Thompson, with a preface by Marzieh Gail (Los Angeles: Kalimát Press, 1983 [1947]), accessed online at 21 May 2013, http://bahai-library.com/books/thompson/; Addison and Buck, “Messengers of God in North America Revisited,” 208-209. 55 Indigenous identity after serving as secretary to Louis Riel, the leader of the Métis resistance movement on the Prairies, during a major confrontation with state authorities in 1885.62 Jaxon settled in Chicago after fleeing Canada, where he was wanted for his involvement in the Northwest Resistance, and became a Baha’i in 1897. He was an expansive thinker who moved fluidly between activities ranging from an attempt to secure Métis representation at the Chicago World’s Fair (an effort undone when his imaginary Indian mantle was revealed), to participation in the labour and socialist movements, studies in medicine, work in law, and his final (tragically failed) effort to establish a library dedicated to Métis and Indian history.63 He was also pivotal in helping the Baha’i community secure title to land (territory, his biographer Donald Smith points out, that “was once Metis land”) for a temple in Wilmette, just north of Chicago.64 In a report on the formal dedication of this temple site, which took place during Abdu’l-Baha’s 1912 visit, Jaxon listed “the North American Indians” among “the races and countries” represented at the event; he was more than likely referring to himself here.65 It is quite possible that Jaxon, who, despite his tenuous claim to Indigenous heritage, had real relationships with Indigenous people and communities, shared his ideas with Abdu’l-Baha, whom he interacted with on several occasions during the Baha’i leader’s time in Chicago.66 These ideas may well have included the 62 Donald B. Smith, Honoré Jaxon: Prairie Visionary (Regina, SK: Coteau, 2007). 63 On Jaxon at the fair see Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 226 (fn 77); Smith, Honoré Jaxon, 88-92. 64 Smith, Honoré Jaxon, 156. “Record of the Second Annual Convention of Bahai Temple Unity, Held April 25 and 26, 1910,” Bahai News 1, no. 4 (May 17, 1910): 19-25. For further discussion of Jaxon’s Baha’i life see May Maxwell, “Letter from Montreal,” in Star of the West 3, no.1 (March 21, 1912), 8; Star of the West 2, no.16 (Dec 31, 1911), 14; van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 18-21, 35, 67; van den Hoonaard, “Biographical Zoning and Baha’i Biographical Writing”; Will C. Van den Hoonaard, “Social Activism Among Some Early Twentieth-Century Baha’is,” Socialist Studies: The Journal of the Society for Socialist Studies 2, no. 1 (Spring 2006): 77-96; Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 1, 90-93; Stockman, The Bahá'í Faith in America, Volume 2, 157, 173-174, 450 (fn 147). 65 Honore J. Jaxon, “Dedication of the Maskrak-El-Azkar Site,” Star of the West 3, no.4 (17 May 1912), 6. 66 Honore J. Jaxon, “A Stroll With Abdul-Baha: Culminating in a Typical Bahai Meeting Under the Trees of Lincoln Park, Chicago,” Star of the West 3, no.4 (17 May 1912), 27-29. Jaxon’s layered relationships and positionality are reminiscent of another “imaginary Indian,” Chief Buffalo Child Long Lance, described by Donald Smith: Long Lance: The True Story of an Imposter (Toronto: Macmillan, 1982). For a more nuanced analysis of Long Lance (or 56 advice that Jaxon offered his mother in 1896: “‘Study the Indian and his ways if you would find the light which alone can save the white man’s civilization.’”67 Abdu’l-Baha’s message certainly conveys the sense that Indigenous peoples possess a unique spiritual capacity and the potential to “shed light to all regions.” An even more direct influence on Abdu’l-Baha’s views as expressed in his letters, and perhaps his prophecy too, was an American geography textbook that made its way to Haifa via a Persian student studying at the American University in Beirut. This student gifted the book, Ralph Tarr and Frank McMurry’s 1912 World Geography: One-Volume Edition, to Miraz Ahmad Sohrab, a Baha’i who served as an interpreter for Abdu’l-Baha during his time in North America (Sohrab and Jaxon, Smith points out, met at this time and later reconnected in New York City through the New History Society, a group that Sohrab co-founded in 1929).68 Sohrab returned to Haifa with Abdu’l-Baha and was the first to translate the leader’s letters, including that containing his statement about Indians, into English. Finding him “poring over” Tarr and McMurry’s book one day in Haifa, Abdu’l-Baha asked Sohrab to translate the text into Persian and the resulting influence is obvious.69 Abdu’l-Baha’s letters mirror the textbook’s geographic subdivisions exactly: there are tablets to the Northeastern States, the Southern States, the Central States, the Western States, and even Canada and Greenland.70 More subtly, the book echoes the Sylvester Long) see Eva Marie Garroutte, Real Indians: Identity and the Survival of Native America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 3-4. 67 Smith, Honoré Jaxon, 100. 68 Smith, Honoré Jaxon, 176. 69 Mirza Ahmad Sohrab, The Story of the Divine Plan: Taking Place During, and Immediately Following World War I (New York: The New History Foundation, 1947), 7. Ralph S. Tarr and Frank M. McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition (New York: Macmillan, 1912). A typed note inserted into the copy of this book contained in the “Relics” collection of the National Bahá'í Archives, United States identifies it as the text (although not the specific copy) given to Sohrab and describes it, and the interest it stirred in Abdu’l-Baha, as “the beginning of a great revolution resulting in the writing of the 14 Tablets embodied in the ‘Story of the Divine Plan.’” 70 Tarr and McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition, xi. “Tablets Revealed by Abdul-Baha to the Bahais throughout the United States and Canada”; “Unveiling of the Divine Plan, Bahai Congress New York City, April Twenty-Sixth to April Thirtieth, Inclusive Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen.” It is equally possible, of course, that these subdivisions came straight from Sohrab. 57 erasure by silence that was at work in Abdu’l-Baha’s previous public addresses in America. The doctrine of discovery is present (“After Columbus had returned to Europe in safety, other men dared to explore the New World, as it was called, to distinguish it from the Old World, where all white men lived”), as is a celebration of American freedom and democracy, but the text does not discuss the colonial project in detail.71 Rather, through a narrative strategy common in textbooks (even now), Indigenous peoples were positioned as a precursor to and outside of “Industry, Commerce, and Government,” as people without history who pave the way, materially and rhetorically, for White settlers and pioneers.72 The book also reproduced contemporary racialized hierarchies and their perceived scientific authority.73 Here, the “red race,” illustrated by two images of heavily feathered and beaded Indian men, was placed lower on the scale of progress than “the leaders,” “the whites,” who “have learned the use of ships in exploring distant lands, and have spread with great rapidity. They have conquered the weaker peoples and have taken their lands from them, so that they now rule the entire world.”74 While Abdu’l-Baha engaged the colour-coded language of race, he rejected the primordialist assumptions at work in Tarr and McMurry’s text.75 It is possible too that the book’s section on Arabia, Persia, and Afghanistan, which invoked a similar tone of condescension and relegated these “brown” people to a similar subaltern status as the “red race,” may have sparked a sense of solidarity with Indigenous peoples for Abdu’l-Baha. The text’s critique of the Persian government (which, the authors proclaimed, “has long resembled that of Turkey, and has therefore been bad”) may also 71 Tarr and McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition, 87. See also 86-87, 109-110, 171, 202-204. 72 Tarr and McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition, 59. See also 2-3, 235-236. The phrase “people without history” is Eric Wolf’s: Europe and the People without History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982). 73 Section III of Part IV of the text is dedicated to, “The Races of Mankind,” Tarr and McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition, 306-309. 74 Tarr and McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition, 307-309 (the quote is located on 307-308, the images on 308-309). 75 Cole, “Globalization and Religion in the Thought of ‘Abdu'l-Baha,” 60-61. 58 have resonated with the leader of a religious movement persecuted by Iranian authorities from its inception.76 The discourse of savagery also appears in the textbook, but we ought not assume a direct parallel with Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy. Abdu’l-Baha’s statement underwent a series of translations over time. The original Persian term that he dictated, which Sohrab rendered as “were treated like savages,” was “vuḥúsh”; the Research Department at the Baha’i World Centre notes that dictionary definitions of this term include “wild beasts” and “savages.”77 Abdu’l-Baha elsewhere invoked the language of savagery in relation to Arab, African, and European peoples as well.78 In this application and logic, the Baha’i leader distinguished between those civilized by divine revelation and those who lacked its inspiration and influence.79 Savagery, in this evaluation, was a question of religious, not racial, alterity.80 In comparing Indigenous peoples to “the ancient inhabitants of Peninsular Arabia,” and noting the effect of “the Manifestation of His Holiness Mohammed” upon them, Abdu’l-Baha confirmed what he saw as their latent spiritual 76 Tarr and McMurry, World Geography: One-Volume Edition, 424. 77 Memorandum to the author and the Universal House of Justice from the Research Department, Bahá’í World Centre, 10 August 2008. For Sohrab’s reflections on the broader translation project see Sohrab, The Story of the Divine Plan. 78 Memorandum to the author. In Some Answered Questions, Abdu’l-Baha directly compares “Arab tribes” with “the savages of Africa and wild Indians of America”: “These Arab tribes were in the lowest depths of savagery and barbarism, and in comparison with them the savages of Africa and wild Indians of America were as advanced as Plato. The savages of America do not bury their children alive as these Arabs did their daughters, glorying in it as being an honorable thing to do.” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Some Answered Questions, 19. For an example relating to Africa see ‘Abdu’l- Bahá, The Promulgation of Universal Peace, 309. For an example relating to “Europe and most sections of America” see ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, The Secret of Divine Civilization (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1990), 10, accessed online 17 Feb 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/SDC/. 79 Memorandum to the author. 80 This was a perspective shared by a number of Christian missionaries in North America and elsewhere. For an example from the early contact period see Emma Anderson, The Betrayal of Faith: The Tragic Journey of a Colonial Native Convert (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 95. And from the late nineteenth century see Brett Christophers, Positioning the Missionary: John Booth Good and the Confluence of Cultures in Nineteenth-Century British Columbia (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1998), 23, 47. David Chidester likewise observes in the context of the South African frontier that, “religion, not race or ethnicity, provided the basic vocabulary of difference.” David Chidester, Savage Systems: Colonialism and Comparative Religion in Southern Africa (Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press, 1996), 21. 59 capacity. Indigenous peoples, his statement implied, possessed not only the potential to be spiritually enlightened, they also held the key to global illumination. Abdu’l-Baha’s grandson and successor, Shoghi Effendi Rabbani, picked up on this potential and subsequently took up this statement as a major motivator and mandate for Baha’i outreach efforts in Indigenous North America. If Abdu’l-Baha was the charismatic figure that took the Baha’i Faith global, Shoghi Effendi, who took over leadership of the religion in 1921 (again, amongst contested leadership claims), “routinized” this energy and laid plans for further Baha’i expansion.81 In this, he looked to Abdu’l-Baha’s letters to the North American Baha’is, published in 1936 under the title, America’s Spiritual Mission, and, from 1959, as the Tablets of the Divine Plan.82 These letters, according to Amin Banani in his foreword to the 1977 edition of the Tablets, set the blueprint for global “spiritual conquest.”83 In his work with these letters, Shoghi Effendi drew attention to Abdu’l-Baha’s passage about Indigenous peoples and offered revised English translations of his grandfather’s statement in two letters of his own, first in 1938 and again in 1947.84 It is possible that a desire to distance Abdu’l-Baha’s letters from Sohrab informed these revisions. Sohrab was among Baha’is who chafed at the more rigid boundaries of Baha’i membership that Shoghi Effendi erected and the New History Society that Sohrab co-founded was subject to censure, and even formal legal 81 Warburg, Citizens of the World, 194-195. Shoghi Effendi launched the first of a series of global “teaching plans,” an approach kept up by the Universal House of Justice after him, in 1937. For a specific breakdown of these plans see Warburg, Citizens of the World, 213-215. 82 America’s Spiritual Mission: Teaching Tablets Revealed by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to the American Bahá’ís During 1916 and 1917, Reprinted for the American Bahá’í Community by the National Spiritual Assembly (New York: Bahá’í Publishing Committee, 1936), National Bahá’í Library, United States; Tablets of the Divine Plan: Revealed by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to the North American Bahá’ís during 1916 and 1917 (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1959), National Bahá’í Library, United States. Both these editions retain Sohrab’s original phrasing of Indigenous people being “treated as savages.” 83 Amin Banani, “Foreword to the 1977 Edition,” in ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Tablets of the Divine Plan (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1993), xxi. 84 Memorandum to the author. These retranslations are reproduced in Shoghi Effendi, The Advent of Divine Justice (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1990 [original letter dated 25 December 1938]), 55, accessed online 17 Feb 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/se/ADJ/; Shoghi Effendi, Citadel of Faith (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1980 [original letter dated 5 June 1947]), 16, accessed online 17 Feb 12, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/se/CF/. 60 action, by Baha’i leadership.85 Either way, Shoghi Effendi’s 1947 translation, which the Universal House of Justice later adopted as authoritative, contained several key semantic shifts: Attach great importance to the indigenous population of America. For these souls may be likened unto the ancient inhabitants of the Arabian Peninsula, who, prior to the Mission of Muḥammad, were like unto savages. When the light of Muḥammad shone forth in their midst, however, they became so radiant as to illumine the world. Likewise, these Indians, should they be educated and guided, there can be no doubt that they will become so illumined as to enlighten the whole world.86 Aborigines became indigenous. Once “treated as savages,” this population was now “like unto” them. This iteration, which the Research Department at the Baha’i World Centre describes as “a more accurate translation of the original Persian,” effectively transformed Indians into savages.87 Yet it also exhibited a certain nuance. Where Sohrab’s first translation laid out “the Divine Teachings” as the specific spark that would ignite Indigenous (and, by extension, global) illumination, Shoghi Effendi did not specify the terms of Indigenous education and guidance. Baha’i outreach efforts to Indigenous people in the Americas (recall the hemispheric context in which Abdu’l-Baha’s statement was first articulated) were underway by 1947. Shoghi Effendi’s omission may well have been informed by these early teaching experiences and a resulting effort to avoid a doctrinaire tone.88 Educated at Oxford, he would also have been abreast of rising politics of decolonization and humanitarianism at this time. Although Shoghi Effendi strongly urged Baha’is to avoid partisan politics, it is quite possible that his retranslation, which advanced 85 Leaders objected to the Society’s use of the term “Baha’i,” which, as anthropologist June Wyman has noted, “had been copyrighted in 1928”; the New History Society won the case. June Wyman, “Becoming a Baha’i: Discourse and Social Networks in an American Baha’i Community,” (PD thesis, The Catholic University of America, 1985), 66. See also, Smith, Honoré Jaxon, 180; Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith, 67. 86 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Tablets of the Divine Plan, 33 (original statement made in 1916; translation by Shoghi Effendi in 1947). See also Shoghi Effendi, Citadel of Faith, 16. 87 Memorandum to the author, 10 August 2008. 88 Indeed, in the letter in which his retranslation appears, Shoghi Effendi mentions specific sites of established contact in the Americas and stresses that “A special effort should be exerted to secure the unqualified adherence of members of some of these tribes to the Faith, their subsequent election to its councils, and their unreserved support of the organized attempts that will have to be made in the future by the projected national assemblies for the large-scale conversion of Indian races to the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh.” Shoghi Effendi, Citadel of Faith, 16-17. 61 a more loaded framing of savagery yet posited a more ambiguous spiritual solution, was informed by this current as well.89 Explicit expansion plans that Shoghi Effendi and others after him set out, however, make clear that Baha’is still considered their religion’s teachings critical to the education and guidance that Indigenous peoples were to obtain.90 Like his grandfather before him, Shoghi Effendi kept up a vigorous correspondence with Baha’i individuals and institutions and was intimately connected with outreach developments throughout the world.91 He regularly encouraged adherents throughout the Americas to cultivate the “latent capacity” of those he dubbed the “standard bearers of the faith.”92 Wielding a striking arsenal of military metaphors, Shoghi Effendi called for “entry by troops” on the part of Indigenous peoples, whose conversion, he proclaimed, was “long overdue.”93 Racialized rhetoric concerning the primitive and the 89 For a discussion of Shoghi Effendi’s position on politics, and what Margit Warburg calls his “world-rejecting” stance, see Margit Warburg, “The Dual Global Field: A Model for Transnational Religions and Globalisation,” in Warburg et al, eds. Baha’i and Globalisation, 165. 90 These plans, as elaborated at the Canadian and American Baha’i administrations, often included specific numeric and spatial target goals for Indigenous conversion. For review of major goals elaborated for the Canadian and American NSAs (not including Indigenous teaching) see Pemberton Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta,” Appendix 1, 96-97. 91 See, for example, Shoghi Effendi, The Advent of Divine Justice; Shoghi Effendi, Citadel of Faith; Shoghi Effendi, Messages to Canada (Thornhill, ON: Bahá’í Canada Publications, 1999); Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh: Selected Letters (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1991 [1938]); Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People: Extracts from the Guardian’s Messages (Toronto: National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Canada, 1968); Shoghi Effendi and the Universal House of Justice, A Special Measure of Love: The Importance and Nature of the Teaching Work Among the Masses: Messages from Shoghi Effendi and the Universal House of Justice (Wilmette, IL: Bahá'í Publishing Committee, 1974). 92 The phrase “latent capacity” is from a 1956 letter written on behalf of Shoghi Effendi and cited in American Indian Service Committee, “The American Indian and the Bahá’í Faith, April 1972,” 2, National Bahá’í Archives, United States; his expression “standard bearers of the faith” is cited in National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide to Teaching,” [n.d. 1965?], 6, National Bahá’í Archives, Canada. 93 See, for example, a letter from Shoghi Effendi to the American National Spiritual Assembly, 18 July 1953, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 15. The reference to “long overdue conversions” appears in Shoghi Effendi, Messages to Canada, 69. “Entry by troops” was a common Baha’i phrase used outside the Indigenous teaching context as well; though Baha’is tend to downplay the martial aspect of the metaphor, this resonance is still striking, especially for such an avowedly pacifist religion. For a discussion of “entry by troops” see Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011), 154. 62 downtrodden, the ignorant and the innocent, also surfaced in his writings, twinned with a romantic noble savage ideal.94 Figurative as well as literal translation took place, too, as Baha’is in North America aimed to apply Abdu’l-Baha’s ambiguous and layered statement. Separate Canadian and American National Spiritual Assemblies (NSAs) were established in 1948; an Alaskan NSA was elected for the first time in 1957. All three administrations dedicated substantial rhetorical attention to Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy and the issue of Indigenous outreach (although what Shoghi Effendi called the “most challenging issue” of Black-White relations always dominated the “race” agenda in the United States).95 They struck specific Indigenous teaching and service committees and shared outreach aids, strategies, and “personnel” across borders (within North America and more globally).96 Official Baha’i organs also echoed the hearty appetite for Indian inspiration and guidance articulated in Shoghi Effendi’s writings. Canadian Bahá’í News, for example, confirmed in 1961 that mass enrolment of Indigenous people was “the lever that will release mass conversion among the white community.”97 Seven years later, this same publication 94 Two letters written on Shoghi Effendi’s behalf in 1951, and later circulated and cited in the North American context, well capture this intersecting discourse. See “From a letter written on the Guardian’s behalf to the N.S.A. of Meso-America and the Antilles, dated July 11, 1951,” in Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 7. This letter is also cited in National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide for Teaching,” 2. From a letter written on the Guardian’s behalf to the National Teaching Committee of the Americas, dated September 1, 1951,” in Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 8 (emphasis in original). For other examples see Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 5, 8; Shoghi Effendi, Messages to Canada, 129. 95 The first issues of both Canadian Bahá’í News (CBN) and Alaska Bahá’í News (ABN), for example, both stressed the importance of outreach to Indigenous people: CBN no.1 (May 1948), 3; ABN no.1 (August 1957), 5. Annual reports of the National Spiritual Assembly in the United States likewise document steady interest in Indigenous outreach. On “the most challenging issue” see Will van den Hoonaard, “Etching the Idea of ‘Unity in Diversity’ in the Baha’i Community: Popular Opinion and Organizing Principle,” in Warburg et al, Baha’i and Globalisation, 254. 96 Such exchange is documented, for example, in the records of the American Indian Service and Teaching Committee, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. Arthur Irwin, “Early Native Teaching in Canada,” Unpublished Memoir, 1983, Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection and National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide for Teaching” likewise describe and mobilize the outcomes of such exchange. 97 CBN no.142 (Nov.1961), 3. See also “Ruhiyyih Khanum Shares Teaching Observations,” Baha’i News no.40 (June 1961); National Bahá’í Review no.18 (June 1969), 13. 63 reported that the White community was “starving for the spiritual qualities that the Indian believers will bring them.”98 Such statements strongly echoed noble savage currents then swirling in settler society at the same time that they maintained an earlier tradition of stressing religious, not racial, difference. Adding to the somewhat paradoxical nature of Baha’i outreach to Indigenous peoples was the religion’s prohibition against proselytization. As the Baha’i Faith possesses neither a clergy nor a paid missionary force, individual adherents are charged with the duty to disseminate their faith, which they are instructed to do without force, pressure, or persuasion.99 Baha’u’llah early encouraged his followers to: Consort with all men, O people of Bahá, in a spirit of friendliness and fellowship. If ye be aware of a certain truth, if ye possess a jewel, of which others are deprived, share it with them in a language of utmost kindliness and good-will. If it be accepted, if it fulfills its purpose, your object is obtained. If any one should refuse it, leave him unto himself, and beseech God to guide him. Beware lest ye deal unkindly with him. A kindly tongue is the lodestone of the hearts of men. It is the bread of the spirit, it clotheth the words with meaning, it is the fountain of the light of wisdom and understanding.100 Abdu’l-Baha further promoted the “independent investigation of truth,” a teaching that left significant space for personal inquiry and interpretation (yet also, as anthropologist June Wyman has noted, implicitly assumed that “seekers” would all come to the same conclusion, “since ‘the fundamental reality is one.’”)101 Consciously distinguishing their methods and mentality from what Shoghi Effendi described in another letter cited in the context of Indigenous outreach as the “purely mercenary approach” of “many Christians,” Baha’is marked their difference (or, in 98 CBN, no.219 (May 1968), 10. See also CBN nos.129 (Oct.1960), 2 and 216 (Jan-Feb 1968), 7. 99 See Bahá’u’lláh, Abdu’l-Bahá, Shoghi Effendi, and Universal House of Justice, “Guidelines for Teaching,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 2, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Baha’i Publications Australia, 1991), 295-326. 100 Bahá’u’lláh, “Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,” cited in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 2, 289. 101 Wyman, “Becoming a Baha’i,” 76. 64 ethnogenetic discourse, maintained their boundary) through a distinct vocabulary.102 They were “teachers,” not ministers, “pioneers,” not missionaries. Teaching referred to the general process of sharing the faith, while pioneering denoted the act of moving to a new location for the purpose of expanding the territorial reach of the religion.103 Although Baha’is did not intend to sound a colonial chord with this vocabulary, in a context where histories of residential schooling and land dispossession remained fresh, “teaching” and “pioneering” both carried their own heavy baggage. Further, for all the rhetorical attention that Shoghi Effendi, the Universal House of Justice, and North American National Spiritual Assemblies paid to teaching and pioneering among Indigenous peoples, few Baha’is took up this task in practice. The White composition and tenor of the Baha’i community persisted through the second half of the twentieth century and only a minority proved interested or willing to step out of what one author has described as the “rather waspish” Baha’i mainstream in order to take part in Indigenous outreach.104 Those who did so in the United States concentrated their early efforts especially among the Omaha in Nebraska, the Cherokee in North Carolina and Oklahoma, the Lakota and Dakota in North and South Dakota, the Diné in Arizona and New Mexico, the Makah and Yakama in Washington, the Nez Perce in Idaho, and the Crow, Cheyenne, Lakota and Assiniboine in Montana.105 In Canada, Honoré Jaxon may well have been the first to introduce the Baha’i Faith on reserves on 102 “From a letter written on the Guardian’s behalf to the British N.S.A. dated April 29, 1948,” in Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 5. On boundary maintenance see Fredrik Barth, ed., Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organisation of Culture Difference (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1969). 103 van den Hoonaard, Origins, 181. 104 Patricia Verge, Angus: From the Heart: The Life of Counsellor Angus Cowan (Cochrane, AB: Springtide Publishing, 1999), 73. See also, for example, Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 72, 88, 95-96, 115; Irwin, “Early Native Teaching in Canada,” 10, 13-14; “Ruhiyyih Khanum Shares Teaching Observations”; CBN, no.166 (Nov 1963), 3; CBN, no.187 (Aug 1965), 4. 105 See, for example, American Indian Service Committee, “The American Indian and the Bahá’í Faith, April 1972,” 9-10, 13, 15. Outreach patterns are also charted in annual reports of the National Spiritual Assembly in the United States, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 65 the southern Prairies, and it was here, in communities surrounding Calgary and Regina, as well as the Whitehorse area of the Yukon, that Canadian Baha’i outreach concentrated during the 1950s and 60s.106 Compared with Christian missionary practice, both old and new, Baha’i outreach methods were at once familiar and unexpected. Baha’is placed an early emphasis upon translation and in pamphlets like, “A New Day Comes,” published in Cherokee in 1954 and in Navajo two years later, presented the Baha’i teachings through vernacular, if somewhat stock, Indigenous imagery and idioms.107 Baha’i leaders and publications also encouraged adherents to secure employment in places and positions that would facilitate contact with Indigenous people and a number worked in the fields of health, education, and Indian affairs.108 Eager to avoid proselytizing and dissuaded from taking on a charity role, Baha’is strove instead to “live the life” and offer “service” that supported the Baha’i vision of unity in diversity.109 Experiments in 106 Donald Smith notes that Honoré Jaxon and his wife took a “box of Baha’i publications” with them to the Mistawasis Reserve in Saskatchewan when they travelled to visit Jaxon’s brother, an agency clerk and, for a time, acting Indian agent, in the community; Jaxon’s mother lived there as well. Smith, Honoré Jaxon, 148, 121-122. On Indigenous Baha’i outreach on the Prairies see Verge, Angus: From the Heart. And, in the Yukon, see Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000). Noel Wuttunee, a Cree man from the Red Pheasant First Nation in Saskatchewan, was living in Calgary when he enrolled in 1947; he is recorded as the first Indigenous person to have become a Baha’i in Canada. van den Hoonaard, Origins, 153. Melba Loft, an Ojibwa woman from the Curve Lake First Nation in southern Ontario was living in Michigan when she became a Baha’i sometime before this; her husband, Alfred Loft, joined the religion in 1948 and, with a personal nudge from Shoghi Effendi, the couple moved with their children as pioneers to Alfred’s Mohawk community of Tyendinaga a year later. Watts and Verge, Return to Tyendinaga, Chapters 5 and 6. 107 “A New Day Comes,” published in Cherokee and Navajo in 1954 and 1956, respectively, Publication Files, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. See also, in the Canadian context, Charles Cooke, translator, “A-De-Rih- Wa-Nie-Ton On-Kwe-On-We- Neh-Ha: A Message to the Iroquois Indians” (Toronto: Bahá’í Publishing Committee, [195?]), National Bahá’í Archives, Canada; National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of Canada, “Okí! Nitsítapee: A Message to the Blackfeet Indians” (Toronto: Baha’i Publishing Committee, 1955), National Bahá’í Archives, Canada. On the significance and encouragement of translation in the Baha’i context see Charles Carnegie, Postnationalism Prefigured: Caribbean Borderlands (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 196- 197. 108 Such calls were made regularly in a range of Baha’i publications and communications. See, for example, National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: Looking to the Future,” 1964, 6-8, National Bahá’í Archives, Canada. For an applied example see the memoir of White Baha’i Arthur Irwin, who worked as a geologist for the Department of Indian Affairs. Irwin, “Early Native Teaching in Canada.” 109 On the concept of “living the life” see Shoghi Effendi, “Living the Life,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 2, 1-28; Lynn Echevarria in “The Canadian Baha’is 1938-2000: Constructions of Oneness in Personal and 66 “direct teaching” undertaken during the 1970s and modeled on mass outreach efforts in India were relatively more explicit, and more contested, among Baha’is and potential converts alike.110 Indeed, in a period of ongoing missionary competition, when Indigenous people were increasingly pressing their own rights to spiritual and political sovereignty, Baha’i outreach, however subtle, not surprisingly grated for some.111 Established teaching methods like “firesides,” informal gatherings where Baha’is provided hospitality and fielded questions from interested parties, and “proclamation,” which included public meetings and thematic awareness campaigns, persisted into and past this period.112 The Universal House of Justice, further, sanctioned a global shift towards Baha’i social and economic development activity in 1983, thus solidifying a service-based approach to teaching common in the Indigenous field from mid- century.113 Teachers and pioneers taught a message that stressed the fulfillment, not the failure, of Indigenous spiritual systems. As one undated pamphlet produced in Fort Yates, North Dakota, stated: Baha’is “believe that the old Indian religion was also inspired and do not call it Collective Identity,” in Warburg et al, Baha’i and Globalisation, 233. On service, not charity, see, for example, National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide for Teaching,” 11-13; American Indian Teaching Committee, “Unified Action Approach,” no date [1975?], 9-11, American Indian Teaching Material Subject Files, National Bahá’í Archives, United States; National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: Looking to the Future,” 19. 110 See, for example, in the context of British Columbia: Chelsea Horton, “‘According to your faith so shall your power and blessings be’: The Aboriginal-Bahá’í Encounter in British Columbia” (M.A. Thesis, Simon Fraser University, 2005), 50-57. Baha’i discomfort and anxiety around direct teaching was not isolated to the area of Indigenous outreach. See, for example, Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 136-137, 140; Michael McMullen, The Bahá’í: The Religious Construction of a Global Identity (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 133; David Michael Piff, Bahá’í Lore (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 2000), 76-79, 261-262. 111 A 1972 teaching report from Haida Gwaii, an archipelago located off the British Columbian coast, for example, bluntly captured this sentiment: the Haida, one council spokesperson was recorded as stating, were “‘sick and tired of people coming in to try and shove more religion down their throats.’” Cited in “Teaching report, Jan 1972 ‘Army of Light’ proclamation initiative on the Queen Charlotte Islands,” Fletcher Bennett Personal Collection. Robert Burkinshaw reports similar resistance to Pentecostal mission on Haida Gwaii in the mid-1960s: “Native Pentecostalism in British Columbia,” in Canadian Pentecostalism: Transition and Transformation, ed. Michael Wilkinson (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009), 149. 112 On the “fireside” term and method see van den Hoonaard, Origins, 186-187; Garlington, The Baha'i Faith in America, 55. 113 On this shift see Warburg, Citizens of the World, 478. 67 pagen.”114 In addition to what Baha’is call the “three onenesses” – of God, religion, and humanity – teachers also promoted the specific principle of progressive revelation. Abdu’l- Baha’s “promise,” as it was often described, also achieved central billing in Baha’i teaching materials.115 In a significant editorial act, however, Baha’is often omitted the loaded language of savagery when citing the prophecy in print.116 This reflects, in part, a routine teaching move of trying to spark connection through positive or palatable channels and subsequently introducing what Baha’is, through their omission, acknowledged as more controversial or troubling detail.117 It equally reflects the likelihood that teachers and pioneers learned through their interactions with “real,” not “imaginary,” Indians, that the discourse of savagery was loaded and omitted it accordingly. It also signals a Baha’i understanding of both teaching and conversion as process. In the same way that Baha’is mark off their outreach methods through the vocabulary of teaching and pioneering, they distinguish their understanding of religious change through the discourse of “declaration.” Reminiscent of the Islamic shahadah, the short statement of faith that “makes a person a Muslim,” a person becomes, or declares him or herself, a Baha’i simply by 114 “A Promise to the Indians,” unpublished and undated teaching pamphlet from Fort Yates, North Dakota, Kenneth Jeffers Papers, M-378, Box 15, National Bahá'í Archives, United States (spelling and emphasis as appears in original). 115 On Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy as “promise” see Amatu’l-Baha Ruhiyyih Khanum, A Message to the Indian and Eskimo Bahá'ís of the Western Hemisphere (Toronto: Bahá'í Canada Publications, 1969), 8; “A Promise to the Indians.” Examples of teaching manuals and aids in which Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy appears in full include National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide for Teaching,” 1; “A Promise to the Indians”; American Indian Teaching Committee, “Unified Action Approach,” 4, American Indian Teaching Material Subject Files, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 116 See, for example, Amatu’l-Baha Ruhiyyih Khanum, A Message to the Indian and Eskimo Bahá'ís of the Western Hemisphere; Cooke, “A-De-Rih-Wa-Nie-Ton On-Kwe-On-We- Neh-Ha: A Message to the Iroquois Indians”; National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of Canada, “Okí! Nitsítapee: A Message to the Blackfeet Indians”; “A New Day Comes,” Cherokee and Navajo editions; Peter Simple and John Kolstoe, “Bahá’í Teachings,” edited copy included in letter from Nancy Phillips to Janet Smith, NSA of the Baha’is of Alaska, 11 March 1965, Non-U.S. National Spiritual Assembly Files – N.S.A., Alaska, National Bahá’í Archives, United States; “Circle of Unity” (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1980 [1977]), Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection. 117 This is what Andrew Pemberton-Piggot has described as a “gradualist” Baha’i teaching strategy of “deliberately seeking points of agreement and only later introducing issues and laws more difficult for the inquirer.” Pemberton- Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta,” 39. See also Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 108, 313-314 (fn 10). 68 acknowledging Baha’u’llah as the Manifestation of God for the age and by agreeing to abide by his laws.118 More formal enrollment procedures have varied over time and place. In Canada, for example, up until 1958, a rigorous program of scriptural study was required in order to join the Baha’i community. Growing Indigenous interest in the religion in this period contributed to revision of this requirement.119 Formal Baha’i membership, though, still was and is marked by the modern administrative act of signing a “declaration card.”120 This enrollment procedure is considered but the first step in an ongoing process of Baha’i learning, or “deepening.”121 Baha’i statistics are slippery, but sources indicate that over seven thousand Indigenous people declared as Baha’is in Canada and the United States during the second half of the twentieth century.122 Most, however, did not become practicing members. This had partly to do with methods. Spurred on by explicit expansion plans that included set numeric and spatial 118 Michael Molloy, Experiencing the World’s Religions: Tradition, Challenge, and Change (Toronto: Mayfield, 1999), 410. 119 Irwin, “Early Native Teaching in Canada,” 5; Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 61, 308 (fn 15), 310 (fn 16). 120 On the development of enrollment card procedure see van den Hoonaard, Origins, 259-260. This process was and is not universal. Graeme Were, for example, reports a more stringent and public process of declaration in New Ireland, Papua New Guinea: “Fashioning Belief: The Case of the Baha’i Faith in Northern New Ireland,” Anthropological Forum 17 no.3 (Nov 2007), 247. Similarly, Molly Marie Rhodenbaugh reports that declaration cards were not used among the Guaymí people in Panama until the 1970s: “The Ngöbe Bahá’ís of Panama” (MA thesis, Texas Tech University, 1999), 91. 121 Wendi Momen defines “deepening” as a lifelong process of learning consisting of the “study of the Bahá’í Faith in all its aspects.” It includes familiarizing oneself with the Baha’i sacred texts, teachings, laws, principles, and “Administrative Order.” Wendi Momen, ed. A Basic Bahá’í Dictionary (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1989), 68. 122 As noted in the introduction, this number is based on figures supplied by the Canadian and American Baha’i National Centers (email to the author from Larry Clarke, Records Department, Canadian Baha’i National Centre, 5 November 2004; email to the author from Robert Stockman, Research Department, American Baha’i National Center, 28 February 2008). It includes a total of 6,237 Indigenous enrollments in Canada and 1,100 in the United States. New Baha’is in Canada were given the option to specify their ethnicity on their enrollment cards, while this feature was not introduced in the United States until the 1980s. There were more Indigenous enrollments overall in Canada than in the United States, but the figure of 1,100 is low and out of step with contemporary teaching reports. For example, statistics from the American National Center indicate a total Indian enrollment of 156 for the period of 1964-1973, while a 1972 report recorded “a minimum of 324 Indian enrollments” between January 1971 and April 1972 alone. The report further observed that, “This does not include any Indians who may have enrolled and not indicated that they were Indian, nor does it include the 3-400 Lumbee Indians purported to have been enrolled in North and South Carolina during 1970 and 1971.” A following section on “Statistical Evaluation of Teaching Efforts to Reach the American Indian” noted further discrepancies. “The American Indian and the Bahá’í Faith: A Report by the Minority Teaching Office of the National Teaching Committee, April 1972,” 11-12, American Indian Teaching Material Subject File, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. On Baha’i statistics more generally see Warburg, Citizens of the World, 213-228. 69 target goals, teachers and pioneers followed a Baha’i seasonal round that concluded each April with a flurry of intensive outreach as they scrambled to secure the election of as many Local Spiritual Assemblies as possible.123 The goal of Indigenous outreach, as laid out by Shoghi Effendi, was not only to secure conversions, but also to encourage “self-sufficient and independent” Indigenous Baha’i communities.124 While Baha’is often met formal target goals for Indigenous enrollment, they seldom accompanied this outreach with effective and consistent follow-up procedures.125 “Consolidation” challenges dogged Baha’i outreach in general and, in an effort to encourage “deepening,” Baha’i communities in North America were encouraged to implement a more formalized system of “training institutes” and “study circles,” known as the Ruhi method, beginning in the 1990s.126 Still, a lack of participation in the prophesied Indigenous teaching field suggests that it was not a substantial priority for most North American Baha’is. Focused initiatives at the end of a Baha’i year or action plan could generate temporary interest and participation, but it was a small number of Baha’is who committed themselves to this work long-term who were left with the challenge of helping to educate new Indigenous adherents. Although those Indigenous people who enrolled may well have continued to identify 123 This cycle is well documented in publications like Canadian Bahá’í News. For specific examples from the Canadian Prairies see Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 80-90, 219-222; Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta,” 46. 124 Cited in “Commentary: National Spiritual Assembly,” in Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 33. 125 These challenges will be discussed in more detail in coming chapters. Sources in the Canadian context include Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta,” 44; “Status Report on Native Teaching in Canada: Prepared by the National Indian Desk for the October 31, 1986 National Spiritual Assembly Meeting,” Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection; Fletcher and Elinor Bennett, interview with the author, Saanich, British Columbia, 21 July 2004. 126 The curriculum for these circles and institutes, which have spread throughout the Baha’i world, is derived from materials and methods developed at the “Ruhi Institute” in Colombia. Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 146. For discussion of consolidation challenges in other Baha’i contexts see Juan R.I. Cole, “The Baha’i Faith in North America as Panopticon,” The Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 37 (June 1998), 236-237; Richard Hollinger, “Introduction: Bahá’í Communities in the West,” in Community Histories, Studies in the Bábí and Bahá’í Religions, Volume 6, ed. Richard Hollinger (Los Angeles: Kalimát Press, 1992), xxxi; McMullen, The Bahá’í, 132- 135; Piff, Bahá’í Lore, 78-79, 261-262. “Hand of the Cause” Dorothy Baker warned American Baha’is as early as 1953 that new members “will never retain their faith on a picture and a pamphlet”: “Text of Taped Message by Hand of the Cause Dorothy Baker, Ridvan 1953,” Kenneth Jeffers Papers, M-378, Box 15, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 70 with Baha’i principles, and even call themselves Baha’is, few had enough regular interaction with the religion and community to become active adherents.127 Ongoing colonial currents within the Baha’i community further complicated, and sometimes quelled, consolidation. The entry of several thousand Indigenous people into the religion during the 1960s and 1970s, in particular, contributed to a significant demographic shift in the North American Baha’i community overall. As more youth and people of colour joined the religion, they pressed the principle of unity in diversity into real community practice. The immigration of significant numbers of Iranian Baha’is in the wake of the 1979 Islamic Revolution, which intensified persecution of Baha’is in Iran, further amplified this process.128 In addition to the duty to teach, Baha’is were also tasked to build religious community and the oral histories that follow in coming chapters readily illustrate how many forged meaningful and lasting relationships of mutual respect across colour and cultural lines. But painful colonial attitudes and structural inequalities persisted as well, causing a number of Indigenous Baha’is to retreat from community practice.129 Setting Settler Colonialism: A Genealogy of Indigenous Identity Whether Baha’is knew it or not, they were situated in a context shot through with uneven power relations. Tracing the genealogy of Indigenous identity in North America through this same period, with a particular eye to policy, clarifies shared kinship between Baha’i and Indigenous histories and confirms the contingent nature of both. As I noted in the introduction to 127 Jack Bastow, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 24 July 2004; Lee Brown, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 21 March 2008; Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta,” 34; “Status Report on Native Teaching in Canada.” 128 Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 74-144; Hollinger, “Introduction,” pp.x-xxxiii. There was relatively significant numerical growth in the religion in this period as well: from approximately 11,000 in 1963, to approximately 75,000 in 1976, to 110,000 by 1991 in the United States and from 554 in 1953 to 17,724 in 1986 in Canada. Hollinger, “Introduction,” xxx. 129 I consider these tensions and processes in more detail in Chapter 6, specifically. 71 this study, the very idea of “Indianness” stretches back to Columbus’ Caribbean landfall in 1492.130 Four centuries and a year later, human and ecological imperialism had combined to dramatically reduce pre-contact Indigenous populations in North America.131 As the Indian Wars on the American Plains and the Northwest Resistance on the Canadian Prairies (where William Henry Jackson, as he was then known, had served as secretary to Riel) drew to a close, both Canada and the United States looked to consolidate their national rule and legitimate policies of assimilation and land and resource dispossession to a growing settler population.132 With its official theme of progress, the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago proved a potent venue in which to perform this ideology.133 Indigenous people, to be sure, turned colonial categories like the authenticity on display in Chicago to their own, albeit constrained, ends.134 The stakes of such efforts, however, were always high and from the time of Columbus’ “discovery” (which the fair, recall, memorialized), the category of Indianness was vigorously contested. 130 Robert F. Berkhofer, Jr. The White Man’s Indian: Images of the Indian From Columbus to the Present (New York: Vintage Books, 1979), 4-12. 131 Ecological imperialism is historian Alfred Crosby’s term: Alfred Crosby, Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, 900-1900 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1986). On depopulation see Russell Thornton, “Health, Disease, and Demography,” in A Companion to American Indian History, ed. Philip J. Deloria and Neal Salisbury (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2002), 68-84. 132 Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 36. 133 Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 34-35; Rydell, All the World's a Fair, 47. 134 See, for example, Paige Raibmon's analysis of Kwakwaka’wakw performance at the fair: Authentic Indians, 15- 17, 35, 50-73. For other examples of Indigenous agency in contexts of exhibition see, for example, Coll Thrush’s discussion of the 1909 Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition in Native Seattle, 118-122; L.G. Moses, Wild West Shows and the Images of American Indians, 1883-1933 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996). For analysis of colonialism and Indigenous agency in the context of Christianity on the Northwest Coast see Susan Neylan, The Heavens are Changing: Nineteenth Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003); Susan Neylan and Melissa Meyer, “‘Here Comes the Band!’: Cultural Collaboration, Connective Traditions, and Aboriginal Brass Bands on British Columbia’s North Coast, 1875-1964,” BC Studies no.152 (Winter 2006/07): 35-66. 72 Some settlers in the late nineteenth century drew on a narrative of the “dying Indian” as supporting evidence for contemporary theories of social evolution and racial hierarchy.135 Others, led by anthropologists, mourned the loss of this “vanishing race” and scurried to salvage what they perceived as authentic remnants of dying cultures.136 In a striking, but not coincidental, parallel to nineteenth-century scholars of religion, these anthropologists relegated “real” Indigenous people to the “savage slot” of pure static tradition.137 Indigenous people had, since first contact, served as a “negative reference group” against which colonists defined their own sense of self and superiority and, from the American Revolution in the United States, the “national symbolic.”138 Indians both noble and ignoble were reduced, in the colonial imagination of the late nineteenth century, into a safe and sanitized commodity onto which settler and imperial populations projected their own anxieties and fantasies.139 Indigenous people, again, could and did deploy such “imperialist nostalgia” for their own purposes.140 Still, the pressure, in the words of Seneca anthropologist Arthur Parker, “‘to have to play Indian in order to be 135 On the image and discourse of the “dying Indian” see Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian, 29, 144-145; Mary- Ellen Kelm, “Diagnosing the Discursive Indian: Medicine, Gender and ‘the Dying Race,’” Ethnohistory 52 (2) (Spring 2005): 371-406. 136 On salvage ethnography see Nancy Scheper-Hughes, “Ishi’s Brain, Ishi’s Ashes: Anthropology and Genocide,” Anthropology Today 17, no.1 (Feb 2001), 14. On the “vanishing Indian,” and intersections with American policy, see Brian Dippie, The Vanishing American: White Attitudes and U.S. Indian Policy (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1982). 137 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, “The Savage Slot: The Poetics and Politics of Otherness,” in Recapturing Anthropology: Working in the Present, ed. Richard G. Fox (Santa Fe: School for American Research Press, 1991), 17-44; Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983). On intersecting genealogies of colonialism and religious studies see David Chidester, Savage Systems: Colonialism and Comparative Religion in Southern Africa (Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press, 1996). 138 Quotes are from the following sources, respectively: Alexandra Harmon, “Wanted: More Histories of Indian Identity,” in Philip J. Deloria and Neal Salisbury, eds., A Companion to American Indian History (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2002), 249 and Lauren Gail Berlant cited in Kate Flint, The Transatlantic Indian, 1776-1930 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009), 8. See also Philip J. Deloria, Playing Indian (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998); Cheryl Walker, Indian Nation: Native American Literature and Nineteenth-Century Nationalisms (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997); Jill Lepore, The Name of War: King Philip's War and the Origins of American Identity (New York: Knopf, 1998). 139 Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian; Dippie, The Vanishing American, Flint, Transatlantic Indian; Deloria, Playing Indian; Francis, The Imaginary Indian; Paige Raibmon, “The Practice of Everyday Colonialism: Indigenous Women at Work in the Hop Fields and Tourist Industry of Puget Sound,” Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas 3, no.3 (2006): 23-56. 140 Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 6. See also, for example, Philip J. Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2004). 73 Indian,’” ran deep.141 North Americans “played Indian,” as well as “Eastern” and “Oriental,” in this period and Baha’is were certainly influenced by the convergence of savagery and authenticity at this time.142 These broad cultural and intellectual currents intersected with official efforts to regulate Indian identity. As the Canadian and American states sought to secure land for resettlement and agricultural and industrial development, such regulation was deployed as a central tool of dispossession.143 Although Canada has long sustained itself on a myth of benevolence in Indian affairs, distinguishing its practices from a history of more explicit violence south of the border, the young country quickly erected mechanisms to legislate Indian identity after Confederation in 1867.144 The Indian Act of 1876 consolidated former policy and produced a shared grammar that continues to guide formal regulatory efforts in Canada.145 The Indian Act imposed a definition of Indianness that distinguished “status” from “non-status” Indians, a designation that determined access to treaty rights (then being negotiated in much of the country) and other “benefits” and thus carried very real material and political implications.146 No single definition of “Indianness” united federal policy in the United States, but efforts to legislate Indian identity were informed by similar anxieties and impulses. The General Allotment, or Dawes, Act of 1887, introduced two critical designations that continue, with modification, to serve as formal markers 141 Cited in Hertzberg, The Search for an American Indian Identity, 319. 142 Deloria, Playing Indian; Nance, How the Arabian Nights Inspired the American Dream, especially her introduction, “Playing Eastern,” 1-18. 143 Bonita Lawrence, “Gender, Race, and the Regulation of Native Identity in Canada and the United States: An Overview,” Hypatia, vol. 18 no. 2 (Spring 2003), 3, 6. 144 On the persistent “peacemaker” myth in Canada see Paulette Regan, Unsettling the Settler Within: Indian Residential Schools, Truth Telling, and Reconciliation in Canada (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010), esp. 83-110. 145 Following Foucault, Bonita Lawrence offers analysis of regulatory regimes and grammars of rule in her article, “Gender, Race, and the Regulation of Native Identity” (see, for an explicit explanation, 3-4). She also applies this perspective in "Real" Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004). 146 Lawrence, “Gender, Race, and the Regulation of Native Identity,” 8-10. For further detail and context on treaties in Canada see J.R. Miller, Compact, Contract, Covenant: Aboriginal Treaty-Making in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009). 74 and measures of Indianness in the United States. The first, blood quantum, marshaled biological taxonomies of race to determine degrees of Indian ancestry.147 The second, tribal rolls, established a legal baseline against which subsequent claims to tribal membership were frequently evaluated.148 Like the Indian Act, which encouraged “enfranchisement” and imposed a system of band council governance, the Dawes Act aimed to undermine Indigenous landholding and leadership practices by pushing individual land allotments for formally recognized Indians.149 Closely tied to cultural constructions of Indian identity, such legal and biological benchmarks fostered fissures between so-called “full” and “mixed bloods,” recognized and unrecognized, status and non-status, and Indian and Métis people.150 Such designations and discourse intimately informed the histories of narrators in this study. Despite the air of authority and fixity that officials attempted to project, the project of “making Indians” was often haphazard and always historically contingent. Sociologist Eva Marie Garroutte, for example, has described the disjointed and discretionary process of compiling tribal rolls as “almost unbelievably complicated.”151 Pushing beyond the salvage ethnographic paradigm, anthropologists also joined the fray in the early twentieth century. Pressing science to the service of identity, they analyzed feet, hair, and skin as measures of Indianness. Despite their “rather variable” outcomes, anthropological assessments contributed to evaluations of tribal recognition, critical for determining access to federal rights and services.152 147 Edmunds, “Native Americans, New Voices,” 733-734; Garroutte, Real Indians, 42-43; Melissa Meyer, “American Indian Blood Quantum Requirements: Blood is Thicker Than Family,” in Valerie J. Matsumoto and Blake Allmendinger, eds., Over the Edge: Remapping the American West (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 231-252. 148 Garroutte, Real Indians, 21-22; Alexandra Harmon, “Tribal Enrollment Councils: Lessons on Law and Indian Identity,” The Western Historical Quarterly 32, no. 2 (2001): 175-200. 149 Garroutte, Real Indians, 21-22; J.R. Miller, Skyscrapers Hide the Heavens: A History of Indian-White Relations in Canada, Third Edition (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), 256. 150 Garroutte, Real Indians; Lawrence, "Real" Indians and Others. 151 Garroutte, Real Indians, 21. 152 Garroutte, Real Indians, 58. 75 In a series of court cases in the turn of the century Southwest, it was Pueblo culture that was placed on trial. Labeled at first too civilized to be Indian, the Pueblo were, by the early twentieth century, deemed too pagan to be otherwise.153 Whether cultural, legal, biological, or some combination thereof, these evaluations turned on colonial assumptions of purity and stasis. Yet as the historian Alexandra Harmon and others have illustrated, measures of Indian identity, as lived and negotiated on the ground, changed over time.154 This is readily born out in the oral histories to come: Baha’i conversion and practice directly promoted individual and shared processes of Indigenous identification. Religion itself, like identity, was also profoundly imbricated in the project of settler colonialism in North America. In a context where “the Bible and the plough” were promoted as the twin pillars of progress, Indigenous practices like the potlatch ceremonial complex on the Northwest Coast, which included the ritual redistribution of wealth, simultaneously offended Christian and capitalist sympathies.155 In support of their civilizing missions, the Canadian and American states both criminalized Indigenous spiritual practice in the 1880s.156 Missionaries played varying roles in Indigenous communities during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as they had since early contact. As scholars of religious encounter in North America and elsewhere have demonstrated, Christianity did not march in blind lockstep with commercial and political powers.157 Missionaries frequently decried what they saw as poor examples being set by 153 Garroutte, Real Indians, 64. 154 See, for example, Alexandra Harmon, Indians in the Making: Ethnic Relations and Indian Identities Around Puget Sound (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Malinda Maynor Lowery, Lumbee Indians in the Jim Crow South: Race, Identity, and the Making of a Nation (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010). 155 Miller, Skyscrapers Hide the Heavens, 254-282. 156 Katherine Pettipas, Severing the Ties That Bind: Government Repression of Indigenous Religious Ceremonies on the Prairies (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1994), 87-105; Lee Irwin, “Freedom, Law, and Prophecy: A Brief History of Native American Religious Resistance,” in Lee Irwin, ed., Native American Spirituality: A Critical Reader (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000), 295-296. 157 See, for example, Ryan Dunch, “Beyond Cultural Imperialism: Cultural Theory, Christian Missions, and Global Modernity,” History and Theory 41, no. 3 (2002): 301-325; Nicholas Thomas, “Colonial Conversions: Difference, 76 the larger, less pious, colonial population and sometimes advocated politically on behalf of their Indigenous charges.158 Nor did Christians present a single united front: Catholic and Protestant (and different denominations within these broad branches) and male and female missionaries, for example, all differed in their methods and motives.159 At the same time, Christianity remained intimately tied up in civilization efforts in North America. On the nineteenth-century Northwest Coast, for example, Anglican missionary William Duncan established the model village of Metlakatla, which he envisioned as a paragon and training ground of Victorian virtue.160 Metropolitan principles of punctuality, industry, thrift, domesticity, and sexuality were likewise promoted in other less formal arenas, where missionaries worked, consciously or otherwise, to effect what the anthropologist Peter van der Veer has elsewhere described as “conversion to modernities.”161 Indigenous people, though, were not passive pawns in this Hierarchy, and History in Early Twentieth-Century Evangelical Propaganda,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 34, no.2 (April 1992): 366-389. 158 For examples of missionary/settler tensions in North America see Anderson, The Betrayal of Faith, 210; John Webster Grant, Moon of Wintertime: Missionaries and the Indians of Canada in Encounter Since 1534 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 14, 36, 107, 219. For examples of missionary advocacy see Christophers, Positioning the Missionary, 34, 137-152; Celia Haig-Brown, “The ‘Friends’ of Nahnebahwequa,” in With Good Intentions: Euro-Canadian and Aboriginal Relations in Colonial Canada, ed. Celia Haig-Brown and David Nock (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2006), 132-157; Paul Tennant, Aboriginal Peoples and Politics: The Indian Land Question in British Columbia, 1849-1989 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1990), 46, 54-56, 77, 79 87, 93. 159 On Catholic, Protestant, and denominational difference (and tension) see, for example, Grant, Moon of Wintertime, 32, 65, 80, 84, 90. On the gendered dynamics of mission in North America see, for example, Jan Hare and Jean Barman, eds. Good Intentions Gone Awry: Emma Crosby and the Methodist Mission on the Northwest Coast (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2006); Mary-Ellen Kelm, ed. The Letters of Margaret Butcher: Missionary- Imperialism on the North Pacific Coast (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2006); Myra Rutherdale, Women and the White Man’s God: Gender and Race in the Canadian Mission Field (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2002). And, in broader context, Mary Tyler Huber and Nancy Lutkehaus, eds. Gendered Missions: Women and Men in Missionary Discourse and Practice (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999); Elizabeth Prevost, The Communion of Women: Missions and Gender in Colonial Africa and the British Metropole (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2010). 160 Jean Usher, William Duncan of Metlakatla: A Victorian Missionary in British Columbia (Ottawa: National Museums of Canada, 1974). For a study that thoughtfully positions Duncan and his contemporaries in the context of Indigenous (specifically, Tsimshian) history see Neylan, The Heavens are Changing. 161 Peter van der Veer, ed. Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christian Modernities (New York: Routledge, 1996). For a trenchant discussion of this process in the context of British Columbia see Adele Perry, “Metropolitan Knowledge, Colonial Practice, and Indigenous Womanhood: Missions in Nineteenth-Century British Columbia,” in Contact Zones: Aboriginal and Settler Women in Canada's Colonial Past, ed. Myra Rutherdale and Katie Pickles (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 109-130. And, in the context of Southern Africa, see Jean Comaroff 77 process. One narrator in this project, specifically, recalled the religious dedication of her ancestors, who were among the first Tsimshian people to move to the “new” Metlakatla in Alaska when the community relocated there in 1887.162 The frequency with which missionaries took recourse to institutions to disseminate their ideals further indicates that they were hardly the universals so touted.163 This is reflected perhaps most sharply in residential and boarding schools. Christianity had played a varying hand in colonial education from early contact, but in the late nineteenth century, the religion was marshaled in direct service of the modern colonial mission. On the East Coast of the United States, intellectual, political, philanthropic, and religious reformers, the humanitarians of their day, held out assimilation as the solution to the “Indian problem.” The first American Indian boarding school opened in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in 1879 under the direction of former military commander Richard Pratt. His oft-cited goal to “kill the Indian in him and save the man” well captures the intent of these institutions.164 Sent by Canadian Prime Minister John A. MacDonald to investigate the American system, Nicholas Davin recommended in the same year that Canada look south for inspiration. Although they shared this initial spark, the Canadian and American and John L. Comaroff, Of Revelation and Revolution: Christianity, Colonialism, and Consciousness in South Africa, Vol.1 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). 162 Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 19 Aug 2008. On Indigenous agency in this context see also Neylan, The Heavens are Changing. As discussed in the introduction to this study, historians have been increasingly attentive to Indigenous agency in the context of religious encounter. For studies of Indigenous missionaries, specifically, see Tolly Bradford, Prophetic Identities: Indigenous Missionaries on British Colonial Frontiers, 1850-1875 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012); Winona Wheeler, “The Journals and Voices of a Church of England Native Catechist: Asknootow (Charles Pratt), 1851-1884,” in Jennifer S.H. Brown and Elizabeth Vibert, eds., Reading Beyond Words: Contexts for Native History Second Edition (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 237-263. 163 Adele Perry makes this point eloquently in “Metropolitan Knowledge, Colonial Practice, and Indigenous Womanhood,” 109-110, 126. 164 Richard H. Pratt, Official Report of the Nineteenth Annual Conference of Charities and Correction (1892), cited in Ronald Neizen, Spirit Wars: Native North American Religions in the Age of Nation Building (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 41. This statement is often (mis)rendered “kill the Indian and save the man.” See, for example, Ward Churchill, Kill the Indian, Save the Man: The Genocidal Impact of American Indian Residential Schools (San Francisco: City Lights, 2004); Jeffrey Ostler, The Plains Sioux and U.S. Colonialism From Lewis and Clark to Wounded Knee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 151. 78 systems diverged on the ultimate role of religion in the schools. American funding for missionary schools was scaled back within a decade of Carlisle opening its doors; the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934 removed this influence completely. In Canada, by contrast, Catholic and Protestant churches were paid by the state to operate residential schools well into the second half of the twentieth century. The expansive and malleable tool of the Indian Act was used to legislate student attendance and impose stiff penalties on resistant families.165 These schools, which often moved children great distances from their home communities, were potent tools of resocialization that sought to destroy, or at least radically remake, Indigenous kinship systems. Living conditions were frequently poor, while instruction stressed gendered manual and domestic training and repetitive religious ritual over academic instruction.166 Some former students have fond memories of their residential and boarding school experiences and, as in other contexts, Indigenous people were not simply hapless victims.167 Physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, however, were all too common, especially in the Canadian context.168 This system also generated some unexpected and unintended results. In 165 For a succinct review of this history see Neizen, Spirit Wars, 46-87. The literature on residential and boarding schools is vast. See, for example, in the Canadian context, J.R. Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision: A History of Native Residential Schools (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996); John Milloy, A National Crime: The Canadian Government and the Residential School System, 1879-1968 (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1999). And, in the American context, David Wallace Adams, Education for Extinction: American Indians and the Boarding School Experience, 1875-1928 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1995); Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc, eds. Boarding School Blues: Revisiting American Indian Educational Experiences (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006). 166 See, for example, Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision, 151-288. 167 For positive residential school experiences see, for example, Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision, 8-9, 269-287; David Wallace Adams, “Beyond Bleakness: The Brighter Side of Indian Boarding Schools, 1870-1940,” in Trafzer et al, Boarding School Blues, 35-64. And for discussion of resistance see, for example, Brenda Child, Boarding School Seasons: American Indian Families, 1900-1940 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998); Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision, 343-374; K. Tsianina Lomawaima, They Called It Prairie Light: The Story of Chilocco Indian School (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994). As Scott Richard Lyons has observed, positive experiences are accorded limited space in current public discourse and memory: X-Marks: Native Signatures of Assent (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 21-23. 168 Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision, 317-342. It is not clear at this point whether abuse was more rampant in Canada or whether, in view of the political climate in this country, it has simply been more reported and discussed. An Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement was reached in Canada in 2006. Under the terms of this agreement, Canada is currently convening a Truth and Reconciliation Commission on Indian Residential Schools. 79 bringing together youth from a wide range of tribal backgrounds, it contributed to the production of a shared sense of Indigenous identity. These schools also produced a new generation of leaders who deployed their education, however circumscribed, to challenge the colonial system.169 The Canadian Baha’i community lodged formal critiques of the residential school system; at the same time, some adherents pursued employment at such schools as a way to foster contact with Indigenous people.170 Several narrators attended residential schools themselves, while many more felt their intergenerational effects. State efforts to regulate Indigenous identity and genealogy, and thus contain the perceived “Indian problem,” persisted well into the twentieth century. In the United States, the policy pendulum swung several times between explicit assimilationist efforts like the Dawes Act and somewhat more self-determinist legislation like the Depression-era Indian Reorganization Act. The brainchild of Indian Affairs commissioner John Collier (who was among authors Baha’is would later recommend to those looking to do background reading prior to participation in Indigenous outreach), the Indian “New Deal” reversed the privatization of Indigenous landholdings spurred by the Dawes Act and promoted a limited tribal self-government and religious freedom.171 The end of World War Two, which had stimulated and sustained urban Indigenous migration as people participated in wartime industry and returning (and often politicized) soldiers pursued education and work in cities, brought another federal about-face. During this “termination” era, policy aimed to sever historic treaty relationships and to solve the 169 See, for example, Child, Boarding School Seasons; Joane Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal: Red Power and the Resurgence of Identity and Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 12-13, 116; Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision, 373, 417, 430. 170 See, for example, the Baha’i submission to H.B. Hawthorn, ed. A Survey of the Contemporary Indians of Canada: Economic, Political, Education Needs and Policies, Vol.2 (Ottawa: Department of Indian Affairs, 1967), 60-61. The teaching guide, “Indians of Canada: Looking to the Future,” for example, noted “A number of Baha’is have served as teachers in Indian day schools designated as Protestant.” National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: Looking to the Future,” 6. 171 Collier is recommended to Baha’i readers in National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide for Teaching,” 6. 80 vexed question of recognition by erasing tribes, even Indians, themselves. “Relocation,” reminiscent of “removal” over a century before, was a central strand of this strategy. Over two decades, beginning in the early 1950s, over 100,000 Indigenous people were relocated from reservations to selected cities stretching from Chicago to Cleveland and Seattle to San Jose. These policies, however, were hardly the one-way ticket to integration that legislators had intended. While termination and relocation achieved some of their aims, at least on paper, they also brought diverse Indigenous populations into interaction and stimulated expanded kinship networks and a new intertribal politics.172 Though Baha’i teaching and pioneering typically concentrated on reserves and reservations, Shoghi Effendi and other Baha’is called for outreach in cities as well and a number of narrators were active in urban Indigenous communities both before and after joining the religion.173 In Canada, the Indian Act continued to guide and inscribe federal policy through the twentieth century (and, indeed, until today). Between 1927 and 1951, when an amendment to the Act lifted the “potlatch law” and allowed women to run in band council elections, Indians were prohibited from hiring lawyers to defend their land and resource title.174 Gendered provisions that stripped Indigenous women who married non-Indigenous men of their formal Indian status 172 Joane Nagel offers a succinct overview of these policies and processes in American Indian Ethnic Renewal, 117- 120, 140. See also Francis Paul Prucha, The Great Father: The United States Government and the American Indians (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984), 917-1084. On termination and relocation policy specifically see Donald Fixico, Termination and Relocation: Federal Indian Policy, 1945-1960 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986). On expanded postwar urban Indigenous community, kinship, and politics see, for example, Susan Lobo and Kurt Peters, eds. American Indians and the Urban Experience (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2000); Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007); Thrush, Native Seattle, esp. 162-183. 173 Calls for urban Indigenous Baha’i outreach include Shoghi Effendi, The Importance of Teaching Indigenous People, 8; American Indian Teaching Committee, “Unified Action Approach,” 11; National Indian Reserves Teaching Committee, “Indians of Canada: A Guide for Teaching,” 11; American Indian Service Committee, “The American Indian and the Bahá’í Faith, April 1972,” 4, 20. 174 Arthur J. Ray, I Have Lived Here Since the World Began: An Illustrated History of Canada’s Native People (Toronto: Key Porter, 2010), 326, 328. 81 remained in place until 1985.175 This legislation sometimes intersected with Baha’i law: one narrator reported that he and his wife came close to losing their Baha’i “administrative rights” when they chose not to legally register their Baha’i marriage as this would have resulted in his wife losing her Indian status (as an American of Cherokee heritage, this narrator was not a “status Indian” himself); after discussion with the couple, however, a member of the National Spiritual Assembly recommended that their Baha’i voting rights be protected “because of the injustice of the situation.”176 Although Canada had no large-scale relocation policy akin to that in the United States, exclusions imposed by the Indian Act, together with shared economic imperatives, contributed to similar patterns of urban migration.177 Here too, they promoted heightened intertribal interaction and political mobilization.178 When, in 1969, the federal government tabled a White Paper (now the White Paper) that proposed to eliminate “special” Indian status in the interests of a liberal “Just Society,” many Indigenous people across the country rallied in response.179 Cree leader Harold Cardinal’s searing rebuke, The Unjust Society, captured this anger and energy as it exposed a Canadian history of cultural genocide and forcefully demanded that the “buckskin curtain,” the real source and symbol of “the Indian- problem problem,” be dismantled.180 Sioux activist and academic Vine Deloria Jr. published his own blistering critique of colonialism, Custer Died for Your Sins (another piece of 175 Lawrence, “Gender, Race, and the Regulation of Native Identity,” 8. 176 Lee Brown, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 28 October 2008. 177 See, for example, Craig Proulx and Heather A. Howard, eds. Aboriginal Peoples in Canadian Cities: Transformations and Continuities (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2011); Frances Sanderson and Heather Howard-Bobiwash, eds. The Meeting Place: Aboriginal Life in Toronto (Toronto: Native Canadian Centre of Toronto, 1997). 178 See, for example, Heather Howard-Bobiwash, “Women’s Class Strategies as Activism in Native Community Building in Toronto, 1950-1975,” American Indian Quarterly 27 nos.3/4 (Summer and Fall 2003): 566-582; Lee Maracle, Bobbi Lee: Indian Rebel (Toronto: Women’s Press, 1990 [1975]). 179 Miller, Skyscrapers Hide the Heavens, 328-339. 180 Harold Cardinal, The Unjust Society (Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre, 1999 [1969]), 1. 82 recommended Baha’i reading), in the same year, suggesting the shared currents brewing on either side of the border.181 Both Cardinal and Deloria identified missionaries as central and especially problematic players in the colonial project, further signaling Christianity’s shifting status (some might say its fall from grace) in this period.182 As activists and academics pushed for the legal protection of Indigenous spiritual practice and the repatriation of sacred property, spirituality proved a powerful site for articulating and activating sovereignty.183 And although contemporary discourse frequently set them in opposition, Christianity and Indigeneity were not mutually exclusive categories. Events like a series of Indian Ecumenical Conferences held on the Prairies beginning in the early 1970s, for example, suggest that Christianity remained, for a number of Indigenous people, a significant, if contested, site of spiritual and political practice.184 Informed by this context, and related theologies of liberation, inculturation, and ecumenism, Protestant and Catholic churches historically engaged in Indigenous missions began to rethink their roles and adopt (in word, if not always in deed) new strategies of “mission as solidarity.”185 Other denominations, meanwhile, entered the mission field. Mormons (motivated, from the nineteenth century, by their own Indian prophecy), Seventh Day Adventists, Jehovah’s 181 Vine Deloria Jr., Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto (New York: Macmillan, 1969). This book is recommended to Baha’i readers in American Indian Teaching Committee, “Unified Action Approach,” 4. 182 Cardinal, The Unjust Society, 68-75; Deloria, Custer Died for Your Sins, 101-124. 183 Irwin, “Freedom, Law, and Prophecy.” 184 James Treat, Around the Sacred Fire: Native Religious Activism in the Red Power Era: A Narrative Map of the Indian Ecumenical Conference (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). See also James Treat, ed., Native and Christian: Indigenous Voices on Religious Identity in the United States and Canada (New York: Routledge, 1996); Andrea Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right: The Gendered Politics of Unlikely Alliances (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008); Jace Weaver, ed., Native American Religious Identity: Unforgotten Gods (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1998). 185 The phrase “mission as solidarity” is Kenneth A. David and John C. Boonstra’s, cited in Theresa S. Smith, “The Church of the Immaculate Conception: Inculturation and Identity among the Anishnaabeg of Manitoulin Island,” in Irwin, ed., Native American Spirituality, 146-7. See also Grant, Moon of Wintertime, 206-211; Treat, Around the Sacred Fire, especially 61-87; Otávio Velho (translation by David Rogers), “Missionization in the Postcolonial World: A View from Brazil and Elsewhere,” in Thomas Csordas, ed. Transnational Transcendence: Essays on Religion and Globalization, Thomas Csordas, ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 31-54. 83 Witnesses, Catholic Charismatics, and especially Evangelical and Pentecostal Christians were, like Baha’is, all active in “Indian Country” during the second half of the twentieth century.186 Spirituality also served important functions in postwar North American cities. As urban Indigenous populations swelled, residents interacted beyond tribal borders and developed shared spiritual forms and what the sociologist Joane Nagel has described as a broader “supratribal consciousness and constituency.”187 Reflecting the longstanding influence of Plains Indian culture as an (imagined) arbiter of Indianness, the powwow and the pipe, the smudge and the sweat were among the key ceremonial markers of this intertribal spirituality.188 Such practice, as well as intertribal politics, had important earlier antecedents.189 The Indigenous protest that burst into popular awareness and onto television screens after the establishment of the American Indian Movement in Minneapolis-St. Paul in 1968, for example, drew on a long activist history and historical reference points.190 Events like the 1969 occupation of Alcatraz Island by the “Indians of all Tribes,” said to kick off the Red Power era in earnest, were the stuff of news headlines and captured the interest and imagination of observers then and since. Such media- friendly tactics were precipitated and accompanied, though, by other Indigenous activisms, 186 See, for example, Burkinshaw, “Native Pentecostalism in British Columbia,” 142-170; Kirk Dombrowski, Against Culture: Development, Politics, and Religion in Indian Alaska (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001); Grant, Moon of Wintertime, 201-202; Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right; John A. Price, “Mormon Missions to the Indians,” in Handbook of North American Indians: Volume 4, History of Indian-White Relations, ed. Wilcomb E. Washburn (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1988), 459-464; Clinton N. Westman, “Pentecostalism Among Canadian Aboriginal People: A Political Movement?” in A Liberating Spirit: Pentecostals and Social Action in North America, ed. Michael Wilkinson and Steven Studebaker (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2010), 85-110. 187 Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal, 12. Also 9, 118, 143, 202-203. 188 Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal, 6, 201-202; Joan Weibel-Orlando, Indian Country, L.A.: Maintaining Ethnic Community in Complex Society, Revised Edition (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1999), 60. 189 See, for example, Hertzberg, The Search for an American Indian Identity; JoAllyn Archambault, “Pan-Indian Organizations,” in Frederick E. Hoxie, ed., Encyclopedia of North American Indians (New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1996), 462-464. 190 The Trail of Broken Treaties in 1972, confrontation at Wounded Knee in 1973, and the Longest Walk in 1978, for example, all invoked significant historical reference points. See, for example, Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal, 136-137, 175-176. 84 many led by women, who operated in a less visible, but no less critical, register.191 Further, as the Red Power moniker and action like marches, occupations, and “fish-ins” suggest, Indigenous people, youth especially, also looked to other contemporary activists for inspiration. Movements for civil, student, labour, and women’s rights, along with global decolonization efforts, all contributed to a heady atmosphere of unrest and potential in the 1960s and 70s.192 Baha’is, Indigenous and not, made significant contributions in this context, but kept their vision trained on a spiritual vision of global unity rather than a politics of difference. The process of Indigenous “ethnic renewal” at work in this period included not only those with prior Indigenous affiliations, but also a good number who claimed this identity for the first time. As awareness about colonialism, in particular, and ethnicity, in general, grew, a striking number of people (over a million in the United States between 1960 and 1990) began to self-identify as Indian for the first time.193 People who had previously hidden or not known about their Indigenous heritage began to investigate their family histories and adopt and perform Indigenous identities (or, in the words of Zug G. Standing Bear, founder of the Deer Clan of the Southeastern Cherokee Confederacy, began the journey of “‘becoming a minority’”).194 This was, for many, a profound and empowering process and another legacy that a number of 191 On Red Power activism see, for example, Troy R. Johnson, Joane Nagel, and Duane Champagne, eds. American Indian Activism: Alcatraz to the Longest Walk (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1997); Paul Chaat Smith, Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee (New York: New Press, 1996). For works that offer a broader genealogy and analysis of Indigenous activism see, for example, Daniel Cobb and Loretta Fowler, eds. Beyond Red Power: American Indian Politics and Activism (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2007); Daniel Cobb, Native Activism in Cold War America: The Struggle for Sovereignty (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2008); Horton, “Beyond Red Power”; Susan Applegate Krouse and Heather Howard-Bobiwash, eds. Keeping the Campfires Going: Native Women’s Activism in Urban Communities (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2009); Thrush, Native Seattle, 162-183. 192 Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal, 130-132. 193 Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal, 5. The anthropologist Circe Sturm describes those individuals “who have changed their racial self-identification on the U.S. census from non-Indian to Indian” as “racial shifters.” Circe Sturm, Becoming Indian: The Struggle over Cherokee Identity in the Twenty-first Century (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research, 2010), Part One. 194 Cited in Garroutte, Real Indians, 83. 85 narrators in this project shared as they forged new, but not “inauthentic,” Indigenous identities in this period. At a time when it was increasingly “in to be skin,” such self-identification was often deeply contested. Accusations of “ethnic switching” and opportunism “‘of the rankest stripe’” were leveled against so-called “new” and “born-again Indians” by some members of both Indigenous and settler societies.195 Renewed antimodern and countercultural currents, together with formal policy changes, generated fears of cultural and material appropriation, concerns that were boosted by real cases of exploitation.196 As settler society projected, once more, its own “dreams and discontents” onto imaginary Indians, the noble savage was figured as the prototypical environmentalist, warrior, pacifist, and more.197 Popular texts like Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (another book that made recommended Baha’i reading lists) simultaneously evoked sympathy and stereotype.198 And in their romantic, often hyper- sexualized, longings, “friends” sometimes became “wannabes.”199 The New Age movement in the United States, in particular, has demonstrated a vigorous appetite for all things Indian, especially “spiritual and ceremonial” things Indian, prompting both unconscious and more egregious forms of appropriation.200 The “self-determinist” (in name, if not always in spirit or application) policy package that the American government rolled out from the early 1970s set 195 Garroutte, Real Indians, 85-86. 196 Garroutte, Real Indians, 82-98. 197 The phrase “dreams and discontents” is Hazel Hertzberg’s, The Search for an American Indian Identity, 296. On authenticity and counterculture in this period see Deloria, Playing Indian, 128-180; Shari M. Huhndorf, Going Native: Indians in the American Cultural Imagination (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001); Philip Jenkins, Dream Catchers: How Mainstream America Discovered Native Spirituality (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004). 198 Dee Brown, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1970). Edmunds notes the popularity of this text in “Native Americans, New Voices,” 724. Bury My Heart is recommended to Baha’i readers in American Indian Teaching Committee, “Unified Action Approach,” 4. 199 Rayna Green, “The Tribe Called Wannabee: Playing Indian in Europe and America,” Folklore (England) 99 (1988): 30-55; Laura E. Donaldson, “On Medicine Women and White Shame-Ans: New Age Native Americanism and Commodity Fetishism as Pop Culture Feminism,” Signs 24, no.3 (Spring 1999): 677-696. 200 Garroutte, Real Indians, 84-85. 86 out mechanisms like a Federal Acknowledgement Process that determined access to critical rights and resources and similarly sparked anxiety, accusations, and cases of concrete abuse.201 Despite the formal rhetoric of self-determination, and increased self-identified claims to Indigenous identity, legal regulation, and allied assumptions of authenticity, lingered. The American government, for example, maintained the authority to erase Indian tribes with the stroke of a pen (or keyboard), as it did the Samish in Washington State in the 1990s. And, while the Bureau of Indian Affairs Branch of Acknowledgement and Research claimed that “tradition” was not a marker necessary to achieve federal recognition, claimants were still required to demonstrate consistent community life based on the assessment of external authorities that held authenticity as the ultimate benchmark of Indianness.202 A similar, sometimes more bald, logic was likewise leveled in courtrooms where culture was once again put on trial. In Canada, for example, culinary choices have recently been submitted to serious judicial scrutiny – if you eat pizza, Crown Counsel has argued, you cannot possibly be an Indian.203 The furor that erupted over a whale hunt undertaken by the Makah Nation in 1999 further confirmed that assumptions of purity and stasis and the affiliated tradition/modernity divide held outside the courtroom too.204 The Makah whale hunt again revealed how Indigenous people could and did deploy assumptions of authenticity to their own, albeit constrained, ends. In some contexts, however, colonial categories were also internalized. The Indigenous women in Canada who led efforts to reform the patriarchal dimensions of the Indian Act, for example, encountered strong resistance 201 Garroutte, Real Indians, 25-29. 202 Garroutte, Real Indians, 27-29. 203 Dara Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown: Anthropology, Law, and First Nations (Vancouver: Talonbooks, 1998), 229; Robin Ridington, “Fieldwork in Courtroom 53: A Witness to Delgamuukw v. A.G.,” in When You Sing It Now, Just Like New: First Nations Poetics, Voices, and Representations, Robin Ridington and Jillian Ridington (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 246-247. 204 Terry Jay Ellingson, The Myth of the Noble Savage (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 359-372; Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 1-3, 8, 11, 13, 206, 208, 211 (fn 2). 87 from many male leaders who insisted that gender be subordinated to race in the quest for Indigenous rights.205 Bill C-31, finally introduced in 1985, was hardly a panacea. In addition to sloughing off its gendered exclusions to later generations, the chilly reception that many women with newly reinstated status encountered in Indigenous communities reveals the degree to which this legal definition of Indianness had become normalized within Indigenous communities themselves.206 Biological constructs proved similarly resilient, especially in the United States, where those who met federal requirements achieved what Garroutte has dubbed the “dubious distinction” of carrying a Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood and where a majority of tribes applied some formulation of blood quantum to determine membership.207 Nor did culture, even its more self-determined variations, prove a neutral space for evaluating Indian identity. For those “new Indians” who history had denied an earlier connection to their Indigenous ancestry, for example, wielding culture as the ultimate barometer of identity could exacerbate a sense of pain and disconnect and foster further cleavage.208 A century on from Chicago, the specter of authenticity continued to haunt and Baha’is, Indigenous and not, shared in this shadowy ancestry. Genealogies This may seem a long way from the White City in 1893. Family history is often this way, however: as much as favorite relatives and repeated anecdotes, genealogies are composed of deeds and connections forgotten, silenced, and unknown. In tracing family trees of ideas, practices, and policies that informed the Baha’i Faith and “Indianness,” and in pointing up their shared relationship as well, this chapter has established the historically-specific foundation from 205 Joanne Barker, “Gender, Sovereignty, and the Discourse of Rights in Native Women’s Activism,” Meridians: Feminism, Race, Transnationalism 7, no.1 (2006): 127-161. See also Barker’s critique of the internalization of colonial markers of authenticity and Indianness in: Native Acts: Law, Recognition, and Cultural Authenticity (Duke, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). 206 Lawrence, “Gender, Race, and the Regulation of Native Identity,” 12-15, 21, 27-28. 207 Garroutte, Real Indians, 38; Meyer, “American Indian Blood Quantum Requirements.” 208 Garroutte, Real Indians, 79-81. 88 which narrators in this project interacted with the Baha’i religion and formulated both Indigenous and Baha’i identities. A shift away from origins destabilizes assumptions of purity, and attendant declensionist narratives. “Indianness” was a category riven by power and colonial policy policed the parameters of Indigeneity at the same time that it contributed to a sense of common bond among diverse peoples who came to recognize their shared experiences of colonialism. That Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy would even come to be characterized as such was not obvious when he first articulated this statement in Persian in 1916. Baha’is were engaging historically contingent and contested constructions of Indigeneity and were situated in a context of uneven relations of power. These manifested themselves within the Baha’i community itself, generating resistance from some Indigenous people and causing pain and retreat for some others who did declare. At the same time, however, the flexible Baha’i vision accommodated a wide range of Indigenous interpretations and identifications and this proved one of its major strengths and appeals. There was substantial, if still finite, space for Indigenous people to make what they saw fit of the faith. Grounded in the genealogies tracked here, narrators in this project went on to forge their own literal and figurative family histories as Indigenous Baha’is. 89 Chapter 3: Narratives and Narrators This project is a work of oral history, a methodology that is as much intersubjective process as it is polished final product. The field of oral history has moved steadily beyond its early add-more-voices-and-stir stance (a recipe it shared with other subdisciplines, including Indigenous history, intent upon democratizing the historical record) and in this chapter I reflect on the genealogy of the oral histories that I analyze through the rest of this study. This chapter also grounds the histories of “Indianness” and encounter just plotted by establishing the diverse backgrounds of narrators prior to becoming Baha’i. This project is not based on “life story” in the sense that participants were asked to reflect on their entire life experience through a series of set stages and scripted interview prompts. Instead, it engages a method of “life story” through which narrators were asked to share about a particular aspect of their lives (that is, their experience of becoming and being an Indigenous Baha’i) in the context of loosely structured interviews.1 I constructed, through the questions that I put to my participants, a particular narrative structure. And narrators supplied further framings of their own, sharing from the perspective of their personal histories and in particular response to me. The resulting narratives are remarkably rich, and varied. In order to convey a sense of this texture and dynamism, the second half of this chapter details a series of introductory portraits that demonstrate the diverse experiences of colonialism and Indigeneity that informed narrators’ subsequent encounters with the Baha’i religion.2 This chapter clarifies the multiple and intersecting narrative contexts that 1 On this distinction between “life story” and “life story” see Lynn Abrams, Oral History Theory (New York: Routledge, 2010), 40-41; Alessandro Portelli, “The Best Garbage Man in Town: Life and Times of Valtèro Peppoloni, Worker,” in The Death of Luigi Trastulli, and Other Stories: Form and Meaning in Oral History (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 118. 2 Ethnographers working in both Indigenous and religious studies have argued (and illustrated) that such portraits help to convey the rich “breath and texture of life experience” that thematic analysis inevitably flattens. See, for example, Michael McNally, Ojibwe Singers: Hymns, Grief, and a Native Culture in Motion (New York: Oxford 90 frame the oral histories to come. And it demonstrates that, despite the shared identification that later came to link narrators, there was no single or set pathway towards becoming Indigenous and Baha’i. Narratives My intervention as an oral historian forms one of the most obvious frames within which the histories that follow nest. I am attuned to the “narrative turn” in qualitative research and this study is aligned with this shift to the degree that it treats interviews not simply as static sources of data, but rather as dynamic discursive resources.3 As the oral historian Lynn Abrams has recently observed, the narrative turn has cultivated “an understanding that life stories are complex and revealing narrative performances which can offer an insight into both identity formation and the relationship between that and larger historical forces.”4 What people chose to tell, oral historians now recognize, is shaped very much by their audience and the specific time and place in which they are speaking. Further, how people tell, or narrate, their histories is equally contextual, and revealing. Where memory, for example, was once considered a slippery source of evidence, it is increasingly embraced as a productive site of study unto itself (albeit, as the postcolonial historian Antoinette Burton has observed, a site typically gendered as female and aligned with “Other” voices and thus still somewhat contained outside the bounds of capital- H “History”).5 Following Alessandro Portelli, a pioneer (no Baha’i pun intended) in the field, University Press, 2000), 146; Paul Bramadat, The Church on the World’s Turf: An Evangelical Christian Group at a Secular University (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), Chapter 2. 3 This “narrative turn” has been interdisciplinary. See, for example, D. Jean Clandinin, Handbook of Narrative Inquiry: Mapping a Methodology (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2007); Norman K. Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln, eds., Sage Handbook of Qualitative Research (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2005); Hester Lessard, Rebecca Johnson, and Jeremy Webber, eds., Storied Communities: Narratives of Contact and Arrival in Constituting Political Community (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011). 4 Abrams, Oral History Theory, 33. 5 Antoinette Burton, Dwelling in the Archive: Women Writing House, Home, and History in Late Colonial India (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 21-23. For oral histories studies that explore memory within the sphere 91 Abrams has described oral history as a “composite” genre that demands a certain methodological and theoretical “promiscuity.”6 As Portelli himself has argued, however, oral history is also unique. Distinguishing what he calls “history-telling” from its “cousin,” storytelling, Portelli contends that: at the core of oral history, in epistemological and in practical terms, lies one deep thematic focus which distinguishes it from other approaches and disciplines also based on interviewing and fieldwork, such as anthropology, sociology and folklore: the combination of the prevalence of the narrative form on the one hand, and the search for a connection between biography and history, between individual experience and the transformations of society, on the other. Oral history, Portelli continues, is concerned with the “in-between”: “its role is precisely to connect life to times, uniqueness to representativeness, as well as orality to writing. The key word in life and times is the one in the middle.”7 This study occupies this middle space, exploring how Indigenous Baha’i identities, both individual and shared, were constructed in historical time and in the context of the interview itself. This study grows out of earlier research that I conducted on Indigenous-Baha’i interactions in British Columbia and, before this, on early Saulteaux Baha’i Dorothy Maquabeak Francis. Telling of the “hidden history” of Indigenous Baha’i activism that I noted in the of home and family see, for example, Mary Chamberlain and Selma Leydesdorff, “Transnational Families: Memories and Narratives,” Global Networks 4, no.3 (2004): 227-241; Mary Chamberlain, “‘Praise Songs’ of the Family: Lineage and Kinship in the Caribbean Diaspora,” History Workshop Journal 50 (2000): 114-128; Katrina Srigley and Stacey Zembrzycki, eds. “Remembering Family, Analyzing Home: Oral History and the Family,” Oral History Forum (Special Issue) 29 (2009). 6 Abrams, Oral History Theory, 3. 7 Alessandro Portelli, “Oral History as Genre,” in Mary Chamberlain and Paul Thompson, eds., Narrative and Genre (New York: Routledge, 1998), 25-26. See also Alessandro Portelli, “What Makes Oral History Different,” in Robert Perks and Alistair Thompson, eds., The Oral History Reader (New York: Routledge, 1998), 63-74. For a discussion of the differences between oral history and oral tradition (including storytelling) see Julie Cruikshank, “Oral Tradition and Oral History: Reviewing Some Issues,” Canadian Historical Review LXXV, no.3 (1994): 403-418. Writing from a Dakota perspective, the historian Waziyatawin Angela Wilson does not draw as sharp a distinction between oral history and oral tradition as does Cruikshank: Remember This! Dakota Decolonization and the Eli Taylor Narratives, with translations from the Dakota text by Wahpetunwin Carolynn Schommer (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 27. The authors of The American Indian Oral History Manual have recently observed that what they call the “archival oral history process” (a category into which the life story method would fall) is increasingly being employed in Indigenous communities as a way to record and preserve personal stories. Charles E. Trimble, Barbara W. Sommer, Mary Kay Quinlan, The American Indian Oral History Manual: Making Many Voices Heard (Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press, 2008), 15, 18. 92 introduction to this study, I was initially drawn to Francis’ life story on account of her remarkable social activism in support of Indigenous peoples in both urban and reserve settings in Canada. In the first of many serendipitous connections that have shaped the course of my research, I first heard about Francis from the historian Paige Raibmon, who had herself learned about her from a family friend named Ella Benndorf. Through Benndorf, a Baha’i friend of Francis’ who had collected a significant amount of primary source material relating to Francis’ life (and generously shared this with me), I learned that Francis was among the founding Indigenous Baha’i figures in Canada and quickly came to appreciate the multiple and profound ways through which her faith had informed her activism.8 Benndorf also connected me with several other Baha’is who had known Francis and, from there, I developed a deepened interest in just how and why Indigenous-Baha’i interactions had developed in the first place. This led to my Masters thesis on Indigenous-Baha’i encounter in British Columbia, for which I interviewed a number of non-Indigenous and Indigenous Baha’is in the province.9 I have included six of the Indigenous Baha’is who I interviewed for that study as narrators here. Building on the relationships that that I cultivated through this research and ongoing “chain referral,” I in turn interviewed another twenty people, from almost as many different backgrounds and locations, specifically for this project.10 These interviews took me near and far: throughout the Greater Vancouver area (where I was then living), across the Salish Sea and Columbia River, over the 8 Chelsea Horton, “Beyond Red Power: The Politics of Culture, Spirituality, and the Integrated Activism of Dorothy Maquabeak Francis” (Undergraduate Honours Thesis, Simon Fraser University, 2003). I published a revised version of this thesis as Chelsea Horton, “Beyond Red Power: The Alternative Activism of Dorothy Maquabeak Francis,” The Journal of Bahá’í Studies 14, no.3/4 (Sept-Dec 2004), 35-71. 9 Chelsea Horton, “‘According to your faith so shall your power and blessings be’: The Aboriginal-Bahá’í Encounter in British Columbia” (M.A. Thesis, Simon Fraser University, 2005). 10 Nineteen of these are included here as narrators. One person who I initially interviewed was omitted from this stage of the study as I never heard back from her about her transcript or received final consent for her participation. On chain referral, also known as chain sampling, see H. Russell Bernard, Research Methods in Anthropology: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches, Fourth Edition (New York: Altamira Press, 2006), 192; Monique Hennink, Inge Hutter, and Ajay Bailey, Qualitative Research Methods (London: Sage, 2011), 100. 93 Rocky and Cascade Mountains, to the cliffs of Dinetah, the suburbs of Chicago, and elsewhere. Practical considerations of time, resources, and my own geographic location on the west coast meant that the majority of those I interviewed were located in the North American West. A strong historical pattern of Baha’i mobility, however, also meant that several of those who were residing in Western Canada and the United States at the time that I interviewed them hailed originally from elsewhere in North America. The broad framing of this project aptly captures the contours of Indigenous Baha’i community and raises several particular methodological considerations. In engaging with participants from a wide range of Indigenous backgrounds – from Blackfoot, Lakota, Cherokee, Choctaw, and Abenaki, to Tlingit, Coast Salish, Métis, Mohawk, and more – I had (and have) limited ability to situate each subject in his or her own specific local context. I had, however, existing relationships with some of those who I interviewed and strove, in all cases, to establish a rapport (often, of necessity, by way of long distance communication) prior to conducting interviews. There were cases, though, where I recorded interviews upon first meeting participants or not long afterwards. I interviewed people on reservations, mostly in cities, and usually in their own homes; I also conducted several interviews by telephone. I interviewed most participants once, some twice, for an average of three hours. My interview style was informal and open-ended. I prepared specific questions, some shared and others personalized, prior to each interview, but was also interested to follow the lead of narrators. Indeed, I came to this work with an open heart and open mind and an appreciation for the importance of respectful and responsive listening.11 I further took to heart advice that I received from Tlingit Baha’i Joyce 11 On the importance of active listening in oral history see Daniel James, “Listening in the Cold: The Practice of Oral History in an Argentine Meatpacking Community,” in Robert Perks and Alistair Thompson, eds., The Oral History Reader Second Edition (New York: Routledge, 2006), 125, 130; Portelli, “What Makes Oral History 94 Shales, who has her own academic research experience, who counseled against asking direct questions in Indigenous interview contexts. This approach allowed important insight into the ways that participants themselves plotted and narrated their own lives.12 At the same time, it sometimes left me without certain key (or at least what I consider key) biographical details. I articulated and refined the questions that I posed in the context of each interview and the broader development of the project. Where I had initially imagined analyzing ritual practice in closer detail, for example, I found it difficult to prompt thorough historical reflection on the subject.13 Narrators, for their part, shared both what they deemed appropriate and, I suspect, what they believed me, as a non-Indigenous non-Baha’i scholar, equipped to understand.14 Interestingly enough, where most of my own focus (and anxiety) hung throughout the research process on issues of Indigenous context, it was more often in sharing Baha’i stories and concepts that participants would pause in their interviews to clarify. It seems that narrators saw faith as a larger gap between us than “race.” Different,” 70. And, in the context of Indigenous oral history research more specifically: Kim Anderson, Life Stages and Native Women: Memory, Teachings, and Story Medicine (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2011), 25. 12 On plot in oral history see Mary Chamberlain, “Narrative Theory,” in Thomas L. Charlton, Lois E. Myers, and Rebecca Sharpless, eds., Handbook of Oral History (Lanham, MD: Altamira Press, 2006), 384-407. 13 This was not entirely surprising. Ritual practice, in general, is a mysterious thing that is hard to grasp, even in the moment, and I was and remain aware of Indigenous proscriptions against making certain spiritual knowledge public and the danger of offering up detailed descriptions of ceremony as fodder for New Age or other appropriation. See, for example, Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 32; Gregory E. Smoak, Ghost Dances and Identity: Prophetic Religion and American Indian Ethnogenesis in the Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 8; Margaret Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies: Characteristics, Conversations, and Contexts (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 92. 14 See, for example, the anthropologist Julie Cruikshank’s reflections on the “cultural scaffolding, the broad framework” that Tlingit and Tagish Elder Angela Sidney established before, in Cruikshank’s words, “I could begin to ask intelligent questions.” Julie Cruikshank, “‘Pete’s Song’: Establishing Meanings Through Story and Song,” in The Social Life of Stories: Narrative and Knowledge in the Yukon Territory (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1998), 27. See also the anthropologist Carolyn Sawin’s reflections on her confusion during the early stages of her fieldwork in the Yukon as to why her Tlingit and Tagish narrators were sharing traditional stories in response to her queries about their experiences of becoming Baha’i. Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000), 5, 13. Studies that explicitly illustrate the meaning-making through story that initially puzzled Sawin include Cruikshank’s The Social Life of Stories and Julie Cruikshank, in collaboration with Angela Sidney, Kitty Smith, and Annie Ned, Life Lived Like a Story: Life Histories of Three Yukon Native Elders (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1990). My experience was rather the inverse of Sawin’s. Where I thought myself prepared to hear traditional stories, they seldom appeared, or did so in different form than I had anticipated. 95 There was a strong performative, as well as intersubjective, dynamic to the interviews that narrators and I co-produced.15 Moments of laughter, pause, and pain, a smile, shrug, or a smirk – these all contributed to making each interview what it was and inevitably informed my own subsequent reflection. Translating such dynamics, as well as cadence and other verbal cues, however, into written form is a challenge.16 As many oral historians have observed, the process of interview transcription is a vexed one and is certainly more art than science.17 Editing, according to Portelli, means taking “(responsible and thoughtful) liberties with the material.”18 My approach, which I have altered over time, partly in response to narrators’ reactions to my written representation of their spoken words, is to try to retain the flavour and flow of interviews without unduly weighing transcripts down with every single utterance, every “um,” “ah,” and “oh.” Like Portelli in his most recent book, They Say in Harlan County: An Oral History, I have followed two main rules: “never putting into people’s mouths words that they did not actually say (insertions are in brackets), and striving to retain on the written page some of the impact of the spoken performance.” Also with Portelli, “I have retained the speakers’ choice of vocabulary, grammar, syntax, and construction,” but have “avoided efforts to reproduce orthographically” speech patterns such as the “use of an apostrophe to signal a ‘missing’ final g.” As Portelli argues in the Appalachian context of his research, this effort is “always marred by negative 15 On the importance of attending to the “velocity” of narration, along with body language, laughter, and other verbal cues, see Abrams, Oral History Theory, 20, 141; Portelli, “What Makes Oral History Different,” 66; Leslie Robertson, Imagining Difference: Legend, Curse, and Spectacle in a Canadian Mining Town (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), xxxi; Valerie Yow, Recording Oral History: A Guide for the Humanities and Social Sciences (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press, 2005), 303, 318. 16 Some scholars (typically working with a single or small sample of interviews) place such performative dynamics at the centre of their analysis. For an example see Marie-Françoise Chanfrault-Duchet, “Narrative Structures, Social Models, and Symbolic Representation in the Life Story,” in Sherna Berger Gluck and Daphne Patai, eds., Women’s Words: The Feminist Practice of Oral History (New York: Routledge, 1991), 77-93. 17 Elinor Mazé, “The Uneasy Page: Transcribing and Editing Oral History,” in Thomas L. Charlton, Lois E. Myers, and Rebecca Sharpless, eds., History of Oral History: Foundations and Methodology (Lanham, MD: Altamira Press, 2007), 227-261; Portelli, “Oral History as Genre,” 34, 38, 40. 18 Alessandro Portelli, They Say in Harlan County: An Oral History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 9. 96 connotations and excessive ‘othering.’”19 To ensure that narrators were comfortable with me including what they shared in their interviews in my final analysis, I followed up with all participants with typed transcripts, providing them with the opportunity to review and revise, as they deemed appropriate. Most made small corrections, while a handful supplied more substantive changes. My process in turn involved “deep exchange” with these transcripts (and sometimes return to the original audio recordings as well).20 As Michael Frisch and Douglas Lambert have recently observed, for all their attention to interview production and final presentation, oral historians have not meditated as explicitly on their actual hands-on “work with interview collections – that ground between raw and cooked.”21 Although I was introduced to their evocative phrase fairly far into my research, Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy and Madeline D. Davis’s concept of “letting the data sing” captures my own method well.22 This process involved immersing myself repeatedly in the interview material, looking for shared themes as well as exceptions, contradictions, and anomalies. As patterns did emerge (and, as we will see shortly, the organization I have chosen is but one possibility among many), I made the decision to quote quite extensively from transcripts in my writing.23 Here, I am attempting to share some of the feel and flavour of the spoken word and allow stories a certain room to breathe.24 To invoke another musical metaphor, this one from Portelli, we might imagine these lengthy quotations as 19 Portelli, They Say in Harlan County, 10. 20 “Deep exchange” is Portelli’s term, cited in Abrams, Oral History Theory, 10. 21 Michael Frisch and Douglas Lambert, “Case Study: Between the Raw and the Cooked in Oral History: Notes from the Kitchen,” in Donald Ritchie, ed. The Oxford Handbook of Oral History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 334-335. 22 Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy and Madeline D. Davis, Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community (New York: Routledge, 1993), 22, 397 (fn 72). See also Valerie Yow on John and Lynn Lofland’s discussion of the simultaneous “surrender” and “discipline” that qualitative research demands: Recording Oral History, 282. 23 In-citation ellipses without brackets signal a pause in speech; ellipses inside square brackets indicate that I have edited out material not related to the issue at hand. 24 The expression allowing stories to breathe derives from Arthur W. Frank, Letting Stories Breathe: A Socio- Narratology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010). 97 arias, expressive solo melodies that are then “woven together by the half-sung, half-spoken recitative (in this case, my own narrative voice).”25 There is truth, as Portelli argues, that resides in beauty and I strive to convey, however partially, the “aesthetic project” of my narrators as I analyze their histories.26 In my work with the interview transcripts, I listened for “narrative fluency” and places where it breaks down.27 As Abrams observes, the quest for “composure,” for “a version of the self that sits comfortably within the social world, an account that achieves coherence, with which the interviewee can be content,” is a common dynamic of the oral history interview process.28 Participants in this project, specifically, typically told composed conversion stories. There is, in the Baha’i Faith, no established genre of “declaration narrative,” nothing akin, for example, to the performative Pentecostal practices of testimony and witnessing, ritualized rhetorical forms in which converts share stories of personal salvation (to other converts, in the case of testimony, and potential proselytes, in that of witnessing).29 Scholars of Baha’i conversion, however, have observed the exchange of personal and “exceptional” declaration stories among adherents and 25 Portelli, They Say in Harlan County, 11. See also Saurabh Dube’s use of “overture” and “coda” in “Conversion, Translation, and Life-History in Colonial Central India,” in David Lindenfeld and Miles Richardson, eds., Beyond Conversion and Syncretism: Indigenous Encounters with Missionary Christianity, 1800-2000 (New York: Berghahn Books, 2012), 27, 43. 26 Portelli, “Oral History as Genre,” 37-38. 27 On narrative fluency see Abrams, Oral History Theory, 126. 28 Abrams, Oral History Theory, 175. Abrams elsewhere defines composure as, “the way in which the individual creates a comfortable sense of self by aligning the life story with publicly available discourses.” Abrams, Oral History Theory, 42. 29 As Kirk Dombrowski, who has observed Pentecostal practice in Native Alaska, explains, “testifying” refers to the sharing of conversion stories “at the altar,” while “witnessing” occurs beyond church confines. Kirk Dombrowski, Against Culture: Development, Politics, and Religion in Indian Alaska (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 142-143. According to the anthropologist Susan Harding, such stories do not simply recount and strengthen the salvation of the speaker, but initiate the conversion of the listener as well. Susan Harding, “Convicted by the Holy Spirit: The Rhetoric of Fundamental Baptist Conversion,” American Ethnologist 14, no.1 (February 1987), 167-181. See also Simon Coleman, “Continuous Conversion? The Rhetoric, Practice, and Rhetorical Practice of Charismatic Protestant Conversion,” in Andrew Bucker and Stephen D. Glazier, eds., The Anthropology of Religious Conversion (Oxford: Roman and Littlefield, 2003), 15-28. 98 have noted the impact of such exchange on the construction of Baha’i identity.30 This was readily evident in the context of my interviews: narrators came prepared to describe and discuss their experiences of becoming Baha’is and it was clear in a number of cases that their stories, or at least key phrases and components, were practiced and familiar. This narrative fluency frequently faltered, however, when we moved into discussing narrators’ subsequent Baha’i lives.31 A number of people were less flowing and forthcoming about their interactions within their home and Baha’i communities, in particular. There may well be practical explanations for this: perhaps I did not clearly communicate my interest in Baha’i practice prior to my interviews, maybe the questions I posed were less effective at opening this up, or perhaps narrators and I had simply lost steam after long interview sessions. At the same time, these moments of narrative tension, evasion, and silence must be understood in relation to the Baha’i prohibition against “backbiting,” which adherents take seriously.32 As the sociologist Margit Warburg has noted, Baha’u’llah spoke of backbiting in the same breath as murder and adultery in his “Book of Laws,” the Kitab-i-Aqdas: “‘You have been forbidden to commit murder or adultery, or to engage in backbiting and calumny; shun ye, then, 30 See, for example, Michael McMullen, The Bahá’ís: The Religious Construction of a Global Identity (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 15-16, 19; David Piff, Bahá’í Lore (Oxford: George Ronald, 2000), 80-84. The term “exceptional conversion narrative” comes from Diane Austin-Broos, “The Anthropology of Conversion: An Introduction,” in Bucker and Glazier, eds., The Anthropology of Religious Conversion, 8. In an anthropological study of American Baha’i discourse from the early 1980s, June Wyman explores conversion narratives as American expressions of “the self.” Although she overstates this element of her analysis, her treatment of narrative, including the role of conversion tales in the construction of collective Baha’i identity, is instructive. See June Wyman, “Becoming a Baha’i: Discourse and Social Networks in an American Baha’i Community,” (PhD thesis, The Catholic University of America, 1985), esp. Chapters 4 and 7. Her approach contrasts with that of the sociologist Margit Warburg, who registers concern about accretion and the “frailty of memory” in her engagement with qualitative interview data on conversion: Citizens of the World: A History and Sociology of the Baha’is from a Globalisation Perspective (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 298-302. 31 Carolyn Sawin observed a similar pattern in the Yukon: “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 5-6. 32 On evasion see Abrams, Oral History Theory, 104. As Luisa Passerini has explained, “‘As oral historians we have frail but precious tools: attention to language and form, to how things are remembered, or forgotten; and not only to the contents of memory, but also to what is not remembered, to silences.’” Cited in Robertson, Imagining Difference, xxxiii. 99 what hath been prohibited in the holy Books and Tablets.’”33 Baha’u’llah proscribed “faultfinding” too. As he laid down in his Arabic Hidden Words: “O Son of Being! How couldst thou forget thine own faults and busy thyself with the faults of others? Whoso doeth this is accursed of Me.”34 In addition to these specific proscriptions, Baha’i teachings on unity and obedience to the “Administrative Order” likely further contributed to reticence on the part of many narrators to discuss potentially controversial issues or to engage in criticism (what some academics might distinguish as critical reflection) of past people and events.35 As the historian William Garlington has explained, the issue of internal Baha’i unity is closely tied to the religion’s “Greater” and “Lesser Covenants.” The first of these takes in God’s promise “to continue to send guidance to mankind, while humanity in turn promises to obey and follow the teachings of the Manifestation”; the second, “Lesser,” covenant “requires Baha’is to accept the leadership of Baha’u’llah’s appointed successors and ordained institutions.”36 As Garlington elaborates: Baha’is see the ultimate purpose of the Lesser Covenant as the establishment of a unified world. Since this unity is understood to have been Baha’u’llah’s specific historical mission, it would be impossible, the reasoning goes, for the Baha’i Faith to accomplish such a goal if it were itself disunited. It is at this point that the Lesser Covenant and the Greater Covenant converge, for unity within the Baha’i community is understood as a guarantee that God’s revealed guidance will become manifest for all mankind.37 33 Cited in Warburg, Citizens of the World, 351. See also “Backbiting, Criticism, Fault-Finding, Gossip, Lies, Slander, Etc.,” in Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 88-94. 34 Bahá’u’lláh, The Hidden Words of Bahá’u’lláh (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1985), 10, accessed online 12 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/HW/. 35 On obedience to Baha’i leaders and the “Administrative Order” see, for example, Bahá’u’lláh, “Ishráqát (Splendours), Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh Revealed After the Kitáb-i-Aqdas (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1988), 128-129, accessed online 12 March 13, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/TB/; ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, The Will And Testament of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1990), 11-12, accessed online 12 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/WT/. 36 William Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America (London: Praeger, 2005), 71. 37 Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 72. For a clear statement of the position that Garlington describes see J.E. Esslemont, “Obedience,” in Bahá’u’lláh and the New Era (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1980), 77-78, accessed online 12 March 13, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/je/BNE/. 100 The obedience that the Baha’i writings call for is hardly passive.38 Nevertheless, concern for protecting Baha’i unity (and, by extension, the religion’s twin covenants) quite likely contributed to silence on the subject of internal Baha’i community tension. Reluctance to dwell on past tensions or prejudice may also stem from a more general impulse and effort on the part of narrators to avoid casting themselves as victims.39 Indeed, as the next chapter vividly illustrates, the declaration stories that participants shared were very much narratives of empowerment. Such framing may tie, further, to Indigenous teachings surrounding silence and respect and, similar to the approach that the Cree-Métis historian Kim Anderson takes in her recent book, Life Stages and Native Women: Memory, Teachings, and Story Medicine, narrators may have consciously chosen to focus on the positive as an act of decolonization.40 Indeed, while this study itself does not apply a tribally-specific research methodology of the order modeled and advocated by Indigenous scholars such as Jo-ann Archibald, Margaret Kovach, and Winona Wheeler, it is possible to see an Indigenous methodology at work in the way that narrators themselves shared their stories with me.41 Kovach, like Archibald and Wheeler, stresses the importance of articulating research methods that are specific and accountable to particular Indigenous peoples. At the same time, her recent book Indigenous Methodologies: 38 As I discuss in more detail in Chapter 7, for example, the Baha’i decision-making method of consultation calls, at least in theory, for “frank and open” discussion between Baha’is. Shoghi Effendi, 28 Oct 1935, Letter to an Individual Believer, cited in Bahá'u'lláh, Abdu'l-Bahá, Shoghi Effendi, and Universal House of Justice, “Consultation,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 1, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Baha’i Publications Australia, 1991), 104. 39 Valerie Yow makes this argument about feminist artist Marlene Malik in Recording Oral History, 305. 40 In her work with the prominent Lakota performer and Baha’i (and narrator in this project), Kevin Locke, for example, Pauline Tuttle identified both “Indian ways” and the Baha’i prohibition against backbiting as sources of silence: “‘Beyond Feathers and Beads’: Interlocking Narratives in the Music and Dance of Tokeya Inajin (Kevin Locke),” in Carter Jones Meyer and Diana Royer, eds., Selling the Indian: Commercializing and Appropriating American Indian Cultures (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2001), 115. See also Anderson, Life Stages and Native Women, 3-4, 19; Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies, 80-81, 91. 41 Anderson, Life Stages and Native Women; Jo-ann Archibald (Q’um Q’um Xiiem), Indigenous Storywork: Educating the Heart, Mind, Body, and Spirit (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2008); Winona Wheeler, “Reflections on the Social Relations of Indigenous Oral Histories,” in Ute Lischke and David McNab and Walking a Tightrope: Aboriginal People and their Representations (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2005), 189-214. 101 Characteristics, Conversations, and Contexts also identifies a number of shared principles and perspective, including respect, relationship, holism, and the power of spiritual experiences such as dreams, that connect Indigenous methodologies more generally.42 A number of participants in this project narrated their experiences of becoming and being Baha’is as holistic journeys animated by spiritual power, manifested often in dreams. These narratives defy dissection into separate constituent, and strictly cognitive, elements. Narrators further activated an Indigenous methodology in the way that many responded to interview questions through story and stressed that they spoke only for themselves, on the basis on their own experience and perspective.43 Indigenous methodologies, Kovach and others further emphasize, are framed to produce scholarship that is relevant to community and we might also interpret narrators’ motivations for taking part in this study in these terms.44 Indeed, while silence surrounding charged issues such as intercultural tension among Baha’is was common, some narrators were eager, and others became more willing over time, to discuss this very history. As my relationships with narrators developed and I received invitations to address Indigenous Baha’i audiences about my research, I came to appreciate that this was why at least some people were interested and willing to speak with me in the first place: there are issues concerning ongoing colonialism within the Baha’i community that need to be addressed but which are difficult to broach from the inside. Several narrators expressed to me explicitly their belief that I am particularly well positioned (more, they 42 Kovach, to be clear, is concerned with the articulation of tribally-specific research models and intentionally interviewed a number of other Cree scholars in order to gain insights specific to her own Plains Cree and Saulteaux context. For reflections on shared principles of holism and respect and methodologies of dream and vision see Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies, Kobo Edition, 27 (Introduction), 43-45, 48-49, 56 (Chapter 1), 22 (Chapter 2), 5-6, 14-15, 30, 47 (Chapter 3), 9-10 (Conclusion). 43 On story as methodology see Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies, Kobo Edition, Chapter 5; Archibald, Indigenous Storywork. On speaking from personal experience and belief see Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies, Kobo Edition, 50 (Chapter 1), 39 (Chapter 2), 10 (Chapter 6); Eva Marie Garroutte, Real Indians, 117. 44 Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies, Kobo Edition, 40 (Introduction), 23 (Chapter 1), 26 (Chapter 4); 33-34 (Chapter 8). See also Archibald, Indigenous Storywork, 1; Wilson, Remember This! 102 implied, on account of my religious than “racial” difference) to probe internal tension within the Baha’i community, a subject I take up in Chapters 5 and 6 of this study. That said, it is essential to recognize that narrators are not speaking directly for themselves in what follows.45 One goal of this research was to record and share the voices of a population that has received little historical attention; as in oral history in general, there remains a “redemptive urge” and “reconstructive agenda” to this project.46 And interviews themselves were very much co-productions. Narratives, however, underwent a significant level of interpretation as they were transcribed and edited. Further, I have maintained analytic control and remain, to return to musical metaphor, the conductor of this project. Though the interviews themselves were collaborative acts of knowledge production, subsequent analysis of them is my own. Narrators This is true, too, of the introductory sketches that compose the remainder of this chapter. I typically opened my interviews by asking narrators to share about their backgrounds prior to becoming Baha’i and most dedicated fairly substantial space and weight to these histories. The details that follow, then, are among those that narrators chose, in the specific context of their conversations with me, to share by way of orientation, part of what Abrams describes in a 45 As the critical race theorist Sherene Razack has warned, a colonial, if well-intentioned, current often underlines the impulse to “give voice.” Sherene Razack, “Commendatory Foreword,” in Susan Dabulskis-Hunter, Outsider Research: How White Writers ‘Explore’ Native Issues, Knowledge, and Experiences (Bethesda, MD: Academica, 2002), xii. See Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs, 33 for a(n unconvincing) claim of allowing narrators to “analyze their own experiences” by citing extensively from transcripts and fieldnotes. For thoughtful reflection on the claim that narrators are simply “speaking for themselves” see Sophie McCall, First Person Plural: Aboriginal Storytelling and the Ethics of Collaborative Authorship (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011), 6-7, 29. And for a study that models innovative methods of collaboration, in the final text as well as the research process, see Leslie A. Robertson with the Kwagu'ł Gixsam Clan, Standing Up with Ga’axsta’las: Jane Constance Cook and the Politics of Memory, Church, and Custom (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012). 46 Daniel James describes the persistent “redemptive urge” underlining the field of oral history in “Listening in the Cold: The Practice of Oral History in an Argentinean Meatpacking Community,” in Doña María’s Story: Life History, Memory, and Political Community (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000), 138. Abrams describes oral history’s persistent “reconstructive agenda” in Oral History Theory, 5. 103 discussion of coherence as “‘the things you need to know about me to know me.’”47 I have constructed these histories, however, drawing primarily from narrators’ responses to my background query, but occasionally from broader interview material as well, in order to convey a sense of the broad range of experiences and understandings of Indigeneity that narrators possessed prior to becoming Baha’is. Narrators all came to identify as Indigenous Baha’is, but their backgrounds are tremendously varied. The selective portraits that follow demonstrate this diversity; I offer biographical sketches of all narrators in Appendix 1. Some narrators were raised on reserves and reservations, others in urban environments. Some were connected to tribal communities and cultures, others to intertribal populations and practice, while others still grew up without awareness or access to either. Some narrators are self-described “full bloods,” most are of mixed heritage. Even assembling examples is difficult, and discretionary; the backgrounds that I have narrated one way here could easily be told in many other ways. This mutability itself, though, is demonstration of diversity and further illustration that, as the genealogy of colonialism plotted in the last chapter pointed up, there were many ways of being Indigenous in the twentieth century. This is well demonstrated by Klara Tyler, the eldest and earliest Baha’i participant in this study. Born in 1923 to an Ehattesaht (Nuu-chah-nulth) mother and a German father, Tyler grew up in and around a number of Indigenous communities, both urban and reservation, in the Pacific Northwest. Tyler’s mother was born in the late 1870s and was raised according to traditional Ehattesaht teachings on the west coast of Vancouver Island.48 She, like other Nuu-chah-nulth and 47 Abrams, Oral History Theory, 41. As Abrams further observes, invoking Portelli, oral history is always a “‘confrontation of partialities’ in which no encounter will ever produce the representation of an undivided or whole self.” Oral History Theory, 63. 48 A photograph of a young woman that Tyler and her siblings believe to be their mother, Cecilia Thompson, appears in Martha Black, ḤuupuKwanum Tupaat: Out of the Mist: Treasures of the Nuu-chah-nulth Chiefs (Victoria: Royal British Columbia Museum, 1999), 46. 104 Coast Salish people from what became, in 1871, the Canadian province of British Columbia, participated in annual summer migration to berry fields in Washington state and made the decision, one year, to remain there rather than return to a difficult arranged marriage at home.49 She settled in the Tacoma area, where she met Tyler’s father, a Lutheran born in Berlin in 1888. Tyler’s father had travelled to the east coast of the United States by merchant ship and, as a “hobo,” as Tyler described him, made his way west by rail, interacting regularly with Indigenous people (“the Germans,” Tyler noted, “always seem to like the Indians”).50 The two married after Tyler’s mother travelled back to Vancouver Island to secure the sanction of the area Catholic priest, who assented, Tyler explained, given that her mother’s first marriage had not taken place in the church; Tyler was the youngest of their five children. The family, she recalled, worked as farmers in an intercultural community located on the Puyallup Indian Reservation, where land and identity were both hotly contested, then in various occupations on the Olympic Peninsula during the tenuous years of the Great Depression.51 Tyler spent a year in Nevada after her high school graduation in 1941, babysitting for one of her older sisters, then returned with her sibling’s family to Tacoma, where she, like a number of women, worked in wartime industry, first at Fort Lewis then Boeing Aircraft.52 Postwar, Tyler worked at Cushman Indian Hospital 49 Paige Raibmon, “Meanings of Mobility on the Northwest Coast,” in Theodore Binnema and Susan Neylan, eds., New Histories for Old: Changing Perspectives on Canada’s Native Pasts (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007), 176. On labour migration more broadly see John Lutz, “Work, Sex, and Death on the Great Thoroughfare: Annual Migrations of ‘Canadian Indians’ to the American Pacific Northwest,” in John Findlay and Kenneth Coates, eds., Parallel Destinies: Canadian-American Relations West of the Rockies (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2002), 80-103. 50 On German-Indigenous interaction and affinity see Colin Calloway, Gerd Gemünden, and Suzanne Zantop, eds., Germans and Indians: Fantasies, Encounters, Projections (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2002). This affinity is something several other narrators noted as well: Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008; Phil Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 Jan 2009; Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 29 July 2008. 51 On Puyallup see Alexandra Harmon, Indians in the Making: Ethnic Relations and Indian Identities Around Puget Sound (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 134-135, 143-144, 198, 204. 52 On wartime industry and Boeing, specifically: Coll Thrush, Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 164. On Boeing and Indigenous women’s postwar work see 105 where she reconnected with a Makah patient, Bill Tyler, who she had known in her youth.53 The couple married in Tacoma and moved not long afterwards to her husband’s community, the Makah Nation in Neah Bay, on the far western tip of the Olympic Peninsula.54 Although Tyler grew up geographically removed from her own tribal community and relatives, she also described growing up with a secure sense of self as “Indian.” Nuu-chah-nulth people regularly migrated across the Canadian-American border, and had done so long before this colonial bifurcation was imposed, but the fallout from her mother’s first marriage (which had included police and church authorities coming to Washington to seize her children from that relationship), meant that Tyler did not connect closely with her Ehattesaht relatives until later in life. She recalled, though, subtle cultural teachings from her mother, who Tyler described as a woman of great strength and spirit: her song and the power of her prayer, for example. “She would tell us Indian stories,” Tyler noted, “but we weren’t smart. We heard them so much, we didn’t want to hear them anymore.” Casting storytelling as Indigenous pedagogy, she continued, “Of course, that’s the way Indians teach. But it wasn’t that important to us.”55 In her telling, Tyler grew up neither the subject nor the agent of intolerance. Her father, she recalled: always said, “There’s no difference with the colour of the skin.” I never really felt prejudiced against people. I can remember when I was a little girl, there was a Chinese Cherokee storyteller Thomas King’s discussion of his mother in The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative (Toronto: House of Anansi, 2003), 3-5. 53 Anthropologist Elizabeth Colson characterizes Cushman Indian Hospital as site and source of intertribal identification in The Makah Indians: A Study of an Indian Tribe in Modern American Society (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 1953), 134-135. Likewise, Cesare Marino notes that “landed and landless tribes” joined together in the 1950s termination era as the Inter-Tribal Council of Western Washington and attempted, without success, to stop the closure of Cushman. “History of Western Washington Since 1846,” in Wayne Suttles, ed., Handbook of North American Indians, Volume 7, Northwest Coast (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1990), 178. 54 Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008. 55 Though Tyler stated that her mother’s storytelling “wasn’t that important to us,” her son, narrator Scott Tyler, shared some of the same stories about his grandmother as Tyler did in his interview with me, suggesting that she carried on this storytelling practice with her own children. Scott Tyler, interview with the author, Bellevue, Washington, 28 July 2008. Other narrators also spoke to Indigenous storytelling as teaching: Eleanora McDermott and Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008; Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009. 106 family in Port Angeles and I’d go by and I’d grin and grin and he’d smile and my sister would grab my hand, “Klara, don’t be like that!” Because I was friendly, I just liked people. So, that just always had a lot of meaning to me, there’s no difference but the colour of the skin. I never felt ashamed of being an Indian either. I didn’t mind being what I was, you know. I think we went through some really hard times in our lives, but I think that made us better people.56 As a person of mixed heritage, who lived at the intersection of a number of communities and categories, Tyler’s worldview was an inclusive one. Other narrators grew up with a secure sense of Indigenous identity rooted in more specific tribal perspectives. Joyce Shales, for example, grew up in the coastal Tlingit community of Sitka, Alaska at mid-century and expressed a strong affiliation with Tlingit culture and community, in general, and her own family, in particular. Shales’ grandfather, Rudolph Walton, was a hereditary Tlingit leader and an early Presbyterian in Sitka who challenged colonial constructions of authenticity through activist efforts like a campaign to have his “mixed-race” children, who he had adopted through traditional Tlingit marriage protocol, admitted to the public, not mission, school in Sitka.57 Humbly acknowledging her grandfather as a “very remarkable man,” Shales noted that much of what she and her family knows about Walton derives from research that she undertook into his life for her doctoral dissertation in Educational Studies at the University of British Columbia. Her grandfather, Shales explained, “did a lot of things in his life that we had no idea that he had done because he never spoke about it and nobody else did either because talking about yourself or your family was kind of like bragging and so it wasn’t really a thing that people would do anyway even if they knew about it.”58 This precept of modesty, along with a collective sense of self, extends also to Shales’ narration of her 56 Tyler, interview. 57 Paige Raibmon, Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late-Nineteenth-Century Northwest Coast (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), Chapters 8 and 9; Joyce Walton Shales, “Rudolph Walton: One Tlingit Man’s Journey Through Stormy Seas, Sitka, Alaska, 1867-1951” (PhD thesis, University of British Columbia, 1998). 58 Shales, interview. She makes this same point in the introduction to her dissertation: “Rudolph Walton,” 14. 107 own history: she was at first reluctant to be interviewed for precisely this reason and, when she did do so, she expressly articulated her story in a plural familial “we,” not an individual “I.”59 While Shales was raised with and continues to observe tribal teachings like this, there were other elements of Tlingit culture that she and her relatives did not regularly practice growing up. Speaking to the criminalization of Indigenous spiritual practice and a conscious family history of cultural brokerage, for example, Shales explained that her grandmother was among Elders who advocated a move away from potlatching in the early twentieth century and instructed her family not to hold a potlatch following her own passing. In the context of colonialism, Indigenous people regularly faced such constrained choices.60 The decision not to host a potlatch in her grandmother’s honour, Shales admitted, was, “totally shameful, really, in a way. Because it was totally against tradition.”61 Such choices, however, did not extinguish her family’s sense of Tlingit identity. As Shales elaborated: my grandmother stood up for what she believed, which was that the traditions, in a way, were to be left behind. Now that does not mean, because my dad taught me a lot of things, that does not mean that your traditions are shameful. That does not mean that you leave and forget everything you ever were taught and that we should have no regard for them. What that means is that you remember the good things that you were taught and you carry them with you and then you teach them to your children, but that doesn’t mean that you have to carry everything. 59 Hertha Dawn Wong describes this stance, in a study of Indigenous autobiography, as a “communal ‘I’”: Sending My Heart Back Across the Years: Tradition and Innovation in Native American Autobiography (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 23. 60 See, for example, a recent study of Ga’axsta’las, or Jane Constance Cook, a Kwakwaka’wakw Anglican woman who likewise removed herself (and, by extension, many of her relatives) from the potlatch system. Her descendants (who include a narrator in this project, Chris Cook Jr.) initiated this collaborative study in order to offer a more nuanced portrait of Ga’axsta’las than that circulated in scholarly literature and community discourse alike. Robertson with the Kwagu'ł Gixsam Clan, Standing Up with Ga’axsta’las. 61 On the role of the potlatch in Tlingit identity- and place-making see Thomas Thornton, “Ritual as Emplacement: The Potlatch/ Ku.éex’,” in Being and Place Among the Tlingit (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2008), 173- 188. 108 The good things that Shales invoked in the context of her interviews with me included values of listening and observation, respect for family, work for peace, and the power of dreams and prayer.62 Where some narrators like Shales grew up in close physical connection with their tribal communities, others were raised off reservation, or moved between urban and reservation environments. Siblings Philip Lane Jr. and Deloria Bighorn, for example, grew up geographically distant, yet culturally connected with their Yankton Sioux and Chickasaw heritage. Their parents met in the intertribal environment of Haskell Indian Boarding School in Lawrence, Kansas, an institution also attended by one of Tyler’s sisters. Lane himself was born there in 1944; his mother worked at the school while his father served in the navy during the Second World War. Schools like Haskell often served to cultivate shared Indigenous consciousness and community, a phenomenon upon which Lane himself reflected.63 “I’m sure,” he recalled: that as a young child I was given lots of love and nourishment by the different Native students who were there from all over the country. And I’ve got pictures at a young age of myself there at Haskell, I was a little tiny boy, probably two years old – one and a half, two years old – standing, holding onto the hand of, I remember, somebody had bells coming down, so he was a powwow dancer there. So that part of myself, and identity, goes way down deep there.64 62 Shales, interview; Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 30 July 2008. For broader discussion of Tlingit history and culture see Nora Marks Dauenhauer and Richard Dauenhauer, eds., Haa Shuká, Our Ancestors: Tlingit Oral Narratives (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1987) and Haa Kusteeyí, Our Culture: Tlingit Life Stories (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994). 63 See, for example, Joane Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal: Red Power and the Resurgence of Identity and Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 12-13, 116; J.R. Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision: A History of Native Residential Schools (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996), 417, 430; Brenda Child, Boarding School Seasons: American Indian Families, 1900-1940 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 2, 4. Haskell still exists and is now Haskell Indian Nations University: accessed online 12 March 2013, http://www.haskell.edu/about.html. 64 Lane, interview. 109 It was, in part, owing to a close relationship that their father forged with a Umatilla friend at Haskell that the family eventually settled in the Northwest, in the southeastern Washington town of Walla Walla, after a time living in the Canal Zone in Panama.65 Through a strong family tradition of storytelling, especially on their father’s Dakota side, Lane and Bighorn grew up with a clear connection to their ancestors and ancestry. Like Shales’s, their heritage included a long history of hereditary and Christian leadership; their great- grandfather, Tipi Sapa (Black Lodge), or Philip J. Deloria, was a Yankton Sioux chief and Episcopalian minister.66 Their father, Philip Lane Sr., lived with Tipi Sapa for a time as a child and often shared stories from this formative period with his own children. Like many narrators, Lane and Bighorn had to wrestle with what Lane, drawing on current discourse, described as the intergenerational impacts of colonialism. Having spent considerable parts of their youth in boarding schools, Lane and Bighorn’s mother and father struggled to parent their own children. Both siblings, though, noted the cultural training that their parents and other relatives like their maternal grandmother, who lived with them for significant periods of time during their youth, provided. Reflecting back on the effort that his father took to provide him with a spiritual education, which included Christianity, Lane also acknowledged that his father sheltered him somewhat from difficult everyday life conditions found in many reservation communities (conditions, including violence and poverty, that other narrators noted).67 As a result, Lane observed, “I was raised with this very altruistic, almost unreal, viewpoint of Indians, of Dakotas.” 65 Lane, interview; Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008. The family lived in Panama before Deloria was born; reflecting on his time there, Lane noted the influence of his two babysitters, one a young Jamaican woman and the other Indigenous. 66 For context on Tipi Sapa see accounts by his grandson, Vine Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit: A Portrait of the Dakota Sioux (Santa Fe: Clear Light, 1999) and his great-grandson and namesake, Philip J. Deloria, “Vine V. Deloria Sr.: Dakota,” in R. David Edmunds, ed., The New Warriors: Native American Leaders Since 1900 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 80-82. 67 Beverley Knowlton, interview with the author, between Calgary and Sylvan Lake, Alberta, 26 April 2008; Lorintha Umtuch, interview with the author, Toppenish, Washington, 21 June 2008; Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 7 July 2008. 110 If his understanding of Dakotas was idealistic, Lane and his family also had more immediate relationships with Indigenous people in the Northwest. This included local communities in nearby Pendleton, Oregon as well as intertribal populations in larger urban centers like Seattle.68 While intertribal spiritual practice would come, by the 1970s, to draw heavily on Plains Indigenous culture for inspiration, Deloria Bighorn observed there were “no ceremonies of our culture out in the Northwest” as she was growing up in the 1950s and 60s. “Of course now,” she continued, “ten years after that, fifteen years after that, everything was portable to everywhere, but not in my day.” Bighorn took part, in her youth, in available area events like powwow and recalled her keen interest, as a child, in frequent Lakota language lessons from her father. Although she noted that, “because I wasn’t raised at home, I don’t have such a belonging feeling,” she simultaneously described growing up “secure in who I was.” As Bighorn added in another context, “I feel I was raised, for me, and my circumstances, in the most traditional way. And in a funny sense, the most traditional contemporary way.”69 Bighorn contrasted this “traditional contemporary” upbringing directly with that of a Lakota narrator, her husband, Jacob Bighorn. Jacob, she noted, had “never worn a ribbon shirt until we got married. He was thirty-two years old.”70 A self-described “full blood,” Bighorn was raised by his grandparents on the Fort Peck Reservation in Montana and was not active in Lakota culture growing up. While this disconnect may have stemmed in part from the legacies of colonial mapping, which had isolated a pocket of Lakota people at Fort Peck, a reservation shared with Assiniboine people, it also had much to do with the conscious survival strategy that 68 Lane, interview; Deloria Bighorn, interview. 69 Deloria Bighorn, interview. For a study that illuminates not just the persistence, but the flourishing, of tradition in an off-reservation context see Andrew H. Fisher, Shadow Tribe: The Making of Columbia River Indian Identity (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010). 70 Deloria Bighorn, interview. 111 Bighorn’s Presbyterian grandparents adopted in the face of intense assimilation pressures.71 As Bighorn shared: my grandparents were aware that the language and the customs were underground. They knew they were there, but in my grandparents’ case, they chose to go public with their Christian practice, their Christian traditions, and put away whatever they knew of Indian tradition. Which short-circuited my life when they chose not to teach me any language or customs or whatever, assimilated me basically into the local public school. Which was a reaction because they didn’t want the government to force me to go to a residential school, such as they had. So they did whatever was necessary to make sure all of their grandchildren were public school people right there in the community.72 This choice, coupled with related racism that Bighorn and his relatives regularly encountered, contributed to a lengthy and difficult journey of coming, in Bighorn’s description, “to understand and appreciate my Indianness.”73 Many participants in this project were born in the 1940s and 1950s and were, in the case of narrators from the United States (where boarding schools began closing their doors decades earlier than they did in Canada) of the first generation in their families not to attend boarding schools.74 Lorintha Umtuch, for example, grew up on the Yakama Reservation in south-central Washington, where she participated in a wide range of spiritual practices including Washat services, Shaker Church meetings, and a number of other Christian denominational observances. (Speaking to this flexibility, she observed: “Indian people are highly tolerant of religion and it doesn’t faze us to go from one to another and hear this and do that. It just ... the Indians are very 71 David Reed Miller, Joseph R. McGeshick, Dennis J. Smith, James Shanley, and Caleb Shields, The History of the Assiniboine and Sioux Tribes of the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, 1800-2000 (Helena: Fort Peck Community College and Montana Historical Society Press, 2008). For a study of identity on another shared reservation in Montana (Fort Belknap, home to Gros Ventre and Assiniboine peoples) see Loretta Fowler, Shared Symbols, Contested Meanings: Gros Ventre Culture and History, 1778-1984 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1987). 72 Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 7 July 2008. 73 Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 11 Aug 2004. 74 The 1928 Meriam Report proved a significant catalyst for this shift and Bureau of Indian Affairs commissioner John Collier continued to press the mandate to close schools over the course of his 1933-1945 term. Child, Boarding School Seasons, 40. 112 tolerant of that.”)75 While connected with local cultural practice, Umtuch did not learn the Yakama language as a child. As she explained: my parents were both proficient in the language but when they were growing up they were punished for speaking Yakama, they were punished for having hair, long hair in braids, they were punished for wearing Indian “stuff,” they were punished for that. And if they spoke their language, the missionaries would wash their mouths out with soap, in those days it was lye soap. So they didn’t teach me … they didn’t teach us kids Yakama because they didn’t want us to suffer the same way they suffered. So that was their kindness to us but at the same time we didn’t grow up knowing Yakama that well because they didn’t want us to suffer the same way they suffered … the way they were penalized for being Yakama and being cultural. You know, so that resentment is still there but I’m trying to let it go.76 This recognition of kindness, coupled with mourning for cultural loss, is a perspective itself informed by Baha’i observance and the personal healing that it could promote. Several narrators did attend residential schools in Canada. Over the past thirty years in this country, a series of prominent personal testimonies, court cases, apologies, and legal settlements has brought this formerly shrouded subject into more open discussion.77 This is readily apparent in the frequency with which narrators – both survivors, to engage contemporary discourse, and those who felt the school’s intergenerational effects – discussed these institutions in their interviews. Responding, perhaps, to strong public and media fixation on histories of residential school violence and abuse and articulating, like Umtuch, an understanding (and 75 The Washat ceremonial complex and Shaker Church are themselves combinatory movements that include Christian influences and emerged in the context of nineteenth-century colonial expansion in the Plateau region and Puget Sound, respectively; the former movement was strongly influenced by the Wanapum prophet Smohalla and the latter by the Squaxin leader John Slocum. See Robert H. Ruby and John A. Brown, Dreamer-Prophets of the Columbia Plateau: Smohalla and Skolaskin (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1989) and John Slocum and the Indian Shaker Church (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1996). 76 Umtuch, interview. 77 On this context and for various perspectives on residential schools and reconciliation in Canada see the Aboriginal Healing Foundation research series: Marlene Brant Castellano, Linda Archibald, and Mike DeGagné, eds. From Truth to Reconciliation: Transforming the Legacy of Residential Schools (Ottawa: Aboriginal Healing Foundation, 2008); Gregory Younging, Jonathan Dewar, and Mike DeGagné, eds. Response, Responsibility, and Renewal: Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Journey (Ottawa: Aboriginal Healing Foundation, 2009); Ashok Mather, Jonathan Dewar, and Mike DeGagné, eds. Cultivating Canada: Reconciliation Through the Lens of Diversity (Ottawa: Aboriginal Healing Foundation, 2011). These publications are available online, accessed 30 Jan 2012, http://www.ahf.ca/publications/research-series. 113 Baha’i-inflected) perspective, narrator Eleanora McDermott noted of her own experience that, “it wasn’t all bad.”78 Although McDermott attended Anglican schools not too geographically distant from her natal Peigan community, her younger sister, Beverley Knowlton, observed in her own interview that “Eleanora was gone quite a bit from our home.”79 Unlike her older siblings, Knowlton herself did not attend residential school. She explained that she and Eleanora’s father, Peigan councilor Samson Knowlton, was among those who worked to dismantle these institutions and he and his wife, Rose, risked imprisonment in order to keep their youngest out of the system.80 Another Blackfoot narrator, Allison Healy, also placed significant emphasis on her residential school experience in describing her background. Born to a Siksika mother and Kainai father in the “Indian hospital” on the Siksika Reserve in southern Alberta in 1942, Healy was enrolled at the Catholic Crowfoot Indian Residential School in Cluny at the age of five.81 With the exception of some weekend and summer trips home, important periods of cultural connection when Healy and her siblings spent time, for example, with relatives at the Sun Dance at Kainai, she remained at Crowfoot for the next eleven years.82 Healy recalled an environment of intense surveillance and repetitious religious instruction measured, in her telling, by a haunting sensory soundtrack of bells and claps. Students, she explained, found ways to convey the emotions they were strictly instructed to suppress – “we speak,” for example, “with our eyes” – and were 78 McDermott, interview. On the silencing of “positive” boarding school histories see Scott Richard Lyons, X- Marks: Native Signatures of Assent (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 22-23. For reflections on the possibilities and limitations of the resonant “Stolen Generations” narrative in Australia see Bain Attwood, “In the Age of Testimony: The Stolen Generations Narrative, ‘Distance,’ and Public History,” Public Culture 20, no.1 (2008): 75-95. 79 McDermott, interview; Knowlton, interview. 80 Knowlton, interview. 81 On the hospital at Siksika see Maureen Lux, “We Demand Unconditional Surrender: Making and Unmaking the Blackfoot Hospital, 1890s to 1950s,” Social History of Medicine 25, no.3 (Aug 2012): 665-684. 82 For context on the Sun Dance, including criminalization under the Indian Act, see Katherine Pettipas, Severing the Ties That Bind: Government Repression of Indigenous Religious Ceremonies on the Prairies (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1994), 3, 53-54, 56-61, 97-98, 135-137, 183-186. 114 attuned to what Healy described as the hypocrisy of nuns who demanded their Blackfoot charges speak English while they conversed amongst themselves in French.83 This environment marked Healy indelibly and contributed to a severely circumscribed vision of herself and her world. She spoke to this in rich detail in each of our two interviews together. As she shared in the second: being in a residential school I felt cut away from who I am, like I was really, what you’d say, assimilated into another culture. And so I felt like I wasn’t raised to be who I really am. I had to be somebody else and so I lost my true identity as an Indian person. And then especially hearing that everything about our culture was paganism. And our ceremonies were paganism and I never did hear anything good about being an Indian. Even our language, our ways. And so I just lived in fear because we were mostly taught about sin. If you do this, you’ll be punished. It’s always, if you don’t go this way you’ll be punished. So I felt very conditioned to do these things and then when I left the boarding school, I didn’t know how to live out there. I used to think of the boarding school as a cycle, that I could never leave that cycle. It was just a continuous world, it was a world for me that when I reached Grade 12, I would start all over again this cycle. It will just be continuous. I never looked beyond. I never knew about a future. Even when I go home, onto the reserve, I could never believe that I would ever leave that environment. I just couldn’t think beyond from the state I was in at the time.84 Healy did leave Crowfoot in the eleventh grade, but the insecurity instilled in this institution accompanied her to Red Deer, where she completed high school, then Edmonton, where she studied nursing. As she put it, “after I left the boarding school I just did everything wrong because I didn’t know how to live out there. I had no more guidance from this residential school. I was on my own.”85 Her education and work did bring her into contact with “other different cultures of Indigenous people,” yet she also recalled being racialized as Asian.86 Healy recalled that the first time that she was taken for Chinese by fellow students in Red Deer, she was upset. But, she explained, “I guess it stuck in my head that, after I left I went into the big city of 83 Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 27 March 2008. 84 Allison Healy, interview with the author, North Vancouver, British Columbia, 16 Jan 2009. 85 Healy, interview, 16 Jan 2009. 86 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. Narrator Nedra Greenaway, who is of Métis and Chinese heritage, likewise encountered racism growing up in southern Alberta. Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008. 115 Edmonton, so just to be accepted, I would really dress up and maybe even if people think that I’m Chinese they can think that.”87 “I used to be ashamed,” she elaborated elsewhere, “after coming out of the boarding school. I was ashamed of my identity. Being a Native person. Some people thought I was Chinese and I’d go for that. Just to fit in.”88 This quest to fit in was one shared by a number of narrators, but took different form based, again, on diverse backgrounds. Where Healy was racialized explicitly as an “Indian” from her start, others of mixed descent, who were not raised in Indigenous communities, shared stories of disconnect from their Indigenous heritage during their youth. For Linda Covey, for example, who was born in New Mexico to a mother of Cherokee, German, and English descent and a father of Cherokee, Southern Cheyenne, and French heritage, “Indianness” was a subject of family silence and tension and, as a result, something that she and her brothers experienced, as children, as a profound personal loss. Her maternal grandfather’s mother, Covey explained, was a “full-blood Cherokee,” but her grandfather, who married into a wealthy English family in New Mexico, hid this aspect of his heritage and reacted strongly when his daughter, Covey’s mother, eloped with an “Indian migrant worker” from Oklahoma. Both sides of the family were angry and expressed their censure by refusing contact with her two older siblings: “the brother that looked more like the Indian side,” Covey explained, “the Indian side wouldn’t have anything to do with, and the brother who looked more like the non-Indian side, that side wouldn’t have anything to do with.” Covey never met her father, who left near the time of her birth, but she and her brothers heard stories “of our Indian grandmother” from their mother: “Her Indian remedies, her birth-control that didn’t work, the braid down her back, the long braid, and she was very, very proud of her heritage.” “So we always knew that,” Covey continued, “and we knew that she 87 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 88 Healy, interview, 16 Jan 2009. 116 had been given land in Oklahoma, but that she didn’t take it.” Speaking elsewhere to the Dawes Act, that contested instrument of Indianness, Covey noted that her grandmother is listed on the rolls in Oklahoma.89 Despite this legal link and family story, however, “Indianness” was a more an absence and “source of pain” for Covey and her siblings growing up. Covey’s sense of liminality was amplified when, after her parents divorced, her mother served as a missionary for the fundamentalist Moody Bible Institute in Chicago and moved her children to the Ozarks in Missouri, where she was stationed.90 The family, Covey recalled, had “a very, very hard time.” Covey and her brothers faced prejudice on account of their physical appearance and were, likewise, set apart by local genealogical structures. As Covey explained, “in that area of the country, if you didn’t have relatives two or three generations back, the hill country people, you just didn’t fit in. A person didn’t fit in.”91 Tacking back to the topic of Indianness, she continued: So I guess in growing up there was always this split within us. There was this side of us that knew that we were part Indian and that we’d lost our father and that side of our family over that issue, it made it very real to us, it wasn’t something that was distant or happened to somebody else, it didn’t have anything to do with who lived on the reservation or who didn’t, it was just a fact of our childhood, that we lost, because of that.92 89 Linda Covey, interview with the author, Evanston, Illinois, 10 June 2008. Another self-described “mixed-blood” narrator, Tina Rainwater Kahn, of Cherokee, Osage, and Hungarian heritage, was conversely raised off reservation with a strong sense of Indigenous self, but noted that her family, at her Cherokee great-grandfather’s insistence, was never registered “on the rolls.” Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009. There is a rich literature that considers the complex and contested construction of race and identity among the Cherokee. See, for example: Tiya Miles, Ties that Bind: The Story of an Afro-Cherokee Family in Slavery and Freedom (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Claudio Saunt, Black, White, and Indian: Race and the Unmaking of an American Family (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005); Circe Sturm, Blood Politics: Race, Culture, and Identity in the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002) and Becoming Indian: The Struggle Over Cherokee Identity in the Twenty-First Century (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2010). 90 On the Moody Bible Institute, established in Chicago in 1886 (initially as the Chicago Evangelization Society) see Randall Herbert Balmer, The Encyclopedia of Evangelicalism (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 389. 91 Covey, interview. For context on the Ozarks see Brooks Blevins, Hill Folks: A History of Arkansas Ozarkers and Their Image (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002); W.K. McNeil, Ozark Country (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1995). 92 Covey, interview. 117 This palpable personal loss was something that Covey came to address in her adult years and by way of her Baha’i observance as well. In this she was not alone. Indeed, for all their difference, the biographies just sketched also share a compelling family resemblance. They illustrate, in an intimate immediate way, the flexible and fractious genealogy of “Indianness” and hint, further, at the diverse Christian heritage that most participants in this project also share. Narrators also share more direct interconnections, manifested in the networks that led me to them. I was first introduced to Linda Covey, for example, by way of an email discussion about Indigenous Baha’i research, the same context in which I met another narrator, Donald Addison. Of Choctaw and White background, Addison was born and still resides in Oregon and from there connected me with another two narrators in the Pacific Northwest: Lorintha Umtuch and Jane Grover. Of Abenaki and White heritage from New England, Grover lived on Vancouver Island before moving to McMinnville, Oregon, where I interviewed her, and worked at Maxwell International Baha’i School in Duncan with Jacob and Deloria Bighorn. Deloria Bighorn, for her part, put me in touch with Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, a woman of Tlingit, Tsimshian, and Filipino heritage raised on Bainbridge Island, across from downtown Seattle, and living at the time of our interviews in Juneau, Alaska. Gubatayao-Hagen, in turn, made mention in her interview of Klara Tyler, a close friend of her mother’s, all three of whom, in addition to another narrator, Tyler’s son Scott, spent time pioneering on the Nez Perce Reservation in Idaho. Tyler had been visiting with the Bighorns in Duncan, British Columbia just a week before my interview with them there. I could continue, but even this swift sketch suggests how narrators are tied together, in historical time and today. These intersections are not an incidental product of my own intervention, but instead indicative of Indigenous Baha’i interactions that I consider in coming chapters. 118 Given the diverse backgrounds from which participants in this project come, it is not surprising that they encountered the Baha’i Faith in a variety of different ways. Official Baha’i rhetoric stressed the importance of teaching on reserves and reservations and a number of participants were introduced to the religion by non-Indigenous pioneers in this context. Indigenous adherents were themselves encouraged to swiftly take up the teaching task following their declarations and other participants “found the Faith,” to use a common Baha’i catchphrase, through family members or other Indigenous Baha’is. Others still encountered the religion outside the Indigenous teaching context in various small town and urban environments. All narrators declared during the second half of the twentieth century. The first did so in 1956 and the last in 1995; the majority (16 of 25 narrators) became Baha’is during the mid-to-late 1960s and 1970s. Most of these were in their twenties and thirties when they declared and are, as such, “second generation” Indigenous Baha’is. While this designation is largely figurative (meant to distinguish these narrators from “first generation” Indigenous adherents like Dorothy Maquabeak Francis), for some it is more literal: a few narrators grew up in Baha’i homes while several others had parents who declared before them. Narratives and Narrators That narrators would come to share identification as Indigenous Baha’is is hardly obvious from the background biographies detailed here. In my early work with these oral histories, I strove to establish a set pattern around the sort of background that led people to become Baha’is. These narratives, however, defy efforts to establish any typology of “the” Indigenous Baha’i and what at first appeared an impediment in the end became the argument: there was no single background that primed people to declare as Baha’is. Assembled with a particular eye to issues of “Indianness,” the portraits in this chapter emphasize the remarkably broad range of Indigenous 119 experiences that participants brought to their encounters with the Baha’i Faith, simultaneously grounding the genealogies traced in the previous chapter and hinting at those forged through subsequent Baha’i declaration. Composed from stories that narrators shared in the context of life story interviews, these biographies mark my own interpretation. I too, readers should recall throughout, am a narrator. This study is not a collaborative one, but strives very much to be a respectful contribution that contributes to academic and Baha’i community dialogue alike. As this chapter has illustrated, this project delves into sensitive personal territory and I do not take the responsibility of working with these histories, and those to whom they belong, lightly.93 Such intimate detail, though, was among that which narrators chose to share by way of orienting context in narrating their life stories of becoming Indigenous Baha’is. And as coming chapters elaborate, declaration and deepening were empowering processes through which narrators wrestled with colonialism, negotiated family history, and formulated new visions of relationship altogether. 93 Indeed, am I aware of concerns expressed by some in the Indigenous Baha’i community in the Yukon, specifically, concerning previous research that has emphasized social dynamics and “personal and family circumstances” over storytelling. Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 57 (fn 9). 120 Chapter 4: Choosing the Faith “Well, it’s kind of a convoluted story, but I was on this path of search.”1 This comment, offered by a narrator in opening response to a question I posed concerning his experience of becoming Baha’i, echoes a common refrain articulated by many participants in this project. This statement not only signals the complexity of the conversion process, but also a significant shared theme of “seeking.” Baha’is designate those who express an interest in their religion “seekers” and in drawing on this discourse of search in their interviews with me, narrators expressed their current affiliation as Baha’is right in the context of the telling. This idiom of seeking ties, further, to the principle of the “independent investigation of truth” and what many narrators described as a rational process of religious inquiry. Reminiscent of Abdu’l-Baha’s alignment of science and religion (“To oppose reason in the name of religion,” as the Baha’i scholar Peter Smith explains of this stance, “is superstition”), seekers are encouraged to engage directly with the Baha’i teachings and writings, determining of their own volition whether and why to declare.2 Like the language of seeking, the discourse of choice and rationality that narrators deployed articulates their current Baha’i vocabulary and identification. Yet theirs were not solely retrospective reconstructions. Narrators exercised agency and rationality through the historical act and process of declaration as well. The issue of agency has long occupied scholars of conversion and colonialism alike. As the historian Bruce Hindmarsh has explained, “The central image and etymological root of the 1 Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008. 2 Peter Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 114. For statements from Abdu’l-Baha on the unity of science and religion, the independent investigation of truth, and the Baha’i Faith as rational religion see, for example, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, The Promulgation of Universal Peace (Wilmette: IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1982), 107, 128, 138, 175-176, 181, 231, 290, 348-349, 374, 394, 440, accessed online 14 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/PUP/. 121 word ‘conversion’ is ‘turning’, and its semantic field is wide.”3 In Christian theological terms, this turning evokes a dramatic event of rupture as the individual convert makes “a supreme act of independent choice” to turn to God.4 In many historical contexts of Christian religious encounter in Indigenous North America and elsewhere, such turning was further tied to colonial modernities.5 In British Columbia, specifically, scholars like the historian Robin Fisher once counted the arrival of missionaries in the mid-to-late nineteenth-century as a key measure of a shift from “non-directed” to “directed” cultural change (i.e. from Indigenous agency to settler control).6 As the historian Susan Neylan has observed in relation to Indigenous religious exchange in the province, however, binaries of internal/external and in/voluntary conversion are unsatisfying and run the alternate risk of downplaying or overstating the uneven power dynamics that, by definition, inhere in spiritual contact zones.7 The academic pursuit of agency, according 3 D. Bruce Hindmarsh, The Evangelical Conversion Narrative: Spiritual Autobiography in Early Modern England (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 11. 4 Elizabeth Elbourne, “Christian Soldiers, Christian Allies: Coercion and Conversion in Southern Africa and Northeastern America at the Turn of the Nineteenth Century,” in David Lindenfeld and Miles Richardson, eds., Beyond Conversion and Syncretism: Indigenous Encounters with Missionary Christianity, 1800-2000 (New York: Berghahn, 2012), 81; Timothy J. Steigenga and Edward L. Cleary, “Understanding Religious Conversion in the Americas,” in Timothy J. Steigenga and Edward L. Cleary, eds., Conversion of a Continent: Contemporary Religious Change in Latin America (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2008), 7: Webb Keane, Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Christian Encounter (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 149. 5 See, for example, the historian Adele Perry’s discussion of missionary transmission of metropolitan models of womanhood in British Columbia in: “Metropolitan Knowledge, Colonial Practice, and Indigenous Womanhood: Missions in Nineteenth-Century British Columbia,” in Contact Zones: Aboriginal and Settler Women in Canada's Colonial Past, ed. Myra Rutherdale and Katie Pickles (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 109-130. For two collections that consider the co-production of Christianity and modernity more broadly see: Robert W. Hefner, ed., Conversion to Christianity: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on a Great Transformation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), including Hefner’s introduction, “World Building and the Rationality of Conversion,” 3-46; Peter van der Veer, ed., Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christian Modernities (New York: Routledge, 1996). 6 Robin Fisher, Contact and Conflict: Indian-European Relations in British Columbia, 1774-1890 Second Edition (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1992 [1977]), 47, 119-145. The language of “directed” and “non-directed cultural change” that Fisher engages is the anthropologist Ralph Linton’s. 7 Susan Neylan, The Heavens are Changing: Nineteenth Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003), 21-23. Uneven relations of power, recall, are a constitutive feature of Mary Louise Pratt’s definition of the contact zone: Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), 6-7. Though Neylan’s book insightfully illustrates active Tsimshian interpretations and expressions of Christianity, it also downplays the context of colonialism by, for example, relegating discussion of residential schools to a postscript. Writing of the same Northwest Coast context as Neylan, 122 to the anthropologists Talal Asad and Webb Keane, is an artifact and expression of modernity itself (one tacitly informed, Keane adds, by “the humanist assumption that self transformation is not only a central fact of history but also a good that exceeds local systems of value.”)8 As Asad has observed in a trenchant commentary on conversion: “Too often the assumptions we bring with us when talking about the conversion of people in another epoch or society are the ideological assumptions in and about our modern condition. Conversion is regarded by moderns as an ‘irrational’ event or process, but resort to the idea of agency renders it ‘rational’ and ‘freely chosen.’ Everyone has agency; everyone is responsible for the life he or she leads.”9 Yet in the case of the declaration stories considered here, the language of choice and rationality comes directly from narrators themselves, calling for attention both to the process and idiom of declaration and the particular historical contexts in which participants became Baha’is. As we saw in the last chapter, there was no single or set pathway towards becoming an Indigenous Baha’i. To further flesh out this diversity, I focus here on two pairs of declaration stories that richly illuminate the varied process of “choosing the Faith.” Joyce Shales, Nedra Greenaway, Deloria Bighorn, and Allison Healy became Baha’is in Alaska, British Columbia, Washington, and Alberta, respectively, and together their declaration stories demonstrate the wide ways through which narrators first connected with the Baha’i religion: through Indigenous kith and kin, non-Indigenous teachers and pioneers, on reserve and off. For these four women, who became Baha’is between 1964 and 1972, the Baha’i Faith was a “rational religion” that “made sense” in light of their diverse histories, including experiences of colonialism. As the anthropologist Carolyn Sawin has noted in the context of the Indigenous Baha’i community in historian Clarence Bolt put the question of agency bluntly in the title of his 1983 article: “The Conversion of the Port Simpson Tsimshian: Indian Control or Missionary Manipulation?” BC Studies 57 (Spring 1983): 38-56. 8 Keane, Christian Moderns, 3; Talal Asad, “Comments on Conversion,” in van der Veer, ed., Conversion to Modernities, 263-274. 9 Asad, “Comments on Conversion,” 272. 123 the Yukon, this discourse of rationality seems to conjure the specter of deprivation theses which frame conversion as a turning away from irrational and ineffectual lifeways.10 There was, to be sure, at times a utilitarian draw to declaration; in the face of colonial-induced issues of addiction, for example, the Baha’i law prohibiting the use of drugs and alcohol offered an effective “technique for living.”11 Rather than a turning, however, declaration marked instead a process of becoming. Connecting with core Baha’i principles of progressive revelation and unity in diversity, combined with the conduct of adherents, the four subjects of this chapter generated both an empowered sense of religious belonging and strengthened self-identification as Indigenous as well. These stories, again, illuminate the diverse form that such identification could take. Nedra Greenaway and Allison Healy, for example, spoke explicitly of coming to cultivate an entirely new sense of Indigeneity through becoming Baha’i, the former as a woman of Métis and Chinese heritage and the latter as Blackfoot. Joyce Shales and Deloria Bighorn, conversely, reflected more implicitly on a process of strengthening existing identifications as Tlingit and Yankton Sioux and Chickasaw, respectively. 10 Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000), 141. Sawin posits, in response to this reading of rationality, that her Tlingit and Tagish participants were instead engaging a “pre-existing cultural practice of examining and evaluating new ideas each time they are introduced.” For analysis of agency and empowerment through an overdrawn model of “possessive individualism” in the context of Baha’i declaration on the island of New Ireland, Papua New Guinea, see Graeme Were, “Fashioning Belief: The Case of the Baha’i Faith in Northern New Ireland,” Anthropological Forum 17, no.3 (Nov 2007): 239-253. 11 “Techniques for living” is philosopher Jacob Needleman’s term, applied by Lewis R. Rambo in Understanding Religious Conversion (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993), 84. The anthropologist Richard Fox Young discusses “utilitarian” versus “intellectual” approaches to conversion and calls, with fellow anthropologist Joel Robbins, for “détente” between these poles in: “Horton’s ‘Intellectualist’ Theory of Conversion, Reflected on by a South Asianist,” in Lindenfeld and Richardson, eds., Beyond Conversion and Syncretism, 120-121. Fox Young makes this call in the context of a reevaluation of the anthropologist Robin Horton’s influential “intellectualist” formulation of conversion. Horton framed conversion as a process of “explanation, prediction, and control” through which small-scale African societies negotiated “micro-” and “macrocosm.” As Fox Young notes, critiques of Horton’s theory “are legion”; though reductionist on several registers, however, Horton’s analysis was also “remarkably prescient” in “reinvest[ing] African traditional religionists with an agency all their own.” Fox Young, “Horton’s ‘Intellectualist’ Theory of Conversion,” 119. 124 Together, their stories suggest that, as the literary critic Gauri Viswanathan has argued of conversion in the very different context of nineteenth-century British imperialism, we might approach declaration as “a mode of asserting difference,” one that “reclaims religious belief from the realm of intuitive (nonrational) action to the realm of conscious knowing and relational activity.”12 At the same time, the tales of “rational religion” that I consider here include reflections on spiritual inspirations and interpretations as well. And the spiritual declaration stories that I in turn probe in the next chapter contain “rational” elements too. These distinctions, then, are not total (indeed, as the historian Keith Carlson has observed in a discussion of Coast Salish epistemology, “what constitutes practical and rational behavior is culturally and temporally situational”).13 Further, it is important to recognize that those who narrated their declarations through the idiom of choice and rationality in their interviews with me might well have chosen, in another context, to stress more spiritual elements or inspirations (and visa versa for those who told more spiritual declaration stories). Indeed, one narrator effectively said as much to me, noting as we chatted post-interview that there is, “of course,” another whole spiritual dimension to her declaration that she did not delve into in detail. This is a strong reminder of the intersubjective and situational nature of the life story interview and the control that narrators exercised as they chose what to share with me. The decision to focus this chapter on four female participants was not a predetermined one on my part, but rather something that emerged organically through shared narrative and historical threads. And as the next chapter, which focuses on three men, bears out, women were not the only narrators to describe experiences of “seeking” or “rational” interpretation. That it 12 Gauri Viswanathan, Outside the Fold: Conversion, Modernity, and Belief (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 42, 176. 13 Keith Carlson, “Rethinking Dialogue and History: The King’s Promise and the 1906 Aboriginal Delegation to London,” Native Studies Review 16, no.2 (2005), 5. 125 was women, however, who shared particularly composed stories of choice and rationality suggests a certain gendered dynamic at play. Narrators, overall, did not share their stories in an expressly gendered key. This may well have been a function of my interview framing; aware of my interest in their experiences specifically as Indigenous Baha’is, it is possible that participants privileged this thread over others. When I asked Nedra Greenaway, for example, whether she connected with the Baha’i teaching of the equality of women and men, she returned to speak about her feminist stance at the time that she became a Baha’i in the mid-1960s, something she had not previously broached.14 Though they did not articulate it explicitly, these women may well have been speaking back to a longstanding Western characterization of women, as well as Indigenous people, as “spiritual,” not “rational,” actors.15 Conversely, or perhaps in addition, they may have been engaging a common characterization of Indigenous women as “keepers of tradition.” As the Cree-Métis historian Kim Anderson observes, this image, and its correlate of Indigenous women as “mothers of the nation,” connects with Indigenous women’s traditional roles and responsibilities, yet can also marginalize women and confine them to “a role that casts them as inherently static and relegates them to the backburners of political development.”16 14 Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 15 August 2008. Conversely, when I put the same question to Joyce Shales she responded in relation to concepts of gender complementarity in Tlingit society and stories of women’s power with which she was raised. “It wasn’t an issue, really, I don’t think,” she shared. “Not like with Western women, because we could see that men and women had roles.” Invoking a position articulated, then and now, in other quarters of Indigenous North America as well, she added, “The discrimination against us [as Indigenous people] was so strong that that discrimination overpowered any other worry about whether you were male or female.” Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 30 July 2008. The balance between women’s and Indigenous issues remains a point of tension for Indigenous feminists (and others who reject the term). See Shari M. Huhndorf and Cheryl Suzack, “Indigenous Feminism: Theorizing the Issues,” in Cheryl Suzack, Shari M. Huhndorf, Jeanne Perreault, and Jean Barman, eds., Indigenous Women and Feminism: Politics, Activism, Culture (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010), 1-20. 15 On the “feminization of piety,” stemming back to the late eighteenth century, see Callum Brown, The Death of Christian Britain: Understanding Secularization, 1800-2000 Second Edition (New York: Routledge, 2009), esp. Chapter 4. For discussion of what the historian Naomi Lloyd describes as “ahistorical Victorian notions of the ‘secular man’ and ‘spiritual woman’” see “Evangelicalism and the Making of Same-Sex Desire: The Life and Writings of Constance Maynard (1849-1935),” (PhD thesis, University of British Columbia, 2011), 95; Joy Dixon, Divine Feminine: Theosophy and Feminism in England (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 18-19. 16 Kim Anderson, “Affirmations of an Indigenous Feminist,” in Suzack et al., Indigenous Women and Feminism, 86- 88 (quote on 87). 126 Narrators may have taken this “keeper of tradition” characterization as a given, and thus may not have felt a particular need or compulsion to elaborate on the spiritual elements of their declarations or may, again, have been pushing back on the idea by stressing their own rational agency. Rational Religion: Two Tales The subjects of this chapter, though, like narrators more broadly, come from a wide range of backgrounds and a pair of declaration stories from two participants who both became Baha’is in 1964 helps clarify just how diverse the process of becoming Indigenous and Baha’i could be. While Joyce Shales’ investigation of the Baha’i Faith was shared with family members, and framed in both tribal and Christian terms, Nedra Greenaway’s was, at the start anyway, more personal and political. Both women, however, stressed that they had sought “unity” and “belonging” long before learning of the Baha’i Faith and this desire animated their respective – and, they both emphasized, rational – interactions with the religion when they found it. Joining this religion of mid-nineteenth-century Iranian origin fostered the belonging that these women sought in two ways at once: in a global community of faith and as Indigenous people. I opened my interview with Joyce Shales by asking her to share about her “pre-Baha’i” life. She responded with a statement that echoed through our entire conversation: “Well, it’s really hard to know where to start. Pre-Baha’i. I don’t know if there is a pre-, to tell you the truth. It’s almost like it was always meant to be there, to me, almost like it was a road”; “In a sense,” she added later, “I think it is a path that we’ve always been on.”17 This is, in part, a very Baha’i statement, what the sociologist David Piff, in a discussion of the anthropologist June Wyman’s work, has described as an articulation of “life history as a series of steps that have pushed [a 17 Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 29 July 2008. 127 seeker] towards becoming a member of the religion.”18 Shales, though, did not consciously narrate her history in the aim of fashioning an individual “seeker” identity, if it also achieved this end. Instead, she framed her process of becoming Baha’i as an explicit and shared extension of family history. She proceeded by speaking about her grandfather, hereditary Tlingit leader and Presbyterian, Rudolph Walton.19 Walton was born into the Raven moiety and Kiks.’adi clan of the Sheet’kakwáan, or the “inhabitants of Sitka,” a coastal settlement located on the western shore of Baranof Island in Southeast Alaska, in 1867, the year that Alaska was transferred from Russian to American control.20 This was a time, Shales stressed in her interview, of swift and substantial change for the Tlingit and, from the time of his tenure as an early student at the Presbyterian mission school established in Sitka in 1878, her grandfather carefully and consciously navigated the “stormy seas” of early American colonialism in Southeast Alaska.21 The anthropologist Sergei Kan has drawn has a rather sharp line between what he calls “traditionalist” members of the Russian Orthodox Church (which he describes as accommodating of Tlingit custom) and “progressive” Presbyterians (said to be more closely 18 David Piff, Bahá’í Lore (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 2000), 81. Discussing June Wyman, “Becoming a Baha’i: Discourse and Social Networks in an American Baha’i Community,” (PhD thesis, The Catholic University of America, 1985). 19 Shales explains in her doctoral dissertation on her grandfather that Walton was “known in the Tlingit community as Kaawootk’ or Aak’wtaatseen (Ah-ta-tsene).” Joyce Walton Shales, “Rudolph Walton: One Tlingit Man’s Journey Through Stormy Seas, Sitka, Alaska, 1867-1951” (PhD thesis, University of British Columbia, 1998), 1. 20 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 23. As the historian Paige Raibmon explains, Walton’s “social world was divided into two moieties, Raven and Eagle (also called Crow and Wolf respectively), and further subdivided into clans, and then house groups of ten to forty members. Clan and moiety were matrilineally determined, so Walton belonged to the same moiety, Raven, and clan, Kiks.’adi, as his mother.” Walton was a member of the Tin.aa Hit, or “Copper Shield House.” Paige Raibmon, Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late-Nineteenth-Century Northwest Coast (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), 137, 138. For further detail on Tlingit social structure see Frederica de Laguna, “Tlingit,” in Wayne Suttles, ed. Handbook of North American Indians, Volume 7, Northwest Coast (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1990), 203-228. As the former capital of Russian America, and the site where the Russian flag was lowered and an American one hoisted in its stead, Sitka occupied an especially charged position in this exchange. 21 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. The term “stormy seas” comes from the title of Shales’ dissertation, “Rudolph Walton.” On early Presbyterian education in Sitka see Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 138. 128 aligned with American policies of civilization and assimilation) in late-nineteenth and early- twentieth century Sitka.22 Shales, by contrast, described how her grandfather combined his commitments to his people and the church, noting that he more than once privileged the first over the second.23 In 1903, for example, Walton raised the rancor of Presbyterian authorities when, in an application of Tlingit law, he participated in a peace ceremony performed in order to settle a dispute between the Kiks.’adi and L’uknax.’adi clans.24 Two years later, he was stripped of his position as a church Elder when, after the death of his first wife, he quickly married her clan relative, widow Mary Dick Davis, in what Shales described as “a Tlingit tribal way.”25 At the same time, Walton, a silversmith, shopkeeper, and resident of “the cottages,” populated by graduates of the local Presbyterian mission school, strongly valued Christianity and education and went, Shales stressed, to great lengths to secure access for his family.26 In the face of strict policies and assumptions of authenticity, though, they faced steep barriers. An early-twentieth- century legal bid, for example, to have Davis’ “mixed-blood” children admitted to public school in Sitka was denied on account of the family’s so-called “uncivilized” status.27 22 Although, as Kan documents, many Tlingit people in Sitka turned to the Russian Orthodox Church in the 1880s as a more accommodating alternative to American missions, the traditionalist/progressive dichotomy that he sets up is overdrawn. Sergei Kan, Memory Eternal: Tlingit Culture and Russian Orthodox Christianity through Two Centuries (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1999), esp. Chapters 6 and 7. Kan reiterates this argument in “‘It’s Only Half a Mile from Savagery to Civilization’: American Tourists and the Southeastern Alaska Natives in the Late 19th Century,” in Marie Mauzé, Michael E. Harkin, and Sergei Kan, eds., Coming to Shore: Northwest Coast Ethnology, Traditions, and Visions (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 204. 23 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 24 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 170-174; Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 170-172. On the peace ceremony as Tlingit law see Sidney L. Harring, Crow Dog’s Case: American Indian Sovereignty, Tribal Law, and United States Law in the Nineteenth Century (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 220-221. 25 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. For further detail on this marriage and its accordance with Tlingit custom see Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 151-153; Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 172-173. Though Walton’s first marriage was conducted in the Presbyterian Church, it too followed Tlingit custom in the sense that Walton married across clan lines; his first wife, Daisy Jackson, was Kaagwaantaan. Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 91-92. 26 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. His enthusiasm for Christian education was not shared by his wife, Mary, who left home in protest over Walton’s decision to send his children away to mission school; in another application of Tlingit tradition, Walton composed a love song in order to bring her back. Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 112-114; Raibmon, Authentic Indians, 173. 27 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 175-204; Raibmon, Authentic Indians, Chapter 9. 129 Though formal segregation persisted within the school system until Shales’ generation, nearly if not all of Walton’s living children nevertheless completed high school studies at the Sheldon Jackson mission school in Sitka, something Shales described as “a pretty amazing achievement.”28 Speaking to Walton’s twin commitments to education and Christianity, she observed: I think my grandfather’s aim was to get us out from under the thumb of a mission school life so that we could stand on our own two feet. That with a public school education we could better help ourselves and that with Christianity we had the moral compass to do it. And I think that was his idea.29 Not unlike the school system, the Presbyterian Church maintained separate Tlingit and settler churches in Sitka between the mid-1920s and mid-1930s and many Tlingit people had pulled back from this denomination in the increasingly White town by the time Shales was born in the 1940s.30 She and her cousins, however, all attended Sunday school in their youth and Shales explained that an eschatological message they received there concerning the return of Christ contributed to the path of search that her family was walking at mid-century. This path was prompted, further, by persistent prejudice within the church and elsewhere in Alaska. As she recalled in relation to her father, James Walton: My dad was always searching for the religion that was going to bring us to that next step, because he saw there had to be more. And I knew when I was a kid that he was searching, but I didn’t know what he was searching for. I knew he was searching the churches looking for one that would satisfy him, but I didn’t know what he was searching for and I just knew that he was looking for a religion that would satisfy him. Because there was so much prejudice. He was looking for a place, I guess, where we’d be accepted and where … there was that next step.31 28 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. On segregation in education see Kan, Memory Eternal, 455; Maria Shaa Tláa Williams, “A Brief History of Native Solidarity,” in Maria Shaa Tláa Williams, ed. Alaska Native Reader: History, Culture, Politics. (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 203. 29 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 30 Kan, Memory Eternal, 468, 508. The 1939 census detailed a White population of 1342, over twice that of the Indigenous population of 633, in Sitka. Kan, Memory Eternal, 456. 31 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. Such prejudice was felt acutely in churches in Canada and the “lower-48” as well and likewise prompted searches on the part of other narrators. For example, Lorintha Umtuch, interview with the 130 Legal changes in Alaska at mid-century targeted such prejudice; the 1946 Antidiscrimination Act (passed, in good part, through the efforts of the Alaska Native Brotherhood, of which Rudolph Walton was a charter member), for example, was the first legislation of its kind in the United States.32 And Shales, specifically, observed that she had a strong sense of freedom growing up in coastal Sitka: “We would go swimming, we would climb the mountains, we would pick berries, we would go fishing. So we were just free.” “On the other hand,” she added: when we went to school there was a lot of prejudice from the other kids and from the school teachers and from the community, so being free, we were free when we were in the woods and on the beach and fishing and hunting or … just out on the ocean, digging clams, do you know what I mean? And so the hard times were when you were having to deal with the rest of the world as it was.33 Her father, Shales explained, “had a really hard time dealing with that” and consequently struggled with alcohol addiction, something that placed great strain on the family.34 It was in this context that James Walton encountered the Baha’i Faith in Juneau, a larger coastal city located on the mainland roughly one hundred and fifty kilometers east of Sitka, as the crow (or raven) flies.35 As Shales recalled: he went over to Juneau fishing one time and I think my mother had just about had it with him and somebody helped him over there and they were Baha’is and that’s where he became a Baha’i. Those Baha’i friends helped him and I wish I could remember their names, he told me. An older couple, I believe, fishermen who lived on the dock probably. author, Toppenish, Washington, 21 June 2008; Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interviews with the author, by telephone, 11 July and 19 Aug 2008. 32 Kan, Memory Eternal, 462-464; Williams, “A Brief History of Native Solidarity,” 204-206. Speaking to acute prejudice in the period that the Anti-Discrimination Act was passed, Williams observes that “It was not unusual to see signs in cities such as Juneau, Sitka, Fairbanks, Anchorage, and Nome that stated “No dogs or Indians Allowed.” Williams, “A Brief History of Native Solidarity,” 203. On Walton and the Alaska Native Brotherhood: Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; Shales, “Rudolph Walton,” 156, 206. 33 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 34 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. Walton was not alone in this struggle. For other Indigenous voices see Brian Maracle, Crazywater: Native Voices on Addiction and Recovery (Toronto: Viking, 1993). 35 For a helpful introduction to Alaskan geography, with particular emphasis on Indigenous peoples and territory, see Maria Shaa Tláa Williams, “Alaska and Its People: An Introduction” in Maria Shaa Tláa Williams, ed. Alaska Native Reader: History, Culture, Politics. (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 1-11. 131 They helped him and he became a Baha’i and … started teaching other people about the Baha’i Faith just like that.36 After he declared in 1953, Walton not only brought the Baha’i Faith back to Sitka, where a number of his relatives declared, he eventually carried it to other Indigenous communities, in North America and elsewhere.37 Connecting her father’s teaching activity back to that of his father before him, Shales added, “He was like Grandpa because he understood that the Baha’i Faith could help our people like Christianity helped people” through a period of major change and trauma.38 When I asked Shales what it was about the religion that really “clicked” for her father, she pointed, in particular, to the principle of progressive revelation. This teaching, she stressed, was logical, to her father and to her too: Well, I can’t swear, but I believe that he told me that the Baha’i Faith is the one thing that teaches that all people are equal and strives for it. And that all the religions are one and strives for that belief. And all the prophets are one and that religion is progressive and makes sense intellectually. So, intellectually, it made sense to him. And he said to me, when he was telling me about it, let me see, how did he put it? Pausing slightly in an effort to recall his specific phrasing, Shales carried on: Something about the same sun rising every day. The prophets might change but it’s the same God and it makes sense to understand that God would send somebody to educate mankind, because mankind needed it from time to time and from place to place. And that he did not leave the Indian people out. That was the other thing. As far as the Christians were concerned we were just left totally out. Because I could never figure that out myself. Why were we just left here on this continent with nothing? If there was a God and he 36 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 37 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; “Jim Walton,” in “Obituaries,” The Bahá’í World, 2003-2004: An International Record (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 2005), 239. Walton’s teaching in the Yukon is discussed in Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 93-94, 142-143, 145; on the Prairies see Patricia Verge, Angus: From the Heart: The Life of Counsellor Angus Cowan (Cochrane, AB: Springtide Publishing, 1999), 78, 80, 83, 87-88, 197, 280, 312 (fn 3). The spread of the Baha’i Faith by way of social and kinship networks was common among Baha’is, Indigenous and not, elsewhere as well. See, for example, Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011); Michael McMullen, The Bahá’í: The Religious Construction of a Global Identity (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 15, 17; Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 141-142, 173. 38 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. Shales noted that her grandfather taught as well as observed Christianity. “He wrote,” she explained, referencing the journals that Walton kept over a forty-year period, “about going to different villages and talking to the people about Christianity and what it meant and how it helped people.” 132 wanted to speak to people and he went and talked to Jesus, but he just left us sitting here with nothing … what was the point of that? Were we not his children too? Obviously, it didn’t make any sense. And then all of a sudden you say, “Oh, there were all these different teachers” and they would rise from time to time and from place to place and they would educate mankind as they were able to understand it, it made sense. All of a sudden it all made sense, of course. Then that’s why there was a Muhammad or a Buddha. There wasn’t just a Jesus and that was it. That’s what made sense to me.39 This understanding encompassed not simply recognition of Indigenous presence, but also confirmation of Tlingit knowledge and capacity. For progressive revelation, and the broader teaching of “unity in diversity,” took in and acknowledged Indigenous spiritual heritage as well. As Shales continued in specific reference to dreams: Because then it means that we weren’t just left here either because we knew we had dreams. Or that there was somebody here on this side that had some dreams too that told us something. You know, take the people here or take the people there so they’ll be safe, same thing.40 Dreams were, and are, a significant source of spiritual inspiration and guidance for Shales and her family (and, as the next chapter elaborates, for a number of other Indigenous Baha’is as well). The Baha’i Faith, in her interpretation and remembrance, validated and extended such spiritual knowledge and her own family’s history of religious combination. Shales herself formally declared as a Baha’i around the age of twenty while living in Fairbanks, nearly eleven hundred kilometers north of Sitka in the Alaskan interior. Emphasizing the text-based nature of Baha’i study, she explained that beyond interacting with the few resident Baha’is and teachers like her father, who stayed with her in Fairbanks for a time, “The only way 39 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. The “same sun” metaphor similarly spoke to Ditidaht man John Thomas, an early Indigenous Baha’i in British Columbia: Chelsea Horton, “‘According to your faith so shall your power and blessings be’: The Aboriginal-Bahá’í Encounter in British Columbia” (M.A. Thesis, Simon Fraser University, 2005), 85. Abdu’l-Baha frequently expounded on the “same sun” theme. See, for example, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “The Sun of Reality” and “The Quickening Spirit,” in Bahá’í World Faith: Selected Writings of Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1976), 254-257, 261-263, accessed online 15 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/c/BWF/. Other narrators likewise spoke to progressive revelation as a strong source of attraction to the religion. For example: Linda Loft, interview with the author, Meades Creek, British Columbia, 16 Aug 2004; John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 21 July 2008; Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009. 40 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 133 you’d know anything about it was to read the books that they gave you and decide for yourself whether you thought it was real or not.”41 Invoking a metaphor of homecoming echoed by a number of narrators, she continued: So I read what I was given and I had to decide for myself whether I believed it or not. And I read it and I felt like I was home. This was it. I believed it … without a doubt. I had no doubt that this was true, that it made total sense. If there was a God, he’s the God of everybody. There was no picking and choosing. If there was such a thing as a prophet then it had to be that there was a possibility that there were numerous ones, that there wasn’t just the one and only one.42 World citizenship was another teaching that spoke to Shales from the start. As she shared: Back when I heard these words for the first time, those were not concepts you heard every day. But those are concepts that I really believed in the minute I heard them. All of them. So I just felt like that was what my father and my grandfather would have believed and I believed them too. And, after that, I just couldn’t understand any other way of seeing the world than that, as one small place with a whole bunch of people in it who just needed to learn to get along.43 Concepts like world citizenship and progressive revelation might have been new, but they resonated and made sense to Shales in light of a long history of colonialism and creative cultural brokerage.44 They offered an open and inclusive vision with the prospect to transcend parochialism and prejudice at the same time they confirmed Indigenous presence and spiritual power. In carefully and consciously situating her declaration within her family history, as the “same road” as that walked by her father and grandfather before her, Shales articulated a strong 41 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. Shales recalled that the literature she was given included early British Baha’i Sara Louisa Blomfield’s 1940 The Chosen Highway, American Baha’i William Sears’s 1960 God Loves Laughter and books on “the Baha’i institutions.” 42 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. ‘Namgis Baha’i Chris Cook Jr., for example, spoke to a similar sense of homecoming through the faith and shared “I understand more about my grandfather saying now, ‘It doesn’t matter if we’re in fifty rooms and that we’re all praying [in] different tongues, or different beliefs, because we’re all talking to the same God.’” Like Shales, Cook comes from a family with a strong (and contested) history of Indigenous Christian leadership. See the recent study of his grandmother: Leslie A. Robertson with the Kwagu'ł Gixsam Clan, Standing Up with Ga'axsta'las: Jane Constance Cook and the Politics of Memory, Church, and Custom (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012). 43 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 44 On the concept of cultural brokerage see Margaret Szasz, ed. Between Indian and White Worlds: The Cultural Broker (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1994). A forthcoming collection edited by the historians C. Joseph Genetin-Pilawa and James J. Buss explicitly challenges this “two worlds” paradigm: Beyond Two Worlds (Albany: State University of New York Press, forthcoming in 2013). 134 heritage of religious flexibility and a strong sense of self as Tlingit. Shales also shared a story during our time together about her mother’s great-grandmother, who was born to a Haida mother and a German Jewish father. Recalling a childhood fascination that she had with “the holy land” in Israel, even before she learned about this Jewish relative, Shales noted that subsequent trips that she made to “the holy land” as a Baha’i were especially touching on account of this connection. Speaking about her first trip to Israel in 1968, she recalled: “I got down and kissed the ground when I went there. I felt like I came home. Must be my ancestors, my genes, my DNA, the one that kissed that ground.”45 While personally uplifting, the sense of global religious connection that the Baha’i Faith inspired also had the effect of setting Shales and her relatives somewhat apart within their own community. The most vigorous reaction, Shales recalled, came from Presbyterian clergy in Sitka, who met her and her relatives who became Baha’is with anger when they went to remove their names from the church rolls. Shales recalled being berated: “They just take the best of every religion, that’s what they do. They just take the best. Don’t you know that? They just take the best of every religion.” That’s what they yelled at me. But they just screamed at my sister and held her out in the middle of the street in the pouring down rain screaming at her.46 When I asked her about the reaction of the Tlingit community more broadly, Shales described it as more tempered. Speaking implicitly to the non-proselytizing stance that she and her family observed as Baha’is, she shared: Your family and friends learn you’re Baha’i when you tell them, one at a time. You don’t announce it with a megaphone or something. Your family learns when you tell them you are and some take it well and some don’t, it just depends on who they are. Most had no clue what it was because in those days nobody had ever heard of it. Most people thought it was Jewish, because the name sounds Jewish. They thought it was B’nai Brith [a Jewish service organization] or something like that. And so most people took it well. Others, if they were [Christian] fundamentalist, then those are the ones that could be 45 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. 46 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 135 nasty about it. Otherwise most people could care less or maybe they just thought you were real weird. But it took courage to do it. It wasn’t easy to belong to a religion that nobody had heard of on top of being an Alaska Native.47 Such difficulty, though, did not extinguish, for Shales and her family, the empowering sense of Indigenous and faith-based belonging that their choice to become Baha’i cultivated. Further down the coast in British Columbia, the Baha’i Faith also made sense to Nedra Greenaway, although for rather different reasons. Greenaway situated her introduction to the Baha’i religion in a context of 1960s political ferment and youth and student activism.48 Recalling her first exposure to the religion from University of British Columbia student, Jack Bastow, for example, she shared: At the time I was more political oriented. You might say I was a socialist, even probably a communist, at least I felt I was. I didn’t join the party or anything like that, but that was my thinking at the time. And I had a very negative view on religion, you know, basically a Marxist view on religion, as the opiate of the people. At the time I made contact with Jack Bastow he introduced the Baha’i Faith to me more from the point of view of a world system of social justice. That is the ideal of the communists, you know. A better life for more people without economic disparity between people. And so I was very attracted to that aspect of the Baha’i Faith, the social teachings. “The mystical spiritual aspect,” she added, “came later for me.”49 47 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. Fundamentalist Pentecostal and Assembly of God churches began to establish themselves in Sitka in the 1940s. Kan, Memory Eternal, 510. For discussion of more recent fundamentalist Christian activity in Alaska, including an episode of tension with Baha’is, see Kirk Dombrowski, Against Culture: Development, Politics, and Religion in Indian Alaska (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 166. Baha’is in the Makah community of Neah Bay, on the far northwestern tip of Washington, likewise encountered resistance from Christian community members: Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008; Scott Tyler, interview with the author, Bellevue, Washington, 28 July 2008. Scott Tyler likewise acknowledged how growing up in a Baha’i household sometimes set him and his siblings apart in their community, a point also echoed by Beverley Knowlton, interview with the author, between Calgary and Sylvan Lake, Alberta, 26 April 2008. 48 Greenaway dated her first introduction to the Baha’i Faith slightly differently in our two interviews together (early 1960s, at the age of twenty, in the first, and 1960, at nineteen, in the second). Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008; Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 15 August 2008. In a context of what the sociologist of religion Robert Bellah called a “crisis of meaning,” the Baha’i Faith saw significant growth on college campuses and intellectual circles in North America in this period. Robert Bellah, “The New Consciousness and the Crisis of Modernity,” in Charles Y. Glock and Robert N. Bellah, The New Religious Consciousness (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 339. William Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America (London: Praeger, 2005), 131-132. 49 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 136 Greenaway elaborated on her rational process of Baha’i investigation in the context of a recurring dream. Articulating a sense of Indigenous identification, which she first fostered through the very process of becoming Baha’i, she led in to this by noting, “As with many Native people, I was guided by a dream.” “When I was in my teens,” Greenaway continued: and up to the time I met Jack, I had this recurrent dream. In this dream I was standing by the seashore, and I saw a huge wave, you might say a tsunami, coming in and the water rose and rose as I ran inland up to the hills. As I was running the water kept rising and rising and rising until it was almost at my shoulders. Suddenly I saw a big boat with four pillars on the corners which made it look like an upside down turtle. Somehow I swam to this boat and I was saved from drowning. This dream occurred over and over from age eleven to nineteen until I met Jack, and I connected that dream with meeting the Faith. It was the end of my personal search to find some kind of refuge, a home for my concerns about the world and society. Though the dream connection that she drew could be called mystical, in Greenaway’s narration, her attraction to the religion was thoroughly material, and rational. Expressing, again, her prior aversion to religion, she elaborated: So I had this approach when I was a teenager that I wanted to find some solutions to world problems and so through the dream and meeting Jack I felt here was a religion or system of belief – although at first I really didn’t look at it as a religion – that made sense. Here was a philosophy or an approach or a system that had a way of getting people together. And it was logical.50 Greenaway began studying the Baha’i Faith with Bastow in the greater Vancouver area and kept in communication with him and his wife when she moved north in 1961 to help organize a union at Alcan, a major aluminum smelting operation located in the company town of Kitimat.51 She formally declared as a Baha’i in 1964. Greenaway returned to Vancouver the same year. As a charter student at Simon Fraser University, a left-leaning Vancouver-area school that opened in 1965 and was known, Greenaway noted, as the “Berkeley of the North,” she was immersed in a context of “intellectual 50 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 51 For a popular account that offers context on Alcan in British Columbia see Bev Christensen, Too Good to Be True: Alcan’s Kemano Completion Project (Vancouver: Talonbooks, 1995). 137 ferment and searching and the youth movement” and continued to grapple with the spiritual, as opposed to political, orientation of the Baha’i Faith.52 “I was a Baha’i for a year,” Greenaway explained: before I really believed in God and took on the spiritual aspect of prayer and growth. Because I had no strong belief in God, actually I didn’t understand the concept of God. But you can’t say the prayers and recite “O God, O God” daily without having to deal with that issue. Drawing on an established Baha’i discourse of “head” versus “heart” conversion, she described coming to realize that “my own spirituality was something I had to discover”: Abdu’l-Baha said the longest journey ever made was from the head to the heart. And I was always a head person. And I had to discover that part of myself too. But what finally convinced me to believe in God, I believed in Baha’u’llah, but God was another matter. What finally convinced me was another logical explanation of Abdu’l-Baha’s, he said that God is that force, that power that animates, dominates, and permeates creation. And with that definition, I could believe. Even though God is a mystery and cannot be defined, “This is for the feebleminded,” this kind of explanation. Because God is really a mystery, to human beings. And whatever conceptions we have of the Creator are human conceptions. Because the Creator is beyond our comprehension. And this is also part of Indian and Chinese philosophy too.53 In citing these philosophies, and her own “head-to-heart” conversion, Greenaway tacked between past and present, historical context and contemporary commentary. For in the same way 52 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. For context on Simon Fraser University see Hugh Johnston, Radical Campus: Making Simon Fraser University (Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre, 2005). SFU was not alone among Canadian universities in claiming the Berkeley moniker. See, for example, Sara Z. Burke, “The Berkeley of Sudbury: Student Radicalism at Laurentian University in the Sixties,” History of Intellectual Culture 8, no.1 (2008/2009): 1-15. On the sixties in Canada see Karen Dubinsky et al, eds. New World Coming: The Sixties and the Shaping of Global Consciousness (Toronto: Between the Lines Press, 2009); Lara Campbell, Dominique Clément, and Greg Kealey, eds. Debating Dissent: Canada and the 1960s (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2012). 53 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. On Baha’i “head” versus “heart” declaration discourse see Wyman, “Becoming a Baha’i,” Chapter 4; Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 134. “The longest journey is from the head to the heart” is a phrase commonly attributed in popular Baha’i discourse to Abdu’l-Baha, but which does not seem to appear in his formal writings (at least not those accessible in English). Heart and heart knowledge is also a key element of many Indigenous worldviews. See, for example, in the Dakota context: Waziyatawin Angela Wilson, Remember This! Dakota Decolonization and the Eli Taylor Narratives, with translations from the Dakota text by Wahpetunwin Carolynn Schommer (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 37-38. Stó:lō educator Jo-ann Archibald (Q’um Q’um Xiiem) articulates an Indigenous approach to “educating the heart, mind, body, and spirit,” in Indigenous Storywork: Educating the Heart, Mind, Body, and Spirit (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2008). 138 that she came to believe in God through becoming Baha’i, she came to embrace her Indigenous and Chinese heritage through the same process. Greenaway explained that her grandfather came to the future province of British Columbia from China in 1870 and, after working as a cook and camp organizer on the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway, settled in Alberta, where he married a Métis woman from Manitoba.54 “This has been my history,” Greenaway shared near the start of our first of two interviews together, “but I think culturally it’s been a search for me. A search to discover who I am and what I identify with.”55 When I asked Greenaway during our discussion of her declaration whether she felt a sense of connection with her Chinese and Indigenous heritage at the time, she responded: I think that I had somewhat, I’ve always had some connection with my Chinese heritage. The Indigenous one was kind of hidden for a long time. […] You know, my mother really didn’t tell me for a long time that her mother was Indian. She didn’t want to disclose it at all. And then when I finally found out, I guess I was in my teens, I was very curious. Because I grew up alongside a lot of people that were Indigenous and that was very interesting to me. So I had to discover that too.56 Greenaway, who was born in 1941, explained later in our interview that she grew up, “up to the time I was fourteen or fifteen, in an entirely White community” in southern Alberta: 54 Greenaway explained that her grandmother came from a Métis settlement that “adjoins or abuts” the Waywayseecappo Reserve, a Saulteaux community in Western Manitoba. Speaking to the legislation of Indian identity, she added: “These people may have the same percentage of Indian blood but because of a legal definition are Métis.” Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. An article about Greenaway’s grandfather, Chow Sam, that appeared in an Alberta centennial publication puts his date of arrival in Canada several years later; it states that Sam first migrated to California in 1873, returned to China, then migrated to Vancouver after this. “Chow Sam (1854- 1954),” [Alberta centennial publication], Nedra Greenaway Personal Collection. Chinese men began migrating east from British Columbia following the completion of the CPR in the 1880s (although, as Brian Evans has recently noted, the first Chinese people on the Prairies predated this, arriving in Winnipeg, Manitoba via Minnesota in 1877). Brian L. Evans, The Other Side of Gold Mountain: Glimpses of Early Chinese Pioneer Life on the Prairies (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 2010), 10. On the history of Chinese migration to Canada see Edgar Wickberg, ed., From China to Canada: A History of Chinese Communities in Canada (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1982); on the construction of the CPR see 20-26. The history of Indigenous-Chinese interaction in Canada is an emerging, if sensitive, area of study, especially in British Columbia. See, for example, Jean Barman, “Beyond Chinatown: Chinese Men and Indigenous Women in Early British Columbia,” BC Studies no.177 (Spring 2013): 39- 64; Henry Yu, “Refracting Pacific Canada: Seeing Our Uncommon Past,” Special Issue of BC Studies no.156 (Winter 2007/08): 10. 55 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 56 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 139 In Bowness, which is just now part of Calgary, it was outside of Calgary at that time, a little community, and there was some Indigenous people around, but no one that looked like me. Maybe a couple of them sort of looked like me. So I felt really isolated and I had people call me “Chinky Chinaman,” ‘cause at that time I felt I was only sort of Chinese. I didn’t know about the other part.57 Like Indigenous peoples, Chinese in Canada faced both informal and institutional racism at mid- century and after.58 Articulating an understanding perspective reminiscent of that of Lorintha Umtuch on the subject of language loss (see Chapter 3), however, Greenaway continued: And so I’ve always had that. I’ve always had people looking at me and saying, “Who are you?” and “What are you?” But I’ve come to feel that that’s okay, it’s curiosity, mostly it’s not malicious. I understand that. It’s pure curiosity.59 Greenaway’s own curiosity led her take up undergraduate then graduate study of “Northwest Coast Indians,” which, she noted, “was what was in Anthropology at that time at SFU.”60 Through Jack Bastow, who had begun Baha’i teaching on reserves on the Prairies in the 1950s, she also connected with a number of Indigenous Baha’is in British Columbia, including the subject of her Masters thesis, Ditidaht Baha’i, John Thomas.61 57 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 58 The Exclusion Act barring Chinese immigration to Canada, for example, was not lifted until 1947, the same year that Chinese Canadians received the federal franchise, a right not extended to “status Indians” until 1960. On Chinese history on the Prairies see Evans, The Other Side of Gold Mountain. And for discussion of Chinese community in Calgary, specifically, see Wickberg, From China to Canada, 59-61, 67, 91-93, 138, 193-196, 259-261. The history of Chinese migration and settlement has not been deeply integrated into Prairie history, or historiography. The index of Gerald Friesen’s award-winning The Canadian Prairies: A History, for example, contains no entries for either “Chinese” or “Asian.” Gerald Friesen, The Canadian Prairies: A History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987). Likewise, Frances Swyripa’s much more recent Storied Landscapes: Ethno- Religious Identity and the Canadian Prairies (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2010) “ignores the comparatively few American Blacks and even fewer Asians who went to prairie farms.” Swyripa, Storied Landscapes, 9-10. John Herd Thompson’s 1998 textbook, Forging the Prairie West (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1998), by contrast, includes at least brief mention of Chinese migration, including the oppressive head tax, and notes the disingenuous rhetoric of White residents of Prairie cities like Calgary, who opposed Chinese presence while simultaneously relying on Chinese labour. Thompson, Forging the Prairie West, 73-74. Royden Loewen and Gerald Friesen’s more recent collection, Immigrants in Prairie Cities: Ethnic Diversity in Twentieth-Century Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009) also includes discussion of Chinese migration and community in urban contexts. 59 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 60 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 61 For context on Bastow and Thomas see Horton, “‘According to your faith,’” 46-54, 74-75. Greenaway is working on a book based on her thesis titled, “Living in Two Worlds: The Story of John Thomas.” 140 Greenaway also undertook a more personal search, which she spoke to in the context of Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy. None of the people that I interviewed for this project pointed to Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy about Indigenous peoples as a specific motivation or inspiration for declaration. When I asked Greenaway about it during our second interview together, however, she connected Abdu’l-Baha’s statement to an “identity crisis” that she described facing in the period that she became a Baha’i.62 As she recalled: What was happening in my life at that time is I was in crisis and I was searching for an identity too. Because I had been a very political person. I was wanting to get involved in politics and then I met the Faith and it had an impact on me. What really attracted me was, you might find this kind of odd, but the administration, the political structure of the Faith. I thought it was really good. And I was struggling with, personally, I was in kind of an identity crisis. Because, you know, I have First Nations, I have Chinese, but I was raised with hardly any of this. It just sort of was on the side. And so I was trying to figure that out. And I think what happened when I became a Baha’i, it resonated with me, that statement of Abdu’l-Baha’s, because you know I think a lot of people that have Native blood or that heritage are kind of ashamed of it.63 Slightly contradicting her prior statement regarding her Indigenous heritage as a subject of silence within her family, Greenaway elaborated: And although my mother always told me and I knew Native people where I was, because I lived in southern Alberta, it just never connected. That wasn’t part of me. And I think that when I became a Baha’i and I then read what Abdu’l-Baha said, I said, “Yes. That’s it.” Because you don’t have to be ashamed anymore. Yeah, maybe they’re regarded as savages or whatever, but they have what the Chinese say, a bright future.64 As Greenaway explained at the start of our first interview, she took her search for identity to the point of constructing her own personal (and racialized) acronym: she was, she decided within 62 The term “identity crisis” was in wide use in the period that Greenaway became a Baha’i. See, for example, Hazel Hertzberg, The Search for an American Indian Identity: Modern Pan-Indian Movements (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1971), 292. 63 Greenaway, interview, 15 August 2008. Several other narrators expressed a similar attraction to the Baha’i administrative system. For example, Steve Cook, conversation with the author, Alert Bay, British Columbia, 31 July 2004; Phil Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 9 Jan 2009. Tlingit and Tagish Baha’is in the Yukon have also drawn links between the Baha’i administrative structure and their own clan system, which they helped to revive by way of their Baha’i adherence. See Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 58 (fn 14); Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 160-161. 64 Greenaway, interview, 15 August 2008. 141 several years of declaring as a Baha’i, a “YAASB.” “I styled myself,” she explained, “a Yellow Aboriginal Anglo-Saxon Baha’i, because this takes in all my physical and spiritual heritage, and my education.”65 For Greenaway, then, as for a number of other narrators of mixed heritage, developing a strengthened sense of self as Indigenous was an explicit, but not exclusive, process. As she observed elsewhere and in more contemporary context: I think in the Baha’i Faith that I’m many things and I guess the Chinese and the Indian heritage is there, it is very much part of me. And I feel comfortable with that, I feel that it’s comfortable in the Baha’i community.66 This religion, for Greenaway, proved a supportive structure and space in which, as she put it, drawing on another Chinese maxim, to “dig her root” as a person of mixed heritage.67 Though they became Baha’is in the same year and at roughly the same age, the paths of Shales and Greenaway differed rather dramatically. Where Shales was raised in close connection to Tlingit values, family, and community, as well as Christianity, Greenaway grew up without clear knowledge of her Indigenous background and with a strong secular and political orientation. Baha’i teachings of oneness and equality “made sense” to both women on the basis of their histories, which were distinct and yet also shared. The discourse of rational religion that both engaged did not mark a turning away from Indigeneity. On the contrary, Shales’ declaration marked an extension of a long family history of religious conversion and leadership as well as an expression and affirmation of a specifically Tlingit sense of self. For Greenaway, it was through the process of becoming Baha’i itself that she embraced her explicitly hybrid heritage, as well as the very idea of God, and articulated an express and empowering identification as Indigenous. 65 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 66 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. Narrator John Sargent, for example, who is of Mohawk and White heritage, identifies himself as “a hybrid” (though he also noted at several points in our interviews together that he prefers and aspires to conceive of himself first and foremost according to his religious identification as a Baha’i). John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 22 July 2008. Other narrators of mixed heritage, conversely, identify more according to their Indigenous than White heritage. For example, Donald Addison, interview with the author, Eugene, Oregon, 24 June 2008. 67 Greenaway, interviews, 12 March 2008 and 15 August 2008. 142 Born Again Baha’is The declaration narratives of Deloria Bighorn and Allison Healy, who became Baha’is in 1969 and 1972, respectively, offer further perspective on this empowering process of “choosing the Faith.” In the course of narrating their experiences of becoming Baha’i, both women invoked the language of being “born-again,” a phrase typically tied in the twentieth century, and the context of Indigenous North America specifically, to evangelical and fundamentalist Christian conversion. As the anthropologist Kirk Dombrowski has observed, being “born-again,” in this context, is often thought to mark a turn “against [Indigenous] culture.”68 Further, as sociologist Eva Marie Garroutte explains, “born-again Indian” is also a pejorative label that has been leveled against newly self-identified Indigenous people accused of a specious process of “ethnic switching.”69 For Bighorn and Healy, however, being born-again was not a process of turning away, but instead one of strengthening their sense of self and agency specifically as Indigenous women. For Bighorn, there was a certain utilitarian draw to declaration. In the face of alcohol addiction and teenage pregnancy, the religion supplied a structure and set of laws, including a specific ban on substance use, which proved attractive and efficacious. Teachings of social and spiritual unity, however, also made sense to Bighorn in the context of her Yankton Sioux, 68 Dombrowski, Against Culture. Evangelical Christianity emerged as a defined Protestant movement in eighteenth- century England. See David Bebbington, Evangelicals in Modern Britain: A History from the 1730s to the 1980s (London: Unwin Hyman, 1989), 2-3. On the American context see George M. Marsden, Understanding Fundamentalism and Evangelicalism (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1991). Andrea Smith offers a useful overview of evangelicalism, fundamentalism, Pentecostalism, and charismatic Christianity as they relate to postwar Indigenous America in “Appendix 1: A Brief Map of Christian Right and Native American Organizing,” in Native Americans and the Christian Right: The Gendered Politics of Unlikely Alliances (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008), 276-284. Smith’s study is part of an emerging literature that complicates the view of conservative Indigenous Christianity as inherently anti-cultural and apolitical. See also Kimberly Jenkins Marshall, “Performing Conversion Among the Diné Oodlání (Navajo Believers)” (PhD Thesis, Indiana University, 2011); Clinton N. Westman, “Pentecostalism Among Canadian Aboriginal People: A Political Movement?” in A Liberating Spirit: Pentecostals and Social Action in North America, ed. Michael Wilkinson and Steven Studebaker (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2010), 85-110; Clinton Westman, “Understanding Cree Religious Discourse” (PhD Thesis, University of Alberta, 2008). 69 Eva Marie Garroutte, Real Indians: Identity and the Survival of Native America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 85-86. 143 Chickasaw, and Christian heritage and these elements equally informed her declaration. For Healy, it was the actual conduct of Baha’is as much as abstract principle that first drew her to “the Faith.” The formal act of signing a declaration card, in her case, proved a powerful expression of choice and Healy extended her agency as she went on, in her own words, to “become real” and “find her true identity” as an Indigenous person. I opened my interview with Deloria Bighorn by asking her to share about her background and, like her brother Philip Lane Jr., whose declaration story I consider in the next chapter, she spoke in rich detail concerning her family history. As she transitioned to speak about her experience of becoming Baha’i, she emphasized, especially, the difficult pasts of her parents, which in turn marked her own upbringing in small-town southeastern Washington state. As Bighorn recalled: my parents scrimped and saved. They weren’t, you could say the effects of residential school and a sad life and deaths of their parents and loss of lifestyle and all this, they were survivors, but their life, they were workaholics. I guess a fear of being poor and starving and everything. So they just worked all the time. Really hard. And their goal was to buy some land so that he [Bighorn’s father] could have horses and, you know, that’s what they did. So, it was good. It was good in that sense. But, you don’t step off of those kinds of experiences without a lot of heartache I guess. So they had not really been parented much, I guess you could say.70 This lack of parenting, Bighorn explained (and her brother corroborated), translated into an intense rigidity towards their son and an inverse leniency in the case of their daughter.71 This, Bighorn hinted elsewhere in our interview, was compounded by her experience of coming of age as a young Indigenous woman in 1960s Walla Walla, a town steeped in Wild West and White frontier mythology.72 Though Bighorn described feeling “secure in who I was,” she also 70 Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008. 71 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008; Philip Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 January 2009. 72 Originally inhabited by Cayuse, Umatilla, Walla Walla, and Nez Perce peoples, the Walla Walla (meaning “many waters,” but long described by settlers as “the town they liked so well, they named it twice”) region became a fur 144 observed of her Indigeneity that, “in junior high, I certainly didn’t talk about it.” There were few Indigenous students at her school and Bighorn recalled her experience in gendered terms: I always felt different than the other girls. I always felt like there was a club that they belonged to that I couldn’t totally be in, even though, like, I was student body secretary of my school. So you could say I was a popular girl. But I always felt like in order to be that popular girl, I had to do twice or ten times as much as the rest of the girls in order to be in there. When I got to high school, I really, really wanted to fit in. I really, really, really wanted to fit in. It came as a major blow, then, when she and several friends were kicked out of school, and their numerous extracurricular activities, for skipping class in the ninth grade. This, Bighorn stressed, “really was a turning point in my life.” She recalled her reaction clearly: “I thought, I’ve tried to be so good, you know, and I just can’t get in. And now this happened, the hell with it. You think I’m bad? I’ll show you bad.” Bighorn began drinking seriously and, at the age of sixteen, became pregnant, something she described as a “pretty sobering event” that intimately informed her decision to declare as a Baha’i.73 She did not do so immediately upon encountering the religion, however. Like Joyce Shales, Bighorn was introduced to the Baha’i Faith by a relative, her brother, Phil Lane. Eight years his sister’s senior, Lane had been facing his own battles with addiction when he trading base in the early nineteenth century and, in 1847, was the site of what one recent settler history describes as “one of the most famous events in Western [American] history: the Whitman Massacre,” in which Protestant missionaries Marcus and Narcissa Whitman were executed by Cayuse “Indians.” After 1855, when the Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla people signed a treaty with the American government and were confined to reservation lands in what is now northeastern Oregon state, the Walla Walla valley opened to further White settlement and military establishment; the city of the same name was incorporated in 1862. For a celebratory settler perspective on this history see Elizabeth Gibson, Walla Walla (Charleston, SC: Arcadia, 2004), quotes from 4, 7. Recent (award- winning) publications by the Fort Walla Walla Museum likewise convey such positive pioneer perspective. See, for example, Laura Schulz, Paul Franzmann, James Howard Payne, Hans Matschukat, Fort Walla Walla Museum, Soldiers, Pioneers, and Indian People: Positive Interaction Between Cultures in Southeastern Washington (Walla Walla, WA: Fort Walla Walla Museum, 2007). For tribal perspectives on this history see the website of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, accessed online 14 Sept 2012, http://www.umatilla.nsn.us/history.html; Jennifer Karson et al, Wiyáxayxt/Wiyáakaaawn = As Days Go By: Our History, Our Land, and Our People: The Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla (Pendleton, Portland, Seattle: Tamástslikt Cultural Institute; Oregon Historical Society; Distributed by the University of Washington Press, 2006). 73 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. 145 encountered the Faith in Walla Walla and swiftly enrolled.74 Lane moved to Hollywood to pursue a career in acting not long after this and, while there, became engaged to a non- Indigenous Baha’i woman. Baha’i law requires parental consent for marriage and Lane accordingly contacted his mother and father in Washington, who in turn dispatched his sister to California to investigate. As Bighorn shared in rich detail that again reveals a subtle undercurrent of longing for normative White womanhood: So I went, I flew down there, I was like fifteen years old, I remember this so clearly. And she had a 1952 T-Bird convertible. And she was very glamorous. I mean, she was the typical Hollywood girl. Heart of gold. But, with the false eyelashes and the bleached blond hair and she was really gorgeous. I mean, whoa. She was just like, with the bellbottoms and the makeup and just, you know, someone you would see in a movie. And she was a hairstylist. So, the minute I got in the car they started talking incessantly about this Baha’i. Baha’i, Baha’i, Baha’i. And, you know, by the time we got to wherever we got to, I thought, “Well, I know this. This makes sense to me.” The religion made sense to Bighorn, at least in part, in light of a longstanding disquiet she had surrounding Christianity. Bighorn explained that given her family’s “strong Christian roots,” she attended the Episcopal Church in her youth, but did not connect spiritually. Reminiscent of Shales, who was buoyed by Baha’i recognition of Indigenous presence in Alaska, Bighorn also recalled a longstanding preoccupation with “Black people in Africa”: “I really wondered,” she recalled, “if there really was a God if he could just abandon a whole continent of people.”75 “I just saw nothing but hypocrisy,” she added.76 Bighorn’s firsthand experience in Walla Walla was amplified by stories about Christian abuses against Indigenous peoples that her father shared during their travels together on the rodeo circuit. Consequently, she explained that by the time she encountered the Baha’i Faith in the mid-to-late 1960s, she was “really turned off religion,” 74 Lane Jr., interview, 3 January 2009. 75 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. This was a concern shared by other narrators. Linda Covey, in particular, made a strikingly similar statement in interview with the author, Evanston, Illinois, 10 June 2008. A statement, in turn, strikingly similar to Covey’s is found in McMullen, The Bahá’í, 24. 76 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. 146 having “just seen how it had done nothing but hurt my people.” At the same time, Bighorn described having maintained “this nature and heart” and recalled quickly connecting with the concept of progressive revelation. As she elaborated, picking back up on her trip to California: So when I heard all of this stuff, when my brother said, “You know, there’s not a Buddhist God’s territory, an Islamic God’s territory, and a Christian God’s territory. It’s not like that. God isn’t in competition with himself. He sent these messengers, like teachers, in successive waves, to move humanity ahead and no human was ever left without guidance from God. And that’s this eternal covenant. He makes promises that he’ll never leave us alone.” I thought, “I know that. I know that!” That’s the only way possible that God would make sense to me. And then, you know, I’m sure that all races, all peoples had guidance and prophets of God and teachers. That just made perfect sense to me. And that the next step is the eradication of these differences and the folding of mankind into one? Of course. Perfect sense.77 The sticking point came, for Bighorn, when she learned of Baha’u’llah’s prohibition of alcohol consumption.78 Unwilling to submit to this law, her investigation of the Baha’i Faith was over before it began. Bighorn explained that it was her unplanned pregnancy that caused her reconsider the religion. Her parents, she recalled, were supportive (“that,” she noted, “was sort of the beginning of the turn of our relationship, with my parents and I”) yet stern: They couldn’t have been kinder. But the path was very clear: if you want to have this baby, it’s your baby, you deal with it. Which meant, of course, I’d have to quit high school and sling hash somewhere or something. “You can marry the father,” but I said, “I don’t want to do that.” “Okay, or you have to give this baby up for adoption.” Illustrating the strong stigma that accompanied teenage pregnancy, Bighorn’s parents sent her across the country to Atlanta to stay with an aunt, her mother’s elder sister who did not have any children of her own. Not long after her arrival in the South, Bighorn explained, her aunt had to temporarily relocate to Nashville for work and Bighorn ended up living for several months in a 77 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. 78 On the Baha’i prohibition on alcohol see Bahá’u’lláh, Abdu’l-Bahá, Shoghi Effendi, and Universal House of Justice, “Alcohol, Prohibition on Drinking,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 2, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Baha’i Publications Australia, 1991), 245-256. 147 Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers in that city.79 She described the place vividly: “And it was like the typical what you would think: paint peeling off the walls, it was a brownstone, it was three stories and it just looked dingy, but, I had no choice and neither did she [Bighorn’s aunt].” Bighorn remembered her time in this institution as positive, however: But actually it turned out to be a fine place. They were wonderful people. It was very good in the sense that there were twenty or thirty girls who were just in the same position that I was. And lots to talk about. And we all got along really well together, we just got along great. As far as I know, we got along great. I mean, there were Black girls, a number of Black girls there, and I would imagine for some of those southern girls it might have been quite a little shock. But it was my first experience at ironing those Black girls’ hair and stuff like that, it was really, it was kind of, it was fun. But it was then that I decided that I’d better look into this Baha’i Faith.80 She described doing so by looking the religion up in the phone book and asking their local contact: “is there anyway that you could send somebody over here to tell me about the Baha’i Faith?” The woman the Baha’is sent, Bighorn recalled, was Erma Hayden, a pianist and the wife of Robert Hayden, a prominent African American poet and professor then teaching in Nashville.81 In the course of narrating her youth, Bighorn mentioned a number of women, most of them Indigenous, who had provided her with significant strength and guidance and Hayden was another. “Very loving and kind and accepting,” she recalled. “And very knowledgeable, of course, about the Faith.”82 Bighorn remembered noticing that each Sunday at the home, “we all 79 The Florence Crittenton organization began in the late nineteenth century with a focus on moral reform for prostitutes, but had shifted almost exclusively to a focus on maternal care by the mid-twentieth-century. For a brief history see Katherine G. Aiken, “Florence Crittenton: National Florence Crittenton Mission/ Crittenton Services,” in Kathy S. Stolley and Vern L. Bullough, eds., The Praeger Handbook of Adoption (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2006), 235-237. 80 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. Racial segregation was a controversial issue within the Florence Crittenton organization and policy varied by location. See Rickie Solinger, Wake Up Little Susie: Single Pregnancy and Race Before Roe v. Wade (New York: Routledge, 2000 [1992]), 71-74. 81 Bighorn stated that Hayden was teaching at Vanderbilt, but she likely meant Fisk University, where Hayden taught from 1946-1969. 82 On Erma and Robert Hayden see Gwendolyn Etter-Lewis, “Radiant Lights: African-American Women and the Advancement of the Bahá’í Faith in the U.S.” and “Race, Gender and Difference: African-American Women and the Struggle for Equality,” in Gwendolyn Etter-Lewis and Richard Thomas, eds. Lights of the Spirit: Historical Portraits of Black Bahá’ís in North America, 1898-2000 (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2006), 54-55, 84- 86. 148 had to have a minister or somebody come to do a church type of thing”; she asked, accordingly, for a Baha’i speaker. Noting, again like Shales, the obscurity of the religion, Bighorn added that, “I think they thought it was B’nai Brith, rather than Baha’i Faith. Because I’m sure they wouldn’t have liked it.” Bighorn explained that she received her Baha’i speaker and ended up attending worship service at a nearby Baha’i Centre with a number of other young women from the home. Reflecting back, she observed: And you can imagine how they [the Baha’is] must have felt. We were very obviously young unmarried girls in this condition. But you know, I never once felt unwelcome. I never once felt, it never really occurred to me that it would be a problem. Of course, I look back on it now and understand it must have stirred a big controversy in that community. I would think. But they were just so wonderful, you know, and I was very happy and really reading a lot and investigating and really, I knew then that I wanted to become a Baha’i. And that I should have become a Baha’i before. Bighorn remembered being unsure about “how in the world I was going to live up to all these rules.”83 In her telling, though, there was little alternative: I thought, “You know, look where it’s landed me this way. I can’t go any further that way. Because what’s left for me? I mean, I’ve done all the worst things you can do. Besides kill somebody. And I have to abandon my child and I’m out of high school, I don’t even have a high school education. I’m estranged from my parents in a sense. I mean, what is there really for me? I have to have something that I can build my life on. Or I’m not going to have a life.”84 For Bighorn, becoming Baha’i was quite literally a matter of choosing to live. She was, in her words, “born-again.” Drawing on a practiced declaration narrative, or at least phrasing, Bighorn explained that, “I always say that I’m a born-again Baha’i”: Because that’s how I feel about it. I feel like without it, I know what kind of person I’d be. I know what would happen to me. So, I can’t perceive any other way, or thought. But I can understand for other people who haven’t done those stupid things. Or experienced 83 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. Other narrators recalled a similar sense of reticence around declaring, including Umtuch, interview; Loft, interview; J.C. Lucas, interview with the author, Nanaimo, British Columbia, 6 Oct 2004; Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008. Concerns about not being able to live up to the Baha’i teachings or contribute sufficiently were not isolated to Indigenous Baha’is. See also discussions on doubt in Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 71 (on White Baha’i, Joyce McGuffie); Wyman, “Becoming a Baha’i,” 76-77. 84 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. 149 those stupid things. Or known themselves to be that kind of person. I can totally understand why there’s other ways to live, but not for me. “I feel like when I became a Baha’i,” she added elsewhere in our interview, “I learned what it is to be a human being. Even though I should have known, I guess.” In addition to reconciling Bighorn’s longstanding concern with universal belonging (the fate of “Black people in Africa”), the Baha’i Faith also provided a structure that helped mitigate the intergenerational impacts of colonialism as they manifested in her own struggle with addiction. Sobriety did not come easily or automatically for Bighorn, but, like many narrators, she described the overall effect of living a Baha’i life as profoundly healing.85 Being born-again and becoming human, in her case, did not mean assimilation or sameness. As I discussed in the last chapter, Bighorn was raised with a strong sense of her Chickasaw and Yankton Sioux heritage; she and her family were also connected to local Cayuse, Walla Walla, and Umatilla communities and other Indigenous people in the Plateau region as well. When I asked her if she drew any particular connections between the Baha’i Faith and her “Nativeness,” Bighorn responded with, “Oh, everything, everything. Absolutely everything.”86 85 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. Other narrators echoed this impact as well. Although not drinking could serve, like Baha’i adherence more generally, to set Indigenous Baha’is somewhat outside within their own communities (“it was,” as Shales put it, “to be on the outs in a lot of ways”), it was also personally empowering. Shales, interview, 29 July 2008; Scott Tyler, interview; Jane Grover, interview with the author, McMinnville, Oregon, 22 June 2008. The sociologist Margit Warburg observes that a sense of being on the outs on account of not drinking was not confined to Indigenous Baha’is: Citizens of the World: A History and Sociology of the Baha’is from a Globalisation Perspective (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 414-415. Where some Indigenous Baha’is continued to struggle with drug and alcohol use after joining the religion, others achieved sobriety prior to their declarations (and spoke to spiritual awakening and healing they experienced through treatment, energy they in turn channeled and cultivated through the Baha’i Faith as well). For example: Cook, interview; Lucas, interview; Sonny Voyageur, interview with the author, North Vancouver, British Columbia, 12 Nov 2004. 86 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. This was not unlike the reaction of ‘Namgis Baha’i Steve Cook, who when asked the same question responded by raising his two hands like a balanced scale, a silent expression of their complementary nature. Steve Cook, conversation with the author, Alert Bay, British Columbia, 31 July 2004. Graeme Were has pointed to a similar image popular among Nalik Baha’is in New Ireland: “According to Naliks, a bird needs two wings to fly: one wing represents the teachings of the Baha’i prophets, the other, traditional Nalik beliefs.” Were, “Fashioning Belief,” 244. 150 With emotion, she then spoke of her father, who had died not long before our interview together. “I remember towards the end of his life,” she shared, “he often would say he was a Baha’i”: And I remember one time, I was going to the [Baha’i] national convention, he sat me down and he said, “I want to tell you, you tell those people over there, I send my greetings and you tell them that the teachings of the Baha’i Faith and the teachings of our Native people are the same. And tell them how much those teachings are interwoven in and how they both support each other and how clear it is to me that the Baha’i Faith respects and knows that our Native teachings are valid and true, and we in turn see the truth of their way too.” And I did, I did. Bighorn then panned back to her own investigation of the Baha’i Faith and pointed to a shared teaching of relationship, “the whole concept of this having respect for each of the kingdoms of God.” Addressing me directly, she elaborated: Because as you know, Indian people assign, anthropomorphically, a spirit to everything. And when I saw in the writings, literally saying, the spirit of the mineral kingdom, the spirit of the vegetable kingdom, I was like, ah, they know this. They know that there’s a power in that kingdom. They call it a kingdom. They know that there’s these levels of life. I mean, it just seemed so amazing to me.87 As Bighorn’s relative, noted Sioux scholar Vine Deloria Jr. observed, a concept of relatedness, one that links the human and nonhuman worlds in intimate sacred interaction, connects Indigenous philosophies in North America.88 Bighorn spoke, here, of “Indian people” in general, though she could also have been describing the more specific (albeit now thoroughly intertribal) Lakota invocation mitakuye oyas’in, or “all my relations,” spoken to by other narrators as well.89 87 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. Narrators Linda Covey and Linda Loft likewise spoke directly to the Baha’i formulation of the various “kingdoms of God” and consonance with Indigenous teachings of relationship. Covey, interview; Loft, interview. Abdu’l-Baha spoke frequently of the “four kingdoms”: “the mineral, vegetable, animal, and human.” It is the “rational soul,” he stressed, that distinguishes human beings from animals. See, for example, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, The Promulgation of Universal Peace; Paris Talks (London: UK Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1972), 96, accessed online 15 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/PT/; Some Answered Questions (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1990), 208, 217-218, 239-240, accessed online 18 April 13, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/SAQ/. 88 Vine Deloria Jr., “Relativity, Relatedness and Reality” in Barbara Deloria, Kristen Foehner, and Sam Scinta, eds., Spirit and Reason: The Vine Deloria Jr. Reader (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 1999), 32-39. 89 Covey, interview; Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 19 Aug 2008; Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009. Choctaw narrator Donald Addison employs the phrase mitakuye oyasin in an online newspaper article expounding on Indigenous-Baha’i connections (this piece is also a fine example of Baha’i teaching methods, a topic I explore in more depth in Chapter 8): Donald Addison, 151 She pointed, too, to visions of the Oglala holy man Black Elk (another set of Lakota-cum- intertribal teachings, discussed in more detail in the next chapter) as “one of the bases upon which I could see that the Faith was true.”90 Although she did not develop her own acronym in order to articulate it, it is clear that Bighorn brought a strong sense of Indigenous self to her experience of, as she put it, becoming human and becoming Baha’i. While Bighorn framed this experience as an ongoing process, she also stressed the specific place and date of her declaration. She explained that she wanted to sign her declaration card in Walla Walla, where she returned after giving birth and putting her son up for adoption in Atlanta, and waited until his birthday, 28 August 1969, in order to do so.91 For Baha’is, declaration was and remains, at its core, a spiritual act of accepting Baha’u’llah as the “Manifestation of God” for the present age.92 The actual signing of a declaration card is typically downplayed in Baha’i literature, which often characterizes this act as a strictly administrative matter.93 Many narrators did not describe or dwell in their interviews with me upon the actual moment of their declaration. In the same way, however, that Bighorn ascribed significance to the time and place where she signed her declaration card, for Allison Healy, this act, and the independent choice that it signaled, marked a potent moment of empowerment. “Mitakuye Oyasin!,” Eugene Weekly 5 Aug 2004, accessed online 16 March 2013, http://www.eugeneweekly.com/2004/08/05/views.html. On mitakuye oyas’in as employed as prayer in the Lakota sweat lodge, and intertribal diffusion, see Raymond A. Bucko, The Lakota Ritual of the Sweat Lodge: History and Contemporary Practice (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 3, 56, 89, 125, 126, 223. 90 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. 91 Bighorn, interview, 20 March 2008. 92 As the opening lines of the Kitab-i-Aqdas aver: “The first duty prescribed by God for His Servants is the recognition of Him Who is the Dayspring of His Revelation and the Fountain of His laws, Who representeth the Godhead in both the Kingdom of His Cause and the world of creation.” Discussed and cited in Warburg, Citizens of the World, 306. 93 For characterizations of the declaration card as administrative see McMullen, The Bahá’í, 111; Will C. van den Hoonaard, The Origins of the Bahá'í Community of Canada, 1898-1948 (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1996), 260. Narrator Linda Loft described the act of signing a declaration card in this way as well; having grown up in a Baha’i family, she resisted signing her card when she turned fifteen (the Baha’i “age of maturity”) as she felt it was an overly administrative act that diminished her faith. Loft, interview. According to the sociologist Margit Warburg, “the signing of the declaration card is … not only a membership entry, it is the Baha’i profession of faith, ritualised in the form of an administrative act.” Warburg, Citizens of the World, 306. 152 Healy is among those narrators who were introduced to the Baha’i Faith by way of explicit Baha’i outreach efforts on reserve. And like many others, she also described being on a path of search prior to joining the religion. She narrated this search in an explicitly Baha’i frame: “in the Baha’i Faith,” she explained in our first of two interviews together, “we independently investigate about the truth.”94 What “started me to start searching,” “started me to investigate,” she explained, was concern over the prospect of what she called a “mixed marriage.”95 Though this phrase readily invokes, in the context of colonial Canada, marriage across racial and legal lines (recall the gendered Indian Act that, until 1985, stripped Indigenous women who married non-Indigenous men of their formal “Indian status”), Healy was here referring to marriage outside of the Catholic Church. As we saw in the last chapter, Healy was born in 1942 on the Siksika Indian Reserve, located close to the city of Calgary in southern Alberta, and attended a Catholic residential school in nearby Cluny through most of her childhood. In the early 1960s, she moved roughly two hundred kilometers south to another Blackfoot community, the Blood (Kainai) Reserve, from where her father originally hailed; it was here she met her future husband, Earl, an Anglican.96 Residential school teaching regarding Catholicism as “the only true faith,” Healy recalled, informed their early relationship. As she explained: another thing we learned in Catholic school was that the Catholic faith was the only true faith. And I was even afraid, I know my sister’s ex-husband used to have a Bible, a little Bible, and when I used to live with them I was even scared to touch that book because we were taught Catholic was the only true faith. Everything else was not allowed. So that really stuck into my head and so when we were gonna get married, the reason why we didn’t get married right away is because my husband was Anglican and I was Catholic and I didn’t want to have a mixed married. I’ve heard of mixed marriages. The reason for 94 Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 27 April 2008. 95 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 96 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. The Blackfoot Nation is composed of the Siksika (Blackfoot), the Kainai (Blood), and the Piikani (Peigan); Kainai chief Red Crow and Siksika chief Crowfoot signed Treaty 7 with the Canadian government on behalf of the Confederacy in 1877. See Treaty 7 Elders and Tribal Council with Walter Hildebrandt, Dorothy First Rider, and Sarah Carter, The True Spirit and Intent of Treaty 7 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill- Queens University Press, 1996). The Peigan are divided between a reserve in Albert and a reservation in northern Montana (with the latter known, in the United States, as the Blackfeet). 153 that is I didn’t want my husband and I to have any conflict of which church our children should go to or to be baptized.97 Healy accordingly began attending Anglican catechism classes and she and Earl were eventually married in that church. This experience, she explained, “started my journey of searching.”98 Like other Indigenous people who declared as Baha’is on reserves and reservations, Healy recalled a context of thick missionary traffic and competition at Kainai and she described interacting with Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses during this period, the late 1960s, as well.99 “And just around that time,” she added, “the Baha’is started to come so I got more in tuned with the Baha’is, with the message that they were delivering.” Healy noted that she had heard of the faith twice before this – the first time from a Siksika Elder in the early 1960s and the second from a Catholic cousin who married a Baha’i – but she did not begin investigating the religion until 1969.100 It was winter of that year, she explained, in the wake of a major snowfall, when a Blackfoot cousin and a non-Indigenous Baha’i friend unexpectedly turned up at her home. While Allison’s husband, Earl, who she described as “very outspoken,” “hospitable,” and “just so open,” readily welcomed the women in, Healy recalled being more tentative. “And for me,” she shared: I get kind of timid and especially, I’m not used to White people coming to my home. And I get kind of embarrassed and here, my husband is always so welcome, “Come in, sit down.” And of course we know our cousin but the other lady, non-Native, she was very cordial and right away she just fit in and started carrying a conversation. And so we were visiting for awhile and later on Eva [the non-Indigenous Baha’i] started to talk about the Faith and my cousin was standing behind Earl at the table, we were sitting around the table, and I was facing her and then I asked her in our language, “Are you in this faith?” And she shook her head. She was just laughing. And I told her in our language, I asked her, “Well, how come you brought this lady to talk to us about this faith if you’re not in 97 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 98 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 99 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. Klara Tyler, Lorintha Umtuch, Kevin Locke, and Robert George all noted relatively heavy missionary traffic on their respective reservations/reserves (Makah, Yakama, Standing Rock Sioux, and Cowichan) as well. Klara Tyler, interview; Umtuch, interview; Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008; Robert George, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 5 Oct 2004. 100 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 154 it?” She was just laughing. But Eva had been talking to Earl and Earl, he’s very argumentative too. He kept trying to raise up an argument about what Eva was saying and Eva continued. And then before they left she left us with some pamphlets and I had forgotten what I did with them, but I never looked at them after they left.101 Healy explained that there were a number of pioneers, including Joyce McGuffie, who had herself become a Baha’i while teaching at a school on the Peigan Reserve, living in the nearby town of Cardston and as the weather warmed, they continued to visit.102 They were, Healy recalled, “very consistent” in this.103 She identified the concrete conduct of Baha’is, as much if not more than abstract principle, as a tremendous source of attraction to the religion. In an ongoing context of colonialism, where racism was rampant and non-Indigenous visits to reserves rare, Healy was struck by what she described as the demonstration of “genuine love”: At first I would forever be apologetic about my home situation and not used to White people coming and thinking, “Oh, they’re not going to like our food, they’re not going to like our lifestyle.” We think the non-Native are so perfect. But the Baha’is who came were so cordial and so friendly. They were just part of the family. I soon got rid of that feeling because, like I said, my husband is so open and the Baha’is come and if they happen to come while we’re eating he’ll tell them, “Sit down, eat with us.” And although they bring their own lunch, they’ll sit down and eat whatever we have and then after they’d help with the dishes and play with the kids and they were just right in with the family and I soon forgot that they were White.104 That these visits, which took place within such an intimate domestic sphere, had the power to transcend race, even temporarily, is striking and speaks powerfully to the sense of shared humanity that Baha’i encounter could confirm.105 For a woman who spent eleven years in a residential school, followed by time trying to make it in racist rural and urban Alberta, this was 101 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 102 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. On Joyce McGuffie: Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 70-71, 311 (fn 10). 103 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 104 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 105 Many other narrators likewise commented on the conduct of and connections with non-Indigenous Baha’is. For example: Locke, interview; Klara Tyler, interview; Umtuch, interview. In an interview with religious studies scholar Linda Covey, Diné Baha’i Chester Kahn described White Baha’is who he met in Nevada in the 1950s as “a ‘different kind of white people’ than he had ever known.” Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 84. 155 something new. “So that’s what attracted me,” Healy stressed, “this love from the Baha’is, which I never really experienced this love.”106 She was also drawn by answers she found to questions lingering from her residential school education. Through pioneers like McGuffie, a teacher by trade who Healy credited with providing her a strong foundation in the religion, Healy learned more about Christianity as well as the Baha’i Faith and moved beyond what she described as a theology of fear disseminated at residential school. Like a number of other narrators, Healy described American Baha’i author William Sears’ 1961 Thief in the Night, or The Strange Case of the Missing Millennium as an especially formative text.107 As she recalled of her process of investigation: I was reading, and not only reading that book, I had a Bible, because in the boarding school we were never taught about the Bible. And what was written in this holy book. What we learned was very limited I think, repetitious prayers and being scared of where we’re gonna be going. You either be good or bad. But it made more sense to learn about what I learnt from Joyce and then I had this Bible which we were never taught about. I only started to open it after learning about the Faith because Baha’u’llah, in his writings, refers to quotes from the Bible and he clarifies them. So that’s why I had the Bible and my dictionary and in the Baha’i writings there’s some really high words and so I had the book I was reading, the dictionary, and the Bible. And so it took me a long time to finish this book.108 Healy noted that her initial intent was to find fault in Sears’ argument that Christ had returned, a case Sears built by examining, through a first-person narrative, Biblical prophecies and early- 106 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 107 William Sears, Thief in the Night, or The Strange Case of the Missing Millennium, 23rd reprint (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 2012 [1961]). Sears was a journalist and radio and television personality in the United States before he pioneered to South Africa with his family in 1953. His obituary in the 1986-1992 volume of The Bahá’í World observes that Sears wrote Thief in the Night “to fill a need, to answer the question asked repeatedly by people of primarily Christian backgrounds in southern Africa.” William Sears Jr., “William Sears, 1911-1992,” in The Bahá’í World: An International Record, Volume 20, 1986-1992 (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1998), 798. As a “Hand of the Cause of God” (Baha’is appointed by Baha’u’llah, Abdu’l-Baha, and Shoghi Effendi and charged with special responsibility for the propagation and protection of the religion), Sears was also connected to the Indigenous teaching field in North America. At a 1962 Baha’i-sponsored powwow in the Qu’Appelle Valley in southern Saskatchewan, for example, he gave an address he dubbed a “Baha’i book review” of antimodernist Ernest Thompson Seton’s 1936 text, Gospel of the Redman. William Sears, “The American Indian and the Bahá’i Faith,” unpublished manuscript (1962), Library, Association for Bahá’í Studies North America, Ottawa, Ontario. 108 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. For context on residential school education in Canada see J.R. Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision: A History of Native Residential Schools (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996), Part Two, “Experiencing Residential Schools.” 156 nineteenth-century millenarian expectations surrounding 1844, the year that the Bab declared his mission. Through this and other readings, however, Healy was ultimately convinced.109 She recalled, in particular, how the religion helped her reconcile concerns about spiritual access and authority: Because I always thought the priests, I guess we look up to them as gods. One time, in the Catholic Church you have to confess to the priest but I didn’t know that before. When we go into the confessional, I’m gonna start telling my sins, I have my eyes closed and I’m thinking I’m talking to God. One time I had no response because we get these, penance they call them, you have to say so many Hail Marys, depending how many sins you made. So this one time it was so quiet. I didn’t hear any voice. And then I looked up and I seen this priest that I know. And I just overcame fear, the fear in me and thinking, “Have I been telling my sins to him all these times?” And then I guess I woke him up when I made the noise to get up. Because the confessional is separated from him on the other side and there was just a little screen there. When I quickly got up to move, he looked up and he said, “Oh,” as if he let on that he wasn’t sleeping, he just told me to say how many prayers and I was so shocked. I thought, “My goodness.” I was really shocked that day. And then after that I always think about that. I used to always wonder, “Why do we have to say our sins to the priest? Why?” I thought, our communication, our spiritual communication, is with God and these were the kinds of questions I used to wonder about.110 The independent investigation of truth that the Baha’i teachings called for was not limited to “seekers.” Rather, in the same way that adherents were charged with the responsibility to build up Baha’i community life and institutions like Local Spiritual Assemblies, they were likewise instructed to observe a practice of daily prayer and scriptural reading and encouraged to “deepen” themselves in the faith through ongoing engagement with Baha’i texts.111 This was a significant shift from the hierarchical Catholic structure that Healy had experienced through her youth. The 109 Other narrators who described Sears’ text as a strong influence include: Addison, interview; Lee Brown, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 21 March 2008; Gubatayao-Hagen, interview; Voyageur; Covey, interview. The historian Louis Venters recently described Thief in the Night as “The classic popular Bahá’í treatment of Biblical prophecy.” Louis Venters, “‘Most Great Reconstruction’: The Baha’i Faith in Jim Crow South Carolina, 1898-1965 (PhD Thesis, University of South Carolina, 2010), 20 (fn 22). Baha’i scholars William P. Collins and Peter Smith also note the text’s wide popular appeal and diffusion: “Babi and Baha’i Millennialism,” in Catherine Wessinger, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 487. 110 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 111 For discussion of these instructions see McMullen, The Bahá’í, 77-81. For Baha’u’llah’s original injunctions see Bahá’u’lláh, The Kitáb-i-Aqdas (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1992), 21-22, 73-74, accessed online 18 April 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/KA/. 157 practice of Baha’i study and deepening, she noted, demanded perseverance (and a certain level of literacy as well) and proved challenging for some Indigenous Baha’is whose engagement with Christianity and residential schools had rendered them, in the words of another Blackfoot Baha’i, very “minister oriented.”112 (Likewise, Healy observed that building and sustaining the local administrative structure called for within the faith was (and remains) a struggle, especially after the wave of pioneers with whom she studied left and administrative boundaries were redrawn, leaving on-reserve Local Spiritual Assemblies in her region isolated). Still, Healy stressed that the opportunity for personal study and worship, and direct contribution to religious community development, was tremendously empowering and she, like many other narrators, has dedicated decades to this work.113 This sense of personal agency extended to Healy’s formal declaration as a Baha’i as well. Like Bighorn, Healy recalled being anxious about not knowing enough about the Baha’i Faith or being able to live up to its lofty principles, but described coming to realize, “‘Well, God is the All Knowing, the All Wise, how could I know everything about the Faith before I believe?’” She explained how after several years of study and consistent visits by Baha’is, “all of a sudden I felt I was ready to really accept Baha’u’llah and his teachings.” She recalled the subsequent exchange with great detail and emotion: And all of a sudden I asked Joyce, I think she also had forgotten that we’re not Baha’is, and all of a sudden I asked her, “Oh, do you have a card?” And she says, “What card?” The older lady I thought was so cute. I said, “Well, you know those cards you sign to become a…” “Oh.” And she just had a great exclamation and told Eva, “Eva! Do you have a card? I can’t find one in my bag.” ‘Cause she was starting to put her stuff away. And Eva said, “No, but I can check in the car.” She runs out and it was in the month of 112 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008; Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008. 113 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. Linda Covey makes a similar observation concerning Diné Baha’is, arguing that the Baha’i “religious matrix” (a term she borrows from Lewis Rambo), including the “Administrative Order,” helped foster “autonomy, empowerment, and religious self-governance” for Diné adherents. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 21. 158 February, we still had winter, she runs out and she comes back in with a card and then I was sitting there so calmly. The power of choice is abundantly clear here. For this was, Healy continued: such a blessed feeling, because that was my very first time to make a choice. That was really something, a special feeling. It makes me emotional. But anyway, my husband came from the other room and he was getting ready to go play hockey, he came running when he heard all this commotion and he says, “Oh, do you know what you’re doing?” And still I was so calm, I thought nobody was gonna stop me. At that time I just felt like a bird just flew out of the cage and nobody’s gonna put me back in here. I had my own choice, my very right, my own very right to sign this card and for me it was a great blessing and that was my feeling. I didn’t care about anybody else, not even my husband. So I signed my card and he says, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I said, “Yes, I’m sure.” And then Joyce and Eva, they were so happy and it was such a happy occasion. So, that was in ’72, February, and since then I’ve been so busy.114 This is evocative illustration of the potential power of the act of declaration itself, of the power to choose one’s own fate and faith. Healy positioned this uplifting experience most directly in the context of colonialism, yet as her reference to her husband indicates, her reflections articulate a fresh sense of female agency as well. In both of my interviews with Healy she directly tied this element of choice to an allied experience of strengthened self-identification as Indigenous. As she put this in our first interview together: “I was happy to be a Baha’i because like I said, it was my greatest experience to know that I have a right to choose for myself. That was a really happy experience. And then the other thing is to know my identity.”115 This knowledge came, for Healy, in the context of Indigenous ceremony, something she came to participate in after becoming a Baha’i and in specific support of her husband who, she explained, “was going through his sobriety by going to a medicine man.”116 She described her first sweat lodge as an especially numinous experience. Speaking to cultural change in this period, Healy noted that while only men entered the lodge when she was 114 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 115 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 116 Allison Healy, interview with the author, North Vancouver, British Columbia, 16 January 2009. 159 young, this sweat was mixed, with women seated on one side and men on the other. She described finding the heat and steam difficult at first, but recalled that she “just kept praying, praying.” “I really had an experience in there,” she shared in our second interview (and in phrasing strikingly similar to our first): with the rattles and eagle feathers and it just seemed like they were just on me all the time. And so at the end of the ceremony I was talking to the medicine man and I was asking him what these things meant. That I was experiencing. And he told me that, “Well, your beliefs are very strong. It’s not because you’re a bad person. You’re being tested for how strong your faith is and you have a really strong faith.” So after experiencing these kind of ceremonies, I felt like, “Oh, now I found myself.” You know, as a Native person. I found who I really am and there’s nothing wrong with it. I’m not committing a sin, it’s all a belief and the medicine man did mention it too that, “You’re being tested about how strong your faith is.” And then being a Baha’i and from all what I read and learned, everything just came together.117 The relationship between the Baha’i Faith and Indigenous cultural practice was something that Healy’s husband, who became a Baha’i three years after her, came to question, but which she readily reconciled. As she recalled: I know for my husband, he was going through his sobriety with the Indian ceremonies and then he became a Baha’i but then he was getting puzzled at one time wondering, did he have to make a choice, to stay with the traditional way and the beliefs? And then he started to question about the Faith. And at that time, as best I could explain it to him, I said, “You didn’t have to make a choice. Baha’u’llah didn’t say, ‘To become a Baha’i you have to leave this.’” Everything just comes together and that’s how I felt I found my true identity.118 In both her interviews, Healy directly situated her Baha’i declaration in the context of her residential school history and the diminished sense of self that it stimulated. Drawing also on the same discourse of rebirth deployed by Bighorn, she continued: And I became so proud of who I am, like I just felt like a new person. I guess I experienced when they say, ‘You’re born again.’ Like I felt I was just born, knowing who I am. That I could make my own choices. For me, I have to look after myself. I have to know who I am and it just renewed my spirit, that I’m not ashamed. I used to be ashamed after coming out of the boarding school. I was ashamed of my identity. Being a Native 117 Healy, interview, 16 January 2009. 118 Healy, interview, 16 January 2009. 160 person. Some people thought I was Chinese and I’d go for that. Just to fit in. But all that just disappeared from me after participating. And that was back in ’74 and I became a Baha’i in ’72. And this was two years after I participated in the Native ceremony. So everything just came together as one. I felt whole. Yeah, before I was just living, not really knowing who I am. So I just renewed my spirit and became, I guess I became real. That’s the best way I could explain, finding my true identity.119 For a woman who had been racialized throughout her life as an Indian, this process of renewal and identification, combined with the power to choose, was deeply empowering. While Healy employed the terms “Native” and “Indian” alike in describing the Indigenous identity that she found (or, fostered) by way of her Baha’i declaration, she explained elsewhere that she cultivated a more specific Blackfoot identification as well. Choosing the Faith Healy shared these specific thoughts about “finding her identity” in response to my request at the start of our second interview together that she elaborate on the subject, something she had spoken to during our first interview as well. In both cases, she shared similar stories (regarding her experiences at residential school and in her first sweat lodge ceremony, for example), at times almost verbatim, revealing a composed declaration story. My aim in this chapter has not been to track the historical trajectory or set down the key conventions and rhetorical functions of a specifically Baha’i genre of declaration narrative.120 Nevertheless, the 119 Healy, interview, 16 January 2009. In addition to the Christian evangelical connotation of being born-again discussed above, the concept of rebirth also resonates in relation to the sweat lodge. For reflection in the context of the Lakota sweat lodge see Arval Looking Horse, “The Sacred Pipe in Modern Life,” in Raymond J. DeMallie and Douglas R. Parks, eds., Sioux Indian Religion: Tradition and Innovation (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1987), 72. The Lakota sweat lodge ceremony (inipi, which the Lakota anthropologist Bea Medicine translates as “to live again”) strongly informed intertribal spiritual practice in the period Healy became a Baha’i; though she did not specify the style of sweat lodge ceremony that she and her husband took part in, it is quite possible, particularly given the widespread incorporation of the inipi into drug and alcohol treatment efforts in “Indian Country,” that she was exposed to this philosophy as well. On the inipi, including Medicine’s translation, see Bucko, The Lakota Ritual of the Sweat Lodge, 122-124. 120 The historian D. Bruce Hindmarsh, for example, has tracked the rise and fall of the evangelical Christian conversion narrative in the context of early modern England in The Evangelical Conversion Narrative. See also Peter G. Stromberg, Language and Self Transformation: A Study of the Christian Conversion Narrative (Cambridge: 161 oral histories analyzed in this chapter certainly reveal a shared plot of seeking. Reflecting back on their processes of becoming Baha’i, Shales, Greenaway, Bighorn, and Healy all described, each in her own way, being on a path of search that led them, after investigation, to take up this new “rational religion.” In narrating their experiences of becoming Baha’i through this discourse and framing, these women expressed their current Baha’i identities. At the same time, the discourse of rational religion that they deployed also signals a faith that made sense – or, better, which these women themselves made sense of – in the context of their own specific histories. They elected to join the Baha’i Faith of their own volition and in choosing the religion, and later reflecting on the process in their interviews with me, activated and articulated their own agency, as women and Indigenous people alike. Their particular reasons for becoming Baha’i were personal, yet also shared: this was a religion that helped reconcile what they and their relatives had experienced and perceived as hypocrisy and prejudice from Christian churches, and settler society more generally, which opened space for a diverse membership and belonging. There could be, as Bighorn’s history demonstrates most directly, a utilitarian draw for declaration. And becoming Baha’i could prompt a process that both she and Healy described as being “born-again.” Resilient assumptions regarding Indigenous conversion as turning and assimilation might prime one to read such religious rebirth as a rejection of Indigeneity. What these Baha’i declarations reveal instead, however, is a process of becoming and deepened identification as Indigenous. The rupture that Healy, specifically, described was not from a previously pure or static Indigeneity, but rather a rootless sense of self stimulated through colonialism, in general, and her time at residential Cambridge University Press, 1993); Wayne C. Booth, “The Rhetoric of Fundamentalist Conversion Narratives,” in Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, eds. Fundamentalisms Comprehended (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 367-395. The anthropologist Clinton Westman attends closely to Pentecostal discourse and genre in “Understanding Cree Religious Discourse (Ph.D. Thesis, University of Alberta, 2008). 162 school, in particular. As she stimulated a strengthened Blackfoot identity through her declaration, Shales and Bighorn likewise deepened their specific tribal identities through the same process. Further illustrating the wide range of Indigenous identifications that narrators came to assemble under the Baha’i umbrella, Greenaway came through her declaration to openly identify as a woman of Métis and Chinese (and “Anglo-Saxon,” in the way of her education) heritage. Baha’i practice, as we will see in coming chapters, sometimes differed from theory. But this did not negate, in historical time or in subsequent interview reflection, the empowering act and process of choosing the Faith. 163 Chapter 5: Declaring Spirituality Then a Voice said: “Behold this day, for it is yours to make. Now you shall stand upon the center of the earth to see, for there they are taking you.” I was still on my bay horse, and once more I felt the riders of the west, the north, the east, the south, behind me in the formation, as before, and we were going east. I looked ahead and saw the mountains there with rocks and forests on them, and from the mountains flashed all colors upward to the heavens. Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy. Then as I stood there, two men were coming from the east, head first like arrows flying, and between them rose the day-break star. They came and gave a herb to me and said: “With this on earth, you shall undertake anything and do it.” It was the day-break-star herb, the herb of understanding, and they told me to drop it on the earth. I saw it falling far, and when it struck the earth it rooted and grew and flowered, four blossoms on one stem, a blue, a white, a scarlet, and a yellow; and the rays from these streamed upward to the heavens so that all creatures saw it and in no place was there darkness.1 These are the words of the Oglala Lakota holy man Black Elk (1863-1950), as rendered by his biographer and adopted relative, American poet John G. Neihardt (Flaming Rainbow) in the 1932 text, Black Elk Speaks.2 They detail part of a powerful vision that Black Elk experienced at the age of nine, a vision particular to the Lakota people, but which carried wider global valence as well. According to the anthropologist Raymond DeMallie, it was Neihardt who injected a strong universal orientation into Black Elk Speaks. As DeMallie adds, however, “Black 1 John G. Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks: Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux The Premier Edition, annotated by Raymond J. DeMallie (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2008 [1932]), 33-34. 2 Ronald Neizen characterizes Black Elk Speaks as “spiritual biography” in Spirit Wars: Native North American Religions in the Age of Nation Building (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 208. 164 Elk himself provided the basis for Neihardt’s interpretation.” In the original transcript in which he relates his vision to Neihardt, Black Elk explained that “‘The sacred hoop means the continents of the world and the people shall stand as one.’”3 He likewise articulated an expansive sense of place. As Neihardt detailed in a note to the above passage, “Black Elk said the mountain he stood upon in his vision was Harney Peak in the Black Hills [in South Dakota]. ‘But anywhere is the center of the world,’ he added.”4 Black Elk Speaks did not garner wide readership when it was first published in 1932. Reissued in paperback in 1961, however, it attracted not only a faithful non-Indigenous audience, but a youthful Indigenous demographic as well.5 In a context of growing intertribal interaction, activism, and identification, Black Elk Speaks became what the Sioux scholar Vine Deloria Jr. described in his introduction to the 1979 edition of the text as “a North American Bible of all tribes.”6 Thus it was, for example, that in Seattle, Washington, the intertribal organization United Indians of All Tribes took up Black Elk’s vision as namesake and architectural inspiration for the Daybreak Star Cultural Center that the group opened on the site of a former army base, Fort Lawton, in 1977.7 Perhaps not surprisingly, given its simultaneously Indigenous and global valence, Black Elk’s vision resonated with Baha’is as well. Vinson Brown and William Willoya, the Baha’i authors of the 1962 text, Warriors of the Rainbow: Strange and Prophetic Dreams of the Indian Peoples, for example, included Black Elk’s vision among the series of Indigenous stories they 3 DeMallie in Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks, 33 (fn 28). 4 Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks, 33. 5 DeMallie, “John G. Neihardt and Black Elk,” in Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks, 295. 6 Vine Deloria Jr., “Introduction to Black Elk Speaks [1979],” in James Treat, ed., For This Land: Writings on Religion in America (New York: Routledge, 1999), 233. 7 Lawney Reyes, Bernie Whitebear: An Urban Indian’s Quest for Justice (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2006), 112-113. In this way, Black Elk became part of what the historian Coll Thrush has called Seattle’s Indigenous “place-story.” Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 171-173. 165 presented portending the arrival, from the east, of a new message of global unity.8 Although the formal standing of Indigenous holy people remains a subject of discussion among some Baha’is (who contemplate whether they classify as “major” or “minor” prophets), from the start of Baha’i outreach in Indigenous North America at mid-century, teachers readily incorporated them into the religion’s evolutionary lineage.9 Many Indigenous people who became Baha’is likewise did so on account of spiritual connections that they drew between the faith and their own tribal teachings and worldviews. The ethnomusicologist Pauline Tuttle accordingly opens her study of Lakota Baha’i (and narrator in this project) Kevin Locke with a portion of the epigraph above and explores how Locke has interpreted the religion as fulfillment and renewal not just of Black Elk’s vision but also the teachings of Lakota messenger Ptehíŋčhala Ská Wíŋ, or White Buffalo Calf 8 Vinson Brown and William Willoya, Warriors of the Rainbow: Strange and Prophetic Dreams of the Indian Peoples (Happy Camp, CA: Naturegraph, 1987 [1962]), 56-60. This text was authored by White Baha’i and biologist, Vinson Brown, and Inuit Baha’i, William Willoya; it also included contributions, in the way of story and artwork, from several other Indigenous and non-Indigenous Baha’is. Detailing visions and prophecies from a range of Indigenous spiritual traditions (primarily North American, but also global), the slim volume contains, with the exception of two sources in the bibliography, no explicit Baha’i references. Read with this genealogy in mind, however, Warriors reads as a clear presentation of progressive revelation and affirms the place of Indigenous prophets in this lineage. Correspondence between Vinson Brown and the American Indian Service Committee confirm that the text was indeed conceived as Baha’i teaching literature and that the Indigenous stories it contains were edited to emphasize Baha’i themes. The National Spiritual Assembly, however, determined after its pre- publication review of the text that it should not include the word “Baha’i,” or even be distributed to Baha’is after publication. American Indian Service Committee, Files on Individuals, Vinson Brown, 1962-1967, n.d., National Bahá’í Archives, United States. The Baha’i origins of the book are little-known among non-Baha’is and Warriors of the Rainbow is more readily recognized as the namesake of environmental organization Greenpeace’s ship, The Rainbow Warrior. Rex Weyler, Greenpeace: How a Group of Journalists, Ecologies, and Visionaries Changed the World (Vancouver: Raincoast Books, 2004), 397, 593 (fn 3), 605 (fn 16). 9 Some teaching materials made general references to Indigenous holy people while others mentioned specific figures such as Black Elk. See, for example, Charles Cooke, translator, “A-De-Rih-Wa-Nie-Ton On-Kwe-On-We- Neh-Ha: A Message to the Iroquois Indians” (Toronto: Bahá’í Publishing Committee, [195?]) and National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of Canada, “Okí! Nitsítapee: A Message to the Blackfeet Indians” (Toronto: Baha’i Publishing Committee, 1955), National Bahá’í Archives, Canada; “A Promise to the Indians,” unpublished and undated teaching pamphlet from Fort Yates, North Dakota, Kenneth Jeffers Papers, M-378, Box 15, National Bahá'í Archives, United States. For discussion of the station of Indigenous prophets see Donald Addison and Christopher Buck, “Messengers of God in North America Revisited: An Exegesis of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Tablet to Amír Khán,” Online Journal of Bahá'í Studies 1 (2007): 180-270; Christopher Buck, “Native Messengers of God in Canada?: A Test Case for Bahá’í Universalism,” Baha'i Studies Review 6 (1996): 97-133; William P. Collins, “Commentary on Christopher Buck’s ‘Native Messengers of God in Canada?: A Test Case for Bahá’í Universalism,’” World Order 8 (1998): 55-58; Pauline Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops: The Integration of Lakota Ancestral Knowledge and Bahá’í Teachings in the Performative Practices of Kevin Locke” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2002), 188. 166 Woman.10 Further, the religious studies scholar Linda Covey has illustrated how many Diné Baha’is in the Southwest were moved to declare by what they found as fulfillment of traditional narratives of the Unity Chants and Warrior Twins.11 Studies of Tlingit and Tagish Baha’is in the Yukon have also illuminated the influence of dreaming upon declaration and explored the flexibility of prophecy as interpretive idiom.12 The anthropologist Julie Cruikshank, for example, has perceptively illustrated how stories about the same shaman, Major, have been shared in order to explain and reconcile Christian and Baha’i conversion alike.13 This certainly complicates the resilient view of Indigenous religious conversion as assimilation and affiliated ideas concerning a pure static Indigenous tradition. One has only to look to the veritable publishing industry spawned by Black Elk, or Nicholas Black Elk as some prefer to call him, to see these tensions at play. Some consider Black Elk, who converted to Catholicism in 1904 and quickly began serving as a catechist (something that Neihardt excised from Black Elk Speaks, which concludes with the 1890 massacre of hundreds of Lakota people at Wounded Knee), as a trove of traditionalism, others claim him as a “Catholic regenerate,” while 10 Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops.” Locke (who also has Anishinabe heritage) echoed this interpretation of the White Buffalo Calf Woman in his interview with me: interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008. Some Lakota Baha’is share this interpretation. See, for example, Patricia Locke, “The Return of the ‘White Buffalo Calf Woman’ – Prophecy of the Lakota,” interview with Jacqueline Left Hand Bull, 1989, accessed online 13 May 2013, http://bci.org/prophecy-fulfilled/wbcalf.htm. For a discussion of Locke’s interpretation as an example of the flexibility of Indigenous “constitutive myths” see Scott Richard Lyons, X-Marks: Native Signatures of Assent (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 141-142. 11 Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011). Diné Baha’i Annie Kahn discusses the Unity Chant in a follow-up to Warriors of the Rainbow: Annie Kahn, Olin Karch, and Blu Mundy, Four Remarkable Indian Prophecies (Healdsburg, CA: Naturegraph Company, 1963), 3-6. 12 Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 39-62; Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000). 13 Julie Cruikshank, “Claiming Legitimacy: Prophecy Narratives from Northern Aboriginal Women,” in The Social Life of Stories: Narrative and Knowledge in the Yukon Territory (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1998), 131-135. See also Julie Cruikshank, in collaboration with Angela Sidney, Kitty Smith, and Annie Ned., Life Lived Like a Story: Life Histories of Three Yukon Native Elders (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1990), 154-158; Echevarria, “New Skin for an Old Drum,” 43; Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 137-138. 167 others still see him as “strategic syncretist.”14 Similar tensions have animated analysis of Indigenous prophecy, which, as the religious studies scholar Lee Irwin has documented, has served as a significant Indigenous interpretive idiom from the time of first contact. Prophetic movements arose in multiple contact zones in North America and scholars have rightly situated figures ranging from the 1760s holy man Neolin (Lenape) and turn-of-the-century prophets Handsome Lake/Ganioda’yo (Haudenosaunee) and Tenskwatawa (Shawnee) to later nineteenth- century figures like Plateau region dreamers Smohalla (Wanapum) and Skoláskin (Sanpoil) and founders of the Shaker Church, John Slocum (Squaxin), and the Ghost Dance movement, Wovoka (Paiute), in specific contexts of colonialism.15 At the same time, many have judged such movements inauthentic on the basis of Christian influence or reduced them to strategic cognitive theories such as deprivation, nativism, and revitalization. As Irwin argues, however, prophetic movements “were not simply a ‘revitalization’ but an ongoing vitality”; “The religious issues,” he elaborates, “are far more generative and genealogical as Native ways of thinking than they are as simply reactions to the impact of invasion.”16 Several historians of Indigenous Christian conversion have made similar arguments, demonstrating how Indigenous people predicted and 14 These phrases come from literary scholar Dana Anderson, who offers a useful evaluation of the Black Elk literature in “Black Elk Speaks and Is Spoken: The Dialectic of Constitutions Revisited,” in Identity’s Strategy: Rhetorical Selves in Conversion (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2007), 140-161. For another useful review of the voluminous Black Elk literature see DeMallie, “John G. Neihardt and Nicholas Black Elk,” 289-316. And for a reader that contains a range of perspectives see Clyde Holler, ed., The Black Elk Reader, (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2000). 15 Lee Irwin offers context on these figures, and others, in Coming Down From Above: Prophecy, Resistance, and Renewal in Native American Religions (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2008), 129-134 and 377-381 (Neolin), 155-171 (Handsome Lake/ Ganioda’yo), 177-194 (Tenskwatawa), 255-263 (Smohalla), 263-267 (Skolaskin), 267-277 (John Slocum), 299-315 (Wovoka). For a useful review of Indigenous prophecy movements, including citations of larger literature, see also Gregory E. Smoak, Ghost Dances and Identity: Prophetic Religion and American Indian Ethnogenesis in the Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 197- 198. 16 Irwin, Coming Down From Above, 8 (emphasis in original). For discussion of deprivation, nativism, and revitalization see Irwin, Coming Down From Above, 7-8; Smoak, Ghost Dances and Identity, 198-202. For a recent reassessment of revitalization (what the anthropologist Anthony C. Wallace defined as “a deliberate, organized, conscious effort to construct a more satisfying culture”), in particular, see Michael Harkin, ed, Reassessing Revitalization Movements: Perspectives from North America and the Pacific Islands (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2004). 168 made meaning of Christianity by way of Indigenous spiritual mediums such as prophecy, dream, and vision in a number of colonial contact zones.17 Where the last chapter considered the “rational” process of choosing the Faith, I turn in this one to examine spiritual declaration stories. These distinctions, again, are not total. In the same way that the last chapter included discussion of dreams, for example, we see paths of search, processes of investigation, and empowering expressions of choice here too. Further, as I noted in the introduction to this study, all declaration stories are in their own way spiritual. Yet with little prompting from me, the three subjects of this chapter shared particularly composed stories that stressed Indigenous spiritual interpretation (and, by extension, identification) and it is this aspect of declaration that I analyze here. Phil Lane Jr., Lee Brown, and Jacob Bighorn became Baha’is in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, in Pendleton, Seattle, and Salem, respectively. Their paths sometimes crossed directly. Lane and Brown, for example, were both involved with United Indians of All Tribes in Seattle, and Lane and Bighorn were brothers-in-law. All three were inspired to become Baha’is and subsequently reflected on the process in their interviews with me by way of Indigenous spiritual influences and interpretations including symbolism, synchronicity, dream, vision, and prophecy.18 This chapter simultaneously illuminates such shared idioms and the diverse possibilities that narrators found for combining Indigenous and Baha’i spirituality, 17 See, for example, Joel W. Martin, “Visions of Revitalization in the Eastern Woodlands: Can a Middle-Aged Theory Stretch to Embrace the First Cherokee Converts?” in Michael Harkin, ed, Reassessing Revitalization Movements: Perspectives from North America and the Pacific Islands (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 61-87; Susan Neylan, The Heavens are Changing: Nineteenth-Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queens University Press, 2003), Chapter 7 (“Prophets, Revivals, and Evangelists”). 18 On concepts of relationship, symbolism, and synchronicity in Indigenous worldviews see Vine Deloria Jr., “Relativity, Relatedness, and Reality” and “If You Think About It, You Will See That it is True,” in Barbara Deloria, Kristen Foehner, and Sam Scinta, eds., Spirit and Reason, The Vine Deloria Jr., Reader (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 1999), 32-39, 40-60. On prophecy, dream, and vision as Indigenous spiritual knowledge see Lee Irwin, The Dream Seekers: Native American Visionary Traditions of the Great Plains (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1994), 21 and Coming Down from Above. Not all Indigenous cultures accord the same significance to such elements. As Irwin observes, for example, “Navajo religion does not emphasize dreams or visions, even though both are recognized as important sources of guidance for innovation.” Coming Down From Above, 364. Linda Covey makes a similar observation in her thesis, “Diné Becoming Baha’i,” 157. 169 specifically in urban and off-reservation contexts in the Pacific Northwest. Lane, for his part, articulated his declaration as a clear extension of a family history of Dakota Christian leadership, while Brown became a Baha’i in an explicit context of intertribal spiritual experience and exchange, one that included both Lane and Black Elk. Bighorn, who was propelled to declare by a dream, likewise connected the Baha’i Faith with Black Elk’s vision and reflected on this intersection in more specific Lakota perspective. Together, this intersecting trio of declaration stories inserts the Baha’i Faith into a dynamic context of urban intertribal spiritual exchange, while illustrating ongoing connections with family and tribal history too.19 And it hints at the construction of Indigenous Baha’i community as well. While this chapter focuses on three men, there were certainly Indigenous Baha’i women, including several narrators in this project, in the Pacific Northwest in the period that Lane, Brown, and Bighorn became Baha’is.20 The decision to focus this chapter, like the last, on narrators of a single gender emerged again through shared narrative and historical threads. In the same way that women who shared rational declaration stories may have been speaking back 19 In this way, this chapter, like this study more broadly, helps unsettle an enduring binary between on- and off- reservation contexts and the allied assumption that, as Renya Remirez has explained, “urban Indians [are] exiles without culture, stuck in a liminal space between the traditional and the modern, problematically separated from an authentic ideal of Indian culture and identity.” Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007), 21. See also Penelope Kelsey, “Gathering the Threads Together: Comparative Urban/Rural/Diasporic/Multitribal Nationalisms,” in M. Bianet Castellanos, Lourdes Gutiérrez Nájera, and Arturo J. Aldama, eds., Comparative Indigeneities of the Américas: Toward a Hemispheric Approach (Tuscon: University of Arizona Press, 2012), 23-37; Thrush, Native Seattle, esp. Chapter 9; Joan Weibel-Orlando, Indian Country, L.A.: Maintaining Ethnic Community in Complex Society, Revised Edition (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1999), esp. 114-117, 131, 153-177. Where Weibel-Orlando has illuminated the role of churches in the construction of Indigenous community in Los Angeles, here we find religious interactions outside such structure and physical and story links between city and tribal homeland as well. 20 Indeed, it is not my intent here to reproduce the androcentrism that characterizes much scholarship on the so- called Red Power period and urban Indigenous activism. For studies that challenge this framing see Chelsea Horton, “Beyond Red Power: The Alternative Activism of Dorothy Maquabeak Francis,” The Journal of Bahá’í Studies 14, no.3/4 (Sept-Dec 2004), 34-71; Susan Applegate Krouse and Heather Howard-Bobiwash, eds., Keeping the Campfires Going: Native Women’s Activism in Urban Communities (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2009). Female narrators from this region include: Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008; Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008; Lorintha Umtuch, interview with the author, 21 June 2008; Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interviews with the author, by telephone, 11 July and 19 Aug 2008. 170 to images of the “religious woman,” the subjects of this chapter may have been articulating space within an affective spiritual realm more closed, in Western discourse, to men. In addition to sharing richly composed spiritual declaration stories, Lane, Brown, and Bighorn were also among the most forthcoming narrators in this study on the subject of intercultural Baha’i tension. As I elaborate in the conclusion to this chapter, desire to open and air these issues may also have informed their choices to share with me in an expressly spiritual key. A Family Heritage Phil Lane Jr. opened our interview together by offering a prayer “to give thanksgiving,” he explained, “for your coming here and the opportunity to share from my heart of hearts this journey that I’ve gone through, my spiritual journey and history and background, my relationship with the Baha’i Faith.”21 He also took care to detail his family history. Lane focused, in particular, on his father’s side and a spiritual lineage stretching back to his great-great- grandfather, Saswe, or François Deloria.22 Lane explained that his father, Philip Lane Sr., who spent formative time living with one of Saswe’s sons, Tipi Sapa/Philip Joseph Deloria, as a child, went to significant effort to share family stories with his children. These “old stories” were a particularly influential context in which Lane both responded to the religion and later reflected on the process in his interview with me. Lane’s initial impulse to declare came through 21 Philip Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 Jan 2009. 22 Lane’s relative Vine Deloria Jr. explains that “The Yanktonais could not pronounce ‘François,’ and so they reversed the sounds and called him ‘Saswe.’” Born in 1816, Saswe was the son of Mazaicunwin, “a prominent woman from the Blackfeet band of Tetons,” and François Xavier, who was the son of another François, a young Frenchman who was saved from starvation by “a band of Yanktonais Sioux” and eventually married into the tribe. Vine Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit: A Portrait of the Dakota Sioux (Santa Fe: Clear Light, 1999), 6-9. Saswe’s name is rendered variously in the historical record and later scholarship. Deloria Jr.’s father, Vine Deloria Sr., for example, calls him Francis; Deloria Jr.’s son, Philip J. Deloria, calls him Frank (the name, Deloria Jr. notes, that “appears on the treaty monument at Greenwood, South Dakota”). Vine V. Deloria, Sr., “The Establishment of Christianity Among the Sioux,” in Raymond J. DeMallie and Douglas R. Parks, eds., Sioux Indian Religion: Tradition and Innovation (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1987) 91; Philip J. Deloria, “Vine V. Deloria Sr.: Dakota,” in R. David Edmunds, ed. The New Warriors: Native American Leaders Since 1900 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 80. 171 inspiration he received while reading a Baha’i prayer, an experience he connected to Tipi Sapa’s Christian conversion. He likewise linked his declaration to Saswe and several key stories relating to this Yankton headman and healer. Indeed, Lane articulated his experience of becoming Baha’i as a clear extension of ancestral vision and family history. He also detailed how aspects of his own specific upbringing set him on a path that intimately informed his reaction to the Baha’i Faith when he unexpectedly encountered it in his early twenties. Lane explained, for example, that while he derived great strength from the spiritual education that his parents strove hard to supply, he also faced intense pressure from his father to excel and to be tough. “Some of it served,” he shared, “and some of it, he passed on a lot of the anger and the crap too, which I had to play out in my life.” Where his sister, Deloria, recalled encountering leniency from her parents, Lane described facing strict expectations and emphasized his effort and desire to please his father during his youth. Speaking, for example, to his involvement in athletics, Lane recalled: “I wanted to win so bad, to please my father, to be a good boy, because there was an underlying sense I think that came from my dad’s upbringing,” (his father had lost his parents at a young age and he attended Haskell Indian Boarding School in Kansas), “that I wasn’t a good boy. And so I wanted to be a good boy, more than anything in the whole world.” Lane stressed that by the time he reached his early teens, “I had really become tough. I mean, tough. Impervious to pain, physical pain. And I had really shut off my emotions.” He spoke also of an incident of sexual abuse that he suffered at the hands of an older male teenager when he was thirteen, reflecting in hindsight: “that had a deep impact on my psyche, I think. I think it really led me to a lot of later stuff in my life, an unhealthy relationship with 172 women and so forth.” Lane likewise emphasized how his tense but loving relationship with his father continued to impact his life course into adulthood.23 Lane spent a year travelling in Europe after graduating from high school in Walla Walla then enrolled at the University of Washington in Seattle (something his father arranged while Lane was abroad). His studies, however, were interrupted by an unplanned pregnancy. As he recalled: So I was doing fine, my [high school] wrestling career, I kind of put it to the side, and then when J.F. Kennedy was killed [in November 1963], I went to see this girlfriend of mine I had known during high school, and some alcohol was involved, we were intimate, and the next thing I know, around Christmastime, she called me and told me she was pregnant. So, I can tell you how I was raised. In those days, if somebody was pregnant, you married them. There was no such thing as having an abortion or telling them to have the baby, or leaving, it just wasn’t done. The way I was raised. If somebody got pregnant, then you married them. And part of me too was feeling like maybe this will help me settle down. Lane explained that he left the University of Washington to take up a wrestling scholarship at Olympic College in Bremerton, across Puget Sound from Seattle, and was settled in his new family life for a time. Back at the University of Washington (the UW) the next year, however, Lane sampled LSD, something that set him on a difficult course. “That I think really fouled me up,” he shared, “in a certain way”: And in a certain way, I just went through my thing. And that took me through a really rough period. I mean, a really rough period. I kept trying to wrestle. At the same time, I was suffering from alcoholism, drug abuse, I started taking diet pills in order to keep my weight down. I really, really intensely was, in a way, in a really rough spot. I mean, in a really rough spot. Lane explained, however, that in the midst of this heavy substance abuse and instability, he also began having “this deep spiritual longing,” “these spiritual inclinations,” “this spiritual hunger.”24 23 Lane, interview. This is also evident in letters that Lane wrote home to his parents from his pioneer post in Bolivia during the early 1970s. Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. 173 This was the context in which Lane described encountering the Baha’i Faith. He had in fact attended a Baha’i fireside during his senior year of high school, but noted that he did not remember this at the time. Indeed, Lane stressed that he knew virtually nothing about the religion when he was moved by a Baha’i prayer to declare. Lane left the UW before finishing his degree and was living back in Walla Walla when he came across a Baha’i prayer book at the home of a man with whom he described having a complicated relationship. This man was an artist and former Christian minister and Baha’i who had left the religion on account of tension over his being gay (homosexuality being, according to Shoghi Effendi, an “affliction” that is “spiritually condemned”).25 Lane explained that this man mentored him in various creative pursuits, but also attempted to cultivate an intimate relationship with him. As he recalled: And in myself, I already knew I preferred women. But I really liked him too. At the same time, the fact that he was trying to pull this deal on me, you know, he gave me André Gide to read and all these different things. Trying in some way to convince me that that would be a good way to be. But I just couldn’t. That wasn’t me. And yet I felt a love for him, because he gave me, during that time, you know, he got me introduced to acting and singing and all this creative side to me that I had.26 24 Lane, interview. 25 “From a Letter Written on Behalf of the Guardian to an Individual Believer, May 21, 1954,” in Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 365. The full excerpt reads: “Amongst the many other evils afflicting society in this spiritual low water mark in history, is the question of immorality, and over-emphasis of sex. Homosexuality, according to the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, is spiritually condemned [see section 107 of the Kitab-i-Aqdas]. This does not mean that people so afflicted must not be helped and advised and sympathized with. It does mean that we do not believe that it is a permissible way of life; which, alas, is all too often the accepted attitude nowadays. We must struggle against the evils in society by spiritual means, and medical and social ones as well. We must be tolerant but uncompromising, understanding but immovable in our point of view. The thing people need to meet this type of trouble, as well as every other type, is greater spiritual understanding and stability; and of course we Bahá’ís believe that ultimately this can only be given to mankind through the Teachings of the Manifestation of God for this Day.” Subsequent statements from institutions including the Universal House of Justice and the American National Spiritual Assembly have effectively drawn the same conclusion: homosexuals should not be treated with “‘prejudice and disdain,’” yet must bring themselves in line with Baha’i law and work to overcome what is cast as an unnatural condition. See Hornby, Lights of Guidance, 366-369; William Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America (London: Praeger, 2005), 170-171. 26 Lane, interview. Lane noted that Baha’i condemnation of homosexuality is a teaching he does not agree with, a point also made by Lee Brown, who shared the following on the subject: “I don’t agree that homosexuality is a sickness. I think homosexuality is natural, is part of what the Creator has made. I think that in Native culture people who are gay are viewed as having their own gifts, their own kinds of gifts and they have their own place. And I don’t like the attitudes towards homosexuals that a lot of Baha’is have. You know, it’s a homophobia.” Lee Brown, interview with the author, 21 March 2008. 174 In this context of sexual tension, struggle with addiction, and personal spiritual search, Lane picked up a Baha’i prayer book at this man’s home and read the Tablet of Ahmad. Written by Baha’u’llah in 1865 to a follower facing persecution, this letter (which Shoghi Effendi subsequently uplifted to special prayer status) encourages forbearance and forecasts uplift for those confronting “difficulties” and “afflictions.”27 The prayer resonated deeply with Lane, who recalled his visceral reaction: “I didn’t know anything about the history of the Baha’i Faith,” he stressed, “I knew nothing. But this prayer literally caught me on fire. It caused a spiritual fire, literally. I remember that profound experience I had reading that prayer.”28 Calling on the language of siddha yoga, a practice that he has observed since the early 1980s, Lane elaborated, “they talk about shaktipat, that’s where the kundalini is awakened.” “This thing,” he emphasized, “really caused an awakening in me.”29 In addition to describing this moment of awakening through the discourse of current spiritual practice, Lane also tied it back to family history. The imprint of Lane’s father on his life trajectory is clear, even from the partial history I have shared here, but their relationship was grounded, too, in the lives of relatives before them. Philip Lane Sr. shared many stories about Tipi Sapa, a Yankton Sioux leader and prominent Episcopal minister, with his children. And Lane linked his own moment of Baha’i awakening to Tipi Sapa’s Christian conversion. Early in 27 Bahá’u’lláh, “Tablet of Aḥmad,” in Bahá’u’lláh, the Báb, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Bahá’í Prayers: A Selection of Prayers Revealed by Bahá’u’lláh, the Báb, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1991), 208-213, accessed online 16 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/c/BP/; Shoghi Effendi, “Prayers (Daily Obligatory),” in Directives from the Guardian (India/Hawaii, 1973), 60, accessed online 11 Aug 2011, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/se/DG/. 28 Lane, interview. Lakota narrator Kevin Locke likewise described the impact of a Baha’i prayer on his own decision to declare as a Baha’i. After returning from a challenging fast, during which he had offered a prayer for spiritual direction for his people, Locke read Abdu’l-Baha’s “Tablet for the Central States” in Tablets of the Divine Plan; he did not declare immediately upon reading this text, but recalled a strong sense of resonance with his own prayer and was in turn propelled to continue his process of Baha’i investigation (which was sparked by pioneers to the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation, Diane and Gerald Henrikson). Locke, interview. 29 Lane, interview. For context on siddha yoga see Kathleen M. Erndl, “New Hindu Movements,” in Rosemary Skinner Keller and Rosemary Radford Ruether, eds., Encyclopedia of Women and Religion in North America Volume Two (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 670-671. 175 our interview, as he was describing the life of Tipi Sapa and his father, Saswe, Lane recommended that I read the book, Singing for a Spirit: A Portrait of the Dakota Sioux, written by one of Tipi Sapa’s grandchildren, Vine Deloria Jr. (if the “Philips,” “Delorias,” “Lanes” are somewhat hard to keep a handle on here, they are certainly indication of a strong family bond).30 “I think,” Lane explained of this book, “it will really help you a lot to understand this calling and how this all fits into the Baha’i Faith.”31 In Singing for a Spirit, which Deloria Jr. wrote in the aim of correcting and contextualizing White Episcopalian Sarah Olden’s The People of Tipi Sapa, a popular early-twentieth-century church account about his grandfather, he notes that Tipi Sapa “became attracted to Christianity in a strange way,” in turn reversing his prior plans to pursue a traditional warrior path.32 Deloria cites Olden’s text, and his grandfather’s voice contained therein, in explaining how, at the age of approximately seventeen, Tipi Sapa was one day drawn by the sound of singing as he rode past the Episcopal Mission on the Yankton Reservation on horseback; he returned on several “successive Sundays” until, on the fourth, he heard “the hymn I had longed for”: I stood next to a man who sang out of a book. From him I caught the words of the first verse and learned them by heart. When I left that church, able to carry the tune and sing the first verse of the Dakota translation of “Guide Me, O Though Great Jehovah,” I felt that I was the possessor of a great treasure. From that day on I attended the services with regularity, hoping to learn other things as beautiful as that hymn.33 Eventually, Tipi Sapa elaborated, after repeated dialogue with Reverend Joseph Cook: finally I compared the two courses which lay ahead, the heathen life and the Christian life, and after much deliberation, I made my decision. Going to Mr. Cook I gave myself up, had my long hair cut off, and assumed the dress of the white man. It was far from easy to go back and face my people, many of whom were disappointed and jeered at me. 30 Vine Deloria Jr. is the cousin of Lane and Deloria Bighorn’s father, Philip Lane Sr.; Vine Jr. and Lane Sr. are the sons of Tipi Sapa/Philip Deloria’s son, Vine Deloria Sr., and daughter, Lyma Lane, respectively. Phil Lane Jr. referred to Vine Deloria Jr. as both “uncle” and “grandfather” in our interview together. 31 Lane, interview. 32 Vine Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 42. 33 Cited in Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 42-43. 176 “Coward! He fears warfare,” “See, he chooses an easy life,” and many similar taunts were thrown at me.34 Tipi Sapa explained that he was confirmed in 1871, studied for several years in Nebraska and Minnesota, and became a lay reader quickly upon returning to his people in 1874. Deloria Jr. notes that while this is the story that the church and Tipi Sapa himself told about his Christian conversion, Tipi Sapa was surely also influenced by his father Saswe, “who had invited the Episcopalians to the reservation.”35 Lane and his sister, for their part, both shared stories about Tipi Sapa being reticent, even hostile, towards the church in his youth. They, like Deloria Jr., however, also explained how Tipi Sapa went on to combine tribal leadership with full-time church work on a number of reservations, including Standing Rock, where he was stationed for several decades.36 In Lane’s description, Tipi Sapa considered Christianity a viable path and position from which to work for the benefit and unification of his people under the constraints of late-nineteenth-century colonialism: he “really did come to believe that this was something that was the next stage in the spiritual journey for himself and for the people. That the other things were too broken to put back together again. At least at that time.”37 In recounting his own experience of Baha’i awakening, Lane linked this to the church story of Tipi Sapa’s Christian conversion. Struggling somewhat to articulate the connection, he shared: 34 Cited in Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 45. 35 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 45. Tipi Sapa was well respected in the Episcopal Church and his statue was included among “The Company of Heaven” in the National Cathedral in Washington in 1936. Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 83. 36 Lane, interview; Bighorn, interview; Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 48-84. 37 Lane, interview. Like his sister, Lane also made particular mention of Tipi Sapa’s work in founding the Planting Society, later the Brotherhood of Christian Unity, a mutual aid and ecumenical society (an effort that certainly resonates in Baha’i context). Lane, interview; Deloria Bighorn, interview. On these organizations see also Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 49-54; Deloria, “Vine V. Deloria, Sr.,” 82. For context on the “Plains Sioux” and settler colonialism in the period that Tipi Sapa took up Christianity see Jeffrey Ostler, The Plains Sioux and U.S. Colonialism From Lewis and Clark to Wounded Knee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), esp. Part 2. Ostler discusses Saswe and the Deloria family at 189-190. 177 in a way, I guess, because of it, I can really understand – how do I say it? Not that I’m of any similar thing as my great-grandfather, Tipi Sapa, but I really understand that experience he went through, that mystical experience he went through when he went to that church and became a Christian. Because the experience was, I said, “What is this? What is this thing? What is this? I had this experience, what is it?” Lane recalled that when the man at whose home he read the Tablet of Ahmad, John Ford, told him, “‘Well, this is the Baha’i Faith,’” his response was immediate: “‘I want to be a Baha’i.’ Simple as that.” He and Ford promptly travelled to nearby Pendleton, Oregon where they both enrolled (or reenrolled, in Ford’s case). The spiritual inspiration that he derived from reading the Tablet of Ahmad moved Lane not just to enroll, but also to pen a prayer of his own, which he kept, and shared in his interview with me.38 Despite being formally enrolled, however, Lane explained that he did not become immediately active in the Baha’i community. His complicated relationship with Ford took Lane to California, then England, and back to Los Angeles. His sense of spiritual search and hunger, he noted, persisted through this period and it was while living in Hollywood that Lane ended up at a fireside that greatly galvanized his Baha’i life. It was, he recalled, 2 March 1967, the first day of the annual Baha’i fast (something, he added, he was not aware of prior to arriving). Lane met his future (now-ex) wife, described in such vivid detail by his sister in the last chapter, at this gathering. “And at that point,” he stressed, “from there on, that was it. From that night, it stopped. Alcohol. Drugs. Women. A little temptation on the women side, but it really fell away. And I fell in love.” He described the period that followed as a “spiritual honeymoon”: “And I just totally got into being a Baha’i. I mean, totally into it. Completely. And that’s when I began understanding what it was about.”39 Lane recalled how he kept up this energy and activity when he and his new wife moved back to Walla Walla in 1968. He served on the Local Spiritual 38 Lane, interview. 39 Bighorn’s reflections on her visit with the couple in California (discussed in Chapter 4) suggest that the religion had indeed become a central focus of her brother’s life by this time. 178 Assembly and the couple regularly hosted large firesides at their home. Lane began coaching wrestling and teaching Native Studies at a local community college. He and his father also initiated a support program for Indigenous inmates, a form of service that other Indigenous Baha’is participated in elsewhere as well and, as his sister Deloria recalled, through which the Lane family connected with members of the American Indian Movement and their relatives.40 Looking back, Lane noted that he still “felt some temptations” from what he called his “old life,” and faced “little tests and difficulties” (a very Baha’i line that I heard from other narrators as well), but stressed that “I really was focused on being a Baha’i and I was a Native Baha’i and I had these prophecies to fulfill, and all this kind of stuff.”41 A good part of this energy derived from prophecy and an expectation, on Lane’s part, of imminent fulfillment. Lane made general mention of the consonance of Indigenous and Baha’i prophecies throughout our interview, pointing, for example, to “the prophecies of Wovoka,” the founder of the Ghost Dance movement, “who said that Jesus was going to come back.”42 The far more central framing of his declaration, as it he told it to me, however, are family stories. In addition to Tipi Sapa, who Lane referred to repeatedly throughout our interview, he also linked his Baha’i declaration back to Tipi Sapa’s father, Saswe. In his introduction to Singing for a Spirit, Vine Deloria Jr. explains that “the spiritual visions of Saswe” held and still hold great 40 Lane, interview; Bighorn, interview. I discuss Indigenous Baha’i service, including prison reform efforts, in further detail in Chapter 8. 41 Lane, interview. 42 Accounts about Wovoka’s visions vary. Lane’s mention, however, of the prophesied return of Jesus, together with Wovoka’s own account of being told by God, during a vision in 1889, “to return to earth, to tell his people that they had to be good, love one another, not quarrel, and live in peace with the whites,” readily resonates with the Baha’i messages of peace and progressive revelation. Irwin, Coming Down from Above, 302. See also Irwin, Coming Down From Above, 299-307 and, for a Baha’i reading of Wovoka, Brown and Willoya, Warriors of the Rainbow, 62-64. Deloria Bighorn also spoke to the Ghost Dance in her interview with me, connecting the timing of Baha’u’llah’s mission with contemporary Indigenous struggles on the Plains: “And the timing? Look at what Native people were going through in those times. Look at the search. What in the world was a Ghost Dance, but a search for God? A desperate search for the Creator. I mean, it just seemed very clear to me.” Deloria Bighorn, interview. 179 bearing on the history of the Deloria family and their specific religious trajectory.43 In a chapter on the influential medicine man, Deloria Jr. details one especially formative vision that, as Lane explained in his interview, “really has a big meaning to me.”44 Deloria Jr. relates that at one point in this vision, which Saswe experienced while on a vision quest as a young man, he came upon “a large black tipi” (what Lane called a “black lodge”), “in the middle of the road and so situated that he could not go around it.” “Recognizing that this encounter was something holy,” Deloria Jr. writes, Sawse entered the tipi, or lodge. There, he encountered two roads: On the left-hand road facing him were four human skeletons lined up in a row, extending a good distance down the track. These skeletons were seated with their legs bent, their upper torsos leaning forward, and their forearms resting on their knees. They were looking down at the road. On their arm and leg bones were tied large bundles of grass. As he looked from the skeletons to the road ahead, he saw that the road appeared chalky white. Taken together with the skeletons, it looked rather ordinary and unexciting. The road on the right was blood red. Looking down this road, Saswe saw four purification tents, small, black, and somber.45 At the end of each road was a bird, sitting and staring at Sawse: a black hawk on the left and a white owl on the right. The hawk eventually spoke, saying, Deloria Jr. relates, to Saswe “that he had to make a decision about the course of his life, that he must look carefully at the two roads. When he had made his choice, the meanings would be made clear to him.”46 After careful deliberation, Sawse selected the red road on the right. The owl and the hawk then clarified the implications of his choice. “Had he chosen it,” Deloria Jr. elaborates: the left-hand road with the four skeletons would have meant that Saswe would have four generations of prosperous descendants, but the people following him would be no more than skeletons with flesh who would contribute virtually nothing to the world. It would have been a safe but completely nondescript family that nonetheless would have luck and would prosper. 43 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 5. 44 Lane, interview. 45 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 17. Vine Deloria Sr. also relates this vision in “The Establishment of Christianity Among the Sioux,” 93-96. 46 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 17. 180 The red road, on the other hand, was fraught with danger but filled with life. The four purification tents meant that Saswe would kill four men of his own tribe and have to undergo four purification rituals. He would have great powers as a medicine man, the Thunders would be his close friends, and many birds and animals would help him. He was given a special stone to make it rain.47 Deloria Jr. explains earlier in his account that in the context of “Plains Indian visions,” the number four, the “four skeletons and four tents,” would be understood “to represent four generations of descendants who would be bound by this choice.”48 Later, he specifies that Sawse’s vision (of which the above is but one, albeit central, piece), “had predicted that four generations of his family would assume religious responsibilities.”49 Saswe himself eventually converted to Christianity. As Vine Deloria Jr.’s son, the historian Philip J. Deloria (namesake of Tipi Sapa) has observed, “He seems to have perceived missionaries (correctly, one might add) through lenses that were at once spiritual and political in nature; to him missions looked like places where one might negotiate questions of power.”50 Deloria Jr. notes that even before Saswe was baptized, however, he “began advising his son to consider the white man’s religion.” “We have often wondered,” he adds, speaking of the Deloria family, “if Saswe saw this change as a partial fulfillment of his vision, since there was no doubt that he wanted Philip to follow a religious life but not necessarily the traditional Sioux religion.”51 Lane, who noted that the symbolism of the number four in Saswe’s vision extends “down to my generation and beyond,” did not draw a direct line between Saswe’s lineage of religious 47 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 18. 48 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 17. 49 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 45-48. 50 Deloria, “Vine V. Deloria, Sr.,” 80. 51 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 36. See also 69, where Deloria Jr. discusses Tipi Sapa’s determination for his son, Vine Deloria Sr., to follow in his footsteps as a priest: “The motives were clear: Philip saw his black clerical clothes as a physical representation of the black tipi of Saswe. There were four purification tents and so there should be four generations of the family following a religious vocation.” And at 84: “In view of Philip’s continuing work as a chief of Band Eight and his interest in renewing the old ways after his retirement, it seems to me that, like his father, he saw Christianity as the only viable alternative for his people in those early days. Saswe had directed him down the road just as Philip later got my father to travel the same road. They created a family heritage that has been a heavy burden but one that seemingly could not have been avoided once Saswe chose the red road.” 181 leadership and his own Baha’i declaration. Instead, he highlighted a theme of purification, the “time of purification coming down,” and the spiritual gifts that Saswe, and his relatives after him, received as a result of choosing the red road. He, like Deloria Jr., explained that Sawse did go on to become a powerful, even feared, healer and medicine man, and, as his vision also predicted, to kill four men.52 In 1856, Saswe even brought Tipi Sapa (which translates as Black Lodge, a name Saswe bestowed upon his favoured child in honour of his influential vision) back to life after he died from fever as a young boy.53 These stories, which Lane shared at start of our interview together, form the context through which he understands and articulated, in his interview with me, his own spiritual journey and life course. Lane spoke also of another story that demonstrates Saswe’s strength and, in his telling and interpretation, foretold his family fortune. As he explained, “there had been this old prophecy that there would appear a white buffalo.”54 Sawse, at the time, was training a young man named Mato Gi, or Brown Bear, and during a hunt when a white buffalo appeared, gave Mato Gi permission to mount a bay horse that he ordinarily did not let anyone ride.55 As Deloria Jr. recounts in Singing for a Spirit: When the white buffalo was discovered everyone rode after him, but only Saswe’s horse could stand the pace of the chase. He outran all the other hunters and enabled the man to kill the white buffalo. When the white buffalo was brought back to the Yankton camp, Saswe gave a great feast. He brought out a necklace made of large bear claws, a very valuable thing. The people led the horse around the camp, singing songs extolling his stamina. Then Saswe put the necklace around the horse’s neck and announced that the 52 Family stories also link these four murders to Saswe’s Christian conversion. Around the age of fifty-five, Saswe began to be troubled by the ghosts of the men he killed. When visits to various Yankton medicine men did not help, Saswe began approaching local missionaries about it. Though his conversion seems to have been motivated as much by political pragmatism as spiritual inspiration, the hauntings ceased after this baptism. Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 34-36; Deloria Sr., “The Establishment of Christianity Among the Sioux,” 104-105. 53 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 31-34, 37. 54 Lane, interview. The white buffalo is an important symbol in Lakota and Dakota culture and there remains a vibrant “prophetic tradition,” as the religious studies scholar Lee Irwin puts it, surrounding “the return of the White Buffalo Calf whose birth signifies the recovery of sacred power and wisdom by Native peoples.” Irwin, Coming Down From Above, 360-361. 55 Mato Gi was the name of Lane’s father, Philip Lane Sr., who in turn gave the name to Lane Jr.’s son. 182 horse would never be ridden again in honor of the buffalo. He renamed the horse “Eagle Claws.”56 For Lane, the significance of this story extends to the prediction that “whoever took the white buffalo, from that lineage would appear a people who would have certain gifts to give to the people.” As he elaborated: I’ve heard and I’ve reflected on this deeply, and all its meaning. What does it mean? Because there’s been a lot of people come out of that lineage who have had a lot of influence on Native people. Saswe, who trained the rider, Brown Bear, and who raised the horse, he had twenty-two children.57 So, some of these that are coming out, who are related through the eighteen daughters he had, who didn’t carry the name Deloria particularly. But even the Delorias, you’ve got Sam Deloria, who got the law school going at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. You’ve got Vine [Deloria] Sr., who was such a spiritual leader after his father [Philip Deloria/Tipi Sapa] died. He only really did that because of his father. He didn’t really want to be a minister, but he did it because his dad wanted him to. You’ve got Vine Deloria Jr., you’ve got [anthropologist and author] Ella Deloria, you’ve got my mother, my father, who did well. And that’s not to say, “is better than,” it’s just been something that has been brought up in my soul about this.58 Raised with such stories and encouragement (sometimes pressure) from his father, especially, to cultivate a “warrior” spirit, Lane continues to carry a strong sense of responsibility and desire to contribute to his lineage’s legacy. Lane likewise saw a message of Indigenous spiritual leadership and capacity confirmed within the Baha’i Faith and, from the time he became active in the religion in the late 1960s, identified explicitly as an Indigenous adherent. As we will see in a coming chapter, Lane 56 Deloria Jr., Singing for a Spirit, 26. 57 Vine Deloria Jr. also details that Saswe had twenty-two children, “eighteen girls and four boys,” by three wives. Singing for a Spirit, 29. 58 Lane, interview. For useful overviews of the Deloria family’s rich history of cultural brokerage, including specific family members Lane mentions, see Susan Gardner, “Introduction,” in Ella Cara Deloria, Waterlily New Edition (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2009), vii-viii; James Treat, “Introduction: An American Critique of Religion,” in Vine Deloria Jr., For This Land: Writings on Religion in America (New York: Routledge, 1999), 4-8. This genealogy includes the same Philip J. Deloria (namesake of Tipi Sapa) whose work in the field of Indigenous history has so strongly informed this study. For reflections from Philip J. Deloria on his grandfather, Vine Deloria Sr., in specific relation to sport, see: “‘I Am of the Body’: My Grandfather, Culture, and Sports,” in Indians in Unexpected Places (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2004), 109-135; for a wider biography: Deloria, “Vine V. Deloria Sr.” 183 activated this ambition by pioneering to Bolivia in 1970. He eventually pulled back from active Baha’i practice on account of intercultural tension within the community and a sense of being claimed by Baha’is, of being labeled as an adherent, for the purpose of what Lane called proselytization, in contexts where he may not have chosen to identify as such. Lane was at first reluctant to partake in this project for similar reasons: “Simply because,” he explained, “I did not want to have my name associated with the Baha’i Faith and have people say, ‘Well, he’s a Baha’i.’ Because of the attacks that have come upon me because of that.” If his later Baha’i life was charged, though, Lane nevertheless stressed that, “in the core of my soul, I know where I got that spiritual inspiration.”59 In connecting his numinous experience of reading the Tablet of Ahmad with his great- grandfather Philip Deloria’s Christian conversion, Lane situated himself in the context of family history and made Indigenous spiritual meaning of the Baha’i Faith. Reminiscent of the “same road” metaphor that Joyce Shales deployed in narrating her own choice to become a Baha’i, Lane situated his declaration in the context of formative family story and framed it as an extension of a long history of religious combination and leadership. The prophecy of the white buffalo, which Lane invoked at several points in discussing his process of becoming Baha’i, foretold a lineage that would have particular gifts to give to the people, something Lane also highlighted in Saswe’s vision, and strove to fulfill, at least for a time, within the flexible (but not, as his later experiences revealed, entirely elastic) contours of the Baha’i community. 59 Lane, interview. 184 Intertribal Tradition Family was a critical, but hardly the only, Indigenous context in which Lane became a Baha’i and practiced his faith. He was involved in Indigenous education and activism in Washington state prior to his time pioneering in Bolivia, for example, and worked at United Indians of All Tribes in Seattle after his return.60 Here, he influenced the declaration of another narrator and active member of Seattle’s intertribal community, Lee Brown. Like Lane’s cathartic moment of reading the Tablet of Ahmad, Brown’s declaration was deeply informed by the spiritual inspiration of a relative, his grandfather, and by prophecy and vision as well. Brown, who is Cherokee, became a Baha’i in an explicit context of intertribal spiritual exchange and practice. His declaration story explicitly inserts the Baha’i Faith into the genealogy of contemporary intertribal dialogue and community in the Pacific Northwest, helping paint a richer portrait of a period often dominated by images of a political Red Power without recognition of diverse “religious roots” and dialogue.61 60 Lane also worked at United Indians more recently: at the time of our 2009 interview, he had just stepped down as director of the organization. See Reyes, Bernie Whitebear, 160. In a January 2007 interview with Colors magazine discussing his work as CEO at United Indians and his wider “strategic security strategy” called the “Fourth Way,” Lane spoke to Black Elk’s daybreak star prophecy, noting that “Black Elk’s prophecies concerning the need for bringing all the tribes and nations together based in a spiritual foundation has been the thing that’s animated me these past 40 years.” “The whole prophesy of the Daybreak Star,” Lane added, “that was something very much in my heart and mind. Now I’ve come back and I can really see this incredible time in history in which Indigenous peoples and their allies have a tremendous opportunity to make a tremendous contribution in finding together a way out of this deepening crisis and chaos.” Lane also shared, in this interview, many of the same elements that he shared in his interview with me, suggesting a certain practiced life story. This interview, however, does not mention the Baha’i Faith; instead, it describes what I read as Lane’s Baha’i declaration this way: “A spiritual experience in 1968 helped Lane free himself from his self-destructive addictions and he devoted his life to serving the Creator and his people.” Alex Valdes, “The Fourth Way: Phil Lane Jr.’s Vision for Harmony, Prosperity,” Colors (Jan 2007), cover story, accessed online 14 May 13, http://www.unitedindians.org/publications_articles001.html. 61 On Red Power see, for example, Paul Chatt Smith and Robert Allan Warrior, Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement From Alcatraz to Wounded Knee (New York: New Press, 1996). Though a recent collection edited by Daniel M. Cobb and Loretta Fowler usefully advocates a move “beyond Red Power,” it remains focused predominantly on political activism: Beyond Red Power: American Indian Politics and Activism Since 1900 (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research, 2007). James Treat draws attention to “the religious roots of Red Power” in “Intertribal Traditionalism and the Religious Roots of Red Power,” in Lee Irwin, ed., Native American Spirituality: A Critical Reader (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000), 270-294 and Around the Sacred Fire: Native Religious Activism in the Red Power Era: A Narrative Map of the Indian Ecumenical Conference (New York: Palgrave-MacMillan, 2003). 185 I opened my first of two interviews with Brown by asking him to share about his background, in response to which he described a difficult childhood marked by “alcoholism in the home and then the illnesses that came about for me as a result, which I’m still struggling with, even now.” As a result of this serious sickness, Brown set out as a teenager in pursuit of wellbeing, a path, he explained, that led him to “Native culture, to Native ways of healing.” “And my primary doorway into this, the world of Native healing,” Brown elaborated, “was to participate in Native singing. I became a singer. I petitioned the Elders with tobacco to become a singer.” Growing up in the Pacific Northwest in a period of accelerating intertribal interaction, Brown was trained by Elders from a number of different nations; he kept up and expanded this intertribal practice when he moved from his rural hometown of Washougal, Washington to Seattle to study Business Administration at the University of Washington. He recalled, for example, his activity with groups such as the Northwest Intertribal Club and Kinatechitapi, a group involved with the March 1970 takeover of Fort Lawton and a forerunner to United Indians of All Tribes.62 Where popular memory and academic literature on Indigenous activism in this period has tended to privilege images of political militancy, Brown explained that his own participation stemmed from his involvement as a singer, activity that in turn led him into Indigenous ceremony. In Seattle, Brown came under the tutelage of “a number of Native ceremonial leaders,” who hailed from communities as close-by as the Muckleshoot Reservation (Don Matheson, himself from Puyallup), located thirty miles south of the city, and as far afield as the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota (Lakota William Schweigman) and the Onondaga 62 According to prominent Colville and Filipino activist Bernie Whitebear, Kinatechitapi is a Blackfoot term that translates as “all Indians”: Bernie Whitebear, “Taking Back Fort Lawton: Meeting the Needs of Seattle’s Native American Community Through Conversion,” Race, Poverty, and the Environment: A Journal for Social and Environmental Justice 4, no.4/5, no.1 (Spring-Summer 1994), 4. 186 Reservation in New York (Iroquois Beeman Logan).63 Matheson, together with David Four Lions, a Quileute from the coast, and Andy Callicum, Nuu-chah-nulth but raised on the Colville Reservation in eastern Washington, became Brown’s sweathouse teachers.64 Brown established this urban intertribal context as the setting in which he first heard of the Baha’i Faith. This was a time, he explained: “when I was really involved with the sweat and I was practicing tradition and I had never heard of the Baha’i Faith, I was not interested in Christianity and had been abused in a church as a young man, and was really turned off to Christianity.” Brown was working as the director of the “Native division of the Educational Opportunity program” at the University of Washington and was, he stressed, “going strong, I was doing good and five or six, seven nights a week I would be involved in some kind of Native activity, a powwow, a ceremony, a sweat, a pipe, or a talking circle, you know, every night I was just constantly busy and things were going good.” It was in this period, Brown recalled, while in a sweat at Don Matheson’s on Muckleshoot that he heard his grandfather’s voice advising him, “Ask Phil Lane for a book.” “And I didn’t really know Phil Lane,” Brown noted. “I knew who he was, I knew he worked at United Indians of All Tribes, I had seen him around at different gatherings, but I didn’t know him deeply at that time.” Though his grandfather’s words were unexpected, Brown recalled that he felt compelled to comply. He explained that he and his grandfather, who Brown lived with for a significant portion of his childhood, were close, a connection that deepened following this grandfather’s death in 1971. Brown recalled that after this time he began to experience a recurring nightmare, an intense “tormenting” dream so 63 The anthropologist Raymond Bucko discusses Schweigman and notes significant intersections between his sweat lodge practice and teachings articulated by Black Elk in texts published by the anthropologist and religious studies scholar Joseph Epes Brown. Raymond A. Bucko, The Lakota Ritual of the Sweat Lodge: History and Contemporary Practice (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 64-69. James Treat identifies Logan as a Tonawanda Seneca chief in “Intertribal Traditionalism,” 277. 64 Brown, interview. 187 powerful, he shared, that even his neighbours could sense it when it came. Brown recalled approaching Matheson about this and, on his guidance, undertook a fast in a secluded location on Mount Rainier, where his dream returned and was transformed into what he described as “a nice and accepting and warm dream.” After this, Brown’s teachers encouraged him to fast annually. As he shared, “I’ve never had a vision. You know, in all the years that I fasted on the mountain. But one thing that usually happens to me, every time I go up, I would usually hear one or two sentences from my grandfather. Not a lot. But I usually refer to it as, ‘the teaching of the year.’”65 Brown explained that it was in this period of fasting that he heard his grandfather telling him to ask Phil Lane for a book. Attuned to the agency of ancestors, and counsel from his grandfather especially, he acceded. When Brown called Lane at United Indians and shared what he had heard from his grandfather, Lane invited Brown to his home and gave him a box with nine (a significant number in the Baha’i Faith) books inside.66 Brown recalled that when he asked Lane about the books, and heard that they had to do with the Baha’i Faith, he determined that he was not interested. He did read one of the books in the box, Great Upon the Mountain, a biography of Oglala leader Crazy Horse written by Baha’i Vinson Brown (also a co-author of Warriors of the Rainbow).67 Brown put the rest of the books in a closet and, as he put it, “forgot about them, actually.” He explained that it took another prompt from his grandfather for him to revisit the readings: 65 Brown, interview. 66 The number nine is “equivalent,” Baha’i scholar Peter Smith notes, “to the word Bahá [glory]” in the abjad “system of letter-number equivalence” employed by Babis and early Baha’is. Further, “As the highest single number, 9 is regarded as symbolizing perfection, unity and comprehensiveness,” symbolism applied in contexts such as the number of members of spiritual assemblies and the number of sides of Baha’i houses of worship. Peter Smith, A Concise Encyclopedia of the Bahá’í Faith (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000), 261. 67 Vinson Brown, Great Upon the Mountain: The Story of Crazy Horse, Legendary Mystic and Warrior (New York: Macmillan, 1971). Lane mentioned in his own interview that he greatly admired Crazy Horse in his youth. 188 time went by and I was fasting on the mountain the following year, the Elders had put me up, and I don’t know how many days I was doing, but I was increasing a couple of days each year. I got up to where I fasted for twenty days, without food, of which the four days on the mountain were without water. So I don’t know how many days I was fasting that year, but I had fasted a few days and I went up to the mountain to go the four days without water and while I was up there I heard my grandfather’s voice and he said, “Reconsider the Baha’i Faith.” Now, my grandfather was not really a member of any religion as far as I know. He was not a very strong Christian and I guess my grandmother, who was a strong Christian, would probably have said he was a Christian. My grandfather was a quiet person, but after his death became very powerful in the family’s dreams. He said, “Reconsider the Baha’i Faith,” so I finished the fast and I went down from the mountain and a few nights later I was laying in bed and I thought “Oh, reconsider the Baha’i Faith.” I remembered that my grandfather had told me that. So I went to the closet and got out this box of books which had been sitting there for maybe a year. It could have been more than a year. Brown began reading The Seven Valleys and the Four Valleys, twin texts by Baha’u’llah that expound on mystical themes of dream and the “pilgrimage of the soul.”68 In the same way that several other narrators approached Thief in the Night (another book in the box from Lane) with the goal of proving it wrong, Brown set about reading The Seven Valleys and the Four Valleys until, as he recalled, “‘I find something I can disagree with and then I will have reconsidered the Baha’i Faith, but I know I’m not interested in it.’” Finding, instead, what he described as striking consonance with sweathouse teachings, Brown extended his investigation.69 Describing himself, like other participants in this project, as “a person that, I guess you would say I was on a spiritual search,” Brown explained that he had been reading other sacred writings – from the Hindu Bhagavad Gita and the Islamic Qur’an to the Taoist writings of Lao Tzu – in this period and was struck by the recognition of diverse spiritual traditions that the Baha’i teachings supplied. Closely echoing Joyce Shales, he explained: the great thing about the Baha’i Faith, it was the first religion I came across that said, “Yeah, all the religions are from God.” And I’ve read all these religious books and I like 68 John Walbridge, Sacred Acts, Sacred Space, Sacred Time (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1996), 150; Baha’u’llah, The Seven Valleys and the Four Valleys (Wilmette, IL: Baha’i Publishing Trust, 1952), 32-33 (on dream). 69 Brown, interview. 189 them all, and then the Baha’i Faith said, “Yeah, that’s right, they’re all from God.” And I thought, “Yeah, that’s right. Ours are too.” Brown’s study also led him to revisit Christianity. The same way it did for Allison Healy, Thief in the Night prompted Brown to read the Bible and, eventually, accept the claim “that Baha’u’llah’s life meets the biblical prophetic requirements for the return of Christ.”70 He also came to interpret the Baha’i Faith as the fulfillment of Indigenous prophecies from a host of tribal traditions.71 While activities like the 1970 seizure of Fort Lawton in Seattle (and, even more, the 1969 occupation of Alcatraz Island that inspired it) thrust urban Indigenous politics dramatically into the public eye, intertribal organizing had a much longer, and spiritual, history. In the wake of the Second World War, specifically, a group of Hopi traditionalists in the Southwest began to disseminate a prophetic message of impending apocalypse and potential peace. They hosted gatherings in the village of Hotevilla (at least one of which was organized in conjunction with Inuit Baha’i, and the other co-author of Warriors of the Rainbow, William Willoya) and, sending emissaries outside Hopiland as well, established broader intertribal and intercultural relationships.72 These intertribal ties were activated at gatherings like a 1967 “unity convention” hosted by Tonawanda Seneca leaders (including Beeman Logan, one of Brown’s teachers). At 70 Brown, interview. Hesquiaht narrator J.C. Lucas recalled, for his part, how becoming Baha’i helped him to address “my really deep sadness and confusion over Christianity and the whole residential school thing.” J.C. Lucas, interview with the author, Nanaimo, British Columbia, 6 Oct 2004. Several narrators also spoke explicitly to a sense of coming to “love Christ more” and become more Christian through becoming Baha’i. For example, Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008; Donald Addison, interview with the author, Eugene, Oregon, 23 June 2008. 71 Brown, interview. 72 James Treat emphasizes the intertribal dimension of this traditionalist Hopi movement in “Intertribal Traditionalism,” 273-276. The religious studies scholar Armin Geertz attends more closely to intercultural context in The Invention of Prophecy: Continuity and Meaning in Hopi Indian Religion (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). Lee Irwin notes William Willoya’s presence at Hotevilla in 1961, but does not make the explicit connection that Willoya was also the “Eskimo (Inuit) Baha’i missionary” he describes: Coming Down From Above, 346-348. See also Shuichi Nagata, “Dan Kochhongva’s Message: Myth, Ideology, and Political Action Among the Contemporary Hopi,” in Erik Schwimmer, ed., The Yearbook of Symbolic Anthropology (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1978), 77-79; Willoya, “An Eskimo in Search of God,” in Brown and Willoya, Warriors of the Rainbow, 75-76. 190 this particular event, religious studies scholar James Treat explains, “Iroquois and Hopi leaders took the lead during the proceedings, with Hopi elders recounting their warnings about the impending destruction of the ‘Fourth World’ and Iroquois chiefs offering their ‘Great Law of Peace’ as a model for regenerating social and environmental relations.”73 Similar intertribal gatherings, and “travelling caravans” that they spawned, were held in this period and though Treat characterizes this movement predominantly as a reservation-based one, Brown’s history suggests a more dynamic composition and complicates any strict dichotomy of “reservation traditionalists” and “young urban radicals.”74 As Brown elaborated regarding his study of the Baha’i Faith and Indigenous prophecy: I started reading other books and I knew a lot about Native prophecies. I had listened carefully, I paid attention. I had listened to Thomas Banyacya, the Hopi Elder, many times. I went to these gatherings called the White Roots of Peace gatherings where Native prophecies were recited for seven days. The White Roots of Peace gatherings were sponsored by the Hopi and sometimes by the Six Nations Akwesasne people. And elders would gather and just share prophecies, in English. I went to these and I knew that Native prophecies also indicated the coming of a great prophet.75 Brown came, through his process of Baha’i investigation, to embrace Baha’u’llah as this new prophet. Finding resonance with the forecast of Indigenous figures as diverse as Oglala visionary Black Elk, Paiute prophet Wovoka, Wanapum dreamer Smohalla, Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, and 73 Treat, “Intertribal Traditionalism,” 277. 74 Treat, “Intertribal Traditionalism,” 283. 75 Banyacya was one of four “interpreter-spokesmen” appointed to disseminate the Hopi message. Treat, “Intertribal Traditionalism,” 273. Treat describes “White Roots of Peace” as a “communications collective,” led by traditionalist Tom Porter, which spent two months travelling the West Coast following a 1969 unity convention at Akwesasne. Treat, “Intertribal Traditionalism,” 287. Brown may be conflating the name of the “unity convention” gatherings with this more specific initiative. For another study that explicitly links these Hopi and Iroquois intertribal initiatives with earlier prophetic movements, emphasizing shared connections to and efforts to protect land bases, see Michelene Pensantubbee, “Native American Geopolitical, Georestorative Movements,” in Catherine Wessinger, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 457-473. 191 founder of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, the Peacemaker (or, as two Mohawk narrators called him, Deganawida), he made intertribal spiritual meaning of the Baha’i Faith.76 In addition to his own personal study, Brown also described interaction with other Indigenous Baha’is as a strong source of attraction to the Faith. There was small but active corps of Indigenous Baha’is in Seattle during the 1970s and Brown recalled the comfort that he felt in the company of adherents like Lane and Choctaw musician and filmmaker, Phil Lucas.77 Brown described being drawn, too, by Lane’s subtle but consistent incorporation of the Baha’i Faith into his cultural practice. Drawing on a revivalist discourse of Indigenous culture that I discuss in more detail in the next chapter, he explained: Phil did a lot of things that were cultural, but also had a Baha’i aspect, and ceremonies. And Phil would do sweats and pipes and he would include Baha’i prayers and, he was never preaching about the Faith, but he always included it. And I know a lot of people that were not Baha’is just thought, “Well, Phil’s a Baha’i and so he says some Baha’i prayers,” and probably never thought too much about it. But he was really strong in keeping to it and continuing to do it. And especially the prayers for unity and I remember Phil used to say the Prayer for the Departed Loved Ones a lot. And I liked that. I liked the Native Baha’is.78 76 Brown, interview. For context on these figures see Irwin, Coming Down From Above, 71-80 (Quetzalcoatl), 135- 148 (Deganawida/the Peacemaker), 252-263 (Smohalla), 299-306 (Wovoka); Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks. Mohawk narrators on Deganawida: John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 22 July 2008; Linda Loft, interview with the author, Meades Creek, British Columbia, 16 Aug 2004. Brown has more recently been developing a comparative analysis of the Haudenosaunee Great Law of Peace and Baha’u’llah’s Kitab-i-Aqdas and is planning a book on the subject. For other Baha’i studies that explore this specific intersection see Addison and Buck, “Messengers of God in North America Revisited: An Exegesis of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Tablet to Amír Khán,” 180-270 (esp. Appendix 2); Paula Bidwell, “Many Messengers of God: A Native American Perspective: Deganawida - The Peacemaker,” unpublished paper prepared for The Wilmette Institute Course on the Kitab-i-Iqan and Gems of Divine Mysteries, 2011, accessed online 16 March 2013, http://bahai-library.com/bidwell_many_messengers. 77 For context on Lucas see Robert Weinberg, “Spinning the Myth Pool: An Interview with Phil Lucas” and David Delgado Shorter, “Promoting Understanding: The Celluloid Contributions of Phil Lucas,” World Order 35, no.1 (2003): 15-19, 21-25. A song by Lucas, titled “World Citizens,” is reprinted in Margit Warburg, Citizens of the World: A History and Sociology of the Baha’is from a Globalisation Perspective (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2006), 517. Indicating the widespread circulation of material like this within the (Indigenous) Baha’i world, Warburg cites the song from a 1995 Alaskan Baha’i songbook. Further bearing out intertribal Indigenous Baha’i connections, two other narrators also mentioned interactions with Lucas: Donald Addison (reflecting on his time in Los Angeles), interview with the author, Eugene, Oregon, 23 June 2008 and John Sargent (speaking to Indigenous prophecy and Warriors of the Rainbow), interview with the author, by telephone, 22 July 2008. 78 Brown, interview. For a selection of Baha’i prayers for the departed see Bahá’u’lláh, the Báb, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Bahá’í Prayers: A Selection of Prayers Revealed by Bahá’u’lláh, the Báb, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1991), 40-47, accessed online 17 March 2013, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/c/BP/. 192 While such conduct and community appealed to Brown, Lane indicated in his own interview that there were other non-Baha’i Indigenous people in the city who bristled at his inclusion of Baha’i prayers within Indigenous spaces such as sweats.79 Interactions with Indigenous Baha’is supported Brown’s investigation of the Baha’i Faith, but his ultimate decision to declare, like his initial contact with the religion, came through spiritual inspiration received during a sweat. To contextualize this experience, Brown explained that after working with his sweathouse teachers for a time, he received their permission to build a lodge of his own, which he did in the backyard of his home in the northern Seattle suburb of Lake City. There were, Brown recalled, seven old growth cedars on his property and he emerged from his house one morning after a storm to find a significant amount of cedar blown down onto his yard. And some of it was shining. As he shared: “one of the things that happens to me in my life, I don’t know if it happens to everyone or not, but I sometimes see a light around things. And I’ve learned, the hard way, that when something is shining, I ought to pay attention to it.” Brown accordingly gathered the shining cedar and, after a telephone call from Lane, who was set to leave on a trip to Israel the next day, gave him the cedar to take with him. “I have a strange feeling,” Brown recalled telling Lane, “that someone is going to mention cedar to you on this trip and if they do, give them this. It’s for somebody I think. I don’t know who.” During Lane’s visit to the Baha’i World Centre, someone (Hooper Dunbar, an American Baha’i who Lane met while pioneering in Bolivia and who was then serving in Haifa) did indeed mention cedar and Lane gave him the boughs that Brown had sent; Dunbar in turn gave him some sage to return to Brown back in Seattle. Some time later, as Brown was preparing for a sweat in his backyard he received a telephone call from his teacher, Andy Callicum, who asked if he could join him. Brown described the evening in rich detail: 79 Lane, interview. 193 And so Andy was not actually that much older than me, but he was kind of considered to be an Elder and, I said, “Andy, just take it easy, just go in the sweat, I’ll get the rocks and everything ready.” So I was putting the rocks in, I had a fairly small sweat, only two or three guys could fit into it, so it was a tight squeeze, and it only took me like twelve rocks to have a really hot sweat. And so I put the four rocks in and I went in and I thought, “Well, I’ll do something special, I’ll use the sage from Israel. And I will put it on the rocks for Andy.” But I didn’t tell him that it was from Israel or anything about it. I just got in, and had the sage there, and I was putting it on the rocks. Andy, Andy was quite a visionary. You know, he could see things that not everybody sees. He really had quite an unusual ability. And I had seen him do this many times, when people came for healing at Don’s sweat, Andy would tell them things about their self and their lives, he would tell them things about themselves he had no way of knowing, you know. And he would describe their homes, he would describe their friends, I mean, he had this incredible sense of vision. So I really wasn’t that surprised as I put the sage on the rocks that Andy said, “The sage you’re using is from Israel.” And I said, “Yes, it is. It is from Israel.” He said, “A man sent it to you.” He said, “I see this man praying in,” I think he said house, “in a house with a golden dome.” And he started describing the Universal House of Justice. And I said, “Yeah.” I said, “That’s the Baha’i Centre.” Brown paused at this point to emphasize that he had not told anyone that he had been investigating the Baha’i Faith and that Callicum, so far as he knew, had never heard of the religion. It was all the more moving, then, when Callicum spoke the sentence that after three years of quiet and careful study finally propelled Brown to declare as a Baha’i: Andy said, “I see the prayers coming from this golden dome to your lodge, across the sky of the earth, as a stream of rose petals.” And you know that rose petals are an important symbol in the Baha’i Faith. He said, “I see the prayers coming as a stream of rose petals.” And I thought, “That’s it. I’ve got to be a Baha’i. This is it. This is it.” What Andy had said, the sentence hit me so hard, I thought, “Yeah, this is for real.” I mean, the prayers are coming as a stream of rose petals.80 Attuned to symbolism, and having already come to find the Baha’i Faith the fulfillment of prophecies of return and renewal from a range of spiritual traditions, Brown signed his Baha’i declaration card the next day. 80 Brown, interview. 194 He had hoped to do this with Lane, but when he was not available, Brown called the local Baha’i telephone number in Seattle and found someone else to assist him. “And that,” he shared, “began the long process of being a Baha’i. Which has been a long and difficult road for me.”81 A great part of this challenge, as we will see in coming chapters, stems from a lack of understanding and respect that Brown encountered within the Baha’i community towards the Indigenous spiritual beliefs and practices that were so critical to his process of becoming Baha’i. These were distinctly intertribal, taking in song, ceremony, and story from a range of different contexts, while activating ongoing relationship with his grandfather as well. Like Lane, interactions with whom closely informed his process of becoming Baha’i, Brown identified strongly as an Indigenous adherent from the time of his declaration. Jacob Bighorn, who became a Baha’i more than a decade later, likewise shared this sense of identification. Symbolism and Synchronicity Unlike Brown, Bighorn’s initial contact with the Baha’i Faith did not come through an expressly spiritual medium. Nor did he declare immediately upon encountering the religion, as did Lane. Bighorn married Lane’s sister, Deloria, whose declaration we considered in the last chapter, in 1978, so he knew something of the religion long before he enrolled eleven years later.82 Jacob and Deloria met through shared work in education, a field Bighorn chose to dedicate himself to in the wake of the American Indian Movement’s 1973 occupation of Wounded Knee, on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. In 1986, Bighorn was pursuing graduate studies in Education at Eastern Washington University in Spokane, where he completed a Masters thesis on what he called “right-brain holistic thinking” (which he described as inherent 81 Brown, interview. 82 Bighorn also recalled having heard about the visit of several Baha’i teachers to his reservation in Montana in July 1977, just a few months before he met Deloria; after meeting her family, Bighorn learned Phil Lane had been among this group. 195 to traditional Indigenous ways of knowing and distinguished from left-brain linear analysis), when an experience with his young daughter compelled him to begin asking questions about the Baha’i Faith.83 A dream three years later ultimately propelled him to join the religion. In narrating his declaration, Bighorn emphasized how he connected with the religion through an Indigenous appreciation of and attunement to symbolism, synchronicity, and metaphor. He also made meaning of the religion by way of Lakota spirituality, and Black Elk’s vision specifically. In this section, I stitch together material from two separate interviews, conducted four years apart, the first of which featured Jacob Bighorn alone and the second of which included his wife, Deloria.84 These two interviews offer compelling insight into stable and shifting articulations of declaration. Bighorn himself had strong self-awareness of his retrospective understanding of his declaration and explicitly framed his experience of becoming Baha’i as ongoing process. As he put this in our first interview together, “As long as the process of knowing who I am, of learning who I am is in process, is in action, then I become more and more Baha’i. I should be a Baha’i. The more I learn about myself, the more I know I should be Baha’i. And so I’m constantly looking for these clues.”85 Bighorn consciously sought out symbolic connections with the religion, an approach he attributed to his Indigenous worldview. During our first interview, for example, Bighorn explained how he was compelled to begin investigating the Baha’i Faith, and subsequently drew links to his pre-Baha’i life as well, by the story of a young Iranian Baha’i martyr, Mona. Bighorn recalled with thick detail and emotion one 1986 evening in Spokane: My daughter Jelana was five years old then and I was not a Baha’i. I didn’t declare as a Baha’i until 1989. One night, Deloria had taken the two kids, it was just Jordan and 83 Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 11 Aug 2004. 84 Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004; Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 7 July 2008. 85 Bighorn, interview. 196 Jelana then,86 to Feast, a Baha’i [Nineteen Day] Feast, because Deloria’s been a Baha’i since 1970. And naturally I stayed home, I wasn’t allowed to go.87 But when my daughter came home, that’s when she burst through the living room crying, she said, “They can’t do that to my sister! They can’t do that to my sister!” I was so totally freaked out about who is her sister, she doesn’t have a sister, what’s going on here and so forth. And it turned out that she had witnessed the video of Mona. And she was claiming her to be her sister. Well, during our period in Spokane there, a medicine woman, who had previous experience with Lori [Deloria] when Lori was young, a medicine woman came and was holding Jelana on her lap and this medicine woman looked at Jelana and she said, “This one knows her feelings.” Which is to say, “this one knows who she is, beyond the feelings,” the feelings are a door that hold the key to, gives this sense of the greater person. So, this one knows her feelings, she was just a little child. So here she is claiming, “They can’t hurt my sister! They can’t do that to my sister! My sister!” So it struck me, she’s claiming this Persian girl as her sister.88 The video of which Bighorn spoke was Mona’s Story, a 1985 film about the making of a music video for “Mona with the Children,” a song that tells the story of sixteen-year-old Mona Mahmudnizhad, the youngest of a group of ten Baha’i women executed in Shiraz, Iran in June 1983 for their unwillingness to recant their religion.89 Struck by his daughter’s strong reaction, Bighorn asked his wife more about Mona and the circumstances of her martyrdom. 86 The Bighorns subsequently had another son, Kai. 87 Deloria Bighorn dated her declaration 1969, not 1970. I discuss the Nineteen Day Feast, a gathering held at the start of each Baha’i month, in more detail in the next chapter. Until recently, non-Baha’is were not permitted to attend the administrative section of the Nineteen Day Feast (something I experienced at a Feast I attended with narrator Donald Addison in Eugene, Oregon; I was asked to leave the room for this portion of the gathering); alternatively, Baha’is were instructed to eliminate this portion of the Feast were non-Baha’is present. In 2009, the Universal House of Justice advised Baha’is to simply modify administrative consultation should non-Baha’is be in attendance. Letter from the Universal House of Justice to All National Spiritual Assemblies, 17 May 2009, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 88 Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004. 89 Mona’s Story ([s.l.]: Baha’i Publishing Trust, 1985). The music video for “Mona with the Children” includes appearances by musician Dan Seals, brother of Jim Seals (both Baha’is) of the band Seals and Croft, Cree musician Buffy Sainte-Marie (who Baha’is often describe as “a friend of the Faith”), and early Ojibwa Baha’i Melba Loft and members of her family. On Sainte-Marie as a “friend of the Faith”: Jane Grover, interview with the author, McMinnville, Oregon, 22 June 2008; Sargent, interview, 22 July 2008; David Michael Piff, Bahá’í Lore (Oxford: George Ronald, 2000), 375; “Music Video Pays Tribute to Young Martyr,” Bahá’í News 651 (June 1985), 3; “300- plus at Pacific Youth Conference,” “Song of Mona Moves Buffy Sainte-Marie,” Bahá’í Canada 7, no.5 (Nov 1985), 15 and 46-47 (reprinted from Hawaiian newspaper, The Garden Island). On Loft and family, and a photo of Loft and Sainte-Marie: Evelyn Loft Watts and Patricia Verge, Return to Tyendinaga: The Story of Jim and Melba Loft, Bahá’í Pioneers (Essex, MD: One Voice, 2011), 169-170, 172. 197 Bighorn described how after he learned the date of Mona’s death, 18 June 1983, he reflected back on his own whereabouts at the time. He deduced that the day before Mona died he was aboard an airplane, on his way home from a conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The next morning, he recalled, at approximately the same time that Mona and the other nine women were being hanged in Iran, “I was presenting gifts to my father-in-law, my mother-in-law, my daughter, my wife, my children, and I was saying, ‘The man that you saw here six days ago is not the same man, something happened.’” Bighorn had travelled to Minneapolis with three other teachers from Chemawa Indian School, the intertribal boarding school in Salem, Oregon, where he then worked, to attend a conference on youth addiction.90 He explained that there were eighty- one participants from across the country and that during the course of the program, participants broke out into nine smaller groups of nine (a significant number, Bighorn noted, in the Baha’i Faith). In these smaller groups, Bighorn recalled, “what we were required to do was get rid of our stuff. If we were gonna help young kids addicted to this or that, we had to clean ourselves up.” This process summoned, for him, sentiments of internalized racism, and an especially searing memory of his father being berated by an elderly White farmer: “my father sitting in a pickup at the wheel, and I’m sitting, I’m smaller, I’m beside him, there’s my hero. But this man was really getting after my father and my father was sitting there.” It was this image, Bighorn shared, that “broke the dam”: and the tears just came down. And the person who acknowledged this was the lady sitting next to me, the facilitator of our little group, she was a Black lady, and I heard her saying, “racial self-hatred,” “racial self-hatred.” And that was one of the terms that was developed during that period of time of how minority people were dealing with their self- perception. So I had hated myself because of my race. Well, that was being lifted, I felt that, that night I said a prayer of thanks and the next day it meant everything was beautiful. 90 Chemawa opened in 1880 and is described on the school’s website as “the oldest continuously operating boarding school in the United States.” Accessed online 17 March 2013, http://www.chemawa.bie.edu/History.html. 198 As he learned more about Mona, and came to embrace his Indigeneity, Bighorn connected her death back to this cathartic moment of personal transformation: As I learned to understand and appreciate my Indianness, I knew that the young woman who died on the eighteenth, her spirit was already out, she knew she was gonna die, and so her spirit had already taken off and according to her story, she asked to be last, she wanted to pray for the progress of the other women, she kissed the noose according to tradition, kissed the noose of the murderer, and put it around her neck and she was released. But she wanted to go to her death dancing, she said, for the children, for the youth, and if she could die a thousand times, if God would let her die a thousand times, she would, for her love of the Faith. Mona. So I interpreted it later, years later, that she was the one who released me, who took away from me that racial self-hatred. Because her love was for unity. Unity in diversity especially. And that’s something according to my way of thinking that I could see, I could feel it. On his flight back from Minneapolis, Bighorn had taken a number of photographs for his students at Chemawa – he took these, he explained, as his plane passed over the approximate locations of their reservations in North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, and Washington as a physical reminder of his frequent message that, “Your ancestors are watching you” – and, as he came to draw this connection with Mona, these photos took on deeper meaning as tangible evidence of this momentous day. Years later, Bighorn was also gifted a bracelet that had once belonged to Mona, another material connection with “the person who took that self-hatred off of my shoulders.”91 “So it’s all so symbolic to me,” Bighorn added elsewhere, “of healing, of completeness, of joy, of spiritual purpose.”92 Bighorn was not only inspired to begin investigating the Baha’i Faith by Mona’s story and his daughter’s strong reaction to it, but also continued to weave his and Mona’s histories together subsequent to becoming a Baha’i, a form of symbolic interpretation he explicitly identified as Indigenous. While symbolism like the synchronicity of Mona’s death and the 1983 workshop that Bighorn attended in Minneapolis deeply informed his ongoing process of becoming Baha’i, it 91 This was another connection spurred by his daughter: Bighorn was given this bracelet by an Iranian Baha’i friend of Jelana’s whom she met while studying at the University of British Columbia. 92 Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004. 199 was a dream, which Bighorn also characterized as an Indigenous experience, which ultimately moved him to declare. As he shared after his discussion of Mona, “I didn’t get the declaration or proclamation by reading or studying the Baha’i writings. It came from this dream.”93 Like Mona, this dream was a consistent feature of Bighorn’s unfolding declaration story; he first described it to me during an unrecorded conversation following our introduction in 2004 and he elaborated upon it during both our subsequent interviews. Other studies of Indigenous Baha’i declaration have discussed dreams and visions that foretold the coming of a new message or messenger and featured unknown figures (Abdu’l-Baha, especially), images (like the “Greatest Name,” the invocation Ya Baha’u’l-Abha, “O Thou Glory of the All Glorious,” rendered in Arabic calligraphy), or places (like the Baha’i holy land) which dreamers subsequently recognized and responded to upon encountering the Baha’i Faith for the first time.94 Bighorn, conversely, already knew of the religion when he dreamt, on 1 June 1989, that he was sitting on a sagging metal-frame bed opposite a Persian man who, he noted in our first interview, resembled Abdu’l- Baha. Wearing a “Mediterranean blue turban” and with facial hair not quite as thick as Abdu’l- Baha’s, this man, Bighorn added, also “somewhat resembled my grandfather.” Seated between them was Bighorn’s brother, a Christian missionary and, in Bighorn’s words, “my hero.” In this dream, Bighorn explained, the bearded and turbaned figure reached around his brother and 93 Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004. 94 See, for example, Willoya, “An Eskimo in Search of God,” 68-69; Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 42-49; Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000), 130-135. Some of these dreams were so powerful that they were transformed from personal to collective stories and were remembered and shared in the immediate area and beyond, including by participants in this project. Joyce Shales, for example, spoke in multiple conversations with me about dreams from the Yukon, including a 1948 dream experienced by Dora Wedge that, as Lynn Echevarria explains, has become both a “familial/kinship story” and a narrative with wider regional resonance in the Yukon that has “been broadcast often on national Aboriginal television.” Echevarria, “A New Story for an Old Drum,” 47-48. John Sargent similarly spoke of the influence of dream and vision on Indigenous declaration on the Prairies, where he spent significant time Baha’i teaching in his youth: interview with the author, by telephone, 21 July 2008. Indigenous dreams and visions connecting to the religion are also among the “Baha’i lore” collected by sociologist David Piff: Bahá’í Lore, 77, 178, 213. 200 “looked at me right in the face and said, ‘You should be a Baha’i.’” This, Bighorn underlined, “was the most important part of my declaration as a Baha’i, that image”: And the respectful way especially, because he didn’t say, “you have to be,” or “you must be,” “you will be,” he just made a casual [comment], like he wasn’t proselytizing, “I think that you should be a Baha’i.” But at the same time there was comfort because my brother was there as well. So the decision was all up to me. Here, Bighorn found himself in what the historian Joel Martin has elsewhere called an “oneiric contact zone,” one that brought together Indigenous, Christian, and Baha’i influences.95 As we saw in Chapter 3, Bighorn was raised in a strong Presbyterian context and when I asked him, in our second interview together, about the balance between Indigenous and Christian influences on his declaration, he responded: It’s more Christian, it’s more Christian. I remember, the vision, the dream I had back in 1989 included my older brother. And he was located between myself and the Persian figure in my dream. And he wasn’t acknowledging me, he just looking straight ahead, we were all three sitting on his bed. But what he represented to me was not so much an obstacle, but a reminder of my Christian roots, and also my association with him as my hero. And that if I was going to declare as a Baha’i and if I believed what this man said about, “You should be a Baha’i,” if I accepted that, then I would have to contend with, my brother was still alive then, contend with my relationship that I had with my brother, him being a Christian missionary and so forth. And I decided then that I was being called to be a Baha’i, but I was also still very attached as an Elder in a Presbyterian church, so it took me another five months before I officially separated from the church. And I believe that during that process I was separated from my brother. Because during the interim I did inform my family then that I was preparing to declare as a Baha’i and my brother was present at the time. And in the family there was certainly no chastisement, no question, silent acceptance. And I’m certain amongst some of them, my immediate family, there would be prayers, prayer for me because I was making a “grave, grave mistake.” Other than that, there’s never been any direct question of my decision to become a Baha’i. And then I have shared with them over the years the basis of that decision with this vision and other visions.96 95 Martin, “Visions of Revitalization in the Eastern Woodlands,” 78. 96 Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 7 July 2008. Jacob did subsequently acknowledge, at Deloria’s prompting, that he did confront some moments of tension after becoming a Baha’i, as when he wanted, for example, to share a Baha’i prayer at his father’s funeral. Lakota values of personal autonomy and non-interference, something Deloria spoke to in the Dakota context in her own interview with me, likely informed the quiet reaction of Bighorn’s family to his declaration. Deloria Bighorn, interview. 201 Where narrators like Lane and Shales framed their declarations as explicit extensions of family histories of Christian combination and leadership, Bighorn noted the sense of separation that this process could also stimulate.97 Still, as it was for Allison Healy, the sense that “the decision was all up to me” proved tremendously empowering for Bighorn and he signed his declaration card, in a nod to Mona, on 18 June 1989, the sixth anniversary of her death.98 Bighorn explicitly narrated his declaration as ongoing process and stressed that his experience of becoming Baha’i extended well beyond his formal enrollment. In our first interview together, for example, he explained that he did not remove himself from Presbyterian church rolls immediately upon declaring due to his discomfort with Baha’i burial law, which stipulates that adherents are to be buried within a maximum of one hour’s travel from the place that they perish.99 As Bighorn shared: I didn’t clearly separate from my church until October, but again my daughter, Jelana, nine years old, initiated that, in a way. Because one of the last requirements that was an obstacle for me as far as becoming a Baha’i, the requirement was, when you die, you’re buried within an hour’s distance from where you died. Well, according to our old Lakota tradition, what happens is you die where my family came from. So I couldn’t justify dying as a Baha’i living in Oregon, possibly die on the West Coast someplace, and then I couldn’t be buried back in Montana. My daughter told me that the earth is the same. I asked her when she was nine years old, I can go with you to your playground, your school playground and we’ll say prayers, we’ll put some tobacco down on the tree, at the tree on your playground and any time you need 97 Other narrators echoed this sense of strain with family members after becoming Baha’i. For example, Allison Healy in Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008; Addison, interview. In both these cases, the family members who Healy and Addison mentioned (their mothers) ended up becoming Baha’is. 98 Bighorn explained that two other major events that month, the death of Ayatollah Khomeini in Iran and the Tiananmen Square massacre in China, further added to this impulse to declare. Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004. 99 See Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Shoghi Effendi, and Universal House of Justice, “Burial, Baha’i,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 1, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Baha’i Publications Australia, 1991), 9-13. ‘Namgis narrator Chris Cook Jr. likewise expressed discomfort with the Baha’i burial law: interview with the author, West Vancouver, 7 June 2004. It has also generated tension in the Maori Baha’i context in Aotearoa/New Zealand. See National Spiritual Assembly of New Zealand, “Special Report on Baha’i Burial vs. Maori Custom,” 6 Oct 1989, accessed online 17 March 2013, http://bahai- library.com/nsa_maori_burial. Tensions over burial law are not limited to Indigenous contexts. See also anthropologist Charles Carnegie’s discussion of the subject in the Jamaican context: Postnationalism Prefigured: Caribbean Borderlands (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 183, 216-217 (fn 2). 202 assistance or protection, you feel threatened, then you go to that tree and your ancestors will come and be with you. She didn’t want to go to the school, it was in the evening, so she turned around and looked out the window and she said, “Well, let’s just put the tobacco down back here.” And I asked why, and she said, “Well, it’s the same earth. It’s the same earth here as it is over at the school.” Fantastic! So this blew my mind. The earth here, wherever I die as a Baha’i, it’s the same earth as in Montana. So, that was it. I was able to have peace in my mind and my transition was complete then.100 Bighorn again addressed this reconfiguration of place in our second interview together: Someone told me one time, “You must walk very carefully,” he said, “and respectfully because underneath your feet are the bones of all your relatives.” And sometimes it comes to mind. And then I took it further, took that image further when I did become a Baha’i and I hesitated because I wanted to be buried next to my mother in Montana. And the Baha’i teachings say within one hour. So I placed that in my mind, I said my mother’s here, I’m here in Duncan, there’s a curvature of the earth, and so it’s the same earth. So it’s just a straight line from Montana to Duncan and it’s the same earth, and there’s my mother. There’s my mother, and we’re connected. When I go in the ground then we’ll be of the same. No problem. Thank you, Baha’u’llah.101 Bighorn did die on Vancouver Island, where he and his family moved in the early 1990s to work and study at Maxwell International Baha’i School located on the shore of Shawnigan Lake. He was buried in Duncan in October 2008, nineteen years to the month after he removed himself from Presbyterian rolls in Oregon. He did not officially separate from his childhood church in Fort Kipp, Montana until the year that he died. Christianity, here, marked a tie to home. And in reconciling with the Baha’i burial law, Bighorn articulated a global vision of earth and home through which he cultivated an expanded relationship to his Lakota ancestors.102 100 Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004. Continuing on from this, Bighorn recalled another exchange, roughly a month later, that further cemented his sense of declaration: “And then to further finish this process, my daughter at that age, I think it was about a month later, denied my request to help her in her school, of coming to assist in her school. And it turned out because she was ashamed of my being an Indian. She didn’t want to, ‘cause she looks like me, she and I have the same [dark] skin colour, so she didn’t want to have that compounded, have the situation compounded by having her father come in. And I was the principal at a school, so socially I had some status, but to her I was, I wasn’t welcome. And that hurt. That hurt so deeply. But I took that as the confirmation that, I had a flashback to 1983, when “I don’t have to hate myself.” It’s not my problem, it’s my daughter’s problem. So, that was sort of the last reminder, I was a declared Bahá’í, a really declared Bahá’í then, 1989.” 101 Bighorn, interview, 7 July 2008. 102 Another Lakota narrator, Kevin Locke, described similar discomfort with the Baha’i burial law, something he reconciled during the course of travels in West Africa not long after declaring as a Baha’i in 1979 on the Standing Rock Reservation, where there were few Baha’is in his immediate area. Though he was traveling in his capacity as a musician and performer, Locke also connected with Baha’is in various African countries that he visited and noted, 203 He was, in this way, not unlike the “rooted cosmopolitan” Black Elk, who, as the anthropologist James Clifford has observed, “took Harney Peak along with him” when he travelled to Europe with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show in the late 1880s.103 Both Jacob and Deloria Bighorn spoke of Black Elk in separate interactions with me and I asked them, in our shared interview together, to elaborate on the connections they saw between his vision and the Baha’i Faith. After retrieving a copy of Black Elk Speaks from a bookshelf in their living room, Deloria proceeded to share the passage with which I opened this chapter. Like Lee Brown, who also described Black Elk’s daybreak star vision in his interview, the Bighorns connected the symbolism of the two men coming from the east, “head first like arrows flying,” with the twin messengers of the Baha’i Faith, the Bab and Baha’u’llah, and the “hoop of many hoops” and “herb of understanding” with the Baha’i vision of global peace and unity. Later in the interview, Deloria also read from the foreword to Black Elk Speaks (written, again, by her relative, Vine Deloria Jr.) that I cite above, commenting on his reflections about the influence of Neihardt’s text on her and Jacob’s generation, “I didn’t realize we were so influenced. I guess we are.” She also noted earlier in the conversation, though, that “Even, of course, before this book came out, with a laugh, that “my first exposure to Baha’i community I think was the Wolof people, it’s a tribe, major ethnicity in Senegal. So as far as I knew all the Baha’is were Wolof.” As he elaborated on such interaction and the burial law: “it was fantastic, because the African Baha’is are a very dynamic group, they don’t sit around and say prayers, they sing their prayers, they dance their prayers, they do everything. The first place that I went, with each community, we always went to the cemeteries first. And we’d always go there and we’d sing and we’d say prayers for the departed, for the pioneers who went to establish Baha’i communities in those different places. […] I was always of the opinion that when you die, no matter where you are, that’s the way they always do it around here [on Standing Rock], you are always buried back at your home, your home place. But the Baha’i burial law, as you know, you’re buried within an hour’s journey of wherever you pass away. And I know a lot of people have problems with that, but being that my first exposure to Baha’i communities was in Africa, I thought, what a horrible punishment to be buried there in your home place, because everybody’s just going to forget about you. You’ll never be remembered. And my experience over there was that, my gosh, those people get a lot of prayers, a lot of respect, a lot of attention, because they are the ones that arose and gave their lives to establish those Baha’i communities over there. So that’s never been a problem for me. I know it’s a problem for a lot of people, the burial laws. But I think that’s the best possible thing that could be.” 103 James Clifford, “Indigenous Articulations,” The Contemporary Pacific vol.13 no.2 (Fall 2001), 470. 204 he was well-known.” Stories like Black Elk’s, she explained, were frequently shared in her family. Jacob, for his part, recalled meeting one of Black Elk’s sons in the Black Hills.104 Bighorn also expanded his interpretation of Black Elk’s vision as he deepened his Baha’i knowledge. From the Baha’i writings, for example, which he described connecting with on account of their metaphorical language and presentation, he learned “that when Baha’u’llah declared his mission, that every molecule in the universe danced with joy at the return of God.” This meant, in his analysis, that “the molecules that were present in the fetus that would soon be born, from whom would be born Black Elk in November of 1863, they were affected and impacted by Baha’u’llah’s message of his return. Because Black Elk was in his mother’s womb in April of 1863, when Baha’u’llah first made his declaration.”105 In addition to this synchronicity, Bighorn also shared a more recent reading he had made of the significance of the different colours of horses (white, red/sorrel, yellow/buckskin, and black, “representing the North, the East, the South, and the West”) that accompanied Black Elk as he rode towards “the highest mountain of them all” and gazed upon “the whole hoop of the world.”106 Bighorn recalled that when he first arrived at Maxwell International Baha’i School in the early 1990s, he was surprised and put off to see an image of five intertwined hands – white, red, yellow, black, and brown – painted on a school wall. He initially interpreted this as a desecration of the four colours represented in Black Elk’s vision and found, also, in the medicine wheel. More recently, however, Bighorn came to recognize that Black Elk himself was seated on a bay (brown) horse during his vision. The image at Maxwell, he explained, “had the four different colours of the 104 Jacob and Deloria Bighorn, interview, 7 July 2008. 105 Jacob Bighorn interview, 7 July 2008. Neihardt gave Black Elk’s date of birth as 1863. The religious studies scholar Clyde Holler contends that he was more likely born in 1866. “Introduction,” in Holler, ed., The Black Elk Reader, xxii. 106 Bighorn, interview, 7 July 2008. See Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks, Chapter 3 (“The Great Vision”). For a reading of the role of horses in Black Elk’s vision see Julian Rice, “Akicita of the Thunder: Horses in Black Elk’s Vision,” in Holler, ed., The Black Elk Reader, 59-76. 205 races, and then they had the brown colour. Brown was to signify the place of the people of the Middle East and South Asia. And to my way of thinking then, I realized that in Black Elk’s vision he was at the centre of this vision of all these horses.” Thus, as Bighorn elaborated elsewhere, “I was able to see then the place of all five colours of the races.”107 This was a very Baha’i reading of Black Elk, one that affirmed Indigenous spiritual power and presence, while stressing global relationship and unity. This global perspective, however, did not extinguish Bighorn’s sense of tribal connection to Black Elk and sacred Lakota space. Though illness kept him from frequent travel, Bighorn journeyed to the Black Hills with his eldest son, Jordan, in 2004. Harney Peak, he explained, is “the mountain where Black Elk is considered to have come down to earth. And that’s where he saw the rest of the earth from. So we climbed that mountain.” He continued with great emotion: But halfway up, halfway up that mountain, my son Jordan in his beautiful singing voice began to chant, chant Persian prayers. And when we got to the top so many hours later, the wind was blowing and the sun was getting ready to go down, Jordan took off. He was jumping from rock to rock, far away, and I could hear his voice on the wind again. And he was chanting. And I knew, that those mountains, that those trees, had been waiting, they had been waiting and they were so joyous to hear the Baha’i prayers being chanted in their midst in such a beautiful place. Such a strong gesture. My son didn’t care who was listening, who could hear, there were so many tourists around. But he had to chant these songs, these prayers, and he did. And the paths upon the Black Hills were blessed by these songs of the Persian chant. This marked, for Bighorn, a moving moment of rapprochement: And in this way, the Indian way and the Baha’i way came together. And I feel, as far as Lakota and Dakota are concerned, our relationship, our tie to the Baha’i way, to Baha’u’llah, was initiated and blessed by the birth of Black Elk and certainly the vision and the life that he lived, long lived afterwards. And all it takes is understanding. Understanding and appreciation for these words that I have just said.108 This interpretation is hardly universal among Lakota and Dakota people and surely contested by some, particularly in view of an explicit “fulfillment theology” that some Catholic scholars have 107 Bighorn, interview, 7 July 2008. 108 Bighorn, interview, 7 July 2008. 206 advanced in relation to Black Elk.109 Through such symbolic association, however, along with emplaced experience in the Black Hills, Bighorn himself articulated a strong sense of Lakota Baha’i identity. Declaring Spirituality Like Lane and Brown, Bighorn also reflected on the hurt he felt when he encountered, following his declaration, a lack of understanding and respect for his Indigenous worldview within the wider Baha’i community. Indeed, these men were among the most vocal narrators concerning intercultural tensions that they confronted among Baha’is following their declarations. Desire to open these issues to dialogue may well have informed their decisions to narrate their declarations in Indigenous spiritual terms. Having made meaning of the Baha’i Faith through such mediums as dream, vision, and prophecy, Lane, Brown, and Bighorn eagerly anticipated bringing their perspectives to bear within Baha’i community and were profoundly hurt when they encountered a lack of understanding and respect for their Indigenous worldviews among a number of non-Indigenous adherents. That it was men, in particular, who told these interlocking stories of spiritual declaration and subsequent disappointment points towards a gendered dimension of such pain and invites further investigation.110 109 As Dana Anderson explains of this “fulfillment theology”: “No longer just a synecdoche of traditions passed, something of a Lakota last (holy) man standing, Black Elk instead becomes an argument for the subordination of Native tradition: as the representative ‘genuine convert’ of Native American Christianity, he becomes the ‘touchstone’ and ‘prime example’ of how Christianity subsumes traditional spirituality in fulfilling it – of how Lakota religion is ‘an Old Testament reaching its fulfillment in Christ.’” Anderson, “Black Elk Speaks and Is Spoken,” 154. This “Old Testament” quote is from Paul B. Steinmetz, S.J., “The New Missiology and Black Elk’s Individuation,” in Holler, ed., The Black Elk Reader, 281. Deloria Bighorn spoke to the flexibility of symbolic interpretation when she noted elsewhere in the same interview, “You can see it’s related or you can not see it’s related, I mean, it just depends on how you want to see it.” Jacob made a similar statement in regards to his connection with Mona: “it may not be true, but it feels good to think that it might be, because I have now this physical connection to her.” Jacob and Deloria Bighorn, interview, 7 July 2008. 110 Scholars are paying increasing attention to Indigenous men and masculinities in historical and contemporary contexts of colonialism in North America. See, for example, Brendan Hokowhitu, “Indigenous and First Nations Masculinities,” in Michael Flood et al, eds., International Encyclopedia of Men and Masculinities (New York: Routledge, 2007), 331-335; Kim Anderson, Robert Alexander Innes, and John Swift, “Indigenous Masculinities: 207 Though tinged with a tone of pain and disappointment, Lane, Brown, and Bighorn’s declaration stories at the same time conveyed the strong inspiration that they received through the Baha’i religion, a faith that they found both validated and fulfilled a range of Indigenous spiritual teachings. The composed declaration stories that these men shared illuminate the diverse Indigenous meanings that they made of the Baha’i Faith, both in historical time and subsequent memory. These stories are themselves expressions of Indigenous Baha’i identity and help refine our understanding of Indigenous spirituality and identification in urban and off- reservation contexts. They demonstrate the resilience and relevance of family and tribal story, while also positioning the Baha’i Faith in a dynamic context of intertribal spiritual exchange. And they hint at the dissemination of the Baha’i Faith between Indigenous people and the construction of Indigenous Baha’i community as well. Lane, Brown, and Bighorn’s intersecting stories point, further, to the articulation and activation of a shared Indigenous spirituality in this period. By “shared” I do not mean single or generic, though as we will see in more detail in the next chapter, some (particularly Plains) spiritual practices certainly spread widely in the decades Lane, Brown, and Bighorn became Baha’is.111 (Plus, recall Black Elk in Seattle). What I am pointing to here, instead, is an effort to express certain common Indigenous spiritual principles such as relationship, respect, holism, and circularity. Lane, Brown, and Bighorn were not just situated in a context of shared Indigenous spirituality, they actively helped produce it, both before and after becoming Baha’is. All three, Carrying the Bones of the Ancestors,” in Christopher J. Grieg and Wayne J. Martino, eds., Canadian Men and Masculinities: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives (Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press, 2012), 266-284; Sam McKegney, “Warriors, Healers, Lovers, and Leaders: Confronting Simulations of Indigenous Masculinity,” in Jason A. Laker, ed. Canadian Perspectives on Men and Masculinities: An Interdisciplinary Reader (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 2012), 241-268. 111 To speak of a shared Indigenous spirituality is slippery. The same colonial history that produced resilient policies and assumptions of “authentic Indianness” contributed and continues to give rise to static portraits of a single “American Indian religion” as well. See Michael J. Zorgy, “Lost in Conflation: Visual Culture and Constructions of the Category of Religion, “ American Indian Quarterly 35, no. 1 (Winter 2011), 1-55. 208 for example, worked and studied in the field of education, where they incorporated Indigenous philosophies like circle teachings.112 Likewise, Lane and Brown were and remain active in the Indigenous healing movement and projects that have applied Indigenous spiritual teachings and ceremony to drug and alcohol treatment.113 These were not Baha’i projects per se.114 As I discuss in more detail in Chapter 8, however, Indigenous Baha’is frequently activated their faith through service in contexts like these. And, as I elaborate in the next, where Lane, Brown, and Bighorn became Baha’is by way of Indigenous spirituality, others came to connect with Indigenous community and cultural practice through Baha’i observance itself. 112 Jacob Bighorn, interview, 11 Aug 2004. See, for example, Brown’s doctoral thesis in Education, in which he discusses his and Lane’s involvement with the Native Training Institute in Kamloops: Lee Brown, “Making the Classroom a Healthy Place: The Development of Affective Competency in Aboriginal Pedagogy (PhD thesis, University of British Columbia, 2004). On Brown and Lane’s work with circle teachings see also Robert Regnier, “The Sacred Circle: An Aboriginal Approach to Healing Education at an Urban High School,” in Marie Battiste and Jean Barman, eds., First Nations Education in Canada: The Circle Unfolds (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1995), 315, 317-318. In addition to Indigenous teachings, the pedagogical approaches of all three men are also informed by the Anisa Model developed by education scholar and Baha’i, Daniel C. Jordan. 113 Lane and Brown, for example, are among the co-authors (with Baha’is Judie and Michael Bopp and an intertribal team of Elders) of The Sacred Tree: Reflections on Native American Spirituality, a 1984 text, still in print, developed as “a handbook of Native Spirituality for indigenous peoples all over the Americas and the world” and applied in the context of drug and alcohol healing in tribal communities. Phil Lane Jr., Judie Bopp, Michael Bopp, Lee Brown, and Elders (with introduction by Jane Goodall), The Sacred Tree: Reflections on Native American Spirituality, Fourth Edition (Twin Lakes, WI: Lotus, 2004 [1984]). The Sacred Tree was produced by the Four Worlds Development Project, an institute affiliated with the University of Lethbridge where Lane and Judie and Michael Bopp all worked. Other resources produced by Four Worlds (now two separate organizations: the Four Worlds International Institute and the Four Worlds Center for Development Learning) likewise remain in circulation. Mohawk scholar Taiaiake Alfred, for example, cites Four Worlds Development Project, 12 Principles of Indian Philosophy (Lethbridge, AB: University of Lethbridge, 1982) in a discussion of “the basics” of the “Onkwehonwe [original people] spiritual and philosophical belief system.” Taiaiake Alfred, Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom (Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2005), 250, 285 (fn 42). 114 Indeed, I am reticent about replicating the same process of Baha’i “naming” or “claiming” that in part drove Lane, in particular, from active participation in the religion. 209 Chapter 6: Practicing Culture Reflecting on his process of religious deepening, Quw’utsun’ Baha’i Robert George articulated a sentiment echoed by a number of narrators: “So with the Faith,” he shared, “the Baha’i Faith, what I’ve come to understand is that I can be a Baha’i and still belong to the culture, my culture.” “So that’s what I really like,” George continued, “it’s up to you, it doesn’t matter what culture you come from, your background. So that’s what I like about it. You know, if I’m drumming, nobody will say, ‘that’s not right.’” Comparing this flexibility with censure he has confronted from other faiths, he added, “I’ve experienced that with other religions, ‘that’s not the way we do it.’”1 In contrast to many Christian churches that had and, in some cases, continued to suppress Indigenous cultural practice well into the second half of the twentieth century, the Baha’i Faith promoted its “preservation” (as the Universal House of Justice put this principle in a series of statements on cultural diversity in the 1980s and 90s).2 Indigenous Baha’i histories, however, reveal something other than straightforward cultural preservation. They demonstrate, instead, how the practice of what narrators called “culture,” by which they meant Indigenous practices such as drumming, dancing, and sweat lodge ceremony, contributed to the construction of Indigenous and Baha’i identities alike. And they reveal, further, how Baha’i observance itself encouraged some Indigenous adherents to connect with this cultural practice for the first time. Shifting from discussion of declaration to the terrain of practice, this chapter and the next both examine efforts to live the vision of unity in diversity. They illuminate how Baha’i observance brought Indigenous adherents into Indigenous and Baha’i communities alike, as well as 1 Robert George, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 5 Oct 2004. 2 See, for example, Letter Written on behalf of the Universal House of Justice to a National Spiritual Assembly, 26 May 1982 and Letter Written on behalf of the Universal House of Justice to an Individual Believer, 28 Oct 1990, cited in Universal House of Justice, Aspects of Traditional African Culture, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (1998), accessed online 12 May 13, http://bahai- library.com/compilation_traditional_african_culture. 210 explicitly intersectional spaces that were problematic but also incredibly rich. The Baha’i principle of the preservation of culture, it turns out, did not always secure it. But it also produced it. I begin this this chapter here, with a series of detailed individual histories that illuminate a process I call “conversion to culture.” Through internal dialogue, as well as interaction with other Indigenous people and Baha’is, these narrators not only took up practices such as singing, powwow, and pipe ceremony, they also constructed wider identifications as Indigenous. And, as I elaborate in the second half of the chapter, these narrators, along with other Indigenous Baha’is, further practiced and produced their Indigeneity as they negotiated the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the Faith. I am using the term “culture” in this chapter in the way narrators themselves did, to refer, again, to practices such as intertribal sweat lodge and pipe ceremonies as well as tribal song, drum, and dance.3 This understanding of culture (or “the culture,” “my culture,” or “being cultural,” as narrators variously put it) is one I myself engaged in my interview questions. This was not a process of me putting words in narrators’ mouths, but rather an engagement with relevant terminology that set the ground for exchange. This idiom of culture emerged out of the late 1960s and 70s context of Indigenous activism and cultural renewal outlined in Chapter 2 and further gained traction in arenas like the Indigenous healing movement discussed here.4 As Kirk Dombrowski and Aaron Glass have observed, for all their attention to the “predicament of culture,” anthropologists have had much less to say about the question of “having” culture and 3 For ease of reading, I do not place “culture” in scare quotes throughout the remainder of the chapter; readers should recall that I am employing the term in this specific sense. 4 On cultural renewal see Joane Nagel, American Indian Ethnic Renewal: Red Power and the Resurgence of Identity and Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 190. Borrowing from the language of musical composition, the religious studies scholar Dennis F. Kelley proposes the term “reprise” over “revival,” “renewal,” and “revitalization.” Where this latter trio, he suggests, invoke cultural death and the image of the “vanishing Indian,” reprise “alludes to the rearticulation of an earlier theme whose basic elements remained throughout.” Dennis F. Kelley, “Alcohol Abuse Recovery and Prevention as Spiritual Practice,” in Suzanne J. Crawford O’Brien, ed. Religion and Healing in Native America: Pathways for Renewal (Oxford: Praeger, 2008), 66. 211 how Indigenous peoples themselves deploy and engage the concept.5 Listening to the discourse of culture in the context of the life story interviews that compose this study offers insight into the historical development and deployment of this revivalist idiom and its ongoing resilience today. In addition to culture, and the connections to wider Indigenous communities that such practice stimulated, narrators also reflected on the subject of Baha’i community and, in cases, on intercultural tensions that emerged over the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the faith. Considering the Baha’i prohibition on backbiting, the fact that narrators shared on such a sensitive subject is significant. In addition to attitudes of disrespect and dismissal that some Indigenous Baha’is met from other adherents, interviews also reveal differences of opinion and ongoing processes of interpretation on the part of narrators themselves.6 While some adherents took up culture as a result of their Baha’i practice, Robert George was far from alone in underscoring the support he found within the Baha’i Faith for his preexisting Indigenous practice.7 Yet the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the Baha’i 5 James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988); Kirk Dombrowski, “The Politics of Native Culture,” in Thomas Biolsi, ed. A Companion to the Anthropology of American Indians (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 360-361, 379; Aaron Glass, “The Intention of Tradition: Contemporary Contexts and Contests of the Hamat’sa Dance,” in Marie Mauzé, Michael E. Harkin, and Sergei Kan, eds. Coming to Shore: Northwest Coast Ethnology, Traditions, and Visions (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 279. 6 In both these ways, this chapter contributes critical texture to the overwhelmingly prescriptive literature on Baha’i ritual. See, for example, Denis MacEoin, Rituals in Babism and Baha’ism (London: British Academic Press, 1994); John Walbridge, Sacred Acts, Sacred Space, Sacred Time (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1996). 7 See, for example, a strikingly similar statement to George’s made by Diné Baha’i, Johnny Nelson, discussed in Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011), 105. Other existing literature on Indigenous Baha’is has likewise stressed this point, including: Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 54; Pauline Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops: The Integration of Lakota Ancestral Knowledge and Bahá’í Teachings in the Performative Practices of Kevin Locke” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2002). Writing about northern New Ireland, Papua New Guinea, Graeme Were similarly notes that, “Nalik followers of the Baha’i faith are regarded by other Naliks as arbiters of traditional knowledge and practices,” or “kastom.” This is an image Nalik Baha’is themselves promote; a banner hoisted outside a local Baha’i centre in honour of Naw Ruz, the Baha’i New Year, for example, declared in Nalik, “‘Proclaim the Baha’i Faith: church of ancestral ways.’” Graeme Were, “Thinking Through Images: Kastom and the Coming of the Baha’is to Northern New Ireland, Papua New Guinea,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 11 (2005), 662-663, 669. In addition to encouragement to keep up their Indigenous cultural practice, some narrators also spoke of striking salutary resonance that they found between Indigenous and Baha’i spiritual teachings, including prescriptions for 212 Faith was also a subject of active reflection and was, at times, contested. Baha’is, including narrators in this project, articulated a clear sense of historical consciousness that stressed the relative youth of their religion and saw space, at least in theory, for innovation as adherents built Baha’i culture over time.8 As a self-styled modern and rational religion, the Baha’i Faith cautioned against both ritual and superstition and called for all cultures to be brought in line with Baha’i law.9 If all peoples, however, were ostensibly subject to these instructions, uneven power relations within the North American Baha’i community also produced a normative baseline of non-Indigenous practice (read, ritual) that Indigenous adherents were required to negotiate. I am informed, in this chapter, by practice-based theories of ritual in the sense that, like Catherine Bell, I consider ritual “a central arena for cultural mediation” and am interested in “what rituals do, not just what they mean, particularly the way they construct and inscribe power relationships.”10 Where religious studies scholars like Bell and Michael McNally, however, attend to an unconscious “logic of practice,” and advocate attention to ritualization over ritual, I examine more direct expressions and debates over the contours of acceptable and appropriate Baha’i practice.11 Culture and ritual were themselves explicit, sometimes fraught, terms of engagement within the Baha’i Faith itself. daily prayer and regular fasting. For example, Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008; Eleanora McDermott and Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008; Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009. 8 On Baha’i historical consciousness and sacred time see David Michael Piff, Bahá’í Lore (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 2000), 34; Walbridge, Sacred Acts, Sacred Space, Sacred Time, 173. 9 On the rational (and, following Weber, rationalized) and non-ritualistic orientation of the Baha’i Faith see, for example, Michael McMullen, The Bahá’í: The Religious Construction of a Global Identity (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 7, 76-77, 201. 10 Catherine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 82-83. 11 Michael D. McNally, Ojibwe Singers: Hymns, Grief, and a Native Culture in Motion (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 5, 14-15, 121-122, 200-201; Bell, Ritual, 81-82. 213 Conversion to Culture The process of Baha’i “conversion to culture” took place in a wide context of Indigenous cultural renewal and intertribal exchange in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s. Recall, for example, the declaration story of Allison Healy, discussed in Chapter 4, in which she intimately linked the empowering moment of signing her declaration card in 1972 with a confirming experience, two years later, in a sweat lodge ceremony. As another Blackfoot Baha’i, Beverly Knowlton, noted in her interview with me, this was a time of significant intertribal exchange and cultural renewal in southern Alberta. “I remember,” she shared, “in Morley there was a conference on teaching the culture again. And this conference, this attracted people from all over” (including, she noted, narrator Kevin Locke, who declared as a Baha’i a number of years later). This was the period, Knowlton explained, “when things changed and then we were able to go to sun dances,” the time when “the culture started,” when “the powwows started.”12 It was in this broad context, and in specific support of her husband’s pursuit of sobriety, that Healy, then in her early thirties, attended her first sweat lodge ceremony. Culture was increasingly employed as a tool for reform and sobriety in this period, and as she elaborated on this connection: after my husband went through his sobriety, he always said, what took over his drinking was the culture and he never looked back at his past, his drinking. Like he was reborn again, he was looking at a new way of living a good life. So he started dancing and we started to take part in dancing and in our cultural ways and that’s what brought us to take part at the Calgary Stampede, to camp there and practice our cultural ways for tourists. So we’ve been really happy with our new life and then passed on to our children.13 12 Beverley Knowlton, interview with the author, between Calgary and Sylvan Lake, Alberta, 26 April 2008. Knowlton later confirmed that the gathering she referred to was an Indian Ecumenical Conference, indicating the place of Christianity (and the Baha’i Faith as well) in the process of Indigenous cultural renewal. On the Indian Ecumenical Conference see James Treat, Around the Sacred Fire: Native Religious Activism in the Red Power Era: A Narrative Map of the Indian Ecumenical Conference (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). On Blackfoot (Siksika) epistemology and what author Betty Bastien describes in her introduction as “my journey of retraditionalization” see Blackfoot Ways of Knowing: The Worldview of the Siksikaitsitapi (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2004), 6. 13 An article that includes photographs of the Healy family at the Calgary Stampede was published on the Baha’i Community of Canada website: “A World Citizen, Allison Healy is Proud of her First Nations Identity,” 30 July 2004, accessed online 22 April 2008, http://www.ca.bahai.org. 214 Her children grew up, Healy added, “knowing who they are” and “with both cultures,” Blackfoot and Baha’i.14 And as Healy’s declaration story, in which she underscored how “everything just came together as one,” makes abundantly clear, she understood her Baha’i observance and Indigenous cultural practice as tightly intertwined.15 Where Healy “converted to culture” at a time when such Indigenous practice was emergent, others did so once it was more established. Sonny Voyageur, for example, is a generation younger than Healy and though he did not attend residential school as she did, he described being impacted by its “residual effects” and the strict Christian context in which he was raised on Vancouver Island. Invoking a fluid idiom of culture, in which he tacked between using the term as a synonym for society and a more specific realm of practice, Voyageur explained that prior to becoming a Baha’i in 1988: I wasn’t involved in my culture, really didn’t take an active role in my culture at that time. I remember that time, before I chose the Faith, being Native wasn’t really a good thing. It wasn’t really, there was no spiritual dimension to our culture. Well, from my own experience. It seemed like, I don’t like to say dominant culture, but the culture here, Western culture, that everyone seemed to have adopted, really prevailed at that time … I mean, it just didn’t grab me. It didn’t grab my heart, right? Or my imagination, mainly. If anything, it seemed like a real burden. And at that, I’m gonna be upfront, I mean, before I became a Baha’i, culture, I was ashamed of it, you know? I really didn’t like the social or the economic conditions, you know? So, because I was Native, I still did my rounds. Meaning rounds as just, I still connected with Native people, but I wasn’t fully engaged in the cultural aspects, or the culture, the traditions, right? Just something to do. I hate to say it, get a free meal, and then go. But there was really no backdrop, there was no event that I really wanted to be a part of.16 Voyageur came to connect positively with culture, as he understands it, at the Round Lake Treatment Centre, located on the Okanagan Indian Reserve near Vernon in south-central British Columbia. Founded in 1979, Round Lake was among the first dedicated Indigenous drug and 14 Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 27 April 2008. 15 Allison Healy, interview with the author, North Vancouver, British Columbia, 16 Jan 2009. 16 Sonny Voyageur, interview with the author, North Vancouver, British Columbia, 12 Nov 2004. 215 alcohol treatment facilities in Canada and continues to operate according to a guiding vision of “Culture is Treatment.”17 As the religious studies scholar Dennis Kelley has detailed, many Indigenous treatment and recovery programs that emerged in North America during the last decades of the twentieth century were intertribal in orientation and incorporated Plains-inspired practices such as sweat lodge and pipe ceremonies and philosophy like the medicine wheel.18 Such teachings did not resonate with all Indigenous people, some of whom have rejected pan- Indigeneity on account of its homogenizing and deterritorializing implications.19 Voyageur, specifically, was introduced to what he called Native spirituality at Round Lake and actively participated in intertribal culture for a number of years after leaving treatment. Like many others, he subsequently interwove this activity with the Baha’i Faith. Voyageur was first introduced to the religion by Lee Brown, who moved from Seattle to work as the Treatment Supervisor at Round Lake in 1980.20 This program was by no means Baha’i and Brown did not speak openly about the religion at Round Lake. He was not alone among Baha’is, 17 http://roundlaketreatmentcentre.ca/, accessed online 20 March 2013; Elizabeth Mary Furniss, “A Sobriety Movement Among the Shuswap Indians of Alkali Lake” (MA thesis, University of British Columbia, 1987), 51-52, 151; Phil Lane Jr., Michael Bopp, Judie Bopp, and Julian Norris, Four Worlds International and the Four Worlds Center for Development Learning, “Mapping the Healing Journey: First Nations Research Project on Healing in Canadian Aboriginal Communities,” in Wanda D. McCaslin, ed., Justice as Healing: Indigenous Ways: Writings on Community Peacemaking and Restorative Justice from the Native Law Centre (St. Paul, MN: Living Justice Press, 2005), 375-376. 18 Kelley, “Alcohol Abuse Recovery and Prevention as Spiritual Practice,” 65-90. 19 Kelley, “Alcohol Abuse Recovery and Prevention as Spiritual Practice,” 68. For case studies that consider the sometimes uneasy fit of pan-Indigenous healing models within specific Indigenous contexts see Colin Samson, “A Colonial Double-Bind: Social and Historical Contexts of Innu Mental Health”; Adrian Tanner, “The Origins of Northern Aboriginal Social Pathologies and the Quebec Cree Healing Movement”; and Gregory M. Brass, “Respecting the Medicines: Narrating an Aboriginal Identity,” in Laurence J. Kirmayer and Gail Guthrie Valaskakis, eds., Healing Traditions: The Mental Health of Aboriginal Peoples in Canada (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2009), 109- 139, 249-271, 355-380. Anticipating, perhaps, similar concerns, the current Round Lake website explains the center’s program philosophy this way: “The Round Lake program presents a holistic approach to healing through the medicine wheel and its balance of the physical, mental, spiritural and emotional aspects of our lives to all cultures and nationalities. ‘Culture Is Treatment’ is the philosophy of the Round Lake Treatment Centre. The program is grounded in cultural teachings and practices facilitated by elders and staff. Out of respect for all belief systems, the spirituality components of the program will not interfere with, but enhance all of our clients’ spiritual beliefs” (spelling as it appears in original). Accessed online 19 May 2013, http://roundlaketreatmentcentre.ca/about- us/Our-Program-Philosophy. 20 Voyageur, interview; Brown interview, 21 March 2008. 216 however, in working in this field; as I elaborate in further detail in Chapter 8, a number of Indigenous Baha’is worked in such areas as Indigenous health, education, and community development, where they simultaneously expressed and supported Indigenous culture and Baha’i service.21 Upon Voyageur’s completion of the program at Round Lake, Brown provided him with a copy of William Sears’ Thief in the Night and connected Voyageur with Saulteaux Baha’i Dorothy Maquabeak Francis in Vancouver.22 It was in a sweat lodge run by Francis that Voyageur came, with emotion, to embrace Baha’u’llah as, in his words, his “friend,” “lord,” and the new “Manifestation of God.”23 Over the next several years, Voyageur travelled widely with Brown to attend ceremonies and gatherings across the Plains and Prairies. This three-way intersection of treatment, culture, and the Baha’i Faith was common. Donald Addison, for example, shared about his own experience that recovery has “helped me to appreciate not only the Faith, which I appreciated already, but being Native. And the support of Native American culture in my ability to stay clean, and stay sober.”24 A generation older than Voyageur, Addison was born in 1942 and became a Baha’i in 1960 as a teenager living in Eugene, Oregon. After a number of years as a Baha’i, he had his “administrative rights” removed on account of heavy drug use. Baha’i leaders regularly urged sensitivity and support for 21 As one prominent example, Indigenous Baha’is Phil Lane Jr. and Phil Lucas, together with the Baha’i-inspired Four Worlds Development Project, worked with the Secwepmec community of Alkali Lake (the Esketemc First Nation) to help document and continue the process of healing and community development following the community’s dramatic shift from rampant alcoholism in the early 1970s to near total sobriety by the mid-1980s. “The Alkali Lake Community Story,” Four Worlds International Institute, accessed online 23 Feb 2013, http://www.4worlds.org/4w/ssr/Partiv.htm; Lane et al., “Mapping the Healing Journey,” 405-406; Phil Lucas et al, The Honour of All: The Story of Alkali Lake (Kelowna, BC: Filmwest Associates, 2004 [1986]). As Dennis Kelley notes, the Alkali Lake story has become “nearly iconic in the overall discourse on American Indians and alcohol abuse recovery” and these individuals and this organization are often cited in frequent references to Alkali Lake; the Baha’i inspirations behind their work, however, are less well known. Kelley, “Alcohol Abuse Recovery and Prevention as Spiritual Practice,” 66-67. For a source that details the involvement of Four Worlds, and the pan- Indigenous orientation of its programming, in Alkali Lake see Furniss, “A Sobriety Movement Among the Shuswap Indians of Alkali Lake,” 87, 90-93. 22 On Francis see Chelsea Horton, “Beyond Red Power: The Alternative Activism of Dorothy Maquabeak Francis,” The Journal of Bahá’í Studies 14, no.3/4 (Sept-Dec 2004), 34-71. 23 Voyageur, interview. 24 Donald Addison, interview with the author, Eugene, Oregon, 23 June 2008. 217 adherents struggling with sobriety and the removal of administrative rights (which, as Linda Covey explains, deprives a Baha’i of “being ‘in good standing’ and includes the loss of privileges, such as voting in Bahá’í elections, giving to the Bahá’í funds, and attending the spiritual and business portions of Bahá’í Feasts”) is a sanction that was not applied lightly.25 Addison explained of his own experience that he received word from the National Spiritual Assembly “saying that if I were to get clean and sober, I could have my voting rights back.” “And rather than get mad at them,” he recalled, “I decided I would do anything it took to get clean and sober, and stay clean.” He first attended treatment at a veteran’s hospital in Vancouver, Washington and explained that when a counselor asked him, “Are you Native? Because if you are, we can put you in Red Willow,” he responded with, “Well, why not? If being Native, I don’t have to pay for it, I’ll go there.” Addison had hidden his “Indianness” following a scarring schoolyard encounter as a child and he carried this silence forward into his early Baha’i years. Though he interacted in Indigenous community, and with other Indigenous Baha’is, prior to entering treatment, this experience awoke in him a deepened sense of connection with Indigenous culture, and identity.26 He recalled thinking, “‘Oh, yeah, I can stay clean and sober because Native culture supports it.’” And, he elaborated: I knew enough about our tribe, and I didn’t speak Choctaw then, I learned subsequently. And as I was staying clean, I was getting very close to the Baha’i Faith, to return, get my voting rights, and really being involved in the Native community one hundred percent. And it was the Elders that took me in by the bucket loads. And so I became clean and sober twenty years ago and got my voting rights just a few years after I got clean. While knowledgeable about his maternal Choctaw culture, Addison also connected with intertribal practices such as powwows on the West Coast and, through graduate study and 25 Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 170; Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 50-62. 26 Addison, for example, recalled interaction with another Choctaw Baha’i, the late musician and filmmaker Phil Lucas, who he met in Los Angeles, California, where Addison attended graduate school. Addison, interview. 218 teaching in anthropology and linguistics, learned songs, stories, and prayers from a range of tribal traditions.27 As he shared in contemporary context: Today I get to be an Elder. And at all these powwows around here, it’s so nice to be able to be called on to say a prayer in Native languages. Anywhere I want to. I’m sixty-five, and I know lots of prayers in Lakota, in Navajo, and it’s so fun to get to do that, and sing, I’ve got hundreds of Native songs from memory, that I’ve learned from other Elders and things like that. And to get to say American Indian languages, use those languages in powwows, and say Baha’i prayers for huge powwows. I’ve been doing that for twenty years. In having his Baha’i administrative rights reinstated and connecting with Indigenous culture, Addison explained, “finally, it all fit together for me.”28 Where a number of Indigenous Baha’is, like Addison, have participated primarily in intertribal cultural arenas, others have added this to existing tribal practice. Though he attended residential school, for example, J.C. Lucas was familiar with his Nuu-chah-nulth culture from childhood. Like Voyageur, he met Lee Brown at Round Lake and also participated in intertribal practice after he exited treatment. As Lucas recalled: I went kinda insane when I sobered up, I prayed and fasted everywhere I went. In Vernon area, up in the Interior, on the Island, on the Prairies. I got a pipe from a Sioux friend ‘cause I was having intense spiritual experiences and visions. Yeah, he said he would sponsor me at the Sun Dance in Sioux Valley, Manitoba. Acknowledging the intertribal, and potentially contested, nature of this practice, he elaborated: So I went to my father and asked for his blessing to go, you know, kinda asked permission. “I’d really like your blessing, permission to go.” And I thought he was gonna say, “Son, that’s not our way.” ‘Cause we’re from the West Coast, we don’t have the Sun Dance. But all he said was, “Oh, good son, good!” And he lit up like a Christmas tree. And he said, “There’s only one God, it doesn’t matter how you find him. There’s lots of 27 Originally a Plains practice, powwows spread widely throughout “Indian Country” during the second half of the twentieth century. See Clyde Ellis, Luke Eric Lassiter, and Gary H. Dunham, eds. Powwow (Lincoln: University on Nebraska Press, 2005). Addison has a PhD in Ethnomusicology from UCLA and is currently working on a second PhD in Linguistics at the University of Oregon. He teaches Ethnic Studies and Anthropology at Lane Community College in Eugene, Oregon, and has taught at a number of other area schools as well. Addison, interview; Donald Addison and Christopher Buck, “Messengers of God in North America Revisited: An Exegesis of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Tablet to Amír Khán,” Online Journal of Bahá'í Studies 1 (2007), 181 (fn 5). 28 Addison, interview. 219 ways in the world we don’t know about, but only one God.” He said, “You go, you find out, you’re young.”29 Lucas has since continued to balance and combine both his Hesquiaht and intertribal practice. And where he added intertribal culture and community to existing tribal connections, others moved from intertribal practice into tribal culture, through the Baha’i Faith. In contrast to Lucas, for example, who described receiving his father’s blessing to take part in intertribal practice, Voyageur recalled being subtly called home in 1995 when he told a Kwakwaka’wakw uncle, himself a United Church minister, with whom he had a close relationship that he was off to another sweat lodge ceremony. His uncle, Voyageur recalled, told him: “Son, you don’t need to do that.” I go, “Do what?” He goes, “You got a culture at home. You got our culture, you know? You should really come back to ours, I notice you haven’t been around as much. You don’t need to go out there. Your mom comes from a really good family, we’re all family here,” right? “Come back,” right? Basically he was asking me to come back.30 Voyageur described dismissing his uncle’s call at the time, but explained how the next year, he and a group of Baha’i youth who were in Port McNeill, on northern Vancouver Island, for a Baha’i summer school ended up assisting in the kitchen for a feast being held by one of his relatives. Although Voyageur had attended his family potlatch in Kingcome Inlet every two years before this (“‘cause we had to renew our name, right?”), he explained that, “that was the beginning of getting back involved, through the service.”31 For a number of years after that point, intercultural teams of Baha’is began assisting with cooking and other duties at potlatches in the nearby ‘Namgis community of Alert Bay, where several non-Indigenous Baha’is were 29 J.C. Lucas, interview with the author, Nanaimo, British Columbia, 6 Oct 2004. 30 Voyageur, interview. As Aaron Glass notes, there is a strong contemporary idiom(s) of culture in Alert Bay; the commemorative 1993 t-shirt for the annual cultural celebration at the local elementary school, for example, was emblazoned with, “Alert Bay, Village of Culture.” Glass, “The Intention of Tradition,” 279. 31 Voyageur, interview. 220 subsequently adopted into local families.32 Where Voyageur’s conversion to culture began through treatment and continued through subsequent intertribal activity, often in the company of other Baha’is, religious service later brought him home to tribal community and culture. Others shared such experiences of tribal homecoming by way of explicitly Baha’i activity. Of Tlingit, Tsimshian, and Filipino heritage, for example, self-described “Indipino” Baha’i Mary Gubatayao-Hagen was born in 1954 and raised in the Seattle, Washington area.33 Her grandmothers were among the first Indigenous women from Alaska to begin families with Filipino labourers who migrated to the Northwest Coast after the United States took possession of the Philippines at the turn of the twentieth century. Her relatives helped build the Indipino community on Bainbridge Island, across Puget Sound from downtown Seattle, where Gubatayao-Hagen’s mother, who introduced her to the Baha’i Faith, was born.34 Like Jacob Bighorn, who saw significance in the timing of Black Elk’s gestation, Gubatayao-Hagen linked her family’s migration history to “Baha’u’llah revelation.” As she explained: the Baha’is, we believe that the Bab when he appeared, all these inventions and things were released, and it’s those inventions that led to the world becoming a smaller place where the travel to and from the Philippines on steamships was much more reasonable than the sailing ships than they had before. You know, English in the Philippines had come a long way, so my grandfathers had some grounding in English before they came over, so that was kind of a helpful thing too. So I like that the Baha’i Faith, you know, in an everyday way just makes more sense out of my world for me and I don’t have conflicts. 32 Voyageur, interview; Chris Cook Jr., interview with the author, West Vancouver, British Columbia, 7 June 2004; Patrick and Sandra Slobodian, interview with the author, Victoria, British Columbia, 20 July 2004; Steve Cook, conversation with the author, Alert Bay, British Columbia, 31 July 2004. 33 “Indipino” is an appellation that emerged in the context of ethnic and urban Indigenous activism in Seattle in the 1960s and 70s. Some of the major players in the urban Indian movement in that city, including Bernie Whitebear and Bob Satiacum, were Indipino. See Coll Thrush, Native Seattle: Histories From the Crossing-Over Place (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 156-157, 164. 34 Indigenous-Filipino interactions on the Northwest Coast have not received close academic attention. For a brief discussion in the context of Puget Sound see Dorothy B. Fujita-Rony, American Workers, Colonial Power: Philippine Seattle and the Transpacific West, 1919-1941 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 116-117. 221 Gubatayao-Hagen also linked her ancestors’ liminality as intercultural couples and colonial subjects to her family’s process of becoming Baha’i: So that was kind of interesting, that whole thing about being really all pioneers in a sense to the United States and to the Lower 48 and the whole American dream stuff. Pretty much what we find is neither the Filipinos nor the Native people taught their children their traditional languages, you know, because of the nationality mix and it really was against them to do that. And so I kind of think that’s a little bit why our family became Baha’i, because of the interracial thing. You know, not fitting in our group or another, and not fitting into US White mainstream either. And that my family, you know, all of them were pioneers. I mean, what kind of courage did it take those men to come to this country? What kind of courage did it take those women to leave their tribesmen too? And then they were ostracized, those women were when they married these Filipinos, and so that was another reason why they kind of all settled together in the same area because they all had married people outside, outsiders. Expressing a characteristically Baha’i sense of historical consciousness attuned to the relative youth of the religion and the inevitable “rolling out” of a New World Order, she continued: And that kind of goes along with being a Baha’i because in Baha’i at this stage there’s not a large identifiable group and yet what I like about the Baha’i Faith is because it’s so visionary and so global, it really met my needs on a lot of different levels. You know, to bring the whole world into it makes sense, it makes sense of why my grandparents were at the forefront of building this, “One Planet, One People, Please.”35 For Gubatayao-Hagen, the Baha’i Faith honoured and helped explain her hybrid heritage and history. It also brought her into closer contact with culture. When I asked Gubatayao-Hagen whether she was exposed or connected to her Indigenous culture growing up, she replied “Not in a traditional way, no,” and expanded by drawing a distinction between values and traditions. Situating her family’s history in the context of colonialism, she shared reflections worthy of lengthy citation: it was really interesting, I mean, my grandmother was a traditional woman. On my mom’s side, see, your identity among the Alaska Native people goes through your mother. 35 Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 11 July 2008. “One Planet, One People, Please,” was a popular Baha’i catchphrase in the 1980s, when Gubatayao-Hagen declared. 222 And so because my mother was an orphan,36 so she was cut off from her traditions, so then there was a huge breakdown for our family. Now on my dad’s side, his mom, he grew up around his mom and his mom was a traditional person and her first language was Tlingit. And I think by the time they started sending kids to school and washing their mouths out with soap so they have to forget their religion, that my grandmother was already in her teenage years or something when that happened. So she didn’t lose her language. She had to learn English, but she didn’t lose her language. But she didn’t teach it to her kids because they were in an interracial relationship and trying to live in America, so my dad’s family didn’t learn Filipino or Tlingit. So I learned about being [pause], about being, Tlingit, I didn’t learn a lot of direct things, I learned a lot of indirect things. But I was just amazed at how much tradition got passed on even though it was indirect instead of direct, because, you know, I didn’t learn about regalia and I didn’t learn all the stories and all those things, but because my grandmother had Tlingit values in our home, I was amazed at the values passed on, so that when I came back to Alaska, you know, I had all the same values but I didn’t necessarily know all the traditions behind the values.37 Here, Gubatayao-Hagen simultaneously articulated cultural loss, persistence, and flexibility in the face of colonialism and spoke implicitly to an idiom of culture-as-practices echoed by others of her generation as well. Her reflections on values underline how cultural practices were and are but one avenue through which Indigenous peoples practiced Indigeneity. Gubatayao-Hagen came of age in the era of civil rights, urban Indigenous activism, and what she described as “the dawning of, ‘It’s okay to be not White.’”38 In this context, she began to participate “in more traditional things,” but described how a sense of “wariness and confusion” stemming from her Catholic upbringing stultified this practice during her teenage years. While Gubatayao-Hagen acknowledged that Catholicism helped her to cultivate a “sense of the mystical,” she also described how Catholic teachings of exclusive religious truth, heathenism, and devil worship meant that she carried what she called “an uncomfortable attitude with me into 36 Ruby Gubatayao was raised in an Italian Catholic orphanage in Seattle. 37 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. 38 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. For context on Indigenous activism in Seattle in this period see Thrush, Native Seattle, Chapter 9. 223 my journey into ceremonies and traditional ways of our people.”39 It was through becoming a Baha’i in 1981 that Gubatayao-Hagen reconciled this rift and what she described as “a huge conflict between being Catholic and being Native.”40 As she recalled, invoking Abdu’l-Baha’s message about Indigenous peoples, as well as the evolutionary teaching of progressive revelation: when I became a Baha’i and then I learned about this vision of Native peoples by Abdu’l- Baha, it’s like this huge crack in my spiritual beliefs and attitudes were transformed and I could walk the path of loving Christ and accepting his teachings and know that it was all one with the ceremonies of our people.41 The Baha’i Faith, Gubatayao-Hagen further elaborated, instilled in her a new level of understanding that allowed her to move in Indigenous contexts with greater confidence and comfort. She explained that as a teenager, she was scared, “always worried about doing the wrong thing.”42 By contrast, she elaborated: when you’re a Baha’i, when you’re following the example of Abdu’l-Baha, and you’re following the teachings of Baha’u’llah, there’s so much guidance on how to be in your heart, and to be a good person.43 And more so than in Christianity, because there’s all these other layers to Christianity, you know? But through the teachings of Baha’u’llah you get that the core of religion and spirituality is to connect yourself to the heart, and connect your heart to the Creator, right? And through that you let everything go. So then, when you have this kind of confidence that comes from Baha’u’llah’s writings, like he says, “Yet noble have I created thee.” When you have your own sense of nobility, then when you go into a Native situation, any of those Native situations, because you understand the sacred and because you understand nobility, then you recognize where the nobility and the sacredness exist in traditional community. And letting you know how to walk that path with confidence. 39 Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 19 Aug 2008. 40 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. 41 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. 42 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. Her reflections here are strongly reminiscent of the sociologist Eva Marie Garroutte’s discussion of Cheyenne-Arapahoe playwright Christina West’s piece, Inner Circles, in which a character concludes that displaying ignorance “‘is like admitting that you don’t know who you are … If you are Native, then you should know your customs and all the rules about your tribe.’” Cited by Garroutte in Real Indians: Identity and the Survival of Native America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 80. 43 In Baha’i theology, Abdu’l-Baha occupies the station of “the Perfect Exemplar,” a position bestowed upon him by Baha’u’llah. 224 Because, yeah, you’re going to make mistakes and faux pas, right? But if you have pure motives, and you’re striving for nobility and sacredness, you know, people overlook little indiscretions when purity is motive. And so, since I’ve become a Baha’i and I’ve been to more Native places, you know after I became a Baha’i, I was way more comfortable in all those places because I was in my heart, I could identify the sacred, and I could identify what brings dignity and nobility to myself and to another person. Then you kind of develop spiritual eyes and spiritual ears, and I think that’s the key to comfortably walking in any Indigenous setting, is you have to develop spiritual eyes and spiritual ears. This, Gubatayao-Hagen added in an expressive turn of phrase, is how “a little ghetto girl moves from being ghetto into a traditional circle. And it really is about really becoming in touch with your heart.”44 Gubatayao-Hagen’s move into this circle came by way of her Baha’i observance and pioneering activity. Not long after declaring as a Baha’i in San Jose, California, where she was then living, Gubatayao-Hagen and her young family pioneered to the Nez Perce Reservation in Idaho and, subsequently, to Southeast Alaska. As she explained, “my path to getting to be a more Alaska Native woman was to first move to the Nez Perce Reservation and work with Lower 48 Indians and really becoming familiar with Indigenous ways of knowing, through Lower 48 Indians, and then when I moved up here among my own people.”45 In Alaska, Gubatayao-Hagen has participated in many of the cultural practices she described being disconnected from in her youth: You know, up here I’ve become much more involved in my culture, and in fact a couple years ago, I learned how to start speaking Tsimshian, and learned my first Baha’i prayer in Tsimshian, and my daughter and I have been able to take traditional weaving classes together up here.46 I was able to learn the dances and to sing in my grandmother’s 44 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. 45 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. Scott Tyler, son of narrator Klara Tyler, similarly described connecting with Indigenous cultural practice, including the sweat lodge, while living on the Nez Perce Reservation, where his family pioneered during his teenage years. Scott Tyler, interview with the author, Bellevue, Washington, 28 July 2008. 46 Shoghi Effendi strongly urged the translation of Baha’i prayer into Indigenous languages and closely tracked the progress of this project throughout his ministry. As the anthropologist Charles Carnegie observes, Baha’is share in an established religious tradition “concerning the generative quality of sacred texts,” but “diverge from it by endorsing fully the notion that divine truth is translatable into any language.” Charles V. Carnegie, Postnationalism Prefigured: Caribbean Borderlands (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 196. 225 longhouse, you know? By the path of becoming and following my life as a Baha’i. That was incredible. I mean, of all my brothers and sisters, three of us became Baha’i and three of us didn’t. And this faith has taken me and my brother back to our grandmother’s homeland. My brother works for the tribe in Ketchikan, you know, and I’ve been working for the tribe here in Juneau, and becoming part of Tlingit and Tsimshian community. And I really attribute this homecoming, and being able to come home to my grandmother, was made possible by Baha’u’llah.47 Values of respect and hospitality instilled by her grandmother, Gubatayao-Hagen stressed, eased this homecoming. Her return to Alaska has not been without tension, however. The Baha’i Faith in general is a contested presence in some Indigenous communities in the state, particularly those with strong evangelical Christian populations.48 And racism within the Baha’i community, a subject I take up more closely in the next chapter, has recently served as a source of great pain to Gubatayao-Hagen and her family. Still, she shared that, “for myself, as a person who grew up away from tradition, away from ceremony, grew up with Catholicism and some of its ‘my way or the highway’ attitude, have really found a lot of peace and healing in this revelation of Baha’u’llah.”49 She was not alone in connecting with culture through explicitly Baha’i activity. Where Gubatayao-Hagen came into the religion with a clear sense of Indigenous identity, however, for others like Jane Grover it was through Baha’i practice itself that they first came to cultivate and claim such affiliation. Grover, who is a generation older than Gubatayao-Hagen, was born in 1939 in Albany, New York. Raised in New Hampshire, she always knew that her mother had 47 Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. 48 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. Gubatayao-Hagen qualified a statement she made about “hesitancy” towards the Baha’i Faith on the part of Indigenous people by adding: “Just like there is in the world. I don’t think that it’s any more, you know. I think there’s more receptivity among Native people than non-Native people just because Native people know the duality of Christian values always being in conflict with Native values. Not Christian, but Western I think more.” On resistance from Pentecostals, in particular, see Kirk Dombrowski, Against Culture: Development, Politics, and Religion in Indian Alaska (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 166- 168 who relates a story of strong opposition in a Southeastern Alaskan village to a Baha’i-sponsored alcohol healing program (quite possibly one offered by the Four Worlds Development Institute, or one of its later incarnations, discussed above). 49 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. 226 Abenaki (Pennacook, the family later learned) heritage, but explained that she and her siblings “really didn’t know, growing up, a lot about our culture.” Her mother committed suicide when Grover was a young girl. After this, she shared: Dad always made sure we stayed in touch with my grandparents, my mother’s family, and we spent periods of time with them during school vacations and so on and we always knew that we had Indian heritage. But nothing much was made of it and it wasn’t until I came to learn more about the Abenaki culture and things as an older person that I realized that much, you know, that there were things that happened in the household that were related to my grandfather’s heritage. You know, there’s gathering herbs and I remember my sister and I used to always arrange to get a tummy ache when we were there ‘cause we liked the checkerberry tea that grandpa would make for us. So he would gather those berries and leaves in the woods and serve those to us if we had tummy aches.50 The disconnect that Grover described was the product of a long history and climate of Indian erasure in New England.51 Where Allison Healy “passed” as Chinese in Alberta (see Chapter 3), Grover described how many in the region where she was raised, where light skin and “mixed blood” were common, either hid their heritage outright or, often, “passed” as Italian.52 Grover herself recalled being denied her Indianness in the classroom as a child and explained that she did not know until her adult years that her Abenaki heritage “belonged to me to claim.” Residual issues from her mother’s death further meant that, “for a while I wanted nothing to do with the culture at all.” “And if I heard drumming or singing,” Grover elaborated with a laugh, “I would go away. Get out of there.”53 This aversion initially extended to Indigenous cultural expression within the Baha’i Faith. As Grover recalled, “some of the Indian Baha’is would come to events and they maybe want to share, you know, Buffy Sainte-Marie did a wonderful piece, that [singing] “Oh God, my God, 50 Jane Grover, interview with the author, McMinnville, Oregon, 22 June 2008. 51 See Jean M. O’Brien, Dispossession by Degrees: Indian Land and Identity in Natick, Massachusetts, 1650-1790 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1997) and Firsting and Lasting: Writing Indians Out of Existence in New England (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010); Lisa Brooks, The Common Pot: The Recovery of Native Space in the Northeast (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). 52 Grover, interview. 53 Grover, interview. 227 my beloved, my heart’s desire,” that she had written and people were singing and oh, I didn’t want to hear that, didn’t want to be around that.”54 Like Donald Addison, Grover did not widely identify herself as Indigenous to other Baha’is upon first joining the community in 1965. She noted that, “early on I felt uncomfortable about mentioning, back east, that I was of Native background. Because people had discounted that, some of the Baha’is had discounted that in the past.” She recalled, however, that as she began meeting more Indigenous Baha’is, “I didn’t really identify myself to them at that time, but they recognized my heritage in me.” One Abenaki Baha’i was especially encouraging, telling Grover “to really pursue it if I was interested and that I would be welcomed and accepted by people and so on. So he was a part of my drawing closer to the culture.” Grover began taking part in powwows on the East Coast with her family; she was also given an “Indian name,” which translates into English as Sparkling Eyes or She Whose Eyes Shine, by a Penobscot friend named Running Water who she met at a powwow at the University of New Hampshire.55 Grover described being struck by the level of comfort that she felt in the context of culture: “as soon as I started going to events, powwows and talking circles and sweat lodges and so on, I immediately felt as if I’d been doing it all my life. That was a very interesting thing to me.” “And I appreciated so much,” Grover added, “the fact that as a Baha’i I was not discouraged from participating in ceremonies and so on.”56 Indicating how culture could open narrators to other markers and avenues of Indigenous identification as well, Grover also came to pursue tribal enrollment, an act she again connected to Baha’i community and practice.57 Grover was encouraged to apply for enrollment by a 54 Grover, interview. On Buffy Sainte-Marie as a “friend of the Faith” see Chapter 5 (fn 90). 55 This was particularly resonant and meaningful for Grover as her mother used to call her a variation of this name, her “shiny-eyed girl,” before she died. 56 Grover, interview. 57 On major markers of Indigenous identity – culture, law, blood, and self-identification – see Garroutte, Real Indians. 228 medicine man from Connecticut, who she met at a Baha’i gathering and who informed her of Abenaki pursuit of state and federal recognition. Though she decided to investigate her genealogy and submit an application, Grover recalled not being especially hopeful as the same friend who had encouraged her to embrace her Abenaki heritage, someone she described as having been “involved in the culture since he was quite young,” had applied and was denied membership. She described it as somewhat a surprise, then, when one day, “this innocent little white envelope arrived” containing her tribal enrollment card. Grover characterized this as “just really thrilling,” and healing: I think that once I got my tribal enrolment and was given an Indian name, that it had a huge healing effect on me in relation to the issues around my mother’s suicide and other things that I was struggling with at that time. So I think that we have to come to terms with who we are.58 Grover spoke to this process further in discussing time she and her husband, Dick, spent at the Green Acre Baha’i School in Maine, recalling: there were a number of times when Indian people from Maine came to Green Acre and shared and we had programs they were invited to and honoured and so on so that began to enter my life in that way, connecting the Baha’i Faith with the cultural background of the New Hampshire and Maine tribes and so on. And I suppose it eventually grew on me that it might be important, you know, for the healing of my ancestors for me to get connected back with my heritage in relation to being a Baha’i. I think that was one of the real motivations for me behind going to see my grandfather’s cousin and doing all the legwork to get enrolled.59 Similar to Gubatayao-Hagen, who tied her intercultural heritage to the Baha’i Faith and her Alaskan homecoming to her grandmother, Grover linked her growing Abenaki affiliation to family. She continued: 58 Grover, interview. Not all narrators had or pursued tribal and other forms of enrollment. Nedra Greenaway, for example, explained that she has never felt compelled to apply for Métis membership or Indian status despite having received prompts to do so. Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 15 Aug 2008. 59 Grover, interview. 229 Like I thought I owed that to my great-grandmother somehow. She had fifteen children who all lived. And she raised them all and there are lots of stories about her and how she did that and what she did, but marrying an Englishman, I get a sense maybe he wasn’t always very nice to her and that her life was very hard and so I just like to think that my being connected with the Baha’i Faith and bringing the Abenaki Nation under that banner somehow for my own involvement, it’s kind of a tribute to her maybe.60 Healing, in this case, was not just individual, but shared with ancestors and ancestry.61 Like many others, Grover engaged simultaneous processes of tribally-specific and intertribal identification. While she developed strengthened Abenaki affiliation through her Baha’i adherence, she also cultivated and expressed in her interview with me a sense of what she called “intertribal citizenship.”62 This, she posited, probably had to do with “being more of an urban Indian, never growing up on a reservation.” Where Grover might have chosen to activate her culture through connection with local land-based practices such as the collection of herbs, berries, and leaves for the checkerberry tea she recalled from her childhood, she instead elected to focus her cultural activity within a largely intertribal realm. Grover and her husband moved as Baha’i pioneers to the West Coast (first to British Columbia, then Oregon) in the 1990s and much of the Indigenous cultural activity such as talking circles and sweat lodges that Grover described taking part in there was in the company of other Baha’is (including narrators Robert George and J.C. Lucas) as well.63 60 Grover, interview. 61 This is a formulation that dovetails with Indigenous and Baha’i perspectives alike: where many Indigenous cultures consider ancestors to be active spiritual agents, Baha’is believe in a “Supreme Concourse,” the “gathering of the Prophets and holy souls in the next world or spiritual realm,” and pray for the spiritual progress of “the departed.” Wendi Momen, ed. A Basic Bahá’í Dictionary (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1989), 216, 65-66. 62 Renya Ramirez urges attention to urban and vernacular expressions of Indigenous citizenship in Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 14- 15. 63 Grover, interview. Jane and her husband, Dick, worked at Maxwell International Baha’i School (with the Bighorns) on Vancouver Island from 1992-1997, when they moved to McMinnville, Oregon where they still reside. They also pioneered to India, where Grover worked at the New Era Baha’i School in Panchgani, with their two children from 1972-1977. 230 While conversion to culture was a deeply personal process, narrators also tied it to collective Baha’i aims. Linda Covey, for example, described connecting with culture, and developing a strengthened sense of Indigenous identity, directly by way of Baha’i service and outreach. Like Grover, Covey, who declared as a Baha’i in 1970 at the age of twenty-four, did not become active in culture immediately upon becoming a Baha’i. It was a decade later, after she had divorced and her children were grown, that Covey began attending powwows in her hometown of Marshfield, Missouri. Prompted by Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy and a Baha’i system of Regional American Indian Teaching Committees then in place, Covey began hosting a Baha’i booth at the annual powwow in Marshfield. There, she screened videos (including a film about Kevin Locke and a movie about the Baha’i martyr, Mona Mahmudnizhad, that was so influential to Jacob Bighorn’s declaration), distributed Baha’i literature, and spoke with those interested. “So I saw that,” Covey recalled, “as an opportunity to teach the Faith in that context. I did not have a Baha’i booth, for instance, at the county fair, or at other things, you know, it was there at the Native American powwow.” It was at the powwow that Covey received what she described as her “first exposure on a consistent basis, to Native American culture.” “That was where I was taken out into the arena,” she explained, “for the first time and danced with a shawl, and things like that. That’s when it really began to grow.” Another significant nudge (what Covey described as “a catalyst, a jumping board”) came around 1990 when an Iranian Baha’i friend asked her, “Would you devote your life to Indian teaching?” Covey told him, “No, I don’t want to do that.” Recalling her family history of Indianness hidden and denied (see Chapter 3), she explained, “It was too painful for me. You know? ‘I don’t want to do that.’”64 Invoking the common intertribal metaphor of the “red road,” however, she continued, “once your feet is put on the red road, you go along for the ride. You know, once I was put on that path, there really wasn’t any getting off 64 Linda Covey, interview with the author, Evanston, Illinois, 10 June 2008. 231 of it or turning back. Things just kept progressing and progressing and happening.”65 In 1993, a sacred pipe was passed to Covey. Three years later, she came under the tutelage of a group of Northern Cheyenne Elders and, through their mentorship and training, learned Plains culture and ceremony. Through volunteer work in corrections, one of several fields of Indigenous Baha’i service in which she has participated, Covey herself came to be called an Elder.66 Covey recalled a period of intense pain and emotional unrest that she faced in the period after the pipe was passed to her and noted that it took a number of years of spiritual investigation and growth before this pain “began to dissipate and go away, and I began to find myself, because I really questioned my own identity for a long time, my own heritage.”67 Covey spoke directly to the contested nature of Indianness in our interview together and underscored how the fractious politics of belonging informed, and for a long time circumscribed, her own search and sense of self. She explained, for example, that “for a long, long time,” she carried a lot of guilt about her identity as a “mixed blood” person: But I had to really go back and look and said, “Look, it’s not my fault.” My grandmother is on the rolls in Oklahoma. She’s on the Dawes Rolls in Oklahoma. She was given land in Oklahoma, even though she didn’t take it. And so the history is all there. The grandmother, and the great-grandmother, and the great-grandmother in Cherokee County, Alabama, and so on and so forth. And, it’s not fair to make a person toss away that part of their heritage, just because, perhaps a segment of the larger society may not want to acknowledge that.68 Covey elsewhere acknowledged, too, the divisive nature of Indianness among Indigenous people, noting that there are also “a lot of full bloods who zealously guard their Indianness against 65 Dennis Kelley explains that “The overt reference [in the ‘red road’ metaphor] is to the southern direction in Black Elk’s vision, which the Lakota people are said to be traveling when they live in balance, peace, and harmony with the creation. With the emphasis of Plains imagery and ideologies in the development of pan-Indian concepts, the Red Road has come to mean a balanced and harmonious journey by all Indian people who adhere to it.” Kelley, “Alcohol Abuse Recovery and Prevention as Spiritual Practice,” 83. 66 Covey, interview. 67 Covey, interview. A chance meeting with Patricia Locke, mother of narrator Kevin Locke, at the Baha’i National Convention in 1994 contributed to this “growth process,” as Covey described it. 68 Covey, interview. See Chapter 2 for discussion of the Dawes Rolls. 232 wannabes, people who claim to be.” Although she did not use the term colonialism, Covey described it when she pointed, too, to the fact that “here in the United States, and probably in Canada too, you have to have a card by the government – which is the conquering government of an oppressed people – that proves who you are.”69 She continued her discussion above: And so I had to work through all of that, come to grips with all of it, sort it out, think it through, accept it, and feel comfortable in my own skin. And it’s amazing, because this journey really started when I was born, you know? Because I grew up with that loss, and so to me, personally, to me, it’s not like saying, “Oh, well, I had a great-grandmother that was Indian, that had some Indian.”70 Echoing other narrators, Covey explained, “I’ve found that it is so important to know who one is, and to claim one’s heritage.”71 As it did for Grover, this process, which was prompted and supported by her practice of the Baha’i Faith, helped Covey make sense of her family. While Covey’s cultural practice has focused primarily on Plains ceremony, she has also studied aspects of Cherokee culture and made connections with familial attitudes and expressions. As she shared with a laugh, “You know, it’s like once I understood my heritage, I understood my mother. She was a little old Indian woman who didn’t know she was a little old Indian woman. You know, because it wasn’t acceptable.” “And it really just healed my childhood,” Covey added elsewhere. “It healed the hurt that happened with my father and losing that side of the family over what I call the ‘Indian question’ and all that.”72 Culture, then, could be a bridge to Indigenous identification more broadly. And the Baha’i Faith operated as a bridge to both. Some narrators connected with Indigenous cultural practice through the explicit contexts of Baha’i community and outreach. Others did so through related channels such as treatment and recovery. Indeed, Baha’i conversion to culture occurred in 69 Covey, interview. 70 Covey, interview. 71 Covey, interview. Donald Addison offered similar reflections on this process and how it helped resolve colonial articulations and exclusions of Indianness in his interview with me. 72 Covey, interview. 233 a broad context of Indigenous cultural renewal and the oral histories examined here demonstrate the deployment of a revivalist idiom of culture that stressed Indigenous practices, from intertribal powwows and pipe ceremonies to tribal language, song, and dance. Connection with culture, further, brought Baha’is into a variety of Indigenous communities. And Indigenous Baha’is, those newly converted to culture and not, also negotiated the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the contours of the Baha’i Faith itself. Cultural Combination As a religion explicitly framed as modern and rational, which called for the “preservation” of cultural diversity towards the goal of global unity, the Baha’i Faith is an especially rich site for probing processes and politics of religious combination. In her own recent religious studies thesis on Diné Baha’i declaration and practice, Linda Covey eschews what she calls Catherine Albanese’s “combinative religions model,” arguing that “Close and objective observation shows that traditional and new remain independent of each other, while at the same time paralleling each other.”73 Her reading of Albanese is rather rigid, however. Though Covey acknowledges the historical context in which the Baha’i Faith was born, and adds that “Diné traditional customs and Bahá’í religiosity obviously share an intermingling and overlapping of certain features,” she takes “combinative religion” to mean, quite literally, the creation of a new faith.74 Indigenous 73 The full sentence reads: “Close and objective observation shows that traditional and new remain independent of each other, while at the same time paralleling each other, as in Alfred Kahn, Jr.’s statement that he sees the Bahá’í Faith as ‘a continuation of Navajo belief,’ much as Christians consider Christianity a continuation of Judaism.” Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 143. Catherine Albanese, “Exchanging Selves, Exchanging Souls: Contact, Combination, and American Religious History,” in Thomas Tweed, ed., Retelling U.S. Religious History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 200-226. 74 Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 145. Covey elaborates on the issue of “intermingling” and “overlapping” elements with the example of a “Diné Prayer Hogan” located on the grounds of the Native American Baha’i Institute (NABI) on the Navajo Reservation. This structure (the inside walls of which are heavy hung with Baha’i imagery including prayers and the “Greatest Name” written in Arabic calligraphy), she argues, “is not considered a hybrid Diné-Bahá’í Prayer Hogan”; “although Bahá’ís built it and pray within it,” she adds, “the Prayer Hogan remains uniquely Diné without producing a schism or division either within the religion or within Diné traditional customs.” Covey’s assessment, however, is more theological than applied and something like the hogan at NABI can indeed be 234 Baha’i histories, including Covey’s own and those of the Diné Baha’is whom she studies, by contrast, reveal multiple, often explicit, examples of what Albanese describes as “a natural cultural process that occurs whenever and wherever contact comes,” a process through which religions (and their adherents) “let go and add on,” “lose,” “gain,” and “exchange.”75 A 1998 statement from the Research Department of the Universal House of Justice outlined the official Baha’i stance on such exchange when it detailed: Bahá’ís are encouraged to preserve their inherited cultural identities and practices, so long as the activities involved do not contravene the principles of the Faith. Two extremes are to be avoided: needless disassociation from harmless cultural observances and continued practice of abrogated observances of previous dispensations which will undermine the independence of the Bahá’í Faith. A distinctively Bahá’í culture will welcome an infinite diversity in regard to secondary characteristics, but also firmly uphold unity in relation to fundamental principles.76 Just what constituted “harmless” versus “abrogated” observances, “secondary characteristics” versus “fundamental principles,” were questions that Indigenous Baha’is themselves actively contemplated, both in historical time and their interviews with me. And they were, further, issues that were worked out in historical practice through interactions with other Baha’is. Given how strongly discourses of superstition figured in Christian missionary contexts in colonial North America, I anticipated that Baha’i proscriptions against superstition, which warn against “idle fancies” and “vain imaginings” contrary to rational religion, would emerge as a subject of discussion in my interviews.77 Interestingly, this was not something that many considered combinatory in the sense that it directly brings together both Diné and Baha’i elements and influences. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 145-146. 75 Albanese, “Exchanging Selves, Exchanging Souls,” 225. 76 This statement appears as part of an introduction to a series of excerpts from writings by the Universal House of Justice on the subject of “Fostering Cultural Diversity,” included in the larger compilation Universal House of Justice, Aspects of Traditional African Culture, 3. This compilation includes excerpts from a number of letters relating to Indigenous peoples and issues in North America, suggesting global Baha’i connection and conversation on these issues. 77 Christian missionaries of divers stripes deemed Indigenous spirituality a form of debased superstition in need of rooting out. The nineteenth-century Anglican Bishop of Caledonia, the Reverend George Hills, for example, aimed to “cleanse the Indians from the awful superstitions in which they were … sunk.” Cited in Robin Fisher, “Missions to 235 narrators themselves raised, suggesting that it was not a particular point of tension or connection for them. Linda Covey, for her part, did broach the subject in a discussion of intercultural tension within the Baha’i community. Speaking to the “jaundiced eye” through which non-Indigenous Baha’is not familiar with Indigenous cultural practices sometimes perceive them, Covey shared: On one hand they have a right to do that, a good reason to do that, because Abdu’l-Baha and Baha’u’llah clearly talk about elimination of superstitions, you know? One of my lines that I’ve talked to myself over and over about for years is being watchful of vain imaginings, idle fancies and vain imaginings. So you have to distinguish out what is your idle fancies and vain imaginings. What is superstition? Indigenous cultural practices such as pipe and sweat lodge ceremonies, she stressed, do not fall under this rubric.78 Similarly, when I asked Mary Gubatayao-Hagen about the Baha’i teachings on superstition, she recalled, “I really worried about it when I first became a Baha’i. You know, about superstition and Native people and all these things right.” “But,” she added, “that’s Western thinking again. And what the Western world has defined as superstition.”79 Gubatayao- Hagen noted that in Baha’u’llah’s Tablet of Ahmad, “it says in there, ‘superstitions have been veiled between them and their own hearts and kept them from the path of God.’ So superstitions get between you and keep you from the path of God and so that’s really changed my view of what superstitions are.”80 Like Covey, Gubatayao-Hagen did not subsume Indigenous culture under a savage or static rubric of superstition. Instead, she continued to revise her own the Indians of British Columbia,” in Peter Ward and Robert A.J. MacDonald, eds. British Columbia: Historical Readings (Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre, 1981), 120-121 (emphasis in Fisher). On Baha’i proscriptions against superstition see, for example, Bahá’u’lláh, Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh Revealed After the Kitáb-i-Aqdas (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1988), 57, 70, 104, accessed online 20 May 13, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/TB/; ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, The Promulgation of Universal Peace: Talks Delivered by Abdu'l-Baha During his Visit to the United States and Canada in 1912 (Wilmette, IL: Baha'i Publishing Trust, 1982), 107, 455, accessed online 20 May 13, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/ab/PUP/. 78 Covey, interview. 79 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. 80 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. The Tablet of Ahmad is accessible online via the Bahá’í Reference Library: Bahá’u’lláh, “Tablet of Aḥmad,” in Bahá’u’lláh, the Báb, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Bahá’í Prayers: A Selection of Prayers Revealed by Bahá’u’lláh, the Báb, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Wilmette, IL: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1991), 209-213. 236 interpretation of the latter, even in the context of our interview. As she shared, for example, in a discussion of cultural change: And I think that superstition, I think maybe I’m just coming to decide on it as I’m talking to you, I think superstition is clinging to some knowledge, some belief that you had that doesn’t make sense anymore, you know? Like if you find out something new and it’s better and it’s not harmful and you can do it and you reject it just because it’s new, that seems like what superstition is about. So then racism is a superstition because you cling to this false idea that you have the right to have an attitude towards someone else based on the colour of their skin or the way they think, you know? That’s what a superstition is.81 Nedra Greenaway echoed this characterization of racism as a superstition. She also spoke, further, about belief in “bad” or “evil spirits” as superstition, something Jane Grover similarly reflected on in relation to the subject of “bad medicine.”82 As Grover shared during a discussion of superstition: I’m on the board of a group called Wisdom of the Elders that was founded by a Lakota medicine man and his wife and she was a Baha’i and is Athabaskan from Alaska, but took up the Lakota way for her spiritual practice and medicine men know a lot of shamanistic practices that are not part of ordinary reality and if they’re not really ethical people, they will sometimes use that against one another if they get jealous of each other’s medicine ways or following or whatever and even my Baha’i friend, who is married to this man, believes that people can hit you with bad medicine and make you sick. And I don’t believe that and I think maybe if I had gotten more into my culture or grown up in it before becoming a Baha’i I might have had to wrestle with that but for me I’m very comfortable with extraordinary reality and I also believe that we’re protected from … I don’t believe in evil as a Baha’i. Evil is absence of good according to the Baha’i Faith and so I don’t believe that the Creator would give people those powers.83 I did not speak with all narrators about “shamanistic practices,” as Grover put it, and it is indeed possible that there are some who wrestled to reconcile such practice with their Baha’i 81 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. 82 Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008. Greenaway spoke about “bad” and “evil spirits,” in part, in relation to Inuit shamanism, something I return to in Chapter 8 in a discussion of Greenaway’s pioneering in the Arctic. 83 Grover, interview. On the Baha’i teachings on evil and evil spirits see Hornby, Lights of Guidance, 513-514, 521- 523. Joyce Shales similarly invoked the subjects of evil and fear in response to a question I posed about superstition: interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 30 July 2008. 237 observance.84 Alternatively, there may well be other Indigenous Baha’is (like the friend Grover mentioned) who maintained such practice and belief and did not consider it superstitious or contradictory to the Baha’i teachings. None of those who I interviewed described being explicitly accused of superstition by other Baha’is, though a number hinted at sentiments of suspicion, fear, and dismissal that they encountered among non-Indigenous adherents.85 Lee Brown, for example, who was among the most forthcoming on intercultural tensions that he confronted within the Baha’i community, recalled the profound surprise and disappointment he felt following the first Nineteen Day Feast (a gathering held on the first day of each Baha’i month) that he attended after becoming a Baha’i in Seattle.86 He described being approached by an elderly White woman who told him, “‘Now that you’re a Baha’i, I hope you quit that Indian singing nonsense. It’s time to let that go and just be a Baha’i now.’” Brown further detailed his reaction: “I thought, ‘What?’ I thought the whole thing about the Baha’i Faith was unity in diversity and that our diversity was good and I’d sang at Baha’i gatherings and people had said, ‘Oh, that’s cool.’ And now it was controversial.”87 As other scholars have observed, and narrators Phil Lane Jr. and Deloria Bighorn also noted, there was a particular moment of pushback against such diversity in this period, the 1970s, as significantly more youth and people of colour came into the North American Baha’i 84 For an evocative example of active negotiation, on the part of Diné Baha’i Alfred Kahn, in relation to superstition and Diné ideas about “ghost sickness” see Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 162. 85 For example, Addison, interview; Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008; Covey, interview; Grover, interview; Shales, interview. 86 Shoghi Effendi deemed the Nineteen Day Feast the “foundation of the new World Order” and Brown described it in his second of two interviews with me as “the fundamental participatory reality for everyday Baha’i life.” Shoghi Effendi, cited in McMullen, The Bahá’í, 87; Lee Brown, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 28 Oct 2008. 87 Brown, interview, 21 March 2008. The flip (also problematic) side of this attitude, Brown noted, were non- Indigenous Baha’is who “went Native” (my term, not his). 238 community.88 Tensions were not isolated to this time, however. Another narrator reported a more recent incident of outright surveillance: the morning after a gathering in this person’s home, at which an Indigenous Baha’i friend drummed and sang, this individual received a telephone call from a local Auxiliary Board Member questioning this activity.89 The anthropologist Carolyn Sawin, further, reports tensions in the Yukon, where non-Indigenous Baha’is regularly dismissed Indigenous cultural practice as entertainment, not worship.90 Similarly, writings from the Universal House of Justice that spoke of the incorporation of “colourful characteristics of particular peoples and tribes” and which distinguished “festive and cultural events” from “religious ceremonies and rituals” may have primed Baha’is to overlook the spiritual orientation of Indigenous cultures that did and do not strictly parse the sacred and the profane.91 The same community context and composition that produced pushback towards Indigenous cultural practices like drumming and singing also contributed to a normative baseline of Baha’i practice that some narrators described as alienating. Baha’i writings on ritual caution against just this sort of baseline. Not unlike writings on superstition, which eschew empty, fear- based, repetitious form, writings on ritual urge Baha’is to avoid establishing “rigid rituals” in order that local Baha’i expression can flourish.92 As scholar and former Baha’i Linda Walbridge has observed, however, Baha’is have frequently anchored their focus and anxiety on the rigidity 88 William Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America (London: Praeger, 2005), 137-139; Juan R.I. Cole, “The Baha’i Faith in America as Panopticon, 1963-1997,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 37, no.2 (1998): 234-248; Deloria Bighorn, interview; Phil Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 Jan 2009. 89 Interview. Baha’i Auxiliary Board Members (who are appointed by Continental Counsellors, who themselves report to the International Counsellors, themselves members of the International Teaching Centre at the Baha’i World Centre in Haifa) belong to one of two branches: the Board for Protection or the Board for Propagation. This narrator did not specify which board the member in question belonged to, but based on the inquiry, it was most likely the former. Historian Juan R.I. Cole has argued that surveillance was a common practice on the part of the Baha’i administration in the United States. I suspect that the telephone call described above is not an entirely isolated incident, but do not have sufficient evidence to more fully evaluate Cole’s (somewhat unsubstantiated) claim. Cole, “The Baha’i Faith in America as Panopticon.” 90 Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 82-83, 117-120, 169-170, 179. 91 For example, Letter written on behalf of the Universal House of Justice to a National Spiritual Assembly, 26 March 1982, cited in Universal House of Justice, Aspects of Traditional African Cultures, 10. 92 See, for example, Hornby, Lights of Guidance, 477-478; McMullen, The Bahá’í, 7-8, 76-77. 239 piece of the equation in a way that has militated against flexibility in Baha’i observance. At the same time, Baha’is have often failed to recognize how practices that have hardened into established form are themselves a kind of ritual, and a rigid one at that.93 The format of the Nineteen Day Feast, for example, has changed over time but since Shoghi Effendi’s ministry has consisted of three components: devotions, administration, and socialization.94 Though Shoghi Effendi himself, and the Universal House of Justice after him, encouraged flexibility within this structure, a 1976 editorial in Bahá’í Canada captured a common established pattern: “A Feast,” the author outlined in critique, “can only be a Feast if five or six prayers are followed by a ‘consultation’ which is followed by tea and cookies. In spite of the warnings which Shoghi Effendi wrote to us, we keep falling into the groove of conformity.”95 Lee Brown spoke to such conformity in the context of the devotional component of the Feast and what he personally has often experienced as a rushed period of prayer. “That’s one thing that’s happened to me many times,” he explained: including here in Vancouver, is you go to the Feast and you have the spiritual part, it’s about fifteen minutes long, and three or four people stand up and say prayers, and then sometimes they say, “Well, if anybody wants to say a prayer, go ahead.” Well, by the time I’m in a spiritual space, it’s over.96 Brown described being further turned off by what he called “church kind of energies” at the Feast. Speaking in contemporary context, he shared: I think right now the Feast, you know, in British Columbia for the most part is a very Christian-based Feast, it follows church kind of energies, it has a kind of a church format to it and a church feeling to it sometimes. I think many White Christians who’ve become Baha’is want that, they wanna feel like it’s for real and Christianity is for real. So, they 93 Linda Walbridge, “Rituals: An American Bahá’í Dilemma,” Bahá’í Studies Review 5, no.1 (1995): no page numbers. Accessed online 19 May 13, http://bahai-library.com/walbridge_rituals_american_dilemma. 94 McMullen, The Bahá’í, 85-87; Universal House of Justice, Introductory Letter, 27 Aug 1989, in Bahá’u’lláh, Abdu’l-Bahá, Shoghi Effendi, and Universal House of Justice, “Nineteen Day Feast,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 1, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Bahá’í Publications Australia, 1991), 420. 95 Bahá’í Canada no.297 (Nov 1976), 2. 96 Brown, interview, 28 Oct 2008. 240 bring out, like in the Feast here in Vancouver sometimes they light candles, it’s like a Catholic church in a way. And it’s uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable.97 Such cultural discomfort is something Brown and other Baha’is on the Okanagan Indian Reserve strove to address and ameliorate when they chose at one point during the 1980s to hold pipe ceremonies as the devotional component of their Feast. As Brown recalled: for awhile we were having Feast on the Vernon reserve, ‘cause we had enough Baha’is to have a Feast. And the Feast would often be at our house. And what we would do, and we decided to do, was a pipe ceremony. We’d do a pipe ceremony as our prayer section. We’d have the social section and then we’d have the business section […] And sometimes Baha’is from in town would come and participate. And they would say, “Well, this is a pipe ceremony, it’s not a Feast.” Articulating a sense of intertribal Baha’i affiliation, Brown continued: And I would say, “Well, I heard that on the Navajo reservation, the Feast is all day long.” And here in Vernon, we go into Feast in town, it’s an hour long, that’s it, bam, you go home. But we sat down as a community and said, “How do we want to do Feast? This is how we want to do it.” And it’s very clear in the writings that different people around the world, different places, will do the Feast differently. You know, we wanted to do it that way.98 In 1989, the Universal House of Justice explicitly called for the Nineteen Day Feast to incorporate “a salutary diversity, representative of the unique characteristics of the various societies in which it is held and therefore conducive to the upliftment and enjoyment of its participants.”99 Baha’is in Vernon, however, Brown recalled, simply “couldn’t get their minds around the fact that it was a Feast.”100 Pipe ceremony figured into discussions about the place of Indigenous cultural practice within Baha’i ritual space in other communities as well. In a 1994 letter written on its behalf to 97 Brown, interview, 21 March 2008. Brown noted that he has consulted with other Indigenous Baha’is in the city who reported a similar sense of discomfort (leading them to seldom attend). 98 Brown, interview, 21 March 2008. 99 Universal House of Justice, Introductory Letter, 27 Aug 1989, in Bahá’u’lláh et al, “Nineteen Day Feast,” 420. In his sociological study of Baha’is in Atlanta, Michael McMullen offers an example of such diversity when he describes the incorporation of “elements of the ‘black church experience’” into the Feast in certain areas of the city. The Bahá’í, 92. 100 Brown, interview, 28 Oct 2008. 241 “a National Spiritual Assembly” (presumably, based on the content of the letter, the Alaskan one), for example, the Universal House of Justice responded to an inquiry concerning the place of “ceremonies from other cultures” at Baha’i events and gatherings. Speaking, without actually identifying it as such, to a process of intertribal exchange occurring among Indigenous Baha’is and others in this period, the letter observed: You mention that the popularity of the “Pipe Ceremony” is part of the revival of native cultural values. While seeking out the spiritual roots of their own tradition, it is natural for Alaskan natives to view sympathetically symbols of the spiritual roots that once sustained the indigenous peoples of North America. Such a desire for the rediscovery of one’s culture is one in which Bahá’ís rejoice. In this context, it would be acceptable occasionally to hold such cultural ceremonies at Bahá’í national events and local gatherings, so long as their features are not contrary to Bahá’í Teachings and they do not become customary. Moreover, these ceremonies should not be carried out during the formal part of a Bahá’í event, such as during the consultation at a National Convention, or in connection with the reading of prayers and passages from the Writings during a feast or Holy Day programme. Rather, such ceremonies may be included as an adjunct to the programme, and participation in them should be on a voluntary basis.101 Anxiety over the institution of repetitive and compulsory ritual, coupled with an established Baha’i baseline onto which cultural practices like pipe ceremony could be appended, is again apparent here. Pipe ceremony, further, was also a point of reflection concerning the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the future unfolding Baha’i Faith. Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, for example, who began serving on the Alaskan National Spiritual Assembly not long after the above letter was penned, recalled discussions about pipe ceremony in this period and invoked Shoghi Effendi’s wife, Ruhiyyih Khanum, a frequent commentator on Indigenous issues, on the subject. “Ruhiyyih Khanum,” Gubatayao-Hagen explained, “referred to the pipe ceremony as being like communion. And that communion isn’t going to become a part of the Baha’i Faith and pipe 101 Letter written on behalf of the Universal House of Justice to a National Spiritual Assembly, 16 Nov 1994, in Bahá’u’lláh, Abdu’l-Bahá, Shoghi Effendi, and Universal House of Justice, “Cultural Diversity in the Age of Maturity,” Compilation of Compilations: Volume 3, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Bahá’í Publications Australia, 2000), 130. 242 ceremony isn’t going to become a part of the Baha’i Faith, so those aren’t going to be universal things.” The practice of pipe ceremony by those Baha’is who observe it, however, is still, in Gubatayao-Hagen’s evaluation, entirely appropriate and acceptable.102 Lee Brown similarly spoke to this question of combination, explaining that “there are Native Baha’is that I’ve had long discussions with who think, ‘Well, the pipe’s gonna go by the wayside, it’s not part of the Baha’i thing. It’s a different revelation.’” “And my response to that,” he elaborated, “is ‘That might be true. Time will tell. But right now, it’s important. It’s important to me.’ And so, I don’t know what it’s gonna look like, but I don’t think it’s going to look like what it is now simply because we have not learned how to respect and integrate each other’s values in a way that everyone is comfortable with.”103 In addition to institutional discussions and exchanges between Indigenous Baha’is, the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the Faith was also negotiated in intercultural Baha’i interactions, which were sometimes fraught. Where Brown spoke in our two interviews together to instances of outright dismissal of Indigenous culture (being told to do away with singing) and the contested place of Indigenous cultural practice within Baha’i space (not recognizing pipe ceremony as legitimate Feast practice), he also shared stories of more subtle ignorance and insensitivity. Recalling a gathering on the Peigan Indian Reserve in southern Alberta in 1986, for example, he shared: I was at a pipe ceremony on the Peigan Reserve in Alberta, at the Baha’i Centre on the Peigan Reserve, many years ago, and Phil Lane was doing the pipe ceremony during a gathering and there was quite a few Persian Baha’is there and others, non-Native Baha’is, who were not being respectful. Who were talking during the ceremony, and that night 102 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 19 Aug 2008. Though Gubatayao-Hagen did not mention it, it is also likely that there was discussion over the place of a Plains-inspired intertribal practice like pipe ceremony in Alaska, site of its own “culture movement.” See Dombrowski, “The Politics of Native Culture.” Other narrators likewise invoked Ruhiyyih Khanum in discussing the construction of Baha’i culture over time. For example, Deloria Bighorn, interview; Greenaway, 12 March 2008. 103 Brown, interview, 21 March 2008. 243 Ruhiyyih Khanum, the wife of Shoghi Effendi, was there and she was upset by the disrespect. And she stood up and gave a little talk. And she told the non-Natives there, she pointed at the pipe and she said, “In North America, that’s it.” She said, “In North America, that’s it,” and she pointed at the pipe. “You guys have to respect that here. This is an important thing in North America.” She actually sent a letter to all the Persian Baha’is in the world, every Persian Baha’i in the world, saying, “Respect the pipe. When you’re present with the pipe, respect it.”104 Ruhiyyih Khanum, who had visited the same area and been given a Blackfoot name nearly twenty-five years earlier and is remembered by many Baha’is, Indigenous and not, as both an ally and a relative, followed this up, in October, with a letter to the Canadian National Spiritual Assembly.105 In this meditation on her journey to Canada earlier that year and the ongoing imperative, in view of Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy, of outreach to Indigenous people, Ruhiyyih Khanum again chastised Iranian Baha’is for the disrespect they demonstrated towards the pipe ceremony at Peigan. Invoking her late husband, she also wrote in this letter, “I remember Shoghi Effendi telling the American pilgrims at the dinner table in the Western Pilgrim House that the American Bahá’ís were tainted with race prejudice; he said ‘they do not think they are, but they are.’” “I think this holds true,” Ruhiyyih Khanum continued, “also of the whole situation vis-à- vis the Indians in North America.”106 Indeed, as I examine in further depth in the next chapter, the issue of “race prejudice” bore on the construction of Baha’i community beyond the bounds of Indigenous cultural practice as well. 104 Brown, interview, 21 March 2008. What Brown is likely remembering here is a letter Ruhiyyih Khanum sent to Canadian Baha’is on the subject (cited below). An article about this gathering, the opening of the Naat Owa ‘Pii (Sacred Things) Baha’i Centre in Brocket was published in an area newspaper: “Peigans Open Welcome Baha’i Centre,” Lethbridge Herald (21 July 1986), 3. Suggesting a shared sense of Indigenous Baha’i memory and identification, Donald Addison, who was not in attendance at this gathering, also mentioned it in his interview with me (though he put it among the Blackfeet in Montana, not the Blackfoot in Alberta). Addison, interview. 105 Ruyihhiy Khanum was given the Blackfoot name “Natu-Okcist,” or “Blessed Mother,” during a visit to the Peigan Reserve in 1960. Amatu’l-Baha Ruhiyyih Khanum, A Message to the Indian and Eskimo Bahá’ís of the Western Hemisphere (Toronto: Bahá’í Canada Publications, 1969). Fond reflections about Ruhiyyih Khanum include Philip Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 Jan 2009; Linda Loft, interview with the author, Meades Creek, British Columbia, 16 Aug 2004; Allison Healy and Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008. 106 Rúhíyyih Khánum, Letter to the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Canada, 28 Oct 1986, Chelsea Horton Personal Collection. Thank you to Littlebrave Beaston for providing me with a copy of this letter. 244 While it was White Baha’is who set the dominant cultural tone of the Baha’i community in Canada and the United States, this exchange at Peigan underscores how Baha’i intercultural relations were not a straightforward Indigenous-White issue. There was an Iranian flavour and presence in the North American Baha’i community from the start, something that was significantly amplified with the arrival of relatively large numbers of Baha’i migrants in the wake of the 1979 Islamic Revolution. This demographic shift sometimes produced new intercultural tension.107 At the same time, several narrators also stressed in their interviews a strong sense of connection that they shared with Iranian Baha’is on the basis of common histories of oppression.108 Further, it is quite possible that at least some of the Iranian Baha’is in attendance at the gathering at Peigan were new to Canada and would thus have had little, if any, prior exposure to Indigenous cultural practices such as pipe ceremony. Their very presence at a gathering on reserve signals a first step, however shaky, towards intercultural learning and exchange.109 Phil Lane Jr. himself did not make specific mention of the 1986 gathering at Peigan in our interview together, but spoke emphatically concerning a lack of cultural sensitivity he encountered among Baha’is. He extended this discussion to time he spent pioneering in Bolivia during the early 1970s, recalling, for example, his disappointment at the close of a national gathering held in the central Bolivian city of Cochabamba: 107 For example, Brown, interview, 21 March 2008; Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008; Joyce Shales, interview 30 July 2008. 108 For example, Lucas, interview; Lorintha Umtuch, interview with the author, Toppenish, Washington, 21 June 2008; Greenaway, interview. A similar connection was drawn in the Indigenous Baha’i teaching pamphlet, Circle of Unity: National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, Circle of Unity, Revised Edition (Wilmette, Illinois: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1980), Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection. Diné Baha’is likewise draw a parallel between the Navajo “Long Walk” and Baha’u’llah’s series of forced migrations across the Middle East. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 54. Graeme Were further notes a sense of solidarity shared by Nalik Baha’is in New Ireland and Iranian adherents. Were, “Thinking Through Images,” 666. 109 Beverley Knowlton, in reflecting on intercultural Baha’i interactions at the Peigan Centre, stressed the positive. She also described the deep sadness of Baha’is at Peigan and elsewhere when the band council reclaimed the Centre after Baha’is had restored the building. Knowlton, interview. 245 I remember the first time we went to the National Centre in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It was a big teaching centre there. And we had a convention, or some big major event and the Native Baha’is were there. And afterwards, people were so excited and I was so excited, there is a Baha’i song called Allah’u’Abha and usually it’s sang [singing] Allah’u’Abha, Allah’u’Abha, Allah’u’Abha, Allah’u’Abha. But people were so excited, we started singing, Allah’u’Abha, Allah’u’Abha, Allah’u’Abha [singing in a different key and tempo], and people were, you know, jumping and singing and just full of joy. And I remember one of the Persians came out and was just, “Whoa, stop. You’re not supposed to sing it like that.” Shifting from memory to contemporary context, Lane added, “So one of the things I would say if I had to counsel Baha’is, I would say, ‘Be careful that you don’t bring your own particular cultural interpretations in and colour the Faith in that way.’” Lane had the chance to return to Bolivia in the mid-1980s as a member of a southbound “Trail of Light” Indigenous Baha’i travel teaching team, but disappointment dogged this visit as well. As he shared: I remember by that time I had been given a headdress, I took my headdress there and I went back with my pipe and things that I wanted to share, these cultural things, and I remember the Baha’is along with me, they were Native Baha’is too, they didn’t think it was appropriate. And right at Sucre, I saw Meletone [a close friend Lane had made while pioneering there], they were even blaming me because Meletone was talking about the Quechuas and we should return to the culture and all that, when he saw me, you know. And it was really a painful thing to come back there. So that night, I was supposed to be there on the stage with all the Quechua, being on the stage in Sucre, seeing all my friends, I couldn’t do it. I was just too hurt. I just made a decision to leave the thing. And I left. I went to Cochabamba and stayed a few days and came home. It was too bad. I just felt like I was just totally discouraged. Totally discouraged, because I felt like, still, even the Indians didn’t understand. Some of the Indians didn’t understand the importance of the cultural dimensions of things.110 Lane’s reflections vividly confirm that was no single Indigenous Baha’i perspective on the place of Indigenous culture within the Baha’i Faith. Looking back, Lane acknowledged that: people can get hung up on the extra ornaments. So at this point in time, you know, to each their own. It’s not going to be just the cultural thing that’s going to do it. But I think, certainly, you’ve got to be able to give people that understanding that they can bring that part of them. 110 Lane, interview. Tensions are also apparent in a trip report by team member, Lakota Baha’i Jacqueline Delahunt (now Left Hand Bull) published in Bahá’í News no.699 (July 1989), 4. 246 For Lane, such lack of understanding contributed to a sustained estrangement from Baha’i community.111 There are others, too, who pulled back from active Baha’i practice on account of tension over the place of Indigenous culture within the Baha’i Faith. The clearest limit in negotiating this relationship was Baha’i law. But as debate over another intertribal practice – the peyote religion – reveals, this line was likewise slippery. A “small, spineless cactus” native to what is now northern Mexico and southwestern Texas, peyote has a long history as a healing herb among Indigenous people in the Southwest and Plains regions but is typically associated, in the twentieth century, with the Native American Church, an explicitly combinative faith that was officially incorporated in Oklahoma in 1918.112 The Peyote religion, institutionalized in the Native American Church, spread across the United States and into Canada in subsequent decades and Baha’i concern about use of the psychoactive plant is evident in official communications from mid-century. In a 1963 letter to the American National Spiritual Assembly, the Universal House of Justice stressed that “Anyone involved in the use of peyote should be told that in the Bahá’í Faith spiritual stimulation comes from turning one’s heart to Bahá’u’lláh and not through any physical means. They should therefore be encouraged to give up the use of peyote.”113 As with the use of alcohol, the House of Justice urged a patient and understanding approach towards peyote users, but reiterated four years later in another letter to the American NSA that, “Bahá’ís 111 Lane, interview. In an interview published in a 2003 issue of the Baha’i periodical, World Order, the late Choctaw musician and filmmaker Phil Lucas observed, for his part, that “Lately, within the Bahá’í community, I have come not to expound upon my Native roots, culture, or cultural beliefs, as what I have to say usually flies in the face of the Bahá’í myth pool and is, therefore, either misconstrued or dismissed out of hand.” Robert Weinberg, “Spinning the Myth Pool: An Interview with Phil Lucas,” World Order 35, no.1 (2003), 19. 112 Daniel C. Swan, “The Native American Church,” in Garrick A. Bailey, ed., Handbook of North American Indians: Indians in Contemporary Society, Vol. 2 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 2008), 317-326 (quote from 317). 113 Letter from the Universal House of Justice to the National Spiritual Assembly of the United States, 9 Nov 1963, in cited Hornby, Lights of Guidance, 354. This source notes that the letter was reprinted in the May 1972 issue of Alaska Bahá'í News, indicating (similar to the case of pipe ceremony) wide interest and communication on these issues. 247 should not use hallucinogenic agents, including LSD, peyote and similar substances, except when prescribed for medical treatment.”114 This last was a significant qualifier that gestured, intentionally or not, towards the potential healing function of peyote and blurred any straightforward ban based on the Baha’i prohibition on drugs and alcohol. Lee Brown spoke to this issue in our second of two interviews together. Characterizing peyote as a “healing medicine,” one that has helped him considerably throughout his own life, Brown observed that, “people see it as a drug, so they associate it with alcohol and drug addiction, but actually it’s a source of sobriety, and walking a good path.”115 The healing properties of peyote were an ongoing subject of discussion within the Baha’i community, as indicated by another letter written on behalf of the Universal House of Justice to the American NSA. This 1994 message was composed in response to a request for guidance “with respect to the permissibility of a Bahá’í’s using peyote, under the direction of a Native American medicine man, and whether such a practitioner ‘could be considered under some circumstances or by some people a legitimate practising physician’, in which case, presumably, his prescription to use peyote would represent the kind of professional guidance the Guardian referred to as ‘the advice of a competent and conscientious physician’.” The letter laid out that “The House of Justice does not wish to comment on the medical qualifications of such Native American healers,” but went on later to add: The statement defining health practitioners from a Bahá’í point of view is given in a letter written on behalf of the Guardian to an individual believer on 8 June 1948: ‘In His Most Holy Book (the ‘Aqdas’) Bahá’u’lláh says to consult the best physicians, in other words doctors who have studied a scientific system of medicine.’ It is clear from other statements made by the Guardian, as well as from the practice of Bahá’u’lláh, the Master and the Guardian himself, that by ‘a scientific system of medicine’ he was not limiting the choice to the medical theories currently dominant in western countries. The House of 114 From a letter dated 11 January 1967 written by the Universal House of Justice to a National Spiritual Assembly, in Bahá’u’lláh et al, Compilation of Compilations: Volume 1, 55. 115 Brown, interview, 28 Oct 2008. 248 Justice, therefore, does not exclude the use of traditional native healers, who have often gone through a rigorous training in their craft. There is, nevertheless, an important borderline between unorthodox medical practice and sheer quackery or superstition, and this we should be careful not to cross.116 This statement simultaneously affirmed Indigenous knowledge systems (something Brown, specifically, recalled being substantially buoyed by) and invoked the ambiguous limit of superstition.117 It also set out two additional barriers: legal status and use of peyote as de-facto membership in the Native American Church. Although the 1978 American Indian Religious Freedom Act legalized the possession of peyote for members of the Native American Church, a series of subsequent court and political challenges have made for a muddied legal context.118 The 1994 letter written on behalf of the House of Justice observed on the issue: In the specific matter of the use of peyote, the House of Justice is given to understand that, in the United States at the present time, the use of peyote for any purpose is prohibited by law. If this is not so, or if in future it should become legally permissible for peyote to be prescribed for medicinal purposes, you should refer the matter to the House of Justice once again for further elucidation.119 While this statement articulates a certain systematic flexibility, the second rationale that the House of Justice supplied, that of Native American Church membership, effectively rendered the issue of illegality moot. As the letter clarified with implicit reference to Baha’i instructions banning membership in (or even, evidently, “acceptance of the doctrines of”) other religions: [The House of Justice] is informed that peyote is customarily prescribed, not as a simple therapeutic remedy, but as a part of a religious ritual in which it plays the part of a sacrament, much as sacramental wine is used in the Roman Catholic mass. Indeed, it is said that those who follow this ritual not infrequently draw a comparison between the two practices. If this is so, it is clearly not permissible for a Baha’i to resort to the use of peyote in such a manner, no matter who prescribes it, since it would imply acceptance of the doctrines of the Native American Church.120 116 Letter on behalf of the Universal House of Justice to the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, 17 June 1994, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 117 Brown, interview, 28 Oct 2008. 118 See Swan, “The Native American Church,” 323-324. 119 Letter, 17 June 1994. 120 Letter, 17 June 1994. As Michael McMullen has noted, the Baha’i boundary around membership in other religions hardened “toward the end of [Shoghi Effendi’s] ministry,” with Shoghi Effendi insisting that “upon 249 Peyote ceremonies vary in the degree to which they incorporate Christian influences, suggesting that the House of Justice’s “sacrament” comparison was perhaps overdrawn.121 Still, the issue of Native American Church (NAC) affiliation could have concrete consequences for Baha’is. Phil Lane Jr., for example, expressed a strong sense of solidarity with a prominent Indigenous Baha’i couple that he described having been stripped of their Baha’i administrative rights on account of NAC attendance, something he characterized as a great injustice.122 Linda Covey speaks to the same incident in her thesis (she does not name names, but it is clear from the context that it is the same case, though she discusses only one person, not two), indicating instead that this individual “resigned from a prominent position in the religion to become a ‘roadman’ responsible for overseeing peyote ceremonies held in hogans.”123 Covey writes that the “details of what moved him to resign from his position remain confidential and closed.” The deep emotion that this man conveyed in his interview with Covey, however, demonstrates that his decision to resign his Baha’i membership was a painful one and he made clear that he still considers himself a Baha’i.124 becoming declared believers Bahá’ís should withdraw their membership from their church or other previous religious organization.” McMullen, The Bahá’í, 124. 121 Daniel Swan, “The Native American Church,” 320-322; Brown, interview. At the same time, Swan notes that “Peyote is generally referred to as ‘the medicine,’ ‘the sacrament,’ or ‘this holy herb’ by members of the Native American Church.” 317. 122 Lane, interview. This case was also the subject of online discussion among Baha’is. See David Piff, “The Globalization of Information: Bahá’í Constructions of the Internet,” in Margit Warburg, Annika Hvithamar, and Morten Warmind, eds., Baha’i and Globalisation (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2005), 205. 123 In her own analysis of the Baha’i position on peyote, Covey focuses more closely on the Baha’i ban on drugs than the issue of Native American Church membership, arguing that “giving up the use of peyote, a drug that was classified as a Schedule I hallucinogen by the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act in 1970, should be held in no different light than Diné Bahá’ís giving up alcohol, and would not constitute a lack of Diné Bahá’ís practicing their traditional ways.” Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 172. 124 Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í,” 169. 250 Practicing Culture Peyote is precisely the sort of limit Covey was pointing to in her own interview with me when she emphasized that the Baha’i Faith supports most of “the Native outlook, or belief, or tradition.”125 And, indeed, the principle of cultural preservation that the Baha’i Faith promoted proved profoundly refreshing and inspiring for many, both those with preexisting ties to culture and others who took it up explicitly by way of their Baha’i practice. Though narrators frequently spoke of Indigenous culture as though it was self-evident, it was instead produced in a historical context of renewal and revitalization. This is not to say that “the culture” was invented in a spurious sense, but is rather to draw attention to one particular, and expansive, idiom of culture in use among Indigenous people themselves.126 This revivalist discourse took in, for the subjects of this chapter, both tribal and intertribal practices and served, together with Baha’i observance, as an opening to broader Indigenous identification as well. This could be a deeply healing process that helped reconcile rifts in family history, instilled greater confidence and sense of self, and brought adherents into diverse Indigenous communities. At the same time, the place of Indigenous cultural practice within the Baha’i Faith was far from clear and Baha’is themselves spoke of an unfolding process of building Baha’i culture over time. Indeed, the self-consciousness with which Baha’is approached, and continue to reflect on, this process and the balance of unity and diversity renders this an especially rich site of religious combination. Such self-consciousness, to be sure, has not always been in evidence, particularly on the part of some non-Indigenous Baha’is ill attuned to their own power and privilege (reflected both in normalized rituals and disrespectful dismissive attitudes). Indeed, there were moments, to reach back to Robert George’s opening observation, when Baha’is did 125 Covey, interview. 126 On the risks and high stakes of constructivist analysis surrounding Indigenous culture and tradition see Glass, “The Intention of Tradition,” 279-281, 299-300. 251 say, by word or deed, “that’s not the way we do it.” There were also limits in the way of Baha’i law and teachings like those on superstition, though this too is clearly an ongoing subject of reflection and divergent interpretation. That intertribal topics like pipe ceremony and peyote became particular touchstones for discussion and debate is effective reminder of the context of renewal and exchange in which culture was under construction. Rather than simply preserved, as the Baha’i principle put it, Indigenous cultural practice was produced through the process of Baha’i combination. And as we will see in the next chapter, this process of construction, and contestation, continued as Baha’is built both intercultural and Indigenous religious community. 252 Chapter 7: Building Baha’i Community “That was my big eye opener,” Joyce Shales recalled, describing the international Baha’i conference she attended with her father in Palermo, Sicily in the summer of 1968. “I met people from Africa,” she continued, “from everywhere in the world. So it was like this was the epitome of everything that I thought I believed and now there it was right at your feet. And it was the real beginning of the Baha’i Faith as a global religion for me.”1 As Baha’is, narrators in this project generated a global spiritual geography that took in, to paraphrase Baha’u’llah, the earth as one country and humanity its citizens.2 Like Shales, many activated this vision, and an attendant sense of world citizenship, through travel and attendance at transnational Baha’i gatherings.3 And, as sociological studies of contemporary Baha’i community have signaled, they further forged “situated universalist” identities by working to build Baha’u’llah’s promised “New World Order” at home.4 In the same way that Baha’i observance brought narrators into Indigenous communities, it brought them into Baha’i communities as well. Indeed, Baha’is were charged, as a core matter of faith, to build community with other adherents. As the sociologist Michael McMullen has explained in contemporary context, “religious salvation,” from a Baha’i perspective, is a collective two-pronged project incumbent upon internal assembly of the Baha’i 1 Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 29 July 2008. On this gathering see “The First Oceanic Conference: Palermo, Sicily – August 23-25, 1968,” The Bahá’í World: An International Record Volume 15, 1968-1973 (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1976), 73-79. 2 See Bahá’u’lláh, “Lawḥ-i-Maqṣúd (Tablet of Maqṣúd),” in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh Revealed After the Kitáb-i- Aqdas (Wilmette: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1988), 167, accessed online 18 April 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/TB/. 3 Allison Healy, for example, reflected on her attendance at the 1977 international Baha’i conference in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico in terms strikingly similar to Shales on the Palermo gathering. Also like Shales, who traveled abroad with her father and other Indigenous Baha’is, Healy journeyed to Mexico in the company of a Blackfoot cousin and other Indigenous Baha’is. Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 27 April 2008. 4 Michael McMullen uses the term “situated universalists” in his study of the Atlanta Baha’i community: The Bahá’í: The Religious Construction of a Global Identity (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 12. See also Lynn Echevarria, “The Canadian Baha’is 1938-2000: Constructions of Oneness in Personal and Collective Identity,” in Margit Warburg, Annika Hvithamar, and Morten Warmind, eds, Baha’i and Globalisation (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2005), esp. 236-240. Margit Warburg dubs Baha’is “cosmolocals” in Citizens of the World: A History and Sociology of the Baha’is from a Globalisation Perspective (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2006), 108-111. 253 “Administrative Order,” considered the “bedrock” of future Baha’i civilization, and external dissemination of “the Cause.”5 Where existing literature on Baha’i community building has stressed the role of Baha’i institutions and considered their operation in specific contexts, I am interested here in interactions between adherents themselves and the Baha’i community as a broader space of both intercultural and Indigenous interaction.6 Like the question of culture, the process of Baha’i community building confirms that the vision of unity in diversity was very much a motivational factor in Indigenous Baha’i declaration and deepening. It simultaneously reveals, however, a disconnect between the theory and the practice of this core Baha’i teaching.7 Baha’is came together for regular worship and celebration structured by their religious calendar as well as for administrative functions and teaching and service projects. Encouraged to “live the life” in the everyday, many also cultivated relationships that carried beyond explicitly Baha’i space or activities.8 Indeed, in the ongoing colonial context of mid-to-late twentieth- century North America, the Baha’i Faith was a site of intercultural learning and exchange through which Indigenous and non-Indigenous adherents forged striking relationships of mutual 5 McMullen, The Bahá’í, 8. 6 I am joining here with scholarship that advocates attention to alternative sites of Indigenous contact and unexpected and unknown spaces of intercultural alliance building as well. See Paul Lai and Lindsay Claire Smith, “Introduction,” American Quarterly, “Special Issue: Alternative Contact: Indigeneity, Globalism, and American Studies” 62, no.3 (Sept 2010): 407-436; Paulette Regan, Unsettling the Settler Within: Indian Residential Schools, Truth Telling, and Reconciliation in Canada (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010), 231; Lynne Davis, ed., Alliances: Re/envisioning Indigenous-Non-Indigenous Relationships (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010). As Michael McMullen has explained, the term “Baha’i community” carries several connotations: “roughly analogous to the Christian term ‘congregation,’ referring to a local gathering of believers,” “Baha’i community” can also refer to the national or global scale. I employ the term primarily in this second sense throughout this chapter. McMullen, The Bahá’í, 13. For analysis of the “Administrative Order” in specific relation to Indigenous Baha’is see, for example, Pauline Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops: The Integration of Lakota Ancestral Knowledge and Bahá’í Teachings in the Performative Practices of Kevin Locke” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2002), Chapter 5; Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011), 113-115. 7 For discussion of disconnect between formal Baha’i writings and popular Baha’i perspectives on unity in diversity see Will C. van den Hoonaard, “Etching the Idea of ‘Unity in Diversity’ in the Baha’i Community: Popular Opinion and Organizing Principle,” in Warburg et al, Baha’i and Globalisation, 245-267. 8 On the concept of “living the life” see Shoghi Effendi, “Living the Life,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 2, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Baha’i Publications Australia, 1991), 1-28. 254 respect. Building Baha’i community, however, was neither easy nor automatic and was especially fraught for Indigenous adherents, who also confronted tensions of intercultural communication and understanding and sometimes outright racism. Given, again, the Baha’i prohibition on backbiting (see Chapter 3), the fact that narrators shared on this subject is significant.9 Their stories suggest that much as Baha’is aspired to build a “New World Order,” they remained, through the twentieth century, still grounded in the old. The stories in this chapter, further, offer insight into this old (in the sense of living colonial) context outside the Baha’i community as they provide evidence of the debilitating effects of racism and obstacles to the process of reconciliation in society at large. The broad framing of this study means I have limited insight into the construction and workings of specific Baha’i communities and institutions.10 But I can offer fresh perspective on patterns and connections flattened by studies confined to the local level. Indeed, while Indigenous Baha’is were relatively few in number and often geographically isolated from each other, they also constructed community of their own. Intercultural tensions themselves proved a 9 Existing Baha’i literature tends to gesture towards tension while dwelling on and celebrating positive features of Baha’i community life in substantially more detail. See, for example, Richard W. Thomas, Racial Unity: An Imperative for Social Progress (Ottawa: Bahá’í Studies Publications, 1993), esp.154-159; Evelyn Loft Watts and Patricia Verge, Return to Tyendinaga: The Story of Jim and Melba Loft, Bahá’í Pioneers (Essex, MD: One Voice, 2011); Pauline Tuttle, “‘Beyond Feathers and Beads”: Interlocking Narratives in the Music and Dance of Tokeya Inajin (Kevin Locke),” in Carter Jones Meyer and Diana Royer, eds, Selling the Indian: Commercializing and Appropriating American Indian Cultures (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2001), 107. The anthropologist Carolyn Patterson Sawin discusses racism explicitly in her study of the Yukon Baha’i community: “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD Thesis, University of Washington, 2000), esp. Chapter 5. 10 More research is needed, for example, on the histories of specific institutions like National Spiritual Assemblies in order to better evaluate accusations like surveillance leveled in the polarized literature on Baha’i fundamentalism. See Juan R.I. Cole, “The Baha’i Faith in North America as Panopticon,” The Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 37 (June 1998): 234-248; Juan R.I. Cole, “Fundamentalism in the Contemporary Baha’i Community,” Review of Religious Research 42 (March 2002): 195-217. 255 point of contact and consultation among dispersed Indigenous adherents, as did intertribal cultural exchange and Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy.11 Building Intercultural Baha’i Community Participation in Baha’i community frequently brought Indigenous adherents into a form of close intercultural interaction many had not experienced before. While Joyce Shales, for example, stressed how her global travels opened up what Manuel Vásquez and Marie Marquardt have called an expanded “cartography of belonging,” she likewise emphasized how engagement in the Baha’i community back home in Alaska involved a new form of “mixing” altogether.12 As she recalled of her entry into the Baha’i community in the mid-1960s: when I became Baha’i, I can tell you that from the background I came from, I came from a small Alaskan town [Sitka] that I had never left except maybe I travelled to Seattle once or twice with my family. Coming to the States was like coming to a foreign country. So I went away to the University of Alaska [in Fairbanks, in the Alaskan interior], got married, had one son and then became Baha’i. Okay. Never been around White people socially to speak of. That was a shock. Most of the people I’ve been around are my family, except for at school or having to do with some administrative organization of some sort. I worked in a hospital after high school and I really enjoyed my work. It was there that I had my first real interaction with the non-Native community in my hometown.13 Coming into the Baha’i community further extended such “real” interaction. Drawing on the metaphor of mixing, Shales explained that “when I became Baha’i I got mixed in with a bunch of people that I had never been mixed in with before. A whole new different kind of a group.” She contrasted this experience with her upbringing in the Presbyterian Church. “Even when I had gone to church,” she continued, “you don’t mix in with people like you do in the Baha’i 11 This analysis builds on recent literature on urban Indigenous history that is attuned to flexible, often intertribal and transnational, articulations of community. See, for example, Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007); Coll Thrush, Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007); Susan Applegate Krouse and Heather A. Howard, eds. Keeping the Campfires Going: Native Women’s Activism in Urban Communities (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2009). 12 Manuel A. Vásquez and Marie F. Marquardt, Globalizing the Sacred: Religion Across the Americas (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2003), 53 (see also 169, 225-226). 13 Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 29 July 2008. 256 community, it’s a whole different thing. When you go to church, you go there on Sunday, you visit a little and you go home.”14 The Baha’i Faith, by contrast, brought Shales quite literally into the homes (the gathering places for events such as Baha’i firesides and Feasts) of her coreligionists. The novelty of Baha’i intercultural interaction was not limited to those in remote environments like Alaska. Entering Baha’i community, even the act of enrollment itself, presented new dynamics for adherents in urban areas as well. Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, for example, recalled the acute pain she confronted when she entered an unfamiliar White middle- class suburb of San Jose, California in order to sign her Baha’i declaration card in 1981. Gubatayao-Hagen was first introduced to the Baha’i Faith by her mother, Ruby Gubatayao, in Washington, but was encouraged by her (and her mother’s close friend, narrator Klara Tyler) to formally enroll in the local community where she was living. As we saw in the last chapter, Gubatayao-Hagen came of age in the context of urban Indigenous activism in Seattle, a factor, she stressed, that firmly informed her declaration experience. As she recalled: I was pretty radical and revolutionary. I wasn’t exactly American Indian Movement, they were very militant, but I think that our family, and especially my mom, was a notch below that. And so for me with all this Indian activism, to have to go to this middle-class White neighbourhood, and I was just praying to Baha’u’llah, I said, you know, “Are you testing how much I love you? Are you testing that I believe in you?” Because I knew that Baha’u’llah was going to be the healing medicine for our people, I knew that already. And so I’m going, but oh my God, it took all this strength. I mean, I was crying, and I just, every step across the street and up the walk and up on the porch and knocking on the door and going into the house, the whole thing was extremely painful. But I said, you know, I would do this, but as I was crossing that street, I said, “Baha’u’llah, I’m going to do this.” And I said, “But I am going to work my whole life to make sure that other Native people don’t have to go to this extreme, and overcome these kind of hurdles to have access to you.”15 14 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 15 Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 11 July 2008. Ruby Gubatayao helped organize the takeover of Fort Lawton in Seattle (noted in Chapter 5) and was closely connected with leaders such as Bernie Whitebear and Bob Satiacum, who were also “Indipino.” 257 Gubatayao-Hagen’s reflections reveal a charged conversion process from Red Power to intercultural Baha’i community and suggest the sorts of structural barriers – class, as well as race – that Indigenous people sometimes confronted as they made such move.16 Her experience, at the same time, illustrates the lasting kinship that such contact could promote. Speaking to a sense of shared genealogy that Baha’is often cultivated with their religious teachers and those in whose company they signed their declaration cards, Gubatayao-Hagen explained that she remains connected with the non-Indigenous (and, it turned out, prominent Baha’i) family at whose home she enrolled and feels “really lucky to have them as these very close spiritual mentors in my life.”17 Other narrators likewise recalled key mentorship they received as early Baha’is. Deloria Bighorn, for example, spoke with great warmth about two elderly sisters, Dorothy Hayes and Emmalu McCandless, who served as key supports after she declared in Walla Walla, Washington in the late 1960s. Baha’i demographics, Bighorn noted, were shifting by generation as well as race at this time and youth often met for intense spiritual discussion and study with Emmalu: “her home was always open and the youth were there hanging out and she was just delighted. She treated us all as absolute equals.”18 Bighorn remained in contact with these 16 Andrea Smith employs the language of conversion “from Red Power to Christianity” in Native Americans and the Christian Right: The Gendered Politics of Unlikely Alliances (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008), 99. Lorintha Umtuch, who became a Baha’i on the Yakama Reservation in Washington in 1966, likewise noted the class dimension of her declaration experience, in her case connecting with “poor Indian people from the coast” who had travelled to her reservation to teach the religion. Lorintha Umtuch, interview with the author, Toppenish, Washington, 21 June 2008. 17 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview. This genealogy sometimes intersected with physical descent. Thus Gubatayao- Hagen, who learned the religion from her mother, described Ruby Gubatayao as both her “biological mother” and her “spiritual mother.” For context on Ruby Gubatayao see “Ruby Gubatayao Served the Cause Among Native Peoples,” 28 March 2011, accessed online 3 Nov 2012, http://www.bahai.us/2011/03/28/ruby-gubatayao-served-the- cause-among-native-peoples/. 18 Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008. There was a class dimension at work here too: Bighorn noted her own delight at being introduced to “exotic things” like Melba Toast and artichoke hearts; “I had never heard of such things,” she recalled, “I didn’t even know such food existed.” 258 women after she moved away from Walla Walla and recalled being particularly moved, as she was as she shared the story with me, when she first introduced Emmalu and her husband, Jacob: I remember she said to Jacob, when we first met and married, I wanted Jacob to meet her and the minute she took his hands in her hands she said, “This boy has been hurt.” And that really touched Jacob’s heart, because that’s really all he wanted anybody to recognize, is that he had been hurt. “This boy has been hurt.” She brought him in and she was such an amazing woman.19 Bighorn did not specify whether or to what degree Hayes and McCandless were aware of the colonial history that had caused this hurt. But the heart connections they cultivated, her reflections imply, worked on an intimate interpersonal scale to help heal it. Like Shales, who distinguished between Sunday church attendance and more dynamic Baha’i “mixing,” many narrators likewise contrasted this kind of intra-Baha’i interaction with that of Christians of diverse denomination. Lorintha Umtuch, for example, who declared as a Baha’i on the Yakama Reservation in 1966, explained that she was first drawn to the religion by what she called a “transparency” on the part of Baha’is: “they were pleasant on the inside and they were pleasant on the outside and it was genuine.” Baha’is, she elaborated elsewhere, “didn’t cast no stones at you and they didn’t look down their noses at you.”20 They also activated, as Umtuch told it, a sense of community in quiet everyday ways. Recalling, for example, a serious car accident that she suffered while living in Los Angeles, California in the 1970s, Umtuch explained how a Baha’i woman who lived on the opposite end of the city came “to help me take care of my house and my kids, every single day.” She elaborated: I didn’t pay her to do that but out of the kindness of her heart she did that for me because she was a Baha’i … she was a good Baha’i and she came over to help me. I didn’t know 19 Deloria Bighorn, interview. 20 Umtuch, interview. Her initial exposure to Baha’i community came courtesy of non-Indigenous pioneers Janet and Edward Lindstrom, who sent Umtuch to a Baha’i gathering in Geyserville, California as a high school graduation gift; Umtuch explained that she followed the Yakama precept of honouring a gift by learning as much as she could about the faith while she was there. Umtuch’s words are strikingly reminiscent of Allison Healy, who, as we saw in Chapter 4, spoke of the “genuine love” demonstrated by Baha’is as a profound source of attraction to the religion. 259 her but I got to know her real well when she started doing that. And I didn’t know that many people down there and I was really appreciative that she would do that for me. Distinguishing such acts from discrimination that she had met from many Christians, Umtuch added that Baha’is “gave from the heart. They sacrificed. And Christians didn’t do that for me.”21 Others observed a similar sincerity and spirit of generosity on the part of Baha’is.22 Narrators pointed to pioneers, in particular, as adherents with whom they forged meaningful and lasting bonds. They invariably spoke with great affection about non-Indigenous Baha’is who committed themselves to this activity over the long term. Narrators recognize that these Baha’is undertook intercultural teaching and learning voluntarily and appreciate the steps that they took to extend themselves beyond their own cultural comfort zones.23 Peigan Baha’i Beverley Knowlton, for example, whose parents joined the religion when she was a young girl, stressed that the pioneers who made regular visits to her reserve in southern Alberta during the 1960s and 70s “came and they didn’t take us different. They accepted us”; “through the years,” she added, “we had all kinds of Baha’is come into our home. And Dale and Joyce [two non- Indigenous Baha’i women], well I just practically grew up with them.”24 Knowlton spoke to the indelible impact of these relationships when she recalled her hesitancy, as a teenager, around Indigenous activism brewing in Edmonton, where she attended high school. Youth in the city, she explained, were: being really racist with White people. And having these protests and all this and I was right in with them. But the thing that always got me is I can never fully join them because 21 Umtuch, interview. 22 For example, Healy, interview; Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008; Donald Addison, interview with the author, Eugene, Oregon, 23 June 2008. Narrators often connected this to the concept of world citizenship, noting their confidence that they could travel anywhere in the world and be welcomed by fellow Baha’is. For example, Beverley Knowlton, interview with the author, between Calgary and Sylvan Lake, Alberta, 26 April 2008. 23 For example, Umtuch, interview; Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008; Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008; Allison Healy, interview. 24 Knowlton, interview. For background on Dale Lillico and Joyce McGuffie see Patricia Verge, Angus: From the Heart: The Life of Counsellor Angus Cowan (Cochrane, AB: Springtide, 1999), 70-71, 82, 83, 177, 266, 310, 311. 260 I was raised as a Baha’i. And if I start calling White people down, then that would be just like calling Dale Lillico down and Joyce McGuffie, who were a very big part of my growing up.25 An unwillingness to partake in what the anthropologist James Clifford has described as “exclusivist nativism” did not mean that Knowlton, or other Indigenous Baha’is, were passive.26 Rather, as her expression of intercultural solidarity signals, Baha’is were working to realize their own vision of unity in diversity. Where some Indigenous Baha’is, in the Yukon and on the Navajo reservation, for example, lived in areas with a certain concentration of Indigenous adherents, in the quotidian lives of many Indigenous Baha’is, engagement in Baha’i community meant engagement in intercultural community. The relative scarcity of Indigenous Baha’is, combined with common geographic isolation from each other, meant that in order to partake in community, they had to reach out and build intercultural bridges in a way not required of majority Baha’is. This could, as we have just seen, result in striking relationships. But it also produced strains. Most Baha’is did not participate in teaching or pioneering among Indigenous people. When they encountered Indigenous people and practices at Baha’i gatherings, then, it well likely marked the first time that they found themselves in any kind of close interaction with Indigenous people. This, of course, was precisely the sort of thing that the principle of unity in diversity promoted. Yet despite sincere commitment to this teaching, the power that attended (indeed, constituted) difference did not simply evaporate at Baha’i functions. The result was frequent intercultural miscommunication and misunderstanding and sometimes outright racism. Such difficulties caused a number of Indigenous Baha’is to pull back from active community practice, a pattern 25 Knowlton, interview. 26 James Clifford, “Varieties of Indigenous Experience: Diasporas, Homelands, Sovereignties,” in Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn, eds, Indigenous Experience Today (NY: Berg, 2007), 200. 261 that in turn exacerbated demographic imbalance between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Baha’is.27 Participants in this project are, for the most part, still active adherents, but a number certainly reported confronting intercultural tensions over time. Joyce Shales, for her part, recalled her surprise when, after an initial honeymoon period during which she felt a strong acceptance and contentedness in the Baha’i community, “slowly these cross-cultural issues started cropping up.” Though Shales subsequently dedicated much of her personal and professional life to precisely this field, she noted that “I didn’t know anything about cross- cultural issues at that time, I didn’t know what they were. So they were kind of hard for me to understand.” These issues had much to do with communication, with the subtle unspoken cues that structured interaction. Shales, for example, recalled having difficulty understanding why Baha’is “wouldn’t wait for me to speak,” as Tlingit precepts of courtesy prescribed.28 As she elaborated elsewhere, with a characteristic touch of humour: I used to tell Clint [her husband] it took me ten years before I could look a White person in the eye. Ten years of work. It’s just that we never looked people in the eye. That was a teaching. You don’t look somebody in the eye, because when you look somebody in the eye, it meant you were angry. So, to then have White people constantly looking you in the eye, and they’re walking right up to your face and then staring you in the eye – because some people really do that – was just unnerving. So you have to tell yourself, “They don’t mean anything by it, they don’t mean anything by it. Even if they back you into the refrigerator, they don’t mean anything by it.” So they have no clue, but you’re always on the defensive, because you’re trying to cope. Any Indian will tell you that. Or any minority, be it Mexican, Black, or whatever. I believe. Because the cultures are different. And it’s not just that, it’s eye contact and touching and space. And asking questions. And how close you get to somebody when you’re talking to them. Like one guy used to back me into the corner all the time, because he’d get so close to me and I’d be backing up. But he’d keep walking forward until I was backed into the fridge, and all the time he’d be asking questions. Never failed. I’d still be backing up, he’d still be yakking away. And asking what would be to us inappropriate questions. Nothing harmful, 27 As Lee Brown noted in his interview with me, many of these people continued to identify as Baha’is, but became “inactive,” or what Phil Lane Jr. described as estranged, adherents. Brown, interview; Phil Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 January 2009. 28 Shales, interview. 262 just questions we would never ask somebody. Or questions we normally wouldn’t ask people. That was cultural. If somebody wanted to tell you something, they’d tell you. That was it.29 Speaking to her increased conversance in White communication styles (like the ability to “look a White person in the eye”), Shales added, “So the way I am today is not the way I was. I would say I’m a completely different person now than I was at that time.”30 She and her family, as we have seen, did not sacrifice their sense of being Tlingit upon becoming Baha’i. And building unity in diversity, as several narrators stressed, demanded flexibility on all sides.31 Yet in practice, the process demanded something different – indeed, something more – from Indigenous adherents. Non-Indigenous ignorance of Indigenous teachings like the Tlingit interactional patterns Shales described produced a normative baseline of non-Indigenous Baha’i practice. This meant that it was Indigenous adherents, rather than non-Indigenous ones, who were more often than not required to negotiate and cross the cultural colour line.32 Interacting in Baha’i community proved intensely painful for some Indigenous adherents. Jacob Bighorn, for example, spoke about the early enthusiasm that he brought to his employment at Maxwell International School, a Baha’i institution in Shawnigan Lake, British Columbia, where he and his wife, Deloria, began working in 1991.33 Bighorn was inspired by intersections that he saw between Indigenous spiritual principles and Maxwell’s pedagogic philosophy. Everyday interactions at the school, though, proved a challenge. As he shared: I would say something at a staff meeting, I remember one time distinctly, offering something in my style, I wasn’t conscious that it was a style at the time, but I said what I 29 Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 30 July 2008. 30 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. 31 For example, Shales, interviews, 29 and 30 July 2008; Gubatayao-Hagen, interview; Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008; Covey, interview. 32 On White normativity see, for example, Ruth Frankenburg, White Women, Race Matters: The Social Construction of Whiteness (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 192. 33 Maxwell International School, named for early Canadian Baha’is May and William Sutherland Maxwell, the parents of Ruhiyyih Khanum, was a co-ed school for students in grades seven through twelve; it opened in 1988 and closed in 2008. 263 said, and there was no response. I thought I was making a contribution. Well, I heard somebody else say something, say what I meant, the person said what I meant, the way I said it, so I thought we were speaking together, but when this person said it, everybody said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah! That’s a good idea!” And I reached around and I said, “I just said that!” And the person turned to me, “Jacob, you speak in metaphors!” And I got confused, is that a downer? Is that an upper? Or this person, is she frustrated? Is it her problem? Is it my problem? […] And, I think that was the challenge then. That’s an aspect of being Baha’i, that’s the diversity ... in the end, I think that’s part of why I worked my way out [from teaching at the school]. It was too frustrating, it took its toll on my heart, my health. I think which is symbolic of suicides, the high rate of suicides amongst Natives, all the other emotional, psychological troubles, and health troubles. That this degree of low self-esteem and not caring, not being in charge of one’s own destiny, the sense of destiny is in someone else’s hands and so forth. So it’s diminishing, diminishes the spiritual strength.34 Bighorn further addressed such tensions in relation to dreams and visions. Speaking in contemporary context, he explained how persistent patterns of cultural dominance lead people to keep their dreams and visions personal: because for the most part, non-Native communities are left-brain thinkers, who dominate social scenes or processes, even in the Baha’i Faith, they tend to diminish or belittle, unconsciously, belittle the existence of such experiences held by Native people who have these dreams. So sometimes these unique experiences, experiences unique to the Native way of thinking, are discounted as meaningless, because nobody else, especially the people in authority, the legitimizers, if they don’t have these dreams, if they don’t think they’re important, then apparently, in my experience, my unique experience, [it’s] not significant, it’s not valuable. So it could be sometimes a daily battle, a daily process against energy to maintain a sense of value, of what one sees in your mind, or imagination, or a spiritual definition, is worth something. When all around, the social standards, the cultural values surrounding you do not acknowledge your existence. Or the existence of your unique way of seeing things.35 As members of settler society, non-Indigenous Baha’is not only reaped the material benefits of a long history of Indigenous land dispossession, they were likewise inheritors of a less tangible form of self-assurance and privilege that derived from having one’s worldview and modes of 34 Jacob Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 11 August 2004. 35 Jacob Bighorn, interview. 264 interaction consistently validated and reinforced by overarching social and cultural cues.36 As Hesquiaht Baha’i J.C. Lucas, also from Vancouver Island, observed of his own experience: the culture, the mainstream culture, in some parts of the Baha’i community, people don’t realize how strong it is. When Native people come in and there’s a pressure, without really being pressurized. A lot of the stuff comes in. And it triggered me quite seriously some years ago and I just began to withdraw. And my old residential school things came to the fore. So I just kind of withdrew. I still teach, I still pray early in the morning, every day since 1980, actually. Lucas took care to note that “I’m not mad at the Baha’is” and that he still “love[s] and honour[s] the Baha’i Faith.”37 His decision to pull back from active community participation seemingly stemmed not from specific actions on the part of particular Baha’is, but from the broader social context that he, as an Indigenous person, found particularly difficult to navigate. Simply operating in the environment of dominant culture, where non-Indigenous Baha’is and attendant social patterns predominated, for him invoked the legacies of such damaging colonial experiences as residential schools, and led to retreat from Baha’i community life. Stories like these underline just how deep colonial wounds continue to cut and suggest the serious obstacles that exist to building unity, even in a community explicitly committed to this cause. Racism and paternalism further undermined the prospect of unity in diversity in practice. This could take crass form – like the time a White Baha’i at a public gathering in Alaska loudly deployed derogatory language to describe Indigenous people, insisting it was historical, despite being told directly otherwise – as well as more subtle iteration.38 Mohawk Baha’i Linda Loft, for example, recalled the pain she experienced when, after offering to assist with preparation for an upcoming Baha’i gathering not long after moving to Victoria, British Columbia in the early 1970s, a detailed discussion pursued over décor. As she recounted, revealing a pattern of 36 On settler society and the privilege that accrues to its members see, for example, Regan, Unsetting Settler Society. 37 J.C. Lucas, interview with the author, Nanaimo, British Columbia, 6 October 2004. 38 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. 265 normative practice as well as prejudice, “the next thing was, well, ‘We have to sit down and really discuss this, because this is such an important occasion, we don’t want daffodils. We need to know here that roses are going to be needed.’” Loft recalled thinking: “Well, what am I?” But I didn’t say anything. Being the way I am. But I was extremely hurt by that statement. But I saved face, I just put that behind me. But that just isn’t meant to happen. Of course I know it’s going to be roses. Of course I’m going to try and get the best of what we’ll have at the season, at this time, in this different place. And of course I’m going to have tablecloths on our tables. She continued, elaborating on the pejorative implications of this exchange. “Take for instance, maybe I live on reserve” (Loft herself grew up on the Tyendinaga Reserve in southern Ontario): Maybe I’ve never ever seen a rose. Maybe I’ve never ever seen a daffodil, you know? Maybe I’m so remote there’s no flowers growing around where I live […] Now, I’ve got to set this here place up. Now I’m picturing myself, take myself out of that situation, put myself in a different situation such as the one I just explained, and, “Yeah sure, I’ll do that [volunteer to help set up].” A stick might be the most precious thing to me, that I would put in my most expensive container, and put it on the table. Maybe a cedar bough, maybe a circle of rocks might be the best thing, you know? Maybe to me that is really offering everything I could, from the heart, for my Creator. And I know that the people that are coming, that are going to be attending, are going to feel my joy of being able to do these things. Being able to put this event on to the best of my ability. Not judge me for what their standard is, being better than mine, or mine being better than theirs either.39 Echoing an emphasis on process also articulated by other narrators, Loft, in sharing this story, stressed the relative youth of the Baha’i religion and framed moments like this as significant learning opportunities. Tension (what another narrator, Tina Kahn, described as “that rubbing off of the sharp edges” and Linda Covey called “growing pains”), she and other narrators underlined, was inevitable as the “embryonic” Baha’i community took new intercultural form.40 “Comfort,” 39 Linda Loft, interview with the author, Meades Creek, British Columbia, 16 August 2004. 40 Kahn, interview; Covey, interview; Shales, interview; Loft, interview. Shoghi Effendi wrote often of the “embryonic World Order of Bahá’u’lláh.” See, for example, Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh Second Revised Edition (Wilmette: Báhá’i Publishing Trust, 1974 [1938]), 185. 266 Nedra Greenaway asserted in a clear expression of Baha’i historical consciousness, “isn’t on the agenda in the next one hundred or so years.”41 But comfort, of course, is relative. The exchange that Loft experienced as painful paternalism, for example, likely went unregistered by those insisting on roses. This was certainly the case at one gathering in Salmon Arm, a small town in the southern interior of British Columbia, described by Lee Brown. Brown explained that although the town of Vernon was closer to the Okanagan Indian Reserve where he and his family then resided, “the cool thing about Salmon Arm was that they had a community where when we came all four races were present. There was a Black person in the community, there was a couple of Asians, about twenty or thirty Whites.”42 The dominant tenor of this community, though, was revealed during a consultation on Indigenous teaching held as part of a Nineteen Day Feast. As Brown recalled: the consultation that night was on Native teaching, how to teach the Faith to Native Canadians. And my wife and I were taking issue with some of their thinking about what should be done and, I guess, the essence of our thinking was if you want to teach the Faith you have to become friends, you have to have longstanding friendships and relationships, you don’t go into the community and have a one-week gathering or a one- weekend gathering and leave. And the fact is that many of the non-Native Baha’is didn’t have any Native friends. And so it turned out, I just don’t know how it say it, and it’s a great sadness to me, but it turned really vicious, I mean vicious. And it went from being a consultation on Native teaching to what was wrong with me and my wife and how the community didn’t like us. And what they didn’t like about us. Brown noted that the only person who seemed to pick up on this was a White Baha’i named Ed Hinman whose personal history (his mother and her African American partner had had to leave segregated Florida in order to be married) had afforded him “a very deep insight into race.” Other than this, Brown explained, “I don’t think anybody really saw it. And it was very hurtful, I mean, we were stunned. We were stunned.” That his children witnessed this exchange, which went on for roughly an hour, proved a particular source of sadness for Brown. On the direction 41 Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 15 August 2008. 42 Brown, interview. 267 of a dream, in which Abdu’l-Baha apologized for this experience and acknowledged the “sickness” of racism in the North American Baha’i community, he and his wife made a decision to retreat from the Baha’i community for a two-year period. Though his dream helped ease the sting of this event, a phone call appropriately six months later further intensified Brown’s disappointment. As he shared: About six months later somebody from the Salmon Arm community called and said, “Hey, how come you guys aren’t coming to Feast anymore?” They didn’t realize how hurtful the experience was for us. They probably didn’t realize that because of the extreme segregation that happens in Vernon, that the Baha’i Faith was the only place where we interacted with non-Natives. Our life was totally in the Native world. We lived on a piece of cut-off land, but we lived within the reserve boundaries. We were involved in the reserve community, with my wife’s relatives. And our entire life was with Native people, except for our activity with the Baha’i Faith, that was about the only time that we interacted with non-Natives. And so I doubt if any of them realized, it would have been like them coming to the band hall with 100 Native people there all turning on them. You know, it would be a traumatic experience. That’s what it was for us, it was a traumatic experience. But they didn’t realize it. They said, “How come you quit coming to the Feast? You haven’t come in six months.” I thought, “Wow, they don’t even know what they did.” They were not conscious that it was really a traumatic event for us. That we felt attacked. And they probably didn’t feel that they had attacked us, maybe. They probably didn’t have an awareness of what a traumatic experience it was for us.43 Such lack of awareness is testament to the degree to which to non-Indigenous, and particularly White, power and perspectives were normalized within the Baha’i community. At the same time, this story also speaks, again, to the high level of hurt and sensitivity that some Indigenous people carried into their interactions in the Baha’i community on account of the wider history of colonialism. Situations like this were difficult on all sides: it was not up to Brown to teach non- Indigenous Baha’is to be sensitive, but nor could non-Indigenous Baha’is have easily known just how hurtful their words would be. This indicates that even in contexts where both Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples were trying to build understanding (where most in settler society were not), it could still entirely break down. 43 Brown, interview. 268 How Indigenous Baha’is themselves experienced and interacted in intercultural community had much to do with their own personal histories. What were painful incidents to some based on previous experiences of colonial violence or trauma, for example, may not have been taken this way by others without the same background. Where some narrators were accustomed, if not entirely comfortable, interacting in non-Indigenous society when they became Baha’is, for others partaking in this religious community required a more radical step.44 Brown, for his part, shared that he takes some responsibility for the difficulties that he has had interacting in Baha’i community, noting that “I know because of the trauma of my youth I overreact to things.” And despite painful interactions that continue to resonate in his life, and led to periodic retreat from the Baha’i community, he also stressed that he is pleased to be part of a community that is grappling with these issues: “I think that’s very important. You know, it’s difficult and it’s hard, but we’re doing something that’s very hard – we’re trying to bring human beings together, and that’s not an easy thing. But I’m glad to be part of a community that’s attempting to do that.”45 One of the key tools that Baha’is did and do employ in this process is “consultation.” Baha’is are instructed, in their discussion and decision-making processes, to apply this method, which counsels “the ‘subjugation of all egotism and unruly passions, the cultivation of frankness and freedom of thought as well as courtesy, openness of mind, and wholehearted acquiescence in a majority decision.’”46 Several narrators noted consonance between Indigenous and Baha’i methods of consultation and noted that more flexible and responsive modes of communication have developed within the Baha’i community over time (owing, in part, to Indigenous 44 Brown, interview; Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 45 Brown, interview. 46 Universal House of Justice, cited in Wendi Momen, ed. A Basic Bahá’í Dictionary (Oxford, UK: George Ronald, 1989), 58; Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 176-180. 269 representation on Baha’i institutions like Local and National Spiritual Assemblies).47 As Brown’s description of the Salmon Arm Feast suggests, though, the focus and tone of consultation was frequently set by majority adherents who found their own cultural cues and assumptions silently confirmed in and by the Baha’i community. Strong emphasis on Baha’i expansion, as opposed to building internal community understanding, further exacerbated such tensions.48 Despite sincere appetite for Indigenous difference within the Baha’i community, an overwhelming emphasis on unity similarly functioned to shut down necessary discussion of diversity. This was a key tension within the religion.49 Respect for the Baha’i “Greater” and “Lesser Covenants” (discussed in Chapter 3), coupled with related Baha’i law that cast contention as an impediment to personal and collective spiritual growth, called for tolerance and kept Baha’is of diverse stripes from openly confronting such controversial subjects as racism within the Baha’i community.50 As narrator Donald Addison, for example, shared in the present tense: if a White Baha’i says something that’s mean or out of place, and it happens all the time, my responsibility is to not pick that up and run with it. I may not even confront them. Well, confront, see, right there, is the wrong word. That shows that I still haven’t cleaned it up entirely. What I mean, and what I should be doing is, conceptualizing it as, to love my fellow White Baha’i into freedom from their own prejudice.51 47 For example, Jacob Bighorn, interview; Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008. 48 Brown, interview; Lane Jr., interview. Teaching was sometimes offered as an explicit solution to internal tension. At the 1980 Continental Indigenous Council in Wilmette, Illinois, for example, Universal House of Justice member, and former pioneer to the Navajo Reservation, Amoz Gibson stressed, “‘If you have any problems in your community, solve them by making a sincere effort to teach. Invite the one whom you are having the most difficulty with to be the speaker at your fireside.’” “Mr. Gibson,” the report continued, “urged the friends to shower a special love on an individual, adding that the love ‘will return to you ten-fold.’” “Native Council,” Bahá’í News (Sept 1980), 4. 49 See, for example, Sen McGlinn, “Baha’i Meets Globalisation: A New Synergy?” in Warburg et al, Baha’i and Globalisation, 283. 50 It likewise led to controversy and censorship in the field of Baha’i scholarship. For a useful review see Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 162-166. 51 Donald Addison, interview with the author, Eugene, Oregon, 24 June 2008. 270 A report on a large Indigenous Baha’i gathering, a Continental Indigenous Council, held on the Blood (Kainai) Reserve in southern Alberta in the summer of 1982 recorded a similar impulse among attendees, noting that: A frequent topic of frank consultation during the workshops, according to one observer, was the issue of dealing with a predominantly white society including non-Native Bahá’ís. During the consultation the indigenous friends spoke of their need to overcome fears and prejudices and to become one not only with other Native believers but with all of the friends. Participants offered one another strong encouragement to accomplish this.52 In this formulation, the responsibility for overcoming fear and prejudice fell to Indigenous adherents. As Andrea Smith has observed in the context of the American Evangelical race reconciliation movement, “In essence, racism becomes articulated as a problem of personal prejudice from which both parties suffer rather than as an institutional set of practices from which one community benefits at the expense of the other.”53 Yet a focus on unity and tolerance did not mean passivity on the part of Indigenous Baha’is. As Deloria Bighorn, for example, shared in the context of discussing her own personal pattern of activity and retreat within the Baha’i community: I remember the last time I left the [Nineteen Day] Feast and I thought, that’s it, I’m not going back. It was when I was at Maxwell [International School] in ’90, I’m going to say ’95, ’96, maybe sometime in there. I remember feeling so frustrated that I just got up out of the Feast and left. And that was the magic day. Because I went home and I prayed about it, I talked to my parents about it and I thought, why am I leaving? How is anything going to be different if I don’t stay? How is anything ever going to change if I just keep leaving? Every time I leave, then that’s one less voice to say something different. And it was a big “ah ha” moment, but that’s what happened for me. I can see that it’s different for different people, but I guess the only way I reconciled it is how I deal with it. How I deal with it is that, the basic teaching is the teaching of unity, right? And the basic law under that is contention and conflict are forbidden in the Aqdas [the Kitab-i-Aqdas], it says. They’re forbidden. So, I got to do something about that. I cannot be in conflict with somebody else, to be right with my God. So I can certainly feel it, but I got to work on it, I got to do something about it. I can ask nobody else to be accountable for that but me. So that’s when I quit leaving the table.54 52 “Third North American Native Council,” Bahá’í News no.620 (Nov 1982), 8. 53 Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right, 93. 54 Deloria Bighorn, interview. 271 For Bighorn, then, aspiration towards unity itself proved a prompt for broaching internal Baha’i tension. She noted that there has been significant improvement in intercultural communication and understanding within the Baha’i community since she joined the religion in the late 1960s. At the same time, her reflections imply that the onus for raising issues of intercultural tension continues to fall on Indigenous adherents like her, as it largely did through the intervening period when many non-Indigenous Baha’is (White ones especially) proved ignorant of the scale of their own privilege and, reluctant to engage in “frank and full” consultation, were ill-prepared to fully plumb its implications.55 Building Indigenous Baha’i Community While uneven power dynamics within the Baha’i Faith, combined with the acute legacies of colonialism more generally, contributed to patterns of retreat on the part of a number of Indigenous Baha’is, more practical considerations of what Baha’is call “consolidation” also contributed to challenges of community building. As noted in Chapter 2, Baha’is lacked what narrator John Sargent described in the context of Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe), where he pioneered from 1965-1972 (but equally applicable to a place such as the southern Prairies, where he also spent time teaching among Indigenous people before and after this) as “a good follow up methodology.”56 There were a corps of Baha’is like Sargent, who were committed to the work of 55 Deloria Bighorn employed the phrase “frank and full” consultation in our interview together. Consultation proved a challenging process outside the Indigenous context as well. Writing about the Atlanta Baha’i community, for example, Michael McMullen shared a joke he encountered several times in the course of his research: “although Shoghi Effendi counsels ‘the spirit of frank and loving consultation,’ (1974, 63) ‘frank is often left out in the car’ when [a Local Spiritual Assembly] meeting begins.” McMullen, The Bahá’í, 45. 56 John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 21 July 2008. The southern Prairies were the site of a large influx of several hundred Indigenous people (primarily Blackfoot, Cree, and Saulteaux) into the Baha’i Faith during the early 1960s. By the end of the “Ten Year Crusade” in 1963, Indigenous members were said to compose close to one third of the Canadian Baha’i population. Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 90. 272 helping “deepen” (or educate), not just enroll, new Indigenous Baha’is.57 Relatively few in number and with limited resources and experience, however, these Baha’is struggled in the effort, with the result that many of the Indigenous people who formally enrolled as Baha’is during the second half of the twentieth century did not in the end become active adherents. Like some of those who pulled back from community practice on account of intercultural tension, a number of these certainly continued to consider themselves Baha’is, but did not take a regular part in community life and Baha’i institutions such as Local Spiritual Assemblies.58 As sociologists of the Baha’i Faith have observed, participation in the Baha’i “Administrative Order” is a key process through which adherents cultivate a Baha’i identity and narrators in this study, specifically, have served on a wide range of Baha’i institutions ranging from Local and National Spiritual Assemblies to Regional Councils and Auxiliary Boards.59 Narrators, further, expressed a sense of shared Indigenous Baha’i identification when they recalled early Indigenous members of such institutions as National Spiritual Assemblies (NSAs). Several, for example, spoke in their interviews about early Indigenous members of the Canadian and American NSAs such as Thomas (Tommy) Anaquod (Saulteaux) and Franklin and Chester Kahn (Diné).60 Allison Healy similarly recalled her delight at coming across a photograph of the 57 For a study that discusses one such figure, non-Indigenous Baha’i Angus Cowan, as well as other Baha’is active in Indigenous teaching on the Prairies, see Verge, Angus: From the Heart. 58 This is a pattern that I heard described repeatedly throughout the course of my research. Those who discussed it in interview context include: Sargent, interview; Jack Bastow, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 24 July 2004. 59 Lynn Echevarria, Life Histories of Bahá’í Women in Canada: Constructing Religious Identity in the Twentieth Century (New York: Peter Lang, 2011), 142-158; McMullen, The Bahá’í, 35, 111. Examples of such service are plentiful and include: Healy, interview (Baha’i Council of Alberta); Gubatayao-Hagen, interview (NSA of Alaska); John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 22 July 2008 (Auxiliary Board); Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008 (American NSA). 60 Thomas Anaquod and Franklin Kahn, who were the first Indigenous members of the Canadian and American NSAs, respectively, were both voted in in 1968 by way of a Baha’i election provision that stipulates that, in the case of a tie vote, the position should go to the minority candidate. Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 130, 315 (fn 13); Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA Thesis, Missouri State University, 2011), 114-115. Reflections on these figures include Umtuch, interview; Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008; Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 273 first all-Indigenous Local Spiritual Assembly in North America (which was elected among the Omaha in Macy, Nebraska in 1948) while visiting Shoghi Effendi’s office, in Baha’u’llah’s home in Bahji, while she was on pilgrimage in 2007.61 Baha’i institutes, which were established in several areas of Indigenous Baha’i concentration in Canada and the United States over time, also served as sites of Indigenous Baha’i community building. Institutes in Fort Qu’Appelle, Saskatchewan, for example, in Pine Springs, Arizona, on the Navajo Reservation, and near Lake LaBerge, north of Whitehorse, in the Yukon were places of connection for Indigenous Baha’is not only in their immediate area but transnationally as well.62 While the institutes in Fort Qu’Appelle and the Yukon were relatively short lived and are now closed, the Native American Baha’i Institute (NABI) is ongoing and a number of narrators that I interviewed have spent time there.63 Lorintha Umtuch, for example, served at NABI relatively recently, assisting with teaching and deepening activity. She also recalled processes of intertribal cultural exchange that she engaged in there and elsewhere, describing one especially dynamic exchange whereby she learned a Zuni sunrise song that Diné Baha’i Charlotte Kahn had translated into Navajo and Lakota Baha’i Kevin Locke had in turn translated into his language. Umtuch learned the song in Lakota then, when she returned home to 61 Allison Healy in Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008. Healy noted that she originally thought, based on the dress of the women in the photograph, that they were Crow, but later recalled Shoghi Effendi’s description of Macy LSA and made the connection. Ojibwa Baha’i Melba Loft described a strikingly similar experience of connecting with this photograph while on pilgrimage: Evelyn Loft Watts and Patricia Verge, Return to Tyendinaga: The Story of Jim and Melba Loft, Bahá’í Pioneers (Essex, MD: One Voice, 2011), 136-137. 62 On the Fort Qu’Appelle Institute: Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 109-112, 128, 161-162, 318 (fn 7); Sargent, interview, 22 July 2008. On the Native American Baha’i Institute: accessed online 17 Nov 2012, http://www.nativeamericanbi.org/about.asp. At the July 1984 opening of the Yukon Baha’i House (whose hall, in a telling expression of Indigenous Baha’i affiliation, was named “Kinaaj-Kwe” in honour of early Ojibwa adherent, Melba Loft), for example, Alaskan Baha’is were informed, “‘It’s your house, too.’” “Bahá’í House – Yukon is Opened,” Bahá’í News no.643 (Oct 1984), 8; Loft Watts and Verge, Return to Tyendinaga, 167-168. 63 Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009; Linda Covey, interview with the author, Evanston, Illinois, 10 June 2008; Addison, interview; Shales, interview. 274 the Yakama Reservation, was inspired by this and other songs she had learned to sing in Farsi and Arabic as well, to learn her own Yakama language.64 Telling of such intertribal connections and mobility, Baha’is from the Navajo Reservation have also travelled to attend Indigenous Baha’i events elsewhere. Tina and Alfred Kahn, for example, are among those, along with other relatives, who attended the “Council Fire” at Neah Bay, an annual gathering held for many years on the Makah Reservation in Washington, beginning in 1962.65 Events like these were conceived as opportunities for fellowship between Indigenous and other Baha’is, though sometimes served a teaching function as well. Lee Brown, for example, recalled one man, who had no prior knowledge of the religion, who declared as a Baha’i at the close of one of a series of “Unity Gatherings” hosted by Baha’is in the Cariboo region of British Columbia in the early 1980s. Brown described approaching the man and asking, “Tell me the one thing that really made you want to be a Baha’i. Why did you do this?” The new Baha’i’s response was resonant: “‘This is the only place I’ve been in my entire life,’” Brown recalled him replying, “‘where Whites and Indians are trying to get along.’” Brown admitted that, “we weren’t necessarily getting along”: We were having big arguments about how to conduct these gatherings. Sometimes we had to stop the gatherings and explain Native protocols and how things are done. And there was sometimes real bitternesses there. But we were trying, this guy said. In a world so racially divided even the effort to come together is admirable.66 64 Umtuch, interview. 65 Kahn, interview (as I discuss in a coming chapter, Tina Kahn is of Cherokee, Osage, and Hungarian heritage and married Alfred, member of a longstanding Diné Baha’i family, after she moved to the reservation as a pioneer). Neah Bay Baha’i News, Seventh Edition (March 23, 1963), poster insert, American Indian Service Committee Records, Local Spiritual Assembly USA Files, Spiritual Assembly, Makah Reservation, WA, 1963, 1967, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. For discussion of the role of “Council Fires” in the dissemination of the Baha’i Faith among the Diné people on the Navajo Reservation as well see Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í.” And for discussion of Council Fires more generally see National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, Circle of Unity, Revised Edition (Wilmette, Illinois: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1980), 12-13, Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection. 66 Lee Brown, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 21 March 2008. 275 The Cariboo Unity Gatherings, which placed intertribal practices of prayer, dance, story, and drum at their core, included not just “Whites and Indians,” but Asian, African, and Iranian Baha’is as well.67 Moments like this again confirm the wider context of deep racial division in which Indigenous Baha’i interactions occurred and underline the significant impact that even such small steps towards understanding carried. At the same time, intercultural tensions within the religion itself also stimulated a sense of solidarity and proved an incentive to interaction between Indigenous Baha’is.68 As Deloria Bighorn, for example, reflected: “the Native people, the Native Baha’is, always helped each other, always tried to help each other. Always tried to reach out to each other. Always recognized that there was a desire to have more of us and that it was a hard go. That there were other people who were trying.”69 Donald Addison echoed this theme of mutual support, observing that, “there’s a lot of American Indian Baha’is who are struggling to not leave the Faith because of the way White Baha’is treat them. And we help each other, we help each other to keep from leaving the Faith.”70 In Alaska, Tlingit Baha’i Mary Brown, who was first elected to the National Spiritual Assembly there in 1970, played a key role in initiating “Native Councils,” gatherings conceived, according to a 1978 Bahá’í News article, “in response to the 67 Brown, interview; Bahá’í Canada 3, nos.1 (Dec 1980-Jan 1981), 16; 3, no.4 (May-June 1981); 4, no.6 (Jan-Feb 1983), 33, 47; 5, no.1 (March-April 1983), 33; 5, no.3 (July-Aug 1983), 38; 7, no.2 (June-July 1985), 58; 6, no.3 (Oct 1984-Jan 1985), 77; 7, no.2 (June-July 1985), 58. 68 As anthropologist Joan Weibel-Orlando has argued, community is at once “cognitive construct” and “international pattern”; it is “more than the sum of its institutional parts or individual parts – it is process, social interaction, and the dynamic intersection of its constitutive parts in the face of a shared threat or toward the accomplishment of a common goal.” Weibel-Orlando, Indian Country, L.A., 2, 6. 69 Deloria Bighorn, interview. 70 Addison, interview. Addison articulated a sense of Indigenous Baha’i identification elsewhere as well. It was he, for example, who recalled, in addition to Lee Brown, the contested pipe ceremony at Peigan discussed in Chapter 6; a sense of shared slight also contributed, even in absentia, to an imagined Indigenous Baha’i community. See also Addison’s reflections on Baha’i community dynamics in Donald Addison and Christopher Buck, “Messengers of God in North America Revisited: An Exegesis of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Tablet to Amír Khán,” Online Journal of Bahá'í Studies 1 (2007): 180-270. 276 need to find an effective way for native Indian and Eskimo believers to express their concerns.”71 “Basically,” the article outlined, “the Native Council is a teaching [and deepening] conference conducted for natives within a native setting. The Native Council allows the native believers to participate fully and easily in their own unique way.”72 Hinting towards intercultural tension within the Baha’i community, author Marilyn Patterson added that while non-Indigenous adherents were welcome as observers and dignitaries were to be “acknowledged and given the freedom of the floor,” the intention of the Councils “is to encourage the participation of native peoples and avoid domination by non-natives.”73 While heartening for Indigenous participants, however, separate gatherings like these were contested by some non-Indigenous Baha’is, who, reminiscent of critics of affirmative action, disputed the need for distinct Indigenous spaces within the community and countered what they saw as sectarian events undermining the principle of unity.74 This was not a new charge, nor one limited to internal Baha’i affairs.75 As early as mid- century, for example, White Baha’i Dorothy Baker recalled the mixed reaction that met a call from Shoghi Effendi for two new teaching committees, one to reach “the Negro minority of America” and the other “the Indian tribes of this continent.” As she described in a 1953 address: some of us, to draw out further light on the subject, even questioned a great deal about the kind of psychology that might ensue if you had a committee just to reach the Negro, but he [Shoghi Effendi] rather scoffed at it in a precious kind of way, and firmly 71 Marilyn Patterson, “Alaska’s Native Councils: A New Mode of Expression,” Bahá’í News (July 1978), 11. Also Marilyn Patterson, “The Peoples of God, Part 2 -- Alaska,” Bahá’í News (July 1978), 9. 72 Patterson, “Alaska’s Native Councils,” 11. Separate planning committees for Northern and Southeast Alaska allowed for events specific and appropriate to each region (the first being populated more by “Eskimo” Baha’is and the second by “Indians”). 73 Patterson, “Alaska’s Native Councils,” 11. 74 Such tensions were addressed by non-Indigenous Baha’i Fletcher Bennett, who was active in Indigenous teaching on the Northwest Coast and was also involved in bringing Native Councils to British Columbia: interview with the author, Saanich, British Columbia, 21 July 2004. Also, Bastow, interview; John Sargent, conversation with the author, by telephone, 16 Feb 2005; Loft, interview; Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 108, 114. 75 Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 137-138. 277 reiterated that without special attention we simply had not done it, and that the important thing is to do it.76 Dubbed by Shoghi Effendi “the most challenging issue,” Black-White relations were a longstanding area of concern for American Baha’is.77 And Indigenous and Black Baha’is themselves sometimes made common cause, no doubt through a sense of racialized solidarity. Describing one Indigenous Baha’i gathering that she organized in Salem, Oregon, for example, Deloria Bighorn noted that, “We had the support of all the Black believers in the area, in the Portland area. They did the cooking, the childcare, so that we could be free to consult.”78 Black people, who Baha’u’llah described as “the pupil of the eye” (“Thou art like unto the pupil of the eye,” Abdu’l-Baha elaborated in a letter to Robert Turner, the first Black Baha’i in North America, “which is dark in colour, yet it is the fount of light and revealer of the contingent world”) were the focus of specific Baha’i writings. Indigenous peoples, though, had the distinction of being the subject of the sole “racial” prophecy in the sacred Baha’i texts.79 As such, although the prospect of forging community within Baha’i community was contested, Indigenous adherents had a unique impulse and justification for doing so. None of the Indigenous Baha’is whom I interviewed, interestingly, pointed to Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy (or, as some alternately described it, “mandate,” “credo,” “promise,” “gift,” or “destiny”) as an initial 76 Dorothy Baker, “Text of Taped Message by Hand of the Cause Dorothy Baker, Ridvan 1953,” 2, Kenneth Jeffers Papers, M-378, Box 15, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 77 See, for example, Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 115-121; Louis E. Venters III, “‘Most Great Reconstruction’: The Baha’i Faith in Jim Crow South Carolina, 1898-1965” (PhD Thesis, University of South Carolina, 2010); Gwendolyn Etter-Lewis and Richard Thomas, eds., Lights of the Spirit: Historical Portraits of Black Bahá’ís in North America, 1898-2000 (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing, 2006). 78 Deloria Bighorn, interview. This gathering, like many other Indigenous Baha’i events, evinced intertribal connections: Joyce Shales’ father, James Walton, for example, as well as Mary and Ruby Gubatayao were in attendance. 79 Abdu’l-Baha, in Bonnie J. Taylor, compiler, The Pupil of the Eye: African Americans in the World Order of Bahá’u’lláh (Riviera Beach, FL: Palabra, 1998), 3; Christopher Buck, Alain Locke: Faith and Philosophy Studies in the Bábí and Bahá’í Religions, vol.18 (Los Angeles: Kalimát, 2005), 42. On the sole “racial” prophecy see Andrew Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta; 1942-1992: The Ethic of Dispersion” (MA Thesis, University of Alberta, 1992), 34. 278 motivation for becoming Baha’i.80 But they all identified it as an important, if indeterminate, subsequent mandate. A number struggled with the loaded language of savagery which the passage contains, but were similarly buoyed by what they read as recognition of the particular spiritual capacity of Indigenous people.81 Some narrators described the prophecy as specific to North America, while most saw it extending throughout the Americas or to the Indigenous world at large.82 Abdu’l-Baha’s statement was, and remains, an active subject of personal searching and shared deliberation among Indigenous Baha’is.83 As Deloria Bighorn put this in the present tense, “we’re always pondering this.” “What did Abdu’l-Baha mean?,” she added, “What are we supposed to do about it?”84 Queries like this both motivated and enabled Indigenous Baha’is to come together in community of their own. Workshops at the Continental Indigenous Council held on the Blood (Kainai) Reserve in August 1982, for example, were guided by the questions, “‘Who are we, as native Bahá’ís?,’ ‘Where are we heading?’ and ‘What is our responsibility?’”85 Organized by an Indigenous Baha’i committee of the same name, with members appointed by the National Spiritual Assemblies of Canada, the United States, and Alaska, Continental Indigenous Councils 80 Though none pointed to the prophecy as specific explanation for declaration, it did motivate Indigenous enrollment to the degree that it inspired Baha’i outreach to Indigenous peoples. Various characterizations of the prophecy include: Eleanora McDermott and Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008 (as “gift” and “destiny”); Gubatayao-Hagen, interview, 11 July 2008 (as “credo” and “mandate”); Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008 (as “mandate” and “promise”). 81 For example, Jacob Bighorn, interview; Grover, interview; Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 19 Aug 2008. Despite official efforts on the part of the Universal House of Justice to standardize Shoghi Effendi’s translation that has Indigenous peoples being “like unto savages,” the earlier iteration that described Indigenous peoples being “treated as savages” remained in circulation, historically and at the time of my interviews. For example, Eleanora McDermott and Allison Healy, interview. 82 For example, Donald Addison applied the prophecy to the Indigenous peoples of the Western hemisphere: interview; Eleanora McDermott and Allison Healy applied it to North America: interview; and Nedra Greenaway applied it to the Indigenous peoples of the world: interview, 19 Aug 2008. 83 As recently as 2008, for example, Indigenous Baha’is from diverse backgrounds came together in a series of regional gatherings on the West Coast to consult with Violette and Ali Nakhjavani, the first a close travel companion and confidant of Ruhiyyih Khanum and the second a former member of the Universal House of Justice, on the subject. 84 Deloria Bighorn, interview. 85 Bahá’í Canada 4, no.1 (March/April/May 1982), 37. 279 were held in locations across North America beginning in 1978 on the Yakama Reservation in Washington.86 At these gatherings, which drew the participation of hundreds of Indigenous Baha’is from across the Americas, participants pondered their specific roles in the religion, consulted on living legacies of colonialism in and outside the Baha’i community, and celebrated and enacted intertribal cultural exchange.87 Though geared specifically to Indigenous Baha’is, the Councils were also open to non-Indigenous adherents; the Second Council, held in July 1980 on the grounds of the National Baha’i Center in Wilmette, in fact included separate sessions for Indigenous and non-Indigenous Baha’is. This gathering, at which narrator Phil Lane Jr. served as emcee, closed with a large powwow attended by upwards of one thousand, including non- Indigenous Baha’is as well as non-Baha’i Indigenous people from nearby Chicago.88 Lee Brown described this Council as “one of the biggest events I ever went to, as far as Native Baha’is go, and one of the real highlights of my entire life.”89 Relationships forged at periodic events like 86 Bahá’í Canada 4, no.3 (July/August 1982), 29; National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, “Circle of Unity,” 10; “Native Council,” Bahá’í News (Sept 1980), 2. The first Council was held in 1978 in White Swan, on the Yakama Reservation in Washington; the second in 1980 on the grounds of the National Baha’i Centre in Wilmette, Illinois; the third in 1982 on the Blood (Kainai) Reserve in Alberta; the fourth in 1985 in Fairbanks, Alaska; the fifth in 1988 on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in South Dakota; and the sixth in 1991 at Maxwell International School in Shawnigan Lake, British Columbia. 87 The third Council on the Blood Reserve, for example, drew the participation of over four hundred Indigenous Baha’is from ten countries and sixty different tribes. “Third North American Native Council,” Bahá’í News no.620 (November 1982), 8. Brown, interview; Deloria Bighorn, interview; Healy, interview; “Native Council,” 2-7; “60 Tribes Represented at the Third Continental Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í Canada 4, no.6 (July-Aug 1982), 29-32; “Indians Consult at Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í News no.690 (September 1988), 6-9; “Notice of Fourth Continental Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í Canada 6, no.4 (Feb-March 1985), 37; “Fourth Continental Indigenous Council: ‘Blessed are the Nameless and Traceless Poor,’” Bahá’í Canada 7, no.5 (Nov 1985), 48; “Indians Consult at Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í News (Sept 1988), 6-9. These Councils are reminiscent of the Tekakwitha Conference, both an organization (begun by White missionaries in 1939, but taken over by what the historian Allan Greer describes as “an increasingly militant Indian laity” in the 1970s) and an annual gathering of Indigenous Catholics from across North America dedicated to the canonization of Kateri Tekakwitha, a Mohawk Catholic who died at a young age in the Jesuit mission of Kahnawake in 1680 (and who officially became a saint on 21 Oct 2012). Allan Greer, Mohawk Saint: Catherine Tekakwitha and the Jesuits (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 201-205. The gatherings likewise recall the “hub-making activities” that Renya Ramirez has considered in the more recent context of the Silicon Valley in California: Ramirez, Native Hubs, 8. 88 This included a singing group from the Chicago Indian Center. “Native Council,” 3-5. 89 Lee Brown, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 28 October 2008. Another Continental Indigenous Council, the 1985 gathering in Fairbanks, where Brown shared on the subject of Indigenous prophecies, led to a source of great pain and disappointment for him; a video that was made of Brown sharing prophecies at the gathering was subsequently edited and disseminated widely without his permission; these edits took the particular 280 these in turn informed local Baha’i community life as well. It was, for example, after consulting with Diné Baha’is at the Council in Wilmette, where they shared that their Nineteen Day Feast could last an entire day, with many hours of prayer, that Brown and other Baha’is on the Okanagan Reserve in British Columbia made the decision to hold a pipe ceremony as the devotional component of their Feast (see Chapter 6).90 These gatherings, which were held roughly every two years into the early 1990s, marked a high-tide moment in large-scale Indigenous Baha’i activity in North America.91 Shifts in institutional structure since that time have oriented Baha’i community life more regionally, with a related emphasis on building up active and sustained local communities and administrative bodies.92 Intended to counteract challenges of consolidation that dogged Baha’i community life in general, such changes have not fully resolved tensions of intercultural understanding that stymied Indigenous Baha’i activity specifically.93 An overall downturn in official Baha’i attention to Indigenous issues similarly proved a source of disappointment to many Indigenous Baha’is. Contrasting the intense period of Indigenous Council activity with a current quiet, for example, Allison Healy observed: prophecies Brown was discussing out of context, a process that continues in various iterations online, with excerpts from this edited talk being cited on a range of (often New Age) websites. 90 Brown, interview, 28 October 2008. 91 In Canada (where there was always greater attention to Indigenous issues than in the United States, where Black- White relations dominated the “race” agenda) in the 1980s, for example, the national Baha’i community also experimented with the “Native Desk,” a department at the National Baha’i Centre dedicated to Indigenous issues, and Visions, a supplement to the monthly national newsletter, Bahá’í Canada. As with the overall downturn in Indigenous Baha’i activity and the closure of Baha’i centers and institutes in places like Fort Qu’Appelle and Lake LaBerge, the discontinuation of these services was a source of intense disappointment to some Indigenous Baha’is. Sargent, interview, 22 July 2008; Loft, interview. 92 On these changes and the implementation of the “Ruhi system” (derived from an approach developed by the Ruhi Institute in Colombia) and the “Institute process” see Garlington, The Baha’i Faith in America, 145-147. 93 The 2000 “Annual Report of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States and its Agencies” acknowledged this explicitly, recording that “In some quarters, the [National American Indian Teaching] Committee observed disturbing evidence of continuing patterns of racism and/or of indifference to the challenges of diversity in the Bahá’í community.” National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, “Annual Report of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States and its Agencies,” Ridván 2000, National Bahá'í Archives, United States. 281 I guess people are just too busy nowadays, that we have to help our own people. We have to try and get more resources to get things going. In the past, we used to have Indigenous Councils. And these were big gatherings, international gatherings for all the Native people, and I think that’s what kept us going.94 Healy added that the only comparable event of which she is aware is an Indigenous Baha’i gathering that has taken place annually since 2001 at Harper Mountain, in the southern interior region of British Columbia. “That’s what they’re trying to do in Harper,” she explained, “is to get more Native people to get to understand what our role is in the Faith. We don’t have to depend on somebody to come around telling us what to do. Or have you done this? We came in the Faith independently and so we should continue helping each other.”95 Building Baha’i Community Healy’s clear articulation of Indigenous Baha’i identification and agency suggests that we might think about gatherings like Indigenous Councils, and Harper Mountain more recently, as one expression of what the Cherokee literary scholar Jace Weaver has called “communitism.” Combining (somewhat awkwardly, Weaver admits) “community” and “activism,” communitism points towards “a proactive commitment to Native community,” including what Weaver calls “the ‘wider community’ of Creation itself.”96 Where historians like Joel Martin have elucidated examples of Christian communitism, challenging the characterization of Indigenous converts as “individuals completely deracinated or estranged from their ancestral culture and communities,” North American Baha’i history reveals the construction of a new religious iteration of 94 Allison Healy in Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008. 95 Healy in McDermott, interview. At the time of this interview, Allison Healy and Eleanora McDermott were planning a similar gathering aimed to heighten Indigenous Baha’i activity in Alberta. And when I was in touch with Healy during the fall of 2012, she had just returned from that year’s Harper Mountain gathering in British Columbia. 96 Jace Weaver, That the People Might Live: Native American Literatures and Native American Community (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), xiii. 282 Indigenous community altogether.97 Indigenous Baha’is enacted communitist values, and also defied Baha’i convention concerning community within community, when they came together to celebrate and share cultural knowledge and consult on persistent colonial currents and their own prophesied place in the Baha’i religion. At the same time, the teaching of unity in diversity (combined with demographics, themselves informed by the dominant tenor of the Baha’i community) set down an imperative for intercultural relationship building that many Indigenous Baha’is also described as profoundly healing. Unity in diversity, to be sure, has yet to be achieved in practice. It was itself a contradiction in terms that had to be worked out in particular context over time. This process itself, however, reveals the Baha’i religion’s role as a simultaneous space of intercultural and Indigenous contact, community building, and learning. 97 Joel Martin, “Introduction,” in Joel W. Martin and Mark A. Nicholas, eds. Native Americans, Christianity, and the Reshaping of the American Religious Landscape (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010), 12. See also Joel W. Martin, “Visions of Revitalization in the Eastern Woodlands: Can a Middle-Aged Theory Stretch to Embrace the First Cherokee Converts?” in Michael Harkin, ed, Reassessing Revitalization Movements: Perspectives from North America and the Pacific Islands (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 84; Smith, Native Americans and the Christian Right, 108-109. Though Weaver writes in an Indigenous nationalist framework, he also acknowledges that contemporary Indigenous community takes diverse, sometimes intertribal (he uses “pan- Indian”), form. Communitism, he argues, is an accordingly flexible concept: “Community is a primary value, but today we exist in many different kinds of community – reservation, rural, urban, tribal, pan-Indian, traditional, Christian. Many move back and forth between a variety of these communities. Our different locations, physical, mental, and spiritual, will inevitably lead to different conceptions of what survival, liberation, and communitism require.” Weaver, That the People Might Live, 44. 283 Chapter 8: Teaching and Traveling It wasn’t just Italy that Joyce Shales visited on her first journey abroad during the summer of 1968. Israel was also on the itinerary. In the Baha’i holy land, Shales, her father, James Walton, and their two Saulteaux travel mates, Thomas and Sophie Anaquod, had the chance to meet and lunch with the widow of Shoghi Effendi, Ruhiyyih Khanum. “She wanted to meet with the four Indians that came to the conference,” Shales recalled, “to tell us that we had a big job ahead of us. It was our job to do some of this teaching that my dad had been doing and would be doing. That my grandpa started off doing those long years ago.”1 Reminiscent of the “same road” metaphor that she drew elsewhere in our interviews together, Shales continued, “In a way we were continuing his journey. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just one continuous thread […] So that’s where we picked it up and somebody who had never been out of her own little town and for whom going to the United States was like going to a foreign country, ended up going all over the world.”2 In places as close as coastal Alaska and as far distant as Greenland, the Philippines, and Panama, Shales and her Baha’i family members shared their religion among other Indigenous people. And in the process, they, like other Indigenous Baha’i teachers, simultaneously strengthened their Baha’i identities and cultivated a new sense of global Indigenous identification. 1 Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 29 July 2008. Shales may been referring here to the Oceanic Baha’i Conference in Palermo, or to a subsequent 1968 gathering held in honour of the centenary of Baha’u’llah’s arrival in Akka (Acre), Israel. Thomas Anaquod, then a member of the Canadian National Spiritual Assembly, represented this institution at the Akka gathering. See Patricia Verge, Angus: From the Heart: The Life of Counsellor Angus Cowan (Cochrane, Alberta: Springtide Publishing, 1999), 131. Ruhiyyih Khanum made a common practice of meeting with Indigenous Baha’i teachers who visited Haifa. Another Saulteaux Baha’i, Dorothy Maquabeak Francis, for example, was similarly invited to meet with her while she was on pilgrimage. Chelsea Horton, “Beyond Red Power: The Alternative Activism of Dorothy Maquabeak Francis,” The Journal of Bahá’í Studies 14, no.3/4 (Sept-Dec 2004), 44. 2 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 284 The idea that a Tlingit woman from the Northwest Coast of North America would come to generate a sense of connection with Indigenous people around the world by teaching a mid- nineteenth-century Iranian religion with global aspirations is, again, counterintuitive. Indigenous people in North America have long been cast as subjects, not agents, of mission, a portrait that historians of earlier Christian contact zones have begun to complicate by analyzing the activities and movement of Indigenous missionaries within the British empire and former colonies like Canada.3 Baha’is, for their part, proved deeply concerned to distinguish themselves from their colonial missionary forebears and akin to other new religious movements like Pentecostalism that spread in “Indian Country” during the second half of the twentieth century, actively encouraged Indigenous adherents to participate as “teachers” and “pioneers.”4 Teaching was considered a sacred duty for all Baha’is and Indigenous adherents, like others, deepened their religious identification by way of this activity. At the same time, they situated themselves uniquely in relation to the teaching task on account of Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy. Outreach to Indigenous people was a core topic of consultation among Indigenous Baha’is and a primary way through which they activated the ambiguous mandate laid out by “the Master’s” message.5 3 See, for example, Tolly Bradford, Prophetic Identities: Indigenous Missionaries on British Colonial Frontiers, 1850-75 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012); Cecilia Morgan, “Missionaries and Celebrity within the Transatlantic World: The Ojibwa of Upper Canada, 1830-1860,” in Robert Clarke, ed., Celebrity Colonialism: Fame, Power and Representation in Colonial and Postcolonial Cultures (Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars’ Press, 2009), 15-36; Susan Neylan, The Heavens are Changing: Nineteenth Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003), 13. Though she writes from the perspective of literary criticism, not history, Kate Flint nevertheless usefully positions Indigenous missionaries like Anishinabe Methodists Peter Jones and George Copway within the transnational framework of the “Red Atlantic” in The Transatlantic Indian, 1776-1930 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), esp. Chapter 8. 4 John Webster Grant observes this willingness of more recent missionary movements to include Indigenous converts as teachers in Moon of Wintertime: Missionaries and the Indians of Canada in Encounter since 1534 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 201-202. For a study that analyzes Diné Pentecostalism as an Indigenous movement and considers the shift in status from a “missionized” to “missionizing” people see Kimberly Jenkins Marshall, “Performing Conversion Among the Diné Oodlání (Navajo Believers)” (PhD thesis, Indiana University, 2011), esp. 46. 5 See, for example, reports relating to the Continental Indigenous Councils discussed in Chapter 7, including: “Native Council,” Bahá’í News (Sept 1980), 2-5; Bahá’í Canada 4, no.1 (March/April/May 1982), 37; Bahá’í Canada 4, no.3 (July/August 1982), 29; “Third North American Native Council,” Bahá’í News no.620 (November 1982), 8-9; “60 Tribes Represented at the Third Continental Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í Canada 4, no.6 (July-Aug 285 Indigenous Baha’is travelled extensively for the purpose of such teaching and pioneering, thus unsettling the enduring image of what the anthropologist James Clifford has called the “homebody native.”6 Contrary to conventional social scientific readings of globalization, however, which cast the process as one of Western homogenization, this mobility did not mark a flattening of Indigenous difference.7 Indigenous Baha’is frequently travelled to Indigenous communities elsewhere in North America and the world out of a sense of solidarity stemming from shared histories of colonialism, cultural congruence, and prophecy. They shared a message that promoted local cultural strength and specificity towards the goal of global unity. This was one of many options available for Indigenous people to activate either global or Indigenous identities in this period. The “global sixties,” the same time when Baha’i teaching on the part of Indigenous people took off, saw an unprecedented mobilization of people and politics “from below.”8 This includes Indigenous political activism in North America, itself informed by international decolonization efforts and struggles for civil and human rights at home in Canada 1982), 29-32; “Notice of Fourth Continental Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í Canada 6, no.4 (Feb-March 1985), 37; “Fourth Continental Indigenous Council: ‘Blessed are the Nameless and Traceless Poor,’” Bahá’í Canada 7, no.5 (Nov 1985), 48; “Indians Consult at Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í News no.690 (September 1988), 6-9. 6 James Clifford, “Indigenous Articulations,” The Contemporary Pacific 13 no.2 (Fall 2001), 477. See also James Clifford, “Varieties of Indigenous Experience: Diasporas, Homelands, Sovereignties,” in Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn, eds, Indigenous Experience Today (NY: Berg, 2007), 197-224. 7 For discussion of globalization and efforts to complicate in relation to religion see Thomas Csordas, ed., Transnational Transcendence: Essays on Religion and Globalization (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009); Thomas Tweed, Crossing and Dwelling: A Theory of Religion (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2006), esp. 61 where Tweed proposes the addition of “sacroscapes” to the anthropologist Arjun Appadurai’s influential formulation of “the ‘five dimensions of global cultural flows’”: ethno-, media-, techno-, finance-, and ideoscapes; Manuel A. Vásquez and Marie F. Marquardt, Globalizing the Sacred: Religion Across the Americas (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2003). See also footnote 6, on James Clifford, above. 8 See, for example, Karen Dubinsky et al eds., New World Coming: The Sixties and the Shaping of Global Consciousness (Toronto: Between the Lines, 2009); Lara Campbell, Dominique Clément, and Greg Kealey, eds. Debating Dissent: Canada and the 1960s (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2012); Sean Mills, The Empire Within: Postcolonial Thought and Political Activism in Sixties Montreal (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2010); Bryan D. Palmer, Canada’s 1960s: The Ironies of Identity in a Rebellious Era (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009). This literature includes Indigenous peoples marginally, and typically within a “Red Power” frame. 286 and the United States.9 In 1974, Secwepmec leader George Manuel coined the expression “the Fourth World” to describe the shared colonial histories and vibrant postcolonial potential connecting Indigenous peoples globally; a year later he and collaborators formally launched the World Council of Indigenous Peoples at a meeting held in Tseshaht territory in Port Alberni, British Columbia.10 More recent activism and academic literature has likewise attended to the articulation of a politicized category of global Indigeneity.11 Indigenous Baha’i histories of teaching and travel, by contrast, reveal the construction of a sense of global Indigenous identification through an expressly religious channel.12 Like Indigenous political activists, Indigenous Baha’is forged connections on the basis of common histories of colonialism.13 But they were also instructed to refrain from partisan politics and to be obedient to government. Although Indigenous Baha’is did not share a single interpretation of this counsel, most did see themselves working for change in a different register than Indigenous political activists, both 9 As Daniel Cobb has recently argued, while Indigenous political activism is typically equated with the American Indian Movement, it well predated this organization (which was not formed until 1968) and marked much more than an anticipatory “road to Red Power.” Daniel Cobb, Native Activism in Cold War America: The Struggle for Sovereignty (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2008), 1-2. On the international orientation of the sovereignty movement see Cobb, Native Activism in Cold War America, 204. For another collection that challenges the periodization and framework of Red Power see Daniel Cobb and Loretta Fowler, eds., Beyond Red Power: American Indian Politics and Activism Since 1900 (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2007). 10 George Manuel and Michael Posluns, The Fourth World: An Indian Reality (Don Mills, ON: Collier-Macmillan Canada, 1974). See also Anthony J. Hall, The American Empire and the Fourth World: The Bowl With One Spoon Volume 1 (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003), 238-249. As Hall notes, Manuel first heard the term “the Fourth World” from secretary of the Tanzanian High Commission, Mbuto Milando. On Manuel and the World Council of Indigenous Peoples see Peter McFarlane, Brotherhood to Nationhood: George Manuel and the Modern Indian Movement (Toronto: Between the Lines, 1993). 11 See, for example, Sheryl Rae Lightfoot, “Global Indigenous Politics” (PhD thesis, University of Minnesota, 2009); Roger Maaka and Chris Andersen, eds., The Indigenous Experience: Global Perspectives (Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press, 2006); Ronald Niezen, The Origins of Indigenism: Human Rights and the Politics of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); Ronald Niezen, The Rediscovered Self: Indigenous Identity and Cultural Justice (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009). 12 The historian Tolly Bradford has recently demonstrated how two nineteenth-century Anglican missionaries, Henry Budd, a Cree from Canada, and Tiyo Soga, a Xhosa from South Africa, developed a conceptual sense of pan- Indigenous affiliation by way of Christian networks and theology. Bradford, Prophetic Identities. Focusing on much more recent connections, Andrea Smith has called for attention to the unexpected (à la Philip Deloria) decolonizing space of Christian Evangelical mission: “Decolonization in Unexpected Spaces: Native Evangelicalism and the Rearticulation of Mission,” American Quarterly (Special Issue: Alternative Contact: Indigeneity, Globalism, and American Studies) 62, no.3 (Sept 2010), 569-590. 13 As Andrea Smith observes in relation to the decolonizing potential of Evangelical mission, this sense of solidarity stems, ironically enough, from shared histories of mission. Smith, “Decolonization in Unexpected Places,” 570. 287 nationalist and global.14 As the anthropologist Charles Carnegie has observed in contemporary context, the writings of Baha’u’llah nurture “an activist attitude toward the condition of global belonging.”15 Informed by the Baha’i teachings on politics and the paradox of being forbidden from proselytizing yet propelled, by prophecy and religious duty, to teach, Indigenous Baha’i outreach often took the subtle form of service in such fields as Indigenous education, health, community development, and cultural revitalization. Situated in the same context of postwar humanitarianism that also contributed to new Christian theologies of liberation, ecumenism, and aid-as-mission methods, Indigenous Baha’i teaching also edged into development work.16 Baha’is were called, from the religion’s early days, to take up the teaching task. Abdu’l- Baha, for his part, observed just prior to his passing that: It behooveth [Baha’is] not to rest for a moment, neither to seek repose. They must disperse themselves in every land, pass by every clime, and travel throughout all regions. Bestirred, without rest, and steadfast to the end, they must raise in every land the triumphal cry Ya Bahá’u’l-Abhá!’ (O Thou the Glory of Glories).17 14 At the same time, Baha’is have historically been supportive of the United Nations and the “world order” thinking it is thought to represent. In a 1995 article, Jeff Corntassel and Tomas Primeau ask, “Why has the Bahai community sent an observer to participate in the Working Group on Indigenous Peoples?” The authors imply that this move may have stemmed from Iranian Baha’is seeking self-identification as Indigenous. More likely, however, the Baha’i International Community (BIC), which was formed in 1948 and recognized as a non-governmental organization with consultative status by the Economic and Social Council of the United Nations in 1970, was present out of concern and interest in global Indigenous affairs. Indeed, narrator John Sargent is among Indigenous Baha’is who have attended meetings of the Working Group on Indigenous Peoples on behalf of the BIC. See also the 1988 statement, “Rights of Indigenous Populations,” sent by the BIC to the chairperson of the Working Group, accessed online 14 May 2013, http://statements.bahai.org/88-0801.htm. Jeff J. Corntassel and Tomas Hopkins Primeau, “Indigenous ‘Sovereignty’ and International Law: Revised Strategies for Pursuing ‘Self-Determination,’” Human Right Quarterly 17, no.2 (May 1995), 350. On the Baha’i International Community see Margit Warburg, Citizens of the World: A History and Sociology of the Baha’is from a Globalisation Perspective (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2006), 501. 15 Carnegie, Postnationalism Prefigured: Caribbean Borderlands (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 191. 16 This was particularly the case after 1983 when the Universal House of Justice endorsed a formal shift to Baha’i social and economic development work. See Warburg, Citizens of the World, 478 and Chapter 11; “New Social, Economic Office Created,” Bahá’í News no.634 (January 1984), 1-2. On postwar reorientation of Christian mission see Ruth Compton Brouwer, “When Missions Became Development: Ironies of ‘NGOization’ in Mainstream Canadian Churches in the 1960s,” Canadian Historical Review 91, no.4 (Dec 2010), 661-693. For a more general discussion of humanitarianism in this period see Matthew Barnett, The Empire of Humanity: A History of Humanitarianism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011), Parts 2 and 3. 17 Abdu’l-Baha cited by Shoghi Effendi, “Paramount Duty of Every Bahá’í [1924],” in Bahá’í Administration (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1974), 69, accessed online 15 Dec 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/se/BA/. 288 Shoghi Effendi reiterated and routinized this call, pressing in the wake of his grandfather’s death: let us arise to teach [Baha’u’llah’s] Cause with righteousness, conviction, understanding and vigor. Let this be the paramount and most urgent duty of every Bahá’í. Let us make it the dominating passion of our life. Let us scatter to the uttermost corners of the earth; sacrifice our personal interests, comforts, tastes and pleasures; mingle with the divers kindreds and peoples of the world; familiarize ourselves with their manners, traditions, thoughts and customs; arouse, stimulate and maintain universal interest in the Movement, and at the same time endeavor by all means in our power, by concentrated and persistent attention to enlist the unreserved allegiance and the active support of the more hopeful and receptive among our hearers.18 As Chapter 2 detailed, teaching methods changed over time and took in, in the context of outreach to and by Indigenous people, tactics ranging from organized public proclamation campaigns to more spontaneous fireside gatherings and subtle expressions of service. Baha’is were encouraged to “live the life” in the everyday and did not have to leave home in order to participate in teaching.19 A strong “ethic of dispersion,” inspired by the religion’s global orientation and formalized in official plans that set specific numeric and spatial target goals for expansion, however, placed a particular priority on what Baha’is call “travel teaching” and “homefront” and “international pioneering.”20 For Indigenous people who had long been cast as exotic objects of exploration and whose mobility had been curbed and criminalized in service of colonial land dispossession and assimilation, the prospect of contributing to this project as full and valued participants was both enticing and empowering. (Conversely, the frequency with which Indigenous Baha’is traveled outside of their home communities for the purpose of 18 Shoghi Effendi, “Paramount Duty,” 69. Partially cited in McMullen, The Bahá’í, 126. 19 On the concept of “living the life” see Shoghi Effendi, “Living the Life,” in Compilation of Compilations: Volume 2, compiled by Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Mona Vale, NSW: Baha’i Publications Australia, 1991), 1-28. 20 And as Michael McMullen adds, though many adherents “would deny it,” status also accrues within the Baha’i community to active and “successful” teachers and pioneers. McMullen, The Bahá’í, 150-151. “Ethic of dispersion” is historian Andrew Pemberton-Piggot’s term: Andrew Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta; 1942-1992: The Ethic of Dispersion” (MA thesis, University of Alberta, 1992). Shoghi Effendi launched the first global Baha’i teaching plan in 1937. For a timeline of these plans from the 1953-1963 “Ten Year Crusade” onward see Warburg, Citizens of the World, 213-214. 289 teaching is also an indication that this activity could be contested).21 While some Indigenous Baha’is had travel experience prior to joining the religion, for others the religions’s call to teach opened up a new spiritual geography.22 Like other adherents, Indigenous Baha’is were generally responsible for funding their own travels and many made significant personal sacrifices in order to participate.23 Were money no object, it is entirely likely Indigenous Baha’is would have travelled more often and even further afield than they did.24 Desire to teach and pioneer sometimes inspired sudden and dramatic movement. Recalling the process through which he and his non-Indigenous Baha’i wife pioneered in 1970, for example, Phil Lane Jr. explained that they moved from Walla Walla, Washington to Sucre, Bolivia within three weeks of learning about a call for “Indian pioneers” included as part of the “Nine Year Plan” (1964-1973).25 Lane brought a singular intensity to this task. He spoke to this in the context of his current, more critical, understanding of the term “pioneer” (itself informed by a narrative of colonialism’s history that emerged in this period, in part through activism in which Baha’is were involved): 21 Nedra Greenaway, for example, recalled that Ditidaht Baha’i John Thomas travelled extensively throughout British Columbia teaching the religion, “But not to his own reserve,” where there was already a Catholic, Pentecostal, and Shaker Church presence. Speaking to Baha’i commitment to unity, she added, “I think he felt that his reserve was so divided by religion that he didn’t want to put another one in, what could be perceived as another division.” Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, 15 Aug 2008. 22 In a statement closely echoed by narrators Beverley Knowlton and Joyce Shales, for example, Blackfoot Baha’i Allison Healy stressed that “it was unheard of to be travelling so far and wide” at the time she became a Baha’i. Indeed, for a woman who spent the better part of her childhood in a Catholic residential school and whose relatives just one generation older were likely subject to the Canadian “pass system” that monitored Indian mobility on the Prairies into the 1930s, the prospect of wide travel surely presented a significant departure. Allison Healy, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 27 April 2008; Beverley Knowlton, interview with the author, between Calgary and Sylvan Lake, Alberta, 26 April 2008; Shales, interview. On the pass system see Katherine Pettipas, Severing the Ties that Bind: Government Repression of Indigenous Religious Ceremonies on the Prairies (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1994), 111-113, 155. 23 For example, Shales, interview; Knowlton, interview; Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, interview with the author, by telephone, 11 July 2008; Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008. 24 Of the twenty-five narrators in this project, all travelled and taught in North America and fifteen globally (and most more than once); twelve pioneered in North America and seven globally. The majority of this travel teaching and pioneering was among other Indigenous people. 25 Phil Lane Jr., interview with the author, Whiterock, British Columbia, 3 January 2009. 290 Now when I think of the term pioneer today, I mean, pioneer, it’s kind of like the Western pioneers. It’s a little colonialist. It has a colonial taste to me now. At the time, I didn’t think about it. I guess this is where certain levels of intergenerational trauma, that word, for some people, would not have the same connotation as it does to me. A pioneer. Because you think of the early American pioneers who went out and pioneered this land that nobody had been to. Well, bullshit. People were already there. But to me at the time, I was so into this, there wasn’t any questions about pioneering or whatever.26 Letters that Lane wrote home to his family in Washington further detail the spiritual ardor he cultivated as a pioneer. In these letters, which he shared with me, he gave such trying and traumatic experiences as his struggle with hepatitis, and even the rape of his wife by the son of a wealthy landowner, a positive gloss, framing them as tests, lessons, and bounties from God.27 He also connected his efforts in Bolivia with those of his great-grandfather, Episcopalian Yankton Sioux minister Tipi Sapa/Philip J. Deloria (see Chapter 5), before him. He wrote to his father in October 1970 a letter that merits lengthy citation: I know that many times you must wonder why I’m here working in a foreign country when there is so much work to be done with the Indian people in the U.S. and many times my heart is very sad that I can’t be there working with you, but you must remember Teepee Sapa who in the 1860’s became a minister, even though by doing so he must have gone through an unbelievable struggle within himself for this was the time that every Sioux was fighting the white man for their sacred lands. He cut his hair and gave up all things for his belief, but after the fighting was over it was P.J. who held many of Souix together when they were beaten and all hope seemed to be gone. It must have been an unbelievable sacrifice for a him to leave his people to go to seminary and become a Christian when it seemed his people needed him so in their fight against the whiteman. This is something really to ponder because it took a courage and faith that few men on this earth ever have. He was truly a saint. If in our lives we attain a small part of the qualities of justice, courage, faith, etc. that P.J. Deloria had, we could feel we had done a good job in this life. I’ve thought about this very much. Teepee Sapa must have had a vision of the future and then had the faith to follow that vision, even though, it might have seemed at the first that he was letting his people down, but when the time came that they needed him, he was prepared and he brought them through that most difficult period. As I mentioned, if I accomplish but a small part of what P.J. Deloria accomplished I will have contributed a great deal to mankind. I too, see a vision of a world united, a ‘Heaven on Earth’ and I pray that God gives me the strength to follow this vision that becomes clearer everyday. I know that you don’t understand or agree with a lot of the things about 26 Lane, interview. 27 Phil Lane Jr., Letter to his father, Sucre, Bolivia, 3 July 1970; Letter to his parents, Sucre, Bolivia, 25 December 1970; Letter to his parents, Santa Cruz, Bolivia, 22 May 1971. Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. 291 Bahai, but since I’ve been down here the truth that Baha’u’llah is the Spirit of Truth promised by Jesus Christ has become daily more of a reality. To follow the Cause of God is not easy and every day my respect grows more for Teepee Sapa and you and mom for all the unbelievable suffering you must have gone through as you tried to follow those things you believe in, in life. More than once it seemed I couldn’t go on, but through prayer and a little sacrifice God has lead me on to greater heights of His infinite glory. Since I believe that the Bahai Faith is God’s instrument for the unity of all mankind and for bringing the promised ‘Heaven on Earth’ it is my responsibility to do the most I can to see that it is established.28 Building on the Baha’i declarations of thousands of Quechua and Aymara people that began in Bolivia during the “Ten Year Crusade” (1953-1963), Lane understood his goal as nothing short of “spiritual revolution.”29 As his reflections readily reveal, teaching impacted pioneer as well as pupil. Scholars have demonstrated in several different contexts how the practice of teaching and pioneering contributes to the construction of Baha’i identity, a process further borne out by the experiences of Indigenous adherents including ‘Namgis Baha’i Chris Cook Jr.30 Where Lane pioneered to Bolivia in response to a formal call for teachers, Cook selected his own teaching destinations, travelling from his home in Alert Bay, British Columbia, to Whitehorse, in the Yukon, and twice to New Zealand and Vanuatu, in the South Pacific, within a few years of becoming a Baha’i in 1991.31 Speaking to the process of Baha’i identification that such experience promoted, he observed that “something happens to you” through travel teaching. “There’s a light,” Cook 28 Phil Lane Jr., letter to his father, Sucre, Bolivia, 10 October 1970 (spelling as appears in original). Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. 29 Lane, interview. Peter Smith, An Introduction to the Baha’i Faith (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 92. Though Baha’is faced significant challenges in “consolidating” the thousands of Indigenous declarations that occurred between the 1950s and 70s, there remains a relatively substantial Indigenous Baha’i population in Bolivia. Baha’is accounted in 1985 for roughly three percent of the country’s population (just one percentage point below the population claimed by Protestants). Merlin B. Brinkerhoff and Reginald W. Bibby, “Circulation of the Saints in South America: A Comparative Study,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 24, no.1 (March 1985), 41. A Baha’i university, Universidad Nur, was opened in Santa Cruz, Bolivia in 1985. 30 See, for example, Lynn Echevarria, Life Histories of Bahá’í Women in Canada: Constructing Religious Identity in the Twentieth Century (New York: Peter Lang, 2011), Chapters 4 and 5, esp. 99-118, 119-143; McMullen, The Bahá’í, 126. 31 Chris Cook Jr., interview with the author, West Vancouver, British Columbia, 7 June 2004; Patrick Slobodian, interview with the author, Victoria, British Columbia, 20 July 2004. 292 continued, “that you pack.”32 This light lent him, in many cases, a sense of peace that inspired powerful Baha’i oratory on his part.33 And, in Vanuatu, it led him to fully “accept Baha’u’llah.” Speaking to the first of two moving journeys that he made to Vanuatu with non-Indigenous Baha’i friend (and former pioneer to Alert Bay), Patrick Slobodian, Cook shared, “I believe that was a stepping stone to another plateau in my life or another phase, another Chris appeared.”34 Recalling the great emotion he felt as he and Slobodian sat on a high hilltop on the island of Tanna near the end of their month in the remote Pacific archipelago, Cook explained: I started to cry because it was so overwhelming, it was so powerful. I said, “I’ve never met people like this in my life.” I said, “I don’t really want to go back home. I don’t want to go back. It’s like we’re in a bubble, we’re in a place, like Shan-gri-la, we’re in a place, for me, that I’ve built around in this month, so safe, so much love, so much caring, and the Baha’i Faith, it was all Baha’i Faith, 24:7.” And we talked about it, and we talked about it, and we talked about it and I came to know Baha’u’llah, I came to believe in Baha’u’llah. I don’t know how or what it’s all about, but I did come to believe. You know, before it was, I was a Baha’i, I didn’t understand. I understand a little bit more about a Messenger of God and I believe in Baha’u’llah the Messenger of God, and I accepted it. So, I guess I accepted Baha’u’llah on that trip, although I’d been a Baha’i for awhile. I never even thought about that until we’re talking here now.35 32 Cook, interview. 33 Cook, interview. Other Indigenous Baha’is echoed this impact. See, for example, Saulteaux Baha’i Dorothy Maquabeak Francis as cited in Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 76; Evelyn Loft Watts and Patricia Verge, Return to Tyendinaga: The Story of Jim and Melba Loft, Bahá’í Pioneers (Essex, MD: One Voice, 2011), 155. 34 Cook, interview. Cook and Slobodian were joined on their second visit to Vanuatu and New Zealand in 1997 by several others including Hesquiaht Baha’i J.C. Lucas and Cook’s cousin, ‘Namgis Baha’i Steve Cook; this trip was initiated by an invitation from Maori Baha’is during a visit on their part to British Columbia. Steve Cook, conversation with the author, Alert Bay, British Columbia, 31 July 2004; J.C. Lucas, interview with the author, Nanaimo, British Columbia, 6 Oct 2004. The Baha’i Faith was first introduced to Vanuatu in the same time period (1953-1963) as Bolivia and maintains a Baha’i population of roughly the same size. According to John Patrick Taylor, who puts national Baha’i numbers near one and a half percent of the total population, Baha’i adherence is on the rise in Vanuatu. John Patrick Taylor, The Other Side: Ways of Being and Place in Vanuatu (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2008), 12. See also Graham Hassall, “The Bahá’í Faith in the Asia Pacific: Issues and Prospects,” The Bahá’í Studies Review 6 (1996), 2. 35 Cook, interview. Cook noted that the power of this visit also extended to strong connections made with local residents. He recalled one particular exchange during which an elderly man approached him and shared, “You know, Chief, the words that you bring us, and the things that you share with us, are so beautiful and so enlightening. And, you will now have changed our lives. We have been waiting for you for so long.” Cook noted that there was a prophecy on Tanna, and in Vanuatu more broadly, stating that “when a Red Indian first comes to their island, that things will change.” He was likely referring to the John Frum cargo cult or “custom” religion: Stewart Firth, “The War in the Pacific” and Jocelyn Linnekin, “The Ideological World Remade,” in Donald Denoon and Malama Meleisea, et al, eds., The Cambridge History of the Pacific Islanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 315, 411-413. The anthropologist Joël Bonnemaison recorded after a 1985 visit to Tanna that some former members of John Frum “have joined the Baha’i Church but remain ‘half John Frum, half Baha’i.’” Joël Bonnemaison, The Tree and the Canoe: History and Ethnography of Tanna, translated and adapted by Josée Pénot- 293 This was, for Cook, an “epiphanal moment,” what the oral historian Lynn Abrams describes as an episode of “acute self recognition which marked [his] transition in real time but also, in the moment of the interview.”36 While Cook was especially explicit in articulating his process of becoming Baha’i through teaching, others certainly echoed the strengthened sense of religious identification that he expressed.37 Given that many Indigenous Baha’is travel taught and pioneered quite swiftly following their declarations, this ongoing process of Baha’i learning, or “deepening,” was, in a way, necessary. But it was also, according to Tagish Baha’i Clara Schinkel, consonant with Indigenous pedagogy. Speaking to the “on-the-job training” she received after being elected to her Local Spiritual Assembly just two months after joining the Baha’i Faith, Schinkel shared in conversation with the sociologist Lynn Echevarria: “And that’s the best way, because it’s good to learn by books, but by doing it – that’s the way the Indian people learn, by doing things. That’s how they teach, by doing things. And when I became a Bahá’í and this is the Bahá’í law … to teach … I accepted it just wholeheartedly.”38 Baha’is did not necessarily need to travel great distances in order to feel the effects, and the test, of teaching. Joyce Shales, for example, recalled her own sense of being overwhelmed after returning to Sitka from the 1968 journey during which she and her father met Ruhiyyih Demetry (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1994 [1986]), 326. Likewise, Baha’i scholar Graham Hassall notes that “a number of custom chiefs” on Tanna “have been attracted to the Baha’i community on the basis on its respect for and compatibility with kastom.” Hassall, “The Bahá’í Faith in the Asia Pacific: Issues and Prospects,” 10. On the relationship of the Baha’i Faith and kastom in Papua New Guinea see Graeme Were, “Thinking Through Images: Kastom and the Coming of the Baha’is to Northern New Ireland, Papua New Guinea,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 11 (2005): 659-676. 36 Lynn Abrams, abstract for talk, “Epiphanal Moments: Narrating a Path to the Individualised Self in Post-War Women’s Lives,” delivered at the Centre for Women’s and Gender Studies, University of British Columbia, 9 February 2011. 37 For example, Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008; Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008; Klara Tyler, interview. 38 Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 53. Schinkel was the first member of the Johns family (who, according to Lynn Echevarria, made up 104 of the 204 Indigenous people who became Baha’is in the Yukon between 1960 and 1975) to declare as a Baha’i; she was introduced to the religion by Joyce Shales’ father, Jim Walton. Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum,” 39. 294 Khanum in Haifa. “So I came back,” Shales shared, “and I thought, ‘Oh my God. What in the world did I get myself into?’”: Because what did I know? Nothing. So then I wrote to the Baha’i National Assembly in Anchorage and I told them that I’d been to Haifa and what we had been told, my dad and I, that we had a job to do and what was I supposed to do. So they told me to take a trip and so I said, “Where?” So they said, “To Hoonah.” So what am I supposed to do? So I had to figure out what to do. I had to get it all together. So I did. It was pretty scary.39 That the prospect of travelling to another Tlingit village, located less than one hundred miles north of Sitka, instilled such trepidation in Shales suggests the significant challenge that teaching could present (and further contextualizes the departure that her transnational travels represented as well). I asked Shales how she proceeded. “Well,” she replied, “I did things one at a time”: I bought a ticket, I made an arrangement and a plan for a family to meet me, house me, and then I would go and I would give a talk to some group of people and so I bought a ticket and I went and I gave a talk about something, I have no clue what, but that was it. That was the beginning. But it took every ounce of courage I had to do it. Because I sure as heck had never even read in front of a group of people, except for prayers, up to that point. Even saying a prayer aloud was a stretch at that point.40 “I had to make myself do the things I did,” Shales elaborated elsewhere. “And I did that because I believed that it was necessary to do those things. Because we wanted to work for peace and a better world.” “And,” she added humbly, “we felt that maybe we could play our small part.”41 This, for Shales and her family, was an entirely Baha’i (if not, as suggested by the spiritual genealogy she repeatedly drew to her grandfather, brand new) endeavour. As she emphasized, linking her family’s journey back to her father’s first introduction to the Baha’i Faith (see Chapter 4), “we’ve traveled the world because of that old couple on that dock somewhere in Juneau, all of us.”42 39 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 40 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 41 Joyce Shales, interview with the author, Seabeck, Washington, 30 July 2008. 42 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 295 Baha’i teaching stimulated Indigenous mobility and interaction within North America as well as abroad. Lorintha Umtuch, who became a Baha’i on the Yakama Reservation as a teenager in 1966, began travelling later in life, after she had established her career as a tribal judge and her children were grown.43 Describing the empowering effect of this activity, Umtuch explained: I was more of a rez girl than I thought. I limited myself because of that. It wasn’t until I started working for other tribes and the Baha’i Faith that I brought my horizon much more [open]. And that renaissance didn’t happen until 1999. Yeah, the past nine years or eight years that I’ve made the changes in my life and realized that, you know, all my kids are grown up, I’ve got the empty nest and I can travel more and I did travel a lot for the Faith. In fact, my goal was, I said, “Okay.” ‘Cause I had a whole houseful of stuff like I do right now and I had a girlfriend and her name was Gita and she had a house and I said, I just rented a room, “Okay, my life is in this room,” and so that was all I had and I said, “Well, that’s fine ‘cause I’m traveling a lot so this room is fine ‘cause it’s just where I sleep.” With this base, she elaborated: I would travel for the Faith and then after a while I would travel as a judge too. I worked for Fort McDowell, Fort Mojave, worked for Gila River, I worked for Cocopah. I worked for different tribes and it was a lot of fun and I lived out of a suitcase but I was a very active Baha’i too so I ran around all over, all over California, all over Arizona, all over New Mexico. I ran around all over the place and I made a lot of friends and it was good. I met a lot of people in different tribes and that was fun too. It just broadened my horizons quite a bit as an individual and next year I’m going to make a pilgrimage to Haifa.44 43 Another female narrator, Linda Covey, made a similar choice to wait until her children were grown before undertaking extensive travel. Linda Covey, interview with the author, Evanston, Illinois, 10 June 2008. While Umtuch did not travel until later in life, archival records demonstrate that she actively encouraged and contributed to Baha’i community life during her early days as a Baha’i on her reservation. American Indian Service Committee Group Files, Yakima Reservation, Washington, 1965, National Bahá’í Archives, United States. 44 Lorintha Umtuch, interview with the author, Toppenish, Washington, 21 June 2008. This travel included periods of service at the Native American Baha’i Institute on the Navajo Reservation. Navajo-Hopi Bahá’í Newsletter 1, no.2 (March 2006) and 1, no.2 (June/July 2006). Pilgrimage was another major way that adherents deepened their Baha’i identities and a number of narrators shared pilgrimage stories with me. For example, Covey, interview; Jane Grover, interview with the author, McMinnville, Oregon, 22 June 2008; Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 7 July 2008; John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 21 July 2008; Klara Tyler, interview with the author, Neah Bay, Washington, 8 July 2008. 296 After returning to her hometown of Toppenish following this intensive period of travel, Umtuch dedicated herself to teaching and service among the Yakama people, something she characterized as her twin “renaissance,” “Indian” and Baha’i.45 Umtuch’s reflections indicate not just the coproduction of Indigenous and Baha’i identities, but also intimate the core calling that Baha’i teaching constituted for adherents. While teaching was an activity that could and often did occur spontaneously, it was also a responsibility, to use Lane’s term, to which Baha’is put careful prior planning. Joyce Shales spoke to this in the context of her own extensive travels, emphasizing that, “In just about every place that I ever went, I made preparation in ways that helped me.”46 As she elaborated in relation to repeat visits that she made to Russia: First, the Baha’i teachings say that you should get an education. So I got an education. It said that you should get an education, if you can, that will help people. So I got an education that I thought would help people. I read somewhere Alaska was the back door to Russia. And at that time, of course, there was the Iron Curtain, and then the Ice Curtain. There was no crossing between Alaska and Russia, and there hadn’t been for seven decades. But the Alaskans have a long history of connections to Russia. We had Russian America, my grandfather was born when the last Russians who went back to Russia left Alaska. However, many Alaskans including myself are part Russian. And there was also another quote about Alaska, about the connection between China and Russia that meant a lot to me, that I connected with. It said that someday those doors would open again, that there would be opportunities that would come about in the future. So, this was in the ‘60s and ‘70s, well before anybody ever dreamt that the Berlin Wall would come down or any of those things would happen. But I just thought if Baha’u’llah is who he says he is, if these things are going to happen, if what we’re talking about is that we’re going to be working for world peace, it’s going to be a step-by-step process. And then if Alaska’s going to be the back door to Russia, that means that someday, maybe not in my lifetime, but someday, there’s going to be an opportunity for Alaskans to go to Russia. Obviously that’s what that means. So, if I want to be ready for that opportunity, I should prepare myself for that opportunity.47 45 Umtuch, interview. 46 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. 47 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. On the Baha’i teachings on education see, for example, A Compilation on Bahá’í Education, compiled by the Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 297 Shales, accordingly, studied Russian language, history, and literature, preparation, she stressed, that served her in good stead when opportunities to visit Russia did present themselves. The first of these came during the course of her university studies (she travelled to Western Russia, including Moscow, in 1975 on a fieldtrip) and the second as a result of the education that she explicitly pursued with the goal of contributing to the construction of the Baha’i New World Order (Shales was invited to the Russian Far East, a region she subsequently visited multiple times, in the early 1990s through her work in Indigenous and cross-cultural education).48 And she was not alone in tying her education to Baha’i goals: many narrators were encouraged by the Baha’i teachings to pursue a formal education and subsequently deployed their training in such fields as health, education, community development, and social work towards the Baha’i goals of peace and unity in diversity.49 Indeed, work, according to the Baha’i writings, is worship, and teaching too.50 As the Lakota musician, performer, and knowledge keeper Kevin Locke explained to the ethnomusicologist Pauline Tuttle, “You see, in the Bahá’í Faith Bahá’u’lláh has elevated work to the station of worship when done in the spirit of service to humankind.”51 Locke thus considers his performance program, which combines Lakota and Baha’i themes and through which he has travelled to over eighty countries worldwide, a simultaneous expression of service and the 1976), accessed online 15 Dec 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/c/BE/. The reference to Russia as the back door to Alaska that Shales was referring to may be a statement attributed to Shoghi Effendi that appears in Ben Levy, “Pilgrim’s Notes,” 1953, accessed online 15 Dec 2012 http://bahai-library.com/levy_pilgrims_1953. 48 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. Shales also visited China in 1990 for a women’s conference. She likewise stressed that she made similar preparation in the way of language and historical study prior to other travels like her time pioneering in Panama (discussed below). 49 For example, Covey, interview; Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008; Deloria Bighorn, interview; Scott Tyler, interview with the author, Bellevue, Washington, 28 July 2008. 50 See Helen Bassett Hornby, compiler, Lights of Guidance: A Bahá’í Reference File (New Delhi, India: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2010 [1983]), 624-626. 51 Pauline Tuttle, “‘Beyond Feathers and Beads”: Interlocking Narratives in the Music and Dance of Tokeya Inajin (Kevin Locke),” in Carter Jones Meyer and Diana Royer, eds, Selling the Indian: Commercializing and Appropriating American Indian Cultures (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2001), 116. 298 sacred.52 Likewise, for narrator Tina Kahn, who pioneered to the Navajo Reservation from Nevada roughly thirty years ago, service is the central frame through which she has taught the Baha’i Faith. Kahn spent her first year on the Navajo Reservation listening and observing; as she explained, “That’s what I understood would be the good way to come here.”53 After this, she elaborated: I tried to see, I’m here not to take a job away from any of my brothers and sisters, I’m here to serve, so how can I work? And how can I demonstrate there again in my life that I’m here as a Baha’i to be of service? So I would take jobs that might be good – you know, nobody else had taken yet and they’re saying, “We’re desperate. Would you take this job,” you know? So I did community organizing. Counseling is my background. First it was all counseling. You know, re-evaluation, co-counseling in alcohol recovery, New Directions, Four Worlds, you know? We did real strong, know who you are, know where you come from, know where you’re going, find your strength and your balance and find your ceremony that will help you with your healing, your art, your animal therapy, your work therapy – whatever it is that was going to help you keep going.54 In addition to work with various organizations in the fields of recovery and youth leadership, Kahn and her family (she married Alfred Kahn, member of a longstanding Diné Baha’i family, and had two children there) have likewise served in the specifically Baha’i space of the Native American Baha’i Institute located not far from their home in Pine Springs, Arizona.55 They have, further, participated in teaching initiatives outside Dinétah (the Diné homeland) as well; this includes several iterations of the “Trail of Light,” a travel teaching project that began spontaneously in the wake of the first Continental Indigenous Council held on the Yakama 52 Kevin Locke, interview with the author, by telephone, 28 March 2008. As Pauline Tuttle observes, while Locke considers his performance a form of worship, he does not include spiritual content inappropriate for public consumption or dissemination in his program. Tuttle, “‘Beyond Feathers and Beads,’” 116. On Locke’s life and work see also Pauline Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops: The Integration of Lakota Ancestral Knowledge and Bahá’í Teachings in the Performative Practices of Kevin Locke” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2002). 53 Tina Kahn, interview with the author, Pine Springs, Arizona, 21 June 2009. 54 Kahn, interview. Kahn’s reference to siblings can be read in several keys: she forged Diné family ties through her marriage to Alfred Kahn, had prior adoptive connections to his family (having met some of his relatives in Nevada, where they attended boarding school), and also engaged a broader Indigenous framework of relationship. 55 Kahn, interview. For detail on the Kahn family and their relationship to the Baha’i Faith see Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011). 299 Reservation in 1978 and subsequently saw intertribal teams of Baha’is from North, Central, and South America journey within and between these regions.56 While teaching was a task for which all Baha’is were deemed responsible, Indigenous adherents were motivated by the additional propulsion of Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy. Baha’i leaders and dignitaries regularly pointed to this passage in their writings and interactions with Indigenous Baha’is. It was Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy, and Shoghi Effendi’s promotion of it after him, for example, that prompted Ruhiyyih Khanum to so vigorously encourage Shales and other Indigenous Baha’is to concentrate their efforts on outreach to other Indigenous people.57 And at gatherings like the Continental Indigenous Councils held through the 1980s, the prophecy and plans to activate it (like the “Trail of Light” teaching projects) was a central subject of consultation.58 Individual adherents likewise identified Abdu’l-Baha’s words as a key source of inspiration. Mary Gubatayao-Hagen, for example, who pioneered with her young family from San Jose, California to the Nez Perce reservation in Idaho not long after declaring as a Baha’i in 1981, explained that her mother, Ruby Gubatayao (who, like narrators Klara and Scott Tyler, 56 Tina Kahn, specifically, was a member of one of several “Trail of Light” teams that fanned out (to Alaska in her case) from the 1980 Continental Indigenous Council in Wilmette, Illinois. She and her husband Alfred also supported the 1982 Trail of Light (or, Camino del Sol) by caring for the cattle of family members who travelled to South America. They have also participated in more recent “Trails” to Neah Bay, Washington and across the Navajo Nation. Kahn, interview; “‘Trail of Light,’” Bahá’í News (Sept 1980), 6-7; “Third North American Native Council,” Bahá’í News no.620 (Nov 1982), 8-9. For more on the Trail of Light, some iterations of which also included the participation of narrators Kevin Locke and Phil Lane Jr., see: “‘El Camino del Sol’ – The Trail of Light Blazes Through Latin America,” Bahá’í Canada 4, no.4 (Sept/Oct 1982), 22-24; “‘Camino del Sol’ Coming to Canada,” Bahá’í Canada 4, no.6 (Jan/Feb 1983), 25; “Trail of Light Visits the United States,” Bahá’í News (June 1984), 3-13; Bahá’í Canada 6, no.4 (Feb-March 1985), 38; “‘Trail of Light’ Visits Indigenous Peoples,” Bahá’í News no.649 (April 1985), 7; “‘Trail of Light’ in Bolivia, Peru,” Bahá’í News no.699 (July 1989), 2-9; “‘Trail of Light’ Completes Successful Visit,” Bahá’í News no.656 (Nov 1985), 1-3. 57 This was a message Ruhiyyih Khanum delivered not just in Haifa, but in written communications and personal interactions with Indigenous Baha’is in North America as well. See, for example, Amatu’l-Baha Ruhiyyih Khanum, A Message to the Indian and Eskimo Bahá'ís of the Western Hemisphere (Toronto: Bahá'í Canada Publications, 1969); and report of her participation at the 1982 Continental Indigenous Council on the Blood Reserve: “Third North American Native Council,” Bahá’í News no.620 (November 1982), 8-9. 58 See, for example, “Native Council,” Bahá’í News (Sept 1980), 1-5; “Third North American Native Council”; “Indians Consult at Indigenous Council,” Bahá’í News no.690 (September 1988), 6-9. 300 also spent time pioneering among the Nez Perce), impressed upon her the significance of this statement: And my mom, that’s like a credo to her along with other things, but that’s what she really passed onto me, and we studied that quite a bit together, and our passion was always working with Indigenous people and moving, travelling throughout the United States, Canada, and Alaska, now working with Indigenous Baha’i communities.59 Nedra Greenaway similarly characterized Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy as the mandate that motivated her and her non-Indigenous Baha’i husband to pioneer, also with their young children, from Surrey, British Columbia to Frobisher Bay (now Iqaluit, Nunavut), in the Arctic, in 1969. As she explained, echoing Abdu’l-Baha’s wording (or, more accurately, Shoghi Effendi’s English translation of it), “that’s his promise to the Indigenous people, specifically to Indigenous Baha’is, if they catch this universal faith and this faith that can give them so much, if they can incorporate it into their own culture and build on that, then they can enlighten the world.”60 Suggesting how teaching contributed to the production of expanded Indigenous as well as deepened Baha’i identities, Greenaway expressly positioned this statement and Indigenous Baha’i teaching efforts in global context. Speaking about the Inuit, who, she noted, also received specific mention by Abdu’l-Baha in the Tablets of the Divine Plan (the title, recall, subsequently given to the set of letters in which his “Indian” prophecy appears), Greenaway invoked the concept of the Fourth World. Elaborating on Abdu’l-Baha’s reference to “the Eskimo” and his forecast that “‘The country will become like a garden,’” Greenaway explained that Abdu’l-Baha was referring to more than climate change: what he really indicated, it was a metaphor for the spiritual potential of the Inuit. Because Indigenous people, you might say they’re the Fourth World. We have the First World, we have what we call the Third World, but the Fourth World are Indigenous people and they’re all over. All over the Americas, Australia, New Zealand, even the 59 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview. The Tyler family pioneered from Seattle, Washington to Lapwai, Idaho from 1964- 1968. Klara Tyler, interview; Scott Tyler, interview with the author, Bellevue, Washington, 28 July 2008. 60 Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 12 March 2008. 301 Lapps [the Saami] in Northern Europe. In China there’s a lot of what the Han Chinese (ninety percent of the population) call little peoples or minorities. They have fifty-seven minorities that could be Indigenous people too. And the Indigenous peoples of the world have been at the bottom rung, I mean, they’ve all been colonized, they’ve all been taken over, their numbers have been decimated, we know that with the Northwest Coast Indians ninety percent died, through smallpox and whatnot and whatnot. Maybe that wasn’t the fault of the colonizer, maybe they didn’t know that they were going to bring these diseases, but they have, it’s history. Not only are they looked on as savages, but looked on as worthless. Worthless people, a dying people. Even the great anthropologist Franz Boas came to the Northwest Coast to minutely document the way of life of many Northwest Coast Indians because he thought their days were numbered, they would soon disappear into history. And Abdu’l-Baha said that they, because of their history and how they were treated, must become divinely educated, then they will enlighten the world.61 Greenaway speaks here, as she did at several other points in our interviews, with the detached personal pronoun “they,” not a collective “we,” distancing herself somewhat from the Fourth World history she describes.62 But for other narrators, shared histories of colonialism proved a potent, and personal, point of connection with other Indigenous people, in North America and elsewhere. It was through the Baha’i Faith itself that some narrators first made such connections. Allison Healy, for example, noted at several points during our time together that she did not know there were Indigenous people elsewhere in the world prior to becoming a Baha’i. She was an active teacher in her own Blackfoot territory from the time she declared in 1972, but did not 61 Greenaway, interview. Abdu’l-Baha’s 5 April 1916 letter to the Baha’is of Canada and Greenland includes the following passage: “God willing, the call of the Kingdom may reach the ears of the Eskimos, the inhabitants of the Islands of Franklin in the north of Canada, as well as Greenland. Should the fire of the love of God be kindled in Greenland, all the ice of that country will be melted, and its cold weather become temperate – that is, if the hearts be touched with the heat of the love of God, that territory will become a divine rose garden and a heavenly paradise, and the souls, even as fruitful trees, will acquire the utmost freshness and beauty. Effort, the utmost effort, is required. Should you display an effort, so that the fragrances of God may be diffused among the Eskimos, its effect will be very great and far-reaching. God says in the great Qur’án: A day will come wherein the lights of unity will enlighten all the world. ‘The earth will be irradiated with the light of its Lord.’ In other words, the earth will become illumined with the light of God. That light is the light of unity. ‘There is no God but God.’ The continent and the islands of Eskimos are also parts of this earth. They must similarly receive a portion of the bestowals of the Most Great Guidance.” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Tablets of the Divine Plan (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1993 [1916]), 28. In another letter, dated 21 February 1917, Abdu’l-Baha also instructs the Baha’is of Canada and Greenland to “dispatch ye teachers to Greenland and the home of the Eskimos.” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Tablets of the Divine Plan, 96. 62 For analysis of the significance of personal pronouns in oral history narratives see Alessandro Portelli, “As Though it Were a Story: Versions of Vietnam,” in The Battle of Valle Guilia: Oral History and the Art of Dialogue (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997), Chapter 11. 302 travel internationally for the first time until five years later, when she attended an international Baha’i conference in Merida, Mexico.63 Indigenous Baha’is often taught and traveled together and Healy’s first international travel teaching trip came about after she mentioned to Lakota adherent Jacqueline Delahunt (now Left Hand Bull), who Healy met at a Baha’i gathering on the Blood reserve when Delahunt was serving as a Baha’i Counselor for the area, that she would be interested in joining her on her next journey abroad.64 In 1990, the two women travelled to Scandinavia, then Healy continued on to Greenland.65 She subsequently journeyed with her husband, Earl, to Aotearoa/New Zealand and twice to the Russian Far East. As she recalled, Indigenous people of diverse background, from the Saami in Scandinavia (those she jokingly dubbed the “White Indians”) to the Maori of Aotearoa, inquired about prejudice against Indigenous people in North America: Like, “Do you face prejudice where you come from?” ‘Cause they also face prejudice. And similar ways of, you know, losing our culture. Because in Scandinavia it was the Lutheran Church. Were very dominant over them and it was still like that when we were there. A lot of them wanting to become Baha’is but they have to go through so much red tape. They have to meet with the clergy. They’re no longer going to [be a member of the church]. Yeah. So it’s such a drag. And they don’t want to do that. You know, go through all that. So there’s a lot of things that prevent them and they had been persecuted too. All their drums and things they use would be burnt up and destroyed away from them. They went through a lot too. They suffered. In similar ways like we suffered too. Even the Russia people, the Indigenous people there. The Yakuti people, they went through lots too, a lot of suffering. Yeah. Everywhere we go, even among the Maori people in New 63 Healy, interview. This conference was attended by a number of Indigenous Baha’is from Canada including Healy’s cousin, Diane Melting Tallow, Saulteaux Baha’i Dorothy Maquabeak Francis, and Ojibwa Baha’i Melba Loft. See, for example, Evelyn Loft Watts and Patricia Verge, Return to Tyendinaga: The Story of Jim and Melba Loft, Bahá’í Pioneers (Essex, MD: One Voice, 2011), 140-143. 64 Healy, interview. Jacqueline Delahunt/Left Hand Bull became a Baha’i in 1981 and was appointed a member of the Continental Board of Counsellors (part of the Baha’i “Institutions of the Learned”) in 1988. She was elected to the American National Spiritual Assembly in 2001 and served as Chair of the NSA from 2007-2011; she served as co-chair in 2012. Left Hand Bull also participated in several Trail of Light teaching projects, including two to Latin America. On these journeys see “‘Trail of Light’ Visits Indigenous Peoples”; “‘Trail of Light’ in Bolivia, Peru.” On Left Hand Bull’s introduction to and interpretation of the Baha’i Faith see, for example, Patricia Locke, “The Return of the ‘White Buffalo Calf Woman’ – Prophecy of the Lakota,” interview with Jacqueline Left Hand Bull, 1989, accessed online 13 May 2013, http://bci.org/prophecy-fulfilled/wbcalf.htm. 65 Healy, interview; Bahá’í News no.714 (Oct 1990), 17. 303 Zealand. Everywhere it was like that among the Indigenous people. So we had a lot of things in common. So I was amazed, there’s Indigenous people all over the world.66 It was the Baha’i Faith, and her desire to help teach it, that opened Healy up to this broad perspective and through which she, her husband, and other Indigenous travel mates connected with various Indigenous peoples on the intersecting bases of colonialism and culture. Despite this sense of solidarity, however, the affiliations that Indigenous Baha’is forged were not political (if they were, nevertheless, politicized). Baha’u’llah urged his followers to, “‘Be anxiously concerned with the needs of the age ye live in, and center your deliberations on its exigencies and requirements.’”67 Shoghi Effendi, though, also instructed “obedience to government” and called Baha’is to abstain from “partisan politics,” which he framed as inherently divisive and thus counter to the Baha’i goal of unity.68 Indigenous Baha’is themselves interpreted these teachings in various ways and a number partook in Indigenous governance, both as hereditary and elected leaders. Joyce Shales’ father, James Walton, for example, was a leader of the Kaagwaantaan Wolf House, Eagle/Wolf Moiety, of Sitka, Alaska and Chris Cook Jr. has served on the ‘Namgis band council and as president of the Native Brotherhood of British Columbia, a longstanding political organization in the province.69 Samson Knowlton, the father 66 Allison Healy, interview with the author, North Vancouver, British Columbia, 16 Jan 2009. Healy made strikingly similar statements in interview, 27 April 2008. In a special series on Indigenous peoples titled “The Peoples of God,” Bahá’í World counted “the Lapps” (Saami) as Indigenous. Jorunn Hagan, “The Peoples of God: Part 4: The Lapps,” Bahá’í World no.570 (Sept 1978), 2-5. 67 Bahá’u’lláh, Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1990), 213, accessed online 16 Dec 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/GWB/. 68 See, for example, Shoghi Effendi, Directives from the Guardian (India/Hawaii, 1973), 55-57, accessed online 16 Dec 2012, http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/se/DG/. Baha’i teachings on political participation changed, and hardened, over time. See Margit Warburg, “The Dual Global Field: A Model for Transnational Religions and Globalisation,” in Baha’i and Globalisation, ed. Margit Warburg, Annika Hvithamar, and Morten Warmind (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2005), 165. 69 “James Wilbur Walton – Obituary,” Juneau Empire (23 Nov 2003), accessed online 16 May 2013, http://juneauempire.com/stories/112303/obi_obit1.shtml; Cook, interview. For context on the Native Brotherhood of British Columbia see Paul Tennant, Aboriginal Peoples and Politics: The Indian Land Question in British Columbia, 1849-1989 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1990), 116-121. And for further discussion of Indigenous Baha’is and politics in British Columbia see Chelsea Horton, “‘According to your faith so shall your power and blessings be’: The Aboriginal-Bahá’í Encounter in British Columbia (MA Thesis, Simon Fraser 304 of narrators Eleanora McDermott and Beverley Knowlton, was a lifetime Peigan councilor and frequently combined Baha’i travel and teaching with his work on behalf of the Blackfoot, efforts that included petitioning for the federal franchise and elimination of restrictions on Indigenous mobility off-reserve.70 When I asked McDermott about her own position on politics, she recalled approaching her Local Spiritual Assembly in Calgary for clarification regarding her membership on the city’s Aboriginal Urban Affairs Committee: And I asked the LSA if I would be able to, because it’s a political, we’re a liaison between the Natives, the mayor, and city council. So I asked if I could join them. They said, “Yes, you can. Even though it’s political, you’re being of service.” To both sides. So that they would understand each other. And, yes, you can do things like that. But pure politics, no, we can’t get involved in.71 Kevin Locke, for his part, described himself as “pretty much just totally apolitical,” while Lorintha Umutch conversely characterized her stance as “semi-activist.”72 Recalling a 1996 trip that she made to Chile, for example, Umtuch shared: One of my friends, he works for the Lummi tribe and he had arranged for a tour for the Pehuenche Indians, they had land and they lived on this land all their life but their government said, “You don’t have title to that land so we don’t recognize your rights.” Sound typical? So they asked me, “Lorintha, can you go down there to the Pehuenche Indians and tell them about how your lands on the Columbia River got taken away from you? I said, “I can talk about being flooded out. I can do that.” So I went down there and told them what happened to our people. We lost our fishing sites on the Columbia River. University, 2005), 104-112. The question of political participation, and relationship with traditional forms of governance, has been a subject of active negotiation in the Pacific region as well: Hassall, “The Bahá’í Faith in the Asia Pacific,” 9. 70 Beverley Knowlton, interview with the author, between Calgary and Sylvan Lake, Alberta, 26 April 2008; Eleanora McDermott, interview with the author, Calgary, Alberta, 25 April 2008; “Samson Knowlton, 1902-1985,” in The Bahá’í World: An International Record, Volume 19, 1983-1986 (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1994), 668-669. 71 McDermott, interview. 72 Locke, interview; Umtuch interview. Locke’s mother, Patricia Locke, became a Baha’i late in her life and, by her son’s description, “redirected her energies” from her prior political activism (which included contributions to such major American legislation as the Indian Postsecondary Education Act, the Indian Child Welfare Act, and the Indian Freedom of Religion Act) to Baha’i service. This, in Kevin Locke’s estimation, “didn’t undermine her previous efforts, but I think it was like the exclamation point at the end of her life.” Locke, interview. On Patricia Locke’s activism see the following obituary: Matt Sedensky, “Patricia Locke, 73, Champion of American Indians,” New York Times (9 Nov 2001), accessed online 16 Dec 2012, http://www.nytimes.com/2001/11/09/business/patricia- locke-73-champion-of-american-indians.html. For a Baha’i-authored biography see John E. Kolstoe, Compassionate Woman: The Life and Legacy of Patricia Locke (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 2011). 305 Or, it got modified, you know. So I talked to the Pehuenche Indians, the Mapuche Indians and the people in Chile too, the government officials in Chile.73 When I asked about her take on the Baha’i teachings on politics, Umtuch elaborated: Well, I believe education is important. And I believe education of the government officials is important. I believe education of the Indian people is important too. Let them learn from our mistakes so they cannot make the same mistakes. I was there for education purposes and to share. It was highly political. The people that brought us there were very political and the Indians were highly political. You had the World Bank, who was there ‘cause they were there to fund it. They believed in forced removal of people. The Chilean government believed in forced removal of people. They didn’t believe in the rights of the people that lived there all their lives. They didn’t believe in that. Again, the similarities are still there. Forced removal by government, by World Bank, by economic power, you know, that theme is still there. They had a march on the capital, in Chile, in Santiago. I went to it and I heard them talk and some of the Indians wanted to get involved and I’m sitting there going, “I’m a judge, I’m a visiting judge, I’m the visiting person. I’m here on visa.” This is the government that Pinochet had before. People took airplane rides on the government planes and took a long walk over the Pacific Ocean and were never found again. No, these people are brutal, they can be brutal. I don’t want to experience that, I will watch from the sidelines because I am a visitor, I am on a visa, I am supposed to obey their laws. As a Baha’i, I am supposed to obey the laws. These other Indians are not Baha’is and it’s okay for them ‘cause you know, they’re activists. You know, I’m kind of semi-activist but do believe in sharing information and sharing knowledge with them so they know what to expect and what to do and saying, “Yes, yes, I’m a judge. Yes, I’m college educated, yes.” You know, that kind of stuff. But I couldn’t break no laws. I’m a judge, I’m supposed to uphold the law. So I only went so far.74 Reminiscent of Joyce Shales’ experience, Umtuch clearly linked her education to Baha’i service and positioned her professional and teaching activities as entirely conjoined, both on “the road” and “the rez.”75 In Canada, a 1969 teaching project titled “The Right to an Identity” clearly distinguished itself from contemporary political activism. In the same year that many Indigenous leaders across 73 Umtuch, interview. On flooding and fishing on the Columbia see Roberta Ulrich, Empty Nets: Indians, Dams, and the Columbia River (Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2007). On Mapuche activism and identification see, for example, Mario Sznajder, “Ethnodevelopment and Democratic Consolidation in Chile: The Mapuche Question,” in Erick D. Langer and Elena Muñoz, eds., Contemporary Indigenous Movements in Latin America (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 2003), 17-36. 74 Umtuch, interview. On Pinochet and the practice of disappearance in Chile see Roger Burbach, The Pinochet Affair: State Terrorism and Global Justice (London: Zed, 2003); Thomas C. Wright, State Terrorism in Latin America: Chile, Argentina, and International Human Rights (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2007), esp. Chapter 3. 75 Umtuch, interview. 306 Canada were forcefully responding to the Trudeau government’s White Paper (see Chapter 2), a handful of Indigenous Baha’is fanned out across the country to disseminate the pamphlet, “The Right to an Identity.” A twenty-page colour brochure emblazoned with images of West Coast totem poles on the cover, this publication critiqued what it called the theft of Indian identity, asserting that current conditions of apathy, “poverty, illness, inadequate education, and broken families” in Indigenous Canada stemmed not from “nature,” but instead “a spiritual injustice: the systematic destruction of the Indian’s sense of his own identity.”76 Looking back at “The Right to an Identity,” participant Nedra Greenaway positioned the campaign in the context of the global sixties: At this time, you know, late ‘60s, there was a lot of ferment, there was a lot of cultural change happening, the youth movement, we knew later on about the Cultural Revolution in China, which was a disaster, but nevertheless it was a youth movement. But it was a time where I think minorities around the world were being given a hearing. They didn’t have a voice yet. But at least people were becoming aware, you know, we do have this group of people, the Indigenous peoples of the Americas and Australia, New Zealand, all of a sudden it seemed, you know, the Inuit, that they wanted a voice.77 Greenaway similarly situated the project in relation to contemporary activism in North America. Speaking to the reception that “The Right to an Identity” received, she observed: I think one thing it did was percolate to the top of the agenda. I think people heard it for the first time. Besides, you know, the AIM movement [American Indian Movement], which was happening just across the border, they were hearing something different. Which was just as strident, in a way, but to say, “Look, we’re here. And what are we going to do about the founding peoples of Canada? What are we going to do about them? Because you’re not the founding people.” You know? “The French and English, you want to say that, but you aren’t. There were people here before. And so what are we going to do about them?” Are you going to give us an identity? And respect? So we got a lot press. It was in the newspaper, the front pages of some of the newspapers. In Winnipeg, in Brandon, in Calgary, Lethbridge, it got a lot of good press.78 76 Bahá’í Community of Canada, “The Right to an Identity,” (n.d. [1968/69]), 5-6, Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection. The main Indigenous participants in this campaign were Nedra Greenaway (Métis and Chinese), Dorothy Maquabeak Francis (Saulteaux), Thomas Anaquod (Saulteaux), John Thomas (Ditidaht), and Modelle Mudd (Cherokee). 77 Nedra Greenaway, interview with the author, Robert’s Creek, British Columbia, 15 Aug 2008. 78 Greenaway, interview, 15 Aug 2008. A selection of this press coverage was reproduced in Canadian Bahá’í News no.228 (April 1969, insert) and no.231 (July 1969), insert. “The Right to an Identity” was part of a larger campaign 307 Greenaway was joking when she added with a laugh, “Maybe they were happy we weren’t shooting.” But her comment aptly distinguishes the Baha’i project not just from the more militant tactics of the American Indian Movement, but also the politics of contemporary activists like Cree leader Harold Cardinal. The tone of “The Right to an Identity” remains, for a Baha’i publication, forthright (leading to concern, Greenaway recalled, on the part of some in the Canadian Baha’i administration that it was “too political”).79 It was, at the same time, decidedly more conciliatory (and, from the perspective of settler society, no doubt more palatable) than that of contemporary Indigenous publications like Cardinal’s The Unjust Society, which took colonial Canada directly to task for its ongoing history of land dispossession and assimilation.80 “The Right to an Identity” framed colonial injustice as fundamentally spiritual in nature and proffered the Baha’i Faith, including Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy, as an explicit solution.81 Much more common than public campaigns like “The Right to an Identity” were the quiet yet activist ways in which Indigenous Baha’is lived and taught their faith. Emphasizing and enacting the importance of what another “Right to an Identity” participant, Ditidaht Baha’i John Thomas, described as “knowing your root,” Indigenous Baha’is made contributions to such fields as Indigenous education, arts, culture, language revitalization, drug and alcohol counseling and recovery, prison reform, community development, and residential school trauma and called “Human Rights are God-Given Rights” which included the presentation of a Baha’i brief (from which “The Right to an Identity” pamphlet was distilled) to Minister of Indian Affairs, Jean Chrétien, and the December 1968 Canadian Conference on Human Rights. See Canadian Bahá’í News no.226 (Jan 1969), 2; no.228 (April 1969), 6-7, insert; no.231 (July 1969), 6; Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 132-133. 79 Greenaway, interview, 15 Aug 2008. 80 Harold Cardinal, The Unjust Society (Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre, 1999 [1969]). 81 Bahá’í Community of Canada, “The Right to an Identity.” This publication is one that included the early English translation of Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy which has Indigenous people being “treated as savages,” not “like unto” them. 308 reconciliation disproportionate to their small numbers.82 And they intimately connected these efforts to the Baha’i Faith. Reflecting on her own work in the Yukon, for example, Clara Schinkel explained to Lynn Echevarria: …The language, like, is dying out – the Tagish language. I told Auntie Angela [Sidney] about what the Guardian [Shoghi Effendi, head of the religion 1921-1957] said about our culture and things … and the language. So we got it started. We started language in Carcross and then it went into dancing … It was mostly my family that was there. We were all Bahá’ís. We started using the Bahá’í principles to teach. And like I say, the clan system was very, very, very familiar [congruent] with the Bahá’í teachings … the Bahá’í laws. So it was easy to teach them. And that’s how the dance group got started. Just because Shoghi Effendi said that we should encourage the people to keep their cultural ways. [Later] when I first went to work for Council of the Yukon Indians [Council for Yukon Indians, now Council of Yukon First Nations], it was in cultural education. And we had tried to reintroduce the people to their culture. And I was the Director of Cultural Education then, so I got a lot of traditional camps started.83 Illustrating, further, how service could also cross over into more explicitily politicized terrain, Schinkel also contributed to the settlement of the Carcross/Tagish First Nation land claim.84 Others worked in more urban and intertribal arenas. Dorothy Francis, for example, together with a number of other Indigenous and non-Indigenous Baha’is, was active with several early Friendship Centres in Western Canada and Baha’is have continued to contribute to these 82 Nedra Greenaway, whose Masters thesis in anthropology was a life history of John Thomas, discussed his “know your root” expression in interview, 12 March 2008. Examples of Indigenous Baha’is engaged in such service work are legion and include: J.C. Lucas, interview with the author, Nanaimo, British Columbia, 6 Oct 2004; Robert George, interview with the author, Duncan, British Columbia, 5 Oct 2004; Knowlton, interview; Deloria Bighorn, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 20 March 2008; John Sargent, interview with the author, by telephone, 22 July 2008. 83 Cited in Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum,” 54 (additions in square brackets are Echevarria’s). On Schinkel’s “Auntie Angela” see Julie Cruikshank, in collaboration with Angela Sidney, Kitty Smith, and Annie Ned, Life Lived Like a Story: Stories of Three Yukon Native Elders (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1990), Part I. And on congruence between the Tagish and Tlingit clan systems and Baha’i law see Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum,” 46-47; Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000), 138, 165. 84 Genesee Keevil, “Don’t forget to go dancing now and then,” Yukon News (16 Oct 2006), accessed online 15 Dec 2012, http://www.yukon-news.com/life/5896/. While participation in this arena is something Schinkel herself evidently reconciled with the Baha’i teachings on politics, the anthropologist Carolyn Sawin has also indicated that it was an issue of active contemplation, and sometimes contestation, among Baha’is in the Yukon. Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 121-123. 309 urban Indigenous service and support centres in cities across the country.85 More recently in the Pacific Northwest, Donald Addison, Jane Grover, and Lorintha Umtuch have all contributed to Wisdom of the Elders, a Portland-based project dedicated to “Native American cultural sustainability, multimedia education and race reconciliation.”86 For Linda Covey, much of her extensive travel over the past thirty years has been for the purpose of supporting and conducting intertribal service and ceremony, including work with Indigenous inmates in the correctional system.87 Reflecting on her intersecting travel and service, she noted that in addition to activity across much of the central and southwestern United States: I have been to Europe, and India, and Canada, and the Yucatan, and Israel, and I’ve done that on a very, very limited budget. You know, just, in a very simple way. And it’s all been for, basically, it’s all been for the Faith. To me, it just doesn’t seem, it’s not appealing to me to travel somewhere just to be there, or just to see it. It’s always in light of being in service of or of teaching the Faith. Whether it’s Baha’i or American Indian. And when I say being of service, like the women in prison, for instance. Just to give them 85 See, for example, Horton, “Beyond Red Power,” 11, 22-23; Arthur Irwin, “Early Native Teaching in Canada,” unpublished memoir (1983), Will van den Hoonaard Personal Collection, 12; Pemberton-Piggot, “The Bahá’í Faith in Alberta,” 36, 41; Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity,” 91-92, 154; Verge, Angus: From the Heart, 198; Elinor and Fletcher Bennett, interview with the author, Saanich, British Columbia, 21 July 2004; George, interview; Gretchen Jordan-Bastow, interview with the author, Vancouver, British Columbia, 26 Sept 2004. On the Friendship Centre movement more generally see M.G. Evans, “Fellowship Centres for Urban Canadian Cities: A Comparative Assessment of the Coqualeetza Movement in Vancouver and Other Comparable Movements in Eight Canadian Cities” (M.A. Thesis, University of British Columbia, 1961); Heather A. Howard, “The Friendship Centre: Native People and the Organization of Community in Cities,” in Aboriginal Peoples in Canadian Cities: Transformations and Continuities, ed. Craig Proulx and Heather A. Howard (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2011), 87-107; William G. Lindsay, “A History of the Vancouver Aboriginal Friendship Centre in an Age of Aboriginal Migration and Urbanization” (M.A. Thesis, University of British Columbia, 1998). 86 Accessed online 16 Dec 12, http://wisdomoftheelders.org/. Addison has contributed a segment called “Speaking Native” to the organization’s “Wisdom Radio” series. One episode of the series features Lorintha Umtuch speaking about her experience with the Shaker Church as a child on the Yakama Reservation: accessed online 16 Dec 12, http://wisdomoftheelders.org/2011/06/17/ program-304-tribal-rhythms/. At the time of our interview together, Jane Grover was a member of the Wisdom of the Elders board: Grover, interview. Speaking to the group’s intertribal composition and orientation, she noted that Wisdom of the Elders “was founded by a Lakota medicine man [Martin High Bear] and his wife [Rose High Bear] and she was a Baha’i and is Athabascan [Deg Hitan Dine] from Alaska, but took up the Lakota way for her spiritual practice.” 87 Covey’s volunteer work in corrections in Missouri focused on sharing intertribal practices like Native circles and medicine wheels. Covey explained that “We were never able to achieve building sweat lodges, because of state law, regulations.” Saulteaux Baha’i Dorothy Maquabeak Francis, for her part, played a key role in having practices like smudges and sweats accepted within the penal system in British Columbia. Horton, “Beyond Red Power,” 53. Narrator Phil Lane Jr. similarly initiated an Indigenous prison support program before he pioneered to Bolivia in 1970. He kept up a connection with the program, which his father kept going in his absence, by way of correspondence. For example, Phil Lane Jr., Letter to his father, from Bolivia, 3 July 1970, Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection; Lane, interview. 310 some hope, or some of these ideals, or a sense of their own nobility no matter what they’ve done, or a sense of prayer, or how to pray, or a sense of purpose for their life. It didn’t have to be saying, “Baha’i, Baha’i, Baha’i,” you know. But that’s where my fountain of information comes from. My inspiration and my knowledge. And I always go back to the writings as my basis.88 Covey’s words effectively capture and communicate the truly subtle form that Baha’i teaching could take. Initiatives like prison reform were not billed as Baha’i and adherents typically made no mention of their religion to the Indigenous people with whom they were interacting. This was not duplicitous strategy. Rather, for Baha’is, work in support of Indigenous peoples, and intercultural learning as well, constituted successful teaching in and of itself. Consider, further, Joyce Shales’ travels to the Russian Far East. Shales explained that she was invited to the Sakha Republic in the early 1990s “as a consultant for cross-cultural and American Indian education” (training, as we just saw, that she had pursued per Baha’i teaching).89 The circumstances of her first trip, she stressed, were somewhat strange. She received an invitation to travel to Russia when someone phoned her home in Vancouver, where Shales was pursuing her doctorate in Educational Studies at the University of British Columbia, looking for her cousin; her cousin, who happened to be there, turned down the invite, but passed the caller from the University of Washington on to Shales instead. Shales saw this as an opening to exercise the Baha’i preparation she had begun making two decades earlier. When she ended up, then, in a context of intense political instability and insecurity upon arriving in Moscow, she felt compelled to press on to the Far East. Flights were not flying and communications were down, but, Shales explained, “I decided that I was there and I might as well just stick it out because the strange way I ended up there made me think that it was one of those things that I 88 Covey, interview. Since the time of our interview together in Evanston, Illinois, Covey has since pioneered to Dalian, China, where she is teaching psychology at the university level. 89 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. 311 consider a meant-to-be kind of thing which happen every once in a while.”90 When Shales eventually made it to Yakutsk, the capital of the Sakha Republic, she was greeted by a man, “some Native looking guy,” who, she later learned, had been meeting every plane for the previous three days in hopes and anticipation of her arrival. As she recalled in rich detail: when I got off the plane he said, “Okay, Joyce.” And here I was, up for hours and hours, I don’t know how many hours, and then on this long flight with no food and when I was on the flight they had slapped a dead chicken on the table in front of me and it looked like it had been in a freezer for a week and that was the food they served you. I didn’t dare eat it. And a cup of this yucky stuff they had served in Soviet times. And so I hadn’t eaten and I hadn’t slept and he said, “Do you want to sleep or do you want to meet the people?” And I said, “I want to meet the people.” And he took me to this traditional place, looked like a hogan. And I had just come from the Southwest so I knew what a Southwest hogan was because I’d just come from the Navajo Baha’i School [the Native American Baha’i Institute]. Just come from down there before I went to Russia. And so it was really fresh in my mind. And it looked exactly like it, the stove in it and everything. It just blew my mind. And inside, all along the wall, sitting on a shelf along the wall, were all these Elders. And I came in one door and they were sitting, with this low ceiling and lamps, little lamps in there, and there was little stoves, so they were pouring chai. So I got in the door and they said, “Okay, Joyce, tell us about yourself.” That was the first thing they said, so I thought, “Oh, good grief. What am I supposed to say here?” So I just started talking. I didn’t know what to say, so I just started talking and I talked about Southeast [Alaska], culture, and about the raven, the eagle and I can’t remember all of it. And so when I got done they said, “Okay, let us tell you about ours.” Then they gave me the whole story about their cycles and their whole traditions, all their traditions. And they had it all lined out and they had a poster with their creation story on it and everything. It was really pretty awesome. But they were all grins and smiles when I talked about raven and all of that stuff. “Tell us about yourself.” And then I started talking about all that stuff, and it was translated, right? But I talked slow enough so they could translate it. And when it was translated and the people just started grinning, it was just like, right connection, right connection right there. That was the right connection, all of it.91 90 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. For a concise introduction to Russian history, including the context of Soviet collapse into which Shales travelled see Geoffery Hosking, Russian History: A Very Short Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), esp. Chapter 7. 91 Shales, interview, 29 July 2008. Allison Healy, who first visited the Far East in 1993, encountered a similar context of cultural strength and connection as described by Shales. Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. For context on the Sakha Republic/Yakutia see Dmitry N. Zakharvo, “The Example of Sakha (Yakutia),” in Kathrin Wessendorf, ed., An Indigenous Parliament? Realities and Perspectives in Russia and the Circumpolar North (Copenhagen: Iwgia, 2005), 88-97. For an ethnographic study of an Evenki community in central Siberia that echoes with Indigenous experiences in the Far East see Alexia Bloch, Red Ties and Residential Schools: Indigenous Siberians in a Post-Soviet State (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). 312 Encounters like this were meaningful moments of Indigenous connection that sparked lasting relationships. Reflecting back on this period, Shales remarked: it was lucky I went because if I had chosen not to go, I’d have missed so much. It would have been such a sad thing. And we’d all have missed so much, my dad and I both, because it opened all kinds of doors and it was just amazing in every which way. They were so open to everybody. It was an amazing thing. This was a time of political transition in Russia and Shales emphasized how eager people in the Sakha Republic were to interact.92 She recalled that in return: we just gave them everything we had to give, as much as we could. By that I don’t mean gifts, I mean we gave them all we had. We talked about who we were, talked about Indians in America, we arranged exchanges, we did everything we could to arrange exchanges with the States and Canada, especially the Yukon because we had a lot of Yukon connections. And we arranged to have the Unity Gatherings and actually, I guess a lot of things came out of that. And so we made a lot of different trips in there. And to this day have friends from there that I guess we’ll never forget. And loving, just lovely people.93 In addition to seeing them as friends, Shales further characterized the Indigenous people with whom she forged such deep connections as family. Baha’i teaching and travel, then, could also prove a process of “finding relatives.” Invoking humour, a site of Indigenous identification that she and other narrators spoke to elsewhere as well, for example, Shales shared another story about her time in Sakha as an educational consultant: So when I was there and when I had to talk to them and they wanted me to talk to groups of a thousand people, I would just talk to them like I would be talking to a group of 92 This point, too, was echoed by Healy. Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. 93 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. Some of this activity is detailed in Jim Walton’s (d. 18 November 2003) obituary in the 2003-2004 issue of The Bahá’í World: “After becoming a Bahá’í in 1953, he traveled, as a Bahá’í teacher, throughout Alaska, North America, Europe, and the Russian Far East, working primarily with indigenous people. He established an International Cross-Cultural Alcohol Program to create a cross-cultural approach to alcohol recovery and spearheaded more than 25 Spiritual Unity of Tribes Gatherings, held from New Zealand to the Sakha Republic, Russia. In response to social problems he perceived in the Sakha Republic, he worked to establish alcohol recovery programs there and promoted cultural and health care exchanges between indigenous people of the Sakha Republic and Alaska. He actively promoted education among Native people and helped broaden understanding of the Tlingit culture.” Ann Boyles, ed., The Bahá’í World: 2003-2004: An International Record (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 2005), 239. 313 people here, Native people. It wasn’t I was talking as a Baha’i, I was talking as an educator. One time I felt like I got their attention when I talked, it was just silent and there was a huge roomful of people, a room full of educators, all waiting for me to say something, and people would say, “Joyce, say something.” “Well, what?” You know? So I got up there and I said, “Well, I came here and I was so amazed by these dynamic people and their industriousness and their intelligence.” And I just went on and on and on and on with all these adjectives about how handsome and [laughs] everybody was, and then I said, “You know, I thought about it and I thought about it…” And of course this is all being translated, I’m talking very slow so I’m thinking, and then I said, “You know, and then I finally figured it out. They must be my relatives.” [laughs] And I got standing ovations. Because they were all Native people. It’s something my cousin would do too. But it was that kind of a thing. It was like family. And they were like long-lost family, so you love them immediately.94 Pointing to recent DNA research, Shales added that, “Actually everybody is a relative, if you go back far enough.” “But,” she elaborated: from Central Asia to here, we’re all relatives, more closely. So when you look at us from the Middle East through Central Asia to the people in Siberia, to here, through Mongolians to here, we’re relatives. You even look at the traditions and the way people do things. There’s no doubt, there’s no doubt in my mind. The second time I went there we went to this UNESCO meeting [on Indigenous education] and people came in their tribal dress. And there were people there who looked like Navajos. And then there were people who looked like they came from some other parts of the American Indian landscape. When you look at DNA and you see it spread out, then it’s reasonable to believe that we would look like some of these people. And I swear they look like our cousins. Some of those people I looked twice, they looked just like my cousin. Or somebody else’s, just people I knew. It was that resemblance, it was that close. It was just amazing. And I wasn’t the only one that had that reaction. Lots of people that went over there had the same reaction that I had. We took double-takes all the time. “Whoa,” it’d just knock you over, it was so amazing.95 Indigenous kinship, for Shales, took on a specific geographic and biological imprint. It also connected to story. Allison Healy, for example, described one especially potent moment of connection during her and her husband’s first visit to the Russian Far East in 1993, a trip 94 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. Shales similarly spoke about her use of humour as a way to relieve tension when she and her family were living in the small Inupiat village of Shishmaref in northern Alaska. On the subject of Indigenous humour see Drew Hayden Taylor, ed., Me Funny (Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre, 2005). This collection includes a chapter by Na-Cho Nyak Dun storyteller and Baha’i, Louise Profeit-Leblanc. 95 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. 314 precipitated by an invitation from an Evenki leader for Indigenous Baha’is to attend an annual reindeer festival. “At that reindeer festival,” Healy recalled: they had a gathering that evening and we were going to present so we had our traditional dress and we were up on the stage and we could see down at the people and during the talk the translator and some of the people were wiping their eyes and then the interpreter told us that they got so emotional to see us up there and especially to know, ‘cause that is their belief that at one time we were all together and then as the ice melted into different countries we all separated along with the ice and they were so happy to see us that it was so emotional. Their belief is that their people are coming back. Yeah. And that’s what the interpreter was telling us. They were crying with joy, you know, to see us up there. These are our people who have drifted away. And so that’s their belief.96 Healy’s husband, Earl, similarly declared that he found “his people” in Sakha.97 The Healys visited the Russian Far East in the same time period and context of cultural revitalization as Shales and, like her, cultivated an expanded sense of Indigenous kinship on the basis of cultural exchange. Indigenous Baha’is who journeyed in the more defined religious role of pioneer similarly forged a strong sense of Indigenous fellowship. Phil Lane Jr., for example, registered this connection in letters home to his family from his pioneer post in Bolivia. As he wrote not long after he and his wife’s 1970 arrival in Sucre: Even though I can’t speak Spanish very well, travelling teachers and Indian Baha’is from the country come by with their problems and to visit. Cynthia [Lane’s wife] serves tea and I sit and listen and nod my head to those things I understand and every so often say a few things, but mostly I listen and have fellowship with them. They call me Hermano 96 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. This is particularly striking in view of strong critiques that have been leveled against the Bering Straight theory by a number of Indigenous people and scholars in North America. See, for example, Waziyatawin Angela Wilson, Remember This! Dakota Decolonization and the Eli Taylor Narratives, with translations from the Dakota text by Wahpetunwin Carolynn Schommer (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 45-46; Vine Deloria Jr., “Low Bridge – Everybody Cross,” in Barbara Deloria, Kristen Foehner, and Sam Scinta, eds., Spirit and Reason, The Vine Deloria Jr., Reader (Golden, Colorado: Fulcrum Publishing, 1999), 78-100. 97 Healy, interview, 27 April 2008. Healy explained that her husband had been on a quest to find “his people” since a trip he took to India to visit their daughter, who attended a Baha’i high school there for a year. Similar to Earl Healy, narrator Jane Grover was surprised to find a lack of interest in her Indigenous heritage when she and her family pioneered in Panchgani, India (where Grover worked at the Baha’i New Era High School) from 1972-1977. Grover, interview. 315 Philipe and I can’t describe in words the great unity I feel with the people here, especially Indian Baha’is from the country.98 He reiterated this sentiment in another letter two months later: “Thanks be to God and your wonderful upbringing,” Lane wrote in November 1970, “I seem to have a repore with the Indians here that is most deep and moving. We feel the love we have for one another and I feel very much of a oneness with them.”99 Reflecting back, Lane characterized the year and several months he spent in Bolivia as “the spiritual highlight of my life.”100 “I’m almost 65 years old,” he shared at the time of our interview together, “I’d say that was the spiritual highlight”: I lived an absolutely dedicated life. I’d get up every morning and I’d sit on the porch that we had and I’d pray for an hour. My whole life was centered around serving the needs of the Indigenous people there and seeing the potentiality within the people. Seeing that it was going to be one of the first Baha’i countries in the hemisphere, that was one thing, but seeing also the empowerment of the Indigenous people. And how important the culture was to them.101 Lane’s letters home document repeated requests to his family to send “some Indian things” for him to wear; as Lane wrote in anticipation of one Baha’i conference set to be attended by “representatives from Indian tribes all over South America,” “it would be a real honor to reflect a bit of the Sioux there.”102 Lane also studied Incan history and made what he described as an especially moving pilgrimage to Lake Titicaca, “where the original Inca was born.” “We had put our little money together,” he recalled: 98 Phil Lane Jr., Letter to his parents, Sucre, Bolivia, 9 Sept 1970, Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. Lane quickly learned Spanish and was studying Quechua before his return to the United States the following year. He further expressed a sense of relational identity in another letter in which he compared energetic and dedicated Quechua Baha’i teacher Meletone Gallardo to his great-grandfather, Philip Deloria. Phil Lane Jr., Letter to his parents, Santa Cruz, Bolivia, 17 May 1971, Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. An obituary for Gallardo (with his first name spelled differently than Lane renders it in his letters) appears in: Athos Costas, “Melitón Saavedra Gallardo, 1910-1988,” in The Bahá’í World: An International Record, Volume 20, 1986-1992 (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1998), 921-923. 99 Phil Lane Jr., Letter to his parents, Sucre, Bolivia, 14 Nov 1970 (spelling as appears in original). Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. 100 Lane, interview. 101 Lane, interview. 102 Phil Lane Jr., letter to his father, Cochabamba, Bolivia, 14 June 1971. Also, Phil Lane Jr., letter to his father, Bolivia, 3 July 1970. Phil Lane Jr. Personal Collection. 316 I remember this, Richard Hatch [another pioneer] and I, put our little money together and we got this boat to take us out to Island of the Sun. And I remember getting there and Meletone and some of the other [Indigenous Baha’is] got off and they kissed the earth where we were. Kissed the earth where we were. And then we went to see the house of the Incas and there’s three springs that come out and there’s a saying that one’s Spanish, one’s Quechua, and one’s Aymara, and the one from the Spanish had dried up, so it was just the two coming out. And we went by the Island of the Moon, we didn’t stop there, and we went and landed back, someone was going back. And they took me back to this place and, again, it was off the beaten track, and it was carved into the stone and it was incredible. There was a seat, and below it were three seats, and then below it were some more, and below it were some more. And it was just right for our group, so they gave me the honour of sitting on the top of that whole thing and I remember when we prayed that night along that Lake Titicaca. And I swear to God that night, I could feel the rustling of this awakening happening across the Americas. I could feel it. This whole coming together and this unifying, this reunion of the condor and the eagle [Indigenous peoples of South and North America], the fourth way, and all that. And these prophecies that I so deeply believe in.103 For Lane, it was not just Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy that inspired his teaching and expanded sense of Indigenous identification, but also Indigenous stories that foretold the coming together of Indigenous peoples across the Americas and globally.104 Lane left Bolivia not long after this (and, as we saw in Chapter 5, retreated from active Baha’i life the following decade), but the strong sense of spiritual kinship that he cultivated with Indigenous people while there continued, and continues, to inspire his work in the field of global Indigenous community development.105 103 Lane, interview. 104 Anthropologist Renya Ramirez illustrates that prophecies, including that foretelling the reunion of the eagle and the condor, have prompted recent transnational Indigenous dialogue and organizing outside the Baha’i community as well. Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 9 and Chapter 6. 105 Lane’s return to the United States was precipitated by the rape of his wife, a traumatic event that he described as deepening his own identification with local Indigenous Baha’is, who gave him a Quechua name meaning, “Of the Same Blood.” Lane, interview. Lane’s current work is focused on the articulation and activation of what he and colleagues have called “the Fourth Way,” a series of guiding principles “for building a sustainable and harmonious world community.” As the website of the Four Worlds International Institute attests, these principles “emerged from a 36-year process of reflection, consultation and action within Indigenous communities across the Americas. They are rooted in the concerns of hundreds of aboriginal elders and leaders and thinkers, as well as in the best thinking of many non-aboriginal scholars, researchers and human and community development practitioners.” These guiding principles hold that, “Starting from within, working in a circle, in a sacred manner, we heal ourselves, our relationships and our world.” Phil Lane Jr., “The Fourth Way: Guiding Principles for Building a Sustainable and Harmonious Community,” accessed online 16 Dec 2012, http://www.fwii.net/forum/topics/the-fourth-way-guiding. The Four Worlds International Institute opened an “International Indigenous Training and Communications Hub” in Panama City in May 2013. 317 Baha’i teaching was not simply situated in the context of Indigenous cultural revitalization, but rather actively helped produce it. In Panama, for example, where Joyce Shales pioneered in the mid-1980s, development projects among the Guaymí Baha’i community focused closely on education and culture.106 In addition to working as a school principal, Shales, along with several other family members, also contributed to the establishment of a Baha’i radio station and cultural center in the small town of Boca de Soloy in the western Panamanian province of Chiriquí.107 Communication in this mountainous jungle region, Shales explained, was complicated by geography and poverty, which prevented scattered and isolated Guaymí family units from easily interacting or attending Baha’i gatherings. As she explained of the “Radio Baha’i” project, itself modeled on an earlier effort in Ecuador: Through consultation the people decided the best way for them to communicate was through radio. They wanted to build a radio station for that purpose. As they were getting it ready they then had to figure out what the programming was going to be composed of. One of the things they said was they should try and preserve Guaymí culture, and resurrect Guaymí traditions. But they question was, “What?” Because they had never danced in years until they danced at Baha’i conferences and other meetings. In decades nobody had danced traditional Guaymí dances, until they had danced at that school [the Guaymí Cultural Center]. And we danced traditional North American dances, because we brought dancers like Kevin Locke with us. Anyway, we showed them our dances to encourage them in their dances and celebrations. It was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed.108 106 For a review of these projects see “Social/Economic Development: Number of Projects Growing Rapidly,” Bahá’í News no.660 (March 1986), 11-12; “Institute trains tutorial school teachers,” Bahá’í News, no.640 (July 1984), 8-9; Warburg, Citizens of the World, 481-485. Baha’i expansion among Panama’s Indigenous population began in the same period (the “Ten Year Crusade” of 1953-1963) as Bolivia. “The Peoples of God: Part 5: Panama,” Bahá’í News no.572 (Nov 1978), 8-11. Where Baha’i sources regularly claim a Guaymí population of 8,000, Molly Marie Rhodenbaugh put numbers closer to 2,000 in her 1999 study, “The Ngöbe Bahá’ís of Panama” (MA thesis, Texas Tech University, 1999), 22-23, 88-94. Abdu’l-Baha identified Panama as a site of particular significance to Baha’is; a House of Worship was erected in the capital of Panama City in 1972. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Tablets of the Divine Plan, 33, 105. 107 The “Radio Station Transmitter Link” was included among the facilities of the Guaymí Cultural Center (or Ju Ngäbere) in Boca de Soloy; the radio tower itself was erected in another small town, Boca del Monte. “Guaymi Cultural Center Opens,” Bahá’í News no.675 (June 1987), 1. The Center opened in February 1987. In 1995, the Indigenous peoples formerly identified as Guaymí were officially recognized as the Ngöbe-Buglé; the Ngöbe, speakers of Ngawbere, are the people among whom Baha’is were most active. In keeping with Shales’ usage, I continue here to employ “Guaymí.” Rhodenbaugh, “The Ngöbe Bahá’ís of Panama,” 10. 108 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. “Guaymi Cultural Center Opens.” Ruhiyyih Khanum laid the cornerstone for the Center in 1985. “Guaymi Cultural Center is Dedicated,” Bahá’í News no.656 (Nov 1985), 12-13. For context on 318 The presence of Kevin Locke (who also took part in the Trail of Light project and travelled to Russia with the Healys in 1999) illustrates how such teaching efforts activated intertribal networks and relationships between Indigenous Baha’is from North America as well.109 In a 1993 study of the Guaymí Baha’i community, the anthropologist Whitney Lyn White also observed the impact of such transnational exchange, citing a Panamanian Baha’i who “described a visit from three North American Indians as a ‘turning point’ for the Guaymís.”110 In addition to the revitalization of dance, White posited that this interaction also contributed to a wider process of Guaymí ethnogenesis; where the Guaymí were formerly identified according to kin group, they came to forge a stronger sense of “Guaymí-ness, as a single ‘culture.’”111 Shales herself spoke to this process when she recalled asking a Guaymí woman after Kevin Locke’s performance if she had enjoyed the dancing and the woman responded by asking, “Is Kevin a Guaymí?” This suggests that the sense of Indigenous identification that narrators themselves Radio Baha’i see Helen Hornby, “Inauguration of Radio Bahá’í,” Bahá’í News (Jan 1979), 10-13; Kurt Hein, Radio Bahá’í, Ecucador: A Bahá’í Development Project (Oxford: George Ronald, 1988). And for context on broadcasting and mission in Central America see Vásquez and Marquardt, “‘Blitzing’ Central America: The Politics of Transnational Religious Broadcasting,” in Globalizing the Sacred, 197-222. The kind of “first return” that Shales describes was echoed by other narrators as well. Discussing her family’s time pioneering in Frobisher Bay, for example, Nedra Greenaway recalled that “One of the first conferences that we had in the early 70’s, was the first time that the Inuit drum was used again after 15-20 years.” Whether these in fact marked the very first returns as narrators claimed is less relevant here than the sense of identification that they cultivated through this activity. In her 1993 Masters thesis, Whitney Lyn White (now White Kazemipour) records that, “The Bahá’ís have revitalized a Guaymí dance, the jeki, and are innovating non-traditional steps to it.” Whitney Lyn White, “Binding Together: Guaymí Resistance and Construction of Religious Identity through the Bahá’í Faith” (MA thesis, University of California Los Angeles, 1993), 50. 109 A photo of Locke performing a Lakota hoop dance appears in the report, “Guaymi Cultural Center Opens,” 2. Another photo of him performing in Panama at a gathering organized in collaboration with the Kuna University Association appears in Bahá’í News no.699 (July 1989), 14. An email journal that Locke kept during his 1999 travels in Yakutia, a source that readily confirms the underlying Baha’i orientation of such travels, is available online, accessed 3 May 2013, http://www.kevinlocke.com/kevin/journal/yakutia/yakutia.html. 110 White, “Binding Together,” 49. White seems to be referring to a different group of North American Indigenous Baha’is than Shales and Locke were a part of, indicating a larger pattern of interaction and connection. 111 White, “Binding Together,” 50. Also White, “Binding Together,” 41-45. Consonant with the core argument of this study, White argues that Guaymí Baha’i conversion represents a form of resistance to subordination and a space of what she calls “high-order identity” (including religion, tradition, and ethnicity) construction. Writing six years after White, Marie Molly Rhodenburgh claimed that, “Ngöbe ethnicity and tradition are validated, but hold little symbolic power in the Ngöbe community. The emphasis is on the future.” Conversely, she also observed the presence of “Alaskan Inuit, Miskito, and Kuna” people at an Indigenous Congress hosted by Guaymí Baha’is in Soloy. Rhodenburgh, “The Ngöbe Bahá’ís of Panama,” 126, 2. 319 cultivated through such travel was not necessarily shared or understood in the same way by those with whom they interacted. This interaction, though, also contributed to the formulation of novel intertribal relationships within Panama. Speaking to another major take-away from her time in Central America, Shales observed, “what I learned there was that people had the same kinds of misconceptions about Indians that they have up here.”112 She recalled, in particular, resistance from non-Indigenous Baha’is in Panama to the prospect of holding a gathering to bring together Guaymí people from the interior and Kuna people from the San Blas Islands off the country’s Caribbean coast. As she explained: we thought it would be great to have a conference, and then people could exchange their ideas about the Baha’i Faith, language and cultural issues and whatever they wanted. And the non-Native Baha’is told us, “Oh no, those people used to fight each other.” Well, sure, they probably did. Some lived on the islands, and some lived inland. Of course they did, but now we wanted to get them together, but the non-Natives really resisted it. But we insisted that, “We think it’ll be alright.” The gathering did occur and was, by Shales’ account, a great success, with Guaymí and Kuna participants easily and energetically interacting. She added, though, that when time came for participants to be seated, the spatial configuration at the Guaymí Cultural Center presented an obstacle: So when we had everybody together and they were going to sit down, somebody had managed to put all the benches in a row, like pews in a church. And put a mic up front like a podium. And when Loretta [Shales’ cousin] and I saw that we just looked at each other and shook our heads, and we weren’t in charge of the meeting so we just sat back and we sat there for a good half of the day, and they were trying to get the Guaymí women and other people to talk and nobody would say one word. So, finally at noon Loretta went and talked to the organizers and said, “Look, why don’t you put the seating in a circle and see what happens? Because we are not getting anywhere this way.” The reason for the conference was for people to get to know one another and to consult about issues that concerned them as a whole body. The result, Shales recalled, “was like magic”: 112 Shales, interview, 30 July 2008. 320 It started everybody talking. The women, who traditionally don’t speak up, started talking, and you couldn’t get them quiet. They knew what they were talking about and they were just right in there, it was just like magic. It was a breakthrough. One can’t assume everyone else consults like Westerners do, in a Western-oriented meeting. So when I say we learned things, that’s what I mean. We learned that you have to be very careful in how you organize something, when you’re going into somebody else’s backyard, especially if it’s a Western model, and expect it to work. All we did was what we knew Native Americans like to do, which is sit in a circle. And that worked. And it blew my mind. I mean, we were just like, “Whoa.” That was magical! Because from then on the people just didn’t stop talking.113 Experience with intertribal organizing, including the Continental Indigenous Councils discussed in the last chapter, contributed to this outcome and the formulation of a broader sense of identification and solidarity between Indigenous Baha’is within Panama and across the hemisphere.114 Indeed, though Indigenous Baha’is actively supported the strength of Indigenous culture, their understandings of tradition were not static. This is vividly illustrated in another story from Panama that calls for lengthy citation. Continuing on from her discussion of radio programming and the pressing imperative of cultural renewal, Joyce Shales shared: One day I was sitting out on the sidewalk, sort of like a step. It was cool out there, and I was just sitting out there by myself when a young man came out and sat beside me. “Joyce,” he said, “When you try to save Guaymí culture, what should you save?” Because, you hear the story about how a bogeyman did some evil thing, a man down the stream, people were talking about other versions of such things. “Is that what we try to save? What is it we’re trying to save?” Because they had all these stories about bogeymen in the forest, just like the Tlingits had. So he said, “So what is it we’re trying to save?” Because he had no idea. And I said, “I don’t know. Let me think about it for a minute.” So I thought about it and thought about it. “Well, what is it that makes a good Guaymí?” And he said to me, “Well, you mean like when a man walks in the forest and he sees a beautiful flower, he should think about his sister? You mean like that?” And I said, “Yeah, that’s what you should save.” That’s all. I almost wept, when he said that to 113 Shales, interview, 30 July 12. White similarly observed limited contact between non-Indigenous and Guaymí Baha’is and changes in women’s status and the construction of pan-Indigenous connections by way of Baha’i observance. White, “Binding Together,” 9, 19-20, 24-26, 56. Shales’ cousin, Loretta King, has served on a number of international Baha’i institutions and spent over a decade serving at the Baha’i World Centre in Haifa. 114 A report on the 1980 Continental Indigenous Council in Wilmette makes specific mention of the circular seating formation adopted in aid of consultation. “Native Council,” 3. 321 me. Who would think of that? [pause] So it’s sometimes simple, and sometimes complex. So it’s what makes a good Guaymí! Shales continued, tying the query to her own Tlingit history: And that satisfied him. At least for that time. What is it that makes a good Guaymí? Probably somebody who’s honourable. And what else do you need to save? Some of the other things, I suppose just like we did. “You should always listen,” that’s what my dad would tell me. He didn’t say, “Be proud you’re a Tlingit because the Tlingits could beat everybody on the West Coast.” No, he didn’t say that. He said, “Listen. Ask three times, so that you know that you’re really wanting to know about something.” Things like that, that’s what he emphasized. What makes a good Tlingit? That’s what came to me.115 This exchange offers a compelling glimpse into the intense searching that Indigenous people faced as they sought to not just to carry, but construct their cultures in and for the future. And it indicates how Indigenous Baha’is were not afraid to evaluate tradition according to their own religious vision. The vision that Indigenous Baha’i teachers activated was locally grounded, while geared, ultimately, to the global. Speaking to her family’s twin mandate in the Arctic, for example, Nedra Greenaway explained that they aimed to function as a “window to the world” and encourage Inuit cultural revitalization.116 This did not, significantly, mean maintaining or reviving all aspects of Inuit culture; Greenaway spoke, for example, about what she called “superstitious” elements of Inuit shamanism, such as fear of bad spirits, as something that has no place in the “scientific” Baha’i religion.117 Indeed, Greenaway connected teaching efforts to the 115 Shales, interview, 30 July 12. 116 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. “Window to the world” refers here not just to the global perspective Baha’is aimed to cultivate, but is also the name given to a trio of “Baha’i Houses” established in the North (Baker Lake, Frobisher Bay, and Yellowknife) in the late 1960s and early 1970s. 117 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. Greenaway observed that the Anglican Church in the Arctic had amplified such “superstitious” fears. “Bad spirits,” she explained, “became for the Christianized Inuit ‘the devil.’ Somebody could come from the devil, and mislead you, cause you harm. Christianity was couched in the words, ‘You’re from the devil,’ so you can harm a person, you can influence them in a negative way. Sympathetic bad magic.” The church, she explained, also applied such ideas to (and encyclicals against) the Baha’is in the Arctic, instilling a great amount of initial trepidation and fear towards the religion among the Inuit. As noted in Chapter 6, not all Indigenous Baha’is necessarily share the interpretation that belief in “bad spirits” qualifies as superstition. For a nuanced recent reading of Inuit shamanism and Christianity see Frédéric B. Laugrand and Jarich G. Oosten, 322 elaboration of a worldwide Baha’i culture and civilization. “We don’t yet have a Baha’i culture,” she explained, “we’re inventing it. And because of that, everybody’s going to bring in their own culture.” As she continued, channeling Abdu’l-Baha: Another concept is, Abdu’l-Baha said that, “Each culture has a particular genius,” something that is good that they can contribute to the world. And so the Indigenous peoples have to discover their genius that they can contribute to the world, to a world culture that we’re building. And so that’s why, when we went to the Arctic, it was, you know, it was to find their particular genius.118 Greenaway and her husband, who joined in our interview, identified Inuit methods of consultation, along with “their tenacity, resilience and endurance in the face of extreme hardship,” as genius qualities that they might gift to the world.119 Other narrators echoed this perspective and the global Indigenous identification that it implied. Kevin Locke, for example, observed that: I think that’s the beautiful thing about the Baha’i Faith is that what Baha’u’llah has brought is the divine standard, this brilliant light, and I think this is maybe a process that many people go through, they are able to use that light and shine it on their cultural or spiritual heritage and that way they can identify those universal elements of their heritage. And I found that a lot of the Native people all over the world, not just in North and South America, they’re able to see the beautiful aspects of their heritage and to realize that those beautiful aspects, they’re like gifts that we can offer as a people towards this emerging global civilization.120 Locke stressed that in his own performance program, which features Lakota story, song, and dance, his goal is not “to indoctrinate or to convert or to try and accentuate a cultural or tribal- specific interpretation”: The only thing I do, my goal is just to celebrate, well really, Baha’i themes. The oneness of the human family, the universality of the human spirit. So really, my program, all I do is I use my own cultural lens to accentuate universal themes.121 Inuit Shamanism and Christianity: Transitions and Transformations in the Twentieth Century (Montreal: McGill- Queen’s University Press, 2010). 118 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 119 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008. 120 Locke, interview. 121 Locke, interview. 323 Like Baha’i community building, teaching was fundamentally aligned towards this religious vision of global rapprochement. Yet teaching, and the global Indigenous perspective that it helped to produce, did not negate tribal identities. Locke explained in our interview together, for example, that “the main identity that I have is as a world citizen,” but he also introduced himself as “a citizen of the Standing Rock Sioux tribe or the Lakota Nation.”122 As the examples of Shales and Lane attest, travel teaching and pioneering could extend specific family histories and Indigenous missionary identities. And sometimes, it could even bring people back to tribal territory. The Alaskan “homecoming” that Mary Gubatayao-Hagen described so vividly in Chapter 6, for example, was propelled by the urge to pioneer among her own people.123 Klara Tyler, for her part, not only pioneered to the Nez Perce reservation in Idaho; she also travel taught on Vancouver Island, where she reconnected with her Nuu-chah-nulth relatives.124 For Nedra Greenaway, conversely, pioneering also offered the chance to “dig her root” in China. After moving south from Frobisher Bay to the Winnipeg area in 1977, she and her husband twice pioneered to China, first in 1987- 1991 and again, after returning for four years to the town then called Iqaluit, in 1998-2005.125 Teaching, then, was another avenue through which adherents strengthened their own specific tribal (and, in cases like Greenaway’s, also other) identities. But it was also an activity through which Baha’is cultivated a much wider global formulation of Indigeneity as well. Called, as a matter of core religious duty, to disseminate their religion, adherents deepened their Baha’i identities through teaching. Much of the teaching that Indigenous Baha’is carried out took place 122 Locke, interview. 123 Gubatayao-Hagen, interview. 124 Klara Tyler, interview. Ditidaht Baha’i John Thomas travelled in the reverse direction, from Vancouver Island to Neah Bay. See Horton, “‘According to your faith so shall your power and blessings be,’” 109. 125 Greenaway, interview, 12 March 2008 and 15 Aug 2008. These two pioneering paths sometimes directly intersected. On one occasion, for example, a Greenlandic Inuk Baha’i who the Greenaways met in the Arctic visited them in China, where he forged connections based on a sense of shared relationship. 324 in quiet everyday ways through service that made significant contributions to the strength and health of Indigenous peoples, in North America and elsewhere. Operating, both physically and conceptually, within a global framework, teachers fostered an activist sense of Indigenous identification on the basis of prophecy, common colonial history, and cultural resonance and renewal. And in the process, they became both Indigenous and Baha’i. 325 Chapter 9: Closing Blessed is the spot, and the house, and the place, and the city, and the heart, and the mountain, and the refuge, and the cave, and the valley, and the land, and the sea, and the island, and the meadow where mention of God hath been made, and His praise glorified. - Baha’u’llah At Ogden Point in Victoria, British Columbia, where the breakwater holds back the sea, this Baha’i prayer is inscribed in the local Lekwungen language. This is Na’Tsa’Maht, the Unity Wall, another product of the hidden, and living, history of Indigenous Baha’i activism. Led by Esquimalt Baha’i artist and author Darlene Gait and Songhees artist and educator Butch Dick, the Na’Tsa’Maht project has brought together Indigenous and non-Indigenous youth to produce a large mural lining the inside wall of the breakwater, thus, as the project website attests, “Bridging cultures, honouring history and celebrating resiliency through the art of the Coast Salish Nations.”1 And Jacob Bighorn, to bring us back to where we started, is here too. Gait designed one of the mural panels to memorialize the many eagles that were seen circling a hospital in Victoria when Bighorn passed away there in the fall of 2008.2 The idea, again, that a 1 Accessed online 21 May 2013, http://www.theunitywall.ca/. The project was launched in 2009 and has thus far included two phases, sponsored by the Greater Victoria Harbour Authority; donations and sponsorships are being solicited to further extend the mural. 2 On an interpretive sign accompanying the mural, Gait shares the story of the panel titled, “Jacob’s Eagles (Darlene’s Story)”: “In October 2008, my father lay dying of cancer in a Victoria hospital. Across from his room lay Jacob Bighorn from the Lakota tribe, a man of strong spiritual beliefs and Native Baha’i. Jacob often told those for whom he cared ‘if you live a life of service to your people, the eagles will come to guide your spirit when it’s time to leave this earth.’ One morning, as my mother headed to the hospital, she noticed dozens of bald eagles flying across the water and over the highway. We too, on our way to Victoria, noticed many eagles circling the hospital. When we arrived, my father told us Jacob had passed on. Many people called the hospital asking if a Holy man had passed away.” This passage also appears on the Unity Wall website, accessed online 21 May 2013, http://www.theunitywall.ca/phase_1.php. 326 Lakota man of Presbyterian background from Montana would come to be buried as a Baha’i on Vancouver Island, then memorialized in a project that affirms, through Baha’i prayer and practice, both intercultural learning and local Indigenous ties to land and sea is, according to conventional understandings of Indigenous identity and conversion, unexpected. But as this study has born out, Bighorn’s story is part of a broader history that unsettles this very idea of unexpectedness. From Bighorn on the breakwater, to a Tlingit Baha’i from Sitka among the Guaymí in Panama, or an Indipino adherent from the Seattle area returning home to Alaska as a Baha’i pioneer, Indigenous Baha’i histories offer multitudinous examples of what the Dakota Sioux cultural historian Philip J. Deloria has called “Indians in unexpected places.”3 This idea of unexpectedness derives from static assumptions of tradition that cast Indigenous peoples and modernity as mutually exclusive. And that see Indigenous conversion to other faiths as assimilation or capitulation. Indians and cars, Indians and pizza, Indians and casinos, Indians and Christianity – colonial politics of savagery and authenticity paint such pairings as incompatible yet, as Deloria and others have demonstrated, they are instead charged, and historically specific, sites of negotiation.4 We ought not, of course, lose sight of the very real, very damaging, work that such colonial expectations and attendant exclusions continue to produce. Rather, in starting from a new place of expectation, one that takes the potential of Indigenous modernities, and mobility, as a given and seeks, subsequently, to their illuminate their specific production, historians can help undo such unexpectedness altogether. 3 Philip J. Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2004). 4 For example, Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places; Alexandra Harmon, Rich Indians: Native People and the Problem of Wealth in American History (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010); Susan Neylan, The Heavens are Changing: Nineteenth-Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003). 327 I situate and offer this study in this spirit. Indeed, Indigenous Baha’i histories are a particularly rich site in which to plumb the simultaneous production of modern Indigenous and religious identities. The Baha’i Faith itself emerged in a context of mid-nineteenth-century modernism and millenarian expectation in Iran and was, and still is, frequently framed as a rational faith free from the fetters of empty repetitious ritual and fear-based superstition. The religion did not arrive in North America at the turn of the twentieth century readymade, but was instead constructed in specific contexts of combination. Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy concerning the Indigenous peoples of the Americas, in particular, underwent a series of literal and figurative translations as it made its way to the Indigenous teaching field. And “Indianness” too, a category itself born of colonialism, was produced in specific contexts of power and exchange. Colonial policy in North America throughout the twentieth century erected sharp and shifting parameters of Indigenous identity and, in the process, contributed to the cultivation of a sense of shared identification among diverse Indigenous peoples on the basis of common experiences of colonialism. Narrators in this study inherited these intersecting genealogies of “Indianness” and the Baha’i Faith. And in adopting a broad transnational framework that captures the contours of current Indigenous Baha’i community, this study illustrates that there was no fixed pathway towards becoming Indigenous and Baha’i. The Baha’i Faith was a religion that “made sense” (or, better, which Indigenous people who declared as Baha’is made sense, and meaning, of) in light of diverse experiences and interpretations of colonialism, Christianity, and Indigenous spirituality alike. In the ongoing context of colonialism in Canada and the United States, the opportunity for independent religious investigation and choice proved deeply empowering for a number of narrators. Further, progressive revelation and unity in diversity, teachings that narrators 328 described as rational, helped reconcile what many had experienced as hypocrisy and prejudice from Christian churches, and settler society at large. A number of narrators came to investigate and connect with the Baha’i Faith through a Christian lens and eschatological expectations concerning the return of Christ. For some, becoming Baha’i was likewise an explicit extension of family histories of Indigenous Christian leadership. Indigenous spiritual influences such as dream, vision, and prophecy also proved a strong inspiration for declaration. I examined rational and spiritual declaration stories separately in this study in order to underline their distinctions. Overlap, however, between these paths simultaneously reveals that explanation for declaration cannot be reduced to either pole alone. Declaration, in the context of this study, was not only a statement of faith, but an expression of Indigeneity as well and narrators assembled a wide range of identifications under the Baha’i umbrella. For some, the process of becoming Baha’i served to strengthen an existing sense of Indigenous (often tribal) self, outside of colonial strictures. For others, conversely, the religion proved a supportive space and structure in which they came to cultivate and openly claim an Indigenous identity for the first time. Many articulated and activated such identification immediately upon their declarations. For some others, this came by way of later Baha’i practice. Indeed, “living the life” as a Baha’i brought narrators into new formulations of community as well. Calling on a revivalist idiom of Indigenous culture that emerged in the period that narrators became Baha’is (and which Baha’is themselves helped produce), some narrators described coming to participate in cultural practices such as sweat lodge and pipe ceremony and drumming, singing, and dancing directly by way of their Baha’i observance. And with this activity, and the wider community life that it typically brought Baha’is into, they further deepened both tribal and intertribal identities. Personal religious practice, in turn, often intersected closely (indeed, 329 inseparably) with Baha’i teaching activity. Motivated by a general Baha’i call to teach, and the additional propulsion of Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy, Indigenous Baha’is participated in a wide range of teaching initiatives among other Indigenous peoples, in North America and elsewhere, producing, in the process, a sense of global Indigenous identification. This teaching work often took the subtle form of service in such areas as Indigenous cultural revitalization, community development, education, social work, and health. Indigenous (and other) Baha’is have made contributions to such fields disproportionate to their small numbers. This history deserves attention unto itself and should alert scholars to the religious motivations possibly underpinning other expressions of Indigenous activism in this period as well. The explicitly global orientation and aspiration of the Baha’i Faith prompts questions concerning the place of place in this story. Existing local and regional studies of Indigenous Baha’is illustrate that Baha’i declaration and practice, including transnational travel, did not extinguish specific tribal identities (as Diné, for example, or Lakota, Tagish, or Tlingit) or ties to particular place.5 This study, too, has illuminated how some narrators strengthened their tribal identities, even returned to tribal territory, by way of becoming Baha’i. Not all narrators, however, had or centered such specific ties and land was not a subject that emerged in detail in my interviews overall. There is a need for more nuanced and nimble frameworks and vocabulary for analyzing varied Indigenous articulations like these. Emerging concepts of Indigenous transnationalism are helpful for unsettling the settler state and taking in mobility and connections between, say, urban and reservation settings. Yet nationalism in any key is a somewhat uneasy fit 5 See Linda S. Covey, “Diné Becoming Bahá’í: Through the Lens of Ancient Prophecies” (MA thesis, Missouri State University, 2011); Lynn Echevarria, “A New Skin for an Old Drum: Changing Contexts of Yukon Aboriginal Bahá’í Storytelling,” The Northern Review 29 (Fall 2008), 39-62; Carolyn Patterson Sawin, “Native Conversion, Native Identity: An Oral History of the Bahá’í Faith among First Nations People in the Southern Central Yukon Territory, Canada” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2000); Pauline Tuttle, “The Hoop of Many Hoops: The Integration of Lakota Ancestral Knowledge and Bahá’í Teachings in the Performative Practices of Kevin Locke” (PhD thesis, University of Washington, 2002). 330 with the global Baha’i vision. Going forward, this apparent tension, and the related question of how rooted expressions of specific Indigenous peoplehood have been articulated with Baha’u’llah’s routed vision of the earth as one country and humanity its citizens, bears further investigation.6 The specific oral histories that I explore in this study are the product of intersubjective interactions between narrators and I. More than simply sources of data about the past, these interviews are themselves active expressions of Indigenous Baha’i identity. They offer rich, often intimate, insight into the ways that narrators themselves plot their lives and I have created space in this study to allow these stories room to breathe. Narrators shared composed declaration stories, in particular, in which they called on their contemporary Baha’i vocabulary to recall and reconstruct their personal “paths of search” that led them to the Baha’i Faith. Some likewise expressed ongoing interpretation of Indigenous spiritual connections that inspired their declarations and drew on contemporary discourse surrounding residential schools, and a related narrative of colonialism’s history, to articulate their experiences. The declaration stories that narrators shared were, by and large, narratives of empowerment. Interviews also reveal narratives of disappointment as well, however, as some narrators described encountering dismissive and disrespectful attitudes within the Baha’i community towards the Indigenous perspectives and practices that were central to their experiences of becoming Baha’i. The Baha’i prohibition on backbiting, coupled, quite likely, with Indigenous teachings on silence and respect, contributed to a significant quiet surrounding intra-Baha’i tension. Yet hints, and some explicit examples, of such dynamics did emerge. 6 For a recent study that reflects thoughtfully on the place of place in articulations of Māori Indigeneity in New Zealand, while uniquely tracking Māori maritime connections with Pacific peoples, see Alice Te Punga Somerville, Once Were Pacific: Māori Connections to Oceania (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012). 331 For narrators in this study, the process of becoming Baha’i was more than just a project of personal “salvation,” in the sense of deepening their own individual, and even shared, Indigenous identities. It was also, and remains, a project of intercultural learning, relationship building, and reconciliation (a term that Baha’is tend to use more often than decolonization). Some narrators were first drawn to the Baha’i Faith by the conduct of non-Indigenous adherents, as much as abstract religious principle, and many have forged lasting relationships of mutual respect with other Baha’is. Unity in diversity, to be sure, has yet to be fully achieved within the Baha’i community. Colonial tensions of intercultural communication and normative patterns of non-Indigenous practice and privilege have caused pain, and retreat, for a number of Indigenous Baha’is. In speaking to such tensions, which most did subtly, a number of narrators framed them as “learning opportunities” and inevitable ruts along what they considered a fresh path towards peace. This emphasis on process is striking and revealing of a clear sense of historical consciousness through which Baha’is take a long view of their task of building a New World Order. Though relatively few in number, Indigenous Baha’is themselves continue to work, in many ways, towards the global Baha’i goal of unity in diversity. Abdu’l-Baha’s prophecy remains, in this way, a strong inspiration and in reflecting on the particular gifts that Indigenous peoples have to share with the world, many narrators pointed to Indigenous teachings of relationship that connect humanity, and the nonhuman world as well, in sacred kinship. 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Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1996. ______. “Social Activism Among Some Early Twentieth-Century Baha’is.” Socialist Studies: The Journal of the Society for Socialist Studies 2, no. 1 (Spring 2006): 77-96. van der Veer, Peter, ed. Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christian Modernities. New York: Routledge, 1996. Vásquez, Manuel A. and Marie Friedmann Marquardt. Globalizing the Sacred: Religion Across the Americas. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2003. Velho, Otávio. “Missionization in the Postcolonial World: A View from Brazil and Elsewhere.” In Transnational Transcendence: Essays on Religion and Globalization. Edited by Thomas Csordas. Translated by David Rogers, 31-54. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009. Venters, Louis E III. “‘Most Great Reconstruction’: The Baha’i Faith in Jim Crow South Carolina, 1898-1965.” PhD thesis, University of South Carolina, 2010. Verge, Patricia. 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Europe and the People without History. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982. Wong, Hertha Dawn. My Heart Back Across the Years: Tradition and Innovation in Native American Autobiography. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Wright, Thomas C. State Terrorism in Latin America: Chile, Argentina, and International Human Rights. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2007. Wyman, June. “Becoming a Baha’i: Discourse and Social Networks in an American Baha’i Community.” PhD thesis, The Catholic University of America, 1985. Young, Richard Fox and Joel Robbins. “Horton’s ‘Intellectualist’ Theory of Conversion, Reflected on by a South Asianist.” In Beyond Conversion and Syncretism: Indigenous Encounters with Missionary Christianity, 1800-2000. Edited by David Lindenfeld and Miles Richardson, 115-34. New York: Berghahn, 2012. Younging, Gregory, Jonathan Dewar, and Mike DeGagné, eds. Response, Responsibility, and Renewal: Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Journey. Ottawa: Aboriginal Healing Foundation, 2009. Yow, Valerie. Recording Oral History: A Guide for the Humanities and Social Sciences. Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2005. Yu, Henry. “Refracting Pacific Canada: Seeing Our Uncommon Past.” Special Issue of BC Studies no. 156 (Winter 2007/08): 5-10. Zakharvo, Dmitry N. “The Example of Sakha (Yakutia).” In An Indigenous Parliament? Realities and Perspectives in Russian and the Circumpolar North. Edited by Katrin Wessendorf, 88-97. Copenhagen: Iwgia, 2005. Zorgy, Michael J. “Lost in Conflation: Visual Culture and Constructions of the Category of Religion.” American Indian Quarterly 35, no. 1 (Winter 2011): 1-55. 374 Appendix 1: The Narrators The following offers brief background sketches of narrators, situating when and where they grew up and became Baha’is and their Indigenous heritage. To convey the generational scope of the study, these sketches are organized chronologically based on year of birth. These sketches draw on details that narrators shared in their interviews with me and during follow up communication; in cases where I do not know a narrator’s specific year of birth, I have situated their sketch based on other contextual details shared in the interview. Kl ara Ty l e r was of Ehattesaht (Nuu-chah-nulth) and German heritage and was born 8 May 1923 on the Puyallup Indian Reservation near Tacoma, Washington. She was raised in an intercultural community on the Puyallup Reservation and in Port Angeles and Pysht on the Olympic Peninsula. She declared as a Baha’i on the Makah Reservation in Neah Bay in 1956. Our interview took place at her home in Neah Bay, Washington. Tyler passed away in Lewiston, Idaho on 25 May 2013. Jane Gro v e r was born 17 August 1939 in Albany, New York. She is of Abenaki and White heritage and grew up in New Hampshire. She declared as a Baha’i in Peterborough, New Hampshire in January 1965. Our interview took place at her home in McMinnville, Oregon. El e ano ra Mc D e rmo tt is Peigan and was born 28 September 1939 on the Peigan Reserve in southern Alberta, where she attended the Anglican St. Cyprian Residential School. She attended high school in Pincher Creek, then St. Paul Residential School on the Blood Reserve, then Alberta College in Edmonton. McDermott’s parents, Samson and Rose Knowlton, became Baha’is during the time that she was attending Alberta College and McDermott declared a number of years later, at a 1983 birthday party for her father; she did not become active in the religion until several years later. Our interview took place in the company of two other narrators – McDermott’s sister, Beverley Knowlton, and Allison Healy – at McDermott’s home in Calgary. N e dra Gre e naw ay is of Chinese and Métis heritage. She was born 12 February 1941 and grew up in the town of Bowness, on the outskirts of Calgary, Alberta. She declared as a Baha’i in 1964 while living in Kitimat, British Columbia. Our two interviews took place at Greenaway’s home in Robert’s Creek, on the Sunshine Coast in British Columbia, and included her husband, Don. A l l i s o n He al y is Blackfoot (Siksika and Kainai) and was born in 1942 on the Siksika Indian Reserve in southern Alberta. She attended a Catholic residential school in Cluny for much of her childhood, then spent time at school and work in Red Deer, Edmonton, and Calgary. She declared as a Baha’i at her home on the Blood (Kainai) Reserve in February 1972. Our first interview took place on the campus of Mount Royal College in Calgary; the second took place at my home when I was living in North Vancouver, British Columbia. D o nal d A ddi s o n was born 13 November 1942 in Klamath Falls, Oregon. He is of Choctaw and White heritage and grew up in Eugene, Oregon, where he became a Baha’i in 1960. Our interview took place at Addison’s home in Eugene. 375 Chri s Co o k Jr. is ‘Namgis (Kwakwaka’wakw) and was born 25 December 1942. He grew up in Alert Bay, located off the northeastern tip of Vancouver Island, and also spent time living in Vancouver, British Columbia in his youth. He declared as a Baha’i in 1991 at the home of Patrick and Sandra Slobodian, friends he met during their time as Baha’i pioneers in Alert Bay during the early 1980s. Our interview took place at the offices of the Native Fishing Association in West Vancouver, British Columbia. Phi l i p Lane Jr. is of Chickasaw and Yankton Sioux heritage. He was born at Haskell Indian School on 3 July 1944 and lived with his parents for a period in the Canal Zone in Panama before the family settled in Walla Walla, Washington. He declared as a Baha’i around 1967 in Pendleton, Oregon. Our interview took place at Lane’s home in Whiterock, British Columbia. Jo y c e S hal e s is Tlingit, and has Haida and Jewish ancestry as well, and grew up in the southeastern Alaskan town of Sitka. She declared as a Baha’i in 1964, around the age of twenty, while living in Fairbanks, Alaska. Our interviews took place at her home in Seabeck, Washington. Jac o b B i g ho rn was Lakota. He was born 19 November 1945 and grew up on the Fort Peck Reservation in Montana. Bighorn declared as a Baha’i in 1998 while living in Salem, Oregon. Our interviews took place at Bighorn’s homes in Duncan, British Columbia (he and his family moved between the time of our two interviews; our second interview included his wife, Deloria). Bighorn passed away in Victoria, British Columbia on 4 October 2008. Li nda Co v e y is of Cherokee, Southern Cheyenne, and German heritage; she also has French and English ancestry. She was born in Fort Sumner, New Mexico and grew up in the Ozark region of Missouri. Covey declared as a Baha’i in Missouri in 1970. Our interview took place at a home in Evanston, Illinois, where Covey was then working in the field of elder care. S te v e Co o k is ‘Namgis (Kwakwaka’wakw) and grew up in Alert Bay, British Columbia, where he declared as a Baha’i in 1995. Our research conversation (we did not do a formal recorded interview) took place at Cook’s home in Alert Bay. J. C. Luc as is Hesquiaht (Nuu-chah-nulth). Lucas grew up on the west coast of Vancouver Island and attended residential school until the age of sixteen. He declared as a Baha’i in 1982 at a gathering in Bowser, on Vancouver Island. Our interview took place at a restaurant in Nanaimo, British Columbia. Le e B ro w n is of Cherokee heritage and was born in 1947. He grew up in the small town of Washougal, Washington and declared as a Baha’i in Seattle in the mid-1970s. Our interviews took place at Brown’s home in Vancouver, British Columbia. Lo ri ntha U mtuc h is Yakama. She was born 26 March 1947 and grew up on the Yakama Reservation in south-central Washington, where she declared as a Baha’i in 1966. Our interview took place at Umtuch’s home in Toppenish, on the Yakama Reservation. 376 Jo hn S arg e nt is of Mohawk and White heritage. He was born 1 January 1949 and spent portions of his childhood living with his maternal grandparents on the Six Nations Reserve in southern Ontario and in Rochester, New York and with his paternal grandparents in Windsor Locks, Connecticut. He moved to Casper, Wyoming with his parents at the age of nine or ten and became a Baha’i there several years later. Our interviews took place by telephone, with Sargent at his home in Kamloops, British Columbia. B e v e rl e y Kno w l to n is Peigan and grew up on the Peigan Reserve in southern Alberta. Her parents, Samson and Rose Knowlton, became Baha’is when she was about seven or eight years old and Knowlton declared as a Baha’i at the age of fifteen, the Baha’i “age of maturity.” Our interview took place in a vehicle en route from Calgary to a gathering at the Sylvan Lake Baha’i School located in Sylvan Lake, Alberta. D e l o ri a B i g ho rn is of Chickasaw and Yankton Sioux heritage. She was born 15 July 1952 and grew up in Walla Walla, Washington, where she declared as a Baha’i on 28 August 1969. Our first of two interviews took place at her daughter’s home in Vancouver, British Columbia; our second interview, which included her husband, Jacob, took place at the couple’s home in Duncan, British Columbia. Ti na Rai nw ate r Kahn is of Cherokee, Osage, and Hungarian heritage. She was born 23 June 1953 on the Fort Ord navy base in Monterey, California and grew up in the northeastern California town of Truckee. Kahn became a Baha’i in 1966 after hearing about the religion from a travelling encyclopedia salesman; she formally declared at the age of fifteen. Our interview took place at the home of Tina and her husband, Alfred, located in Pine Springs, Arizona, on the Navajo Reservation. Mary Gubatay ao - Hag e n is of Tlingit, Tsimshian, and Filipino heritage. She was born 11 February 1954 and grew up in the “Indipino” community in the greater Seattle area. She declared as a Baha’i in 1981 in San Jose, California. Our interviews took place by telephone, with Mary at her home in Juneau, Alaska. S c o tt Ty l e r (son of narrator Klara Tyler) is of Ehattesaht, Makah, German, and English heritage. He was born 2 March 1954 in Port Angeles, Washington and grew up in Neah Bay and Seattle. Tyler also spent six years of his youth living with his family as Baha’i pioneers on the Nez Perce Reservation in Idaho. He declared as a Baha’i in 1969. Our interview took place at Tyler’s medical office (he is a family doctor) in Bellevue, Washington. Ke v i n Lo c ke is Lakota and Anishinabe. He was born in 1954 and was introduced to the Baha’i Faith by pioneers on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation where he declared as a Baha’i in 1979. Our interview took place by telephone, with Locke at his home in Wakpala, South Dakota, on the Standing Rock Reservation. Li nda Lo f t is of Mohawk and Ojibwa heritage. She grew up in a Baha’i family on the Tyendinaga reserve in Ontario and formally declared as a Baha’i in 1972. Our interview took place at Loft’s home in Meade’s Creek, on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. 377 Ro be rt Ge o rg e is Quw’utsun’ and grew up in Duncan, British Columbia, where he declared as a Baha’i in 1979 at the age of nineteen. Our interview took place at the Hiiye’yu Lelum House of Friendship in Duncan. S o nny V o y ag e ur is Kwakwaka’wakw, on his mother’s side; his father is also Indigenous, from Fort Chipewyan, Alberta. Voyageur grew up in Victoria, British Columbia and declared as a Baha’i in 1988. Our interview took place at a restaurant in North Vancouver, British Columbia. 
work_k4d4ag7i2jbivlshvr2m552ut4	----	Translation and Chaos: Poetry Translators’ Agency in a Non-Hegemonic Network. A Digital Humanities Approach. Raluca Andreia Tanasescu Under the supervision of Marc Charron, Ph.D. Thesis submitted to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies in partial fulfillment of the requirements for a doctoral degree in Translation Studies School of Translation and Interpretation University of Ottawa © Raluca Andreia Tanasescu, Ottawa, Canada, 2018 ii Translation and Chaos: Poetry Translators’ Agency in a Non-Hegemonic Network. A Digital Humanities Approach. Raluca Andreia Tanasescu School of Translation and Interpretation University of Ottawa Abstract: This project examines the role played by chaos in shaping and defining the translation activity in a non-hegemonic context, with a focus on literary translation. Based on English-language U.S. and Canadian contemporary poetry translation into Romanian between 1960 and 2017, it challenges the ‘major’ vs. ‘minor’ dichotomy and moves to show that a transnational framework and a networked understanding of translator agency are much better suited to account for the complexity of a translation sociography. Acknowledging a necessary shift that draws on an economy of attention more than on an economy of production (Cronin 2016), as well as on Michael Cronin’s politics of microspection and on Kobus Marais’ paradigm of complexity (2014), my work takes distance from the Bourdieusian dynamics of power that has prevailed in translation studies since the late 1990s and favors a network approach that accounts for disruption, decentralization, and voids. This dissertation seeks to acknowledge the role played by chance, chaos, and self-regulation in shaping the activity of literary translation through the deployment of a mathematical model that has been at the core of Web 2.0 since its very inception. In doing so, my research sets out to complement Bruno Latour’s Actor-Network-Theory with the mathematical notions of network and network of networks. I endeavor to explore the webs of connectivity as they appear in real-life contemporary poetry translator networks with the purpose of potentially laying the groundwork for a possible redefinition of translation across society and media of circulation. Translation can be conceived, I propose, as an act that is essentially, simultaneously and irreducibly linguistic, cultural, iii and social, but also individual and collective, material and virtual, online and offline. Under these circumstances, I conclude that a critical re-examination of translation studies in micromodernity through a Digital Humanities lens becomes necessary, if not imperative. Keywords: chaos theory, networks, literary translation, translator’s agency, translation studies, digital humanities. iv Traduction et chaos : l’agentivité des traducteurs de poésie dans un réseau non-hégémonique. Une approche numérique. Raluca Andreia Tanasescu École de traduction et d’interprétation Université d’Ottawa Résumé: Ce projet examine le rôle joué par le chaos dans l’élaboration et la définition de l’activité de traduction dans des contextes non-hégémoniques, en mettant l’accent sur la traduction littéraire. En s’appuyant sur la traduction de poésie contemporaine américaine et canadienne de langue anglaise en roumain de 1960 à 2017, ma recherche remet en question la dichotomie « majeur » contre « mineur » et formule l’hypothèse selon laquelle un cadre transnational et une compréhension en réseau de l’agentivité des traducteurs sont plus adéquats pour rendre compte de la complexité d’une sociographie de la traduction. Par la prise en compte d’un changement nécessaire qui se réclame d’une nouvelle économie de l’attention (Cronin 2016), de la politique de microspection (Cronin 2012) et du paradigme de la complexité (Marais 2014) je cherche à m’éloigner de la dynamique bourdieusienne du pouvoir qui a régné en traductologie au cours des vingt dernières années, en proposant une approche en réseau qui interroge la perturbation, la décentralisation et les vides qui apparaissent dans les réseaux des traducteurs littéraires, notamment dans le cas des traducteurs de poésie. Cette dissertation vise à reconnaître le rôle joué par le hasard, le chaos et l’autorégulation dans le façonnement de l’activité de traduction littéraire à travers le déploiement d’un modèle mathématique qui a été au cœur du Web 2.0 depuis sa création. Dans ce but, cette recherche combine la théorie de l’acteur-réseau de Bruno Latour et les notions mathématiques de réseau et de réseau de réseaux. Je me propose d’explorer les réseaux de connectivité tels qu’ils apparaissent dans le monde des traducteurs de poésie contemporaine en roumain pour jeter les bases d’une v redéfinition de la traduction à travers la société et les médias de circulation. La traduction peut être ainsi conçue comme un acte essentiellement, simultanément et irréductiblement linguistique, culturel et social, mais aussi individuel et collectif, matériel et virtuel, en ligne et hors ligne. Dans ce contexte, je conclus qu’un réexamen critique de la traductologie dans le cadre de la micro- modernité, et ce, suivant les enjeux des sciences humaines numériques devient nécessaire, voire impératif. Mots-clés : théorie du chaos; réseaux; traduction littéraire; agentivité du traducteur; traductologie; sciences humaines numériques. vi To Maria Sophia and Chris, with whom I connect the dots. vii Acknowledgements I would like to express my hearfelt thanks to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the province of Ontario, University of Ottawa, and the Faculty of Arts for the consistent and substantial financial support I received during my studies: I have never felt so encouraged and valued before and I truly hope this research meets at least part of their expectations. It has been a priviledge to be a Vanier Scholar and to be calling Canada home for the past five years. This network of institutional support would have been much more difficult to navigate without the invaluable guidance from my thesis director, Marc Charron—the center of my Canadian clique. Thank you so much, Marc, for believing in me and for always having my back. Few people are fortunate enough to meet a supervisor like you, so generous with his time and knowledge, so open and versatile. The slightest variation in picking my thesis director back in 2012, while browsing the School’s website on a rainy day in Paris, could have led to a totally different outcome. Most of my inspiration in writing this thesis comes from my husband, Chris, who has infected me with his enthusiasm for Digital Humanities and code, and for poetry translation. Thank you for bringing home piles of books, for always scouring libraries in search of the latest releases and the most sophisticated research, for parenting a rambunctious toddler while I worked, for setting my alarm every night, and for always standing by my side. You, Sophia, and I are the best team ever. I would also like to thank Luise von Flotow for her support during various stages of my studies and in organizing the conferences for the School of Translation, to Elizabeth Marshman for her encouragement and support during my Vanier Canada Graduate Scholarship application, as well as to Salah Basalamah and Rainier Grutman, who both had a good word for my research at some point during these five years. Finally, many thanks to my mother for her unconditional love and for feeding me good food—perhaps too good—, to Seymour Mayne, who inspired me to pursue a doctorate in translation studies, and to my extended family for the good vibes they always send my way. It has been an exciting time and I cannot believe this journey is over. viii Table of Contents List of Abbreviations ………………………………………………………………………………………………………. xi List of Tables and Figures ……………………………………………………………………………………………….. xi INTRODUCTION 0.1. Behind the Scenes ……………………………………………………………………………………………………. 1 0.2. Summary of Objectives, Questions, and Theoretical Framework …………………………….. 3 0.3. Corpus and Research Design …………………....................……………………………………………… 22 0.4. The State of Research ……………………………………………………………………………………………… 30 CHAPTER 1. EXPLORING ‘MESS’ AND CONNECTEDNESS 1.1. From Macro- to Micro-Modernity and Digital Humanism in Translation Studies ……… 47 1.1.1. Partial Pluralities …………………………………………………………………………………………….. 48 1.1.2. Everything Is a Mess: ‘Minority’ and ‘Minorness’ …...……………………………………….. 51 1.1.3. A New Politics of Precariousness: Acting at the Edge of Chaos …………………………. 60 1.2. A Chaos Paradigm: Applying Network Theory in Investigating Translators’ Agency...... 63 1.2.1. Complexity Thinking in Translation Studies ……………………………………………………… 63 1.2.2. Actor-Network Theory ……………………………………………………………………………………. 75 1.2.3. From Network Society (Back) to Network Science …………………………………………. 84 1.2.3.1. Castells’ and Van Dijk’s ‘Network Societies’ ……………...………………………… 84 1.2.3.2. Network Science and Graph Theory ……………...…………………………............ 88 1.2.4. Chaos in Translation Networks ……………...…………………………................................ 92 CHAPTER 2. TRANSLATOR AND AUTHOR NETWORKS IN PERIODICALS (2007-2017) 2.1. Micro-Charting Poetry Translation Networks in Romanian Print Literary Journals ....... 99 2.1.1. Endotic Travels into Contemporary Poetry Translation in Print Periodicals ......... 101 ix Table of Contents (continued) 2.1.2. Functionalist Description of the Corpus ............................................................... 105 2.1.3. A Network Analysis ……………...………………………….................................................. 118 2.1.4. Network-Driven Translation and the Poetics of Fecundity ……………...…………….. 134 2.2. (Dis)Connected Transnationalism ……………...…………………………..................................... 144 2.2.1. Translation and Transnational Movement ……………...…………………………............. 144 2.2.2. Translating the Land of Exile ……………...………………………….................................... 153 2.2.3. Transnational Literary Barters ……………...…………………………................................. 157 2.2.4. Literary Kinship, Scholarly Work, and Academic Mobility .................................... 167 2.3. Poetry Translation in the Technoscape ......................................................................... 181 2.3.1. A New Economy of Attention .............................................................................. 181 2.3.2. The Connective Turn: Translation as Echo-Statement ......................................... 184 2.3.3. Translators—the Digital Connection ................................................................... 188 CHAPTER 3. CHAOS OUT OF ORDER: TRANSLATIONS OF AMERICAN AND CANADIAN CONTEMPORARY POETRY INTO ROMANIAN BEFORE 1989 3.1. Translators’ Agency in a Centralized (‘Star-like’) Translation Network ......................... 196 3.2. The Earliest Connections to the ‘New World’ (1867-1918) ........................................... 201 3.3. U.S. Poetry Translation between the Two World Wars ................................................. 209 3.4. Contemporary U.S. and Canadian Poetry in Author-Collections after World War II ...... 215 3.5. Contemporary U.S. and Canadian Poets in Anthologies during Communism ................ 220 CHAPTER 4. ORDER OUT OF CHAOS: THE SELF-REGULATION OF THE COMPLEX POETRY TRANSLATION NETWORK AFTER THE FALL OF COMMUNISM .............................. 241 4.1. The Network Effect: Translating Rock Lyrics ................................................................. 243 x Table of Contents (continued) 4.1.1. Rock Lyrics as Subversion: Jesus Christ Superstar ............................................... 246 4.1.2. Bob Dylan Translated by Musicians .................................................................... 253 4.1.3. Dylan, a Feather in a Literary Cap ........................................................................ 260 4.1.4. Three Times Jim Morrison .................................................................................. 264 4.2. Romanian Mainstream and Indie Publishers of Translated Poetry after 1989 .............. 268 Conclusions ......................................................................................................................... 287 On the Usefulness of a Digital Humanities Approach in Translation Studies ..................... 293 Bibliography ....................................................................................................................... 295 Annex 1 – Partial Corpus of U.S. and Canadian Contemporary Poetry Translations in PP (2007-2017) ......................................................... 322 Annex 2 – NetworkX Analysis of the U.S. and Canadian Contemporary Poetry Translations in PP (2007-2017) ......................................................... 328 Annex 3 – NetworkX Analysis of the Transnational U.S. and Canadian Poetry Translations in PP (2007-2017) ................................................................................. 341 Annex 4 – NetworkX Analysis of the Contemporary American Poetry Author-Collections Translated before 1989 ............................................................ 345 Annex 5 – NetworkX Analysis of the Contemporary Canadian Poetry Anthologies Translated before 1989 ........................................................................ 348 Annex 6 – NetworkX Analysis of the Contemporary American Poetry Anthologies Translated before 1989 ........................................................................ 350 Annex 7 – NetworkX Analysis of the U.S. and Canadian Contemporary Poetry Author-Collections Translated between 1990 and 2017 ..................................................... 354 xi List of Abbreviations ANT: Actor-Network Theory bc: betweeness centrality CAS(s): Complex Adaptive System(s) cc: closeness centrality DH: Digital Humanities NLR: National Library of Romania PP: print periodicals U.S.: United States TS: translation studies List of Figures and Tables Chapter 2 Figure 1a. Network of contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translations in PP between 2007 and 2017 (without node labels) .................................................................. 121 Figure 1b. Network of contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translations in PP between 2007 and 2017 (with node labels) ....................................................................... 122 Figure 2a. The giant component (G0) in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (without node labels) .......................................................................................................... 123 Figure 2b. The giant component (G0) in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (with node labels) .......................................................................................................... 124 Table 1. The size of the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP ..................................... 125 Figure 3. The G1 component in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (Translators: L. Rusu, T. Moțet, A.E. Baconski, P. Solomon) ............................................... 126 Figure 4. The G2 component in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (Translators: F. Samulescu, D. Dragomirescu, S. Mihalache) .............................................. 126 Figure 5. Translator O. Iacob (bc = 0.3878) ......................................................................... 128 Figure 6. Translator A. Văsieș (bc = 0.1816) ....................................................................... 129 xii Figure 7. Author J. Ashbery (bc = 0.1177) ........................................................................... 129 Figure 8. Translator C. Tanasescu (bc = 0.1160) ................................................................. 130 Figure 9. Author C. Simic (bc = 0.0926) .............................................................................. 130 Figure 10. Translator N. Cassian (bc = 0.0856) ................................................................... 131 Figure 11. Translator L. Ofileanu (bc = 0.0852) .................................................................. 131 Figure 12. Author C.K. Williams (bc = 0.0583) and D. Levertov (bc = 0.0583) .................... 132 Figure 13. Author S. Plath (bc = 0.0577) ............................................................................. 132 Figure 14. Transnational and academia-related translations in PP (2007-2017) – G ......... 150 Figure 15. Transnational and academia-related translations in PP (2007-2017) – G0 ....... 152 Figure 16. The circulation of translations in the Zona Nouă complex network .................. 192 Chapter 3 Figure 17a. Contemporary U.S. poetry collections translated before 1989 ....................... 199 Figure 17b. Network of publishers, authors, and translators before 1989 ........................ 200 Figure 18a. Anthologies of contemporary Canadian poetry before 1989 .......................... 226 Figure 18b. Contemporary Canadian poets selected both by Univers and Albatros ......... 227 Table 2. Number of poems per contemporary author in the Albatros and Univers anthologies of Canadian poetry .......................................................................................... 228 Figure 19. Network of U.S. poets published in anthologies before 1989 ........................... 238 Chapter 4 Figure 20. Contemporary English-language U.S. and Canadian poetry collections translated after 1989 ............................................................................ 269 Figure 21. Translation projects associated with mainstream Paralela 45, Humanitas, Cartea românească, and Editura fundației culturale române ............................................. 271 Figure 22. Translation projects associated with mainstream Polirom and indie Scrisul românesc .................................................................................... 278 1 Translation and Chaos: Poetry Translators’ Agency in a Non-Hegemonic Network. A Digital Humanities Approach. INTRODUCTION 0.1. Behind the Scenes As in any captivating movie script, arriving at the idea behind this research has involved a great amount of conflict and struggle. This is only to confess that writing this thesis has been quite a journey. In 2013, my proposal started as a classical literary translation research project, whose main objective was to examine how various American poets came to be translated into Romanian and how this process fitted with the process of globalization. Then I entered a second stage, in which I began to realize that globalization was too homogenous a process and what I wanted to account for in my thesis-to-be appeared as one of the many stories of a ‘minor’ literature translating from the English. It didn’t feel accurate, so what was I to make of this? How was I to go beyond the dynamics of power professed by Pierre Bourdieu through the words of Pascale Casanova (2004)? It seemed that I was doomed to remain in the well-structured republic of letters. So I trusted my intuition, which sensed there was something rotten in this republic: my experience as a Romanian-language translator and publisher did not fit many of the categories engendered by the translation theories I was exposed to. The most important question I asked myself was: If there is a dynamics of power, is it unidirectional? The natural thing to do for me was to look into how ‘minorness’ handles power and what the mechanisms to overcome a ‘minor’ status are. While investigating practices related to Romanian-language translation and publishing, I noticed that the digital world was gaining more and more traction, as it presented the perfect 2 opportunity to overcome the much invoked ‘sense of space.’ The third stage of my journey was marked by the realization that this ‘sense of space’ and the many space-related metaphors in translation studies tether rather than advance research on minorness, as they naturally foster default communities, such as the nation-state, and admittedly limit research to how such states manage their economic resources. ‘Tethered’ is the best word to express how my research felt for the first four years of my studies, but it was a necessary phase that helped me realize that more freedom was needed. My research had to be positively animated by the freedom I experienced as a translator and publisher who has actually never been tethered by the lack of economic resources of her country of origin, but was always connected to others: other cultures, other translators, other economic resources. Thus it became clear to me that more fluidity and flexibility were essential in translation studies in order to account for the ‘mess’ that slipped between the cracks of clear-cut categories. This thesis is about ‘mess’, about the freedom to perceive ‘noise’ as ‘sound’ and randomness as a new order. It is an attempt to find a place for chaos in translation theory or, rather, to unleash it. 0.2. Summary of Objectives, Questions, and Theoretical Framework What has been keeping translation studies (TS) in a perpetual quest to define itself—with rather relative success at the end of each turn, I dare suggest—has been the inherent non-linearity, instability, and uncertainty of all the elements that collude to the realization of a translation. The stumbling block, to my mind, has always been the complex nature of translation and the potentially chaotic essence of the processes that surround it, alongside our difficulty to acknowledge such a composite reality in one single theory. Things have become even more puzzling when this field 3 decided it was time to emulate the social sciences during a period when social sciences themselves were considering their own complexity by means of chaos theory (Albert 1995, Kiel and Elliott 1996, Byrne 1998, Byrne and Callaghan 2014) or assemblage theory (DeLanda 2006)—which, drawing on Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus (1980), provided a bottom-up framework for accommodating complex forms of causal productivity. Instead of doing the same, TS has borrowed mostly relatively stable macro-structural concepts from sociology (such as “field,” or “system”) in an attempt to deal with its own shortcomings and as a result of a rather significant structuralist trandition and left out, intentionally or not, any natural science conceptualization. Although scholars like Jean-Marc Gouanvic (2014) and Sergey Tyulenev (2014) rightfully see “habitus” as a micro- structural approach, this notion cannot be divorced, in my opinion, from the whole theoretical apparatus of Bourdieu’s theory of cultural fields. In other words, using Bourdieusian concepts only selectively and in a way that matches the composite realities of a certain practice, in our case literary translation, is very far from their proponent’s intentions and vision. To my mind, it would be far- fetched to admit that translation is not a field (Gouanvic 2014; Heilbron and Sapiro 2018) and use ‘habitus’ to designate a clustering of life experiences that may have an impact on translators’ activities. There are many possible scenarios for such a state of affairs. Perhaps notions like Bourdieu’s field of cultural production or Luhmann’s systems were seen as bringing along a certain legitimacy and a sense of stability to a discipline that was defining itself. It may also be that the developmental hierarchy that characterizes natural sciences was not a good match for the subservient translator and their agency, until recently considered mere creators of second-rate texts. It may also be that humanists are simply hesitant to the prospects of mastering frothy mathematical formulae and 4 complicated visualisation techniques. As we shall hopefully see as we move along, frothy math will not be needed, nor will I be engaging in any glorification of cyberspace or technology. The multifarious nature of the processes that accompany translation and the role played by translation in defining cultures alongside a number of cultural memes is appropriately described by Michael Cronin’s 3T paradigm: trade, technology, translation. Cronin rightfully argues that “the tendency to exclude any of the three components tends to lead to isolationist or exclusivist readings of a particular culture.” (2013b: 3) He also complements this paradigm with the notion of gap in resources in the host culture and conjectures that rather than looking for values in another context cultures look for resources, a position he equates with the cultivation of fecundity. Both the notions of trade and technology that accompany translation are thus grounded in and reflect on translator’s agency, making it one of the most important units of analysis in this field. In addressing agency, Kobus Marais (2014) sees translation related to the social and the cultural in so far as a translator’s action has an influence on the social reality or on the other agents, but he also addresses the case of translators’ possible lack of intent towards agency. This is a valid observation and, to my knowledge, there is no scholarship drawing on the idea of non-agency, although not all literary translators translate because they wear the label of literary translators by profession. Some may translate because rendering a certain author in their language is a natural response to their meeting with that foreign author and this is how they become labelled as literary translators. Others do have a sense of agency and use translation as literary capital added to their own literary persona. Multiple scenarios are possible, as will become apparent in the following sections, and in order to capture best the complexity of this phenomenon, translator’s agency needs to be researched, I suggest, 5 within what Willard McCarty terms the digital social humanities,1 an umbrella-notion that situates any translated text in its contex of production, dependent on all levels on the agent(s) producing it and on the medium of circulation (online or offline). The discourse and methods of the digital humanities are an exercise in complexity themselves. Complexity is essential to multiple readings and interpretations in academic research and coding is seen as essential to disentangling multiplicities. As McCarty notes, chaos underpins the economy of plenty as a fructifying and terryfing cornucopia in contemporary research (McCarty 2016: 73). In electronic scholarly editing, for instance, Mary Nell Smith notes that complexity in general and coding in particular provide “a healthy self-consciousness” about the circumstances of knowledge creation (2004: 313). Complexity is also permanently sought in charts and maps (Drucker 2016), in preserving the multifariousness of cultural heritage through mapping “the complexity of cities – as embodied, lived in, built, imagined, and represented spaces” (Presner and Shepard 2016: 209), in the study of the human-computer interfaces (Ruecker 2016: 400), in our delegations to technology as in the Internet of Things—“this process of offloading tasks to the Internet of Things, new possibilities come into being, some as synergetic effects and others as unintended consequences” (Jørgensen 2016: 49), in linked data and semantic web as essential tools for understanding the complexity of humanists’ discourse and of the disciplinary developments in the humanities (2016: Oldman, Doerr, and Gradmann 2016: 255), in relation to data storage, hypertextual history, or virtual reality systems. 1 A term occasionally used by Willard McCarty—author of Humanities Computing (2005), internationally recognized for his achievements in digital humanities—about research situated on the border between digital humanities and social sciences. 6 Digital materiality, “the palpable bits and bytes of electronic hardware and software that are ubiquitous, that leave traces, and that can be read as evidence of the creation, dissemination, reception, and preservation of these new communication forms” (Shep 2016: 322), has therefore become paramount in any discussion on human agency, especially in the context of cultural communication, where chaos theory engenders “a Sisyphean perspective […] on cultural practice: the activity of making sense by way of recourse to chaos, noise, and chance circumstance is an interminable task because power, like desire, is protean and omnipresent.” (White 1991: 276) Studying uncertainty and digital materiality by means of information visualization has gained more and more ground lately (Lorna Hughes, Panos Constantopoulos, and Costis Dallas 2016: 160), although scholars like Johanna Drucker (2016) have argued that the graphical approaches to the digital humanities, although perceived as very effective, need to be complemented by more criticial- humanistic methods of reading the data because graphs alone cannot render the complexity of the information they represent. This is because “data models exclude certain properties of data, which poses problems in a field such as humanities that works primarily with highly complex, heterogeneous, and nonconcrete data.” (Zundert 2016: 342) Also, the formalized data model reduces “to a certain extent the richness and complexity of the body of information,” (id.) and so it invites complementary approaches such as “rapid shuttling” (Kirschenbaum 2009 cited in Hayles 2012) or “algorithmic criticism” (Ramsay 2011). This is precisely what I do in this dissertation: framing English-language poetry translation in contemporary Romania as a complex human activity animated by uncertainty and modeling it study as a pendulum between network visualizations and traditional descriptive translation scholarship. The purpose of this research is to examine poetry translators’ agency in a non-hegemonic context and in relation to the contacts they establish with authors pertaining to other cultures (in 7 my case, U.S. and Canadian contemporary poets). To this end, I endeavor to unearth relationships and practices that are not currently addressed by the theories of translation and that shed a positive light on translators as connectors. The non-hegemonic context of choice is Romania, a country which has never been perceived as socially, culturally, ideologically, or economically influencing other cultures significantly. On the flip side, it has always sought to align itself to the latest literary trends, started its own trends, and its intellectuals have never had a static mode of existence, but have participated to a large extent in a deeply transnational traffic of cultural goods. Translation has always been part of this dynamics. In this context, my research is concerned both with translators living and publishing between the borders of this nation-state and with Romanian translators from the diaspora or in a constant state of mobility between the host culture and the culture translation departs from. In order to achieve this analysis, three research objectives have been set. First, I shall address the risks of imbricating uncritically the label ‘minor’ in the discourse of TS by emphasizing the heuristic potential of minorness and precariousness in addressing translatorial agency. Small European nations and minority cultures have yet to gain a firm foothold in our field as translation is still largely studied in contexts that it usually departs from (i.e., global languages like English). Therefore one of the problems this investigation will address is the underrepresentation of small nations/cultures in TS as a result of the liberal use of a plethora of monolithic terms and dyadic associations, such as ‘European vs. non-European’, ‘major vs. minor’, or ‘center vs. periphery’. Instead, I shall embrace the inherent precariousness of the ‘periphery’ and propose a paradigm built on the possibilities of chaos. Second, I undertake to demonstrate that acknowledging the role played by heterogeneity in translation within a paradigm that allows for the phenomena’s uncertainty, indeterminateness, and 8 randomness (Callon et al. 2011) is a more revealing and thus productive stance than assigning translators to premade categories that they need to fit in no matter their background or the associations they form. To this end, I shall devote a large portion of this thesis to the investigation of the networks Romanian poetry translators form with the authors they translate in order to establish both the complex relationships that lattice such networks and to offer a comprehensive image of a translation landscape that could otherwise appear as simply fragmented, or chaotic, and lacking creative potential. Finally, the third and final objective of this dissertation is to demonstrate that a paradigm built on the possibilities of chaos unearth the full extent of human agency and creativity, which I shall exemplify through the concepts of “poetics of fecundity” and “network-driven translation.” Thinking of all the things I know about American and Canadian contemporary poetry translation in Romania—a small world in which I belonged for over ten years—and trying to fit them into the confines of various theories I have been trained in for the past five years triggered a number of questions that are meant to address a certain general intellectual discomfort I felt. How do poetry translations come into being since they are neither economically, nor socially influential? How are theories based on the global book flows addressing this situation? Can we still speak about the translators’ invisibility in the age of instant access to information and ubiquitous computing? What are these translators’ lines of flight? How do they associate among themselves and how do they get in contact with the contemporary authors they translate? And so on. Faced with the rigor of academic research, all these musings turned into several research questions that will hopefully guide my way out of the reductionist quagmire and make room for a more non-linear way of thinking about translators and translation in general. 9 Chapter 1 is meant to address two more theoretical research questions. First, how valid are the grounds for labeling a culture as ‘minor’ or ‘peripheral’? Although recent work in TS has started to broach this topic (Folaron 2015, Flynn 2012, etc.), the ‘major vs. minor’ conundrum is still very much operational. The example of Romania illustrates best Itamar Even Zohar’s definition of ‘peripheral’—one of the smaller nations of Europe—and is also mirrored by Cronin’s argument according to which the linguistic diversity of Europe has been levelled out by postcolonialism. Relatively recent research on the internationalization of our field is extensive. In 2002, Șebnem Susam-Sarajeva started to advocate for a multilingual and international TS, and, while still employing the same schismatic, monolithic paradigm, she acknowledged that “there is no way of measuring centrality or periphery.” (Susam Sarajeva 2002: 194) She also linked research carried out in ‘exotic’ languages to a peripheral condition of the respective scholars. Other scholars like Harish Trivedi (2006) or Maria Tymoczko (2005) called for using words from other languages (from Hindi to Igbo) for a theoretical reconceptualization of translation. What if there is no one center, but ‘multiple center(s)’ that could provide invaluable knowledge for the field? Scholarly articles on the downsides of English as a universal means of exchange abound. However, there are very few contributions dedicated to translations into lesser-known languages2 in the most prestigious academic journals. The main reason is related to the pervasiness of globalization’s homogeneous effects as a research topic and to an interest in how translation into ‘major’ languages increases the symbolic capital of ‘minor’ cultures. One of the main effects of globalization has been cultural homogenization, that is, the reduction of cultural diversity (or a shrinkage of the world) through the promotion and diffusion of a wide array of cultural symbols, be they physical objects, customs, ideas 2 Examples are offered in the literature review section (0.4. The State of Research). 10 and values, coming from dominant cultures. Cultural reductionism also refers to treating cultural agents as similar, no matter the culture they are grounded in, and not acknowledging their unique ways of operating within that culture and between the cultures they connect via translation. Instead of looking at cultures that translate more, we look at those that translate less, but which confer on the authors they translate a high degree of symbolic capital. This situation is entertained by the relatively difficult access to ‘mainstream’ TS of scholars that work in ‘minor’ contexts and translate into lesser-known/used languages although they use English as a lingua-franca (Susam-Sarajeva 2002). In a recent response to another fellow academic’s work on translation and migration, Edwin Gentzler characterizes the state-of-the-art in our field as “an exciting time for Translation Studies, as it expands internationally, looking at more languages and cultural traditions for translation, including those of many immigrants’ home cultures, and as it turns inward intra-nationally, looking more at minority languages and immigrant groups within any given culture.” (2013: 342, emphasis mine) Research on minority languages understood as the languages of cultural minorities (as opposed to national languages) has been indeed extensive. Important authors like Cronin have drawn upon and emphasized the relational and dynamic dimension of the concept of ‘minority’, along with the fact that it is always “the expression of a relation and not an essence,” (2009: 170) as well as a status that makes a language more prone to translation, since small cultures are disproportionately important in terms of translation productivity. However, Cronin himself (2003) and other authors, like Mona Baker (2014), could not disregard the fact that, from an economic and political standpoint, all languages other than English have become minority languages. At the same time, according to Lawrence Venuti, a “minor language is that of a politically dominated group, but also language use that is heterogeneous, that deviates from the standards, varies the constants.” 11 (1998b: 136, emphasis mine) It becomes obvious that ‘minority’ and ‘minor’ are sometimes used interchangeably. If we were inclined to think that ‘minority’ refers to a language-culture like Catalan or Quebecois, for example, whereas ‘minor’ refers to any small nation, such as Romania or Ireland, by comparison to economically and politically more powerful ones, the many confusing definitions in TS, paired with other leveling binarisms such as ‘center vs. periphery’, beg the question of the heuristic value of these terms. Much of the work that has been done on translator’s agency (Pym 1998; Simeoni 1998; Inghilleri 2005; Gouanvic 2006; Wolf and Fukari (Eds.) 2007; Pym, Shlesinger, and Jettmarova (Eds.) 2006; Milton and Bandia 2009) has been based on Bourdieu’s concepts of ‘practice’, ‘habitus’ and ‘field’ (1973), therefore on the ‘physical’ (much in line with the concept of nationhood) and hierarchical world. Also, a large part of this work has been centered on interpreters and on translators as political agents. In this context, Michaela Wolf sees the translation ‘field’ as highly problematic, because translators do not have long-lasting positions in this field and they have to renegotiate their status all the time (2007). As Gouanvic noteworthily observes (2014), besides translators that act as political agents or translators that aim at gathering as much literary capital as possible by translating reputed authors, there are translators “by necessity,” that seldom compete for a certain position and render the solubility of a concept like ‘field’ problematic in relation to translation studies. To these examples, I would like to add translation for survival, which can never be associated with the producer’s ‘habitus’; not could it be socially sanctioned because of its context of production. The methodological contributions of sociology to the study of translation are unquestionable. However, as I have mentioned before, these sociological perspectives on translation in the context of globalization have often emphasized hierarchies, power relations, and 12 macroscopic analyses hardly ever providing more detailed accounts from the field. One very pertinent example is Cronin’s observation in Translation and Globalization (2003) that English became the only ‘major’ language, while all others are largely perceived as ‘minor’. Another equally pertinent example is Casanova’s World Republic of Letters and her article on translation as unequal exchange (2004). To Casanova, translations from dominating cultures/fields to dominated ones help the latter gain literary capital, while the opposite brings consecration to the dominated one. The role of literary translators from the so-called ‘dominated’ cultures is still largely ignored because the advent of globalization shifted TS researchers’ focus on the international circulation of books and on the role major publishers play in this respect (Venuti 1998a; Pym and Chrupala 2005; Sapiro 2007a, 2007b, 2008, 2010). Equally ignored is a very common practice according to which authors coming from dominating cultures ask to be translated by translators from dominated fields/cultures because that brings them a plus of literary capital at home. Being translated into as many languages as possible, even if not into dominating ones, is a very sought-after status in the literary world; and, to our knowledge, this aspect of literary translation has never been pursued as worthy of scholarly research. I shall address this aspect in the case studies presented in section 2.2.3 (Literary Barters). The second theoretical research question addressed in Chapter 1 is related to the possibilities presented by our acceptance and acknowledgement of chaos in translator’s agency in contemporary poetry translation: what are the shortcomings of the proposed macro-sociological theories (Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of cultural fields and especially Niklas Luhmann’s systems theory) and the benefits and risks of using a micro-sociological approach like Bruno Latour’s Actor-Network Theory (ANT)? Several research sub-questions aimed at reconciling these shortcomings and possibilities seem in order. What can we learn from the evolution of social sciences over the past sixty years in terms of acknowledging and fostering heterogeneity? What is a viable theoretical 13 model for the analysis of poetry translator’s agency in all its complexity? What research models and tools are available for exploring this complexity? Sociologically-informed research in TS has made extensive use of the Bourdieusian theory of practice as it presented a much-awaited solution to the long-standing lament that theory had been seldom grounded in practice, or, at least, not sufficiently accompanied by illustrative practical examples. After all, practice makes perfect, and translation is a social, cultural and political act connected to local and global relations of power (Cronin 2003). Bourdieu’s organismic model of society and his constructive structuralism allowed translation studies to turn translators into legitimate subjects of inquiry, capable of acting and free to act (Gouanvic 2005). After a long formalist tradition which placed translated texts at the center of academic reflexion, Bourdieu’s neofunctionalism (or structuralist constructivism) presented an excellent opportunity for translators to become visible, willful producers of meaning, capable to cause change, albeit one that still had to be ratified by the social structure they were part of. Although apparently free to act and acknowledged in the complexity of their habitus, translators were still anchored in the social and dependent on social sanction. Nevertheless, few have embraced Bourdieu’s concepts unaltered as essential for furthering research in TS, and perhaps the most controversial notion of all was “habitus,” i.e., the set of one’s dispositions acquired by action and generating actions. Given its arbitrariness, habitus, in spite of its emphasis on action, still does not place the individual in a state of productive tension with the field. Out of the scholars who contributed to the collective volume titled Remapping Habitus (Vordorobermeier et al. 2014), one the essays most relevant to this discussion is the one signed by Rakefet Sela-Sheffy, who proposes the notion of ‘identity work’ to be added to the notion of ‘habitus’. The Israeli scholar argues that a theory of practice such as the one professed by Bourdieu 14 needs to be anchored, ironically, into practice in order to account for the complexity of translators’ work. The essay continues an endeavor the author began in 2005 with “How to be a (Recognized) Translator: Rethinking Habitus, Norms, and the Field of Translation,” which analyzes the case of contemporary translators in Israel and argues that it is impossible to speak about universal dispositions of translators. Sela-Sheffy undertakes to explain “the tension between the constrained and the versatile nature of translators’ action, as determined by their cultural group-identification and by their position in their specific field of action,” (2005: 1, emphasis mine) although they may be all animated by a struggle for symbolic capital. The contention is that “[w]e cannot take for granted that their role in the production of culture is always secondary and their attitude always passive.” (ibid.: 5) During the past ten years TS scholars have become more and more aware of the complex relationships that underlie translators’ activity, as well as of the need to include technology and new media in the mix. In 2007, META : Journal des traducteurs published a seminal issue on the connection between TS and network studies, curated by Canadian scholars Deborah Folaron and Hélène Buzelin. The introduction offers an excellent overview of the notion of ‘network,’ moving across disciplines and schools with a familiarity and gusto that attest not only to the authors’ intellectual prowess, but also to the potential natural relationship between the two fields. It is here and in Buzelin’s “Unexpected Allies: How Latour’s Network Theory Could Complement Bourdieusian Analyses in Translation Studies” (2005) that the connection between Latour’s relationist sociology and translation—more specifically in relation to the world of literary translation—is explored for the first time. However unexpected, the Actor-Network Theory becomes a necessary ally to Bourdieu’s sociology. The theory developed by Latour together with Michel Callon and John Law, opposes Bourdieu’s single-world “irreducible, incommensurable, unconnected localities, which then, at a 15 great price, sometimes end in provisionally commensurable connections.” (Latour 1997) It posits that “neither the actor’s size nor its psychological make up nor the motivations behind its actions are predetermined,” (Callon 1997: 2) making room for the idea of a self-made network of actants of different natures, that would include, alongside individuals, objects, hybrids, and quasi-objects. Thus Latour’s sociology of association offers literary translators a way to overcome the deterministic nature of autonomous organizations and a fertile ground for further research into their potential to bring about change by means of personal initiative. In the same issue of META, Șehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar explores the potential of networks to provide a more comprehensive inventory of historical facts related to literary translation, using the case of popular literature in Turkey. She aptly notes that the notion of “context” has been vaguely defined in TS and that contexts are actually made of layers of contexts, from the micro- to the macro-level. Citing Law, who argues that the world cannot be fittingly explained and neatly structured using social categories because it also contains a high degree of mess (“vague, diffuse, unspecific, slippery, emotional phenomena that do not display much pattern at all” (Law 2004: 2)), Gürçağlar advances that TS might mismanage findings in order to make them fall into certain categories, instead of allowing apparent “chaos” (that is, the reality of practice) to generate theories: I would like to suggest that the world of translation also involves a high degree of mess, confusion and disorder and that our current critical theoretical frameworks are forcing these conditions into set categories, organizing the disorder into seeming order, sometimes lumping together findings that agree with theoretical expectations and excluding or glossing over those that challenge them. (2007: 725) She sees the drawing of network maps as a felicitous method to account for translators’ agency, for the set of relationships they develop through their everyday work, as well as for the way certain genres relate in surprising ways with other genres. Gürçağlar adds a visual component to the 16 method proposed by Buzelin, thus furthering the inclusive scope of a similar research agenda. Both scholars zoom in on practices and networks of translators in order to provide a better contextualization for the translation practice, instead of first providing the framework and only subsequently dwelling on individual phenomena. However, no matter how promising the beginnings, these authors have not done further research and have not proposed clear research models and methodologies, as we shall see in the section dedicated to the literature review. After tackling these theoretical concerns, I shall move to an in-depth analysis of the networks of contemporary poetry translation into Romanian from U.S. and Canadian English. Chapter 2 is grounded in the lattices of print periodical publications between 2007 and 2017 and builds its complexity argument on the heterogeneity of translators’ agendas, affiliations, and mobility, with notions such as the nation-state and translator’s habitus fading into the background. From a theory of chaos point of view, I shall look for order in a seemingly chaotic network. To this end, my research will answer three questions. The first question is related to the possibilities presented by literary journals for instant, semi-mediated, and fertile translation publication. The second one remains in the realm of periodical publications, but investigates various types of translational agency in a transnational context, inquiring into the possibilities of diaspora and of academic mobility. Finally, I shall address the problem of online translation publishing and specifically answer the following questions: how is digital space enabling translators’ agency and what are its repercussions on literary translators’ status? How does the online reshape the definition of translation? To my knowledge, these issues have never been broached in this field in relation to Romanian translators. Finally, my third assumption is that translators’ access to digital space enhances their chances at becoming agents of literary change and that such a phenomenon is more bound to happen in small cultures, since digital space offers the chance to circumvent the usual economic constraints 17 presented by the more traditional publishing spaces. Decentralization is closely related to the rise of the digital: Decentralization has been lying dormant for thousands of years. But the advent of the internet has unleashed this force, knocking down traditional businesses, altering entire industries, affecting how we relate to each other, and influencing world politics. The absence of structure, leadership, and formal organization, once considered a weakness, has become a major asset. Seemingly chaotic groups have challenged and defeated established institutions. The rules of the game have changed. (Brafman and Beckstrom 2006: 6-7) The relatively low costs of engaging in literary translation in digital space, the diversity of digital publications, and their relative accessibility compared to that of traditional printing allow writers and translators a higher degree of freedom. In small countries like Romania, especially in those with a Communist past, these may be seen as a continuation of the samizdat tradition, the underground publications reproduced illegally by hand by dissident writers and translators and circulated among readers. The minor economic status of Romania on the globalized market and the lack of financial support for the arts in general determined intellectuals to look for alternatives to the costly printing industry and to the even costlier press distribution networks, which charge commissions as high as 45% off of the cover price.3 The last two chapters are built on a chaos-out-of-order perspective and are dedicated to identifying self-regulation and personal initiatives in what can appear as the realm of order: the heavily censored cultural field during the Communist regime and the capitalist market of the post- revolution era. As far as the first context is concerned, I shall describe the corpus and identify those initiatives that were actually the translators’ projects. In the latter case, I endeavor to describe and quantify indie poetry publishing in comparison to mainstream Romanian publishing and to analyze 3 The information offered here is based on our experience in Romanian book publishing. Other available sources generally list even higher retailer discounts: http://bit.ly/2HuxdS3. http://bit.ly/2HuxdS3 18 several translations of the same works or authors that have been tackled by both worlds in hopes of answering a critical question: where is a contemporary author more visible? Most scholarship on translation into Romanian has been centered on the country’s Communist past and has a strong historiographic character, with the exception of Ioana Popa’s Traduire sous contraintes. Littérature et communisme (1947-1989) (2010), which doubles the historical perspective by a sociological one. The few contributions tackling topics related to the country’s post-communist realities have yet to touch upon poetry translation; therefore contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translation in Romania during the past 28 years is virtually unaccounted for. Hence the proposed research endeavors to look closely at all the details related to translators’ involvement in the publication process and to trace all cases of private initiative in contemporary poetry translation in Romania, hoping to reveal new practices and new dimensions of the literary translator profession. The overarching theoretical framework of the proposed project is mainly informed by complexity theory, with a specific focus on network theory and chaos theory. Whereas complexity theory in natural sciences was fueled by globalization, the same phenomenon intensified the reductionist line of thought in TS, as it quickly fostered the pattern of the shrinking world. I would like to offer an alternative view on globalization that follows Cronin’s model of the expanding world, in which micro-cosmopolitanism and microspection are the politics of choice and foster the interconnectedness of the world. A complexity framework begs the adoption of a transnational stance (Jay 2010), which engenders the analysis of translational phenomena outside a national paradigm and calls for contextual specificity. A transnational position also helps us avoid yet another dichotomy—global vs. local/national—by placing translators in what is called a “paradigm of mobility.” (Stephane van Damme cited in Boschetti 2009) Transnationalism lends itself very well to 19 explaining the circulation of ideas and practices and complements the nationalist paradigm offered by polysystem theory or by the theory of the cultural fields. Associating a transnational paradigm to Cronin’s notion of micro-cosmopolitanism—an approach which “seeks to diversify or complexify the smaller unit” (2006: 15) will veer the discussion to particularity, to aspects that are seldom explored in relation to translation under a national paradigm, “show[ing] that elsewhere is next door, in one’s immediate environment, no matter how infinitely small or infinitely large the scale of investigation.” (ibid.: 17) Complexity also calls for considering decentralization and non-linearity. The decentralization of the translation network in Romania gives it a particular strength and increases its scholarship potential for TS research. A groundbreaking book in business management and organizational behaviors, The Starfish and the Spider: the Unstoppable Power of Leaderless Organizations (Brafman and Beckstrom ibid.), explains that traditional, centralized organizations (the spiders), with top- down leadership and rigid hierarchical structure, started to incorporate more and more ‘starfish’ principles, namely principles that are typical of decentralized organizations, whose members rely on the power of and on their relationship with their peers. The book sets out to explain what happens “when no one’s in charge” (ibid.: 5), when “there’s no hierarchy.” (id.): “You’d think there would be disorder, even chaos. But in many arenas, a lack of traditional leadership is giving rise to powerful groups that are turning industry and society upside down.” (id.) In regards to translation, I argue that contemporary poetry translation in Romania echoes a starfish model. This starfish model takes advantage of the fact that there is no central funding agency for the activity of translation, nor an institution to regulate the activity of literary translators. The theoretical framework I shall use for explaining the differences between a centralized system and a decentralized one cannot be limited to Bourdieu’s theory of the fields, as the latter 20 does not take into consideration action, agency, and subjectivity unless they are ultimately socially sanctioned. My first assumption is that poetry translation in Romania functions according to the rules of an actor-network (Latour 2005), whose structure could account for the ‘holes’, for the lack of institutional representation, as well as for literary translators’ initiative, connectivity, use of the latest developments in technology, and sometimes even their lack of accountability. For those very reasons, I shall also refer to Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of ‘rhizome’ (1980) in order to describe the state of affairs in contemporary poetry translation in Romania, since it captures multiplicities and allows us to access the network from multiple points of entry. The rhizomatic approach will be doubled by the Actor-Network Theory developed by Bruno Latour together with Michel Callon and John Law, which too was meant to shatter the shackles of dualism. Both will hopefully leave little room for exclusion when accounting for the complexity of translation phenomena and their agents in any given culture. Furthermore, the assumption that the decentralization of literary translation activity in Romania offers more room for personal initiative will be illustrated by employing Deleuze and Guattari’s ‘line of flight’ (ligne de fuite) and ‘nomadism’ (ibid.), two relevant concepts to explain the attitudes of young Romanian translators after the fall of communism in 1989, after a period in which translation activities in Romania followed the logic of a system shaped by Communist propaganda and censorship for almost forty years. The existing scholarship on translators’ agency seldom references translators who discover and translate various authors according to their own taste or even on a whim, and not according to a specific, pre- established agenda that follows the rationale of the globalized book market. The practice of private cultural brokerage is certainly not new, but it is seldom referenced in relation to translation. One notable example is the one mentioned by Venuti under “Globalization” in The Scandals of Translation; he describes how South-American translation boomed in the United States via various 21 private initiatives: “[…] a sudden increase in English-language translations supported by private funding (Barbosa 1994: 62-63, Rostagno 1997).” (1998: 169) The major risk faced when tackling translators’ agency under the auspices of complexity and chaos is chaos itself. An essential step in preventing this dissertation from turning into a “messy business” is defining the corpus and adopting a methodology that keeps the risk of chaotic research on a tight leash. 0.3. Corpus and Research Design The corpus in which I ground my analyses, descriptions, and interpretations consists of Romanian translations of U.S. and Canadian English-language contemporary poetry. By contemporary poetry I chiefly understand poetry that was published after 1960 by poets born during the last decade of the nineteenth century and onwards. In terms of selected authors, it reflects the work of US- and Canada-born poets and of authors of various extractions living and writing in Canada and the United States, as well as transnational poets of American and Canadian origin, because I considered them as manifesting double loyalty. For instance, I included T.S. Eliot, although he lived and worked in England for most of his life, as his work cannot be divorced from his origins4 and most publishers, critics, and literary historians, including the Romanian ones, consider him to be an American. Furthermore, I have not included authors who were not influential in the 1960s although they died much later (such as Roy Helton, who died in the late 1970s but did not publish any collection after 4 T.S. Eliot declared in an interview: “I’d say that my poetry has obviously more in common with my distinguished contemporaries in America than with anything written in my generation in England. That I’m sure of. […] It wouldn’t be what it is, and I imagine it wouldn’t be so good; putting it as modestly as I can, it wouldn't be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn't be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.” (Hall 1959: 25) 22 1960). However, I did include Marianne Moore, who died in 1972, but who published in the 1960s and had her collected poems published throughout the 1970s and onwards. I have also considered e. e. cummings (d. 1962) as being contemporary, whose posthumous work was published in 1963 and who had a collection of unpublished poems come out in 1983 and a significant and visible number of selected and collected poems published throughout the past decades. Finally, I have considered T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound as contemporary poets, since they attract the same attention from writers and translators in the target culture as ever, and are evoked frequently in conversations about trends and evolutions in Romania and world contemporary poetics. U.S and Canadian contemporary poetry into Romanian has never been approached as a corpus in translation studies scholarship. Such translations have been analyzed only sparingly and in more general historical contexts, typically related to Communist censorship before 1989. The one notable exception is the monograph dedicated to the Romanian translations of T.S Eliot’s work both before and after 1989 by Roxana Ștefania Bîrsanu (2014). Furthermore, no corpus analysis of contemporary poetry translations into Romanian in periodicals exists, although, as this research shows, periodicals are the richest source of such translations. By addressing these translations as a two-layer corpus consisting of 40 volumes and hundreds of translation features in periodicals I hope to offer a comprehensive image of contemporary English-language poetry translation in this small European country over the past 60 years. However, the two corpora are unequal (author volumes and anthologies: 1960-2017 vs. periodicals: 2007-2017), as a result of my not carrying this research in Romania. My lack of access to Romanian libraries made the two corpora overlap only over a 10- year span. I used two sources for compiling the corpus: translations published in volumes by mainstream and indie publishers, and translation selections published in printed and online literary 23 or cultural journals. As far as the first category is concerned, I have looked into everything that was published starting 1960 (Annexes 4, 5, and 6) and also mentioned a few publications that appeared prior to this date only to emphasize that a certain tradition of self-reliant poet-translators existed well before the established cut-out point. However, I have not included such Modernist poets in my social network analyses—they are strictly limited to contemporaries. In terms of selections published in print periodicals (PP), I have mainly used the bibliographies available at the National Library of Romania (NLR) for journals published between 2007 and 2015. However, since they were not complete, I have added a number of selections that appeared in certain periodicals not complying with the requirements of the legal deposit, but which I deemed as important for the activity of literary translation in our context. The bibliographic references I added thus add two more years to the bibliography compiled by the NLR, thus aligning the two corpora—author-volumes, anthologies, and translation features in periodicals—in terms of end dates. Aligning the two in terms of start dates would have been too ambitious and unrealistic an objective, as I would have had to document probably thousands of entries, and while the network analysis would not have been a problem because of the computing capabilities used, the manual bibliographic work would not have been possible. The overall corpus is by no means exhaustive, but certainly contains most of the translations published within the specified timeframe: 1960-2017. The titles, the overwhelming majority unique instances, are presented partly in footnotes throughout the dissertation and partly in Annex 1. The selections that are also available online are referenced through bitlinks.5 5 Web links shortened on the Bitly link management platform for space purposes. 24 The proposed research methodology echoes Andrew Chesterman’s propositions related to deploying a network as envisioned by Latour: For instance, we might wish to establish what networks exist (in a given context): what the various nodes are, both human and non-human; what the range of the network is; what use is made of each of the nodes; the frequency of links in different directions; the flexibility of the network, the extent to which it remains stable or expands or contracts over time; even the way compromises are born and become necessary. How do translators build and maintain their networks? (Chesterman 2006: 22) and is rooted in network analysis (NA), which measures structural and process-related properties at the level of the whole network and of the sub-networks. NA offers computational ways to wrangle large amounts of data and helps us grasp the structure of relationships between actors by offering a unique ‘outsider’ view of any given associations. This qualitative stage of the research starts with data collection (bibliographic research converted into a data matrix) and the formalization of the model (establishing which aspects of the subject will be computable and in what form, cf. Flanders and Jannidis 2016) and then employs a popular quantitative method: the network consisting of authors and translators as nodes and publication venues as links shall be measured and visualized by means of a dedicated software: the NetworkX libraries in Python, which offers two-dimensional graph drawings (or network diagrams). NetworkX is a package for the creation, manipulation, and study of the structure, dynamics, and functions of complex networks. Network studies have gained a lot of traction lately (Kaufmann et al. 2017) because of the increasing pervasiveness of computational power and because computers are much more able to work in non-linear ways than humans. Furthermore, besides feeding on graph theory, network analysis also uses data mining—the practice of analyzing large databases for the purpose of acquiring new information in computer science—, and information visualization (or visual data analysis)—the study of visual 25 representations of abstract visual or non-numerical data, which take various spatial forms and help users understand intuitively how large amounts of information are organized. Visualizing information as graphs is used “to summarize, present, and enact rich materials visually” (Hughes, Constantopoulos, and Dallas 2016: 160) and is considered to have the potential to generate meaning (Liu 2013) and work hypotheses, normally followed by more formal analyses. All these will be acquired by using Python capabilities, which will determine a series of characteristics further described. Besides its easy syntax and readability, my choice of Python over other available tools, such as Java or Gephi, is motivated by its object-oriented programming, wide support libraries and community development, and integration features. That means it is unlikely for the results of this research to see difference across a wide range of other programming languages, such as C++ or Java. Furthermore, it runs on all major operating systems and, more importantly, it renders reseach accountable—users have access to the algorithms behind its libraries. One downside though is the low quality of the visualizations its produces, but this aspect was outranked by its network computing power. Besides measuring the size of the network (the number of nodes and edges) and the clustering coefficient (a measure of the degree to which nodes in a graph tend to cluster together), I will look into its density—a ratio of the number of edges E to the number of possible edges in a network with N nodes—, as well as into its average degree—the average number of edges attached to a node in the respective network. Connectedness (or connectivity)—how well components of the network connect to one another—is another feature I will examine, as it determines the nature of the structure: full connectedness is a feature of complete graphs (also known as “cliques”), in which a node is connected with any other node in the graph. Connectedness will offer information on the giant component of a graph, which is a single connected component that contains the majority of 26 the links in the network, as well as on weakly connected components—a series of nodes in which there exists a path (a sequence of edges) from any node to any other and on the strongly connected component. As far as centrality is concerned, that is, the measure of the most important vertices in the graph, the analysis will follow four avenues. First, I shall refer to the degree centrality of certain nodes which traditional functionalist analyses would consider to be the most important ones, by analyzing the number of links, or translations, incident on that node, i.e., that particular author or translator. High connectivity may translate into having more resources to attain an objective or to connect in the wider network. Second, I shall examine betweenness centrality, which will help me establish the relative importance of a node by measuring the amount of translation traffic flowing through that node to other nodes in the network. This is done by measuring number of the shortest paths that pass through the node and connect other nodes, therefore it quantifies the number of times a node acts as a bridge along the shortest paths between two other nodes. This measurement is relevant for finding the agent that influences the network flow the most. Third, I shall look into closeness centrality, to determine the shortest paths connecting that node to others in the network. This count helps me find out the agents that are best placed to influence the network the fastest. Fourth, I shall determine the Eigenvector centrality (or the EigenCentrality), which assigns relative scores to all nodes in the network based on the concept that connections to high-scoring nodes contribute more to the score of the node in question than equal connections to low-scoring nodes. That makes this score qualify as the ‘all around’ grade for any agent in the network, as it is considered to quantify the influence of nodes on other nodes in the same network. In order words, the higher the value of the EigenVector, the more prominent a node is in the network. 27 The particular effectiveness of the network analysis lies in its capacity to bring together quantitative and qualitative methods. However, since this is the first analysis ever done of the poetry translation network in Romania, my main concern was related to accuracy, therefore I have not used any of the traditional qualitative methods typically associated with social network analysis, such as participatory mapping, walking interviews with ego and alters, or concentric circles, and opted to offer a qualitative approach based on discourse analysis of second sources, as well as analysis of the translator’s agency at the level of the text. The analysis of the corpus will involve a descriptive approach—that offers an ‘insider’s’ view—focused on paratexts, and will be doubled by an analysis of various other existing materials related to the publication of the respective translations: selections published in online literary journals and in printed press, reviews, interviews with the authors, translators and publishers, press releases, and events organized to promote the translations. In certain cases, I shall briefly compare several translations of the same texts in order to determine how translators’ real-life agency reflects on their rendition of the same source text. Such comparisons shall be made especially between versions offered by mainstream translations and versions that are deemed to be the result of their translators’ agency. Against this backdrop, the information offered by the quantitative analysis will help me understand whether centrality and agency have an impact at the level of the translated poem. Analyzing a corpus of almost forty published volumes and hundreds of selections may appear unfeasible in terms of a reliable quantitative analysis. However, many of these translations are not accompanied by forewords, postfaces, or translators’ notes and the only available information on translators’ agency is to be found online, in the very few interviews with the translators or publishers. For example, the translations of Leonard Cohen’s Book of Longing (Cartea aleanului, 2006) into Romanian are referenced in a total of three sources (interviews, reviews, and publication 28 ads). The volume is not accompanied by paratexts that are relevant to my research. If this is the case of Leonard Cohen, one of the most important contemporary poets in the corpus, the translation of other less visible authors is even less referenced. A rich corpus is, in this case, a safe way to acquire a relevant and sufficient amount of research data on the contemporary poetry translation network in Romania. Before I proceed, it is necessary to discuss the fact that my methodology of choice will have repercussions on the theoretical modelling of this dissertation. For DeLanda, for instance, considered to be Bruno Latour’s symmetrical opposite, “multiplicities are non-relational, (original emphasis) and robustly remain whatever they are, no matter what their relations might be.” (Harman 2010 cited in Byrne and Callaghan 2014). Considerations like these made me use social assemblage theory only a secondary framework in spite of the appeal it presents via notions such ‘lines of flight.’ That adds to social assemblage theorists’ rejection of coding. Coding is at odds with post-structuralism because coding assumes and imposes a tree-like logic of hierarchical, fixed relations among descrete entities, which means that the grammar always pre-exists the pehnomena under investigation). Deleuze also explicitly denounced code as part of ‘the numerical language of control.’ (1992) Unlike these theorists, Latour sees a great ally in coding, especially in terms of the potential of visualizations to provide horizontal, flattened (non-hierarchical) maps. During his opening plenary lecture for the world ADHO6 Digital Humanities conference at the University of Lausanne in 2014—“Rematerializing Humanities Thanks to Digital Traces” (web7)—Latour noted that the digital does not (aim to) create a separate world from what we call the real world, but to “rematerialize all cognitively complex sets of practices,” that is, to emphasize only some of the 6 The Alliance of Digital Humanities Organizations. 7 Available on Youtube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L2zRoKS0IA. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L2zRoKS0IA 29 elements of a world that remains “massively real.” (id.) The computational/digital is to him simply a re-engineering of the real and presents a great promise for the humanities. 0.4. The State of Research Scholars on a More Comprehensive Approach to Translation Embraced especially for the appeal presented by his notion of ‘cultural field’ for various European nation-states (Hayles 1990), Pierre Bourdieu has been at the core of the sociology of translation for more than twenty years. Although Arjun Appadurai (1996) offered a radically new framework for examining globalization in the early 1990s, it is only very recently that TS has become aware of the importance of ethnoscape, mediascape, technoscape, ideoscape, and financescape as alternative spatial renderings of the present phenomena and of the obsolescence of a center-periphery model. The five –scapes proposed by Appadurai are the building blocks of the new reality, which can no longer be confined between national boundaries and thus becomes more fluid, connected to and influenced by phenomena impossible to contain in spatial terms. The four TS scholars that have theorized the need for a complex theory of translation are Anthony Pym (1998, 2007), Michael Cronin (2012, 2013a, 2013b, 2013c, 2016), Kobus Marais (2014), and Maria Tymoczko (2005, 2007). But well before them, in the late 1990s, an M.A. thesis authored by Martin Malette at Université de Montréal and titled Traduction et chaos : pour une «traductologie dynamique» (1997) made the case for applying chaos theory in the study of translation. Emphasizing the complexity of any translation act, the author proposes Edgar Morin’s theory of complexity (1990) as a starting point for his theoretical discussion and proposes dynamic (or chaotic) systems as a theoretical model both in thinking about translation as a process and in 30 the treatment of the texts, which are considered as chaotic attractors. Although the thesis does not employ any of the methodologies used in natural sciences or in computational linguistics and remains a theoretical reflection, it is remarkable how ahead of its time it was during a period when TS research was for its most part animated by the cultural turn. Malette’s reflection is an excellent early counter-reaction to the traditional binary mode of thinking that has been prevalent in this field since its beginnings. In his Method in Translation History (1998), Pym had only proposed network “transfer maps” as a way to define relationships between cultures out of a correct intuition that political and geographical borders started to dematerialize. It is during the past thirteen years that TS researches have shown a more substantial preoccupation with complexity. For instance, Cronin argues that “[…] one of the most common reasons for a failure to appreciate the complexity of translation is that it is viewed as the activity of the hack, a kind of slavish copying of the original that deserves all the scorn the romantic critic can muster for the curse of the derivative,” (2013b) and conjectures that translators should be rather seen as master craftspeople who have a prime role in the chain of production, especially in the context of ubiquitous computing and instant access to publication venues. He proposes to look at the global shrinking world “by departing from the standpoint of the local, the nearby, the proximate, the micro” (2012: 5) in order to reflect the world in its fractal complexity and, thus, expand it. Kobus Marais approaches frontally the problem of complexity in TS in his Translation Theory and Development Studies: A Complexity Theory Approach (2014). His first condition for achieving a complexity theory in the field of translation that would supersede the prevailing reductionism is to accept that the source and the target are always in an unbalanced relationship: that is, that a translation will always be an over- or an under-interpretation of an original. The second premise is 31 rethinking the field’s notion of ‘system’, which should be seen as “complex adaptive systems” and “actor-network links,” (44) in which agent and system need not be seen as opposites or binaries, but in tension. In Marais’ words, “[…] translation studies need to conceptualize its interests as both agent and system, giving priority to neither.” (id.) Finally, a third condition is to do away with conceptualizing translation using metaphors or equating translation with literature, ideology, politics, or history, for example, according to the turn that is fashionable at one given moment, but to think of translation as “a complex adaptive system constituted by complex adaptive sub-systems, or social reality as a complex adaptive supra-system.” (id.) Marais accepts the fact that rational categories cannot always account for the complexity of the reality and proposes a complexity theory that includes binary notions and analyzes them in supra-systems. Defined as “the principle that the whole has priority over its parts, the assumption that properties of the whole can’t be explained by the properties of its parts (doctrine of emergence), and reservations about any form of simplification” (Voigt 2012: unpaginated), holism appears to be a necessary complementary alternative to inherent methodological reductionism. Indeed, in “Trajectories of Research in Translation Studies,” (2005) Maria Tymoczko suggested scholars try to see the field in its entirety, the alternative being the risk of not understanding “the structure of the discipline and the structure of its discursive field, as well as the relationships of particular discourses within it,” (ibid.: 1083) thus affecting, among other things, “the practices that a field such as Translation Studies promulgates in the world.” (id.) One of the ways to do that is by giving up antithetical positions, definitional impulses and generalizing aspects “to translation as a whole,” (ibid., 1084) Thus, Tymoczko advocates for a holistic perspective on the field, yet this approach brings about one major risk: the risk of perceiving the Western and the non-Western as two 32 monolithic opposable notions, without differentiating among those smaller nations that each deserve our undivided attention. Besides re-scoping a theory of translation, there has also recently been an increased interest in carrying out various forensic analyses of how terms like “Eurocentric” or “Western” are used in TS. One of the most pertinent observations is Peter Flynn’s analysis of the way in which various ‘Eurocentric’ theories or concepts travel transnationally and inform other takes on translation. Flynn aptly notes that concepts and theories change once they leave a certain culture and join a new one: In this sense, one might ask what indeed remains of “Western” or “Eurocentric” concepts once im/exported elsewhere? Can we always assume that, in a similar vein to the ghost of corporate capitalism perhaps, they propagate and maintain some sort of nefarious skeletal cognitive superstructure that continues to frame local transformations? Could they not, perhaps paradoxically, also help fire resistant transformations and hence unintentionally subvert themselves? (2013: 48) Instead of simply qualifying former theories as ‘Western’ and eagerly turning to new, more ‘exotic’ ones, Flynn proposes an ethnographic approach that allows ua to examine, for example, translators ‘in their plurality’ (ibid.: 56). He offers the example of a study he carried out on twelve Dutch translators, a study whose results showed a plethora of different views on translation. Ironically, a considerable number of these views were associated with the notion of ‘cannibalism’, typically connected with translation theory and practice in Brazil. Flynn calls his case study “an attempt […] to illustrate briefly how many other translators operating below the horizon of academic visibility have equally insightful things to say about their practices and to share with translation scholars. Like the translators who have become visible to the discipline, they, too, are worth listening to.” (ibid.: 45) Even before authors like Flynn and Michaela Wolf (2014) pointed out the overuse of ‘Eurocentrism’ as a counter-concept that serves a number of research ends, sanctioning a certain discourse as part of a fashionable research agenda that is meant to legitimize a new generation of 33 scholars, Michael Boyden stressed the overuse of this term in relation to identity matters as a counter-reaction to various hegemonic structures, which may lead to “linguistic paternalism.” (2011: 174) That said, scholarship on specific small European nations is not extensive. Most of it is related to the idea of periphery in the context of the politics of globalization and its repercussions on various local cultures, rather than on what new approaches and body of information such nations could contribute to TS. Scholars in transnational literary studies, like Paul Jay, have warned the community of the dangers posed by “making a fetish of the local in its resistance to global cultures and treating that resistance as more important than the detrimental effect it might have on the inhabitants of the so-called periphery.” (Jay 2010: 69) While he ascertains the importance of looking at local cultures outside the dominant ones, he cautions against “a simple-minded binarism that facilely and uncritically celebrates the local as pure culture opposed to rapacious and homogenizing westernization.” (ibid.: 71) Jay also asserts the need to complicate the center-periphery model in the study of globalization; yet this is exactly the paradigm employed by various TS scholars in discussing the international translation and publishing flows in recent years. He posits that “globalization is characterized by complex back and forth flows of people and cultural forms in which the appropriation and transformation of things […] raise questions about the rigidity of the center- periphery model.” (ibid.: 3) In the field of Cultural Studies, Doris Bachmann-Medick calls for overcoming the monolingual condition in the study of culture, largely Anglo-American, and for recognizing the merits of localization in theory formation: “Even in times of global overlapping and mixing, processes of localization seem more important than ever – in order to stem hegemonic tendencies, in order to emphasize diversity, and in order to allow a multi-local production of theory.” (2014: 8-9) 34 Overcoming the monolingual condition translates into a ‘postmonolingual condition’ (Yɪldɪz 2012) that, on the other hand, takes distance from the idea of nationhood. The indeterminacy of nations and languages (Solomon 2014) translates into a focus on agency and practices, into mapping the world multipolarly rather than according to the logic of a center-periphery model. Other scholars, like Liz Medendorp (2013), have started to reassess the effectiveness of notions like ‘periphery,’ ‘margin’ or of other metaphors related to social and cultural situatedness. She notes that the ubiquity and essentialism of translation nowadays begs the question of nuancing a whole series of spatial metaphors, emphasizing the fact that translators should be now seen in their ideological dimension, rather than in their belonging to one culture or another. By the same token, in a world in which small cultures translate more, associating them with the ‘periphery’ invites a more critical treatment. In the same vein, Paul Jay argues that the emergence of a new form of agency calls for a reconsideration of the center-periphery model: […] what we have increasingly come to recognize about the locations we study is that they are not fixed, static or unchanging. We create the locations we study, and this recognition ought to encourage us to continue to remap the geographies of literary and cultural forms. (ibid.: 4) Scholars on Translators’ Agency The first to propose an Actor-Network Theory-informed research in TS was Hélène Buzelin. Her 2005 seminal article examines how marrying Bourdieu’s sociology of fields and Latour’s relational thinking could benefit “a more agent- and process-oriented type of research.” (2005: 193) This theoretical essay marked the beginning of a consistent program of research focused on Latour’s Actor-Network Theory, a research agenda which aimed at examining, by means of ethnographic observation, the production processes within a publishing house rather than the reception of the 35 translation after its publication, aiming to unveil “practices that have received little attention from translation scholars, simply because they seem to transcend ready-made and traditional categories.” (Buzelin 2007: 166). However, her research never did apply ANT, but only the “participant observation” technique. In his 2009 article titled « Le virage social dans les études sur la traduction », Rainier Grutman noted the fact that Formalism and polysystem theory did not dwell enough on translators as agents of literary change. That same year, John Milton and Paul Bandia (2009) edited a volume dedicated to agency in translation. Out of fourteen articles, three are dedicated to poetry translators (Jones 2009, Bradford 2009, and Módici Nóbrega and Milton 2009). Bradford, Nóbrega and Milton address the issue raised by Grutman and discuss the influence certain poet-translators had on Argentinian and Brazilian literatures and how they delineated themselves as genuine agents of change. The essay signed by Francis R. Jones broaches the topic of Bosnian contemporary poetry translation into English and concludes that poetry translators establish networks across a ‘distributed’ space and that they are loyal to multiple cultural spaces. He also notes that anthologists have more influence than translators and that agents from source languages that work in the target language are very active in terms of publishing. Most importantly, he uses the term “embassy network” to refer to the group of agents (translators, editor, and publishers) that work for the benefit of the source poet and source poem and supplements an ANT-informed theoretical framework with insight from activity theory, and Goffman’s Social Game Theory in order to explain the links with the wider macro-social context. This essay is actually part of a consistent program of research focused on literary translators’ ideology (2016) and on the politics of literary translation in general (Jones 2018a, 2018b). Jones dedicated an entire volume to poet-translators as expert-agents (2011) and in one of the essays that followed argues that interpersonal networks are critical for the role that poetry 36 translators play in a literature. He uses the example of James Holmes and shows “how he gradually built networks with living Dutch-language poets, with other poetry translators as a co-translator, editor and mentor, and with fellow editors and publishers.” (2015: 344) Very recently, Diana-Roig Sanz and Reine Meylaerts (2018) co-edited a volume in which not only does literary translators’ agency at the ‘periphery’ take center stage, but oscillates between gatekeeping (“customs officers”) and fellony (“smugglers”), an idea very similar to those leading to the present research. The concept of network was also exploited by Kristina Abdallah (2010), who followed professional translators’ agency in globalized production networks, in a chapter in the Translators’ Agency volume edited by Tuija Kinnunen and Kaisa Koskinen at the University of Tampere. After an approximately five-year break, the topic is again being researched, with scholars like Anne Sophie Voyer (2016) on Barbara Godard’s agency at the level of translated text; Christian Refsum (2017) in Alvstad et al. (2017), on the work of poet-translators and their friendship and community-based networks; Outi Paloposki (2017), on traces of translators’ agency in archival material surrounding translation and on translators’ positioning in relation to the publishers; or Kristina Solum (2017) on how translators’ visibility could benefit translation quality-control mechanisms. Scholars on Literary Translation in the Digital Age Looking at translation from a digital humanities (DH) perspective is nascent. It was not until very recently that scholars like Karen Littau (2016) examined the possibilities of computational media on translation in the context of the media history of this field. A very active scholar working on sociology of translation from a global, network science and digital humanities perspective is Roig- Sanz, who maps transnational processes of cultural transformation in Hispanic modernity by dint of 37 network analysis in her research titled Mapping Hispanic Modernity. Cross-border Literary Networks and Cultural Mediators (1908-1939) (https://bit.ly/2yVkAtD). The unprecedented development and visibility of the Asymptote journal on the stage of online world literature has occasioned in 2017 an essay by contributor Ellen Jones on the topic of digital publishing of literary translation, and a book chapter co-authored by Raluca Tanasescu and Chris Tanasescu on the applicability of complex networks (CNs), specifically networks of networks (NoNs) and their non-trivial topological features, their behavior at percolation, and their connectivity and expansion, in studying multilingual literary translation networks in digital space (Marais and Maylaerts 2018). This latter chapter aims at bringing TS and DH closer to one another and positions itself in the lineage of Pym and Chrupała (2005), among the first to explore a possible intersection with mathematics in a quantitative analysis of translation flows, and especially in that of Tahir-Gürçağlar (2007), who clearly anticipated the merits of a network model in providing various points of access to translation phenomena and in accounting for the mess that is oftentimes disregarded by the systemic mode of thinking: The network map will always appear more chaotic and complex than a “finished” system carrying a hierarchical organization. Yet this will help expand the scope of the field under study and bring out border areas, highlight elements that escape categorization and phase out some of the binarisms inherent in systems theory. In other words, it will capture the “mess” that is normally discarded. (2007: 727) Birgitta Englund Dimitrova’s Experience and explicitation in the translation process (2005), uses triangulation to propose a model for a combined process and product analysis that sheds light on how expertise and experience are reflected in the translation process. Her contention transpires an overt interest in complexity and departs from the same assumption like Gürçağlar, namely that translation as process and translation as product need to be explored in conjunction with each other, and as Marais puts it, in a “paradoxical tension” (Marais 2014: 22). Another contribution that explored the possibilities of a network model is Pym’s 2007 essay describing the web of periodical 38 distribution for a certain literary journal at the end of the 19th century. The added merit of this article lies in its employment of networks in cross-cultural context and in unearthing an inter-cultural sub- network of cultural influence. In recent years, several other scattered but very promising essays have examined the role of translation in small-scale DH projects, such as “Translation Arrays” (2012)—a database of 50 German translations and adaptations of Shakespeare’s Othello that mined information about world cultural variation and change; or the visualization of the Franz Rosenzweig archive at the University of Kassel, one of the many DH projects that contains “salient yet undertheorized moments of translation.” (Handelman 2015) Moreover, the “Renderings” project at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 2014 aimed to translate “highly computational and otherwise unusual digital literature into English” (Marecki and Montfort 2017), therefore to translate electronic literature between programming languages. Last but not least, Manuel Portela, María Mencía, and Søren Pold (2018) approached the topic of the exclusion of a text’s mediality and materiality via translation, which are not typically seen as part of the translation problem. It is my hope that, alongside contributions like these, the present research will shed light on the auspicious intersection between translation and DH. 39 TS Literature on Romania and Other Small European countries Although the references to translational activities in various European countries are still scarce, the second decade of the new millennium shows an overtly increased interest in the other Europe. In 2017, Larisa Schippel and Cornelia Zwischenberger edited a hefty volume dedicated to alternative TS traditions which included two contributions from Romanian scholars Magda Jeanrenaud and Georgiana Lungu-Badea. While Jeanrenaud (2017: 21-46) notes the skepticism of Romanian letters of any theorizations of translation and of the role played by linguistics in theorizing it, alongside a strong focus on the practice of literary translation before 1989 and a void in any kind of theorization after 1989, Lungu dwells upon research in the same field in Romanian universities (2017: 47-76), after having remarked in one her previous works a complete absence of any Romanian TS theories doubled by a strong practice of translation (Lungu-Badea 2013). In 2010, the reputed journal Translation Studies dedicated a special issue to “Contemporary Perspectives on Translation in Turkey”. The year 2011 saw the first English-translation of Jiří Levý’s The Art of Translation, thus acknowledging the importance of the Czech theorist for the field. Between cultures and texts. Entre les cultures et les textes. Itineraries in translation history. Itinéraires en histoire de la traduction (Chalvin, Lange, and Monticelli 2011) is a collective volume whose purpose was to widen the territory of analysis to the so-called peripheral languages and, most importantly, insist on a more thorough reflection on translation historiography, methodology and research strategies. Born out of an initiative of two scholars based at the Tallinn University, the book offers ample space to the history of translation in Estonia, but also contains contributions on translation in Bulgaria, Hungary, Mexico, Turkey, and the Ukraine. Finally, a more recent article published in 2015 in Translation and Interpreting Studies by scholar Lorenzo Constantino deals with the Polish tradition of translation, long ignored by scholars in the West. Constantino’s essay is 40 actually part of a larger project titled Europa Orientalis. Translation Theories in the Slavic Countries (A. Ceccherelli, L. Constantino, and C. Diddi, Eds.). Contexts, Subtexts, Pretexts: Literary Translation in Eastern Europe and Russia (2011), edited by Brian Baer, calls for the exploration of “alternative, non-Western traditions” (1), probably best embodied by the “Europe internal Other – the cultures of Eastern Europe and Russia.” (id.) The volume features contributions on translation in Bulgarian, Hungarian, Latvian, Polish, Russian, Croatian/Serbian, Slovenian, Ukrainian, as well as Romanian. In the introduction to Sean Cotter’s essay titled “Romania as Europe’s Translator,” which capitalizes on Romanian philosopher Constantin Noica’s view of Romania as a culture of translation, Baer assumes that the reason underlying such a vision is “to catch up with the West.” (ibid.: 5) Constantin Noica advocated openness towards translation, seeing Romania as ‘Europe’s translator’ (1973), a reparatory alternative to the status of a culturally and politically small nation who could not be insular and who had to translate out of its national specificity. It is obvious that Noica’s point of view was in line with the later theory of literary polysystems, according to which translations become central in a literature when that literature is ‘peripheral’. In this respect, Romanian critic Paul Cernat talks about “the periphery complex” (2007)—which in Romania’s case is rather a combination of superiority and inferiority. Here, I would explain superiority as the superiority complex of a nation who gave the world very prominent intellectuals (Mircea Eliade, Eugene Ionesco, Emil Cioran, and others), but inferior in terms of political and economic power. In an essay titled “Romania, Europe’s Translator,” Sean Cotter rightfully explains that “[Noica’s] nationalism is a type of internationalism, his concern with definitions of Romania is a concern, first of all, with the country’s connection with the West.” (2011: 79) Indeed, Noica’s concern with translations was not aimed at enriching Romanian literature or culture in general by bringing in important titles from Western Europe, even if most of his 41 translations were from British literature: Charles Dickens – Bleak House, Cecil Day Lewis – Sagittarius Rising or H. G. Wells – The Invisible Man. On the contrary, he used to see translation as a practice which favored laziness and prevented the target reader from learning foreign languages and exploring foreign cultures: I myself have translated and fought, against others, for translations. But as exercises in themselves and in the language, not to satisfy higher cultural needs. Forced to learn other languages, as we were, we benefited and brought benefit to our culture. (Noica 1991: 257, trans. Cotter) Noica insisted on the poly-disciplinarity of Romanian intellectuals, on the adaptability of the Romanian language—“cuvinte care ne pun în măsură să traducem orice din orice limbă” (Noica 1995: 4) (words that allow us to translate anything from any language8)—, and on the national specificity (reflected in a concept like lăutărismul românesc (Romanian fiddlering). Such a complex attitude reflects the infelicities of an insignificant political status in Europe, at the crossroads of empires (Austro-Hungarian, Turkish, and Russian) and in the world, but certainly one that merits all the attention of TS scholars. Noica’s attitude also reflects a kind of international nationalism, as long as it encourages the colonizations of Romania, in the plural, including the cultural influence of the West, from Paris to Bucharest, micul Paris (Little Paris), since small nations must not be insular. His philosophy towards translation is all the more interesting as it seems to contradict Venuti’s assertion that all cultures are ethnocentric at home (1995). Even if respectable scholars like Sean Cotter (who is also an active translator of Romanian literature into English) regard Noica’s attitude as confined by the limitations of a certain agenda— “Europe’s translator” is Noica’s version of a particular dynamic familiar to post- colonial studies, the incompatibility of the universalizing, globalizing drives of 8 All translations are mine unless stated otherwise. 42 Western Europe and the colony’s insistence on its cultural particularity. (Cotter 2011: 94) I argue that this is a translational and transnational mode of thought, a perspective common to many other Romanian critics and recent TS scholars, who also see translation as the perfect medium for personal and cultural enrichment, as well as for creativity. Tudor Vianu, one of the most significant critics and translators of the inter-war period, recommended translations as the best way to get closer to the international arena. For him, becoming more international was more important than any kind of ethnocentrism: A translation should not only bring great foreign writers closer to us, but it should also bring us closer to their world. A masterful translation opens new perspectives on a world unknown to us; it makes chords that had never vibrated resound in our soul. A translation should be a journey in a foreign country. (Vianu 1956: 275) This view is actually still very current among Romanian writers and translators. Bogdan Ghiu’s most recent volume, titled Totul trebuie tradus. Noua paradigmă (un manifest) (Everything Must Be Translated. The New Paradigm (A Manifesto)9) (2015), unveils a vision of translation that echoes Noica’s: It’s only when you take yourself seriously that you want bring everything home, to turn the universal into particular, to measure yourself to the best known, that is, to transform your home from a bunker in the world itself. To translate means to create the world at home, to organize local conferences and gatherings of international interest. It’s a kind of imperialism and globalization reversed, in which you don’t invade other people’s homes, but you bring other people to your home, and not as they are, but by translation. (Martin 2015: web) Cotter’s Literary Translation and the Idea of a Minor Romania (2014) focuses, just like many other works on translations from/into Romanian, on the formation of a modern Romania after World War I. The book dwells on a conception of translation as instrumental in shaping a national 9 Bogdan Ghiu’s substantial work as a translation theorist does not appear in any of the two essays on the Romanian translation studies tradition (Jeanrenaud 2017, Lungu-Badea 2017). 43 identity. The word ‘minor’ in the title refers to a mode of conceiving this identity through “intercultural exchange, adaptation, and ironic distance in the ways a nation thinks of itself,” (backcover) as it appears in the works of Romanian canonical critics and philosophers such as Lucian Blaga, Emil Cioran, and, again, Constantin Noica. While Cotter’s work needs to be acknowledged for its contribution to TS scholarship on this small nation, I cannot but note its exclusively historical and theoretical approach, which is not contextualized through examples from the field, although Cotter has translated several important contemporary Romanian literary pieces into English. The scope and historical period covered by his volume also coincide with other contributions on translation in Communist Romania, such as Ioana Popa’s Traduire sous contraintes. Littérature et communisme (1947–1989) (2010), a very well documented fresco of the translations into French in four Eastern- European countries under communism: Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland, and Romania; and with one of Cotter’s previous essays (2008) on the translation of Soviet literature in Romania after World War II. There are only two significant contributions which tackle the issue of translations carried out in Romania after 1989—the period this project also proposes to account for. One belongs to Muguraș Constantinescu, of the University of Suceava, and is titled « La traduction littéraire en Roumanie au XXIe siècle : quelques réflexions » (2009). Her essay ostensibly addresses various views on translation pertaining to a number of Romanian theorists and TS scholars and is situated against the expansion of the local book market after the 1989 revolution. The so-called ethnocentrism of small nations at home translates in the Romanian translation culture as creativity. For example, what attracts Ioana Bălăcescu in the act of translating, says Constantinescu, is the irreducible distance between the source text and the intuitive expression of that text in Romanian: « C'est précisément la conscience de cet écart qui me satisfait, » (2004: 30) she says, concluding that we all 44 have to assume the courage of being creative. Another example is Bălăcescu’s collaboration with the German scholar Bernd Stefanink, an article titled « Le rôle du traducteur herméneute dans la construction d’une identité européenne, » in which they advocate for the involvement of scholars and translators in creating a European identity by translation, in order to overcome the crisis of conscience currently affecting the continent. The idea of creativity is also present in Irina Mavrodin’s notion of “total translator.” The scholar, translator of Proust and Cioran into Romanian and based at the University of Suceava, was awarded in France the title of “Chevalier des arts et des lettres” for mediating intercultural dialogue. Examples are many and they all reflect the importance of such a small country for our discipline, especially due to the interest shown by Romanian translators, translation studies specialists and professors to the close relationship between theory and practice. The second essay which approaches the market of literary translation in Romania after 1989 is Iulia Mihalache’s « Acteurs du savoir et du savoir-faire dans le marché de la traduction en Roumanie postcommuniste » (2006), an article inspired by her Ph.D. thesis Le modèle occidental et ses traductions dans une société postcommuniste: le cas de la Roumanie (2005). Her article sets out to explore the sociocultural and cognitive role played by translation in Romania after the demise of communism and concludes that, although the circulation of ideas coming from Western Europe had a definite impact, this did not happen without any kind of control (understood as selection) from the part of the translating culture: La “production traductive” dans la Roumanie postcommuniste pourrait être vue comme une oscillation entre transmettre la signification d’une manière rationnelle (envisager Other-as-reason […] et traduire la “normalité” occidentale) ou relier cette signification à une expérience préverbale (approcher Other-as-mystery). Un ethos qui projette la traduction comme étant constamment “contrôlée” par des représentations de la société traduisante. Mais aussi, une traduction solidement ancrée dans et explicable par un recours à l’histoire des croyances de la société traduisante. (Mihalache 2005: 123) 45 Her research shows what has been the extent of the role of translators as intercultural mediators following a decisive moment for Romanian society and culture. The proposed inquiry takes up the task of further exploring that role in a society which has left its Communist past behind and is now trying to position itself in a globalized, transnational world. In doing so, I will model our theoretical framework in such a way that it accounts for the manifold dynamics of the literary translation practice in Romania, for the Romanian translators’ drive to transgress national borders, as well as for their double loyalty—both to the source and to the target culture—and, sometimes, to their lack of agency. 46 CHAPTER 1. EXPLORING ‘MESS’ AND CONNECTEDNESS 1. From Macro- to Micro-Modernity and Digital Humanism in Translation Studies A bird’s-eye view of translation grounded in the assimilationist paradigm of macro-modernity that has been prevailing for the past two hundred years (Cronin 2013) can never be sufficient. As Cronin argues, the difference between cultures has always been seen as oppositional, and all phenomena— including the translation-related ones—have mostly been approached from a comparative cartographic perspective, as physical spaces and boundaries usually invite dichotomous paradigms. Influenced by the inescapable globalization, macro-modernity tried to explain most social and cultural events by building large-scale models meant to compress time and space, to shrink the world and make it more accessible, instead of dwelling on local phenomena in themselves and situating them in the larger picture only after properly describing and understanding them in their complexity. This is what Cronin proposes through his micro-modernity, a notion grounded in the possibilities of the local and meant to expand our understanding of the world. The advantage of micro-modernity’s stance is that it offers hopes of preserving their uniqueness to even the smallest communities ever imagined. Cronin’s concept favors the processes that underpin any association of human beings and emphasizes the webs of connectivity that permeate their existence. In micro- modernity translation and translators can be seen in their becoming, as agents crafting a “cultural complexity which remains constant from the micro to the macro scale.” (Cronin 2006: 15) A first essential step in departing from the particular in my analysis, I argue, is renouncing as much as possible the concept of nation-border by adopting a transnational stance built on the concepts of de-territorialization (a weakening of the ties between culture and place) and of lines of 47 flight (the desire to leave the status quo and innovate) proposed by Deleuze and Guatari (1980). Two operations emerge from such a stance, one that sees translation as a language-centered operation with instrumental effects in the target network and another that sees translator’s agency as central to the act of translation. Translators thus operate within their language but not necessarily between the borders of their nation-state. They are simultaneously disembedded from their local network and re-embedded in larger webs of connectivity, having the local examined through the prism of agents’ belonging to a wider network. These two aspects will be addressed in the dissertation mainly in the subchapters dedicated to translation in print periodicals (2.1) and to transnational translators (2.2). A second step that I take in this dissertation is situating translation in the digital humanities— the recent scholarly trend that endeavors to take advantage of the pervasiveness of artificial intelligence to increase knowledge in the humanities. I will do so only at a modest level, by enhancing our capacity to modeling the corpus through computational network analysis and by proposing, in subchapter 1.2, a paradigm that takes stock of the possibilities offered by chaos theory. Last but not least, I shall dedicate a section (2.4.) to translators that increased their agency by taking advantage of the affordances offered by digital space—thus agents who enhanced their web of connectivity even more, by accessing the virtual world of instant communication. Before I address the exciting possibilities of chaos and complexity in TS and, by way of consequence, in DH, I should refer briefly to the ways in which the field has tried to find order out of chaos by employing a never-ending series of homogenizing dichotomies. Instead of trying to find better terms for the biased phrases to be encountered in this journey, I further suggest we embrace the inherent precariousness of these terms and see what the implications are for the field of 48 translation. No magic powers are needed to foresee the interesting and potentially controversial conclusion that chaos might be an attractive prospect. 1.1.1. Partial Pluralities Translation studies is one of the most open and most interdisciplinary areas of academic inquiry. Yet, translation historiography did not take into account the social aspects related to the production of translations until only recently (Hanna 2016: 67) and ostensibly showed interest in constructing a translation theory, rather than examining how various translational phenomena took shape. However, generating a theory needs “one origin that engenders them, justifies their existence and lends them a logical sequence in the historical narrative.” (ibid.: 68) As a result, several reductionist theories have been built around a slew of dichotomous notions, such as domestication vs. foreignization, self vs. other, or product vs. process, which seems to have concurred with the development of a binary mode of thinking across the discipline (Gouanvic ibid., Wolf 2014). The use of such notions in pairs has long been doubled by a series of spatial metaphors, which place the act of translation between two points: a source and a target, in-between, the West and the Rest. Even translation itself used to be part of such dichotomy, since it would always be compared to the original. If until the late 1980s (and still even well into the 1990s) the majority of TS scholars talked about translation as a process, being interested in how meaning was transferred from the source language into the target language (Berman 1985, Newmark 1988, Venuti 1998, etc.) and focusing mostly on translations from/into languages of international circulation, such as English, French, and German—, in the early 90s their interest shifted towards translation as a product, as a result of the 49 culture in which it was produced (Niranjana 1992, Lefevere 1992a and 1992b, and others). What we call the “cultural turn” of the 1990s was introduced by Lefevere’s Translation/History/Culture: A Sourcebook (1992c), which proposed approaching translation from a cultural perspective. They were the first to sideline the interest in translation as text only, thus shifting researchers’ attention to matters pertaining to the historical, cultural, and political environment of translations. In her book Translation Studies, Susan Bassnett argues that the history of TS “should not be approached from a narrowly fixed position” (1991/2002: 80) and mentions Carlo Emilio Gadda’s words with reference to a work “that has barely been begun” (id.): “We therefore think of every system as an infinite entwining, an inextricable knot or mesh of relations: the summit can be seen from many altitudes; and every system is referable to infinite coordinated axes: it presents itself in infinite ways.” (Gadda cited in Bassnett id: 81) Bassnett called for more documentation to be produced, more information about changing concepts to be examined and for the setting up of an international venture on translation history. “By understanding more about the changing face of Translation Studies and the changing status of the translated text,” she said, “we are better equipped to tackle the problems as they arise within our own contexts.” (ibid.: 137) Therefore the discipline acquired a strong culturalist orientation, one which has placed it under the sign of ‘cultural translation’ and of its intrinsic power asymmetries. The crisis of representation in ethnography, mirrored by the ‘writing culture debate’ (Clifford and Marcus 1986), has had enormous effects on translation as representation of the Other. However, the reparatory standpoint of postcolonialism was not without fault: turning towards the Other, an ‘other’ who had been neglected and misrepresented for so long, postcolonial scholarship failed to account for the diversity of the West, most notably for the linguistic and cultural diversity of Europe, treating the said ‘West’, no matter how obviously general and ambiguous the term, as a uniform entity (Cronin 50 1995, 1998). A series of new dichotomies gained momentum: ‘the self’ vs. ‘the Other’, ‘European’ vs. ‘non-European’, ‘Western’ vs. ‘non-European’, etc. As Michaela Wolf aptly notes, the publication of Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978) was the starting point for an attitude of hostility towards Europe, perceived in “an alleged uniqueness of the region’s cultural tradition and a consequent disparagement of the culture of the ‘other.’” (Wolf 2014: 228) Although scholars realized that translation is a field in which interactions and relations are vital, reductionism did not lag behind. The whole system theory was built on the grounds of yet another binarism, via Itamar Even-Zohar’s second condition for translations to have a central role in a host-literature—that is, when that literature is either peripheral and/or ‘weak’ and the need for new literary forms is strongly felt in its repertoire (Even Zohar 1992). Thus the new binary pair was ‘center’ vs. ‘periphery’, a geographically informed distinction which offered the small nations of Europe as an example of peripheral literatures. Embracing post-colonial peripheries has resulted in implicitly creating other peripheries in academia, most notably exemplified by ‘the other Europe.’ Postcolonial scholars were the first to tackle the crisis of representation, by setting out to explore race and/or nationality from a feminist, “subaltern” perspective (Spivak 1988, von Flotow 1997), to examine such concepts as hybridity, otherness, or marginality (Bhabha 1994), and to generally “change the terms” of the discourse (Simon and St. Pierre 2000), seeing translation as “a site for investigating intercultural contact” (ibid.: 11) and seeking “to recount the asymmetry and inequality of relations between peoples, races, languages.” (Niranjana 1992: 1). Postcolonial TS has focused on formerly colonized sites, such as India, Africa, Ireland, and China, aiming at adding a global dimension to research and understanding the dynamics of power relations and alterity worldwide: “For Translation Studies and literary study in general, adopting a postcolonial frame means enlarging the map which has traditionally bound literary and cultural studies. It means moving 51 beyond the boundaries of Europe and North America, and following more expansive itineraries, moving into new territories.” (Simon 2000: 13) But in doing so, in broaching the crisis of representation, Michael Cronin argues that postcolonial scholars became victims of an imperialist attitude similar to the one they were trying to do away with: [The]… failure to account for the linguistic and translational complexity of Europe in part stems from the tendency by post-colonial critics to reduce Europe to two languages, English and French, and to two countries, England and France. Thus, the critique of imperialism becomes itself imperialist in ignoring or marginalizing the historical and translation experience of most European languages. (1995: 85-86) It so happens though that irony works both ways. Michael Cronin is the General Editor of mTm: A Translation Journal, a publication that endeavors to promote the “discussion on the particularities of translation from major into minor languages and vice versa, as well as of translation between minor languages.” (mTm: homepage) In spite of its praiseworthy objectives, the journal entertains this biased distinction; and it is the biased distinction that sticks like a leitmotif with its readers and contributors. 1.1.2. Everything Is a Mess: ‘Minority’ and ‘Minorness’ in Translation Studies With the advent of globalization, this biased pair gains more and more ground in the discourse of TS: we talk about ‘major’ and ‘minor’ cultures, where ‘major’ seems to be in direct relation to the political and economic power of certain nations and ‘minor’, related to all the others. This decontextualizing and objectifying qualifier (Kant 1998) is regrettable for two reasons. First, it implies a biased, subjective comparison: while ‘small’ refers to a limited size, ‘minor’ means lesser, oftentimes even lower in rank. The second reason is related to this discipline’s insistence on a nationalist paradigm (notably via the polysystem theory and postcolonialism), which other fields, 52 such as literary studies, have finally escaped by embracing transnationalism, by challenging the historical and geographical boundaries of traditional practices (Fishkin 2004, Jay 2010). The sociological turn of the 2000s appears to have strengthened the bias: translation seen as an unequal exchange between dominating and dominated cultures takes place in a world that is highly hierarchical (Casanova 2004, Heilbron 1999, Heilbron and Sapiro 2007), although Pierre Bourdieu’s praxeological mode of knowledge—one professing a dialectical relationship between various governing social structures and translators’ dispositions—presents the perfect opportunity for overcoming reductionism. A large number of contributions in TS focused at the beginning of the millennium on global translation flows, a preoccupation coming from the field of comparative literature. It is only recently that we have started to look more consistently at how translation happens and, more importantly, who is responsible for the things that happen (Buzelin 2005; Chesterman 2009; Milton and Bandia 2009), as well as at small languages that were placed at the periphery of the field by those studies dealing with global translation flows (Chalvin, Lange, and Monticelli 2011; Folaron 2015). Outside academia, important translation journals, such as Asymptote, are committed to a fairer representation of languages: their twenty issues to date host an impressive ‘eclectic platter’ of translations from 92 languages. A recent interview with Icelandic neo-surrealist poet Sjón in the aforementioned journal reveals a similar approach to the one used in this research. Talking about the threat of English over an isolated language like Icelandic, Sjón reveals his preference for a new term that appears to overcome the comparative bias of other proposed terms (i.e., “lesser”, “small”): I use the term “languages spoken by few” instead of “small languages.” It’s a term suggested by our former president, Vigdís Finnbogadóttir, a great champion of linguistic diversity. She says there are no big or small languages and that translation 53 proves it. If the Divine Comedy can be translated into Faroese, then the Faroese language is big enough to accommodate it—proving to be as big as Dante’s Italian. (Billey undated: web) It is obvious that designations like ‘minor’ or ‘small’ provoke irritation, even if authors like Cronin point out that we should insist on the relational dimension of the term rather than on its designating an essence (2009). However, I argue it is perhaps time to shift the focus from how languages are related to what actually happens in those languages and cultures, because a small-scale analysis might prove instrumental in analyzing the larger picture. Translation flows are not unidirectional— authors coming from small countries get translated too. And translators into languages spoken by few have a completely different type of agency from translators working in global languages and in contexts in which translation is highly institutionalized. The notion of ‘minor’ language/literature/culture is perhaps one of the concepts that most entertains the antithetical and monolithic positions in TS. And it is an odd situation, especially given the difficulty faced by various linguistics scholars when trying to offer a proper definition of minor languages. The complication lies in coming up with a suitable definition of ‘smallness’: “The criteria based on norms, writing, literature, etc. cannot be applied to the majority of languages and thus cannot provide a general definition of a minor language.” (Wildgen 2003: 154) The same author notes that “[…] minor has connotations of negative value, including: irrelevant, bad, without power, etc. As a relational value, it requires a frame or a norm (average).” (id.) With respect to a weighted index of minorness, for example, the Romanian language is neither statistically, nor geographically, nor historically minor: it has approximately 25 million speakers, its literary language map has clear contours, and it dates as far back as the 16th century. It is not minor in relation to a set of social domains or in relation to cultural representation, as it has a written form and functions as the language of the national media and of the government, for example. 54 The introduction written by Thomas Stolz and Joel Sherzer to the collective volume Minor Languages. Approaches, Definitions, Controversies. Papers from the conference on “Minor Languages: Coming to Grips with a Suitable Definition” Bremen, June 2001 complicates things even further, as his definitions suggest equivalence between ‘minor languages’ and ‘minority languages’. He notes that “[f]rom the point of view of the world as a whole, a national language may be a major or a minor language. […] Minority languages are languages of sociological minorities within particular countries.” (Sherzer and Stolz 2003: viii), but, later on, he posits that “[m]inor languages also typically share certain sociolinguistic characteristics, including lack of written register, no legal recognition, and confinement to restricted domains of use,” (ibid.: ix) even if the characteristics he enumerates pertain to what is commonly referred to as ‘minority’ languages. However, he aptly observes that “[i]n general, minor languages are more diverse as a group typologically than major languages,” (id.) which should make them more interesting for our field of inquiry, since they are “translation cultures par excellence.” (Cronin 2009: 170) Besides the above references in the field of linguistics, other attempts at classifying languages as major and minor prove to be equally strenuous. While the French spoken in Canada falls clearly in the category of minority languages (Bertrand and Gauvin 2003), things are again not clear in the case of Romanian. In An Ecology of World Literature: From Antiquity to the Present Day (2015), Alexander Beecroft proposes a classification that draws on Dutch sociologist Abram De Swaan’s work, according to whom English is a hyper-central language, followed by twelve other languages seen as super-central (among which German, French, Spanish, Chinese, and others, in no particular order), and approximately 130 other central languages, defined as those languages whose speakers “link peripheral languages through communities of bilingual speakers” (Beecroft ibid.: 250). While Romanian does not make the top 25 languages classified by their number of speakers, 55 it ranks 25th in terms of source languages for literary translation and 24th as a target language for literary translations according to UNESCO. The great discrepancy between the number of titles translated from Romanian (5,318) and the number of literary works translated into Romanian (17,966) is a relevant instantiation of why the study of the role played by various small nations is so important for TS, at least just as important as the issues related to the centrality of certain prominent languages. De Swaan’s work and the UNESCO statistics also set the grounds for Johan Heilbron’s essay on the world system of translations (Heilbron 2000), in which he examines the international flow of translated books, basing his analysis on the prominence of source-languages only. He borrows the term from De Swaan for categorizing English as hyper-central, but he uses three different terms for categorizing the others—German and French as central; Spanish, Italian and Russian as semi-central; and all the others as peripheral, although De Swaan includes, as mentioned before, 150 languages in the category of central languages. Heilbron’s entire argument is built on a core-periphery structure, which serves the purpose of a macro-overview of the global translation flows, but which implicitly reduces the role of small countries, no matter how important a role translation plays in those cultures. All these rankings demonstrate the relativity of these terms and classifications: if we take the example of Romanian, according to De Swaan it is a central language, according to Beecroft it is a major national language, while according to Heilbron it is a peripheral language. Heilbron’s article is the perfect example for the way in which the sociology of translation centered its discourse on the power relations inherent in the encounter of cultures, which ordinarily have significant consequences on the production and reception of translations. Aware of their Eurocentric roots and biases (Trivedi 2006, Tymoczko 2007, Gentzler 2008), TS started to aim at becoming more international. One of the most vocal in signaling the setbacks of the increasing 56 hegemony of English as language of international communication, science, and scholarship in TS is Mary Snell-Hornby, who posits that English as a global lingua franca is not a solution for “sophisticated academic discourse dealing with complex acts of communication across potentially all languages and cultures as in Translation Studies.” (2010: 98) She also emphasizes the danger for English to become, besides a means of communication, the sole object of discussion, thus “defeating the very purpose of Translation Studies as international and cross-cultural communication,” (ibid.: 99) and proposes the use of bridge languages other than English, that would give access to the work of scholars coming from countries with lesser-known languages. The predominance of English with the advent of globalization has been qualified by authors like Karen Bennett as ‘epistemicide’ (2007), ‘first-class burial’ of any other language. Snell-Horby’s concerns had already been expressed by Simon (ibid.) in postcolonial and transnational context: Transnational culture studies has tended to operate entirely in English, at the expense of a concern for the diversity of languages in the world. The focus on translation within the global context is necessary to draw attention to language issues in cultural exchange. (Simon ibid.: 12) In spite of all these, there is still an ongoing debate on universalism (entirely built on the European/Western tradition) vs. internationalism in TS. In a recent dialogue published in Translation Studies between Andrew Chesterman and Șebnem Susam-Saraeva, the latter argues that “both Western and non-Western scholars should be encouraged in their efforts in widening and diversifying their understanding of ‘translation,’ not chastised because the very tenets of their arguments are fundamentally misunderstood and misrepresented.” (2014: 337) However, other scholars like Peter Flynn (2013) caution against such an attitude imposing a fashionable research agenda in academia and, referring to Edwin Gentzler’s Translation and Identity in the Americas: New Directions in Translation Theory (2008), questions “what is meant by (outmoded) Western or 57 European translation models.” (46) Flynn criticizes Tymoczko’s use of “Western” or “Eurocentric” as “everything obsolete, narrowly linguistic and deserving of rejection,” (id.) especially since Tymoczko herself notes that geographic positioning is not without fault: “[a]t this point in time, however, when Western ideas have permeated the world and there is widespread interpenetration of cultures everywhere, the terms east and west become increasingly problematic” (Tymoczko 2005: 1). Questioning the heuristic value of the reductionist ‘major vs. minor’ dichotomy is perhaps all the more legitimate since the term ‘minor’ appears to be the result of inaccurate translation. In The World Republic of Letters (2004), Pascale Casanova explains that the American curricula and the field of cultural studies were heavily influenced by various recent French philosophers, of which Deleuze and Guattari and their “highly ambiguous notion of ‘minor literature’” (2004: 203) are of particular interest. This notion stemmed from the concept of “small” literature in the sense used by Kafka, the author the French philosophers were translating from at the time. Casanova notes that the term used by the Czech writer in the German original was klein (small), with an alternative rendition as “minor” in one of the translations of the book, by Marthe Robert. In note 56 to her chapter titled “Small Literatures”, Casanova mentions the fact that another translator of Kafka’s, Bernard Lortholary, had qualified the term ‘minor’ as “inexact and tendentious.” (ibid.: 383). However inexact and tendentious, these are the words that set the foundation of Deleuze and Guattari’s theory—criticized by Casanova as “a crude and anachronistic interpretation” (ibid.: 203) that deforms Kafka’s meaning and as a misunderstanding that led the two French thinkers “astray” (Grutman 2016; Larose and Lapidus 2002): Minor literature is not the literature of a minor language but the literature a minority makes in a major language. But the primary characteristic of a minor literature involves all the ways in which the language is effected by a strong coefficient of deterritorialization. (Deleuze and Guattari 1986: 16, emphasis mine) 58 This first characteristic, a “literature a minority makes in a major language,” refers to literatures such as the one of Quebec or Wallonia (Bertrand and Gauvin, ibid.), for example, or that of colonial India writing in English or colonial Vietnam writing in French, or Native-American literature in English. The following two characteristics shed more light on the concept: The second characteristic of minor literatures is that everything in them is political. […] In “great” literatures, on the contrary, the question of the individual (familial, conjugal, etc.) tends to be connected to other, no less individual questions, and the social milieu serves as environment and background. […] Minor literature is completely different: because it exists in a narrow space, every individual matter is immediately plugged into the political. (id., emphasis mine) The case of Romania cannot be farther from such definition. It is a national language spoken by over twenty million people that has never tried to position itself in relation to any other language considered as dominant, neither directly, not through its literature. The third characteristic of minor literatures according to Deleuze and Guattari is that “everything has a collective value” (ibid.: 17). The explanation that follows makes the major/minor dichotomy as we know it in TS even harder to apply: “In effect, talents do not abound in a minor literature, the conditions are not given for an individuated utterance which would be that of some “master” and could be separated from collective utterance.” (id.) Romania, however small, is home to a very heterogeneous and effervescent literary scene, on which authors hope to make a name for themselves individually and to speak in their own name. The two most important moments of synchronization with world literature—the French Revolution and postmodernism—have created writers with very unique styles and individual voices who, although perhaps sometimes speaking for their literary generations, have very individual messages and tone in their writings. In spite of this three-layer definition provided by Deleuze and Guattari and of its insistence on the potential of minority, the biased comparative paradigm that is still operational in TS appears 59 as highly counter-intuitive. First of all, although the position of translated literature is less central in countries with a significant cultural production (cf. Heilbron 1999), our eyes are still eagerly turned towards such countries instead of the small or less central ones, in which translations and translators have a more visible positioning. Countries like the United States, where translations account for less than 3% of the total yearly book production are referred to in the literature as major cultures, while countries like Canada, where translation has been a modus vivendi for many generations, or Romania, where translations occupy a significant place in its literature,10 most often fall in the category of ‘minor’ cultures. For instance, one of the most cited books in TS is Lawrence Venuti’s The Translator’s Invisibility (1995), which is entirely built on translators’ experience in the United States—a major culture operating in a major language. In the age of plurality and transnationalism, I suggest we are moving too fast in many essential respects, just as we move too slowly in others that are equally essential. A first step in discovering underexplored sources that are bound to remain obscure if we continue to resort to subjective comparative binarisms is to look at the world as a huge interconnected network and access it through new points of entry. In order to be able to map theories (in the plural!) of a field as open as TS, we have to rethink and re-conceptualize a series of schismatic dichotomies that very often create a gap between theory and praxis or even propagate an erroneous understanding of the underlying concepts. I argue that the ‘major/minor’ dichotomy, along with others such as ‘Western’/’non-Western’ and ‘Eurocentric’/’non-Eurocentric’, ‘global-local’ (Mercier 2014) are fuzzy at best (Cronin 1997, Apter 2013)—even if their intention is to draw clear-cut categories that 10 A study by the National Institute for Cultural Research and Training in 2016 estimates that at least 10% of the book titles published in 2015 were translations. (Ceobanu et al. 2016) Other estimations (Ursa 2016) place the proportion of translated literature anywhere 18% and 30% after 1989. 60 favor formerly un-favored cultures—and do not seem to lead to anything but a chain of entrenched distinctions that clearly miss all essential complications. These essential complications—or complexities, such as those arising from the cultural metabolism of a small nation like Romania— might prove more useful to TS than any reductionist stance by narrowing considerably the gap between theory and practice. However, instead of constantly vacillating between a center and a periphery (Baker 1995), between a process by which people make sense of the world and strive to control it (centering) and an entropy concept related to the process of change (peripheralizing), a balance act is needed in order to account for the complexity of translation. In other words, this balance act means to acknowledge precariousness and chaos as the driving forces of translation. 1.1.3. A New Politics of Precariousness: Acting at the Edge of Chaos To be in a precarious state refers to finding oneself in a situation that is beyond control, unstable, uncertain, and insecure. In complexity theory, the overarching framework of this dissertation, precariousness is the condition for a system to survive and is reflected by a state commonly referred to as “at the edge of chaos,” between certainty and uncertainty, between stability and instability. The precarious state, a transition stage between order and disorder, is thus a condition for life, for the dynamics of a system, and for its evolution, which means that no system is purely chaotic or utterly ordered, otherwise it would be extinct. Ultimately, precariousness is what maintains life and pushes the system to evolve through adaptation. In non-hegemonic contexts, precariousness is embedded in the very fiber the groups are made of (Cronin 2012) and it also fuels our perception of the act of translation as a resource gap in the translating culture, as opposed to a gap in value. Translators’ agency is thus grounded in their 61 need to find resources they do not otherwise have in their proximity and translation is a reparatory act rather than a second-rate product. The literary form that usually fits a more liberal course of action on the part of translators is “poetry, the least translated literary genre, no matter where the translating literature ranks in the global hierarchy of symbolic capital that is so unevenly distributed among national literary traditions.” (Venuti 2011: 127) And it is within a small country that translators are bound to act more according to their own circumstances and literary preferences and less according to some well-defined policies drawn up by publishing companies. As far as the precarious state of poetry as a socially and economically significant literary form is concerned, Venuti posits that “[its] marginality is in fact the first reason to move poetry closer to the center of Translation Studies,” (id.) because “poetry translation is more likely to encourage experimental strategies that can reveal what is unique about translation as a linguistic and cultural practice.” (id.) Precariousness is also the tenet that underpins Deleuze and Guattari’s assemblage thinking in general and the ‘lines of flight’ embarked upon by the body without organs in particular: Multiplicities are defined by the outside: by the abstract line, the line of flight or deterritorialization according to which they change in nature and connect with other multiplicities. The plane of consistency (grid) is the outside of all multiplicities. The line of flight marks: the reality of a finite number of dimensions that the multiplicity effectively fills; the impossibility of a supplementary dimension, unless the multiplicity is transformed by the line of flight; the possibility and necessity of flattening all of the multiplicities on a single plane of consistency or exteriority, regardless of their number of dimensions. (1980: 9-10, emphases mine) Precariousness is therefore present in the multiplicity’s lack of effectiveness in filling all the dimensions of reality, is caused by the multiplicities’ belonging to wider webs of connection, and eventually leads to evolution, to ‘a supplementary dimension’, to infinite possibilities of escaping. Both lines of flight and precariousness facilitate an understanding of how things connect rather than how things are. They both are concerned with how things become. The line of flight is the elusive 62 moment when change happens, therefore it too takes place at the edge of chaos. As far as translators’ agency is concerned, the line of flight happens when precariousness, when the need for resources, is acknowledged. This is when precariousness becomes translation. Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of rhizome “describes the connections that occur between the most disparate and the most similar of objects, places and people; the strange chains of events that link people: the feeling of ‘six degrees of separation,’ the sense of ‘having been here before’ and assemblages of bodies.” (Colman 2010: 232) To them things are not substance, but processes, assemblages of multiplicities within which bodies move along “path[s] of mutation precipitated through the actualisation of connections among [them].” (Lorraine 2010: 147) Their assemblages bear striking resemblance to Latour’s actor-network, whose sequential factor is exploration, similar to the line of flight—the permanent modification of the boundaries and of the reticulated structure of the network that allows for the continuation of the collective, for continuous formations of new associations. Latour’s network acknowledges the precarious dynamic of collectives, as almost all assemblages are built on precarious socio‐material relations. Both Latour and Deleuze reject singular modes of existence and see precariousness as the fueling force of any association or assemblage. By the same token, I would like to propose that precariousness offers a vantage point to TS. First of all, the ‘peripheral’ status of small countries should make them more visible in this field, since they bring new practices and new approaches that are more defining of decentralized systems. In smaller countries, perhaps more so than in others, do translators belong both to the literary and the translation fields, some of them even to a third field—the academic one. Most of the time these three fields intertwine and offer translators lines of flight or modes of exploration that differ radically from what is generally described under the nation-bound paradigm of cultural fields and 63 institutional power. Second, I would like to propose precariousness as an auspicious angle for referencing self-reliant translators as agents of literary change and poetry translation as essentially a collaborative act, the result of a network of individuals living ‘at the edge of chaos.’ Finally, I further suggest that TS theories should take their own precariousness to heart when defining their object and methodologies, and acknowledge that the digital age should permeate scholarly work in the field. At a lower level, I argue for the purpose of this research that a complex view of translators’ agency should take into account how the digital affects and enhances the work of literary translators—translation becomes user-generated. At a higher level, I shall try to incorporate computing power in my analysis of the corpora in order to offer a better understanding of connectedness in the world of literary translation. 1.2. A Chaos Paradigm: Applying Network Theory in Investigating Translators’ Agency 1.2.1. Complexity Thinking in Translation Studies In Translation Theory and Development Study. A Complexity Theory Approach (2014), Kobus Marais builds on social emergence and complexity theory in order to provide a complexity framework for further developments in the field of translation. The need for a more elaborate paradigm in TS was signaled by Salah Basalamah (2005, 2016), Maria Tymoczko (2007) and also by Arduini and Nergaard (2011), who conjectured that the discipline plays with “a plethora of stagnant approaches” and that it needs a new epistemology engaged with “complexity and multiplicity, non-linearity and hybridity.” (Arduini and Nergaard 2011: 9-10) After reductionism-informed modernity and post- modernity, it is time for an epistemology that is able to account for and embrace paradox, says 64 Marais quoting physical chemist and Nobel Prize Laureate Ilya Prigogine, who argued that science’s new way of looking at the world needs to take into account “fluctuations, instability, multiple choices, and limited predictability” (1996: 4): Before, science was about cause, not chance. Now it is about chance, possibility, and probability. In this new view, freedom and determinism also seem to hang together in a complex relationship, at the edge of chaos. (Marais 2014: 21, emphasis mine) To this end, Marais claims that three steps need to be taken: first, TS should acknowledge that its binaries (such as source and target, or agent and system, and so on) are part and parcel of non-equilibrium systems and exist “at the edge of chaos,” in a constant state of tension; second, the field should revisit its understanding of the notion of “system” by looking into complex adaptive systems (CASs) and actor-network links; third, we should quit the reductionist way of seeing translation as something else and of inventing various turns that claim exclusivity over ‘the heart of the matter’ (Singh 2007): rather than seeing either culture or sociology or any other type of phenomena lying at the core of TS, we should consider all these phenomena at the same time and view translation as translation—one of the most complex realities there are: Conceptualized in the terminology of complex adaptive systems theory, translation is both a complex adaptive system constituted by complex adaptive sub-systems and a complex adaptive sub-system that co-constitutes a number of complex adaptive systems, or social reality as a complex adaptive supra-system. (2014: 44) First, what do we understand by complexity? According to systematic theologian Niels Henrik Gregersen (2004: 136-141), there are seven aspects of complexity: descriptive (requiring an endless sequence of descriptions, of which none can be said to be the ultimately right one); constitutional (consisting of many heterogeneous elements that need to be accounted for); organizational (as the constituent elements are structured into highly ordered complexes); causal (with context sensitivity leading to many different causal trajectories); functional (to the extent that 65 the system as a whole can perform various actions according to its various internal rules); and computational. The latter complexity is formulated into two sub-categories: on the one hand, an algorithmic system is said to be complex “relative to the length of the minimal computer program needed to compress and regenerate a given series of numbers;” (140) on the other, the effective complexity of a system is given by the large number of varied patterns “that are neither merely repetitive nor merely chaotic.” (141) That is, effective complexity appears in systems living ‘at the edge of chaos.’ In order to properly describe a phenomenon, I surmise, one needs to address all these aspects in their variety, and while organizational complexity may be tackled by means of computational power, it is still mainly the humanities’ task to address all other aspects by describing them qualitatively and by critically assessing them. Second, what is a system and what is a complex adaptive system? Systems are now commonly defined as unified wholes, be they social, cultural, or economic, separated from other macro-units by spatial or temporal boundaries. The notion gained ground in the 19th century through the work of physicist Nicolas Carnot in the field of thermodynamics and in the 20th century the concept gained prominence due to the General Systems Theory advanced by biologist Ludwig von Bertalanffy (1988). According to a more recent definition proposed by biologist Ernst Mayr, they are animated by two properties: They act as wholes (as though they were a homogeneous entity), and their characteristics cannot be deduced (even in theory) from the most complete knowledge of the components, taken separately or in other combinations. In other words, when such a system is assembled from its components, new characteristics of the whole emerge that could not have been predicted from a knowledge of the constituents. (Mayr 1988: 15) They are also essentially hierarchic (consisting of sub-systems which consist of sub-systems, etc.), distinct from the environment around them, and may be closed or open, the latter allowing 66 interactions with the environment, while the closed ones are characterized by a deterministic model, according to which no random development is possible. As far as open systems are concerned, they allow for exchanges of energy, matter, or information with the environment, therefore they are in a constant state of flux. When the interactions with the environment result in a rupture in the system’s symmetry, such as is the case of extreme weather phenomena, for example, a system is dissipative (Prigogine 1996). Dissipative structures, descriptive of a system that is far from equilibrium and a result of irreversible processes, have been successfully deployed in the study of complex systems. The latter are difficult to model either because of the non-linear relationships, interactions, and dependencies between their parts or because of a complex relationship with their surrounding environments. They are caused by a variation in their energy flux and even the smallest variation may lead to great differences in the results. These variations are calculated in natural sciences using non-linear differential equations, a breakthrough after the long-time use of the linear ones. Their use in describing weather as a dissipative system has led meteorologist Edward Lorenz to the discovery of chaos—that is, the impossibility of predicting the development of natural processes unless the initial conditions are 100% known, as even the smallest change in these initial conditions could lead to greatly varied results. Let us keep chaos at the back of our minds for now—I shall get back to it shortly. In terms of complex adaptive systems, Santa Fe complexity experts John H. Miller and Scott E. Page explain that “[a]t the most basic level, the field […] challenges the notion that by perfectly understanding the behavior of each component part of a system we will then understand the system as a whole.” (2007: 3) Complex systems are a subset of non-linear dynamic systems and have been best and most extensively applied to the study of society, as they were found to account for the heterogeneity of the agents, for their emergent behaviour, as well as for phase transitions in social 67 environments. They are self-organizing, dynamic, and built on positive feedback (contained in the notion of ‘feedback loops’), they evolve from simplicity to greater complexity and are sensitive to the smallest change in the initial conditions, which can lead to unpredictable outputs. Such systems have been successfully deployed in the study of complex situations that arise in various social systems, like healthcare, international relations, or the military, because of their potential to solve problems for which traditional, hierarchical forms of control and negative feedback are ineffective. Dealing with heterogeneity as a key driving force in social worlds may be what makes the notion of complex adaptive systems interesting to Marais in the field of translation, alongside their capacity to prove that horizontally-distributed agents, be they individuals or institutions, can be just as effective in certain contexts as hierarchical agents can be in others. The complexity of the translation system at the level of agent-based modelling is given by the dynamics of the system, agent interaction, and agent heterogeneity. Unlike traditional social sciences, which are focused on the social average, the analysis and modelling of such systems promise to offer a more complete image of translators’ actions, which may range from chaotic behaviours to assumed, intentional agency. Using the example of economic systems, Miller and Page (ibid.) argue that homogeneity in such a complex system can only account for the proper functioning of institutions, but cannot explain an economic crash. Therefore, for instance, complexity theory presents itself as a proper research paradigm to account for translation phenomena outside institutional contexts or for aspects that may be otherwise classified as accidental or unusual. And, in the context of my research, complex adaptive systems and complex networks (subsets of such systems) may offer a pertinent model for the analysis of translators’ agency in non-hegemonic contexts. However, as I argue further on, we see the notion of network as potentially bearing more fruits for the study of translatorial action than that of system; also, I would conjecture that, before conceptualizing 68 translation as a system, it is important to look at its various components through the lens of network science. A third question related to the relevance of complex adaptive systems thinking for TS is: what are the features of these complex adaptive systems and, more importantly, how could they be used, alongside complexity theory in general, to properly research translators’ agency? Also known as open systems—“system[s] in exchange of matter with [their] environment, presenting import and export, building-up and breaking-down of [their] material components,” (Bertalanffy 1988: 4)— or dynamic systems (in which motion is present), they present the “emergence of complex large-scale behaviours from the aggregate interactions of less complex parts.” (Holland 1995: 11) There is a hierarchy insofar as there are “levels” of existence that emerge from one another—not from permanent additions to existing layers and certainly not from the primacy of human action. Moreover, they are animated by a set of emergent properties, such as aggregation (extracting what is not important, retaining what is, and treating what remains as similar), large scale behaviour (behaviour of less complex agents that tend to act the same), non-linearity, diversity, and allowing for the existence of flows—“from node to node via a connector with the nodes acting as agents and the connectors as possible interactions.” (Marais 2014: 33) These emergent properties are concerned with the interaction between the parts and not with the individual actions of the parts. Emergence is doubled by downward causation, as complex systems also acknowledge the influence of the whole on its parts. Furthermore, simple laws generate complex phenomena—this is “how large numbers of relatively simple entities organize themselves, without the benefit of any central controller, into a collective whole that creates patterns, uses information, and, in some cases, evolves and learns.” (Mitchell 2009: 4) Also, all systems have histories that act as initial conditions for evolutions. Their historicity is a function of unidirectional 69 time: open systems are subject to various flows of information and need to interact with other systems for their survival. One of the most important features of complex adaptive systems is self-organization. As Marais notes, “agents act locally, with no view of contributing to the whole” (Marais 2014: 31) and the whole emerges from local interactions. An equally essential feature is that complex systems do not operate in a state of equilibrium, as that would mean their death. Instead, they live ‘at the edge of chaos,’ a state in between order and chaos. It is at the edge of chaos that complex systems manifest their self-organized criticality,11 tuning themselves to critical states through active, decentralized processes (Bak et al. 1988). Later on Bak hypothesized that self-organizing criticality is a universal phenomenon that applies to complex systems in general and not only to the complex adaptive ones. Finally, their behaviour can be predicted only by observation, because non-linearity makes prediction almost impossible12 (cf. Mitchell 2009: 20 et infra). Murray Gell-Mann (1994) emphasizes that the beauty of CASs lies in the fact that they are not preprogrammed and reactive, but that they process information in such a way that it allows for surprise and creativity. Enlarging on the functional organization of such systems, Gell-Mann notes that they need to be able to identify regularities, or patterns, in the environment, by avoiding to perceive randomness as order and order as randomness. Once a pattern is identified, the system must be able to produce a schemata, or an internal model, that is able to identify any further similar regularities. One condition for achieving that is the capacity to filter out noise. Another condition for a system to be complex is that the produced schemata are not fixed, but emergent and adaptive. 11 Conceptually illustrated by the Bak-Tang-Wiesenfeld sandpile model, self-organized criticality is a process by which “many composite systems naturally evolve to a critical state in which a minor event starts a chain reaction that can affect any number of elements in that system.” (Bak and Chen 1991: 46-53) 12 As Marais rightfully notes, the impossibility of predicting behaviour renders causality very problematic. 70 These schemata are able to produce variants that compete among themselves and to anticipate surrounding activities. Finally, CASs are related to the environment by feedback loops that allow them to change and adapt. While the appeal of CASs clearly stems from the variety of processes involved and from their potential to self-regulate, they are also subject to a number of mechanisms meant to make unpredictability more manageable. John H. Holland (1995) describes a set of three operations that underlie the hidden order of complexity. One is tagging (or naming)—classifying types of interactions within the system), which may be used as a sound practice for identifying a plethora of interactions: filtering, co-operation, competition, formation of aggregates, manipulation of symmetries, and selection. Tagging helps the observer discern between agents and agents to dissociate from other agents and is directly related to aggregation—the capacity to generalize into categories. The second mechanism are the internal models, a basic schema which allows for the anticipation and the prediction of system development. The last mechanism is reflected in the notion of building blocks—the basic constitutive units (the memes) of the internal models. In our case in point, what are the building blocks of translation studies? Are they translations as communicative acts as proposed by Luhmann, or the translator, as in the organicist system model proposed by scholars like Maturana? The adaptive systems theory does not seem to solve this conundrum just yet. Within a complexity paradigm, any social phenomenon, including translation, is caused by and causes a complexity of phenomena. Thus it is an emergent phenomenon, but also a lower-level one that, in its turn, leads to emergent higher-level manifestations, “a lower-level semiotic phenomenon in the emergence of other social phenomena.” (Marais 2014: 11) A complexity stance is a necessary step in accounting for “the wholeness and interrelatedness of reality.” (ibid.: 17) 71 Complexity theory, a form of systems theory, accounts both for things and for the relationships between things and “a philosophy of complexity holds a view of reality that is hierarchical, non- linear, paradoxical, nonequilibrium and that views systems as open.” (ibid.: 26) Hence it is not enough to examine each part that forms reality, but one also needs to see how these parts are connected, how they relate to each other, how they influence each other, and how they become— that is, how constituent parts form wholes. Applying all these to translation, we need to see how translators operate, how they relate to and influence other translators, how they get to operate as translators and, perhaps more importantly, how translation refashions in the light of such processes. Complexity shifts focus to processes rather than on phenomena, as complexity is a philosophical stance that keeps the whole and the parts, as well as the universal and the particular, in a continuous tension, and that does not attempt to reduce messiness to some neat principle or law, Marais explains quoting Latour (2005). Fourth, one may wonder: what do complex adaptive systems bring to the table that Niklas Luhmann’s systems do not? TS has emulated social sciences for quite some time now and it has been argued that translation is a sub-system of society (Hermans 1997, 1999, 2007; Vermeer 2006; Tyulenev 2009, 2011, 2014) and a system in itself: social reality consists of intersemiotic exchanges among human agents, therefore translation is an intersemiotic phenomenon that builds social realities. In this society, which has “no center and no overarching rationale and narrative,” (Hermans 2007: 118) translation is a sub-system which communicates with other systems “in terms of its interference and influence.” (Tyulenev 2011: 48) Luhmann’s social systems consists of communication events. In his theory, “systems [are] made up of decisions, and capable of completing the decisions that make them up, through the decisions that make them up.” (Luhmann 2003: 32). Furthermore, besides communication, Luhmann’s definition of social system is also based 72 on the concept of autopoiesis (Luhmann 1995: 408), or self-creation, which radicalizes otherness: his notion of “soft” complexity is articulated around the concept of “complexity of operations,” that is, the number of possible relations between the constituents of a certain system exceeds the number of actual relationships that will happen in the said system. This form of organization is essentially different from Chilean biologist Humberto Maturana’s organicist definition, according to which the participation of components and the relationships between components is instrumental for the unit (Maturana 1975: 315). Luhmann’s systems theory was not articulated around human beings, but only around their communication acts, so perhaps, I suggest, they are not a suitable paradigm to account for translators’ agency: Just imagine for a moment a social system that is, in actual fact, functioning autopoietically. (...) This would entail that every single process taking place within this system would necessarily be subservient to the maintenance of the autopoiesis of the whole. Consequently, the individuals (...) would vanish. They would have to subordinate themselves to the maintenance of autopoiesis. Their faith is of no further relevance. (...) This kind of negation of the individual is among the characteristics of totalitarian systems. (Maturana and Poerksen 2007: 72). Luhmann’s view of complexity is thus essentially reductionist, because the complexity of operations entails selection and because he does not seem to acknowledge the existence of systemic unpredictability. In explaining why Luhmann is (not) suitable in TS, Tyulenev (2009) notes that there are two kinds of complexity: incomprehensible complexity (arising from connecting everything with everything else) and determinately structured complexity, which means a “reduction of complexity [that] is inevitable in system formation.” (ibid.: 148) In Luhmann’s systems theory, systems are separated from the environment by a boundary, which means “applying a difference schema to an incomprehensible complexity.” (id.) The underpinning tenet of all this is that social systems are cohesive both in terms of interests and in terms of agents and that they are loyal to only one system. 73 Luhmann only acknowledges the differences that arise between systems (what makes one system different from another) and the difference between a system and the environment, but he does not fully address the problem of the differences arising between units in the same system—that is, the problem of heterogeneity. Luhmann’s difference is contained within the system and is a condition of the system’s self-referentiality and closure. Another shortcoming I would like to address in this research is Luhmann’s organized complexity as a result of autopoiesis and selection. For our purpose, this organized complexity simply rules out the existence of chaotic behaviours through autopoiesis, as well as the reality of translators that do not have the conscience of their agency. Also, the separation of the translation system from the environment in Luhmann’s theory fails to address clearly the issue of translator’s multiple dependencies (or loyalties), alongside the influence of the technoscape on the work of translators, to name only two of such shortcomings. In defining society, Tyulenev limits ‘the pillars of modern society’ to Gidden’s transformation (The French Revolution, the scientific revolution, and the industrial revolution), without alluding to the digital revolution of the 1990s and to the increasing prominence of this new type of cultural interaction ever since. Tyulenev’s essentially humanistic profile also has an impact on the series of quantitative and qualitative measures he proposes, which are all borrowed from sociology. Last but not least, he uses Luhmann in his own work to account for large-scale phenomena like the Westernization of Russia. A similar purpose is served in Seyed Mohammad Seyed Alavi’s Ph.D. dissertation (2015) at University of Ottawa, which employs SST to describe the role of translation in introducing modernity and Islam to Iran. In this latter example, Seyed Alavi has a different understanding of translation from Tyulenev. Unlike Tyulenev, who sees translation as a functionally differentiated system, he treats translation as “a communication medium that facilitates the interaction among social systems.” (2015: 10) 74 At this point I am wondering whether a general social system theory approach is suitable for researching translatorial action within a paradigm modeled by complexity and microspection. Tyulenev certainly believes so, but senses that system theory is not enough. In Translation and Society (2014) he stresses the importance of combining the structural-functionalist macro- sociological approaches13 and micro-sociological approaches (such as functionalism) for offering a complex view of the role of translation in society and of the agency of translators, around whom the whole book is built. I conjecture that this is very problematic. Sociologists have been struggling to find a suitable model to account for society’s diversity, and translation still follows in these sociologists’ footsteps, trying to solve a similar problem. Furthermore, given the nature of the present research, which focuses on a small slice of literary translation into Romanian, on a genre that is not considered socially influential, and on translators that run the whole gamut from being socially recognized for their work to translating only seldom and out of a whim, cannot find a proper ally in Luhmann. Working with contemporary literature translation means that the effects of translation become almost impossible to describe beyond bibliographical work. Therefore I need a more rhizomatic approach that promises to produce more punctual information on their actions and on their position within the corpus, which would eventually translate into more general conclusions. Therefore this research is modeled according to a bottom-up approach that feeds itself from incoming data on Romanian translations to form a perception of how agency pans out in this specific context, rather than model my research on a top-bottom approach which assumes unity a priori. 13 Luhmann’s and Bourdieu’s society as a harmonized organism, in which both individual and institutions are considered and individuals are seen in relation to the whole; or Durkheim’s society as an evolving organism; or the sociological theories of action. 75 We have briefly examined what systems are and how complexity could be a means towards a more nuanced translation theory. I agree with Kobus Marais that TS needs to look at translation as translation and not as something else. I recognize that the agent and the system should be considered in a constant, productive state of tension with repercussions on translation proper. Nevertheless, I would like to suggest at this point that analyzing a translation phenomenon from a complexity point of view by means of complex adaptive systems is too much of an unrealistic endeavour for a single scholar. It should be perhaps a life-time scholarly goal and certainly a collaborative enterprise. From a DH point of view, computationally analyzing and modelling such a system properly requires acknowledging the limits of one’s competencies and either work towards enriching one’s knowledge and technical skills or inviting specialists to join such a project. Still, before anyone engages in a hands-on project of such amplitude, analyzing translation starting from a smaller unit than the system may bring along multifarious benefits. 1.2.2. Actor-Network Theory Although I have closed the previous sub-section in a somewhat gloomy mood, I would like to open the present one on a much more optimistic note: complexity in TS is not an impossible goal—its success depends on where the quest for complexity starts and how it is represented. Before addressing the thorny problem of causal and functional complexity, I posit that the analysis should be first concerned with descriptive and constitutional complexity.14 It has been argued that complex systems may be modeled and analyzed by means of adaptive networks (Sayama et al. 2013) and 14 As I am interested in individual agents, I did not include the organizational complexity in this research. 76 that, in general, the formal language and the tools of network theory offer a more practical and user-friendly approach. Complex systems run the risk of being too big a hat to wear and someone in the complexity business may want to start from the bottom layers of a phenomenon, working their way slowly but surely to the top ones. Or start in one point and ramify, as the case may be. If complex systems may be regarded as networks of networks, then let us make the network the unit of our analysis and let us rather look, as Marais suggested, into the actor-network links—the level zero of any translation act. In order to better understand what a complexity paradigm may bring that is new, I need to briefly discuss the Actor-Network Theory, conceived as a means to analyze the processes underlying scientific and technological activities leading to innovations in and by society. Unlike sociologist Mark Granovetter’s diffusion model (1973), innovation in ANT is by and large treated as transformation (or translation), and not as the society’s response to a need, and situates itself in the lineage of the order-out-of-chaos philosophy. Combining agency (actor) and structure (network), ANT takes distance from any dichotomous understandings of society and focuses on the “irreducible, incommensurable, unconnected localities, which then, at a great price, sometimes end in provisionally commensurable connections.” (Latour 1997) The unit of analysis, the networks, are omnipresent and dynamic and are grounded in association as performance of shared interests. Also, they are concerned with making the unseen visible: I take the word network not simply to designate things in the world that have the shape of a net (in contrast, let’s say, to juxtaposed domains, to surfaces delineated by borders, to impenetrable volumes), but mainly to designate a mode of inquiry that learns to list, at the occasion of a trial, the unexpected beings necessary for any entity to exist. A network, in this second meaning of the word, is more like what you record through a Geiger counter that clicks every time a new element invisible before has been made visible to the inquirer. (Latour 2010: web). 77 Although Latour’s notion of ‘network’ points to a transformation, or a translation, it has not gained as much prominence in TS as social systems theory. Its intrinsic fragmentarity, localism, alongside its focus on the meaningful relationship between humans and technology were not the key to success for a discipline that was striving for unity and legitimacy. However, although Latour asks difficult questions that negate the existence of a principle of emergence or the existence of a macro-structure, such as—“What if the whole is less than its parts?”—his model is unique in that it acknowledges the voids that exist in any structure, it rejects any kind of aggregation, and sees power only in association: […] whenever an action is conceived as network, it has to pay the full prize of its extension, it’s composed mainly of voids, it can be interrupted, it is fully dependent on its material conditions, it cannot just expand everywhere for free (its universality is fully local). Networks are a great way to get rid of phantoms such as nature, society, or power, notions that before were able to expand mysteriously. (Latour 2010: web) Association is one of the main features of such a network, a type of connection, not a thing, whose specificity is to unite together, to associate, to do or to hold in common (Strum and Latour 1987: 793-5). As Pignuoli Ocampo explains, [t]he property of being in common consists of actants remaining unified to facilitate a program of action; their own strength and capacity to determine events is based on this. Action therefore is a program of action in common; it is never isolated. (2016: 138-139) However mutual agents’ interests, heterogeneity is still very much present: actants can be ‘winners’, but they may very well be ‘losers’ too: “neither the actor’s size nor its psychological make up nor the motivations behind its actions are predetermined;” (Callon 1997: 2) also, the network’s program of action is an associative unit whose distinctive feature is to perform an action together with other actants with which or with whom they are not initially connected. The non-deterministic, complex 78 nature of their approach is also present in in their description of what networks are: “[they] may have no compulsory paths, no strategically positioned nodes.” (Latour 1997) According to Latour (2005), who addresses the problem of transdisciplinary complex systems theory directly, reality is a complex unity that cannot be reduced to the sum of its parts. Systems are an ambiguous notion, I suggest, which sometimes eludes our attempts to pin it down. The ANT he proposes—and which he specifically describes as not being a sociological model—focuses on the heterogeneous network of interactions of human and non-human actors and on how these interactions depend on both the quality of the actors and the network context of interaction. Talking about how individual profiles have gained currency in recent years, Latour notes that “[i]ndividual action is much too distributed to be defined in terms of interaction” (2010: web) and that the notion of the “whole” has been refashioned: since a network has to accept the existence of multiple voids, it naturally follows that it cannot be necessarily greater than its parts. Latour even stretches the conclusion to the point to which a network is less than its individual parts, thus contradicting three common metaphors: society as overarching the individuals, the economic metaphor of the invisible hand, and society as an emerging structure. He blames the inadvertent depiction of society as aggregation on the negligent collection of data available: When we gather statistics […] the sheer difficulty of getting the data means that you are going to focus on the individual as little as possible in order to get as quickly as possible at the aggregates. Inevitably, you are going to begin to grant to those aggregates some sort of existence by themselves. (2010: web) Latour obviously alludes to the homogenous concepts of system or field. Marais extends ANT to translation as a social practice and notes that “a phenomenon such as the social cannot be thought of in terms of parts and wholes, but in terms of relationships between nodes.” (Marais 2014: 20) As far as ANT-informed research models in TS are concerned, two guiding principles emerge. 79 The first one requires following the actors that produce the object—in our case, the translation— and account for their actions by looking at the translation from the point of view of the translator. The second principle refers to treating all actors equally, irrespective of their wins or losses, which turns the theory egocentric rather than sociocentric and makes it impossible to combine with any other sociological approach in TS. It is precisely why, to my mind, researchers such as Hélène Buzelin (2005) have retained only the participant observation technique to complement Bourdieu’s theory of social fields. Much in the same way, to many TS researchers the social dimension of translation has been too obvious to allow themselves to take distance from traditional sociologically-informed approaches. Nevertheless, such approaches leave out important translation practices, such as re- translation, multilingual translation, or translational poetics. Let me take, for example, an essential fragment of Tyulenev’s argument that translation is a system: Translation treats all phenomena as either mediated or unmediated, translated or not; this is the basic binary systemic code of translation: what translation sees as unmediated, it mediates; what it sees as not mediated properly, it remediates (cf. retranslation) Translation also has flexible programmes reflecting changes in the mediation policies from culture to culture, from period to period and even from one translation agent to another translation agent. Retranslation or remediation are made exactly because programmes change over time and space. (Tyulenev 2014: 133, emphases mine) The binary systemic code of translation rules out the possibility of half-mediated texts and involuntarily ignores texts that sit on the boundary between the translation system and the literary one, be they rewritings or texts that can be subsumed to an author’s translational poetics. Also, the same boundary does not appropriately question an agent’s multiple loyalties, while in poetry translation, for instance, it is essential to do so, as the practice is not tributary to translation as a profession, but rather to translation as personal interest or ramification of an agent’s primary quality as author of literature. Furthermore, the changes that take place in the mediation policies 80 are a function of time, but they do not account for simultaneous retranslation within the same culture. Finally, although Luhmann’s systems are not concerned with the human being, in Tyulenev’s extensive definition translation as a system is, simply because in reality translation and agent cannot be divorced. In explaining agency—that is, how to get someone to do something—Latour (2005) addresses the question of boundaries in great depth. To him, boundaries do not exist because sociologists reflexively decided that they do and that they are located in a specific place, but because we constantly assign ourselves to a certain group: there is no group, but group formation and we are enrolled in such groups by our specific interventions or by others (2005: 25, original emphasis). According to Latour, the existence of boundaries should not be the primary object of sociology; rather sociology should be concerned with who traces them and with what sort of tools: To sum up, whereas for sociologists the first problems seems to settle on one privileged grouping, our most common experience, if we are faithful to it, tells us that there are many contradictory group formations, group enrollment—activity to which social scientists are obviously crucial contributors. The choice is thus clear: either we follow social theorists and begin our travel by setting up at the start which kind of group and level of analysis we will focus on or we follow actor’s own ways and begin our travels by the traces left behind by their activity of forming and dismantling groups. (2005: 29, emphasis mine) Unlike boundaries in general systems theory, which take the shape of operational closure and depend on the understanding of communications that are uttered, irrespective of their being accepted or rejected by the entities in that system, boundaries in ANT are built on the key-notions of acceptance and conflict. The associative unit, the network, although unified by association, is based on conflict (or controversy), as a network actants’ acting in common is grounded on the tension between program and anti-program. Action within networks may take place at a distance, which makes the unit of action take note of its own heterogeneity—it relocates and distributes (and 81 thus, translates) the action to various places that have each their own features, but share the same objective, or program. Thus the boundary is permeable, open to explorations, it is the expression of collectives’ needs to broaden their unity based on the tension between program and anti-program. Exploration is the way the collective moves through new associations. There are no pre-established associations, or groups. It is the way such associations are formed, the way groups are born, that matters. Therefore, if I am to follow a Latourian train of thought, I should not depart in my research from the assumption that poetry translators belong to a group and further base my conclusions on the description of that group, because “[…] there is no relevant group that can be said to make up social aggregates, no established component that can be used as an incontrovertible starting point.” (2005: 29) Latour proposes the Actor-Network, always with a hyphen, as a good compromise for the actor/system quandary (ibid.: 169). Instead of trying to decide on which side of the micro/macro debate we find ourselves, it acknowledges the impossibility to stay in one of the two sites for too long and advocates for the pluralism of the modes of existence—‘the pluriverses.’ In An Inquiry into Modes of Existence (2013) Latour rejects hidden social forces and ideology and embraces each individual’s awareness, which forms the grounds of his philosophy focused on the relational nature of existence. It is the individual’s awareness and actions that count—no matter how apparently insignificant—not the habit(us), as the habit means to function without the awareness of a background. According to Latour, we become aware only when something out of the ordinary happens in the background that impedes its smooth operation, therefore it is into the uncommon— or the controversial—that we need to delve. The common, the smoothly-functioning, the well-oiled 82 group ends up by going unnoticed, whereas the controversial will be always visible and the controversial is set to appear when a certain group starts taking shape: Group formations leave many more traces in their wake than already established connections, which, by definition, might remain mute and invisible. If a given ensemble simply lies there, then it is invisible and nothing can be said about it; if it is visible, then it is being performed and it will then generate new and interesting data. (2005: 31) Mapping the social context continuously engages the actors and forms anti-groups, which are needed in order to establish the boundaries, rather than have them set from the get-go: “group delineation is the very constant task of the actors themselves.” (ibid.: 32) Translators are not translators because we dub them as such, nor are they simple ‘informants’ that we deploy in a certain social context, but they are situated one reflexive loop ahead of us. In re-defining the social at a more general level, Latour argues that maps are essential because the existing ones “designate territories with such different shapes that they don’t even overlap!” (ibid.: 165) He also points out that these maps should overlap, as no one exists in one context and in one context only, and that they should be flat, not 3D, and certainly not vertical (hierarchical). To reassemble the social, the flattening of the maps should be followed by two operations: the relocation of the global (in order to elude permanent references to an overarching ‘context’ and to keep global and local actors side by side) and the redistribution of the local (in order to trace where the global was assembled, what the connectors are, and how the components have spread). The final and most important step is connecting the sites revealed through the first two operations. While zooming in on these maps, individual agency is so important to Latour that it becomes one of the three embodiments of culture: “A culture is simultaneously that which makes people act, a complete abstraction of an ethnographer’s gaze, and what is generated on the spot by the constant inventiveness of members’ interactions.” (ibid.: 168, emphasis mine) It is only by considering these 83 three aspects at once that one may have a veracious vista of translation within any given culture, because such a stance offers a substantial look into how translation comes into being. Before we define translation, we need to see why and how it was made. Before we analyze a translated text, we need to look at all associations around it. The rejection of pre-established social boundaries means that Latour proposes a sociology of association as an alternative to the traditional sociology of the social. According to Bourdieu, for instance, “[t]he relational mode of thinking [...] can only be applied to social realities at the cost of a radical rupture with the usual representation of the social world.” (1996: 181) To him, the relational mode of thinking, which is typical to sciences, “leads to privileging the different social realities, considered in themselves and for themselves, to the detriment of the objective relations, often invisible, which bind them, is never as powerful as when these realities – individuals, groups or institutions – entrench themselves with all the force of social sanction.” (id.) In Latour’s view, associations are not necessarily social and I need at least to acknowledge the possibility that translation may just very well be a fact of association in addition to being a social one by the effects it produces. Being a potential result of asocial associations—a hypothesis that intuitively looks very promising—begs the question of any social theory’s appropriateness in defining the grassroots of translation, as well as in identifying a suitable general framework for analyzing translators’ agency. Let us thus give a chance to the mongrel-concept of ‘network society’ before I turn to the promises of network science. 84 1.2.3. From Network Society (Back) to Network Science 1.2.3.1. Castells’ and Van Dijk’s ‘Network Societies’ The need to remap the social in general and various social phenomena in particular has been felt acutely by sociologists because of the constant changes in the way humans live and cohabitate. Such a remapping is so much the more needed in the age of technological innovations. The only system Latour endorses is the "sociotechnical’ one, but even that kind of system refers to the heterogeneity of technology, rather than to its unity. However, once it is functional not even technology forms a system because it tends to fade into the background,15 becoming embedded in the society. We may want to see translation in the same way, not as a Luhmannian organism operating independently within its surroundings, but as an open network that permeates our daily operations, especially in the light of the pervasive presence of technology. We shall see in this sub-section that networks have recently become concepts and models that are often used in many disciplines to reflect the readjustment of the contemporary world to the realities of the new technoscape. As Folaron and Buzelin aptly observe, While network approaches and trends in mathematics, physics and computer sciences, for example, might seek to focus on structures to explain, elucidate and model, the network concept counterparts in the social sciences must be assessed additionally in terms of their capacities to critique and, perhaps to act, transform and improve. (2007: 624) 15 In a talk at Rutgers University in 1996, titled “Computer Science for the Next 10 Years,” (Web: http://bit.ly/2p6vvfg, last accessed: March 13, 2018) Mark Weiser proposed “calm technology” and “ubiquitous computing” as two essential notions to define how we should experience the presence of technology. http://bit.ly/2p6vvfg 85 This commonsensical remark echoes Claus Emmeche’s distinction between ontological and descriptive complexity (2004). On the one hand, ontological complexity refers to the great number of non-identical components of a structure whose interaction produces a collective behavior that is different from the behavior of the individual components. Descriptive complexity, on the other hand, implies the use of multiple methods that are needed in order to describe a thing or phenomenon in a reasonably complex way. In other words and for the purpose of this research, I combine the use of computational methods needed for the identification of the nodes and edges of the network with descriptive perspectives and methods that are inherently subjective in order to be able to offer a complete image of translators’ agency. Two approaches will thus be of great help in assessing poetry translation networks: the first one refers to computationally analyzing and building graph visualisations of the proposed network in order to offer as clear as possible a view of the structure of the network, that is, how actors (translators and authors) relate to each other; the second approach will offer a critique of the network based on the notions of ‘network society,’ borrowed from the social sciences, while bearing in mind the Latourian tenet that associations may not necessarily be social (or have a ‘small world’ structure, as we shall shortly see). The network visualisations I am going to produce will arguably show whether poetry translation networks in Romania are social assemblages/associations or not. Should my conclusion pertain to the second scenario, there will be sufficient ground for advancing a reassessment of translators’ agency as network phenomena. As Folaron and Buzelin note in their overview dedicated to network studies, “the notion [of network] appeared as a way to move away from social determinism and to favour explanations based on the relations between entities rather than their substance. […] “Network” was used as a representation of small-scale relations, but also intuitively felt as potentially applicable to society at 86 large.” (Folaron and Buzelin 2007: 626) In sociology, a field favored by TS in its interdisciplinarity, the term ‘network society’ was coined as a result of the pervasiveness of digital information and communication technologies that have sparked significant changes in the way we experience social, cultural, and economic phenomena. Patterns of affiliation, production, and organization have changed radically and have called for a more relational, agent-based mode of analyzing society. A pioneer in proposing a fragmented model of society was Georg Simmel, who perceived culture as “the cultivation of individuals through the agency of external forms which have been objectified in the course of history.” (cited in Levine 1971: xix) His propositions are still much referenced in social network analysis today. The main two advocates of the concept of “network society” are Jan van Dijk (1991) and Manuel Castells (1996). Van Dijk presents networks as the invisible nervous system of our society and dubs the 21st century as the age of networks, a natural evolution of the former mass society in a new informational context. The network society is […] a social formation with an infrastructure of social and media networks enabling its prime mode of organization at all levels (individual, group/organizational and societal). Increasingly, these networks link all units or parts of this formation (individuals, groups and organizations). (2006: 20) He also distinguishes between Western and Eastern societies, a dichotomy that allows him to acknowledge both the role of the individual and the role of groups (such as the family) in the formation and topology of these modes of organization. According to Van Dijk, the main components of the network society are heterogenous individuals (or focal groups), linked by networks of various natures, while the network-society’s substance is information. The scale of such a network can be both extended and reduced, and the scope can be both local and global. It is characterized by high connectivity and connectedness between components, and by lower density, centralization, and inclusiveness. The types of communities they establish are virtual and diverse 87 and communication within them is increasingly mediated, while their mode of organization is horizontally differentiated (non-hierarchical). Castells proposes an even more complex definition of network society, one that insists on the usefulness of the very logic and morphology of networks for present-day modes of organization. Unlike Van Dijk, who still sees individuals, groups, organizations and communities as the units of society, Castells assigns the role of basic unit to networks themselves: The network society, in the simplest terms, is a social structure based on networks operated by information and communication technologies based in microelectronics and digital computer networks that generate, process, and distribute information on the basis of the knowledge accumulated in the nodes of the networks. A network is a formal structure (Monge and Contractor 2004). It is a system of interconnected nodes. Nodes are, formally speaking, the points where the curve intersects itself. Networks are open structures that evolve by adding or removing nodes according to the changing requirements of the programs that assign performance goals to the networks. Naturally, these programs are decided socially from outside the network. But once they are inscripted in the logic of the network, the network will follow efficiently these instructions, adding, deleting, and reconfigurating, until a new program replaces or modifies the codes that command its operational system. (Castells 2006: 7) Network society does not equal information society, he rightfully argues, because society means more than technology. He recognizes the role of the cultural, economic and political in the life of any modern mode of organization and assigns essential roles to the spaces of flows, “the material organization of time-sharing social practices that work through flows.” (Castells 2004: 147) However, since he still places a great emphasis on the role of digital technology, the final part of his definition is very deterministic, cognizant of an external mechanism or program that directs the network. This cannot be reflective of human agency in its entirety, therefore, while still retaining the idea of the social organized by the logic of networks, I turn my attention to where everything began: network science and graph theory. 88 1.2.3.2. Network Science and Graph Theory Network science uses developments in graph theory to study and describe complex networks (Dorogovtsev et al. 2003; Newman 2010; Fortunato et al. 2011), such as the internet or various social networks, by means of a structure made of nodes (the actors) and links (the relationships or interactions between the actors). Unlike complex systems, which base their scholarship on models and equations, network theory feeds off real-time dense datasets and offers accessible, intuitive visualizations that are closer to real-life phenomena that happen in complex systems. Networks have the unique property of failing and recovering spontaneously (Majdandzic et al. 2013; Gao et al. 2011), thus offering the opportunity to examine various processes of formation and disaggregation in society and beyond: Thinking through the model of the network—nodes, ties, flows—certainly helps us to understand a great deal about, for example, the restructuring of capitalist enterprise and work, the disaggregation of state sovereignty, the rise and operation of new social movements, and emerging practices of community and identity formation. (Barney 2004: 179-180) When representing a social network as a graph, for instance, the nodes are the members of that network and the vertices (edges or links) may be a variety of relationships, from family lineage to common hobbies (e.g., at the most basic level a is related to b and c because they are siblings, but a is also related to d and e because they have a common hobby—say, they are avid snowboarders, thus a belongs in two networks; at the same time d is related to c and f because they share a passion for exotic food, therefore the three networks form a complex, non-linear one, or a network of networks). The features of such complex networks were best described in the following definition: Two main features seem to be shared by most complex networks, both natural and artificial. The first is their small world structure. […] The second is less obvious, but not less important: these webs are extremely heterogeneous: most elements are 89 connected to one or two other elements and only a handful of them have a very large number of links. These hubs are the key components of web complexity. They support high efficiency of network traversal but are for the same reason their Achilles heel. Their loss or failure has very negative consequences for system performance, sometimes even promoting a system’s collapse. (Solé et al. 2006: 3, emphases mine) The ‘small world’ structure is conditioned by the clustering coefficient: if there is a high degree of clustering and small average distance between nodes, then the network is a small-world structure. Based on Granovetter’s highly influential paper “The Strength of Weak Ties,” (1973) the small world model presents a structure of “highly connected clusters, or close-knit circles of friends, in which everybody knows everybody else. A few external links connecting these clusters keeps them from being isolated from the rest of the world.” (Barabási 2003: 42) According to this model, we can think of translator networks as complete graphs—“tiny clusters in which each node is connected to all other nodes within the cluster.” (id.) Simply put, translators’ world is one in which each translator is connected by several weak ties with translators and authors belonging in other networks. This model is essentially different from the previous random graph model proposed by Hungarian mathematicians Paul Erdős and Alfréd Rényi, according to which there would be no circle of friends, as “our links to other nodes are completely random.” (ibid.: 43) The clustering coefficient in a small world network is measured by dividing the number of actual links between nodes to the number of all possible links between the same nodes. The higher the coefficient (as close to 1 as possible), the more likely it is for a network to present a small world structure, one in which the nodes strive to establish the maximum number of links possible. However, translators do not form a network only among themselves; they also have distant ties with the outside world. The nodes they link to in the outside world are the authors they translate, authors that belong to a different culture. If we consider translators in relationship only to their peers or only to the authors they translate, then we may consider the respective network as a simple one, while if we consider them in relationship both 90 with their peers and in relationship with the authors of the works they translate, we are going to find ourselves in the business of complex networks. Granovetter’s model was formalized by Duncan J. Watts and Steven H. Strogatz , who showed that, even by adding a few distant links, a large-scale random network will present small- world features, as that will decrease considerably the average distance between nodes (the number of edges in a shortest path connecting them, also called a graph geodesic). For instance, the network that emanates from Bob Dylan’s work: although thousands of miles apart16 and potentially not standing many chances to ever belong in the same circles, translators pertaining to various cultures and having various primary occupations will find themselves in a small world network through the distant links that connect them to Dylan’s lyrics. However, the criticism brought to the models proposed by Erdős and Rényi and later by Watts and Strogatz is related to their intrinsic egalitarian value, which does not acknowledge the existence of hubs or connectors, that is, nodes with more links than any other nodes in the network. These critics of small world networks propose a scale- free model, which has a power-law degree distribution of the number of links connecting to a node (Barabási and Albert 1999, Barabási 2003, etc.). Not only does this scale-free structure have a large number of vertices with a high degree, but their number greatly exceeds the number of average ones, which gives the network robustness and makes it more resistant to failures. Even in case of multiple failures, connectedness is not affected, as it is maintained by the large hubs. As the node degree increases, the clustering coefficient distribution decreases. Such networks are characterized by two power-generating features. The first one is their preferential attachment, in the sense that rich networks tend to get richer—an edge tends to attach to an already heavily linked node (a 16 The use of real-life distance here is simply explanatory and does not equal the graph distance mentioned before. 91 connector) rather than to a poorly linked one. The second feature, described by Guido Caldarelli et al. (2002), is the fitness model which describes why fitter nodes attract more links than the less fit ones. This feature can be used to anticipate the evolution of a network, based on the idea of competition between nodes that may affect the whole structure. Following the model of the Internet or of the scientific publication network, on which the proponents of this model based their argument, various social networks have been reported as being scale-free, animated by a power differential. Nevertheless, more recent research has contradicted these claims and shown that the power distribution was not present in networks where it was thought to exist (Clauset et al. 2009). For example, Clauset et al. have shown statistically that the network of “adherents of religious denominations, bodies, and sects”, or “the numbers of copies of bestselling books sold in the United States during the period 1895 to 1965” (2009: 683) have been misclassified as power-distributed. At this point we should ask ourselves whether literary translator networks are small-world networks or scale-free ones, as their configuration questions the topic of power and ideology. Although Latour has explicitly distanced himself from Albert-László Barabási’s Linked (2003), by emphasizing that his concept of network “is a purely conceptual term that means that whenever you wish to define an entity (an agent, an actant, an actor) you have to deploy its attributes, that is, its network,” (2010: web) actually deploying, analyzing, and modelling these networks does depend on a number of features proposed by Barabási, such as his preferential attachment, which proved to be a salient concept in economics or in the design of the internet. 92 1.2.4. Chaos in Translation Networks As this dissertation does not aim for a translation studies paradigm change, but intends to account for the complexity of translator agency within a certain non-hegemonic context in hopes of producing a model that may be successfully deployed in other contexts, I would like to propose to break down the translation system in smaller units, the networks. When reassembling the units, we will not necessarily have a unified system, but a larger network, which will allow for the analysis of translations done in a certain culture through the lens of the relationships they generated with a foreign one. These relationships will not be solely unidirectional, as the feedback loop of translation may generate a similar feedback loop in the other culture, as we will see in the chapter dedicated to transnationalism, through the concept of “literary barters.” Therefore what I propose in this research does not entail a network model N that should eventually work for all agencies in all systems (or larger networks), but a network model N0 that will result in network models N1 to N100 when deployed in various contexts. Thus translators’ agency will be the ensemble of all the phenomena that appear in those diverse circumstances. Can we argue at this point that applying a systems paradigm in studying agency is opportune? Although complex adaptive systems present a very tempting solution, I believe it should not be adopted from the very beginning. One of the main reasons why I think it would be wise to avoid such a paradigm is data aggregation, which confers the much needed stability to a system. Before striving for stability, I conjecture that looking into instability is essential. A system may even be less than the sum of its parts, as Latour suggested, because an actor’s agency may be so insignificant that it will eventually dissipate. But in order to determine the insignificance of a certain agency, one needs to look into it first and data aggregation (leaving out what is not important and 93 treat the rest as similar) impedes on such an important first step. Furthermore, a network may be asocial while a system has an intrinsic socialness, an in-built cooperation between its elements. It is only after the analysis of all possible translation networks within a culture that I believe it is possible to assemble and analyze translation as a (complex) system within a given culture and in relation to the network it establishes with other cultures. Until then, I propose to fashion this research on a network model and think in terms of a paradigm that acknowledges chaos. A paradigm that acknowledges chaos is best shaped around a progenerative model—“concerned with current sets and fields of relationships for persons in a given lifeworld.” (Cronin 2013: 422) Citing Tim Ingold, Cronin favors this model for its focus on “an entire field of relationships within which different beings emerge with their particular forms, capacities, and dispositions.” (Ingold 2000: 142) While Cronin does not specifically acknowledge the role of chaos, I would like to treat it as an auspicious point of departure in the analysis of any translatorial action. The relevance of the chaos paradigm for TS has to find a middle ground between the dangers of yet another metaphor, translation as chaos, and the appeal of hard sciences. Generally thought of as providing valuable methodological insights for explaining human behavior (Kellert 1995), chaos theory has been informing social sciences since the 1960s, as it presents the right premises for a sociology of non-static, translating connections. Also known as the science of surprises, of the unpredictable, chaos theory stipulates that even the slightest change in the initial conditions may lead to unpredictable, non-linear results. Marais rightfully applies it to translation and concludes: “[…] in open systems, with the slightest difference in initial conditions, one cannot predict the outcomes: that is, one could not have identical translation.” (2014: 10) The main features of chaotic systems are non-linearity, complex forms, and feedback mechanisms that create loops in which output feeds back into the system as input. This boomerang effect is the very definition of any 94 translation, which departs the network of origin as an agent’s intent and returns to the same network as translation. The contribution of chaos to the globalizing theories that have dominated the study of translation for decades may be crucial. To echo Latour’s We Have Never Been Modern17 (1993), I dare suggest TS has never really been postmodern18 in defining itself and ostensibly preserving a genealogical model at the core of its definitions, a model concerned with past histories and relationships. Kobus Marais’ is the first attempt to look for explanations in disorder rather than in order. Translation theory has not been really taken with the idea of deconstruction, with poststructuralism, and hasn’t really adapted its theories to the new technologies and the social changes produced by information (again, with the notable exceptions of Cronin and Marais). As Nicole K. Hayles argued in Chaos Bound in 1990, “[the] paradigm of orderly disorder may well prove to be as important for the second half of the century as the field concept proved for the first half.” (1990: xiii) The interwar period marked a shift from a focus on the dissipative energy within chaos to an ambiguity with order. That led to another shift, this time in the humanities, in the 1960s and the 1970s, towards a more local and fragmented mode of analysis of their objects of study. Concomitantly, boundaries were admitted as arbitrary constructs and highly permeable membranes, very sensitive to historical, linguistic, and cultural variables. This shift was corroborated with an increasing attention dedicated to stochastic variables in the cultural field, to random fluctuations in complex systems, and generally with an awareness that chaos plays an important role in the life of such systems. This new realization led scholars to perceive chaos as presence, 17 In We Have Never Been Modern (Catherine Porter, Trans. Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1993), Latour argues that modernity has always promoted the human vs. nature dualism and has not allowed for the proliferation of hybrids, which now characterize all contemporary matters, from global warming to biotechnology. 18 Even in postcolonialism ‘difference’ is construed as ‘diversity,’ which “supposes that different groups are possessed of different sets of ready-made attributes.” (Cronin 2014: 423) 95 rather than absence: that is, rich in information rather than poor in order. As we will see in the following subchapter, a chaotic network like poetry translation into Romanian is positively animated by a poetics of fecundity and is indeed in total disarray in terms of order. One may very well argue that many translations are not necessarily good translations; however, as Hayles aptly notes, “implicit in the transevaluation of chaos is the assumption that the production of information is good in itself, independent of what it means.” (1990: 6) Within chaos theory there are two lines of thought. The first one sees chaos as preceding and then accompanying order and is present in Ilya Prigogine’s work on dissipative systems and in the idea of spontaneous emergence of self-organized systems from chaos. More of a philosophical endeavor than a practical one because of the lack of consistent results, its interest lies in its potential to reconcile being and becoming by the focus it places on the arrow of time. The second sees a hidden order in any chaotic system and entertains the idea that there are certain deeply encoded structures called “strange attractors.” This line of thought is praised for its results, but it is poor in philosophy and lacks consistent theory. Its main strength resides in seeing chaos as able to generate new information. No matter the focus, chaos theory has marked a very attractive paradigm shift in literary criticism, one that allowed critics, as Hayles astutely notes, to unveil “ideological underpinnings of the traditional idea of order.” (1990: 23). It is my hope that chaos helps TS take a bit of distance from the strong ideologies that have informed the field for decades, at least as far as contemporary literary translation is concerned. Just as Hayles’ creative writers carry along more cultural substrata than professional writers—”writing is turbulence or, at least, it brings turbulence into being” (1990: 24)—the same may be valid for literary translators. Literary translation implies a high degree of transformation and creativity and a literary text will not be the same in the host culture. Chaos does mean newness, but in a chaotic network both creative translation and 96 translation as simply carrying across meaning will find the right environment to co-exist. They co- exist at the edge of chaos. Although writers are considered creators who write out of ‘nothing’ (i.e., chaos), the comparison with translators is not far-fetched. If we consider translation as filling a gap in a culture rather than an import of value, translators become creators especially in case of self-reliant agency. The translator’s agency may follow the pattern of gaps in a given culture, but it also depends on the said translator’s own status and psyche, which affect their choices. In a paradigm dominated by chaos translators’ agency will need to be redefined, since it cannot simply and solely be amenable to some pre-established conditions in the host culture, professional regulations, or occupational prestige. Typical agency, consisting of multiple elements, such as “the generation of intent, identification of contextual salience, recall of relevant memories, evaluation of choice options and their anticipated consequences, decision making, planning, implementing the action, and real-time monitoring and adjustment of the implementation,” (Klemm 2015: 51) also needs to take stock of self-organization, which implies nonlinearity, far-from-equilibrium conditions, redundancy, reliability, systemic correlation, social system noise, and system containment (Goldstein 1995). Chaotic behaviors are present at the level of networks as well, where weak chaos is constructed mathematically and even desirable, so that we understand why a certain network exists at the edge of chaos (Sprott 2008). Besides having the power to cause events, translators as agents have the power of self-direction (Smith 2015: 3). As Folaron and Buzelin correctly note, complex networks “are also the resulting organizational dynamics that emerge in the interplay of community goals, such as the self-organization and hierarchy” (2007: 630) in various situations, to which I would add, in the case of literary translators, that they are the consequence of individuals’ self-fulfilling prophecies. The self-fulfilling prophecy, itself a manifestation of non-linearity (Goldstein 1995), is a 97 prediction that, directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously, causes itself to become true. New thinking on the topic equates the self-fulfilling prophecy with the law of attraction, the belief that ‘like attracts the like.’ As will become apparent in the following sections, most poetry translators are not translators by profession and they do not see translation as an occupation. They rather consider themselves (and many are indeed) writers besides having a completely different paying job, and they translate from a genuine interest in a foreign author’s work. This genuine interest cannot be completely separated from a self-identification with the author of the original work. “I would love to be able to write like that,”19 thinks the poet while translating the poems into her mother-tongue. Poetry translation can thus be considered a self-fulfilling prophecy of their translators and equated to individual agency—it triggers a line of events which otherwise would not have taken place, as such translations are not usually commissioned. In terms of self-organization and hierarchy, poetry translation functions as an appropriative mode of poetic innovation: […] translating poetry, just like composing poetry, has been celebrated as a kind of writing that allows the translator to find his or her language through that of another (“it spoke the same idiom that I was looking for in my contemporaries in my own language” [Aulicino 1988, 27]). Praising and preserving elements of the other is, ultimately, a way of defining oneself. (Galvin 2014: 372, emphasis mine) In the case presented here, what cannot be found in local contemporary authors is sought “in the company of strangers.” (Cronin 2014: 418) The description of this phenomenon cannot be primarily based on economic factors, but needs to consider self-organization first20. 19 It is necessary to note at this point that I do not have a positivist attitute towards copyright—as it becomes evident in Chapter 2—nor do I entertain the author’s hegemony in relation to translation. For the purpose of this research, the way I see the relationship between translation and the original echoes the mathematical operation of translation, in which the original is a pre-image, and the translation is considered to be the image. What may appear as the author’s hegemony in relation to their translators is simply a manifestation of literary kinship. 20 In On Interobjectivity Latour gives the example of J.P. Dupuy’s Introduction aux sciences sociales. Logique des phénomènes collectifs (Paris: Editions Marketing, 1992) in note 12 for a classical use of the biological self-organization metaphor instead of economics. 98 The cultural personae of some translators or even the make-up of (a) certain translator network(s) may be considered similar to ‘chaotic attractors.’21 In dynamic systems the attractors are a series of numbers towards which the system evolves. Possessing an essentially connectionist mind, translators interact perpetually with their environment, a process which results in chaotic22 processes, one of whose primary functions is to learn different patterns. Translation emerges from this semiotic interaction between translators and their environments, both the proximate and the distant ones, and the turbulences they produce in the spaces they inhabit or even connect to give birth to a butterfly effect that may not be visible to their contemporaries, but will perhaps give birth to meaningful mutations in not such a distant future. To make sure this kind of evolution is properly accounted for, I suggest that our discipline should take stock of difference and localize the global by refashioning its theory in such a way that it incorporates non-linearity. Fostering non-linearity in translation invites for a redefinition of translation that may be worded as follows: (poetry) translation is a complex phenomenon carried out by translators who interact together and/or relate with each other at the smallest scale to organize themselves, voluntarily or involuntarily, into associations/structures at larger scales. These associations/structures might lack central authorities/leaders and are responsible for the appearance of translation and other related phenomena that could be neither predicted nor deduced from fully knowing its constituents in isolation or from making the sum of such experiences. The smallest variation in the initial conditions of translation production may lead to totally different outcomes in terms of rendition and types of agency. The following chapters are a demonstration in support of the key summative arguments of my theoretical stance. 21 According to the theory of chaos, both individuals/objects and clusters of individuals/objects may act as attractors. 22 By ‘chaotic’ I understand processes in which order co-exists with disorder, and not ‘randomness.’ 99 CHAPTER 2. TRANSLATOR AND AUTHOR NETWORKS IN PERIODICALS (2007-2017) 2.1. Micro-Charting Poetry Translation Networks in Romanian Print Literary Journals Dispirited by statements like “Unfortunately, modern and contemporary American poetry was little translated; practically, the overviews and anthologies published in Romania after World War II can be counted on one hand,” (Chivu 2014: web) one may fail to account for the richness of periodical publications that include poetry translations in many of their issues. If it were not for these publications, how would recent comments like “[…] almost all my favorite discourses in Romanian poetry since the 1980s are each attached to an important American poet or to one influential U.S. poetry school after the Second World War” (Komartin 2011: web) ever be made? It is hard to believe that the few translated books23 published over more than seventy years have influenced an entire literature or that American poets have influenced their Romanian peers without any kind of mediation via translation. If we look from very high above at the Romanian book market, we will see merely a speck on the global book stage.24 If we hope to spot the portion dedicated to poetry volumes, the speck will disappear altogether. But if we zoom in, the number of translated poetry books and anthologies will remain the same, while a whole web of translators, authors, and literary journals that do not depend on the precarious book market will reveal itself to us. This is the ‘small world’ I hope to address in this subchapter, because however financially insignificant it is, its size 23 In chapter 3 and section 4.2 I show that it was the very interest of these poets and poet-translators in the American and Canadian poetries that led to most publishing initiatives and that less than half of the total number of titles have been published under mainstream auspices since 1945. 24 According to the 2016 statistics published by the Federation of European Publishers, the total market value was estimated at 36-38 billion €. The total number of books published the same year was 590,000 titles. In Romania, the total book market has an estimated value of 60 million € (0.15%) (Chivu, Dilema veche 630/2016: web. http://bit.ly/2Cx12e4. Last accessed: February 19, 2018). http://bit.ly/2Cx12e4 100 and mode of operation offer unparalleled insight into how poetry translators work and how they connect to all the other nodes in the network—in this case to other translators and to the authors they translate. In micro-modernity, one of the ways we look at the world shifts from looking at the local from a global perspective to looking at the global from a more proximate vantage point (Cronin 2013b). The other way is to examine how the object of this research refashions itself in the boundless digital world, as will be seen in subchapter 2.3. This new perspective that originates in our immediate proximity has the advantage of opening up the world around us, of expanding it, rather than compressing it. In Cronin’s words (2012), microspection is a way of positively reconfiguring the possibilities of the local, of re-enchanting a world formerly disheartened by globalization, of pursuing an endotic travel. At the same time, it seeks to avoid the dichotomy between the global and the local by emphasizing larger webs of connectivity and by going beyond the much invoked ‘sense of place’ that informs the literature on ‘default communities’, that is, nations (cf. Appadurai). To the defamiliarization brought about by globalization Cronin opposes a zooming-in process, or a process of endotic travel, which ultimately means getting acquainted with and understanding the world around us in its complexity, as the politics of microspection is essentially concerned with the unseen. Analytical microspection—“the proper investigation of places and their inhabitants through methods and practices which reveal the full, fractal complexity of human habitation” (2012: 65)— is, I suggest, an essential practice that allows me to bring out into the open the intricacies of poetry translation in Romania. Fundamentally unseen on the translated book market, where “competition is acerbic and almost everything boils down to money,” (Stănescu 2017: web) contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translation lives, for the most part, in the labyrinthine confines of periodical 101 publications. In the case of a small literature like the one I refer to, the models that define translated poetry exchanges appear to be grounded in the logic of periodical publishing rather than in the mechanisms of local book markets. Literary magazines play in this respect a triple role: first, they are a presentation and promotion platform used by translators for avant-premières or simply to present selections that may or may not end up being published in book form; second, they play an evaluation role, as they host reviews of translated books or essays on the works of the authors translated; and finally, they play an essential role in networking, acting as a link between translators, authors, publishers, and the readers. Besides the salient role they have in the cultural life of any space (be it local, regional or national; be it online or offline), they are often much more accessible a publication site than the mainstream or even indie book publishing industry, since production costs are significantly lower and competition is less intense. Furthermore, to quote a celebrated American translator, “[e]very good literary magazine worth its salt publishes translations,” (Bernofsky 2014: web) which means that, no matter how overlooked by scholarly literature in TS,25 literary journals are a fundamental player on any literary scene and they need to be acknowledged in any overview of literary translations that is worth its salt. 2.1.1. Endotic Travels into Contemporary Poetry Translation in Print Periodicals In a Ph.D. dissertation on the dialogue between French and American poetries since 1970, Matthew Bingham Smith (2015) discusses the convoluted web of poets that contributed decisively, through their own networks of friends, trips abroad, and poetry readings, to establishing a whole 25 A first issue dedicated to this topic, “Translation and/in periodicals” (guest-edited by Maria Constanza Guzmán) will be hosted by Translation and Interpreting Studies journal in summer 2019 (Web: http://bit.ly/2JAkjiQ). 102 set of practices at the institutional level. The work poets began was picked up and furthered by more formal modes of organization, such as national literary magazines or presses with national distribution, thus embedding translations of such poetries, for example, into a more centralized network of circulation. Although poets (and poet-translators) have maintained their salient role in imagining and creating competing audiences through poetry readings and have been largely influencing writing practices, the mediation of the exchange between the two cultures has become more institutionalized over time. Unlike in France, to whose practices Romania might appear as tributary, the exchanges with the American or Canadian cultures have never become institutional, with the notable exception of the U.S. Department of State-run financing programs in place at the U.S. embassy in Bucharest. However, the financial support they offer is mainly for projects that result in a book being published, hence their role is not relevant for the present subchapter. The work translators have been doing on such translations in periodicals has remained their own project and has not joined a centralized distribution network, but stayed rather local, according to the audience of the respective journal and to the translators’ network. Nevertheless, their agency is of the utmost importance for the presence of these poetries in Romania. For example, in the case of Allen Ginsberg: compared to France, a book market forty-six times larger than Romania, where he was translated twenty-three times in anthologies and twenty-seven times in periodicals between 1960 and 1994 (Morgan 1996), in Romania he was translated only six times in anthologies, never in a volume,26 but almost equally in periodicals: twenty-seven times between 1965 and 1993 (ibid.). Daily and periodical publishing in Romania has always been a very fertile ground—in 1972, a year of highly effective censorship and thorough control by the communist party, there were 745 26 Before the only translation ever published in a stand-alone collection by Polirom in 2010. 103 such publications (Șercan 2016), while in 2016 the total number was 3,33927 (excluding daily newspapers). The National Library of Romanian inventoried 20 cultural journals in May 2011, for example, but the number is thought to be much higher, anywhere around 120, with an average of three cultural periodical publications per county (Dorian 2011: web), which makes Romania “the country with most literary journals” (id.) in Europe. The discrepancy between official statistics and estimations is caused by the unregulated operation of many such publications, which do not comply with the National Library’s legal deposit requirement, as well as by the appearance of various e- zines that are not yet listed by this institution. Despite conflicting estimations, there is general consensus on the importance played by cultural journals in the history of the country: from a prime venue of literary and political effervescence that fueled the emergence of the country’s historical parties and interbellum modernity to a coalition against a totalitarian regime and its protochronist28 ideology during communism (Vulpescu 2014), literary journals and journalism in general have been a driving force behind the country’s progress throughout its history. At the same time, it is no less true that the lack of interest shown by the state in financing these publications after the 1989 revolution and the continuous financial struggles they have been experiencing for the past twenty- eight years has resulted in a fluctuating number and in only some of them receiving steady financial support from the Ministry of Culture via the Writers’ Union, while others have been relying on funding from local administration. While there are no official statistics in this respect, an analysis of all articles published in any given month inventoried by the National Library shows an interesting breakdown: between January 27 According to the Romanian National Institute of Statistics. 28 Anglicised term from the Romanian protocronism—the tendency to attribute an idealised past to the whole country with questionable data and subjective, speculative interpretations—a very popular communist ideology. 104 and March 2016, for instance, there were a total of 1,585 articles published in 31 legally deposited journals, out of which 1,090 entries were dedicated to literature. Of these, 111 (roughly 10%) involved literary translations and 61 were poetry translations specifically. If one compares the latter with the general interest shown to poetry (368 entries, excluding translations), it can be safely assumed that poetry in general stands its ground in literary journals compared to other literary forms. By extension, poetry translation is much more frequent than any other type. In light of all these data, the objective of this subchapter is twofold. First, I aim at quantifying the amount of contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translated in Romanian literary journals between 2007 and 2017 by examining a built corpus. I first analyze the corpus using a functionalist approach, by dividing translators into categories according to the social actions they fulfill in conjunction with the action of poetry translating. From this perspective, it is very likely we shall notice that translation is often a function of academia and poetry authorship. However, such a perspective is not entirely useful, as it offers only a partial overview of any phenomenon by “minimis[ing] the role of agency, willful and intended human ability.” (Tyulenev 2014: 123) Second, once the explanatory potential will have been reached (Marais 2014: 31) and we will have arrived at “quirks and the like,” (id.) it will be important to see how the parts relate to each other. Thus, I set out to analyze computationally the network of translators that carried out these translations, with a view to identifying not only the connectors—agents who translated a large number of American and Canadian authors for more than one periodical—, but also any sporadic contribution that might have occurred and if and how all these are in any way interrelated. In doing so, I shall depart from the common assumption in complex systems theory that “agents act locally, with no view of contributing to the whole.” (Marais ibid.) 105 2.1.2. Functionalist Description of the Corpus “[T]he era in which we could assume that viable public spheres were typically, exclusively, or necessarily national could be at an end,” (1996: 20) predicted Arjun Appadurai more than two decades ago. This conjecture rings especially true in the case of contemporary poetry, which is not considered, by any stretch of the imagination, as socially influential. Many locally-based literary magazines present quality literary content and are considered champions of literary patronage, although they do not specifically address a national readership, but rather present cultural products originating in more local contexts. Typically published monthly and financed either by the Writers’ Union or by the local administration of each county in Romania, these journals cannot depend on the low advertising revenues or revenues from subscriptions, and are generally fed content by authors’ or translators’ demand: journals need content in order to exist, and authors need a publication venue. The main component of my corpus is the bibliography of articles in Romanian cultural periodicals published between June 2007 and December 2015,29 to which I added translations features in various other journals up to December 2017. Building the corpus has required a sizeable amount of manual work, as all bibliographies compiled at the NLR are presented as .pdf files, a format which is not supported by any text analysis software. The huge datasets documenting periodical publishing between 2007 and 2015 had to be browsed file by file and entries pertaining to poetry translation from U.S. and Canadian poetries copy-pasted in a text file (.txt). I could not trust entirely the metadata behind the indexing either, as I soon discovered, for example, that 29 The archive is available at http://www.bibnat.ro/Arhiva-s237-ro.htm#6. http://www.bibnat.ro/Arhiva-s237-ro.htm#6 106 authors were simply missing from the final index or that American authors were filed under British authors; therefore the search was extended to all Anglophone literatures presented in these bibliographies. I have also added selections that were published in Orizont literar contemporan—since it is a literary journal that has translation at the heart of its mission, alongside Poesis International—one of “the best independent Romanian literary journals,” (Chivu 2015) which is not indexed by the National Library of Romania, but which has been publishing a significant number of important American contemporary poets since its inception in 2010. The corpus is partly listed in Annex 1 and also in this section’s footnotes: the only entries not listed here are the ones I included in the subchapter dedicated to transnationalism. However, the visual representation contains all these poetry selections. According to the bibliography compiled by the NLR, T. S. Eliot is the most translated poet in the corpus, with various renditions by Șerban Foarță,30 Șerban Foarță and Adriana Carmen Racoviță,31 Ștefan Augustin Doinaș,32 Șerban D. Ionescu,33 Laura Sandu,34 Aprilia Zank,35 Elena Ciobanu,36 and Florin Dochia.37 There are also two unattributed translations in Argeș literary 30 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2009. “Lune de miel; Dans le restaurant.” (Şerban Foarţă, Trans.) In Acolada 9: 8. 31 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2008. “Miercurea cenuşii.” (A. C. Racoviţă and Ş. Foarţă, Trans.) In România literară 36: 28-29. 32 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2009. “Animula.” (Ştefan Augustin Doinaş, Trans.) In 13 Plus 1-3: 60. 33 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2009. “Tărâmul pustiirii, 1922: O nouă traducere din T.S. Eliot.” (Şerban D. Ionescu, Trans.) In România literară 42: 28-29. 34 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2009. “Vântul porni la ora patru; Exerciţii pentru cinci degete; Versuri pentru un bătrân.” (Laura Sandu, Trans.) In Idei în dialog, March (cf. Bîrsanu 2014). 35 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2010. “Cîntecul de dragoste al lui J. Alfred Prufrock.” (Aprilia Zank, Trans.) In România literară 49-50: 29. 36 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. “Cântecul de dragoste al lui J. Alfred Prufrock.” (Elena Ciobanu, Trans.) In Ateneu 4: 24. 37 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2014. “Rânduri pentru o pisică persană; Rânduri pentru un cățeluș.” (Florin Dochia, Trans.) In Cafeneaua literară 5: 31. 107 journal38 in 2009. As we shall see in Chapter 4, Foarță and Racoviță also translated Eliot’s Selected Poems, so publishing excerpts of this volume prior to the volume’s publication appears as only natural. Since the selections by Foarță and Foarță and Racoviță were published in 2008 and 2009, respectively, well before the publication of the dedicated volume by Humanitas in 2011, this chronology could be indicative of the translators’ salience in proposing a translation project even in the case of major players on the publishing market, such as Humanitas. The translation attributed to Doinaș is in fact a re-publication of an old translation by Ion Pillat39 published in 1933; Doinaș has never translated “Animula,” but only co-translated “Marina” together with Virgil Nemoianu and “Cântecul de dragoste al lui J. Alfred Prufrock” (The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock) and “Preludii” (Preludes) together with Toma Pavel in a one-time selection in 1965.40 The Romanian version of “The Waste Land” by Ș. Ionescu (2008) is unattributed in the online version41 of the journal, but likely signed by Ionescu in the print version.42 The two unattributed translations remain a mystery: although they appear in the “Traduceri aminte” (Translations to remember) section of the journal, none of the titles are listed in the most comprehensive study on the Romanian translations of Eliot to date (Bîrsanu 2014). Finally, the translations done by L. Sandu, A. Zank, E. Ciobanu, and F. Dochia are one-time occurrences and cannot be associated with a certain translation program focused on bringing the vastness of Eliot’s work into Romanian culture. They are occasional translations by 38 Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2009. “Devreme, la fereastră.” (Unattributed translation) In Argeş 11-12: 3. Web: http://bit.ly/2ng1LLP. Last accessed: January 27, 2018; Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 2009. “Mătușa Helen.” (Unattributed translation) In Argeș 1: web. http://bit.ly/2Ee9pxE. Last accessed: January 27, 2018. 39 Pillat, Ion. 1933. “Animula; Marina.” In Azi 2 (cf. Bîrsanu 2014). 40 In Secolul XX 1. 41 The online edition of România literară can be accessed at http://www.romlit.ro/. Direct links to specific articles do not work, hence one needs to refer to the archived summary first: http://bit.ly/2GQRp08, and then access the specific entry. Last accessed: April 03, 2018. 42 The NLR bibliography wrongly lists issue 36/2009 as the publication place. The correct issue is 29/2009. http://bit.ly/2ng1LLP http://bit.ly/2Ee9pxE http://www.romlit.ro/trmul_pustiirii_1922 http://bit.ly/2GQRp08 108 poets or professors who admire his work and make their admiration manifest through the act of translation. The corpus also reveals the most interesting fact about România literară, the flagship journal of the Writers’ Union: the three translations of T.S. Eliot’s poetry are the only translations of contemporary poetry published here between 2007 and 2015. Outside this timeframe I was able to locate only one selection of Leonard Cohen’s poetry43 translated by Mircea Cărtărescu in 2003. Two conclusions can be drawn. First, literary translation is not among the key areas the journal focuses on, although they do publish translation criticism articles. Even Grete Tartler, the translator in charge of the “Meridiane” section of the magazine, has published her translations of Louise Glück44 or Theodore Roethke45 elsewhere. Second, when it does publish translations, texts have to belong to poets widely accepted by the canon (hence the lack of any paratextual notes, such as author’s bio or the translator’s note and bio): although Glück and Roethke are canonical American writers, in Romania they are mostly known by poetry specialists and not by the public at large. Translation criticism in that journal needs to follow the same established criteria of recognition and domination—the few reviews related to translation in my contemporary American and Canadian poetry corpus are of translations of translators widely known in Romania: L. Cohen (Urian 2006), e. e. cummings (Sandu 2012), T.S. Eliot (Dima 2012), Bob Dylan (Tartler 2012), and John Berryman (Coande 2014). Among the very few journals that published thematic series of translations is Steaua. The series titled Poete americane de top46 (Top American Women Poets) ran from 2014 to 2015 and was 43 Cohen, Leonard. 2003. “Viitorul; Toată lumea știe; Ora închiderii.” (Mircea Cărtărescu, Trans.) In România literară 28: web. http://bit.ly/2EdsFcV. Last accessed: April 03, 2018. 44 Glück, Louise. 2007. “Macul roşu.” (Grete Tartler, Trans.) In Luceafărul 11: 19. 45 Roethke, Theodore. 2007. “Întoarcerea.” (Grete Tartler, Trans.) In Luceafărul 30-31: 39. 46 See Annex 1 for the bibliographic references. http://bit.ly/2EdsFcV 109 likely conceived by the editorial board of the journal, led by widely known feminist poet Ruxandra Cesereanu, its Editor-in-Chief. The objectives of the series are clearly outlined: to present via translation “[…] important American women poets who have nuanced and changed modern and post-modern poetry and whose influence was acknowledged by most literary histories and by most current criticism.” (in Steaua 3-4: 36) The list opens with Alice Notley and Diane Di Prima and continues with Brenda Hilman, Karoline Knox, Bernadette Mayer, Eileen Myles, Elinor Nauen, Rosmarie Waldrop, Fanny Howe, Lyn Hejinian, and Amy Gerstler. Cesereanu entrusted Lavinia Rogojină, a doctoral student at the Babeș Bolyai University’s Department of Comparative Literature in Cluj and a regular collaborator of Steaua, with the translation of all poems. The translations are preceded by very condensed and informative author biographies and are very accurate. This translation series was listed among the most valuable recent contributions the journal made to literary translation in Romania (Popescu 2014), a rare evaluation done to a translation series in a literary journal. A similar translation series appears in less known literary monthly Fereastra, based in the little town of Mizil in south-east Romania. Translated by poet Liviu Ofileanu (cf. Annex 1), the selections were grouped in four episodes, three published in 2011 and two four years later, in 2015, which suggests a series proposed by the translator himself, who published the Romanian versions at his idiosyncratic pace. It is highly unlikely that the series was in any way commissioned by the editorial board also because in the later issues there are republications of some of the 2011 translations. Ofileanu’s selections offer a glimpse of high quality contemporary poetry by iconic American poets, such as Gregory Corso and Elizabeth Bishop, and reflect the poet-translator’s concern for form. Another relevant indication of the translator’s agency and taste is his association of a poet like Frank O’Hara with Jericho Brown, a young American poet who made a name for himself 110 in the 2000s. Such eclectic associations and the rhythm in which he published the translations suggest that the series was a direct result of Ofileanu’s interest in American poetry and in these specific American poets. Dan Brudașcu, a highly prolific poetry translator and director of Cetatea culturală literary journal in Cluj-Napoca dedicated seven pages to contemporary African-American poets in 2007 (cf. Annex 1). His selection is not necessarily a reflection of his interest in American poetry in particular, but in the world’s poetries in general. As a literary historian and translator, Brudașcu has rendered a sizeable amount47 of various contemporary poets into Romanian, including authors from Malawi, Myanmar, and Korea. The eight African-American poets are presented with a poem and a photograph each and without any paratexts. The rest of the corpus offers the image of a translator motley crew that is very difficult to divide into categories, as many of them overlap. First, there is the very eclectic group of poets that only occasionally publish poetry translations. Their choices depend heavily on literary kinship or occasionality. For instance, there is Șerban Foarță, who besides the above-mentioned selections from T.S. Eliot six years later published a selection from Randall Jarrell,48 an American poet with whom he shares a passion for valuable literature49 and an irresistible attraction to prosodic formalism. There is also the above-mentioned Grete Tartler, who published poems by L. Glück and T. Roethke in 2007 and has never broached American contemporary poetry ever since. Like everything she does, her translations bore a superlative rubric moniker—„Poezii în capodopere” (Masterpieces)—, hence her choice of authors. Iconic American and Canadian poets often appeal to 47 References do not offer a clear number of his translations, but the common estimation is over 2,500 articles, essays, studies, translations from world poetry and fiction, reviews, notes, and interviews. 48 Jarell, Randall. 2014. “Casa din pădure.” (Şerban Foarţă, Trans.) In Cafeneaua literară 5: 24-25. 49 Ș. Foarță’s translation portfolio generally consists of works known for their prosodic formalism and creative use of language, such as Georges Perec’s La Disparition or Raymond Queneau’s poetry. 111 their Romanian peers, who embark on sporadic translation projects as a sign of appreciation: Emil Nicolae is the first entry in my corpus, with a one-time translation from Russian-American Joseph Brodsky.50 Isabel Vintilă tried her hand at translation with a rendition from Rita Dove,51 and so did Sînziana Mureșeanu with a selection from Margaret Atwood,52 Andrei Zanca with Michael Ondaatje,53 Antonela Suciu and Marius Conkan with Anne Sexton,54 Vlad A. Gheorghiu with Gregory Corso,55 and Radu Ulmeanu with a selection from Romanian-American writer and literary critic Claudia Moscovici.56 Andrei Mocuța published translations from the work of Richard Brautigan57 in four episodes in various literary journals, alongside several other translations of his fiction. Mocuța’s own work bears traces of Brautigan’s writing: the affinity is so strong that the Romanian poet curates some of Brautigan’s work on the website of the Writers’ Union in Arad, of which he is a member himself. Other poets are associated with two or more American writers in Romanian rendition: Ovidiu Simion, a poet and literary critic, translated three American poets—Rita Dove,58 John Berryman,59 50 Brodsky, Joseph. M. B. 2006. “Cântec din Belfast; Exploratorul polar; etc.” (Emil Nicolae, Trans.) In Ateneu 4: 24. 51 Dove, Rita. 2007. “Adolescenţă II; Bistro Styx.” (Isabel Vintilă, Trad.) In Bucovina literară 7: 40. 52 Atwood, Margaret. 2010. “Casa păpușilor înviată; Poetul s-a întors; Tăinuirea.” (Sânziana Mureseanu, Trans.). In Ateneu 1: 24. 53 Ondaatje, Michael. 2008. “Îngropat; Ţărmul medieval.” (Andrei Zanca, Trans.) In Euphorion 7-8: 18. 54 Sexton, Anne. 2010. “Sânul; Celebrarea uterului meu; Sângele meu la 40.” (Antonela Suciu and Marius Conkan, Trans.) In Steaua 1-2: 42-43. 55 Corso, Gregory. 2014. “Mandat pe treptele unui Harlem din Puerto Rico; Am 25 de ani; Am avut un manuscris al lui Shelley.” (Vlad A. Gheorghiu, Trans.) In Argeş 4: 20. 56 Moscovici, Claudia. 2012. “Îndemn; Scrierea dragostei; Rădăcini şi aer.” (Radu Ulmeanu, Trans.) In Acolada 4: 27. 57 Brautigan, Richard. 2012. “Stau în apartamentul unei necunoscute; Trăiesc în secolul douăzeci; Mi-a îmbătrânit nasul.” (Andrei Mocuţa, Trans.) In Luceafărul de dimineaţă 9: 14; Brautigan, Richard. 2013. “Autostopistul galileean; Floriburgeri; Ora eternităţii.” (Andrei Mocuţa, Trans.) In Arca 4-6: 241-247; Brautigan, Richard. 2014. “Poveste de dragoste; Visele sunt precum; Scurtă incursiune în dispărut.” (Andrei Mocuţa, Trans.) In Arca 4-6: 236-243; Brautigan, Richard. 2012. “Poeme de Richard Brautigan.” (Andrei Mocuța, Trans.) In Steaua literară, artistică și culturală, July 12: Web. http://bit.ly/2nVY8KA. Last accessed: February 09, 2018. 58 Dove, Rita. 2014. “Grădina secretă; Adolescenţă II; Zice Shakespeare.” (Ovidiu Simion, Trans.) In Euphorion 9-10: 24. 59 Berryman, John. 2011. “Cîntece onirice.” (Ovidiu Simion, Trans.) In Euphorion 3-4: 24; Berryman, John. 2011. “Cîntece onirice.” (Ovidiu Simion, Trans.) In Vatra 5-6: 156-160. http://bit.ly/2nVY8KA 112 and Sylvia Plath60—in local journal Euphorion and in Vatra, two magazines that also published his poetry; haiku poetess Teodora Moțet translated Canadian haiku authors Winona Baker61 and Bruce Ross,62 but also left her comfort zone and translated selections from the poetry of Langston Hughes63 and Leonard Cohen64); late poet Radu Șuiu translated Linda Gregerson,65 Brian Swann,66 and Tony Hoagland67 in Constanța-based journals Agora and Tomis, Dan Sociu approaches poems by Charles Bernstein,68 James Tate,69 Paul Killebrew70 in a short series of translations published in Cuvântul. Sociu’s meeting with Killebrew resulted in the latter’s translation of one of Sociu’s poems for the New York-based journal Calque.71 Ioan Radu Văcărescu, president of the Writers’ Union in Sibiu, has approached only quintessential women writers like Anne Sexton72 and Sylvia Plath.73 At the opposite pole, young fiction writer Florin Buzdugan, a Master’s student at the time, chooses to translate Andrea Cohen,74 a young writer herself, just like Florin Prodan, who appears in the corpus with a single entry, a selection from Anna Grace.75 To this motley crew, one must add republications of older translations, such as Marin Sorescu’s and Gh. Șerban’s rendition of some of W.S. Merwin’s 60 Plath, Sylvia. 2009. “Tati; Dama Lazăr; Colosul.” (Ovidiu Simion, Trans.) In Vatra 9-10: 159-162. 61 Baker, Winona. 2008. “Kwaguilth.” (Teodora Moţet, Trans.) In Amurg sentimental 4: 12. 62 Ross, Bruce. 2013. “Summer Drizzles…” (Teodora Moţet, Trans.) In Amurg sentimental 8: 16. 63 Hughes, Langston. 2010. “Negrul vorbeşte despre râuri.” (Teodora Moţet, Trans.) In Amurg sentimental 8: 12. 64 Cohen, Leonard. 2011. “Love-Dance.” (Teodora Moţet, Trans.) In Amurg sentimental 11: 12. 65 Gregerson, Linda. 2012. “Sfârşitul zăpezii.” (Radu Şuiu, Trans.) In Agora 46: 21. 66 Swann, Brian. 2012. “Locul.” (Radu Şuiu, Trans.) In Agora 46: 21. 67 Hoagland, Tony. 2007. “Comenzi pentru pianul de jucărie.” (Radu Şuiu, Trans.) In Tomis 8: 59-60. 68 Bernstein, Charles. 2008. “Mulţumesc pentru că spuneţi mulţumesc.” (Dan Sociu, Trans.) In Cuvântul 2: 19. 69 Tate, James. 2008. “Stră-stră-etc. unchiul meu Patrick Henry; Niciodată la fel.” (Dan Sociu, Trans.) In Cuvântul 4: 47. 70 Killebrew, Paul. 2007. “Urbancolia.” (Dan Sociu, Trans.) In Cuvântul 12: 33. 71 Sociu, Dan. 2009. “Four Sonnets.” (Paul Killebrew, Trans.) In Calque. New Translations 5: 24. 72 Sexton, Anne. 2014. “Atincerea; Sărutul; Interogarea bărbatului cu mai multe inimi.” (Ioan Radu Văcărescu, Trans.) In Euphorion 7-8: 24. 73 Plath, Sylvia. 2017. “Oaie rătăcită; Ariel; Vânătaie; etc.” (Ioan Radu Văcărescu, Trans.) In Euphorion February 02. Web: http://bit.ly/2neOrYe. Last accessed: January 27, 2018. 74 Cohen, Andrea. 2014. “Brutal; Pricomigdale; Natură moartă cu un copil.” (Florin Buzdugan. Trans.) In Steaua 11-12: 65-66. Web: http://bit.ly/2H3TJhI. Last accessed: February 09, 2018. 75 Grace, Anna. 2009. “Legendă şi adevăr.” (Florin Prodan, Trans.) In Oglinda literară 90: 4580. http://bit.ly/2neOrYe http://bit.ly/2H3TJhI 113 poems76 in 13 Plus, Baconsky’s translations of e. e. cummings77 and Langston Hughes78 in Fereastra, or the unattributed translations of T.S. Eliot’s poetry. Second, a much more coherent translation program can be attributed to poets like Alex Văsieș, Chris Tanasescu, and Claudiu Komartin. Since January 2016, Steaua has been featuring monthly translations from American poets by young Romanian poet Alex Văsieș. The two-year translation series—“Autoportret în oglindă convexă” (cf. Annex 1)—is identified from the get-go as the translator’s personal project, who borrowed John Ashbery’s appropriated title to warn the readers about a subjective selection criterion: It is my turn to borrow this title for the series I propose in the upcoming several issues of Steaua because these translations from English-speaking authors are subjective choices that I also consider to be essential for those Romanian readers interested in fresh, personal forms of Anglophone poetic discourse. (Translator’s note to “Autoportret în oglinda convexă,” Steaua 1/2016: 18, emphases mine) The compilation proposed by Văsieș mirrors his attention to contemporary world literature stage, also visible in his own writing through references to poets like Shakespeare, Ovid, Yehuda Amichai, or A. R. Ammons (Ciorogar 2016: web). Besides translating iconic poets like Robert Haas or Philip Levine, he also includes Peter Balakian, the year’s Pulitzer-prize winner, or Carolyn Forché, whom he introduces as a prime representative of the poetry of witness, or Liam Rector, whose poetry always tries, as Văsieș explains in his note, ‘to reorder a superabundant reality,’ just like the translator’s own poetry, which builds on the tiniest details of real life (Baghiu 2012: web). As a professor of American poetry at the University of Bucharest and a poet himself, Chris Tanasescu showed interest in young American poetry and translated a series of authors that were 76 Merwin, W. S. 2010. “Despărţire; Economie; Poemul.” (Marin Sorescu, Gh. Şerban, Trans.) In 13 Plus 1-3: 54. 77 Cummings, E. E. 2012. “Dacă nu poţi mânca.” (A. E. Baconsky, Trans.) In Fereastra 3: 15. 78 Hughes, Langston. 2012. “Jaz.” (A. E. Baconsky, Trans.) In Fereastra 3: 15. 114 in their thirties in the mid-2000s, such as Roger Craik79 and Meghan O’Rourke,80 along with others that I shall analyse in more depth in the following section on transnationalist poet-translators. His interest in contemporary American poetry found a good host in a new hip literary journal, Poesis International, coordinated by Claudiu Komartin. Komartin had toyed himself with translation from American poetry in 2009 with a selection from Denise Duhamel81 and in 2012 with a co-translation of a poem by W.D. Snodgrass82 with Vlad Pojoga, published on his own personal blog. At Poesis International, Komartin brought together a number of poets who steadily supplied translations for every issue, so that the journal became a hub of quality U.S. and Canadian contemporary poetries, featuring young poets like Sherman Alexie, Ilya Kaminsky, Valzhyna Mort, and Martin Woodside, along with celebrated established authors such as Gary Snyder and Anne Carson. A third category brings together graduate students that moonlight as literary critics and/or poets and who once in a while publish translations of poetry in the journals they regularly or only occasionally contribute to on other projects. It is the case of (at the time) doctoral student Călina Părău, a collaborator of Cluj-Napoca-based journal Steaua, who published selections from the poetries of Albert Goldbarth,83 Alan Britt84—an American poet and academic with strong ties to the Babeș Boliay University in Cluj—, and Florida-born poet and creative writing professor Tara Skurtu,85 who was a Fulbright postdoctoral scholar in Romania at the time. Student-translators usually gather 79 Craik, Roger. 2007. “Poeme de Roger Craik.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Familia 11-12: 278-282. 80 O’Rourke, Meghan. 2007. “Poeme de Meghan O'Rourke.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Familia 11-12: 283-287. 81 Duhamel, Denise. 2009. “Barbie budhistă; Cea-al-cărei-vagin-înghiţea-bărbaţi; Noe şi Ioana D’Arc.” (Claudiu Komartin, Trans.) In Cuvântul 5: 31. 82 Snodgrass, W.D. 2012. “Albert Speer. Ministru de război.” (Claudiu Komartin and Vlad Pojoga, Trans.) Web: http://bit.ly/2C44C3s. Last accessed: February 17, 2018. 83 Goldbarth, Albert. 2015. “Dacă am admite; Cântec dimensionat în marmură; etc.” (Călina Părău, Trans.) In Steaua 5- 6: 38-39. 84 Britt, Alan. 2014. “Ciocănitoarea pufoasă; Geneza în această zi şi în acest veac; Vise de august.” (Călina Părău, Trans.) In Steaua 9-10: 70-71. 85 Skurtu, Tara. 2015. “Derivativi.” (Călina Părău, Trans.) In Steaua 3-4: 21-22. http://bit.ly/2C44C3s 115 around journals that are committed to publishing debuts, translations included. It is the case of Orizont literar contemporan (Contemporary Literary Horizon), a bilingual multicultural journal whose editorial team consists of many graduate students in the Literary Translation Master’s Program at the University of Bucharest. The structure of the team is a complex network that links authors and translators from various countries, such as Great Britain, United States, Italy, Brazil, and Uruguay. With a consistent translation agenda and curated by translators, this journal is fed foreign contemporary poetry through the ties it established with many ‘small worlds’ abroad. It is a respectable publication venue for many young enthusiastic translators like Ioana Sabău, who translated Spanish-American poetess Lea Diaz;86 Zenovia Popa, translator of Peggy Landsman;87 Aura Mircea, who renders Mary Ann McCarra Fitzpatrick’s poems into Romanian;88 Florina Sămulescu, translator of Canadian Jane Mellor,89 American John Tischer,90 and, in a different periodical, of Jude English;91 Cristiana Ghiță, translator of another Canadian, Carole St. Aubin;92 Iulian Trandafir, translator of Burt Rashbaum’s poetry;93 and Adriana Boagiu, who translates 86 Diaz, Lea. 2015. “Griselda, Mariposa de Ensueño = Griselda, dream butterfly = Griselda, fluturele visului.” (Ioana Sabău, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 4: 23-24. 87 Landsman, Peggy. 2011. “Tuba Libre; White Table Wine; The moon.” (Zenovia Popa, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 1: 25-26. 88 McCarra Fitzpatrick, Mary Ann. 2011. “Page-Turner (can one trust the narrator?); Seven-on-five.” (Aura Mircea, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 4: 36-37. 89 Mellor, Jane. 2011. “4 Days in New York = 4 zile în New York.” (Sînziana Mihalache. Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 3: 7; Mellor, Jane. 2012. “Stinson Beach = Plaja Stinson.” (Florina Sămulescu, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 2: 19-20. 90 Tischer, John. 2012. “Brownian Life; Ode to John Lennon’s Diary; Poem to my Teacher = Viaţă brawniană = Odă la jurnalul lui John Lennon = Poem pentru profesorul meu.” (Florina Sămulescu, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 2: 22-23. 91 English, Jude. 2012. “Portret; Pragul iadului; Gânduri de ciocolată.” (Florina Sămulescu, Trans.) In Oglinda literară 126: 8078. 92 St.-Aubin, Carole. 2011. “Butterfly Moon = Luna fluturelui; The Root of Summer = Esenţa verii.” (Cristiana Ghiţă, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 3: 22-23. 93 Rashbaum, Burt. 2012. “Wind Takes Over = Stăpânirea furtunii.” (Iulian Trandafir, Trans.) Orizont literar contemporan 3: 38-40. 116 American poet Donald Riggs.94 The more prominent authors are also translated by the senior staff of the journal, such as Editor-in-Chief Daniel Dragomirescu, who offers Romanian versions for John Tischer’s poems.95 They also practice collective translation, as was the case of poems by Americans Jennifer Ransom96 and Mike Foldes.97 Academic programs have, I would maintain, a highly significant impact on contemporary poetry translations. Many translators and poet-translators belong to academia and their selections echo their scholarly work, as wil become more obvious in the section on transnationalism and academic mobility (2.2.4). Another relevant example is the Master’s Program in the Translation of Literary Text at the University of Bucharest, a mother lode of good translations of contemporary British literature, published in volumes and in periodicals by graduate students under Lidia Vianu’s guidance. Or a periodical like Steaua dedicating a generous number of pages to Irish literature on the occasion of Declan Kiberd’s Doctor Honoris Causa award at the Babeș-Bolyai University in Cluj, fifteen years after the university founded a program dedicated to Irish Studies. Victor Olaru, a professor at the University of Craiova, has been publishing poetry translations on a regular basis since 1982 in local literary journals Ramuri and Scrisul românesc. Since I have established 2007 as a starting point of this data-intensive subchapter, most of his translations have not been included in this corpus,98 but he needs to be retained as a classic example of a scholarly career significantly 94 Riggs, Donald. 2012. “After Kirchway after Keats = După Kirchaway după Keats.” (Adriana Claudia Boagiu, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 2: 20-21. 95 Tischer, John. 2013. “Locul de naștere al lui Kafka, etc.” (Daniel Dragomirescu, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 2: 20-21; Tischer, John. 2013. “Poet at Work = Poeta al trabajo = Poet la lucru.” (Daniel Dragomirescu, Trans.) In Orizont literar contemporan 1: 36. 96 Ransom, Jennifer. 2013. “Făcătorii de ploaie; Vizită.” (Translated collectively by the editors.) In Orizont literar contemporan 2: 17-18. 97 Foldes, Mike. 2013. “Betsy Tango.” (Translated collectively by the editors.) Orizont literar contemporan 2: 25; Foldes, Mike. 2012. “Creeks and Crayfish = Păraie şi raci; Lulla-Bye = Cântec de leagăn.” (Mircea Filimon, Trans.). In Orizont literar contemporan 5: 30-31. 98 His Curriculum Vitae lists sixteen American poets and two Canadian poets translated between 1982 and 2006: http://bit.ly/2BBieSS. Last accessed: February 18, 2018. http://bit.ly/2BBieSS 117 complemented by poetry translations (cf. Annex 1). Olaru’s interest in foreign literatures produced an impressive number of renditions from Irish, British, Scottish, Australian, and Jamaican poets, alongside over twenty American and Canadian authors. He also translated occasionally theoretical essays on the practice of translation, signed by reputed authors like Susan Bassnett99 or Adam Sorkin100—one of the most prolific U.S. literary translators of Romanian literature. Besides these examples that have articulated a sort of translation program, there are also episodic translations done by various Romanian scholars in literary journals typically and very conveniently based in the cities where they work: University of Iași professor Ligia Doina Constantinescu translated Elizabeth Winder101 and Alice Vedral Rivera102 in Iași-based Poezia; Ana Oloș, a former professor at the Nord University in Baia-Mare and founder of a Canadian Studies program there translated Canadian George Elliott Clarke103 and American Nancy Burke104 and published these translations in Poesis and Nord Literar, both journals based in the same county; Dan H. Popescu, a professor at the Partium Christian University in Oradea, co-translated Bill Knott105 with Adrian Olah, this time in a journal based in the south-eastern town of Constanța. There is also the association between Viorica Patea, professor of American literature at the University of Salamanca, and Daniela Oancea, a Master’s Student (at the time) in the MA program in the Translation of 99 Cf. Olaru’s CV, in Ramuri September-October 1992. 100 Cf. Olaru’s CV: Sorkin, Adam. 1999. “’Boala traducerii’ și însănătoșirea poeziei.” In Ramuri February issue. 101 Winder, Elizabeth. 2015. “Anunţarea iernii.” (Wojciech Maślarz, Trans. from the Czech; Ligia Doina Constantinescu) In Poezia 3: 142-143; Winder, Elizabeth. 2015. “Sora lui Kafka.” (Ligia Doina Constantinescu, Trans.) In Poezia 3: 141. 102 Vedral Rivera, Alice. 2015. “Mamă a oraşelor.” In Poezia 3: 140. 103 Clarke, George Elliott. 2008. “Biserica baptistă africană din Cherrzbrook; Ecleziastul; Sonet alb.” (Ana Olos, Trans.) In Poesis 3-5: 98. 104 Burke, Nancy. 2012. “La început; Meditaţii de iarnă; Amintirile celorlalţi.” (Ana Olos, Trans.) In Nord literar 11-12: 24. 105 Knott, Bill. 2009. “Poem în proză; Poem poeziei; Moarte.” (Dan H. Popescu and Adrian Olah, Trans.) In Tomis 12: 50. 118 Literary Text at the University of Bucharest, who translated largely unknown transnational poetess Patrizia de Rachewiltz.106 Finally, the fifth and most anomalous and heterogeneous category brings together the one- time translation by Liliana Rusu, a lecturer at the University of Galați in Eastern Romania, who created a Romanian selection of what appears to be her favorite pop song lyrics by Leonard Cohen,107 Sting,108 Richard Marx,109 and Chris Rhea;110 young professional translator Corina Dragomir, who seems to have translated poetry purely haphazardly, out of her own personal interest, as there appears to be no other motivation for Dragomir’s ambitious translation from the poetry of two important names like Sexton111 or Ginsberg;112 painter Ileana Grivu, who translated Louise Glück113 and Gerard England,114 a poet I could not identify, but who is listed under American poetry translation in the NLR bibliography); and one translator that does not show up in any other literary context, Alina Sorescu, responsible for a selection from Kathleen Graber’s poetry.115 2.1.3. A Network Analysis Intuitively, poetry translation in Romania resembles a small-world structure, but the nodes in this network, the translators, are part of a larger network that is set in motion by connectivity, both 106 Rachewiltz, Patrizia de. 2015. “Unde tu eşti numai ochi; Nu eu, ci copilul; Arată-mi calea.” (Daniela Oancea and Viorica Patea, Trans.) In Luceafărul de dimineaţă 10: 18. 107 Cohen, Leonard. 2015. “Dansează acest vals.” (Liliana Rusu, Trans.) In Negru pe alb 22: 52. 108 Sting. 2015. “Luna pe strada Bourbon.” (Liliana Rusu, Trans.) In Negru pe alb 22: 51. 109 Marx, Richard. 2015. “Hazard.” (Liliana Rusu, Trans.) In Negru pe alb 22: 51. 110 Rhea, Chris. 2015. “Cafeneaua albastră.” (Liliana Rusu, Trans.) In Negru pe alb 22: 50-51. 111 Sexton, Anne. 2010. “După Auschwitz.” (Corina Dragomir, Trans.) In Tomis 5: 56. 112 Ginsberg, Allen. 2010. “Un supermarket din California.” (Corina Dragomir, Trans.) In Tomis 5: 55. 113 Glück, Louise. 2008. “Parabola credinţei; Miez de noapte.” (Ileana Grivu, Trans.). In Oraşul 10:46. 114 England, Gerard. 2008. “Previziuni de octombrie.” (Ileana Grivu, Trans.) In Oraşul 10: 46. 115 Graber, Kathleen. 2011. “Regatul magic.” (Alina Sorescu, Trans.) In Ramuri 6: 20. 119 internal and external (the way it relates to other exterior networks). Each unit in the literary translation system—authors, translators, journals, presses, etc.—forms a complex network both separately and together; that is, each unit can be, in turn, vertex (or node) and edge. For the purpose of this section, the nodes will be the translators and the authors they translate, and literary journals will be the edges, a structure that will hopefully show us how “[t]he whole emerges, through self- organization, from the local interactions.” (Marais 2014: 31) As explained in section 1.2., such real-life networks are characterized by non-trivial features. The first non-trivial feature is their scale-free distribution, that is, the number of links emanating from a node can be as low or as high as possible: translators can work on one hundred translations or on one translation only. Scale-free distribution is driven by the power law, which stipulates that the proportion of nodes having k neighbours is [proportional to] k to a certain power, which results in the majority of nodes having a small number of neighbors, with only some of the nodes acting as hubs, or connectors. Another feature is the (anti)correlation between degrees of neighboring nodes: nodes with a large value of the degree tend either to ‘attract’ or to ‘repel’ nodes with a similar degree, “a property known as assortativity or disassortativity, respectively.” (Caldarelli and Garlaschelli 2009: 115) Finally, a third important feature is clustering. A clustering coefficient is a measure of connectedness, the degree to which nodes in a network tend to cluster together. As noted by Caldarelli and Galaschelli, high clustering is often combined with a small value of the average distance between pairs of node, and the term ‘small world effect’ is used to describe this combination. This third feature observed in real-life networks was actually the one that drove scientists to move away from Erdős and Rényi’s theory of random networks (1959), according to which N-labeled nodes are connected with randomly placed links. According to Granovetter (1973), highly connected clusters (networks) are linked to other tightly knit networks by what he called 120 ‘weak ties.’ As he further argues, clustering is ubiquitous, it is not only a property of society; and so, clustering is a generic property of networks and real networks cannot be fundamentally random, as claimed by Erdős and Rényi, who viewed society as a random graph. Society is “a collection of complete graphs, tiny clusters in which each node is connected to all other nodes within the cluster.” (Barabási 2003: 42) Therefore weak ties are our bridge between our small world and the outside world. Translation and the relationship literary translators and, by extension, a literature establish with foreign authors are such essential weak ties. The examination of hierarchical clustering— hierarchically arranging the network into groups according to a specified weight function—has proven very useful for identifying community structures in a network. Marais suggests TS scholars should look into computational work done to study systems at the edge of chaos such as weather and traffic, as “the possibilities seem to be huge” (2014: 45). In order to visualize the topology of the literary translation network in periodicals I shall use graph models, “[…] important benchmarks for understanding complex networks, […] used to test candidate mechanisms believed to be responsible for the onset of a particular topological feature, thus providing an insight into realistic network formation processes.” (Caldarelli and Garlaschelli 2009: 11) After feeding the software with the bibliographic information presented in this section and in the following one (translations in periodicals done by local and transnational translators), the generated network presented in Figures 1a and 1b shows a disconnected graph consisting of 310 nodes (authors and translators) and 302 edges (publication venues) (cf. Annex 2). This graph is organized in a giant component—a connected graph containing a significant proportion of the total number of nodes—and 29 various other clusters (smaller connected graphs). The giant component (G0, Figures 2a and 2b) exhibits 222 nodes and 241 edges and accounts for 71.61% of the network’s nodes and 79.80% of the same network’s links. 121 Figure 1a. Network of contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translations in PP between 2007 and 2017 (without node labels) 122 Figure 1b. Network of contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translations in PP between 2007 and 2017 (with node labels) 123 Figure 2a. The giant component (G0) in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (without node labels) Legend: red = translators, green = authors 124 Figure 2b. The giant component (G0) in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (with node labels) Legend: red = translators, green = authors 125 The second and third components are drastically smaller, each accounting for only 3.87% of the nodes in the network. All the other 27 clusters account for 20.65% of the total number of nodes. Although this is an unconnected graph and the connectedness (or the density) is very low, the analysis helps us understand that disregarding the “strays” (G3 – G29) means neglecting a fifth of the network—that is, 27 components of translators and authors: G components = 30 G0 nodes = 222 (71.61%) G0 edges = 241 (79.80%) G nodes = 310 G1 nodes = 12 (3.87%) G1 edges = 11 (3.64%) G edges = 302 G2 nodes = 12 (3.87%) G2 edges = 5 (1.65%) G3-29 nodes = 64 (20.65%) G3-29 edges = 45 (14.91%) Table 1. The size of the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP The disconnectedness of the graph has consequences on the graph’s density, which is very low (0.006), as well as on the average degree (the number of connections per node). With a number of links per node varying between 1 and 68, the average degree for the whole network (G) is 1.9483 and 2.1711 for G0, while G1 (Figure 3) and G2 (Figure 4) show slightly lower values (lower translations per node), of 1.8(3) and 1.6666 respectively. The values increase in the case of the weighted average degree (with the number of translation features per author factored in) by 30% for G and by 22% for G0. While this coefficient is obviously a useful measurement for the network in its ensemble, it also demonstrates how critical it is not to treat agents as a social average, like traditional sociology has taught us to. If we do so, an agent with 68 links (translated authors) may be evaluated like one with two links only if those two links (authors) are deemed important for one reason or another. This shows us that our reading of data as human beings with a certain culturally- trained profile may be biased and may reflect on our analysis, whereas adopting an algorithmic and computational perspective can provide different kind of results encouraging a more rigorous reading of the same data. 126 Figure 3. The G1 component in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (Translators: L. Rusu, T. Moțet, A.E. Baconski, P. Solomon). Legend: red = translators, black = authors Figure 4. The G2 component in the 2007-2017 network of translations in PP (Translators: F. Samulescu, D. Dragomirescu, S. Mihalache) Legend: red = translators, black = authors 127 Finally, and very importantly, the low density and average degree and the extremely weak clustering of the network (0.06 both for G and G0 and 0 for G1 and G2) demonstrate that the small world effect is not present and that, in spite of its size, this is a highly a-social, fragmented network that justifies seeing literary translation in this particular context in terms of associations rather than in terms of any other cohesive structure. A most relevant example in this respect is the association of reputed translator G. Tartler with occasional translator I. Grivu, whom I initially placed in two different categories in the functional analysis. The computational analysis, however, shows that Tartler and Grivu actually form a highly ranked component by themselves, G3, due to their translations of Louise Glück. The danger of bias is also reflected by the betweeness centrality coefficient (bc), which is a measure of centrality in a graph based on the shortest paths—that is, a quantification of the number of times a node acts as a bridge along the shortest path between two other nodes. The investigation of the giant component G0 (222 nodes and 241 edges) reveals the most interesting facts. Since authors and translators are treated equally (they are all nodes), both categories are bound to appear as central nodes in this network. According to the betweeness centrality coefficient, the top ten nodes in the network consist of an equal number of translators and authors (Figures 5-14), who most influence the flow in the network. What is most striking though is the fact that one of these top agents is translator Nina Cassian, who is present in the corpus with only five translated authors in two haphazard translation events. However, the authors she translated and their popularity with other translators made Cassian acquire a position of power in terms of placement in the network: she is so well positioned, that it is very likely for her to be “bumped into” by researchers accessing the network from very different points of entry. Also, while I was expecting to see translators O. Iacob (Figure 5), A. Văsieș 128 (Figure 6), C. Tanasescu (Figure 8), and L. Ofileanu (Figure 11) reflected by these measurements because of the make-up of their portfolios and number of edges departing from them, my initial reading of the corpus could not place authors and translators at the same level. The computational network analysis quickly disclosed that authors are also well-positioned in the network (Figures 7, 9, 12, and 13) due to the positions their translators hold, and not necessarily to the number of times they were translated: the more central the translator is in the network, the more visible authors become in the respective network. For instance, Alice Notley was translated only twice, but because she was translated by Văsieș, she ranks the 11th (bc = 0.0485), while Lawrence Ferlinghetti (bc = 0.015), Rita Dove (bc = 0.005), or Langston Hughes (bc = 0.0005), who were each translated three times, but by various translators with lower centrality scores, do not come in anywhere close to Notley. Figure 5. Translator O. Iacob (bc = 0.3878) 129 Figure 6. Translator A. Văsieș (bc = 0.1816) Figure 7. Author J. Ashbery (bc = 0.1177) 130 Figure 8. Translator C. Tanasescu (bc = 0.1160) Figure 9. Author C. Simic (bc = 0.0926) 131 Figure 10. Translator N. Cassian (bc = 0.0856) Figure 11. Translator L. Ofileanu (bc = 0.0852) 132 Figure 12. Authors C.K. Williams (bc = 0.0583) and D. Levertov (bc = 0.0583) Figure 13. Author S. Plath (bc = 0.0577) 133 In terms of closeness centrality (cc), a measure of the degree to which an individual is near all other individuals in a network, the graphs shows a similar top six—O. Iacob (cc = 0.23), C. Simic (cc = 0.2029), C.K. Williams (cc = 0.2013), D. Levertov (cc = 0.2013), A. Văsieș (cc = 0.1963), and N. Cassian (cc = 0.1848)—, and four new author entries—A. Ginsberg (cc = 0.1844), L. Ferlinghetti (cc = 0.1823), S. Plath (cc = 0.1810), and R. Jarrell (cc = 0.1786). These are the individuals who are best placed to influence the entire network most quickly. In our case, O. Iacob and N. Cassian are the only translators in top ten who are bound to influence the network fast, the first due to her productivity (high number of links) and the latter due to her strategic choices. The ranking also reflects the relatively high number of translation events for each of these eight new authors in top ten (3 translation events each) and the high profile of their translators, such as Iacob and Ofileanu, which places them close to the other nodes in the network. Jarrell was translated only twice, but by well-positioned Iacob and selective Foarță, who himself has a strong position in the network because of his translations of Eliot, not because of the frequent translations. Closeness centrality has translator C. Tanasescu down over 60 spots and reflects his interest in having poets that have never been translated join the network. Finally, the Eigenvector centrality (or the EigenCentrality) provides a very similar top 10 to the closeness centrality (cf. Annex 2). Although very similar to the latter type, the EigenCentrality determines the importance of a node not only according to the number of links incident on that node, but also on the number of links their connections have. This is how, out of the following ten spots, five are claimed by authors like V. Clemente, E. Amatoritsero, or J. Sadre Orfai, who were translated by only one translator each (O. Iacob and D. Manole). However, because they were translated more than once and because they were published alongside poets like G. E. Clarke (as is the case with E. Amatoritsero), they acquire a high “all-around score,” making them very visible in 134 the network. Also, the EigenCentrality ranks authors better than translators than the other types of centrality do, a result of their translators’ agency in making the selections and deciding on the associations. This concise analysis shows a highly polymorphic and disconnected network that fits the rich- get-richer model best. Also known as the Barabási-Albert model, the rich-get-richer networks are an evolving model which changes as a function of time, by adding or dropping nodes and edges. Translators who appear to publish according to a certain program are bound to acquire more links over time, while not the same can be said about the author-nodes. The network will mainly expand due to translators’ contributions, not necessarily due to the prominence of an author, as there seems to exist a critical mass of translations for each author, expressed by G’s average degree of approximately 2. Moreover, authors gain centrality through their translators’ positioning, which emphasizes the bidirectionality of any author-translator relationship. Of all Romanian translators, the one whose influence drastically changes the positioning of any author-node is Olimpia Iacob, the subject of the following section. 2.1.4. Network-Driven Translation and the Poetics of Fecundity Olimpia Iacob is a former Associate Professor of English at the Vasile Goldiș University in Arad. Unlike other translators working in academia, her translations are little related to her scholarly work, in the sense that the latter does not determine her translation choices. The work of Canadian Stephen Gill has been to date the only topic she broached in her scholarly essays, as most of her other academic publications appear to be in the field of English as a Second Language. Currently retired, Dr. Iacob translated just shy of 70 American contemporary poets into Romanian, totalling one 135 hundred and ten selections for six literary journals, making her the best placed and most prominent translator within the network in question. She ranks first in all centrality charts and has the highest density of nodes attached (68), a position which reflects the motto on her translator page on the on the Writers’ Union website: “…there is an urgent call addressed to Romanian humanists that specialize in languages of wide circulation—that are also repositories of profuse cultural heritages— , a call which has to actually become a great responsibility, one that needs to be carried out perfectly and, most often, urgently.” (Ştefan Stoenescu, Ithaca, NY, USA, February 21, 2008) Only one of the journals she has been contributing to is based in the capital city, Bucharest, and has a national audience (Contemporanul-Ideea europeană), while all the others are supported by various regional branches of the Writers’ Union or local administration in north and north-east Romania: Convorbiri literare and Poezia are based in Iași, Poesis and Acolada are based in Satu- Mare, and Nord literar operates in Baia Mare. Her resumé lists a significantly higher number of literary journals to which she contributed, which indicates that her translation activity began many years before the NLR started the digitization of their bibliographies. In addition to the journals above-mentioned, she has been publishing selections in the following magazines: Confesiuni, Citadela, Semne, Steaua, Cronica, Caiete Internaţionale de Poezie, Origini, Hyperion, Ramuri, Viaţa românească, Unu, Porto-Franco, Centrul cultural Piteşti, Timpul, Familia, Vatra, and Caligraf. According to the same source, she also translated selections by ten poets I did not include in the corpus,116 as I could not find any bibliographical reference for them: Frank O’Hara, Charles Simic, Anne Sexton, James Wright, Louis Simpson, John Fenton, Marge Piercy, John Deane, Ted Kooser, and Michael Waters. Further information on the bibliographic references for some other poets she 116 These poets do appear in the corpus, but they are linked to other translators. 136 listed on her page were available only by analyzing the URL slugs of a suspended website showcasing the 2002-2012 archive of Convorbiri literare. Since the URLs contained the year and month the selection was published, I included eleven more poets in the corpus: A.R. Ammons (June 2003), W.S. Merwin (September 2003), Randall Jarrell (May 2007), Kenneth Rexroth (October 2006), Allen Ginsberg (November 2007), Louise Glück (November 2006), Derek Mahon (October 2012), and David Ignatow (December 2007). The corpus contains translations from the work of sixty-eight poets (cf. Annex 1), of which only four are Canadian (Stephen Gill alongside tanka writers Christina Cowling, Guy Simser, and Changming Youan). Her work is certainly not over. Growing curiosity made me sample a random issue (42- 46/2017) of Confesiuni literary journal, based in the small town of Petroșani. I was not surprised to find that Ms. Iacob supplied three full pages with translations from the work of Canadian Jennifer (Jinks) Hoffmann (p. 23), Americans Carolyn Mary Kleefeld (different selections from what is presented in my corpus) (p. 30), Isaac Goldenberg (p. 26), and Emily Vogel (p. 26). The latter two appear with only one poem each alongside poets of various extractions: Marrocan, Hindi, Welsh, and others. Further probing the journals she listed on her webpage led me to Citadela, issue 4- 6/2013, which features Iacob with a translation from an English-language poetry anthology published in 2011 in India. I posit that her eclectic translation program speaks for her agency in most projects she is associated with, just as her extensive selections and two volumes117 by largely unknown Kleefeld do.118 Her passion for poetry translation—for it is only passion that can animate a work which started back in 1976 and has continued to date—made her embark not only on a 117 Kleefeld. Carolyn Mary. 2013. Zori hoinari / Vagabond Dawns (Al. Zotta, Foreword; Olimpia Iacob, Trans.). Cluj: Editura Limes; Kleefeld. Carolyn Mary. 2014. The Divine Kiss / Sărut divin. Nistor, Ioan. În flăcările păpădiilor / In the Flames of Dandelions (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.). Cluj: Editura Limes, 2014. 118 Our corpus lists thirteen selections, alongside the one I mentioned (in Confesiuni 42-46/2017, p. 30). 137 marathon of poetry selections published in various periodicals, but also on a sizeable amount of stand-alone collections by authors she likely admires.119 Marius Chelaru, a poetry editor for Poezia and an author of haikus, offers a very rare testimony for Iacob’s translation program: Olimpia Iacob has been working for some good years now on building an interesting bridge between Romanian and English-language poetries. Be they American or British poets and/or poets coming from other spaces (of various extractions, but all writing in English), Iacob has authored the Romanian renditions for books in which they appear either alone, or paired with Romanian authors. (Chelaru 2016: web) What links Chelaru to Iacob is not only their affiliation with Poezia, but also their mutual interest in haikus: the translator has published several selections of haiku and tanka poetry in various literary journals, along with selections from American poets that were representatives for this form, such as Jim Kacian, whom she pairs in numerous volumes with Romanian writers interested in the same poetic form120 and whom she also features as her co-translator121 of several bilingual anthologies. In 2010 she also edited with Chelaru an anthology122 of international haiku poetry that reunited American and Romanian poets. But her wide-ranging interests are not at their best in a book like that: the bridges Chelaru refers to in his review of Iacob’s book are best represented in a volume 119 These volumes are presented later in this section and in section 4.2 (“Romanian Mainstream and Indie Publishers of Poetry in Translation after 1989”). 120 Novăcescu, Constantin and Kacian, Jim. 2016. O linişte stranie / Strange silence (Olimpia Iacob & Jim Kacian, Trans.) Timișoara: Waldpress; Kacian, Jim and Petean, Mircea. 2016. Haiku & Monoku (Jim Kacian); Haiku şi poeme taoiste/ Haiku & Taoist Poems (Mircea Petean) (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.) Cluj: Editura Limes, 2016; Kacian, Jim, Popin, Eugen D. 2017. No Way Out / Prins (Jim Kacian); Trupul țărânei / The Body of Dust (Eugen D. Popin). (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.) Timişoara: David Press Print. 121 Cicio, Ana and Joussen, Frank. 2013. Feţele iubirii/ The Faces of Love (Ana Cicio); Shades of Love / Nuanţele iubirii (Frank Joussen). (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.) Cluj: Editura Limes; ***. 2013. Stare la Ora Amiezii / Mood at Noon (Lidia Charelli. Maria Bennett. Rebecca Cook. Mia Barkan Clarke. Cassian Maria Spiridon.) (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.) Iași: Editura Timpul; Christi, Aura and Jones, Peter Thabit. 2014. Lăsaţi fluturii să zboare / Let the Butterflies Go (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.). Iași: Editura Timpul, ***. 2014. The Light Singing / Lumina care cântă (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.). Deva: Editura Emia; Barkan, Stanley H. and Corbu, Daniel. The Machine for Inventing Ideals / Maşina de inventat idealuri (Olimpia Iacob and Jim Kacian, Trans.) Iași: Editura Princeps Multimedia. 122 ***. 2010. Călători pe meridiane haiku. 20 de autori români și americani./ Travellers on Haiku Meridians. 20 Romanian and American Poets. (Marius Chelaru and Ce Rosenow, Forewords; Marius Chelaru and Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) Ploiești: Editura Premier. 138 like Punți peste ape123, a bilingual anthology of international poetry in which she brings together American poets, American poets of Korean origin, Korean poets, Romanian writers, and ‘international’ poets. “How did she come to embark on such projects?” was the next question. A brief selection from this above-mentioned anthology published in Convorbiri literare lists a book titled La margine de Hudson,124 published in 1986 by Cross-Cultural Communications, as a source for the selected poetry by Vince Clemente, Arthur Dobrin, John Dotson, and Laura Boss. It is not a single occurrence, as Cross-Cultural Communication, a New York state publisher, seems to have fueled many of her projects, just like The Seventh Quarry Press, a poetry magazine and press in Swansea, Wales. Further research into these presses led me to a volume they co-published in 2008, titled Poet to Poet #1: Bridging the Waters—Swansea to Sag Harbor, by Vince Clemente and Peter Thabit Jones, two authors Iacob has translated extensively into Romanian, both in journal selections125 and in stand-alone volumes.126 Further research into Clemente’s work revealed a long- time collaboration with Cross-Cultural Communication, who published two more volumes signed by him, while it was readily apparent that Thabit-Jones was the founder and editor of The Seventh Quarry Press. Since 2008, The American publisher has been a regular source for the Romanian translator, who publishes numerous and extensive selections authored by Stanley H. Barkan, founder of the said American press, alongside selections by his daughter, Mia Barkan Clarke. Not 123 ***. 2013. “Punți peste ape.” (Olimpia Iacob et al., Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10. Web: http://bit.ly/2nKIyCg. Last accessed: February 7, 2018. 124 The translator lists the title in Romanian, not in the original language. 125 Iacob even published a series of translations from this very volume, which likely marks the beginning of her collaborations with the American and Welsh publishers: “This first volume in a series, Poet to Poet # 1: Bridging the Waters, Swansea to Sag Harbour, […] offers two selections, one by American Vince Clemente and one signed by Welsh author Peter Thabit-Jones.” (Acolada 9-10: 27, 2008) 126 A note on Clemente’s author page at River Campus Libraries mentions his collaboration on a bilingual volume of poetry, Șoapte ale sufletului / Whispers of the Soul (2008), with Peter Thabit Jones, translated into Romanian by Olimpia Iacob (Iași: Editura Fundației Poezia, 2008). She is also the translator of Jones’s The Boy and the Lion’s Head, a verse drama with an introduction by Vince Clemente (Satu Mare: Editura Citadela, 2009). http://bit.ly/2nKIyCg 139 before long my online ‘detective’ work related to the Barkans ran into other familiar names—for instance, the reviews for Stanley H. Barkan’s ABC of Fruits and Vegetables (2012) are signed by Thabit-Jones and Maria Mazziotti Gillan, both poets Iacob has translated. Or here is S. Barkan pictured receiving “HOMER—the European Medal of Poetry and Art” along with William (Bill) Wolak, a poet that was translated by Iacob in a dedicated volume127 and in two other volumes128 featuring poetic dialogues with Romanian authors. Or here is B. Wolak’s 2015 volume illustrated by John Digby and his wife Joan, poets whom Iacob translated and published before. And finally, the ultimate example of network-driven translation—Iacob, a translator from the English exclusively, translated in 2015 Annelisa Addolorato,129 an Italian poet writing in Italian and Spanish. The mystery is quickly solved unintentionally by the translator’s note, which lists the bibliographic information for her translation into English,130 Addolorato’s English translation by Bill Wolak and his wife, poet Maria Bennett, who also appears on Dr. Iacob’s roster of translations. Hence it is very likely that Iacob translated Addolorato via the English translation published by the same Cross-Cultural Communication. It is also reasonable to think that she was introduced to Addolorato’s work by the said American couple. Her network is thus ever-growing and many of the poetries she has been translating since 2007 are interconnected in one way or another. That Iacob is a networker extraordinaire is clear. In network terms, she is a connector, a hub: not only does she connect cultures by means of translation, but she also assigns new tasks to the 127 Wolak, Bill. 2015. Deep into the Erasures of Night / Răsăriturile nopții (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.). Oyster Bay, NY: The Feral Press. 128 Nistor, Ioan and Wolak, Bill. 2016. Seminţe căutătoare de vânt / Wind-Seeking Seeds. (Olimpia Iacob and Bill Wolak, Trans.) Satu Mare: Editura Citadela; Wolak, Bill and Corbu, Daniel. 2016. In The Hall Of Lost Footsteps / În Sala Paşilor Pierduţi (Olimpia Iacob and Bill Wolak, Trans.) Iași: Editura Princeps Multimedia. 129 Addolorato, Annelisa. 2015. “Frenezia cuvintelor; Aparență; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 12: 134. 130 Addolorato, Annelisa. 2015. My Voice Seeks You (Maria Bennett and Bill Wolak, Trans.). Merrick, NY: Cross-Cultural Communication. 140 poets she translates, turning them into translators and co-translators of hers. Bennett, whom Iacob translated six times in selections for various journals according to the corpus, also features as her co-translator: once in a collection in which he appears as an author alongside Romanian Mircea Petean and as a co-translator of the latter’s work,131 and once as a co-translator of haikus132 only. It is also the case of poets Rebecca Cook133 and Kyung-Nyun Kim Richards,134 both co-translators in the bilingual volume they each co-author. Iacob operates within an unparalleled poetics of fecundity, which reflects on the wide range of roles that she assigns both to herself and to her around her, as well as in the varied nature of her projects, in the heterogeneity of publishers with whom she collaborates, and in her openness to all poetic genres. This poetics of fecundity that informs her work made me realize that Iacob is part of many tightly-knit circles (small worlds) that are related through several ties and that actually form a complex network. The most important tie may have been Marius Chelaru himself, who teamed up with Iacob on a quest to escort established international haiku poets to Romanian literature. My corpus shows that the process began in 2007-2008 with poet and publisher Stanley H. Barkan. During the same period, Chelaru himself published two selections by American haiku authors, Kerry Shawn Keys135 and Zinovi Vayman.136 Besides Barkan and other poets affiliated with his press, that year Iacob was still translating big names in American poetry, such as Mark Strand or Robert Creeley, 131 Bennett, Maria and Petean, Mircea. 2014. Because You Love / Fiindcă iubeşti (Maria Bennett) and Din poemele Anei / From the Poems of Ana (Mircea Petean) (Olimpia Iacob and Maria Bennett, Trans.) Cluj-Napoca: Editura Limes. 132 Dyson, Ketaki Kushari and Chelaru, Marius. 2014. Privirea ei ca o pasăre / Her Look like a Bird. An Anthology. (Olimpia Iacob and Maria Bennett, Trans.). Iaşi: Editura Timpul. 133 Tâlvescu, Dumitru and Cook, Rebecca. 2016. Umbra apei / The Shadow of Water (Olimpia Iacob and Rebecca Cook, Trans.) Deva: Editura Emia, Deva. 134 Chelaru, Marius, and Richards, Kyung-Nyun Kim. 2016. Miroase atât de frumos a linişte. / It Smells Of Silence So Beautiful. Antologie /Anthology. (Olimpia Iacob & Kyung-Nyun Kim Richards, Trans.). Iaşi: Editura Timpul. 135 Keys, Kerry Shawn. 2007. “Morfină pe rîul Susqueshanna; Crescînd sălbatec cu indienii.” (Marius Chelaru, Trans.) In Poezia 3: 115-117. 136 Vayman, Zinovi. 2008. “Suferinda mea mamă...; Universitate verde...; Harta lacului Baikal....” (Marius Chelaru, Trans.) In Poesis 9-10: 90. 141 but this kind of translation gradually subsided (with only Ferlinghetti and Plath in 2008, Adrienne Rich, Robert Pinsky, and Denise Levertov in 2009) and she focused on the network of poets that gravitated around Barkan. 2010 was a big year for Chelaru and Iacob, as they published a co- translation from Jim Kacian, “one of the half-dozen best-known practitioners of haiku outside of Japan,”137 alongside a selection translated by Iacob alone in Acolada. Most importantly, the two included Kacian in the 2010 anthology of haiku authors they co-edited and translated. A publisher himself besides being a renowned haiku poet, Kacian does not bring along any other American or international peers, but is present in various roles, as I have previously seen, in many projects curated by Iacob—a collaboration that was still very much active in 2016. Although Marius Chelaru played an important part in Iacob’s evolution, I suggest her network developed circles that were independent from their mutual interest in haiku and tanka poetry. Unlike Chelaru, she simply translates poetry, no matter what the poetic form is. Another indication is her collaboration with publishers based in Iași for those projects that included Chelaru, and her subsequent collaboration with more obscure, regional publishers based in cities across Romania, such as Limes in Cluj-Napoca, Citadela in Satu-Mare, or Emia in Deva. Her projects with established publishers in Iași, like Timpul or Fundația Revistei Poezia, are either projects with Chelaru or projects which included prominent local authors, such as Cassian Maria Spiridon, who is also the current Editor-in-Chief of Convorbiri literare. Such a convoluted publishing roadmap can obviously only be the outcome of the translator’s own grown network of relationships, and not the outcome of any local cultural policy. Perhaps the most compelling indication that she acted mostly alone, without any significant institutional support, is the disheartening lack of reviews of her work 137 Kacian, Jim. 2006. Presents of Mind (2nd edition). Winchester, VA: Red Moon Press. Web: The Haiku Foundation Digital Library, http://bit.ly/2FRKZcM. Last accessed: February 7, 2018. http://bit.ly/2FRKZcM 142 compared to the number of translations she has published. The very few reviews that do exist are brief and evasive, with only one or two praising the Romanian rendition: “a fluent rendition […] done with empathy and delicacy,” (Zanca 2017) or “a fresh reading.” (Antonesei 2017) The only extensive review, occasioned by Iacob’s translation of Kleefeld’s Vagabond Dawns, awarded the 2013 (Iași branch) Writers’ Union translation prize, does not assess in any way the translation and only mentions it as the sole measure against which one can judge the lyrical qualities of Kleefeld’s poetry (Nistor 2014: 239). Another extensive review of the same collection (Negreanu 2014) does not mention the translation at all, but talks only about the themes and motifs in Kleefeld’s work, although illustrating copiously the otherwise simplistic observations with translated fragments. The evolution of Iacob’s network of translated authors sheds light on two important phenomena that characterize certain chapters of poetry translation in Romania: the lack of copyright and the butterfly effect of personal networks. Shortly after I started researching her work I contacted the translator to let her know about this dissertation and ask for her help in locating the bibliographic information for the authors listed on the Writers’ Union website. The reply was prompt and stated that she was appreciative of my research and of my concern with copyright matters. That was obviously not the case at the time, as nothing in my e-mail message pointed at copyright issues, so it was most definitely the translator’s concern.138 She also tried to divert me from her corpus by pointing out that it had already been included in somebody else’s research. This incident made me realize why she stopped translating prominent poets and shifted her interest towards the network around Cross Cultural Communications: it was most likely because she did not need copyright for these translations. Specific nodes in her network, such as Stanley Barkan or Vince 138 See note 18. 143 Clemente—with whom she shares links which carry some of the greatest weight (six, respectively five features in literary journals)—were her very own lobbyists and all the other authors were happy to have their work translated into Romanian. The butterfly effect of literature had a paramount role in her growing the network. The connectionist mind of translators is reflected best in Iacob’s work, as well as in the case of many other translators, especially those that move constantly between cultures, as we shall see in the next subchapter. The concept of network-driven translation helps us pattern the apparent chaos that surrounds translators’ work in non-hegemonic contexts. It is built on the constant conflict between agent and system and is an expression of the network’s self-regulation. The continued work and efforts of Iacob as a literary translator can thus be understood as shaping her own corpus. Translators are denizens, agents who dwell knowingly in a certain place and know the rules of the place, therefore they constantly adapt to the make-up, or the topology of the network, understood in its real-world locales and societal nexuses. More importantly, translators influence the network accordingly, with significant effects on our understanding of agency. A networked understanding of these corpora (and their relations with the ‘originals’) within a poetics of fecundity has the potential to expand how we think of authorship and auctorial patterns in general. 144 2.2. (Dis)Connected Transnationalism 2.2.1. Translation and Transnational Movement “Translation by its very nature is transnational; it embodies intercultural exchange.” This is one of the key statements that open a recent book on the circulation and transmission of texts across languages as an enriching, productive process (Nelson and Maher 2013: 5). Besides the very transnational nature of any translation act, increasing connectivity and the receding economic and sociologic significance of national borders beg the adoption of a transnational perspective that fosters the inclusion of translation projects happening across linguistic boundaries. Translators who travel past national borders or who choose to emigrate oftentimes have publishing initiatives that link the spaces they inhabit or visit with their homeland and thus they take part in the global information flow. They also become small-scale actors on the stage of cultural diplomacy. They may even use translation as valuable currency for gaining literary prominence in the new space of adoption. In order to capture the complexity and liminality of such encounters, one needs to look at both the state and the non-state actors that contribute to the realization of such translation projects, alongside the unique sets of conditions that trigger these exchanges. Discussing Page and Miller’s claim that complexity is interested in a state between stasis and chaos, control and anarchy, particularity and universality, Marais argues, quoting Latour, that complexity thinking is also keen on analyzing the in-between “as an action, a verb, a movement,” (2014: 25) thus it is interested just as much in “in-betweening”—in borders, hybridity, and the effect of a reorganization of the same substrata.” (id.). Transnationalism is particularly well-suited for treatment within a chaos paradigm. Cultural hybridity as a dynamic site of cultural production requires a new framework to account not 145 only for the heterolingualism or the plurivocality of translation, but also for unconventional and non-hierarchical relationships between the ‘original’ and the translation, and between translators and authors (Bandia 2014). In describing the agency of translators working in a certain language—in this case, the Romanian—a transnational backdrop should gain, I suggest, more and more currency and salience. Since the anti-communist revolution and, more acutely, since it has joined the European Union in 2007, Romania has experienced a massive phenomenon of migration, which peaked in 2015 and placed the country second in the world after Syria in terms of displaced workforce.139 However, referring to transnationalism only in relation to migration would be short-sighted. As Aleida Assmann (2017) notes, ‘transnational’ bears no less than four meanings: first, non-state actors that operate in different countries; second, geopolitical units comprising different nations (e.g. the European Union); third, the impact of media beyond local and national frameworks; and fourth, “individuals and groups that move in space either voluntarily or under political or social pressure, while retaining and reconstructing within and among themselves a diasporic connection to their former homelands.” (ibid.: 66) Indeed, many of the Romanian migrants are writers, for whom translation is a way to keep themselves plugged, or re-territorialized in the Romanian literary world, as well as a way to help Romanian writers ‘spill’ over the national borders and make their work known internationally via translation. Eastern European poetry after communism was qualified by Andrew Wachtel as the New Internationalism (2006), according to which “the writer moves beyond nationalism to refine and expand a sense of national identity in an increasingly transnational world” (Woodside 2014: web) in order to remain relevant. Furthermore, besides immigrant writers there 139 According to the United Nation’s International Migration Report 2015 released in 2016, p. 19. Web: http://bit.ly/2B4utmZ. Last accessed: January 16, 2018. http://bit.ly/2B4utmZ 146 are writers and translators that are often on the move, engaged in academic mobility projects, who borrow practices and concepts from other cultures and from new types of communities (such as the digital ones) and applying them to their own, fostering new collaborations and initiatives. The latter phenomenon is classified by Moira Inghilleri (2016) as a transnationalism of the elites, animated by a cosmopolitan freedom, which should be distinguished from the hybridity that characterizes migration. She describes cosmopolitan spaces as difficult to pin down, as contact is limited or even virtual and “there is an expectation of a more reflective connection to the other.” (ibid.: 198) A first necessary condition for a transnational paradigm in TS is the abandon of binary structures of dominance. Boris Buden (2014) argues against the West vs. East dichotomy by using the very example of Eastern Europe. “Who can speak in the name of Eastern Europe?” he rightfully asks, pointing out that what we collectively call Eastern Europe should not be seen as a general cultural concept. Citing Habermas and the expression he used for the fall of communism in 1989— “the catching-up revolution” (1990: 180 cited in Buden)—he summarizes a number of qualifiers that have been used for characterizing that part of the continent: underdeveloped, belated, provincial, peripheral, “doomed to struggles for recognition” (Buden ibid.: 175); instead of proliferating those terms, he argues that a transnational study of culture needs to go beyond the East-West difference, because “the use of the cultural concept of the East leads necessarily to what Spivak calls complicity with imperialist or neo-imperialist projects.” (ibid.: 175) It seems right to conclude for the purpose of this project that a transnational paradigm in TS needs to refer to nations / cultures by their name or by their language(s). On a related note, Zrinka Stahuljak posits that “the proliferation of conflicts of a non-colonial nature and their mediatization in the global context call into question the predominant reliance on the postcolonial framework of colonizer-colonized, colonial hegemony, center-periphery, 147 metropole-colony, and hybridity.” (2010: 255) Grounded in the theoretical notion of “minor transnationalism,” she proposes an elaborate and “plural concept of empire” (id.) in TS and illustrates her theoretical approaches with the example of former Yugoslavia and of the Balkans, rightfully observing that “[m]ulti-centric transnational translations, when superposed on the post- imperial configuration, flatten and circumvent the hierarchy of the binary structure of domination.” (ibid.: 271) In the specific case of Romania, transnationalism is a suitable descriptive paradigm because it mirrors the organic need of Romanians to go beyond national identifications after 1989 and to reconfigure in themselves and in the ones around them the old ways of communism. Just like other members of the former Eastern Communist bloc, Romania was galvanized by “the desire to move toward a new political imaginary that dissolves the nation in ongoing local and global reconfigurations.” (Assmann 2017: 66) Besides the obvious reference to movement across nation- state borders (‘transit’), ‘trans-‘ is a premise for creativity, because it can also refer to ‘transfer’, ‘translation’, and ‘transmission’, to reshaping representations, relations, and recontextualizations within larger networks: The general challenge of the “trans-“ is to go beyond national identifications, investments, and interests, and to explore new forms of belonging, participation, and cultural identification in a world characterized by dispersed and displaced population with different historical experiences and trajectories. (id.) Cronin goes even further in arguing for a ‘trans-‘ paradigm and switches the positionality of the vantage point from ‘the national’ to ‘the local’: the “[…] concentration on one particular place becomes an opening out rather than a closing down, a foregrounding of a complexity of connectedness to other cultures, languages, histories, rather than a paean to singular insularity.” (2012: 40) A trans-local vista would then require a progenerative rather than a genealogical model, 148 “primarily concerned with current sets and fields of relationships for persons in a given lifeworld.” (2012: 51). It follows naturally in Cronin’s argument that positionality is much more appropriate to speak of than diversity, because Positionality is to do with the sets of relationships obtaining at any moment between and within groups, relationships that are subject to an endless process of change, change which is the very stuff of the human life-line and which crucially includes the dimension of power. […] Maintaining the open-ended, fractal dynamic of micro-modernity […] involves a commitment to the progenerative model of human interaction. (ibid.: 53) A second necessary condition for a transnational paradigm which is grounded in a progenerative model and which holds true especially in literary translation is the acknowledgment of a parallel kind of economy based on in-kind exchanges. Admittedly or not, literary barters have long been in place and they have paralleled literary exchanges that followed the well-known logic of money economy. Such barter exchanges may be fuelled both by literary kinship—we offer to translate authors that we like—and by the intimation of prospective gains—in our case, similar publication services in other cultures. In this parallel barter economy, translation is a very valuable currency—we need to remember and acknowledge that the value of a certain writer is measured, among other things, against the number of languages in which their work has been translated. This is one of the many cases in which so-called ‘major’ cultures look up to ‘minor’ ones—that is, relatively unknown authors from spaces of prominence look for literary legitimation by being translated in as many ‘small’ languages as possible. The prospects for both parties involved range from establishing a network of friends that share the same interest to extensive publication and travel opportunities. Romanian writers have long been involved in literary projects that cross national boundaries. While there has not been a coherent translation-oriented institutional program in place, the number 149 of such translation projects is far from being negligible and reflects Romanian writers’ interest in establishing and developing relationships with their foreign peers. According to Chapter 3, the beginning of the diplomatic relations between Romania and the United States has been immediately followed by a slew of translation projects by various Romanian scholars that benefited from the new academic mobility. The tradition continued until the Second World War, and gained a new impetus during the 1970s and the 1980s, when many Romanian writers either emigrated or asked for political asylum. This is also when the first translations from Canadian contemporary poetry started to take shape. After 1989, migration, the free movement of people, and academic mobility intensified exponentially. One of the most reputable global promoters of mutual understanding via cultural exchanges was the U.S. Department of State, who were the ones who actually coined the term “cultural diplomacy.” (von Flotow 2004, 2007) Several volumes of American poetry translated into Romanian were the result of the availability of grants through the Embassy of the United States in Bucharest, just as several translation projects before 1989 were carried out after various academics took academic trips to the U.S. and returned home willing to share through translation the richness of the culture they had experienced. However, many transnational translation projects have been simply the result of interpersonal networks. This subchapter examines translation events occasioned by exiled or immigrant poets, as well as ventures that resulted from scholarly research and academic mobility (Figure 14). 27.9% of the poetry translation in print periodicals140 is the result of transnational and academia-related initiatives (87 nodes out of 310). 140 The corpus presented in these visualizations includes all the translations published in print periodicals by transnational translators and do not include the anthologies that I describe in this section. Anthologies shall be approached separately from periodicals and stand-alone author volumes in section 4.2. 150 Figure 14. Transnational and academia-related translations in PP (2007-2017) - G 151 Out of these, almost half (42 nodes) pertain to the main component (Figure 15), formed by translators C. Tanasescu, N. Cassian, C. Firan, A. Carides, R. Hotăranu, and I. Ieronim and their 36 translated authors. Figure 15 shows a highly disconnected graph, with an extremely low density (0.0224), average degree (1.931), and clustering coefficient (0.1755). The main component (G0) displays significantly higher values for the average degree (2.3809) and a weighted average degree of 2.9523, a result of multiple authors translated by translators in G0 and of multiple selections of the same author’s poetry published by poets in G0 compared to all the other components. G0 presents four critical nodes in terms of connectedness: poets Stanley Moss and J. Ashbery, who, through occasional translator N. Cassian, connect translators C. Tanasescu and R. Tanasescu to translators around Scrisul românesc; and authors M. Woodside and A. Gritsman, who connect the same translators back to Scrisul românesc (translators R. Hotăranu, A. Carides, and C. Firan) through translator I. Ieronim. This shows again that authors and translators are equally important in terms of network connectedness and that the disappearance of any two of these nodes may lead to further heterogeneity and even to the collapse of the whole network. The importance of each of these nodes shall be further analysed throughout the following three sub-sections. 152 Figure 15. Transnational and academia-related translations in PP (2007-2017) – main component (G0) 153 2.2.2. Translating the Land of Exile The first exile-born translation project of contemporary American poetry after 1989 was the 1993 anthology141 put together by George Ciorănescu, a writer and translator who spent most of his life exiled in Paris and Munich. In Munich, he was Editor-in-Chief of Radio Free Europe, as well as in charge of the Romanian Department of the same station. It is during his time in Munich, towards the end of his life, that he put together this anthology. His eight poetry books, along with his two anthologies, one on contemporary American poetry and one on religious poetry, indicate that these books were all his own personal projects. The publishing house, Apoziția, bore the name of the journal founded by the Romanian literary circle in Munich, which he co-edited with Ion Dumitru towards the end of his life. Ciorănescu had been a fervent supporter of Romania’s European calling: in 1948 he defended his PhD thesis titled “Românii și ideea federalistă” (Romanians and the Idea of a Federation), in which he used historical facts to make the case for a united Europe and ignored the Soviet occupation of his country (Ștefănescu 1999). Poetry was for Ciorănescu the privileged literary form and the ultimate path towards knowledge: while his own poems reveal a complicated, stern relationship with the craft, the poet is praised for his anthologies and is dubbed an importer of good poetry who moves easily between registers, an anthologist who believed he had a duty to bring valuable literary pieces to his own culture (ibid.). The anthology is pretty slim, only 112 pages including color illustrations, but the contents lists important American poets, such as Frost, Masters, Sandburg, Pound, cummings, Eliot, and Ginsberg. The agency of the translator is clearly visible at the level of lexical choice. A comparison 141 Ciorănescu, George. 1993. Spicuiri din lirica americană contemporană (George Ciorănescu, Ed.; Stephan Eleutheriadis, Il.). Munich: Apoziția, 112 p. 154 of his translation of “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg with the translation done by Petru Ilieșu142 (2010: 28) for mainstream publisher Polirom reveals a much more accurate and engaged version by Ciorănescu. For instance, “The method must be purest meat / and no symbolic dressing” becomes in Ciorănescu’s words fără sos simbolic (very idiomatic, as in the culinary doar carne, fără sos), while in Ilieșu’s version the rendition is și nu un sos de înfrumusețare, which offers an unnecessary over- interpretation of ‘symbolic’ as ‘beautification’ (înfrumusețare). Then, “actual visions & actual prisons / as seen then and now” benefits from a literal translation in Ilieșu’s version, but becomes închisori adevărate / asa cum au fost percepute și asa cum sunt (“actual prisons / the way they used to be perceived and the way they actually are”), an interpretation ostensibly influenced by the former Communist regime in Romania, which the translator had fled. Ciorănescu also preserves the original punctuation, but Ilieșu drops the comma at the end of the second line, a technique which allows for a double interpretation of the Romanian version and masks the translator’s insecurities. Finally, the last stanza—“A naked lunch is natural to us, / we eat reality sandwiches. / But allegories are so much lettuce. / Don’t hide the madness.”—reveals a very conservative translation by Ilieșu, who chooses to render the absence of a subject before “don’t hide” as “they [the allegories]”. Instead, Ciorănescu interprets correctly the final line as an imperative and also translates “the madness” as “your madness”; in addition, he uses a much stronger word for the key in the whole text: Nu vă ascundeti demența (Don’t hide your dementia143). In stark contrast with his rendition, 142 Ginsberg, Allen. 2010. Howl și alte poeme. Antologie 1947-1997 (Domnica Drumea and Petru Ilieșu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom, 342 p. 143 Besides the medical connotation, the Romanian word is also common for expressing out-and-out madness. 155 Ilieșu’s awarded144 version inappropriately renders “a naked lunch” by un prânz gol (an empty lunch), although the original poem contains a deliberate allusion to the phrase “naked truth”.145 A second example of translation from contemporary U.S. poetry during a translator’s exile comes from perhaps the most celebrated Romanian writer that fled the country under communism, Nina Cassian, a poet based in New York for the last twenty-nine years of her troubled life, between 1985 and 2014. Besides being a successful poet and writer of children’s literature, Cassian made her name as a translator of Molière, Bertold Brecht, Paul Celan, or Victor Mayakovski. During her exile in the United States she published two short journal features of her most favorite contemporary American poets: Stanley Moss146 in 2009, and a second one featuring Richard Wilbur,147 Robert Lowell,148 John Ashbery,149 and Charles Simic150 in 2012. Somehow isolated from the hip literary scene in Bucharest, Cassian was guided by her close friend, poet Carmen Firan, to publish the translations in the provincial Scrisul românesc literary journal, managed, as I will explain later in this subchapter, by Firan’s father. Her brief introduction to her 2012 contribution is very revealing: she confesses she took the liberty of deleting the second stanza in Robert Lowell’s poem because she didn’t think it was related in any way to the first one; she admits to having been tormented by the fixed form of Wilbur’s poem, while also disclosing that the latter had also translated and included one of her poems in his Selected Poems; she identifies Simic’s poem as the easiest to translate and 144 The translation was awarded the “Andrei Bantaș” Foundation Prize for Translation from the English at the Romanian Writers’ Union Gala in 2011. 145 I suggest that a more appropriate translation would have been “un prânz gol-goluț” (cf. adevăr gol-goluț > the naked truth). 146 Moss, Stanley. 2009. “Flori de camp.” (Nina Cassian, Trad.) In Scrisul românesc 7 (6): 17. 147 Wilbur, Richard. 2012. “Iertarea.” (Nina Cassian, Trad.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (6): 19. 148 Lowell, Robert. 2012. “Sudoarea nopții.” (Nina Cassian, Trad.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (6): 19. 149 Ashbery, John. 2012. “Variațiuni.” (Nina Cassian, Trad.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (6): 19. 150 Simic, Charles. 2012. “Clubul de noapte.” (Nina Cassian, Trad.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (6): 19. 156 the “incoherently-sophisticated” Ashbery as much more difficult. She concedes that her being low on energy was the reason why she did not translate more contemporary American poets (2012: 19). The choices she made in terms of translated authors place Cassian in one of the most strategic positions in the general graph (Figures 1, 2, and 10 section 2.1). In terms of transnational publications, she holds an equally important place: betweenness and closeness centralities have her ranked fifth in G and G0—a measure of her key-position in the network due to her translations of J. Ashbery and S. Moss, while the EigenVector places her just outside top 20 because of her low adjacency—that is, low number of authors translated and low connection to other nodes in the network. Although one-time events, Cassian’s translation vignettes and Ciorănescu’s anthology are the very illustration of kindred literary spirits and of the cosmopolitan ideal—that knowing the Other and being open to how they perceive us will lead to a better understanding of the self. Characterized by a high degree of spontaneity and of randomness in terms of publication plans (exemplified best by the one-time publication of a selection from poet John Haines151 by immigrant author Mariana Zavati-Gardner in regional literary journal Provincia Corvina or by the episodic translation of TS Eliot by Berlin-based author Aprilia Zank, both small, separated components in Figure 1), such translation initiatives are the expression of the translators’ interest in the literary values of their land of adoption or of the world literature in general, and the selection of authors simply reflect their personal taste. What defines such translations is a high degree of accuracy and a deep involvement with the text, which may often lead to better translations than the ones commissioned by publishing 151 Haines, John. 2008. “Hector; Timpul răsună; Pericol uşor.” (Mariana Zavati Gardner, Trans.) In Provincia Corvina 13: 26-27. 157 companies. They also tend to be forgotten or omitted from literary histories, as their translators are not physically present152 in the geographical space where they are published or circulated. 2.2.3. Transnational Literary Barters In her doctoral dissertation at the University of Michigan, Nan Z. Da explains that “in occasional transnationalism, the literature or literary practices of the other are cited to enable a thought experiment or a political enunciation and are then set aside.” (2014: vii) Occasional transnationalism is thus an alternative mode of encounter in which none of the parties involved takes any kind of action, but uses the image of the other as an essential part of a poetics of recognition. In transnational translation, the poetics of recognition plays an at least equally important role: the translation of the other makes certain immediate and private possibilities more likely and intimation of prospective gains through literary barters becomes a much more enticing goal than ‘simple’ cultural cross-fertilization. Unlike occasional transnationalism, what I call ‘in-kind transnationalism’ is very much based on a theory of social action that draws on motives, ends, purposes, and means. After the 1993 anthology assembled by Ciorănescu, another anthology will appear only in 2006. Locul nimănui. Antologie de poezie americană contemporană. 36 de poeți americani contemporani (Naming the Nameless. An Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry. 36 Contemporary American Poets), a project managed and coordinated by New York City-based Carmen Firan and Paul Doru Mugur, was part of a publishing agreement between an American press, 152 In an interview Nina Cassian recounts how her work as an author of children’s tales was not included in a workshop on children’s literature that took place after the revolution, in 1991. When she asked the organizer why that happened, the answer was: “Well, you were not [in the country].” (2010. “Nina Cassian: Nu mă plâng. Am iubit și am fost iubită,” Web: http://bit.ly/2AW282e. Last accessed: January 13, 2018) http://bit.ly/2AW282e 158 Talisman House Publishers, and a Romanian one, Cartea Românească. According to this agreement, two anthologies, one of American poetry, and one of Romanian poetry153 were to be published concomitantly in the two countries. Firan—also a former program director at the Romanian Cultural Institute in New York, and Mugur—doctor and writer—were the Romanian coordinators of the two projects; they commissioned a team of Romanian translators who most lived, at least at that time, in North America: Adrian Sângeorzan and Liviu Georgescu—both poets and physicians living in the New Jersey area; Ileana Orlich—professor of Romanian and English at the Arizona State University; Sanda Agalidi—a long-time Romanian émigré who co-edited, together with Julian Semilian, the first translation into English of Paul Celan’s Romanian Poems154; and Alina Savin—a translator residing in New Zealand, who also worked on the Romanian renditions of Henri Béhar’s monograph155 on Tristan Tzara. Although two institutions were involved in these projects, it is not clear who was the initiator, but they may have both originated in the network Firan developed during her tenure at the Romanian Cultural Institute. What is of interest here is the extent to which she was personally involved in the creation and circulation of the book and what kind of relationships this anthology prompted. Firan states in interviews that Mugur and herself did more than coordinate the publication, as they were equally involved in the promotion and distribution of the books (Zubașcu 2008: web). Moreover, neither the Romanian anthology nor the American one benefitted from financial support from the Romanian Cultural Institute in New York: in a public statement156 released 153 ***. 2006. Born in Utopia. An Anthology of Modern & Contemporary Poetry. Jersey City, NJ: Talisman House Publishers. 154 Celan, Paul. Romanian Poems (Julian Semilian and Sanda Agalidi, Eds., Trans.). Los Angeles, CA: Green Integer Books, 100 p. 155 Béhar, Henri. 2005. Tristan Tzara (Alina Savin, Trans.). Iași: Junimea. 156 ***. 2007. “Tapiserii și foi întoarse.” In Revista 22, March 02. Web: http://bit.ly/2rclnFd. Last accessed: January 14, 2018. http://bit.ly/2rclnFd 159 in 2007 the officials listed the Romanian translation among the projects that received only support for its promotion. The selection of the pieces to be included in the anthology was made by two American poets, also based in New York City, whose own work is among the pieces selected: Edward Foster, professor of creative writing and director of Talisman House Publishers, and Leonard Schwartz, host of the Cross Cultural Poetics radio show and editor of a volume of selected poems in English translation157 by Romanian iconic avant-garde poet Benjamin Fondane. The rationale behind the selection of authors is clearly explained from the get-go: “to present voices that are original, strong (and sometime unconventional or „politically incorrect”) and that defy the prejudices the industry of fame and prizes in such a vast and varied culture such as the American one.” (2006: 5) However ambitious the objective, the anthology received very little attention in Romania. Poet Claudiu Komartin very briefly mentions it on his blog as “a flimsy book” that makes you think “there’s something really off about American poets,” (2011: web) while others cannot seem to decide whether the book is “a defective success [or] a generous failure.” (Ștefan 2008: web) Firan herself admits in an interview that many of the authors included in the anthology published in Romania gave her quite a few literary “headaches.” (Zubașcu id.) The whole project seems to have the air of a ‘family affair’ for Carmen Firan, a Romanian poet and translator turned hypnotherapist in New York City since 2002 (id.), for which she rewarded the American collaborators with further translations into Romanian of their work: poetry 157 Cinepoems and Others (New York Review of Books, 2016). 160 selections158 of Andrei Codrescu—who wrote one of the blurbs for the anthology159—and of Edward Foster—the project’s editor and publisher—appear in 2008 in Scrisul românesc, a Romanian literary journal in the southern city of Craiova managed by her own father, Florea Firan. As a matter of fact, much of Firan’s publishing activity in Romanian revolves around this journal and its affiliated press. It is there that she publishes a selection of Stanley Moss’s poetry160, alongside the translation of the same by her close friend, Nina Cassian. Furthermore, other American writers with whom Firan has been collaborating since her arrival in the United States get to travel to Romania and be translated and published there in bilingual volumes. This is the case of Richard Milazzo,161 Edward Foster,162 and Edward Hirsch.163 The latter had published in 2011 the volume titled Romanian Writers on Writing, edited with emigré-writer Norman Manea (Trinity University Press, 2011), and traveled to Romania on the occasion of his own book in translation being launched at the International Literary Festival in Iași in 2014. There he sealed another translation agreement, this time with mainstream Polirom Press, for a different poetry volume, Focul viu. Poeme vechi și noi (The Living Fire. New and Selected Poems),164 and with the Al. I. Cuza University Press for a volume of prose,165 co-translated by American literature professors Radu Andriescu and Dana Bădulescu. Besides these poetry 158 Codrescu, Andrei. 2008. “Vizitatori din lumea dansului” (Alexandra Carides and Carmen Firan, Trans.). In Scrisul românesc 5: 25; Foster, Edward. 2008. “Cei care strang bani pentru tine; A fost El vreodată acolo?; Bărbatul plin de rouă” (Carmen Firan, Trans.). In Scrisul românesc 9: 16. 159 The relationship between Firan and Codrescu cannot be reduced to these exchanges. In 2005, Scrisul românesc Press had published Codrescu’s only poetry collection ever written in Romanian—Instrumentul negru. Poezii, 1965-1968— part of a series of concerted efforts by Romanian writers to bring his work back in his home culture. 160 Moss, Stanley. 2009. “Ascultând apa.” (Carmen Firan, Trans.). In Scrisul românesc 6: 17. 161 Milazzo, Richard. 2010. Umbre din Est/Eastern Shadows (Adrian Sângeorzan, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc; Milazzo, Richard. 2012. Acolo unde îngerii îşi arcuiesc spatele şi câinii sunt în trecere/Where Angels Arch Their Backs and Dogs Pass Through (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc. 162 Foster, Edward. 2009. Febra albă. Poeme alese (Alexandra Carides and Carmen Firan, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc. 163 Hirsch, Edward. 2014. Nocturnal Fire. Poems /Foc nocturn. Poeme (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc. 164 Hirsch, Edward. 2017. Focul viu. Poeme vechi și noi. 1975-2010 (Bogdan-Alexandru Stănescu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. 165 Hirsch, Edward. 2015. Cum să citeşti un poem şi să te îndrăgosteşti de poezie (Dana Bădulescu and Radu Andriescu, Trans.). Iași: Editura Universităţii „Alexandru Ioan Cuza”. 161 translations in book form, many journal selections were contributed by people affiliated with Scrisul românesc: Răzvan Hotăranu, Carmen Firan’s son and a car dealer in New York City, translated various poems by Ralph Angel,166 Joy Manesiotis,167 Dave Brinks,168 Barbara Ras,169 and Andrey Gritsman.170 Gritsman, a Russian poet and translator who works as a physician in the New York City area, had a poetry book of his own translated into Romanian171 by Firan’s step-daughter, Doris Sângeorzan, in 2004, and consequently collaborated with Firan on an anthology of American poets of recent foreign extraction172 in 2008. Gritsman is also the founder of the online poetry journal Interpoezia, where Firan collaborates as an international editor, as well as the initiator and patron of the International Poetry Reading Series at the popular Cornelia Street Café in New York City, which hosts periodic readings featuring Firan. Going back to Scrisul românesc, the journal hosts further selections from Hirsch173 and Milazzo,174 translated by Hotăranu; Alexandra Carides—an oncologist and a translator based in 166 Angel, Ralph. 2010. “Testat aici pe pământ; Ştergere; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 8 (2): 15; Angel, Ralph. 2015. “Natură; Conversaţie; Nici sângele; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 13 (4): 19. 167 Manesiotis, Joy. 2010. “Lamentare: “Moirologia”; Corbul; Băiat frumos” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 8 (3): 16-17. 168 Brinks, Dave. 2010. “A merge înapoi la apă; Concert în nouă fragmente, Andante; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 8 (4): 16. 169 Ras, Barbara. 2012. “Ultima piele; Cântec; Acum toate temerile; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (8): 17. 170 Gritsman, Andrey. 2014. “Liceul Hudson; Lac; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 12(4): 16. 171 Gritsman, Andrey. 2004. In Transit (Doris Sângeorzan, Trans.). Craiova: Scrisul românesc. 172 ***. 2008. Stranger at Home. American Poetry with an Accent (Andrey Gritsman, Ed.). San Francisco, CA: Numina Press. 173 Hirsch, Edward. 2012. “Noapte transfigurată, vino jos la mine, încet; Incertitudine; În amintirea lui Paul Celan; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (5): 19; Hirsch, Edward. 2013. “Colette; Voi începe să trăiesc ca un mistic; Din Manuscrisele Dorinţei Propoziţia; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 11 (8): 19; Hirsch, Edward. 2014. “Cititorul; Ne-a surprins vara; Solstiţiu; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 12 (6): 28. 174 Milazzo, Richard. 2012. “Umbra inimii; Acea parte ascunsă; Mormântul lui Humayun; etc.” (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 10 (7): 16. 162 Philadelphia—translates more Milazzo,175 alongside Elinor Nauen,176 and Robert Harshon.177 These are only a few examples of a literary trade between Romania and New York that has been taking place ever since Carmen Firan emigrated in 2000,178 a fact confirmed by her father in an interview: I need to emphasize the impulse and the help received from Carmen Firan and Adrian Sângeorzan: not only through the publication of their own work in our journal and with our press, but also by their commissioning American writers or Romanian writers in America, […] a cultural bridge that has been in place for over 12 years. (Jianu 2014: web) This cultural bridge appears to be essential for the sometimes dusty Craiova-based journal: in a review run by the parent literary association, a contributor criticizes the conformism and provincialism of the content and says that the only chance of the readers at quality content is to look for the Americans, concluding that the Americans are indeed present (Cronicar 2007: web). The translators and authors revolving around Scrisul românesc are generally placed well in the transnational graph: fourth in terms of betweeness centrality (R. Hotaranu, bc = 0.0663, rank 4), but lower in terms of closeness and EigenVector values. That shows us they actually owe their ranking to other nodes in the network, notably Ioana Ieronim—through her translation of A. Gritsman, also translated by R. Hotăranu), as well as because of her translation of M. Woodside, which connects her to C. Tanasescu, the highest placed in terms of centrality and with the highest average degree in the whole translation network. Ieronim’s connection to C. Tanasescu and the co- translation done by Nina Cassian with C. Firan are the links which confer the network its 175 Milazzo, Richard. 2014. “Vâltorile din Kerala; Palatul Sultanului în Bangalore etc.” (Alexandra Carides, Trans.). In Scrisul românesc 12 (4): 15. 176 Nauen, Elinor. 2008. “Transfigurare; Urale pentru Poezie; Curaj din nimic: etc.” (Alexandra Carides, Trans.). In Scrisul românesc 6 (1): 16. 177 Hershon, Robert. 2008. “Costumul de pui; Istorie prin lipsă; Măsline; etc.” (Alexandra Carides, Trans.). In Scrisul românesc 6 (5): 24. 178 The exact date of her relocation is not clear: either sometime in the late 1990s or in 2000. 163 connectedness: had these links not been present, the Scrisul românesc clique179 would have been disconnected. Another example of a Romanian-born writer who lives abroad and translated U.S. and Canadian poets into Romanian is Flavia Cosma. Now a Canadian citizen based in Toronto and a patron of the arts running a literary residence in Val David (Quebec), Cosma translated acclaimed Parliamentary Poet Laureate George Elliott Clarke’s Selected Poems180 in 2006, followed by selections from the work of Gloria Mindock181 (Poet Laureate of Sommerville, Massachusetts), Dae- Tong Huh (Korea-born Canadian poet),182 and Jim Heavily (poet and poetry editor of Los Angeles- based online literary journal www.hinchasdepoesia.com).183 It might be that these eclectic projects were fuelled both by her personal literary taste and by her various collaborations with the poets she translates: Mindock is, for instance, the founding editor of Cervena Barva, the press that published two of Cosma’s poetry volumes184 and for which Cosma is, according to her own website, an international editor; Jim Heavily, whom I almost gave up trying to locate, turns out to be the editor who published one of Cosma’s poems185 in the Romanian original and in Spanish translation the very year when a selection of his own poems appear in Romania); finally, her literary barter with poet Dae-Tong Huh becomes apparent in the publication of one of her books of children’s 179 Clique in graph theory is a basic term referring to a subset of vertices of an undirected graph such that every two distinct vertices in the clique are adjacent. I have used it in this context to emphasize the tightly-knit network that revolves around Scrisul românesc. 180 Clarke, George Elliott. 2006. Poeme incendiare (Flavia Cosma, Trans.). Oradea: Cogito. 181 Mindock, Gloria. 2010. La portile raiului (Flavia Cosma, Trans.). Iași: Ars Longa Press. 182 Cosma, Flavia. 2007. “Murmurs of Voices / Murmure des voix / Murmurul Vocilor.” (Flavia Cosma, Trans.) Oradea: Cogito. 183 Heavily, Jim. 2012. “Au trecut cinci ani deja...; El Pais (Ţara); Strada morţilor; etc.” (Flavia Cosma, Trans.). In Vatra veche 4 (6): 69. 184 Cosma, Flavia. 2008. The Season of Love. Somerville, MA: Cervena Barva Press, 89 pages; Cosma Flavia. 2007. Gothic Calligraphy. Somerville, MA: Cervena Barva Press. 185 Cosma, Flavia. 2012. “Man’s Iron Hand; La mano de hierro del hombre.” (Luis Raúl Calvo, Trans.) In Hinchas de Poesia 7/2012. Web: http://bit.ly/2A9LsUM. http://bit.ly/2A9LsUM 164 literature186 with Korean-Canadian Literary Forum-21 Press. Even her translation of Clarke’s work— which marked her debut as a translator—appears to be, according to one of the very few reviews done in Romania, the result of literary gratitude that adds to a not so apparent, yet plausible, degree of literary kinship: This [translation] cannot be only an elegant gesture out of her gratitute for the enthusiastic forewords he wrote to her own poetry books. I would feel inclined to think this is a reading experience that touched the poet’s receptiveness, hardened by her harsh destiny and her own sense of displacement. This is the source of her openness to acute existential problems, her understanding and compassion. We get a glimpse [in this translation] of a Flavia Cosma that speaks about Human Rights to Canadian students, the TV producer that documented homelessness in Toronto or the orphans in her home country [...]. In all these, she resonates with George Elliott’s Clarke’s militant social activism. (Oloș 2007: web) Just like the poets she translates (with the notable exception of Clarke), her translation projects stay very regional: the books are published with very small, provincial presses, either in her home town, Oradea, or in Iași, and the poetry selections generally appear in literary journals that are very regional (e.g., Vatra Veche from Târgu Mureș, Citadela from Satu Mare, both cities in north-western Romania). What seems to connect these publishers and journals, though, is the “Lucian Blaga” International Festival in Sebeș, another small city in Transylvania, where Cosma was awarded in 2009 the “Title of Excellence for Outstanding Contribution to the Promotion and Enrichment of the Romanian Culture within the European Region and throughout the World.” From one of the two reviews of her translation of Clarke to date it is clear that the Canadian poet had visited Romania prior to the launch of his 2006 book, on the occasion of another literary happening in Satu Mare, Zilele Poesis (Pop 2007). After his return in 2006 for the launch of his translated poem collection, 186 Cosma, Flavia. 2007. The Adventures of Tommy Teddy Bear and Alex Little Bunny. Toronto: Korean-Canadian Literary Forum-21 Press. 165 various further selections by other translators appear in a number of literary magazines: two translations by Canadian Studies specialist Ana Oloș,187 who also favorably reviewed Cosma’s rendition and dedicated a more in-depth academic study to Clarke’s work (Oloș 2012), and other two by Diana Manole,188 a Toronto-based writer, director, and scholar specialized in Drama Studies. While Oloș’s 2008 translation followed Clarke’s 2006 lecture at the Nord University, her home institution, and an award he received from the local literary journal, Poesis, her 2013 translation and Manole’s translation the very same year may be a reflection of Clarke’s appointment as the Toronto Poet Laureate at the beginning of 2012. It may also be a natural development of a series of encounters between Cosma, Clarke, and Manole. This network also prompts a substantial interview in the Transilvania literary journal (Oloș ibid.) by Oloș and Crina Bud, lecturer at the Romanian Lectorate with York University, in Toronto. G.E. Clarke is the central node of the clique formed by translators F. Cosma, A. Oloș, and D. Manole and ranks immediately after the authors and translators around C. Tanasescu and R. Hotăranu, as the most prominent node in G3 in terms of betweeness centrality. His prominence is given by the three translators associated with him. As far as the other two centrality measurements are concerned, Clarke ranks fairly low, just like the other nodes in this sub-network, because the component he belongs in is disconnected. The frequency of the translations in Clarke’s case shows us that his literary stardom only intensified the series of translations already initiated by Cosma as both literary barter and literary 187 Clarke, George Elliott. 2008. “Biserica baptistă africană din Cherrzbrook; Ecleziastul; Sonet alb: etc.” (Ana Olos, Trans.) In Poesis 3-5: 98; Clarke, George Elliott. 2013. “Către guvernul din Nova Scoția; Viață de albină; etc.” (Ana Oloș, Trans.) In Nord literar 7-8: 122-123. 188 Clarke, George Elliot. 2013. “Unghi; Sextina: aprilie; II.iii. Elegie albastră; etc.” (Diana Manole, Trans.). In Viaţa românească 7-8: 226-230; Clarke, George Elliott. 2013. “Păcătoşi sfinţi; Strigăt din piaţa haligoniană; Copilărie II: etc.” (Diana Manole, Trans.) In Luceafărul de dimineaţă 7: 14. 166 affiliation. Cosma’s interest in charity and immigrants’ sense of displacement must have felt at home, I would suggest, in Clarke’s literary work, while the Canadian poet might have appreciated Cosma’s poetry, as a note on her website states that one of her volumes, Leaves of a Diary, was studied in Clarke’s literature class at the University of Toronto during the 2007-2008 academic year. Similarly, Manole, who holds a doctorate from the same University of Toronto, was perhaps familiar with Clarke’s interest in the loss of a sense of belonging, which resonated with Manole’s own interest in foreign/immigrant notes in theater and performance. Her pairing Clarke with Ede Amatoritsero189 in the translation feature dedicated to African-Canadian writers—another illustration of network-driven translation—likely influenced the roster of attendees in and the idea behind an event titled “Shared Dreams of Freedom,” organized by the Romanian Consulate in Toronto in January 2014. The event was held as part of Romania’s National Cultural Day and the anniversary of iconic early Modernist Mihai Eminescu—Romania’s national poet—and Martin Luther King, Jr. Such exchanges offer a vista foregrounded in an economy of literary barters, characterized by in-kind exchanges that energize the dialogue between contemporary poets and their translators. With the fallout of the 2008 recession still lingering in a country in which poetry is published in print runs equal to those in the United States, but does not sell, an exchange economy goes off well. Translation becomes more and more a benefit in-kind and generates new kinds of partnerships, events, and literary associations that not only maintain and strengthen networks, but also extend them. The interpersonal relationships that result from and create these exchanges are salient and their multifarious nature occasions new roles for translators. As Jones rightfully notes, “translators 189 Ede, Amatoritsero. 2013. “Poems.” (Diana Manole, Trans.) In Luceafărul de dimineaţă 7: 14. 167 often carry less power in a production network than an anthology/journal editor or a living source poet.” (2009: 301) This is precisely why poet-translators take on new challenges and assume new roles in the production chain. The gain is so much the more substantial if the services they render in their home culture are mirrored in the source culture by services benefiting their own work. Transnational poet-translators do not play a twin role (Jones ibid.), but a triple one: besides being converters of a text and representatives of a source-language culture or poet, they are also particularly effective publishing facilitators. The downsides of this new reality is the localism of many translation projects, as an exchange economy does not always involve major players on the book market. However, as Edward Foster notes in the presentation of Naming the Nameless, “even the most modest of attempts that may look like no more than tiny drops in the ocean are still to be preferred to laments and complexes, myths, and prejudices.” (Foster 2007: 7) A progenerative model concerned with the dynamics of real-world relationships and backed by a politics of fecundity is to be preferred, I suggest, to sparse major-league translation phenomena. 2.2.4. Literary Kinship, Scholarly Work, and Academic Mobility If the above examples revolve around certain literary journals and affiliated presses and seem to be grounded in a barter logic, the next examples were fueled by three different factors, namely literary kinship, scholarly research, and academic mobility. Translators’ literary kinship to the authors they translate has been largely ignored by TS literature and typically discussed in relation with translational poetics (Simon 2007; Médici Nóbrega and Milton 2009; Bradford 2009; Jacobs 2014; Galvin 2014). Scholarship and poetry translation have been specifically researched by scholar Josephine Balmer (2013), who shrewdly notes there is a symbiosis between academic research and 168 classical poetry translation which often leads to poetry production on the part of the translator. In the context of contemporary poetry translation, academic mobility is often the trigger of such projects, hence the associations of the two in the title of the present subchapter. In addition, I present projects that have occurred as a result of academic mobility, but which have not been backed by literary affinities or by the translators’ poetic appropriation. The Romanian translator whose work and trajectory is very much in line with a transnational paradigm and a progenerative model is Chris Tanasescu, who ranks first in the transnational graphs in all categories. Tanasescu was working towards a Ph.D. in American poetry in 2007, writing a thesis on rock “poetry,”190 a category in which he included mainstream poetry informed by rock music, lyrics, or culture, when he came across a long poem of David Baker’s (Holler 2010), “Sweet Home, Saturday Night,” the title poem of a collection from 1991. In it, the speaker tells the story of a rock concert he gave as a guitarist in a band playing in a pub somewhere in the Southern US. The Romanian translator was intrigued by the alternation of scenes from the show and the night bar ‘crazy life,’ classic rock lyrics, personal musings and lyric fragments, and excerpts of literary and cultural criticism, all fused in a polyphonic and alert discourse. He felt closely related to such an approach, as his own poetry was informed by notions of performance, polyphony, and multiple cross-boundary discourse, and after looking deeper into Baker’s work he decided to write the American poet and translate some of his poetry. One year earlier, Tanasescu had published a collection in which he experimented with syllabic verse (a meter never employed in Romanian poetry since its late medieval and early modern periods) and camouflaging ‘classic’ forms, such as sonnets and ottava rimas, under heterogeneous dictions and nonconventional typography (Gulea 190 Tanasescu, Chris. 2008. Popular Culture and Border Transgression in Contemporary American Poetry. The Case of Rock Poetry. Bucharest: University of Bucharest. 169 2010). He discovered in Baker a master of syllabic verse, and, if not an experimental, then an extremely subtle ‘translator’ of classic forms into new contexts and discourses. Besides discovering a great poet that shared some of his topics—along with and maybe more significantly than rock culture, the poetry of place, environment, and landscape which somewhat matched Tanasescu’s rather urban topologies—he discovered in Baker a famous advocate of poetic options that the translator thought crucial in revitalizing the poetry written by the poets that were emerging in Romania in the two decades after 1989. In November 2009, Tanasescu published a volume191 of Baker’s Selected Poems in Romanian translation—preceded by a selection published in Viața românească192 and further selections in Convorbiri literare193 in 2010. He also applied, through the Margento Foundation, for a grant with the U.S. Department of State to bring the poet to Romania for a series of book launches. In an interview, Baker recounts of himself: [It was a] completely random thing, Mr. Baker says of that experience. This fellow, maybe two, two and a half years ago, emailed me. Chris Tanasescu, who is a Romanian poet at the University of Bucharest, had come across a poem of mine and wanted to translate it for a magazine. And he just kept going and about a year ago said that he would like to put together a ‘selected poems’ from all my books and show it to a publisher. He did, the publisher took it, the book was published [in November 2009] and I went over for the launch. I’d never been there, I know two words of Romanian, but I’d apparently written a book called Omul Alchimic and had an amazing time. (Holler 2010: web, emphasis mine) This random act of translation occasioned a chain of other projects that furthered the long-standing relationship between U.S. and Romanian cultures. In 2012, inspired by his Romanian tour, David Baker initiated a translation experiment194 dedicated to his Romanian translator (“To Chris, who 191 Baker, David. 2009. Omul alchimic (The Alchemical Man) (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). Bucharest: Vinea Press. 192 Baker, David. 2009. “Omul postum.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Viața românească 8-9. Web: http://bit.ly/2Ddr3kx. Last accessed: January 10, 2018. 193 Baker, David. 2010. “Romantism; Piatra lui Simonide; etc.” (Chris Tănăsescu, Trans.). In Convorbiri literare 5: 101- 102. 194 Baker, David. 2012. Hunger to Hunger: Hungry / Foame. (Tanasescu et al., Trans,). Toledo, OH: Aureole Press. http://bit.ly/2Ddr3kx 170 opened the door”), which is to be considered a literary barter for Tanasescu. Baker departed from Tanasescu’s translation of his poem “Hungry” and submitted the Romanian “Foame” to a process of back-translation and re-translation between Romanian and English for a total of fourteen times. The introduction describes the translator team as a network of acquaintances of the author and the translator and spells out author’s hope that “each iteration would be a coherent poem on its own merit.” (Baker 2012: web) The translators’ dialogue, a sort of literary telephone game (as one of the translators put it), bore no translation limitations and resulted in a whole new poem in English, which contained only those parts (syllables or whole words) of the original text that still existed in the last English translation. Baker’s final poem was the embodiment of Tanasescu’s tenet that a good translatable poem is always “transmutational and communal.” (2010: web). Ramifications of Tanasescu’s translation of Baker’s poetry into Romanian led to the participation of the American poet in the International Poetry Festival in Sibiu in 2014 and in a translation into English and publication in the Kenyon Review of a poem195 by the organizer, poet Radu Vancu, and by other participants in the festival. While searching the internet for young American poets to write about196 and translate, Tanasescu came across the poetry of Ilya Kaminsky. A Jewish-Russian poet who emigrated from Odessa at the age of 16, when his family fled a war going on at the time in neighboring Moldova and who came from a region and had a background so relevant to the Romanian translator. Moreover, Kaminsky’s energetically painful and rabbinically musical lyricism appealed to Tanasescu for its genuine fusion of the most privately subjective and the traditional, the latter involving both a 195 Vancu, Radu. 2016. “[What’s One of Your Dead Telling You]” (Tara Skurtu and Radu Vancu, Trans.) In Kenyon Review 38 (2). Web: http://bit.ly/2mGlWmb. Last accessed: January 14, 2018. 196 The research resulted in a scholarly paper: “The New Taste of Old Taste: Manifestos by 31 Younger U.S. Poets in 2005”, published in The University of Bucharest Review (“A Matter of Taste”) 7 (4). Bucharest: University of Bucharest Press. Web: http://bit.ly/2DaZkUf. Last accessed: January 14, 2018. http://bit.ly/2mGlWmb http://bit.ly/2DaZkUf 171 mythologized and yet tragic history of Odessa (and actually Eastern Europe) and deep immersions in the works and biographies of Russian classic modernists like Mandelstam and Akhmatova. Tanasescu’s choice seems to have been right, as the translation was met with great interest and even enthusiasm by many young poets, and both the book and the poet are still greatly admired in Romania ten years after the publication.197 When he arrived in San Diego, California, on a Senior Fulbright Award hosted by the department where Ilya Kaminsky was a member, Tanasescu met Rothenberg, a legendary figure whose work he had admired, taught, and written about.198 Being directly in touch with the remarkably personable master allowed the younger poet to observe two complementary aspects of the former’s personality and approach—one, Rothenberg’s amplitude and complexity was indeed amazing, as grounded in an ongoing impatience to learn about poetries and cultures that could never be too (or rather enough) strange or uncanny, and, two, his ([de]constructed) indebtedness to Romanian iconic figures like Tristan Tzara and Mircea Eliade. Under the circumstances, it was fascinating for Tanasescu and his co-translator to render in Romanian199 the way in which one of the most internationalist and eclectic poets in the world spent an impressive part of his creative energy dialoging with master figures of the Romanian culture and recuperating the historical and cultural experience of his ancestors, while at the same time opening the door of his poetry to localisms and untranslatable traditions from all corners of the world (Tanasescu 2013: 184-185). 197 Kaminsky, Ilya. 2007. Dansând în Odessa (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). Bucharest: Vinea Press. 198 Chris, Tanasescu. 2007. “The Shadowy (Non-)Identity of the Shaman in Contemporary U.S. Poetry: Jim Morrison, Gary Snyder, and Jerome Rothenberg”. In The University of Bucharest Review (“Identity and Alterity: Geographies of the Mind”) 9 (4). Bucharest: University of Bucharest Press, pp: 108-117. Web: http://bit.ly/2DaZkUf. Last accessed: January 18, 2018. 199 Rothenberg, Jerome. 2013. Mistici, hoți și nebuni (Mystics, Thieves, and Madmen) (Chris and Raluca Tanasescu (MARGENTO), Trans.). Bistrița: Max Blecher Press. http://bit.ly/2DaZkUf 172 Selections appeared in Poezia in 2011200 and 2012,201 then in Poesis International in 2013 (cf. section 2.1 and Annex 1), just before the publication of his Selected Poems in Romanian. More than is the case with other Romanian poet-translators, Tanasescu’s own poetic work reveals his use of translation as a generative and creative act, “an integrative and restitutive gesture, a non-linear act of language.” (Mironescu 2013) One of the features that characterise his poetry is an unmasked, playful and transgressive translational poetics which “affirms [his] ethnic and linguistic identity even more thoroughly by a ‘live’ dialogue with the other [poets].” (Patraș 2010: web) As Patraș rightfully notes, his poems engage in a dialogue—a jam-session—with the poetry of many of the authors he translates, from Baker to Kaminsky to Woodside or Starzinger, “in a universal language of poetry and mathematics, which is essentially musical” (id.), making Patraș compare him with John Ashbery. Patraș was certainly not mistaken in tracing the literary lineage. Such as is the case with transnational literary contamination, which “reveals concerns about the development of innovative domestic poetics,” (Galvin 2014) Tanasescu had indeed translated Ashbery202, motivated by the desire to challenge and redesign contemporary literary fashions in native Romania. The networks established in real life move into the poem of the self-dubbed ‘(trans)nationalist poet’ who “translates foreigners into Romanian and Romanian into the languages and mentality of the new Rome” (Nicolau 2011: web) accompanied by ‘a band of translators’ (id.). His band of translators grows with every worthy poet he meets and, as Woodside notes, is a reflection of his… passport (2014): this is how he gets to translate John Taylor,203 whom he met in Paris, or Page Hill 200 Rothenberg, Jerome. 2011. “Călătoria de la o vară la alta; Spania lui Lorca: Omagiu; etc.” (Raluca and Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poezia 16 (2): 134-141. 201 Rothenberg, Jerome. 2012. “Bunavestire (de Marpa); Polonia/1931; Satan în Goray: etc.” (Raluca and Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). In Poezia 17 (2): 147-157. 202 Ashbery, John. 2010. “Azi-noapte am visat că eram în Bucureşti; Istoria vieţii mele; Calea de ieşire binecuvântată; etc.” (Chris Tănăsescu, Trans) In Viaţa românească 5-6: 174-177. 203 Taylor, John. 2013. “Din Tapiseriile Apocalipsei.” (Raluca and Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Ateneu 11-12: 32. 173 Starzinger204, whom he met in Romania, alongside other writers like Meghan O’Rourke205, Roger Craik206, or D.A. Powell207—young poets who may prove relevant to their Romanian peers. Furthermore, what Marjorie Perloff would call ‘uncreative writing’—“poetry that is entirely “unoriginal” and nevertheless qualifies as poetry” (Perloff 2010: 8)—is further networked by Tanasescu in a series of assemblages he defines as “graph poems”: “an ongoing communal […] poetry project that involves poets and writers from various parts of the world collaborating by the principles of mathematical graph theory and in the spirit of jam sessions.” (Tanasescu 2011: web) As noted by Nicolau, translation is not only vital for the poetic dialogue, but also makes possible the live connection of poems and people, in a transnational poetics in which “diverse poets launch lines of creation and others develop and multiply them.” (2014: 319) The diasporic condition of the poet and the network he builds around and in his poetry invite multiple ways of translation within the same volume: from translating other poets’ work and engaging in a dialogue with them to self- translation and inviting other poets to translate his own poems. At the end, all become translators and play in “a global, multi-language, powerful performance troupe,” (Baker 2014), “an international coalition of writers and translators.” (Woodside 2014: web) The type of relationships C. Tanasescu establishes within the transnational network has an influence not only on the writers and translators associated with him, but also on other nodes. For instance, because of his co-translations with R. Tanasescu and M. Surleac, the latter two are placed second and third in network-influence (EigenVector), although they score much lower in the other two centrality measurements. Not only do these co-translators fare well, but so do the authors they 204 Starzinger, Page Hill. 2010. “Seria 22; Contracurent; Eucharist Nervosa.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Familia 11-12: 217-221. 205 O’Rourke, Meghan. 2007. “Poeme de Meghan O’Rourke.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). In Familia 11-12: 283-287. 206 Craik, Roger. 2007. “Poeme de Roger Craik.” (Chris Tănăsescu, Trans.). In Familia 11-12: 278-282. 207 Powell, D. A. 2010. “Floare stranie-n mâinile mele.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Familia 5: 123-125. 174 co-translated (such as G. Snyder and F. Joudah), who score higher in EigenVector centrality compared to the authors translated by C. Tanasescu alone (such as J. Rothenberg or Baker, who were even published more than once in periodicals). Even more interesting is the fact that the best placed translator after C.Tanasescu (bc = 0.1575) is I. Ieronim (bc = 0.0772), a rank she owes to her translation of M. Woodside. This re-translation of Woodside one year after the one by Tanasescu makes the author rank second in closeness centrality and third in betweenness centrality, becoming better positioned, thus more visible topologically than authors like J. Ashbery, for instance. Tanasescu’s influence on the network is most clearly expressed by the EigenVector, which ranks the authors he translated better than any other authors in the transnational network. Poetry translation as complement to scholarly research has a strong representative in Rodica Grigore’s work, the main node in the G1 component (cf. Annex 3). A senior lecturer in Comparative Literature at the Lucian Blaga University of Sibiu, Grigore translated Margaret Atwood208 following an essay209 inspired by her work in 2010, a literary analysis applied to the Romanian translation of Atwood’s novel210 in 2008. Grigore’s translation of Michael Ondaatje’s poetry211 is followed a year later by an essay212 dedicated to his poetic work. She also translates selections from the writings of Paul Auster213, a selection preceded and followed by at least two scholarly articles.214 Her translation 208 Atwood, Margaret. 2012. “Să zbori înăuntrul propriului tău trup; Cântec de sirenă; Clipa” (Rodica Grigore, Trans.) In Euphorion 23 (7-8): 17. 209 Grigore. Rodica. 2010. “Spațiul literar și tradiția discursului distopic. Margaret Atwood, Oryx și Crake.” In Revista Transilvania 2. Web: http://bit.ly/2mB7L0Q. Last accessed: January 16, 2018. 210 Atwood, Margaret. 2008. Oryx şi Crake (Florin Irimia, Trans.). Editura Leda, Bucureşti. 211 Ondaatje, Michael. 2009. “Culegătorul de scorţişoară; Coasta medievală; La un strigăt depărtare; etc.” (Rodica Grigore, Trans.) In Contemporanul - ideea europeană 20 (8): 34-35. 212 Grigore, Rodica. 2010. “Dincolo de graniţe cu Michael Ondaatje.” In Ziarul financiar June 25. Web: http://bit.ly/2mNtP9t. Last accessed: January 16, 2018. 213 Auster, Paul. 2008. “Credo (Infinitul); Printre rânduri; Corală; etc.” (Rodica Grigore, Trans.) In Euphorion 19 (5-6): 20. 214 Grigore, Rodica. 2007. “Paul Auster. Călătoriile noului personaj picaresc.” In Revista Cultura 94. Web: http://bit.ly/2DbVHKt. Last accessed: January 16, 2018; Grigore, Rodica. 2010. “O călătorie la capătul singurătății.” In Ziarul financiar November 11. Web: http://bit.ly/2DnqoiY. Last accessed: January 16, 2018. http://bit.ly/2mB7L0Q http://bit.ly/2mNtP9t http://bit.ly/2DbVHKt http://bit.ly/2DnqoiY 175 of Ted Berrigan215 seems to be related rather to her work on Andrei Codrescu, the Romanian-born American poet that is difficult to pin down because of his affinities with numerous other writers, among whom Berrigan and other New York School poets—very often mentioned in her scholarly essays216 on Codrescu. Finally, Grigore’s selection of Elaine Equi’s work217 appears to be an isolated occurrence, not doubled by any scholarly work. However, Equi’s interest in Frank O’Hara, the iconic poet of the New York School, seems to be the red thread that guided this translation choice. Grigore’s translator notes are very informed and analytical and focus more on the themes and literary quality of the translated work than on the author’s biography and literary recognitions. She generally prefers literary criticism and scholarly essays published in mainstream literary or scholarly journals—venues that further legitimize the scholarly nature of her pieces. A dedicated follower of the literary translation scene in Romania, she devoted at least two reviews218 to the translation of T.S. Eliot’s poetry in 2012. Grigore’s example is not singular. Elena Ciobanu (G2 cf. Annex 3) is a professor of British and American poetry at the University of Bacau in North-East Romania. Her list of selected academic papers shows an overt interest in the poetry of Sylvia Plath whose Selected Poetry she translates in a volume219 and publishes with Paralela 45 Press in 2012. Her research interest in contemporary poetry results in further sporadic selections from T.S. Eliot220 and Canadian Jeramy Dodds,221 hosted 215 Berrigan, Ted. 2011. “Frank O'Hara; Dragoste; Oameni din viitor; etc.” (Rodica Grigore, Trans.) In Contemporanul - ideea europeană. 22 (1): 30. 216 One of the many references to Berrigan and Codrescu appears in Grigore’s book on the evolution of Romanian literary forms: Evoluția formelor românești (Cluj-Napoca: Casa cărții de știință). 217 Equi, Elaine. 2011. “Vampirela; Fată vinerea; Pentru Hollis Sigler; etc.” (Rodica Grigore, Trans.) In Contemporanul - ideea europeană 22 (10): 39. 218 Grigore, Rodica. 2012. “T.S. Eliot. Tărîmul poeziei: recenzie la Opere poetice (1909-1962), traducere de Şerban Foarţă. Bucureşti: Humanitas, 2011”. In Observator cultural 350: 16-17; Grigore, Rodica. 2012. “T. S. Eliot. Ambiguitate, detaşare, poezie: despre vol. Opere poetice (1909-1062), traducere de Şerban Foarţă.” In Vatra 6-7: 68-73. 219 Plath, Sylvia. 2012. Selected Poems / Poeme alese. (Elena Ciobanu, Trans., Foreword.) Piteşti: Paralela 45. 220 Eliot, T.S. 2012. “Cântecul de dragoste al lui J. Alfred Prufrock.” (Elena Ciobanu, Trans.) In Ateneu 4: 24. 221 Dodds, Jeramy. 2011. “Inima uscata; Leii saptamânii lucratoare.” (Elena Ciobanu, Trans.) In Ateneu 4: 24. 176 exclusively by local literary journal Ateneu, which also presented reviews of her translations and awarded her rendition of Plath with the 2013 Translation Prize. Another example comes from Craiova, where Victor Olaru (presented in the previous section) works as a professor of Anglophone studies and publishes most of his translated selections in local Scrisul românesc, already mentioned extensively in this chapter in relation to other translation initiatives. Academic mobility of English language and literature scholars is another significant phenomenon that usually prompts translation projects from Canadian and U.S. poetries. The most visible and fruitful academic exchange program that benefited Romanian universities has been for years the Fulbright program, supported by the U.S. Department of State. It has been customary for Romanian-born American scholars traveling to universities in Romania for such exchanges to have their work translated into Romanian and, depending on their Romanian language proficiency, to translate themselves other American fellow poets. It is the case of Boston-based scholar and poet Mihaela Moscaliuc, a Fulbright fellow with the Al. I. Cuza University in Iași during the 2014-2015 academic year and during whose tenure a selection from the work of poets Gerald Stern222 and Michael Waters223 is published in a local literary journal and a poetry reading featuring translations of Michael Waters’ poems by her students is organized during the International Education Festival in Iași in 2015. Another selection appears three years later in Convorbiri literare,224 also based in Iași. While the attention devoted to Waters can be certainly explained by the incontestable value of his work, I also found out that Moscaliuc and Waters have long been married (Welsh 2013) and that Waters had himself been a Fulbright lecturer with the same university only a few years before 222 Stern, Gerald. 2012. “România România; Ukrainianul; Fructul morţii.” (Mihaela Moscaliuc, Trans.) În: Poezia 17 (3): 169-171. 223 Waters, Michael. 2012. “Rochia de mireasă; Irachieni morţi; Măsline negre. (Mihaela Moscaliuc, Trans.) În: Poezia 17 (3) 166-171. 224 Waters, Michael. 2015. “Morpho; Litoral; Radu Lupu.” (Mihaela Moscaliuc, Trans.). In Convorbiri literare 4: 144-145. 177 Moscaliuc’s residency (id.). Since the local literary scene might have been somewhat familiar with his work, a series of translations followed by an interview225 towards the end of his wife’s tenure made good sense. The association of Waters’ work with translations of the celebrated poet Gerald Stern in the same journal feature, though, might appear as striking, but it can be easily explained by Moscaliuc’s long-lasting academic interest in Stern’s work.226 All these unique sets of conditions have led to a heterogeneous set of translation projects that cannot be the initiatives of anybody else but the translator herself. However, her exclusive focus on Waters and Stern makes her rank very low in all centralities and keeps her disconnected in the transnational graph. In terms of subsequent translation projects, Moscaliuc’s residency with the university in Iași differs significantly from Tara Skurtu’s experience during her two fellowships at the University in Sibiu. Although of Romanian extraction, Skurtu’s level of Romanian did not allow her to translate from the English, but only into English. However, her encounter with Radu Vancu, a prominent player on the local and national literary scene, resulted in numerous selections of her poetry being translated into Romanian. The prospect of relocation to Romania, which took place in 2017, after two Fulbright residencies, as well as the prospects of an adjustment to and an integration in a new literary scene, likely asked for a generous number of translations that would properly introduce her to Romanian audiences, and especially tightly-knit literary networks. Skurtu’s selection of seven poems translated by Radu Vancu227 was most likely occasioned by her participation in the 2014 International Literary Festival in Sibiu, a mention that appears in his translator’s note after a very detailed enumeration of eleven American journals that have published her work to date, alongside 225 Moscaliuc, Mihaela. 2015. ““Unitatea poetică”: interviu cu poetul american Michael Waters.” (Ioana Lionte, Trans). In Convorbiri literare 5: 17-18. 226 Moscaliuc, Mihaela. 2016. “Insane Devotion: On the Writing of Gerald Stern.” (Philip Levine, Foreword). Trinity University Press. 227 Skurtu, Tara. 2015. “Indian River în amurg; Foame; Limită; etc.” (Radu Vancu, Trans.) In Mozaicul 18 (2): 18. 178 a fellowship and a prize. After two more selections in 2014228 and 2015,229 in 2016 Vancu even translates a full volume of Skurtu’s, one that has been only very recently launched in the United States—in January 2018. The release of a Romanian translation before the launch of the original book may be very pertinently related to her adjustment to the new literary network she was about to join. Another translation of her work was occasioned by the passing of Romanian contemporary poet Andrei Bodiu, to whom she dedicated a poem.230 As a matter of fact, many of the poems she wrote during her academic residencies were heavily anchored in her new life in Romania, which on the one hand made them very exotic for the American readership, and on the other made them easily translatable and approachable for a Romanian audience. Her presence in the transnational graph is due to Micu’s one-time contribution, which is not enough to give her any kind of prominence. However, in the general network of translation in PP (Figure 1, section 2.1), she belongs in the giant component due to the translations done by Vancu. This is one of the most relevant example of how translators influence the network they are part of: although insignificant in the transnational component where one would naturally place her because of her profile, she gains more prominence in the general network because of the numerous translations by a translator well- positioned in that network. Skurtu’s translation experience as an American scholar and poet is different from those of other scholars and poets involved in the same exchange. No other poet has benefitted from so many translations like she did. For example, Christopher Bakken, a Fulbright scholar in 2008, had only a 228 Skurtu, Tara. 2014. “Indian River at Dusk / Indian River în amurg.” (Radu Vancu, Trans.) In Zona nouă. Web: http://bit.ly/2FKWrYL. Last accessed: January 16, 2018. 229 Skurtu, Tara. 2015. “Stricat.” (Radu Vancu, Trans.) In Subcapitol, Oct. 25. Web: http://bit.ly/2EM5GX9. Last accessed: January 18, 2018. 230 Skurtu, Tara. 2014. “Amintindu-mi de Andrei Bodiu.” (Alice Valeria Micu, Trans.) In Caiete silvane 10 (112): 44. http://bit.ly/2FKWrYL http://bit.ly/2EM5GX9 179 journal selection of his poetry231 translated by Ioana Ieronim. Ieronim—a poet who made a name for herself as one of Andrei Codrescu’s translators, but who also happens to be the sister of Mihai Moroiu, American Program director with the Fulbright Commission in Bucharest since 2003— translates in 2011 Fulbright grantee Martin Woodside.232 She had met Woodside in person at a conference and literary festival in Neptun, an academic and literary dissemination venue for all Fulbright fellows each year. This is where Ieronim also met Canadian writer Cheryl Antao Xavier and followed up with a translated selection of her work.233 The event also prompted a translation from her long-time acquaintance, New York City-based Andrey Gritsman.234 Although Woodside’s fellowship did not result in many translations of his own work, his meeting with Chris Tanasescu in Bucharest was the trigger for further, more ample projects. Besides being translated for the first time into Romanian by Tanasescu,235 Woodside put together an anthology of Romanian poetry in English translation in 2011236 and co-translates with the Romanian a volume of selected works by surrealist poet Gellu Naum in 2013,237 Finally, I would like to also mention here the translation done by Aura Taras Sibișan, a lecturer at the Transylvania University in Brașov, of the poetry of Jeremy 231 Bakken, Christopher. 2008. “Paul Celan; Purgatoriul, carte poştală; Egloga 7 (Matia).” In Luceafărul 16 (21): 9. 232 Woodside, Martin. 2011. “Livrare; Spune-i dans; În acest oraş; etc.” (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.) In Luceafărul de dimineaţă 26-27: 14. 233 Antao-Xavier, Cheryl. 2010. “O lume a gunoaielor.” (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.) In Luceafărul 18 (25-26): 9. 234 Gritsman, Andrey. 2011. “In memoriam; Conversaţie; etc.” (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.) In Luceafărul de dimineaţă. 26-27: 12. 235 Woodside, Martin. 2010. “De livrare; Odă Bucureştilor; Dans, cum ar veni; etc.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 144 (3): 114-115. 236 ***. 2011. Of Gentle Wolves. An Anthology of American Poetry (Martin Woodside, Ed.). New York, NY: Calypso Editions. 237 Naum, Gellu. 2013. Athanor and Other Po(h)ems (Martin Woodside and Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). New York, NY: Calypso Editions. 180 Hawkins,238 a Fulbright grantee in 2008-2009 with the same institution, alongside the one-time translation by Felix Nicolau of visiting Master of Arts’ student D.M. Andrei.239 Although the amount of U.S. and Canadian poetry translated as a result of transnational exchanges and by transnational poets is quite significant, one cannot talk about patterns of inclusion or exclusion or about a cultural poetics because all these translation acts are highly heterogeneous (1 giant component and 12 disconnected components) and depend on the positionality of poet- translators (Bradford ibid.: 230-231). Such transnational networks are highly interpersonal in poetry translation, even when they are the result of exchanges supported by various institutions. As Jones rightfully argues, “[p]oetry translation is produced by networks of agents working across a ‘distributed’ space. This implies that it is simplistic to conceptualise literary translation in terms of one agent’s loyalty to one cultural space.” (ibid.: 301) Furthermore, a transnational paradigm and a network approach bring into discussion the idea of subjectivity, randomness, and even opportunism and nepotism as significant driving forces behind any translation project, all related to an increasing translator agency and resulting in a highly heterogeneous web of relationships. 238 Hawkins, Jeremy. 2009. “Suprapunere: Robert S. McNamara; Valjevo 1915; Preludiul după; etc.” (Aura Taras Sibişan, Trans.) In Vatra 7-8: 178-180. 239 Andrei, D. M. 2014. “Nu luna era cu răspunsul; Baban, grăsan popă fluviu; Fă stânga împrejur.” (Felix Nicolau, Trans.) In Arca 4-6: 135. 181 2.3. Poetry Translation in the Technoscape 2.3.1. A New Economy of Attention As we are moving into an age of “post-print translation literacy,” (Cronin 2013: 6) literary translators find themselves in a position that allows them to shake off the cloak of invisibility and become manifest players in the new economy of attention. The theoretical milieu from which this subchapter proceeds is Michael Goldhaber (1997), Georg Franck (1999) and Jonathan Beller’s (2006) notion of “attention economy,” according to which human attention is scarce and productive of value and is thus easily commodified by the contemporary digital technoculture. Literary translation in the media milieu becomes information conveniently passed along for free in exchange for potential instant recognition on the part of the readers and is undergirded by the tenet that information is the newest kind of wealth available, one that can be acquired simply by reaching out into the cyberspace. In this new context, Cronin notes, translators’ use of technology is bound up with ‘disintermediation’, which leads to their increased independence, allowing translation to become a kind of autographic work, radically different from the allographic work of invisibles (ibid.: 5). In this new digital reputation economy, the heavily intermediated print runs of translated books and the circulation of magazines are replaced by convenient hyperlinks that one can access anywhere, at any time. Literary translators realized very fast that “[…] obtaining attention is obtaining a kind of enduring wealth, a form of wealth that puts you in a preferred position to get anything this new economy offers.” (Goldhaber 1997) This has led to new literary journals, blogs, and platforms being set up for the benefit of authors, translators, and literature consumers (Jones 2017). Not only do 182 they offer instant access to potentially valuable literature, but they also propose variety, as “digital reproduction allows for endless replication of difference, not endless replication of same.” (Cronin 2013: 5). Managing the new bonanza of information we are perpetually faced with is possible only through culturally and historically-conditioned attention as a form of care (Stiegler 2010), or as a struggle for criticality, as Cronin puts it. Attention as a scarce resource has brought about a significant shift from production to promotion, through a tendency to minimize the costs and maximize the profits. As Gamboni rightfully notes, attention is relational—we pay attention to what we relate to, either physically or ideologically. The way we relate to, and thus pay attention to, a digital object, a translation in our case, makes it more, or less, visible: In the economy of attention, however, visibility is everything. If attention is the hard currency of cyberspace then […] attention flows do not simply anticipate flows of money but eventually end up replacing them. In attentional capitalism, attention is fast becoming the hegemonic form of capital. (Cronin 2016, web) In this new attention economy, there are numerous strategies that cater to the translator’s visibility, such as self-promotion via social network services, personal story-telling, and narrative self- presentation (van Dijck 2017: 152). The way digital space operates and serves the need of translators shifts the discussion to non-monetization, to the free labor that characterizes online cultural production—“the ongoing constitution of a nonunified collective intelligence outside and in between the blind alleys of the silicon age.” (Terranova 2000: 55). To Latour, financial motivations are not among the things that make people act. Famous for his disregard of the economics and the reification of institutions—“Structure is very powerful and yet much too weak and remote to have any efficacy” (Latour 2005: 168)—the French theorist sees the main motivation of our action in the way we relate to others. He acknowledges the role played by Web 2.0 in refashioning these relationships and the way we present ourselves to the world: “[T]he web is changing all of that and 183 fast: “to have” (friends, relations, profiles...) is quickly becoming a stronger definition of oneself than “to be.” (Latour 2010: web) Furthermore, the internet economy, characterized by scale economies, interdependencies, and abundance (Bauer et al. 2016), also occasions a slew of economic advantages that give translators much more freedom, allowing them to pursue projects that would otherwise be deemed non-lucrative by most literary publishers. It is—again—the notable case of poetry translation, especially contemporary poetry translation, works of authors that have not yet joined the canon to justify the investment. Instead, such works are often presented in the “electronic sweatshops” (Terranova ibid.) of the internet. During the first decade of the 2000s scholars warned about a series of potential drawbacks that stem from the vastness and democracy of the World Wide Web in relation to legitimacy of online cultural production and to the agency of poetry: […] amid the havoc of the “democratization” of cultural production in the last ten years due to the Internet and satellite TV, one can only guess whether poetry agents will ever be truly interventional, local or geographically nuclear again. The intervention will be virtual and the legitimization ephemeral and skeptical, as is the attitude toward Internet in general. As the intellectual field becomes larger and its outlines hazier, the poaching becomes more erratic, and the predictability of taste will respond more to a charting of the agility to pass from one form to another in the speed of upload and download and the flare for mimicry and pastiche than to the patience to read and digest. (Bradford 2009: 249) However, as we have started to talk about the post-digital (Berry 2014)—that is, how we think with the digital instead of how we think about it, and, especially, how we relate to it—, research on the topic of digital innovations in how we relate to poetry has begun to appear. Flemming-May and Green (2016) explore, through a series of online surveys and subsequent series of individual interviews, stakeholders’ attitudes and practices regarding poetry published exclusively in web- based media. The article specifically examines the project’s gathered data on creative writing faculty 184 from North American institutions who were surveyed and interviewed about online poetry publishing as both creators and consumers of the literary works. This study also explores creative writing instructors’ opinions about publishing in online literary publications in regard to career impact, including tenure and promotion. They depart from Sandra Beasley’s observation that “as glossy magazines die by the dozen and blogs become increasingly influential, we face the reality that print venues … are rapidly ceding ground to web-based publishing” (Beasley 2009: 59). They asked survey respondents to report on their online behavior regarding discovering and reading poetry. For the purposes of this study, they regarded these two activities as connected, but distinct. Respondents indicated that they visit the web to read poetry with great frequency: 71% indicated they did so either daily (36%) or weekly (35%) Virtually all survey respondents (99%) reported using the Internet to read poetry, even if they were among the respondents who preferred print publications or expressed skepticism about the quality of work published online. 75% reported that they publish, even if only occasionally, online. Flemming-May and Green concluded that, although online publications may present further challenges, most notably related to legitimacy, and although the innovation in question—the shift of literary publishing from the printed page to the web—has not been completely accepted by the literary social system, there are indications that the diffusion process for this model is well underway. 2.3.2. The Connective Turn: Translation as Echo-Statement Memory studies have been concerned lately with the way our remembering is influenced by the current post-scarcity culture—“the abundance, pervasiveness, and accessibility of communication networks, nodes, and digital media content.” (Hoskins 2011a: 20) According to Andrew Hoskins, as 185 the virtual world took hold of our memories through platforms such as Facebook or Flickr, what we previously conceived as place-bound (depending on family and nation and lodged in monuments and well-defined geographical locations) travels now in the digital space in unpredictable ways: The connective turn is the massively increased abundance, pervasiveness and accessibility of digital technologies, devices and media, shaping an ongoing re- calibration of time, space (and place) and memory by people as they connect with, inhabit and constitute increasingly both dense and diffused social networks. Put differently, the stuff (people, relationships, objects, events) subject to the connective turn is potentially perpetually ‘in-motion’ and suddenly more visible through the connectedness of post-scarcity culture. (Hoskins 2011b: 271) In the new culture of connectivity relationships are forged transmedially, both in the real and in the virtual world. Translation, as a culturally and socially-informed practice, and translators’ agency in what Hoskins terms “the connective turn” need to be looked at, I propose, from this point of view, in their capacity for creativity and collaboration stimulated by network technologies. As translation is “a kind of cultural kinship arrangement” (Cronin 2013: 11) that goes beyond the assimilationist paradigm of space, examining the way cultures relate to each other both online and offline invites a new type of engineering that englobes the geographical space alongside the vastness of Web 2.0. Since the pervasiveness of the digital has affected literary translation less than other types of translation, such an examination should not divorce place-as-we-have-known-it and ought to explore how the offline relates to the online. This stance is so much the more suitable since literary translation journals, platforms, or blogs are an advertising extension of the print. To this extent Cronin adopts Markus Novak’s notion of ‘transArchitecture’ in order to account for a new digital reality, ‘a liquid architecture that is transmitted across the global information networks; within physical space it exists as an invisible electronic double superimposed on our material world.’ (Marcus Novak (2009) cited in Cronin 2012: 15) For Cronin, the transArchitectural is underpinned by the same promise for creativity and expansion, as “the micro-spaces of the transArchitectural 186 become portals, not bolt-holes. Any point in physical space is doubled by a potential point of entry into the vastness of computer networks.” (2012: 15) Unlike macro-modernity, which views difference as oppositional by entertaining an assimilationist, dichotomous paradigm—host spaces receiving multilingual guest speakers that are forced to learn a dominant idiom (Cronin 2013)—micro-modernity looks for the company of strangers and takes advantage from the disintermediated access to the virtual space to establish connections. In this digital space, I argue, translation should not be necessarily analysed in terms of social networks, but as an information network fuelled by users through free labor—large corpora that exist in themselves and are critically dealt with by readers at any time. Such critical treatment— otherwise known as “the network effect”240—may lead to further refashionings of a translated text and, consequently, to a radically different way of connecting to the audience. Besides a novel mode of translator-reader interaction, the digital space lends itself very well to new modes of author-translator associations. In the era of transnationalism and digital communication, contemporary literary translation appears to trigger various international collaborations that go beyond institutionalized practices, being rather driven by private initiative and by tight author-translator relationships. Some of these collaborations have materialized in voluntary online associations/networks of agents (editors, translators, proofreaders, etc.) whose main aim is the popularization of literature originating in small countries or in languages that have been less translated. It has become much easier for such authors to cross the borders of their national literatures and become visible on the stage of world literature, as the post-Gutenberg era helps them circumvent the economic and physical barriers presented by traditional print venues. 240 A phenomenon where increased numbers of people or participants improves the value of a good or service (cf . Investopedia). 187 Similarly, literary translators have started to find ways of soliciting the attention of audiences, and therefore have become involved in advertising the products they work on. The shift from the economy of production to an economy of promotion did not affect only cyber-actants, but also translation itself in terms of quality: as digital consumers’ attention cannot be as vast as the cyberspace, the quality of translations remains the only viable way to attract attention (Cronin 2016). In Chaos Media, Stephen Kennedy discusses the virtues of digital space and, drawing on Leibniz, underlines the fact that one of its main features is the precedence of the qualitative over the quantitative: “[…] a series of interconnections that need to be understood as relative and qualitative phenomena.” (2015: 34, emphases mine) He then goes on to discuss Foucault’s perception of space, which reveals a critique of “total history and the monolithical temporal blocs that it imposes” (2015: 36) at the expense of “specific, singular, local events.” (id.) Kennedy characterizes digital space as a network of qualitatively connected floating locations. In much the same way, translations in digital space are freed of their spatial, geographic limits—they are offered more opportunities to exist by themselves and in themselves and, at the same time, together with other translations from different cultures—and thus all become freely traveling “echostates” (echoic statements) (2015: 73 et infra). Furthermore, translators acquire a higher degree of mobility, a mobility different from the institutional one, and less dependent on financial circumstances. Young or established translators take advantage of the liberties offered by blogs, online journals, and various electronic literary platforms, thus joining the network of digital publishing alongside that of translation. The concept of “sonic economy” that Kennedy advances as typical of digital space is “an appropriately dynamic, mobile mode of analysis […]: one not tethered to representation, one that can accommodate an almost perpetually shifting ground.” (Kennedy 2010: 188 web) It was designed to account for the complexities of contemporary technologically mediated environments and “sets out a mode of thought in which multiple aspects of production, communication and exchange are assigned and/or assume interrelated value, duration, and speed/tempo.” (id.) Translation as transmedial embodiment—both representation and echoic statement that embodies text, culture, and ideology—takes stock of chaos, understood not as disarray, but as patterning, “as a relative continuity punctuated by difference,” (Kennedy 2015: 1) rather than an immovable universal phenomenon. 2.3.3. Translators—the Digital Connection The Romanian literary scene has quickly caught up with the affordances of digital space. Its use of such affordances ranges from personal literary blogs or simply making available the .pdf file of the printed journal, to hybrid websites (like Poesis International241) and online literary platforms (Zona Nouă). However, only a few of these more complex initiatives take place exclusively online: many are extensions of traditional print venues that use digital space to expand their reach beyond print. Those that stay exclusively online are either affiliated to mainstream literary entities (such as the literary translation journal of the Writers’ Union242 or Polirom’s Literary Supplement243) or are various writers’ private initiatives, like Crevice.ro—online multimedia literary journal,244 curated by young poet Andra Rotaru. The latter hosts a network of emerging Romanian writers presented on the “Poetry Shelf” page alongside one of international writers translated into Romanian. We find 241 http://poesisinternational.com/ 242 www.filialatradlit-buc-usr.ro 243 Suplimentul de cultură: www.suplimentuldecultura.ro 244 www.crevice.ro http://poesisinternational.com/ http://www.filialatradlit-buc-usr.ro/ http://www.suplimentuldecultura.ro/ http://www.crevice.ro/ 189 here names like U.S. poet Lloyd Schwartz245, translated by young poet Tiberiu Neacșu, Daniel Owen246 of Brooklyn-based Ugly Duckling Press, or Henry Finch.247 The network that undergirds such a project is not complicated to track and is perhaps entirely based on friendship and literary affinities: for instance, in one interview Tara Skurtu identifies Lloyd Schwartz as her mentor in the creative writing MFA program at the University of Boston and it is no wonder that it is her partner, Tiberiu Neacșu, that translates Schwartz’s text on crevice.ro. This is not to offer unnecessary glimpses of Romanian writers’ personal lives, but to emphasize, once again, that personal networks and private initiatives are salient in contemporary poetry translation: in an interview for The Rumpus on the occasion of launching her latest book, Skurtu declares that she and Neacșu are “the American/Romanian poetry-portal super duo, and [they] aim to get more U.S. poets known [in Romania] and more Romanian poets known in the U.S. and beyond.” (Anderson 2018) Another fully online literary journal is EgoPHobia, founded and run by Germany-based poet and mathematician Sorin-Mihai Grad and philosophy professor and poet Ștefan Bolea. With a history of 53 issues as of April 2018, EgoPHobia has been hosting a sizeable amount of North American contemporary poetry in translation, from transnational Derek Walcott248 to Americans Gary Snyder,249 Michael Heller,250 or Canadian Seymour Mayne.251 What started in June 2004 as a literary venue for self-promotion—“a journal in which to invest time, ideas, and effort, but mostly 245 Schwartz, Lloyd. 2017. “Lucifer in New York.” Web: https://crevice.ro/lucifer-in-new-york/ 246 Owen, Daniel. 2017. “Washing Dishes by Starlight,” “Good Fellowship of Dust,” etc. Web: https://crevice.ro/the- hardness-of-the-stone/ 247 Finch, Henry. 2017. “Hot Still Scape,” “The Bear and the Hammer,” etc. Web: https://crevice.ro/hot-still-scape/ 248 Walcott, Derek. 2017. “Poeme de Derek Walcott.” (Monica Manolachi, Trans.) In EgoPHobia 52. Web: http://egophobia.ro/?p=12007 249 Snyder, Gary. 2013. “Poeme de Gary Snyder.” (Raluca Tanasescu, Trans.) In EgoPHobia 37. Web: http://egophobia.ro/?p=9530 250 Heller, Michael. 2013. “Poeme de Michael Heller.” (Raluca Tanasescu, Trans.) In EgoPHobia 38. Web: http://egophobia.ro/?p=9827 251 Mayne, Seymour. 2012. “Poeme de Seymour Mayne.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In EgoPHobia 34: http://egophobia.ro/?p=8417 https://crevice.ro/lucifer-in-new-york/ https://crevice.ro/the-hardness-of-the-stone/ https://crevice.ro/the-hardness-of-the-stone/ https://crevice.ro/hot-still-scape/ http://egophobia.ro/?p=12007 http://egophobia.ro/?p=9530 http://egophobia.ro/?p=9827 http://egophobia.ro/?p=8417 190 [the owners’] literature in which no one believes but [themselves]”252—gathered a considerable network of collaborators who have been providing constant content, actually all subject to blind reviews, for the past fourteen years. A similar enterprise is Tiuk!253, which has been published exclusively online since 2001. With a dedicated translation section that presents republications254 or new translations,255 this journal provides all the content for free. A more recent literary initiative is subcapitol.ro, a website with a pithy visual component, where scattered translations256 appear alongside poems by Romanian authors. There is no search widget, therefore one cannot distinguish between translations and non-translations unless one clicks the featured image and opens the desired page. Out of the online initiatives that unfold on a multi-layered network, both online and offline, Zona nouă appears to be the most promising project run by young writers. According to Chivu (2015), the initiative started out of a literary circle run by poets Radu Vancu and Dragoș Varga at Lucian Blaga University in Sibiu and took the shape of a print journal in 2012 (Zona nouă), a literary platform (www.zonanoua.com) in 2014, and a festival (The Zona Nouă International Poetry Festival) in 2015. Financially supported by the Lucian Blaga University, by the local Transilvania literary journal and the Astra Library, the project still owes a lot to the butterfly effect of literature. What started as a publication venue for literature students and young poets in Sibiu soon became a 252 The authors jocosely conclude: “So two self-proclaimed poets, Bolea and Grad, suddenly decided they wanted a journal that won’t reject their writings, they looked for a bunch of collaborators with similar expectations and we found ourselves with yet another so-called literary magazine on the local web.” (Grad 2004: web) 253 www.Tiuk.reea.net. 254 A valuable example is the republication of A.E. Baconsky’s translation of “Grass,” by Carl Sandburg: http://bit.ly/2qy73nH. 255 They host translations from various languages, including from U.S. contemporary poets like Jim Harrison (translated by Vlad Drăgoi: http://bit.ly/2GYilMe and http://bit.ly/2qxEMNh). 256 A recent example is a translation by Radu Vancu from the work of Tara Skurtu: http://bit.ly/2JNxYnG. http://www.zonanoua.com/ http://www.tiuk.reea.net/ http://bit.ly/2qy73nH http://bit.ly/2GYilMe http://bit.ly/2qxEMNh http://bit.ly/2JNxYnG 191 publication with a wider scope based one the desire of these young people to connect and to look for resources and practices beyond the national border: After we met young foreign writers and saw what they did in terms of literature and journalism, we started to want to do more and we began to have new poets and young fiction writers from all over the world join us by translating their work, asking them questions, trying to understand better what they did, and also to show what we read, what we discover, and what we like to those of them who were interested. (Vasiliu 2015: web) This long-distance networking resulted in two anthologies, one of ten Spanish poets under thirty, and one of fourteen North-American young writers, as well as in a festival in 2015, where they all met in the flesh and started developing new connections for further collaborations. As Vlad Pojoga—the editor-in-chief of Zona nouă—recounts, the writers who took part in the festival “were following each other on Facebook, Instagram, and blogs, and formed a totally new generation, fully digital and very, very fresh.” (Vasiliu ibid.) Pojoga also recounts how they connected through one of the participants to other writers in many other countries, from the Czech Republic to Portugal to South America, how they animated the city during the festival through volunteers who put up poems on fliers, telephone poles, laptops, wallets, in bookstores, libraries, and pubs. The networks formed online resumed communication in real life and then went back online. However, a different pattern can be noticed for the network of the texts that were exchanged and translated (Figure 16). Supported by various institutions, Zona nouă is sold in bookstores and through mail orders and not much content is actually open access, not even a few months after the publication of any of the issues. The content produced by fully-digital young poets remains very much offline. The website hosts only minimal content meant to guide readers to the actual print journal. In the case of the anthology of young American poets translated into 192 Romanian257—actually a selection of fourteen writers hosted in a double magazine issue in 2014— there is even a dedicated order form on the website. This example shows how digital space enables and furthers literary communication and writer networks and how it may serve in terms of marketing and distribution. The group’s use of the available technology, the image-based concept of the web page that offers minimal content, and the frequently updated Facebook pages may suggest an inherently digital, hip endeavor when, in reality, it is a traditional publishing enterprise that is fuelled by a network of born-digital writers. Figure 16. The circulation of translations in the Zona nouă complex network. A third category of literary initiatives in digital space are literary platforms, which publish literature, non-fiction, criticism, cultural news, interviews, and inquiries. Two of such endeavors are semnebune.ro and liternet.ro. Semne Bune started up in 2009 as an independent mouthpiece for the benefit of Romanian publishers, essentially aiming at increasing the number of readers in general, especially among the youth. In 2011, their offer diversified and now the website contains a very wide range of materials, from theater reviews to translations. The latter are seen as a 257 ***. 2014. “Everything in Its Right Place.” In Zona nouă 3-4. 193 “playground,” brimful of creativity, and may be found in various sections of the website.258 LiterNet was founded and launched in 1999 as a website to promote Romanian literature, but only two years later its scope was expanded, so that now it hosts a slew of different sections, from e-publications to music news. Translations are usually hosted in the “Atelier LiterNet” section, alongside theoretical essays on the craft of translation259, interviews with translators, and translation reviews. Under the moniker “Poem of the Week” one may find both poems in the original language and translations and the rubric is once in a while curated by a poet (http://bit.ly/2HsoOyF).260 Finally, like any other artists, poets have their own fandom and the dialogue with them often takes place on personal blogs, where the readers talk back through spatially-connected comments. Fans, or readers, provide almost instant feedback and thus become participants in the creative process besides being authors of the respective blog themselves. While traditional media studies have considered blogging as “a space for one person to voice their opinion,” (Booth 2017: 56) more recent approaches include readers as content makers and community builders, while blogs are seen as documents permanently expanded by comment additions, not only the owner’s publishing new posts (id.). If print capitalism led to a series of large-scale projects of ethnic affinity (Appadurai 1996: 28), translation in the new economy of attention becomes a living text that gathers around it readers and agents with similar literary tastes, thus encouraging congregations of literary affinity that float in an indefinite space. 258 For instance, some of Seymour Mayne’s word sonnets (http://bit.ly/2qxjAaV), David Baker’s (http://bit.ly/2HBWA23) and Bruce Bond’s (http://bit.ly/2qx4FNV) most recent poems in Romanian translation (all by Chris Tanasescu) or Vlad A. Gheorghiu’s translation of Gregory Corso (http://bit.ly/2vd72dz) are listed in the section Preface, which also hosts book launch ads and interviews. 259 LiterNet.ro hosts a large amount of essays signed by Bogdan Ghiu, translation theorist and translator of M. Foucault, J. Derrida, P. Bourdieu, G. Deleuze, F. Guattari, G. Bataille, and others into Romanian. 260 While a curator of “Poem of the Week” in 2016 and 2017, Ioana Ieronim published translations from various world poetries, including from the U.S. (Christopher Merril: http://bit.ly/2HAS03S). LiterNet also hosted, among others, one of Charles Bukowski’s poems translated by Dan Sociu: http://bit.ly/2HAOBSE. http://bit.ly/2HsoOyF http://bit.ly/2qxjAaV http://bit.ly/2HBWA23 http://bit.ly/2qx4FNV http://bit.ly/2vd72dz http://bit.ly/2HAS03S http://bit.ly/2HAOBSE 194 Literary blogs in Romania are extremely numerous and publishing translations or translation reviews on such blogs is a current practice. For instance, an interesting discussion on the need for yet another anthology of contemporary American poetry has taken place on Claudiu Komartin’s blog, unanotimpinberceni.blogspot.ro. In a post about U.S. poetry anthologies published in Romanian before 2011, Komartin provides his ideal line-up261 of contemporary American poets and evokes a number of other poets preferred by various Romanian authors who commented on this piece of writing. The blog post also reveals the names of several translators that this community considers as experimented, like Chris Tanasescu, Rareş Moldovan, Domnica Drumea, Dan Sociu, Radu Vancu. The twenty-seven comments also contain three translations of poems by Anne Sexton and W.H. Auden, posted by an anonymous user in response to Komartin’s piece, without any other remark. Each translation mentions the name of the translator, Petru Dimofte, a name I have not come across in any other context except for the digital one. Further research does not reveal anything about this translator except for the hundreds of poems he has translated and published on various websites. However self-effacing the translator, the Romanian versions he offers are good, while other translations from more formal poets published by him elsewhere are sometimes excellent. A final example is a translation-dedicated blog by young poet Florin Buzdugan, traduceriledesambata.wordpress.ro, where young translators offer their versions for poems by John Berryman262, James Laughlin263, Daniel Borzutzky264, or Sam Hamill265. 261 Komartin’s choices are: “John Ashbery / W.H. Auden / Ted Berrigan / John Berryman / Charles Bukowski / Billy Collins / Gregory Corso / Lawrence Ferlinghetti / Allen Ginsberg / Louise Glück / Jack Kerouac / Denise Levertov / Philip Levine / Robert Lowell / W.S. Merwin / Frank O'Hara / Charles Olson / Robert Pinsky / Sylvia Plath / Elizabeth Bishop / Kenneth Rexroth / Anne Sexton / Charles Simic / W.D. Snodgrass / Gary Snyder / Mark Strand.” (2011: web) 262 Berryman, John. 2015. “Două poeme de John Berryman.” (Ioana Ungureanu, Trans.) Web: http://bit.ly/2H6vHWL 263 Laughlin, James. 2015. “Trei poeme de James Laughlin.” (Ioana Ungureanu, Trans.) Web: http://bit.ly/2HrNpmR 264 Borzutzky, Daniel. 2015. “Două poeme de Daniel Borzutzky.” (Ioana Ungureanu, Trans.) Web: http://bit.ly/2JRD7L8; and Borzutzky, Daniel. 2015. “Poem de stat.” (Ioana Ungureanu, Trans.) Web: http://bit.ly/2H1pAmt 265 Hamill, Sam. 2016. “Poemul new-yorkez; Ceea ce știe apa.” (Florin Buzdugan, Trans.) Web: http://bit.ly/2JLduff http://bit.ly/2H6vHWL http://bit.ly/2HrNpmR http://bit.ly/2JRD7L8 http://bit.ly/2H1pAmt http://bit.ly/2JLduff 195 *** Poetry translation in digital space is a current practice, but how does it affect translation as we know it? How does digital space enable translation? E-zines preserve intermediation through dedicated editing teams but disrupt other links in the trade publishing chain, such as printers, distributors, and retailers, and they enhance users’ access. Digital space is not marred by the idea of translation as a second-rate text, as it is rarely presented alongside the original, and when it is, the two texts are not both on the same page: original and translation live their own separate lives due to the affordance of hyperlinks. Moreover, whenever accompanied by images, translation becomes performed, visually-enhanced, itself translated into image. Last but not least, digital space does not entertain obsolescence and therefore re-translation is generally far from being perceived as necessarily needed. Besides offering instant access, the online also allows translators a high degree of liberty and the possibility of permanent revisions. Translations thus become living texts, embodiments of their translator’s agency and of their readers’ feedback, or, in Kennedy’s words, echostatements. 196 CHAPTER 3. CHAOS OUT OF ORDER: TRANSLATIONS OF AMERICAN AND CANADIAN CONTEMPORARY POETRY INTO ROMANIAN BEFORE 1989 3.1. Translators’ Agency in a Centralized (‘Star-Like’) Translation Network The purpose of this chapter in the economy of this research is twofold. After Chapter 2 explored translation features published in the print periodical network between 2007 and 2017 and illustrated the theoretical framework provided in the introductory section and in Chapter 1, I set out to provide what I believe is a much needed brief historical overview of the role played by such literary journals in the circulation of U.S. and Canadian modern and contemporary poetry translated into Romanian before 1989. Chapter 3 is intentionally displaced from a chronological point of view because it does not only facilitate a better understanding of why print periodicals have been so important in Romanian literary history, but it also aims to describe the network of translated contemporary poetry author-collections and anthologies before the fall of communism. In doing so, it sets the context for investigating the translated book publishing network after 1989, which I broach in the final chapter. Understanding the practices of Romanian poetry translators before and between the two World Wars and then during the difficult years of communist rule is necessary because it allows us to have a better grasp of why and how translation happened, how such mechanisms were perpetuated after the country’s political status changed, and, more importantly for my objectives, what was the role of translators in shaping a corpus of American and Canadian contemporary poetry. First, I point out the importance of literary translation for shaping up Romanian poetry as we know it today, as well as the role played by poet-translators in this process. My contention is 197 that modern and contemporary U.S. and Canadian poetry translation between 1867266 and 1989 owes greatly its existence to Romanian poets’ work: while the overwhelming majority of author- collections were published by Univers Press, the landscape of poetry anthologies is more varied and emphasizes the essential role translators have always played. Second, and in parallel, this chapter underscores the central position that literary journals have always had in the activity of literary translation, alongside translators’ initiatives and cultural mobility. While it can be argued that journals are institution-like structures that shape the taste of their audiences, in Romania we have witnessed a reversal of this situation: most literary periodicals were founded or changed their orientation according to the taste of their following. Finally, I posit that poetry translation in Romania has followed its own pattern and was not only influenced by the practices of more hegemonic cultures: while their taste did have a role in modelling the translators’ wish to align Romanian culture to the more established ones, patterns were also largely determined by translators’ personality, historical circumstances, and translators’ networks. The latest research carried out by various scholars on the position of Romanian literature within and as world literature (Martin, Moraru, and Terian, Eds. 2018) conjectures that “the emphasis on the nation-state as a “basic unit” of analysis and on nationalism broadly can be defined […] as the tendency of a system to limit cultural mobility.” (Goldiș 2018: 95) Or, as these scholars demonstrate, Romanian literary history, including the translations it contains, has never been subsumed to a static mode of existence, but to a deeply transnational traffic of cultural goods, “no matter how “marginal,” stable, all-of-a-piece, and well configured most literary histories picture them.” (ibid.: 96) This new criticism of the old modes of analysis of Europe’s southeastern 266 The year the literary society Junimea was founded, marking the beginning of modern Romanian literature. 198 peripheries includes the “original vs. translation” model, which they regard as obsolete and non- reflective of the mergers cultures establish and of the multiple cultural memberships foreign writers acquire through translation. Alex Goldiș proposes an interactional model for the analysis of literary histories grounded in Stephen Greenblatt’s notion of “cultural mobility” (Greenblatt 2009) and notes that instead of trying to fill the gaps of national literary history by linking the numerous translations from Allen Ginsberg, for instance, to an autochtonous tradition, one may benefit more from an interactional model that unearths those geocultural nodes which enabled the meeting of the Romanian and U.S. cultures and stimulated them. Carmen Mușat (2018) too goes beyond the imitation stereotype and analyzes the importance of geocultural networks for the rise of modern Romanian literature. To her, looking at others does not mean imitation or a derivative body of work, but a highly formative act engendered by new aesthetic protocols, concordance, and kinship, all marked by the idea of exchange and not by mere emulation. Mușat argues that the perpetually shifting borders of that part of Europe have created a more complex literary environment, marked not by one national identity, but by multiple, “intersectional,” and “nodal” identities. A short relaxation in an otherwise very strict communist ideology during the late 1960s and the early 1970s had French structuralism enter Romanian universities and caused a massive interest in the French nouveau roman and in contemporary American poetry. The interest in the latter was furthered by the large number of Romanian writers and professors emigrating to the U.S. and also to Canada after the cultural liberalization ended in the late 1970s. As we shall see, they were salient in proposing anthologies mirroring their new cultures of adoption and influenced a whole new generation of writers, the the so-called ‘Generation of the 1980s,’ whose representatives integrated new American writing in their own postmodern work, as a reaction to a pithy European complex. According to Mușat, this process happened in perfect synchronicity with American postmodernism 199 and took place through a series of translations done in the 1970s, a moment of perfect synchrony with the world’s literature. The corpus of author-collections (Figure 17a and Figure 17b) translated before 1989 and marking this generations’s interest in their American counterparts (Diane Wakoski, Frank O’Hara, alongside Pound, Plath, Eliot, W. Stevens, T. Roethke, W.D. Snoddgrass, and W.S. Merwin) form a disconnected network dominated by a ‘star-like’ giant component—Univers Press as a central hub of translations from contemporary poets (higher clustering and higher average density, cf. Annex 4): Figure 17a. Contemporary U.S. poetry collections translated before 1989. Legend: red = publishers, blue = authors The most central and influential nodes are Univers Press and Ezra Pound both in G and G0. However, it is the disconnected component, the translation published by Albatros, which would be republished after 1989, while none of the other translations have ever been republished. The only 200 poets retranslated by different translators after 1989 are T.S. Eliot267 and Ezra Pound. Data visualization alone does not point to translators’ agency. When translators are factored in the visualization, the resulting graph indicates translators Constantin Abăluță and Ștefan Stoenescu as preferred by Univers Press for contemporary poetry projects and all the others (L. Ursu, I. Caraion, V. Teodorescu, P. Negoșanu, Ioan A. Popa, and V. Nicolescu,) as potentially having a more important role in the decision-making process prior to the publication of these translations: Figure 17b. Network of publishers, authors, and translators before 1989. Legend: red = publishers, blue = authors, green = translators Throughout this chapter, I investigate available second sources and paratexts in an attempt to trace agency patterns related to the beginnings of American and Canadian English-language translation into Romanian that might have continued after 1960. 267 The only pre-1989 translations included in the retranslation of poems by Ezra Pound (2015) and T.S. Eliot (2010) published by Humanitas belong to Mircea Ivănescu, who had included those poems in his 1986 anthology. 201 3.2. The Earliest Connections to the ‘New World’ (1867-1918) In 1840, Romanian statesman, historian, and publicist Mihail Kogălniceanu had made what appears as a controversial, unsubstantiated statement: “Translations do not make a literature.” 268 Kogălniceanu’s attitude was determined by the doubtful taste of Romanian aristocrats for mediocre French poetry and, subsequently, by a series of low-grade translations from the French. His remark was only one moment in Kogălniceanu’s goal for his newly-established Dacia literară, a journal for the Romanians in all three historic provinces, to promote original, local literature—inspired by Romanian folklore and history—as well as an objective literary critique. However, it can be easily surmised that translations continued to play an important role in these provinces. As historian János Kohn aptly notes in one of the few overviews of this country’s tradition in translations that: The flourishing of translation activity during the nineteenth century had an enduring influence on Romanian cultural life and helped to bring Romania closer to the rest of Europe. The influence of French culture could be seen in the overall process of modernization which began to take place. (2009: 514) Indeed so, the beginnings of the activity of literary translation owe a lot to French, both as source language and as a bridge for those languages that were unfamiliar to the Romanians. This process even led to the formation of the local literary language. The historical and religious writings of the 17th century had showcased a rigid language (with the exception of Dosoftei269), which started to assimilate words from Turkish, Greek and Russian in the 18th century, becoming almost incomprehensible. But Romanians started to learn French and adopt French manners, also because of the bias caused by the close relationships they had with the Russians and the Greeks. Also, 268 Ro. “Traducțiile nu fac, totuși, o literatură.” (Kogălniceanu, Mihail. “Introducție la Dacia literară. 1840 (program estetic).” Unpaginated. 269 Dosoftei (1624-1693): Moldavian priest, scholar, poet, and translator, best known for his Psalter in Verse (“Psaltirea în versuri”)—a translation that played a paramount role in the development of Romanian literary language. 202 starting in 1766, French language and literature teaching became mandatory in the Greek schools attended by Romanian noblemen, and in 1848, after the French (and Romanian) revolution, French became the second language of the elite. Little by little, the translations done from French enriched the language and modified the syntax. In her La Traduction. Là où tout est pareil et rien n’est semblable, Romanian scholar Magda Jeanrenaud argues that there has been historically an objective necessity for translations from great [major] literatures and explains in very clear terms the utmost influence that translations from French had over the formation of the Romanian literary language: C’est donc par l’intermédiaire des traductions que la langue roumaine prend conscience de son hétérogénéité, de son désordre, de sa pauvreté et ceci par le double effort de compréhension et de transposition des textes français dans le travail de traduction. […] Le français aurait ainsi servi de principe ordonnateur, capable de déterminer l’appréhension du désordre, mais aussi d’offrir les instruments nécessaires pour y réagir. (2012: 68) Since the second half of the 19th century, Romania has been a strongly francophone country in spite of its distance from France and of the fact that this is not about a culture, the French, colonizing another culture, the Romanian. The two countries had strong cultural, political and economic ties between the mid-19th century and the beginning of the 20th, doubled by an extraordinary large number of translations from French literature that was aimed at compensating for the lack of strong literary production in Romania. At the same time, they were both Romance languages, a reality that had a great influence on the interest of many Romanian upper class people in pursuing their studies in France. Magda Jeanrenaud rightfully concludes: « Pour que cette littérature ‘morte’ ressuscite, il aura fallu un miracle et ce miracle eut lieu sous l’influence de la civilisation française […] » (ibid.: 59) American literature became popular in Moldova and Wallachia due to the appeal of the Enlightenment to the intellectuals of that time, and the beginnings of this activity takes place 203 through the intermediary of French translations done by Baudelaire or Mallarmé. In Transylvania, the mechanism was a bit different, because of the education that children of local boyars used to receive in Paris, Berlin, Pisa, and Vienna. If in the 17th century translations were meant only to bring prestige to the vernacular language and the 18th century was mostly marked by nationalism, resistance to foreign leanings, and translations limited to church doctrines and practical matters, the beginning of the 19th shifted the interest to the subject matter of such foreign texts. That is why the first American author whose work was ever translated into Romanian was Benjamin Franklin— a philosopher and political theorist that was much admired for his common sense wisdom— followed by authors such as Thomas Jefferson or Thomas Paine. Franklin’s experiments and interest in technological progress gained traction in Transylvania towards the end of the 18th century. His livres de sagesse were much appreciated at the time and also, very importantly, approved by the Orthodox Church, but his literary works were translated only later. The flourishing of literary translations into Romanian is related to the appearance of literary supplements. Curierul românesc (1829), founded by Ion Heliade Rădulescu in Bucharest, Albina românească, established at Iași by Gheorghe Asachi, Mozaicul, started by Contantin Lecca in Craiova (Oltenia), or Gazeta de Transilvania and Foaie pentru minte, inimă și literatură, founded by George Barițiu and Timotei Cipariu in Transylvania, were instrumental in promoting literature in translation in all Romanian principalities. It was due to such intellectuals that Wallachians and Moldavians learned about Robertson’s History of America, Niagara Falls, the American Declaration of Independence,270 the American Constitution, and about the American way of life in general. 270 Translated in 1846 by historian and academic Simion Bărnuțiu. 204 Let us turn back to Kogălniceanu’s remark that translations do not make a literature. As Paul Cernat rightfully observes in his suggestively titled piece—“Translations do make a literature” (2016: web, emphasis mine) —, “[this remark] needs to be taken with a grain of salt: not as a form of cultural protectionism, but as a compensatory reaction against the excess of (superficially) executed adaptations, at the expense of original, local literary production.” (ibid.) Rightfully so, Kogălniceanu’s contribution to the development of literary translation was salient. He edited an almanac in the tradition of Benjamin Franklin and also declared that “[j]ournalism should follow the example of Franklin.” (cited in Perry 2001: 41). His own prose was modeled on Franklin’s, albeit drawing heavily on Romanian folk culture. Kogălniceanu was part of the 1848 generation, the pașoptist, known for shaping political structures and for “providing the start toward a genuine, distinctive literature,” (Perry ibid.) as well as for its synchronization with world literature. That happened especially after the Union of Moldova and Wallachia under the rule of Alexandru Ioan Cuza in 1859, when various intellectuals trained in France or Germany started to show interest in aligning their home culture to the Western European and American ones. The interest shifted from the subject matter to the literary values of alien cultures. In this context, Romania’s first literary critic, Titu Maiorescu, founder of the Junimea (Youth) Society and of the Convorbiri literare journal (1867), was a professed ‘retentionist’ and a fervent adversary of the ‘contentless forms,’ that is, the social and cultural life that slavishly imitates foreign models without being well-prepared to do so or that adopts foreign traditions which do not resonate with the cultural legacy of the Romanian people. Maiorescu dedicated special attention to New Realist authors, such as Americans Brent Harte and Mark Twain. And in his study titled “O cercetare critică asupra poeziei române de la 1867,” (A Critical Overview of Romanian Poetry as of 1867) Maiorescu introduces his colleagues at Junimea to the work of Edgar Allan Poe through the latter’s celebrated 205 poem The Raven, arguably the first contact between the Romanian and American poetry, via translations done in France by Charles Baudelaire, Stéphane Mallarmé and Paul Valéry (Călinescu 1987). While Baudelaire saw Poe as a victim of American democracy and as a martyr in the catalogue of modern artistic alienation,” (Călinescu ibid.: 55) Thomas Amherst Perry argues that the Romanian critic was attracted by Poe’s crusading attack on mediocrity and the attention to craftsmanship,” (ibid.: 50) but also by Poe’s philosophy of composition, which Maiorescu thought should stress “rich overtones that expand meaning and feeling.” (id.) Maiorescu’s admiration for Poe bore immediate fruit: Mihai Eminescu—destined to become Romania’s leading poet, and Ion Luca Caragiale—later on the most valuable Romanian playwright— became familiar with Poe’s work and even translated quite extensively passages from his fiction. Unlike Baudelaire, who saw America as the embodiment of modern democracy, “which is nothing but the triumph of that which is both most natural and worst in man (self-interest, aggressiveness, herd instinct, etc.),” (ibid.: 57) both Romanian writers were attracted by Poe’s use of folk motifs, by how his realism mingled with the supernatural, by his satirical overtones, alongside the paradoxical mixture of feelings, order, and reason. However, it is not Eminescu or Caragiale who translated from Poe’s poetry. The Raven is first translated at the beginning of the 1890s, making it one of the texts that marked the arrival of Modernism in Romanian literature. Poet and literary theorist Alexandru Macedonski, one of Maiorescu’s opponents and a symbolist poet experimenting with free verse, showed an overt interest in the American’s poetry and qualified The Raven as very “original and unsurpassed as fantasy.” (Verzea: 556-557, cited in Perry 2001) Macedonski’s associates translated The Raven 14 times between 1890 and 1915, all but one rendered in prose. The first version in verse is the one published by I. C. Săvescu in Liga literară in 1895. Caragiale’s less famous son, Luca Ion Caragiale— 206 poet, novelist, and translator—, also “renders successfully The Raven,” (Szabo 2012: 20) published posthumously in 1937 in Viața românească.271 Viața românească has been one of the most influential journals in the literary history of Romania, which owes its status to its long-time editor- in-chief Garabet Ibrăileanu, a promoter of “an interactive model of national cultures based on the dynamic character of global space.” (Goldiș 2018: 95) As Goldiș further notes, in spite of the rather nationalist tone of Ibrăileanu’s own writing, his view of world literature is not anchored in a model of stable national cultures—quite an original take on the world’s literary map for his time. Another version272 by George Murnu (writer, translator and literary historian) is published that very same year in Revista fundațiilor regale—the most reputed Romanian cultural magazine between the two World Wars, which only a few months later features a selection273 of Poe’s poems translated by Emil Gulian, himself a poet. The selection was a preview of the volume published by Gulian the following year: Poems of Edgar Allan Poe274—“the first translation in book form by a single Romanian translator.” (Cotrău 2014: 82) Later on Poe’s popularity among Romanian writers leads to another book of translations, titled Poezii și poeme,275 this time under the umbrella of Editura Tineretului and translated by Mihu Dragomir, another poet, fiction writer and translator, a former cultural officer in the Romanian Communist Party-affiliated Organization of Progressive Youth and also an editor for various literary publications after World War II. With Mihu, Poe enters a more institutionalized mode of translation, though one that does not want to do away with previous valuable versions. Gulian’s rendition of The Raven and of Poe’s poems in general remains 271 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1937. “Corbul.” (L. I. Caragiale, Trans.) In Viața românească XXIX (7): 39-44. 272 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1937. “Corbul.” (G. Murnu, Trans.) In Revista Fundațiilor Regale IV (3): 483-492. 273 Gulian, Emil. 1937. „Poeme din Edgar Poe”. In Revista Fundațiilor Regale IV (12): 538-539. 274 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1938. Poemele lui Edgar Allan Poe (Emil Gulian, Trans., Foreword). București: Editura Fundațiilor regale pentru literatură si artă. 275 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1964. Poezii si poeme (Mihu Dragomir, Trans., Foreword). București: Editura Tineretului. 207 the most popular (Carlson 1985). The volume he published in 1938 at EPLU bears the following subtitle: “Translated from the English in their [original] meter, and with an introduction by Emil Gulian,” 276 probably a response to the many previous renditions dubbed as ‘prose poems’, after the French fashion. However, the first attempt to translate Poe’s The Raven in rhymed verse belonged to G. D. Pencioiu,277 who turned to a German version (ibid.). In 1963, EPLU publishes yet another selection of Poe’s prose and poems,278 in which they include Gulian’s translations alongside a version of the same text by Dan Botta, a poet and translator that belonged to the same generation as Gulian. The book is re-edited in 1968, followed by a fifth edition279 in 1979. Finally, in 1987, Editura Univers publishes yet another selection280 of translations of Corbul, 15 versions of The Raven by 15 Romanian translators, whose work covers only part of the impressive number of translations published starting in 1890. A bibliographical study281 put together by the Metropolitan Library in Bucharest lists 35 features of Corbul in periodicals between 1890 and 1987 and 138 critical references to Poe’s work, which bears witness to the immense influence the American poet had on modern Romanian literature, as well as to the essential role played by individuals in disseminating his work through translation. A radiography of Poe’s Romanian translators shows that most of them were poets,282 among whom the American counterpart was extremely popular for his craft, outlined best in his The 276 [Ro.] Traduse din limba engleză în forma lor cu un studiu introductiv de Emil Gulian. 277 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1891. “Corbul” (Gripen = G. D Pencioiu, Trans.). In Românul literar 19: 146. 278 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1963/1968. Scrieri Alese (Emil Gulian and Dan Botta, Trans.). București: Editura pentru literatură universală. 279 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1979. Scrieri alese (În româneste de Ion Vinea, Constantin Vonghizaș, Emil Gulian și Dan Botta; Studiu introductiv de Zoe Dumitrescu-Bușulenga). București: Univers. 280 Poe, Edgar Allan. 1987. Annabel Lee și alte poeme (Ediție îngrijită, prefață, cronologie și comentarii de Liviu Cotrău). București: Univers. 281 Available online at http://bit.ly/2EFqWxt. 282 St.[efan] P.[etică] (1896; poet); Axelrad Luca (1909, Jewish-Romanian poet, translator, and publisher); Nicolae Daşcovici (1911; lawyer, historian, and publisher); Emil Gulian (1938/1963/1968/1979; poet); Mihu Dragomir (1964; poet, fiction writer); Dan Botta (1968/1969/1979; poet and essayist); G. D. Pencioiu (Gripen) (1891, 1892, 1904, 1987, http://bit.ly/2EFqWxt 208 Philosophy of Composition (1946). The essay on the Romanian translations of Poe, signed by Liviu Cotrău, rightfully notes that “the fact that three of Romania’s most distinguished writers had chosen to translate [him] was to contribute decisively to his fame.” (2014: 78) Poe’s impact does not cease with the end of modernism. Matei Călinescu (2003) demonstrates the American’s influence over the work of one of the most important Romanian avant-garde poets, Ion Barbu, while Cosmin Ciotloș (2009) notes his impact on contemporary poet Ioan Es. Pop’s Ieudul fără ieșire (Locked Ieud), a cult-book of the 1990s, typically seen as an alternative and personal history of the troubled communist period. The next in the series of American poets started by Poe was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, first translated by Bonifaciu Florescu, a French professor and a historian of culture, associated with Macedonski and a defendant of prosody.283 His versions, along with others that followed (by Vasile Alexandrescu-Urechia or George Coșbuc), were mostly published in the independent Vatra (The Hearth), and from the French. According to Perry, “Excelsior” is translated at least seven times by the end of the 19th century. The first translation from the English was done by poet Șt. O. Iosif in 1897. At the beginning of the 20th century, Nicolae Iorga, historian and literary critic extraordinaire, founded Semănătorul, a moderate literary magazine that brought together independent-minded writers such as Iosif, George Coșbuc, Ioan Slavici and Caragiale, all interested in Longfellow’s work, lawyer, translator, travel writer); Iuliu Cezar Săvescu (1893, 1895, 1987, poet, translator); L. I. Caragiale (1937, 1987, poet, novelist, translator); George Murnu (1937, 1987, historian, translator, poet); N. Parsenna (1943, 1987, poetry translator); P. P. Stănescu (1945, 1975, 1987, unidentified); Teodor Boşca (1958, 1987, playwright, translator); Petre Solomon (1970, 1987, professor of English, translator); Mihaela Haşeganu (1971, 1987, poet, translator); Marcel Breslaşu (1973, 1987, poet, composer, translator); I. Cassian Mătăsaru (1973, 1987, poet, translator); Ovidiu Bogdan (1975, 1987, unidentified); I. S. Sp.[artali] (1890, journalist, translator); I. Th.[eodorescu] (1892, unidentified); I. D. Ghiocel (1892, unidentified); Dim. C. Zavalide (1905, journalist, translator); Horia Petra-Petrescu (1909, journalist, playwright, prose writer, translator); Alexandru Viţianu (1921, poet, prose writer); Paul Sterian (1932, poet, civil servant); Alexandru T. Stamatiad (1945, poet, prose writer, playwright, translator); Ştefan Augustin Doinaş (1974, 1987, poet). 283 Ironically, he renders Longfellow’s “Excelsior” and “Psalm of Life” in prose. 209 in his topics, and tone. Verzea notes that Șt. O. Iosif was attracted by Longfellow’s “optimism, lively rhythms, sentimentalism, and moral tone,” (Perry ibid.: 560), while Perry also adds the sweet sentimental sadness that would have matched Iosif’s own tone (ibid.: 68). Iorga also becomes acquainted with Ralph Waldo Emerson, from whose work he translates three poems—“Freedom,” “Fate,” and “Pan,” which catered to Romanians’ taste for realism, but also the sensible and the fantastic-mysterious. 3.3. U.S. Poetry Translation between the Two World Wars With the birth of Greater Romania in 1918 and fueled by the victory of the Allies, the country experienced a real synchronization with Western Europe. Translations from American poetry via the French diminished in number, as Romanian translators became familiar with the English and started translating from the original language. Before the Great War, an important moment for this activity had been the upgrade of the American diplomatic representation in Bucharest to that of a Legation and the appointment of Eugene Schuyler as Diplomatic Agent and General Consul. Schuyler and the following diplomats contributed to increasing trade between the two countries and American writers became more widely read. In addition, cultural exchanges with the New World started playing a role of paramount importance. Iorga began collaboration with a Romanian-American newspaper in Cleveland—America—and various delegations of Romanian writers participated in the meetings of PEN Club International. In Bucharest, sculptor Constantin Brâncuși and musician George Enescu are among the ones who establish a Society for Friendship with the United States, under the patronage of Queen Mary in 1926. 210 Nine more translations of Poe’s The Raven were published between the two World Wars, but the literary genre of preference remained fiction. Romanians began to also show interest in critical articles on such writers, as well as in studies on American literature in general, with Poe and Whitman listed as “the American poets of first water.” (Perry ibid.: 80) But their attention is mostly focused on literary matters at home, on creating a cultural unity alongside the political one. Many of the translators committed to opening Romanian culture to American culture were men of letters, especially poets engaged in the debate between synchronism and protochronism, as Kohn aptly notes in his entry on Romanian translations: “During the first half of the twentieth century, a number of excellent translations were published by scholars who were established poets in their own right.” (ibid.: 514) One of the few American poets that joined the ranks of Romanian literature aficionados at the beginning of the century was Walt Whitman. The Romanian avantgarde writers, although displaying a clear penchant for French literature, found a great model in Whitman’s free verse, which served perfectly the rhythms of the local language. Tudor Arghezi translated “The Gods,” while Tristan Tzara offered two renditions of “Song of Myself” in 1911 and 1915 (cf. Perry 2001). The Union of all the historic Romanian provinces into one coherent country in 1918 brought along an awareness of a real danger the Romanian culture faced: that of being perceived as a mere appendage of the French. Since American culture was trying to assert its independence from British culture, the sympathy between the two strengthened, conscientiously or not. But, as Perry shrewdly notes, “[t]he Romanians exercised an individuality that set their interests in [American literature] apart from that of other Europeans.” (ibid.: 73). The selections of poems by Poe, Longfellow, or Whitman were very different from the selections published in French or German, and the critical preferences were different from those in Western Europe. Romanian poets before the Word War I 211 showed great interest in transcendental experiences, in the fantastic, the strange, and the absurd, as well as in the craftsmanship of the poets, especially expressed in short lyrics and free verse. The 1930s mark the beginning of an interest in more contemporary American poets, such as Edgar Lee Masters, William Carlos Williams, or Langston Hughes. This interest was mainly fueled by three influential books. The first one was America și românii din America (1930), Nicolae Iorga’s travelogue containing his impressions after a three-month visit to the New Continent, in which he concludes that there are elements in this newly established culture that could be useful for the Romanian one. In Iorga’s spirit, a group of young intellectuals, Noua generație, that wanted to go beyond the French influence and open Romania to more diverse perspectives, started to be more and more vocal. One of them was Petru Comarnescu, who won a grant to study in the United States. His book—the second important one in establishing a more substantial relationship with America, Homo Americanus (1933), sets out to defend the New World and its noble spirit, a reaction to the mockery the country was subject to in Western Europe. This volume also presents some reflections on American literature: Whitman was considered by Comarnescu a “true poet,” alongside Sandburg and Masters, “because of his natural stoicism and resigned, detached observation of scenes of life and death;” (ibid.: 92) Frost’s poetry was seen as the most interesting mixture of nature and sensitivity; Lindsay was appreciated for the mystic and pure notes of his verse, as well as for its Biblical rhythms, while Pound was extolled for his contributions to “revolutionary” American poetics, and “perfection of form.” (id.) Besides this book on his American experience, Comarnescu gives lectures in Bucharest on American jazz (Bârna 2016) and is the leader of a new generation gathered around the Criterion literary circle, together with Mircea Eliade, Mircea Vulcănescu, Dan Botta, Margareta Sterian, and others. His position was in stark contrast with that of Al. I. Philippide, 212 who thought that talking about American culture was a bit of a stretch, “for America has only technology.”284 A third seminal book for the history of poetry translation into Romanian is Portrete lirice (1936) by Ion Pillat, one of Romania’s greatest modernists. Pillat’s work aligned with critic Eugen Lovinescu’s principles of synchronism and differentiation. According to these two principles, despite the fact that Romanian literature generally needs to coordinate its development with other European literatures, its writers should also broach new ways of writing. If Romanian modernism is much influenced by established literary models, such as the Greek and Latin literary production, or French symbolism, it also draws heavily on the themes and myths of its own literary past. This is one of the reasons why interwar Romanian poetry deeply resonated with that of T.S. Eliot, for example, for whom tradition equated the cultural heritage of all humankind and experimentation was a quintessential part of a poet’s work: “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” (Eliot 1931: ix). Anglo-American modernism was very attractive to Pillat because he considered that, just like the Romanians, American poets have their national specificity. Pillat’s book includes translations from Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Edwin Arlington Robinson, Robert Frost, Carl Sandburg, Edgar Lee Masters, Vachel Lindsay, and Amy Lowell. His own poetry volume, Poezii285, contains additional translations from Masters and Lowell, and includes a new poet in translation—Sara Teasdale. Pillat resonated with their concerns for American folk life, humanism, primitive power, American Transcendentalism, multi-planned perspective, rejection of symbol and allegories, preference for conciseness, precision, and condensation, and also with their simplicity without being banal. As Perry shrewdly notes, Pillat’s translations of Eliot are an attempt to 284 Philippide, Al. I. 1930. “Paul Morand și Americano-mania.” In Viața românească 7-8: 124-126. 285 Pillat, Ion. 1967. Poezii (vol. 1-2). București: Editura pentru literatură. 213 synthesize modern poetic techniques, including film and theater devices. In her monography dedicated to the Romanian translations of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, Roxana Bîrsanu notes that “[b]y means of [his] translation agenda, [Pillat] revealed his intention to introduce the less known forms of European poetry to Romanian redership,” (2014: 30) and “the preoccupation of Romanian letters in the interwar period with reaching a point of convergence between the European spirit and the local forms of expression.” (id.) Furthermore, Pillat describes the new American poetry as characterized by popular motif, but expressed in sophisticated and refined forms. He recommended American poetry as an example to follow “because it has learned how to assimilate a true expression of its nation’s soul.” (Perry ibid.: 100) One of the most prominent literary journals of the period was Gândirea (The Thinking). Although a proponent of home-grown traditionalist ideas, this cultural magazine was the literary hub that attracted most of the poets who translated various American poets, like Al. Busuioceanu— a translator of Whitman’s work—, Dragoș Protopopescu—who translated Robinson for his powerful syntax, tense phrases, severity of line, and amplified reticence286—, Petre Grimm—the translator of Longfellow’s “Evangeline” and “Excelsior,” reminiscent of Romanian landscape. Whitman had been introduced for the first time to Romanian audiences by Leo Bachelin, the librarian of the Romanian Royal Court, in an essay in Convorbiri literare (1912). Tudor Arghezi is the first who translated several Whitman poems in their entirety: in 1911 he publishes the Romanian translation of “Dalliance of the Eagle” and “Gods” in Versuri, a newly-founded Modernist literary journal. Then the Symbolist- turned-Dadaist Tristan Tzara translates passages from “Song of Myself,” attracted by Whitman’s irony and word music, which he emphasized in his translations. In 1925, Al. I Busuioceanu began a 286 “Edwin Arlington Robinson,” published in Gândirea 14, 1935, nr. 6, p, 324 cited in Perry, 2001, p. 99. 214 series of translations from Whitman,287 attracted by his transcendentalism and preoccupied with an ideological future for Romania (“The Base of All Metaphysics” and “The Song of the Open Road”). Other notable translations from Whitman’s work belong to Lucian Blaga (“Not Youth Pertains to Me”) and to Marxist Mihnea Gheorghiu, who was attracted by Whitman’s Socialist thought, optimism, and technical skill as a versifier. The overwhelming majority of translations of Whitman into Romanian belong to him.288 A holder of a Ph.D. in English and a dean of the School of English Language and Literature at the University of Bucharest, Dragoș Protopopescu published a study in 1935 in Gândirea about Edgar Lee Masters, but critic Ion Caraion translated seventeen poems from The Spoon River Anthology only in 1968.289 Between 1940 and 1945 interest in American modernism diminished for obvious historical reasons—including Romania’s declaration of war on the United States in December 1941—, with only one notable exception: the anthology prepared in 1945 by Al. T. Stamatiad and published two years later: Selections of American Poetry (1945),290 in which he includes translations of poems by minor imagists and experimental poets, such as Ralph Cheyney, Louis Gilmore, Emmanuel Carnevali, David O’Neill, Alfred Kreynborg, Leon Herald, and Marion Strobel, along with his translations of Poe. 287 Whitman, Walt. 1925. Poeme (traduse din engleză cu un studiu introductiv de Al. Busuioceanu). București: Editura Cultura națională. 288 Fire de iarbă (Editura de Stat, 1950. Translations in collaboration with Ion Frunzetti); Opere alese (Editura de stat pentru literatură și artă, 1956); Fire de iarbă (Editura tineretului, 1958); Poeme (Editura de stat pentru literatură și artă, 1960); Cântec despre mine (Univers, 1973; 1976); Opere alese (Univers, 1992); Leaves of Grass (Pandora, 2000). The only selections that were translated by other poets are Poeme (Margareta Sterian, Trans.; București: Pro Pace, 1945) and Poeme. Walt Whitman and Carl Sandburg. Selected and translated by George Macovescu (București: Editura Eminescu, 1987). In the new millennium, a press in a small Romanian city, Deva, publishes a selection of Whitman’s work three times, in 2001, 2013, and 2015: the book bears the title Fire de iarbă (Leaves of Grass), a selection made by Paulina Popa, a poet from Deva, and was translated by Alimpie Grec. No further information was available about this translator. 289 Masters, Edgar Lee. 1968. Antologia orășelului Spoon River (Ion Caraion, Trans.; Virgil Nemoianu, Foreword). București: EPLU. 290 ***. 1947. Din poezia americană (Al. T. Stamatiad, Trans.; Perpessicius, Foreword). București: Editura Luteția. 215 3.4. Contemporary U.S. and Canadian Poetry in Author-Collections after World War II The end of World War II brought about a wave of new translations from American literature in various cultural periodicals, such as Revista Fundațiilor Regale or the newly established Revista româno-americană, founded by a mixed group of intellectuals that were supposed to represent a collaboration between Marxists and Americans: left-wing Alf Adania and Gheorghiu, alongside their long-time friends Dan Duțescu and Dimitrie Gusti. More and more authors291 are translated by a number of young intellectuals dedicated to opening Romanian culture to the New World: Margareta Sterian, Ion Caraion, George and Monica Dan, Al. T. Stamatiad, Șt. Horia, Barbu Brezianu, Ion Frunzetti, or George Macovescu. Again, “[a]s in previous decades, the most successful translators were writers, especially poets, in their own right.” (Kohn ibid.: 515) 1947 marks a dark year in the history of Romania. After the abdication of King Michael I, the abolition of monarchy and the instauration of the Petru Groza government, Romania entered the Soviet Union’s sphere of influence. Many intellectuals were denied publication, were imprisoned, went under political surveillance, or went into hiding. Some others decided it was safer to collaborate with the proletarian Communist party, in spite of its anti-intellectual stance. Talking about the period between 1948 and 1952, marked by the ruthless rule of Foreign Affairs Minister Ana Pauker and leading member of the Communist Party Vasile Luca, Perry states that all the basic policies for Romanians, including the cultural ones, were imposed by Moscow: The few American books that were translated were books previously translated in Moscow, usually from the Russian translation, even when the translator was competent to work from the original language. The critics cited were Russian. The 291 Whitman, Poe, Dickinson, MacLeish, Lindsay, Lowell, St. Vincent Millay, cummings, J.W. Johnson, Masters, Prokosch, Sandburg, Frost, and E.A. Robinson. 216 commentary echoed commentary in the Russian editions. The cues as to which authors to translate came from Moscow. (ibid.: 117) Translation projects started immediately after the end of the war were postponed and books already published were banned. Revista româno-americană had been established in 1926 by the Friends of the United States Foundation, under the aegis of Queen Maria of Romania, but was forced to end its activities in 1941, reopened in 1944 and concluded its operations again in 1947, as a magazine whose first objective was “to present Romanians with the true image of America.” (Croitoru 1999: web) As Drace-Francis notes, The few existing studies on Romanian views of the outside world under the Communist regime tend to treat the early (pre-1965) period and stress the negative light in which the West was portrayed in official propaganda as against an idealised private view. (Drace-Francis 2012: 231) However, efforts by young writers and academics continued. Most of the people who still had the power to bring American literature to Romania were associated with various academic circles: Mihnea Gheorghiu, Leon Levițchi, Dan Duțescu, Geo Bogza, Eugen Schileru, Mihail Bogdan, and others. Besides being paired with translators or, most often, with poet-translators—a customary practice in most publishing companies of that time (Mincan 2012)—young academics begin taking advantage of various exchange opportunities with universities in the States and return to their home country, where they capitalize on translating the literature with which they have come into contact. Literary and cultural journals presented such translators with the possibility of publishing frequently selections of the authors they admired and also served a series of other purposes: “The journals serving either to introduce writers not yet published in book form, to test reader response to certain writers, to follow up on authors already introduced in book form, or to provide critical commentary.” (Perry 2001: 134) The main outlets after 1964 were Secolul XX, Steaua, România literară, Iașiul literar, and Tribuna, which functioned as perfect venues for translation from new 217 contemporary poets.292 Translators took advantage of the fact that translation was seen as “an ethically sound activity, whereas original literary works were subject to censorship and could only be published if they glorified the totalitarian regime.” (Kohn ibid.: 516). Poet-translators used this situation to import cultural capital and to keep an open door to the rest of the world. In Constructing Cultures: Essays on Literary Translation, Susan Bassnett confirms the role of poets in the Eastern- European bloc: Poets have very different functions in different societies, and this is a factor that translators need to bear in mind. In former Communist Eastern Europe, for example, poetry sold in big print-runs (now replaced by western soft-porn and blockbuster crime novels); poets were significant figures, who often spoke out against injustice and oppression. (1998: 57) Indeed, translation in Romania was also a way to undermine the discourse and censorship of the Communist party and poets were joined in their efforts by important scholars, such as dissident philosopher of culture Noica. In National Ideology under Socialism: Identity and Cultural Politics in Ceaușescu’s Romania, Katherine Verdery explains that sanctioned translation was doubled by a parallel activity of subversion via translations carried out by Noica’s Cercul de la Păltiniș (an unofficial philosophy discussion and training circle, commonly referred to as ‘the Noica School’ in English) in the 1970s: Translations […] were part of creating a larger public for culture, a sort of raising of the spiritual standard of living, parallel to the state’s claims to raise the material standard of living. At the same time, however, they were like “viruses” loosed into the mechanism by which culture was officially transmitted. They were a form of political action. (1991: 294-295) Such form of political action was too weak to undermine effectively the official discourse and publishing policies, but it was a natural reaction nonetheless, allowed by a short “defrosting” 292 Donald Barthelme, Sylvia Plath, Allen Ginsberg, Denise Levertov, Robert Lowell, Robert Bly, James Merrill, W.S. Merwin, Anne Sexton, William Stafford, John Berryman, Reed Whittemore, James Wright, James Tate, Robert Duncan, Robert Creeley, and Louis Simpson (cf. Perry 2001). 218 from 1964 to 1971—a “crisis” of Marxist legitimation which partially liberated Romania from socialist propaganda. The declaration of independence from the Soviet Union by the Communist Party in 1964 was the beginning of a period of cultural boom, when [t]he Romanian man of letters […] was officially encouraged as nowhere else in Eastern Europe and he made notable progress in recovering synchronization with the West which his forebears had so avidly sought and achieved. This passion to participate in and to contribute significantly to the major literary currents of the day – inspired by an intense nationalism and by a personal hunger in some of the best Romanian literary minds for the broader and more varied world of ideas and art forms, and inspired by the native Romanian genius for experimentation and innovation in art forms and techniques – this passion now returned the Romanian to a meaningful and original participation in the larger literary community. (Perry 2001: 145) Policies for cultural, scientific, and educational exchanges between the United States and Romania were put into place, and in 1964 the legations of both nations were promoted to full embassies. As a result, the range of authors and modes broadens, although the publication policies remain basically the same. Poets like Wallace Stevens, T.S. Eliot,293 Ezra Pound,294 Frank O’Hara, Jack Kerouac, Theodore Roethke, William Stanley Merwin, and W.D. Snodgrass295 were all translated and published in book form. A substantial selection296 from the poetry of T.S. Eliot translated by Ștefan Augustin Doinaș, Virgil Nemoianu, and Toma Pavel, was included in the first issue of Secolul XX in 1965. A second selection translated by Doinaș and Pavel was published in a critical essay signed by Virgil Nemoianu. 293 Eliot, T.S. 1970. Selected (Aurel Covaci, Trans., Nichita Stănescu, Foreword). București: Editura Albatros. 294 Pound, Ezra. 1975. Cantos și alte poeme (Ion Caraion, Trans., Vasile Nicolescu, Foreword). București: Univers; Pound, Ezra. 1983. Cantos (Virgil Teodorescu, Petronela Negoșanu, Trans. and Postface; Vasile Nicolescu, Foreword). Iași: Junimea. 295 Snodgrass, W. D. 1983. Un ghimpe în inimă și alte poezii (Ioan A. Popa, Trans. and notes). București: Univers. 296 Eliot. T.S. 1965. “Cântecul de dragoste al lui J. Alfred Prufrock”, “Preludii”, “Ce a spus tunetul” (Șt. A. Doinaș and Pavel, T., Trans.) and “Marina” (Șt. A. Doinaș, Nemoianu, V., Trans.). In Secolul XX 1. 219 Dan Grigorescu, a reputed Romanian specialist in Anglo-American Studies and a manager of the Arts Department within the State Committee for Arts and Culture, published an influential volume of essays titled Thirteen American Writers, in which he analysed “writers whose work [he] deemed paramount for modern American literature” and which left aside “writers to whom Romanian critics have been dedicating substantial analyses […].” (1968: 6) Among the thirteen writers, Grigorescu included Poe, Whitman, Longfellow, Dickinson, Pound, and Frost. In the 1970s, he is transferred as a lecturer to Portland State University and to the University of California, Los Angeles, where he came in further contact with contemporary American literature. He is also known for having been the founder of the Romanian Library in New York City. Other intellectuals of that time took advantage of the Fulbright Program that had been in place since 1946: Mihail Bogdan received a Fulbright fellowship at the East Texas State University, Virgil Nemoianu—translator of Denise Levertov and Whittermore in Steaua—receieved his doctorate from the University of California in San Diego. In their turn, American poets like W.R. Snodgrass and Diana Wakoski went to Romania through the Exchange Program in 1963 and 1964. Author collections were usually translated either by Romanian poets alone, or by Romanian poets in collaboration with university professors known for their scholarship in the field of English and/or American Studies and Literature. For example, Wallace Stevens’ World as Meditation297, Theodor Roethke’s Selected Poems298, William Merwin’s Poems of the Seventies: Selected Poems, 1963-1973299, and Frank O’Hara’s Meditations in an Emergency300 were all four translated by Constantin Abăluță and Ștefan Stoenescu for the same publisher, Univers Press. A recent interview 297 Stevens, Wallace. 1970. Lumea ca meditație (Constantin Abăluță, Ștefan Stoenescu, Trans.). București: Univers. 298 Roethke, Theodore. 1973. Vorbe pentru vânt (Constantin Abăluță, Ștefan Stoenescu, Trans.). București: Univers. 299 Merwin, W. S. 1977. Poemele deceniului șapte: Versuri alese, 1963-73 (Constantin Abăluță, Ștefan Stoenescu, Trans.). București: Univers. 300 O’Hara, Frank. 1980. Meditații în imponderabil (Constantin Abăluță, Ștefan Stoenescu, Trans.). București: Univers. 220 (Mincan id.) with Denisa Comănescu, a former editor for Univers and currently the Executive Director of Humanitas Fiction, reveals that pairing a translator with a specialist in British or American Studies was a common practice of that time. Such teams were commonly referred to as “colectiv de traducere” (translation committee) and were meant to be a guarantee for the translation’s accuracy, as well as for the thoroughness of the paratexts. Abăluță and Stoenescu’s background in American poetry translation, mostly grown under the umbrella of Univers Press, influenced Minerva Press’s decision-makers to commission them for the translation of Serge Fauchereau’s Introduction to Modern American Poetry in 1974.301 The interest shown by Univers in publishing contemporary U.S. poetry continued with selections from Sylvia Plath’s work,302 translated by poet and translator Vasile Nicolescu, alongside Diane Wakoski’s The Magellanic Clouds,303 translated by poet and creative writing lecturer Liliana Ursu. 3.5. Contemporary U.S. and Canadian Poets in Anthologies during Communism Canadian poetry owes greatly to Romanian émigré poet Nicholas Catanoy (or Nicolae Cătănoiu by his Romanian name). In his translator’s note to the anthology of contemporary English Canadian poetry304—one of the three anthologies of Canadian poetries ever assembled and translated into Romanian—translator and anthologist Ion Caraion explains that the driving force behind that compilation was Catanoy, “this strange enthusiast and hopeless poet.” (1978: 5) Shortly 301 Fauchereau, Serge. 1974. Introducere în poezia americană modernă (Traducere, prefaţă şi tabel cronologic de Ştefan Stoenescu; Traducerea versurilor de C. Abăluţă şi Şt. Stoenescu; Notă bio-bibliografică de Teodor Vârgolici.) București: Editura Minerva. 302 Plath, Sylvia. 1980. Ariel și alte poeme (Vasile Nicolescu, Trans.). București: Univers. 303 Wakoski, Diane. 1981. Norii magelanici (Liliana Ursu, Trans.). București: Univers. 304 ***. 1978. Poeți canadieni contemporani (de limbă engleză) (Ion Caraion, Trans.). București: Albatros. 221 after his arrival in Canada, circa 1968, Catanoy came up with the idea of such an anthology, which Caraion put together only about ten years later. The description of the Romanian émigré is quite veracious: he has often been characterized as a ‘phenomenon’ that is hardly ever pinned down appropriately; a doctor and philosopher by profession and a globetrotter and a cosmopolitan by nature, he never felt at home in any foreign culture, but always wanted to incorporate these cultures and these languages in his own work: “The wish of this polyglot is to rebuild one single language, an integrating matrix for all things and phenomena, a universal vehicle which would carry his ideas across without any translation hurdles to the farthest corners of the world.” (Mițariu 2009: 239) Translation is an integral part of his work and reflects his perpetual mal du pays: in 1977 he published the second anthology of Romanian poetry in North America,305 in which he included 53 poets, selected “not on academic grounds, as he confesses, but according to his personal taste.” (ibid.: 244). For Walum Olum. Cântecele și proverbele indienilor din America de Nord (Walum Olum. The Songs and Proverbs of Native Peoples in North America),306 Catanoy collaborated with translators Virgil Teodorescu and Petronela Negoșanu. It opens with a preface and a foreword by Catanoy, who offers the rationale for gathering the 107 songs and proverbs that were representative of 33 tribes, and also the mechanics of assembling the anthology. Although the title refers to a North-American selection, the short preface reveals that most of the texts had been gathered by Catanoy himself over twelve years and reflect the folklore of natives from various reservations, “either from the north-east coast of the continent, especially from the Canadian Maritimes, or from the north- 305 ***. 1977. Modern Romanian Poetry. An Anthology (Nicholas Catanoy, Ed.) Oakville, ON: Mosaic Press. 306 ***. 1981. Walum Olum. Cântecele și proverbele indienilor din America de Nord (Virgil Teodorescu and Petronela Negoșanu, Trans.). Cluj-Napoca: Dacia Press. 222 [western]307 coast, namely the province of British Columbia.” (1981: 5) The eleven-page introduction puts forward an analysis of the texts that mirrors his background as a poet and outlines the history, themes, motifs, and poetic devices and features apparent in native literature in general and in his anthology in particular. In tackling the limitations of his endeavor, he admits to a modus operandi that fits the patterns traced in translations from U.S. poetry in the early 20th century: “Moreover, for this anthology we have only selected those songs that are comprehensible to our sensibility and lyrical universe.” (ibid.: 6) Unlike Caraion, Catanoy does not make any specific reference to the two translators and only briefly and indirectly tackles the issue of translation when he refers to the limitations of his endeavor: “Stylization was needed whenever the asperities of the literal [translation] impeded on the musicality or whenever the long and obsessive choruses dislocated textual harmony.” (id.) He concedes that the original texts were sometimes modified and does not even mention translations per se, but uses ‘literal text’ for ‘literal translation’. Furthermore, the anthologist sees no problem in manhandling essential features of native poetry, such as ‘long and obsessive choruses’, and makes any domesticating alterations that he sees fit, most probably on the literal renditions offered by the two translators. I would argue that the apparent lack of attention to translation on his part is not a demeaning stance, but only one that sees the act of translating foreign literary productions as natural for any literature. As Mițariu aptly notes, Catanoy had committed to “a courageous attempt at bringing the cultural patrimony of a native population to light,” (ibid.: 244) an attempt which was motivated by the fact that Catanoy identified himself in a way with “these outcasts of a hyper-ethnical North-American society, packed in reservations.” (id.) 307 The foreword wrongly uses “north-eastern.” 223 Mițariu also advances that the spiritual world of the native populations might have borne similarities with the archaic world of witchcraft in his home culture. Catanoy’s role in creating an awareness of Canadian poetry began the moment he emigrated to Canada. Following his émigré friend’s suggestion, Caraion authored an anthology of English language Canadian poets, in which he played a multiple role: he made the selection, translated the poems into Romanian, and wrote the preface. The anthologist’s preface notes that fragments had been previously published in various literary journals, along with poems by French Canadian poets. Caraion acknowledged two other anthologies from the same literature and qualified his own endeavor as “only quite a modest selection.” (ibid.: 6) His foreword contains a critical apparatus that analyzes the translated poems within the work of the respective author, a natural choice for the literary critic. It also traces a common feature of their work: “[…] the rigorous consistency with which most of Canadian poets insist not on a word, not on a concept, not on an idea, but on a true existential meaning and on a set of gnosiological implications expressed through the term consciousness.” (ibid.: 7). Each batch of translations is preceded by a short biography and analysis of that poet’s work. Caraion’s roster includes poets born at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th, some even younger, such as Margaret Atwood. The most generous selection is from Irving Layton’s work, followed by Fred Cogswell, Lionel Kearns, John Newlove, and Michael J. Yates. Leonard Cohen (whose last name is misspelled and reads Coehn) is listed among the poets he did not include, along with Elizabeth Brewster, Clarence Major, Henry Beissel and others. The anthologist confessed that he would like to publish stand-alone collections dedicated to each of the poets he failed to include. 224 Interestingly enough, the other three volumes— Înțelegând zăpada. 60 poeți canadieni de limbă engleză (1977),308 Antologie de poezie canadiană de limbă franceză309 (1978), and Steaua marilor lacuri. 45 poeți canadieni de limbă franceză310 (1981) are published around the same date, done by translators typically associated with contemporary poetry translation, and published by different publishers, which is probably another indication of the personal nature of each of these projects. In each case, the translators are the ones who did the selection, the translations, and put together the preface. However, the anthology published by Univers appears to be one of their 2,007 titles meant to bring valuable world literature into the local literature. This anthology precedes all the projects related to Catanoy, but it includes Catanoy himself among the selected Canadian poets. The 1977 anthology by Teodorescu and Negoșanu does not acknowledge his role, or anybody’s role for that matter: the translators’ note is simply an overview of Canadian literature that aims at establishing whether it brings something new compared to the British one, but Catanoy’s presence among the selected authors is perhaps another indication of the latter’s involvement in the project. The beginnings of Canadian contemporary poetry translated into Romanian are presented below (Figure 18a) and disclose two different translation programs: one interested exclusively in contemporary poets (Caraion, for Albatros) and one that encompasses both modern311 and contemporary poets (Teodorescu and Negoșanu, for Univers). Published only one year apart, thus most probably conceived at the same time, and with different publishers than the anthologists collaborated with for other projects, the selection of the authors reveals two different types of 308 ***. 1977. Înţelegând zăpada. 60 de poeţi canadieni de limbă engleză (Antologare, traducere, prefaţă şi note de Virgil Teodorescu şi Petronela Negoşanu). București: Univers. 309 ***. 1978. Antologie de poezie canadiană de limbă franceză (Selecție, prefață și traducere de Al. Andrițoiu și Ursula Șchiopu. București: Minerva. 310 ***. 1981. Steaua marilor lacuri. 45 poeți canadieni de limbă franceză. Antologare, traducere, prefaţă şi note de Virgil Teodorescu şi Petronela Negoşanu. 1981. București: Univers. 311 I have not included modern poets in this graph. 225 agency. Univers, known for its interest in both modern and contemporary literature and for the effectiveness in carrying out such large-scale projects, most likely commissioned Teodorescu and Negoșanu, translators who otherwise consistently collaborated with Dacia Press, because Caraion was putting together his own selection to be published with Albatros a year later. Furthermore, as we explain further on, Caraion publishes his next anthology (this time of contemporary American poetry) with Univers one year later, which is another indication that the Canadian poetry anthology was his own endeavor and was not commissioned by the publisher. There are thirteen Canadian poets included in both anthologies (Figure 18b), thus they are central nodes with equal values in all three measurements (cf. Annex 5). The best positioned nodes overall are the ones in the Univers anthology due to their more numerous vicinities. The whole graph consists of 48 poets, with 27% of the nodes in both anthologies, a percentage that attests both to the different programs of the two titles, and to the prominence of poets like Romania-born Irving Layton or young Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje in the cultural networks of the late 1970s. 226 Figure 18a. Anthologies of contemporary Canadian poetry before 1989. 227 Figure 18b. Contemporary Canadian poets selected both by Univers and Albatros 228 The equal values of many of the nodes in this graph result from the equal weight assigned to the edges. Had I factored in the number of poems selected for each of these authors, the values would have been different. However, since this research focuses on translators’s agency, I would have taken a great risk in doing so, especially in the case of the Univers anthology, where the involvement of the translators in the selection is not clear, so I compared the EigenVector values with the number of poems selected by Caraion for each of the fourteen poets: EigenVector = 0.1386 Albatros Univers EigenVector = 0.1386 Albatros Univers Dorothy Livesay 4 3 Barbara Caruso 3 3 John Robert Colombo 2 4 Andreas Schroeder 7 4 Lionel Kearns 17 3 Michael Ondaatje 4 3 Irving Layton 20 5 Margaret Atwood 7 4 John Newlove 16 4 Tom Marshall 11 4 J. M. Yates 13 4 Alfred Purdy 2 1 Fred Cogswell 18 3 Louis Dudek 4 6 Table 2. Number of poems per contemporary author in the Albatros and Univers anthologies of Canadian poetry The distribution of poems per author shows great discrepancies between the two projects: while the Univers anthology generally contains selections of three or four poems per author, the anthology compiled by Caraion selects as few as two and as many as twenty poems per poet, a clear expression of the anthologist’s personal taste. Thus it is safe to conclude that the two anthologies of contemporary English-language Canadian poetry ever compiled in Romania were as much the result of an institutional cultural agenda as they were the expression of a poet-translator’s personal taste and the outcome of a network whose driving force was poet Nicholas Catanoy. As far as American poets are concerned, anthologies played a salient role in Romanians’ becoming familiar with their work and were put together or simply suggested mostly by writers and professors who benefited from academic mobility programs financed by the U.S. government. The first such translation project was curated by Margareta Sterian, translator and anthologist of An 229 Anthology of Modern American Poetry from Whitman to the Present312. Sterian was also a reputed poet and painter, one of the leaders of the generation of the 1930s. Her anthology was published by the State Press only two years after her own poetry debut, but the whole print run was burnt in 1947 by the pro-Soviet regime. The anthology presents the work of poets313 that were new to the Romanians and was re-published in 1973 under the title I Hear America Singing. An Anthology of Modern American Poetry.314 This latter revised edition reveals the history of the anthology, which was initially suggested to Sterian by Petru Comarnescu. For this revised edition, the anthologist adds thirteen poets that were born between the two world wars, such as Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg, or Gwendolyn Brooks, and confesses in the translator’s note that the main criterion was her personal taste, followed by the selected poets’ stature in American literature. Sterian also discusses translation proper and explains that her guiding principle was observing the original meter and, as much as possible, the rhyme, without trying to adapt the poems to match “our Romanian poetic spirit” (1973: 11) and admits to revising many of the initial translations that had been published in 1946. The note also acknowledges the role played by the publisher in reviving the translation project and professionally mentions the sources used for authors’ biographies. However, the book exudes its translator’s personality: its unusual large format recalls that of an art book; the soft, porous paper is reminiscent of that used for watercolor painting; and the text is interspersed by tasteful illustrations selected by the translator herself. Also, the illustration on the cover bears her signature 312 ***. 1946. Antologie a poesiei americane moderne de la Whitman la contemporani (Margareta Sterian, Trans.). București: Editura de Stat. 313 Robinson Jeffers, Stephen Vincent Benet, Maxwell Bodenheim, Elizabeth Coatsworth, Stephen Crane, William Everson, Merrill Moore, Ogden Nash, Kenneth Patchen, Lola Ridge, Muriel Rukeyser, Stickney Trumbull, Jean and Louis Untermeyer, and William Carlos Williams. 314 ***. 1973. Aud cântând America. Antologie a poeziei americane moderne (Margareta Sterian, Trans. Petru Comarnescu, Foreword). Cluj: Dacia Press. 230 and is titled “The Michigan Brass Band.” Moreover, one of the very few analyses dedicated to her work as a translator confirm the personal nature of her projects: The poet’s translations, when not commissioned or requested by her need to practice, follow […] the road of self-discovery. Technically exact and poetically inspired, their intention was to impose the free spirit of America […], turning her into a pioneer in this field in 1947. (Crețu 2007: 363) Thirty two years later, the anthology was re-published by Alicat Press (2005), owned by Anca Vlad, a prosperous business woman, owner of a pharmaceutical distribution company. Various press releases indicate that the objective of this publishing company was “to promote Romanian modern and contemporary painting and literature by publishing original works, all of them exquisitely designed.” (web315) The first two titles they launched are Sterian’s Selected Poems (1945-1987) and Aud cântând America, with a preface by Professor Dan Grigorescu and illustrations selected from Sterian’s “New York Snippets” painting collection. This third edition may seem haphazard, but I found out that Anca Vlad was one of the translator’s friends during her student years and also an avid art collector and admirer of the painter’s work (Tronaru 2007). These details turn the story into only one of the many examples of private arts patronage that became the norm in poetry translation during the years after the Romanian revolution, as we will later see. They are also relevant for the type of relationships that translators establish often with influent and affluent private individuals outside dedicated institutions. Last but not least, the fourth republication316 of the anthology took place in 2017 and reinforced the value and the relevance of Sterian’s selection seventy-one years after its first edition. 315 Cărți-eveniment ale primăverii 2005, Amos News. Web: http://bit.ly/2H8vCxO. Last accessed: July 19, 2017. 316 ***. 2017. Aud cântând America. Antologie a poeziei americane moderne / I Hear American Singing. Anthology of Modern American Poetry. București: Contemporary Literature Press. http://bit.ly/2H8vCxO 231 The second anthology presenting contemporary poets in translation—Din poezia engleză și americană (1970)—was curated by philosopher, poet, playwright and novelist Lucian Blaga. The edition published in 2012 by Humanitas Press317 (which re-publish two older anthologies318 put together by Blaga in one single volume) reveals the rationale behind his venture as an anthologist in În loc de prefață (Instead of a Preface): “I was not interested in their number. I was interested in their carats,” (9) he says of the way he made the selection. “I selected authors from foreign anthologies, however best I could and whenever I had the occasion,” (id.) he confesses about his sources. He also explains what translation meant to him and why he selected certain texts and not others: By translating, I quenched a tremendous thirst. By translating, I became richer in experiences. I wanted to see the extent to which poetry can travel from one language to another. By translating, I felt myself growing. Because I have been brooding only those poems which delighted me and which, through the act of translation, could become in a way mine, ours, could belong to the Romanians. (2012: 9-10) Further selections from American poetry appear in Anatol E. Baconsky’s Panorama poeziei universale (A Panorama of Universal Poetry, 1973), considered by Cernat (2006) and numerous other Romanian critics as “fundamental” for the evolution of recent Romanian literature. Out of the 99 poets selected on the grounds of the “Meridiane lirice” publishing program, eight are American: Eliot, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Caldwell, Sandburg, Dickinson, Miller, and Capote. All translations belong to Baconsky, an effort for which he received the prize of the Romanian Writers’ Union the same year. The anthology followed the critically-acclaimed stand-alone volume he translated from Carl Sandburg319. 317 ***. 2012. Patru milenii de poezie în tălmăcirea lui Lucian Blaga (Lucian Blaga, Trans.). București: Humanitas. 318 Din lirica universală (Editura pentru literatură, 1957) and Din lirica engleză (Univers, 1970). 319 Sandburg, Carl. 1965. Versuri (A. E. Baconsky, Trans.). București: Editura Tineretului. 232 A comprehensive anthology in two volumes appeared between 1977 and 1978, a project edited by Leon Levițchi and Tudor Dorin: An Anthology of American Poetry from the Beginnings to the Present Day.320 The 84 authors321 presented in the second volume cover an impressive time span (1912-1977), but the selection of the poems is poor and translation is often improper. Although translated by Leon Levițchi, a reputed specialist in English Studies, along with Tudor Dorin, an excellent translator of Rudyard Kipling, among others, the general impression is that of a hasty execution. Another example is the anthology curated by poet, essayist and translator Ion Caraion: The Anthology of American Poetry322, a selection of poems by one hundred and thirty American authors323 translated by Mihnea Gheorgiu, Petru Solomon, Emil Gulian, Vasile Nicolescu, and 320 ***. 1978. Antologie de poezie americană de la începuturi până azi (Leon Levițchi and Tudor Dorin, Eds.; Dan Grigorescu, Foreword and Chronology). 2 volumes. București: Editura Minerva. 321 Edgar Lee Masters; Willa Sibert Cather; Robert Frost; Amy Lowell; Carl Sandburg; Vachel Lindsey; Wallace Stevens; William Carlos Williams; Sara Teasdale; Elizabeth Madox Roberts; Ezra Pound; Louis Untermeyer; Elinor Wylie; William Rose Benét; John Gould Fletcher ; Hilda Doolittle; Roy Helton ; Robinson Jeffers; Marianne Moore; T.S. Eliot; John Crowe Ransom; Conrad Aiken; Edna St. Vincent Millay; Archibald MacLeish; Elizabeth Coatsworth; E.E. Cummings; Mark Van Doren; Babette Deutsch; Robert Hillyer; Louise Bogan; Stephen Vincent Benét; Hart Crane; Leonie Adams; Allen Tate; Robert Francis; Laura Riding; Kenneth Fearing; Langston Hughes; Ogden Nash; Maria Zaturenska; Merrill Moore; Richard Eberhart; Stanley Kunitz; Phyllis McGinley; Robert Penn Warren; W.H. Auden; Theodore Roethke; Richard Wright; James Agee; Edwin Rolfe; Winfield Townley Scott; Elizabeth Bishop; May Sarton; Karl Jay Shapiro; Randall Jarrell; John Berryman; William Stafford; Thomas McGrath; Peter Viereck; Robert Lowell; William Jay Smith; Lawrence Ferlinghetti; Reed Whittemore; Howard Nemerov; Eleanor Glenn Wallis; Richard Wilbur; Thomas Cole; Denise Levertov; Louis Simpson; Marvin Solomon; Philip Murray; Donald Justice; John Ashbery; Robert Bly; Allen Ginsberg; W.D. Snodgrass; James Wright; Galway Kinnel; W.S. Merwin; Gregory Corso; Gary Snyder; Sylvia Plath; LeRoi Jones; Diane Wakoski 322 ***. 1979. Antologie de poezie americană (Alcătuită de Ion Caraion; Tălmăciri de: Ion Caraion, Vasile Nicolescu, Mihnea Gheorghiu, Petre Solomon şi Emil Gulian; Note bio-bibliografice de Petre Solomon). București: Univers. 323 130 poets, from Anne Bradstreet (1612-72) to the present day: Anne Bradstreet, Edward Taylor, Phillip Freneau, Joel Barlow, W. C. Bryant, R. W. Emerson, J. G. Whittier, H. D. Thoreau, H. W. Longfellow, E. A. Poe, J. R. Lowell, Herman Melville, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Trumbull Stickney, William W. Moody, Edwin Markham, Stephen Crane, Edward Lee Masters, E.A. Robinson, Robert Frost, Vachel Lindsay, Carl Sandburg, James Oppenheim, Williams Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, Ezra Pound, Amy Lowell, Jean Starr Untermeyer, Marianne Moore, Hart Crane, T.S. Eliot, Robinson Jeffers, Conrad Aiken, Stephen Vincent Benét, Sara Teasdale, Elinor Wylie, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Merril Moore, Archibald MacLeish, E.E. Cummings, J.G. Fletcher, J.C. Ransom, Allen Tate, Hilda Doolittle, Louise Bogan, Horace Gregory, John Peale Bishop, W.H. Auden, Genevieve Taggard, Michael Gold, Kenneth Fearing, Louis Zukofsky, Muriel Rukeyser, Kenneth Patchen, Richard Eberhart, Elizabeth Bishop, Stanley Kunitz, Kenneth Rexroth, Theodore Roethke, Karl Shapiro, Randall Jarrell, Oscar Williams, Ogden Nash, Robert Penn Warren, Edouard Roditi, John Berryman, William Stafford, Robert Lowell, Delmore Schwartz, Reed Whittemore, Richard Wilbur, Peter Viereck, Howard Nemerov, William Jay Smith, Joseph Langland, Anthony Hecht, Denise Levertov, Louis Simpson, James Dickey, Edgar Bowers, Donald Justice, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Robert Duncan, Charles Olson, Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, James Merrill, Frank 233 Caraion himself. The anthologist belonged to a generation of young poets that had been affected by the war, disillusioned with the old poetic techniques that still prevailed during the Communist years, and animated by an energising rebellion against the Marxist doctrine and values imposed through the formal education system. “My name is Ion Caraion and I am one of those writers that can no longer be ushered away from Romanian literature by any party, dictator, bullets, or scoundrels and toads with the official media,”324 he boldly stated in 1982, bitterly reminiscing about the years spent in Communist detention from 1950 to 1955 and then again from 1958 to 1964. After he was released from prison, he started to publish frantically, trying to make up for the lost time: Tormented as I was by the years that had been stolen from me, by the manuscripts they had confiscated from me and destroyed, by the heart-breaking complex that I would not have enough time to write, obsessed by the idea that my message might have been stifled again […] I didn’t have any other solution, but to work tremendously, 14-16 hours a day, so that I can leave an oeuvre behind.325 As a result, he published twenty volumes of poetry, six volumes of essays and literary critique, and an impressive number of translations. For Masters’ Antologia orăşelului Spoon River he received the Prize of the Writers’ Union, then continued with the translation of Pound’s Cantos and finished the series of translations from American literature with the above-mentioned anthology. This project, however, may not have been solely his initiative. Published by Univers and bringing together renditions by five translators, the 1979 anthology fit perfectly the publication program the press was committed to, but may have been, in a way influenced, by the similar Canadian project run by O’Hara, Paul Blackburn, Robert Creeley, Kenneth Koch, W.D. Snoddgrass, A.R. Ammons, Robert Bly, W.S. Merwin, Galway Kinnell, John Ashbery, Adrienne Rich, Adrienne Rich, James Wrights, Joel Oppenheimer, X.Y. Kennedy, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Donald Hall, Gary Snyder, John Unterecker, John Haines, John Wieners, Victor Contoski, Dave Etter, Stephen Sandy, Robert Mezey, Robert Kelly, Emmet Jarrett, Nancy Willard, Diane Wakoski, Alex Raybin, Jack Anderson, James Weldon Johnson, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Angelina Grimké, Fenton Johnson, Georgia Douglas Johnson, Claude McKay, Frank Horne, Langston Hughes, Arna Bontemps, Countee Cullen, Waring Cuney, Richard Wright, LeRoi Jones, Clarence Major, Julia Fields, Horace Julian Bond, and Carl Wendell Hines, Jr. 324 Insectele tovarășului Hitler. București: Editura Ion Dumitru-Verlag, 1982. 325 Alex. Leo Șerban. 2003. “La o nouă lectură: Ion Caraion.” In România literară 11. Web: http://bit.ly/2r8dFsp. Last accessed: August 20, 2017. http://bit.ly/2r8dFsp 234 Caraion the year before. In any case, all these names associated with translations from American and Canadian contemporary poets form a tightly-knit network of poet-translators committed to connecting these cultures either through projects commissioned by reputed publishers with a consistent program or through their own resourcefulness and extended network of acquaintances. Unlike Caraion, Virgil Teodorescu did not translate out of a need to react to the political regime and to update poetic techniques that had been in place for too long. One of the most renowned Surrealist poets, he was famous for his “monotonous nonconformism,” and for his books resembling “the rich harvest of a peace-loving and thorough cultivator.” (Ștefănescu, 2002: web) Ștefănescu explains that he combined systematic study with important positions in the Communist cultural diagram: editor-in-chief of Luceafărul, president of the Writers Union, vice-president of the Great National Assembly. Interestingly enough, his co-translator, Petronela Negoșanu, was an editor of Steaua in Cluj who had spent two years in a correctional facility for “public agitation” at the same time with Ion Caraion. What is even more interesting is that hers and Teodorescu’s translation projects are very similar to Caraion’s: in 1980 they published American Contemporary Poetry,326 followed by Pound’s Cantos in 1983. Their anthology of American poetry was the first one which breaks with modernism and focuses only on contemporary poets.327 Although limited by the small format of the Cele mai frumoase poezii series of Albatros Press, the translators dedicated a one page presentation to each of the 34 poets. Selections vary between four and eleven pages and are 326 ***. 1980. Lirică americană contemporană (Virgil Teodorescu, Petronela Negoșanu, Trans. and Foreword). București: Albatros. 327 William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, Babette Deutsch, Kenneth Rexroth, Theodor Roethke, Kenneth Patchen, Charles Olson, William Stafford, James Laughlin, Peter Viereck, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Robert Duncan, Jack Kerouac, James Dickey, Daniel Hoffman, Denise Levertov, Donald Justice, Bob Kaufman, Kenneth Koch, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Creeley, W.D. Snodgrass, Robert Bly, Frank O’Hara, James Merrill, John Ashbery, Barbara Guest, Philip Lamantia, James Wright, W.S. Merwin, Gregory Corso, Joel Oppenheimer, Gary Snyder, Tom Raworth. 235 preceded by a clear and comprehensive preface, which outlines the main directions in American contemporary poetry. The last anthology of American poetry put together before 1989 belongs to poet Mircea Ivănescu,328 forerunner of Romanian postmodernism. Modern and Contemporary American Poetry329 is the most comprehensive and well executed translation project that has ever been published in Romania, a status confirmed by the many republications of his translations. Most importantly, the sole responsibility for a project of such breadth lay with the translator. Influenced by the poetry of Frank O’Hara and other poets affiliated with the New York School, Ivănescu left behind an impressive number of translations from T.S. Eliot, John Berryman, James Joyce, William Faulkner, and many others (exclusively in periodicals), alongside this anthology that gathered relevant samples from the work of 43 poets. In it, he offered generous space to Pound, Eliot, cummings, Berryman, Lowell, and Plath, and made up to the others through relevant notes and substantial commentaries. The preface signed by Ștefan Stoenescu resonates with Mathew Arnold, according to whom “one cannot do informed literary criticism unless, besides mastering your national tradition quasi-exhaustively, you are also familiar with at least one other modern literature in detail.” (Stoenescu 1986: 5) He also added that literatures should not opt for unlimited continentalism, nor for total insularization, but for the plural and relative metaphor of the “archipelago,” such as the Anglophone one. 328 ***. 1986. Poezie americană modernă și contemporană. Selecție, traducere, note și comentarii de Mircea Ivănescu. (Ștefan Stoenescu, Foreword). Cluj Napoca: Dacia. 329 Edwing Arlington Robinson, Robert Frost, Amy Lowell, Carl Sandburg, Wallace Stevens, Vachel Lindsay, William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, Robinson Jeffers, Marianne Moore, John Crowe Ransom, T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cumings, Conrad Aiken, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Archibald MacLeish, Hart Crane, Allen Tate, Stanley Kunitz, Charles Olson, William Stafford, Delmore Schwartz, Muriel Rukeyser, Weldon Kees, Randall Jarrell, John Berryman, Robert Lowell, Robert Duncan, Howard Nemerov, Richard Wilbur, Anthony Hecht, Alan Dugan, Denise Levertov, Edward Field, Carolyn Kizer, Donald Justice, Lisel Mueller, John Ashbery, W.S. Merwin, Anne Sexton, Richard Howard, Adrienne Rich, and Sylvia Plath. 236 The last interview given by Mircea Ivănescu to poet Radu Vancu in March 2011 (Vancu 2014: web), only a few months before his passing, revealed the mechanisms that fueled his work as a translator. First, as a student, he took advantage of the fact that one of his relatives was a librarian for the French Library at the University of Bucharest, and he borrowed books that were normally banned by the Party, hidden in “a bookcase with the display window covered in blue paper” (Vancu ibid.): Gide, Valéry, Giraudoux, or Cocteau. Later, as an editor for Agerpres, the news agency of the Communist Party, Ivănescu became familiar with various periodicals in Western Europe, especially in France and Great Britain, such as New Republic. This is how he came to read Jack Kerouac in French for the first time, for example, but he also brushed up his English and started reading American writers in the original. Finally, a third mechanism that underlined his work as a poet and translator was his network of friends: Matei Călinescu, who received a Fulbright fellowship at the Iowa University and never returned, but maintained a continuous dialogue with him on various topics pertaining to contemporary literature; Denisa Comănescu, an editor for Univers Press at that time, who helped him publish a translation that he had been brooding over for many years: James Joyce’s Ulysses; George Serafin, his editor-in-chief at Agerpress, who would bring him a massive anthology of American poetry when he returned from one of his many trips abroad. Asked by Vancu why he chose to translate American poetry, Ivănescu answered that the trigger had been his friendship with one of the editors of Dacia Press, Vasile Igna (himself also a poet), and further explained: [Igna] told me at a certain point Let’s do this [an anthology]. They had already published an anthology of modern German poetry, made under similar circumstances, that is, proposed by one single person; so I made a list and I offered to put together an anthology of American poetry and an anthology of British poetry. And he said OK, let’s do this. And so it happened that we did both. (Vancu ibid.) 237 Ivănescu also confessed that he strongly preferred American poetry to French poetry, although he had been thoroughly trained in French language and literature, and that all his work as a translator was a matter of circumstances, a happenstance. He revealed in the same interview that he chose to translate poets that resonated with him, confessional ones, like Anne Sexton, John Berryman, or Meryl Moore and disclosed that even Stoenescu, the author of the preface, was surprised by his selection. Although not an anthology per se, Marin Sorescu’s Tratat de inspirație330 (Inspiration Treatise) reunites translations from one hundred twenty poets from all over the world in an attempt to answer a series of questions related to the essence of poetry and to the best practices in poetry writing. Widely translated abroad, Sorescu took part in numerous literary events on all continents, where he interviewed writers on the craft of poetry: Like a Romanian poetry’s “ministry of foreign affairs” of sorts, Marin Sorescu took part in a slew of international literary happenings, and he did not return empty handed. On a paper napkin or in a small notebook, as conditions allowed, the poet wrote down with a diligence almost stripped of any kind of pride, musings that many of today’s good poets entrusted him with, be it on a ship, at a café, or on a bus. (Pruteanu 1986: web). The work he put into interviewing poets and making selections from their work was equated by Sorescu to a unique chance for “landlocked” cultures to connect to others through translation. Out of the one hundred twenty poets, eight331 are American and complete the network of U.S. contemporary poets that appear in anthologies (Figure 19) before 1989: 330 Sorescu, Marin. 1985. Tratat de inspirație. Craiova: Scrisul românesc. 331 Paul Engle, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, A. Ginsberg, Michael March, Peter Meinke, W.S. Merwin, Dana Naone, and Mark Strand. 238 Figure 19. Network of U.S. poets published in anthologies before 1989. 239 Eliot, Pound, cummings, Whitman, Lowell, Berryman, O’Hara, Ginsberg, or Corso played a very important role in the education of the so-called generation of the 1980s (Crăciun 2002, Vakulovski 2010) and their influence still continues today. Vancu’s interview with Ivănescu and Sorescu’s treatise speak volumes about the influence and the practice of poetry translation in Romania before the 1989 revolution: although apparently organized around institutions, such as literary journals and presses controlled by the party in power, I hope to have shown how the taste of the poets and their networks of friends played an essential role in initiating, executing, and disseminating such translation projects. The network of contemporary U.S. poets in anthologies before 1989 is a highly connected graph of 123 poet-nodes, which presents the small world effect. It shows us that translator- anthologists were paying attention to each other’s work and also manifested a preference for certain poets (cf. Annex 6), one which does not necessarily coincide with publishers’ interests and which in many ways changed after the revolution (cf. section 4.2.). Node centrality points to W.S. Merwin as a preferred poet, followed by Allen Ginsberg, T.S. Eliot, John Ashbery, Denise Levertov, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Theodore Roethke, Gary Snyder, D. Justice, and W.E. Stafford. Of these poets only W.S. Merwin, T.S. Eliot, and T. Roethke were published in dedicated volumes, which is another proof of translators’ attention to the local and foreign literary scene. As far as the anthologists are concerned, their selection of poets influenced their place in the analysed network, with Ion Caraion positioned first (EigenVector = 0.5290) and Ivănescu fourth (EigenVector = 0.2017). However, the anthology put together by Ivănescu is referenced most often even to this day and suggests that the amplitude of an anthologist’s persona contributed more to the visibility of the anthology than the selection itself. 240 One may easily notice the thoroughness of these endeavors and the popularity of anthologies before 1989. They were a strong argument made by poets about the need for Romanian culture to open towards world literature, as well as a gesture of defiance towards an oppressive political regime. Not only did these anthologies express their curators’ taste, but they also, and much more so, were a reflection of these poets’ vision for the future of their literature. The following chapter will investigate whether this type of agency changed once democracy took over Romania. 241 CHAPTER 4. ORDER OUT OF CHAOS: THE SELF-REGULATION OF THE COMPLEX POETRY TRANSLATION NETWORK AFTER 1989 The fall of the Communist regime following the revolution in December 1989 triggered a massive reconfiguration of the translation activity in Romania. The interest in foreign cultural production increased “by leaps and bounds” (Mușat 2018: 127) and literary translation gradually became “a range of uncoordinated ‘microprograms’ in which the translational discourse alongside other domains, discourses and practices of national culture traditionally does the bidding of the transnational.” (Ursa 2018: 309, first emphasis mine). First, translations invaded bookstores at the expense of local literary productions: In those times of turmoil, confusion, and general disagreement (everybody would contest everybody), Romanian readers lost their faith in Romanian writers, possibly also because Romanians do not trust Romanians. But, in any case, the specific reason was a lack of trust in Romanian literature, compromised by its coexistences with Communism. The few readers that still existed took refuge in translations. The book market, the bookstores, were all invaded by translations, which obscured Romanian literature for a while. (Simuț 2008: web) Second, the interest shifted from literature to non-fiction, philosophy, or history books, generally to books that had been censored by the Communist regime. As far as literary genres were concerned, dystopias gained more and more traction: Denisa Comănescu discloses in one of her interviews (Mincan 2012) that Univers Press received no less than seven translations of George Orwell’s 1984 in 1990 alone. Comănescu is in fact the editor that speculated best the lack of contemporary literature in translation after the revolution and started flagship collections for Polirom (“Biblioteca Polirom332”) from 2001 to early 2006 and for Humanitas Fiction from 2006 onwards (“Raftul 332 The Polirom Library. 242 Denisei333”), capitalizing, as she herself admits, on the reputable series of foreign authors published by Univers. However, contemporary poetry translation immediately after 1989 was the result of translators’ strong preferences for one poet or another (Jim Morrison, Charles Simic, etc.), as well as an effort to bring exiled authors, such as Andrei Codescu, back into their culture of origin, or simply republications of older translations (T.S. Eliot by Aurel Covaci). In this respect, the border between mainstream and indie publishing began to fade away, and so did the importance of mainstream publishers, who initiated the publication of only seven out of the thirty three contemporary poetry titles since 1989 (cf. Annex 7 and Figure 20). With Univers turned into a family- business operating on a totally different model than the pre-2001 Univers, with only three major players on the book market (Humanitas, Polirom, and Paralela 45), with a myriad of new presses that sprouted after democracy took over, and with a readership that was interested in everything that happened abroad, especially in the United States, the book market became the host of various private initiatives that I address in the following two sections. Section 4.1 describes rock lyrics translation, a phenomenon that started well before the Revolution and continued until a few years ago, as a common practice for most of the states in the former Eastern bloc with repercussions on the current book market. The last section (4.2) addresses the thorny issue of mainstream vs. indie status and investigates translators’ roles in selecting, translating, and publishing most of the titles published in Romania over the past 28 years. 333 Denisa’s Shelf. 243 4.1. The Network Effect: Translating Rock Lyrics Interestingly enough, most academic essays about Romanian cultural life during the Communist regime, alongside those about the post-Communist period, paint a much gloomier picture than one would like to see. For instance, A Reader in International Media Piracy (2015) features an essay on subtitle translation into Romanian, whose introduction thrillerizes the way in which foreign movies used to reach the local audiences: Friday nights in Romania under the Communist regime […], friends and family would gather in front of their television sets trying to guess what they were actually watching. Telephone calls would be made, film reference and theory books consulted. Such detective skills were required due to the government’s censorship tactics which included screening foreign films (both on television and in cinemas) with their titles altered beyond recognition, credit sequences removed, entire scenes eliminated and dialogue ideologically cleansed through the subtitling process. (Dwyer and Uricariu 2015: 207) While it is certainly true that state media was heavily controlled by the censors, the account is exaggerated and obviously employs a scenario that would dignify even a Hollywood blockbuster. However controlled and slashed subtitling was, there was still a great amount of exposure of the audiences to the realities of foreign life, especially American life, which was of the utmost interest to them. One of the most familiar slogans during and after World War II until well after the Cold War and during the transition years to the democracy that followed was Vin americanii! (The Americans are coming!), an expression of Romania’s deepest desire to be rescued from the Soviet burden. Specters of America were made available via other media channels, such as radio shows, or via a parallel system of illegal video cassettes with Hollywood movies of all stripes, including pornographic productions. Such cassettes were readily available and many families owned a videorecorder to play them. The practice continued and intensified after the fall of the regime, then 244 subsided once the Romanian state television and the newfangled private TV channels started to air such productions themselves a few years after the revolution. Similarly, specters of America were often made available through rock and roll music broadcasting. If Romanian post-communism has known a strong movement of self- Americanization—“a voluntary appropriation of all things American, rather than an effect of the much cited U.S. cultural imperialism.” (Luca 2013: 90)—the years under communism were marked by an Americanization ‘on the stealth,’ through escapism into a music and a literature that did not comply with the party’s guidelines. However, this Americanization did not take place necessarily as a result of Romanians’ interest in the formerly dubbed ‘decadent West,’ but, as Pop shrewdly notes, as a consequence of what was an easement of the Stalinist grip on society from 1965 to 1971, commonly referred to as ‘The Thaw.’ (2016: 54). As a result, rock and folk334 music was among the genres that Communist cultural officialdom tried to accommodate. This relative openness towards the West favored the appearance of a local rock culture disillusioned with the local practices and ideology of local leaders. In a scholarly article dedicated to the alternative culture of the 1960s and 1970s, Madigan Fichter remarks that the “Romanian variant of the hippie movement was more discreet and less flamboyant than its Western counterpart, but still incorporated eccentric dress and a love of rock and beat music with a desire to escape the cultural and political rigidity of socialist Romania.” (2011: 570) She also notes that listening to rock music was not necessarily associated to hippiedom and that two staples of this counterculture activity were the purchase of black-market rock’n’roll records and listening ‘obsessively’ to radio shows such as Metronom, by Cornel Chiriac. Rock’n’roll was the music that helped young people create a private space away from the 334 Folk music was especially welcome by the Party because it was perceived as critical of capitalist societies. 245 collectivized, socialist way of life, as well as entertain a myth of Europe and the United States and present forms of culture that originated within these spaces. Most importantly, it was an informal network phenomenon that propagated fast and was entertained by the one-way network effect of forbidden radio broadcasting. One important media outlet that contributed to this phenomenon was Radio Europa Liberă (Radio Free Europe), which had a lasting influence on the “unknowing” Romanians: “The average Romanian is not allowed access to information, to experience. In constructing the images of the West, he cannot use personal experience or provable knowledge, because he doesn’t have any.” (Biro and Rostas 2001: 94) Secretly listening to such radio stations was one of the favorite past times of many young Romanians and music programs were extremely popular.335 Heavily targeted by censorship, playlists of local radios were carefully combed and only classical love songs or folk music were accepted (Pop 2016). However, many resourceful radio people would find ways to include otherwise banned rock songs in their programs and would cater to those rock fans with a certain limited access to Western cultural products. Rock music did not gain currency only because of the thrill of the banned, but mostly because of its socially-engaged content, because of the “smuggling of ideas and beliefs into the Soviet world” (McMichael 2008: 205) of which Romania was part at the time, as well as because of young people’s interest in the Western forms of expression (Fichter 2011); thus radio programmers would also translate the lyrics (Ionescu 2005, Vasiliu 2005), as we will see later in this subchapter, making sure the message would reach those listeners who didn’t have any knowledge of English. The tightly knit rock network vibrated at the lyrics of the Beatles, 335 Although heavily controlled by the Securitate, rock programmes were recorded on tape and then circulated within informal networks, between friends, to the extent to which they created social attitudes (Pop, 2016: 56). 246 Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, The Doors, and other such bands and had private revelations about what the West looked like: the West looked like those bands and sounded like their hard-won music. Both before and after 1989 rock lyrics were the ones typically associated with translation projects336—be they personal or institutional. In this subchapter I analyze those projects stemming out of radio programs and those grounded in individual preferences and initiative. This node is formed of radio people that have been considered by the Romanian rock community as trailblazers (Cornel Chiriac, Florian Pittiș), as well as of musicians (Alexandru Andrieș) and music enthusiasts (such as Dănuț Ivănescu). For lack of consistent academic sources337 related to three of these music specialists, this research is based on online audio and video recordings, interviews, and heartfelt accounts by people who knew them personally or professionally. 4.1.1. Rock Lyrics as Subversion: Jesus Christ Superstar Postcommunist rock lyric translation needs to be analyzed in close relationship with the same phenomenon before 1989 because it owes a great deal to several Romanian radio celebrities and musicians, who promoted jazz and rock music during the Communist regime, sometimes at the expense of their own lives. At the onset of the liberalization period, in 1964, the music scene in Romania started to become familiar with the music of great American jazzmen, like Louis Armstrong, or American and English rock musicians and bands, such as Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and 336 Since there is no official statistics related to lyrics translation, I rely completely on factual data identified during the present research. 337 The only scholarly article in English that mentions Florian Pittiș is related to his activity as an actor: Berlogea, Ileana. 1979. Shakespeare in Romania. In Shakespeare Quarterly, 30 (2): 281-285. Andrieș and Ivănescu are not referenced in any scholarly work. 247 many others. That came after almost twenty years in which jazz had been considered the art of the rotten West and forbidden by the propaganda. The jazz that still existed in Romania during those years was a superficial version called muzică de estradă (a term338 imposed by the Composers’ Union in Moscow), very similar to swing—the only kind that was allowed on the national radio and television. The lenient 1964 brought a change that was expected by many young people: jazz was called by its rightful name on national television, real jazz began to be played in fashionable clubs in the cities, international music festivals were set up, concerts were organized, and albums released. In this atmosphere, a radio show successfully counted for a sort of sound utopia for many young people: “Metronom,” by Cornel Chiriac, a self-taught jazz and rock specialist, arguably the most famous Romanian radio DJ of all times. Chiriac presented his audience with a special kind of show, in which not only did he play good music, otherwise inaccessible to most, but he also commented “on political issues and promoted the freedom of expression against the regime,” (Pop 2016: 57) as well as on the lyrics; he would also translate them for those listeners that could not comprehend them. Translation took an important part of his time: An incredible work capacity, musical knowledge, an infallible taste, a spiritual openness towards any viable experiment, knowledge of subtleties in literary English from which he translated hundreds of rock and progressive rock lyrics, a mission to promote culture on the radio that he shouldered not with self-importance, but naturally, with a passion and communicative warmth that made him extremely popular both in Romania and also in many European countries. Young Italians, Dutch, Swedish, Russians, Bulgarians used to listen to his shows although they didn’t understand what he was saying. His intonation, impeccable pronunciations of names, his natural speech claimed everyone’s hearts. In the “Prometeus” Club I learned that Metronom was listened to even in Irkutsk, Siberia. (Vasiliu ibid.: web, emphasis mine) 338 A musical genre similar to the vaudeville—characterized by simplicity and containing short, entertaining vocal and instrumental songs that audiences could dance on. 248 His program started to broadcast in Romania in 1967, but ended in 1968, when it was forbidden because Chiriac dared to include a Beatles song titled “Back in the USSR” on his playlist. Following the ban on his show, the DJ defected to Austria and then Germany, where he was discovered by Noel Barnard, Director of Radio Free Europe. Thus Chiriac was given the opportunity to offer “his contagious lesson in liberty” (Tismăneanu 2012: web) again: “Metronom” was broadcast anew between 1969 and 1975, when he was stabbed in a parking lot in Munich, an assassination possibly commissioned by the Romanian Securitate (Ionescu 2005: 25; Tismăneanu ibid.). Chiriac was the first to put together a professional study on the roots and history of jazz music, a 20-page monograph published by Secolul XX in 1966, the one who signed the foreword to the Romanian translation of My Life in New Orleans, by Louis Armstrong, and the one who wrote the introductory blurbs for several jazz LPs released by Electrecord, the national label at the time. Besides thoroughly transcribing all the foreign sources on jazz and rock he managed to get his hands on, Chiriac would sometimes translate the lyrics of the songs he played on the radio, especially the ones bearing political messages—his way of opposing the oppressive political regime in Romania and of educating young people on democracy some twenty-five years before the Romanians came to know it: To him, the social phenomenon, the revolt and the discontent that emanated from these songs and that were often mirrored by their lyrics were at least as important as the music. As you well know, Cornel was an encyclopedia of modern popular music, one of the best specialists. A man that understood it to perfection because he understood its roots, he knew where it came from, and he empathised with its thirst for freedom and peace, its aversion to war and brutality. (Bernard 1975: web) During a visit he made to Chiriac’s only living relative, Cornel Chiriac Jr., his nephew, reputed rock specialist and radio programmer Doru Ionescu discovered the translation into Romanian of Jesus Christ Superstar: 249 At Junior’s I came across the translation of the Jesus Christ Superstar rock opera (a sensational one, in my opinion!), brought from his house in Munich... I hope that one day I’ll be able to support its staging. That would be something for Cornel’s memory, how he remained in the hearts of millions of Romanians (and this is not an exaggeration!) who used to listen to his music shows more than the political talk- shows by his colleagues at Radio Free Europe… (2001: web) Intrigued by Ionescu’s finding, I searched the internet for a recording of the radio show in which Chiriac presented the Jesus Christ Superstar LP. Luckily, it is one of the very few recordings that are available today: the radio programmer presented the double LP during four 45-minute shows scheduled immediately after the release of the album, in 1970. However, only three of them were available on Youtube, but enough to offer a clear image of the way in which Chiriac structured his show and presented the lyrics. The first part starts with the detailed presentation of the authors of the rock opera, followed by a presentation of the characters and the singers that interpret those characters. He would then start presenting the songs in the order in which they appeared on the LP, each song preceded by his own translation. Chiriac is very aware of the translation process and explains that he found it to be “an interesting, but also tedious work,” (min. 20-21, Part 1339) as he tried to offer a rhymed version. He explains that he uses simple language, similar to the language in the original, but with “a light archaic nuance.” (ibid.) I listened to all three radio shows and transcribed all his translations and since I did not have the written version that Ionescu discovered among Chiriac’s personal things and there is not any other written copy, I relied completely on the oral version, therefore the formatting is mine and is also based on the formatting of the originals. Chiriac’s translation shows his deep engagement with the message of the opera, which he renders faithfully in a compelling fashion; his commentaries demonstrate a thorough understanding of the cultural references and significance: “It is obvious 339 Youtube source: http://bit.ly/ChiriacJCS http://bit.ly/ChiriacJCS 250 that Jesus Christ Superstar is an attempt ro make a comparison between Jesus’s passions and the fate of the modern musician. Does he want himself to be—or do others want him to be—a mentor, a spiritual Messiah of the young generation, or rather a social, political one?” he asks apparently rhetorically during the second part of the show;340 he also provides erudite explanations on various aspects such as the etymology of certain words and names (e.g., the origin of the name Judas the Iscariote, which derives from the Latin sicarius, an assassin, a murderer, etc.), as well as on the historical background of the accounts. Chiriac translates the title as “Iisus Cristos idol,” using idol as the equivalent for “superstar,” although the English term would be perfectly acceptable in today’s language. Even if his choice may sound like an infringement of the second commandment that urges believers to “not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth” (Exodus: 20, Bible, King James version)—or, the more modern version “You shall not make idols.”—that is rather unlikely, as he sounds in fact quite attached to the story behind the opera. His word choice relates more consistently to pop culture and to the condition of modern musicians: in “This Jesus Must Die”, he explains his translation of “Jesus Christ-mania” as Iisus Cristos mania (a calque after the English phrase) through an obvious hint to “Beatle-mania” and to Lennon’s remark that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus; he relates people’s request for a written proof from Jesus to autographs offered to fans; and uses primul în clasament (first on top) for “he’s top of the poll.” Chiriac’s attention to form, especially to rhyme—that he wants to preserve at all costs—and his lack of formal training in versification lead to a series of facile rhymes or awkward phrasings. 340 As Chiriac explains (part 2, minute 25-26). 251 However, his translation is exquisite given the context: a radio show of the 1970s, whose presenter had only a bachelor’s degree in English and was mostly self-educated, and could not take advantage of today’s affordances of the internet. He produces an oral version in Romanian that can be easily understood and memorized. Although he might not have been interested in how his renditions would work as lyrics, his versions sound remarkably convincing in oral performance. Here is for example the Romanian translation of “What’s the Buzz?” What’s the Buzz? Apostles: What’s the buzz? Tell me what’s a-happening. Jesus: Why should you want to know? Don’t you mind about the future? Don’t you try to think ahead? Save tomorrow for tomorrow; Think about today instead. Part 1, minute 31:00 Ce se-aude, ce se-ntâmplă? Apostolii: Ce se-aude, Ce se-ntâmplă? Iisus: De ce oare vreți să știți? Viitorul – ce vă pasă? La ce vine nu gândiți? Lăsați mâine pentru mâine, Voi pe astăzi chibzuiți. His versification, lexical choices and diction bear a striking resemblance to those of famous poem “Glossă” (Gloss),341 by widely revered 19th century early Modernist Romanian poet Mihai Eminescu, but also offer an almost literal translation of the original. The first song that he translates, “Cerul din mințile lor” (Heaven on their Minds), shows his great awareness of the different rhythms in the original: after he reads 25 lines, he stops, explains a background fact, warns the listeners that there is a change in meter in the original, provides a translation that has a different rhythm and meter, then signals when the text goes back to the initial meter and adapts his translation accordingly. When literal translation and the preservation of the rhyme are not possible concomitantly, he does 341 An excellent English translation by Corneliu M. Popescu is available at http://www.estcomp.ro/eminescu/gloss.html. http://www.estcomp.ro/eminescu/gloss.html 252 not shy away from adapting his version. Perhaps the best crafted adaptation is the introduction to “The Temple”, which he translates as Corul cămătarilor și al negustorilor (“The Choir of Moneylenders and Merchants”): The Temple I got things you won’t believe, Name your pleasure I will sell. I can fix your wildest needs, I got heaven and I got hell. Roll on up, for my price is down. Come on in for the best in town. Take your pick of the finest wine. Lay your bets on this bird of mine. What you see is what you get. No one’s been disappointed yet. Don’t be scared give me a try, There is nothing you can’t buy. Name your price, I got everything. Hurry, it’s going fast. Borrow cash on the finest terms. Hurry now while stocks still last. Part 2, minute 38:17 Corul cămătarilor și al negustorilor Fă-te-ncoa, fârtate, vând la preț scăzut, Neamule, am marfă cum n-ai mai văzut. Pun pariu că vinul meu dă viață Păsări c-ale mele nu găsești pe piață. Spune ce dobândă și-ți dau oricât vrei Vino, poți să cumperi tot pe banii mei. Pe lungă scadență dau cu-mprumutare Bani peșin, la bursă cursul e-n urcare. He provides a shorter version, only 8 lines instead of 16, in which he takes the most important cues from the original (marked in bold) and recreates the poem, offering two vivid, springy, and funny Balkan style quatrains. Interestingly enough, there is no evidence of Chiriac’s being aware of poets like John Cage, Jerome Rothenberg, or Charles Bernstein and their “writing through” techniques,342 and therefore most likely such uncommon approaches to translation and the resulting brilliant versions emerged from his heartfelt dedication, playful ingenuity, and resourceful creativity. 342 For Jerome Rothenberg, for instance, translation is a form of writing through the words of others. He also uses a technique he calls ‘variation’, which means deriving new poems from the key-vocabulary of poems he translated (cf. Writing Through: Translations and Variations. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2004). 253 Chiriac’s example does not typify subversive radio activities under communist rule, but is a niche mode of engagement with the audiences through rock lyrics during a time when literature and music were the only refuge for many young people. Translation of rock lyrics thus became, just as pirated subtitles (Dwyer and Uricariu ibid.: 221), a by-product of censorship practices and illustrated the primacy of the agent, network, and the media, and the importance of the message, rather than of its originality or accuracy. In a country where in 1991 electric guitars were still ‘scarce,’ (Negus 1992: 108) rock-mania provided a necessary escapism, while translating lyrics into Romanian was perhaps a result of the introversion and insularity of the Romanian hippie movement (Fichter 2011: 578), in that they might have been the expression of a self-referential counterculture rather than arduous political activism. 4.1.2. Bob Dylan Translated by Musicians The tradition of translating rock lyrics continued after Chiriac’s death with Florian Pittiș, one of Romania’s most loved actors, radio presenters, and vocalists. Known as “a perpetual teenager” (Moceanu 2017: web) passionate about theatre and rock music, Pittiș never quite fell in line with the Communist Party and famously turned down even their request to have his hair cut.343 He had decisively contributed to promoting artists like Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, and the Rolling Stones among Romanian youth both before and after 1989. After starting out as a successful actor in 1968 and after years of work with Bulandra Theater in Bucharest, Pittiș initiated in 1981 a series of galvanizing shows called “Poezia muzicii tinere” (The Poetry of Young Music), during which he 343 He was one of the young people identified as objectors, who normally had their long hair and blue jeans scissored (Ionescu, 2005: 36, 50). 254 used to present and comment on the lyrics of various foreign rock bands and artists. His rugged, yet warm and fascinating voice, not only presented the English originals, but also delivered translations of the texts that he had done himself. To Pittiș translation was a natural act, a spontaneous response to his meeting with a foreign culture, to which he added, just as naturally, a performative dimension: any text he would read was approached with the awareness of an audience. His show at the theater was banned in 1985, but was followed by “Cântece pentru mine însumi344,” (Songs for Myself) which ran between 1985 and 1989, and by “Cum se numeau cei patru Beatles” (written by Stephen Poljakoff under the original title of City Sugar) whose format allowed Pittiș to play a music normally banned by the censors. The kind of shows he organized at various theaters allowed him to promote this type of culture through a two-way network effect: his shows were not only meant to disseminate the desired information to a specific audience, but also to have the audience interact with the artists and make their voices known in a unique type of rhizhomatic performance. Theater was not the only venue where Pittiș explored the advantages of the two-way network effect. After the revolution, he was the producer and presenter of two legendary radio programs, “Pittiș Show” and “Rock Panorama”, which ran for years before Pittiș was appointed as a director of Radio Romania Tineret in 1999, a branch of the state-owned radio channel. Passionate about information technology, Pittiș moved his show online and thus revolutionized radio broadcasting by adapting to the requirements of the digital media and, more importantly, by involving—again—his abundant audience in his shows: he would maintain direct contact with his listeners via the chat room, he would broadcast live from the studio, and he would often propose the topics to be discussed in the forum section of the website. All these were the elements of a 344 A title inspired by Songs of Myself by Walt Whitman, whose poems Pittiș would often recite during the show. 255 completely new work ethics in Romanian radio and made Pittiș a trailblazer of dynamic radio programming (Moceanu 2017: web). Besides translating live the lyrics of the rock bands presented, he translated and adapted many of Bob Dylan’s songs, such as “Death is Not the End“ (Sfârşitul nu-i aici), “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right“ (Nu-i nimic, asta e!) or “Rainy Day Women“ (Toţi suntem puţin luaţi...). In 2001, Pittiș became lead vocalist for Pasărea Colibri, one of Romania’s most famous folk bands, and started to sing his own translations of Dylan’s. His penchant for rock music in general was expressed repeatedly in interviews: “[…] there are people that live passionately; I love such people. They feel that in rock music one cannot lie or, at least, it’s more difficult to lie than in any other genre. Rock is still very much a howl.” (Stoicescu 2009: web) The obvious reference to Allen Ginsberg’s famous poem is one of the many proofs that Pittiș had a deep understanding of what the role of young generations was: he believed in the power of people to shape the world and rejected their role as mere cogs in the social and political machine. He valued the importance of free speech, of freedom in general, and of each person’s ability to think for themselves—all masterfully expressed through the iconic lyrics of “Vinovații fără vină,” a song he sang with his band Pasărea Colibri: “Nu contează cât de lung am părul / Important e ce și cum gândesc.” (It does not matter how long my hair is, / But how and what I think do). His affinity for Bob Dylan’s music should thus come as no surprise as the covers345 he played with his band are the natural extension of the ideals he shared with the legendary American artist all his life—and certainly not a faute de mieux, as musical covers are usually perceived. The interview he gave after having been appointed director of Radio Romania Tineret in 1999 spells out his vision on education through the un-mediated absorption of culture: 345 Possibly included among the over 26,000 covers of Dylan inventoried before 2010 (Gezari and Hartman, 2010: 152). 256 I have faith in our true youth, in these children who refuse ready-made truths, who refuse to believe everything they are told at school or at home, who study because they need to study, because life will present them with hardship anyway and they will find useful for their education all those basics taught in school. Fortunately, just like it used to happen when I was young, there is still a certain ‘underground’ culture, that they explore by themselves, during ‘school breaks’. When I was in school, I would read [Lucian] Blaga346 only because he was banned. But also because of my parents (May they rest in peace!), I would read Gazeta literară and Contemporanul. At the same time, I would listen to Elvis Presley, play football and be crazy about "Rock around the clock." […] Such young people still exist in our country! And they are very many! With a thirst for culture, a thirst for knowing all kinds of things! So my mission is to present Romanian youth with such underground culture. (Kerim 1999: web) The translation of rock and folk lyrics represented both for Chiriac and for Pittiș a way to fill a cultural gap, the kind that widens uncontrollably under oppressive political regimes. Besides filling this gap and importing resources, Pittiș also used translation creatively, adapting Dylan’s songs to speak to young Romanians and to preserve their performativity. Just to offer an example of such adaptation, he translated “Rainy Day Women” as Toți suntem puțin luați..., which is in fact a line in the chorus: “Everybody must get stoned.” He employs the colloquial a fi luat (to be tipsy) and reads in Romanian “We are all a bit tipsy…” (literally: “we are all a bit taken”), thus replacing stoned with “tipsy/drunk”, a translation that was bound to be more relevant for his listeners, much more familiar at the time with alcohol than with any kind of illegal substances. The reference to drugs is also suppressed in the body of the text: he translates “they stone you” by te iau, which can be interpreted both as “I take you”, but also as “they take you”. Most importantly, his use of the verb “a lua” both for “they stone you” and “we are all tipsy” is a very creative way to avoid the reference to drugs, to use a leitmotif just as the original does, yet create two different meanings, of which one refers to alcohol, and one refers to political interference in and control over people’s lives. His choice also entertains 346 Romanian interbellum philosopher and writer who famously refused to support the Communist regime. Fired from his academic position with the university in Sibiu, he worked as a librarian and became a prolific translator. 257 the ambiguity of the original, which plays with the religious connotations of ‘to stone someone to death.’ Furthermore, another simply genius solution for the first line of the chorus—“But I would not feel so all alone”—is the very idiomatic phrase “Dar hai să ne avem ca frați” (“But let us all get along just like brothers do”), which creates a perfect rhyme with the final line: Well, they’ll stone you when you are all alone They’ll stone you when you are walking home They’ll stone you and then say they’re all brave They’ll stone you when you’re sent down in your grave But I would not feel so all alone Everybody must get stoned Te iau când numai tu ți-ai mai rămas, Te iau și-atunci când mergi și tu acas’, Te iau și-apoi îti spun că esti bărbat, Te iau când în mormânt te-ai așezat! Dar hai să ne avem ca frați, Toți sîntem puțin luați! Finally, while the original quatrain employs an irregular iambic pentameter (with a syllable elision in the fourth iamb), which becomes regular only in the final line, the Romanian version is built on a perfectly regular pentameter that helped the translator perform the song with much more ease and rhythm347. A selection of Dylan’s lyrics was translated and published in book form for the first time in 1991 by folk singer, song writer, writer, and architect Alexandru Andrieș. The collection was released on the American singer’s fiftieth anniversary and is titled (Happy Birthday) Dylan.348 It contains twenty-five poems and a presentation by the translator himself, which includes five more translations (full texts or simply relevant fragments). Andrieș explains from the get-go that the selection was made following his own taste and preference for one poem or another, rather than on grounds of a certain literary hierarchy, and that it offers more of a personal version in Romanian rather than a translation proper. However, it is interesting to note that some of his translations are 347 A very illustrative interpretation of Dylan’s “Rainy Day Women” by Florian Pittiș in Romanian—a concert organized in 1997—is available on Youtube at http://bit.ly/2kP4daq. The original can be accessed at http://bit.ly/2e7lvhp 348 Dylan, Bob. 1991. (La mulți ani) Dylan (Alexandru Andrieș, Trans,). Brașov: Editura Pronto. http://bit.ly/2kP4daq http://bit.ly/2e7lvhp 258 quite accurate (at the expense of the rhyme), while others run the gamut from simple elisions of less familiar references (e.g., he drops the reference to Anita Ekberg and keeps the reference to Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot in his translation of “I Shall Be Free”) to inserting words that were not in the original or even rewriting whole lines (e.g., “It’s President Kennedy calling me up” becomes Preşedintele Kennedy exagerează (President Kennedy is exaggerating), or “what do we need to make the country grow” becomes “Ca să ne crească ţara ca lanul de ştevie” (So that our country grows like a field of patience dock349). I Shall Be Free (fragment) by Bob Dylan Well, my telephone rang it would not stop It’s President Kennedy callin’ me up He said, My friend, Bob, what do we need to make the country grow? I said my friend, John, Brigitte Bardot Anita Ekberg Sophia Loren Country’ll grow Translation by Alexandru Andrieș Telefonul sună, mă enervează, Preşedintele Kennedy exagerează Zice: prietene Bob ce crezi că ne trebuie Ca să ne crească ţara ca lanul de ştevie Îi zic: prietene John mai ești acolo, alo Ne trebuie Sophia Loren şi Brigitte Bardot Şi creşte ţara. Such inconsistencies in the manner in which he translated these lyrics stem from the personal nature of this translation initiative, as well as from the fact that some of them were performed in concert or on Andrieș’s LPs: the meter is not observed where it should be, rhymes are used although they are not present in the original, meter is more regular than in the original, whole songs are adapted or even rewritten, etc. For example, on his “Alb negru” LP (1999), “Oxford Town” becomes “La noi” (In Our Neck of the Woods) in the title proposed by Andrieș, then various other Romanian toponyms across the quatrains, which are all mockingly rewritten and brimful with cultural 349 Lat. Rumex Patientia, a plant used in Eastern Europe in soup stocks, especially in spring. It is referenced here as a symbol of abundance due to its perennial nature and leafy appearance. 259 references (e.g., Periş is a small satellite town of Bucharest and also commonly known as the first train station after the capital, here praised for having houses with roofs and no McDonald’s): Oxford Town by Bob Dylan Oxford Town, Oxford Town Everybody’s got their heads bowed down The sun don’t shine above the ground Ain’t a-goin’ down to Oxford Town La noi Translated by A. Andrieș La Periş, la Periş, Casele-au acoperiş, Nici McChicken, nici McFish, Minunat e la Periş! In Our Neck of the Woods (back translation) In Periş, in Periş All houses are quite roofish, No McChicken, no McFish, It’s amazing in Periş! The translator took many liberties, but fully acknowledged them in the foreword, emphasizing his need to render Dylan into Romanian over any personal creative merits. However, I consider his version of “Rainy Day Women” to be less accomplished than the one by Pittiș, although I believe he took his inspiration from it (e.g., Andrieș uses Ți-o fac (“I’ll trick you”) for Pittiș’s Te iau: although an interesting choice, it was much easier to achieve with an established translation in place.) Unlike Andrieș, Pittiș thrived in translation: he sounded much more natural, and the sense of appropriation felt less acute, as he would often sing the original lyrics after interpreting the cover version in Romanian, therefore the relationship between the original and the translation was maintained explicit on more than just one level. To Pittiș, translation came more fluidly, spontaneously, consistently (he even translated the name of the band Rolling Stones as “Vântură lume” (The Wanderers, quite a felicitous choice), perhaps from a more general awareness of what needed to be imported from other cultures or, better, of what Romania needed to fill the gap created by the 42-year communist rule. Translation was part of both his ‘program’ and of his sparkling personality while his agency was manifest in all he did, including creating communities. 260 His only four translations of Dylan are widely known in Romania, and not only among the Pasărea colibri fans. However, one of his radio co-workers recounts that he did not believe in ratings and offers on her website his exact words: “I need to tell you something about this stupid thing called ratings. Back in the day, Jesus’s rating was lower than Barabas’s. And the people chose Barabas. I wonder if that was OK.” (Isopescu 2013: web) Although he didn’t believe in ratings, he managed to create covers of Dylan’s music that most Romanians passionate about music are familiar with. 4.1.3. Dylan, a Feather to a Literary Cap Pittiș’s translations of Dylan are so well done and so widely-known because of the networks he belonged in and effectively exploited, that any other translation of the same lyrics by Dylan may be measured against them. In 2012 Humanitas Press published Bob Dylan’s Selected, translated by the celebrated contemporary writer Mircea Cărtărescu, whose name is acknowledged in the very title of the book: Suflare în vânt. 100 de poeme traduse de Mircea Cărtărescu (Blowing in the Wind. 100 Poems Translated by Mircea Cărtărescu). The translator also signs the foreword, in which he humblebrags in the most glorious way: I tried to be fully faithful to the original, but also to give it a certain flexibility in Romanian. ‘This is not Cărtărescu, this is Dylan.’ This is what I was telling to myself all the time while I translated. Cărtărescu is only the tool that can make Dylan shine in Romanian, I used to tell myself. And still, those readers that are truly familiar with my style will be able to recognize it in these one hundred poems of Dylan, because this is inevitable. All I can hope is that it doesn’t bother the reader, that it is only part of the background, and maybe a necessary ‘shadow’. (Cărtărescu 2012: 18, emphases mine) It is no surprise that the most visible Romanian writer was chosen to translate Dylan’s lyrics and why he accepted. The reasons are manifold and before being a mainstream translation project, it is the 261 project of a poet-translator with a manifested literary affinity for the American poet. His foreword reveals themes and images in Dylan’s lyrics that he and the entire writer generation of the 1980s share a taste for (David 2016), such as “surrealist, apocalyptic visions,” (ibid.: 11) or “psychedelic flavors dear to [his] heart.” (ibid.: 10) Cărtărescu’s association with a title that was supposed to sell out soon after the release must have been complemented by the satisfaction of a personal project that made the poet one of the go-to names in lyrics translation into Romanian, as this was the third such project, after two translations of Leonard Cohen’s poems in 2003 and 2006 (cf. section 4.2). No matter how promising in terms of sales and how felicitous the association between the two names, the Romanian translation bears a hilarious title, which seems to have been overlooked by its most prominent and qualified reviewer, renowned translator Grete Tartler.350 Initially translated by poet Adrian Păunescu351 as vânare de vânt (wind chasing), ‘blowing in the wind’ becomes suflare în vânt (literal rendition of the English original) in the Humanitas translation, a phrase never used idiomatically in Romanian and bearing unintended scatological connotations, since, just as in English, vânt (wind) is a common euphemism. I can only assume that Cărtărescu tried to avoid Păunescu’s established translation and to come up with a whole new Dylan, a Dylan of his own. However, vânare de vânt will likely remain the best Romanian translation of “Blowing in the Wind”, one that has been sung by many folk singers since its premiere during communism. Păunescu’s inspirational rendition of the phrase ‘blowing in the wind’ as vânare de vânt, a phrase that appears only in the Romanian translation of the Ecclesiastes 1:17 for ‘to chase/strive (after) the 350 Romanian writer and translator of German origin. She is known for her translations of Goethe, as well as for many other translations of poetry and diction from the German, Danish, English, French, and the Arabic. 351 Controversial creator of the famous Cenaclul Flacăra (The Flame Literary Circle), the event during which the first Romanian version of “Blowin’ in the Wind” was launched towards the end of the 1970s. The song was sung at that time by Florian Pittiș and became one of his bestselling songs, also included on one of Pasărea Colibri’s albums, În căutarea cuibului pierdut (released in 1995). 262 wind’ is arguably the best rendition of Dylan’s title. Its rendition is in perfect harmony with the message of Dylan’s songs and is a perfect translation of the title’s meaning, while Cărtărescu’s version is both awkward and unintentionally funny, a failed attempt to avoid an established translation at all costs. In a blog entry on the two versions, Constantin Piștea admits to preferring Pittiș’s version and indicates that performativity plays an essential role: It might also be [his] voice, low and a bit raspy and husky, yet unmistakable. It might be. But the truth is that every time I read another poem in [Cărtărescu’s] book I would also listen to Bob’s original song and, more urgently, the cover played by Florian Pitiș352 and his band, Pasărea Colibri. You wanna know what happened? I realized I terribly missed Florian Pitiș…! (Piștea 2014: web) Pittiș’s translations do fit the score and sound impressive indeed in performance, but there is still more to them than just meets the eye… and the ear. If we look at Dylan’s “Death is Not the End,” the first two lines, for instance, “When you’re sad and when you’re lonely / And you haven’t got a friend / Just remember that death is not the end” become Când necazuri te doboară, / Și prieteni n-ai să-i strigi / Ține minte, sfârșitul nu-i aici, which is translation by synthesis (e.g., “sad” and “lonely” are rendered by one word, “trouble”) followed by a generalization (“the end is not here”), while Cărtărescu’s translation of the first line and of the chorus is literal, but then he has to make up a whole verse in order to preserve the rhyme: Şi nu mai vine răsăritul (“And sunrise is no longer coming” for “And you haven’t got a friend”). Nevertheless, Tartler’s review is highly praising, calling Cărtărescu’s translations ‘much better’ than the originals and endowed with ‘a special charm’ that comes from the translator’s very alteration of the text. The departure from the original, when it happens, is considered by the reviewer as a lucidus ordo, a perspicuous arrangement. Then Tartler offers the example of “Highway 352 He used both orthographies alternatively: Pittiș or Pitiș. 263 61” in translation, which she calls a ‘masterpiece’. The translation is indeed excellent, but the examples offered further depart from the original to such an extent that they become, just like Tartler notes, poems by Cărtărescu in the vein of various illustrious Romanian predecessors, such as Anton Pann or Ion Barbu. Not only does the translator use various regional terms (e.g., prișniță for medicament / medicine), but also rewrites whole lines so that he could stay close to the meter and rhyme. In “Subterranean Homesick,” (“Dor de casă subteran”) “Maggie comes fleet foot, face full of black soot / Talkin’ that the heat put plants in the bet book” becomes “Maggie vine repede/ plină de funingine/ Să ne spună: «Plantele/ Au crescut sub plapume»./”, that is [...] to tell us / The plants have grown under duvets.” He renders ‘plants’ by plante, when the more common rendition would be flori (flowers). Or “Phone’s tapped anyway / Maggie says “The Man, he say / They must bust in early May, orders from the D.A.” becomes Telefonu-i ascultat/ Mulţi inşi zic că au aflat/ Că inspectorul de stat/ Nu mai trebuie votat, which means “[…] many dudes say they found out / That the state inspector / No longer must be voted for.” In the absence of the original (the book contains only the Romanian translation), Cărtărescu affords himself a wide range of liberties. The reviewer does not seem to be bothered, but, at the same time, starts out tongue-in-cheek by saying that she begins her review by talking about herself, just as the translator speaks about himself in the translator’s foreword. She admits to have never been into Dylan at all and to only having become familiar with his music and ideology on the occasion of writing the review. All these may be an indication that her commentary was commissioned by the publishing company, a hypothesis supported by the lack of any other review before Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. The Humanitas project is an interesting case of a translation whose author cannot overcome his own literary stardom and whose publisher uses the reputation of the poet-translator as a 264 guarantee for quality: it is Dylan, a Dylan the translator clearly admires,353 but a Dylan translated (of all, we might read) by none other than Cărtărescu. Even Tartler’s review, “Cărtărescu și Dylan,” mentions the translator first, an inkling of the assessment the reviewer was about to make. Both the author’s and the translator’s symbolic capitals work together for the success of the project, while also, by association, increase each other’s prestige: for those who have never heard of Dylan— unlikely as it may sound—Cărtărescu’s allegiance via translation is a guarantee of literary value, while adding Dylan to Cărtărescu’s portfolio is not only a translation event born out of translator’s admiration, but also one more famous feather to his own literary cap. 4.1.4. Three Times Jim Morrison The first translation of rock lyrics in book form in post-communist Romania was Jim Morrison’s An American Prayer and Other Writings.354 The book was the project of rock music enthusiast Dănuț Ivănescu, and editor of the Romanian Heavy Metal Magazin. The first bilingual edition was published in 1995 at Quo Vadis? Press in Chișinău. Printing books with presses and printing houses in the Republic of Moldova was a common practice during those years, as prices were more affordable than in Romania and local publishers welcomed the idea of facilitating projects in Romanian. The first print run probably sold out very quickly, as two more editions were published in 1997, this time with Romanian publishers—Cartea de nisip and Karmat Press. The books produced by these publishers reveal a very eclectic selection—a hodgepodge of cheap literature, poetry, 353 In an interview for Observatorul cultural 312 in 2006 („Stiu mai bine ce vreau si ce nu vreau de la literatura“, by Ovidiu Șimonca), six years before the translation of Dylan’s poems was launched, Cărtărescu mentions the American singer’s album Another Side of Dylan when he talks about his own multiple literary personae. 354 Morrison, Jim. 1995/1997. O rugă americană și alte scrieri (An American Prayer and Other Writings (Virgilia and Mara Popa, Trad.). Chișinău: Quo Vadis? Press / Cartea de nisip / Karmat Press. 265 translations, memoirs, most of them being rather reflections of their authors’ personal agendas than a coherent publication portfolio. The translation of Morrison’s poems and lyrics is the perfect example of such projects born from someone’s passion for a certain kind of music. Its publication was an act of open admiration towards the poet and musician, as all paratexts and subsequent reviews of the translation to Morrison’s life and music only. There are no translation excerpts online, nor are there any in other media. The only reference to the two translators appears on a blog run by the artist who designed the cover of the book, Ionuț Bănuță.355 This is how I found out that Virgilia and Mara Popa are siblings. Ana Virgilia Popa is in fact a researcher in veterinary medicine, whose other translations to date have nothing to do with poetry, but with science fiction and with specialized texts pertaining to the field of biology. Such an eclectic profile is an indication of how Virgilia Popa came to translate this poetry collection: most probably because she was personally acquainted with the publisher. Details from Ana Virgilia Popa’s online CV confirm the fact that the first edition was published in 1995 at Quo vadis? Press (in Chișinău, Republic of Moldova), while the other three were published between 1996 and 1998 by Karmat Press and Cartea de Nisip Publishers (which all had the same owner, Dănuț Ivănescu). The translation was popular among Morrison’s fans (e.g., one of the poems in translation, Cine te-a speriat (Who Scared You)), was included on the Romanian band Blue Spirit’s 1999 album titled Cei mai frumoși ani! (The Most Beautiful Years!), but was always sung alongside the original. The 51-poem selection follows an ample foreword from the publisher, Dănuț Ivănescu, titled “‘Cel frumos și blestemat’ sau ‘La porțile percepției’,” (The Handsome and Cursed or At the Doors of Perception) which addresses the rock star’s troubled biography. The Romanian versions 355 The cover designer reveals that he designed the cover out of his “deep admiration” for Morrison’s band, The Doors. http://bit.ly/MorrisonBanuta. 266 follow the original quite accurately and sometimes manage to preserve the rhyme, but the prosody is not a concern for the two translators. A similar preoccupation for the meaning of Morrison’s lyrics appears in Tudor Crețu’s essays on narcopoetics, a series of three pieces published in Observatorul cultural in 2016 on his drug addiction as part of the artistic process.356 Most excerpts from Morrison’s poems are offered in Romanian translation and a note at the end states that all translations were made by the author himself. *** These five examples related to rock lyric translation show that Romanian rock music scene was a complex phenomenon that presented four ways of translation deployment, all indebted to a network of music enthusiasts rather than to any cultural politics. First, post-Communist rock music was heavily influenced by the European and American countercultures, but still retained its own modes of expression, which revolved more consistently around presenting alternatives to mass- produced culture, and mostly lacked the dissident emphasis that characterized similar movements. Instead, Romanian underground culture gravitated around archaic ritualism, folklore, and mysticism (including shamanism and traditional magical practices), an attempt at embracing Romania’s pre- communist past. While the existing literature generally links folklore-infused Romanian rock to a nationalism that was accepted by the Communist regime (Pop 2016, Dobrescu 2011), one also needs to acknowledge the fact that it may have been a response to Mircea Eliade’s impact as a historian of religions (Oișteanu 2006)357 and a symbol of the alternative ways of approaching Romanian culture. I would argue here that, for example, Cornel Chiriac’s choice to translate Jesus Christ 356 Crețu, Tudor. 2012. “Jim Morrison, narcopoetica (1-3).” In Observator cultural 811, 812, 814. Web: http://bit.ly/narcopoetica. Last accessed December 28, 2017. 357 Andrei Oișteanu also documented and explained the impact of this world-famous historian of religions on hippiedom beyond Romania, specifically in California, during the 1960s and the early 1970s. http://bit.ly/narcopoetica 267 Superstar in its entirety may have been the result of an Eliadesque mode of perceiving and promoting music and that translation was his very personal way of understanding it. Claire Bishop rightfully notes that self-organization and personal experience were important modes of experiencing art in general under socialism: “For artists living under communism, participation had no […] agitationary goals. It was, rather, a means of experiencing a more authentic (because individual and self-organized) mode of collective experience than the one prescribed by the state in official parades and mass spectacles; as such, it frequently takes escapist or celebratory forms.” (2012: 161) Translation becomes, through the work of radio producers like Cornel Chiriac and Florian Pittiș, a celebration of rock music and of underground culture in general. Second, the celebration of rock music via lyrics translation is also represented by a more popular form, that of cover versions. Covers were the sole initiative of the artists, who chose either to observe the original poem and provide an accurate translation (like Pittiș), or to adapt the original lyrics, offering an accurate rendition of the titles but largely modifying the main portion of the poem (like Andrieș) in order to preserve the performative aspect. Covers are either only performed, or are doubled by isolated publishing initiatives (e.g., Andrieș published the anniversary volume of adaptations dedicated to Dylan, but never published a similar work again). Third, also in line with the celebratory function of translation, there are translation initiatives that stem from the publishers’ affinity with a certain artist. The extent of the initiative relies on the financial power of the publisher, and the degree of faithfulness to the original depends on the translator’s profile. Fourth, and most importantly, all rock lyric translation in Romania has been built on individual taste and the promotion of such work depended largely, with the notable exception of Humanitas, on a tightly knit network of music enthusiasts who found ways to reach wider audiences. And even in the case of Humanitas, Cărtărescu’s admiration for Dylan’s music—part and parcel of the American 268 influence on the Romanian generation of the 1980s—might have had a say in the initiation of this translation project. 4.2. Romanian Mainstream and Indie Publishers of Translated Poetry after 1989 There is a fine line between established and indie publishing in Romania. Generally associated with high levels of intermediation and with rigidity in terms of expected financial performance, mainstream publishers are not the typical venue for poetry translation unless the authors are iconic figures in their home literatures. One cannot measure how established a publisher is in terms of published translation by the number of reviews discussing these works either because reviewing translations is not a common practice. Such evaluations are rarely made in literary periodicals and, when they are, what triggers them is rather the stature of the author or the translator and the network of the latter’s literary acquaintances, not necessarily the publisher or the quality of the translation. The corpus shows us that established publishers started to manifest a somewhat constant interest towards contemporary North American poetry in English just before the country joined the European Union on January 1, 2007. Even so, this is only the case of Humanitas and Polirom—the two mainstream publishing houses that dominate the industry, with Polirom more interested in promoting Romanian fiction writers abroad and Humanitas bringing foreign authors to the local market. It is safe to say that Humanitas included T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound358 in their publishing plans because they are canonized authors, whose literary value is undeniable and who also align with the 358 I have not included this translation (by Radu Vancu) in my corpus because Volume 1, the only one published to date, contains only poems published in original between 1908 and 1920. 269 requirements of a globalized, capitalist market. The same goes for their choice of Bob Dylan’s lyrics or for Polirom’s interest in Leonard Cohen, whose international fame was certainly in line with the sales policy of the publisher. By contrast, indie publishing in the Romanian context is associated with self-publication, disintermediation, and almost complete control over the published product on the part of the translator. However, even this type of publishing is intermediated by presses that cannot be catalogued as fully mainstream or fully indie. Unlike in other contexts, where an author can publish their work under their own auspices, indie publishing in Romania means that an author, or a translator, in our case, uses a private company that has the legal right to operate as a publisher. Private individuals are not allowed to, therefore they need to collaborate with a publishing house that supplies the much needed ISBN. While most indie publishers typically issue the ISBN and serve as intermediaries in the printing process, there are independent publishers who also get involved in the design and promotion of the book, which typically results in no further financial gains for the translator. Royalties in poetry translation are not common and the amounts earned by such publishing houses by selling these books merely allow them to survive. However, this precariousness in means has beneficial effects in terms of productivity and the variety of authors translated (Figure 20). Translated poetry publishing in Romania appears as a disconnected graph359 with 28 author nodes (for 33 books) and 18 publisher nodes—divided in fourteen components, zero clustering and density close to zero (0.0309). 359 Translators are the edges that connect the publisher and author nodes, therefore they have no role in the economy of this particular graph. 270 Figure 20. Contemporary English-language U.S. and Canadian poetry collections translated after 1989360 Legend: red = mainstream; green = indie. 360 The network includes the translation of Jim Morrison’s lyrics presented in section 4.1.4. 271 The fine line between mainstream and indie publishers is given by a third category, such as Paralela45 (Figure 21), the most central node in the network because of the number of authors published and the association with three more presses that published other books by the same authors (Cartea românească, Humanitas, and Editura Fundației culturale române). Figure 21. Translation projects associated with mainstream Paralela 45, Humanitas, Cartea românească, and Editura fundației culturale române (Legend: red = mainstream; green = indie) Their market presence and history point to a mainstream status, but the type of poetry titles they have hosted after the revolution actually show an openness to books that appear to be their translators’ projects. I would contend that this openness has been the result of the network of people around the late Gheorghe Crăciun (editorial consultant and then editor-in-chief), a poetry theorist who built his most reputed book, The Iceberg of Modern Poetry (Crăciun 2009), on the works of poets like Walt Whitman or Frank O’Hara. This press ranks first in all types of centrality in G (bc = 0.0212; cc = 0.1094; EigenVector = 0.6005) and is best placed and most influential in G0, followed 272 in betweenness and closeness centrality not by a mainstream publisher, but by an independent one, Scrisul românesc—the press which built its portfolio due to transatlantic connections (cf. section 2.2.3). Paralela 45 starts its series of translations from U.S. contemporary poetry with a bilingual volume of selected poems by Andrei Codrescu,361 an established Romanian-born American author translated by Ioana Ieronim. The translator confesses in her foreword that in 2000 she actually resumed her translations of Codrescu’s poetry, one that had started five years before (Ieronim 2000: 18-19), and that Paralela 45 decided to make Codrescu even more popular in Romania after his first volume362 of translated poems, Candoare străină, published only three years before by another press, sold out. The first volume was translated by the same Ieronim and published by a different press, so we may assume both translations from Codrescu’s poetic work were Ieronim’s projects. The situation is actually not very different from the publication of his translated novels. All eleven novels and non-fiction books were translated by the same Ioana Avădani. Avădani is not simply a translator appointed by the publisher to work on Codrescu’s texts, but her relationship with the Romanian-born writer dates back to the late 1990s, when she started to translate his work with the novel Mesi@363 and the articles published by Codrescu in reputed cultural journal Dilema Veche under the moniker Scrisori din New Orleans (Letters from New Orleans). Translation is simply a pastime for Avădani—as she confesses in many interviews and bio notes—and a reflection of her long-time friendship and literary affinity with Codrescu: “I am not a professional translator, I don’t earn a living by doing this, so I can afford my own rhythm and choose what I want to translate. I 361 Codrescu, Andrei. 2000. Selected Poetry. Poezii alese (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.). Pitești: Editura Paralela 45. 362 Codrescu, Andrei. 1997. Candoare străină: Poeme alese, 1970-1996 (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.). Editura Fundației Culturale Române. 363 Codrescu, Andrei. 2000. Mesi@ (Ioana Avădani, Trans.). Cluj: Editura Fundaţiei Culturale Române. 273 revel in word hunting.” (Vasilescu 2011: web, emphasis mine). She is otherwise known as the director of the Centre for Independent Journalism and has been for years a prominent figure in Romanian media, a position which may have allowed her to successfully propose translation projects to visible publishers. Her first translation, Mesi@, was published by Editura Fundației Culturale Române, founded by the Romanian Writers’ Union, where Ieronim published her first poetry translation. When the press was shut down, the two translators took their projects to other publishers: Ieronim to Paralela 45, and Avădani to Polirom, who published six of Codrescu’s titles.364 But the rhythm in which the prolific translator worked on her friend’s books required a second publisher, this time Curtea Veche Publishing, and a dedicated series bearing the name of the author365. While his prose was the result of his sole translator’s effort, the translation of his poetry is tributary to a second translator-poet, Carmen Firan, who took Codrescu’s first and only book written in his native Romanian, Intrumentul negru366, and published it in 2005 at Scrisul românesc press. We have also seen in the section on translations in print periodicals that Firan also translated selections of Codrescu’s poems and published them in the literary journal affiliated with the press. All these collaborations are part of a process of poetic reinstatement carried out by a network of various Romanian writer-translators that met Codrescu in the United States. The next volume of American contemporary poetry published at Paralela 45 is the translation of Charles Simic’s The Book of Gods and Demons367 in 2002. There is no clear indication that this was a translator initiative; however, the volume differs in terms of design and is not 364 Contesa sângeroasă (2010), Noi n-avem bun-gust, noi sîntem artiști (2008), Wakefield (2006), Mesi@ (2006), Scrisori din New Orleans (2006), Casanova în Boemia (2005). 365 Prof pe drum (2008), Gaura din steag (2008), Ghid dada pentru postumani - Tzara şi Lenin joacă şah (2009), Ay, Cuba! O călătorie socio-erotică (2012), Lecția de poezie (2014). 366 Codrescu, Andrei. 2005. Instrumentul negru. Poezii, 1965-1968. Craiova: Scrisul românesc. 367 Charles Simic. 2002. Cartea zeilor şi a demonilor (Mircea Cărtărescu, Trans.). Pitești: Paralela 45. 274 bilingual, unlike Codrescu’s Selected in the Gemini series. Cărtărescu’s translation is preceded by a translator’s note, in which he places the volume in the wider context of Simic’s poetry and where the presence of the translator is only visible in a comment related to his favorite poem in the volume, which also appears on the back cover. If we take into account the rhythm in which Cărtărescu translates, the fact that the following American poetry books with the same publisher appear in the Gemini series and in bilingual format, whereas Cărtărescu never publishes translations alongside the originals, one may be right to assume this was the translator’s project. At Paralela 45 the translation of Simic was followed by that of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land368 in 2004 by young translator Alex Moldovan—“[a] free-lance translator and a self-declared agnostic, [who] included on his list of translated works titles from philosophy, theology, as well as some poetry signed by authors such as Charles Taylor, Joseph Ratzinger or William Blake.” (Bîrsanu 2014: 246) As noted by Bîrsanu, “the publication of this version registered no echo whatsoever on the Romanian literary scene,” (247) probably because of the personal nature of a project by a young translator that was not a published author at the time. Finally, the last poetry book with Paralela 45 in our corpus is Sylvia Plath’s Selected Poems369 translated and introduced by Elena Ciobanu in 2012. Plath’s rendition and publication into Romanian appear to be Ciobanu’s own endeavour, a classic example of collaboration with an established publisher that sits on the boundary between mainstream and indie publishing. The translator had defended her Ph.D. thesis on Plath’s poetry in 2008 and the influence of her scholarly interest reflects heavily on the book. The poems are preceded by a lengthy academic preface both in English and Romanian, in which no reference is made to the translation process and which is followed by a list of works cited, a detailed bibliography, a short bio note, and 368 Eliot, T.S. 2004. The Wasteland (Alex Moldovan, Trans.). Pitești: Paralela 45. 369 Plath, Sylvia. 2012. Poeme alese (Selected Poems). (Elena Ciobanu, Trans.) Pitești: Paralela 45. 275 a list of Plath’s published books. Ciobanu’s bio mentions her interest in the Anglophone world and her role as a curator of a rubric dedicated to Anglophone literatures in the literary magazine Ateneu, things that all suggest a personal project. Alex Moldovan’s ignored rendition of Eliot’s The Wasteland might have been a direct competitor of the republication370 by mainstream Cartea românească, run by the Romanian Writers’ Union. This bilingual book, coordinated by reputed British literature professor Lidia Vianu, contains two versions previously offered by Ion Pillat (1930) and Aurel Covaci (1973), and appears to observe the guidelines of mainstream publishing: established authors, established translators, and established endorsers. The same guidelines are observed by Humanitas in their volume of T.S. Eliot’s Selected Poems371 published in 2011. Humanitas collaborates with Ștefan Stoenescu—the Anglophone literature specialist whom I presented in Chapter 3—for the preface and with Professor Ioana Zirra for the chronology. This volume reunites old versions by Mircea Ivănescu and new translations by Sorin Mărculescu—seasoned translator of Cervantes—, Șerban Foarță—in my opinion the best Romanian poetry translator—, and Adriana Carmen Racoviță—a lecturer of English and seasoned translator herself—, all qualified as excellent by the numerous reviews after publications (Grigore 2012a, Grigore 2012b, Dima 2012). The interest of all these presses in T.S. Eliot ranks him first in node centrality in G and G0 and places Humanitas second after Paralela 45 in Eigen centrality, thus second in the general network in terms of influence. In our analysis, Humanitas does not owe its position to a large portfolio, but to their strategic translation of Eliot, an author translated by other important nodes. In the absence of such 370 T.S. Eliot. 2000. The Waste Land / Țara pustie (Ion Pillat, Aurel Covaci, Trans.). București: Editura Cartea românească. 371 Eliot, T. S. 2011. Opere poetice. 1909-1962 (Selected Poems (1909-1962)) (Mircea Ivănescu et. al., Trans.). București: Humanitas Fiction. 276 translation, Humanitas would have been one of the many small players that make up translated poetry publishing in Romania. Unlike the Eliot translation, not much endorsement except for the translator’s name was needed for Bob Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind372, published by Humanitas in 2012. Praised by a single reviewer befoere Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, as we have seen in the previous subchapter, Cărtărescu’s translation is not an exquisite rendition, but probably helped boost sales figures for a series that reportedly undersells (Dinițoiu 2017). Although the policy underlining the poetry series at Humanitas Fiction is for the Romanian renditions to be done by “important poet-translators,” (Dinițoiu ibid.: web) no other book has the name of the translator in the very title. The project most likely stemmed both from the translator’s interest in Dylan’s poetry and from Comănescu’s affinity for the American artist’s music, one of the many she was introduced to by Cornel Chiriac’s acclaimed radio show in the early 1970s. Asked in a recent interview about the books and music that shaped her destiny, Comănescu admits to having been ostensibly influenced by American hippie counterculture: We used to like all important Anglo-American artists. Especially those dubbed the flower-power generation. When I was in high-school and Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin died, we wore mourning lapel bands. Profs would ask us what happened and we would answer that a relative of ours had died. We were in mourning for a month after Jimi and Janis died. Even the American poetry we read towards the end of the highschool years was influenced by their music. (Mincan 2014: web) This hypothesis is not far-fetched, as further translations373 from Dylan’s work and biography have been published to date in the very series that bears her own first name, “Raftul Denisei” (Denisa’s bookshelf), even if Dylan’s Selected reportedly didn’t sell as expected (Dinițoiu ibid.). Still, four years after publication, Humanitas was still looking for ways to promote the book and commissioned 372 Dylan, Bob. 2012. Suflare în vânt (Blowing in the Wind) (Mircea Cărtărescu, Trad.). București: Humanitas Fiction. 373 Dylan, Bob. 2015. Cronica vieții mele (vol. I, Dan Silviu Boerescu, Trans.). Bucharest: Humanitas Fiction; Dylan, Bob. 2016. Tarantula (Sorin Gherguț, Trans.). Bucharest: Humanitas Fiction. 277 Adevărul, one of the best-selling daily journals, to feature a presentation of the volume, accompanied by two translated poems and videos of Bob Dylan’s songs on the occasion of Dylan’s being awarded the Nobel for literature. The feature reveals that it has been Cărtărescu who had picked the one hundred poems for the anthology (Ghioca 2016: web). Another article in 2016, this time an opinion piece by Mihaela Ursa, sees the Humanitas translation as an ideological repossession: “The ideological confiscation of Bob Dylan by the Communist dogma through Adrian Păunescu and his “Flacăra” literary circle has only been rectified with Cărtărescu’s version.” (Ursa 2016: web). In her view, although these versions cannot be put to music, they are an excellent poetic rewriting and where “Păunescu used Dylan as a songwriter Cărtărescu reinvented a poet.” (id.) The critical bias thus becomes obvious, as Dylan is both a songwriter and a poet, one that needs not be reinvented the way I have described in the previous section. Cărtărescu’s preference for the translation of lyrics has been manifest since 2005, when he translated thirty-two poems for the monograph374 dedicated to Leonard Cohen by Romanian literary critic and academic Mircea Mihăieș, a long-time self-declared fan of the Canadian poet and singer. The translation rights for the poems in Let Us Compare Mythologies (1956) and The Spice- Box of Earth (1961) had been granted by the late poet himself, whom Mihăieș personally had met at a certain point. The Romanian version of the poems, published by Polirom (Figure 22), produce a mixed reaction: Mircea Cărtărescu’s translation of Leonard Cohen’s poems is accurate and is an event in itself. Cărtărescu is one of the most important Romanian poets, one of the reasons why this translation cannot go unnoticed. But we have to say that it does not produce a big revelation about the quality of Cohen as a poet. Those who are familiar with Cohen’s interpretation of songs like “The Future” or “Everybody Knows” will certainly find it strange to read only the lyrics, let alone the lyrics Romanian. In the absence of 374 Mihăieș, Mircea. 2005/2016. Viața, patimile și cântecele lui Leonard Cohen. Cu 32 de poeme traduse de Mircea Cărtărescu. Iași: Polirom. 278 music and of the sound of the English, these lyrics sound strange, although Mircea Cărtărescu renders the original accurately. (Urian 2006: 5) The association between Cărtărescu and Mihăieș was fuelled by their common interest in Cohen and is a clear indication of a deeply personal project. Another indication is the fact that the only translation selection ever published by Cărtărescu in a periodical is one of Cohen’s poems in 2003375, two years before they were featured in a larger selection in Mihăieș’s book, and under a similar title formula to his translation of Dylan with Humanitas—[...] în traducerea lui Mircea Cărtărescu—an acknowledgment of the translator’s prominent literary persona. Polirom had been the first to translate Cohen’s Beautiful Losers and The Favorite Game in 2003 and their continued interest in Cohen resulted in 2006 in a translation of his poetry volume Book of Longing.376 This time, Polirom commissioned Șerban Foarță and Cristina Chevereșan. Foarță, considered by many a language genius and untranslatable as a poet, offers an excellent version that focuses on the musical quality of the originals and observes the prosody. Figure 22. Translation projects associated with mainstream Polirom and indie Scrisul românesc. Legend: red = mainstream; green = indie. 375 Cohen, Leonard. 2003. “Leonard Cohen în traducerea lui Mircea Cărtărescu.” In România literară 28. 376 Cohen, Leonard. 2006. Cartea aleanului (Book of Longing) (Cristina Chevereșan and Șerban Foarță, Trad.). Iași: Polirom. 279 The Cohen translation was the first in a Polirom series which continued in 2007 with Bukowski’s Love is A Dog from Hell. 61 Erotic Poems377, translated by young poet Dan Sociu. The volume was met with contradictory reviews: while Iulia Popovici praised Sociu for transferring the sound and direct language of his own poetry in his version of Bukowski and saw this as a rare advantage in poetry translation into Romanian (Popovici 2007), Paul Gabriel Sandu equated Sociu’s treatment of the original poems with a bull in a china shop (Sandu 2012). Two years after the translation of Bukowski poems Polirom published Sociu’s translation of Irish poet Seamus Heaney, an anthology put together by the poet-translator himself. However, the publishing house might not have been interested in e. e. cummings, as in 2011 the translator takes this new translation project378 to a different publisher, Art Press. The hypothesis according to which the translator’s tastes and decision to translate cummings played a significant role in the publication of the book is also grounded in the fact that cummings’s volume is the only foreign poetry title in the publisher’s catalogue to date. Moreover, unlike the more substantial translations published with Polirom, this published version of cummings has only 80 pages, including illustrations. As far as the illustrations are concerned, they bind all three translations by Sociu like a red thread, irrespective of the publisher, which may be indicative of a certain vision on the translator’s part. Polirom expanded their series of translations from U.S. contemporary poetry with Allen Ginsberg379 in 2010 and Edward Hirsch380 in 2017. The format and design of these two new books 377 Bukowski, Charles. 2007. Love is A Dog from Hell. 61 Erotic Poems (Dragostea e un cîine venit din iad. 61 de poeme erotice) (Dan Sociu, Trad.; Gorzo, Il.). Iași: Polirom. 378 e. e. cummings. 2011. Poeme erotice (Erotic Poems) (Dan Sociu, Trans.; Tudor Jebeleanu, Il.): București: Editura Art. 379 Ginsberg, Allen. 2010. Howl și alte poeme. (Howl and Other Poems.) (Domnica Drumea and Petru Ilieşu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. 380 Hirsch, Edward. 2017. Focul viu. Poeme vechi și noi. 1975-2010 (Al. B. Stănescu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. 280 differ considerably from the volumes translated by Sociu, and they are not accompanied by any illustrations or paratexts, except for brief author biographies on the inside covers and blurbs by established American authors or literary publications on the back covers. Although awarded a translation prize, the only extensive review of it to date does not address the Romanian version in any way and only comments on Ginsberg’s literary magnitude (Pîrvan-Jenaru 2011). The “elegant and precise” (Iovănel 2017) translation of Hirsch’s poems was published alongside a translation of his acclaimed How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry appropriately curated by Alexandru Ioan Cuza University Press in the same city. It was Hirsch’s translator, Bogdan Alexandru Stănescu, the coordinator of Polirom’s world literature series, who said that in poetry translation the competition is fierce and everything boils down to money. In this context, the association of the two titles in a simultaneous launch appears as a combo meant to work against poetry’s hard sell. Polirom appears in the main component (G0) of the graph due to an infusion of nodes brought along by Scrisul românesc, otherwise each of these publishers would have belonged in different smaller components and would not have been so visible in the network. It was this small press in Craiova that published Hirsch for the first time, via Carmen Firan’s transnational network, in a bilingual volume,381 three years before Polirom did; and it was due to this network that Hirsch visited Romania and took part in the Literature and Translation International Festival in Iași in 2014, where Stănescu, Bădulescu and Andriescu, his future translators, met him. Besides his participation in this festival, the small press facilitated a book launch in the popular Bastilia bookstore in Bucharest and organized a round table together with the prestigious literary journal Observatorul cultural, thus checking all the promotion boxes normally associated with mainstream publishing. 381 Hirsch, Edward. 2014. Foc nocturn (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.). Craiova: Scrisul românesc. 281 Both small presses and individual translators appear to follow the same strategies to promote a book, sometimes with more success than mainstream publishers; for example, the 2014 translation382 of John Berryman’s Dream Songs by Radu Vancu, published with independent Max Blecher Press. This volume has benefited from the largest number of reviews of all contemporary U.S. poetry translations. While some of them insist on the differences between his version and the version published by Mircea Ivănescu in his 1986 anthology (Nedelea 2014; Chivu 2014), most of them are praising and salute the critical apparatus that accompanies the translation and situates Berryman in a literary context meant to guide the readers that are not familiar with his poetry (Coande 2014; Dinițoiu 2014). Although numerous and generally positive, the reviews never truly address the quality of translations and mostly analyze Berryman’s motifs and the similarity between his work and the work of Romanian Mircea Ivănescu, his first poet-translator and Vancu’s own mentor. Even if the translator is well aware of Berryman’s sophistication in terms of poetic technique and even explains in detail in his postface the prosodic structure of the 50 poems he chose, he does not seem to render the structure in Romanian and focuses instead on rendering Berryman’s “verbal jungle”—the colloquial vocabulary and intentional language mistakes. However, more of a publishing event than a felicitous translation, Berryman’s Dream Songs remain their translator’s project and the translator’s gift to Romanian literature. Vancu entrusts the book to long- time friend Claudiu Komartin and his Max Blecher Press, but the back cover features a second publisher, Armanis, based in Vancu’s hometown Sibiu. Deferred for quite a long time because of copyright issues, the translation might have been possible due to the financial support of the latter press, as this is the only title in Max Blecher’s portfolio that has ever been co-published. 382 Berryman, John. 2013. Cântece vis (Radu Vancu, Trans.). Bistrița: Casa de editură Max Blecher. 282 That year Max Blecher Press published another poetry volume, this time by Jerome Rothenberg,383 co-translated by Raluca and Chris Tanasescu. To our knowledge, only one review has been published to date, one that praises both the selection and the translation: Varied and surprisingly representative for the work of a poet of such caliber, the anthology put together by Raluca & Chris Tanasescu—which is not to quote selectively, but looked at, read and uttered in a loud voice—is a tour de force for which the two translators cannot be complimented enough. (Chivu 2014: web). However ignored by reviewers, like many other translations, the launch was actually a series of events meant to have Rothenberg meet in person as many Romanian writers and poetry readers as possible: besides taking care of the translation, the translators applied for funding with the United States Embassy in Bucharest so that Rothenberg could attend the book launch in Bucharest and receive a fee; they also asked the local Jewish Community for support to cover daily incidentals; they copy-edited the manuscript and organized three book launches—at the book fair, in a posh literary lounge, as well as at the Jewish Theatre, and took the poet and his spouse on a flash-trip to the Romanian mountains. At the end, they paid for the whole print run, out of which they asked for a third for further distribution in their own network. The intervention of the press in the whole process was related only to the professional design and printing of the book. In addition, Komartin and graphic designer Ana Toma, the two founders of the press, took part actively in most of the events organized and hosted the poet and the translators during one of their poetry reading circles, Institutul Blecher.384 The same modus operandi was observed four years before, when C. Tanasescu successfully applied for funding with the U.S. Embassy in Bucharest to bring poet David Baker to Romania for 383 Rothenberg, Jerome. 2013. Mistici, hoți și nebuni (Raluca & Chris Tanasescu (MARGENTO), Trans.). Bistrița: Casa de editură Max Blecher. 384 The Blecher poetry workshops (Institutul Blecher) have been organized by Komartin for the past 9 years (168 editions as of March 3, 2018) without any financial support (Crăciun 2017). 283 the launch of his translated book—The Alchemical Man.385 The book was presented to Romanian audiences in a series of various happenings, from book launches at that year’s book fair in Bucharest to readings at the U.S. Embassy and a lecture at the University of Bucharest’s Department of American Studies. The first and last translation books related to the two Tanasescus were handled differently. In 2007, C. Tanasescu entrusted Vinea Press, run by poet Nicolae Tzone and focused exclusively on poetry and avantgarde literature, with the production and printing of Ilya Kaminsky’s Dancing in Odessa,386 for which he paid a certain amount. The publisher presented the book at the 2007 Gaudeamus bookfair and distributed it in several bookstores, as well as through direct orders he personally mailed. However precarious the financial state of Vinea,387 Tzone is the only Romanian independent publisher that regularly presents his titles at the Salon du livre in Paris in spectacular formats and on luxury paper (Andrei 2017). Relying heavily on his network of friends388 and on his own creative stubbornness, as well as on a totally flexible in-home printing scheme, Tzone manages to offer every year fresh copies of all the books he has published since 1990 and will probably never say that a certain title sold out. A totally different type of collaboration was established with Tracus Arte regarding the translation of Canadian Seymour Mayne’s word sonnets:389 the two co-translators submitted the 385 Baker, David. 2009. Omul alchimic (Alchemical Man. Selected Poems). (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). București: Editura Vinea. 386 Kaminsky, Ilya. 2007. Dansând în Odessa (Dancing in Odessa). (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). București: Editura Vinea. 387 Although in very evasive terms, Tzone does admit to the financial instability of his press: “Somehow hazard helps too… I have never been able to work with planned budgets, at least not in Romania. First I would make the books then I would manage to cover the expenses from sales or from other sources. There’s a whole machine behind this.” (Andrei 2017: web, emphasis mine) 388 Asked how he managed to have Romanian authors translated into French and presented at the Salon du livre, Nicolae Tzone replies: “It’s very difficult, but I have very good friends, genuine professionals, that help me. I set up a kind of branch office in Paris for Vinea together with Miron Kiropol, Claudiu Soare... We are five or six people, collaborators included.” (Andrei ibid.) 389 Mayne, Seymour. 2014. Caligrafomanție (Augural Calligraphies). (Raluca & Chris Tanasescu (MARGENTO), Trans.). București: Tracus Arte. 284 title for consideration with the publisher and upon acceptance delivered the text of the translation and provided the book designer with a series of corrections and edits, thus fully taking care of the text editing and proofreading process. The total printing cost was supported by the publisher and the translators received approximately a fifth of the print run. The same process was probably followed by translator Marius Surleac for his translation of Marc Vincenz’s Propaganda Factory390 in 2015 with the same publisher. However financially supportive the latter, the two translations hosted by Tracus Arte completely lack reviews and promotion events. It is worth mentioning at this point that Seymour Mayne’s participation in the book launch in Bucharest in 2014 was self-funded and the only support received by the two translators from the local Embassy of Canada was the hosting of a poetry reading and cocktail at the embassy’s headquarters. Finally, Mayne’s reading and lecture at the University of Bucharest’s Department of Canadian Studies was made possible because of translator C. Tanasescu’s long-time network at the University of Bucharest. Private initiative has also been salient in projects like Cosma’s translation of Clarke391 and Mindock392 (cf. section 2.2.3) and appears to have fuelled most of Olimpia Iacob’s author-volumes and anthologies. Iacob, the most prolific translator of U.S. and Canadian poetry selections in print periodicals, appears in this network in G2, thus immediately after big players like Humanitas Fiction or Paralela 45. She has been publishing stand-alone collections for some of the authors in her network (such Carolyn M. Kleefeld393), but most of her translated books are either duos394 by 390 Vincenz, Marc. 2015. Fabrica de propagandă sau apropo de copaci (Marius Surleac, Trans.). București: Tracus Arte. 391 Clarke, George Elliott. 2006. Poeme incendiare (Flavia Cosma, Trans.). Oradea: Cogito. 392 Mindock, Gloria. 2010. La portile raiului (Flavia Cosma, Trans.). Iași: Ars Longa Press. 393 Cf. Section 2.1.4, footnotes 97 and 98. 394 Although the translator refers to such books featuring a Romanian and an American poet as anthologies, we consider them author-collections. 285 English-language poets coming from different cultures (such as the poetic dialogue395 between American Vince Clemente and Welsh writer Peter Tabith-Jones), or duos by a Romanian and an American writer396, or anthologies in which she pairs Romanian and English-language writers397 (cf. Section 2.1.4). Her work increases significantly the number of anthologies published after 1989. The first such work was George Ciorănescu’s Spicuiri din lirica americană contemporană398 (Selections of Contemporary American Poetry), published in 1993, followed three years later by Vasile Nicolescu’s Lirică universală (Universal Poetry),399 only partially dwelling on contemporary American poets—such as Sylvia Plath or W.H. Auden. The next anthology dedicated to contemporary American poetry400 was published ten years later, in 2006, by Cartea românească. Locul nimănui is the editors’ manifest against poetry taught in U.S. academia rather than a selection to reflect local taste or topics and writing techniques that could have interested a Romanian audience. In 2012, the ‘jam session book’, Nomadosophia, similar to Marin Sorescu’s Inspiration Treatise, only without the interviews and blending translations401 with original works, brings together contemporary poets that were popular in anthologies before 1989, such as Elizabeth Bishop and Gwendolyn Brooks, with authors whose work had never been translated into Romanian before, like Rae Armantrout or Frank 395 Clemente Vince and Jones, Peter Thabit.2008. Şoapte ale sufletului / Whispers of the Soul (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) Iași: Editura Fundaţiei Culturale Poezia. 396 I add to the corpus presented in section 2.1.5 (footnotes 100 and 101) the following titles: Nistor, Ioan and Wolak, Bill. 2016. Seminţe căutătoare de vânt / Wind-Seeking Seeds (Olimpia Iacob, Trans. from the English; Olimpia Iacob & Bill Wolak, Trans. from the Romanian). Satu-Mare: Editura Citadela; 397 The bibliographic references are presented in Section 2.1.4, notes 101 and 102. 398 I was unable to consult the table of contents of this anthology. However, one of the very few reviews of the anthologist’s works mentions the following contemporary poets: e. e. cummings, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, A. Ginsberg. 399 ***. 1996. Lirică universală (Vasile Nicolescu, Trans.). București: Eminescu. 400 (in alphabetical order) Will Alexander, Anselm Berrigan, Ted Berrigan, Jim Carroll, Andrei Codrescu, Clark Coolidge, Joseph Donahue, Edward Foster, Jorie Graham, Fanny Howe, Lisa Jarnot, Ronald Johnson, Robert Kelly, Laura Moriarty, Nathaniel Mackey, Harry Mathews, Eileen Myles, Murat Nemet-Nejat, Alice Notley, Geoffrey O’Brien, Michael Palmer, Simon Pettet, Ed Roberson, Leslie Scalapino, Leonard Schwartz, David Shapiro, Aaron Shurin, Eleni Sikelianos, Arthur Sze, John Taggart, Nathaniel Tarn, Tod Thilleman. 401 (in alphabetical order) Rae Armantrout, David Baker, Elizabeth Bishop, Gwendolyn Brooks, Albert Goldbarth, Fady Joudah, Philip Levine, Cate Marvin, Seymour Mayne, J.D. McClutchy, Ken McCullough, Robert Pinsky, Jerome Rothenberg, Charles Simic, Charles Wright, Frank Zappa. 286 Zappa. Finally, the anthology put together by the Zona Nouă poets, Everything in its Right Place, gathered the work of fourteen young American writers402 and insisted on the fact that these writers were being translated into Romanian for the first time. This corpus403 is undergirded by a focus on novelty and dialogue with contemporary Romanian writers rather than on established American writing and emphasizes a translating agenda fashioned by the anthologists’ networks and by a sort of resistance to the mainstream. The poetry translators’ wish to mirror the ever-morphing contemporary worldliterature in its entire diversity, not only the “peaks” that have populated the national literature-building program of translations before 1989 (Ursa ibid.), resulted in author-translator networks being built and, if such networks existed, in interpersonal relationships being exploited. The 14 components, corresponding to a range of 14 micro-programs, as Ursa calls them, reflect the self-regulation of a literary translation structure with profound ramifications in the larger literary system and justify the use of a network model that emphasizes heterogeneity. The self-regulation of such a structure, be it a network or a system, has been the direct expression of a permanent interaction with other cultures and agents, as well as of the mission many of the poet-translators embarked on in order to synchronize Romanian literature with the rest of the world and overcome the European bias. I would conclude this final chapter by saying that the transnational logic of the post-Cold War era meant not only an economic reconfiguration of the book market, but a refashioning of poetry translators’ agency, who took upon themselves more than ever before the task of refreshing literary practices and their own writing through translation. 402 Daniel Bailey, Gabby Bess, Mike Bushnell, Ana Carrete, Noah Cicero, Juliet Escoria, Mira Gonzalez, Sarah Jean Alexander, Tao Lin, Scott McClanahan, Ashley Opheim, Sam Pink, Michael J. Seidlinger, and Lucy K. Shaw. 403 It was impossible for me to find George Ciorănescu’s anthology, hence the lack of NetworkX measurements for the network of U.S. poetry anthologies published after 1989. 287 CONCLUSIONS “Romanians, whether in the depths of the Transylvanian provinces or in the better parts of Manhattan, respond to the word ‘poetry’ with a straightening of the shoulders, a chin-forward movement, and a far-away gaze. We may not be sure of many things, they say with that rearrangement of the body, but we are sure of our poetry,” says Andrei Codrescu in his introduction to an anthology of Romanian poetry (Born in Utopia, 2006), talking about the large number of poetry translations into English that occurred after the collapse of communism. I have argued in this research that Romanian poets have also “assaulted” (to use the word Codrescu employed for this outward cultural movement) English-language poetries in translation in a positive reflexive loop that galvanized both their own writing and the national literature in general. In doing so, they developed various types of agency that considerably multiplied once the country came to experience a free- market economy, covering a wide range of translating patterns, from no agency at all to full self- reliance, and a poetics of fecundity that testifies to their engagement with global events and with the microcosm of local literature. These literary translators’ practices of network-driven translation or of literary barters have been engendered by an assumed material precariousness (i.e., lack of funds for copyrights and a weak book market) and an overt desire for permanent change and synchronous alignment with world literature. I argued that these practices should be seen from a microcosmopolitan perspective, as paramount for establishing positive relationships with U.S. and Canadian poetries and as energizing the local literary scene, rather than simply as reflective of a ‘minor’ mode of existence in the global economic and geopolitical arenas. The proposed framework of chaos theory within a fitting paradigm of complexity is grounded on the rhizomatic structure of networks, which enables us to consider both presences and absences 288 and makes various points of entry available. On the one hand, when looking at what exists and functions according to an apparently clear pattern, chaos theory teaches us to look for disruptions and gaps and to see how these enable translation. We are trained to look at available data, but chaos theory and networks also point at absences. Translation studies has a long history of neatly stacking everything in ready-made categories, but translators cannot always univocally be slotted in sociological categories because their agency changes according to the multiple spaces they create and inhabit and to the distances they configure in relation to other cultures. The growing mobility of people and the increasing popularity of digital media permanently create new realities that morph our existence. On the other hand, when everything appears as a conglomerate of chaotic processes, chaos theory teaches us how to look for patterns, that is, stability and order. Processes in this universe are vacillations between chaos and order and they exist because they reach and strive to maintain themselves in a spot at the edge of chaos. Translations should be no exception because they are not just a body of literary intercultural work, but an embodiment of their translators’ agencies. Before they become objects that join any global or local flow of cultural goods, they need to be examined, as Hayles suggests, at “the experiential level that captures the particular individual articulation of discourse.” (1990: 193-194) Once they are produced, translations are performed or enacted by their agents, by their medium of publication and by the network in which they are circulated. In other words, they are heavily agent- and context-dependent before they become hegemonic body of works. “Relative to the body,” argues Hayles, “embodiment is elsewhere, at once excessive and deficient in its infinite variations, particularities, and abnormalities.” (1990: 186-197) Since translation embodies translators’ cultural and social makeups, the way we approach translation, I proposed, needs to be reflective of human diversity besides acknowledging the disruption, decentralization, and voids that may exist in its 289 network of circulation. To my mind, a theoretical framework that accounts for heterogeneity both in terms of predictability and in terms of variations and quirks, without reducing translation either to text, society, or culture only, is therefore most desirable. In Chapter 1 I examined the polarized center-periphery model of research and argued for the necessity of a reticulated investigation of agency by the adoption of a network model. Unlike systemic models, be they open or closed, networks enable a two-pronged approach: on the one hand, an examination of local, particular, and infinitesimal processes and, on the other, a contextualization of such small-scale processes in the wider transnational webs of connectivity cultures are involved in. In terms of agency, networks emphasize the connectionist mind of translators. The edges that connect the dots in our graph visualizations do not represent only exchanges between cultures: they may also be lines of flight that translators embark on, they may represent the cooperation translators establish with authors, publishers, and other translators. Thus, these network representations, although perhaps not the most visually clear,404 provide a layout of the distances translation sets to cross and of our potential to act through communication. Accepting the precariousness of a minor status as a galvanizing creative force in the process of translation, Chapter 2 delved into the burrows of print and digital periodicals. Backed by a network approach that showed us how Romanian poetry translators go about their daily business, what are the venues they publish in, how they connect with the authors they translate, and, most importantly, how disconnected the world of literary translation really is, I hopefully demonstrated that chance and decentralization may play a much more important role than we are trained to 404 In a keynote address for the International Seminar on Network Theory: Network Multidimensionality in the Digital Age, Latour complained that network visualizations are “not a pleasant landscape, but [it is] rather like watching lines and lines of barbed wire.” (2010: web) Others call them “hairballs.” 290 perceive. Just as Anthony Pym notes in his 2007 essay on intercultural networks, employing a structural model that allows for multiple centers “invite[s] us to grasp the ways in which [translators] have configured their own spaces,” (Pym 2007:746) and provides a context that does not make individual agency fade away against assumptions about economic power or hegemonic cultural policies. Chapter 3 shifted our attention to translated book production. Employing the same network approach, I examined translations done during a period in the history of Romania typically associated with a quest for national literary identity and with a strong control of the book market by communist ideology. My research showed that, even under such circumstances, many of these translation projects turned out to be nodes in interpersonal and transnational networks of individuals rather than institutional actors. For instance, applying this bottom-up ontological model to the production of anthologies of U.S. and Canadian contemporary poetry in Romania might provide a new explanation as to why such Canadian poetry anthologies were not as numerous as the American ones and why their publication stopped after 1989. The U.S. policies limiting migration but encouraging cultural and academic mobility bore more fruit for American cultural diplomacy than the more permissive immigration policies and the lack of consistent cultural diplomacy policies did for Canada. While Romanian intellectuals had a chance to travel to the U.S. and returned home with new ideas and aesthetic protocols engendered through translations from American literature, Canadian poetry benefited only from the interest of one émigré, Nicholas Catanoy, who grew a much more limited network with his friends and acquaintances at home. Instead of limiting the discussion to the cultural power America holds, the network approach helped me assess Romanian translators’ drive in initiating and growing a series of exchanges between the two literatures, an interpollination that owed private initiatives at least as much as they owed institutional policies. 291 Chapter 4 kept the discussion in the realm of book publishing, but attempted to emphasize the multiple social and cultural levels of existence on which a certain text can operate in a certain literature at any given time as a result of their translators’ agency. I have examined rock lyric translations and how the network effect of radio and theater increased the popularity of indie translations compared to versions of the same text circulating via traditional book distribution channels and considered to be part of the global book market. In the second part of the same chapter, I undertook to express visually the proportion of indie publishing initiatives after 1989, a final well-meaning stab at totalizing approaches. The networks I represented in this research revealed a series of disconnected graphs with multiple centers. This took me back full-circle to the initial argument that agency in translation is better served by micro-sociological approaches, or simply by this mathematical model that may function as a point of departure for further conclusions on the socialness (or lack thereof) of superseding structures. Unlike systemic representations, which assume or at least aim at cohesiveness, my representations disclosed that a certain cohesiveness existed only in the main component (or the largest sub-network) of these networks. Since the main components account for 72% of the network or less, then I would like to argue that they should not be retained as the only measure of the translation landscape because that would mean ignoring the other 28%. In retrospect, this dissertation could have been organized in different ways. I could have settled on a smaller part of the corpus and analyzed it in closer detail, down to the nitty-gritty of, let’s say, how much a certain co-translator weighs in the economy of a 100-author anthology and of the whole respective network. That would have probably appealed more to statistically-inclined minds. I could have only looked into indie publishers to determine their role in the network or only into print periodicals as potentially relevant for the whole activity of contemporary poetry 292 translation in Romania. But I felt that such approaches would not have been sufficient because these networks to do not exist in a vacuum: what appears in print periodicals may also appear in digital journals, in author-collections, or/and in anthologies and how all these media, venues, and methods influence each other on various levels intimately imbricated and mutually dependent. In other words, the translation of American and Canadian poetries into Romanian is a complex network (or a network of networks), and accounting for only one of these networks may significantly compromise the accuracy and relevance of the account. Also, I chose not to spend too much time or effort on meticulously differentiating between mainstream and indie since this aspect is most likely far from being as consequential as establishing how much and in what ways each publisher, irrespective of their status, contributes to the overall phenomenon. My purpose may seem therefore too ambitious: first, to present as much as possible of a corpus that has never been broached in TS and that may or may not be approached again by other scholars; second, to identify agency patterns that rarely make it into scholarly work on literary translation because such approaches are not necessarily socially sanctioned. However, they may prove essential in describing the activity of literary translation since they are reflective of human diversity. And third, to offer an interpretation of non-aggregated data different from what an inherently biased systemic mode of thinking would have offered. In trying to deal with such rich and diverse data and identifying models to analyze these complex phenomena, I feel that I have had a great ally in the burgeoning field of Digital Humanities and I will briefly summarize this aspect of my research in the final section. 293 On the Usefulness of a Digital Humanities Approach in Translation Studies I freely concede that the computational work behind this research has been strenuous. It is not easy to teach a mind that was trained in the humanities only to read code and spend weeks trying to make sense of how Python works, what are the differences between what appeared to be too many types of centrality in graph theory, or why a certain text editor used in coding in Python suddenly crashed and refused to plot an image in a specific readable format just when you thought a certain chapter was done. I could never say I can code proficiently, but I would love to be able to. I am just a “smuggler” who learned how to deploy a series of in-built libraries in Python because Python developers were smart enough to realize that their programming language should serve master craftsmen and cobblers alike. Science does help us. The new approaches championed by the field of DH have helped my research in countless ways. Most importantly, as I have argued at various points, they helped me make clear sense of a large corpus and have a hopefully unbiased rendition of it. Being able to include a large amount of data in my research, link these data, and then visualise the corpus with a single mouse click was in obvious ways more productive than trying to simply slot eighty-four translators into functional categories. To my mind, it would have been impossible to produce a coherent narrative about how they are related, because, as Pym (ibid.) argues tongue-in-cheek, network visualizations are more than just banal images that result from our joining the dots: lines (or connections) are what is actually tricky because they purport to cross distances in a way the naked eye cannot do within a large corpus. A DH-inflected approach may help us reduce the disciplinary bias caused by the subjective processes surrounding translation and may bring in a certain scientific rigor, otherwise so far 294 adopted in literary translation research only at the level of formulating one’s methodologies. Besides making my bibliographical references much more manageable, a digital approach provided me with angles that would have been less likely for me to produce through traditional TS research. Furthermore, various questions of power were unpacked by employing simple computational approaches. Instead of analyzing data with a power bias in mind, I simply let the data speak and lead me to where power lay. At this point I would like to suggest that digital humanities presents a real chance at interdisciplinarity in relation to TS, since it is not simply about the digital or the mathematical. As Michael Cronin rightfully notes, “[d]igital humanism, […] an attempt to understand the fundamental changes that have occurred in contemporary culture and society with the advent of digital tools, is a movement of critical reflection, rather than a roadshow of cyber cheerleading.” (Cronin 2013: 7, emphasis mine). By employing a wide range of research methodologies that are equally used in the humanities and in natural sciences, DH presents truly appealing interdisciplinary and collaborative prospects. In addressing the advantages of a cross-disciplinary approach, Willard McCarty does not see DH as disruptive, but as an enabler of change: “disciplines are autonomous epistemic cultures from which explorations begin and to which they usually return, bringing change with them.” (2015: 75) Change is what the full-fledged discipline of DH may bring new in TS by resorting to novel methodologies and collaborative research. Needless to say all these will not come without hardships from our peers, of which McCarty lists “incomprehension, misapprehension, indifference, hostility,” (id.) but I hope my dissertation showed that the two relevant disciplines can be meaningfully brought closer together and that such an approach may prove useful for other researchers in TS. I certainly feel that I returned to TS enriched. 295 Bibliography: Abdallah, Kristina. 2010. “Translators’ Agency in Production Networks.” In Translators’ Agency (T. Kinnunen and K. Koskinen, Eds.). 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In Steaua 3-4: 39-40; NOTLEY, Alice. 2014. “Timp individual; Nicio lume nu e intactă; Poem.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 3-4: 36-38. HILMAN, Brenda. 2014. “Copacul miresei nu poate fi citit; Ora până te vom revedea; Aer în naraţiune.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 5-6: 33-35. KNOX, Karoline. 2014. “Plângăciosul de la bibliotecă; Inima lui; Poem în linie.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 5-6: 35-36. MAYER, Bernadette. 2014. “Eşecuri la infinit; Te opreşti la mine...; Visul lui Kristin, în noiembrie.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 7-8: 39-40. MYLES, Eileen. 2014. “Un poem american; Vis; Vis 2.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 7-8: 37-38. NAUEN, Elinor. 2014. “Gură cu motor; Ceea ce purtăm; Problema cu tine este (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.). In Steaua 9-10: 61-63. WALDROP, Rosmarie. 2014. “[Pisica atât de aproape]; [Când eram mică]; [Am apăsat câteva zile].” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 9-10: 60-61. HOWE, Fanny. 2014. “Un cântec de slavă.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.) In Steaua 11-12: 36-37. HEJINIAN, Lyn. 2015. “Elegie; Celula – fragmente.” (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.). In Steaua 1-2: 52-53. GERSTLER, Amy. 2015. Interminabila primăvară; Drum bun; Stoicii. (Lavinia Rogojină, Trans.). In Steaua 1-2: 53. Fereastra: “Traduceri din poezia americană.” Translator: Liviu Ofileanu. ANGELOU, Maya. 2011. “Încă mă ridic.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 3: 18; BRAUTIGAN, Richard. 2011. “San Francisco.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 3: 19; CORSO, Gregory. 2011. “Nebunul iac.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 3: 19; DUNN, Stephen. 2011. “Poem pentru oameni care sunt neînțeles de ocupați ca să citească poezie.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 3: 19. EDSON, Russell. 2011. “Familia maimuță.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 3: 19; FERLINGHETTI, Lawrence. “Riscând frecvent absurditatea.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 3: 19; BISHOP, Elizabeth. 2011. “Prima moarte în Noua Scoție.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 4: 20-21; BUKOWSKI, Charles. 2011. “Un radio cu tupeu.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 4: 21; DOTY, Mark. 2011. “Metrou Nord.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 4: 20; SOTO, Gary. 2011. “O palmă roșie.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 4: 20; ALEXANDER, Elizabeth. 2015. “Blues.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 91: 31; GIOVANNI, Nikki. 2015. “Prima mea amintire.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 91: 31. OLIVER, Mary. “Sălbaticul ‘hăis și cea’.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 91: 30. SADOJI, Ira. 2015. “Înmormântarea mamei mele.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 91: 30. SIMIC, Charles. “Ochii fixați cu ace.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 91: 30; BROWN, Jericho. 2011 and 2015. “Langston Blue.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 92: 30; GINSBERG, Allen. 2015. “136 de silabe la Centrul Dharma Rocky Mountain.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 91: 30; SZE, Arthur. 2011. “Prova binecuvântată a unei canoe Muckleshoot.” (Liviu Ofileanu, trad.) In Fereastra 2: 20; 405 This corpus complements the selections presented as footnotes in section 2.1. 323 O’HARA, Frank. 2011. “Ave Maria.” In Fereastra 2: 20. MATTAWA, Khaled. 2011. “Eccleziastice.” In Fereastra 2: 20. Cetatea culturală. Translator: Dan Brudașcu. DOVE, Rita. 2007. “Geometrie.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 96. GEX-BREAUX, Que Vadis. 2007. “Albastru profund.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 94-95; JACKSON, Angela. 2007. “Un început pentru noi începuturi.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 95- 96. KOMUNYAKAA, Yusek. 2007. “Ceară pierdută.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 92-93. MILLER, Ethelbert E. 2007. “Moise; Conversaţie spaniolă.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 94. MOORE, Lenard D. 2007. “Mesaj pentru Etheridge Knight.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 97. THOMPTON, Julius E. 2007. “Cântecul inocenţei; Muzică diabolică în Iad.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 92; COLEMAN, Wanda. 2007. “Joc de cuvinte; Las turistas negras grande.” (Dan Brudaşcu, Trans.) In Cetatea culturală 7: 91. Steaua: “Autoportret în oglinda convexă.” Translator: Alex Văsieș. HOAGLAND, Tony. 2016. “Să nu mai spui la nimeni; America.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 1: 18- 19; KOOSER, Ted. 2016. “Fermă abandonată; Tată; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 2: 29; WRIGHT, C.D. 2016. “Aproape pentru totdeauna; Frânghie imaginară; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 3: 26; CARVER, Raymond. 2016. “O după-amiază; Ce a spus doctorul; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 4: 27; BALAKIAN, Peter. 2016. “Aici și acum; O scrisoare lui Steven Wallace; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 5: 21; NURKSE, D. 2016. “Aniversare in octombrie; Mariaj in Belmont; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 6: 40; RECTOR, Liam. 2016. “Orașul ăsta; Hans citind, Hans fumând; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 7: 14-15; HAAS, Robert. 2016. “Mizerie și splendoare; Sonet; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 8: 25-26; ANGELOU, Maya. 2016. “Minciuna; Coreograf marțial; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 9: 33-34; PHILLIPS, Carl. 2016. “Adevărul; Strălucire versus lumină obișnuită.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 10: 23-24; WILLIAMS, C.K. 2016. “Rușine; În metrou; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 11-12: 31-32; LUX, Thomas. 2017. “Noaptea-i atât de înstelată că o veveriță citește; Pentru a ajuta maimuța să treacă râul; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 1: 19-20; PADGETT, Ron. 2017. “Cum să fii perfect.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 2: 29-31; LEVERTOV, Denise. 2017. “Secretul; Cum ar arăta casa mea dacă ar fi o persoană; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 3: 22-23; WALDMAN, Anne. 2017. “Un apel telefonic de la Frank O’Hara; Munciuna.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 4: 48-49; WRIGHT, Franz. 2017. “Singurul animal; O inimă; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 5: 19-20; JONES, Rodney. 2017. “Ploaie pe tinichea; Lectura de poezie; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 6: 28-29; LEVINE, Philip. 2017. “Ce este munca; Visul; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 7: 26-27; NOTLEY, Alice. 2017. “Nu puteam dormi în vis.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 8: 25-26; ASHBERY, John. 2017. “Ei știau ce vroiau; Cealaltă tradiție; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 9: 36-37; FORCHÉ, Carolyn. 2017. “Colonelul; Doliu.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 10: 35-36. SWENSON, May. 2017. “Dormind singură; Dimineață de primăvară; etc.” (Alex Văsieș, Trans.) In Steaua 11-12: 78-79. 324 Poesis International (Various translators) Sexton, Anne. 2010. “Pentru drăgălașii mei; Și una pentru doamna mea.” (Alina Pușcaș, D. Păcuraru, Trans.) In Poesis International 1: 61-66; Baker, David. 2010. “Florile efemere; Foame; Prea multe; etc.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poesis international 2: 132-138; Berryman, John. 2010. “Din Dream Songs.” (Radu Vancu, Trans.) In Poesis international 2: 62-65. Rothenberg, Jerome. 2010. “Acest joc al așteptării; Puterea morților; etc.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poesis International 3: 149-151; Mort, Valzhyna. 2011. “Sylt; Sânge din sângele tatei; etc.” (Silvia Grădinaru, Trans.) In Poesis International 4: 40-43; Woodside, Martin. 2011. “California de sud; Pelin; etc.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poesis International 4: 126-128. Snyder, Gary. 2011. “Ce-ar trebui să știi ca să fii poet; O dimineață de toamnă în Shokoku-ji; etc.” (Raluca and Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poesis International 6: 90-93; Henry, Brian. 2011. “Carantină.” (Radu Vancu, Trans.) In Poesis International 8: 76-78; Wright, Charles. 2012. “Confesiunile unuia care cântă și dansează; Portretul artistului de Li Shang- Yin; etc.” (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poesis international 9: 31-34; Alexie, Sherman. 2012. “Aș fura cai; Turiști; etc.” (Vlad Pojoga, Trans.) In Poesis International 10: 6-11; Kaminsky, Ilya. 2012. “Trăiam fericiți în vreme de război; A trăi; etc.” (Raluca and Chris Tanasescu, Trans.) In Poesis International 10: 71-75. Rothenberg, Jerome. 2013. “Primul program; Al doilea program; etc.” (Raluca și Chris Tanasescu (MARGENTO), Trans.) In Poesis International 12: 6-11. Pinsky, Robert. 2013. “Cântecul samuraiului.” (Claudiu Komartin, Trans.) In Poesis International 12: 38-39. Dimitrov, Alex. 2014. “Plecând din oraș cu Allen Ginsberg; Dormim puțin și trăim; etc.” (Florin Buzdugan, Trans.) In Poesis International 13: web. http://bit.ly/2E7KCv4. Accessed: January 25, 2018. Strand, Mark. 2015. “Corpul golit; Moartea ta; etc.” (Radu Nițescu, Trans.) In Poesis International 15: web. http://bit.ly/2Bs5Z7H. Accessed: January 25, 2018. Joudah, Fady. 2015. “Drumul de întoarcere; Sperietoare; etc.” (MARGENTO and Marius Surleac, Trans.) In Poesis International 15: web. http://bit.ly/2E8iJDa. Accessed: January 25, 2018. Campion, Peter. 2015. “Fiică; Villa Sciarra: Azalee; etc.” (Radu Vancu, Trans,) In Poesis International 16: 128-132; Merrill, Christopher. 2016. “Băiatul cu mingea; Poem care începe cu un vers al fiicei mele, Abigail; etc.” (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.) In Poesis International 17: web. http://bit.ly/2Bs8O8N. Accessed: January 25, 2018. Schwartz, Ruth L. 2016. “Cină la miezul nopții; Să te îndrăgostești după patruzeci; etc.” (Anastasia Gavrilovici, Trans.) In Poesis International 18: 223-228; Boyers, Peg. 2016. “Pietà; Rialto; etc.” (Tiberiu Neacșu, Trans.) In Poesis International 18: 183-187; Bidart, Frank. 2017. “Herbert White.” (Tiberiu Neacșu, Trans.) In Poesis International 19: 51-55; Carson, Anne. 2017. “Anne Carson.” (Teodora Coman, Trans.) In Poesis International 20: 31-36. Translations by Victor Olaru (listed chronologically) DUFFY, Carole Ann. 2007. Extaz. (Victor Olaru, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 7 – 8: 29; MERWIN, W.S. 2007. “Loc pustiu.” (Victor Olaru, Trad.) In Scrisul românesc 1 – 2: 25; COLLINS, Billy. 2009. “Profesorul de istorie.” (Victor Olaru, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 2: 29; Olaru, Victor. 2009. “Ted Kooser "poet al poporului american".” (Translated poems: Zburând noaptea; Aniversare; Fără titlu.) http://bit.ly/2E7KCv4 http://bit.ly/2Bs5Z7H http://bit.ly/2E8iJDa http://bit.ly/2Bs8O8N 325 (Victor Olaru, Trans.) In Scrisul românesc 1: 26; HOAGLAND, Tony. 2012. In Ramuri web: http://bit.ly/2Fbq2KO. Last accessed: February 18, 2018; Translations by Olimpia Iacob (listed alphabetically) AN’YA. 2014. “Ploaie cu stele.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; ASH, John. 2013. “Cerul, soțul meu; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare, July 28. Web: http://convorbiri- literare.ro/?p=245 Last accessed: January 27, 2018; BAR-LEV, Helen. 2012. “Frumuseţe; O plimbare de la calm la haos.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 2: 132-133. BAR-LEV, Helen. 2012. “O anume clipă; Vremelnic; Strădania polarităţii; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Poezia 1: 140-142; BARKAN, Stanley H. 2008. “Ianuarie; Iunie; Misiune.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Nord literar 6: 16; BARKAN, Stanley H. 2008. “Din grădina Raiului; Dînd nume păsărilor; Neclintită ca o mătură; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 9: 84-85; BARKAN, Stanley H. 2010. “Septembrie; Octombrie; Noiembrie.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 98; BARKAN, Stanley H. 2011. “Uitând Ierusalimul; Zare de timp; Frunzele lacului... decembrie.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Poezia 4: 123-126; BARKAN, Stanley H. 2015. “Dând nume pruncilor.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.). In Convorbiri literare 11: 146-147; BARKAN, Stanley H. 2016. “Pietre sacre; Americanul statornic; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 19; BOSS, Laura. 2008. “Mătuşa Roza; Cercuri perfecte; Ultima data.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 12: 117-118; BARKAN CLARKE, Mia. 2010. “Acele violete; Privire veninoasă; Vînătorul de vise.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 9: 124- 125; BENNETT, Maria. 2013. “Cum să rabzi durerea copleşitoare; Pentru liniştea trupului.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 11: 130; BENNETT, Maria. 2014. “Rugăciunea mării; Poem la cinzeci de ani; Înfloreşte din nou valea morţii.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 3: 138; BENNETT, Maria. 2014. “Cum să înduri durerea copleșitoare; Pentru liniștea trupului; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 3: 23; BENNETT, Maria. 2013. “Patru metafore pentru trup; Tu și iarna.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 11: 23; BENNET, Maria. 2011. “Fiindcă iubești; Din pricina ta.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 4: 27; BOSS, Laura. 2013. “După Abu Ghraib.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 143; CLEMENTE, Vince. 2008. “Lumina caisului; Viaţă fără viaţă; Cânt Pentru Gina.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Poezia 2: 172-175; CLEMENTE, Vince. 2009. “Cântec nocturn; Alee ninsă în zori.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 143; CLEMENTE, Vince. 2008. “Margaret Fuller către mama ei; Zile cu pâine de secară; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 13: 23; CLEMENTE, Vince. 2008. “Te voi afla; Acasă sâmbătă dimineața.”(Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 7: 23; CLEMENTE, Vince. 2008. “Delfin în lumină din Montauk; Dimineață de duminică la lumina liliacului.”(Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 9-10: 27; COOK, Rebecca. 2010. “Îndopată la refuz cu frică; Numai glasuri; Acest poem despre cicatrici; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 2: 123-124; COWLING, Christina. 2013. “Rugă pentru surorile mele; Lacrimi; Stele; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 3: 23; CREELEY, Robert. 2007. “Cunosc un om; După Lorca; Avertisment; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 6: 100; DALACHINSKY, Steve. 2014. “Păr.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; DIGBY, Joan. 2015. “Cină în Daegu.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 146; DIGBY, John. 2013. “Vreau să plouă; Ieșind din noapte; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 4: 23; DOBRIN, Arthur. 2013. “O imitaţie a cântecelor antice; http://bit.ly/2Fbq2KO http://convorbiri-literare.ro/?p=245 http://convorbiri-literare.ro/?p=245 326 Poetul nu e un tonomat, deci nu-mi spuneţi ce să scriu; Schimbarea vieţii pe pământ.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 143; DOLL, Kristine. 2014. “Prietenii mei; Trupul; Morţii.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 136; DOTSON, John. 2008. “Plaja Carmel.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 144; DOTSON, John. 2015. “Locul sfânt; Aurora consurgens; Apel de trezire; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 3: 23; FERLINGHETTI, Lawrence. 2008. “Făcând dragoste în poezie; Zbor peste Ohio; Nuferii lui Monet cuprinşi de tremor.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 95-96; GERSHATOR, Phillis. 2015. “Obsesie editorial.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 146; GILL, Stephen. 2010. “Eu; Cine să cumpere; Laude; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 1: 122-123; GILL, Stephen. 2013. “Naşterea poemelor; Fărâmituri uscate; Arta însingurată.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 1: 145-146; GILL, Stephen. 2012. “Azi; Cine va cumpăra; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 5: 27; GILL, Stephen. 2012. “Maicii mele; A fi; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 12: 23; GILL, Stephen. 2010. “(Iubire).” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 2: 27; GILLI, Ferris. 2013. “[Poem.]” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 12: 23; GILLI, Ferris. 2014. “[Poem].” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; GRANGE, Janet La. 2015. “Vagă amintire din America.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 19; HARRIS, Paul. 2015. “Observînd albinele.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 146; HARTER, Penny. 2014. “Ploaie de seară.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; HEYEN, William. 2013. “Primăvara mierlelor; Capsulă.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Contemporanul-ideea europeană 12: 31; HEYEN, William. 2016. “Albastru; Ghicitoare: etc.”(Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 2: 19; KACIAN, Jim. 2010. “După-amiază sufocantă; Visare...; Înfrigurat.” (Olimpia Iacob and Marius Chelaru, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 5: 99-100; Kacian, Jim. 2010. “Selected Poems.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 9: 23; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2009. “Poetul; Mîna desfrânată a Ursitei; Din nou tînăr e noroiul; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 10: 125-126; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2010. “Un soare veşnic; Cuprins de dor; Te-am pierdut?” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Contemporanul-ideea europeană, 3: 34; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2010. “Lumina zorilor; Cînd în sufletul meu; Clepsidra timpului.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 6: 123; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2012. “Fără să mă urnesc; Poeme fărîmicioase; În adîncul misterului.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 1: 129; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2012. “Cântecul pescăruşilor; Palidă precum luna; O strălucire mistuitoare; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) Poezia 4: 189-192; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2013. “Închinăciune momentului.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.). In Contemporanul - ideea europeană, 12: 31; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2014. “Moment de graţie; Cu recunoştinţă; Sclavul meu fugar.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 7: 140-141; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2017. “Licoarea înfloririi noastre; Licoarea dragostei noastre; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 9: 19; (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2013. “Iubire născută din liniște; Invidia cerurilor; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 1: 23; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2013. “Cugetări aleatorii.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 6: 23; KLEEFELD, Carolyn Mary. 2010. “Între stânci dure, reci; O amintire ca a soarelui; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 6: 27; KRAPT, Norbert. 2008. “Orgasm.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Nord literar 6: 16; KUROWSKA, Joanna. 2015. “De ce?; Motive; O altă față; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 5: 23; LEVERTOV, Denise. 2009. “Poemul nescris; Ştiind drumul; Viaţa din jurul nostru; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Poezia 1: 113-116; McFARLAND, Elizabeth. 2013. “Un fulg fără cusur.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 12: 23; MAZZIOTTI GILLAN, Maria.2013. “Băieţii îi spun vorbe de ocară nepotului meu; Ce ştiam eu despre dragoste.” (Olimpia 327 Iacob, Trans.) In Contemporanul-ideea europeană 12: 31; MAZZIOTTI GILLAN, Maria. 2008. “Cămășuțe de noapte; Tăticu, îți spuneam noi; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 15: 23; METZ, Robin. 2009. “Cod albastru; O poveste de iarnă; Lumina nopţii; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 1: 127-128; METZ, Robin. “În valea tuturor sufletelor; Înainte; Sănătos.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 12: 114; MOHR, Marylin. “Chai; Toamnă.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Contemporanul-ideea europeană 12: 31; MOORE, Leonard D. 2016. “Selected Haikus.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 11: 18; MOORE, Leonard D. 2017. “Poems.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 1: 18; MORRISON, Madison. “Poems by Madison Morisson. “(Olimpia Iacob and Nicolae Popescu, Trans.) In Poesis 6-8: 112-115; MURRAY, Gloria G. 2008. “Exploatare nabateană.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Nord literar 6: 16; NORRIS, Christopher. 2015. “Despărţire.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 147; OTOMO, Yuko. 2014. “Noapte de vară.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; OWEN, Renée. 2014. “O mie de forme.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; PINSKY, Robert. 2009. “Poem cu versuri în orice ordine; ABC; Cîntul samuraiului.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 6: 119; PLATH, Sylvia. 2008. “Primirea cutiei pentru albine.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Poesis 6-8: 115; RICH, Adrienne. 2009. “Baltimore; Margini; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 3: 23; RICHARDS, Kyung-Nyun Kim. 2015. “Mușuroaie de furnici; Ipocrizie; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 12: 19; RICHARDS, Steffen. 2014. “Mai mult decât paznic al zorilor.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 6: 23; ROSENOW, Ce. 2010. “Cuprinşi de căinţa vorbelor; Urme lăsate; Fixînd cu privirea Pacificul.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 123-124; SADRE-ORFAI, Jenny. 2013. “Înainte de semnarea cererii; Cînd eşti plecat; Soţul dintîi; etc.” In Convorbiri literare 6: 136-137; SAJÉ, Natasha. 2013. “Milk River; Circumflex.” In Convorbiri literare 7: 139-140; Sajé, Natasha. 2013. “Anatemă; Funia; Scuză.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 8: 148-149; SALKILLD, Jean. 2015. “Căutătorii de moluşte.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 4: 147; SIMSER, Guy. 2014. “Fantoma tatălui.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 23; SQUIER, Charles. 2011. “Poems.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 7-8: 27; STILLER, Nikki. 2008. “Iarnă.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Nord literar 6: 16; STRAND, Mark. 2007. “Poştaşul; Devorând poezie; Singurul cînt.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 8: 105; VILLANUEVA, Tino. 2017. “Așa vorbea Penelopa; Strălucind ca marea; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 10: 19; VILLANUEVA, Tino. 2016. “La muzeul Holocaustului: Washington D.C.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 12: 18; VILLANUEVA, Tino. 2014. “Lepădarea de absență; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 2: 23; VILLANUEVA, Tino. 2014. “Am descîntat o pagină; Glas peste timp.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 5: 153; WHITMAN, Neil. 2017. “Poem.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 1: 18; WHITMAN, Neal. 2014. “Ger în miez de noapte.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans). In Acolada 6: 23; WILLIAMS, C. K. 2008. “Aşa stau lucrurile cu oamenii; Poemul mamei sinucigaşe; Criticul; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 3: 95-96; WOLAK, Bill. 2011. “Zmei în flăcări.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 12: 122-123; WOLAK, Bill. 2016. “Vântul escaladează mătasea; Teama de calendare; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 4: 19; WOLAK, William. 2013. (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) “Selected Haikus.” In Acolada 12: 23; WOLAK, Bill. 2011.” Începutul dragostei; Irezistibilă; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Acolada 12: 27; WYLIE, Elinor. 2007. “Incantaţie; Să nu îngădui speranţei binevoitoare; Piersic sălbatic; etc.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) In Convorbiri literare 7: 110; YUANG, Changming. 2014. “Lotus; Razele.” (Olimpia Iacob, Trans.) 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('Olah', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Foarta', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('C_Antao_Xavier', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('B_Wolak', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Salkilld', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Taylor', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Vancu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('A_Dimitrov', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Amatoritsero', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Filimon', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('T_Kooser', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Angel', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('G_England', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Bennett', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Gavrilovici', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Coman', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('C_Bakken', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Simic', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Popescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('K_Rexroth', {'capacity': 'author'}), ("F_O'Hara", {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Ofileanu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('A_Britt', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Haas', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Ashbery', {'capacity': 'author'}), 406 All values are pesented with only 4 decimals whenever the rest of the decimals are superfluous. 407 The type of notation we used is the one generated by Python. 329 ('Sting', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Patea', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('M_Morrison', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Heavily', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Ransom', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Myles', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Collective_Unattributed', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('W_Coleman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('D_Mahon', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('N_Krapt', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('RL_Schwartz', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Ulmeanu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Vasies', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Zank', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('S_Alexie', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Pojoga', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('A_Waldman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Mocuta', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('K_Mattawa', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Wright', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Grigore', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('P_Boyers', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Nicolae', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('E_Equi', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Owen', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('S_Richards', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Serban', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Prodan', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('J_Dodds', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Carver', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Milazzo', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Strand', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Jarrell', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('D_Nurkse', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('CD_Wright', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Waters', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Berryman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Mellor', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Rogojina', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('CE_Rosenow', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Sabau', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Cosma', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Ieronim', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Olos', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('S_Plath', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Haines', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Rusu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('M_ORourke', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('G_Simser', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Brown', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('WS_Merwin', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('MAM_Fitzpatrick', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('D_Levertov', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Dochia', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('M_Atwood', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('N_Saje', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Grace', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Hershon', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('L_Hejinian', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('P_Auster', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_BarkanClarke', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('B_Rashbaum', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('N_Stiller', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Y_Otomo', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Rich', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Phillips', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('SH_Barkan', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Gheorghiu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('A_Cohen', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('T_Skurtu', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Z_Vayma', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Komartin', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('GC_Waldrep', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Unattributed', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Popa', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('C_Bukowski', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('CM_Kleefeld', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('D_Ignatow', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Baconsky', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('S_Dunn', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Bernstein', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Ciobanu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('A_Sze', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Sociu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('B_Ross', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('QV_GexBreaux', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('G_Snyder', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Doinas', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Dragomirescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('D_Brinks', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('D_Berman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Thompson', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Iacob', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('J_Kurowska', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Tartler', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('I_Sadoji', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Ginsberg', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('T_Hoagland', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('F_Bidart', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('L_Gluck', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Racovita', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('CA_Duffy', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Gritsman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('F_Howe', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Oancea', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Motet', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Firan', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('J_Dotson', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('D_DiPrima', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Miller', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Carson', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Chelaru', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Cassian', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('G_Corso', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('PH_Starzinger', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('P_Bateman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Chris_Tanasescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('R_Dove', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('TS_Eliot', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Waldrop', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Goldbarth', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('P_Killebrew', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Manesiotis', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('MM_Gillan', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Gardner', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('John_Digby', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Brautigan', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Jones', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('K_Knox', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('S_Moss', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Phil_Levine', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Winder', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Merrill', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Sexton', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Foster', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Buzdugan', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Nicolau', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('J_Rothenberg', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('P_Harris', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('B_Henry', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Samulescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('T_Lux', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('W_Heyen', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('I_Kaminsky', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Doty', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Brodsky', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Norris', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('L_Gregerson', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Squier', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Sibisan', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('E_Hirsch', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Tate', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Alexander', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Kacian', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('S_Dalachinski', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('L_Diaz', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Zanca', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Conkan', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('K_Graber', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Angelou', {'capacity': 'author'})] 330 G's edges408 are: [('F_Wright', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Craik', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Familia', 'weight': 1}), ('D_Duhamel', 'Komartin', {'journal': 'Cuvantul', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Swann', 'Suiu', {'journal': 'Agora', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Ras', 'Hotaranu', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Lowell', 'Cassian', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Gerstler', 'Rogojina', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Cohen', 'Motet', {'journal': 'Amurg_sentimental', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Cohen', 'Rusu', {'journal': 'Negru_pe_alb', 'weight': 1}), ('C_St_Aubin', 'Ghita', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('W_Baker', 'Motet', {'journal': 'Amurg_sentimental', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Hughes', 'Baconsky', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Hughes', 'Solomon', {'journal': '13_Plus', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Hughes', 'Motet', {'journal': 'Amurg_sentimental', 'weight': 1}), ('Manole', 'GE_Clarke', {'journal': 'Luceafarul_de_dimineata_&_Viata_romaneasca', 'weight': 2}), ('Manole', 'E_Amatoritsero', {'journal': 'Luceafarul_de_dimineata', 'weight': 1}), ('N_Giovanni', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Grivu', 'G_England', {'journal': 'Orasul', 'weight': 1}), ('Grivu', 'L_Gluck', {'journal': 'Orasul', 'weight': 1}), ('Alina_Sorescu', 'K_Graber', {'journal': 'Ramuri', 'weight': 1}), ('F_Joudah', 'Surleac', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_Dilema_veche', 'weight': 0}), ('F_Joudah', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_Dilema_veche', 'weight': 2}), ('Vacarescu', 'S_Plath', {'journal': 'Euphorion', 'weight': 1}), ('Vacarescu', 'A_Sexton', {'journal': 'Euphorion', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Wilbur', 'Cassian', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Dragomir', 'A_Ginsberg', {'journal': 'Tomis', 'weight': 1}), ('Dragomir', 'A_Sexton', {'journal': 'Tomis', 'weight': 1}), ('Surleac', 'GC_Waldrep', {'journal': 'Timpul', 'weight': 0}), ('Surleac', 'V_Mort', {'journal': 'Timpul', 'weight': 1}), ('Surleac', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_F_Joudah_&_GC_Waldrep_&_S_Lewis', 'weight': 4}), ('Surleac', 'S_Lewis', {'journal': 'Timpul', 'weight': 0}), ('Surleac', 'M_Vincenz', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_Agentia_de_Carte', 'weight': 2}), ('J_Sadre_Orfai', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Oliver', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Collins', 'Olaru', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Ionescu', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Romania_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('P_deRachewiltz', 'Oancea', {'journal': 'Luceafarul_de_dimineata', 'weight': 0}), ('P_deRachewiltz', 'Patea', {'journal': 'Luceafarul_de_dimineata', 'weight': 1}), ('P_Harter', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Dobrin', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('G_Soto', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Digby', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare_&_Acolada', 'weight': 2}), ('R_Edson', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('DM_Andrei', 'Nicolau', {'journal': 'Arca', 'weight': 1}), ('J_English', 'Samulescu', {'journal': 'Oglinda_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('Constantinescu', 'AV_Rivera', {'journal': 'Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('Constantinescu', 'E_Winder', {'journal': 'Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('Constantinescu', 'P_Bateman', {'journal': 'Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('T_Villanueva', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare_&_[3x]_Acolada', 'weight': 4}), ('F_Gilli', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Acolada', 'weight': 2}), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('J_LaGrange', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('H_Bar_Lev', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare_&_Poezia', 'weight': 2}), ('L_Moore', 'Brudascu', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Moore', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Acolada', 'weight': 2}), ('C_Yuang', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('V_Clemente', 'Grigore', {'journal': 'Ateneu', 'weight': 1}), ('V_Clemente', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Poezia_&_Convorbiri_literare_&_[3x]_Acolada', 'weight': 5}), ('anya', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Gill', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Convorbiri_literare_&_[3x]_Acolada', 'weight': 5}), ('P_Gershator', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Metz', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 2}), ('R_Cook', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('AR_Ammons', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('E_McFarland', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Olaru', 'T_Kooser', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Olaru', 'T_Hoagland', {'journal': 'Ramuri', 'weight': 1}), ('Olaru', 'WS_Merwin', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Olaru', 'CA_Duffy', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('DA_Powell', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Familia', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Knott', 'Olah', {'journal': 'Tomis', 'weight': 0}), ('B_Knott', 'Popescu', {'journal': 'Tomis', 'weight': 1}), ('D_Riggs', 'Boagiu', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Hawkins', 'Sibisan', {'journal': 'Vatra', 'weight': 1}), ('K_Doll', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Codrescu', 'Firan', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 0}), ('A_Codrescu', 'Carides', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('KS_Keyss', 'Chelaru', {'journal': 'Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Lewis', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Timpul', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Ash', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Gradinaru', 'V_Mort', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('T_Roethke', 'Tartler', {'journal': 'Luceafarul', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'Y_Komunyakaa', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'R_Dove', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'QV_GexBreaux', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'A_Jackson', 408 The edges are the publication venues (periodicals) and the weights represent the number of times a poet was published in the respective periodical by a certain translator. 331 {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'E_Miller', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'J_Thompson', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('Brudascu', 'W_Coleman', {'journal': 'Cetatea_culturala', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Padgett', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('ee_cummings', 'Baconsky', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('D_Baker', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_Convorbiri_literare_&_Viata_romaneasca', 'weight': 3}), ('N_Burke', 'Olos', {'journal': 'Nord_literar', 'weight': 1}), ('Trandafir', 'B_Rashbaum', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('Muresanu', 'M_Atwood', {'journal': 'Ateneu', 'weight': 1}), ('Moscaliuc', 'G_Stern', {'journal': 'Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('Moscaliuc', 'M_Waters', {'journal': 'Poezia_&_Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 2}), ('Puscas_Pacuraru', 'A_Sexton', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Singer', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Familia', 'weight': 1}), ('P_Landsman', 'Popa', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Bishop', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('K_Richards', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Parau', 'A_Goldbarth', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Parau', 'T_Skurtu', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Parau', 'A_Britt', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Carides', 'R_Milazzo', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Carides', 'Firan', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_A_Codrescu', 'weight': 1}), ('Carides', 'R_Hershon', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Swenson', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Cowling', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Mircea', 'MAM_Fitzpatrick', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Mohr', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana', 'weight': 1}), ('Marin_Sorescu', 'Serban', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_WS_Merwin', 'weight': 1}), ('Marin_Sorescu', 'WS_Merwin', {'journal': '13_Plus', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Marx', 'Rusu', {'journal': 'Negru_pe_alb', 'weight': 1}), ('Mihalache', 'J_Mellor', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('GE_Clarke', 'Olos', {'journal': 'Nord_literar_&_Poesis', 'weight': 2}), ('P_Campion', 'Vancu', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Ondaatje', 'Zanca', {'journal': 'Euphorion', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Ondaatje', 'Grigore', {'journal': 'Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana', 'weight': 1}), ('Suiu', 'L_Gregerson', {'journal': 'Agora', 'weight': 1}), ('Suiu', 'T_Hoagland', {'journal': 'Tomis', 'weight': 1}), ('Simion', 'R_Dove', {'journal': 'Euphorion', 'weight': 1}), ('Simion', 'S_Plath', {'journal': 'Vatra', 'weight': 1}), ('Simion', 'J_Berryman', {'journal': 'Vatra_&_Euphorion', 'weight': 2}), ('Vintila', 'R_Dove', {'journal': 'Bucovina_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Pinsky', 'Komartin', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Pinsky', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Tischer', 'Samulescu', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Tischer', 'Dragomirescu', {'journal': '[2x]_Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 2}), ('B_Hillman', 'Rogojina', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Rector', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Rhea', 'Rusu', {'journal': 'Negru_pe_alb', 'weight': 1}), ('G_Murray', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Nord_literar', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Boss', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 2}), ('C_Moscovici', 'Ulmeanu', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Wylie', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Micu', 'T_Skurtu', {'journal': 'Caiete_silvane', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Notley', 'Rogojina', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Notley', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('CK_Williams', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('CK_Williams', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Sandu', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Idei_in_dialog', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Foldes', 'Collective_Unattributed', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Foldes', 'Filimon', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Forche', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Nauen', 'Rogojina', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('T_Berrigan', 'Grigore', {'journal': 'Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana', 'weight': 1}), ('N_Whitman', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Acolada', 'weight': 2}), ('Nitescu', 'M_Strand', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Woodside', 'Ieronim', {'journal': 'Luceafarul_de_dimineata', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Woodside', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_Convorbiri_literare_&_InterReACT', 'weight': 3}), ('B_Mayer', 'Rogojina', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Creeley', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Neacsu', 'P_Boyers', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Neacsu', 'F_Bidart', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Suciu', 'Conkan', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_A_Sexton', 'weight': 1}), ('Suciu', 'A_Sexton', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Hotaranu', 'R_Milazzo', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Hotaranu', 'E_Hirsch', {'journal': '[3x}_Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 3}), ('Hotaranu', 'A_Gritsman', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Hotaranu', 'J_Manesiotis', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Hotaranu', 'D_Brinks', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Hotaranu', 'R_Angel', {'journal': '[2x]_Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 2}), ('P_Balakian', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Olah', 'Popescu', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_B_Knott', 'weight': 1}), ('Foarta', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Acolada_&_Romania_literara', 'weight': 2}), ('Foarta', 'R_Jarrell', {'journal': 'Cafeneaua_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('Foarta', 'Racovita', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_TS_Eliot', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 'Ieronim', {'journal': 'Luceafarul', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Wolak', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare_&_[4x]_Acolada', 'weight': 5}), ('J_Salkilld', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Taylor', 'Raluca_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Ateneu', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Taylor', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Ateneu', 332 'weight': 0}), ('Vancu', 'B_Henry', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Vancu', 'T_Skurtu', {'journal': 'Mozaicul_&_Subacapitol_&_Zona_noua', 'weight': 3}), ('Vancu', 'J_Berryman', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Dimitrov', 'Buzdugan', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Amatoritsero', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('T_Kooser', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Bennett', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Convorbiri_literare_&_[3x]_Acolada', 'weight': 5}), ('Gavrilovici', 'RL_Schwartz', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Coman', 'A_Carson', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Bakken', 'Ieronim', {'journal': 'Luceafarul', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Simic', 'Cassian', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Simic', 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Simic', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('K_Rexroth', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ("F_O'Hara", 'Ofileanu', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'M_Doty', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'J_Brown', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'I_Sadoji', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'M_Angelou', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'A_Sze', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'A_Ginsberg', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'S_Dunn', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'E_Alexander', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'R_Brautigan', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'K_Mattawa', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'C_Bukowski', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('Ofileanu', 'G_Corso', {'journal': 'Fereastra', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Haas', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Ashbery', 'Cassian', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Ashbery', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Viata_romaneasca', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Ashbery', 'Vasies', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Sting', 'Rusu', {'journal': 'Negru_pe_alb', 'weight': 1}), ('Patea', 'Oancea', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_P_deRachewitz', 'weight': 1}), ('Patea', 'Stancu', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_D_Moody', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Morrison', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Poesis', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Heavily', 'Cosma', {'journal': 'Vatra_veche', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Ransom', 'Collective_Unattributed', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Myles', 'Rogojina', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('D_Mahon', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('N_Krapt', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Nord_literar', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'CD_Wright', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'A_Waldman', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'Phil_Levine', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'D_Nurkse', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'T_Lux', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'D_Levertov', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'C_Phillips', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'M_Angelou', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'R_Carver', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Vasies', 'R_Jones', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Zank', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Romania_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Alexie', 'Pojoga', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Mocuta', 'R_Brautigan', {'journal': '[2x]_Arca_&_Luceafarul_de_dimineata', 'weight': 3}), ('C_Wright', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_InterReACT', 'weight': 2}), ('Grigore', 'M_Atwood', {'journal': 'Euphorion', 'weight': 1}), ('Grigore', 'P_Auster', {'journal': 'Euphorion', 'weight': 1}), ('Grigore', 'E_Equi', {'journal': 'Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana', 'weight': 1}), ('Nicolae', 'J_Brodsky', {'journal': 'Ateneu', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Owen', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Richards', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Serban', 'WS_Merwin', {'journal': '13_Plus', 'weight': 0}), ('Prodan', 'A_Grace', {'journal': 'Oglinda_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Strand', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('R_Jarrell', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Mellor', 'Samulescu', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('Rogojina', 'K_Knox', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Rogojina', 'R_Waldrop', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Rogojina', 'L_Hejinian', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Rogojina', 'F_Howe', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Rogojina', 'D_DiPrima', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('CE_Rosenow', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Sabau', 'L_Diaz', {'journal': 'Orizont_literar_contemporan', 'weight': 1}), ('Ieronim', 'C_Merrill', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Ieronim', 'A_Gritsman', {'journal': 'Luceafarul_de_dimineata', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Plath', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Poesis', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Haines', 'Gardner', {'journal': 'Provincia_Corvina', 'weight': 1}), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 'J_Rothenberg', {'journal': 'Poesis_International_&_[2x]_Poezia', 'weight': 3}), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 'G_Snyder', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 'I_Kaminsky', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 1}), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'collaboration': 'Cotranslation_of_J_Rothenberg_&_G_Snyder_&_J_Taylor_&_I_Kaminsky', 'weight': 6}), ('M_ORourke', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Familia', 'weight': 1}), ('G_Simser', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('WS_Merwin', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('D_Levertov', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('Dochia', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Cafeneaua_literara', 'weight': 1}), ('N_Saje', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[2x]_Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 2}), ('M_BarkanClarke', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('N_Stiller', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Nord_literar', 'weight': 1}), ('Y_Otomo', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Rich', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('SH_Barkan', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Nord_literar_&_[3x]_Convorbiri_literare_&_Poezia_&_Acolada', 'weight': 6}), ('Gheorghiu', 'G_Corso', {'journal': 333 'Arges', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Cohen', 'Buzdugan', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 1}), ('Z_Vayma', 'Chelaru', {'journal': 'Poesis', 'weight': 1}), ('GC_Waldrep', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Timpul', 'weight': 1}), ('Unattributed', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Arges', 'weight': 2}), ('CM_Kleefeld', 'Iacob', {'journal': '[6x]_Convorbiri_literare_&_[4x]_Acolada_&_[2x]_Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana_&_Poezia', 'weight': 13}), ('D_Ignatow', 'Iacob', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('C_Bernstein', 'Sociu', {'journal': 'Cuvantul', 'weight': 1}), ('Ciobanu', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Ateneu', 'weight': 1}), ('Sociu', 'J_Tate', {'journal': 'Cuvantul', 'weight': 1}), ('Sociu', 'P_Killebrew', {'journal': 'Cuvantul', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Ross', 'Motet', {'journal': 'Amurg_sentimental', 'weight': 1}), ('G_Snyder', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 0}), ('Doinas', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': '13_Plus', 'weight': 1}), ('D_Berman', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Familia', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'J_Kurowska', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'A_Ginsberg', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'MM_Gillan', {'journal': 'Acolada_&_Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana', 'weight': 2}), ('Iacob', 'John_Digby', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'C_Squier', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'J_Dotson', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare_&_Acolada', 'weight': 2}), ('Iacob', 'J_Kacian', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare_&_Acolada', 'weight': 2}), ('Iacob', 'S_Dalachinski', {'journal': 'Acolada', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'C_Norris', {'journal': 'Convorbiri_literare', 'weight': 1}), ('Iacob', 'W_Heyen', {'journal': 'Acolada_&_Contemporanul_Ideea_europeana', 'weight': 2}), ('Tartler', 'L_Gluck', {'journal': 'Luceafarul', 'weight': 1}), ('Racovita', 'TS_Eliot', {'journal': 'Romania_literara', 'weight': 0}), ('Firan', 'S_Moss', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Firan', 'E_Foster', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('Cassian', 'S_Moss', {'journal': 'Scrisul_romanesc', 'weight': 1}), ('PH_Starzinger', 'Chris_Tanasescu', {'journal': 'Familia', 'weight': 1}), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 'I_Kaminsky', {'journal': 'Poesis_International', 'weight': 0}), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 'J_Rothenberg', {'journal': '[2x]_Poesis_International_&_[2x]_Poezia', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Sexton', 'Conkan', {'journal': 'Steaua', 'weight': 0})] SIZE Number of components, nodes, and edges G components = 30 G nodes = 310 G edges = 302 G0 nodes = 222 (71.61%) G0 edges = 241 (79.80%) G1 nodes = 12 (3.87%) G1 edges = 11 (3.64%) G2 nodes = 12 (3.87%) G2 edges = 5 (1.65%) G3-29 nodes = 64 (20.65%) G3-29 edges = 45 (14.91%) DENSITY The portion of the potential connections in a network that are actual connections def density(G): x = len(G.edges) y = len(G.nodes) return 2*x / (y*(y-1)) G’s density is 0.0063 G0’s density is 0.0098 G1’s density is 0.1666 G2’s density is 0.3333 AVERAGE DEGREE The average number of edges connected to a node The degrees for all nodes in G are: DegreeView({'Oancea': 2, 'N_Krapt': 1, 'Komartin': 2, 'D_Duhamel': 1, 'B_Swann': 1, 'B_Ras': 1, 'T_Kooser': 2, 'P_deRachewiltz': 2, 'C_St_Aubin': 1, 'L_Hughes': 3, 'Manole': 2, 'R_Haas': 1, 'Grivu': 2, 'Alina_Sorescu': 1, 'F_Joudah': 2, 'Vacarescu': 2, 'Dragomir': 2, 'Surleac': 6, 'J_Sadre_Orfai': 1, 'B_Collins': 1, 'R_Lowell': 1, 'P_Harter': 1, 'A_Dobrin': 1, 'Firan': 4, 'G_Soto': 1, 'J_Digby': 1, 'S_Lewis': 2, 'J_English': 1, 'Constantinescu': 3, 'T_Villanueva': 1, 'F_Gilli': 1, 'L_Ferlinghetti': 2, 'J_LaGrange': 1, 'L_Moore': 2, 'C_Yuang': 1, 'V_Clemente': 2, 'anya': 1, 'S_Gill': 1, 'P_Gershator': 1, 'R_Cook': 1, 'Nitescu': 1, 'E_McFarland': 1, 'Pojoga': 1, 'DA_Powell': 1, 'Popa': 1, 'WS_Merwin': 4, 'J_Hawkins': 1, 'Solomon': 1, 'K_Doll': 1, 'A_Codrescu': 2, 'KS_Keyss': 1, 'B_Henry': 1, 'Ulmeanu': 1, 'R_Brautigan': 2, 'Gradinaru': 1, 'S_Moss': 2, 'Brudascu': 8, 'Y_Komunyakaa': 1, 'ee_cummings': 1, 'D_Baker': 1, 'D_Ignatow': 1, 'Grigore': 6, 'R_Wilbur': 1, 'M_Strand': 2, 'Muresanu': 1, 'Moscaliuc': 2, 'Puscas_Pacuraru': 1, 'S_Dunn': 1, 'A_Gritsman': 2, 'S_Singer': 1, 'John_Digby': 1, 'P_Landsman': 1, 'E_Bishop': 1, 'K_Richards': 1, 'Parau': 3, 'Carides': 4, 'V_Mort': 2, 'Ciobanu': 2, 'C_Cowling': 1, 'Mircea': 1, 'M_Mohr': 1, 'Marin_Sorescu': 2, 'Coman': 1, 'R_Marx': 1, 334 'Mihalache': 1, 'GE_Clarke': 2, 'Sting': 1, 'A_Jackson': 1, 'Suiu': 3, 'Simion': 3, 'Vintila': 1, 'R_Pinsky': 2, 'J_Tischer': 2, 'E_Miller': 1, 'B_Hillman': 1, 'L_Rector': 1, 'Boagiu': 1, 'C_Rhea': 1, 'G_Murray': 1, 'Serban': 2, 'Hotaranu': 7, 'D_Nurkse': 1, 'E_Equi': 1, 'Micu': 1, 'A_Notley': 2, 'CK_Williams': 2, 'L_Cohen': 2, 'Ghita': 1, 'Baconsky': 2, 'E_Nauen': 1, 'N_Whitman': 1, 'AR_Ammons': 1, 'M_Woodside': 2, 'B_Mayer': 1, 'R_Creeley': 1, 'J_Haines': 1, 'DM_Andrei': 1, 'Suciu': 2, 'Neacsu': 2, 'L_Boss': 1, 'Olah': 2, 'Foarta': 3, 'C_Antao_Xavier': 1, 'B_Wolak': 1, 'J_Salkilld': 1, 'D_Brinks': 1, 'Vancu': 4, 'A_Dimitrov': 1, 'E_Amatoritsero': 2, 'Filimon': 1, 'Sibisan': 1, 'R_Angel': 1, 'G_England': 1, 'M_Bennett': 1, 'F_Wright': 1, 'Ionescu': 1, 'J_Brown': 1, 'M_Doty': 1, 'J_Thompson': 1, 'C_Simic': 3, 'Popescu': 2, 'K_Rexroth': 1, 'L_Gluck': 2, 'Ofileanu': 20, 'W_Baker': 1, 'Conkan': 2, 'Patea': 3, 'M_Morrison': 1, 'J_Heavily': 1, 'Nicolau': 1, 'J_Ransom': 1, 'E_Myles': 1, 'Collective_Unattributed': 2, 'W_Coleman': 1, 'D_Mahon': 1, 'R_Craik': 1, 'J_Kurowska': 1, 'A_Gerstler': 1, 'Vasies': 21, 'Zank': 1, 'CE_Rosenow': 1, 'Zanca': 1, 'Olaru': 5, 'A_Waldman': 1, 'Mocuta': 1, 'K_Mattawa': 1, "F_O'Hara": 1, 'AV_Rivera': 1, 'Iacob': 68, 'P_Boyers': 1, 'J_Ashbery': 3, 'K_Graber': 1, 'C_Forche': 1, 'I_Sadoji': 1, 'G_Stern': 1, 'Prodan': 1, 'M_Foldes': 2, 'A_Ginsberg': 3, 'R_Milazzo': 2, 'R_Jarrell': 2, 'CD_Wright': 1, 'M_Waters': 1, 'J_Berryman': 2, 'J_Mellor': 2, 'Rogojina': 11, 'S_Alexie': 1, 'Sabau': 1, 'Cosma': 1, 'Ieronim': 5, 'Olos': 2, 'S_Plath': 3, 'Gavrilovici': 1, 'Raluca_Tanasescu': 5, 'H_Bar_Lev': 1, 'R_Padgett': 1, 'QV_GexBreaux': 1, 'Rusu': 4, 'MAM_Fitzpatrick': 1, 'M_Oliver': 1, 'Dochia': 1, 'M_Atwood': 2, 'N_Saje': 1, 'A_Grace': 1, 'R_Hershon': 1, 'L_Hejinian': 1, 'D_Levertov': 2, 'C_Norris': 1, 'B_Rashbaum': 1, 'N_Stiller': 1, 'Y_Otomo': 1, 'A_Rich': 1, 'C_Phillips': 1, 'SH_Barkan': 1, 'Gheorghiu': 1, 'A_Cohen': 1, 'T_Skurtu': 3, 'R_Metz': 1, 'GC_Waldrep': 2, 'Unattributed': 1, 'B_Knott': 2, 'C_Bukowski': 1, 'Sandu': 1, 'N_Burke': 1, 'Trandafir': 1, 'R_Carver': 1, 'C_Bernstein': 1, 'M_Swenson': 1, 'A_Sze': 1, 'Z_Vayma': 1, 'E_Wylie': 1, 'M_Vincenz': 1, 'T_Berrigan': 1, 'Doinas': 1, 'Dragomirescu': 1, 'J_Taylor': 2, 'D_Berman': 1, 'G_Simser': 1, 'R_Edson': 1, 'RL_Schwartz': 1, 'Tartler': 2, 'R_Owen': 1, 'J_Ash': 1, 'M_ORourke': 1, 'Racovita': 2, 'CA_Duffy': 1, 'M_BarkanClarke': 1, 'F_Howe': 1, 'CM_Kleefeld': 1, 'Motet': 4, 'G_Snyder': 2, 'A_Britt': 1, 'D_DiPrima': 1, 'P_Campion': 1, 'A_Sexton': 5, 'D_Riggs': 1, 'Chelaru': 2, 'A_Carson': 1, 'E_Foster': 1, 'T_Hoagland': 2, 'PH_Starzinger': 1, 'P_Bateman': 1, 'E_Hirsch': 1, 'Chris_Tanasescu': 19, 'TS_Eliot': 9, 'R_Waldrop': 1, 'P_Killebrew': 1, 'J_Manesiotis': 1, 'MM_Gillan': 1, 'N_Giovanni': 1, 'Cassian': 5, 'Phil_Levine': 1, 'Stancu': 1, 'Nicolae': 1, 'Gardner': 1, 'R_Jones': 1, 'K_Knox': 1, 'S_Dalachinski': 1, 'T_Roethke': 1, 'G_Corso': 2, 'L_Diaz': 1, 'E_Winder': 1, 'C_Merrill': 1, 'C_Moscovici': 1, 'F_Bidart': 1, 'Buzdugan': 2, 'C_Bakken': 1, 'J_Rothenberg': 2, 'P_Harris': 1, 'J_Dodds': 1, 'Samulescu': 3, 'T_Lux': 1, 'W_Heyen': 1, 'I_Kaminsky': 2, 'M_Ondaatje': 2, 'J_Brodsky': 1, 'R_Dove': 3, 'L_Gregerson': 1, 'C_Squier': 1, 'P_Auster': 1, 'B_Ross': 1, 'S_Richards': 1, 'J_Tate': 1, 'E_Alexander': 1, 'J_Kacian': 1, 'Sociu': 3, 'A_Goldbarth': 1, 'J_Dotson': 1, 'C_Wright': 1, 'P_Balakian': 1, 'M_Angelou': 2}) Average degree (average number of links per node) G = 1.9483 G0 = 2.1711 G1 = 1.8(3) G2 = 1.6666 Weighted average degree (mean sum of the weights assigned to the nodes’ links) G = 2.3032 G0 = 2.7747 G1 = 1.8333 G2 = 2.0 CLUSTERING COEFFICIENT The degree to which nodes in a graph tend to cluster together G’s average clustering: 0.0643 G1 = 0.0 G0's average clustering: 0.06577 G2 = 0.0 Clustering for G: OrderedDict([('Oancea', 1.0), ('P_deRachewiltz', 1.0), ('F_Joudah', 1.0), ('S_Lewis', 1.0), ('A_Codrescu', 1.0), ('Marin_Sorescu', 1.0), ('Serban', 1.0), ('Suciu', 1.0), ('Olah', 1.0), ('Popescu', 1.0), ('Conkan', 1.0), ('GC_Waldrep', 1.0), ('B_Knott', 1.0), ('J_Taylor', 1.0), ('Racovita', 1.0), ('G_Snyder', 1.0), ('J_Rothenberg', 1.0), ('I_Kaminsky', 1.0), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.4), ('Foarta', 0.(3)), ('Patea', 0.(3)), ('Surleac', 0.2), ('Firan', 0.1(6)), ('WS_Merwin', 0.1(6)), ('Carides', 0.1(6)), ('A_Sexton', 0.1), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.04), ('TS_Eliot', 0.027), all other nodes = 0. 335 CENTRALITY Betweenness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Iacob', 0.3878), ('Vasies', 0.1816), ('J_Ashbery', 0.1177), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.1160), ('C_Simic', 0.0926), ('Cassian', 0.0856), ('Ofileanu', 0.0852), ('CK_Williams', 0.0583), ('D_Levertov', 0.0583), ('S_Plath', 0.0577), ('A_Notley', 0.0485), ('R_Jarrell', 0.0485), ('Rogojina', 0.0452), ('Simion', 0.0448), ('Foarta', 0.0443), ('S_Moss', 0.0431), ('Firan', 0.0393), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0363), ('V_Clemente', 0.0358), ('J_Berryman', 0.0358), ('L_Moore', 0.0334), ('Grigore', 0.0318), ('Vancu', 0.0317), ('Brudascu', 0.0316), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0307), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0302), ('M_Woodside', 0.0295), ('Olaru', 0.0292), ('Carides', 0.0272), ('Ieronim', 0.0264), ('Hotaranu', 0.0240), ('M_Angelou', 0.0199), ('R_Milazzo', 0.0192), ('T_Skurtu', 0.0183), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.0182), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.0162), ('A_Sexton', 0.0140), ('Surleac', 0.0138), ('Manole', 0.0137), ('T_Hoagland', 0.0137), ('T_Kooser', 0.0118), ('Dragomir', 0.0102), ('A_Gritsman', 0.0093), ('Parau', 0.0092), ('Suiu', 0.00922), ('GE_Clarke', 0.0092), ('R_Pinsky', 0.0092), ('Vacarescu', 0.0081), ('R_Dove', 0.0065), ('Komartin', 0.0046), ('R_Brautigan', 0.0046), ('M_Strand', 0.0046), ('V_Mort', 0.0046), ('Ciobanu', 0.0046), ('Olos', 0.0046), ('M_Atwood', 0.0046), ('G_Corso', 0.0046), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.0046), ('Motet', 0.0008), ('L_Cohen', 0.00058), ('Rusu', 0.00056), ('L_Hughes', 0.00054), ('Baconsky', 0.00021), ('Samulescu', 0.0001), ('J_Tischer', 8.4005409), ('L_Gluck', 8.4058e-05), ('J_Mellor', 8.4058e-05), ('Grivu', 6.3043e-05), ('Constantinescu', 6.3043e-05), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 6.3043e-05), ('Tartler', 6.3043e-05), ('Sociu', 6.3043e-05), ('Patea', 4.2029e-05), ('Collective_Unattributed', 4.2029e-05), ('M_Foldes', 4.20291e-05), ('Moscaliuc', 2.1014e-05), ('Neacsu', 2.1014e-05), ('Chelaru', 2.10145e-05), ('Buzdugan', 2.10145e-05), all other nodes=0 Closeness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Iacob', 0.2300), ('C_Simic', 0.2029), ('CK_Williams', 0.2013), ('D_Levertov', 0.2013), ('Vasies', 0.1963), ('Cassian', 0.1848), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.1844), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.1823), ('S_Plath', 0.1810), ('R_Jarrell', 0.1786), ('WS_Merwin', 0.1781), ('L_Moore', 0.1777), ('Ofileanu', 0.1777), ('V_Clemente', 0.1773), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.1758), ('R_Pinsky', 0.1750), ('M_Strand', 0.1746), ('N_Krapt', 0.1742), ('J_Sadre_Orfai', 0.1742), ('P_Harter', 0.1742), ('A_Dobrin', 0.1742), ('J_Digby', 0.1742), ('T_Villanueva', 0.1742), ('F_Gilli', 0.1742), ('J_LaGrange', 0.1742), ('C_Yuang', 0.1742), ('anya', 0.0.1742), ('S_Gill', 0.0.1742), ('P_Gershator', 0.0.1742), ('R_Cook', 0.0.1742), ('E_McFarland', 0.0.1742), ('K_Doll', 0.0.1742), ('D_Ignatow', 0.0.1742), ('John_Digby', 0.0.1742), ('K_Richards', 0.0.1742), ('C_Cowling', 0.0.1742), ('M_Mohr', 0.0.1742), ('G_Murray', 0.0.1742), ('N_Whitman', 0.0.1742), ('AR_Ammons', 0.0.1742), ('R_Creeley', 0.0.1742), ('L_Boss', 0.0.1742), ('B_Wolak', 0.0.1742), ('J_Salkilld', 0.0.1742), ('M_Bennett', 0.0.1742), ('K_Rexroth', 0.0.1742), ('M_Morrison', 0.0.1742), ('D_Mahon', 0.0.1742), ('J_Kurowska', 0.0.1742), ('CE_Rosenow', 0.0.1742), ('H_Bar_Lev', 0.0.1742), ('N_Saje', 0.0.1742), ('C_Norris', 0.0.1742), ('N_Stiller', 0.0.1742), ('Y_Otomo', 0.0.1742), ('A_Rich', 0.0.1742), ('SH_Barkan', 0.0.1742), ('R_Metz', 0.0.1742), ('E_Wylie', 0.0.1742), ('G_Simser', 0.0.1742), ('R_Owen', 0.0.1742), ('J_Ash', 0.0.1742), ('M_BarkanClarke', 0.0.1742), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.0.1742), ('MM_Gillan', 0.0.1742), ('S_Dalachinski', 0.0.1742), ('P_Harris', 0.0.1742), ('W_Heyen', 0.0.1742), ('C_Squier', 0.0.1742), ('S_Richards', 0.0.1742), ('J_Kacian', 0.0.1742), ('J_Dotson', 0.0.1742), ('J_Ashbery', 0.1686), ('M_Angelou', 0.1627), ('Olaru', 0.1624), ('A_Notley', 0.1575), ('T_Kooser', 0.1572), ('R_Haas', 0.1542), ('L_Rector', 0.1542), ('D_Nurkse', 0.0.1542), ('F_Wright', 0.0.1542), ('A_Waldman', 0.0.1542), ('C_Forche', 0.0.1542), ('CD_Wright', 0.0.1542), ('R_Padgett', 0.0.1542), ('C_Phillips', 0.0.1542), ('R_Carver', 0.0.1542), ('M_Swenson', 0.0.1542), ('Phil_Levine', 0.0.1542), ('R_Jones', 0.0.1542), ('T_Lux', 0.0.1542), ('P_Balakian', 0.0.1542), ('S_Moss', 0.1505), ('Simion', 0.1495), ('Dragomir', 0.1481), ('Brudascu', 0.1473), ('R_Lowell', 0.1470), ('R_Wilbur', 0.1470), ('Vacarescu', 0.1459), ('Foarta', 0.1456), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.1447), ('Grigore', 0.1440), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.1429), ('Serban', 0.1429), ('R_Brautigan', 0.1427), ('G_Corso', 0.1427), ('G_Soto', 0.1425), ('S_Dunn', 0.1425), ('E_Bishop', 0.1425), ('J_Brown', 0.1425), ('M_Doty', 0.1425), ('K_Mattawa', 0.1425), ("F_O'Hara", 0.1425), ('I_Sadoji', 0.1425), ('M_Oliver', 0.1425), ('C_Bukowski', 0.1425), ('A_Sze', 0.1425), ('R_Edson', 0.1425), ('N_Giovanni', 0.1425), ('E_Alexander', 0.1425), ('Manole', 0.1420), ('Komartin', 0.1410), ('Nitescu', 0.1404), ('T_Hoagland', 0.1331), ('B_Collins', 0.1324), ('CA_Duffy', 0.1324), ('Rogojina', 0.1313), ('Firan', 0.1272), ('A_Sexton', 0.1261), ('R_Dove', 0.1255), ('J_Berryman', 0.1253), ('M_Woodside', 0.1229), ('TS_Eliot', 0.1227), ('Y_Komunyakaa', 0.1222), ('A_Jackson', 0.1222), ('E_Miller', 0.1222), ('J_Thompson', 0.1222), ('W_Coleman', 0.1222), ('QV_GexBreaux', 0.1222), ('Racovita', 0.1219), ('Surleac', 0.1213), ('F_Joudah', 0.1208), ('S_Lewis', 0.1208), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.1208), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.1208), ('J_Taylor', 0.1205), 409 Any such values represent exponenential notations for values that tend to absolute 0. 336 ('G_Snyder', 0.1205), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.1205), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.1205), ('DA_Powell', 0.1204), ('D_Baker', 0.1204), ('S_Singer', 0.1204), ('R_Craik', 0.1204), ('D_Berman', 0.1204), ('M_ORourke', 0.1204), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.1204), ('C_Wright', 0.1204), ('M_Atwood', 0.12019), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.12019), ('E_Equi', 0.1200), ('T_Berrigan', 0.1200), ('P_Auster', 0.1200), ('Mocuta', 0.1191), ('Gheorghiu', 0.1191), ('GE_Clarke', 0.1189), ('D_Duhamel', 0.1178), ('Suiu', 0.1126), ('B_Hillman', 0.1110), ('E_Nauen', 0.1110), ('B_Mayer', 0.1110), ('E_Myles', 0.1110), ('A_Gerstler', 0.1110), ('L_Hejinian', 0.1110), ('F_Howe', 0.1110), ('D_DiPrima', 0.1110), ('R_Waldrop', 0.1110), ('K_Knox', 0.1110), ('Carides', 0.1102), ('A_Codrescu', 0.1091), ('E_Foster', 0.1081), ('Vancu', 0.1077), ('Suciu', 0.1073), ('Conkan', 0.1073), ('Puscas_Pacuraru', 0.1073), ('Ieronim', 0.1070), ('Vintila', 0.1068), ('Ciobanu', 0.1049), ('Ionescu', 0.1048), ('Zank', 0.1048), ('Dochia', 0.1048), ('Unattributed', 0.1048), ('Sandu', 0.1048), ('Doinas', 0.1048), ('V_Mort', 0.1039), ('M_Vincenz', 0.1037), ('Muresanu', 0.1029), ('Zanca', 0.1029), ('Olos', 0.1021), ('R_Milazzo', 0.098), ('B_Swann', 0.0973), ('L_Gregerson', 0.0973), ('R_Hershon', 0.0955), ('A_Gritsman', 0.0945), ('T_Skurtu', 0.0941), ('B_Henry', 0.0936), ('P_Campion', 0.0936), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 0.0931), ('C_Merrill', 0.0931), ('C_Bakken', 0.0931), ('Hotaranu', 0.0916), ('J_Dodds', 0.0915), ('Gradinaru', 0.0907), ('N_Burke', 0.0894), ('Parau', 0.0834), ('Micu', 0.0832), ('B_Ras', 0.0812), ('D_Brinks', 0.0812), ('R_Angel', 0.0812), ('E_Hirsch', 0.0812), ('J_Manesiotis', 0.0812), ('A_Britt', 0.0747), ('A_Goldbarth', 0.0747), ('Motet', 0.0177), ('L_Cohen', 0.0163), ('L_Hughes', 0.0150), ('Rusu', 0.0139), ('W_Baker', 0.0122), ('B_Ross', 0.0122), ('Samulescu', 0.0115), ('Baconsky', 0.0115), ('Solomon', 0.0108), ('R_Marx', 0.0103), ('Sting', 0.0103), ('C_Rhea', 0.0103), ('Constantinescu', 0.0097), ('Patea', 0.0097), ('Sociu', 0.0097), ('J_Tischer', 0.0089), ('J_Mellor', 0.0089), ('ee_cummings', 0.0088), ('L_Gluck', 0.0086), ('Grivu', 0.0073), ('Tartler', 0.0073), ('J_English', 0.0073), ('Oancea', 0.0072), ('P_deRachewiltz', 0.0072), ('Collective_Unattributed', 0.00728), ('M_Foldes', 0.00728), ('Moscaliuc', 0.0064), ('Neacsu', 0.0064), ('Olah', 0.0064), ('Popescu', 0.0064), ('B_Knott', 0.0064), ('Chelaru', 0.0064), ('Buzdugan', 0.0064), ('Mihalache', 0.0062), ('Dragomirescu', 0.0062), ('AV_Rivera', 0.0058), ('C_Bernstein', 0.0058), ('P_Bateman', 0.0058), ('P_Killebrew', 0.0058), ('Stancu', 0.0058), ('E_Winder', 0.0058), ('J_Tate', 0.0058), ('G_England', 0.0051), ('T_Roethke', 0.0051), ('Filimon', 0.0048), ('J_Ransom', 0.0048), ('KS_Keyss', 0.0043), ('A_Dimitrov', 0.0043), ('P_Boyers', 0.0043), ('G_Stern', 0.0043), ('M_Waters', 0.0043), ('A_Cohen', 0.0043), ('Z_Vayma', 0.0043), ('F_Bidart', 0.0043), ('C_St_Aubin', 0.0032), ('Alina_Sorescu', 0.0032), ('Pojoga', 0.0032), ('Popa', 0.0032), ('J_Hawkins', 0.0032), ('Ulmeanu', 0.0032), ('P_Landsman', 0.0032), ('Mircea', 0.0032), ('Coman', 0.0032), ('Boagiu', 0.0032), ('Ghita', 0.0032), ('J_Haines', 0.0032), ('DM_Andrei', 0.0032), ('Sibisan', 0.0032), ('J_Heavily', 0.0032), ('Nicolau', 0.0032), ('K_Graber', 0.0032), ('Prodan', 0.0032), ('S_Alexie', 0.0032), ('Sabau', 0.0032), ('Cosma', 0.0032), ('Gavrilovici', 0.0032), ('MAM_Fitzpatrick', 0.0032), ('A_Grace', 0.0032), ('B_Rashbaum', 0.0032), ('Trandafir', 0.0032), ('RL_Schwartz', 0.0032), ('D_Riggs', 0.0032), ('A_Carson', 0.0032), ('Nicolae', 0.0032), ('Gardner', 0.0032), ('L_Diaz', 0.0032), ('C_Moscovici', 0.0032), ('J_Brodsky', 0.0032)]) Eigenvector centrality for G: (OrderedDict([('Iacob', 0.7038), ('C_Simic', 0.0919), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0918), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.0904), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0894), ('CK_Williams', 0.0888), ('D_Levertov', 0.0888), ('S_Plath', 0.0877), ('L_Moore', 0.08647), ('V_Clemente', 0.08640), ('R_Jarrell', 0.08635), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.086326), ('R_Pinsky', 0.086325), ('M_Strand', 0.0863), ('N_Krapt', 0.0850), ('J_Sadre_Orfai', 0.0850), ('P_Harter', 0.0850), ('A_Dobrin', 0.0850), ('J_Digby', 0.0850), ('T_Villanueva', 0.0850), ('F_Gilli', 0.0850), ('J_LaGrange', 0.0850), ('C_Yuang', 0.0850), ('anya', 0.0850), ('S_Gill', 0.0850), ('P_Gershator', 0.0850), ('R_Metz', 0.0850), ('R_Cook', 0.0850), ('AR_Ammons', 0.0850), ('E_McFarland', 0.0850), ('K_Doll', 0.0850), ('K_Richards', 0.0850), ('C_Cowling', 0.0850), ('M_Mohr', 0.0850), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.0850), ('G_Murray', 0.0850), ('L_Boss', 0.0850), ('N_Whitman', 0.0850), ('R_Creeley', 0.0850), ('B_Wolak', 0.0850), ('J_Salkilld', 0.0850), ('M_Bennett', 0.0850), ('K_Rexroth', 0.0850), ('J_Dotson', 0.0850), ('M_Morrison', 0.0850), ('S_Richards', 0.0850), ('D_Mahon', 0.0850), ('CE_Rosenow', 0.0850), ('C_Norris', 0.0850), ('H_Bar_Lev', 0.0850), ('N_Saje', 0.0850), ('M_BarkanClarke', 0.0850), ('N_Stiller', 0.0850), ('Y_Otomo', 0.0850), ('A_Rich', 0.0850), ('SH_Barkan', 0.0850), ('D_Ignatow', 0.0850), ('John_Digby', 0.0850), ('E_Wylie', 0.0850), ('J_Kurowska', 0.0850), ('R_Owen', 0.0850), ('J_Ash', 0.0850), ('G_Simser', 0.0850), ('MM_Gillan', 0.0850), ('P_Harris', 0.0850), ('W_Heyen', 0.0850), ('C_Squier', 0.0850), ('J_Kacian', 0.0850), ('S_Dalachinski', 0.0850), ('Ofileanu', 0.0447), ('Vasies', 0.0311), ('Cassian', 0.0122), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.0122), ('Serban', 0.0122), ('Olaru', 0.0119), ('Brudascu', 0.0118), ('Dragomir', 0.0114), ('Grigore', 0.0112), ('Simion', 0.0111), ('Vacarescu', 0.0109), ('Foarta', 0.0108), ('Manole', 0.010587), ('Komartin', 0.010585), ('Nitescu', 0.01042), ('M_Angelou', 0.0091), ('R_Brautigan', 0.0054), ('G_Corso', 0.005481), ('M_Oliver', 0.0054), ('G_Soto', 0.0054), ('R_Edson', 0.0054), ('E_Bishop', 0.0054), ('J_Brown', 0.0054), ('K_Mattawa', 0.0054), ("F_O'Hara", 0.0054), ('I_Sadoji', 0.0054), ('C_Bukowski', 0.0054), ('M_Doty', 0.0054), ('S_Dunn', 0.0054), ('A_Sze', 0.0054), ('N_Giovanni', 0.0054), ('E_Alexander', 0.0054), ('J_Ashbery', 0.0053), ('T_Kooser', 0.0052), ('A_Notley', 0.0038), 337 ('F_Wright', 0.0037), ('C_Forche', 0.0037), ('R_Carver', 0.0037), ('CD_Wright', 0.0037), ('L_Rector', 0.0037), ('D_Nurkse', 0.0037), ('R_Haas', 0.0037), ('P_Balakian', 0.0037), ('A_Waldman', 0.0037), ('T_Lux', 0.0037), ('R_Padgett', 0.0037), ('C_Phillips', 0.0037), ('M_Swenson', 0.0037), ('Phil_Levine', 0.0037), ('R_Jones', 0.0037), ('A_Sexton', 0.0028), ('R_Dove', 0.0028), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0016), ('S_Moss', 0.001509), ('Racovita', 0.001507), ('R_Lowell', 0.0014), ('R_Wilbur', 0.00148), ('T_Hoagland', 0.00146), ('B_Collins', 0.00144), ('CA_Duffy', 0.00144), ('Y_Komunyakaa', 0.0014), ('A_Jackson', 0.0014), ('E_Miller', 0.0014), ('W_Coleman', 0.0014), ('QV_GexBreaux', 0.0014), ('J_Thompson', 0.0014), ('M_Atwood', 0.0013), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.00138), ('J_Berryman', 0.001362), ('E_Equi', 0.001361), ('P_Auster', 0.001361), ('T_Berrigan', 0.001361), ('GE_Clarke', 0.00129), ('D_Duhamel', 0.00127), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.00092), ('Mocuta', 0.00066), ('Gheorghiu', 0.00066), ('Rogojina', 0.00054), ('Suciu', 0.00039), ('Conkan', 0.00039), ('Puscas_Pacuraru', 0.00034), ('Vintila', 0.00033), ('Ciobanu', 0.000203), ('Sandu', 0.002), ('Zank', 0.002), ('Unattributed', 0.002), ('Doinas', 0.002), ('Ionescu', 0.002), ('Dochia', 0.002), ('Firan', 0.00019), ('Suiu', 0.00018), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.000175), ('Vancu', 0.000172), ('Muresanu', 0.0001669), ('Zanca', 0.00016696), ('Surleac', 0.000163), ('Olos', 0.00015), ('G_Snyder', 0.000132), ('J_Taylor', 0.000132), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.000132), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.000132), ('F_Joudah', 0.000131), ('S_Lewis', 0.000131), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.000131), ('M_Woodside', 0.0001130), ('DA_Powell', 0.00011), ('D_Baker', 0.00011), ('S_Singer', 0.00011), ('C_Wright', 0.00011), ('R_Craik', 0.00011), ('D_Berman', 0.00011), ('M_ORourke', 0.00011), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.00011), ('B_Hillman', 6.542e-05), ('E_Nauen', 6.542e-05), ('B_Mayer', 6.542e-05), ('D_DiPrima', 6.542e-05), ('E_Myles', 6.542-05), ('A_Gerstler', 6.542e-05), ('L_Hejinian', 6.542e-05), ('F_Howe', 6.542e-05), ('R_Waldrop', 6.542e-05), ('K_Knox', 6.542e-05), ('Carides', 2.715e- 05), ('A_Codrescu', 2.643e-05), ('J_Dodds', 2.458e-05), ('E_Foster', 2.315e-05), ('B_Swann', 2.2079e-05), ('L_Gregerson', 2.207e-05), ('T_Skurtu', 2.144e-05), ('P_Campion', 2.081e-05), ('B_Henry', 2.081e-05), ('V_Mort', 2.006e-05), ('M_Vincenz', 1.977e-05), ('N_Burke', 1.924e-05), ('Ieronim', 1.4520e-05), ('R_Milazzo', 3.3627e-06), ('R_Hershon', 3.2808e-06), ('Parau', 2.6696e-06), ('Micu', 2.5916e-06), ('Gradinaru', 2.4249e-06), ('A_Gritsman', 1.8365e-06), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 1.7546e-06), ('C_Merrill', 1.7546e-06), ('C_Bakken', 1.7546e-06), ('Hotaranu', 6.7773e- 07), ('A_Goldbarth', 3.2259e-07), ('A_Britt', 3.2259e-07), ('B_Ras', 8.1893e-08), ('R_Angel', 8.1893e-08), ('J_Manesiotis', 8.1893e-08), ('D_Brinks', 8.1893e-08), ('E_Hirsch', 8.1893e-08), ('Motet', 5.9873e-21), ('L_Cohen', 4.4015e-21), ('L_Hughes', 4.3753e-21), ('Rusu', 4.2495e-21), ('W_Baker', 2.5743e-21), ('B_Ross', 2.5743e-21), ('Baconsky', 2.3077e-21), ('Solomon', 1.8811e-21), ('R_Marx', 1.8272e-21), ('Sting', 1.8272e-21), ('C_Rhea', 1.8272e- 21), ('ee_cummings', 9.9222e-22), ('Patea', 5.1847e-22), ('P_deRachewiltz', 4.4310e-22), ('Oancea', 4.4310e-22), ('Stancu', 2.3891e-22), ('B_Knott', 3.8626e-23), ('Olah', 3.8626e-23), ('Popescu', 3.8626e-23), ('Samulescu', 2.0305e- 23), ('J_Tischer', 1.4358e-23), ('J_Mellor', 1.4358e-23), ('J_English', 1.05108e-23), ('Mihalache', 7.4323e-24), ('Dragomirescu', 7.4323e-24), ('Constantinescu', 8.6003e-25), ('Sociu', 8.6003e-25), ('L_Gluck', 7.8322e-25), ('Grivu', 6.7828e-25), ('Tartler', 6.7828e-25), ('AV_Rivera', 4.9654e-25), ('C_Bernstein', 4.9654e-25), ('E_Winder', 4.9654e-25), ('P_Bateman', 4.9654e-25), ('P_Killebrew', 4.9654e-25), ('J_Tate', 4.9654e-25), ('T_Roethke', 3.91610e-25), ('G_England', 3.9161e-25), ('Collective_Unattributed', 1.1296e-25), ('M_Foldes', 1.1296e-25), ('Filimon', 6.9818e-26), ('J_Ransom', 6.9818e-26), ('Moscaliuc', 3.2917e-27), ('Neacsu', 3.2917e-27), ('Chelaru', 3.2917e-27), ('Buzdugan', 3.2917e-27), ('KS_Keyss', 2.3276e-27), ('A_Dimitrov', 2.3276e-27), ('P_Boyers', 2.3276e-27), ('M_Waters', 2.3276e-27), ('A_Cohen', 2.3276e-27), ('Z_Vayma', 2.3276e-27), ('G_Stern', 2.3276e-27), ('F_Bidart', 2.3276e-27), ('Ulmeanu', 6.9003e-31), ('C_St_Aubin', 6.9003e-31), ('Ghita', 6.9003e-31), ('J_Hawkins', 6.9003e-31), ('Trandafir', 6.9003e-31), ('Gardner', 6.9003e-31), ('P_Landsman', 6.9003e-31), ('Alina_Sorescu', 6.9003e-31), ('J_Haines', 6.9003e-31), ('Boagiu', 6.9003e-31), ('Gavrilovici', 6.9003e-31), ('Coman', 6.9003e-31), ('J_Heavily', 6.9003e-31), ('Nicolau', 6.9003e-31), ('RL_Schwartz', 6.9003e-31), ('S_Alexie', 6.9003e-31), ('Pojoga', 6.9003e-31), ('Prodan', 6.9003e-31), ('Sabau', 6.9003e- 31), ('Cosma', 6.9003e-31), ('Mircea', 6.9003e-31), ('MAM_Fitzpatrick', 6.9003e-31), ('Popa', 6.9003e-31), ('J_Brodsky', 6.9003e-31), ('A_Carson', 6.9003e-31), ('DM_Andrei', 6.9003e-31), ('Nicolae', 6.9003e-31), ('D_Riggs', 6.9003e-31), ('A_Grace', 6.9003e-31), ('C_Moscovici', 6.9003e-31), ('Sibisan', 6.9003e-31), ('L_Diaz', 6.9003e-31), ('B_Rashbaum', 6.9003e-31), ('K_Graber', 6.9003e-31)]) Betweenness centrality for G0: (OrderedDict([('Iacob', 0.7591), ('Vasies', 0.3556), ('J_Ashbery', 0.2304), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.2271), ('C_Simic', 0.1814), ('Cassian', 0.16761), ('Ofileanu', 0.1668), ('CK_Williams', 0.1142), ('D_Levertov', 0.1142), ('S_Plath', 0.1131), ('A_Notley', 0.0950), ('R_Jarrell', 0.0950), ('Rogojina', 0.08864664747017688), ('Simion', 0.0877), ('Foarta', 0.0867), ('S_Moss', 0.0843), ('Firan', 0.0771), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0712), ('J_Berryman', 0.0700), ('V_Clemente', 0.0700), ('L_Moore', 0.0655), ('Grigore', 0.0624), ('Vancu', 0.06207), ('Brudascu', 0.0620), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0601), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0591), ('M_Woodside', 0.0578), ('Olaru', 0.0571), ('Carides', 0.0534), ('Ieronim', 0.0517), ('Hotaranu', 0.0471), ('M_Angelou', 338 0.0390), ('R_Milazzo', 0.0377), ('T_Skurtu', 0.0358), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.03570), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.0317), ('A_Sexton', 0.0275), ('Surleac', 0.0270), ('Manole', 0.0269), ('T_Hoagland', 0.0269), ('T_Kooser', 0.0232), ('Dragomir', 0.0200), ('A_Gritsman', 0.0182), ('Parau', 0.01805), ('Suiu', 0.01805), ('GE_Clarke', 0.01801), ('R_Pinsky', 0.01801), ('Vacarescu', 0.0160), ('R_Dove', 0.0128), ('R_Brautigan', 0.0090), ('V_Mort', 0.0090), ('M_Strand', 0.0090), ('Olos', 0.0090), ('M_Atwood', 0.0090), ('Komartin', 0.0090), ('Ciobanu', 0.0090), ('G_Corso', 0.0090), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.0090), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.00012), all other nodes = 0.0]) Closeness centrality for G0: (OrderedDict([('Iacob', 0.3216), ('C_Simic', 0.2836), ('CK_Williams', 0.2815), ('D_Levertov', 0.2815), ('Vasies', 0.2745), ('Cassian', 0.2584), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.2578), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.2549), ('S_Plath', 0.2531), ('R_Jarrell', 0.2497), ('WS_Merwin', 0.2491), ('L_Moore', 0.2485), ('Ofileanu', 0.2485), ('V_Clemente', 0.2480), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.2458), ('R_Pinsky', 0.2447), ('M_Strand', 0.2441), ('N_Krapt', 0.2436), ('R_Creeley', 0.2436), ('J_Sadre_Orfai', 0.2436), ('P_Harter', 0.2436), ('A_Dobrin', 0.2436), ('J_Digby', 0.2436), ('N_Stiller', 0.2436), ('T_Villanueva', 0.2436), ('J_LaGrange', 0.2436), ('C_Yuang', 0.2436), ('anya', 0.2436), ('S_Gill', 0.2436), ('P_Gershator', 0.2436), ('R_Metz', 0.2436), ('R_Cook', 0.2436), ('AR_Ammons', 0.2436), ('E_McFarland', 0.2436), ('K_Doll', 0.2436), ('D_Ignatow', 0.2436), ('J_Ash', 0.2436), ('C_Norris', 0.2436), ('K_Richards', 0.2436), ('C_Cowling', 0.2436), ('N_Saje', 0.2436), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.2436), ('G_Murray', 0.2436), ('L_Boss', 0.2436), ('N_Whitman', 0.2436), ('J_Salkilld', 0.2436), ('B_Wolak', 0.2436), ('M_Bennett', 0.2436), ('John_Digby', 0.2436), ('J_Dotson', 0.2436), ('M_Morrison', 0.2436), ('S_Richards', 0.2436), ('D_Mahon', 0.2436), ('R_Owen', 0.2436), ('CE_Rosenow', 0.2436), ('H_Bar_Lev', 0.2436), ('F_Gilli', 0.2436), ('M_Mohr', 0.2436), ('M_BarkanClarke', 0.2436), ('Y_Otomo', 0.2436), ('A_Rich', 0.2436), ('SH_Barkan', 0.2436), ('K_Rexroth', 0.2436), ('E_Wylie', 0.2436), ('J_Kurowska', 0.2436), ('MM_Gillan', 0.2436), ('P_Harris', 0.2436), ('W_Heyen', 0.2436), ('C_Squier', 0.2436), ('J_Kacian', 0.2436), ('S_Dalachinski', 0.2436), ('G_Simser', 0.2436), ('J_Ashbery', 0.2358), ('M_Angelou', 0.2276), ('Olaru', 0.2271), ('A_Notley', 0.2203), ('T_Kooser', 0.2199), ('C_Forche', 0.2156), ('T_Lux', 0.2156), ('R_Padgett', 0.2156), ('R_Carver', 0.2156), ('D_Nurkse', 0.2156), ('CD_Wright', 0.2156), ('M_Swenson', 0.2156), ('L_Rector', 0.2156), ('P_Balakian', 0.2156), ('R_Haas', 0.2156), ('F_Wright', 0.2156), ('A_Waldman', 0.2156), ('C_Phillips', 0.2156), ('Phil_Levine', 0.2156), ('R_Jones', 0.2156), ('S_Moss', 0.2104), ('Simion', 0.2090), ('Dragomir', 0.2071), ('Brudascu', 0.2059), ('R_Lowell', 0.2055), ('R_Wilbur', 0.2055), ('Vacarescu', 0.2040), ('Foarta', 0.2036), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.2023), ('Grigore', 0.2014), ('Serban', 0.1998), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.1998), ('R_Brautigan', 0.1996), ('G_Corso', 0.1996), ('G_Soto', 0.1992), ("F_O'Hara", 0.1992), ('E_Bishop', 0.1992), ('R_Edson', 0.1992), ('J_Brown', 0.1992), ('K_Mattawa', 0.1992), ('M_Doty', 0.1992), ('M_Oliver', 0.1992), ('C_Bukowski', 0.1992), ('S_Dunn', 0.1992), ('A_Sze', 0.1992), ('I_Sadoji', 0.1992), ('N_Giovanni', 0.1992), ('E_Alexander', 0.1992), ('Manole', 0.1985), ('Komartin', 0.1971), ('Nitescu', 0.1964), ('T_Hoagland', 0.1861), ('B_Collins', 0.1852), ('CA_Duffy', 0.1852), ('Rogojina', 0.1837), ('Firan', 0.1779), ('A_Sexton', 0.1763), ('R_Dove', 0.1755), ('J_Berryman', 0.1752), ('M_Woodside', 0.1718), ('TS_Eliot', 0.1715), ('A_Jackson', 0.1709), ('Y_Komunyakaa', 0.1709), ('QV_GexBreaux', 0.1709), ('W_Coleman', 0.1709), ('J_Thompson', 0.1709), ('E_Miller', 0.1709), ('Racovita', 0.17052), ('Surleac', 0.1696), ('F_Joudah', 0.1689), ('S_Lewis', 0.1689), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.1689), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.16896), ('G_Snyder', 0.1685), ('J_Taylor', 0.1685), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.1685), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.1685), ('DA_Powell', 0.1684), ('D_Baker', 0.1684), ('S_Singer', 0.1684), ('R_Craik', 0.1684), ('C_Wright', 0.1684), ('D_Berman', 0.1684), ('M_ORourke', 0.1684), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.1684), ('M_Atwood', 0.1680), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.1680), ('E_Equi', 0.1678), ('T_Berrigan', 0.1678), ('P_Auster', 0.1678), ('Mocuta', 0.1665), ('Gheorghiu', 0.1665), ('GE_Clarke', 0.1662), ('D_Duhamel', 0.1648), ('Suiu', 0.1575), ('E_Myles', 0.1553), ('L_Hejinian', 0.1553), ('B_Hillman', 0.1553), ('E_Nauen', 0.1553), ('B_Mayer', 0.1553), ('A_Gerstler', 0.1553), ('F_Howe', 0.1553), ('D_DiPrima', 0.1553), ('R_Waldrop', 0.1553), ('K_Knox', 0.1553), ('Carides', 0.1541), ('A_Codrescu', 0.1526), ('E_Foster', 0.1511), ('Vancu', 0.1506), ('Suciu', 0.1501), ('Conkan', 0.1501), ('Puscas_Pacuraru', 0.1500), ('Ieronim', 0.1497), ('Vintila', 0.1494), ('Ciobanu', 0.1467), ('Zank', 0.1465), ('Unattributed', 0.1465), ('Sandu', 0.1465), ('Doinas', 0.1465), ('Ionescu', 0.1465), ('Dochia', 0.1465), ('V_Mort', 0.1452), ('M_Vincenz', 0.1451), ('Muresanu', 0.1439), ('Zanca', 0.1439), ('Olos', 0.1428), ('R_Milazzo', 0.1373), ('B_Swann', 0.1361), ('L_Gregerson', 0.1361), ('R_Hershon', 0.1336), ('A_Gritsman', 0.1322), ('T_Skurtu', 0.1316), ('B_Henry', 0.1310), ('P_Campion', 0.1310), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 0.1303), ('C_Merrill', 0.1303), ('C_Bakken', 0.1303), ('Hotaranu', 0.1281), ('J_Dodds', 0.1280), ('Gradinaru', 0.1269), ('N_Burke', 0.1250), ('Parau', 0.1166), ('Micu', 0.1163), ('B_Ras', 0.1136), ('R_Angel', 0.1136), ('D_Brinks', 0.1136), ('J_Manesiotis', 0.1136), ('E_Hirsch', 0.1136), ('A_Britt', 0.1044), ('A_Goldbarth', 0.1044)]) 339 Eigenvector centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('Iacob', 0.7038), ('C_Simic', 0.0919), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0918), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.0904), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0894), ('CK_Williams', 0.0888), ('D_Levertov', 0.0888), ('S_Plath', 0.0877), ('L_Moore', 0.0864), ('V_Clemente', 0.0864), ('R_Jarrell', 0.0863), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.0863), ('R_Pinsky', 0.08632), ('M_Strand', 0.08630), ('R_Creeley', 0.0850), ('J_Sadre_Orfai', 0.0850), ('P_Harter', 0.0850), ('A_Dobrin', 0.0850), ('J_Digby', 0.0850), ('T_Villanueva', 0.0850), ('J_LaGrange', 0.0850), ('C_Yuang', 0.0850), ('anya', 0.0850), ('S_Gill', 0.0850), ('P_Gershator', 0.0850), ('R_Cook', 0.0850), ('AR_Ammons', 0.0850), ('E_McFarland', 0.0850), ('K_Doll', 0.0850), ('J_Ash', 0.0850), ('K_Richards', 0.0850), ('C_Cowling', 0.0850), ('N_Saje', 0.0850), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.0850), ('G_Murray', 0.0850), ('N_Whitman', 0.0850), ('L_Boss', 0.0850), ('J_Salkilld', 0.0850), ('B_Wolak', 0.0850), ('M_Bennett', 0.0850), ('John_Digby', 0.0850), ('J_Dotson', 0.0850), ('M_Morrison', 0.0850), ('S_Richards', 0.0850), ('D_Mahon', 0.0850), ('N_Krapt', 0.0850), ('CE_Rosenow', 0.0850), ('H_Bar_Lev', 0.0850), ('F_Gilli', 0.0850), ('M_Mohr', 0.0850), ('N_Stiller', 0.0850), ('Y_Otomo', 0.0850), ('A_Rich', 0.0850), ('SH_Barkan', 0.0850), ('R_Metz', 0.0850), ('D_Ignatow', 0.0850), ('K_Rexroth', 0.0850), ('E_Wylie', 0.0850), ('J_Kurowska', 0.0850), ('R_Owen', 0.0850), ('G_Simser', 0.0850), ('M_BarkanClarke', 0.0850), ('MM_Gillan', 0.0850), ('P_Harris', 0.0850), ('C_Norris', 0.0850), ('C_Squier', 0.0850), ('J_Kacian', 0.0850), ('S_Dalachinski', 0.0850), ('W_Heyen', 0.0850), ('Ofileanu', 0.0447), ('Vasies', 0.0311), ('Cassian', 0.012297), ('Serban', 0.0122), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.0122), ('Olaru', 0.0119), ('Brudascu', 0.0118), ('Dragomir', 0.0114), ('Grigore', 0.0112), ('Simion', 0.0111), ('Vacarescu', 0.0109), ('Foarta', 0.0108), ('Manole', 0.010588), ('Komartin', 0.010585), ('Nitescu', 0.0104), ('M_Angelou', 0.0091), ('R_Brautigan', 0.00548), ('G_Corso', 0.00548), ('G_Soto', 0.0054), ('E_Bishop', 0.0054), ('J_Brown', 0.0054), ('K_Mattawa', 0.0054), ("F_O'Hara", 0.0054), ('I_Sadoji', 0.0054), ('M_Oliver', 0.0054), ('C_Bukowski', 0.0054), ('S_Dunn', 0.0054), ('A_Sze', 0.0054), ('R_Edson', 0.0054), ('N_Giovanni', 0.0054), ('M_Doty', 0.0054), ('E_Alexander', 0.0054), ('J_Ashbery', 0.0053), ('T_Kooser', 0.0052), ('A_Notley', 0.0038), ('C_Forche', 0.0037), ('T_Lux', 0.0037), ('R_Padgett', 0.0037), ('R_Carver', 0.0037), ('D_Nurkse', 0.0037), ('CD_Wright', 0.0037), ('L_Rector', 0.0037), ('P_Balakian', 0.0037), ('R_Haas', 0.0037), ('F_Wright', 0.0037), ('A_Waldman', 0.0037), ('C_Phillips', 0.0037), ('M_Swenson', 0.0037), ('Phil_Levine', 0.0037), ('R_Jones', 0.0037), ('A_Sexton', 0.00284), ('R_Dove', 0.00281), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0016), ('S_Moss', 0.001509), ('Racovita', 0.001507), ('R_Lowell', 0.00148), ('R_Wilbur', 0.00148), ('T_Hoagland', 0.00146), ('B_Collins', 0.00144), ('CA_Duffy', 0.00144), ('Y_Komunyakaa', 0.0142), ('A_Jackson', 0.0142), ('E_Miller', 0.0142), ('QV_GexBreaux', 0.0142), ('W_Coleman', 0.0142), ('J_Thompson', 0.0142), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.0013), ('M_Atwood', 0.00138), ('J_Berryman', 0.001362), ('E_Equi', 0.00136), ('T_Berrigan', 0.001361), ('P_Auster', 0.001361), ('GE_Clarke', 0.00129), ('D_Duhamel', 0.00127), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.00092), ('Mocuta', 0.00066), ('Gheorghiu', 0.00066), ('Rogojina', 0.00054), ('Suciu', 0.00039), ('Conkan', 0.00039), ('Puscas_Pacuraru', 0.000343), ('Vintila', 0.00033), ('Ciobanu', 0.00020), ('Zank', 0.0002), ('Unattributed', 0.0002), ('Sandu', 0.0002), ('Doinas', 0.0002), ('Ionescu', 0.0002), ('Dochia', 0.0002), ('Firan', 0.00019), ('Suiu', 0.00018), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.000175), ('Vancu', 0.000172), ('Muresanu', 0.000166), ('Zanca', 0.000166), ('Surleac', 0.000163), ('Olos', 0.00015), ('J_Taylor', 0.00013), ('G_Snyder', 0.00013), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.000132), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.000132), ('F_Joudah', 0.000131), ('S_Lewis', 0.000131), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.000131), ('M_Woodside', 0.000113), ('R_Craik', 0.0001113), ('DA_Powell', 0.0001113), ('C_Wright', 0.0001113), ('D_Baker', 0.0001113), ('S_Singer', 0.0001113), ('D_Berman', 0.0001113), ('M_ORourke', 0.0001113), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.00011), ('A_Gerstler', 6.54182e-05), ('E_Myles', 6.54182e-05), ('L_Hejinian', 6.54182e- 05), ('B_Hillman', 6.54182e-05), ('E_Nauen', 6.54182e-05), ('B_Mayer', 6.54182e-05), ('F_Howe', 6.54182e-05), ('D_DiPrima', 6.54182e-05), ('R_Waldrop', 6.54182e-05), ('K_Knox', 6.54182e-05), ('Carides', 2.7151e-05), ('A_Codrescu', 2.6435e-05), ('J_Dodds', 2.4583e-05), ('E_Foster', 2.3154e-05), ('B_Swann', 2.2078e-05), ('L_Gregerson', 2.2078e-05), ('T_Skurtu', 2.1448e-05), ('P_Campion', 2.0812e-05), ('B_Henry', 2.0812e-05), ('V_Mort', 2.0068e-05), ('M_Vincenz', 1.9775e-05), ('N_Burke', 1.9241e-05), ('Ieronim', 1.4521e-05), ('R_Milazzo', 3.3628e-06), ('R_Hershon', 3.2809e-06), ('Parau', 2.6697e-06), ('Micu', 2.5917e-06), ('Gradinaru', 2.4249e-06), ('A_Gritsman', 1.8365e-06), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 1.7546e-06), ('C_Merrill', 1.7546e-06), ('C_Bakken', 1.7546e-06), ('Hotaranu', 6.777e-07), ('A_Britt', 3.225e-07), ('A_Goldbarth', 3.2258e-07), ('B_Ras', 8.1894e-08), ('D_Brinks', 8.1894e-08), ('R_Angel', 8.1894e-08), ('J_Manesiotis', 8.1894e-08), ('E_Hirsch', 8.1894e-08)]) Betweenness centrality for G1: (OrderedDict([('Motet', 0.7090), ('L_Cohen', 0.5090), ('Rusu', 0.4909), ('L_Hughes', 0.4727), ('Baconsky', 0.1818), ('C_Rhea', 0.0), ('ee_cummings', 0.0), ('B_Ross', 0.0), ('Sting', 0.0), ('R_Marx', 0.0), ('Solomon', 0.0), ('W_Baker', 0.0)]) 340 Closeness centrality for G1: (OrderedDict([('Motet', 0.5), ('L_Cohen', 0.4583), ('L_Hughes', 0.4230), ('Rusu', 0.3928), ('B_Ross', 0.34375), ('W_Baker', 0.34375), ('Baconsky', 0.3235), ('Solomon', 0.3055), ('C_Rhea', 0.2894), ('Sting', 0.2894), ('R_Marx', 0.2894), ('ee_cummings', 0.25)]) Eigenvector centrality for G1: (OrderedDict([('Motet', 0.5343), ('L_Cohen', 0.3928), ('L_Hughes', 0.3905), ('Rusu', 0.3792), ('B_Ross', 0.2297), ('W_Baker', 0.2297), ('Baconsky', 0.2059), ('Solomon', 0.1679), ('C_Rhea', 0.1630), ('Sting', 0.1630), ('R_Marx', 0.1630), ('ee_cummings', 0.0885)]) Betweenness centrality for G2: (OrderedDict([('Samulescu', 0.8), ('J_Tischer', 0.4), ('J_Mellor', 0.4), ('Mihalache', 0.0), ('J_English', 0.0), ('Dragomirescu', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G2: (OrderedDict([('Samulescu', 0.7142857142857143), ('J_Tischer', 0.5555), ('J_Mellor', 0.5555), ('J_English', 0.4545), ('Mihalache', 0.3846), ('Dragomirescu', 0.3846)]) Eigenvector centrality for G2: (OrderedDict([('Samulescu', 0.6279), ('J_Tischer', 0.4440), ('J_Mellor', 0.4440), ('J_English', 0.3250), ('Mihalache', 0.2298), ('Dragomirescu', 0.2298)]) 341 Annex 3 – NetworkX Analysis of the Transnational410 U.S. and Canadian Poetry Translations in PP (2007-2017) SIZE Number of components, nodes, and edges G components = 14 G nodes = 87 G edges = 84 G0 nodes = 42 (48.2%) G0 edges = 52 (61.9%) G1 nodes = 7 (0.08%) G1 edges = 6 (0.071%) G2 nodes = 6 (0.068%) G2 edges = 5 (0.059%) G3-13 nodes = 32 (36.7%) G3-13 edges = 21 (25%) DENSITY The portion of the potential connections in a network that are actual connections def density(G): x = len(G.edges) y = len(G.nodes) return 2*x / (y*(y-1)) G’s density is 0.0224 G0’s density is 0.0580 G1’s density is 0.2857 G2’s density is 0.(3) AVERAGE DEGREE Average degree (average number of links per node) G = 1.9310 G0 = 2.3809 G1 = 1.7142 G2 = 1.6666 Weighted average degree (mean sum of the weights assigned to the nodes’ links) G = 2.3032 G0 = 2.9523 G1 = 1.7142 G2 = 1.6666 CLUSTERING G's average clustering: 0.175566310412 G1's average clustering: 0.0 G0's average clustering: 0.220815928711 G2's average clustering: 0.0 Clustering for G: OrderedDict([('P_deRachewiltz', 1.0), ('F_Joudah', 1.0), ('S_Lewis', 1.0), ('A_Codrescu', 1.0), ('Olah', 1.0), ('Popescu', 1.0), ('Patea', 1.0), ('GC_Waldrep', 1.0), ('B_Knott', 1.0), ('J_Taylor', 1.0), ('Oancea', 1.0), ('G_Snyder', 1.0), ('I_Kaminsky', 1.0), ('J_Rothenberg', 1.0), ('Surleac', 0.5), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.4), ('Firan', 0.1(6)), ('Carides', 0.1(6)), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.04093), (all other nodes = 0.0)]) Clustering for G0: OrderedDict([('F_Joudah', 1.0), ('GC_Waldrep', 1.0), ('S_Lewis', 1.0), ('J_Taylor', 1.0), ('J_Rothenberg', 1.0), ('A_Codrescu', 1.0), ('I_Kaminsky', 1.0), ('G_Snyder', 1.0), ('Surleac', 0.5), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.4), ('Carides', 0.1(6)), ('Firan', 0.1(6)), ('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.04093567251461988), all other nodes, 0]) Clustering for G1: OrderedDict([('M_Ondaatje', 0), ('M_Atwood', 0), ('Grigore', 0), ('P_Auster', 0), ('E_Equi', 0), ('T_Berrigan', 0)) 410 The nodes, edges, and the degree for all the vertices in this network have been defined in Annex 2. 342 Clustering for G2: OrderedDict([('T_Kooser', 0), ('B_Collins', 0), ('T_Hoagland', 0), ('Olaru', 0), ('WS_Merwin', 0), ('CA_Duffy', 0)]) CENTRALITY Betweenness centrality for G: (OrderedDict([('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.1575), ('Ieronim', 0.0772), ('M_Woodside', 0.0686), ('Hotaranu', 0.0663), ('Cassian', 0.06552), ('J_Ashbery', 0.0578), ('A_Gritsman', 0.05184), ('Firan', 0.040902), ('S_Moss', 0.04008), ('Carides', 0.0310), ('R_Milazzo', 0.0242), ('Grigore', 0.0041), ('Olaru', 0.0027), ('GE_Clarke', 0.0010), ('Manole', 0.00082), ('Constantinescu', 0.00082), ('Olos', 0.00082), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.00082), ('TS_Eliot', 0.00054), ('Ciobanu', 0.00054), ('Surleac', 0.00041), ('Moscaliuc', 0.00027), all other nodes, 0.0]) Closeness centrality for G: (OrderedDict([('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.1844), ('M_Woodside', 0.16288), ('J_Ashbery', 0.1563), ('Ieronim', 0.15035), ('Cassian', 0.1406), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.1376), ('Surleac', 0.1366), ('F_Joudah', 0.1348), ('S_Lewis', 0.1348), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.1348), ('J_Taylor', 0.1348), ('A_Gritsman', 0.1348), ('G_Snyder', 0.1348), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.1348), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.1348), ('DA_Powell', 0.1338), ('D_Baker', 0.1338), ('S_Singer', 0.1338), ('R_Craik', 0.1338), ('C_Wright', 0.1338), ('D_Berman', 0.1338), ('M_ORourke', 0.1338), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.1338), ('S_Moss', 0.1269), ('Hotaranu', 0.1245), ('Firan', 0.1177), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 0.1149), ('C_Merrill', 0.1149), ('C_Bakken', 0.1149), ('R_Milazzo', 0.1110), ('Carides', 0.1098), ('R_Lowell', 0.1091), ('R_Wilbur', 0.1091), ('C_Simic', 0.1091), ('A_Codrescu', 0.1018), ('B_Ras', 0.0992), ('J_Manesiotis', 0.0992), ('D_Brinks', 0.0992), ('R_Angel', 0.0992), ('E_Hirsch', 0.0992), ('E_Foster', 0.0948), ('R_Hershon', 0.0896), ('Grigore', 0.0697), ('Olaru', 0.0581), ('E_Equi', 0.0380), ('M_Atwood', 0.0380), ('P_Auster', 0.0380), ('T_Berrigan', 0.0380), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.0380), ('Constantinescu', 0.0348), ('B_Collins', 0.0322), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0322), ('CA_Duffy', 0.0322), ('T_Kooser', 0.0322), ('T_Hoagland', 0.0322), ('GE_Clarke', 0.03100), ('Manole', 0.0265), ('Olos', 0.0265), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0261), ('Ciobanu', 0.0261), ('P_deRachewiltz', 0.0232), ('Moscaliuc', 0.0232), ('Olah', 0.0232), ('Popescu', 0.0232), ('Patea', 0.0232), ('B_Knott', 0.0232), ('Oancea', 0.0232), ('AV_Rivera', 0.0209), ('E_Winder', 0.0209), ('P_Bateman', 0.0209), ('E_Amatoritsero', 0.0186), ('N_Burke', 0.01860), ('Zank', 0.01744), ('J_Dodds', 0.01744), ('M_Waters', 0.01550), ('G_Stern', 0.0155), ('J_Hawkins', 0.0116), ('Micu', 0.0116), ('DM_Andrei', 0.0116), ('J_Heavily', 0.0116), ('Nicolau', 0.0116), ('Cosma', 0.0116), ('J_Haines', 0.0116), ('T_Skurtu', 0.0116), ('Gardner', 0.0116), ('Sibisan', 0.0116)]) Eigenvector centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.6517), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.2896), ('Surleac', 0.2449), ('G_Snyder', 0.1920), ('J_Taylor', 0.1920), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.1920), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.1920), ('F_Joudah', 0.1829), ('S_Lewis', 0.1829), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.1829), ('M_Woodside', 0.1399), ('J_Ashbery', 0.1399), ('DA_Powell', 0.1329), ('C_Wright', 0.1329), ('D_Baker', 0.1329), ('S_Singer', 0.1329), ('R_Craik', 0.1329), ('D_Berman', 0.1329), ('M_ORourke', 0.1329), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.1329), ('Ieronim', 0.0343), ('Cassian', 0.03434634006189804), ('A_Gritsman', 0.00743418670531657), ('S_Moss', 0.0073), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 0.0070), ('C_Merrill', 0.0070), ('C_Bakken', 0.0070), ('R_Lowell', 0.0070), ('R_Wilbur', 0.0070), ('C_Simic', 0.0070), ('Hotaranu', 0.0020), ('Firan', 0.0018), ('Carides', 0.0006), ('R_Milazzo', 0.0005), ('A_Codrescu', 0.00049), ('B_Ras', 0.00042), ('D_Brinks', 0.00042), ('R_Angel', 0.00042), ('J_Manesiotis', 0.00042), ('E_Hirsch', 0.000423), ('E_Foster', 0.00037), ('R_Hershon', 0.00012), ('Grigore', 1.0931e-06), ('T_Berrigan', 4.4629e-07), ('E_Equi', 4.4629e-07), ('M_Atwood', 4.4629e-07), ('P_Auster', 4.4629e-07), ('M_Ondaatje', 4.4629e-07), ('Olaru', 2.2144e-07), ('B_Collins', 9.9033e-08), ('WS_Merwin', 9.9033e-08), ('CA_Duffy', 9.9033e-08), ('T_Kooser', 9.9033e-08), ('T_Hoagland', 9.9033e-08), ('P_deRachewiltz', 2.2221e-08), ('Olah', 2.2221e-08), ('Popescu', 2.2221e-08), ('Patea', 2.2221e-08), ('B_Knott', 2.2221e-08), ('Oancea', 2.2221e-08), ('Constantinescu', 3.2139e-09), ('GE_Clarke', 2.92692e-09), ('Manole', 2.5347e-09), ('Olos', 2.5347e-09), ('AV_Rivera', 1.8555e-09), ('E_Winder', 1.8555e-09), ('P_Bateman', 1.8555e-09), ('E_Amatoritsero', 1.4634e-09), ('N_Burke', 1.4634e-09), ('TS_Eliot', 9.9026e- 10), ('Ciobanu', 9.9026e-10), ('Zank', 6.1201e-10), ('J_Dodds', 6.1201e-10), ('Moscaliuc', 1.4595e-10), ('M_Waters', 1.0320e-10), ('G_Stern', 1.0320e-10), ('DM_Andrei', 1.3200e-12), ('Nicolau', 1.3200e-12), ('J_Hawkins', 1.3200e-12), 343 ('Micu', 1.3200e-12), ('J_Heavily', 1.3200e-12), ('Cosma', 1.3200e-12), ('J_Haines', 1.3200e-12), ('T_Skurtu', 1.3200e- 12), ('Gardner', 1.3200e-12), ('Sibisan', 1.3200e-12)]) Betweenness centrality for G0: (OrderedDict([('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.7024), ('Ieronim', 0.3445), ('M_Woodside', 0.3060), ('Hotaranu', 0.2957), ('Cassian', 0.2920), ('J_Ashbery', 0.2579), ('A_Gritsman', 0.2310), ('Firan', 0.1823), ('S_Moss', 0.1786), ('Carides', 0.1384), ('R_Milazzo', 0.1079), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.0036), ('Surleac', 0.0018), all other nodes, 0.0]) Closeness centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.3867924528301887), ('M_Woodside', 0.3416666666666667), ('J_Ashbery', 0.328), ('Ieronim', 0.3153846153846154), ('Cassian', 0.2949640287769784), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.2887323943661972), ('Surleac', 0.2867132867132867), ('A_Gritsman', 0.2827586206896552), ('F_Joudah', 0.2827586206896552), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.2827586206896552), ('S_Lewis', 0.2827586206896552), ('J_Taylor', 0.2827586206896552), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.2827586206896552), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.2827586206896552), ('G_Snyder', 0.2827586206896552), ('R_Craik', 0.2808219178082192), ('M_ORourke', 0.2808219178082192), ('C_Wright', 0.2808219178082192), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.2808219178082192), ('DA_Powell', 0.2808219178082192), ('D_Berman', 0.2808219178082192), ('D_Baker', 0.2808219178082192), ('S_Singer', 0.2808219178082192), ('S_Moss', 0.2662337662337662), ('Hotaranu', 0.2611464968152866), ('Firan', 0.2469879518072289), ('C_Merrill', 0.2411764705882353), ('C_Bakken', 0.2411764705882353), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 0.2411764705882353), ('R_Milazzo', 0.23295454545454544), ('Carides', 0.2303370786516854), ('R_Lowell', 0.22905027932960895), ('C_Simic', 0.22905027932960895), ('R_Wilbur', 0.22905027932960895), ('A_Codrescu', 0.21354166666666666), ('B_Ras', 0.20812182741116753), ('R_Angel', 0.20812182741116753), ('J_Manesiotis', 0.20812182741116753), ('E_Hirsch', 0.20812182741116753), ('D_Brinks', 0.20812182741116753), ('E_Foster', 0.19902912621359223), ('R_Hershon', 0.18807339449541285)])) ('Eigenvector centrality for G0:', OrderedDict([('Chris_Tanasescu', 0.6517856320684443), ('Raluca_Tanasescu', 0.28966697185201606), ('Surleac', 0.24490171267852923), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.19204975609031452), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.19204975609031452), ('G_Snyder', 0.19204975609031452), ('J_Taylor', 0.19204975609031452), ('F_Joudah', 0.18291796886433842), ('S_Lewis', 0.18291796886433842), ('GC_Waldrep', 0.18291796886433842), ('M_Woodside', 0.1399693976087721), ('J_Ashbery', 0.1399662237411414), ('R_Craik', 0.13295973296778296), ('M_ORourke', 0.13295973296778296), ('C_Wright', 0.13295973296778296), ('PH_Starzinger', 0.13295973296778296), ('DA_Powell', 0.13295973296778296), ('S_Singer', 0.13295973296778296), ('D_Baker', 0.13295973296778296), ('D_Berman', 0.13295973296778296), ('Ieronim', 0.034359939271099), ('Cassian', 0.034345371517672474), ('A_Gritsman', 0.007431751743697002), ('S_Moss', 0.007375898171677961), ('C_Merrill', 0.00700966464098915), ('C_Bakken', 0.00700966464098915), ('C_Antao_Xavier', 0.00700966464098915), ('R_Lowell', 0.007006490773358442), ('C_Simic', 0.007006490773358442), ('R_Wilbur', 0.007006490773358442), ('Hotaranu', 0.002062172045201215), ('Firan', 0.0018072240246305763), ('Carides', 0.0006091546479640514), ('R_Milazzo', 0.000547225144758008), ('A_Codrescu', 0.000494545440369676), ('B_Ras', 0.0004220871027078517), ('D_Brinks', 0.0004220871027078517), ('R_Angel', 0.0004220871027078517), ('J_Manesiotis', 0.0004220871027078517), ('E_Hirsch', 0.0004220871027078517), ('E_Foster', 0.0003694073983195197), ('R_Hershon', 0.00012513804205015641)]) Betweenness centrality for G1: (OrderedDict([('Grigore', 1.0), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.0), ('M_Atwood', 0.0), ('P_Auster', 0.0), ('E_Equi', 0.0), ('T_Berrigan', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G1: (OrderedDict([('Grigore', 1.0), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.5454545454545454), ('M_Atwood', 0.5454545454545454), ('P_Auster', 0.5454545454545454), ('E_Equi', 0.5454545454545454), ('T_Berrigan', 0.5454545454545454)])) 344 Eigenvector centrality for G1: (OrderedDict([('Grigore', 0.7071065004428642), ('M_Ondaatje', 0.2886752492078963), ('M_Atwood', 0.2886752492078963), ('E_Equi', 0.2886752492078963), ('P_Auster', 0.2886752492078963), ('T_Berrigan', 0.2886752492078963)])) Betweenness centrality for G2: OrderedDict([('Olaru', 1.0), ('T_Kooser', 0.0), ('B_Collins', 0.0), ('T_Hoagland', 0.0), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0), ('CA_Duffy', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G2: (OrderedDict([('Olaru', 1.0), ('T_Kooser', 0.5555), ('B_Collins', 0.5555), ('T_Hoagland', 0.55556), ('WS_Merwin', 0.5555), ('CA_Duffy', 0.5555)]) Eigenvector centrality for G2: OrderedDict([('Olaru', 0.70710), ('T_Kooser', 0.3162), ('B_Collins', 0.3162), ('T_Hoagland', 0.3162), ('WS_Merwin', 0.3162), ('CA_Duffy', 0.3162)]) 345 Annex 4 – NetworkX Analysis of the Contemporary American Poetry Author-Collections Translated before 1989 G's nodes are: [('Albatros', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('D_Wakoski', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Pound', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Univers', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Ursu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('WS_Merwin', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Caraion', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ("F_O'Hara", {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Covaci', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('WD_Snodgrass', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('S_Plath', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('T_Roethke', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('TS_Eliot', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('IA_Popa', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Nicolescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Junimea', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('W_Stevens', {'capacity': 'author'})] G's edges are: [('Albatros', 'TS_Eliot', {'translator': 'Covaci'}), ('Albatros', 'Covaci', {'translation': 'TS_Eliot'}), ('D_Wakoski', 'Univers', {'translator': 'Ursu'}), ('D_Wakoski', 'Ursu', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Pound', 'Caraion', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Pound', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {'publisher': 'Junimea'}), ('Pound', 'Univers', {'translator': 'Caraion'}), ('Pound', 'Junimea', {'translator': 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu'}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'Junimea', {'translation': 'Pound'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', "F_O'Hara", {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'T_Roethke', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'Univers', {'translation': "F_O'Hara"}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'WS_Merwin', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'W_Stevens', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Univers', 'IA_Popa', {'translation': 'WD_Snodgrass'}), ('Univers', 'Ursu', {'translation': 'D_Wakoski'}), ('Univers', 'WS_Merwin', {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Univers', 'Caraion', {'translation': 'Pound'}), ('Univers', "F_O'Hara", {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Univers', 'WD_Snodgrass', {'translator': 'IA_Popa'}), ('Univers', 'S_Plath', {'translator': 'Nicolescu'}), ('Univers', 'T_Roethke', {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Univers', 'Nicolescu', {'translation': 'S_Plath'}), ('Univers', 'W_Stevens', {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Covaci', 'TS_Eliot', {'publisher': 'Albatros'}), ('WD_Snodgrass', 'IA_Popa', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('S_Plath', 'Nicolescu', {'publisher': 'Univers'})] SIZE The number of G's components: 2 G's size: 19 The number of edges in G: 27 G0's size: 16 The number of edges in G0: 24 G1's size: 3 The number of edges in G1: 3 AVERAGE DEGREE & DENSITY The average degree for G: 2.8421 G's density: 0.1578 The average degree for G0: 3.0 G0's density: 0.2 G1's average degree: 2.0 G1's density: 1.0 CLUSTERING G's average clustering: 0.8860 G0's average clustering: 0.8647 G1's average clustering: 1.0 G0's nodes are: [('IA_Popa', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('D_Wakoski', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Pound', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Univers', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Ursu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('WS_Merwin', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Caraion', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ("F_O'Hara", {'capacity': 'author'}), ('WD_Snodgrass', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('S_Plath', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('T_Roethke', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Nicolescu', {'capacity': 'translator'}), ('Junimea', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('W_Stevens', {'capacity': 'author'})] 346 G0's edges are: [('IA_Popa', 'Univers', {'translation': 'WD_Snodgrass'}), ('IA_Popa', 'WD_Snodgrass', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('D_Wakoski', 'Univers', {'translator': 'Ursu'}), ('D_Wakoski', 'Ursu', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Pound', 'Caraion', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Pound', 'Junimea', {'translator': 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu'}), ('Pound', 'Univers', {'translator': 'Caraion'}), ('Pound', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {'publisher': 'Junimea'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', "F_O'Hara", {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'T_Roethke', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'Univers', {'translation': "F_O'Hara"}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'WS_Merwin', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 'W_Stevens', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Univers', 'Ursu', {'translation': 'D_Wakoski'}), ('Univers', 'WS_Merwin', {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Univers', 'Caraion', {'translation': 'Pound'}), ('Univers', "F_O'Hara", {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Univers', 'WD_Snodgrass', {'translator': 'IA_Popa'}), ('Univers', 'S_Plath', {'translator': 'Nicolescu'}), ('Univers', 'T_Roethke', {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('Univers', 'Nicolescu', {'translation': 'S_Plath'}), ('Univers', 'W_Stevens', {'translator': 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu'}), ('S_Plath', 'Nicolescu', {'publisher': 'Univers'}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'Junimea', {'translation': 'Pound'})] G1's nodes are: [('Albatros', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('TS_Eliot', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Covaci', {'capacity': 'translator'})] G1's edges are: [('Albatros', 'TS_Eliot', {'translator': 'Covaci'}), ('Albatros', 'Covaci', {'translation': 'TS_Eliot'}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Covaci', {'publisher': 'Albatros'})] Clustering for G: OrderedDict([('Albatros', 1.0), ('D_Wakoski', 1.0), ('Nicolescu', 1.0), ('Ursu', 1.0), ('WS_Merwin', 1.0), ('Caraion', 1.0), ("F_O'Hara", 1.0), ('Covaci', 1.0), ('WD_Snodgrass', 1.0), ('S_Plath', 1.0), ('T_Roethke', 1.0), ('TS_Eliot', 1.0), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 1.0), ('IA_Popa', 1.0), ('Junimea', 1.0), ('W_Stevens', 1.0), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.4), ('Pound', 0.(3)), ('Univers', 0.1025)]) Clustering for G0: OrderedDict([('IA_Popa', 1.0), ('D_Wakoski', 1.0), ('Ursu', 1.0), ('WS_Merwin', 1.0), ('Caraion', 1.0), ("F_O'Hara", 1.0), ('WD_Snodgrass', 1.0), ('S_Plath', 1.0), ('T_Roethke', 1.0), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 1.0), ('Nicolescu', 1.0), ('Junimea', 1.0), ('W_Stevens', 1.0), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.4), ('Pound', 0.(3)), ('Univers', 0.1025)]) Clustering for G1: OrderedDict([('Albatros', 1.0), ('TS_Eliot', 1.0), ('Covaci', 1.0)]) CENTRALITY Betweenness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Univers', 0.5816), ('Pound', 0.1699), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.0196), ('Albatros', 0.0), ('D_Wakoski', 0.0), ('Nicolescu', 0.0), ('Ursu', 0.0), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0), ('Caraion', 0.0), ("F_O'Hara", 0.0), ('Covaci', 0.0), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.0), ('S_Plath', 0.0), ('T_Roethke', 0.0), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.0), ('IA_Popa', 0.0), ('Junimea', 0.0), ('W_Stevens', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Univers', 0.7352), ('Pound', 0.4807), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.4629), ('Caraion', 0.4464), ('D_Wakoski', 0.4166), ('Nicolescu', 0.4166), ('Ursu', 0.4166), ('WS_Merwin', 0.4166), ("F_O'Hara", 0.4166), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.4166), ('S_Plath', 0.4166), ('T_Roethke', 0.4166), ('IA_Popa', 0.4166), ('W_Stevens', 0.4166), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.3205), ('Junimea', 0.3205), ('Albatros', 0.(1)), ('Covaci', 0.(1)), ('TS_Eliot', 0.(1)]) Eigenvector centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Univers', 0.6251), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.3440), ('W_Stevens', 0.2209), ('WS_Merwin', 0.2209), ('T_Roethke', 0.2209), ("F_O'Hara", 0.2209), ('Pound', 0.2151), ('Caraion', 0.1915), ('Ursu', 0.1846095844913992), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.18460958449139916), ('Nicolescu', 0.18460958449139914), ('S_Plath', 0.1846095844913991), ('IA_Popa', 0.18460958449139908), ('D_Wakoski', 0.18460958449139903), ('Junimea', 0.06353916228926411), 347 ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.06353916228926396), ('Albatros', 1.2772805383648288e-16), ('Covaci', 1.0115622362063928e-16), ('TS_Eliot', -4.582892123598854e-17)]) Betweenness centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('Univers', 0.8476), ('Pound', 0.2476), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.0285), ('IA_Popa', 0.0), ('D_Wakoski', 0.0), ('Ursu', 0.0), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0), ('Caraion', 0.0), ("F_O'Hara", 0.0), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.0), ('S_Plath', 0.0), ('T_Roethke', 0.0), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.0), ('Nicolescu', 0.0), ('Junimea', 0.0), ('W_Stevens', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G0 OrderedDict([('Univers', 0.8823), ('Pound', 0.5769), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.5555), ('Caraion', 0.5357), ('IA_Popa', 0.5), ('D_Wakoski', 0.5), ('Ursu', 0.5), ('WS_Merwin', 0.5), ("F_O'Hara", 0.5), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.5), ('S_Plath', 0.5), ('T_Roethke', 0.5), ('Nicolescu', 0.5), ('W_Stevens', 0.5), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.3846), ('Junimea', 0.3846)]) Eigenvector centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('Univers', 0.6251), ('Abaluta_&_Stoenescu', 0.3440), ('WS_Merwin', 0.2209), ("F_O'Hara", 0.2209), ('T_Roethke', 0.2209), ('W_Stevens', 0.22094), ('Pound', 0.2151), ('Caraion', 0.1915), ('IA_Popa', 0.1846), ('D_Wakoski', 0.1846), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.1846), ('Ursu', 0.1846), ('S_Plath', 0.1846), ('Nicolescu', 0.1846), ('Junimea', 0.0635), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.0635)]) Betweenness centrality for G1: OrderedDict([('Albatros', 0.0), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0), ('Covaci', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G1: OrderedDict([('Albatros', 1.0), ('TS_Eliot', 1.0), ('Covaci', 1.0)]) Eigenvector centrality for G1: OrderedDict([('Albatros', 0.5773), ('TS_Eliot', 0.5773), ('Covaci', 0.5773)])) The degrees for all vertices in G are: DegreeView({'Albatros': 2, 'D_Wakoski': 2, 'Pound': 4, 'Nicolescu': 2, 'Abaluta_&_Stoenescu': 5, 'Univers': 13, 'Ursu': 2, 'WS_Merwin': 2, 'Caraion': 2, "F_O'Hara": 2, 'Covaci': 2, 'WD_Snodgrass': 2, 'S_Plath': 2, 'T_Roethke': 2, 'TS_Eliot': 2, 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu': 2, 'IA_Popa': 2, 'Junimea': 2, 'W_Stevens': 2}) 348 Annex 5 – NetworkX Analysis of the Contemporary Canadian Poetry Anthologies Translated before 1989 SIZE, DENSITY, AVERAGE DEGREE AND CLUSTERING G's size: 48 G's density: 0.0531 The number of G's components: 1 The average degree for G: 2.5 The number of edges in G: 60 G's average clustering: 0.0 CENTRALITY Betweenness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.8663), ('Caraion', 0.2456), ('J.M. Yates', 0.0111), ('Andreas Schroeder', 0.0111), ('Dorothy Livesay', 0.0111), ('Lionel Kearns', 0.0111), ('John Robert Colombo', 0.0111), ('Fred Cogswell', 0.0111), ('Louis Dudek', 0.0111), ('Barbara Caruso', 0.0111), ('Michael Ondaatje', 0.0111), ('Margaret Atwood', 0.0111), ('Irving Layton', 0.0111), ('Tom Marshall', 0.0111), ('Alfred Purdy', 0.0111), ('John Newlove', 0.0111), all other nodes = 0)]) Closeness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.8103), ('J.M. Yates', 0.5108), ('Andreas Schroeder', 0.5108), ('Dorothy Livesay', 0.5108), ('Lionel Kearns', 0.5108), ('John Robert Colombo', 0.5108), ('Fred Cogswell', 0.5108), ('Louis Dudek', 0.5108), ('Barbara Caruso', 0.5108), ('Michael Ondaatje', 0.5108), ('Margaret Atwood', 0.5108), ('Irving Layton', 0.5108), ('Tom Marshall', 0.5108), ('Alfred Purdy', 0.5108), ('John Newlove', 0.5108), ('Caraion', 0.46078431372549017), ('Stanley Cooperman', 0.0.4519), ('Fred Candelaria', 0.0.4519), ('Jay Mcpherson', 0.0.4519), ('Gwendolyn MacEwen', 0.0.4519), ('Pierre Coupey', 0.0.4519), ('Dennis Lee', 0.0.4519), ('Elizabeth Brewster', 0.0.4519), ('Michael Bullock', 0.0.4519), ('Nelson Hall', 0.0.4519), ('Henry Beissel', 0.0.4519), ('Milton Acorn', 0.0.4519), ('Alden Nowlan', 0.0.4519), ('Peter Stevens', 0.0.4519), ('Nicholas Catanoy', 0.0.4519), ('Phyllis Webb', 0.0.4519), ('Miriam Waddington', 0.0.4519), ('Leonard Cohen', 0.0.4519), ('Robin Skelton', 0.0.4519), ('James Reaney', 0.0.4519), ('Patrick Anderson', 0.0.4519), ('George Howering', 0.0.4519), ('Louis Cormier', 0.0.4519), ('Patricia K. Page', 0.0.4519), ('Eidon Grier', 0.0.4519), ('Raymond Souster', 0.0.4519), ('Eli Mandel', 0.0.4519), ('D. G. Jones', 0.0.4519), ('Margaret Avison', 0.3175), ('Alden A. Nowlan', 0.3175), ('R. C. Everson', 0.3175), ('Nelson Ball', 0.3175), ('Ralph Gustafson', 0.3175)]) Eigenvector centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.6359), ('Caraion', 0.3091), ('John Robert Colombo', 0.13666), ('Barbara Caruso', 0.13668789915431856), ('John Newlove', 0.13668789915431856), ('Andreas Schroeder', 0.13668789915431853), ('Dorothy Livesay', 0.13668789915431853), ('Lionel Kearns', 0.13668789915431853), ('Irving Layton', 0.13668789915431853), ('J.M. Yates', 0.1366878991543185), ('Margaret Atwood', 0.1366878991543185), ('Fred Cogswell', 0.13668789915431848), ('Louis Dudek', 0.13668789915431848), ('Tom Marshall', 0.13668789915431848), ('Michael Ondaatje', 0.13668789915431845), ('Alfred Purdy', 0.13668789915431845), ('Stanley Cooperman', 0.09198159807196862), ('Nelson Hall', 0.09198159807196861), ('Leonard Cohen', 0.0919815980719686), ('George Howering', 0.0919815980719686), ('Fred Candelaria', 0.09198159807196858), ('Dennis Lee', 0.09198159807196858), ('Peter Stevens', 0.09198159807196858), ('Louis Cormier', 0.09198159807196858), ('Michael Bullock', 0.09198159807196857), ('Milton Acorn', 0.09198159807196857), ('Phyllis Webb', 0.09198159807196857), ('James Reaney', 0.09198159807196857), ('Jay Mcpherson', 0.09198159807196854), ('Gwendolyn MacEwen', 0.09198159807196854), ('D. G. Jones', 0.09198159807196854), ('Alden Nowlan', 0.09198159807196853), ('Robin Skelton', 0.09198159807196853), ('Nicholas Catanoy', 0.09198159807196851), ('Eidon Grier', 0.09198159807196851), ('Pierre Coupey', 0.0919815980719685), ('Elizabeth Brewster', 0.0919815980719685), ('Patrick Anderson', 0.0919815980719685), ('Patricia K. Page', 0.0919815980719685), ('Henry Beissel', 0.09198159807196848), ('Miriam Waddington', 0.09198159807196848), ('Eli Mandel', 349 0.09198159807196848), ('Raymond Souster', 0.09198159807196844), ('Ralph Gustafson', 0.04470630108235001), ('Margaret Avison', 0.04470630108235), ('Nelson Ball', 0.04470630108234996), ('R. C. Everson', 0.044706301082349936), ('Alden A. Nowlan', 0.04470630108234988)]) The degrees for all vertices in G are: DegreeView({'J.M. Yates': 2, 'Andreas Schroeder': 2, 'Stanley Cooperman': 1, 'Fred Candelaria': 1, 'Jay Mcpherson': 1, 'Margaret Avison': 1, 'Alden A. Nowlan': 1, 'Gwendolyn MacEwen': 1, 'Pierre Coupey': 1, 'Dennis Lee': 1, 'Elizabeth Brewster': 1, 'Dorothy Livesay': 2, 'Michael Bullock': 1, 'Nelson Hall': 1, 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu': 41, 'Henry Beissel': 1, 'Milton Acorn': 1, 'Lionel Kearns': 2, 'John Robert Colombo': 2, 'Alden Nowlan': 1, 'Fred Cogswell': 2, 'Peter Stevens': 1, 'Nicholas Catanoy': 1, 'Phyllis Webb': 1, 'Miriam Waddington': 1, 'Louis Dudek': 2, 'Leonard Cohen': 1, 'Caraion': 19, 'Robin Skelton': 1, 'Barbara Caruso': 2, 'James Reaney': 1, 'Patrick Anderson': 1, 'George Howering': 1, 'R. C. Everson': 1, 'Louis Cormier': 1, 'Nelson Ball': 1, 'Michael Ondaatje': 2, 'Margaret Atwood': 2, 'Irving Layton': 2, 'Patricia K. Page': 1, 'Eidon Grier': 1, 'Raymond Souster': 1, 'Eli Mandel': 1, 'Tom Marshall': 2, 'D. G. Jones': 1, 'Alfred Purdy': 2, 'Ralph Gustafson': 1, 'John Newlove': 2}) 350 Annex 6 – NetworkX Analysis of the Contemporary American Poetry Anthologies Translated before 1989 SIZE, DENSITY, AVERAGE DEGREE AND CLUSTERING The number of G's components: 1 G's average clustering: 0.0 The number of edges in G: 221 The average degree for G: 3.4531 G's size: 128 G's density: 0.0271 G's nodes are: [('E_Field', {}), ('D_Hall', {}), ('R_Lowell', {}), ('Blaga', {}), ('T_McGrath', {}), ('JG_Fletcher', {}), ('L_Hughes', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', {}), ('R_Creeley', {}), ('B_Guest', {}), ('A_Tate', {}), ('K_Koch', {}), ('L_Mueller', {}), ('G_Kinnel', {}), ('L_Ferlinghetti', {}), ('D_Naone', {}), ('E_Roditi', {}), ('XJ_Kennedy', {}), ('AR_Ammons', {}), ('LeRoi_Jones', {}), ('P_Engle', {}), ('M_Sarton', {}), ('WS_Merwin', {}), ('E_Jarrett', {}), ('L_Zukofsky', {}), ('D_Etter', {}), ('N_Willard', {}), ('ee_cummings', {}), ('S_Sandy', {}), ('M_Gold', {}), ('R_Wilbur', {}), ('J_Kerouac', {}), ('M_Strand', {}), ('R_Francis', {}), ('M_Van_Doren', {}), ('E_Bishop', {}), ('J_Ashbery', {}), ('B_Kaufman', {}), ('Marin_Sorescu', {}), ('R_Howard', {}), ('V_Contoski', {}), ('P_Meinke', {}), ('P_Viereck', {}), ('P_Blackburn', {}), ('M_Solomon', {}), ('L_Simpson', {}), ('O_Nash', {}), ('J_Langland', {}), ('CW_Hines', {}), ('L_Untermeyer', {}), ('R_Duncan', {}), ('T_Raworth', {}), ('Winfield_Scott', {}), ('D_Wakoski', {}), ('Ph_Lamantia', {}), ('C_Olson', {}), ('J_Fields', {}), ('K_Rexroth', {}), ('D_Justice', {}), ('M_Zaturenska', {}), ('M_Rukeyser', {}), ('RP_Warren', {}), ('W_Everson', {}), ('A_Bontemps', {}), ('WE_Stafford', {}), ("F_O'Hara", {}), ('M_March', {}), ('R_Jarrell', {}), ('E_Bowers', {}), ('TS_Eliot', {}), ('R_Whittemore', {}), ('L_Bogan', {}), ('C_Aiken', {}), ('J_Berryman', {}), ('K_Patchen', {}), ('S_Kunitz', {}), ('S_Plath', {}), ('K_Shapiro', {}), ('D_Levertov', {}), ('J_Haines', {}), ('D_Hoffman', {}), ('Georgia_D_Johnson', {}), ('J_Wieners', {}), ('A_Rich', {}), ('J_Wright', {}), ('H_Nemerov', {}), ('W_Kees', {}), ('Baconsky', {}), ('A_Raybin', {}), ('J_Laughlin', {}), ('G_Snyder', {}), ('WD_Snodgrass', {}), ('B_Deutsch', {}), ('H_Gregory', {}), ('C_Major', {}), ('D_Schwartz', {}), ('R_Eberhart', {}), ('A_Ginsberg', {}), ('R_Mezey', {}), ('WH_Auden', {}), ('H_Doolittle', {}), ('Sterian', {}), ('C_Kizer', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('G_Corso', {}), ('R_Kelly', {}), ('WJ_Smith', {}), ('G_Brooks', {}), ('JC_Ransom', {}), ('J_Anderson', {}), ('T_Roethke', {}), ('M_Moore', {}), ('Ph_McGinley', {}), ('J_Oppenheimer', {}), ('A_Sexton', {}), ('O_Williams', {}), ('L_Riding', {}), ('Caraion', {}), ('R_Jeffers', {}), ('A_Hecht', {}), ('HJ_Bond', {}), ('J_Unterecker', {}), ('A_Dugan', {}), ('J_Merrill', {}), ('R_Bly', {}), ('Ivanescu', {}), ('W_Cuney', {}), ('J_Dickey', {})] G's edges are: [('E_Field', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('D_Hall', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Lowell', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Lowell', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('R_Lowell', 'Levitchi_&_Dorin', {}), ('Blaga', 'TS_Eliot', {}), ('T_McGrath', 'Levitchi_&_Dorin', {}), ('JG_Fletcher', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Hughes', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Hughes', 'Levitchi_&_Dorin', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'E_Bishop', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Eberhart', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'RP_Warren', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'WH_Auden', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'H_Doolittle', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'WE_Stafford', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Jarrell', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'TS_Eliot', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'M_Moore', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Whittemore', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'L_Bogan', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'G_Corso', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'C_Aiken', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'A_Tate', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'J_Berryman', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'A_Ginsberg', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'WJ_Smith', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'S_Kunitz', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'M_Solomon', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'K_Shapiro', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'O_Nash', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'JC_Ransom', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'S_Plath', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'T_Roethke', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'L_Ferlinghetti', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'L_Untermeyer', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'Ph_McGinley', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'Winfield_Scott', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'B_Deutsch', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'LeRoi_Jones', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'D_Wakoski', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'L_Riding', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'M_Sarton', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'WS_Merwin', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'D_Levertov', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Jeffers', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'J_Wright', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'P_Viereck', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'L_Simpson', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'H_Nemerov', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'ee_cummings', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Bly', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'D_Justice', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Wilbur', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'J_Ashbery', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'G_Snyder', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'WD_Snodgrass', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'R_Francis', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'M_Zaturenska', {}), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'G_Kinnel', {}), 351 ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 'M_Van_Doren', {}), ('R_Creeley', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Creeley', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('B_Guest', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('A_Tate', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Tate', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('K_Koch', 'Caraion', {}), ('K_Koch', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('L_Mueller', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('G_Kinnel', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 'Marin_Sorescu', {}), ('D_Naone', 'Marin_Sorescu', {}), ('E_Roditi', 'Caraion', {}), ('XJ_Kennedy', 'Caraion', {}), ('AR_Ammons', 'Caraion', {}), ('LeRoi_Jones', 'Caraion', {}), ('P_Engle', 'Marin_Sorescu', {}), ('WS_Merwin', 'Caraion', {}), ('WS_Merwin', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('WS_Merwin', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('WS_Merwin', 'Marin_Sorescu', {}), ('E_Jarrett', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Zukofsky', 'Caraion', {}), ('D_Etter', 'Caraion', {}), ('N_Willard', 'Caraion', {}), ('ee_cummings', 'Caraion', {}), ('ee_cummings', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('S_Sandy', 'Caraion', {}), ('M_Gold', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Wilbur', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Wilbur', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('J_Kerouac', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('M_Strand', 'Marin_Sorescu', {}), ('E_Bishop', 'Caraion', {}), ('J_Ashbery', 'Caraion', {}), ('J_Ashbery', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('J_Ashbery', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('B_Kaufman', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('Marin_Sorescu', 'A_Ginsberg', {}), ('Marin_Sorescu', 'M_March', {}), ('Marin_Sorescu', 'P_Meinke', {}), ('R_Howard', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('V_Contoski', 'Caraion', {}), ('P_Viereck', 'Caraion', {}), ('P_Viereck', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('P_Blackburn', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Simpson', 'Caraion', {}), ('O_Nash', 'Caraion', {}), ('O_Nash', 'Sterian', {}), ('J_Langland', 'Caraion', {}), ('CW_Hines', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Untermeyer', 'Sterian', {}), ('R_Duncan', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Duncan', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('R_Duncan', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('T_Raworth', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('D_Wakoski', 'Caraion', {}), ('Ph_Lamantia', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('C_Olson', 'Caraion', {}), ('C_Olson', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('C_Olson', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('J_Fields', 'Caraion', {}), ('K_Rexroth', 'Caraion', {}), ('K_Rexroth', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('D_Justice', 'Caraion', {}), ('D_Justice', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('D_Justice', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('M_Rukeyser', 'Caraion', {}), ('M_Rukeyser', 'Sterian', {}), ('M_Rukeyser', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('RP_Warren', 'Caraion', {}), ('W_Everson', 'Sterian', {}), ('A_Bontemps', 'Caraion', {}), ('WE_Stafford', 'Caraion', {}), ('WE_Stafford', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('WE_Stafford', 'Ivanescu', {}), ("F_O'Hara", 'Caraion', {}), ("F_O'Hara", 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('R_Jarrell', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Jarrell', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('E_Bowers', 'Caraion', {}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Baconsky', {}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('R_Whittemore', 'Caraion', {}), ('L_Bogan', 'Caraion', {}), ('C_Aiken', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('J_Berryman', 'Caraion', {}), ('J_Berryman', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('K_Patchen', 'Caraion', {}), ('K_Patchen', 'Sterian', {}), ('K_Patchen', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('S_Kunitz', 'Caraion', {}), ('S_Kunitz', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('S_Plath', 'Caraion', {}), ('S_Plath', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('K_Shapiro', 'Caraion', {}), ('K_Shapiro', 'Sterian', {}), ('D_Levertov', 'Caraion', {}), ('D_Levertov', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('D_Levertov', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('J_Haines', 'Caraion', {}), ('D_Hoffman', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('Georgia_D_Johnson', 'Caraion', {}), ('J_Wieners', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Rich', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Rich', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('J_Wright', 'Caraion', {}), ('J_Wright', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('H_Nemerov', 'Caraion', {}), ('H_Nemerov', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('W_Kees', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('A_Raybin', 'Caraion', {}), ('J_Laughlin', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('G_Snyder', 'Caraion', {}), ('G_Snyder', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('G_Snyder', 'Sterian', {}), ('WD_Snodgrass', 'Caraion', {}), ('WD_Snodgrass', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('B_Deutsch', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('H_Gregory', 'Caraion', {}), ('C_Major', 'Caraion', {}), ('D_Schwartz', 'Caraion', {}), ('D_Schwartz', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('R_Eberhart', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Ginsberg', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Ginsberg', 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', {}), ('A_Ginsberg', 'Sterian', {}), ('R_Mezey', 'Caraion', {}), ('WH_Auden', 'Caraion', {}), ('Sterian', 'G_Brooks', {}), ('Sterian', 'T_Roethke', {}), ('C_Kizer', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'T_Roethke', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'G_Corso', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'J_Oppenheimer', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'J_Merrill', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'R_Bly', {}), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 'J_Dickey', {}), ('G_Corso', 'Caraion', {}), ('R_Kelly', 'Caraion', {}), ('WJ_Smith', 'Caraion', {}), ('JC_Ransom', 'Caraion', {}), ('JC_Ransom', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('J_Anderson', 'Caraion', {}), ('T_Roethke', 'Caraion', {}), ('M_Moore', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('J_Oppenheimer', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Sexton', 'Caraion', {}), ('A_Sexton', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('O_Williams', 'Caraion', {}), ('Caraion', 'HJ_Bond', {}), ('Caraion', 'A_Hecht', {}), ('Caraion', 'J_Unterecker', {}), ('Caraion', 'W_Cuney', {}), ('Caraion', 'J_Merrill', {}), ('Caraion', 'J_Dickey', {}), ('Caraion', 'R_Bly', {}), ('A_Hecht', 'Ivanescu', {}), ('A_Dugan', 'Ivanescu', {})] CENTRALITY Betweenness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Caraion', 0.6146), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 0.3031), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.1439), ('Ivanescu', 0.1351), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.0776), ('WS_Merwin', 0.0467), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0418), ('Sterian', 0.0356), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0326), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.0322), ('G_Snyder', 0.01296), ('T_Roethke', 0.0129), ('D_Justice', 0.0121), ('WE_Stafford', 0.0121), ('J_Ashbery', 0.0121), ('D_Levertov', 0.0121), ('M_Rukeyser', 0.0092), ('O_Nash', 0.0073), ('K_Shapiro', 0.0073), ('K_Patchen', 0.0067), ('R_Duncan', 0.0066), ('C_Olson', 0.0066), ('P_Viereck', 0.0063), ('J_Wright', 0.0063), 352 ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.0063), ('G_Corso', 0.0063), ('R_Bly', 0.0063), ('R_Lowell', 0.0059), ('A_Tate', 0.0059), ('ee_cummings', 0.0059), ('R_Wilbur', 0.0059), ('R_Jarrell', 0.0059), ('J_Berryman', 0.0059), ('S_Kunitz', 0.0059), ('S_Plath', 0.0059), ('H_Nemerov', 0.0059), ('JC_Ransom', 0.0059), ('A_Rich', 0.0023), ('D_Schwartz', 0.0023), ('A_Sexton', 0.0023), ('A_Hecht', 0.0023), ('L_Hughes', 0.0022), ('G_Kinnel', 0.0022), ('L_Simpson', 0.0022), ('LeRoi_Jones', 0.0022), ('E_Bishop', 0.0022), ('D_Wakoski', 0.0022), ('RP_Warren', 0.0022), ('R_Whittemore', 0.0022), ('L_Bogan', 0.0022), ('R_Eberhart', 0.0022), ('WH_Auden', 0.0022), ('WJ_Smith', 0.0022), ('R_Creeley', 0.0021), ('K_Koch', 0.0021), ('J_Dickey', 0.0021), ('K_Rexroth', 0.0021), ("F_O'Hara", 0.0021), ('J_Oppenheimer', 0.0021), ('J_Merrill', 0.0021), ('B_Deutsch', 0.00199), ('L_Untermeyer', 0.00196), ('C_Aiken', 0.00132), ('M_Moore', 0.00132), all other nodes = 0]) Closeness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Caraion', 0.6047619047619047), ('WS_Merwin', 0.49609375), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.4810), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 0.4774), ('D_Justice', 0.4738), ('WE_Stafford', 0.4738), ('J_Ashbery', 0.4738), ('D_Levertov', 0.4738), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.4703), ('G_Snyder', 0.4601), ('T_Roethke', 0.4601), ('P_Viereck', 0.4503), ('J_Wright', 0.4503), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.4503), ('G_Corso', 0.4503), ('R_Bly', 0.4503), ('R_Lowell', 0.4471), ('A_Tate', 0.4471), ('ee_cummings', 0.4471), ('R_Wilbur', 0.4471), ('R_Jarrell', 0.4471), ('J_Berryman', 0.4471), ('S_Kunitz', 0.4471), ('S_Plath', 0.4471), ('H_Nemerov', 0.4471), ('JC_Ransom', 0.4471), ('O_Nash', 0.4349), ('K_Shapiro', 0.4349), ('R_Duncan', 0.4319), ('C_Olson', 0.4319), ('L_Hughes', 0.4261), ('G_Kinnel', 0.4261), ('L_Simpson', 0.4261), ('LeRoi_Jones', 0.4261), ('E_Bishop', 0.4261), ('D_Wakoski', 0.4261), ('RP_Warren', 0.4261), ('R_Whittemore', 0.4261), ('L_Bogan', 0.4261), ('R_Eberhart', 0.4261), ('WH_Auden', 0.4261), ('WJ_Smith', 0.4261), ('M_Rukeyser', 0.4177), ('K_Patchen', 0.4096), ('A_Rich', 0.4070), ('D_Schwartz', 0.4070), ('A_Sexton', 0.4070), ('A_Hecht', 0.4070), ('Ivanescu', 0.4070), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.4044), ('R_Creeley', 0.3993), ('K_Koch', 0.3993), ('J_Dickey', 0.3993), ('K_Rexroth', 0.3993), ("F_O'Hara", 0.3993), ('J_Oppenheimer', 0.3993), ('J_Merrill', 0.3993), ('D_Hall', 0.3779), ('JG_Fletcher', 0.3779), ('E_Roditi', 0.3779), ('AR_Ammons', 0.3779), ('E_Jarrett', 0.3779), ('L_Zukofsky', 0.3779), ('D_Etter', 0.3779), ('N_Willard', 0.3779), ('S_Sandy', 0.3779), ('V_Contoski', 0.3779), ('P_Blackburn', 0.3779), ('XJ_Kennedy', 0.3779), ('J_Langland', 0.3779), ('CW_Hines', 0.3779), ('J_Fields', 0.3779), ('E_Bowers', 0.3779), ('J_Haines', 0.3779), ('Georgia_D_Johnson', 0.3779), ('J_Wieners', 0.3779), ('A_Raybin', 0.3779), ('H_Gregory', 0.3779), ('C_Major', 0.3779), ('R_Mezey', 0.3779), ('R_Kelly', 0.3779), ('J_Anderson', 0.3779), ('O_Williams', 0.3779), ('HJ_Bond', 0.3779), ('J_Unterecker', 0.3779), ('A_Bontemps', 0.3779), ('W_Cuney', 0.3779), ('M_Gold', 0.3779), ('B_Deutsch', 0.3567), ('Sterian', 0.3547), ('TS_Eliot', 0.3527), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.3508), ('C_Aiken', 0.3489), ('M_Moore', 0.3489), ('L_Untermeyer', 0.3324), ('T_McGrath', 0.3239), ('M_Sarton', 0.3239), ('R_Francis', 0.3239), ('M_Van_Doren', 0.3239), ('M_Solomon', 0.3239), ('Winfield_Scott', 0.3239), ('M_Zaturenska', 0.3239), ('H_Doolittle', 0.3239), ('Ph_McGinley', 0.3239), ('L_Riding', 0.3239), ('R_Jeffers', 0.3239), ('E_Field', 0.2809), ('R_Howard', 0.2809), ('L_Mueller', 0.2809), ('W_Kees', 0.2809), ('C_Kizer', 0.2809), ('A_Dugan', 0.2809), ('B_Guest', 0.2886), ('B_Kaufman', 0.2886), ('J_Kerouac', 0.2886), ('T_Raworth', 0.2886), ('Ph_Lamantia', 0.2886), ('D_Hoffman', 0.2886), ('J_Laughlin', 0.2886), ('W_Everson', 0.2623), ('G_Brooks', 0.2623), ('Blaga', 0.2613), ('Baconsky', 0.2613), ('M_March', 0.2602), ('D_Naone', 0.2602), ('P_Engle', 0.2602), ('P_Meinke', 0.2602), ('M_Strand', 0.2602)]) Eigenvector centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Caraion', 0.5290), ('Levitchi_&_Dorin', 0.3644), ('Teodorescu_&_Negosanu', 0.2055), ('Ivanescu', 0.2017), ('WS_Merwin', 0.1171), ('WE_Stafford', 0.1146), ('J_Ashbery', 0.1146), ('D_Levertov', 0.1146), ('D_Justice', 0.11460), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.1045), ('T_Roethke', 0.1019), ('G_Snyder', 0.1019), ('L_Ferlinghetti', 0.0994), ('R_Bly', 0.0968), ('J_Wright', 0.0968), ('WD_Snodgrass', 0.0968), ('G_Corso', 0.0968), ('P_Viereck', 0.0968), ('R_Jarrell', 0.0964), ('R_Wilbur', 0.09649774261370567), ('J_Berryman', 0.09649774261370567), ('A_Tate', 0.09649774261370565), ('S_Kunitz', 0.09649774261370565), ('JC_Ransom', 0.09649774261370565), ('H_Nemerov', 0.09649774261370564), ('S_Plath', 0.09649774261370563), ('R_Lowell', 0.09649774261370561), ('ee_cummings', 0.0964977426137056), ('O_Nash', 0.0838717379497507), ('K_Shapiro', 0.08387173794975065), ('C_Olson', 0.08249726872453911), ('R_Duncan', 0.0824972687245391), ('G_Kinnel', 0.07872334598270926), ('RP_Warren', 0.07872334598270926), ('WH_Auden', 0.07872334598270923), ('L_Simpson', 0.07872334598270922), ('LeRoi_Jones', 0.07872334598270922), ('R_Whittemore', 0.07872334598270922), ('L_Bogan', 0.07872334598270922), ('L_Hughes', 0.0787233459827092), ('E_Bishop', 0.0787233459827092), ('D_Wakoski', 0.0787233459827092), ('R_Eberhart', 0.0787233459827092), ('WJ_Smith', 0.0787233459827092), ('K_Patchen', 0.0698712640605841), ('M_Rukeyser', 0.06953867897890635), 353 ('J_Oppenheimer', 0.06472287209354272), ('K_Koch', 0.0647228720935427), ("F_O'Hara", 0.0647228720935427), ('J_Merrill', 0.06472287209354269), ('R_Creeley', 0.06472287209354266), ('K_Rexroth', 0.06472287209354266), ('J_Dickey', 0.06472287209354265), ('D_Schwartz', 0.06439028701186493), ('A_Rich', 0.06439028701186492), ('A_Sexton', 0.06439028701186492), ('A_Hecht', 0.06439028701186487), ('Sterian', 0.05843457727759618), ('TS_Eliot', 0.050668483668664076), ('B_Deutsch', 0.05021443731451494), ('C_Aiken', 0.04988185223283722), ('M_Moore', 0.04988185223283718), ('CW_Hines', 0.04661589038086852), ('J_Unterecker', 0.04661589038086852), ('JG_Fletcher', 0.046615890380868504), ('L_Zukofsky', 0.046615890380868504), ('H_Gregory', 0.0466158903808685), ('R_Kelly', 0.0466158903808685), ('A_Bontemps', 0.04661589038086849), ('W_Cuney', 0.04661589038086849), ('AR_Ammons', 0.04661589038086848), ('S_Sandy', 0.04661589038086848), ('XJ_Kennedy', 0.04661589038086848), ('J_Langland', 0.04661589038086848), ('J_Fields', 0.04661589038086848), ('J_Wieners', 0.04661589038086848), ('A_Raybin', 0.04661589038086848), ('C_Major', 0.04661589038086848), ('O_Williams', 0.04661589038086848), ('D_Hall', 0.046615890380868476), ('E_Roditi', 0.046615890380868476), ('N_Willard', 0.046615890380868476), ('V_Contoski', 0.046615890380868476), ('E_Bowers', 0.046615890380868476), ('J_Haines', 0.046615890380868476), ('Georgia_D_Johnson', 0.046615890380868476), ('E_Jarrett', 0.04661589038086847), ('D_Etter', 0.04661589038086847), ('R_Mezey', 0.04661589038086847), ('J_Anderson', 0.04661589038086847), ('P_Blackburn', 0.04661589038086846), ('M_Gold', 0.04661589038086846), ('HJ_Bond', 0.046615890380868455), ('L_Untermeyer', 0.03725584756888221), ('H_Doolittle', 0.03210745560184079), ('L_Riding', 0.03210745560184079), ('Winfield_Scott', 0.03210745560184076), ('R_Francis', 0.03210745560184075), ('T_McGrath', 0.032107455601840744), ('M_Sarton', 0.032107455601840744), ('M_Zaturenska', 0.032107455601840744), ('Ph_McGinley', 0.03210745560184074), ('R_Jeffers', 0.03210745560184074), ('M_Van_Doren', 0.03210745560184073), ('M_Solomon', 0.03210745560184073), ('Marin_Sorescu', 0.029441732012630013), ('B_Guest', 0.018106981712674216), ('Ph_Lamantia', 0.018106981712674216), ('B_Kaufman', 0.018106981712674202), ('J_Kerouac', 0.018106981712674202), ('T_Raworth', 0.018106981712674195), ('D_Hoffman', 0.018106981712674185), ('J_Laughlin', 0.018106981712674178), ('R_Howard', 0.01777439663099646), ('L_Mueller', 0.01777439663099645), ('C_Kizer', 0.017774396630996437), ('A_Dugan', 0.017774396630996437), ('W_Kees', 0.01777439663099643), ('E_Field', 0.017774396630996427), ('W_Everson', 0.005148391967041429), ('G_Brooks', 0.005148391967041428), ('Baconsky', 0.004464158490660197), ('Blaga', 0.004464158490660186), ('M_March', 0.0025939706189631916), ('M_Strand', 0.002593970618963191), ('P_Engle', 0.00259397061896319), ('D_Naone', 0.0025939706189631695), ('P_Meinke', 0.0025939706189631686)]) The degrees for all vertices in G are: DegreeView({'E_Field': 1, 'D_Hall': 1, 'R_Lowell': 3, 'Blaga': 1, 'T_McGrath': 1, 'JG_Fletcher': 1, 'L_Hughes': 2, 'Levitchi_&_Dorin': 54, 'R_Creeley': 2, 'B_Guest': 1, 'A_Tate': 3, 'K_Koch': 2, 'M_March': 1, 'G_Kinnel': 2, 'L_Ferlinghetti': 4, 'D_Naone': 1, 'E_Roditi': 1, 'L_Simpson': 2, 'AR_Ammons': 1, 'LeRoi_Jones': 2, 'P_Engle': 1, 'M_Sarton': 1, 'WS_Merwin': 5, 'E_Jarrett': 1, 'L_Zukofsky': 1, 'D_Etter': 1, 'N_Willard': 1, 'ee_cummings': 3, 'S_Sandy': 1, 'R_Wilbur': 3, 'P_Meinke': 1, 'Baconsky': 1, 'R_Francis': 1, 'M_Van_Doren': 1, 'E_Bishop': 2, 'R_Jarrell': 3, 'B_Kaufman': 1, 'Marin_Sorescu': 8, 'R_Howard': 1, 'V_Contoski': 1, 'J_Kerouac': 1, 'P_Viereck': 3, 'P_Blackburn': 1, 'M_Solomon': 1, 'XJ_Kennedy': 1, 'O_Nash': 3, 'J_Langland': 1, 'CW_Hines': 1, 'L_Untermeyer': 2, 'R_Duncan': 3, 'T_Raworth': 1, 'Winfield_Scott': 1, 'D_Wakoski': 2, 'Ph_Lamantia': 1, 'J_Dickey': 2, 'C_Olson': 3, 'J_Fields': 1, 'K_Rexroth': 2, 'D_Justice': 4, 'M_Zaturenska': 1, 'M_Rukeyser': 3, 'RP_Warren': 2, 'W_Everson': 1, 'WE_Stafford': 4, "F_O'Hara": 2, 'L_Mueller': 1, 'J_Ashbery': 4, 'E_Bowers': 1, 'TS_Eliot': 4, 'R_Whittemore': 2, 'L_Bogan': 2, 'C_Aiken': 2, 'J_Berryman': 3, 'K_Patchen': 3, 'S_Kunitz': 3, 'S_Plath': 3, 'K_Shapiro': 3, 'D_Levertov': 4, 'J_Haines': 1, 'D_Hoffman': 1, 'Georgia_D_Johnson': 1, 'J_Wieners': 1, 'A_Rich': 2, 'J_Wright': 3, 'H_Nemerov': 3, 'W_Kees': 1, 'M_Strand': 1, 'A_Raybin': 1, 'J_Laughlin': 1, 'Sterian': 10, 'WD_Snodgrass': 3, 'B_Deutsch': 2, 'H_Gregory': 1, 'C_Major': 1, 'D_Schwartz': 2, 'R_Eberhart': 2, 'A_Ginsberg': 5, 'R_Mezey': 1, 'WH_Auden': 2, 'H_Doolittle': 1, 'G_Snyder': 4, 'C_Kizer': 1, 'Teodorescu_&_Negosanu': 32, 'G_Corso': 3, 'R_Kelly': 1, 'WJ_Smith': 2, 'G_Brooks': 1, 'JC_Ransom': 3, 'J_Anderson': 1, 'T_Roethke': 4, 'M_Moore': 2, 'Ph_McGinley': 1, 'J_Oppenheimer': 2, 'A_Sexton': 2, 'O_Williams': 1, 'L_Riding': 1, 'Caraion': 84, 'R_Jeffers': 1, 'A_Hecht': 2, 'HJ_Bond': 1, 'J_Unterecker': 1, 'A_Dugan': 1, 'J_Merrill': 2, 'R_Bly': 3, 'Ivanescu': 31, 'A_Bontemps': 1, 'W_Cuney': 1, 'M_Gold': 1}) 354 Annex 7 – NetworkX Analysis of the U.S. and Canadian Contemporary Poetry Author-Collections Translated between 1990 and 2017 Morrison, Jim. 1995/1997. O rugă americană și alte scrieri (An American Prayer and Other Writings) (Virgilia and Mara Popa, Trans.). Chișinău; Ploiești: Quo Vadis? Press; Cartea de nisip; Karmat Press. Codrescu, Andrei. 1997. Candoare străină: Poeme alese, 1970-1996 (Alien Candor: Selected Poems, 1970‐1996) (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.). București: Editura Fundației Culturale Române. Codrescu, Andrei. 2000. Selected Poetry. Poezii alese (Ioana Ieronim, Trans.). Pitești: Paralela 45. Eliot, T. S. 2000. Țara pustie (The Wasteland) (Ion Pillat, Aurel Covaci, Trans.). București: Cartea românească. Simic, Charles. 2002. Cartea zeilor şi a demonilor (The Book of Gods and Demons) (Mircea Cărtărescu, Trans.). Pitești: Paralela 45. Eliot, T. S. 2004. The Waste Land (Alex Moldovan, Trans.). Pitești: Paralela 45. Gritsman, Andrey. 2004. In Transit (Doris Sângeorzan, Trans.). Craiova: Scrisul românesc. Cohen, Leonard. 2006. Cartea aleanului (Book of Longing) (Cristina Chevereșan and Șerban Foarță, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. Clarke, George Elliott. 2006. Poeme incendiare (Flavia Cosma, Trans.) Oradea: Cogito Kaminsky, Ilya. 2007. Dansând în Odessa (Dancing in Odessa). (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). București: Vinea. Bukowski, Charles. 2007. Dragostea e un cîine venit din iad. 61 de poeme erotice (Love is A Dog from Hell. 61 Erotic Poems) (Dan Sociu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. Baker, David. 2009. Omul alchimic (Alchemical Man. Selected Poems). (Chris Tanasescu, Trans.). București: Vinea. Foster, Edward. 2009. Febra albă. Poeme alese (Alexandra Carides and Carmen Firan, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc. Ginsberg, Allen. 2010. Howl și alte poeme. (Howl and Other Poems.) (Domnica Drumea and Petru Ilieşu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. Mindock, Gloria. 2010. La portile raiului (At Heaven’s Doors) (Flavia Cosma, Trans.). Iași: Ars Longa Press. Milazzo, Richard. 2010. Umbre din Est/Eastern Shadows (Adrian Sângeorzan, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc; Cummings, E. E. 2011. Poeme erotice (Erotic Poems) (Dan Sociu, Trans.): București: Art. Eliot, T. S. 2011. Opere poetice. 1909-1962 (Selected Poems (1909-1962)) (Mircea Ivănescu et. al., Trans.). București: Humanitas Fiction. Dylan, Bob. 2012. Suflare în vânt (Blowing in the Wind) (Mircea Cărtărescu, Trans.). București: Humanitas Fiction. Plath, Sylvia. 2012. Poeme alese (Selected Poems). (Elena Ciobanu, Trans.) Ploiești: Paralela 45. Milazzo, Richard. 2012. Acolo unde îngerii îşi arcuiesc spatele şi câinii sunt în trecere/Where Angels Arch Their Backs and Dogs Pass Through (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.). Craiova: Editura Scrisul românesc. 355 Rothenberg, Jerome. 2013. Mistici, hoți și nebuni (Mystics, Thieves and Madmen). (Raluca & Chris Tanasescu (MARGENTO), Trans,). Bistrița: Max Blecher. Berryman, John. 2013. Cântece vis (Dream Songs) (Radu Vancu, Trans.). Bistrița: Max Blecher. Kleefeld, Carolyn Mary. 2014. The Divine Kiss. Sărut divin. Ioan Nistor. În flăcările păpădiilor/In the Flames of Dandelions. Cluj-Napoca: Limes. Bennett, Maria. 2014. Because you Love / Fiindcă iubeşti. Mircea Petean. Din poemele Anei / From the Poems of Ana (Olimpia Iacob & Maria Bennett, Trans. from the Romanian; Olimpia Iacob, Trans. from the English. Cluj-Napoca: Limes. Stanley H. Barkan; Daniel Corbu. 2014. The Machine for Inventing Ideals / Maşina de inventat idealuri (Olimpia Iacob & Jim Kacian, Trans. From the Romanian; Olimpia Iacob, Trans. From the English). Iași: Princeps Multimedia. Mayne, Seymour. 2014. Caligrafomanție / Augural Calligraphies. (Raluca & Chris Tanasescu (MARGENTO), Trans.). București: Tracus Arte. Hirsch, Edward. 2014. Foc nocturn (Răzvan Hotăranu, Trans.). Craiova: Scrisul românesc. Vincenz, Marc. 2015. Fabrica de propagandă sau apropo de copaci (The Propaganda Factory) (Marius Surleac, Trans.). București : Tracus Arte. Novăcescu, Constantin and Kacian, Jim. 2016. O linişte stranie / Strange Silence (Olimpia Iacob & Jim Kacian, Trans. from the Romanian; Olimpia Iacob, Trans. from the English). Timişoara: Waldpress. Tâlvescu, Dumitru and Cook, Rebecca. 2016. Umbra apei / The Shadow of Water (Olimpia Iacob & Rebecca Cook, Trans. from the Romanian; Olimpia Iacob, Trans. from the English). Deva: Emia, Nistor, Ioan and Wolak, Bill. 2016. Seminţe căutătoare de vânt / Wind-Seeking Seeds (Olimpia Iacob, Trans. from the English; Olimpia Iacob & Bill Wolak, Trans. from the Romanian). Satu-Mare: Citadela. Hirsch, Edward. 2017. Focul viu. Poeme vechi și noi. 1975-2010 (Al. B. Stănescu, Trans.). Iași: Polirom. G's nodes are: [('A_Ginsberg', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Cogito', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('A_Gritsman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Scrisul_romanesc', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('GE_Clarke', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('CM_Kleefeld', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('S_Mayne', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('TS_Eliot', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('SH_Barkan', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Morrison', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Citadela', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Polirom', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('I_Kaminsky', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Berryman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('L_Cohen', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Emia', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Cartea_romaneasca', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('S_Plath', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('G_Mindock', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Milazzo', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('R_Cook', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Limes', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Humanitas', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Paralela_45', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('E_Foster', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('B_Wolak', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('J_Rothenberg', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Cartea_de_nisip', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('A_Codrescu', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Waldpress', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Art', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('B_Dylan', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Vinea', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('M_Bennett', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Bukowski', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Simic', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('ee_cummings', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Hirsch', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Princeps_Multimedia', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('J_Kacian', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Vincenz', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Max_Blecher', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Tracus_Arte', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('D_Baker', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Ars_Longa', {'capacity': 'publisher'})] 356 G's edges are: [('A_Ginsberg', 'Polirom', {'translator': 'Polirom', 'weight': 1}), ('Cogito', 'GE_Clarke', {'translator': 'Cosma', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Gritsman', 'Scrisul_romanesc', {'translator': 'Sangeorzan', 'weight': 1}), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 'R_Milazzo', {'translator': 'Sangeorzan_&_Hotaranu', 'weight': 2}), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 'E_Hirsch', {'translator': 'Hotaranu', 'weight': 1}), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 'E_Foster', {'translator': 'Carides_&_Firan', 'weight': 1}), ('CM_Kleefeld', 'Limes', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 2}), ('S_Mayne', 'Tracus_Arte', {'translator': 'Raluca_Tanasescu_&_Chris_Tanasescu', 'weight': 1}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Cartea_romaneasca', {'translator': 'Covaci_&_Pillat', 'weight': 1}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Humanitas', {'translator': 'Foarta_&_Marculescu_&_Racovita_&_Ivanescu', 'weight': 1}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Paralela_45', {'translator': 'Moldovan', 'weight': 1}), ('SH_Barkan', 'Princeps_Multimedia', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Morrison', 'Cartea_de_nisip', {'translator': 'V_Popa_&_M_Popa', 'weight': 1}), ('Citadela', 'B_Wolak', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 1}), ('Polirom', 'E_Hirsch', {'translator': 'Stanescu', 'weight': 1}), ('Polirom', 'C_Bukowski', {'translator': 'Sociu', 'weight': 1}), ('Polirom', 'L_Cohen', {'translator': 'Cartarescu_&_(Foarta_&_Cheveresan)', 'weight': 2}), ('I_Kaminsky', 'Vinea', {'translator': 'Chris_Tanasescu', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Berryman', 'Max_Blecher', {'translator': 'Vancu', 'weight': 1}), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 'A_Codrescu', {'translator': 'Ieronim', 'weight': 1}), ('Emia', 'R_Cook', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Plath', 'Paralela_45', {'translator': 'Ciobanu', 'weight': 1}), ('G_Mindock', 'Ars_Longa', {'translator': 'Cosma', 'weight': 1}), ('Limes', 'M_Bennett', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 1}), ('Humanitas', 'B_Dylan', {'translator': 'Cartarescu', 'weight': 1}), ('Paralela_45', 'C_Simic', {'translator': 'Cartarescu', 'weight': 1}), ('Paralela_45', 'A_Codrescu', {'translator': 'Ieronim', 'weight': 1}), ('J_Rothenberg', 'Max_Blecher', {'translator': 'Raluca_Tanasescu_&_Chris_Tanasescu', 'weight': 1}), ('Waldpress', 'J_Kacian', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 1}), ('Art', 'ee_cummings', {'translator': 'Sociu', 'weight': 1}), ('Vinea', 'D_Baker', {'translator': 'Chris_Tanasescu', 'weight': 1}), ('M_Vincenz', 'Tracus_Arte', {'translator': 'Surleac', 'weight': 1})] SIZE The number of G's components: 14 G's size: 46 The number of edges in G: 32 G0's size: 9 The number of edges in G0: 8 G1's size: 9 The number of edges in G1: 8 G2's size: 3 The number of edges in G2: 2 DEGREE The average degree for G: 1.3913 G's weighted average degree: 1.3913 The average degree for G0: 1.(7) G0's weighted average degree: 2.2222 G1's average degree: 1.(7) G1's weighted average degree: 1.(7) G2's average degree: 1.(3) G2's weighted average degree: 2.0) DENSITY G's density: 0.0309 G1's density: 0.(2) G0's density: 0.(2) G2's density: 0.(6) G0's nodes are: [('R_Milazzo', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('C_Bukowski', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Ginsberg', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Hirsch', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('E_Foster', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('L_Cohen', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Scrisul_romanesc', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('A_Gritsman', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Polirom', {'capacity': 'publisher'})] G0's edges are: [('R_Milazzo', 'Scrisul_romanesc', {'translator': 'Sangeorzan_&_Hotaranu', 'weight': 2}), ('C_Bukowski', 'Polirom', {'translator': 'Sociu', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Ginsberg', 'Polirom', {'translator': 'Polirom', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Hirsch', 357 'Scrisul_romanesc', {'translator': 'Hotaranu', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Hirsch', 'Polirom', {'translator': 'Stanescu', 'weight': 1}), ('E_Foster', 'Scrisul_romanesc', {'translator': 'Carides_&_Firan', 'weight': 1}), ('L_Cohen', 'Polirom', {'translator': 'Cartarescu_&_(Foarta_&_Cheveresan)', 'weight': 2}), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 'A_Gritsman', {'translator': 'Sangeorzan', 'weight': 1})] G1's nodes are: [('C_Simic', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('Cartea_romaneasca', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('S_Plath', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('A_Codrescu', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Paralela_45', {'capacity': 'publisher'}), ('B_Dylan', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('TS_Eliot', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Humanitas', {'capacity': 'publisher'})] G1's edges are: [('C_Simic', 'Paralela_45', {'translator': 'Cartarescu', 'weight': 1}), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 'A_Codrescu', {'translator': 'Ieronim', 'weight': 1}), ('Cartea_romaneasca', 'TS_Eliot', {'translator': 'Covaci_&_Pillat', 'weight': 1}), ('S_Plath', 'Paralela_45', {'translator': 'Ciobanu', 'weight': 1}), ('A_Codrescu', 'Paralela_45', {'translator': 'Ieronim', 'weight': 1}), ('Paralela_45', 'TS_Eliot', {'translator': 'Moldovan', 'weight': 1}), ('B_Dylan', 'Humanitas', {'translator': 'Cartarescu', 'weight': 1}), ('TS_Eliot', 'Humanitas', {'translator': 'Foarta_&_Marculescu_&_Racovita_&_Ivanescu', 'weight': 1})] G2's nodes are: [('CM_Kleefeld', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('M_Bennett', {'capacity': 'author'}), ('Limes', {'capacity': 'publisher'})] G2's edges are: [('CM_Kleefeld', 'Limes', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 2}), ('M_Bennett', 'Limes', {'translator': 'Iacob', 'weight': 1})] G's average clustering: 0.0 G0's average clustering: 0.0 G1's average clustering: 0.0 G2's average clustering: 0.0 CENTRALITY Betweenness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Paralela_45', 0.0212), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 0.0181), ('Polirom', 0.0181), ('TS_Eliot', 0.0171), ('E_Hirsch', 0.0161), ('Humanitas', 0.0070), ('A_Codrescu', 0.0070), ('Limes', 0.0010), ('Vinea', 0.0010), ('Max_Blecher', 0.0010), ('Tracus_Arte', 0.0010), all other nodes = 0.0]) Closeness centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Paralela_45', 0.1094), ('TS_Eliot', 0.1015), ('E_Hirsch', 0.1015), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 0.0948), ('Polirom', 0.0948), ('A_Codrescu', 0.0790), ('Humanitas', 0.0748), ('S_Plath', 0.0711), ('C_Simic', 0.07111), ('Cartea_romaneasca', 0.0677), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0646), ('A_Gritsman', 0.0646), ('L_Cohen', 0.0646), ('R_Milazzo', 0.0646), ('E_Foster', 0.06464), ('C_Bukowski', 0.0646), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 0.05688), ('B_Dylan', 0.0547), ('Limes', 0.0444), ('Vinea', 0.0444), ('Max_Blecher', 0.04444), ('Tracus_Arte', 0.04444), ('D_Baker', 0.0296), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.0296), ('S_Mayne', 0.0296), ('I_Kaminsky', 0.0296), ('J_Berryman', 0.0296), ('M_Bennett', 0.0296), ('J_Rothenberg', 0.0296), ('M_Vincenz', 0.0296), ('Cogito', 0.0222), ('GE_Clarke', 0.0222), ('J_Morrison', 0.0222), ('Citadela', 0.0222), ('G_Mindock', 0.0222), ('R_Cook', 0.0222), ('Emia', 0.0222), ('B_Wolak', 0.0222), ('Cartea_de_nisip', 0.0222), ('Waldpress', 0.0222), ('SH_Barkan', 0.0222), ('Art', 0.0222), ('ee_cummings', 0.0222), ('Princeps_Multimedia', 0.0222), ('J_Kacian', 0.0222), ('Ars_Longa', 0.0222)]) 358 Eigenvector centrality for G: OrderedDict([('Paralela_45', 0.6005), ('TS_Eliot', 0.4815), ('A_Codrescu', 0.3332), ('C_Simic', 0.2672), ('S_Plath', 0.2672), ('Humanitas', 0.2672), ('Cartea_romaneasca', 0.2143), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 0.1483), ('B_Dylan', 0.1189), ('Limes', 3.3694e-16), ('CM_Kleefeld', 2.6181e-16), ('M_Bennett', 2.2663e-16), ('Max_Blecher', 1.606e-16), ('J_Berryman', 1.5043e-16), ('J_Rothenberg', 1.1607e-16), ('Emia', 3.9499e-17), ('Citadela', 3.4826e-17), ('R_Cook', 2.9062e-17), ('B_Wolak', 2.723e-17), ('G_Mindock', 2.6790e-17), ('ee_cummings', 1.1788e-17), ('GE_Clarke', 9.0253e- 18), ('Ars_Longa', 7.470e-18), ('Cogito', 4.5094e-18), ('D_Baker', -5.3809e-19), ('Art', -8.5407e-18), ('J_Kacian', -1.5133e- 17), ('SH_Barkan', -2.6675e-17), ('J_Morrison', -3.5745e-17), ('Cartea_de_nisip', -4.2686e-17), ('Princeps_Multimedia', - 5.1257e-17), ('Waldpress', -6.8806e-17), ('Vinea', -8.8241e-17), ('I_Kaminsky', -1.4745e-16), ('S_Mayne', -3.3695e-16), ('M_Vincenz', -3.9284e-16), ('Tracus_Arte', -5.4051e-16), ('E_Foster', -6.0199e-14), ('R_Milazzo', -6.035e-14), ('A_Gritsman', -6.0435e-14), ('A_Ginsberg', -6.0796e-14), ('C_Bukowski', -6.0819e-14), ('L_Cohen', -6.0879e-14), ('E_Hirsch', -1.2113e-13), ('Scrisul_romanesc', -1.3392e-13), ('Polirom', -1.3509e-13)]) Betweenness centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('Polirom', 0.6428), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 0.64285), ('E_Hirsch', 0.57142), ('R_Milazzo', 0.0), ('C_Bukowski', 0.0), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.0), ('L_Cohen', 0.0), ('E_Foster', 0.0), ('A_Gritsman', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('E_Hirsch', 0.5714), ('Polirom', 0.5(3)), ('Scrisul_romanesc', 0.5(3)), ('R_Milazzo', 0.3636), ('C_Bukowski', 0.3636), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.3636), ('L_Cohen', 0.3636), ('E_Foster', 0.3636), ('A_Gritsman', 0.3636)]) EigenVector centrality for G0: OrderedDict([('Scrisul_romanesc', 0.4999), ('Polirom', 0.4999), ('E_Hirsch', 0.4472), ('R_Milazzo', 0.2236), ('C_Bukowski', 0.2236), ('A_Ginsberg', 0.2236), ('L_Cohen', 0.2236), ('E_Foster', 0.2236), ('A_Gritsman', 0.2236)]) Betweenness centrality for G1: OrderedDict([('Paralela_45', 0.75), ('TS_Eliot', 0.6071), ('Humanitas', 0.25), ('A_Codrescu', 0.25), ('C_Simic', 0.0), ('Cartea_romaneasca', 0.0), ('S_Plath', 0.0), ('B_Dylan', 0.0), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G1: OrderedDict([('Paralela_45', 0.6153), ('TS_Eliot', 0.5714), ('A_Codrescu', 0.(4)), ('Humanitas', 0.4210), ('C_Simic', 0.4), ('S_Plath', 0.4), ('Cartea_romaneasca', 0.3809), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 0.32), ('B_Dylan', 0.3076)]) Eigenvector centrality for G1: OrderedDict([('Paralela_45', 0.6005), ('TS_Eliot', 0.4815), ('A_Codrescu', 0.3332), ('Humanitas', 0.2672), ('C_Simic', 0.2672), ('S_Plath', 0.2672), ('Cartea_romaneasca', 0.2143), ('Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane', 0.1483), ('B_Dylan', 0.1189)]) Betweenness centrality for G2: OrderedDict([('Limes', 1.0), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.0), ('M_Bennett', 0.0)]) Closeness centrality for G2: OrderedDict([('Limes', 1.0), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.(6)), ('M_Bennett', 0.(6))]) 359 Eigenvector centrality for G2: OrderedDict([('Limes', 0.7071), ('CM_Kleefeld', 0.5), ('M_Bennett', 0.5)]) The degrees for all vertices in G are: DegreeView({'A_Ginsberg': 1, 'D_Baker': 1, 'Cogito': 1, 'A_Gritsman': 1, 'Scrisul_romanesc': 4, 'GE_Clarke': 1, 'CM_Kleefeld': 1, 'S_Mayne': 1, 'Polirom': 4, 'Humanitas': 2, 'J_Morrison': 1, 'Citadela': 1, 'TS_Eliot': 3, 'I_Kaminsky': 1, 'J_Berryman': 1, 'L_Cohen': 1, 'M_Bennett': 1, 'Cartea_romaneasca': 1, 'S_Plath': 1, 'G_Mindock': 1, 'R_Milazzo': 1, 'R_Cook': 1, 'Limes': 2, 'Emia': 1, 'E_Foster': 1, 'B_Wolak': 1, 'J_Rothenberg': 1, 'Cartea_de_nisip': 1, 'A_Codrescu': 2, 'Waldpress': 1, 'C_Simic': 1, 'SH_Barkan': 1, 'Vinea': 2, 'Editura_Fundatiei_Culturale_Romane': 1, 'C_Bukowski': 1, 'Art': 1, 'ee_cummings': 1, 'B_Dylan': 1, 'E_Hirsch': 2, 'Princeps_Multimedia': 1, 'J_Kacian': 1, 'M_Vincenz': 1, 'Max_Blecher': 2, 'Tracus_Arte': 2, 'Paralela_45': 4, 'Ars_Longa': 1}) 
work_ncfkdb42qvf3lfp76s42cz5oxy	----	Microsoft Word - ubc_2009_spring_grant_brianne.doc WHERE HOPE LIVES: AN EXAMINATION OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN PROTAGONISTS AND EDUCATION SYSTEMS IN CONTEMPORARY NATIVE NORTH AMERICAN YOUNG ADULT FICTION by BRIANNE ALIA MAY GRANT B.A., The University of British Columbia, 2005 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Children’s Literature) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) April 2009 © Brianne Alia May Grant, 2009 ii ABSTRACT Indigenous children’s and young adults’ literature remains in the margins of the academic community – either misidentified as multicultural fiction or left aside in favour of critiquing controversial literature produced by non-Aboriginal writers. Through children’s and young adults’ literature, Aboriginal writers are expressing their own perspectives on the way Western education has affected and continues to affect their lives, and these representations present a significant contribution to the way North American children learn about the history of Aboriginal relations with the dominant society. My thesis examines education issues in a representative sample of contemporary Aboriginal young adult fiction. It is innovative in its application of several forms of Indigenous theory, which provide rich and complex insights into the political and social circumstances of the Aboriginal protagonists. Relationships between land, community, and identity are examined in The Porcupine Year by Anishinabe writer Louise Erdrich, Good for Nothing by Métis author Michel Noël, No Time to Say Goodbye: Stories of Kuper Island Residential School by Sylvia Olsen with Tsartlip community members Rita Morris and Anne Sam, and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part- Time Indian by Spokane / Coeur D’Alene writer Sherman Alexie. Drawing primarily on the critical writing of Robert Warrior, Craig S. Womack, and Kimberly Blaeser, this thesis examines issues of land, community, and identity as manifested in education systems affecting Aboriginal peoples. The primary works for this thesis all convey an unresolved paradox of hope and hopelessness through the contrast between the historical and political context and the protagonists’ emotional strength and connection to their communities and homelands. iii TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT............................................................................................................................................................ ii TABLE OF CONTENTS...................................................................................................................................... iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS................................................................................................................................... v CHAPTER ONE: INTRODUCTION .................................................................................................................. 1 Opening Thoughts ....................................................................................................................................................... 1 Purpose and Rationale ................................................................................................................................................. 3 Rationale for Selecting the Primary Works ................................................................................................................. 6 Research Questions ................................................................................................................................................... 11 Definition of Terms ................................................................................................................................................... 12 Aboriginal Education ...................................................................................................................................... 12 Aboriginal Peoples.......................................................................................................................................... 12 Contemporary ................................................................................................................................................. 12 Dominant Culture............................................................................................................................................ 12 Indigenous Peoples ......................................................................................................................................... 13 Indigenous (Literary) Theories ....................................................................................................................... 13 Native North American ................................................................................................................................... 13 Native North American Critical Theories ....................................................................................................... 13 Settler Society ................................................................................................................................................. 13 Ways of Knowing ........................................................................................................................................... 13 Western Education .......................................................................................................................................... 13 Western Theories ............................................................................................................................................ 13 CHAPTER TWO: LITERATURE REVIEW ................................................................................................... 14 Overview ................................................................................................................................................................... 14 Remembering and Redefining: A Brief History of Education and Aboriginal Peoples ............................................. 15 Aboriginal Education ...................................................................................................................................... 15 Residential Schools ......................................................................................................................................... 18 Assimilation and Public Schools..................................................................................................................... 26 Band Schools and Public Schools Today ........................................................................................................ 30 Rooting Colonial Myths: Indigenous Themes in Children’s Literature ..................................................................... 33 Debunking Colonial Myths: Indigenous Children’s Literature.................................................................................. 41 CHAPTER THREE: THEORY AND METHODS........................................................................................... 51 Overview ................................................................................................................................................................... 51 Western-Derived Theories and Aboriginal Literature ............................................................................................... 51 Native North American Critical Theories.................................................................................................................. 59 Overview......................................................................................................................................................... 59 Major Contributors.......................................................................................................................................... 59 Issues............................................................................................................................................................... 64 Methodological Approaches ........................................................................................................................... 66 CHAPTER 4: LAND, COMMUNITY, AND HISTORY IN THE PORCUPINE YEAR AND GOOD FOR NOTHING ............................................................................................................................................................. 73 Overview ................................................................................................................................................................... 73 The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich ..................................................................................................................... 73 About the Book ............................................................................................................................................... 73 Education amidst a Changing Community and Landscape ............................................................................. 74 Good for Nothing by Michel Noël............................................................................................................................. 81 About the Book ............................................................................................................................................... 81 Education amidst a Changing Community and Landscape ............................................................................. 82 CHAPTER 5: IDENTITY AND COMMUNITY IN NO TIME TO SAY GOODBYE AND THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE DIARY OF A PART-TIME INDIAN ............................................................................. 95 Overview ................................................................................................................................................................... 95 iv No Time to Say Goodbye: Children’s Stories of Kuper Island Residential School by Sylvia Olsen with Rita Morris and Ann Sam ............................................................................................................................................................. 95 About the Book ............................................................................................................................................... 95 Identity and Community in an Education System Away from Home ............................................................. 97 The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie ................................................................... 106 About the Book ............................................................................................................................................. 106 Identity and Community in an Education System Away from Home ........................................................... 107 CHAPTER SIX: CONCLUSION ..................................................................................................................... 117 Final Thoughts......................................................................................................................................................... 117 Further Research...................................................................................................................................................... 120 Works Cited........................................................................................................................................................ 122 Primary Sources ...................................................................................................................................................... 122 Secondary Sources................................................................................................................................................... 124 v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to my thesis supervisor, Judy Brown, and the members of my thesis committee, Dr. Margot Filipenko and Richard Van Camp, who have provided encouragement and direction throughout the writing of my thesis. I would also like to thank Dr. Jan Hare and Judi Saltman for their support in the development of my thesis topic. I owe thanks to the staff of the Xwi7xwa library at UBC for their technical support in the research of my thesis. Many friends and family members were by my side through the traumas and triumphs of thesis writing, and for that I am truly grateful. I would especially like to thank my husband, Brent, for mugs of tea and games of cribbage after long days of research and writing. This thesis is submitted for the multidisciplinary degree of Master of Arts in Children’s Literature. This program is offered jointly by the School of Library, Archival and Information Studies, the Department of English, the Department of Language and Literacy Education, and the Department of Theatre, Film, and Creative Writing. 1 CHAPTER ONE: INTRODUCTION Opening Thoughts My grandfather’s handshake was an unforgettable experience. As a little girl, and even as an adult, I looked forward to trying to match the strength I could feel in his hands. His grip felt like a connection to a part of myself and my history that I could not discover on my own. His handshake was often followed by stories of his life in Canada in the 1920s and 1930s. I was always especially fond of his tales of old British Columbia about running a trap line from Boundary Road and Marine Way in East Vancouver all the way east to Abbotsford. When I read Cherokee1 author Thomas King’s print version of his 2003 Massey Lecture Series for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s radio division, The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative, I was struck by his comment: “the truth about stories is that that’s all we are” (153). I realized then that my grandfather’s stories are an ideological link to the families and communities that came before me. King demonstrates the power of memories and stories in shaping our understanding of the world. As a child I was taken by the notion of the “Indian” in the Wild West – characterizations of Aboriginal peoples I discovered in John Wayne movies and television shows like Bonanza. I grew up in the 1980s in a predominantly Euro-Canadian middle class neighbourhood in the Lower Mainland region of British Columbia. As a member of the Euro- Canadian culture, I had many misconceptions about Aboriginal peoples. My father, however, began to challenge my perspective on the history of Indigenous peoples by discussing with me 1 Where possible, I have included the nation of the Aboriginal scholar or writer at first appearance, which is in accordance with conventions of contemporary academic writing. In his Master’s dissertation, Gregory Young- Ing explains that Aboriginal Peoples wish to be recognized as existing “in a continuum between past and future generations of Aboriginal Peoples” (20). Including the nation of which the scholars or writers are members acknowledges their distinct cultural roots; that they have not been changed by colonization; and that natural cultural change does not mean that they have been absorbed into mainstream society (Young-Ing 20). The spelling of the nation will reflect the spelling provided in the work of the author being discussed. Only the Aboriginal nation is included (for instance, I do not include King’s Greek heritage). 2 the stereotypes and inaccuracies in old Western movies and television programs. I became fascinated by the idea that writers, politicians, and even many of my teachers believed in “TV Indians.”2 I wanted to know why TV Indians existed and what Aboriginal peoples’ experiences were actually like throughout history. As a child, I did not find answers to all of my questions. When I began researching my thesis as an adult, I discovered that many others were also fascinated by the troublesome prevalence of the TV Indian. Researchers investigate stereotypes of Aboriginal peoples as they apply to movies, television, adults’ and children’s fiction, and popular culture among other media. However, I soon discovered that there was very little research addressing Aboriginal peoples’ own stories. When it came to children’s and young adults’ literature, I found only a scant number of published scholarly articles, despite the exponential increase in the publication of Aboriginal literature for children and youth since the 1970s. Clare Bradford’s Unsettling Narratives: Postcolonial Readings of Children’s Literature provides a critical examination of Indigenous children’s and young adults’ texts from Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the United States, but it does not give a comprehensive analysis of the representation of education in these texts – a topic of particular fascination for me. Rauna Kuokkanen (Sami) was one of the few scholars I found who gave a detailed discussion of the representation of education in Indigenous children’s books specifically, but her scope only included boarding schools. I decided to explore this gap in the literature. As I began reading primary texts for my thesis, I kept reflecting on King’s statement about stories. The Aboriginal literature I was discovering for the first time retold parts of 2 I discovered this term in Debbie Reese’s article: “‘Mom, Look! It's George, and He's a TV Indian!’” It refers to both the Wild Indian and Noble Savage stereotypes of Aboriginal peoples often found in children’s media from the early to mid-twentieth century. 3 history that I had understood as unfolding in a completely different manner. The research for my thesis has shown me the ways in which my perspective and upbringing as a member of the dominant culture influences the choices I make as a researcher. My grandfather’s solitary experiences trapping muskrat in a now vanished wilderness in southwest British Columbia both connected me to a landscape of the collective Canadian memory and made me lament that this history is now paved over with highways and strip malls. His story is the truth about how I came to know my home land, community, and political history. In the researching and writing of my thesis, I worked hard to acknowledge my preconceived notions of land and community while I sought to discover the ways that Aboriginal authors portray home lands, community, political history, and education in their writing. Purpose and Rationale Aboriginal authors have been marginalized by the publishing industry and their stories still struggle to find a home on the bookshelves of libraries and schools (Norris 6). Given these circumstances, the goal of analyzing a selected sample of Canadian and American Aboriginal young adult fiction in this thesis is twofold. Primarily, the analysis of fiction by Aboriginal authors will provide insights significantly different from analysing the work about Aboriginal peoples. Aboriginal young adult fiction can speak to the North American history and colonial experience in ways that an outsider perspective most likely cannot capture. Secondly, young adult fiction by Aboriginal authors has experienced a boom in publishing since the 1970s, but it is almost impossible to find scholarly research on this genre. I wanted to research the relatively unexplored genre of young adult fiction, as opposed to the more frequently discussed genres of picture books and traditional tales by Aboriginal authors. This study will analyze selected works of young adult fiction produced by Aboriginal authors to promote dialogue about the political, social, and literary insights of Aboriginal authors. 4 The focus of my thesis is on Aboriginal and Western education systems; a definition of these terms can be found at the end of this chapter. Few North Americans are fully aware of the residential and industrial schooling experience and history. Residential and industrial schools profoundly affected Aboriginal peoples across Canada and the United States, and has recently been highlighted in the apologies by the Assistant Secretary of Indian Affairs, Kevin Gover (Pawnee), in the United States (September 8, 2000) and by Prime Minister Stephen Harper in Canada (June 11, 2008). The literature review in Chapter Two of this thesis contains an overview of Aboriginal education and various types of Western education. Through children’s and young adults’ literature, Aboriginal writers are expressing their own perspective on the way Western education has affected and continues to affect their lives. The representations of Aboriginal and Western education by Aboriginal authors present a significant contribution to the way North American children learn about the history of Aboriginal relations with the dominant society, and therefore have become the focus of this study. The failure to educate children about the relationship between the settler society and Aboriginal peoples has been a dominant theme in the research about Aboriginal peoples in children’s and young adults’ literature in North America. The historic and contemporary stereotyping of Aboriginal peoples in children’s literature has contributed to the inability of North Americans to adequately inform children about North American history. Scholarly research has repeatedly shown the deficiencies of books about Aboriginal peoples by non- Aboriginal authors, and the continued difficulties of Aboriginal authors to be represented by the publishing industry in Canada and the United States (e.g., Norris; Reese, Native Americans; van Ginhoven; Stott, Native Americans; Kwiatek). Concerned members of the public are working to make Aboriginal books accessible (e.g., Reese, American; Oyate, 5 Oyate), because scholars have shown that there is still a lack of children’s books by Aboriginal authors in public libraries and schools (e.g., Slapin & Seale, Through; Norris). Aboriginal children’s and young adults’ literature represents important aspects and perspectives of our history as colonized nations, which makes this literature essential to investigate and include in the teaching of Aboriginal and North American histories. The continual influx of studies demonstrating the inadequacies of literature about Indigenous peoples by non-Indigenous authors is an important step to change publishing trends and standards for writing across cultures. However, the focus on non-Aboriginal writing has come at the expense of researching Aboriginal writing. While gathering information for my literature review, I found that most of the work on Aboriginal peoples in children’s and young adults’ literature focuses on books by non-Aboriginal authors (e.g., Reese, Native American; van Ginhoven; Hausfeld; Monroe; Barron; Day; Abington-Pitre) or on the teaching of Aboriginal information by non-Aboriginal teachers in the public education system. I found some exceptions such as Bradford, Kuokkanen, and Deirdre Kwiatek, who analyzes Aboriginal fiction in the early twentieth century, and Barbara Peireda-Beihl, who analyzes female characters as culture bearers in multicultural children’s books including books by Indigenous authors. My thesis provides an in-depth analysis of education issues in a representative sample of contemporary Aboriginal young adult fiction, and is grounded in the Indigenous theories of Craig Womack, Robert Warrior, and Kimberly Blaeser. My literature review includes an analysis of the secondary and primary literature on Aboriginal themes in books by non-Aboriginal authors as well as children’s and young adults’ literature by Aboriginal authors. 6 Rationale for Selecting the Primary Works As part of my course work for the Master of Arts in Children’s Literature Program at the University of British Columbia, I wrote a paper in the fall of 2006, “Opening the Cache of Canadian Secrets: The Residential School Experience in Books for Children.” This paper was inspired by my discovery of Interior Salish / Métis author Nicola Campbell’s picture book Shi- shi-etko. Campbell tells the story of a young girl reluctantly counting down the days before she is taken to residential school. This part of Canadian history has always troubled me, because it reveals a very disturbing element of Canadian culture often ignored in the public education system. I wanted to further explore books for children about residential school, and initially considered using other picture books as primary texts such as Larry Loyie’s As Long as the Rivers Flow (Cree), Michael Kusugak’s Arctic Stories (Inuit), Chiori Santiago’s Home to Medicine Mountain, and EdNah New Rider Weber’s Rattlesnake Mesa: Stories from a Native American Childhood (Pawnee). These books balance the child’s experience of loss with cultural sensitivity, but the political and historical relationships between the dominant society and Aboriginal peoples were not fully explored in them. Young adult fiction was a more likely fit for the depth of political and historical information that I was seeking. I also found that picture books garnered much more critical discussion than other Aboriginal texts. As Bradford discusses, contemporary young adult fiction often involves a journey undertaken by Indigenous children to colonial institutions, like residential school, or domestic settings, like foster homes, which were “previously invisible because they lay outside the schemata of colonial narratives of settlement and adventure” (Unsettling 148). I broadened my focus to include books that take place in any education system to find a wider range of journeys that protagonists make in the name of education. Four novels emerged which emphasized the impact of education on the lives of the young characters: Spokane / Coeur D’Alene author 7 Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007), Anishinabe writer Louise Erdrich’s The Porcupine Year (2008), Métis author Michel Noël’s Good for Nothing (2004), and Sylvia Olsen’s No Time to Say Goodbye: Children’s Stories of Kuper Island Residential School (2001) written with Tsartlip community members Rita Morris and Ann Sam. The primary texts for my thesis emphasize the impact of education on the lives of young characters. Traditional education, residential schools, early public school integration, and contemporary band and public schools are all significant parts of the Indigenous education experience in Canada and the United States. Although the traditional education of Omakayas by Elders and adult community members in The Porcupine Year is unaffected by Western education systems, her education is affected by colonialism and the loss of the community’s traditional territories in the Midwestern region of the United States. The Absolutely True Diary depicts Junior’s experiences in band school and his attendance at a public school in a predominantly Euro-American town in the northwest United States; Good for Nothing reflects on the impact of residential schools on Nipishish, his experiences in a 1950s public school in a Euro-Canadian town, and his traditional education by Elders and other adults from his reserve in central Canada; Monica’s story in No Time to Say Goodbye portrays her struggles in a Catholic-run residential school in southwestern Canada in the 1950s. In each of the Western education experiences, the characters face misunderstandings within their community and racism from outsiders. These social experiences and political histories are key components to Craig Womack’s Indigenous theory, which I draw on in reading these four primary works for my thesis. The future is a central concern of the protagonists in each of these novels. The communities have all lost their traditional territories and face colonial oppression from the 8 Canadian or American governments. Western education systems have been developed to “kill the Indian in the child,”3 which inhibits the characters’ ability to carve out their own vision of their life. In Erdrich’s case, land settlement policies have been put in place to destroy Aboriginal peoples’ way of life, and in effect to limit Omakayas’ choices. There is no way for these characters to return to a pre-colonial Aboriginal way of life given the deep-rooted and long-lasting effects of colonialism. The protagonists want to maintain the integrity of their culture and create a positive change to life in their community, although the ability of the protagonists to do this remains unclear at the end of the novels. For Omakayas and Nipishish, traditional education gives them a confidence in themselves and an understanding of their community that allows them to function in their community with a strong cultural identity. Nipishish’s and Omakayas’ success in connecting to their cultural roots and their awareness of political and social issues affecting their respective communities shows that they have realized their power to create social change and develop their traditions. Junior and Monica, however, have more complicated future outcomes. For Junior, choosing to leave the reservation and attend public school is what he believes will give him the ability to shape his own future, but his choice leads to detrimental rifts with many members of his community who view him as a traitor. The only option given to Monica in No Time to Say Goodbye is residential school, and although she resolves to view the school as her chance to help educate her community by becoming a teacher, the social and historical realities of this educational institution overshadow her hopes and dreams. Where Omakayas’ Aboriginal education draws her into her community and culture, the Western education systems the other protagonists experience force them to reevaluate their own communities and their place within them. 3 Although Duncan Campbell Scott, Canada’s Deputy Superintendent of Indian Affairs from 1913 to 1932, is said to have used this phrase when speaking of the residential schools, the phrase likely did not originate with him. The original author of this oft used expression is unknown. 9 The differences in the historical settings of the primary texts influenced my decision to discuss these four books together. This quartet of stories represents key periods in the history of the education of Aboriginal children, and of the relationship between Aboriginal peoples and the dominant society in both Canada and the United States. The Porcupine Year is set in 1852, one hundred years before Good for Nothing, but both books highlight the community struggles that occurred due to loss of land and political oppression. By reading these two books together, colonialism can be seen as an ongoing process, and the nature of resistance and survival of Aboriginal cultures to colonialism also becomes evident. The fifty year passage of time between No Time to Say Goodbye and The Absolutely True Diary shows that the colonial mentality found in the creation and operation of the residential school system carried through to the band and public schools of Junior’s present-day experience. Because these four books are set in different cultures, countries, and time periods, the broader picture of colonialism can be seen as occurring up to the present day rather than in the distant past. Furthermore, an important aspect of this historical perspective is the unrelenting resistance of Aboriginal peoples to colonial oppression, which The Porcupine Year demonstrates in a period of early contact and which is carried through in each of the three remaining novels. The selected books demonstrate how Aboriginal children found ways to negotiate their own identities through the colonial power dynamics that occurred between Indigenous peoples and the dominant society as manifested in the education systems affecting Aboriginal children. Each of the primary texts stresses the ongoing struggle that Aboriginal peoples face in determining the education of their children. Looking at the education experiences of both Canada and the United States reveals a disturbing universality to the colonial experience of Aboriginal peoples, and provides a picture of the vast and complex forms of systemic oppression facing Aboriginal peoples from early contact onward. I have chosen to discuss the 10 broader history of this struggle to show that these issues in education remain important for Aboriginal peoples today. The choice to compare four novels representing different Aboriginal nations and histories does have some limiting factors. Each book focuses on a different group of Native North Americans, which may problematize some comparative elements; however, the cultural differences will help reduce the risk of generalizing or essentializing the education experience of Aboriginal peoples. The cultural differences will also limit my ability to compare examples of cultural information as they emerge from the text. Alexie and Erdrich write about people living in the United States; Noël’s and Olsen’s novels are set in Canada. Although both countries have had some similarities in provincial and state education policies towards Aboriginal peoples, the historical unfolding of the relationship between Aboriginal peoples and the dominant culture is different, as is discussed in the literature review in Chapter Two. To overcome these limitations, my thesis will focus on the navigation of the protagonists through Western or Aboriginal education systems. This thesis is not, then, a historical excavation or broad social construction, but is instead an analysis of the meaning of education for Native North Americans as it is produced in these specific books for young adults. Each of the protagonists in the primary texts leaves home at some point, and in Alexie’s, Noël’s, and Olsen’s novels, this journey is in voluntary pursuit of or enforced attendance in a Western education setting. In Erdrich’s novel, the journey of Omakayas both disrupts her education to become a community healer, and leads to an opportunity to gain the “greatest part of her education” (Erdrich 104) – learning in a medicine swamp with her grandmother. Omakayas is unable to return to her home, but is able to imagine the possibilities that the new territory north of her traditional homelands in the northeastern part of 11 present-day Minnesota holds as a home for her community. In Good for Nothing, Nipishish leaves his reserve to attend public school and live with foster parents, hoping that this will “free” him from the violence and alcoholism on the reserve. However, by connecting to his territories and the political struggles of his Algonquin community, Nipishish discovers that his reserve is his home. Monica has only her memories and a few letters to connect her to home in No Time to Say Goodbye, but believes that she can strengthen her community by returning with the ability to work as a teacher. Despite facing abuse from the school administrators and failing to receive an adequate education in reading and writing, Monica remains hopeful even though her circumstances indicate that her goals may not be possible. Alexie’s Junior decides to attend public school off the reservation, and although he still physically lives on the reservation, he is emotionally separated from his community and cast as an outsider. Junior asserts his own agency by using the Western education system to preserve his own feelings of hope for the future. He integrates into several groups within the Euro-American school community, and he also discovers that he feels strongly connected with the people of his Spokane community. These four protagonists feel the weight of colonialism inhibiting their choices in life, and although they seek to regain control of their futures and the future of their communities, the socio-economic and political realities within the novels suggest their hopes for the future will be difficult to achieve. Research Questions In my thesis, I explore how Aboriginal and Western education systems shape the protagonists’ sense of identity and community. I am interested in how the main characters navigate educational systems by asserting their own agency, and what effect their decisions have on their lives. How are the identities of the characters affected by the education system they are part of? What political implications is education afforded in the texts? How do the 12 characters navigate Aboriginal and Euro-American communities and education systems? What hopes or suggestions for the future of the education of Aboriginal children and youth are being shown? Definition of Terms The language of the European colonizers arguably had a stronger impact on Native North American communities than any rifle or weapon. By imposing European languages on Native North Americans through treaties and residential schools, cultures, perceptions, and attachments to land were appropriated. Words themselves come with connotations and implications that create, reflect, and define power relations among groups of people, and, therefore I have carefully chosen the terms I will use to describe key concepts featured in my study. Some of my choices were difficult and were made in order to suit the needs of my thesis. I list the key terms for my thesis in alphabetical order. Aboriginal Education refers to the education systems of Aboriginal peoples. For the purposes of my thesis, this term will refer only to education systems under the full control of Aboriginal peoples and will not refer to education systems developed for Aboriginal peoples by outsiders. Aboriginal Peoples will be used to signify the real or fictional Indigenous people being discussed where a culturally specific term (e.g., Anishinabe) is not used. I will not, for reasons of accuracy, change the terminology used within quotes from other sources. A capital letter is used with this term to signify that the people being referred to are part of a nation. Contemporary Native North American literature refers to the publication date of the primary works (they were published after 2000) and not the historical setting of the novels. Dominant Culture signifies the non-Aboriginal people involved in the histories and narratives of the books, often Euro-Canadians and Euro-Americans. 13 Indigenous Peoples will be used to signify the historical or fictional people being discussed where a culturally specific term (e.g., Anishinabe) is not used. Indigenous (Literary) Theories signify the critical literary theories developed by Aboriginal scholars. The scholars I discuss are primarily North American. The term is plural to indicate the many voices and different approaches emerging in the field at this time. This term will be used interchangeably with “Native North American Critical Theories.” Native North American will be used to signify the real or fictional people being discussed where a culturally specific term (e.g., Anishinabe) is not used. Native North American Critical Theories signify the critical literary theories developed by Aboriginal scholars. This term will be used interchangeably with “Indigenous (Literary) Theories.” Settler Society signifies the non-Aboriginal people involved in the histories and narratives of the books, often Euro-Canadians and Euro-Americans. Ways of Knowing refers to the worldview of the characters whether Aboriginal or of the dominant culture. Western Education signifies systems of education imposed upon Aboriginal people by the dominant culture or outsiders to the Aboriginal community. This includes residential schools and public schools. As the literature review indicates, many band schools are at present hindered by the administrative policies of the Canadian and American governments, a hindrance which is also demonstrated in Good for Nothing and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. The band schools under discussion are not controlled in full by Aboriginal peoples and fall under the category of Western education for the purposes of my thesis. Western Theories refer to theories derived from European schools of thought. 14 CHAPTER TWO: LITERATURE REVIEW Overview Aboriginal children’s and young adults’ literature is representing history and social issues in ways that challenge misconceptions and misinformation that dominate popular literature and common beliefs about Aboriginal peoples. The first section of the literature review, “Remembering and Redefining: A Brief History of Education and Aboriginal Peoples,” outlines the history of education systems affecting Indigenous peoples in North America. This section begins with an overview of traditional Aboriginal education followed by discussions of Western education systems including residential schools, integration into public schools, and band schools and public schools today. The historical summary examines the existing scholarship about education and Aboriginal peoples in order to give a context for the historical information in the primary sources analyzed in my thesis, and to address the specific social realities that the books comment on in regard to education. I believe that understanding the struggles Aboriginal nations face requires knowledge of historical and contemporary colonial practices and the resistance of Aboriginal nations to these practices. Therefore, I have included the history of North American education of Aboriginal peoples in my review. The second section, “Rooting Colonial Myths: Indigenous Themes in Children’s Literature,” explores the use of stereotyped images of Aboriginal peoples, cultures, and histories in children’s literature. This section is included to provide an understanding of how Indigenous peoples have been represented in children’s literature, and to address the significant role that children’s literature has had in shaping North American history. The final section, “Debunking Colonial Myths: Indigenous Children’s Literature,” reviews developments in Aboriginal writing for children and young adults to establish the place of 15 Sherman Alexie, Louise Erdrich, Michel Noël, and Sylvia Olsen among contemporary Aboriginal writers for children. Remembering and Redefining: A Brief History of Education and Aboriginal Peoples This section discusses traditional Aboriginal education, residential schools, integration into public schools, and finally band schools and public schools today. Aboriginal Education Education was a life-long process that began at birth and continued on through to later life. Through it, each person learned who they were, who their people were and how they needed to relate to each other and the physical world around them. (Hare 412) Indigenous peoples in Canada and the United States used traditional teaching methods before and after the missionaries and settlers arrived in North America. As James Rodger Miller writes in Shingwauk’s Vision: A History of Native Residential Schools, the Aboriginal nations across North America did not have a homogenous method of teaching and learning, but they did “share a common philosophical or spiritual orientation, as well as a similar approach” (16). Ernie Crey (Sto:lo) and Suzanne Fournier also emphasize the diversity among Aboriginal peoples in North America and the “remarkable commonality” (52) in approaches to child rearing in Stolen From Our Embrace: The Abduction of First Nations Children and the Restoration of Aboriginal Communities. Crey and Fournier note that children were placed “at the heart of a belief system closely aligned with the natural world” (52), and they credit this philosophy with the economic and social survival of Indigenous nations that relied on the ability to pass down spiritual and practical knowledge to the young. This valuing of children as integral parts of the community led to many similar features in child-rearing in Indigenous nations across North America. 16 Among the commonalities found in Indigenous education was a more informal and holistic approach to teaching. Spirituality was seamlessly integrated into the instruction given to children (Miller 16; Indian, “Gathering”). Miller also considers “the three L’s” – looking, listening, and learning (16) – to be vital components of Aboriginal education, because children were expected to watch and listen to the adults of the community and then apply what knowledge was gained to their own routines and way of being. In First Nations Schools: Triumphs and Struggles, Verna J. Kirkness (Cree) and Sheena Selkirk Bowman also note the role of all members of the community as teachers of the children. She further explains that silence was considered “the cornerstone of character” (6), thus making listening an important skill and part of teaching. Children were not taught in school rooms or in a contained space disconnected from their communities, but instead learned from multi-modal forms of teaching that occurred throughout the day – through drumming and singing, among other methods. Storytelling was one form of imparting teachings central to a child’s development and to cultural transmission. It was used as a way to develop the whole character of the child: intellectual, physical, spiritual, and socio-emotional (Indian, “Gathering”; Hampton 8; Castellano, Davis, and Lahache xiii; Sterling 116). Most Aboriginal nations have stories about tricksters, such as Nanabush and Raven, and these figures continue to teach children traditional values, such as humility, honesty, courage and kindness (Kirkness and Bowman 6) by wittingly or unwittingly reinforcing social values, often through comic events4. Children were expected to learn from adults, and so adults were expected to model appropriate behaviour to the young (Miller 17; Sterling 116). Miller describes the adult role as the “shaping of behaviour by positive example in the home, the provision of subtle guidance 4 The trickster does, however, hold more importance than revealing social values through humour for Indigenous cultures. For more information, see Gerald Vizenor “Trickster Discourse: Comic and Tragic Themes in Native American Literature.” 17 through games […] and, as the child neared early adulthood, the utilization of more formal and ritualized ceremonies to impart the rite-of-passage with due solemnity” (17). Inter- generational respect was the foundation of this subtle guidance in childhood development. Land-based learning was also an important component of Indigenous teachings. As Kirkness and Bowman describe it, the land was considered the mother of the people (5). The land was connected to survival, history, spirituality, and way of life among other things, which made teaching in the environment necessary in order to pass on vital information about the land (Hampton 8). The “Gathering Strength” section of the Indian and Northern Affairs Canada Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (1996) explains that in the teaching of children, dreams, visions and legends were given as much significance as practical instruction in boat building or other skill-building activities (n.pag.). This brief description of common features of Aboriginal teachings reveals a stark contrast to the teaching practices and concepts of childhood that the missionary schools and most European educators would bring with them. In Indigenous education, there is no separation of teaching and learning from everyday life, or between play and education (Miller 38), which is in opposition to the formal schooling system of the European settlers in North America. Furthermore, the tendency of the missionary schools to employ harsh punishment, which would later be coupled with the militaristic routine of the residential and industrial schools5, constituted features of European instruction that came into direct conflict with Aboriginal education. The harsh punishments were meant to “civilize” and convert the young students (Lomawaima, “The Unnatural” 14). Crey and Fournier also note the European concept of women and children as “chattels of the patriarch” (53) through the seventeenth and 5 In Canada, schools that required Aboriginal children to live away from family for several months at a time are generally referred to as residential schools or boarding schools. In the United States the terms “industrial schools” or “boarding schools” are more commonly used to denote this type of school. 18 eighteenth centuries as a particularly destructive aspect of the European education of Aboriginal peoples because this belief rendered women and children important for market value and as economic supports rather than as integral members of their communities. In “Quaslametko and Yetko: Two Grandmother Models for Contemporary Native Education Pedagogy,” Shirley Sterling (Interior Salish) interviewed her mother about her grandmothers and found that they had fears that the “white school” would not accept their children for who they were and, perhaps even worse, that their children would become like the colonizers and forget their traditions (115). The advent of European-style schooling by the colonizers was recognized, early on, as an attack on Aboriginal cultures. Yet despite the shift in education that was to come with the European colonizers, Aboriginal nations resisted domination by the settler society and have continued to develop their cultures, traditions, and educational practices. Residential Schools A great general has said that the only good Indian is a dead one [ . . . ] In a sense, I agree with the sentiment, but only in this: that all the Indian there is in the race should be dead. Kill the Indian in him, and save the man. ~ Sir Richard Henry Pratt (1892), Founder of Carlisle Industrial School in the United States (Pratt n.pag.) The residential school took my culture language and my freedom. I know my language and culture and I am still scared to use it to this day. It hurts deep inside. I am willing to take it a day at a time. ~ Anonymous survivor of Kamloops Indian Residential School in British Columbia, Canada (Anonymous qtd. in Jack 66) In North America, education is considered an essential part of individual success and personal growth, and yet for the Indigenous peoples of North America, education systems 19 have been deliberately used to impede Indigenous success and strength. The earliest settlers used day schools to convert Indigenous peoples to Christianity and to correct what they felt were the “inferior” or “savage” attributes of Indigenous peoples and cultures. Residential schools and industrial schools were then developed with the outright goal of annihilating Indigenous cultures. In the autobiographical novel Halfbreed, Métis author Maria Campbell shows the ways in which the public school system of the dominant culture taught young Indigenous children to hate their parents and communities. For Campbell, this negative attitude changed when her Cheechum (great grandmother) explained that turning Indigenous communities against each other was a “more powerful weapon than anything else” (47) for the colonizers. For Aboriginal communities across North America, the school has been a site of pain where the settler society could reinforce disenfranchisement and attempt to eradicate the traditions, spirituality, and lifestyle of Indigenous peoples. In Canada, the commitment to develop residential schools was made after the Nicholas Flood Davin report6 of 1879, but as John Milloy reveals in A National Crime: The Canadian Government and the Residential School System, 1879-1986, the roots of the system were in place much earlier. Day schools, usually run by Christian missionaries, were in place in eastern Canada and the United States as early as the 1600s (Furniss 17; Reyhner and Eder 19). In American Indian Education: A History, Jon Reyhner and Jeanne Eder explain that after 1611, the Jesuits established missionary schools across southeast Canada and the northeast United States (19), and, as with the later residential schools, they focused the curriculum mainly on prayer and religious instruction with minimal education in reading and writing (20). The work of the day schools, above all, was to convert Aboriginal students to the religion of the missionary, and as such, education in reading and writing was given little attention. The 6 Report on Industrial Schools for Indians and Half-Breeds 20 oral tradition and teaching practices of Aboriginal communities were not considered legitimate and therefore were not incorporated into the instruction of students at the missionary school. In “The Unnatural History of American Indian Education,” K. Tsianina Lomawaima (Muskogee-Creek) notes the trend of missionaries to characterize Native North Americans by their propensity for work (14). The missionaries focused on manual labour and vocational training and ignored the arts and sciences. By the 1700s and 1800s, there were Protestant, Quaker, German-speaking Moravian, Russian Orthodox, Presbyterian, and other denominations of missionaries in Canada and the United States (Reyhner and Eder 34). Reyhner and Eder also note that these missionaries did not care to understand Aboriginal child-rearing practices, and instead regarded Aboriginal peoples as “barbarians” who failed to establish discipline and use punishment when raising their children (15). However, scholar William M. Clements observes that a few Jesuit missionaries in northeastern Canada admired the oral storytelling and oratorical skills of the Indigenous peoples they encountered (52). Although the day schools did not enforce the aggressive policy of assimilation that boarding schools did, many missionary workers held colonial attitudes of superiority and sought to eradicate the behaviours and values they felt were barbaric in the Aboriginal communities they worked with. In Canada, government and religious groups came to feel that day schools could not be successful as “the influence of the wigwam was stronger than the influence of school” (Davin qtd. in Milloy 24). The Bagot Commission of 1842 reported that reserve communities were in a “half-civilized state” (qtd. in Milloy 12), which led to a belief that children would not be able to “civilize” while under the influence of the adults of whom it was believed that “little could be done” (Davin 2). The Davin Report promoted this belief and urged the establishment of a residential school system, which Davin argued would civilize children and provide 21 Aboriginal peoples with the “better” moral grounding, spiritual outlook and value system of the colonizers (14). In Victims of Benevolence: The Dark Legacy of the Williams Lake Residential School, Elizabeth Furniss attributes the paternalistic attitude of Euro-Canadian community members and officials (like Davin) to a refusal to acknowledge Indigenous governments, social and political institutions, technologies and intellect, and artistic traditions. Instead, they perceived a “child-like, savage race” (Furniss 15). The attitude of superiority and the desire to destroy Aboriginal cultures and value systems found in the two reports were key factors in Canada’s creation of the residential school system. The Indian Act of 1876 also played a significant role in the rise of the residential school system in Canada. The Act made Aboriginal children wards of the state (Furniss 22; Kuokkanen 701) and abolished self-government of Indigenous peoples in Canada, thus placing Aboriginal children under the control and so-called responsibility of the federal government and its education system. The Act granted exclusive authority of the government of Canada over Indigenous peoples and the lands reserved for them. The inclusion of education as a governmental responsibility was also meant to affect Indigenous land holdings. Crey and Fournier note the land concerns of new European homesteaders across Canada and their fears of the Aboriginal population in the 1820s, which began a movement in the government to find more inventive ways to dispossess Indigenous peoples of their land (Crey and Fournier 53; Furniss 19). In “The Education of American Indians: Policy, Practice and Future Direction,” John Tippiconnic III (Comanche) corroborates that this also occurred in the United States, as he argues that education was an attempt to force Indigenous peoples to relinquish their land, to accept a European concept of individual ownership of land, and to assimilate them into mainstream society (182). The discovery of gold in many parts of the United States led to conflict with the Cherokee in 1828 and with the Lakota and Cheyenne in 1873 among other 22 tribes whose territories contained gold. The discovery of gold in Indigenous territories also strengthened the desire of the Euro-Americans to take ownership of the land. The possibilities of using an off-reserve Western education system to facilitate the land grab became increasingly appealing as an alternative to warring with Aboriginal nations (Reyhner and Eder 68). By removing Aboriginal children from families and homes, the federal governments of Canada and the United States could break the younger generation’s ties to land to make room for new settlers who desired an end to the so-called “Indian problem.” In the United States, boarding schools were in place much longer than in Canada. Davin reports that the policy of “aggressive civilization” (n.pag.) in the United States began with the opening of the Carlisle Indian School under Sir Richard Henry Pratt in 1878. However, when the United States government initially signed treaties with some Indigenous nations including the Cherokee, free public education was included in the negotiation, although it was education deemed “appropriate” for Indigenous peoples as decided by the Europeans (Klug and Whitefield 31; Hale 14). Most schools emphasized farming, industrial, and religious education; however, in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, some schools used as instructors tribe members who placed a high value on learning the written language both in English and Aboriginal tongues, especially among the Choctaw and Cherokee (Klug and Whitfield 31). Many Indigenous peoples of this era considered the written word as a way to negotiate culturally, politically, and socially with the settler society and to maintain their own culture in the changing North American landscape. However, Aboriginal peoples did not view writing as a replacement for the oral tradition as a form of cultural transmission. The teaching of tribal languages in a written form was stopped in the late nineteenth century by Commissioner of Indian Affairs J.D.C. Atkins, who abolished the use of tribal languages in school (Klug and Whitfield 31). As in Canada, a host of factors led 23 to the creation of the boarding school system. An American lawyer and editor, John O’Sullivan, wrote in 1845 that it was “[the American settler society’s] manifest destiny to overspread and possess the whole of the continent which Providence has given [them] for the development of the great experiment in liberty” (qtd. in Hale 4-5). The assumption of superiority in Euro-Canadian settlers is found as well in the Euro-American settlers of the same time. Tsianina K. Lomawaima argues that the United States industrial schools of the late 1800s and early 1900s were modeled after the Spanish Missions, which focused on manual labour (“The Unnatural” 14). She also argues that Canadian schools were based on the model of Carlisle (14); however, although Davin praised Carlisle in his report, this boarding school model did not become the standard for the Canadian residential schools (Milloy 13). The partnership between Church and State was a key feature of the Canadian system, a partnership that was not followed as rigorously in the United States7. In the United States, however, there were two types of boarding schools – namely the more prevalent state-directed schools and the contracted church-run schools (Furniss 25-26). Tippiconnic explains that the main “civilizing” goals of the industrial schools in the United States were to implement training programs based on “individualism, sedentary farming, and reading and writing in English” (182), and were less concerned with religious conversion. Carlisle Indian School was the first off-reservation government-run boarding school in the United States (Reyhner and Eder 132) and was housed in old army barracks in Pennsylvania. Pratt believed that he could civilize students, in effect “kill the Indian […] and save the man” (Pratt n.pag.); he easily gained the support of the town and government to 7 In his report, Davin argues in favour of the partnership between church and state (unlike the Carlisle Indian School) despite the fact that his research indicated the church and state-run schools in the United States had a noted lack of resources to provide food and adequate conditions for (Furniss 26). 24 create this school. He had great difficulty, however, in persuading the Lakota and other Aboriginal nations to come to the school (Reyhner and Eder 133). The publicity about Carlisle led to the opening of more schools using Pratt’s as the prototype, and then the Haskell Institute became the flagship when the advent of World War I forced the closure of Carlisle (Katanski 2; Reyhner and Eder 149; Hale 16). Although the United States government did institute a boarding school system for Native North Americans, these schools required parental permission to take children out of state after an 1894 policy revision (Reyhner and Eder 149). This was not the case in Canada, where children were routinely moved across provincial and territorial borders without permission of their parents or guardians. The coming of World War I, and thus the need for army barracks, led to the closure of Carlisle in 1918, although other industrial schools remained open in the United States. Reyhner and Eder note that at this point in history many Americans felt that the idea of removing Aboriginal children from their homes was no longer a solution to the “Indian problem” (147). The report, “The Problem of Indian Administration” (1928), more commonly known as the “Meriam Report” after the team leader, Lewis Meriam, was a key factor in turning opinions against boarding schools in the United States (Stahl n.pag.). Wayne Stahl notes that the report found the schools did not adequately equip children for college (n.pag.), but he fails to acknowledge the report’s urging of a school curriculum based “on local Indian life, or at least written within the scope of the child’s early experiences” (“Meriam” qtd. in Reyhner and Eder 5). As Tippiconnic notes, the Meriam Report did make educational change, but the policy of assimilation still remained intact at this time (182). The boarding schools were used purposefully to counter the philosophies and teachings of Native North American communities, and as such had a detrimental impact on Aboriginal peoples. 25 The assimilationist education policies developed in the late 1800s and early 1900s were merely the beginning of the traumas inflicted upon students by the residential and boarding school systems. Physical, sexual, spiritual, cultural, and emotional abuse marked many students’ experiences at the schools, as did the inability to be with family. The legacy of residential and industrial schools continues to reverberate through Indigenous communities in a number of ways including alcoholism, suicide, sexual abuse, loss of language and culture, loss of parenting skills, and dependency issues (Furniss 31). On September 8, 2000, the United States’ Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) made an apology to the Indigenous peoples in America for the misdeeds of the Agency, including the industrial school system. The Assistant Secretary of the BIA at the time, Kevin Gover (Pawnee), apologized for the acts committed against children in the industrial schools known for “brutalizing them emotionally, psychologically, physically and spiritually” (162). Eight years later, on June 11, 2008, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper stood before Parliament to apologize for the federal government’s role in the residential school system of Canada. This apology recognized the long-term damage that the schools caused and the government’s role in the mission to assimilate Aboriginal peoples, in effect to “kill the Indian in the child” (Scott qtd. in Harper n.pag.)8. The apology, as Harper has acknowledged, has the potential to create a more positive relationship between Aboriginal peoples and other Canadians, “a relationship based on the knowledge of our shared history” (n.pag.), but for some survivors, Harper’s statements were an unwelcome reminder of the trauma and pain they had suffered. In the United States, Gover’s apology was not backed by the rest of Bill Clinton’s administration, which led Christopher Buck to observe that “the moment was golden, but the silence was deafening” 8 As previously noted, Duncan Campbell Scott, is said to have used this phrase when speaking of the residential schools, although the original author is unknown. In 1920 Scott made it mandatory for all Aboriginal children between 6 and 15 to attend residential school, and threatened jail terms for parents who refused to comply. 26 (98). There is also something unusual about an Aboriginal man, Gover, apologizing for the crimes committed against him and his people that makes the American apology unsettling. Despite the painful ironies of the apologies, they reminded North Americans of the significance of the history of the education of Indigenous peoples. The apologies also provided a hope to “really begin the healing” (Buck 123), and for all Canadians and Americans to understand the pain and trauma caused by the industrial and residential school systems. Assimilation and Public Schools To deny the past and to refuse to recognize its implications is to distort the present; to distort the present is to take risks with the future that are blatantly irresponsible. (Indian Tribes of Manitoba, qtd. in Abele, Dittburner, and Graham 3) Resistance to the residential and industrial schools began at their inception in both Canada and the United States. Furniss notes that by the 1860s there was a strong Aboriginal resistance to Christian missionaries (21), and Reyhner and Eder also describe discontent and protest among the Cherokee, Choctaw, and Creek students in missionary schools in the early 1800s (36-37). This resistance continued on through the residential and industrial school era with many parents withholding or hiding their children from the schools (Kuokkanen 699; Hale 17). This resistance was so prevalent that the government of the United States instigated a policy to withhold rations and annuities from parents who did not send their children to industrial school (Reyhner and Eder 47), and in Canada, jail terms were given to parents who did not comply and send their children away. Students also resisted the residential school system by running away, practising their culture in secret, and rebelling outright against the school authorities (Kuokkanen 699). In Learning to Write “Indian”: The Boarding School 27 Experience and American Indian Literature, Amelia V. Katanski describes the ways students constructed the written language to project a tribal worldview as a means of resisting the agenda of assimilation, and as a way of maintaining a voice when the system was attempting to silence them. The struggle of students to maintain identity within the residential and industrial schools often came with a harsh punishment if they were caught (Haig-Brown 82)9, and yet many students resisted the authorities despite this. Eventually, this resistance would create a change in the education policies for Aboriginal peoples of Canada and the United States. In the 1950s and 1960s, the drive to integrate Aboriginal students into the public schools increased exponentially. The economic impacts of World War II rendered the industrial and residential schools more dilapidated and neglected than ever; the lack of financial resources in the United States and Canada broke the governments’ resolve to maintain the system; and the African American, Chicano, and Aboriginal civil rights movements were changing perceptions about minority groups across North America (Furniss 30; Milloy 192; Reyhner and Eder 8). Jan Hare (Anishinabe), in “Aboriginal Families and Education: Coming Full Circle,” also notes that Indigenous resistance was responsible for putting pressure on the Canadian government to end the residential school system (419), which also occurred in the United States. In the 1950s, the United States government was terminating its responsibility to Native North Americans, which would at once end the separate school system and nullify the land rights of Aboriginal nations. In 1951, amendments were made to Canada’s Indian Act, which stated that whenever possible Aboriginal children should be educated with other children (Milloy 189). Although the other amendments to the 9 In Resistance and Renewal, Celia Haig-Brown details the many acts of rebellion in residential schools and sometimes the punishment that came as a result. The discipline was harsh, with survivors recalling whippings (on the bare bottom in public), withholding of food, wearing of a wetted bed sheet on the head (all day), and head shaving as some of the common practices. 28 Act shut down any hopes for Aboriginal self-government, education proved to be an exception from the other more restrictive amendments wherein a shift from residential schools to integration was being made. The closing of the residential schools progressed more slowly in Canada than the United States. Although many schools closed throughout the 1950s and then the 1970s, a number remained open, with Indian and Northern Affairs Canada, in “Backgrounder: The Residential School System,” citing the last federally run school as closing in 1996. Kirkness and Bowman note that this plan was “introduced and continued with little or no consultation with First Nations parents and children or the non-Native community” (12). Furthermore no adjustments to the public school curriculum were made for the Aboriginal students entering them (Kirkness and Bowman 12; Milloy 195). Milloy cites a lack of planning and consultation as a hindrance to the success and expediency of integration (190), and Andrea Bear Nicholas (Maliseet) further explains that the colonial attitude had not changed. The residential school system was recommended for closure because it had failed to assimilate Indigenous students – not because of the prevalence of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse in the schools (Nicholas 13). No program was put in place to link Aboriginal communities with local non-Aboriginal school boards and churches, and the Catholic Church was insistent on maintaining a culturally segregated education system (Milloy 190). Kirkness and Bowman describe this early integration period as a “program of assimilation” (14) and Milloy supports the argument that “education remained assimilation” (195), especially given the lack of preparation and accommodation for Aboriginal students and continuation of control by the non-Aboriginal authorities and leaders (Nicholas 14). In the United States, a small number of government reports produced recommendations that slowly changed the policy on industrial schools, beginning with the 29 Meriam report in 1928. Although the report advocated for relevant curriculum, when the closure of boarding schools began post World War II, this recommendation was ignored and has only started to be implemented in recent years (Klug and Whitfield 34). As in Canada, many boarding schools remained in operation for years after the initial push to terminate them, but “rapid progress” was made through the Johnson O’Malley Act, which created a contract system with Aboriginal bands to subsidize education, medical attention, and other services provided by the United States government (Reyhner and Eder 248-249). The move toward integration was riddled with problems, as the decision was made from a position of superiority and paternalistic control. The United States Congress believed it would be setting Indigenous peoples “free” by terminating their reservations, and ending their status as wards of the state (Reyhner and Eder 235). This meant that the states were to assume responsibility for the education of Native North Americans through public schools, a practice which began in the 1950s (Reyhner and Eder 236). The termination policy also meant that many Aboriginal tribes lost their reservation lands. Again, education was wrapped into a plan to extricate Aboriginal peoples from their lands. In the 1970s, protests and civil lawsuits led Congress to declare that the termination policy was a failure, but many tribes had already lost their land permanently (Reyhner and Eder 236). The social justice movements of the 1960s and the work of advocates like Martin Luther King led to more funding for equal educational opportunities for minorities in the United States (Hale 30). The National Indian Education Association (NIEA) was created in 1969 to “give American Indians and Alaska Natives a national voice in their struggle to improve access to educational opportunity” (National n.pag.). However, the integration process in the United States was marked by staggering dropout rates and a lack of planning to adjust the school curriculum for Indigenous students (Klug and Whitfield 44; Hale 33). 30 The literature shows that the period of integration in Canada and the United States was in fact another attempt to assimilate Aboriginal peoples into mainstream culture. It was another form of colonial expansion in which education served to further disenfranchise Native North Americans. More importantly, Aboriginal communities and organizations from across North America began to protest the injustices of colonialism at this time. The continued resistance of Indigenous communities to the governments’ policies on education played a role in ending the residential and industrial school systems, and Indigenous peoples remained vocal during the assimilation period through civil rights activism and the organization of the National Indian Brotherhood (now the Assembly of First Nations or AFN) in Canada and the American Indian Movement (AIM) in the United States. While the approach to protest of these organizations in the 1970s would change over the years, they would continue to instigate change in the education systems for Aboriginal peoples in North America. Band Schools and Public Schools Today [Indigenous] independence education will be based on a marriage of the past and the present. It will honor our cultures, which include our values, our languages, and our peoples’ contributions to the development and progress of this vast country. Most importantly, you will have found in your quest for a meaningful education for your school or community that the answers you have been seeking can be found within yourselves, within your own communities. (Kirkness, “Our” 15) The 1960s marked a pivotal shift for Native North Americans and their struggle to regain control of their children’s education. Social activism through the AFN and AIM brought attention to Aboriginal issues, and education remained high on the list of both groups’ priorities. Education was included in the controversial “Trail of Broken Treaties 20 Point- Position Paper” created by AIM in 1972, and the AFN specifically addressed education in the 31 1972 report “Indian Control of Indian Education.” Despite the significant shift in the government and public mindset in the 1960s and 1970s, Indigenous peoples continue in this first decade of the twenty-first century to struggle to gain the ability not only to control, but also to redefine education for their children so that it aligns with their own cultures, traditions, and value systems. In 1969, the “Statement of the Government of Canada on Indian Policy,” or the “White Paper,” relinquished control of residential schools from the federal to the provincial level (Battiste viii). The government’s White Paper sparked a tough response from the AFN. They established a committee to create a national position on education to be expressed in the Red Paper Policy, which was subsequently turned into the report, “Indian Control of Indian Education” (Battiste viii; Kirkness and Bowman 15). The policy was based on two main principles, namely parental responsibility and local control (Kirkness and Bowman 15), and stated that the purpose of the education of Indigenous children was to salvage Aboriginal languages, cultures, and societies, and to transmit those cultures and distinctive worldviews to the future generations (Battiste ix). In 1973, the Canadian government accepted “Indian Control of Indian Education” in principle (Battiste ix; Calliou 1), and yet real change to the system has been slow to occur. In the United States, the Kennedy Report of 1969 termed the Bureau of Indian Affairs and school system for Indigenous peoples a “national tragedy” (Tippiconnic 184). In fact, several reports from Meriam onward reveal the same level of failure and irresponsibility. Tippiconnic argues that these documents had little impact on changing the “national tragedy,” because they were politically motivated and focused on funding and spending rather than teaching and learning (184). The integration was in many ways just pushing the students from one institution to the next without changing over administration and control to Aboriginal 32 bands (Reyhner and Eder 258). Many students did demonstrate and protest against the problems that arose from the lack of planning, and some, as in the case of four public schools on a Navajo Reservation in Arizona, were able to enforce more control of education for their communities through this protest (Reyhner and Eder 258). Tribal leaders were also displeased with the lack of change to the curriculum (Hale 33), so in the United States they took advantage of the political climate of the 1960s to make a partnership with the Bureau of Indian Affairs to create tribal schools (Hale 35). Little progress was made in actually changing the control of education even with the Tribally Controlled Schools Act of 1988 that reiterated the need for tribal control in education in the United States (Hale 74). Tippiconnic notes permanent administrative positions in education were not given to Aboriginal peoples in the United States until 1987. The funding and conditions in band schools remain insufficient, and the governance and community control of these schools are still contested in the United States (Klug and Whitfield 47). In Canada, in 1988, the AFN completed a three-year study discussed in the report Tradition and Education: Towards a Vision of Our Future. A Declaration of First Nations Jurisdiction over Education. The study found that Indigenous communities had been given little control over education, and that what was given had only been on an administrative rather than restructuring level (Battiste xi; Nicholas 16). Marie Battiste (Mi'kmaq) cites insufficient funding, underdeveloped services, and a lack of funding for redefining education (xii) as hindering the band and public school systems. Many also argue that a Eurocentric worldview pervades the structure and teaching within band schools, which leads to high dropout rates and an overall failure of the education system to work for Indigenous students (Battiste xi; Hampton 8; Sterling 13). Ron Mackay and Lawrence Miles cite forty-two issues as giving rise to the high dropout rates of Aboriginal students, including lack of focus on 33 language skills, parental support, and home – school communication as the key issues for stakeholders (161). The work of scholars in Canada and the United States shows a continued failure of the education system to meet the needs of Aboriginal students and the hopes of Aboriginal communities. This is especially evident when Indigenous peoples are unable to restructure the nature of education in band schools and when there is inadequate funding in place. The findings repeatedly demonstrate that Aboriginal education must be controlled by Aboriginal peoples to reflect the distinctive cultures, languages, and worldviews of Aboriginal communities. Rooting Colonial Myths: Indigenous Themes in Children’s Literature Many of the Images we hold as adults are obtained in childhood and are never abandoned: the Imaginary Indian is very much an Indian of childhood. (Francis 144) Throughout North American history, Western education policies were developed to systematically “kill the Indian in the child.” Cultural appropriation through the production of the images of the Wild Indian and Noble Savage was also a strategy of the dominant culture to “kill the Indian” and to re-imagine the role of the settler society in history. These images developed the identity of the settler society as just and deserving, and attempted to destroy the authentic identities and cultures of Indigenous peoples. Children’s literature became a vehicle for the mass production and distribution of these images, and embedded these false identities in the Canadian and American psyches. Representation of Indigenous peoples in popular culture, the media, and literature by non-Indigenous authors has been so insidious that generations of North American children were deluded into believing that the main occupation 34 of Native North Americans was to “kill people”10 (Hirschfelder, Molin, and Wakin 4). Scholars and critics such as Debbie Reese (Nambe Pueblo) and the members of Oyate, an online Aboriginal children’s literature organization, have dedicated much of their work to exposing this proliferation of misinformation in children’s literature in accessible online websites, journals, and books. However, flawed children’s literature of the past continues to be used in the present where it is promoted as “classic” literature, and the publishing industry also continues to support literature stereotyping Indigenous peoples. From the early times of colonial exploration came an intense fear and fascination with the peoples of “unknown” lands. In The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner (Robinson Crusoe) written in 1719, Daniel Defoe uses this fear and fascination to create what is often referred to as the first English novel. The book was read by children from its earliest publications in chapbooks, and fuelled the image of the Wild Indian through the cannibalistic and violent tendencies of the Indigenous inhabitants portrayed therein. According to Deirdre Kwiatek in her Ph.D dissertation, Playing Indian: A Consideration of Children's Books by Native North Americans, 1900-1940, Robinson Crusoe created a model of literature based on the notion of a vast expanse of land inhabited by a dangerous and elusive group of uncivilized heathens (21). In Canada the model of Defoe’s isolation story is explicitly evident in Catharine Parr Traill’s Canadian Crusoes: A Tale of the Rice Lake Plains, published in 1852. This novel is considered the first Canadian children’s book by Sheila Egoff and Judith Saltman (6). Egoff and Saltman concur with Kwiatek’s assertion of Defoe’s model as a standard for children’s literature, albeit through a colonial perspective of literature and history, when they note that the “unfriendly natives” (6) of 10 In American Indian Stereotypes in the World of Children: A Reader and Bibliography, Arlene Hirschfelder, Paulette Fairbanks Molin, and Yvonne Wakin cite a study conducted in 1974 in which kindergarteners repeatedly described Native North Americans as killing people as part of their daily activities. Fifth graders used less overtly hostile diction to describe Indigenous peoples, but still described warlike and “wild like” activities (Hirschfelder, Molin, and Wakin 4). 35 Traill’s novel are the “irresistible stuff of the isolation story” (6). The descriptions in Traill’s novel of Indigenous peoples who “regarded deeds of blood and cruelty as among the highest of human virtues” (174) have played an unfortunate role in perpetuating colonial myths about the history of North America and the Aboriginal peoples who live in Canada. Defoe’s conceptualization of Indigenous peoples and unexplored lands would also become the basis for the popular dime novels produced for children in the 1800s. The most common theme of these books was of savages terrorizing the settler society in a bloodthirsty, sexualized, and graphically violent manner (Kwiatek 19; Zimmerman n.pag.). James Fenimore Cooper and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow were prominent authors in the production of books for children about the Wild West, and their work served as precursors to the motifs and themes found in the dime novels. Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans was published as an abridged children’s classic in 1900, and many other similar novels began to appear in abridged editions around this time (Kwiatek 12). In the Stanford online resource, “Guided Tour of a Cover,” Linda Zimmerman explains that Cooper also set the precedent for dime novels through The Leather Stocking Tales, a collection of stories that romanticized colonial expansion and encroaching civilization (n.pag.). Because of these books, Kwiatek writes, “the Native American Indian had become synonymous with adventure” (13), a sense which was heightened by the assumption that Indigenous peoples were emotionally and psychologically children themselves (Kwiatek 13; Francis 144). For these reasons, the Native North American adventure was considered, by educators and the general public of the time, as a perfect model to fit with the intellect and capacity of children. Kwiatek explains that in 1860, Seth Jones; or The Captives of the Frontier by Edward Ellis (more commonly known by his pen name Captain James Fenimore Cooper Adams) was met with great popularity. Ellis’ dime novel depicted Native North Americans as intensely 36 violent, emotional, and aggressive (Kwiatek 18). Kwiatek argues that Seth Jones was born from the stereotype of the savages created over one hundred years before in Robinson Crusoe, continued in the works of Cooper, and intensified in the dime novel genre (17). The barbaric image of the Native North American in Seth Jones was then to become a pillar of the dime novels about Western expansion and the Native North American (Kwiatek 17), a genre in which the myth of Native savagery was to reach epic proportions (Barclay n.pag.). Kwiatek argues that the “Indian was an exotic and exciting character to keep the reader turning pages and buying books” (17). Zimmerman further demonstrates that the idea of western expansion was an equally exciting motif of the books. She attributes the popularity of Buffalo Bill in dime novels between the 1860s and 1880s to the rapid westward expansion by Euro- Americans of the time. The embellished accounts of Buffalo Bill’s life and exploits in the dime novels, therefore, became a platform from which to reassert “the values and attitudes of an increasingly capitalist, urban, industrialist society” (Zimmerman n.pag.). The settler society forcibly removed land from Aboriginal inhabitants, and then created a myth of the “Indian” in children’s literature to make the exploits of colonization palatable, and to make history marketable. The dime novels and abridged editions reflect the historical belief in Manifest Destiny and Anglo superiority; they serve not only to justify the genocidal actions taken against Aboriginal peoples by the settler society of North America, but also to erase them from cultural consciousness. The Civil War in the United States and rapid industrialization in the 1880s led to a decline in popularity of the Western stories in dime novels, which were replaced instead with stories of urban life (Zimmerman n.pag.). However, Indigenous peoples and history would continue to be shaped to suit the needs of the dominant culture over the next one hundred years in children’s literature and latterly in popular media for children and adults. 37 In The Imaginary Indian: The Image of the Indian in Canadian Culture, Daniel Francis explores the ways in which public symbols and images have shaped the way non-Aboriginal people view Native North Americans. He looks at everything from the Pontiac car to the wooden-Indian of cigar stores, and laments the tendency of non-Aboriginal people to create an understanding of Indigenous peoples from what they see “in books, at public performances, at country fairs, in museums and schoolrooms, at summer camps and in the movies” (86). Francis presents the case of Edward Thompson Seton who wrote Two Little Savages in 1903, in which a young boy, Yan, “escapes his heartless domestic world by going native” (146). This book departed from common beliefs of the day about Indigenous peoples in that Seton promoted Native North Americans as appropriate models for children, because he felt they lived in harmony with nature and shared within their community more than other people (Francis 149). Francis argues that Seton and author E. Pauline Johnson (Mohawk) shifted attitudes about Indigenous peoples by encouraging and bringing to popularity a desire to preserve and enjoy the wilderness. Furthermore, these authors created a belief “that the Indian retained qualities that the ‘modern man’ had lost” (Francis 154). Although this new colonial attitude brought forward by the writing of Seton acknowledged that something could be learned from Indigenous peoples, it did so by inventing a new stereotype of the Native North American as a reaction to the fears of living in an increasingly industrial society. The environmental beliefs and colonial attitude of Seton also reflect the common stereotype of Aboriginal peoples as Noble Savages, but as Francis notes, the school reading materials for children (and most materials for children) still favoured the barbaric image instead. Textbooks have played a large role in creating a myth of colonialism in North America as a just and honourable mission by European settlers and missionaries. Francis found Canadian textbooks at the turn of the twentieth century tended to include very little 38 information about Aboriginal peoples, and that most of it was negative (161), a tendency that Hirschfelder, Molin, and Wakin have found still remains in children’s textbooks today and continues to impede the education of North American children (128). In Francis’ view, the textbook authors followed a “patriotic agenda” (161). This agenda mirrors the belief in Manifest Destiny of the American settlers and the similar attitude of superiority found in Canada. This patriotic agenda in textbooks erased the history of aggression by the settler society with a similar stylistic approach to writing as the dime novel publications and other children’s literature produced about Indigenous peoples and colonial expansionism. The nonfiction texts and popular stories were made to reinforce a particular type of Canadian and American identity that represented the members of the settler society as both the heroes and natural inheritors of North America. The myth of North American history perpetuated by children’s literature has had far- reaching consequences. Indigenous children and peoples have been bombarded with degrading images and writing about who they are, and much of the dominant society has grown up believing these stereotypes. The images found on television programs and in children’s media, through characters like Chief Thunderthud and Nightwolf11, make a lasting impact on how children view Indigenous peoples (Francis 144) and how they view the history of North America. The 1950s was a decade that solidified colonial myths about Indigenous peoples and history through the popularity and use of two distinct images. These images of the stoic and Noble Savage were popularized through characters like Tonto as he appeared in The Lone Ranger and Tonto television and book series for children. At the same time, images of barbaric and Wild Indians were reinforced through skirmishes and encounters between the so-called heroes and the Aboriginal population, as in the representation of the Comanche 11 Chief Thunderthud was on the Howdy Doody Show and Nightwolf is a character in the game Mortal Combat. 39 Nation in John Ford’s 1956 movie, The Searchers. Beverly Slapin recalls that the images in popular media at this time were so prevalent that she had nightmares of being attacked by Aboriginal peoples (“Introduction” 1). Counter to the research revealing the themes of the Noble Savage and Wild Indian in children’s literature of the mid-twentieth century, Donald Barclay believes that books of this era go “too far” in presenting favourable images of Native North Americans (n.pag.). He argues that alcoholism and poverty are ignored, and critiques the idea that Indigenous children are “willing participants in subsistence living” (Barclay n.pag.). Although he concedes that “sugar coating” of family life is common for children’s literature before the 1970s, he fails to acknowledge the research that directly contradicts his assertion of “favourable” presentations (eg., Francis; Kwiatek; van Ginhoven; Norris; Stott, Native; Reese; Oyate; Monroe; Day; Abington-Pitre). Barclay also fails to acknowledge that the social problems he mentions are a product of injuries caused by the settler society, rather than part of an inherently “complete picture” (n.pag.) of Indigenous life. The 1950s and 1960s were also characterized by a growing number of Aboriginal myths being rewritten for children by authors like Christie Harris, James Houston, and Dorothy Reid (Wolf and DePasquale 90). In “Home and Native Land: A Study of Canadian Aboriginal Picture Books by Aboriginal Authors,” Doris Wolf and Paul DePasquale (Mohawk) reveal the significance of Tse-Shaht author and illustrator, George Clutesi, as he began to reconnect Aboriginal peoples to their cultures and traditions through the retelling of myths in his first book, Son of Raven, Son of Deer (1967). They believe that the publication of tales and legends in the past forty years has played a large role in the resurgence of Aboriginal identity and cultures (Wolf and DePasquale 90). However, the frequent retelling of myths by non-Aboriginal authors and illustrators has been a great point of contention, with some believing that stories cannot be owned and must be shared, while others believe the cultural 40 and spiritual significance of Indigenous stories cannot be shared adequately or appropriately by an outsider. Jon C. Stott also argues that the “western literary tradition is essentially a product of patterns of thought which have dominated European life for so long, it can never be an appropriate vehicle for presenting any other culture” (“Spirit” 199). The important role of Indigenous myths to convey cultural material and traditions, coupled with the insidious roots of non-Aboriginal representations of Indigenous peoples, makes the retelling of myths by non- Aboriginal authors like Paul Goble yet another disturbing perpetuation of the colonial mindset. The American civil rights movement and worldwide activism of the 1960s spawned a change in attitudes about children and books because many educators came to believe that all children have a right to see their identity and culture reflected positively in reading materials (Seale 11; Haun 36). Although more appropriate cultural diversity can be found in children’s materials published today, educators and publishers continue to hold tight to literature that is deemed “classic” or canonical work. The 1941 novel, The Matchlock Gun by Walter Edmonds, which contains intensely stereotypical characterizations of Aboriginal peoples, made the “We the People Bookshelf on Courage” on the 2003 / 2004 American Library Association (ALA) and National Endowment for the Humanities reading list. Even more unfortunate has been the publication of My Heart is on the Ground: The Diary of Nannie Little Rose, a Sioux Girl (1999) by Anne Rinaldi, a book whose cultural and historical errors have left children’s literature scholars in disbelief (eg., Molin; Grant; Oyate; Reese, American; Thompson). Barclay argues that “one person’s stereotype can be another person’s cultural virtue” (n.pag.) and asserts that there may be something to learn from stereotypical materials of the past. Melissa K. Thompson, on the other hand, wonders whether adults are actually “learned enough themselves to recognize the racist stereotypes, lack of historical context and prevalence of the white supremacy myth in their children's books on Amerinds” (369). From 41 Seth Jones to Rinaldi’s highly controversial work, the myths of the history of colonization persist. Images of Aboriginal characters that are violent, ignorant devil worshippers, or part of a vanished noble race continue to exist in what is produced for children today. These images promote, as they always have, a colonial myth that the settler society’s actions were and always have been honourable and just. Debunking Colonial Myths: Indigenous Children’s Literature Native writers are helping native readers use the power of story to recover a past, define a present, and envision a future. (Stott, Native Americans 176) While at conferences or speaking with educators in the Vancouver community, I am frequently told that Indigenous peoples are part of an oral culture incompatible with a writing oriented culture. These colleagues are implying that it is not the fault of educators or publishers that Aboriginal voices are not well-represented on bookshelves, because Aboriginal peoples tell stories, they do not write them. In truth, Aboriginal peoples have been writing stories and struggling to be published for many years. Although some Indigenous writers are published, even more find that their voices are pushed aside for the many non-Aboriginal authors who write about Aboriginal cultures and history (Keeshig-Tobias 99; Byler 47; Norris 6; Murray 161). Despite these difficulties in the publishing industry, writers like Francis La Flesche (Omaha), E. Pauline Johnson (Mohawk), and Luther Standing Bear (Lakota-Sioux) began publishing books for children and youth over a century ago. The numbers of Aboriginal authors writing children’s and young adults’ fiction has steadily increased, especially in the past thirty years, as has the entire children’s literature industry. The growing quantity of Aboriginal children’s and young adults’ literature is unlike Aboriginal literature for adults, which many consider a “literature of protest” (eg., Blaeser; Cook-Lynn; La Rocque; Pulitano; 42 Ruffo; King; Wolf and DePasquale; Warrior; Womack). Instead, Aboriginal children’s literature addresses colonialism in an understated manner by focusing on cultural survival and community. Young adult literature holds a stronger connection to the protest literature found in adult writing, which can be seen in the stories written about the education systems imposed on Aboriginal peoples by the dominant society. The production and publishing of Native North American literature, particularly in the novel form, increased exponentially after N. Scott Momaday (Kiowa) was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1968 for House Made of Dawn. In Native Americans in Children’s Literature, Jon C. Stott argues that before Momaday’s work Indigenous writers believed that the novel genre was a literary vehicle for Europeans to express their views (146), and therefore was not an appropriate vehicle for Indigenous perspectives. After Momaday’s breakthrough, the door was opened for writers such as Louise Erdrich (Anishinabe), Gerald Vizenor (Anishinabe), Maria Campbell (Métis), Jeanette Armstrong (Okanagan), and Leslie Marmon Silko (Laguna Pueblo) to use the novel form to express their own particular worldview. Aboriginal picture books remain the fastest growing genre of Aboriginal children’s literature (Wolf and DePasquale 87), but young adult fiction is increasingly found in the novel form. Early Aboriginal writing for children and youth can be found in the late 1800s and early 1900s in the works of Francis La Flesche, Luther Standing Bear, and Zitkala-Sa (Yankton-Sioux) among others. Kwiatek notes the influence of early publishers in manipulating Indigenous writing to turn it into works for children. For example, Mourning Dove (Interior Salish) envisioned a “sophisticated collection” of legends (Kwiatek 56), which the editors, Lucullus Virgil McWhorter and Heister Dean Guie12, changed to produce a manuscript more in line with fairy tales and fables commonly associated with children’s 12 McWhorter and Guie were independent editors and requested the advice of the manager of Lowman and Handford’s book department on where to submit the manuscript once they had completed it (Kwiatek 66-68). 43 reading (Kwiatek 59). Kwiatek attributes this occurrence to two factors: first in the belief of the time that Aboriginal peoples were themselves like children, and second, that myths or Native North American stories were considered more appropriate for children than adults. Despite attitudes of the publishing industry and dominant society, some Aboriginal writers were able to publish children’s and young adults’ literature that they had created intentionally for those age groups (e.g., La Flesche; Standing Bear; Zitkala-Sa). Wolf and DePasquale spent four years working on a comprehensive bibliography of Canadian Aboriginal children’s literature by Aboriginal authors. They included books published from 196713 to 2007, and have found approximately 300 books by over 125 different authors with seventy percent being fiction and seventy-five percent of all of the books being picture books (Wolf & DePasquale 89). This pattern suggests that young adult novels are developing at a much slower rate than other genres for Aboriginal writers, although writing for young adults has increased rapidly since the 1970s. Wolf and DePasquale’s work does show a marked increase in the publishing of Aboriginal works since the 1960s as compared to the more scant Aboriginal writings that Kwiatek discusses in her examination of publications from the early 1900s. In “The American Indian Renaissance and Contemporary Young Adult Literature,” Paulette Molin (Minnesota Chippewa) also traces a rise in writing for a young adult readership by Aboriginal authors from 1974 to 2004 in the United States and Canada. She refers to the intense social activism that occurred in Canada and the United States in the 1960s and 1970s as a factor leading to the increase of the writing output of Indigenous authors (28). She notes that this increased social activism ignited a literary resurgence through authors like Momaday, whose writing now serves as a standard of tribal literature. Writers like Momaday, Vizenor, 13 1967 was chosen as it was the year Tse-Shaht author, George Clutesi, published Son of Raven, Son of Deer. 44 and Armstrong were soon to be joined by a new generation of authors that included Sherman Alexie, Richard Van Camp (Dogrib/Tlicho), Thomas King, Tomson Highway (Cree), and Susan Power (Standing Rock Sioux), who emerged in the 1990s. These writers have greatly increased the publication of young adult books and many, like Alexie, Erdrich, and Van Camp, write for both adults and young adults. The dramatic increase of children’s and young adults’ literature by Aboriginal authors in the 1970s and 1980s can also be attributed to the development of small publishing houses designed specifically for Aboriginal authors. In 1980, Theytus Press of Penticton, British Columbia opened as the first Aboriginal-run publishing press in Canada, and along with a growing number of other independent publishers, like Pemmican, Indian Country Communications, and Curbstone, they have worked to replace the colonial contexts in which the publishing of Aboriginal stories occurred. However, in her Ed.D dissertation, The Unheard Voices on Turtle Island: A Participatory Research Study, Áine J. Kyne Norris investigates the absence of books by Native North American authors in libraries and in publishing for children in the United States, and finds that the demand for so-called marketable books, books that publishers believe will sell to a mass audience, forces Indigenous authors to go to small publishing presses, which inevitably decreases their opportunity to be heard and read by a large audience. Norris’ participatory research with Native North American children’s authors is a fresh approach to the problems faced by Aboriginal authors, and illustrates the multitude of barriers for Aboriginal writers. Through the use of interviews, Norris also brings the voices of the authors directly into the academic discussion of Aboriginal writing. Her findings demonstrate that although small publishing presses have made significant strides in getting Indigenous authors published in their own words, this route may also mean that the books have less access to the mass market. 45 Indigenous literature can reflect the distinct cultures, languages, and histories of the different Indigenous Nations of North America. In “Cultural Literacy, First Nations and the Future of Canadian Literary Studies,” Renee Hulan and Linda Warley urge literary scholars and educators to accept that Indigenous writing is a distinct literature integral to the study of literature at any grade or academic level in North America. They quote Saulteaux author, Janice Acoose, who explains the important role of Aboriginal authors and their response to non-Aboriginal authors: “Indigenous writers positively and knowledgably construct aspects of their cultures that have been previously misrepresented by outsiders” (qtd. in Hulan and Warley 31). Armand Garnet Ruffo (Ojibwe) also describes some features of Indigenous literature, including a tendency for this writing to be spiritually based, to make a call for liberation, and to affirm cultural survival (“Why” 663). He urges scholars to give the historical / secular in Aboriginal writing the same attention that the mythic / sacred has received in the past (Ruffo, “Why” 667) because the stories reflect cultural survival from colonialism while conveying cultural traditions and information. Survival and cultural affirmation remain central to Aboriginal writing, although many other ideas are integrated into these themes. In an analysis of the poetry of Simon Oritz, Jane Hafen describes his writing as “centered on Indigenousness – land, language, and survival” (66), reiterating the significance of worldview through language; the connection to culture and identity through the land; and the survival of these cultural elements as a part of what is Indigenous. Furthermore, Janette Murray and Armand Ruffo argue that Aboriginal writing does not just reflect this survival or connection to land as a general idea. Instead, this literature reflects a specific time and place because the physical environment and history are important to the construction and understanding of Indigenous cultures (Murray 161; Ruffo, “Why” 669). The stories reflect specific peoples, not the Wild Indian or Noble Savage, and as 46 such they relate to a “specific piece of Mother Earth” (Ruffo, “Why” 669) and the specific cultural and historical information of a Nation, both debunking colonial myths and telling the stories of a particular group of people. Aboriginal writing not only reflects the stories of Aboriginal peoples, but also the impact of and relationships with the dominant society. Alienation and cultural conflict often arise in Aboriginal writing (Murray 161; Ruffo “Why” 669), which can be seen in stories featuring a young man (and sometimes a female protagonist) who must decide how to live life given their experiences in the dominant society and within their own particular Indigenous culture. Ruffo notes that the return to the community is a common theme as it reaffirms cultural survival from colonialism (“Why” 669). The return to community further shows the struggles that Indigenous peoples face and the ability of Aboriginal peoples to reconnect with their roots after a prolonged absence, which is a theme common to narratives about the residential school experience or about urban Aboriginal peoples living off the reserve. One of the primary texts for this study, Good for Nothing by Michel Noël, reflects this journey away from the reserve through residential school and urban living and then the return to the community. Young adult fiction carries many of the same elements found in the writing for adults by Aboriginal authors, and also seeks to “adapt and redefine” (Wolf and DePasquale 88) Western literary forms. Emma LaRocque (Métis) notes the need to recover land, language, voice, and knowledge as themes in young adult fiction, and Louise Erdrich contends that stories reflect contemporary survivors while at the same time they celebrate the “core” of cultures that have struggled through colonialism (qtd. in Molin 30). Indigenous literature for adults and young adults alike incorporates the ongoing struggle against oppression while centering the stories on the cultural foundations of the author. Wolf and DePasquale note that 47 while many of the darker themes in adult writing are omitted from children’s literature by Aboriginal authors, children’s and young adults’ literature still reflects the element of protest through secular and political allusions (93). The Secret of the Dance, a picture book by Judge Alfred Scow (Kwakwa'wakw) and author Andrea Spalding, depicts Alfred’s childhood experience watching his family’s potlatch, which was forbidden by law at the time (1935). The book addresses the political struggle of the Kwakwa'wakw nation from the oppressive laws of Canadian the government and Indian Agents. Young adult novels like The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Alexie and The Heart of a Chief by Abenaki author Joseph Bruchac engage in political issues by revealing cultural conflict and the strength of the Aboriginal protagonists in overcoming historical, social, and political obstacles. For children’s and young adults’ fiction, the most powerful political and historical content can be found in stories exploring the connection between family and land. Both Ruffo and Murray describe family relationships as a means of discovering the strength of the Aboriginal experience and of affirming Aboriginal identity. Wolf and DePasquale confirm that this theme is central to children’s and young adults’ literature. They argue that the bourgeois patriarchal concept of the family in colonial society was a destructive force affecting Indigenous kinship relations, which were regarded as unnatural by the settler society (Wolf and DePasquale 94-95). Therefore, Aboriginal books for the young “seek to intervene and disrupt” (Wolf and DePasquale 95) the colonial imposition of this Western family concept by presenting culturally relevant models of family and community. In The Porcupine Year, Erdrich does this by having the adult characters, including Omakayas’ mother Yellow Kettle and Nokomis (her grandmother), participate in adult discussions about leaving their home and protecting themselves from enemy raiders. When the men leave in search of two lost boys, the women remain behind to take care of the children, but “Yellow Kettle knew that she and the 48 other women might put up a good fight” (Erdrich 79). Yellow Kettle also devises a clever plan to throw their enemies off in case they were to arrive for a surprise attack on the women. Erdrich here develops a female character who plays an important role in decision-making and in protecting and securing the family from violent threats. The character of Yellow Kettle transforms the typical Western notion of the male as taking the lead role in matters of safety. Positive images of Indigenous family relations are here a means of opposing colonial concepts of familial relations and, more importantly, of presenting specific cultural information about family and community. While many scholars have debated the features of Aboriginal literature for adults (eg., Ruffo, “Why”; Murray; Hulan & Warley) or critiqued the content of Aboriginal themes in books by non-Aboriginal authors (eg., Francis; Hausfeld; vanGinhoven; Monroe; Day; Abington-Pitre; Haun; Nodelman, “At Home”), very few have looked at Indigenous writing for children in its own right. Wolf and DePasquale provide a richly detailed analysis of Indigenous literature, especially of picture books, while Molin directs her book to educators who may be using Indigenous literature in their classrooms or libraries. The online forums of Reese (American) and Oyate provide invaluable information for educators, and Reese frequently reviews and critiques books by Indigenous authors. Despite these resources, Indigenous children’s and young adults’ literature remains in the margins of the academic community – either misidentified as multicultural fiction or left aside in favour of critiquing the controversial literature produced by non-Aboriginal writers. Lorelei Cederstorm writes that scholars must study Aboriginal literature because focusing on non-Aboriginal authors does not yield greater insight into Aboriginal literature (145). Furthermore, the history of colonialism can be found in Aboriginal literature, which provides a different perspective and insight into North America’s past. Indigenous perspectives are necessary in order to fully 49 understand the relationship between the settler society and Aboriginal peoples, and even the true nature of American and Canadian culture. Research into Aboriginal children’s and young adults’ literature will help deflate the colonial myths found in historical and contemporary books about Aboriginal peoples by non-Aboriginal authors. Furthermore, this literature provides children with rich, complicated, and culturally accurate stories about Indigenous peoples and as such demands our attention. I have chosen to analyze works of Aboriginal literature for my thesis in order to learn from the voices of Aboriginal writers who are providing important insights into North American history, contemporary society, and Indigenous cultures in their writing for children and youth. Education is the focal point of my analysis, because of the significant role of education in the historical and contemporary struggles of Aboriginal peoples. As Battiste writes, Aboriginal peoples “see community based education as a fundamental responsibility and requirement” (vii), and in many cases as an even more important issue than self-government (vii). Many Indigenous writers of children’s or young adults’ literature have tackled historical, political, or social themes while emphasizing their cultural survival through school settings. Bruchac is one of the most published Indigenous writers of children’s and young adults’ fiction, and has addressed the issue of racism and education in The Heart of a Chief, Hidden Roots, The Warriors, and Eagle Song. Lee Maracle (Salish-Cree) looks at oppression in the schooling system in Ravensong and Will’s Garden. In Little Voice by Ojibwa author Ruby Slipperjack, the protagonist Ray is teased at school for her Aboriginal heritage and poverty, but regains her internal strength during a summer of traditional learning with her grandmother in the wilderness. In my research, I found that a large number of books, especially picture books, have been written about the residential school experience including Shi-shi-etko by Nicola Campbell and Arctic Stories by Michael Kusugak. A number of middle 50 grade books such as The Middle Five by Francis LaFlesche, My Name is Seepeetza by Shirley Sterling, and Goodbye Buffalo Bay by Larry Loyie with Constance Brissenden reflect on the residential school years. Many adult books about this education system are also being used in high school classrooms including Indian School Days by Basil Johnston and Kiss of the Fur Queen by Tomson Highway. Aboriginal and Western education systems provide a platform from which to compare Aboriginal controlled education systems to Western education systems, a contrast that can be as subtle as young Shi-shi-etko trying to remember every detail of her home and culture before leaving for a place where all of that would be absent. Aboriginal authors continue to write what much of the dominant society repeatedly fails to convey, the more complete story of North American history and contemporary society. 51 CHAPTER THREE: THEORY AND METHODS Overview This chapter first examines the implications of using theories based in Western schools of thought, especially postcolonial theory, in analyses of Aboriginal literature. The second section of this chapter outlines Native North American critical theories. I first provide an overview of the discussion before moving into the major contributors to the field; the issues of importance to the Aboriginal theorists I draw upon; and lastly the methodological approach I employ in reading the primary works I have chosen for my thesis. Western-Derived Theories and Aboriginal Literature Western theories applied to Aboriginal literature are being critiqued by many Aboriginal scholars as another form of colonial appropriation (eg., Blaeser, “Native”; Cook- Lynn; Champagne). Theory, like the literature it responds to, is a means by which scholars can see what they want to see; the issues that a scholar feels are important will likely be the ones he or she sets out to research. Theories deriving from the Western tradition, such as postcolonial or postmodern theories, support the values, concepts, and ideas perceived as important to scholars of the Western tradition. Therefore, many of these theories direct their attention to elements of Aboriginal literature that Aboriginal scholars and writers may not deem significant. Lorelei Cederstorm argues that what is actually needed is “a critical approach that places Native values and culture at its centre” (146). Because theory reflects the mindset and values of the cultures it derives from, many Western-based theories are an extension of the colonial tradition of shaping history and cultures to suit the needs of the dominant society. The problems associated with Western-based approaches are linked to a form of dominance over Indigenous peoples being (re)enacted by the settler society. According to 52 Kimberly Blaeser (Ojibwe), “Native stories may be changed or taken out of context” (“Native” 61) through a Western theory, and so they can lose their integrity and social and cultural meaning. In “American Indian Studies is for Everyone,” Duane Champagne also finds that non-Aboriginal approaches are “usually driven by theoretical or disciplinary issues that abstract segments of Indian history or culture for analysis, and often do not reflect the study of the culture as an holistic entity” (78). This form of analysis means that “Indian issues” (Champagne 78) are not being addressed; instead, the theoretical interests of the non- Aboriginal researcher are emphasized. In “Home, Homelessness, and Liminal Spaces: The Use of Postcolonial Theory for Reading (National) Children’s Literature,” Clare Bradford and Mavis Reimer comment that with an increased use of theory in the discipline of children’s literature, “the question of what we see cannot be separated from the question of what we’re looking for” (215). Although they believe the “in-between” locations, such as schools and neighbourhoods where cultures interact, yield greater insight than focusing on the end meaning or final outcome of a story, their statement also implies that a researcher’s interpretation of what should be investigated will determine what new insights are discovered. Bradford and Reimer also emphasize the role of theory in both guiding our understanding and findings as researchers. Clearly, the works of Indigenous writers and illustrators can become mediated by the ideas, perspectives, and interests of the researcher. Indigenous theories offer important opportunities for non-Aboriginal academics to focus on the issues and ideas considered essential by Aboriginal scholars. Some scholars argue that the use of Western theories by non-Aboriginal people is a way to change the meaning of an Aboriginal culture so that it aligns more closely to Western ideology (eg., Stott, “Native Tales”; Swisher; Kulchyski). In “From Appropriation to Subversion: Aboriginal Cultural Production in the Age of Postmodernism,” Peter Kulchyski 53 suggests this form of appropriation is evident in the way the dominant culture chooses to support and critique particular forms of Aboriginal (especially Inuit) art that exemplify “dead” Aboriginal culture (615). In the process, the Aboriginal culture of the past is romanticized, and the modern Aboriginal culture is, by default, considered non-existent or as integrated fully into the dominant society. Jon C. Stott analyzes the re-writing, editing, and publishing of particular Aboriginal stories in “Native Tales and Traditions in Books for Children,” and determines that Western elitism coupled with the hierarchical Western worldview favours inaccurate representations of Aboriginal peoples (375, 378). Champagne similarly argues that “Indian issues” are being ignored so that non-Aboriginal critics and scholars can satisfy their own curiosities and ideas about Indigenous cultures. In promoting these outdated perceptions of Aboriginal peoples, the dominant culture ignores Indigenous peoples’ survival through colonialism and cultural development. Inevitably, this ignorance has caused resentment among Indigenous scholars and skepticism about the intentions and possibilities of Western theories and ideologies. Perhaps the most important question regarding the application of Western theories and ideologies to Aboriginal literature is whether or not they reveal informative insights for Indigenous peoples. Most often the answer of Aboriginal academics is no. However, combinations of Western and Indigenous ideologies have been a key strategy for many of the most prolific Aboriginal scholars14. Louis Owens and Gerald Vizenor argue that Western theories are – and always will be – a part of their knowledge and interpretation of the world. They also acknowledge that to create positive changes in representation, understanding, and cultural revitalization of Aboriginal peoples, a Western worldview must function with an 14 Paula Gunn Allen combines feminism, or what she terms a gynoscopic perspective, with her own concept of tribal theory. Greg Sarris transforms reader response theory by infusing his own sense of tribal theory, and Kimberley Blaeser, Louis Owens, and Gerald Vizenor have all drawn on postmodern and postcolonial theory even when advocating for an Aboriginal-centered literary theory. 54 Indigenous worldview. The goal of this duality is to negotiate different cultural values to best address the needs of Aboriginal peoples in ways that will be effective for all communities, whether Aboriginal or non-Aboriginal. By including non-Aboriginal and Aboriginal schools of thought in a theoretical approach, scholars can constructively address the land and political issues that frequently emerge in Aboriginal writing. However, many Indigenous theorists are advocating for new methodological approaches that recognize the unique writing styles, political motivations, and concerns of Aboriginal peoples (eg., Cook-Lynn; Blaeser; Owens; Ruffo, “Introduction”; Cederstorm). Postcolonial theory comes from the perspective of a writing-oriented culture that historically has had “unrestricted power to describe Indians as they choose” (Shanley 30). This power has not only existed, but it has also been repeatedly abused, which is especially evident in the treatment of Indigenous peoples in children’s and young adults’ literature and media. The abuse of representation and interpretation of Aboriginal peoples by many in the dominant society has led to a distrust of Western theories, such as postcolonial theory, and a lack of faith in their ability to work for Aboriginal studies and literature. In North America, postcolonial theory has been widely applied to Aboriginal fiction, and is often considered the most useful as it exposes the tenets of colonialism. As Clare Bradford notes in Unsettling Narratives: Postcolonial Readings of Children’s Literature, this theory “consider[s] how texts inscribe the shifting relations in power and knowledge [ … ] [and] resist[s] universalizing interpretations” (8). In this way, postcolonial theory is able to expose racial tensions and power struggles without generalizing about or trivializing diverse groups of people. Heather Scutter also argues that researchers “need postcolonial decentering and destabilizing of received wisdoms” (172). However, before discussing the implications of postcolonial theory with Indigenous writing, as Bradford herself acknowledges, is the problem 55 with the term postcolonial itself, in which the prefix “post” implies that colonialism is something of the past. Colonialism still exists for Aboriginal peoples and, arguably, even for all children themselves (Nodelman, “Illustration” 120)15. Aboriginal peoples continue to struggle for land rights and control over child welfare and education among other issues, but have often been unable to dispute these issues on Nation to Nation terms. The implications of words like postcolonialism are important because they reflect how we understand other people and their cultures; Armand Ruffo explains that for Indigenous peoples “language has not only compounded the problem of meaningful communication between Native and non-Native peoples but has resulted in dire consequences for Native people in the ‘real world’” (“Why” 666). Therefore, the controversy over the term “postcolonial” is an example of the power that words have to create or perpetuate misconceptions about Aboriginal peoples and their historical relationship with Euro-Americans / Canadians. Despite the limitations I have acknowledged about postcolonial theory and Western theories as they are applied to Indigenous writing, much of my research and reading have been informed by postcolonial theory. Postcolonial theory is effective in looking at children’s literature, particularly works featuring Aboriginal content, because it analyzes power structures, language, and place. Bradford and Reimer discuss homelessness and liminality in children’s literature about Aboriginal peoples to “make visible the designs of the children’s texts of the settler society” (201). In Bradford’s section of the essay she has co-authored with Reimer, “Liminality and 15 Nodelman argues that “books in the second category [books that encourage children to what is considered ‘natural behaviour’ rather than adult-like behaviour] teach children how to be child-like, through what commentators like Jacqueline Rose (1984) and [Nodelman himself] (1992) have identified as a process of colonisation: adults write books for children to persuade them of conceptions of themselves as children that suit adult needs and purposes” (120). Books in the first category are ones that encourage so-called civilized social behaviours. 56 Cultural Engagment,” she adapts Homi Bhabha’s notion of liminality16 as a temporal space without a specific location, and instead looks at liminality as it relates to specific places with historical and cultural contexts (207). Bradford chooses to analyze schools and neighbourhoods where cultures and people meet and interact. In looking at the young adult novel Will’s Garden by Lee Maracle, Bradford analyzes the school cafeteria as a place where Will exchanges with other students ideas and information, and examines how his experiences in this part of the school compare to his experiences on the reserve. She finds that the experiences in other liminal spaces are echoed in Will’s school experiences. For instance, Will changes the way he negotiates the relationships he forms in the school cafeteria based on his own visions of his great-grandfather coming to an understanding of other cultures while working in a multi-cultural road-gang (Bradford and Reimer 211). By grounding the theoretical concept of liminality in real life locations, Bradford makes the discussion of literature and cultural engagement meaningful to cultural, social, historical, and political discourse. Following Bradford and Reimer’s example, my own work focuses on school and educational settings as places where cultural exchanges play a role in forming the identity of the protagonist and his / her understanding of community. The work of Reimer, Bradford, Scutter, and others notwithstanding, the use of theory in the discussion of any children’s literature has developed only over the past thirty years. In the introduction to Unsettling Narratives, Bradford writes that there is little postcolonial research of children’s literature being done today (7), although the 2000 publication of Voices of the Other: Children’s Literature and the Postcolonial Context, edited by Roderick McGillis, has helped to bring this theory into the field. Ruffo also notes a lack of critical 16 Bradford describes liminality as “the postcolonial concept of an interstitial space, a domain ‘in-between’ cultures, languages and subjectivities, where individual and group identities are formed through dialogue between cultural and national forms” (206). 57 analysis of any Aboriginal literature, despite the increased publication of Aboriginal writing since the 1960s (“Introduction” 5). Most criticism of children’s and young adults’ literature draws on “liberal humanist modes of thought, which foreground the concept of self- determining individuals engaged in a process of self-actualization [ . . . ] a paradigm that leaves little space for more historicized and politicized readings” (Bradford 7). A liberal humanist approach also leaves little room for critical analysis because it instead focuses on supposed truths about the human experience, which does not promote a detailed investigation of socio-political realities of specific cultures, histories, or places. In “Teaching American Literature from its Real Beginning: Native American Stories,” Alethea Helbig promotes the use of myths with young students as they are “good stories” (259) that could teach North Americans about their “roots” (261). Where a critical literary analysis would uncover the complexities of Indigenous literature and myths, Helbig instead only discusses the nature of the oral stories of Aboriginal peoples as being “good.” She further compares and searches for likenesses between and among Aboriginal myths, the Bible, and Western literary traditions. Her discussion includes no mention of the controversial history of the translation and publication of Indigenous myths in North America. Rather than assessing the complexity and depth of the materials she describes so that teachers and their students can discover more than a “good” story in working with the texts, Helbig simply urges that it would “be good for [students]” (265) to read Native North American tales and traditions. Other researchers focus on negative representations of Indigenous peoples by non- Aboriginal writers, which is important in revealing stereotypes. However, this approach tends to bring attention and publicity to the books in question, rather than bringing appropriate books by Indigenous authors to the fore through critical analysis. Laura Herbst analyzes images of savage, noble, or inferior Indigenous peoples in writing by non-Aboriginal people, 58 but provides no alternative fictional or critical resources by Indigenous peoples in her chapter. Elizabeth Noll also critiques the tendency of non-Aboriginal authors to misrepresent Aboriginal cultures of the past, but does not move her discussion into the positive work being done by Aboriginal scholars and writers. R. Clark Mallam, in contrast, researched the representation of Native North Americans in elementary school literature from Kansas, and along with his exposure of the stereotyped and inaccurate content, he provides a number of alternative children’s books by Aboriginal authors in light of his findings at the school. The work of Mallam exposes the more obvious stereotypes found in literature from the 1960s and 1970s and also draws attention to Aboriginal works available for educators. This is one example of how research can both critique fallacies in the representation of Aboriginal peoples and illustrate the alternative resources that Aboriginal scholars and writers are producing. The work of scholars such as Bradford and Reimer and Debbie Reese reveals that a critical analysis framework can further uncover the more subversive and less visible colonial representations in the literature of the settler society. Both the lack of critical theory and the application of Western theories to Indigenous writing have become a concern for many Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal scholars. The opposition to postcolonial theory and other Western theories is not only a form of resistance to the possibility of colonial dominance, but is also a struggle to have Indigenous theories recognized in the academic community. Working towards the acceptance and use of Aboriginal-centered theories is also an effort to show that Aboriginal voices and perspectives have a legitimate place in the academic world and in North American culture at large. 59 Native North American Critical Theories Overview Native North American critical theories are increasingly being discussed in the academic community and are born from the perspectives and writing styles of Aboriginal writers and scholars. Given the diversity of Aboriginal voices from numerous and different tribes, communities, and academic backgrounds, the existence of a unified, pan-tribal Native North American literary theory remains contested. Discussions about Indigenous theory, however, have increased among Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal scholars. Concerns that Western theories, such as postcolonial theory, will lead to appropriation of Indigenous voices have led to a desire to map out and explore this field (e.g., Krupat; Blaeser; Cook-Lynne; Owens). However, Indigenous theories have not just developed from a resistance to the impositions by the dominant society, but also from the theoretical perspectives developed by Aboriginal scholars (e.g., Allen; Warrior; Sarris; Womack). The following sections reflect my own interpretations as a non-Aboriginal researcher of the writing produced about Indigenous theories. First, I provide a brief overview of the major contributors to the discussion of Indigenous theories in the last twenty years. Second, I describe the issues that Aboriginal scholars have cited as key to analyzing Indigenous literature, and which are compatible with a discussion of education. Finally, the third section breaks down the methodological approaches to be used in the reading of the primary texts for this thesis. Major Contributors Although Indigenous theory appears to be new in literary discourse over the past twenty years, it has roots in the early Aboriginal writers of Canada and the United States. In “A Single Decade: Book Length Native Literary Criticism between 1986 and 1997,” Craig S. 60 Womack (Oklahoma Creek-Cherokee) provides a detailed account of how the historical development of Aboriginal theories unfolded. While he traces Aboriginal-centered criticism back to the critiques of early Aboriginal writers like Mourning Dove and E. Pauline Johnson in the late 1800s and early 1900s (10-11), Womack finds that the 1960s and 1970s political movements were to cause the greatest shift in the way Aboriginal literature was approached by scholars (12). The political movements of Aboriginal activists, including the more radical work of organizations like AIM and the more moderate work of individuals like Gerald Vizenor, were to change the critical analyses of both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal literature by bringing a new consciousness to the public and academic community about who Aboriginal peoples are. Womack’s assertion that political activism changed the way academics wrote about Indigenous peoples reflects the work of Marie Battiste on the band and public education systems and Doris Seale on children’s literature; both also claimed this period was responsible for significant change in the way Aboriginal peoples were discussed, represented, and treated. The political activism of Indigenous organizations and individuals in the 1960s and 1970s raised the consciousness of how Aboriginal literature was read, interpreted, and accepted, because their voices were accessible through media and were vocal about the misrepresentation of their cultures. And because Aboriginal writers began writing more novels that were being published and read at this time, the academic and public understanding of Aboriginal literature was expanded beyond the oral tradition and folk tales. Despite the changing perceptions of Aboriginal peoples and their writing throughout the 1960s and 1970s, Womack finds that the theoretical efforts in the 1980s by Aboriginal scholars ignored the problems of addressing Indigenous literature as a unified body (rather than acknowledging the diversity of Indigenous cultures), and failed to include Christian Aboriginal writers or fully assimilated Aboriginal writers in the dialogue (19). History, politics, and language were not 61 accounted for in these early critiques, rendering the discipline steeped in “cliché” (Womack 19), an approach that Womack believes is still evident in Aboriginal literary studies today (19). My thesis includes an in-depth discussion of history and politics in the literature review in Chapter Two and in the analysis of the primary works. Language is also discussed in relation to colonialism and loss in The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich and No Time to Say Goodbye by Sylvia Olsen with Rita Morris and Ann Sam. Although the efforts of scholars in the 1980s to develop critical analysis of Aboriginal literature are heavily critiqued today, the research of this time laid the groundwork for future developments in Indigenous theories. A turning point in Native North American literary thought occurred with the publication of The Sacred Hoop in 1986 by Paula Gunn Allen (Laguna Pueblo), which is considered by Womack, Elvira Pulitano, and other scholars as the “wonderful and thorny beginning” (Womack 24) of Indigenous literary criticism. Allen writes from a feminist perspective in The Sacred Hoop and emphasizes the differences between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples, especially the ethnocentric ways of thinking she perceives in Euro-American academic culture which ignore the complexity of Aboriginal cultures and peoples. Allen further argues that the patriarchal culture of the colonizers erased the role of women in Aboriginal cultures. In Toward a Native American Critical Theory, Pulitano criticizes the separatist stance of Allen, which Womack also critiques because it does not acknowledge Indigenous diversity (22). Regardless of the many criticisms scholars have of Allen’s work, The Sacred Hoop is a seminal piece that played a role in developing an academic discussion about Indigenous theory. Another pivotal book interpreting Aboriginal stories was Keeping Slugwoman Alive: A Holistic Approach to American Indian Texts (1993) by Greg Sarris (Pomo). His research breaks down the identity binaries, namely the polarization of cross-cultural discussions by 62 ethnicity and culture, found in the work of scholars like Allen, and instead emphasizes a multiplicity of meanings. Sarris draws on reader response theory to implicate himself as a researcher interpreting stories, and looks at a broad range of stories that may not have been considered by outsiders. Looking at the Words of Our People: First Nations Analysis of Literature (1993), edited by Jeannette Armstrong, was published in the same year as Sarris’ book, and was the first collection of literary analysis on Aboriginal literature by Indigenous academics. Looking at the Words is important because it reflects the diversity of Indigenous scholars’ critical understandings of Indigenous fiction. Some of the scholars, such as Kimberly Blaeser, outline the “possibility of dominance” (“Native” 59) that theory holds as a mediator between the researcher and the text. Blaeser’s statement emphasizes voice appropriation as a problem that reflects imbalanced power dynamics as well as the misrepresentation of cultural values and concerns. This collection would be followed by a 2001 book, (Ad)dressing our Words: Aboriginal Perspectives on Aboriginal Literatures, edited by Armand Ruffo, which was created to provide “fresh and provocative” (“Introduction” 7) critical writing by Aboriginal scholars and writers. Although Ruffo argues that Aboriginal literary criticisms remain diverse, he also tentatively notes a common theme of de-colonization in the analyses of the scholars (7). Robert Warrior (Osage) published Tribal Secrets: Recovering American Indian Intellectual Traditions in 1995, and was the first to incorporate a discussion of public policy and politics in relation to his analysis of Indigenous fiction. Pulitano argues that his writing does not account for the influence of Western theory and pits non-Aboriginal people against Native North Americans (189). However, Warrior’s analysis is culturally appropriate because it looks beyond the identity of the individual protagonist to consider the community as central to his discussion (Womack 61). Warrior’s theorizing of Indigenous literature is significant 63 regardless of his feelings about Western traditions, because he begins a trend of investigating the politicized nature of Indigenous writing now found in the writings of many Indigenous scholars (e.g., Womack; Cook-Lynn; Wolf and DePasquale). Gerald Vizenor is considered a pioneer of contemporary Aboriginal literature and criticism. Throughout his career, Vizenor has written fiction, poems, and plays and has engaged in critical discourse of Indigenous literature; as Blaeser notes in Gerald Vizenor: Writing in the Oral Tradition, his work is “multigenre, anti-form, [and] intertextual” (203) in character. Vizenor’s work also relies heavily on silence and shadows to “compensate for the inadequacies of the written language” (Blaeser, Gerald 13). This is a technique that David Moore, in “Rough Knowledge and Radical Understanding: Sacred Silence in American Indian Literatures,” considers a dialogic space from which cross cultural readings can be ethically broached (657), because sacred information is kept within the community and yet the importance of the sacred content is conveyed to outsiders. The silences provide an example of an ethical approach to cultural knowledge for outsiders to follow. Blaeser sees silence as “sacred presence and as active communication (Gerald 21); it reflects traditional custom, expresses who has or does not have power, and functions as a dramatic device. Silences can also be considered a rhetorical strategy from which meaning is made through participatory reader response as readers are elicited to fill the silence, thus drawing on the oral tradition. By finding ways to incorporate elements of the oral tradition into the written word, namely through reader participation, Vizenor demonstrates a method of Indigenous writing that draws on the traditional roots of Aboriginal knowledge and expression. In 2008, Womack edited Reasoning Together: A Native Critics Collective to attempt to more clearly map out Native North American literary theories. This book reflects on the history of Indigenous theory and considers the possibilities for the future. Reasoning Together 64 is similar to (Ad)dressing Our Words as they are both collections of various Indigenous scholars’ interpretations of Indigenous literature. Womack’s collection, much like Ruffo’s and Armstrong’s, illustrates diversity among these scholars. Womack himself refuses to accept the idea of a “unified” Native North American literary theory (100) – that is a single definition of Aboriginal literary criticism. He does, however, feel continuity exists between the essays in the collection through the grounding of theory in social practice, and he further emphasizes the “need to do much more historical work” (100/101) by incorporating relevant political and social content into examinations of Aboriginal writing. The political and social importance of history in literature, as discussed in the writing of Ruffo, Womack, and Warrior, had a great influence on the research for my thesis. I included the history of education, the history of non-Indigenous children’s and young adults’ literature about Indigenous peoples, and the history of Indigenous children’s and young adults’ writing in my literature review in order to address the political and social histories that directly bear on my thesis topic. Issues Resistance to colonialism is a central concern of many Aboriginal scholars, who therefore direct their analyses of Aboriginal literature to issues related to resistance and decolonization. Many Aboriginal scholars provide highly focused analyses of the representation of land, and of political, social, historical, and cultural space (eg., Blaeser; Cook-Lynn; Ruffo, “Why”; Womack). These issues reflect the values and concerns of these scholars. Where a Western postcolonial theory may tend to analyze the effects of social structures on the individual and his or her identity, an Aboriginal-centered approach, as in the case of Warrior’s work, may focus on the community instead. By altering the theoretical approach to address the issues central to Aboriginal writing, the cultural traditions and 65 diversity and the political issues affecting Aboriginal peoples can better be addressed. My thesis focuses on education as a political institution, land rights and issues, and community development because these are issues that Aboriginal scholars have addressed as central to understanding Indigenous literature. They further are central to the education of Aboriginal peoples. Although I focus on the individual protagonists, I do so by looking at the effects of the political institution of education on their relationships to land, community, and cultural heritage. In the case of The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich, I look at the effects of colonialism on traditional education. In Womack’s analysis, the subject matter moves between history, politics, social movements, and literary works to demonstrate the significance of politics in Indigenous literature and its reception and criticism. Blaeser and Elizabeth Cook-Lynn (Crow Creek Sioux) also emphasize the need to focus on topics such as land, politics, and community relationships. By including in my literature review the history of education, children’s books by non-Aboriginal authors, and children’s books by Aboriginal authors, I have attempted to include the political and historical landscape of the main topics for this thesis, namely Aboriginal young adult fiction and education systems affecting Aboriginal peoples. As I have mentioned in the literature review, political issues are not addressed as openly in Indigenous writing for children and young adults as they are in Indigenous writing for adults. However, I found that writing about educational settings is a way for Indigenous authors to reveal political issues that have affected Aboriginal peoples in a way that is accessible to a young audience. Given the significance of politics in Aboriginal literature and criticism (eg., Ruffo; Wolfe and DePasquale; Womack; Blaeser; Cook-Lynn), I explored the history of education in my thesis. Furthermore, in accounting for my position as a non- Aboriginal researcher, I have taken the advice of Pulitano who believes in the “necessity of 66 displacing the margin-centre opposition” (14) by implicating oneself in the political landscape. I included my background information in the introduction and have continued to acknowledge my position as a researcher to ensure that my critical understanding and literary interpretations are clearly referenced as those of an outsider. In “American Indian Intellectualism and the New Indian Story,” Cook-Lynn stresses the significance of political activism in writing (70) especially as it relates to land ownership. In her view, land is an essential element in contemporary Aboriginal literature as the struggle for land and reparations is a foremost concern of Aboriginal peoples today. In this spirit, I address the land displacement that all of the child protagonists face in the primary texts I have chosen. Blaeser argues that mixing traditional narratives with the contemporary, interweaving realities, transgressing genre, writing cyclically, and invoking audience participation (“Like Reeds” 564) are essential features of Aboriginal literature. For my own analysis, I address Blaeser’s features by focusing on stories and the memories of the protagonists as a connection to the past and the relationship of the child protagonists to their communities. Methodological Approaches Methodological approaches differ among Aboriginal scholars, and in this spirit of multiplicity, I have drawn from the work of a variety of scholars, Aboriginal and non- Aboriginal, to construct my own approach. Many of the Aboriginal scholars breaking from Western methodologies are not only focusing on issues like land and community, but also on various techniques of Indigenous writing that they argue are important to understanding or analyzing this literature. My thesis includes an analysis of the protagonists’ relationship to land and community and references to political, social, or historical content relating to the primary texts. 67 In Keeping Slugwoman Alive, Sarris emphasizes the importance of a multiplicity of meanings through the implication of the researcher in the process of research. He demonstrates the need to break down binaries and seek deeper meanings, which he himself does by addressing his own perspectives in his interpretations as they are initially shaped and then reshaped in his “dialogue within and between people” (4)17. In my first reading of his work, Sarris’ “multiplicity” felt like a never ending web of social and cultural interpretations. However, he also acknowledges the significance of the researcher in working with social, political, and cultural histories and shows how, despite differences between the socio-cultural background of the researcher and writing in question, meaningful work can be done with reflexivity and the recognition of the position of the researcher. In short, by including the position of the researcher in the analysis, embedded interpretations and assumptions can become a part of the work rather than attempting to separate the researcher as a supposed objective body. This approach is one that I have adopted in including reflections of my own position in the Introduction and Conclusion of my thesis. In reading Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine, Sarris exposes his own interactions with the story as it made him reflect on his own community (144). Because I am not from an Aboriginal community, my reading will not have the connection of the text to “home” that Sarris’ reading reveals. However, his particular adaptation of reader response theory is still important to my work as a non-Aboriginal researcher by keeping me aware of my interpretation of texts from a culture and community different from my own. Furthermore, Sarris’ emphasis on the role of storytelling in theorizing is a way for me to bring in experiences or knowledge of my own that have influenced my analysis. I have chosen to include a few stories about my grandfather in the Introduction and Conclusion because they 17 He frequently reflects on his conversations with a Pomo medicine woman, Mabel McKay. 68 reflect on how I have understood the issues I analyze in the primary texts: home land, community, and history. I do not incorporate criticism as story in my thesis, but I have included stories of my grandfather to give insight into my socio-cultural background. Womack applies a holistic method to his critical writing by dividing his analysis between history, politics, policies, and literature. He plays with conventional academic writing to express his own views on how history and literature function, and to debunk an academic belief that writing must follow a specific pattern and style. The idea that writing must be organized in a certain way implies that the people in control of this writing method express themselves in the “right” way – namely the mode of the dominant culture. Womack chooses to disrupt his literary discussions with specific types of historical information in order to re-think and re-define the shape of history, literature, and literary criticism. While my own writing does not weave these elements together with the depth that Womack has done, I have incorporated history and politics into my literature review and analysis to address the broader context of my thesis and to explore the way Indigenous writers for children express political histories. The multi-genre approach is also evident in The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative, by Thomas King. Each chapter opens and closes with a variation on the story of Creation; in revising this way, King draws heavily on the oral tradition by invoking and engaging the audience and relating a traditional narrative. He also includes personal stories, other narratives, and critical discussions within each chapter. Addressing the importance of the oral culture through writing style is an essential part of many scholars’ ideas about Native North American critical theory, and often, even of their own writing styles (eg., Vizenor; Cook-Lynn; King; Blaeser). While I recognize the importance of the oral tradition in Indigenous writing, I have chosen to research and incorporate political and social information 69 into my work under the influence of Womack and to include reflective stories as in the case of Sarris rather than to incorporate traditional or fictional stories into my work. Although I do not employ elements of the oral tradition into my particular style of writing, as does King, I am aware of the significance it has in Aboriginal writing. In The Porcupine Year, Louise Erdrich inserts stories of the grandmother and of the Ojibwe culture in a different font and text size to emphasize the oral tradition and the importance of storytelling. Michel Noël demonstrates the significance of the oral tradition in Good for Nothing by describing the power that the elder Tom’s stories have on Nipishish and the community (212). Sherman Alexie uses a colloquial writing style that invokes the sense of oral storytelling and sharing in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. The inclusion in Alexie’s book of cartoon drawings by Ellen Forney with written commentary also incorporates a multi-genre approach to storytelling. Although not to the extent of Alexie’s work, No Time to Say Goodbye also includes sketched images by Connie Paul (Tsartlip), and Sylvia Olsen uses a conversational tone to make the reader feel closer to the stories being told. The oral tradition is also important in the sense that many Aboriginal voices have been marginalized and ignored by the media, publishing, and general print culture of the dominant society. In “Ethics and Responsibilities in Writing American Indian History,” Donald Fixco urges the importance of including oral information into academic discussion (34), and emphasizes the importance of respecting work from an oral tradition. I have taken care to research a variety of transcribed oral accounts of Aboriginal school experiences in my historical research through books such as Residential School: The Stolen Years collected by Linda Jaine and Stolen from our Embrace: The Abduction of First Nations Children and the Restoration of Aboriginal Communities by Ernie Crey and Suzanne Fournier. These books 70 include interviews, poems, and transcribed accounts of the often unheard voices of Aboriginal community members who have been affected by North American education systems. While trying to understand history and literature through the methodological approaches of Womack and Sarris, I am also aware of the way Western theories have influenced my interpretations. Allen, for example, comes from a feminist perspective in The Sacred Hoop and Vizenor’s cross-cultural approach merges “Native epistemology with Western literary forms” (Pulitano 186). The frame of reference that these authors use is a Western one, and yet they blend Western and Aboriginal ways of knowing. Louis Owens argues that the “multicultural frontier” (55) must remain open to dialogue between and among cultures for deeper meanings and analyses to emerge. However, Owens warns critics to “mediate without violating” (56). Vizenor, Allen, and Owens are entangled in the discourse of the dominant culture, but this does not mean that Indigenous theories cannot exist as a separate discipline. The writings of Vizenor, Blaeser, Owens, and many other Indigenous scholars show a resistance to the dominant culture while using Western theories. In Mixed Blood Messages, Owens notes that this dialogue is an important factor for all critics as the challenge facing the critic is to avoid the error of imagining the encounter with Native American texts as a “meeting with the unknowable and untouchable other” (David Murray qtd in Owens 56) and to simultaneously escape the temptation to believe in the “unproblematic translatability, and . . . transparency” (David Murray qtd in Owens 56) of other texts and cultures. (Owens 56) For my own writing, I have already acknowledged the influence of the postcolonial scholar, Clare Bradford, on my research. 71 The cultural differences that can occur between a researcher and the literature in question are important to recognize as this conflict has the potential to enlighten literary discussions. As a non-Aboriginal researcher, I cannot imagine that Western ideology could be blocked out from my own understanding of the world; furthermore, an analysis disconnected from Western thought would close the dialogic space that Owens discusses. This disconnection would also assume that Aboriginal cultures and identities have been unaffected by over five hundred years of colonialism. Womack believes that an Aboriginal-centered analysis can be done and claimed as purely “Indian” by “searching for meaningful aspects of essentialist viewpoints, and other strategies, that allow for personal experience to be claimed for its insights” (101). As an outsider lacking “personal insights” from within an Aboriginal culture, my own thesis can only bridge Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal theories and methods that are accessible to me given my cultural and social background. Drawing primarily on the critical writing of Warrior, Womack, and Blaeser, my thesis examines issues of land, community, and identity as manifested in education systems affecting Aboriginal peoples. As my thesis focuses on education systems, political issues are a focal point as they relate to the social, historical, and land-based issues key to Womack’s and Warrior’s discussions. Drawing on Blaeser, I take a close look at community relationships, which play a strong role in the education of the protagonists. When I began looking into Indigenous literary theories, I believed there was one theory with defined boundaries and methods. I soon realized the true diversity and richness that this field holds – that there are many Indigenous theories and methods. Although I do not hold an “insider status” (Womack 101) that would enable me to write with an Indigenous perspective, I have tried to address what many Indigenous scholars and writers feel is important to understanding Indigenous 72 literature, and apply the information and tools they discuss to the best of my ability as a non- Aboriginal researcher. 73 CHAPTER 4: LAND, COMMUNITY, AND HISTORY IN THE PORCUPINE YEAR AND GOOD FOR NOTHING Overview In “American Indian Intellectualism and the New Indian Story,” Elizabeth Cook-Lynn observes that scholars of Aboriginal literature have failed to address attachment to land with a nation-to-nation approach, which in turn signifies that “Indian homelands” are a lost cause (66). She argues that focusing on the devastating impact of colonialism does not account for the work of Aboriginal nations to counter colonialism and articulate their longstanding rights to traditional lands. This chapter addresses both the effect of and resistance to colonialism of the Aboriginal peoples in The Porcupine Year by Anishinabe writer Louise Erdrich and Good for Nothing by Métis author Michel Noël. Aboriginal and Western education systems are discussed in relation to the land and community of the protagonists. The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich About the Book The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich was published while I was researching my thesis topic. This is the third book in the Birchbark House series, of which the first book, The Birchbark House, was a National Book Award Finalist in 1999 and the second, The Game of Silence, won the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction in 2006. The Porcupine Year changes some of the patterns of the first two books in the series by running the text continuously, rather than sectioning the novel by the seasons. This modification highlights the disruption that land displacement causes Omakayas’ family. Despite this stylistic change, Erdrich still focuses the story on family and community. Scholar Elizabeth Gargano notes that Erdrich’s writing for children “implicitly critiques Euro-American assumptions of humanity's supremacy over nature and the importance of individualism” (28) by incorporating what she terms Ojibwa story cycles. 74 Erdrich further revisions the relationship between individuals and nature by demonstrating the connection between Omakayas’ community and the land, and the emotional, physical, and cultural struggles that emerge after their separation from the Island of the Golden-Breasted Woodpecker. Melissa Kay Thompson comments that Erdrich’s writing also centers on “family life and relationships” (369), which creates a culturally specific depiction of the Anishinabeg. Erdrich’s focus on relationships further reveals an Aboriginal education model between the adult and child community members. The Porcupine Year takes place in 1852 in northern Minnesota. Omakayas (or Little Frog) is twelve-years-old and learning to become a healer through the teachings of her grandmother. The United States government decides to create a reservation system for Aboriginal peoples and forces her family to leave their beloved home on the Island of the Golden-Breasted Woodpecker, and they eventually decide to head north to live with Omakayas’ Auntie Muskrat. This first section of this chapter of my thesis analyzes how the identity of Omakayas and her community – a community that is shaped by a particular landscape – is maintained when that land is lost. Education amidst a Changing Community and Landscape The Porcupine Year incorporates intensely political language to describe the way that “Omakayas’ family was sent from their home by the United States government” (Erdrich xi). In this way of telling the story, Erdrich provides a context for children to understand the history of the westward expansion of European settlers. To show the survival of Aboriginal cultures through this political context, Erdrich depicts the continuation of cultural values through the family and their attachment to their homelands. Land and community play a significant role in Omakayas’ development in The Porcupine Year. Robert Warrior sees “the categories of land and community and their relationship to each other” (45) as “literary critical 75 keys” (45) to understanding the history and concepts found within the writing of John Joseph Mathews and Vine Deloria, Jr. In using these concepts to examine Erdrich’s writing, complex forms of resistance to colonialism become evident. Erdrich shows that by turning towards community, Omakayas is able to maintain her sense of self and identity as an Anishinabe person despite longing for her home on the Island of the Golden-Breasted Woodpecker. Omakayas maintains her connection to her family’s traditional territories through her pursuit of traditional knowledge and customs. Although Omakayas and her family are forced to leave their land, they maintain their cultural traditions by drawing on community knowledge about it. The efforts of the United States government to create a reservation system for all Aboriginal peoples forces Omakayas’ family and many other Anishinabeg families to leave their traditional territories. Omakayas and her brother, Pinch, become lost on their journey to find a new home through Bwanaag territory, and Pinch observes that if they were back on their Island at least they “would know where [they] were” (Erdrich 11). Indeed, the “exile” from their land and travel through enemy territories has put the children and community into a very dangerous situation. Although in this territory the family is still able to “collect supplies of dried fish, meat, and berries” (Erdrich 30) and hunt, they cannot establish roots in the new place. The family’s cultural survival through this circumstance is visible in what Elizabeth Cook-Lynn terms “tribal Indigenousness” (66), namely the focus on communal strength and cultural property. Omakayas’ relationship to her grandmother, Nokomis, best exemplifies the transmission of the community’s cultural material. Nokomis wants to plant her garden as the seeds in her “bark pack are longing to be set in the earth and sprout” (Erdrich 45), which metaphorically demonstrates the uprooting of the family from their home. Nokomis’ seeds are stolen when raiders attack the family on their journey north. The family becomes completely physically 76 separated from their territory, which highlights the desperation of their predicament. However, Nokomis takes Omakayas to a “great medicine swamp” (Erdrich 104) near their temporary camp and teaches her what to gather and how each plant, root, and reed is used (Erdrich 104). For Omakayas, this is the “greatest part of her education” (Erdrich 104), and is what prepares her to be a healer in the future. Although Nokomis’ seeds are her “life’s work” (Erdrich 103) – her connection to her ancestors, territories, and the future of her community – Omakayas is also her connection to the future of Anishinabe culture and traditional practices. Nokomis here turns this tragic part of their colonial experience into an important learning opportunity for Omakayas. Together they continue to develop their culture, knowledge, and connection to the land by ensuring the knowledge of Nokomis is passed to Omakayas. As Erdrich’s narrative investigates land and community, the hope and resiliency of Omakayas’ family becomes evident even where the political contextualization in the writing reveals a sense of hopelessness in the settler society’s oppression of Aboriginal peoples. Erdrich demonstrates that even without their traditional territory, the family can share knowledge to maintain their traditions and connection to the land. Gargano argues that scholars need to move beyond the content of Erdrich’s individual books to look at the importance of her worldview and how it represents Anishinabe culture (29). Indeed, Erdrich demonstrates the interconnectedness of the community by including the reader in it. She breaks from the narrative of Omakayas’ family to explain particular parts of their culture, which creates a more intimate relationship between the reader and the culture. For instance, Omakayas wants to ask Nokomis for a story but knows that she must wait until the “snakes and frogs [are] sleeping” (Erdrich 35). The narrator continues on, explaining that “the Ojibwe only told stories in the winter” (35), which is for the benefit of the reader only as it is clear that Omakayas is already aware of this. This approach to writing is in contrast with 77 the style of many Indigenous writers of adult fiction, such as Gerald Vizenor who “employs the power of silence to engage the reader” (Blaeser, Gerald 22); according to David Moore this silence maintains secrecy around cultural property to involve the reader in a “rough knowledge of the unknowable context” (637). Erdrich’s explanations of cultural content suggest a forthright approach to Aboriginal cultural property is a more effective means of engaging children and youth. The explanations also stress the intricacies of community knowledge by sharing specific features of traditions and customs with the reader. This sharing is seen when Omakayas’ father, Deydey, asks the family to build a sweat lodge as part of a name-giving tradition for Omakayas. Each family member is described as working on his or her part in the creation of the lodge. The narrator then explains that “first the women would use the lodge, then the men” (55). By including such descriptions of Ojibwe traditions and customs, The Porcupine Year involves the reader in the community culture. Aside from the inclusion of the reader into the community customs, The Porcupine Year also reveals the relationship between learned social interactions and survival in the landscape. Omakayas’ family has learned how to communicate and interact in more subtle ways than outsiders may be used to. Omakayas and her family face many difficulties with people outside of their community, such as the Bwanaag and raiders, on their journey. The adults’ fears about their journey from the Island of the Golden-Breasted Woodpecker to the north is only known to Omakayas when “her attention [is] caught by the talk from the grown- ups” (Erdrich 42) one evening when she is meant to be sleeping. Otherwise Omakayas’ learning and understanding of adult concerns centres around her participation in the community work by cooking and trapping animals among other tasks. However, the ability to communicate effectively proves to be a matter of survival when the family must quickly hide in the woods from the Bwanaag after being “motioned” (Erdrich 74) to do so by Old Tallow. 78 Even without a verbal cue, Omakayas’ toddler brother Bizheens “knew better than to make a sound when everyone was tense and quiet” (Erdrich 74). Susan, an orphaned Euro-American toddler the family adopts, is unaware of the change in the family mood, is the “only one who might give their position away” (Erdrich 74), and is beaming with “smiles” (Erdrich 74). Susan is roughly the same age as Bizheens, but her inability to understand Old Tallow’s communication or the shifting mood of the family highlights the intimate and subtle forms of expression they use. This suggests that learning occurs by watching and mimicking adult behaviours, and that listening is a matter of survival as well as bonding and education. Understanding between the adult and child community members is so strong within the community that even young children like Bizheens know how to listen and adjust to the changes in the adults’ moods and actions. The relationship between community and land here proves to be a learned matter of survival and lifestyle. While Bizheens’ ability to communicate without verbal cues reveals the significance of social relationships to the Anishinabe lifestyle, these social patterns in Omakayas’ family are contrasted with Euro-American kinships. In analyzing community relationships, Warrior urges that the “first question to ask in our contemporary context, then, is what is the chaos we [Aboriginal peoples] face?” (112). He further argues that this can be done by embracing community traditions and resistance (Warrior 113). The community traditions of Omakayas’ family are best understood in juxtaposition to the Euro-American colonizers. In analyzing this historical context, the “shattered lives” (Deloria qtd in Warrior 112) of colonialism, namely Deydey’s colonial experience, is shown to have greater political implications. Although Deydey was raised by his mother in an Anishinabe community, he was also taught how to live in Euro-American society in preparation for the day he would meet his Euro-American father. The lessons Deydey received in Euro-American culture do not provide any assistance to living 79 in the wilderness. He learns French as well as how to bow, shake hands, smile, and look into people’s eyes (Erdrich 68), which are practices that provide no assistance and bear no relation to living in the North American wilderness. They emphasize the foreignness of Euro- American settlers to the natural and cultural setting. By focusing on the alienation from the land of Euro-American customs and culture, Erdrich’s writing reinforces the Anishinabe connection to and longstanding claim of the land. This politicized depiction of the settlers is followed by a critique of their treatment of Aboriginal peoples, specifically of Deydey who, despite his training, is scornfully laughed at by his father, “the rich trader [. . . ] [who is] smoking after a meal with his friends” (Erdrich 68), when he introduces himself. Deydey’s experience becomes one of the many reasons he does “not trust white people” (Erdrich 67), because social customs only have value in the Euro-American community if one is of full European descent. Although Deydey is a Métis, he is adopted into his mother’s Anishinabe community and loved by his Uncle “as a father does” (Erdrich 67). As an adult, he allows his family to be “enlarged by two” (Erdrich 70) when they discover the Euro-American orphans, John and Susan18. The contrast between the Euro-Americans’ lack of kinship with Deydey’s acceptance of John and Susan reveals the significance of strong community relationships in Anishinabe culture and survival in the landscape. Although Susan has yet to learn how communication works in Omakayas’ family, she is loved and cared for as a family member. By analyzing land and community, the detachment of the Euro-American community from the North American landscape and Aboriginal cultures within the region emerges as a political statement validating Aboriginal land ownership. Furthermore, Deydey’s resistance to Euro- American culture shows both the “painful stories of Native people who have suffered and 18 John and Susan’s names “came out [. . . ] Zahn and Zozed” (Erdrich 79) in the Anishinabe tongue, which reverses the common pattern in children’s literature to change Aboriginal children’s names to English names (e.g., Nipishish’s name becomes Pierre when in Euro-Canadian settings). The modification of the children’s names by their pronunciation in the Anishinabe language suggests that Euro-American cultures have been affected by Aboriginal culture just as Aboriginal communities have been changed by Euro-American culture. 80 continue to suffer” (Warrior 113) as well as the “terrible beauty of resistance” (Warrior 113) in his acceptance and continuation of Anishinabe values and culture. Deydey’s learning of Western customs reflects a separation of Euro-American culture from the land. Omakayas and her sister Angeline also try to learn about the settler society through the written language, but their learning is merely an attempt at memorizing “squiggles and dots that held meaning” (Erdrich 40). At this time, writing bears no meaningful connection to their lives or community, and yet ironically the writing in the treaties of the government have led to a plan for “one big homeland for all of the Anishinabeg” (Erdrich 45). Learning how to write does not help Omakayas and her sister to connect to or understand the chimookomanag, literally “big knife” meaning “white person or non-Indian” (Erdrich 186). In Deydey’s case, however, his knowledge of the French language has helped him to trade goods with Euro-American traders in The Birchbark House and The Game of Silence. Although this strengthens his ability to care for the family and connect to other communities, it does not protect him or his extended family from being sent from their homes. Deydey’s language skills only create a positive relation with the settler society when they can aid that society through goods and services, but they do not give him respect or equality in the larger picture of the government’s plans for the Anishinabe people. In contrast, Nokomis’ work teaching Omakayas about the medicines in the swamp and the continuation of family traditions allow the family to thrive as a community in a changing landscape. In reading The Porcupine Year with a focus on Warrior’s critical concepts of land and community, the tragic loss for Omakayas’ family given the historical and political context is softened by the hope found in their ability to maintain their cultural identity as a community and their connection to the land. The representation of the community’s relationship to the 81 land, especially in contrast to the Euro-American settlers, asserts Anishinabe claims to the land while pointing out the unfair treatment they have received by the government. Good for Nothing by Michel Noël About the Book Good for Nothing by Michel Noël won the Geoffrey Bilson Award for Historical Fiction for Young People in 2005, was short listed for the McNally Robinson Aboriginal Book of the Year Award in 2005, and made the IBBY Honour List in 2006 and CCBC Our Choice list in 2005. Noël transforms historical fiction for young adults by weaving strong and direct political and social commentary into his writing. Not all reviewers agreed with the praise given to Noël’s book: CM Magazine reviewer Joan Marshall berates the story for its uninspiring approach, and tedious plot movement and characterization. Marshall argues that the book “is completely historical fiction” (n.pag.) and so takes place in a Canada that teenagers “will not recognize” (n.pag.), which for me only underscores the need for young Canadians to read this story. Despite Marshall’s review, Good for Nothing has received mainly positive attention from critics, with a starred review in the School Library Journal. Good for Nothing was originally written in French and was distributed as three separate novels in a series. The English version, translated by Shelley Tanaka, is compiled as one novel separated into three parts. Good for Nothing spans a period from May 1959 to November 1960 in Quebec. The fifteen-year-old Métis protagonist, Nipishish, is kicked out of residential school and lives on a reserve called Maniwaki, but he has difficulties reintegrating with his community and the band administration fears he may stir political tensions with his mother figure, Manie. The band administration finds him a foster home and public school in Mont-Laurier, a Euro-Canadian city, which Nipishish accepts as he finds reserve living too difficult to adjust to. Mont-Laurier does not offer the escape or freedom Nipishish hoped it 82 would; he is treated as an outsider in the school and community, which prompts him to return to Maniwaki. Back in his reserve community, Nipishish learns from the land with the help of an elder, Tom. In my discussion, I analyze the decisions that Nipishish makes about education and how his learning experiences change him. Focusing on Robert Warrior’s critical concepts of land and community reveals the difficulties that Nipishish faces in reconnecting with his ancestral home after prolonged absence. Analyzing land and community in Good for Nothing provides insights, as Warrior describes, “[into] a deep perception of the conflicts and challenges that face American Indian people and communities” (85). The complexity of challenges facing Nipishish and his Algonquin community are revealed in his struggle to reconnect with his identity as an Aboriginal person. These difficulties reintegrating into the Maniwaki community are not only the result of the imposition of colonial systems like formal education disrupting his connection to land and community, but are also the result of his own perception of his people and his inability to accept his ancestral and colonial histories. Understanding the political history of his community helps Nipishish participate in that community. Education amidst a Changing Community and Landscape While The Porcupine Year shows how early westward expansion affected Aboriginal peoples, Noël shows the ways in which colonialism continued for the Algonquin of Northern Quebec after the initial loss of land in the historical past. Nipishish’s understanding of history and his culture are essential to his ability to reconnect with his community. In “Like ‘Reeds through the Ribs of a Basket’: Native Women Weaving Stories,” Kimberley Blaeser observes that Aboriginal stories are about 83 intricately linked relationships, about intersections. Spatial, temporal, and spiritual realities of Native people reflect a fluidity that disallows complete segregation between experiences of life and death, physical and spiritual, past and present, human and non-human [. . .] they are reflected in cycles that involve return, reconnection, and relationship (557) Her observations are reflected in Nipishish’s journey back to his community in Good for Nothing. Nipishish attempts to separate himself from his past, his community, and the history of his community – even going so far as to avoid visiting his friend from residential school, William, because they “remind each other too much of those dark years” (Noël 67). He eventually comes to recognize that he must know and accept the relationships between past- present-future and political and social history to know himself and find his place in the world. Nipishish’s experiences with Aboriginal and Western education systems become catalysts for his discovery of himself and his community. Noël further reveals the residential school system and the “stolen years” as a colonial practice enacted by the settler society to extradite young people from the land and break their attachment to it. However, Good for Nothing also shows the survival of Aboriginal cultures and traditions from the assimilatory policies developed by the Canadian government. As with The Porcupine Year, this novel creates a contradictory balance between the hopelessness of the political and historical context and the hope in the protagonist’s ability to return, reconnect, and develop relationships within his community and amid changing cultural and territorial landscapes. This paradox highlights the aggressive history of colonialism and its impact on Aboriginal communities as well as the continued resistance of Aboriginal peoples against colonial practices. 84 Nipishish’s attendance at St. Mark’s residential school disrupts his relationship with the people of Maniwaki, and his emotional separation from this community proves to be his greatest obstacle to reconnecting to his heritage. Nipishish has a difficult time because he initially feels like an outsider as a Métis, like the metaphorical stereotype comparing the Métis and an apple, “both have red skins, but they’re white on the inside” (Noël 75). His experiences at residential school in Quebec disconnect him physically and emotionally from the reserve. An elder, Basile, explains that the residential school turns the children of the community into outsiders because the “[residential school students] don’t recognize us anymore, and we don’t know who they are” (Noël 20). Unlike Omakayas who has not experienced a Western education, Nipishish has a broken sense of community and cannot turn inwards to gather strength and comfort as Omakayas does. Instead, he feels “trapped all over again” (Noël 12) while living on his reserve where “life is completely different” (Noël 12) from what he recalls of his pre-residential school years. In “What Is Native American Literature?” Janette Murray argues that Indigenous literature featuring a protagonist suffering from cultural conflict within his or her own community “offer[s] little in the way of resolution” (161). Nipishish’s disconnect reflects the detrimental impact that residential schools had on Aboriginal communities and further reveals the socio-historical impact of the policies of the Canadian government. Warrior writes that Aboriginal peoples educated in a Western education system must “take control of their own minds” (111), and Nipishish’s complex issues with the Maniwaki reserve demonstrate his process of regaining control of his mind. Warrior further argues that critical work must “make the connections between what is going on in communities and the various factors of influence we [Aboriginal peoples] encounter” (112), and in examining Nipishish’s struggle to return, the 85 connection between Western education and his lack of pride and disconnect from his community becomes evident. Nipishish attempts to complete his disconnect from Maniwaki by striving to erase the parts of his identity connected to colonial history. He wants to “forget the residential school” (Noël 74) and so rejects the agenda of assimilation that this education system held, yet he is also unaccustomed to his Algonquin community and cannot understand the socio-economic condition of the reserve. When the government comes to the reserve to build housing without first consulting or taking into account the needs of the Maniwaki people, Nipishish and his community “feel as if [they’ve] been ripped out by the roots” (Noël 54). Although he feels politically wronged, he does not link the political actions of the Euro-Canadian community to the deep-rooted social problems, like violence and alcoholism, which he says turn the reserve “into a living hell” (Noël 61). Nipishish asks “why doesn’t someone do something” (Noël 61) to help the Maniwaki community, but he does nothing to alleviate their predicament either. Nipishish is unable to connect the history of Euro-Canadian – Aboriginal relations to the condition of the reserve, nor is he able to connect the community of the reserve to the community of his ancestors. The emphasis on his disconnected and segregated understanding of temporal and communal realities after residential school supports Blaeser’s assertion of the important linkage that these realities have in cycles of return. Nipishish cannot return to his community until he gains a relational perception between his people and their history. Nipishish rejects the contemporary reserve community, but ironically feels powerfully connected to his ancestors of the past. He finds the reserve “filthy” (Noël 62), and a “living hell” (Noël 61) in the evenings when women and children cry, men scream, and gunshots go off in the night (Noël 61). Although Nipishish recognizes that living on a reserve is an unnatural state imposed by “the ministry” (Noël 63), he feels no compassion for the general 86 community. Instead, Nipishish longs to connect to the “old life” (Noël 57), which he idealizes as a time when people would move around on pathways through the forest and “greet each other” (Noël 57) as they moved from tent to tent around a territory. Although he believes that the ministry and its officials have disrupted and destroyed the old way of life, he does not connect this understanding of history to the social issues found on his reserve, which hinders his ability to develop a relationship with his community. Nipishish’s cycle of “return, reconnection, and relationship” (Blaeser, “Like” 557) cannot be completed until he can relate his ancestral past to his contemporary community. When Nipishish leaves the reserve to live in Mont-Laurier with a foster family, he strives to “put the reserve behind him once and for all […] to stop thinking about the past” (Noël 75). The narrator does not distinguish what “past” this is, which suggests that by avoiding the colonial past that has traumatized the reserve community and Nipishish himself, he must also leave the old ways of his ancestors. The tension Nipishish feels on the reserve and his inability to understand the alcoholism and violence of his people drives him to the Euro-Canadian world of Mont-Laurier. His Algonquin community itself is divided by tensions between the band office, which Nipishish doesn’t “want anything to do with” (Noël 69), and activists, like Manie, his mother figure, who struggles against the imposed authority of the government and logging corporations. Throughout Nipishish’s journey to reconnect with his roots, Manie encourages him and the entire reserve to “bring back [their] pride in [their] past, [their] history and culture” (Noël 75). She views the world through the intricate relationships between distant and near histories, and culture and community, whereas Nipishish must learn to recognize the significance of these relationships. By analyzing his perception of the community through Blaeser’s “intricately linked relationships” (“Like” 557) and Warrior’s political approach, his inability to develop Indigenous pride, identity, and 87 resistance to colonialism is shown to correlate to his inability to understand his community’s political history. Nipishish’s struggle to reintegrate with his community suggests that freedom from colonial oppression can only occur by embracing Indigenous identity, including ancestral traditions and contemporary changes to culture. Despite Manie’s urging the community to revitalize the old ways and become active agents of their future, Nipishish looks to use a Western education from a public school in the Québécois town of Mont-Laurier to make himself “educated” and “free” (Noël 103), which he believes will allow him to “leave the miserable reserve” (Noël 104). The only part of Nipishish’s identity that he initially values is his father, Shipu. He longs to tell his public school classmates about Shipu, especially that he was “a great moosehunter [. . .] a friend to the animals, the wind, the sun” (Noël 103). Nipishish is not successful in achieving his freedom in public school because he wants to remember the traditional past of his father, but to make “a break from [his] past, leaving [his] reserve” (Noël 80) and forgetting the history that his people have with the government of Canada. Cook-Lynn argues that “mixed blood” authors tend to discuss “the connection between the present ‘I’ and the past ‘They,’ and the present pastness of ‘We’” (67), which implies that focusing on individual alienation and longing for ancestral heritage leads to a representation of a dead culture. She further argues that this trend in writing offers “few useful expressions of resistance and opposition to colonial history” (67). However, Nipishish’s struggle to reconnect exemplifies the effects of colonialism for young audiences and reveals the hope for the continued survival of Indigenous cultures through his eventual return to his community. At public school in Mont-Laurier, Nipishish faces an educational system that is based on the same colonial model as the residential school. He is not only hindered from achieving 88 his goal to be free by his own lack of acceptance of his history, but also by the stereotyping practised by the school’s teachers and administrators. His heritage is not accounted for in the curriculum, and the other students are not reprimanded by the teacher for mocking his ancestry by “tapping their mouths and beating out a war cry” (Noël 104). Noël’s narrator, however, also shows that most of the class is neglected and treated badly by the teacher, Monsieur Croteau, who openly displays contempt for the students whom he is “disappointed [in]” (Noël 139). Good for Nothing further shows that lack of success for Aboriginal students in the public school system was not only due to the dysfunctional teacher-student relationship, but also to the school administration, which institutionalized stereotyped beliefs about Aboriginal cultures and peoples. Nipishish is placed in a “special” class (Noël 100) meant for low level students, despite the fact that his grades from residential school indicate that he is an “intelligent boy” (Noël 249). The experience of moving into a Euro-Canadian community does not create opportunities for Nipishish, and it does not free him from the roots he has on the reserve and the unsettling history of his community’s relationship to the government. For Nipishish, gaining an education in both residential and public school systems gives him no equal status with Euro-Canadians. However, prejudice is not limited to the Euro- Canadian community and is inherent in some members of the Algonquin community, including himself. William, his friend from residential school, uses his school learning and some extra classes to secure employment in the band administration. When William comes to warn Nipishish that the administration has labeled him “strong-willed” (Noël 178), Nipishish describes William’s blushing cheeks as “red as a ripe apple” (Noël 177), ironically drawing on William’s earlier joke about Métis peoples and apples where “both have red skins, but they’re white on the inside” (Noël 75). Despite Nipishish’s own hope that attending a public school in Mont-Laurier would free him, he mocks William for achieving his own goals using his 89 education. William represents a possibility for the future because he overcomes his alcoholism (Noël 67) and turns the negative experience of residential school into a new life working for the band. William also protects Nipishish by hiding an axe he used to break into the band office (Noël 212), and walks “with a firm step, head high” (Noël 212) in a community protest against a logging corporation. Although William does not seek out the traditional ways of life with the desire and intensity that Nipishish does, he still comes to respect and reconnect with his people. The significance of Warrior’s “chaos” in Aboriginal community life can be seen in the complex relationships between William and Nipishish – two residential school survivors. The political context has caused them to forget their connection as members of the Algonquin tribe, which hinders their ability to work towards unity and change within their community. Although Nipishish does not see the value in pursuing William’s use of Western education, he does gain some agency through his own Western education by coming to terms with the potential of the written word to have negative or positive effects on Aboriginal peoples. In “Writing American Indian Politics,” Sean Teuton argues that Aboriginal peoples gain a “political identity” (113) when they “lay claim” (113) to experiences of political subjugation and cultural destruction. Nipishish gains a political identity in part by “coming closer” (Teuton 113) to his colonial experience with the government’s written records about himself and his people. He learns about the power of writing when he discovers that the band office has a cabinet with a “file on each one of us” (Noël 71), which the band manager confirms by explaining there are “no secrets from the government [. . .] everything is written down” (Noël 72). He further learns that Aboriginal peoples can be “ordered” (Noël 86) as if from a catalogue because their information is held “in black and white” (Noël 72, 86) for the use of government, teachers, foster parents, and other outsiders – but not for Aboriginal 90 peoples themselves. Nipishish’s realization that the Ministry of Indian Affairs records nearly everything about Aboriginal peoples’ lives because they like “quiet Indians” (Noël 179) finally drives him into political action wherein he breaks into the band office to “take what belongs to [him]” (Noël 199). His political identity as a Métis person is awakened by his recognition of the connection between the “miserable filth” (Noël 179) on the reserve and the community’s need to start “preparing” (Noël 179) a future for the next generation. Along with taking political action against the government’s record system for Aboriginal peoples, Nipishish also determines to use the power that writing offers. A kind teacher in public school, Monsieur Thibeault, explains that a letter is “like magic” (Noël 119), and more importantly that “the simple act of taking a piece of paper and writing can do us enormous good. Writing things down lets us talk to ourselves, understand who we are, where we come from, and what we are heading for” (Noël 120). Monsieur Thibeault’s explanation of writing reflects, in part, on Blaeser’s statement on “intricately linked relationships” (“Like” 557) because he describes a continuum between past-present-future. Nipishish recognizes this positive power that writing can hold, and chooses to write for his own benefit. He decides to write to his lost love from residential school, Pinamen, and this act provides a cathartic release of his residential school experience that had caused him to feel “ashamed” (Noël 122) of his identity. The act of writing thus emotionally reconnects Nipishish to Pinamen. They are then able to reunite, develop their relationship, and eventually have a child together. Despite Nipishish’s discovery of writing, the public school system as a whole is not a place where he can escape his past or prepare for the future. Nipishish realizes that a Western education will not make him free after his teacher throws a report he has written in the wastebasket claiming it “[is] not even worth mentioning” (Noël 140), and Nipishish makes the decision to “never set foot in this [public school] again” (Noël 140). Nipishish is kicked out of 91 residential school, but in public school he decides to leave and end his “big adventure” (Noël 140) away from the reserve given the oppressive nature of this institution. He recognizes that he will never be able to mask his history and his status as a Métis person. Again though, Nipishish wants to “forget” (Noël 142) his experiences with his foster parents, teachers, and employment in a bowling alley. Despite having learned that “memories stick to [his] skin” (Noël 122), he is still resistant to accepting the political and social aspects of his life and his community’s history in a colonized Canada. Nipishish does, however, accept “the land of [his] childhood” (Noël 143) and his roots in the Algonquin territory as they relate to his “ancestors” who “have walked over these same spots for thousands of years” (Noël 149). He imagines an Algonquin community of the past and refuses to accept the effect of colonialism on his community. He does not initially view the rest of his community as connected to his ancestors, but Nipishish begins to learn how to live in traditional ways and reconnect to his land and community through two men from his community, Manie’s older brother and experienced hunting guide, Sam Brascoupé and the elder named Tom. For Nipishish, the history of his people is “inscribed in the landscape” (Noël 150), but because of his placement in residential school by the government and with foster parents in the city by the band administration, he has very little skill and ability himself to practise a traditional lifestyle. Furthermore, Nipishish dreams of one day teaching his children his language and to fish and hunt, but he still wants to “live in peace” (Noël 156) without taking up the fight for his community’s rights. Nipishish remains averse to working towards his community’s political rights, which is connected to his own dependency on “the check that Manie gets from the government” (Noël 173) which ultimately hinders his ability to be a “proud Indian, free as the air” (Noël 173). Still, learning from Sam and Tom helps Nipishish to reconnect to the skills he learned from his father as a boy, and more importantly, gives him 92 the feeling that he is “capable of doing something of value” (Noël 153). Nipishish’s socio- political struggle with his identity suggests that Blaeser’s theory on relationships is not complete. Adding Warrior’s political contextualization of communities to the concept of cycles of return addresses the full complexity of Nipishish’s struggle. While the experiences with Tom and Sam re-connect Nipishish to the fishing and hunting traditions of his people, they also show him what has been lost. The men discover that Tom’s “hunting territory has been completely destroyed” (Noël 168); the trees are logged, his cabin is turned into a holding shelter for empty gas barrels, and the environment is destroyed. Tom is devastated because this forest is his “memory” (Noël 168), especially an old red pine that has been there since the birth of his ancestors (Noël 168). The depth of Tom’s loss demonstrates how the land is interconnected with learning, memory, community, history, and ultimately, the future. After this tragedy, Nipishish begins to realize the connection that the land has to community. Through the hopelessness of his people’s political situation, he gains a will to fight for their rights and he thus becomes the hope for the future. His anger arrives “as if it is coming out of the ground” (Noël 169) beneath his feet, which reveals the connection between his reinvigorated love of the land and his feelings about the plight of his community. The learning opportunities that Sam and Tom provide on the land, Manie’s urging for political activism, and recognizing the political situation of Aboriginal peoples become integrated in the way Nipishish views his community. By addressing Warrior’s socio-political community issues, Nipishish’s reconnection with his culture, sense of pride, and community is shown to require political activism to complete his emotional journey home. His realization of the interconnected relationships between history, land, and community allows him to believe in his place in the world and regain a sense of pride and empowerment. 93 Nipishish’s journey to reconnect reflects both Blaeser’s interconnected relationships and Warrior’s socio-political and historical discussions of community. In the end, Nipishish still believes the reserve is “as dirty as ever” (Noël 171), but he also comes to see it as “sad” (Noël 171). He gains compassion once he realizes the connection that land, history, and politics have had on the development of his Algonquin community. Tom also explains that the community is “ashamed of what [they] have become” (Noël 172), indicating both the history of colonialism that has led to this point and the role the community has had in developing and perpetuating social dysfunction and disconnection from their cultural roots. Nipishish further comes to recognize the link between the men who took the pelts they had “trapped in the winter on [their] hunting grounds” (Noël 173) to the Hudson’s Bay store to the men who now collect government cheques at the same store. The failure of the Western education systems to empower Nipishish as a student and as an individual exemplifies the problems associated with the education of Aboriginal peoples. Furthermore, Nipishish’s failed attempt to assimilate into Euro-Canadian culture reveals that equality cannot be gained by mimicry of the Euro-Canadian community, and that Aboriginal peoples have continued to resist the colonial structures affecting Aboriginal lives. However, he does come to recognize the power of writing and learns to use this power to his advantage. Nipishish’s experiences with Western education systems thus suggest that memories cannot be erased by hiding from heritage and identity, and Tom reinforces the idea that cultural and historical knowledge must be remembered. Tom speaks at a logging protest in the Algonquin language. He talks about their ancestors, landscape, animals, and allies; he “brings them back into [their] memory” (Noël 212). Nipishish learns from this event and from Tom’s words that he must remember and understand the political, social, historical, and environmental parts of his history and his 94 community to create a future for the people of the reserve. Indeed, Nipishish feels “as if a new day is beginning” (Noël 319), showing hope for the future of both Maniwaki and the “Anishinabe nation” (Noël 319). Blaeser’s concept of interconnected relationships reveals a complex cultural history, and Warrior’s concepts of land and community reveal a challenging political situation for Nipishish and his community to overcome. However, Nipishish and Pinamen, his girlfriend, will soon have a baby “boy, [who] will be called Shipu” (Noël 320). Good for Nothing shows hope for the future in the new life that they have created. By linking their baby to the past by giving him Nipishish’s father’s name, Shipu, they demonstrate Blaeser’s important notion of cycles of reconnection that are dependent on the relationships between temporal, communal, spiritual, and physical realities. 95 CHAPTER 5: IDENTITY AND COMMUNITY IN NO TIME TO SAY GOODBYE AND THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE DIARY OF A PART-TIME INDIAN Overview The literature review in Chapter Two reveals the ways in which systems of education were developed by the governments of Canada and the United States to eradicate Aboriginal cultures, languages, and traditions. Aboriginal scholars like Armand Ruffo note that Aboriginal literature is engaged in a project of decolonization (Introduction 7). This project can be found in the way young adult fiction addresses the issues of Western education systems. In “A Single Decade: Book-Length Native Literary Criticism between 1986 and 1997,” Craig Womack urges the importance of including a historical analysis in researching Aboriginal literature (100), an approach which counters misconceptions about the relationship between Aboriginal peoples and the dominant culture and reveals the continued resistance of Aboriginal peoples against the ethnocentric policies of the Canadian and American governments. This chapter addresses the complexity of resisting Western education systems in No Time to Say Goodbye: Children’s Stories of Kuper Island Residential School by Sylvia Olsen with Rita Morris (Tsartlip) and Ann Sam (Tsartlip) and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Spokane / Coeur d'Alene writer Sherman Alexie. Western education is analyzed through the protagonists’ perception of their identities and their efforts to develop communities around themselves. No Time to Say Goodbye: Children’s Stories of Kuper Island Residential School by Sylvia Olsen with Rita Morris and Ann Sam About the Book No Time to Say Goodbye: Children’s Stories of Kuper Island Residential School was nominated by the Saskatchewan Young Readers’ Choice Awards for a Snow Willow Award in 2003. The book was also adopted by the British Columbia Teachers' Federation in 2002. No 96 Time to Say Goodbye was written by Sylvia Olsen who became interested in Kuper Island Residential School through her mother-in-law and father-in-law, who both attended the school (188). Olsen married a member of the Tsartlip First Nations at the age of seventeen, and has raised her four children within the Tsartlip community. She believes that many people, including herself, belong to various cultures, and comments that she “write[s] stories about the things [she] know[s], while honouring the things [she] does not” (qtd in Girl). Olsen wrote No Time to Say Goodbye in collaboration with six Kuper Island residential school survivors. Rita Morris and Ann Sam recorded the memories of the survivors and helped with the revision of the subsequent stories. A review on the nonprofit Aboriginal children’s literature information website, Oyate, states that “children who read No Time to Say Goodbye will know, as much as anyone can who has not been [to residential school], what it was like” (“Grades” n.pag.). By writing five separate stories about different characters within the same school, Olsen captures a broad range of residential school experiences. No Time to Say Goodbye is based on the oral histories of the residential school survivors, but is a fictional account of the separate stories of Thomas, Wilson, Joey, Monica, and Nelson, who were all sent to Kuper Island residential school in the 1950s. This was a school built on Kuper Island, a part of the chain of the Gulf Islands in British Columbia. My analysis focuses on the story of Monica who experiences racism and sexual abuse in the school but who resolves to shelter her father from her suffering and use her education to become a teacher in the future. As a student with no other options but to attend residential school, Monica’s resistance is complex. I analyze how her resistance to systemic oppression takes shape and yields no clear hope for the future. 97 Identity and Community in an Education System Away from Home In reading No Time to Say Goodbye, I was surprised by the hope in Monica’s dream of becoming a teacher despite the lack of support from the institution and by the hopelessness in the allusions to the cyclical problems caused by the residential school system. Children’s literature about residential schools is a literature of trauma. The children were not only stolen from their land and communities, but many were also physically, sexually, and emotionally abused. Katherine Capshaw-Smith argues that “unspeakable stories must be spoken” (115) despite the difficulties in conveying these stories to children. Monica’s story approaches the “unspeakable stories” of sexual and emotional abuse in residential school by indicating a seemingly contradictory future full of hope and hopelessness. As Adrienne Kertzer warns in writing about the Holocaust in literature for children, the “challenge of writing [. . .] lies precisely here: resisting the well-intentioned impulse to construct an unambiguously hopeful lesson” (245). The awareness that there is no fairy tale ending is necessary, as Kertzer further notes, because it gives children the power and knowledge to ask questions (245). Trauma literature comes with a responsibility to be representative of a complicated historical narrative. Although Monica develops her own agency, courage, and self-determination within the confining system of the residential school, her suffering at the school and the future difficulties she may face as a result of the school system are also embedded in the text. Monica’s many negative experiences at Kuper Island, including verbal and sexual abuse, are often countered by her connection to her home community. Monica cherishes her family’s belief in her potential as a person and her “special gift” (Olsen 127) for learning, both of which allow her to hold onto her dream of becoming a teacher. Even when it becomes apparent that very little time will be given in the classroom to learning reading and writing, Monica asks “around to find books to read” (Olsen 130). Her proactive efforts to learn 98 maintain her goal that one day people can say that “Monica Sam is a teacher” (Olsen 132) in her Tsartlip community. This dream to return home as a teacher is Monica’s way of connecting to home while at Kuper Island, a strategy which demonstrates the process of homing in that other stories of residential school have employed to reveal resistance and cultural survival. In her discussion of My Name is Seepeetza by Shirley Sterling, Rauna Kuokkanen finds that Seepeetza “homes herself in” (718) by writing journals. Like Seepeetza, Monica never relinquishes her emotional connection to her community. Her determination to learn reading and writing also demonstrates that some residential school students resisted the plan of the schools to stream Aboriginal children into manual labour positions through vocational training, such as learning “how to mop and sweep and polish” (Olsen 132) and also, in the girls’ case, how to become a “good wife” (Olsen 131) by knowing household chores. Instead, Monica continues to plan alternate futures within the confines of the institution. Monica’s physical separation from culture and community while attending residential school will have a long-term impact on her life; however, by remembering her family and cultural values, she preserves her Tsartlip identity. By blending Warrior’s politicized community definition with Kimberly Blaeser’s belief that Aboriginal writing is grounded in temporal, spiritual, and relational connections, the complexity of the impact of the residential school on Monica’s identity and community becomes evident. Before she passed away, Monica’s mother had called her hair a “gift” to be worn with “pride” (Olsen 126), but Monica is forced to cut her hair as part of her attendance at Kuper Island. She is traumatized by this first introduction to the school. She initially copes with this trauma by disconnecting from the environment and refusing to look at her shorn hair, “making sure the mirror did not reflect her image” (Olsen 124). Olsen’s narrator suggests that this disconnection will be long-term when 99 the girls leave the dressing room and “their hair, forever” (125). The cutting represents a symbolic loss of the spiritual and cultural part of the girls’ lives, which is a loss that will always affect them. While lying in bed after her haircut, Monica remembers her “mom’s soft voice” (Olsen 126) while she holds her “invisible braids in her hands” (Olsen 126). Monica has her memories, but they, like her braids, are now “invisible” in the school community where cultural conformity is now an enforced part of her life. Monica’s cultural and spiritual loss within the school is complicated, because it is at once “forever” but also retained in memories. This complication alludes to the difficulties Monica will have reintegrating with her community and rediscovering her traditions and pride after she has completed her education. The political structure of the residential school system is shown to be flawed and corrupt, revealing the government’s unfair treatment of Aboriginal peoples and the hopelessness of Monica’s situation. Monica’s story juxtaposes the hope of her father to the lies of the Indian Agent to depict the corrupt nature of the political system of residential schools. Her father writes in a letter that “she has a special gift” (Olsen 127) in her keenness to learn and that her community needs her gift (Olsen 127). Learning to read and write is something that appears to come naturally to Monica, and her father believes that the school “will teach [her] everything” (Olsen 128). The letter reveals the political significance of the Indian Agent in Canada who, in this case, “did not give [them] time to prepare” (Olsen 128) to be separated as a family and who lied, claiming the school was “filled with books” (Olsen 128). The support of Monica’s family for her gift of learning is tempered by the systemic oppression and manipulation as seen in the actions of the Indian Agent. The paradoxical depictions of the hopeful and hopeless situation in No Time to Say Goodbye reflect Robert Warrior’s assertion that there are often “conflicting political, social, and cultural concerns of 100 American Indian people and communities” (44), particularly in her father’s support of a colonial institution. This paradox is necessary to expose the history of political injustice Monica faces and the resistance and survival of her culture. Her future plans are shaped by the love and support of her family, her own self-determination, and by her reactions to the oppressive institution of education imposed upon her. Monica’s father’s support of her education and future potential breaks misconceptions of Aboriginal parents as unconcerned about or uninterested in their children’s education and future. In looking at the political content of the writing as per Warrior and Womack, the overarching barriers affecting Monica are shown to be as strong as her familial support. She realizes that “the shelves [are not] filled with books like Agent MacDonald had promised” (Olsen 130), reflecting the reality of most residential schools, which spent little time on academic instruction and focused instead on vocational training. This lack of academic instruction does not deter Monica, who recognizes that the teachers “didn’t expect much from the students” (Olsen 130) and continues to read books provided by the teachers / administrators, Sister Mary Louise and Brother Eubieus (Olsen 130). Monica’s self-awareness and higher expectations for herself maintain her desire to acquire more from her education in residential school and to plan for her future. While attending Kuper Island residential school, Monica is sexually abused by Father Maynard, which is a crushing reminder of the criminal failure of the residential schools. Ironically, Sister Mary Louise, who provides Monica with extra reading, comes to Monica’s “bed at night” (Olsen 139) and “says that Father Maynard wants to see his little princess” (Olsen 139). As a final insult the Sister “swears” (Olsen 139) at Monica and tells her that she’s “dirty” (Olsen 139) when returning her to her bed after she has been abused by the priest. The fleeting helpfulness the Sister shows in providing Monica with extra reading is 101 complicated by her betrayal of Monica’s well-being, tainting the hope that Monica will achieve her dreams through the provision of resources by the Sister. In The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich and Good for Nothing by Michel Noël, land plays a critical role in the community development, but in the institutional setting of the residential school, the Aboriginal student community deteriorates from both the absence of cultural connection to land and home communities and the oppressive circumstances of the school. Here, Warrior’s critical concepts of land and community do not function together, however his political community concept reveals the students’ internal struggle to resist the school authority. Monica represses her experiences of abuse and tries to “forget about it” (Olsen 137), but is forced to reconcile with her situation when the students begin to perpetuate in their own relationships the aggressive power dynamics that they have witnessed within the school. The girls in the dormitory begin taunting her about being Father Maynard’s “little princess” (Olsen 137). They follow the behaviour model of singling out and abusing vulnerable girls set by priests like Father Maynard and nuns like Sister Mary Louise. In fact, Sister Mary Louise is so comfortable with verbal abuse that she joins in asking “what LP stands for” (Olsen 136) although she is well aware of the abuse Monica experiences at the hands of the priest. In one of the book’s sharpest ironies, Monica’s best friend from her community, Dusty, tells her that “Indians gotta stick up for ourselves, and whites got a few things to learn” (Olsen 134) before betraying Monica and turning the dormitory against her. Dusty is a girl who “will never get used to being pushed around” (Olsen 126), a girl who “change[s]” (Olsen 133) after having her haircut at the school and subsequently makes new friends, leaving Monica behind. Dusty and her new friends are “best left alone” (Olsen 134) because in hardening towards the school they have also hardened towards the other students, like Monica, who show less visible signs of resistance. Dusty has lost all sense of community, 102 which is reflected in her betrayal and public “taunts” (Olsen 139) against Monica. Dusty replicates the pattern of abuse she has learned, rather than drawing strength from the knowledge of community and family at home as Monica does. Monica’s story supports Warrior’s assertion that true “consciousness” (111) and freedom of Aboriginal peoples must come with community development and rebuilding. Without the physical connection to land and cultural traditions, the students at Kuper Island struggle to develop a cohesive community; however Monica is eventually able to develop a community spirit by turning the dormitory against Father Maynard and in doing so regains confidence and inner strength. Although many girls in the dormitory taunt Monica for the abuse she experiences from Father Maynard, the toughest girl in the school, Vivian, softens her attitude. The night after the dormitory has quieted down and the other girls have gone to sleep, Vivian offers advice to Monica, which becomes Monica’s opportunity to change the dynamics of the dormitory community. When Vivian tells Monica that her suffering at the hands of Father Maynard will be over as soon as another new girl is brought to the school, Monica becomes distraught because she doesn’t “want it to happen to any other girl” (Olsen 139). While Monica lacks the emotional strength and hardness that Vivian possesses, her perspective remains communal rather than individualistic. Monica is able to persuade Vivian that taking care of each other is just as important as taking care of herself or her close friends and to “do something” (Olsen 139) to stop Father Maynard, which Vivian accomplishes by coercing the priest into leaving the school for the time being. Monica lives by Dusty’s belief that “Indians gotta stick up for ourselves” (Olsen 134) by seeking to develop a community based on support and protection among the girls in the dormitory. Once Vivian tells the other girls not to make fun of Monica, they begin to increase their own power within the school. Sister Mary Louise is in a “fluster” (Olsen 142) when the girls are “silent” (Olsen 141), 103 refusing to tease Monica at the nun’s prompting. In the absence of homelands and while under intense cultural, political, and spiritual oppression, anti-colonial resistance becomes a uniting factor for the Aboriginal students. And Monica begins to see the weaknesses in the administration and also the power the girls have when they act as one. These scenes show that for the “first time” (144) at the school Monica feels “strength creep up her spine” (144) and gains the courage to tell the Sister that she “didn’t do anything wrong” (144) but that Father Maynard and the Sister herself are the “trouble” (Olsen 144). By developing a new sense of community among the students with Vivian, Monica gains the emotional strength to defend her integrity. Her transformation suggests the importance of both reconciling the experiences of residential schooling to her identity and developing a cohesive student community. For Monica, accepting her colonial experiences as part of her memory and identity is painful but necessary in order to develop her future aspirations as a Tsartlip person and teacher. As with Nipishish in Good for Nothing, Monica must acknowledge her colonial history as well as her understanding of her home community. The letter from Monica’s father discussed previously reflects Blaeser’s concept of “fluidity” (557) between past-present- future. He tells her to “remember where you are from” and “concentrate on where you are going” (Olsen 128), because the goal is for her to “learn everything [she] can” (Olsen 128) from the Euro-Canadians and “bring it back home” (Olsen 128). Her father also writes of her grandfather who urges her to remember her SENCOTEN language and who cannot understand the “need to learn English” (Olsen 128). The letter suggests that the cultural history of her community is vital to her ability to return, and that she must also gain the ability to bring Euro-Canadian skills home. In Kuokkanen’s analysis of residential school stories, she finds that there is a “fusion of survival and resistance” (720) in which the protagonists must maintain their sense of belonging within their culture and resist the authority of the school. 104 Monica is not assimilating by striving to learn within Kuper Island, but is resisting by working to “make it” (Olsen 132) in the world on her own terms. She has the potential to “help [the Tsartlip] people” (Olsen 128) by bringing the knowledge of Western schooling and the English language home so that the community can redefine its own education. This hope is overshadowed for me as an adult reader by the knowledge of the political realities that Aboriginal communities have faced since the 1950s. The residential school experience in No Time to Say Goodbye is academically poor and limits the students’ opportunities for the future, leaving Monica with little room to choose a future beyond being a “good wife” (Olsen 131). Olsen avoids an “unambiguously hopeful lesson” (Kertzer 245) by allowing a contradiction to remain between Monica’s and her father’s dreams and the reality of the residential school system and governmental policies regarding Aboriginal children. Monica resists the residential school agenda to “kill the Indian in the child” by resolving that reading and writing will give her the ability to strengthen her own Tsartlip community. She is disappointed that most time is spent on “bells, prayers, lineups, kitchen chores, and laundry” (Olsen 130) rather than school work at Kuper Island, but she maintains her belief that “Indian girls can do whatever any other girls do” (Olsen 132) and works in her spare time to keep reading so she can become a teacher. Monica is not impressed with the way “class work was easy” (Olsen 130) or that the nuns were “more strict about how they cleaned the floors” (Olsen 130) than how they completed their school work. Her awareness of the pitfalls of the school’s pedagogy provides a hope that this part of her education will not be repeated if she is able to become a teacher herself. Furthermore, Monica’s belief that reading and writing will be a way back into her community emphasizes her connection and dedication to her Tsartlip culture and community. 105 The residential school system left many young people completely disconnected from their community and sense of self. Dependency, abuse, and dysfunction are the markers of this school system for many families in part because the return to home is marred by both the colonial beliefs imposed upon children at the school and the effects of long-term separation. Monica plans her return from the beginning of her journey. Her plan is for the betterment of the community’s situation in a colonized Canada. When Monica responds to her father’s letter, she chooses to exclude the abusive experiences she has faced and the lack of academic education, because her father “only knew what she wrote” (Olsen 149). Monica uses the power of the written word to protect her family and in doing so she disconnects from her Tsartlip community. Her identity is altered by becoming more politically aware of her circumstances, but her acceptance of Kuper Island is again balanced by her new place in the cohesive school community. Monica has become “part of the group” (Olsen 146) within the school, and another student’s relative, Auntie Nora, is on the “lookout” (Olsen 149) for the girls’ safety. Although Auntie Nora is able to take Nellie home, Monica would likely not be allowed to be removed from the school whether or not she told her father about her abuse. Even with a police investigation into Father Maynard’s abuse, he is merely “going to another school” (Olsen 145), rather than facing a trial or being removed from the care of children. Again, the hopelessness of the system is at the fore of Monica’s story despite her unyielding belief in herself. Monica’s formation of a community within the school and her continual planning for her future at home provide a hope that she can change the life of her community. The continual reminders of the tragic realities of the residential school system provide an opportunity for child readers to ask questions and learn more about this part of Canadian history. The book maintains a paradox between the historical context and Monica’s struggle for cultural survival. Scholar Kimberly Roppolo (Cherokee, Choctaw, and Creek) argues that 106 paradox is often found in Aboriginal literature and that “confusion can be a positive value” (307) because it is a “nexus of growth” (307). In Monica’s case, the hopelessness is necessary to convey the severity of the residential school history to young readers, but the hope within Monica’s character is also needed to demonstrate the resilience and resistance of Aboriginal cultures affected by this system. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie About the Book The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie was the winner of many accolades including the 2008 Pacific Northwest Book Award, the 2007 National Book Award for Young People's Literature, and the Horn Book Fanfare Best Books of 2007. As teen reviewer Jana Siciliano remarks, Alexie’s book “is such a magnanimous stew of reality and hope [. . . ] that you can't possibly put it down, no matter how sad, disgusted or freaked out it makes you” (n.pag.). I read Alexie’s book all in one sitting the first time I encountered it. I laughed, cried, and felt utterly “freaked out” by the brutal truths that Alexie wove into his story. Alexie maintains that he wants to write books that “challenge, anger, and possibly offend” (qtd in Grassian 14), and this bold approach creates the “stew of reality and hope” that Siciliano discusses. Alexie sets his contemporary novel in Wellpinit, a Spokane Indian reservation in Washington State. The fourteen-year-old protagonist, Junior, decides to leave his reservation school, Wellpinit High, and attend Reardan High, a “white” school in Reardan. Similar to No Time to Say Goodbye, The Absolutely True Diary yields no clear-cut solutions given the reality of contemporary education system for Aboriginal peoples. Junior’s decision and the consequences that follow are the main focus of my discussion. 107 Identity and Community in an Education System Away from Home While No Time to Say Goodbye depicts the institutionalized removal of children from their homes to be educated in residential schools, Alexie instead depicts the story of Junior who chooses to attend a school outside of his own community. Junior’s decision challenges Rauna Kuokkanen’s assertion of the importance of William Bevis’ idea of “homing in” (718) in Indigenous literature, because Junior chooses to leave home to attend a school “twenty-two miles” (Alexie 54) away. Although Junior still lives in Wellpinit, his parents are described as losing him “to the outside world” (Alexie 89). In “Coming Home Through Stories” Neal McLeod argues that “stories act as vehicles of cultural transmission” (31) and that Aboriginal peoples in residential school, especially the Cree, “were able to find their anchor and to ‘come home’ through stories and narrative memory” (34). Junior’s school story is indeed an attempt to find a place “wherein the experiences of the present can be understood as a function of the past” (McLeod 33). However, Junior transforms the idea of coming home by broadening the concept of home to include cultural outsiders. At Wellpinit High, the school community is divided by Euro-American teachers and the Spokane students, which inhibits the learning opportunities of the students in the school. Junior describes the teachers as “Jekyll and Hyde” (Alexie 30), depending on whether they are “do-gooders” or “missionary saviors” (Alexie 30). Alexie here emphasizes that educators are drawn to the reservation school based on their beliefs about Aboriginal stereotypes. The do- gooders come to the school to bring the students “closer to the earth” (Alexie 30), drawing on the stereotype of the Noble Savage. The missionary saviours come to save the students from “minions of the Devil” (Alexie 30), drawing on the stereotype of the Wild Indian. Junior’s humorous interpretation of his teachers further exposes the prevalence of colonial attitudes in the reservation school system. His teacher Mr. P fits in neither of the teacher categories, but he “sometimes forgets to come to school” (Alexie 29) or comes to school in his pajamas. His 108 lack of attention to his duties as a teacher suggests that although he is not a Jekyll or Hyde figure, he still does not believe in his students or the community of the reservation enough to be awake and ready to teach the students each day. The pitfalls of the band school system are evident in Junior’s interpretation of his teachers, and a change in this situation seems unlikely in the context of his experiences. Despite the lack of support from teachers, Junior, like Monica in No Time to Say Goodbye, maintains his desire to obtain an academic education. In Mr. P’s geometry class, Junior discovers that his textbook “belong[ed] to Agnes Adams” (Alexie 31), his mother. The thirty-year-old book hits Junior’s “heart with the force of a nuclear bomb” (Alexie 31) and reminds him that his school and tribe “are so poor and sad” (Alexie 31). Junior does not romanticize his poverty; instead he describes the conditions that poverty imposes upon his school as the “saddest thing in the world” (Alexie 31). The textbook becomes a symbol of the Euro-American governments’ treatment of Aboriginal peoples, representing the neglect of education systems for Aboriginal peoples and, more importantly, the colonial belief that the welfare of Aboriginal children and communities is not worth investing in. For Junior, the realization of the educational barriers that Wellpinit High imposes on him as a student manifests in his physical response wherein he “smashed Mr. P in the face” (Alexie 32) with the textbook. Junior responds so strongly to the textbook because he is a different kind of student at Wellpinit High; he is “excited about life” and “excited about school” (Alexie 28). Junior has “hope” (Alexie 43), which suggests that he perceives the possibilities that school holds for his life in general. Alexie juxtaposes Junior with his sister, Mary Runs Away, who “faded year by year” (Alexie 40) in high school and then “froze” (26). Although she remains “beautiful and strong and funny” (Alexie 26), she stops working on her writing in school but maintains her “dream of being a writer” (Alexie 39). Junior, in contrast, believes in a link 109 between his education and his ambitions for his life. When Mary Runs Away eloped and moved to Montana, she was “trying to LIVE a romance novel” (Alexie 90) although she does later start to write her “life story” (Alexie 133). She also brings the alcoholism from her community in Wellpinit to her new life, instead of ending the dysfunction and discovering a healthier concept of community. Unlike his sister, Junior seeks a new kind of community that draws on inner strength and support. Junior’s mode of “homing in” is visible after his sister burns to death in a fire after she passes out, and he longs for a “room full of sober Indians, crying and laughing and telling stories about [his] sister” (Alexie 212). Junior both abhors the alcoholism and poverty in his community and refuses to “disappear” (Alexie 216) on a reservation. He resists the impositions of colonialism by leaving Wellpinit high school and in effect his reservation community, where the impacts of colonialism are reverberating with no end in sight. The struggles of Mary Runs Away and other Spokane community members are always balanced by the narrative content revealing the systemic pressures affecting the community. Mr. P explains that the government and Euro-American goal was to teach Aboriginal students to “give up being Indian” (Alexie 35), and he further recognizes his role as part of a system that has tried to eradicate the “songs and stories and language and dancing” (Alexie 35) of Junior’s culture. Mr. P admits that this system is “wrong” (Alexie 36), but ironically he does nothing to rectify or change the roots that this early system put in place for contemporary education. The well-planned assimilatory Western education systems of Mr. P’s early days may no longer exist in their original form, but they have morphed into something new and equally detrimental. The new reservation school system for Aboriginal students has left the teachers and students “defeated” (Alexie 42). In this way, Wellpinit High is the site of the 110 intellectual and spiritual demise of many teachers, students, and members of the community, and there is no solution to this downfall found in The Absolutely True Diary. The defeatism of the reservation school system is, like alcoholism and poverty in the novel, shown to be a cyclical pattern plaguing the Spokane community. Robert Warrior argues that in analyzing literature, scholars can “see the mistakes of the past as we analyze the problems of the present” (2), and indeed Junior’s contemporary struggles in band school reflect not only a cyclical problem within the community but also a longstanding problem associated with the way past generations did not sustain a struggle against systemic oppression. This pattern is evident in Junior’s best friend Rowdy who is described as having “given up” (Alexie 42), which is demonstrated in the way he “likes to hurt people” (Alexie 42). Although Rowdy cherishes his relationship with Junior, Mr. P suggests that Rowdy may eventually “give up” (Alexie 41) on Junior as he becomes “meaner and meaner” (Alexie 41). Rowdy’s defeatism suggests that even the strongest bond between friends is not enough to change the nature of the community at Wellpinit High or even in Wellpinit itself. In the same way he allows the other students to “pick on” (Alexie 41) Junior, Mr. P is aware that “Rowdy’s dad hits him” (Alexie 41) and does nothing to protect him. The familial abuse on the Spokane reservation has infiltrated the school system through characters like Rowdy and Junior’s bullies, and the school setting perpetuates the violence due to the lack of involvement of the teachers. The Spokane reservation has in a sense lost its spirit as is evident in the assertion that the even “grandparents gave up and their grandparents before them” (Alexie 42). Alexie suggests that the education system on the reservation is a hub for the cyclical abuse and defeatism found in the peripheral characters of the novel. Although Wellpinit High reflects deep-rooted social and political problems, the off- reservation public school Reardan High that Junior attends after Mr. P encourages him to 111 “leave the rez forever” (Alexie 42) also has social problems of its own. His science teacher, Mr. Dodge, “wasn’t even a real science teacher” (Alexie 86); he was not trained in science. Junior attributes the placement of Mr. Dodge in a science class to “small town schools” (Alexie 86) where suitable teacher replacements can be hard to come by. Junior’s observation indicates that off-reservation schools have their own problems with the structure of administration. Mr. Dodge is particularly problematic because he has preconceived ideas about Junior and the reservation. After Junior corrects an explanation he gives of petrified wood, Mr. Dodge sarcastically remarks that “there’s so much amazing science on the reservation” (Alexie 85). His statement suggests that he has no idea that reservation schools remain under the fiduciary responsibility of the government and are often still administered by non-Aboriginal people. His lack of political awareness is coupled by his belief in what constitutes “amazing science,” which clearly does not include any Aboriginal approaches to or knowledge of the natural world. The negative attitude of Mr. Dodge and some of the other students towards Junior transforms Junior’s understanding of himself. He describes himself as becoming “something less than Indian” when he leaves the reservation for Reardan and “something less than less than Indian” (Alexie 83) when he arrives at Reardan High. Junior’s perception of his place in Reardan and Wellpinit suggests that the systemic failure of Western educational settings is not the only challenge imposed upon Aboriginal students. Most of the Spokane community, including Rowdy, believes that Junior has become a traitor. As Junior explains to his Reardan High friend, Gordy, “some Indians think you become white if you try to make your life better, if you become successful” (Alexie 131). However, Junior imagines he would fight “for truth, justice, and the Native American way” (Alexie 131) with Gordy and Rowdy, if Rowdy could only understand his need to educate himself at Reardan High. Although Junior has chosen to 112 leave the reservation for a school better suited to his needs, he has not left his desire to be an advocate for Native North Americans. His future goals and ambitions include “fighting” for Aboriginal peoples and remaining a part of his tribe, and by reconnecting with Rowdy at the end of the novel and having “survived” (Alexie 226) his first year at Reardan, he has begun to approach the realization of his goals. Junior’s resistance to the current systemic oppression and past problems that have manifested in the community is radically different from the rest of the Wellpinit community members, which implies that they have given up their own struggle. Before a key basketball match between Reardan and Wellpinit, Junior declares in a television interview that he is “never going to quite living life this hard [. . .] never going to surrender to anybody” (Alexie 186). His statement is directed at those in his Spokane community who have turned against him and think he has become an “apple” (Alexie 131). His decision to leave Wellpinit has placed him in a role that Kimberly Roppolo describes as “the capacity of a cultural go- between” (307). Roppolo explains the cultural go-between’s role can “express how some cross-cultural interaction has affected the people” (307); by using the term “surrender” specifically when addressing his community, Junior alludes to the ongoing resistance to colonial oppression that is necessary for his community’s survival. His word choice has greater potency given his act of leaving to find freedom in the outside world in part because “reservations were meant to be prisons” (Alexie 216). He implicitly accuses his Spokane community of surrendering, of giving up and allowing themselves to be defeated. By making this statement on television, Junior is able to justify his own decision to his tribe and implicate them in their own demise as a community. In an analysis of Alexie’s writing, Daniel Grassian finds that “basketball remains an empowering constant” (140) in the unstable home lives and reservation conditions that Alexie 113 depicts. In The Absolutely True Diary, basketball plays a key role in Junior’s ability to develop a community at Reardan and ironically pushes him further away from his Spokane community. Junior is aware of the “ghosts” (Alexie 188) of his past – death, family alcoholism, and poverty – but he also looks to the future and imagines how he will live and resist the pressures from both the Euro-American and Spokane communities. But despite his awareness of the past and future, Junior temporarily loses sight of the present situation of his Spokane and Reardan communities. During the basketball game in which he has determined never to “surrender” (Alexie 186), he fails to keep in context the poverty, alcoholism, and other factors affecting the basketball players from Wellpinit. Junior becomes overly aggressive and decides he wants to “demoralize” (Alexie 192) Rowdy while checking him. In essence, he becomes mean, like Rowdy, mocking and “sticking [his] tongue out” (Alexie 187) after successfully pulling a head-fake on him. After Reardan beats Wellpinit the crowd and Junior are cheering, but in the “quiet-faced” (Alexie 195) response of his father, Junior recognizes that he has mistaken who is “David” and who is “Goliath” (Alexie 195) in the basketball tournament. Indeed, basketball is empowering for Junior, but he also loses himself in this unreal battle between his team, a team where all the seniors “were going to college” (Alexie 195), and the Wellpinit Redskins, a team where “none of them were going to college” (Alexie 195). As Junior watches the Wellpinit team line up at the other end of court after the game, he recalls the difficult socio-economic situation of the Spokane students, and becomes “ashamed that [he’d] wanted so badly to take revenge on them” (Alexie 196). In a sense, basketball remains a “constant” (140) as Grassian terms it, because playing against his tribe reminds Junior of the condition of the reservation and his reasons for leaving. The basketball game reminds Junior of his roots and his place as a person between two cultures. 114 Junior’s ostracization from his Spokane community and ability to develop a supportive community at Reardan change his perception of community and home. He recognizes that in a sense he has “left the rez” (Alexie 131), given his decision to attend school in Reardan, even though his plans for the future include remaining a part of his tribe. After the death of his grandmother, the Spokane community stops treating him as a “villain” (Alexie 160), because as Junior describes, “each funeral was a funeral for all of [Aboriginal peoples]” (Alexie 166), suggesting that loss is a uniting factor for his community. Because “so many of [Junior’s] community members were slowly killing themselves” (Alexie 216), the community can understand the pain that death causes despite their lack of ability to understand Junior himself. However, the death of Mary Runs Away prompts Rowdy to accuse Junior of killing her because he “left” (Alexie 211). Junior does partly believe that “she burned to death because [he] had decided to spend his life with white people” (Alexie 211), which reveals the level of guilt that Junior experiences based on his decision to leave, and how significant loss has become to his life and identity. He rejects the people who get “drunk and stupid and sad and mean” (Alexie 211) to honour his sister after her death, and instead returns to school and finds solace in being “important to [. . . ] and loved” (Alexie 212) by the students of Reardan High. Although Junior still loves his Spokane community, he also recognizes that the Reardan school community has “learned to care about [him]” (Alexie 212) and that he has also learned to transform his early suspicions into more positive emotions for the Reardan community. His acceptance into the “white” school demonstrates a shift of his concept of his own belonging in a community. Junior does not “home in” but rather “homes out” to find his place in the world. Through writing and drawing, Junior is able to both escape and reconnect to the world around him. Like Monica, he believes in the potential of writing and drawing to transform communities. Writing and drawing cartoons is a way for Junior to “talk to the world” (Alexie 115 6) and “have the world pay attention” (Alexie 6); he is empowered by the potential that cartooning holds to give him a voice in his own community and the world beyond the Spokane reservation. His cartoons make him feel “important” and give him an “escape from the reservation” (Alexie 6). Junior feels powerful by representing himself and those around him on paper, which further suggests that writing and drawing are a link to outsiders. Although he describes his cartoons as an escape, after the death of family friend Eugene, Junior also uses his writing processes to create a “grieving ceremony” (Alexie 178). By writing lists of the people and things that give him the most joy and “writing and rewriting, drawing and redrawing, and rethinking and revising and reediting” (Alexie 178), Junior here uses his talents not to escape but to re-enter the world after being lost in grief. Through death and loss Junior again finds a way to create stability and constancy in his life. This emotional resiliency is tempered by his knowledge that he will be away from his Spokane community and “[will] always love and miss [his] reservation and [his] tribe” (Alexie 230). Junior’s hope in life and love for his people represent his connection to the world and to his heritage and also the inevitable sense of loss he will continue to experience by living his life, “moving all over the world” (Alexie 230). In leaving Wellpinit, Junior discovers a new idea of home beyond his reservation and Spokane community. For Junior, “staying on the rez would have killed [him]” (Alexie 216), although leaving the reservation seriously damages his relationship with Rowdy and most of his band. Junior’s predicament suggests that there are few easy options for him, and that any choice for his education would have had serious consequences for his future. While many in the Spokane community “have forgotten” (Alexie 217) that reservations were intended as “death camps” (Alexie 217), Junior remembers and refuses to surrender to the colonial systems affecting Aboriginal peoples. He represents the new resistance to both the negative 116 aspects of Western education systems and the alcoholism and death he witnesses on the Spokane Indian reservation. By focusing my analysis on the relationship of the protagonist to community in the vein of Kimberly Blaeser and Robert Warrior, Junior’s rejection of the social dysfunction of his community emerges as contrasted by his deep connection to and empathy for his tribe. His perception of community changes as a result of his new understanding of his place within the Spokane Indian reservation. He believes that he belongs to many tribes of people, including bookworms, cartoonists, Pacific Northwesterners, and funeral-goers (Alexie 217). This suggests that Junior accepts the many influences in his life as a part of his identity and plans for the future, but does not mean that he has abandoned his Spokane community. The great sense of loss that comes with Junior’s broader understanding of community complicates the sense of hope the novel creates through his resiliency and determination to thrive in the world around him. 117 CHAPTER SIX: CONCLUSION Final Thoughts My grandfather passed away the month I began researching my thesis in earnest. The day he died, my husband and I had been to visit in the morning. I held my grandfather’s hand, but his inability to eat or drink over the past week had rendered him very weak. He gave my hand a good squeeze, and I was grateful for the chance to feel his now legendary handshake one final time. On our way home we drove by his trapping territory along Marine Way in Vancouver, which is now either highway or industrial and housing developments. The land has been converted for urban and agricultural needs, but nature shows a sign of resistance in the asphalt along Marine Way that is sunken in many spots due to the marshy bog-like environment underneath. I wanted to feel connected to the piece of land that helped shape my grandfather’s life, but there was little left in the environment to hold on to. His stories, instead, create the memory of land and community. After reading all of the primary texts for my thesis, I discovered that each of them contained the death of a very important figure in the protagonist’s life. My loss was paltry compared to the “forty-two funerals” (Alexie 199) Junior had been to in his fourteen years of life in The Absolutely True Diary, the death of Monica’s mother in No Time to Say Goodbye, the brutal death of Omakayas’ mentor Old Tallow in The Porcupine Year, or the passing of Nipishish’s mentor Tom in Good for Nothing. The primary texts were all important to me at the time, because they reminded me that reading, writing, drawing, and sharing stories of loss are a way to counter the finality of death. As Thomas King writes in The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative, “the truth about stories is that that’s all we are” (153). The four novels discussed in my thesis all reveal the importance of stories in connecting to the past, present, and future. 118 Although I was emotionally connected to the primary texts when I began my thesis, I had great concerns about discussing Aboriginal literature as an outsider. Well-intentioned scholars perpetuate colonial ideas in the way they analyze or discuss Aboriginal fiction. I had doubts that I would be able to develop a meaningful discussion without committing some kind of injustice to the works in question. As I sifted through research about children’s and young adults’ Aboriginal literature, I soon realized that much of the academic community was avoiding Aboriginal writing entirely and instead discussing the representation of Aboriginal peoples in non-Aboriginal works. I was troubled by the apprehensiveness of scholars to address Aboriginal fiction for children and youth, and decided I did not want to avoid the literature because of fear. The more engaged I became in my research, the more committed I became to Aboriginal literature and issues. I began to pay more attention to news and media about the struggle for land that the Musqueam, Tsawwassen, and other bands were involved in near my home in Vancouver. The more I learned about Aboriginal struggles for land, the more I was able to recognize the political issues related to land in Aboriginal literature for young adults, as exemplified by Deydey in The Porcupine Year, who refused to live on a reservation as planned by the United States government. Aboriginal young adult fiction also counters misconceptions about Aboriginal peoples as demonstrated by Junior’s refusal to romanticize poverty as a condition that will “give you strength” (13), which he instead says “only teaches you how to be poor” (13). Aboriginal fiction for youth differs from the information distributed by much of the media and found in books about Aboriginal peoples by non- Aboriginal writers. Seeing the link between the primary texts and political issues, community development, history, and cross-cultural understanding did not dissolve my apprehension of the mistakes I could potentially make as an outsider. Recognizing this link did, however, 119 convince me of the need to educate myself and to consider how my own understanding of land, politics, and Aboriginal peoples has influenced me as a researcher. My discomfort at being an outsider to Aboriginal literature reminded me to ask questions about my own understanding and to consider elements of the literature that I might have otherwise overlooked. Learning about Indigenous literary theories has given me new insights into the political nature of Aboriginal writing for young adults, and especially of the interconnected relationships between past-present-future and between community members. When I began my thesis I believed that the dominant societies and Aboriginal communities were in a binary opposition. However, Junior did not view communities and cultures as engaged in a dichotomous power struggle in the end, and instead broadened his concept of community so that he saw himself as a member of many tribes. I also expected the protagonists in the primary works I studied to reject Western education systems outright, but was surprised to discover that Junior chooses to work within the public school system. Although Monica is not given a choice about attending residential school in No Time to Say Goodbye, she does resolve to use her learning within the confines of residential school to work towards her goal of becoming a teacher. Even Nipishish in Good for Nothing and Omakayas in The Porcupine Year believe that written words in the language of the colonizer will hold some power for them in the future. At school, Nipishish comes to believe that writing can convey information to his advantage, whereas his previous encounters with writing through the government and band administration had disempowered him. He is able to regain control of his future in part through his ability to use writing to serve his community and his own needs. My own perception of the resistance of Aboriginal peoples to the policies of the Canadian and American governments did not include the complex community relationships and depth of 120 challenges facing Aboriginal youth. I realize now that resistance to colonial policies has come in many forms, and that meaningful change to education systems for Aboriginal peoples requires innovation and new ways of approaching education. In The Porcupine Year, Good for Nothing, No Time to Say Goodbye, and The Absolutely True Diary, hope lives in the strength of community; in the ability of communities to change and learn from history; and in the protagonists who come to believe in themselves. As Alexie, Erdrich, Olsen, and Noël demonstrate, hope for Aboriginal children and families remains complicated by the great political and societal challenges that Aboriginal children and youth face when it comes to their education. When I began my thesis, I believed that hope for a true realization of Aboriginal rights and control of education lay in the work of Aboriginal peoples. Now that my thesis is in the final stages and I understand the ways in which the indirect or direct beliefs of the public affect policies for Aboriginal peoples, I also believe that outsiders, like myself, must, at the very least, turn that hope into engagement in Aboriginal issues. Further Research Research in Aboriginal children’s and young adults’ literature has much room for development and exploration. In writing my thesis, I found there were many topics that I was unable to discuss or develop given the scope of my thesis. Aboriginal fiction for children and youth is an exciting and yet under-developed field in academic studies, and so I have included a sample of topics that I hope to consider in the future. From a literary perspective, there were some patterns and concepts I discovered in the primary literature that have the potential to reveal important insights into Aboriginal writing. For instance, I was struck by the home-away-home pattern of Aboriginal literature and would be interested to know how this pattern differs from the same pattern in non-Aboriginal books 121 for children and youth. Story cycles, stories within the story, and letter writing are also prevalent in Aboriginal fiction for youth and warrant further attention. From an education perspective, I would like to analyze the use of Aboriginal fiction in the classroom, and especially how issues of trauma are and can be presented to students. Aboriginal fiction contains very politically, culturally, and emotionally sensitive content and so assessing how teachers teach Aboriginal histories of trauma is important. Looking at Aboriginal fiction from an information studies perspective, I would like to examine why Aboriginal young adult fiction has developed more slowly than picture books and why this genre has received so little critical discussion. There are an abundance of possibilities for disciplinary approaches to and further research in Aboriginal fiction for children and youth that require the attention of the academic community. Indeed, the TV Indian remains an unfortunate part of North American culture today, and as such, listening to Aboriginal voices tell their story of history is an essential step towards debunking stereotypes and colonial myths of Aboriginal peoples. Media for children and youth have played a pivotal role in perpetuating false representations of Aboriginal peoples and the colonizers from Daniel Defoe’s The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe to Ann Rinaldi’s My Heart is on the Ground. 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work_okxyofse2bej5dkvxuik2mfbse	----	Ethnic Studies Review | University of California Press Skip to Main Content Close UCPRESS ABOUT US BLOG SUPPORT US CONTACT US Search search input Search input auto suggest search filter All Content Ethnic Studies Review Search User Tools Register Carnegie Mellon University Carnegie Mellon University Sign In Toggle MenuMenu Content Recent Content Browse Issues All Content Purchase Alerts Submit Info For Authors Librarians Reprints & Permissions About Journal Editorial Team Contact Us Skip Nav Destination Current Issue Volume 43, Issue 3 Fall 2020 View This Issue Recently Published Editor’s Note David Aliano Statements of Solidarity: An Archive and Call to Action Natchee Blu Barnd A Move Toward Genuine Solidarity Jason Magabo Perez, Leslie Quintanilla et al. Time to Heed the Call Roderick A. Ferguson Black Lives Matter in the Pacific Craig Santos Perez Browse All About the Journal Ethnic Studies Review (ESR) is the official publication of the Association for Ethnic Studies. From its inception, Ethnic Studies Review has provided a venue and forum for all interested in and committed to Ethnic Studies, and remains committed to this inclusivity. ESR is a peer-reviewed, multidisciplinary and interdisciplinary journal. As such, the journal publishes peer-reviewed articles, book reviews, commentary, and creative works by artists, educators, community leaders and organizations, independent scholars and researchers, on all aspects of Ethnic Studies. Topics and subjects addressed by the journal include, but not limited to social movements, migration, media and communication, and issues of importance to disparate communities. ISSN: 1555-1881​     eISSN: 2576-2915 Frequency: Three times a year Published: April, July, October Editor: Natchee Barnd, Oregon State University Featured Most Read Decolonial Desires: Is a Third University Possible?: A Webinar Conversation with K. Wayne Yang The Color of Mass Incarceration A Move Toward Genuine Solidarity Review: Unequal Freedom: How Race and Gender Shaped American Citizenship and Labor by Evelyn Nakano Glenn Black Lives Matter in the Pacific Issue Alerts Sign up to receive Ethnic Studies Review table of contents alerts as new issues publish. ESR Blog Posts Read the latest Ethnic Studies Review blog posts on the UC Press blog. Recent Content Browse Issues All Content Purchase Alerts Submit Info for Authors Info for Librarians About Editorial Team Contact Us Online ISSN 2576-2915 Print ISSN 1555-1881 Copyright © 2021 The Association for Ethnic Studies. All rights reserved. Stay Informed Sign up for eNews Twitter Facebook Instagram YouTube LinkedIn Visit the UC Press Blog Disciplines Ancient World Anthropology Art Communication Criminology & Criminal Justice Film & Media Studies Food & Wine History Music Psychology Religion Sociology Browse All Disciplines Courses Browse All Courses Products Books Journals Resources Book Authors Booksellers Instructions Journal Authors Journal Editors Librarians Media & Journalists Support Us Endowments Membership Planned Giving Supporters About UC Press Careers Location Press Releases Seasonal Catalog Contact Us Acquisitions Editors Customer Service Exam/Desk Requests Media Inquiries Print-Disability Rights & Permissions Royalties UC Press Foundation © Copyright 2021 by the Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved. Privacy policy   Accessibility Close Modal Close Modal This Feature Is Available To Subscribers Only Sign In or Create an Account Close Modal Close Modal This site uses cookies. By continuing to use our website, you are agreeing to our privacy policy. Accept 
work_okzvkb2dinfa7eylfqlf3nqhoq	----	Bakunin and the United States PA UL A VRICH BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES "MIKHAIL ALEKSANDROVICH BAKUNIN is in San Francisco", announced the front page of Herzen's Kolokol in November 1861. "HE IS FREE! Bakunin left Siberia via Japan and is on his way to England. We joyfully bring this news to all Bakunin's friends."1 Arrested in Chemnitz in May 1849, Bakunin had been extradited to Russia in 1851 and, after six years in the Peter-Paul and Schlusselburg fortresses, condemned to per- petual banishment in Siberia. On June 17, 1861, however, he began his dramatic escape. Setting out from Irkutsk, he sailed down the Amur to Nikolaevsk, where he boarded a government vessel plying the Siberian coast. Once at sea, he transferred to an American sailing ship, the Vickery, which was trading in Japanese ports, and reached Japan on August 16th. A month later, on September 17th, he sailed from Yokohama on another American vessel, the Carrington, bound for San Francisco.2 He arrived four weeks later,3 completing, in Herzen's description, "the very longest escape in a geographical sense".4 Bakunin was forty-seven years old. He had spent the past twelve years in prison and exile, and only fourteen years of life — extremely active life, to be sure — lay before him. He had returned like a ghost from the past, "risen from the dead" as he wrote to Herzen and Ogarev from San Francisco.5 His sojourn in America, one of the least well-known episodes of his career, lasted two months, from October 15th, when he landed in San Francisco, to 1 Kolokol (London), November 22, 1861. All dates are new style. 2 See E. H. Carr, "Bakunin's Escape from Siberia", in: The Slavonic Review, XV (1936-37), pp. 377-88; Libero International (Kobe), No 5 (1978). In Yokohama, by an odd coincidence, Bakunin ran into Wilhelm Heine, a fellow participant in the Dresden rising of 1849. 3 San Francisco Evening Bulletin. October 16, 1861. 4 Alexander Herzen, My Past and Thoughts, transl. by Constance Garnett (6 vols; London, 1924-27), V, p. 137. 5 Pis'ma M. A. Bakunina k A. I. Gertsenu i N. P. Ogarevu, ed. by M. P. Dragomanov (St Petersburg, 1906), p. 191. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 321 December 14th, when he left New York for Liverpool and London. As far as the sources permit, the present article will describe this interlude — the places he visited, the people he met, the impression he made on them. It will also explore his attitude towards the United States, both during and after his visit, and trace his influence on the American Anarchist move- ment over the last hundred years. I When Bakunin reached San Francisco, he wrote immediately to Herzen and Ogarev in London. First and foremost, he asked that $500 be sent to New York to enable him to proceed to England. For his passage to New York he had already borrowed $250 from F. P. Coe, a young English clergyman whom he had met on the Carrington. His own funds, he wrote, were exhausted, and he had "no friends, nor even acquaintances" in San Francisco, so that, "had I not found a kind person who gave me a 250 dollar loan to New York, I should have been in great difficulty".6 Bakunin begged Herzen and Ogarev to get word of his escape to his family in Tver province. Expecting his wife to join him when she heard the news, he asked his friends to find them an "inexpensive nook" {deshevyi ugolok) in their neighborhood.7 It was Bakunin's intention, on reaching London, to resume his revo- lutionary activities. Like a man awakened from a trance, as E. H. Carr has noted, Bakunin was determined to take up life again at the point where he had laid it down a dozen years before. As Herzen put it, "the fantasies and ideals with which he was imprisoned in Konigstein in 1849 he had preserved complete and carried across Japan and California in 1861."8 Above all, he would devote himself to the liberation of the Slavic peoples. "Friends", he wrote to Herzen and Ogarev, "I long to come to you with all my being, and as soon as I arrive, I will set to work. I will assist you on the Polish and Slavic question, which has been my idee fixe since 1846 and was my special sphere of activity in 1848 and 1849. The destruction, the total destruction of the Austrian empire will be my last word, I do not say deed — that would be too ambitious. To serve this great cause I am ready to become a drummer-boy or even a scoundrel, and if I succeed in advancing it even by a hair's breadth, I shall be satisfied. And after that will come the 6 Bakunin to Herzen and Ogarev, October 15, 1861, ibid., p. 189. Carr gives both $250 and $300 as the sum borrowed from Rev. Coe: "Bakunin's Escape from Siberia", loc. cit., p. 383, and Michael Bakunin (New York, 1961), p. 247. 7 Pis'ma, p. 189. 8 Carr, Michael Bakunin, op. cit., p. 252; Herzen, My Past and Thoughts, op. cit., V, pp. 131-32. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 322 PAUL AVRICH glorious free Slavic federation, the one way out for Russia, the Ukraine, Poland, and generally all the Slavic peoples".9 On October 21st, after six days in San Francisco, Bakunin left for New York by way of Panama on the steamship Orizaba. The next day, some 400 miles from the Isthmus, he wrote again to Herzen and Ogarev, repeating his request for money (to be sent to the banking house of Ballin & Sanders in New York) and inquiring after his family in Russia.10 The Orizaba docked in Panama on October 24th. On November 6th, after a delay of two weeks, Bakunin embarked on the Champion bound for New York.11 His fellow passengers included the Commander-in-Chief of the Union Army in California, General Sumner, with 430 regulars under Colonel C. S. Merchant. Also on board were three Confederate sympathizers, ex-Senator William M. Gwin of California, Calhoun Benham, a former State Attorney at San Francisco, and Captain J. Brant, the former commander of a revenue cutter. One day out of Panama, General Sumner placed the three under arrest as secessionists conducting business for the South.12 In the meantime, Bakunin had struck up an acquaintance with Senator Gwin, who seems to have influenced his views on the Confederacy. Bakunin arrived in New York on the morning of November 15th13 and registered at Howard House on lower Broadway at Cortlandt Street. Among the people he called on were two old German comrades, Reinhold Solger and Friedrich Kapp, both well-known Forty-eighters. Solger had been educated at Halle and Greifswald, where he received the Ph.D. in 1842, intending to pursue an academic career in history and philosophy. A Left Hegelian, he was a friend of Arnold Ruge, Ludwig Feuerbach and Georg Herwegh. Solger and Bakunin first met in Zurich in 1843, after which they corresponded for several years, meeting again in Paris in 1847, together with Herzen and Herwegh.14 In 1848 Solger joined the revo- lutionary army in Baden, serving as adjutant to General Mieroslawski, commander of the insurgent forces. When the rising was suppressed, he fled to Switzerland "with a price on his head", emigrating to America in 9 Pis'ma, pp. 189-90; Herzen, My Past and Thoughts, V, p. 131. 10 Pis'ma, pp. 191-92. 11 Max Nettlau, Michael Bakunin. Eine Biographie (3 vols; London, 1896-1900), I, pp. 138-40; V. Polonskii, Mikhail Aleksandrovich Bakunin. Zhizn', deiatel'nost', myshlenie, I (Moscow, 1922), pp. 347-48. 12 The New York Times and The New York Tribune, November 16, 1861. 13 The passenger list of the Champion, as printed in The New York Tribune of November 16, 1861, gives his name as "M. Bakonnia". 14 See Bakunin to Solger, October 14,1844, and Bakunin to Emma Herwegh, October 18, 1847, in Sobranie sochinenii i pisem, 1828-1876, ed. by Iu. M. Steklov (4 vols; Moscow, 1934-36), III, pp. 236-38, 267-68. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 323 1853 and becoming a citizen six years later. A gifted speaker and writer, Solger was twice invited to give the Lowell Institute Lectures in Boston (1857 and 1859) and won two literary prizes, in 1859 for a poem on the centennial of Schiller and in 1862 for a novel on German-American life. An abolitionist and radical Republican, he applied his verbal talents as a campaigner for Abraham Lincoln, who rewarded him with a post in the Treasury Department. He ended his days as a bank director, dying in January 1866 at age of forty-eight.15 Like Solger, Friedrich Kapp had known both Bakunin and Herzen in Europe during the 1840's (for a time he was tutor to Herzen's son)16 and had been a participant in the 1848 Revolution. Compelled to flee to Geneva, he emigrated to America in 1850, becoming a successful lawyer in New York as well as a prominent historian and journalist who aroused public opinion against the mistreat- ment and exploitation of immigrants. Kapp, again like Solger, became active in the radical wing of the Republican party, winning the support of German-Americans for the Union cause.17 Around November 21st or 22nd, Bakunin interrupted his stay in New York to visit Boston, where he remained a little over a week. It proved to be the high point of his sojourn in America. Armed with letters of introduction from Solger and Kapp, he called on a number of influential figures, among them the Governor of Massachusetts, John Andrew, a friend of Solger's and a radical Republican who had spoken out against slavery and raised funds for the defense of John Brown. Bakunin also carried letters to General George B. McClellan, Commander-in-Chief of the Union Army, who had visited Russia in 1855-56 as an observer of the Crimean War, and to both Massachusetts Senators, Charles Sumner and Henry Wilson, radical Republicans and abolitionists like Governor Andrew. A few years later, Bakunin was to praise Sumner, "the eminent Boston senator", for espousing a form of "socialism" by favoring the distribution of land among the freed slaves of the South.18 15 Ibid., p. 467; Dictionary of American Biography, XVII, pp. 393-94. See also The Forty-Eighters: Political Refugees of the German Revolution of 1848, ed. by A. E. Zucker (New York, 1950), pp. 124, 343-44; Carl Wittke, Refugees of Revolution: The German Forty-Eighters in America (Philadelphia, 1952), pp. 310-11. 16 When Bakunin visited Solger's New York home, he wrote a note to Herzen and Ogarev, to which Solger and Kapp appended their greetings. See Bakunin to Herzen and Ogarev, December 3, 1861, Pis'ma, p. 193. 17 The Forty-Eighters, op. cit., pp. 307-08; Wittke, Refugees of Revolution, op. cit., pp. 43, 62-63. See also Edith Lenel, Friedrich Kapp (Leipzig, 1935). 18 M. Bakunin, Oeuvres (6 vols; Paris, 1895-1913), I, p. 50. On Sumner see the fine two-volume biography by David H. Donald, Charles Sumner and the Coming of the Civil War and Charles Sumner and the Rights of Man (New York, 1960-70). Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 324 PAUL AVRICH Sumner's colleague, Henry Wilson, was a former shoemaker who had risen from poverty to the position of Senator and, a decade later, of Vice President of the United States under Ulysses S. Grant. A labor reformer as well as an abolitionist, his sympathies were always with the workingmen from whose ranks he had sprung (in 1858 he addressed the Senate on the question "Are Working-Men 'Slaves'?"). He was best known, however, for his championship of the anti-slavery cause, speaking before the Senate on "Aggressions of the Slave Power" and "The Death of Slavery Is the Life of the Nation", and later publishing a three-volume History of the Rise and Fall of the Slave Power in America (1872-77).19 Bakunin also called on George H. Snelling, a Boston reformer who, like Bakunin himself, was an avid partisan of Polish emancipation and the translator of a history of the Polish insurrection of 1830-31.20 Bakunin thus took special pleasure in making his acquaintance, and "at their first meeting he embraced him with much warmth", a contemporary recalls.21 Bakunin, in short, mingled with the leading lights of progressive Boston society. Politicians and generals, businessmen and writers, they were men of liberal temperament and advanced social and political views who favored the growth of democracy and national independence in Europe. As abolitionists and reformers they were conscious of the parallel between the freeing of the serfs in Russia and their own anti-slavery crusade, and among them Bakunin found a great sympathy for the Russian people in their continuing struggle against autocracy. One such reformer was Martin P. Kennard, an abolitionist and partner in a Boston jewelry firm, to whom Solger had given Bakunin a letter of introduction.22 Bakunin dined twice at Kennard's home in Brookline and visited his office in Boston. Kennard describes his guest as "a large heavily framed yet well proportioned man, more than six feet in height, in bearing noble, in personage genial and attractive, and well-nigh entirely enveloped in a rubber Mackintosh". Bakunin, who amusingly called himself a "Russian bear", found in Kennard a sympathetic listener. As Oscar Handlin notes, Kennard's progressive convictions, which had drawn him into societies to protect runaway slaves, reflected a broader concern for 19 O n W i l s o n see R i c h a r d H . A b b o t t , C o b b l e r in C o n g r e s s : T h e Life of H e n r y Wilson, 1812-1875 ( L e x i n g t o n , K y , 1972); D i c t i o n a r y o f A m e r i c a n B i o g r a p h y , X X , p p . 322-25. 20 J o z e f H o r d y i i s k i , H i s t o r y of t h e L a t e Polish R e v o l u t i o n , a n d the Events of the C a m p a i g n ( B o s t o n , 1832). 21 M a r t i n P. K e n n a r d , " M i c h e l B a k o u n i n " , m a n u s c r i p t in H a r v a r d L i b r a r y , p u b l i s h e d by O s c a r H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t Visits B o s t o n " , in: T h e N e w E n g l a n d Q u a r t e r l y , XV (1942), p p . 104-09. 22 K e n n a r d d e s c r i b e s Solger as " a v a l u e d f r i e n d " w h o , like B a k u n i n , " h a d b e e n c o m p e l l e d to flee, a p o l i t i c a l r e f u g e e from t h e a b s o l u t i s m of his f a t h e r l a n d " . Ibid., p . 105. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 325 human freedom, in Europe as well as America. At their first meeting, Bakunin told Kennard "of the struggle for the life of Poland, the unifi- cation of Germany, and of the republican movement throughout Europe, and of its temporary failure". As Bakunin spoke, it was clear to his host that "his courage was still undaunted, and his ardor in no wise abated".23 One day, while Bakunin was visiting Kennard at his Boston firm, an Austrian officer, preparing to enter service in a Massachusetts unit of the Northern Army, happened to be in another room. Kennard's partner, Mr Bigelow, asked him if he had ever heard of Bakunin. "'Yes!' was the prompt reply" according to Kennard's account, '"but what do you know of Bakounin?' 'He is sitting there in the Counting Room', was the response. 'Oh no!' replied this officer, with decided positiveness, 'it is impossible. He was exiled to Siberia for life, and it was reported long since that he is dead. Any one here who claims to be Michel Bakounin is an imposter.' 'The door is open; he sits there in plain sight; if you have ever seen him, go and see if you can now recognize him', said my partner. The officer deliberately strolled past the open door and glanced at our stranger. 'Sure enough', said he returning to his interlocutor in excited amazement, 'that is Bakounin! Pray how came he here (I omit his expletives) tell me all about this. Such a thing never occurred before.' 'He has just escaped from Siberia', rejoined my partner. 'Now tell me what you know of him.' 'Well', said the officer, 'when Bakounin was tried and sentenced to death, I was there in the service, and the orders were given to me to take him from the Court House with a mounted guard of soldiers, and conduct him to the prison. I took charge of him, I saw him placed in the carriage and the door fastened upon him, and I rode by its side and delivered him within the prison gates.' There is ample opportunity here to comment upon the limitations of the area [of] this world as well as to philosophize upon this strange meeting of these two men of such divergent and exceptional experience, and after so many years, and under such unusual circumstances; but I forbear, and must leave these reflections to my auditors."24 Like Kennard and his other hosts, Bakunin was firmly opposed to Negro slavery, indeed to slavery in all its manifestations. Throughout his sojourn in America, he moved in abolitionist circles, defended the anti-slavery movement and, unlike Proudhon, supported the Union in the struggle between the states. The Civil War "interests me in the highest degree", he wrote to Herzen and Ogarev from San Francisco. "My sympathies are all with the North".25 So strong were his feelings on the slavery issue that had 23 I b i d . , p . 107. 24 I b i d . , p p . 107-08. 25 P i s ' m a , p . 190. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 326 PAUL AVRICH circumstances permitted, according to Kennard, "he would have cast his future fortune with Americans and heartily joined in the events of the War."26 In later years he condemned the Northern apologists of slavery, along with "the ferocious oligarchy" of Southern planters, as being "demagogues without faith or conscience, capable of sacrificing everything to their greed, to their malignant ambition". Such men, he said, had "greatly contributed to the corruption of political morality in North America".27 Not that the South was totally devoid of merit. No less than Proudhon, Bakunin distrusted the growing centralization of Union power and cherished the waning agrarian virtues of the Confederacy, whose political structure he considered in some ways freer and more democratic than that of the North.28 In reaching this conclusion, we learn from Kennard, Bakunin was probably influenced by Senator Gwin, "whose acquaintance he had made on his voyage from San Francisco via Panama, and who has sometimes been mentioned in the newspapers as 'Duke Gwin'".29 Southern federalism, however, Bakunin was quick to point out, had been tarnished by the "black spot" of slavery, with the result that the Con- federate states had "drawn upon themselves the condemnation of all friends of freedom and humanity". Moreover, with "the iniquitous and dishonorable war which they fomented against the republican states of the North, they nearly overthrew and destroyed the finest political organization that ever existed in history".30 Soon after arriving in Boston, Bakunin went to Cambridge to visit his "old friend" Louis Agassiz,31 the famous Swiss naturalist, whom he had met at Neuchatel in 1843. Agassiz had emigrated to the United States in 1846 and was now Professor of Zoology at Harvard and a friend of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, to whom he gave Bakunin a letter of introduction. Longfellow, a man of abolitionist sympathies, was well known, apart from his other writings, for his Poems on Slavery; and when Bakunin dined at Craigie House, Longfellow's Cambridge home, George Sumner, a brother of the abolitionist Senator, was also invited. The date was November 27th and, according to Van Wyck Brooks, Bakunin arrived at noon and stayed till almost midnight.32 Longfellow recorded the occasion in his diary: 26 H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , loc. cit., p . 108. 27 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s , I, p . 172. 28 I b i d . , p p . 21-22. 29 H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p . 107. 30 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s , I. p . 22. 31 P i s ' m a , p . 190. 32 V a n W y c k B r o o k s , T h e F l o w e r i n g of N e w E n g l a n d , 1815-1865, revised ed. ( N e w Y o r k , 1937), p . 510. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 327 "George Sumner and Mr. Bakounin to dinner. Mr. B. is a Russian gen- tleman of education and ability — a giant of a man, with a most ardent, seething temperament. He was in the Revolution of Forty-eight; has seen the inside of prisons — of Olmiitz, even, where he had Lafayette's room. Was afterwards four years in Siberia; whence he escaped in June last, down the Amoor, and then in an American vessel by way of Japan to California, and across the isthmus, hitherward. An interesting man."33 Bakunin had read some American literature, including the works of James Fenimore Cooper in German translation, and had studied English while in prison, so that he could speak it, says Kennard, "with fair facility".34 Despite his years of confinement, he still possessed much of his old vitality and exuberance. He had aged, to be sure, had lost his teeth from scurvy and grown quite fat. But the grey-blue eyes retained their penetrating brilliance; and his voice, his eloquence, his physical bulk combined to make him the center of attention. He was, moreover, a nobleman as well as a rebel, endowed, as E. H. Carr has noted, with the kind of aristocratic temperament which dissolved all barriers of class, enabling him to move with ease among men of different social and national background. "Without the least reserve", writes Kennard in this connec- tion, "my new acquaintance made himself at once on good terms, and in a free and easy manner rendered himself agreeable, with a cosmopolitan complaisance that bespoke an intelligent and affable gentleman, and en- ergetic man of affairs."35 Wherever he went Bakunin exerted a powerful fascination, making a favorable impression on nearly everyone he met. In after years, says Ken- nard, Longfellow "regularly enquired for the latest news of his radical guest, and of whom he related to me some amusing incidents".36 The sole dissenter, it seems, was Longfellow's youngest daughter Annie, the "laughing Allegra" of The Children's Hour, who left an amusing memoir of Bakunin's visit. When she came down to dinner she saw an "ogre" in her customary seat beside her father, a "big creature with a big head, wild bushy hair, big eyes, big mouth, a big voice and still bigger laugh". She had not been brought up on Grimm's Fairy Tales for nothing, she writes. "No entreaties or persuasion could induce me to cross the threshold of that door. I stood petrified and while I resented his having my place at table, 33 Life of H e n r y W a d s w o r t h Longf ellow , ed. by S a m u e l Longfellow (3 vols; B o s t o n , 1886), II. p . 3 7 1 . 34 H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p . 107. C o n t r a s t C a r r , M i c h a e l B a k u n i n , p . 2 6 1 : " B a k u n i n n e v e r a c q u i r e d m o r e t h a n a s m a t t e r i n g of s p o k e n E n g l i s h " . 35 C a r r , M i c h a e l B a k u n i n , p p . 2 5 1 - 5 5 ; H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p . 105. 36 H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p . 106. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 328 PAUL AVRICH what was dinner to me as long as he didn't make his dinner off me. So I vanished dinnerless."37 At the beginning of December, Bakunin returned from Boston to New York. With letters of recommendation obtained in these cities, he had intended to go on to Washington, as he told Herzen and Ogarev, and possibly "learn something" there.38 E. H. Carr writes that it is not known whether he made the trip. From Kennard, however, we learn that he did not, owing to "a constant anxiety and characteristic impatience to depart to London, where it had been arranged he should rendesvous [sic] to meet his wife, of whom he often spoke with the tenderest affection".39 Thus, when money arrived from England, Bakunin booked passage on the earliest ship, the City of Baltimore, which sailed for Liverpool on December 14th.40 Arriving on the 27th, he went directly to London, where, greeted by Herzen and Ogarev "as a brother",41 he rejoined the revolutionary movement. II What impression of the United States did Bakunin carry away with him? On the whole it was a favorable one, but with serious reservations about the country's political and social character. "I spent over a month in America and learned a great deal", he wrote to a Russian friend in February 1862. "I saw how the country has been brought by demagogy to the same miserable results which we have achieved by despotism. Between America and Russia, in fact, there is much in common. But most important to me, I found in America such universal and unconditional sympathy for Russia and faith in the future of the Russian people that, in spite of all that I saw and heard there, I left America a strong partisan of the United States."42 Beyond this sympathy for Russia, what impressed Bakunin most about America was its history of political liberty and its federalist system of government. Extolling the American Revolution as "the cause of liberty against despotism", he was "very anxious to possess, as a souvenir of his visit to America, an autograph of Washington", with which Martin Ken- 37 A n n i e Longfellow T h o r p , " A Little Person's Little M e m o r i e s of G r e a t P e o p l e " , Longfellow P a p e r s , Craigie H o u s e , C a m b r i d g e , p u b l i s h e d by David Hecht, ' " L a u g h i n g Allegra' M e e t s an O g r e " , in: T h e N e w E n g l a n d Q u a r t e r l y , X I X (1946), p p . 243-44. 38 Pis'ma, p p . 190-91. 39 C a r r , M i c h a e l B a k u n i n , p . 247; H a n d l i n , " A Russian A n a r c h i s t " , p . 107. 40 N e t t l a u , M i c h a e l B a k u n i n , o p . cit., I, p p . 138-40; T h e N e w York Times, D e c e m b e r 15, 1861. 41 B a k u n i n , " H e r z e n " , in Archives B a k o u n i n e , ed. by A r t h u r L e h n i n g , V (Leiden, 1974), p . 23. 42 B a k u n i n to P. P. Lialin, L o n d o n , F e b r u a r y 27, 1862, in M. K. L e m k e , Ocherki o s v o b o d i t e l ' n o g o dvizheniia "shestidesiatykh g o d o v " (St Petersburg, 1908), p p . 134-35. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 3 2 9 nard was able to present him as a parting token.43 In his future writings, he would characterize the United States as "the classic land of political liberty", the freest country in the world endowed with "the most demo- cratic institutions".44 American federalism left a particularly deep impression, enriching his own ideas on the subject. To European pro- gressives he warmly recommended "the great and salutary principle of federalism" as embodied in the United States. "We must reject [the] politics of the State", he told the League of Peace and Freedom in 1868, "and adopt resolutely the politics of liberty of the North Americans."45 In spite of his anarchist doctrines, which matured over the next few years, Bakunin did not lump all governments together as equally wicked and oppressive. From his personal experience in America, and afterwards in England and Switzerland, he was convinced that "the most imperfect republic is a thousand times better than the most enlightened monar- chy".46 The United States and Britain, he remarked, were "the only two great countries" where the people possessed genuine "liberty and political power", and where even "the most disinherited and miserable foreigners" enjoyed civil rights "as fully as the richest and most influential citizens".47 In both of these countries, of course, he himself had found political asylum; moreover, the United States government, during his visit, had refused to extradite him, which convinced the Russian ambassador, Baron Stoeckel, that the American republic would never cease "to protect revolutionists".48 While in Boston, interestingly enough, Bakunin made a primary decla- ration of American citizenship, the equivalent of taking out his "first papers". "He probably never entertained a serious thought of ever becoming an American citizen", noted Martin Kennard, "and yet, with some vague idea of such a possibility or of some remote advantage to himself, he made and duly recorded in Boston his primary declaration of such intention." And in the last years of his life, while living in Switzerland, he again spoke of emigrating to America and becoming naturalized there.49 Looking back to his American sojourn, Bakunin recalled a society in which workingmen never starved and were "better paid" than their 4 3 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s , IV, p . 2 8 9 ; H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p . 109. 4 4 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s , I, p . 171. 4 5 Ibid., p p . 12-13. S e e also H a n s R o g g e r , " R u s s i a a n d t h e Civil W a r " , in: H e a r d R o u n d t h e W o r l d , ed. by H a r o l d H y m a n ( N e w Y o r k , 1969), p p . 177-256. 4 6 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s , 1, p . 174. 4 7 Ibid., IV, p . 4 4 8 . 4 8 Q u o t e d in M a x M . L a s e r s o n , T h e A m e r i c a n I m p a c t o n R u s s i a : D i p l o m a t i c a n d Ideological, 1789-1917 ( N e w Y o r k , 1950), p . 171. 4 9 H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p . 108; C a r r , M i c h a e l B a k u n i n , p . 4 9 1 . Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 330 PAUL AVRICH European counterparts. "Class antagonism", he wrote, "hardly yet exists", for "all workers are citizens", part of a "single body politic", and education is "widespread among the masses". These benefits, he said, were rooted in the "traditional spirit of liberty" which the first colonists had imported from England and, along with the principle of "individual independence and communal and provincial self government" (in English), had trans- planted into a wilderness that was free from "the obsessions of the past". In less than a century, therefore, America had been able "to equal and even surpass the civilization of Europe" and to offer "a freedom which does not exist anywhere else".50 According to Bakunin, America owed its "marvelous progress" and "enviable prosperity" to its "immense reaches of fertile land", its "great territorial wealth". Because of this abundance, he said, hundreds of thousands of settlers were being absorbed every year, and an unemployed or ill-paid worker could, as a last resort, "always migrate to the far west" (in English) and set about clearing a stretch of land for cultivation.51 To some extent, perhaps, Bakunin's image of the American wilderness was shaped by the stories of Fenimore Cooper; and there were moments, particularly in prison, when he himself longed for the life of a Western mountaineer. His Confession to Nicholas I, written in the Peter-Paul fortress in 1851, contains a striking passage to this effect: "In my nature there has always been a basic flaw: a love for the fantastic, for unusual, unheard-of adven- tures, for undertakings that open up vast horizons, the end of which cannot be foreseen. [...] Most men seek tranquillity, which they consider the highest blessing. In me, however, it produces only despair. My spirit is in constant turmoil, demanding action, movement and life. I should have been born somewhere in the American forests, among the settlers of the West, where civilization has hardly begun to blossom and where life is an endless struggle against untamed peoples, against untamed nature, and not in an organized civic society. And if fate had in my youth made me a sailor, I would probably now be a respectable person, without any thought of politics and seeking no other adventures and storms but those of the sea."52 Bakunin, however, was not without criticism of America. On the day of his arrival in San Francisco, he already complained to Herzen and Ogarev 50 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s , I, p p . 28-30. B a k u n i n ' s e s t e e m for local s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t was i n f l u e n c e d , a m o n g o t h e r s , by P r o u d h o n , T o c q u e v i l l e a n d J o h n S t u a r t Mill. 51 I b i d . , p p . 28-29. T h i s , as D a v i d H e c h t p o i n t s o u t in R u s s i a n R a d i c a l s L o o k to A m e r i c a , 1825-1894 ( C a m b r i d g e , M a s s . , 1947), p p . 58-60, w a s w r i t t e n twenty-five y e a r s before F r e d e r i c k J a c k s o n T u r n e r e n u n c i a t e d his f a m o u s " s a f e t y - v a l v e " t h e o r y of A m e r i c a n social stability. 52 B a k u n i n , " I s p o v e d " ' , S o b r a n i e s o c h i n e n i i i p i s e m , IV, p p . 154-55. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 33 1 of the "banality of soulless material prosperity" and the "infantile national vanity" that he found in the United States. The Civil War, he thought, might save America and restore its "lost soul".53 "He used to assert", writes Martin Kennard, "that after the War, America would become a great power, more individualized, so to speak, and better poised in her social life, and that her great trial could bring out great men, indeed greater than she had ever known."54 Yet America's favored position was only temporary, Bakunin believed. For recent years had seen the crowding together in such cities as New York, Philadelphia and Boston of "masses of pro- letarian workers", who were beginning to find themselves in a condition "analogous to that of workers in the great manufacturing states of Europe". As a result, "we see in fact the social question confronting the Northern states just as it confronted us much earlier."55 Before long, the American laborer would be no better off than his European counterpart, the victim of rapacious capitalism and of centralized political power. No state, Bakunin insisted, however democratic, could get along without "the forced labor of the masses", which was "absolutely necessary for the leisure, liberty, and civilization of the political classes: the citizens. On this point, not even the United States of North America can as yet form an exception."56 Although Bakunin continued to prefer the democratic system of the United States, England and Switzerland to the despotism of most other countries, his criticism of government in general mounted as the years advanced. "What do we really see in all states, past and present, even those endowed with the most democratic institutions, such as the United States of North America and Switzerland?" he asked in 1867. "The self-govern- ment of the masses, despite the pretense that the people hold all the power, remains a fiction most of the time." Representative government, he added, benefits only the wealthy classes, and universal suffrage is merely a tool of the bourgeoisie, while the masses are "sovereign in law, not in fact". For "ambitious minorities", the "seekers of political power", attain pre- dominance "by wooing the people, by pandering to their fickle passions, which at times can be quite evil, and, in most cases, by deceiving them". While preferring a republic, therefore, "we must nevertheless recognize and proclaim that whatever the form of government may be, so long as human society continues to be divided into different classes as a result of hereditary inequality of occupation, wealth, education and rights, there will 53 P i s ' m a , p . 190. 54 H a n d l i n , " A R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t " , p. 108. 55 Bakunin, O e u v r e s , I, p p . 29-30. 56 Ibid., p p . 157-58. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 3 3 2 PAUL AVRICH always be a class-restricted government and the inevitable exploitation of the majority by the minority."57 These themes are often repeated in Bakunin's subsequent writings. In God and the State, drafted in 1871, he stresses that even parliamentary regimes elected by universal suffrage quickly degenerate into "a sort of political aristocracy or oligarchy. Witness the United States of America and Switzerland."58 In The Knouto-Germanic Empire and the Social Revo- lution, an unfinished work of which God and the State is a fragment, he re-emphasizes that even "in the most democratic lands, such as the United States of America and Switzerland", the state represents an instrument of "minority privilege and the practical subjugation of the vast majority".59 And again in Statehood and Anarchy, published in 1873, he writes that in the United States "a special, thoroughly bourgeois class of so-called politicians or political dealers manages all affairs, while the masses of workers live under conditions just as cramped and wretched as in monarchic states".60 During the last years of his life, Bakunin despaired of any immediate improvement. To Elisee Reclus, the French geographer and anarchist, he wrote in 1875 that "evil has triumphed" everywhere, what with the resto- ration of the Spanish monarchy, Bismarck at the helm of a rising German state, the Catholic church still rich and powerful over a vast part of the world, England faltering, Europe as a whole degenerating, "and farther away the model republic of the United States of America coquetting already with military dictatorship. Poor humanity!" The only escape from this "sewer", as Bakunin termed it, was by "an immense social revolution", which could erupt only during a world war. "Sooner or later", he said, "these enormous military states will have to destroy and devour each other. But what a prospect!"61 Ill During his brief visit to the United States, Bakunin left no discernible imprint on the revolutionary and working-class movements, which were in 57 Ibid., p p . 171-74. 58 M. B a k u n i n , G o d a n d the State ( N e w York, 1970), p. 32. 59 B a k u n i n , O e u v r e s . I, p p . 287-89. 60 A r c h i v e s B a k o u n i n e , III ( L e i d e n , 1967), p . 4 5 . O n a n o t h e r occasion, while praising e d u c a t i o n a l a d v a n c e s in A m e r i c a a n d S w i t z e r l a n d , B a k u n i n nevertheless a r g u e d that " c h i l d r e n of t h e b o u r g e o i s i e " enjoyed a higher e d u c a t i o n while those " o f the p e o p l e " received a " p r i m a r y e d u c a t i o n only, a n d on r a r e occasions a bit of s e c o n d a r y e d u c a t i o n " . O e u v r e s , V, p. 324. 61 B a k u n i n to R e c l u s , L u g a n o , F e b r u a r y 15, 1875. in: J a m e s G u i l l a u m e , L ' l n t e r n a t i o - n a l e : d o c u m e n t s et s o u v e n i r s (1864-1878) (4 vols; Paris, 1905-10), III, p p . 284-85. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 333 an embryonic phase of development. The International Working Men's Association, for example, was not founded until 1864, and its first American section was formed only in 1867. Bakunin himself did not be- come a member of the International until 1868, after which, however, his influence spread rapidly. By the early 1870's, at the height of his conflict with Marx, he could count on substantial support within the American branch of the International, which was far from being an exclusively Marxist organization, as historians sometimes portray it. Between 1870 and 1872, federalist sections of the International were established in New York, Boston and other American cities. In New York, for example, Sections 9 and 12 were organized by such prominent liber- tarians as William West, Victoria Woodhull, her sister Tennessee Claflin, and Stephen Pearl Andrews, who hailed Bakunin as "a profound thinker, an original genius, a scholar and a philosopher".62 William B. Greene, the leading American disciple of Proudhon, helped start a libertarian section of the International in Boston, while his colleague Ezra Heywood addressed Internationalist meetings in New York and other cities. In 1872, moreover, Heywood launched a monthly magazine, The Word, in Princeton, Massachusetts, one of the first American journals to publish Bakunin's writings.63 Together with Woodhull & Claflin's Weekly in New York, The Word became the unofficial organ of the International's liber- tarian wing in the United States, defending the principles of decentralist socialism and criticizing the Marxist-controlled General Council for its authoritarian orientation. "It is not pleasant to see Dr. Marx and other leaders of this great and growing fraternity lean so strongly towards compulsory politics", declared The Word in May 1872. "Let us be governed by the laws of nature until we can make better. If the International would succeed it must be true to its bottom idea — voluntary association in behalf of our common humanity."64. In addition to the native American groups, a number of foreign-language (principally French) sections of the Intern- ational in America adhered to the Bakuninist rather than the Marxist wing. These included Section 2 of New York (composed in part of refugees from the Paris Commune), Section 29 of Hoboken, New Jersey, and Section 42 of Paterson, New Jersey, a city soon to emerge as a major anarchist 62 Q u o t e d by C h a r l e s S h i v e l y , i n t r o d u c t i o n t o S. P. A n d r e w s , T h e S c i e n c e o f S o c i e t y ( W e s t o n . M a s s . , 1970, r e p r i n t o f t h e B e n j a m i n T u c k e r e d i t i o n o f 1888), p . 2 1 . 63 S e e , for e x a m p l e , B a k u n i n , " G o s p e l o f N i h i l i s m " , i n : T h e W o r d , A p r i l 1880. 64 As one might expect, Marxist and other non-anarchist journals portrayed Bakunin in an unfavorable light. For example, the New York Arbeiter-Union of October 20, 1869, called him an "agent-provocateur in the service of Russia and of panslavism". See Archives Bakounine, V, pp. 564-66. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 334 PAUL AVRICH stronghold. Bakunin found additional adherents within the Icarian community at Corning, Iowa, where his portrait decorated the common room.65 In spite of Bakunin's expulsion from the International in 1872, his influence continued to grow on both sides of the Atlantic. Nor did it decline after his death in 1876. During the 188O's, on the contrary, his writings began to be published in the United States, making a powerful impression on the emerging anarchist and socialist movements. It was a young New England anarchist named Benjamin R. Tucker who did the most to publicize Bakunin's ideas in North America. In 1872 Tucker was an eighteen-year-old student at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology when he attended his first anarchist meeting in Boston. There he met Ezra Heywood, William Greene and Josiah Warren (the "father" of American anarchism), who impressed him so favorably that he became a lifelong convert to their cause. After serving as associate editor of The Word during the mid 1870's, Tucker founded his own journal, Liberty, which ran from 1881 to 1908, superseding The Word as the principal organ of individualist anarchism in the United States. Like Bakunin's Boston hosts of twenty years before, Tucker had great sympathy for the Russian people and the Russian revolutionary move- ment. In the first issue of Liberty (August 8, 1881) page one displayed a portrait of Sophia Perovskaya, who earlier that year had been hanged for her part in the assassination of Alexander II. Beneath the portrait was a moving poem by Joaquin Miller, "Sophie Perovskaya, Liberty's Martyred Heroine, Hanged April 15, 1881, For Helping to Rid the World of a Tyrant". In the same number, Tucker hailed Perovskaya's associate Lev Hartmann, who had come to America as an envoy of the People's Will, as "a fine writer, an heroic worker, a grand man". Succeeding issues of Liberty contained news of Russian revolutionists exiled in Western Europe or banished to Siberia by Alexander III. In addition to Perovskaya, Tucker praised such "remarkable types of Nihilist women" as Vera Zasulich, Vera Figner and Sophia Bardina. In January 1882 he printed an appeal of the Red Cross Society of the People's Will, signed by Zasulich and Peter Lavrov, who, said Tucker, "speak authoritatively for the best elements of Russian life".66 He himself became the Society's American representative and took up a collection in Liberty, forwarding the proceeds to Nicholas Chaikovsky in London. 65 Socialism and American Life, ed. by Donald Drew Egbert and Stow Persons (2 vols: Princeton, 1952), I, p. 207. 66 Liberty, January 7 and 21. March 18, 1882. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 3 3 5 Apart from Bakunin, Tucker published such well-known Populists and revolutionaries as Chernyshevsky and Tolstoy, Kropotkin and Stepniak, Korolenko and Gorky. It was Tucker who (working from a French edition as he lacked any knowledge of Russian) produced the first English trans- lation of Chernyshevky's What Is To Be Done?, calling the author a "martyr-hero of the modern Revolution".67 In 1890 Tucker published The Kreutzer Sonata by Tolstoy, which he again rendered from the French, as well as a review of the book by N. K. Mikhailovsky, translated from the Russian by Victor S. Yarros (Yaroslavsky), a former Narodnik from Kiev who was Liberty's associate editor.68 Beyond all this, Tucker translated two of Peter Kropotkin's best-known essays, "Order and Anarchy" and "Law and Authority", from the Swiss journal Le Revoke. He also printed news of Kropotkin's expulsion from Switzerland in 1881 and of his trial at Lyons in 1883 (lamenting the "cruel fate of Kropotkine and his comrades", sen- tenced to long terms of imprisonment) and published Sophia Kropotkin's "The Wife of Number 4,237" (translated from the French by Sarah E. Holmes, a contributor to Liberty), based on her own experience with her husband at Clairvaux Prison.69 Tucker, moreover, called on Kropotkin when the anarchist prince came to the United States on a lecture tour in 1897. The first mention of Bakunin in Liberty's columns occurred on November 12, 1881, when Tucker announced that he had obtained a photograph of "the great revolutionist", which he offered for sale at fifty cents a copy. Two weeks later, an engraving of the picture appeared on the front page of Liberty, captioned "Michael Bakounine: Russian Revolutionist, Father of Nihilism, and Apostle of Anarchy". This was accompanied by a biographical sketch of Bakunin compiled by Tucker from French and German sources.70 Of Bakunin Tucker wrote: "We are willing to hazard the judgment that coming history will yet place him in the 6 7 S e r i a l i z e d in L i b e r t y , M a y 17, 1884, a n d f o l l o w i n g i s s u e s , p u b l i s h e d in b o o k f o r m in 1886. T h e m o s t r e c e n t e d i t i o n of t h e T u c k e r t r a n s l a t i o n w a s p u b l i s h e d b y V i n t a g e B o o k s of N e w Y o r k in 1961, r e v i s e d a n d a b r i d g e d b y L u d m i l l a B. T u r k e v i c h . 6 8 L i b e r t y , J u n e 7, 1890. Y a r r o s a l s o w r o t e essays for L i b e r t y o n C h e r n y s h e v s k y a n d H e r z e n . 6 9 Ibid., O c t o b e r 2 9 , 1 8 8 1 ; J u n e , 1882, a n d f o l l o w i n g i s s u e s ; F e b r u a r y 17, 1883; M a r c h 6, 1886, a n d f o l l o w i n g i s s u e s . 70 Ibid., N o v e m b e r 2 6 , 1881. T u c k e r ' s s o u r c e s p r o b a b l y i n c l u d e d J. W . A . v o n E c k a r d t , R u s s i a Before a n d After t h e W a r , t r a n s l . b y E d w a r d F a i r f a x T a y l o r ( L o n d o n a n d B o s t o n , 1880), w i t h a 4 8 - p a g e c h a p t e r o n B a k u n i n ; a n d a n a r t i c l e o n B a k u n i n by E. d e L a v e l e y e in the R e v u e d e s D e u x M o n d e s of t h e s a m e y e a r . In 1908, it m i g h t b e a d d e d , T u c k e r p u b l i s h e d a n A m e r i c a n e d i t i o n o f P a u l E l t z b a c h e r ' s A n a r c h i s m ( t r a n s l a t e d f r o m t h e G e r m a n by T u c k e r ' s a s s o c i a t e S t e v e n T. B y i n g t o n ) , w h i c h c o n t a i n s a v a l u a b l e c h a p t e r o n B a k u n i n a n d his i d e a s . Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 336 PAUL AVRICH very front ranks of the world's great social saviours. The grand head and face speak for themselves regarding the immense energy, lofty character, and innate nobility of the man. We should have esteemed it among the chief honors of our life to have known him personally, and should account it a great piece of good fortune to talk with one who was personally intimate with him and the essence and full meaning of his thought and aspiration."71 Tucker's greatest contribution towards familiarizing the American reading public with Bakunin was his translation of God and the State, Bakunin's most famous work. The original French edition appeared in 1882, with a preface by two of Bakunin's most devoted disciples, Carlo Cafiero and Elisee Reclus. Tucker began selling it (at twenty cents a copy) as soon as he received a shipment from Geneva. Scarcely a year later, in September 1883, he published his English translation, including the Cafiero and Reclus preface.72 The booklet had an excellent sale and went through at least ten printings, becoming the most widely read and frequently quoted of all Bakunin's works, a distinction which, nearly a century later, it still enjoys.73. In the midst of his translation of God and the State, Tucker learned that another Boston anarchist named Marie Le Compte (of French origin, she styled herself "Miss Le Compte, Proletaire") was preparing an independent translation in Bern, Switzer- land, where Bakunin is buried.74 Miss Le Compte's rendition was serialized in the undermentioned Truth in 1883 and 1884,75 but it was Tucker's translation that became the standard English version, reappearing in several editions, both in Britain and the United States, over the ensuing decades.76 Tucker, furthermore, published another important work of 71 L i b e r t y , N o v e m b e r 26, 1 8 8 1 . 72 I b i d . , J u l y 2 2 , 1882; T u c k e r to J o s e p h A. L a b a d i e , S e p t e m b e r 18, 1883, L a b a d i e C o l l e c t i o n , U n i v e r s i t y o f M i c h i g a n . 73 A l e a d i n g a u t h o r i t y o n T u c k e r calls its p u b l i c a t i o n " a l a n d m a r k in a n a r c h i s t p r o p a - g a n d a " . J a m e s J. M a r t i n , M e n A g a i n s t t h e S t a t e : T h e E x p o s i t o r s of I n d i v i d u a l i s t A n a r c h i s m in A m e r i c a , 1827-1908, revised ed. ( C o l o r a d o S p r i n g s , C o l o . , 1970), p . 219. 74 See h e r l e t t e r to T u c k e r of J u l y 4, 1883, in L i b e r t y , A u g u s t 25, 1883. 75 T r u t h , S e p t e m b e r 8, 1883 - J a n u a r y 19, 1884. S h e also p u b l i s h e d a t r a n s l a t i o n of K r o p o t k i n ' s " T o Y o u n g P e o p l e " ( A n A p p e a l to t h e Y o u n g ) in T r u t h , J a n u a r y 5 - J a n u a r y 26, 1884. 76 In t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s it w a s r e - i s s u e d in 1896 by E. H. F u l t o n of C o l u m b u s J u n c t i o n , I o w a , as L i b e r t y L i b r a r y N o 2; in 1900 by A b e Isaak (a R u s s i a n M e n n o n i t e t u r n e d a n a r c h i s t ) of San F r a n c i s c o , as F r e e Society L i b r a r y N o 4; a n d in 1916 (as a m e n d e d by M a x N e t t l a u ) by E m m a G o l d m a n ' s M o t h e r E a r t h P u b l i s h i n g Association, which incor- rectly l a b e l e d it t h e "first A m e r i c a n e d i t i o n " . M u c h to T u c k e r ' s c o n s t e r n a t i o n , the Liberty L i b r a r y a n d F r e e Society e d i t i o n s failed to c r e d i t h i m with the t r a n s l a t i o n , e r r o n e o u s l y a t t r i b u t i n g it to C a f i e r o a n d R e c l u s , w h o h a d m e r e l y c o n t r i b u t e d t h e foreword. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 3 3 7 Bakunin's, The Political Theology of Mazzini and the International, translated from the French by Sarah E. Holmes and serialized in Liberty in 1886 and 1887.77 That an individualist and "philosophical" anarchist like Tucker should have been the chief American expositor of Bakunin, himself an apostle of collectivism and revolution, stems from their common devotion to freedom and rejection of coercive authority, whether religious or secular, economic or political. Not surprisingly, however, Bakunin won his principal follow- ing in America among those who, unlike the Tuckerite school, shared his revolutionary and communalist convictions. An example was the group around The An-archist, a "Socialistic Revolutionary Review" published by Edward Nathan Ganz in Boston in 1881, of which only two issues were printed, the second being suppressed by the police. Another case in point was the San Francisco Truth ("A Journal for the Poor"), organ of the International Workmen's Association founded by Burnette G. Haskell. Even more, the spirit of Bakunin pervaded the Chicago Alarm, with its special concern for the disinherited and unemployed. Edited by Albert R. Parsons, the Haymarket martyr, The Alarm sold copies ofGodandthe State (and of Stepniak's Underground Russia) and printed extracts from the Bakunin/Nechaev Catechism of a Revolutionary.78 Still another militant journal with a strong Bakuninist flavor was the New York Solidarity, which appeared in the 1890's. Its editor, John H. Edelmann, an architect by profession and host to Kropotkin during his 1897 visit, had become an anarchist after studying Bakunin, "whose memory he revered".79 With the influx of immigrants during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the revolutionary anarchist movement received a fresh supply of recruits. Beginning in the 188O's, Bakunin's writings were translated into a number of European languages — German, Czech, Russian, Yiddish, Italian, Spanish — by newly formed anarchist groups. Here, again, God and the State was his most popular and widely distributed work. A German translation, by Moritz A. Bachmann, appeared in Philadelphia in 1884, barely a year after Tucker's English version, and was afterwards serialized in Johann Most's Freiheit, together with a long 77 Liberty, S e p t e m b e r 18, 1886 - J u n e 18, 1887. E x c e r p t s in S p a n i s h a p p e a r e d in t h e a n a r c h i s t j o u r n a l El D e s p e r t a r ( N e w Y o r k ) , J u n e 1 a n d 15, 1892. 78 T h e A l a r m , J a n u a r y 2 3 , 1886. A l t h o u g h T h e A l a r m a t t r i b u t e s the C a t e c h i s m to B a k u n i n a l o n e , m o s t m o d e r n scholar s r e g a r d N e c h a e v as t h e p r i n c i p a l a n d p e r h a p s t h e sole a u t h o r . 79 F r e e d o m ( L o n d o n ) , S e p t e m b e r - O c t o b e r 1900. In 1901, t o m e n t i o n a n o t h e r e x a m p l e , A b e Isaak's F r e e Society a p p e a l e d for f u n d s t o d e c o r a t e a n d m a i n t a i n B a k u n i n ' s g r a v e . F r e e Society ( C h i c a g o ) , A u g u s t 4, 1901. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 338 PAUL AVRICH biographical article on Bakunin.80 In due time, Czech, Russian and Yiddish editions likewise made their appearance,81 while other writings by Bakunin cropped up in a whole range of anarchist journals in different languages and locations.82 Bakunin, it goes without saying, exerted a particularly strong influence on the Russian anarchist movement that emerged in North America after the turn of the century. Speakers for the Anarchist Red Cross and the Union of Russian Workers in the United States and Canada were active in spreading Bakunin's doctrines, while selections from his writings appeared in Gobs Truda, the organ of the Union of Russian Workers, and in its successor, Khleb i Volia, whose masthead displayed his famous dictum "The passion for destruction is also a creative passion."83 After the First World War, Bakunin's works were collected for publication in book form, but during the "Red Scare" hysteria of 1919-20 the Russian anarchist movement was broken up and its leaders imprisoned or deported, so that only the first of several projected volumes found its way into print.84 80 M . B a k u n i n , G o t t u n d der Staat (Verlag d e r G r u p p e II, I.A.A., Philadelphia, 1884); Freiheit ( N e w Y o r k ) , M a y 2 — J u n e 13, 1891, t h e n in p a m p h l e t form as Internationale Bibliothek, N o 17 ( N e w York, 1892). B a k u n i n was often q u o t e d by Most, the leading G e r m a n a n a r c h i s t in A m e r i c a , whose Pittsburgh Manifesto of O c t o b e r 1883 drew heavily on Bakuninist ideas. 81 Dfelnicke Listy ( N e w Y o r k ) , J a n u a r y 18, 1896, a n d following issues, r e p r o d u c e d in p a m p h l e t form as Buh a stat [Delnicka K n i h o v n a , N o 4] (New York, 1896); Bog i g o s u d a r s t v o (Soiuz Russkikh R a b o c h i k h gor. N ' i u Iorka, New York, 1918); Fraye A r b e t e r S h t i m e , 1900-01. 82 F o r e x a m p l e , Freiheit, M a r c h 16 a n d April 6, 1895, p r i n t e d a G e r m a n translation of t h r e e lectures delivered by B a k u n i n in M a y 1871 at C o u r t e l a r y in the Swiss J u r a , re-issued as a p a m p h l e t entitled D r e i V o r t r a g e . A Spanish translation a p p e a r e d in El Esclavo of T a m p a , F l o r i d a , in 1895, a n d a Czech translation in Dglnicke Listy in 1895 a n d also as a p a m p h l e t , TH pfednaSki [Delnicka K n i h o v n a , N o 1] ( N e w York, 1895). Bakunin's essays a n d speeches also a p p e a r e d in such j o u r n a l s as II G r i d o degli Oppressi (New York, 1892-94), G e r m i n a l ( P a t e r s o n , 1899-1902), Volne Listy ( N e w York, 1890-1917), Di F r a y e T s u k u n f t ( N e w York, 1915-16), F r e e Society ( S a n Francisco, Chicago, N e w York, 1897-1904), M o t h e r E a r t h ( N e w York, 1906-17), a n d W h y ? ( T a c o m a , 1913-14). 83 G o l o s T r u d a ( N e w York, 1911-17); K h l e b i Volia ( N e w York, 1919). See also R a b o c h a i a Mysl' ( N e w Y o r k ) , A u g u s t 1916, which invoked Bakunin a n d Herzen's slogan " T o the P e o p l e ! " A c c o r d i n g to o n e a u t h o r i t y , the first Russian p a p e r in the United States, S v o b o d a , was p u b l i s h e d in California d u r i n g the 1870's by a follower of Bakunin. L. Lipotkin [Lazarev], " R u s s k o e a n a r k h i c h e s k o e dvizhenie v Severnoi Amerike: Istoricheskie o c h e r k i " , m a n u s c r i p t , I n t e r n a t i o n a a l Instituut v o o r S o c i a l e Geschiedenis, p. 111. 84 M. B a k u n i n , I z b r a n n y e sochineniia, I, with an introduction by V a r l a a m Cherkezov ( F e d e r a t s i a A . K . G . [ A n a r k h o - K o m m u n i s t i c h e s k i k h G r u p p ] , N e w York, 1920). See also T a k govoril B a k u n i n (Bridgeport, C o n n . , n.d. [1919?]), first published in Paris in 1914 by the Bratstvo V o l ' n y k h O b s h c h e n n i k o v . A Yiddish collection of Bakunin's writings, G e k l i b e n e shriften, w a s p u b l i s h e d in N e w York in 1919 by the K r o p o t k i n Literary Society, with a b i o g r a p h i c a l sketch by R u d o l f Rocker. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core BAKUNIN AND THE UNITED STATES 3 3 9 The years of the war and the decade preceding it constituted the last period for nearly half a century that Bakunin enjoyed a significant following in America. In that age of industrial ferment, Bakunin's notion that a free federation of trade unions would form "the living germs of the new social order, which is to replace the bourgeois world",85 made a deep impression on the Anarcho-Syndicalists and on the Industrial Workers of the World, founded in 1905 in Chicago. Inspired by similar ideas, a Bakunin Institute was established in 1913 near Oakland, California, by the Indian revolutionary Har Dayal.86 And in May 1914 the hundredth anniversary of Bakunin's birth was celebrated at Webster Hall in New York, where an audience of 2,000 heard eulogies by Alexander Berkman, Harry Kelly and Hippolyte Havel in English, Bill Shatoff in Russian, and Saul Yanovsky in Yiddish.87 But the anti-radical repressions during and after the war left the anarchists in disarray, inflicting a blow from which they never recovered. Languishing in prison, a celebrated victim of the Red Scare, Bartolomeo Vanzetti, pondered the similar fate of Bakunin: "Bakounin, a healthy giant such as he was — died at 62 years — killed by the prisons, the exile, and the struggle."88 During the inter-war decades Bakunin's influence rapidly declined. While scattered excerpts from his writings continued to appear in anarchist publications — for instance, in The Road to Freedom and Vanguard of New York, and in Man! of San Francisco —, his books and pamphlets went out of print and became increasingly hard to come by. Gregory Maximoff, a refugee from the Bolshevik dictatorship, did more than anyone else to keep Bakunin's ideas alive, especially in Delo Truda and Delo Truda — Probuzhdenie, which he edited in Chicago and New York until his death in 1950. With the upsurge of the New Left in the 1960's, Bakunin had a conspi- cuous revival. Previously, American readers had to content themselves with Maximoffs posthumous compendium, The Political Philosophy of Bakunin (1953), and Eugene Pyziur's The Doctrine of Anarchism of Michael A. Bakunin (1955). Now, however, fresh anthologies and 8 5 Q u o t e d in R u d o l f R o c k e r , A n a r c h o - S y n d i c a l i s m ( I n d o r e , n . d . ) , p . 88. 8 6 See Emily C . Brown, H a r D a y a l : H i n d u R e v o l u t i o n a r y a n d R a t i o n a l i s t ( T u c s o n , Ariz., 1975), p p . 116-17. 8 7 M o t h e r E a r t h , M a y 1914; T h e M o d e r n S c h o o l , J u n e 1, 1914. H a v e l p r o d u c e d a small p a m p h l e t for t h e occasion, B a k u n i n , M a y 30, 1814 — J u l y 1, 1876 ( C e n t e n a r y C o m m e m o r a t i o n C o m m i t t e e , N e w Y o r k , 1914. F o r a s i m i l a r c e l e b r a t i o n in P a r i s , see Paul Avrich, T h e R u s s i a n A n a r c h i s t s ( P r i n c e t o n , 1967), p . 114 a n d i l l u s t r a t i o n 7. 8 8 V a n z e t t i to Alice S t o n e Blackwell, S e p t e m b e r 15, 1925, T h e L e t t e r s of S a c c o a n d Vanzetti, ed. by M a r i o n D e n m a n F r a n k f u r t e r a n d G a r d n e r J a c k s o n ( N e w Y o r k , 1928), p . 169. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 340 PAUL AVRICH biographies appeared in print,89 and in campus demonstrations from Ber- keley to Columbia the black flag of anarchy, inscribed with Bakuninist slogans, was once again unfurled. To the young radicals of the Vietnam era the "warfare state" seemed to be fulfilling Bakunin's most despairing predictions, while his formulas of self-determination and direct action exercised a growing appeal. Of particular relevance, after the lessons of Russia, Spain and China, was his message that social emancipation must be attained by libertarian rather than authoritarian methods, that socialism without liberty, as he put it, is the worst form of tyranny. In 1976, America's bicentennial year, anarchists in New York commemorated the hundredth anniversary of Bakunin's death, proclaiming the virtues of workers' self- management, sexual liberation, equality of education and income, and the dispersal of state power.90 Similar gatherings took place in Zurich, Vienna and other cities around the world. To a new generation of rebels, a century after Bakunin's passing, his vision was as vital as ever. 89 F o r e x a m p l e , B a k u n i n on A n a r c h y , ed. by S a m Dolgoff (New York, 1972); M. B a k u n i n , Selected Writings, ed. by A r t h u r L e h n i n g ( N e w York, 1974); D a u g h t e r of a R e v o l u t i o n a r y : N a t a l i e H e r z e n a n d the B a k u n i n - N e c h a y e v Circle, ed. by Michael Con- fino (LaSalle, 111., 1974); A n t h o n y Masters, B a k u n i n : T h e F a t h e r of Anarchism (New York, 1974). In 1961 E. H. C a r r ' s Michael Bakunin was re-issued by Vintage Books of N e w York, a n d in 1970 B a k u n i n ' s G o d a n d the State, was re printe d - for the first time since the M o t h e r E a r t h edition of 1916 — by D o v e r Publications of N e w York. T h e first English translation of B a k u n i n ' s S t a t e h o o d a n d A n a r c h y a p p e a r e d in New York in 1976, a n d his Confession was p u b l i s h e d in a n English translation by Cornell University Press in 1977. See Paul Avrich, " B a k u n i n a n d His W r i t i n g s " , in: C a n a d i a n - A m e r i c a n Slavic Studies, X (1976), p p . 591-96. 90 See F r e e d o m ( L o n d o n ) , April 3, 1976. Cambridge Core terms of use, available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Carnegie Mellon University, on 06 Apr 2021 at 01:01:28, subject to the https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms https://doi.org/10.1017/S0020859000006106 https://www.cambridge.org/core 
work_ole4olo6xfgzdatjx3y6vrck5m	----	Where Honor Lies: An Incident at Taneytown Where Honor Lies: An Incident at Taneytown Terence G. Crooks Gettysburg Magazine, Number 53, July 2015, pp. 45-57 (Article) Published by University of Nebraska Press DOI: For additional information about this article [ This content has been declared free to read by the pubisher during the COVID-19 pandemic. ] https://doi.org/10.1353/get.2015.0020 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/586333 https://doi.org/10.1353/get.2015.0020 https://muse.jhu.edu/article/586333 45An Incident at Taneytown We had just arrived in Camp since our Div was crowded closely together sinks had not been dug then and Mr. Porter having severe diarrhea was called to ease himself. He went as he sup- posed to a secluded spot across from the road and far to the rear of the Barn, no tents or any thing apparently to be nuisanced when imme- diately this Haskell came rushing across the fi eld with cocked pistol in hand and demanded that he should “double quick” off the fi eld. Mr. Porter once rose and commenced buttoning up to comply when Haskell demanded he should go “double quick” again saying “go Goddamn you or I will shoot you.” Mr. Porter then started but not moving fast enough for Lt. Haskell, he ran up and kicked him severely. Mr. Porter then turned round and said to him that he would not take that abuse but go out of the fi eld like a gentleman. Scarcely had he commenced speak- ing when Lt. Haskell fi red on him depositing a pistol bullet in his right shoulder wounding him severely.2 In this instance, the shooter was also the same self- reported hero of Gettysburg whose famous 2 Colonel Charles Powers, 108th New York Infantry, to Lt. Seville aaag, Second Brigade, 2nd Corps, July 7, 1863, Sam Porter Pension File 35635 Cert. # 236721, National Archives, Washington, dc (hereaft er cited as Porter Pension File). Col- onel Powers also included the following list of witnesses: Hamlen H. Murphy, Co. H, 19th Maine; Lewis E. Hopkins, Co. H, 19th Maine; Augustus C. Smith, Co. G, 19th Maine; Henry Niles, Co. K, 108th New York; Henry E. Williams, Co. D/F, 14th Connecticut; Lieutenant Smith, 1st Minnesota Cmdg. (could be either Lt. Dewitt C. Smith or William E. Smith, see Soldiers and Sailors Database [fi lm number m546 Roll 9; accessed April 26, 2015], www.nps.gov/civilwar/soldiers- and- sailors- database.htm; hereaft er cited as Soldiers and Sailors). Near Gettysburg on July 4, 1863, Lt. Sam Porter, commanding Company F of the 108th New York infantry, wrote home to his father that his regiment “had fi erce fi ghting for the last two days. Yesterday the position occupied by the division was attacked by a tremendous force. We drove them back but it was with fearful loss to us. Our Regt lost nearly half its number. Co. F in particular suff ered fearfully. Losing 19 of 32. Th e rebel loss is dreadful & the di- vision has taken 14 stand of color & I should think 2100 prisoners. I did not receive a scratch. To day what is left of our Regt is awaiting another attack.”1 Th e 108th New York supported the battery com- manded by Lt. George A. Woodruff on the right of Brig. Gen. Alexander Hays’s Th ird Division line of the Second Corps, which received the attack of A. P. Hill’s brigades, part of what is popularly called Pick- ett’s charge. Positioned about two hundred to three hundred yards south of the 108th New York infan- try was someone much better known to Gettysburg history than Lt. Porter. His name was Frank Aretas Haskell; and three days aft er Independence Day, he would shoot Sam Porter at Taneytown. Col. Charles James Powers of the 108th New York submitted the following details of the shoot- ing on July 7, 1863, to Lt. Seville, acting assistant adjutant general of the Second Brigade in Hays’s Th ird Division: 1 Samuel Porter to Father, July 4, 1863, (my italics). A. P. 84, Porter Family Papers, box 1, folder 10. Originals in the Department of Rare Books, Special Collections and Preservation, University of Rochester, Rochester, ny (hereaft er cited as Porter Letters). Where Honor Lies An Incident at Taneytown Terence G. Crooks 46 Gettysburg Magazine, no. 53 now commands.”4 Evidently shooting a fellow offi - cer during the aft ernoon seemed to have slipped his mind or perhaps he decided against recording the event since such an admission could be used as ev- idence (he was a lawyer); or more than likely, given his nature, it was too trivial to mention. Understandably, the Articles of War in 1863 do not cover the possibility of the deliberate shooting of a brother offi cer. Article 9 comes closest to the situation since it states that any “offi cer or soldier who shall strike his superior offi cer or draw or lift up any weapons or off er any violence against him, being in the execution of his offi ce, on any pretence whatsoever or shall disobey any lawful command of his superior offi cer shall suff er death or such other punishment as shall, according to the nature of his off ence, be infl icted upon him by the sentence of a court of inquiry.” If article 9 could not apply, then the off ense could be covered by article 83, the rather all- purpose “conduct unbecoming an offi cer and a gentleman.” Although not specifi cally spelled out in regulations, it seems fair to assume that Haskell’s action would be viewed as a court- martial off ense, one that could lead to dismissal from the service. Th erefore, the question is, Why would Frank Has- kell jeopardize his carefully craft ed military career with an overreaction to such a trivial occurrence?5 At just under six feet tall, Frank Haskell was not a towering fi gure but still managed to intimidate peo- ple, not with his height, but with his “erect almost martial bearing,” which made him seem bigger.6 Ear- ly in the war, he certainly made such an impression on the young captain Rufus Dawes, who, with his volunteer company, had just arrived in the camp of the Sixth Wisconsin to join the regiment that would become part of the famed Iron Brigade. Dawes’s men were totally untrained and “carried every variety of valise and every species of bundle, down to one shirt tied up in a red handkerchief.”7 Under the eyes 4 Frank L. Byrne and Andrew T. Weaver, eds., Haskell of Gettysburg: His Life and Civil War Papers (Kent, oh: Kent State University Press, 1989), 89. 5 U.S. War Department, Th e 1863 Laws of War (Mechanicsburg, pa: Stackpole Books, 2005), 5, 22. Perhaps in Haskell’s mind, he felt justifi ed under article 9 since he considered Porter an inferior offi cer— assuming of course he noticed that Porter was commissioned— and therefore shot him for disobeying “the lawful command of his superior offi cer.” Even so, article 9 does not endow Haskell with the right to impose sentence. Porter at the time was brevet cap- tain of Company F and thus not an inferior. Furthermore it would seem that Haskell had not yet reported to General Harrow, so under whose orders was he acting? His own? 6 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 16. 7 Rufus R. Dawes, Service with the Sixth Wisconsin Volunteers (Marietta, oh: E. R. Alderman and Sons, 1890), 11– 12. hundred- page- plus letter to his brother has been used as a reference in most discussions of the bat- tle, especially the climactic charge on July 3, 1863.3 Haskell’s modern biographer seemed to be unaware of his act of violence against Porter, since it is not mentioned in the work or in Haskell’s published correspondence. In his only reference to July 7, 1863, Haskell recalls to his brother, “I rode back to Get- tysburgh [sic] the day I wrote you last [July 5], in an ambulance and on the 7th resumed duty at Div. Headquarters as an Aide with Gen’l Harrow who 3 Th e works on Gettysburg where Haskell is referenced are too numerous to enumerate, but two works do refl ect an interesting reaction to Haskell and his claimed activity on July 3, 1863, at the height of Pickett’s charge. In Carol Reardon’s, Pickett’s Charge in History and Memory (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997), Haskell is referenced fourteen times, and his words open and close her book. Reardon uses Haskell since his viewpoint is conducive to her thesis, but one gets the impression that she believes Haskell’s exploits and seems to wonder why Webb got a Medal of Honor and Haskell did not (30). David L. Ladd and Audrey Ladd, editors of Th e Bachelder Papers, 3 vols. (Dayton, oh: Morningside House, 1994), go one step further and actu- ally award Haskell a Medal of Honor for Gettysburg, but unfortunately it is the wrong Haskell and the wrong battle (2:855n199). Sgt. Frank W. Haskell of the Th ird Maine infantry was awarded a Medal of Honor on December 8, 1898, for his actions at Fair Oaks (Seven Pines) on June 1, 1862 (Soldiers and Sailors). Frank Aretas Haskell did not receive a Medal of Honor, but his infl uence in these works testifi es to the convincing power of his prose. Col. Charles James Powers, 108th New York. Courtesy of the U.S. Army Military History Institute. 47An Incident at Taneytown When Haskell graduated from Dartmouth Col- lege in New Hampshire in 1854, his Latin teacher characterized the twenty- six- year- old student “as ambitious as Lucifer,” and his biographer added that he “would risk his being in his quest for glory.”10 He may well have been as ambitious as the rebel angel; however, Haskell’s approach was less overt and re- lied more on cunning, craft , and most important- ly appearance. He made it quite clear that he chose not to serve with the common man and desired “a position equal to his expectations.”11 He reveled in the role of playing the offi cer. Aft er Bull Run, when McClellan was creating the Army of the Potomac, the numerous drills, parades, and more drills gave the “ambitious former drillmaster” of the Sixth Wis- consin “every opportunity to shine.”12 Rufus Dawes recalled that to “see Haskell ‘About face’ and salute the Colonel before the regiment when we were on dress parade was an object in military bearing” and perhaps sarcastically added that if “you are going to be an Adjutant, set to work at once, learning how to ‘About face’ gracefully.”13 For Haskell, “the spirit of war” and the appearance of military competence provided a channel for his Luciferian drive and fed his elitist needs, but the perceptive young Dawes saw the image for what it was. In modern terminology, Haskell was a West Point wannabe, and he seemed to spend a great deal of energy emulating the West Pointers, with whom he wished to be identifi ed. When the newly appointed brigadier general John Gibbon, a for- mer artillery offi cer and a West Point graduate, took command of the Iron Brigade in May of 1862, all of Haskell’s aspirations and posturing crystallized in the person of this no- nonsense old army reg- ular. Although Gibbon was born in Holmesburg, Pennsylvania, he was raised in North Carolina and graduated West Point in 1847 with future Civil War notables such as A. P. Hill, Ambrose Burnside, and “life long friend Henry Heth.”14 With the advent of the war, the true divisive and tragic nature of the confl ict struck Gibbon and his family. When he decided to honor his oath of loyalty “as an offi cer in the United States Army” and his three broth- 10 Dawes, Service with the Sixth Wisconsin Volunteers, 21, 23. 11 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 1. 12 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 15. 13 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 18, 19. 14 Larry Tagg, Th e Generals of Gettysburg (Boston: Da Capo Press, 2003), 45. of the men already in camp who were gathered to welcome the arrival of the new company, Dawes felt embarrassed for himself and his unmilitary- looking collection of recruits. Moments later Dawes’s embar- rassment and confusion were compounded when he “was met at the gate way of Camp Randell by Frank A. Haskell, the Adjutant of the sixth regiment, who was mounted on a spirited charger and quite stunning in his bright uniform and soldierly bear- ing.”8 Haskell requested Dawes and his men, escort- ed by himself and the “best drilled company in the state” from the Fift h Wisconsin infantry, to march to headquarters; but the young captain, only too con- scious of his men’s lack of soldierly appearance and drilling, declined the off er to parade and found his own way at his “own gait.” With the passing of time Dawes learned to appreciate the glittering adjutant, although he “never forgot the humiliation of his ar- rival at the camp.”9 8 Dawes, Service with the Sixth Wisconsin Volunteers, 11– 12. 9 Dawes, Service with the Sixth Wisconsin Volunteers, 11– 12. Frank Aretas Haskell, aide to Gen. John Gibbon. Courtesy of the U. S. Army Military History Institute. 48 Gettysburg Magazine, no. 53 When dealing with Frank Haskell, it should be understood that most of the knowledge about Has- kell is provided by himself. If he had not penned his famous letter to his brother, would he just be anoth- er faceless citation in the Offi cial Records? In fact, the letter to his brother is Haskell’s only claim to fame in an otherwise competent career as a staff aide who, through various political connec- tions, became the short- lived colonel of the Th irty- Sixth Wisconsin. To understand why Haskell shot Porter with such apparent lack of regard, one has to look no further than his famous letter to his broth- er. All of what Haskell was or imagined himself to be comes to fruition in his fi rsthand account of the battle of Gettysburg, oft en cited as an important source for primary information on the battle, es- pecially the culminating event known popularly as Pickett’s charge. Although hailed as “classic of Civil War scholarship,” hardly any historians have noted that the letter is primarily a literary work— an epistle in epistolary form— that was revised, rewritten, and recast into an in medias res account to his brother, which all the while Haskell probably had an eye to publish as would be in keeping with his excessive pride and ambition.21 Even though Haskell’s version of his actions at the battle has been called exaggerat- ed and fanciful, the epistle as a literary work may still contain historically accurate information, but the central focus is the persona, or fi rst person narrator, of the letter. In this case, the persona is the idealized self- created image of Frank Aretas Haskell, or more accurately Haskell of Gettysburg.22 21 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 87– 88. See also Steven J. Wright, “John Gibbon and the Black Hat Brigade,” in Giants in Th eir Tall Black Hats (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1998), 64. Th e claim of “scholarship” is somewhat puzzling since the letter attempts to relate an event experienced by the author; and while the letter and details are carefully select- ed and craft ed, to call it a work of scholarship seems quite inappropriate, since the work is a personal narrative not insightful research. “Th e epistle diff ers from the common letter in that it is a conscious literary form rather than a spontaneous chatty, private composition,” William F. Th rall, A. Holman, and C. H. Holman, A Handbook to Literature, rev. ed. (New York: Odyssey Press, 1960), 178– 79. 22 Th e scope and intention of this work is not to enter into the controversy of the accuracy of Haskell’s account of Gettysburg. When his work was published in the 1890s, the Philadelphia Brigade Association took great umbrage at Haskell’s portrayal of their performance on July 3, 1863, during Pickett’s assault. Th ey published their own rebuttal entitled “Th e Battle of Gettysburg: How General Meade Turned the Army of the Potomac over to Lieutenant Haskell” (Philadelphia: Bowers Printing Company, 1910). In the course of the broadside, the writers label Haskell’s letter as a foolish and absurd narrative and spend a great deal of spleen and vituperation on the actions of Gibbon’s aide— some of which do engender legitimate concerns about accuracy and veracity. For the purpose of clarity in the ensuing discussion, when speaking of the writer’s persona in the letter, “Haskell” will be used; and when speaking of the real person, “Haskell” will be used. ers followed North Carolina into the Confederacy, Gibbon was disowned by his family and labeled a traitor to the Southern cause.15 Th us, by the time Gibbon took command of the all- western brigade, he was a hard- bitten regular, “steel cold” and “the most American of Americans” with an “up and down manner of telling the truth, no matter whom it hurts.”16 Gibbon was Haskell’s idea of the perfect soldier, someone to be admired and emulated. By Special Order No. 106 on June 17, 1862, Frank Haskell became the aide- de- camp for John Gibbon aft er losing two earlier eff orts at self- promotion. Although as an aide he would remain a lieutenant and a staff offi cer, his position allowed him to in- teract with the upper realms of command, where he could continue “to win the favor of powerful superiors.”17 Unfortunately, the more Haskell in- haled the heady air of the general staff , the more his life became defi ned by the pomp and pageantry of soldiering. To the ambitious aide, George Brinton McClellan was “the idol of all the army,”18 and even though the “idol” was no longer in command, Has- kell parrots Little Mac’s contempt for the president, with unsubtle remarks about Lincoln’s presence at a review in April of 1863. Th e fi rst lady did not es- cape his notice or venom either. Haskell’s boss, John Gibbon, mentions the same review but, unlike his aide, refrains from sarcasm and simply notes, “the President came down and reviewed the troops.”19 Lt. Sam Porter, also present at the review, wrote to his sister Mary that the president was there and that “Abe certainly is the homeliest man I ever saw.”20 Th ese comments on the president reveal a great deal about each of the individual observers. Gibbon maintains a professional level and simply states the facts. Porter, with an abolitionist background, feels close enough to the president to call him Abe and makes an aff ectionate observation that few could argue with. Th ough Haskell makes a similar obser- vation as Porter about Lincoln, there is a sneer and a feeling of contemptuous superiority in the former. 15 Th eodore Lyman, With Grant and Meade from the Wilderness to Appomattox (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994), 107. 16 Lyman, With Grant and Meade, 107. 17 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 19; see also “Frank A. Haskell,” Compiled Service Record File, National Archives, Washington, dc. 18 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 43, 58. 19 John Gibbon, Personal Recollections of the Civil War (Dayton, oh: Morning- side Press, 1988), 110. 20 Samuel Porter to his sister Mary, April 11, 1863, Porter Letters, box 1, folder 10. 49An Incident at Taneytown knowing that Hancock will eventually be aware of this “letter,” Gibbon’s aide gives a heroic— almost sycophantic— description of the Second Corps commander. Inspired perhaps by the meeting with Hancock, Haskell next moves on to impart words of wisdom about skillful “generalship and good fi ghting.”28 Like his spiritual idol McClellan, Has- kell overestimates the number of rebels as “a little upwards of a hundred thousand men of all arms”; and as a seasoned veteran staff offi cer, he feels that Meade’s alignment on Cemetery Ridge “was a good defensive position.”29 However, Haskell has little patience with Maj. Gen. Daniel Edgar Sickles, commander of the Th ird Corps, who “was neither born nor bred a soldier” but was “a man aft er show and notoriety and news- paper fame and the adulation of the mob.”30 Now, the real Frank Haskell was neither born nor bred a soldier. Th at man was a teacher and lawyer, but the narrator of the letter is the fi ctionalized Haskell of Gettysburg and is thereby free to demonize the hapless Sickles. Similarly to Gibbon, the hero feels that politicians should not interfere with profes- sional soldiers and that political military appoint- ments should be viewed with contempt, yet the real Haskell engaged in two unsuccessful attempts to gain promotion through political connections. Continuing his assessment of the Union command, Haskell of Gettysburg comments freely on each of the generals at Meade’s council of war on July 2, implying that he too was present. Once more, the descriptions of Hancock and Gibbon border on the embarrassing, while his appraisal of the other offi - cers reveals a condescending, almost paternalistic, viewpoint. For example, O. O. Howard is a “well dressed little gentleman,” and Pleasanton is “a nice little dandy.”31 Nevertheless, at the end of the meet- ing and having the benefi t of hindsight, Haskell approves the decision of the generals and concludes that their “heads were sound”— an approval which must have provided a degree of reassurance for the Union high command.32 As the narrative continues, the description and language are fl orid and hyperbolic, typical of 28 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 112. 29 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 115. 30 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 117. 31 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 19– 21. 32 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 134– 35. Quite clearly Haskell perceived the signifi cance of the epic struggle at Gettysburg; and so appro- priately, as a student of literature, he structured his letter in a manner similar to the classical epics with which he was intimately familiar. At the start, the invocation to the deity is omitted, but instead the modern Homer delineates the epic struggle of the war so far and begins with the march to Gettysburg in heroic intonation— “but a mighty work was be- fore them. Onward they marched— night and day were blended.”23 Th ey moved through the fi re of “broiling sunshine” and through “fl ooding rain.”24 All the ingredients of the epic are there and occur throughout the work. However, the central concern of this study is the modern Homer or Virgil, who unlike previous epic poets places himself directly in the action. Th e hero of Haskell’s epic is, of course, himself, and in his work he is quite an accom- plished soldier. When reviewing the Union high command, he disapproves of Hooker but approves of Meade, whom he implies to know quite closely. Even though he was not physically present on the fi rst day of the battle, Haskell confi dently reports that the First Corps was undermined by the “feeble opposition” of the Eleventh Corps to the advance of the enemy, which in turn left the First Corps without support and lost the fi rst day of battle.25 As a former member of the Iron Brigade of the First Corps, he experiences complete disgust at the Elev- enth Corps. Derisively labeled the “Flying Dutch- men” aft er the Chancellorsville battle, the Elev- enth Corps collapsed aft er “Gnl. Barlow was badly wounded”— Barlow being a natural American, not a German immigrant— and “their retreat quickly de- generated into a disgraceful rout.”26 Haskell also interacts freely with Corps com- manders. On the evening of July 1, while still at Taneytown, he converses with an exhausted Gen- eral Hancock on his way from the front to report to Meade, who, nevertheless, gives the lieutenant “a detailed account of the situation at Gettysburg and what had transpired aft er his arrival there.”27 So Haskell, the lieutenant, hears about the situa- tion before the general in command; and of course, 23 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 92. 24 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 93. 25 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 95. 26 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 96. 27 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 101. 50 Gettysburg Magazine, no. 53 kell of Gettysburg comes forward in all his glory. His tactical prescience is remarkable. Hours be- fore the attack, he quickly spots the weakness of the Second Corps line and correctly wonders what would happen if “the enemy should make an assault here [at the Angle] today, with two or three heavy lines,— a great overwhelming mass.”39 Uncannily, he even guesstimates the approximate size and forma- tion of Longstreet’s attack and quickly follows his insight by pointing out that Meade did not agree and chose not to reinforce the position. In fact, an important point to notice in Haskell’s version of the repulse is that the Union general offi cers are either not present at the point of the attack or are com- pletely ineff ectual. Webb cannot get his men to do anything. Only Haskell can motivate them, which he does, saving the day and the battle. As the attack at the Angle fi nally subsides, Haskell makes sure to mention that Meade arrived aft er the fi ght and had no idea what happened. Naturally, the heroic aide is magnanimous in victory, generous to the gal- lantry of his foes and suddenly “sorrowful” at the sight of “so many wounded”; but unsurprisingly, he has to rush off this great stage to fi nd his wounded general, at whose “request I had to tell him and a large voluntary crowd of the wounded who pressed around” the “story of the fi ght”— in other words, the fi rst performance of Haskell of Gettysburg.40 Two days aft er the climactic charge that essen- tially ended the battle, the men of the Second Corps were ordered to march to Two Taverns as Me- ade’s army roused itself to the pursuit of Lee. Aft er waiting for rations that did not appear, the Second Corps left Two Taverns and moved on to Taney- town on July 7. In a strange reversal of stereotypes, Meade’s soldiers were starving and shoeless, while Lee’s Rebels, perhaps not much better in the way of sartorial splendor, were well fed and had a ready supply of food on hand. Th e men in Porter’s 108th New York were ravenous since they entered the battle on the morning of July 2 with only a small supply of food and as yet had not been resupplied. Aft er waiting vainly at Two Taverns for supplies and spending a “miserable night without tents,” they moved on July 7 toward Taneytown, which they reached early in the aft ernoon and went “into 39 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 142. 40 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 190, 192, see also 168– 70. nineteenth- century Victorian melodrama. All the men are noble “and stand nobly to their work,” and a “sublime heroism seems to pervade all.”33 His de- scriptions of the wounded actually refl ect the real Haskell. His pictures of the men are sanitized and generalized so that no real emotion can be gen- erated. “Men are dropping dead or wounded on all sides by scores and by hundreds; and the poor mutilated creatures” with varying degrees of injury “are limping and crawling towards the rear.”34 Since they are part of Haskell’s tapestry, they are all stoic suff erers who “make no sound of complaint but are as silent as if dumb and mute.”35 Even if they did speak or scream in agony, would the staff aide have heard them? Ironically, despite all his posturing and wonderful about- faces, Haskell never did under- stand the common soldier in the way that Gibbon did, nor did he want to. As a regular army and ca- reer offi cer, Gibbon entered the war with more than a doubt about the volunteers’ ability to function as soldiers, but he learned how to deal with them and how to turn them into an effi cient fi ghting force. Gibbon realized that these raw recruits were men— free men who had volunteered to serve their country in its time of need— and that they would respond to his discipline since “the hope of reward was more powerful than the fear of punishment.”36 In this way, he was able to reach the volunteers on a human level while still motivating with discipline and inculcating military skills. Gibbon was proud of his men and even encouraged his wife to visit “some of my poor fellows in the hospitals [in Bal- timore]. I hope you will keep up your good inten- tions of visiting them oft en. Money spent in buying them little delicacies is well laid out, and I hope you will not spare it.”37 In dealing with the rank and fi le, Haskell never achieved this level of concern or inti- macy. A friend of Haskell recalled “that he had little sympathy for the raw soldier no matter how much he was suff ering from heat, dust and thirst when on duty or on the march.”38 Th e climax of the letter (and the battle) is, of course, Pickett’s charge, and it is here where Has- 33 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 124– 125. 34 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 124. 35 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 124. 36 Gibbon, Personal Recollections of the Civil War, 38. 37 Wright, “John Gibbon and the Black Hat Brigade,” 62. 38 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 13. 51An Incident at Taneytown his way to Rochester to arrest a runaway ‘nigger’ for whom he had a warrant.”45 Th e so- called runaway was Frederick Douglass, Porter’s good friend. As soon as the older Porter discovered the object of the warrant, he rushed to Douglass’s home and urged him to fl ee to Canada, which the renowned ex- slave did. Sam’s mother, Susan Farley Porter, like her hus- band, actively campaigned for the demise of slavery and was one of the six founding members of the Rochester Ladies’ Anti- Slavery Sewing Society, in which she served as its fi rst president. In the prewar years, this group of ladies raised money through festivals and bazaars to support not only Douglass’s newspaper, North Star, but to sponsor lectures and to publish works, such as Autographs for Freedom, that would draw attention to the iniquity of slavery. Th e Porter family also rubbed elbows with such no- tables as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Harriet Beecher Stowe as well as the colorful local celebrity 45 Frederick Douglass, Life and Times of Frederick Douglass Written by Himself (Hartford, ct: Park Publishing, 1882), 345– 46. See also Alma Lutz, “Susan B. Anthony and John Brown,” Rochester History 15, no. 3 (July 1953): 16. bivouac for the remainder of the day and night” aft er drawing some much- needed rations.41 Before, during, and aft er the battle, Sam Porter, like a large number of his compatriots, suff ered from severe diarrhea occasioned by poor diet (when available, that is), exhaustion, and stress. When they stopped near Taneytown in the early aft ernoon, Hays’s di- vision “was crowded closely together”; the “sinks had not been dug”; and Sam, “having severe diar- rhea was called to ease himself.”42 Th e timing could not have been poorer since who should appear but none other than that “prince of good soldiers” Has- kell of Gettysburg.43 Unlike Frank Haskell, Sam Porter and his reg- iment, the 108th New York, have been lost in the passage of time and, with the exception of a few interested researchers, are unknown to most his- torians and the general Civil War audience. As did hundreds of other regiments and hundreds of thou- sands of men, the 108th New York and Sam Porter fought in the war between the states, did their daily duty, achieved no outstanding notoriety, and then simply went home and tried to get on with what was left of their lives. Shortly before his nineteenth birthday, Porter packed up his schoolbooks and left the University of Rochester in his third year and joined the 108th New York volunteer infan- try on August 9, 1862, where he was mustered in with the rank of second lieutenant.44 Porter’s family was well- known and socially active in nineteenth- century Rochester, especially because of their in- volvement in the abolitionist movement. Sam’s father, Samuel D. Porter, concealed slaves en route on the Underground Railroad to Canada by hous- ing them in the barn on his property. At one time, Sam senior got wind of a U.S. deputy marshall “on 41 Francis Moses Wafer diary, Francis Moses Wafer Collection, Douglas Library, Queen’s University, Kingston, Ontario, p. 57. See also, U.S. War Department, Th e War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Offi cial Records of the Union and Confederate Armies (Washington, dc: Government Printing Offi ce, 1880– 1901), ser. 1, vol. 27, part 1, 145– 46, 222 (hereaft er cited as or and followed by the volume, part, and page numbers, with all subsequent citations referencing series 1); George H. Washburn, A Complete Military History and Record of the 108th Regiment N.Y. Vols (Rochester, ny: E. R. Andrews, 1894; repr. ed., Salem, ma: Higginson Book Company, 2000), 125; Kent Masterson Brown, Retreat from Gettysburg (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005), 34– 36; Francis A. Walker, History of the Second Army Corps (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1887; repr. ed., Maryland: Olde Soldier Books, n.d.), 308. 42 Powers to Seville, July 7, 1863, Porter Pension File. 43 James P. Sullivan, An Irishman in the Iron Brigade, ed. W. Beaudot and L. Herdegen (New York: Fordham University Press, 1993), 53. 44 Frederick Phistester, New York in the War of the Rebellion 1861– 1865, 3rd ed. (Albany, ny: J. B. Lyon Company, 1912), 4:3279. Lt. Sam Porter, 108th New York. From George H. Washburn, A Complete Military History and Record of the 108th Regiment N.Y. Vols (Rochester, NY: E. R. Andrews, 1894; repr. ed., Salem, MA: Higginson Book Company, 2000). 52 Gettysburg Magazine, no. 53 in an eff ort to establish itself as a successful combat unit. So far, under mediocre to incompetent lead- ership, the performance of Lincoln’s principal army approached the level of tragicomedy— neither an outright joke nor an obvious disaster. Th e prob- lem was not the common soldier, who fought with uncommon courage and tenacity, but rather a lack of audacity and moral courage on the part of its commanders. Starting the third spring of the war, the army was now under the command of Joseph “Fightin’ Joe” Hooker, who revitalized the army aft er Fredericksburg. Before the spring campaign, the young lieutenant of the 108th looked forward to the “chance to test Hooker’s generalship” and “hoped that he may succeed in anything he under- takes.”51 For only a victory “can convince the army that there is more than one general in the world and to hear men constantly saying that nobody but McClellan can command this army with success is enough to make one sick.” At Chancellorsville when the decisive test came, Hooker followed the pattern of previous commanders and could not summon the audacity, and thus once more Lincoln’s army was outgeneraled by Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson. Sam Porter, like most offi cers, experienced frustration yet remained practical and refused to become despondent. When Hooker’s congratulato- ry order of May 6, 1863, “was read to our Regt,” Por- ter “was glad to see that he [Hooker] does not feel so much discouraged as most of the army offi cers do.”52 However, he wished that Hooker “would try not to smooth over our disaster quite so much. We that were in the fi ght know that we were whipped,” yet Porter still believed “that we can lick the Rebs and [was] willing to try it at any time.” Two months later at the small crossroads town of Gettysburg and once again under a new leader, George Gordon Me- ade, the Army of the Potomac took a major step to- ward self- assurance when it defeated Robert E. Lee and the vaunted Army of Northern Virginia. It was here also that Frank Aretas Haskell made sure his name would be remembered to Civil War history and to Sam Porter of the 108th New York. From the night of July 3, Haskell spent his time with the wounded general John Gibbon, fi rst at the 51 Porter to his father, December 28, 1862, [January– early February?] 1863, Porter Letters, box 1, folder 10. 52 Porter, letter May 6, 1863, Porter Letters, box 1, folder 10. Susan B. Anthony.46 Not surprisingly, then, when the opportunity to join the fi ght for the union pre- sented itself in August of 1862 with the formation of the second regiment from Rochester, Sam Jr. ob- viously followed the civic- minded examples of his parents and became a second lieutenant in Compa- ny F of the newly formed 108th New York. On September 17, 1862, almost a month aft er its inception, the untrained men and offi cers of the 108th New York were thrown into the grinder at Antietam, where the regiment suff ered a loss of 195 casualties in the fi ght for Bloody Lane, south of the Roulette farm.47 Sam Porter was part of this statistic since he suff ered a wound to the right foot that sent him home to Rochester until his return to duty on November 18, 1862. Th e young lieutenant returned to a diff erent Army of the Potomac. Eleven days earlier Maj. Gen. George Brinton McClellan was replaced by his close friend Ambrose E. Burnside. Upon his return, Porter made no mention of the change in command but did retain his optimistic outlook for better things to happen in the near fu- ture. However, such optimism was severely shaken by the fi asco at Fredericksburg, when on Decem- ber 13 the 108th New York of Palmer’s brigade and numerous other brigades were hurled futilely at the Sunken Road at the base of Marye’s Heights. Shaken by the disaster, the lieutenant confessed that the “at- tack was a piece of folly” and that he “felt that God’s protecting hand had been over me and shielded me in that terrible time of danger.”48 Aft er an experi- ence such as Fredericksburg as well as an unseemly squabble over promotion, Porter learned about dis- cretion and valor and left a request with his father to use his infl uence in “getting me an appointment to Palmer’s or any other General staff ”— in other words, a staff position away from the fi ring line.49 Th e “Picture Book War” as Catton called it and the glamor of battle had faded quickly for Lt. Sam Por- ter of the 108th New York.50 No staff position became available over the en- suing months, but Porter continued to do his duty while the Army of the Potomac fl oundered along 46 See Nancy A. Hewitt, Women’s Activism and Social Change, Rochester, New York 1822– 1872 (Ithaca, ny: Cornell University Press, 1984) 56– 59, 136, 206. 47 or, 19.1:334. 48 Porter to his father, December 28, 1862, Porter Letters, box 1, folder 10. 49 Porter to his father, December 28, 1862, Porter Letters, box 1, folder 10. 50 Bruce Catton, Mr. Lincoln’s Army (New York: Doubleday, 1951), 1, 54. 53An Incident at Taneytown Haskell’s loss of composure is noteworthy. Had he actually come to believe that he was Haskell of Get- tysburg and that as the savior of Gettysburg, he now supped with the Gods of battle? As he unabashedly confessed to his family, he was, aft er all, “too good an offi cer”; and he obviously saw himself above the level of a mere combat lieutenant.55 He knew that he had done “more for the country in that battle than some who will be made Major Generals,” and it gave him a “twinge to think I shall get no visible reward.”56 Furthermore, in his own mind, he was the confi dant of division, corps, and commanding generals and thus beyond the reach of the young, poorly dressed ragamuffi n who had the nerve to call himself a gentleman while in the presence of Haskell of Gettysburg. On the other hand, surely some sense of cosmic or comic irony was not lost on Porter as he stum- bled away bleeding profusely while the hole in his blouse still smoked from the proximity of the shot. He had survived the horror of the battle of Get- tysburg; but now three days later, he had just been deliberately shot for no apparent reason by a fellow Union offi cer. As in any situation such as this, pa- rameters cannot be simply black and white. Sam Porter did have an edge to him if provoked; and given what his regiment went through in the previ- ous week, provocation would not be diffi cult. Porter prided himself on honesty and fair play. As men- tioned earlier, he became involved in a volatile dis- agreement aft er Fredericksburg with his superior, over what Porter perceived as an injustice in pro- motion. Later he would be involved in a drunken dual with a fellow regimental offi cer, which resulted more in hangovers than in injury. So it is reasonable to assume that Lt. Porter was not entirely an inno- cent victim in the incident with Harrow’s aide, but his recalcitrance, real or imagined, gave Haskell no grounds for shooting the younger soldier. Shortly aft er the confrontation, Col. Charles Powers of the 108th New York submitted a report 55 Dawes, Service with the Sixth Wisconsin Volunteers, 21. 56 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 50, 204. Now, the age- old argument can be raised that twenty- fi rst- century psychology or values are being applied to a nineteenth- century individual. Such an argument seems quite off the mark. Has human nature changed all that much in 150 years? Do men or women no longer pursue an image of themselves that they believe will fulfi ll their need for self- worth? Given our present- day celebrity- driven society, are there no such people as a Frank A. Haskell? Th e answers are obvious, and the objection irrelevant. Second Corps hospital on Rock Creek and then at Westminster, Maryland, where Gibbon awaited a train to Baltimore. Gibbon, obviously impressed with Haskell’s version of his “distinguished con- duct” at the battle, no doubt conveyed his approval to his aide and would later write “that to him more than to any one man are we indebted for the repulse of Lee’s assault.”53 So with Gibbon’s words probably still ringing in his ears, Haskell revisited the scene of the battle before taking up his new job on July 7 “as an Aide with Gen. Harrow,” Gibbon’s tempo- rary replacement. On his way to report for duty, however, what should off end his eyes but the sight of a Union soldier preparing to go to the bathroom in an open fi eld. Probably in a typically imperious manner, Haskell “with a cocked pistol in hand” rode over to Porter “and demanded that he should ‘dou- ble quick’ off the fi eld at once.”54 Just why Haskell saw it as his duty was not quite clear, since the area had not been designated, or “laid off ,” nor had it been stationed with guards to indicate the site as divisional headquarters. Per- haps the hero of Gettysburg, whose obsession with cleanliness was well- known in the Iron Brigade, saw a scruff y looking young man, without blouse, with- out insignia, not looking soldierly at all, attempting to go to the bathroom, and it off ended his vision of warfare and soldiering. Obviously Porter did not respond with the correct amount of awe or defer- ence to the presence of Haskell of Gettysburg. Slowly buttoning up and arranging his clothing, Porter clearly had had enough of Harrow’s new aide, and the assault escalated as Colonel Powers clearly de- scribed earlier. Haskell’s loss of control during the encounter is interesting. If his exploits on July 3 are to be given credence, then how could an aide with the self- proclaimed charisma of command move an entire regiment into the death trap of the An- gle— a feat even the brigade commander could not achieve— but now could not command that same respect and awe from a disheveled, hungry, prob- ably untidy, and unwashed lieutenant more intent on natural demands and apparently immune to the charismatic Haskell of Gettysburg? Even if Porter was not entirely the innocent victim and perhaps exchanged heated unpleasantries with the aide, 53 Gibbon, Personal Recollections of the Civil War, 153. 54 Powers to Seville, July 7, 1863, Porter Pension File. 54 Gettysburg Magazine, no. 53 anything! Livermore’s version of the event obviously derived from Haskell, since the story contains none of the details provided by Col. Charles Powers and Lt. Col. Francis E. Pierce. Once Haskell joined Hays’s staff , he became the general’s bartender and played his man Fri- day. According to Livermore, there was an almost comic and pathetic ritual that Haskell orchestrat- ed to solemnize the general’s fondness for whisky. Hays designated ten o’clock in the morning as the equivalent of the sun over the yardarm and there- fore the time for the fi rst shot of the day. Howev- er, about half an hour before the designated hour, with “his red nose shining in the morning sun,” the old man began to get twitchy and demanded from Haskell the time of day based on the position of the sun. Haskell, deferential, “glad to be of use,” politic, “cautious and meticulous,” would answer, “Half- past nine, General.” To which Hays would respond, “Suppose we call it ten, Mr. Haskell!” At this point, Haskell would “gravely go into the general’s tent and mix the morning toddy.”62 So once again, Haskell plays Polonius to Hays’s Claudius and becomes the darling of the general staff . Although his mornings may have been dulled in an alcoholic haze, Hays was quite aware of the incident with Porter, since aft er the war he recalled that Haskell “got into trou- 62 Livermore, Days and Events 1860– 1866, 285. in writing and requested “that this outrage may be investigated and brought to the notice of the Di- vision and Corps Commanders.”57 Powers’s letter went through the usual chain of command until it arrived on July 8, 1863, at the headquarters of the Second Army Corps, where it seems to have set- tled and evaporated. Hancock had been wounded at the battle, so command of the Second Corps was turned over to Brig. Gen. William Hays, who had recently returned aft er his capture at Chancellors- ville and who, to this time, had commanded noth- ing larger than a brigade. On July 11, 1863, Haskell was ordered, under Special Order No. 160, to report to Second Corps headquarters and was “detailed as Aide de Camp on the staff of the General Com- manding the Corps,” and that seemed to be that as far as his shooting of brother offi cer Sam Porter was concerned.58 Th omas Livermore, another Second Corps aide, recalled that Haskell “was sent to our headquarters under arrest” since he had “ordered an offi cer of some regiment, who was committing a nuisance close to the tents of the headquarters to move off and upon his refusing had shot him, not mortally, however.”59 Apparently, the fact that Porter did not die seemed to somehow justify Haskell’s ac- tion. Finally, Livermore added, “his off ense was not considered serious, and in fact I think his action was the cause of bringing him to our staff .” Ironical- ly, this fi nal comment may indeed explain why the War Department, twenty- two years aft er the shoot- ing, would record the following: Under orders of the 2nd Army Corps dated July 8th, 1863, a Court of Inquiry was Ordered to ex- amine into the Circumstances of the shooting of Lieut. Porter, 108 New York Vols. by Lieut. Has- kell on the 7 inst. Th e proceedings of said Court Of Inquiry are not on fi le in this offi ce.60 Almost 120 years later, the National Archives confi rmed the War Department. Th e court of in- quiry records, if there ever were any, seem to have also evaporated.61 Haskell was never charged with 57 Ezra J. Warner, Generals in Blue (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1992), 225; or, 27.3:503. 58 “Frank A. Haskell,” Compiled Service Record File, National Archives, Wash- ington, dc. 59 Th omas L. Livermore, Days and Events 1860– 1866 (Boston: Houghton Miffl in Company, 1920; repr. ed., Salem, ma: Higginson Book Company, n.d.), 270. 60 Powers to Seville, July 7, 1863, Porter Pension File. 61 David H. Wallace, National Archives, personal letter to the author, December 22, 2004. Lt. Col. Francis E. Pierce, 108th New York. Courtesy of the U.S. Army Military History Institute. 55An Incident at Taneytown the Battle of the Wilderness. With the exception of Haskell’s shot to his shoulder, all of Porter’s combat wounds were to his legs and were severe enough to allow him to resign honorably, yet he returned and spent the majority of his time on staff assign- ment. Not another word was said of Haskell and his assault on Porter; but oddly enough when Porter returned to duty aft er Gettysburg, he started to ac- quire those staff - offi cer jobs that he so much cov- eted. Aft er his return from the Wilderness wound, he spent the fi nal months of the war as aide to Brig. Gen. Th omas Smyth.68 Was Porter himself part of the cover- up and the code of silence surrounding Frank Haskell? At war’s end, Porter returned to Rochester as a brevet major, but his health, which was always fragile, deteriorated rapidly as he attempted one occupation aft er another until fi nally settling into the vocation of barrel manufacturer. Unlike oth- er members of the 108th New York, Porter seemed determined to forget the war, apparently eschewing the various gatherings of the Rochester veterans. Th e one event that he attended was the First Annual Reunion of the 108th New York, held at Irondequoit Bay on August 20, 1879, to commemorate the sev- enteenth anniversary of their enlistment and their “baptism of burnt powder” at Antietam. Th e “boys of ’62,” many approaching middle age, engaged in a good- natured game of baseball, which Porter, a pre- war ballplayer, and his team lost 3– 2. When the call came up for a football game, Porter declined, prob- ably due to the damage of three leg wounds, and moved to the sidelines to sit with his good friend and ex- colonel, Charles J. Powers, who was also a prewar ballplayer— a pitcher— but who sat watch- ing with his left arm powerless and virtually useless by his side. Porter never got together with his old regiment again. Shortly aft er the initial reunion, his health declined rapidly, and he died two years later on March 7, 1881, twenty- four hours aft er the death of his father. He was thirty- six years old.69 Th e determining force that brought back to 68 Washburn, A Complete Military History and Record of the 108th Regiment N.Y. Vols, 59; Powers to Seville, July 7, 1863, Porter Pension File. 69 See Washburn, A Complete Military History and Record of the 108th Regiment N.Y. Vols, 262, 301, 351; Bob Marcotte, “Th e University of Rochester and the Civil War: Th ree Heroes at Gettysburg,” University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries (based on a lecture given at Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, University of Rochester, December 17, 2002), http://www .lib.rochester.edu/index.cfm?page=1796. ble by shooting an offi cer and he ought not to have done it, but I liked him and took him on my staff .”63 Just one good ole boy looking out for another, and the aff air “was hushed up and never came to tri- al.”64 Later, when Hays was replaced by Warren as temporary commander of the Second Corps, Has- kell still managed to ingratiate himself to the peo- ple who counted, until fi nally he received political patronage— obviously he managed to control his re- vulsion for political appointment when it involved himself— and was given command “of the new 36th Wisconsin Infantry Regiment.”65 On June 3, 1864, as part of Gibbon’s division, Haskell was killed leading his men in the ill- advised charge at Cold Harbor. On the same battleground, to the south of Haskell’s charge, was the 108th New York of Smyth’s brigade, who as veterans had learned the folly of full- frontal assaults on an entrenched position. For Haskell, the boys of Rochester clearly felt nothing. Th ey knew he “was the offi cer who unjustly wounded” Por- ter at Gettysburg; and as they watched the charge, they simply reported that Haskell “was killed in this charge which lasted an hour.”66 In fact, the indiff er- ence of the 108th New York was echoed by at least one member of Haskell’s regiment who wrote home, “Our Colonel is not pitied much” since he had rushed them into combat and deserved his fate.67 Sam Porter was not with the 108th at Cold Har- bor. He was convalescing in Rochester with his fourth wound of the war. Aft er Haskell’s unpun- ished assault— the second wound— Porter returned to duty in mid- August 1863, “not entirely recov- ered” from the shoulder wound, only to be wound- ed severely in the leg in the engagement at Bristoe Station. Th is wound festered and leaked all winter until he was sent home. So far, Porter suff ered three wounds in this war— two in combat— but nev- ertheless he returned for Grant’s Overland Cam- paign, during which he suff ered his fi nal wound in 63 Livermore, Days and Events 1860– 1866, 311. 64 “Cramer Deposition,” Deposition A, no. 315.660, January 25, 1887, Porter Pension File. 65 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 242, 245. 66 Terence G. Crooks, “Rochester’s Forgotten Regiment: Th e 108th New York in the Civil War,” (unpublished manuscript, May 2005), Word 95– 2003, pp. 241– 50; Washburn, A Complete Military History and Record of the 108th Regiment N.Y. Vols, 67. 67 David Coon to Son Herbert, June 6, 1864, “Transcription: Civil War Letters of Private David Coon (1824– 1864),” Empty Nest Genealogy, accessed April 28, 2015, http://www.emptynestancestry.com/transcription- civil- war- letters- of - david- coon/. 56 Gettysburg Magazine, no. 53 one was shot by a fellow offi cer while attempting to go to the toilet and not honorably wounded in combat during the war’s greatest battle would not be seen as a heroic utterance or a circumstance to reveal to the social elite of Rochester. Recently a local Rochester historian marveled at the fact that Sam Porter, as well as others in his regiment, kept returning to the fray aft er being seriously wound- ed.71 Perhaps a contributing factor for Sam Porter was a sense of shame about the circumstances of his Gettysburg wound. He may have felt compelled to redeem himself. More than likely, Sam Porter re- turned simply because, like many of the boys of ’62, he wanted to fi nish what he had started. No fl our- ish! No hundred- page letter about his own heroics! Just a simple commitment to the Union cause. In all fairness, Frank Haskell also felt that com- mitment, but he lacked the humility to accept a part in the war that he deemed beneath him. Ambitious as Lucifer, his teacher said, and determined to reign somewhere that would bring him glory, perhaps fi ctional; and to this end, he would serve those who could further his ambition. Frank Haskell escaped justice simply because Sam Porter chose not to pursue the assault. A court of inquiry can only be called by the president or if demanded by the in- jured party. Offi cial inquiry into the shooting was never pursued. Th at Haskell was rewarded with a higher staff position only reinforced Haskell’s arro- gance and his heroic image of himself. Eventually, he would die for the image. Before the futile and fatal charge at Cold Harbor, the newly appointed Colonel Haskell of the Th irty- Sixth Wisconsin told a friend that he would be killed in the next battle. Haskell explained, “You see, I have a green regi- ment. . . . I cannot get behind the lines as I might in the case of seasoned troops. I shall be obliged al- ways to lead. . . . And of course I shall be shot.”72 On June 3, 1864, during “one of the war’s bloodi- est disasters Frank Haskell fulfi lled his ambition to command— and within three hours was dead.”73 Al- most ironically, as his biographer suggests, the ac- tion at Cold Harbor was a Federal version of Pick- ett’s charge almost a year aft er Haskell of Gettysburg had shone so brightly: “He died as a soldier should 71 See Marcotte, “University of Rochester and the Civil War.” 72 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 244. 73 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 245. light the assault of Frank Haskell was Mary Porter, Sam’s widow. In May of 1884 she applied for a wid- ow’s pension with the claim that Haskell’s gunshot wound combined with other factors contributed to the development of tuberculosis in Sam Porter, which led to his subsequent death. Unfortunately, when Mary needed corroborating witnesses to the Haskell shooting, none were available. Th e only one alive who had been closest to the event was Lt. Col. Frank Pierce, now enrolled in the regular army as captain in the First Infantry. Although some doubt persisted about Mary’s claim, the War Department eventually settled a monthly pension for her of sev- enteen to twenty dollars, until her death on Febru- ary 25, 1918, at the age of seventy- two. Most of the deponents whom Mary called on to support her case remembered that Porter was unceremonious- ly shot by a staff offi cer for some perceived off ense that had something to do with personal hygiene. Sometime before his death, even Sam apparently cleaned up the story for Mary and told her “that he was marching a squad across a certain lot, near Get- tysburg, the next day aft er the battle when he was ordered by an inferior offi cer to leave the fi eld.”70 Th e inferior offi cer grew abusive, and Porter felt he had no need to obey this subordinate, whereupon the staff offi cer shot him. Given the apparent Victorian aversion to bodily functions, it is not surprising that Porter provided his wife with the hygienic version. To his cousin, Porter Farley of the 140th New York, Sam related a version closer to the truth. Overall, Sam Porter spoke very little about the wound or the wound- ing, perhaps because of the growing mythology of the war in general and the battle of Gettysburg in particular. Aft er the war, the signifi cance of the three- day fi ght at the Pennsylvania crossroads took on alarming implications. For the North, it was the fi ght that turned the Rebel tide and led to ultimate victory for the Union. Of course, the fact that the war continued with increased savagery for anoth- er twenty- two months aft er the battle was a “mi- nor” forgotten detail in this version. For the South, Gettysburg came to represent the great might have been and provided the impetus for the postwar Lost Cause movement. So obviously the admission that 70 Powers to Seville, July 7, 1863, Porter Pension File. 57An Incident at Taneytown Haskell. Given the letter to his brother and his in- ability to empathize with the foot soldier, shooting Sam Porter was just another staff function too triv- ial to dwell on, and his subsequent promotion only validated his attitude and act. As Walt Whitman so poignantly affi rmed, “the real war will never get in the books,” but “the offi cial surface courteousness of the generals” and the romantic depiction of the he- roic dead and nobly wounded will remain— in fact, still remains.75 Frank Haskell made sure his version of the war got “in the books,” and he died in a fu- tile, glorious charge that sealed his image forever. Unlike his assailant, Porter “never became famous” but did “become one of the solid reliable dedicat- ed young offi cers without whom the war could not have been won.”76 Four times wounded, he survived the war and went home to help the nation heal. Terence G. Crooks lives in Dundas, Ontario, Canada, where he retired aft er a thirty- year career teaching English. He holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the University of Toronto. His interest in the Civil War was fi rst sparked by his father, who took him to Gettysburg for the centennial commemoration in 1963. During his teaching career his interest continued; and now that he is retired, he has time to indulge that passion more actively. 75 Walt Whitman, Complete Prose Works (Philadelphia: David Mackay, 1892), 80. 76 Catharine S. Crary, ed,, Dear Belle (Middletown, ct: Wesleyan University Press, 1965), xviii. die fronting the enemy and taking more than his share of the danger.”74 Sam Porter was also constrained within the Vic- torian belief of the manly image, which obliged him to cover up the truth of Haskell’s assault. Had a court of inquiry been pursued on Porter’s insistence, the embarrassing circumstances of the assault would have emerged; and thus, in what came to be regarded as the most signifi cant campaign of the war, Por- ter was not wounded in honorable battle but rather three days aft erward while attempting to relieve his diarrhea. Downplaying such an unmanly wound as well as the late nineteenth century’s public sensitivity about the needs of the physical body must have over- ridden Porter’s need to pursue justice. Th e advent of the Civil War provided an ide- al outlet for a man such as Haskell. His infl ated self- concept of his own worth and his overweening pride and arrogance allowed him to move smooth- ly through the upper echelons of the Union com- mand, where his unique attributes seemed to be en- couraged and appreciated. His main claim to fame, his Gettysburg letter, is far from a work of Civil War scholarship but is rather a paean to Frank Aretas 74 Byrne and Weaver, Haskell of Gettysburg, 1. See also James M. Aubrey, Th e Th irty- Sixth Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry (n.p., 1900; repr., Salem, ma: Hig- ginson Book Company, n.d.), 330; U.S. War Deparment, 1863 Laws of War, 24; William P. Craighill, Th e 1862 Army Offi cer’s Pocket Companion (New York: D.Van Nostrand, 1861; repr., Mechanicsburg, pa: Stackpole Books, 2002), 282– 83. 
work_pb22bnn2vbejnjztb3rj5up6ri	----	nyas_6751-1590006_LR Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. ISSN 0077-8923 A N N A L S O F T H E N E W Y O R K A C A D E M Y O F S C I E N C E S Issue: The Year in Cognitive Neuroscience Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation: a synthetic review and evolving model of the cognitive control of emotion Kevin N. Ochsner, Jennifer A. Silvers, and Jason T. Buhle Department of Psychology, Columbia University, New York, New York Address for Correspondence: Kevin Ochsner, Department of Psychology, Columbia University, 369 Schermerhorn Hall, 1190 Amsterdam Ave., New York, NY 10027. ochsner@psych.columbia.edu This paper reviews and synthesizes functional imaging research that over the past decade has begun to offer new insights into the brain mechanisms underlying emotion regulation. Toward that end, the first section of the paper outlines a model of the processes and neural systems involved in emotion generation and regulation. The second section surveys recent research supporting and elaborating the model, focusing primarily on studies of the most commonly investigated strategy, which is known as reappraisal. At its core, the model specifies how prefrontal and cingulate control systems modulate activity in perceptual, semantic, and affect systems as a function of one’s regulatory goals, tactics, and the nature of the stimuli and emotions being regulated. This section also shows how the model can be generalized to understand the brain mechanisms underlying other emotion regulation strategies as well as a range of other allied phenomena. The third and last section considers directions for future research, including how basic models of emotion regulation can be translated to understand changes in emotion across the life span and in clinical disorders. Keywords: amygdala; cognitive control; emotion; emotion regulation; prefrontal cortex . . .Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall. . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Rainy Day (1842) . . .‘Every cloud,’ says the proverb, ‘has a silver lining.’ P. T. Barnum Struggles and Triumphs (1869) It might be said that emotions are the weather of our lives. Some days, we experience the blue skies of happiness and the sunshine of joy. Other days, we are drenched by the rain clouds of sadness or buffeted by the hot winds of anger. How we respond adap- tively to our emotional weather patterns—finding the silver lining in every dark cloud—has impor- tant consequences for our physical and mental well- being.1–7 Although we cannot control the weather outside, we are capable of using myriad emotion regulation strategies to take control of our internal climates.8 Such strategies allow us to wholly or partially alter the nature, magnitude, and duration of our emo- tional responses, including initiating new ones. In recent years, great strides have been taken in using neuroscience techniques to understand the mecha- nisms underlying emotion regulation. In humans, this research has primarily used functional imaging to examine our ability to control affective responses using cognitive strategies. The overarching goals of this paper are to review the progress made by such research, synthesize from it conclusions that suggest expansion on and elaborations of a model of the cognitive control of emotion (MCCE), and show how the model can make sense of a wide range of emotion regulatory abilities and allied phenomena. Toward these ends, the remainder of the paper is divided into three parts. In the first, we outline a ba- sic MCCE whose core elements have been described previously.9,10 In the second section, we review cur- rent imaging research suggesting ways in which the model can evolve to integrate new findings on the doi: 10.1111/j.1749-6632.2012.06751.x Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E1 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. Figure 1. A multilevel approach to building a model of emo- tion regulation. (A) In cognitive, affective, and social neuro- science research, we seek to describe phenomena in terms of relationships among three levels of analysis: experience and behavior, psychological processes, and neural systems. The bidirectional arrows between levels indicate that the relation- ships among them are bidirectional. (B) Through measurement and/or experimental manipulation, neuroimaging research on emotion regulation can observe phenomena at the behavioral level and the neural level and use these observations to infer the nature of the intervening cognitive and/or affective processes. The direction of the arrows from the behavioral and neural levels toward the process level indicates the direction of causal inference (i.e., we can’t observe the operation of these processes directly, but infer their operation based on behavioral and neural observations). brain bases of emotion regulation as well as be ap- plied to account for other related phenomena, such as affective learning, affect-based decision making, and affective expectancies. Throughout these first two sections we focus primarily on one strategy in particular—known as reappraisal—because it has received the bulk of empirical attention. In the third and last section, we summarize and consider direc- tions for future basic and translational research. A model of the cognitive control of emotion Any model of emotion regulation (or any other phenomenon) is predicated on assumptions about how different levels of analysis fit together. Our as- sumptions follow those now commonplace in cog- nitive, affective, and social neuroscience in which researchers seek to describe phenomena in terms of the relationships among three levels of analysis: behavior/experience, process, and neural systems (Refs. 11–13; Fig. 1A). Neuroimaging research on emotion and its regulation can observe phenomena at the behavioral level (e.g., measures of emotional response and the specific regulatory strategies one might employ) and the neural level (e.g., fMRI mea- sures of brain activity) and use these observations to infer the nature of the intervening cognitive and/or affective processes (Fig. 1B). With this in mind, our review of current research will sometimes be organized in terms of phenomena described at the level of behavior, including regula- tory goals, tactics, and target stimuli. In other cases it will be organized in terms of issues concerning the neural-level pathways on which the field has begun to make progress. Taken together, the data reviewed in each section constrains and influences our MCCE (see Fig. 2). To understand how emotion regulation works, we must first have an idea of how emotions are gen- erated. As such, our model has two main parts— descriptions of the mechanisms supporting emo- tion generation on the one hand and the mecha- nisms supporting emotion regulation on the other. For the sake of simplicity, we present the psycho- logical and neural systems involved in the gener- ation and regulation of emotion as being distinct, yet it should be noted that there is evidence to sug- gest that the underlying psychological14 and neu- ral mechanisms15,16 are at least partially overlap- ping. Indeed, elsewhere we have noted that the distinction between emotion generation and reg- ulation is blurry at best (e.g., Ref. 16), and which term one uses may reflect their usefulness for ad- dressing a particular question more than hard and fast differences in their mechanisms. Here, we treat them separately to make points about the ways in which putative control and affect-triggering systems interact. Mechanisms of emotion generation Our account of how emotions are generated is mul- tileveled12 in its description of both the processes and the neural systems that give rise to emotional responses. Processes involved in generating emotion The black time line at the bottom of Figure 2A shows a simple model of four steps involved in generating emotional responses.17 In the first step, a stimu- lus is perceived in its current situational context. The stimulus could be an internal thought, feel- ing, or sensation, or any number of external cues, ranging from a facial expression or gesture to an action or event. At the second stage, one attends to some of these stimuli or their attributes. What- ever is in the focus of attention is passed along to subsequent emotion generative stages, whereas ignored or unattended stimuli may be either E2 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Figure 2. A model of the cognitive control of emotion (MCCE). (A) Diagram of the processing steps involved in generating an emotion and the ways in which cognitive control processes (blue box) might be used to regulate them. As described in the text, the effects of different emotion regulation strategies (the red arrows descending from the cognitive control processes box) can be understood in terms of the stages of the emotion generation sequence that they influence. The pink box seen at the appraisal stage is meant to indicate that neural systems involved in generating emotion support this process. (B) Neural systems involved in using cognitive strategies, such as reappraisal, to regulate emotion (left, blue boxes), systems involved in generating those responses (left, pink boxes), and systems with an undefined or intermediary role in reappraisal (left, yellow boxes). excluded from these stages or receive diminished subsequent processing. The third stage involves ap- praising the significance of stimuli in terms of their relevance to one’s current goals, wants, or needs. This is the stage focused on by appraisal theories of emotion, which describe the structure of dif- ferent appraisals that lead to positive versus neg- ative reactions in general and to specific types of emotional responses in particular.18 Because the current neuroscience literature suggests that there may not be specific neural systems for different dis- crete emotions,19,20 for present purposes, we simply distinguish between basic positive/appetitive ver- sus negative/aversive appraisals that have been re- liably associated with specific neural systems that are described below. Finally, the fourth stage in- volves translating these appraisals into changes in experience, emotion-expressive behavior, and au- tonomic physiology. Although these three indica- tors of emotional response do not always correlate with one another for reasons that are not perfectly understood,21 as noted below, emotion regulation strategies can affect changes in some or all of them, depending on the strategy. Neural systems involved in generating emotion Reviews and meta-analyses of functional imaging studies19,20 indicate that a number of cortical and subcortical brain systems may play key roles in the appraisal and/or response stages of emotion gener- ation. For present purposes, we focus on the four that have been most frequently discussed in studies of reappraisal in particular, and emotion regulation strategies more generally (see Fig. 2B; for examples of other emotion systems that may be modulated by emotion regulation, see Refs. 9 and 22). The first is the amygdala, which is involved in the perception and encoding of stimuli relevant to cur- rent or chronic affective goals,23,24 ranging from re- wards or punishments to facial expressions of emo- tion to aversive or pleasant images and films.25–27 Although the amygdala generally is sensitive to detecting and triggering responses to arousing Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E3 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. stimuli,28 it exhibits a bias toward detecting cues sig- naling potential threats, like expressions of fear.29–31 The second is the ventral striatum, which is in- volved in learning which cues (ranging from so- cial signals, like smiling faces, to actions, to ab- stract objects) predict rewarding or reinforcing outcomes.32–34 The third is the ventromedial prefrontal cortex (vmPFC), which integrates affective valuations of specific stimuli made by the amygdala and ventral striatum with inputs from other regions, including medial temporal lobe systems that provide histor- ical information about prior encounters with the stimuli as well as inputs from brainstem motiva- tional and prefrontal control centers that provide information about current behavioral goals.35–43 As such, vmPFC tracks the positive or negative valu- ation of stimuli in a context and goal-dependent manner.41,44–46 Examples of this include the finding that vmPFC activity to an image of a healthy but not tasty food depends on whether one has the goal to eat healthily,47 and the findings that vmPFC lesions lead to context-inappropriate affective responses in both humans and animals.39,48,49 The fourth brain system is the insula, which is thought to represent a viscerotopic map of ascend- ing viscerosensory inputs from the body50 and has been implicated in negative affective experience in general.51,52 There appears to be posterior–anterior functional gradient in the insula with posterior re- gions associated with primary representations of sensations from the body and anterior regions asso- ciated with interoceptive awareness of the body and in motivational and affective states, like disgust, that have a strong visceral component.51,53–56 Mechanisms of emotion regulation With an understanding of how emotions are gener- ated in the first place, we can turn to an account of the processes and neural systems involved in regu- lating them. Processes involved in emotion regulation Although many behaviors can change our emotions, often these effects are unintended or incidental (e.g., your mood improves because you happen to have lunch with a friend) and as such are not considered to be examples of emotion regulation, per se. In- stead, emotion regulation entails the modification of ongoing—or the initiation of new—emotional responses through the active engagement of regu- latory processes. That said, we can further distin- guish between cases where emotion regulation is guided by regulatory goals that are implicit or out- side awareness (e.g., Ref. 57) as compared with ex- plicit and accessible to awareness. Although both are interesting and important, no neuroscience re- search has addressed the former case and a great deal has addressed the latter case. Therefore, we fo- cus here on the deliberate deployment of an emotion regulation strategy in the service of explicit goals to change one’s emotions. To understand how such ex- plicit emotion regulation strategies work, it is useful to distinguish among five classes of strategies whose effects on emotion can be understood in terms of the stage of the emotion generation sequence on which they have an impact.58 It is important to note that the distinctions made below originally were based on behavioral analy- ses of the aspects of emotional responses targeted by different strategies.58 As such, this analysis was agnostic to the specific nature of the regulatory processes supporting each strategy, but tacitly as- sumed that all strategies drew upon some combi- nation of cognitive control processes (designated by the blue box in Fig. 2A). In this regard, func- tional imaging has made a substantial contribution to our understanding of how emotion regulation works because it provides insight into the nature of the control processes supporting emotion regu- lation that is not obtainable from behavioral data alone.9 As illustrated by the top portion of Figure 2A, the first two strategies involve changing the nature of the stimulus inputs to the emotion generation cycle. In situation selection, you keep yourself away from stimuli that elicit unwanted emotions and put yourself in the presence of stimuli that elicit desired emotions. An example is staying away from a party where an old flame will be present if you don’t want to feel pangs of sadness for having been dumped by her. Situation modification is when you find yourself in the presence of a stimulus that elicits an unwanted emotion and change something about the situation to alter its impact on you. In the old flame example, you might leave a party at which she is unexpectedly present or leave the room in which she is having a conversation. Although these two strategies are undoubtedly effective (e.g., Ref. 59), they can be difficult to study neurally and have received little E4 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation attention in imaging or using other neuroscience techniques (see below). The remaining three strategies are all amenable to, and have been studied, using imaging, albeit to vary- ing degrees. Attentional deployment controls what stimuli are gated into, or out of, the emotion gen- eration process. The two most commonly studied exemplars10 are selective attention, which involves shifting the focus of attention toward or away from stimuli or their attributes, and distraction, which involves limiting attention to an external stimulus by focusing internally on information maintained in working memory. These types of strategies differ from situation selection in that they do not involve physically altering one’s proximity or relationship to an emotional stimulus, but rather they manip- ulate attention so as to alter one’s emotional re- sponse. Cognitive change involves changing the way one appraises the meaning of a stimulus. It is one of the most cognitively complex strategies insofar as it draws on any of a number of different higher cognitive processes to support changes in stimulus meaning, including language and memory, as well processes that also support other strategies, such as attention and response selection. The most com- monly studied exemplar is reappraisal, which in- volves reinterpreting the meaning of a stimulus, in- cluding one’s personal connection to it, to change one’s emotional response. Finally, response modu- lation strategies target the systems for emotion- expressive behavior. The most commonly studied exemplar is expressive suppression,60 which entails keeping one’s face still so that observers would not know the emotion you are experiencing. A great deal of behavioral and psychophysiolog- ical research has been devoted to comparing and contrasting the behavioral consequences of deploy- ing each of these strategies. For example, it’s known that attentional deployment and reappraisal can have downstream effects on various components of an emotional response because they target the early stages of the emotion generation sequence.60–65 By contrast, expressive suppression has an impact on only the behaviors it targets at the final response stage of emotion generation; when keeping your face still, emotional experience may subtly diminish,66,67 if at all, and your physiological arousal will increase from the effort.60 There is also evidence that strate- gies differ in their long-term effects. For example, reappraisal, but not distraction, has been shown to have long-lasting effects on one’s tendency to have an emotional response to a stimulus,65 presumably because only reappraisal involves an active change in how one represents the affective meaning of that stimulus. Neural systems involved in emotion regulation As foreshadowed previously, the use of functional imaging has provided insight into the nature of the control systems that support regulatory strategies as well as the affect systems that these strategies modulate to change an emotional response. This section discusses core conclusions that can be drawn from reappraisal studies and a model of emotion regulation that can be derived from it. Reappraisal as a paradigm case. Reappraisal is an appropriate starting point for developing a MCCE for three reasons. First, because reappraisal is among the most cognitively complex strategies, a model of emotion regulation derived from reappraisal work may be generally applicable to other strategies and phenomena that typically will be cognitively sim- pler. Second, the majority of studies to date have focused on reappraisal because (i) it can be studied easily in an imaging environment and (ii) because it is the strategy referenced by countless aphorisms that advise us, “[to] look on the bright side. . .”, “[to] turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. . .”, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” and, “[that] every dark cloud has a silver lining.” Third, in contrast to other areas of emotion regulation research (re- viewed below) reappraisal studies tend to be more methodologically and conceptually similar to one another and therefore provide a stronger base for mechanistic inferences. With these considerations in mind, we now describe five key insights into the brain mechanisms supporting emotion regulation that have been derived from studies of reappraisal.9 Basic control system–affect system relationships. When the first fMRI studies of reappraisal were pub- lished approximately 10 years ago, there were no imaging studies of any form of emotion regulation. To develop hypotheses about how reappraisal might work, an analogy was drawn between the use of cog- nition to control emotion and the use of cognition to control memory, attention, and other thought processes.43 The simple idea was that prefrontal and cingulate systems would support control processes that modulate activity in posterior and subcortical Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E5 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. systems that generate emotional responses.10 A decade and over 50 imaging studies later, this initial hypothesis has been strongly supported. Figure 2B schematically illustrates the brain sys- tems shown by current research to be involved in the cognitive control of emotion via reappraisal. As such, Figure 2B diagrams the core elements of the MCCE. Three types of neural systems are primarily involved in generating and applying reappraisals.10 First, dorsolateral and posterior prefrontal cor- tex, along with inferior parietal regions gener- ally implicated in selective attention and working memory, may be used to direct attention to reappraisal-relevant stimulus features and hold in mind reappraisal goals as well as the content of one’s reappraisal.68–70 Second, dorsal regions of the anterior cingulate cortex implicated in perfor- mance monitoring may help track the extent to which one’s current reappraisals are changing emo- tional responses in the intended way.71 Third, re- gions of ventrolateral prefrontal cortex implicated in selecting goal-appropriate (and inhibiting goal- inappropriate) responses and information from se- mantic memory may be used to deliberately se- lect a new stimulus-appropriate reappraisal in favor of one’s initial prepotent appraisal of that stimu- lus.72,73 Finally, to the extent that one’s reappraisal involves focusing on and interpreting or reinter- preting one’s own emotional states—or those of others—dorsomedial prefrontal regions implicated in attributing mental states also may be active.74,75 With respect to the emotion-related regions that are modulated by reappraisal, the four regions de- scribed earlier in the section on neural systems for emotion generation all have been implicated— albeit to differing extents. Far and away, the most commonly modulated region is the amygdala, fol- lowed by the ventral striatum. The insula and the vmPFC are the least commonly modulated re- gions9,10 (although see the section on pathways be- low for a potential role of vmPFC in reappraisal as a modulator). Although we will discuss the significance of the differential modulation of these regions in more detail later (see later sections on valence speci- ficity and pathways), for now we can highlight the consistency with which they have been observed. Figure 3 plots peak activation foci for 43 studies (see Table 1) of reappraisal in healthy individuals as a function of reappraisal goals (panel A), reappraisal tactics (panel B), and the valence of the emotion being regulated (panel C). Ignoring these distinc- tions for a moment, one can see that the control system–affect system relationships shown in Figure 2B and described previously have been observed re- liably across numerous studies. Moving beyond the basic model With the consistency of the core control–affect sys- tem relationship as a foundation, we are now in a position to consider how this basic model—first proposed in 200243 and elaborated in 200510—has evolved. Below we discuss first new conclusions that can be drawn about the model from recent studies of reappraisal. In this section, we pay special attention to two emerging features of the model: (i) the po- tential intermediary role of semantic/perceptual sys- tems in reappraisal, and (ii) pathways linking con- trol and affect systems. Next, we discuss the way in which the model can be applied to understanding regulatory strategies other than reappraisal as well as various allied phenomena involving control–affect system interactions. Integrating new research on reappraisal Recent research provides new insight into the distri- bution of emotion regulation–related activation foci as a function of reappraisal goals (i.e., the outcome one hopes to achieve by regulating, for example, increasing or decreasing an emotional experience), tactics (i.e., the specific subtype of reappraisal one implements), and the emotional valence of stim- uli (i.e., whether the stimulus evokes a positive or negative emotional response). Here, we consider the implications of this work for the evolving MCCE. Goal specificity Arguably, the most common goal when using reap- praisal is to decrease negative emotion, as when we attempt to make ourselves feel better about a dis- appointing paper rejection, an argument, and the like. It is not surprising then that this goal has been the focus of the majority of reappraisal studies (see Table 1). This is not the only goal that guides reap- praisal, however. In some cases, as when we worry, ruminate, or make ourselves more anxious or fearful by elaborating on the meaning of unpleasant events, we are using reappraisal in service of the goal to in- crease emotion. A small, but growing, number of studies have examined this reappraisal goal as well. E6 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Figure 3. Plots of activation foci from the 43 studies of reappraisal described in the text and Table 1. (A) Plots of foci as a function of the goals to decrease or increase emotion. (B) Plots of foci as a function of the specific reappraisal tactics used—either reinterpreting the meaning of events depicted in stimuli or actively changing one’s psychological distance from them. (C) Plots of foci as a function of the valence of the stimuli eliciting the emotions that participants attempted to regulate. Blue boxes illustrate regions that are purported to support reappraisal (increase > look and decrease > look contrasts). Pink boxes illustrate regions that are purported to be modulated by reappraisal (look > decrease and increase > look contrasts; for clarity, only foci falling within the boundaries of the amygdala and striatum are shown). Figure 3A plots peak activation foci for reap- praisal studies of healthy individuals as a function of decrease versus increase goals. Perusal of this fig- ure highlights three findings. First, whereas both increase and decrease goals recruit left prefrontal regions, decrease goals recruit right prefrontal re- gions to a much greater extent than do increase goals. There are two interpretations of this finding. First, it may be attributable to the fact that decreas- ing an emotional response is more difficult than in- creasing one, and therefore may require additional cognitive control resources.76 Second, decreasing— but not increasing—an emotional response requires inhibiting or limiting the expression of a prepotent appraisal of a stimulus (e.g., as negative) in favor of selecting an alternative reappraisal (e.g., as neutral or even positive). Research shows that right dorsal— and especially ventrolateral—prefrontal cortex is in- volved in the selection and/or inhibition of various kinds of responses.77–80 Second, there is some evidence that increase goals differentially involve anterior portions of dorsomedial prefrontal cortex (dmPFC). Of the 12 studies directly comparing increasing emotion with a control condition in which participants respond naturally, six show increases in anterior dmPFC.16,76,81–83 Of the six studies that did not, most showed activation in neighboring areas (such as anterior cingulate cortex).62,84–88 Given the role of dmPFC in making judgments about mental states75,89,90 and that the majority of reappraisal studies use photographs of people as stimuli (see Table 1), it is likely that these regions support attention to and elaboration of emotional states, in- tentions, and outcomes of the individuals depicted in these photos. Third, whereas increase and decrease goals both seem to modulate the striatum (including both the caudate and putamen), they may differ in the way they modulate the amygdala. On the one hand, Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E7 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. Table 1. Neuroimaging studies of reappraisal in healthy individualsa Design Stimulus Timing of Study Participants Goal Valence Tactic type reapp cue Amygdala Beauregard et al.204 HYA Dec Pos Dist Videos Early∗ No Domes et al.81 HYA Both Neg Both Photos Late Yes Eippert et al.84 HYA Both Neg Both Photos Late Yes Erk et al.168 HC Dec Neg Dist Photos Early Yes Goldin et al.66 HYA Dec Neg Reint Videos Early Yes Harenski et al.205 HYA Dec Neg Both Photos Early Yes Hayes et al.139 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Late Yes Herwig et al.206 HYA Dec Both Reint Anticipate photos Early Yes Hollmann et al.207 HYA Dec Pos (food) Reint Photos Early No Ichikawa et al.82 HYA Both Neg (errors) Reint Task errors Early∗ No Kanske et al.127 HYA Dec Both Both Photos Late Yes Kim et al.95 HYA Dec Both Reint Photos Early Inc pos only Kober et al.118 HYA smokers and non- smokers Dec Pos (food/cigs) Reint Photos Early Yes Koenigsburg et al.199 HYA Dec Neg Dist Photos Early Yes Krendl et al.208 HYA Dec Neg Unclear Photos Early Yes Kross et al.112 HYA Dec Neg Reint Memories Late No Lang et al.83 HC Both Neg Dist Scripts Early Inc only Levesque et al.209 HYA Dec Neg Dist Videos Early∗ No Mak et al.210 HYA Dec Both Unclear Photos Early∗ No McRae et al.211 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Early Yes McRae et al.61 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Early Yes McRae et al.180 Healthy aged 10–22 Dec Neg Reint Photos Early No McRae et al.15 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos of faces Early Yes Modinos et al.212 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Late Yes New et al.85 HC Both Neg Reint Photos Late Yes Ochsner et al.43 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Late Yes Ochsner et al.76 HYA Both Neg Both Photos Early Yes Ochnser et al.16 HYA Inc Neg Both Photos Early Yes Ohira et al.115 HYA Dec Both Unclear Photos Early∗ Yes Opitz et al.96 HYA and HOA Both Neg Reint Photos Late No Phan et al.114 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Early∗ Yes Pitskel et al.86 Healthy aged 7–17 Both Neg Reint Photos Early Yes Continued E8 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Table 1. Continued Design Stimulus Timing of Study Participants Goal Valence Tactic type reapp cue Amygdala Schardt et al.213 HYA Dec Neg Dist Photos Early Yes Schulze et al.87 HC Both Neg Both Photos Late No Staudinger et al.214 HYA Dec Pos Dist Reward Early∗ No Staudinger et al.215 HYA Dec Pos Dist Anticipate reward Early∗ No Urry et al.94 HOA Both Neg Reint Photos Late Inc only Urry et al.216 HOA Both Neg Reint Photos Late Yes van Reekum et al.88 HOA Both Neg Reint Photos Late Dec only Vrticka et al.217 HYA Dec Both Reint Photos Early∗ Yes Wager et al.117 HYA Dec Neg Reint Photos Early Yes Walter et al.218 HYA Dec Neg Dist Photos Early Yes Winecoff et al.195 HYA and HOA Dec Both Dist Photos Late Yes a Studies are ordered first by year and second by alphabetical order. Only studies that reported contrasts (i.e., not only functional connectivity or correlational analyses) for psychologically healthy individuals are included here. If a study included a patient sample but still reported results for its healthy adult controls separately, it was included. HYA, healthy young adults, typically 18–30 yrs old; HOA, healthy older adult, typically aged 60 years or older; HC, healthy adult control participants matched to patients; For design, Goal, goal pursued by participants to increase or decrease emotional responses; Valence, Positive or negatively valenced emotional stimuli; Tactic, type of reappraisal used, distancing or reinterpreting; Stim Type, stimulus type; Timing of reapp cue, timing of instruction cue to reappraise relative to onset of stimulus, where early is just before simulus onset and late is a few seconds after stimulus onset; Amygdala, whether modulation of amygdala was reported. Note: All studies used event-related designs (different types of trials are presented in a randomized fashion so as to estimate responses on a trial-by-trial basis) except the nine studies designated by ∗ in the “Timing of reapp cue” column, which indicates that they used a block design (trials are “blocked” by type, such that many of one type appear consecutively). Also, for the stimulus-type column, photo stimuli were drawn from the international affective picture system111 unless otherwise specified. Goal: Dec, decrease; Inc, increase; Both, both increase and decrease conditions were used; Valence: Neg, negative; Pos, positive; Both, both positive and negative stimuli were used; Strategy: Both, both distancing and reinterpreting were used (this only applies to Ref. 76), or participants were given the choice of distancing or reappraising; Dist, become more or less psychologically distant; Reint, cognitively reinterpret; Unclear, unclear as to what tactic was instructed. decrease goals reliably modulate the amygdala’s ventral (corresponding to the basal and lateral amygdala nuclei) and dorsal portions (correspond- ing to the central nucleus) as well as the sublentic- ular extended amygdala (SLEA30,91,92) that lies be- tween the amygdala and the striatum. On the other hand, increase goals may modulate only the dorsal amygdala/SLEA. One speculative interpretation of these data is that decrease goals influence percep- tual and semantic inputs to the amygdala, which come through the basolateral complex, whereas in- crease goals influence the outputs of the amygdala, which flow from the central nucleus.43,76 This hy- pothesis would fit with anatomical data showing that the basolateral complex has reciprocal con- nections with ventrolateral PFC as well as tempo- ral and parietal regions implicated in visuospatial and semantic representation, whereas the central nucleus receives inputs from medial prefrontal re- gions and sends outputs to autonomic centers that implement various components of an emotional response.93 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E9 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. The major caveat for all of these conclusions, however, is that very few studies have examined increase goals, and as a consequence, conclusions about the goal specificity of reappraisal-related acti- vations must be considered tentative. That being said, the first study to directly compare increase and decrease goals within subjects obtained ex- actly the results described previously76—both in- creasing and decreasing negative affect recruited left vlPFC and dlPFC and modulated the dorsal amyg- dala/SLEA (increasing affect increased amygdala ac- tivity, whereas decreasing negative affect decreased activity), yet it was also revealed that increasing neg- ative affect recruited the dmPFC to a greater degree than did decreasing negative affect and decreasing negative affect recruited right vlPFC and modulated ventral amygdala to a greater extent than did increas- ing negative affect. At least two-thirds of subsequent studies comparing these goals have obtained results that are generally consistent with them76,84,87,94–96 (other findings also have been reported, includ- ing increase versus decrease differences only in the amygdala,81 striatal modulation,76,88,94 and greater right PFC activation for increasing than decreas- ing84). Tactic specificity In the military, a distinction is commonly made be- tween strategy and tactics. Strategy is the overall means by which a goal (e.g., win the war) is to be achieved (e.g., divide and conquer). Tactics are the specific ways in which strategies are implemented in a given circumstance (e.g., a quick infantry advance, an airstrike, etc.). In the same way, one can distin- guish between reappraisal as a strategy that involves changing the meaning of a stimulus and the tactics used to implement that strategy.97 Two different reappraisal tactics have been stud- ied with imaging.9,76 The first can be called reinter- pretation, which involves changing one’s interpre- tation of the elements of the situation or stimulus that elicits emotion. For example, if one is presented with a photo of a sick man in the hospital that elic- its feelings of sadness, one might reinterpret this image in a way that decreases emotion by think- ing about the man’s hearty constitution and that he will be healthy and well in the future. To increase emotion, one might instead think about how the man is in a great deal of pain and may, in fact, get worse and even perish. The second can be called distancing , which involves changing one’s personal connection to, or psychological distance from, the stimulus that elicits emotion. In the example of the photo of the sick man, one might decrease emotion by viewing the image from the detached perspec- tive of an objective, third person observer and/or imagining that the pictured event took place a long time ago or in a faraway location. One might in- crease emotion by instead imagining that one is ex- periencing pictured events in the present moment, from a first-person perspective, which enables you to smell, hear, and directly observe what is taking place. As Table 1 shows, about twice as many studies have examined reinterpretation as have examined distancing, with a few allowing participants to en- gage in either tactic, and only a single study directly comparing them.76 Figure 3B plots peak activation foci for reappraisal studies of healthy individuals as a function of reinterpretation versus distancing tactics. This figure illustrates three conclusions that can be drawn about reappraisal tactics. First, reinterpre- tation seems to differentially call upon ventral lateral prefrontal regions implicated in response selection and inhibition.73,98,99 Presumably, this reflects the fact that reinterpretation requires that one must look up and select alternative meanings for stim- uli from semantic memory to a greater extent than does distancing. Second, distancing seems to recruit parietal regions implicated in spatial attention and representation to a greater extent, including per- spective taking and the sense of agency.100–103 This may reflect the fact that distancing involves chang- ing the conceptual and spatiotemporal perspective from which stimuli are experienced. Third, in gen- eral, the regions involved in reinterpretation appear to be more strongly left lateralized in prefrontal and temporal cortices, whereas regions involved in dis- tancing appear to be more strongly right lateral- ized in prefrontal cortex. These patterns may reflect the differential dependence of reinterpretation and distancing on linguistic and semantic processes as opposed to spatial and attentional processes, which generally show a left versus right hemisphere pattern of relative specialization.76,104 Here again, however, because comparatively fewer studies have examined distancing, firm conclusions concerning the tactic specificity of reappraisal-related activations await further E10 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation research that directly test the conclusions drawn previously. Valence specificity On average, the impact of negative emotional ex- periences seems to be greater than the impact of positive emotional experiences, both in the short and long term.105 Indeed, problems with regulat- ing negative emotion are more often a hallmark of clinical disorders than are problems with regulating positive emotion.106 As such, it is not surprising that Table 1 shows that the number of reappraisal studies examining negative emotion outnumber those ex- amining positive emotion more than three to one. That said, two conclusions can be drawn from examining Figure 3C, which plots peak activation foci for reappraisal studies of healthy individuals as a function of the negative versus positive va- lence of stimuli (and the emotions they presumably elicit). First, whereas reappraisal of both negative and positive stimuli depends upon left-hemisphere regions, reappraising negative stimuli depends on right hemisphere regions as well. These findings might reflect the fact that, to date, the majority of studies of negative emotion involve decrease goals. As noted earlier, decrease goals may require more cognitive resources than increase goals, including placing greater demands on selection/inhibitory functions associated with right vlPFC.107–109 An alternative explanation is that positive and neg- ative emotions generally involve approach versus avoidance motivations, which have been associ- ated with the left versus right prefrontal cortex. This interpretation seems less likely, however, given that this motivation-related prefrontal asymmetry is commonly observed in EEG110 but not in fMRI studies.19 Second, it’s apparent that reappraising negative stimuli typically modulates activity in the amygdala and less commonly activity in the striatum. By con- trast, the handful of studies examining reappraisal of positive stimuli more commonly show modulation of the striatum, including the ventral portions asso- ciated with reward and reinforcement learning.33,34 These conclusions are again tentative, however, because so few studies have examined reappraisal of positive stimuli and, in general, studies of reap- praisal have focused overwhelmingly on decrease rather than increase goals. As a consequence, it is not yet clear whether the patterns noted previously are attributable to the pursuit of decrease versus increase goals, the use of negative versus positive stimuli, or both. Stimulus specificity To date, 33 out of the 43 reappraisal studies shown in Table 1 have used photographic stimuli pulled from the International Affective Picture System (IAPS). These stimuli have been shown to reliably elicit ex- periential, physiological, and facial expressive com- ponents of an emotional response in a valence- specific manner.111 As such, they provide a straight- forward means of eliciting affective reactions in the scanner environment. That said, the emotions elicited by such stim- uli may or may not generalize to other contexts. For example, IAPS photos are selected so as to be normatively positive or negative.111 Although this is suitable for many experimental agendas, other stimuli may be appropriate if one wants to exam- ine the ability to reappraise specific emotions, the emotions elicited by idiosyncratically self-relevant autobiographical experiences,112,113 and so on. With these considerations in mind, small num- bers of studies have examined the ability to reap- praise the specific emotions elicited by sad, sex- ual, or disgusting videos, scripts that elicit partic- ular emotions, the recollection of autobiographical memories, anticipation of reward or shock, or the commission of an error (see Table 1). Because so few studies have used each of these stimuli, it is not use- ful at present to plot activation foci for them or to attempt to draw conclusions about how they might differ as a function of stimulus type. It remains for future research to directly address the question of how the nature of the stimulus per se, as opposed to the kind of emotion elicited, influences the neural systems involved in reappraisal. Pathways linking control and affect systems Studies of reappraisal—and more generally studies of any form of emotion regulation—implicitly or explicitly assume that prefrontal regions modulate emotional responses via their impact on affect sys- tems like the amygdala and ventral striatum. Given the prevalence of this assumption, it is somewhat surprising that it has seldom been put to a direct test. To be sure, a number of studies have shown correlations between prefrontal and amygdala Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E11 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. Figure 4. Two kinds of mediation pathways involved in reappraisal. (A) and (B) show pathways identified in two studies of the downregulation of negative emotion whereby dorsomedial or ventrolateral prefrontal regions diminish amygdala responses via their impact on ventromedial prefrontal cortex. These studies did not report weights for the mediation paths between regions or test for full versus partial mediation. (C) and (D) show pathways identified in two studies of the downregulation of negative or positive emotion whereby ventrolateral or dorsolateral prefrontal regions diminish self-reports of negative affect or craving via their impact on the amygdala or ventral striatum, respectively. activity76,95,114 or correlations between some mea- sure of emotional response (typically self-report) and either prefrontal76,114,115 or amygdala activ- ity.76,94,116 Only four studies, however, have directly tested the mediation model implied by the hypoth- esis that control systems influence emotional re- sponse by influencing activity in affect systems (see Fig. 4). The first two studies to use mediation exam- ined the use of reappraisal to diminish responses to negative photos.94,116 Although both studies used amygdala reactivity as their measure of emotional response, neither reported a main effect of reap- praisal on diminishing amygdala activity. Motivated by known connections between the amygdala and vmPFC, both studies looked for and found that individual differences in amygdala response were correlated inversely with responses of vmPFC. Me- diation analyses showed that vmPFC mediated a relationship between either left dmPFC94 or left vlPFC116 and the amygdala (Fig. 4A and B) such that activity in these prefrontal regions was posi- tively related with vmPFC activity, which, in turn, was negatively related to amygdala responses. There are, however, at least two qualifiers in interpret- ing these results. First, the study94 identifying the left dmPFC region did so in an increase > attend (i.e., a no regulation baseline) > decrease contrast, meaning that it generally is less active when de- creasing negative emotion than when responding naturally in a baseline “attend” condition. This sug- gests that to the extent one shows less deactiva- tion when decreasing (relative to baseline), one will show greater activity in vmPFC, and, in turn, less amygdala response. It is not immediately clear how to interpret the reduced degree of dmPFC deacti- vation in this context. Second, the study116 iden- tifying the vlPFC→vmPFC→amygdala pathway E12 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation collapsed across activity in both amygdalae that was extracted from structural ROIs. As such, it is not clear whether the prefrontal effects were stronger for one amygdala or the other. That said, when taken together, these two studies suggest that effec- tive reappraisal involves PFC→vmPFC→amygdala pathways. The second two studies used similar analytic ap- proaches to study either the use of reappraisal to diminish responses to negative photos117 or for smokers, the use of reappraisal to diminish crav- ing elicited by photographs of appetitive foods or cigarettes.118 The study of negative emotion117 showed that right vlPFC activity predicted drops in self-reported negative emotion, and that this relationship was independently mediated by sep- arate pathways through the amygdala and the ven- tral striatum (Fig. 4C). These two pathways were taken to reflect the use of reappraisal to mini- mize negative appraisals and enhance positive reap- praisals, respectively (see also Table S1 from that paper, which shows left vlPFC involvement as well). The study of craving118 showed that left dlPFC activity predicted drops in self-reported craving via modulation of activity in the ventral stria- tum (Fig. 4D). Together, these two studies suggest that effective reappraisal involves a pathway linking PFC→subcortex→emotion change, with the spe- cific elements of the pathway depending on the na- ture of the stimulus and emotion involved. Why are there differences between the results of these pairs of studies? On one hand, because differ- ent dependent measures of emotional response were used (amygdala response vs. self-reported emotion), it’s possible that different reappraisal pathways will emerge depending on the type of response. On the other hand, it’s also possible that differences in methodology may lead participants to reappraise differently, and, in turn, recruit different pathways for effective emotion regulation. Here, two differ- ences between the pairs of studies may be relevant. In the first pair of studies that identified the vmPFC-mediated pathway, both had participants that were up to 40 years older than the average par- ticipants in studies of reappraisal in young adults— aged 62–64 in one case94 and 19–53 (average 33 years) years in the other.116 Participants in the sec- ond pair of studies were younger, as is the norm, av- eraging 22.3117 and 26.8118 years, respectively. Given findings that older adults may be impaired in some kinds of reappraisal; the lateral PFC thins, whereas vmPFC thickens with age;119 and that even when not told to regulate, older adults can show greater connectivity between vmPFC and amygdala,120 it is possible that the vmPFC plays a larger role in reap- praisal for older compared with younger adults. Second, the first pair of studies cued participants to reappraise approximately 4 seconds into an ap- proximate 10-second presentation of an aversive photo (a late cue), whereas the second pair presented the cue to reappraise just before onset of aversive photos (an early cue). The early cue method is in- tended to provide participants with an opportunity to first have a naturalistic emotional response to an aversive photo before they begin to regulate and has been used in 14 studies (see Table 1). The late cue method models real-world situations where the goal to reappraise comes online just as one encounters an emotionally evocative stimulus and has been used in 29 studies (see Table 1). Although the early cue method is analogous to real-world situations where the goal to regulate comes online only after one already is having an emotional response, there is a potential problem with trying to model this in the lab. During the ini- tial free viewing of an aversive photo, participants may try out a few reappraisals just in case they are asked to subsequently reappraise on that trial. If this were the case, then we might expect one or both of two kinds of results. One possibility is that the ability to detect an effect of reappraisal on amygdala responses would be diminished for late cue studies, either because the amygdala responded early and then habituated, or because once participants were asked to reap- praise, the amygdala’s response could have already decreased because the participants had begun gen- erating/practicing potential reappraisals before the explicit instruction cue appeared. Although neither of the mediation studies in question showed whole- brain amygdala effects, and only one showed ef- fects using ROIs, weak effects of reappraisal on the amygdala are probably related to other factors (like age—see above) given that roughly the same ratio (roughly 2/3 to 3/4) of studies using the late and early cue methods show reappraisal-related amyg- dala modulation, especially for studies using photos (see Table 1). A second possibility is that the late versus early timing of reappraisal cues changes the nature of Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E13 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. one’s reappraisals, even if, on average, they have similar effects on amygdala responding. For exam- ple, in late cues studies, if participants have had a chance to view stimuli for a few seconds and to think about potential reappraisals before being explicitly told to reappraise, then vmPFC recruitment could reflect decision processes about which of a set of prepared reappraisals they prefer and can best use for the stimulus at hand (see also section on decision making below). To date, no imaging studies have com- pared late and early cues. But one behavioral/ psychophyiological study comparing these cues found that the effects of increase goals on some physiological measures are greater for late than early cues, but that the effects of decrease goals were similar for each cue type. Future work could fruit- fully illuminate these issues. All this said, it is of course possible that both kinds of pathways are important and that a multistep vlPFC→vmPFC→amydala/striatum→emotion response pathway may be observed in future studies. To date, however, no published studies have expressly tested for the existence of this complex pathway underlying reappraisal success. The role of perceptual and semantic systems A related issue is whether and how reappraisal in- volves modulation not just of systems involved in affective appraisal and response, but of systems involved in representing the perceptual and se- mantic properties of stimuli as well. As shown in Figure 3, activation of a number of these systems is often seen during reappraisal, including regions along the middle and superior temporal sulci in- volved in representing the visual properties of stim- uli, including nonverbal social cues to emotion like movements of lips and eyes;121–123 temporal polar regions implicated in representing episodic and se- mantic emotion knowledge;124 and regions near the temporal–parietal junction involved in representa- tions of beliefs, including “false” beliefs of the sort one generates when considering alternative reap- praisals of stimuli.125,126 These data raise at least three questions. First, there is the question of when activation of these regions will be seen. Certainly, cognitive change strategies like reappraisal may involve these regions, given that it involves an active reworking of the meaning of a stimulus. Other strategies that do not focus on meaning may not involve these regions, however. Consistent with this, two studies directly comparing reappraisal and distraction found that reappraisal differentially recruited all three of the temporal regions listed above.61,127 Along these lines, it is also likely that these regions will be more involved in regulating responses to visual stimuli given the role of the temporal lobe in the “ventral visual stream” for representing information about object identity128–130 (although this remains to be tested directly). As noted previously, there is not yet enough work using different kinds of stimuli to say whether reappraisal of stimuli in nonvisual modal- ities (e.g., somatosensory or auditory) may involve modulation of corresponding modality-specific re- gions (e.g., somatosensory of auditory cortices). Second, if these regions are more active during reappraisal, there is the question as to why this is the case. Does greater activity here reflect increased attention to perceptual and semantic aspects of stimuli? Access to/retrieval of alternative “views” of reappraised stimuli? The process of actively restruc- turing one’s (visual) mental image of a stimulus? All three interpretations are possible and could be tested in future work. Third, there is the question of whether these temporal regions play a part in the regulation pathways described earlier—playing an interme- diary role, for example—between prefrontal con- trol systems and affective appraisal systems. This possibility was raised in early reappraisal studies (e.g., Ref. 43) where it was suggested that even though dorsolateral PFC regions do not have direct connections to subcortical regions like the amyg- dala, they may nevertheless modulate them via their impact on perceptual/semantic systems. In line with this view, PFC could change one’s men- tal representation of a stimulus’s meaning from the top down, and that representation of the reap- praised stimulus would feed forward to the amyg- dala (and other structures that trigger affective re- sponses). Because the amygdala now “sees” the reappraised stimulus, its response changes. Al- though plausible, this hypothesis has yet to be directly tested. Summary Extant data from functional imaging studies of reappraisal strongly support the MCCE depicted in E14 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Figure 2B. Although many questions remain to be addressed about how specific control systems mod- ulate specific affect systems as a function of reap- praisal goals and tactics or various aspects of stimuli and the emotions they elicit, a core control–affect system dynamic is now well established. Generalizability to other forms of regulation Given the robustness of the MCCE (Fig. 2) in accounting for reappraisal, the question naturally arises as to whether this model can be generalized to account for other types of emotion regulation strategies. As noted previously, the majority of functional imaging studies of emotion regulation have focused on reappraisal. That said, the other four main classes of emotion regulation strategies diagrammed in Fig- ure 2A have been targeted by imaging studies to varying degrees. Here, we consider each in turn. Situation selection and modification The two situation-focused strategies, situation se- lection and situation modification, have received lit- tle attention thus far in human imaging research. As noted earlier, this is at least partially attributable to the difficulty of devising appropriate lab paradigms for studying them. The lone human imaging study of situation selection builds on the rodent literature on avoidance conditioning. In a typical task, a rat learns to perform an action that allows it to avoid presentation of an aversive stimulus (e.g., Refs. 131 and 132). In a human analogue of this procedure, Delgado et al. found that avoidance conditioning ac- tivates vlPFC and dlPFC control systems and mod- ulates the amygdala.133 These findings provide an initial suggestion that situation selection may call systems that maintain regulatory goals and select context-appropriate avoidance responses. Attentional deployment By contrast, studies of attentional deployment have been relatively common, second in number only to studies of reappraisal. One set of these studies has examined the use of selective attention to shift visual spatial attention away from an affectively valenced stimulus or stimulus attribute and toward a neutral one. Another set of these studies has examined the use of distraction to shift the focus of attention in- ward onto some internally maintained mental rep- resentation (e.g., a relevant working memory load, self generated stimulus-irrelevant thoughts, a pleas- ant mental image, and so on). As has been reviewed in detail elsewhere,10,134 interpreting the findings of both of these kinds of studies is clouded by three issues. First, almost all of the studies of selective at- tention, and many studies of distraction, use stimuli that do not elicit strong emotional responses, such as facial expressions of emotion. As such, these studies are concerned with the regulation of evaluative judg- ment or perception rather than affective respond- ing, per se. Second, when highly arousing and affect- inducing stimuli are employed, they most often are stimuli that cause physical pain. Although responses to painful stimuli have a strong negatively valenced affective component, this component may itself have a distinct neural signature because of its recruitment of dedicated pain-specific neural pathways.135,136 As such, it is an empirical question whether the regu- lation of pain is similar to or different from the regulation of negative affective responses more gen- erally. Third, these studies are highly heterogenous, often employing very different stimuli and meth- ods of controlling the focus and level of attention, without a clear metric for assessing the extent to which attention has or has not been paid to a given affective stimulus. Given these limitations, we refer the reader to other reviews of this literature,137,138 although noting that they are generally consistent with the model depicted in Figure 2B, insofar as activation of prefrontal systems and modulation of affect systems (like the amygdala) is often (but not always) reported. Response modulation. Finally, both behavioral and imaging studies of response modulation have fo- cused on expressive suppression, which is the ability to hide behavioral manifestations of emotion.60 The two imaging studies of expressive suppression asked participants to suppress facial expressions of disgust elicited by a film clip.66,139 Both found that expres- sive suppression not only activated dorsolateral and ventrolateral PFC regions associated with maintain- ing goals, response selection, and inhibition,72,73,77 but also it increased activation of the insula, which is involved in triggering affective responses. Amyg- dala findings were more mixed, however, with one study reporting increases66 and one decreases139 in activity during suppression. Increases in in- sula and amygdala fit with psychophysiological studies, demonstrating that expressive suppression Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E15 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. boosts the autonomic component of emotional responding.60 In total, the available literature on emotion reg- ulation strategies other than reappraisal is in some cases limited and in other cases somewhat confus- ing, but in general supports the idea that all emotion regulation strategies involve interactions between cognitive control and affect regions. Future neuro- maging research must apply the same rigorous and thorough approach to these other strategies that has already been applied to reappraisal. Generalizability to other related phenomena Given the robustness of the MCCE (Fig. 2B) in ac- counting for multiple forms of regulation, a nat- ural next question is whether it can be generally applied to other allied phenomena, such as af- fective/emotional learning, decision making, and expectancies. These phenomena are typically considered in separate literatures, but seem to involve related cognitive–affective dynamics. Although space limitations prohibit an in-depth dis- cussion, here, we briefly examine the broad applica- bility of the model in each of these three cases. Affective/emotional learning. At the outset of this paper we made a distinction between goal-directed forms of emotion regulation, which are the focus of this review, and other behaviors that may have regulatory effects on emotion despite lacking a spe- cific goal to do so. There are a number of forms of affective or emotional learning that fit the lat- ter description. One of the most common exam- ples is extinction of a conditioned fear response. In the traditional fear conditioning paradigm,140 an animal learns that an ostensibly neutral stim- ulus, such as a light (known as the conditioned stimulus or CS), predicts the occurrence of an in- trinsically aversive stimulus, such as electric shock (known as the unconditioned stimulus or UCS). Over time, the repeated pairing of the light and shock lead the animal to respond to the light itself with an anticipatory fear response. Elegant animal studies have shown that fear conditioning depends on communication between input and output nu- clei of the amygdala.140,141 Fear extinction involves the repeated presentation of the CS in the absence of the UCS.142 Over time, the organism learns that the CS no longer predicts shock, ceases to have its anticipatory fear response, and fear is said to be ex- tinguished. Importantly, extinction is known to in- volve the laying down of a new context-dependent memory.143 In the current temporal context, the CS does not predict shock, whereas in the past temporal context it did. Rodent lesion studies have shown that whereas the initial acquisition of extinction requires only the amygdala, the ability to retain and express memory for extinction depends on vmPFC.142 In keeping with this finding, studies in humans have shown that both the magnitude of vmPFC activation and vmPFC thickness predict the speed of extinc- tion.144–146 In the present model, phenomena like extinction (or stimulus–reward reversal learning, which also depends upon vmPFC147,148), are somewhat hybrid phenomena. On the one hand, they can be viewed as an example of emotion generation, insofar as one is learning to express a new emotional response to a given stimulus. On the other hand, they can be viewed as an implicit form of emotion regulation where one does not have an explicit goal to regulate, but the behaviors in which one engages directly, alter the nature of one’s emotional response. Beyond this, there are a number of ways in which prefrontal control systems may have a regulatory impact on affective learning. For example, as noted earlier, in some cases reappraisal may involve in- teractions between PFC, vmPFC, and the amyg- dala, when reappraisal paradigms give participants a chance to respond emotionally and potentially plan reappraisals before deciding whether to implement them. Interactions of this sort also have been ob- served in studies that use distraction to regulate a conditioned response.149,150 In these studies, one is initially conditioned to expect either a painful shock or reward UCS following a visual CS (e.g., a yellow triangle). Later, one regulates the conditioned re- sponse to the CS by thinking about a calm and neu- tral scene unrelated to either the CS or the UCS. In both cases, effective regulation involves activation of left dlPFC and modulation of both the amygdala and/or ventral striatum and the vmPFC. Affective decision making. Affective decision mak- ing involves choosing among several stimuli that one may purchase, consume, or own. In some cases, these choices are a simple matter of selecting the option that has the greatest value. Imaging re- search suggests that activation in systems thought to E16 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation represent affect and value like the ventral striatum, insula, and vmPFC is sufficient to support and even predict such choices.151,152 But in other cases, the choice options may be of similar value, or the rea- sons for valuing them may conflict with one another. In the model, such cases may draw on the control systems shown in Figure 2B to modulate the values associated with choice options, essentially guiding a top–down revaluation of them to facilitate choice. Perhaps the simplest example of this is where the act of choice itself arouses conflict as one decides which features of choice options they can’t live with- out and which features of choice options they must forgo. Classically, this decision conflict is thought to arouse cognitive dissonance, which the act of choos- ing reduces by placing a higher value on chosen and a lesser value on unchosen stimuli.153 Imaging studies show that these choice-induced changes in value involve control systems like the anterior cingu- late cortex, which may signal the presence of choice conflict and motivate value change, and systems like the ventral striatum, which may represent the reval- ued stimuli.153–156 Another type of choice that commonly requires the use of control occurs when an individual must decide between options that fit short-term versus long-term goals. This is the dilemma faced by a dieter who must decide whether to eat a cupcake or an apple. Consuming the cupcake satisfies the short-term goal of hedonic pleasure, whereas eat- ing the apple satisfies the long-term goal of liv- ing a healthy lifestyle. A recent imaging study47 of this choice dilemma showed that food choices reflecting a greater valuation of long-term health over short-term tastiness involve the modulation of vmPFC by dlPFC. This is consistent with the idea that the cognitive control of choice involves interac- tions between systems for maintaining choice goals (e.g., dlPFC) and systems representing the value of choices with respect to those goals (e.g., vmPFC). This same logic applies to studies of intertem- poral choice and delay of gratification,157 where imaging158,159 and transcranial magnetic stimula- tion (TMS)160 studies suggest that lateral PFC con- trol systems can be used to effortfully represent the value of a larger delayed reward and guide selec- tion of it over a smaller but immediately available reward. More generally, the model can be applied to other choices where control is needed to modulate the af- fective valuations placed on choice options, ranging from risky decision making161 to interpersonal con- texts in which one must decide whether to be fair toward or punish others.162,163 Affective expectancies. In parallel to the growth and development of imaging research on emotion regulation, there has been a tremendous surge of interest in the brain mechanisms underlying the in- fluence of expectancies on behavior.164 In imaging, expectancies have been studied either by cueing par- ticipants that an upcoming stimulus will have par- ticular properties (e.g., that it will or will not be painful, will be a neutral or aversive image, and so on) or by inducing beliefs about the effects of a placebo drug on their experience (e.g., that an anal- gesic cream will reduce pain). In the model, these phenomena all involve the use of prefrontal control systems to set and maintain an expectation, which, in turn, influences the responses of affect generating systems. For example, imaging studies show that expectancies and placebo beliefs about pain activate lateral prefrontal/parietal con- trol systems and/or medial prefrontal systems164–167 that may maintain expectations about upcoming events. In turn, these systems may influence the way one attends to and appraises the meaning of expected stimuli, thereby increasing or decreasing activity in affect systems to be consistent with the nature of one’s expectations. Summary and future directions for basic and translational research The overarching goal of this paper has been to re- view and synthesize current functional imaging re- search on emotion regulation. Toward that end, we outlined a basic model of the processes and neural systems involved in emotion generation and emo- tion regulation and surveyed various domains of research that support it. At its core, the MCCE spec- ifies how prefrontal and cingulate control systems modulate activity in affect systems as a function of one’s regulatory goal, tactics, and the nature of the stimuli and emotions being regulated. Although the model was built primarily from studies of one type of cognitive change strategy known as reappraisal, it is generally applicable to understanding the brain mechanisms underlying the other emotion regula- tion strategies depicted in Figure 2A as well as a range of other allied phenomena. Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. E17 Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation Ochsner et al. That said, there is much work yet to be done. At various points during the review we’ve highlighted the limitations of current knowledge and the short- comings of current methodologies. Future work is needed to clarify the mechanisms underlying all of the emotion regulation strategies discussed here as well as the roles the brain systems supporting emo- tion regulation (Fig. 2B) play in affective learning, affective decision making, and affective expectan- cies. Progress is essential to refine our understand- ing of the distinctions made here, but also to address new questions about how emotion regulation mech- anisms operate. For example, although it is certainly important that regulation strategies have immediate effects on emotional responses, it is also important that their effects be long lasting. Indeed, whether regulatory effects last is critical both in everyday and clinical contexts in which one could repeatedly reen- counter an emotionally evocative stimulus (e.g., the risk of running into a girlfriend who dumped you because you work for the same company). To date, this issue has been addressed only twice—once in an fMRI study168 reporting that the effects of reap- praisal on diminishing amygdala responses may en- dure for up to 40 minutes in healthy adults, but not those with major depression, and once in an ERP study169 showing that the effects of reappraisal on arousal-related responses endure for up to 30 min- utes. Clearly, more work is needed here. In so doing, it will be important for this work to increasingly make use of techniques other than functional imaging (e.g., ERP,169–177 TMS,160,178 and lesion methodologies179), as well as to in- tegrate insights gained from human studies with the large body of literature on affective and reg- ulatory phenomena in nonhuman primates and rodents.39,142,144 Progress on all of these fronts is absolutely critical if we are to develop a model of interactions between control and affect systems that can make sense not just of emotion regulatory phe- nomena, but of all the other types of phenomena that recruit these systems as well. Another important direction for future research is the translation of basic research of emotion regu- lation to understanding the full range of normal to abnormal differences in emotional responding and regulatory ability. This is critical both for under- standing the mechanisms underlying this variabil- ity and for testing the boundaries of basic models of emotion regulatory mechanisms. One domain in which this will prove important is understanding how and why our emotional lives evolve as we grow from childhood through adoles- cence into adulthood and old age. On one hand, there is growing evidence that childhood and ado- lescence are critical times for the development of the emotion regulatory abilities needed to adap- tively regulate affective impulses and the deleterious health behaviors (e.g., obesity, substance use) they can promote. A small but growing number of studies have begun to address this issue by asking how the neural mechanisms of reappraisal and emotional re- activity develop from adolescence into young adult- hood. Some early results suggest that reappraisal ability increases linearly with age, whereas emo- tional reactivity remains relatively constant180,181 (but see Ref. 182). On the other hand, although physical health and cognitive abilities tend to decline with age,183–185 older adults report more emotional stability and a greater ratio of positive to negative experiences in their daily life, with the extent of pos- itive emotion predicting longevity.186–188 Although many have hypothesized that this “rosy glow” of old age is due in part to more effective emotion regula- tion, to date there is little evidence directly testing this idea.187,189,190 One conundrum to resolve here will be the apparent dependence of emotion regula- tion on the same kinds of prefrontal control systems that decline with age. This raises the question of how regulatory abilities improve as the underlying neural machinery declines.191,192 Early results suggest that it may depend on the strategies older adults deploy, with spared or greater regulatory ability shown for strategies and tactics that fit with long-term goals and have become habitual.9,96,190,193–196 A second important goal for translational re- search will be to understand how potential dysfunc- tion in the mechanisms of emotion generation and regulation may underlie various forms of psychi- atric and substance use disorders (for a more in depth discussion, please see Ref. 197). This trans- lational direction is being pursued in studies of reappraisal across various disorders, ranging from depression116,168,198 to borderline personality disor- der,83,87,199 social anxiety disorder,200,201 phobia,202 posttraumatic stress disorder,83,85 cocaine users,203 and smokers.118 These studies can be useful in two ways. First, they may show disorder-specific patterns of altered function in control and affect systems. For example, current data suggest that depressed E18 Ann. N.Y. Acad. Sci. 1251 (2012) E1–E24 c© 2012 New York Academy of Sciences. Ochsner et al. Functional imaging studies of emotion regulation individuals may show impaired recruitment of vlPFC during reappraisal,116 suggestive of an im- pairment of top–down control, whereas border- line individuals may show heightened amygdala responses coupled with diminished cingulate re- sponses, suggestive of a failure to monitor para- doxical increases in affective responding when at- tempting to decrease emotion.199 Second, imaging methods for studying emotion regulation may be used before and after treatment regimes as pre- dictors of and markers of improvement. Although such studies are only beginning to emerge, they hold great promise for understanding why some individ- uals improve and whether different treatments (e.g., drugs versus cognitive behavioral therapy) have dif- ferent mechanisms of action. In the long run, the hope is that integrating ba- sic and translational perspectives will help specify which individuals are at greatest risk for maladap- tive health behaviors and emotional outcomes, at what ages this risk is greatest, and which regulatory mechanisms could be targeted in future interven- tions during particular points in the life course. Al- though realization of this dream is still a long way away, current research provides a strong foundation for getting there. Acknowledgments Preparation of this paper was supported by NIH Grants AG039279, MH076137, and DA022541 awarded to Kevin N. Ochsner, as well as fellowship F31MH094056 awarded to Jennifer A. Silvers. Conflicts of interest The authors declare no conflicts of interest. 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work_nd77sp2h6bgitf5ek5wfdnlmmq	----	Modeling multiple time scales in streamer discharges Citation for published version (APA): Markosyan, A. H. (2014). Modeling multiple time scales in streamer discharges. Technische Universiteit Eindhoven. https://doi.org/10.6100/IR774469 DOI: 10.6100/IR774469 Document status and date: Published: 01/01/2014 Document Version: Publisher’s PDF, also known as Version of Record (includes final page, issue and volume numbers) Please check the document version of this publication: • A submitted manuscript is the version of the article upon submission and before peer-review. There can be important differences between the submitted version and the official published version of record. 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If the publication is distributed under the terms of Article 25fa of the Dutch Copyright Act, indicated by the “Taverne” license above, please follow below link for the End User Agreement: www.tue.nl/taverne Take down policy If you believe that this document breaches copyright please contact us at: openaccess@tue.nl providing details and we will investigate your claim. Download date: 06. Apr. 2021 https://doi.org/10.6100/IR774469 https://doi.org/10.6100/IR774469 https://research.tue.nl/en/publications/modeling-multiple-time-scales-in-streamer-discharges(95a7aa5b-6bc5-4318-9516-e941dfb8fbc4).html Modeling multiple time scales in streamer discharges Modeling multiple time scales in streamer discharges PROEFSCHRIFT ter verkrijging van de graad van doctor aan de Technische Universiteit Eindhoven, op gezag van de rector magnificus prof.dr.ir. C.J. van Duijn, voor een commissie aangewezen door het College voor Promoties, in het openbaar te verdedigen op maandag 19 mei 2014 om 16.00 uur door Aram Markosyan geboren te Jerevan, Armenië Dit proefschrift is is goedgekeurd door de promotoren en de samenstelling van de promotiecommissie is als volgt: voorzitter: prof.dr. H.J.H. Clercx promotor: prof.dr. U.M. Ebert copromotor: dr. S. Dujko leden: prof.dr. N.L. Aleksandrov (Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology) Prof.dr. R.P. Brinkmann (Ruhr-Universität Bochum) prof.dr. C.W. Oosterlee (Technische Universiteit Delft) prof.dr.ir. B. Koren prof.dr.ir. O.J. Luiten Dit onderzoek werd gesteund door project 10751 van Technologiestichting STW, dat deel uitmaakt van de Nederland Organisatie voor Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek (NWO). Het Centrum Wiskunde & Informatica (CWI) en STW hebben bijgedragen in de drukkosten van het proefschrift. Verder wil ik het CWI bedanken voor alle faciliteiten en ondersteuning. ISBN 978-94-6259-167-7 Copyright © 2014 by A.H. Markosyan All rights reserved. No part of the material protected by this copyright notice may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. Cover design: Gegham Sargsyan Typeset by the author with the LATEX Documentation System Printed in The Netherlands by: Ipskamp Drukkers Print Service d�������������y�������y���� H�������������������H�u����u���u������ Contents Main Content 1 Introduction 1 1.1 Streamers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1.2 Multiple time scales in and after streamer discharges . . . . . . . . 3 1.3 The content of the thesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2 Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 5 2.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 2.2 Derivation of first- and higher order fluid models . . . . . . . . . . 8 2.2.1 General considerations: Boltzmann equation and moment equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 2.2.2 The first-order or classical fluid model . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 2.2.3 Second order models including the energy balance equation 13 2.2.4 High order fluid model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 2.3 Transport and reaction data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 2.3.1 Evaluation of the transport data: Boltzmann equation ana- lysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 2.3.2 Cross sections and transport data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 2.3.3 Input data for the first order model . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 2.3.4 Input data for the high order model . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 2.4 First order streamer model with di↵erent transport data . . . . . . 26 2.4.1 Numerical methods, initial and boundary conditions. . . . . 26 2.4.2 Overview of simulation results with di↵erent transport data 27 2.4.3 Front velocities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 2.4.4 Ionization levels behind the front . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 2.5 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 3 Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer dis- charges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 33 iii 3.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 3.2 Model description and numerical solution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 3.2.1 The high order fluid model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 3.2.2 1D hyperbolic system of balance laws . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 3.2.3 Initial and boundary conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 3.3 MC particle model and first order fluid model . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 3.3.1 The MC particle model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 3.3.2 The first order fluid model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 3.4 Results and discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 3.4.1 Simulation of planar fronts: overall comparison between the models . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 3.4.2 Electron energy profiles in di↵erent front regions within the di↵erent models . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 3.4.3 On the use of transport data in the high order fluid model . 49 3.4.4 Simulation of planar fronts with and without the energy flux term . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 3.4.5 Simulation of planar fronts with and without the high order tensor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 3.5 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 4 Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC- PIC results 57 4.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 4.2 Fluid models for streamer discharges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 4.2.1 The first-order or classical model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 4.2.2 The second-order model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 4.2.3 The high-order model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 4.3 The MC particle model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 4.4 Transport parameters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 4.4.1 What to do when n e ! 0? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 4.5 Simulation conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 4.5.1 Boundary conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 4.5.2 Initial conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 4.5.3 Numerical method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 4.5.4 Time stepping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 4.6 Comparison results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 4.6.1 Basic comparison of planar fronts in Ne . . . . . . . . . . . 71 4.6.2 Comparison of average electron energies in di↵erent models 73 4.7 Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 4.8 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 5 Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 77 5.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 5.2 Experimental setup by S. Nijdam and E. Takahashi . . . . . . . . 79 5.3 General development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 5.3.1 Air . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 5.3.2 Pure nitrogen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 5.3.3 Pure argon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 5.4 Duration of streamer continuation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 5.4.1 Oxygen concentration e↵ects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 5.5 Modelling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 5.5.1 Model description . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 5.5.2 Modelling results on streamer continuation . . . . . . . . . 94 5.5.3 Other modelling results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 5.6 Summary and conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 5.6.1 Continuation of old paths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 5.6.2 Other phenomena . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 6 PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models 103 6.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 6.2 PumpKin algorithm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 6.3 Code description and general requirements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 6.3.1 Input and output . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 6.4 Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 6.4.1 Species of interest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 6.4.2 Dominant pathways or reduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 6.5 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 7 Conclusions and Outlook 113 7.1 High order fluid model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 7.2 Plasma chemistry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 References 117 Appendicies A Discretization of the high order fluid model 139 B PumpKin algorithm 141 B.1 Basic definitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 B.2 Description of the algorithm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 B.2.1 Initialization. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 B.2.2 Branching-points. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 B.2.3 Merging pathways. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 B.2.4 Deletion of insignificant pathways. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 B.2.5 Sub-pathways. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 C List of reactions used in chemical model 147 Summary 153 Acknowledgements 155 Curriculum Vitae 165 List of Publications 167 CHAPTER 1 Introduction In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it is the exact opposite. – Paul Dirac There are sadistic scientists who hurry to hunt down errors instead of establishing the truth. – Marie Curie 1.1 Streamers Streamers are rapidly growing ionized filaments appearing in gases, liquids and solids. The propagation is driven by their own space charge field. The dynamics of the streamers is mostly controlled by the high-field region ahead of the streamer head. In a rather thin layer around the head the net charge is high and positive or negative depending on the polarity of the streamer. In figure 1.1 we show various parts of the streamer structure. The high field ahead of the head, which can reach 4-7 times the breakdown field, creates additional ionization that moves the streamer forward. The channel of the streamer is an electrically neutral plasma, with ionization densities going up to 1014 cm�3 in air at standard temperature and pressure (293 K, 1 bar). In air streamers propagate very fast: with velocities in the range of 105 � 107 m/s, where 3 ⇥ 108 m/s is the speed of light in the vacuum. The concept of streamer discharges was introduced in the 1930’s by Raether [179]. The theory was further promoted by Meek [135], Loeb [117, 118, 119, 120] and Raether [116], though the exact form of the space charge distribution and 1 2 Figure 1.1: Simulation of positive streamer performed by [183] in air showing the various parts of the streamer structure. Full domain is shown in the left panel, panel a and b show electron and positive ion density respectively. Panel c shows the net charge density and marks the di↵erent parts of the streamer: H - streamer head, W - channel wall, I - streamer interior. Panel d shows the electric field strength (colour coded) and equipotential lines. the amount of field enhancement became clear only in the early 80’s with the first simulations [53]. Streamers occur widely in pulsed discharges, both in nature and in technology. As their size scales with inverse gas density, streamers occur in the limited volumes of plasma technological devices mostly at high gas densities, while our atmosphere also can host huge discharges at very low air densities at high altitudes; so-called sprite discharges [54, 64, 126] are streamers, they exist at altitudes of up to 90 km in our atmosphere, i.e. at pressures down to well below 10 µbar. For a cluster issue on streamers, sprites and lightning, we refer to [49] and the 19 original papers therein, discussing common issues of streamer dynamics in atmospheric discharges and plasma technology, including discharge evolution and subsequent chemical reactions. Streamers are a key element in gas processing in so-called corona reactors [226, 237] as well as in high-voltage technology [202]; they are used for the treatment of polluted gases [227] and water [70] or for plasma-enhanced vapour deposition [11]. The plasma bullets observed in plasma jets in noble gases have now been identified with streamers [21, 86, 147, 148, 240, 241]. Studies of breakdown phenomena at atmospheric pressure in short non-uniform air gaps [145] or in microwave fields [32] benefit from related streamer studies. Streamers appear as well in resistive plate chambers used in high-energy physics, where the streamer mode of operation must be carefully controlled and optimized [39, 63, 89]. Introduction 3 1.2 Multiple time scales in and after streamer discharges A streamer is a multiscale phenomenon both in space and time. Multiple space- scales of streamer heads have been actively investigated by many authors, see [53, 55] and the references within. The fast time-scales of streamer dynamics are associated with the streamer inception and the propagation of the streamer head. Streamer inception is the stage when streamer initiates due to locally high electric fields [14, 25, 48, 168, 178]. When the streamer head moves, it leaves weakly ion- ized plasma in the streamer channel behind, which is full of chemically activated species. Another time scale of streamer dynamics is involved in the heating of the streamer channel. The heating process is a result of relaxation of the energies stored in the vibrational and electronically excited levels of molecules into the translational energy levels. This process depends very much on external condi- tions (such as pressure, background gas temperature, externally applied electric field etc.) and the initial energy input in the system. In the later phases, the loc- alised heating causes the gas expansion and the mixing of the chemically activated radicals inside of the domain. The later property is essential for such industrial application as plasma assisted combustion, where di↵erent radicals and species need to be generated and e�ciently mixed. Observations show that more time scales are associated with the gas expansion stages where turbulence is starting to play a significant role [33, 85, 99, 115, 124, 197, 203]. Depending on the external conditions (electric circuit configuration, gap dis- tance, voltage duration etc.) streamer can initiate other types of discharges, like sparks, arcs, leaders etc. [5, 6, 56, 57, 132, 136, 144, 145, 184]. In that case, the processes described above will continue. Depending on the application and the timescales of application, one can be interested in fast or very slow mechanisms of chemistry or heating. 1.3 The content of the thesis The chapters 2 and 3 are devoted to the derivation and numerical implementation of a high order fluid model for the head region of streamers. We have derived a new high order fluid model for streamer discharges based on first principles. The high order fluid model employs the first four moments of the Boltzmann equation. The system of equations is closed by approximating the highest order tensor with lower order moments, namely the average electron density and the average electron energy. Macroscopic quantities like the average electron energy and the average electron energy flux can be essential input for plasma chemical models. In chapter 4 we compare the most frequently used fluid models to simulate streamer discharges, namely the first order classical drift-di↵usion-reaction fluid model, the second order employing the local energy approximation and the high order fluid model. We compare results of fluid models with microscopic Particle- in-Cell Monte Carlo results. In chapter 5 S. Nijdam and E. Takahashi have performed experiments in air and argon to investigate the e↵ects of a preceding streamer discharge on a sub- 4 sequent discharge by applying two positive high voltage pulses in succession with pulse-to-pulse intervals (�t) between 200 ns and 40 ms. They observed that the value of �t for which we can still observe continuation of the first-pulse stream- ers during the second pulse, depends on oxygen concentration in nitrogen-oxygen mixtures, and has a maximum at an oxygen concentration of about 0.2%. We have applied zero dimensional plasma-chemical modelling to reproduce and ex- plain these results. We have developed a tool, called PumpKin, to find the dominant pathways in plasma chemical models, presented in chapter 6. The tool is based on the algorithm proposed by R. Lehmann [103]. PumpKin is a user friendly tool publicly available under the license GNU GPL (version 2) and can be obtained from the website http://www.pumpkin-tool.org. Each chapter contains a very detailed introduction to the subject of the re- spective chapter. CHAPTER 2 Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand. – Frank Herbert Any su�ciently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. – Arthur C. Clarke Yes, we have to divide up our time like that, between our politics and our equations. But to me our equations are far more important, for politics are only a matter of present con- cern. A mathematical equation stands forever. – Albert Einstein 2.1 Introduction Streamers are rapidly growing filaments of weakly ionized plasma, whose dynamics are controlled by highly localized space charge regions and steep plasma density gradients. The dynamics of the streamer ionization front are governed by electron This chapter is based on the publication [47] High-order fluid model for streamer discharges: I. Derivation of model and transport data by Saša Dujko, Aram H. Markosyan, Ron D. White and Ute Ebert published in Journal of Physics D: Applied Physics, Volume 46, Number 47, Page 475202, 2013. 5 6 Chapter 2 dynamics in electric fields above the breakdown value; therefore, the plasma is very far from equilibrium, and the neutral gas stays cold while the ionization front passes. The progress of streamer simulations with fluid models has recently been reviewed in [125]. The main point for this paper is that essentially all these numerical studies are based on the classical fluid model, as we have called it in [110, 111, 112]. The classical fluid model for electron density contains a re- action term for impact ionization and attachment, a drift term accounting for electron displacement in the local field, and electron di↵usion; the reaction term is typically taken as a function of the local electric field. The structure of this classical model with reaction, drift and di↵usion is based on basic symmetry considerations and conservation laws; it has generally emerged as a purely phe- nomenological model in the course of the past century, though it was also derived later from the Boltzmann equation by Gogolides and Sawin [66]. On the other hand, cross-sections for the collisions of electrons with molecules have become available with growing accuracy [7, 36, 170, 171, 182]. They are the input either for the Boltzmann equation or for Monte Carlo models. These microscopic particle models have not yet been appropriately linked with the much older phenomenological fluid models. This becomes evident when comparing their solutions. A negative streamer ionization front in nitrogen represented by a Monte Carlo model cannot appropriately be described by a classical fluid model even if the transport and reaction coe�cients for the fluid model are derived from the Monte Carlo model [107]. In [107], the coe�cients for the fluid model were derived as so-called bulk coe�cients; therefore, in this model the electron swarms evolve correctly, and ionization fronts in a given electric field propagate with the correct velocity, as they are so- called pulled fronts [107]. However, the electron dens- ity behind the ionization front is very low. As we will see in section 2.4.2 of this chapter, a classical fluid model evaluated with flux coe�cients gives better ioniza- tion densities behind the front, but very low front velocities. A phenomenological extension of the classical fluid model with a gradient expansion considerably im- proves the approximation of the microscopic electron dynamics [4, 143], and it cures the deficiency of the local field approximation by including a dependence of the impact ionization rate on the local electron density gradient [110]. That the extended fluid model matches the Monte Carlo model well up to the moment of streamer branching, can also be seen in a recent comparison of three-dimensional model simulations in [112]. On the other hand, the model is still based on a local field approximation, therefore electron energies in the streamer interior are modelled erroneously as relaxing instantaneously to the low field in the streamer interior. A full simulation by Monte Carlo models would deliver the physically most reliable results, but this is computationally extremely costly. As a compromise between accuracy and e�ciency, hybrid methods [108, 110, 111, 112] have been developed in the past years to track the fast and energetic processes in the ion- ization front with a particle model, and to model the many electrons at lower fields in the streamer interior with a fluid model. Fluid models are also the most e�cient for the long time evolution in the streamer interior where slow chemical Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 7 reactions and a slow thermalization of the deposited energy set in. These demands on fast and quantitative streamer simulations ask for the de- velopment of a fluid model that accurately incorporates the microscopic electron dynamics contained in Boltzmann or Monte Carlo models. We will follow here the strategy to derive such a model not from phenomenological considerations, but through a systematic derivation from the Boltzmann equation. This chapter is the first in an ongoing investigation of high-order fluid models for streamer discharges; it is focused on the derivation of first- and higher order fluid models and on the derivation and correct implementation of transport data in these models. Section 2.2 describes the derivation of models of di↵erent order. The starting point is the set of balance equations obtained as velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation. Then the derivation of the classical first-order model is briefly described, and previous approaches to higher order models are summar- ized. In section 2.2.4, our new high-order fluid model is derived in a systematic manner. The balance/moment equations are closed after the balance equation for the energy flux. This is done by approximating the high-order tensors in the energy flux balance equation by a product of two lower moments while the col- lision transfer terms are evaluated using momentum transfer theory. In section 2.3, electron transport properties as an input in fluid models are calculated using a multi-term theory for solving the Boltzmann equation [43, 234]. We pay par- ticular attention to the accuracy of the calculation and the proper use in both the first- and high-order fluid models. The results of our multi-term solution of Boltzmanns equation are compared with those obtained by the publicly available Boltzmann solver BOLSIG+ developed by Hagelaar and Pitchford [74] for elec- trons in molecular nitrogen. BOLSIG+ is a popular Boltzmann solver based on a classical two-term theory, so we have been motivated to check its accuracy and integrity against the advanced and highly sophisticated multi-term Boltzmann solver developed by the group from the James Cook University and their asso- ciates [43, 150, 190, 234]. In section 2.4, we give the results for negative planar fronts obtained with the first- order, model with particular emphasis upon the consistent implementation of transport data. It should be noted that a full 3D streamer channel is characterized by a high field enhancement at its growing tip. This field enhancement is created by a thin space charge layer around its ionized interior that in turn largely suppresses the interior field. The thickness of the space charge layer is much smaller than its radius of curvature [51, 52, 107, 110, 111]. Therefore, when zooming into the front structure, the curvature can be neglected. Modelling this front structure is the largest challenge for a fluid model and there- fore this is what we focus on in section 2.4. The results for various streamer properties obtained with di↵erent types of input data are compared. A thorough analysis of numerical streamer front solutions with our high-order model, and a comparison with Monte Carlo results is contained in chapter 3. 8 Chapter 2 2.2 Derivation of first- and higher order fluid models 2.2.1 General considerations: Boltzmann equation and moment equations Our starting point is the Boltzmann equation for charged particles in an electric field E @ t f i + c ·rf i + e i m i E ·rcfi = �J(fi, f0). (2.1) Here f i (r, c, t) is the distribution function in phase space at the position r and velocity c for each charged component i, r is the di↵erential operator with respect to space r and rc with respect to velocity c, ei and mi are charge and mass of species i, and t is time. The right-hand side of equation (2.1), J(f i , f0), describes the collisions of charged particles with neutral molecules, accounting for elastic, inelastic, and non-conservative (e.g. ionizing or attaching) collisions, and f0 is the velocity distribution function of the neutral gas (usually taken to be Maxwellian at temperature T g ). Streamer discharges have a characteristic nonlinear coupling between densities of charged particles and electric field. The space charge modifies the field, and the field determines the drift, di↵usion and rate coe�cients. The electric field has to be calculated self-consistently with Poisson’s equation r · E = 1 ✏0 X i e i n i (r, t), (2.2) where ✏0 is the dielectric constant, and ei and ni are the charges and densities of species i that can be electrons and ions. As ions are much heavier than electrons, their motion is typically neglected within the ionization front, and the analysis focuses on the electron evolution. Thus, in what follows we suppress the charged particle index i in equation (2.1) and focus in the electron dynamics. After solving equations (2.1) and (2.2), quantities of physical interest could be obtained as velocity ‘moments’ of the distribution functions, starting with the number density n(r, t) = Z f(r, c, t)dc, (2.3) followed by higher order quantities ⌦ �(c) ↵ = 1 n(r, t) Z �(c)f(r, c, t)dc, (2.4) with �(c) = mc, 1 2 mc 2 , . . . furnishing the average velocity v = hci, average energy " = h1 2 mc 2i, and so on. Equations (2.1) and (2.2) represent a non-linear coupled system of partial di↵erential equations in 6-dimensional phase space and in time, with a complicated collision operator J. For a complete problem description, appropriate initial and boundary conditions on f(r, c, t) in phase space must be implemented. For streamers, it is very di�cult to solve equations (2.1) and (2.2) due to the large gradients of electric fields and of charged particle densities at their fronts. Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 9 Moreover, the streamers create a self-consistent field enhancement at their tips which allow them to penetrate into regions where the background field is too low for e�cient ionization processes to take place. From a kinetic theory point of view, this is a non-stationary, non-hydrodynamic and non-linear problem where space and time should be treated on an equal footing with velocity in equation (2.1). Clearly, the numerical solution of equations (2.1) and (2.2) for the full streamer problem is a formidable task and a fluid equation treatment is more tractable. In a fluid approach, the problem of solving the Boltzmann equation for f in phase-space is replaced by a set of low order approximate (velocity) moment equations of f [192, 193, 234]. Fluid equations may be derived either directly as moments of (2.1) or from first principles using physical arguments. Following the first approach, the set of moment/balance equations can be found by multiplying (2.1) by �(c) and integrating over all velocities @ t � n ⌦ �(c) ↵� +r · � n ⌦ c�(c) ↵� �n e m E · ⌦ rc�(c) ↵ = C � , (2.5) where <> represents the average over the velocity c of the charged particles, and C � is the collision term in the balance equation: C � = � Z �(c)J(f)dc. (2.6) To derive the term ⌦ rc�(c) ↵ with its negative sign, a partial integration over c has been performed. If one now takes �(c) consecutively equal to 1, mc, 1 2 mc 2 and 1 2 mc 2c, etc., equation (2.5) generates an infinite series of equations, a full solution of which would be equivalent to calculating f itself. In practice, one truncates after a certain moment equation; in this process obviously some information of the Boltzmann equation is lost. Therefore we now discuss the derivation of first and second order fluid models with their truncations of the moment equations, and then we derive systematically our new high order fluid model. 2.2.2 The first-order or classical fluid model First we derive the classical fluid model as an approximation from the Boltzmann equation. We use continuity and momentum balance equation, i.e., �(c) = 1 and mc, and truncate the set (2.5) at the momentum balance equation, @ t n +r · � nv � = C1, (2.7) @ t (nmv) +r · (nmhcci)�neE = C mc, (2.8) where v = hci is the average local electron velocity. Now the velocities are decomposed into an average velocity v plus random velocities c � v with zero mean (hc�vi = 0). On introducing the pressure tensor P = nmh(c�v)(c�v)i, (2.9) 10 Chapter 2 equation (2.8) becomes @ t (nmv) +r · (nmvv) +r · P �neE = C mc, (2.10) where the following identity was used r · (nmhcci) = r · ⇥ nm � vv + vhc�vi+ hc�viv + h(c�v) (c�v)i �⇤ = r · � nm vv � +r · � nm h(c�v) (c�v)i �⇤ . (2.11) The second term in the left-hand side of (2.10) can be expanded as r · (nm vv) = nm (v ·r) v + v h r · (nmv) i . (2.12) Now we substitute (2.12) into (2.10), use the continuity equation (2.7) and intro- duce the convective time derivative d dt = @ t + v ·r, (2.13) which measures the rate of change in a reference frame moving with the mean drift velocity v of the electrons. The momentum balance equation then obtains the form nm dv dt = neE �r · P + C mc �mvC1. (2.14) The physical interpretation of this equation is straightforward: the rate of change of the mean electron velocity is due to the force of the electric field plus forces due to the pressure of the electron fluid itself and due to internal forces associated with the collisional interactions with a large number of neutral gas molecules. It should be emphasized, however, that the form with the convective derivative d/dt is not useful for the analysis of a full streamer problem where local fields and therefore local mean electron velocities v vary largely in space and time. Because the system has been truncated, the yet unspecified tensor P (2.9) of electron pressure appears on the right-hand side of (2.14), and a closure assump- tion needs to be found. If the distribution of random velocities is close to isotropic, the diagonal terms of P are equal and given by the scalar kinetic pressure p, P ⇡ p I = nkT, (2.15) where I is the unity tensor, k is the Boltzmann constant and T is the electron temperature. It should be emphasized here that the isotropy of the velocity fluc- tuations and of the pressure is a strong assumption at the streamer tip where the electric fields are high and strong pressure gradients exist. In this streamer region the random spread of electrons along the field direction can di↵er significantly from the perpendicular direction. The next simplifying assumption concerns the collision terms. An expression often used for momentum transfer by collision is C mc = �nm⌫e↵v, (2.16) Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 11 which assumes that the force per unit volume exerted on the electrons due to collisions with neutral molecules is proportional to the average electron velocity. The proportionality constant is called the e↵ective momentum transfer collision frequency; it accounts for momentum exchange in elastic and inelastic collisions. With this simplifying assumption and neglecting the transfer of momentum in non-conservative collisions1 relative to other momentum transfer collisions (which is usually a good approximation), the momentum balance equation (2.14) becomes nm dv dt = neE �rp�nm⌫e↵v. (2.17) If the rate of momentum change (d t v)/v is smaller than the rate of momentum transfer ⌫e↵, and if the gradients in electron energy can be neglected, one gets the following expression for the average flux of the electrons � = nv = nµE �Drn, (2.18) where mobility and di↵usion constant are given by µ = e m⌫e↵ , D = kT m⌫e↵ , (2.19) if the system is close to equilibrium. In this case the Nernst-Townsend-Einstein relation D µ = kT e (2.20) is valid. The steady-state form of equation (2.17) is an acceptable approximation because the e↵ective time constant for momentum transfer 1 ⌫ eff at atmospheric pressure is generally much less than the time scale on which the local electric field varies within a streamer [87, 107]. Further from equilibrium as in the head of the streamer where the electric fields are high, the approximation (2.15) is not valid as the velocity fluctuations of the electrons are clearly anisotropic. Let us consider once more the special case where the average velocity of electrons is stationary. From equation (2.14) and neglecting momentum transfer in non-conservative collisions, we obtain mn⌫e↵v = enE �r · P , (2.21) and as a result for the flux we have � = nµE � 1 ⌫e↵ r · ⇥ nh(c�v) (c�v)i ⇤ . (2.22) Comparing the last equation and equation (2.18), it is obvious that quantity D? = h(c�v) (c�v)i ⌫e↵ (2.23) 1Non-conservative collisions do not conserve particle numbers as they account for ionization, attachment or recombination reactions. 12 Chapter 2 is the reminisce of the di↵usion tensor often used in the drift-di↵usion approxim- ation instead of the di↵usion constant. However, the physical interpretation of this quantity is not a priori clear. Though this quantity assumes the anisotropic nature of the temperature tensor, it reduces to the di↵usion constant D when the e↵ective momentum transfer collision frequency ⌫e↵ is independent of the electron energy. For an energy-dependent e↵ective momentum transfer collision frequency, the straightforward generalization of the Einstein relation for the di↵usion con- stant (2.19) to the di↵usion tensor D or application of D? in the equation for the average flux (2.18) is misleading and reader is referred to [133, 186, 187] where the so-called generalized Einstein relation were introduced using the momentum and energy balance equations. However, the generalization of the di↵usion constant D appearing in (2.18) to di↵usion tensor D is a very welcome step in fluid modeling of streamer discharges due to the often strong anisotropic nature of the di↵usion tensor for certain gases and due to deviations of the electron velocity distribution function from a Maxwellian distribution of velocities in di↵erent spatial regions of the streamers. When the above approximation for the particle flux is inserted into equation (2.7), we get the well known reaction drift di↵usion expression for the charged particle motion in the discharge @ t n +r · � µ(E)En�D(E) ·rn � = C1. (2.24) Originally this approximation was not derived from the Boltzmann equation, but derived on purely phenomenological grounds. It is clear that the equation must have the structure of a continuity equation with a source term for electron generation and loss. The parametric dependence of the source term is open at this point; within the classical model the source term is assumed to depend on local particle densities and on the local electric field. The second approximation concerns the electron velocity v. On a time scale much larger than the collision frequency, the electron motion is overdamped, so the electrons must drift against the direction of the electric field according to the second term in (2.24). The stochastic and undirected motion is modeled in an ad hoc manner through the di↵usion term; the fact that the di↵usion correction is added to the drift term and not included in any other functional manner is not a priori clear and can actually be deduced from the above analysis. In conclusion, the lowest level of fluid approximation, also called classical model or first order model, is given by the equations @ t n = r · (D ·rn) +r · (µnE) + n(⌫ I �⌫ A ), (2.25) @ t n p = n⌫ I , (2.26) @ t n n = n⌫ A , (2.27) coupled to the Poisson equation for the electric field, r2� = e ✏0 (n�n p + n n ), E = �r�. (2.28) Here n p and n n are positive and negative ion densities, while ⌫ I and ⌫ A are the ionization and attachment collision frequencies due to electron-molecule collisions, Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 13 and � is the electric potential. The numerical solution of the system (2.25)-(2.28) requires the transport properties µ, D, ⌫ I and ⌫ A as a function of the local electric field for the gas in question. The derivation and implementation of transport data is discussed in section 2.3. The numerical solutions of planar streamer fronts with these transport data are discussed in section 2.4. 2.2.3 Second order models including the energy balance equation We now turn to models that include the second velocity moment of the Boltzmann equation, i.e., the energy balance equation. We will see that the closure of this equation is not a straight forward process, and we will discuss some approxima- tions made in the literature. The results of a second order model and of our high order model for planar streamer fronts will be compared in chapter 3. The first important steps beyond first order fluid models of streamer dis- charges, to our knowledge, were carried out by Abbas and Bayle [1, 2], and by Bayle and Carenbois [13]. They employed a second order model which involves the energy balance equation to explore the zone at the streamer tip where the elec- tron energy is not determined anymore by the local electric field only. However, as pointed out by Kanzari et al. [87], the accuracy of their model was restricted by the drastic assumptions taken in their energy balance equation. They evalu- ated the source term in the energy balance equation and corresponding averages by assuming a Maxwellian distribution for the electrons. Guo and Wu [73] have developed a more sophisticated second order model in which the Langevin theory was used to simplify the collision source terms with a priori knowledge of the re- laxation times of electron energy and momentum. Kanzari et al. [87] have made an important step further by calculating the source term in the energy equation in a more consistent way where the ad hoc assumptions for the distribution function were avoided. A similar approach was later used by Eichwald et al. [58] in their simulations of the streamer dynamics and of the radical formation in a pulsed corona discharge used for flue gas control. Their results showed that the average electron velocity in the streamer head is largely overestimated by the classical first order model. As a consequence, electron density and radical density in the ionized channel were up to 50% higher than with the second order model. The salient feature of their theory is the fact that the heat flux term in the energy bal- ance equation was explicitly neglected, but this, unfortunately, is of questionable accuracy. We will illustrate in streamer simulations in chapter 3 that the energy flux plays an important role in determining the streamer behavior. Thus, par- ticular care should be taken with the closure through specification of the energy flux. Even for charged particle swarms under non-hydrodynamic conditions one must be careful how to specify the heat flux vector [151, 192, 193, 234]. We now discuss how the fluid equations should be closed for streamers, while we stress that the method itself is applicable to a much wider range of phenomena. 14 Chapter 2 2.2.4 High order fluid model We now derive a fluid model including the energy flux equation, i.e., we truncate at the moment equation with the third power of velocity. We will argue that the energy flux equation is crucial for the success of the fluid model for streamers. Inserting di↵erent moments of c into equation (2.5), one finds @n @t +r · nv = C1, (2.29) @ @t (nmv) +r · (nmhcci)�neE = C mc, (2.30) @ @t ✓ n D1 2 mc 2 E◆ +r · ✓ n D1 2 mc 2c E◆ �neE · v = C 1 2 mc 2 , (2.31) @ @t ✓ n D1 2 mc 2c E◆ +r· ✓ n D1 2 mc 2cc E◆ �neE· * @ @c ⇣1 2 mc 2c ⌘+ = C 1 2 mc 2c. (2.32) Di↵erent forms of these equations that some readers might be familiar with, are given in the appendix. It will be shown in section 2.2.4 that the explicit form of the high order tensors appearing in the divergence term of the energy flux equation (2.32) is not required. This system of equations is exact at this stage, but not very useful and the reason is twofold. First, there are more unknowns than equations, the familiar problem of closure. The set of fluid equations can be increased to an arbitrary size merely by taking higher velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation. Second, the definition of the system requires the respective collision terms C � . Collision processes In contrast to Monte Carlo simulations or kinetic equations in which cross sections for charged particle scattering enter into the calculations in a fairly clear way, in fluid equations the collisions are treated in a variety of ways which are not neces- sarily consistent with the data itself and/or with the system under consideration. There are many examples which illustrate this issue and the reader is referred to [108, 192, 193] for a detailed discussion. In the context of streamer and break- down studies beyond first order fluid models, it has become common practice to evaluate the collision terms and averages by assuming some particular form of the velocity distribution function, usually Maxwellian [13, 37, 66, 73, 206, 208]. Let us consider the form of the collision terms in the balance equations (2.29)- (2.32). In this work we characterize the elastic, inelastic and non-conservative collisions by corresponding average collision frequencies. A collision frequency ⌫(v r ) for collisions between charged particles and gas molecules is related to the cross section �(v r ) characterizing the process by ⌫(v r ) = n g v r �(v r ), (2.33) where v r is the relative velocity and n g is the number density of the neutral gas. Further, we deal with weakly ionized systems where the interactions of charged particles with one another is negligible. Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 15 Our calculation takes into account that the charged particles can loose en- ergy and momentum even in elastic collisions with the gas molecules as the finite mass and the thermal energy of the molecules are taken into account. The mo- mentum exchange in inelastic collisions is included and ⌫ m = ⌫ m (v r ) denotes the total momentum transfer collision frequency while ⌫ ↵ and ⌫ (s) ↵ are inelastic and superelastic collision frequencies for the inelastic channel ↵. The total colli- sion frequencies for attachment and ionization are denoted by ⌫ A = ⌫ A (v r ) and ⌫ I = ⌫ I (v r ), respectively. We consider only single ionization with ionization en- ergy ✏ I , but the resulting ion can be left in any one of its internal excited states, characterized by an excitation energy �✏ (i) I and a collision frequency ⌫ (i) I . Momentum transfer theory The momentum transfer theory has a long history in kinetic theory of gases and has proved very successful for describing charged particle transport in gases under the influence of electric and magnetic fields. It is discussed comprehensively in the textbook of Mason and McDaniel [133] and in references [106, 186, 191, 192, 193, 229, 234]. The main ideas can be briefly summarized as follows: (1) We need to express the average collision frequencies as a function of the mean energy in the center-of-mass reference frame. Thus, we replace the variables v r ! " = 1 2 µ r v 2 r , (2.34) in expressions for collisional frequencies ⌫ = ⌫(v r ) ! e⌫ = e⌫("), (2.35) where " is the energy measured in the center-of-mass reference frame and µ r is the reduced mass. (2) If we assume that the dominant contributions to the averages come from regions near the mean energy "̄, and that ⌫(") varies su�ciently slowly with ", then a Taylor expansion e⌫(") = e⌫("̄) + e⌫ 0 ("̄)("� "̄) + . . . , (2.36) is expected to be a reasonable approximation. For conservative collisional pro- cesses such as elastic and inelastic scattering, only the first term of the expansion (2.36) is considered. However, when energy-dependent non-conservative processes such as ionization and electron attachment are operative then the derivative term in (2.36) becomes the leading term and must be included. (3) Using the momentum transfer approximation, the balance equations (2.29)- (2.32) get the form @n @t +r · nv = �n � e⌫ A �e⌫ I � , (2.37) @ @t (mnv) +r · � mnhcci � �neE = �µ r ne⌫ m v �mnv ⇥ e⌫ I + ⇣e⌫ 0 A ⇤ , (2.38) 16 Chapter 2 @ @t (n")+ r · (n⇠)�neE · v = �ne⌫ e ⇥� "� 3 2 kT0 � + ⌦("̄) ⇤ �n"e⌫ A , (2.39) @ @t (n⇠) +r · ✓ n D1 2 mc 2cc E◆ �neE · * @ @c ⇣1 2 mc 2c ⌘+ = �ne⌫ m ⇠, (2.40) where " is the average electron energy, ⇠ is the average electron energy flux and m0 is the mass of gas molecules. ⇣ is given by [187, 229]: ⇣ = 2 3 m0 m + m0 ✓ 1 2 m ⌦ c 2 ↵ � 1 2 m|v|2 ◆ . (2.41) The average collision frequencies for momentum and energy transfer e⌫ m ("̄) = n g r 2" µ r � m ("̄), (2.42) e⌫ e ("̄) = 2µ r m + m0 e⌫ m ("̄), (2.43) are prescribed functions of the mean energy in the centre-o↵-mass frame "̄ = m0" + m 3 2 kT0 m + m0 , (2.44) where k is Boltzmann’s constant and T0 is the neutral gas temperature. The term ⌦ represents the average energy lost in one energy relaxation time e⌫ �1 e , through non-elastic processes and is given by [234]: ⌦("̄) = m0 m + m0 X ↵ (e⌫ ↵ �e⌫ (s) ↵ ) e⌫ e ✏ ↵ + X i e⌫(i) I e⌫ e �✏ (i) I . (2.45) The inelastic channels ↵ are governed by threshold energies ✏ ↵ and collision fre- quencies for inelastic and superelastic processes e⌫ ↵ and e⌫ (s) ↵ , respectively. All collision frequencies describing the inelastic, non-conservative and superelastic collisions appearing in equations (2.37)-(2.40) are functions of "̄. It should be emphasized that the equations of continuity (2.37), of momentum balance (2.38) and of energy balance (2.39) are valid for charged particles of arbitrary mass while the energy flux equation (2.40) is obtained in the approximation of m/m0 ⌧ 1. High-order corrections in momentum transfer theory corrections (e.g., high-order terms in the Taylor expansion (2.36)) could be added on the right-hand side of the system (2.37)-(2.40) if desired, without in any way changing the generality of the physical arguments associated with the closure assumptions presented below. Solution regimes and closure assumptions The closure of the system of equations (2.37)-(2.40) requires approximations or assumptions on the form of the pressure tensor. The standard approximation for light particles such as electrons is that the pressure tensor can be taken as a Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 17 scalar at the fluid level of approximation [186, 192, 193, 234]. This means that, "̄ ⇡ " � 1 2 mv 2, and the pressure tensor simplifies to P = nkT ⇡ 2 3 n"I, (2.46) where T is the so-called temperature tensor that characterizes energy fluctuations even if the system is not in thermal equilibrium. This form of the pressure tensor was employed in all previous swarm oriented studies [151, 186, 191, 192, 193, 229, 234], as well as in the recent fluid models of streamer discharges [58, 87]. However, if the velocity distribution significantly deviates from isotropy in ve- locity space, then this approximation is problematic. For ions, the distribution function in velocity space is always anisotropic (even if elastic collisions between ions and molecules are predominant) and hence any assumption on an isotropic pressure tensor is wrong for ions. This problem can be avoided by considering the temperature tensor balance equation but this in turn contains further un- knowns. The reader is referred to [106] for how to treat charged particle swarms under spatially-homogeneous hydrodynamic conditions. In streamer studies, the ions are usually considered as immobile or they are modeled by a reaction-drift- di↵usion and local field approximation which is a reasonable approximation on the time scale on which a streamer ionization front passes a given point in space. The next step in the closure of the system of equations (2.37)-(2.40) concerns the energy flux balance equation (2.40). The third term can be simplified as follows: @ @c ⇣1 2 mc 2c ⌘ = mc @c @c c + 1 2 mc 2 @c @c = mcc + 1 2 mc 2I, (2.47) where I is the unity tensor. Assuming again as in (2.46) that the temperature tensor is isotropic, and hence that hcci⇡ hc 2i 3 I, (2.48) and after some algebra, the energy flux equation can be written as @ @t (n⇠) +r · ✓ n D1 2 mc 2cc E◆ � e m E 5 3 n" ! = �ne⌫ m ⇠. (2.49) The second term in the energy flux balance equation (2.49) or (2.40) is the divergence of the fourth power of the velocity averaged over the velocity distribu- tion, hc2cci, while all other terms in the equation contain only the third power of velocity. Therefore this term, that we will call the quartic tensor, requires either the next equation in the sequence of moment equations or a closure approxima- tion. This closure assumption must be physically transparent and consistent with the general structure of the equations. One way is to approximate the relevant term by a product of lower moments as D c 2cc E ⇡ � D c 2 E hcci⇡ � 4 3m2 " 2 I, (2.50) 18 Chapter 2 where we used (2.48) for the second equality. � is a parametrization factor, generically close to unity, when the higher order correlation term hc2cci�hc2ihcci can be neglected. With these closure assumptions the system of fluid equations (2.37)-(2.40) for the electrons becomes: @n @t +r · nv = �n � e⌫ A �e⌫ I � , (2.51) @ @t (nv) + 2 3m r(n")�n e m E = �nv ⇣ e⌫ m + e⌫ I + 2 3m "e⌫ 0 A ⌘ , (2.52) @ @t (n")+ r · (n⇠)�eE · (nv) = �ne⌫ e ⇥� "� 3 2 kT0 � + ⌦ ⇤ �n"e⌫ A , (2.53) @ @t (n⇠) +r ⇣ � 2n 3m " 2 ⌘ � 5 3 n"eE = �e⌫ m (n⇠). (2.54) The parameter � that appears in the energy flux equation is a quantity close to unity, but can be used to fit the neglected higher order correlations. Variations of this parameter will be discussed in chapter 3. The system of equations (2.51)-(2.54) has the following properties: (i) If the parameter � is specified and if the collision terms are given then the system of equations contains no further unknowns can be numerically solved for the dens- ity, average velocity, average energy and energy flux. (ii) The equations contain mean-energy collisional rates that should be carefully derived and implemented as elaborated in the next section. (iii) Attachment enters the momentum and energy balance equation in terms of the derivative of the attachment collision frequency while for ionization only the ionization collision frequency is present. (iv) The above equations are set for a single component gas; the generalization to gas mixtures proceeds through the generalization of the collision term to a sum of terms appropriately weighted according to the mole fractions of the respective species. 2.3 Transport and reaction data 2.3.1 Evaluation of the transport data: Boltzmann equation analysis Here we discuss how to evaluate and implement electron transport properties in both first and high order fluid models. In plasma modeling, transport coe�- cients of electrons and/or ions may be obtained either from swarm experiments, from solutions of the Boltzmann equation, or from Monte Carlo simulations. We note that swarm transport data are usually given in the literature in the form of tables as a function of reduced electric field, E/n0 [192, 234]. In fluid plasma modeling, however, several important issues have to be considered before directly implementing data from the literature. First, transport coe�cients are defined far from boundaries, sources and sinks of charged particles where the so-called hydrodynamic conditions prevail [43, 44, Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 19 46, 98, 150, 190, 234]. Under hydrodynamic conditions, the space-time depend- ence of the distribution function is expressible in terms of linear functionals of n(r, t). A su�cient functional relationship between the distribution function f(r, c, t) and n(r, t) in the case of weak gradients is the well-known expansion f(r, c, t) = 1X s=0 f (s)(c)� (�r)sn(r, t), (2.55) where f(s)(c) are tensors of rank s and � denotes an s-fold scalar product. Direct application of transport properties measured/calculated in di↵erent experimental arrangements where often non-hydrodynamic conditions are present explicitly or implicitly, is problematic and should be avoided. Typical example of swarm data obtained under non-hydrodynamic conditions are those measured/calculated un- der the steady-state Townsend (SST) conditions [189, 196]. Before direct applic- ation of SST data one must perform careful swarm analysis and convert the SST data into the hydrodynamic transport coe�cients. Details of this procedure are presented in [42]. Second, care must be taken when non-conservative collisions are significant. In the presence of non-conservative collisions there are two sets of transport coef- ficients, the bulk and the flux [188, 234]. Assuming the functional relationship (2.55) the flux � and source term C1 (usually denoted by S(r, t) in previous swarm oriented studies [43, 44, 46, 234]) appearing in the equation of continuity (2.7) can be expanded �(r, t) = nW (?) �D(?) ·rn, (2.56) S(r, t) = S(0)n(r, t)�S(1) ·rn(r, t) + S(2) : rrn(r, t), (2.57) where W (?) and D(?) define, respectively, the flux drift velocity and flux di↵usion tensor while S(k) are expansion coe�cients of the source term. Substitution of expansions (2.56) and (2.57) into the continuity equation (2.7) yields the di↵usion equation @n @t + W · n�D : rrn = �R a n, (2.58) which defines the bulk transport coe�cients R a = �S(0), (2.59) W = W (?) + S(1), (2.60) D = D(?) �S(2), (2.61) where R a is the loss rate, W is the bulk drift velocity and D is the bulk di↵usion tensor. The basic di↵erence between the bulk and flux transport coe�cients should now be apparent. The bulk drift velocity is displacement of the mean position of the electron swarm and it characterizes the motion of the total ensemble of elec- trons. The presence of the electric field results in a spatial variation in the energy throughout the swarm. Under such conditions, the presence of non-conservative 20 Chapter 2 collisions (ionization/ attachment) may lead to a change in the position of the center-of-mass of the swarm. This e↵ect on the bulk drift velocity is denoted by S(1). On the other hand, the flux drift velocity W (?) represents the rate of change of the position of the center-of-mass due to the electric field only and can be interpreted as the mean velocity of the electrons. Likewise the flux di↵usion tensor D(?) represents the rate of spreading of the swarm due to the electric field E and gradients in density rn. The presence of non-conservative collisions may result in the variation of rn throughout the swarm and a subsequent variation in the rate of change of the mean squared width of the swarm. Such e↵ects are expressed by the second rank tensor S(2). The most appropriate procedure in plasma modeling would be to use the experimental swarm data (e.g. bulk values) for the analysis of the validity of the cross section and then to calculate the flux quantities which are necessary as input data in fluid modeling. More about dual- ity of the hydrodynamic transport coe�cients and their implementation in fluid modeling can be found in the references [43, 44, 46, 171, 192, 234]. Third, while the first order fluid model requires electron transport data as a function of local reduced electric field, what really appears in high order fluid mod- els are mean-energy-dependent collisional rates. Since momentum transfer theory is used to determine the collision terms in the fluid equations, the most appro- priate procedure would be to systematically reduce these fluid equations down to the swarm limit assuming the hydrodynamic regime. From this set of equations, one can then find relationships between collisional transfer rates and the mean energy, in a self-consistent manner. This method was employed in previous works of Robson and co-workers (see for example [192] and references therein), but we apply here a slightly di↵erent approach. Instead of using the so-called general- ized Einstein relation to determine the mean energy from the transverse di↵usion coe�cient [186, 192], the mean energy is directly calculated from the multi term solution of Boltzmann’s equation. The correspondence between the mean energy and E/n0 is then used to find the correspondence between the mean energy and other relevant transport data. The momentum transfer collision rate is obtained from ⌫ m = e mµ(") , (2.62) where µ(") is the electron mobility which is here a function of the mean energy. The energy-transfer collision frequency is calculated from equation (2.43). Thus our procedure of determining the electron transport data as an input for high order fluid models is entirely consistent with the work of Boeuf and Pitchford [20]. The electron transport data employed in this work are calculated using a multi term theory for solving the Boltzmann equation. The methods and techniques are by now standard and the reader is referred to our previous works [43, 44, 234]. Among many important aspects, we highlight the following important steps: • No assumptions on symmetries in velocity space are made, and the direc- tional dependence of the phase-space distribution function in velocity space Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 21 is represented in terms of a spherical harmonic expansion: f(r, c, t) = 1X l=0 lX m=�l f(r, c, t)Y [l] m (ĉ), (2.63) where Y [l] m (ĉ) are spherical harmonics and ĉ represents the angles of c. In contrast to the classical two term theory (where the sum over l is performed only up to l = 1), the number of spherical harmonics is not restricted, and our method therefore is a truly multi term approach. The di↵erences between two-term approximation and our full multi term approach for elec- tron transport in nitrogen are illustrated in section 2.3. The inadequacies of a Legendre polynomial expansion (when density gradients are not par- allel to the field) are highlighted in our previous publications [43, 234] and avoided in this work. • As discussed above, under hydrodynamic conditions a su�cient represent- ation of the space dependence is an expansion in terms of powers of the density gradient operator. • The velocity (energy) dependence of the phase-space distribution function is represented by an expansion about a Maxwellian at an arbitrary temper- ature in terms of Sonine polynomials. Using the appropriate orthogonality relations for the spherical harmonics and for the modified Sonine polynomials, the Boltzmann equation is converted into a hierarchy of coupled equations for the moments of the distribution function. These equations are solved numerically and all transport and rate coe�cients are expressed in terms of moments of the distribution function [43, 234]. 2.3.2 Cross sections and transport data In this section, transport and reaction coe�cients for electrons in N2 at a temper- ature of 298 K are calculated as an input for first and high order fluid models. The first order model is based on the local field approximation; it requires mobility, di↵usion coe�cient and ionization rate as a function of the reduced electric field E/n0 (where n0 is the gas number density). Compared to our previous work [44], we extend the electric field range up to 3000 Td (1 Td=10�21 Vm2). The high order fluid model requires average collision frequencies for momentum and energy transfer in elastic and inelastic collisions, and rate coe�cients for all collision processes as a function of the mean electron energy. We use the cross sections for electron scattering in N2 provided by Stojanović and Petrović [215]. For elastic collision processes we use the original Boltzmann collision operator while for inelastic processes we employ the generalization of Wang-Chang et al. [31]. The ionization collision operator is detailed in [150]. We assume that the ratio between the energy of the scattered electron and the total available energy in an ionizing collision is equally distributed between 0 and 1; the same holds then, of course, for the ejected electron. We remark that at the 22 Chapter 2 high electron energies in the streamer tip, the assumptions on the energy division can considerably influence transport profiles. Furthermore, scattering is assumed to be isotropic. This can be problematic for high values of E/n0 (generally for E/n0 � 1000 Td for electrons in N2) when electrons scatter predominantly in the forward direction [111, 173]. However, the errors in the calculated transport coef- ficients and rate coe�cients are acceptable in fluid modeling for streamers in the range of the reduced electric fields E/n0 considered in this work after appropriate renormalization of cross-sections for the scattering angle distribution [111]. We present both bulk and flux coe�cients obtained by our multi term solution of the Boltzmann equation, and we compare them with the coe�cients obtained by the public available Boltzmann solver BOLSIG+ derived from the same cross sections. BOLSIG+ is based on the two term approximation [74] and provides exclusively flux transport data. 2.3.3 Input data for the first order model Figure 2.1(a) shows the electron mobility (multiplied by the gas number density) as a function of the reduced electric field E/n0. We observe that bulk and flux quantities start to di↵er visibly above a reduced field of approximately 150 Td, this means that the ionization processes start to be significant at this value of the field. As E/n0 increases further, the e↵ect becomes more pronounced, until the bulk mobility exceeds the flux mobility by approximately 30% at 3000 Td. The di↵erence between bulk and flux mobility is the consequence of the spatial variation of the average electron energy within an electron swarm [43, 107, 150]. If the ionization rate is an increasing function of electron energy (as is the case for the parameters considered here), electrons are preferentially created in regions of higher energy resulting in a shift in the centre of mass position as well as in a modification of the spread about the centre of mass. In nitrogen up to 3000 Td, the electrons are preferentially created at the leading edge of an electron swarm and hence the bulk mobility is larger than the flux mobility. Figure 2.1(a) shows as well that the flux data obtained by our multi term solution of Boltzmann’s equation and by the BOLSIG+ code agree well. Only for E/n0 below about 3 Td, the BOLSIG+ mobility is higher than our flux mobility. As we have successfully compared our multi term results with Monte Carlo results that include the thermal energy of the background molecules as well, the results shown in figure 2.1(a) suggest that the BOLSIG+ code should be carefully tested in the limit of thermal energies. Figure 2.1(b) shows the di↵usion coe�cients (multiplied by the gas number density) as a function of the reduced field E/n0. The bulk and flux values of the longitudinal and transverse di↵usion coe�cients are compared with the isotropic di↵usion coe�cient calculated by the BOLSIG+ code. As for the mobility, flux and bulk data start to deviate for E/n0 above approximately 150 Td, indicating again the onset of ionization e↵ects. The di↵usion coe�cients are more sensitive to the ionization processes than the mobility; the di↵erences between bulk and flux data can reach almost 50% for E/n0 approaching 3000 Td. For a more thorough analysis of the explicit influence of ionization processes on the di↵usion Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 23 a) b) c) d) Figure 2.1: (a) Mobility, (b) longitudinal and transverse di↵usion coe�cient, and (c) ionization rate of electrons in N 2 as a function of the reduced electric field E/n 0 , as an input for the first order model. Shown are flux and bulk data obtained by our multi term solution of the Boltzmann equation, and flux data obtained by the BOLSIG+ code. BOLSIG+ provides only an isotropic di↵usion coe�cient for panel (b). Panel (d) shows the variation of mean energy with E/n 0 . coe�cients one must consider the second order variations in the average energy along the swarm. This is beyond the scope of this work and we defer this to a future study. Figure 2.1(b) clearly shows the anisotropy of the di↵usion tensor, i.e. D L 6= D T ; for the rage of E/n0 considered here, the transverse di↵usion coe�cient is always larger than the longitudinal di↵usion coe�cient. This is due to the spatial variation of the average energy within the swarm and to the energy dependence of the collision frequency. The theory of anisotropic di↵usion in an electric field is now textbook material (see for example [84]) and rather than a detailed discussion of the origin of this phenomenon, we prefer to highlight the implementation of the di↵usion coe�cients in fluid models of streamer discharges. For E/n0 below ap- proximately 30 Td, our results for the flux component of the transverse di↵usion coe�cient and those obtained by the BOLSIG+ code agree very well. For E/n0 above 30 Td, however, BOLSIG+ with its two term approximation is clearly above our multi term solution. Here one should bear in mind that BOLSIG+ treats the 24 Chapter 2 di↵usion processes under the spatially homogeneous conditions and hence the transverse di↵usion coe�cient obtained under the spatially-inhomogeneous con- ditions should be used for comparisons. On the other hand, our one-dimensional fluid model requires the longitudinal di↵usion coe�cient as an input as we con- sider the spatial variations of the electron density and average electron energy only along the field direction. Therefore, particular care needs to be taken with implementation of the di↵usion coe�cients in fluid models of streamer discharges. Figure 2.1(c) shows that the ionization rate (divided by the gas number dens- ity) di↵ers between the two term and the multi term calculations by up to 30 %. It is interesting to note that the two term approximation is less accurate in the energy region dominated by the vibrational excitation of N2 and for energies well above the ionization threshold. Surprisingly, for the electric field range between approximately 200 and 600 Td the two term approximation increases in accuracy. In this energy region the cross sections for inelastic processes are much smaller than for elastic collisions. Similar but not identical observations have been made by Phelps and Pitchford [173]. Figure 2.1(d) shows the variation of the mean energy with E/n0. The prop- erties of the cross sections are reflected in the profile of the mean energy. The initial slow rise indicates the influence of low-threshold rotational and vibrational processes. The sharp rise for mean energies starting approximately from 50 Td indicates the ‘turning o↵’ of the vibrational processes. Our results and those ob- tained by the BOLSIG+ code agree very well. The mean energy is determined from the balance between the gain from the field and the loss by collisions with the molecule. This quantity is directly used in high order fluid modeling of streamer discharges. Though it does not appear in the first order fluid models, unlike other transport coe�cients such as the drift velocity (mobility), di↵usion coe�cients, and ionization rate, we often find that a knowledge of the mean energy is necessary to explain certain phenomena. 2.3.4 Input data for the high order model The density normalized average collision frequencies for momentum transfer in elastic collisions and the average energy loss in one energy relaxation time e⌫ �1 e , through non-elastic processes as a function of mean electron energy are shown in figure 2.2. Bulk and flux frequencies obtained with the multi term approach are compared with flux values calculated with BOLSIG+. The flux values of the two approaches for e⌫ m /n0 agree well. The di↵erences between bulk and flux values of e⌫ m /n0 are a direct consequence of the di↵erences between bulk and flux mobilities (see figure 2.1(a)). Similar arguments can be used to explain the di↵erence between bulk and flux components of ⌦. This quantity should be viewed as a ‘measure’ of energy transfer in inelastic collisions in one energy relaxation time e⌫ �1 e . It is directly proportional to mobility and hence its bulk dominate the corresponding flux component for higher mean electron energies. Di↵erences between flux values of the two approaches for ⌦ follow directly from internal errors of the two term approximation used to solve Boltzmann’s equation in the BOLSIG+ code. Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 25 a) b) Figure 2.2: Density normalized average collision frequency for momentum transfer in elastic collisions e⌫ m /n 0 (a) and the average energy lost in one energy relaxation time e⌫ �1 e , through non-elastic processes ⌦ (b) as a function of the mean energy of electrons in N 2 , as an input for the high order model. The three curves in each panel show the flux and bulk data obtained by our multi term solution for the Boltzmann equation and the flux data obtained by the BOLSIG+ code. a) b) Figure 2.3: Rate coe�cients in N 2 as a function of the electron energy, calculated with the multi term solution of the Boltzmann equations. (a) Rates for the cross sections listed in [173, 215]: momentum transfer in elastic collisions (1), rotational excitation (2), vibrational excitations (3-11), electronic excitation A3⌃+ u v = (0 � 4) (12), A3⌃+ u v = (5 � 9) (13), B3⇧ (14), W 3� (15), A3⌃+ u v > 10 (16), B03⌃� u (17), a01⌃� u (18), a1⇧ g (19), w1� u (20), C3⇧ u (22), E3⌃+ g (23), a001⌃+ g (24), sum of singlets (25), disso- ciation [34] (21), ionization (26); and (b) density normalized momentum transfer rate, density normalized total inelastic rate and ionization rate. Figure 2.3(a) shows the rate coe�cients as a function of the mean electron energy for all collision processes. Figure 2.3(b) compares the density normalized average collision frequency for momentum transfer in elastic collisions, the dens- ity normalized total inelastic rate (sum of all rates for inelastic processes without ionization) and the ionization rate. All results are obtained with the solution of 26 Chapter 2 Boltzmann’s equation. On figure 2.3(b) the results obtained by the BOLSIG+ code are also included. The ionization rate is significant for relatively high mean energies (i.e., high E/n0) and is essential for modeling of streamers. Excepting rates for dissociation (21), electronic excitation (25) and ionization (26), the fol- lowing feature is observed in the mean energy-profiles of the rate coe�cients: at some point their increase with the mean energy slows down until a maximum is reached and then they start to decrease. Under conditions considered in this work, the ionization rate monotonically increase with the mean energy and in the limit of 100 eV it approaches to the rate for momentum transfer in elastic collisions. In the low energy range, however, rotational and vibrational excita- tions have the most important role. In particular, for electron energies less than approximately 0.1 eV, the processes of rotational excitation control the energy transfer in the system and should be carefully considered. In conclusion, colli- sional rates for inelastic processes enter the energy balance equation describing the change in the average energy of electrons. The knowledge of the rate coe�- cients is of key importance to calculate the kinetics of various plasma chemical processes and densities of excited species and thus used in much broader context of plasma modeling. 2.4 First order streamer model with different transport data Here we present simulations of planar negative ionization fronts in N2 using the first order fluid model, while simulation results with the high order fluid model are presented in chapter 3. 2.4.1 Numerical methods, initial and boundary conditions. In this subsection we briefly describe the numerical method, and the initial and boundary conditions used to solve equations (2.25)-(2.28) in one spatial dimen- sion. The calculations are carried out in N2 at atmospheric pressure and at the ambient temperature of 298 K. The 1D simulations are started with the same initial Gaussian type distribution for electrons and ions n(x)| t=0 = ni exp " � (x�x0) 2 � 2 # , (2.64) in a gap parameterized with the coordinate x 2 [0, L], with L = 1.2 mm. We have chosen n i = 2 ⇥ 1018 m�3, x0 = 8 ⇥ 10�4 m and � = 2.9 ⇥ 10�5 m. The externally applied electric field is positive in the x direction, therefore electrons drift to the left. The field is fixed in the non-ionized region at the left boundary x = 0, providing a fixed electric field for the negative streamer ionization front to penetrate. In this work we consider reduced electric fields of 350 Td, 460 Td, 590 Td, 770 Td and 1000 Td. To investigate the sensitivity of streamer properties to the definition and ac- curacy of the transport data, we employ three di↵erent sets of data for µ, D and Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 27 ⌫ I : bulk and flux data obtained by our Boltzmann equation analysis and the flux data obtained by the BOLSIG+ code. The finite volume method is used to spatially discretize the system (2.25)- (2.28) on a uniform grid with 1000 points. More details will be outlined in chapter 3 where numerical methods for solving the high order fluid equations are presented in a comprehensive way. To approximate the spatial derivatives in (2.25) we use the second-order central di↵erence discretization while the time derivatives are approximated with the Runge-Kutta 4 method [83]. The continuity equation for the electron density has a second order spatial derivative, and therefore it requires two boundary conditions. For x = 0 we use a homogeneous Neumann boundary condition (@ x n = 0), so that electrons that arrive at this boundary may flow out of the system. For x = L we employ a homogeneous Dirichlet boundary condition (n = 0) to ensure that there is no outflow of electrons from the system. In any case, it should be noted that the electrons are well separated from the boundaries, therefore the actual boundary conditions do not matter. In equation (2.26) the time derivative is approximated with the Runge-Kutta 4 method using the same time step as in equation (2.25). In the 1D case, equation (2.28) has the form @ x E = e ✏0 (n�n ion ), (2.65) from which we can determine the electric field E by integrating over x and using the fixed value of E at x = 0. 2.4.2 Overview of simulation results with different transport data Figure 2.4 displays the spatio-temporal evolution of electron and ion densities and of the electric field when the reduced electric field ahead of the front is fixed to 590 Td (or equivalently to 145 kV/cm in N2 at atmospheric pressure and temperature of 298 K). Calculations are performed for three di↵erent sets of transport data as indicated in the figures. We start with a Gaussian density distribution as described above. Though the transition from avalanche to streamer has been discussed many times within the past 80 years [107, 137, 138, 180], the characteristics and main physical processes are discussed here to investigate the sensitivity to di↵erent transport data. In the early stage of evolution, we see that both the electron and the ion densities grow due to electron impact ionization. If this was the only mechanism, the electric field would remain unchanged and the ionization would continue in- definitely. However, the electrons drift in the direction opposite to the electric field while the positive ions would slowly drift in the opposite direction; as their mobility is so much smaller, this motion is actually neglected here and in most other streamer studies. As a consequence, the charge separation starts to distort the initially homogeneous electric field. Now figure 2.4 shows that the ioniza- tion profiles at time 0.06 ns obtained with the bulk transport data are somewhat wider while their height is less than with our flux and BOLSIG+ data. This fol- lows from the fact that the bulk mobility and di↵usion constant are higher than the corresponding flux data and hence the centre of mass moves faster and the 28 Chapter 2 a) b) c) Figure 2.4: Evolution of (a) the electron density, (b) the ion density and (c) the electric field in a negative planar ionization front in N 2 with a reduced electric field of 590 Td ahead of the front. Shown are the spatial profiles obtained with three di↵erent sets of input data as indicated in the graph. Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 29 electron package spreads faster. As the ionization rate is the same in both cases, the height of the profiles obtained with the bulk data must be less than with the flux and BOLSIG+ data. As the evolution continues, the electric field in the ionised region gets completely screened, and further ionization processes cannot occur in this region anymore. The transition from avalanche to streamer is then completed. We mention in passing that the complete screening of the interior field is due to the 1D set-up and to the fact, that the field ahead of the front does not change in time. 2.4.3 Front velocities Figure 2.5: Velocities of planar fronts obtained by three di↵erent sets of input data as a function of the reduced electric field. The flux drift velocity of electrons is also included. When the streamers have approached an approximately uniformly translating state, we see that the streamers obtained with bulk data propagate faster than those obtained with flux and BOLSIG+ data, in agreement with earlier stud- ies [107, 110, 112]. In section 2.3.1 it was already discussed, that in general flux transport data should be used in fluid equations derived systematically from the Boltzmann equation; however, in the particular case of streamer ionization fronts with their pulled dynamics simulated with the half-phenomenological classical streamer model, the bulk coe�cients approximate the front velocity better, with the drawback that the ionization level behind the front is too small [107, 110, 112]. In figure 2.5 we display velocities of planar fronts as a function of E/n0. In order to calculate the streamer velocity we have followed the evolution of a certain level (2n i ) of the electron density at the streamer front. We compare the velocities obtained with di↵erent input data. The flux drift velocity as a function of E/n0 is also shown. First, we see that the planar fronts move much faster than the electrons. This follows from the fact that the velocity of a planar front is the 30 Chapter 2 sum of the drift in the electric field at the front edge plus a term accounting for di↵usion, for creation of additional electrons due to impact ionization and for the electron density profile [52]. The di↵erence between front velocity and electron drift velocity increases with E/n0, up to more than a factor of 2 for the highest field displayed here. We remark that according to analytical theory [50, 52], the front velocities in planar configurations (where the field does not decay ahead of the front) de- pend for a long time on initial conditions, and if the initial condition decays less than e�⇤ ⇤|x|, ⇤⇤ = p ⌫ I /D, it will determine the front velocity for arbitrarily long times. For this reason, we here do not compare numerical with analytical results [107]. We finally note that the front velocities calculated with bulk transport data are up to 30 % higher than with flux data. This illustrates the sensitivity of the model to the input data. On the other hand, the velocities di↵er much less between our flux data and those obtained with BOLSIG+. To explore this issue in more detail, additional tests are required, particularly for atomic and molecular systems with large anisotropy of the velocity distribution function in velocity space. 2.4.4 Ionization levels behind the front We now explore how the ionization degree behind the front depends on the trans- port data, and we compare with the analytical approximation n e,back  ✏0 e Z E max 0 ⌫ I (E) Eµ(E) dE. (2.66) This approximation becomes an identity, if di↵usion can be neglected [52]; and it is an upper bound, if di↵usion is taken into account [107]. This analytical result has been derived for planar fronts, and it is independent of the front velocity. In figure 2.6 we compare the ionization levels behind the fronts calculated with the three di↵erent sets of transport data and with the analytical upper bound, using our flux data. We see that the approximation (2.66) indeed serves as such a bound, but is furthermore also a very good approximation of the numerical results, when using the same transport data. The errors of the two term approximation are negligible indicating a weak sensitivity of the ionization level to the isotropy of the distribution function in velocity space that is assumed in BOLSIG+. The ionization level with bulk data is considerably lower. Generally, it is evident that the ionization level is much less sensitive to the type of transport data than the front velocity. Similar observations have been made in [107]. 2.5 Conclusion In this chapter we have derived a high order fluid model for streamer discharges. Our goal has been to develop a comprehensive theory at a level of sophistication appropriate for the electron energy distributions very far from equilibrium and for the steep electron density gradients that characterize a streamer front. The first Derivation of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges 31 Figure 2.6: Ionization levels behind planar fronts as a function of the reduced electric field. results are shown with three di↵erent sets of input data and with the analytical approximation (2.66) calculated with flux data. steps are reported in the present chapter, which deals with theoretical foundations and phenomenology. After examining the application of the Boltzmann equation, we have proceeded to the evaluation of the velocity moments of Boltzmann’s equation. To make contact with previous works and to place our theory in a much broader context, we have demonstrated how to derive the classical drift- di↵usion approximation often used in the plasma modeling community to model streamer discharges. Then we have introduced our more sophisticated high order fluid approach, proceeding directly from Boltzmann’s equation and systematically discussing the critical assumptions required to close the system of equations and to evaluate the collision terms involved. Momentum transfer theory has been used to approximate collision terms in the high order fluid model while high order tensors appearing in the energy flux equation have been specified in terms of previous moments. In contrast to previous works, it has been emphasized that the energy flux equation plays a pivotal role for the correct description of streamer dynamics. The fluid equations obtained as velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation have been closed in the local mean energy approximation and coupled to the Poisson equation to calculate the modification of the electric field by space charges. The numerical solutions of the high order fluid model for planar fronts and their discussion are deferred to the following chapter. The second important aspect of this chapter concerns the application of trans- port data in fluid models of streamer discharges. In order to illustrate this issue, we have used the first order fluid model to investigate the temporal evolution of negative planar fronts in pure nitrogen. We have focused on the way in which the inherent streamer properties such as the velocity of a streamer or the ionization level behind the front are influenced by di↵erent transport data employed as an 32 Chapter 2 input in fluid equations. Our primary goal was to show which aspects of kin- etic theory developed for swarm physics and particularly which segments of data would be important for further improvement of streamer models. It was shown and illustrated that the direct application of transport data from the literature without knowledge of origin and nature of the data is problematic and can often lead to significant errors in the profiles of various streamer properties. In this re- spect, the origin and nature of transport data must be known and, if appropriate, suitably modified before implementation in the fluid models. This is particularly important for collisional transfer rates required as input in high order fluid model. We have also discussed the validity of transport data obtained by a two term the- ory for solving the Boltzmann equation. Our general sentiment was that two term data are well acceptable in fluid modeling of streamers, though additional testing is required for gases with large anisotropy of the velocity distribution function in velocity space. CHAPTER 3 Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts There are no such things as applied sciences, only applications of science. – Louis Pasteur The greatest challenge to any thinker is stating the problem in a way that will allow a solution. – Bertrand Russell 3.1 Introduction Streamer discharges occur in nature and technology, predominantly in pulsed high voltage discharges; at their rapidly propagating tips electric fields well above the break-down value are maintained that create high electron energies and reaction rates. Streamers occur in lightning and sprites [49, 54, 64, 123] as well as in indus- trial applications such as lighting [61, 113, 208], treatment of polluted gases and water [227], disinfection [226], plasma jets and bullets [21, 121, 147, 148, 241] and This chapter is based on the publication [131] High-order fluid model for streamer dis- charges: II. Numerical solution and investigation of planar fronts by Aram H. Markosyan, Saša Dujko and Ute Ebert published in Journal of Physics D: Applied Physics, Volume 46, Number 47, Page 475203, 2013. 33 34 Chapter 3 plasma assisted combustion [210, 212]. Further optimization and understanding of such applications depends on an accurate knowledge of the electron dynamics during streamer development. A Monte Carlo technique is able to track the electron distribution in phase space, yielding both electron density profiles and electron energy distribution. However, a full particle model long has been computationally too demanding or too inaccurate due to the used super-particle techniques, and even now the para- meter range of simulations is limited. For recent progress in particle and hybrid models we refer to [107, 110, 111, 112, 125]. Due to the computational costs and limitations of particle models, up to today mainly fluid approximations have been used to model the structure and evolution of streamer discharges in two or three spatial dimensions. These fluid models were restricted almost exclusively to the hydrodynamic reaction drift di↵usion approximation combined with the local field approximation, though the short-comings of this model have been acknowledged and documented [13, 58, 73, 87, 107, 108, 109, 110, 112, 143]. They arise from the fact that within the streamer front the electron density develops large spatial gradients and a complex interaction with the field. This in turn limits the use of the local field approximation as the electron energy does not immediately relax to the value determined by the local field, but depends upon the electric field in a wider spatial range. The aim of the preceding and the present chapter is to develop and test a better fluid approximation for streamer discharges in gaseous media. In the pre- vious chapter 2 we have derived a high order fluid model, whose predictions for streamer dynamics will be tested in the present chapter. The high order fluid model contains equations for the electron density, for the average electron velo- city, for the average electron energy and for the average electron energy flux. It was obtained from velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation and closed in the local mean energy approximation. Momentum transfer theory [187, 229, 234] was used to evaluate the collisional terms in the balance equations, and particular emphasis was placed upon the correct representation of momentum and energy transfer in energy-dependent non-conservative collisions. The system was trun- cated at the level of the energy flux balance and simplifying approximations were introduced in the momentum and energy flux balance equations in order to close the system. In particular, in the momentum balance equation it was assumed that the distribution of velocities is isotropic assuming isotropy of the temper- ature and pressure tensors. Thus, the pressure tensor was reduced to a scalar kinetic pressure. Furthermore, the same approximation was used in the energy flux balance equation. If one assumes an isotropic distribution of velocities then the contribution of higher terms including the high order heat flux tensor and the high order pressure tensor is relatively small and could be neglected. However, the energy flux transported by the convective particle motion should be treated and implemented carefully. The high order tensor in the energy flux balance equation is expressed in terms of lower moments using the simplifying assumption that the pressure tensor is isotropic. Thus with such a treatment of the random motion and the high order terms associated with the energy flux of the drift motion, we have obtained a complete and closed system of fluid equations su�cient to Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 35 determine all macroscopic streamer properties. In the present chapter the system of fluid equations derived in the previous chapter 2 is solved numerically for a negative planar streamer ionization front and compared with results of a PIC/MC particle model and of the first order fluid model. The comparison with the particle model confirms that our high order fluid model approximates the particle behaviour very well. The comparison with the commonly used first order fluid model of reaction drift di↵usion type shows the short-comings of this classical model. This concerns the front velocities, the ionization levels behind the front as well as the electron energy distribution in the high field region ahead of the front and in the ionized low field region in the streamer interior. Actually the inaccurate ionization level in the streamer interior in the first order fluid model is a direct consequence of the inaccuracies of the electron energy distribution [107, 110]. Inaccurate electron densities and energies also have direct consequences for the gas chemistry in the streamer interior [62, 127, 162, 176, 177]. In addition to the accuracy and comprehensiveness of our high order fluid model, its firm theoretical foundation is certainly an additional favouring factor. We begin by presenting in section 3.2 the di↵erential equations governing the electron density, the average electron velocity, the average electron energy and the average electron energy flux. Then we discuss the numerical algorithm used for the solution of the di↵erential equations. The specific elements of this discussion include a brief mathematical reminder on hyperbolic systems, the implementation of initial and boundary conditions and the discretization in space and time. Our numerical analysis is performed in a 1D model, because in the present chapter we are not interested in a streamer morphology and related phenomena where a full multidimensional model is required. We use a PIC/MC method as an alternative technique to verify our high order fluid model. Following the recent work of Li et al. [107, 110, 111], in section 3.3 we give a brief description of this method with particular emphasis upon the construction of planar fronts in the particle model. The high order fluid model is then applied in section 3.4 where examples of planar fronts in pure nitrogen are presented. The e↵ects of photoionization are not considered and present theory can be applied to negative fronts in discharges where photoionization is very weak (high-purity nitrogen is a good example). Results demonstrating the validity of a high order fluid model compared with the PIC/MC are shown. Following the previous chapter 2, we demonstrate the importance of a consistent implementation of transport data in fluid models, but now instead of using the first order model as in the previous chapter 2, we employ our high order model. Along similar lines, the accuracy of the two term approximation for solving Boltzmanns equation in the context of high order fluid studies of the streamer discharges is examined. We pay particular attention to the role of the electron energy flux. For illustrative purposes, calculated results for the planar fronts based on a high order model with energy flux and those calculated without energy flux, are compared over a range of electric fields in order to verify the physical arguments associated with the solution regimes and closure assumptions outlined in the previous chapter 2. Next, we examine the closure assumption associated with the explicit influence of the high order tensor 36 Chapter 3 appearing in the energy flux equation on the streamer dynamics. We conclude that the explicit contribution of the high order tensor in the energy flux equation is negligible and it makes a notable di↵erence only in the velocity of the planar fronts. In summary, in this chapter we present the numerical solution of a high order fluid model, test and verify it on the more microscopic PIC/MC model, and discuss how inherent streamer properties deviate when simpler fluid models are used. 3.2 Model description and numerical solution 3.2.1 The high order fluid model In the previous chapter 2 we have developed a high order fluid model for streamer discharges. The balance equations were obtained as velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation while the collisional terms were evaluated using momentum transfer theory. We have truncated the system of fluid equations at the level of energy flux balance by reducing the pressure tensor to a scalar kinetic pressure and by neglecting the high order terms associated with the flux of thermal motion. The energy flux of the drift motion, however, is included. For more details of the derivation we refer to [47]. The derived model consists of a set of di↵erential equations for the electron density n, for the average electron velocity v, for the average electron energy " and for the average electron energy flux ⇠: @n @t +r · nv = �n � e⌫ A �e⌫ I � , (3.1) @ @t (nv) + 2 3m r(n")�n e m E = �nv ⇣ e⌫ m + e⌫ I + 2 3m "e⌫ 0 a ⌘ , (3.2) @ @t (n")+ r · (n⇠)�eE · (nv) = �ne⌫ e ⇥� "� 3 2 kT0 � + ⌦ ⇤ �n"e⌫ A , (3.3) @ @t (n⇠) +r ⇣ � 2n 3m " 2 ⌘ � 5 3 n"eE = �e⌫ m n⇠ , (3.4) where E is the electric field, m and e are electron mass and charge, T0 is gas tem- perature and k is the Boltzmann constant. The average collision frequencies for momentum e⌫ m and energy transfer in elastic collisions e⌫ e are given by equations (2.42) and (2.43) of the previous chapter 2 while e⌫ I and e⌫ A are the ionization and attachment rate coe�cients. The term ⌦ represents the average energy lost in one energy relaxation time e⌫ �1 e and is given by equation (4.26) of the previous chapter 2. � is a parameter introduced to approximate the high order tensors in the energy flux equation in terms of lower moments (see equation (2.50) of the previous chapter 2). Taking into account the rapid growth and propagation of the streamers with orders of the electron drift velocity and the relatively slow drift velocity of ions, the ions are approximated as immobile, as usually done when streamer ionization Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 37 fronts are analyzed. Therefore, the charge densities n ion due to the positive and negative ions change only due to ionization and attachment: @n ion @t = �n � e⌫ A �e⌫ I � . (3.5) In order to account for the space charge e↵ects, the system (3.1)-(3.5) is coupled with the Poisson equation for the potential � which then enables the calculation of the electric field E: r2� = � e ✏0 (n ion �n), E = �r� , (3.6) where ✏0 is the dielectric constant. 3.2.2 1D hyperbolic system of balance laws In the present chapter we simulate the propagation of negative streamer fronts in pure N2 at atmospheric pressure and at an ambient temperature of 298 K in 1D. As N2 is a non-attaching gas, electron attachment does not appear in the source terms of our system (3.1)-(3.6). The e↵ects of superelastic collisions are not taken into account and we consider only single ionization with ionization energy ✏ I . The electron dynamics of equations (3.1)–(3.4) in 1D is given by the following nonlinear system of balance laws: @u @t + A(u) @u @x = F (u), (3.7) where the primitive variables are u = (n, nv, n", n⇠)T, (3.8) the matrix A(u) is A(u) = 0 BB @ 0 1 0 0 0 0 2 3m 0 0 0 0 1 �� 2"2 3m 0 � 4" 3m 0 1 CC A , (3.9) and the source term is F (u) = 0 BB @ ne⌫ I nqE m �nv (e⌫ m + e⌫ I ) qEnv �ne⌫ e ⇥� "� 3 2 kT0 � + ⌦ ⇤ 5qE 3m n"�n⇠e⌫ m 1 CC A . (3.10) The equation for the ions (3.5) is without electron attachment @n ion @t = ne⌫ I , (3.11) 38 Chapter 3 while the Poisson equation (3.6) in 1D has the following simple form: @E @x = e ✏0 (n ion �n) . (3.12) Hence, the streamer dynamics in 1D for a non-attaching gas is described by the system of equations (3.7)-(3.12). Now we can apply the theory for hyperbolic systems of balance laws [104, 105, 140] to our system (3.7)-(3.9). The matrix A(u) has four eigenvalues: �1,2 = ±� q � � p �(� �1) �3,4 = ±� q � + p �(� �1) , (3.13) where � = q 2✏ 3m . All eigenvalues are real and distinct when � = 0 or � � 1. (3.14) This means that the system (3.7) is hyperbolic if the condition (3.14) holds. Al- though the eigenvalues (3.13) are simple, the corresponding right and left eigen- vectors have a rather complicated form, which makes it impossible to work with the vector of Riemann invariants. 3.2.3 Initial and boundary conditions The electric field E = Eê x (where ê x is the unit vector in the x direction) drives the dynamics. We take E as a positive value; therefore electrons drift to the left, and negative streamer ionization fronts move to the left as well. To create steady propagation conditions for the negative front, the electric field on the left boundary x = 0 is fixed to the time independent value E0 E(0, t) = E0 > 0. (3.15) The electric field for x > 0 is calculated by integrating equation (3.12) numerically over x, with (3.15) as a boundary condition. The right boundary is located at x = L; in all calculations we set the system length L to 1.2 mm and we use 1500 grid points. sec3.2.3 All simulations are started with the same initial Gaussian type distribution for electrons and ions n(x)| t=0 = ni exp " � (x�x0) 2 � 2 # , (3.16) where we have chosen n i = 2 ⇥ 1018 m�3, x0 = 0.8 mm and � = 0.029 mm. The initial conditions for the average electron velocity, average electron energy and average electron energy flux are taken to be spatially homogeneous. The actual values of these quantities are calculated using a multi term solution of Boltzmann’s equation, as already discussed in the chapter 2. Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 39 As discussed in the appendix, we use homogeneous Neumann boundary con- ditions for all components of u at both ends of the system, so that all electron quantities may flow out of the system. Only for the electron density at x = L we employ a homogeneous Dirichlet boundary condition to prevent electrons from di↵using out. However, all calculations end before the ionization reaches the boundary, that means, before the boundary conditions start to become relevant. Further details on the numerical discretization of the system can be found in the appendix. Extended mathematical and/or numerical studies of the system (3.7) are deferred to a future work. 3.3 MC particle model and first order fluid model In the next section, we will compare the simulation results of our high order model with those of the PIC/MC particle model and with the first order fluid model. Here these models are briefly described. 3.3.1 The MC particle model A Monte Carlo model following the motion of individual electrons contains the full physics that is to be approximated by a fluid model. The successful comparison of a fluid model with such a particle model validates the fluid model; of course, the same cross-sections have to be used in both models. The construction of a planar front is straight forward in fluid models, as the spatial derivatives are simply evaluated in one direction. However, in the particle model electrons move in all three spatial dimensions and hence, the three- dimensional setting has to be restricted as in previous work [107]. An essentially one-dimensional setting is achieved by considering only a small transversal area T of the front and by imposing periodic boundary conditions at the lateral bound- aries. The electric field is calculated only in the forward direction x through E x (x, t) = E x (x0, t) + Z x x 0 dx 0 Z T dy dz T e(n ion �n)(x0, y, z, t) ✏0 , (3.17) where E x is the electric field in the x-direction, and x0 is an arbitrary position. Therefore, fluctuations of the transversal field due to density fluctuations in the transversal direction are not included. The density fluctuations projected onto the forward direction depend on the transversal area T over which the averages are taken. 3.3.2 The first order fluid model The first order fluid model is the multiply used reaction drift di↵usion model that also was called the “classical fluid model” in our previous work [110] [112]; in these previous papers, it was already shown that the model can only serve as a first approximation, but cannot reproduce the results of a particle simulation quantitatively. The steps of derivation of this model were discussed and criticized 40 Chapter 3 in the previous chapter 2. The model is based on the hydrodynamic reaction drift di↵usion approximation @n @t � @ @x ✓ nµE + D @n @x ◆ = n⌫ I , (3.18) where µ and D are electron mobility and di↵usion coe�cient, respectively. Trans- port coe�cients used as an input in this model are functions of the local electric field as discussed in the chapter 2. In order to account for the space charge ef- fects, equation (3.18) is coupled to the equations for ion density (3.11) and for the electric field (3.12). For the purpose of comparison, we use the same nu- merical schemes to discretize equation (3.18) and the same initial and boundary conditions as introduced above for the high order model. 3.4 Results and discussion In this section we present and compare the simulations results obtained with our high order fluid model, with the PIC/MC method and with the first order fluid model. We consider the configuration described in Section 3.2.3. The transport coe�cients required as an input in both the first and the high order fluid model are given in chapter 2. They were calculated from cross sections for electron scattering in N2 through a multi term solution of the Boltzmann equation. Details of the calculation together with the prescription how to use the data in modeling are given in the same article. It is important to emphasize that the same collisional cross sections for electrons in N2 are used in all models presented in this chapter. 3.4.1 Simulation of planar fronts: overall comparison between the models Figure 3.1 shows the temporal evolution of the electron and ion densities and of the electric field in N2, when the electric field ahead of the front is 590 Td (or equivalently 145 kV/cm at atmospheric pressure and at a temperature of 298 K). The initially Gaussian electron density shows the behavior observed many times in past: first, it grows due to the ionization processes; then charge separation occurs in the electric field due to the drift of oppositely charged particles in opposite directions, and the initially homogeneous electric field is distorted; and finally, when the field in the ionized region becomes more and more screened, the ionization stops in the ionized region and the typical ionization front profiles of electron and ion densities and of the electric field are established. The initial ionization avalanche is then said to have developed into a streamer. We note that the results of the high order fluid model and of the PIC/MC simulation agree very well. The streamer velocity is almost the same, as well as the electric field and the electron/ion density. Conversely, when the first order fluid model is applied, the streamer velocity is lower, with a lower electron density in the streamer head and in the streamer channel. In figure 3.2 we show how the streamer velocity depends on the applied reduced electric field E/n0. In order to calculate the streamer velocity we have followed the evolution of a certain level Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 41 Figure 3.1: Temporal evolution of the electron density (a), ion density (b) and electric field (c) in a planar front in N 2 . Shown are the spatial profiles obtained with three di↵erent models as indicated on the graph. Flux transport data are used as an input in fluid models. The externally applied reduced electric field is 590 Td. 42 Chapter 3 (2n i ) of the electron density at the streamer front. We see that for increasing E/n0 the di↵erences of the streamer velocities between the first order and the high order fluid model increase slightly. On the other hand, the velocities of the high order fluid model and the PIC/MC agree very well. Similar trends are observed for the electron density behind the ionization front. While the first order model generally underestimates this electron density, the high order model approximates the PIC/MC results much better. This agreement holds in the full range of fields E/n0 explored, while the di↵erences between first order model and MC model increase with increasing E/n0. In some aspects the results presented in figures 3.1 and 3.2 are consistent with observations by Li et al. [107, 110] and by Kanzari et al. [87]. In particular, Li et al. [107, 110, 112] already have found considerable di↵erences in velocities and ionization densities between MC particle model and classical fluid model; they have proposed an extension of the first order fluid model in [110], based on a phenomenological gradient expansion suggested in [4, 143] to get a better agreement of the fluid model with the results of the particle model. The extended fluid model of Li and co-workers uses a density gradient expansion of the source term to approximate the spatial non-locality of the ionization processes at the streamer front. However, this model overestimates the particle results for the electron density in the streamer channel when the field is below 125 kV/cm (for standard temperature and pressure of the background gas) by up to 4 %, while for an electric field of up to 200 kV/cm, the extended fluid model underestimates the particle results by up to 9 % [110]. On the other hand, the di↵erences in the electron density behind the ionization front between our systematically derived high order fluid model and the PIC/MC model do not exceed 5% for electric fields of up to 245 kV/cm as considered in this work, thus demonstrating that we correctly derived and implemented our high order fluid model. 3.4.2 Electron energy profiles in different front regions within the different models We now focus on the characteristic di↵erences in the profiles of the electron dens- ity. Figure 3.3 shows the profiles of the average electron energy for all three models, as well as the profiles of the electric field and of the electron density at t = 0.7 ns for the first order model only. In the first order model, the average electron energy is assumed to adapt to the electric field instantaneously, therefore it was derived from the local electric field for the plot. However, the profile of the average energy obtained by the high order fluid and PIC/MC models is more complex. We distinguish three di↵erent spatial regimes, the streamer head where most ionization occurs and where electron density and electric field have large gradients, the region ahead of the front where the electric field is high and the electron density vanishes, and the streamer interior where the electron density is finite and the electric field is low or vanishing. First, figure 3.3 shows that in the streamer head the average electron energy given by the high order fluid and PIC/MC methods are higher than in the first Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 43 Figure 3.2: Velocities of planar fronts as a function of the electric field obtained with the first and the high order fluid model and with the PIC/MC method; di↵erent sets of input data are used as indicated on the graph. The electron flux drift velocity as a function of E/n 0 is also included. We remark that the negative sign of all velocities is removed here. order fluid model. Since the ionization rate in this energy range is an increasing function of the electron energy, it is clear that the higher the average electron energy, the higher is the ionization rate. These observations are consistent with those made by Li et al. [107, 110]. Second, in the region ahead of the front the average energy in the high order model has a slope which reflects the so-called non-local e↵ects. In this region, the PIC/MC method is not e�cient as there are not enough particles to sample the spatially resolved average electron energy correctly. It must be emphasized that the spatial variation of the average electron energy is present even in the avalanche phase where an initial spatially homogeneous electric field is not distorted due to space charge e↵ects. According to arguments given in [107], the leading edge of an ionization front has essentially the same dynamics and therefore also the same energy slope as an electron swarm. In the past, many swarm oriented studies have been performed to explore the e↵ects of spatial variation of the average energy through the swarm and many phenomena have been discovered [46, 169, 232, 234]. Almost certainly, one of the most striking phenomena is the di↵erence between the flux and the bulk transport data which follows directly from spatially dependent nonconservative collisions (ionization and/or electron attachment) resulting from a spatial variation of average electron energies within the swarm [44, 46, 150, 234]. Third, figure 3.3 shows strong disagreement between the average energy in the first order model and the average energies predicted by high order fluid and 44 Chapter 3 Figure 3.3: The average electron energy in three di↵erent models at time 0.7 ns. Profiles of the electric field and the electron number density from the first order fluid model are also included to indicate the location of the front. Calculations are performed for E/n 0 of 590 Td. PIC/MC methods in the streamer interior. Within the first order fluid model the average electron energy attains approximately the thermal value. This fol- lows directly from the local field approximation and from our Boltzmann equa- tion calculation of the mean energy in the limit of vanishing electric field. It should be emphasized that thermal e↵ects of background molecules are included in our Boltzmann equation analysis. In contrast to the first order fluid model, the average electron energy given by high order fluid and PIC/MC methods are significantly higher. This is another manifestation of the non-local e↵ects, but this time, these phenomena take place in the streamer channel. As the velocity of the front is higher than the electron drift velocity even in the streamer head region, electrons slowly relax to lower energies in the lower or vanishing field in the streamer interior. This causes the spatial decay of average electron energy in high order fluid and PIC/MC model, that can be observed in figure 3.3. This de- crease of the average electron energy follows directly from the energy dependence of the collision frequency for energy relaxation in elastic and inelastic collisions. Another interesting feature is the disagreement between the high order and the PIC/MC results for the average electron energy in the streamer channel. We believe that this disagreement arises from the limitations associated mainly with the high order fluid model. Although our PIC/MC method does not treat thermal e↵ects of the background molecules, electron energies are too high for this to be significant. Most probably this disagreement arises from an increased anisotropy of the distribution function which in turn limits the adequacy of the closure as- Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 45 Figure 3.4: The ratio between transverse and longitudinal components of the temperat- ure tensor as a function of electron energy in N 2 based on the multi term approach for the Boltzmann equation. sumptions associated with the pressure tensor. Indeed, the average energy in the streamer channel varies between 0.5 and 1 eV and exactly in the same energy region the cross sections for vibrational excitation grow rapidly in magnitude (a few orders of magnitude in a very narrow energy range) while the cross section for momentum transfer in elastic collisions varies relatively slowly with the elec- tron energy. This will induce strong anisotropy of the distribution function, and it is clear that the assumption of the isotropy of the temperature tensor is cer- tainly problematic under these conditions. These physical arguments are verified on figure 3.4 where the ratio between transverse and longitudinal components of the temperature tensor for electrons in N2 is shown. It shows a minimum in the profile between 0.5 and 1 eV which is a clear sign of an increasing anisotropy of the distribution function in velocity space. It should be emphasized that for the range of electric fields considered in this work, the di↵erent average energies in the streamer channel observed in high order fluid or PIC/MC model cannot induce significant changes in the electron density. Another physical argument which can be used to address the di↵erences between the average electron energies in the streamer channel is associated with the accuracy of the PIC/MC method. In the energy range around 1 eV one must carefully follow the electrons in a PIC/MC simulation. If the time step between two successive collisions is too big then the energy losses due to rapidly increasing cross sections for vibrational excitation are not going to be included accurately. This is of less importance for the collisional processes whose cross sections do not vary so rapidly with the electron energy. One way to overcome this problem is to reduce the time step in a PIC/MC method 46 Chapter 3 but the penalty is a significant increase in the computation time. It is clear that additional testing and calculations are required to resolve this issue. Figure 3.5: Profiles of the average electron velocity in the first and the high order fluid models and of the PIC/MC model at time 0.7 ns. Profiles of the electric field and of the electron number density from the first order model are also included to indicate the location of the front. Calculations are performed for E/n 0 of 590 Td. We remark that all velocities are negative, and their absolute value has been plotted. Figure 3.5 shows the average electron velocity through the streamer front. As for the average electron energy, in the first order model the average velocity of electrons is obtained from the profile of the electric field assuming the local field approximation. We see that the average velocity of electrons follows changes in the electric field instantaneously: in the outer streamer region where the electric field is constant the average velocity has also a constant value while in the streamer channel the average velocity is essentially zero. When considering the profiles of the average velocity derived by the high order model, one may observe the characteristic slope of this quantity in the outer region of the streamer while in the streamer channel it vanishes. This stands in contrast to the profile of the average energy. The relaxation of the average velocity is determined by the momentum transfer collision frequency which is a factor of 2.5 ⇥ 104 larger than the collision frequency for energy transfer. This means that the relaxation of the average velocity is much faster and hence in contrast to the average electron energy this quantity relaxes very rapidly. Figure 3.5 shows a good agreement between results derived by fluid models and by the PIC/MC method. As in the case of the average electron energy, the PIC/MC method is not suitable for the determination of the average velocity of electrons in the region ahead of the front because in this region only a few electrons exist. Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 47 a) b) c) Figure 3.6: Temporal evolution of (a) the electron density, (b) the ion density and (c) the electric field in a planar negative ionization front in N 2 with a reduced electric field E/n 0 of 590 Td ahead of the front. Displayed are the spatial profiles obtained with three di↵erent sets of input data as indicated in the graph. 48 Chapter 3 a) b) c) Figure 3.7: The same simulations and plots as in the previous figure, but now for (a) the average electron velocity v, (b) the average electron energy ✏, and (c) the average electron energy flux ⇠. Again, velocity v and energy flux ⇠ here are negative quantities, and their absolute value is plotted. Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 49 3.4.3 On the use of transport data in the high order fluid model Another important issue in streamer modeling concerns the choice of transport data in fluid models. The origin of, and the di↵erence between bulk and flux trans- port coe�cients in the context of streamer studies have been recently discussed in [44, 110, 111]. In this section we consider the implications of the transport coef- ficient duality in the context of our high order fluid model for streamers. We also discuss to what extent the di↵erences between transport coe�cients obtained by the two term approximation for solving Boltzmann’s equation and those obtained by a multi term theory a↵ect the accuracy of streamer models. Figure 3.6 shows the temporal evolution of the electron and ion densities and of the electric field in a streamer front when the reduced electric field ahead of it is 590 Td. The calculations are performed for three di↵erent sets of input data as indicated in the figures. The inadequacy of using bulk data in the high order model is clearly evident (having in mind the very good agreement between the profiles obtained with the flux data and with the PIC/MC method, as shown in the previous section): the streamer velocity is higher and the electron/ion density in the streamer head and in the streamer channel is higher than with the flux transport data. For increasing electric field the discrepancies in the streamer velocity increase further, as illustrated in figure 3.2. Similar trends have been observed in the chapter 2 where planar fronts were modeled with the first order fluid model. In both models, streamers with bulk data are faster and the electron/ion density is higher in both the streamer head and the streamer channel. This follows directly from the fact that in N2 the bulk mobility of the electrons is larger than the flux mobility. On the other hand, as already shown in section 3.4.1 we observe an excellent agreement between our high order profiles obtained with the flux data and those predicted by a PIC/MC method. Figure 3.7 displays the temporal evolution of the average electron velocity, of the average electron energy and of the averaged electron energy flux under the influence of electric field of 590 Td for di↵erent times as indicated on the graph. The inadequacy of using bulk data is again evident. In the early stage of the streamer development (when the electric field is not entirely screened), the average electron energy calculated using the bulk data is higher in all relevant streamer regions. When the transition process from an avalanche to a streamer is finished, we see a clear discrepancy between the average energies in the region ahead of the streamer front. As simulated planar fronts with bulk data are faster, the corresponding profiles of the average energy are shifted forward. However, for a fully developed streamer, there are no significant deviations between the average energies in the streamer channel. In this region the electric field is screened, and the average energies are slowly thermalizing although not fully relaxed as shown in previous section. The average electron velocity behaves exactly in the same manner as the average electron energy when comparing results with flux or bulk data. The only di↵erence is associated with the fact that the average velocity of electrons is almost fully relaxed in the streamer channel regardless of the type of data used in calculations. The average electron energy flux shows similar behavior. In earlier streamer investigations it has not been generally investigated to what 50 Chapter 3 extent the two term Boltzmann equation results for various transport coe�cients a↵ect the accuracy of the model predictions. The limitations of the two term approximation for solving Boltzmann’s equation have been illustrated many times in past in the context of swarm studies [45, 171, 233, 234]. Here the question arises of whether a similar conclusion can be drawn for streamers taking into account that the streamer development is a non-linear, non-stationary and non- hydrodynamic problem where space charge e↵ects are important and where the electron energy varies from thermal values in the streamer channel up to a few tens of eV in the outer region of the streamer for the fields considered here. It is clear that the anisotropy of the velocity distribution function may be considerable in various streamer regions and hence we will compare profiles for di↵erent streamer properties using the two term and multi term results for transport data as an input in modeling. Figure 3.6 (a) shows that the ionization level behind the streamer front cal- culated using the BOLSIG+ transport data is lower while the streamer velocity is the same. Surprisingly, the profiles of the electric field, the average electron energy and the average electron velocity obtained with the multi term flux data or with the BOLSIG+ data agree very well. This is a clear indication that internal errors of the two term approximation associated with the ionization rate can be directly used to understand the di↵erences in the profiles of the electron and ion densities in the streamer channel (see figure 2.4 (c) in the chapter 2). However, this conclusion cannot be generalized to other gases or other conditions than those studied here. As pointed out recently by White and co-workers [233, 234] one may never be sure about the accuracy of the two term approximation as various trans- port properties show di↵erent sensitivity with respect to this approximation in di↵erent energy ranges. For example, the inadequacy of the two term approxima- tion has been recently demonstrated for CF4 [171] and CH4 [233]. In the chapter 2, it was shown that the velocity of a streamer in the first order fluid model is significantly a↵ected by choosing either the two term or the multi term solution. Therefore, when high precision is required the best option is to use a multi term approach and/or a Monte Carlo simulation technique to calculate the input data for fluid models regardless of their order. 3.4.4 Simulation of planar fronts with and without the energy flux term In this section, we compare the results of the high order fluid model with and without the energy flux term (3.4). In the model without the energy flux term the energy flux ⇠ in the energy balance equation (3.3) is set to zero, and therefore the energy flux balance equation (3.4) does not need to be considered. This approach was already used in the case of streamer corona discharge dynamics [58, 87] and for analysis of ionization wave dynamics in low-temperature plasma jets [241]. Figures 3.8 and 3.9 show the streamer properties for a reduced electric field E/n0 of 350 Td at time t = 1.5 ns. First, we see that the high order fluid model with the energy flux term gives higher electron and ion densities within the streamer channel than without the energy flux. For increasing E/n0 these di↵erences increase further, as shown in figure 3.10(a). The electric field exhibits the typical streamer behavior; Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 51 Figure 3.8: Electron density, ion density and electric field in N 2 in an external electric field of 350 Td. The two lines indicate solutions of the high order fluid model with and without the energy flux term at the same instance of time. The initial condition is the same, and the flux transport data are used. Figure 3.9: The same instant and plot as in Fig. 3.8, but now average electron energy, negative average electron velocity and negative average electron energy flux are plotted. the observed di↵erences between the high order fluid models with and without the energy flux term follow from the time delay needed for the space charge to 52 Chapter 3 become high enough and distort the externally applied spatially homogeneous electric field in these two models. This property is even more evident for the streamer velocity shown in figure 3.10(b). Figures 3.8 and 3.9 show clearly that in our simulation conditions the streamer front propagates faster in the high order fluid model with the energy flux term. Furthermore, the average electron energy and the average electron velocity ahead of the streamer depends clearly on the fact whether the electron energy flux is included or not. The average electron energy has a steep gradient between the outer streamer region and the streamer channel. In this spatially narrow region the energy decreases from the range between 10 and 20 eV to essentially thermal values in the streamer channel. It is clear that the correct treatment of the energy flux in the high order fluid model is critical for an accurate energy transport between the di↵erent streamer regions. In view of the close agreement between the present results with the energy flux term and those predicted by a PIC/MC method, established in the previous sections, we must conclude that the high order fluid model without the energy flux term is qualitatively right but quantitatively wrong under the conditions simulated. 3.4.5 Simulation of planar fronts with and without the high order tensor In this section we investigate the influence of the high order tensor in the energy flux equation. In order to truncate the system after the energy flux equation, in the chapter 2 this tensor was expressed by a product of two lower order tensors times a parameter �. In all previous sections, we used � = 1 which is a natural guess. Here we investigate how the simulation results depend on �. Figure 3.11 shows the profiles of the electron density, the electric field, the average electron energy and the average electron flux for a reduced electric field E/n0 of 350 Td at time 1.5 ns. One can immediately see that increasing the para- meter � increases the velocity of the streamer very slightly. All other quantities remains essentially unaltered in the streamer channel indicating their weak sens- itivity with respect to �. Only in the limit of the highest electric field considered here, the streamer properties in the channel respond slightly to the variation of the parameter �. Ahead of the streamer front, however, we observe variations in the streamer properties even for the reduced electric field of 350 Td. As expected, the most sensitive quantity with respect to variations in � is the average electron energy flux. In section 3.2.2, we have derived that our high order model is well posed if � = 0 or � � 1. We have solved our system for a range of values for � and reduced electric fields E/n0 and it was found that � = 1 ensures the best agreement between profiles obtained by the high order fluid model and by the PIC/MC method. This validates the closure assumption associated with the contribution of high order tensors in the energy flux equation, as discussed in the chapter 2. Furthermore, if we analyze the profiles of various streamer properties for � = 0, the simulation results agree very well with those derived by the PIC/MC method. The importance of this is twofold. First, the influence of the high order tensors in the energy flux equation is less than initially expected. Second, taking � = 0 is a Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 53 a) b) Figure 3.10: (a) The ionization level behind the planar front, and (b) the absolute value of the front velocity as a function of the reduced electric field E/n 0 ahead of the front. Results are shown for the high order fluid model with or without the energy flux term, as well as for the PIC/MC model. Flux transport data are used as an input in the fluid models. very good approximation, and it will significantly reduce the computation costs for the di↵erential equations in 3D. 54 Chapter 3 Figure 3.11: Profiles of (a) electron density, (b) electric field, (c) average electron energy, and (d) average electron energy flux for � = 1, � = 2 and � = 3. The results are shown for E/n 0 of 350 Td at time 1.5 ns. 3.5 Conclusion In the previous chapter 2 we have derived the equations and the transport and reaction parameters of a high order fluid model for streamer discharges. In the present chapter we have briefly presented an accurate and e�cient way to numer- ically solve the high order fluid model. These numerical schemes are then used to study the propagation of negative streamer fronts in N2. Then we compared the high order fluid model and the first order fluid model with a PIC/MC model. While the first order model is very commonly used for streamer simulations, it can be clearly seen that the high order model is a much better approximation of the full particle dynamics. This concerns not only quantitative, but also qualitative di↵erences. In particular we observe: (a) The non-local e↵ects in the profile of the average electron energy are present both in the PIC/MC-model and in the high order model, but are missing in the first order model due to the local field approximation. The slope of the aver- age electron energy in the region ahead of the streamer is related to the spatial variation of the average electron energy in the avalanche phase of the streamer development. And the slope of the average electron energy in the streamer chan- nel is striking and an inherent property of a streamer as well, as the electrons can not immediately relax to the low or vanishing field in the streamer interior. (b) Bulk and flux transport coe�cients for electrons can di↵er substantially in so-called non-conservative regions where ionization, attachment, detachment and recombination takes place. Here one needs to take care which coe�cients to imple- ment. Streamers in nitrogen with bulk data are faster and create a much higher electron density in the streamer channel. When the streamers in nitrogen are calculated with BOLSIG+ data, their velocity is not a↵ected. However, in the streamer channel and in the streamer head we have found di↵erences between the electron densities in our high order fluid model when we inserted either BOLSIG+ Numerical solution of high-order fluid model for streamer discharges in 1D and investigation of planar fronts 55 data or our flux data for the electron transport coe�cients. (c) When we conducted streamer simulations with our high order model, either including or excluding the energy flux, various streamer properties showed that the energy flux term cannot be neglected. Streamers without energy flux term are slower and create a lower electron density in the streamer channel. In the re- gion ahead of the streamer, the average electron energy and the average electron velocity also change when the energy flux is neglected. (d) The validity of the closure assumption associated with the treatment of high order terms in the energy flux equation is studied through the variation of the parameters used to parameterize the expression in which high order tensors are expressed in terms of lower order moments. We have pointed out that although the average electron energy and average electron energy flux in the outer region of the streamer are influenced by this parameter, the demand for a strict con- sideration of the high order tensor in the energy flux equation may be relaxed. This follows from the fact that it is almost impossible to notice the di↵erences in the streamer velocity and electron density in the streamer channel for di↵erent parameters used to parameterize the high order terms. Though in the present chapter, we have tested our model on planar fronts, the theory of the high order model has been developed in the previous chapter 2 without restrictions for the full three-dimensional setting. An important aspect to be addressed in the future is our closure assumption for the pressure tensor that we assumed to be isotropic. This restriction will be removed in future work. Finally we would like to emphasize that though this study has concentrated on electron dynamics mainly in planar streamer fronts, the theory and the associated numerical solution of the system of di↵erential equations are equally valid for ions up to the energy balance equation. Therefore we have derived a new modeling frame work that is widely applicable in reactive plasmas in full 3D. 56 Chapter 3 CHAPTER 4 Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results In mathematics you do not understand things. You just get used to them. – Johann von Neumann If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts he shall end in certainties. – Sir Francis Bacon In all a↵airs it is a healthy thing now and then to hang a question mark on the things you have long taken for granted. – Bertrand Russell 4.1 Introduction Streamers are fast ionizing waves that are non-linearly controlled by space charge e↵ects. Streamer discharges occur in nature (lightening and sprites [49, 123, 167]) and technology (plasma-assisted combustion [212], plasma medicine [92], disinfection [226] etc.). The development of models and simulation techniques This chapter is based on the preprint Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results by Aram H. Markosyan, Jannis Teunissen, Saša Dujko and Ute Ebert to be submitted to Plasma Sources Science and Technology. 57 58 Chapter 4 has been an ongoing process for more than five decades. All these models can be classified as one the following types: particle, kinetic, fluid and hybrid. Particle models follow particles and thereby give direct information about the electron distribution in phase space [107, 110]. These models have few underlying assumptions or approximations, and therefore give accurate predictions under a wide range of conditions, but they are computationally very expensive. The second type of models are the so-called kinetic models, that couple the full Boltzmann equation with the Poisson equation. Recent advances in both com- puting power and algorithms have made these fully kinetic simulations possible [9, 91]. The third type of models are the plasma fluid models, which describe the elec- tron dynamics in plasma based on macroscopic quantities like electron density, electron average velocity, electron average energy etc. Fluid models are construc- ted by taking the velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation. Depending on the number of moments considered and the closure assumptions, various fluid models have been derived over last two decades [16, 47, 58, 66, 87]. Fluid models require less computational resources compared to particle models yet provide reasonably good results. Finally, hybrid models try to combine the strengths of the fluid and particle approaches, by using both models in the same simulation. Li et al [110] have used a particle model to follow the individual electrons around the head of a negative streamer, while using a fluid approximation in the rest of the domain. The progress in hybrid modelling has recently been reviewed by Kushner [100]. In the present chapter we consider the most popular first and the second or- der fluid models together with the newly developed high order fluid model, and we compare them with a particle model. The goal of this work is to compare how well these models can simulate 1D ionization waves. In the chapter 3 we already have compared the high order and the first order models with the particle model in nitrogen. We have concluded that the results obtained with the high order model agreed very well with the particle model. In this chapter simula- tions are performed in the noble gas Ne at standard temperature and pressure (STP). The reason is that unlike a molecular gas N2, Ne has very few inelastic channels and the thresholds for these processes are quite high. These means that non-local phenomena, like a high energy level in the streamer channel (despite of fully screened electric field in the channel), are more pronounced. Due to this high energies in the channel, Ne is highly used in industry (neon lamps, plasma medicine etc.). In section 4.2, we summarize the origin of these fluid models, namely to the Boltzmann equation, introduced previously in the section 2.2.1. In the next consecutive subsections 4.2.1 and 4.2.3 we briefly summarize the deriv- ations and the assumptions of the first and high order fluid models, which have been introduced earlier in great detail in the chapter 2. In subsection 4.2.2 we present the second order fluid model. We shortly discuss the particle model in section 4.3 which was already introduced in detail in section 3.3. In section 4.4 we present the transport parameters for neon which are used by the fluid models. The simulation conditions that we use for comparing the models are discussed in section 4.5, and the results of the comparison are given in section 4.6. In section Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 59 4.7 we discuss our results in more detail and we give our conclusions in section 4.8. 4.2 Fluid models for streamer discharges The dynamics of charged particles, in particular electrons, under the influence of external forces, in this case electric field, can be described microscopically by the Boltzmann equation or by the Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo (PIC/MC) technique. While the latter one follows individual particles in phase space [221], the former one describes the ensemble of particles by the distribution function, or phase density, f i (r, c, t) in phase space (r, c) for each charged component i at time t. The evolution of distribution function is described by the Boltzmann equation introduced in the chapter 2.2.1 and in the references [43, 201, 234, 238]: @ t f i + c ·rf i + e i m i E ·rcfi = �J(fi, f0) . (4.1) where r is the di↵erential operator with respect to space r and rc with respect to velocity c, e i and m i are charge and mass of species i, and t is time. The right- hand side of equation (4.1), J(f i , f0), describes the collisions of charged particles with neutral molecules, accounting for elastic, inelastic, and non-conservative (e.g. ionising or attaching) collisions, and f0 is the velocity distribution function of the neutral gas (usually taken to be Maxwellian at fixed temperature). If we work under electrostatic conditions, then space charge e↵ects can be accounted for by coupling the Boltzmann equation to the Poisson equation: r2V = � 1 ✏0 X i q i n i (r, t) , (4.2) so that the electric field can be calculated by: E = �rV , (4.3) where ✏0 is the dielectric permittivity, and qi and ni are the charges and dens- ities of species i (electrons, ions, excited states etc.). One should note that the Boltzmann equation provides a complete description of the distribution in phase space of species i, while the density n i in equation (4.2) is a macroscopic (av- eraged) quantity. The number density n i can be directly calculated from the distribution function f i (r, c, t): n i (r, t) = Z f i (r, c, t)dc . (4.4) The most common techniques for solving the Boltzmann equation are the moment and the path integral methods. In moment methods the distribution function is usually expanded in terms of spherical harmonics to resolve its an- gular dependence in velocity space [43, 234]. In the path integral method the distribution function is converted to an integral equation along the free path and 60 Chapter 4 the solution is usually found by the direct integration [207]. One ought to mention approaches based on a Monte Carlo method for direct numerical integration of the Boltzmann equation [94, 165, 195]. Direct numerical solution of the Boltzmann equation using a computational mesh in phase space (both in physical and velocity spaces) is very challenging [91]. Advances in computational techniques such as Adaptive Mesh Refinement (AMR) have made it possible to significantly reduce the number of computational cells needed [17, 175]. The application of AMR to solve the Boltzmann equation shows promising results [9, 91]. In [9, 91], the Discrete Velocity Method (DVM) [139] is used to discretize velocity space, so that the velocity distribution can be calculated for all points of physical space. Unfortunately, the system (4.1)-(4.3) can typically not be solved with direct numerical simulations. An alternative approach is to consider the velocity mo- ments of distribution function: ⌦ �(c) ↵ = 1 n(r, t) Z �(c)f(r, c, t)dc , (4.5) with �(c) = 1, mc, 1 2 mc 2 , 1 2 mc 2c, . . . giving the average velocity v = hci, average energy " = h1 2 mc 2i, average electron energy flux ⇠ = h1 2 mc 2ci and so on. <> represents the average over the velocity c of the charged particles. Using this approach, the set of moment equations can be found by multiplying (4.1) by �(c) and integrate over the velocity space: @ t � n ⌦ �(c) ↵� +r · � n ⌦ c�(c) ↵� �n e m E · ⌦ rc�(c) ↵ = C � , (4.6) where C � is the collision term: C � = � Z �(c)J(f)dc . (4.7) To derive the term ⌦ rc�(c) ↵ , a partial integration over c has been performed. The complete knowledge of the distribution function allows to compute all of its moments, but the inverse is true as well: if all moments are known, the distribution can be reconstructed. In practice, we can consider only a finite set of equations (4.6). Obviously, this will lead to the loss of some information. For small Knudsen numbers, i.e. the mean free path of electrons is much less than the characteristic dimensions of the discharge, the knowledge of a small number of moments is su�cient to describe the state of the gas with reasonable accuracy [216]. Even in this case, unfortunately, any finite set of moment equations is not determinated and some closure assumption should be made. Equation (4.6) represents a set of hydrodynamic balance laws or fluid equa- tions: the mass balance (�(c) = 1), the momentum balance (�(c) = mc), the energy balance (�(c) = 1 2 mc 2), etc. The hydrodynamic or continuum description is applicable to the modelling of streamer discharges as the Knudsen number is low. In the following subsections we present di↵erent models with respect to the number of moments considered. Except for the high order model, these models have been frequently used over the last few decades. Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 61 4.2.1 The first-order or classical model The first order model, also called classical model, is the simplest and most used model considered in this work [10, 30, 40, 47, 52, 66, 96, 97, 138, 164, 228]. For the full derivation we refer to [47, 66]. This model considers only the first two balance laws from the system (4.6): @ t n +r · � nv � = C1 , (4.8) nm dv dt = neE �r · P + C mc �mvC1 , (4.9) where v = hci is the average local electron velocity, C1 and Cmc are the collisional term, P = nmh(c � v)(c � v)i is the pressure tensor and d dt = @ t + v · r is the convective time derivative. Now the velocities are decomposed into an average velocity v plus random velocities c�v with zero mean (hc�vi = 0). At this stage no assumptions have been made and the system (4.8)-(4.9) is incomplete, as the pressure tensor P , momentum transfer by collision C mc and the production term C1 are not specified, hence it can not be directly solved. In order to close the system (4.8)-(4.9) and to obtain the classical drift-di↵usion-reaction model the following assumptions have to made : 1. the distribution of random velocities is close to isotropic, hence P ⇡ p I = nkT I, where I is the unity tensor, k is the Boltzmann constant and T is the electron temperature. This is a very strong assumption for streamer discharges, where at the streamer tip the electric field is locally very high and strong pressure gradients exists, 2. C mc = �nm⌫e↵v, where ⌫e↵ is the e↵ective momentum transfer collision frequency, which accounts for momentum transfer exchange only in elastic and inelastic collisions. The momentum transfer exchange due to non- conservative (ionisation, attachment, recombination, photoionisation, etc.) collisions is omitted, 3. C1 = n⌫I, where ⌫I is the ionisation collision frequencies due to electron- molecule collisions 4. the rate of momentum change (d t v)/v is smaller than the rate of momentum transfer ⌫e↵, 5. the gradients in electron energy are neglected, 6. the system is close to equilibrium and the Nernst-Townsend-Einstein rela- tion D/µ = kT/e is valid, 7. all transport properties are functions of the local electric field, i.e. the Local Field Approximation (LFA) is valid. Under the assumptions above the equation (4.9) can be written in the following form: nv = nµE �Drn , (4.10) 62 Chapter 4 where the mobility and di↵usion constant are given by the following expressions: µ = e m⌫e↵ , D = kT m⌫e↵ . (4.11) If we assume that the mobility and di↵usion of ions are negligible compared with electron mobility and di↵usion, we can rewrite the system (4.8)-(4.9) in the following form: @ t n = r · (µ(E)nE + D(E) ·rn) + n⌫ I (E) , (4.12) @ t n ion = n⌫ I , (4.13) where E = |E|, n ion is ion density. The transport properties µ, D and ⌫ I are the functions of the local electric field. Of course, the system (4.12)-(4.13) is coupled to the Poisson equation (4.2)-(4.3) which in 1D has the following simple form: @E @x = e ✏0 (n ion �n) . (4.14) We would like to remark that when LFA is derived from the Boltzmann equa- tion (4.1), the di↵usion coe�cient, strictly speaking, is a scalar. But in the case of streamer discharges, the di↵usion tensor is highly anisotropic, as the electron velocity distribution function is non-Maxwellian. A few authors have considered anisotropic di↵usion [59, 110]. Particularly, in [59] the e↵ect of anisotropic di↵u- sion on branching phenomena of negative streamers is investigated. In [4, 110, 143] a phenomenological extension of LFA based on gradient expan- sion of electron density is provided. It provides better results than the classical LFA [110]. 4.2.2 The second-order model The second order model considers also the energy balance equation. Depending on the closure assumption, one can obtain conceptually di↵erent second-order models. In this section we discuss the model called LEA (Local Energy Approx- imation) and originating, to our knowledge, from [1, 2, 13], which successfully has been used by many others in di↵erent applications [19, 20, 37, 58, 73, 74, 75, 76, 90, 110, 181, 224, 231]. It contains the equations (4.8), (4.9) and the energy balance equation: @ t (n") +r · � " = E · nv �C " , (4.15) where � " is the average electron energy flux: � " = n"v + P · v + q , (4.16) where q = 1 2 nm ⌦ (c�v)2 (c�v) ↵ is the heat flux vector and C " is the collisional operator. At this stage the system (4.8), (4.9), (4.15) is exact (free of assumptions) and incomplete. To close the system the following assumptions are made: Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 63 1. the assumptions (i)-(vi) from the section 4.2.1 are applied to the system (4.8), (4.9), i.e we have the equation (4.12), but with transport parameters depending on local average electron energy, 2. the total energy transfer (losses) is due to the elastic and inelastic collisions: C " = n X j k j " j , (4.17) where k j and " j are the collision rate coe�cient and energy loss per electron per collision (elastic, inelastic) for the collision precess denoted by j, 3. the pressure tensor in equation (4.16) is simplified to P = nkT ⇡ 2 3 n"I, 4. the heat flux vector q is assumed to be proportional to the gradient of the electron average energy q = �5 3 nDr", where D is the di↵usion coe�cient, 5. all transport properties are functions of the local average electron energy, i.e. the Local Energy Approximation (LEA) is valid. In future we refer to this second order model as to LEA. Under the assumptions above, the LEA model can be written in the following way: @ t n = r · � + n⌫ I (") , (4.18) @ t (n") = 5 3 r · ("�) + E · ��nP j k j " j , (4.19) @ t n ion = n⌫ I , (4.20) where � = nµ(")E � D(")rn. Of course, in this case as well, the system (4.18)- (4.20) is coupled with the Poisson equation (4.14). As illustrated by Hagelaar and Pitchford [74], this model is consistent with the classical theory for elec- tron transport based on the two term approximation for solving the Boltzmann equation. The LEA model is one of the most popular second-order models. Depending on the closure assumptions, one can obtain di↵erent second-order models. In chapter 3 we have investigated the importance of the energy flux equation by deriving a second-order model with neglected energy flux term. A similar system has been derived by Kanzari et al [87]. Eichwald et al [58] used a similar approach to simulate streamer dynamics and radical formation in a pulsed corona discharge used for flue gases. Guo and Wu [73] have developed a more sophisticated second order model in which the Langevin theory was used to simplify the collision source terms with a priori knowledge of the relaxation times of electron energy and momentum. Another, recent, second order model has been derived by Becker et al [15] as a simplification of their ”four-moment” model [16]. They illustrate that this simplification can be done without loss of accuracy, if the characteristic frequency of the electric field alteration in the discharge is small in comparison with the momentum dissipation frequency of the electrons [16]. In [15] the authors have emphasised that fluid models are able to describe nonlocal phenomena caused by electron energy transport, if the energy transport is consistently described. The same conclusions are derived in the chapter 3. 64 Chapter 4 4.2.3 The high-order model Presently, the most complex model, developed only recently [47, 131], is the high order fluid model. The infinite system of moment equations (4.6) is truncated at the level of energy flux balance by approximating pressure tensor with a scalar kinetic pressure. The collisional terms were evaluated using momentum transfer theory [186, 192, 234]. For more details of the derivation we refer to chapter 2. The high order fluid model consists of a balance laws for the electron density n, for the average electron velocity v, for the average electron energy " and for the average electron energy flux ⇠: @n @t +r · nv = n⌫ I , (4.21) @ @t (nv) + 2 3m r(n")�n e m E = �nv ⇣ ⌫ m + ⌫ I ⌘ , (4.22) @ @t (n")+ r · (n⇠)�eE · (nv) = �n⌫ e ⇥� "� 3 2 kT0 � + ⌦ ⇤ , (4.23) @ @t (n⇠) +r ⇣ � 2n 3m " 2 ⌘ � 5 3 n"eE = �⌫ m n⇠ , (4.24) where E is the electric field, m and e are electron mass and charge, T0 is gas temperature and k is the Boltzmann constant. The average collision frequencies for momentum ⌫ m and energy transfer in elastic collisions ⌫ e are defined in [47] while ⌫ I is the ionization rate coe�cients. The term ⌦ represents the average energy lost in one energy relaxation time ⌫ �1 e and is given in [47]. � is a parameter introduced to approximate the high order tensors in the energy flux equation in terms of lower moments [47]. In the system (4.21)-(4.24) the following assumptions are present: 1. C1 = n⌫I, 2. the momentum transfer approximation is employed [47] to evaluate colli- sional terms, 3. the pressure tensor is simplified to P = nkT ⇡ 2 3 n"I, 4. the temperature tensor is isotropic, and hence hcci⇡ hc 2i 3 I 5. the higher order tensor D c 2cc E appearing in the energy flux balance equation can be expressed by a product of the lower order moments as D c 2cc E ⇡ � D c 2 E hccic2 E 1 3 D c 2 E ⇡ � 4 3m2 " 2 I. � is a parametrization factor, generically close to unity, when the higher order correlation term hc2cci�hc2ihcci can be neglected [47, 131], 6. following original papers [47, 131], in this work � is considered to be equal to 1. An alternative approach has been proposed by Becker et al [16]. Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 65 4.3 The MC particle model As a reference model we use a Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo (PIC/MC) code. Because the motion of individual electrons is simulated with a particle code, it contains the full physics that is to be approximated by a fluid model. The successful comparison of a fluid model with such a particle model validates the fluid model; of course, the same cross-sections have to be used for both models. The construction of a planar front is straight forward in fluid models, as the spatial derivatives are simply evaluated in one direction. However, in the particle model electrons move in all three spatial dimensions and hence, the three- dimensional setting has to be restricted as in previous work [107, 131]. 4.4 Transport parameters In this section we briefly discuss how the transport data for electrons are calculated and implemented in our fluid models of negative planar streamer fronts. The electron transport data employed in this work are calculated using a multiterm theory for solving the Boltzmann equation. The methods and techniques are by now standard and the readers are referred to [43, 234]. In particular, in the presence of nonconservative collisions there are two types of transport coe�cients flux and bulk, and one has to take care that the correct quantity is used in any particular modeling situation (see section 2.3 for discussion). Calculations of transport data at a temperature of 293 K are performed for reduced electric fields (E/n0) ranging from 10 �4 �103 Td. The first-order model is based on the local field approximation; it requires mobility, di↵usion coe�cient and ionization rate as a function of the reduced electric field E/n0 (where n0 is the gas number density). The second-order model is based on the local mean en- ergy approximation and the transport data, including electron mobility, di↵usion coe�cient and ionization rate as well as rate coe�cients for relevant processes are functions of the electron mean energy. The correspondence between the mean energy and E/n0 is used to find the correspondence between the mean energy and other relevant transport data. The high-order fluid model requires average collision frequencies for momentum and energy transfer in elastic and inelastic collisions, and rate coe�cients for all collision processes as a function of the mean electron energy. As for the second-order model, the correspondence between the mean energy and E/n0 is used to find the correspondence between the mean energy and collision frequencies. The momentum transfer collision frequency has not been determined directly from the cross sections but rather from the following equation: ⌫ m = e mµ(") , (4.25) where e and m are the electron charge and mass, respectively, and µ(") is the electron mobility which is here a function of the mean energy. Since momentum transfer theory [47, 234] is used to determine the transfer of energy in the fluid equations, we use the following expression for the average energy loss in one energy 66 Chapter 4 relaxation time ⌫�1 e , through nonelastic processes [47, 234] ⌦(") = m0 m + m0 X ↵ (⌫ ↵ �⌫ (s) ↵ ) ⌫ e ✏ ↵ + X i ⌫ (i) I ⌫ e �✏ (i) I . (4.26) The inelastic channels ↵ are governed by threshold energies ✏ ↵ and collision fre- quencies for inelastic and superelastic processes ⌫ ↵ and ⌫ (s) ↵ , respectively. All collision frequencies (including the ionization collision frequencies ⌫ (i) I ) are func- tion of the electron mean energy. The collision frequency for energy transfer in elastic collisions ⌫ e is defined by Eq. (43) by Dujko et al. [47]. a) b) c) d) Figure 4.1: (a) Mobility, (b) longitudinal and transverse di↵usion coe�cient, and (c) ionization rate of electrons in Ne as a function of the reduced electric field E/n 0 , as an input for the first-order model. Shown are flux and bulk data obtained by our multi-term solution of the Boltzmann equation. Variation of the mean energy with E/n 0 is shown on panel (d). Finally, the PIC/MC model requires a set of cross sections for electron scat- tering in Ne. This work considers negative planar streamer fronts in Ne using the cross section set of [77], which includes seven cross sections for electronic ex- citations and cross section for ionization as well as cross section for momentum transfer in elastic collisions. Transport data required as input in our various fluid Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 67 models are calculated using the same set of cross sections for electron scattering in Ne. Figure 4.1(a) shows the electron mobility (multiplied by the gas number dens- ity) as a function of the reduced electric field E/n0. We observe that bulk and flux quantities start to di↵er visibly above a reduced field of approximately 10 Td, this means that the ionization processes start to be significant at this value of the field. As E/n0 increases further, the e↵ect becomes more pronounced, until the bulk mobility exceeds the flux mobility by approximately 40% at 1000 Td. From the E/n0-profiles of the di↵usion coe�cients (see figure 4.1(b)), however, we see that the di↵usion coe�cients are more sensitive to the explicit e↵ects of ionization processes; the di↵erences between bulk and flux data are higher than 50% for E/n0 approaching 1000 Td. Variation of the mean energy and ionization rate coe�cient are shown on panels 4.1(c) and 4.1(d) respectively. We see that the ionization rate becomes significant at higher values of E/n0 when su�cient electrons have enough energy to undergo ionization. From the profiles of the mean energy, we observe four distinct regions of transport as E/n0 increases. First, there is an initial plateau region where the electron energy is thermal (3kT/2 ⇡ 0.038 eV). Second, there is a region of sharp rise as the electrons start to rapidly gain the energy from the electric field. Third, there is a second small plateau region due to large energy loss of the electrons as the inelastic channels become important. Finally, there is another region of rapid rise, as both the elastic and inelastic processes drop o↵ with high energy, and the electrons start to rapidly gain energy from the strong electric field. a) b) Figure 4.2: Density normalized average collision frequency for momentum transfer in elastic collisions ⌫ m (a) and the average energy lost in one energy relaxation time ⌫�1 e , through nonelastic processes (b) as a function of the mean energy of electrons in Ne, as an input for the high-order model. Figures 4.2(a) and (b) display the density normalized average collision fre- quencies for momentum transfer in elastic collisions and the average energy loss in one energy relaxation time ⌫�1 e , through nonelastic processes, respectively. The di↵erences between bulk and flux values of these two quantities are clearly evident 68 Chapter 4 and follow from the di↵erences of bulk and flux mobilities. a) b) Figure 4.3: Rate coe�cients (1-momentum transfer in elastic collisions, 2-8 electronic excitations and 9-ionization) in neon as a function of the electron energy, calculated with the multi-term solution of the Boltzmann equation and (b) density normalized momentum transfer rate, density normalized total inelastic rate and ionization rate. Figure 4.3(a) shows the rate coe�cients as a function of the mean electron energy for all collision processes. Figure 4.3(b) compares the density normalized average collision frequency for momentum transfer in elastic collisions, the density normalized total inelastic rate (sum of all rates for inelastic processes without ionization) and the ionization rate. The ionization rate is significant for relatively high mean energies (i.e. high E/n0) and is essential for streamer modeling. From figure 4.3(b) we see that the ionization rate dominates the total inelastic rate for mean energies higher than 25 eV which reflects the energy dependence and magnitude of the cross sections for ionization and electronic excitation. 4.4.1 What to do when ne ! 0? In many plasma fluid models the transport coe�cients depend on the mean energy. However, the models typically contain equations for the evolution of the energy density (Q = n"). To get the mean energy at every point, we would like to simply compute " = Q/n. (4.27) Unfortunately, this simple expression leads to problems where n goes to zero, not only because one can not divide by zero numerically, but also because round-o↵ errors get large. Therefore, we use the following regularization: " = Q + ⌘0 "f (E) n + ⌘0 , (4.28) where " f (E) is the relaxed mean energy in an electric field of strength E, and ⌘0 is a small density. Using equation (4.28) instead of equation (4.27) makes no di↵erence where n � ⌘0. But where n . ⌘0, using (4.28) ensures that the mean Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 69 energy is approximately relaxed to the background electric field. In simulations we use the value of ⌘0 to be 10 �5 m�3. 4.5 Simulation conditions In this work we consider 1D geometry and we simulate negative planar fronts. All fluid models are simulated in noble gas Ne at standard temperature and pressure (STP). The electric field E = Eê x (where ê x is the unit vector in the x direction) drives the dynamics. We take E as a positive value; therefore electrons drift to the left, and negative streamer ionization fronts move to the left as well. 4.5.1 Boundary conditions To create steady propagation conditions for the negative front, the electric field on the left boundary x = 0 is fixed to the time independent value E0: E(0, t) = E0 > 0. (4.29) The electric field for x > 0 is calculated by integrating equation (4.14) numerically over x, with (4.29) as a boundary condition. The right boundary is located at x = L; in all calculations we set the system length L to 1.8 mm and we use 1500 grid points. As in case of N2 from section 3.2.3, homogeneous Neumann boundary condi- tions are imposed for all conserved variables in all models for both ends of the system, so that all electron quantities may flow out of the system. Only for the electron density at x = L we employ a homogeneous Dirichlet boundary condi- tion to prevent electrons from di↵using out. However, all calculations end before the ionization reaches the boundary, that means, before the boundary conditions start to become relevant. 4.5.2 Initial conditions We start all simulations with the same initial Gaussian distribution for electrons and ions n(x)| t=0 = n0 exp " � (x�x0) 2 � 2 # , (4.30) where we have chosen n0 = 2⇥1018 m�3, x0 = 1.6 mm and � = 2.94⇥10�5 mm. The initial conditions for the average electron velocity, average electron energy and average electron energy flux are taken to be spatially homogeneous. These quantities are assumed to be relaxed to the background electric field when the simulation starts, with the values for the field given by a multi term solution of Boltzmann’s equation, as already discussed in section 4.4. 4.5.3 Numerical method The advective terms in LEA and LFA models are numerically discretised using the same upwind-based scheme with Koren flux limiter function [93] and the 70 Chapter 4 di↵usive terms are calculated with second-order central di↵erences [83, 104]. The high order model is discretised using first-order upwind scheme. Although we use very fine grid consisting of 1500 points, the order of the numerical of the high order model is very low (first-order). Presently we are working on improvement of the accuracy. Several previous works have been devoted to the comparison of the accuracy of numerical schemes for advection problems in di↵erent situations (see e.g. [23, 194, 209, 235, 239]). The scope of present chapter does not cover the e↵ects of the numerical schemes on a streamer properties (see section 4.7 for discussion). 4.5.4 Time stepping For the time integration we used the classical fourth-order Runge-Kutta 4 (RK4) scheme [83]. With such an explicit time stepping method, there are typically at least three restrictions on �t [12, 83, 138]: �t < C a �x/v CFL condition, (4.31) �t < C d �x2/D e explicit di↵usion limit, (4.32) �t < "/(µ e n e e) dielectric relaxation limit, (4.33) where �x is the spatial step size, D e the di↵usion coe�cient, " the permittivity, µ e the electron mobility, n e the electron density and e the elementary charge. C a and C d are the maximal Courant numbers for advection and di↵usion equations [35]. Courant number depends on the particular time-integration method and space discretization. Unlike the first two conditions, the last conditions does not depend on the transport scheme used for the electrons. The CFL time step restriction for the high order fluid model is given by the following formula �t  C h 2�x � r 3m 2 max " , (4.34) where C h is the maximal Courant number [131]. In this article we focus on the accuracy of the models, not on their computa- tional e�ciency. Therefore, we have simply used a very small constant time step of 0.5 ps for all models, satisfying all the above conditions. 4.6 Comparison results In this section we compare the simulation results obtained with the fluid models and the PIC/MC model. As mentioned before, the simulations are performed in Ne at STP. We consider the following externally applied electric fields: 130, 170, 210, 350 and 460 Td. Before we proceed to the actual comparisons, we would like to emphasize one more time that transport data derived from the same collisional cross-sections as used in the particle model have been used in all the tests presented in the next section. Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 71 4.6.1 Basic comparison of planar fronts in Ne a) b) Figure 4.4: Electron density (a) and electric field (b) for all four models in Ne in an external electric field of 170 Td at time 1.8 ns. Figure 4.4 shows the electron density and the electric field profiles in Ne for the LFA, LEA and high order model. As a reference model we include the PIC/MC profiles as well. The profiles are shown at 1.8 ns. The electric fields in all pro- files preserve the classical shape of cathode directed ionization wave, with a high electric field at the front [87, 107, 131]. Due to space charge e↵ects and the 1D configuration, the electric field inside of discharge channel is completely screened. The typical electron overshoot at the front of the discharge is present in all con- sidered models. The results of the high order fluid model are in good agreement with the PIC/MC results. The streamer head positions obtained by the LFA and LEA models deviate more from the PIC/MC results. This shortcoming of LFA has been reported by many authors [58, 87, 107, 110]. Li et al [110] have achieved rel- atively good agreement between PIC/MC and LFA by using a so-called ‘extended fluid model’. Our simulation results for the LFA and LEA models are in good agreement with the results by Eichwald et al [58], where a more sophisticated second order model was compared with LEA and LFA. Unfortunately, Eichwald et al did not compare their results with PIC/MC simulations. Figure 4.5 shows the velocities of planar fronts as a function of the external re- 72 Chapter 4 Figure 4.5: Velocities of planar fronts as a function of the electric field obtained with all the models in Ne. We remark that the negative sign of all velocities is removed here. duced electric field for Ne. These velocities are calculated at the end of simulation time by following the time evolution of a certain level (2 · n0, see equation 4.30) of the electron density at the streamer front. All models show better agreement with PIC/MC for lower E/n0. Overall, the LFA and LEA models show the worst agreement with PIC/MC among the models considered. On the other hand, for higher values of reduced electric field, LEA shows better results than LFA. The results of the high order model agree quite well with PIC/MC. Figure 4.5 shows how one can improve the agreement of the results with PIC/MC by increasing the number of the moment equations (4.6) or, in other words, by increasing the complexity of the model. The LEA and LFA results deviate significantly for high E/n0. This improvement can be explained by the fact that the transport para- meters used by the LEA model depend on the local average electron energy, while in the case of LFA they depend on the local electric field. We will continue this discussion in the next sections. In the figure 4.6 we show the relative di↵erence of the electron density in the streamer channel compared with PIC/MC as a function of E/n0. The LFA model overestimates the electron density by up to 18%. The high order model underestimates the electron density by up to 5%. The LEA model performs the best in predicting the electron density in the channel. This model underestimates the electron density by up to 6%. Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 73 Figure 4.6: The relative di↵erences of the electron densities in the channel of the negative planar fronts from all fluid models compared with PIC/MC as a function of reduced electric field in Ne. 4.6.2 Comparison of average electron energies in different models In most applications it is crucial to correctly calculate the space resolved profiles of the average electron energies. LEA and high order fluid model can calculate such profiles as, unlike LFA, they contain an equation for the electron energy density. If we assume that in the LFA model the electron energy instantaneously relaxes to the electric field, we can calculate electron energies directly from the field. Figure 4.7 shows that this assumption is wrong. The profiles of average electron energies for the four models (LFA, LEA, high order and PIC/MC) are presented after 1.2 ns in Ne at 270 Td. We have also included the profiles of the electric field and the electron density obtained from the high order model to indicate the streamer head position. We have shifted all profiles and aligned them with the particle model for comparison. We divide our discussion of the results in three parts, linked to spatial re- gions: the streamer head, where large gradients in the electron density and the electric field are present, the streamer channel, where the electric field is com- pletely screened, and the region ahead of streamer head. We discuss all these regions separately. Figure 4.7 shows that the energy profiles in streamer head agree very well between the PIC and the high order model. It is remarkable to note that in figure 4.7 the slope of the decay of the electron energies for the PIC/MC and high order model are identical. A similar observation is valid for the slopes of 74 Chapter 4 Figure 4.7: The average electron energy in four di↵erent models in Ne at time 1.2 ns. Profiles of the electric field and the electron number density from the high order fluid model are also included to indicate the location of the front. For clarity, all profiles are shifted and aligned with PIC/MC profile. Calculations are performed for E/n 0 of 270 Td. the LFA and LEA model: both LEA and LFA are decaying at the same rate. This is a clear manifestation of the inconsistent assumptions on the flux terms in the electron balance and the average electron energy balance equations present in both LFA and LEA models. This region is the most sensitive region to the assumptions on the shape of electron energy distribution function (EEDF), like close to Maxwellian etc.. Hence, for the proper description of the features present in the streamer head the momentum and average energy flux balance equations should be consistently modelled. The region ahead of streamer head is qualitatively well described by LEA model in the figure 4.7. Very good agreement is established between PIC/MC and high order model. The particle model su↵ers from a lack of electrons that creates stochastic noise. In all models, except in LFA, the average electron energy has a slope, which reflects the so-called non-local e↵ects. This slope is present from a very early stage on as discussed in [107, 131]. The LFA model completely fails to describe the energy in the streamer chan- nel. The reason is that in this region electric field is totally screened and hence LFA predicts the electron energy to take the thermal value 0.038 eV. This is un- acceptable as in figure 4.7 the particle model predicts it to be around 7 eV. These high energy values are another manifestation of non-local e↵ects. As the velocity of the front is higher than the electron drift velocity even in the streamer head Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges with MC-PIC results 75 region, electrons slowly relax to lower energies in the lower or vanishing field in the streamer interior. This causes the spatial decay of average electron energy in the high-order fluid and PIC/MC models, that can be observed in figure 4.7. On the other hand, there is a very good agreement between predictions of the aver- age electron energies of LEA, high order and PIC/MC. The small disagreement between high order and particles models in the channel is discussed in [131]. 4.7 Discussion In the previous section, we have compared three fluid models with Monte Carlo simulations. For all models we have used input data based on the same cross sections. Furthermore, we have used similar boundary conditions and the same initial conditions, grid resolution and time stepping. But is that enough to say that our conclusions are ‘final’? We do not think so. The present work should be considered as the average user’s (modeller’s) experience. The results in section 4.6 show the performance of the fluid models for streamer simulations using a specific implementation with specific simulations conditions. Since fluid models of di↵erent order have di↵erent mathematical morphologies and as they are non-linearly coupled with the Poisson equation, the choice of or the sensitivity of results to numerical scheme, grid size, time step restriction, boundary conditions, spatial dimensions and dimensionality of space can a↵ect overall results and corresponding conclusions. In higher dimensions (i.e. 2D or 3D) grid choice, i.e. structured or unstructured, or the presence of adaptive (or static) grid refinement will produce more and more uncertainties. In the case of adaptive grid refinement one should study the influence of the refinement criterion on the simulation results [219]. The choice of mesh adaptation can be also an issue [80, 81]. In higher dimensions the uncertainties associated with (complex) geometries and roughnesses of the interfaces are becoming very critical. It is very hard to predict how stable a certain model will behave under these more realistic conditions. One more source of uncertainty are the transport coe�cients. Small di↵er- ences in cross-sections may produce large di↵erences in plasma parameters [22]. The sensitivity of models to the di↵erences in transport coe�cients should be investigated. The complexity of models depends on the considered number of moments of the Boltzmann equation. Or in other words, the more physics we put in a model, the more complex it becomes: the more equations should be solved, the more initial and boundary conditions should be specified, in general the more computational resources are required etc. One can conclude that with the increase of the complexity of the system the associated uncertainties are rising. In this case, it is up to the modeller to decide for a given type of discharge and under given conditions (geometries, parameter range, etc.) how complex a system to consider. The integral part of any plasma simulation should be verification and valida- tion (V&V) [158, 185]. Indeed, for just this purpose, there has recently been an 76 Chapter 4 explicit call for ensuring the fidelity of future simulation tools [197, 221, 222]. In the field of radio frequency discharges some pioneering work is done by Surendra [217]. Turner et al [220] have developed benchmark solutions for capacitive dis- charges and showed that a number of independently developed particle-in-cell simulations can reproduce the benchmark solutions. In particular, the swarm literature contains many models suitable for benchmarking plasma models in the free-di↵usion limit [43, 172, 192, 234]. Therefore, we believe that uncertainty quantification together with V&V should be the next step in the modelling of low-pressure plasmas. This techniques are successfully adopted by related fields such as computational fluid dynamics, com- putational finance, climate modelling, astrophysics etc. [18, 27, 38, 142, 157, 159]. 4.8 Conclusions We have compared the performance of three plasma fluid models: a first order model based on the local field approximation, a second order model based on the local energy approximation and a high order model. The test problems we considered were 1D ionization waves in neon, in a wide range of electric fields. As a reference model, we have used a Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo code. Our comparisons show that the second order model describes the electron density and the average electron energy in streamer channel well, although it underestimates the streamer front velocity. The classical model is the simplest model considered. Despite the simplifying assumptions present in the model and the strong recom- mendations by Grubert et al [72] to use the second order instead of the first order model, we find that using the classical model gives reasonably good results. Of course, it can not calculate the electron energy, but if one is interested in general characteristics like velocity, ionization level or general shape of the discharge, this model can be the first choice. The high order fluid model is overall in closest agreement with the Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo results. CHAPTER 5 Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, effects of repetition rate and gas mixture To avoid situations in which you might make mistakes may be the biggest mistake of all. – Peter McWilliams Important thing in science is not so much to obtain new facts as to discover new ways of thinking about them. – Sir William Bragg 5.1 Introduction It has been observed by multiple groups that streamer discharges are in many ways influenced by preceding discharges [154, 155, 161, 205]. From these and other studies, it is clear that species produced by such discharges play an import- ant role in inception and propagation of streamers. In most cases it is assumed that the dominant e↵ect of preceding discharges is the creation of (background) ionization. Immediately after a discharge (depending on composition and pres- sure) the background ionization consists primarily of free electrons and positive This chapter is based on the publication [156] Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixtures by Sander Nijdam, Eiichi Taka- hashi, Aram H. Markosyan, Ute Ebert published in Plasma Sources Science and Technology, Volume 23, Number 2, Page 025008, 2014. 77 78 Chapter 5 ions. For longer timescales this generally changes to positive and negative ions due to electron attachment or recombination (again, depending on composition and pressure). When the positive and negative species are not distributed equally this will lead to space-charge which can also influence subsequent streamer dis- charges by its resulting electric field. Other species that can play a role besides charged species are radicals (e.g. N and O), metastables (e.g. N2(A 3⌃+u ) and Ar(4s)) as well as other products like NO and OH. One way of studying the e↵ects of initial conditions on a streamer discharge is to create background ionization with an independent source like a laser [218], x-rays [134] or radioactive compounds [155]. This has the advantage that it de- couples the production of ionization (and other important long-lived species) from the streamers. Here, we will investigate the e↵ects of a preceding streamer discharge on a subsequent discharge by applying two positive high voltage pulses in succession with pulse-to-pulse intervals (�t) between 200 ns and 40 ms. This allows us to study the e↵ect of the preceding discharge on a very large range of time scales. At low values of �t the time scale is of similar order as the characteristic time of the total streamer development (and the duration of the applied pulse). Therefore we can also learn things about streamer development in general. Values of �t around 100 µs to 1 ms correspond to repetitive streamer discharges with 1 to 10 kHz re- petition frequency that are often used in commercial streamer and plasma-jet applications [101, 212, 236]. Finally, at �t � 10 ms the discharges start to re- semble the ’single pulse’ discharges often used to study streamer development. The advantage of applying two pulses instead of a continuous pulse train is that it is much easier to see the e↵ects of a single pulse discharge on the next discharge and that it allows the huge range of �t that was discussed above. It is experimentally extremely challenging to build a pulse source with a variable repetition frequency between 10 Hz and 50 MHz while maintaining the same pulse shape and amplitude. Creation of two identical pulses with variable interval is much easier. Walsh et al [149, 230] have shown in experiments with atmospheric pres- sure plasma-jets in helium that, for jets extending beyond the guiding tube, the propagation can be temporarily halted by ’neutralizing’ the applied voltage by applying the same voltage to two external electrodes surrounding the jet. This resembles the application of two consecutive pulses to a single electrode like in our experiments. In this chapter we will discuss the following topics: in section 5.2 we give the details and parameters of our experiment and methods. Section 5.3 treats the general development of streamer discharges created with two pulses as function of the time gap �t between pulses by means of ICCD imaging. This is done for three gases: artificial air, pure nitrogen and pure argon for various pressures and pulse widths and amplitudes. In section 5.4 we focus on the value of �t for which we can still observe continuation of the first-pulse streamers during the second pulse and how this depends on gas conditions, most notably on the variation of Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 79 Figure 5.1: Typical shape of the two subsequent voltage pulses with the pulse-to-pulse interval �t indicated. Indications of the opening (gate) times of the two di↵erent ICCD cameras are shown in blue and yellow respectively. the oxygen concentration in nitrogen-oxygen mixtures. The experimental results are then compared to plasma-chemical modelling results in section 5.5. Finally we will summarize our results and draw conclusions in section 5.6. 5.2 Experimental setup by S. Nijdam and E. Takahashi All experiments are performed in a 103 mm point-plane gap mounted inside a vacuum vessel. This vessel is filled with artificial air, pure nitrogen, pure argon and air-nitrogen mixtures at pressures between 67 and 533 mbar. When using pure nitrogen or argon, the vessel is flushed at a rate of roughly 1 standard litre per minute to improve gas purity in the experiments. The purity of all of the source gases is specified as 6.0 (less than 1 ppm impurities). However, because of leakage and/or out-gassing, we estimate the impurity level during experiments at about 5 ppm1. On the pointed tungsten tip with a tip radius of 15 µm, a pair of positive voltage pulses is applied repeatedly. Such a pulse pair consists of two nearly identical pulses with pulse-to-pulse intervals (�t) between 200 ns and 40 ms. The pulse pairs are applied with a repetition frequency of 0.7 Hz. The individual pulses that make up the pulse pairs are relatively rectangular shaped with pulse lengths of 200–700 ns, rise/fall times of about 15 ns and pulse amplitudes 7–17 kV. An example of such a pulse-pair is shown in figure 5.1, where the definition of �t is indicated as well. The streamer-discharges induced by the two voltage pulses are imaged by two separate, nearly-identical ICCD cameras. These cameras are mounted so that they image exactly the same plane, by means of a half-mirror (see figure 5.2). 1Calculated by dividing the measured leak/out-gassing rate of 5 · 10�6 standard litres per minute by the applied gas flow of 1 standard litre per minutes. 80 Chapter 5 Figure 5.2: Schematic illustration of vacuum vessel, half-mirror and two ICCD- cameras. Part of the vacuum vessel has been cut from the rendering to show the tip and plate. In all presented images the recorded images are rotated anti-clockwise by 90� so that the electrode tip is shown on top. During post-processing the images are rotated so that the electrode tip is always located at the top of the image. The gate of one camera is opened during the first voltage pulse; the gate of the other camera is opened during the second voltage pulse (see gate indications in figure 5.1). A typical example of an image-pair produced by the two cameras is shown in figures 5.3a and b, where the images are acquired during the first and second pulse respectively. These two images are then laid over each other as a new image where the blue channel (component) of the RGB-pixels represents the first pulse image and the red and green channels represent the second pulse image. A pixel with the red and green channels equally bright and the blue channel o↵ will appear yellow, while a pixel with all three channels fully illuminated will appear white. Therefore areas that only emit during the first pulse are blue, areas that only emit during the second pulse are yellow and areas that emit during both pulses are white. All linear combinations of yellow and blue are possible. The result of this operation on figures 5.3a and b is shown in figure 5.3c. In the example from figure 5.3a-c it is clear that the (blue) streamer channels created by the first pulse continue their path (in yellow) during the second pulse. The area around the electrode tip, as well as some areas on the edge of the inception cloud emit again during the second pulse (and are therefore coloured white). Figure 5.3d shows a superimposed image with both cameras gated around the first pulse (under di↵erent conditions than in figure 5.3a-c). They should there- fore get exactly the same image. This shows that the two cameras are aligned properly as almost all lines are white and only a slight yellow/blue o↵set is visible. Note that in all images the intensities of both cameras are chosen arbitrarily. Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 81 Figure 5.3: Illustration of the two-camera overlay technique. a) and b) show false- colour representations of the captured frames from camera 1 and 2 respectively, recorded during one voltage pulse pair (conditions: 6.8 % O 2 in N 2 , 133 mbar gas, 13.6 kV, 200 ns pulses with �t = 500 ns) . In c) the images from a) and b) are superimposed in blue and yellow respectively. d) shows a similar overlay of a discharge under di↵erent conditions, with both camera gate times set at the first pulse only (conditions: pure N 2 , 133 mbar gas, 13.6 kV, 400 ns pulse). 82 Chapter 5 The same intensity on the image does not imply that the original streamers have the same intensity. This was done for several reasons: Firstly the two cameras are slightly di↵erent and do not have the same gain factors. Secondly there was a half-mirror between the vessel and the cameras which has di↵erent losses for transmission and reflection and finally because the streamer morphology is best imaged with the maximum contrast per image. For these reasons we have used automatic contrast and brightness algorithms to process the final output images. This may also explain the slight blue tint in figure 5.3d. In all cases, observations are performed on two-dimensional images of the three-dimensional discharge structures. Therefore it is not always possible to draw conclusions on the exact relation between first and second discharge from one image. To do this properly one would need a stereoscopic set-up [152] to ob- serve the full three-dimensional relation between the paired images. Nevertheless, observation of multiple images under the same conditions can give good insight in the morphology and the relation between the paired discharges. All observations discussed in this chapter are based upon multiple images per parameter setting (usually 10 images), but only a limited subset of these images is presented here. 5.3 General development We have studied the morphology of the discharge induced by the voltage pulse pairs as function of pulse-to-pulse interval (�t) for a variety of gases, pressures and voltage pulse lengths and amplitudes. In general the development during the second pulse as function of �t is similar for all conditions, although there are variations in details. We will first discuss the full development for one set of conditions in air. Next we will look into the e↵ects of pulse length, voltage and pressure on this development. Finally we will look at pure nitrogen and pure argon. 5.3.1 Air An example of the development of the discharges during the two pulses in 133 mbar air with relatively short pulses and a large variation in �t is given in figure 5.4. The discharges generated by the first pulse are, except for stochastic variations, similar for all values of �t. These first-pulse discharges consist of a so-called inception cloud that breaks up into a few (typically five or six) streamer channels which mostly terminate either at the moment the first pulse is stopped or when the (bottom) cathode plate has been reached. In the conditions from figure 5.4 the pulse duration has been chosen so that the streamers terminate roughly halfway between electrode tip and cathode plate. We can describe the development of the discharge during the second pulse as function of �t for the conditions of 5.4with the following six stages: (i) At very short pulse-to-pulse intervals (�t < 700 ns), the second-pulse stream- ers continue where the first-pulse streamers stopped at the end of the first pulse. At the new starting point a structure resembling a small scale in- Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 83 Figure 5.4: Superimposed discharge-pair images for varying �t (as indicated in the images). Images taken in 133 mbar artificial air with pulses of 13.6 kV amplitude and 200 ns pulse length. 84 Chapter 5 ception cloud is visible. The extended streamer channels become shorter, thinner and fewer for increasing �t. Furthermore, the regions around the tip and the positions where the first streamers originally emerged from the inception cloud both emit light again, as can be seen from their white colour. (ii) At �t � 700 ns the continuation channels are no longer continued during the second pulse. Instead the re-glowing points at the edge of the inception cloud become more pronounced and eventually (at �t = 1.8 µs) grow together with the emitting region around the tip. (iii) At �t � 2.5 µs the first new streamer channels start to appear. These channels avoid the entire old inception cloud region and move around it. (iv) At �t = 3.3 µs more new channels appear. These new channels seem to follow the edges of the old channels. They are clearly thinner than both the old channels and the other new channels that avoid the inception cloud. Note that at �t = 1.8 µs a few short channels with similar morphology are also visible. Analysis of a large number of images at these conditions has shown a preference for the bottom side (with respect to the orientation of the presented images) of the old streamer channels. (v) At larger values of �t the new channels increase in width until they have roughly the same width as the original channels around �t = 5.8 µs and start to overlap more with the parent channels. For increasing �t they also start to become less dependent on the location of the first-pulse streamers. However, up to �t = 1.0 ms a large number of the second-pulse streamers still follows the first-pulse streamers, although not always exactly. Under these conditions the inception cloud during the second pulse is significantly smaller than during the first pulse. (vi) Around �t = 10 ms the second discharge has become fully independent of the first discharge. The inception cloud sizes as well as the thickness and position distributions of the streamers are now the same for the two pulses. Furthermore, the position of the streamers during the second pulse no longer shows a correlation with the positions during the first pulse. Note that these six stages cannot always be distinguished exactly and that the exact transition between stages is often di�cult to pinpoint. Interpretation The structures that are visible in stage (i) resemble the findings of Walsh et al. [230] where atmospheric pressure plasma-jets in helium also continue their path after the applied external field was suppressed for a short period. We will discuss the stage (i) streamer continuation and its interpretation in depth in sections 5.4 and 5.5.2. The re-emission of light from some regions during stages (i) to (iv) is probably similar to a secondary streamer. A more detailed investigation has revealed that during the second pulse the re-glowing of the points around the tip and the original Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 85 inception cloud occurs early in the pulse, while the continuation of the old channels starts from about 50 to 100 ns after the pulse start. Note that it is very likely that parts of the old channels that do not re-emit during the second pulse still carry (dark) current. Because their conductivity is still high no high fields can exist and current will not produce any light. For larger �t the conductivity decreases and therefore the secondary streamers become more pronounced. The new channels avoiding the old ones that appear in stage (iii) appear similar to the streamer morphology treated in [154], where new streamers avoid the pre- ionized area generated by a previous discharge. Similar behaviour was found by Briels et al. [24] where long voltage pulses were applied to a point plane gap in ambient air and so-called late streamers are visible that avoid the area occupied by earlier streamers. In both these cases as well as in the results presented here the new streamers move around the area that was pre-ionized by the preceding streamers or inception cloud. This is probably caused by the high conductivity in this area which will quickly shield any electric field and therefore inhibit the formation of an ionization front. The position of the new channels at the edge of the old ones in stage (iv) seems to be related to this: the inside of the old channels is still too highly ionized for discharge propagation but the edges have an ionization density which is preferable for streamer propagation. The preference for the bottom side of the channels may be due to the higher background field in this region (closer proximity to the cathode plane). Alternatively, as was proposed by Mark Kushner at the GEC 2013, the outer regions of the old channels may contain higher concentrations of O�2 and may therefore be more attractive for streamer propagation. In stage (v) the new channels can slowly penetrate the area of the old channels due to the decrease in conductivity. Longer pulses When longer (400 ns) voltage pulses instead of 200 ns pulses are applied the development of the second-pulse streamer as function of �t is very similar (see figure 5.5). The only di↵erences are related to the fact that the first-pulse streamers have already crossed the gap. Therefore the occurrence of channel-continuation for small values of �t (stage (i)) is rare as this only occurs on the few branches that did not cross the channel during the first pulse. However, the branches that did cross show something else: during the second voltage pulse the cathode-spots (the ‘feet’ of the channels) from the first discharge light up again. This e↵ects lasts to about �t = 1 µs. Furthermore, re-glowing of the spots at the edge of the original inception cloud is more pronounced with these longer pulses and the new channels start to occur for smaller values of �t than with the shorter pulse (compare at �t = 2.6 µs from figure 5.5 to at �t = 2.8 µs from figure 5.4). When changing voltage and pressure, the e↵ects on the first and second pulse morphologies are in general predictable (see figure 5.6): at higher voltages more and thicker streamers occur while at higher pressures fewer and thinner streamers occur. Furthermore, the di↵erent stages of development occur at lower values of �t for higher pressures and vice-versa. More details on the e↵ects of parameter settings on streamer continuation will be given in section 5.4. 86 Chapter 5 Figure 5.5: Superimposed discharge-pair images for varying values of �t. Images taken in 133 mbar artificial air with pulses of 13.6 kV amplitude and 400 ns length. Figure 5.6: Superimposed discharge-pair images for varying values of �t (indicated on the left), pressure and voltage pulse amplitude (indicated on top). Images taken in artificial air with pulses of 400 ns length. Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 87 5.3.2 Pure nitrogen The same measurements as treated above on air have also been performed on pure nitrogen. As was mentioned before, the expected purity in pure nitrogen is about 5 ppm. This purity is less than in previous work [153] but still ensures an oxygen concentration that is four to five orders of magnitude lower than in air. A selection of measurement results obtained in pure nitrogen is given in fig- ure 5.7. In general, the behaviour of double-pulse streamers in nitrogen is very similar to that in air although there are also some notable di↵erences: • As usual, streamers in nitrogen are thinner and branch more than streamers in air. • The inception cloud in nitrogen is much smaller than in air, therefore at pressures above 100 mbar it is not possible to distinguish the spots on the edge of the inception cloud. • The maximum value of �t for which streamer continuation still occurs (stage (i)) is about 1.5 to 2 times higher than in air. More details will be given in section 5.4. • The value of �t at which new channels start to occur (stages (iii) and (iv)) is much longer in pure nitrogen than in air. For the case of 133 mbar, 8.7 kV, 400 ns new channels (following the side of the old ones, stage (iv)) become clearly present around �t = 3 µs in air while in pure nitrogen this only starts to occur around �t = 30 µs. • Even at very high values of �t (10 ms and above) many second-pulse stream- ers still follow the rough paths of first-pulse streamers (stage (v)). In air this only occurs up to �t = 1 ms and in general is less obvious. At �t = 40 ms in nitrogen the second discharge seems independent of the first. One thing not shown in figure 5.7, but very obvious in the total set of measurement images is the large variation from pulse-pair to pulse-pair in pure nitrogen: the value of �t at which a certain phenomenon occurs can vary by about a factor 2 between pulse-pairs while in air the behaviour was much more stable. This makes a quantitative study of these phenomena in nitrogen more di�cult than in air. Nevertheless it is still possible to see the trends of streamer morphology as function of time, but quantitative measurements of properties can easily have error margins of 20 % or more. 5.3.3 Pure argon A third gas we have investigated next to artificial air and pure nitrogen is ar- gon. The expected purity of argon is identical to that of nitrogen. Because streamer discharges in argon can easily lead to the occurrence of a spark, the applied voltages and pulse durations were limited and the lowest pressure used was 133 mbar. This prevents a spark that can potentially damage the electrodes as well as the intensifier in the ICCD cameras. 88 Chapter 5 Figure 5.7: Superimposed discharge-pair images for varying values of �t (indicated on the images), pressure and voltage pulse amplitude and length (indicated on top). Images taken in pure nitrogen. Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 89 Figure 5.8: Superimposed discharge-pair images for varying values of �t (as indicated in the images). Images taken in 133 mbar pure argon with pulses of 8.7 kV amplitude and 200 ns length. An overview of double-pulse discharges in 133 mbar argon with a pulse of 8.7 kV amplitude and 200 ns length is given in figure 5.8. The double-pulse dis- charges in argon have many similarities with discharges in air and nitrogen; how- ever there are again some notable di↵erences: • The continuation of first-pulse streamers during the second pulse (stage (i)) takes much longer. While in air and nitrogen the maximum value of �t for continuation under similar conditions is less than 2 µs, in argon it is about 15 µs. A more detailed comparison will be given in section 5.4. • The decay of excited argon-levels is slower than the decay of the dominant emitting channels in nitrogen (partly due to energy-pooling by metastables). Therefore the old channels keep emitting light, even when no second pulse is given. This means that for lower values of �t it is impossible to distin- guish between light from the still emitting exited species created during the first pulse and newly exited species created during the second pulse. This (partly) explains the large white sections in the centre of the discharge for �t . 100 µs . • At values of �t between 100 µs and 1 ms the second-pulse streamer channels seem to follow the old channels like in nitrogen and air (stages (iv) and (v)). However, the large number of channels makes it di�cult to tell whether they exactly follow the old paths or, like in nitrogen and air, hug the edges of the old paths. • The first-pulse discharges show a very feather-like morphology, as is al- ways visible in argon under similar conditions [153, 218]. However, up to �t = 10 ms the second-pulse streamers (except for the continuing first-pulse streamers) are very smooth. This fits well with previous work on the e↵ects of pre-ionization on pure argon and nitrogen streamer morphology [155, 218]. 90 Chapter 5 Figure 5.9: Maximum pulse-to-pulse interval for which continuation still occurs (�t cm ) in artificial air, pure nitrogen and pure argon as function of gas pressure for di↵erent pulse voltages as indicated. All measurements were performed with a pulse length of 300 ns. • Between �t = 100 µs and �t = 1 ms the second-pulse channels get more nar- row, however, between �t = 1 ms and �t = 10 ms they become wider again. The first e↵ect can probably be attributed to a decrease in background- ionization levels inside the channel, while the second e↵ect may be explained by di↵usion of the remaining (low levels) of background ionization. 5.4 Duration of streamer continuation In a more quantitative study of the important time-scales in our experiment, we have measured the maximum value of �t, for which the continuation of streamers is still observed, or, in other words, the value of �t determining the border between stages (i) and (ii). We label this quantity �tcm. It was measured as function of pressure for all gases involved and as function of oxygen concentration in nitrogen- oxygen mixtures at a fixed pressure. Because the continuation does not stop instantly at a certain �t, �tcm is defined as the value of �t for which in 50% of the images some form of continuation is visible. Similar parameters for the occurrence of other phenomena as function of �t have also been considered, most notably the time when the first new streamers start to occur. However, the jitter of these phenomena (that happen for larger �t) can be as large as a factor of ten, especially in pure nitrogen. This makes it nearly impossible to make a coherent data set of such phenomena. Measured values of �tcm as function of pressure for three di↵erent gases are plotted in figure 5.9. It was not possible to measure �tcm over the entire pres- sure range with the same voltage pulse amplitude, at lower pressures a too high voltage pulse would lead to streamers that cross the gap during the first pulse and therefore no continuation would be visible. A too low voltage pulse at higher Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 91 Figure 5.10: �t cm in artificial air and nitrogen as function of 1/p2 with V max /p kept constant at 77.7 and 74.5 V/mbar for nitrogen and air respectively. The voltage pulse length was kept at 200 ns for both gases. For both gases a linear fit is included. pressures would lead to no or very short and thin streamers where continuation is di�cult to see. Therefore the applied voltage pulse was varied over the pressure range, as indicated in the figure. As could already be concluded from the images shown in the previous section, �tcm is much larger for argon than for nitrogen or artificial air. In order to avoid the e↵ects of changing the reduced electric field too much (E/n) we have also measured �tcm in artificial air and pure nitrogen as function of pressure while varying the applied voltage V max so that V max /p remains constant. We assume constant temperature so that n scales with p according to the ideal gas law. Note that this does not imply that everything scales perfectly with V max /p but just that the total streamer length2 remains roughly constant and that streamer inception is ensured. In this way it is possible to measure �tcm over a large pressure range without the need for abrupt changes in applied voltage. Unsurprisingly, in the measurements presented in figure 5.9 �tcm increases with decreasing pressure for all three gases. The most obvious cause of the stop- ping of streamer continuation is a decrease in streamer channel conductivity by various electron loss processes. Many of the rate-limiting reactions involved in the electron loss processes are three particle reactions (involving an electron or an ion and two neutral particles) they scale with 1/n2, so we can expect that �tcm also scales with 1/n2 with n the neutral density. Therefore we have plotted �tcm in artificial air and nitrogen as function of 1/p2 in figure 5.10. In section 5.5.2 we will treat the relevant electron loss reactions in more detail. As was expected we can observe a linear relation between �tcm and 1/p 2, although the fitted lines do not exactly cross zero. Unfortunately, because of the 2Streamer length depends here on streamer velocity and pulse duration. Because streamer velocity scales with E/n, the streamer length remains roughly constant for a given pulse duration when V max /p is kept constant. 92 Chapter 5 Figure 5.11: �t cm as function of oxygen concentration for di↵erent oxygen-nitrogen mixtures. All measurements were performed at 133 mbar with the pulse amplitudes and durations as indicated. The points drawn at 5 ppm oxygen concentration are actually measured in pure nitrogen gas (within experimental limitations). tendency of argon discharges to form a spark, only a limited pressure range could be explored and it was not possible to measure �tcm for constant Vmax/p . 5.4.1 Oxygen concentration effects Figures 5.9 and 5.10 show that although �tcm is larger for nitrogen than for artificial air, the di↵erence is relatively small, especially in comparison with argon. However, if the value of �tcm would only be influenced by electron attachment to molecular oxygen, we would expect an increase of �tcm of at least a few orders of magnitude between air and pure nitrogen. To investigate this in more detail, we have measured and plotted �tcm as function of oxygen concentration. This was done by starting with artificial air and then repeatedly replacing 50 to 70 % of the gas in the vessel with pure nitrogen, always returning to the starting pressure to measure �tcm. The results of this procedure are plotted in figure 5.11. We observe that when we decrease the oxygen concentration of artificial air at 133 mbar by mixing in more and more pure nitrogen, �tcm increases as ex- pected. However, this e↵ect reaches a maximum at an oxygen concentration of about 0.2 %. For lower oxygen concentrations �tcm decreases again and stabilizes around 0.01 % oxygen. A similar e↵ect has also been found in other streamer measurements: Ono and Oda [160] observed a maximum in time-integrated dis- charge current for oxygen concentrations (in nitrogen) around 0.2–1.0 %, not far from the maximum found here although they measured at 1000 mbar instead of our 133 mbar. Note that although we have calculated from the leak-rate that the amount of impurities in our purest nitrogen is less than 5 ppm, we cannot be entirely sure. It is possible that leaks or impurities in our gas-handling system lead to higher impurity levels. This would mean that the leftmost points in figure 5.11 shift to Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 93 the right and the plateau below 0.01 % oxygen could be an artefact of our set-up. 5.5 Modelling The development of the discharge during the second pulse depends on density and distribution of various species (electrons, ions, metastables, etc.) left over from the first-pulse discharge. If we fix a computational cell inside of the discharge, neglect drift and di↵usion of the species and follow only the temporal dynamics, we can apply zero-dimensional modelling to study the left overs of the first-pulse discharge. By varying the N2:O2 ratio we can the simulate experimental results from sections 5.3.1 and 5.3.2. 5.5.1 Model description A zero-dimensional model is used to describe the dynamics of species d[n i ] dt = S i , (5.1) where the source term S i is the total rate of production or destruction of the specis i in various processes; it depends on the local electric field. A modification of the kinetic file for N2-O2 mixtures from ZDPlasKin [62, 163] is used that consists of 650 reactions (listed in the supplementary data) and of the 53 species and states listed in table 6.1. The plasma chemical processes in N2-O2 mixtures are mainly taken from [28]. Constant rates for electron-neutral interactions are calculated using the BOLSIG+ solver that is contained in the package [74]. The list of species and reactions was automatically converted into the system of ordinary di↵erential equations (5.1) and solved numerically using the ZDPlasKin tool. The QtPlaskin visualization software was used for the analysis of the results [122]. In order to run ZDPlasKin, the calculation of the electric field has to be brought into the structure of equation (5.1), but the field profile should also be consistent with the local electron density. We have solved this problem by 1. neg- lecting the leading edge of the ionization front, and by 2. using the conservation of the total current. r · ("0 @tE + j) = 0 , (5.2) where j is the electric current; in our case it is j = �e je with j e = �µ(|E|) E ne , (5.3) where e, µ(|E|) and ne are the charge, electron mobility in N2 and density of electrons, respectively. Electron mobilities are obtained from [44, 47], where the multi term solution of Boltzmann’s equation was used. If we approximate the weakly curved front by a planar front [55] and the electric field in the non-ionised region does not change in time, i.e. in zero-dimensional configuration, we get dE dt = "0 e µ(|E|) E ne . (5.4) 94 Chapter 5 Table 5.1: Species considered in the model Ground neutrals N, N2, O, O2, O3 NO, NO2, NO3 N2O, N2O5 Positive ions N+, N+2 , N + 3 , N + 4 O+, O+2 , O + 4 NO+, N2O +, NO+2 , O + 2 N2 Excited neutrals N2(A 3⌃+u , B 3⇧g, C 3⇧u, a 01⌃�u ) N(2D, 2P), O(1D, 1S) O2(a 1�g, b 1⌃+g , 4.5 eV) O2(X 3, v = 1 - 4), N2(X 1, v = 1 - 8) Negative ions e, O�, O�2 , O � 3 , O � 4 NO�, NO�2 , NO � 3 , N � 2 O As said above, we neglect the leading edge of the front and start integrating at the maximum of the electric field. As [146] reviews, the maximal electric fields in simulated positive streamers in STP air vary between 120 and 180 kV/cm, so we use 150 kV/cm. This scales to E(0) =20 kV/cm at 133 mbar according to the similarity laws that approximate the fast processes in streamer heads very well. We assume the electron density at the maximal electric field to be ne(0) = 7.1 · 1011 cm�3. We initialise the densities of the positive ions N+2 and O+2 such that the plasma is neutral ne(0) = nN+ 2 (0) + nO+ 2 (0). while keeping the initial ratio nN+ 2 (0) : nO+ 2 (0) = N2:O2. The initial densities of all other ions, excited species and ground neutrals (except N2 and O2) are assumed to be zero. This approximation allows us to integrate equations (5.1) and (5.4) together in the form required by ZDPlasKin, and to get a decay of the electric field that is consistent with the local conductivity. We integrate the equations until the electric field reaches 0.67 kV/cm which is the so-called stability field for positive streamers in air at 133 mbar. We remark that though we have recently criticized this concept in [128], our simulations still show that the average electric field inside a streamer tree reaches such a value. When the stability field is reached, we continue to integrate equation (5.1), but now in a constant electric field of 0.67 kV/cm until the end of the voltage pulse, and then in a vanishing field. 5.5.2 Modelling results on streamer continuation The modelled development of ne as function of time for artificial air, 0.2 % oxygen in nitrogen and pure nitrogen at 133 mbar is given in figure 5.12. In this figure also Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 95 Figure 5.12: Modelled development of electron density as function of time for three di↵erent gas mixtures at 133 mbar. Pulse duration: 300 ns, initial electron density: 7.1 · 1011 cm�3, maximum electric field on streamer tip: 20 kV/cm, field in streamer channel: 0.67 kV/cm. The end of the pulse is indicated with the vertical line and the quantity �t probe is indicated for the 0.2 % oxygen mixture with a probing density of 5 ·1011 cm�3. the quantity �tprobe is indicated (for the 0.2 % oxygen mixture). This quantity represents the time between the end of the pulse (the moment the field goes to zero) and the moment a certain probe electron density has been reached. We assume that the conductivity of the channel depends only on electron density and that a certain critical conductivity is required for the streamers to continue their old path during the second pulse. Therefore we can find this critical density by comparing di↵erent �tprobe results with the measured �tcm values. This is done in figure 5.13. The shape of the �tcm and �tprobe curves are remarkably similar: both rise quickly from artificial air towards decreasing oxygen content, have a maximum around 0.2 % oxygen, decrease for even lower oxygen concentrations and then level o↵ again around 100 ppm oxygen. This indicates that the measured curves are no artefact of the measurement method, but can be explained by plasma chemical processes. The modelling results shown for 0.1 ppm oxygen concentration are virtually identical to results in pure nitrogen. Note that except for the chosen electron density probing values, no fitting parameters were used in the model. Therefore, even this relatively simple, zero- dimensional model with rate coe�cients that can still have large uncertainties is able to predict the shape of �tcm. Only at oxygen concentrations below 100 ppm we observe that the model results are always below the measured results. From the comparison of the model and measurement results we can conclude that the electron density required for continuation of old streamer paths is around 5 · 1011 cm�3 under the conditions presented here. The reason for the shape of the �tprobe and �tcm curves can be understood by studying the various electron loss mechanisms. In figure 5.14 the cumulative elec- tron losses by the eight most important electron loss reactions up to the moment that n e = 5 · 1011 cm�3 are plotted as function of oxygen concentration. In this 96 Chapter 5 Figure 5.13: Measured data from figure 5.11 combined with modelling results of �t probe with varying probe electron densities as indicated in the legend for the conditions from figure 5.12. Figure 5.14: Modelled cumulative electron losses by the eight dominant electron loss processes as function of oxygen concentration for the conditions from figure 5.12. Losses are integrated over time between the start of the simulation and the moment n e reaches a probing value of 5 · 1011 cm�3. Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 97 figure the dissociative attachment reactions with N+2 and O + 2 leading to ground state atoms are grouped with similar reactions leading to O(1D) and N(2D) states although they are calculated separately in the actual model. The figure shows that at low oxygen concentrations (below about 2 %) the electron loss is dominated by dissociative recombination with N+4 , while above an oxygen concentration of about 100 ppm also other reactions play a significant role. At high oxygen concentrations the electron loss is dominated by electron attachment to molecular oxygen and by dissociative recombination with O+4 . All these three processes are relatively fast and thereby can explain the fast decrease in conductivity at high and low oxygen concentrations. However, at intermediate oxygen concentrations, a significant part of the electrons (the major part between 2 and 12 % oxygen) are lost through dissociative recombination with O+2 , which is a much slower process than the dominant reactions at high and low oxygen concentrations. In air, the main pathway of positive ions is as follows: N+2 ) N+4 ) O+2 ) O+4 , (5.5) as described by Aleksandrov and Bazelyan [3] and also found in our model results. In this case the electron loss is dominated by the fast dissociative recombination with O+4 as was discussed above. At high nitrogen and oxygen concentrations this total pathway including recombination is very fast. At low oxygen concentrations the pathway stops at N+4 , which also recombines rapidly with free electrons. How- ever, at intermediate oxygen concentrations there is enough oxygen to form O+2 but not enough to form reasonable quantities of O+4 . As, at 133 mbar, the re- combination rate of electrons with O+2 is much lower than with O + 4 , the total recombination rate is lower at these intermediate concentrations, which is exactly what we observe in our �tcm measurements. This is supported by the modelled development of the major ionic species as is plotted in figure 5.15. As was shown in section 5.4, when Vmax/p is kept constant we observe an almost linear relation between �tcm and 1/p 2. This was attributed to three body processes responsible for the electron loss. This is not immediately obvious from the list of dominant reactions in figure 5.14 where the attachment of electrons to molecular oxygen is the only three body reaction. However, also the creation of N+4 and O + 4 requires three body reactions. The dominant production reactions for these species are: N+2 + N2 + N2 ! N+4 + N2, (5.6) O+2 + O2 + M2 ! O+4 + M2, (5.7) with M either O or N. Therefore it is not surprising that �tcm scales approximately with 1/p2. However, if we look at the calculated values of �tprobe plotted in figure 5.16, there is no perfect linear relation between �tprobe and 1/p 2. This may be caused by the constant electric fields that were applied in the model and that lead to lower than proportional �tprobe for increasing 1/p 2. This can also be observed 98 Chapter 5 Figure 5.15: Modelled development of the densities of the major ionic species and the electrons in three di↵erent gas mixtures for the conditions indicated in figure 5.12. Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 99 Figure 5.16: Measured �t cm as function of 1/p2 in artificial air with 13.6 kV, 300 ns pulses (triangles), �t cm at constant V max /p (squares, same data as plotted in figure 5.10) compared with modelling results with 250 ns pulse lengths for di↵erent probe electron densities. from the accompanying measurement results at fixed applied voltage (triangles in the figure). Unfortunately, the model did not converge for pressures below 100 mbar. 5.5.3 Other modelling results The experiments have shown that in 133 mbar artificial air or pure nitrogen, new streamers start to occur around �t ⇡ 2.5 µs and �t ⇡ 35 µs respectively. From the modelled development of ne (see figure 5.12) we cannot fully understand these timescales: there is no probing value of ne that gives such a di↵erence in �tprobe. In general the values of �tprobe for artificial air and pure nitrogen are quite similar for any ne for probing times below a few hundred microseconds. When looking at the total ionization density as function of time (e.g. the sum of electrons and all negative ions) the results get further away from the observation: the ionization degree is higher in air than in nitrogen at any time after the pulse. This is because in air the electrons attached to oxygen have to be added to the electron density which increases it significantly. Therefore we can conclude that the occurrence of new streamers cannot be directly linked to either electron or ionization density. In section 5.3.2 we observed that in pure nitrogen streamers can follow the path of their predecessors even at �t � 10 ms while in artificial air this is only observed up to �t t 1 ms and even then this occurs much less often. This fits well with the modelled ne development which in air starts to drop much quicker than in nitrogen after about t = 100 µs. This also holds for the total ionization degree, which, although (in air) is higher than the electron density, it shows the same trend and drops below the one for nitrogen at about 1.3 ms. All mentioned numbers are for a pressure of 133 mbar and room temperature. Of course electrons will also be lost through (ambipolar) di↵usion, which will start 100 Chapter 5 to play a role around millisecond timescales and is not incorporated in our model. 5.6 Summary and conclusions 5.6.1 Continuation of old paths In this work we have shown that the application of two consecutive pulses is a valuable tool to improve our understanding of streamer discharges and the interaction between repetitive discharges. We have found that it is possible to ”reignite” a streamer with a second high voltage pulse so that it continues its old path. This is only possible for relatively short durations (�t  �tcm) after the first pulse. The measured values of �tcm are between 0.5 and 15 µs at 133 mbar depending on the gas mixture. In nitrogen-oxygen mixtures we have observed that �tcm exhibits a maximum around 0.2 % oxygen in nitrogen. For lower and higher oxygen concentrations �tcm decreases. When modelling the decrease of electron density after a streamer discharge we find the same pattern. For probe electron densities around 5·1011 cm�3 the decay times fit very well with our measurements. Therefore we conclude that the maximum in �tcm, and the continuation of old paths in general, can be explained by a loss of conductivity in the streamer channel due to the loss of free electrons and that, under our conditions, the minimum ne for continuation is about 5 · 1011 cm�3 at 133 mbar. The reason that there is a maximum in �tcm, which means a minimum in total electron loss rate, is that at these oxygen concentrations the major loss process is recombination with O+2 , while at lower/higher oxygen concentrations the electron loss is dominated by recombination with N+4 and O + 4 respectively, combined with attachment at high oxygen concentrations. These three processes are all faster than recombination with O+2 which explains the maximum in �tcm. Höft et al [79] have found an increase in discharge decay time when changing the oxygen concentration in nitrogen from 20 % to 0.1 % in a pulsed atmospheric pressure dielectric barrier discharge. This is in line with our observations. Fig- ure 5.17 shows that the development of ne at atmospheric pressure follows a similar general trend as observed at lower pressures: ne decays fastest for artificial air, is slower for lower oxygen concentrations, but is again somewhat faster for pure ni- trogen. However, the di↵erence between air and pure nitrogen is much larger than at lower pressures due to the much faster three body attachment at atmospheric pressure. Also the maximum in �tprobe for probe densities below 1 · 1012 cm�3 now occurs at 0.01 % oxygen, instead of 0.2 % as was found at 133 mbar3. Höft et al conclude that the decay time increases with decreasing oxygen concentration, and our observations generalize their findings at atmospheric pressure and oxygen concentrations above 0.01 %. According to our modelling, an extension of these measurements to higher purity nitrogen should show a maximum in decay time and a decrease when going to very pure nitrogen. It is probable that this mechanism can also explain the maximum in integ- rated current density (and light emission) found by Ono and Oda [160] at oxygen 3We have calculated the development of n e at atmospheric pressure for only five oxygen concentrations so the real maximum can be higher or lower than 0.01 % oxygen. Investigation of positive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixture 101 Figure 5.17: Modelled development of electron density as function of time for five di↵erent gas mixtures at 1000 mbar. Pulse duration: 300 ns, initial electron density: 7.1 · 1011 cm�3, maximum electric field on streamer tip: 20 kV/cm, field in streamer channel: 0.67 kV/cm. The end of the pulse is indicated with the vertical line. concentrations around 0.2–1.0 % in atmospheric pressure point-plane discharges. They explain the increase of current when adding small amounts of oxygen to pure nitrogen by the increased streamer diameter and photo-ionization. Too much oxy- gen would lead to electron attachment and therefore reduces the current. This is in line with our modelling results, although it disregards the e↵ects of recombination with O+4 . The increase in current with small oxygen additions also matches our modelling results at atmospheric pressure (figure 5.17) which shows the highest electron density during the pulse (t < 300 ns) for oxygen concentrations of 0.2 and 1 %. Walsh et al [149, 230] also presented a similar continuation phenomenon in atmospheric pressure plasma-jets in helium but did not discuss the maximum continuation time as it was limited by the applied voltage pulse length. 5.6.2 Other phenomena Besides the continuation of streamers for short pulse-to-pulse intervals, we have observed a few other interesting phenomena at longer pulse-to-pulse intervals. When the interval is long enough to prevent streamer continuation (i.e., the conductivity has dropped enough), the remaining ionization still prevents new streamers to occur. We attribute this to the too high ionization degree which, though too low for continuation, is still high enough to shield the electrode tip and prevent streamer formation. During this period we only observe some re- glowing or secondary streamers in the area of the first discharge, especially the edge between inception cloud and streamers as well as the cathode spots for the cases where the first streamers have crossed the gap. After some time (pulse-pulse intervals of a few to some tens of microseconds, corresponding to electron densities of 1010�1011 cm�3 at 133 mbar) new streamers 102 Chapter 5 start to occur. The first of these still avoid the entire area occupied by the first- pulse discharge. For slightly larger values of �t the new streamers penetrate the area of the first-pulse discharge. These new streamers are much thinner than the first-pulse streamers and follow the outside of the paths of the original channels. This is similar to the streamers observed in [154] that also follow the edge of a pre-ionized region. Apparently the streamers cannot enter the area of high leftover ionization of the old channel because they cannot enhance the field there but preferentially follow the intermediate ionization levels present at the edge of these channels. For still larger values of �t (tens to hundreds of microseconds corresponding to electron densities of 109 � 1010 cm�3 at 133 mbar) the new streamers grow in size and start to overlap more with the first-pulse channels. Finally, at even larger values of �t (electron densities below 108 cm�3 at 133 mbar) they become fully independent of the first-pulse channels. This transition is very gradual and in most cases some second-pulse channels still follow a first-pulse channel while others do not. In nitrogen the following of first-pulse streamers occurs much longer than in artificial air. This is caused by the faster loss of electrons in air by electron attachment which, at longer timescales, dominates over recombination as it scales with ne instead of with nen+. All these later-stage phenomena can be explained by the same two mechan- isms: streamers prefer and follow elevated levels of background ionization but cannot propagate through areas with too high background ionization. CHAPTER 6 PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models Machines take me by surprise with great frequency. – Alan Turing If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. – Isaac Newton 6.1 Introduction Complex chemical models are increasingly demanded by many fields of science. Thanks to the availability of cheap computing power, scientists routinely use models composed of hundreds, if not thousands, of interacting chemical species. Many of these models have a direct relevance for our society’s most pressing problems; for example the chemical modeling of the atmosphere plays a significant role in the study of global climatic change [26]. Another example is provided by combustion, where a better understanding of the chemical interactions would lead to better and more e�cient fuel use [223]. The demand for complex chemical models is also growing within the plasma physics community. This tendency arises from the recent development of plasma This chapter is based on the preprint PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models by Aram H. Markosyan, Alejandro Luque, Francisco J. Gordillo Vázquez, Ute Ebert, revised for Computer Physics Communications. 103 104 Chapter 6 applications involving complex chemical processes, as well as a growing interest in the role of atmospheric electricity on the global chemical balance of our atmo- sphere [8, 68, 69, 166, 204]. The early work by Kossyi et al published in 1992 [95] can be considered as one of the very first attempts to build a complex kinetic scheme (of about 450 reactions) to study the non-equilibrium plasma kinetics during electric discharges in synthetic air (N2-O2 mixtures). In the last 20 years, the employed kinetic schemes have gained in complexity due to the new challenges posed to the scientific community. For instance, complex kinetic schemes were proposed [41, 65] to understand the plasma remediation (through DBD discharges) of SO2 and NxOy (mainly NO and NO2) resulting from combustion of coal fired electrical power plants and mobile emission sources such as diesel trucks and cars. In addition, the identification of key pathways in the non-equilibrium plasma kinetics of hydrogen- air and hydrocarbon-air mixtures is of great importance for the advance of plasma assisted combustion (PAC) where hundreds of species and thousands of reactions are usually implemented [211, 212]. More recently (since 2005), cold atmospheric pressure plasma jets (APPJs) have been shown as promising tools for biomedical applications [102]. Many of the APPJ plasma species (mixture of air and a noble gas) enable the plasma to disinfect and, consequently, it has become important to study the chemical processes of the plasma jets in order to understand the plasma-induced e↵ects on biological samples. Di↵erent models incorporating kinetic schemes of very high complexity have been developed [114, 141, 242] including one with almost 2000 reactions [225]; however, none of these works use a systematic tool to trace and anlayse the relative importance of the many kinetic pathways considered. Finally, it is worth mentioning also present studies about the possible electrical activity in the atmospheres of exoplanets. In this regard, a recent work by Helling et al [78] shows first results of the dependence of the electric breakdown conditions in giant gas exoplanets on the local gas-phase chemistry. These preliminary results suggest that di↵erent intra-cloud discharges (local corona discharges and large- scale sparks near and above the cloud tops) dominate at several heights inside the mineal clouds of exoplanets. A tool like PumpKin would clearly help in the analysis of the key gas-phase kinetic pathways controlling the atmospheric chemistry driven by the possible electrical activity in extrasolar planets. In most cases, when we use a chemical model, we are concerned with the pro- duction or consumption of some long-lived species. However, short-lived species very often mediate the chemical interactions between the species of interest so we must also include them in the model. After the model is run, we would like to analyze the result by summarizing only the interactions between long-lived species. This can be done by combining reactions that produce and consume the fast species into a so-called pathway. For example, given a fast species B and the reactions A ! B, B ! C these can be combined into the net reaction A ! C that recycles the species B. This separation between time-scales is even more acute in the context of plasma physics and, in particular, in the study of electrical discharges, where PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models 105 also the mechanism driving the chemistry is strongly inhomogeneous in time. This introduces an additional separation of time-scales, in this case external to the chemical processes. For example, many plasma applications at atmospheric pressure rely on nanosecond pulsed discharges, where we deal with a strong, repet- itively pulsed electric field lasting for some nanoseconds. We may be nevertheless interested in the e↵ects of this electric field on much longer time scales of some milliseconds or more. Many software tools exist to integrate numerically the evolution of arbitrary chemical reaction systems [29, 67, 88, 163, 174, 198]. In the plasma context, a tool such as ZDPlaskin [163] incorporates the Boltzmann equation solver BOLSIG+ [74] and thus it is compatible with reaction rates that depend on an evolving electron energy distribution, driven by a time-dependent electric field. However, few automated tools exist to analyze the output of these codes in terms of the separation between long-lived and short-lived species mentioned above. Recently Lehmann [103] proposed an algorithm to find the most relevant pathways in a given chemical system. With a focus on atmospheric chemistry, this algorithm has been applied successfully to investigate the destruction of ozone in the Earth’s atmosphere [71] as well as the formation [213] and stability [214] of CO2 in the lower Martian atmosphere. Unfortunately, Lehmann [103] didn’t provide the source code of his implementation of the algorithm to the public access. We present here the software tool PumpKin (pathway reduction method for plasma kinetic models) that reimplements Lehmann’s algorithm with a focus on plasma chemical models. PumpKin is an open-source tool available to all interested researchers, provided that proper reference is made in publications reporting results obtained using this software. The code and its user manual can be downloaded from the web site http://www.pumpkin-tool.org. It is worth mentioning that there exists first principle tools (based on quantum chemical calculations) such as the global reaction route mapping (GRRM) using the new ADDF (for one reactant) and AFIR (for two or more reactants) meth- ods for searching elemental reactant pathways recently published by Maeda et al [129]. Tools such GRRM with the new ADDF and AFIR search methods are of fundamental importance to determine the elemental (chemical) pathways res- ulting in some product species as a consequence of the chemical interaction of one (ADDF method), or two or more (AFIR method) reactants. However, our tool (PumpKin) takes for granted the elemental pathways (searched by GRRM through ADDF and AFIR) giving the products of each of the kinetic processes considered (taken from the scientific literature). Thus, PumpKin focuses on the net (or global) reaction pathways producing selected species, as illustrated in sec- tion 4 (examples) for NO and O3 �, rather than on the search of possible elemental pathways resulting from the interaction of given reactants which is the principal goal of first principle tools such as GRRM. The rest of this chapter is organized as follows. Section 6.2 describes the general algorithm of PumpKin. The tool is described in section 6.3 where we discuss input and output, as well as technical requirements to run PumpKin. Several examples and use cases are illustrated in section 6.4. Our conclusions are 106 Chapter 6 detailed in section 6.5. 6.2 PumpKin algorithm In this section we briefly describe the algorithm underlying the PumpKin tool. For a more detailed description and further discussions about the algorithm we refer our users to Lehmann’s original paper [103] and to the Users Manual of PumpKin. Given a model consisting of a set of reactions between several chemical species and the average rates of these reactions, obtained by solving of the model, Pump- Kin calculates a set of pathways and their e↵ective rates. A pathway is a linear combination of reactions, each of them weighted by a natural number. PumpKin builds pathways that have a zero net production of fast species, defined as those with a chemical lifetime much shorter than the time of interest of the model. To construct a list of pathways, PumpKin proceeds as follows. It starts from a set of pathways consisting of one reaction each, including all the reactions in the model. The list of pathways is then updated in steps, each step treating a fast species (named branching point in [103]). At a given point, the next branching point to treat is selected as the species with the shortest lifetime relative to the present list of pathways; then the pathways producing the chosen species are combined with pathways that consume it. The resulting pathways recycle the branching point species, in the sense that they have a zero net production of it. Then, in order to avoid a too large set of pathways, pathways with a low rate are eliminated. Finally, some pathways are decomposed into more elementary ones. This process is repeated for all fast species, defined as those with a lifetime shorter than a user-specified ⌧. 6.3 Code description and general requirements The PumpKin tool is written in the programming language C++. Originally it has been developed and tested on Mac OS X 10.8.5 using Xcode (versions 4.6.3 and 5.0) with LLVM compilers 4.2 and 5.0. Later it has been successfully compiled with GCC (versions above 4.2) on Mac OS X and Linux. Windows users should have installed the Cygwin tool (www.cygwin.com), which provides a Linux look and feel environment for Windows. Here are the general requirements: • To build PumpKin, the GNU version of make (GNUmake) must be installed. The PumpKin makefile requires GNU make version 3.77 or later. GNU software can be downloaded from many places, including www.gnu.org/ software/make/. • A C++ compiler is required. PumpKin makes heavy use of the ISO/IEC 14882 C++ Standard. Some compilers are not fully compliant with this specification, although most are. PumpKin has been compiled and tested with PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models 107 Table 6.1: Species considered in the model N, N2, O, O2, O3 NO, NO2, NO3 N2O, N2O5 N+, N+2 , N + 3 , N + 4 O+, O+2 , O + 4 NO+, N2O +, NO+2 , O + 2 N2 N2(A 3⌃+u , B 3⇧g, C 3⇧u, a 01⌃�u ) N(2D, 2P), O(1D, 1S) O2(a 1�g, b 1⌃+g , 4.5 eV) O2(X 3, v = 1 - 4), N2(X 1, v = 1 - 8) e, O�, O�2 , O � 3 , O � 4 NO�, NO�2 , NO � 3 , N � 2 O – GNU g++ 3.32 or higher. – LLVM 3.2 or higher • GLPK (GNU linear programming kit) must be installed [130]. This provides PumpKin a solution of large-scale linear programming (LP) problems. GLPK can be downloaded from website www.gnu.org/software/glpk/. We have tested PumpKin with GLPK recent version 4.32. The recommended system requirements depend on the choice of parameters dis- cussed in section 6.3.1. As a reference, in a MacBook Pro 15-inch (Mid 2010) with a CPU Intel Core i5 at 2.4 GHz, 4 GB (1067 MHz DDR3) of RAM memory and the operating system Mac OS X 10.8.5, it can analyse a chemical system consisting of 650 reactions and 53 species from the table 6.1, with the largest pos- sible tau_lifetime and f_min = 1000 (see section 6.3.1), in about 30 seconds. When the input files are large, PumpKin will require more time to load them into the computer memory. 6.3.1 Input and output To determine the chemical pathways, PumpKin requires from the user the stoi- chiometric matrix and kinetic data for the full chemical reaction system, namely: • chemical reactions R j , j = 1, . . . , n R , involving between species S i , i = 1, . . . , n S , where n R and n S are the number of chemical reactions and spe- cies, respectively, • stoichiometric coe�cients s ij , which represent the number of molecules of species S i produced (or negative number of molecules of S i consumed) by reaction R j , • a time evolution of concentrations c i (t l ) and reactions rate r j (t l ), where l = 1, . . . , n T and t0 = t1  . . .  tnT = tend, 108 Chapter 6 The code is independent of the units chosen by the user. Conventionally, c i (t l ) is specified in units of [molec. cm�3] and r j in units of [molec. cm�3 s�1]. A user should also provide an input file similar to the following table interest = 1 t init = 0.0 t end = 1.0e-3 max bp = 0 tau lifetime = 0.9e-5 (*) max path = 1500 f min = 0, where: • interest - an index of the species of interest S interest , if the user is interested in the production and/or consumption of S interest , otherwise the user should specify interest as a non-positive number, • [t_init, t_init] - a time interval [t_init, t_init] ✓ [0, T ] where Pump- Kin will perform the analysis, • max_bp - if positive, the maximum number of branching points considered, otherwise it is disregarded, • tau_lifetime - if positive, a lifetime threshold in units of [s], otherwise it is disregarded, • max_path - if positive, the maximum number of pathways considered per branching point treatment, i.e. the only the first max_path pathways with higher rate will be considered, otherwise is neglected, • f_min - if positive, pathway rate threshold in the unit of [molec. cm�3s�1], i.e. pathways with a rate smaller than f_min will be deleted, otherwise is neglected. The order of parameters in the input file should be exactly like in the table (*). The names of parameters are not important. Currently, PumpKin by default can read an output of ZDPlasKin. The Pump- Kin package is provided with an example of input files. The output of PumpKin with these input files is discussed in section 6.4. Depending on whether the user has specified the interest parameter as a positive integer (the index of the species of interest) or as a non-positive number (the user does not have any species of interest), one of the following results will be printed: interest > 0: PumpKin will output all the pathways (and their rates) producing or consuming the species of interest S interest , as well as the re- lative production or consumption compared with the initial concentration of S interest . The output will contain information such as how much S interest PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models 109 has been produced or consumed by the pathways that are deleted by PumpKin using parameters f_min or max_path. interest  0: Pumpkin will output all the pathways (and their rates) sorted by rate. In some cases, this number can be very large, so we decided to limit it to 100, which of course can be easily changed inside the PumpKin source code. The output will also contain information such as how much of any species has been produced or consumed by the pathways that are deleted by PumpKin (by user) using parameters f_min or max_path. 6.4 Examples PumpKin is provided with two sets of input files. Both examples are the outputs of the zero-dimensional plasma kinetic solver ZDPlasKin used also in the previous chapter 5. We use a zero-dimensional model to describe the dynamics of species under a constant electric field. The following system of ordinary di↵erential equa- tions (ODEs) is used to describe the interaction between the species d[n i ] dt = S i , (6.1) where the source term S i is the total production and destruction rate of species i in various processes. The adapted version of the kinetic file for N2-O2 mixtures (dry air) from ZDPlasKin [62, 163] is used. A complete list of plasma chemical precesses in N2-O2 mixtures is taken mainly from [28]. Transport parameters and rate coe�cients for electron-neutral interactions are calculated using the BOLSIG+ solver built-in into ZDPlasKin. As initial value of the electron density we take n e (0) = 4.0 · 1013 cm�3. The list of species and reactions was automatically converted into a system of ordinary di↵erential equations (6.1) and solved numerically using the ZDPlasKin tool. The user can visualize the results of ZDPlasKin using a software Qt- Plaskin [122]. 6.4.1 Species of interest As a first example we assume the background electric field to be a constant 10 kV/cm at standard temperature and pressure (STP). We run our chemical model up to 1 ms with ZDPlasKin. The output is stored in the folder called Input_10, where the input parameters specified by the user are in the file input.txt, which 110 Chapter 6 looks as follows interest = 40 t init = 5.0e-11 t end = 0.9e-3 max bp = 0 tau lifetime = 0.9e-5 max path = 1500 f min = 0. In this subsection we will modify only the species of interest. NO If we run PumpKin for the species NO, PumpKin will output 2 pathways respons- ible for the production: e + N2 ! e + N + N(2D) N( 2 D) + O2 ! NO + O net : N2 + O2 ! N + O + NO, (P1) and O�3 + N ! NO + O2 + e e + 2O2 ! O�2 + O2 net : O�3 + N ! O�2 + NO. (P2) The pathway (P1) will produce 52% and pathway (P2) 41% of the total NO- production, with corresponding rates of 3 · 1013 and 2.4 · 1013 cm�3s�1. The following reaction will be responsible for 72% of the destruction of NO: O�3 + NO ! NO�3 + O, (R1) and has a rate of 1.5 · 1013 cm�3s�1. O�3 If we run PumpKin and choose O�3 as the species of interest, we obtain the following pathway responsible for 94% of O�3 -destruction O�3 + O ! 2O2 + e e + 2O2 ! O�2 + O2 net : O�3 + O ! O�2 + O2, (P3) PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models 111 with a rate 3.1 · 1016 cm�3s�1. On the other hand, O�3 -production will be dominated by the following reaction and pathway O�2 + O3 ! O�3 + O2, (R2) and O�2 + O ! O� + O2 O� + O2 + M ! O�3 + M net : O�2 + O + M ! O�3 + M, (P4) where M is any neutral. The pathway (P4) will produce 18% of O � 3 , with a rate 1.4 · 1016 cm�3s�1 and the reaction (R2) will produce 69% of O�3 , with a rate 5.3 · 1016 cm�3s�1. 6.4.2 Dominant pathways or reduction In the second example of input file we consider the electric field to be a constant 20 kV/cm at STP. We run the chemical model up to 2 µs. The output is stored in the folder called Input_20, where the input parameters the specified in the file input.txt as follows interest = 0 t init = 5.0e-11 t end = 2.0e-6 max bp = 0 tau lifetime = 2.0e-7 max path = 1500 f min = 1.0e+5. The user can benefit from this execution mode in two ways. First by initializing max_bp by some positive N number we can eliminate from the system the first N fastest species. This can significantly reduce the number of species considered in the kinetics. Of course, this depends on the timescale of interest of the user. The second way to use this execution mode, is to list the most important pathways sorted by their rate. This also depends on the user’s election of where to cut and how many pathways to consider. As a reference, the highest rate of pathway is 2.4 · 1023 cm�3s�1 and the 240th pathway has a rate of 9.9 · 1017 cm�3s�1. On the other hand, 26 branching points are already considered, which means that these species are considered as short-lived and recycled. If the user has no interest in these species, he can neglect them. For instance, in this example the first branching point, i.e. the fastest species, is O+2 N2 with a lifetime of 8.5 · 10�11 s. After treating this branching point, PumpKin will generate new 112 Chapter 6 pathways recycling it. Among these newly created pathways the following one has one of the highest rates O+2 + 2N2 ! O+2 N2 + N2 O+2 N2 + O2 ! O+4 + N2 net : O+2 + O2 ! O+4 , (P5) with a rate of 3.9 · 1019 cm�3s�1. Thus, we see that the pathway (P5) uses the species O+2 N2 only as an intermediate species. PumpKin is pointing here that the chemical model can be reduced by replacing the two original reactions in (P5) with a single net reaction. The density of O+2 N2 does not need to be tracked any longer and therefore the model requires the solution of one equation less. 6.5 Conclusions The present paper introduces the PumpKin package, a tool to analyse and reduce complex plasma chemical models. The user can analyse the underlying mechan- isms of production or/and consumption of the species of interest. The idea is to investigate the relevant chemistry at a given time scale. We have provided two examples of the use of PumpKin as an introduction for potential users that would apply the code to their own models. The present implementation reads only the output format of ZDPlasKin. In principle, though, PumpKin can be extended to read output from other applications. CHAPTER 7 Conclusions and Outlook How much easier it is to be critical than to be correct. – Benjamin Disraeli An opinion should be the result of thought, not a substitute for it. – Jef Mallett Conclusions and suggestions for future work have been given at the end of each chapter. The main findings of this thesis are summarised here. 7.1 High order fluid model We have derived a new high order fluid model for streamer discharges, based on first principles. The high order fluid model employs the first four moments of the Boltzmann equation. The system is closed by approximating the highest order tensor with lower order moments, namely the average electron density and the average electron energy, in the last equation. We also have sketched the derivation of the lower order models. The source terms of the high order fluid model are evaluated using momentum transfer theory. We have calculated transport data using a multi term Boltzmann solver and the publicly available two term solver (BOLSIG+). The non-local e↵ects in the profile of the average electron energy are present both in the Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo model and in the high order model, but are missing in the first order model due to the local field approxima- tion. The slope of the average electron energy in the region ahead of the streamer is related to the spatial variation of the average electron energy in the avalanche phase of the streamer development. These observations are consistent with those made by Li et al. [107, 110]. In chapter 4 we discussed fluid models for streamer 113 114 Chapter 7 discharges of arbitrary order. In particular, we summarised the origins and the assumptions underlying each fluid model, including the second order model. We compare them with Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo in Ne under varying externally applied electric fields. We have concluded that the high order fluid model must be used in order to accurately simulate the streamer head and the region ahead of the streamer. Our comparisons show that the second order model describes very well the electron density and the average electron energy in a streamer channel, although it largely underestimates streamer front propagation velocity. We have derived a high order fluid model in three spatial dimensions, and we have simulated the streamers in one dimension. The resulting hyperbolic system should be investigated in higher spatial dimensions. The mathematical properties of the system are currently under investigation. The high order model should be extended even further to include the ion motion and the chemistry in the streamer channel, which will also allow the investigation of the heating dynamics. The temperature and pressure e↵ects on the properties of streamers should be investigated [82]. Furthermore, the assumptions on the isotropy of the temperature tensor and absence of the super-elastic collisions, metastables and photo-ionization could be eliminated. Besides, the high order model has never been tested to simulate positive streamers. We have shown that the high order fluid model simulates the streamer head with great accuracy. This fact can be used to couple the high order fluid model with Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo in a hybrid framework similar to the model developed by Li et al. [109]. The region ahead of the streamer head is lacking electrons and only few highly energetic ones are present. This means, generally speaking, the in this region the fluid approximation is failing. Here is where Particle-in-Cell Monte Carlo can be used to capture the electron dynamics properly. The other parts of the streamer body can be accurately represented by the fluid description. 7.2 Plasma chemistry S. Nijdam and E. Takahashi have performed experiments in N2:O2 mixtures and argon to investigate the e↵ects of a preceding streamer discharge on a subsequent discharge by applying two positive high voltage pulses in succession with pulse- to-pulse intervals (�t) between 200 ns and 40 ms. They observed that the value of �t for which we can still observe continuation of the first-pulse streamers during the second pulse depends on the oxygen concentration in nitrogen-oxygen mixtures and has a maximum at an oxygen concentration of about 0.2%. Our zero dimensional plasma-chemical model reproduces and explains the experimental results. We have developed a tool, called PumpKin, to find the dominant pathways in plasma chemical models. The tool is based on the algorithm proposed by R. Lehmann [103]. PumpKin is user friendly tool publicly available under the license GNU GPL (version 2), and it can be obtained from the website http: //www.pumpkin-tool.org. 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We introduce control volumes or cells V j as follows: V j := [j�x, (j + 1)�x] , x j := ✓ j + 1 2 ◆ �x, j = 0, 1, ..., M �1, (A.1) where �x = L/M is the spatial grid size while L is the length of the simulation domain. The numerical solution u j (t) has to be interpreted as an approximation of the average value of u(x, t) over the control volume V j at time t, i.e. u j (t) = 1 �x Z Vj u(x, t)dx. (A.2) To approximate the spatial derivative in (3.7) we use the second-order central di↵erence discretization [83], @u(x, t) @x = 1 2�x (u(x + �x, t)�u(x��x, t)) + O(�x2), (A.3) which has already been used in previous first order fluid models and associated codes (see for example [107]). Hence, the equation (3.7) can be re-written in di↵erence form: @u j (t) @t + 1 2�x A(u j (t))(u j+1(t)�uj�1(t)) = F (uj(t)), (A.4) 139 140 Appendix A where i = 1, 2, ...., M �2. As discussed in the main text, homogeneous Neumann or Dirichlet boundary conditions are imposed: At the left boundary, i = 0, we impose a homogeneous Neumann boundary condition @u(0, t) @x = 0 or u�1(t) = u0(t) . (A.5) In this manner, we provide the value u�1(t) = u(�12�x, t) at i = �1 which exceeds the computational domain. At the right boundary, i = M �1, we impose a homogeneous Dirichlet boundary condition for the electron number density, while for the other components of u we impose homogeneous Neumann boundary conditions to obtain a value for u M (t) = u(L + 1 2 �x, t). To approximate the electric potential ' (3.6) we use the same strategy as for the primitive variables u, i.e. ' is averaged over control volumes. Hence, the electric field E(x, t) is discretized on the edges of the control volume, denoted by E(x j� 1 2 , t). But since we consider a 1D case, the electric field follows directly from the charge densities by integrating equation (3.12) along the x-direction: E(x, t) = E(0, t) + e ✏0 ✓Z x 0 (n ion (x0, t)�n(x0, t) ◆ dx0. (A.6) We then can calculate E(x j , t) by: E(x j , t) = 1 2 (E(x j� 1 2 , t) + E(x j+ 1 2 , t)). (A.7) Now we are going to consider the ODE system (A.4). To approximate the time derivatives we use classical RK4 (Rounge-Kutta 4) time-integration scheme [83], which is a fourth order method. This is an explicit method which always has a bounded stability domain. In our case the stability condition has the following form: max 1i4 |� i �t/2�x|  C, (A.8) or by taking into account � � q � + p �(� �1), when � � 1, we have: � �t 2�x r 2 max " 3m  C. (A.9) This condition is called CFL stability criterion, where C depends on the particular time-integration method and space discretization. In our simulations, C is set to 0.1. APPENDIX B PumpKin algorithm Thought is only a flash between two long nights, but this flash is everything. – Henri Poincare Prediction is very di�cult, especially about the future. – Niels Bohr In this section we briefly describe the algorithm underlying PumpKin. For a more detailed description and discussion about the algorithm we refer to [103]. B.1 Basic definitions We assume the chemical reactions R j , j = 1, . . . , n R , involving species S i , i = 1, . . . , n S . Beside of R j , it is assumed that the stoichiometric coe�cients s ij , which represent the number of molecules of species S i produced (or negative number of molecules of S i consumed) by reaction R j , are given. For simplicity, PumpKin assumes only unidirectional reactions and in case of reversible reactions, it is the responsibility of the user to split them into forward and backward steps, incorporating external sources and sinks as “pseudo-reactions”. We assume that the user has already integrated the chemical model, following the temporal evolution of species S i during the time interval [0, T ] which was divided, in general non-uniformly, into n T parts. That is, for every species S i and reaction R j we know the concentrations c i (t l ) and the reaction rates r j (t l ), where l = 1, . . . , n T . For a given time interval [t0, tend] ✓ [0, T ] we can calculate �c i = c i (t end )� c i (t0), i = 1, . . . , nS , (B.1) 141 142 Appendix B c i = 1 �t · Z tend t 0 c i (t) dt, i = 1, . . . , n S , (B.2) r j = 1 �t · Z tend t 0 r j (t) dt, j = 1, . . . , n R , (B.3) where �t = t end �t0, �ci and ci are, respectively, the change of the concentration and the mean concentration of species S i in the time window [t0, tend]; rj is the mean rate of the reaction R j in the time interval [t0, tend]. In the rest of this paper we will use rate for r j , omitting the attribute mean. In this work we assume that c i has units of [molecules cm�3] and that r j has units of [molecules cm�3 s�1]. Ideally, we should have conservation of the concentration changes �c i �c i = nRX j=1 s ij · r j · �t, for every i = 1, . . . , n S , (B.4) but, due to numerical inaccuracies in the kinetic solver and to the finite time steps, the conservation (B.4) will usually be violated within the user’s input. We take as the definition of �c i the formula (B.4), instead of (B.2). One of the key questions that we want to answer is: How, i.e., by the interac- tion of which reactions, are certain species produced or destroyed? Obviously, we can determine the reactions that produce (or destroy) the species directly. But if such a reaction consumes (or produces) another specie whose chemical lifetime is shorter than the time scale of interest, then it is necessary to follow the chemical ’fate’ of that species. This leads to the idea of forming pathways, i.e. reaction sequences, that produce (or destroy) a chemical species of interest. Let us denote by P k , where k = 1, . . . , n P , the set of pathways. The given pathway P k is described by the set {x jk , m ik , f k }, where • x jk is the multiplicity of reaction R j in the pathway P k (zero if R j does not occur in P k ), j = 1, . . . , n R , k = 1, . . . , n P , • m ik is the positive (negative) number of molecules of S i produced (con- sumed) by the pathway P k , i = 1, . . . , n S , k = 1, . . . , n P , • f k is the rate of pathway P k , k = 1, . . . , n P . Then, by the definition of x jk and the stoichiometric coe�cients s ij , we have m ik = nRX j=1 s ij · x jk . (B.5) If we multiply both sides of (B.5) by f k , we get m ik · f k = nRX j=1 s ij · (x jk · f k ) , (B.6) which illustrates that x jk ·f k is the portion of the rate r j of reaction R j associated with the pathway P k . PumpKin algorithm 143 We take into account the e↵ects of deleted pathways with small rates (in next section). For this, we introduce the additional variables r̃ j , which represent the part of the rate of reaction R j associated with the deleted pathways, and p̃ i (and d̃ i ) representing the rate of the production (and destruction) of species S i by deleted pathways. In this case, the rate of each reaction will be totally distributed to pathways, including the e↵ect of the deleted ones r j = r̃ j + nPX k=1 x jk · f k . (B.7) On the other hand, the total rate of production p i and destruction d i of a species S i by all pathways, including the e↵ect of deleted pathways, are p i = p̃ i + X {k | mik>0} m ik · f k , (B.8) d i = d̃ i + X {k | mik<0} m ik · f k . (B.9) Although p i , d i , p̃ i and d̃ i are changed at di↵erent steps inside the algorithm, we always ensure that we don’t violate the balance between the production, con- sumption and concentration change of a species (B.4) and the following holds at any point: �c i = (p i �d i ) · �t . (B.10) The mean rate � i of the concentration change of species S i is defined as �c i /�t. Besides, we also need the auxiliary variable D i defined as D i = max{p i , d i } = ⇢ p i = d i + � i if �c i > 0 , d i = p i + |� i | if �c i < 0 . (B.11) A reaction sequence P 0 k is called sub-pathway of a pathway P l if all intermediate species, corresponding to the branching-points, are at steady state and the set of all reactions from P 0 k is a subset of the set of reactions of P l , i.e. R(P 0 k ) ⇢ R(P l ) , (B.12) where R(P l ) := {j 2 {1, . . . , n R }|x jl 6= 0}. A pathway is called elementary if it does not contain sub-pathways (condition(C30) from [200]). B.2 Description of the algorithm Algorithm 1 summarizes in pseudo-code the steps in the PumpKin code. B.2.1 Initialization. The algorithm starts with a list of pathways, each containing only one reaction: x jk = ⇢ 1 if j = k , 0 else , j, k = 1, . . . , n R . (B.13) 144 Appendix B Algorithm 1 PumpKin algorithm. 1: begin 2: read input files {Section 6.3.1} 3: initialize pathways := individual pathways {Section B.2.1} 4: chose branching-point S b {Section B.2.2} 5: repeat 6: merge pathways producing S b with pathways consuming S b {Section B.2.3} 7: delete pathways with a rate less than f min {Section B.2.4} 8: determine and split sub-pathways {Section B.2.5} 9: until the new branching-point S b is found 10: ouput {Section B.2.5} 11: end. To each pathway we assign the rate of the corresponding reaction, i.e. f k = r k , k = 1, . . . , n R . The book-keeping variables r̃ j , p̃ i and d̃ i are set equal to zero. B.2.2 Branching-points. Depending on the time scale of interest and the lifetime of species of interest, the user might need to exclude certain species from the list of branching points. For this, user can define lifetime threshold ⌧ min . In this case the species with lifetime greater than ⌧ min are considered as long-lived species and not used as branching points. Then, for every species S i with a lifetime shorter than ⌧ min and that has not been a branching point yet, we calculate its lifetime ⌧ i with respect to the pathways constructed so far: ⌧ i = c i d i , (B.14) with c i from (B.2) and d i from (B.9). As the next branching point we choose the species with the shortest lifetime ⌧ i . B.2.3 Merging pathways. Let us assume that we are given branching-point species S b and that so far we have constructed pathways P k , k = 1, . . . , n P . Then we perform the following steps: • Every pathway P k producing the species S b is connected with each pathway P l consuming S b . Let us denote the resulting pathway by P n . The number of molecules m in of S i and the corresponding multiplicities x jn of the reactions R j in the pathway P n can be calculated as m in = m ik · |m bl | + m il · m bk , i = 1, . . . , n S , (B.15) x jn = x jk · |m bl | + x jl · m bk , j = 1, . . . , n R . (B.16) PumpKin algorithm 145 Equation (B.15) ensures that the constructed pathway P n fully recycles S b , that is, it has no net production or consumption of S b . The rate f n of the new pathway P n is calculated using the branching prob- abilities discussed in [103] and reads f n = f k · f l D b . (B.17) • If �c b 6= 0, we store the contribution of P k to �c b by introducing a new pathway P n that is identical to P k , but has a rate f n = ⇢ f k · � b /D b , if �c b > 0 f k · |� b |/D b , if �c b < 0 . (B.18) • We remove all the pathways that have been connected with all partners. Pathways that neither produce nor consume S b are not a↵ected. B.2.4 Deletion of insignificant pathways. Even when the total number of reactions is relatively low, PumpKin may generate an excessive number of pathways. To avoid this “combinatorial explosion”, we delete a newly formed pathway P n if its rate f n is less than the user-specified threshold f min . To keep track of the contribution from the deleted pathways, we update equations (B.7)-(B.9) in the following way r̃ j := r̃ j + x jn · f n , j = 1, . . . , n R , (B.19) p̃ i := p̃ i + m in · f n , if m in > 0, i = 1, . . . , n S , (B.20) d̃ i := d̃ i + m in · f n , if m in < 0, i = 1, . . . , n S , (B.21) where x jn is the multiplicity of reaction R j in P n , and m in is the number of molecules of S i produced by P n . More details are discussed in [103]. B.2.5 Sub-pathways. In section B.2.4 we discussed the procedure to limit the growth of total number of pathways in our algorithm. On the other hand, when two pathways are connected, it may happen that the resulting reaction sequence in unnecessarily complicated, i.e. it contains other pathways as sub-pathways. As described in section B.2.4, we often eliminate “insignificant” pathways; so it is not enough to check whether other pathways constructed so far are sub- pathways of P n . Instead, for a given pathway P n we determine all elementary sub- pathways P 0 k , k = 1, . . . , n P 0, using the algorithm by Schuster and Schuster [103, 199]. This method has a limitation, namely, it requires that all intermediate species, i.e. branching-points, are at steady state nRX j=1 x jn · s ij = 0 for all i for which S i has been a branching point . (B.22) 146 Appendix B The condition (B.22) can be enforced by adding “pseudo-reactions” to the path- way P n , with multiplicity |m in | for all previous branching-points S i , S i ! . . . if m in > 0 , (B.23) S i . . . if m in < 0 . (B.24) Once we have the sub-pathways P 0 k , k = 1, . . . , n P 0, of a pathway P n , then we represent P n as a linear combination (with non-negative wights w k ) of these sub pathways, i.e. x jn = n 0 PX k=1 w k · x0 jk , j = 1, . . . , n R , (B.25) where x jn and x0 jk are the multiplicities of reaction R j in pathway P n and sub- pathway P 0 k , respectively. Such representation is justified in [200]. The rate f n of P n will be distributed to the sub-pathways according to f 0 k = w k · f n , k = 1, . . . , n P 0 . (B.26) The equation (B.25) leads to a linear optimization problem [103], which we solve by the simplex method employing the GPLK package [130]. Then, we search for the sub-pathways P 0 k , k = 1, . . . , n P 0, in the list of pathways constructed so far by the main part of the algorithm. If P 0 k is contained in that list, then we add f0 k to its rate, otherwise, we add P 0 k as a new entry with rate f0 k . APPENDIX C List of reactions used in chemical model The creator of the universe works in mysterious ways. But he uses a base ten counting system and likes round numbers. – Scott Adams A complex system that works is invariably found to have evolved from a simple system that works. – John Gaule The list of reactions used in the chemical model (5.1). M denotes any neutral species. 1 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (V1RES) 2 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 1) 3 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 2) 4 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 3) 5 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 4) 6 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 5) 7 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 6) 8 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 7) 9 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (X1, v = 8) 10 e+N 2 (X1, v = 1) ! e+N 2 11 e+N 2 (X1, v = 2) ! e+N 2 12 e+N 2 (X1, v = 3) ! e+N 2 13 e+N 2 (X1, v = 4) ! e+N 2 14 e+N 2 (X1, v = 5) ! e+N 2 15 e+N 2 (X1, v = 6) ! e+N 2 16 e+N 2 (X1, v = 7) ! e+N 2 17 e+N 2 (X1, v = 8) ! e+N 2 18 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (V1RES) 19 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (X3, v = 1) 20 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (V2RES) 21 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (X3, v = 2) 22 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (X3, v = 3) 23 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (X3, v = 4) 24 e+O 2 (X3, v = 1) ! e+O 2 25 e+O 2 (X3, v = 2) ! e+O 2 26 e+O 2 (X3, v = 3) ! e+O 2 27 e+O 2 (X3, v = 4) ! e+O 2 28 N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N 2 ! N 2 +N 2 29 N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N 2 30 N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N 2 31 N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N 2 32 N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N 2 33 N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N 2 34 N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N 2 35 N 2 (X1, v = 8)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N 2 36 N 2 +N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N 2 37 N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N 2 38 N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N 2 39 N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N 2 40 N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N 2 41 N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N 2 42 N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N 2 43 N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N 2 ! N 2 (X1, v = 8)+N 2 44 N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N ! N 2 +N 45 N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N 46 N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N 47 N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N 48 N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N 147 148 Appendix C 49 N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N 50 N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N 51 N 2 (X1, v = 8)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N 52 N 2 +N ! N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N 53 N 2 (X1, v = 1)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N 54 N 2 (X1, v = 2)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N 55 N 2 (X1, v = 3)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N 56 N 2 (X1, v = 4)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N 57 N 2 (X1, v = 5)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N 58 N 2 (X1, v = 6)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N 59 N 2 (X1, v = 7)+N ! N 2 (X1, v = 8)+N 60 N 2 (X1, v = 1)+O ! N 2 +O 61 N 2 (X1, v = 2)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 1)+O 62 N 2 (X1, v = 3)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 2)+O 63 N 2 (X1, v = 4)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 3)+O 64 N 2 (X1, v = 5)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 4)+O 65 N 2 (X1, v = 6)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 5)+O 66 N 2 (X1, v = 7)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 6)+O 67 N 2 (X1, v = 8)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 7)+O 68 N 2 +O ! N 2 (X1, v = 1)+O 69 N 2 (X1, v = 1)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 2)+O 70 N 2 (X1, v = 2)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 3)+O 71 N 2 (X1, v = 3)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 4)+O 72 N 2 (X1, v = 4)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 5)+O 73 N 2 (X1, v = 5)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 6)+O 74 N 2 (X1, v = 6)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 7)+O 75 N 2 (X1, v = 7)+O ! N 2 (X1, v = 8)+O 76 O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O 2 ! O 2 +O 2 77 O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O 2 78 O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O 2 79 O 2 (X3, v = 4)+O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O 2 80 O 2 +O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O 2 81 O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O 2 82 O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O 2 83 O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O 2 ! O 2 (X3, v = 4)+O 2 84 O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O ! O 2 +O 85 O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O ! O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O 86 O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O ! O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O 87 O 2 (X3, v = 4)+O ! O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O 88 O 2 +O ! O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O 89 O 2 (X3, v = 1)+O ! O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O 90 O 2 (X3, v = 2)+O ! O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O 91 O 2 (X3, v = 3)+O ! O 2 (X3, v = 4)+O 92 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) 93 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (A3⌃+ u , v = 5-9) 94 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (A3⌃+ u , v = 10) 95 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (B3⇧ g ) 96 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (W3) 97 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (B’3) 98 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (A’1) 99 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (A1) 100 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (W1) 101 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (C3⇧ u ) 102 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (E3) 103 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (A”1) 104 e+N 2 ! e+N 2 (SUM) 105 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (a1� g ) 106 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) 107 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (4.5 eV) 108 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (6.0 eV) 109 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (8.4 eV) 110 e+O 2 ! e+O 2 (9.97 eV) 111 e+O ! e+O(1D) 112 e+O ! e+O(1S) 113 e+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! e+N 2 114 e+O 2 (a1� g ) ! e+O 2 115 e+N ! 2e+N+ 116 e+O ! 2e+O+ 117 e+N 2 ! 2e+N 2 + 2 118 e+O 2 ! 2e+O+ 2 119 e+NO ! 2e+NO+ 120 e+N 2 O ! 2e+N 2 O+ 121 e+N + 2 ! N+N 122 e+N + 2 ! N+N(2D) 123 e+N + 2 ! N+N(2P) 124 e+O + 2 ! O+O 125 e+O + 2 ! O+O(1D) 126 e+O + 2 ! O+O(1S) 127 e+NO+ ! O+N 128 e+NO+ ! O+N(2D) 129 e+N + 3 ! N 2 +N 130 e+N + 4 ! N 2 +N 2 131 e+N 2 O+ ! N 2 +O 132 e+NO + 2 ! NO+O 133 e+O + 4 ! O 2 +O 2 134 e+O + 2 N 2 ! O 2 +N 2 135 e+N++e ! N+e 136 e+O++e ! O+e 137 e+N++M ! N+M 138 e+O++M ! O+M 139 e+O 2 ! O�+O 140 e+O 2 +O 2 ! O� 2 +O 2 141 e+NO 2 ! O�+NO 142 e+O+O 2 ! O�+O 2 143 e+O+O 2 ! O� 2 +O 144 e+O 3 +M ! O� 3 +M 145 e+NO+M ! NO�+M 146 e+N 2 O+M ! N 2 O�+M 147 e+O 2 +N 2 ! O� 2 +N 2 148 O�+O ! O 2 +e 149 O�+N ! NO+e 150 O�+NO ! NO 2 +e 151 O�+N 2 ! N 2 O+e 152 O�+O 2 ! O 3 +e 153 O�+O 2 (a1� g ) ! O 3 +e 154 O�+O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) ! O+O 2 +e 155 O�+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! O+N 2 +e 156 O�+N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! O+N 2 +e 157 O�+O 3 ! O 2 +O 2 +e 158 O � 2 +O ! O 3 +e 159 O � 2 +N ! NO 2 +e 160 O � 2 +O 2 ! O 2 +O 2 +e 161 O � 2 +O 2 (a1� g ) ! O 2 +O 2 +e 162 O � 2 +O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) ! O 2 +O 2 +e 163 O � 2 +N 2 ! O 2 +N 2 +e 164 O � 2 +N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! O 2 +N 2 +e 165 O � 2 +N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! O 2 +N 2 +e 166 O � 3 +O ! O 2 +O 2 +e 167 NO�+N ! N 2 O+e 168 O � 3 +N ! NO+O 2 +e 169 N 2 O�+N ! NO+N 2 +e 170 NO � 2 +N ! NO+NO+e 171 NO � 3 +N ! NO+NO 2 +e 172 NO�+O ! NO 2 +e 173 N 2 O�+O ! NO+NO+e 174 NO � 2 +O ! NO+O 2 +e 175 NO � 3 +O ! NO+O 3 +e 176 O � 3 +N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! O 3 +N 2 +e List of reactions used in chemical model 149 177 NO�+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! NO+N 2 +e 178 N 2 O�+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! N 2 O+N 2 +e 179 NO � 2 +N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! NO 2 +N 2 +e 180 NO � 3 +N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! NO 3 +N 2 +e 181 O � 3 +N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! O 3 +N 2 +e 182 NO�+N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! NO+N 2 +e 183 N 2 O�+N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! N 2 O+N 2 +e 184 NO � 2 +N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! NO 2 +N 2 +e 185 NO � 3 +N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! NO 3 +N 2 +e 186 N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! N 2 187 N 2 (B3⇧ g ) ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) 188 N 2 (A‘1) ! N 2 189 N 2 (C3⇧ u ) ! N 2 (B3⇧ g ) 190 O 2 (a1� g ) ! O 2 191 O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) ! O 2 (a1� g ) 192 O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) ! O 2 193 O 2 (4.5 eV) ! O 2 194 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O ! NO+N(2D) 195 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O ! N 2 +O(1S) 196 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N ! N 2 +N 197 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N ! N 2 +N(2P) 198 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 2 ! N 2 +O+O(1D) 199 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 2 ! N 2 +O 2 (a1� g ) 200 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 2 ! N 2 +O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) 201 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 2 ! N 2 O+O 202 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 2 ! N 2 +N 2 203 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+NO ! N 2 +NO 204 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 2 O ! N 2 +N+NO 205 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+NO 2 ! N 2 +O+NO 206 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! N 2 +N 2 (B3⇧ g ) 207 N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! N 2 +N 2 (C3⇧ u ) 208 N 2 (B3⇧ g )+N 2 ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 2 209 N 2 (B3⇧ g )+N 2 ! N 2 +N 2 210 N 2 (B3⇧ g )+O 2 ! N 2 +O+O 211 N 2 (B3⇧ g )+NO ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+NO 212 N 2 (C3⇧ u )+N 2 ! N 2 (A‘1)+N 2 213 N 2 (C3⇧ u )+O 2 ! N 2 +O+O(1S) 214 N 2 (A‘1)+N 2 ! N 2 (B3⇧ g )+N 2 215 N 2 (A‘1)+O 2 ! N 2 +O+O 216 N 2 (A‘1)+NO ! N 2 +N+O 217 N 2 (A‘1)+N 2 (A3⌃+ u ) ! N+ 4 +e 218 N 2 (A‘1)+N 2 (A‘1) ! N+ 4 +e 219 N+N+N 2 ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 2 220 N+N+O 2 ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 2 221 N+N+NO ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+NO 222 N+N+N ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+N 223 N+N+O ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 224 N+N+N 2 ! N 2 (B3⇧ g )+N 2 225 N+N+O 2 ! N 2 (B3⇧ g )+O 2 226 N+N+NO ! N 2 (B3⇧ g )+NO 227 N+N+N ! N 2 (B3⇧ g )+N 228 N+N+O ! N 2 (B3⇧ g )+O 229 N(2D)+O ! N+O(1D) 230 N(2D)+O 2 ! NO+O 231 N(2D)+NO ! N 2 +O 232 N(2D)+N 2 O ! NO+N 2 233 N(2D)+N 2 ! N+N 2 234 N(2P)+N ! N+N 235 N(2P)+O ! N+O 236 N(2P)+N ! N(2D)+N 237 N(2P)+N 2 ! N+N 2 238 N(2P)+N(2D) ! N+ 2 +e 239 N(2P)+O 2 ! NO+O 240 N(2P)+NO ! N 2 (A3⌃+ u )+O 241 O 2 (a1� g )+O ! O 2 +O 242 O 2 (a1� g )+N ! NO+O 243 O 2 (a1� g )+O 2 ! O 2 +O 2 244 O 2 (a1� g )+N 2 ! O 2 +N 2 245 O 2 (a1� g )+NO ! O 2 +NO 246 O 2 (a1� g )+O 3 ! O 2 +O 2 +O(1D) 247 O 2 (a1� g )+O 2 (a1� g ) ! O 2 +O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) 248 O+O 3 ! O 2 +O 2 (a1� g ) 249 O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+O ! O 2 (a1� g )+O 250 O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+O ! O 2 +O(1D) 251 O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+O 2 ! O 2 (a1� g )+O 2 252 O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+N 2 ! O 2 (a1� g )+N 2 253 O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+NO ! O 2 (a1� g )+NO 254 O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+O 3 ! O 2 +O 2 +O 255 O 2 (4.5 eV)+O ! O 2 +O(1S) 256 O 2 (4.5 eV)+O 2 ! O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) 257 O 2 (4.5 eV)+N 2 ! O 2 (b1⌃+ g )+N 2 258 O(1D)+O ! O+O 259 O(1D)+O 2 ! O+O 2 260 O(1D)+O 2 ! O+O 2 (a1� g ) 261 O(1D)+O 2 ! O+O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) 262 O(1D)+N 2 ! O+N 2 263 O(1D)+O 3 ! O 2 +O+O 264 O(1D)+O 3 ! O 2 +O 2 265 O(1D)+NO ! O 2 +N 266 O(1D)+N 2 O ! NO+NO 267 O(1D)+N 2 O ! O 2 +N 2 268 O(1S)+O ! O(1D)+O 269 O(1S)+N ! O+N 270 O(1S)+O 2 ! O(1D)+O 2 271 O(1S)+O 2 ! O+O+O 272 O(1S)+N 2 ! O+N 2 273 O(1S)+O 2 (a1� g ) ! O+O 2 (4.5 eV) 274 O(1S)+O 2 (a1� g ) ! O(1D)+O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) 275 O(1S)+O 2 (a1� g ) ! O+O+O 276 O(1S)+NO ! O+NO 277 O(1S)+NO ! O(1D)+NO 278 O(1S)+O 3 ! O 2 +O 2 279 O(1S)+O 3 ! O 2 +O+O(1D) 280 O(1S)+N 2 O ! O+N 2 O 281 O(1S)+N 2 O ! O(1D)+N 2 O 282 N+NO ! O+N 2 283 N+O 2 ! O+NO 284 N+NO 2 ! O+O+N 2 285 N+NO 2 ! O+N 2 O 286 N+NO 2 ! N 2 +O 2 287 N+NO 2 ! NO+NO 288 O+N 2 ! N+NO 289 O+NO ! N+O 2 290 O+NO ! NO 2 291 O+N 2 O ! N 2 +O 2 292 O+N 2 O ! NO+NO 293 O+NO 2 ! NO+O 2 294 O+NO 3 ! O 2 +NO 2 295 N 2 +O 2 ! O+N 2 O 296 NO+NO ! N+NO 2 297 NO+NO ! O+N 2 O 298 NO+NO ! N 2 +O 2 299 NO+O 2 ! O+NO 2 150 Appendix C 300 NO+O 3 ! O 2 +NO 2 301 NO+N 2 O ! N 2 +NO 2 302 NO+NO 3 ! NO 2 +NO 2 303 O 2 +O 2 ! O+O 3 304 O 2 +NO 2 ! NO+O 3 305 NO 2 +NO 2 ! NO+NO+O 2 306 NO 2 +NO 2 ! NO+NO 3 307 NO 2 +O 3 ! O 2 +NO 3 308 NO 2 +NO 3 ! NO+NO 2 +O 2 309 NO 3 +O 2 ! NO 2 +O 3 310 NO 3 +NO 3 ! O 2 +NO 2 +NO 2 311 N+N ! N+ 2 +e 312 N+O ! NO++e 313 N 2 +N 2 ! N+N+N 2 314 N 2 +O 2 ! N+N+O 2 315 N 2 +NO ! N+N+NO 316 N 2 +O ! N+N+O 317 N 2 +N ! N+N+N 318 O 2 +N 2 ! O+O+N 2 319 O 2 +O 2 ! O+O+O 2 320 O 2 +O ! O+O+O 321 O 2 +N ! O+O+N 322 O 2 +NO ! O+O+NO 323 NO+N 2 ! N+O+N 2 324 NO+O 2 ! N+O+O 2 325 NO+O ! N+O+O 326 NO+N ! N+O+N 327 NO+NO ! N+O+NO 328 O 3 +N 2 ! O 2 +O+N 2 329 O 3 +O 2 ! O 2 +O+O 2 330 O 3 +N ! O 2 +O+N 331 O 3 +O ! O 2 +O+O 332 N 2 O+N 2 ! N 2 +O+N 2 333 N 2 O+O 2 ! N 2 +O+O 2 334 N 2 O+NO ! N 2 +O+NO 335 N 2 O+N 2 O ! N 2 +O+N 2 O 336 NO 2 +N 2 ! NO+O+N 2 337 NO 2 +O 2 ! NO+O+O 2 338 NO 2 +NO ! NO+O+NO 339 NO 2 +NO 2 ! NO+O+NO 2 340 NO 3 +N 2 ! NO 2 +O+N 2 341 NO 3 +O 2 ! NO 2 +O+O 2 342 NO 3 +NO ! NO 2 +O+NO 343 NO 3 +N ! NO 2 +O+N 344 NO 3 +O ! NO 2 +O+O 345 NO 3 +N 2 ! NO+O 2 +N 2 346 NO 3 +O 2 ! NO+O 2 +O 2 347 NO 3 +NO ! NO+O 2 +NO 348 NO 3 +N ! NO+O 2 +N 349 NO 3 +O ! NO+O 2 +O 350 N 2 O 5 +M ! NO 2 +NO 3 +M 351 N+N+N 2 ! N 2 +N 2 352 N+N+O 2 ! N 2 +O 2 353 N+N+NO ! N 2 +NO 354 N+N+N ! N 2 +N 355 N+N+O ! N 2 +O 356 O+O+N 2 ! O 2 +N 2 357 O+O+O 2 ! O 2 +O 2 358 O+O+N ! O 2 +N 359 O+O+O ! O 2 +O 360 O+O+NO ! O 2 +NO 361 N+O+N 2 ! NO+N 2 362 N+O+O 2 ! NO+O 2 363 N+O+N ! NO+N 364 N+O+O ! NO+O 365 N+O+NO ! NO+NO 366 O+O 2 +N 2 ! O 3 +N 2 367 O+O 2 +O 2 ! O 3 +O 2 368 O+O 2 +NO ! O 3 +NO 369 O+O 2 +N ! O 3 +N 370 O+O 2 +O ! O 3 +O 371 O+N 2 +M ! N 2 O+M 372 O+NO+N 2 ! NO 2 +N 2 373 O+NO+O 2 ! NO 2 +O 2 374 O+NO+NO ! NO 2 +NO 375 O+NO 2 +N 2 ! NO 3 +N 2 376 O+NO 2 +O 2 ! NO 3 +O 2 377 O+NO 2 +N ! NO 3 +N 378 O+NO 2 +O ! NO 3 +O 379 O+NO 2 +NO ! NO 3 +NO 380 NO 2 +NO 3 +M ! N 2 O 5 +M 381 N++O ! N+O+ 382 N++O 2 ! O+ 2 +N 383 N++O 2 ! NO++O 384 N++O 2 ! O++NO 385 N++O 3 ! NO++O 2 386 N++NO ! NO++N 387 N++NO ! N+ 2 +O 388 N++NO ! O++N 2 389 N++N 2 O ! NO++N 2 390 O++N 2 ! NO++N 391 O++O 2 ! O+ 2 +O 392 O++O 3 ! O+ 2 +O 2 393 O++NO ! NO++O 394 O++NO ! O+ 2 +N 395 O++N(2D) ! N++O 396 O++N 2 O ! NO++NO 397 O++N 2 O ! N 2 O++O 398 O++N 2 O ! O+ 2 +N 2 399 O++NO 2 ! NO+ 2 +O 400 N + 2 +O 2 ! O+ 2 +N 2 401 N + 2 +O ! NO++N 402 N + 2 +O 3 ! O+ 2 +O+N 2 403 N + 2 +N ! N++N 2 404 N + 2 +NO ! NO++N 2 405 N + 2 +N 2 O ! N 2 O++N 2 406 N + 2 +N 2 O ! NO++N+N 2 407 O + 2 +N 2 ! NO++NO 408 O + 2 +N ! NO++O 409 O + 2 +NO ! NO++O 2 410 O + 2 +NO 2 ! NO++O 3 411 O + 2 +NO 2 ! NO+ 2 +O 2 412 N + 3 +O 2 ! O+ 2 +N+N 2 413 N + 3 +O 2 ! NO+ 2 +N 2 414 N + 3 +N ! N+ 2 +N 2 415 N + 3 +NO ! NO++N+N 2 416 N + 3 +NO ! N 2 O++N 2 417 NO + 2 +NO ! NO++NO 2 418 N 2 O++NO ! NO++N 2 O 419 N + 4 +N 2 ! N+ 2 +N 2 +N 2 420 N + 4 +O 2 ! O+ 2 +N 2 +N 2 421 N + 4 +O ! O++N 2 +N 2 422 N + 4 +N ! N++N 2 +N 2 423 N + 4 +NO ! NO++N 2 +N 2 424 O + 4 +N 2 ! O+ 2 N 2 +O 2 425 O + 4 +O 2 ! O+ 2 +O 2 +O 2 426 O + 4 +O 2 (a1� g ) ! O+ 2 +O 2 +O 2 427 O + 4 +O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) ! O+ 2 +O 2 +O 2 428 O + 4 +O ! O+ 2 +O 3 List of reactions used in chemical model 151 429 O + 4 +NO ! NO++O 2 +O 2 430 O + 2 N 2 +N 2 ! O+ 2 +N 2 +N 2 431 O + 2 N 2 +O 2 ! O+ 4 +N 2 432 N++N 2 +N 2 ! N+ 3 +N 2 433 N++O+M ! NO++M 434 N++N+M ! N+ 2 +M 435 O++N 2 +M ! NO++N+M 436 O++O+M ! O+ 2 +M 437 O++N+M ! NO++M 438 N + 2 +N 2 +N 2 ! N+ 4 +N 2 439 N + 2 +N+N 2 ! N+ 3 +N 2 440 O + 2 +O 2 +O 2 ! O+ 4 +O 2 441 O + 2 +N 2 +N 2 ! O+ 2 N 2 +N 2 442 O�+O 2 (a1� g ) ! O� 2 +O 443 O�+O 3 ! O� 3 +O 444 O�+NO 2 ! NO� 2 +O 445 O�+N 2 O ! NO�+NO 446 O�+N 2 O ! N 2 O�+O 447 O � 2 +O ! O�+O 2 448 O � 2 +O 3 ! O� 3 +O 2 449 O � 2 +NO 2 ! NO� 2 +O 2 450 O � 2 +NO 3 ! NO� 3 +O 2 451 O � 3 +O ! O� 2 +O 2 452 O � 3 +NO ! NO� 3 +O 453 O � 3 +NO ! NO� 2 +O 2 454 O � 3 +NO 2 ! NO� 2 +O 3 455 O � 3 +NO 2 ! NO� 3 +O 2 456 O � 3 +NO 3 ! NO� 3 +O 3 457 NO�+O 2 ! O� 2 +NO 458 NO�+NO 2 ! NO� 2 +NO 459 NO�+N 2 O ! NO� 2 +N 2 460 NO � 2 +O 3 ! NO� 3 +O 2 461 NO � 2 +NO 2 ! NO� 3 +NO 462 NO � 2 +NO 3 ! NO� 3 +NO 2 463 NO � 2 +N 2 O 5 ! NO� 3 +NO 2 +NO 2 464 NO � 3 +NO ! NO� 2 +NO 2 465 O � 4 +N 2 ! O� 2 +O 2 +N 2 466 O � 4 +O 2 ! O� 2 +O 2 +O 2 467 O � 4 +O ! O� 3 +O 2 468 O � 4 +O ! O�+O 2 +O 2 469 O � 4 +O 2 (a1� g ) ! O� 2 +O 2 +O 2 470 O � 4 +O 2 (b1⌃+ g ) ! O� 2 +O 2 +O 2 471 O � 4 +NO ! NO� 3 +O 2 472 O�+O 2 +M ! O� 3 +M 473 O�+NO+M ! NO� 2 +M 474 O � 2 +O 2 +M ! O� 4 +M 475 O�+N+ ! O+N 476 O�+N + 2 ! O+N 2 477 O�+O+ ! O+O 478 O�+O + 2 ! O+O 2 479 O�+NO+ ! O+NO 480 O�+N 2 O+ ! O+N 2 O 481 O�+NO + 2 ! O+NO 2 482 O � 2 +N+ ! O 2 +N 483 O � 2 +N + 2 ! O 2 +N 2 484 O � 2 +O+ ! O 2 +O 485 O � 2 +O + 2 ! O 2 +O 2 486 O � 2 +NO+ ! O 2 +NO 487 O � 2 +N 2 O+ ! O 2 +N 2 O 488 O � 2 +NO + 2 ! O 2 +NO 2 489 O � 3 +N+ ! O 3 +N 490 O � 3 +N + 2 ! O 3 +N 2 491 O � 3 +O+ ! O 3 +O 492 O � 3 +O + 2 ! O 3 +O 2 493 O � 3 +NO+ ! O 3 +NO 494 O � 3 +N 2 O+ ! O 3 +N 2 O 495 O � 3 +NO + 2 ! O 3 +NO 2 496 NO�+N+ ! NO+N 497 NO�+N + 2 ! NO+N 2 498 NO�+O+ ! NO+O 499 NO�+O + 2 ! NO+O 2 500 NO�+NO+ ! NO+NO 501 NO�+N 2 O+ ! NO+N 2 O 502 NO�+NO + 2 ! NO+NO 2 503 N 2 O�+N+ ! N 2 O+N 504 N 2 O�+N + 2 ! N 2 O+N 2 505 N 2 O�+O+ ! N 2 O+O 506 N 2 O�+O + 2 ! N 2 O+O 2 507 N 2 O�+NO+ ! N 2 O+NO 508 N 2 O�+N 2 O+ ! N 2 O+N 2 O 509 N 2 O�+NO + 2 ! N 2 O+NO 2 510 NO � 2 +N+ ! NO 2 +N 511 NO � 2 +N + 2 ! NO 2 +N 2 512 NO � 2 +O+ ! NO 2 +O 513 NO � 2 +O + 2 ! NO 2 +O 2 514 NO � 2 +NO+ ! NO 2 +NO 515 NO � 2 +N 2 O+ ! NO 2 +N 2 O 516 NO � 2 +NO + 2 ! NO 2 +NO 2 517 NO � 3 +N+ ! NO 3 +N 518 NO � 3 +N + 2 ! NO 3 +N 2 519 NO � 3 +O+ ! NO 3 +O 520 NO � 3 +O + 2 ! NO 3 +O 2 521 NO � 3 +NO+ ! NO 3 +NO 522 NO � 3 +N 2 O+ ! NO 3 +N 2 O 523 NO � 3 +NO + 2 ! NO 3 +NO 2 524 O�+N + 2 ! O+N+N 525 O�+N + 3 ! O+N+N 2 526 O�+N + 4 ! O+N 2 +N 2 527 O�+O + 2 ! O+O+O 528 O�+O + 4 ! O+O 2 +O 2 529 O�+NO+ ! O+N+O 530 O�+N 2 O+ ! O+N 2 +O 531 O�+NO + 2 ! O+N+O 2 532 O�+O + 2 N 2 ! O+O 2 +N 2 533 O � 2 +N + 2 ! O 2 +N+N 534 O � 2 +N + 3 ! O 2 +N+N 2 535 O � 2 +N + 4 ! O 2 +N 2 +N 2 536 O � 2 +O + 2 ! O 2 +O+O 537 O � 2 +O + 4 ! O 2 +O 2 +O 2 538 O � 2 +NO+ ! O 2 +N+O 539 O � 2 +N 2 O+ ! O 2 +N 2 +O 540 O � 2 +NO + 2 ! O 2 +N+O 2 541 O � 2 +O + 2 N 2 ! O 2 +O 2 +N 2 542 O � 3 +N + 2 ! O 3 +N+N 543 O � 3 +N + 3 ! O 3 +N+N 2 544 O � 3 +N + 4 ! O 3 +N 2 +N 2 152 Appendix C 545 O � 3 +O + 2 ! O 3 +O+O 546 O � 3 +O + 4 ! O 3 +O 2 +O 2 547 O � 3 +NO+ ! O 3 +N+O 548 O � 3 +N 2 O+ ! O 3 +N 2 +O 549 O � 3 +NO + 2 ! O 3 +N+O 2 550 O � 3 +O + 2 N 2 ! O 3 +O 2 +N 2 551 NO�+N + 2 ! NO+N+N 552 NO�+N + 3 ! NO+N+N 2 553 NO�+N + 4 ! NO+N 2 +N 2 554 NO�+O + 2 ! NO+O+O 555 NO�+O + 4 ! NO+O 2 +O 2 556 NO�+NO+ ! NO+N+O 557 NO�+N 2 O+ ! NO+N 2 +O 558 NO�+NO + 2 ! NO+N+O 2 559 NO�+O + 2 N 2 ! NO+O 2 +N 2 560 N 2 O�+N + 2 ! N 2 O+N+N 561 N 2 O�+N + 3 ! N 2 O+N+N 2 562 N 2 O�+N + 4 ! N 2 O+N 2 +N 2 563 N 2 O�+O + 2 ! N 2 O+O+O 564 N 2 O�+O + 4 ! N 2 O+O 2 +O 2 565 N 2 O�+NO+ ! N 2 O+N+O 566 N 2 O�+N 2 O+ ! N 2 O+N 2 +O 567 N 2 O�+NO + 2 ! N 2 O+N+O 2 568 N 2 O�+O + 2 N 2 ! N 2 O+O 2 +N 2 569 NO � 2 +N + 2 ! NO 2 +N+N 570 NO � 2 +N + 3 ! NO 2 +N+N 2 571 NO � 2 +N + 4 ! NO 2 +N 2 +N 2 572 NO � 2 +O + 2 ! NO 2 +O+O 573 NO � 2 +O + 4 ! NO 2 +O 2 +O 2 574 NO � 2 +NO+ ! NO 2 +N+O 575 NO � 2 +N 2 O+ ! NO 2 +N 2 +O 576 NO � 2 +NO + 2 ! NO 2 +N+O 2 577 NO � 2 +O + 2 N 2 ! NO 2 +O 2 +N 2 578 NO � 3 +N + 2 ! NO 3 +N+N 579 NO � 3 +N + 3 ! NO 3 +N+N 2 580 NO � 3 +N + 4 ! NO 3 +N 2 +N 2 581 NO � 3 +O + 2 ! NO 3 +O+O 582 NO � 3 +O + 4 ! NO 3 +O 2 +O 2 583 NO � 3 +NO+ ! NO 3 +N+O 584 NO � 3 +N 2 O+ ! NO 3 +N 2 +O 585 NO � 3 +NO + 2 ! NO 3 +N+O 2 586 NO � 3 +O + 2 N 2 ! NO 3 +O 2 +N 2 587 O � 4 +N+ ! O 2 +O 2 +N 588 O � 4 +N + 2 ! O 2 +O 2 +N 2 589 O � 4 +O+ ! O 2 +O 2 +O 590 O � 4 +O + 2 ! O 2 +O 2 +O 2 591 O � 4 +NO+ ! O 2 +O 2 +NO 592 O � 4 +N 2 O+ ! O 2 +O 2 +N 2 O 593 O � 4 +NO + 2 ! O 2 +O 2 +NO 2 594 O � 4 +N + 3 ! O 2 +O 2 +N 2 +N 595 O � 4 +N + 4 ! O 2 +O 2 +N 2 +N 2 596 O � 4 +O + 4 ! O 2 +O 2 +O 2 +O 2 597 O � 4 +O + 2 N 2 ! O 2 +O 2 +O 2 +N 2 598 O�+N++M ! O+N+M 599 O�+N + 2 +M ! O+N 2 +M 600 O�+O++M ! O+O+M 601 O�+O + 2 +M ! O+O 2 +M 602 O�+NO++M ! O+NO+M 603 O � 2 +N++M ! O 2 +N+M 604 O � 2 +N + 2 +M ! O 2 +N 2 +M 605 O � 2 +O++M ! O 2 +O+M 606 O � 2 +O + 2 +M ! O 2 +O 2 +M 607 O � 2 +NO++M ! O 2 +NO+M 608 O�+N++M ! NO+M 609 O�+N + 2 +M ! N 2 O+M 610 O�+O++M ! O 2 +M 611 O�+O + 2 +M ! O 3 +M 612 O�+NO++M ! NO 2 +M 613 O � 2 +N++M ! NO 2 +M 614 O � 2 +O++M ! O 3 +M 615 O � 2 +NO++M ! NO 3 +M 616 O � 3 +N++M ! O 3 +N+M 617 O � 3 +N + 2 +M ! O 3 +N 2 +M 618 O � 3 +O++M ! O 3 +O+M 619 O � 3 +O + 2 +M ! O 3 +O 2 +M 620 O � 3 +NO++M ! O 3 +NO+M 621 O � 3 +N 2 O++M ! O 3 +N 2 O+M 622 O � 3 +NO + 2 +M ! O 3 +NO 2 +M 623 NO�+N++M ! NO+N+M 624 NO�+N + 2 +M ! NO+N 2 +M 625 NO�+O++M ! NO+O+M 626 NO�+O + 2 +M ! NO+O 2 +M 627 NO�+NO++M ! NO+NO+M 628 NO�+N 2 O++M ! NO+N 2 O+M 629 NO�+NO + 2 +M ! NO+NO 2 +M 630 N 2 O�+N++M ! N 2 O+N+M 631 N 2 O�+N + 2 +M ! N 2 O+N 2 +M 632 N 2 O�+O++M ! N 2 O+O+M 633 N 2 O�+O + 2 +M ! N 2 O+O 2 +M 634 N 2 O�+NO++M ! N 2 O+NO+M 635 N 2 O�+N 2 O++M ! N 2 O+N 2 O+M 636 N 2 O�+NO + 2 +M ! N 2 O+NO 2 +M 637 NO � 2 +N++M ! NO 2 +N+M 638 NO � 2 +N + 2 +M ! NO 2 +N 2 +M 639 NO � 2 +O++M ! NO 2 +O+M 640 NO � 2 +O + 2 +M ! NO 2 +O 2 +M 641 NO � 2 +NO++M ! NO 2 +NO+M 642 NO � 2 +N 2 O++M ! NO 2 +N 2 O+M 643 NO � 2 +NO + 2 +M ! NO 2 +NO 2 +M 644 NO � 3 +N++M ! NO 3 +N+M 645 NO � 3 +N + 2 +M ! NO 3 +N 2 +M 646 NO � 3 +O++M ! NO 3 +O+M 647 NO � 3 +O + 2 +M ! NO 3 +O 2 +M 648 NO � 3 +NO++M ! NO 3 +NO+M 649 NO � 3 +N 2 O++M ! NO 3 +N 2 O+M 650 NO � 3 +NO + 2 +M ! NO 3 +NO 2 +M Summary Science may set limits to knowledge, but should not set limits to imagination. – Bertrand Russell Do not fear to be eccentric in opinion, for every opinion now accepted was once eccentric. – Bertrand Russell Modeling multiple time scales in streamer discharges Aram H. Markosyan The thesis focuses on modeling the various time scales in streamer develop- ment. Streamers are growing channels of ionized gas occuring in the first stages of electric breakdown. As such they play a fundamental role in natural phenom- ena such as lightning and sprite discharges as well as in technical applications like plasma medicine or plasma assisted combustion. In most gases, streamers are propagating with speeds of 105 m/s or more. In the streamer tip (also called streamer head) not only plasma, but many excited species are created. The fur- ther evolution of these species plays a crucial role in technical applications as well as in discharge phenomena in general. This makes the modeling of the whole pro- cess a very complicated task, as many di↵erent time scales are involved. Streamer propagation takes place on timescales of tens to hundreds of nanoseconds. But chemical reactions require time scales up to minutes or even days depending on the problem. In the first part of the thesis we derive and test a high order fluid model for streamer discharges. Using momentum transfer theory, the fluid equations are obtained as velocity moments of the Boltzmann equation; they are closed in the local mean energy approximation and coupled to the Poisson equation for the space charge generated electric field. The high order tensor in the energy flux 153 154 equation is approximated by the product of two lower order moments to close the system. The average collision frequencies for momentum and energy transfer in elastic and inelastic collisions for electrons in molecular nitrogen are calculated from a multi term solution of the Boltzmann equation. We then discuss, in par- ticular, (1) the correct implementation of transport data in streamer models; (2) the accuracy of the two term approximation for solving the Boltzmann equation in the context of streamer studies; and (3) the evaluation of the mean-energy- dependent collision rates for electrons required as an input in the high order fluid model, (4) comparisons of the simulation results with the high order model, with a PIC/MC (Particle in Cell/Monte Carlo) model and with the first order fluid model based on the hydrodynamic drift-di↵usion approximation. The second part of the thesis investigates streamer discharges created by two short electric pulses. S. Nijdam and E. Takahashi performed experiments in N2- O2 mixtures at 133 mbar and showed that for a su�ciently short interval between the pulses the second streamers would continue the paths of the first streamers. For nitrogen-oxygen mixtures at 133 mbar the experiments show that this time interval is maximal at 0.2% O2. We use a zero-dimensional plasma chemical model to describe the dynamics of 53 species subject to 650 chemical reactions. We explain the experimental observations by the loss of electrons and conductivity which is slowest at an oxygen concentration of about 0.2%. In the third part a pathway reduction tool for complex plasma chemical models is described. Many fields of science increasingly demand complex chemical mod- els. Thanks to the availability of cheap computing power, scientists routinely use models composed of hundreds, if not thousands, of interacting chemical species. Many of these models have a direct relevance for our society’s most pressing prob- lems; for example the chemical modeling of the atmosphere plays a significant role in the study of global climatic change. The demand for complex chemical models is also growing within the plasma physics community. This tendency arises from the recent development of plasma applications involving complex chemical pro- cesses, as well as a growing interest in the role of atmospheric electricity on the global chemical balance of our atmosphere. We have developed a software tool PumpKin (pathway reduction method for plasma kinetic models). PumpKin is a software package to find all principal pathways, i.e. the dominant reaction sequences, in chemical reaction systems. Although many tools are available to in- tegrate numerically arbitrarily complex chemical reaction systems, few tools exist in order to analyze the results and interpret them in relatively simple terms. In particular, due to the large disparity in the lifetimes of the interacting compon- ents, it is often useful to group reactions into pathways that recycle the fastest species. Thus, the researcher can focus on the slow chemical dynamics, eliminat- ing the shortest timescales. Based on the algorithm described by Lehmann [103], PumpKin automates the process of finding such pathways, allowing the user to analyze complex kinetics and understand the consumption and production of a certain species of interest. We designed PumpKin with an emphasis on plasma chemical systems but it can also be applied to atmospheric modeling and other application areas. The code and its user manual can be downloaded from the web site http://www.pumpkin-tool.org. Acknowledgements A teacher is one who makes himself progressively unnecessary. – Thomas Carruthers Liberty means responsibility. That is why most men dread it. – George Bernard Shaw If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things. – Rene Descartes It seems like it was only yesterday, when I entered the o�ce of Prof. Ute Ebert at CWI for the first time. Since that very first moment I have met many people who have contributed to the research summarised in this thesis as well as to my personal development. First of all, I would like to thank Ute for being such a great mentor encouraging me to pursue my academic career. I have received endless support from her in both my academic and personal life. Her door was always open for any type of discussion. Beside of being a great scientist and person, she is a visionary and a passionate leader. She gave me absolute freedom during these years. This was crucial for my development as an independent scientist. At the same time, I constantly felt her support and I always knew that if something went wrong she would know what to do. Ute, it was an honour and pleasure to work with you. Thank you very much for everything. I truly hope we can keep collaborating in the future. Second, I would like to gratefully and respectfully thank my co-promotor and very good friend Sasha Dujko. We both started to work at CWI at the same time: Sasha as a PostDoc and me as a PhD student. From the initial days we were I am grateful to Jannis and Mrunal for reading the initial version of this chapter very carefully. 155 156 spending our evenings together and were regularly making bicycle trips around Diemen. Very often we were having food at Flevopark while discussing practically everything. Sasha graduated from James Cook University, Australia under the supervision of Ron D. White, with whom we later published my first paper. Sasha liked to remember his Australian times and share his PhD experience with me. He used to repeat ”Mate, a PhD is a journey... Be smart!”. Sasha was an enormous source of knowledge, helping me fill the gaps in my physics education. In 2011, when he moved to Institute of Physics in Belgrade as an associate professor, we kept working together via Skype. Since then, he has been visiting CWI, almost regularly, one week per month. For longer discussions, I used to call him on Skype when he was at home (after 8 p.m. or during weekends) and then he liked to play guitar and sing while I was working. Often, during serious discussions, Sasha’s funny little daughter Andrea was suddenly popping up in front of the screen with a very cute face (and without front teeth). I used to share all my worries with Sasha, and ask him for advise. Sasha has a talent for relaxing and encouraging me. He always had the right words for the right moment. I can say that one of the greatest things during this period of my life was our friendship. Sasha, thank you for your immense support and patience. Furthermore, I would like to express my gratitude to Alejandro Luque and Francisco Gordillo Vázquez from the Institute for Astrophysics of Andalusia (IAA-CSIC), in Granada, Spain, whom I visited for 4 weeks in 2013. My vis- its were supported by 4 exchange grants (each for one week) from the European Research Networking Programme TEA-IS (Thunderstorm E↵ects on the Atmo- sphere - Ionosphere System). The initial purpose of my first visit was to learn about plasma chemistry, but after arriving Alejandro and Paco suggested me to work on the development of a tool which we later called PumpKin. I was work- ing with Alejandro on a daily basis. I have never met such a brilliant physicist with deep knowledge in mathematics and scientific computing. I’m thankful to Alejandro for his enormous patience and willingness to help and support me. I would like to thank both Alejandro and Paco for our productive discussions and the warm hospitality during my visits. I look forward to continuing our collabor- ation. The knowledge I got during my visits to Alejandro and Paco made possible my next collaboration with Sander Nijdam (TU/e) and Eiichi Takahashi (AIST, Japan). Working with Sander I have learned a lot about experiments. It was a unique experience for me to talk to an excellent experimentalist with a deep understanding of the theory. I am grateful to Sander for our discussions and the personal advise he gave me. I hope we can keep collaborating in the future. I would also like to thank Jin Zhang (TU/e) for the very productive and nice time we spent working together. Jin, under the supervision of Bert van Heesch (TU/e), has designed a high voltage switch operating in supercritical nitrogen. Before meeting her, I knew nothing about switches. She had a background in electrical engineering, and together we had to come up with a numerical model for a supercritical switch. I learned a lot in this project and greatly enjoyed working with Jin. I would also like to express my deepest gratitude to Martin Seeger (ABB Switzerland Ltd, Corporate Research) for intense and fruitful discussions about Acknowledgements 157 this project. Moreover, I am grateful to Martin for his very valuable advise and support related to my future. I would like to thank Prof.dr. Nikolay L. Alexandrov (Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology), Prof.dr. Ralf Peter Brinkmann (Ruhr-Universität Bo- chum), prof.dr. Cornelis W. Oosterlee (TU Delft), prof.dr.ir. B. Koren (TU/e), prof.dr.ir. O.J. Luiten (TU/e) for being on the reading committee and prof.dr. H.J.H. Clercx (TU/e) for being the committee chairman. I would like to thank my roommate and friend Mrunal Gawade with whom I lived in the shared apartment at Carolina MacGillavrylaan for 9 months. Mrunal, I greatly enjoyed our endless nightly discussions. I wish you a lot of success in your PhD and personal life. Next I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my former college and friend Janis Bajars who has given me huge support from the first days I joined CWI. Janis has introduced me to many of our colleagues at CWI (Henk Roose, Maarten Dijkema, Georgiana Caltais, Behnaz Changizi etc.) and external col- leagues whom we met at annual Woudschoten conferences in Zeist (Shavarsh Nur- ijanyan, Lilya Ghazaryan, David J. Lopez Penha, Mishra Chittaranjan, Valeriu Savcenco etc.). Janis I will miss our very intense scientific and personal discussions during the weekends. Many thanks go, in particular, to Bram van Es who made my PhD life much easier and more enjoyable. Bram helped me getting a house in Haarlem at Vlam- ingstraat street where I lived for two years. Haarlem is one of the best places I have ever lived in. Bram, thanks for your daily support and for the enormous amount of fun that we had over the last four years. You were always a good friend (and never an ex-friend). I would like to thank my friend Sergey Pancheshnyi from ABB Switzerland Ltd, Corporate Research, who always helped me move forward in the right direc- tion. Sergey, during my PhD I knew that I could always call you for advice. I am grateful for the discussions about my future that we had at various conferences. Next I would like to thank all my o�cemates at CWI: Gideon Wormeester (who could crash my MacBook with his presence), Anna Mozartova, Li Chao and Casper Rutjes. Casper, thanks for our nice discussions and all the support you gave me over the last year. I wish you a lot of success in your scientific and personal life. I gratefully acknowledge the influence of the group-members of our MD (Multi- scale Dynamics) group (previously MAC3) on my research. I was honoured to know and work with all of you: Willem Hundsdorfer (thanks Willem for having your door open for any of my questions), Margreet Nool (I greatly enjoyed our discussions in the corridor), Jens Rademacher, Enrico Camporeale (thanks Enrico for your big support in such a short period. It was my pleasure to meet you), Christoph Köhn (my good friend Chris, before I leave we should drink Armenian brandy together), Jannis Teunissen (my friend and paranymph Jannis, we had a lot of fun moments during last years, for which I’m grateful to you. Stop teasing people and good luck!), Anbang Sun, Anna Dubinova, Ashutosh Agnihotri (Ashutosh, it is a great pity that we didn’t have more time to spend together. I have greatly enjoyed all our discussions and I hope that we will keep in touch. 158 Mate don’t forget to come to my wedding on June 21) and Valeria Ratushnaya. I would like to highlight the support of Nada Mitrovic, who let me be focused on my PhD without being stressed about administrative stu↵ and travelling declarations. Nada thank you for your endless kindness to me and for being so great at your job. This research has been mostly carried out at CWI, and I would like to thank all my CWI colleagues/friends for helpful discussions and friendly working at- mosphere. I would like to mention in particular: Barry Koren, Kees Oosterlee, Jan Verwer (1946-2011), Jason Frank, Daan Crommelin, Gunnar Klau, Joost Batenburg (Joost, I enjoyed our meetings and discussions in the train to CWI), Jeroen Witteveen (Jeroen, thanks for the advise you gave me about my career), Lech Grzelak (my friend Lech, thanks for making my Monday mornings alive and thanks for the interesting conversations we had), Sergiy Zhuk (thanks friend for our discussions), Benjamin Sanderse, Willem Haverkort, Igor Savostianov, Delyan Zhelyazov, Yunus Hassen, Jeroen Wackers, Shashi Jain, Wagner Fortes, Mohammed El-Kebir, Linda Plantagie, Marjon Ruijter, Qian Feng, Mohammed El-Kebir, Jesse Dorrestijn, Keith Myerscough, Marta Pou (Marta, thank you a lot for a tip for the ring), Wander Wadman, Davy Landman (my friend, thanks for making me laugh and be angry at the same time at every Praethuys), Vadim Zaytsev (my friend Vadim, thanks for the nice discussions during Praethuys), Waruzjan Shahbazian (thanks for everything), Gebre Gebremeskel (man, thanks for our interesting discussions), Niels Nes (thanks for your support), Eleni Pet- raki, Holger Pirk (Holgar, it was my pleasure to meet you), Yagiz Kargin (looking forward to seeing you in ’big politics’), Simon Gunkel (thanks mate for being such a quiet neighbour)... I would like to express my deepest gratitude to the support sta↵ of CWI: Bikkie Aldeias and Tilly Baas (you were the first people I met every morning, and thanks to you I was starting my day with a smile), Karin van Gemert, Irma van Lunenburg (thanks for your support and your kindness), Martine Anholt Gunzeln, Léon Ouwerkerk, Marlin van der Heijden, Angelique Schilder, Rick Ooteman, Margriet Brouwer, Huib van den Berg, Coby van Vonderen and Michael Smeding. I would like to thank Dubravka Tepsic (sorry for all the trouble, it was a pleasure to communicate with you), Maarten Dijkema and Henk Roose (thanks for your friendship and support). One of my favorite places at CWI was the library, where I have spent many hours. I would like to thank Hans Sto↵el for our late night conversations and for his devoted work, as well as Lieke Schultze, Rob van Rooijen and Wouter Mettrop. Special thanks to Rob Korver for the very interesting (and funny) talks at 6 a.m. at CWI. Furthermore, I would like to acknowledge the fantastic health support from Margreet Lammertink and Ine Solleveld during the chair massage sessions two times a month at CWI. I must admit that every time I was desperately waiting for a massage. Very special thanks to Minnie Middelberg for all the warmth she gave me. Due to my collaborations and frequent visits to the TU/e, I met many good colleagues and friends. I would like to thank several people: Pavlo Kochkin (Pasha, I’m waiting for your revenge for karting in Vienna), Anna Chvyreva, Guus Pemen, Wilfred Hoeben, Gerrit Kroesen, Chris Vasko (Hey Chris, I still Acknowledgements 159 have the photos from the conference roof from Granada), Emile Carbone, Simon Hübner, Manuel Jimenez-Diaz (Manolo, do you remember New York?), Jan van Dijk and Diana Mihailova. My greatest debts are to my family. My parents Henrik Markosyan and Karine Arzumanyan have dreamed about this day from the very early moments of my life. They have devoted their lives to educate me and to see me at this stage. I would like to mention my sister Anush Markosyan who gave me so much love and support. Not to forget my parents-in-law Arayik Stepanyan and Gohar Manvelyan whose constant support to Araks and me made our relations possible, and, hence, significantly contributed to my thesis. Finally, without my girlfriend, fiancée, o�cial wife and best friend, Araks, I wouldn’t been able to stay so strong during this journey. You shared every second of my last four years. Words wouldn’t be enough to express your patience, love and encouragements to me. I love you, Araks! 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������u�ux��y��y���������������u�����u�u������ u��� ��y�u����y���[���wu�� ey��������z����y���y��������u�u���}������u���y��v�������u��� ���y� u�u������{�������u���u�v����|�}u������ ����)Wy�����[u�����u���� ����) Vu���y�H�z���u��u���� �����)�H��������� ���y����u���u�����)�H�u����� �����|��u�����r��u����d�y�u��u���� ������J��u�������y�������y��� �H��� H���� fu}���� S�����y� ^��u�u}� [u��u �������u���|��u����y� ���� ����y���u������u�uzu��y���)�y�y���y���y���r�H������ H�u������ Ky������ ����u���|��u����y���� ���u������b�������� ���u������[u����� ����u���|��u����y���� |��y��y��H������ eu�uw���� H��y���� H�y��� [y�����u���� eu��u �� H�u������ H�y����H�u�y��u���� R�u���H������ [��u�y������u���� Wu����������u�u���}�����]�xy��u�x�y��������|��y��y� du�w����� H������ eu���~u������^u�u����� WHW��ju�uz�u��w�uxu�u�� L��u� H�u��W��[u�����u� ���[u������� Curriculum Vitae Good judgement comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgement. – Unknown I have never met a man so ignorant that I could not learn something from him. – Galileo Galilei Always and never are two words you should always remember never to use. – Wendell Johnson If everything seems under control, you are not going fast enough. – Mario Andretti Aram H. Markosyan was born in Yerevan, Armenia on December 3, 1985. From 2002 to 2008 he studied Mathematics at Yerevan State University. He obtained his Bachelor of Science with honours, the latter in 2006 on a thesis titled ’An application of variational inequalities to the monotone operator theory’, under supervision of Dr. G. Hakobyan. In 2008 he obtained the degree of Master of Science in Mathematics by defending his thesis entitled ’Existence of the minimal element of the class of super solutions in the one-phase parabolic free boundary problem in convex domain’ under supervision of Dr. M. Poghosyan. In late 2008 he moved to Paris and enrolled in the Master of Science & Tech- nologies (M2) program of Mathematical Modeling, PDE and Numerical Analysis (in French: M2 - Spécialité Mathématiques de la Modélisation, parcours ’Analyse numérique et équations aux dérivées partielles’) at Jacques-Louis Lions Labor- atory, University Pierre and Marie Curie (UPMC, Paris 6). In parallel to his studies, from the beginning of 2009 until the end of 2009, Aram H. Markosyan did his internship at Zeliade Systems under the supervision of CEO Dr. C. Mar- 165 166 tini. In late 2009, he defended his Master’s thesis titled ’SVI implied variance parameterization’ under supervision of Dr. C. Martini (Zeliade Systems), Prof. Dr. O. Pironneau (Paris 6) and Prof. Dr. H. Berestycki (Paris 6). From 2010 to 2014 he performed PhD research under supervision of Prof. Dr. U. Ebert, Dr. S. Dujko and Prof. Dr. W. Hundsdorfer on modeling multiple time scales in streamer discharges, at the Centrum Wiskunde & Informatica (CWI, Amsterdam). List of Publications We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The trouble with being punctual is that nobody is there to appreciate it. – Franklin P. Jones Publications associated with this thesis are: Journal Publications 2014 • A.H. Markosyan, J. Teunissen, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. Comparison of fluid models for streamer discharges. Preprint to be submitted to Plasma Sources Sci. Technol. • S. Dujko, A.H. Markosyan, U. Ebert. Streamers in rare gases. Preprint to be submitted to Plasma Sources Sci. Technol. • J. Zhang, A.H. Markosyan, M. Seeger, E.M. van Veldhuizen, E.J.M. van Heesch, U. Ebert. Numerical and experimental investigation of dielectric recovery in super-critical N2. Submitted to Plasma Sources Sci. Technol. • S. Nijdam, E. Takahashi, A.H. Markosyan, U. Ebert. Investigation of posit- ive streamers by double pulse experiments, e↵ects of repetition rate and gas mixtures. Plasma Sources Sci. Technol. 23 025008, 2014 • A.H. Markosyan, A. Luque, F. J. Gordillo-Vázquez, U. Ebert. PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models. Submitted to Comput. Phys. Commun. 2013 167 168 • S. Dujko, A.H. Markosyan, R.D. White, U. Ebert. High-order fluid model for streamer discharges: I. Derivation of model and transport data. J. Phys. D: Appl. Phys. 46 475202, 2013 • A.H. Markosyan, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. High-order fluid model for streamer discharges: II. Numerical solution and investigation of planar fronts. J. Phys. D: Appl. Phys. 46 475203, 2013 Conference Papers 2014 • S. Dujko, D. Bošnjaković, J. Mirić, I. Simonović, Z.M. Raspopović, R.D. White, A.H. Markosyan, U. Ebert and Z.Lj. Petrović. Recent results from studies of non-equilibrium electron transport in modeling of low-temperature plasmas and particle detectors. Proceedings of the 9th EU-Japan Joint Sym- posium on Plasma Processing, JSPP2014, January 19-23, 2014, Bohinjska Bistrica, Slovenia (4 page paper). • S. Dujko, A. Markosyan, U. Ebert. High order fluid model for negative planar streamer fronts in rare gases. Proceedings of the 9th EU-Japan Joint Symposium on Plasma Processing, JSPP2014, January 19-23, 2014, Bohinjska Bistrica, Slovenia (4 page paper). 2013 • A.H. Markosyan, A. Luque, F. J. Gordillo-Vázquez, U. Ebert. Analyzing atmospheric kinetic pathways using PumpKin. Proceedings of the European Planetary Science Congress 2013, EPSC2013, September 08-13, 2013, Lon- don, United Kingdom; Vol. 8, EPSC2013-655 (2 page paper and poster presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, J. Zhang, B. van Heesch, U. Ebert. Streamer to spark transition in supercritical N2. Proceedings of the XXth Symposium on Physics of Switching Arc, FSO 2013, September 2-6, 2013, Nove Mesto na Morave, Czech Republic (4 page paper and oral presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, A. Luque, F. J. Gordillo-Vázquez, U. Ebert. PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models. Proceedings of the XXXI International Conference on Phenomena in Ionized Gases, ICPIG 2013, July 14-19, 2013, Granada, Spain (2 page paper and poster presenta- tion). 2012 • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. Derivation and test of high order fluid model for streamer discharges. Proceedings of the Scientific Computing in Electrical Engineering, SCEE2012, September 11-14, 2012, ETH Zurich, Switzerland; pp. 107-108 (2 page paper and oral presentation). List of Publications 169 • S. Dujko, A. Markosyan, R.D. White, U. Ebert. High order fluid model for streamer discharges. Proceedings of the 26th Summer School and Inter- national Symposium on the Physics of Ionized Gases, SPIG 2012, August 27-31, 2012, Zrenjanin, Serbia; ISBN: 978-86-7031-244-9, pp. 345-348 (4 page paper and poster presentation). • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. High order fluid model for ionization fronts in streamer discharges. Proceedings of the XXI Europhysics Confer- ence on Atomic and Molecular Physics of Ionized Gases, XXIth ESCAM- PIG, July 10-14, 2012, Viana do Castelo, Portugal (2 page paper and poster presentation). Conference Talks and Posters 2014 • A.H. Markosyan, J. Teunissen, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. Fluid models and the reality. Proceedings of the 26th Symposium Plasma Physics & Radiation Technology, March 11 - 12, 2014, Lunteren, Netherlands (proceedings and poster presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, A. Luque, F. J. Gordillo-Vázquez, U. Ebert. PumpKin tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models. Physics@FOM, Janu- ary 21 - 22, 2014, Veldhoven, Netherlands (proceedings and oral presenta- tion). 2013 • A.H. Markosyan, J. Zhang, B. van Heesch, U. Ebert. Investigating streamer to spark transition in supercritical N2. Bulletin of the American Physical Society, 66th Annual Gaseous Electronics Conference, GEC 2013, Septem- ber 30 - October 4, 2013, Princeton, New Jersey, USA; vol. 58, No. 8, p. 25 (proceedings and poster presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, A. Luque, F. J. Gordillo-Vázquez, U. Ebert. PumpKin: A tool to find principal pathways in plasma chemical models. Bulletin of the American Physical Society, 66th Annual Gaseous Electronics Conference, GEC 2013, September 30 - October 4, 2013, Princeton, New Jersey, USA; vol. 58, No. 8, p. 72 (proceedings and oral presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, J. Teunissen, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. Comparing fluid models for streamer discharges. Bulletin of the American Physical Society, 66th Annual Gaseous Electronics Conference, GEC 2013, September 30 - October 4, 2013, Princeton, New Jersey, USA; vol. 58, No. 8, p. 20 (proceedings and poster presentation). • S. Nijdam, E. Takahashi, A.H. Markosyan, U. Ebert. Investigation of posit- ive streamers by double pulse experiments. Bulletin of the American Physical 170 Society, 66th Annual Gaseous Electronics Conference, GEC 2013, Septem- ber 30 - October 4, 2013, Princeton, New Jersey, USA; vol. 58, No. 8, p. 45 (proceedings). • A.H. Markosyan, J. Zhang, B. van Heesch, U. Ebert. Numerical investiga- tion of voltage recovery after breakdown supercritical nitrogen. Proceedings of the XXth Symposium on Physics of Switching Arc, FSO 2013, Septem- ber 2-6, 2013, Nove Mesto na Morave, Czech Republic (proceedings and oral presentation). • S. Dujko, Z.Lj. Petrović, R.D. White, D. Bošnjaković, J. Mirić, A.H. Markosyan, U. Ebert. Non-conservative electron transport in gases and its application in modelling of non-equilibrium plasmas and particle de- tectors. Proceedings of the XVII International Workshop on Low-Energy Positron and Positronium Physics and the XVIII International Symposium on Electron-Molecule Collisions and Swarms, POSMOL 2013, July 19-21, 2013, Kanazawa, Japan (proceedings). • A.H. Markosyan, S. Dujko, R. U. Ebert. High order fluid model for streamer discharges in rare gases. Proceedings of the XVII International Workshop on Low-Energy Positron and Positronium Physics and the XVIII International Symposium on Electron-Molecule Collisions and Swarms, POSMOL 2013, July 19-21, 2013, Kanazawa, Japan (proceedings and poster presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, S. Dujko, R. U. Ebert. Challenges in fluid modeling of streamer discharges. Proceedings of the Werkgemeenschap Scientific Com- puting spring meeting 2013, WSC Spring Meeting 2013, May 17, 2013, Am- sterdam, Netherlands (proceedings and invited oral presentation). • A.H. Markosyan, J. Zhang, B. van Heesch, U. Ebert. Investigating heating dynamics in sparks. Proceedings of the European Geoscience Union General Assembly 2013, EGU2013, April 07-12, 2013, Vienna, Austria (proceedings and poster presentation). • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. Numerical study of high order fluid model for streamer discharges. Proceedings of the 25th Symposium Plasma Physics & Radiation Technology, March 5 - 6, 2013, Lunteren, Netherlands (proceedings and poster presentation). • A. Markosyan, J. Zhang, B. van Heesch, U. Ebert. On the heating dynam- ics in sparks. Proceedings of the Physics@FOM, January 22 - 23, 2013, Veldhoven, Netherlands; p.41 (proceedings and poster presentation). 2012 • A. Markosyan, J. Zhang, B. van Heesch, U. Ebert. Investigating voltage recovery after breakdown supercritical nitrogen. Bulletin of the American Physical Society, 65th Annual Gaseous Electronics Conference, GEC 2012, October 22-26, 2012, Austin, Texas, USA; vol. 57, No. 8, p. 84 (proceedings and poster presentation). List of Publications 171 • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, R. White, J. Teunissen, U. Ebert. High order fluid model for streamer discharges. Bulletin of the American Physical Society, 65th Annual Gaseous Electronics Conference, GEC 2012, October 22-26, 2012, Austin, Texas, USA; vol. 57, No. 8, p. 53 (proceedings and oral presentation). • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, R. U. Ebert. Why do we need high order fluid model for streamer discharges?. Proceedings of the 37th Woudschoten conference, WSC Conference 2012, October 3-5, 2012, Zeist, Netherlands (proceedings and award for poster presentation). • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, R. U. Ebert. High order fluid model for simulations of streamer and sprites. Proceedings of the 1st Thunderstorm E↵ects on the Atmosphere-Ionosphere System Summer School, TEA-IS, June 17-22, 2012, Los Alamos, Torremolinos (Malaga), Spain (proceedings and poster presentation). • S. Dujko, A. Markosyan, R.D. White, Z.Lj. Petrović, U. Ebert. High- order fluid model of streamer discharges in molecular nitrogen. Bulletin of the American Physical Society, 43rd Annual Meeting of the APS Division of Atomic, Molecular and Optical Physics, DAMOP 2012, June 4-8, 2012, Anaheim, California; vol. 57, No. 5, p. 118 (proceedings). • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, U. Ebert. High order fluid model for ionization fronts in streamer discharges. Proceedings of the 24 th Symposium Plasma Physics & Radiation Technology, March 6 - 7, 2012, Lunteren, Netherlands; p. B7 (proceedings and poster presentation). • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, W. Hundsdorfer, U. Ebert. A high order density model for streamer discharges. Proceedings of the Physics@FOM, Janu- ary 17 - 18 2012, Veldhoven, Netherlands; p. 250 (proceedings and poster presentation). 2011 • A. Markosyan, S. Dujko, W. Hundsdorfer, U. Ebert. A high order density model for streamer discharges. Proceedings of the 14th Euregional WELTPP Workshop on the Exploration of Low Temperature Plasma Physics, Decem- ber 1 - 2, 2011, Rolduc Kerkrade, Netherlands; p. P42 (proceedings and poster presentation). 
work_oxbe4xxbwvhcrj5is2comcpgoe	----	The American Archivist VOLUME 32 1969 PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 CONTENTS OF VOLUME 32 NUMBER I, JANUARY 1969 The Archivist and Service CLIFFORD K. SHIPTON 5 Forgotten Fillmore Papers Examined: Sources for Reinterpretation of a Little-Known President CHARLES M. SNYDER I I Computers and Bibliography for the Social Sciences DAGMAR HORNA PERMAN 15 Appraisal Criteria for Retention and Disposal of Business Records DAVID L. LEWIS 21 Publication of Manuscripts: Devaluation or Enhancement? HENRY BARTHOLOMEW COX 25 Reviews of Books 34 Abstracts of Foreign Periodicals 41 News Notes 45 Technical Notes 97 NUMBER 2, APRIL 1969 Problems With Donors of Contemporary Collections .... BARBARA J. KAISER 103 The Empire State's Search in European Archives NICHOLAS FALCO 109 Motion Picture Restoration ROBERT W . WAGNER 125 The Spirit of Washington: ICA Congress of 1966 .... CHARLES KECSKEMETI 133 The Immigration Studies Collection of the University of Minnesota RUDOLPH J. VECOLI 139 Some Thoughts for an Aspiring Historical Editor HASKELL MONROE 147 Reviews of Books 162 Abstracts of Foreign Periodicals 171 News Notes 177 NUMBER 3, J U L Y 1969 The Historian and the New Technology JAMES B. RHOADS 209 Byproducts of Computer Processing BARBARA FISHER 215 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 Maximum and Minimum Standards for Religious Archives AUGUST R. SUELFLOW 225 Financial Sources for Church Archival Programs V. NELLE BELLAMY 231 Archives of the General Convention of the Episcopal Church J O H N M. K I N N E Y 235 The Status of Business Archives ROBERT W . LOVETT 247 Business Records: The Canadian Scene J O H N H A L L ARCHER 251 The Naval Historian and His Sources JAMES M. MERRILL 261 President's Page 271 Reviews of Books 272 Abstracts of Foreign Periodicals 280 Technical Notes 285 News Notes 293 NUMBER 4, OCTOBER 1969 A Janus Look at Oral History AMELIA R. FRY and W I L L A BAUM 319 Collecting Archives for the History of Science .. D. THEODORE MCALLISTER 327 Vapor Phase Deacidification: A New Preservation Method P A U L M C C A R T H Y 333 Program Planning for Records in Minnesota F. W . BURCH 343 Printed Guides to Archival Centers for American Catholic History FRANCIS J. W E B E R 349 Appraisal of Financial Records VERNON B. SANTEN 357 The Choice of a Medium for Documentary Publication FRED SHELLEY 363 The Historian and the Archivist ALFRED B. ROLLINS, J R . 369 Archival Odyssey: Taking Students to the Sources .... J O H N H O P E FRANKLIN 375 Reviews of Books 383 Abstracts of Foreign Periodicals 391 News Notes 396 Technical Notes 411 Editor's Forum 418 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 FELLOWS OF T H E SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS January I, 1969 W I L L I A M T . ALDERSON EVERETT O. ALLDREDGE J O H N C. L. ANDREASSEN HERBERT E. ANGEL ROBERT H. BAHMER G. P H I L I P BAUER HERMINE M . BAUMHOFER HENRY P. BEERS W I L L I A M BENEDON FRANCIS L. BERKELEY, J R . LESTER K. BORN J U L I A N P. BOYD P H I L I P C. BROOKS ELIZABETH H. B U C K LYMAN H. BUTTERFIELD EDWARD G. CAMPBELL CHARLOTTE CAPERS LESTER J. CAPPON THEODORE J. CASSADY H E L E N L. CHATFIELD ROBERT CLAUS MEREDITH B. COLKET, J R . AGNES C. CONRAD CHRISTOPHER CRITTENDEN LEWIS J. DARTER, J R . W I L L I A M N. DAVIS, J R . M A B E L E. DEUTRICH LEON DEVALINGER, J R . ELIZABETH B. DREWRY DAVID C. DUNIWAY SHERROD E. EAST FRANK B. EVANS MEYER H. FISHBEIN EDITH M. FOX HERMAN R. FRIIS JAMES RICHARD F U C H S JAMES L. GEAR DOROTHY H I L L GERSACK VICTOR GONDOS, J R . W A Y N E C. GROVER CHESTER L. G U T H R I E F. GERALD H A M ELIZABETH E. HAMER P H I L I P M. HAMER GEORGE P. HAMMOND ALLIE CARROLL HART W I L L I A M EDWIN H E M P H I L L O L N E Y W . H I L L ROBERT W . H I L L OLIVER W . HOLMES LOLA M. HOMSHER J O H N M. J E N N I N G S H. G. JONES HERMAN K A H N LUCILE KANE P H I L I P D. LAGERQUIST W . KAYE LAMB CHARLES E. L E E ALBERT H. LEISINGER, J R . P A U L LEWINSON ROBERT W . LOVETT W I L L I A M D. M C C A I N P H I L I P P. MASON DAVID C. MEARNS THORNTON W . M I T C H E L L K E N N E T H W . M U N D E N EDGAR B. NIXON MARGARET C. NORTON W I L L I A M D. OVERMAN JAMES W . PATTON MARGUERITE J. PEASE HOWARD H. PECKHAM HAROLD T . P I N K E T T SEYMOUR J. POMRENZE ERNST M. POSNER GRACE Q U I M B Y MORRIS L. RADOFF DOLORES C. R E N Z E JAMES B. RHOADS MORRIS RIEGER STEPHEN T . RILEY VERNON B. SANTEN T . R . SCHELLENBERG FRED SHELLEY CLIFFORD K. SHIPTON G U S T SKORDAS ALICE E. SMITH J A N E F. SMITH LESTER W . SMITH J E A N STEPHENSON AUGUST R. SUELFLOW DOROTHY K. TAYLOR KARL L. TREVER W I L L I A M J. V A N SCHREEVEN PETER W A L N E ROBERT M. W A R N E R WALTER M U I R W H I T E H I L L DORMAN H. W I N F R E Y D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 H. G. JONES President, Society of American Archivists IQ68-IQ6Q Free-lance writer and editor of weekly newspaper, 1949—50; professor of history in various colleges in North Carolina and Georgia, 1950-56; State Archivist of North Carolina, 1956-68; adjunct professor of history, North Carolina State University, 1966- ; and Director, North Carolina Department of Archives and History, 1968- . Chairman, State Records Committee, Society of American Archivists, 1960-61; Treasurer of the Society, 1961-67; Vice President, 1967-68. President since October 2, 1968. Fellow of the Society since 1961. Life Member. Winner of the Waldo Gifford Leland Prize, 1967. D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 ACID-FREE ENVELOPES FILE FOLDERS are made by THE HOLLINGER CORPORATION they are made of pefctrulife • Acid-Free • Exceedingly Strong • Made to Last -manufactured by STANDARD PAPER MANUFACTURING COMPANY Envelopes available in 4 stock sizes 6 " x 9 " 9" x 11" 754" x 10" 1154" x 15" File folders available in letter and legal sizes. Special sizes made to order. Write for Tree samples and prices The Hollinger Corp. 3810 S. Four Mile Run Drive Arlington, Virginia 22206 Standard Paper Manufacturing Co. P. O. 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AA19 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 BAINBRIDGE Genuine Fabric Mat Boards 11 Linens 10 Silks 9 Burlaps 9 Grass Cloths 6 Velvet Velours (also 6o Attractive Antique Colors) information available Charles T. Bainbridge's Sons 20 Cumheriand St. Brooklyn, N. Y. 11205 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 News Notes JUDITH ARMSTRONG, Editor National Archives and Records Service SAA ANNOUNCEMENTS Spring Luncheon On April 17, 1969, the Society will hold its annual joint luncheon session with the Organization of American Historians during the course of the OAH annual meeting, April 16-19, in Philadelphia. Presiding at the luncheon will be Society President H. G. Jones; and the luncheon speaker will be James Berton Rhoads, Archivist of the United States, speaking on "The Historian and the New Technol- ogy." Tickets for the luncheon may be purchased at the O A H registration desk. 1968-6Q Officers In accordance with the constitution of the Society, H. G. JONES, 1967-68 vice president, succeeds to the 1968-69 presidency. On October 2, 1968, at the annual business meeting of the Society, the other officers for 1968-69 were elected as fol- lows: HERMAN K A H N , vice president; F. GERALD H A M , secretary; A. K. JOHNSON, J R . (reelected), treasurer. Elected to the Council for the 4-year term 1968-72 were FRANK B. EVANS and WILFRED I. S M I T H . Also elected to the Council (to fill the unexpired term 1968-69 of F. Gerald Ham) was AGNES C. CONRAD. Con- tinuing Council members, with the years of expiration of their terms, are MAYNARD J. BRICHFORD (1969), VICTOR GONDOS, J R . (1970), JOSEPH F. H A L P I N (1970), ROBERT M. W A R N E R (1971), and DORMAN H. W I N F R E Y (1971). Paper Research Grant The Society has received a grant of $2,500 from the American Council of Learned Societies to be used for working expenses of the SAA Committee on Paper Research. The committee was established to study the permanence of paper, to de- velop specifications for paper and related materials, and to determine the proper environmental conditions for paper records in archival custody. ICA Extraordinary Congress Reports on Microfilm The reports that were prepared for the Extraordinary Congress of the Inter- national Council on Archives, which was sponsored by the National Archives and Records Service and the Society of American Archivists and was held in Washington, D.C., May 9-13, 1966, are now available on one roll of 16 mm. microfilm. A list of authors and titles of the reports appeared in the American Archivist, 29:439-440 (July 1966). Orders for the microfilmed reports, at $7 a copy, should be addressed to SAA Treasurer A. K. Johnson, Jr., P.O. Box 7993, Atlanta, Ga. 30309. Report on the Status of the National Archives The Report of the Joint Committee on the Status of the National Archives (a committee composed of representatives from the American Historical Association, the Organization of American Historians, and the Society of American Archivists) News for the July issue should be sent by April 30 to Miss Judith Armstrong, Educational Programs Division, National Archives and Records Service, Washington, D.C. 20408. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1069 45 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 46 NEWS NOTES has now been printed and is available at 50c prepaid from the American Historical Association, 400 A Street S.E., Washington, D.C. 20003. New Members U.S. MEMBERS: Sister Alice Carlene, Denver, Colo.; Ethel M. Bailey, Philadelphia, Pa. (Office Services Supervisor, Agricultural Research Service, U.S. Department of Agriculture) ; Leona P. Berry, Ypsilanti, Mich, (assistant social science librarian, Eastern Michigan Uni- versity) ; M. Gary Bettis, Seattle, Wash.; Arthur J. Breton, New York City (assistant curator of manuscripts, New-York Historical Society) ; Cheri R. Brill, Madison, Wis. (archivist, State Historical Society of Wisconsin) ; Kenneth L. Brock, Albany, N.Y. (Senior Public Records Analyst, Office of State History, New York State Education Department) ; Moreau B. C. Chambers, Washington, D.C. (Archivist, Catholic University of America) ; Alice Cook Dalligan, Grosse Pointe Woods, Mich.; Louise Dederen, Berrien Springs, Mich. (Archivist, Andrews University, James White Library) ; Edwin R. Flatequal, Springfield, Va.; Geneva L. Fleer, Hutchinson, Kans. (general sales manager, Underground Vaults & Storage, Inc.) ; Alice D. Forsyth, New Orleans, La. (Archivist, St. Louis Cathedral, Archives Department) ; George Hanson, Olivet, Mich, (assistant to the president, Olivet College) ; Willie L. Harriford, Jr., Atlanta, Ga.; Elaine M. Harrison, Bowling Green, Ky.; Jan Sigrid Henrickson, Detroit, Mich.; Clair B. Heyer, West Liberty, Iowa (archivist, Herbert Hoover Library) ; Rev. Peter E. Hogan, Baltimore, Md.; Newman Jeffrey, Washington, D . C ; Ruth V. Kent, St. Augustine, Fla.; Rose Lambert, New Orleans, La. (student, library science); Alan K. Lathrop, Iowa City, Iowa (Manuscripts Library, University of Iowa) ; Matt R. Lowman, Chicago, 111. (Newberry Library) ; Louis H. Manarin, Raleigh, N.C. (editor, Civil War roster, North Carolina Department of Archives and History) ; Norman McCorkle, Wilmington, N.C. (college student) ; James E. Murphy, Hammond, La. (assistant professor of history, Southeastern Louisiana College) ; Gerald Newborg, Columbus, Ohio (Archives, Ohio Historical Society) ; Phyllis Nottingham, Juneau, Alaska (librarian) ; Isadore Perlman, Springfield, Va.; Helen Rorabaugh, Cheyenne, Wyo. (Assistant Archivist, Wyoming Archives and Historical Department) ; Arsine Schmavonian, Syracuse, N.Y. (Manuscript Division, Syracuse University Library) ; Le Roy C. Schwarzkopf, Laurel, Md. (social sciences reference librarian, University of Maryland) ; Matthew J. Smith, Providence, R.I.; Sanford I. Smith, Dayton, Ohio; Marilyn Von Kohl, Austin, Tex. (archivist, Archives, Texas State Library) ; Ruth E. Walton, Newburyport, Mass, (free-lance archivist) ; Sarah Jackman Wilson, Corval- lis, Oreg. (Assistant Archivist, Oregon State University) ; Francis Zahler, New York City (medical records librarian, Hospital for Joint Diseases and Medical Center). FOREIGN MEMBERS: Anne Caiger, Montreal, Que., Canada (Assistant Archivist, University Archives, McGill University); J. F. Dallet, Tellisford (near Bath), BAe 6RJ, England; Aileen De Smogyi, London, Ont., Canada (regional history librarian, University of Western Ontario) ; James M. Parker, Alberta, Alba., Canada (University of Alberta Library) ; Robert W. Smith, Toronto, Ont., Canada (Supervisor, Records Management, Imperial Oil Ltd.). U.S. INSTITUTIONAL MEMBERS: American Film Institute, Washington, D . C ; Archives Department, Robert A. Millikan Memorial Library, California Institute of Technology, Pasadena, Calif.; District Library, Clarion State College, Clarion, Pa.; Disciples of Christ Historical Society, Nashville, Tenn.; Document Systems, Inc., New York City; The Library, University of Maryland, Baltimore, Md.; The Menninger Foundation, Topeka, Kans.; Archives, Muskingum College, New Concord, Ohio; New York Genealogical and Biographi- cal Society, New York City; College of South Utah Library, Cedar City, Utah; Winthrop College Library, Rock Hill, S.C. FOREIGN INSTITUTIONAL MEMBERS: University of New England, Armidale, New South Wales, Australia. 1968-69 Committee Appointments The following committee appointments have been made by President H . G. Jones. [Abbreviations of committee classifications are: Administrative Committee ( A C ) , Special Area Committee ( S A C ) , and Technical Advisory Committee ( T A C ) . ] ARCHIVAL BUILDINGS AND EQUIPMENT (TAC) Victor Gondos, Jr., chairman; William Benedon, Edward G. Campbell, Charlotte Capers, Leon deValinger, Jr., Carroll Hart, Philip P. Mason, Kenneth W. Richards, Samuel S. Silsby, Jr., William H. Work. THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 SAA ANNOUNCEMENTS 47 ARCHIVES OF THE PROFESSIONS (SAC) Warren Albert, chairman; John Buchanan, Jean C. Jones, Mabel Lee. AUDIOVISUAL RECORDS (AD HOC) James E. Gibson, chairman; Hermine M. Baumhofer, Raymond E. Fielding, John Flory, John Kuiper, Kenneth W. Munden, Walter W. Stender. AUDITING (AC) Robert Williams, chairman. AUTOMATED TECHNIQUES FOR ARCHIVAL AGENCIES (AD HOC) Frank G. Burke, chairman; James J. Atherton, Barbara G. Fisher, Jack K. Jallings, David C. Maslyn, Warner W. Pflug, Russell M. Smith. AWARDS (AC) Kenneth W. Munden, chairman; Lester J. Cappon, Helen L. Chatfield, Richard A. Erney. BUSINESS ARCHIVES (SAC) Robert W. Lovett, chairman; James C. Bonar, Meyer H. Fishbein, Wilbur G. Kurtz, Jr., William L. Rofes, Charles Schultz, Joseph Svoboda, O. G. Wilson. CHURCH ARCHIVES (SAC) August R. Suelflow, chairman; Robert M. Warner, Council liaison; V. Nelle Bellamy, Homer L. Calkin, Melvin Gingerich, Bernard E. Granich, Richard D. Leonard, Brooks B. Little, William B. Miller, Vernon Nelson, John H. Ness, Jr., Earl E. Olson, Edwin Schell, Roy A. Suelflow, Robert C. Wiederaenders, Davis C. Woolley. COLLEGE AND UNIVERSITY ARCHIVES (SAC) James R. K. Kantor, chairman; Herman Kahn, Council liaison; John H. Archer, T. Seymour Bassett, Richard C. Berner, Helen L. Chatfield, Roy S. Dunn, Shonnie Finnegan, Barbara G. Fisher, Rev. Raphael Hamilton, Bruce C. Harding, Ruth W. Helmuth, Richard H. Lytle, Paul H. McCarthy, Jr., James V. Mink, James K. Owens, Judith M. Prosser. COPYRIGHT LEGISLATION (AD HOC) James B. Rhoads, chairman; Henry Bartholomew Cox. EDUCATION AND TRAINING (AC) Seymour J. Pomrenze, chairman; F. Gerald Ham and H. G. Jones, Council liaison; Everett O. Alldredge, Walter V. Barbash, Maynard J. Brichford, William N. Davis, Frank B. Evans, Bruce C. Harding, David C. Maslyn, Philip P. Mason, Dolores C. Renze, Wilfred I. Smith. EXHIBITS (AC) Warren Bon Griffin, chairman; Jack K. Jallings. FINANCE (CONSTITUTIONAL) A. K. Johnson, Jr., chairman; F. Gerald Ham, H. G. Jones. INTERGOVERNMENTAL RELATIONS (AD HOC) David C. Duniway, chairman; Harold T. Pinkett, Council liaison; Meyer H. Fishbein, Paul Kohl, Thornton W. Mitchell, Vernon B. Santen, Samuel S. Silsby, Jr. INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS (SAC) Morris Rieger, chairman; Wilfred I. Smith, Council liaison; Lester K. Born, Robert Claus, David Duniway, Oliver W. Holmes, Albert H. Leisinger, Jr., Yves Perotin, Morris L. Radoff, James B. Rhoads, Marie Charlotte Stark, George S. Ulibarri, Peter Walne. LOCAL ARRANGEMENTS-1969 (AC) Richard A. Erney, chairman; Everett O. Alldredge, Herman Kahn. LOCAL ARRANGEMENTS—1970 (AC) Everett O. Alldredge, chairman; Richard A. Erney. MANUSCRIPTS AND SPECIAL COLLECTIONS (TAC) Herbert Finch, chairman; Robert M. Warner, Council liaison; Howard L. Applegate, Robert D. Armstrong, Julius P. Barclay, Virgil L. Bedsole, Kenneth W. Duckett, David E. Estes, Jacqueline Haring, Josephine L. Harper, Lucile Kane, David R. Larson, Donald R. Lennon, J. J. McDonough, Jean F. Preston, Leonard Rapport, Daniel J. Reed, John Wickman. MEMBERSHIP DEVELOPMENT (AC) Herbert E. Angel, chairman. NOMINATIONS (AC/CONSTITUTIONAL) PRESERVATION (TAC) Clark W. Nelson, chairman; Robert I. Boak, Charles Corkran, James L. Gear, Paul H. McCarthy, Jr., William L. McDowell, Jr., Emily Parks Rucker, C. George Younkin. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 48 NEWS NOTES PROFESSIONAL STANDARDS (AC/CONSTITUTIONAL) Clifford K. Shipton, chairman; Everett O. Alldredge, Herbert E. Angel, Robert H. Bahmer, Philip C. Brooks, Lester J. Cappon, Christopher Crittenden, Leon deValinger, Jr., Wayne C. Grover, Philip M. Hamer, Oliver W. Holmes, William D. McCain, Margaret C. Norton, William D. Overman, Ernst Posner, Morris L. Radoff, Dolores C. Renze. PROGRAM (AC) Herman Kahn, chairman; Frances T. Bourne, Frank G. Burke, Charles Corkran, Richard A. Erney, James R. Fuchs, Lester W. Smith, Robert M. Warner. PUBLICITY (AC) David J. Delgado, chairman. RECORDS MANAGEMENT (SAC) Thornton W. Mitchell and Vernon B. Santen, cochairmen; Frank B. Evans and Joseph F. Halpin, Council liaison; William Benedon, Chester L. Guthrie, Gerald L. Hegel, Edwin H. Hunt, E. L. Johnson, Virginia Lake, Beldon Menkus, Seymour J. Pomrenze, Howard Presel, Milton Reitzfeld, William P. Southard. RESOLUTIONS (AC) SCIENTIFIC AND TECHNOLOGICAL MANUSCRIPTS (AD HOC) Maynard J. Brichford, chairman; Clyde M. Collier, Robert B. Eckles, Leland McClung, John A. Popplestone, William L. Rofes, Samuel T. Suratt, Joseph G. Svoboda, Charles Weiner. STATE AND LOCAL RECORDS (SAC) Carroll Hart, chairman; F. Gerald Ham, Council liaison; Rex Beach, Dennis R. Bodem, Theodore J. Cassady, C. F. W. Coker, Robert Connor, A. Otis Hebert, Olney W. Hill, Edward N. Johnson, Walter L. Jordan, Charles E. Lee, Sidney McAlpine, Rockwell H. Potter, Jr., Dolores C. Renze, Alan D. Ridge, Daniel Rylance. TECHNICAL DEVICES AND SYSTEMS (TAC) Richard Hale and Vernon D. Tate, cochairmen; Joseph E. Bachers, Mark R. Ford, Joseph A. Greene, T. Harold Jacobsen, Fred Shelley, Walter W. Walker. TERMINOLOGY (AD HOC) William L. Rofes, chairman; Harold T. Pinkett, Council liaison; Everett O. Alldredge, Kenneth W. Munden, Edwin A. Thompson, Peter Walne, Robert Woadden. UNIFORM ARCHIVAL STATISTICS (AD HOC) Edward G. Campbell, chairman; William Benedon, Theodore J. Cassady, Herbert Finch, Melvin Gingerich, Lucile Kane, Robert W. Lovett, Gust Skordas, Merle W. Wells. R E P O R T O F T H E PROGRAM C O M M I T T E E O N T H E SOCIETY'S 32D A N N U A L M E E T I N G {The availability of reproductions of the papers mentioned in the following report is indi- cated at appropriate points. The number of pages is shown for each paper available. Orders for copies, at 10c per page plus 6c postage for each 5 pages, should be sent to Editor, Ameri- can Archivist, National Archives, Washington, D.C. 204.08. All orders must be prepaid with checks or money orders made payable to Editor, American Archivist.] The 32d annual meeting of the Society of American Archivists was held in Ottawa, Canada, September 30—October 2, 1968. Over three hundred archivists from the United States and Canada attended this year's meeting, which included eight workshops on September 30 and nine formal sessions on October 1-2. An added feature of this year's program was the tours of the Public Archives of Canada. With the help of W . Kaye Lamb, Dominion Archivist, and his able and courteous staff, these tours gave the delegates a chance to see in operation one of the finest archival agencies in the world. On Monday evening Society members were guests at a concert given by the National Band of the Canadian Armed Forces followed by a special showing of an amusing and sophisticated travel film entitled "Helicopter Canada." The remainder of the Society's program included an address by Dr. Lamb at the Tuesday (October 1) luncheon; a bus tour of Ottawa and its environs on Tuesday afternoon for the wives of delegates; a reception and the annual dinner on Tuesday evening, the latter addressed by Society President Clifford Shipton; THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 REPORT OF THE PROGRAM COMMITTEE 49 and the Awards Luncheon (October 2 ) , which was followed by the annual business meeting. Workshop on State and Local Records Carroll Hart, Director of the Georgia Department of Archives and History, was chairman of this session entitled "The Appraisal of State Records: Some Problem Areas." Vernon B. Santen, Chief of Records Management at the New York Office of General Services, discussed the problems involved in appraising financial records; and Robert F. Connor, Director of the Missouri Records Management and Archives Service, talked about the appraisal of tax records. T h e final speakers, Theodore J. Cassady, Assistant State Archivist at the Illinois State Archives, and Kenneth W . Richards, Head of the New Jersey Archives and History Bureau, spoke of problems in evaluating public welfare records and health records, respectively. Papers available from the editor: Hart (2 p.) ; Santen (9 p.) ; Richards (9 p.). Workshop on Preservation Methods Clark W . Nelson, Archivist at the Mayo Clinic/Foundation, Rochester, Minn., conducted this workshop dealing with the subject "Current Trends in Preservation." Attendance was estimated at 73 persons. Paul H. McCarthy, University Archivist and Curator of Manuscripts at the University of Alaska, opened the program by evaluating his experiences with the new vapor phase deacidification process. He noted that although VPD lowers the acidity of paper, it has relatively short term effectiveness. Speaking on a different phase of preservation methods, James L. Gear, Chief of the Document Reproduction and Restoration Branch of the National Archives and Records Service, presented the preliminary report of the Preservation Methods Committee's summer survey of a selected group of repositories within the United States and Canada. He noted that although several institutions have im- proved their storage facilities, many still have little hope of upgrading their physical plant in the immediate future. He also discussed methods now being used to store and preserve maps and audiovisual and textual records. Walter Johnson, photo- graphic historian, Department of Photography and Cinema at Ohio State University, in a paper prepared by Robert W . Wagner, chairman of the department, discussed the unstable nature of early cellulose nitrate films. With the aid of slides and films, Mr. Johnson described a specially designed restoration motion picture printer now in use at Ohio State. Papers available from the editor: McCarthy (15 p.) ; Gear (10p.). Workshop on College and University Archives Approximately 65 people attended this workshop on "Archives and Records Man- agement in the University." Richard H. Lytle, University Archivist and Curator of Special Collections at Rice University, was the chairman. Each of the participants in the workshop expressed differing points of view on the relationships of archives and records management in universities. Believing that the archival unit's first obligation should be to the administrative offices of the university, Bruce Harding, University Archivist at Ohio State University, suggested that the archivist must have a major role in all phases of university records management if an effective archival program is to be created. He should be allowed to participate in decisions concerning records inventories, retention and disposition schedules, use of micro- film, content and form of records, and operations of the records center. James K. Owens, University Archivist at Syracuse University, separated the records manage- ment program from university archives work. Since they are both full-time jobs VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1069 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 50 N E W S N O T E S requiring professional staffs, the archivist, in his view, should not attempt to handle both functions, lest he neglect his archival responsibilities, especially in the area of processing archival accumulations and in making them known to scholars. The final speaker, Gerald Hegel, Director of Records Management Services at the University of Missouri, maintained that if the records management function is properly ad- ministered with regard to archival considerations, it will virtually assure an adequate university archives program. Unlike Harding, Hegel suggested that the records manager alone should involve himself in records creation and maintenance and in their ultimate disposition. In the discussion the view was presented that there should be continuity and harmony in the university's records management and archival programs since both make use of the same records. Some delegates contended that the proposals for separate records management and archival programs were un- realistic. Most agreed that the archivist must keep himself abreast of current uni- versity administrative matters if he is to maintain eventual descriptive control over the records of the university. Papers available from the editor: Hegel (12 p.). Workshop on Scientific Manuscripts This workshop entitled "Some Problems of Collection and Creation of Scientific and Technological Archives" was attended by 17 people; the chairman was Robert B. Eckles of the History Department of Purdue University. D. T . McAllister, Curator of the Michelson Museum at China Lake, Calif., outlined the problems in locating and transcribing all the letters of Albert Abraham Michelson. The work involves tracing references to Michelson in other archives, collecting these citations, and then organizing the bits and pieces into a meaningful collection. L. S. McClung, Archivist of the American Society for Microbiology at Indiana University, spoke on "Oral History for Archives of the American Society for Microbiology." Discussing the organization of the society's archives, he stressed the problems involved in con- ducting interviews with microbiologists. William L. Rofes of IBM Corp. also made extended reference to oral history in his talk on "Collecting Materials for Techno- logical Archives by Oral History Techniques." He mentioned the problems of using taped interviews for management directives and formation of policy and dis- cussed the form, preparation, and conduct of taping interviews. During the discussion period delegates expressed interest in the types of equipment used in conducting interviews and the preparations needed by interviewer and interviewee before a taping session begins. Papers available from the editor: McAllister (19 p.) ; McClung (14 p.). Workshop on Manuscripts and Special Collections John Wickman, Director of the Eisenhower Library at Abilene, Kans., moderated the workshop on "Problems of Contemporary Collections," attended by approxi- mately 80 delegates. Barbara Kaiser, Director of the Division of Field Services of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, opened the session with a discussion of the relationship of the archival depository to the donor of a contemporary col- lection. She emphasized the need to have a clear understanding with the donor on the terms of deposit and on the donor's literary property rights. David Larson, Chief of the Division of Archives-Manuscripts at the Ohio Historical Society, dis- cussed the problems facing repositories with contemporary collections. He mentioned size of these collections as a cause of space problems and the necessity for more financing of State and local manuscript repositories. As one means of alleviating these difficulties, he suggested that the Federal Government and the various State THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 REPORT OF THE PROGRAM COMMITTEE 51 governments implement programs of mutual help and regional cooperation. The final speaker, Edmund Berkeley, Jr., Assistant Curator of Manuscripts at the University of Virginia, directed his discussion to "Problems With Researchers." He emphasized the lack of adequate rinding aids and the extreme difficulty of using a large con- temporary collection. Mr. Berkeley suggested that administrators of repositories might solve some of their problems with researchers through an educational program that would make the patron aware of the depository's problems. He mentioned informal talks to groups, newspaper and magazine articles, and formal courses in research techniques as various means of educating the public. T h e audience seemed to agree that more problems were raised than were solved by the stimulating discussion. Papers available from the editor: Kaiser (9 p.) ; Larson (14 p.) ; Berkeley (4 p.). Workshop on Business Archives James C. Bonar, Archivist of the Canadian Pacific Railroad Co., Montreal, served as chairman of this session on "Developments in Canadian Business Archives." Attendance was estimated at 40 people. Mr. Bonar spoke on the contributions of the SAA to the Business Archives Council of Canada, an organization founded in May 1968. Although the Canadian council was designed primarily to serve Canada, it has attracted interest from other countries seeking information on the council and its literature. Using the theme of "The Canadian Public and University Sectors," Prof. John H. Archer, University Archivist, Queen's University, Kingston, men- tioned the holdings of business records in public archival institutions in Canada and the relationship of these records to university research. He applauded the estab- lishment of the Business Archives Council and the choice of Queen's University Archives as a depository. The council, he said, "envisages regional depositories elsewhere which will carry on the more practical end of arrangements for deposit and use." Alexander R. Hasley, Secretary of the Sun Life Assurance Co. of Canada, Montreal, discussing the "Canadian Business Enterprise Sector," talked of the "historical records manager," who must be both concerned with the collection and preservation of records of permanent value and involved in decisions relating to the administrative control of records. Mr. Hasley detailed the role of the historical records manager as it related to his own company. After the talks, members of the audience, including the Archivists of certain Provinces, expressed interest in participating in the programs of the Business Archives Council of Canada. Papers available from the editor: Archer (19 p.) ; Hasley (9 p.). Workshop on Records Management Fifty-one people attended this workshop on "The Role of Records Management Today." E. T . Freel, Vice-President of William P. Southard & Associates, Inc., substituted for William P. Southard as chairman and panelist. The other panelist was Robert Woodall, Records Management Supervisor of the State of California. The discussion centered around the relationship of the records manager of a State with the State Archivist. Mention was made of the responsibilities of each position, particularly regarding the records that the archivist could and should examine. Workshop on Church Archives Brooks B. Little, Director of the Upper Room Devotional Library, Museum and Archives at Nashville, was the chairman and a panelist in this workshop at- tended by 30 archivists. The general subject of the session was: "The Financial Potentials for Church Archives." William B. Miller, Manager of the Department VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1060 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 52 NEWS N O T E S of History of the Presbyterian Historical Society at Philadelphia, stressed the im- portance of the budget in relation to the success or failure of a church archive. He discussed also the overall objectives of an archival unit, the availability of money, and the establishment of priorities. He insisted staff needs be given as adequate con- sideration as other budgetary requirements. Earl E. Olson, Assistant Church His- torian of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City, Utah, took the position that archives were a definite responsibility of the denomination. The church should establish and maintain an archives, determine its policy, and analyze the budget so as to provide adequate funds for record preservation. V. Nelle Bellamy, Archivist at the Church Historical Society in Austin, discussed membership and patron income as part of the financing of the society's archival program. She cautioned, however, against too great a dependence upon this one source and sug- gested that the ideal system would be one of combined support with the denomina- tion. August Suelflow, Director of the Concordia Historical Institute in St. Louis, discussed service charges and miscellaneous sources of income as a means of supple- menting denominational support. He recommended the sale of duplicate books and other appropriate items as means of augmenting income. Brooks B. Little, like Mr. Olson, insisted that the denomination should support the archival program of the church. If it does not accept this responsibility, funds should be sought from indi- viduals and foundations. For this purpose, Mr. Little recommended cultivating the interest of people able to make gifts and bequests to the archives. Audience participation following the talks was spirited. There was general agreement that ways to encourage more extensive denominational support for archival programs were urgently needed. Papers available from the editor: Little (6 p.) ; Miller (2 p.) ; Olson (2 p.) ; Bellamy (2 p.). Data Gathering and Documentation A session (October 1) entitled "Archival Allies in Data Gathering and Documen- tation" was moderated by Richard P. McCormick, Chairman of the Department of History at Rutgers State University. He noted that the panelists were each associated with a highly specialized type of data archives and reflected the increasing breadth and diversity within the archival profession. Jerome M . Clubb, Director of Historical Archives at the Inter-University Consortium for Political Research at the University of Michigan, described the project under his charge to collect voting data for all of the States of the Union since 1824. Dr. Clubb asserted that these data can be brought under machine control, but that their effective utilization will depend on the availability of an increased supply of trained personnel and improved technology. Charles T . Morrissey, Director of the Vermont Historical Society, speaking as a representative of the Oral History Association, discussed the efforts to establish a clearinghouse for the many oral history centers in the United States. He touched also on the problems of definition and technique that confront practitioners of oral history. Philip L. Miller, President of the Association for Re- corded Sound Collections, New York, referred to the numerous collections of re- cordings of music, drama, and speech that have been built up by libraries, universities, and private collectors. He then explained the work of his association in bringing together specialists in this field. Illness prevented Ralph L. Bisco, Head, Computer Service Facility, Institute for Social Research, Ann Arbor, Mich., from participating in the program. The audience, numbering 70, joined in an interesting discussion of each of the papers. THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 REPORT OF T H E PROGRAM C O M M I T T E E 53 Canadian Manuscripts Fifty people attended the session (October 1) on the "Union List of Manuscripts of Canada and the N U C M C . " John Hall Archer, University Archivist and Professor of History at Queen's University in Kingston, Ont., chaired the session. Harriet Ostroff, Index Editor of the National Union Catalog of Manuscript Collections of the Library of Congress, sketched some historical background of NUCMC and the successful efforts to arrive at suitable cataloging rules. Robert S. Gordon, Editor of the Union List of Manuscripts in Canadian Repositories and Chief of the Manu- script Division of the Public Archives of Canada, discussed some of the background behind ULMCR. He emphasized that although NUCMC was the work of librarians, the Canadian counterpart was a product of archivists. William D. Naftel, formerly assistant to the editor of ULMCR and now historical research officer of the Historic Sights Division within the Department of Northern Affairs, concentrated on the procedure of editing the Canadian product. He spoke of the decision to put entries in the language that predominated in the collection itself. He further explained the rules of entry and the reason for excluding such documents as land deeds. In the question and answer period the delegates showed interest in the rules and edi- torial procedures used in compiling the two catalogs. Most agreed that both catalogs were easy to use and satisfied most patrons. Publication of Archives and Manuscripts A group of some 70 people attended the session (October 1) on the "Selection and Publication of Archival and Manuscript Materials." With Charles E. Lee, Director of the South Carolina Department of Archives and History, serving as chairman, panelists included Haskell M. Monroe, Jr., Editor of the Papers of Jeffer- son Davis, Memory F. Mitchell, Editor at the North Carolina Department of Archives and History, and Fred Shelley, of the National Historical Publications Commission. In "Some Thoughts for an Aspiring Editor" Mr. Monroe presented a critical review of the work of previous editors of historical papers. He read ex- cerpts of reviews of the volumes of the Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Clay papers and added to them his own judgment on the individual merits of each of these series. He both praised and cited failures in these works, thereby proposing a model of excellence in historical editing. Mrs. Mitchell discussed some of the problems she has encountered in editing the public records of the Governors of North Carolina. She emphasized the need for care in selecting the papers to be included in the volume and for maintaining a good rapport with the public official involved. Mr. Shelley's subject was "Selecting the Most Appropriate Medium of Publication." He urged toleration of microfilm as often the only alternative to no reproduction of historical documents. He stressed that the best mode of reproduction would be that which would bring scholar and document together quickly and usefully. Most of the dis- cussion period was devoted to the techniques of finding pertinent documents and of reducing them to a manageable whole. Papers available from the editor: Monroe (22 p.) ; Mitchell (11 p.) ; Shelley (15 p.). Public Official, Archivist, and Researcher Approximately 100 persons on October 1 attended the session "The Public Official, the Archivist, and the Researcher," moderated by Philip C. Brooks, Director of the Harry S. Truman Library. The speakers discussed the problems in handling a col- lection from its creation to its transfer to an archival institution and finally its use by the researcher. Speaking as a donor Neil Staebler, former United States Repre- VOLVME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 54 NEWS NOTES sentative and Democratic nominee for Governor of Michigan, said the foremost problem facing the archivist was to convince public figures that their papers were historically important and should be preserved. This initial hurdle cleared, the donor should be given accurate guidelines on what papers to save, assurance that he will have access to his files, and the privilege of denying access for a certain period of time. He heartily recommended that the archivist reach the public official early in his career and convince him of the future archival and research value of his papers. Representing the archivist, Robert W . Richmond, State Archivist at the Kansas State Historical Society, believed that some donors were overly cautious in placing restrictions on their papers. Alfred B. Rollins, Jr., Dean and Professor of History at the University of Vermont, referred to the problems he has had to face as an active researcher. He urged the archivist to play an active role as a teacher, "de- fining for his scholar-students the structure and plan of the materials, warning of their limitations, of the gaps, and of the items for the moment being held back; guiding clients through masses of materials to the general areas in which their hunt- ing may be effective." In the discussion period some delegates dealt with the need for archivists to guide and inform the donors of the kinds of papers that have lasting value and with the problems involved in the transfer of papers by installments. All agreed on the importance of the archivist in establishing rapport with the donor's secretary. Papers available from the editor: Rollins (6 p.) ; Richmond (6 p.). French Canadian Archives Bernard Weilbrenner, Director of the Historical Branch of the Public Archives of Canada, on October i served as chairman of the session entitled "French Canada —the Archival Situation." Cosponsored by the Canadian Historical Association, this session drew 45 delegates. Laurier La Pierre, Director of the French Canada Studies Program at McGill University, criticized the services provided historians by archival repositories on several counts. He cited the present dispersal of collec- tions, lack of guides to the holdings of institutions, inconsistency in classification and descriptive cataloging, and shortage of trained archivists. The speaker particularly stressed the need for archivists to obtain papers now in private hands and to transfer the holdings of private and semiprivate archival institutions to governmental archival institutions. Jacques Mathieu, Archiviste, Archives du Quebec, was also critical of the archival situation in Quebec. He indicated that an all-embracing archives law was needed to insure proper care for noncurrent government records. Trained archivists were needed to inspect records before destruction, to provide suitable ac- commodation for those papers retained, and to aid the researcher. The exercise of government control over private and semiprivate papers of a national interest was another suggestion advanced by Mr. Mathieu. Two points were raised in the dis- cussion period that followed. It was argued that historians expect more from the archivist than he can reasonably provide. Many in the audience also proclaimed the right of private institutions to take care of their own records and maintained that such institutions were preserving these documents as well as government agencies could do at the present time. Automation and the Archivist The session on "Automation and the Archivist" (October 1) had a large audience of nearly 200 people. The size of the audience necessitated the use of two convention rooms. The chairman of the session, substituting for Frank G. Burke, was John THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 REPORT OF T H E PROGRAM COMMITTEE 55 P. Butler, Assistant Information Retrieval Specialist, National Archives and Records Service, Washington, D.C. Samuel Suratt, Archivist at the Smithsonian Institution, led off the session with a discussion of some contemporary political phenomena, the new communication media, and the interrelationship of these two subjects with uni- form terminology in automated techniques. He stressed the archival problems in- herent in a society that is now beginning to produce massive amounts of nontextual record material. Barbara Fisher, University Archivist, University of Oregon, in her discussion of archival byproducts, carefully related automated techniques to archival technology. She pointed out a number of areas in which archival byproducts enable the archivist to examine and to evaluate his own techniques and procedures. James J. Atherton, Head, Public Records Section, Manuscript Division, Public Archives of Canada, delivered a short, nontechnical address on "Automation and the Dignity of the Archivist." He emphasized that the archivist need not fear automation and should use new technological innovations to secure closer controls over archival records. A lively question and answer session followed the formal presentations. Questions and responses from the floor indicated that the delegates were generally receptive and wanted to know more about practical applications of computer tech- niques. A number of questions touched upon the use of thesauri in automated re- trieval systems and others on cooperative ventures, especially SPINDEX II. All in all, the program seemed to indicate that, in certain instances, the profession was beginning to use computer technology effectively and to develop automated systems that should be of inestimable value in the near future. Papers available from the editor: Fisher (14 p.) ; Atherton (6 p.). Education and Training More than 100 registrants crowded the Macdonald Room for a session (October 2) on "Education and Training in Archives Administration and Records Manage- ment—A Critical Review." The session chairman was Frank B. Evans, Deputy Assistant Archivist for Presidential Libraries, National Archives and Records Service, who also serves as director of archival training for NARS. Using as his point of departure the comprehensive survey of formal academic courses by H. G. Jones in the April 1968 issue of the American Archivist, Philip P. Mason, Professor of History and Director of the Labor Archives at Wayne State University, sum- marized the current status of such courses and recommended the establishment of additional programs to meet the ever-growing need for trained archivists. Dr. Mason indicated his real concern regarding our ability to provide trained personnel for all of the available positions. Dr. Evans then spoke briefly on the background and cur- rent status of summer institutes, developed nearly three decades ago to provide "emergency post-appointment" training for those entrusted with archival responsi- bilities. The original Washington institute has been widely imitated, and each year new institutes are being offered. Herbert E. Angel, Deputy Archivist of the United States, reported on the status of training in records management in the United States. Acknowledging his debt to two recent surveys published in records management journals, he provided an illuminating analysis of the available training, with emphasis upon the widespread neglect of attention to records appraisal and other archival considerations in such training. Wilfred I. Smith, Assistant Dominion Archivist of the Public Archives of Canada, surveyed archival and records management courses and institutes available in Canada. In general, training in Canada has followed the same pattern as in the United States, with the most recent initiative for new courses and institutes being provided by individuals rather than by repositories or VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY IQ6Q D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 56 NEWS NOTES organizations. The session chairman then called upon Ernst Posner, Professor Emeritus of History and Archives Administration at The American University, and the only "full-time" teacher in this field. Dr. Posner characterized our current situation as one of providing "mini-training"—like the skirts of the same name, they cover relatively little and reveal a great deal. He recommended that, with financial assistance from a private foundation, archivists consider offering a master's degree in archives administration through graduate library schools. Discussion following Dr. Posner's comments related primarily to this proposal and reflected particularly the concern of many archivists that training in historical methodology and experience with historical research be required of all who would administer archives. Special Subject Collections Herbert Finch, Curator and Archivist, Collection of Regional History and University Archives, Cornell University, on October 2 was the chairman of the session, "The Development of Special Subject Area Collections." The four speakers each discussed problems encountered in administering special collections. Howard Applegate, Assistant Director of Libraries for Special Collections and Develop- ment, Syracuse University, discussed the creation of the Industrial Design collection. He emphasized the groundwork needed to form a special collection: the interest of the faculty and the need for cooperation from within the particular profession. Tino Balio, Director of the Wisconsin Centre for Theatre Research at the Uni- versity of Wisconsin, recounted the history of that collection and its relation to the research interests of students and faculty. The next speaker, John A. Popplestone, Director of the Archives of the History of American Psychology at Akron Uni- versity, outlined a means to approach psychology records through mass mailings and by encouraging support from influential leaders within the profession. Rudolph J. Vecoli, Director of the Center for Immigration Studies at the University of Min- nesota, mentioned the variety of source materials existing for the study of immigra- tion, sources that have been largely overlooked. Mr. Vecoli suggested focusing on the "new" immigration and acquiring material from ethnic churches, lodges, and newspapers. As a result of each of these talks, the delegates left with the impression that subject collections are an increasing trend in manuscript collections and that by systematically pursuing a special subject area extremely important resources can be developed. Papers available from the editor: Popplestone (9 p.). Significant Developments on the International Archival Scene Since the Extraordinary Congress An audience of 50 persons heard a distinguished panel discuss progress in inter- national regulation and use of archives. The session chaired by Morris Rieger of the National Archives featured Charles Kecskemeti, Secretary, International Council on Archives with headquarters in Paris. Mr. Kecskemeti discussed the work of the recent international Congress at Madrid and the progress made in opening the archives of the various nations of the world to scholarly research. Commenting on the paper were Robert H. Bahmer, former Archivist of the United States; Oliver W . Holmes, Executive Director, National Historical Publications Commission; W . Kaye Lamb, Dominion Archivist of Canada; and Albert H. Leisinger, Jr., Special Assistant for Academic Liaison, National Archives and Records Service. Dr. Bahmer, Dr. Holmes, and Dr. Lamb, veterans of earlier efforts toward inter- THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 M I N U T E S O F M E E T I N G S A N D R E P O R T S O F OFFICERS 57 national cooperation in archival work, discussed the history of these efforts and noted the progress that has been made. Papers available from the editor: Kecskemeti (12 p.). Prepared principally by Thomas Powers and J. Fraser Cocks, members of the staff of the Michigan Historical Collections of the University of Michigan, under the general direction of Robert M. Warner, Chairman of the Program Committee. M I N U T E S OF MEETINGS & REPORTS OF OFFICERS [September 29 and October 2 Council Minutes are on p. 91—94 of this issue. E D . ] Minutes of Awards Luncheon Ottawa, Canada, October 2, IQ68 President Clifford Shipton announced that Richard Erney, Chairman of the Dis- tinguished Service Award Committee, had informed him that there were no recom- mendations for the Award this year. Harold T . Pinkett, Cochairman of the Gondos Memorial Award Committee, announced that his committee had selected Nicolas Falco as the 1968 Award recipi- ent for his essay "The Empire State Engages in a European Archives Search." The Waldo Gifford Leland Prize for 1968 was presented by Lester Cappon to Andrew Oliver for Portraits of John and Abigail Adams, published by Harvard University Press. Election of Fellows, IQ68. Herbert E. Angel, Chairman of the Professional Standards Committee, announced the election to the rank of Fellow for: THEODORE J. CASSADY, Illinois State Archives; JAMES L. GEAR, National Archives and Records Service; F. GERALD H A M , State Historical Society of Wisconsin; ALLIE CARROLL HART, Georgia Department of Archives and History; P H I L I P P. LAGERQUIST, Harry S. Truman Library; ROBERT M. WARNER, Michigan Historical Collections; and WALTER M U I R W H I T E H I L L , Boston Athenaeum. Election to Honorary Life Membership. President Shipton announced that the Council had unanimously elected the following to honorary life membership in the Society: LYNDON B. JOHNSON, W . KAYE LAMB, and J. IGNACIO RUBIO M A N E . PHILIP P. MASON, Secretary Annual Business Meeting Ottawa, Canada, October 2, IQ68 The annual business meeting of the Society was called to order at 2 :oo p.m. by President Clifford Shipton. All officers and members of the Council were in at- tendance. In addition, more than 200 individuals and institutional members were present. It was voted to dispense with the reading of the minutes of the 1967 annual meeting, as they had been published in the American Archivist and were available to the membership at large. The annual financial report of Treasurer A. K. Johnson, Jr., for the period January 1—December 30, 1967, was presented and filed with the secretary [see below—ED.]. Charles Lee, Chairman of the Auditing Committee, made the following report: The Auditing Committee has had the treasurer's accounts of the Society of American Archivists for the year ended December 31, 1967, audited by Kenneth C. Batchelor, certified public accountant of Charlotte, North Carolina. Mr. Batchelor has submitted his report and stated that in his opinion the accounts of the Society are in good order. Your committee is satisfied with the correctness of the audit report, a copy of which is hereby delivered to the Secretary, who will make it available to any member wishing to inspect it. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY i960 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 58 N E W S N O T E S The members present accepted both reports and ordered them filed with the secretary. T h e report of the Resolutions Committee was presented by Robert Woadden for Theodore Cassady, who was absent due to illness. The Committee on Resolutions, consisting of Ted Cassady, Alan Ridge, Wayne Temple and Robert Woadden, submits the following: WHEREAS, this bilingual Bastion of the North, this virile yet peaceful land, provided some 350 archivists from several lands with a rendezvous par excellence for the 32d annual meet- ing of the Society of American Archivists, September 30th to October 2d, 1968, and WHEREAS, the success of the Society's annual meeting is due largely to the untiring efforts of the officers, Council members, and committees during the past year, be it Resolved, That the Society through its secretary formally extends its appreciation for their efforts to: 1. All members of the Local Arrangements Committee under the chairmanship of Wilfred I. Smith together with the staff of the Public Archives of Canada, the members of the Pro- gram Committee intuitively guided by Chairman Robert M. Warner, and all panelists and participants in the educational sessions during our meeting in Ottawa. 2. The Honourable Gerald Pelletier, P.C., M.P., Secretary of State, and Controller Ernie W. Jones of the City Council of Ottawa for showing their genuine interest in our affairs by taking time from the burdensome duties of their high offices to join us at our meeting. 3. The Banquet Manager and the staff of the Chateau Laurier for their splendid co- operation in making facilities available. 4. The Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Co. for the hospitality afforded at coffee breaks. 5. The Director of Music, Lt. Comdr. William J. Gordon, and the talented members of the National Band for their truly excellent concert, which gave our members a most enjoyable musical soiree. 6. The Council of the City of Ottawa for the provision of transportation in and about the National Capital District. 7. The Honourable James C. Auld, Minister of Tourism and Information for the provision of transportation to and from Upper Canada Village. 8. W. Kaye Lamb, this quiet, honoured man who, towards the close of his distinguished career, has left his unique stamp of wisdom, erudition and humanity on the Public Archives, to the home of which he afforded us ready access. WHEREAS, the Society of American Archivists has sustained many losses during the past year by the known deaths of the following members: Robert G. Adriance, Wallace Goebel, Lt. Clarence Peterson, Rt. Rev. Msgr. Arthur Riley, and Anne M. Sexton, be it Resolved, That the sympathy of the Society be extended to their families. T h e following report was presented by Philip C. Brooks, Chairman of the Nomi- nations Committee: H. G. Jones, North Carolina Department of Archives and History, becomes President automatically. The Nominations Committee in compliance with the bylaws makes the following nomina- tions to be voted upon at the annual meeting at Ottawa, Ontario, on October 2, 1968: For Vice President, HERMAN KAHN, Yale University. For Secretary,'?. GERALD HAM, Wisconsin State Historical Society. For Treasurer, A. K. JOHNSON, National Archives and Records Service, Atlanta, Ga. For the Council to serve until 1972: WILFRED I. SMITH, Public Archives of Canada. FRANK B. EVANS, National Archives and Records Service, Washington, D.C. Ballots were distributed to the membership, and all who had been nominated were elected to office. Philip Brooks nominated Agnes C. Conrad, Archivist of the State of Hawaii, to fill the 1-year Council vacancy created by the election of F. Gerald Ham to the office of secretary. There being no nominations from the floor nor dissenting votes, President Shipton declared Miss Conrad elected unanimously. President H. G. Jones announced that the joint AHA-SAA luncheon would be THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 M I N U T E S O F M E E T I N G S A N D R E P O R T S O F OFFICERS 59 held at the Statler Hilton in New York City, December 30, 1968, with Prof. John Hope Franklin as the speaker. He also announced that the Society will hold a joint luncheon at the annual meeting of the Organization of American Historians in Philadelphia in April. Dr. Jones announced that Richard Erney, Associate Director of the Historical Society of Wisconsin, will serve as chairman of the Local Arrangements Committee for the 1969 annual meeting in Madison. The following resolutions were passed unanimously by the delegates: Resolved, That the members of the Society express to Robert H. Bahmer our appreciation for his distinguished contributions to our profession and our Nation during his service as Archivist of the United States from 1965 to 1968 and that we extend to him our best wishes in his retirement; and be it Further Resolved, That the members of the Society extend to James Berton Rhoads our congratulations upon his appointment as Archivist of the United States, the assurance of our confidence in him and his administration, our pledge of cooperation and support, and our best wishes for a long and fruitful administration; and be it Further Resolved, That the secretary is hereby instructed to forward to Doctors Bahmer and Rhoads a copy of this resolution. The delegates also approved the resolution of Dolores Renze commending Philip P. Mason for his work as secretary of the Society from 1963 to 1968. There being no further business, the meeting adjourned at 3 :oo p.m. PHILIP P. MASON, Secretary Secretary's Annual Report, 1967—68 One of the responsibilities of the secretary is to report to the members at each annual business meeting on the affairs of the Society. [The report was read at the annual dinner.—ED.] AS of this meeting I have completed 5 years as secretary. Instead of the usual i-year report, I should like to change the procedure for this session and present to you a 5-year report—giving to you my assessment of the ac- complishments of the Society as well as the problem areas and the work yet to be done. Let me make it clear that I am not making an adverse comparison with any previous period in the Society's history. W e are today a larger and more dynamic organization than at any time since we were established in 1936. W e have greater talent and more resources. Because we are essentially a voluntary organization without a full-time pro- fessional staff, we have had to rely upon volunteer committees to perform much of the important work of the Society. This loose structure has had inherent weak- nesses which have been difficult to overcome. For the most part committees conduct their business by mail, and often without committee members even having met their colleagues. Nevertheless, we have been able to improve the effectiveness of the committees in a number of ways. The change in the constitution providing that the vice president succeed automatically to the presidency has made the committee appointment procedure more efficient. Each year during the past 5, we have ap- pointed committees earlier, and this has given them more time to conduct their affairs. The practice adopted in Santa Fe in 1967 of scheduling committee sessions at annual meetings is a precedent which should be followed in the future. In fact, I hope that the Society could raise and allot the necessary funds to allow at least some committees to meet together during the year. The interchange of ideas in a face-to-face situation could be far more constructive than memoranda or letters. This was brought out to us vividly this summer at Cambridge, when the Society's Ad Hoc Committee on Paper Research met to plan its activities. W e ac- VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 60 NEWS NOTES complished more in that i-day meeting than we could have in several months of communication by mail. The circulation to all Society members of a Committee Preference Questionnaire has also made the committee system more effective. The information obtained has given the president and the chairmen the names of archivists who are willing and anxious to serve on committees and has made it possible to inject new blood into the Society. With the rapidly increasing membership, the Society must have this type of information. In previous reports I have summarized the past year's committee activities. Their contributions during the past 12 months are noteworthy and impressive, but I shall pass over them in my remarks since a report of the activities of each will be published in a forthcoming issue of the American Archivist [see below.—ED.]. I should like, however, to report on the activity of one of our new ad hoc committees. At its April meeting, the Council received from the National Archives and the National Bureau of Standards a proposal for a Society-sponsored study of the permanence of paper. The proposed 5-year study, which would be conducted by the National Bureau of Standards, would have as its objectives: (a) to develop information on the chemical stability of archival paper and related materials, (b) to develop test methods for determining such stability, (c) to develop specifications for such paper and materials, and (d) to determine proper environmental conditions for archival paper records. The materials will include paper—including quick-copy reproduc- tions—and related materials such as ink, typewriter ribbons, carbon paper, file folders, document containers, laminating tissue and film, mending tape, and binding materials and adhesives. Planned as a part of the overall study would be the prepara- tion and publication of a readable, illustrated manual, designed to aid the archival profession. T h e Council recognized the importance of the study to the profession, and Presi- dent Shipton appointed an ad hoc committee. The American Council of Learned Societies granted the committee $2,500 to conduct its first year's work. As I indi- cated, the committee met at Harvard in July to plan a course of action. The work of the committee is staggering. In addition to supervising the research by the Bureau of Standards, it will have to raise from $350,000 to $650,000 over a 5-year period. This is certainly one of the most challenging tasks undertaken by the Society, and yet if we are to develop as a vital professional organization, we must accept it. W e shall keep you informed of the committee's work. The Society has sponsored a number of significant publications during the last 5 years. T h e American Archivist has continued to win acclaim as one of the better professional journals. In 1964 the University of Chicago Press published Ernst Posner's American State Archives. This book, underwritten by the Council on Library Resources, Inc., and sponsored by the Society, is one of the outstanding pub- lications in our archival literature. In 1966 the Society, with assistance of Ken Munden as editor, published Archives & the Public Interest: Selected Essays of Ernst Posner. Dr. Posner is now completing a manuscript, Archives of the Western World, which will also fill a great void in our professional literature. Another publication in preparation is Victor Gondos' Manual on Archives and Records Center Buildings, which will be ready for publication soon. A grant from the Council on Library Resources, Inc., will make the publication possible. The Society has also attempted the better to serve the profession by publishing a number of guides and directories. The Biographical Directory, published in 1965, THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 MINUTES OF MEETINGS AND REPORTS OF OFFICERS 61 was an immediate success. There has been such a demand for it that the Society, under the editorship of Harold T . Pinkett, is now planning a new biographical directory of Society members. Special interest groups within the Society have also been involved in our publica- tion program. The State and Local Records Committee has produced annual com- pilations; the Church Archives Committee is now updating its directory and other committees are planning similar projects. The Guide to College and University Archives, prepared under the editorship of Robert M. Warner and published last year by the College and University Archives Committee, has been an extremely valuable research tool. The quantity and quality of Society publications have been an excellent index of the stature of the archival profession. The improved quality of our annual meetings has also been noticeable. The ex- cellent workshop sessions, which have improved steadily in the last 5 years; the broader use of concurrent sessions to meet the wider interests of members; and the imaginative leadership of program and local arrangements committees have been largely responsible. The steadily increasing attendance is an index of the excellence of the meetings. Plans are already underway for the 1969 convention in Madison, Wis., and for one in the Nation's Capital in 1970. In addition to the annual meetings the Society, in cooperation with the National Archives and Records Service, has sponsored dozens of regional symposia in cities throughout the United States. These meetings have been extremely successful in interpreting the work of the Society and in providing professional assistance to organizations and institutions in the early stages of inaugurating archival programs. Although there is a need for better coordination of the symposia, they offer one of the best ways to expand the influence of the archival profession and the Society. Another related development, although not directly under Society sponsorship, is the establishment of regional archival organizations. Michigan and Ohio have organ- ized statewide archives associations and sponsored meetings and research projects. New York and other States with active archival institutions are considering similar action. The Council has before it a proposal to make such organizations regional chapters of the Society. This plan, proposed many years ago by the late Mary Givens Bryan, of Georgia, and others, has the potential to make the Society a more effective professional organization. The Society has given special priority during the past 5 years to the problem of recruitment of talented individuals into the profession. We have begun on a small scale to meet this challenging task. W e have established rapport with hundreds of guidance counselors in high schools and colleges. The brochure "Careers in Archives" has been distributed to 30,000 students, and we have communicated with history professors in numerous colleges and universities. We have evidence that in many cases our recruitment program has been successful. The salary survey conducted by the Society 2 years ago revealed the serious, even critical, situation we face in recruitment. This survey was the first step. It has been implemented by some institutions, which upgraded their salary structure ; others have yet to act. I am especially pleased at the response to the Placement Newsletter, which we inaugurated last December. It is more up-to-date and timely than our announce- ment in the American Archivist and has been responsible for filling numerous vacan- cies and assisting applicants in finding archival positions. Finally, in terms of the accomplishments of the last 5 years, let me mention our VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 62 NEWS N O T E S membership growth. In June 1963 we had on our rolls 1,343 members; in Septem- ber 1965, 1,670; in October 1966, 1,778; and September 1968, 2,185. This repre- sents a 62 percent increase in 5 years. Furthermore, we now have 19 institutions supporting the Society with $100 annual sustaining memberships. These, then, have been the highlights of the Society during the past 5 years. All in all, and considering that the work of the Society—by the members, by the com- mittees, by the Council, and by the officers—is done on a voluntary basis, I believe that our progress has been impressive. W e are a much more vital organization than we were 20 years ago, or even 5 years ago. But we do have some problems as a professional organization—some unfinished business; and lest I lull you into a sense of complacency with our accomplishments, let me give you my assessment of the problem areas: 1. Recruitment and Training. I believe, as I have reported to you at previous annual meetings, that one of our basic aims is to attract talented persons into the profession. We are expanding rapidly; hundreds of new archival programs have been established in recent years, and the trend will continue. Since the early 1950's we have not been able to compete for the best graduates of our colleges and uni- versities; and, moreover, we have lost many who have left the archival profession for positions in colleges and universities and other institutions. W e must find a way to get more colleges and universities to offer archival train- ing. At the present we have four universities offering full-year credit programs. We need many times that number. Eventually, the Society will have to evaluate or accredit these courses to make sure that they meet high professional standards. W e must give this problem high priority in our deliberations. 2. Utilization of Younger Members. I have become increasingly concerned about the waste of the talent we have, particularly among the younger members of the profession. Many of these young archivists have a great deal to offer to us. They have new ideas; they are not willing to accept techniques and methods merely because they are traditional; and they have the energy and commitment that we need. Unfortunately, it is often difficult to locate this talent and to use it produc- tively. The Committee Preference Questionnaire has been helpful, but it is not the only answer. Perhaps regional chapters will help us to identify and recruit these bright, young members. We must continually find new ways to involve a greater number of members in the work of the Society. 3. Splintering of Profession. Another alarming development in the last 5 years has been the tendency to splinter the archival profession. Years ago the records managers abandoned the Society to form independent organizations. More recently there was an abortive attempt to form a separate organization of college and uni- versity archivists. Fortunately we were able to block this move. In the last year two closely associated groups have formed independent organizations. An oral history association was established last November, and more recently a manuscripts organization within the Association of College and Research Libraries of the Ameri- can Library Association was founded. There was perhaps some justification for the oral historians, although their work in many institutions has been a vital part of the archival operation. There was, however, no basis for a separate organization of manuscript custodians. The charge by a few of the individuals who formed this new association that the Society was not concerned or interested in the problems of manuscript curators is ridiculous and should be exposed. Our recent annual meetings have devoted considerable at- THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 MINUTES OF MEETINGS AND REPORTS OF OFFICERS 63 tention to the work of our manuscripts people—in workshops and special sessions— and the Council, the governing body of the Society, has always been well represented by this group. The merits of the case, however, are not always the important con- siderations. Regardless of the motives of the sponsors of such competing organizations, the Society must take strong action to discourage such splintering of the profession. It much constantly analyze its relationship to special archival interests and make sure that it is meeting the needs of all groups. 4. Full-time Secretary. It is extremely clear to me that the biggest challenge facing the Society is finding the resources to hire a full-time professional staff. I have made this observation last year and the year before that. It is even more apparent this year than before. You will undoubtedly hear it from your new secretary next year. We are no longer a small organization serving a few hundred members. We have a membership in excess of 2,OOO, with a potential for twice that size. We are now dealing with complex problems facing the Society and the profession and ulti- mately all archivists. The difficulty clearly and simply is one of resources. W e are no longer small enough to operate the Society by volunteer help; we are not large enough to finance a paid staff from membership dues. I had hoped to get at least 100 archival institu- tions to become sustaining members at $100 a year. Only 19 responded. W e have explored foundation support but discovered that foundations are reluctant to under- write the operating expenses of any organization. Because of the critical financial situation and the urgent need for a full-time staff, I have recommended to the Council that it consider a constitutional amendment to increase the dues of Society members. This request is not out of line with the dues structure of other professional organizations. The American Library Association, for example, has a dues structure that begins at $18 a year from those with an income of from $5,000—$6,000 up and increases to $50 a year for those members whose salary is in excess of $15,000. The Council may decide to propose such a sliding scale or single dues rate for all members. Regardless, it is apparent that we must raise our dues to meet the new demands on the Society. Despite the growing burden of the job, I have thoroughly enjoyed my work for the Society; but even more I have appreciated the opportunity it has given me to meet and work with others who share my belief in and commitment to the importance of the archival profession. PHILIP P. MASON Report of the Treasurer, January 1, ig6j—December 31, 1967 This report covers the Society's fiscal year beginning January 1, 1967, and ending December 31, 1967. During the current fiscal year (1968), periodic reports have been made to the Council. General Fund The General Fund or operating account is tax exempt under Section 501 (c) (6) of the Internal Revenue Code and carries the Employer Identification number 84-6023531. Cash on hand as of January 1, 1967, amounted to $20,977.05, and receipts during the year totaled $35,589.39 as follows: membership dues, $14,405.85; subscriptions to the American Archivist, $7,852.50; advertising in the American Archivist, $1,165.28; sales of Society pub- lications and back issues of the American Archivist (including microfilm copies), $3,854.83; income from Posner Festschrift, $3,460.98; income from symposia, $534.45; bank interest on savings account, $693.18; sale of labels, $139.14; reimbursement from the Leland Prize Fund, VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 64 NEWS NOTES $107.95; P r o rata memberships from the Life Membership Fund, $125.23; contributions to the Directory of College and University Archives, $200; and the Council on Library Re- sources, Inc., grant for Posner's proposed History of Archives, $3,050. Expenditures amounted to $31,535.83, as follows: editing, printing, and mailing the Ameri- can Archivist, $15,741.63; purchase of microfilm of back issues of the American Archivist, $91.94; advanced preprinting allowance to the Church Archives Directory, $106.02; payment on Posner's Festschrift, $2,556.13; president's office, $257.67; vice president's office, $100; secretary's office, $6,636; treasurer's office, $475; committee expenses, $385.16; meetings, $783.84; organization dues to the ICA, $17.50; bank service charges, $25.02; Leland Prize, $100; labels for resale, $27.50; CRIA contribution, $500; Posner's CLR grant (transferred to Special Projects Funds), $3,050; contingency, $679.91; and North Carolina Intangibles Tax (to be refunded in January 1968), $2.51. The General Fund balance at the end of the year was $25,030.61, of which $3,066.82 was in the North Carolina National Bank, Raleigh; $5,217.44 was in the Detroit Bank and Trust Company, Detroit; and $16,746.35 was in savings account no. 28372 in the Raleigh Savings and Loan Association, Raleigh. Special Projects Funds In addition to the General Fund, the Society had in 1967 six separate Special Projects Funds, which are exempt under IRS Section 501 (c) (3) and which have the collective identifi- cation number of 84-6023532. These funds are maintained apart from the operating account, and a separate report is made to the Internal Revenue Service each year. Moneys in these funds may be used only upon direction of the Council and then only within the purposes for which each was established. The Asia Foundation Fund, for educational grants and memberships to Asian citizens, brought forward $2,138.95. Bank interest amounted to $5.58, and there were no disbursements. The balance at the end of the year was $2,144.53, of which $134.78 was in account no. 23574 in the First Federal Savings and Loan Association of Raleigh and $2,009.75 w a s >n a checking account in the Wachovia Bank and Trust Company, Raleigh. The Waldo G. Leland Prize Fund, the income of which is used annually for the Leland Prize, brought forward $2,553.40. Bank interest amounted to $107.95 a n d disbursements to the General Fund amounted to $107.95. The balance on December 31 was $2,553.40, in ac- count no. 23713, First Federal Savings and Loan Association of Raleigh. The Life Membership Fund, the interest of which is transferred each year to the General Fund for pro rata membership fees, brought forward $2,961.95. Bank interest totaled $125.23, and payment to the General Fund amounted to $125.23. The balance of $2,961.95 on Decem- ber 31 was in account no. 23712, First Federal Savings and Loan Association of Raleigh. The Meeting Fund, to which surpluses from Society-sponsored meetings are deposited, brought forward $4,418.62. Bank interest totaled $190.81, and there were no disbursements. The balance of $4,609.43 on December 31 was in account no. 21988, First Federal Savings and Loan Association of Raleigh. The Publications Revolving Fund, for Society publications, brought forward $2,054.72. Income was as follows: American Archivist reprint royalties, $81.26; American State Archives royalties, $48.50; Council on Library Resources, Inc., grant for Buildings Manual, $1,000; and bank interest of $106.24. There were no disbursements; the balance of $3,290.72 on December 31 was in account no. 24277, First Federal Savings and Loan Association of Raleigh. The History of Archives Fund, which was established on March 31, 1967, received from the Council on Library Resources, Inc., a grant of $3,050. Bank interest amounted to $98.26 and disbursements amounted to $1,000. The balance of $2,148.26 on December 31 was in ac- count no. 29030, First Federal Savings and Loan Association, Raleigh. Summary T h e balances at the close of the day on December 31, 1967, were as follows: General Fund, $25,030.61; Asia Foundation Fund, $2,144.53; Leland Prize Fund, $2,553.40; Life Membership Fund, $2,961.95; Meeting Fund, $4,609.43; Publi- cations Revolving Fund, $3,290.72; and the History of Archives Fund, $2,148.26. Thus the total of all funds belonging to the Society amounted to $42,738.90. A. K. JOHNSON, Treasurer THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 COMMITTEE REPORTS 65 COMMITTEE REPORTS Report of the Committee on Archival Buildings and Equipment The committee's major project at this time, the Reader on Archives and Records Center Buildings, saw some progress but was not completed during the year. Con- siderable correspondence was conducted and several essays are now in galley proof, but much remains to be done. An extension of time on the grant of $1,000 from the Council on Library Resources, Inc., was requested through the secretary of the Society. Because of printing done thus far, some of the CLR fund has already been obligated to the Monumental Printing Co. of Baltimore, Md. Among the correspondence and planning materials sent, the following may be mentioned: advice to Mary K. Dempsey, Librarian of the Montana Historical Society, Helena, Mont., for use of the architect planning a new library and archives building for the society; correspondence with foreign archival architects, Oloff Hansson of Helsinki, Finland, and J. O. Kellermann of Pretoria, South Africa; counsel and relevant reprints of articles from the American Archivist, and others, to Sevinc Yavuz of Ankara, Turkey, in connection with the design of a State Archive for Turkey, for a master's thesis at the university in Ankara. Counsel was rendered to Meredith B. Colket, Jr., Director of the Western Re- serve Historical Society, relating to fire-fighting equipment for the archives addition to the society building. Mr. Colket was referred to Bulletin No. 232, Protection of Records, of the National Fire Protection Association and some other relevant works, such as Gage-Babcock and Associates, Protecting the Library and its Re- sources: A Guide to Physical Protection and Insurance (Publication No. 7, Library Technology Project, Chicago, 1963), and to the unpublished paper of Harold E. Nelson, Chief, Fire Prevention Branch, Protection Division, General Services Ad- ministration, Washington, D.C. This paper was read at the SAA annual meeting in Atlanta, Ga., in October 1966. Counsel was also rendered to the Rockefeller Foundation, New York City, in connection with the program requirements of a small archival facility. VICTOR GONDOS, JR., Chairman Report of the Committee on Automated Techniques The committee has spent a good part of the year attempting to start a newsletter on automation and the archivist. In order to do so, committee members were given the duty of scanning assigned journals, newsletters, and similar literature that re- lates to automation in the humanities, social sciences, and libraries. Each committee member was asked to abstract pertinent articles and to copy news items of interest to the committee's members and archivists concerned with automation problems. Each quarter the accumulated results were to be forwarded to the chairman for formatting into the newsletter. The committee members did their work, and the first newsletter draft was formatted by September 1. There have been difficulties, however, in getting funds for printing and distributing the newsletter, and this question is to be taken up with Society officers by the committee chairman at the annual meeting. The information contained in the newsletter is too long for in- clusion in the American Archivist. Other activities of the committee included participation in the National Archives program to develop a computer software package for use in formatting and indexing finding aids for archives and manuscripts. The project, dubbed SPINDEX II, is being directed by the committee chairman in association with the curators of nine other VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1069 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 66 NEWS NOTES institutions. Three of the six committee members, or their institutions, are par- ticipating directly in the SPINDEX II project, and the other three are monitors of the project. The committee is therefore actively engaged in the formulation of the soft- ware package and will be involved in the testing of it. Since this is perhaps the most significant activity in the field of automation as far as archivists are concerned, com- mittee leadership and participation is extremely important. A meeting of the com- mittee and other SPINDEX II participants is planned during the annual meeting for dis- cussion, progress reports, and some decision making on the SPINDEX II operation. The committee is presenting a program on automation and the archivist at the annual meeting. Two committee members and one nonmember will discuss three aspects of the effect of automation on the archivist. The committee chairman is chairman of the session. The forthcoming year will bring further development of SPINDEX II, with com- mittee direction and assistance and, hopefully, the publication of the newsletter as well as proposed work on professional standards for information format and citation. FRANK G. BURKE, Chairman Report of the Church Archives Committee All 15 committee members have been engaged in carrying out the objectives of this specialized committee. As in previous years, the committee was divided into four study and working subcommittees. One directed its attention to the prepara- tion of a guide to church historical depositories and currently is working on pre- liminary plans for the production of a manual for church archives. In addition, the committee arranged for the Church Archives Workshop at the Ottawa meeting, dealing particularly with the financial aspects. Many newly appointed church archivists have been assisted through individual consultations and correspondence. Work on a bibliography of church archival writings as well as news notes for the American Archivist have been continued. The greatest interests and concerns of the committee have been the production of the guide to church historical depositories, which is scheduled for completion towards the end of this year. The previous Directory had served its purpose well in developing a list of all church historical depositories in existence in North America. But more specific information on the depositories was necessary and hence the guide was developed. A questionnaire was devised and used in compiling the data and information. The deepest appreciation of the committee is expressed to the Council and particularly to Vice President H. G. Jones and Secretary Philip P. Mason for the excellent counsel and advice given. A manual for church archives is on the drawing board. As envisioned, the manual will render helpful suggestions to church archivists regarding their various unique responsibilities. It is to contain suggestions, procedures, policy recommendations, and working techniques easily implemented and attainable by a part-time, over- worked church archivist. For further implementation, regional symposia and con- ferences are also planned. The committee is continuing to fill a real need and has rendered unique services. With the more than 500 full- and part-time church archivists in America today, it is hoped that many more will become thoroughly integrated in the programs and activities of the Society of American Archivists through the instrumentality of this committee. AUGUST R. SUELFLOW, Chairman THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 COMMITTEE REPORTS 67 Report of the Committee on College and University Archives At a meeting called by former Committee Chairman Robert M. Warner in Santa Fe, during the 1967 convention, it was decided that the committee would attempt to establish "subcommittees" along regional lines, so that informal workshops might be held to acquaint college and university archivists with the work of the committee and of the Society itself. This has been done on a most informal basis during the year. The committee circulated the proceedings of the 1967 •workshop (8 p.) and also circularized 323 institutions that had not responded to the 1966 questionnaire pre- pared for the compilation of College and University Archives in the United States and Canada. Its revision is a further project of the committee. JAMES R. K. KANTOR, Chairman Report of the Committee on Copyright Legislation The copyright legislation pending in Congress has not yet been enacted and, con- trary to earlier expectations, almost certainly will not be during 1968. There have been further Congressional hearings on the bill, dealing primarily with matters that are not of immediate concern to the archival profession. JAMES B. RHOADS, Chairman Report of the Education and Training Committee The committee prepared a statement on its goals that was submitted to the Council for approval. It adopted a series of tasks to be initiated during 1968. One involved the preparation of a pamphlet for issuance by the Society periodically, list- ing courses in archives management and records management offered by colleges, universities, and other institutions. Another task related to a study of methods of accreditation of courses used by other professional societies and the preparation of recommendations on the subject for submission to the Council. Work of the committee is progressing on the collection of training materials used in courses on archives management and records management and their evalu- ation. Also, thought is being given to means of promoting a better understanding by scholars of the uses of archives, possibly by introducing materials on the subject in historiography and similar courses. Members of the committee continued individually to contribute in the field of archives management and records management by teaching courses and conducting seminars and other meetings and by preparing educational materials for use by in- structors and students. S. J. POMRENZE, Chairman Report of the Committee on Intergovernmental Relations The committee has come to the conclusion that the most fruitful work in studying cross responsibilities of various levels of government would be to try to develop an initial profile of the records that exist relating to the individual. This will serve as a guide to those faced with the problem of trying to appraise records of any par- ticular level of government and will supplement The Government Dossier (Survey of Information Contained in Government Files) (90th Cong., 1st sess., Committee print) submitted in November 1967 by the Subcommittee on Administrative Practice and Procedure to the Committee on the Judiciary of the United States. It is obvious that the committee's work has just begun. DAVID C. DUNIWAY, Chairman VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1069 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 68 NEWS NOTES Report of the International Relations Committee During the year the committee assisted in publicizing the 6th International Archives Congress held at Madrid, September 3-6, 1968. It obtained copies of the basic Congress circular—outlining the program and providing necessary logistical information—from the Congress Organizing Committee and, through the good offices of Secretary Mason, distributed them to the Fellows of the Society. An- nouncements were also published in the American Archivist. The results were gratifying; some two dozen from the United States attended the Congress, a much larger number than ever before. Members of the committee assisted in other Congress preliminaries: the chairman and George Ulibarri prepared the English translations of two of the sessional reports (on "Liberalization of Access" and "Administrative Archives," respectively), and Albert Leisinger drafted another report and a related handbook (both concerning the microfilm publication of archives). At the Congress itself various members of the committee played an active role: the chairman served as panelist at the session on "Liberalization of Access" and as secretary of its Resolutions Committee drafted the resolutions finally adopted by the Congress; Albert Leisinger acted as coreporter at the "Liberalization" session; James Rhoads, Yves Perotin, and Wilfred Smith contributed to various sessional discussions; and Peter Walne participated in the meeting of the Archivum editorial board during which he was named deputy director of the journal. At the first meeting of the new Executive Committee of the Inter- national Council on Archives just after the Congress, the chairman was elected deputy secretary general. In accordance with resolutions of the 1966 Washington Extraordinary Congress, the ICA has since been involved in the development of a program of archival techni- cal assistance to emergent nations, particularly those of tropical Africa. On behalf of the ICA and NARS (which has collaborated with ICA in this effort) the chair- man this year prepared, in consultation with the ICA Bureau and Dr. Bahmer, a detailed assistance program of 6-years' duration. MORRIS RIEGER, Chairman Report of the Manuscripts and Special Collections Committee T h e committee has benefited from a wide and active interest among curators in the preparation for the annual meeting and in contributions to the new section in the News Notes of the American Archivist. Regular items for this venture will be appreciated, especially those emphasizing new repositories and new areas of collect- ing activity. Work is continuing on a new careers brochure and on compilation of information for a directory of curators. Attention is also being given to the supply of trained curators and to relations with other organizations interested in the field. HERBERT FINCH, Chairman Report of the Membership Development Committee The committee seeks to learn the whereabouts of all practicing archivists in the United States and Canada and to acquaint them with the purposes of the Society of American Archivists and the advantages of membership. In 1968 some two hundred nonmembers were invited to join the Society through the efforts of committee members. Through lists of nonmembers attending archival symposiums, the Society secretary was enabled to invite at least the same number. This was over and beyond the other membership invitational work of the secretary. Because the archival symposia are useful in acquainting people with the work of THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 C O M M I T T E E R E P O R T S 69 the Society, 10 such conferences have been held since the last annual meeting. The places and times were: Berkeley, Calif. Oct. 24, 1967 Tuscaloosa, Ala. May 3, 1968 Chicago, 111. Nov. 29, 1967 Tacoma, Wash. May 10, 1968 Santa Barbara, Calif. Dec. 16, 1967 New Orleans, La. May 24, 1968 Atlanta, Georgia Mar. 14-15, 1968 Salt Lake City, Utah Sept. 6, 1968 Ypsilanti, Mich. April 4, 1968 San Francisco, Calif. Sept. 12, 1968 Plans are now well along for symposiums to be held in the following cities in 1969: Boston, New York, Columbia, S.C., Raleigh, N.C., Columbus, Ohio, Kansas City, Oklahoma City, Davis, Calif., and Boise, Idaho. Attendance at the symposia aver- aged about 65, of which the majority were nonmembers. On the average six pro- fessional papers were read. Symposia are self-supporting through a small registration fee charged to cover printing, mailing, and refreshments. The Society's Committees on Church Archives and on College and University Archives do some membership development work of note. It is to be hoped that in the next few years no archivist will be unacquainted with the Society and the benefits of joining with his colleagues in advancing the profession. E. O. ALLDREDGE, Chairman Report of the Preservation Committee The committee's membership was increased to seven, including the chairman, this past year. Its membership was involved in investigating a wide range of preser- vation topics. Besides compiling data and making it available to interested parties, plans were laid for a workshop on preservation trends at the annual meeting in Canada. The committee's major project involved the preparation and distribution of a survey form covering preservation practices in North America. The duplication and distribution of the form was made possible through services provided by the Mayo Clinic/Foundation. The final report on the survey should be available shortly after the first of the year. It is recommended that the next long-range project of the committee be a short guide describing what a small archival agency can do to preserve its holdings with limited funds. CLARK W. NELSON, Chairman Report of the Committee on Professional Standards Activities of the committee during the year 1967—68 consisted of electing new Fellows of the Society, as provided by the Constitution, and recommending to the Council the election of three honorary members of the Society. Nine past presidents of the Society of American Archivists attended the meeting of the Professional Standards Committee in the National Archives Building, Wash- ington, D.C., on Wednesday, July 17, 1968: Alldredge, Angel, Bahmer, Brooks, Grover, Hamer, Holmes, Posner, and Radoff. This number was a majority of the total number of living past presidents of the Society (17). By a majority vote of all past presidents, as required by the Constitution of the Society, the following members were elected as Fellows: THEODORE J. CASSADY, JAMES L. GEAR, F. GERALD H A M , ALLIE CARROLL HART, P H I L I P D. LAGERQUIST, ROBERT M. WARNER, and WALTER M U I R W H I T E H I L L . Each of these persons was elected contingent on his having been, as required by the Constitution, "an individual member of the Society in good standing for at least five years immediately preceding his election," this fact to be determined by the secretary. At the same meeting the members present unanimously voted to recommend to VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 70 N E W S N O T E S the Council that it consider the election to honorary membership in the Society of President Lyndon B. Johnson, W . Kaye Lamb, Dominion Archivist of Canada, and Jorge Ignacio Rubio Mane, Director, Archivo General de la Nacion of Mexico. It is the recollection of the committee that the Society has conferred honorary mem- bership on all recent Presidents of the United States, all of whom have contributed to the advancement of the profession by the establishment of Presidential libraries for the preservation of their papers and memorabilia and in other ways as well. The contributions of Kaye Lamb and Jorge Ignacio Rubio Mane to the Society and to the profession are, of course, well known to every member of the Council. HERBERT E. ANGEL, Chairman Report of the Publicity Committee The committee accumulated about 1% inches of correspondence in planning and other preparations for the SAA Annual Meeting and made available approximately the same volume of duplicated press releases before and during the meeting. Local press coverage in Ottawa and full-time coverage of the sessions by wire service re- sulted in press reports far in excess of expectations. An album of clippings has been duplicated and placed in the archives of the Society, along with copies of the press releases and other records of the committee. The cooperation of the Chateau Laurier Hotel, Public Archives of Canada officials, and representatives of the various news media was outstanding. Mr. Andreassen, Acting Cochairman, had several comments concerning the Pub- licity Committee and its work. He suggested that the chairman should be someone close to the editor of the American Archivist and/or to the president of the Society. He felt that releases should be written for the general public rather than for other archivists. He noted that editors of the women's sections in newspapers will accept copy and use it, and he felt that the Publicity Committee should take advantage of this fact. He advocated that the work of the Publicity Committee should be a year- round activity. In respect to the last mentioned, a number of years ago, when the undersigned was still at the National Archives and was serving as chairman of the SAA Publicity Committee, news notes and releases on any developments of interest to the profession or the public were prepared and distributed to the press the year round. For the profession, the news notes section of the American Archivist now fills this role well, but I also feel that the committee could cooperate with the American Archivist and others in giving some news wider distribution through the daily press and other public information media. It is a time-consuming activity, however, and finding someone to serve as chairman the year round on this basis may be difficult, for it re- quires considerable effort and the availability of facilities for issuing releases. ELIZABETH E. HAMER, Chairman Report of Records Management Committee The committee continued two projects initiated earlier and began one new one. The development of a statement relating to the experience and education required of records management practitioners was continued and coordinated with the activi- ties of the Education and Training Committee and with a comparable study by the American Records Management Association. Little progress was made in the state- ment defining records management and the nature of its subfunctions. Progress was made in developing the questionnaire that will permit measurement THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 INTERNATIONAL COUNCIL ON ARCHIVES 71 of the scope of records management programs in the States. The work has not been hurried because of the feeling that if the questionnaire is properly prepared it may be used to measure programs in other categories of organizations as well. THORNTON W. MITCHELL, Chairman Report of the Committee on Scientific Manuscripts The committee has compiled a list of expert archivists who are ready to assist industry and scholarly institutions in establishing or organizing their archives. It also is in process of producing for those interested a brochure on the desirability and value of maintaining scientific manuscript archives. The committee is both able and ready to assist in any archival work within the area of its expert knowledge. ROBERT B. ECKLES, Chairman Report of the Committee on Technical Devices and Systems The cochairmen of the Committee on Technical Devices and Systems beg leave to report that the committee has: (1.) done much collecting of information for archival microfilm standards, both in North America and internationally, in cooperation with the American Standards Association, the National Microfilm Association, and the International Microphoto- graphic Congress, with whom the Committee has interlocking memberships; with particular attention to coordinating information on microfilm "spots" ; (2.) worked on the principles of identifying microfilm so that it would be ac- ceptable as evidence in court; and (3.) received from Massachusetts the following communication: The Commonwealth of Massachusetts has been testing a technical device and the re- production of material which it uses, according to severe and long-established stand- ards. The reproduction material and the device for employing it have met those standards, and Massachusetts will soon permit the use of a ball point pen for "record ink," this being the first alteration in standards for such ink since 1909. RICHARD W. HALE and VERNON D. TATE, Cochairmen Report of the Ad Hoc Committee on Uniform Archival Statistics At an informal committee meeting held at Santa Fe last fall, general agreement was reached on a program for the year that hopefully would produce more precise data on current statistical systems. Mr. Erney and Mr. Benedon agreed to draft "box-type" questionnaires (including needed definitions of terms) relating to statistics in archival institutions (including manuscript collections) and records centers, re- spectively, for review by the entire committee and subsequent distribution to a repre- sentative cross section of interested institutions throughout the country. The draft for records centers has been completed and the final revision is awaiting reproduction for distribution to records centers. It does not appear that the committee will have any meaningful conclusions to report by the time of the 1968 annual meeting of the Society. Hopefully by the time of the 1969 meeting, findings and conclusions can be presented for discussion. EDWARD G. CAMPBELL, Chairman INTERNATIONAL COUNCIL ON ARCHIVES The Sixth International Congress on Archives met in Madrid, Spain, September 3-6, 1968, under the auspices of the International Council on Archives. Some 470 persons from 43 countries registered for the meeting. Among these were 23 regis- trants from the United States and 6 from Canada. Sessions of the Congress dealt VOLUME 32, NUMBER I, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 72 N E W S N O T E S with liberalization of access to archives, studies of the history of archives, manage- ment of current records, restoration of documents, sigillographic work, and problems of business archives. d/The Congress adopted resolutions recommending relaxation of rules of access so that date-limit restrictions would not normally exceed 30 years or 80 years in exceptional cases and that foreign and national searchers would be accorded equality of treatment. Other resolutions urged greater response to the needs of research and called upon archival institutions to eliminate restrictions on microfilming based upon purpose of research or doctrinal opposition to the micro- filming of entire series or fonds. The General Assembly of the International Council on Archives at the Congress elected as Council president Luis Sanchez-Belda, Director of Archives and Libraries of Spain; and as vice president Mario Briceno Perozo, Director of the National Archives of Venezuela, and Gennadyi Belov, Director of the Archives of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. James B. Rhoads, Archivist of the United States, was elected a member of the Council and Morris Rieger of the U.S. National Archives was elected deputy secretary general. O T H E R PROFESSIONAL ORGANIZATIONS American Records Management Association William Benedon, manager of corporate administrative services of the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation, received on October 22, 1968, the Emmett Leahy Award at the annual conference of the association in Cleveland, Ohio. The award is presented annually for an outstanding contribution in the field of records management. A past president of the American Records Management Association and a Fellow of the Society of American Archivists, Mr. Benedon has developed at Lockheed a "model records center" that administers varied records and archives. Other features of the 1968 A R M A conference were workshops dealing with records management programs in industrial, governmental, and educational organizations and sessions covering forms management, records appraisal, computer equipment and applica- tions, microfilming, and reports control. Mexican Society of Archivists At a special meeting of the society, held on September 28, 1968, the following persons were elected as principal officers for the year 1968—69: Norberto Ramirez Monroy, director general; Juan Jose Olvera Argandar, assistant director general; Daniel De Noriega Zamora, director of organizing activities; Rafael Luviano Huerta, director in charge of official records; Antonio Guzman Velazquez, director of public relations; and Rafael Martell Cardoso, treasurer. The society is planning and conducting work at an increasing pace to keep up with expanding activities of commercial, industrial, and government agencies. Society of Ohio Archivists On October 28, 1968, in cooperation with the Society of American Archivists and the National Archives and Records Service, the newly formed society held a meeting on the Ohio Wesleyan University campus. The 45 participants, chiefly from small academically oriented institutions that need help in beginning an archival pro- gram and in applying preservation techniques, heard James Gear speaking on "The Techniques of Preservation and Restoration," John H. Reed on "Home-Grown THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 NATIONAL ARCHIVES AND RECORDS SERVICE 73 Equipment at a Small Academic Institution," and Clark Nelson on "What, Where, and How Much?" (the sources of preservation materials). A lively question and answer period concluded the meeting. C.The society has issued a short preliminary bibliography Preservation and Restoration of Archival Materials. A limited number of these are available from Bruce Harding, Ohio State University, 2070 Neil Ave., Room 305, Columbus, 43210. NATIONAL ARCHIVES AND RECORDS SERVICE The National Archives Recent National Archives accessions included reports, charters, and other records of the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency relating to the organization of national banks, 1863-1967; records relating to the postal service in Alaska, 1897- 1960; Central Intelligence Agency records relating to Adolph Hitler; and transcripts and minutes of meetings and conferences, reports, correspondence, and other records of the President's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing, 1962-68, and the President's Commission on Postal Organization, 1967-68. C.Re c o rds that have been microfilmed recently include Records of the Department of State Relating to Internal Affairs of Austria-Hungary and Hungary, 1912-29 (38 rolls), and of Portugal, 1910-29 (34 rolls) ; and to Political Relations Between Austria-Hungary and Hungary and Other States, 1920-29 (2 rolls), Between British Asia and Other States, Including the United States, 1910-29 (1 roll), Between Costa Rica and Other States, 1910-29 (10 rolls), Between Siam and Other States, 1910-29 (1 roll), and Between the United States and Siam, 1910-29 (1 roll). Other State Department records microfilmed included Despatches From U.S. Consuls in Chi- huahua, 1830-1906 (3 rolls), Manzanillo, Mexico, 1855-1906 (2 rolls), Nogales, 1889-1906 (4 rolls), and Tuxpan, 1879-1906 (2 rolls). Records of other Gov- ernment departments and agencies included Population Schedules of the Sixth Census of the United States, 1840 (580 rolls) ; Records of the Arizona Superintendency of Indian Affairs, 1863-73 (8 rolls) ; Interior Department Appointment Papers: State of California, 1849-1907 (29 rolls) ; Internal Revenue Assessment Lists for Alabama, 1865-66 (6 rolls) ; Letters Sent by the Department of Justice to Execu- tive Officers and to Members of Congress, 1871—1904 (91 rolls) ; and Circular Letters of the Secretary of the Treasury ( " T " Series), 1789-1878 (5 rolls), and Telegrams Sent by the Secretary of the Treasury ("XA" Series), 1850-74 (3 rolls). Also included were Returns From Regular Army Artillery Regiments, June 1821- January 1901 (38 rolls) ; and Selected Series of Records Issued by the Commissioner of the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands, 1865-72 (7 rolls). C,The National Archives has issued the following four guides to German records microfilmed at Alexandria, Va.: No. 56, Records of German Field Commands: Armies (Part IX); No. 57, Records of German Field Commands: Rear Areas, Occupied Territories, and Others (Part II); No. 58, Records of German Field Commands: Corps (Part III); and No. 59, Records of German Field Commands: Corps (Part IV). Also issued was Military Operations of the Civil War, vol. 2: Main Eastern Theater of Operations, sec. L: "Tables of Key Reports for Principal Military Operations." This first fascicle of Military Operations may be obtained from the Superintendent of Documents, U.S. Printing Office, Washington, D.C. 20402, at 65c a copy. Copies of the German guides and further information about National Archives microfilm publications may be obtained from the Publications Sales Branch, The National Archives, Washington, D.C. 20408. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 74 NEWS NOTES Franklin D. Roosevelt Library The Library has received papers of Peter H. Odegard pertaining to his work for the Department of the Treasury in planning and directing the defense and war savings bond program, 1941-45. Harry S. Truman Library Recent accessions included the papers of Melvin D. Hildreth, Democratic Party official and General Chairman of the 1949 Presidential Inauguration Committee. Accessioned oral history interview transcripts included those of Ewan Clague, Com- missioner, Bureau of Labor Statistics, 1946-65; Lowell Mason, former member of the Federal Trade Commission; and Leonard Reinsch, speech and radio con- sultant to Truman when he was a candidate for Vice President, 1944, and radio adviser to the White House, 1945-52. CFebruary 1, 1969, is the next deadline for applications for the Harry S. Truman Library Institute's $7,500 annual grant and the smaller grants up to $I,OOO. Applications should be mailed to the Secre- tary, Harry S. Truman Library Institute, Independence, Mo. 64050. Dwight D. Eisenhower Library On October io, 1968, the Library unveiled a series of special exhibits in ob- servance of Salute to Eisenhower Week, October 13-20, which had been proclaimed by President Johnson. C.On June 6 and 7, 1969, the Library will begin the ob- servance of the 25th anniversary of the D-day landing by Allied forces in the Second World War. A special program on the 6th and 7th will bring together leading military historians to discuss various phases of the landing. Special exhibits related to D-day and the final phase of the Second World War in Europe will be con- structed for the Library and the Museum. C J o h n F. Wickman, Director of the Library, has been awarded a travel grant from Scottish American Heritage, Inc., to assist the National Trust for Scotland in developing an exhibit area in Culzean Castle, Ayrshire, Scotland. The castle has been associated with Eisenhower since 1946, when he was given lifetime rights to an apartment in it. On this same trip, Dr. Wickman will communicate with persons who were associated with Eisenhower during the Second World War and obtain taped interviews for the oral history program at the Library. C.On March 7, 1969, the Library will host a conference on western history. Speakers at the conference will be John Hawgood of the Uni- versity of Birmingham (England) ; Joe B. Frantz, chairman of the history depart- ment of the University of Texas; and William E. Unrau of Wichita State Univer- sity (Kansas). Coinciding with the conference is an exhibition of western art based upon select paintings from Eisenhower's private collections. CLAmong the Library's recently accessioned records were reports of the General Board, United States Forces, European Theatre, Studies 1-130, 1942-46; microfilm copies of the part of the papers of Henry Cabot Lodge, 1942-52, that pertain principally to the nomination and election of Eisenhower in 1952; and get-well cards and news clippings pertaining to Eisenhower's heart illnesses, 1968. ^Recently accessioned oral history inter- views included those of Bertha S. Adkins, Assistant Chairman of the Republican National Committee and head of the Women's Division, 1953-58, and Under- secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare, 1958-60; Allen V. Astin, Director of the National Bureau of Standards, 1952-61; Gen. Lucius D. Clay, longtime military associate of Eisenhower; Kenneth Crawford, Manager of Newsweek's Washington Bureau, 1955-61; Robert J. Donovan, Chief of the New York Herald THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 NATIONAL ARCHIVES AND RECORDS SERVICE 75 Tribune's Washington Bureau, 1957-63; Eleanor Lansing Dulles, diplomat and economist; Arthur Gray, Jr., Chairman of Special Events for Citizens for Eisen- hower-Nixon, 1952; Robert Hampton, Assistant in the White House and Staff Assistant to the President, 1958—61 ; Jesse C. Johnson, adviser to the U.S. delega- tion to the International Conferences on Peaceful Uses of Atomic Energy in Geneva, 1955 and 1958; Roger W . Jones, Assistant Director for Legislative Reference, Bureau of the Budget, 1953—58, Deputy Director of the Bureau of the Budget, 1958-59, and Chairman of the U.S. Civil Service Commission, 1959-61; Arthur A. Kimball, Staff Director of the President's Advisory Committee on Government Organization, 1954-60; James M. Lambie, Jr., Special Assistant in the White House Office, 1953-60; William M . Lawrence, national correspondent (and White House correspondent) for the New York Times, 1948-61; Thomas C. Mann, diplomat and Assistant Secretary of State for Economic Affairs, 1957—60, and for Inter-American Affairs, 1960-61; L. Arthur Minnich, Assistant Staff Secretary, 1953-60; Dennis O'Rourke, Vice President and general counsel of the Holly Sugar Corp.; Don Paarlberg, Special Assistant to the President for Economic Affairs, 1958-61; Ogden R. Reid, President, Editor, and Director of the New York Herald Tribune, Inc., 1955—59, and United States Ambassador to Israel, 1959—61; Chalmers Roberts, Chief of the Washington Post National News Bureau; Richard M. Rovere, staff writer with the New Yorker; Stanley M . Rumbough, Jr., cofounder and vice chairman of the Citizens for Eisenhower-Nixon Committee, 1952, and Special Assistant to the President in the Executive Branch Liaison Office, 1 953-54. James Shepley, Washington correspondent for Time-Life, 1948-57, cur- rently chief correspondent for the company's U.S. and Canadian news service; Raymond Sherer, White House correspondent for N B C ; Murray Snyder, Assistant Press Secretary to the President, 1953-57; Elmer Staats, Deputy Director of the Bureau of the Budget, 1950-53 and 1958-61; Maurice H. Stans, Deputy Post- master General, 1955-57, Deputy Director of the Bureau of the Budget, 1957-58, and Director of the Bureau of the Budget, 1958-61; Anne W . Wheaton, Director of Women's Publicity for the Republican National Committee, 1939-57, a °d Asso- ciate Press Secretary, 1957-61; and Henry Wriston, President of the American Assembly, 1958-62. National Historical Publications Commission Congress passed and President Johnson signed, on August 8, 1968, Public Law 90-461, which extends for 5 years legislation authorizing appropriations not to ex- ceed $500,000 annually to be available to the Commission for "allocations to Federal agencies, and grants to State and local agencies and to nonprofit organizations and institutions, for the collecting, describing, preserving and compiling, and publishing (including microfilming and other forms of reproduction) of documentary sources significant to the history of the United States." Although no more than $350,000 annually has ever been appropriated since passage in 1964 of the original legislation authorizing such grants, and $350,000 is again being made available for 1969, this extension of the authorizing legislation means that continuation of this program is assured at least through 1974. C.At its meeting on August 23, 1968, the Com- mission recommended grants to continue supporting the publication of the Papers of Henry Clay at the University of Kentucky (James F. Hopkins, editor), the records relating to the First Federal Elections at the University of Wisconsin (Merrill Jensen, editor), and the records of the First Federal Congress at George VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1069 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 76 NEWS NOTES Washington University (Linda De Pauw, editor). The Commission voted funds to the National Archives Trust Fund Board for the continued support of the project to publish a documentary history of the Ratification of the U.S. Constitution and the First Ten Amendments. It also voted to approve publication of a survey made under its auspices by Walter Rundell, Jr., of the Use of Original Sources in Gradu- ate History Training. C.At ceremonies on November 9, 1968, in Charleston, S.C., the Executive Director and the president of the South Carolina Historical Society received copies of the first volume of a 12-volume series of The Papers of Henry Laurens. Editing the papers of Laurens, a South Carolina merchant, planter, and Revolutionary patriot, is a joint project of the National Historical Publications Commission and the society. Philip M . Hamer is the editor, and George C. Rogers is his associate. The series is being published by the University of South Carolina Press. QA third edition of the Commission's Catalog of Microfilm Publications was issued during the summer of 1968 and is available from the office of the Execu- tive Director, The National Archives, Washington, D.C. 20408. Office of the Federal Register A reprint edition of the 1938-43 compilation of Presidential documents, pub- lished under Title 3 of the Code of Federal Regulations, is now available from the Superintendent of Documents, Government Printing Office, Washington, D.C. 20402, at $9 a copy. It contains the full text of Presidential proclamations, Execu- tive orders, reorganization plans, and other formal documents issued by the Presi- dent and published in the Federal Register during the period June 2, 1938—June 1, 1943. These Presidential documents are by law prima facie evidence of the text of the original documents and are required to be judicially noticed. C O t h e r volumes in the series of Presidential compilations that may be purchased from the Superin- tendent of Documents include the 1943-48 compilation ($7), the 1949-53 com- pilation ($7), the 1954-58 compilation ($4), the 1959-63 compilation ($6), the 1964-65 compilation ($3.75), the 1966 compilation ($1), and the 1967 compilation ($1). A new volume covering Presidential documents published in the Federal Register during the period March 14, 1936—June I, 1938, is now under preparation. Volume 81 of the U.S. Statutes at Large has been placed on sale by the Superin- tendent of Documents at $9 a copy. It contains laws and concurrent resolutions enacted by Congress during 1967, reorganization plans, the 25th amendment to the Constitution, and Presidential proclamations. Office of Records Management On September 6, 1968, a i-day symposium on archival administration was held at the University of Utah, cosponsored by GSA-NARS Region 8, the University of Utah, and other groups. Governor Rampton of Utah greeted the 114 participants from Federal, State, and local governments; universities; churches; and private corporations. Frank G. Burke (NARS) was the principal speaker. The title of his address was "Problems of Adapting Computers to Use in Archives." MANUSCRIPT DIVISION, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS Recent accessions of the Division have included the Eloge civique de Benjamin Francklin, the holograph manuscript of the eulogy delivered by Claude Fauchet on July 11, 1790 (Franklin died in Philadelphia, April 17, 1790, at the age of 85). It was printed later the same year by order of the Paris Commune and presented to the THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 AMERICAN FILM INSTITUTE 77 Assemblee Nationale. T h e Fauchet eulogy complements the first, second, and final drafts of Condorcet's Eulogy in the Library's Benjamin Franklin papers. Fauchet says of Franklin, Venerable old man, august philosopher, institutor of his country's felicity, generator of French liberty, prophet of fraternity of humankind, such was the happiness which embellished the close of his career! . . . He will be remembered through the centuries; his memory honored by all peoples; and his glory will shine eternally [translated from the French]. CAdditions to the Irving Brant papers numbering approximately 25,000 items have been placed in the Library. These include material concerning James Madison, conservation, and Brant correspondence with Presidents Franklin D. Roosevelt and Truman. Permission of the donor is required for access to the Brant papers. C.The League of Women Voters has donated an additional 30,000 items to the records of the league in the Library. The recent addition includes State files, subject files, and published material, and covers the 1960-63 period. C, Approximately 4,100 items have been added to the Elmer Gertz papers, including some 750 items concerning Carl Sandburg, which are chiefly correspondence of Gertz with Gene Loritz, the photographer. CLRadio scripts numbering about 4,700 items have been added to the materials of the Columbia Broadcasting System in the Library. These are scripts for various programs during the period 1935-58 and contain a variety of programs, from "Honest Abe" to "King Arthur's Court." C,Recent additions to the Library's literary manuscripts include holograph manuscripts of Robert Frost's "The Bonfire," "Nothing Gold Can Stay" (three variants), and "On Looking Up by Chance at the Constellations" (apparently a working draft). C. Another addition to the literary manuscripts that have been placed in the Library of Congress are the very complete manuscripts of the works of Marcia Davenport and materials related thereto. These include Mozart; Of Lena Geyer; Valley of Decision; East Side, West Side; My Brother's Keeper; Garibaldi; The Constant Image; and Too Strong for Fantasy. Various stages of the compositional and editorial processes are well represented, and there are press clippings showing the critical and popular reception of the work. In addition, there is correspondence with editors, agents, and others relating to the preparation of several volumes. T h e most important letters from editor Maxwell E. Perkins, of Scribner's, are often quite full. CLThe Library has also added to the Bill Mauldin papers manuscripts of the texts of Up Front and Bill Mauldin in Korea. Almost every sheet of the former bears the stamp of a field censor indicating approval for publication. C Lloyd A. Dunlap, Specialist in the Civil War and Reconstruction, and widely known authority on Abraham Lincoln, died at his home in Bowie, Md., August 12, 1968. Paul G. Sifton, formerly Specialist in American Cultural History, has become Specialist in Early American History. Julian D. Mason, Jr., was appointed September 9 to the position of Specialist in American Cultural History. AMERICAN F I L M INSTITUTE T o facilitate the preparation of an exhaustive catalog of motion pictures produced in the United States, ca. 1893-date, all institutions having in their custody either films or manuscript materials relating to films are asked to communicate with Ken Munden, Executive Editor, National Film Catalog, American Film Institute, 1815 H St. N.W., Washington, D.C. 20006. Copies of detailed inventories of holdings are especially needed, but if these do not exist, any general statements about the character of the collections would be helpful. The institute foresees that the data VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1060 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 78 NEWS NOTES drawn from copyright and censorship records and printed sources will not suffice, in many instances, for complete catalog entries; and it will wish, therefore, to draw upon other resources once it establishes what these resources are. Assuming the full cooperation of custodians, the institute's data on the availability of both films and related manuscript material, apart from serving the immediate purpose of aiding the cataloging work, would greatly facilitate the development of the AFI's general archival and informational programs. STATE AND LOCAL ARCHIVES OF THE U N I T E D STATES Mississippi T h e State Legislature has consolidated the State Historical Commission with the Department of Archives and History in Jackson and has directed the Department to survey historic sites throughout the State. ^.Received in the Department are the papers of Gov. John Bell Williams covering his service in the U.S. Congress. Nebraska Under terms of the 1961 Records Management Act, the Records Management Division has been established in the department of state with Bonnie F. Svoboda as director. Initial plans include a records survey in all State departments and agencies and the appointment of records officers in each. Programs at the municipal and county level are also being considered, d e c e n t accessions by the Nebraska Histori- cal Society include: general correspondence (1960—63) of the Department of Agri- culture, and the 1962 correspondence of the Nebraska State Patrol. North Carolina H. G. Jones, for the past 12 years State Archivist of North Carolina, succeeded Christopher Crittenden as Director of the Department of Archives and History on November I. Dr. Jones also is the 1968-69 president of the Society of American Archivists. His doctoral dissertation was published last year under the title For History's Sake: The Preservation and Publication of North Carolina History, 1663— 1903, by the University of North Carolina Press. He has recently completed a survey of the archives and records management programs of the U.S. Government, which will be published by Atheneum Publishers, New York. CLRecent Department accessions include: the Romulus A. Nunn papers (1876—1901); the Robert R. Bridgers collection; a diary (1815—40) of Susan Davis Nye Hutchison; and records from Catawba, Pamlico, and Pender Counties. CLThe second volume in the series of North Carolina colonial records, North Carolina Higher-Court Records, 1670— 1696, edited by Mattie E. Parker, may be ordered from the Division of Publications at $11 a copy. Ohio The Ohio Historical Society has consolidated its manuscript department and archives division into one division with David R. Larson, formerly manuscripts librarian, as chief. The division will contain three departments: archives, manu- scripts, and oral history. Philadelphia The Philadelphia City Archives has accessioned 300 volumes of the Appearance Docket of the Court of Common Pleas, 1899-1913; and 36 cu. ft. of material from THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 CHURCH ARCHIVES 79 the Commission on Human Relations, 1954-66, concerning its community and neighborhood programs, relations with such groups as the American Nazi Party, and minutes of commission meetings. Vermont The office of the secretary of state is preparing to publish in 1969 the public papers of Gov. Thomas Chittenden, 1778-89, 1790-97. Editor of State Papers John A. Williams asks that anyone having knowledge of the location of Chittenden manu- scripts communicate with him at The Statehouse, Montpelier, Vt. 05602. Wisconsin Leslie H. Fishel, Jr., Director of the State Historical Society, will become presi- dent of Heidelberg College, Tiffin, Ohio, on July 1, 1969. C H U R C H ARCHIVES Reported by William B. Miller Items for this section should be sent direct to William B. Miller, Presbyterian Historical Society, 425 Lombard St., Philadelphia, Pa. 19147. Baptist Under the direction of Joyce Ringering, the Archives of the North American Bap- tist General Conference is being established at the North American Baptist Seminary, Sioux Falls, S. Dak. CLThe South Carolina Baptist Historical Collection has recently acquired the papers of W . M. Whitesides, founder of the South Carolina Baptist Hospital. Roman Catholic The Reverend John J. Shellem, librarian of the Ryan Memorial Library, St. Charles Seminary, has been appointed curator of the Archives of the American Catholic Historical Society in Philadelphia. Arrangements have been made with Notre Dame University Library for microfilming A.C.H.S. holdings in 18th- century U.S. Catholic newspapers. Manuscripts of 19th-century Catholic historians and documents relating to the social problems in which the Catholic Church has been interested are also located in this archives. C.The Charleston [South Carolina] Diocesan Archives has a complete set of the works of Bishop John England of Charleston and the first U.S. Catholic newspaper, The United States. Christian Refortned A study of Dutch immigration, 1847-77, ' s being prepared for the computer, listing names, number of immigrants, municipality of origin, occupation, religious persuasion, etc. This study is being conducted at the Colonial Origins Collection in Calvin College and Seminary. The Archives has acquired the papers of Prof. Henry G. J. Van Andel, emeritus professor of Dutch literature and art at Calvin College and the papers of Dr. Frederick H. Wezeman, formerly of Grundy College. Protestant Episcopal The Archives of the Diocese of Connecticut, P.O. Box 1080, Hartford, has reported that a manuscript entitled The Church of England in Pre-Revolutionary VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY ig6g D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 80 NEWS N O T E S Connecticut: New Documents and Letters is being edited by Kenneth Walter Cameron. The Archives has also obtained the papers of Rt. Rev. Abraham Jarvis, 1 7 3 9 - i 8 i 5 - C.The first report to the General Convention of 1877 by Rt. Rev. Alexander C. Garrett, Missionary Bishop of the Northwest Territory, has been acquired by the Diocese of Dallas, Texas. Society of Friends The Archives of the Friends Historical Society, now in a new building that houses the Swarthmore College library, has received the meeting records of the Baltimore Yearly Meeting and all monthly and quarterly meetings thereafter. Evangelical/ Reformed The Lancaster Central Archives and Library has moved from the Fackenthal Library, Franklin and Marshall College, Lancaster, Pa., to larger quarters in the new Philip Schaff Library of Lancaster Theological Seminary, Lancaster, Pa. George H. Bricker is librarian, and Herbert B. Anstaett is executive secretary. Jewish The correspondence of Oscar I. Janowsky, relative to Jewish education in the United States, and the papers of George Rabinoff, Molly Picon and her husband, Jacob Kalich, Jacob L. Snitzer, and Morris U. Schappes have been acquired by the American Jewish Historical Society, Waltham, Mass. The society, under the direction of Bernard Wax, is housed in a new building. Lutheran Effective in September 1968, Theresa Gervais Haynes became Archivist at Augs- burg College, which is affiliated with the American Lutheran Church. d_Pastor A. C. J. Oesch, District Archivist of the Oklahoma Lutheran Archives, attended the St. Louis Historical Institute Workshop and presented a report on the workshop at the District Convention of Oklahoma. The Eastern Pennsylvania Synod of the Lutheran Church in America has ap- pointed a special committee on archives to plan for the future of the collection because of the impending division of the synod. The records of the Iowa District of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod and its congregations are located in the archives of the Iowa District East State Center, Iowa. The Reverend E. L. Stuemfig is Archivist. Record groups recently acquired by the Concordia Historical Institute, St. Louis, Mo., include a supplement to the John W . Behnken collection (5,000 items). C.The institute has received a grant for the further transcription of its manuscripts written in German Gothic script and has selected the papers of Carl F. W . Walther, a 19th-century leader of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod. C.Recently pub- lished are the minutes and reports of the ninth Archivists' and Historians' Confer- ence, available from the Department of Archives and History, Concordia Historical Institute, 801 DeMun Ave., St. Louis, Mo. 63105. C.The biennial meeting of the Lutheran Historical Conference took place October 17—19, 1968, at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago. Sessions centered on methodology of archives and library work, photoduplication, publication, collection of historic materials, and research and writing. THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 CHURCH ARCHIVES 81 Mennonite The archives of the Mennonite Church, Goshen, Ind., has added 480 ft. of floor- space. It is intensifying its efforts to obtain tape recordings of one or more addresses given by present Mennonite leaders. C,The Bethel College Historical Library has been placed under joint administration and ownership. Bethel College and the General Conference Mennonite Church share in naming a Board of Control and in preparing a budget. The joint agency is called the Mennonite Library and Archives and will administer all archival files of the General Conference Mennonite Church. Archives staff members have compiled lists of passenger ships that brought Mennon- ites to America between 1873 and 1900. Methodist In addition to the Methodist Conference Minutes and Journals, the Theological Library, Emory University, possesses a special collection of Wesleyana including over 2,800 books and pamphlets. C.The Ohio Methodist Historical Society has obtained 475 letters and journals of the London Missionary Society concerning the Russian Missions, 1810-41. The archives of the society are located in the Beeghly Library, Ohio Wesleyan University, Delaware, Ohio. Successor to both the Association of Methodist Historical Societies of the Meth- odist Church and the Historical Society of the Evangelical United Brethren Church is the Commission on Archives and History of the United Methodist Church. John H. Ness has been elected executive secretary. The commission has received from former Evangelical United Brethren Church agencies a large number of records of the Commission on Church Union, Division of Stewardship, Division of National Missions, Board of Bishops, Board of Christian Education, Board of Evangelism, Division of World Mission, and Board of Publication. Moravian As a result of plans by F. P. Stocker, an Archives Development Council of the Archives of the Moravian Church, Bethlehem, Pa., has been formed to obtain finan- cial support for the Archives. The Council functions under the general authorization of the Synod of the Northern Province and the Board of Trustees of the Bethlehem Congregation. As of July 1968, 70 cartons of Moravian records from the islands of St. Thomas, St. Croix, Antigua, and St. Kitts had been received at the Archives on a loan basis, to be returned to the Eastern West Indies Province when it acquires archival facilities. Mormon (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) Current research is being conducted by the Library and Archives of the church relating to the Mormon Battalion and Mormon Pioneer Trails. Tape recordings from old discs have been made of some Church General Conference proceedings. United Church of Christ The Eden Archives, St. Louis, Mo., is the repository for materials relating to the former Evangelical Synod, later the Evangelical and Reformed Church, and now part of the United Church of Christ. The Archives has moved to the New Eden Theo- logical Seminary Library. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 82 N E W S N O T E S GENERAL MANUSCRIPT COLLECTIONS Reported by Herbert Finch Items for this section should be sent direct to Dr. Herbert Finch, Curator and Archivist, Olin Library, Cornell University, Ithaca, N.Y. 14850. Appraisals are very much on the minds of manuscript curators these days. Pro- grams, question and answer sessions, and conversations with curators at two recent national conventions and the deliberations of the Manuscript and Special Collections Committee of the SAA have brought out the unplanned but recurrent theme of the problems associated with appraisals for income tax deductions. It was generally agreed that an increasing number of donors want appraisals, that the ability to arrange appraisals is an important factor in the growth of a collection, and that variant practices and policies are being pursued in the country. Many of us want to know who appraises, who pays for appraisals, what factors are considered in making them, whether institutions should be involved in the process, how appraisals are reported, and how special items such as tapes and films are handled. T h e Manu- script and Special Collections Committee is considering some of these questions and hopes to present positive proposals later this year. Right now, however, there is one thing that can be done. The committee needs to know the names of people in the country who are doing appraisals on gifts of manuscript material. Would those of you who have had satisfactory association with appraisers please send me their names, addresses, and specialties (if any). I shall compile these in a list and send it out upon receipt of a stamped, self-addressed envelope. It should be understood now, and it will be clearly stated on the list, that the list will not be official or exhaustive and that appearance on it will not constitute endorsement by any body. It will be for information only and will be updated from time to time. Publications A bibliography of historical materials in the 13 northern counties of New York State is scheduled for publication by the North Country Reference and Re- search Resources Council. Entitled Historical Materials Relating to Northern New York; a Union Catalog, the guide will be available from the Council, c / 0 Library, New York State University College, Potsdam, N.Y. 13676. C.The Divi- sion of Special Collections of Boston University Libraries has issued a name list- ing of its holdings called Twentieth Century Archives. The emphasis is primarily on literary figures. Collections Boston University has received the papers of Gene Kelly, dancer, movie director, and choreographer, consisting of film and TV scripts, articles by and about Kelly, and letters from well-known persons in the film and theater worlds. The Department of Special Collections of the University of California, Los Angeles, has acquired 11 cartons of materials relating to the John Birch Society. The Chicago Historical Society announces the acquisition of the papers (1935- 42) of Arthur W . Mitchell of Illinois, first Negro Democrat to serve in the U.S. House of Representatives; the archives (1876—1963) of the Chicago Woman's Club; part of the papers (1934-63) of Msgr. Daniel M . Cantwell, founder of the Catholic Interracial Council of Chicago, and records (1934-63) of the Catholic Council on THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 GENERAL MANUSCRIPT COLLECTIONS 83 Working Life; the first installment of the papers of author and labor union official Sidney Lens, including the publications of the Revolutionary Workers League of the United States; the papers (1957-67) of Corneal A. Davis of Chicago relating to his service as Chairman of the American Negro Emancipation Centennial Commission and to his political career; part of the records (1901-46) of the John Howard Asso- ciation of Chicago, which was active in penal reform; and additions to the papers of Leon M. Despres and Cyrus Hall Adams I I I . The entire public proceedings of the 60th annual U.S. Governors' meeting is now on tape for use by researchers. Parts are available on interlibrary loan from the Public Library of Cincinnati and Hamilton County, Cincinnati, Ohio. The papers and mementos of Marie Mattingly Meloney, editor of the New York Herald Tribune Sunday Magazine and other magazines, have been given to Colum- bia University. Prominent in the collection are correspondence with Madame Curie and letters from several 20th-century U.S. Presidents. T h e university has also re- ceived an extensive collection of correspondence, manuscripts, drawings, and books of D. H. Lawrence, including the annotated typescripts for "The Boy in the Bush" and "Sea and Sardinia" and the holograph essay, "The Future of the Novel." Other accessions include a collection of manuscripts and printed materials relating to the poet John Masefield, including 99 of his letters; another installment of the papers and correspondence of Guglielmo Ferrero; and the papers of Lillian D. Wald, relating chiefly to the founding and administration of the Henry Street Settlement. The Collection of Regional History and University Archives at Cornell University has received the first of the papers of Howard Taubman, critic at large for the New York Times. T h e correspondence, scores, and records document the public reaction to cultural affairs and to significant performing milestones and Mr. Taubman's opinions on the theater in the United States. The papers of Grenville Clark, internationally known lawyer and statesman, have been received by Dartmouth College. Hofstra University has been given a col- lection of first editions, letters, and photographs of Joseph Conrad. Mrs. Henry Maresh has given the Houston Public Library some Texas documents, including official letters from signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence. A large num- ber of the papers of former Vice President Henry A. Wallace, including letters, manuscripts, notes, documents, and memoranda, have been given to the University of Iowa Libraries by the Wallace family. The correspondence, manuscripts, con- tracts and other documents of Andrew Nelson Lytle, author and educator, have been acquired by the Joint University Libraries of Nashville. The Kansas State Historical Society has acquired correspondence of James W . Denver, Secretary and Governor of Kansas Territory, 1857-58; and a small collection of correspondence of John Palmer Usher, Secretary of the Interior under Abraham Lincoln. Available now on microfilm are early records and correspondence of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad Co. and records of Trinity Episcopal Church, Atchison. The Maryland Historical Society has received the papers (1799-1848) of Richard Dorsey, Baltimore commission merchant; account books and other records of M . S. Levy & Sons, 1884-1958; papers of Commodore Alexander Murray and of Gov. Thomas Swann; and the Revolutionary War paybook of the 4th Maryland Regi- ment. A collection of books, letters, manuscripts, and memorabilia of the Marquis de Lafayette has been acquired by Methodist College, Fayetteville, N.C. The Min- nesota Historical Society announces publication of the microfilm edition of the VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 84 NEWS NOTES papers of Ignatius Donnelly, Lieutenant Governor, Congressman, and author in Minnesota during the 19th century. Edited by Helen McCann White, the project was financed by the National Historical Publications Commission. Montana State University has added the books and pamphlets of Milburn Lincoln Wilson to its collection of his correspondence. Wilson was Assistant Secretary of Agriculture during the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration. Recent accessions of the Manu- script Division of the Archives, Nebraska State Historical Society, include papers of State Sen. Kenneth L. Bowen and bank receivership files, 1929-42. The library of the Nevada Historical Society has acquired the papers of Effie Mona Mack and of George Wingfield, Sr., the latter placed under a 50-year restriction; and tape record- ings, pictures, and biographies of the Retired Teacher's Association. As new Chief of the Archives and Manuscripts Division of the Ohio Historical Society, David R. Larson announces the following accessions: papers of Clarence J. Brown, Republican Congressman; Job Fish, educator; James G. Johnson, Ohio Supreme Court Justice; Eli Todd Tappan, official of the National Education Associ- ation ; Frank E. Scobey, Director of the U.S. Mint; and a microfilm edition of the privately held John A. Bingham papers. Bingham served as a United States Repre- sentative and as Minister to Japan. The society has also received an interest- ing group of labor and political records including: the minutes and financial records of the Columbus Typographical Union No. 5; the papers of Socialist Party spokes- man and editor Max S. Hayes; and the papers of Charles E. Ruthenberg, head of the Ohio Socialist Party and executive secretary of the Communist Party of the United States. Additions were made to the papers of Govs. John W . Bricker, Michael V. DiSalle, and George White, and the papers of U.S. Rep. John W . Vorys. Okla- homa College of Liberal Arts has received papers of Hugh D. Corwin, a writer on Indian life and history. The University of Pennsylvania has acquired over 5,000 letters addressed to Franz and Alma Mahler Werfel in addition to an earlier gift of the Werfel library. Plymouth State College, New Hampshire, has been given a collection of Robert Frost manuscripts and letters. Recent acquisitions of Stanford University Libraries include a complete facsimile edition (488 plates) of drawings in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy; and the papers of J. Arthur Younger (1893-1967), United States Representative. Recent additions to the Manuscripts Division, University of Virginia Library, include: 700 items, 1939—42, notes, correspondence, and a preliminary draft of Vir- ginius Dabney's Below The Potomac; 15 items, 1803—36, letters to James Madison; 345 items, 1942—68, records of the League of Women Voters of Charlottesville and Albemarle; several letters of James Monroe; and 300 items, 1894—1910, bills and receipts of Rev. and Mrs. Edward Everett Hale and other members of the Hale family. Additions to the Clifton Waller Barrett Library at the university include manuscripts or letters of the following: Sinclair Lewis, Henry Wadsworth Longfel- low, H. L. Mencken, Oliver W . Holmes, Edith Wharton, Sherwood Anderson, Stephen Vincent Benet, Willa Cather, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Washington Irving, and Emma Lazarus. The Vermont Historical Society has acquired four account books (1791-95) kept at the Bigelow store, East Brookfield, manuscript drafts of books by Mrs. Ira Rich Kent (Mrs. Appleyard), and a diary (1853-54) kept by Abigail Baldwin in Plymouth. The Special Collection of Modern Literature, Washington University Libra- ries, started 4 years ago as a research collection that was to consist of all the printed material and manuscripts of a group of 30 young and promising poets and novelists. THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 SCIENTIFIC AND TECHNOLOGICAL MANUSCRIPTS 85 The library staff, aided by a faculty committee of novelists and poets, chose to collect intensively the work of a few authors whose reputations were still being established. Recent acquisitions indicate the focus of this collection. Poet James Merrill has given the worksheets of some 250 poems, drafts of two plays, and 9 notebooks (1948—63), containing drafts of poems, diary entries, and notes. Letters, •worksheets, and printed pieces from Alexander Trocchi's Sigma project, begun in 1963 as an inter- national union of artists and writers, comprise a new collection. Early project partici- pants included William Burroughs, Robert Creeley, Colin Wilson, and others. The collection also contains files on similar artistic and political organizations during the early 1960's. Other recent accessions include letters of Tom Clark, poetry editor of Paris Review, and Robert Sward, and letters from Conrad Aiken, Lewis Zukofsky, Robert Duncan, Robert Creeley, C. Day-Lewis, Kenneth Rexroth, and Marianne Moore. West Virginia University Library lists the following recent accessions: 5 reels of taped interviews with 6 survivors of the 1968 Hominy Falls mine disaster; 9 items, 1784—1861, of McColloch family papers; 75 boxes of general correspondence and other material of West Virginia Governors, 1931—57; 10 volumes of the West Virginia Mining Investigation Commission, 1912-13; and 17 volumes of a typescript history, 1869-1964, of the West Virginia University Medical School. Yale University has announced that in early 1969 it will begin filming its collec- tion as listed in German Baroque Literature, A Catalogue of the Collection in the Yale University Library, by Curt von Faber du Faur. Inquiries may be directed to Research Publications, Inc., 254 College St., New Haven, Conn. 06510. S C I E N T I F I C A N D T E C H N O L O G I C A L M A N U S C R I P T S Reported by M a y n a r d J . Brichford Items for this section should be sent direct to Maynard J. Brichford, University Archivist, University of Illinois Library, Urbana, 111. 61801. American Institute of Physics The Center for History and Philosophy of Physics is obtaining a rich record of human experience through a series of tape-recorded interviews conducted by trained historians of science. Transcripts of the tapes are corrected by both interviewer and subject and then deposited in the center's Niels Bohr Library, where they can be used for research by qualified scholars, subject to restrictions requested by those interviewed. More than 200 hours of interviews with 56 individuals have been recorded and transcribed in the center's oral history program, which has been sup- ported in part by the National Science Foundation and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. The 29 individuals interviewed during the past 2 years are: Luis W . Alvarez, Carl D. Anderson, Robert F. Bacher, Guido Beck, Hans A. Bethe, Sir John Cockcroft, Mrs. Arthur H. Compton, Edward U. Condon, Paul P. Ewald, Richard P. Feynman, Otto R. Frisch, George Gamow, Cecilia Payne Gaposchkin, Maurice Goldhaber, Charles C. Lauritsen, M. Stanley Livingston, Philip Morrison, Ralph A. Sawyer, Emilio G. Segre, Robert Serber, C. Donald Shane, Mary L. Shane, Harlow Shapley, Merle A. Tuve, John H. Van Vleck, Victor F. Weisskopf, John A. Wheeler, and Eugene P. Wigner. The oral history collection in the Niels Bohr Library also contains 225 reels of tape, including interviews other than those conducted by the center and lectures and symposia of possible interest for the history of physics. The use of the center's oral history materials has led to the identification VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY i960 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 86 NEWS NOTES and preservation of new sources of written documentation such as personal corre- spondence and notebooks. More than 1,000 collections or individual items at 120 repositories are now listed in the center's National Catalog of Sources for the History of Physics, as a result of continuing cooperation among physicists, historians, librarians, and archivists. Schol- ars using the catalog can retrieve information by name of repository, name of col- lection, major subject of collection, and type of material. Part of the National Catalog will be published by the American Institute of Physics in a Guide to Sources. Among the center's collections for which finding aids have been produced are the William F. Meggers papers (about 6,000 items) ; Thomas C. Mendenhall papers (more than 4,000 items, including 3,750 letters) ; J. Barton Hoag papers; Roman Smoluchowski correspondence (1943—46), including 280 letters documenting the formation of the Division of Solid-State Physics of the American Physical Society ; David L. Webster papers, 1930—56, including files of the American Association of Physics Teachers; and the Isidor Fankuchen papers (about 5,000 items). The papers of Karl Lark-Horovitz (1892-1958) have been deposited at the center and are currently being organized for research. The correspondence, manu- scripts, and research reports (about 400 items, 1942—56) are especially rich in doc- uments relating to research on semiconductors, which had a significant influence on the development of solid-state physics. C,A collection of 30 letters received from Karl K. Darrow documents the origin and early years of the American Physical Society and provides biographical information on leading physicists. ^.Aspects of the history of underwater acoustics are illuminated in eight early reports and manuscripts deposited by Elias Klein. QCopies of the correspondence of Lord Rayleigh (John W . Strutt) have been deposited in the Niels Bohr Library by John N. Howard, Curator of the Rayleigh Archives at the Air Force Cambridge Research Laboratories [see American Archivist, 29: 469]. CE,The Richard von Mises papers have been supplemented by a collection of manuscripts of his scientific writings (1905-53), including articles, monographs, books, reviews, notes on probability and statistics, mechanics, aerodynamics, and philosophy. An earlier addition consisted of correspondence (1963—64) relating to the publication of The Selected Papers of Richard von Mises. d.The development of the Journal of Chemical Physics from 1939—57 is documented in the journal's correspondence files (about IOO letters) received by the center. CLManuscripts received from Clifford A. Truesdell cover his writings on mechanics, the history of mechanics, and thermodynamics. C.A micro- film edition of the correspondence (1882-1938) of astronomer George Ellery Hale was recently acquired by the center. A grant from the National Historical Publica- tions Commission to the Carnegie Institution of Washington made possible the filming of the papers at the Mount Wilson and Palomar Observatories in Pasadena, Calif., and the publication of the catalog. C,The unpublished manuscript report on gravity submitted in 1889 by Charles S. Peirce to Superintendent of the U.S. Coast Survey, Thomas C. Mendenhall, was recently discovered by Mr. Whimpey, Archi- vist of the Coast and Geodetic Survey; and a copy has been given to the center by that Agency. Mendenhall blocked publication of Peirce's report on the oscillation of pendulums because he disapproved of Peirce's research methods. The report has been added to the Mendenhall collection, which contains his correspondence with Peirce regarding the controversy. The day-by-day record of the activities of a physics research group, filmed and tape recorded over a 2-year period, is now preserved at the center. Taken between 1965 and 1967, mainly at the Cambridge Electron Accelerator, the films served as the THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 SCIENTIFIC AND TECHNOLOGICAL MANUSCRIPTS 87 basis for Harvard University's Project Physics sound motion picture "People and Particles," which received the Golden Eagle award of C I N E (Council on Interna- tional Nontheatrical Events) as one of the best U.S. films of 1967 in the category of science and medicine. Subjects covered in the films include the Strauch-Walker experiment; the building of experimental equipment in the laboratory; class discus- sions; conferences; and meetings of graduate students and professors. Two edited versions and the full original films and sound tapes were deposited at the center so that a unique record of physicists and their environment in the mid-1960's could be preserved. C^ Among other additions to the center's growing pictorial collection are filmed interviews with Lester Germer, John Pierce, and Harvey Fletcher, received from the Bell Telephone Laboratories; films of physicists including Niels Bohr, Enrico Fermi, and others taken by David Dennison at the University of Michigan Summer Symposia during the 1930's; candid snapshots of physicists at international meetings in the 1920's and 1930's, donated by Emilio Segre; and portraits of 16 prominent physicists, received from William Numeroff. American Philosophical Society The society has received the papers of Walter Sydney Adams, consisting of 51 items relating primarily to astronomy; the papers of Sir John Lubbock relating to natural history; the papers of Richard Joel Russell concerning his study of deltas; the papers of Sir Richard Owen; and the papers of Sarah Franklin Bache reflecting the social and cultural history of Philadelphia during the Revolutionary and Federal periods. A microfilm copy of the papers of H. A. Lorentz, preserved at the Algemeen Rijksarchief, The Hague, has been added to the Quantum Physics Archive in the library of the society. This microfilm project was supported by the American Philosophical Society-American Physical Society project Sources for History of Quantum Physics, funded by a grant from the National Science Foundation. University of California The Water Resources Center Archives and the Regional Oral History Office of the Bancroft Library, University of California at Berkeley, announce completion of a series of three oral history interviews on the history of California water re- sources development. The interviews are: S. T . Harding, "A Life in Western Water Development," 524 pages; Sam R. Leedom, "California Water Develop- ment, 1930-1955," 83 pages; and Harvey Banks, "California Water Project, 1955- 6 1 , " 82 pages. Bound, indexed copies of the transcripts are available for scholarly research at Berkeley, Los Angeles, Davis, Sacramento, and the University of Wyo- ming. The project was conducted by Gerald J. Giefer, Librarian of the Water Re- sources Center Archives. C.The Regional Oral History Office has completed oral history interviews on California water development with Frank Adams, Louis Bartlett, Stephen Downey, William Durbrow, Herbert Jones, Charles Lambert, and J. Rupert Mason. University of Illinois The university Archives has received 8.3 cu. ft. of the papers of Eugene I. Rabino- witch. The material relates primarily to photosynthesis research and scientific activi- ties (1947-68). The University of Chicago Archives has 4 cu. ft. of Professor Rabinowitch's papers concerning the Pugwash Conferences, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, and committees and conferences on policy for science. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 88 NEWS NOTES University of Texas A catalog of the Sir Owen Richardson papers at the university has been prepared under the direction of James H. Leech, with the aid of Claude W . Horton of the university's physics department. Microfilm copies of the catalog have been deposited at the American Philosophical Society Library, the University of California at Berkeley, the Niels Bohr Institute in Copenhagen, and the Center for History and Philosophy of Physics. Washington University A detailed catalog guide to the notebooks of Arthur H. Compton has been prepared by Roger H. Stuewer of the University of Minnesota with the assistance of Richard Lytle, former Archivist of Washington University. The 32 notebooks (1919—41) are at Washington University; microfilm and Xerox copies have been deposited at the Center for History and Philosophy of Physics. The project was supported by the center through a National Science Foundation grant. Other Institutions The papers of the following individuals have been received by the indicated re- positories: Theodore von Karman, 1881—1963, Millikan Library, California Insti- tute of Technology, and Morris E. Rose (1911-67), Alderman Library, University of Virginia. Information on the availability of these collections may be obtained from the repositories. CANADA Reported by Wilfred I. Smith Items for this section should be sent direct to Dr. Wilfred I. Smith, Assistant Dominion Archivist, Public Archives of Canada, 395 Wellington St., Ottawa 4, Ont., Canada Public Archives of Canada Members of the staff participated in the annual meeting of the Society of American Archivists at Ottawa in duties concerning local arrangements, as members of several panels, and in attendance at sessions. All welcomed the opportunity to extend their acquaintanceship and discuss mutual problems with members of the Society and with members of the Canadian Archives Section who attended. C.W. Kaye Lamb and Wilfred I. Smith attended the Sixth Congress of the International Council on Archives at Madrid in September and visited the Paris and London offices of the Public Archives. (^Preparations have been made for a seminar on archives adminis- tration under the auspices of the Pan American Institute on Geography and History. Delegates from 14 Latin American countries were at the Public Archives Novem- ber 4-15. The Advisory Services Division and the Technical Division gave courses in November on records management and microrecording technology. C.Among recent staff changes Ted Regehr has been appointed assistant professor in history at the University of Saskatchewan. He made an important contribution to the develop- ment of the Public Records Section of the Manuscript Division of which he was head. His efficient performance as advisor to the Dominion Archivist on records retention and disposal was also of great value. He has been succeeded by Jay Ather- ton, former Head of the Post Confederation Section. Keith Johnson has been ap- pointed assistant professor in the history department at St. Patrick's College of THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 CANADA 89 Carleton University. As our first editor-historian he developed the functions and directed the activities of the Publications Section. Recent publications are proof of the section's high standards of scholarship. {[The Union List of Manuscripts in Canadian Repositories, containing over 11,000 entries from 124 Canadian reposi- tories, was published in cooperation with the Humanities Research Council of Canada. Recently issued is the Canadian Directory of Parliament, i86y—ig6y, giv- ing a short biography of the members of the Senate and the House of Commons dur- ing that century. Publication of the first volume of Sir John A. Macdonald's Letters is expected shortly. Alberta Regimental Museum, The Queens Own Rifles of Canada, Calgary: The curator, Capt. J. R. Smitz, also serves as military curator and extension officer of the Glenbow Foundation. British Columbia Anglican Theological College of British Columbia: Recent accessions include the diary of Bishop George Hills and microfilm copies of church records relating to the Dioceses of New Westminster, British Columbia, Caledonia, and Kootenay. Historical papers relating to histories of churches in Gibson Landing, Savona, Vancouver, Royal Oak, Saanich, and Hazelton, and photographs of clergy- men have been acquired. ^ U n i v e r s i t y of British Columbia: The library received recently the records of the International Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers, including records from the main British Columbia locals and the head office in Toronto; and records of the Vancouver Council of Women. CL Penticton Museum and Archives: Recent acquisitions include a despatcher's order stopping trains in commemoration of Sir Wilfrid Laurier's funeral and an 1896 election poster. New Brunswick University of New Brunswick: Recent accessions include a collection of 211 books and 12 pictures relating to Gen. James Wolfe given by Group Capt. H. R. Stewart; the papers, on microfilm, of the late R. B. Hanson, Leader of the Opposition and House Leader of the Progressive Conservative Party, 1940—43; papers of: B. S. Keirstead, Canadian economist and author; Desmond Pacey, Dean of Graduate Studies at the university and a Canadian author; Sir Charles G. D. Roberts and other Canadian literary figures associated with him; James Brown, 1796-1870, who represented Charlotte County, N.B., in the Provincial House of Assembly for 30 years; and the records of the Armed Forces Contingents on the university campus. CL Mount Allison University: The United Church Archives were transferred in August to Pine Hill Divinity College in Halifax. The curator of the collection is Arthur Betts. Nova Scotia Xavier College "Cape-Bretoniana": Recent accessions include a Cape Breton manuscript titled "National Prejudice, Opposed to the National Interest, Candidly Considered in the Detention of Yielding up Gibraltar and Cape-Briton by the Ensuing Treaty of Peace . . . ," 1748; also books on Scottish history and traditional songs in Gaelic composed by Cape Breton bards. The visit of the Archivist, Sister Margaret Beaton, to the British Isles and the Continent during the past summer was most profitable because it permitted a comparative study of archival methods. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 go NEWS NOTES Ontario Grey County Historical Society: A centennial project involved construction of a new historical museum at Owen Sound. Mrs. Wilson Johnson is Archives Chair- man at the museum. Efforts are being made to gather material relating to the history of the county and to encourage historical research. <[. Hamilton Public Library: Katherine Greenfield has been appointed Canadiana librarian. Recent accessions include documents relating to crown grants; Mrs. Clyde Bean's notes on Grimsby Park; E. K. D. Martin's notes on excursions around Hamilton; papers of the Tem- perance and General Life Insurance Co. of North America, 1890-94; letters relating to Hon. John Willson; and papers of treasurers of the Hamilton Association for the Advancement of Literature, Science and Art. C London Public Library and Art Museum: The London Room, a centennial project of the Rotary Club, was officially opened on April 26 by the Prime Minister of Ontario. It contains the London and Lake Erie regional collection of manuscripts, maps, photographs, pamphlets, newspapers, and other historical materials under the direction of Elizabeth Spicer. C. Queen's University: The Archives has begun a project to make it an archival information centre for the Kingston area. A union list, giving the location of all archival materials in the district, will be prepared. C. University of Toronto: Recent accessions include 17th-century Italian manuscripts and an 18th-century English manuscript from the library of Sir Thomas Phillipps. In the realm of Cana- diana, the university has acquired F. S. Neve's Narrative of a Voyage from London to Montreal, a journal dated April 18—June 7, 1839; T . F. Mcllwraith's research notes for his work about the Bella Coola Indians; and additions to the papers of Canadian writers Birney, De la Roche, Purdy, and Souster. Quebec McGill University: The appointment of John Andreassen as University Archi- vist was announced in August. Mr. Andreassen is a member of the Records Manage- ment Co. of Canada where he has served as archival consultant to a number of crown corporations. He came to Montreal in 1962 as a record systems analyst •with the Canadian National Railways after a career in the United States, which included positions as Director of Administration for the Library of Congress, State Archivist of Louisiana, and Regional Director of a Federal historical records survey for the Southern States. Mr. Andreassen is a Fellow of the Society of American Archivists. Business Archives Council David S. Macmillan, international authority in university and business archives and cofounder of the Business Archives Council of Australia, has been elected to the Board of Directors of the council. Dr. Macmillan is currently associate professor of history, Trent University, Peterborough, Ont. Other new members of the board include: James J. Gillies, York University, Toronto; Rev. H. J. Labelle, St. Mary's University, Halifax; E. C. McCormick, Winnipeg Chamber of Commerce; and G. M . Morris, Vancouver Board of Trade. PROFESSIONAL INSTRUCTION University of Illinois The Graduate School of Library Science is offering two courses in archival man- agement for librarians June 16-August 9, 1969. Instructors will be Frank B. Evans, THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS 91 Deputy Assistant Archivist for Presidential Libraries, NARS, and David C. Maslyn, Head, Manuscripts Department, Yale University Library. The first course, June 16- July 12, to be given by Dr. Evans, will be a survey of the administration of archives and historical manuscripts. The second course, July 14-August 9, to be given by Mr. Maslyn, will be a discussion and description of principles and techniques used in manuscript and archival repositories. Each course carries one unit (4 hours) of graduate credit. For further information, write to the Graduate School of Library Science, University of Illinois, Urbana, 61801. University of Wisconsin The School of Library Science will offer a graduate seminar in archives administra- tion, June 23-July 18, 1969. The 3-credit course will offer a basic study of the theory, principles, and techniques of administering public archives and private manu- scripts and will be conducted by F. Gerald Ham, State Archivist and head of the Division of Archives and Manuscripts. Inquiries should be directed to Prof. W . L. Williamson, Director, Library School Summer Session, University of Wisconsin, Madison, Wis. 53706. SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS Minutes of the Council Ottawa, Canada, September 2g, IQ68 The meeting was called to order by President Clifford Shipton at 7 :oo p.m. in his suite at the Chateau Laurier. Present: H. G. Jones, vice president; Philip P. Mason, secretary; A. K. Johnson, treasurer; and Council Members Maynard Brich- ford, Lewis Darter, Victor Gondos, Joseph Halpin, F. Gerald Ham, Robert Lovett, Robert Warner, and Dorman Winfrey. The minutes of the Council meeting of April 18, 1968, were approved as distrib- uted and amended. H. G. Jones abstained from voting. President Shipton presented a progress report of the work of the Ad Hoc Com- mittee on Paper Research, which was established in response to a proposal presented to the Council by the National Archives and Records Service in April 1968. He reported on the actions taken by the group during a committee meeting at Harvard University, July 9, 1968. He announced also that the American Council of Learned Societies had granted the Society $2,500 for committee expenses of its first year's activities. The secretary reported on the selection of the hotel for the 1970 annual meeting. He described the facilities and costs at the Mayflower, the Shoreham, the Sheraton- Park, the Statler Hilton, and the Washington Hilton. The Council selected the Shoreham Hotel as the headquarters and chose the dates, September 30 to October 2, 1970. The Council also recommended that the Society should avoid, if possible, the selection of dates for the annual meeting that conflict with religious holidays. The secretary reported on the plans for the annual meeting in 1969 to be held in Madison, Wis., October 8-10, 1969. The Park Motor Hotel has been selected as convention headquarters. Richard Erney, Associate Director of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, has been chosen to serve as the Local Arrangements chairman for the meeting. Secretary Mason reported to the Council on the meeting of the Planning Com- mittee of the World Conference on Records sponsored by the Genealogical Society of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints held in Salt Lake City August VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 92 NEWS NOTES 5-8, 1968. The conference, which will be held in Salt Lake City August 5-8, 1969, will feature sessions of interest to archivists, librarians, genealogists, and historians. The Council urged the members of the Society to support the World Conference and its objectives. The secretary recommended that the Council consider the introduction of an amendment to the constitution at the 1969 annual meeting to authorize an increase in dues. He explained the rationale for his proposal. Although the membership in the Society has increased sharply during the past 5 years, it is not large enough to provide funds from dues to hire a full-time secretary. Yet the Society has grown too large to operate any longer on a volunteer basis. He described attempts to raise funds from other sources, including foundations and special $100 annual sus- taining memberships. The Council approved his recommendation and authorized the Finance Committee to review the dues structure of the Society and report its findings and recommendations at the December or April meeting of the Council. The treasurer supported the recommendation for a dues increase as the only feasible way of raising the necessary funds for a permanent staff. The Finance Committee was asked to consider special rates for students and apprentice workers. T h e secretary presented a resolution, originally supported by the Professional Standards Committee, that the Council elect to honorary membership in the Society President Lyndon B. Johnson; W . Kaye Lamb, Dominion Archivist of Canada; and Jorge Ignacio Rubio Mane, Archivo General de la Nacion of Mexico. The Council voted unanimously to approve the election of the three distinguished men who have contributed so much to the advancement of the archival profession. The Council considered a request from the Society of Ohio Archivists to amend the Society's constitution to provide for State or Regional chapters of the Society and recommended procedures for riling annual chapter reports and for the collection of chapter dues. The Council accepted the recommendations of the Finance Com- mittee that such affiliate membership could be accomplished by a change in the by-laws rather than a constitutional amendment and that it was impractical, costly, and inefficient for the Society to collect the dues for local chapters. Council Mem- bers F. Gerald Ham and Robert Warner were appointed to discuss the Council's position with the Ohio committee and report their findings at the Council meeting on October 2, 1968. T h e report of the treasurer, A. K. Johnson, covering the period January-August 1968 was accepted and ordered filed with the secretary. Mr. Johnson also presented his views on the Society's long-range financial needs, especially the need of a full- time staff. He concluded that funds for a full-time paid Executive Secretary could not be found within the present revenue plan. For example, if the Society established $15,000 as the figure for a full-time Executive Secretary, this would mean that we would have to have annual receipts of around $70,000 annually. The two main sources of added revenue would be either a very substantial increase in membership or an increase in membership dues and subscription rates. It is not likely that members and subscribers will increase to this extent. Therefore, it appears that the only possible solution—allowing for a modest increase in membership—is an increase in membership and subscription rates. As an example of the difficulty in reaching this objective, we have now approximately 2,200 members and subscribers. An in- crease of fees from $10 to $15 would give us an income of $33,000 which, coupled with other receipts, conceivably could give us $40,000 to $45,000 annually. An increase of members to 3,000 at $15 would give us $45,000 and with other income, $50,000 to $55,000. THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS 93 In the editor's absence, President Shipton read a communication from Harold Pinkett in which he recommended the appointment of Isadore Perlman, Center Operations Division, Office of Records Management, NARS, to serve on the Editorial Board of the American Archivist for the term 1968—72, to succeed Karl Trever. The Council deferred action on the appointment until Dr. Pinkett could be present. F. Gerald Ham, Council member and Chairman of the State and Local Records Committee, recommended a few changes in his committee's proposal for a grant to assist in compiling, editing, and publishing a guide to American State archives. The Council approved these changes. The use of any proceeds from the sale of the guide will be approved by the Council of the Society and the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, the cosponsors of the project. President Shipton announced that he had received an acknowledgement from the secretary to Dwight Eisenhower regarding the Certificate of Honorary Life Mem- bership in the Society. Appropriate plans for the presentation will be made when the former President's health improves. The Council reconsidered its action taken at the December 1968 meeting on the three recommendations of the Joint Committee on the Status of the National Archives. Thereupon the following recommendations were approved: 1. The integrity of the entire archival program of the nation in all of its varied functions as now constituted must be preserved. 2. The cultural and educational functions of the National Archives and Records Service must continue to be strengthened. 3. The National Archives and Records Service should be given sufficient autonomy, either under the General Services Administration or as an independent governmental agency, to maintain its position as one of the leading archives of the world. The Society urges the crea- tion of an advisory council representing the archival profession and the several professional disciplines served by the National Archives and Records Service. The secretary was directed to notify the Executive Director of the American Historical Association and the Organization of American Historians of its action. The Council received and reviewed the report of the Committee on Design of a Corporate Seal. After discussion, the Council voted to table the report. The meeting was adjourned at 9130 p.m. PHILIP P. MASON, Secretary Minutes of the Council Ottawa, Canada, October 2, jg68 The meeting was called to order by President H. G. Jones at 3:12 p.m. in Room 578 at the Chateau Laurier Hotel. Present were: Herman Kahn, vice president; F. Gerald Ham, secretary; A. K. Johnson, Jr., treasurer; Harold T . Pinkett, editor; and Council Members Maynard J. Brichford, Agnes C. Conrad, Frank B. Evans, Victor Gondos, Jr., Joseph F. Halpin, Wilfred I. Smith, Robert M. Warner, and Dorman H. Winfrey. President Jones welcomed Vice President Herman Kahn and the three new Council members, Miss Conrad, Mr. Evans, and Mr. Smith. Consideration of the minutes of the September 29 meeting was deferred until the December meeting of the Council. The question of what action the Society of American Archivists should take in regard to the formation of the Society of Ohio Archivists was introduced for dis- cussion. Mr. Warner and the secretary, who had been appointed by the Council at the previous meeting to meet with the representative of the Ohio Archivists, VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1969 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 94 NEWS NOTES reported on their conversation with Bruce Harding of the steering committee of the Ohio group. Mr. Warner then introduced a statement encouraging the activities of the Ohio organization and after some discussion the following was adopted : In recog- nition of the forthcoming organizational meeting of the Society of Ohio Archivists, the Council of the Society of American Archivists expresses its approbation of the Ohio archivists in their endeavor to promote and improve the archival profession by the formation of this organization. The secretary, to assist the Council in the selection of a meeting site for the 1971 annual meeting, reported that he will review the invitations received by the Society and report on feasible sites to the Council at the December meeting. The secretary informed the Council that the removal of the office of secretary from Wayne State University to the State Historical Society of Wisconsin will necessitate a transfer of banking facilities used by the Society for the deposit of membership dues. To permit this transfer, a resolution was introduced by Treasurer A. K. Johnson and adopted by the Council, authorizing the secretary to open an account with the Hilldale State Bank, Madison, Wis. The secretary also reported that the Finance Committee, as a result of previous Council authorization, will study the question of a proposed increase in membership dues and present its findings for consideration at the December meeting of the Council. In particular, the committee will consider the need for a dues increase, the amount by which dues should be increased if an increase is recommended, and the methods of applying the increase to the Society membership. The Council agreed to hold its next meeting at 1130 p.m. on Sunday, December 29, 1968, at the Statler Hilton Hotel in New York City. With no further business before the Council, the meeting adjourned at 3:25 p.m. F. GERALD HAM, Secretary SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS SUSTAINING MEMBERS It has become increasingly apparent that the Society must have additional resources if it is to develop into a strong professional organization. As a result of the pressing need for funds, the Council has directed the president and the secretary to invite archival institutions to become Sustaining Members, each for the fee of $100 a year. As of December 1968 eighteen institutions have joined as Sustaining Members. For further information, please write to the secretary: F. Gerald Ham, Secretary, Society of American Archivists, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 816 State St., Madison, Wis. 53706. PUBLIC ARCHIVES OF CANADA COLORADO STATE ARCHIVES CORNELL UNIVERSITY COLLECTION OF REGIONAL HISTORY ILLINOIS STATE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF KENTUCKY LIBRARY COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN MICHIGAN HISTORICAL COLLECTIONS NATIONAL ARCHIVES AND RECORDS SERVICE N E W JERSEY STATE LIBRARY N E W MEXICO STATE RECORDS CENTER AND ARCHIVES NORTH CAROLINA DEPARTMENT OF ARCHIVES AND H I S - TORY OHIO HISTORICAL SOCIETY OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY ARCHIVES SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY TENNESSEE STATE LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES TEXAS STATE LIBRARY WAYNE STATE UNIVERSITY LABOR HISTORY ARCHIVES WISCONSIN STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 ACID FREE ENVELOPES made of acid free — exceedingly strong — made to last available in four stock sizes 6" X 9" 7 % " X i o" 9" X 12" I I W X 15" Permalife file folders in legal and letter sizes now available. Also available Permalife map and print folders in sizes 24" X 36", 30" X 40", 20" X 28", 20" X 24", 30" X 42" Write for FREE sample and prices from the firm that brings you Fibredex® Document Cases. The Hoi linger Corporation 3810 S. Four Mile Run Drive Arlington, Virginia 2220U D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 Spring ffgl Meeting Society of Organization of JOINT LUNCHEON American Archivists American Historians THE HISTORIAN AND THE NEW TECHNOLOGY JAMES BERTON RHOADS ARCHIVIST OF THE UNITED STATES speaker H. G. JONES presiding Philadelphia April 17, 1969 Pennsylvania 12 m., Thursday Hotel Benjamin Franklin or Bellvue Stratford Hotel (see OAH program for exact location) Tickets may be purchased at the OAH registration desk. REQUEST T O BE INCLUDED ON LIST OF BOOK REVIEWERS FOR AMERICAN ARCHIVIST DETACH (OR USE A FACSIMILE) AND MAIL TO: Edward E. Hill, Reviews Editor, American Archivist, Archives Branch, Washington National Records Center, Washington, D.C. 20409. Special areas of interest: • History and administration • Automatic data processing • Church archives of archives • Buildings and equipment • College and university ar- • Archival theory • Repair and preservation chives • Records management • Sound recordings • Science/technical archives • Finding aids • Cartographic records • Manuscript collections; • Bibliographies • Motion pictures private papers • Documentary publications • Still pictures • Microfilming • Business archives [_ Special interest in particular areas: Knowledge of foreign languages: • U.S. history, (general) • U.S. history, period • Other N A M E : _ _ _ ^ INSTITUTIONAL OR HOME ADDRESS: (CITY) (STATE) ( Z I P CODE) D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 Technical Notes CLARK W. NELSON, Editor Mayo Clinic/Foundation N E W PRODUCTS & DATA Do-It-Yourself Microfiche A do-it-yourself system that helps shrink vital information to rows of tiny images, on card-file size film cards, has been introduced by Eastman Kodak Co., Business Systems Markets Division, Rochester, N.Y. 14650. According to Kodak, the basic production unit of this new Recordak Microfiche Master System is an easily produced strip of 16mm. film, which can be cut and assembled in rows to make up master film cards. The modular, replaceable nature of these component film strips is supposed to hold down to a minimum the need for creating new images. New images are required only for those strips that include a change or an error. Updated strips can be prepared and inserted among the unchanged rows of images on original master filmcards before generating new distribution microfiche. The new system is flexible and can be set up to fit the user's needs. In the beginning, one might prefer to let microfiche prove it can pay its way and, therefore, might limit his microfilming and processing to revising individual film strips—allowing Kodak to insert these into microfilm master film cards, duplicate, and possibly even distribute the duplicates. Later on, for security or other reasons, one might decide to add the equipment that will enable him to prepare his own masters within his plant. The first element of the new system to be so added will usually be the Recordak Micro-File Machine, model MRD-2, a unit that handles up to 350 documents an hour. Others include a Recordak Microfiche Codeboard Kit accessory that will simultaneously identify and record strips of film and a Recordak Microfiche XY Coordinator that helps the operator follow a predetermined layout. A modified film unit may be obtained to precisely align images, and an adapter kit is also available to permit the exposure of either single- or double-frame images. One may even go farther and strip up his own master microfiche. A Recordak Microfiche Master Film Trimmer is also available to slit the 35mm. original film to either 12.5mm. or 16.5mm. widths— depending on the scale of the images to be assembled by Recordak Microfiche Master Composing Station. Reference markings guide the cutting of the film and its punching and assembly on 3 " X 5", 4 " X 6" or tab-size 3 % " X 7%" cards. A small-volume user may also choose to print distribution microfiche in his own plant on the new Recordak Diazo Print Film, or he may send his stripped-up microfiche masters out for duplication. New Computer Fire Standard Rapid developments within the electronics industry are reflected in the 1968 edition of the National Fire Protection Association ( N F P A ) technical standard no. 75, which bears the new title, "Standard for the Protection of Electronic Com- puter/Data Processing Equipment." Revised and updated, this 36-page standard Contributions to this department should be addressed to Clark W. Nelson, Archivist, Mayo Clinic/Foundation, Rochester, Minn. 55901. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1069 97 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 98 TECHNICAL NOTES sets forth the minimum requirements for protection of equipment from damage by fire and its associated effects. The text applies specifically to installations where either special building construction, rooms, areas, or operating environment are required or where fire protection for the equipment is required; it also serves as a management guide for other installations not requiring special construction or protection. Adopted in its present form at the 1968 N F P A annual meeting, N F P A no. 75 has been developed by the N F P A Committee on Electronic Computer Sys- tems. Committee chairman is John J. Ahern of General Motors Corp., Detroit, Mich. Copies of the 1968 edition of the "Standard for the Protection of Electronic Computer/Data Processing Equipment" ( N F P A no. 75; 36 p., 75c) are available from the National Fire Protection Association, 60 Batterymarch St., Boston, Mass. 02110. Storage Cases Standardization has made it possible for Cambridge Paper Box Inc., 196 Broad- way, Cambridge, Mass. 02139, to make their Cambridge Professional Cases avail- able in minimum quantities of I dozen. Since 1898 Cambridge has been supplying universities, libraries, and museums with specially designed cases. Their products combine handcraftsmanship with modern technology. They use Permalife acid-free paper as a case liner and Pyroxylin as a protective coating on case exteriors. The Cambridge professional line includes pamphlet files; manuscript, broadside, docu- ment, choral, historical, slip, solander print, and utility cases; collection trays; and diploma tubes. The manuscript case measures 15%" X 10" X 2V2" and lists for $4.50 each in lots of 12. The document case is 15" X 11%" X 3 % " and costs $3 each in the dozen quantities. George Cunha has been testing and advising the firm. They anticipate marketing other storage items for archival use over the next 2 years. Among these will be acid-free folders with tabs. The company will also manufacture boxes to other specifications. Those interested should address such inquiries to their Special Requirements Department. Large-Format Microfilm Reader University Microfilms, Ann Arbor, Mich. 48106, has introduced a microfilm reader specifically designed for newspapers and other large formats. The unit fea- tures a 14" X 14" reading screen. It has a long-life quartz-halogen lamp, which is cooled by a maintenance-free blower. The illumination can be varied to suit room lighting. A scanning control is provided that allows full film width viewing. The reader handles 35mm. and 16mm. microfilm. An accessory kit adapts it to microfiche. The viewer weighs 45 lbs. and stands 2 ft. high. It has a fixed magni- fication of 18X and costs $225, including U.S. or Canadian shipping. Paper Shredders The advent of continuous computer forms and other bulky modern records has caused today's records custodian to be more frequently faced with the problem of destroying quantities of confidential material having no permanent value. To assist in this task, several concerns have developed different sizes of paper shredders. The Shredmaster Corp., 891 South Ocean Ave., Freeport, Long Island, N.Y. 11520, is one manufacturer specializing in such machines. The latest addition to their line is the Conveyor 400. This heavy-duty unit is designed for large-scale paper shredding. It is said that it can handle up to 2,500 lbs. an hour. It will even THE AMERICAN ARCHIVIST D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T E C H N I C A L N O T E S 99 destroy paper clips, small nails, staples, and accro fasteners. The unit can be adjusted to provide shredding •widths of %a" and Via". Shredmaster makes other smaller units that will either shred paper into continuous strips or cross-cut it into tiny, unreadable bits. Xerox Microprinter Xerox Corp., Rochester, N.Y. 14603, has finally introduced their Microprinter, a xerographic microfilm reader-printer. The new copier features a 9" X 11V2" screen on which various types of microfilm can be scanned. When a copy of an individual frame is desired, the searcher merely presses a lever for either single or multiple enlargements. According to Xerox, these are then produced on regular 8%" X 11" bond paper at the rate of seven a minute. Besides being able to produce copies of microfilm on ordinary paper, the new machine will also make regular Xerox copies from all types of documents. Forty Years of Microfilm In the suminer 1968 issue of the National Microfilm Association Journal, Frank L. Hilton, Jr., has interestingly reviewed the history of microfilm at Eastman Kodak. In his article, "Microfilm Systems—The First 40 Kodak Years," beginning on page 117, he tells about the development of the first Recordak microfilmer by a banker, George L. McCarthy. Introduced in 1928, it was this camera that opened the way for what has become a universal tool for copying and protecting records. Even though the article is Kodak oriented, it still forms a valuable introduction into modern microfilm history, particularly since Kodak was the pioneer in this field. The article includes some well-chosen illustrations that show the evolution of Kodak microfilm equipment. TALAS Several years ago, the Technical Library Service, 104 Fifth Ave., New York City I O O I I , established a supply division, TALAS. Since then, the new unit has been providing materials for bookbinders and book conservators. Recently the firm expanded their line to include items of interest to archivists. Their latest catalog lists Permalife paper, file folders, envelopes, and bristolboard. Cellulose acetate sheets and rag catalog cards are also featured. In addition to the foregoing, the company soon plans to add acid-free pamphlet boxes, cellulose acetate envelopes, and Japanese mending tissue. In time they hope to become a source for most archival supplies. Suggestions are encouraged for additional supplies to be carried. "Not a Note" Hiller asked where the manuscripts of Rossini's operas were: "I believe that you don't have many of them." "Not a note," Rossini told him, adding: "I was entitled to demand them from the copyist after a year, but I never took advantage of that. A few may be in Naples, a few are in Paris—I don't know the fate of the others." Hiller interjected: "Perhaps you don't even own the engraved scores and piano scores of your operas, Maestro?" "What for?" Rossini asked. "No music has been played in my home for years. Should I study them, perhaps?" —HERBERT WEINSTOCK, Rossini: A Biography, p. 265-266 (New York, 1968). Quoted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York City. VOLUME 32, NUMBER 1, JANUARY 1060 D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 T H E GONDOS MEMORIAL AWARD or T H E SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS AND T H E AMERICAN UNIVERSITY FOR AN ESSAY ON T H E HISTORY OR ADMINISTRATION OF ARCHIVES 1969 Competition The author of the winning entry in 1969 will receive a Certificate of Award and a prize of two hundred dollars, donated by Victor, Dorothy, and Robert Gondos in memory of the late Dr. Victor Gondos, Sr. Contest Rules 1. The contest is open to all archivists, all manuscript curators, and all graduate archival students in the United States and Canada except elected officers of the Society of American Archivists, the faculty of The American University, and members of the Award Committee. Retired or professionally inactive archivists and manuscript curators are also eligible to compete. 2. The Award Committee will consist of the Editorial Board of the Society of Ameri- can Archivists and representatives of The American University. Miss Helen Chatfield is senior representative of the University. Entries for the 1969 Award should be ad- dressed to the Editor, American Archivist, National Archives, Washington, D.C. 20408. 3. As the purpose of the contest is to en- courage research and writing on some aspect of the history or administration of archives, the essay must be especially prepared for submission for the award. A contestant may submit several essays. A submission will not be accepted if (a) it has been published or issued in any form for general distribution or (b) it has been prepared primarily for other purposes, e.g., for a professional meeting. 4. Each submission must bear a title and must be double-spaced typewritten ribbon copy, on letter-size white bond paper. It must consist of not less than 3,000 words and not more than 15,000. 5. To maintain the anonymity of contest- ants the author's name should not appear on any sheet of the essay. Within a sealed envelope stapled to the first page should be inserted a 3" X S" card showing the follow- ing information about the author: name, essay title, address, organizational affiliation (if any), a statement of present or past pro- fessional activity, and signature. The au- thor's return address should not appear on the outer envelope in which the submission is mailed; instead, the following return address should be used: American Archivist, Na- tional Archives, Washington, D.C. 20408. 6. To be considered for the current year's award an essay must be received by the Award Committee by July 31, 1969. 7. The Award Committee is exclusively responsible for the evaluation criteria and reserves the right to withhold the award if in its judgment no submission meets the criteria. 8. The winning essay will be selected in sufficient time to bestow the award at the annual meeting of the Society. 9. The winning essay will be published in the American Archivist. Other essays will be eligible for publication in the Society's jour- nal, subject to the judgment of the editor. D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 For a -well rounded printing, storage and filing program use . . . TEXT • B O N D • LEDGER • COVER • BRISTOL The complete papers for the complete program PERMALIFE is acid-free and is absolutely dependable. A life of several hundred to a thousand years is assured.* Use PERMALIFE with con- fidence for Library Catalog Card Stock Envelopes for storage of documents and manuscripts File folders for storage of maps and large documents Letterheads Reprints PERMALIFE is beautiful in look and feel, and will give true copies by photo offset. PERMALIFE TEXT, BOND and LEDGER are Water- marked for your protection. For permanency use PERMALIFE and be sure. •According to tests made of PERMALIFE by the W. J. Barrow Research Laboratory. Details upon request. STANDARD PAPERS MANUFACTURING CO. NEW YORK RICHMOND, VIRGINIA CHICAGO LOS ANGELES D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 THE SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS D I S T I N G U I S H E D S E R V I C E A W A R D 1969 T H E SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS WELCOMES NOMINATIONS FOR THE 1969 DISTINGUISHED SERVICE AWARD. T H E ORGANIZATION NOMI- NATED SHOULD HAVE ACHIEVED DISTINCTION IN ONE OR MORE OF THE FOLLOWING WAYS : • Demonstrably contributing to archival theory and the de- velopment of new archival practices. • Serving its constituency in an outstanding fashion. • Shozving extraordinary ingenuity and resourcefulness in im- proving efficiency of operations or improving methods of work. • Going well beyond the normal performance requirements expected of an archival agency and so being an incentive to others. • Publishing exemplary and meritorious finding aids, collec- tion guides, statements of available service, and the like. • Developing over a period of years an archival program of such depth and scope as to warrant especial recognition. SINCE THE AWARD WAS FIRST GIVEN IN 1964, THREE INSTITUTIONS HAVE BEEN SELECTED: NORTH CAROLINA DEPARTMENT OF ARCHIVES AND HISTORY MARYLAND HALL OF RECORDS STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF WISCONSIN FOR NOMINATION FORMS ONE SHOULD WRITE TO F. GERALD H A M , SECRE- TARY, SOCIETY OF AMERICAN ARCHIVISTS, STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF WISCONSIN, MADISON, W I S . 53706. ALL NOMINATIONS MUST BE RECEIVED BY AUGUST i, 1969. D ow nloaded from http://m eridian.allenpress.com /doi/pdf/10.17723/aarc.32.1.rj7056j124173047 by C arnegie M ellon U niversity user on 06 A pril 2021 
work_psvunlbkgrahjdrouojvvyifrm	----	is left desiring more distinctions between Coleridge and Emerson, it is only because Harvey has established their deep similarities and their importance to Transatlantic Transcendentalism so fully. Jonathan Koefoed University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX, USA jkoefoed@austin.utexas.edu © 2015, Jonathan Koefoed http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/14794012.2015.1088324 Atlantic citizens: nineteenth-century American writers at work in the world, Leslie Elizabeth Eckel, Edinburgh, University Press, 2013, 240 pp., £70, $120 (hardback), ISBN-10:074866937X, ISBN-13:978-0748669370, including notes, bibliography, and index Although Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Margaret Fuller, Frederick Douglass, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Grace Greenwood, and Walt Whitman as a group make strange bed- fellows, Eckel asserts that their identity as citizens of the world rather than proponents of American exceptionalism reveals them to be likely companions after all. Some of these writers attained ‘partial cosmopolitanism’, what Kwame Anthony Appiah, notes Eckel, describes as a combination ‘that preserves its partiality to kindred, home, and nation even as it looks beyond those limits for opportunities to know and to serve others’ (8). Looking beyond those limits is the primary focus of the study undertaken by Eckel, who summons an impressive variety of written and oral sources that have not received widespread attention: ‘Transcripts of speeches, newspa- per articles, editorial columns, personal journals and letters, teaching notes, juvenile magazines, and critical reviews’ (14). By juxtaposing these extraliterary sources along- side the lengthier works on which the reputation of these writers rests (Longfellow’s Evangeline, Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century, Douglass’s autobiographies, Emerson’s Nature and the Essays, Greenwood’s eponymous Greenwood Leaves, and Whitman’s Leaves of Grass), Eckel illuminates their transatlantic affinities, albeit in varying degrees, which have largely gone without notice. As a result, Eckel’s contri- bution to the Edinburgh Studies in Transatlantic Literatures offers a fresh perspective on the ties that bind these disparate nineteenth-century American writers together and suggests important continuities between them and two contemporary writers: the Car- ibbean-American novelist Paule Marshall in her memoir, Triangular Road, and the journalist Adam Gopnik in his two essay collections, Paris to the Moon and Americans in Paris. Eckel begins with Longfellow whose comment in ‘The Schoolmaster’ undergirds her entire project: ‘I said with the Cosmopolite,’ ‘The world is a kind of book, in which he, who has seen his own country only, has read but one page’ (19). Longfellow clearly had read multiple pages by virtue of his extensive travel abroad, his command of Greek and Latin as well as several modern European languages, his translation of texts into English (e.g. Dante’s Divine Comedy), and his many textbooks, all of which merit the designation of Longfellow ‘as a founder of American comparative literary Book Reviews 387 mailto:jkoefoed@gmail.com studies’, according to Eckel (21). She also finds that the transatlantic focus in Evange- line counters the idea of manifest destiny promoted by many writers of the period. Although none of the remaining five writers in her study embraced transatlanticism as fully as Longfellow, two of them – Margaret Fuller and Frederick Douglass – excoriated the USA for failing to live up to its ideals by comparing it unfavourably with other countries. Eckel highlights Fuller’s notion of ‘cosmopolitian patriots’ to suggest that the ideals of world citizen and national patriot might be successfully com- bined or at least alternate. The latter seems evident in Douglass, who used political transatlanticism to ‘skewer’ America but did not allow it to keep him from later reclaiming himself as a citizen of the USA despite his doubts about whether he actu- ally had a country, as Eckel acknowledges. The global reach of Emerson’s transatlanti- cism, however, extended far beyond Longfellow’s comparativist claims or the political bent of Fuller and Douglass’s interests, making Emerson – at least in Eckel’s hands – not so much a cosmopolitan citizen of the world as a citizen of the cosmos. As for Greenwood and Whitman, entrepreneurship appears to have motivated what Eckel calls their ‘transatlantic professionalism’: Greenwood made many trips abroad to promote her juvenile magazine, The Little Pilgrim, and other writings whereas Whitman, whose travels outside the U.S. were limited to Canada, welcomed the opportunity to widen his readership for which he was greatly indebted to the London publication of Michael Rossetti’s selected Poems of Walt Whitman in 1868. In casting Whitman as a poet without honour in his own country, Rossetti depicted England as culturally superior to the USA in much the same way, argues Eckel, that Fuller and Douglass enlisted social and political developments abroad to chal- lenge the ideals espoused back home. While Eckel’s treatment of the transatlantic affi- nities of these six writers may be a bit of a stretch in some instances, her study nevertheless deepens our understanding of the period and of our own by exploring how these writers became part of an emergent internationalism. Constance J. Post Department of English, Iowa State University, Ames, IA 50011-1201, USA cjpost@iastate.edu © 2015, Constance J. Post http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/14794012.2015.1101257 388 Book Reviews 
work_pzklrn5yfzdm7axtzrddqzu36y	----	PROTESTANTISMO, IMPRENSA, POLÍTICA E EDUCAÇÃO NO BRASIL: A PROPAGANDA DO PROGRESSO E DA MODERNIZAÇÃO Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações PROTESTANTISMO, POLÍTICA E EDUCAÇÃO NO BRASIL: A PROPAGANDA DO PROGRESSO E DA MODERNIZAÇÃO Mariana Ellen Santos Seixas * RESUMO: Repensando as estratégias de consolidação do Protestantismo no Brasil, este artigo tem por objetivo identificar alguns dos principais setores da sociedade oitocentista que foram alvos de investidas de grupos proselitistas, enfatizando a importância de personagens que, ainda na primeira metade do século XIX, antes de começar a "pregar", se esmeraram em garantir condições mínimas de sobrevida jurídica e institucional para os missionários que chegariam nas décadas seguintes. A princípio, tratarei da construção da relação direta entre protestantismo e progresso, uma propaganda política que conseguiu adeptos importantes; num segundo momento, mostrarei como as deficiências educacionais do Brasil, foram tomadas como um problema que poderia ser suprido pelas iniciativas protestantes; e, por fim, como a educação feminina esteve presente no periódico protestante de maior circulação, mostrando as mulheres como parte fundamental do processo de modernização e moralização do Brasil. Palavras-Chave: Protestantismo; Política; Educação. PROTESTANTISM, POLITICS AND EDUCATION IN BRAZIL: ADVERTISING OF PROGRESS AND MODERNIZATION ABSTRACT: Rethinking strategies for consolidation of Protestantism in Brazil, this article aims to identify some of the major sectors of the nineteenth-century society that have been targets of law with proselytizing groups, emphasizing the importance of characters who, in the first half of the nineteenth century, before starting to "preach", to great pains to ensure minimum conditions of survival legal and institutional framework for the missionaries who arrived in the decades following. At first, I will discuss the construction of the direct relationship between Protestantism and progress, an advertising policy that managed major supporters, subsequently, show how the educational deficiencies of Brazil, were taken as a problem that could be supplied by the Protestant initiatives, and on the Finally, as female education was present in the journal's largest Protestant movement, showing women as part of the process of modernization and moralization of Brazil. Key-Words: Protestantism; Politics; Education. Um panorama A historiografia do protestantismo brasileiro comumente afirma que os esforços proselitistas explícitos das Juntas de Missões organizadas por denominações norte- americanas datam o início de sua efetiva participação nos assuntos concernentes à sociedade brasileira; e que estes assuntos giravam em torno da adoção de uma nova fé e da transformação de comportamento como um fim em si mesmas. * Mestranda em História Social do Brasil / Universidade Federal da Bahia. E-mail: seixas.marianas@gmail.com Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 334 No entanto, partindo de uma interpretação da obra de David Gueiros Vieira, O Protestantismo, a Maçonaria e a Questão Religiosa no Brasil (1980), e auxiliada por uma série de artigos não vinculados diretamente à historiografia do protestantismo, pretendo identificar as principais iniciativas políticas de James C. Fletcher, um "missionário" presbiteriano, que tinha como objetivo converter o Brasil ao protestantismo e ao "progresso" (já que considerava que esta vertente da fé cristã era equânime ao desenvolvimento econômico, científico e tecnológico) e identificar suas peculiaridades. Em termos teóricos, Fletcher não se diferenciou da maioria dos missionários e das lideranças protestantes que vieram para o Brasil em número considerável a partir de meados do século XIX. Sua diferença estava em termos práticos. Fletcher se aproximou e se tornou amigo íntimo de importantes figuras do cenário político brasileiro, mantendo contato inclusive com o jovem imperador D. Pedro II. Sua influência sobre esses personagens (que serão destacados no trabalho a ser escrito) foi a porta de entrada para a luta por uma série de prerrogativas legislativas para os acatólicos no Brasil. Fletcher esteve envolvido em uma série de episódios que confirmam que o seu "jeito" de pregar o protestantismo foi muito sutil, conquistando, num primeiro momento, aliados e não fiéis. O trabalho enfatizará os esforços de Fletcher e seus amigos do Partido Liberal e da imprensa na luta pelo casamento civil, pelas liberdades de consciência e religião e pela modernização do Brasil, com o auxílio, evidentemente, da tecnologia estadunidense. É possível destacar as iniciativas para a concessão de licença para a abertura de uma linha de navegação a vapor Belém - Nova Iorque, como parte da recém adotada política estadunidense de estreitar os laços de amizade com o Brasil, e os preparativos para a Expedição Thayer, para a qual Fletcher fez extensa propaganda. Outro ponto fundamental do qual tratarei são os incentivos dos líderes e da imprensa protestante para melhorar as condições educacionais do país, construindo escolas, investindo na imprensa, com especial atenção para a educação das mulheres; enfatizarei que todas essas iniciativas compõem o projeto de inserir o Brasil no mundo moderno e civilizado, através da "religião verdadeira", da educação e das melhorias técnicas, tecnológicas e científicas. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 335 Inserção protestante e crítica das mazelas do Brasil Desde as primeiras tentativas de inserir a ideologia protestante na sociedade brasileira, aspectos como a escravidão e a educação se destacavam entre as mazelas que precisariam ser retiradas antes que o proselitismo surtisse efeito considerável. Missionários de todas as denominações ditas "históricas" – metodistas, presbiterianos, batistas e congregacionais – insistiam em suas prédicas e através dos meios de comunicação posteriormente criados que a sociedade brasileira sofria desses problemas crônicos em decorrência de sua dependência de séculos de instituições ligadas à Igreja Católica, e que a "restauração" e a imersão do Brasil no rol das sociedades modernas estariam sujeitas à atuação de entidades ligadas ao protestantismo. A Igreja Metodista foi a primeira denominação a se preocupar oficialmente com missões para a América Latina. Em 1835, o jovem pregador Fountain Pitts foi enviado para fazer uma viagem de reconhecimento às principais cidades da costa ocidental (Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires e Montevidéu). Em seu relatório final, documento citado por Duncan Reily (2003, p. 100-101), recomendou o envio de missionários para o Brasil, “antiga fortaleza de Satanás”: Estou nesta cidade (Rio de Janeiro) há duas semanas, e lamento que minha permanência seja necessariamente breve. Creio que uma porta oportuna para a pregação do Evangelho está aberta neste vasto Império. Os privilégios religiosos permitidos pelo governo do Brasil são muito mais tolerantes do que eu esperava achar em um país católico. Porque esse governo avança tão rapidamente no comércio e nas artes, porque é o mais liberal de todos os países católicos do mundo na tolerância religiosa e porque abarca diversos portos populosos, tais como São Salvador, Rio Grande e Rio de Janeiro, esta última a maior cidade da América do Sul, sou da opinião que ele apresenta um campo perante os servos do Senhor Jesus Cristo que pode ser corretamente descrito como „pronto para a ceifa‟. Desta iniciativa surgiu a primeira missão metodista no país, entre 1836-1841, sob os cuidados de Justin Spaulding que, logo após chegar, organizou a primeira escola dominical do Brasil, e começou a realizar cultos públicos em sua casa. Segundo ele, a audiência aumentou tanto que teve que alugar um salão para acomodar ou ouvintes. Três meses após sua chegada, fez um relatório minucioso sobre seu trabalho e, ao lê-lo, podemos destacar o ponto que chamou mais a atenção do americano - a escravidão (IBID, p. 102): Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 336 Qual será o resultado final da escravidão e quando ela terminará neste país, é impossível dizer. Muito embora o tráfico de escravos seja contra a lei da nação, mesmo assim estou informado de que nunca foi explorado em tão grande escala como agora. Navios continuamente se preparam e zarpam deste porto com destino às margens sangrentas da África, nesse negócio de pirata. Os magistrados, solenemente juramentados a fazer cumprir as leis, freqüentemente fecham os olhos e recebem subornos. Ninguém ousa cumprir as leis, e ninguém poderia se quisesse, tão fraco é o princípio moral neste governo. Tudo o que podemos fazer é usar diligentemente e mui discretamente os meios, observar os sinais dos tempos, e entrar por toda porta aberta pela Providência, para prestar-lhes serviço... Outro motivo de espanto para o missionário foi a “ignorância” do povo brasileiro. Seria extremamente válido, segundo ele, abrir escolas para a população, pois esta só não era mais culta por causa do clero católico, que ao deixar de cumprir seu papel de educar o povo, relegava-o a uma existência obscura. Além disso, o próprio clero representava o último exemplo a ser seguido, pois era flagrante o descumprimento do celibato, havendo padres com numerosas famílias que não sofriam nenhuma espécie de repreensão. O cúmulo teria ocorrido quando surgiu um projeto de lei para acabar com o celibato, “e um dos mais importantes argumentos ou razões apresentadas em abono da medida foi a necessidade de redimir e salvar a conduta moral do clero e do povo...”. A “missão Spaulding” acabou em 1841, e entre os principais motivos de seu término estavam a falta de pessoal missionário, a dificuldade de acesso direto ao povo brasileiro, e as dificuldades financeiras advindas da crise econômica nos EUA chamada de “Pânico de 37”. Entretanto, o fervor missionário em relação ao Brasil estava apenas em seu período inicial. Os missionários de outras denominações, que chegariam nos anos seguintes, recrudesceram o discurso e continuaram apostando na exposição dos problemas do Brasil e na necessidade de modernização das estruturas públicas, das leis e dos costumes, continuando a apresentar o catolicismo como um grande vilão e o protestantismo como o verdadeiro protagonista das grandes mudanças que o mundo daquela época estava vendo em termos científicos, tecnológicos e culturais. Contou, para isso, com a ajuda de membros da elite política, que desejavam urgentemente a separação da Igreja e do Estado. Uma das estratégias mais utilizadas para que o protestantismo se estabelecesse no Brasil, ainda no século XIX, foi a adoção de "identidades" que o vinculassem a Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 337 causas como o progresso, a civilização e a modernidade. Esse discurso se disseminou entre os missionários e os principais órgãos de comunicação religiosa criados com a finalidade de apresentar a "verdadeira religião" como a "tábua de salvação" do Brasil, que nesse período oscilava entre a desintegração e a consolidação de um Estado Nacional. As investidas missionárias que mais se destacaram foram a de grupos norte- americanos como os presbiterianos e os metodistas, que apresentaram os Estados Unidos como o ápice a que uma nação moderna poderia chegar. James Fletcher, missionário que ostensivamente pregou as vantagens de uma aproximação do Brasil com a nação confederada, foi o precursor daqueles que usariam o discurso que aliava o protestantismo ao progresso das nações. David Gueiros Vieira (1980. p. 62-63) toma Fletcher como um dos personagens centrais de sua obra acerca do protestantismo e o desenrolar da Questão Religiosa no Brasil. O apresenta como o "pioneiro do trabalho protestante missionário no Brasil e um dos que, mais ativamente, contribuíram para o movimento de protestantização do Império e para as lutas em favor da completa liberdade de culto." Um ponto para o qual Vieira (p. 63) chama atenção é o fato de que Fletcher muito rapidamente se sentiu responsável como pastor não só dos marinheiros e americanos residentes no Rio, mas via a necessidade de "converter o Brasil ao protestantismo e ao 'progresso'. Para ele, o protestantismo equalizava-se ao desenvolvimento econômico, científico e tecnológico." James Cooley Fletcher nasceu na cidade de Indianápolis, capital do Estado de Indiana, nos Estados Unidos, em 1823. Já adulto, adquiriu vasto conhecimento intelectual formando-se pela Phillips Exeter Academy, Brown University e Princeton Theological Seminary, além de ter estudado na Suíça e na França, aprimorando-se no idioma francês visto que tinha por objetivo trabalhar como missionário no Haiti; surgiu, todavia, a oportunidade de assumir o posto de Capelão da Legação Americana no Rio de Janeiro, onde assumiu seu posto em 13 de fevereiro de 1851. Quem negociou com o Governo Brasileiro as condições de suas atividades religiosas foi Robert Cumming Schenck, Enviado Extraordinário e Ministro Plenipotenciário dos Estados Unidos para o Brasil e Argentina, que nomeou o missionário com o título de "Adido", para que assim obtivesse "proteção oficial". Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 338 É a atuação de Fletcher junto à diplomacia estadunidense, à política brasileira e às aventuras comerciais por ele protagonizadas que denuncia o tipo de sensibilidade que ele tinha acerca de qual o melhor método pelo qual o Brasil seria convertido ao protestantismo; na conclusão de Vieira (p. 67): o conceito de Fletcher quanto à sua missão, era fazer amigos entre os da alta sociedade a fim de obter proteção oficial para si e para seus colegas. Ainda mais, por suas outras declarações e por ações posteriores, é evidente que queria levar o Brasil para o mundo 'moderno' e do 'progresso' (sempre enfatizando a idéia de que tal 'progresso' vinha das nações protestantes), ajudando-o a chegar a condições de igualdade com o adiantamento tecnológico e científico que estava ocorrendo na Europa e nos Estados Unidos. Tendo retornado aos Estados Unidos em 1853 em decorrência dos problemas de saúde de sua mulher, Fletcher voltaria ao Brasil no ano seguinte, mudando de estratégia e apresentando-se como um "amigo da nação" e "filantropo". Organizou uma exposição industrial americana no Rio de Janeiro, inaugurada por D. Pedro II no Museu Nacional e visitada com grande entusiasmo; fez contatos com o Visconde de Itaboraí, Inspetor Geral do Departamento de Educação Primária e Secundária com o intuito de "introduzir no Brasil livros escolares americanos"; foi um elo forte entre o poeta americano Henry Wadsworth Longfellow e o Imperador, que muito o admirava; e fez uma ostensiva propaganda do Brasil através de seu livro O Brasil e os Brasileiros, que teve sucessivas edições atualizadas nos Estados Unidos e que, durante muito tempo, foi a principal obra consultada quando se queria saber algo sobre o país e seus costumes. A partir dessas observações é que vai se tornando claro que os planos de Fletcher envolviam, mais uma vez segundo Vieira (p. 74): Aumentar o prestígio dos Estados Unidos, que ele apresentava no Brasil como uma nação 'protestante' com leis, costumes, sistema educacional, economia e religião dignos de serem imitados, e criar um forte elo entre o Brasil e aquela nação. O progresso americano e o seu extraordinário desenvolvimento que, na mente de Fletcher foram produzidos pelo protestantismo, fluiriam então para o Brasil na forma de comércio e emigração de empresários de todos os tipos, negociantes, industriais, agricultores pioneiros, mecânicos, engenheiros, que trariam consigo sua religião, desse modo trazendo o 'verdadeiro progresso' para o Império Brasileiro. Enfim, seria a conquista do Brasil pela cultura, 'progresso' e comércio americanos. (...) Assim, o que Fletcher obviamente tentou foi apresentar os Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 339 Estados Unidos como o supra-sumo de um tipo de 'progresso' que também podia ser alcançado pelo Brasil. Assim foram estabelecidos os parâmetros da propaganda protestante no Brasil. O Brasil só alcançaria o patamar de uma nação civilizada e moderna se aceitasse os investimentos norte-americanos (e protestantes) na melhoria das condições técnicas e tecnológicas das estruturas públicas (transporte, navegação), na descaracterização da escravidão (os primeiros missionários norte-americanos a vir para o Brasil eram da parte abolicionista dos Estados Unidos), e na valorização da educação formal, considerada o ponto de partida para o avanço da sociedade brasileira. É preciso destacar que Fletcher iniciou um "estilo" de propaganda protestante muito copiado ao longo das décadas seguintes pelos grupos ligados ao chamado "protestantismo histórico" – a "denúncia" das mazelas sofridas pela população brasileira, a falta de educação formal, a chaga da escravidão e o desprestígio do trabalho manual, todos atrasos ligados à supremacia católica no país. Um exemplo é a crítica feita pelos editores do jornal A Imprensa Evangélica , em 16 de março de 1872, e em 6 de novembro de 1875: A igreja que se opõe à liberdade e ao progresso não é a igreja de Cristo. (...) A religião cristã, à cuja sombra se têm formado as sociedades modernas, com a sua civilização e com o seu progresso, nunca foi inimiga da liberdade civil, que é a suma do progresso do nosso século. O protestantismo é o verdadeiro amigo da instrução, sempre a favorece e protege, e isso com o único fim de desenvolver a nova geração segundo as regras do Evangelho, e de habilitá-la a bem preencher os deveres que a aguardam. E, numa pérola pela elegibilidade dos acatólicos, em 29 de novembro de 1879, já no período posterior à promulgação do dogma da infalibilidade papal, citando outro jornal (O Cruzeiro): Aí está. A lei civil exclui da elegibilidade para a representação os acatólicos: ora são justamente os católicos os menos próprios para exercerem o cargo de representantes do povo. É fácil de demonstrar. Ninguém pode ser católico sem aceitar o Syllabus em toda a sua íntegra. O Syllabus é inteiramente contrário à civilização moderna, sujeita o Estado á igreja, afirma a supremacia do papa sobre o governo Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 340 de todas as nações, proclama a necessidade da inquisição, isto é, o direito da igreja de compelir pelos castigos corporais, pelos tormentos, pela fogueira, os homens a crerem nos princípios e fatos relatados pelo clero etc. (grifo meu) Ora, ninguém dirá que um homem possa sustentar tais princípios e exercer dignamente o papel de representante da nação. Quem os sustentasse na tribuna, provavelmente havia de ter um acompanhamento um pouco incômodo ao sair da casa do parlamento. Como é, pois, que se diz que só os católicos são competentes para a representação nacional, quando são justamente os acatólicos quem está (sic) inteiramente livre de tais ligações, de toda a obrigação de se submeter a um poder estrangeiro? Em vista de tais considerações não poderia sustentar-se que um secretário de Vishnu pode dar um muito melhor cidadão de que um católico? Assim, o que se vê é que a tradicional oposição entre catolicismo (atraso) e protestantismo (progresso) foi construída paulatinamente a partir da iniciativa de homens como Daniel Kidder e James Fletcher, sobretudo o último, que teve mais anos de atuação no Brasil. Surge com eles a propaganda do "progresso" aliado ao protestantismo e principalmente com Fletcher a conquista de aliados entre a aristocracia brasileira em busca de privilégios. Os amigos do Progresso Uma lista preliminar apresentada por David Vieira (p. 84-85) das amizades feitas por Fletcher no Brasil indica que ele se aliou a um número razoável de homens que se consideravam "amigos do progresso" e que compartilhavam com ele o desejo de trazer melhorias técnicas, políticas e culturais para o Brasil. Entre esses amigos se encontravam o Ministro Joaquim Maria Nascente de Azambuja (1812-1896), educador e diplomata, que, ao que tudo indica, foi um cooperador de Fletcher nas iniciativas de imigração de confederados e imigrantes acatólicos da Europa para o Brasil, além dos interesses que envolviam a instrução pública; e o Deputado Francisco Leite de Bittencourt Sampaio (1807-1892), um homem de letras altamente influenciado pela literatura anglo-saxônica, adepto do espiritismo e um dos primeiros a lutar pela causa comum com os protestantes da inteira liberdade de culto. Outra amizade importante foi a de Francisco Otaviano de Almeida Rosa (1825- 1889), líder liberal na câmara dos deputados, diplomata, muito bem relacionado com jovens intelectuais como Urbano Pessoa, Tavares Bastos e José Bonifácio (o moço) e um dos jornalistas apaixonadamente liberais de quem James Fletcher se tornou amigo. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 341 Segundo Vieira (p. 89-90), em 1854, começou a editar o jornal Correio Mercantil, no Rio de Janeiro, de propriedade de seu sogro, o baiano Francisco Alves Branco Muniz Barreto, que foi financiado a partir de 1849 pela Legação Britânica, embora esse dado definitivamente não signifique que suas posições políticas tenham sido assim determinadas. Almeida Rosa era amante da literatura inglesa, entusiasta da emancipação dos escravos, da abertura à navegação estrangeira do Amazonas e da melhoria da instrução pública. Estas posturas podem tê-lo aproximado de Fletcher, que tinha as mesmas opiniões. Foi esse jornal que deu apoio incondicional ao Rev. Robert Kalley (que trazia cartas de recomendação de Fletcher), publicando artigos seus, ganhando as características de uma publicação altamente anti-católica. Outros amigos de Fletcher no Brasil foram Dr. Caetano Furquim de Almeida (1816-1879), grande homem de negócios que era favorável à separação entre Igreja e Estado; Dr. Manoel Pacheco da Silva (1812-1889), educador e cientista a quem Fletcher enviava os missionários protestantes que estavam chegando ao Brasil; e o Senador José Inácio da Silva Mota (1807-1893), senador de Goiás, anticlerical, ferrenhamente anti- escravista e entusiasta do casamento civil. Nenhum deles se tornou protestante; todos ajudaram, em sua medida, a abrir as portas do Brasil ao protestantismo. Um destaque é dado à amizade entre Fletcher e o alagoano Aureliano Cândido Tavares Bastos (1839-1875), advogado, jornalista, político e publicista, que, mais do que explicitamente, admirava os Estados Unidos, amava o "progresso", pleiteando apoio para causas como a "abertura do Rio Amazonas ao tráfico internacional, o comércio livre, a liberalização das leis comerciais, a descentralização do governo", bem como estimulava a imigração de ingleses, americanos e alemães, defendendo medidas que a tornassem mais viável, como a melhoria do sistema de transporte internacional, o casamento civil e a liberdade de culto, que ele considerava o remédio para todas as mazelas do Brasil. (VIEIRA, 1980, p. 95) A questão da abertura do Rio Amazonas à navegação internacional suscitou alguns embates que envolveram até a garantia da soberania nacional. Desde a década de 20 do século XIX, os Estados Unidos demonstravam interesse na região amazônica, recrudescendo os esforços de aproximação a partir de 1840. Para o governo estadunidense, a Amazônia era uma região de riquezas inesgotáveis que deveria ser aberta a todos, o que obrigou o Brasil a adotar uma rígida política externa, cuidando para que não atrapalhasse suas relações econômicas com o país norte-americano, o que Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 342 desagradou a grande maioria dos liberais brasileiros que viam como extremamente vantajosa a aproximação com os Estados Unidos, considerada a "nação do progresso" (PAZZINATO, FREITAS e FERREIRA, 2000, p. 84). A tentativa de estabelecer uma linha de navegação a vapor entre os Estados Unidos e o Brasil não era nova. A primeira notícia conhecida é anterior a 1850 e é a proposta de William Wheelwright, fundador da Pacific Mail Steamship Line, que não vingou; a proposta seguinte (1851-1852) é a de John Gardiner, feita ao Congresso Americano, proposta essa que atraiu o interesse de Fletcher e ganhou divulgação dele nos Estados Unidos e no Brasil. Entretanto, foi a proposta do ex-seminarista presbiteriano, antigo político e jornalista Thomas Rainey que mais chamou atenção de Tavares Bastos e foi objeto de ostensiva propaganda sua. A partir de 1854, Rainey envidou esforços para estabelecer uma linha de navegação entre Nova Iorque e Belém, conseguindo no ano seguinte o apoio do Correio Mercantil e dos políticos liberais da região amazônica. O governo brasileiro, temendo que essa fosse uma estratégia para se apossar da Amazônia, considerou que o ideal seria estender a linha de navegação até o Rio de Janeiro. O subsídio para essa linha foi aprovado sob a liderança do 20º Gabinete, presidido pelo líder maçônico paraense Senador Francisco José Furtado, após a torrencial propaganda feita por Tavares Bastos e Fletcher, que acreditaram que a partir de então a imigração americana promoveria o "progresso" e a "elevação moral" do Brasil. Um episódio também ligado à questão amazônica é a expedição do Prof. Louis Agassiz, entre 1865-1866. De acordo com Maria Helena Pereira Toledo Machado (2007 p. 72-73): Os objetivos da expedição ao Brasil não se esclarecem totalmente se não levamos em conta os aspectos menos aparentes desse empreendimento. Por trás do discurso público do cientista-viajante tecia-se um outro discurso que ligava Agassiz aos interesses norte- americanos na Amazônia, conectado a duas linhas de ação diplomática e de grupos de interesses: uma primeira, à política da navegação fluvial e abertura do Amazonas à navegação internacional, e uma segunda, aos projetos de assentamento da população negra norte-americana, como colonos ou aprendizes, na várzea amazônica. Não que Agassiz tenha pessoalmente montado o esquema da viagem para realizar um trabalho diplomático de proselitismo dos interesses norte-americanos na Amazônia. Mas, bem ao seu estilo, ele não perdeu a oportunidade de colocar-se em posição de influência, tornando a viagem ao Brasil, organizada no contexto da Guerra Civil, ocasião para influenciar positivamente Pedro II, com o qual Agassiz Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 343 trocava correspondência desde 1863, com relação aos projetos de abertura da Amazônia. James Fletcher também esteve envolvido na propaganda da Expedição Thayer. Quando da chegada de Agassiz e aproveitando-se de seu prestígio, o "amigo do progresso" teve mais uma oportunidade de estabelecer uma relação direta (explicitamente não verdadeira) entre o desenvolvimento científico dos Estados Unidos e bandeiras como a emancipação dos escravos, a Sociedade de Imigração Internacional, as linhas de navegação a vapor, e, é claro, o protestantismo. De acordo com David Gueiros Vieira (1980, p. 79): A causa, entretanto, que mais se beneficiou com a presença de Agassiz foi a campanha de publicidade empreendida por Fletcher, e por um grupo variado de 'amigos do progresso', que há muito tentava impressionar os brasileiros com o 'progresso' que o protestantismo podia trazer-lhes. Para onde quer que Agassiz fosse, era seguido de perto por Fletcher ou por seus amigos, tais como Dr. Thomas Rainey, Dr. Pacheco Manoel da Silva e Tavares Bastos. Assim, uma série de acontecimentos públicos ligaram (sic) o cientista de Harvard a Fletcher, ou a seus amigos, desta maneira trazendo uma glória refletida sobre eles e sua causa. A passagem de Agassiz pelo Brasil suscitou também a suspeita de que o país seria alvo de uma "invasão" protestante, que incentivaria a alteração da ordem estabelecida baseada na oficialidade do catolicismo como religião do Estado. Isso se deveu à expectativa de uma emigração em massa dos Estados Unidos para o Brasil, entre 1866 e 1867, em alguma medida pelo fato de que o término da Guerra de Secessão não havia eliminado as rivalidades entre as partes Norte e Sul do país. Vieira (p. 212- 214) explica que quando os nortistas passaram o dominar o território sulista, algo parecido com um novo Êxodo foi pregado; se já não havia espaço para os escravocratas no país, era necessário ocupar um novo território, e o Brasil não deixou de se tornar um destino desejável àqueles que queriam reconstruir seu mundo ideal fora da América do Norte. Não aconteceu necessariamente uma "invasão", mas um número considerável de imigrantes (e não só estadunidenses) chegou e se estabeleceu no Brasil. E paulatinamente as questões acerca de seus direitos civis foram sendo apresentadas ao governo brasileiro por políticos liberais que incluíam em suas petições a liberdade de culto para todos os acatólicos. Entre eles estavam, claro, Tavares Bastos e Inácio de Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 344 Barros Barreto com suas Doze Proposições Sobre a Legitimidade Religiosa da Verdadeira Tolerância dos Cultos. Além deles se destacou também o juiz Antônio Joaquim Macedo Soares que publicou o polêmico panfleto Da Liberdade Religiosa no Brasil: Estudo de Direito Constitucional, em 1866. (VIEIRA, 1980, p. 218-219) A exclusividade do catolicismo como única religião do Império começou a ser questionada e "a audácia dos que clamavam pela liberdade de culto estava ficando mais acentuada cada dia, e os ultramontanos sentiam-se acossados neste assunto tanto pelos protestantes quanto pelos liberais." (p. 219) A reação ultramontana propôs a educação dos fiéis, através de panfletos que descaracterizavam o protestantismo e através da ação intensa dos frades capuchinhos que percorreram os sertões pregando contra a "falsa religião". É interessante notar que as disputas entre protestantes e capuchinhos, que possuíam ideais de civilidade e moralidade muito semelhantes, duraram muitas décadas, sendo que aqueles utilizaram seu jornal de maior circulação no Brasil para criticar chistosamente os frades, como neste trecho em que A Imprensa Evangélica comenta a notícia de um outro jornal, em 16 de dezembro de 1871: Sem comentário. – O jornal Sete de Setembro, folha que se publica na importante vila do Pillar, na Província de Alagoas, deu a seguinte e importantíssima notícia no seu número de 29 de Outubro último. É digna de leitura e meditação. Ei-la: 'Ontem houve nesta vila uma procissão de penitência, promovida pelo Rev. Capuchinho Frei José Maria de Catanisseta. 'Reunindo o povo pelas 5 horas da tarde em frente da igreja do Rosario, em número de 5.000 pessoas, pouco mais ou menos, os homens trazendo uma coroa de espinhos e uma corda ao pescoço, e as mulheres um véu branco sobre a cabeça com esta inscrição: I.B.M.V.C. – Sit nobis salus et protectio, saíram em procissão, conduzindo os homens os grande cruzeiro que se devia arvorar em frente da nova matriz, e o andor do Senhor dos Passos, e as mulheres os andor de Nossa Senhora das Dores. Ia também sob o palio o Sagrado Lenho, conduzido pelo Rev. Vigário da freguesia. 'Todas as pessoas que acompanhavam a procissão conduziam uma vela acesa, e o efeito dessas 5.000 luzes ou mais era o mais belo e arrebatador. 'O préstito seguiu na melhor ordem, e voltou á igreja donde saiu sem incidente algum desagradável, antes notava-se em todos sinais do mais profundo recolhimento e verdadeira compunção, e em tudo a gravidade digna do ato.' Isto não precisa comentário. Conseguir que uma população se apresente aos olhos do mundo de coroas de espinhos e corda ao pescoço é tê-la conduzido ao supremo grau de civilização. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 345 Mais 50 Catanissetas espalhados pelo Brasil, e dentro de dez anos seremos a primeira nação do mundo. A chamada "Questão Racial" também é discutida por David Gueiros Vieira que a apresenta como tema freqüente da preocupação dos liberais brasileiros, que viam na imigração de homens brancos, uma saída para a preguiça, lascívia e atraso causados, segundo eles, pela maioria da população de cor e sua adoção da religião romana. Diz o autor (1980, p. 239), num parágrafo central do livro: Parece-nos, também, pela evidência à mão, que o raciocínio dos liberais era de que os imigrantes brancos protestantes seriam uma arma de múltiplo propósito, com a qual se combateria todo tipo de 'atraso': (1) os imigrantes brancos protestantes trariam conhecimento técnico para desenvolver o país; (2) a população branca por fim superaria a negra e (3) o imigrante protestante seria, afinal, econômica e politicamente bastante forte para contrabalançar o poder político e a influência da Igreja Católica. Essas afirmações demonstram a correspondência de interesses entre esses liberais e missionários como Fletcher, que ensinou aos proselitistas protestantes que chegavam ao Brasil a "alma do negócio". Ambos os grupos queriam ocupar espaços da sociedade que usualmente haviam sido entregues ao domínio cultural do catolicismo, e para obter êxito investiram na propaganda da incompetência e imoralidade do clero, do caráter obsoleto de um "Estado Moderno" manter uma religião oficial, e das vantagens trazidas por países mais "civilizados" e "moralizados" como os Estados Unidos. Usaram, inexoravelmente, a imprensa, sem a qual se poderia questionar o sucesso da empreitada. Aliaram-se em torno de suas mútuas necessidades. Estabelecer o antagonismo entre o protestantismo e o catolicismo, mostrando o primeiro como defensor da liberdade de idéias e culto, mola propulsora do progresso, vanguarda da modernidade e da ciência, e o último como o símbolo do atraso, pobreza, ignorância e superstição foi fundamental para manipular suas identidades ante à nascente opinião pública e demarcar os limites entre os quais agiriam ambos os entes políticos. James Cooley Fletcher foi embora do Brasil provavelmente em 1869. Sua atuação no Brasil se deu, em grande medida, num momento de consolidação do pensamento liberal, momento do qual se alimentou e pelo qual foi também alimentado, lançando as bases do que seria o ponto central da propaganda protestante no Brasil e Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 346 ganhando vantagens legislativas para ele e seus colegas pregadores da "verdade" e do "progresso". Educação e Civilização Esta associação foi fundamental na construção da identidade dos líderes protestantes no Brasil. Foi-se estabelecendo, ao longo de seu proselitismo, a oposição direta entre o catolicismo, representando o atraso, a ignorância, a superstição e o preconceito com o trabalho manual, e o protestantismo, defensor da liberdade de ideias e culto, mola propulsora do progresso, e vanguarda da modernidade e da ciência. O principal veículo de comunicação protestante no século XIX foi o jornal Imprensa Evangélica. O objetivo mais explícito do periódico presbiteriano era representar a comunidade protestante, mostrando seus ideais e sua opinião sobre os mais variados assuntos, com ênfase naqueles de cunho religioso, teológico e espiritual. Organizado no Rio de Janeiro, em 1864, pela iniciativa, entre outros, do missionário estadunidense Ashbell Green Simonton, A Imprensa... é, até onde se sabe, o primeiro periódico protestante em língua portuguesa. Sua circulação não foi pequena, se levarmos em consideração o alcance das missões presbiterianas no Brasil, ao final do século XIX, e o fato de que os missionários eram os responsáveis por divulgar entre os fiéis conquistados a iniciação no mundo dos letrados e, obviamente, a possibilidade de fazer a assinatura do jornal, o que pode significar também a alternativa de consumir um produto que lhes conferiria a noção de pertencimento à comunidade e a identificação com a nova fé adquirida pela conversão ao protestantismo. O que chama atenção, entretanto, é o cunho pedagógico de muitas das matérias publicadas em suas páginas. Os pastores e leigos responsáveis pela redação do periódico utilizavam-se desse mecanismo-chave de transmissão de idéias que é a imprensa para veicular as concepções de vida consideradas adequadas aos verdadeiros cristãos, discutir questões muito variadas, como a política imperial (e, posteriormente, republicana), a "decadência moral do catolicismo" brasileiro, a ética do trabalho, o modelo ideal contido na família nuclear, cuidados para com a infância e a juventude, além, é claro, de discussões teológicas que objetivavam descaracterizar o Catolicismo como religião cristã, apresentando o Protestantismo como o único agente capaz de guiar o Brasil pelo caminho do progresso, modernização e moralidade nacionais. Nesse sentido, também são apresentados os principais delitos pelos quais os "cristãos Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 347 verdadeiros" seriam disciplinados pela hierarquia eclesiástica protestante que estava sendo formada concomitantemente à expansão do jornal e do proselitismo da denominação. O jornal fez muitas críticas ao sistema educacional brasileiro em suas páginas. Em 2 de julho de 1870, discutia os números relativos à educação apresentados por um Ministro do Império à Assembléia Geral, que afirmava haverem apenas 3.962 estabelecimentos de instrução primária e secundária, para um número de 126.846 indivíduos, enquanto que nos Estados Unidos havia duzentas mil escolas para sete milhões de alunos, com instrução de alto nível. O periódico disparou: "No Brasil existe um estabelecimento de instrução pública por 2.019 habitantes, ao passo que nos Estados Unidos cada escola pública está na razão de 185 habitantes." O que chama atenção neste trecho é que a comparação estabelecida entre os Estados Unidos e o Brasil em questões educacionais é feita, de acordo com o jornal, pelo próprio ministro, o que é bastante plausível se levarmos em consideração o que já foi afirmado anteriormente: muitos políticos brasileiros se tornaram amigos de missionários protestantes e também adotaram a perspectiva de que uma aproximação com a nação confederada traria mais benefícios (como a modernização educacional) ao Brasil. Rosalind Thomas (2005, p. 21-30), desconfiou da associação direta entre letramento e civilização e perguntou: "Até que ponto o letramento é um agente de mudança?". Segundo a autora, é muito cômoda e incorreta a "correlação entre valores ocidentais, modernidade, desenvolvimento econômico e letramento." Concordo com todas essas observações. Uma afirmação, em particular, me chama atenção (p. 30): A busca do letramento tem muitas vezes uma função religiosa totalmente desvinculada dos ideais de progresso econômico ou cultural. Isso sugere que suas aplicações e usos podem ser tão variados quanto a cultura humana. (...) O princípio por trás disso era o ideal luterano de que todos tinham de ser capazes de ler a Palavra de Deus por si mesmos. Ele pode ter tido outros efeitos colaterais, mas as metas e conseqüências imediatas eram religiosas (e protestantes). No que concerne à instalação do protestantismo no Brasil, entretanto, todo o processo de incentivo à leitura e de estímulo à modernização da educação brasileira demonstra que para aqueles homens, o letramento da população brasileira estava, sim, Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 348 vinculado aos ideais de progresso. Obviamente, nos dias atuais, saber ler e escrever já não é requisito indispensável à prática religiosa protestante, tome-se como exemplo os grupos pentecostais e neo-pentecostais, que valorizam muito mais aspectos místicos da relação com o sagrado. No século XIX, contudo, aquele "ideal luterano" foi ressignificado pelos líderes protestantes no Brasil. Não se estimulava a leitura "apenas" para que o fiel pudesse exercer a prática da livre interpretação das Escrituras; havia também a expectativa de que as sociedades se tornassem mais sadias, moralizadas, modernas, e civilizadas pelo "poder do conhecimento"; o trabalho manual seria mais valorizado e, por conseqüência, mais produtivo. Este é o ideal apresentado pel'A Imprensa Evangélica, em 16 de agosto de 1873: O trabalho dirigido pela inteligência constrói nossas casas, pontes, caminhos de ferro, navios; fabrica nossos relógios, pianos, imprensa; em uma palavra, engendra a civilização. A educação eleva o trabalhador: quando ele for tão instruído e tão bem educado como as classes não sujeitas a trabalhos manuais, gozará da mesma consideração. Cincinato lavrando seu campo, Franklyn compondo em sua tipografia, Hugh Miller trabalhando o granito em uma pedreira, não eram inferiores a ninguém, ao menos aos olhos daqueles cuja estima vale alguma coisa. A instrução não inspira desamor ao trabalho: incita a fazer cumprir pela máquina a parte do trabalho que só exige força. Dizem: 'Mas se todos os homens forem instruídos, quem trabalhará?' A resposta é simples: – todos. Somente a maior parte dos trabalhos serão executados (sic) por forças naturais, dirigidas pelo espírito humano, e pelas forças musculares da humanidade. A instrução conduz-nos ao bem estar, porque 'knowledge is power, porque ciência é potência e a potência gera riqueza.' A instrução aumenta nossas fruições, nossa ventura. O ignorante apenas conhece os grosseiros gozos corporais, efêmeros prazeres, aliás compensados pela necessidade, que é sofrimento. O homem ilustrado goza das belezas da natureza e das artes, da poesia, da música, do comércio intelectual com seus semelhantes, da permuta dos sentimentos nobres, prazeres estes duráveis, e tanto mais vivazes quanto mais divididos, tanto mais isentos de dissabor, quanto mais puros e dignos de uma alma imortal. (grifos meus) E em 6 de novembro de 1875: O protestantismo é o verdadeiro amigo da instrução, sempre a favorece e protege, e isso com o único fim de desenvolver a nova geração segundo as regras do Evangelho, e de habilitá-la a bem preencher os deveres que a aguardam. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 349 É importante destacar que as atividades literárias, bem como a utilização da imprensa foram aliadas importantíssimas para alimentar a idéia de que os protestantes eram os guardiões da liberdade de expressão e de ideologia religiosa, reivindicação que contou com a colaboração de homens como o Deputado Francisco Leite de Bittencourt Sampaio (1807-1892), de acordo com David Vieira (p. 84-85) um homem de letras altamente influenciado pela literatura anglo-saxônica, adepto do espiritismo e um dos primeiros a lutar pela causa comum com os protestantes da inteira liberdade de culto. Além do periódico A Imprensa Evangélica, também foram criados outros jornais em outras cidades do Brasil, como o Púlpito Evangélico (1874-1875/ 1888-1900), que compilava os sermões dos pastores; o Pregador Cristão (1877-1887); Salvação de Graça (1875-1876), o primeiro periódico protestante do Nordeste; e o Estandarte (1893- dias atuais), que se tornou o órgão oficial da Igreja Presbiteriana Independente do Brasil, criada em 1903. O conteúdo central dessas publicações era basicamente o mesmo: apresentar as vantagens da adoção da "verdadeira religião" e os erros da religião oficial. De acordo com Alderi Souza de Matos (2007, p. 18): O protestantismo era um movimento de origem estrangeira, anglo- saxônica, que buscava espaço num país de tradição latina e católica romana. O fato de que o Brasil era, há séculos, um país nominalmente cristão, tornava imperioso que os novos grupos justificassem sua presença no país. Daí o fato de grande parte das publicações ter o intuito de demonstrar as debilidades da religião majoritária e os valores tidos como superiores, tanto religiosos quanto éticos, das igrejas evangélicas. Essa mentalidade era partilhada pelos presbiterianos. No que se refere às instituições de ensino propriamente ditas, o mesmo autor, em outro texto (1999, p. 3), mostra a diferenciação básica que se fez entre as escolas "dominicais" e as escolas "paroquiais", ainda que ambas, em princípio, fossem construídas ao lado dos templos religiosos. Nas primeiras, o ensino era eminentemente voltado para assuntos de religião, estudos da Bíblia e teologia, e tinha como público os filhos dos fiéis membros das Igrejas. Zózimo Trabuco (2009, p. 47-48) fez uma análise do significado da Escola Dominical para os grupos protestantes, em especial os batistas: A Escola Bíblica Dominical (EBD) foi desde o início um instrumento fundamental para a construção da identidade religiosa dos fiéis entre os protestantes, em especial os batistas. A EBD era fundamental enquanto Escola porque a educação constituía-se um valor Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 350 importante no pensamento missionário como elemento evangelizador e civilizatório. Era importante por ser Bíblica, ou seja, voltada principalmente ao estudo dos textos bíblicos que fundamentavam as crenças batistas e a visão de mundo do grupo sobre a sociedade. E por ser Dominical, uma vez que a guarda do Domingo de acordo com a interpretação batista do quarto mandamento, era a evidência de uma vida genuinamente cristã, e o descumprimento injustificado desse mandamento era motivo de disciplina e até exclusão. Assim como entre católicos e demais grupos protestantes o domingo, dia da Ressurreição de Cristo, foi interpretado pelos batistas como “o sábado cristão”, enquanto os Adventistas do Sétimo Dia guardavam o sábado de acordo com a interpretação literal do quarto mandamento, mas todos usavam o mesmo texto para ensinar a guarda do dia de repouso e consagração aos serviços religiosos. As escolas paroquiais, contudo, tinham o objetivo de alcançar famílias de pessoas que não eram ligadas às denominações protestantes; ensinavam matérias como Língua Portuguesa, História, Etiqueta, Música, etc.; tinham mulheres ensinando; e tinham um programa voltado para a valorização do trabalho nos moldes do pragmatismo americano, representando uma alternativa às famílias abastadas que não queriam colocar seus filhos em escolas católicas e confiavam na melhor qualidade do ensino protestante. Paul Pierson (1974, p. 108) faz uma lista dos alvos das instituições educacionais missionárias, que corroboram com a idéia de ter a melhoria da educação como uma bandeira protestante que geraria frutos não só "espirituais", mas também morais, sociais e culturais: Auxiliar na propagação do evangelho, especialmente entre as classes superiores; preparar os crentes para viverem em um nível econômico mais elevado, o que lhes permitiria sustentar a igreja e exercer maior influência na sociedade; proporcionar um ambiente educacional de nível espiritual e moral mais elevado do que o encontrado nas escolas públicas e católicas; preparar líderes para a igreja; e contribuir de maneira geral para a cultura e o progresso da nação ensinando os alunos a usarem seus recursos de modo mais eficiente. Em um dos primeiros relatórios escritos por Francis Joseph Christopher Schneider, o primeiro missionário presbiteriano a trabalhar em Salvador, há a informação de que ele e sua mulher começaram a ensinar alguns meninos a ler em sua própria casa, ainda no mesmo ano em que chegaram à cidade. Ele diz, em 19 de agosto de 1872: Minha mulher há quase um ano estabeleceu uma pequena escola de alguns meninos e meninas que costumam reunir duas vezes na semana e aos domingos para estudar a Bíblia, o Breve Catecismo e o Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 351 Catecismo para meninos, aprendendo alguns a ler, O número dos discípulos varia de 4 a 12. Esse modelo, ainda um tanto quanto híbrido, que mesclava a educação religiosa com o ensino da leitura, não surtiu muito efeito em Salvador, que só construiria um colégio presbiteriano, mas de forte tendência laica, já no século XX. Já no interior do Estado da Bahia, muitos esforços no sentido de civilizar a população foram feitos pela denominação presbiteriana. Ester Fraga Villas Boas Carvalho do Nascimento (2007, p. 103) afirma que O projeto civilizador presbiteriano para o hinterland brasileiro possuía três eixos de ação: religião, educação e saúde. Criando instituições nas três áreas, os mensageiros de Deus pretendiam transformar o hinterland brasileiro numa região 'civilizada', procurando produzir um novo modo de viver na sociedade em que se estabeleceram. E a educação serviria de veículo para a implementação de sua proposta. Para complementar estas informações, há um relato de um missionário batista que indica a explícita conexão feita pelas lideranças protestantes entre o investimento na educação e a proselitismo: É simplesmente impossível que a religião evangélica concorra com o catolicismo sem se munir do poder e da influência da educação. Cada sistema tem a sua ideologia e as suas vantagens. Nós evangélicos, estamos plenamente convencidos da superioridade dos nossos ideais, mas o povo culto em geral não aceita o Evangelho antes de ficar convencido da superioridade da cultura evangélica. (grifo meu) Afinal de contas a evangelização do Brasil implica no conflito dos dois sistemas e o resultado dependerá da possibilidade de demonstrar a superioridade do cristianismo evangélico. Não será fácil no Brasil onde a vantagem do treinamento de séculos está com os católicos. Os ideais, o modo de pensar, as instituições políticas e domésticas, os costumes e hábitos sociais do povo, o coletivismo social, são influenciados e formados pela religião católica, e naturalmente existem entre os próprios evangélicos os princípios de democracia e individualismo. (...) É justamente no campo da educação que o Evangelho produz os seus frutos seletos e superiores, homens preparados para falar com poder à consciência nacional. (CRABTREE: 1962. 139-140 pp.) Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 352 Um parêntesis importante: a educação da mulher O periódico A Imprensa Evangélica também contribuiu para uma discussão acerca da educação das mulheres, pois elas eram as educadoras por excelência no seio familiar; sua influência sobre a formação do caráter infantil era de tamanha importância que já não poderiam ser mais ignorantes, supersticiosas ou alienadas. O seu papel era colaborar para que as futuras gerações se apegassem ao amor ao trabalho, ao progresso e à moralização da sociedade, segundo o jornal. Uma série de artigos foi publicada tratando desse assunto, entretanto, o que chama atenção é o caráter ainda bastante conservador dado ao propósito pelo qual as mulheres deveriam ser educadas. A esfera da família nunca é abandonada. Nestas palavras do ex-padre e primeiro pastor protestante brasileiro, José Manoel da Conceição, escritas em 17 de dezembro de 1880, esta idéia se torna bastante clara: Com o aperfeiçoamento do ensino, e o desenvolvimento da educação, espera-se procriar uma geração melhor do que foi a de outrora. O muito que nos métodos seguidos até aqui, muito principalmente quanto aos meninos, faltava, o muito que por outro lado era supérfluo, ou menos necessário, bem como os inconvenientes e absurdos respectivamente ao tratamento dos alunos, tem excitado a atenção e reflexão dos homens filantrópicos e inteligentes. (…) Os progressos dos povos em experiências, descobertas e várias ciências contribuíram principalmente para a necessidade do melhoramento do ensino público da mocidade, para que o tempo de compreender tantas coisas dignas de se saber, de granjear tão vários conhecimentos úteis e necessários na vida civil, não seja muito limitado, ou fique com esforços e fadigas de aprender amargurada a idade mais prazenteira, e descuidadosa da vida humana, primitivamente consagrada ao desenvolvimento das forças do corpo. Mas, a força adestrada, a variedade das faculdades, riqueza dos vários conhecimentos, que hoje em dia não podem faltar ao homem em todas as condições do mundo social, são mais indispensáveis à mulher. Os requisitos do homem de hoje, visto que o campo de todas as artes, ofícios, negócios, ramos do comércio, ciências e outras precisões, se aumentou, tornaram-se mais amplos do que foram anteriormente. Porém a mulher conservou ainda as mesmas relações para com o mundo e a vida, que teve nos tempos remotos. O círculo e o gênero das obrigações da mulher demarcadas pelas eternas leis da natureza, em nada se aumentou nem diminuiu. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 353 Não obstante isto, julgava-se dever promover a civilização feminina, e aperfeiçoar o ensino desse sexo. Também esta tendência era louvável, e o será enquanto a instrução se limitar àquilo que convém ao destino natural da mulher. Esposa amorosa, companheira alegre, mãe cuidadosa da casa, primeira ama da mocidade, eis aí o emprego da mulher. (grifo meu) A idéia central do texto do pastor é a crítica às instituições dedicadas exclusivamente ao ensino de meninas, em regime de internato. Para ele, esse tipo de escola privava as meninas de um tipo de aprendizado que seria fundamental para o cumprimento de seu papel na sociedade: o de esposa e mãe cuidadosa; a vida doméstica era a escola da mulher, de onde ela não deveria ser retirada. A convivência e o serviço a pais, avós, irmãos, seria seu exercício diário e despertaria a sua verdadeira natureza, algo que não aconteceria se a menina ficasse durante anos somente convivendo com outras meninas, sem experimentar a realidade da vida em família. Outro texto que chama atenção no jornal é escrito por uma mulher declaradamente católica, mas que rejeita o ultramontanismo e a superstição, segundo ela, exacerbada de alguns setores da Igreja. Amélia C. da Silva Couto, que escreveu para o jornal Colombo, de onde A Imprensa transcreveu o artigo intitulado A mulher e a religião, em 4 de setembro de 1880, É evidentemente sabido que a mulher é a base primordial da família e conseqüentemente da sociedade. A ela é que está afeta a obrigação de preparar os cidadãos, por isso que é mãe e como tal educadora. Desde que a mulher seja ignorante, viciosa, fanática ou supersticiosa, educará pessimamente os filhos e péssima será a sociedade em que influírem eles. A crença religiosa, seja ela qual for, é uma necessidade para o espírito feminino, na nossa idade, mas essa crença deve ser aquela que brota espontânea no coração, como as flores silvestres na agrura dos campos incultos; é necessário que seja a crença sem fanatismo, sem superstição, que é o que abate o espírito. É necessário demonstrarmos que não somos essas estúpidas, essas fracalhonas, que, como dizem os homens, deixam-se facilmente iludir, deixam-se escravizar. A mulher de hoje também estuda, também pensa, sabendo conhecer o que é útil e o que é mau para a família. Ela também quer o progresso, também quer o engrandecimento da humanidade, pela realização das idéias modernas. (grifo meu) Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 354 A preocupação da autora foi mobilizar as mulheres que leriam o artigo a não se deixarem mais controlar por artifícios como a confissão, que dariam aos padres o controle sobre a opinião feminina, e lembrar que o pior inimigo das mentes ilustradas era a superstição, que subjugava as mentes e os espíritos da época, segundo ela. Em 13 de março de 1886, outro artigo sobre a educação feminina foi publicado pela Imprensa. Numa espécie de manual para a formação do caráter das moças, o autor (não identificado) lista uma série de medidas a serem tomadas pelos pais para garantir que suas filhas se tornassem o "impulso" para o progresso e modernização da sociedade brasileira, que, como já disse, foi a bandeira levantada pelos protestantes ao longo de sua fase proselitista no século XIX. É uma lista bastante longa, que enfatiza a responsabilidade paterna para com a educação moral das meninas no seio da família: Apenas a menina tiver atingido sete anos, deve-se ir ensinando a ler e escrever. À leitura se deve juntar a moral, amor ao trabalho, amor fraternal, amor filial, qual a importância da economia doméstica. Todos os dias devem as mães e os pais, como os mestres, ir conduzindo pacientemente o espírito da menina para estes princípios, com a teoria como a prática, a fim de formar-se o coração nobre da moça. Uma menina educada com doutrinas morais, com o costume do trabalho até a idade de 16 anos, ficará preparada para o necessário da vida e para o belo. (…) Só por estes dois meios – moralidade e instrução superior, é que a moça chegará ao império das boas qualidades, impondo-se à consideração da sociedade que aprecia o bom e o belo. Juntando-se à educação doméstica e moral a instrução superior, teremos moças com a energia capaz de resistir às desatenções prejudiciais à reputação daquelas que querem primar pela moral. A moça pode ser amável, dedicada, conversar agradavelmente com todos que privam com ela, porque com estas qualidades é que privará a efetividade do sexo, é que nobilitará a família e fará certamente a glória de sua pátria. A planta quando é nova presta-se a amoldar-se à vontade do cultivador, assim é a moça que, para ser virtuosa, ou moça assisada, deve ser preparada desde a infância. O que será de uma menina de temperamento próprio para assomos grosseiros e inquietudes, de desvanecimento para o luxo, se não tiver uma educação moral exemplar, se não se infiltrar no espírito juvenil a necessidade do trabalho, da economia, de docilidade, da paciência e do estudo das letras? Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 355 Quando as moças compreenderem que devem elevar-se pelas virtudes e pelo cultivo da inteligência, serão o mecanismo delicado que há de mover a sociedade pela síntese do progresso humano, sendo o belo sexo parte do impulso. (grifo meu) O último texto sobre esse assunto que quero mencionar (e que também é escrito por uma mulher) é bastante característico do que tenho dito até agora. A constância desse tema no periódico, contendo textos escritos pelas próprias mulheres, indica que o incentivo para uma atenção especial para com a educação feminina visava não a sua emancipação, ou sua participação mais ativa na sociedade, muito menos a igualdade entre os sexos, mas tinha, eminentemente, o objetivo de transformar as futuras mães e esposas em mestras dentro do domicílio, transferindo para elas e através delas os valores a serem cultivados pelos futuros trabalhadores. Enquanto o Brasil não se mobilizava por construir mais escolas e atender a um número maior de indivíduos, preparando-os para um futuro modernizador, às mães caberia o papel de disseminadoras deste ideal. E elas mereciam uma educação mais acurada porque seriam responsáveis também pela moralização daqueles indivíduos, desde a sua infância, pelo poder da sua persuasão. O texto de Maria Amélia Vaz de Carvalho é forte e claro, ainda que conservador Educar a mulher é arrancá-la na infância ao seu berço fofo e tépido de beijos, e levá-la por caminho de uma majestade austera que ela nunca criou. É prepará-la para a grande luta moral que é a vida, com os cuidados com que Esparta, a guerreira cidade antiga, preparava os seus filhos para a luta do corpo, para a vitória da destreza física. É associá-la pela compreensão e pela simpatia a todos os trabalhos e investigações do homem moderno; é dar-lhe ao lado deste um lugar honroso e definido, não igual, pois que são diversas as atribuições de ambos mas equivalente em direitos e em deveres. É fazer-lhe compreender bem claro que as seduções do corpo – seu orgulho supremo e seu constante desvanecimento – quando não são reflexo da formosura e da robustez da alma, não passam de um laço ignóbil, armado ao animal maléfico e bravio que todo o homem encerra em si. Educar a mulher [é] levá-la a compenetrar-se do seu papel providencial na família, e achá-la grande, útil, elevada, digna de saciar as mais levantadas ambições, e também – o que é de uma importância capital – de pesar como uma responsabilidade tremenda no ânimo mais altivo. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 356 É dar-lhe uma idéia perfeita do dever e da justiça, um ideal a que tendam incessantemente as aspirações do seu espírito, uma religião que a hipocrisia e os cálculos interesseiros não maculem nem amesquinhem, que se resuma para ela no sacrifício sem voluptuosidades dissolventes e amor sem êxtases histéricos e sem raptos de paixão sensual. Não basta, porém, exprimir tudo que se ousa esperar da mulher de amanhã, é preciso também lançar um olhar demorado e justo ao que é a mulher de hoje. Só assim poderão compreender-se os erros que é preciso desarraigar, os preconceitos que é indispensável destruir, a distância enorme que temos de transpor para chegar ao momento da sua completa e salutar transformação. O que se pode inferir, também, é que ao publicar os textos sobre e destas mulheres, sendo que uma era declaradamente católica, os líderes protestantes apresentavam a sua religião como aquela que daria às brasileiras a oportunidade de uma espécie de ascensão, de visibilidade, tornando-as as "musas" inspiradoras do progresso no Brasil, bem como as militantes no lar da modernização do ainda Império. O protestantismo, segundo eles, poderia resgatar as mulheres da obscuridade e ignorância. Considerações Finais Os dados apresentados ao longo deste trabalho objetivam ampliar as discussões que têm sido feitas a respeito dos desdobramentos da inserção protestante na cultura e na sociedade brasileira. São incursões que começam a partir de anseios da elite, como uma legislação de cunho mais liberal, que garantisse a abertura do sistema jurídico do Brasil aos imigrantes que trabalhariam já na nova ordem econômica mundial – o trabalho livre assalariado, bem como trariam ao Brasil mão-de-obra mais "qualificada" e preparada tecnicamente para construir uma nação moderna aos moldes das grandes nações como a norte-americana. Logo, os líderes e órgão de comunicação protestantes assumiram a postura de combatentes da instituição da escravidão no Brasil, também tomada como uma das causas de atraso e desmoralização da nação. Um aspecto tão característico da sociedade brasileira do século XIX também foi polêmico para as comunidades protestantes, que se viam, por vezes, encurraladas entre o discurso e a prática anti-escravistas. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 357 Contudo, um cuidado mais que especial foi dado às questões relativas à educação no Brasil. Diversos textos aqui apresentados demonstram a preocupação que os missionários tinham em melhorar as condições educacionais tanto para fazer valer sua máxima de livre interpretação das Escrituras quanto como instrumento de modernização do Brasil. Na exposição dos documentos pesquisados, a ênfase foi dada aos projetos de educação da mulher, que retificavam a sua posição de mãe e esposa, só que incumbidas da missão de educar seus filhos pelos parâmetros da busca do progresso e da moralização da sociedade. Elas seriam as militantes desse ideal dentro da família. Assim, meu objetivo aqui foi apresentar novos dados que colaboram para explicar os meios pelos quais a propaganda protestante foi se difundindo no Brasil: identificando problemas e apresentando "soluções", buscando aliados desde entre os políticos liberais até as "mães de família", criando escolas, discursando sobre o progresso da nação e estabelecendo uma associação direta entre o protestantismo e a nova fase de modernização proposta para o Brasil. REFERÊNCIAS Fontes Periódico A Imprensa Evangélica, 2 de julho de 1870. Vol. VI, nº 14; 16 de dezembro de 1871, 16 de março de 1872, 16 de agosto de 1873. Ano IX, nº 16; 6 de novembro de 1875. Ano XI, nº 21; 29 de novembro de 1879. ano XV, nº 48; 4 de setembro de 1880. Ano XVI, nº 35; 17 de dezembro de 1880. Ano XVI, nº 50; 15 de outubro de 1883. Vol. XIX, nº 19; 17 de outubro de 1885. Vol. XXI, nº 20; 13 de Março de 1886. Vol. XXII, nº 11. Arquivo Histórico Presbiteriano. São Paulo. Relatório de Francis Joseph Christopher Schneider. Disponível em http://www.executivaipb.com.br/Museu/Relatorios/Schneider/Schneider.htm. Acessado em 18 de maio de 2009. Bibliográficas CARVALHO, Marcus J. M. de. “‟Fácil é serem sujeitos, de quem já foram senhores‟: o ABC do Divino Mestre”, Afro-Ásia, no. 31 (2004), pp. 327-334. LEONÁRD, Émile. O Protestantismo Brasileiro: estudo de Eclesiologia e História Social. 2 ed. São Paulo e Rio de Janeiro: Juerp/ASTE, 1981. Revista Brasileira de História das Religiões. ANPUH, Ano III, n. 7, Mai. 2010 - ISSN 1983-2850 http://www.dhi.uem.br/gtreligiao - Comunicações 358 MACHADO, M. H. P. T.. A ciência norte-americana visita a Amazônia: entre o criacionismo cristão e o poligenismo degeneracionista. Revista USP, v. 75, p. 68-75, 2007. MATOS, Alderi Souza de. Os Pioneiros Presbiterianos do Brasil. São Paulo: Cultura Cristã, 2004 ______________________ O Colégio Protestante de São Paulo: Um Estudo de Caso sobre o Lugar da Educação na Estratégia Missionária da Igreja. Fides Reformata (São Paulo), São Paulo, v. IV, n. 2, p. 59-86, 1999. ______________________ A atividade literária dos presbiterianos no Brasil. Fides Reformata (São Paulo), v. XII, p. 43-62, 2007. NASCIMENTO, Ester Fraga Vilas-Bôas Carvalho do. Norte-americanos na Bahia: o projeto civilizador dos missionários presbiterianos. Revista da FACED, v. 11, p. 1-20, 2007. PAZINATTO, Bianca Carvalho; FREITAS, Ella Souza; FERREIRA, Jorge Luiz Marques. Relações entre Brasil e Estados Unidos no Século XIX. Relações Internacionais no Mundo Atual. Faculdade de Ciências Administrativas de Curitiba. Nº 1. 2000. PIERSON, Paul Everett. A younger church in search of maturity: Presbyterianism in Brazil from 1910 to 1959. San Antonio, Texas: Trinity University Press, 1974. REILY, Duncan Alexander. História Documental do Protestantismo no Brasil. 3 ed. São Paulo: ASTE, 2003. RIBEIRO, Boanerges. Protestantismo no Brasil Monárquico; 1822-1888: Aspectos Culturais de Aceitação do Protestantismo no Brasil. São Paulo: Pioneira, 1973. RODRIGUES, Cláudia. Sepulturas e sepultamentos de protestantes como uma questão de cidadania na crise do Império (1869-1889). Revista de História Regional. Verão, p. 23-38, 2008. Rosalind Thomas. “Letramento e oralidade”. In Thomas. Letramento e Oralidade na Grécia Antiga. São Paulo: Odysseus Editora, 2005, p. 21-40. TRABUCO, Zózimo Antônio Passos. O Instituto Bíblico Batista do Nordeste e a construção da identidade batista em Feira de Santana 1960-1990. Dissertação de Mestrado. 2009. VIEIRA, David Gueiros. O Protestantismo, a Maçonaria e a Questão Religiosa no Brasil. 2ª ed. Brasília: Universidade de Brasília, 1980. 
work_qfndgd4s3fhb3acc3bsglkosq4	----	Nursing in Ghana: A Search for Florence Nightingale in an African City Research Article Nursing in Ghana: A Search for Florence Nightingale in an African City Samuel Adu-Gyamfi and Edward Brenya Department of History and Political Studies, Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST), Kumasi, Ghana Correspondence should be addressed to Samuel Adu-Gyamfi; mcgyamfi@yahoo.com Received 7 September 2015; Revised 21 February 2016; Accepted 25 February 2016 Academic Editor: Nikolaos G. Koulouris Copyright © 2016 S. Adu-Gyamfi and E. Brenya. This is an open access article distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution License, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original work is properly cited. Nursing in Ghana is a crucial subject that permeates almost every issue in the society especially the field of hospital care. To a large extent, the frontiers of nursing have expanded since the time of Florence Nightingale. Globally some studies have been done to study nursing icons like her. The values in nursing practice however continue to preoccupy our minds. The need to accentuate the gains made by historical figures in nursing in present times as well as the nature of interactions between practitioners and patients continues to be of paramount concern to many across the globe and Ghana in particular. This study does an analysis of existing literature on Florence Nightingale and the nature of nursing in Ghana from the colonial times. Additionally, it analyzes responses concerning the activities of nurses and their interactions with patients in Kumasi. The varied information has been thematically pieced together to make inferences that are of great interest to nursing practitioners, policy makers, administrators, and educators among others. The findings to the study suggest among other things that the challenges faced by the nursing institution in modern times are similar to those of the earlier period. The study calls for the emulation of the positive ideas of Florence Nightingale to promote the interest of patients, a core objective championed by a revered nurse. 1. Introduction and Preconditions for Take-Off According to Ewusi, the development of western medical system after it had been introduced into the Gold Coast from 1868 was not left to only expatriate medical officers. Referring to Kissieh, our attention is drawn to the fact that, by 1878, the missions and the colonial medical officers had enlisted the help of mail orderlies to bathe and feed the sick, to dress wounds, and to administer drugs to the local population under their medical supervision [1]. The study, however, indicates that nursing in Ghana was firstly a male occupation. However, in 1899, when the first nursing sister arrived in the Gold Coast (Ghana), few ladies began to trickle into the profession of nursing in Ghana [2]. Significantly, the number of nurses and midwives increased side by side with the increase of the medical officers especially from 1952 to 1988. For example, within the period, the population of nurses and midwives increased from 1352 in 1952 to 21,300 in 1988 [3]. The question of equitable distribution of healthcare practitioners and nurses in particular has been looked at by several authors but most importantly the question of effectiveness and efficiency of nursing professionals in Ghana has had little or no attention by social historians of medicine in Ghana. Most importantly, a comparative analysis of the performance and attitudes of nurses in Ghana with the persona, charisma, and achievements of the most celebrated nurse, Florence Nightingale, has not been fully studied. Of seminal interest is Akiwumi’s Higher Education for nurses in which attention is paid to the traditional role of the nurse and the education which prepared her for that role in the 1970s [2]. Akiwumi argued that few of the women had formal edu- cation and those who could read and write were given simple lessons in human anatomy and physiology, surgical and med- ical nursing, and first aid. They were awarded the Director of Medical Service certificate on successful completion of this training and appointed as second-division nurses in the junior civil service. In the field, these nurses were strictly under medical supervision [2]. According to Akiwumi in 1928 midwifery training started in the maternity hospital, Hindawi Publishing Corporation International Scholarly Research Notices Volume 2016, Article ID 9754845, 14 pages http://dx.doi.org/10.1155/2016/9754845 http://dx.doi.org/10.1155/2016/9754845 2 International Scholarly Research Notices then newly built in Korle-Bu. Girls with better education were recruited into this very readily because the nature of the job was more in line with the traditional role women were expected to play in the society [2]. Essentially, the nursing profession or midwifery care was seen by the Europeans as that which could be easily performed by women. This is indicative of the fact that women are generally perceived to be empathetic and would easily take care of people, an ideal this study perceives that falls within Nightingale’s philosophy of nursing. The Nightingale experiment started over a century ago. Before then, nurses received no formal education but rather went through an apprenticeship system, learning about the job and the techniques from older members of the profession. However, upon the establishment of the Nightingale Fund due to the recognition of her impeccable service during the Crimean War, a school was established to formerly train nurses. The school was to train nurses, for a period of one year; nurses usually came into contact with some level of theoretical understanding on diseases. Again, practical training was supervised by ward sisters and doctors [2]. This training was silent on training of nurses on human behaviour, psychology, anthropology and culture, and, to a large extent, sociology of medicine, to enable the trainees to imbibe certain things that will enable them to treat their patients with some greater level of understanding and readings into human behaviour and care. Notwithstanding, it was expected that the ideals of Florence Nightingale (1820–1910) would resonate and again, with further effective supervision especially in these countries in Europe, nurses were not left to pursue their personal predilections per se at the expense of the patient and the rules that govern a particular medical institution or setup. Significantly, the nursing practice emphasized tasks and procedures and these were carried out in a routine manner with not much consideration for the patient, the object of the procedure [2]. According to Akiwumi, before the introduction of rigor- ous training for nurses, the nurse was always at the behest of the doctor. “The doctor rewarded the nurse who obeyed his instructions and punished the one who did not with humiliation and even the threat of dismissal. He considered a good nurse as the one who could perform the doctors’ tasks best” [2]. Akiwumi further argues that under such conditions it was difficult for the nurse to assume responsibility and take initiative or make decisions under emergency situations. The fact was that she was never sure what the boss would say [2]. Significantly, in the twentieth century, social changes increased the complexity of nursing responsibilities and demanded the types of services requiring intellectual compe- tence and a wide range of knowledge [2]. The advancement of knowledge of patients who come to seek medical care and also patients who come to clinics or health facilities with problems which require specialist doctors also required that there were trained specialist nurses to support the work of the physicians. It was required that there was some knowledge in social and behavioural sciences. Long contact hours of nurses with patients, according to Akiwumi, should afford nurses an opportunity to know more about the behaviour of human beings in general than doctors. The nurse should therefore be equipped to direct her actions and verbal expressions on the basis of a sound understanding of human behaviour [2]. The expectation was that this training among others would enhance the performance of the nurse in the general delivery of care to the patients. It is of great importance to stress that if the nurse has little or no understanding or decides not to apply this knowledge to better the health conditions of patients, she/he may contribute to illness or serve as a disincentive to the other professional medical officers and doctors in particular. Akiwumi further posits that there are different ways of dealing with intense feelings: one is to yield to them, the second to defend against them, and the third to face them directly, work through them, and reduce their power [2]. In all these instances, the nurse is required to manage or live above her personal emotions to be careful not to be tender towards one patient and repulsive towards the other and to some extent their family. Akiwumi’s study proposed six key areas or roles the nurse was supposed to function within at that period. They included the nurse as a technician, the nurse as a provider of care, and the nurse as a team leader. The others include the nurse as a collaborator, the nurse as educator, and the nurse as administrator [2]. Of seminal value to this paper is the nurse as a provider of care: tender loving care. This is a role which was uniquely considered as nursing since the days of Florence Nightingale, the provision of which gives the greatest satisfaction to the nurse and the absence of which causes patients and their families’ great distress. According to Akiwumi, “the nurse through a greater understanding of man and his behaviour both in health and in illness, should be able to develop sensitivity and understanding for patients; recognize manifesta- tions of anxiety, conflict, fears, and frustrations which underlie a patient’s behaviour during ill- ness; establish a nurse-patient relationship which will demonstrate sympathetic interest and con- cern’s for the patient’s problems, imagined or real” [2]. It is pertinent, however, to stress on the life of Florence Nightingale because her ideals permeate the nursing pro- fession even in the twentieth century. Since the twentieth century, the expectation of patients and the larger segment of society is that nurses will be able to perform their duties beyond the nineteenth and twentieth century’s standard set by Florence Nightingale. In the first instance, our attention is turned to a brief his- tory of nursing and then to the story of Florence Nightingale, which is used as the basis to analyze the roles of nurses in the Kumasi metropolis of Ghana. This study also examines the evolution of nursing education in postindependence context of Ghana, nurses and nursing education in Ghana focusing on how it created collaborative opportunities and challenges to the growth of nursing education in Ghana. It also looks at the twenty-first century nursing practice in Ghana and examines the historiography of nursing practice in Ghana to confirm or denounce whether nurses in Ghana International Scholarly Research Notices 3 have lived above the status of Nightingale. Methodologically, the paper uses responses from nurses within some anony- mous selected clinics/hospitals in the Kumasi metropolis of Ghana and patients as data source. The information gathered was analyzed qualitatively under themes and used to draw conclusion. Interestingly, the findings from the study reflect the general perceptions of nurses concerning their own profession, their relationship with patients, and the perception of patients about these nurses. The views shared by both the nurses and the patients and civil society in general have been compared with some of the ideals and performance of Florence Nightingale as a nurse to ascertain whether they have soared above the status quo or are living beneath it. 2. A Brief History of Nursing The development and evolution of the nursing profession are intricately connected to historical influences throughout the ages, beginning in antiquity [4]. In primitive societies, the decision to be a caregiver was often made for a person long before he/she had the ability to make such a choice and, in many societies, the provision of nursing care was a role that was assigned to female members [4]. The reason was because women nurture their own children and were expected to extend the nurturing skill to people who are sick and injured in their communities. Yet in other societies, care of the sick was a role assigned to medicine men, shamans, and other male tribesmen. Because no formal education in the care of the sick was available, the earliest nurses learned their art through oral traditions passed from generation to generation, from observations of others caring for the sick, and many times, through a process of trial and error [4]. Available evidence indicates that nurses first formed themselves into organized groups during the early Christian era. The nursing ideals of charity, service to others, and self- sacrifice were in harmony with the teachings of the early Christian church [4]. Throughout antiquity, the preferable, and often safest, nursing care was provided in one’s own home, where one was cared for by family members, clansmen, or friends [4]. Into this setting entered Florence Nightingale (said to be the mother of nursing), the woman who would not only reform nursing as it existed at that time, but also laid the foundation for nursing as a profession [4]. The section that follows explores how Florence Nightingale used advocacy as a tool and to identify the value of her conceptual and practical advocacy strategies for the nursing. 3. Life of Florence Nightingale Florence Nightingale was a woman who because of her religious convictions and profound vision of the potential of nursing altered the status of nursing from that of domestic service to that of a profession in the 19th century [5]. Nightingale used personal motivation to create a permanent professional transformation of nursing. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1857 described Nightingale as “the Lady with the Lamp” in his poem. The Encyclopedia Britannica records that Florence Nightingale was born on 12 May 1820 in Florence and died on 13 August 1910. She was the second daughter born to William Edwards and Frances Nightingale. She was named after the city of her birth. The Nightingales lived a con- tented lifestyle. They had two homes one located in Lea Hurst in Derbyshire in Central England and the other at Embley Park in warmer Hampshire located in South England [6]. Florence was a bright child and therefore her father gave meticulous attention to her education guiding her through history, philosophy, and literature. She also excelled in mathematics and languages such as French, German, Italian, Greek, and Latin at a tender age. She liked to read great philosophies and to hold in stern political and social conversation with her father [6]. Florence found a great relief in her religious belief; therefore, at the age of sixteen she received one of several “calls from God.” She saw this meticulous calling as decreasing human suffering. To Florence, nursing seemed as an appropriate course to serve both God and humankind. As a result of this, she helped to care for her sick relatives and tenants on the family estates. Her efforts to seek nurse’s training were hindered by her family as an inappropriate activity for a woman of her calibre [6]. Eventually she was able to sign up at the Institution Protestant Deaconess at the Kairserswert in Germany for two weeks of training in July 1850 and again for three months in July 1851. It was then that she learned basic nursing, the magnitude of patient observation, and the value of good hospital organization. Through her social acquaintances, she became the Superintendent of the Institution for Sick Gen- tlewomen in Distressed Circumstances in London. Through her hardworking efforts, she realized that her services would be helpful in an institution where she would be able to train more nurses. She considered becoming the superintendent of nurses at King’s College Hospital in London. However, politics, not nursing expertise, was to shape her next move [6]. Florence’s father was a “landed gentleman” who set up a lead and weaving factory [7]. Florence Nightingale grew up as an upper middle-class woman in Victorian England [7]. She was one of the few ladies who were educated during Victorian England as a result of her father’s opinion against the norm of the time that women of Nightingale’s class must not attend university and also must not pursue professional careers but rather had to marry and bear children instead [8]. Due to her father’s opinion against this norm, he single-handedly taught her Italian, Latin, Greek, philosophy, history, writing, and mathematics [8]. However, it must be noted that her father also arranged for a governess to teach her and her sister music and drama but her sister resented this decision [9]. From early childhood, Florence Nightingale got bored and frustrated as a result of the low-standard life that was reserved for women of her class in shrill contrast to that of the masses [10]. Florence had a strong will and this manifested in the “call” that she had which required her to devote her entire life to serving humanity at the age of seventeen [10]. 4 International Scholarly Research Notices Suzanne also commenting on Nightingale’s “calling” indi- cated that “February 7, 1837 was a critical turning point in young Florence’s life. She believed she heard the voice of God calling her to service. Following this mysticism, Florence became convinced God needed her for his service, but she remained baffled as to the exact job she was requested to do. Florence experienced much confusion and distress regarding her service to God. She travelled to Egypt and Greece in 1850 and engaged in spiritual discussions and thought as she travelled up the Nile” [11]. Nightingale was eager to know what she will do with her calling and out of her contemplations she is believed to have said at a point in time that “today I am 30- the age Christ began his mission. Now Lord, let me only think of thy will, what Thou willest me to do-O-Lord, Thy will, Thy will” [11]. Upon returning from Egypt and Greece, Florence and her entourage visited Kaiserswerth in Germany, where Pastor Theodore Fliedner (1800–1864) had founded a hospital, orphanage, and school in 1836 [12]. At the age of thirty, Florence Nightingale returned to Kaiserswerth against her family’s opposition to train as a nurse and she proved herself as a pupil with an outstanding ability after three months of training [12]. After her return from Kaiserswerth, she became idle for some time but, between 1851 and 1854, she put to use the practical experience that she gained by visiting hospitals throughout the United Kingdom and Europe to gather information [12]. Florence Nightingale’s dream of becoming a proper nurse materialized when she came into contact with Sidney Herbert (1810–1861) during a winter holiday in Rome [9]. Sidney Her- bert later became a foreign secretary for war and requested the service of Florence Nightingale to lead a team of thirty- eight nurses to assist at the main British Army hospital at Scutari, near Constantinople, to cure British wounded soldiers of the Crimean War [9]. However, Neuhaser has put forward that Nightingale went along with forty nurses and they helped clean up the wards [13]. Sidney Herbert’s decision to appoint Florence Nightingale to lead the group of nurses was seen as a radical step because it was unprecedented in the sense that no woman had previously held an official position in the Army [12]. Upon their arrival, Nightingale and her team were faced with awful scenes as they were faced with dirty beds, clogged latrines, bad food, filth, and death [13]. For instance, in the week of 14 April 1855, 215 hand carts of filth were removed, the sewers were flushed 19 times, and the carcasses of two horses, a cow, and four dogs were buried by Nightingale’s team of nurses [13]. Attewell has also put across that Nightingale was not wishing to imperil the prospect of alienating the doctors that she met at Scutari so she placed the nurses under the doctors’ orders and within a month she secured the improvements in the upkeep of the wards, provided new bedding and clothing for the soldiers, and improved the hospital diets [12]. In addition to this claim, Attewell has also posited that Nightingale wrote letters on behalf of the soldiers to their families back at home, instituted a scheme for remitting moneys, and also provided reading rooms and games for the convalescents [12]. Cohen recounts the situation that Nightingale and her party of nurses met when they arrived at Scutari as follows: “The conditions Nightingale and her party found when they arrived at Scutari on November 5, the day of the major battle of Inkerman were appalling. The hospital barracks was infested with fleas and rats. Under the buildings, as a commission of inquiry later reported, ‘were sewers. . .loaded with filth. . .through which the wind blew sewer air up the pipes of numerous open privies into the corridors and wards were the sick were lying’ on straw mats in a state of overcrowding that got even worse after Inkerman” [12]. Cohen has also noted that the canvas sheets, according to Nightingale, were “so coarse that the wounded men begged to be left in their blankets” and also the laundry was done in cold water which made the linens washed become “verminous” that they had to be destroyed [8]. Nightingale’s spell at the Crimean was marked by many hardships. Among them is that “Florence Nightingale battled with the military authorities, the purveyors department and was a thorn in the side of the superintendent of Army medical services” [8]. C. J. Gill and G. C. Gill have also noted that there was a high case of corruption in the camp and this led to the siphoning off medical supplies; in order to curb this problem Nightingale established a parallel supply mechanism for critical materials and food, and this step made her prove that the official supplies were being stolen by sending her representatives to Turkish markets to buy back the purloined goods [14]. Nightingale in her own sense per the words of C. J. Gill and G. C. Gill, when she was faced with the imminent arrival of more patients, organized a team of 200 Turkish workers to replace the floor in Barracks hospital which was destroyed by fire and was an ideal habitat for fleas, flies, and lice [14]. Again, when Nightingale arrived at Scutari, she met deplorable Barracks which housed 10,000 sick men, with dirt and filth throughout the hospital. In addition, patients who were lying in the corridors and the wards were suffering from typhoid fever and cholera, as well as battling wounds [9]. In spite of this, Nightingale made a lot of impacts and contributions in her nursing adventure on Scutari. She instituted a lot of reforms, which were very essential. For instance, this is an account that a fever casualty brought to Scutari gave about the changes that he noticed, “everything changed for the better. The sick were not kept waiting in the passages but went at once to bed, were washed, and had clean linen and were attended as well as in England” [14]. Neuhauser has also pointed out that Nightingale recorded the outcomes of care which went a long way to helping her to estimate that the death rate among the patients was worst in February 1885 at 42.7% of all soldiers admitted [13]. She also International Scholarly Research Notices 5 instituted sanitary reforms which were started on 17 March 1855 and this reform caused the death rate to fall to 2.2% by June 1855 [13]. However, it must be taken into cognizance that, upon the reforms and the positive outcome that came out from it, the principal Medical Officer of the Army said that the reduction in death rates was due to the improved character of the cases coming from the Crimean peninsula [13]. Florence Nightingale however rebutted this claim by showing that the deaths were not due to battle field wounds but from infectious diseases and also went along to assert that the hospital’s unsanitary environment led to the deaths of both wounded soldiers and healthy unwounded orderlies at Scutari [13]. After her service at Scutari, many are those who have associated Nightingale to be the originator of modern nurs- ing and also had an enormous influence on contemporary nursing [14]. Among such influences is hospital infection control. C. J. Gill and G. C. Gill assess this influence in this way, “although the Crimean War settled nothing in terms of geopolitics, it served as the backdrop for a second struggle between the sanitarian movement and the medical dogma of the day, which the sanitarians at least won decisively” [14]. However, C. J. Gill and G. C. Gill were quick to note that “Nightingale cannot claim credit for originating the sanitarian theories, but the impact of her reforms in Scutari were so obvious and well publicized that the treatment of hospitalized and infected patients was forever changed” [14]. The second field influenced by Nightingale is hospital epidemiology. Nightingale was a skilled statistician and she was believed to be greatly influenced by the work of Adolphe Quetelet, the leading statistician of her days [14]. Her third influence on contemporary medicine is that on hospice medicine. Long before Kubler-Ross’ theories about death with dignity, Nightingale has been noted to have practiced it in the sense that as a nurse she saved dozens of soldiers’ lives but she also reported that she closed the eyes of hundreds [14]. 3.1. Florence the Heroine in the Crimea War. Bloy a Ph.D. Senior Research fellow at the Victoria Web conducted a research about the life of Florence Nightingale and the role she played in the Crimea War. According to Bloy’s research in March 1854, the Crimea War broke out and the sufferings of the wounded soldiers created anger in Britain. Therefore, William Russell who was the Times correspondent published in the newspaper the state of wounded soldiers. Subsequently, Florence wrote to the war office offering her services on 14 October after her friend Sidney Herbert had written to her suggesting to her to go and help these wounded soldiers [15]. Bloy further argues that on 21 October Florence embarked on a journey to Crimea with thirty-eight nurses, ten Roman Sisters, eight Anglican Sisters of Mercy, six nurses from St. John Institute, and fourteen from various hospitals and they arrived on 4 November. She was the lady-in-chief [15]. Upon arrival, they saw the place to be very inappropriate to care for injured soldiers. Moreover, Bloy continues to argue that the military and the medical authorities at Scutari saw Nightingale’s involvement as an indication on themselves [16]. Moreover, Bloy’s research asserts that by the closing stages of 1854 Nightingale and her nurses had brought the Scutari hospital into an improved order. In December, other forty- six nurses went to add up to the other thirty-six. Through Florence hard work, she earned the name the “lady of the lamb.” As a result of the poor sanitation system at the Scutari hospital, there was an increase in Florence patients and this made the wards full and some died. In 1855, Florence fell ill from Crimea fever but she continued to work until the hospitals were closed and she returned to England in 1856. In September 1856, she visited Queen Victoria and Prince Albert at Balmoral and told them about the state of the military hospitals and reforms that need to be done [16]. Bloy further contends that in November 1853 the Nightin- gale Fund was set up to train nurses. By 1860 €50,000 had been collected and the Nightingale School and Home for Nurses was established at the St. Thomas Hospital. As a result of her health condition, she could not accept the post as superintendent but she watched the progress of the new institution and was able to use her experiences in Crimea for the assistance of nursing profession. She settled in London and lived a retired life of an invalid although she spent great deal of time offering counsel and support through her writings and also verbally. She also helped to set up nursing societies. As a result of her hard working efforts, in 1901, she received the Order of Merit and in 1908 she was awarded the Freedom of City of London award. She had already received the German Order of the Cross of Merit and the French gold medal of Secours aux Blessés Militaires awards. On 10 May 1910, she was presented with the badge of honour of the Norwegian Red Cross Society [16]. Bloy’s research on the role of Florence Nightingale shows that an extensive research was done about the lasting impacts Florence made in the Crimea War. However, Bloy’s research entailed some shortcomings, among which was the failure to give an account of the cause of the Crimea War and also to highlight the parties involved in the war. 3.2. Florence Nightingale the Social Reformer. The Spartacus Educational Publishers researched about the social reforms made by Florence Nightingale after the significant role played in the Crimea War. The Spartacus Educational Publishers opine that, in order for Florence Nightingale to broaden her opinions on the reforms about the military hospitals, she published two books which were Notes on Hospitals (1859) and Notes on Nursing (1859). With the help from her affluent friends and John Delane at the Times, she was able to raise €59,000 to advance the quality of nursing. She used the money to start the Nightingale School and Home for Nurses at the St. Thomas Hospital. She also helped to train nurses for employment of workhouses [17]. Florence held an immense judgment about the rights of women therefore in her book Suggestions for Thought to Searchers after Religious Truth; she argued muscularly for the elimination of limits that prohibited women from having 6 International Scholarly Research Notices careers [17]. However, the Spartacus Publishers continue to argue that Nightingale powerfully contributed to the passing of Contagious Diseases Act. She preferred working behind the scene to get laws changed and disapproved of women making speeches in public [17]. Spartacus Educational Publishers support their assertion that women such as Elizabeth Garrett Anderson and Sophia Jex-Blake were dissatisfied by Florence’s lack of support for women doctors. Nightingale argued that it was better to train nurses than women doctors. According to the Spartacus research on Florence biographer Colin Mathew emphasized that when Florence was sixty years, she considered herself old. Therefore, she tried to keep up with public health matters and continued to write corny addresses to probationers until 1889 but by now she was losing her eye sight. Therefore, she spent the whole of her fifteen years in her room in South Street and finally died in London on 13 August 1910 [17]. It is very important to note that the Spartacus Educational Publishers did an extensive research about the theme under review. However, Nightingale is known for the role she played in nursing and therefore the Spartacus Educational Publishers failed to throw more light on the reforms she made in the nursing profession. Nightingale was a philanthropist from a wealthy English family who lived during a time when well-bred women from the upper class were not usually involved in caring for the sick. Despite the convention, Nightingale wanted to study the care and treatment of diseases and afflictions, so she enrolled in a three-month program to study nursing under the direction of Pastor Fliedner and his wife Erika at Kaiserswerth, Germany [18]. Upon graduation from the program, Nightingale became involved in creating organization called “Establishment for Gentle Women during Illness.” Ultimately, she was appointed to the leadership position of this organization, because she was knowledgeable as a result of prior experience in the administration of hospitals and she had expertise in nursing. As her work in nursing was acknowledged, she was consulted in the organization of training nurses; however, her efforts in Crimean War intervened. Florence Nightingale became involved in the Crimean War (1853–1856) after hearing about the squalid conditions of soldiers who had been injured. She organized other nurses who joined her in bringing aid, comfort, and supplies to injured soldiers. When Nightingale returned home to London, she was honoured as a national heroine. She remained committed to establishing a program to train nurses. In 1860, Nightingale established a training program for nurses at St. Thomas’s Hospital in London, where Florence Nightingale Museum is presently housed. Shortly thereafter, Nightingale took to her bed until her death in 1910. It was believed that her illness resulted from a weakened condition attributed to her work during Crimean War. 3.3. Nightingale and Advocacy. According to Macmillan English Dictionary, advocacy has been defined as a strongly public support for something. Sabatier and Weible identify coalitions built on advocacy as the essential tool to impacting changes in society and governmental programmes [19]. The scope of Florence Nightingale’s effect on nursing and her usage of advocacy as a technical tool to operate are fun- damental. “Modern nursing derives so completely from the examples and teachings of Florence Nightingale that is hard to pick out the particular practices that owe their existence to her influence. All nursing has been influence by her” [20]. However, Nightingale did not directly address the con- cept of advocacy. She demonstrated advocacy in exceptional ways throughout her lifetime. She did demonstrate in dra- matic fashion in the Crimea that nursing and sanitation could reduce mortality. Nightingale was a singular force in advocating for as opposed to individuals, groups, and the nursing profession. Her expressions of advocacy grew with age, experience, and public acceptance of her as both nurse and expert. Her significant contributions include her advocacy for patient’s environment connected to his or her health and advocacy in her leadership roles. Nursing is now recognizing how her ideas and techniques can be useful in the 21st century. 3.4. Advocacy through Patients Environment. “Nightingale environment theory stemmed from her core belief that nursing was in essence an act of using the environment to assist the patient in his or her recovery” [21]. Florence Nightingale was convinced that a patient’s envi- ronment was connected to his or her health. She believed nurses could use sunlight, fresh air, pure water, cleanliness, and efficient drainage to allow nature to positively affect the patient’s body, mind, and spirit, a revolutionary concept at the time. The year was 1854, and she was treating soldiers serving in the Crimean War. In those inhuman conditions, she believed that patients required a healthy mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual environment to raise their odds of recovery. She understood that physicians would treat the disease but nurses were the ones who could facilitate the heal- ing environment by providing stimulating reading materials, emotional connections, and proper nutrition. According to Barbara Dossey, “Nightingale saw that nurses could be heal- ing presence to patients, nurses should not go in angry and frustrate but convey a sense of calmness and intention.” Not only could nurses help influence the patient’s environment to facilitate the healing recovery but they are also part of the environment. However, Nightingale saw that these conditions and practices from physicians and nurses could help improve the health conditions of the populace. That is to say, the importance of nursing’s role in the management of the patient environment was a central theme she advocated for. She believed in miasmatism, the idea that foul odors caused disease. Although there is dispute as to the degree that the death rate was reduced in the Crimea, it is undeniable that there was a specific link between the state of the environment and the death rate. 3.5. Advocacy through Leadership. Leadership was one of Florence Nightingale’s qualities. She offered emotional and spiritual comfort of care to the sick and the dying men as she walked down the dark hall with her lamp. These selfless International Scholarly Research Notices 7 practices earned her the nickname “Lady with the Lamp.” “Imagine a big hall that is three stories high and two football fields long, and in the dark these men would see Nightingale walking with her lamp to check on them, she was bring them a sense of hope and reassurance on a spiritual level” [21]. She also understood the importance of family to the sick thereby helping them to connect to their families back home. She helped the soldiers in the hospital write letters to their families because many could not read and write. “Nightingale was a change agent in her own right and seemed to be able to do without compromise; leadership techniques and advocacy were many of her strong points” [22]. She used leadership skills to her advantage in her tireless work with policy change in regard to human rights. She was able to change policy, making it possible for all faiths to be equally admitted to the hospital. It is very important for advance degree nurse, to be effective in her role as a leader and educator to provide students with the tools necessary to promote good healthcare. Florence Nightingale’s substantial legacy to health statis- tics is a composite of her accomplishments and her vision of what can and should be done by the profession. She wrote prolifically and demonstrated methods that were effective. Her lessons have become a roadmap for future generations. Most of her significant contribution to nursing is learned from her advocacy. Such advocacy includes the patient advocacy especially for the wounded soldier. Florence Nightingale created and built the nursing profession on the foundation of a holistic mind-body approach, assessing the individual and creating care plan interventions based on the emotional, psychological, medical, social, spiritual, and environmental challenges with the nurse being the primary advocate, fighting for and ensuring resources to maintain optimal outcomes and a decrease in mortality and morbidity, and also through showing great leadership qualities and the importance and value of nursing education. At the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century, issues related to sanitation in relationship to the health of communities were primary concern of the healthcare planners and providers. During the 20th century, the discovery of new and more potent antibiotics and other scientific breakthroughs changed forever how the healthcare system dealt with infections. Towards the mid-20th century, a shift in priority from health of the community to the health and well-being of the individual occurred and towards the end of 20th century another shift toward care of the patient in the community occurred. Today, healthcare system is seen more sophisticated than previous generations because it is based on technology and science. Although such occurrence is happening in the 21st century, Florence Nightingale advo- cacy has so much influence on the management of healthcare worldwide. 3.6. Florence Nightingale’s Advocacy on Egalitarian Human Rights and Leadership. The Online Journal of Issues in Nursing (OJIN) is a peer-reviewed, online publication that addresses current topics affecting nursing practices, research, education, and the wider healthcare sector. In an article written by Selanders and Crane in OJIN, attention was paid to how Florence Nightingale promoted advocacy through egalitarian human rights and leadership. According to the research made by Selanders and Crane, Nightingale did not openly address the concept of advo- cacy. She rather verified advocacy in the outstanding ways throughout her lifestyle. This was demonstrated through her proceedings, ideas, and motivations through her com- munication [23]. Nightingale was a remarkable power in advocating for as opposed to individuals, groups, and the nursing profession. Her expression of advocacy grew with age, experience, and public reception of her nurse and expert. Her momentous contributions include her advocacy for egalitarian human right and her advocacy in her leadership role [23]. Selanders and Crane further argue that Florence in pro- moting advocacy through the backing of egalitarian human rights realized the lopsided status and opportunity given to men as compared to women in the English society. Therefore, in her aggravation she wrote a long essay named Cassandra in 1859/1979. In this book, she compares the professed value of a woman’s activity to that of a man. Her first significant exhibition of advocacy for individuals came at the age of thirty-two. She assumed the position of a superintendent at the hospital for Gentlewomen in Distressed Circumstance, which was her first employment [23]. Although she had the support of the Ladies Committee, the body to which she reported, her first major apprehension was a policy held by the committee that only individual members of the Church of England would be admitted to the institution. Nightingale could not accept this position because of her liberal Unitarian upbringing and her beliefs in the value of individuals without the respect of religious fondness. Eventually she won the battle with the committee so that patients of all faith or no faith were equally admitted into the institution. She won this encounter partially through rational persuasion and also because she came from the upper class [23]. Selanders and Crane opine that, after this victory, Nightingale turned her attention to the expansion of care values for patients including the right to peaceful death. This was because the chronically and mentally ill were often disregarded by the hospital staff. Therefore, any staff member who did not work to Nightingale’s standard was dismissed to signal and apply the administrative standards of care. They further maintained that Nightingale never wavered from the idea that the basic human right was high quality patient care that dedicated nursing staff should provide. This influenced Nightingale to advocate for patients on a larger stage during her twenty months in Scutari and the Crimea. Therefore, after her return to England, she established similar principles at the Nightingale School at St. Thomas Hospital [23]. The report of the researchers Selanders and Crane as found in OJIN on Nightingale advocacy through leadership also revealed that leadership was one of Florence Nightin- gale’s intrinsic personas. Her education, social standing, wide range of connections, and global travel provided her with vital context, opportunity, and public voice which was used to promote her belief in the central role of the nurse to manage the environment [23]. Although this was an erroneous theory, it focused on the role of the environment 8 International Scholarly Research Notices in relation to illness. The deplorable conditions at Scutari reinforced this viewpoint, leading to her advocating for the importance of a suitable environment for patient both internally and extremely. She was also a supporter of the sanitation movement in London and therefore joins forces with reformers such as Farr and Chadwick in advocating for permanent improvement in public health. She saw that the expansion of nursing as crucial force would meet the growing healthcare needs in sectors outside the hospital [23]. The second major theme of leadership of Nightingale’s advocacy accordingly was the establishment of the Nightin- gale School at St. Thomas Hospital in London, which was used to advocate for nurses who had a familiarity base and a specific role in healthcare. In this regard, she saw the expansion of nursing as an essential force for growing healthcare needs in sectors outside the hospital. Therefore, she resorted to the improvement of nursing in the military, midwifery, care of paupers, and nurse visiting (public health nursing). The Nightingale model of nursing education was executed through the following ways. Firstly, it was made to be firmly restricted to environment which included a nurse’s home with a matron who served as a parent or guardian. Secondly, it extended nursing to the typical woman’s sphere by projecting it as a domestic work that had been transplanted into the hospital [23]. The analysis above clearly shows that the OJIN did an extensive research on the Florence Nightingale as it discusses her two important advocacy areas. 3.7. Florence Nightingale’s Philosophy of Nursing. Dr. Whit- field who is an adjunct faculty member in the online MSN program at Benedictine University conducted a research and published an article about the philosophy of Florence Nightingale to examine if present nursing has been able to meet the mark. Dr. Whitfield argues historical analysis of nursing practice over the years has helped to provide many examples of nurses’ contribution to the communities. This raises the question on whether modern nursing has met or exceeded the standard set by Florence Nightingale. There is no doubt that Florence Nightingale is remembered for her stoicism (the stoics taught that distractive emotions resulted from error in judgment and that a sage or person of moral and intellectual perfection would not suffer such emotions) and significant impact on nursing today and also advocacy and commitment to her patients. Dr. Whitfield further argues that many of the criticisms levelled against Nightingale were because there was a false belief that she emphasized nursing as subservience to physicians or focused on the physical factors compared to psychological factors of nursing. Additionally, Dr. Whitfield maintains that there were many instances in Florence’s life that contradict these beliefs. Nightingale understood very well the psychological connection to healing and actually believed that nurses should always speak up when things were unacceptable or inadequate [24]. She opines that Nightingale was an agent of change in her own right and seemed she was able to do so without any compromise. One of Nightingale advantages was her leadership techniques and advocacy for policy change, especially in the areas of human rights. Moreover, Dr. Whitfield calls on nurses of today to be effective in their roles as leaders and educators to promote health. Nurses should also be able to meet the needs of their patients without compromising their values and beliefs [24]. Dr. Whitfield concludes that the Nightingale’s philosophy still rings loud and clear today and most likely continues to influence nursing and healthcare alike. Therefore, it would be much better if nursing today continues to enhance and build on Nightingale’s theory thereby making the nursing profession an honourable one that exceeds the mark of Nightingale’s philosophical legacy [24]. 3.8. Evolution of Nursing Education in a Postindependence Context: Ghana from 1957 to 1970. The progress of nursing education in Ghana between 1957 and 1970 is described by vigorous change and progression [25]. The variations in nursing education arose within an economic climate that offered ongoing trials and a social and political climate that could be termed as neocolonial [25]. Ghana as a former colony to achieve independence first in Africa became the leader in the education of nurses which were undertaken at the University of Ghana to prepare tutors for the nursing profession [25]. Nursing education in Ghana prior to independence must be understood in the context of the organization of healthcare services by the colonial administrators [25]. Initially, these colonial masters suffered from tropical diseases like malaria, fever, and others that made the continent a graveyard but could not leave because of the profit they were getting from their trade. Therefore, an improvement of health conditions in the Gold Coast was a priority for Great Britain because of the rich mineral resources in the colony. The limited resources resulted in the focus of the medical officers to be restricted to taking care of the health of Europeans, African soldiers, and civil servants [25]. Consequently, The Gold Coast Medical Department was created in 1880, with responsibilities for preventative services such as vaccinations and sanitation [25]. Only about 2% of the Africans received treatments from this governmental health service and the majority sort treatment from traditional medical practition- ers. Unfortunately, traditional healing was not recognized by the Europeans but, with time, they came to accept it as they gradually acknowledged the need to provide health service to the Africans. Subsequently, the British nursing sisters who came to Africa gave lessons to local nurses in human anatomy, physiology, surgical and medical nursing, and first aid [25]. Later, a maternity hospital was opened in Accra to recruit midwives through an ordinance for the establishment of midwifery training centre. The terms of the ordinance were in relation to examination, training, registration, and practice of midwifery in Gold Coast [25]. Until 1945, all senior nurses in Ghana, including nursing tutors, were white colonial sisters but the pattern changed with the years following the establishment of the centre [25]. At the time of independence, a lot of nursing education centres had been opened in Kumasi, Accra, Cape-Coast, and other places which offered training for state registered nurses (SRNs) and qualified registered nurses (QRNs), among others International Scholarly Research Notices 9 [25]. In 1958, a government decision to train doctors locally at the University of Ghana necessitated enlargement and modernization of Korle-Bu hospital to become a teaching hospital [25]. This decision had an impact on the evolution of nursing education and practice in Ghana and several SRNs were sent to UK to gain specialties in areas like orthopaedic, genitourinary, sick children nursing, and organization of central sterilizing departments in order for the nurses to function effectively within a teaching hospital milieu [25]. In an effort to strengthen nursing in Ghana, Marjorie Houghton, a former member of general nursing council in the colonial era, was invited by the government of Ghana to eval- uate the nursing programs at the various training centres [25]. Several changes including the need for nurses to receive a four-year training, the discontinuation of prenursing course, and the requirement for student nurses to be supernumerary to ward stuff and the need for tutors and clinical instructors at the training centres were recommended [25]. Additionally, nursing education in Ghana made significant progress with the establishment of the first university program for nurses at the University of Ghana in 1963 [25]. This and many tremendous changes manifested in nursing education in Ghana. 4. Nurses and Nursing Education in Ghana: Creating Collaborative Opportunities Nursing education in Ghana is not different from the US and most African countries. While there are similarities, there are reflective variances as well. Globally, nurses play an essential role in healthcare provision scheme by stimulating health, preventing illness, restoring health, and lessening suffering [26]. However, worldwide, nursing has faced and continues to face noteworthy encounters to its personality and sustainability [26]. This trait is no different from nursing in Ghana. Nursing is a profession that is highly sought after although it is said there are not enough nurses due to one reason or another. In fact, there are not enough nurses in Ghana; the most highly educated have been leaving in large numbers to work in Great Britain or the United States [27]. In 2011, the Ghanaian Minister of Health hinted that Ghana lost nearly half of its nurses within a five-year period. He further stated that Ghana had only an estimated ten thousand nurses available to provide care to a population which was almost twenty million [27]. Sometimes, a condi- tion under which some nurses or nursing is undertaken in the country is very appalling and this makes it difficult for the nurses to fully deliver their services efficiently especially in the rural areas. Most clinics in the country are many a time congested leading to poor services. There are some branches of nursing in the country that help ease the affliction of the citizens a bit. For instance, outreach clinics providing mostly medical staff comprised largely of nurses are an important component of the goal of the Ghanaian Ministry of Health (MOH) to reduce communicable disease and therefore, even with the difficulty and potential risk in travel, the nurses willingly go there [27]. Nurses are trained mainly to serve the public but they also help the nursing profession a lot. But the problem is once many of the nurses receive their certificate in public health, they prefer to travel outside and work instead of staying in the country to help [27]. A public health nurse must not only hold a nursing diploma but return to school for additional year of study; one can also leave school early and work as the equivalent of nurses’ aide or a practical nurse at different times during their schooling [27]. The nursing profession is exposed to a high risk owing to direct contact with the bodily fluids of patients without any sort of protection [27]. There are different types of diseases in this country with the deadly HIV/AIDS reaching every aspect of life in Ghana. The incidence of AIDS has an overwhelming effect on the healthcare system, with an estimated five hundred thousand persons known to be infected with the disease, and the Ghanaian Ministry of Health projects that Ghana will experience nearly two million AIDS cases in the next ten years [27]. In this regard, our nurses became the main means of educating the public on health matters. Unfortunately, the pay and working conditions for nurses are very poor with limited chance for advancement in Ghana. [27]. Probably, these may be the reasons why some professional nurses travel to other countries to seek greener pastures. 4.1. Challenges to the Growth of Nursing Education in Ghana. Challenges are always issues that are encountered in every institution and nursing is no exception. Education for nurses in Ghana in the years following independence was fraught with problems for tutors and students alike; textbooks when available were frequently outdated and not within the finan- cial means of the students [28]. Thus, nurses face financial issues both in terms of schooling and also after completion and working. Their salaries are not enough and this some- times attracts strikes or quitting and seeking greener pastures abroad. Additionally, certain amenities needed for effective discharge of their duties are not available. For instance, common bed for patients to sleep on at times becomes an issue and the few available ones are in no better conditions. Also, clinical laboratories are poorly supplied and equipment is very old, and disposable nursing supplies are simply not available for teaching [26]. Management issue is another challenge of nursing in Ghana. There is lack of proper management in most of the nursing institution. Many a time, government hospitals are where these problems can be seen. The mere fact that the institution belongs to the government makes most nurses work unwillingly due to less supervision by management. Patients do not get the needed services that are required for them. The nursing profession in Ghana now has become more of a safe haven for unemployment issue since one is assured of her work after completion. This problem has generated some kind of bad nurses into the system since it is not with passion or interest that they went into the profession but rather to cater for their individual needs. Sometimes, situations of this sort found in most governmental hospitals are very alarming. When nurses receive training, they are taught very well but as nurses leave the walls of their academic institutions, 10 International Scholarly Research Notices somehow many of them come out with the unwritten notion that the patient is expected to be ignorant about his or her health problem and the cure needed; the patient should be submissive to the health provider; and the patient should always be cooperative [28]. Nurses cannot carry such stereotyped ideas into the 21st century. The 21st century also comes with a rise in living standards, knowledge about patient rights, a highly educated population, and easy access to quality health information online [28]. Therefore, as countries explore new and innovative approaches to nursing practice in the 21st century, nurses should see all clients, both literate and illiterate, as partners in healthcare delivery and not as passive and subservient consumers [28]. 4.2. Twenty-First Century Nursing in Kumasi and Its Environs. In an attempt to make a fair assessment of the twenty-first century Florence Nightingale in Ghana, the research called for the distribution of questionnaires to a number of nurses in Kumasi and its environs. Questionnaires were given to a total number of thirty (30) nurses, five (5) being males and the remainder twenty-five (25) females. The age range of respondents is between the ages of twenty (20) and forty (40) years. A question asked was “if the respondents chose the profession willingly”; in answering this question, twenty-six (26) answered in the affirmative while four (4) did not have it as their first choice. The professions of their choice were in the legal (2 respondents) and teaching (2 respondents) fields. The reasons given for the choice of nursing as first option have been categorized. See Table 1. Reasons given by respondents for settling into the nursing profession were as follows: (i) The respect attached to the profession. (ii) Interest in the field. (iii) Motivated or inspired by someone in the field. (iv) Evading unemployment status. The questionnaire further probed into the number of years the nurses have served in the profession. Table 2 shows the distribution of nurses with regard to the number of years they have served. The number of people interviewed showed that a majority of the respondents have served within one month to two years; a period within one month to three years had seven nurses similar to the number of nurses that had also served within four to five years. Four of the respondents had served for a period above five years. However, two respondents failed to answer the question. The respondents were also asked if they had faced any challenge in their profession. Sixteen answered positively and thirteen negatively and one failed to respond. The major challenges include nurses being exposed to health hazards due to lack of resources or logistics needed for service. Also the absence of needed facilities, lack of incentives, miscon- duct or attitude of some patients, delay of remuneration, and inadequate staff hands are other examples. Another issue raised was in relation to the time consuming factor of the profession which poses as a challenge to these nurses. This aspect will be addressed later in the discussion. Table 1 Category Number of people Being religious 2 Being inspired by people 3 Passion/dream 3 Empathy/humanitarian 9 Multiple reasons 8 No answer 1 Total 26 Table 2 Years served in the profession Number of people 1 month–2 years 10 2 years 1 month–3 years 7 4 years–5 years 7 Above 5 years 4 No answer 2 Total 30 In response to the question “have you had any worse experience,” twenty-one (21) responded yes and three (3) no and six (6) failed to respond. Despite the fact that a significant number failed to respond, it can be deduced that majority of seventy percent (70%) had experienced unpleasant situations. Their experiences range from having to lose patients in the course of treatment, attending to accident victims or diabetic patients by treating wounds, needle pricks, inability to secure medication for patients when needed, patients attacking nurses (in one instance attempted rape), having to treat patients when doctors are on strike, and the difficulty of having to disclose results to patients (example HIV positive results). Other experiences include having to work without any form of remuneration, negative attitude displayed by some patients, and being sick on the job. Due to the challenges faced by the respondents, it was further asked if they are willing to come to work each day. Ninety percent (27 people) were willing to go to work each day while ten percent (3 people) are not willing to go to work every day. It can be deduced from this data retrieved that several nurses in the Kumasi area and its environs have a sense of duty and are ready to take the practical steps to help save lives in Ghana and Asante in particular. In relation to their numeration, it was surprising to note that there was a balanced equation in terms of response. Fifty percent (15 people) of the respondents were satisfied with their salaries while another fifty percent (15 people) were not satisfied. This makes it difficult to ascertain whether their salary or other forms of remuneration are able to cater for their needs or not and whether that had the tendency to affect their output at the work place. Another question was asked to know whether nurses knew about the Hippocratic Oath. One was quick to note that nurses do not swear the Hippocratic Oath. Reasons assigned to the swearing of the oath are to help the nurses abide by rules and regulations of the profession, to be committed to International Scholarly Research Notices 11 Table 3 Good/positive Bad/negative Neutral No answer 23 1 4 2 Table 4 Number of patients treated daily Frequency of nurses 1–10 7 11–20 8 21–30 4 31–40 2 41–50 3 More than 50 6 the course, to exhibit good professional habits, to respect and honour their work, and to treat all patients equally. Twenty- six of the nurses responded that they abide by the oath; two said they did not; and another two failed to respond. This helps us to know that nurses are aware of their code of ethics and claim to act accordingly. A follow-up question was if they treat all patients equally. There was a one hundred percent response in the affirmative that they treat all patients equally. This assertion will be proven true or false in the course of the discussion in relation to nurses to patients’ relationship. The relationship that exists between nurses and patients was termed as cordial (15 people), good (5 people), and very good (2 people) and a person each described it as respectful, great, well, approachable, healthy, of good communication, humble, and professional. Table 3 shows how patients treat nurses according to the data retrieved. Table 4 shows that patients generally treat nurses well. The majority of the respondents attend to an average of eleven to twenty patients per day, followed by an average of a patient to ten patients, more than fifty patients a day, twenty-one to thirty a day, forty-one to fifty daily, and the least number being thirty-one to forty patients daily. It can be deduced that the ratio of patients to nurses is higher. This therefore means nurses have an extra task of catering for numerous patients at a time. It also suggests that there are fewer nurses in the profession as compared to people who patronize the various hospitals within the Kumasi area and its environs. Twenty (20) out of thirty (30) nurses responded that patients give them money before, during, or after treatment while the remaining ten claimed they had never received money from patients. Twenty-seven admitted that they did not expect patients to give them money; however, three deem it necessary. The question is whether it is ethically acceptable for nurses to receive gifts in the form of money items from patients before or after treatment? Would that necessarily serve as an incentive or a disincentive to the nurses in general? To what extent can that send a wrong signal to the general population or civil society in Ghana and Kumasi in particular? Did Florence Nightingale accept gifts before she attended to patients? The answer is a strong “no” as exemplified in the aforementioned literature on the service Table 5 Question Yes No No answer Does your occupation affect your family life? 12 18 — Do you have child/children? 12 17 1 Do you have relatives that you look after? 19 10 1 Table 6 Temperament Number of respondents Sanguine 8 Choleric 2 Melancholic 9 Phlegmatic 10 No answer 1 and contribution of Florence Nightingale. If the majority of her contributions to the treatment of the sick and the injured did not give credence to receiving of gifts from patients for whatever reason that might have come up, there is the need to focus on this as a form of Magna Carta in our discourse to improve the general nursing profession in Ghana and Kumasi in particular. Table 5 is a reflection of the number of nurses that have dependants and how this affects their personal lives. Twelve (12) of the respondents have children; however, a significant number of nineteen (19) have relatives they cater for. This shows that majority of these nurses have dependants to cater for. Forty percent (40%) of the respondents claim their work affects their family life. The challenge of time factor could be associated with this phenomenon. Eighteen (18) on the other hand replied in the negative with regard to their work not affecting their family life. Seventeen (17) of the respondents did not have children and ten (10) of them did not have relatives they are taking care of. Table 6 shows a distribution of nurses and their tempera- ments. It can be deduced from the table that a lot of nurses are phlegmatic (33.3%), followed by nurses that are melancholic (30%), then followed by sanguines (26.7%), and the least being choleric (6.7%). This means that an insignificant number of choleric nurses are found in the health industry especially with regard to nurses in the Kumasi area. In the article “The Four Human Temperaments,” Erkstrand argues that the four basic human temperaments help us to more fully understand our basic behavioural disposition [29]. From scientific study and analyses, Erkstrand argues that all human personalities are commonly divided into four major categories with the exception of those with severe mental disorders and these four types are further split into two categories, that is, extroverts and introverts [29]. From the extroverted personalities that include the choleric and sanguine personality types are more outgoing, more sociable, and more comfortable in a crowd [29]. Also, the introverted personalities, that is, melancholy and phlegmatic personality types, are shyer and reserved and anxious about being in 12 International Scholarly Research Notices crowd, especially at being singled out in a crowd [29]. To an extent the kind of dominant temperament of an individual has the tendency or proclivity to shape his or her actions or behaviour at the work place. The essence for this discourse is to also ascertain how these nurses know their temperament and to what extent they are able to deal with the perceived or known weaknesses in their temperament. There is also the need to further assess how nurses who know their peculiarities or idiosyncrasies due to their temperament are able to dovetail that into their professional training to make them more functional to attain optimum performance at the work place. The nurses were further asked if they would encourage their relatives to join the profession. Twenty-seven stated that they would encourage their relatives while three answered negatively. Reasons given for why they would encourage their relatives are based on humanitarian values, prestige, remuneration, communication skills, knowledge acquisition, inspiration, easy accessibility of employment, and increasing the number of staff. The general notion in Ghana is that nurses are well paid and that they are generally respected by the civil society in Ghana. Wearing a nursing school uniform in itself gives you prestige. The reasons given by respondents who would not encourage their relatives to join the profession include the fact that there are no incentives to motivate nurses and it is time consuming and very demanding. Suggestions given by the nurses with regard to how the profession could be made better are as follows: (i) Provision of logistics and resources. (ii) Respect for the profession. (iii) Increment of remuneration and other service allo- wances. (iv) Motivation and encouragement. (v) Checking on attitude of patients and their relatives. (vi) Safety measures for workers. (vii) Increase in staff. (viii) Accommodation facilities for nurses. (ix) Provision of student allowance for nursing trainees. (x) Research in the field. In order to get a fair assessment and not a one-sided version, a total number of forty (40) patients were also engaged to answer some questions based on the output and attitude of nurses and the profession as a whole. The respondents consisted of twenty-eight (28) males and twelve (12) females. Table 7 shows the age range of the respondents. Patients prefer public hospitals to private hospitals and mostly use cash and carry as a mode of payment more than the National Health Insurance. This assertion was deduced after a frequency was created for the questions based on their preference in terms of the hospital they attend and the mode of payment. Table 8 shows the raw figures of the data collected. Table 9 shows the impression that most patients in Ghana have been using a sample size of forty. Majority of the Table 7 Age range Number of patients 11–20 8 21–30 23 31–40 1 41–50 2 Above 50 1 No response 5 Total 40 Table 8 Questions Options Number ofpeople Which hospital do you prefer to attend? Public hospital 24 Private hospital 16 Which mode of payment do you use? Cash and carry system 20 Insurance 19 No answer 1 Table 9 Impression Number of people Negative 23 Positive 8 Neutral 8 No answer 1 Total 40 respondents that is 57.5% indicated that the service provided by nurses is very dissatisfactory. Some of the reasons that accounted for this number include lack of ethics, ineffi- ciency, lack of compassion and care for patients, disrespectful attitude, and lack of proper supervision, noncommitment, inadequate knowledge base, and laziness. However, eight respondents had positive remarks which include good ser- vices rendered, good behaviour exhibited by some nurses that can be described as kind and caring, and very encouraging services rendered as compared to a previous period. Another eight described their services as average, satisfactory, and improved but are impatient and have more room for improve- ment. This was categorized as neutral as they described the negative and positive sides of the coin. Based on the assessment of the profession, a question was further asked if patients would allow their relatives to join the profession. Twenty-seven (27) responded yes while thirteen (13) responded no. The reasons given for encouraging relatives to join the profession were because it is a noble profession, humanitarian reasons, guaranteed employment after training, acquisition of skills and train- ing, remuneration, impact making, and increasing the staff numeracy. A question on whether any of the respondents have been a victim of maltreatment was asked and seventeen (17) responded “yes” while twenty-three responded “no.” Their response to this maltreatment includes feeling very bad, International Scholarly Research Notices 13 humiliated, angry, sad and confused, frustrated, unhappy, and astonished and finally becoming speechless. Education on code of ethics, counselling, aptitude test before recruitment, sanctions, and training; provision of awards or motivation; implementation of rules, improved logistics, effective super- vision, and quality treatment of patients; increased wages; and periodic performance appraisal are the measures suggested by respondents to improve service delivery of nurses. Also responses from patients concerning whether nurses take money or gifts after taking care of patients were not in the affirmative. The findings do not reflect the perception in Ghana that nurses generally take money or gifts from patients. Patients believe that most nurses join the profession for recognition or prestige, passion or humanitarian sentiments, financial security, and guaranteed employment after school. With the question, will you entrust your life to a nurse, thirty- four of the respondents answered no while fifteen percent that is six people answered yes. This means that several of the patients in the respective communities do not have confidence in the nurses. This is a detailed response given by respondents with regard to their worst experience with nurses. Their responses include “being ignored and not given immediate attention when needed,” “denied the privilege of visiting a family mem- ber,” “partiality and injection at the wrong place,” “wrong prescription,” “eating whiles I was in pain,” “vulgar language and favouritism,” “harsh words,” “shouting on patients,” “impatience,” “an injection that caused a two month pain,” “wrong language used,” “physical abuse,” and “conspiring with a patient to run away.” There are mixed feelings with regard to how patients see the future of the nursing profession. Some of the respondents believe with time services rendered will improve while others believe it will deteriorate with time. The positive statements or phrases include “promising and bright,” “very good and bright,” “better services,” “a long way to save lives,” and “improvement in service.” Others also said that the profes- sion needed effective supervision, more staff, the need to encourage people so that they do not lose trust in the service. Generally others hope for the best and see it as a means of secured employment. Others stated that there is the need for proper policy measures; otherwise the future will be bleak. Services rendered by nurses are not encouraging as most of the responses from patients were negative more than positive. Nurses on the other hand believe that proper measures and availability of logistics and other resources will boost their morale for the job. The Florence Nightingale of the twenty-first century has her own challenges and this affects her output. 5. Discussion Various writers contend that today’s ailment forms show little modification from former centuries, yet the evolving signs with regard to morbidity and mortality present new tasks that must be met with new methods for better results. Moreover, for any nation to meet these tasks, it should have well-informed and capable nurses. These tasks often are indicative of wider matters of social, economic, political, and cultural setting of the people. It needs to be noted that no matter how difficult the tasks are, with the cooperative will of the people and the political will of the government, these tasks can be turned into prospects for solutions. The analysis above has clearly laid bare effort of Florence Nightingale to provide the best care for patients in her days despite the challenges she encountered. The responses to the interviews granted to the nurses show clearly the challenges the nurses of today are facing in an effort to provide care for patients. In addition, the responses from patients who participated in the research present a vivid account of the kind of care and perception of healthcare delivery patients are receiving from the 21st century nurses. In spite of the similarities between the past and present, it can clearly be seen that the kind of care envisaged by Florence Nightingale for patients which she fought for is totally different from what majority of patients believed they are receiving in modern times. Therefore, it is highly recommended that the nurses of today in Ghana emulate the good deeds and spirit of Nightingale which was used to establish the nursing institution. The study believes that solutions are not always simple. Therefore, suggestions on possible approaches to address these tasks are presented. We know of no universal solutions that exist to solve all the problems of healthcare delivery in all jurisdictions of the world. Health approaches must be addressed from various angles with specific results. It can be built on comprehensive information of the health needs and lifestyle patterns of the populace, tailored to local, socioeconomic, and political conditions. These days with advancement in every aspect of life, technology, and globalization have impact on nursing and healthcare delivery. This is in the sense that since the world is a global market now, certain good practices of nursing can be adopted from other countries to help improve upon healthcare delivery in Ghana. We can look up to the rest of the world and adopt their good practices that are having great impact on their healthcare delivery in terms of personnel, management, and accommodation among many others. With technology, the country can now have better solutions to some illnesses that were previously not easy to diagnose and this can even help improve the life expectancy rate in the country. Some of the ways to address this include the government making sure that finances of nursing are well taken care of so that they can live comfortably in order to provide efficient services to the nation. For a hospital or clinic to run effectively and efficiently, the availability of laboratory equipment which is in good conditions must be at the disposal of nurses. Those that are needed in teaching the students are also highly required. It has been realized that international learning practice can offer outstanding prospect for nursing students to exer- cise nursing in cultural systems diverse from their own, gain an increased global outlook, and enhance their cultural capa- bility. An international educational programme that engages students in healthcare in another culture is a wonderful way 14 International Scholarly Research Notices to immerse students in diversity issues. Therefore, Ghana needs an expansion of local nursing education and training capacity as well as well-coordinated international nursing education partnerships. 6. Conclusion In conclusion, nursing in Ghana is prone to a lot of difficulties and challenges aside opportunities the job creates. With historical background of nursing available to us, we can look back and learn from the past, those practices that did not help nurses to function effectively and improve upon them. We can also know how to best address issues like finance, management, personnel, and many other issues that pose a threat to the nursing institution in an effort to keep the dreams and aspirations of Florence Nightingale, the great nurse that ever lived. Competing Interests The authors declare that they have no competing interests. References [1] K. Awusi, Equity and Efficiency in the Supply of Health Man- power in Ghana, Open Lecture, University of Ghana, Legon, Ghana, 1989. [2] A. Akiwumi, “Higher education for nurses,” Inter-Faculty Lec- ture, University of Ghana, Legon, Ghana, 1970. [3] K. Ewusi, The Dimensions and Characteristics of Rural Poverty in Ghana, vol. 43 of ISSER Technical Publication, The World Bank, Accra, Ghana, 1984, Ghana, Priorities for Public Expenditures, Report no. 5824 GH, p. 19, 1986–88. [4] K. J. Egenes, “History of nursing,” in Issues and Trends in Nursing: Essential Knowledge for Today and Tomorrow, Jones & Bartlett, 2009. [5] L. Selanders and P. Crane, “The voice of florence nightingale on advocacy,” The Online Journal of Issues in Nursing, vol. 17, no. 1, manuscript 1, 2012. [6] L. Selanders, “Florence Nightingale,” February 2015, http://www .britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/415020/Florence-Nightingale. [7] F. Stockwell, A Contemporary Perspective on Florence Nightin- gale’s Writings in Notes on Nursing and Florence Nightingale to Her Nurses, 2010. [8] I. B. Cohen, “Florence nightingale,” Scientific American, vol. 250, no. 3, pp. 128–137, 1984. [9] Hampshire Record Office. Archive Education Service, Florence Nightingale. [10] P. J. Lewi, “Florence nightingale and polar area diagrams,” in Speaking of Graphics, chapter 5, pp. 1–29, 2006. [11] S. M. Regan, Florence Nightingale, Women in the World History Curriculum, March 2016, http://www.womeninworld- history.com/IMOW.html. [12] A. Attewell, “Florence nightingale,” in Prospects: The Quarterly Review of Comparative Education, vol. 28, no. 1, pp. 153–166, UNESCO: International Bureau of Education, Paris, France, 1998. [13] D. Neuhauser, “Florence Nightingale gets no respect: as a statistician that is,” Quality and Safety in Health Care, vol. 12, no. 4, p. 317, 2003. [14] C. J. Gill and G. C. Gill, “Nightingale in Scutari: her legacy reexamined,” Clinical Infectious Diseases, vol. 40, no. 12, pp. 1799–1805, 2005. [15] The Victoria Web, January 2012, http://www.victorianweb.org/ history/crimea/florrie.html. [16] M. Bloy, “Life of Florence Nightingale and the role she played during the Crimea War,” January 2012, http://www.victorian- web.org/history/crimea/florrie.html. [17] J. Simkin, “Florence Nightingale,” 2014, http://spartacus-educa- tional.com/industry.html. [18] M. Klainberg, “A historical overview of nursing,” in Today’s Nursing Leader: Managing, Succeeding, Excelling, pp. 21–40, Jones & Bartlett Learning, 2010. [19] P. A. Sabatier and C. M. Weible, “The advocacy coalition frame- work: innovations and charges,” in Theories of the Policy Process, P. Sabatier, Ed., Westview Press, Stockholm, Sweden, 2007. [20] M. Arnstein, “Florence Nightingale’s influence on nursing,” Bulletin of the New York Academy of Medicine, vol. 32, no. 7, pp. 540–546, 1956. [21] S. Heather, “Principles for a new philosophy,” March 2015, http://News.nurse.com/apps.dll/article?AID=2011110623002. [22] J. Whitfield, “Florence Nightingale’s philosophy of nursing: have we met the mark?” March 2015, http://www.online.ben.edu/ blog/health/Florence-nightingales-philosophy-of-nursing. [23] L. C. Selanders and P. C. Crane, “The voice of florence nightin- gale on advocacy,” The Online Journal of Issues in Nursing, vol. 17, no. 1, 2012. [24] J. Whitfield, Florence Nightingale’s Philosophy of Nursing: Have We Met the Mark? Benedictine University, 2013, http://online .ben.edu/blog/health/florence-nightingales-philosophy-of-nursing- have-we-met-the-mark. [25] M. Opare and J. E. Mill, “The evolution of nursing education in a postindependence context—Ghana from 1957 to 1970,” Western Journal of Nursing Research, vol. 22, no. 8, pp. 936–944, 2000. [26] N. T. Donkor and L. D. Andrews, “21st century nursing practice in Ghana: challenges and opportunities,” International Nursing Review, vol. 58, no. 2, pp. 218–224, 2011. [27] B. Talley, “Nurses and nursing education in Ghana: creating collaborative opportunities,” International Nursing Review, vol. 53, no. 1, pp. 47–51, 2006. [28] M. Opare and J. E. Mill, “Challenges to the growth of nursing education,” Nursing, vol. 22, no. 8, pp. 936–944, 2000. [29] D. W. Erkstrand, “The Four Human Temperaments,” June 2015, http://www.thetransformedsoul.com/additional-studies/miscel- laneous-studies/the-four-human-temperaments. 
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Lg. Machado de Assis, lote 2, porta C — 1700-116 Lisboa www.sitiodolivro.pt Ao meu pai João Manuel Pereira e Laura da Silva e Sousa que me deram tudo o que sou. Marketing Pessoal Autora Índice Introdução Geral 1 Capítulo I Parte I Da massifi cação à individualização da comunicação 1 Introdução. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 A comunicação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 3 A massifi cação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 4 A desmassifi cação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 5 A individualização da comunicação . . . . . . . . . . 15 6 Conclusão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Parte II Comunicação estratégica 1 Introdução. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 2 Considerações sobre retórica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 3 O poder da palavra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 4 Comunicação e propaganda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 5 Comunicação estratégica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 6 Conclusão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Parte III Comunicação escrita 1 Introdução. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 2 Considerações sobre comunicação escrita . . . . . . . 37 3 A utilização da Internet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 4 A comunicação pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 5 A gestão efi ciente do tempo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 6 A utilização da comunicação escrita em televisão. . . 44 7 As palavras escritas que geram acção . . . . . . . . . . 46 8 Conclusão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Capítulo II Parte I Performance e Marketing Pessoal 1 Introdução. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 2 O poder pessoal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 3 Relacionamento interpessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 4 Os líderes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 5 O carisma pessoal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 6 A confi ança . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 7 A determinação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 8 A aparência física . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 9 A imagem pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Parte II Marketing e sucesso pessoal 1 Visão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 2 Missão pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 3 A comunicação empática . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 4 O poder da comunicação pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 5 A persuasão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 6 Motivação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 7 A marca pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 8 O sucesso pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 8.1 Aspectos importantes para alcançar o sucesso . . 120 Conclusão geral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 Bibliografi a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lista de fi guras 1 O poder pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 2 Relacionamento interpessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 3 Círculos de infl uência . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 4 Marketing pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 5 Pessimista e optimista . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 6 Cumprimento de objectivos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 7 Imagem pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 8 A comunicação efi caz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 9 Os três saberes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 10 Sucesso pessoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 Marketing Pessoal M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 5 Introdução Geral Este tema refl ecte a necessidade constante de perceber o universo da comunicação cada vez mais complexo e dinâmico, bem como, os acontecimentos tecnológicos, ideológicos que vão acontecendo e as suas repercussões ao nível da comuni- cação. A escolha deste tema deve-se ao interesse e motivação pelas questões da comunicação e do marketing pessoal, procurando estudar e observar os ideais, atitudes e comportamentos mais apropriados para alcançar o sucesso em termos pessoais e pro- fi ssionais. A necessidade constante de compreender o universo da in- dividualização da comunicação, em constante mudança, a ne- cessidade de adaptação ao modo de comunicar, a diferencia- ção da comunicação, a forma de ser e de estar enquanto pessoa e membro de uma organização, são alguns dos aspectos a de- senvolver neste trabalho. As palavras são instrumentos para construir, para gerar ac- ção ou não, para ensinar ou desaprender, ou seja, a palavra é um instrumento da expressão humana, é através do uso da 1 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L palavra, tom de voz e fi siologia, que se transmitem emoções, sentimentos, ideias, atitudes e comportamentos que são, numa análise global, um estado de espírito, que pode ou não trans- formar o mundo de cada pessoa e a sociedade em geral. A individualização da comunicação apresenta-se cada vez mais importante para um diferenciação e demarcação, no sen- tido em que cada vez mais é fundamental estabelecer normas, ideias e atitudes condizentes com os objectivos pessoais e or- ganizacionais capazes de fortalecer e imprimir uma postura assertiva perante a própria pessoa e a comunidade envolvente. Os métodos a apresentar neste trabalho são essencialmen- te as experiências e demonstração de conhecimentos pessoais de várias personalidades com sucessos válidos, as referências bibliográfi cas de vários autores sobre as matérias relacionados com a comunicação pessoal, desenvolvimento e marketing pessoal. Este trabalho encontra-se dividido em dois capítulos, sendo o primeiro capítulo constituído por três partes (da massifi ca- ção à individualização da comunicação, comunicação estra- tégica e comunicação escrita, respectivamente) e o segundo capítulo por dois capítulos (performance e marketing pessoal, marketing e sucesso pessoal, respectivamente). Na primeira parte deste trabalho, é apresentada uma pers- pectiva da evolução da comunicação desde 1930 até aos nossos dias, essencialmente, nas suas alterações mais importantes e signifi cativas da massifi cação, desmassifi cação até à individu- alização, como podemos verifi car na actualidade, bem como, M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 7 da comunicação interpessoal e das suas alterações ao nível dos media, bem como ao nível das relações interpessoais. Na segunda parte são apresentadas considerações sobre comunicação estratégica, considerações sobre retórica, onde algumas considerações sobre o poder da palavra e a retórica são explicitadas, bem como, as características sobre a distinção entre comunicação e propaganda. Na terceira parte são expostas algumas considerações so- bre a comunicação escrita, com algumas observações sobre a transmissão de mensagens nos vários suportes, como a In- ternet, os jornais, revistas, gestão e organização do tempo, a comunicação escrita na televisão e algumas ideias sobre as pa- lavras que geram acção. A primeira parte do segundo capítulo apresenta as consi- derações fundamentais relativas à performance e marketing pessoal como o poder pessoal, o relacionamento interpessoal, algumas questões da liderança, o carisma pessoal a confi ança, a determinação, a aparência física, a imagem pessoal, a visão, missão pessoal, a comunicação empática, o poder da comu- nicação pessoal, a persuasão, motivação, a marca pessoal e al- guns aspectos importantes para alcançar o sucesso pessoal. Na segunda parte do segundo capítulo, apresentam-se algu- mas ideias relacionadas com a visão, missão pessoal, comuni- cação empática, o poder da comunicação pessoal, a persuasão, a motivação, a marca pessoal e sucesso pessoal, bem como al- guns aspectos importantes para alcançar o sucesso. No fi nal são apresentadas as principais considerações sobre 1 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L as questões da individualização da comunicação, comunicação estratégica, comunicação escrita, marketing pessoal e sucesso pessoal, bem como conclusões sobre o trabalho. Capítulo I Parte I Da massifi cação à individualização da comunicação C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 2 1 Introdução A escolha deste tema refl ecte a necessidade constante de perceber o universo da comunicação cada vez mais complexo e dinâmico, bem como, os acontecimentos tecnológicos, ideo- lógicos que vão acontecendo e as suas repercussões ao nível da comunicação. Este trabalho enquadra-se numa perspectiva evolucionista desde 1930 até aos nossos dias, nas suas alterações mais im- portantes e signifi cativas, pois pretende-se mostrar, de forma simplifi cada, as alterações na comunicação unilateral (dos me- dia) e bilateral (relações interpessoais). O objecto de observação aqui considerado reporta-se ao âmbito da comunicação e dos media, nas suas mais signifi ca- tivas alterações às quais denominamos de “paradigmas”, mas- sifi cação, desmassifi cação, e individualização da comunicação. O que se entende por comunicação, como tem evoluído, quais as perspectivas vigentes e como serão no futuro, são al- gumas questões às quais tentaremos dar algumas respostas. A U T O R 2 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L A comunicação A comunicação é um processo dinâmico, em permanente mutação e evolução, não linear, intrínseco ao próprio homem, pois, é a forma que este tem de exteriorizar, partilhar, comun- gar, comportamentos, atitudes, sentimentos, ideias, opiniões, e desta forma obter feed-back dos receptores, e assim, orientar novamente a comunicação para a compreensão mútua, que é o principal objectivo da comunicação. O acto comunicar é inato ao próprio homem, pois a forma como nos apresentamos, a imagem, o cabelo, a forma de olhar, a forma de sentir, de estar, a respiração, são comunicar. Em- bora a comunicação efi caz aconteça quando existe feed-back (retorno da informação), é percepcionado correctamente. O aspecto fundamental do processo comunicativo reside no facto dos intervenientes na comunicação se entenderem mutuamente. Para que isso aconteça, é necessário ser bom ob- servador e escutar convenientemente o interlocutor, descobrir as suas reais necessidades, desejos e aspirações, estabelecer uma linguagem assertiva, interpretar as suas mensagens, per- ceber o contexto e as circunstâncias dessa mesma comunica- ção e ganhar a confi ança, estando sempre atento ao retorno da informação. Aceitamos a defi nição de “Comunicação: a transmissão de informação, ideia, emoção, habilidades, etc., pelo uso de sím- bolos – palavras, imagens, números, gráfi cos, etc. É o ato ou processo de transmissão que usualmente se designa como C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 2 3 comunicação”.1 Assim, podemos verifi car a necessidade de es- tabelecer uma relação com alguém, de transmitir algo através da palavra, de sons, de gestos, e, ao fazê-lo, estamos a comuni- car. Comunicar é estabelecer empatia comportamental, ou seja, é respirar quase em sintonia, é assumir posições idênticas, é pôr-se no lugar do outro, é em síntese ser igual ao seu interlo- cutor para assumir o mesmo raio de acção comunicativo, pois, desta forma, tornar-se-á mais assertivo comunicacionalmente. “Assumo que a comunicação é central para a vida da nossa cultura: sem ela, toda e qualquer cultura morrerá. Consequen- temente, o estudo da comunicação implica o estudo da cultura na qual ela se integra. Subjacente a estes pressupostos está uma defi nição geral de comunicação com “integração social através de mensagens”2 O acto comunicacional pode ser unilateral (entre emissor e receptor), em que o emissor envia a mensagem e o recep- tor apenas recebe, sem poder estabelecer feed–back. Este tipo de comunicação verifi ca-se nos meios de comunicação social, tais como: jornais, televisão, rádio, revistas, cinema, onde o re- ceptor assume uma posição passiva. Na maior parte das vezes, limita-se a receber informação, pois, não é possível estabelecer feed-back, excepto quando participa directamente num pro- grama de rádio em directo ou na televisão, através do telefone 1 LITTLJOHN, Stephen W., Fundamentos teóricos da comunicação humana. Ed Guanabara, 1ª Ed., Rio de Janeiro, 1988, p.37. 2 FISKE, J., Introdução ao estudo da comunicação, Ed. Asa, 1ª edição, Porto, 1993, p.14. A U T O R 2 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L ou “e-mail”, ou mesmo no jornal através de cartas ao director, cartas abertas, crónicas ou artigos de opinião. Neste tipo de comunicação unidireccional, as mensagens fornecem informações, ao transmitir em ideias, assuntos, pen- samentos, novos para o receptor. Nesta medida, “...a informa- ção reduz a incerteza. A informação semântica numa men- sagem é função directa da redução da incerteza na situação. Finalmente, a informação altera o estado do organismo. As mensagens têm impacto sobre o receptor.”3 Individualmente, as pessoas procuram manter-se informa- das sobre a realidade existente à sua volta, no país de origem, mas também em todo o mundo. Estas informações servem para construir concepções, ideias, atitudes e comportamentos, que constituirão uma panóplia de conhecimentos onde a rea- lidade assenta. Relativamente aos novos desafi os dos media …“We can al- ready point to some emerging issues which relate to freedom and equality, including that of control by central computer registration of many behaviours ... and widening knowledge gaps between the information rich and infromation poor.”4 Nesta perspectiva, um dos mais importantes problemas que os profi ssionais da comunicação vão ter, no futuro, consiste em separar a informação realmente relevante para cada pessoa em particular em detrimento da poluição comunicativa. 3 LITTLJOHN, Stephen W., Fundamentos teóricos da comunicação humana. Ed Guanabara, 1ª Ed., Rio de Janeiro, 1988, p.161. 4 MCQUAIL, Denis, Mass communication Theory, Second Edition, 1987,p. 134. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 2 5 Por outro lado, temos comunicação bidireccional, onde o emissor e o receptor partilham imagens, necessidades, desejos, atitudes e comportamentos, interagindo, reduzindo incertezas sobre os temas que estão a abordar. Segundo Martin P. Anderson, “comunicação é o processo pelo qual compreendemos os outros e, em contrapartida, es- forçamo-nos por compreendê-los. È um processo dinâmico, mudando e variando constantemente em resposta à situação total.”5. Deste modo, a comunicação é um processo dinâmi- co no qual entendemos e nos esforçamos por compreender o nosso semelhante. Nesta perspectiva, podemos afi rmar que a comunicação é uma tentativa da compreensão do outro, o que nem sempre acontece, porque existem factores tais como: ruídos, contex- tos, interpretações, signifi cados desiguais e daí a necessidade de estudar, constantemente, o processo da comunicação em toda a sua complexidade. “... o fi o condutor parece ser a ideia de algo que está sendo transferido de uma coisa ou pessoa para outra. Usamos a pa- lavra “comunicação” ora em referência ao que é assim transfe- rido, ora aos meios pelos quais é transferido, ora ao processo como um todo. Em muitos casos, o que é assim transferido continua sendo compartilhado; se eu transmito informação a outra pessoa, ela não deixa de estar em minha posse pelo facto de passar a estar na posse dela. Assim, a palavra ”comunicação” 5 LITTLJOHN, Stephen W., Fundamentos teóricos da comunicação humana. Ed Guanabara, 1ª Ed., Rio de Janeiro, 1988, p.37. A U T O R 2 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L adquire também o sentido de participação. É nessa acepção, por exemplo que os devotos religiosos comungam.” (A. J. Ayer, 1955).6 A evolução do conceito “comunicação” tem sido e continu- ará a ser dinâmico, em permanente mutação, avançará con- forme as mudanças de paradigma que se verifi quem ao longo dos tempos. “Considero “paradigmas” as realizações científi cas universalmente reconhecidas que, durante algum tempo, for- necem problemas e soluções modelares para uma comunidade de praticantes de uma ciência”.7 Segundo este autor, paradig- mas são estados científi cos nos quais a comunidade científi - ca se apoia para fundamentar as suas teorias. Um exemplo de mudança de paradigma é a constatação de Copérnico ao afi r- mar que a terra era o centro do Universo e não o Sol como até então se pensava. A mudança de paradigma acontece quando a componente tecnológica, (como o aparecimento de novas má- quinas, equipamentos, componentes eléctricos e electrónicos) se altera e permite solucionar os problemas mais facilmente; e a componente ideológica, também começa a interiorizar e in- corporar os novos procedimentos e novas ideias que se trans- formam em comportamentos e atitudes pragmáticas nas quais o quotidiano decorre. Segundo J. Fiske “um paradigma é um conjunto a partir do qual é feita uma escolha, e apenas uma unidade desse con- 6 Idem, p.37. 7 KUHN, Thomas, S., A estrutura das revoluções científi cas, Col. Editora Perspectiva, 5ª edição, São Paulo, Brasil, 1998, p 13. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 2 7 junto pode ser escolhida. Exemplos simples são as letras do alfabeto.”8. Assim, paradigma é uma estrutura de entendimen- to, onde cada elemento é nitidamente diferenciado, e simulta- neamente, todos os elementos tem algo em comum. Nesta perspectiva, se entendermos todas as concepções e práticas dominantes num período temporal, utilizadas pelos praticantes de técnicas científi cas para a implementação de terias e elaboração de discursos, como sinónimo de “paradig- mas” podemos então apresentar a existência de três paradig- mas ao nível da comunicação. São eles a massifi cação, desmas- sifi cação e individualização da comunicação. A massifi cação Desde o aparecimento da televisão nos EUA, Inglaterra e Alemanha, na década de 1930 até aos dias de hoje, muito se tem alterado em termos tecnológicos, pois, antes de existir transmissão de imagem, a comunicação de massas processava- -se de forma escrita, como por exemplo pelos livros, jornais, revistas, folhas volantes ou por via oral através da rádio que era então o principal meio de comunicação para o maior número 8 FISKE, J., Introdução ao estudo da comunicação, Ed. Asa, 1ª edição, Porto, 1993, p.83. A U T O R 2 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L de pessoas, servindo para implementar sistemas de propagan- da verdadeiramente efi cazes como por exemplo a propaganda Nazi durante a II Guerra Mundial. Mais tarde com a solidifi cação dos media, principalmente nos EUA, “Th ere are already some 3,000 public-access channels in use in the United States, off ering 20,000 hours of locally produced programs per week, and there are even national producers and distributors of programs for access channels Th rough satellites (e.g., Deep-Dish television), as well as hundreds of local sup- pliers, althrough all of them must struggle for funding.”9 Começa a questionar-se quem realmente assegura a manu- tenção das notícias. A quem pertencem os media? Quem paga as palavras que lemos no jornal ou ouvimos na rádio? Assim, e segundo os autores, quem assegura realmente a manutenção e crescimento de um jornal são os leitores, que para além do dinheiro que pagam na compra do mesmo, asseguram o seu lucro através dos anúncios publicitários. Segundo Gaye Tuchman, no seu livro Making News afi rma que “...news continues to be associated with the activities of le- gitimated institutions and the spacial and temporal organiza- tion of newswork remains embebded in their activities, news reproduces itself as a historical given.”10 Nesta perspectiva, a realidade é construída segundo as concepções dos media, e 9 HERMAN, E.S., CHOMSKY, N., Manufacturing concent, 1988, p. 307. 10 TUCHMAN,G. Making news, 1980, p.196. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 2 9 não sobre a realidade em si, pois um facto é algo que acontece na realidade que poderá ser ou não notícia, dependendo da importância ou não, em termos de estratégia para os media. Como exemplo: uma arvore que caia na fl oresta só é notícia se um meio de comunicação social mostrar interesse em tornar público tal facto, caso contrário não passa de um simples facto, como muitos outros acontecem no mundo inteiro. Considerado o período da massifi cação no que concerne à teoria da comunicação, “...Mcluhan encontrou uma técnica de análise dos média que teve consequências tremendas. A pu- blicação de A Galáxia de Gutemberg, em 1962, espantou os leitores de todo o mundo. ...conseguiu colocar a comunidade escolar à sua mercê e captar a atenção dos media.”11 A partir de 1957 em Portugal, e com o aparecimento da te- levisão como o mais sofi sticado dos meios de comunicação de massas, onde a imagem passa a ter maior impacto e ajuda a ouvir o que vemos e a ver o que ouvimos, onde a mensagem consegue chegar ao maior número de pessoas, onde as audiên- cias são heterogéneas. Assim, como só havia a RTP enquanto o único canal de televisão em Portugal, existindo entre as pes- soas referências comuns, como, por exemplo, quando alguém perguntava “viste ontem o telejornal” todas as pessoas sabiam de qual jornal se tratava, pois, era a único programa com esse nome. Nesta perspectiva, a imagem é considerada meio de cre- dibilidade do discurso, mas também transmite uma certa in- 11 KERCKHOVE, Derrick, A pele da cultura, Col. Relógio de água, Lisboa, 1997, p.19. A U T O R 3 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L tencionalidade do seu autor, ou seja, a sua subjectividade. Em Portugal, apenas havia a RTP, como a única televisão, e o meio de fi nanciamento era a aplicação de uma taxa por todos os consumidores de “televisão”. Ao nível do serviço prestado, podia-se observar que a com- ponente divertimento era preponderante, e os programas in- formativos como por exemplo o telejornal apresentava-se ao nível de discurso ofi cial, formal, mais pedagógico, “solene”. Desta forma, a televisão apresentava-se como o único meio de comunicação audiovisual que conseguia chegar ao maior número de pessoas. Neste período da massifi cação dos media. “ O que é repartido deixa de ser «cultura»: o corpo vivo, a presença actual do grupo (tudo o que fazia a função simbóli- ca e metabólica da cerimónia e da festa) – já não é um saber próprio do termo; é o estranho corpo de signos e referências, de reminiscências escolares e de signos intelectuais de moda a que se dá o nome de «cultura de massas» que poderia igual- mente chamar-se a M.C.C. (Menor Cultura Comum)”12 Nesta perspectiva existe um nivelamento cultural por baixo e deixa de haver uma cultura de criação ou de inovação artís- tica e passa a existir apenas uma cultura de massas ou standar- dizada. 12 BAUDRILLARD, Jean, A sociedade de consumo, Ed. 70, Lisboa, 1995, p.108). C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 3 1 Desmassifi cação Na década de 1960 – 70, nos EUA, e nos países mais desen- volvidos, assistimos à passagem da massifi cação para a des- massifi cação, com a implementação do (transistor, off set), da passagem do sistema analógico e o seu impacto na tipologia da escrita, tornou-se mais fácil e mais barato, com uma melhor qualidade, substituição do sistema de válvulas. Desta forma, surgiu a necessidade da especialização individual, ou por outras palavras, a qualifi cação do saber profi ssional que é o contrário do conhecimento enciclopédico ou mais geral. Nesta perspec- tiva, as notícias deixam de ser uma mera descrição da realidade e passam a ser uma interpretação da mesma. Assim, os técnicos de comunicação deixam de ser “telespectadores” e passam a ser realizadores ou agentes construtores dessa realidade. Em Portugal um pouco mais tarde, “... nos anos 90 – temos a criação de grupos multimédia. Para além do Estado e da Igreja Católica que já tinham o controle de vários órgãos de comunicação social impressos e electrónicos, a partir do início desta década, começam a formar-se, através do lançamento de novos media, aquisições, fusões e acordos, verda- deiros grupos multimédia tais como a Impresa, a Lusomundo, A Media Capital e a Sonae.com”13 aparecem, novos meios de comunicação escrita, como: revistas, 13 PINTO, Manuel (cord.), A comunicação e os media em Portugal, Col. Comunicação e Sociedade, Braga, 2000, p.51. A U T O R 3 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L jornais, especializados em economia, informática, moda, des- porto, para homens, para mulheres ou crianças, de decoração, arte, música, arquitectura, comunicação, culinária, etc. Em Portugal, “Perante o número crescente de rádios que proliferavam por todo o lado o país sem qualquer enquadra- mento legal, o XI governo Constitucional atribuiu, em 1989, 310 frequências locais e duas regionais”14. Nesta perspectiva este “boom” veio demonstrar que algumas rádios não reuniam condições para operar e apenas algumas poderiam manter-se em actividade, devido essencialmente a condições económicas. Relativamente à imprensa escrita “O governo de Cavaco Silva procurou inverter esta situação, afastando o Estado da propriedade dos órgãos de comunicação social escrita.”15 As- sim, Em 1988-89 passaram para a mão de empresas privadas A capital e o Diário Popular, em 1991 o Jornal de Notícias e Diário de Notícias. No que concerne à televisão “...Cavaco Sil- va (que geriu pessoalmente este dossier) decidiu atribuir – em 1992 – duas frequências de televisão nacionais: uma à Socie- dade Independente de Comunicação (SIC), liderada por Pinto Balsemão e outra à Televisão Independente (TVI).” 16 Nesta al- tura com a necessidade de conquistar audiências, surgiu tam- bém uma oferta mais diversifi cada de novos programas, séries e espaços informativos e desta forma já se torna mais difícil encontrar referências comuns. Por conseguinte, a televisão 14 Idem, p.33. 15 Idem, p.34. 16 ibidem, p. 35 C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 3 3 pública começou a deparar-se com problemas fi nanceiros, re- lacionados com a necessidade de competir técnica e humana- mente, “As difi culdades fi nanceiras da RTP refl ectem também o sucesso comercial dos operadores privados. Dois anos e sete meses depois de ter iniciado as suas emissões, a SIC ultrapassa o share semanal do canal I da RTP.”17 Verifi cou-se, gradualmente, o aparecimento de meios de co- municação especializados, onde era mais fácil, mais barato e mais rápido produzir revistas religiosas, políticas, desportivas, assim como, rádios com programas desportivos, culturais, etc. Esta necessidade de saber mais sobre um tema, esta especiali- zação (componente ideológica) juntamente com a componente tecnológica pressupõem e permitem a passagem da aceitação dos factos de forma passiva, para cada vez mais, uma postura activa sobre os factos, e as novas “culturas” vigentes, as novas concepções serão, também novos desafi os pessoais e sociais. A individualização da comunicação Desde a década de 1990, com a privatização dos canais de televisão, com o desenvolvimento de outras formas de fi nan- 17 ibidem, p. 35 A U T O R 3 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L ciamento específi co do sector através da publicidade e do pa- trocínio, vai-se assistindo a uma especialização do saber cada vez mais crescente para satisfazer necessidades, e sobretudo na cada vez mais exigida qualidade de serviços a prestar. Na vertente tecnológica, “O crescimento dos computadores pessoais está a acontecer tão rapidamente que a futura televi- são de arquitectura aberta é o PC, ponto fi nal.”18 O “e-mail”, a passagem dos átomos para bits “Um livro possui uma apre- sentação com elevado contraste, é leve, é fácil de folhear e não é muito caro. Mas fazê-lo chegar a si inclui o transporte e a armazenagem. ... Pior, um livro pode esgotar-se. Os livros di- gitais nunca se esgotam.”19 Uma selecção de públicos e de seg- mentos de mercado ou “públicos – alvo” onde interessa cada vez mais satisfazer necessidades individuais e pessoais. A televisão, como instrumento de hipnose colectiva, como fl ash fotográfi co da sociedade, na medida em que consegue abranger o maior número de pessoas, e dele consegue comu- nicar, “em primeiro lugar, ao corpo e não à mente. ...o ecrã de vídeo tem um impacte tão directo sobre o meu sistema nervo- so e as minhas emoções, e tão pouco efeito sobre a mente” 20 Na televisão interactiva podemos assistir a uma pluralidade de informação, a um leque alargado de programas de entrete- nimento, e sobretudo a uma alta defi nição em termos de som e imagem. 18 NEGROPONTE. Nicolas, Ser digital, Ed. Caminho, Lisboa, 1996, p. 55. 19 Ibidem p.21). 20 KERCKHOVE, Derrick, A pele da cultura, Col. Relógio de água, Lisboa, 1997, p.39. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 3 5 Em termos de discurso televisivo passamos do ofi cial para o informal, do formal para o menos solene, do mais pedagógico para o mais natural. Podemos verifi car que desde a década de 1960 até aos dias de hoje, tem-se verifi cado que a sociedade em geral passou de uma cultura de massas, onde a mesma mensagem era “consu- mida” pelo maior número de pessoas, a uma cultura do efé- mero, da velocidade, do consumo imediato, da satisfação do momento. Nesta perspectiva, assiste-se, hoje, a um crescente controlo sobre a realidade, a uma personalização dos factos, dos interfaces, por exemplo, a construção de interfaces, “...falar, apontar, e olhar deveriam funcionar em conjunto enquanto parte de um interface multimodal, menos baseado em trocas de mensagens nos dois sentidos”21 Assistimos cada vez mais a um uso individualizado dos meios electrónicos, ou seja, a possibilidade de cada pessoa em particular ter a sua própria programação televisiva, onde po- derá construir o seu jornal, ser o realizador do seu próprio fi l- me, a sua música preferida, a existência ou não de publicidade, e se a desejar poder construir uma panóplia de spots publici- tários vocacionados para a satisfação dos seus interesses, o seu documentário, a seu interface televisivo. Em termos comunicacionais, podemos observar que emis- sor e receptor, cada vez mais, assumem o comando da sua própria comunicação, ou seja, o receptor toma posição sobre 21 NEGROPONTE. Nicolas, Ser digital, Ed. Caminho, Lisboa, 1996, p. 109. A U T O R 3 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L as matérias a visiona, por outras palavras o receptor passa a ser actor e entra em cena, contracenado com os vários autores desse “palco”. O sistema televisivo, movido por interesses económicos, as- sume posições demasiado superfi ciais sobre a realidade, não aprofundando os temas, e revelando apenas partes do todo social, transpondo naturalmente, apenas uma parte dessa re- alidade. Os meios de comunicação baseiam-se na característica moda total, assim como, na indumentária, e naturalmente na publicidade, nada transmite, nada diz, apenas serve para dife- renciar, para ser e fazer diferente. “… a moda nada diz, é uma estrutura vazia, por isso é um erro ver nela uma forma moderna do mito. O imperativo da moda não é narrar ou fazer sonhar, mas mudar, mudar por mu- dar e a moda só existe através deste processo de desqualifi cação incessante das formas.”22 Na vida política, económica, na alteração das mentalidades, (ideológica) na comunicação de espectáculo. Os media carac- terizam-se fundamentalmente pela inovação, pelo efémero, pela sedução, ou seja os media funcionam de acordo com as leis do mercado (oferta e procura) sendo objectivo primeiro maximizar o lucro. 22 LIPOVETSKY, Gilles, A era do vazio, Col. Relógio de água, Lisboa, 1997, p.145. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 3 7 “A crise da social-democracia coincide com o movimento pós- -moderno de redução da rigidez individual e institucional: me- nos relação vertical e paternalista entre o Estado e a sociedade, menos regime único, mais iniciativa, diversidade e responsabili- dade na sociedade e nos indivíduos, e as novas políticas sociais, a mais breve ou mais longo prazo, terão que continuar a mesma obra de abertura que o consumo de massa pôs em movimento”.23 Esta individualização comunicativa como qualquer novo paradigma, transporta consigo aspectos positivos, mas tam- bém novos problemas comunicacionais: “Seguramente, o mais importante efeito da fotografi a da Terra é expandir a percepção que temos do nosso eu para além da ima- gem do corpo e alargar o nosso sentido de identidade. Na ver- dade, desde o primeiro momento em que vemos essa fotografi a, tomamos posse da Terra e de um novo poder para nela investir. É uma extensão dos meus olhos. Tudo o que nela está contido é «meu» tanto quanto eu sou «dela».”24 Assim, assistimos hoje a uma mudança estrutural ao nível da comunicação, na medida em que o processo comunicati- vo é cada vez mais concebido à medida de cada pessoa em particular, com as suas particularidades, satisfazendo os seus 23 Idem, p.125. 24 KERCKHOVE, Derrick, A pele da cultura, Col. Relógio de água, Lisboa, 1997, p. 283. A U T O R 3 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L desejos, as suas aspirações, e as suas necessidades mais pro- fundas. Daí que a televisão do futuro, será mais um “mergulho individual” sobre os temas, matérias, jogos, nos quais apenas os seus intervenientes manuseiam e controlam. Os meios de comunicação social, hoje, constroem um con- junto de sensações, emoções, sentimentos colectivos, nos quais as pessoas apenas aceitam sem questionar, criam imaginários colectivos sobre a realidade. Desta forma, mesmo com as tec- nologias da comunicação é necessário um esforço acrescido, pois não chega separar o acessório do essencial, é preciso ser criativo e inovador na plataforma individual de perceber o mundo e assim, ser mais activo e menos reactivo, perante a realidade. “Com o advento da Internet temos o primeiro meio que é oral e escrito, privado e público, individual e colectivo ao mesmo tem- po. A ligação entre a mente pública e a mente privada é feita através de redes abertas e conectadas do planeta.” 25 O computador pessoal veio individualizar a comunicação, na medida em que permitiu a possibilidade de utilizar a es- crita, a visão e a via oral, para descobrir e construir os nossos próprios estilos de apreensão do mundo e os nossos próprios estilos para comunicar. Como pontos positivos, ao nível individual podemos apon- 25 Ibidem, 125 C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 3 9 tar: – Maior rapidez comunicativa (Ex: Internet, e-mail) – Comunicação bidireccional (Ex: Emissor e receptor es- tabelecem uma comunicação quase em tempo real). – Maior especialização do conhecimento (Ex: cada pes- soa estuda mais sobre menos) – Possíveis pontos menos positivos associados são: – Individualização da comunicação (Ex: perda de refe- rências comuns que poderão originar confl itos sociais) – Mecanização comunicativa (computador como parcei- ro e não como instrumento de comunicação. Um dos principais problemas que poderão intensifi car-se no futuro é o da regulamentação das novas tecnologias da comu- nicação, tais como: a defesa dos direitos de autor, da violação da vida privada, da adulteração de sistemas informáticos e de soft ware, da responsabilização, do controle das interacções, etc. Conclusão A comunicação é a acção de partilhar, de pôr em comum, de reduzir incertezas, de exteriorizar e comungar ideias, sen- timentos, atitudes, opiniões, e desta forma obter o retorno da A U T O R 4 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L informação (feed-back). Todavia o aspecto mais importante é a compreensão mútua, pois, permite estabelecer uma relação recíproca de entendimento. Nesta perspectiva, foram abordados o acto comunicacional unilateral (media) e bilateral ou bidireccional (relações inter- pessoais), enquanto no primeiro a comunicação processa-se de forma massifi cada, ou seja, uma mensagem é enviada para o maior número de pessoas, no segundo as mensagens são al- terados conforme o feed-bak do receptor. No que concerne às mudanças evolutivas da comunicação, podemos dizer que, na década de 1950, assistimos à solidifi ca- ção dos media, o período da massifi cação, excepto em Portu- gal onde ocorreu mais tarde no período compreendido entre 1970-75, (sensivelmente), verifi camos uma desmassifi cação, (em Portugal por volta de 1990-92) com a entrada de meios de comunicação mais diversifi cados e especializados, para corres- ponderem às exigências dos “consumidores”. A partir dos anos 90, entramos na era da individualização dos media, onde cada pessoa pode participar na construção de informações e onde cada um pode ser um todo comunicativo. Em síntese, a comunicação é um tema deveras interessante, mas também demasiado complexo, desta forma, fi cam algu- mas pistas para continuar a estudar o tema que foi delineado de forma breve. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 4 1 Parte II Comunicação estratégica A U T O R 4 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 4 3 Introdução A comunicação estratégia tem vindo a ser analisada e deba- tida, nos tempos de hoje, com regularidade, pois o seu estudo revela-se necessário para o alcançar o sucesso, quer ao nível pessoal, quer ao nível social, económico, político, religioso, lo- cal e planetário, daí a necessidade crescente de percebermos os meandros da comunicação, para melhor respondermos aos desafi os que cada vez mais se nos colocam. O objectivo principal desta segunda parte é apresentar con- siderações sobre retórica, o poder das palavras, comunicação e propaganda, comunicação estratégia e organização como en- tidade aprendente nos dias de hoje, onde podemos observar grandes transformações no plano da comunicação. Nesta medida, procuramos apresentar alguns exemplos, de como estas matérias são abordadas, pois, a comunicação estra- tégica, sendo uma matéria relativamente recente na sua análi- se, está necessariamente em mutação constante. A U T O R 4 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Considerações sobre retórica “A retórica”, diz Sócrates, “não precisa de conhecer a realida- de das coisas; basta-lhe um certo procedimento de persuasão por si inventado para que pareça diante dos ignorantes mais sábia que os sábios (Gorgias, 459 b.)”26 Segundo Sócrates, a realidade pode ser criada, construída, através do uso da retórica, ou seja, através do uso da palavra de forma e persuasiva. Todavia este procedimento persuasi- vo, que poderá ser simplesmente inventado, pode ter maior ou menor resultado, dependendo da compreensão, contraposição e da análise do seu receptor. Nesta perspectiva, pode afi rmar-se que, cada pessoa possui a sua verdade, isto, enquanto não surge uma “verdade nova” ou uma verdade unanimemente aceite. “Do ponto de vista retórico, a argumentação é então entendida como o conjunto de estratégias que organizam o discurso persu- asivo. Na Retórica, Aristóteles propôs o silogismo entimemático como suporte de tais estratégias. O “entimema” é um raciocínio de verdade provável e não provada, de verdade plausível e não certa, de verdade verosímil e não evidente (Carrilho, 1990: 70)”27 Nesta perspectiva, argumentar é utilizar o raciocínio de for- ma lógica, fundado na prova e demonstração, para demonstrar que o que era provável, fi ca provado, ou seja, é procurar esta- 26 www.bocc.ubi.pt/.../_texto.php3?html2=matrins-moises-lemos-argumentativo.html. 27 www.bocc.ubi.pt/.../_texto.php3?html2=matrins-moises-lemos-argumentativo.html C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 4 5 belecer a verdade. Todavia, a crise da razão, associada à crise de valores que hoje em dia se verifi ca na procura do lucro fácil da economia de mercado e na competitividade, conduz a uma argumentação espectáculo, onde o que se valoriza é o aspecto lúdico e espectacular da informação e não a verdade factual das coisas, na maior parte das vezes. “Chama-se “disposição” à etapa textual. Uma vez “inventa- dos”, os argumentos são postos em ordem. Assim, por exemplo, começa-se pelo argumento mais fraco a guarda-se para o fi m o argumento decisivo, um argumento que se imponha aos audito- res mais recalcitrantes.”28 Assim, podemos por exemplo: verifi car com alguma fre- quência a utilização dos melhores argumentos no fi nal de uma exposição oral, na medida em que as primeiras impressões e as últimas fi cam retidas de uma forma mais vincada no receptor. No âmbito político, durante uma campanha eleitoral, o can- didato emite slogans, chavões, soundbits, mensagens repetidas, tais como: “Se ele nos mentiu no passado, como nos vai fazer acreditar no futuro”, muitas vezes com o objectivo de memo- rizar facilmente a mensagem e ao mesmo tempo convencer as pessoas da sua verdade, relativamente ao outro candidato. Hoje em dia, aprofundam-se os conhecimentos ao nível da argumentação, analisando as teorias relacionadas com as 28 www.bocc.ubi.pt/.../_texto.php3?html2=martins-moises-lemos-argumentativo.html A U T O R 4 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L questões práticas, como por exemplo: “actos de fala”29 onde se estudam os enunciados, tendo em conta os contextos e as ac- ções decorrentes na vida do dia-a-dia. Argumentar é obedecer a algumas regras que estão presen- tes na consciência prática da execução das coisas, ou seja, nas acções segundo as nossas concepções do mundo, segundo as representações mentais que dele temos e desta forma, somos actores que vivendo no mundo, também o construímos e con- cebemos à nossa forma de ser e de ver as coisas. Daí que estas mesmas regras projectem um futuro com algumas aspirações, desejos, valores, atitudes, assim como: incertezas, angústias, na medida em que cumprem relações vividas. O poder da palavra Podemos utilizar as palavras para construir ou destruir, para gerar acção ou não, para ensinar ou desaprender, ou seja, a pa- lavra é um instrumento da expressão humana, é através do uso da palavra que se transmitem emoções, sentimentos, ideias, atitudes e comportamentos que são, numa análise global, um estado de espírito, que pode ou não transformar o mundo de cada pessoa e a sociedade em geral. “A linguagem cria a realidade. Um dos actos linguísticos mais poderosos para criar a realidade chama-se declaração, quando pronunciada por alguém com autoridade para o fazer, cria uma nova realidade no momento em que é verbalizada. Por exemplo: 29 AUSTIN, J.L., How to do Things with words,1962. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 4 7 se for com a noiva (ou noivo) à presença de um juiz e ele os de- clarar marido e mulher, mesmo que se arrependa passados trinta segundos, já estará casado.”30 Nesta situação, uma declaração de uma pessoa com auto- ridade reconhecida pela sociedade, como, por exemplo, um padre ou um juiz, criam novas realidades, pois a partir desse momento, essa declaração implica uma mudança nas suas vi- das, pois quando antes eram solteiros, agora são casados. O que não se verifi ca se, em vez de um padre ou um juiz, fosse um amigo da família o autor dessa declaração. “Uma declaração só é classifi cada como declaração quan- do feita no presente e em termos positivos. Por exemplo: “Eu declaro ser próspero!” Por outro lado, “eu declaro que vou ser próspero!” ou “eu declaro não ser pobre” são exemplos de falsas declarações.”31 Como podemos verifi car, as declarações para criarem uma nova realidade têm que ser feitas de forma positiva, de modo a alterarem a forma de ser, de agir, perante a realidade, para depois, assumirem comportamentos e acções nesse sentido, e só depois obterem as consequências desse mesmo comporta- mento. Assim, não são as palavras em si que detêm poder, mas a forma como o comunicador atribui o poder às palavras. Pois 30 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação Global, Ed. Pergaminho, Lisboa, 1998, p.43. 31 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação Global, Ed. Pergaminho, Lisboa, 1998, p.44. A U T O R 4 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L é pela legitimidade, pela autoridade do autor que as palavras podem ser acção em si mesmas, ou seja, para além da compre- ensão das palavras é preciso reconhecer a capacidade do autor dessas palavras. As palavras constituem acção em si, se forem acatadas e seguidas pelo público-alvo, todavia, para que isto aconteça, é fundamental que a mensagem seja percebida, e que este re- conheça ao orador legitimidade ou autoridade, reconhecida socialmente, sobre essa matéria, pois de outra forma, não gera acção. Para que a mensagem possa gerar acção há a necessidade de se verifi car na prática “obra feita” realizada pelo autor, sobre o tema que apresenta, pois de outra forma, torna-se mais difícil ao público-alvo acatar a mensagem, pois a não constatação na prática pode levar a algumas interrogações sobre a sua aplica- bilidade. A legitimidade quando não existir pode ser criada, ou seja, tem que ser implementa, em primeiro lugar, de forma simbó- lica, atribuindo signifi cado às cosias, construindo cenários, imagens, símbolos que representem mentalmente tal situação e levem as pessoas a agir em conformidade com a mesma, é então a efi cácia simbólica das palavras que quando usadas pa- rece magia. “O poder das palavras é apenas o poder delegado do porta- -voz e das suas palavras – quer dizer, indissociavelmente, a ma- téria do seu discurso e a maneira de falar são, quanto muito, um testemunho e um testemunho entre outros, da garantia de C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 4 9 delegação de que está investido”32 Assim, o tema a discutir, e a sua expressividade, constituem a representação social, que dependendo do reconhecimento social do seu porta-voz terá maior ou menor impacto junto do público para o qual é dirigido. Nesta perspectiva, a legitimação do discurso acontece sempre que o seu utilizador esteja reco- nhecido socialmente, ou seja, para além da postura, tom de voz e da palavra, é necessário estar autorizado a fazê-lo. “O porta-voz autorizado é aquele a quem compete, a quem incumbe falar em nome da colectividade; é simultaneamente seu privilégio e seu dever, a sua função própria, numa palavra a sua competência (no sentido jurídico do termo). A essência social é o conjunto destes atributos e destas atribuições sociais que o acto de instituição produz como acto solene de categorizarão que ten- de a produzir aquilo que designa.” 33 Nesta perspectiva, o poder da palavra não está nas palavras em si, mas na forma como o autor as exterioriza, através da legitimidade, da sua autoridade enquanto palestrante. Assim, podemos verifi car que o mesmo discurso exteriorizado por diferentes pessoas, pode transportar sentimentos, emoções, atitudes totalmente diferenciadas, pois depende em grande parte do tom de voz, da fi siologia, da postura corporal do co- 32 BOURDIEU, Pierre, O que falar quer dizer, Economia das trocas linguísticas, Linda-a-Velha, Difel, 1998, p.95. 33 Idem, p.114. A U T O R 5 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L municador. Uma outra característica importante da utilização das palavras enquanto instrumento de comunicação é a obser- vação constante do público e a percepção deste perante o que está a ser dito. “...o poder das palavras reside no facto de estas não serem pro- nunciadas a título pessoal por aquele que é apenas o seu “por- tador”: o porta-voz autorizado só pode agir pela palavra sobre outros agentes e, por intermédio do trabalho deles, sobre as pró- prias coisas, porque a sua palavra concentra o capital simbólico acumulado pelo grupo que o mandatou e do qual ele é o fundado de poder…”34 Como podemos verifi car e segundo este autor, a atribuição do poder discursivo reside no poder simbólico que o público- -alvo ou grupo de pessoas em causa lhe atribuiu, ou seja, este tipo de comunicação não se revelava tão efi caz, se o palestrante não tivesse em conta o interesse comum ou comunitário. 34 BOURDIEU, Pierre, O que falar quer dizer. Economia das trocas linguísticas, Linda-a-Velha, Difel, 1998, p.97. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 5 1 Comunicação e propaganda Podemos constatar que ao longo da história, sempre fomos confrontados com imagens de pessoas, as quais nos conven- ceram das suas teorias, através do uso da palavra, umas vezes de forma consciente e compreensiva, outras de forma menos consciente, como por exemplo, a religião, a política ou a tradi- ção. Assim, podemos verifi car que, desde sempre, existiram e continuarão a existir pessoas que transformam as palavras em acção e, por vezes, seguimo-las sem racionalizar sobre tais co- municações. Podemos afi rmar então que uma grande parte de pessoas tem a necessidade de ser conduzidas, de ser guiadas, daí que o uso da palavra assume-se como o instrumento de construção da realidade. As palavras são poder. Assim, se o uso correcto da palavra gera poder, então a ques- tão é saber qual o discurso para cada situação em particular, por outras palavras, quais as palavras que conduzem à acção, de que forma as dizer, em que momento e em que circunstân- cias as transmitir, para que público e como comunicar efi caz- mente. Este é um dos aspectos mais importantes para estabe- lecer comunicação assertiva para o público. “Imagine uma caravela a atravessar o Atlântico rumo à Eu- ropa, com um valiosíssimo carregamento de ouro. De repente, o tempo muda, as ondas crescem, os ventos agitam-se num tufão incontrolável e o tesouro afunda-se. Não há registos do naufrá- gio, não se sabe onde ocorreu. Quanto vale este tesouro, agora, A U T O R 5 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L inacessível? Extraído das minas com esforço e sacrifício, o seu valor seria enorme se fosse usado. Mas, repousando no fundo abissal, não vale nada.”35 Podemos verifi car que para além do conhecimento é neces- sário, saber transmiti-lo na forma mais ajustada e pragmática possível, realizando os objectivos propostos, se ajustam as re- alidades, se constroem realidades através do correcto uso da palavra. O poder das palavras está muitas vezes associado à criação e manutenção de uma ilusão, ou seja, acreditar em imaginários, mitos, palavras poéticas, imagens exuberantes, sonhos e cons- truções mentais nas quais o espírito se sinta confortável e vivo. “Desde os terríveis cerimoniais que decorreram em Stonehen- ge ou no Templo de Carnac, passando pelos Romanos e pelos Cruzados, até Napoleão, Hitler, Kenedy ou Ieltsin, a capacidade de exibir competências propagandísticas foi uma das principais determinantes da orientação histórica, não apenas no domínio do poder político, mas também nos da religião, da moralidade e, até certo ponto, da economia.”36 35 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação Global, Ed. Pergaminho, Lisboa, Portugal, 1998, p.11. 36 THOMSON, Oliver, Uma História da propaganda, Lisboa, Temas e debates, 2000, p.14. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 5 3 Nesta perspectiva, desde o aparecimento do homem na terra até aos dias de hoje, que podemos verifi car o fenómeno da comunicação, quer na sua interacção interpessoal, onde se pode verifi car, por vezes a manipulação dos comportamentos e das atitudes, e ao nível da comunicação de massas, onde este tipo de comunicação tem designação de propaganda, que exis- te desde sempre e não apenas nos dias de hoje. Comunicação estratégia O conceito de “estratégia” está hoje presente na fi losofi a empresarial e aplica-se para alcançar metas, que podem ser pessoais, empresarias, fi nanceiras, políticas, etc. O mundo dos negócios, hoje, caracteriza-se por um conjunto de acções concertadas e planeadas para atingir as suas metas, ou seja, a sua complexidade leva ao estudo, planeamento e imple- mentação de acções concertadas e organizadas para o cum- primento dos objectivos globais da empresa. O conceito de “estratégia” caracteriza-se por ser algo complexo e que tem vindo a ser analisado pelos técnicos de comunicação e que continua a querer ser entendido na sua aplicação prática em situações reais, para as quais não existem soluções únicas e universais. A U T O R 5 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L “A noção de estratégia implica a ideia de gestão criteriosa de recursos para alcançar um alvo. Refere-se a um saber que busca o modo mais adequado para alcançar certos objectivos pelo re- curso a determinados meios: esta relação dialéctica entre fi ns e meios leva a um propósito, a uma resolução. A palavra deriva do termo grego strategos – que combina stratos, exército, e agein, liderar / conduzir – e quer dizer “a função do general do exército” (Freire, 2000: I8), isto é, a arte de dirigir as operações militares (Baquer, in Pérez, 2001: 25). Já Plutarco (séc. I d. C.) a defi ne como “aquilo que é levado a cabo por um chefe que se caracteriza pela sua visão do futuro, vantagem, compromisso ou resolução”, sublinhando também ele, na sua acepção, as capacidades do líder.37 A estratégia é a organização e coordenação de meios e mé- todos capazes de alcançar objectivos. É também a escolha do caminho mais efi caz, bem como, a preparação da implemen- tação da acção no terreno. Neste sentido, o sucesso de uma acção concertada depende, em grande medida, da estratégia adoptada. Uma estratégia bem defi nida verifi ca-se quando uma acção é implementada na perfeição, sem que existam confrontações, oposições ou objecções aos objectivos pretendidos. “Um plano estratégico deve apresentar as características se- 37 REI, J. Esteves, Comunicação estratégica, Edições André Veríssimo, Porto, 2002, p. 18. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 5 5 guintes: síntese, simplicidade e beleza. A primeira tem a ver com o número de segmentos em que a tarefa ou empreendimento se dividem: algo de pragmático, concreto e útil, evitando ser extenso e vago. A segunda diz respeito ao número de partes concretas, à sua descrição e à justifi cação de opções. A terceira decorre das anteriores e mostra as escolhas feitas sobre onde se vai ou não ou não vai (Vasconcelos e Sá 1997: 76-84). A qualidade de uma estratégia depende da optimização dos recursos, por natureza escassos, ou seja, há que ser-se selectivo: é indispensável, em primeiro lugar, fazer opções estratégicas e, de seguida, fazê-las correctamente.”38 Uma das atribuições do responsável de comunicação é construir um plano (a ser apresentado ao poder executivo) onde se descrevam as acções consertadas, com a fi nalidade de atingir um objectivo global, ou seja, não existe um único cami- nho para atingir determinado fi m, daí a complexidade à qual é necessário corresponder com a estratégia mais acertada. O conceito de estratégia está ligado a uma situação proble- mática, de confl ito, cuja resolução não se apresenta de forma clara, numa primeira análise e cujos resultados não são conhe- cidos, daí a necessidade de estabelecer uma estratégia para en- contrar soluções adequadas para atingir os objectivos globais da empresa. 38 REI, J. Esteves, Comunicação estratégica, Edições André Veríssimo, Porto, 2002, p. 22. A U T O R 5 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L “A principal virtude de uma estratégia de comunicação está em que todos dispõem e partilham certas directrizes claras sobre a comunicação a realizar, concentrando e direccionando os esfor- ços. Esta função é tanto mais importante quanto, na estratégia de comunicação, a coerência de discursos e de mensagens poder estar ameaçada pela pluralidade de vozes, que podem emitir co- municações a partir da organização.”39 Para que se implemente uma estratégia de comunicação é necessário: estabelecer um ou vários objectivos vitais para a empresa ou instituição, pois quando uma empresa não tem objectivos bem defi nidos não sabe o que pretende e portanto não precisa de estratégia alguma. Escolher de entre as várias alternativas em análise, a que aparentemente, oferece mais cre- dibilidade. Dada o desconhecimento dos resultados, é neces- sário estar atento aos agentes concorrentes, estar consciente da limitação dos recursos, para o estabelecimento do plano geral com acções concretas de actuação em função da natureza da situação confl ito, que permitam de forma gradual atingir o ob- jectivo fi nal. “Strategic communications does not consist of sending out an occasional press release or publishing an op-ed once a year. It means that an organization treats media relations and commu- nications as important, fully integrated, consistent, and ongoing 39 Idem, p. 50. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 5 7 functions and invests resources in it. A strategy, by defi nition, is “a plain, method, or series of manoeuvres for obtaining a specify goal or result.”40 Nesta perspectiva, a comunicação estratégica caracteriza-se por ser o conjunto de acções planifi cadas, bem defi nidas e es- truturadas para atingir um objectivo global de uma empresa. A comunicação efi caz é, pois, o conjunto de acções que conduz à mudança de atitudes dentro e fora da empresa, alternando comportamentos nos membros da organização, construindo uma linha de orientação forte e abrangente, na qual todos se sintam verdadeiramente motivados e integrados para atingir a meta fi nal. Para construir uma estratégia comercial é necessário pos- suir informação das empresas concorrentes, relativamente às suas forças e fraquezas, e oportunidades e ameaças. É necessá- rio obter conhecimento táctico, ou seja, saber quando, onde e de que forma enfrentar o “inimigo”, conhecer o estado de espí- rito do concorrente, para melhor o derrubar e atingir o objec- tivo proposto, estando sempre atento às alterações do mundo circundante, procurando ajustar constantemente as posições iniciais. “You should not work in isolation but rather should involve organizational leaders - not just those at top of the fl ow chart but 40 BOND,Kathy et alii, The Jossey-Guide to Strategic Communications for Nonprofi ts, San Francisco, Jossey Bass Publichers, 1999, p.2. A U T O R 5 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L others who command respect from front-line workers, as well. Look for creativity and out-of-the-box thinking among staff , vo- lunteers, and others who can help.”41 Assim, a comunicação estratégia passa também por envolver toda a organização na sua totalidade, directores, trabalhadores, directores, voluntários, líderes de opinião, e todas as pessoas que se prestarem a ajudar, pois só desta forma, se constrói uma realidade que ultrapassa a perspectiva do técnico de comuni- cação, na medida em que quantas mais contribuições se apre- sentarem melhor será o resultado. “Communication destinée qui s’incrit dans une logique d’action et de résultats. La communication stratégique s’ordonne autour de trois modalités, qui caractérisent chacune un certaine approche de la communication par les acteurs qui la mettent en oeuvre. 1 – Modalité symbolique: stratégies de communication appe- lant une réponse de la part du destinataire, en termes symboli- ques. 2 – Modalité réelle: injonction, appelant de la part du desti- nataire un passage à l`acte ou une prise de position dans le réel d’une situation. 3 – Modalité imaginaire: séduction, appelant de la part du destinataire un investissement imaginaire sur l’énnonciateur ou 41 Idem, p.4. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 5 9 ce qu’il représente.”42. Nesta perspectiva, a comunicação estratégica está orientada para a acção e a obtenção de resultados, na medida em que o principal objectivo é conseguir transmitir comunicação com signifi cado e com poder simbólico no sentido de gerar acção, ou por outras palavras é mobilizar comportamentos e atitu- des, através do uso das palavras certas, nos momentos certos, para as pessoas certas. A difi culdade, muitas vezes, reside em encontrar o equilíbrio destes factores. Conclusão A comunicação efi ciente assume particular relevância na verifi cação de mensagens, ideias, sentimentos e atitudes, que sendo compreendidas e aceites pelo público-alvo, respondem a comportamentos previamente defi nidos, ou seja, revelam-se na prática nos objectivos concretizados. A comunicação assume o papel de “estratégica” quando, no conjunto de acções que conduz à mudança de atitudes dentro e fora da empresa, altera comportamentos em todos os mem- bros da organização, construindo uma linha de orientação for- 42 LAMIZET, Bernart, Ahmed, Dictionnaire Encyclopédique dés Sciences deL`Information et de la Communication, Paris, Ellipses, 1997, p. 142, 143. A U T O R 6 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L te e abrangente, na qual todos se sintam verdadeiramente mo- tivados e integrados para prosseguir determinados objectivos. Em síntese, comunicação estratégica está orientada para a acção, para a pragmatização e a obtenção de resultados, na me- dida em que o principal objectivo é conseguir transmitir co- municação com signifi cado e com poder simbólico no sentido de gerar acção, ou por outras palavras é mobilizar as pessoas para determinados fi ns. Nesta perspectiva, a comunicação só assumirá uma posição estratégica quando inserido num plano de acção comunica- cional defi nido, planeado e concretizado e concluído, produzir resultados observados, de uma forma qualitativa ou quantita- tiva. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 6 1 Comunicação escrita A U T O R 6 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 6 3 Introdução A comunicação escrita assume um papel relevante na pre- servação de documentários, vestígios, registos históricos, datas e arquivos que constituem a memória de uma cultura indivi- dual e colectiva. O objectivo desta terceira parte reside na apresentação de al- guns dos meios escritos que se revelam úteis para a promoção e divulgação das pessoas ou instituições, contribuindo para a construção, manutenção de uma imagem que se pretende po- sitiva junto dos seus públicos-alvo. Alguns destes meios são: construção de sítios na Internet, artigos de opinião, as cartas ao director, as entrevistas, as men- sagens escritas publicadas em revistas de imprensa, jornais, blogs, bem como a própria televisão, que além da visão e adi- ção, também utiliza as mensagens escritas com o propósito de tornar público, promover opiniões, posições e considerações dos indivíduos, entidades ou organizações procurando dife- renciar-se dos demais ou defender as suas reivindicações. Assim, os vários meios de comunicação escrita servem tam- bém para a promoção e valorização pessoal e ou institucional, A U T O R 6 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L na medida em que, dão a conhecer o que se pretende fazer, como, de que forma, com que meios e quais os objectivos. “Considerações sobre a comunicação escrita” A transmissão cultural individual escrita distingue cada obra como uma participação mais ou menos “original e cria- tiva” com as suas origens e signifi cados capazes de contribu- írem para o estabelecimento da aprendizagem contínua, que estando disponível para todas as pessoas, tornam possível a qualifi cação e quantifi cação do conhecimento. “A escrita inaugurou uma segunda etapa na história humana. Com ela, mudaram as relações entre o indivíduo e a memória social. Com a escrita, as palavras se encerram num campo vi- sual e a nova maneira de estocar conhecimento não se verifi ca por intermédio de formulas mnemónicas, mas no texto escrito, que relativiza o papel da memória como um auxiliar cognitivo situado fora do sujeito. O saber está lá, disponível, consultável, defi nitivamente preservado.”43 43 www3.unisul.br/paginas/ensino/pos/linguagem C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 6 5 A utilização dos media e de outros meios de comunicação escrita que podem ser de índole local, regional, nacional ou internacional, com o objectivo de promoção, divulgação e ma- nutenção da imagem e performance pessoal contribuem de forma signifi cativa para partilhar ideias, sentimentos, habili- dades, pessoais e profi ssionais capazes de melhorar o marke- ting pessoal. “Escrever os seus sentimentos é um meio de se assimilar a si próprio e fi car aliviado, porque se esvaziou, reduziu a tensão que as emoções negativas colocam em si. É também uma forma excelente de aprender mais sobre si, porque ver e compreender melhor do “lado de fora”, quando lê o que escreveu. Aqui estão algumas orientações que podem ser úteis quando escreve:”44 O simples acto de escrever serve para aliviar a tensão, li- bertar as emoções negativas, compreender melhor aquilo que fazemos por nós próprios e pelos outros. Ajuda também a transpor para o exterior os nossos pensamentos, opiniões, su- gestões e contribuir para a construção de uma imagem que vai sendo consolidada à mediada que vamos escrevendo, compre- endendo e melhorando os conhecimentos perante os diversos “actores” sociais. 44 NOYES, Randi B., A arte da liderança pessoal, Editora actual, 2ª edição, Lisboa, 2006, pág. 139) A U T O R 6 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Variaciones de los espacios de comunicacíon Real Imaginário Real Prensa escrita Histórias, literatura fantástica Virtual Representaciones en prensa escrita en for- mato digital Representaciones de histórias, literatura fantástica en formato digital (ciberespacio) 45 Segundo este autor existem dois espaços imaginários que estão construídos socialmente; sendo um espaço “real” trans- mitido pela imprensa escrita, (naturalmente sujeito à subjecti- vidade do emissor) com histórias reais, de esperança, com os seus medos, receios e as sua aspirações, e outro espaço virtual que apresenta histórias fantásticas refl ectindo a imaginação criativa dos sonhos, das percepções e projecções que também estão “construídas” no imaginário social. “A utilização da Internet” Os meios electrónicos têm, nos dias de hoje, uma utilização considerável, pois cada vez mais a comunicação é estabeleci- 45 Adaptado de: KLEINSTEUBER, Hans.J., El surjimento del ciberespacio, in BENEYTO, José Vidal, “La ventana global”,, Ed. Taurus, Madrid, 2002, pág. 53. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 6 7 da electronicamente entre as pessoas, instituições e empresas facilitando e aproximando a interactividade entre emissores e receptores através de um mundo cada vez mais global. “Nuestra propuesta consite en considerar Internet como un instrumento capaz de facilitar una ciudadanía participativa. No nos referimos solamente a las condiciones ofrecidas por los dis- tintos tipos de sofware para otorgar accesso a la información y dotar de competência al ciudadano, sino también debe conside- rarse como un médio de comunicación que permite la interacci- ón entre dos diemensiones, la nacional y la internacional, dentro de procesos bidireccionales de mediación en sentido vertical, de abajo arriba y de arriba abajo. Como los médios que la ham pre- cedido, Internet es un elemento que fomenta procesos de media- ción politica como consecuencia de la participación popular.”46 Como meio de comunicação escrita, visual digitalizada a Internet assume-se, na actualidade, também, como um ins- trumento de participação na vida económica, politica e social, contribuindo para uma maior interactividade e bidirecionali- dade comunicacional entre as pessoas, empresas e organiza- ções. Assim, este instrumento de comunicação pode ter uma importância primordial para comunicar a competência dis- tintiva de uma pessoa no desenvolvimento das habilidades de percepção, convivência social e profi ssional, liderança, carisma. 46 PAQUETE DE OLIVEIRA, José Manuel, Internet como instrumento para la participación ciudadana, in BENEYTO, José Vidal, “La ventana global”,, Ed. Taurus, Madrid, 2002, pág. 118. A U T O R 6 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Como exemplo de comunicação pessoal no seu formato digital pode ser a construção de um sítio na Internet Websi- te pessoal, cujos objectivos podem ser divulgar os seus dados pessoais, missão, visão, o curriculum, os valores, atitudes, com- portamentos, artigos publicados, a experiência, as habilidades, as funções desempenhadas, os produtos e serviços, as empre- sas ou organizações com quem colabora, bem como, trabalhos ou serviços efectuados, e referências e contactos, entre outros. “Alguns autores, como Nicholas Negroponte, Walter Bender e Rober Fidler, tem-se ocupado na investigação e desenvolvimento de jornais personalizados. Negroponte refere-se a esta modalida- de como o “Diário de Mim” (Daily Me) e nela os interesses par- ticulares e específi cos de cada leitor assumem a maior importân- cia, permitindo-lhe receber apenas os artigos desejados por si.”47 O objectivo essencial desta investigação tem como princípio fundamental cada pessoa ter a possibilidade de ter apenas as notícias, comunicações, publicidade, documentários e estudos de acordo com os seus interesses, motivações, interesses, pois aquilo que se pretende é defi nir pacotes informativos inteira- mente de acordo com as necessidades, desejos e motivações de uma determinada pessoa e não outra. 47 BASTOS, Hélder, Jornalismo electrónico, Ed. Minerva, Coimbra, 2000, pág. 118. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 6 9 “A Comunicação pessoal” Este conceito tem por base a aplicação das técnicas de ma- rketing personalizado a um determinado indivíduo, ou por outras palavras, á aplicação do Marketing one-to-one na área da comunicação. “Os sete factores - chave para persuasão dos públicos Credibilidade A comunicação que as Relações Públicas lancem tem de come- çar numa atmosfera de credibilidade e confi ança e que depende de uma fonte informativa, que terá de manifestar o fi rme propó- sito de ser útil ao receptor. O receptor tem de ter no informador, considerando-o como pessoa especializada. Contexto O programa tem de se ajustar às realidades do ambiente local. Para poder persuadir o conjunto receptor, deve permitir a par- ticipação e o diálogo. Conteúdo A mensagem deve ter signifi cado para o receptor e construir uma revelação. Em geral devem seleccionar-se os temas informativos que se consideram mais prometedores para ela mesma. A U T O R 7 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Clareza A mensagem deve ser elaborada com simplicidade. O signifi - cado tem de ser o mesmo para o emissor e para o receptor. Continuidade e consistência A comunicação requer um processo reiterativo. Para conseguir uma completa aceitação e, por conseguinte, a persuasão, tem que se repetir continuamente as mensagens que se desejam inculcar. Canais de comunicação Deverão empregar-se os habituais, que são usados pelo recep- tor Capacidade do auditório A comunicação tem a máxima efi cácia quanto menor esforço se requer ao receptor.”48 Segundo o autor para uma efi caz persuasão dos diferentes públicos são necessários alguns requisitos como: credibilidade, contexto, conteúdo, clareza, continuada e consistência, capaci- dade do auditório e canais de comunicação. Sobre os canais de comunicação é fundamental seleccionar os meios de comu- nicação capazes de melhor corresponder às expectativas dos público – alvos, pois, se a Internet pode ser um excelente meio 48 CABRERO, José Daniel Cabrero, CABRERO, Mário Barquero, O livro de ouro das Relações Públicas, Ed. Porto editora, Porto, 1996, Pág. 41. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 7 1 para comunicar para um publico mais jovem, dinâmico e em- preendedor, os jornais poderá corresponder a um público mais tradicional que aprecie o pormenor em detrimento do geral. “Seja você mesmo Com os melhores memorandos não preciso de assinatura para saber os enviou. A identidade do escritor encontra-se expressa no papel. Infelizmente para a maioria das pessoas que escrevem me- morandos, é mais fácil pôr de parte a respectiva personalidade. Em vez de confi ar no único meio de que dispõem para exprimir as suas ideias, reproduzem a linguagem segura e familiar dos memorandos… Não é fácil acrescentar personalidade a um memorando. Mas pode começar pelo uso de pormenores como «eu», «nós» e «nos- so». São palavras curtas mas muito específi cas.”49 Os memorandos além de constituir uma das formas de ex- pressão escrita, demonstram os traços de personalidade, as ideias, sentimentos, características e atitudes do seu autor, con- tribuindo para a construção de uma imagem que vai natural- mente ser observada pela comunidade, para além obviamente de aferirmos da sua capacidade de comunicação. “O mapa da Estratégia veio resolver o problema descrito na segunda citação – permite descrever a estratégia para que possa depois ser medida e gerida. Como o nome indica, o Mapa da Es- 49 MCCORMACK, Mark, H. A arte de comunicar, Ed. Publicações Europa – América, Mem Martins, 1997, pág. 177. A U T O R 7 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L tratégia descreve o percurso da estratégia, que atravessa diferen- tes «zonas geográfi cas» - as perspectivas do Balanced Scorecard. Durante este percurso o Mapa conta a «história» da estratégia e mostra como poderão ser testadas as suas hipóteses, através das relações causa - efeito estabelecidos entre os objectivos.”50 A comunicação da estratégia aplicada às organizações visa implementar nos colaboradores, um conjunto de procedimen- tos capaz de identifi car relações de causa - efeito para os objec- tivos propostos sendo claro que o que se pretende na prática é estabelecer metas que após estarem defi nidas de forma escrita sejam naturalmente compreendidas e aceites pelos interve- nientes e a sua performance passíveis de medição e controlo. “A gestão efi ciente do tempo” Todos os colaboradores numa organização devem contri- buir para executar a estratégia implementada, através de ta- refas e procedimentos diários com o propósito de contribuir para uma melhoria contínua de todo o organismo devendo a estratégia ser efi ciente e simultaneamente capaz de constituir 50 PINTO, Francisco, Balanced Scorecard, Ed. Sílabo, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2007, pág. 76. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 7 3 uma mais valia para todos os seus membros. “Usar o tempo efi cazmente deve construir o seu ideal, mas nunca se deve transformar numa obsessão. Se tiver os valores certos, tal nunca acontecerá. Lembre-se sempre do fi m para que está a gerir o tempo. Se aparecer um fi m superior, seja fl exível. Um dos objectivos da gestão diária do tempo é precisamente li- bertá-lo, por forma a ter tempo para o inesperado. Isso implica fazer o que tem de ser feito de modo mais económico. Quando não estiver a pescar, remende as redes. …Elabore diariamente uma lista do que tem a fazer, com os itens organizados ou marcados segundo uma determinada or- dem de prioridades. Faça-o na noite anterior, para poder dormir sobre o assunto…”51 A gestão efi ciente do tempo é também um dos requisitos para uma efi caz aplicação das técnicas de marketing pessoal pois todos dispomos das mesmas horas por dia contudo nem todos as gerimos da melhor maneira sendo a ausência de uma gestão correcta do tempo e das prioridades um factor de de- sestabilização da aplicação das regras do marketing pessoal. Defi nir de forma correcta as tarefas diárias a implementar, escritas se necessário for, pode constituir per si um guia para as actividades e tarefas verdadeiramente necessárias e prementes separando o acessório do essencial sendo que o objectivo é que 51 ADAIR, John, A gestão efi ciente do tempo, Ed. Europa-América, Mem Martins, Mem Martins, 2ª edição, pág. 94. A U T O R 7 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L sejam cumpridos os prazos, os compromissos assumidos no tempo oportuno constituindo assim uma contínua melhoria da concretização dos objectivos a curto, médio e longo prazo. “Escrever seus planos, metas e ideias faz com que eles se tornem mais reais para você. Ao escrever, você percebe falhas e descobre outras alternativas em que não havia pensando antes. Cada passo que você dá para defi nir o que quer e o que precisa fazer para chegar aonde quer aumenta suas chances de realmen- te atingir seus objectivos.” …Pessoas que mantêm um diário ou algum tipo de registo das suas aspirações têm 32% mais chance de sentir que estão progre- dindo na vida.”52 Ao registar os pensamentos, ideias e sentimentos, cada pes- soa procura encontrar aquilo que procura, pois, através da es- crita existe uma descoberta pessoal e uma visualização mais efi ciente dos traços de personalidade e acima de tudo daquilo que caracteriza cada ser humano. Podemos dizer que através da expressão escrita fi ca natural- mente um registo daquilo que cada um refl ecte, pensa e supõe ser o mais apropriado para o momento presente e o futuro, po- dendo sempre medir a performance, a evolução e crescimento de cada um. “Hoje não estamos perante uma sociedade em que as classes 52 NIVEN, David, PH.D., 100 segredos das pessoas de sucesso, Ed. Sextante, Rio de Janeiro, 2002, pág. 54. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 7 5 sociais defi nem os estilos de vida e orientam as identidades so- ciais. Actualmente são os indivíduos, com a sua estoicidade e um destino ainda por traçar, que dominam o tecido social, fazendo vingar a sua singularidade e lutando pela sua realização pessoal. Seria, talvez, adequado que a TV refl ectisse esta tendência ac- tual e colocasse dentro do pequeno ecrã histórias de vida que se distinguem por traços particulares, respeitando, desde modo, um dos princípios que a orientam: o da mutabilidade. …A televisão assume-se, pois, como um palco adequado para a exposição dessas singularidades.”53 A televisão assume um papel preponderante da utilização do uso da palavra, som e imagem usados por e para os cida- dãos, contribuindo decididamente para a construção conjunta do espaço público. A utilização da comunicação escrita em televisão A interacção das pessoas com os programas de televisão utilizando os mais variados meios de comunicação, como o 53 PINTO, Manuel, Coordenação, Televisão e Cidadania, Ed. Campo das letras, 2ª edição, Porto, pág. 95 A U T O R 7 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L telefone, o correio electrónico ou por intermédio da simples presença física no programa, contribuem para a construção do imaginário colectivo onde a “palavra se democratiza” e o espa- ço televisivo contribui para a “construção da actualidade” onde a cidadania desempenha um papel de relevo “Na liderança, por exemplo, as seguintes palavras de Lao Tzu tornaram-se justamente famosas: Um líder é melhor, Quando as pessoas mal se apercebem da sua existência, Não tão bom quando as pessoas elogiam o seu domínio, Menos tão bom quando as pessoas se levantam por medo, Pior, quando as pessoas o desprezam. Se não honrar as pessoas, elas também não o honrarão. Mas de um bom líder, que fala pouco, Quando a sua tarefa é realizada, o seu trabalho feito, As pessoas dizem, “Fizemo-lo sozinhas.”54 As ideias, pensamentos, atitudes e comportamentos, ex- pressos de forma escrita ou oral por grandes pensadores, são “sementes” duradoiras que saindo do indivíduo, ou de um gru- po restrito de pessoas, passam para uma “massa” heterogenia de pessoas constituindo assim o reconhecimento e populari- dade que pode em certos casos perpetuar-se por muitos sécu- los de existência. 54 ADAIR, Jonh, Aprenda com os grandes líderes, Ed. Europa-América, Mem Martins, Sintra, 2003, pág. 52. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 7 7 “Os bons líderes não são transmissores impessoais de in- formação. Também comunicam os seus pensamentos interio- res, emoções e estado de espírito. Em particular, transmitem energia. Têm a capacidade de inspirar ao mesmo tempo que informam. Como disse Lorde Roserbery em relação a William Pit, o Velho: “O que conta não é apenas aquilo que é dito, mas o homem que o diz, a personalidade que respira através das frases.”55 Aquilo que é dito representa apenas uma parte do processo de comunicação que se pretende efi caz, pois, a personalidade, o carácter, a determinação, a emoção, o tom de voz e o gesto (cinestesia), são elementos relevantes para uma boa comuni- cação. As palavras que geram acção Neste sentido, a diferença reside na capacidade que muitos dos grandes líderes têm em transformar a comunicação em acção, pois muitas das vezes têm, tal a capacidade objectiva do discurso e da força das ideias, capacidade para se concretiza- rem na realidade. 55 Idem, pág. 142. A U T O R 7 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L “Algumas palavras de Bertran Braley estão impressas na pági- na principal da primeira conferência: Regressado do martelo ruidoso, pelo qual o leme é forjado, Regressado do clamor da ofi cina, quem procura pode encon- trar uma ideia: A ideia que é sempre mestre do ferro e do vapor e do aço, Que se eleva sobre a tragédia e a esmaga com o calcanhar. De regresso disto, a Direcção que planeia e fez avançar as coi- sas, De regresso de tudo, o Pensador que está a tornar a ideia uma realidade.”56 Segundo este pensador, as palavras e as ideias, vão criando a própria realidade, na medida em que, refl ectem conhecimen- tos, habilidades adquiridas ao longo de muitos anos e às vezes décadas de experiências que vão sendo referências para os pre- sentes e vindouros. “ La presse non partisane est l`un des instruments les plus in- téressants pour le marketing politique, même si son rôle a évolué au fi l de l´évolution des médias. Lorsqu´elle relaie une commu- nication, elle lui donne en eff et une force et une crédibilité inéga- lable, qui demeure toujours aujourd´hui. …L´acheteur du Figaro, comme celui du Monde, ou de Libé- ration se diff érencient ainsi de celui de L´Humanité ou de La 56 ADAIR, Jonh, Aprenda com os grandes líderes, Ed. Europa-América, Mem Martins, Sintra, 2003, pág. 240. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 7 9 Croix, de même qu´en Grande-Bretagne, même si les engage- ments conservateur ou travailliste du Sun ou du Mirror sont con- nus, leurs achat n´implique pas une sujétion partisane. Il faut y ajouter depuis quelques années les supports d´information gra- tuits quotidiens du type Métro, ou 20 minutes, un nouveau mode de diff usion dont le lectorat et les modes de fonctionnement sot fort voisins de celui de la presse quotidienne payante «classique», achat mis à part.``57  A comunicação escrita como um instrumento de marke- ting político assume nos dias de hoje um papel importante, na medida em que nos meios de comunicação escritos surge frequentemente, notícias, artigos de opinião, cartas do leitor, mensagens, sobre os candidatos às listas partidárias que po- dem infl uenciar positiva ou negativamente a opinião pública. Como podemos verifi car nos jornais de alguns países da eu- ropeus, comprados ou gratuitos, existem orientações politicas próximas de um ou de outro candidato, deste ou daquele par- tido, que de uma forma directa ou indirecta vão gradualmente construindo posições, movimentos de uma forma continuada, alimentando assim as diversas correntes de opinião pública. “Forte questionamento do papel dos “media” na sua relação com a sociedade e com os cidadãos individuais, a partir de acon- tecimentos de grande impacto na opinião pública e de grande 57 MAAREK, PHILIPPE, J. Communiation £ marketing de l´homme politique, Ed. Litec, 3ªedição, Paris, 2003, pág. 175. A U T O R 8 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L sensibilidade em termos éticos e deontológicos. …e por sua vez, contribuem para manipular a opinião pública em função de interesses específi cos -, sobre a credibilidade que por via desses processos lhes vai faltando, enfi m, sobre o modo como os órgãos de comunicação social, em geral, conseguem as- sumir as suas inalienáveis responsabilidades junto da sociedade, independentemente dos jogos de poder político ou económico que a todo o momento tentam usá-los com objectivos bem precisos.”58 A relação dos meios de comunicação escritos com a socie- dade em geral, continua a gerir-se, entre outros, por interesses específi cos desde políticos, económicos e sociais constituin- do ainda um verdadeiro poder tanto mais que verifi camos o surgimento de novos jornais, gratuitos, de novas revistas es- pecializadas nos mais diversos temas, onde os seus propósitos muitas vezes são promover produtos, instituições ou pessoas. Neste sentido, verifi camos que as várias formas de interven- ção social, de promoção e marketing social passam claramente também por uma assertiva utilização dos meios de comunica- ção escrita. 58 PINTO, Manuel, Coord., A comunicação e os media em Portugal, Ed. Comunicação e Sociedade, Braga, 2000, pág. 71. C A P Í T U L O I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 8 1 Conclusão No universo da comunicação, estamos, hoje, a assistir a grandes alterações quer ao nível da forma de comunicar (in- dividualização da comunicação), quer ao nível do conteúdo (forma de estabelecer a comunicação), pois, torna-se necessá- rio estar atento, perceber as concepções de cada indivíduo, de forma estruturada e sistemática, daí a necessidade de conceber estratégias de comunicação assertivas e efi cazes, dependendo de cada situação em particular. Nesta medida, é necessário perceber de que forma se con- segue captar a atenção, motivar e levar as pessoas a aderirem a esta ou aquela ideia ou acção. Perceber quais as palavras que geram acção, de que forma se legitimam as coisas, etc. Pois a comunicação estratégica propõe-se alcançar determinado ob- jectivo, determinado fi m, ou seja, para que haja comunicação estratégica é necessário haver uma intenção de se conseguir algo, sendo a comunicação, a única forma de o alcançar. As palavras podem ser utilizadas para levar as pessoas a seguirem pressupostos mais ou menos racionais, como por exemplo a propaganda, que mais não é do que a manipulação das massas, pela alteração de atitudes ou de comportamentos através de técnicas de comunicação. A comunicação pessoal no seu formato digital pode ser a construção de um sítio na Internet Website pessoal, e-mail, cujos objectivos podem ser divulgar os seus dados pessoais, missão, visão, o curriculum, os valores, atitudes, comporta- A U T O R 8 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L mentos, artigos de opinião publicados, a experiência, as habi- lidades, as funções desempenhadas, os produtos e serviços co- mercializados, as empresas ou organizações com ou sem fi ns lucrativos com quem colabora, bem como, trabalhos ou servi- ços efectuados, e referências pessoais e contactos, entre outros. A comunicação escrita como um instrumento de marke- ting político assume nos dias de hoje um papel importante, na medida em que nos meios de comunicação escritos surgem frequentemente, notícias, artigos de opinião, cartas do leitor, mensagens, sobre os candidatos às listas partidárias que po- dem infl uenciar positiva ou negativamente a opinião pública, funcionando como um meio de marketing pessoal. Em síntese, podemos afi rmar que a comunicação através do uso das palavras, conjuntamente com o tom de voz, fi siologia, podem mover as pessoas e levá-las a agir: o segredo está em descobrir como, quando e de que forma o fazer, pois, este é um dos principais segredos da comunicação. Capítulo II Parte I “Performance e marketing pessoal” C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 8 5 Introdução A palavra “marketing”, hoje, tem inúmeros signifi cados pelo facto de possuir grande variedade de aplicações. Podemos des- tacar que marketing é a arte de bem-fazer e bem divulgar, uma imagem, um produto, um serviço. É uma interacção existente entre a empresa / instituição e os seus clientes. O marketing surge para simplifi car a vida às pessoas, e em- presas, instituições, constituindo uma arte de evidenciar e sa- tisfazer necessidades, analisar e desenvolver planos capazes de tentarem satisfazer as motivações individuais ou colectivas de uma comunidade ou público-alvo. O marketing pessoal traz conquistas não só na vida profi s- sional, mas também na área pessoal. O bom marketing pesso- al está directamente ligado à atitude do indivíduo. Não bas- ta apenas ele gostar do que faz e fazê-lo bem feito. É preciso projectar no mundo a sua imagem e, mais do que isso, ver a si próprio no futuro. A aparência, indumentária, postura, voz, elegância e confi ança que o profi ssional tem em si e a forma como ele se expressa é que vão formar a sua atitude perante a vida e a sua imagem para o mundo. A U T O R 8 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Um bom profi ssional é aquele que sabe mostrar o próprio potencial, transmite credibilidade e confi ança, sabe persuadir e argumentar, tem estilo e esperança marcantes. A utilidade do marketing pessoal reside na capacidade de ser prático, de agir, de executar bem o seu trabalho, sabendo vender a sua competência e o seu marketing pessoal. Para isso é preciso aproveitar as oportunidades, criar momentos mági- cos, fazer mais do que aquilo que é necessário com todas as pessoas à sua volta, conquistando o próprio espaço e procurar adaptar-se às novas realidades e tendências do mercado, atra- vés da aquisição de novas competências e habilidades pessoais e profi ssionais. O marketing pessoal envolve a própria personalidade, a imagem pessoal, postura, rede de relacionamentos, a comuni- cação e o reconhecimento pelos outros. Os aspectos a considerar no marketing pessoal são: – Fazer com que os outros o percebam; – Promover a imagem pessoal; – Vender a própria imagem; – Saber fazer a diferença para se destacar; – Ter capacidade de realizar, planear, fazer acontecer, exercer o poder dentro da organização e na sociedade; – Ser capaz de estabelecer uma rede de contactos para a promoção pessoal visando a felicidade; – Conhecer e saber apresentar-se a si próprio, com efi ci- ência; – Encontrar formas de apresentar e mostrar as suas capa- C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 8 7 cidades intelectuais, sociais e profi ssionais; – Visar o desenvolvimento e crescimento pessoal, projec- tando-o para o exterior; – Desenvolver relacionamentos interpessoais com o ob- jectivo de se tornar um diferencial estratégico; – Implementar acções e eventos capazes de promover a sua imagem pessoal; – Possuir atitude projectiva para divulgar, implementar e realizar projectos pessoais, profi ssionais e sociais; – Descobrir o caminho a seguir para alcançar o sucesso; – Defi nir as possibilidades de conseguir obter mais in- formações, conhecimentos, contactos e o retorno do investimento; – Crescer emocionalmente nas relações interpessoais; – Recolocar-se no mercado de emprego, através de uma boa interacção na rede de relacionamentos; – Descobrir meios de conseguir melhores salários, me- lhor qualifi cação no mercado; – Estar sempre em conformidade com o que o mercado procura e aumentar a rede de contactos; – Conseguir a ascensão profi ssional e social, conquistan- do objectivos, divulgar o seu talento e ser feliz. No contexto do marketing pessoal, cada pessoa, com as suas ideias, atitudes e comportamentos, deve ajustar os seus pon- tos fracos e fortes às ameaças e oportunidades existentes no mercado de trabalho. Assim, como pessoa e profi ssional deve A U T O R 8 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L ser fl exível, adaptando-se às mudanças do ambiente interno (ideias, princípios, atitudes, comportamentos, etc), ou seja, ao que somos realmente, bem como, a tudo o que se processa no ambiente externo (empresas, instituições, economia, meio am- biente, leis de mercado, tecnologias de comunicação, etc.) É fundamental aprender a pensar estrategicamente em bus- ca de coerência entre os actos e a realidade do ambiente que envolve as pessoas, ou seja, quanto melhor se efectuar uma efi - ciente análise ambiental, melhor elas se compartam nas dife- rentes situações. O sucesso pessoal e profi ssional dependem, em grande me- dida, da preparação, adaptação e implementação de objectivos a curto, médio e longo prazo, bem como, da persistência, da aprendizagem contínua ou permanente busca de realização pessoal. Alguns dos princípios do marketing pessoal são: • O auto-conhecimento, ou seja, quanto melhor o ser hu- mano se conhece (pontos fortes e fracos) mais conse- guirá rentabilizar o seu saber na prática. • A comunicação, como factor verdadeiramente funda- mental para a transmissão bidireccional de ideias, sen- timentos, comportamentos e atitudes, para satisfazer as suas necessidades e aspirações. A Comunicação signifi - ca na sua síntese a compreensão mútua. • O entusiasmo é essencialmente a emoção vivida atra- vés de todas as expressões faciais, corporais e mentais sentidas em toda a forma de comunicação. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 8 9 • As relações humanas, tais como, o elogio, o incentivo partilhados com as pessoas que nos rodeiam, constitui um aspecto positivo para aceitação e reconhecimento pessoais. • O controlo das preocupações constitui sem dúvida, uma das ferramentas importantes para estabilidade emocional e para o desempenho efi caz das tarefas diá- rias e continuadas. • A memória apresenta-se como apoio fundamental a todas as actividades e acções humanas e o seu contri- buto para a efi ciência e sucesso pessoal e empresarial. • A liderança, ou o direito a ser seguido, pelas suas po- tencialidades, seus ensinamentos, devendo no entanto, estar legitimada pelos seguidores. • A defi nição de objectivos, a curto, médio, longo prazo, é sem dúvida um dos mais importantes factores para o sucesso, pois, sem objectivos, qualquer “caminho” pode ser seguido. O marketing pessoal assume-se como uma organização es- truturada, no sentido de ser preparada como um guia para re- alizar os objectivos, ambições, desejos e motivações pessoais. Neste sentido, os aspectos fundamentais são a defi nição dos objectivos, estratégias e metas, que devem ser concordantes com a consciência e os valores pessoais. O sucesso pessoal não acontece por acaso, assim como, não existem poções mágicas para ter êxito. Existem normas ou A U T O R 9 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L condutas, que seguidas com objectividade levam ao êxito, uti- lizando o corpo e a mente de forma efi caz e assertiva. Como elementos de acção básica que contribuem para o êxito pessoal constatamos a paixão, que é a força interior im- pulsionadora e motivadora. A estratégia é o caminho a seguir ou a adaptação dos recur- sos humanos, materiais e científi cos no sentido da sua realiza- ção. Pois uma estratégia, bem defi nida, pode levar ao êxito de forma mais rápida e com menos probabilidade de falhar. Em termos empresariais “A estratégia vencedora do ano pas- sado pode tornar-se a estratégia perdedora de hoje. Como al- guém observou, há duas espécies de companhias: as que mudam e as que desaparecem.59 Assim, podemos verifi car que as estratégicas têm que se adaptar às circunstâncias, ao meio envolvente onde estão in- seridas, para que despertem e satisfaçam necessidades e obte- nham lucros. Os valores são as convicções, as atitudes que servem para julgar o que é verdadeiramente importante na vida de cada pessoa, pois, cada um estrutura ligações e distinções que coor- denam o pensamento e formulam as atitudes e comportamen- tos, nos quais a vida pessoal se alicerça. Estas ideias, atitudes e comportamentos, constituem-se como os pilares de sustentação, para resistir aos obstáculos e às adversidades da vida pessoal e profi ssional. 59 KOTLER, Philip, Marketing para o século XXI, Editorial Presença, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2000, p.17. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 9 1 “ McCaff rey teoriza que o marketing pessoal passa por quatro fases: 1. A criação de uma imagem pública bem defi nida. 2. O estabelecimento de relações pessoais de máxima efi cácia. 3. A “venda” pessoal; a conquista de “clientes”. 4. Uma permanente preocupação com a satisfação dos clientes conquistados.”60 A imagem pública de uma pessoa contribui em muito para o impacto pessoal desta, para com todo o sistema de trocas sociais em que vive, pois, todas as pessoas, constantemente, tentam vender as suas ideias, opiniões, produtos ou serviços. Assim, as atitudes, comportamentos, opiniões podem transpor mais ou menos credibilidade, honestidade, confi ança e profi s- sionalismo, que vão infl uenciar toda a aceitação social. Outro factor fundamental para o fortalecimento de uma imagem de credibilidade e confi ança consiste na transmissão congruente entre as mensagens transmitidas e a realidade pro- duzida. Relativamente ao estabelecimento de relações duradouras, estas são os “pilares” para uma interacção efi caz entre uma pes- soa e a sociedade. Neste sentido, os relacionamentos pessoais constituem a conectividade e interactividade junto do todo so- cial, no qual se solidifi ca o conhecimento pessoal, a amizade, o apoio e a construção de laços duradouros efi cazes na imple- 60 PENTEADO, J. Roberto Whitaker, Como eles chegaram lá, Editora Campos, Rio de Janeiro, 1999, p.19. A U T O R 9 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L mentação dessa imagem junto da sociedade. No que diz respeito à “venda” pessoal, esta está presente em todas as situações pessoais e profi ssionais, ou seja, existe em cada pessoa o desejo natural de revelar as opiniões, atitudes e comportamentos, que traduzem a “expressão palpável” da existência como pessoa e como profi ssional. Assim, a “venda” pessoal deve consistir no atendimento das necessidades ou ex- pectativas do “público-alvo” bem como, em tudo o que faze- mos pelos outros, no sentido de complementar e enriquecer o todo social. O sucesso do marketing pessoal verifi ca-se, também, na preocupação constante com a satisfação das necessidades, tais como, desejos e motivações do público-alvo, sendo ao mesmo tempo individual e profi ssional, devendo possuir sensibilida- de, apetência e profi ssionalismo, procurando satisfazer as ex- pectativas esperadas. Observemos algumas regras a seguir: “…receitas de marketing pessoal: 1. Não espere negócios do que escreve. Seus escritos apenas ajudam nos contratos. 2. Gaste mais tempo coleccionando cartões de visitas dos outros do que distribuindo os seus. 3. A venda é um processo que tem princípio, meio e fi m. 4. As pessoas gostam de ajudar: peça indicações e conselhos. 5. Ninguém está disposto a pagar-lhe salário ou honorários se não considerar você importante. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 9 3 6. Melhor do que saber responder é saber perguntar. 7. A pessoa mais importante do mundo, num negócio, é o seu clien- te. 8. Se você não acreditar em você mesmo quem vai acreditar?”61 Nesta perspectiva, podemos observar que alguns factores importantes para o sucesso pessoal passam pelo conhecimen- to do maior número de pessoas, das suas experiências, assim como, da solicitação de sugestões e opiniões que vão enrique- cer e aperfeiçoar os conhecimentos da pessoa que os solicita. O poder pessoal O poder pessoal caracteriza-se por ser a realização de um objectivo, a concretização de acções concretas, capazes de movimentar a máxima energia positiva, procurando, de for- ma sustentada, agir como se as ideias e pensamentos fossem a própria realidade. “Sempre que você tiver um pensamento e agir como se ele fosse real, ele se tornará real para você. Repita o mesmo pensamento 61 PENTEADO, J. Roberto Whitaker, Como eles chegaram lá, Editora Campos, Rio de Janeiro, 1999, P. 21. A U T O R 9 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L ou outro parecido com alguma frequência e ele se tornará uma profecia auto-realizadora. Todos os pensamentos se tornam uma energia manifesta como realidade. Se você quiser manifestações positivas, pense positivo e tenha acções positivas…”62 Os pensamentos que cada pessoa tem, geram respostas fí- sicas no corpo, pois antes de algo ser real, em primeiro lugar constitui ideia ou pensamento na própria pessoa. Os pensa- mentos não se podem dissociar da realidade, eles são o início da construção dessa realidade. Assim, os pensamentos negativos impedem os seus porta- dores de conseguirem os seus objectivos, de atingirem as me- tas pretendidas, enquanto que os pensamentos positivos trans- formam as difi culdades em oportunidades, transformando o que seria um falhanço em verdadeiros sucessos. Neste sentido, quando se pretende alcançar um objectivo, deve-se fechar os olhos e imaginar a concretização do mesmo, pois, com este pensamento, construímos uma sinergia positiva que arrasta as diferentes acções, contribuindo para motivação e força interior tão necessária para o sucesso. “O poder pessoal é a habilidade de fazer mudanças signifi - cativas e ocasionar um resultado desejado de forma planeada e efectiva. Há três elementos-chave para utilizar seu poder pessoal. O primeiro é a sua habilidade de infl uenciar o mundo de 62 RUBINO, Joe, O poder do sucesso, São Paulo, Market books, 2001, p. 95. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 9 5 forma signifi cativa. O segundo elemento sobre ter poder pessoal envolve a orientação dos resultados. O terceiro elemento impor- tante a ser considerado é a determinação.”63 Nesta perspectiva, o poder pessoal é a capacidade de gerar acção, ou seja, de alterar ideias, atitudes e comportamentos, procurando, desta forma, produzir os resultados esperados. As pessoas poderosas não se acomodam às circunstâncias, aos obstáculos, às contrariedades, mas pelo contrário, estes servem para estudar e ajustar as estratégias aos desejos e objectivos pretendidos. Assim, o poder pessoal reside na busca contínua de resul- tados, na persistência, no aperfeiçoamento de capacidades, na aprendizagem contínua, e na determinação com que se luta. “A única forma de agir é no presente. Como nunca será a hora de agir, faça uso de seu poder como diz a Nike: “Just do it – Apenas faça!”64 Neste sentido, o poder pessoal passa por ter a capacidade de infl uenciar através de uma comunicação que gera acção, ou seja, através da demonstração pragmática e aplicável aos ob- jectivos propostos, bem como, da apresentação na prática dos resultados da sua importância. Todavia, para que isso aconteça é fundamental, depois de defi nir o campo de acção, pôr em prática todo potencial pessoal, no sentido de melhorar cons- tantemente os resultados obtidos. 63 Idem, p. 95. 64 RUBINO, Joe, O poder do sucesso, São Paulo, Markets Books, 2001,p. 97. A U T O R 9 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L “Atingir seu poder signifi ca completar seu passado. Trata-se de amar a si mesmo por quem você é e não ter medo de abrir sua guarda e permitir que os outros o amem. Quando o seu passado não mais o assola, você pode viver com uma autenticidade que vem do seu próprio ser. Então, você tem a liberdade de se concen- trar na invenção do seu futuro conforme reinventa a si mesmo de propósito.”65 Neste sentido, a realização pessoal passa pela aceitação e a compreensão do seu ser ou da sua pessoa, com o seu passa- do, presente e tudo aquilo que poderá desenvolver no futuro, pois o poder pessoal passa por melhor compreender quais as suas qualidades, as suas motivações, os anseios, bem como, os aspectos que precisam de ser melhorados, com muito força de vontade, trabalho e dedicação, coordenada, metódica e se- quencial. Desta forma, o nosso passado pessoal refl ecte o que somos, nos dias de hoje, nunca poderá refl ectir o futuro, pois este vai- -se construindo momento a momento, passo a passo de acordo com os objectivos previamente defi nidos e consequentemente realizados. “Há dois tipos de poder no mundo. Um deles é o poder posicio- nal, que depende da posição que você ocupa num determinado contexto (por exemplo, o presidente de uma empresa tem mais 65 Idem, p.103. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 9 7 poder do que o vice, o major tem mais poder no quartel do que o capitão). O outro tipo é o poder pessoal, que se carrega vinte e quatro horas por dia, para qualquer lugar onde se vá, e que não depende de fardas, cargos, títulos ou posições sociais. Este poder pessoal depende simplesmente da sua capacidade de comunicar com efi ciência, de modo a atingir os seus objectivos.”66 O poder posicional consiste no cargo que uma pessoa ocupa numa empresa, instituição ou organização, pois é um poder limitado, dentro de um determinado contexto, enquanto exer- ce essa função ou posição. O poder pessoal é a capacidade de comunicar com efi ciência, ou seja, depende da capacidade de motivar, estimular e infl uenciar as outras pessoas para atingir objectivos comuns. Ter a capacidade de infl uenciar é gerar a acção que uma pessoa exerce sobre as outras. É sinónimo de aceitação social, credibilidade, prestígio, poder de acção, bem como, confi ança, entusiasmo. 66 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação global, Ed. Pergaminho, Lisboa, 1998, p. 66 A U T O R 9 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Figura 1 O poder pessoal Assim, em termos pessoais e profi ssionais, o poder pesso- al está inerente à capacidade de cada pessoa gerar acção, no desempenho da sua actividade e nas actividades diárias. No relacionamento com os outros, na confi ança que consegue ins- pirar, na simpatia, no entusiasmo, no prestígio, na aceitação e compreensão dos outros. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 9 9 Relacionamento Interpessoal As relações cordiais entre as pessoas são de extrema impor- tância para o entreajuda, que as pessoas crescem, aprendem e ajudam a construir vivências cada vez mais efi cazes quer indi- vidualmente quer em sociedade. A aprendizagem ao longo da vida apoia-se nos homens e mulheres considerados de referência, que apresentam ideias que são “linhas orientadoras”, de projectos que em conjunto se implementam, de normas de conduta consideradas válidas, que servem de guia a cada pessoa. É pois, um conselho de um amigo ou de um especialista, que cria uma zona de conforto no interior da qual nos sentimos à vontade para ultrapassar os obstáculos no local de trabalho em frente ao superior hierárquico ou na vida pessoal. “Criamos assim, na nossa vida, uma zona de conforto. É difícil aprender ou fazer coisas novas, é doloroso mudar ati- tudes porque isso está fora da zona de conforto. Aquilo que não é familiar também não é confortável e, assim, passa a ser inconveniente. No entanto, a verdadeira aprendiza- gem ocorre sempre fora da zona de conforta.”67 Assim, a zona de conforto é o espaço próprio de cada ser hu- mano. São as atitudes, crenças, as ideias, os comportamentos 67 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação Global, Ed. Pergaminho, Lisboa, 1ª edição, 1998, p. 19. A U T O R 1 0 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L usados em cada momento de vida. No entanto, é saindo desta zona que o ser humano se depara com a novidade, com novas aprendizagens, com perspectivas diferentes, e, desta forma, vai gradualmente evoluindo no co- nhecimento e enriquecimento pessoal. A entreajuda fortalece as relações tornando-as mais sólidas e duradouras, constituindo uma base de confi ança necessária para a aquisição de novos hábitos e relações pessoais de fi abi- lidade e confi ança. “Temos constatado o mesmo resultado em sucessivos estudos: os grupos positivos ajudam as pessoas a fazer alterações positi- vas, especialmente se as relações forem sinceras, de confi ança e psicologicamente seguras.”68 O optimismo gera positividade na medida em que gera ac- ção nos grupos de pessoas que comungam dos mesmos inte- resses, desejos e necessidades. Daí que os grupos não sejam mais do que “espaços públicos” de cada indivíduo, ou seja, são a união das vontades individuais onde o todo é mais que a soma das partes. Cada indivíduo deve entender as suas emoções e sentimen- tos permitindo, desta forma, desenvolver a harmonia nas di- versas formas de relacionamento interpessoal, proporcionan- do, ao mesmo tempo, caminhos menos confl ituosos com os 68 GOLEMAN, Daniel, BOYATZIS, R, MCKEE, A, Os novos líderes, Ed. Gradiva, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2002, p.186. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 0 1 outros, procurando realizar objectivos pessoais e organizacio- nais. O verdadeiro êxito no relacionamento interpessoal reside na capacidade de cada indivíduo se descobrir a si mesmo, de- senvolvendo as qualidades de empatia e aceitação pelos outros. Figura 2 Relacionamento interpessoal Assim, é necessário aprender a lidar com os confl itos, gerir emoções e desafi os em ambientes hostis, como stress, medo, depressão, raiva, insegurança, inveja, arrogância, egoísmo A U T O R 1 0 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L e ansiedade. Criar confi ança em si e nos outros, pois a confi ança deve ser recíproca para que haja harmonia e entendimento mútuo e salutar. Desenvolver habilidades de liderança e de ser liderado, no sentido em que um líder deve ter a capacidade de aglutinar as divergências e obter a aceitação do grupo. “Cultivar relações pessoais especiais, isto é, que tenham como único objectivo ajudar-nos a percorrer o caminho da melhoria da capacidade de liderança, é essencial. Como vimos, os conse- lheiros e os mentores ajudam-nos a descobrir os nossos próprios sonhos e aspirações, a perceber as nossas forças, as nossas fraque- zas e o efeito que temos nos outros, e guiam os nossos passos na execução do plano de aprendizagem.”69 As relações de cordialidade entre as pessoas, quando ver- dadeiras, levam à prossecução das tarefas, levam à auto-rea- lização e cumprimento dos objectivos quer pessoais, quer da sociedade onde se inserem. As relações interpessoais são fundamentais, pois todo o ser humano vive em sociedade e nunca ninguém consegue vencer sozinho, para isso é necessário escutar activamente os outros, criar empatia, construir relações duradouras, expressar opini- ões, compreender os outros, qualifi car o interlocutor, valorizar 69 Idem, p.188. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 0 3 o seu trabalho reconhecendo o seu talento, contribuir para a efi ciência e melhoria comuns. “É preciso então não só descodifi car se o outro consegue com- preender aquilo que dizemos, mas também descodifi car se ele percebe aquilo que dizemos sem ser por palavras. Todos queremos ser compreendidos, mas nem sempre sabemos como nos fazer compreender. A nossa sensibilidade desempenha uma vez mais um papel importante, porque nos faz simultane- amente ser sensíveis ao que o outro nos diz e não nos diz com palavras e ao que nós dizemos e não dizemos por palavras.”70 A comunicação interpessoal tem como factores fundamen- tais: a compreensão do outro e fazê-lo sentir que está a ser compreendido, fazer-se entender e sentir que o outro o com- preendeu. De facto, todas as pessoas querem ser entendidas pelos ou- tros, querem ser escutados, querem ser apreciados pelos demais, no entanto, o segredo está em compreender as experiências do outro, escutar com atenção aquilo que ele tem para dizer, perce- ber os seus comportamentos, sentimentos e emoções. Todas as pessoas falam facilmente da forma como correu o seu dia, da rotina diária, da vida pessoal, como decorreu o dia de trabalho, todavia, nem sempre estas pessoas expressam as suas emoções, por isso é necessário pôr as pessoas a comuni- 70 CHABOT, Daniel, Cultive a sua inteligência emocional, Ed. Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Cascais, 2000, p. 123. A U T O R 1 0 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L car as emoções a acima de tudo percebê-las, criando empatia e compreensão mútua. Além de perceber o outro, também é necessário fazer com que o outro se sinta compreendido através de pensamentos e acções concretas onde isto se verifi que. Como exemplo, a ex- pressão “eu entendo o seu ponto de vista e percebo a sua pre- ocupação” quando acompanhada fortemente de comunicação não verbal de maneira que o outro sinta que foi compreendido, é condição essencial para a percepção do feedback necessária para que ele sinta que foi compreendido. Outro factor fundamental para comunicar efi cazmente é fazer-se entender pelo outro, para isso é necessário adaptar a linguagem ao outro, sentir o outro, perceber e descodifi car as suas referências, as suas necessidades, desejos e aspirações, ou seja, é necessário ajustar-se ao nível de linguagem do outro ajustando a fi siologia, o tom de voz e as palavras certas no local certo e no momento apropriado. A empatia é a consolidação da efi cácia na comunicação, pois está na verifi cação de que o outro nos compreendeu e nós também o percebemos. Para que isso aconteça é fundamental “entrar no mundo do outro” perceber verdadeiramente as suas emoções, bem como, o outro perceber as nossas e sabermos que as percebeu. Em síntese, o relacionamento inter-pessoal, quando verda- deiro, contribui de forma positiva para a orientação, motivação e realização pessoal da pessoa em si, bem como, da sociedade onde se insere. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 0 5 Os líderes O líder emocionalmente inteligente faz com que os seus seguidores se sintam mutuamente apoiados, aprendendo uns com os outros, partilhando ideias, colaborando em conjunto e evoluindo naturalmente. O entusiasmo, a energia, a emoção entusiástica do líder propagam-se aos seguidores de uma forma unida e coesa, tor- nando-se uma liderança alargada e abrangente à totalidade do grupo. Os líderes destacam-se pela sua capacidade de infl uência, pelo seu carácter, pela sua inter-acção junto dos seus pares, pois o seu círculo de infl uência é maior ou menor conforme a sua atitude, a sua energia, o seu entusiasmo, a sua força, a sua actividade e a emoção que imprimem a cada acção. Figura 3 Os Círculos de infl uência A U T O R 1 0 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Os líderes destacam-se pelo seu carácter, pela sua determi- nação na defesa e na prossecução dos objectivos. No entanto, estas características propagam-se aos seus pares que, natural- mente, transformam pequenos grupos em grandes partidos políticos, instituições, organizações, empresas, etc. Pela sua persistência, os líderes lutam de forma constante e continuada em defesa de motivações, todavia para que isso aconteça, é necessário sair da zona de conveniência, do senso comum, rompendo com o usual, na busca do que é verdadei- ramente importante para atingir os objectivos. A inteligência emocional do líder conduz o grupo orientan- do-o no cumprimento das tarefas, estratégias e objectivos. O controlo das emoções é uma característica natural dos líderes carismáticos, o que permite adoptar uma postura apropriada a cada circunstância, utilizando a empatia e compreensão mú- tuas. A dinâmica do grupo, bem como a sua performance, estão directamente relacionadas com o empenho, a persistência e a inteligência do seu líder. Neste sentido, comunicar com emo- ção, autenticidade e pensamento positivo, apresentando os seus próprios valores, faz com que as pessoas fi quem anima- das e inspiradas em todos os momentos da vida do grupo, mas principalmente nos momentos difíceis. “A forma como os líderes gerem os sentimentos e os conduzem de modo a que o grupo atinja os seus objectivos depende da inte- ligência emocional. A ressonância é um dom natural dos líderes C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 0 7 emocionalmente inteligentes. A emoção e a energia entusiástica desses líderes ecoa no grupo.”71 A gestão dos sentimentos é um factor determinante na con- dução do grupo pelo facto de ser necessário transformar as difi culdades dos elementos do grupo em oportunidades de su- cesso, pois este é o trabalho imprescindível do líder. Alguns dos factores de sucesso do líder verifi cam-se no au- to-domínio e inter-dependência com os outros. Como procedimentos habituais constrói: – Um circulo de infl uência pessoal, para transformar po- sitivamente as coisas em seu redor; A positividade é um aspecto importante para ultrapassar as difi culdades, enfrentar os desafi os, procurar constantemente forças capazes de levarem por diante os objectivos defi nidos à priori. – Tem objectivos previamente defi nidos e demarcados com rigor: O sucesso de um líder depende profundamente da defi ni- ção correcta dos objectivos, que devem ser gerais e específi cos, cumpridos de modo continuado e com método, de forma, que cada objectivo específi co contribui para o objectivo fi nal ou global. 71 GOLEMAN, Daniel, BOYATZIS, R, MCKEE, A, Os novos líderes, Ed. Gradiva, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2002, p.40. A U T O R 1 0 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L – Defi ne prioridades e graus de importância a cada situ- ação: Para cada situação é necessário estabelecer prioridades, acti- vidades imprescindíveis para que possam ser feitas as seguin- tes. Todavia o que é prioritário pode não ser urgente. Daí que o segredo resida na distinção entre prioritário e urgente de cada actividade. – Procura constantemente congregar posições: Mais do que defi nir a rota a prosseguir, é também importan- te juntar posições, arrastar multidões, unir as pessoas de forma coesa e contínua em todas as ocasiões. – Escuta activamente e de forma empática e conhece as qualidades e motivações de cada elemento do grupo, procurando construir um ambiente cordial e efi ciente para o grupo. “Através da escuta activa, você comunica várias coisas ao ora- dor, que manterá a relação tão calorosa e de confi ança quanto possível: – Estou interessado em si, nas suas ideias e sentimentos. – Respeito os seus pensamentos, concorde ou discorde. – Sou uma pessoa com quem pode conversar.”72 Para ouvir activamente o interlocutor é necessário escutar de forma interessada, mostrando interesse através de um sor- 72 NIERENBERG, Juliet e ROSS, Irene S. Ross, Os segredos de uma negociação bem sucedida, Ed. Plátano editora, Lisboa, p. 66. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 0 9 riso e de um aceno de cabeça. Solicitar esclarecimentos sempre que necessário. Escutar é uma qualidade de todos os comuni- cadores de excelência usada para partilhar ideias e fortalecer a empatia entre as pessoas. O Carisma Pessoal A palavra “carisma” está muitas vezes associada a uma “dá- diva de Deus”, a “toques de magia” sobre os outros. Na sua es- sência o conceito “carisma” está intimamente ligado a perso- nalidades que produzem impactos únicos e mágicos sobre os outros. “O carisma implica a existência de discípulos e assemelha-se muito à beleza porque assenta no «olhar do espectador». Escu- sado será dizer que um indivíduo, sentido como carismático por uma pessoa, poderá não o ser por outra, especialmente quando as pessoas, ou a audiência, são de natureza muito diferente, com ideias distintas sobre «beleza» ou carisma.”73 O carisma é o mesmo que qualidades, comportamentos e 73 KOZUBSKA, Joana, As sete chaves do carisma pessoal, Ed. Cetop, 1ª edição, Mem Martins, 1999, p.23. A U T O R 1 1 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L atitudes que fazem a diferença. O homem carismático gera ac- ção em seu redor, está no olhar de quem o observa. Um homem carismático move, em torno si, discípulos, que seguem as suas ideias, os seus pensamentos, atitudes, numa partilha leal, obtendo contrapartidas que podem ser uma vi- são, uma causa, uma inspiração na qual se revêem e lutam em conjunto. A personalidade carismática encoraja os outros, nos seus comportamentos e acções, construindo uma envolvente capaz de levar por diante um projecto comum. O carisma envolve essencialmente o magnetismo do líder aos seus seguidores. O homem carismático apresenta na sua génese uma visão, um projecto visionário, um sonho profundo e verdadeiramente envolvente no qual acredita cegamente e por ele luta continuamente. Além disso, as suas mensagens são percebidas e interioriza- das pelos seus admiradores e seguidores, no sentido em que, por vezes, se transforma em seguidismo quase doentio ao seu líder. “Um dos mais famosos idealistas dos nossos tempos foi Martin Lutther King. O seu discurso «Eu tenho uma visão…», realiza- do em Março de 1963, em Washington, constitui uma das mais famosas declarações idealistas conhecidas. ...Para a população negra americana, Martin Luther King oferecia o óbvio – direitos iguais e justiça.”74 74 KOZUBSKA, Joana, As sete chaves do carisma pessoal, Ed. Cetop, 1ª edição, Mem MArtins 1999, p. 27. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 1 1 Uma visão não tem que ser, necessariamente, utópica ou uma projecção de grandes ideais, mas sim um objectivo re- alista, uma meta a ser concretizada, pois o factor realmente importante é a capacidade de aglutinar seguidores, colabo- radores que comunguem do mesmo desejo de realização. Assim, o homem carismático revela-se no facto de transferir a sua visão para alguém que o recebe e torna-se parte integrante dele. O líder carismático é normalmente uma pessoa que, in- dependentemente do meio social ou da idade, atribui va- lor e importância a todas as pessoas que o seguem, promo- vendo uma áurea de identifi cação pessoal comum nos seus discípulos. Outro aspecto fundamental que caracteriza o carisma de um líder é o processo de aprendizagem contínua, que se verifi - ca nas acções reais por ele promovidas. “Em suma, as pessoas que têm êxito no processo de autotrans- formação com efeitos duradouros passam pelas seguintes fases: – A primeira descoberta: O eu ideal – Como quero ser? – A segunda descoberta: O eu real – Como sou? Quais são os meus pontos fortes e as minhas falhas? – A terceira descoberta: O programa de aprendizagem – refor- çar os pontos fortes e reduzir as falhas. – A quarta descoberta: experimentar os novos comportamen- tos, pensamentos e sentimentos, até os dominar completa- mente. A U T O R 1 1 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L – A quinta descoberta: desenvolver relações de confi ança, que apoiem a mudança e a tornem possível.”75 Neste sentido, o êxito verifi ca-se na auto-análise, na desco- berta dos seus defeitos e das suas potencialidades, bem como, no fortalecimento das potencialidades e na minimização dos pontos fracos. Figura 4 Marketing pessoal 75 GOLEMAN, Daniel, BOYATZIS, R, MCKEE, A, Os novos líderes, Ed. Gradiva, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2002, p.136. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 1 3 A auto-observação dos comportamentos da própria pessoa permite conhecer as suas falhas, os seus aspectos positivos. Acontece muito frequentemente, as pessoas desistirem no seu projecto pessoal a meio do percurso, este abandono deve- -se à falta de rigor e disciplina que cada pessoa deve possuir para que seja bem sucedido. Esta disciplina consiste em anotar os seus hábitos, bons ou maus, diários, o tempo que disponibiliza para cada actividade, as suas motivações, os seus desejos, e a estratégia para os con- seguir. Isto permite mover as suas forças para as actividades mais importantes, de forma gradual, procurando ser rigoroso no desempenho e no tempo para desenvolver cada actividade. A pessoa que observa o seu comportamento aprende com as seus pontos fracos, e são estes que com muita persistência e dedicação se transformam gradualmente em pontos fortes. Uma das causas do insucesso pessoal e profi ssional está na apatia com que se encara a vida, pois mais importante que fa- lhar, é tentar, pois tentar e não conseguir já é uma vitória pes- soal, mas nunca tentar já é em uma derrota. Outro aspecto relevante para o sucesso pessoal é a apren- dizagem contínua, na procura constante de solidifi car conhe- cimentos e competências capazes de gerar acção no maior nú- mero de pessoas. A confi ança gerada nas outras pessoas em torno da mudan- ça contribuem de forma decisiva para a realização dos objecti- vos que podem conduzir ao sucesso. Em síntese, o carisma pessoal verifi ca-se quando a pessoa A U T O R 1 1 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L conhece o seu eu ideal, fortalece as suas capacidades, através da aprendizagem contínua, promove relações de confi ança com outros e apresenta-se de confi ante, arrastando consigo se- guidores em torno de ideais e objectivos comuns. A confi ança A confi ança que existe em nós mesmos, signifi ca força inte- rior, ousadia, atrevimento, convicção do valor pessoal, que to- dos nós possuímos desde criança, em que enfrentámos todas as situações e com a crença interior de tudo concretizar com sucesso. “A confi ança vem do acreditar em si mesmo, do conhecimento, da experiência e da habilidade. Se tivermos confi ança podemos proceder confi adamente” 76 No entanto, os pais, os professores, os adultos nem sempre assumem uma posição de apoio, de orientação para concretizar as actividades, tarefas ou objectivos pretendidas, bem como, os obstáculos, as circunstâncias, podem ter um impacto negativo, 76 KOZUBSKA, Joanna, As sete chaves do carisma pessoal, Edições Cetop, Mem Martins 1999, p.48. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 1 5 difi cultando o alcance dos mesmos objectivos. Assim, é fun- damental trabalhar de forma efi caz e contínua, no sentido de reconquistar a confi ança pessoal em todo o seu potencial. Contribuem em grande medida para o estabelecimento da própria confi ança, o domínio da mente e do corpo, o comporta- mento, bem como, o mundo que o rodeia. Assim, o ser humano é o resultado do meio ambiente, que o rodeia e onde está envol- vido, o seu comportamento e a interacção com os outros, as ca- pacidades apreendidas, bem como, os valores, crenças, atitudes. Neste sentido, os factores preponderantes para a conquista e manutenção da confi ança, são a energia e a vivacidade com que se luta pelos objectivos, a motivação pessoal que deve ser contínua e persistente, bem como, a força de vontade na busca da concretização dos objectivos pré-estabelecidos. “Muitas vezes não estamos preparados para acreditar na evi- dência dos nossos próprios olhos e ouvidos. Embora possamos receber informação positiva acerca do nosso desempenho a partir da nossa família, amigos e colegas de trabalho, muitos de nós têm uma forte tendência para duvidar de si mesmos. Recusamos acreditar na evidência que está na nossa frente. E, para piorar as coisas, projectamos essas visões negativas sobre os outros e pen- samos que isso é o que eles pensam a nosso respeito! Temos de ser realistas e honestos para connosco.”77 77 KOZUBSKA, Joanna, As sete chaves do carisma pessoal, Ed. Cetop, Mem Martins, 1999, p. 51. A U T O R 1 1 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L O pensamento negativo está presente em muitas das deci- sões tomadas por qualquer pessoa, pois existem as dúvidas, in- certezas, receios, capazes de impedirem que os objectivos não sejam cumpridos. No entanto, a auto - análise positiva, quando orientada para a realização dos objectivos, tem que se posicio- nar no seu lugar, ou seja, a negatividade tem que dar lugar à positividade. Uma forma de construir a auto-estima consiste em interio- rizar a técnica da percepção visual como “âncora” na prossecu- ção dos objectivos pessoais. “Sentei-me calmamente e imaginei o olhar das pessoas en- quanto me ouviam. Imaginei os aplausos fi nais e as pessoas a virem ter comigo para fazer perguntas. Senti a satisfação quando as pessoas disseram que tinham apreciado a minha conferência. Comecei essa conferência sabendo que seria um sucesso. E foi”78 Esta técnica tem como fi nalidade envolver a pessoa de um conjunto de ideias positivas, de uma série de pensamentos capazes de convencer a pessoa que a vitória e o sucesso são possíveis. A pessoa passa a dotar-se de uma auto-imagem fa- vorável ao sucesso, ensaiando a mente para o efeito. Outra técnica capaz de construir a auto – estima consiste em organizar relembrando os sucessos já alcançados ante- riormente, como fotografi as, cartas, recordações capazes de impulsionarem a mente para uma “áurea” de sucesso. Como 78 KOZUBSKA, Joana, As 7 chaves do carisma pessoal, ED. Cetop, Mem Martins, 1999, p. 53. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 1 7 exemplo de objectos que podem servir de impulso para uma auto – confi ança positiva podem ser: um diploma, uma meda- lha, um troféu, uma cor, uma carta, um objecto apreciado, etc. Para além destas técnicas, a confi ança assenta também na capacidade em tentar, de forma incansável, conseguir os seus objectivos, através da persistência e persuasão contínuas. Aproveitar as oportunidades, nunca desistir, aprender per- manentemente com os erros, assim como, nunca aceitar de forma passiva uma resposta negativa. “… Abraham Lincoln falhou nos negócios em 1822, foi derro- tado na Legislatura de 1823, voltou a falhar nos negócios, teve um colapso nervoso em 1827, foi derrotado como deputado em 1829, derrotado na eleição de 1831, derrotado para o congresso em 1834, foi novamente eleito para o Congresso e derrotado em 1939, derrotado para o senado em 1846, derrotado para a vice- -presidência em 1847, novamente derrotado para o Senado em 1849, mas foi eleito Presidente dos Estados Unidos em 1860, com 51 anos de idade.” 79 Tal como no caso de Abraham Lincoln, a luta, a persistência, e a contínua aprendizagem caracterizam os verdadeiros ven- cedores e caracterizam a importância da confi ança que cada pessoa deposita em si próprio. 79 Idem, p. 53. A U T O R 1 1 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Nesta perspectiva, é fundamental ter convicções sufi cien- temente fortes para enfrentar obstáculos, acreditando sempre nas capacidades pessoais, nas suas motivações e desejos. “John Lennon, quando saiu de casa com a guitarra em baixo do braço para ser músico, ouviu da tia que iria morrer de fome. Não só não morreu de fome como fi cou rico e famoso.” 80 A confi ança nas posições tomadas alimenta e faz renascer a vontade de lutar, alimenta os sonhos e as aspirações, cria uma espécie de protecção pessoal duradoura, diminuindo os obstácu- los que continuamente vão surgindo, dando lugar à força interior que funciona como guia para a busca do sucesso. “ Um pessimista vê a difi culdade em cada oportunidade; um optimista vê uma oportunidade em cada difi culdade” – Sir Winston Churchill”81 Assim, podemos verifi car que a perspectiva com que se en- frentam os obstáculos condiciona, em muito, todo o pensa- mento e, consequentemente, a forma de os resolver. Uma visão optimista da realidade transforma obstáculos em oportunida- des de crescimento e enriquecimento pessoal, pois, desta for- ma, contribui para procurar outras soluções, outros pontos de vista, novos caminhos a seguir, que, de outra forma, não eram procurados. 80 BODIN, Sadi, Marketing Pessoal, 100 dicas para valorizar a sua imagem, Editora afi liada, 5ª edição, Rio de Janeiro, 2002, p.67. 81 GELLER, Uri, Poder da mente, Ed. Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Cascais, 2000. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 1 9 Figura 5 Pessimista e Optimista “Como observou Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Entusiasmo gera entusiasmo. Em um estudo que demonstra este processo, pes- soas passivas e sem expressão formaram pares com pessoas mais A U T O R 1 2 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L animadas e expressivas. Os dois participantes de cada par pre- encheram um formulário para avaliar seu estado de espírito no início do experimento…. Em apenas dois minutos, os mais passi- vos tendiam adoptar o estado de espírito dos mais expressivos.”82 A pessoa entusiasta transforma as contrariedades e os obs- táculos em novos caminhos, novos desafi os, através de uma áurea positiva de acção, que exterioriza para as restantes pes- soas com quem comunica e estabelece relações. Assim, o entusiasmo é uma qualidade das pessoas de su- cesso, pois, além de contribuir para melhorar a performance pessoal dos próprios intervenientes, constitui uma motivação para as restantes pessoas que directa ou indirectamente se re- lacionam com aquelas. Ter autoconfi ança é acreditar em si próprio e no poder rea- lizar, aliada à grande capacidade de superação de problemas e imprevistos. O entusiasmo é o “combustível” natural da deter- minação. Existem muitas pessoas que são verdadeiros especialistas nas suas áreas de intervenção, mas não são entusiastas nas suas intervenções diárias e por essa razão nunca conseguiram obter sucesso efectivo. Existem outras pessoas que, com algumas li- mitações ao nível técnico e científi co, mas com entusiasmo, co- ragem e determinação conseguem alcançar grandes sucessos. 82 DIMITRIUS, Jo-Ellan, Mark Mazzarella, Começando com o pé direito, Editora alegro, São Paulo, 2001, p.119. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 2 1 O entusiasmo é um factor de determinante para as conquis- tas diárias. Enquanto que a autoconfi ança constitui a força interior, o entusiasmo impulsiona positivamente as acções a desenvolver com determinação e eloquência. As difi culdades do dia-a-dia têm o poder de alterar o estado de espírito, minando a auto-confi ança e o entusiasmo, assim, é fundamental construir um conjunto de “âncoras” capazes de contradizer a negatividade. Neste sentido, as “âncoras” pessoais são ideais, cenários construídos mentalmente com o objectivo de serem interiorizados para fortalecer a mente e transformar as difi culdades do momento em momentos agradáveis e posi- tivos. O entusiasmo gera entusiasmo, contribuindo para uma sau- dável relação inter-pessoal. Este está associado à vontade de vencer, contribuindo para a resolução mais rápida dos proble- mas e funciona como antídoto ao desânimo e à tristeza. As pessoas entusiastas possuem, normalmente, uma auto- -estima elevada, de vencedores, de persuasivos, reunindo à sua volta um ambiente de positivo, funcionando como escudo à negatividade. Pois, o sucesso de uma tarefa, actividade ou meta depende em grande medida do grau de confi ança que o seu autor im- primir na sua mente, na sua força de vontade, para levar por diante tais acções. A U T O R 1 2 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L A Determinação A determinação contribui decisivamente para o sucesso pessoal e profi ssional, pois, dá ânimo, dá vida, fortalecendo as ideias, atitudes e comportamentos da própria pessoa. A atitude pró-activa e o constante fortalecimento servem de apoio positivo, transformando os obstáculos ou ameaças em oportunidades ou forças capazes de instituir um clima favorá- vel ao sucesso. “Indivíduos determinados. Não sou psicólogo, mas “determi- nados” não parece excessivo para descrever estes chefes. Acredi- tam que o impossível é possível e estão decididos a prová-lo e, em grande medida, a prová-lo de novo, dia após dia. Em resumo, não gostaria de me encontrar entre eles e aquilo que desejam atingir.”83 Como podemos verifi car, a determinação está inerente a um espírito de luta, de persistência, de sacrifício contínuo e diário, contribuindo para uma auto-imagem positiva e opti- mista, atraindo em redor de si pessoas positivas e optimistas. Pelo contrário, pessoas negativas e sem determinação, além de serem derrotistas e pessimistas, juntam-se a pessoas do mes- mo perfi l que, em nada, contribui para o sucesso. 83 PETERS; Tom, Em busca do uau!, Bertrand Editora, 2ª edição, Mem Martins, 1996, p. 277. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 2 3 Comparativamente, assim como, um produto necessita de uma boa embalagem, uma boa imagem, é fundamental que a pessoa para além de ser determinado precisa de demonstrar essa determinação, essa coragem, o carácter distintivo e mar- cadamente positivo. O sucesso por ser percepcionado como uma caminhada faseada, coesa e contínua rumo aos objectivos previamente propostos. Assim, a concretização gradual do sucesso verifi ca- -se no momento presente e com a determinação continuada, verifi cando que o dia de hoje, seja melhor do que o de ontem e o de amanhã seja melhor que o de hoje. Na verdade, a conquista dos objectivos está intimamente li- gada à mudança de atitude, isto é, alterar o comportamento em prol dos objectivos. É nesse momento de mudança que a maioria das pessoas depara com a falta de uma atitude ade- quada à situação e muitas vezes desiste de lutar dando lugar ao desânimo. Aquando da resolução de uma determinada situação, uma preocupação contribui para uma perda de tempo, bem como, para o aumento da ansiedade que, em nada, contribui para o sucesso de uma actividade ou acção. Caso a actividade não possa ser resolvida de uma forma imediata, a preocupação ex- cessiva traz sentimentos negativos como a frustração e angús- tia, que diminuem a motivação e até mesmo a capacidade de levar por diante tal tarefa. A U T O R 1 2 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L “Esta “pré-ocupação” está sempre acompanhada pelo que nós chamamos de “nevoeiro”, cuja expressão pretendemos natural- mente aludir a um “nevoeiro psíquico”. O nevoeiro físico tem duas propriedades: impede que uma pessoa veja com clareza e ao mesmo tempo ouça bem. E isto torna-se mais claro se já fi zeram a experiência de viajar com nevoeiro cerrado. Deste modo, podemos afi rmar que o nevoeiro engole as imagens e os sons.”84 Como podemos verifi car, as preocupações são equivalentes ao nevoeiro psíquico, que em nada contribuem para a percep- ção completa da realidade. A partir do momento em que no nevoeiro psíquico não é possível perceber a totalidade, apenas se percepcionam fragmentos dessa mesma realidade. Neste sentido, as preocupações não permitem a normal racionalização dos pensamentos e atitudes no momento pre- sente, daí que seja importante “limpar” a mente, focalizando sempre o objectivo e a sua realização. Neste sentido, uma forma de ultrapassar a preocupação é construir cenários positivos, pensamentos positivos, bem como, praticar actividades físicas, desporto, melhorando a qualidade de vida. Assim, uma das formas de obter positivida- de é cuidar da mente e do corpo. 84 BIRKENBIHL, Vera, F, A arte da comunicação, Ed. Pergaminho, 1ª edição, 2000, pág. 151. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 2 5 O carácter determinante do sucesso, também depende, da captação do momento, bem como da sensibilidade para cap- tar o momento, para aproveitar oportunidades, obtendo van- tagens competitivas, capazes de constituírem a verdadeira diferença. “Capacidade de iniciativa: Os líderes com o sentido da efi cácia - sabem controlar o seu próprio destino – têm grande capacidade de iniciativa. Aproveitam as oportunidades – ou criam-nas - , em vez de fi carem à espera. Não hesitam em passar por cima da burocracia ou das regras sempre que seja necessário criar melho- res possibilidades para o futuro”85 A agilidade, a rapidez de pensamento em conjunto com a tomada de decisões de forma acertada contribui decisivamen- te para a pragmatização e concretização das acções ou activi- dades inerentes ao cumprimento dos objectivos previamente defi nidos. Assim, como primeira necessidade, é necessário defi nir ob- jectivos mensuráveis, concretizáveis e precisos, bem como a sua pertinência para o autor do projecto e / ou para a sua equi- pa, ou seja, está inerente a uma meta saber quando? como? com que meios? e onde se pretende chegar? 85 GOLEMAN, Daniel, BOYATZIS, R, MCKEE, A, Os novos líderes, Ed. Gradiva, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2002, p.274. A U T O R 1 2 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Figura 6 Cumprimento de objectivos “Os objectivos devem apoiar-se nos pontos fortes, não nas fa- lhas ou fraquezas; – os objectivos devem ser próprios e pessoais – não devem ser os objectivos impostos pelos outros; – os planos devem ser fl exíveis para permitir que as pessoas prepa- rem o futuro de mais do que uma forma – um método de plane- amento único imposto a toda a organização revela-se frequente- mente contraproducente; – os planos devem ser realistas, constituídos por passos exequíveis;”86 86 ibidem, p. 167,168 C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 2 7 Assim, os objectivos devem apoiar-se nas motivações, nas necessidades, nos desejos, nas aspirações, nos aspectos rele- vantes para a própria pessoa, pois se assim não acontecer, a motivação diminui até ao seu desaparecimento, na medida em que passa a não existir uma identifi cação pessoal com as acti- vidades e acções desenvolvidas. Deste modo, o planeamento estratégico das acções a imple- mentar constituem um projecto de futuro, um fi o condutor a ser levado na prática. Os aspectos mais importantes a considerar são a defi nição de um plano de acção, a sua objectividade e o grau de impor- tância para o seu promotor e autor e sua equipa, pois esta agre- ga em seu redor a emotividade e a intelectualidade capazes de o porem em execução. Os planos devem ser estudados, estruturados e formaliza- dos para que possam ser cumpridos, no entanto, devem ser fl e- xíveis no sentido da adaptação constante aos seus autores, bem como às circunstâncias que se vierem a verifi car. Isto porque, depois de defi nir as linhas de orientação, a forma de as pôr em prática vai sendo adaptada às personalidades e características pessoais da pessoa ou da sua equipa. “Por exemplo, um pessoa que queira melhorar a forma de fa- lar em público – essencial para a capacidade de comunicação dos líderes – pode fi xar os seguintes objectivos concretos: – fazer duas apresentações por mês e pedir os comentários de A U T O R 1 2 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L colegas; – treinar perante uma pessoa amiga antes de fazer a apresen- tação; – gravar a apresentação para depois a rever e estudar, com a ajuda de comentários do chefe, se possível; – aderir a um clube de debates para treinar a capacidade para falar em público; – falar com oradores efi cientes e perguntar-lhes como se prepa- ram – especifi camente, saber como ultrapassam o medo da ribalta e se põem à vontade.” 87 A capacidade de concretização e realização é condição es- sencial para a melhoria contínua enquanto pessoas individu- ais, assim como, equipas coesas e determinadas na concretiza- ção das suas metas. Aparência física A aparência física funciona como o “cartão de visita” de uma pessoa, na medida em que, é a primeira impressão que os sen- tidos captam e nos quais se constrói uma imagem. Desta imagem fazem parte a apresentação e a própria ima- 87 Ibidem, p.173 C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 2 9 gem pessoal, sendo a apresentação: a indumentária (vestuá- rio, estilo de roupa, adornos pessoais, cores, formatos, etc) e na imagem pessoal além da própria indumentária, também se inclui, a forma como se fala, como se está, como se comunica, a sua educação, os seus valores, a sua atitude, os seus compor- tamentos, etc. A imagem é a representação mental de uma pes- soa, quando esta, se encontra ausente. “Homens e mulheres atraentes são considerados mais hones- tos, inteligentes, competentes, amigáveis e profi ssionais do que homens e mulheres menos atraentes – mesmo que as pessoas me- nos atraentes sejam percebidas como trabalhadores mais esforça- dos e mais confi áveis. Os outros também tendem a submeter-se mais facilmente às pessoas atraentes e a respeitar a autoridade delas.”88 As impressões pessoais funcionam como a primeira ima- gem a ser memorizada pelo interlocutor, pois, é através dela que este vai caracterizar de forma positiva, negativa, neutra ou indiferente a pessoa que tem pela frente. Assim, a primeira im- pressão bem como a última, contribuem decisivamente para a construção mental de uma imagem que possuímos e iremos confi rmar ou não no futuro. Uma auto-imagem positiva é o primeiro passo para apare- cer e parecer bem sucedido perante o olhar exterior. As pesso- 88 DIMITRIUS, Jo-Ellan, Mark Mazzarella, Começando com o pé direito, Editora Alegro, São Paulo, 2001, p.146. A U T O R 1 3 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L as esquivam-se daqueles que estão sempre mal-humorados ou pessimistas. Assim, como acontece no marketing de produtos, todo o produto necessita de uma boa embalagem, para agradar ao olhar dos potenciais clientes, no marketing pessoal a auto- -imagem é o cartão de visitas. Nesta perspectiva, o marketing de produtos tem como objectivo principal conseguir a satisfação do cliente, atra- vés da aquisição, usufruto do produto. No marketing pesso- al, a aparência física terá que estar de acordo com as aspira- ções e desejos do público-alvo, (da comunidade envolvente) na medida em que, o produto (homem ou mulher) terá que ser aceite, querido, e “adquirido” pelo mercado (comunidade envolvente). A roupagem exterior de uma pessoa expressa a sua forma de ser ou de estar. Através da indumentária, pode observar-se se essa pessoa gosta mais dos trajes tradicionais, o que poderá indicar que esta é de alguma forma conservadora, ou se pelo contrário gosta dos trajes mais desportivos, ou das modas do momento. “Mesmo que os sapatos vermelhos de salto alto sejam a última moda em Paris e Nova York, só os use em eventos sociais e não no escritório. Já os homens devem prestar atenção especial a acessó- rios como sapatos e gravata. Roupas sóbrias são sempre aceites em qualquer ambiente de trabalho. ...Vista-se de acordo com a tendência do local de trabalho. Destaque-se por seu empenho e C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 3 1 não pela roupa diferenciada.”89 A higiene pessoal, as unhas cortadas, o cabelo bem tratado, a barba (nos homens) bem tratada, o perfume que usa, este deve ser efi caz, (suave e sem possuir um aroma demasiado forte) bem como, a conjugação das cores nas diversas peças de rou- pa, são alguns factores a ter em atenção na apresentação em público. “É duvidoso que Mahatma Gandi, Mãe Teresa, Martin Luther King, Adolf Hitler, Robert Maxewll ou Mão Tse-Tung tivessem ganho um concurso de beleza em qualquer parte do mundo. No entanto, para alguns, a aparência física é um elemento importan- te do apelo carismático. Não há dúvida que o elegante Jonh F. Ke- nedy teve um impacte considerável através da sua aparência.”90 Segundo a autora, a aparência pessoal pode ajudar no suces- so pessoal de uma pessoa, mas é apenas uma pequena parte de uma complexa mistura de atributos, ou seja, a aparência pes- soal pode contribuir para o sucesso, todavia se não existirem factores de referência, tais como: confi ança, visão, comunica- ção, estilo, movimento e vibração, visibilidade, o sucesso não será uma realidade. 89 DAVIDSON Jeff, Faça o seu marketing pessoal e profi ssional, Madras Editora, São Paulo, s.d. p. 52. 90 KOZUBSKA, Joanna, As sete chaves do carisma pessoal, Edições Cetop, 1ª edição, Mem Martns, 1999, p.29. A U T O R 1 3 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L A imagem pessoal Uma imagem pode ser aparência visível de uma pessoa ou coisa pela existência de certas características ou fenómenos ópticos; pode ser uma reprodução de uma fi gura ou objecto, pintura, escultura; pode ser uma representação mental percep- cionada através dos sentidos; podendo ainda representar uma colectividade, um grupo social, etc. Nesta perspectiva, costuma dizer-se que “uma imagem vale mil palavras”. Daí que a imagem prevalece na mente mais fa- cilmente que as palavras. Sob este ponto de vista vivemos hoje numa sociedade caracterizada pela cultura da imagem, onde esta assume uma importância decisiva a todos os níveis, quer em termos colectivos ou individuais. A imagem pessoal não passa apenas pela aparência da roupagem exterior, esta solidifi ca-se em toda forma de ser, nas ideias que um individuo defende, nas atitudes, nos com- portamentos, na forma de ser, estar, no respeito pelos outros, na simpatia, na empatia, no profi ssionalismo que imprime em todas as acções que efectua, na confi ança que possui em si e também projecta para os seus pares, assim como, em todo o comportamento adoptado em público e no contacto com este. “Reconhecer a imagem que você transmite é mais difícil do que parece. Ver a si mesmo exactamente como os outros o vêem é impossível. Mas você pode solicitar as opiniões de um colega ou C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 3 3 amigo e combiná-las com suas próprias informações.”91 Figura 7 Imagem pessoal Assim, podemos verifi car que a imagem que uma pessoa pensa possuir, não corresponde, necessariamente, à imagem real desta mesma pessoa, ou seja, reconhecer a imagem pes- soal é um processo complexo, pois pressupõe o acatamento de opiniões externas à própria, que por vezes podem não ser 91 DAVIDSON Jeff, Faça o seu marketing pessoal e profi ssional, Madras Editora, São Paulo. s.d. p. 52. A U T O R 1 3 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L aceites ou aproveitadas para a construção da auto-imagem. Entende-se por auto-imagem a imagem que uma pessoa tem de si própria, mas esta, só existe na complementaridade, na interactividade com os demais actores sociais conhecedores dessa realidade. Neste sentido, a imagem real de um ser humano, solidifi ca- -se na complexidade do todo social, ou seja, no conjunto das ideias, opiniões, atitudes e comportamentos que se estabele- cem em sociedade. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 3 5 Parte II “Marketing e sucesso pessoal” A U T O R 1 3 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 3 7 Visão A visão signifi ca possuir um conhecimento que ultrapassa a realidade ou, por outras palavras, é fruto do imaginário. As- sim, podemos defi nir visão como: “...ver qualquer coisa que na realidade não existe, ter um co- nhecimento imaginativo.” 92 “Se você não tiver uma visão não pode ser um líder e se tiver visão sem ambição, será um profeta, não um líder. Você precisa de uma visão ambiciosa. Essas duas coisas extremas e bastan- te contraditórias. Ter somente uma delas não é sufi ciente. Visão sem ambição a curto prazo não mostrará resultados.” 93 A visão é algo muito pessoal, pois refl ecte uma ideia, um pensamento que está para além da realidade e que constitui um “motor” de desenvolvimento, das acções aparentemente perdidas ou sem solução visível. A visão e missão são diferen- tes, enquanto que a visão refl ecte a forma de visionar no ima- 92 KOZUBSKA, Joanna, As sete chaves do carisma pessoal, Edições Cetop, Mem Martins, 1999, p. 68. 93 Idem, p. 70 A U T O R 1 3 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L ginário, a missão tem como propósito a concretização de uma acção mensurável, ou seja, a descrição do que uma pessoa ou organização pretendem fazer. Neste sentido, é fundamental ter uma atitude pró-activa, procurando demonstrar alternativas construtivas para resol- ver os problemas, através de novas soluções; tomar atitudes assertivas dependendo das situações e conjunturas presentes; gerir as emoções, procurando através destas, uma motivação contínua e não o abandono; descobrir as respostas mais apro- priadas para cada situação; declarar escolher, preferir e fazer apenas o que realmente pretende. “As pessoas que exercitam sua liberdade embrionária dia após dia conseguem, pouco a pouco, expandir esta liberdade. As pes- soas que não o fazem descobrem que ela defi na até que elas se perdem na vida. Agem conforme as receitas dos pais, amigos e da sociedade.”94 Cada ser humano transporta consigo todo o potencial de capacidades capazes de levar por diante os objectivos, as tare- fas, que pretender pôr em prática, a diferença reside na força e persistência que consegue imprimir a cada acção a desenvol- ver. Cada pessoa deve estar preparada para percorrer várias carreiras ao longo da vida, pois, deve possuir a capacidade 94 COVEY, Stephen, R., Os sete hábitos das pessoas altamente efi cazes, Editora nova cultural, 13ª edição, São Paulo, 2003, p.117. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 3 9 de abandonar uma carreira, quando sentir que poderá abra- çar uma outra, de maior realização pessoal. Não é fácil mu- dar quando tudo parece estar a desenrolar-se naturalmente na vida e na carreira pessoal, todavia, a mudança de carreira exige uma maior responsabilidade de cada pessoa para essa decisão. Existem pessoas que passam a maior parte da vida a fi ngir serem o que não são, até descobrirem o seu verdadeiro talento, a sua verdadeira missão, todavia depois de a descobrirem en- contram o seu próprio caminho, a sua própria realização pes- soal e profi ssional. Todas as pessoas tem a responsabilidade de criar uma me- lhor sociedade, quer seja em termos da solidariedade, quer em termos sociais, económicos, políticos, empresariais, institucio- nais, comunitários e pessoais, etc. No entanto, cada pessoa terá que seguir a sua missão, as suas necessidades, os seus dese- jos, as suas aspirações, transformando todas as forças, todas as energias no sentido de conseguir o sucesso. “Para criar a visão de uma companhia, os líderes emocional- mente inteligentes têm de ir mais além do que o exame individu- al da organização, têm de recorrer à visão colectiva das pessoas da organização. Lado a lado com o resto da organização, os lí- deres participam na criação da visão que permite unir o grupo como um todo e dar-lhe energia.”95 95 GOLEMAN, Daniel, BOYATZIS, R, MCKEE, A, Os novos líderes, Ed. Gradiva, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2002, p. 228. A U T O R 1 4 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Assim, as pessoas são responsáveis pela concretização ou não das acções ou actividades que defi nem, pois a efi cácia, a felicidade dependem das atitudes, das ideias e dos comporta- mentos assumidos pelos próprios autores em questão. Missão pessoal A missão pessoal consiste na acção premeditada de alguém, capaz de, independentemente da crítica ou do seu meio en- volvente, conseguir diferenciar-se dos demais, quer seja pela originalidade, quer pela singularidade ou por ambas. “Quando a pessoa adquire este senso de missão, conquista a essência de sua própria pró-atividade. Passa a comandar a visão e os valores que dirigem sua vida. Passa a ter o ponto de parti- da básico, a partir do qual estabelece as metas de curto e longo prazo. Tem a força de uma constituição baseada em princípios correctos, para servir efi cazmente de padrão de comparação com as decisões referentes ao uso mais efi caz do tempo, dos talentos e das energias.”96 96 COVEY, Stephen, R., Os sete hábitos das pessoas altamente efi cazes, Editora nova cultural, 13ª edição, São Paulo, 2003, p.117. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 4 1 A melhor forma de atingir os objectivos pessoais é desen- volver uma missão, predefi nir aquilo que o próprio pretende atingir na vida, a todos os níveis ou a um nível específi co. Assim, a missão pessoal é singular, única, pois, depende dos projectos, da visão e daquilo que cada um pretender e defi nir como a sua própria missão. Por missão pessoal entende-se o assumir de um ponto de partida, defi nir objectivos a curto, médio e longo prazo, bem como as estratégias para sua concretização. Assim, a prática corrente transforma-se em actividade actuante em vez de pas- sividade reactiva, pois, sem reagir perante aquilo que é feito, a acção está em primeiro plano. Por exemplo: ser missionário é assumir posições próprias, fundamentadas em convicções profundas e defendidas, onde se acredita, envolvendo os seus autores e percursores, procu- rando aglutinar cooperação nos seus pares e na sociedade em geral. “Aquilo de que estamos a falar não é simplesmente escrever uma declaração de fé. Estamos a falar de aceder e criar uma li- gação aberta com a energia profunda que vem de um sentido de fi nalidade e de signifi cado de vida bem defi nido, totalmente integrado. Estamos a falar de criar uma visão profunda baseada em princípios que assegure a sua exequibilidade.”97 97 KOZUBSKA, Joana, As 7 chaves do carisma pessoal, ED. CETOP, Mem Martins, 1999, p. 78. A U T O R 1 4 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Uma missão pessoal é encarada como um desafi o verdadei- ramente envolvente para o seu autor ou autores, na medida em que mais do que uma declaração é a pragmatização em si dessa declaração. Todas as pessoas sonham com perspectivas positivas para as suas vidas, possuem ideais, constroem cenários, bem-estar, di- nheiro, condições de vida, capacidade de resolução de proble- mas, etc, mas desistem quando se deparam com os primeiros obstáculos, acabando por abandonar os seus sonhos, desistir das suas lutas, acabando por se acomodar à realidade que vão encontrando ao longo da vida. “Você pode alegar que a sua missão (e a minha) não é tão profunda quanto a de Luther King ou a do presidente Mandela. Obviamente, aceito. Mas pensar a respeito do que essas pesso- as realizaram sugere que o cartão-de-visita ou o título do cargo não é tudo o que existe! King, Mandela, Havel, Gandhi: cada um tinha uma missão, uma visão, integridade e persistência extraordinária.”98 Como podemos verifi car, as verdadeiras “obras” que con- tribuem para a melhoria da humanidade, nascem das pesso- as que não possuem grande autoridade formal, não possuem grandes títulos ou cargos de relevante destaque. 98 PETERS, Tom, “Marketing pessoal”, Executive Digest, Fevereiro 1999, pág. 22. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 4 3 Estes homens possuem essencialmente, ideias claras, objec- tivos demarcados, convicções profundas e muita vontade de vencer, muitas vezes, sacrifi cando as suas próprias vidas pes- soais. Todavia, para que uma pessoa possa alcançar o sucesso é necessário agir como os homens de sucesso agem, ser o que eles são, e ter o que eles têm, ou seja, pôr em prática as suas capacidades, agir persistentemente na procura constante da realização dos objectivos. Para isso, é necessário interiorizar os seus sonhos de forma continuada e consistente, agir diariamente, procurando me- lhorar as suas fraquezas, fortalecer os pontos fortes, aprender continuamente com as pessoas que são referência nessas ma- térias, nunca desistir e, acima de tudo, manter sempre viva a sua missão pessoal. A comunicação empática A comunicação representa a maior habilidade na vida do ser humano, pois, é na partilha de ideias, de atitudes e com- portamentos, que este possui, de forma inata, a necessidade de “pôr em comum” ou de conseguir a compreensão mútua. A U T O R 1 4 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L “A verdadeira chave para sua infl uência em relação a mim é o exemplo, sua conduta real. O seu exemplo fl ui naturalmente de seu caracter, ou do tipo de pessoa que realmente é – e não do que os outros dizem a seu respeito, ou do que gostaria que eu pensasse. Isso é evidente pelo modo como eu o percebo de fato”.99 Comunicar é partilhar, pôr em comum ideias, sentimentos e atitudes capazes de serem percebidos e interpretados correc- tamente por todos os intervenientes. Todavia, a comunicação revela-se empática quando cada pessoa se expressa de forma natural, procurando interiorizar profunda e intensamente cada sentimento, cada gesto, cada ideia das outras pessoas. Neste sentido, a melhor forma de estabelecer comunicação efi caz é escutar efi cazmente todos os intervenientes, pois é necessário “entrar no mundo dos outros”, perceber intensamente os senti- mentos ideias e atitudes para que se adeqúe constantemente a comunicação aos seus “actores”. Todavia o que acontece, normalmente, é a necessida- de de comunicar, de expor as ideias aos outros, de se tornar notável. Comunicar é estabelecer relação com alguém, transmi- tir informação, estimular sentimentos, ideais, energias, bem como, originar feed-back, que é muito importante para o en- tendimento mútuo. Pois, para além de transmitir ideias, senti- mentos, atitudes, é fundamental dar o exemplo, e através deste, 99 COVEY, Stephen, R., Os sete hábitos das pessoas altamente efi cazes, Editora nova cultural, 13ª edição, São Paulo, 2003, p.117. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 4 5 motivar, envolver, cativar as pessoas envolventes, procurando atingir as metas ou objectivos. “O verdadeiro signifi cado das nossas palavras é expresso através do tom de voz, da nossa linguagem corporal e da para- linguagem - combinação de sinais que damos quando falamos, excluindo as próprias palavras. Curiosamente: – 55 por cento do impacte da apresentação é feito pela nossa linguagem corporal, gestos e contacto visual; – 38 por cento pelo tom de voz; – 7 por cento pelo verdadeiro conteúdo da apresentação.”100 Fonte: Adaptado de Lair Ribeiro (1998) Figura 8 A comunicação efi caz 100 COVEY, Stephen, R., Os sete hábitos das pessoas altamente efi cazes, Editora nova cultural, 13ª edição, São Paulo, 2003, pág. 88. A U T O R 1 4 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Em comunicação, as palavras são importantes, todavia, a forma como estas, são apresentadas, bem como a expressão corporal, quando aplicadas com os ingredientes certos, trans- formam-se em magia. O homem hipertrofi ou a importância da palavra, como se esta constituísse o todo comunicacional, enquanto que os outros aspectos fi caram esquecidos e inconscientes. Assim, a forma como as palavras são ditas (tom de voz) e o acompa- nhamento corporal (fi siologia) são aspectos muito importan- tes para a efi cácia da comunicação. A comunicação é tanto mais efi ciente quanto melhor se conseguir utilizar as palavras certas, no momento certo, para o público certo, com o tom de voz, gestos, contexto apropriados, onde tudo está integrado na mensagem a ser transmitida. “Pode-se afi rmar que 99% dos problemas do ser humano são linguísticos. Jamais se verá um cão a chorar por se ter esquecido de festejar o seu aniversário, simplesmente porque o aniversário não faz parte do universo linguístico do cão.”101 Ao estabelecer comunicação, é importante compreender o ponto de vista dos outros, pois, as questões comunicacionais relacionam-se com toda a vivência em sociedade e neste sen- tido, embora sendo impossível não comunicar, é fundamental perceber que grande parte dos problemas existentes na socie- 101 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação global, Editora Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 1998, p.18. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 4 7 dade estão relacionados com a forma como esta é estabelecida. A magia da comunicação reside na percepção e compreen- são das diferenças, dos pontos de vista alheios, na procura con- tínua da descodifi cação do desconhecido, na aprendizagem continuada nas ideias valores, comportamentos e atitudes, onde é importante abrir horizontes, saindo da zona de con- forto, por outras palavras, entrar no mundo dos outros para, assim, melhor comunicar. “Na comunicação há desperdício de energia quando a men- sagem não produz resultados, não serve para nada. Existe a lin- guagem que gera acção, fazendo acontecer alguma coisa no Uni- verso. E existe a linguagem que não gera acção: um comentário, por exemplo, um queixume, uma conversa fi ada, são energias que nada produzem no Universo.”102 Nesta perspectiva, existe a comunicação que não gera acção, ou seja, que não transforma nada nem ninguém. No entanto, existe a comunicação que gera acção, que faz acontecer alguma coisa, que cria a realidade, através da moti- vação, do carisma, da persistência, do entusiasmo do seu autor, arrasta outras pessoas, na abertura de novos caminhos e na construção de realidades cada vez mais efi cazes e apropriadas às novas e exigências de uma sociedade cada vez mais com- plexa. 102 RIBEIRO, Lair, Comunicação global, Editora Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 1998, p..20 A U T O R 1 4 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Mas um dos aspectos mais importantes na comunicação empática consiste na capacidade de escutar de forma interes- sada os outros, de ouvir atentamente todas as suas ideias e pro- curar compreendê-las, ou seja, pôr-se no lugar do outro. O poder da comunicação pessoal “Estas primeiras mensagens contribuem de forma decisiva para aquilo que eu chamo o diálogo interior. O modo como fala- mos connosco próprios é realmente importante, porque se torna a base da nossa palavra falada. Estabelece a atmosfera mental em que funcionamos e que atrai a nós as experiências. Se nos dimi- nuirmos, a vida vai signifi car muito pouco para nós. Se amarmos e tivermos apreciação por nós próprios, então a vida poderá ser uma maravilhosa dádiva de alegria.”103 O diálogo interior é a linguagem que não é exteriorizada, é estabelecida connosco próprios, neste sentido, é intrapessoal, pois cria a realidade. Esta realidade pode ser boa ou má, rica ou pobre, bonita 103 HAY L. Louise, O poder está dentro se si, Editora Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Cascais, 2000, p.33. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 4 9 o feia, grande ou pequena, conforme a predisposição mental, ou seja, as ideias, pensamentos e atitudes perante as próprias pessoas e o mundo que nos rodeia. Neste sentido, a linguagem cria a realidade, pois o ser hu- mano é o resultado da aprendizagem que obtém enquanto membro da sociedade e ao mesmo tempo construtor da pró- pria realidade, enquanto elemento mais ou menos activo dessa realidade construída. As palavras proferidas por alguém constroem a realidade, neste sentido, a realidade é formada por toda a complexidade de ideias e pensamentos, que dependendo da sua persistência e consistência ou não, transformam-se em atitudes e compor- tamentos “criadores” da realidade de cada um e da sociedade. A palavra falada constitui por si mesma, um verdadeiro po- der, pois ela é a base de tudo o que de forma continuada se imagina, se projecta e se cria, quer na mente, quer na realidade. Dito de outra forma, a realidade é construída pelas palavras que transportam em si verdadeiro signifi cado, capaz de trans- formar obstáculos em oportunidades e fraquezas em verda- deiras forças capazes de mudar o rumo da história. “Há alturas em que pessoas parvas dizem coisas absurdas, e, se lhes responder, só vai fazer fi gura de parvo. O melhor a fazer é morder a língua e deixar que os seus ataques passem sem o atingir. Existem igualmente ocasiões em que alguém o deitou ao tapete e então terá de se levantar e contra-atacar. Mas, na maioria das vezes, deve esperar. Escolha a ocasião. A U T O R 1 5 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Defenda a sua posição na altura que for melhor para si e não para o outro.”104 Neste sentido, a efi cácia da comunicação verbal reside es- sencialmente, na escolha das palavras certas, colocadas no lo- cal certo, com as circunstâncias apropriadas, com as pessoas certas, pois a verdadeira efi cácia está na conjugação destes fac- tores. Para além destes factores, contribuem em grande medida, o tom de voz e a fi siologia, pois, como vimos, as palavras re- presentam apenas 7% da comunicação efi caz. Assim, podemos afi rmar que a comunicação efi caz está na verdadeira conju- gação dos factores intrínsecos ao comunicador, bem como, aos factores extrínsecos, tais como: Quem? Onde? Como? A quem? “As pessoas de maior sucesso sabem que custa muito menos desarmar os adversários do que travar batalha com eles. E é mui- to fácil. Muitas vezes, numa crise ou uma situação de confronto, para vencer basta uma frase oportuna ou elegante. Seguem-se quatro formas de comunicar a sua posição sem ser autoritário e sem ofender as pessoas: “… Compreendo o seu problema…” “…Concordo, mas…” 104 MCCORMACK, Mark. H., A arte de comunicar passo a passo, Ed. Europa-América, Mem Martins, 1997, p. 80. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 5 1 “…Goze consigo mesmo antes que os outros o façam…” “… Culpe a cadeira…”105 Assim, aceitar os pontos de vista alheios, bem como, esfor- çar-se por compreendê-los, é um passo importante para esta- belecer relações de empatia e ser aceite pelos outros. Este pro- cedimento serve para unir esforços, no sentido da resolução de problemas e acalmar ânimos exaltados. Outro aspecto que contribui para a compreensão e aceita- ção dos diferentes pontos de vista, tem a ver com a concor- dância com outra forma de pensar ou agir, como por exemplo: “compreendo a sua posição, mas…”, todavia esta posição não implica que se deixe de demonstrar a sua posição pessoal so- bre essas matérias. A aceitação das características fi siológicas e psicológicas das próprias pessoas, bem como, o constante aperfeiçoamento quer ao nível pessoal, quer ao nível profi ssional, contribuem decisivamente para a auto-análise e autocrítica que é um fac- tor decisivo para que as pessoas se possam auto-afi rmar, pois conhecem melhor os seus defeitos e as suas virtudes, e assim, antes de serem gozadas pelos outros, gozam consigo próprias, defendendo e demonstrando as suas posições, sendo estas aceites pelos outros. A despersonalização das pessoas nas diversas situações con- tribui, em grande medida, para o sucesso comunicacional, pois 105 idem, p. 83. A U T O R 1 5 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L atribuir culpas às pessoas serve apenas para construir barrei- ras e confl itos entre as pessoas. “Quando alguém mente para nós, fi camos arrasados e nossa alma se entristece. Por outro lado, a cultura da veracidade e da fi delidade à palavra é grata e inspiradora: um peso parece de- saparecer de nossos ombros; a intoxicação cede lugar à saúde; a alegria e a confi ança prevalecem; e nossa estima pelos colegas e o trabalho cresce no nosso coração.” 106 As mentira a falsidade pode dar a impressão ou a sensação de que, desta forma, se resolve rapidamente todo o tipo de co- municação pessoal e profi ssional quer no mundo empresarial, quer no estabelecimento de relações inter-pessoais. Todavia é, precisamente, na imprecisão de informações e comunica- ções, que apresentadas de forma escrita ou falada, surgem os grandes confl itos, que apenas servem para difi cultar a vida em sociedade. A comunicação da verdade em detrimento da mentira, con- duz à manutenção do bem-estar, da liberdade de consciência, bem como, à alegria das pessoas que transportam em si, ideias, pensamentos e atitudes confi antes, verdadeiras e transparentes que libertam o corpo e a alma. Assim, podemos observar que a comunicação congruente e verídica é favorável à conquista da confi ança e empatia dos 106 SECRETAN, Lance H. K., Um nível acima, Ed. Pensamento - Cultrix Lda, São Paulo, 1997, p. 75. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 5 3 restantes interlocutores, sendo um dos factores imprescindí- veis para o sucesso pessoal e profi ssional, pois, contribui para a compreensão mútua. “É fácil falar sobre veracidade, mas é mais difícil introduzir a prática e é o começo. Inclui um exercício simples no fi nal do capí- tulo, destinado a encorajar equipes a começar a dizer a verdade e a se sentir por fi m à vontade com essas prática cotidiana. Pode ser uma equipe de trabalho, um comité ou sua própria família”107 Neste sentido, comunicar a verdade, deve constituir um ob- jectivo, um compromisso, um plano a ser cumprido, no senti- do de construir relações duradouras e contribuir para a cons- trução de uma vivência social mais justa e duradoura. A persuasão A persuasão tem como objectivo convencer uma pessoa, um auditório a aderir ou adoptar uma determinada opinião ou comportamento, todavia para que isso aconteça é necessá- rio defender os temas, com argumentos válidos, procurando 107 SECRETAN, Lance H. K., Um nível acima, Ed. Pensamento, Cultrix Lda, São Paulo, 1997, p.77. A U T O R 1 5 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L desta forma, gerar uma opinião geral congruente em torno do objectivo pretendido. “Podemos por isso considerar a retórica como o principal ins- trumento de comunicação persuasiva, tanto mais que tendo sur- gido na antiguidade como técnica de persuasão, é ainda dessa forma que continua a ser encarada por Perleman e pela genera- lidade dos autores contemporâneos. A retórica parece, pois, estar para o acto (de comunicar) assim como a persuasão está para o efeito (da comunicação).” 108 Nesta perspectiva, as estratégias adoptadas pelos diferentes intervenientes no processo da comunicação deriva também da selecção dos argumentos utilizados e da sua validação na prática, pois desta, depende o sucesso ou o insucesso da co- municação. Assim, as verdades prováveis tornam-se verdades depois de comprovadas na experimentação prática, permane- cendo até essa altura o raciocínio mais aceitável. “Os manuais de retórica antiga propõem técnicas que permi- tem encontrar (“inventar”) tais argumentos. Chama-se “disposi- ção” à etapa textual. Uma vez “inventados”, os argumentos são postos em ordem. Assim, por exemplo, começa-se pelo argumen- to mais fraco e guarda-se para o fi m o argumento decisivo, um argumento que se imponha aos auditores mais recalcitrantes. 108 www.bocc.ubi.pt/.../_texto.php3?html2 = sousa-américo-persuasão-0.html C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 5 5 Chama-se “ilocução” à etapa linguística. Depois de pensarmos numa argumentação, colocamo-la em palavras e em frases. A linguística materializa a argumentação. Um discurso argumen- tado compreende mais duas etapas: a “memorização” do discur- so e “acção” discursiva.”109 Assim, podemos verifi car que depois de “construir” os ar- gumentos, é fundamental ordená-los, começando pelo ar- gumento menos representativo para o mais representativo, procurando, deste modo, guardar para o fi nal o aspecto mais signifi cativo e imprescindível à situação em causa. Seguida- mente, é necessário ordenar e organizar as ideias, construindo as palavras e frases mais apropriadas, no sentido de levar à ac- ção estas ideias, atitudes e comportamentos congruentes com o pensamento procurando propagar, aglutinando interesses comuns. “Da mesma forma, nunca conseguiremos nada se tentarmos demonstrar ou mesmo se demonstrarmos que o nosso interlocu- tor está enganado. Além disso, a insistência acaba por aborrecer e irritar; mesmo se os argumentos forem justos, o resultado que se obtém é uma reacção de incompatibilidade e uma atitude de rejeição. Obtêm-se melhores resultados se nos apoiarmos no irra- cional do que no racional. Também não devemos forçar a situação; a única coisa que 109 www.bocc.ubi.pt/.../_texto.php3?html2=matrins-moises-lemos-argumentativo.html A U T O R 1 5 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L funciona numa situação para convencer alguém é a democracia activa.”110 Assim, para convencer é necessário sentir profundamente todas as ideias, sentimentos e atitudes, para desta forma, po- der demonstrar de forma verídica e verdadeira os seus argu- mentos. Neste sentido, a melhor forma de convencer alguém é seduzi-lo através das palavras certas, com o tom certo, no momento certo e com as pessoas certas. A melhor forma para convencer o interlocutor é apresen- tar os argumentos (considerados por este) mais válidos, pro- curando através de exemplos concretos, casos reais, situações previamente testadas, demonstrar a pertinência destes pontos de vista na situação em causa com as suas necessidades, dese- jos ou aspirações específi cos, únicos e particulares. Nesta perspectiva, quando se pretende convencer alguém, em primeiro lugar é fundamental conhecer as suas próprias capacidades, os seus pontos fortes e os pontos fracos, bem como, a quem se destina a comunicação, conhecendo as ne- cessidades, desejos e aspirações. Em seguida, é importante defi nir os objectivos, os meios a utilizar e a forma como esta se vai apresentar, pois é de extre- ma importância adaptar o discurso às pessoas, pois, de outra forma, pode correr-se o risco de não estar a ser ouvido. Em 110 VILLAHIZÀN, Javier, Como alcançar êxito, Ed. Estampa, 1ª edição, Lisboa, 2000, p. 55. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 5 7 comunicação o aspecto mais importante é captar a atenção do interlocutor, pois sem este, não haverá comunicação. A Motivação Estabelecer comunicação implica motivar o interlocutor procurando que este assuma um comportamento condizente com o que se deseja obter, assim, pretende-se conduzir o inter- locutor a deixar o comportamento actual e adquira um novo comportamento. “De facto, motivar alguém signifi ca induzi-lo a exibir um comportamento que se deseja obter dele. A Sílvia queria que o Bernardo a escutasse. Se não o tivesse motivado, o seu comportamento teria sido dirigido à satisfação de uma necessidade própria e específi ca (por ex., descansar depois do trabalho). Mas motivando-o, ela indu- ziu-o a orientar o seu comportamento para a satisfação duma das outras necessidades (por ex. a sua necessidade de reconheci- mento, 4º nível). …motivar alguém signifi ca induzi-lo a renunciar a um com- portamento velho em prol de um novo.”111 111 BIRKENBIHL, Vera F., A arte da comunicação, Ed. Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Cascais, 2000, p.68. A U T O R 1 5 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L A motivação reside no facto de conseguir “provocar” um novo comportamento num indivíduo, diferente do que existia anteriormente. Neste sentido, para que seja alcançado um novo comporta- mento é necessário desenrolar um conjunto de processos que, de forma constante, poderão num período alargado, produzir os resultados esperados. Assim, todas as alterações de compor- tamento são o resultado de um novo processo de apreensão de conhecimentos congruentes com as novas realidades. “Motivo alguém fazendo apelo a uma das suas necessidades insatisfeitas e mostrando-lhe que comportamento o pode ajudar a satisfazê-la. …o outro fi cará mais motivado se conseguir imaginar melhor a situação que pretende alcançar.”112 Motivar alguém signifi ca encaminhar, ajudar uma pessoa a satisfazer as suas necessidades, assim, é necessário em pri- meiro lugar, descobrir as reais necessidades, como acontece na actividade comercial, em que se a necessidade for descoberta pelo comprador é sinal que o trabalho do vendedor foi bem executado. Em segundo lugar, é importante ajudar a pessoa em si, a transformar em objectivo pessoal, a satisfação da própria ne- cessidade, ou seja, transpor para si a procura da satisfação da 112 BIRKENBIHL, Vera F., A arte da comunicação, Ed. Pergaminho, 1ª edição, Cascais, 2000, p.70. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 5 9 necessidade como objectivo. “Existem três tipos de pessoas: os que fazem com que as coi- sas aconteçam; os que olham para o que acontece; e os que se surpreendem com o que acontece. Os que infl uenciam os outros pertencem ao primeiro grupo.”113 A automotivação constitui um factor verdadeiramente im- portante para que uma pessoa consiga os seus objectivos, ou seja, mais do que observar ou apreciar os casos de sucesso, é necessário procurar força interior para prosseguir com as me- tas traçadas previamente. Assim, o cumprimento dos objectivos a curto, médio e longo prazo depende em grande medida da persistência, da perspi- cácia, da luta, do trabalho diário e contínuo em concordância com o que se defi niu no início da caminhada. “…Pode não ser energia tal como a encararmos, embora eu possua uma grande dose de energia física; é algo ligado à energia que as pessoas irradiam. Penso que tem a ver com a minha ener- gia porque não desisto, continuo sempre. É como ser activado e voltado a activar diariamente, e quero dizer literalmente todos os dias. É como receber energia constantemente por isso, pelos indivíduos e pelo resultado.”114 113 KOZUBSKA, Joana, As 7 chaves do carisma pessoal, ED. CETOP, Mem Martins, 1999, p.132. 114 KOZUBSKA, Joana, As 7 chaves do carisma pessoal, ED. CETOP, Mem Martins, 1999, p. 132. A U T O R 1 6 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Todas os grandes feitos começam por serem idealizados por alguém ou, por outras palavras, tudo começa por ser um sonho, uma visão um sentimento, um desejo de alguém. No entanto, na prática a grande maioria das pessoas tenta prosse- guir, dando os primeiros passos, transpondo as ideias inicias, todavia, no desenvolvimento mais ou menos duradouro da implantação do sonho ou do desejo, e com o surgimento das difi culdades ou obstáculos, a grande parte das pessoas desiste, abandonando todo o trabalho efectuado até essa altura. “Entre Abril de 1991 e Setembro de 1993, a australiana Ffyo- na Campbell caminhou 16 088 quilómetros, da Cidade do Cabo até Tânger. Passando por selvas, desertos e por um campo mina- do de mais de 600 quilómetros, ela recebeu o título de «a maior de todos os caminhantes» de Ranulph Fiennes, o lendário via- jante polar. …A única motivação de que vale realmente a pena falar é a auto-motivação. Pare de reclamar da vida. Oiça Ffyona Camp- bell! Resgate a sua vida das mãos dos «generais».115 Apenas alguns, os mais persistentes, os mais audazes, os mais lutadores (mesmo não sendo os mais fortes fi sicamente) conseguem atingir os seus objectivos e alcançar o sucesso. 115 PETERS, Tom, “Marketing pessoa”, Executive Digest, Fevereiro 1999, p. 24. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 6 1 A marca pessoal “Como é que vocês querem ser lembrados quando morrerem? Como alguém que entregava sempre o trabalho a tempo e dentro do orçamento, ou como alguém que participou num projecto que mudou o mundo? Pensem mais em servir os clientes do que os patrões!”116 Esta estratégia enquadra-se no modo como cada pessoa jul- ga a sua perspectiva de vida, a sua fi losofi a, a sua missão pes- soal, a dedicação, contribuição no mundo que a rodeia. Neste sentido, cada pessoa constitui em si um cunho próprio, um ca- rácter diferenciador que, poderá ser mais ou menos relevante para ele próprio ou para o todo social que a rodeia. Assim, é fundamental que, em primeiro lugar, cada um faça uma refl exão e análise ao seu estilo de vida, da sua contribui- ção, quer no local de trabalho, quer ao nível do aperfeiçoa- mento humano, cívico e profi ssional e empatia que consegue estabelecer com os seus pares. “Cada uma das nossas acções é importante – cada um de nós é poderoso. Quando todos os membros de um Santuário decidem envolver-se, a comunidade também começa a se curar. …A mudança ocorre com uma pessoa de cada vez e acontece quando as pessoas resolverem tomar menos e dar mais.”117 116 PETERS, Tom, “Marketing pessoal”, Executive Digest, Fevereiro, 1999, p.24. 117 SECRETAN, Lance H. K, Um nível acima, Ed. Pensamento, Cultrix, ltda, São Paulo, p.221. A U T O R 1 6 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Cada pessoa tem em si todo o potencial ou todo o seu fra- casso, todas as suas ambições, todo o seu poder, todas as forças e fraquezas, todo o seu conhecimento. Todavia, o aspecto mais importante reside na capacidade pragmática de implementar e de coordenar os seguintes três saberes; saber ser, saber fazer, saber estar / ser. Figura 9 Os três saberes Neste contexto cada pessoa deve, de forma efi ciente, organi- zar os pontos fortes e os pontos fracos quanto às oportunida- C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 6 3 des e ameaças existentes no mundo que a rodeia, procurando demarcar-se pela diferença e arrastar consigo causas de grande utilidade pessoal para a comunidade. Deve possuir fl exibilidade de adaptação dos seus objectivos pessoais às alterações do ambiente, sem que nunca deixe de ser coerente com o seu passado, bem como consigo próprio. No entanto, aqui reside a principal difi culdade, que é defi - nida como a conciliação do seu ser pessoal e intransmissível com o mundo que o rodeia, ou seja, o grande desafi o está na afi rmação das características pessoais no mundo exterior e no qual é fundamental construir a verdadeira diferença. “…viver a vida a partir de uma declaração descrevendo a pes- soa que você escolheu ser, reinventando-se continuamente con- forme progride. Quando você vive a partir da intenção de pro- jectar sua vida, seus atos serão coerentes com a imagem que você faz de si mesmo. Quanto mais você cresce e se torna o que quer, mais ainda pode se tornar. Não há linha de chegada – apenas o processo constante de se tornar, a partir de sua declaração nova e fortalecedora que evolui constantemente.”118 Assim, e segundo o autor é necessário elaborar uma decla- ração onde seja possível fazer uma auto-análise, procurando ajustar-se de forma continuada a essa declaração. Pois, quando se vive com uma intenção previamente projectada e se cresce 118 RUBINO, Joe, O poder do sucesso, Ed. Market books, São Paulo, 2001, p. 72. A U T O R 1 6 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L nesta fi losofi a, quanto mais se evolui, mais se torna naquilo que defi niu ser. A marca pessoal, a personalização característica e diferen- ciadora de uma pessoa são em si a reputação, a imagem que se solidifi ca nos restantes membros dessa sociedade e onde esta pode guardar um testemunho vivo e verdadeiro dessa pessoa enquanto viva. Nesta perspectiva, mais importante que defi nir a missão pes- soal ou uma declaração de intenção, é de extrema importância transpor para a experiência esta missão, ou seja, é fundamental transformar concepções, ideias, pensamentos em experiências observáveis na prática. É pois, a experiência prática que conso- lida a missão pessoal ou a intenção de prosseguir determinado objectivo, no sentido em que transforma intenções em acções fundamentais para o crescimento humano e para a realização pessoal do seu autor e da sociedade envolvente. “O comportamento que revela uma ausência de compromisso e coerência deixa as pessoas nervosas. No trabalho da alma, é vi- tal que sempre caminhemos como falamos. Por exemplo, é essen- cial cumprir as promessas feitas, enquanto se introduz o conceito de cumprimento de promessa. Tenho visto muitos programas fracassarem porque as palavras e a música não se alinharam.” 119 119 SECRETAN, Lance H. K, Um nível acima, Ed. Pensamento, Cultrix, ltda, São Paulo, p. 243. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 6 5 Ser congruente signifi ca ter um discurso coerente e de acor- do com as acções a executar durante a vida, ou seja, é na sua essência estabelecer uma linha orientadora de unifi cação da comunicação pessoal e das respectivas acções ou atitudes que vão sendo tomadas ao longo da vida. A credibilidade, a aceitação, a confi ança residem no cumpri- mento dos compromissos, na defesa de ideias, de pensamentos que são postos em prática e nesta se revelam pressupostos vá- lidos e credíveis perante o próprio indivíduo e a própria socie- dade. Nesta perspectiva, a solidifi cação da coerência pessoal, bem como a marca ou o cunho pessoal são o resultado da aplicabi- lidade, de ideias e ideais, atitudes e comportamentos postos na prática e do dia-a-dia. O sucesso pessoal O sucesso é a concretização de um acontecimento, meta ou objectivo defi nido previamente. É conseguir o que se preten- de. No entanto, é extremamente difícil defi nir sucesso, pois de- pende de variadíssimos factores e da subjectividade de cada pessoa, pois o sucesso de uns, pode não ser o sucesso de outros. O sucesso pode ser comparado a uma espiral de objectivos A U T O R 1 6 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L específi cos com a fi nalidade de atingir um ou vários objectivos globais. Pode-se também defi nir sucesso, como “hoje melhor que ontem e amanhã melhor que hoje”, ou seja, cada dia seja melhor que o anterior. Não existe sucesso sem felicidade. A felicidade é um estado de espírito inerente à auto-realização pessoal, à capacidade de cada homem estar bem com a vida e consigo próprio. Cada pessoa precisa de acreditar, em primeiro lugar, na sua própria pessoa, nas suas capacidades para a realização dos seus sonhos, pois ninguém consegue mudar a vida do outro. Não existem sociedades ou organizações que sobrevivam, sem que haja sonhos, projectos e realizações. É fundamental acreditar que cada pessoa é a única capaz de realizar todos os seus so- nhos. O sucesso é um efeito e como tal deve ser construído passo a passo pensando, organizando, planeando e realizando tarefas e actividades, capazes de concretizar gradualmente todos os sonhos. A prosperidade acontece com a soma de dois factores fundamentais: felicidade e sucesso. Vivemos uma vida inteira a observar a felicidade dos ho- mens e mulheres que nos merecem admiração e esquecemo- -nos da felicidade pessoal de cada um. No entanto, o sucesso não depende somente da própria pessoa, pois é necessário ser humilde, transparente e viver em constante parceria com a so- ciedade. Cada pessoa precisa de companhia, afecto, compre- ensão, calor humano, pois o sucesso resulta da combinação de todos estes factores. C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 6 7 Figura 10 Sucesso pessoal O sucesso depende do prazer, pelo que se faz e para quem é feito. Assim, mais importante que dizer “só faço o que gosto”, pois nem sempre cada pessoa faz, apenas o que gosta, deve-se afi rmar “gosto de tudo o que faço”, pois, assim, tudo o que fi zer será com paixão. A U T O R 1 6 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L Aspectos importantes para alcançar o sucesso Ser coerente, honesto e verdadeiro: A coerência é capacidade de dizer o que vai na alma, sendo congruente consigo próprio e não ser facilmente infl uenciável, para isso é fundamental, ser transparente e verdadeiro. Acreditar na sua pessoa: Cada pessoa necessita de estar bem consigo própria, de acreditar nas suas capacidades, desejos, aspirações. A sua men- te precisa estar consciente e capacitada de que é capaz de exe- cutar todos os seus sonhos e para isso é fundamental estar com toda a convicção e força interior para os executar. Comprometer-se consigo próprio: Assumir o compromisso é fundamental para que o sonho passe a ser realidade. A própria pessoa será considerada genial se souber criar condições favoráveis à realização dos seus ob- jectivos, bem como, criar um ambiente de genialidade nos seus companheiros. Participar mais activamente, pessoal e socialmente: A participação na vida pública serve essencialmente para publicitar, acções e actividades ao nível pessoal e profi ssional capazes de dar notoriedade às pessoas envolvidas. Esta constitui uma das acções de maior importância para C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 6 9 uma possível apreciação e reconhecimento do trabalho efec- tuado. Arriscar na mudança apropriada para a situação actual: A mudança caracteriza-se por ser uma rotura com os pro- cedimentos, normas e atitudes rotineiras. Desta forma, uma pessoa que queira romper com o passado precisa de imprimir numa nova perspectiva, necessita de construir novos paradig- mas, novas visões e começar de novo. Precisa de sair da zona de conforto e entrar num espaço pouco familiar onde a apren- dizagem acontece mais fortemente. Interagir com os outros: O estabelecimento de relações interpessoais duradouras contribui decisivamente para o enriquecimento pessoal de to- dos os seus intervenientes, na medida, em que são apreendidos novos conhecimentos e novas experiências. Reconhecer capacidades nos outros: O reconhecimento das capacidades dos outros constitui um aspecto muito importante para o estabelecimento de parcerias interpares capazes de solidifi car relações pessoais e profi ssio- nais fundamentais à construção de equipas ou grupos de tra- balho. Ser humilde, solicitar ajuda: A humildade constitui em si, a grande qualidade das per- A U T O R 1 7 0 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L sonalidades carismáticas porque evidenciam a necessidades constantes de aprender, de prestar atenção, de solicitar ajuda às outras pessoas. Todavia, é através da solicitação de novas experiências, novos saberes que se aprende realmente. Fazer um projecto de vida, defi nir metas e objectivos: A defi nição de objectivos é uma das maiores chaves para alcançar o sucesso pessoal, na medida em que o sucesso é a união da preparação com a oportunidade. Assim, defi nir objectivos é traçar o alvo a atingir, é interiori- zar o “espaço”, “local”, meta que pretende alcançar. Segundo, Tom Peters algumas das ideias-chave do sucesso são: “Somos todos Miguéis Ângelos. Converta todos os empre- gados em empresários. Chaves: confi ança, respeito, Miguéis Ân- gelos das donas de casa, Miguéis Ângelos do telemarketing. São arquitectos implacáveis das possibilidades do ser humano. Crie ondas de desejo. (Quase) tudo funciona. A qualidade, por si, não é a vantagem que pareceu ser recentemente. Por isso, grite «Não!» à estandarização. Torne-se conhecedor de talentos. Recrute diversidade! Em- pregue doidos. Faça uma revolução que coloque todos como nº1 do negócio. Somos todos ADR (activos que se depreciam rapida- mente). Os pormenores fazem a diferença. O design é a melhor fer- ramenta para uma diferença sustentada. Abra os olhos e veja C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 7 1 como o design está presente em tudo. Empresas como a Sony e a Braun sabem-no. Goste de todos, sirva todos. Para se diferenciar pelo serviço é preciso um comprometimento de todos em reformularem a for- ma como o seu negócio tem sido feito. Estamos aqui para fazer barulho. Os líderes capazes de em- preender grandes transformações evitam ser apanhados despreve- nidos. Tempos revolucionários exigem líderes revolucionários!”120 Nesta perspectiva, é verdadeiramente importante delinear um projecto de vida ambicioso, rigoroso, mas ao mesmo tem- po fl exível e adaptável capaz de ultrapassar todos os obstácu- los. 120 PETERS, Tom, “Marketing pessoal”, Executive Digest, Fevereiro 1999, p. 24. A U T O R 1 7 2 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L C A P Í T U L O I I M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 7 3 Conclusão Geral A comunicação é a acção de partilhar, de pôr em comum, de reduzir incertezas, de exteriorizar e comungar ideias, sen- timentos, atitudes, opiniões e comportamentos, através da in- teracção entre dois ou mais interlocutores (feed back) em que o aspecto mais importante devem ser o entendimento e com- preensão mútuas. Sendo o processo comunicacional uma partilha de ideias, sentimentos, atitudes, comunhão e compreensão mútuas, apre- senta-se a todos os níveis um processo complexo e ao mesmo tempo fascinante, em cuja caracterização apresentamos algu- mas considerações sobre a individualização da comunicação e do marketing pessoal. A individualização da comunicação, sendo um dos aspec- tos apresentados neste trabalho, apresenta-se como objecto de trabalho, na medida em que o indivíduo passa a interagir e a participar de forma mais latente no processo comunicacional e a ser preponderante na actualidade. Podemos afi rmar que a tendência da comunicação tem vin- do, desde a década de 50 até à actualidade, a passar do período A U T O R 1 7 4 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L da massifi cação dos media, como por exemplo, a televisão, jor- nais e rádios generalistas para a comunicação individualiza- da e pessoal, como por exemplo na Internet (página pessoal) onde a interactividade e conectividade estão presentes e são fundamentais para a diferenciação pessoal. A Comunicação estratégica está sempre presente na defi ni- ção e implementação de objectivos imprescindíveis à implan- tação de algo, em termos empresariais e pessoais, na medida em que é necessário escolher uma alternativa assertiva, dentro de várias que se nos apresentam, bem como as, que se seguirão para alcançar o sucesso. A utilização das palavras certas, conjuntamente com o tom de voz e a fi siologia, podem mover as pessoas e levá-las a agir, transformando uma simples troca de ideias em acções coorde- nadas de forma a atingirem determinados objectivos capazes de proporcionarem os resultados esperados, tornando-se des- ta forma, comunicação estratégica. Assim, os vários meios de comunicação escrita, tais como os jornais, revistas, a Internet, os blogs, a própria televisão, bem como, as comunicações por e-mail, servem para a promoção e valorização pessoal e ou institucional, em termos pessoais e/ou profi ssionais, na medida em que, dão a conhecer e pro- movem o que se pretende fazer, como, de que forma, com que meios e quais os objectivos, contribuindo para a comunicação e marketing pessoal. Na comunicação pessoal, as palavras criam e constroem a realidade, quando pronunciadas de forma positiva, transfor- C O N C L U S Ã O M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 7 5 mam a realidade, alterando comportamentos e a forma de ser e de agir das pessoas. Relativamente ao marketing pessoal, podemos incluir varia- díssimos factores capazes de fortalecerem as qualidades indi- viduais e de contribuírem para o verdadeiro sucesso pessoal. Esses factores são, entre outros: a atitude de cada indivíduo pe- rante a vida, a aparência, a imagem, a postura, a voz, a confi an- ça em si e nos outros, a credibilidade, a argumentação, o seu próprio estilo, o saber fazer, o auto-conhecimento, o aperfeiço- amento contínuo da sua pessoa e daquilo que faz transparecer para quem o rodeia, a defi nição de objectivos, o entusiasmo, a capacidade de estabelecer relações fortes e duradoiras, o elogio sincero, o controlo de preocupações, a memória, a liderança, a partilha de valores e convicções, etc. A identifi cação e conhecimento das capacidades pessoais (pontos fortes e pontos fracos) deverão contribuir para o aper- feiçoamento das apetências, necessidades e motivações, forta- lecendo os pontos fortes e melhorando os pontos fracos, para uma melhoria contínua das suas realizações. O poder pessoal caracteriza-se pela persistência, pelo aper- feiçoamento de capacidades, pela contínua aprendizagem e determinação com que cada pessoa persegue os seus objec- tivos. Caracteriza-se pela forma de agir no momento, pela ca- pacidade de mobilizar os seus pares, através da demonstração e do seu próprio exemplo, da sua força de vontade em alterar comportamentos e transformar as mentalidades. Ter a capacidade de infl uenciar é gerar acção de uma pes- A U T O R 1 7 6 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L soa sobre outras. É sinónimo de aceitação social, credibilidade, prestígio, poder de implementação, confi ança e determinação, junto dos seus pares. O relacionamento interpessoal assenta essencialmente no conjunto de pessoas com as quais mantemos relações pessoais e profi ssionais, capazes de proporcionarem conforto e satisfa- ção pessoal, na medida em que desenvolvemos a aceitação e a empatia com os outros. A comunicação interpessoal tem como factores fundamen- tais, a compreensão do outro e fazê-lo sentir que está a ser compreendido, fazer-se entender e sentir que o outro o com- preendeu. A liderança caracteriza-se pelo carácter, pela determinação, pela luta constante por levar por diante determinado objec- tivo. Os líderes carismáticos são essencialmente pessoas com objectivos, projectos, que lutam de forma intensiva e conti- nuada na busca do sucesso. Pela sua persistência, lutam pelas motivações do grupo, que também são as suas, orientam as emoções em torno dos objectivos, motivam o grupo com o seu empenho, com a sua autenticidade, defi nem prioridades, pro- curam congregar posições, escutam, compreendem e apoiam de forma apaixonada, transformando os obstáculos em opor- tunidades de alcançar o sucesso. O carisma pessoal é o mesmo que qualidades, comporta- mentos e atitudes que fazem realmente a verdadeira diferença entre as pessoas, ou seja, pessoas que possuem uma inspiração, visão e talentos especiais capazes de encorajar comportamen- C O N C L U S Ã O M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 7 7 tos e atitudes, construindo, desta forma importantes projectos comuns. A confi ança e a determinação consistem em acreditar na sua própria pessoa, no seu conhecimento, na sua experiência, nas suas ideias, atitudes e comportamentos, capazes de movi- mentar esforços na prossecução e desenvolvimento das tarefas capazes de serem bem sucedidas. O sucesso de uma acção ou meta depende em grande medida do grau de confi ança que o seu autor imprimir na sua mente, na sua força de vontade, para poder ultrapassar obstáculos e transformar as fraquezas em forças. A determinação está inerente a um espírito de luta, de per- sistência, de sacrifício contínuo e diário, contribuindo para uma auto-imagem positiva e optimista, atraindo em redor de si pessoas optimistas e determinadas. No entanto, a concre- tização na prática dos objectivos é condição essencial para a melhoria contínua enquanto pessoas individuais, ou equipas capazes de serem verdadeiramente efi cazes. A aparência física e a imagem pessoais constituem um “car- tão de visita”, pois são as primeiras impressões que são funda- mentais para a construção de uma boa impressão, factor im- prescindível para o sucesso. Assim, a indumentária, a atitude, a educação, os valores, os comportamentos, as expressões faciais, a primeira imagem, o olhar, a higiene e cuidados pessoais, são entre outros, os factores preponderantes para uma boa aparên- cia física e imagem pessoal. A visão e missão pessoais entendem-se como “caminhos” a A U T O R 1 7 8 | M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L seguir em que a força, a determinação, o entusiasmo, a crença estão sempre latentes e são capazes de derrubar todos os obs- táculos na busca contínua da sua concretização. A visão é algo muito pessoal, pois refl ecte uma ideia, um pensamento que está para além da realidade e que constitui um mecanismo de desenvolvimento, das próprias acções apa- rentemente perdidas e sem solução à vista. A visão e missão são diferentes, enquanto que visão refl ecte a forma de visionar no imaginário, a missão tem como propósito a concretização de uma acção concreta e realizável. A comunicação empática visa estabelecer uma interacção coerente e efi caz entre os três factores imprescindíveis à co- municação (palavras, o tom de voz e a linguagem corporal) procurando uma combinação efi caz entre os interlocutores ca- paz de proporcionar o entendimento e compreensão mútuas. Neste sentido, a comunicação empática visa, essencialmente, compreensão e a aceitação dos pontos de vista dos outros, o constante aperfeiçoamento pessoal e a assertividade com que se estabelecem relações duradouras com os outros. A persuasão visa convencer o interlocutor, assim, para con- vencer é necessário sentir profundamente todas as ideias, sen- timentos e atitudes, para desta forma, demonstrar na prática a sua experiência e os seus testemunhos pessoais, casos reais, para demonstrar a pertinência destas argumentos em detri- mento de outros. A motivação é a implementação de um comportamento diferente do que existia anteriormente. Motivar signifi ca en- C O N C L U S Ã O M A R K E T I N G P E S S O A L | 1 7 9 caminhar, ajudar as pessoas a conseguirem satisfazer as suas próprias necessidades. No entanto, os grandes objectivos co- meçam sempre pela descoberta das reais necessidades do in- divíduo, e acima de tudo, pela concretização dos primeiros, na busca do objectivo. O sucesso e a marca pessoais dependem de variadíssimos factores estudados pelo marketing pessoal, entre os quais des- tacamos, a comunicação pessoal, a empatia, a defi nição de objectivos, entusiasmo, o poder pessoal, relacionamento, a li- derança, a motivação, a confi ança, o carisma, a persuasão, a aparência e imagem pessoal. No plano de marketing pessoal, são apresentados os objecti- vos pessoais, que devem ser pertinentes, específi cos, e tempo- rizáveis. No desenvolvimento pessoal, fortifi cam-se as forças e minimizam-se as fraquezas, procurando o enriquecimento e valorização pessoais. Seguidamente são apresentadas as estra- tégias e procedimentos a seguir, que devem ser sempre obser- vados pelos indicadores de performance que dão o resultado de todo o trabalho realizado e sucesso atingido. 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work_qh3zrxopxbhu3nvm25yb3j24vu	----	UC Santa Barbara Journal of Transnational American Studies Title The Transnational Viking: The Role of the Viking in Sweden, the United States, and Swedish America Permalink https://escholarship.org/uc/item/3kq8c3g3 Journal Journal of Transnational American Studies, 7(1) Author Blanck, Dag Publication Date 2016 License https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ 4.0 Peer reviewed eScholarship.org Powered by the California Digital Library University of California https://escholarship.org/uc/item/3kq8c3g3 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0//4.0 https://escholarship.org http://www.cdlib.org/ SPECIAL FORUM The Transnational Viking: The Role of the Viking in Sweden, the United States, and Swedish America DAG BLANCK In 1893 a Viking ship arrived in the Chicago harbor. The Viking was a replica of the so- called Gokstad Viking ship that had been found in Norway in 1880. Commanded by the Norwegian captain Magnus Andersen, it had set out from Bergen, sailing across the Atlantic to New York, then making its way to Chicago via the Hudson River, the Eire Canal and the Great Lakes. It arrived at the fairgrounds of the 1893 World´s Columbian Exposition on 12 July 1893. Vikings have a long history as powerful symbols and have been charged with varying meanings. The Viking ship in Chicago in 1893 was part of a North American struggle for origins, making the case for a Viking presence in the New World, which five years later received new nourishment through the discovery of the so-called Kensington runestone in south central Minnesota and the proposition that Vikings had made camp and struggled with natives in Douglas County in 1362. During the twentieth and twenty-first centuries Vikings have appeared in sports, films, and online games in commercial and even political contexts. An example of the latter comes from the opening of the exhibition “Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga” at the National Museum of Natural History at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC in April 2000 when Hillary Rodham Clinton framed the Vikings in a contemporary perspective. She highlighted the importance of the Viking “spirit of discovery,” which she said was typical of the United States, and spoke of Viking women as “active participants in the political and religious issues in their communities.” She also linked the Vikings to the growing electronic communication web at the time, pointing to how the Vikings, through their many journeys, became “conveyors of information from one part of the known world to another,” and characterizing the “Viking longship” as “the internet of the year 1000.”1 This article will address the ways in which the Viking journeys and supposed settlements in North America around the year 1000 have circulated back and forth across the Atlantic and the different ways in which they have been used. It will focus on the nineteenth century and three geographic spaces—Sweden, the US, and Swedish America. As we shall see, in Sweden the Viking became an important part of Swedish nation-building during that period. In the United States, mainstream Americans incorporated Vikings into emerging Anglo-Saxon racial identities, while the Swedish-American immigrant community used them as a way of positioning itself in the American ethno-racial hierarchy. The article examines national and ethnic identity formations, illustrating the role of putative historical traditions in these processes, in which narratives of origin resonated in both Sweden and the US. It also highlights a trans-Atlantic and transnational exchange of ideas and notions of history. The same phenomena were used as ingredients in identity formation processes in different historical and social contexts, and were charged with different meanings. These circulations underscore the malleability of evocative symbols and their capacity to assume new significance, while at the same time establishing an important contemporaneity as they moved back and forth across the Atlantic. The Viking in Sweden The Viking occupied a prominent position in the constructions and reconstructions of a Swedish past during the nineteenth century. The year 1809 is a turning point in Swedish history. In September, Sweden and Russia signed a peace treaty in the Finnish town Hamina that had far-reaching effects. What is today Finland became a grand duchy within the Russian empire, and remained so until the Russian Revolution. As a consequence Sweden lost the eastern part of the realm, an integral part of the country at least since the fourteenth century, representing a third of its territory and a fourth of its population. The Swedish Baltic empire was diminished both geographically and culturally, becoming what the Finnish historian Matti Klinge has called a reduced “Bernadotteian small Sweden.”2 The reactions in Sweden were many, including a coup d´etat against the king and the election of a new crown prince, the French marshal Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, who ascended to the throne in 1818. The sense of a great national loss also resulted in new ways of thinking about the Swedish past and about what constituted the Swedish nation. The Vikings and the Viking Age—roughly 800 to 1100 AD—played a prominent role during this period of reorientation and searching for new identities. The Vikings became bearers of certain characteristics and values that were held to be specifically Swedish, explaining the place of the country in the past but also staking out a future course.3 This is not to say that the Vikings and what became known as the Viking Age were unknown in Sweden prior to 1809. During the seventeenth century, when Sweden occupied a central position in European politics as a regional great power, the Uppsala professor Olof Rudbeck, who in many ways created a historical context for Swedish hegemony, made use of the Icelandic sagas and the Vikings in establishing a glorious Swedish past. During the eighteenth century, new historical research also examined the Vikings in the light of the needs of the post-great power Swedish nation, placing them in a more utilitarian context.4 In the nineteenth century, the loss of Finland and the growth of the national Romantic movement, rooted in Johan Gottfried Herder’s philosophy emphasizing the significance of separate nations and peoples, provided yet another interpretation of the Vikings’ role in Swedish history. Their culture and literature, preserved in the Icelandic sagas, became a specific Swedish (and Scandinavian) contribution to the larger Germanic nation-building processes and a central component in the construction of narratives of Swedish origins. Sweden, too, would assume its place as a discrete nation and Volk with a set of distinct ethno-cultural and linguistic characteristics. One starting point came in 1811 with the establishment of Götiska förbundet (the Gothic League) in Stockholm by a group of leading Swedish intellectuals and authors who shared a sense of national urgency and were associated with the growing movement of Romanticism. The members focused on Sweden’s and Scandinavia’s Viking past, seeking to revive its culture and spirit. Jakob Adlerbeth, an Uppsala- educated civil servant, and his Uppsala contemporary, the poet and historian Erik Gustaf Geijer, were central figures in the creation of Götiska förbundet. Its journal Iduna (named for the Norse goddess of youth) became an important publication outlet for many of the members. In the first issue, Geijer published three influential poems: “Manhem” (an Old Norse term for Sweden), “Odalbonden” (The Yeoman Farmer) and “Vikingen” (The Viking), placing the Viking past and Old Norse culture front and center in his post-1809 re-conception of Swedish history.5 The freedom, independence and self-governance of the Swedish peasantry are central themes in Geijer’s thinking and in the three poems.6 The famous first stanza of “Manhem” speaks of “a time in the North” when “no one was a slave or master [and] every yeoman farmer was a man unto himself.”7 In this distant past, life was harsh, but the inhabitants had defended their land, their personal freedom and ancient liberties. “Vikingen” envisions the peasant as a restless explorer whose home is too small, making him venture out into the world on potentially violent voyages of conquest. The combination of the freedom-seeking warrior Viking and the peaceful, free-born, hard- working Swedish peasant illustrates Geijer’s view of the Swedish past and its role both for Sweden and Europe in the nineteenth century. These sentiments are also echoed in his well-known public lectures on Scandinavian history from 1815, where he emphasizes freedom as a special characteristic of the Scandinavian medieval past, in stark contrast to the feudalism of the European continent. It was the “nature of these peoples” that later would spread throughout Europe and shape European social and political structures.8 Fourteen years later, in 1825, the bishop of Växjö, Esaias Tegnér, brought out his Frithiofs saga. Tegnér’s epic poem was based on a mediaeval Icelandic heroic legend about Frithiof, the son of the peasant Hilding and Ingeborg, the daughter of King Bele. Frithiofs saga was enormously successful. It was widely translated in Europe and North America and quickly entered into the Swedish literary canon. The book’s success has been attributed to its use of the medieval Viking past and to the fact that it continued and developed the Viking themes established by Gejer and his contemporaries in Götiska förbundet. The poem became a Swedish national epic by drawing, for the first time, on the distant Swedish past rather than themes from classical antiquity. It helped define a sense of what it meant to be Swedish.9 These and other works by Geijer and Tegnér remained central texts in the Swedish literary tradition well into the twentieth century.10 Although the Viking was established as an important cultural figure and ingredient in a Swedish identity in the early nineteenth century, it was not until the 1870s that the term ‘the Viking Age’ was “invented” as a historical period, as Maja Hagerman puts it.11 Fredrik Svanberg has shown how a specific Scandinavian Viking Age was identified within what previously had been called the Iron Age.12 Although a question of some debate, historians tend to date the beginning of this period of about four centuries to the attack on the monastery at Lindisfarne off the British coast in the year 793, and to suggest that it was over by the beginning of the twelfth century. It was not, however, until the late nineteenth century, well after the Romantic movement and Götiska förbundet in the beginning of the century, that the term began to be used to designate a more or less fixed period in Swedish history. The earliest use seems to be by the archeologist Oscar Montelius, who in an article from 1872 speaks of “the Viking Age” as a “heroic time” when the “sons of the North” found their homes too constricting and “roamed across the seas” to seek “honor and gold,” to “establish new realms in far-away countries” and “through their blood to rejuvenate the peoples of Western and Southern Europe.”13 By the end of the century this perception had become widely accepted and entered into the important primary school textbooks that disseminated a sense of Swedish history and culture among a broad spectrum of the population.14 The Vikings were not only used in a domestic context. Gerd Weber has pointed to how the Scandinavian Viking Age was placed in strong contrast to the Catholic Middle Ages. According to Weber, the introduction of foreign cultural and religious elements from the European continent challenged and undermined the prevailing Scandinavian Norse culture. The previous system of self-governance and elected kings was replaced by feudal aristocratic rule, with an unfree peasantry, where “foreign” continental influences replaced the original Scandinavian languages and cultures and “popery” took over from the natural indigenous cult of Baldur.15 In that way the construction of a new Swedish national identity was firmly anchored in a Germanic, northern European and Protestant cultural and religious context. In nineteenth-century Sweden, the Viking and the Viking Age thus became more than an area of historical and archeological inquiry. During the period of national Romanticism they assumed a literary and conceptual life that helped shape a new sense of Swedish history and national identity associated with certain ideological traits, of which freedom and self-governance were central and seen as particularly typical of Sweden and Scandinavia. As will be apparent in the next sections, these ideas resonated across the Atlantic, both among an academic and cultural elite in New England and Swedish immigrants across the United States. The Viking in the US Beginning in the 1830s, an interest in the Vikings and in Old Norse and Scandinavian culture developed in the US, particularly in New England. In the following, I will focus specifically on US attention to Sweden. It is important, however, to underscore that many Americans made no strict distinctions between Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, and that the Vikings were often seen as “Scandinavians”; the terms ‘Norse’ and ‘the North’ were often used as well. The Danish linguist Carl Christian Rafn played a key role in preparing the way for an American interest in the Vikings. In 1837 he published Antiquitates Americanae, in which for the first time a North American audience could partake of the Norse sagas and their accounts of Norse explorations and settlements in what was called Vinland in the New World. The book included texts in Icelandic, Latin, and modern Danish, and had a significant impact in America in general and in New England in particular. It was published by the Danish Royal Society of Northern Antiquities (Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskrifs-Selskab) in Copenhagen, which cooperated with certain groups in New England, especially the historical societies of Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Rafn was elected a corresponding member of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and the Danes actively recruited American members for the Danish society. A separate American section was established including such members of the New England academic and cultural elite as George Marsh, Charles Lowell, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Benjamin Silliman, and Noah Webster. Rafn’s book was widely and prominently reviewed in The North American Review, The New York Review, The United States Magazine and Democratic Review and The Western Messenger.16 In The North American Review, Edward Everett noted that the book was of “great importance” and that it had been anticipated with great excitement.17 The reviewer claimed that no event in history was more important than the “discovery” of America, and although the significance of Columbus remained central, Rafn’s book clearly demonstrated a Norse presence in the New World, providing “an unconscious preparation for the discovery of America by Columbus.” Everett concludes that this is “one of the most valuable contributions ever made to the study of the history and geography of our continent.”18 The abolitionist The Western Messenger called the book “the most important contribution that has ever been made to the geographical history of this country,” thanking the Danes for their efforts to help “penetrate” the darkness of early American history; and the abolitionist, minister, and author Thomas Higginson recalled the excitement its publication caused among his professors while an undergraduate at Harvard College.19 Another important advocate of the Vikings was Marie A. Brown (later Shipley). An author, amateur historian, and translator of contemporary Swedish fiction, she devoted much of her life to the mission of gaining recognition of the Norse presence on the North American continent. As the 1892–93 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago was being planned, focusing on Columbus as the first European to reach the New World, Brown went to battle for the Norse and for Leif Ericson. Operating within a tradition of American anti-Catholicism, she sought to replace Columbus’s position in the history of the Western hemisphere with that of the Norsemen in her 1887 book The Icelandic Discoverers of America; or Honour to Whom Honour is Due. It was an “immediate necessity” to establish the truth about the Norsemen that had been “hidden for a century,”20 and she encouraged her readers to “substitute” the Norsemen for Christopher Columbus and to replace San Salvador and San Domingo, the supposed Columbian landing sites in the Caribbean, with Greenland, Labrador, Nova Scotia, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts.21 Brown pointed to the approaching 400th anniversary of Columbus’s “fraudulent discovery” as a Catholic attempt to usurp the Anglo-Saxon foundations of American society, warning of the risks that the manifestations would lead to the US giving up its independence and yielding allegiance to “the foulest tyrant the world has ever had, the Roman Catholic power!”22 She also started a journal, Leif Erikson, appearing in a few issues from 1889, which sought “the universal recognition of the fact that Leif Eriksson discovered America,” and “the unmasking of Columbus, the chosen tool of the Roman Catholic Church . . . for the purpose of affording that Church new territory for the seat of its future temporal power.”23 Other examples of native-born American interest in the Vikings include James Russell Lowell, the Romantic poet, Harvard professor and first editor of the Atlantic Monthly, who in 1844 made a link between the Norsemen and the Puritans in New England. “The same niggardly soil, inhospitable climate, and energy of character which drove forth the old Norseman to seek happier seats, the same courage and constancy—have not these made the Yankee accent a familiar sound over the whole globe?” he asked in a review of four recent novels by the Swedish author Fredrika Bremer.24 By the 1870s the debate about Norse journeys to and influences in North America was established enough to cause a reviewer in The North American Review to talk about a “dispute” that had been “long and sharp” and where views varying from “perfect faith to utter incredulity” had been put forward.25 Establishing a link between Scandinavia and Old and New England was fairly common. George Perkins Marsh, a New England writer, philologist and diplomat, pointed to the Germanic/Norse or Gothic element in the Anglo-Saxon background that the US had inherited from England as fundamental for the definition of the United States. He argued that whatever “true moral grandeur” New and Old England had could be traced to “the Gothic mother,” and that “[i]t was the spirit of the Goth, that guided the May-Flower across the trackless ocean; the blood of the Goth, that flowed at Bunker´s Hill.”26 Ralph Waldo Emerson´s English Traits, published in 1856, presented “a myth of origin” for the US in which the Norse of the Viking era “play a central and decisive role in the formation of the English spirit.”27 The Scandinavians are portrayed in a highly positive manner, as sturdy farmers and strong individuals living under harsh conditions, and are contrasted to the “corruption” of southern Europe. “[T]he Heimskringla,” Emerson writes, is “the Iliad and Odyssey of English history.”28 In this way, as Annette Kolodny has observed, through the Puritans, American exceptionalism, was located “in a Germanic (or Northern) racial ancestry.”29 The inclusion of the Vikings in an Anglo-Saxon New England tradition also meant that the exact location of Vinland became important. New England antiquarians were eager to embrace the theory that the Norsemen had landed in the vicinity of Massachusetts Bay and the Narragansett region of Rhode Island, and their claims were publicized by the Massachusetts Historical Society. Whether the exact site was Massachusetts, the Maine coast or areas further to the north in Canada was an ongoing subject of contention. The evidence for a New England landing included the Newport Tower, the Dighton Rock inscription, and a skeleton found at Fall River. The Newport Tower is today the best known of these sites, supposedly the first Christian church in North America, dating from the medieval period. It still stands in Newport, RI, and a number of more or less fanciful claims about its origins exist.30 Dighton Rock is a 40-ton boulder, originally located in the riverbed of the Taunton River in Massachusetts, with petroglyphs and scratches said to be runes. Similar claims were made for the skeleton found at Falls River in 1831.31 The leading apologist for the Norse landings in Massachusetts was Eben Norton Horsford, a chemist and Rumsford Professor of science at Harvard. He claimed that Leif Eriksson’s house could be located on the northeast bend of the Charles River at Gerry’s Landing, by the present-day Eliot Bridge, just west of Harvard Square. His knowledge of archaeology and linguistics was sketchy, and in the 1870s and 1880s he focused his energies on erecting a statue of Leif Eriksson. It was unveiled on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston in 1887. A Scandinavian Memorial Association had been formed with support from leading New Englanders and prominent members of Boston society such as Longfellow and Lowell.32 The statue was clearly a Scandinavian enterprise as well. Originally intended to be erected on the campus of the University of Wisconsin in Madison, it had been co-championed by the famed Norwegian violinist Ole Bull and the University of Wisconsin professor of Scandinavian languages Rasmus B. Anderson as early as 1873. Bull had given a series of concerts in Norway that year to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boulder http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taunton_River raise funds for the statute, but due to lack of interest in the Midwest—and to the disappointment of Rasmus Anderson—he transferred the idea and the funds to the Massachusetts group in 1876.33 According to the Boston Art Commission, “This life-size bronze statue memorializes Lief [sic] Eriksson, the Norse explorer believed to be the first European to set foot on North America.” It depicts the Viking standing atop a rock, shielding his eyes “as if surveying unfamiliar terrain.” Its placement in Boston is attributed to the fact that when it was erected, “some people believed that Eriksson and his crew landed on the shore of Massachusetts and founded their settlement, called Vinland, here.”34 As Janet Headly has observed, the statue can be seen as an “anomaly” in nineteenth-century Boston and conveyed a “highly political message about the kind of history, values, and religious and ethnic traditions . . . Bostonians should celebrate,” suggesting Leif Eriksson and the Vikings as an “alternative” to the pilgrim-centered narratives of New England.35 The claims for Norse inscriptions and artifacts in New England were sometimes met with skepticism and even ridicule. Horsford’s enthusiasm did carry him far, and Kolodny suggests that it was Henry Cabot Lodge36 who in a review from 1875 in The North American Review called for more realism. “Let us admire the Norsemen for what they really were,” he wrote, continuing that no useful purpose was served by “depicting the immigrants to Iceland and Greenland as American citizens and members of the Young Men´s Christian Association, with the dress and manners of the tenth century.”37 Henry Schoolcraft, the prominent ethnologist, geographer, and federal Indian agent in Michigan, had examined both Dighton Rock and the Newport Tower and concluded that Dighton Rock was a “well-characterized pictographic inscription due to the Indians” and the Newport Tower “an economic structure, built, probably, after the landing of the Pilgrims, or in the reign of Charles II.”38 When he was informed that he had been elected member of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquities in Copenhagen, he commented that the Society “undervalues American sagacity” by suggesting that this kind of research on the Dighton Rock and the “Newport Ruin” could “satisfy the purposes of a sound investigation of the Anti-[sic] Columbian period of American history.”39 The Vikings made their way into the United States in the middle of the nineteenth century. Their arrival was tied to a search for American origins rooted in an Anglo-Saxon linguistic and cultural past. Nell Irvin Painter has argued that by then the “Anglo-Saxon myth of racial superiority . . . permeated concepts of race in the United States,” and Matthew Frye Jacobson observes that “Anglo-Saxon supremacism” replaced “white supremacism” at the same time.40 Reginald Horsman has given a detailed analysis of how an Anglo-Saxon political ideology had developed in the United States by the mid-nineteenth century and became linked to the dominant racial hierarchy. He emphasizes the dual roots of this ideology and of the Anglo-Saxons themselves in the northwestern part of continental Europe, including of course the southern parts of Scandinavia, and in England.41 The wars against Mexico and the indigenous population combined with the westward expansion meant that Anglo- Saxonism became incorporated in a set of racial characteristics that were considered “American,” against which other groups were measured and defined, including Indians, African Americans, and Mexicans, but also the growing number of European immigrants of more diverse origins. At the same time, a discussion of the nature of Anglo-Saxonism and of what peoples could be considered Anglo-Saxons—both in Europe and in America—meant that the definition was often confused, but as time passed it was to become more exclusive and restrictive. Irish and German Catholic immigrants in the 1840s were viewed with concern; the war with Mexico strengthened the racial and white element of the concept.42 Anglo-Saxonism provided a racial underpinning for Manifest Destiny, further emphasizing the superiority of the group. As Barbara Miller Solomon has shown, the image of both German and Scandinavian immigrants in New England underwent a significant change during the second half of the nineteenth century. Foreign-born immigrants from many countries—including Germany and Scandinavia—had been viewed with suspicion, even as a threat to American society, and their capacity for assimilation into the American mainstream was seen as limited.43 By the turn of the twentieth century, however, a much more positive view of German and Scandinavian immigrants emerged. Sociologist and eugenicist Edward A. Ross, for example, maintained that Germans were similar to native-born Americans in crime rates, and that the Scandinavians, although melancholic, plodding, and taciturn, still had the “right psychology for self-government” and provided “an excellent, cool-blooded, self- controlled citizenship for the support of representative government.”44 Scandinavia came to occupy a special place in mid-nineteenth century American constructions of Anglo-Saxonism. A New England cultural and political elite embraced the Swedes and the Scandinavians, making them a part of the search for American origins, which placed Swedes, both in Europe and in the United Sates, in a privileged position. It was the Viking and Old Norse culture that provided a link between Sweden and the New England elites, and that opened the doors for the favored place that the Swedes and other Scandinavians were assigned in the story of American beginnings. The Viking in Swedish America Interest in the Vikings among the New England elites benefitted the growing Swedish- American community in the late nineteenth century. To this group, the Viking journeys to settlements in what they called Vinland on the North American continent in the eleventh century provided an excellent opportunity to create their own narrative of American origins. The group’s cultural leadership did its best to promote and prove that the Vikings had indeed been the first Europeans in America, thus giving the Swedes (as well as other Scandinavians) a special birthright in America. This was an attempt not only to bring Swedish immigrants up to the same level as the New England colonists, whom they perceived as a core group of the American republic, but to actually go beyond colonial history and claim the right of discovery for the Scandinavians.45 Swedish Americans were able to support some of their claims by directly or indirectly relying on the Anglo-American advocates of the Vikings and their North American journeys who from the mid-nineteenth century had opened a path of cultural and ethnic convergence between Scandinavians and New England Anglo-Saxons. By taking this path, Swedish and Scandinavian immigrants in the US found themselves in an ideologically privileged position as they interacted with their new homeland. One of the most influential Swedish-American ethnic leaders, who contributed in no small way to the creation of a Swedish-American history and who sought to place the group in a privileged position, was the journalist, author, and historian Johan Alfred Enander. While attending secondary school in Sweden he had encountered the developing national literary culture in which both Geijer and Tegnér were important,46 and he was familiar with the growing interest in the Viking Age in his ancestral homeland. In the 1860s, he became editor of the Chicago-based Hemlandet (The Homeland) one of the most influential Swedish-language newspapers in the United States.47 His conception of a Swedish-American history is already apparent in his first significant historical work. Spurred by the American centennial in 1876, Enander published a series of articles in Hemlandet that presented American history to the newspaper’s Swedish-American readership.48 The articles were also printed as a book called Förenta Staternas historia utarbetad för den svenska befolkningen i Amerika (The History of the United States Written for the Swedish Population in America), brought out by Enander's own publishing house between 1874 and 1877.49 His main intention in writing the book was, he declares in the preface, to ensure that the memory of “our heroic distant past never would fade among those Scandinavian descendants who inhabit American soil.”50 A fifth of the book deals with the Viking journeys to North America as well as background information on Scandinavia at that time. In this section Enander claims that the “Norsemen” not only discovered America, but also founded colonies there “with which Greenland and Iceland maintained contacts until 1347.”51 Enander realized that his strong emphasis on the “life and culture of the Norsemen” was open to criticism, but defended his decision by saying that his intended audience, “a Swedish-American public,” ought to be aware of the “child of Norse culture” that “had been planted on American soil more than five centuries before Columbus landed there.” The Viking journeys to North America played a central role in Enander´s thinking. The 1892 Columbian Exposition in Chicago commemorating the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s landing in the western hemisphere elicited a “challenge to Columbus” in which both Norwegian and Swedish immigrants were assigned and took on major roles.52 As already noted, the Norwegians sailed a replica of a Viking ship to Chicago, which attracted a great deal of attention.53 This provided Enander with an opportunity to reiterate his claim for the Viking discovery of and presence in America. In 1893 he presented his case in Nordmännen i Amerika eller Amerikas upptäckt (The Norsemen in America or The Discovery of America).54 It was positioned as a Swedish- American answer to the manifestation of Columbus’s landing in the western hemisphere and as a way of placing Swedes (and Scandinavians) in a superior position vis-à-vis the growing number of Italian immigrants. The book gives a detailed description of the arrival of the Vikings and their subsequent settlements. In the conclusion, Enander laments the fact that his views had not been accepted and attributes this to the strong influence of Italians in the US. According to Enander, the Pope himself had declared “that the saint-like Columbus, inspired by the Holy Ghost and protected by the Virgin Mary,” was the first European to reach America, meaning that it is “considered High Treason” to voice dissenting opinions. However, the Swedish American argued, the “historic truth” lives on, and long after the speeches to Columbus have been forgotten, the fact will remain “that the Norsemen discovered America and founded lasting colonies there 500 years before Columbus saw the light of day.”55 The book was reviewed favorably in the leading Swedish-American Lutheran journal Augustana, which called it “thorough” and “correct,” recommending it for a general readership.56 Clearly, Enander was not only making the case for the early Viking presence, but also placing the issue in a contemporary context. Enander’s attacks on Italian Americans should be seen as one way in which Swedish Americans were trying to establish superiority over another immigrant group with which they competed for economic and political influence and as an ingredient in the positioning of Swedish Americans in the American ethno-racial hierarchies.57 Along similar lines, the Augustana Synod, the dominant Swedish-American Lutheran denomination, which published Enander’s book, harbored anti-Catholic feelings and became a part of “the maelstrom of religious conflict” between Protestants and Catholics in the United States.58 Augustana, the Synod’s official organ, spoke of a Protestant-Catholic cultural struggle in America, where Catholic immigrants from different countries were seeking to lay the country “at the feet of the Pope.” 59 The journal questioned their suitability as Americans, as they constituted a threat to American freedom. The Swedes, in contrast, were good Christians, trustworthy and freedom-loving, and needed to mobilize in the war against Catholicism that was coming in America.60 Enander’s description of the Norse discovery and settlement is based on the Icelandic sagas. He questioned “Anglo-American” scholars who had disputed the Viking presence in America, no doubt a reference to George Bancroft, who in the twenty-first edition of his influential History of the United States concluded that the claims for a Norse colonization rested on “narrative,” were “mythological in form, and obscure in meaning,” and “too vague to sustain.”61 (Bancroft also weighed in on the Dighton Rock inscriptions, which he characterized as “the sublime of humbuggery.”62) In addition to positioning the Vikings as the first European presence in North America, Enander argued that they were bearers of one of the central American tropes—that of freedom—thus constructing a Swedish origin for freedom in the American republic.63 American freedom had first reached Normandy, the argument went, where in 911 the Viking chief Rollo received a fiefdom through a treaty with the King of France. According to Enander, when Rollo asked his men who their king and lord was, the answer given was “the very opening words of the Declaration of Independence of the United States—865 years before their inclusion in the letter of rupture between our adopted country and England,” namely “We have no master or king, we are all equals.” Following 1066 this spirit of freedom was transplanted to England and eventually, through the Puritans, arrived in America, where it “laid the foundations to the empire of which we are citizens today.” A westward emigration began and it now lived “quietly in the low block-houses and the dug-outs of the untamed American forests,” assuring that the American political and legal system bore the imprints of the Nordic heritage. Finally, Enander argued that the roots of Christianity in the New World could be traced back to the Vikings. He maintained that Norse settlements had survived into the twelfth century, and that Christianity came to America in 1121, when a bishop from Iceland, whom Enander refers to as “America's first ordained bishop,” visited the Norse communities there and decided to erect a baptismal building. This building, Enander maintained, could still be found in Newport, Rhode Island.64 In this way the Newport Tower became a part of an Anglo-American and a Swedish-American narrative of the Viking origins of New England. Another example of framing the issue of the Viking landings in North America in contemporary terms comes from the Swedish-American educator J.S. Carlson, also associated with the Augustana Synod, and an active participant in Swedish-American cultural life around the turn of the century. Born in Sweden but educated at Augustana and Gustavus Adolphus Colleges, he became professor of Scandinavian languages at the University of Minnesota in the 1880s. In 1908, a year after leaving his professorship at Minnesota, Carlson published a booklet called Amerikas siste svensk (America’s Last Swede), based on a speech he had delivered on this topic in Minneapolis.65 In the speech Carlson looks into the future, invoking the image of the last Swede in America, whom he defines as the last Swedish American interested in preserving a sense of Swedishness in this country. The last Swede in America reflects on the long and glorious history of his compatriots in the New World and on a history that spans almost a millennium, from the time of the arrival of the Vikings up to the present Swedish immigrants. Like Enander before him, Carlson also uses the Vikings as an opportunity to comment on contemporary matters and to explicitly place Swedish Americans in a racial context. Carlson claims that as the “Nordic dragon ships” landed, “the first white, a Nordic Viking, stepped on the shores of America,” continuing: “Mark this, you smug Briton, you proud son of England, you who have never been first at anything, except pilfering that which others have discovered.” To Carlson, the “birthright” to the discovery of America was not English but “belongs to the North and to no-one else.”66 Carlson goes one step further than Enander in that he also criticizes the English, as he perceived the movement to Americanize immigrants as essentially the same as imposing English customs and values on the immigrant community. To him, the Vikings become not only a part of a myth of foundation or a dimension of inter-ethnic strife with Italian Americans, but also a way of resisting the perceived assimilatory forces from American society at large. The European “discovery” of America has always played an important role in promoting the status of different American immigrant and ethnic groups. Several groups, including the Croatian, Greek, Irish, Norwegian, Polish, and Swedish Americans, have claimed that a representative of their nationality pre-dated Columbus’s landing in the New World. Columbus’s own ethnic origin has also been disputed, and it has, for example, been argued that he was of Jewish origin. Furthermore, until the late nineteenth century Columbus was seen as an American symbol without any particular ethnic connotations, and it was not until the 1890s that the process began through which he became an Italian American.67 To Swedish Americans, the Vikings played a central role in staking out a claim for their ethnic community in the US. First, the journeys to North America that became known in the US through the translations of C.C. Rafn’s Antiquitates Americanae suggested that the Vikings had been the first Europeans to reach that continent. This placed their late nineteenth and early twentieth-century descendants and immigrants from Sweden in a special position in American society. Second, certain fundamental aspects of American society, such as freedom and self-governance, were claimed to be Viking traits that had migrated across the Atlantic from Scandinavia via Normandy and England to the British North American colonies. To Swedish Americans, this indirect Swedish contribution to American political origins solidified their status in American society and made them particularly suitable candidates for membership in the American republic. Conclusion The Viking circulated across the Atlantic, between Sweden, the US, and Swedish America as a part of national and ethnic processes. These processes involved nation- building in Sweden and the US as well as ways in which Swedish immigrants in the US sought to stake a claim in their new homeland. Freedom and independence stand out as two particularly important tropes that the Vikings were said to embody in all three contexts, but playing out in different ways. In nineteenth-century Sweden they provided a focal point for a country much reduced in territory and power that needed to regain pride and self-respect through a new narrative of origin. To mainstream Americans, particularly in New England, the Vikings offered an opportunity to further establish the Anglo-Saxon origins of the United States and, at a time of growing waves of immigration from southern and eastern Europe, to invite Scandinavian immigrants of the nineteenth century into the community of Anglo-Saxons in the US. To Swedish Americans, finally, the Vikings made it possible to claim a long historical presence on the North American continent, predating not only the immigrant groups with whom they were competing in the social and economic hierarchies of late nineteenth-century America, but also such established “colonial” groups such as the English. Moreover, an elaborate argument about the peregrinations of freedom from Scandinavia via Normandy and England to North America made it possible to include the Vikings as ideological founders of the United States. Both the ways in which Swedish and American nationalities were conceived and the logic of the construction of a Swedish-American ethnic community are of consequence for the circulation and use of the Vikings. Swedish nationhood as it developed in the nineteenth century was ethnically and culturally based, and as Fredrik Svanberg has put it, the emergence of a “systematized Viking Age,” mostly among archaeologists and historians, provided the foundation for different “national histories” where that of Sweden and the Swedes was one.68 The United States, on the other hand, was conceived of as a set of ideas embodied in different founding documents, forming a community that individuals could join. Membership was obviously restricted, leading Rogers Smith to observe that the majority of the adult American population has been denied full civil rights during two thirds of the history of the republic.69 Still, as Matthew Jacobson has pointed out, the first naturalization law of 1790 was remarkably inclusive in that the term ‘free white persons’ opened up citizenship and membership in the American republic to many European immigrants in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, “none of whom the framers [of the US] had ever envisioned swelling the polity of the new nation when they crafted its rules for naturalization,” as Jacobson puts it.70 The ethno-cultural nature of Swedish nationhood meant that the Vikings were charged with a foundational significance, pointing to the historical roots of what was seen as Sweden. The loss of Finland, the subsequent sense of cultural and national anxiety, and the influences of an Herderian Völkisch thought contributed to making the Vikings an emblematic part of Swedish nationalism. In the US, however, they became only one, albeit important, dimension of a putative Anglo-Saxon tradition that assumed great significance for American nationhood in the nineteenth century. A historical argument was made linking the Vikings to England as an intellectual and cultural New England elite made the Scandinavians a part of American origins. In this context, ideological gifts of the Vikings (and Anglo-Saxons) to the American republic assumed a central importance. Swedish Americans, finally, combined the ethno- cultural and ideological dimensions as they put the Vikings to use, claiming a cultural ancestry in Scandinavia while at the same time assigning the ideological roots of their adopted homeland to the same place. The trajectories of national and ethnic processes have varied over time and place. As the examples of the circulating Vikings show, they can resonate with each other even though the geographical and historical contexts are quite different. The Vikings proved to be malleable and could be charged with new meanings under new circumstances. Still, they also reveal a fair amount of resilience, as several ascribed characteristics were found in both Sweden and the US as well as in Swedish America. Focusing on the circulation of these ideas and conceptualizations across the Atlantic thus provides a different way of understanding the prevailing national and ethnic narratives in Sweden and the US, suggesting that a transnational approach can both complement and challenge the national paradigms in both countries. Notes 1 Hillary Rodham Clinton, “Preface,” in Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, ed. William W. Fitzhugh and Elisabet I. Ward (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000), 8-9. 2 Matti Klinge, Finlands historia. Kejsartiden (Helsingfors: Schildts, 1996), 68. 3 Margaret Clunies Ross and Lars Lönnroth, “The Norse Muse: Report from an International Research Project,” alvíssmál: Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Kultur Skandinavien, 9 (1999). 4 Anna Wallette, Sagans svenskar: Synen på vikingatiden och de isländska sagorna under 300 år (Malmö: Sekel bokförlag, 2004), 127–219. 5 Iduna: En skrift för den nordiska fornålderns älskare, Första häftet, 1811. 6 See Anton Blanck, Geijers götiska diktning (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1918), chapters 3 and 4 for the analysis of “Manhem,” “Odalbonden” and “Vikingen.” 7 Geijer, “Manhem,” Iduna, 11. [Det var en tid det bodde uti Norden/ en storsint ätt, beredd för fred som krig./ Då, ingens slav och ingens herre vorden/ var odalbonde var en man för sig.] 8 Blanck, Geijers götiska diktning, 342–46; Lars Lönnroth, “Den populäre vikingen,” in Forskning och framsteg, no. 5 (1999), 54. 9 Lars Lönnroth and Sven Delblanc, eds., Den svenska litteraturen: Upplysning och romantik 1718–1830 (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1988), 295–300. 10 Ola Nordenfors, “‘Frithiofs saga’ – en framgångssaga,” in Svensk litteratur som världslitteratur, ed. Johan Svedjedal (Uppsala: Avdelningen för litteratursociologi, 2012); Lars Brink, Gymnasiets litterära kanon: Urval och värderingar i läromedel 1910-1945 (Uppsala: Avdelningen för litteratursociologi, 1992), 250–52. http://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sekel_bokf%C3%B6rlag https://vufind.carli.illinois.edu/vf-aug/Record/aug_49192 11 Maja Hagerman, Det rena landet: Om konsten att uppfinna sina förfäder (Stockholm: Prisma, 2006), 265. 12 Fredrik Svanberg, Decolonizing the Viking Age 1 (Lund: Acta Archeological Lundensia, 2003), 50. 13 Oscar Montelius, “Lifvet i Sverige under vikingatiden,” Förr och Nu, 1872, quoted in Maja Hagerman, Det rena landet, 276. 14 Wallette, Sagans svenskar, 269–70. 15 Gerd Wolfgang Weber, “Nordisk fortid som chiliastisk framtid: Den 'norrøne arv' og den cykliske historieoppfattelse i Skandinavien og Tyskland omkring 1800 – og senare,” in The Waking of Agantyr: The Scandinavian Past in European Culture, eds. Else Roesdahl and Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1996), 94. 16 Geraldine Barnes, Viking America: The First Millennium (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2001), 49. 17 Edward Everett, “The Discovery of America by Northmen,” The North American Review 46 (January 1838): 161–62. 18 Everett, “The Discovery of America,” 165, 203. 19 Quoted after Oscar. J. Falnes, “New England Interest in Scandinavian Culture and the Norsemen,” New England Quarterly (June 1937): 226; Thomas Wentworth Higginson, “The Visit of the Vikings,” Harper's New Monthly Magazine (September 1882): 515. 20 Marie A. Brown, The Icelandic Discoverers of America; or Honour to Whom Honour is Due (London, 1887), 1. 21 Brown, The Icelandic Discoverers, 9. 22 Ibid., 14. 23 Marie A. Brown, “The Object of this Paper,” Leif Erikson, 1:1, 19 January 1889. 24 James Russell Lowell, “New Translations of the Writings of Miss Bremer,” The North American Review, 58, (April 1844): 481–82. 25 “Review of Gabriel Gravier, Découverte de l’Amerique par les Normands au Xième siecle,” The North American Review 119 (July 1874), 166. 26 George P. Marsh, The Goths in New-England: A Discourse Delivered at the Anniversary of the Philomatesian Society of Middlebury College (Middlebury: J. Cobb, 1843), 14. 27 Erik Ingvar Thurin, The American Discovery of the Norse: An Episode in Nineteenth- Century American Literature (Cranbury: Associated University Presses, 1999), 34. 28 Ralph Waldo Emerson, English Traits, vol. 5 of Complete Works (Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1885), 59–60. Quotation on p. 60. The Heimskringla is a collection of Old Norse king´s sagas. 29 Annette Kolodny, In Search of First Contact: The Vikings of Vinland, the Peoples of the Dawnland, and the Anglo-American Anxiety of Discovery (Durham: Duke University Press, 2012), 137. 30 Suzanne Carlson, “Tilting at Windmills: Newport Tower,” NEARA Journal 30, no. 3–4, (Winter/Spring 1996); The Museum of Unnatural Mystery, accessed 15 January 2016, http://www.unmuseum.org/newporttower.htm. 31 Brgitta Linderoth Wallace and William W. Fitzhugh, “Stumbles and Pitfalls in the Search for Viking America,” in Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, 374–78. 32 Kolodny, In Search of First Contact, 231–34. 33 Lloyd Hustvedt, Rasmus Bjørn Anderson: Pioneer Scholar (Northfield: Norwegian- American Historical Association, 1966), 130–32. 34 Public Art Boston, accessed 15 January 2016, http://www.publicartboston.com/content/leif-eriksson. 35 Janet Headly, “Anne Whitney's ‘Leif Eriksson’: A Brahmin Response to Christopher Columbus,” American Art 17 (Summer 2003): 41–42. 36 Kolodny, 229. 37 “Review of R.B. Anderson, A Historical Sketch of the Discovery of America in the Tenth Century by the Norsemen,” The North American Review, 120 (January 1875), 195. 38 Henry Schoolcraft, Historical and Statistical Information respecting the History, Conditions and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the United States (1857), quoted in The North American Review, 119 (July 1874), 175. 39 Henry Schoolcraft, Personal Memoirs of a Residence of Thirty Years with the Indian Tribes on the American Frontiers (Philadelphia: Lipppincott, Gramboo and Co., 1851), 630. 40 Nell Irvin Painter, The History of White People (New York: W. W. Norton, 2010), 164; Matthew Frye Jacobson, “Becoming Caucasian,” in Race and Immigration in the United States: New Histories, ed. Paul Spickard (London: Routledge, 2012), 137. 41 Reignald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American Racial Anglo- Saxonism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 25–42. 42 Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 225–48. 43 Barbara Miller Solomon, Ancestors and Immigrants: A Changing New England Tradition (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1956), 80–81. http://www.unmuseum.org/newporttower.htm http://www.publicartboston.com/content/leif-eriksson 44 Edward A. Ross, The Old World in the New: The Significance of Past and Present Immigration to the American People (New York, 1914), 81–83, 91–92. Quotations on p. 91 and 92. 45 H. Arnold Barton, “Swedish Americans and the Viking Discovery of America,” in Interpreting the Promise of America: Essays in Honor of Odd Sverre Lovoll, ed. Todd W. Nichol (Northfield: Norwegian-American Historical Association, 2002); Orm Øverland Immigrants Minds, American Identities: Making the United States Home, 1870–1930 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2000), 155–56. 46 Karin Tarschys, Svenska språket och litteraturen: Studier över modersmålsundervisningen i högre skolor (Stockholm: Natur och kultur, 1955), 261–62. 47 Dag Blanck, The Creation of an Ethnic Identity: Being Swedish American in the Augustana Synod, 1860-1917 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2006) 163–64. 48 Ulf Beijbom, “The Historiography of Swedish America,” Swedish Pioneer Historical Quarterly 31 (October 1980): 264–65. 49 Johan Alfred Enander, Förenta Staternas historia utarbetad för den svenska befolkningen i Amerika (Chicago: Enander och Bohmans förlag, 1874–1877). 50 Enander, Förenta Staternas historia (1874), preface. 51 Enander, Förenta Staternas historia (1874), 50. 52 Kolodny, In Search of First Contact, 213. 53 Odd Lovoll, A Century of Urban Life: The Norwegians in Chicago Before 1930 (Northfield: Norwegian-American Historical Association, 1988), 184–86. 54 Johan Enander, Nordmännen i Amerika eller Amerikas upptäckt (Rock Island: Lutheran Augustana Book Concern, 1893). 55 Enander, Nordmännen i Amerika, 65–66. 56 Augustana, 8 June 1893. 57 Dag Blanck, “‘A Mixture of People with Different Roots’: Swedish Immigrants in the American Ethno-Racial Hierarchies,” Journal of American Ethnic History 33 (Spring 2014): 37–55. 58 Jon Gjerde, Catholicism and the Shaping of Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 136. 59 Augustana, 9 April 1891. 60 Augustana, 31 March 1892. 61 George Bancroft, History of the United States from the Discovery of the American Continent, vol. 1 (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1866), 5–6. 62 Barnes, Viking America, 48. 63 For the following paragraphs, see Johan Enander, “Sveriges roll i världshistorien,” ms. in the J.A. Enander collection in the archives of Riksföreningen Sverigekontakt, Landsarkivet, Göteborg (The Provincial Archives, Gothenburg, Sweden). 64 Johan Enander, “En dröm,” in Enander, Valda skrifter, I (Chicago: A. Harlings förlag, 1892), 19–21. 65 J. S. Carlson, Amerikas siste svensk: Tal hållet i Minneapolis (Minneapolis: Privately printed, 1908). 66 Carlson, Amerikas siste svensk, 12. 67 Øverland, Immigrants Minds, 63–67. 68 Svanberg, Decolonizing the Viking Age, 50. 69 Rogers M. Smith, Civic Ideals: Conflicting Visions of Citizenship in US History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 15. 70 Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color: European Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998), 39–40. Quotation on p. 40. 
work_qw6tppeujfaujnzw43ktprsjnq	----	Pragmatics 5:2.167 -183. International Pragmatics Association REPRESENTING NATIVE AMERICAN ORAL NARRATIVE: THE TEXTUAL PRACTICES OF HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFTI R i c h a r d B a u m a n The burgeoning philological researches of the nineteenth century established the foundations not only for the scholarly production of languages, but also for the production of a significant class of texts, specifically, texts gathered from oral tradition under the aegis of the developing field of folklore. In Europe, the twin linguistic and folkloristic labors of the Brothers Grimm exerted a formative influence on conceptions of both language and folktales, but while the revolutionary significance of Jakob Grimm's Deutsche Grammatik is well known to linguists, the Grimms' textual practices figure not at all in standard histories of linguistics. Nevertheless, the increasing centrality of narrative textuality to a number of contemporary lines of linguistic inquiry, including discourse analysis, conversational analysis, pragmatics, ethnopoetics, and performance-centered study of verbal art, suggests that conceptions of narrative textuality and the metadiscursive practices that have been employed in identifying, recording, extracting, and interpreting oral narrative texts are worthy of linguists' attention as well. Charles Briggs has recently offered an illuminating analysis of the Grimms' textual practices and the rhetorics they employed in support of those practices (1993). Briggs's investigation is part of a loint project in which he and I are engaged, centering on poetics and performance in linguistics, linguistic anthropology, folklore, and adjacent disciplines (see Bauman and Briggs 1990; Briggs and Bauman 1992; Briggs 1993). The present paper is intended as a complement to Briggs's investigation of the Brothers Grimm, examining a similarly formative moment in the Americanist tradition, namely, the work of Henry Rowe Schoolcraft (17%-f864), whose career was roughly contemporaneous with that of the Grimms.2 Schoolcraft is accorded by intellectual historians a status similar to that of the Grimms as founding ancestor of folklore and anthropology. A.I. Hallowell has observed that "Historically viewed, Schoolcraft was a pioneer in the collection of the ' An initial draft of this essay was writtcn <luring my tenure as a Fellow of the Center for Advanccd Study in the Behavioral Sciences, Stanford, California, with the support of funds from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. I am deeply grateful to the Center and the Foundation for this support. Thanks also to Don Brcnneis, Charles Briggs, Susan Gal, Bill Hanks, Michael Silverstein, and Kit Woolard for their helpful comments on an earlier version of the paper, delivered at the 1993 Annual Meeting of thc American Anthropological Association; I have benefited greatly from their help. 2 Concerning Schoolcraft's life and career, see Bieder (1986), Bremer (1987), Freeman (1959), Marsdan (197 6). DOI: 10.1075/prag.5.2.06bau 168 Richard Bauntan folklore of any non-literate people anywhere in the world" (1946: 137); Rosemary Zumwalt has called him "the first scholar of American Indian culture to collect and analyze a large body of Indian folklore" (1978: 44); and W.K. McNeil credits him with being "the man generally recognized as.the father of American folklore and anthropology" (1992: 1). As with the Grimms, critics are divided or ambivalent concerning the scholarly validity of Schoolcraft's work. Some, like Stith Thompson, are strongly negative: "ultimately, the scientific value of his work is marred by the manner in which he reshaped the stories to suit his own literary taste. Several of his tales, indeed, are distorted almost beyond recognition" (1929: xv). The vocabulary and rhetoric here are strikingly similar to some of the assessments of the Grimms cited in Briggs's article. Others, like Zumwalt and William Clements, credit many of Schoolcraft's pronounced methodological principles, but fault him for his lack of adherence to those principles in practice (Zumwalt 1978:49; Clements 1990: 181). Finally, like the Grimms, Schoolcraft's statements concerning textual practice are framed centrally in terms of a rhetoric of authenticity and the the problematics of intertextual relations. Schoolcraft's first encounter with Ojibwa oral narrative occurred within weeks of his arrival at Sault Ste. Marie in early July of 1822 as newly appointed Indian agent for the Michigan Territory. Eager from the beginning to learn about his charges, he was initially frustrated by having to rely on traders and interpreters who were disappointingly ignorant concerning the fine points of the native languages and incapable of managing his more subtle inquiries into the "secret beliefs and superstitions" of the Indians (Schoolcraft 1851a: 106)" When he moved into the home of John Johnston and his family, however, a week and a half after arriving at his post, a new world was opened to him. Johnston was a highly successful and respected Indian trader, Irish-born but of long experience on the frontier, and married to an Ojibwa woman of high status and political influence. Their children, bridging both cultures, were accomplished individuals, one of whom became Schoolcraft's wife. I will deal with the Johnston family turther below, but suffice it to say here that they provided a privileged vantage point for Schoolcraft on Ojibwa language and culture. Two weeks after entering the Johnston household, Schoolcraft recorded his exciting and energizing discovery of the existence of oral narratives among the Indians, revealed to him by his hosts: Nothing has surprised me more in the conversations which I have had with persons acquainted with the Indian customs and character, than to find that the Chippewas amuse themselvs with oral tales of a mythological or allegorical character....The fact, indeed, of such a fund of fictitious legendary matter is quite a discovery, and speaks more for the intellect of the race than any trait I havc heard. Who would have imagined that these wandering foresters should have possessed such a resource? (185la: 109) The sense of importance surrounding this discovery never left Schoolcraft; he saw it as being at the same time the basis of a major contribution to knowledge that would enhance his scholarly reputation, a matter of interest to his patron, Governor Cass, who encouraged his further inquiries as a basis for the formulation of a national Indian policy, and a point of entry into Ojibwa culture more broadly (Schoolcraft 1839: 17). Especially significantly, the existence of oral storytelling among the Indians was for Schoolcraft the key to their essential humanity; it Representing Natit,e American oral nanative 769 transformed his vision of who they were: That the lndians should possess this mental trait of indulging in lodge stories, impressed me as a novel characteristic, which nothing I had ever heard of the race had prepared me for. I had always heard the Indian spoken of as a revengef'ul, bloodthirsty man, who was steeled to endurance and delighted in deeds of cruelty. To find him a man capable of feelings and affections, with a heart open to the wants, and responsive to the ties of social life, was amazing. But the surprise reached its acme, when I found him whiling away a part of the tedium of his long winter evenings in relating tales and legends for the lodge circle. (185la: 196) One of the significant implications of this sense of discovery was that Schocllcraft felt a lack of models and precedents to guide his collection, understanding, and rendering of these materials for dissemination to a wider audience. He was eager to get the word out concerning his discovery, but how? What were these tales? What was their significance? Who would be interested? In effect, Schoolcraft felt that he had to start from scratch in gathering the narratives, understanding their nature, meaning, and significance, identifuing and engaging a public, and making his discovery available and comprehensible to this audience. All of these factors had a formative effect on his textual practice. As regards Schoolcraft's understanding of the nature of Indian narratives, he conceived of them simultaneously and in varying degrees and combinations as literary forms and ethnological data. Schoolcraft himself employed the term "literary" repeatedly in his writings in referring to his narrative materials (e.g. 1839: iii; 1851a:254,631), but it is necessary in developing this point to specify what "literary" implied for Schoolcraft and his readers.3 First of all, "literary" meant, in its most general sense, "to be read." Insofar as literacy and access to books were tied to particular social strata, serving as a touchstone of bourgeois attainment, "literary" also carried a dimension of moral meaning, as implyingpolite learning, marked by standards of taste. decorum. and refinement that needed to be cultivated in the process of literary production. This element will figure significantly at a later point in my consideration of Schoolcraft's textual practice. At the same time, in the period comprehended by Schoolcraft's career, "literary" was connected as well with a heightening awareness of authorship, of literary works as intellectual property, commodities oriented to a growing bookselling market. This too will receive further attention later in the paper. Finally, during the first half of the nineteenth century, the term "literary" came increasingly to designate creative, imaginative, aesthetically shaped works, and this sense of the term also marks Schoolcraft's usage. For example, he remarks on the "poetic" quality of the Indian narratives (e.g. 182.5: 409; 1839: iii), not a matter of verse, but of aesthetic properties, as the narratives are rendered as prose and distinguished from "measured songs or pcetry" (1825: 427). That he conceived of them more particularly as nanative literature is amply attested by his pervasive - if loose - employment of such generic labels as "tale," "legend," and "story," and his 3 I a* grateful to Michael Silverstein for pointing out to me the need to elucidate the meanings that "literary" carried in Schoolcraft's writings. My discussion draws centrally from Williams ( 1 9 8 3 : 1 8 3 - 1 8 8 ) . 170 Richartt Bauntan references to "narration" (1839: I7)., "narrators" (1839: 17; 1851a: 216), and "narrated" (1848: 130) in describing their provenience. In addition to their poetic qualities, a further dimension of Schoolcraft's conception of the Indian narratives as literature in this more marked sense of the term is revealed by his repeated reference to their "imaginative" and "f-anciful" qualities (1825: 403,4091'1839: 15, 17: 1848: 68; 1851a: 709,678; 1853:3I4), which is to say that they were, for the most p a r t , " f i c t i t i o u s " ( 1 8 3 9 : i i i ; 1 8 5 i a : 1 0 9 , 1 9 6 ) ; 1 8 5 I b : 2 1 6 ; 1 8 5 3 : 3 1 3 ) . I t i s t h i s l a s t cluster of meanings that warrants Schoolcraft's use of the compound term, "oral literature." Schoolcraft was to my knowledge, one of the earliest scholars to employ the designation "oral literature" in relation to these forms of verbal art; he may, in fact, have coined the term. An early entry in his journal, dated September 27,1822, bears the heading "Oral Literature of the Indians" (1851a: 120). Whether this heading appeared in the original journal orwas added for publication in 1851 we cannot know, but the term is also employed in his 1848 volume, Tlrc Indian in His Wigwam, or Characteistics of the Red Race of Ameicn. It is worth remarking that from the vantage point of the first sense of "literary" of-tbred above, that is, "to be read," "oral literature" is an oxymoron; it becomes intelligible to the extent that "literary" designates primarily poetic, imaginative, creative works. Indeed, the tension encapsulated in the term "oral literature" highlights some of the most salient problems Schoolcraft had to contiont in tbrmulating and implementing his textual practices. At the same time that Schoolcraft conceived of the Indian tales as literature, he recognized them trom the beginning of his inquiries as privileged sources of insight into the lndians' culture. In his first publication of Indian narratives, the subject matter of the final chapter of his Travels in tlrc Central Portiorts of the Missksippi Valley (1825, hereafter Travels), Schoolcraft prefaces a narrative entitled "The Funeral Fire" with a statement that makes clear the close interrelationship between narrative and custom (or tradition): For several nights after the interment of a person, a fire is placed upon the grave....The following tale is related as showing the origin of this custom. It will at once be perceived that thcir traditions and fictions are intimately blcnded. It would be impossible to decide whether the custom existed prior to the talc, or the tale has been invcnted to suit the custom. We may suppose that thcir customs and imaginative tales have alternately acted as cause and effcct. (1U25: 40.1) The realization that Indian belief and custom were accessible through their narratives was for Schoolcraft an exciting and significant breakthrough.o His early attempts to obtain such ethnological infbrmation by more direct inquiry were notably unsuccessful, a prclblem he attributed variclusly to misapprehension, evasion, and "restlessness, suspicion, and mistrust of motive" on the part of the Indians and the inadequacie s of his early interpreters ( 1851a: 106; 1856: xv). But when he turned * It is worth noting here the correspon<lence between Schoolcraft's cliscovery and the Herderian program, rooted in mid-seventcenth-century classical and biblical philolory, of looking to folklore forms as sourc€s of insight into culture. The centrality' of this strategy to Americanist anthropolory in the tradition established by Powell and Boas underscorcs the importance of Schoolcraft as intellectual precursor. Representing Native American oral nanative 17I his attention to the narratives, the veil of secrecy was lifted. Indeed, this rhetoric of revelation, of bringing secrets to light, pervades Schoolcraft's framing of his Indian tales throughout his career. "Hitherto," he writes, "lndian opinion, on abstract subjects, has been a sealed book" (1856: xv). In the tales, however, "the Indian mind unbends itself and reveals some of its less obvious traits" (1851b: 216). The narratives furnish illustrations of Indian character and opinion on subjects which the ever-cautious and suspicious minds of the people have, herctofore, concealed. They reflect him as he is. The show us what he believes, hopes, fears, wishes, expccts, worships, lives for, dies for. They are always true to thc Indian manners and customs, opinions and theories. They never rise above them; they never sink below them. ...Othcr sources of information depict his exterior habits and outer garb and deportment; but in these legends and myths, we perceive the interior man, and are made cognizant of the secret workings of his mind, and heart, and s o u l . ( 1 8 5 6 : v i i ; s e e a l s o 1 8 4 8 : 6 8 ; 1 8 5 1 a : 1 9 6 ) Ultimately, Schoolcraft believed that the "chief value" of the tales lies in "the insight they give into the dark cave of the Indian mind - its beliefs, dogmas, and opinions--its secret modes of turning over thought - its real philosophy," and he considered that his revelation of these aspects of Indian lit-e constituted the basis for t h e l a s t i n g i m p o r t a n c e o f h i s w o r k ( 1 8 5 1 a : 6 5 5 ; s e e a l s o 1 8 5 1 a : 5 8 5 ) . Schoolcraft's dual conception of Ojibwa narratives as simultaneously literary torms and ethnological data ramifies throughout his statements concerning his textual practices. The first of these is a revealing footnote from Schoolcraft's first major publication of Indian narratives, in the concluding chapter of his Travels (1825: 409): These tales have been taken from the oral relation of the Chippewas, at the Sault of St. Mary, the ancient seat of that nation. Written down at the moment, and consequently in haste, no opportunity for literary refinement was presented; and after the lapse of some timc, we have not judged it expedicnt to make any material alterations in the language adopted, while our impressions were fresh. A literal adherence to the sense of the original, to the simplicity of the narration, and, in many instances, to the peculiar mode of expression of the Indians, is thus preserved, while the order of the incidents is throughout strictly the same. Our collections on this subject are extensive. We do not feel assured that the selcctions herc given present a just specimen of their merits - particularly in relation to the poetical machinery or invention of the Indians. In this passage, we may observe clearly the play of meanings that shaped Schoolcraft's understanding of the Indian tales as literary. Note, for example, the coupling of "literary" with "refinement," suggesting that taking down the tales in writing was not sufficient to render them fully literary, for which further refining work was necessary. Writing down the tales makes them available for reading, but literary refinement distances them from their original oral qualities of expression. Even unrefined, however, they remain literary insofar as they are the products of "the poetical machinery" and "invention" of the Indians. The passage testifies to the difficulty Schoolcraft experienced in reconciling these various dimensions of the tales' literariness. We are immediately struck in this passage by Schoolcraft's effort to minimize the intertextual gap between the texts he has presented and "the oral relation of the Chippewas." What is emphasized here is freshness, immediacy, 1 7 2 Richard Baunnn directness, preservation, adherence to an original, while the potential distancing effect of textual "alterations" is explicitly disclaimed. Now, while it is clear that Schoolcraft had ample opportunity to experience storytelling directly, it is equally clear that his narrative materials did not come to him in as unmediated a fashion as this passage might suggest. Certainly, Schoolcraft's own observations of Indian storytelling constitute one of the chief bases tor the rhetoric of revelation and authenticity that marks his presentation of the Indian tales. For example, in contrasting the public and tormal demeanor of Indians "before a mixed assemblage of white men" with their more relaxed manner in their own villages, "away from all public gaze," Schoolcraft writes, "Let us follow the man to this retreat, and see what are his domestic manners, habits, and opinions." He continues, "I have myself visited an Indian csrTlp, in the far-off area of the NORTHWEST, in the dead of winter, under circumstances suited to allay his suspicions," and then goes on to describe a sociable occasion of storytelling (1851b: 184; see also 1851a: 109). It is such direct experiences that allow Schoolcrafi to discover and reveal the secrets of Indian life, including the grand discovery of their storytelling. "It requires observation on real life," he insists, "to be able to set a true estimate on things" (185la: 138), an early appeal to the authority of fieldwork, with all its rigors and remoteness and claims to privileged access to the real stuff. And, of course, the magnification of his own role in the gathering of these significant materials was quite consistent with his lifelong concern tor his scholarly reputation (see, e.9., 185la: 639, 655, 672,, 703). While we do not have direct information concerning the circumstances under which three of the four tales presented in Travels were collected, we do know the source of one of the narratives, "Gitshee Gauzinee" (1825: 410-412). This tale, recounting a dream-vision of an Ojibwa chief relating to burial practices, was part of the repertoire of John Johnston, Schoolcraft's father-in-law, to whom it was earlier told by Gitshee Gauzinee himself (McKenney 7827:370; for fuller discussion, see Bauman 1993). While Johnston was t-luent in Ojibwa, he would undoubtedly have recounted the narrative to Schoolcraft in English. Nevertheless, the mediation of the story through Johnston to Schoolcraft is elided in Schoolcraft's methodological statement, which implies that he himself recorded the tale directly from "the oral relation of the Chippewas." I shall have more to say about dimensions of mediation in Schoolcraft's textual practices below. To be sure, Schoolcraft does suggest the intertextual gaps that are opened by the twin processes of intersemiotic and interlingual translation, that is, the taking down of the oral narratives in writing and their translation from Ojibwa into English, in his references to the haste with which the texts were recorded and to his lack of assurance that they adequately represent "the poetical machinery or invention of the Indians." These problems are minimized, however, by the claim that "A literal adherence to the sense of the original, to the simplicity of the narration, and, in many instances, to the peculiar mode of expression of the Indians, is...preserved, while the order of the incidents is throughout strictly the same." There is an implication here, as well, of a form-content dift'erentiation, insofar as Schoolcraft's statement suggests that "poetical machinery" fares less well in the translation process than "the sense of the original" and "the order of the incidents," that is, the meaning and the plot. This distinction assumed a still greater place in Schoolcraft's subsequent discussions of his textual practices, cclrrelated with the dual nature of the Representing Native Anrcican oral narrative Il3 narrative materials as literature and ethnological data. The issues of intersemiotic and interlingual translation figure in a somewhat more problematic way in Schoolcraft's next major collection of Indian narratives, Algic Researches (1839), the work on which his reputation as a student of folklore principally rests and for which he is best known beyond folklore and anthropology because of its role as the central source of Indian lore fbr Henry Wadsworth Longt"ellow in his composition of The Song of Hiawatha (1855). In an introductory section entitled "Preliminary Observations on the Tales," the reader encounters Schoolcraft's claim that his investigations of Ojibwa culture led him to the discovery "that they possessed a story-telling faculty, and I wrclte down from their narration a number of these fictitious tales" (1839: 17-18). As with the statement in Travels, this assertion suggests a lack of mediation, a directness of recording, that is belied by the historical record, for we know that Schoolcraft's Johnston kinsmen, including prominently his wife Jane as well as his sister-in-law Charlotte and his brothers-in-law George and William, collected a significant number of the narratives included in Schoolcraft's collection and conveyed them to him already in writing and in English. l.ater in the volume, in a note immediately preceding the texts themselves, Schoolcraft acknowledges these and other individuals for their assistance as interpreters and translators of the narratives, though not for the actual recording of the tales" The terms of the acknowledgment are significant: "These persons are well versed in the respective tongues from which they have given translations; and being residents of the places indicated, a reference to them for the authenticity of the materials is thus brought within the means of all who desire it" (1839: 26). Here, then, tor the first time, is an explicit indication of mediation in the text-making process, but the recognition clf the intertextual gap opened by the need for translation of the tales into English is framed in terrns designed to minimize its distancing ef'fects. The linguistic competence of the translators and their residence rn Indian country is a warrant both tclr the accuracy of their translations and for the authenticity of the materials, a claim akin to the tieldworker's appeal to the authority of direct contact with the source. The matter is rendered more complex, however, by a pair of entries in Schoolcrati's journal (published in 1851) concerning his textual practices in the preparation of Algic Researclrcs for publication. These entries are worthy of quotation at length. The first is dated Januarv 26, 1838: Completed the revision o[ a body of Indian oral legcnds, collccted during many years with labor. These oral tales show up the Indian in a new light. Their chief value consists in their exhibition of aboriginal opinions. But, if published, incredulity will start up critics to call the ir authcnticity in question. ...1f thcre be any literary labor which has cost me more than usual pains, it is this. I have wecdcd out many vulgarisms. I have endeavored to restore the simplicitv of the original stvlc. In this I havc not always fullv succeeded, and it has been somctimes found neccssary, to avoid incongruity, to break a lcgend in two, or cut it short o f f " ( 1 8 5 1 a : 5 8 5 ) The second entry dates trom June 2I, 1839, after the publication of Algic Researches: ...it is difficult for an editor to judge, from the mcre facc of the volumes, what an amount 174 Richard Baunutn of auxiliary labor it has requircd to collect these legcnds fr the Indian wigwams. 1}ey had to be gleaned and translated from time to time. ...They required pruning and dressing, like wild vines in a gardcn. But they are, exclusivcly...wild vines, and not pumpings up of my own fanry. The attempts to lop off excresccnces are not, perhaps, always happy. There might, perhaps, have been a fuller adherence to the original language and expressions; but if sc'r, what a world of verbiage must have been rctained. The Indians are prolix, and attach value to many minutiae in the relation which not only does not help forward the denouement, but is tedious and witless to the last degree. The gems of the legends - the essential points - the invention and thought-work are ail preserved. Thcir chief value I have ever thought to consist in the insight they give into the the dark cave of the Indian mind - its bcliefs, dogmas, and opinions - its sccret modes of turning over thought - its real philosophy; and i t i s f o r t h i s t r a i t t h a t I b e l i e v e p o s t e r i t y w i l l s u s t a i n t h e b o o k . ( 1 8 5 1 a . 6 5 5 ) B o t h o f t h e s e e n t r i e s , e s p e c i a l l y t h e f i r s t , r e v e a l c l e a r l y t h e d e p t h o f Schoolcraft's concern that his narratives be recognized as authentic, that they not be taken as "pumpings up of my own fancy." Tellingly, however, his anxiety on the matter is acknowledged as the principal motivation for the intensity of the editorial labors he has invested in the revision of the texts. These labors are enumerated in some detail: The weeding out of vulgarisms, the restoration of the simplicity of the style, the breaking of compound tales into two, the abbreviation of texts, the lopping off of excrescences. These operations open ever more widely the gap between tbrm and content. While literary refinement remains a salient concern, Schocllcraft clearly and explicitly assigns primary importance to the cultural content of the tales as he views them, the "beliefs, dogmas, and opinions" which are given expression in the narratives - these are what must be preserved. By the standards of Schoolcrati's literary aesthetic, the tales are flawed, and any effort to achieve "a fuller adherence to the original language and expressions" or to other formal features of native expression would only detract from their literary appeal for his readers. Their chief flaw, in Schoolcraft's view, lay in verbal excess - prolixity, excessive verbiage, proliferation of minutiae, excrescences - that renders them "tedicus and witless to the last degree" and offers nothing to the realization of the essential plot, the denouement. To a degree, Schoolcraft saw the stylistic deficiencies of the Indian narratives as inherent in their language itself. He noted his apprehension, for example, "that the language generally has a strong tendencv to repetition and redundancy of forms, and to clutter up, as it were, general ideas with particular meanings" (1851a: 141). In a further indictment of Ojibwa morphology, he observed that "The Indian certainly has a very pompous way of expressing a common thought. He sets about it with an array of prefix and suffix, and polysyllabic strength, as if he were about to crush a cob-house with a crowbar" (1851a: 151). (This is certainly in striking contrast with Sapir's aesthetically appreciative suggestion that "Single Algonkin words are like tiny imagist poems" (1921: 228)). And again, in a sweeping dismissal of the communicative capacities of Indian languages, "One of the principal objections to be urged against the Indian languages, considered as media of communication, is their cumbrousness. There is certainly a great deal of verbiage and tautology about them" (1851a: 171). Smallwonder, then, that he considered the style of the narratives to be in need of repair by the standards of polite literary taste. In light of these considerations, Schoolcraft's statement that he has Representing Natit,e Anrcrican oral nanatit'e 175 "endeavored to restore the simplicity of the original style" might appear contradictory. It is not entirely clear what he means by the notion of "original style," but the sentence that follows, about breaking a Iegend in two or cutting it off, would suggest that Schoolcraft had in n-rind a conception of tales as properly consisting of unitary plots which were compromised by storytellers'occasional tendency in certain contexts to chain or blend multiple narratives into a single extended narration. This too had to be fixed for an "original" quality to be restored. Ultimately, while there is some sense of loss attendant upon the stylistic repairs he has carried out, an admission that they "are not, perhaps, always huppy," literary taste requires such intervention, and the repairs to do not detract from the preservation of "the essential points." Indeed, they enhance their accessibility and appeal to his readers. Finally, in 1856, Schoolcraft published a collection of tales, derived largely from Algic Researches, but entitl ed The Mytlt of Hiawatln, in the hope of capitalizing on the popularity of Longfellow's Tlrc Sortg of Hiawatlrc, published in the preceding year and inspired in significant part by Schoolcraft's publications of Indian lore. In the Pretace to Tlte Myth o.f Hiawatlra, Schoolcraft otfered the tollowing: Therc is but one consideration of much moment nccessary to be. premised respecting these legencls and myths. It is this: Thcy are vcrsions of oral relations from the lips of the In<lians, and are transcripts of the thought and invention clf the aboriginal mind. ...To make these collections, of which thc portions now submittcd are but a part, the leisure hours of many seasons, passed in an official capacity in the solitude of the wilderness far away from society, have been cmploycd, with the study of thc languages, and with the vcry best interpreters. They have bccn carefully translated, writtcn, and rervritten, to obtain their true spirit and meaning, expunging passages, whcre it was neccssary to avoid tediousncss of narration, triviality of circumstances, tautologies, gross incongruitics, and vulgarities; but adding no incident and drawing no cclnclusion, which thc verbal narration did not imperatively rcquire o r s a n c ( i o n . ( 1 8 5 6 : v i i - v i i i ) In this final statement of textual practice, the intertextual gaps I have noted in earlier passages are widened still further. Here, for example, the texts are claimed as "versions of oral relations from the lips of the Indians," the term "version" conveying a degree of lack of full identity with an original. Likewise, this passage acknowledges a still greater degree of editorial intervention, in the writing and re-writing of the texts and in the addition of incidents and conclusions, albeit ones that are required or sanctioned by the verbal narration. Significantly, the "true spirit and meaning" of the tales, "the thought and invention of the aboriginal mind," are not "preserved," as before, but obtained, brought out and in part created by Schoolcrafl's own editorial work in repairing the literary deficiencies of "tediousness of narration, triviality of circumstances, tautolclgies, gross incongruities, and vulgarities." Accuracy and clarity of content must be won back from literarily flawed narration. My emphasis thus far on Schoolcratt's negative assessment of Indian tales as literature and his judgment that their chief value lay in their content as a key to the native mind must not be taken to imply that he considered the beliefs, values, opinions, or "thought-work" that he was at such pains to preserve to be of positive worth, fbr such was decidedly not the case. Indeed, his assessmcnt of native thought was tully as negative, notwithstanding occasional sympathetic gestures toward the 176 Richard Bauman Indian as a feeling human being. His common evaluation of both style and thought are clear in the following passage from Algic Researches: The style of narration, the cast of invcntion, and the theory of thinking, are imminently peculiar to a people who wander about in woods and plains, who encounter wild beasts, believc in dcmons, and are subjcct to the vicissitudes <-rf the seasons. The tales refer themselves to a people who are polytheists; not believers in onc God or Great spirit, but of thousands of spirits; a people who live in fear, who wander in want, and who die in misery. The machinery of spirits and necromancy, one of the most ancient and prevalent errors of the human race, supplies the framework of these fictitious creations. l-anguage to carry out the conceptions might seem to be wanting, but here tne narrator finds a ready resource in the use of metaphor, the doctrine of metamorphosis, and the pcrsonification of inanimate objects; for the latter of which, the grammar of the language has a pcculiar adapttation. Deficiencies of the vocabulary are thus supplied, life and action are imparted to the whole material creation, and every purpose of description is answered. The belief of the narrators and listeners in every wild and improbably thing told, helps wonderfully, in the o r i g i n a l , i n j o i n i n g t h e s e q u e n c e o f p a r t s t o g e t h e r . ( 1 8 3 9 : 1 8 - 1 9 ; s e e a l s o 1 8 5 1 a : 1 9 6 ; 1 8 5 6 : xix->x) Style, plot, and error are all of a piece. There is an important point to be made here concerning the interrelationship between form and content. This passage makes clear that Schoolcraft did in fact perceive certain dimensions of connection between the two, especially in regard to the relation between personification, agency, and the grammatical marking of animacy. In Lisa Valentine's description of Ojibwa gender, The two gendcrs are animate and inanimatc, classifications that are roughly logical, i.e., people, animals, and many plants are categorized as animate, whereas things such as moccasins, blankets, and sticks are considercd inanimate. Thcre are many systematic exceptions to this gcneralization, e.g., hcavenly bodies (sun, moon, stars), traditional religious articles (tobacco, pipes, drums, etc.), close personal possessions (mitts, spoons, snowshoes, etc.) and an odd assortment of unrelated items including among many other items certain berrics, stones, and tircs are all reckoned as animate. (1992:27) Animate, personified stars or berries would have struck Schoolcraft as "wild" and "improbable," signs of "error." From Schoolcraft's vantage point, then, grammatical form, narrative function, and cultural meaning are mutually implicated, at least to this extent. Schoolcraft's negative judgment of Indian thought did not extend to a belief in innate mental inferiority (1848: 67). Rather, he held that "It was not want of mental capacity, so much as the non-existence of moral power, and of the doctrines of truth and virtue, that kept them back" (1848: 68). For "moral power" and "the doctrines of truth and virtue" here, read "Christian moral power" and "the Christian doctrines of truth and virtue," tbr Schoolcraft was a devout Christian, an energetic champion of missionary efforts, and a strong believer in the need for the Indians to accept Christianity in order to secure their tuture in this world and save their souls in the next. Here, then, is the key to Schoolcraft's preoccupation with offering texts that foreground cultural content at the expense, if necessary, of fidelity to native style. Opening up "the dark cave of the Indian mind" is a critical prerequisite to bringing the Indian to the light of Christian belief, an essential basis for the formulation of a national policy toward these inevitable losers in "the contest for Representing Native Anteican oral nanative I77 supremacy" on the North American continent. The relationship between tales and policy is explicit: "By obtaining - what these legends give - a sight of the inner man, we are better able to set a just estimate on his character, and to tell what means of treatment are best suited for his reclamation" (1856: >xii). The treatment must be humane, for the narratives establish the Indians' essential humanity, but it must be a policy of reclamation nevertheless. The crucial point for my argument is the mutual consistency in Schoolcraft of textual practices and political ideology. The rntertextual gaps between the oral form of native storytelling and Schoolcraft's published texts are intended to serve the minimization of intertextual gaps in content, all in the greater service of cultural and political dominance. But of course, Schoolcraft had other agendas and motivations beyond political ideology and policy. He was protbundly concerned with the commercial viability and success of his published work, and indeed, he made his living by writing after his dismissal from his government position in 1841. If he was to reach an audience - which is to say, a market - with his work, he needed to shape his writings to appeal to publishers, booksellers, and readers. Still further, Schoolcraft was motivated by a lifelong desire to build a scientific reputation, which demanded a proper display of scholarly knowlege and rigor in his writings as well. We must recall, in this connection, that the second quarter of the nineteenth century in America was a period in which the professionalization of scholarship was in its most nascent stages, especially in regard to philology and ethnology, and if we recall as well the novelty of Schoolcraft's tlndings concerning American Indian oral narrative, we can recognize the scope of his task in devising a mode of presentation for his Indian tales. To a considerable degree, he was compelled to exploration and experimentation in his textual practice. The concern to unveil the secrets of the Indian mind was paramount, but the practical considerations of commercial viability and scholarly respectability weighed strongly as well, and the achievement of a proper balance among these forces required real effort.s The practical eftects of this dilemma may be perceived in Schoolcraft's actual textual practices as revealed by an examination of his texts (see the Appendix for two contrasting renderings of the "same" tale), and here, once again, we turn to Schoolcraft's dual conception of Indian narratives as literature and ethnological data. Notwithstanding Schoolcraft's conviction that the native tales were literarily flawed, they remained a species of literature with a potential appeal to a literary audience. Moreover, they had a dual potential of their own in this regard, standing as literature in their own right while also representing a resource for the ) In light of the dual focus of the papers in this special issue on languages and publics, it may be appropriate to say a word concerning Schoolcraft's orientation to a public, as well as to an audience and a market, though this is not a central concern of my paper. I take a public to be an audience (in the general sense of receivers and consumers of communicative forms) that is held to share some commonality of attitude and interest and that may be mobilized to collective social action (cf. Crow 1985). In this sense, then, insofar as Schoolcraft intended his publication of Indian tales to influence people's attitudes toward Indians in support of particular national Indian policies, he was attempting to shape a public as well as an audience and a market. I78 Richard Baunnn development of a distinctively American national literature.o As I have established, Schoolcraft considered that to render the tales acceptable in a literary garb required editorial intervention and repair. Schoolcratt employed a number of means and devices in order to enhance the literary quality of his tales, some of which are suggested by his statements concerning textual practice" For example, polite literary taste required the weeding out of vulgarisms, sexual and scatalogical references in the tales. Likewise, the telt need to avoid tedious prolixity and repetition manifested itself in the abridgement or elimination of form-content parallelism in the sequencing of narrative episodes. A further means of enhancing literary appealwas the adoption of a f-lowery and elevated register, tull of high emotion, sentimental observations of nature, archaic pronominal usage ("thou," "thee," "ye"), and heavily sentimental rhymed poetry to index the inclusion of songs in native narrative performance. A still turther device was the advancement of the narrative by means of direct discourse. All of these marked the texts as literature in regard to standards of polite taste, and were available to enhance their appeal to a literary audience. On the other hand, Schoolcraft had a corresponding set of textual means for highlighting the ethnological "authenticity" and scholarly validity of his texts. Some of these involved the manipulation of the same sets of elements that could be utilized to foreground literary refinement, tempering, reducing, or eliminating them to foreground ethnological content and expository clarity. Thus, Schoolcraft might employ a less ornate, more expository register, reduce direct discourse, or eliminate the poems from the texts. At the extreme, this would yield a brief, informationally focused pr6cis of what might elsewhere be a more extended "literary" narrative. Also related to the language of the texts, one device favored by Schoolcraft to enhance ethnological verisimilitude was the employment of native-language words, idioms, or phrases, frequently with an accompanying English gloss in the text or a footnote. For still more scholarly effect, these Ojibwa forms might be further accompanied by linguistic commentary explicating their morphology or etymology. To cite one further device in the service of rendering cultural content accessible, Schoolcrafi resorted trequentiy to metanarrational commentary, noting a particular action, behavior, or other feature as customary, or explaining its function. Some such comments might be interpolated into the texts or presented as framing matter before or after a given narrative for all audiences, but for more scholarly tone, they might be rendered as expository tootnotes. Being especially concerned with moral issues, Schoolcraft used a special set of metanarrational devices to key a moral 6 Schoolcraft emphasizes this potcntial in his rlcrlication of Algic Researches to Lt. Col. H e n r y W h i t i n g ( 1 8 3 9 : v ) : S I R The position taken by you in favour of the literary susceptibilities of the Indian character, and your tasteful and meritorious attempts in imbodying their manners and customs, in the shape of poetic fiction, has directcd my thoughts to you in submitting my collection of their oral fictions to the press. Likewise, the dedication of The Myth of Hyawatha to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lauds Longfellow's work as dcmonstrating "that the thcme of the nalive lore reveals one of the true sourccs of our literary independcnce" (1856: v). See also Dippie (1982: 16-17). Representing Native American oral nanative 179 intepretation, including genre designations in subtitles, such as "allegory" or "fable," and explicit moral exegeses appended to the text. Schoolcraft employed all of these devices in varying degrees, combinations, and mixtures to calibrate the framing of particular texts and collections as relatively more literary or ethnological, popular or scholarly. Thus a given tale might be rendered in a more literary guise for publication in a literary magazine but in a more expository register for inclusion in Algic Researches. Algic Researches, for its part, is marked by a prolif'eration of ethnological and linguistic metacommentary; TIrc Myth of Hiawatlta draws some of these more scholarly "ethnological" texts from Algic Researches, but includes also an admixture of more "literary" texts previously published in other venues. One would not want to say that Schoolcraft was fully and rigorously systematic in his calibration of textual practice, for there is a certain ad hoc quality about some clf his compilations, but the general patterns and tendencies can be adduced from an examination of the published texts. Nor, ultimately, were Schoolcraft's efforts fully successful, at least in his own estimation, for he repeatedly expressed his dissatisfaction with the degree of recognition and commercial success he achieved - or, by his lights, failed to achieve (see, e.g., 1851a: 585, 631, 634, 655, 672, 69J, 703). Successful or not, however, Schoolcraft's career-long struggle to devise a viable set of methods for the representation of Indian narratives and a productive rhetoric for the effective framing of those methods for his readers (and for himself) illuminates a formative moment in the history of textual representation, of significance to the subsequent development of linguistic anthropology, folklore, and adjacent disciplines. I have attempted to elucidate in this brief examination of Schoolcraft's metadiscursive practices a range of factors that defined the field of tensions that shaped his efforts. One set of relevant factors had to do with personal, biographical circumstances, such as his position as Indian agent, his relationship with the Johnston family, and his personal ambition. A second set related to broader historical factors: The lack of precedents for the representation of oral narratives in print, the related need to identify - even to create - an audience and a market for his work, the desire to influence national Indian policy. I have given most prominence to the tension between Schoolcraft's dual conception of the Indian tales as literary forms and ethnological data, with special attention to contemporary conceptions of literariness. To be sure, all of us who are engaged in the study of oral discourse are susceptible to just the same sorts of tensions in our work, though we may differ rn the degrees to which we are able and willing to acknowledge them openly and confront them directly in our own practices. Unlike Schoolcraft, however, we do not lack for precedents - again, whether we acknowledge them or not - among which are the pioneering and vexed efforts of Schoolcraft himself. Appendix 1. From Schoolcraft (1962 11826l: 7-8): TRANCE Suspended respiration, or apparent death, is not common among the Chippewa Indians. Some cases have however happened. 180 Richard Baumun Wauwaunishkum or Gitshee Gausince of Montreal river, after being sick a shorl. time, died, o r i t t u r n c d o u t , f c l l i n t o a t r a n c e . H c w a s a g o o d h u n t c r , & a m o n g o t h e r t h i n g s l e f t a g u n . H i s widow still flattcred hcrsclf he was not dead, & thought by fceling his hcad she felt some signs of life. After four days had elapscd he camc to lifc, & lived many ycars aftcnvards - He rclated the lbllowing story to his companions - That after his death he travcled on towards the pleasant country, which is the lndian heaven, but having no gun could get nothing to eat, & he at last determinetl tcl go track for his gun - On his way back, he met many Indians, men & women, who werc heary laden with skins & meat, one of these men gave him a gun, a squaw gave him a small kettle, still he kept on, dctermined to go back fur his own gun which had not bcen buricd with him. When he came tcr the place, whcre he had died hc could scc nothing but a great firc, which spread in every direction. He knew not what to do, but at last dctermincd to jump through it, thinking big forcsts were on the other side. And in this cffort he awoke, & found himsclf alive. - Formerly it had been customary to bury many articles with the dead including all his effects, clothing etc & even presents of food etc from friends wishing them well. Aftcr this the practicc was discontinucd. 2 . F r o m S c h o o l c r a f t ( 1 8 3 9 : 1 8 0 ) : G I T - C H E E - G A U - Z I N E E O R THE TRANCE (The following story is related by the Odjibwas, as scmi-traditionary. Without attaching importance t o i t , i n t h a t l i g h t , i t m a y b e r e g a r d e d a s i n d i c a t i n g I n d i a n o p i n i o n o n t h c t e m p o r a r y s u s p e n s i o n o f nervous action in trance , and on the (to thcm) grcat unknown void of a future state. The individual, whose name it bears, is vouched tcl have been an actual personage living on the shores of [-ake Supcrior, where he excrcised thc authority of a village chicf. In former times, it is averred, the Chippewas followed the custom of interring many articles with the dead, including, if the deccased was a male, his gun, trap, pipe, kettle, war club, clothes, wampum, ornaments, and even a portion of food. This practice has been gradually falling into disuse until at present, it is rare to see the lndians dcposit any articlcs o[ value with adults. What effect tales like the following may have had, in bringing this ancient pagan custom into discredit, we will not undertake to decide. Much of thc change of opinion which has supervened, within the last century, may be fairly attributable to the intercoursc of the Indians with white men, and in sorne situations, to the gradual and almost imperceptible influence of Christianity on their external manners and customs. Still, more is probablv due to thc kecn obscn'ation of a peoplc, who have very little property, and may naturally bc judged to have ascertained the folly of burying any valuablc portion of it with the dcad.) Git-Chee-Gau-Zinee, after a few days'illncss, suddenly expired in the presence of his friends, by whom he was beloved and lamented. He had hcen an cxpert huntcr, and left, among other things, a fine gun, which he had requested might be buricd with his body. Thcre were some who thought his death a suspension and not an extinction of thc animal functiclns, and that he would again be restorcd. His widow was among the numbcr, and shc carcfully watched the body for thc space of four days. She thought that by laying her hand upon his brcast she could discovcr remaining indications of vitality. Twcnty-four hours had clapscd, and ncarly evc'ry vestiqe of hopc had dcparted, when the man came to life. Hc gave thc following narration to his fricnds: "After my death, my Jeebi* traveled in the broad road of the dead toward the happy land, which is the Indian paradise. I passed on many days without mceting with anything of an extraordinary nature. Plains of large extent, and luxuriant herbage, began to pass before my eyes. I saw many beautiful groves, and heard the sclngs of innumcrable birds. At length I began to suffer for the want of food. I reached the summit oI an elevation. My eycs caught thc glimpse of the city of the dead. But it appeared to be distant, and the intervening space, partly veiled in silvcry mists, was spangled with glittcring lakes and streams. At this spot I came in sight of numerous herds of stately deer, m o o s e , a n d o t h e r a n i m a l s , w h i c h w a l k c d n e a r m y p a t h , a n d a p p e a r e d t o h a v e l o s t t h e i r n a t u r a l Representing Natit'e Anrcrican oral nanative 181 timidity. But having no gun I was unable to kill them. I thought of the request I had made to my friends, to put my gun in my grave, and resolvcd to go back and seek for it. "l found I had the frcc use of my limbs and faculties, and I had no sooner made this resolution, than I turned back. But I now bcheld an immense number of men, women, and children, traveling toward thc city of the dcad, every one of whom I had to face in going back. I saw, in this throng, persons of every agc, lrom the little infant - the sweet and lovely Penaisee,** to the feeble gray-hcadcd man, stooping with the weight of years. All whom I met, however, were heavily laden with implements, guns, pipes, kettlcs, meats, and other articlcs. One man stopped me and complaincd of the grcat burdens he had to carry. He offered me his gun, which I however refused, having made up my mind to procure my own. Anothcr offered me a kettle. I saw women who were carrying their baskct work and painted paddlcs, and little boys, with their ornamented war clubs and bows and arrows - the prcsents of their friends. "After encountering this throng for two days and nights, I came to the place where I had died. But I could see nothing but a great fire, the flamcs of which rose up before men, and spread around me. Whichcver way I turned to avoid them, the flames still barred my advance. I was in the utmost perplexity, and knew not what to do. At length I determined to make a desperate leap, thinking my liiends were on the other side, and in this effort, I awoke from my trance.n Here the chief paused, and aftcr a few momcnts concluded his story with the following admonitory remarks: "My chiefs and friends," said he, 'I will te ll you of one practice, in which our forefathers have been wrong. Thcy have been accustomcd to deposit too many things with the dead. These implcments arc burthcnsomc to them. It requires a longer time for them to reach the peace of repose, and almost every one I havc conversed with, complaincd bitterly to me of the evil. It would bc wiser to put such things only, in the grave, as thc deceased was particularly attached to, or made a formal rcqucst to have depositcd with him. ll' he has becn successful in the chase, and has abundance of things in his lodge, it would be bettcr that they should remain for his family, or for division among his fricnds and relatives." Advtcc u'htch comes in this plcasing form of story and allegory, can give offense to no one. And it is probably the mode which the northern Indians have employed, from the earliest times, to rebuke faults and instill instruction. The old men, upon whom the duty of giving advice uniformly falls, may have found this thc most efficacious mcans of molding opinion and forming character. * l j i i b a v ' s p i r i t ' ( R h o d c s 1 9 8 - 5 : 5 8 0 ) - R . B . l . * * T h c t e r n t o f e n d e a r n r e n t f o r a y o u n g s o n . I H . R . S : ] . [ P r o b a b l y b n e s h i i n h ' b i r d ' ( R h o d e s 1 e 8 5 : 4 2 5 ) - R . B . l " References Bauman, Richard (1993) The nationalization and internationaliz-ation of folklore: The case of Schoolcraft's "Gitshee Gauzinee." lVestern Folklore 52:247 -259. Bauman, Richard (1990) Poetics and pcrformance as critical perspectives on language and social life. Annual Review of Anthropolog, l9:59-88. Bieder, Robert E. (1986) Scicnce encoLtnter theAnrcrican Indian, 1820-1880. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Bremcr, Richar<J G. (1987) Indian agent andwilderness scholar: The hfe of Henry Rowe Schoolcraft. Mt. Pleasant: Clark Historical Library, Central Michigan University. Briggs, Charles L. (1993) Metadiscursive practices and scholarly authority in folkloristics. Journal of Anrcican folklore 106:387-434. f I82 Richard Bauntan Briggs, Charles L. and Richar<l Bauman (1992) Genre, intertextuality, and social powet.loumal of I ingt is tic ant hropologl 2:13 l - 17 2. Clements, William M. (1990) Schoolcraft as textmaker. Journal of Anrcrican folklore lO3:177-192. Crow, Thomas (1985) Painters and pubtic life in eighteenth-century Pans. New Haven:Yale University Press. Dippie, Brian W. (1982) The t,ani.ghing Anrcricon l.awrence: Univcrsity Press of Kansas. Freeman, John F. (1959) Henn/ Rowe SchoolcraJi. Ph.D. dissertalion, History tlf American Civilization, Haryard University. Hallowell, A. Irving (1946) Concordancc of Ojibwa narrativcs in the published works of Henry R" Schoolcraft. Journal ctf Anrcrican folklore 59:136-153' Marsden, Michael T. (1976) Henry Rowe Schoolcralt: A rcappraisal. The old noilhwest 2:153-182. McKenney, Thomas L. (182'7) Sketches of a tour to the lakes. Baltimore: Fielding Lucas. Repr. ed. Minneapolis: Ross & Haines, 1959. McNeil, W.K. (1992) New introduction. In Schoolcraft, Henry Rowc (1839) Algrc researches, Jirst series: Indian tales and legends. Repr. ed., Baltimorc: Clearfield Co., 1-18. Rhodes, Richard A. (1985) Eastern Ojibwa-Chippewa-Ottowa dictiona6,. Berlin: Mouton" Sapir, Edward (1921) Language. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1825) Tray,els in the central portions of the Mississippi Valley. New York: Collins and Hannay. Repr. ed. Millwottd: Kraus Rcprint Co., 1975. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1S39) Algic researches, ftrst series: Indian tales antl legends,2 vols. New York: Harper & Bros. Repr. ed. in one vol., Baltimore: Clearfield Co.' 1992. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1348) The Indian in his wigwan\ or characleristics of the red race of Anteica. New York: W.H. Graham. Schoofcraft, Henry Rowe (1851a) Pcrsonal nrcntoirs of a residence of thir4,years with the Indian lribes on the Anrcrican frontiers. Philadelphia: Lippincott, Grambo & Co. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (185Ib) Tha Anterican Indians, their history, condition and prospects. Rochester: Wanzer, Foot & Co. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1853) Inprnntion respecting tlrc history, condition and prospects of the Indian tribes of the lJnited States. Part L Philadelphia: Libbincott, Grambo & Co. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1356) The nrytth of Hiawotha and other oral legends, nrythologic and allegoic, of the North Anterican Indians. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co" Schoolcraft, Henry Rowc (1962) The titerary \,oyoser or Muzzeniegun. ed. Philip P" Mason. East l-ansing: Michigan State University Press. Thompson, Stith (1929) Tates of the North Anrcrican Indians. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Representing Native Anterican oral nanative 183 Valenrine, Lisa (1992) A y'ision for the funre: an ethnographic exploration of contemporary Severn Ojibwa discourse. Unpublishcd manuscript. Williams, Raymoncl (1933) Ke)'words- Rcv. ed. Ncw York: Oxford University Press' Zumwalt, Rosemary ( l97U) Henry Rowe Schoolcraft, 1793- 1864. The Kroeber Anthropological Socie4t papers 53/54 (Spring,trall 1976):44-57. 
work_rlj2y2v7rbbpjitmtfjilleqki	----	Older Adults in Clinical Research and Drug Development 631 “For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.” –Henry Wadsworth Longfellow As cardiovascular specialists, we are caring for a rapidly growing number of older adults despite limited data to guide therapeutics in this population. During the next 25 years, the population age ≥85 years will be more than double—from 6.3 million in 2015 to 14.1 million by 2040.1 Over 25 years ago, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) published the Guideline for the Study of Drugs Likely to be Used in the Elderly advocating that the population studied should reflect the population treated.2 A 2011 review by Cherubini et al3 dem- onstrated that 25% of heart failure trials had an arbitrary upper age exclusion; in the same year Zulman et al4 demonstrated that 45.6% of trials had other criteria that disproportionately excluded older adults (eg, decreased life expectancy, functional limitations, cognitive impairment, serious concomitant illness, or nursing home residence). Furthermore, many trials under- represent women, who comprise the majority of older cohorts. Thus, it is no surprise that Medicare beneficiaries, almost all of whom have multiple chronic conditions, differ significantly from participants in trials used to inform Medicare coverage decisions.5 The application of data and treatment recommen- dations from studied to unstudied populations can result in catastrophic consequences and increased costs. The medical community has suggested elimination of age-based exclusions, justification for exclusion criteria that limit inclusion of older individuals, performance of trials specific to older individuals, and reporting trends to assess inclusion of older adults in clini- cal trials.6 However, as a medical community, we have yet to embark on the kind of systematic effort necessary to ensure representation of older adults in pivotal research. Policy Efforts There has also been slow bureaucratic progress. In 2012, the FDA published the ICH-E7 Studies in Support of Special Pop- ulations: Geriatrics Guidance for Industry, which presented nonbinding recommendations to improve representation of older adults in trials.7 This document reiterated the importance of including older adults in research, encouraged early dis- cussions with FDA, and outlined similar suggestions to those made previously.6 In 2014, the FDA prepared an action plan to Section 907 of the Food and Drug Administration Safety and Innovation Act (Pub L. 112–144) in which Congress directed them to report safety and effectiveness by sex, age, race, and ethnicity.8 The FDA Action Plan to Enhance the Collection and Availability of Demographic Subgroup Data, included the creation of Trial Snapshots for FDA-approved products to provide a subgroup summary for consumers.9 The geriatric population is considered to be those aged 65 years and older. Among the initial FDA Trial Snapshots is one for Vorapaxar (Zontivity), a thrombin receptor antagonist. Vorapaxar, when given in addition to antiplatelet therapy to patients with car- diovascular disease, led to a minor reduction in cardiovascu- lar outcomes, but increased bleeding. A black box warning advises against use in those with previous stroke or bleeding. The snapshot states no difference was noted by patient age, but only 17% of the definitive trial, and 9% of the overall drug experience was collected in those aged >75 years.10 Paradoxi- cally the package insert also states that older patients are at higher risk of bleeding which should be considered before ini- tiating Zontivity.11 Although age ≥65 years is a convenient cut point for clinical trial populations, age ≥75 years better reflects older adults in the community, and age ≥85 years is arguably the most reflective of a vulnerable age-defined cohort. Yet, cut points are numeric constructs. More relevant for benchmark- ing inclusion of representative older adults is their similarity to those likely to be treated. The well-intentioned consumer FDA snapshots are also profoundly limited by the continued lack of inclusion of older representative adults on which to base their information. Approaches in Other Special Populations The systematic path to better evidence in older adults may be informed by progress in other special populations. These examples of regulated approaches are actionable for older adults. First, targeted/planned enrollment tables required for sex/race/ethnicity in National Institutes of Health tri- als could serve as a model for required enrollment plans for (Circ Cardiovasc Qual Outcomes. 2015;8:631-633. DOI: 10.1161/CIRCOUTCOMES.115.002158.) © 2015 American Heart Association, Inc. Circ Cardiovasc Qual Outcomes is available at http://circoutcomes.ahajournals.org DOI: 10.1161/CIRCOUTCOMES.115.002158 Cardiovascular Perspective From the Leon H. Charney Division of Cardiology, NYU Langone Medical Center, New York (A.H.S.); and Division of Cardiology, Duke University Medical Center, and Duke Clinical Research Institute, Durham, NC (K.P.A.). This article was handled independently by William B. Borden, MD, as a Guest Editor. The editors had no role in the evaluation of the manuscript or in the decision about its acceptance. Correspondence to Karen P. Alexander, MD, PO Box 3411 DUMC, Durham, NC 27710. E-mail Karen.alexander@duke.edu Older Adults in Clinical Research and Drug Development Closing the Geriatric Gap Adam H. Skolnick, MD; Karen P. Alexander, MD D ow nloaded from http://ahajournals.org by on A pril 5, 2021 mailto:Karen.alexander@duke.edu 632 Circ Cardiovasc Qual Outcomes November 2015 older adults in National Institutes of Health clinical research. Research in support of new drug or device applications to the FDA, which may proceed to commercial use in older adults, should similarly include plans to ensure adequate enrollment of older adults. This would start the conversation early enough in planning to set target numbers of older adults and collect outcomes of relevance to them. Second, Congress could cre- ate an Office of Geriatric Health and Aging within the FDA to review protocols for dosing, enrollment, and data collection in older populations. This office could also monitor progress in the inclusion of older adults in pivotal trials. The FDA has dedicated offices for other special populations, such as the Office of Women’s Health, Office of Minority Health, and Office of Pediatric Therapeutics. The FDA Office of Women’s Health was created by Congressional mandate in 1994 and was associated with substantial improvement in recruitment of women. From 1988 to 1991, 47% of new drug applications analyzed the clinical trial data for sex differences, whereas from 1998 to 2000 these sex-specific analyses increased to ~70%.12 However, no advisory committee or dedicated office exists for older adults to oversee or advocate for their rep- resentation. Third, the Pediatric Exclusivity Rule (1997) provides drug manufacturers a 6-month patent extension for conducting studies in children. From 1998 to 2012 of drugs given such patent extensions, 173 drugs (92%) received new pediatric labeling as a result of targeted studies in children.13 The Pediatric Exclusivity Rule came about through an act of Congress; a similar act should be passed to protect our citizens at the other end of the age spectrum. Both have unique aspects of their physiology, which may alter pharmacokinetics and pharmacodynamics. The analogous Geriatric Exclusivity Rule would build on lessons learned in pediatrics to optimize the economics, feasibility, and compliance with this policy initia- tive and capitalize on methods for mining data from registries and electronic records.14 Moreover, although device approval within the FDA often mandates postmarketing registries, the FDA should similarly approve drugs contingent on accumu- lation of postmarketing safety data in community-treated older adults. Fourth, a geriatric evidence rating in the package insert could provide a simplified uniform risk/benefit score. The Pregnancy Rating Category on labels indicates safety during pregnancy and summarizes strength of evidence for harm. A similar initiative could be used to integrate strength of evidence for risk-to-benefit of a drug in older adults. The analogous Geriatric Rating Category could provide an easy reference for those considering treatment, with highest rating for drugs tested in representative populations with informa- tion on comorbidity, function, drug interactions, and quality of life. This could also provide an incentive for pharmaceutical companies to test medications in older adults to distinguish them from in-class competitors by improving their Geriatric Rating. Engage Patients and Other Stakeholders Perhaps the best hope for closing the geriatric gap is includ- ing consumers, payers, and older adults in the discussion. Our elders, many of whom are eager to connect and contribute to future generations, need education and encouragement to understand participation in clinical trials. Simplified consent forms with large type, added time to consult with family, the use of proxy data or remote follow up, and other ideas can be elicited to overcome barriers to participation. Payers, includ- ing Medicare, could provide education about the importance of research participation in subscriber welcome packets, cre- ating a special identifier for those willing to be contacted for participation. This could spark community wide conversa- tions among older adults about their role as research partici- pants and rights as healthcare consumers. The FDA Office of Women’s Health held regular public webinars in 2015 with stakeholder groups to gather feedback on the pregnancy and lactation labeling changes; if there were an office dedicated to older adults at FDA, similar discussions might occur with respect to labeling changes for older adults.15 One shining example of progress was the Multimorbidity in Cardiovas- cular Disease Conference. In February 2015, the National Institute on Aging, American Geriatrics Society and Ameri- can College of Cardiology cohosted this workshop at which stakeholders from industry, patient representatives, research- ers, and medical authorities met to propose solutions to the challenges of studying complex older populations. Similarly, payers should partner with drug and device manufacturers to identify research priorities for older populations and collabo- rate in research designs. Drugs and devices with best evidence would be given market advantage by payers, a benefit passed on to older adults through safer care at lower costs. When con- sumers exercise their full power, the drug and device indus- try will be motivated to gather this information, regardless of enhanced regulations or advocacy offices. Conclusions Continuing to describe but not close this geriatric gap for another 25 years will send health care for older adults blindly over the demographic cliff ahead. Despite concerns about implementation, cost, and political hurdles, we can learn from progress made for other special populations. It is time to act— we must design and implement mandates, partnerships, and incentives to ensure representation of older adults in the evi- dence which forms the basis of their care. Disclosures None. References 1. 2012 US Census. http://www.census.gov/population/projections/data/ national/2012.html, Accessed April 29, 2015. 2. FDA. Guideline for the Study of Drugs Likely to be Used in the Elderly (1989). FDA Publication. 3. Cherubini A, Oristrell J, Pla X, Ruggiero C, Ferretti R, Diestre G, Clarfield AM, Crome P, Hertogh C, Lesauskaite V, Prada GI, Szczerbinska K, Topinkova E, Sinclair-Cohen J, Edbrooke D, Mills GH. The persistent exclusion of older patients from ongoing clinical trials re- garding heart failure. Arch Intern Med. 2011;171:550–556. doi: 10.1001/ archinternmed.2011.31. 4. Zulman DM, Sussman JB, Chen X, Cigolle CT, Blaum CS, Hayward RA. Examining the evidence: a systematic review of the inclusion and analysis of older adults in randomized controlled trials. J Gen Intern Med. 2011;26:783–790. doi: 10.1007/s11606-010-1629-x. 5. Dhruva SS, Redberg RF. Variations between clinical trial participants and medicare beneficiaries in evidence used for Medicare national cov- erage decisions. Arch Intern Med. 2008;168:136–140. doi: 10.1001/ archinternmed.2007.56. D ow nloaded from http://ahajournals.org by on A pril 5, 2021 http://www.census.gov/population/projections/data/national/2012.html http://www.census.gov/population/projections/data/national/2012.html Skolnick and Alexander Geriatric Gap 633 6. Gurwitz JH, Goldberg RJ. Age-based exclusions from cardiovascular clinical trials: implications for elderly individuals (and for all of us): comment on “the persistent exclusion of older patients from ongoing clinical trials regarding heart failure”. Arch Intern Med. 2011;171:557– 558. doi: 10.1001/archinternmed.2011.33. 7. Food and Drug Administration. International Conference on harmonisa- tion; guidance on e7 studies in support of special populations; geriatrics. Fed Regist. 2012; 77:9948–9949. 8. FDA. Collection, Analysis, and Availability of Demographic Subgroup Data for FDA-Approved Medical Products. FDA Publication, Rockville, MD; 2013. 9. Action Plan for the Collection, Analysis and Availability of Demographic Subgroup Data in Applications for Approval of FDA-Regulated Medical Products. http://www.fda.gov/downloads/RegulatoryInformation/ L e g i s l a t i o n / S i g n i f i c a n t A m e n d m e n t s t o t h e F D C A c t / F DA S I A / UCM410474.pdf. Accessed February 20, 2015. 10. Krantz MJ, Kaul S. Secondary prevention of cardiovascular disease with vorapaxar: a new era of 3-drug antiplatelet therapy? JAMA Intern Med. 2015;175:9–10. doi: 10.1001/jamainternmed.2014.5802. 11. FDA. FDA Drug Trial Snapshots: Zontivity (Vorapaxar) http://www.fda.gov/ Drugs/InformationOnDrugs/ucm423935.htm. Accessed February 20, 2015. 12. Yang Y, Carlin AS, Faustino PJ, Motta MI, Hamad ML, He R, Watanuki Y, Pinnow EE, Khan MA. Participation of women in clinical trials for new drugs approved by the food and drug administration in 2000- 2002. J Womens Health (Larchmt). 2009;18:303–310. doi: 10.1089/ jwh.2008.0971. 13. Li JS, Eisenstein EL, Grabowski HG, Reid ED, Mangum B, Schulman KA, Goldsmith JV, Murphy MD, Califf RM, Benjamin DK Jr. Economic return of clinical trials performed under the pediatric exclusivity pro- gram. JAMA. 2007;297:480–488. doi: 10.1001/jama.297.5.480. 14. Wharton GT, Murphy MD, Avant D, Goldsmith JV, Chai G, Rodriguez WJ, Eisenstein EL. Impact of pediatric exclusivity on drug labeling and demonstrations of efficacy. Pediatrics. 2014;134:e512–e518. doi: 10.1542/peds.2013-2987. 15. Sahin L, Tassinari MS. FDA Initiatives to Meet the Medical Needs of Pregnant and Lactating Women. http://www.diaglobal.org/en/course-listing/ webinar/2015/09/fda-initiatives-to-meet-the-medical-needs-of-pregnant- and-lactating-women-through-improved-labeling-of-medical-products. Accessed December 9, 2015. KEY WORDS: aging ◼ geriatrics ◼ patient-centered care ◼ research ethics ◼ risk D ow nloaded from http://ahajournals.org by on A pril 5, 2021 http://www.fda.gov/downloads/RegulatoryInformation/Legislation/SignificantAmendmentstotheFDCAct/FDASIA/UCM410474.pdf http://www.fda.gov/downloads/RegulatoryInformation/Legislation/SignificantAmendmentstotheFDCAct/FDASIA/UCM410474.pdf http://www.fda.gov/downloads/RegulatoryInformation/Legislation/SignificantAmendmentstotheFDCAct/FDASIA/UCM410474.pdf http://www.fda.gov/Drugs/InformationOnDrugs/ucm423935.htm http://www.fda.gov/Drugs/InformationOnDrugs/ucm423935.htm http://www.diaglobal.org/en/course-listing/webinar/2015/09/fda-initiatives-to-meet-the-medical-needs-of-pregnant-and-lactating-women-through-improved-labeling-of-medical-products http://www.diaglobal.org/en/course-listing/webinar/2015/09/fda-initiatives-to-meet-the-medical-needs-of-pregnant-and-lactating-women-through-improved-labeling-of-medical-products http://www.diaglobal.org/en/course-listing/webinar/2015/09/fda-initiatives-to-meet-the-medical-needs-of-pregnant-and-lactating-women-through-improved-labeling-of-medical-products 
work_rrtcqkhflfcpdcvsz4gqsfdjki	----	ACTA LITERARIA 38.pdf 153 Acta Literaria Nº 38, I Sem. (153-163), 2009 ISSN 0716-0909 Los dos ángeles: Encuentro y desencuentro de dos poemas. Gabriela Mistral y Henry Wadsworth Longfellow* The two angels: Agreement and disagreement between Gabriela Mistral and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow JUAN MANUEL MANCILLA TRONCOSO Universidad de La Serena. Chile piedragua@hotmail.com El fenómeno de la intertextualidad en el opus mistraliano es una posibilidad y condición constante de toda su producción. Son múltiples los envíos a distintos códigos y espectros de significación: culturales, religiosos, mitológicos, filosóficos, teosóficos, ámbitos diversos del conocimiento y la cultura en general, sumariamente, referentes difíciles de claudicar y soslayar al momento de leer los textos de la poeta chilena. Dicho proceder, dota a la obra mistraliana de una de las más notables y deseadas características de la poesía y el arte contemporáneo: obra abierta, receptora y productora de sentidos. Apertura y ambigüedad que se despliega y dialoga como un mosaico polisémico cuya fragmentariedad estaría determinada por el tipo específico de lector que a ella llega. En este sentido, Eco (1992) agrega que “la poética contemporánea nos propone una gama de formas que apelan al movimiento de las perspectivas, a la múltiple variedad de las interpretaciones (…) ninguna obra de arte es cerrada sino que encierra una infinitud de lecturas posibles (105). Estimamos que la inteligencia y “gracia” del programa poético Mistraliano, ante todo se debe a que la poeta tuvo lúcidamente una conciencia crítica y moderna en el sentido rimbaudeano, de lo que es la “abierta” relación en la triada obra lector- interpretación, “conciencia sobre todo del artista, el cual la elige (la apertura) *Esta investigación fue desarrollada en el marco del proyecto DIULS PF/07201 de la Dirección de Investigación de la Universidad de La Serena, 2007. Es producto del Seminario Interdiscipli- nario sobre Gabriela Mistral, desarrollado durante el segundo semestre de 2006, en el marco del curso Semiología de la cultura. Problemas de literatura chilena, MIEL, Depto. Artes y Letras, Universidad de La Serena. 154 ACTA LITERARIA Nº 38, I Sem. 2009 como programa productivo e incluso ofrece su obra para promover la máxima apertura posible (Eco, 1990: 75). Tomando en cuenta estas consideraciones aproximativas en torno al tema del dialogismo de la poesía mistraliana, el presente trabajo analiza concretamente un diálogo intertextual producido por los poemas “Los ángeles” del poeta norteamericano H. Wadsworth Longfellow” y “Los dos ángeles”1 de la escritora chilena. Los “Dos ángeles” (Mistral, 1968) es un poema que forma parte de Tala, su tercer libro y que aparece por primera vez a la circulación pública en el año 1938 en la ciudad de Buenos Aires. Específicamente, el poema forma parte de la sección agrupada bajo el título “Alucinación”. Se trata de un poema amoroso, místico, de carácter epifánico. Es un texto breve, compacto, agrupado en cuatro estrofas. “The two angels” es un poema que forma parte de Birds of passege, libro que data de 1877. Forma parte de la sección agrupada bajo el título “Flight the first”2, Se trata de un poema de carácter mítico/místico, de carácter epifánico y temible. Es un texto extenso, que contrasta notablemente con el de la chilena; de versos tendientes a lo “narrativo” y agrupados en once cuartetos consonantes. La lectura sostenida de ambos textos nos ha permitido plantearnos lo siguiente: ¿Cuál es la relación intertextual entre el poema “Dos ángeles” de Mistral y el poema “Los dos ángeles” de Longfellow? ¿Cuáles son las diferencias específicas entre dos textos temáticamente relacionados? Entonces, el objetivo central de esta nota es evidenciar los puntos de encuentro y desencuentro entre los textos citados, sosteniendo la hipótesis de que la programación textual del poema de la Mistral opera desconstructivamente en la absorción de su pretexto. ANÁLISIS Para la realización de este análisis hemos recurrido al criterio inter e intratextual en el supuesto vinculatorio de los textos. Además, para poder determinar la forma en que la intertextualidad pudiera materializarse en el texto, hemos construido una serie de cuatro cuadros esquemáticos que nos van a permitir evidenciar algunos aspectos que consideramos relevantes. 1Para los efectos de nuestro análisis, hemos considerado la traducción del poema realizada por Diocaretz (1999). 2Nos parece relevante la evidencia que ambos textos aparecen en una serie e inscriptas al interior de un texto mayor. Es significativa, además, la coherencia de la relación semántica de las institula- ciones, a saber, “Alucinación” y “El primer vuelo”, ambas dentro del campo semántico de lo aéreo o fuera del espacio terráqueo y/o de lo ligado a lo consciente. 155 Aspecto temático. El factor principal que justificaría la intertextualidad entre los textos. Para determinar con claridad este aspecto y a modo de evidencia, hemos procedido a categorizar aplicando los siguientes criterios: Tabla 1. Aspecto temático Criterios Longfellow Mistral PA Los dos ángeles Dos ángeles BAC Uno de la Muerte y uno de la Vida el Ángel que da el gozo y el que da la agonía SPP Reconocí la agonía sin nombre, El terror y el temblor y el dolor y me les doy como alga a la ola, contrita. PVA Susurro una palabra cuyo sonido era como la muerte y anudaron el nudo de la muerte con la vida! A Pero uno llevaba corona de amaranto Y el otro de asfódelos, cual copos de luz. si el de color de llama o el color de ceniza PA: presencia angélica. BAC: Binomio angélico contradictor. SPP: Sensaciones produci- das por su presencia. PVA: Propósito de la visita angélica. A: Apariencia. Aspecto semántico. Consiste en agrupar una serie de lexemas que forman parte del texto y que pueden reunirse bajo significados o connotaciones discordantes. Para ello hemos utilizado las siguientes categorías: A) Campo semántico vinculado a las asociaciones topo-espaciales. Es un factor clave para constatar la hipótesis de que el texto base (hipotexto) es desconstruido en la absorción concreta que produce el texto mistraliano. Tabla 2. Resultado campo semántico de las asociaciones topo-espaciales entre los textos Textos Resultados Longfellow 8 menciones a situaciones espaciales referentes al espacio humano y terrestre. 4 menciones a la palabra puerta y 4 a la palabra casa. Mistral 1 mención a una situación espacial. No incurre referencial terráqueo habitado por humanos, sólo el cielo. J.M. MANCILLA T. 156 ACTA LITERARIA Nº 38, I Sem. 2009 B) Campo semántico vinculado a las asociaciones crono-temporales. Es otra variable clave para sostener la relación de existencia y/o co-presencia del hipotexto del poeta norteamericano en el texto mistraliano. Tabla 3. Campo semántico de la asociación crono-temporal Textos Resultados Longfellow Una referencia al momento en que los seres alados se presencian, el alba, el amanecer, la aurora: “Dos ángeles… al romper la mañana pasaron” Mistral De igual manera, el texto mistraliano sitúa temporalmente la aparición /contemplación de los seres angélicos al romper el alba: “Yo sé, cuando amanece” Aspecto formal. Consiste en describir la estructura o tipología textual que conforman ambos textos, que de igual manera pueden constituirse como criterio significativo discordante como argumento para poder constatar nuestra hipótesis. Para ello hemos convenido utilizar (interesadamente) los siguientes criterios de aproximación: Tabla 4. Aspectos formales Criterios Longfellow Mistral CE 11 Cuartetos 4 Estrofas irregulares TR Consonante Blanca TV De tendencia a la extensión De tendencia a la brevedad TP Prosístico/ prosopográfico Críptico/no descriptivo TA Temeroso/dudoso Regocijo/seguridad ALP Enunciativa Carmínica FCP Referencial Emotiva CE: Constitución estrófica. TR: Tipo de rima. TV: Tipo de verso. TP: Tipo de poema. TA: Temple anímico. ALP: Actitud lírica predominante. FCP: Función comunicativa predominante. 157 INTERPRETACIÓN 1. Puntos de encuentro Es efectiva la presencia de dos ángeles en ambos textos. Estos mensajeros, en su étimo griego, mediadores entre el cielo y la tierra (Becker, 1996), a través de los cuales se sirve Dios para hacer cumplir sus designios en la tierra. Sus apariciones son hechos inefables, por ello es que los ángeles son el símbolo de lo invisible, conjunción de fuerzas ascendentes y descendentes entre el creador y las criaturas. Los ángeles de ambos textos se nos muestran en la lectura como culturalmente en Occidente se les conoce: una aparición, una epifanía. Su naturaleza dual, el principio de contradicción que los rige, también se manifiesta en ambos textos: arriba/abajo, mal/bien, blanco/negro. Este carácter contradictorio, dualístico y escindido de los ángeles es manifiesto por ambos textos. De la heterogeneidad o tipos angélicos que han sido representados por el imago religioso cristiano/ occidental; caídos, guardianes, tutelares, exterminadores, ambos textos recortan ese ámbito al de la muerte y a los dadores de la vida: Se juntaron en unas Sus alas enemigas Y anudaron el nudo De la muerte con la vida (Mistral) Dos ángeles, uno de la Muerte y uno de la Vida Por nuestro pueblo al romper la mañana pasaron (Longfellow) En jerarquía, los serafines son los más cercanos a Dios y su trono y llevan cirios encendidos. Querubines son los que llevan símbolos dorados y sabiduría. En el texto de Longfellow no se puede determinar la naturaleza de sus ángeles, tal vez el ángel de amaranto pudiera ser tanto serafín como querubín, pues los símbolos que nos entrega la descripción bien pueden adjudicarse a estas dos categorías: “Pero uno llevaba corona de amaranto, como llama (…)”. En el código simbólico esta flor es signo de inmortalidad y en la iconografía se representa como una doncella que lleva en sus manos un ramo y un disco de oro (Becker, 1996). Tal signo nos hace pensar que por la comparación “como llama” es atribuible la condición de Querubín, ya que éstos llevan símbolos dorados. El envío intertextual del texto mistraliano opera de similar forma en cuanto a las descripciones “físicas” de los ángeles de Longfellow: “si el de color de llama / o el color de ceniza” (Mistral). En este ángel principia el dinamismo, J.M. MANCILLA T. 158 ACTA LITERARIA Nº 38, I Sem. 2009 la constancia cambiante, lo fluyente, lo erótico, mientras que en el otro, “el de asfódelos cual copos de luz”, que en la antigua tradición griega era una planta que ofrendaban a sus muertos, y que en el texto deviene en el principio tanático con la inclusión de un adversativo que opone la similitud antes reconocida por el hablante: Tenían la misma apariencia y actitud, Semejantes rasgos y ropas blancas Pero uno llevaba corona de amaranto, como llama, Y el otro de asfódelos, cual copos de luz (Longfellow) Sobre el momento en que irrumpen en el cielo, ambos textos están situados al alba. Ambas apariciones son al amanecer, momento en que la res natura también está en ese trance de ser no siendo (Valery), como la natura angélica. Ambos hablantes son testigos de la epifánica aparición que tiene lugar en el fotoinstante de la aurora: Yo sé, cuando amanece, cual va regirme el día, (…) (Mistral) (…) Por nuestro pueblo al romper la mañana pasaron; El alba venía en sus semblantes, y abajo, Surgían plumajes de humo funéreos de las casas sombrías (Longfellow) 2. Puntos de desencuentro La apertura textual del poema mistraliano es una negación que resulta ambigua tanto en su disposición o ubicación versátil espacial como por su indeterminación semántica: “No tengo un solo Ángel / con ala estremecida (…)”. Sin embargo, el lexema “solo” funciona tanto en su dimensión adverbial de cantidad como en su designación adjetival de condición de soledad. La relación mencionada cambia notablemente luego que por efecto de lectura se liga el segundo verso y el sentido del primero se completa y complementa. Además, manifiestamente, el sujeto de la enunciación declara que es mecida por estos dos seres. Los ángeles mueven, se mecen. Interesante resulta también aquí el procedimiento mistraliano en el empleo de lexemas contradictorios o figuras bimembres en oposición, a saber: mar /orilla, figuras que en su contracción verbal designan y devienen en el plano semántico como la oscilación constante de casi la totalidad de la obra mistraliana. Poesía del conflicto (Vergara, 1985: 159 72) que ansía un deseo, pero que no se consuma. Coincidimos en lo de conflictivo, sin embargo, en este poema, el sujeto consuma una acción, que agregaríamos es gozosa y resuelve la tensión del conflicto de forma feliz; el hablante se deja asir, permite recogerse por los ángeles, se deja mover por estos dos seres celestes. Estos ángeles son los que invitan a ser partícipe de la epifanía en que los dos hacen del nudo de la muerte un nudo de vida. En este sentido, no coincidimos con las aseveraciones que de la poesía de la Mistral realiza Gastón von dem Bussche (2001), al caracterizarla como de tendencia trágica y sufriente: “La poesía de la Mistral no se conformará jamás en otro plano, no logrará aplacarse entre límites apaciguadores y demarcadores. Esta necesidad de lo Absoluto la lleva de una experiencia trágica del amor a un sentimiento religioso del mundo y el ser y al sentido final de la liberación por la muerte” (103). Por el contrario, vemos en este poema de Tala un acceso gozoso al amor, una contemplación y consumación glorificada en lo erótico. Seguimos a Falabella (2006) cuando insiste en que se realicen lecturas de la Mistral enfocadas hacia los espacios del goce. Consideramos así, que la resolución de este poema es de carácter erótico: “Yo sé, cuando amanece, / cual va regirme el día (…) y me les doy como alga / a la ola, contrita” (…) me mecen como al mar, / mecen las dos orillas”. El tropo erótico opera como un lugar paradójico donde la transgresión de la norma se materializa. (…) Funciona donde el tráfico de la continuidad entre la vida y la muerte, tráfico erótico y suspendido en el tiempo, contagia y asedia a los y las lectoras. (…) el erotismo en la poesía de Gabriela Mistral se constituye como una fuerza simbólica que irrumpe con nuevos lenguaje a patrones anteriores (…) tensionándolos y trabajando sobre sus límites (Falabella, 2006: 352). Aquí se produce uno de los desencuentros más notables entre los textos, ya que el sujeto de la enunciación de la Mistral no siente miedo y participa de lo que sucede en el cielo. En cambio, el sujeto de Longfellow se nos desvela terráqueo e intranquilo, mientras testifica en el alba el vuelo de los ángeles. Se muestra aterrado ante la posibilidad de que el ángel de la muerte lo rapte. Les vi tomar un descanso en su viaje celestial; enseguida dije, con reservada duda y profundos temores ¡no palpites tan fuerte, corazón, no sea que el sitio donde tus seres amados reposan traiciones! J.M. MANCILLA T. 160 ACTA LITERARIA Nº 38, I Sem. 2009 Reconocí la agonía sin nombre, El terror y el temblor y el dolor Que a menudo se me habían aparecido y que ahora retornaban con fuerza tríplice. (…) dije, con reservada duda y profundos temores “¡no palpites tan fuerte, corazón, no sea que el sitio donde tus seres amados reposas traiciones!” (Longfellow). Mientras que en el texto de la Mistral, el sujeto de la enunciación goza del encuentro con los seres alados. A través de uso del verbo en pasado evidencia haber ya participado en la consumación de algo junto a ellos en aquella mañana epifánica: Solo una vez volaron con las alas unidas: el día del amor, el de la epifanía (Mistral). Luego, en Longfellow, los ángeles descienden a la Tierra, uno a la casa del testigo (el de vida) y el otro, el del mal, el de la muerte, a la habitación de una de las casas vecinas del pueblo. El de la muerte arrebata el alma de un ser para llevarlo consigo. Luego, el sujeto de la enunciación apela de forma desafiante al lector, sobre la posibilidad de que un ángel pueda aparecer ante “nuestras” vidas; finalizando con una pregunta retórica: No vino a la mía, amigo, sino a tu puerta, el ángel de la corona amarantina, Haciendo una pausa, descendió, y con voz divina (…) Susurro una palabra cuyo sonido era como la muerte “¿Quién, por tanto, al creer esto, se atreve o desea, cerrar ante sus mensajeros la puerta…? (Longfellow). Sobre este punto podemos comentar que el desencuentro producido entre los textos es notablemente desconstructivo en la concreción del poema mistraliano, ya que en él no existe la apelación al lector, sino que el texto se abre, se muestra visualmente como una invitación testificadora, un participar de la lectura como intromisión/introducción efectiva y corporal al texto. Simultáneamente, en la lectura visual del mismo, por su especial conformación estrófica. La situación 161 del lector está en una relación/posición de testigo de lo que sucede entre los ángeles y el sujeto de la enunciación. Un proceder similar, nota Falabella(2006) en su lectura sobre el poema “Íntima”: Otra manera de trabajar la vertiginosidad erótica se produce a través de la escritura en primera persona. Ha un acto doble de desnudar los sentimientos prohibidos, el de los amantes como unidad [el remarcado es nuestro] (…) el verso atrapa vertiginosamente al lector convirtiéndolo en un espectador amoroso (Falabella, 2006: 348). Destacamos la especial y notable disposición/distribución del poema mistraliano, puesto que visualmente su conformación estrófica: 8 6 4 4 que si mirado el texto siguiendo una orientación desde abajo hacia arriba, deviene en una escalera formada por ascendentes peldaños versales que invitan al lector a subir hasta el cielo y llegar a la cima junto con los dos ángeles. Distinto del poema del inglés ya que allí se involucra al lector de manera intimidante, de manera que el sujeto de la enunciación advierte en tono irónico que “No vino a mi a la mía, amigo,/ sino a tu puerta el ángel de la corona amarantina”. El texto de Longfellow podríamos llamarlo poema-relato, dado que la lectura se ofrece como la narración (poética) de un hecho sucedido, de una impresión que debe ser “contada”. En sí, el texto se abre cuando al amanecer sucede la aparición de dos ángeles, que son observados con asombro por un testigo. Luego, se detienen en su viaje alado y al testigo le comienzan a invadir temores sobre lo que harán con él. RESULTADOS El análisis realizado ha demostrado que la relación del envío y diálogo intertextual es controversial. La concretización del poema mistraliano es descontructiva respecto de la absorción de su hipotexto inglés. El número de encuentros es evidentemente menor a la cantidad de desencuentros que se producen entre ellos. Textos que por su temática similar y que a simple vista y superficialmente, pareciera se comportarían de la misma manera. En conclusión, los textos terminan más distanciados que (con) fundidos. A continuación, se evidencian los puntos de encuentro y desencuentro entre los textos. J.M. MANCILLA T. 162 ACTA LITERARIA Nº 38, I Sem. 2009 Tabla 5. Puntos de encuentro y desencuentro Encuentros Desencuentros Los dos ángeles Longfellow Dos ángeles Mistral Los dos ángeles Longfellow Dos ángeles Mistral Dos ángeles El alba Apariencia Dos ángeles El alba Apariencia Terror Muerte Separados Resistencia Inseguridad Terráqueos Gozo Vida Unidos Entrega Seguridad Aéreos CONCLUSIONES De los resultados mostrados, del análisis e interpretación, podemos inferir las siguientes conclusiones: 1) La posibilidad de leer los poemas “Los dos ángeles” y “Dos ángeles” en relación intertextual es efectiva. Dicha vinculación puede comprenderse en un diálogo que correlaciona los textos en una dialogía polémica. Longfellow otorga al sujeto de la enunciación un padecimiento, mientras que en el texto mistraliano, la resolución última es feliz y gozosa de ese misterio celestial. Otra vez, Mistral se nos revela contradictoria y transgresora3 más aun, cuando aparentemente (homología/analogía) en la superficie, los textos se mimetizan. Sus ángeles no bajan a la tierra; invierte la tradición de las apariciones angelicales. No son los dos ángeles los que se le aparecen a un humano, sino lo humano se presencia ante esta danza supracósmica. Invitan a ser partícipe de la epifanía en que tres desatados del nudo de la muerte se atan al des/nudo de la vida. El texto de la Mistral invierte el sentido de muerte manifestado en el hipotexto inglés. Retórica y goce de la erótica, triunfo de Eros sobre Tanatos. 2) El análisis aquí propuesto nos ha permitido evidenciar ciertas características específicas que definen la relación entre el poema de la Mistral con el de 3Recordamos aquí impostergablemente, quizás, uno de los más estremecedores poemas de- dicados a la poetisa: la portentosa “Elegía a Gabriela Mistral” de Enrique Lihn: “Dirán que se ha dormido para siempre, dirán /que un ala color fuego y otra color ceniza / el ángel de su voz baja por ella (…)”. 163 Longfellow. Recordemos que la mayoría de los ejemplos que propusimos como puntos de desencuentro están operando en campo semántico entre “Los dos ángeles” de Longfellow y los “Dos ángeles” de Mistral, mientras que en los ejemplos que propusimos como puntos de encuentro predominaron, evidentemente, aquellos en los que el diálogo se hacía más directo o específico a nivel superficial, incluso pudiendo (pidiendo) confundir a un “despreocupado” lector. Si estas apreciaciones son extensibles en el poema “El ángel guardián” de Robert Browning, pueden ser motivo para otro trabajo en que desarrollemos esta misma línea teórica. 3) En este estudio dimos cuenta de cómo contribuye la teoría intertextual sobre la actualización de los potenciales de sentidos presentes en una obra, pues, concluyendo que el texto de la Mistral no se reduciría o se resiste a ser solamente un poema más que revela la americanidad de Tala. Si bien es cierto que esto no es nuevo para la crítica especializada, tampoco es equívoco que la intertextualidad aquí propuesta es, por lo menos, novedosa. Por esto mismo, creemos que el análisis no deja de resultar una alternativa legítima al momento de aproximarse a la multiplicidad de sentidos que la obra de Mistral apertura. REFERENCIAS Becker, Udo. (1996). Enciclopedia de los símbolos. Barcelona. Robinbook. Diocaretz, Myriam. 1999. Aire y ángeles. Madrid: Grijalbo/Mondadori. Eco, Umberto. 1990. Lector in fábula (la cooperación interpretativa en el texto narrativo). Barcelona: Editorial Lumen. ___. 1992. Obra abierta. Trad. Roser Berdagué. Buenos Aires: Planeta. Falabella, Soledad. 2006. “¿Qué está en el beso y no es el labio? Placer, ética erótica y lengua maternal en un poema de Desolación de Gabriela Mistral”, en Mapocho II semestre. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 1877. Birds of passage. Ebook: The Project Gutemberg. [En línea] Disponible en http://www.gutemberg.net. [Consulta: 13/10/2007). Mistral, Gabriela. 1968. Poesías completas. Margaret Bates (ed). Madrid: Aguilar. 4ta edición. Vergara, Sergio. 1985. “Lectura de la copa”, en Estudios Filológicos 20, pp. 69-82. Von dem Bussche, Gastón. 2001. “Visión de una poesía”, en Mapocho 49. J.M. MANCILLA T. 
work_s6rn64ytyjhofpxugstguu4oea	----	DRAFT An “Eye-talian” in the New World: Cognitive Estrangement and Diglossia in Antonio Gallenga's Early Italian American Narrative* Giulia Iannuzzi in Re-Mapping Italian America. Places, Cultures, Identities, eds. Sabrina Vellucci and Carla Francellini, New York: Bordighera Press, 2018: 139-153. ISBN: 9781599541167. ABSTRACT "On the 15th of August, 1836, I was born again" is the incipit of that extraordinary and little known autobiography which is Antonio Gallenga's "Episodes of my Second Life" (1885). The 15th of August, 1836 is the day Gallenga embarked from Gibraltar for New York, and the opening of this text, as well as its title, emphasizes very well the beginning of the transoceanic journey as a turning point in the author's life. A close reading of the the text focuses on three central aspects: the narration of the self, with specific attention devoted to the migration experience as a source of estrangement and to the relationship between the narrating and the narrated "I"s; the linguistic self-consciousness of the narrator and the character; images of America and placement/locating of the self. These elements allow to explore how the migration experience was conceptualized and which critical and literary devices where put at work by an author whose literary awareness render this text a rare narration between autobiography, travel journal, memoire, auto-fiction. This essay – working at the theoretical intersection between Italian American Studies and Speculative Fiction Studies – puts forward new observations the role played by estrangement mechanism in early Italian American narratives. There is a promising territory of theoretical dialogue between Italian American and speculative fiction studies, which may be developed starting from estrangement mechanisms as a common matrix between the disadjustment experienced by the subject during the migration process, and the projective and extrapolative mechanisms typically exploited in speculative fiction narratives to imagine future or alternate worlds. In some ways, the migrant has encountered in actuality that radical otherness that speculative * I wish to express my deepest gratitude to Leonardo Buonomo and Nicholas Grosso for all their valuable suggestions and notes on the first draft of this essay. 1 DRAFT fiction puts on page, be it in a New World in which the utopian imagination that governed expectations is put to the test or in a new idea and narration of the self, emerging after deep processes of identity negotiations, when in contact with new social groups, forms of collective organization, physical places, languages and mindsets. Darko Suvin, pre-eminent scholar in the foundation and affirmation of science fiction studies in the English-speaking academic world (and beyond), derived his concept of cognitive estrangement on the one hand, from the Formalist notion of ostranenie theorized by Viktor Shklovsky as the elective instrument of art to disrupt our automatic mechanisms of perception and conceptualization,1 and on the other, from Bertoldt Brecht's closely related but Marx-inflected development (alienation), arguing that it was fundamental to distinguish the concept for the genre of science fiction writing. The key to cognitive estrangement is the presence, in a story, of what Suvin called a novum, namely an element which, because of its absolute newness, impedes our automatic conceptualization, inviting us to imagine a different way of conceiving our subjectivity and our world.2 I think that the displacement experienced in the course of migration3 provides significant moments of disadjustment, having a similar effect to a novum, and foster more complex processes of identity problematization and critical reflections on society, which we may now read in Italian American narratives, including early narratives – written and/or published and/or referring to experiences occurring before the 1880s.4 Narrating a new self 1 See, for example, “The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects 'unfamiliar', to make forms difficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception because the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and must be prolonged. Art is a way of experiencing the artfulness of an object; the object is not important.” Viktor Shklovsky, “Art as Technique” (1917), in Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, eds., Literary Theory: An Anthology (Blackwell, 1998) 15-21, qt. 16. Cf. Carlo Ginzburg, “Making Things Strange: The Prehistory of a Literary Device” (1996), in Wooden Eyes: Nine Reflections on Distance, tr. by Martin Ryle and Kate Soper (Columbia University Press, 2001) 1-24. 2 Suvin went further, proposing a rather exclusive definition of the science fiction genre based on the idea of cognitive estrangement, which emphasizes the rational scientific dimension of the genre and rigorously excludes fantasy fiction. Subsequent generations of scholars have pointed out the limitations of Suvin's approach and were able to refine it (for example, by replacing the idea of reality with a more epistemologically negotiable concept of paradigm of reality. See Patrick Parrinder, ed., Learning from other Worlds: Estrangement, Cognition and the Politics of Science Fiction and Utopia (Liverpool University Press, 2000) esp. 36-50). 3 Teresa Fiore, “Lunghi viaggi verso 'Lamerica' a casa: straniamento e identita nelle storie di migrazione italiana,” Annali d'Italianistica, 2 4 , Negotiating Italian Identities (2006), 87-106; Ginzburg, “Making Things Strange.” 4 Francesco Durante, Italoamericana: Storia e letteratura degli italiani negli Stati Uniti, 1776-1880 (Mondadori, 2001). 2 DRAFT Antonio Gallenga's autobiography, Episodes of My Second Life (American and English Experiences), is a case in point. Published in London in 1884-85 (in two volumes) and again in Philadelphia in 1885,5 the Episodes narrate Gallenga's life starting with his decision to move to America to where he embarked in 1836, at the age of 26, after taking part in the 1831 insurrection in Parma and plotting the assassination of Carlo Alberto in 1833. Antonio Gallenga (alias Luigi Mariotti), 1810-1895, was born in Parma; and was a medical student before his studies were interrupted by his part in the 1831 insurrection in Parma. He became member of La giovine Italia, and in 1833 planned the assassination of Carlo Alberto, king of Sardinia, but in Turin he changed his mind and did not carry out the plan. In 1834, working as private tutor for a Neapolitan diplomat, he was in Malta, and then in Tangiers, from where he set sail for New York in 1836. From New York he went to Boston, where he did not manage to obtain the teaching position he wanted at Harvard University, but worked in David Mack’s School for Young Ladies. In 1839 he moved to London, where he collaborated with cultural reviews, and in 1840 he was in Florence. After a new attempt at teaching in Nova Scotia he went back to London, where he continued his writing activities and had contacts with Mazzini. In 1848, back in Italy, the Alfieri government gave him a diplomatic post in Frankfurt.6 Between 1949 and 1959 he taught at University College in London for ten years, before being hired by The Times, for which he wrote reportages and analysis on Italy (1859-60) as well as the United States during the Civil War (1863), Denmark during the conflict with Prussia in 1864, revolutionary Spain (1865-66, 1868-69), Prussia (1866, 70-71), Cuba (1873), Istanbul (1875). He was fired in 1884 after the English first edition of the Episodes, in which he made an open depiction of The Times internal affairs. He retired with his second wife to the countryside in Llandogo, where he died in 1895.7 5 Antonio Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life: (American and English Experiences) (1884-85) (J. B. Lippincott & co., 1885). Subsequent quotes are taken from this edition. 6 The diplomatic appointment was short-lived after he attempted to promote an alliance between Sardinia and Austria, which would have left Lombardy and the duchies abandoned to their own fates instead of defending the cause of Italian independence, as he was supposed to do. Other political parenthesis will come between 1854 and 1856, when he was elected to the Piedmont parliament, and in 1861, with the election in the national parliament. 7 Scholarship on Gallenga includes mostly historical reconstructions of his life, but the most exhaustive is still Aldo Garosci, Antonio Gallenga: Avventura, politica e storia nell'Ottocento italiano (Einaudi, 1964); Garosci’s biography was preceded by Hugh Chisholm, ed. “Gallenga, Antonio Carlo Napoleone,” in Encyclopædia Britannica, 11th ed., (Cambridge University Press, 1911); and followed by briefer entries in biographical dictionaries and encyclopedias: Luca Codignola, “Gallenga, Antonio Carlo Napoleone,” in Chiara Evangelista, ed., I primi italiani in America del Nord. Dizionario biografico dei liguri, piemontesi e altri. Storie e presenze italiane tra Settecento e Ottocento (Diabasis per la Fondazione Casa America, 2009) 103-106; Giuseppe Monsagrati, “Gallenga, Antonio Carlo 3 DRAFT The first half of the Episodes is dedicated to his years in the United States (1836- 38), the second to the years 1839-80, hinting pretty clearly to the special role of the American experience in the author's life. In the Episodes, it might be argued that Gallenga is testifying on the migration experience as “the ultimate form of cognitive estrangement.” “On the 15th of August, 1936, I was born again:” no formulation could be more effective than the one forecasting the trip to America at the beginning of the first chapter of the Episodes, to describe how deep the turning point constituted by the migration movement affected the author's identity, its construction and narration. Antonio Gallenga's autobiography Episodes of My Second Life: (American and English Experiences), offers us an incredible testimony of an early Italian American experience, marked by an high degree of literary and linguistic self-awareness and by a relevant distance between narrating and narrated “I”s. It might be worth emphasizing that, as we shall see in subsequent paragraphs, Gallenga's migration was professionally driven: a comparable cognitive estrangement would be all the more striking for people following his steps with a far less secure professional and personal situation. The narration of the self epitomizes the migration experience as a source of estrangement, underlined by the presence of markedly discrete narrating and the narrated "I"s, of which the linguistic self-consciousness (of the narrator and the character) is a conspicuous correlative objective. The relationship between the narrating and the narrated “I”s is made more complex by the relatively long period elapsed between the narrated events and the actual writing – almost 50 years – and by the literary self-awareness of the author. Gallenga is a learned man; during his political exile he was first in Corsica, and then in Tangiers, earning a living as a teacher of Italian – or as he puts it ironically “a dealer in participles”8 just as many of his compatriots in the United States during the same years.9 The text is interspersed with comments and judgments offered by Gallenga the narrator, on the actions and thoughts of the narrated Gallenga, with a retrospective gaze that reveals the extent to which the experience changed him and how he perceived himself, often in an amusing way, occasionally patronizing his younger self. Napoleone,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani 51 (1998), http://www.treccani.it/biografico/, ad vocem. Especially on the Boston years: Renzo Dionigi, An Italian Exile in Brahmin Boston 1836- 1839: Antonio Gallenga, (Insubria University Press, 2006); on the English years: Toni Cerutti, Antonio Gallenga: An Italian writer in Victorian England (Oxford University Press, for the University of Hull, 1974); of some interest on the experience at the Harvard School for Young Ladies: Claudia Biraghi, “Following in the Footsteps of Antonio Gallenga,” New England Ancestors 7.1 (Winter 2006): 29-31. 8 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 8, cf. Durante, Italoamericana 203. 9 Emilio Goggio, “Italian Educators in Early American Days,” Italica 8.1 (1931): 5-8; Howard R. Marraro, “Pioneer Italian Teachers of Italian in the United States,” The Modern Language Journal 28.7 (1944): 555-82; Joseph J. Fucilla, The Teaching of Italian in the United States: A Documentary History (American Association of Teachers of Italian, 1967). 4 http://www.treccani.it/biografico/ DRAFT For example, the captain of the ship Independence taking him to New York (so much for “talking names!”) “... came up to the ideal I had, in my silly imagination, conceived of the typical Yankee ....”10 Gallenga would soon move to Boston, but his first stop was in New York, that might at that time be described as a town with one street. Broadway was its only real thoroughfare ... I had seen nothing like it, unless it might be Toledo at Naples, - a street which might boast ten times the noise but not half the actual movement of this transatlantic Babylon. ... The impression of novelty, however, was not very deep, and soon wore off. ... What struck me as the wonder of wonders in the place was “to see myself there.” “What!” I said to myself, “was I really in America, ‒ alone in a world to which I came unbidden, unexpected, utterly unknown, with barely the most rudimental acquaintance with its language, and no knowledge of its ways, its laws and customs, ‒ without one friend, with credentials the value of which was yet to be tested, and with only forty poor dollars on my pocket?”11 That “[t]he impression ... soon wore off” is not exactly true: the text is scattered with depictions of people, their customs, places, the narrating self always commenting, explaining and putting into perspective what his young eyes registered, with an informative attitude, in its depiction of Boston Brahim society, religion, politics, customs, and culture derived from the prolific activity of reportage writing which Gallenga did for the London Times between 1849 and 1859. Many other descriptions follow of the American streets and crowds – in Boston for example, “the Athens of the United States, and the 'Hub of the Universe',” where the young Gallenga wandered around in great need and difficulty (being out of a job and with no friends to help him, in a situation that seemed briefly to be hopeless), while the older Gallenga comments “All this seemed very hard to me at the time. But I have learned what the world is since ....”12 An Eye-talian in Boston Brahim Society 10 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 17, emphasis added. 11 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 29-30. Emphasis added. 12 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life, respectively from pages 71, 58-60, 61-62. 5 DRAFT Focusing attention on the language and specifically on peculiar expressions of literary self-awareness,13 in Gallenga's case we find a particular linguistic self- consciousness, which is possible thanks to Gallenga being a learned person14 and partly a consequence of the intellectual distance that separates the narrating and the narrated “I”s. Teacher of Italian and then Modern Languages, amateur writer, the young Gallenga in Tangiers also composed, in Italian, “Romanze, or ballads on chivalrous subjects ... attuning my verses to some of Bellini's airs, popular at that epoch. They belonged to what was called the 'romantic school', based on the study of German and English literature, of which Manzoni, Grossi, Berchet, and other Lombards had taken the lead,”15 poems the reading of which will be friendly and affably demanded by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, at the time Professor of European Languages at Harvard, who Gallenga met during his months of teaching at the Harvard Young Ladies’ Academy of Cambridge, Massachusetts.16 While reporting on his American experience, the narrator often describes the struggle of his young self with spoken English.17 During a conversation with Edward Everett, the governor of Massachusetts,18 the narrator notes: “Though he was a great linguist, it was only in cases of extreme necessity that he spoke in any other language than his own, ‒ his principle being that if one of the talkers was to be embarrassed and at a disadvantage it should be rather his interlocutor than himself; whilst for my own part I was glad that such was his choice, as when any language has to be murdered I always prefer that it should be any other than mine.”19 13 In devoting specific attention to the language and to the peculiar expression of linguistic self- awareness, we are following Martino Marazzi, A occhi aperti: Letteratura dell’emigrazione e mito americano (FrancoAngeli, 2011). 14 Among the literary references that punctuate the text, Dante appears as a milestone of the Italian canon (Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 4, 41, 63, 64, 83, 87, 103, 140, 148, 221, 226, 319, 331, 372, 374, 451). Dante is quoted by the narrator to comment on what happens to his young self (eg. “the salt that savors other people's bread...” 4), on various subjects, often as a life mentor or historical point of reference (41, 140, 319, 374, 451) and as a father of the Italian identity and national cause (along with Machiavelli, 372); is a topic of conversation and learned discussions with Pietro Bachi and Pietro D'Alessandro (63-64), of teaching (83, 87, 221, 226, 331), of translation (by Longfellow, 103). Other “literary founding fathers” of Italian identity appear, including Pellico, Alfieri, Mazoni, Foscolo. Cf. Gallenga's essays and companions of Italian literature, such as his article on “Romantic Poetry in Italy,” The North American Review XLVII (1838); Italy: Past and Present, 2 vols. (J. Chapman, 1848-49). 15 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 132. 16 The Academy has been more recently identified with the School for Young Ladies directed in Cambridge by David Mack (imprecisely mentioned as “Marx” in the Episodes): Dionigi, An Italian Exile in Brahmin Boston 1836-1839 99 and ff.; Biraghi, “Following in the Footsteps of Antonio Gallenga” 29. 17 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 17, 52. 18 Dionigi, An Italian Exile 47-53, esp. note 115 for further references. 19 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 36. 6 DRAFT While trying to improve his English, he received precious help from a woman, a widow, at the first boarding-house he stayed at in Boston. The young Gallenga took a fancy to her (the narrator commenting “What defence [sic] I had against her?”),20 and she gave him some English lessons: “There was an ecstasy of the senses, but there was also improvement to the mind, as I watched the movements of her lips and the expression of her eyes, to catch the peculiar lisp of the 'th,' the hissing of the 'sh,' the stronger or softer aspiration of the 'h'.”21 Along with his own personal difficulties and struggles, Gallenga’s being a foreigner was often exposed ‒ deliberately or not ‒ by others, singling him out, calling him “eye-talian” or “signiò” or “signor,”22 as much as for his own communication shortcomings in everyday life, let alone the limitations posed by a poor mastery of the language in the image of the self presented in social and professional relationships (e.g. lacking ease, self confidence and naturalness in verbal interaction, which was felt all the more important by a professional language teacher and writer, projecting himself as a well educated person). The reader must not imagine that I had been very ready with my English even in my intercourse with Mr. Everett, Mr. Quincy, or young Mills, educated men though they were, who spoke slowly and deliberately, shaping their sentences in that manner and giving them those turns which they thought could best convey their meaning to one who knew only as much of English as book-learning could impart. With illiterate persons, as those only conversant with one language may in our days be called, as with mere children, the beginning is much harder; but when you perceive that they have only one word for an idea, when they insist on screaming out that word till they think they have overcome your deafness, somehow you get on better, ‒ in this as in any other study necessity being after all the best mistress.23 Given the efforts Gallenga made during his first twelve months in the US to became fluent enough to work as a teacher, it came as the highest mark of praise to be asked by Henry Ware Jr. ‒ professor of pulpit eloquence and pastoral care at the Harvard Divinity School, and co-editor of the “North American Review” ‒ to lecture at Harvard, where he had not been able to fulfill his ambition of obtaining a professorship 20 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 55. 21 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 56. 22 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life respectively 50 and ff., 57 and ff. 23 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 52-53. 7 DRAFT in Italian (a position filled by Pietro Bachi).24 While the invitation came after the circulation of a manuscript in which Gallenga mocked and parodied the style of previous lecturers, the author still ironically lamented lacking confidence in speaking: ... how could I muster an accent that would make me intelligible? I can tell you that I hardly ever address a street-porter, a house-maid, or even the postman, to ask my way, without being met by a blank stare, and a 'Me no parle vous'. ... Consciousness of unconquerable shyness disquieted me; and there were peculiar combinations of English consonants, such as the w and wh and still more the s after the th in months, truths, etc., to which my Italian teeth and lips positively refused to give utterance.25 Proficiency and command of pronunciation were in fact perceived as markers of social position and/or integration, and the emerging of an Italian inflection was feared as comparable to the ones typical of low social statuses, or, when counterbalanced by the awareness of the richness and beauties of the native tongue, anyway as a limitation in the second language mastery, cause of unwelcome distinction: “We have also no aspirations in Italian, and, do what I might, I never felt sure that I would not, in an unguarded moment, drop my h's like a cockney. The natural melody and smoothness of our Italian language, besides, rendered it extremely difficult to keep my intonation from falling into a monotonous cantilena, or sing-song.”26 The contention that English is a language better learned by use than by the systematic study of the grammar27 had to come to terms with the necessity of becoming competent beyond mere correctness, to be able to give voice to one's literary aspirations,28 in the persuasion that “Thought must come forth soul and body from the 24 “'... I maintain, that you have acquired a mastery over our language that seems to me surprising, and that I find in your manner something quaint and outlandish, maybe, but not un-English, ‒ some happy turn of your Latin phrase into our Saxon idiom, by which you almost seem to teach us our English, and to find in it what we would vainly seek in it ourselves.' It may be easily believed that such words from such a man called up a flush of color on my cheeks. But I gulped down the emotion of gratified vanity that was rising in my breast, and answered, without affected humility ... .” Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 129. 25 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 129, 132. 26 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 52-53. 27 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 134, 152. 28 “a language like the English is best learned and written by use. Grammar, however, is as indispensable for a writer as drawing for an artist, and we must master it, no matter whether by precept or practice; there were a thousand pitfalls and snares about some parts of speech, and especially about the prepositions in and on, at and to, by and with, etc., into which, without her warning, I was unconsciously fall-ing; and I could never be sufficiently thankful for the strict, severe, minute censorship which pointed them out. But I aspired to something more than mere correctness. I wished my English to be as much as possible like that of the authors I most admired, Bulwer, Disraeli, 8 DRAFT brain that conceives it: it only lives through the words. Hence is translation so difficult ....”29 Gallenga's Italian mindset inevitably appeared in his construction of sentences and speeches, but it may be forgiven, and even appreciated by his audience as “quaint and outlandish,”30 part of the speaker's personal style and competence in a foreign language which enjoys the association with the community of Italian exiles in Boston, a small group of well educated, literate people including Pietro Bachi and Pietro D'Alessandro.31 The relationship, therefore, between the narrated and narrator and English is an effective synecdoche of Gallenga’s relationship with the migration experience both in the present of the story and of the discourse. In the present of the story language is a “objective correlative” of the cognitive estrangement experienced through the migration process, symptom of the young Gallenga relative extraneousness in the new context; in the present of the discourse, the narrator reflections on his past struggles with language effectively mark the distance between the narrated and narrating “I”'s (also, implicitly, being described in a text written in English). On the English backdrop, Italian language became part of a peculiar diglossia. Dante's speech, associated with the Risorgimento's exiles in the United States, acted, for Gallenga, as primary indicator of the self: a symptom of his otherness in the new country, but also a source of income, thanks to teaching positions, at the same time an element that prevented a full assimilation as part of the local elites, as well as a positive element in the building of a presentable social image of the self. Distantiating Utopia Utopian projections32 interact with identity-building processes in Italian American experience, an American otherness was repeatedly imagined and conceptualized at different levels and in different moments of the migration process. I am assuming as a working hypothesis that mechanisms of utopian (in the broader sense) extrapolation offered critical tools that authors were able to exploit while conceptualizing their experience of the North American otherness – which became an ideal mirror, and a vantage point from which to reflect on the present state of the country of origin and Carlyle, Washington Irving, and the like.” Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 152. 29 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 155. 30 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 170. 31 Durante, Italoamericana 201-237, 292-311. 32 Tom Moylan, Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination (1986) (Lang, 2014); Tom Moylan and Raffaella Baccolini, eds., Utopia Method Vision: The Use Value of Social Dreaming (Lang, 2007). 9 DRAFT personal trajectory (a critical perspective that in recent years is being fruitfully applied to other cultural and/or linguistic areas, within the framework of postcolonial studies as it intersects with speculative fiction studies).33 I n Episodes of My Second Life, we can notice a utopian drive at work in the building of certain expectations. Before arriving in the United States, the narrator came into contact with other people, who tended to present a positive image of the United States. For example, when Gallenga decided to leave Tangiers, the English consul advised against England (“London, he said, was, for a friendless stranger, a terrible place. Competition in every branch of business was appalling, overwhelming, crushing,” 10), and directed him to his American colleague, who, in turns, depicted an opposite image of the United States: “A big country that! Room for everybody there! You will find your place ready for you as if you had bespoken beforehand. It is of men like you that want is particularly felt in our trading community. We have plenty of storekeepers, land-agents, and politicians. Give us scholars and gentlemen, men of taste and refinement. I shall be more than happy – I shall be proud – to introduce you to the best of my acquaintance ....”34 The narrator was here reporting the American consul’s words, while he himself appeared from the beginning to be more skeptical and aware of the uncertainties that lay ahead. In a chapter significantly entitled “The Pillars Of Hercules” ‒ underlining that an invisible, yet intensely perceived line had been crossed ‒, the trip to America is described as an unsettling “leap in the dark:” “I had torn myself from my moorings, and was like a waif adrift in the ocean, with no other prospects on landing than to be launched into another unknown sea of trouble and dangers.”35 The decision was made, the young Gallenga had resolved to carry out his project, but there would appear to be no promises: “If I was to go, the sooner and the farther I went, the better. I would follow in the wake of Columbus and Cortes. Like the latter, I would burn my ships. Like the former, I would find a new world – a new life – or be drowned.”36 A sensation that the young Gallenga would not lose, even after arriving in New York and then Boston, when 33 E.g. Lyman Tower Sargent, “Utopianism and National Identity,” Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 3 (2000): 87-106; Ralph Pordzik, The Quest for Postcolonial Utopia: A Comparative Introduction to the Utopian Novel in the New English Literatures (Lang, 2001); Pordzik, “A Postcolonial View of Ireland and the Irish Conflict in Anglo-Irish Utopian Literature since the Nineteenth Century,” Irish Studies Review 9.3 (2001): 331-46. 34 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 12-13. 35 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 16. 36 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 12. 10 DRAFT his new life had to be faced with all its (mostly financial and professional) difficulties: “I felt now, as I had expected, that it would not be without a struggle that I could obtain a footing on this slippery and stubborn though on the whole friendly and hospitable Yankee-land.”37 When he spoke to the captain of the Independence, with his little English “ ... the dialogue soon sinking to a pattering monologue, in which all I could make out was that, what with the bigness of his country, the Boston gals, mint-juleps and sherry cobblers, and dollars, and again dollars, and many dollars, I had only to wait till I came in sight of Sandy Hook, and would soon see what a Paradise 'Merikey' would be for me.”38 While it is clear that the young Gallenga moved to the United States in search of a better professional position for himself, we can sense how the perspective of the narrator is weighing up the words of others critically even while he is reporting them, using the knowledge of his experience. Gallenga is reporting on an early American dream, quite conscious of its volatile substance. The ship’s captain’s exaggeration is made rhetorically clear, the black cook on t h e Independence is a runaway slave from Georgia, the whole trip to New York is described as an excruciating experience (sea sickness and lethargy, equinoctial tempests, the “horrid monkey”39 that the captain keeps as a pet, the shortage of food...). America is a land of trades, of dollars, of self-promotion,40 but also of women’s independence,41 of the religious tolerance that characterizes New England after an early season of prosecution and bigotry,42 and so on. Final Remarks Sampling those loci in which Gallenga's narrating “I” throws a retrospective gaze 37 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 35. 38 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 18. 39 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 20. 40 When the young Gallenga, looking for a job as a private tutor and has to write an advertisement to be published in a newspaper in Boston, is advised by Pietro Bachi: “'That I call blowing my own trumpet,' said I. 'Who do you expect will blow it for you?'” Bachi answered. “'How do you like America?' And he went on without awaiting my answer: 'You will like it, I am sure. A great country, sir! Room for everybody here! ...' They were apparently the stereotyped phrases with which a stranger in want of employment was usually encouraged in the United States.” Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 40, 48. 41 For example: “I knew absolutely nothing of the nature and fashion of American women. Women in the States were then, and are still more now, absolute mistresses of their own world and of themselves.” Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 54. 42 Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 72, where the narrator comments with curiosity on Congregationalist communities and religious discussions which are “daily bread to the Anglo-Saxon race ... I had lived in countries where tyranny forced me to agree; I had come to countries where liberty allows them only to agree upon disagreeing.” Gallenga, Episodes of My Second Life 75. 11 DRAFT on his younger self, we focused how the migration experience, working as a source of estrangement, changed the author and his auto-perception. The linguistic self- consciousness of the narrator ‒ his working as a teacher of Italian and Modern Languages and his being part of Boston literary society, the relationship that the young Gallenga had with his first and second languages are important parts ‒ and at the same time effective synecdoches ‒ of his relationship with the migration experience, both in the present of the story, when the young Gallenga is struggling to find a socially and professionally well integrated and successful position, and in the present of the discourse, when an older Gallenga is looking back on his American experience. Language contributed in how an American otherness was imagined and conceptualized by Gallenga. Here pragmatism and disenchantment ‒ for example in the skeptical and/or ironic reception of ideal images of the US proposed by other characters, and in the lucid pondering of small and big difficulties encountered while trying to settle in in the country of adoption ‒ influenced identity-building processes, affecting the articulation of expectations, the metabolization of new encounters and circumstances, the creation of narratable images of America, and, in them, the (cultural, social, professional) placement/locating of the self. T h e Episodes case shows how critical categories refined in speculative fiction studies such as cognitive estrangement and utopian projections can be put to use to better study and understand early Italian American narratives, bringing into focus the disadjustment experienced through migration and how it is at work in the complex identity negotiations of which these narratives are testimony. 12 DRAFT References Biraghi, Claudia, “Following in the Footsteps of Antonio Gallenga”, New England Ancestors 7.1 (Winter 2006): 29-31. Cerutti, Toni. Antonio Gallenga: An Italian writer in Victorian England (Oxford University Press, for the University of Hull, 1974). Chisholm, Hugh, ed. “Gallenga, Antonio Carlo Napoleone,” in Encyclopædia Britannica 11th ed. (Cambridge University Press, 1911). Codignola, Luca. “Gallenga, Antonio Carlo Napoleone,” in Chiara Vangelista, ed., I primi italiani in America del Nord. Dizionario biografico dei liguri, piemontesi e altri. Storie e presenze italiane tra Settecento e Ottocento (Diabasis per la Fondazione Casa America, 2009): 103-106. Dionigi, Renzo. An Italian Exile in Brahmin Boston 1836-1839: Antonio Gallenga (Insubria UP, 2006). Durante, Francesco. Italoamericana: Storia e letteratura degli italiani negli Stati Uniti, 1776-1880. (Mondadori, 2001). Fiore, Teresa. “Lunghi viaggi verso 'Lamerica' a casa: straniamento e identita nelle storie di migrazione italiana,” Annali d'Italianistica, 24, Negotiating Italian Identities (2006): 87-106. Hendin, Josephine Gattuso, “The New World of Italian American Studies,” American Literary History 13.1 (2001): 141-157. Gallenga, Antonio. Episodes of My Second Life: (American and English Experiences) (1884-85) (J. B. Lippincott & co., 1885). Ginzburg, Carlo. Wooden Eyes: Nine Reflections on Distance (Columbia UP, 2001) (Occhiacci di legno, 1998, tr. Martyn Ryle and Kate Soper). Goggio, Emilio. “Italian Educators in Early American Days,” Italica 8.1 (1931): 5-8. Marazzi, Martino. A occhi aperti: Letteratura dell’emigrazione e mito americano (FrancoAngeli, 2011). Marraro, Howard R. “Pioneer Italian Teachers of Italian in the United States., The Modern Language Journal 28.7 (1944): 555-582. Monsagrati, Giuseppe, “Gallenga, Antonio Carlo Napoleone,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani 51 (1998), http://www.treccani.it/biografico/, ad vocem. Moylan, Tom. Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination (1986) (Lang, 2014). Moylan Tom, and Raffaella Baccolini, eds. Utopia Method Vision: The Use Value of Social Dreaming (Lang, 2007). Parrinder, Patrick, ed., Learning from other Worlds: Estrangement, Cognition and the Politics of Science Fiction and Utopia (Liverpool UP, 2000). 13 http://www.treccani.it/biografico/ DRAFT Pordzik, Ralph. The Quest for Postcolonial Utopia: A Comparative Introduction to the Utopian Novel in the New English Literatures (Lang, 2001). — . “A Postcolonial View of Ireland and the Irish Conflict in Anglo-Irish Utopian Literature since the Nineteenth Century,” Irish Studies Review 9.3 (2001): 331- 346. Shklovsky, Viktor. “Art as Technique” (1917), in Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, eds., Literary Theory: An Anthology (Blackwell, 1998): 15-21. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre. (Yale UP, 1978). Tower Sargent, Lyman. “Utopianism and National Identity,” Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 3 (2000): 87-106. 14 
work_qavqdvmrbvbdpoagahenct4nha	----	INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES Issue 1, June 2018 Arthur Symons at the Fin de Siècle ISSN: 2515-0073 Date of Publication: 21 June 2018 volupte.gold.ac.uk This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Issue 1, June 2018 Arth ur Symons at the Fin de Siècle Voluptuous Interventionism: An Introductory Note from the Editor-in-Chief Jane Desmarais i ‘Inarticulate cries’: Arthur Symons and the Primitivist Modernity of Flamenco Leire Barrera-Medrano 1 ‘A capital fellow, full of vivacity & good talk’: Arthur Symons and Gabriel Sarrazin Bénédicte Coste 19 Hierophants of Decadence: Bliss Carman and Arthur Symons Rita Dirks 35 Arthur Symons, Laurence Binyon, and Paterian Aestheticism: Dancers and Dragons William Parker 56 Symons and Print Culture: Journalist, Critic, Book Maker Laurel Brake 74 ‘The Universe’: An Unpublished Sonnet by Arthur Symons Kostas Boyiopoulos 89 Arthur Symons, ‘Aubrey Beardsley: A Memorial Poem’ Simon Wilson 95 A Note on Voluptuousness: A Personal Essay on Decadence and Pleasure David Weir 97 REVIEWS Joris-Karl Huysmans, Drifting (À vau-l’eau), trans. by Brendan King (Sawtry: Dedalus, 2017) Tina Kover 113 Michel Winock, Décadence fin de siècle, L’Esprit de la cité (Paris: Gallimard, 2017) Fay Wanrug Suwanwattana 116 Notes on Contributors 119 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES| i Voluptuous Interventionism: An Introductory Note from the Editor-in-Chief Jane Desmarais Goldsmiths, University of London Decadence has come a long way. What was once a term of opprobrium used to dismiss the mannered confections of a ‘movement of elderly youths’, as Holbrook Jackson described them, now defines a field of study taught across the world and debated along multi-disciplinary and transnational lines by a growing community of students and researchers. The founding scholars of Decadence studies – Linda Dowling, Matei Calinescu, Barbara Spackman, Ian Fletcher, Regenia Gagnier, David Weir – broadened our engagement with Decadent literature and expanded its social, political, and cultural relevance to such an extent that it is impossible today to study the literature of Decadence without reaching back to fourth-century Rome or pondering the decay and decline, the beauty and rot, of our own times. Scholarly interest in Decadence has been intensifying over the last five years. It has taken some new turns – cosmopolitan, sensory, and spatial – but the overriding concern continues to be with its relationship to modernity and to that complex aesthetic expression of modernity – Modernism. Numerous monographs and edited collections have appeared, including, to name but a few, Matthew Potolsky’s The Decadent Republic of Letters: Taste, Politics, and Cosmopolitan Community from Baudelaire to Beardsley (2013), Decadent Poetics: Literature and Form at the British Fin de Siècle, ed. by Jason David Hall and Alex Murray (2013), Decadence and the Senses, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Alice Condé (2014), Kostas Boyiopoulos’s The Decadent Image: The Poetry of Wilde, Symons and Dowson (2015), Vincent Sherry’s Modernism and the Reinvention of Decadence (2015), Alex Murray’s Landscapes of Decadence: Literature and Place at the Fin de Siècle (2017), and, most recently, Weir’s Decadence: A Very Short Introduction (2018). The conference circuit has been lively too, with a large number of events – mainly in the UK – either exclusively or in part devoted to a Decadent theme. In April 2014, Goldsmiths, VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES| ii University of London, hosted an international conference on Decadence and the Senses; this was followed a year later by two other London-based events: Aestheticism and Decadence in the Age of Modernism: 1895 to 1945 at the Institute of English Studies, and Fin de Siècle Echoes: Strange Friendships, Unseen Rivalries, and Lost Paths of Literary Influence, 1880-1910 at King’s College London. In April 2016, Goldsmiths organized a one-day symposium on Ernest Dowson (1867-1900): Poet, translator, novelist, and in July of the same year Birkbeck, University of London, hosted Forgotten Geographies in the Fin de Siècle, 1880-1920. 2017 began with a two-day spring conference on George Egerton at Loughborough University, and ended with a winter symposium at Durham University on Neo- Victorian Decadences. We are currently only half way through 2018, but already it promises to be a bumper year, with two events Stateside in May—Curiosity and Desire in Fin de Siècle Art and Literature (University of California, Los Angeles) and a one-day symposium on Transnational Poetics: Aestheticism and Decadence at the Fin de Siècle, at New York University – and two upcoming conferences in July: Women Writing Decadence: European Perspectives, 1880-1920 (Oxford University) and Decadence, Magic(k), and the Occult (Goldsmiths). Despite the continuing broad interest in Decadence, there has been no interdisciplinary journal of Decadence that looks beyond the nineteenth century for its material or seeks to connect late nineteenth-century Decadent literature with its roots in Roman antiquity and its expression in modern and contemporary literature, art, and culture – until now. As is obvious from the titles of conferences and symposia listed above, Decadence has tended to be absorbed into the broader fields of Nineteenth-century Studies, Victorian literature, and Modernism, and is often viewed in relation to Aestheticism and Fin de Siècle Studies, but this does not do justice to the continuity, complexity, and polyvalence of Decadent literature. Neither does it reflect its intrinsic and fascinating unruliness, the way it calls into question traditional literary categories such as genre and periodization. It was in recognition of the peculiar dimensions and challenges of Decadence that the idea for a journal of Decadence studies was conceived. Volupté was born. https://decadentwomen.wordpress.com/ https://bads.gold.ac.uk/dmo VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES| iii We derive the journal’s title from Charles Baudelaire of course, and the recurring line ‘Luxe, calme, et volupté’ from the poem, ‘L’Invitation au voyage’, evoking Henri Matisse’s 1904 painting of the same name, in the hope that the various associations of the word ‘volupté’ with fullness and sensuality and volume (in terms of both capacity and bibliophilia) will create the conditions for a rich reading of Decadence. Titles are sometimes difficult to pick but in this case the tribute to Baudelaire is entirely fitting, and we have adapted his own handwritten version of the word ‘volupté’ from the title page of Les Fleurs du mal as the journal’s logo. Volupté is part of a series of broader, interlocking research initiatives at Goldsmiths to develop and advance the field of Decadence studies. A subject of study at both undergraduate and postgraduate levels, Decadent literature of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries forms a distinctive and highly popular part of the curriculum and research environment of the Department of English and Comparative Literature (ECL). In 2017, a Decadence Research Unit (DRU) was established in ECL to lend a public-facing coherence to the ongoing research by academics and early-career researchers in the Department and to provide intellectual anchorage for aspiring postgraduates and early-career academics. In the same year, we also set up a British Association of Decadence Studies (BADS), the primary aim of which is to generate funding for Decadence events, essay prizes, and modest postgraduate bursaries. Its first annual event will be the conference Decadence, Magic(k), and the Occult, with a special issue of Volupté on the theme to be published later this year. This inaugural issue of Volupté celebrates the subtle and diverse work of poet, translator, editor, and critic, Arthur Symons (1865-1945), of whom Jackson once said that ‘No English writer has a better claim to recognition as an interpreter of the decadence’. Symons revised his ideas about Decadence over a period of fifteen years, attempting a first review of Decadent literature in an article for Harper’s New Magazine in 1893, later revising it in The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1899). By 1908, the year he suffered a nervous breakdown, Symons was drawn to comment on https://www.gold.ac.uk/decadence-research-unit/ https://bads.gold.ac.uk/ https://bads.gold.ac.uk/ VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES| iv Decadence again, but by this time he was preoccupied with the notion of a social decadence and seriously disillusioned with a self-destructive materialistic world. As the two recent conferences on Symons demonstrated (Arthur Symons: Writing across Arts and Cultures (Università Iuav di Venezia, 2015) and Arthur Symons at the Fin de Siècle (Goldsmiths, 2016)), Symons is a byword for transition. Living so long and writing so much, he brought his changing times to vivid life, championing a cosmopolitan outlook and engaging with urban modernity on Baudelairean terms. A lover of the interstitial, as Leire Barrera-Medrano attests in her article, ‘“Inarticulate cries”: Arthur Symons and the Primitivist Modernity of Flamenco’, Symons was fascinated by the Spanish Gypsy, interpreting the flamenco dance as the perfect embodiment of a primitivist and modern aesthetic. Like the other contributors to this volume, Barrera-Medrano treats us to new material and new perspectives on Symons, providing a broader, detailed examination of his rapport with gypsy culture and his early passion for the interconnectedness of the arts. Bénédicte Coste and Laurel Brake focus on Symons’s journalism, and give us a clear sense of his French connections and the extent to which journalism is at the heart of his writing career. His letters to distinguished French critics and men-of-letters, Coste argues in ‘“A capital fellow, full of vivacity & good talk”: Arthur Symons and Gabriel Sarrazin’, show something of his ambition as well as his Gallic sympathies. Symons lived his life among various networks, moving between individuals, countries, and subjects with some acquired ease. In ‘Symons and Print Culture: Journalist, Critic, Book Maker’, Brake uses his article ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’ and its different print incarnations over a four-year period to explore his complex relationship to print culture and the notion of professional ‘influence’. Will Parker’s article, ‘Arthur Symons, Laurence Binyon, and Paterian Aestheticism: Dancers and Dragons’, in contrast, brings an art-historical perspective to bear on a comparison between the Pater-inspired art writings of Binyon and Symons, illuminating not only the divergent directions of Paterian aestheticism in the VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES| v post-Victorian era, but the extent to which the writings of critics like Symons and Binyon reflect the tensions between impressionist and educative art writing at the turn of the century. All the articles published in this issue chart new Decadent territory, either through the use of hitherto unpublished archival material or through new interpretations, new juxtapositions, and together they offer an impressive international perspective on Symons’s work. Rita Dirks’s piece, ‘Hierophants of Decadents: Bliss Carman and Arthur Symons’, however, is the starting-point for a bold, new direction in Decadence studies: Canadian Decadence. Using Carman’s poem, ‘The Eavesdropper’ as her focus, she asks, to what extent was the relationship between Carman and Symons the building block of an Anglophone movement of Canadian Decadence? We wait and see. In the spirit of critical creativity and creative critique, David Weir offers a personal essay on ‘Decadence and Pleasure’, bringing our attention to the voluptuousness of the whole enterprise of Volupté and reminding us that excess and pleasure – key components of Decadence after all – are usefully, if not beautifully, at odds with one another. ‘Perhaps it is truer to say’, Weir states, ‘that while the basis for judging pleasure as decadent may once have been both moral and aesthetic, more recently the basis is either moral or aesthetic’. Volupté is brought to a close with what will become a regular feature of the journal’s pages: scholarly and entertaining reviews of books (both crepuscular and new), films, theatre, exhibitions, and the like. Unlike the reviewer of The Picture of Dorian Gray in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, who cautioned against ‘The New Voluptuousness’ as ‘always lead[ing] to too much bloodshedding’, we are confident that Volupté will stimulate new and exciting debates about Decadence. For those ‘curious in research’, as Symons put it, we hope that the journal will expand the historical and literary origins of the field to embrace the different disciplines and perspectives of critics and creatives of all stripes. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES| vi Acknowledgements To say that Volupté is a team effort is a magnificent understatement, because without the support and know-how of the Departments of ECL and IT, and the Library at Goldsmiths, there would be no journal. We are hugely grateful to our colleagues at Goldsmiths Library for their patience and their precise and expert technical support, particularly in helping us navigate the vagaries of the Open Journals System (OJS). Our thanks to James Bulley, Andrew Gray, Özden Sahin, and Jeremiah Spillane in the Library, and to George Thompson in IT for deftly connecting us to our SquareSpace site. To Lucia Boldrini, Chris Baldick, Michael Simpson, and all colleagues in ECL who championed and advised us along the way, thank you for keeping faith. We might not have progressed very far with our application to the Open Library of Humanities but we benefitted greatly from email exchanges with Martin Eve and Caroline Edwards at Birkbeck, who pointed us in the right direction and gave us the idea of using SquareSpace in conjunction with OJS as our web platform. Thank you. It worked out well. To the illustrious members of our Editorial Advisory Board we are indebted. Without them the journal would be a mere shadow of a white rose in a mirror of silver. Jane Desmarais, Editor-in-chief Alice Condé, Deputy editor Jessica Gossling, Deputy editor Robert Pruett, Reviews editor VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 1 ‘Inarticulate cries’: Arthur Symons and the Primitivist Modernity of Flamenco Leire Barrera-Medrano Birkbeck College, University of London In his essay ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’ (1899), the British poet and critic Arthur Symons (1865- 1945) described Spanish flamenco music as the expression of primal creative forces, which were nonetheless connected to modernity: ‘it is music before rhythm, music which comes down to us untouched by the invention of the modern scale, from an antiquity out of which plain-chant is a first step towards modern harmony.’1 Symons revealed flamenco as an art form caught in transition, faltering between Romantic spirit, Orientalist eroticism, and an emerging Modernist primitivism. Symons’s hitherto unexplored reception of Spanish flamenco was central to his conception of the interconnectedness of all the arts, as well as to his formulation of vernacular and cosmopolitan culture. For Symons, flamenco was constituent part, on the one hand, of a Decadent discourse of sensuousness and pleasure, and, on the other, of a Symbolist and proto- Modernist discourse of primitivism. At the same time, flamenco was a contested locus for the prevailing Orientalist discourse of his time. The British writer often reinforced the stereotypical myth that the Spanish Gypsy ‘native’ was intrinsically enigmatic and impenetrable, and fetishized the ‘primitive’ nature of the flamenco art form. Yet, this article shows that these ideas also responded to a sincere and aesthetic effort to modernize and dignify flamenco and Gypsy culture. As I argue here, Symons found in the, often exoticized, primitiveness of Spanish flamenco the quintessence of art, a paradigmatic representation of the symbolism and modernity in the arts that he was so intensely seeking in the 1890s. For Symons, the new expressive ideal he found in the language of music in this period, and especially of dance, was perfected in Spanish flamenco: ‘[Flamenco dancing] is the most elaborate dancing in the world and, like the music, it has an VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 2 abstract quality which saves it from ever, for a moment, becoming vulgar.’2 Watching a Spanish Gypsy dancing, Symons recalled, he ‘thought of the sacred dances which in most religions have given a perfectly solemn and collected symbolism to the creative forces of the world.’3 The emphasis on flamenco as an elaborate art form and on the perfect symbolism that it reveals suggests a profound engagement with a culture that went deeper than the crude outlines of Orientalist caricature. In order to explore Symons’s multifaceted relationship to flamenco in the 1890s, I focus here on certain critical and poetic texts of the period. In particular, I examine the essays ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’ (1892; 1918), ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’ (1899; 1918) and ‘Seville’ (1901; 1918), and a few of his multiple reviews of Spanish dancers for the popular evening newspaper The Star in the 1890s. I also analyse the poems ‘To a Gitana Dancing’ and ‘Spain (To Josefa)’, included in his volume of verse Images of Good and Evil (1899). Before further developing my argument, however, I first need to frame Symons’s attraction to flamenco within the context of his artistic interests in the early 1890s. Spanish Gypsies and Music-Halls Symons’s early interest in flamenco is rooted in the distinct features of this popular Spanish art form, which can be seen as a ‘primeval’ Gesamtkunstwerk [total work of art]. Flamenco involves several artistic expressions: cante [song], baile [dance], toque [guitar music], jaleo [vocalisations], palmas [handclapping], and pitos [finger snapping].4 Despite the diverse conjectures concerning its origin, consensus situates the early history and development of flamenco in the Spanish southern region of Andalusia, where Gypsies began to settle in the latter half of the fifteenth century and with whom flamenco is most strongly associated.5 Flamenco draws then from traditions several centuries old, but it was not until the first half of the nineteenth century that it emerged as a distinctive form of Andalusian art. As Peter Manuel notes, Andalusian music culture ‘was itself an eclectic entity, syncretizing the legacy of the Arabs, Berbers, Jews, Christians’ and Gypsies VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 3 who cohabited for several centuries.6 As a public, performing art, flamenco developed in the second half of the nineteenth century, with the appearance of the café cantantes or music-halls. Symons found then in flamenco an art form with all the elements that occupied his mind in the early 1890s: music-halls, dance, music, and Gypsy culture. Symons’s interest in flamenco art was a component of his wider fascination with Gypsy culture. A member of the Gypsy Lore Society for most of his life, Symons perceived in the Gypsies the sense of freedom he sought in life and art, a mysterious and symbolic aspect of reality, and his own ambition to identify with both. Symons saw himself as a ‘vagabond’ from his childhood; he felt that he had been ‘born […] cruel, nervous, excitable, passionate, restless, never quite human, never quite normal’.7 His upbringing (his father’s work as a Wesleyan preacher entailed moving to a new location every three years) led him to believe that he could never root himself in any place in the world, which, in exchange, had freed him ‘from many prejudices’ in giving him ‘its own unresting kind of freedom’.8 As a result, Symons travelled, or rather, wandered, extensively throughout his life. He spent long spells of time in France, Italy, and Spain, but he also visited Belgium, Germany, Russia, Poland, Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, Ireland, Turkey, and the Czech Republic. It was this fascination with wandering and restlessness that led Symons to the Romani people and culture of Ireland, Wales, England, Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Spain. Critics have considered Symons’s interest in Gypsies as a patronising idealisation of elements of Gypsy culture that reinforced or simply inverted earlier derogatory stereotypes. Indeed, Symons tends to repeat all of the nineteenth-century tropes of Orientalism and race, mysticism, and ahistoricity surrounding the Gypsies. Deborah Epstein Nord has gone as far as to qualify Symons’s views on Gypsies as ‘repugnant’.9 Other critics, such as Janet Lyon, however, offer alternative political readings, and, most importantly, add an aesthetic strand that needs to be considered in order to historically understand fin-de-siècle, and Modernist, Gypsophilia. These VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 4 opposing understandings of Symons’s relationship to Gypsy culture would be replicated in his reception of flamenco, as we shall see later on. Lyon underlines how Symons’s views on Gypsies, most famously gathered in his essay ‘In Praise of Gypsies’ (1908), albeit deficient as activist journalism, reflect ‘an uncharacteristic awareness of the particularities of the Gypsy plight as a political event unfolding in a more general political plot’.10 Symons wrote ‘In Praise of Gypsies’ amidst the impending passage of the Movable Dwellings Bill, which aimed to register, regulate, and provide for the sanitary inspection of the vans and tents of British Gypsies and Travellers, and to make the education of their children mandatory. Lyon argues that the shift in representations of Gypsies during this period from ‘hazy and inscrutable natural subjects to objects’ of a discourse of legislation, prosecution, and control had ‘concretely reifying effects both for Gypsy populations and within British narrations of nationhood.’11 Alongside this political reading, Lyon foregrounds an aesthetic component of fin-de-siècle and Modernist Gypsophilia: ‘Gypsy culture, as construed and aesthetically reworked by Modernist gadže [non-Romani] like Arthur Symons […] forms an eccentric bulwark against rationalist modernity, especially in the matrix of London’.12 In some sense the circulating image of the Romanies’ communal strangeness becomes, in bohemian subculture, ‘a projected form of a self-authenticating community within the structures of modern disenchantment.’13 Symons’s reception of Spanish Gypsy flamenco would prove to be equally complex: both politically conservative and reactionary, but primarily a site of aesthetic investigation. Symons’s interest in flamenco is also framed within his increasing fascination with music- halls, and popular dance and music. Symons’s intellectual interest in the music-hall (he would be referred to as ‘a scholar in music halls’ by W. B. Yeats in 1892) has served to further the perception of Decadence as a high art movement nonetheless linked to and interested in popular culture.14 As Linda Dowling observes, there was a ‘genuine contribution of the music-hall cult to the emergent modernistic aesthetic’ and, in this emergence, ‘Symons’s part was crucial, and he VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 5 fulfilled it largely because he found in the art of the music-hall a new model for poetic language, one that freed it from the paralyzing choice between Pater’s Euphuism and shapeless colloquial speech.’15 More crucially, Dowling suggests, ‘Symons found a new expressive ideal in the music- hall’s language of physical gesture, and specifically in the language of the dance.’16 The pivotal contribution of Symons’s fascination with music-halls and dance to the dawning Modernist aesthetic has been extensively studied. What is insufficiently acknowledged, however, is that the first extensive theoretical statement on music-halls that Symons wrote was the travelogue ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, published in 1892, a few months after coming back from his first trip to Spain in 1891. In the essay, Symons describes his experience of a soirée in a Spanish music-hall, where he mainly witnessed flamenco acts. Symons foreshadows the cultural studies intellectual’s concern with the popular in this essay, and he does it in Spain, and in Spanish. The music-hall intellectual is translated into a Spanish term; at the beginning of the piece Symons described himself as an ‘aficionado, as a Spaniard would say, of music-halls.’17 Symons was certainly a devotee of music-halls before going to Spain, but he only became professionally and intellectually committed to them after being in Spain and, I argue, coming into contact with its popular culture. The dates here are crucial: nine months after coming back from Spain, in February 1892, Symons became the critic of music-hall and dance for the popular evening newspaper, The Star. He had first contributed to the newspaper in October 1891 with a short piece on music-halls, four months after coming back from his first trip to Spain. The Spanish music-hall that Symons referred to in his 1892 article was the Alcázar Español, located in the Barrio Chino or red-light district of Barcelona, the first Spanish city that Symons visited in 1891. From the beginning of his essay, there is evidence for a reading of Symons as an Orientalist tourist. The British dandy, seeking ‘the most characteristic place [he] could find’, ended up at a place that ordinary Barcelonans perceived as extraneous to their own reality, a quarter that had become ‘a sexual and folkloric theme park featuring a gypsy underworld of shady flamenco performers.’18 And yet, the Decadent Symons was not seeking VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 6 ordinary life, but uniqueness, artifice and exaggeration. His choice of place in this instance had to do more with his idea of Decadent cosmopolitanism than with an Orientalist lens. Symons’s cosmopolitan Decadence was connected to the Decadent quest for ‘la vérité vraie, the very essence of truth’ that he described in ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ (1893); ‘the truth of appearance to the senses, of the visible world to the eyes that see it; and the truth of spiritual things to the spiritual vision’, which he could only find in his own idea of what ‘true’ Spanishness meant.19 Hence the constant allusions to the ‘Spanish’ character of things: he noted that ‘the overture sounded very Spanish’ and praised the ‘typically Spanish way of walking’ of a dancer, while lamenting that another dance ‘was not so typically Spanish as I had expected’.20 Symons’s experience of Spain replicates what he underwent in Paris, which, as Alex Murray argues, transforms ‘the model of representation into one that disrupts the confluence between place and identity.’21 In his essay ‘Montmartre and the Latin Quarter’ (written in 1904, but first published in 1918), Symons described these areas as ‘the two parts of Paris which are unique, the equivalent of which you will search for in vain elsewhere.’22 As a result of their uniqueness, these quarters were for Symons ‘typically Parisian’.23 In contrast, the Champs Élysées and the Grand Boulevards, where the majority of English tourists congregated, were the ‘least Parisian’ areas of the city.24 For Symons, the Grands Boulevards, which are always, certainly, attractive to any genuine lover of cities, to any real amateur of crowds, they are, after all, not Parisian, but cosmopolitan. They are simply the French equivalent of that great, complex, inextricable concourse of people which we find instinctively crowding, in London, along Piccadilly; in Berlin, down the Unter den Linden; in Madrid, over the Prado; in Venice, about the Piazza: a crowding of people who have come together from all the ends of the earth, who have, if tourist likes to meet tourist, mutual attraction enough; who have, undoubtedly, the curiosity of an exhibition or an ethnological museum; but from whom you will never learn the characteristics of the country in which you find them. What is really of interest in a city or in a nation is not that which it has, however differentiated, in common with other nations and cities, but that which is unique in it, the equivalent of which you will search for in vain elsewhere.25 Here Symons is outlining his own definition of cosmopolitan Decadence, a kind of cosmopolitanism that differs from that exercised by middle-class tourists. This is why Symons’s VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 7 search for the soul of Paris leads him to Montmartre and why, later on in Barcelona, Sevilla, and Málaga, he would go to the cafes where Gypsies sing and dance. Decadent Artifice, Irony and Camp The ‘true’, unique Spanish characteristics that Symons often highlights in his writing constitute stereotypes of extreme seriousness or extreme caricature, which can be interpreted as the adoption of an Orientalist and patronising stance. Such an interpretation, however, may be too simplistic, in which case Barry J. Faulk’s discussion of Symons’s distinct expertise in popular culture in relation to ‘camp’ and modernity proves especially useful.26 Camp offers a much needed complementary, and alternative, explanation for Symons’s Orientalist approach to Spanish popular culture, and enriches and complicates a post-colonial critique of his writing. If the essence of camp is ‘its love of the unnatural: of artifice and exaggeration’, as Susan Sontag asserts, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’ serves as a primer on camp pleasures.27 ‘The art of the music-hall is admittedly frivolous – the consecration of the frivolous’, admits Symons at the beginning of his essay.28 Being ‘frivolous’, it becomes ‘culturally peripheral’.29 For Faulk, ‘the oxymoron – “the consecration of the frivolous” – remains suggestive: it suggests that frivolity contains enough charisma to reorganize a life’, which in exchange makes it ‘reductive’ to read Symons’s appreciations of the music-hall, and of Spanish popular culture, as simply ‘iterating his critical’ and colonialist authority.30 His camp views, concludes Faulk, more likely ‘ironized the whole business of taste making’.31 This notion is equally connected to the Decadent cult of artifice, which Linda Dowling has described as a ‘counterpoetics of disruption and parody and stylistic derangement, a critique not so much of Wordsworthian nature as of the metaphysics involved in any sentimental notion of a simple world of grass and trees and flowers.’32 The apparent Decadent frivolity, the parody, the irony, alongside the very serious quest for a new aesthetics are thus all essential components of Symons’s approach to and engagement with Spanish popular culture. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 8 One of the first spectacles Symons alludes to in ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’ is the zarzuela, a traditional Spanish operetta. For Symons, the zarzuela ‘was amusing in its wildly farcical way – a farce of grotesque action, of incredible exaggeration.’33 The interest of this art form is rooted then in its vulgarity, in its hyperbolic character. Symons distances himself from the old-style dandy who hates vulgarity and becomes a modern dandy, ‘a connoisseur of Camp’ in the age of mass culture, who turns his back on the ‘good-bad axis of ordinary aesthetic judgement’.34 He is seeking Spanishness, which he translates as excess, extreme states of feelings. It is the excess that Symons finds in Spanish popular culture that enables him to articulate his Decadent campiness. The article ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’ is indeed packed with playful comments and observations. The irony marking Symons’s description of the Alcazar, notes Faulk, ‘signals both his distance from and his extreme empathic proximity to what he surveys’: ‘The entrance was not imposing, but it was covered with placards which had their interest.’35 The audience in the hall, Symons writes, in a clearly facetious manner, ‘was not a distinguished one’.36 We find the same camp, ironic attitudes in Symons’s later texts on Spanish popular culture. In ‘Seville’ (written in 1898, but first published in 1901), for example, Symons writes: All Spanish dancing, and especially the dancing of the gipsies, in which it is seen in its most characteristic development, has a sexual origin, and expresses, as Eastern dancing does, but less crudely, the pantomime of physical love. In the typical gipsy dance, as I saw it danced by a beautiful Gitana at Seville, there is something of mere gaminerie and something of the devil; the automatic tramp-tramp of the children and the lascivious pantomime of a very learned art of love.37 As camp does, this passage both discloses innocence and corrupts it.38 For Symons, flamenco dancing is Decadent, camp, and modern, because it offers ‘the proper mixture of the exaggerated, the fantastic, the passionate, and the naïve.’39 When Symons writes that flamenco dancing is ‘full of humour, fuller of humour than of passion’, he is epitomising Decadent parody and advancing Sontag’s notion of camp as ‘a comic vision of the world’.40 Symons’s camp and proto-Modernist sensibility towards flamenco is even more dramatically displayed in the poem VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 9 ‘Spain (To Josefa)’ (1899), in which Symons blends the figure of a flamenco singer named Josefa with Spain itself: You sing of Spain, and all Clap hands for Spain and you, and for the song; […] Spain, brilliantly arrayed, Decked for disaster, on disaster hurled, Here, as in masquerade, Mimes, to amuse the world, Her ruin, a dancer rouged and draped and curled.41 In clear allusion to the contemporary ‘Spanish 1898 Disaster’, in this poem Symons portrays a campily pathetic Spain.42 Symons displays the pathos that comes out of seriousness and belittles the dramatic situation of the country: ‘She’, writes Symons in allusion to Spain, ‘who once found, has lost | A world beyond the waters.’43 This loss is nonetheless unimportant because […] she stands Paying the priceless cost, Lightly, with lives for lands, Flowers in her hair, castanets in her hands.44 In parallel, when the Spanish singer Josefa sings, ‘with clapping hands, the sorrows of | your Spain’, Symons thinks ‘how all the sorrows were in vain.’45 The whole point of camp is to dethrone the serious. Camp is playful, anti-serious. More precisely, camp involves a new, more complex relation to ‘the serious’, as ‘a sensibility that, among other things, converts the serious into the frivolous’.46 And yet, as some of the extracts above show, camp and Decadent irony can have problematic effects. The agents of cultural redefinition are often of upper- or middle-class standing who could, as Andrew Ross notes, ‘afford, literally, to redefine the life of consumerism and material affluence as a life of spiritual poverty.’47 A camp approach may thus perpetuate certain prejudices by veiling them as irony. Indeed, this camp proto-Modernist reading of Symons’s reception of flamenco is not to argue there is no evidence for a reading of Symons as VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 10 Orientalist tourist. After all, Symons insisted on his descriptions of the ‘native’ dance, which, as Faulk observes, ‘appears to provide the English spectator definitive proof in an uncertain space of his own aplomb, status, and essential remove.’48 ‘Spanish dances have a certain resemblance with the dances of the East’, wrote Symons, and flamenco ‘no doubt derives its Eastern colour from the Moors’.49 His writing repeatedly bestowed animal, savage-like and uncivilized characteristics (which he undoubtedly considered unproblematic) on to flamenco artists. In other words, although Symons believed he was celebrating and defending flamenco, he also participated in the outlook of his time and nationality to a greater extent than he realized. In the guise of celebrating them, he objectified the Spanish Gypsy artists all over again. Agency and Inarticulate Art Camp and Decadent parody permits Symons to sustain certain prejudices by thinly disguising them as irony, and to legitimize himself, but it also endows others with agency. The question of artistic agency here is crucial. In ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, for instance, Symons clearly establishes that ‘in a music-hall the audience is a part of the performance’, wielding almost equal levels of authority to the British tourist, the local audience, and the flamenco artists.50 In a similar vein, Havelock Ellis, with whom Symons often travelled in Spain, also wrote in The Soul of Spain (1908) that In flamenco dancing, among an audience of the people, every one takes a part, by rhythmic clapping and stamping, and by the occasional prolonged ‘oles’ and other cries by which the dancer is encouraged or applauded. Thus the dance is not a spectacle for the amusement of a languid and passive public, as with us. It is rather the visible embodiment of an emotion in which every spectator himself takes an active and helpful part; it is, as it were, a vision evoked by the spectators themselves and up-borne on the continuous waves of rhythmical sound which they generate.51 Ellis clearly established that in flamenco there were blurred boundaries between observer and observed, complicating the traditional power relations between ‘native’ and ‘colonizer’. Throughout ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, Symons also pays attention to how the artists utilize space. In this context, Faulk underscores how it is particularly important to note the special care that VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 11 Symons takes to situate flamenco artists ‘back in the everyday once their performance is finished’.52 The close of the performance by the flamenco singer Villaclara, for example, underscores the performer’s control and agency: ‘When the applause was over she returned the hat, came back to the table at which she had been sitting, dismally enough, and yawned more desperately than ever.’53 Similarly, the flamenco dance of Isabel Santos and her daughter is the most erotic event Symons witnessed at the Alcazar: ‘The dance grew more exciting, with a sort of lascivious suggestiveness, a morbid, perverse charm, as the women writhed to and fro, now languishingly, now furiously, together and apart.’54 However, after ‘two encores and two more dances’, Symons adds, ‘the women went tranquilly back to the corner where they had been drinking with their friends.’55 Symons is here fracturing the setting that surrounds the artwork as commodity and, as a result, showing both the aesthetic context and the social context which it is contingent upon. These dancers and singers alternate effortlessly from performers to mundane people. This could be interpreted as a reinforcement of the clichés about Spanish daily life, as it depicts a world ruled by, as Faulk points out, ‘high passion, fierce desire, and violent turmoil’.56 And yet the return to passivity suggests ‘quite the opposite’ as the performers calmly ‘negotiate different spaces, in control of their performance’, able to turn their charisma off and on.57 In fact, Symons gestures towards the vernacular expertise of the local flamenco artists throughout the essay ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’. At the end of the piece, Symons suggests a sort of mutual recognition when he describes the flamenco dancer Isabel Santos as a ‘great artist’, who had ‘a profound artistic seriousness’.58 Likewise, in Symons’s poems on flamenco, the ‘native’ dancer or singer appears to have agency and be in control of both Symons and the audience. ‘Therefore you hold me, body and soul, in your | hold’, writes Symons in ‘To a Gitana Dancing’ (1899).59 Whatever the dancer does, Symons ‘follows’ and he only awakens when she pauses: It brightens, I follow; it fades, and I see it afar; You pause: I awake; have I dreamt? […]60 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 12 In the poem ‘Spain’, the artist Josefa also […] sing[s] of Spain, and all Clap hands for Spain and you, and for the song;61 These lines suggest that Josefa’s artistic power is recognized – her voice is heard: she sings and all clap hands – uniting the British tourist once more with the local audience and the flamenco artist. The moment that Symons, as audience, becomes ‘part of the performance’, and, as artist, acknowledges flamenco artists as ‘professional’, one could argue that he is no longer seeing them as ‘other’. Symons crucially described the Spanish flamenco cante, or singing, as ‘the crying of a wild beast in suffering, and it thrills one precisely because it seems to be so far from humanity, so inexplicable, so deeply rooted in the animal of which we are but one species.’62 The pronoun ‘we’ becomes crucial here, as Symons aligns himself with the observed Other. At the same time, to say that Symons’s writing solely orientalizes Spanish flamenco is to neglect to consider a crucial artistic angle. Linda Dowling has foregrounded how Symons’s understanding and inclusion of the dance in his poetic work caused him ‘to shift aesthetic authority from the intellectual to the sensuous’ and highlights the ‘importance of visceral perception in understanding artistic performances’.63 Symons’s iterated insistence upon the ‘visceral, animal knowledge of the blood, upon “dance as life, animal life, having its own way passionately” […] specifically challenges verbal language […] rather than the possibility of expressive language in general’.64 The gestural language of the dance seemed ‘wonderfully fresh, immediate, and uncompromised by “impurities”’, as opposed to ‘the Victorian tyranny of “abstraction” and “discursiveness”’.65 Hence, Dowling concludes, Symons’s characteristic portrayal of the dancer as at once ‘innocent and yet almost narcissistically or onanistically self- sufficient.’66 For this reason, To say that the narrators of Symons’s poems find this self-sufficiency erotic is merely to insist upon the sensual, visceral basis of the gestural language. Yet clearly to celebrate gesture in this way was to prefer a language even more ‘primitive’ than the lower-class vernaculars, for it was assumed that the more physically overt the linguistic sign, the cruder the mental capacity of the sign-maker.67 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 13 The primitiveness and vernacular condition of Spanish flamenco becomes instrumental to Symons’s understanding of artistic language. Of all the dances, flamenco for Symons is revealed as the purest, the most authentic, the most perfect. Dancing, as the emblem of the ideal work of art: in the [Spanish] dancing, inherited from the Moors, which the gipsies have perfected in Spain, there is far more subtlety, delicacy, and real art than in the franker posturing of Egypt and Arabia. It is the most elaborate dancing in the world, and, like the music, it has an abstract quality which saves it from ever, for a moment, becoming vulgar. As I have watched a Gitana dancing in Seville, I have thought of the sacred dances which in most religions have given a perfectly solemn and collected symbolism to the creative forces of the world.68 These remarks recall those in the short story ‘Dolores’ by Edith Ellis, with whom Symons also spent some time in Málaga in 1898. Written in 1899, but published in April 1909 in The Smart Set, the story was based on her only visit to the country in 1898 with her husband, Havelock Ellis, and Symons. It is the story of a young British wife who accompanies her journalist husband and his friend to witness flamenco in a southern Spanish music-hall. In the piece, the British woman, Ju, undergoes a moment of revelation when she watches Dolores, a Spanish Gypsy woman, dancing: Ju felt she needed a hundred eyes; she had rarely been so alive. The magnetic power of all those happy people on and off the stage entered her veins like strong wine. […] Ju could scarcely breathe. […] All the mad, wild beauty of the world seemed singing in her head as her eyes followed the retreating figure of the woman who had danced life into her tired brain. Never, even in church, she thought, had she felt so rested, so uplifted as now; rarely had she been so absurdly happy. Her child’s fingers against her breast, a lark singing in the early spring, the first primrose gathered for the year, all the simple, delicate joys of life had not given her the exquisite sense of rest that the vigorous movements of this dancing girl had done.69 Ju had never felt ‘so rested’ and yet ‘so uplifted’, pointing towards the revelatory cultural and experiential moment she encountered in Spain. Perhaps Ju had never felt such zeal because, as she declared, she had ‘never seen real dancing before’.70 It was in this Spanish music-hall where ‘for the first time in her life she saw passion, grace, joy and vigor combined in the movements of a beautiful woman, who was as free from vulgarity and self-consciousness as a flower.’ 71 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 14 These claims imitate those noted by Symons in his essay ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’ (written in 1899, but first published in 1918) about flamenco dancing being ‘the most elaborate dancing in the world’, and, having, like the music, ‘an abstract quality which saves it from ever […] becoming vulgar.’72 Both Symons and Edith Ellis perceived a core of intensity and artistry in flamenco that was attached to an internal, elemental, and primitive nature. Symons described Spanish flamenco music as ‘no other passion’ mainly because it ‘is inarticulate, and so it brings a wild relief which no articulate music could ever bring.’73 This music, he added, is ‘the voice of uncivilised people who have the desires and sorrows common to every living being, and an unconsciousness of their meaning which is, after all, what we come back to after having searched through many meanings.’74 Symons inverts here the hierarchy of ‘savage’ and civilized, showing a clear preference for this ‘savage’, ‘inarticulate’ form of language to the civilized verbal, articulate language: ‘A few words seemed to be repeated over and over again, with tremulous, inarticulate cries that wavered in time to a regularly beating rhythm. The sound was like nothing I have ever heard. It pierced the brain, it tortured one with a sort of delicious spasm.’75 Symons equates what he calls the ‘inarticulacy’ of flamenco art and its lack of articulation with the ideal of Decadence: ‘to be a disembodied voice, and yet the voice of a human soul’.76 Flamenco art is divested of articulated language, of ‘joints’, in the same way that Decadence is divested of ‘a body’. Flamenco is revealed as a perverse pleasure which, being primitive and eternal, seems unprecedented. Tantalized by its immateriality and inarticulacy, Symons would try to replicate the primitiveness of Spanish flamenco in his own syntax. As Dowling notes, ‘in his brief poems of “primitive” syntax [Symons] sought to embody […] truth in language’, creating a ‘concerted effort at verbal gesture, at reincarnating the disembodied voice’.77 In the aforementioned poem ‘To a Gitana Dancing’, for instance, Symons combines descriptions that allude to the ancient, primitive condition of flamenco: ‘And the maze you tread is as old as the VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 15 world is old’, with a simple, almost primitive syntax that lacks adverbs and gives prominence to the verb, that one element capable of indicating an action, like dancing: You laugh, and I know the despair, and you smile, and I know […] It brightens, I follow; it fades, and I see it afar;78 Symons openly declared his preoccupation with replicating the inarticulate and rhythmic character of flamenco. In an 1898 letter from Seville to the Scottish politician and writer Robert Cunninghame Graham (1852-1936) in which Symons enclosed the poem ‘To a Gitana Dancing’, he explained that the piece was done ‘with a most elaborate attempt to express the thing by the coiling of the rhythm, repetition of words and inner rhymes, and unusual pauses. To get exactly the rhythmical effect I have intended, read aloud and read for the sense, allowing the voice to pause where it naturally would.’79 By asking Cunninghame Graham to read the poem aloud and allow the voice to pause, Symons emphasized the rhythmic inarticulacy of flamenco, its unvoiced condition. Flamenco art enabled Symons to express in writing an ‘inner’, ‘disembodied’ rhythm. As I hope to have shown, Symons’s reception of and engagement with flamenco remain dialectical and complex. When Symons writes that flamenco ‘no doubt derives in Eastern colours from the Moors’,80 and that flamenco dancers are ‘primitive and elemental [with] the slumbering inner glow of the sombre passion of their race, and have the alertness of a young and wild animal’, it is difficult to avoid a reading of Symons as an Orientalist tourist and writer.81 While partly accurate, I have argued throughout that such a reading is reductive. Rather than focusing on Symons’s Orientalist and primitivist discourse regarding flamenco, I have been primarily concerned with interrogating how the relationship between the ‘describer’ British intellectual and the ‘described’ Spanish ‘native’ voices could be understood as further enriching and complicating cross-cultural exchange. Flamenco was taken seriously by Symons, as an object of scholarship and as an intellectual and physical art form. He attempted to replicate the essence of flamenco in his 1890s poetry, and VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 16 he wrote articles and reviews on flamenco art throughout his life.82 Flamenco was crucial for the development of his ideas on the symbolic power of the dance and of music. For Symons, the primitiveness of flamenco became paradigmatic of the essence of art. In flamenco, Symons recognized an elemental and inarticulate condition that he linked to the Decadent and the Symbolist movements, and which anticipated the Spanish Modernist Federico García Lorca’s (1898-1936) notion of Duende, or the spirit of evocation.83 Symons acknowledged the same mysterious power and spontaneous creativity that motivates flamenco art, which he interpreted as the body and musical language of Spanish modernity. The primal, elemental nature of flamenco unveiled for Symons both a corporeal and intangible sense of artistic modernity. 1 Arthur Symons, ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’, in Cities and Sea-Coasts and Islands (London: W. Collins, 1918), p. 102. This essay was first published on 12 August 1899 in the Saturday Review, and then reprinted in Cities and Sea-Coasts and Islands. 2 Ibid., p. 104. 3 Ibid., pp. 104-05. 4 Israel J. Katz, ‘Flamenco’, Grove Music Online (2001) <https://doi.org/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.article.09780>. 5 For more information on the origins, history and style of flamenco see, for example, Ángel Álvarez Caballero, Historia del cante flamenco (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1981); Manuel García Matos, Sobre el Flamenco: Estudios y Notas (Madrid: Cinterco, 1987); and Michelle Heffner Hayes, Flamenco: Conflicting Histories of the Dance (Jefferson: McFarland, 2009). 6 Peter Manuel, ‘Flamenco in Focus: An Analysis of a Performance of Soleares’, in Analytical Studies in World Music, ed. by Michael Tenzer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 92-93. 7 Arthur Symons, Dramatis Personae (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1923), p. 133. 8 Ibid. 9 Deborah Epstein Nord, Gypsies and the British Imagination, 1807-1930 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), p. 137. 10 Janet Lyon, ‘Gadže Modernism’, Modernism/Modernity, 11 (2004), 517-38 (p. 524). Karl Beckson also notes that in the months before his breakdown, Symons wrote two pieces which are unique in his oeuvre, precisely for their engagement with social issues: the essay ‘In Praise of Gypsies’ and the play The Superwomen: A Farce, a satire of suffrage activism. Beckson, Arthur Symons: A Life (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987), pp. 250-51. 11 Lyon, ‘Gadže Modernism’, p. 524. 12 Janet Lyon, ‘Sociability in the Metropole: Modernism’s Bohemian Salons’, ELH, 76 (2009), 687-711 (p. 704). 13 Ibid. 14 ‘Arthur Symons is a scholar in music halls as another man might be a Greek scholar or an authority on the age of Chaucer.’ W. B. Yeats, ‘The Rhymers’ Club’ [23 April 1892], in Letters to the New Island, ed. by Horace Reynolds (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1934), p. 144. 15 Linda Dowling, Language and Decadence in the Victorian Fin de Siècle (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), p. 238. 16 Ibid. 17 Arthur Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, in Cities and Sea-Coasts and Islands, p. 145. This essay was first published in May 1892 in the Fortnightly Review, and then reprinted in Cities and Sea-Coasts and Islands. 18 Ibid., p. 146; Joan Ramon Resina, Barcelona’s Vocation of Modernity: Rise and Decline of an Urban Image (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008), p. 100. 19 Arthur Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, 87 (November 1893), 858-67 (p. 859). VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 17 20 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, pp. 147-50. 21 Alex Murray, Landscapes of Decadence: Literature and Place at the Fin de Siècle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), p. 74. 22 Arthur Symons, ‘Montmartre and the Latin Quarter’, Colour Studies in Paris (London: Chapman and Hall, 1918), p. 24. 23 Ibid., p. 29. 24 Ibid., p. 23. 25 Ibid., pp. 23-24. 26 Barry J. Faulk, ‘Camp Expertise: Arthur Symons, Music Hall, and the Defense of Theory’, in Music Hall and Modernity: The Late-Victorian Discovery of Popular Culture (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2004). 27 Susan Sontag, ‘Notes on “Camp”’, in Against Interpretation and Other Essays (London: Penguin, 2009), p. 275. 28 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 145. 29 Faulk, ‘Camp Expertise’, p. 53. 30 Ibid., pp. 53-54. 31 Ibid., p. 54. 32 Dowling, Language and Decadence in the Victorian Fin de Siècle, p. x. 33 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 148. 34 Sontag, ‘Notes on “Camp”’, pp. 286-89. 35 Faulk, ‘Camp Expertise’, p. 56; Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 146. 36 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 147. 37 Arthur Symons, ‘Seville’, in Cities and Sea-Coasts and Islands (London: W. Collins, 1918), p. 18. This essay was written in 1898, but first published in March 1901 in Harper’s Monthly Magazine, and then reprinted in Cities and Sea- Coasts and Islands. 38 Sontag, ‘Notes on “Camp”’, p. 283. 39 Ibid., p. 283. 40 Symons, ‘Seville’, p. 18; Sontag, ‘Notes on “Camp”’, p. 288. 41 Arthur Symons, ‘Spain (To Josefa)’, in Images of Good and Evil (London: William Heinemann, 1899), pp. 151-52. 42 An allusion to the Spanish–American War fought between the United States and Spain in 1898. The defeat and loss of the last remnants of the Spanish Empire was a profound shock to Spain’s national psyche and came to be known as the ‘disaster’. 43 Symons, ‘Spain (To Josefa)’, p. 152. 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid., p. 151. 46 Sontag, ‘Notes on “Camp”’, p. 276. 47 Andrew Ross, No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture (New York: Routledge, 1989), p. 137. 48 Faulk, ‘Camp Expertise’, p. 57. 49 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, pp. 151-52. 50 Ibid., p. 145. 51 Havelock Ellis, The Soul of Spain (London: Constable, 1908), p. 180. 52 Faulk, ‘Camp Expertise’, p. 60. 53 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 155. 54 Ibid., p. 153. 55 Ibid., p. 155. 56 Faulk, ‘Camp Expertise’, p. 59. 57 Ibid. 58 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 156. 59 Arthur Symons, ‘To a Gitana Dancing (Seville)’, in Images of Good and Evil (London: William Heinemann, 1899), p. 107. 60 Ibid, p. 108. 61 Symons, ‘Spain (To Josefa)’, p. 151. 62 Symons, ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’, p. 103. 63 Dowling, Language and Decadence in the Victorian Fin de Siècle, p. 239. 64 Ibid., pp. 239-40. 65 Ibid., p. 241. 66 Ibid. 67 Ibid. 68 Symons, ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’, pp. 104-05. 69 Edith Ellis, ‘Dolores’, in The Smart Set, 24.4 (1909), 121-28 (pp. 125-26). 70 Ibid., p. 126. 71 Ibid. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 18 72 Symons, ‘Moorish Secrets in Spain’, pp. 104-05. 73 Ibid., p. 103. 74 Ibid. 75 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 154. 76 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, p. 862. 77 Dowling, Language and Decadence in the Victorian Fin de Siècle, pp. 242-43. 78 Symons, ‘To a Gitana Dancing (Seville)’, p. 108. 79 Arthur Symons to Robert Cunninghame Graham, [November] 1898, National Library of Scotland, Cunninghame Graham Papers, Acc.11335, fol. 56. 80 Symons, ‘A Spanish Music-Hall’, p. 152. 81 Arthur Symons, ‘Amalia Molina’, in Notes on Spanish Dancers and Spanish Gypsies, 22 May 1920, Box 13 Folder 18, Arthur Symons Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library, Princeton New Jersey, USA. 82 As well as his essays, articles, and reviews of the 1890s, Symons penned several unpublished articles and reviews on Spanish flamenco dancing in 1920 and 1921. Arthur Symons, Notes on Spanish Dancers and Spanish Gypsies. 83 Lorca first developed the aesthetics of Duende in a lecture he gave in Buenos Aires in 1933, entitled ‘Juego y teoría del duende’ [‘Play and Theory of the Duende’]. Four elements can be isolated in Lorca’s vision of duende: irrationality, earthiness, a heightened awareness of death, and a dash of the diabolical. For more on Lorca and the notion of duende see, for example, Federico García Lorca, In Search of Duende, ed. and trans. by Christopher Maurer (New York: New Directions, 1998). VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 19 ‘A capital fellow, full of vivacity & good talk’: Arthur Symons and Gabriel Sarrazin Bénédicte Coste University of Burgundy Arthur Symons is currently regarded as a cultural mediator of the cosmopolitan fin de siècle. He stands at the crossroads of distinctive journalistic and literary networks, and of translations in different languages. In the mid-1880s Symons, who had just published An Introduction to the Study of Browning, was regarded as a budding critic with a strong interest in French poets and prose writers.1 From the start of his journalistic career he had taken an interest in French regional2 and avant- garde literature, praising them in British magazines, before translating poems in Days and Nights (1889).3 Such an interest opened the door of French publications for him through the mediation of the French critic Gabriel Sarrazin (1853-1935), nowadays as neglected as Symons once was. In La Renaissance de la poésie anglaise, 1798-1889: Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Tennyson, Robert Browning, Walt Whitman (1890), Sarrazin favourably discussed A Study of Browning and was one of the first French littérateurs to consider Symons as a critic of British modern poetry, at the time translated and disseminated in France along with the works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and A. C. Swinburne.4 Firstly, a critic of both literature and the visual arts, Sarrazin exemplifies the early reception of Symons’s criticism in France before he became regarded as a poet by Paul Verlaine and Remy de Gourmont, both of whom praised his third volume of poetry, London Nights, in 1895.5 Verlaine and Gourmont were personally acquainted with Symons6 and both represent a well-known albeit limited number of French poets and critics who primarily regarded him as a modern British poet. Symons’s transition from a perceived Browningite to an avant-garde poet was enacted when his acquaintanceship with Sarrazin led to his introduction to Gourmont and Verlaine, resulting in his mention of Verlaine and ‘la Nuance … that last fine shade’ in his review of Browning’s Asolando in 1890.7 More explicit references to the French poet and translations soon followed. ‘Clearly, Symons ha[d] shifted his interest from Browning to the French Symbolists’ in Silhouettes (1892) and London VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 20 Nights (1895), Karl Beckson and John M. Munro comment.8 I suggest this shift stemmed from Symons’s earlier French correspondence and acquaintanceship with Sarrazin in 1888-89. Symons was attracted to France from the start, but surprisingly his interest in Browning eventually provided him with an entry into French journalistic networks partly through the mediation of Sarrazin.9 A French Anglophile A noted Anglophile from a well-to-do family, Sarrazin was instrumental in introducing British Aestheticism to France and stands as another forgotten, passionate, mediator of modern literature in English.10 As Lothar Hönninghausen notes, Sarrazin brought later Pre-Raphaelite art to the attention of the French by demonstrating parallels between Pre-Raphaelitism and early Symbolism after he had seen a solo exhibition of the late Rossetti at the Burlington Fine Arts Club in January 1883.11 Best known today for his correspondence with Walt Whitman and his chapter on the American poet in La Renaissance de la poésie anglaise, Sarrazin was primarily a literary critic in a time when literary criticism stood at the crossroads between different new theoretical possibilities while numerous often short-lived little reviews competed with mainstream magazines ensuring a lively debate between proponents of realism, naturalism, and symbolism. France’s late-1880s literary world existed along a lively background of continuous shifting literary allegiances, manifestoes, quarrels, and a myriad of new schools vying for recognition. University-educated Sarrazin also belongs to a lineage of French Anglophile nineteenth- century writers including Joseph Milsand, Hippolyte Taine, Emile Blémont, Paul Bourget, Gabriel Mourey, and Edouard Rod, among others, who acted as cultural mediators of contemporary British writings. As early as 1881, Sarrazin devoted two articles on ‘La Poésie anglaise contemporaine’ to praise successively Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Algernon Charles Swinburne in the Revue littéraire et artistique.12 The magazine had been created in 1879 and ran until 1882 under the editorship of drama critic Jean de la Leude, publishing fiction, sometimes poetry, articles on French literature, the visual arts, music, drama, and chronicles of European literature. 1881 was a pivotal year for the magazine VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 21 which grew in page number in July and began to defend realism and naturalism more forcefully through contributions by Zola, Céard, and Huysmans. At the time Sarrazin appears to have mainly been in charge of British literature with articles on Thomas Carlyle, Benjamin Disraeli, and Orientalism.13 His further contribution on ‘L’École esthétique en Angleterre’ appeared in the newly- established Revue indépendante (1884-1897) in November 1884. 14 The Revue indépendante politique, littéraire et artistique had recently been set up by Georges Chevrier under the editorship of Félix Fénéon and published poets, novelists, and critics such as Verlaine, Paul Bourget, Émile Hennequin, Laurent Tailhade, Charles Morice, Jean Lorrain, Stéphane Mallarmé, Edmond de Goncourt, Maurice Barrès, and Léo d’Orfer. Like other magazines, in its beginnings, it included sections on ‘Science, philosophie, politique’, literary and art criticism, published poetry, and chronicled French literary life including other magazines or publications it deemed interesting. From 1886 onwards, the Revue indépendante became one of the most important venues for Symbolist prose and poetry, publishing writings by Frenchmen Symons would later be writing on or be acquainted with. Sarrazin’s ‘L’École esthétique en Angleterre’ was devoted to Rossetti and Swinburne: ‘Deux d’entre les Esthétiques, tous deux reconnus hors de pair’ [Two among the Aesthetics, both acknowledged exceeding comparison].15 Sarrazin insisted on Rossetti’s double craftsmanship and personality, and praised Swinburne’s verse, ‘de beaucoup la plus remarquable du temps présent’ [by far the most remarkable of the present times], which he deemed ‘plutôt double, déroutée par la fréquente irréductibilité de la Beauté Plastique à la Beauté morale’ [rather double, derailed by the frequent irreducibility between Plastic and Moral Beauty].16 In 1885 Sarrazin included those articles in his first monograph, Poètes modernes de l’Angleterre, where he adopted a Tainian approach to distinguish Walter Savage Landor, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Elizabeth Browning, and Swinburne as modern British poets, from ‘deux autres qui font contraste’ [two others standing in contrast]: John Keats and Dante Gabriel Rossetti whose works ‘dévie de la ligne anglophone’ [deviate from the English-speaking lineage]. 17 Their poems displayed some VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 22 ‘infiltrations exotiques’ [exotic infiltrations] similar to France where nombre de nos écrivains se composent un bouquet de toutes les conceptions humaines. A l’arôme vif et fin d’idées et de fantasies rapides, perçantes, ironiques, en un mot françaises, ils entremêlent le parfum lourd, morbide, de théories et d’imaginations capiteuses transplantées d’autres pays. [a number of our writers are composing a medley of all the human conceptions. To the piquant and subtle aroma of ideas and of swift, piercing and ironical fantasies, they mingle the heavy, morbid perfume of strong theories and imaginations transplanted from other countries.]18 Sarrazin was alert to nascent fin-de-siècle cosmopolitanism19 and set himself the task of providing its French branch with ‘fragments de traductions’ [fragments of translation] to help the scholars realize how limitless and grandiose the English poetical imagination was.20 In his chapter on Rossetti Sarrazin depicted the ‘peintre-poète’ [painter-poet] as a ‘âme malade’ [sick soul] full of ‘visions, demi-poétiques et demi-picturales’ [half poetic, half painterly visions] who had sometimes mistaken painting for poetry in his ballads.21 An heir to Dante, Rossetti had presented remarkable feminine figures including that of the ‘Blessed Damozel’ which Sarrazin quoted in his own translation.22 That translation, which was to prove important for Symons’s journalistic career, was a modified version of a former translation of ‘La damoiselle élue’ which had first appeared in a complete version in La revue contemporaine in 1885.23 Defending Sarrazin The acquaintanceship between Sarrazin and Symons cannot be precisely dated but may have originated when Symons came to the defence of Sarrazin’s translation of Rossetti in a letter to the editor of the Whitehall Review. On 12 January 1888, the weekly magazine reviewed several works on Rossetti by British and by French critics. 24 Noting the current craze for Rossetti’s poetry, it especially paid attention to Clémence Couve’s translation into French of ‘The Blessed Damozel’.25 Couve proposed in fact two versions of Rossetti’s poem, one ‘literal’, keeping the sonnet form, and the other ‘literary’, reading like a prose poem. The reviewer found it ‘an odd experience’ to read Rossetti’s ‘fine gold of perfected verse transmuted to the baser metal of foreign prose’.26 As Couve VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 23 had not kept Rossetti’s sonnet form in her ‘literary’ version, her translation suggested ‘some precious and priceless wine drunk from a tin cannikin.’27 Such was also the opinion of another French critic, Theodor de Wyzewa (1862-1917), presented as the critic from the Revue indépendante, itself ‘the organ of today’s Jeunes-France’, who thought Rossetti’s verse tainted with ‘vain dexterities’ and Joséphin Péladan’s lengthy preface to Couve unlikely to make him change his view.28 The replacement of Fénéon by Wyzewa as editor for the new series the Revue indépendante in November 1886 had resulted in a different stance, although the Revue claimed to be neutral and promote no specific literary school. The Whitehall Review also mentioned ‘a little book of essays on English poetry published in France some time ago’ which had devoted ‘several pages to an estimate of Rossetti’s genius’ but the author of which escaped memory. Rejoicing however that ‘French authors and critics should quarrel over Rossetti at all’, the anonymous reviewer concluded by a stern dismissal: ‘we can leave Clemence Couve and Josephin Peladan and Theodor de Wyzewa to fight out their quarrel’.29 Symons remembered the name of Sarrazin whom he defended in the next issue of the Whitehall Review (19 January 1888) as a ‘judicious, thoughtful, conscientious’ critic’.30 Even though he rated Sarrazin’s 1885 essay on Rossetti ‘the poorest of the collection’, he mentioned Poètes modernes de l’Angleterre whose essays on Landor, Mrs Browning, and Swinburne’s earlier works were ‘full of excellent things’ although they were devoid of novelty to a British critic.31 Symons praised Sarrazin for ‘knowing the English language perfectly […]. His translations, of which he is rightly liberal, are as close as translations can well be.’32 Symons also noted that Sarrazin was at work on ‘a second volume of English studies’ on Browning, Alfred Tennyson, and Walt Whitman. Due to appear in La nouvelle revue, Sarrazin’s essay on Whitman left Symons dubious as to the French reception of Whitman: ‘One would scarcely suppose that the “Leaves of Grass,” however carefully transplanted, are ever likely to flourish very vigorously on French soil.’33 At the time a promising literary journalist signing his letter to the editor from Nuneaton, Symons however displays a fair knowledge of the French literary scene and French littérateurs. It is VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 24 unclear when he started to correspond with Sarrazin – Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s biographer James Dykes Campbell may have been instrumental in introducing the critics – and exchanged books but Symons’s January letter to the editor of the Whitehall Review shows that he had heard about Sarrazin and possibly read him before 1888, and that he partly relied on him for his education in contemporary French literature. In a letter dated 2 February 1888, Symons refuted a Tennysonian lineage for his poetry, mentioning Sarrazin as a stronger influence. In a letter dated 10 April 1888, Sarrazin informed Symons of his intention to travel to London in May or June, and Symons wrote to Dykes Campbell: [Sarrazin] seems quite excited at the idea (‘cette idée-là me fait battre le cœur à l’avance’), and most anxious to see me, & ‘causer longuement’ (I don’t know in what language, but I sincerely hope his English is better than my French!) It will be very pleasant to meet him; we have corresponded for some time & exchanged books & articles.34 Symons also mentions Poètes Modernes de l’Angleterre which he had read by this time: ‘Do you know his “Poètes Modernes de l’Angleterre”? It is a good book, about which I wrote a letter to the Whitehall Review a month or two ago. I shall probably come to London for a few days, & see as much of him as I can.’ 35 Sarrazin’s trip was however delayed 36 and he sent Symons, still at Nuneaton, a postcard on 3 May 1888 to announce his next trip to Britain and thank him: J’aurais déjà dû depuis longtemps, mon cher ami, vous remercier pour mes feuillets, je le fais un peu tard, parce que je veux faire le plus de travail possible avant de partir pour l’Angleterre, et je remets ce départ à deux ou trois mois; j’ai encore tout à faire. Ce qui n’empêche pas que je suis décidé plus que jamais à aller là-bas cet été. C’est en effet mon livre qu’avait dû recevoir Mr. Dykes Campbell que je vous prie de saluer de ma part. [I should have thanked you, my good friend, a long while ago, for my sheets; I am doing it a little late because I want to do as much work as possible before leaving for England and because I am delaying my departure by two or three months as I have so much to do. Which does not prevent me from having the staunchest intention of travelling there this summer. Indeed, it is my book that Mr. Dykes Campbell should have received.]37 We do not know what ‘feuillets’ Sarrazin refers to: are they proofs or manuscripts that Symons may have read and possibly corrected? In the same letter, Sarrazin announced the publication of his study on Whitman in La nouvelle revue:38 ‘Mon étude sur Whitman a paru avant hier dans la Nouvelle Revue. Malheureusement on ne m’en donne pas de numéro; je vous enverrai des feuilles VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 25 d’épreuves que j’ai’. [My study on Whitman was published yesterday in la Nouvelle Revue. Unfortunately, no one has given me a copy: I shall send you some proofs that I have.] 39 The mention of his study on Whitman40 and his intention of sending Symons some proofs indicate Sarrazin’s willingness to engage in collaborative work with a younger lesser-known critic. Ironically Whitman was later to prove a matter of controversy between Sarrazin and Vielé-Griffin, both of whom Symons read carefully. Sarrazin later spent two days with Symons who commented in a letter to Dykes (10 September 1888): ‘He is a capital fellow, full of vivacity & good talk – and singularly genial and kind-hearted. He has given me all kinds of French literary information.’41 At the time, Sarrazin seems to have been the main conduit of French literature for Symons then engaged in an essay on Villiers with the objective of introducing him to the British.42 Likewise Sarrazin may have benefitted from Symons’s knowledge of Browning, and English. Both men continued to correspond with each other. Still working on his articles on Villiers de l’Isle-Adam43 and Henrik Ibsen,44 Symons soon completed an ambitious reading programme including François Villon, Molière, Charles Baudelaire, Théodore de Banville, Pierre Loti, Bourget, and Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le noir (1830).45 He was also planning the launch of his Days and Nights, copies of which he wanted to send to Leconte de Lisle, Richard Garnett, Bourget, James Darmesteter, and Sarrazin. On 27 July 1889, Symons mentioned his intention of concentrating on his poetry, putting aside French projects. He writes of his intention ‘to get all the weed out of my Fleurs du Mal’.46 Symons’s and Sarrazin’s conversations in September 1888 may have led Symons to introduce Sarrazin to Harry Quilter who promised to publish his essay on Browning in the short-lived Universal Review (1888-90). 47 The choice of the newly-established illustrated magazine was appropriate as the Universal Review featured the same sections and catered for a similar readership as that of the French magazines Sarrazin published in. Acting as a mediator of French criticism into Britain, Symons also inched his way into recognition as Sarrazin’s article quoted A Study of VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 26 Robert Browning. Symons may have further surmised that Harry Quilter would ask the Frenchman for a translation of his essays on the English poets to be published simultaneously with the French version. On 6 August 1889, Symons mentions Sarrazin’s article on Browning, fearing the quality of the translation of his own words under Sarrazin’s pen. Another long letter shows him relieved to discover that Sarrazin’s article appeared in French but quoted directly from A Study of Browning.48 The same March issue also included Symons’s ‘Henrik Ibsen’.49 In 1890 Quilter also reprinted Sarrazin’s ‘Walt Whitman’ as it had appeared in La nouvelle revue in May 1888.50 Unfortunately the magazine did not provide Sarrazin with another opportunity to make his ideas known in Britain as it folded. In his early correspondence with Sarrazin in January 1888, Symons had mentioned the twin projects of translating Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’s Contes cruels and publishing an article in The Woman’s World. 51 His article in Wilde’s magazine included a portrait with which Symons thought the Frenchman would be ‘fort content’.52 Even if he held the writings of Honoré de Balzac, Théophile Gautier, and Prosper Mérimée in dear esteem and mentioned his project of an introduction to Daudet’s Contes in translation to compete with Andrew Lang’s tales, Symons still wanted to be the champion of Villiers in Britain. And it was possibly in aid of Symons that Gourmont met an ailing Villiers in 1888. On 22 February 1889, Symons mentions Gourmont, ‘a friend of Villiers’, in his letter to Dykes Campbell.53 Symons had previously written to Gourmont on 18 January 1889 to ask him about a translation of Contes cruels that he would like to ‘revise … if any suitable translator and publisher could be found’.54 Symons also mentions his forthcoming volume of poetry and refers to Sarrazin who obviously put him into contact with Gourmont. This was the beginning of a long-lasting friendship between Symons and Gourmont, at the time a rising critic and writer who would soon translate ‘A Litany of Lethe’ and review Symons’s Days and Nights in the newly- established Mercure de France.55 Sarrazin and Symons continued to correspond and see each other, for instance when Sarrazin came to Britain in June 1889 with drama critic Antonin Bunand56 ‘who—alas for me !—doesn’t VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 27 know a word of English’, Symons deplored.57 The three of them went to see a performance of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House.58 When Symons went for a six-day trip in Paris with Havelock Ellis in September 1889 for the Universal Exhibition he called at Sarrazin’s.59 Not only did Sarrazin mentor Symons in French literature, he also tutored him in French critical writings and should be credited for having introduced Symons to the works of Émile Hennequin (1859-1888). Mentioning the untimely death of the critic on 12 July to Dykes Campbell, Symons calls him ‘[Sarrazin’s] intimate friend, a young critic of remarkable talent who had just sent me his new book, La critique scientifique, which seemed to me of the most remarkable attempts at erecting a science that had ever been taken in hand’.60 Symons’s first idea on reading Hennequin was to have his critical writings translated into English and published in Britain.61 Hennequin’s death put a stop to his project; another element contributing to its definitive end was the acceptance of Symons’s first volume of poetry by Macmillan, ‘the publisher par excellence’.62 Symons was not to become Hennequin’s mediator in Britain but arguably, Hennequin’s ambitious project of ‘esthopsychologie’, a ‘science des œuvres d’art considérées comme signes’ [science of works of art understood as signs], may have exerted some influence on the later Symons. 63 Hennequin’s death left Sarrazin with the task of following in his footsteps in a time when literature stood at a fascinating crossroads which would branch out into the multifaceted currents of the 1890s, including Symbolism and the psychological novel. While he was befriending Symons, Sarrazin published ‘La littérature psychologique actuelle’ in La Nouvelle Revue (March 1889) to describe the ‘principal des courants qui arrivent’ [main currents that are coming] namely the ‘mouvement de haute analyse qui gagne peu à peu toutes les branches des lettres’ [movement of higher analysis which progressively wins over all areas of letters], and which must be related to ‘l’évolution scientifique générale’ [the general scientific evolution].64 Sarrazin acknowledged that naturalism’s excessive insistence on physiology had led to a quandary contemporary French writers could escape only by embracing psychological analysis. Citing Loti and Édouard Rod’s Le Sens de la vie as instances of that development, Sarrazin appeared quite conversant with the psychological VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 28 studies of Alexander Bain, Émil du Bois-Reymond, and Hermann von Helmholtz in order to vindicate the psychological turn of the French novel. 65 That new current belonged to ‘l’école d’analyse française’ [the school of French analysis], both contemporaneous with the recent discovery of the Russian novel and opposed to a ‘mouvement parallèle, tout d’imagination pure, celui-là, et s’en allant vers le rêve’ [parallel movement, all of pure imagination, going towards the dream].66 Along with the late Émile Hennequin, Sarrazin contended, Bourget was to be seen as the ‘l’initiateur critique’ [critical initiator] of that movement.67 It comes therefore as no surprise that Sarrazin should dedicate the second volume of his critical essays upon ‘les grands classiques de la poésie anglaise de ce siècle’ [the great classics of English poetry of this century] to Bourget whose conservative Le Disciple (1889) had taken the French literary world by surprise. In 1890, La Renaissance de la poésie anglaise also cited Symons’s A Study of Browning favourably. Arguing that the ‘renaissance de la poésie anglaise’ [renaissance of English poetry] had begun in 1798 with the Romantics, Sarrazin still used a Tainian approach (but argued that Shelley’s universalism transcended Taine’s race and milieu) and sought to study ‘la spontanéité de la vie intérieure’ [the spontaneity of inner life].68 British poets had developed a sustained ‘vie de l’âme’ [life of the soul] that Sarrazin had spent some ten anxiety-laden years studying with the certainty that he would come out fortified in his faith in ‘le sublime, le culte des héros, l’admiration pour le caractère’ [the sublime, the worship of the heroes, the admiration for the character].69 Along with Russian novelists and ‘voyants français’ [French seers], British poets heralded the future of ‘l’humanité démocratique et scientifique’ [democratic and scientific humanity].70 Mary Robinson, Mathilde Blind, and that ‘petit groupe de jeunes écrivains français d’avant-garde épris de la Psyché moderne’ [little group of young avant-garde French writers enamoured with the modern Psyche] heralded some ‘évolution nouvelle’ [novel evolution] that Sarrazin’s critical writings aimed at ushering. 71 Sarrazin’s chapter on Browning’s ‘œuvre typiquement anglaise, œuvre de l’esprit d’un peuple’ [typically English oeuvre, a work of the spirit of one people] depicted the poet as the poet of VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 29 individuality and individuals, displaying a complete ‘Théâtre de l’Âme’ [Theatre of the Soul] with the aim of promoting the great moral force men had to find within themselves.72 Sarrazin knew that he was following in the footsteps of Milsand’s 1851 article in the Revue des Deux Mondes, to which he refers, but he also mentions a ‘jeune poète anglais’ [young English poet] and commandeered Symons’s recent A Study of Browning by quoting from it.73 Sarrazin concluded that ‘le théâtre de Robert Browning est, en dernière analyse, l’apothéose de la lutte, de la tentation, de l’épreuve morale’ [Robert Browning’s drama is ultimately the apotheosis of struggle, of temptation, and of moral trial].74 Published at the distinguished Perrin publishing house, La Renaissance de la poésie anglaise was awarded the Prix Bordin. Shortly afterwards, Sarrazin was sent as a magistrate to New Caledonia, thereby closing the chapter of his friendship with Symons.75 A dedicated traveller, he turned to autobiografictional prose from 1892 and limited his literary activity.76 (Mis)Translating Whitman When Symons returned to Paris from mid-March to June 1890, staying at the Hôtel Corneille on the Left Bank with Havelock Ellis, his place within a network of writers, poets, and journalists as a Browningite and a poet was already carved. Thanks partly to Sarrazin, Symons was conversant with many of the journalistic networks and magazines, including les petites revues of the 1880s which increasingly functioned as alternatives to the dailies and mainstream periodicals.77 Most of those were short-lived, versatile in their staff and ideals, becoming overnight the opposite of their former selves through the arrival of a new editor bringing his own network of contributors. Such a situation paralleled the situation Symons encountered in Britain as he was attempting to gain recognition both as a critic and as a poet. Sarrazin had smoothed the path to his nascent recognition in France. One of the magazines Symons might have later read in France was Entretiens politiques et littéraires (1890-1893) established in 1890 by Francis Vielé-Griffin, Paul Adam, and Henri de Régnier to counter naturalism. Under the editorship of Bernard Lazare, known for his anarchist VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 30 leanings, the monthly included contributions by Gourmont, Henri de Régnier, Stuart Merrill, and Vielé-Griffin who subsidized the journal.78 Strongly political, the magazine engaged in polemical language to defend anarchism and modern art. The April 1892 issue included ‘Autobiographie de Walt Whitman’ by Vielé-Griffin, one of the first promoters of the vers libre in French in Joies (1889).79 American-born but educated in France, Vielé-Griffin presented the recently deceased poet. In another unsigned snippet, Vielé- Griffin sent a Parthian arrow: Nous avons démontré que M. Gabriel Sarrazin (au moment précis de son existence où il ‘traduisait’ Whitman et Coleridge) ignorait littéralement la langue anglaise; de là à nier qu’il soit ‘le frère des Shelley, des Browning et des Tennyson’ comme le veut M. Béranger, il y a loin. Toutefois, ce dernier en use librement avec les génies anglo-saxons, à notre avis, et semble en s’assimilant aux meilleurs d’entre eux, trop oublier le chantre de Lisette, qu’il ne faut pas mépriser. [We have demonstrated that Mr. Gabriel Sarrazin, at the moment he was ‘translating’ Whitman and Coleridge, was literally ignorant of the English tongue. To deny he is ‘the brother of the likes of Shelley, Browning and Tennyson’, as Mr. Béranger has, seems stretching the point a little bit. Still, we are of the opinion that the former freely uses Anglo- Saxon geniuses and, by over-assimilating himself to the best of them, seems to over-forget the latter’s rights one should not despise.]80 For Vielé-Griffin, Sarrazin’s criticism was founded upon a faulty understanding of English, something that Symons had hinted at when wondering in which language his conversation with Sarrazin would take place. Symons had commanded Sarrazin’s translations of Rossetti in 1888 but his fluency in French then may have been debatable. More interestingly Vielé-Griffin mentions Laforgue’s translation of Whitman (1886) in the avant-garde magazine La Vogue.81 He continues: ‘J’ai offert pour rien une traduction de Whitman à l’éditeur Savine, il me fut gracieusement répondu que l’auteur de Brins d’Herbe était “trop peu connu”’ [I offered for nothing a translation of Whitman to Savine, the publisher. I was graciously answered that the author of Leaves of Grass was “too little known”’]. 82 Savine may or may not have read Sarrazin’s 1888 article and his 1890 collection following in the footsteps of Blémont, the first French critic to publish a favourable article on Whitman in the Renaissance littéraire et artistique on 8 June 1872.83 Vielé-Griffin was claiming the recognition he felt both Jules Laforgue and himself had been denied by older littérateurs with a VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 31 firmer publishing network. Translation accuracy was the point where younger avant-garde poets asserted their legitimacy by contesting more established critics. In Britain Symons would be faced with a similar challenge which he attempted to solve by contributing to a diversity of periodicals ranging from the most established (the Athenæum) to the most avant-garde (The Savoy) in the 1890s. He would also assess and contest the quality of translations. Symons was careful to dissociate his criticism from his poetry and his early recognition by different critics with different literary proclivities, who contributed to various magazines and engaged in apparently watertight networks, enables us to assess how he could fare as a critic and as a poet on both shores of the Channel. The permanent apparition, transformation, and disappearance of avant-garde magazines competing with more established mainstream periodicals, the shifting poetic allegiances, the overlapping networks of editors, contributors, the literary strategic friendships or sudden skirmishes composed a French literary field which Symons learnt to navigate at least in two countries. In the ‘Preface’ to Plays, Acting and Music: A Book of Theory (1903), Symons claimed to be ‘gradually working my way towards the complete expression of a theory or system of Aesthetics, of all the arts’, his latest collection of essays being only a step towards it along with The Symbolist Movement in Literature, the forthcoming Studies in the Seven Arts, Cities, Spiritual Adventures and poetry. 84 If he no longer quoted Sarrazin after 1889, he kept Hennequin’s intellectual wide-ranging ambition in his own ambition to master ‘the universal science of beauty’.85 This time Symons was attempting to embrace life and the arts but his project departed from Hennequin’s project of writing ‘l’histoire tout entière doit être écrite’ [the history of the intellectual development of humanity] by being scattered over several volumes. 86 The nineteenth-century’s attempt at finding some unified all-embracing system collated in one definitive volume was no more. 1 Arthur Symons, An Introduction to the Study of Browning (London: Cassell, 1886). VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 32 2 Arthur Symons, ‘Frédéric Mistral’, National Review, 36 (December 1886), 659-700. His article was signalled as ‘un article très enthousiaste de M. A. Symons’ in the anonymous section of ‘Publications’ of the Revue contemporaine in February 1886, 144. 3 Symons translated Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’s ‘L’aveu’ along with poems by Leconte de Lisle, Gautier, Joachim du Bellay, and Heinrich Heine. See Arthur Symons, Selected Early Poems, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick (London: MHRA, 2017), p. 8. 4 Gabriel Sarrazin, La Renaissance de la poésie anglaise, 1798-1889: Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Tennyson, Robert Browning, Walt Whitman (Paris: Perrin, 1890). 5 Paul Verlaine, ‘Deux poètes anglais’, Revue encyclopédique (July 1895), 325-26; reprinted in ‘Deux Poètes anglais Arthur Symons L. Cranmer Byng’, Œuvres en prose complètes, texte établi, présenté et annoté par Jacques Borel (Paris: Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 2002), pp. 954-61. See also Remy de Gourmont’s ‘Livres’, in Le Mercure de France (August 1895), 243. Launched anew in 1890 by Alfred Valette with the help of Gourmont, the Mercure was committed to literary cosmopolitanism, and from June 1890 onwards, Gourmont’s short pieces in the ‘Revue des revues’ and ‘Littérature anglaise’ sections of the Mercure made Symons familiar to French readers both as a poet and as a translator as he reviewed nearly all publications by Symons. 6 Symons met Verlaine on 29 April 1890. 7 Arthur Symons, ‘Browning’s Last Poems’, The Academy (11 January 1890), 19. 8 Beckson and Munro note that ‘Both collections [Silhouettes and London Nights] suggest tone and texture of particular moments’. Karl Beckson and John M. Munro, ‘Symons, Browning, and the Development of the Modern Aesthetic’, Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900, 10 (1970), 687-99 (p. 96). 9 Arthur Symons, ‘A Fancy of Ferishtah’, The Academy (13 December 1884), 393. 10 In a letter to Dykes Campbell (25 June 1888), Symons noted that ‘[Sarrazin] seems to have been well-received in London & had dined with Henry James, Alfred Austin […] & has been a good deal I think to the Rossettis’ and Madox Brownes’s.’ His letter of 10 September 1888 also confirms Sarrazin’s interest for the modern visual and literary art as he intended to stay in London until 27 September to meet Oscar Wilde. Arthur Symons, Dykes Campbell. London, British Library, Dykes Campbell Papers, vol. 1, MS 49522, folio 218-9 and 248-51. 11 Lothar Hönnighausen, The Symbolist Tradition in English Literature: A Study of Pre-Raphaelitism and Fin de Siècle, trans. by Gisela Hönnighausen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 2. No less than 153 works by Rossetti were exhibited. See Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Pictures, Drawings, designs and studies by the late Gabriel Dante Rossetti, with a Biographical Sketch by H. V. Tebbs (London: Printed for the Burlington Fine Arts Club, 1883). 12 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘La poésie anglaise contemporaine. Dante Gabriel Rossetti’, La Revue littéraire et artistique, 13 (1 July 1881), 298-304, and ‘La poésie anglaise contemporaine: Algernon Charles Swinburne’, La Revue littéraire et artistique, 22 (15 November 1881), 592-97. 13 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘Benjamin Disraeli’, La Revue littéraire et artistique, 10 (15 May 1881), 224-27; Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘Les Progrès de l’orientalisme’, La Revue littéraire et artistique, 9 (1 May 1881), 209-10. 14 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘L’École esthétique en Angleterre’, La Revue indépendante (November 1884), 29-31, 164-68. La Revue indépendante, founded by Georges Chevrier, was a monthly magazine that ran between May 1884 and April 1885, with a bi-monthly in May 1885. It stopped between June and November 1886, to start anew as a monthly from November 1886. Between 1884 and the first months of 1885 the magazine was edited by Félix Fénéon, later replaced by Theodor de Wyzewa and Edouard Dujardin. 15 Sarrazin, ‘L’École esthétique en Angleterre’, p. 164. All translations in this article are my own. 16 Sarrazin, ‘L’École esthétique en Angleterre’, p. 168. 17 Gabriel Sarrazin, Poètes modernes de l’Angleterre (Paris: Paul Ollendorf, 1885), p. ii. 18 Ibid., pp. iii & iv-v. 19 In Poètes modernes de l’Angleterre, Sarrazin also argued that the German Romantics had influenced the French language and turned it into ‘une langue métaphorique et picturale’ (p. 6). 20 Sarrazin, Poètes modernes de l’Angleterre, pp. v & vii. 21 Ibid., pp. 252, 234, 247. 22 Sarrazin, ‘Dante Gabriel Rossetti’, in Les Poètes modernes de l’Angleterre, pp. 263-69. 23 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘La damoiselle élue’, La revue contemporaine (1885), 373-78. 24 [Unsigned], ‘Rossetti in French and English’, Whitehall Review, 609 (12 January 1888). The review discussed The Collected Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (London: Ellis and Elvey, 1887); The Life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, ed. by Joseph Knight (London: Walter Scott, 1887); La Revue indépendante (Paris, August 1887); La Maison de vie. Sonnets de Dante Gabriel Rossetti, traduit par Clémence Couve (Paris: Lemerre, 1887). 25 Dante Gabriel Rossetti, La Maison de vie. Sonnets de Dante Gabriel Rossetti traduits littéralement et littérairement par Clémence Couve (Paris: Lemerre, 1887). 26 [Unsigned], ‘Rossetti in French and English’, 609. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 33 30 Arthur Symons, ‘Rossetti’s “House of Life”’, Whitehall Review, 610 (19 January 1888), 13. 31 Ibid. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (10 April 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 202. 35 Ibid. 36 On 14 May, Symons mentions the book sent by Sarrazin through Dykes Campbell and comments: ‘It is in some ways a pity his visit will be delayed’. Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 211. 37 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (3 May 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 213. 38 La nouvelle revue published serialized fiction and articles on literature and politics. 39 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (3 May 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 213. 40 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘Walt Whitman’, La nouvelle revue, 55 (May-June 1888), 162-84. Sarrazin’s essay discusses Pantheism, The New World, and Leaves of Grass. He also links the poet to Oriental mysticism and compares him to ancient prophets. The article was favourably received and Sarrazin sent it to Whitman in 1889. Whitman was impressed and began to correspond with Sarrazin. 41 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (10 September 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 218-9. 42 See Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (21 September 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 281. 43 See Arthur Symons, ‘Letter to the Editor: Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’, Athenæum (14 September 1889), 354, and ‘Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’, The Woman’s World, 2 (October 1889), 657-60. 44 See Arthur Symons, ‘Henrik Ibsen’, Universal Review, 3 (15 April 1889), 567-74. 45 See Symons’s letter of 19-21 October 1888, written while he was still in Buckingham. Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 258-64. 46 Symons, letter to Dykes (27 July 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 233. 47 See Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (11 December 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 280-82. 48 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘Robert Browning’, Universal Review, 10 (1889), 230-46. 49 Arthur Symons, ‘Henrik Ibsen’, Universal Review, 3.12 (1889), 567-74. 50 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘Walt Whitman’, Universal Review, 6 (1890), 247-69. 51 In a letter to Dykes Campbell (2-3 January 1888), Symons writes: ‘Now that so much French rubbish is being translated I should like to see those Contes cruels taken in hand for a change.’ Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 177- 81. 52 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (17 July 1888), Dykes Campbell Add MS 49523, folio 10. 53 Arthur Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (22 February 1889), in Selected Letters, ed. by Karl Beckson and John M. Munro (Houndsmills: Macmillan, 1989), p. 45. 54 See Arthur Symons, letter to Remy de Gourmont (16 January 1889), in Correspondance. Vol 1. 1867-1899, collected, prefaced and annotated by Vincent Gogibu (Paris: Éditions du Sandre, 2010), p. 173. 55 See also Remy de Gourmont, ‘Littérature anglaise’, Le Mercure de France, 6 (June 1890), 219-20. 56 See Antonin Bunand, Les Petits Lundis. Notes de critiques (Paris: Librairie académique Didier, Perrin et Cie, 1890). 57 Arthur Symons, ‘Letter to James Dykes Campbell’, 15 June 1889, reprinted in Selected Letters, p. 49. 58 At the time Sarrazin and Bunand stayed at the Madox Browns’. 59 Symons, letter to James Dykes Campbell [6 October 1889], Selected Letters, p. 52. 60 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (18 July 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 227. 61 In the same letter, Symons writes that: ‘Someone to whom I lent the [Hennequin] book suggested the feasibility of having it translated into English, I had thought how pleasant it would be to write to the author & make him the proposal.’ (Ibid.) 62 Symons, letter to Dykes Campbell (25 June 1888), Dykes Campbell MS 49522, folio 216. 63 Emile Hennequin, La Critique scientifique (Paris: Perrin, 1888). 64 Gabriel Sarrazin, ‘La Littérature psychologique actuelle’, La Nouvelle Revue (March 1889), 299-310 (p. 299). La Nouvelle Revue (1879-1940), edited by Jean de la Leude, published Zola, Coppée, Céard, Huysmans, and Édouard Rod among others. 65 In ‘La Littérature psychologique actuelle’, Sarrazin writes that ‘l’homme va se retirer dans son âme comme dans son dernier asile’ (p. 310). 66 Sarrazin, ‘La Littérature psychologique actuelle’, pp. 304 & 299. 67 Ibid., p. 305. 68 Sarrazin, La Renaissance de la poésie anglaise, pp. v & viii. 69 Ibid., pp. ix & xi-xii. 70 Ibid., p. xii. 71 Ibid., p. xiii. Eager to assert his credentials, Sarrazin also mentioned William Sharp’s collection of Sonnets anglais (p. x) and many other, now minor, poets. 72 Ibid., p. 231. 73 Ibid., pp. 205-07. 74 Ibid., p. 231. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 34 75 Another motif of estrangement may have been Verlaine whose ‘Poetic Ideal’, Sarrazin had confessed not to share in the ‘Poésie’ section of the Revue contemporaine in 1885 (p. 151). 76 See Gabriel Sarrazin, Mémoires d’un centaure (Paris: Perrin, 1894). Later Sarrazin published In Memoriam Uxoris Dilectissima (Paris: Imprimerie de F. Carbonnel, 1923), and Éloge de la poésie, Discours prononcé à Avignon le 2 août 1929 au banquet du 5e congrès des écrivains de France (Bordeaux: Editions de la Renaissance provinciale, 1929). 77 Remy de Gourmont was one of the first to take an interest in little fin de siècle magazines. See Les Petites revues: essai de bibliographie (Paris: Librairie du Mercure de France, 1900). 78 See Henri de Paysac, Francis Vielé-Griffin: Poète symboliste et citoyen américain (Paris: A.-G. Nizet, 1976). 79 Francis Viélé-Grifin, ‘Autobiographie de Walt Whitman’, Entretiens politiques et littéraires (April 1892), 166-69. 80 [Unsigned], ‘Notes et notules’, Entretiens politiques et littéraires, 25.4 (April 1892), 188. 81 ‘Poets to Come’ was among the first of Whitman’s poems translated in 1886 by Jules Laforgue for the new and short-lived avant-garde periodical, La Vogue. It appeared with other poems from the ‘Inscriptions’ cluster in the 28 June 1886 issue and was followed by two further instalments in the 5 July and 2 August issues. La Vogue started on 11 April 1886 under the editorship of Léo d’Orfer with the help of Gustave Kahn as secrétaire de redaction. Along with Laforgue’s translation of Whitman, La Vogue published Symbolist prose and poetry including Kahn’s vers libres from 1886 when Kahn replaced d’Orfer as editor with the help of Félix Fénéon. 82 [Francis Vielé-Griffin], Entretiens politiques et littéraires, 25.4 (April 1892), 169. 83 Emile Blémont, ‘Walt Whitman’, La renaissance littéraire et artistique, 7 (8 June 1872), 53-55. 84 Arthur Symons, ‘Preface’, in Plays, Acting and Music: A Book of Theory (London: Duckworth, 1903), p. vii. 85 Ibid., p. ix. 86 Hennequin, Critique scientifique, p. 164. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 35 Hierophants of Decadence: Bliss Carman and Arthur Symons Rita Dirks Ambrose University Canada has never produced a major man of letters whose work gave a violent shock to the sensibilities of Puritans. There was some worry about Carman, who had certain qualities of the fin de siècle poet, but how mildly he expressed his queer longings! (E. K. Brown) Decadence came to Canada softly, almost imperceptibly, in the 1880s, when the Confederation poet Bliss Carman published his first poems and met the English chronicler and leading poet of Decadence, Arthur Symons. The event of Decadence has gone largely unnoticed in Canada; there is no equivalent to David Weir’s Decadent Culture in the United States: Art and Literature Against the American Grain (2008), as perhaps has been the fate of Decadence elsewhere. As a literary movement it has been, until a recent slew of publications on British Decadence, relegated to a transitional or threshold period. As Jason David Hall and Alex Murray write: ‘It is common practice to read [...] decadence as an interstitial moment in literary history, the initial “falling away” from high Victorian literary values and forms before the bona fide novelty of modernism asserted itself’.1 This article is, in part, an attempt to bring Canadian Decadence into focus out of its liminal state/space, and to establish Bliss Carman as the representative Canadian Decadent. To begin with, I situate the fin de siècle in Canada and examine the fruitful literary connection between Carman and Symons; then I read Carman’s poem ‘The Eavesdropper’ through a Decadent lens and continue toward an articulation of a distinctly Canadian Decadence. For the major part, I desire nothing less than to secure a foothold for Carman as the Father of Canadian Decadence. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 36 Oh Decadent Canada: The Confederation Poets and the Fin de Siècle in Canada The event of Decadence is underexplored in Canada; much of literary criticism on the fin de siècle in Canada tends to focus primarily on the emergence of a national literature during the Confederation period. There is no book-length study bearing the title Canadian Decadence; Brian Trehearne’s Aestheticism and the Canadian Modernists: Aspects of A Poetic Influence (1989) is a notable exception, yet Trehearne does not discuss Carman. Before I continue, I must clarify that the purpose of my study here is Canadian literature written in English. Francophone literature, situated mostly in Quebec, has its own history of literary developments, and, in 1895, formed its École littéraire de Montréal that followed French Parnassian and Decadent models, with Émile Nelligan, perhaps the École’s best representative, who shows his indebtedness to Charles Baudelaire and Paul Verlaine.2 Predominantly for historical reasons, and especially before the fin de siècle, there was little if any conversation between English Canadian and French Canadian writers. Bentley’s literary history of the last twenty years of the nineteenth century in Canada, The Confederation Group of Canadian Poets, 1880-1897 (2004), offers a contextualized study of the six English Canadian poets: Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943), Archibald Lampman (1861-1899), Bliss Carman (1861-1929), William Wilfred Campbell (1860- 1918), Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947), and Frederick George Scott (1861-1944). They were the ‘The Confederation Group of Canadian Poets’ or Confederation poets, so named because these poets were born in the 1860s, in the decade when Canada became a nation (1867). But only three of them, Roberts, Carman, and Campbell Scott, ‘show[ed] evidence of contact with [...] [European] avatars of the symboliste aesthetic’ in the 1890s.3 Bentley continues, Lampman, Campbell, and Frederick George Scott held themselves aloof from the aesthetic- decadent movement that hosted symbolisme before it entered the literary mainstream en route to becoming a major component of Modernism, but the other three members of the group all drank deep of the symboliste spring and thus also of the esoteric or occult beliefs with which it was associated.4 Here I focus on one of the three members who did not hold himself ‘aloof’ from Decadence/Symbolism but rather ‘drank deep[ly]’ from it, namely, Bliss Carman. In 1882, before Carman and Symons met in London in 1896, Wilde toured America to lecture on aesthetic taste and VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 37 visited Canada, briefly meeting up with Carman at Roberts’s house. Wilde must have at least provided some curiosity, if not inspiration, for the twenty-one-year-old Carman. Aside from that brief acquaintance, in October, Wilde also lectured at the City Hall in Fredericton, the capital of New Brunswick (eastern Canada, where most Confederation poets lived). Wilde’s influence notwithstanding, Terry Whalen describes ‘a “strange aesthetic ferment” in the last two decades of the nineteenth century’, in line with Decadent, Symbolist, and Aesthetic stirrings in France and England.5 Those Confederation poets ‘who drank deep of the symboliste spring’ follow similar developments as their European counterparts, yet with some of their own unique ways. It is my heuristic argument that at least some of the Confederation poets could be classified as Decadents, keeping in mind, as Murray observes, that ‘[i]dentifying practitioners [of Decadence] is notoriously difficult; it is near impossible to find a self-described Decadent writer’.6 Certainly, Carman did not bear the label, as did many a Decadent or Symbolist writer; I hope to establish that Carman is such a one, not the least through his association with Symons. Symons and Carman: Friendship and First Contact via Letters Although Carman initially encountered Wilde in 1882, eighteen years later a much closer connection developed between Carman and Arthur Symons, more so than between any other Canadian and British Decadents. The friendship between Carman, the Canadian poet who lived and worked in New York and Boston for most of his adult life, and Symons, who was four years younger and had just moved to London, began when Symons sent two letters, one posted 4 July 1890, and the next, 5 December 1890, with two of his early poems, requesting that Carman, who was editor between 1890-92 of the New York weekly the Independent, publish them. At that time the Independent ‘had a large general readership and a history of literary publication, especially poetry [E. B. Browning, Thomas Hardy, A. C. Swinburne, and W. B. Yeats, among others]’.7 It was nearly impossible for Carman and other Canadian poets of new verse to get published at home at the end of the nineteenth century; for the most part, between 1820-80, ‘Canadian publishers of imaginative literature were VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 38 content to keep the lucrative field of reprinting well-known British and American authors’.8 Not so in New York and the United States in general, with its larger reading public and demand for ‘new writing’. James Doyle avers that, in the 1890s, American ‘monthly periodicals’ ‘flourish[ed]’, while in Canada ‘the publishing industry struggled’.9 Possibly, Symons also took advantage of the ‘American periodical boom of the 1880s and 1890s’ as an opportunity to publish some of his early poems and his own ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ in Harper's New Monthly Magazine in 1893, with the very real purpose of disseminating Decadence across the Atlantic.10 Tragically, the poems that Symons sent to Carman in 1890 have been lost, and those issues of the Independent have not been preserved; the digitized version of the paper shows a gap between July- December 1890 to December 1895, just the years that would interest us the most here. However, we may surmise. In the letter posted on 4 July 1890, Symons refers to ‘[s]ome verses (written at Dieppe on my way back’ from France, so we can probably guess that this might be a poem or all poems from his ‘At Dieppe’ sextuple (‘After Sunset’, ‘On the Beach’, ‘Rain on the Down’, ‘Before the Squall’, ‘Under the Cliffs’, and ‘Requies’), first published in his upcoming Silhouettes collection in 1892, after Symons returned from his trip to Paris with Havelock Ellis in June 1890. Tracy Ware writes: ‘Because a poem by Symons appeared in the Independent shortly after each letter and at no other time during Carman’s tenure there, we can be reasonably certain of the identity of the poems he enclosed (now lost)’.11 According to Ware, Symons’s letter dated 5 December 1890 includes ‘probably “Love in Dreams”, which appeared in the Independent, XLII, No. 2207 (March 19, 1891)’.12 In his first letter, with the request to publish his own poems, Symons praises Carman’s early work: ‘I so much admire what I have seen of your own poems. [...] There is something delightfully fresh in them – a lyric April. I hope you will soon collect them into a book’.13 Carman did publish Symons’s poems and followed up with a few collections of his own poetry. It seems the two young poets found much in common; as Ware states, ‘the letters reveal an affinity between two young men’.14 This affinity created enough interest for the two to meet in person. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 39 1896: Carman’s Visit to London, and Symons Reviews Carman Carman must have read at least some of Symons’s early poems to garner enough interest to visit Symons in London in 1896. After their initial epistolary acquaintance, the two poets met in person in London in 1896, where discussions about directions of modern poetry also included Yeats. In a letter to his friend Louise Imogen Guiney, who was in Nova Scotia at the time, Carman wrote on 2 September of the same year: ‘O I had a gay time in your London. [...] Arthur Symons, whom I ran to earth in Fountain Court, Temple, took me to Yeats’ new abode’.15 In 1893, before Carman and Symons actually met, Symons reviewed Carman’s first volume of poetry Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics (1893), and subsequently the Canadian poet’s three following books: Songs from Vagabondia (1894, with the American poet Richard Hovey), Behind the Arras: A Book of the Unseen (1895), and More Songs from Vagabondia (1896, with Hovey). In 1896 Symons also published Carman’s poem ‘In Scituate’ in The Savoy. Symons ‘played a key role in the growth of Carman’s reputation’.16 In the 1890s, both vagabonds, Canadian and British, were keen on publishing and promoting each other’s work and the work of other Decadents. Certainly, Carman’s movements between Eastern Canada and New York partly reflect his desire to introduce and publish Canadian writers in the United States. In a similar way, Symons not only brought French Symbolist or Decadent writers to the English reading public by way of his publications, but also established connections with Carman. After his sojourn in London in 1896, Carman travelled to Paris where he landed ‘in the heart of the Symboliste movement’.17 To be sure, Carman shared some of Symons’s enthusiasm regarding Paris and the French Symbolists: ‘Since Carman’s return from abroad, there had been several articles connecting him with the French Symbolistes and the British Aesthetes’.18 Furthermore, in the 1890s, ‘Carman was dubbed the “American High Priest of Symbolism” by a New York newspaper [The New World]’.19 Carman’s poetry espouses the influence of both English and French nineteenth- century Decadents. Before he travelled to meet Symons in London, the Canadian poet had spent a year at Oxford and the University of Edinburgh (1882-83) and then a year at Harvard (1885). In his early years, he was influenced by D. G. Rossetti and Swinburne, and, with the encouragement of VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 40 Hovey, read and translated Paul Verlaine. As with Symons, some of the French Symbolist influence is evident in Carman’s poetry. I am inspired by all of Carman’s connections to British, French, and American nineteenth-century authors; these are but little-examined and happily require the space of at least one future book. I must quench my zeal, for now, with establishing Carman as a progenitor of Canadian Decadence, and this article must not exceed the boundary of a prolegomenon. Carman’s Poetry as Canadian Decadence More than one critic in Canada has declared the strangeness of Carman’s poetry, both in the damning and praiseworthy sense. Odell Shepard, the American poet and writer, published the first significant book on Carman’s work: Bliss Carman: A Study of His Poetry (1923). Shepard praises Carman for his ‘mastery of verse technic’, his ‘“tone color”’, and ‘pure unimpeded’ musical quality.20 Shepard insists that Carman’s poems ‘must be read slowly, as an epicure savours an ancient wine, with a special lingering upon the clear vowel sounds’.21 At the same time, the American critic writes that Carman was ‘save[d] from the poisonous heresy of “art for art’s sake”’.22 Seemingly, as an admirer and editor of Henry David Thoreau and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Shepard could not endure the literature of the fin de siècle; however, we would not be wrong to associate Carman with the American Transcendentalists, especially Ralph Waldo Emerson. In the late 1950s, when Carl F. Klinck began to compile the first Literary History of Canada: Canadian Literature in English (1965), some of his contributors did not know what to do with Carman. For example, Roy Daniells, while writing his entry on ‘Confederation to the First World War’, laments in a letter to Klinck in 1961, ‘I find that both Roberts and Carman distressing people to deal with, […] they evoke either pity or anger and not much else’.23 Reginald Watters, who with Klinck, undertook to publish a Canadian anthology in the 1950s, also wrote to ask his co-author, ‘How fond are you of Carman and Roberts? […] Both leave me pretty unmoved. […] I found it difficult to discover more than 400 lines by each that I would want’.24 Lorne Pearce, editor of Ryerson Press in the 1920s, and Carman’s literary executor, told Klinck that he was ‘greatly worried VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 41 about [publishing] Carman’s unconventional love letters, of which he had trunks full’.25 Carman never married, was quite attractive, witty and intelligent, with celebrated beautiful locks of hair, and ‘seems to have sought safety in numbers’ in his relationships with women; unusual for his milieu, he led the lifestyle of a vagabond poet.26 In 1990, a much-awaited collection of essays on Carman appeared, edited by Gerald Lynch. Appropriately subtitled A Reappraisal, it restored Carman, somewhat, to worthy literary status within the shrine of Canadian literature; Bliss Carman: A Reappraisal was published with a suitably yellow cover. Feasibly, one needs to read Carman through a Decadent lens. ‘The Eavesdropper’ (reproduced in its entirety at the end of this article) from his first collection, Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics (1893), a volume that Symons also reviewed, will serve us well here as an instance of Canadian Decadent poetry. Carman’s poem of nine quatrains and written in iambic dimeter, is one of suggestion and impression rather than thought. It is a poem that ushers the reader into a subjective world of immediate experience, yet, at the same time, offers nothing definitive. It begins in the realm of decline, in the autumn of the year, with ‘the paling autumn-tide’. As Brian Trehearne finds, if a Decadent poet writes ‘poems of nature’, and nature is strongly present, even personified in Carman’s poem, ‘Autumn, the “failure” of the year, emerges as a typical Decadent setting’.27 However, this change in seasons is more than a setting; just as Symons’s city in his London poems is not just a ‘background’ to the ‘clandestine’ and ‘shadowy’ spaces, neither is the outside world in ‘The Eavesdropper’.28 We learn next to nothing about the lovers in the poem who lie in repose, inside ‘a still room’, ‘side by side’, ‘all the swarthy afternoon’. But nature teems with colours and sounds and movements: ‘The livelong day the elvish leaves | Danced with their shadows on the floor’ and ‘The great deliberate sun | Walk[ed] through the crimson hazy world, | Counting his hilltops one by one’; then, ‘purple twilight came | And touched the vines along our eaves’, while the lovers, inside the room, ‘heard’, ‘watched’, and ‘saw’. Nature, albeit with its summer’s strength waning, is the actor still, even with its fallen leaves that are ‘The lost children of the wind | went straying by our door’; by contrast, human energies are spent, after VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 42 the lush months of spring and summer are behind them. The lovers observe, almost passively, as the yellow and/or fallen leaves ‘stir’, make a ‘tiny multitudinous sound’, ‘rustle’, ‘dance[d]’, ‘stray[ing]’, and behave like ‘elvish’ children. Maurice Maeterlinck’s influence upon Carman, through Hovey, is perhaps evident here. In ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, when Symons speaks of the ‘symbolistic and impressionistic’ dramas of Maeterlinck, notably L’Intruse, L’Aveugles, and Les Sept Princesses, he remarks that in the former two plays ‘the scene is stationary, the action but reflected upon the stage, as if from another plane’, and, in the latter, ‘the action, such as it is, […] is literally, in great part, seen through a window’.29 The motionless couple in ‘The Eavesdropper’ watch the goings-on outside, as if in a (dare I say) languid state, through ‘the open door’. Instead of revealing situational details about the two lovers, Carman foregrounds colours, shades, and edges, outside of the ‘still room’: ‘the yellow maple tree’, ‘the silvery blue’, ‘crimsoned hazy world’, ‘gray wind’, and ‘black’, forming an impressionistic palette. Interpolated with colours, Carman’s poem also abounds in edges, liminal spaces, and boundaries, some metaphoric: ‘our door’, ‘the eaves’, ‘my Love’s lips’, ‘[t]he maze of dream’, and ‘the verge of western sky’. The voluminous colours speak for the abundance and activity of nature; the borders signify limitations and transgressions, mirroring the lovers’ plight. For instance, the dual agency of the ‘purple twilight’, registering the in-between stage after day ends and before nightfall, touching ‘the vines along our eaves’, and the eaves, the perimeter that overhangs the walls of a house, providing an extended edge to the roof, forges a space where nature again takes the active role while allowing Carman to continue to not to name, but hint at, the outlines, the peripheral and the hidden. D. G. Jones writes that Carman ‘is not concerned to articulate things […] The typical event is transitional, like a change in the weather or the season, or it is a brief epiphany’.30 Kostas Boyiopoulos similarly observes that in Symons’s London poems ‘the city’s disjoined settings mirror the fragmented subjective states of mind in Symons’s poetic speakers’.31 In Carman’s poetry, and specifically in ‘The Eavesdropper’, we might observe such a correspondence between stirrings in nature and the subjective states of the lovers as well. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 43 Some of the words and sentiments in ‘The Eavesdropper’ will sound familiar to a Decadent ear. The fixation on the woman’s hair, for example, reveals, albeit vaguely and indirectly, more about the situation of the lovers than the rest of the poem. The use of transferred epithet, ‘memories of reluctant night | Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair’, adds to the sense of the imprecise. It is not clear if it is the night that is reluctant to leave because the ‘hush of dawn’ has arrived or if the woman is reluctant to face the day, or if she has regrets about the days and night(s) she spent, albeit reluctantly, with her lover (but, one thing is clear – if I were to choose the decidedly beautiful quintessential Decadent line or two from Carman’s poetry, these would be the ones). Through another fixation on the woman’s eyes, namely, the repetition of the Lover’s ‘earth-brow eyes’ and then ‘her great brown eyes’, Carman conveys the abrupt change in mood, from ‘glad’ to then ‘veiled and sad’. In ‘The Eavesdropper’, the ‘blue dusk of her hair’ and the arrival of the ‘Shadow’ are pivotal epiphanic moments. The arrival of another ‘One’ from elsewhere signals the decided change in the lover’s mood from within, pointing to the protective isolating edge around the female Love, and threatening the cozy, albeit troubled, hermetic seclusion of the couple. The ‘Another Shadow’ from ‘without’, the ‘One’ (who?) that is not part of nature, but ‘gloom[s]’ and ‘loom[s] over’ the other ‘shadows on the floor’, is an unnatural, menacing shadow, a shattering, foreboding presence. This stranger ‘gloomed the dancing of the leaves’, and, once the speaker ‘hurr[ied] to the open door’, […] saw retreating on the hills, Looming and sinister and black, The stealthy figure swift and huge Of one who strode and looked not back. Because secrecy abounds in this mysterious poem, once more, it is not clear who the Shadow or the One is: the speaker’s Lover’s husband, her guilty conscience, death, a foreboding, a malevolent force; the identity of the eavesdropper remains unknown. Once again, even these last lines are remarkably reminiscent of Maeterlinck’s L’Intruse, where Death, or an intruder, initially unseen or invisible, comes unobserved through an open door.32 The Shadow or the One or the eavesdropper VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 44 brings about the grandiose, lethal change in the fate of the lovers, although, even before he appears, an overall sense of something lost, imperceptibly yet progressively, prevails in this poem of failure. ‘The “Shadow” is but the inexplicable presence that reminds the lovers of something they already knew to be true within themselves; as Trehearne reminds us of Decadent writing, an awareness of the ‘transience of beauty’, ‘love’, and ‘inescapable decay’ is imminent.33 In this regard, I also cannot help but think of Symons’s first lines from his ‘Prologue: Before the Curtain’ (1895): ‘We are puppets of a shadow play’, that also ring true in this Canadian Decadent poem. How did Symons react to Carman’s poetry? To my mind, it is evident from this poem alone why Symons encouraged Carman to write more, to publish a collection of poetry. In ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ Symons praises Verlaine’s ability to express ‘exquisite troubled beauty’ of verse, and, ‘to express the inexpressible[,] he [Verlaine] speaks of beautiful eyes behind a veil’.34 Carman had certainly read Verlaine, but it is as if he had read Symons’s essay as well (both Low Tide on Grand Pré and ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ were published in 1893, which makes it impossible to say). Carman’s ‘earth-brown eyes’ and ‘great brown eyes’ that ‘were veiled’ speak of the unspeakable, the secret, the insight, the epiphany, the truth. The resemblance between Symons’s praise of Verlaine’s verse for the French poet’s renderings of ‘the palpitating sunlight of noon’ and ‘a cool autumn sky’ again uncannily resonates with Carman’s ‘deliberate sun’ and ‘silvery blue’ and ‘paling autumn-tide’. In the comparison between Verlaine’s poetry from Romances sans Paroles, which Symons calls ‘The poetry of sensation, of evocation; poetry which paints as well as sings, and which paints as Whistler paints, seeming to think the colours and outlines upon the canvas’, we are reminded once more of the subtle unspoken painterly impressionistic descriptions of Carman, full of colours and hues and shadows and edges in ‘The Eavesdropper’, as analyzed above.35 According to Tracy Ware, Symons, in his review in the Athenæum (14 April 1894), provides ‘measured praise’ for Low Tide on Grand Pré and ‘tries to combine his sincere approval with a suggestion for improvement’.36 Symons comments: ‘The whole book is an expression of passionate delight in the beauty of the outward world. […] [I]t deals with certain vague ardours, vivid longings VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 45 after the indefinite in nature’.37 Symons commends Carman for his expressions of ‘a delicate consciousness of mystery which lies about the deeper reaches […] [and] is the very key-note of Mr. Carman’s work’ in his review of Grand Pré.38 But, at times, according to Symons, Carman’s expression is too vague: Mr. Carman is, in general, subtle in the expression of fine shades, though his phraseology— rich, coloured, suggestive at its best, and with an elusive touch of natural magic—does sometimes become a mere coloured mist. He can express fine shades, but it is doubtful if can express anything else. […] The only question is whether he does not sometimes allow himself to use words too loosely, for the sake of their suggestive quality, which, after all, is not always a matter to be relied upon.39 It seems a little ironic that the promulgator of Decadence would criticize Carman for his vagueness and suggestive expression of fine shades. I am inclined to think that Symons did not read all the poems in Carman’s first volume, due in part to his innumerable writerly responsibilities in the early 1890s. Certainly, he makes no mention of ‘The Eavesdropper’ in his review, although he does praise ‘Afoot’ for its remarkable rendering of vagabond sensations. Also, perhaps by 1894 Symons had outgrown the style ‘in the direction of simplicity’ of his own poetry in Silhouettes (1892) or indeed the poetry he had submitted to the Independent, most likely in ‘At Dieppe’, in 1890.40 What I find remarkable is the rendering of colours and sensations in Symons’s ‘At Dieppe’ sextuple, using the same evocative vocabulary as Carman in his representative poem. For example, in ‘On the Beach’ Symons employs ‘grey sky’, ‘tide’, ‘stealthy night’; in ‘Rain on the Down’, ‘veil’, and ‘her hair’; and, perhaps the most telling similarities between Carman’s and his language occurs in ‘Under the Cliffs’, where we find ‘the white sun walk across the sea, | This pallid afternoon’ and ‘I see | The footsteps of another voyager’, along with the word ‘shadows’ repeated twice.41 The similarity between the ‘speaking voice’ in Symons’s second volume of poetry and that of Carman’s in Low Tide on Grand Pré, with ‘The Eavesdropper’ as an effective example, is striking, for, as Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick have noted, the voice ‘is often located in a scene, but otherwise carries no burdens of circumstance, history, or “character”’ and ‘speaks for a painterly “eye”’.42 The similarities do not end here; if we were to compare colours and outlines and otherworldly beings, we would have multiple VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 46 parallel passages. For now, I must leave the comparative study between Symons’s and Carman’s early poetry for another day. Instead, I will refer again to Symons’s later critical writings on Verlaine as a guide to his evaluation of Decadent verse. In Colour Studies in Paris (1918), Symons consistently praises Verlaine’s artistic virtues: the French poet’s ‘is a twilight art, full of reticence, or perfumed shadows, of hushed melodies. It suggests, gives impressions, with a subtle avoidance of anything definite’.43 According to Symons, Verlaine’s ‘Art poétique’ ‘express[es] the inexpressible[;] he speaks of beautiful eyes behind a veil, of the full palpitating sunlight at noon, of the blue swarm of clear stars in a cool autumn sky’.44 Verlaine’s language in ‘Art poétique’ neatly aligns with Carman’s; for example, the lines ‘des beaux yeux derrière des voiles’ [beautiful eyes behind veils] and ‘un ciel d’automne attiédi’ [a tepid autumn sky] recall Carman’s ‘[h]er great brown eyes were veiled’ and ‘paling autumn-tide’ in ‘the silvery blue’, albeit without the effulgent sun.45 Earlier, in his high praise for Verlaine, Symons, in The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1899), observes that ‘only with Verlaine, the thing itself, the affection or regret, is everything; there is no room for meditation over destiny, or search for a problematical consolation’.46 We have observed the same in Carman. In ‘The Eavesdropper’ the moments of reluctance or regret overshadow any details about the lovers’ lives, personality, thoughts, or a resolution. Carman’s poem is one of suggestion and impression, rather than thought, a poem of some shades of colour and outlines. In a conclusive way, I must maintain, inasmuch as one cannot speak of the totalizing classification of Decadent poetry that would amount to the relegation of all Decadents’ styles to a few, that Carman’s poetry meets the standards of Decadence set out by Symons himself. The Distinct Nature of Canadian Decadence What is Canadian Decadence? At the risk of defining or naming and possibly destroying all enjoyment, I will venture to say that this article contains but preliminary work towards identifying the event in Canada. Because of its distinct literary history alone, factors and conditions contributing VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 47 to the rise and development of Decadence in Canada will not be the same as in French or British or American Decadence. Weir argues (and Symons would agree) that one needed a literary tradition or a civilization to rebel against, or at least to realize that one’s civilization has come to end, in order to devolve into Decadence. For example, Weir writes that ‘[in] America, the cultural conditions that produced the possibility of decadence in Europe simply did not exist’.47 Notable exceptions were New York and Boston; otherwise, as he proclaims, ‘there was no local grain to go against’.48 At the end of the nineteenth century, (English and French) Canada was just beginning to behave as a nation. In Canada, there is, as Symons writes in ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, no equivalent to a ‘disease of form’ arising from ‘a civilization grown over-luxurious, over-inquiring, too languid for the relief of action’.49 Canadian settlers were just beginning to shape a new civilization (in their own eyes, First Nations culture notwithstanding) and, frankly, as Virginia Durksen comments, ‘the energy and focus of the largely rural population may well have been spent on practical considerations of survival’.50 English Canada, just to limit this discussion to the nineteenth century, had perceived itself without its own civilization and with an imported Victorian literature. However, it developed its own settler literature alongside it, albeit one that attempted, initially, to write back to its parent country. Victorian novels served as models for at least some of nineteenth-century English Canadian literature, like Catharine Parr Trail’s The Backwoods in Canada (1836) and Susanna Moodie’s Roughing It in the Bush (1852). These were written with a British audience in mind; both sister-writers were born in England and were sending notes home, as it were. The novels of Parr Traill and Moodie, along with other ‘canonical narratives of settlement’, were meant to ‘entice emigrants from the British Isles to the New World’.51 For the most part, an imported Victorianism, or a second-to- Victorianism sentiment reigned in Canada between 1820-80. Yet, English Canada, with its imported, inherited British literature, was also beginning to sprout some locally inspired seedlings of its own. Towards Confederation, literature was beginning to seek its own national identity, and, with the Confederation poets, a distinctly Canadian literature VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 48 began; writing about Canadian landscapes and experiences, they were no longer writing back to England. D. G. Jones, writing about Carman’s poetry, says that ‘[u]nlike events of a pioneer narrative, […] it settles nothing, establishes no stable centre’.52 Roberts, in his essay ‘A Note on Modernism’ (1931), states that the Confederation poets ‘had already initiated a departure, a partial departure, from the Victorian tradition of poetry, years before the movement [Modernism] began in England’, arguing for Canada’s own domestic early Decadence-into-Modernism movement.53 It is perhaps ironic that, for Carman and other Confederation poets, the beginnings of a national Canadian literature, in published form, appeared in the United States. For reasons already stated above, Carman and his associates had a hard time getting published in their native land. While at the Independent, in his role of assistant editor, Carman not only saw that ‘various young American’ poets got into print, but also ‘promot[ed] the work of Canadian friends, including Archibald Lampman, Duncan Campbell Scott, Charles G. D. Roberts, Wilfred Campbell, and Gilbert Parker.54 The rich literary milieu of Boston offered some degenerative growth, even producing some Decadent short-lived journals: The Knight Errant (1892-94) and The Mahogany Tree (1892), which survived for only six months, sadly, for it was ‘one of the first forums for decadent-aesthetic ideas in the United States’.55 In the first volume of the Knight Errant, Carman is published alongside Hovey and Louise Imogen Guiney, all included among others whose ‘names […] come up again and again in the context of medievalism, decadentism, and aestheticism’.56 Although not listed as its editor, the Independent named Carman as associate editor of the Knight Errant, with Ralph Adams Cram as its chief editor.57 Of the Knight Errant, a New York magazine, Current Literature: A Magazine of Record and Review (1888-1925), writes in 1892: The Knight Errant, a new quarterly, has […] at length appeared. It is devoted to art in wherever its many phases, dealing in its first number with its own peculiar aims—which are to make war against naturalism wherever it shows its head.58 Cram and Carman, as stated in the ‘Apology’ of the first issue of the Knight Errant, waged a ‘war against […] realism in art’, as represented by the likes of the American Realist novelist William Dean Howells (1837-1920), and sought to restore ‘the inner world of the imagination as the proper focus VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 49 of art’.59 In 1894, Carman also became editor of the first four issues of Chap-Book (1894-98), a magazine which Doyle compares with The Yellow Book which appeared but a month earlier in 1894.60 Both magazines were inspired by ‘the periodicals of France devoted to the new symbolist poetry’.61 Again, Carman made sure his fellow Confederation poets were published in the Chap-Book: Roberts, Lampman, and others appeared on its pages along with Beerbohm and Yeats.62 In a way, Symons’s efforts in publishing French poets in English journals, and his promotion of Decadence/Symbolism, correspond to Carman’s determination to publish the work of international, and especially Canadian, poets. Both were active promoters of Decadence, on both sides of the Atlantic. Carman dipped into some of the Decadent stirrings in New York and Boston but not at the expense of writing his own brand of vagabond and mystical poetry. As Doyle states, Carman, and other young Canadian writers hoped to participate in what they perceived as the new international wave of modernism which they felt would yield new opportunities for unique self-expression and experimentation. The kind of writing they envisaged included a substantial degree of nationalistic self-awareness, just as American writing did, and focused on the descriptive details of the northern landscape.63 Carman’s poetry, especially his early poetry, remained deeply connected to the maritime landscape, the place of his birth. The Confederation poets, on the whole, wrote specifically about the Canadian landscape and wilderness experiences. Something that does set Canadian Decadence apart from English, French, and American Decadences is its attitude towards nature, already begun with the settler narratives. Carman’s life as a vagabond, an explorer of nature, sets him, and in turn Canadian Decadence, apart from his European and American counterparts. As we have observed in ‘The Eavesdropper’, nature takes an active role in Carman’s poem. Canadian Decadence does not share the à rebours, or against nature, characteristic with its European counterparts. What I have in mind here is Huysmans’s designation of nature as tedious in ‘the summa of decadence’, as Matei Calinescu refers to À rebours.64 According to Des Esseintes, through whom Huysmans is speaking, in part against Naturalism but also referring to trees and mountains, ‘[n]ature […] has had her day’; the Duc VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 50 speaks of ‘the revolting uniformity of her landscapes and skyscapes’, with ‘a monotonous store of meadows and trees’.65 In Huysmans’s novel, artifice is the ultimate goal in all aesthetic endeavours; Des Esseintes ‘wanted some natural flowers that looked like fakes’ and cultivates bizarre specimens of ‘fleurs du mal’, thus paying homage to Baudelaire who also pronounced nature and the natural world as ugly in his ‘Salon of 1859’. With Baudelaire, Huysmans recoils against Naturalism in France, ‘a time when verse no longer served any purpose except to depict the external appearance of things’, yet Baudelaire, ‘had succeeded in expressing the inexpressible’.66 Wilde, in ‘The Decay of Lying’ also decries Naturalism and Zola’s work, specifically his L’Assommoir, as ‘unimaginative realism’.67 In Canada, nature is not tiresome but new. It is, even in the twenty-first century, much untouched, grandiose, but little explored, mysterious, and magical. By comparison, nature in the Britain, for example, is comparably familiar and limited in space; Northrop Frye believes that European poets ‘see nature in terms of a settled order which the mind can interpret’.68 A Canadian poet cannot avoid nature, nor rebel against it, nor grow tired of it because much of it is still unfamiliar. In Canada, nature has not become tiresome; presently, due to a harsh climate, in part, and its vast geography, man/woman still has not set foot on many a terrain. In works of fiction, such as Michael Ondaatje’s In the Skin of a Lion (1987), it was still possible, in the early twentieth century in Canada, to be ‘born into a region which did not appear on a map until 1910’, and ‘the place’ still appeared ‘[i]n the school atlas’ as ‘pale green and nameless’.69 Obviously, the spaces which we occupy have not necessarily become places with names, and that relationship to the land will affect our perceptions of self and production of writing. Carman may have been influenced by Romantic, Victorian, and Transcendentalist poets, but it is the Canadian landscape that formed the primary consciousness, as he woke up to it every morning and wandered through it as an adult. In Carman’s writings on nature, as in his collection of essays, The Kinship of Nature (1903), nature is not familiar to the point of contempt as in Huysmans, but more like a ‘friend’ before whom ‘you will stand astonished’: ‘You have been surprised again by nature’, he writes.70 There is no reason to go against nature; if anything, Canadian Decadent poets went into nature as an act of rebellion, VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 51 and some, like Carman, became nature’s best vagabonds. In Canada, nature is venerated as a container of strange sensations, a compendium to be explored, feared, and revered. There is just so much literature, as evinced by Carman’s ‘The Eavesdropper’, wherein it takes centre stage. One simply does not act out against nature; the absolute size of it is outrageous. For example, when the Imagist T. E. Hulme worked and studied in Canada in 1906 for a few months, it ‘appears that the sheer size of the Canadian prairies challenged Hulme’s previously confident belief that the world could be explained in terms of mathematical principles’.71 Oliver Tearle writes that ‘once again, the vastness of nature resists any easy categorization or ordering on the part of humanity’; after his visit to Canada, Hulme wrote in his ‘Cinders’, a posthumously published collection of observation and notes about art, that ‘[t]he flats of Canada are incomprehensible to any single theory’.72And, to revert to the Confederation poets again, Roberts, in ‘A Note on Modernism’, also points to a distinctly Canadian Decadence, ‘more immediately in contact with nature’.73 In Canada, Decadence is not so much a falling away from high Victorian values, or civilization, but a falling into nature, with Carman as its best representative. Towards a Conclusion (but, really, this is just the beginning) As a relatively unnoticed phenomenon, Canadian Decadence demands much more exploration, but, here, Carman gets the last word; Canadian Decadence must begin with Carman. I have introduced the only slightly documented, literary friendship between Carman and Symons with the purpose of establishing Carman as Canada’s quintessential Decadent. Both Symons and Carman, as poets, essayists, and editors, embarked on a comparable mission: they published each other’s poetry and reviews, made personal connections with each other in their travels, and also with other Decadents, Aesthetes, and Symbolistes. They promoted and published Decadent poetry. Carman’s ‘The Eavesdropper’ is one such poem. To be sure, Canadian Decadence is more than its inherited legacy via France and England; Carman promoted a distinctly Canadian Decadence, with its borrowed models, without upholding artifice against nature. In this preliminary sketch I have demonstrated VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 52 that Carman is the best representative of Decadence in Canada, and hopefully I have laid some groundwork as the beginning of a larger work on Canadian Decadence. * * * The Eavesdropper In a still room at hush of dawn, My Love and I lay side by side And heard the roaming forest wind Stir in the paling autumn tide. I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad Because the round day was so fair; While memories of reluctant night Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair. Outside, a yellow maple tree, Shifting upon the silvery blue With tiny multitudinous sound, Rustled to let the sunlight through. The livelong day the elvish leaves Danced with their shadows on the floor; And the lost children of the wind Went straying homeward by our door. And all the swarthy afternoon We watched the great deliberate sun Walk through the crimsoned hazy world, Counting the hilltops one by one. Then as the purple twilight came And touched the vines along the eaves, Another Shadow stood without And gloomed the dancing of the leaves. The silence fell on my Love’s lips; Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad With pondering some maze of dream, Though all the splendid year was glad. Restless and vague as a gray wind Her heart had grown, she knew not why. But hurrying to the open door, Against the verge of western sky VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 53 I saw retreating on the hills, Looming and sinister and black, The stealthy figure swift and huge Of One who strode and looked not back. 1 Jason David Hall and Alex Murray, ‘Introduction: Decadent Poetics’, in Decadent Poetics: Literature and Form at the British Fin de Siècle, ed. by Jason David Hall and Alex Murray (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 1-25 (p. 5). See, for example, Decadence: An Annotated Anthology, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012); Decadent Poetics: Literature and Form at the British Fin de Siècle, ed. by Jason David Hall and Alex Murray; Kostas Boyiopoulos, The Decadent Image: The Poetry of Wilde, Symons and Dowson (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015); and Alex Murray, Landscapes of Decadence: Literature and Place at the Fin de Siècle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 2 E. D. Blodgett, ‘Francophone Writing’, in The Cambridge Companion to Canadian Literature, ed. by Eva-Marie Kröller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 49-69 (p. 56). In his earlier work, Configuration: Essays in Canadian Literature (Downsview: ECW Press, 1982), Blodgett makes an even stronger point: ‘Canada is not a unified country in either a political or cultural sense, and therefore to seek some common thread in its literatures is a vain enterprise indeed’ (p. 8). 3 D. M. R. Bentley, The Confederation Group of Canadian Poets, 1880-1897 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), p. 22. 4 Ibid. 5 Terry Whalen, ‘Charles G. D. Roberts (1869-1943)’, in Canadian Writers and Their Works, ed. by Robert Lecker, Jack David, and Ellen Quigley, 2 vols (Toronto: ECW Press, 1989), II, pp. 159-214 (p. 160). 6 Murray, Landscapes of Decadence, p. 5. 7 Nick Mount, When Canadian Literature Moved to New York (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), p. 70. 8 Ibid., p. 22. 9 James Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit: Walter Blackburn Harte and the American/Canadian Literary Milieu of the 1890s (Toronto: ECW Press, 1995), p. 9. 10 Ibid., p. 40. 11 Tracy Ware, ‘Two Unpublished Letters from Arthur Symons to Bliss Carman’, English Language Notes, 28 (March 1991), 42-46 (p. 42). 12 Ibid., p. 46, n. 12. 13 Ibid., p. 43. 14 Ibid., p. 42. 15 Bliss Carman, letter to Louise Imogen Guiney (2 September 1896), in Letters of Bliss Carman, ed. by H. Pearson Gundy (Kingston & Montreal: McGill Queen’s University Press, 1981), p. 109. Gundy examines the relationship between Carman and Guiney more closely in his ‘Flourishes and Cadences: Letters of Bliss Carman and Louise Imogen Guiney, Dalhousie Review, 55 (1975), 205-26. For a discussion on Guiney as representative of the fin de siècle, see also Alex Murray, Landscapes of Decadence. Born in the same year, Carman and Guiney both lived and moved between Britain, Canada, and America. 16 Arthur Symons, ‘Arthur Symons’ Reviews of Bliss Carman’, Poetry Criticism, ed. by Elisabeth Gellert, 34 (Detroit: Gale, 2002), <http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/H1420036373/LitRC?u=ucalgary&sid=LitRC &xid=bc4c27a8> [accessed 9 May 2018]. Originally published in Canadian Poetry, 3 (Winter 1995), 100-13. 17 Muriel Miller, Bliss Carman: Quest and Revolt (St. John’s: Jesperson Press, 1985), p. 151. 18 Ibid., p. 154. 19 Ibid. 20 Odell Shepard, Bliss Carman: A Study of His Poetry (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Publishers, 1923), p. 95. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid., p. 117. Interestingly, Donna Bennett does not hold Shepard’s book in high esteem: She considers it ‘neither a cultural biography nor a detailed analysis of Carman’s life and work’, but rather ‘impressionistic’ and an exemplar of ‘the hostility towards modernism […] prevalent in Canadian criticism at the time’ (‘Criticism in English’ in The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, Second Edition, edited by Eugene Benson & William Toye (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1997), pp. 242-67, p. 243). 23 Karl F. Klinck, Giving Canada a Literary History: A Memoir, ed. and intro. by Sandra Djwa (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1991), p. 123. 24 Ibid., p. 29. 25 Ibid., p. 38. 26 Gundy, ‘Flourishes and Cadences’, p. 220. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 54 27 Brian Trehearne, Aestheticism and the Canadian Modernists: Aspects of A Poetic Influence (Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1989), p. 15. 28 Boyiopoulos, The Decadent Image, p. 80. 29 Arthur Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, in Aesthetes and Decadents of the 1890s: An Anthology of British Poetry and Prose, ed. and intro. by Karl Beckson, rev. edn (Chicago: Academy Chicago Publishers, 1993) pp. 134-51 (p. 145). Originally published in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, 87 (November 1893) 858-67. 30 D. G. Jones, ‘Carman: Animula vagula blandula’, in Bliss Carman: A Reappraisal, ed. by Gerald Lynch (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 1990), pp. 33-42 (p. 34). 31 Boyiopoulos, The Decadent Image, p. 84. 32 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement’, p. 145. 33 Trehearne, Aestheticism and the Canadian Modernists, p. 15. 34 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement’, p. 139. 35 Ibid., p. 140. 36 Tracy Ware, ‘An Introduction to “Arthur Symon’ Reviews of Bliss Carman”’, Poetry Criticism, ed. by Elisabeth Gellert, 34 (Gale, 2002), Literature Resource Center, <http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/H1420036379/LitRC?u=ucalgary &sid =LitRC&xid=8fdddf4f> [accessed 9 May 2018]. Originally published in Canadian Poetry, 37 (Winter 1995), 100-102. 37 Symons, ‘Arthur Symons’ Reviews of Bliss Carman’, no pagination. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick, ‘Introduction’, in Arthur Symons: Selected Early Poems, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick (Cambridge: Modern Humanities Research Association, 2017), p. 8. 41 Arthur Symons, ‘On the Beach’, ‘Rain on the Down’, and ‘Under the Cliffs’, in Silhouettes, Second Edition (London: Leonard Smithers, 1896), pp. 4, 5, 7. 42 Desmarais and Baldick, Arthur Symons: Selected Early Poems, p. 8. 43 Arthur Symons, Colour Studies in Paris (New York: E. P. Dutton & Company, 1918), p. 200. 44 Ibid., p. 207. 45 Paul Verlaine, ‘Art poétique’, in Jadis et Naguère (Paris: Léon Vanier, 1884), pp. 23-25 (p. 23). 46 Arthur Symons, The Symbolist Movement in Literature (London: William Heinemann, 1899), p. 96. 47 David Weir, Decadent Culture in the United States: Art and Literature against the American Grain, 1890-1926 (New York: State University of New York Press, 2008), p. 1. 48 Ibid., p. 50. 49 Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement’, p. 136. 50 Virginia Durksen, ‘The Literary Garland: Preliminary Research’. An unpublished paper submitted to E. D. Blodgett for the Canadian Literature Workshop Project, 1988, annotated and revised in 2018, 16 pp. Permission from author granted; p. 3. 51 Carole Gerson, ‘Literature of Settlement’ in The Cambridge History of Canadian Literature, ed. by Coral Ann Howells and Eva-Marie Kröller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 87-103 (p. 87). 52 Jones, ‘Carman: Animula vagula blandula’, p. 34. 53 Sir Charles G. D. Roberts, ‘A Note on Modernism’ (1931), in An English Canadian Poetic: Vol 1. The Confederation Poets, ed. by Robert Hogg (Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2009), pp. 139-42 (p. 141). 54 Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit, p. 38. 55 Ibid., p. 52. 56 Weir, Decadent Culture in the United States, p. 52. 57 Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit, p. 41. 58 Current Literature: A Magazine of Record and Review, X (May-August, 1892), p. 275. 59 Doyle, The Fin de Siècle Spirit, pp. 43, 44. 60 Ibid., p. 83. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid., pp. 84, 85. 63 Ibid., p. 39. 64 Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism (Durham: Duke University Press, 1987), p. 172. 65 J.-K. Huysmans, Against Nature, trans. by Robert Baldick (London: Penguin, 1959), p. 36. 66 Ibid., p. 148. 67 Oscar Wilde, ‘The Decay of Lying’ in Intentions (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2004), pp. 1-55 (p. 17). 68 Northrop Frye, ‘The Narrative Tradition in English Canadian Poetry’ (Winter 1946), in Northrop Frye in Canada, ed. by Jean O’Grady and David Staines, XII (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003), pp. 55-63 (p. 56). 69 Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion (1987; Toronto: Penguin Books, 1988), pp. 10-11. 70 Bliss Carman, The Kinship of Nature (Boston: L. C. Page & Company, 1903), p. 195. 71 Rebecca Beasley, quoted in Oliver Tearle, T. E. Hulme and Modernism (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), pp. 34-35. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 55 72 Tearle, T. E. Hulme and Modernism, p. 35; Hulme quoted in Tearle, p. 35. 73 Roberts, ‘A Note on Modernism’, p. 141. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 56 Arthur Symons, Laurence Binyon, and Paterian Aestheticism: Dancers and Dragons William Parker Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London The aesthetic criticism of Oxford-based essayist Walter Pater (1839-1894) was interpreted in a variety of ways in fin-de-siècle and Edwardian Britain. Perhaps most famously, Pater’s example was used to justify the sensualist interpretation of Aestheticism in the work of Oscar Wilde (1854- 1900).1 By contrast, the more subdued influence of Pater’s writings could also be felt in the Addresses delivered by the painter and sculptor Frederic Leighton (1830-1896) in his eminently respectable capacity as President of the Royal Academy, to which he was appointed in 1878.2 By the 1910s, the latent modernism of Pater’s essay ‘The School of Giorgione’ had been seized on by Ezra Pound in the first issue of the abrasive avant-garde journal Blast.3 Yet there was also an intermediary Edwardian context for the literary reception of Pater’s work that was neither Wildean nor iconoclastic – occupying instead the conceptual space in between these more extreme interpretations – and this will be the focus of the current article. The critic and poet Arthur Symons (1865-1945) and the art writer, poet, and British Museum curator Laurence Binyon (1869-1943) are the two key figures in this regard, occupying the same milieu and yet elaborating subtly contrasting understandings of Pater’s ideas. Binyon drew on his role at the British Museum to emphasize the previously overlooked public-facing aspects of Pater’s aesthetics and their potential relevance to the British reception of East Asian art; Symons emphasized instead the more personal and impressionistic undertones of Pater’s writings. Despite these differences, Binyon’s and Symons’s ideas overlap at revealing junctures, especially in relation to their shared emphasis on the essay as an open-ended literary form and their shared interest in the theme of dancing, which was central to both their aesthetics. While the inheritance of Aestheticism in Binyon’s work has been neglected, Pater’s influence on Symons is now well documented in the secondary literature.4 However, these VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 57 revealing points of similarity and contrast between the two writers’ interpretations of Pater have not previously been explored. Considered intertextually, they provide significant insight into the status of aesthetic criticism in the fin-de-siècle and Edwardian periods by showing how Pater’s influence could meaningfully be interpreted in two discrete yet complementary settings. In contrast to the other examples I have mentioned, Symons’s interpretation of Pater is notable for emphasising the subtly contradictory qualities of the latter’s writings. In his essays on the elder writer, Symons emphasized the more sensual and empirical qualities of Pater’s work, but nevertheless also stressed the equally prominent strand of asceticism by which this sensuousness was always accompanied and complicated.5 Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick have recently observed how, by 1885 ‘Symons had identified Pater as the critic he most wanted to emulate’, and that Symons’s criticism more generally is characterized to a significant extent by Pater’s influence.6 These observations are borne out in the primary evidence, as Symons wrote several insightful essays in which he describes both the aesthetic nature of Pater’s writings and his own conversations with the older writer, whom he got to know relatively well in the latter’s final years.7 Symons’s own essays, especially the 1907 collection, Studies in Seven Arts, also clearly demonstrate Pater’s influence on a stylistic level. Symons implicitly admits this in the preface to the same volume, as here he quotes in full ‘the first two sentences’ of Pater’s ‘School of Giorgione’, which he claims are intended as the ‘motto’ of the book.8 Like Symons, Binyon was distinctive in emphasising the nuanced middle-ground between the empirical and the spiritual in his interpretation of Pater, but his role as Assistant Keeper of Prints and Drawings at the British Museum gave his writings an educational emphasis that was clearly distinct from Symons’s concerns. One of the main reasons why the more educational tenor of Pater’s influence is often overlooked in this fin-de-siècle and Edwardian context is that Symons and Binyon occupied much the same central-London artistic-literary milieu in the 1890s, making it easy to overlook the sense in which Binyon may have developed an understanding of Pater’s work that was subtly distinct from that of his contemporaries Symons and W. B. Yeats.9 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 58 This is further complicated by Binyon’s acquaintanceship with Pound in the early 1900s. Binyon’s subsequent influence on the radical Vorticist aesthetics promoted by Pound and Wyndham Lewis’s short-lived journal, Blast, has led to a tacit scholarly categorisation of Binyon as an early Modernist and to an accompanying oversight of the prominent Aesthetic Movement influence in his work.10 This is in stark contrast to the academic reception of Symons, who is generally most well-known for The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1899) and on this basis is easily accommodated by secondary accounts of the Decadent, cosmopolitan fin-de-siècle reception of Pater’s work and Aestheticism more generally.11 This is a context that, by virtue of its chronologically narrow and necessarily Anglo-French 1890s focus, includes figures such as Wilde and Stéphane Mallarmé who are also known to have been significantly influenced by Pater.12 Symons’s early discussion of writers such as Mallarmé and Joris-Karl Huysmans in The Symbolist Movement, as well as the clear influence of Paul Verlaine in his poetry from this period, ensures that his work is easily assimilated into this context.13 Furthermore, on the basis of the widespread influence of The Symbolist Movement in the 1900s and of Decadence in the 1890s (especially, in the case of the latter, as it was formulated in Symons’s own journal, The Savoy), there is a strong case to be made for the sense in which Symons contributed substantially to the conceptual definition of the two overlapping movements with which he is most frequently associated – Symbolism and Decadence.14 Pater’s influence on Binyon is most apparent in the latter’s 1913 book, The Art of Botticelli: A Study in Pictorial Criticism – a study of the Florentine artist that was intended as a critical supplement to Herbert Horne’s more factual volume published in 1908.15 In the earlier sections of this book, Binyon devotes considerable space to situating his ideas in relation to those Pater articulated in Studies in the History of the Renaissance (1873).16 In a sense, Binyon is critical of Pater, particularly of Pater’s derision in the ‘School of Giorgione’ of paintings ‘in which appeal is made to the mere intelligence’, which Binyon believes suggests ‘a wholly false antithesis’ between literary ‘mere intelligence’ and the supposedly more formal and ‘musical’ concerns of artistic VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 59 practice.17 However, the space Binyon devotes to exploring Pater’s aesthetics in detail in this instance also indicates the admiration he held for the elder writer more generally, and this impression is supported by his praise of Pater in the same book as ‘one of the finest and most fastidious of English critics’.18 Binyon also reserves harsher criticism for ‘writers who [in following Pater] have perverted this ideal of fusion into an ideal of emptiness’ – writers, in other words, who ‘have been misled by the analogy of music’.19 Binyon did not necessarily disagree with Pater; it is more that he believed the nuances of Pater’s famous statement that ‘all art constantly aspires towards the conditions of music’ had been lost on other writers whom Pater had influenced.20 Binyon believed that the importance of the more ‘literary’ role of cultural narrative to artistic practice – one that Pater did not necessarily reject – had been unjustly neglected in fin-de-siècle and contemporary Edwardian understandings of Pater.21 While Binyon is critical of these aesthetics in the paintings of Whistler, he does not refer to any of the writers whom he feels have misinterpreted Pater’s work by name. It would be easy to assume that Binyon was thinking of figures such as Wilde and Symons when he wrote this, given what John J. Conlon has characterized as their Paterian ‘debts of the wrong kind’, presumably referring to the aspects of Wilde’s and Symons’s work that had the potential to strike contemporary readers as excessively sensual and sensationalist, at the expense of the more philosophical and spiritual qualities that critics – including, ironically, Symons – have noted elsewhere in Pater’s work.22 However, Binyon does not overtly criticize either of these two writers anywhere in The Art of Botticelli, or any other writers who would now be associated with Decadence, and so it would be misleading to propose a clear-cut opposition between the aesthetics of Decadence and the separate form of Paterian aesthetics that Binyon was also proposing in the period. As implied above, despite his general admiration for the fastidiousness of Pater’s writings, Binyon’s aims were more public-facing, and this is also the aspect of his aesthetics that most clearly distinguishes his interpretation of Pater from Symons’s reading. In addition to his reverence for the subtlety of Pater’s writings, Binyon was also concerned that there should be a VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 60 more substantial audience for the visual arts (and attendant progressive aesthetics) beyond the intellectual elite that Pater had envisaged as the primary audience for Studies in the History of the Renaissance.23 This would clearly have been informed by Binyon’s professional role at the British Museum. Like Pater, Binyon was a career scholar. However, Binyon was employed by an institution that was open to the general public, in contrast to the selective educational role adopted by a traditional university such as Oxford, where Pater was a Fellow. It is notable in this regard that Binyon’s first art-historical book, Dutch Etchers of the Seventeenth Century (1895), was published in his professional capacity at the British Museum and drew on the strengths of the Department of Prints and Drawings where Binyon was employed, while also incorporating the first of the many allusions to Pater that consistently characterize Binyon’s art writings.24 By contrast, Pater’s first book, Studies in the History of the Renaissance, was specifically intended (at least initially) for a small group of readers and should not be considered educational in a traditional sense.25 On a more textual level, this emphasis on a distinctively worldly aestheticism in Binyon’s work also manifests itself in the open-ended structure of his texts. Instead of presenting the reader with a hermetic and dogmatic argument about aesthetics, Binyon’s writings display a provisional and open-ended quality that prompts the reader to consider the relationship between his subtle, aestheticism-infused writings and the outside world. This is most apparent at the end of Painting in the Far East of 1908 – a blend of aesthetic criticism and informative scholarship – in which Binyon decries the state of the streets surrounding the museums that house the pristine Chinese and Japanese artworks with which his study is concerned. Here, Binyon laments how ‘[we] fill a museum with fine works from diverse countries, and place it in the midst of streets that desolate eye and heart, without an effort to make them part of the beauty we desire.’26 After evoking the East Asian artworks that form the primary subject of the book to the nuanced degree of sensuous detail that the genre of aesthetic criticism might be said to require, Binyon implicitly questions the value of the isolated and unworldly forms of artistic contemplation that VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 61 this genre was also understood to encourage, indicating a desire to move beyond Paterian aesthetic experience for its own sake. This contrasts with Symons’s interpretation of Pater in the same period. Symons’s writings are impressionistic and in this way as open to the realities of urban modernity as Binyon’s. However, in contrast to Binyon, Symons’s poetry, essays, and Huysmans-like urban sketches utilize Pater’s ideas towards an embrace of the more artificial and potentially tawdrier aspects of the modern city against which Binyon’s writings seem to rebel, and, in this manner, are most accurately categorized as Decadent.27 Symons’s writings present a different route through which Pater’s aestheticism was brought fully into contact with the urban realities of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century London, yet towards an aesthetic that embraces the impressionistic and the personal, in contrast to the more public-facing aims of Binyon’s approach. Symons’s emphasis on the modern city in his essays and poetry, especially his interest in music-hall culture, therefore elaborates an understanding of Edwardian London life that differs from Binyon’s in the primacy Symons attached to documenting his personal experiences.28 This contrasts with the subject-matter of Binyon’s art writing, which rarely includes direct references to his day-to-day experience of modern London. Instead, Binyon describes the art and culture of different countries and continents.29 In books such as The Flight of the Dragon and Painting in the Far East, he synthesizes these descriptions with a critique of European materialism, suggesting that an improved awareness of the nuances of East Asian painting and culture might prompt his British audience to re-examine their surroundings. This is an important distinction between the aims of the two writers. While Binyon is concerned with the ways in which closer attention to Paterian detail might improve the lives of London’s inhabitants, Symons’s aim is to evoke the present-day city rather than to change it. In this way, the writings of Binyon and Symons in this period represent two key, often complementary and yet at times revealingly divergent visions of how Pater’s ideas might meaningfully be elaborated into the early twentieth century. * * * VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 62 Shortly after Pater’s death, in 1896, Symons published an extensive essay on his formative ‘master’, which was subsequently included in a 1904 collection by Symons bearing the appropriately Paterian title, Studies in Prose and Verse. This essay demonstrates a thoughtful and discriminating understanding of Pater’s work. From the beginning of the essay, Symons makes clear his high regard for Pater’s writing, describing Pater’s style as ‘the most carefully and curiously beautiful of all English styles’, with an emphasis on the ‘curious’ that emphasizes Pater’s uniqueness, suggesting the singular influence that he would have exerted on Symons’s work.30 Symons reaffirms this impression by describing Pater’s Studies in the History of the Renaissance as ‘entirely individual, the revelation of a rare and special temperament’.31 He concedes, however, that Pater’s style in the Renaissance ‘had many affinities with the poetic and pictorial art of Rossetti, Swinburne, and Burne-Jones’ and further allows that the Renaissance seemed, ‘on its appearance in 1873, to have been taken as a manifesto of the so-called “aesthetic school”.’32 This indicates that, while Symons was happy to concede synaesthetic correspondences between Pater, Rossetti, Swinburne, and Burne-Jones on an individual level, he nevertheless regarded the “aesthetic school” with a pronounced degree of scepticism (there would otherwise be no need to distance himself from it by placing its title in quotation marks and implying that this school is ‘so-called’ by individuals other than himself). In this way, Symons’s attitude towards Pater as a unique artist resonates in a positive way with Karl Beckson’s characterization of Symons as a writer who ‘[lacked] systematic philosophic grounding in literary theory’, in the sense that he was ambivalent about conflating Pater’s ideas with an entire ‘aesthetic school’, which might entail overlooking the ‘entirely individual’ qualities that instil Pater’s prose with its distinctive poetics.33 Later in the same essay, Symons describes how, in Pater’s writing, ‘an almost oppressive quiet, a quiet which seems to exhale an atmosphere heavy with the odour of tropical flowers, broods over these pages; a subdued light shadows them […] here are the simplest words, but they take colour from each other by the cunning accident of their placing in the sentence’.34 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 63 Here, Symons mentions all the senses except that of touch; for him, Pater’s sentences evoke an ‘almost oppressive quiet’, a state in which quietness is tinged with ‘the odour of tropical flowers’ – an atmosphere so strong that it even appears to ‘brood over [the] pages’ with a ‘subdued light’. Symons further emphasizes how this takes place on the most detailed textual level possible, with the ‘simplest words’, which are also confused with the sensuous imagery that they evoke for the reader, in the sense that ‘they take colour from each other’. Symons’s awareness of ‘the cunning accident of their placing in the sentence’ belies his use of the word ‘accident’ and demonstrates a sophisticated awareness of the construction of Pater’s sentences. Symons shows that he was aware of a near-physical sense of facture in Pater’s work when he describes the ‘goldsmith’s work of his prose’.35 Symons argues that, in this way, Pater is ‘like Baudelaire’, observing the paradoxical sense in which Pater’s ‘prose too has “rêvé le miracle d’une prose poétique, musicale sans rhythme et sans rime.”’36 Symons implies that, without literally appropriating qualities that are specific to poetry or music, Pater nevertheless attains the effects of these media through his miraculous prose. Symons’s mention of Baudelaire also demonstrates an awareness of the French precedents for Pater’s art writing, which is complementary to the synthesis of Anglo- French literary traditions that would later characterize the Decadence of Symons’s own work. The synaesthesia-informed mention of the ‘odour of tropical flowers’ in his characterization of Pater’s prose suggests the influence of Huysmans’s key Decadent novel, À rebours (1884), in which certain poems by Baudelaire are described as having ‘fragrant stanzas’.37 On this basis, Symons demonstrates a sophisticated awareness of the nuances of Pater’s aesthetics that is comparable to Binyon’s in the earlier sections of The Art of Botticelli, even if Symons’s account is informed by a more Decadent emphasis on the French influence in Pater’s work that goes unnoticed by Binyon. Yet, in the final pages of his essay, Symons arguably goes further than Binyon by implying that Pater’s writing reformulates our expectations of the aims of discursive art writing, beyond the already considerable achievement of subtly refining this genre with the incorporation of a sensuous lyricism that might otherwise be associated with poetry. According VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 64 to Symons, ‘philosophy, as [Pater] conceives it, is a living, dramatic thing […] a doctrine being seen as a vivid fragment of some very human mind, not a dry matter of words and disembodied reason’.38 He elaborates that, in Pater, ‘we have criticism which, in its divination, its arrangement, its building up of many materials into a living organism, is itself creation, becomes imaginative work itself’.39 Here, Symons’s sense of Pater’s work as a ‘vivid fragment’ and ‘a living organism’ deepens our current sense of how the lack of premeditated theory, or ‘disembodied reason’, in both writers’ work is perhaps their key shared asset. Symons suggests, not only that Pater’s writing should be considered ‘imaginative work’ that withstands comparison with the painterly facture of artists such as Burne-Jones or Watteau, but that in Pater’s hands the essay itself is a medium uniquely able to reconfigure analytical ‘philosophy’ as ‘a living, dramatic thing’. This aspect of Symons’s thought is clearly complementary to the sensuous emphases of Decadence, especially the open-minded receptiveness to the experience of the more dissipated elements of the modern city suggested by Symons’s poetry from the period.40 However, it is also a quality that Symons’s writings share with Binyon’s. Although Binyon’s understanding of Pater’s stylistic methods may have been less overtly sophisticated than Symons’s appears to be in the essay that I have been discussing, his writings in The Art of Botticelli and The Flight of the Dragon (Binyon’s brief but influential 1911 study of traditional Chinese and Japanese art, which doubles as a critique of European materialism) convey the same preference for the ‘vivid fragment’ over ‘disembodied reason’, and on this basis belong to the same lineage.41 This is particularly the case in the sections of The Flight of the Dragon that are concerned with the image of the dancer. For Binyon, discussion of dancing is inextricable from the role of ‘rhythm’. The word is central to his aesthetics, but, consistently with the work of an aesthete who also rejected the rigidity of theory, he is reticent about providing a fixed definition.42 Binyon begins this early section of The Flight of the Dragon with a disingenuously rhetorical question. ‘But what is rhythm?’, he inquires, before elaborating that ‘No one seems to know precisely, though we can often recognise what we cannot define.’43 From the beginning of this key section, Binyon partly aligns himself with what VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 65 Beckson identifies as the Paterian ‘lack of a systematic philosophic grounding in literary theory’ in Symons’s work by making it clear that he is uninterested in furnishing the reader with a straightforwardly explanatory account of this elusive subject.44 In the next paragraph, Binyon remarks that rhythm ‘is not a mere mechanical succession of beats and intervals.’45 Binyon’s biographer, John Hatcher, accurately describes ‘rhythm’ as Binyon’s ‘favourite word’, and it would be reasonable to surmise that the longevity of Binyon’s attraction to this term owed much to the sense that its final meaning seemed to him to always be malleable and slightly out of reach, suggesting that, like Pater and Symons, Binyon saw his aesthetic criticism as a ‘living organism’ – an imaginative form of philosophical thinking open to modification and evolution.46 The theme of dance also provides insight into the previously ignored resemblance between Binyon’s and Symons’s writings. Dance was an integral and recurring theme in Symons’s work – in both his essays and poetry. Of Symons’s essays, the last chapter of Studies in Seven Arts, ‘The World as Ballet’, which was first published in 1898, is the central text in this regard, and anticipates Binyon’s discussion of dance in The Flight of the Dragon, albeit with a few telling differences. The first important point of similarity is the way in which both Binyon and Symons envisage dancing as a synthesis of the spiritual (or intellectual) and the physical. In particular, Symons’s closing remarks in this brief chapter bear revealing comparison with Binyon’s sense that ‘the essence of the impulse towards creation […] is a spiritual rhythm passing into and acting on material things.’47 Symons accounts for the ballet in comparable terms: And something in the particular elegance of the dance, the scenery; the avoidance of emphasis, the evasive, winding turn of things; and, above all, the intellectual as well as sensuous appeal of a living symbol, which but can but reach the brain through the eyes, in the visual, concrete imaginative way; has seemed to make the ballet concentrate in itself a good deal of the modern ideal in matters of artistic expression.48 Symons’s sense that ballet possesses ‘the intellectual as well as sensuous appeal of a living symbol’ demonstrates that he envisaged dancing – or ballet, at least – as consisting of the same finely balanced relationship between the physical and the intellectual that Binyon implies, in a discussion that touches on dancing, when he claims that the ‘impulse towards creation […] is a VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 66 spiritual rhythm passing into and acting on material things.’49 Binyon’s further characterization of dance as a ‘plastic idea’ also appears at first glance to be simply a reformulation of Symons’s concept of ballet as a ‘living symbol’. Binyon’s ‘favourite word’, rhythm, also appears in the last sentence of Symons’s essay, when the latter remarks that the dancer’s ‘rhythm reveals to you the soul of her imagined being.’50 Here, Binyon’s emphasis on the relationship between spiritual and rhythmic qualities in the visual arts finds its direct parallel in Symons’s account of ballet. The key difference so far is that, while Symons mentions rhythm, he is less obviously preoccupied with this quality in his discursive writing than Binyon.51 In Binyon’s prose, movement and rhythm are often the prevailing qualities, in contrast to the more calmly impressionistic tenor of Symons’s essayistic writings; in Binyon’s criticism, even architecture is characterized by ‘so many co- ordinated energies, each exerting force in relation to each other’.52 These differing emphases go to the heart of the two writers’ aesthetics as expressed in their essays. Binyon’s emphasis on movement and ‘force’ may be linked to his aversion to stasis and his accompanying desire to effect change in public attitudes through his writings, while Symons’s discursive writings do not harbour these aims and so these qualities are emphasized to a lesser extent. Binyon finds the traditional arts of China and Japan to be especially congenial to his aesthetics because the ‘predominant desire’ of these arts, he feels, is ‘to attain rhythmical vitality’.53 In Binyon’s account, the key distinction between European and East Asian art effectively amounts to the difference between movement and stasis. He implies that, while there may be ‘a few stories of illusive deception in European art [… ] like that of Philip IV mistaking a portrait of Velazquez for a man’, they do not bear comparison to the stories associated with Chinese and Japanese art, in which ‘we hear of horses so charged with life that they galloped out of the picture’ or ‘of dragons leaving the wall on which they were painted and soaring through the ceiling’.54 This helps to explain why it was Binyon’s essays, rather than Symons’s, that held such strong appeal for radical avant-gardists Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis, who took inspiration from Binyon’s emphasis VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 67 on movement and dynamism and reconfigured it as a restless, discontent response to the pressures of modern urban life.55 By contrast with Binyon, Symons’s writings on the role of dance tend more towards impressionism than Vorticism, allowing us greater insight into the differences between Binyon’s and Symons’s aesthetics in the Edwardian period, despite their both drawing substantially on Pater and seemingly agreeing on the ideal fusion between the spiritual and physical that dancing, as an art-form, encapsulates. Symons’s writings on dance notably differ from Binyon’s in the positive, Decadent emphasis they place on artificiality. This was closely related to the fact that, while Binyon was drawn to the generalized theme of dancing in various historical cultural contexts, Symons was drawn specifically to ballet in the context of 1890s London.56 Nicholas Freeman has argued recently that ‘ballet’s fusion of music, dance, and theatrical design make it, for Symons, the greatest of arts’, elaborating that the genre also allowed Symons to ‘[celebrate] artificiality as something in itself rather than basing its success on mimetic assessment.’57 Symons shares Binyon’s and Pater’s positive emphasis on the imagined, but, in the particular delight that Symons took in attending balletic and music-hall performances in London, this emphasis becomes inextricable from an accompanying pleasure in the artificial that was specific to his Decadent milieu.58 In an essay titled ‘At the Alhambra: Impressions and Sensations’, first published in The Savoy in 1896, Symons describes his impressions both as a spectator and behind the scenes at the Alhambra theatre on Leicester Square.59 This sense of artificiality is made apparent from the beginning of the essay, when Symons remarks that ‘in the general way I prefer to see my illusions very clearly, recognizing them as illusions, and yet, to my own perverse and decadent way of thinking, losing none of their charm.’60 In particular, Symons is preoccupied with the maquillage (the cosmetics) of the dancers, which was also the titular subject of a poem from his 1892 collection, Silhouettes.61 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 68 Symons’s unabashed delight in the artificial in this 1896 Savoy essay prefigures his description of dancers in ‘The World as Ballet’ (1898), where it acquires a more overtly erotic – and, to a modern reader, uncomfortably objectifying – dimension. Symons describes […] all these young bodies, made more alluring by an artificial heightening of whites and reds on the face, displaying, employing, all their natural beauty, themselves full of the sense of joy in motion, or affecting that enjoyment, offered to our eyes like a bouquet of flowers, a bouquet of living flowers, which have all the glitter of artificial ones.62 In this later essay, the positive emphasis on the artificial becomes more sophisticated, to the extent that even the ‘living flowers’ to which the dancers are compared take on the appearance of artificial ones. This emphasis on the artificial is symptomatic of Symons’s Decadent interpretation of Aestheticism, in the sense that artificial aids such as cosmetics remind the viewer of the unreality of what they are seeing, which, to the same extent in Symons’s work as in Binyon’s and Pater’s (but in a different manner), brings our attention to the inadequacy of unvarnished truth and fact in the face of the synthesising power of the imagination. With the lengths to which Symons goes in evoking the maquillage of the dancers and the fabricated ambience of the theatre, he implicitly accords the same imaginative artistic status to the pronounced artificiality of theatrical costume and set design as Binyon accords to the fine arts. In the same way as the ballets Symons attends lose ‘[none] of their charm’ despite, or perhaps even because of, the heightened artificiality of the setting, ‘the waves on Korin’s famous screen’ in an example from Binyon’s account in The Flight of the Dragon lose none of their aesthetic impact because of their supposed lack of fidelity to the appearance of ‘real waves’. Binyon even implies that these imagined waves are superior because they have been ‘divested of all accident of appearance’. ‘We might in dreams see waves such as these’, Binyon claims, attesting perhaps to his belief in the aesthetic superiority of the imagination and its occasionally tenuous relationship to external stimuli.63 Symons’s Savoy article on the Alhambra theatre also exhibits a pronounced degree of literary impressionism, of the variety that links Symons’s work with French texts such as VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 69 Huysmans’s Croquis parisiens (1880).64 This is particularly apparent when Symons describes viewing ‘a ballet from the wings’.65 To do this, Symons claims, ‘is to lose all sense of proportion, all knowledge of the piece as a whole; but, in return, it is fruitful in happy accidents, in momentary points of view, in chance felicities of light and shade and movement.’66 Symons’s perspective is passive as he registers the details that arise from ‘happy accidents’ and ‘chance felicities’ that, he seems to imply, require no effort of will on his part. In a sense that is closely related to the role of impressionism in his work, Symons suggests that standing in this position catches the aesthetic critic off-guard, temporarily suspending the Paterian desire to construct an imaginative narrative around sensory experience. This position causes the spectator to ‘lose all sense of proportion, all knowledge of the piece as a whole’.67 Symons seems to anticipate this interpretation when he elaborates that viewing the stage from this unorthodox position is akin to ‘[seeing] the reverse of the picture’, implying that this first-hand composite experience of viewing a ballet both as a normal member of the audience but also – more importantly – seeing the ungainly mechanics of the ballet from the wings does not properly fit with the pristine imaginative and sensory spaces that aesthetic criticism seeks to evoke in its non-Decadent formulations.68 For both Binyon and Pater, an atmosphere of ‘shrine-like seclusion’ is at times an integral part of the contemplative aesthetic narratives they wish to unfold for the reader.69 Huysmans’s À rebours, also takes place in hermetic confines, but it is significant that, towards the end of his novel, the protagonist and consummate aesthete Des Esseintes’ self-imposed and determinedly artificial seclusion results in the disintegration of his physical health and mental wellbeing.70 It is telling that, in possibly the most well-known episode from Huysmans’s novel, Des Esseintes’ attempt to impose his exacting aesthetic will on a tortoise – first, by gilding its shell and then by encrusting its gilded shell with jewels – only results in the animal’s death.71 In this way, both Huysmans’s and Symons’s Decadent texts elaborate Aestheticism by testing the hermetic implications of the movement against a more disorderly and naturalistic version of reality. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 70 The unintended death of a tortoise in À rebours and the ‘reverse of the picture’ in ‘At the Alhambra’ complicate the pristine spaces of Paterian aestheticism by allowing for the respectively disquieting and diverting intrusions of the types of reality that would be more easily associated with the naturalistic aims of Impressionism, suggesting the manner in which Decadent texts synthesized and developed aspects of both earlier movements. This is related to Symons’s claim that, in this same music-hall setting, he saw his ‘illusions very clearly, recognizing them as illusions, and yet, to my own perverse and decadent way of thinking, losing none of their charm.’72 This demonstrates a naturalistic awareness on Symons’s part that his aesthetic experiences are based on ‘illusion’, not reality. They are Decadent rather than idealistic experiences because Symons recognizes that they are prevented by their artificiality from effecting any Binyon-esque change in the outside world. These ‘illusions’ only seem to affect Symons, with his ‘own perverse and decadent way of thinking’, and only then in the moment at which he experiences them. This allows us to imagine a certain sense in which Symons, with his uncomfortable and even slightly seedy proximity to the theatre and to the dancers themselves, was interacting more directly with the realities of modern urban life than Binyon, which suggests more significantly that there are categories of human experience that Paterian aesthetic criticism cannot plausibly accommodate. The remainder of Symons’s description of seeing ‘a ballet from the wings’ confirms the dawning impression that – in this essay, at least – Symons is presenting himself as more of a Baudelairian flâneur than as a reticently Paterian aesthetic critic. This urbane, dissipated quality even inflects the prose itself, when Symons describes how ‘[you see] the girls at the back lounging against the set scenes […] you see how lazily the lazy girls are moving, and how mechanical and irregular are the motions that flow into rhythm when seen from the front.’73 In this quotation, Symons’s vocabulary becomes more languid as he comes to accept the reality of the scene in which he finds himself. Appropriately, he slyly gives the impression that he is slothfully incapable of thinking of a synonym for ‘lazily’ other than ‘lazy’, lending the prose itself a raw, louche quality very different from the classically rigorous prose that animates The Flight of VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 71 the Dragon. Symons’s suggestion of these ‘irregular […] motions that flow into rhythm when seen from the front’ evokes a pessimistic sense in which Binyon’s more generalized emphasis on rhythmic qualities can only be appreciated in the rarefied air of the British Museum Print Room. In the ‘Alhambra’ essay, the refined Paterian aestheticism with which Symons was clearly enamoured fuses with the grittily real metropolis, prompting the intrusion of the impressionist sensibility that was an equally important aspect of his Decadent aesthetics, and also the feature that distinguished his work most clearly from Binyon’s. In conclusion, both Symons and Binyon were clearly influenced by Pater’s aesthetic criticism, especially as it was formulated in Studies in the History of the Renaissance. The two younger writers share the same Paterian emphasis on the importance of the more sensuous yet ascetically imaginative aspects of aesthetic experience, and the subtle interplay between these two qualities that characterizes the Renaissance. However, Symons and Binyon developed these points of similarity towards different ends. Symons’s essays and poetry in the 1890s were informed as much by French Decadence as they were by Paterian aestheticism, and this is apparent in the Des Esseintes-esque imaginative emphasis he places on the artificial, and in the unabashedly subjective delight he takes in his experiences of 1890s urban nightlife. Binyon’s aims in key texts such as The Flight of the Dragon were different. Rather than luxuriating in the seductive, fabricated pleasures of 1890s and Edwardian London, Binyon instead imagines ways in which the streets of the city might be transformed by closer sensuous attention to the artworks of the European quattrocento and of East Asia, out of a desire that the ‘streets that desolate eye and heart’ might be made to aspire towards ‘the beauty we desire’.74 Future research into Binyon’s work might further explore the implications of these idealistic desires. This idealism might be why Binyon’s restless prose summons forth fantastical images of soaring dragons and crashing waves, while in his more discursive writings Symons is happy simply to immerse himself ‘in chance felicities of light and shade’ and the enjoyably obvious maquillage of the music-hall dancers.75 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 72 1 Jason Edwards, Alfred Gilbert’s Aestheticism: Gilbert Amongst Whistler, Wilde, Leighton, Pater and Burne-Jones (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), p. 87; Mario Praz, The Romantic Agony (London and New York: Oxford University Press), p. 358. 2 David Peters Corbett, The World in Paint: Modern Art and Visuality in England, 1848-1914 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), p. 98. 3 Ezra Pound, ‘Vortex’, Blast, 1 (1914), 154. 4 Karl Beckson, Arthur Symons: A Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), p. 36; Arthur Symons, Selected Early Poems, ed. by Jane Desmarais and Chris Baldick (Cambridge: Modern Humanities Research Association, 2017), pp. 3-4. 5 Arthur Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse (London: J. M. Dent, 1904), p. 76. 6 Symons, Selected Early Poems, pp. 3-4. 7 Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse, p. 63; Arthur Symons, Studies in Seven Arts (New York: Dutton, 1907), p. v; Walter Pater, Letters of Walter Pater, ed. by Laurence Evans (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970), p. 70. 8 Symons, Studies in Seven Arts, p. v. 9 John Hatcher, Laurence Binyon: Poet, Scholar of East and West (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 45 10 Rupert Richard Arrowsmith, Modernism and the Museum: Asian, African, and Pacific Art and the London Avant-Garde (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), p. 105; David Peters Corbett, ‘Make It New: Laurence Binyon, Pound and Vorticism’, Paideuma, 26, 2-3 (1997), 183-84; Zhaoming Qian, Orientalism and Modernism: The Legacy of China in Pound and Williams (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1995), p. 13. 11 See Kostas Boyiopoulos, ‘Introduction: Sensual Text, Textual Sense – Aestheticism to Decadence’, in The Decadent Image: The Poetry of Wilde, Symons, and Dowson (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015). 12 John J. Conlon, Walter Pater and the French Tradition (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 1982), pp. 68-69, p. 139. 13 Symons, Selected Early Poems, pp. 4-5. 14 Ibid., p. 1. 15 Laurence Binyon, The Art of Botticelli: An Essay in Pictorial Criticism (London: Macmillan, 1913); Herbert P. Horne, Botticelli: Painter of Florence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980). 16 Binyon, Art of Botticelli, p. 39. 17 Ibid., p. 41. 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid., p. 46. 20 Walter Pater, Studies in the History of the Renaissance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), p. 124. 21 In the preface to Studies in the History of the Renaissance, Pater describes how ‘artists and philosophers’ in this period ‘do not live in isolation, but breathe a common air and catch light and heat from each other’s thoughts’, conveying Pater’s nuanced sensitivity to the role of cultural narrative in fifteenth-century Italy. Ibid., p. 6. 22 Conlon, Walter Pater and the French Tradition, p. 69; Catherine Maxwell, Second Sight: The Visionary Imagination in Late Victorian Literature (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2011), p. 78; Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse, p. 76. 23 Robert M. Seiler, ed., The Book Beautiful: Walter Pater and the House of Macmillan (London and New Brunswick: Athlone Press, 1999), p. 70. 24 Laurence Binyon, Dutch Etchers of the Seventeenth Century (London: Seeley, 1895), pp. 9-10. 25 Seiler, ed., The Book Beautiful, p. 70. 26 Laurence Binyon. Painting in the Far East (New York: Dover, 1959), pp. 271-72. 27 Symons, Selected Early Poems, p. 12. 28 Arthur Symons, Spiritual Adventures, ed. by Nicholas Freeman (Cambridge: Modern Humanities Research Association, 2017), p. 92. 29 Binyon, Painting in the Far East, pp. 271-72. 30 Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse, p. 63; Beckson, Arthur Symons, p. 53. 31 Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse, p. 64. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid., p. 65. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature, trans. by Margaret Mauldon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 97. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 73 38 Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse, p. 74. 39 Ibid., p. 75. 40 Symons, Selected Early Poems, p. 12. 41 Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse, p. 74. 42 Laurence Binyon, The Flight of the Dragon (London: John Murray, 1911), p. 9. 43 Binyon, Flight of the Dragon, p. 15. 44 Beckson, Arthur Symons, p. 31. 45 Binyon, Flight of the Dragon, p. 15. 46 Hatcher, Laurence Binyon, p. 179. 47 Binyon, Flight of the Dragon, p. 15. 48 Symons, Studies in Seven Arts, p. 391. 49 Binyon, Flight of the Dragon, p. 15. 50 Symons, Studies in Seven Arts, p. 391. 51 This is separate from the role of rhythm in Symons’s poetry, which is outside the scope of the current article. 52 Binyon, Flight of the Dragon, p. 17. 53 Ibid., pp. 17, 20. 54 Ibid., p. 20. 55 Corbett, ‘Make it New’, 183-84. 56 Symons, Spiritual Adventures, p. 88. 57 Ibid., p. 89. 58 Beckson, Arthur Symons, p. 77. 59 Symons, Spiritual Adventures, p. 88. 60 Ibid., p. 90. 61 Symons, Selected Early Poems, p. 47. 62 Symons, Studies in Seven Arts, p. 389. 63 Binyon, Flight of the Dragon, p. 21. 64 Joris-Karl Huysmans, Parisian Sketches, trans. by Brendan King (Sawtry: Dedalus, 2004), p. 16. 65 Symons, Spiritual Adventures, p. 92. 66 Ibid. 67 Pater, Renaissance, p. 6. 68 Ibid. 69 Binyon, Art of Botticelli, p. 115; Pater, Renaissance, p. 119. 70 Huysmans, Against Nature, p. 173. 71 Ibid. pp. 36-38, pp. 42-43. 72 Symons, Spiritual Adventures, p. 90. 73 Ibid., p. 92. 74 Binyon, Painting in the Far East, pp. 271-72. 75 Symons, Spiritual Adventures, p. 92. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 74 Symons and Print Culture: Journalist, Critic, Book Maker Laurel Brake Birkbeck, University of London My intent here is to explore the range and ingenuity of Arthur Symons’s participation in print culture, and to probe how he managed his bread and butter work as a journalist, critic, and book maker. My focus is his article ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’, in its differing functions and forms over a four-year period (1903-1906), as a periodical book review and a chapter on painting that appeared in Studies in Seven Arts, a book comprised of articles from the press.1 What initially drew me to this article was its evidence of Symons’s sustained support for Simeon Solomon, a queer British artist from a London-based family of Jewish painters, in the decade that followed the Wilde trials, and among the inhibitions they fostered.2 Nearly a generation younger than Solomon, Symons (1865-1945) was born just as Solomon (1840-1905) began his career. Solomon appears in both the 1903 and 1906 versions of Symons’s review, and in between a newspaper review of an exhibition of Solomon’s work in 1905/1906. Symons enters late into Solomon’s story in these pieces, towards the end of the artist’s life. In the mid-1860s Solomon was taken up by Oxford aesthetes including A. C. Swinburne and Walter Pater, who in 1873 helped Solomon deal with a charge of sexual impropriety.3 Before Solomon’s brief imprisonment that year, the first of many for public homosexual practices, drunkenness, and homelessness, his early work met with increasing respect in the art world. Religious, visionary, symbolic, and characterized by homosexual imagery and themes, his visual art and his prose poem A Vision of Love retained admirers in the course of his inchoate lifestyle that led to destitution, and death in a workhouse in 1905. Thus, Symons’s interventions in these articles occur at an extreme period of Solomon’s life and isolation, and then after the artist’s death. Symons links the various iterations of his text with the work of Pater, a valued friend of Symons, whose death Symons had lamented in a long tribute in 1896.4 That obituary, published when the Wilde trials were still fresh in living memory, indicates Symons’s refusal to be governed VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 75 by the fear and prohibitions that followed Wilde’s imprisonment. Like Symons, Pater had been a lifelong supporter of Solomon and collector of his works, and Symons reveals in these articles the networks, private and professional, that Symons, Solomon, and Pater shared. If the brave tributes by Symons to Solomon and Pater are noteworthy in 1903-1906, they are characteristic of Symons’s past record, while his imaginative focus in his book on the larger picture of Europe is also a continuation of transnational work on Decadence and Symbolism he published in 1893 and 1898.5 Distinguished by its breadth and acuity of cultural reading, Studies in Seven Arts includes chapters on innovative and largely contemporary forms of nineteenth-century sculpture, painting, symphonic music, opera, acting, theatre design, and drama, respectively by Rodin, Beethoven, Wagner, Richard Strauss, the actress Eleonora Duse, Gordon Craig, and Alfred Jarry’s ‘Ubu Roi’. Part of its distinctive portrait of what is retrospectively called Modernism is its turn from the default perspective of literature, a single art, to the variety and range of other arts, which he groups together as characteristic of a modern movement. ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’: Symons, Simeon Solomon, and Walter Pater at the Fin de Siècle Even in its book form in 1906, ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’ clearly acknowledges its origins as a 1903 review article (in the Fortnightly Review), and its function as a response to a specific book at its time of publication, D. S. MacColl’s Nineteenth-Century Art (1902). Although Symons’s article has been revised for his book, he neither seeks to obscure the origins of his chapters as journalism, or to suppress their gestation over time in the press, but supplies dates at the end of chapters, here 1903 and 1905, showing that each 1906 piece is part of a process of creativity, and a particular response in time, as journalism is. Symons’s persistence in naming MacColl and his book, and refusing to disguise the review genre of the piece in its altered book form, is one of Symons’s distinctions as a critic. He does however remove several informative sentences from the 1903 text to take account of changes in MacColl’s circumstances, notably his promotion from 1906 to Director of the Tate Gallery. But in both texts it is as painter-critic that Symons most values VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 76 MacColl, whose watercolours Symons had already reviewed in the Saturday Review in the mid-1890s, and whose paintings Symons preferred to his prose!6 Symons’s review of MacColl’s book is generous, in a Paterian mode of appreciation. Despite this positive note, Symons shows his mettle as a critic by an oblique critique, a quiet identification of an omission. Symons extends his appreciation to the paintings of Solomon, whom MacColl’s book excludes. Symons’s agency is heightened by the review function. The significance of Symons’s introduction of Solomon is also revealed by the cultural climate of the time: the status of Solomon in 1903, who was in the throes of alcoholism and destitution before dying in 1905 in the workhouse. If MacColl’s omission may be seen as part of a general critical reluctance to mention him, Symons’s response to the same climate was to include him. The absence of Solomon from MacColl’s book may be compared with a biography of Walter Pater by A. C. Benson, published in 1906, the same year as Symons’s book. Benson does not mention Simeon Solomon at all, although Pater and Solomon were close friends in the 1860s and early 1870s, and in contact until Pater’s death. Other close friends of Pater’s, Symons himself, and Lionel Johnson, appear only once in Benson, among a terse list of Pater’s ‘decadent’ friends whom Benson thought better otherwise to exclude. Such was the climate for biographers and memoirists a decade after the Wilde trials, when the power of the law that made male homosexual practices a crime and incarcerated Wilde, inhibited print, shaped social practices, and ensured censorship in biography. In 1906, in their respective books, Symons’s and Benson’s inscription of the surrounding gender issues is comparable, though they handle it in characteristically different ways: Benson, born into the higher echelons of the Anglican Church and writing from the University, excludes Solomon and other risqué figures and implies rather than states the topic of queer Pater; while Symons, known for his risqué writing that some regarded as his self-appointed brand, names Solomon and Pater, and attends at length and regularly to their work. In his tribute to Solomon, Symons inscribes links between himself, Pater and Solomon. Echoing Pater at many points, Symons’s 1903 review becomes in places a prose poem recognizably VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 77 related to the style of various passages in Pater’s writing. Nevertheless, its detailed attention to Solomon distinguishes the piece, as does its slightly tongue-in-cheek tribute to Pater. This Paterian note in both the 1903 review and the 1906 chapter is re-enforced in 1906 by the book in which the chapter appears: its title Studies in Seven Arts echoes Pater’s Studies in the History of the Renaissance, as do titles of two other books published in 1897 and 1904, a series in which Symons’s new book takes its place.7 The book opens with quotations from Pater in the first sentence of the first paragraph of the Introduction, followed by Pater-inflected descriptive prose over the five pages devoted to Solomon (pp. 57-61). Solomon’s picture ‘The Sleepers and the One that Waketh’ is evoked for readers through Symons’s deployment of Paterian ekphrasis: Three faces, faint with languor, two with closed eyes and the other with eyes wearily open, lean together, cheek on cheek, between white, sharp-edged stars in a background of dim sky. These faces, with their spectral pallor, the robes of faint purple tinged with violet, are full of morbid delicacy, like the painting of a perfume. Here, as always, there is weakness, insecurity, but also a very personal sense of beauty, which this only half-mastered technique is just able to bring out upon the canvas, in at least a suggestion of everything that the painter meant.8 Moving on to later works by Solomon, Symons suggests that as recently as ten years ago, Solomon ‘could still produce, with an almost mechanical ease, sitting at a crowded table in a Clerkenwell news-room, those drawings which we see reproduced by some cheap process of facsimile, in pink or in black, and sold in the picture-shops in Regent Street, Oxford Street, and Museum Street.’9 He continues with another Pater-inspired paragraph, echoing rhythms and diction of Pater’s pieces on ‘Diaphaneitè’, Winckelmann, Leonardo, Botticelli, and Giorgione: A void and wonderfully vague desire fills all these hollow faces, as water fills the hollow pools of the sand; they have the sorrow of those who have no cause for sorrow except that they are as they are in a world not made after their pattern. The lips are sucked back and the chin thrust forward in a languor which becomes a mannerism, like the long thin throats, and heavy half-closed eyes and cheeks haggard with fever or exhaustion. The same face, varied a little in mood, scarcely in feature, serves for Christ and the two Marys, for Sleep and for Lust. The lips are scarcely roughened to indicate a man, the throats scarcely roughened to indicate a man, the throats scarcely lengthened to indicate a woman. These faces are without sex; they have brooded among ghosts of passions till they have become the ghosts of themselves; the energy of virtue or of sin has gone out of them, and they hang in space, dry, rattling, the husks of desire.10 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 78 These instances of heteroglossia confirm the covert personal and professional links between Symons, Solomon, MacColl, and Pater inscribed in this piece.11 Such networks are endemic in nineteenth-century journalism, which generated a special vocabulary to describe the forms these relations took in print: ‘log rolling’ and puffing. Journalists mounted several attacks against these practices across the century; and they exploited, then revised, a system of reviewing and anonymity or pseudonymity that enabled them.12 This brings me to my first general point, that Arthur Symons was an indefatigable journalist, as well as a critic, poet, and author of books. Although the model of bibliography privileges his books and edited books (a traditional hierarchy) followed by the list of a huge number of articles, from the early 1880s Symons is publishing in serials, from the initial Wesleyan-Methodist to the Academy, Athenæum, London Quarterly Review, and Saturday Review that rapidly supersede it.13 By 1893, when ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ appears in the monthly Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, helping to establish his reputation as a critic, followed by The Symbolist Movement in Literature, he is publishing articles weekly, and often more than one per week. While biographies of Symons refer to his serial work in general as part of his busy life, they seldom if ever confront the elephant in the room, that his journalism is at the core of his writing life, and of his writing.14 His publishing practices are characteristic of journalism at the end of the century. Following an appearance in a newspaper or journal, text or portions of it are reprinted, revised and repurposed in another article or chapter, which may re-appear in later and different gatherings of periodicals and books. By the early nineteenth century, newspaper journalism was characterized by just such practices: by scissors-and-paste sourcing of editorial copy – in book parlance ‘reprinting’ – but with little or no pejorative baggage; this was not piracy, but normalized communication of news, normally from the ‘metropolitan’ and ‘foreign’ press.15 Symons’s manipulation of his writing, which he might have seen in Pater, is also normative practice for him, and much energy must have gone into his endless repurposing of his press pieces. It probably VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 79 depended on his keeping a full ‘morgue’ or cuttings collection, well catalogued and organized to allow him easy access to his incessant scissors-and-paste practices. Aspects of Symons’s writing pitch and style also derive from journalism: what literary critics call his taste for the ‘avant-garde’ can also be understood as a journalist’s quest for ‘the story’ – his critical nose for ‘news’ and what is new in the contemporary art and literary worlds. His racy style conveys temporalities – the precise moment, along with its broader context, fulfils the journalists’ mantra to keep the reader on board, not only to finish reading the piece, and perhaps purchase the book, find it in a library or go to the performance or exhibition, but to purchase the journal next week. These journalistic aspects of Symons’s prose, all of which originated in the press, should take their place beside the emphasis on his literary and attachments and affinities (with Pater for example), that literary critics and biographers favour. Symons’s article ‘Painting in the Nineteenth Century’ exemplifies many of these characteristics; it begins life as a book review article in a monthly periodical (the Fortnightly Review), it is influenced by a weekly newspaper review (the Outlook) of an art exhibition, and it re-appears in a revised form in a book of other press pieces, among which some of its content is incorporated. It also puffs the book and D. S. MacColl (1869-1948), as author, critic, and painter, another journalistic practice.16 The review is a kindness from one critic to another, as well as the acquisition of some cultural capital – MacColl’s pleasure, the affiliation of Symons’s name with MacColl and his progressive art politics, and the visibility of a major signed article by Symons in the Fortnightly. MacColl was one of Symons’s professional peers in the art world, an ascendant art critic of his generation at the Spectator (1890-1896) and the Saturday Review (1897-1906); and editor of the Architectural Review (1901-1905), while Symons was at the Star as theatre critic, at the Outlook as art critic, and a contributor to Browning Society Papers, Time, and the Athenæum. Both MacColl and Symons are invested in the idea of ‘the contemporary’, including for example Impressionism, although Symons’s posture is different from and wider than MacColl’s’: Symons’s art is poetry, his criticism includes literature and drama, and he is distinguished by his familiarity with French VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 80 literature and culture, whereas MacColl’s implication in the art world – as head of the Tate from 1906 and from 1911 of the Wallace collection – was mainly in the context of art collections in Britain. As young critics of a new generation, they also share a taste for controversy: MacColl was prominent in the debate about the New Art Criticism between February and April 1893 in the Spectator and Westminster Gazette,17 and in 1903 he spearheaded a long-running story about the fulfilment of the Chantrey Bequest at the Royal Academy in the Saturday Review.18 When in 1901 MacColl curated his portion of the Glasgow International Exhibition of Nineteenth-Century Art, on British Impressionism, he did boldly include Solomon’s work, but he did not mention him in the book based on that exhibition that Symons reviewed. For his part, Symons’s pieces on the MacColl book show a similar taste for the provocative. Symons’s review, despite MacColl’s omission of Solomon, includes Solomon, a name and a move meaningful to some of Symons’s Fortnightly Review readers in 1903, and by more readers in 1906, by which date two posthumous shows that included Solomon had recently been mounted in 1905 and 1906.19 In addition, the unmistakeable echo of Walter Pater’s style in both iterations of the article was similarly risqué.20 However, while Symons’s racy contemporaneity can be distinguished from Pater’s whose work also habitually appeared first in the press, it is similarly distinct from George Moore’s raspish and immoderate voice in Modern Painting. Symons’s prose is more influenced by journalism than Pater’s, but less than Moore’s in Modern Painting (1893), which Symons charges with being ‘full of injustice, brutality, and ignorance; but […] full also of the generous justice, the most discriminating sympathy, and the genuine knowledge of the painter’; ‘it stands out among the art criticism of our time’.21 But Symons’s determination to praise Moore, for all that, is a recognizable variant of Pater’s model of aesthetic criticism, ‘appreciation’, which Symons praises in his Pater piece in The Savoy in late 1896: ‘Pater […] may almost be said never, except by implication, to condemn anything. Is it necessary to say that one dislikes a thing? It need but be ignored; and Pater ignored whatever did not come up to his very exacting standard, finding quite enough to write about in that small residue that remained over.’22 VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 81 That the 1903 periodical article was signed ‘Arthur Symons’ would have also alerted readers to expect a fresh, timely, edgy piece. By this date that signature was familiar to readers of the cultural press; ‘Symons’ was a ‘brand’, and he was publishing across the media, and often. In the early 1890s he was a member of the Rhymers’ Club and his poems had appeared in its two anthologies; in 1892 his second book of poetry Silhouettes was dedicated to Yeats, an affiliation he perpetuated by using ‘Silhouette’ as his critical pseudonym in the daily Star, where Symons was drama critic. In 1893 this same Symons had published a controversial lengthy overview ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’ in France and Britain in Harper’s, and its successor, The Symbolist Movement in Literature in 1899, again dedicated to Yeats. Some readers of the 1903 Fortnightly Review article might also recall the Savoy, founded and edited by Symons in 1896, illustrated by Beardsley among others, and published by Leonard Smithers, a publisher-bookseller, and a dealer in the literature of decadence and pornography. A niche journal, publishing art and literature only, the Savoy presented itself as experimental and ‘alternative’, particularly with reference to The Yellow Book. As its self-proclaimed rival, the Savoy was also its unmistakeable successor, initially imitating The Yellow Book in its quarterly frequency, and in its treatment of Art as equal to Literature, with the demarcation and parallel indicated in separate Tables of Contents. But the new journal boasted of being free of editorial ideology – neither ‘decadent’ on the one hand or censorious, in contrast to The Yellow Book, which in succumbing to panic during the Wilde trials in the spring of 1895, had dismissed Aubrey Beardsley, its brandmark, and lost contributors as a result. Many of them, including Beardsley, re-appeared in the Savoy.23 After two quarterly intervals, Symons’s Savoy abandoned its imitation of The Yellow Book’s frequency, and went monthly. Symons’s Savoy was an important player in the history of Decadence and the 1890s, publishing as it did excellent work by many renowned writers and artists of the fin de siècle and early Modernism, including Max Beerbohm, Mathilde Blind, Joseph Conrad, Hubert Crackanthorpe, Ernest Dowson, Havelock Ellis, Ford Madox Hueffer, Fiona Macleod, George Moore, Olivia VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 82 Shakespeare, Paul Verlaine, Frederick Wedmore, Theodore Wratislaw, and Yeats. The Literary Contents of the last issue, which included poetry, a critical essay, a travel article, a short story, and a final editorial, were all by Symons, but it reflected the general policy of the Savoy that contributors were encouraged to submit copy across genres and not to confine themselves to one form in which they were most proficient or had established themselves. Thus Beardsley not only designed the Savoy and published artwork, but also contributed poems and a short story; Beerbohm an article and a caricature; Dowson stories and poems; Selwyn Image poems and criticism; and Yeats fiction and poetry. Those eight issues over one year of the Savoy consolidated Symons’s position, a young man of thirty, in the history of the nineties, before he published his Symbolism monograph. The intellectual boldness of the Savoy is part of Symons’s core practice as an editor and critic, just as much his brand and that of the Savoy as Beardsley’s black and white designs and writing. It is repeated in his later projects – the adventurous and prescient contents of Studies of the Seven Arts, the Decadence and Symbolist Literature projects, and his inclusion of the ‘decadent’ French poet Verlaine in various pieces – among them the ‘Decadent Movement’, the Symbolist Movement, and the Savoy. Symons’s inclusion of Pater in the context of Decadence in 1893 was similarly provocative (not least possibly to Pater), as was an article dedicated to Pater in the Savoy eighteen months after the Wilde trials. Symons’s inclusion of Solomon in a variety of reviews and articles, including ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’ is part of this larger picture of Symons’s nerve and nose. Networks, print and personal: Symons, MacColl, Pater, and Solomon Symons’s interest in the art of Solomon began early in his career, at the age of twenty-two: Symons wrote to his friend Herbert Horne, editor of the Century Guild Hobby Horse inquiring about Solomon’s work in September 1887, after he had seen some of Solomon’s work in Manchester. As a friend of Horne, the Rhymers and their circle including Lionel Johnson from 1890, Symons would have had exposure to original drawings and paintings by Solomon, as well as the prints with VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 83 which Johnson covered his walls in his room in Fitzroy Street. Johnson had been Pater’s great undergraduate friend who, leaving Oxford on graduation, moved to London, where Pater’s and Johnson’s friendship continued. In meeting Johnson, Symons was consolidating his contact with Pater, whom he had met in 1888, after a correspondence of two years.24 By 1893, Symons and Pater were well acquainted and, as noted, Symons included Pater in his long critical article on ‘The Decadent Movement’ that appeared in the November ‘Decadence issue’ of Harper’s. Pater did not only figure in this issue as Symons’s subject; they were partners in their public affiliation with Decadence in the American press, as ‘Apollo in Picardy’, one of Pater’s most explicit queer stories appeared in the back of the same issue. Earlier that year, in June, Pater had been a covert participant in the New Art Criticism debate that broke out in the press between February and April 1893, in which MacColl figured prominently, as one of the three key figures. George Moore weighed in to support him. When Pater decided to review Moore’s irascible book Modern Painting in the Daily Chronicle newspaper, Pater was tacitly supporting MacColl and the New Art Criticism, as well as Moore, and making a visible and signed contribution to this contemporary critical debate.25 By 1893 Pater had known MacColl over a decade, having met and entertained him when MacColl was an Oxford undergraduate in 1882 and co-editor of the Oxford Magazine, to which Pater agreed to contribute. At the end of the year of the New Art Criticism debate, in autumn 1893, MacColl had Pater in mind: he brought together Pater and William Rothenstein, a young artist, in connection with Rothenstein’s first book project, Oxford Characters, in which Pater was to appear. Pater died unexpectedly and prematurely soon after he sat for Rothenstein, and before the serial part including him and his fellow ‘character’ was published in April 1895, but MacColl figured in these last years of Pater’s life. Symons invoked these New Art Criticism connections in 1903 in his periodical review of MacColl’s book, when he acknowledged George Moore’s book, along with John Ruskin’s and Pater’s as predecessors of MacColl’s book, which Symons hailed rhetorically and immediately as VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 84 ‘the most important book on painting which has been published since Ruskin’s Modern Painting’.26 This accolade is introduced by Symons alongside significantly more tempered criticism of Ruskin, and even of Pater, about whom Symons writes ‘Had he [Pater] devoted himself exclusively to art criticism, there is no doubt that, in a sense, he would have been a great art critic.’27 Symons is playing to his readers, spicing up his introduction to his article with hyperbole on the one hand and a touch of mild denigration on the other. We see Symons similarly accommodating critique to a larger model of praise in a 1906 review in the Outlook in January 1906 of the Royal Academy’s winter exhibition, where Symons links the work of Solomon with that of Burne-Jones and D. G. Rossetti. Symons dismisses a show dedicated to Solomon’s work at the Baillie Gallery as too mixed in quality, to which he contrasts the Royal Academy show, of fewer pieces of higher quality: at the separate exhibition at the Baillie Gallery there was, along with a few good things, and many things interesting as steps in a progress, such a multitude of things at once violent and inane, at once helpless, and struggling, that it was impossible to think seriously of what seemed to be the attempts of a bad poet to express himself in a medium which he had not mastered. But at the Academy we see what Solomon, at the beginning of his career, could do.28 Nevertheless, in a transitional sentence as he moves from Solomon to Rossetti in this Royal Academy review, Symons is glad to abandon the ‘chilly emblems’ of Solomon’s work for the warmth of Rossetti’s. Symons chose not to review the Baillie Gallery show separately later in the previous year but rather to incorporate this paragraph in a more positive ‘appreciation’, however one not devoid of mild criticism itself. Likewise, despite the irony with respect to Pater the art critic in the 1903 article and 1906 chapter and book, they both are suffused by Paterian language, and writing. Why are these articles and book so Paterian? Clearly Symons, as Karl Beckson suggests, experienced Pater’s death in July 1894 as a great loss.29 Symons’s immediate attempt to recruit contributors to a volume memorialising Pater ‘came to nothing’ and thwarted his own plan to commemorate Pater, to the extent that Symons does not seem to have even written an obituary in the press in the autumn of VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 85 1894 following Pater’s death. He does however become a self-styled defender of Pater’s reputation, and vociferous in his objection to Edmund Gosse’s publication of Pater’s journalism from the Guardian in 1896, in the wake of the Wilde trials, echoing the views of Pater’s posthumous editor Charles Lancelot Shadwell, a Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford, and Pater’s sisters.30 Nevertheless Symons finally published his 1896 tribute to Pater in the Savoy.31 A decade later in 1906, it is not simply that the first British biography of Walter Pater by A. C. Benson and Symons’s Studies in Seven Arts both appeared that year.32 In the months before Symons’s book was published in November, Symons was reviewing Pater, as part of his work as a journalist. In May, Symons was fashioning a review of Benson’s biography of Pater, a work that might have influenced his writing of the Preface of Studies in Seven Arts with its many echoes of and quotations from Pater. Moreover, in September that same year, he published a fresh memoir on Pater in the Monthly Review, two months before Studies in Seven Arts appeared. Penned in July/August, the Monthly Review article was loosely linked in the journal to the occasion of Benson’s biography by a footnote, following which it was duly placed by Symons in his ‘morgue’ or system, to be used subsequently for scissors-and- paste re-purposed publication – in 1919 an introduction to an edition of the Renaissance – and again in 1932.33 This focus on a single aspect of Symons’s interests – in visual art, on a single instance of Symons’s journalism in iterations in the early twentieth century, and on the matrix of professional and personal networks over fifteen years they involve – provides a glimpse of his working practices and writing as a journalist, critic and producer of books. As this article demonstrates, it needs to be populated with his poetry, his drama, and with other types of his journalism. 1 Arthur Symons’s variations on a review of 1903 take the following forms: It first appears as a periodical book review: ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’, Fortnightly Review (March 1903), 520-34. It is a signed review article of D. S. MacColl, Nineteenth-Century Art (Glasgow: James Maclehose & Sons, 1902), which is a luxurious folio book. The review is then re-mediated as an article into a book of ‘studies’: ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’, Studies in Seven Arts (London: Constable, [November] 1906), pp. 33-61. At the end of the article in Studies in Seven Arts, Symons lists two dates, 1903 and 1905, of articles that have contributed to the 1906 text that appears in his book. It is likely that the 1905 date refers to a review of an art exhibition of 1905 published in a weekly newspaper, the Outlook in early 1906. Earlier in 1905 the Outlook had doubled its price and VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 86 changed its format: as from its 4 March 1905 issue, the first at 6d, it would be not only ‘an organ worthy of the Unionist party and the Imperial cause, but a weekly review of Politics, Letters, Science and Art, without a rival of its kind’ (Outlook (25 February 1905), 272). Symons’s piece, ‘English Masters at the Royal Academy’, in which he reviews Simeon Solomon’s pictures among others, was published in the first issue of the Outlook in the new year (6 January 1906), 19-20), as a signed review. Symons probably wrote and submitted it in late 1905, and he may have mis-remembered the date of the publication of his review when he submitted his MS for his book on the seven arts later in 1906. 2 For more about Simeon Solomon, see Colin Cruise, Love Revealed. Simeon Solomon and the Pre-Raphaelites (London: Merrell, 2005). 3 In her thesis, ‘“He hath mingled with the ungodly”: The Life of Simeon Solomon after 1873, with a Survey of the Extant Works’ (University of York, 2009), Carolyn Conroy recounts that Swinburne travelled to Oxford to confer with Pater and Ingram Bywater about Solomon’s trouble, about which discussion Swinburne wrote to Powell 6 June 1873. Conroy notes from Swinburne’s account that Pater seemed knowledgeable about the type of Solomon’s insanity, and expressed confidence in Solomon’s ‘recovery and rehabilitation’. She comments that Pater calmed Swinburne’s previous ‘angry, anti-Semitic taunts’ which were replaced by empathy with Solomon, and compassion (p. 87). Pater also went to see Rebecca Solomon, who provided him with more information about the events. Pater’s medical knowledge is explicable: he came from a line of surgeons, and his older brother William Thompson Pater was a doctor, who had been working in mental hospitals since 1865. In 1873, William was Assistant Medical Officer at the Hampshire Asylum in Fareham, and by 1875 he was in charge of the County Asylum in Stafford as its Medical Superintendent. Conroy notes (p. 91) that after Solomon was released from prison in late February 1873, he was ‘placed in a private asylum’ (See Robert Ross, Bibelot (April 1911), 144), and it is possible Walter Pater conferred with his brother about Solomon’s condition and aftercare, once he had seen Rebecca. In July 1871, prior to Solomon’s arrest, Swinburne had published a review article dedicated to Solomon (‘Simeon Solomon: Notes on his Vision of Love’, Dark Blue (July 1871), 568-77). Given his friendship with Solomon, and his acquaintance with Swinburne, Pater probably read it, although it was published anonymously in a little magazine. Swinburne never reprinted it. Pater does refer to Solomon approvingly if obliquely (‘a Bacchus by a young Hebrew painter’) after Solomon’s first imprisonment (‘A Study of Dionysus’, Fortnightly Review (December 1876), 752-72). Like Swinburne, Pater never reprinted it. 4 Arthur Symons, ‘Walter Pater. Some Characteristics’, Savoy, 1.8 (December 1896), 33-41. 5 Arthur Symons, ‘The Decadent Movement in Literature’, Harper’s New Monthly Magazine (November 1893), 858-68, and The Symbolist Movement in Literature (London: W. Heinemann, 1899). In 1896 a version of the Harper’s article was announced as a ‘forthcoming’ publication in an advert for Leonard Smithers’s list of Works by Arthur Symons, editor of the Savoy in the last number of the journal; while still called The Decadent Movement in Literature, the forthcoming title included only continental authors: Verlaine, the Goncourts, Huysmans, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, and Maeterlinck. It already excluded the English ‘decadents’ who appeared in the Harper’s piece, even though the topic was still focused on Decadence and not Symbolism, the form it would take in its 1899 version The Symbolist Movement in Literature, published by W. Heinemann rather than Smithers. 6 [Arthur Symons], ‘The New English Art Club’, Saturday Review (18 April 1896), 394. On MacColl’s prose, see Symons, ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’, p. 22. 7 See Symons’s Studies in Two Literatures (1897), with its four parts: ‘Studies in Elizabethan Drama’, ‘Studies in Contemporary Literature’, ‘Notes and Impressions: English Literature’, and ‘Notes and Impressions: French Literature’ that was advertised in the last issue of the Savoy in December 1896 as one of five titles from Smithers. Studies in Prose and Verse had already appeared in 1904. Studies in Seven Arts followed in 1906, and Studies in the Elizabethan Drama appeared as a separate volume in 1920. 8 Arthur Symons, Studies in Seven Arts (London: Archibald Constable, 1906), p. 59. 9 Symons, Studies, p. 60. 10 Ibid., pp. 60-61. 11 Symons’s personal and professional links with George Moore and A. C. Benson also figure in this context of his art and literary criticism. 12 For Log Rolling, see ‘Puffing. Logrolling’, DNCJ (Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism), ed. by L. Brake and M. Demoor (London and Ghent: British Library and Academia Press, 2009), p. 517. 13 See Karl Beckson, Iain Fletcher, L. W. Markert, and John Stokes, Arthur Symons: A Bibliography (Greensboro, NC: ELT Press, 1990). 14 Beckson et al. (1990) attribute fifty-three articles to Symons in 1903, forty-one in 1904, and sixty-four in 1905. 15 For ‘scissors-and-paste’ journalism, see Stephan Pigeon, ‘Steal it. Change it. Print it. Transatlantic Scissors-and- Paste Journalism in the Ladies’ Treasury 1857-1895’, Journal of Victorian Culture, 22.1 (2017), 24-39, and ‘Scissors and Paste Journalism’, DNCJ, p. 561. 16 Lawrence W. Markert identifies MacColl’s book and Symons’s review of it as formative documents in the consolidation of Symons’s thoughts about art. See Markert’s chapter on ‘Art and Artists’ (pp. 87-125), and especially pp. 103-104 on Symons’s debt to MacColl, in Critic of the Seven Arts (Ann Arbor and London: UMI, 1998). 17 See Kimberley Morse-Jones, ‘The “Philistine” and the New Art Critic: A new perspective on the debate about VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 87 Degas’s “L’Absinthe” of 1893’, British Art Journal, 9.2 (September 2008), 50-61, for more about this debate, which was occasioned by the exhibition of Degas’ painting in the Grafton Gallery early in 1893. MacColl explained ‘the new art criticism’ as the application of the same aesthetic critical standards to current art as are applied to ancient art. In this way, MacColl was intent on the recognition of a few contemporary art ‘masters’ instead of the denunciation of all modern art. George Moore supported the attempts of MacColl and others to turn the tide of conservative criticism with its distaste for all contemporary art. 18 For debate on the Chantrey Bequest spearheaded by D. S. MacColl, see the to-and-fro articles and letters in the Saturday Review, 25 April 1903-August 1904. 19 The two exhibitions were an exhibition in John Baillie’s new gallery devoted to work by Solomon in December 1905 and the Winter exhibition of the Royal Academy exclusively on ‘deceased masters of the British School’ in early 1906 that included some work by Solomon. 20 This tribute of Symons to Pater itself derives from similarly timely and edgy pieces from the press, published by Symons over a decade between 1896 and 1906. 21 Arthur Symons, ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’, p. 522. Moore was a longstanding friend of Symons: six years earlier Symons dedicated his first book of criticism, Studies in Two Literatures (1897) to Moore, in the form of a two-page personal letter (pp. vii-viii). 22 Arthur Symons, ‘Walter Pater: Some Characteristics’, Savoy, 8 (December), 33-50 (p. 38). 23 For more on the The Yellow Book and the Savoy, see James G. Nelson, Publisher to the Decadents (High Wycombe: Rivendale Press, 2000) and Katherine Mix, A Study in Yellow. The Yellow Book and its Contributors (Lawrence, Kansas: University of Kansas Press, 1960). 24 Their friendship proceeded by a recognizable series of stages of puffs: the youthful Symons reviewed Imaginary Portraits unsigned in the Athenæum in June 1887 and signed in Time in August 1887; Pater obliged three months later, and reviewed Symons’s first book on Browning, anonymously in the Guardian in November 1887; and Symons in turn dedicated his first volume of poetry to Pater in 1889. 25 The context of Pater’s intervention may be part of the explanation of the mystery of why Pater decided to support Moore at this juncture, when Pater had upbraided Moore in a letter a few years earlier. It was a mystery to Moore, who was surprised by the appearance of the review, and its praise. It may be that by throwing his weight behind Moore at this moment, Pater was demonstrating his support as a critic for MacColl and his stance on the New Art Criticism. Moore’s book, Modern Painting, was a collection of his pieces from the Speaker, a weekly journal in which he regularly published contemporary art criticism as its art critic. The reviews selected show him to be an unmistakeable supporter of the New Art Criticism, a critic of the Royal Academy, and sympathetic to MacColl. Firstly, his inclusion of a large number of reviews of contemporary artists affiliated with new and noteworthy contemporary art based in impressionism – Whistler, Manet, Millet, Monet, Pissarro, which has no place in the Royal Academy. Then, secondly, there are admiring pieces on the New English Art Club and the New Art Criticism, and a critical one on ‘The Organisation of Art’, all in keeping with the New Art Criticism favoured by MacColl. In ‘Our Academicians’ Moore mentions the neglect by the Royal Academy of the work of Simeon Solomon among others; and in his piece on the New English Art Club, he enters into dialogue throughout the piece with MacColl, whom he describes as ‘Mr. MacColl, the art critic of the Spectator, our ablest art critic, himself a painter and a painter of talent’ (Modern Painting (London: Walter Scott Limited, 1893), p. 199). 26 Symons, ‘The Painting of the Nineteenth Century’, p. 520. 27 Ibid. Although this sentence appears in the Fortnightly Review, it is significantly expanded upon in Studies (1906), p. 36. 28 Arthur Symons, ‘English Masters at the Royal Academy’, Outlook (6 January 1906), 19-20. 29 Karl Beckson, Arthur Symons. A Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 110. 30 For more about Gosse’s controversial publication of a private edition of Pater’s Essays from the Guardian, see L. Brake, ‘On Pater’s Essays from the Guardian’, ELT, 56.4 (Spring, 2013), 483-96. 31 Arthur Symons, ‘Walter Pater: Some Characteristics’, Savoy (December 1896), 33-41. 32 Reviewing Benson’s life of Pater was tricky for Symons, as Benson was, like Pater, a friend, whose work Symons frequently reviewed. Symons’s investment in Pater was considerable, and Symons reviewed Benson’s book anonymously. In addition to his unsigned review (Athenæum , 2 June 1906, 659-60), Symons had reviewed Benson’s Rossetti, part of the English Men of Letters series, in the Speaker (18 June 1904), Benson’s Poems in the Athenæum in 1897, other Poems in the Athenæum (21 Oct 1893), and perhaps unsigned reviews of other titles. Symons’s admiration for Pater trumped his loyalties to Benson. In his 1906 review, ‘Walter Pater, by A. C. Benson’, Symons repeatedly tried to find strengths in the book, but it nevertheless ‘is not so much a creation as an analytical interpretation’. He persists in this critical mode: ‘We miss, it is true, the personal note of one who had really known the man about whom he is writing. Intimate acquaintance certainly counts far more in a biographer than almost the greatest mental sympathy or acuteness. The Pater who is seen in this book is a portrait very closely copied from exiting sketches and recollections; it is not, it could not have been a direct and wholly vital portrait from life.’ (p. 659). Symons’s significant critique of his friend’s biography of Pater is indicative of how seriously Symons took his self- VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 88 appointed role as Pater’s protector: he even claims ‘But, so far as actual detail is concerned, Pater’s life was so uneventful that nothing further of any real importance is left for any future biographer.’ As the first review to appear in the Literature department of the Athenæum of 2 June, Symons’s review was accorded the most prominent position. It faced on the opposite page (658) a long column of ads for Macmillan’s new list, of which the third title was Benson’s new English Men of Letters, Pater. Thus, the prominence of the review functioned at once in the economy of the Athenæum and its advertisers, in the interests of Symons, its contributor, and of Benson, the hapless author of the reviewed title, whose sales might increase, despite the reviewer’s reservations. 33 In December 1896, Symons published ‘Walter Pater. Some Characteristics’, in the final issue of the Savoy, an issue written entirely by himself. He reprints it early in 1897 in the second section of Studies in Two Literatures called ‘Studies in Contemporary Literature’, where Pater appears among a different group of contemporaries: Christina Rossetti, William Morris, Coventry Patmore, and the essays ‘Modernity in Verse’ and ‘A Note on Zola’s Method’. In June of the same year, Symons reviews Gosse’s privately printed edition of Essays from the Guardian in 1897 for the Athenæum (12 June 1897), 769-70, and he reviews it again eight years later in its Macmillan volume format in the Athenæum (2 September 1905), 301. Less than a year later, in June 1906, Symons reviews Benson’s biography, Walter Pater in Macmillan’s English Men of Letters series, in the Athenæum, 2 June, 1906. Four months after that, in September 1906, Symons publishes a personal memoir of Pater, loosely tied to the occasion of the publication of Benson’s book in the Monthly Review, 72 (September 1906), 14-24. It was six weeks later, in November 1906, when Studies in Seven Arts appeared, heavily influenced by Pater – the title; the Preface; the style. Symons persists in his re- mediation of his Pater pieces: in 1919, he draws on them for his Introduction to an edition of Pater’s Studies in the History of The Renaissance, published in New York by Boni and Liveright; and in 1932 Symons publishes A Study of Walter Pater as a separate volume in London, published by C. J. Sawyer. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 89 ‘The Universe’: An Unpublished Sonnet by Arthur Symons Kostas Boyiopoulos Department of English Studies, Durham University © Kostas Boyiopoulos, photograph of ‘The Universe’, Arthur Symons Papers (C0182), Princeton University, Box 15. With thanks to Princeton Special Collections for permission to reproduce. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 90 A steady trickle of sonnets permeates Arthur Symons’s poetical oeuvre. Some of the most iconic pieces from his early volumes are sonnets; examples include ‘The Opium-Smoker’, ‘The Absinthe Drinker’, ‘Nerves’, and ‘Idealism’. In the Arthur Symons Papers held in Firestone Library at Princeton University is an unknown and previously unpublished sonnet entitled ‘The Universe’. The typescript, found among miscellaneous poems, is undated and spattered with blotches (strikethroughs) and a couple of typographic errors. It bears a thematic affinity with some post- Nineties volumes by Symons, comporting with his fixation with evil, sin, and damnation. From these clues we can hazard that Symons penned ‘The Universe’ after his mental breakdown period, possibly in the twenties or the thirties, although the sonnet’s central concept could have originated much earlier. ‘The Universe’ expands and transforms the theme of urban sensuality of Symons’s early work, plotting it on a more abstract plane. It is built around ideas of world-making and Judeo- Christian cosmogony. This is not a slapdash effort; it is an intriguing, puzzling piece, to say the least, and one that realizes the full potential of the sonnet form. Here it goes: When was created the Infinite Universe? Was it before the creation of Woman and Man? With Eve the Evil of the World began And Cain was branded with an Infernal Curse. The rays of light from Infinity can pierce Sunlight as well as moonlight. And what Caravan Began its course across some Ispahan? The Seed of Evil: is it the First or Worse? I am perfumed by the Passion of my Verse Whose Centre never was the Universe. I was consumed by an Overwhelming Passion. There was a Magic in my Mistress’s Eyes. What of beaten hunger and of Primitive Cries? She wove for me some World after her Fashion.1 In its Petrarchan construction the octave sets up a centripetal design, spiralling towards the ‘Centre’ of the sestet. The two parts present a dramatic juxtaposition between the cosmic and the particular, total and narrow scope, perpetuity and ephemerality. The first quatrain re-examines the creation myth of Genesis, positioning the postlapsarian ‘World’ of the Fall in relation to an equally created VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 91 ‘Infinite Universe’ that precedes and contains it. Cain’s transgression designates an amplificatory process of evil that is triggered with Eve; Symons’s alliterative pun on ‘Eve’ and ‘evil’ is quite telling. The idea that Eve is the harbinger of sin and evil is advocated by Jesus Ben Sira in the apocryphal Book of Ecclesiasticus: ‘Of the woman came the beginning of sin, and through her we all die’ (Ecc 25:24).2 Eve, we might conjecture, joins (or spawns) the progeny of sinful, mythical femmes fatales that parade in Symons’s work. In the second, elliptical and enigmatic quatrain, with the ‘rays of light from Infinity’ that can pierce ‘sunlight’ and ‘moonlight’ Symons plays on Genesis 1:3-5, where God creates light and then, in a bizarre logic, separates it into light and darkness. Similarly, the ‘light’ of ‘Infinity’ in ‘The Universe’ is of a different order from the ‘sunlight’ of the visible cosmos. The speaker might be hinting at some intrusion or incursion of the plane of the ‘Infinite Universe’ in the finite ‘World’. This intrusion of infinity turns into the peripatetic, oriental image of the ‘Caravan’ in ‘Ispahan’, a Persian city famous for its architecture and splendiferous gardens. Symons here possibly alludes to Oscar Wilde’s imperialist posturing in ‘Ave Imperatrix’, where from ‘Ispahan | The gilded garden of the sun’, ‘the long dusty caravan | Brings cedar wood and vermilion’.3 The volta marks a shift from the universal to the personal, conjuring the familiar atmosphere of Nineties Decadence, as with the rhyme words ‘Passion’/‘Fashion’ that obviously nod to the refrains of Ernest Dowson’s ‘Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae’. This is not the first time Symons rhymes passion with fashion; he does so numerous times, for example, in Love’s Cruelty (1923) with ‘For Des Esseintes: II. Eyes’ and ‘Mad Song’, and in a 1921 ‘Sonnet’ printed in Jezebel Mort and Other Poems (1931). The sestet presents a poet-Pygmalion who is seduced and ‘consumed’ by his own ‘Verse’ and his ‘Mistress’s Eyes’. Is his mistress one that is written into the verse, or is she essentially the ‘Verse’? In his eremite existence in Island Cottage Symons was ever more haunted by the memories of his glory days, especially by the memory of Lydia, the deified Bianca of his London Nights. In his biography of Symons, Karl Beckson prints from a poem entitled ‘Lydia’, dated 1940, which recycles some of the language of ‘The Universe’: ‘Passion was secret to VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 92 the Universe | […] we both lived in’ and ‘What Prime Evil curse | Had been thrown upon us?’4 It seems that Lydia is metonymically transferred into the ‘Passion of [Symons’s] Verse’. The poet-speaker endeavours to evade the ‘Infernal Curse’ and transform the memory of the unnamed mistress (possibly Lydia) by playing God. He imitates the act of divine creation ex nihilo while shutting out the cursed, immutable world of reality. In a defiant gesture he sidelines and dismisses wholesale the created ‘Infinite Universe’, carving out his own universe in the form of his poetic world (‘the Passion of my Verse | Whose Centre never was the Universe’). From his sovereign point of view the speaker (and so Symons himself) replaces the divine creator.5 This idea is reinforced by Symons’s comments in his 1920 book on Baudelaire: in his state of intoxication, the French poet in his self-aggrandisement ‘becomes the centre of the universe’, declaring, ‘Je suis un Dieu!’ [I am a God!].6 The god-poet who is erotically consumed by his own creative efforts is an idea that for Symons is reflected in the poet-God who, by an act of logos, creates the world out of lust. In Images of Good and Evil (1899) Symons writes through his allegorical mouthpiece, ‘Lust’: It was the lust of God, fulfilled With joys enjoyed, that bade him build The wanton palace of the earth.7 With nonchalant self-indulgence the speaker of ‘The Universe’ seems to muffle the ‘beaten hunger’ and ‘Primitive Cries’; the consequences of Cain’s curse. In contrast with the monumentality of the octet’s Judeo-Christian cosmogony, his ‘Verse’-mistress ‘wove’ for him ‘some World after her Fashion’; that is, on capricious whim. Crucially, the weaving is not performed by the poet but by the mistress. The poet is not in control. The wording of that final line, in conjunction with the way Symons juxtaposes created existence by an implied divine being with the mortal artist’s creations, is clearly articulated in The Loom of Dreams, and the prologue- poem of the same title (1900). While the world ‘goes by’ and ‘Crowns are bartered and blood is shed’, the speaker of this lyric ‘sit[s] and broider[s] [his] dreams instead’.8 The last of the three stanzas of ‘The Loom of Dreams’ is quite revealing, shedding light on ‘The Universe’: VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 93 And the only world is the world of my dreams, And my weaving the only happiness; For what is the world but what it seems? And who knows but that God, beyond our guess, Sits weaving worlds out of loneliness?9 There are complex theological and psychological ramifications from this subtle comparison that cannot be explored in the present article. But what is fascinating in ‘The Loom of Dreams’ and, therefore, also, in ‘The Universe’, is their fractal projection. In this light, ‘Infinity’ acquires a double sense. The pattern in ‘The Universe’ follows on from the ‘Infinite Universe’, to the world of ‘Woman and Man’, to that of the speaker’s ‘Verse’. These poems generate or ‘weave’ recursive, never-ending worlds, or create what is called a ‘Droste effect’ (a form of mise en abyme in which an image recurs within itself) to borrow a modern term. The tragedy of the Symonsian speaker is that his Pygmalionic, virtual ‘World’ of pleasure in which he cocoons himself cannot be detached from the great scheme of things. It is part of the ‘Infinite Universe’. As such, it inherits the infernal curse of Eve and Cain. The speaker’s disconnected point of view is, in essence, polluted by his awareness of the total perspective with regard to encroaching reality. In the perplexing eighth line, with its emphatic caesura, the scriptural ‘Seed of Evil’ can be ‘Worse’. A possible allusion to the poet’s own evil seed is found in Dante’s Purgatorio, where Beatrice reproves Dante for his sinful transgressions, his ‘images of failing good’ bred of his ‘evil seed’ (Canto 30, ll. 131, 119).10 Additionally, one of Symons’s cat lyrics dated 1928, entitled ‘Lines’, resembling ‘The Universe’, offers clues to the idea that sensuality is a curse and a contaminant that seeps through different planes of existence. Evoking a chain of being, cats are sensual creatures that possess their own ‘Universe’ which […] is forever hurled Onwards like ours by the same Curse That made the madness of the World.11 One wonders why Symons did not publish ‘The Universe’; perhaps he nursed it pondering how he might give clarity to some of its vague features. Nevertheless, this sonnet is not a mere literary curiosity, but one whose ‘scanty plot of ground’,12 as Wordsworth has it, contains VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 94 everything: the infinity of the cosmos, both in the dimension of reality and that of fantasy. It provides a key to better comprehend Symons’s psychology and perennial interests, and track the evolution of his particular mind-set. It is a cross-section of motifs which provides insight into Symons’s egocentricity, his peculiar creation theology, his obsession with sin, and the idea of memory and art as substitutes for erotic experience. 1 Arthur Symons, ‘The Universe’ (TS), Box 15, in Arthur Symons Papers (C0182); Manuscripts Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library. The poem is slightly formatted and typographic errors silently corrected. 2 The Bible: Authorized King James Version with Apocrypha, intro. and notes by Robert Carroll and Stephen Prickett (1997; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), Apocrypha, p. 136. 3 Oscar Wilde, The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde: Stories, Plays, Poems, Essays, intro. by Vyvyan Holland (1966; London: Collins, 1986), p. 711. 4 Karl Beckson, Arthur Symons: A Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), p. 103. 5 In a further explorative reading, the word ‘Passion’, twice deployed, conjures and subverts the image of the Christ: the ‘Seed of Evil’ leads to the ‘Passion’ of the poet and not of the Crucifixion. 6 Arthur Symons, Charles Baudelaire: A Study (London: Elkin Matthews, 1920), pp. 72-73. Italics in original. 7 Arthur Symons, ‘Lust’, in The Collected Works of Arthur Symons, 9 vols [incomplete set] (London: Martin Secker, 1924), II, p. 6. Also in line with the affinity of the creative act and eroticism, the ‘Centre’ for Symons could specifically be ‘sex’, the ‘centre of Creation’. See Arthur Symons, The Memoirs of Arthur Symons: Life and Art in the 1890s, ed. by Karl Beckson (University Park and London: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1977), p. 138. 8 Symons, ‘The Loom of Dreams’, in The Collected Works of Arthur Symons, II, p. 123. 9 Ibid. 10 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. by Robin Kirkpatrick (London: Penguin, 2012), p. 302. 11 Arthur Symons, ‘Lines’, in Jezebel Mort and Other Poems (London: Heinemann, 1931), p. 136. 12 William Wordsworth, Selected Poems (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1996), p. 150. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 95 Arthur Symons, ‘Aubrey Beardsley: A Memorial Poem’ Simon Wilson VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 96 Aubrey Beardsley Why was it he and not another? Tell me, do you now enjoy this As he did? That God should destroy this That praised him in the passion of desiring All, he created out of beauty: God, who delights in requiring Surely delight above duty: That God should crush him and not another! It was so little that he wanted: The worlds and the stars between them: The eyes of the angels have not seen them: Or this poor inch of the pavement, Where you and I walk without knowing What life meant, and so what this place meant, To him in his coming and going: It was only life that he wanted. Arthur Symons March 26 1898 * * * A Brief Note by Simon Wilson Beardsley had died in Menton, France, on 16 March 1898. He was born on 21 August 1872 so was almost exactly twenty-five and a half years old at his death.1 In 2016 Yale University Press published a monumental two-volume catalogue raisonné of Beardsley’s work by Linda Zatlin (Aubrey Beardsley: A Catalogue Raisonné (Yale University Press, 2016)). It was Linda who drew my attention to this unpublished manuscript poem which surfaced a few years ago. The Arthur Symons symposium held at Goldsmiths, London, on 21 July 2017 (symons2017.wordpress.com) seemed a good occasion on which to publish it. Symons has clearly and carefully punctuated it, but I remain baffled by the comma after ‘All’ at the opening of line five. 1 See Arthur Symons’s obituary: ‘Aubrey Beardsley’, Fortnightly Review, 63 (May 1898), 752-61. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 97 A Note on Voluptuousness: A Personal Essay on Decadence and Pleasure David Weir Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature, Cooper Union What is the relationship between decadence and pleasure? Surely there must be some such relationship, but it has to be (as we used to say) problematic. Part of the problem involves cultural context, or rather, contexts. Decadence begins as a sensibility – a composite of pessimism, refinement, immorality, aestheticism – and ends up as a culture, in both senses: as something learned but also lived. Learned decadence was once housed in such institutions as the University of Oxford and the Bodley Head, but such institutions have also had a major role in the development of decadence as a lived culture. It is one thing to read about a character in a novel who has a set of blue china; it is another thing altogether to actually have a set of blue china and to enjoy using it. If that pleasure seems too mild and aesthetic for decadence, feel free to fill the cup of blue china with absinthe and have the character light up one of those opium-tainted cigarettes we read about – then stop reading and light one up for yourself. I’m pretty sure you will recognize the difference in the two activities. Also, you will probably take pleasure in both. But are these decadent pleasures, and is one more pleasurable – or more decadent – than the other? Moreover, despite the difference in readerly delights and some actual pursuit in life of those pleasures first encountered in art, isn’t there an obvious continuity between the two? For my part, coming from one of the most backward backwaters of the United States, and being the first person in my family (by which I mean extended family, including third cousins and pets) to attend university, decadence was for me a form of that most mundane of American enthusiasms: self-improvement. If only I could become decadent, I thought, I could better myself to the point that I would cease to be American. The effort did not succeed, hélas, but at least the attempt offered an opportunity to contemplate the question of whether decadence and pleasure might somehow coincide. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 98 That a relationship between decadence and pleasure exists is not in doubt, at least so far as popular conceptions of decadence go. Decadent pleasure in this popular sense involves excess – too much of a good thing. This meaning appears to cut across several Indo-European languages. In Spanish, ‘a decadent lifestyle’ is ‘un estilo de vida de excesos’; German synonyms for dekadent include verschwenderisch [extravagant] and maßlos [immoderate]; a Dutch synonym is genotzuchtig [self-indulgent], a compound of ‘pleasure’ genot and ‘sigh’ zucht. The French and Italian cognates décadent and decadente more or less combine these notions of excess, extravagance, and self- indulgence with the more familiar senses of ‘decay’, ‘decline’, and ‘degeneration’. Such meanings derive largely from Roman history, especially as represented in those mostly unreliable accounts (by Suetonius, Tacitus, the author of the Historia Augustae, and others) of particular Roman emperors whose appetites for food, drink, and sex were both boundless and exotic. They were voluptuaries as well as connoisseurs, larger-than-life types whose power allowed them to combine excess with refinement. A moment’s reflection, however, suggests a certain contradiction at the heart of this model of decadent pleasure. Excess and refinement are in some measure at odds with one another, since excess implies no principle of selection – ‘Let’s eat it all!’ – whereas refinement connotes discrimination – ‘Let’s have the Nebbiolo Alto with the white truffles.’ In fact, refinement might actually involve the elimination of certain pleasures as too common or crass for decadent delectation, a practice that is hard to square with the idea of excess. That the Romans had a more multiform conception of pleasure than our modern notion of excess suggests is manifest in their varied vocabulary. The noun voluptās involves pleasure in the general sense of ‘enjoyment’, as something ‘agreeable’ to the mind or the senses, although some authors (Ovid, Petronius, Apuleius) use the word in a more specific way to refer to sexual intercourse. Usually, however, libīdō is sexual pleasure, but even that meaning is specialized, the more general sense of libīdō being simply ‘desire’, an urge to satisfy a ‘bodily craving’, not all of which are necessarily sexual. Dēlicia, more often in plural form as dēliciae, refers to pleasurable activities, ‘allurements’, and the like, sometimes even ‘luxuries’, although there is a specific word, VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 99 luxus, from which English ‘luxury’ is derived, that conveys ‘excess’ and ‘extravagance’. Dēlectātiō is the nominal basis for ‘delight’, while the verb form dēlectare means ‘to lure’, ‘to entice’, or ‘to charm’. Other verbs relating to pleasure include placēre, ‘to please or satisfy’, and oblectare, ‘to delight, amuse, divert, entertain’; and so on.1 Yet none of these words – with the possible, partial exception of luxus – connotes anything inherently decadent, and I think I know why: namely, because decadence is less a form or type of pleasure in itself – a category of pleasure – as it is a judgement about pleasure. That scenario would certainly cover the case of excess, which necessarily involves the judgement that pleasure has – or should have – limits. But how much is too much? And is too much pleasure decadent? The basic ambiguity that attaches to the word decadent in multiple contexts applies here, since the judgement about pleasure may be both moral and aesthetic. Perhaps it is truer to say that while the basis for judging pleasure as decadent may once have been both moral and aesthetic, more recently the basis is either moral or aesthetic. We probably have Walter Pater to thank for conflating morality and aesthetics and for making the prospect of decadent pleasure possible. Not that it was his intention to do so: the conflation was the result of the outraged reaction to the first edition of Studies in the History of the Renaissance (1873) that insisted, after the fashion of Matthew Arnold and John Ruskin, that art and life both have moral purpose; and of Pater’s response to that reaction in Marius the Epicurean (1885). Although Pater was more neo-Hegelian than neo-Kantian, his awareness of Kant’s categorical separation of pure (theoretical) reason, practical (moral) reason, and aesthetic judgement (taste) seems evident from the first page of the Renaissance, since he rejects the relevance of empirical observation to aesthetic experience when he denies the validity of Arnold’s advice to the critic ‘To see the object as it really is’.2 But no sooner does Pater reinforce one Kantian boundary than he crosses another one, when he deliberately fuses practical experience with aesthetic experience: ‘What is this song or picture, this engaging personality presented in life or in a book, to me? Does it give me pleasure?’ (p. 4). The antecedent of the pronoun it is a bit slippery here, some composite of ‘song’, ‘picture’, and ‘engaging personality’, the latter VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 100 ambiguously situated ‘in life or in a book’ – but, one suspects, between the covers in either event. The ‘Conclusion’ clarifies all that lies behind that shimmering it on the first page: ‘Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself is the end’ (p. 119). Moreover, the ‘engaging personality’ that flashes its coy smile at us on the first page reappears in the ‘Conclusion’ as well, when Pater names the need to ‘catch at any exquisite passion’ to allay the elusiveness of perception, whether ‘work of the artist’s hand, or the face of one’s friend’ (p. 120). Here is a real and deliberate refusal to discriminate between art and life as the basis for aesthetic experience, which is tantamount to making taste do the work of morality. And there it is – the basis for decadent pleasure: the decadent deploys taste, not morality, as the means of determining whether sensuous experiences are good or bad, acceptable or unacceptable. Pleasure is subjected to aesthetic judgement, not practical reason. Having let this particular genie out of the lamp, Pater went to some pains to put it back, or try to. His oft-quoted complaint to Edmund Gosse from 1876 – ‘I wish they wouldn’t call me a hedonist; it produces such a bad effect on the minds of people who don’t know Greek’ – shows how irritating all those ‘journalistic mosquito-bites’3 were: the inability of the press to understand the necessity of pleasure in anything other than moral terms led to the self-censorship of the second edition of the Renaissance in 1877 and in 1885 to Marius the Epicurean, where Pater ‘dealt more fully’ with ‘the thoughts suggested’ by the original ‘Conclusion’ of 1873.4 The key chapter in Marius where Pater deals more fully with those thoughts and where he ‘clarifies’ the meaning of ‘hedonism’ is titled ‘The New Cyrenaicism’. There, Pater allows himself a moment of self-referential playfulness when he mentions some acquaintances of Marius ‘who jumped to the conclusion’ that ‘he was making pleasure – pleasure, as they so poorly conceived it – the sole motive of life’.5 In this passage, Pater surely has in mind all those young, rapt Oxonians who ‘jumped to the conclusion’ of the first edition of the Renaissance. As for ‘hedonism’, Pater somehow manages to equate ‘that reproachful Greek term for the philosophy of pleasure’ (p. 119) with – wait for it – stoicism. Paraphrase cannot do justice to the VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 101 astonishing, almost heroic display of rhetorical sophistry Pater mounts in his defence of pleasure, however attenuated and qualified. Along the way Marius is associated with ‘the “new Cyrenaicism”’ (p. 120), a philosophy of pleasure that has its origins with Aristippus of Cyrene, an ancient city located in northern Africa (modern Libya). Practitioners of the original or ‘old’ Cyrenaicism actively sought pleasure and so are philosophically different from the Epicureans, who mainly wanted to avoid pain, rather than endure it like the Stoics.6 Evidently, Marius is a ‘new’ Cyrenaic because his pleasures are not exactly pleasurable: Not pleasure, but fullness of life, and ‘insight’ as conducting to that fullness – energy, variety, and choice of experience, including noble pain and sorrow even […] – whatever form of human life, in short, might be heroic, impassioned, ideal: from these the ‘new Cyrenaicism’ of Marius took its criterion of values. (p. 120) It would be a ‘new’ Cyrenaic indeed who would choose pain, however noble, yet this is Marius’ ‘theory’ – ‘which might properly be regarded as in great degree coincident with the main principles of the Stoics themselves’ (p. 120). What this stoical hedonist means to do with his theory is mainly what Pater announces in his preface to the Renaissance: pay the closest possible attention to his own sensuous impressions, regardless of whether those impressions are prompted by ‘works of art’ or ‘the fairer forms of nature and human life’, and then explain and analyze their influence on him (p. 4). So Marius will take care ‘[t]o understand the various forms of ancient art and thought, the various forms of actual human feeling’ in order ‘to satisfy […] the claims of these concrete and actual objects on his sympathy, his intelligence, his senses’ and ‘become the interpreter of them to others’ (p. 120). Pater does not use the word ‘decadent’ in his characterization of Marius’ pleasure, but the importance of interpretation here is consistent with the notion that pleasure is decadent mainly on the basis of aesthetic judgement. But regardless of whether we are talking about some bygone, fin-de-siècle era or the present day, a lot depends on who is doing the judging. During the days of Oscar Wilde and the early André Gide, for example, there is no doubt that the homosexual pleasures they each enjoyed were judged to be decadent in the moral sense. Indeed, for a time decadent served as a euphemism VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 102 for homosexual, and those who practised homosexuality were immoral, as the title of Gide’s 1902 récit proudly proclaims: L’Immoraliste. By contrast, in the United States and other Western democracies today, the moral basis for judging homosexuality as a form of decadence no longer obtains. Yes, of course, religious fanatics on the far-right fringe still equate homosexuality with bestiality, but in America, at least, debates about ‘same-sex marriage’ and ‘gays in the military’ are mostly settled.7 The larger point here is that the moral judgement that once deemed homosexual pleasure decadent is now moot, although the aesthetic judgement perhaps continues to resonate: as Carl Van Vechten’s epigram quoting Allen Norton so memorably puts it, ‘A thing of beauty is a boy forever’.8 One species of the moral argument that judges certain pleasures decadent concerns the notion that it is possible for human beings to violate nature, to do things that are unnatural. The extremist religious position holding that homosexuality is no different from bestiality is an example of such judgement. But how is bestiality unnatural? One of the more unusual items in my vocabulary is the lexeme ‘stump-trained heifer’, a term for a female bovine sufficiently disciplined to stand with her rear end positioned near a tree-stump so that an ardent farm-boy can be at the appropriate height to satisfy his natural desires. Certainly, some people will judge this particular pleasure decadent on moral grounds, whereas others will say that such bovine pleasures fail the aesthetic test, not the moral one, and so do not qualify as decadent. Lest I appear to endorse bestiality, I will concede that arguments against the practice most certainly exist that have nothing to do with the religious prohibitions detailed in Leviticus 18:23 (‘It is confusion’) and 20:15-16 (‘Their blood shall be upon them’). All kinds of objections can be mounted against congress with quadrupeds, from the ethical (see: societies, humane) to the medical (see: Fracastoro, Girolamo).9 But however unethical or unsafe, it cannot be decadent because bestiality is not unnatural so much as all too natural. It is, after all, a form of sexuality, which is a problem for decadence generally, by which I mean that sexual pleasure is so natural VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 103 (indeed, there would be no nature without it) that it poses a problem for anyone who wants the experience of it to be decadent. There is a scene in Ettore Scola’s La Nuit de Varennes (1982) where the great enlightenment pornographer Nicolas-Edme Restif de la Bretonne (Jean-Louis Barrault) is momentarily distracted from his quest to track Louis XVI’s flight from Paris to Varennes on the night of 20- 21 June 1791. Madame Faustine (Caterina Boratto), one of Restif’s old flames who now runs an elegant brothel, tempts him with a new girl (Annie Belle), very young, whose tiny feet immediately appeal to the fetishistic desires of the author of Le Pied de Franchette (1769). When Restif goes into elaborate verbal ecstasies over the ‘petits pieds’ of the young girl, Faustine tells her that he is a great writer, whereupon the object of the great writer’s podophilic ardor asks, with some alarm, whether she will have to do anything special. Faustine comforts her with this assurance: ‘Un intellectuel ou un forgeron, dans un lit, c’est la même chose’ [An intellectual or a blacksmith: in bed, they’re the same thing]. That’s the problem: how does the (male) decadent differentiate himself from the (male) blacksmith in bed? By going to bed with the blacksmith? That by-gone solution to the problem of making sexual pleasure decadent depends not only on the now-defunct moral prohibition against homosexual relations but also on class distinctions that have less erotic frisson now than they did in the days when aristocrats walked the earth (see: Montesquiou-Fézensac, Marie Joseph Robert Anatole, Comte de). So what is the poor decadent to do? Hard to say. If we take literature as a guide to life (and who doesn’t?), we can find some instruction in À rebours, chapter 9. There Joris-Karl Huysmans offers three examples of Des Esseintes’ sexual adventures, which the decadent recalls after letting a bonbon ‘consist[ing] of a drop of schoenanthus scent’ [une goutte de parfum de sarcanthus] and sugar dissolve in his mouth.10 Schoenanthus, better known as camel grass, is common to Saudi Arabia and northern Africa. While chewing or brewing the root of it is said to have certain medicinal benefits, modern sources do not indicate any aphrodisiac value.11 Huysmans evidently thought otherwise, which explains why he calls it ‘female essence’ (p. 96) [d’essence feminine (p. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 104 145)]. In any event, the bonbon’s madeleine-like effect first produces memories of Des Esseintes’ affair with the muscular American acrobat known as ‘Miss Urania’, whose manly strength, the decadent hopes, will allow him to experience ‘that extravagant delight in self-abasement which a common prostitute shows in paying dearly for the loutish caresses of a pimp’ (p. 97) [l’exorbitant attrait de la boue, de la basse prostitution heureuse de payer cher les tendresses malotrues d’un souteneur (p. 146)]. Unfortunately, the manly woman turns out to be ‘positively puritanical in bed’ (p. 98) [elle avait une retenue puritaine, au lit (p. 146)] so Des Esseintes ends the affair without achieving the decadent pleasure he desires. The second recollected affair is more successful. This is the one with the ventriloquist whom Des Esseintes uses, first, to recreate the dialogue between the Chimera and the Sphinx from Gustave Flaubert’s La Tentation de Saint- Antoine (1874) and, second, to create the illusion ‘of being caught flagrante delicto’ (p. 101) [d’être pris en flagrant délit (p. 149)] by simulating the sounds of an outraged lover at the bedroom door. The charade gives Des Esseintes ‘extraordinary pleasure’ (p. 101) [des allégresses inouïes (p. 149)] by making him feel like ‘a man running a risk, interrupted and hustled in his fornication’ (p. 101) [cette panique de l’homme courant un danger, interrompu, pressé dans son ordure (p. 149)]. This time, it is the woman who quite understandably cuts short the affair, leaving the decadent for ‘a fellow with less complicated whims and more reliable loins’ (p. 101) [un gaillard dont les exigences étaient moins compliquées et les reins plus sûr (p. 149)]. The last affair is with a ‘poorly clad’ [pauvrement vêtu (p. 150)] young man who asks Des Esseintes ‘the quickest way to get to the Rue de Babylone’ (p. 102) (what’s in a name?) [la plus courte pour se rendre à la rue de Babylone (p. 149)]. The ‘mistrustful friendship’ [une défiante amitié (p. 150)] that ensues gives Des Esseintes a peculiar kind of pleasure: ‘never had he submitted to more delightful or more stringent exploitation, never had he run such risks, yet never had he known such satisfaction mingled with distress’ (p. 102) [jamais il n’avait supporté un plus attirant et un impérieux fermage; jamais il n’avait connu des périls pareils, jamais aussi il ne s’était senti plus douloureusement satisfait (p. 150)]. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 105 What do these three experiences have in common? First, all three evidently illustrate the pleasures of sex à rebours; that is, in each instance Des Esseintes, more or less, imagines himself in some kind of feminine position. In the case of Miss Urania, the role-reversal is quite explicit: ‘he got to the point of imagining that he for his part was turning female’ (p. 97) [à se regarder […], de son côté, l’impression que lui-même se féminisait (p. 146)]. This dimension is less obvious in his relationship with the ventriloquist, but Des Esseintes does ‘cling […] to her like a child wanting to be comforted’ (p. 101) [se réfugeant, ainsi qu’un enfant inconsolé (p. 149)], implying a less- than-manly attitude toward the woman, who, after all, parts her hair ‘like a boy’s’ (p. 99) [une raie de garçon (p. 147)]. Hence, an element of implicit ‘inversion’ (one nineteenth-century term for homosexuality) is involved in the first two recollected affairs, an element that becomes explicit with the last. Two of the three have in common an element of risk, absurdly contrived in the case of the ventriloquist, socially real in the case of the shabbily dressed young man who accosts Des Esseintes on the street. The element of risk in the last affair is evidently the product of the class difference between the aristocrat and the street hustler that further compounds the social taboo against same-sex relations. While homosexuality was not illegal in the Paris of Huysmans’s day, sodomy having been decriminalized in 1791, it was hardly accepted by the broader society – or by the police, who maintained special departments to surveil and control homosexuals until 1981.12 But there is a third component to these recollected pleasures that might make them decadent, and that is the fact of recollection itself, which ensures that they all undergo the process of aesthetic judgement. The memories are prompted by the synaesthetic trigger of the schoenanthus scent, of course, so the ‘morose delectation’ (p. 103) [délectation morose (p. 150)] of these past pleasures occurs in an aesthetic context from the start. Huysmans’s use of the ecclesiastical term ‘morose delectation’ is a clever touch because it brings the pleasures into the orbit of sin, suggesting, almost, that the pleasurable acts themselves are not sinful so much as the pleasurable recollection of them is. Morose delectation involves moral judgement, but such judgement is like aesthetic VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 106 judgement in so far as it is reflective or retrospective. Des Esseintes’ pleasures occur in a literary text, so naturally there is an element of narrative retrospection to them. This literary fact aside, however, I contend that there is necessarily something retrospective about the idea of decadent pleasure itself, so when I say we can look to literature as a guide to life, what I mean is not that we should comb the pages of the decadent canon looking for specific pleasures that we might then emulate in life; rather, we should recognize that there is a post-facto quality to decadent pleasure. This is not quite the same as Ernest Hemingway’s celebrated insight into the nature of morality: ‘what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after’.13 We are not in the realm of practical reason just now, and Hemingway’s capsule restatement of the categorical imperative is not that helpful. What I have in mind is better captured by that old joke that has me asking, ‘Do you smoke after sex?’ and you say, ‘I don’t know. I never looked’. Well, look; and tell me what you see when you cast your glance downward, or, better, backward. Decadence somehow lies on the other side of pleasure; pleasure, in short, is something you have to go through to get to decadence. This much is suggested early on in À rebours through the black feast celebrating Des Esseintes’ hard-earned impotence. Indeed, the pleasures of the black feast are doubly decadent because the feast itself memorializes the decadent hero’s past profligacy while the recollection of the memorial banquet is an occasion for even more morose delectation. Huysmans is supposed to have based Des Esseintes’ fictional black feast on the account of a funerary dinner staged by Grimod de la Renière (1758-1838), the classical prototype being the black banquet served up by the emperor Domitian, described by the Greek historian Cassius Dio. The pleasures of food seem to have been beside the point in the case of both Domitian, who wanted to terrify his guests, and Grimod, who wanted to embarrass them. Few details have survived about the legendary Grimod dinner (a room draped in black, choirboys wafting funeral incense),14 but the food does not seem to have been black in fact, whereas Cassius Dio says that Domitian did serve black food, ‘in dishes of the same colour’.15 Hence the better model for the VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 107 mordant meal in À rebours seems to be Domitian’s rather than Grimod’s, with the difference that Des Esseintes clearly means to entertain his guests. Whatever decadent pleasure might inhere in the black feast, however, lies not in the appeal to the sense of taste but to sight, in the carefully realized aesthetic vision that subordinates both food and drink to the colourless colour scheme. One of the things that interests me about the black feast is Des Esseintes’ choice of wines. Usually, such choices are intended to complement the food on the basis of taste: a great Nebbiolo Alto, such as one of Luigi Ferrando’s black-label Caremas, matches the flavour of shaved white truffles extraordinarily well. But Des Esseintes goes against the grain of such thinking by choosing wines on the basis of colour, not taste: ‘From dark-tinted glasses they had drunk the wines of Limagne and Roussillon, of Tenedos, Valdepeñas, and Oporto’ (p. 13) [bu, dans des verres sombres, les vins de la Limagne et du Roussilon, des Tenedos, des Val de Peñas et des Porto (p. 71)]. Obviously, the wines named are supposed to be especially dark, the most familiar and least problematic on the list being the wine from Oporto, or Port, made from such black-skinned grapes as Touriga Nacional, Tinta Baroca, Touriga Francesa, Tinta Roriz (the Portuguese name for Spanish Tempranillo), and Tinto Cão, among others. Carignan, another dark grape, was heavily planted in Roussillon, and the black-skinned Tempranillo finds its way into the red wine of Valdepeñas, the poor man’s Rioja.16 One nineteenth-century account of the wines of Tenedos, a Turkish island in the Aegean, describes them as ‘deep red’ with a ‘flavour not unlike strong Burgundy’,17 while a still earlier description claims, ‘A Tenedos wine has much the taste and colour of Red Port’.18 The outlier on Des Esseintes’ list is Limagne, a part of the Auvergne region that produces indifferent wines today. Possibly, the grape in the glass is Auvernat, the local version of Pinot Noir; ‘its skin is as black as jet’, an old source says.19 All of this business is exceedingly odd, but the strangest part of it may be that Des Esseintes and his guests are drinking wines at all. During the latter half of the nineteenth century, one vintage after another fell prey to phylloxera, the root-eating aphid that began the destruction of the French wine industry in 1863 and was not brought under control until well after the publication of À VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 108 rebours. The phylloxera epidemic might well explain why wine does not figure prominently in the decadent pleasures of Des Esseintes – aside from that one sentence in the episode of the black feast – or of other decadent heroes. Sure, Dorian Gray is ‘sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass’ – at breakfast – when Basil Hallward arrives in a panic after he learns of the death of Sybil Vane,20 but the wine is at best secondary as a signifier of decadence compared to Dorian’s utter insouciance in the face of human tragedy. Moreover, the other references to wine in that novel seem about as generic as the one Ernest Dowson summons when Cynara’s shadow falls ‘between the kisses and the wine’.21 We also have phylloxera to thank for the popular association of decadence with another alcoholic pleasure: absinthe. At first, absinthe was the drink of French soldiers who had acquired a taste for the stuff in Algeria (as an alcoholic antidote to malaria)22 and, evidently, of the poor – as the history of artistic representations suggest. None of the figures in Édouard Manet’s Le Buveur d’absinthe [Absinthe Drinker] (1859), Honoré Daumier’s L’Absinthe (1863), or Jean-François Raffaëlli’s Les Buveurs d’absinthe [The Absinthe Drinkers] (1881), for example, would ever be mistaken for the dandified decadents we know in literature. Wine was still available, of course, but the relative scarcity of grapes inflated the price even as that same scarcity drove the cost of absinthe down, as distillers began to use industrial alcohol made from beets instead of grapes.23 Hence, absinthe-drinking might have been a bohemian pleasure, but it was not an especially decadent one – except in the usual moral sense, for which we have Marie Corelli and any number of other absinthe abolitionists to blame. But then there is Paul Verlaine, shit-faced from absinthe at the Café François 1er (or possibly Café Procope) in those famous photographs by Dornac (aka Pol Massan, aka Paul Cardon)24 from 1892, the year before Edgar Degas’ L’Absinthe (1876) was exhibited in London at the Grafton Gallery. Degas’ painting of the actress-model Ellen Andrée and the artist Marcellin Desboutin (who trained in the studio of Thomas Couture) at La Nouvelle Athènes likely did little to encourage the notion of absinthe-drinking as a decadent pleasure,25 but VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 109 Verlaine – or his reputation – did. We know this because 1893 was also the year that Edmund Gosse (him again), with Henry Harland as his guide, finally succeeded in tracking down Verlaine: I learned that there were certain haunts where these later Decadents might be observed in large numbers, drawn together by the gregarious attraction of verse. I determined to haunt that neighbourhood with a butterfly-net, and see what delicate creatures with powdery wings I could catch. And, above all, was it not understood that that vaster lepidopter, that giant hawk-moth, Paul Verlaine, uncoiled his proboscis in the same absinthe-corollas?26 The cultural lepidopterist Gosse published the account of his 1893 expedition as one of his French Profiles in 1905, the same year that Belgium banned the sale of absinthe and Jean Lanfray, a farm- worker in Vaud, Switzerland, shot and killed his pregnant wife and his two daughters. Lanfray was an absinthe drinker, meaning he drank a couple of glasses of absinthe after he had polished off as many as five litres of wine a day, plus a few glasses of brandy. Nonetheless, absinthe took the rap, and the sensational ‘absinthe murder’ of 1905 had a lot to do with the Swiss ban that took effect in 1910, with France and other European countries, as well as the United States, following suit soon thereafter.27 I mention these familiar facts because the prohibition undoubtedly has something to do with the mistaken (in my view) elevation of this rather ordinary liqueur into the ranks of decadent pleasures. But at the end of the day legal prohibition is no better than moral stricture as a basis for decadent pleasure. It’s not that the decadent is beyond good and evil so much as he or she is beyond caring about good and evil. Is this perverse? I doubt it, but perversity is another one of those moral categories that has found a place in popular conceptions of decadence, especially as regards sexuality, though the best example of perversity in the decadent canon concerns not sex but alimentation. When Des Esseintes develops a ‘taste’ for his peptone enemas and takes his nourishment à rebours, he is being ‘perverse’ in a sense so literal as to be comic, having ‘turned around’ the normal, natural method of ingestion by taking food in through the ‘wrong’ orifice. The problem of applying this canonical model of perversity to sexuality is immediately apparent, not only because there is no such thing as the wrong orifice when it comes to sex, but also because of the incalculable relativity of morals and manners (see: heifer, stump-trained). VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 110 The psychoanalytic theorist Robert J. Stoller succinctly defined ‘perversion’ as ‘the erotic form of hatred’, a fantasy that may or may not be actually enacted, but when it is, the hostility that lies at the heart of the fantasy takes the form ‘of revenge hidden in the actions that make up the perversion and serves to convert childhood trauma to adult triumph. To create the greatest excitement, the perversion must also portray itself as an act of risk-taking’.28 We are now a long way from peptone enemas, but the sense of risk does resonate with the decadent pleasures Des Esseintes recalls in Chapter 9 of À rebours. And the general notion of perversion as an erotic form of hatred seems especially relevant to the activities of any number of sadists, from the Divine Marquis himself to the fictional dominatrix Clara who makes that hapless male masochist accompany her through the terrors of the Orient in Octave Mirbeau’s Le Jardin des supplices (1899). But even in that grand guignol narrative the horrors must pass through some kind of aesthetic filter to satisfy the tastes of the decadent heroine: ‘I’ve seen every horror, all human tortures … It was very beautiful! But I’ve seen nothing as beautiful – do you know what I mean? – as these Chinese convicts … it’s most beautiful of all!’ [Toutes les terreurs, toutes les tortures humaines, je les ai vues … C’était très beau! … Mais je n’ai rien vu de si beau … comprends-tu? … que ces forçats chinois … , c’est plus beau que tout!].29 These would be the convicts to whom Clara feeds rotten meat and experiences near-orgasmic delight in doing so. Perverse? Yes. Decadent? I guess, but I am reluctant to call such pleasures decadent because the aesthetic dimension seems rough and arbitrary, with very little evidence of the artifice that would make the judgement ‘beautiful’ credible. Clara’s perverse pleasures, in short, are not sufficiently refined. To refine is to remove, and the thing that must be most removed from pleasure to make it decadent is time. Anyone who has ever had a good hangover understands, at a basic level, what this means. The way you feel the morning after gives you a sense of just how decadent your pleasure was the night before. Not that every hangover is of equal quality: one whose origins lie in Vitis vinifera L. (‘Nebbiolo’) is preferable, by far, to one whose proximate cause is Artemisia absinthium. This is a judgement of taste, and one that necessarily requires a certain amount of time VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 111 to make. It’s hard to make a judgement about pleasure in medias res because one needs time to assess the experience in order to place it on the scale of decadence, since decadence is what you feel good about after being bad. More important, you need a certain amount of time to make the badness better: reflection is the friend of refinement. So perhaps Pater’s Marius is right after all to equate hedonism with stoicism: to so discriminate and refine his pleasures that they cease to be a source of pleasure. That would do as a definition of decadent pleasure in a way, since it combines the popular conception of excess with an extraordinarily rarefied sense of taste – too much refinement. Again, to refine is to eliminate, so the only way to make aesthetics fully do the work of morality is to bring the aesthetic sensibility to bear on pleasure wholly and completely – excessively so. That would be perverse. That would be decadent. 1 For these and other definitions of Latin words related to pleasure, see Oxford Latin Dictionary, ed. by P. G. W. Glare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), and Cassell’s New Latin Dictionary, ed. by D. P. Simpson (New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1959). 2 Walter Pater, Studies in the History of the Renaissance, ed. by Matthew Beaumont (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), p. 4. 3 Edmund Gosse, ‘Walter Pater’, Critical Kit-Kats (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1903), p. 258; originally published as ‘Walter Pater: A Portrait’, Contemporary Review, 67 (December 1894), 795-810. 4 Pater, Studies, p. 177, n.118. 5 Walter Pater, Marius the Epicurean, ed. by Michael Levy (New York: Viking Penguin, 1985), p. 119. 6 For a recent discussion of these distinctions, see Kurt Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism: The Cyrenaic Philosophers and Pleasure as a Way of Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015). In his chapter on Pater, Lampe notes that, despite the novel’s title, ‘Marius does not engage seriously with Epicureanism’ (p. 173). 7 For the U.S. Supreme Court decision establishing the right to same-sex marriage, see Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. __ (2015); for legislation mandating more liberal policies toward homosexuality in the armed forces, see Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Repeal Act of 2010, HR 2965, 111th Cong., 2nd sess., Congressional Record, 156 (December 22, 2010): Public Law 111-321. 8 Carl Van Vechten, Interpreters and Interpretations (New York: Knopf, 1917), p. 148. The epigram prefaces an essay on Vaslav Nijinsky. 9 Actually, the common notion that syphilis was contracted from sheep appears to have no sound scientific basis, but the idea persists because the name of the disease derives from that of the shepherd Syphilus in Syphilis sive Morbus Gallicus [Syphilis, or the French Disease], a pastoral epic in Latin published in 1530 by the Renaissance physician Girolamo Fracastoro (c. 1478-1553). In the poem, Syphilus loses his sheep to drought and, as a result, impiously offers homage to the king Alcithous instead of the sun-god Sirius, whereupon Sirius punishes Syphilus with the eponymous disease. See Syphilis sive Morbus Gallicus (Verona, 1530), n.p., or the anonymous prose translation published as Syphilis (St. Louis: Philmar, 1911), pp. 53-55. 10 Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature, trans. by Robert Baldick (London: Penguin, 2003). p. 96; Joris-Karl Huysmans, À rebours (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1978), p. 145. 11 Umberto Quattrocchi, CRC World Dictionary of Grasses: Common Names, Scientific Names, Eponyms, Synonyms, and Etymology, vol. 1 (Boca Raton, FL: Taylor & Francis, 2006), pp. 550-51. 12 Louis Compton, Homosexuality and Civilization (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003), p. 528. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 112 13 Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon (New York: Scribner, 1999), p. 13. 14 For an account of Grimod’s 1783 banquet, see Nichola Fletcher, Charlemagne’s Tablecloth: A Piquant History of Feasting (New York: St. Martin’s, 2004), pp. 85-87. 15 Cassius Dio Cocceianus, Dio’s Roman History, trans. by Earnest Cary, 9 vols (London: Heinemann, 1925), VIII, p. 337. 16 Jancis Robinson, ed., The Oxford Companion to Wine, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 540, 600. 17 J. C. Hobhouse, A Journey through Albania, and Other Provinces of Turkey in Europe and Asia, to Constantinople, During the Years 1809 and 1810 (London, 1813), p. 674. 18 Jeremy Bentham, Correspondence of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 3, ed. by Ian R. Christie (London: UCL Press, 2017), p. 278. 19 Philip Miller, The Gardeners Dictionary, 8th edn (London, 1768), n.p. 20 Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, ed. by Joseph Bristow (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 92. 21 Ernest Dowson, ‘Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae’, in Decadent Poetry from Wilde to Naidu, ed. by Lisa Rodensky (London: Penguin, 2006), p. 86. 22 Phil Baker, The Book of Absinthe: A Cultural History (New York: Grove Press, 2001), p. 106. 23 Baker, The Book of Absinthe, p. 125. 24 For the identity of Dornac, see Elizabeth Emery, Photojournalism and the Origins of the French Writer House Museum (1881-1914): Privacy, Publicity, and Personality (London and New York: Routledge, 2016), p. 67. Baker, The Book of Absinthe (p. 60), identifies the site of the photographs as the Café Procope, whereas Emery (p. 99), says it was the Café François 1er. 25 Baker, The Book of Absinthe, p. 121. 26 Edmund Gosse, French Profiles (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1905), p. 182. 27 Barnaby Conrad III, Absinthe: History in a Bottle (San Francisco: Chronicle, 1988), pp. 2-3, 4-5. 28 Robert J. Stoller, Perversion: The Erotic Form of Hatred (London: Pantheon, 1986), p. 4. 29 Octave Mirbeau, Le Jardin des supplices (Paris: Charpentier, 1899) p. 137; Torture Garden, trans. by Michael Richardson (Sawtry: Dedalus, 1995), p. 106. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 113 Joris-Karl Huysmans, Drifting (À vau-l’eau), translated by Brendan King (Sawtry: Dedalus, 2017), 109 pp. ISBN 9781910213643 Tina Kover Durham University J.-K. Huysmans (1848-1907) is considered an important figure in not one, but two nineteenth- century literary movements: Naturalism and Decadence. The novella À vau-l’eau, published in 1882, might be said to hover astride the line dividing the two and to encompass his stylistic transition from the former to the latter, containing as it does both the meticulous attention to the realistic and often mundane details of everyday life that is characteristic of Naturalism, and the self-loathing malaise that is a prominent feature of Decadent art and literature. À vau-l’eau, translated by Brendan King as Drifting in the new Dedalus European Classics series, is the brief (a mere sixty pages in this English-language version) tale of the hapless middle- aged Parisian clerk Jean Folantin and his ultimately fruitless search for entertainment, stimulation, and, not least, a decent meal. The story begins as M. Folantin is finishing an unpalatable dinner in the first of a series of unsatisfactory restaurants; it is the dead of winter, and his solitary lodgings are cold and dreary. We quickly learn that Folantin’s life has been one of poverty and near-constant misery since birth; that he has toiled at the same thankless and low- paying government Ministry job since leaving school (an occupation shared by Huysmans himself), and that he has no family, few friends, and is hopelessly single. The high sex drive of his youth has deserted him, as has any hope of ascending the professional ladder. To top off this seemingly endless recitation of woes, he is plagued by chronic indigestion, which is only made worse by the poor-quality offerings available at the dirty, clamorous, and uncongenial cafés and restaurants within easy distance of his flat (he cannot travel too far without discomfort, we learn, due to a painful leg). VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 114 As the almost unrelentingly dismal story proceeds, readers are treated to description after description of inhospitable eating-houses and stomach-turning food, rendered in King’s adroit translation so vividly and in such detail that, in true Naturalist fashion, we can almost smell the stale grease in the air and feel the sickening crunch of gristle between our teeth. Folantin finds brief moments of pleasure in the public heated baths and the delicate beauties of the Parisian early spring, but these are all too fleeting as he engages in near-constant flagellation of both himself, for his unfortunate life choices, and the world around him, for being so full of misery and inconvenience (a clear harbinger of the cynicism and world-weariness so prominent in Huysmans’s later, more firmly Decadent works). Folantin’s half-hearted attempts to explore art and literature are short-lived; the brief rekindling of an old friendship fails to survive our hero’s disgust at his companion’s taste in both dining establishments and comic opera, and a fleeting effort to raise his own spirits by focusing on his own comparative comfort in the face of others’ poverty and unhappiness flickers out with the return of winter. As the book proceeds, our (anti-)hero’s days continue to be an unending series of attempts to fill the empty hours, to discover some tiny spark of interest in something, anything, that might flare into passion and bring his life some meaning. What rescues us from the tedium suffered by Huysmans’s hero is twofold: first there is the consummate attention to detail for which the author was known during both the Naturalist and Decadent phases of his career. Reading Drifting is an experience of the senses. We taste the unappetizing cheese and runny eggs; we hear the clatter of cutlery and the clamour of voices; we feel the icy sleet battering our faces and smell the cruciferous smoke of cheap cigars. And even in this dreariest of novellas there are moments of exquisitely observed beauty, such as: […] and when he tired of knocking the dust off printed volumes, he’d lean over the parapet, and the sight of boats with their tarred hulls, cabins painted leek-green, and main masts lowered, pleased him; he would stand there enchanted, contemplating a casserole pot simmering on a cast-iron stove in the open air, the inevitable black-and- white dog running, its tail cocked, the length of a barge, and blond-haired children seated by the tiller, hair in their eyes and fingers in their mouths. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 115 The second quality that keeps Drifting from being unremittingly grim is its black humour. Brendan King has translated eight of Huysmans’s books for Dedalus and authored a number of articles on the writer as well; he is clearly quite comfortable with Huysmans’s darkly comic style, and, with the exception of a few slightly jarring linguistic anachronisms (King’s English-speaking protagonist uses ‘Great!’ to express frustration and refers at another point to ‘stuffing your face’), handles the language with a deft touch. His lengthy introduction to the novella is both informative and accessible, providing valuable insight into its context within both Huysmans’s career and the contemporary French literary scene, and making a solid case for Drifting’s importance as both art and entertainment. A worthy addition to the Dedalus catalogue. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 116 Michel Winock, Décadence fin de siècle, L’Esprit de la cité (Paris: Gallimard, 2017), 288 pp. ISBN 9782070107032 Fay Wanrug Suwanwattana University of Oxford In his latest publication, Michel Winock, a prolific historian specialising in intellectual history and the history of the French Republic and whose writings have been recognized by many prestigious prizes (Prix Médicis 1997 and Prix Goncourt de la Biographie 2010), focuses on a network of writers, journalists, pamphleteers, and activists in the last decades of nineteenth-century France (1870s- 1890s). These are significant figures who, in their manners, responded and engaged with the generally perceived sentiment of decadence pervading fin-de-siècle French society. Alongside more ‘literary’ writers such as Barbey d’Aurevilly, Léon Bloy, Paul Bourget, Joséphin Péladan, Rachilde, Maurice Barrès, Joris-Karl Huysmans, Octave Mirbeau, and Remy de Gourmont, Winock brings into focus the less studied parodic and subversive vein of decadence illustrated by Charles Cros, Alphonse Allais, the Fumistes, and other ephemeral groupings. Writers less often recognized as Decadent per se, such as Alfred Jarry and Paul Claudel, are also given particular attention. Alongside these groups of writers, Winock provides an extensive study of influential journalists such as the patriotic Paul Déroulède, the anti-Semitic Henry Rochefort, and Édouard Drumont (author of the notorious anti-Semitic pamphlet La France juive), and also the anarchist figures and their sympathisers in literary circles. To deal with such complex materials, the seventeen chapters forming this essay focus on these figures’ writings, professional networks and private relationships, as well as exploring key concepts in their historical and cultural development. These key concepts range from nationalism, socialism, communism, antisemitism, anti-immigration, anti-militarism, Boulangism, the fear of the ‘mass’, and decadent sexuality, to the consolidation of republican ideology and anti-republicanism. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 117 Winock’s definition of Decadence as the construction of a collective ‘imaginaire’, a state of mind, an atmosphere, a moral climate characterized by the perceived decline of French race and society at the turn of the century, is not new. What is however particularly compelling is his close examination of changes in ideas associated with Decadence – both reacting against it and inspired by it – and he unfolds their overlapping, intertwining and, at times, antagonistic relations. Thus, we understand for example how Maurice Barrès’ evolving nationalism, which feeds into his literary work, was inspired at once by socialism and antisemitism, how Octave Mirbeau while collaborating with right-wing, monarchist and Bonapartist journals, was at the same time a supporter of anarchist groups and wrote subversive literary texts. This disentanglement of fin-de-siècle values and ideas from a historical perspective is particularly welcome for twenty-first century readers, who may otherwise find it difficult to grasp the associations between ideas which today appear to be irreconcilable. If Décadence fin de siècle focuses first and foremost on artists and writers, the aesthetic and thematic aspects of literary works are always examined in relation to politics and historical events. The rejection of the Republic and its parliamentary system, along with contempt for its associated bourgeois values, scientism, and positivism, is primarily held up as the chief reason why writers and artists considered their society to be decadent. While this approach brings out the political dimension of Decadent texts and their potential in posing serious political and historical questions, as opposed to the generally perceived image of Decadence as an aloof and ivory-tower aesthetic, it doesn’t do full justice to the ambiguities and ambivalent attitudes of such literary texts (one exception occurs in Chapter 4 dedicated to Joséphin Péladan, where Winock points out, in passing, the ambiguous relationships between eroticism and asceticism, perversion and norms that are cultivated in Péladan’s novels). Reading this essay, one is left wondering how the authors studied can be regarded as ‘Decadent’. Since their writings are primarily presented as being in reaction against Decadence, they are perhaps fundamentally ‘anti-Decadent’. As a result, Decadence as it unfolds throughout this study risks being too narrowly associated with a sentiment of revolt against VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 118 modernity, an echo of Antoine Compagnon’s notion of ‘les antimodernes’, yet without the subtlety and nuances attended to in the practice of literary criticism. However, if both the tension between the aesthetics and politics mobilized in Decadent literary writings and the interplay between Decadence and anti-Decadence are left under-explored, this weakness is satisfactorily compensated for by Winock’s skills as a historian and essayist. He successfully highlights networks of far-reaching ideas and their circulation in literary, intellectual, and political circles. Overall, this is an overarching study of Decadence in its nineteenth-century historical context, with a focus on the essentially political nature and implications of the concept played out within a small and limited milieu whose ‘mentalité collective’ nevertheless represented a ‘fait historique’. If Winock’s study doesn’t provide a new argument about literary Decadence and its aesthetics, it nonetheless puts into perspective the ways in which Decadent authors and their writings were entangled in the politics of their time. Décadence fin de siècle can be of interest to both the general public seeking an introduction to the French fin de siècle period with a focus on history of ideas and intellectual history, and specialists of Decadent studies who wish to extend their approach of Decadence beyond literary aestheticism and towards an interdisciplinary dimension. A brief chronology at the end of the volume situating political and social events along with literary and journalistic publications is very useful for this purpose. Winock’s approach to the subject in terms of intellectual history is very welcome at a time when scholars of Decadence have been seeking to open up new perspectives and renew their critical apparatus. Many resonances of so-called Decadent cultural phenomena still haunt our current vocabulary, imagination and debates, and Décadence fin de siècle attests to the continuing importance of nineteenth-century Decadence for twentieth and twenty-first century cultural and literary studies. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 119 Notes on Contributors Leire Barrera-Medrano has recently completed a PhD at Birkbeck College, University of London entitled ‘Aesthetics of Extremes: Spain and British Decadence, 1880-1920.’ She has an upcoming chapter on Spanish mysticism in Michael Field, Decadent Moderns (Ohio University Press, 2018 – in press) and has published an article on Vernon Lee and Spain in Cahiers victoriens et édouardiens (83 Printemps | 2016). She is co-organising the AHRC-TORCH funded conference ‘Women Writing Decadence: European Perspectives’ that will take place at the University of Oxford on 7-8 July 2018. She also co-edits Girasol Press, an Anglo-Spanish publishing endeavour. Kostas Boyiopoulos is Teaching Associate in English Studies at Durham University. His main areas of interest are Fin de Siècle studies, aestheticism and decadence. He is the author of The Decadent Image: The Poetry of Wilde, Symons, and Dowson (Edinburgh University Press, 2015), funded by the Friends of Princeton University Library Research Grant. He is co-editor of the essay collection Decadent Romanticism: 1780–1914 (Ashgate, 2015) and The Decadent Short Story: An Annotated Anthology (Edinburgh University Press, 2014). He has published essays on Oscar Wilde, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Machen, and others. Two coedited collections of essays, Literary and Cultural Alternatives to Modernism: Unsettling Presences and Aphoristic Modernity, will be published this year by Routledge and Brill respectively. Laurel Brake is Professor Emerita of Literature and Print Culture at Birkbeck, University of London; she habitually works on the nineteenth-century press and print culture, and Walter and Clara Pater. She is author of Walter Pater, Print in Transition and Subjugated Knowledges, and co-editor of various works – digital and print – on the press, including online ncse (Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition), DNCJ (Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism), and The News of the World and the British Press, 1843-2011. She publishes regularly on Walter Pater and his work, including ‘Walter Pater and the New Media’ (2018) in Testing New Opinions (ed. by Gillard Estrada, Lambert- Charbonnier, and Ribeyrol). She was a co-founder and co-editor with Billie Inman of the Pater Newsletter; recent work on the Paters has appeared in SWPA. At present she is writing Ink Work on Walter and Clara Pater and editing an edition of Walter Pater’s journalism. Bénédicte Coste teaches Victorian literature and culture at the University of Burgundy, France. She mainly works on Walter Pater and late-nineteenth-century writers whose reception in France she explores. Her publications include: « Cette époque de doute » : Penser la croyance avec Walter Pater (2017); Walter Pater, esthétique (2011); Walter Pater, critique littéraire. « The Excitement of the Literary Sense » (2010). With Professor Catherine Delyfer, she co-edited Aesthetic Lives (Rivendale, 2013). With Professor Delyfer and Professor Christine Reynier, she co-edited the collection of essays Reconnecting Aestheticism and Modernism (Routledge, 2016). She is currently writing a monograph on the controversies linked to British Aestheticism. Rita Dirks is Associate Professor of English at Ambrose University. Her research and specialty teaching interests include Decadence, Modernism, and Women’s & Gender Studies. Her recent publications focus on Oscar Wilde, Derrida, and Canadian Literature. Her paper is part of an on- going research project for a monograph on Canadian Decadence. Tina Kover is the translator of more than a dozen works of fiction and nonfiction, including Alexandre Dumas’s Georges, Benoît Peeters’s Hergé: Son of Tintin, and Anna Gavalda’s Life, Only Better. Her translations have twice been nominated for the IMPAC Dublin International Literary Award and she was the recipient in 2009 of a Literary Translation Fellowship from the U.S. National Endowment for the Arts. She lives in the northeast of England. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 120 William Parker is currently working on a PhD at the Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London. His research focuses on works of aesthetic criticism by English art scholar and poet Laurence Binyon (1869-1943). In particular, his research addresses the manner in which Binyon’s Edwardian writings on the visual arts were influenced by Walter Pater’s criticism, despite Binyon’s documented acquaintance with, and influence on, London-based modernists such as Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis. In this way, his research addresses the relationship between literature and the visual arts more generally, as well as the specific relationship between Aestheticism and Modernism. Before arriving at the Courtauld, William studied English Literature and History of Art at the University of East Anglia. He co-organises the Art Writing Research Group at the Courtauld with Thomas Hughes and Maria Alambritis, and his research has also been published in ELT. Fay Wanrug Suwanwattana is a PhD student in Modern French at Merton College, University of Oxford. Her thesis is entitled ‘Decadent Indochina and French Colonial Literature from 1880s to 1920s’ which she is undertaking under the supervision of Prof. Jennifer Yee. Looking into an interplay between Decadence and the French empire, her research focuses on fin-de-siècle colonial literature in Indochina and aims to examine the transnational aspect of literary Decadence, in its intersection with colonialism. Alongside her research in French studies, she has also published on contemporary Thai literature and has participated in international conferences on Asian and Thai studies. David Weir is Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature at the Cooper Union in New York City, where he taught literature, linguistics, and cinema for thirty years. He has published books on Jean Vigo, James Joyce, William Blake, orientalism, anarchism, and decadence. His most recent publication is Decadence: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press). Simon Casimir Wilson OBE MA (Courtauld) is a retired Tate curator and independent writer on art. He has a special interest in book design in Britain in the 1890s and a particular focus on Aubrey Beardsley. EDITORIAL Jane Desmarais (Editor-in-Chief) is Senior Lecturer in English in the Department of English and Comparative Literature at Goldsmiths, University of London. She has written numerous essays on the theme of Decadence and has co-edited several works, including Decadence: An Annotated Anthology (with Chris Baldick, Manchester University Press, 2012), Arthur Symons: Selected Early Poems (with Chris Baldick, MHRA, 2017), and Decadence and the Senses (with Alice Condé, 2017). She is currently working with David Weir on a volume on Decadence for the Cambridge Critical Concepts series (forthcoming in 2019). Her monograph, Monsters under Glass: A Cultural History of Hothouse Flowers, 1850 to the Present, will be published by Reaktion in 2018. Alice Condé (Deputy Editor) is a Postdoctoral Associate Tutor in the Department of English and Comparative Literature at Goldsmiths, University of London. She is co-editor of Decadence and the Senses (with Jane Desmarais, Legenda, 2017) and is currently co-editing ‘Betwixt the Bounds of Life and Death’: Selected Essays on Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) (with Jessica Gossling, Peter Lang, forthcoming 2018). Her essay on ‘Decadence and Popular Culture’ is forthcoming in Jane Desmarais and David Weir’s volume on Decadence for the Cambridge Critical Concepts series. VOLUPTÉ: INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL OF DECADENCE STUDIES | 121 Jessica Gossling (Deputy Editor) is a Fractional Lecturer in the Department of English and Comparative Literature at Goldsmiths, University of London, and Editorial Assistant for The Literary Encyclopedia. Her current research focuses on the Decadent threshold poetics of Charles Baudelaire, Joris-Karl Huysmans, Arthur Symons, and Ernest Dowson. She is co-editor of ‘Betwixt the Bounds of Life and Death’: Selected Essays on Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) (with Alice Condé, published by Peter Lang in 2018), and her essay on ‘À rebours and the House at Fontenay’ is published in Decadence and the Senses. Alice and Jessica are the webmistresses of volupté.gold.ac.uk. Robert Pruett (Reviews Editor) is a PhD student of Medieval and Modern Languages at St Cross College, University of Oxford. He is currently preparing a thesis entitled ‘Remy de Gourmont and the Symbolism of Chastity’, and regularly presents research on fin-de-siècle French and Belgian literature. Alongside the Cercle des Amateurs de Remy de Gourmont (CARGO), he co- organized the Fin de Siècle Symposium (Balliol College, Oxford, November 2016), the proceedings of which will feature his essay on ‘The Concept of Chastity in Remy de Gourmont’s Theory of Art and Mind’. 1. LMedrano [revised] NC 2. BCoste [revised] NC 3. RDirks [revised] NC 4. WParker [revised] NC 5. LBrake [revised] NC 6. KBoyiopoulos [revised] NC 7. SWilson NC 8. DWeir NC 9. TKover (review) [revised] NC 10. FSuwanwattana [revised] NC 11. Notes on Contributors 
work_qgdgxljevndjjgpgpfppgkxybi	----	THE SIX PIANO SUITES OF NATHANIEL DETT A Dissertation Submitted to the Temple University Graduate Board In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF MUSICAL ARTS by Clipper Erickson Diploma Date May 2014 Examining Committee Members: Dr. Joyce Lindorff, Advisory Chair, Keyboard Dr. Charles Abramovic, Keyboard Dr. Rollo Dilworth, Music Education and Music Therapy Dr. Cynthia Folio, External Examiner, Music Studies: Music Theory ii © Copyright 2014 by Reserved Rights All EricksonClipper iii ABSTRACT The six piano suites of R. Nathaniel Dett (1882-1943) constitute a substantial body of piano music that illustrates the musical development of an important, but historically neglected American musician. Dett was a seminal figure in the preservation and study of spirituals, both as a writer and choral leader, and as a great teacher and inspirer of African-American musicians in the generations that followed him. Educated at Oberlin and Eastman, he was lauded as the first American composer to fuse Negro folk music with European art music tradition. The writing of a series of like-genre works over a composer's lifetime, reflecting stylistic changes and a deepening world view, is a special event in the history of keyboard music. Unfortunately, Dett’s piano music is rarely performed except for the second of the suites, In the Bottoms. Although his importance to African-American musical history is generally acknowledged by musicologists, his works for piano have remained largely unexplored by performers. Dett’s eclectic pursuits included poetry, the Rosicrucian Society, and religion. This study explores the connections between the suites and other musical styles and traditions, Dett's many extra-musical interests, and his performing life. It also offers some possible explanations for the relative lack of attention received by his piano music. This study incorporates research from readily-available sources, as well as the Nathaniel Dett archives at the Niagara Falls New York Public Library and Hampton University. The first three chapters give an overview of Dett’s style and influences, as well as a description of how his musical language developed from his first suite, Magnolia (1912), to his last, Eight Bible Vignettes (1941-43), written at the end of his life. Each suite is examined individually in detail in the following six chapters. It is hoped that this work will stimulate appreciation of Dett’s piano iv music and lead to more frequent performances. Its goal is to give to the reader the same sense of admiration and joy that the author’s exploration of these works has given him. v DEDICATION Robert Nathaniel Dett 1882-1943 vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to give the heartiest thanks to all my committee members, Drs. Lindorff, Dilworth, Abramovic and Folio for encouraging me through this project when I had doubts and the challenges seemed too great. Also I would like to express special gratitude to Dr. Joyce Lindorff for keeping me on track and for tireless help with research and writing. I am grateful to Donald Dumpson for introducing me to Nathaniel Dett’s music many years ago. Finally, I will never forget the inspiration and passion of Alexander Fiorillo, who made it possible for me to come to Temple. Without him this project would not have happened. For me, music has been illuminated as never before through his spirit. vii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ABSTRACT ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… iii DEDICATION ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…………… v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS …………………………..…………………………………………………………………..………… vi LIST OF FIGURES ……..…………………………………………………………………..……………………………….………… ix CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION ………………………………….……………………………………………………………………… 1 Biographical Timeline …………………………………………………………………………………….. 5 2. OVERVIEW OF THE SUITES ………………………………………………………………………………………….. 7 First Period – Magnolia, In the Bottoms …………………………………………………………. 9 Magnolia (1912) …………….…………………………………………………………………. 9 In the Bottoms (1913) ……….…………………………………………..………………….. 10 Second Period – Enchantment, Cinnamon Grove ………………………..…….............. 12 Enchantment (1922) …………………………………………………………………………. 13 Cinnamon Grove (1928) ……………………………………..…………………………….. 17 Third Period – Tropic Winter, Eight Bible Vignettes …………….…………………………. 21 Tropic Winter (1938) …………………………………………………………………………. 21 Eight Bible Vignettes (1941-1943) …………………………………………………….. 22 3. STYLE AND INFLUENCES …………………………………………………………………………………………….. 26 Dett’s Personality and Teaching Style …………………………………………………………… 26 Dett’s Performing Style ………………………………………………………………………………… 29 Musical Influences ………………………………………………………………………………………… 32 Mother, Early Life ……………………………………………………………………………… 32 Oberlin ……………………………………………………………………………………………… 33 viii Forerunners ………………………………………………………………………………………. 34 Percy Grainger ………………………………………………………………………………….. 36 Russian Music …………………………………………………………………………………… 37 Dett’s Mission ……………………………………………………………………………………………….. 38 Dett’s Compositional Style …………………………………………………………………………….. 41 Dett and the Rosicrucians ……………………………………………………………………………… 45 Dett’s Poetry …………………………………………………………………………………………………. 47 The Album of a Heart ……………………………………………………………………….. 47 Song of Seven ……………………………………………………………………………………. 50 4. MAGNOLIA ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 52 5. IN THE BOTTOMS ………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 65 6. ENCHANTMENT …………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 88 7. CINNAMON GROVE ………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 102 8. TROPIC WINTER ………………………………………………………………………………………………………... 115 9. EIGHT BIBLE VIGNETTES ……………………………………………………………………………………………. 133 10. CONCLUSION ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 175 BIBLIOGRAPHY ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 182 APPENDICES A. “THE DREAM” …………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 186 B. GITANJALI (second poem) …………………………………………………………………………………………. 187 C. “EPIMETHEUS” ……………………………………………………………………………………………………..….. 188 D. DETT’S CONCERT REPERTOIRE ………………………………………………………………………………….. 190 E. GRAINGER’S CONCERT REPERTOIRE AT THE TIME OF HIS ASSOCIATION WITH DETT … 191 F. PIANO WORK LISTING ……………………………………………………………………………………………….. 192 ix LIST OF FIGURES Page FIGURE 1 – Enchantment Title Page – from an early edition ………………………………………. 15 FIGURE 2 – Winged Solar Disk ……………………………………………………………………………………. 16 FIGURE 3 – “De Winter’ll Soon be Ober” ……………………………………………………………………. 19 FIGURE 4 – “Run to Jesus” …………………………………………………………………………………………. 20 FIGURE 5 – “The Rubinstein Staccato Etude” …………………………………………………………….. 48 FIGURE 6 – “That’s So!” ……………………………………………………………………………….…………….. 49 FIGURE 7 – Magnolia Title Page ……………………………………………………………………….………… 53 FIGURE 8 – “Magnolias” – Opening ………………………………………………………………….………… 55 FIGURE 9 – “Magnolias” – Imitative writing m. 17 – m. 20 ………………………………………… 55 FIGURE 10 – “Magnolias” – Triplets m. 33 – m. 36 …………………………………………………….. 56 FIGURE 11 – “The Deserted Cabin” ……………………………………………………………………………. 57 FIGURE 12 – “My Lady Love” ……………………………………………………………………………………… 59 FIGURE 13 – “Mammy” ……………………………………………………………………………………………… 60 FIGURE 14 – “The Place Where the Rainbow Ends” – Paul Laurence Dunbar …………….. 62 FIGURE 15 – “Where the Rainbow Ends” – Main Section …………………………………………… 63 FIGURE 16 – “Prelude – Night” – Opening …………………………………………………………………. 69 FIGURE 17 – “Prelude – Night” – Middle section ……………………………………………………….. 71 FIGURE 18 – “His Song” – Opening …………………………………………………………………………….. 73 FIGURE 19 – “Listen to the Lambs” – Soprano Solo ……………………………………………………. 73 FIGURE 20 – “His Song” – m. 57 - m. 69 (climax) ……………………………………………………….. 74 FIGURE 21 – “A Negro Love Song” – Paul Laurence Dunbar ……………………………………….. 76 FIGURE 22 – “Honey” – Opening ………………………………………………………………………………… 78 FIGURE 23 – “Honey” – Recitative ……………………………………………………………………………… 79 x FIGURE 24 – “Barcarolle – Morning” – Opening …………………………………………………………. 81 FIGURE 25 – “Barcarolle” – Second theme ………………………………………………………..………. 82 FIGURE 26 – “Barcarolle” – mm. 71-75 ………………………………………………………………..……. 83 FIGURE 27 – “Dance-Juba” – Opening ………………………………………………………………..……… 85 FIGURE 28 – “Incantation” – First theme ………………………………………………………..…………. 91 FIGURE 29 – “Incantation” – First section close ……………………………………………..………….. 92 FIGURE 30 – “Incantation” – Second theme ………………………………………………..…………….. 93 FIGURE 31 – “Song of the Shrine” ………………………………………………………………………..……. 94 FIGURE 32 – “Dance of Desire” – Transformation of “Incantation” theme ………..………. 96 FIGURE 33 – “Dance of Desire” – Main theme …………………………………………………..………. 97 FIGURE 34 – “Dance of Desire” – Transformation of “Song of the Shrine” theme …..…. 98 FIGURE 35 – “Beyond the Dream” – Opening ……………………………………………………..…….. 99 FIGURE 36 – Cinnamon Grove Movement II ……………………………………………………………… 105 FIGURE 37 – Cinnamon Grove Movement III – Opening ……………………………………………. 109 FIGURE 38 – Cinnamon Grove Movement IV – Opening to m. 16 ……………………………… 111 FIGURE 39 – Cinnamon Grove Movement IV – mm. 29-32 ……………………………………….. 112 FIGURE 40 – Cinnamon Grove Movement IV – Quartal harmonies …………………………… 112 FIGURE 41 – Cinnamon Grove Movement IV – Three-hand effect ……………………………. 113 FIGURE 42 – Cinnamon Grove Movement IV – Second theme ………………………………….. 114 FIGURE 43 – “Daybreak Charioteer” …………………………………………………………………………. 117 FIGURE 44 – “A Bayou Garden” ………………………………………………………………………………… 119 FIGURE 45 – “Pompons and Fans” ……………………………………………………………………………. 120 FIGURE 46 – “Legend of the Atoll” – Opening …………………………………………………………… 122 FIGURE 47 – “Legend of the Atoll” mm. 15-18 …………………………………………………………. 123 FIGURE 48 – “To a Closed Casement” ………………………………………………………………………. 125 xi FIGURE 49 – “Noon Siesta” ………………………………………………………………………………………. 128 FIGURE 50 – “Parade of the Jasmine Banners” – Opening ………………………………………… 130 FIGURE 51 – “Parade of the Jasmine Banners” – Second theme ………………………………. 131 FIGURE 52 – “Parade of the Jasmine Banners” – Recap with countermelody …………… 132 FIGURE 53 – Eight Bible Vignettes Title Page ……………………………………………………………. 135 FIGURE 54 – “Father Abraham” spiritual ……………………….………………………………………... 137 FIGURE 55 – “Leoni” melody ……………………………………………………………………………………. 137 FIGURE 56 – “Father Abraham” – Opening ………………………………………………………………. 142 FIGURE 57 – “Father Abraham” Dett’s arrangement from Negro Spirituals ……………… 143 FIGURE 58 – “Desert Interlude” ………………………………………………………………………………… 146 FIGURE 59 – “As His Own Soul” ………………………………………………………………………………… 149 FIGURE 60 – “Barcarolle of Tears” ……………………………………………………………………………. 153 FIGURE 61 – “I am the True Vine” – Fugue subject …………………………………………………… 155 FIGURE 62 – “Martha Complained” – Opening …………………………………………………………. 158 FIGURE 63 – “Martha Complained” mm. 25-26 ………………………………………………………… 159 FIGURE 64 – “Martha Complained” – Broken dish chord ………………………………………….. 159 FIGURE 65 – “Martha Complained” – Dett’s text setting …………………………………………… 161 FIGURE 66 – “Other Sheep” – Dett’s text setting ………………………………………………………. 163 FIGURE 67 – “Other Sheep” – Opening …………………………………………………………………….. 165 FIGURE 68 – “Other Sheep” – Allegro ………………………………………………………………………. 167 FIGURE 69 – Balfour Gardiner’s “Prelude de Profundis” …………………………………………… 171 FIGURE 70 – “Madrigal Divine” page 1 ……………………………………………………………………… 172 FIGURE 71 – “Madrigal Divine” page 2 ……………………………………………………………………… 173 FIGURE 72 – “Madrigal Divine” page 3 ……………………………………………………………………… 174 1 CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION The obscurity that most of R. Nathaniel Dett's (1882-1943) piano music lies in today is not commensurate with the achievements of this great musician. In the Bottoms is the only one of his six suites for piano that is occasionally performed and taught by pianists. Most of Dett's piano works, comprising two hours of music, are out of print. His name is not well known outside of the African-American community. Except for In the Bottoms, few recordings exist of the suites; even that work is most often performed in the context of specialty "black composers" programs. However, during his lifetime, he was lauded as the first American composer to fuse Negro folk music with European art music tradition in a sophisticated way. As a seminal figure in the preservation and study of spirituals, both as a writer and choral leader, and as a great teacher and inspirer of African-American musicians in later generations, he was acknowledged to be one of the most important musicians in American history. Dett's creation of such a rich and varied body of piano music is a great gift to pianists, one that has been inexplicably underappreciated. In contrast, Dett's importance to African-American music is well acknowledged by musicologists. This study incorporates research from readily-available sources, as well as the Nathaniel Dett archives at the Niagara Falls New York Public Library and Hampton University. 1 It explores the connections between the suites and other musical styles and traditions, Dett's many extra- musical interests, and his performing life. Its goal is to give the reader the same sense of admiration and joy that the author’s exploration of these works has given him. Essentially, it is 1 A typescript source came to the author's attention following this paper's completion, so was not consulted: Kay Robertine Pace, “Solo Piano Suites of Robert Nathaniel Dett” (1984), is held by the Center for Black Music Research, Columbia College, Chicago for reference only and is not available through interlibrary loan. 2 music that is meant to be heard, to be enjoyed, and to inspire, not just to be studied. It is hoped that it will be programmed and performed with much more frequency, and appreciated in a way that does it justice. The message of human oneness, expressed through this music, speaks to people now with the same meaning and urgency that it did in his time. Through the efforts of Nathaniel Dett, what he called "Negro folk music," is a gift to the world. Dett was a polymath. He wrote and published poetry, and won an important literary prize at Harvard University in 1920 for his essay, “The Emancipation of Negro Music.” His talents as a composer were matched by his gifts as a pianist and choral leader. Philosophical inquiry, Rosicrucianism, as well as Christianity deeply attracted him. He was also interested in other cultures; ancient Hebrew legends, African chants, tropical images and Hindu poets all have a place in his music. Because Dett's music cannot be properly understood without knowing something of these other influences, this study will touch on these subjects. Dett was an extremely hard working personality, always driven to improve his craft by further study. He was the first African-American to graduate from Oberlin College, one of the few unsegregated colleges at the time, with a double degree in piano and composition in 1908. Oberlin “regularly admitted African American students beginning in 1835, after trustee and abolitionist, the Rev. John Keep, cast the deciding vote to allow them entry.” 2 Oberlin was also an important center of abolitionist and Underground Railroad activity, and was the site of one of the earliest visits of the Jubilee Singers in 1875. 3 Even after being awarded honorary doctorates in music from Howard University in 1924 and Oberlin in 1926, he chose to enroll at the Eastman School of Music in 1931 to obtain a 2 “Early History,” Oberlin College and Conservatory, accessed November 3, 2013, http://new.oberlin.edu/about/history.dot. 3 The first Jubilee Singers, from Fisk University in Nashville, TN, embarked on an extremely successful tour performing Negro Spirituals. Queen Victoria was among their admirers. This group was responsible in large part for bringing Negro Spirituals to a worldwide audience. 3 master’s degree. This constant striving could explain the changes in his compositional style, especially in the piano music. His life experiences ranged from bitter disappointments to great triumphs, all lived out within the segregated social environment of his time. Dett’s writing of a series of like-genre works over his lifetime, reflecting stylistic changes and a deepening world view, places him in a tradition followed by many composers in the history of keyboard music. The two volumes of the Well Tempered Clavier of Johann Sebastian Bach, the sonatas of Joseph Haydn and Ludwig van Beethoven, the Années de Pèlerinage of Franz Liszt, and the sonatas of Alexander Scriabin and Sergei Prokofiev are prominent examples of this tradition. He also followed the custom of composers’ choice of keyboard instruments as the media for experimental and personal expressions. The communication of intimate and individual emotions in piano music, and later the presentation of national styles and images, became an important goal of composers. Character pieces, often combined in sets, were a predominant genre. Dett, in part because of his German-oriented training from his Oberlin professors, is an heir to that tradition. Because of that background, his experiences, thoughts, and ideas find a strong expression in the piano suites. He grew up in Niagara Falls, Ontario and later on the New York side, places isolated from the centers of musical culture but important to black history because of the Underground Railroad. Dett was exposed to the piano at a very young age. His early musical experiences were mostly with the light salon music of the day, now mostly forgotten, mixed with a scattering of classics. His compositions as a teenager and young adult are in that style, reflecting the ragtime and dance music popular at the time. According to Dr. Dominique-René de Lerma, "Had he participated in the idioms which evolved during his youth, he might have turned to musical 4 theater, or created blues or ragtime pieces." 4 Of hearing the Kneisel Quartet perform a slow movement by Antonín Dvořák (Dett does not mention the specific work but it was likely the “American” quartet, op. 96) at Oberlin, Dett writes: Suddenly it seemed I heard again the frail voice of my long departed grandmother calling across the years; and in a rush of emotion which stirred my spirit to its very center, the meaning of the songs which had given her soul such peace was revealed to me. 5 Possibly because of this event, he acquired a deeper mission to study and use spirituals as a basis for composition. De Lerma also suggests that the Afro-British composer Samuel Coleridge- Taylor (1875-1912) was an important influence. 6 The enormous success of Coleridge-Taylor's cantata, Hiawatha's Wedding Feast, had begun in 1898. From then on, Dett composed music that used Negro folk idioms in a new way, striving for the highest goals of musical art. He railed against ragtime-influenced minstrel music, viewing it as a corruption of Negro folk music and a reinforcement of racial stereotypes. Dvořák’s challenge for American composers to use their own folk materials for the basis of musical creation found a wonderful response in Nathaniel Dett's music. His piano suites are a result of this effort, beginning in 1912 with Magnolia, four years after graduating from Oberlin, and ending in the last year of his life with the completion of Eight Bible Vignettes. The following is a biographical timeline outlining significant events in Dett’s life: 4 Dominique-René de Lerma, Program notes for R. Nathaniel Dett Piano Works, Denver Oldham, pianist. Recorded 1988, New World Records NW 367-2, 1988, CD. 5 Vivian Flagg McBrier, R. Nathaniel Dett: His Life and Works, 1882-1943 (Washington, D. C.: Associated Publishers, 1977), 11. 6 Dominique-René de Lerma, Program notes. 5 Biographical Timeline Oct. 11, 1882 Born in Drummondville, Ontario (now Niagara Falls, Ontario) Charlotte Johnson Dett, mother (1863-1937) Robert Tue Dett, father (1849-1921) Harriet Washington, maternal grandmother, possibly escaped slave 1893 Family moves to Niagara Falls, New York. 1901 Begins study at Halstead Conservatory, Lockport, New York. 1903 Begins study at Oberlin. 1908 Graduates from Oberlin, first African-American to obtain degree in piano and composition. 1908-1911 Joins faculty, Lane College, Jackson, Tennessee. Teaches piano, vocal music, directs Lane Choral Society; composes Magnolia and In the Bottoms. 1911-1913 Faculty, Lincoln Institute, Jefferson City, Missouri. Magnolia and In the Bottoms published. 1913 Begins teaching at Hampton Institute, Hampton, Virginia on recommendation of Azalia Hackley. 1915 Summer studies at Columbia University and American Conservatory in Chicago. Meets Percy Grainger. 1916 Marries Helen Elise Smith. 1919 Founds Musical Arts Society at Hampton, bringing in top guest artists. Founding member of National Association of Negro Musicians (NANM). 1920 Studies at Harvard University with Arthur Foote, wins Bowdoin Prize for his essay "The Emancipation of Negro Music" and Francis Boot Prize for choral motet “Don't Be Weary, Traveler.” 1922 Enchantment published. 1924 Honorary Doctorate, Howard University. 1924-1926 Elected president of NANM. 1926 Directs Hampton Institute Choir at Library of Congress. Awarded honorary doctorate from Oberlin. 6 1927 Publishes Religious Folk Songs of the Negro; as Sung at Hampton Institute. 1928 Cinnamon Grove published. Directs Hampton Institute Choir at Carnegie Hall. 1929 Summer studies with Nadia Boulanger at Fountainbleau. 1930 Directs Hampton Institute Choir in European tour to England, Belgium, France, Germany, Austria. 1931 Asked to resign from Hampton Institute. 1931-1932 Studies at Eastman School of Music, with Howard Hanson among others, earns Master of Music in Composition. An oratorio, The Ordering of Moses, is his Masters thesis. 1932 Formal resignation from Hampton. Relocates to Rochester, New York. Opens teaching studio. 1934 Nathaniel Dett Choral Society formed in Washington, DC. 1937 Mother dies. The Ordering of Moses premiered at Cincinnati Music Festival. Begins teaching at Bennett College, Greensboro, North Carolina. 1938 Tropic Winter published. 1941-1943 Eight Bible Vignettes published individually. 1942 Returns to Rochester. 1943 Accepts position with USO (United Service Organizations) training WAC (Women’s Army Corps) choruses. Oct. 2, 1943 Dies, Battle Creek, Michigan. 7 CHAPTER 2 OVERVIEW OF THE SUITES In her introduction to the Collected Piano Works, Vivian McBrier writes: In order fully to appreciate the piano music of R. Nathaniel Dett, it must be understood that he was a true Romanticist. Music to him was an expression of the human soul with all of its subjectivism. It was an expression of hope, love, despair; an instrument for his dreams and poetic longings; a vehicle for his racial messages and love for humanity. Dett was a Romantic in both ideological and technical character. All of his piano compositions are programmatic, expressing a racial trait, nature, or a philosophical idea. 1 McBrier continues by placing the six piano suites into three periods, each with two suites. The author is in agreement with this designation, which is adopted in this study. For Dett, the idea of composing a series of piano suites was a very significant one. Different types of character piece sets evolved during the nineteenth century. Examples of suites of descriptive musical pictures include Felix Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte, and Robert Schumann's Waldszenen. Schumann's Kreisleriana and Carnaval are examples of suites that follow a program or narrative. The expression of nationalistic musical styles is prominent in the music of Frederick Chopin and later in Modest Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, Edvard Grieg's sets of Lyric Pieces, and Dvořák’s Poetic Tone Pictures. Isaac Albeniz's Iberia (1905-1908) and Enrique Granados's Goyescas (1911) are also outstanding examples of the representation of ethnic characteristics in piano music. However, it is a bit doubtful that Dett had any exposure to these last works because of their very recent composition at the time. Religious ideas and images are pervasive in the third year of Années de Pèlerinage of Franz Liszt. Dett, all in the context of African-American folk music, touches on each of these formats. 1 Vivian Flagg McBrier, introduction to The Collected Piano Works of R. Nathaniel Dett (Evanston,IL: Summy-Birchard, 1973), 9. 8 Possibly the closest antecedents for Dett, at least in the first period of suites, are Edward MacDowell's Sea Pieces, op. 55 (1898), and the African Suite, op. 35 (1898) by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Dett performed Sea Pieces while a student at the Halstead Conservatory in 1903, before he began his studies at Oberlin. Dett was certainly familiar with the works of Coleridge-Taylor, who was the first composer of African descent to achieve worldwide fame. The latter composer’s inclusion and arranging of African and African-American melodies in his works was a strong influence and inspiration for the next generation of composers of African heritage, including Dett. In his preface to Twenty-Four Negro Melodies, op. 59 (1904), Booker T. Washington writes, "Mr. Coleridge-Taylor is himself an inspiration to the Negro, since he himself, the child of an African father, is an embodiment of what are the possibilities of the Negro under favorable environment." 2 Coleridge-Taylor's African Suite, op. 35 (1898), was very possibly a model for Dett's suites. Its second movement, “A Negro Love-Song,” appears to be based on a poem of the same name by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906). Since Dunbar had traveled to England in 1897, the year before the Coleridge-Taylor work appeared, 3 a connection is plausible. Dett also cites this poem as the basis for “Honey,” the third movement of In the Bottoms. 2 Booker T. Washington, Preface to Twenty Four Negro Melodies, by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor (Boston: Ditson, 1905), ix. 3 Benjamin Brawley, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Poet of his People (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1936), 58. 9 First Period - Magnolia, In the Bottoms Magnolia (1912) and In the Bottoms (1913) were written during Dett's first academic appointment at Lane College in Jackson, Tennessee. They each have five movements. Magnolia's movements are grouped into two parts; three in the first part, two in the second. Dett's love of nature, expressed in his poetic volume, The Album of a Heart, written a year before Magnolias, is most obvious in these two works. The movements are unified by either images of a geographical place or what Dett calls "racial peculiarities." In the case of the latter, at least for African-American cultural characteristics, this is an innovation in piano literature by Dett. Magnolia (1912) As McBrier relates, Dett's first sojourn in the South was at Lane . . . It is obvious that he was greatly impressed by the beauty of this campus, which is located on a high hill in a little town in southern Tennessee. His first suite bears the title Magnolia, showing his love for the beautiful magnolia trees which may still be found on the campus. 4 Magnolia's five movements, grouped into two parts, are: Part I No. 1 “Magnolias” No. 2 “The Deserted Cabin” No. 3 “My Lady Love” Part II No. 4 “Mammy” No. 5 “The Place Where The Rainbow Ends” 4 McBrier, introduction, Collected Piano Works, 10. 10 At the head of the first movement Dett writes these poetic lines: "Gorgeous Magnolias, Spotless in splendor, Sad in their beauty, Heavy with perfume." The piano writing throughout is reminiscent of the Victorian style of MacDowell and Amy Cheney-Beach (1867-1944). The movements are two- and three-part song forms, except for the last movement, which is a rondo. In The Bottoms (1913) Dett writes extensive notes for In the Bottoms, the most well known of the suites. 5 At the beginning of these notes is a quote from Beethoven in reference to his Pastoral Symphony: "More an expression than a painting." 6 This tells us that Dett is not pursuing the impressionist idea of objective imagery, rather an emotional and psychological reaction to an image. As McBrier notes, Dett has his feet firmly in Romanticism. 7 Following are Dett's notes on the suite as a whole: In the Bottoms is a Suite of five numbers giving pictures of moods or scenes peculiar to Negro life in the river bottoms of the Southern sections of North America. It is similar in its expression, and in a way a continuation of the sentiments already set forth in the Magnolia Suite, but suggests ideas incidental to life in a more particular geographic territory. Neither Suite, like Dvořák's famous New World Symphony is dependent for its effect upon the introduction of folk songs, either in their natural, or in a highly developed form. As it is quite possible to describe the traits, habits and customs of a people without using the vernacular, so is it similarly possible to musically portray racial peculiarities without the use of national tunes or folk songs, In the Bottoms then, belongs to that class of music known as "Program music" or "music with a poetic basis." The source of the "program" or "poetic basis" has already been referred to, and 5 McBrier, on p. 22 of Life and Works, gives the date of the first performance as in 1913 by Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler in Music Hall, Chicago, Illinois, according to Dr. Glenn Dillard Gunn, music critic of Washington Times-Herald. 6 R. Nathaniel Dett, The Collected Piano Works of R. Nathaniel Dett (Evanston,IL: Summy- Birchard, 1973), 42. 7 McBrier, introduction, Collected Piano Works, 9. 11 the following notes are appended to show that its relation to the music is intimate. 8 Dett's detailed notes on the movements are included in Chapter 5. The movements are: No. 1 “Prelude – Night” No. 2 “His Song” No. 3 “Honey” No. 4 “Barcarolle – Morning” No. 5 “Dance-Juba” The final movement is by far Dett's most played piece and has been recorded many times. 8 Dett, The Collected Piano Works, 42. 12 Second Period – Enchantment, Cinnamon Grove Enchantment (1922) and Cinnamon Grove (1928) were written during Dett's tenure at the Hampton Institute and after a year of study with Arthur Foote at Harvard, while on leave from Hampton 9 . Dett had won two prizes while at Harvard, one for his choral motet based on the spiritual, “Don't Be Weary, Traveler,” and one for his essay, “The Emancipation of Negro Music.” An important influence on his piano music was his friendship with Percy Grainger (1882- 1961), whom Dett had met while taking courses at the American Conservatory in Chicago during the summer of 1915. Dett described the meeting in a letter to Natalie Curtis-Burlin, dated October 15, 1915, as, “I greatly enjoyed Mr. Grainger. I think he is truly wonderful. Five minutes in his presence meant more than a month’s teaching. I didn’t know that I was so susceptible to atmosphere.” 10 Starting that same year, Grainger featured “Dance-Juba” on many of his programs, often closing with it, which suggests its appeal to audiences. While at Harvard, Dett attended Grainger's recitals in Boston and heard him perform recent European music of Cyril Scott (1879-1970) and Claude Debussy. McBrier remarks that Enchantment and Cinnamon Grove "reflect little of the folk influence but are in true Romantic style." 11 They each have four movements with alternating fast and slow tempos, strongly reminiscent of sonata structures. According to several programs performed by Dett in 1924 and 1925, 12 he was including at least one movement of a Sonata in E minor, which was never published. The manuscript appears to be lost. The presence of 9 Anne Key Simpson, Follow Me: The Life and Music of R. Nathaniel Dett (Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1993), 77-78. 10 Ibid., 58. 11 McBrier, Life and Works, 48. 12 Concert programs from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library, cat. nos. I-117, I-82, I-301. 13 thematic transformation between Enchantment's movements also suggests that Dett was interested in sonata form and more formal structures at this time. Both suites have extra-musical references that are connected with Dett's involvement with the Rosicrucians (see p. 44), and with Pan-Africanism. Interest in non-white cultures and the development of solidarity between African-Americans and other non-white people worldwide grew in the 1920's after the close of World War I. For example, African-American leader W.E.B. Du Bois called a Pan-African Congress in Paris in February 1919, parallel to the League of Nations. 13 The 1920’s also saw the growth of organizations such as the Universal Negro Improvement Association begun by the Jamaican Marcus Garvey. 14 These social currents had an effect on Dett's music. Dett is known to have owned items such as an African chieftain's robe and matching slippers brought by a British West African student at Hampton, as well as Chinese and Japanese woodcuts. 15 Twentieth century musical idioms such as parallel seventh and ninth chords, whole-tone scales, and quartal harmonies begin to appear, particularly in Cinnamon Grove. His piano writing, most strikingly in Enchantment, is more orchestral. Enchantment (1922) Enchantment is dedicated "to Percy Grainger in appreciation." 16 “Grainger expressed his gratitude for the dedication of the work to himself as ‘a great honor and kindness’." 17 and "referred to the harmonic advance and greater resource of formal treatment." Grainger performed the work often, particularly the second movement; “Song of the Shrine.” It has a unique formal structure which follows a program written by Dett. 13 John Hope Franklin and Alfred A. Moss, Jr., From Slavery to Freedom: A History of African Americans (New York: Knopf, seventh ed., 1994), 338-339. 14 Ibid., 357. 15 Simpson, Follow Me: The Life and Music of R. Nathaniel Dett, 218. 16 Dett, The Collected Piano Works of R. Nathaniel Dett, 69 (Enchantment title page). 17 McBrier, Life and Works, 48. 14 Enchantment, A Romantic Suite for Piano on an Original Program I “Incantation” II “Song Of the Shrine” III “Dance Of Desire” IV “Beyond the Dream” 18 (For program details see Chapter 6) The title page of Enchantment features a framed picture of a possibly Greek temple and the Egyptian symbol known as the Winged Solar Disk (Fig. 1 and 2). Given the Rosicrucians' strong involvement with Egyptology, these symbols, as well as Dett’s program, strongly suggest a Rosicrucian connection, probably an initiation. The basing of a program on a Rosicrucian initiation rite, experimentation with early twentieth-century European harmony, and the concept of a suite of four interconnected and narrative pieces all show a new direction in Dett's music. It is also interesting to note that Dett is known to have performed the Capriccio on the Departure of a Beloved Brother, J. S. Bach's only programmatic keyboard piece, in his concerts. 19 18 The various numbering systems of the suites are as originally published. 19 Concert programs from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library, cat. no. I-125-C1. 15 FIGURE 1 - Enchantment Title Page – from an early edition Courtesy of Hampton University Archives 16 FIGURE 2 – Winged Solar Disk 20 20 Richard Deurer, “Egypt Art, Symbols and Definitions,” accessed November 3, 2013, www.egyptartsite.com/symlst.html. 17 Cinnamon Grove (1928) The title communicates Dett's interest in non-white culture; the cinnamon tree is native to India and Sri Lanka. The first three movements are prefaced by poetic quotations. The fourth employs two spirituals as thematic material. Perhaps his idea is that the poets—Elizabethan English, Hindu, American, and the anonymous authors of the Negro spirituals—are like trees, crossing boundaries of time and culture, and now put together by Dett into a family, or grove. The combination of poems from the European world and the non-white world express Dett's concern with the reconciliation of humanity across different races. Cinnamon Grove A Suite for the Piano I Moderato molto grazioso on lines from "The Dream" by John Donne II Adagio cantabile on lines from “Gitanjali” by Rabindranath Tagore III Ritmo moderato e con sentimento Quasi Gavotte on lines from "Epimetheus" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow IV Allegretto on lines from a song in Religious Folk Songs of the Negro This is the most sonata-like of the suites. The first movement is in sonata form, the second is slow and forms the emotional apex, the third is a dance form with trio, and the fourth is in a quick 2/4 meter. This is identical to many of the classical symphonies and sonatas of Haydn and Beethoven. In addition, alone among the suites, the first and last movements are in the same key. The final movement contains two spirituals from Dett’s 1927 volume, Religious Folk- Songs of the Negro as Sung at Hampton Institute. Dett identifies the first one, “Oh, the winter'll 18 soon be over” (Fig. 3), but not the second, “Run to Jesus” (Fig. 4). Only the third phrase of “Run to Jesus” appears, sung to the words, "I don't expect to stay much longer here" (see Fig. 42). The choice of this phrase is significant for two reasons. It is in the Dorian mode, rare and interesting in spirituals; and it could also be a reference to Dett's difficulties with his position at Hampton Institute, which culminated in his dismissal in 1931. The combination of these two spirituals also suggests the Underground Railroad. “Oh, the winter'll soon be over” may refer to the increased Underground Railroad activity during the winter, taking advantage of increased cover of darkness and the north star's higher position in the sky; the north star was an important navigational aid. At the beginning of his setting of “Run to Jesus” in Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro, Dett wrote that "This song was given to the Jubilee Singers by Hon. Frederick Douglass . . . with the interesting statement that it first suggested to him the thought of escaping from slavery." 21 The fact that Dett doesn't mention his use of the second spiritual could mean either that he didn't wish to communicate his troubles at Hampton, or significantly, that he was thinking more of hidden meanings, which are central to Negro spirituals. 21 R. Nathaniel Dett, Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro as Sung at Hampton (Hampton, VA: Alexander Street Press, and Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute, 1927), 15. 19 FIGURE 3 – “De Winter’ll Soon be Ober” 20 FIGURE 4 – “Run to Jesus” 21 Third Period – Tropic Winter, Eight Bible Vignettes The ten eventful years separating Cinnamon Grove and Tropic Winter include: the epochal tour of the Hampton Choir through Europe in 1930; Dett’s dismissal from Hampton immediately afterward; the death of his mother; and the completion of both his master’s degree at Eastman and The Ordering of Moses, Dett's only oratorio, and by far his largest work. It contains much ambitious writing, including an extended four-voice fugue with a subject based on a spiritual. The final two suites employ more twentieth-century musical techniques: juxtaposition of unrelated chords; clusters; parallel fifths and fourths; augmented, ninth and other complex chords; quartal harmonies; whole-tone scales and harmonies based on them; and above all, more counterpoint, especially in Eight Bible Vignettes. Tropic Winter (1938) In 1942 Dett sent Tropic Winter to Grainger with a request for feedback: "I am rather proud of this suite, as I think it represents an advance in musical thought for me, and I never play it over that I do not think of you, especially when I come to the last movement. The object of this letter is to ask you if you can possibly spare the time to play this suite through and then, if you will, let me know how you like it. I am sure it is not necessary for me to reiterate how I esteem your criticism and advice." 22 Dett returns to the concept of a suite unified by musical pictures, but, this time the images are of a non-white, more distant culture. It is hard to determine if Dett had any particular tropical place in mind; the Caribbean, Africa, or Southeast Asia are all plausible. Dett had written a short song, “Iorana, Tahitian Maiden's Love Song,” in 1935. The style of this short song doesn't match the more modernist style of Tropic Winter, however. It includes a section 22 Simpson, 286-287. 22 marked quasi havañera. 23 Since havañera relates to Cuba, rather than Polynesia, perhaps Dett's idea of "tropic" is not specific. Tropic Winter has seven movements. This may reflect an interest in numerology, which is also suggested by Dett’s long poem, “Song of Seven,” (see also “Dett’s Poetry” in Chapter 3), as well as the eight movements of Eight Bible Vignettes. The symbolism of eight will be discussed in the following section. “The Daybreak Charioteer” “Bayou Garden” “Pompons and Fans” “Legend of the Atoll” “To a Closed Casement” “Noon Siesta” “Parade of the Jasmine Banners” Dett uses a great variety of pianistic textures, ranging from the thundering and orchestral “Daybreak Charioteer,” (Dett's closest approach to pure noise), to the minimalist “Noon Siesta.” White-key harmonies, hinted at in the last movement of Cinnamon Grove, are exploited, especially in “Noon Siesta:” For 27 measures a right-hand parallel-fourth ostinato accompanies wisps of left-hand melody. Not a single black key is played. Eight Bible Vignettes (1941-1943) The Eight Bible Vignettes may be viewed as a culmination of Dett's style, outlook, philosophy, and indeed, his life. The number eight is significant in Biblical symbolism. Seven is associated with spiritual completion and rest. Eight "denotes that which is superabundant or satiating" 24 as well as new beginning: the completion of seven, plus one. Eight also has significance in other religious traditions, notably Hinduism and Buddhism. Olivier Messiaen's 23 “havañera” is the term used by Dett. Presumably this is an alternative to “habañera” reflecting its Cuban origin. The rhythm in this section is identical to an habañera. 24 Barnabus Ministries, The Bible Study Site, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.biblestudy.org/bibleref/meaning-of-numbers-in-bible/8.html. 23 Quatour pour la Fin du Temps, written contemporaneously in 1942, is also essentially a suite of eight movements with religious meanings. Messiaen explains the meaning of eight movements as the perfect creation of seven, extended into the eternity of perfect light and peace. 25 Messiaen's style does not relate much to Dett's and it seems doubtful that they were aware of each other, but the relationship of these two works is fascinating nonetheless. The movements of Eight Bible Vignettes: 1. “Father Abraham” 2. “Desert Interlude” 3. “As his own Soul” 4. “Barcarolle of Tears” 5. “I am the True Vine” 6. “Martha Complained” 7. “Other Sheep” 8. “Madrigal Divine” The title is deceptive, as "vignettes" might imply light, inconsequential music. In fact, even though there are no discernible musical connections between the movements, their sequence and biblical associations deliver a compelling and powerful message about the unity of humanity. This suite is by far the longest, requiring between thirty-five and forty minutes to perform. It contains a tremendous variety of forms, techniques, and keyboard textures. These vary from the full layout of “Father Abraham,” the opening of which is written on four staves, to unaccompanied melodies and recitatives. This diversity recalls the third year of Liszt's Années de Pèlerinage. The keyboard writing is often more severe than Dett’s earlier keyboard works, with frequent octaves and doublings between the hands, a long way from the flowery, Romantic writing of Magnolia. Contrapuntal techniques, including fugal writing, canons and inversions, are common. Dett continues the use of parallel chords, whole-tone and quartal harmonies, and white-key diatonicism begun in Tropic Winter. 25 Olivier Messiaen, preface to Quatour pour la Fin du Temps (Paris: Editions Durand & Cie,1942), i. 24 Each movement (except for “Barcarolle of Tears”) is related to a specific Biblical quote or episode with carefully chosen texts. A prominent theme is the “other” — Biblical characters which are not central to its narratives, or who are rejected or supporting figures: Hagar, Jonathan, and Martha. In Black Talk, Geneva Smitherman lists the expression “Aunt Hagar’s Chillun” as an “older term for African-Americans,” referring to the lineage through Hagar’s son, Ishmael. 26 The suite could be divided into two parts; the first representing narratives from the Old Testament, the second representing the New. Each begins with a central character, Abraham (No. 1 – “Father Abraham”) and Jesus (No. 5 – “I am the True Vine”). These are the two movements with the most contrapuntal writing. “Father Abraham” combines the Negro spiritual, “Father Abraham,” with the Hebrew melody, “Leoni,” using inversions and canons. “I Am the True Vine” is a three-voice fugue with no episodes. The second piece in each part concerns female characters, Hagar and Martha. The third and fourth movements seem to be expressions of Dett's personal feelings of love and despair. They mirror the final two movements which express reconciliation through belonging. The culmination is the final pair of movements, “Other Sheep” and “Madrigal Divine.” “Other Sheep” begins with a chant, sung to Dett by a native African student, followed by a set of variations. The text is from John 10:16 and concerns the bringing of "other sheep" into "one fold." By expressing the idea of "other sheep" with an African chant, Dett points to the belonging of non-white people as one flock. The final piece, “Madrigal Divine,” is a setting of Psalm 23, "The Lord is my Shepherd." The setting is serene and majestic, over a swaying ground bass, closing with a long series of diatonic "amens." It might have been published also in a vocal 26 Geneva Smitherman, Black Talk: Words and Phrases from the Hood to the Amen Corner (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000), 57. 25 version had Dett lived longer. “Madrigal Divine” is a magnificent close to a body of work that eloquently expresses a life's journey and hope for a better world. 26 CHAPTER 3 STYLE AND INFLUENCES Dett’s Personality and Teaching Style ". . . study should lead us to a better understanding of mankind, not Neapolitan sixths" 1 The following are selected unattributed recollections from Arlene Gray’s Listen to the Lambs: A Source Book of the R. Nathaniel Dett Materials in the Niagara Falls Public Library Niagara Falls, NY. They are reported to be by members of the choirs that Dett directed, and illuminate his character, showing humor, grace and dignity in the face of racial injustice, and great care for his students. I recall a time between the years 1936-1941 [Dett's years at Bennett] we had to sing at an auditorium in Charlotte, N.C. The choir automatically went to the front door. We were told we had to use the rear door. Dr. Dett stood his ground and insisted that we would not perform. Hence we were admitted to the front door. 2 We were singing in Rochester, N.Y., Dr. Dett's home city. He told us that we had to sing well because it was his home. With this statement we were frightened to petrification. When we got up to sing our first number we were really up tight. When we got up for the next number Dr. Dett took off his shoe. He had a hole in his sock where his big toe was. He wiggled it. We smiled and loosened up. We sang the rest of the program at ease and well. 3 We were on our way to Scranton, PA. We were very hungry. We came upon a cafeteria in a very small town. We decided to stop and buy sandwiches. Since I was at the back of the bus I was near the end of the line to get to the cafeteria. When we got to the door the owner pulled a gun on us. We froze. Dr. Dett saw what happened, came to the front and quietly talked to the owner. We got what we wanted and left. 4 He will always be remembered for his sincerity, humility, and modesty, his lofty ideals, his vision, his devotion to music and art, and his unfaltering belief in the 1 Dominique-René de Lerma, Reflections on Afro-American Music (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1973), 23. 2 Arlene E. Gray and Niagara Falls Public Library, Listen to the Lambs : A Source Book of the R. Nathaniel Dett Materials in the Niagara Falls Public Library Niagara Falls, NY (Crystal Beach, ON: A. E. Gray, 1984), 4. 3 Ibid., 4. 4 Ibid., 6. 27 Christian brotherhood of man. The terms teacher, artist, and friend were so intricately woven together as to make him a positive force for the good of both the Negro race and the nation. 5 Simpson also quotes Dorothy Maynor’s (one of Dett's outstanding vocal protégés) recollection that, although Dett was not born and raised in the South, he felt “. . . the strange magic of the South's contradictions . . . This black Canadian had a strange yearning to find out what went on in cotton fields and sugar bottoms. . ." 6 Nathaniel Dett's life and music intersects in an intimate way with the history of African- Americans and their relationship with white America. Dett was born and grew up in an area that was a major route on the Underground Railroad for slaves escaping to Canada. Later, in 1905, it was important in the creation of the Niagara Movement, begun by W.E.B. Du Bois and Jewish liberals, which became the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. It was an environment of comparative racial tolerance and integration which fostered the support of Dett's education and development of his talent. After the failure of the Reconstruction movement following the Civil War, education became a primary goal of African-Americans. Education became one of the few available vehicles for African-Americans in their resistance to white supremacy. Blacks were determined to demonstrate that they were capable of accomplishments in the arts and sciences that could be regarded as on a par with the rest of America, thereby appealing to whites to end their disenfranchisement. As early as 1791 Benjamin Banneker, Negro astronomer and creator of almanacs, wrote to Thomas Jefferson that this "train of absurd and false ideas and opinions which so generally prevails with respect to the Negro should now be eradicated." 7 A memorial in Rochester signed by Frederick Douglass states, "no other race could have made more 5 Marguerite Pope, A Brief Biography of Dr. Robert Nathaniel Dett, quoted in Jackson, 24-25. 6 Simpson, 333. 7 Franklin, 95-97. 28 progress in the midst of such an universal and stringent disparagement. It would humble the proudest, crush the energies of the strongest, and retard the progress of the swiftest. In view of our circumstances, we can, without boasting, thank God, and take courage, having placed ourselves where we may fairly challenge comparison with more highly favored men." 8 This desire to look to resources within the community was expressed by the Convention of the Colored People of North Carolina in 1865: "We have no desire to look abroad for protection and sympathy. We know we must find both at home, among the people of our own State, and merit them by our industry, sobriety and respectful demeanor, or suffer long and grievous evils." 9 Even though they often disagreed, Booker T. Washington and Du Bois were both strong advocates of education. Dett saw himself strongly in this tradition, untiringly and relentlessly pursuing his education. 8 Ibid., 167. 9 Ibid., 228. 29 Dett’s Performing Style Reviews of Dett's playing depict an elegant, suave, dignified, and somewhat reserved performing style. His playing was natural, unaffected and never exaggerated in its emotional expression. These descriptions are verified from his one available recorded performance, of the “Barcarolle” from In the Bottoms. He often spoke about the music as part of his performances. As an interpreter of his own works Dr. Dett brings . . . the double elements of poet and musician, for he is both . . . To hear Dett play his own compositions is to get a new idea of the Negro race. 1925 from Negro Poets and Their Poems by Robert Kerlin 10 His piano technique is smooth and interesting, his subtlety of touch being quite delightful in the lighter passages. February 19, 1924 – St. Paul Pioneer Press, St. Paul, MN, unknown reviewer 11 The piano is an obstinate thing. It does not do its best for just anybody. It is reluctant to take in the inspirations of the composer. The composer has to be a real one to make this mechanical instrument forget its nature. And, be the composer ever so real, and the recreating artist ever so artistic, there is still bound to be some lost motion in the feeling-notation-player-instrument relay by way of which the pianistic art usually gets to the listener. This way was shortened Monday evening on the occasion of the recital of R. Nathaniel Dett. February 22, 1923 – Buffalo American, Buffalo, NY, George Pullen Jackson, of a recital at Fisk University, Nashville, TN 12 He is simple, sincere. His style is clearcut and vital, yet warm and colorful. His manner is unostentatious. April 7, 1925 – Wichita Daily Eagle, Wichita, KS, unknown reviewer 13 . . . naturally warm emotionalism of the man often trickles through in fine expression in his piano music. February 13, 1924 - Winnipeg Evening Tribune, Winnipeg, MB, unknown reviewer 14 10 Robert Kerlin, Negro Poets and Their Poems, quoted in Simpson, 356. 11 R. Nathaniel Dett Collection at Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. I-417. 12 Ibid., cat. no. I-410. 13 Ibid., cat. no. I-397. 14 Ibid., cat. no. I-425. 30 Artists usually bring to the concert stage two types of endeavor representing either a superficial scholarship or an unearthly technical and intellectual achievement. Mr. Dett is not primarily a technician, as fine and finished as is his playing. To him technique is a means not an end. He radiates inspiration. Under the spell of his playing one loses thought of the artist as spirit communicates with spirit. He is essentially a tone poet. March, 1925, Cheney Record, Cheney, PA, A. H. Johnson (of recital on March 7) 15 Playing with an easy, modest assurance that gives confidence to his audience, avoiding mannerisms or unnecessary display, he exhibits a technical equipment that is astonishing and apparently unlimited. He obtains sonority without a sledgehammer and he can caress the keys as a bit of plush drapery caresses a plate glass windowpane. October 17, 1925, Roanoke World-News, Roanoke, VA, unknown reviewer 16 In a pre-concert notice to the above recital the same newspaper prints the following: "A special section will be reserved for white people at the concert." 17 Despite his stature (by this time he had an honorary doctorate, was president of the National Association of Negro Musicians, and had been awarded prizes from Harvard), there was no exception to Jim Crow. As a pianist Dett ranks high, playing with ease, often with brilliance, and with a melting pianissimo which makes his heavier passages stand out boldly. November 21, 1931, PA Times, Chester, PA, Edna Coates 18 In his own writings, Dett makes the following important statements about the performance of spirituals. These attitudes and qualities should also apply to the performance of his piano music. To be effective, it must be simple. When it is overadorned, it loses its natural appeal. Many of the spirituals are quaint, seemingly, to those who do not understand their origin, but they are always sincere expressions." 19 "Man looketh on outward appearance, but God looketh on the heart." Folk songs are the records of the very heart throbs of man, which to read aright 15 R. Nathaniel Dett Collection at Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. I-299. 16 Ibid., cat. no. I-431. 17 Ibid., cat. no. I-192. 18 R. Nathaniel Dett, Collected Works, 9. 19 R. Nathaniel Dett, “From Bell Stand to Throne Room” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991), 99. 31 requires an almost divine insight. Such insight is dependent above all else on one quality absolutely essential to the true interpreter - Sincerity. 20 20 R. Nathaniel Dett, “Understanding the Negro Spiritual” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991), 106. 32 Musical Influences Raymond Jackson explains that the piano was an important instrument for African- Americans from the Civil War onward. He describes the many outstanding African-American pianists that appeared quickly after Emancipation. Black families purchased small organs if there were not funds available for the purchase of a piano. Even if there was little money for material possessions, a keyboard instrument was a prized possession and a symbol of independence. 21 Dett learned to play the piano at a very young age, and he was an excellent improviser. "I played the piano ever since I can remember. No one taught me, I just "picked it up.". . . I never would play anything as it was written. I was always changing a composition and playing it in a way that I thought "sounded better." 22 This got him into some trouble as a youngster but showed his great gift for music. Writing for the piano was central to Dett throughout his life and became the vehicle for his most personal expressions. Dett's piano writing is masterful. Many beautiful voicings, extremely varied textures (particularly in the later works), and a keen ear for sonority make Dett's piano music rewarding to play. Mother, Early Life The major influence in Dett's life was his mother, a gracious yet commanding lady of forceful personality and strong character. She had high ideals and constantly encouraged her sons to be industrious and to strive for perfection in whatever they pursued. 23 21 Raymond Jackson, “The piano music of twentieth-century Black Americans as illustrated mainly in the works of three composers” (DMA thesis, The Juilliard School, 1973), 2. 22 R. Nathaniel Dett, “Helping to Lay the Foundation for Negro Music of the Future,” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991), 21-22. 23 McBrier, Life and Works, 3. 33 Many years later, after the triumphant premiere of the Ordering of Moses in 1937, Dett remarked "My mother would have said, ‘'twas good but you can do better.’" 24 This attitude might explain Dett's unceasing quest for additional education and improvement of his craft throughout his life. The idea of using Negro melodies did not initially appeal to Dett as a child. In his autobiographical “From Bell Stand to Throne Room,” Dett describes the visit to Niagara Falls of a German professor from Berlin, one Dr. Hoppe, who told Dett of Dvořák's visit to America and his "experiment with the . . . songs of my own people." 25 Dett did not initially take this idea up, later observing that "discussion of spirituals or other Negro folk music was embarrassing to Black people as the general public attitude toward such music was unappreciative or even mildly contemptuous." 26 Dett's early piano pieces, “After the Cakewalk,” “Cave of the Winds,” and the “Inspiration Waltzes,” all composed before his studies at Oberlin, contain mostly uninteresting parlor music. There is little originality here, although skill is evident. If Dett had continued on that direction he likely would have had success as a published popular composer, but would be forgotten today. Oberlin Dett's study at Oberlin was evidently a life-changing experience. Oberlin, having a strong history in the Abolitionist movement and the Underground Railroad, was one of the few colleges that admitted African-Americans at that time. 27 Howard Handel Carter (1855-1930) and George Carl Hastings (1877-1925) were Dett's professors in piano, George Whitefield Andrews 24 Ibid., 50. 25 Dett, “From Bell Stand to Throne Room,” 94. 26 McBrier, Life and Works, 7. 27 Ibid., 9. 34 (1861-1932), a favorite of Dett, was his teacher in organ and composition. Hastings was the dedicatee of one of Dett's poems and possibly “As His Own Soul” from the Eight Bible Vignettes, Dett's choral motet, “Go Not Far From Me, O God,” was dedicated to Andrews in 1933. Dett later recalled Andrews' statement that "Nothing is good that can be made better." 28 These teachers gave Dett a steady diet of German musical discipline, especially the music of J. S. Bach. 29 All had studied at the Leipzig Conservatory. Founded 1843 by Mendelssohn, later faculty included Robert Schumann and Max Reger. 30 Dett's interest in counterpoint continued and increased throughout his career. Dett's piano repertoire and abilities grew, culminating in graduating performances of a Beethoven Sonata, Chopin Ballade and Etudes, and Schumann’s Carnaval. His increasing technique was shown with performances of etudes of Anton Rubinstein (1829-1894) and Moritz Moszkowski (1854-1925) as well as Andrei Schulz-Evler’s (1852-1905) “Concert Arabesques” on themes from Johann Strauss’s “Blue Danube Waltz.” By the time of the composition of Magnolia in 1912, Dett's sophistication as a composer had advanced considerably. There were several composers that may have provided models. Forerunners Edward MacDowell's Sea Pieces, op. 55 was in Dett's repertoire. There are some stylistic similarities with Dett's earlier piano suites, notably Scotch snap rhythms, and tonal ambiguity between I and vi. vi-I cadences are common. There are also poetic quotes in Sea 28 Simpson, 24. 29 Ibid., 18-19. 30 Hochschule für Musik und Theater “Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy” Leipzig, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.hmt-leipzig.de/home/hochschule/profil 35 Pieces, similar to Dett's Cinnamon Grove. Dett referred to MacDowell as "America's greatest composer." 31 Harry Burleigh (1866-1949), the African-American musician who introduced Dvořák to Negro spirituals, composed a piano suite called From the Southland, in 1909. Dett knew Burleigh well and participated in concert programs with him. The first movement of this work, “Through the Moanin' Pines,” begins in F# minor but ends in A major, an example of vi-I tonal ambiguity. The fifth and last movement, “A New Hiding-Place,” is a setting of the spiritual, "Oh Lord, What a Mornin'." Burleigh, a prominent singer, made many concert arrangements of spirituals. For Dett, Samuel Coleridge-Taylor was perhaps more of an inspiration than a musical influence. His piano suites — African Suite, op. 35 (1898), Forest Scenes, op. 66 (1907) and Three Fours, op. 71 (1909) — are possible models. The second movement of African Suite, “A Negro Love Song,” as earlier noted, is likely based on the same Paul Laurence Dunbar poem that inspired “Honey” from In the Bottoms. Coleridge-Taylor's music is in a Victorian style, similar to Edward Elgar (1857-1934) and Arthur Sullivan (1842-1900) and does not integrate folk idioms to the extent of Dett's. Since Coleridge-Taylor was not a pianist, his piano works lack the coloristic sophistication of Dett's mature piano writing. However, as noted above, Coleridge-Taylor, as the first composer of African descent to achieve an international reputation, was an inspiring figure for non-white composers who followed. In the last sentence of his program notes to the Hampton Choir's 1928 Carnegie Hall performance, Dett makes an interesting statement: Thus did Haydn pass on to Liszt through Mozart and Beethoven and the hosts of others who intervened, the spirit of the song of the people enabling man in his 31 Jackson, 22. 36 endless struggle toward the ultimate to make a more courageous step into the future, having kept faith with the past. 32 The mention of Liszt as being in the same class as Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven may strike us as strange today, but Liszt's stature in the early twentieth century was higher than it is now. Dett was evidently an admirer of Liszt's music, perhaps also of Liszt's working of ethnic Hungarian material into large works. The religious ideas of the Eight Bible Vignettes have few, if any, parallels in piano music, other than the late works of Liszt, until Messiaen. Percy Grainger Enchantment’s dedicatee, Percy Grainger, was primarily responsible for the popularity of “Dance-Juba,” often performing it as an encore. While studying at Harvard, Dett attended several of Grainger's performances in Boston, at which he performed the “Dance-Juba.” Also on these programs were Grainger’s own arrangements of English folk songs, as well as works by Balfour Gardiner (1877-1950) and Cyril Scott. Gardiner and Scott were British composers who had studied with Grainger in Frankfurt, and who, along with Norman O’Neill (1875-1934), and Roger Quilter (1877-1953), formed the “Frankfurt Group.” The two Gardiner works were “Prelude (de Profundis)” and “Humoresque.” Dett's interest in parallel chords, particularly in his last two piano suites, can possibly be traced to his familiarity with these works through Grainger's performances. Gardiner’s “Prelude,” in particular, has a striking resemblance to Dett's last piano work, “Madrigal Divine,” with the use of a perfect-fifth ground bass and parallel diatonic-chord planing. 32 Dett, “Notes to the Hampton Choir at Carnegie Hall,” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer, 74. 37 Grainger was a valuable promoter of Dett's music. But the relationship was not always smooth, probably owing to Grainger's mercurial personality. After Dett sent Tropic Winter to Grainger, expressing pride in his progressing style (see Chapter 8), Grainger replied: "I not only loathe piano music but all the other compromise instruments that foreran the piano (lute, guitar, harpsichord, etc.) in which one player (for convenience as a conductor, or for accompaniment purposes) sums up the whole harmonic texture that was conceived as polyphonic melody...Why geniuses like you, Bach, Grieg can be willing to compose for keyboard instruments I shall never understand. ...I played "Juba Dance" because I sensed it would become a best seller and because I thought it always rare that a real genius like you are able to write a best seller - when it happens, one should (if one can) help the composer to "cash in" on it." 33 One can only imagine Dett's hurt at his piano music being dismissed by his primary promoter. Dett's mission was much loftier than "cashing in;" otherwise he would have been better served by more compositions like “After the Cakewalk.” Russian Music Dett's choirs at Hampton often performed Russian choral works. Their programs included works of Konstantin Schwedoff (1886-1954), Grigory Lvovsky (1830-1894), and the Creation Hymn of Sergei Rachmaninoff (1872-1943). "After the Negro folk music itself, Russian music is easily the most beloved of all music at Hampton Institute." 34 "Dett suggested that a kinship of mutual oppression between the Russian and the Negro could be best expressed through pervading pathos in vocal music, citing in particular certain rhythms, scale formations, and cadences." 35 This influence is more evident in Dett's choral works although some of his later piano music, most notably “As His Own Soul,” has touches of Rachmaninoff. 33 Percy Grainger, letter to Dett, quoted in Simpson, 286-287. 34 Dett, “Notes to the Hampton Choir at Carnegie Hall,” 71. 35 Simpson, 155, 166, 148-149. 38 Dett’s Mission As noted in Chapter 1, Dett's hearing of the Kneisel Quartet at Oberlin seems to have been a life-changing experience. He began the development of his mission, well described by McBrier: Dett's choral works continued to be a symbol of his belief in music as a means of communications, the belief that, through the development of the Negro folk song into art forms, racial pride and personal dignity could be inspired. 36 Dett was acutely aware of the low status that spirituals had among African-Americans. In Dett's own words: The Negro people as a whole cannot be looked to as a very great aid in the work of conserving their folk music. At the present time they are inclined to regard it as a vestige of the slavery they are trying to put behind them and to be ashamed of it. Moreover, the prevailing manner of presenting Negro music to the public - "coon" song of vaudeville or the minstrel show - has not tended to increase appreciation of it, either among the Negro or white races. 37 It occurred to the writer that if a form of song were evolved which contained all the acceptable characteristics of Negro folk music and yet would compare favorably in poetic sentiment and musical expression with the best class of church music, it would be a means of solving this peculiar problem, for, being created out of native material, it would save to the Negro and his music all the peculiar and precious idioms, and as work of art would summon to its interpretation the best of his intellectual and emotional efforts. 38 As he wrote in the opening sentence of “Helping to Lay Foundation for Negro Music of the Future:” To those of us who believe with Dvořák that "the future music of this country must be founded on what is called Negro melodies" it is gratifying to see the large number of composers who have recently turned to the use of Indian and Negro folk tunes . . . 39 36 McBrier, Life and Works, 47. 37 Dett, “Helping to Lay the Foundation,” 20. 38 R. Nathaniel Dett, “The Development of Negro Religious Music,” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer, 36. 39 Dett, “Helping to Lay the Foundation,” 20. 39 It is clear that Dett consciously followed Dvořák's direction, and that it became his central mission to develop and uplift this body of music. "It remained for an outsider, a Bohemian — the famous Dvořák — to show America and the world something of what is possible in the larger forms of musical composition by using the Negro and Indian folk tunes . . ." 40 Almost from the outset, however, Dett ran into resistance. After a concert at Hampton on April 22, 1915, which consisted entirely of religious choral works based on Negro spirituals, including “Listen to the Lambs,” there was much criticism from listeners who expected this music to remain in its "primitively pure, unadulterated, and natural state." 41 This was the beginning of a long conflict between Dett's mission and the attitudes of patrons and some in Hampton’s mostly white administration. The conflict culminated with Dett's dismissal in 1931. Dett's answer to the preservationist attitude is best expressed in his own eloquent words: . . . it should be stated that controversies arising...as to whether or not one ought to try "to improve" the folk song are absurd. One might as well talk of "improving" a full grown tree or a rose blossom. We try to preserve the tree or the rose because of its beauty and worth. Either one through the skill of man, may be made presently to reappear in other creations of beauty and utility. Even so the folk song is rich in elements which may be the inspiration of new creations resembling the original as a desk resembles a tree - only in the nature of its material. 42 Dett was also sensitive to the cultural inferiority complex that many Americans had at that time (and sometimes still do). ". . . there is a still great need for doing away with the slavish admiration in which the average American musician has held all things European." 43 Even 40 R. Nathaniel Dett, “Negro Music of the Present,” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer Dett, 43. 41 Dett, “The Development of Negro Religious Music,” 37-38. 42 Dett, “Notes to the Hampton Choir at Carnegie Hall,” 74. 43 Dett, “Helping to Lay the Foundation,” 21. 40 though he himself was trained with European models, his mission was not only to demonstrate the musical abilities of African-Americans to the rest of America, but to also prove that American music could stand with the finest examples of European art music 41 Dett’s Compositional Style An excellent way to appreciate Dett's compositional style is to read his own words. The following are from an interview in the Wichita Daily Eagle: 44 Perhaps I have achieved something unique in rhythm in my works. A great many critics declared that I have; they even profess to see cross-rhythms in some of my compositions. But if I have, it has been without conscious effort on my part. Rhythm is the heart of music; but none of the larger compositions has a simple rhythm, like the beat of the drum...a boy came to us at Hampton institute from Africa, who danced in twos and patted in sevens. He said all his people did the same. My rhythm always comes with the melody, but I don't always recognize it. Many times I cannot find it myself, but have to turn to my wife, who is an excellent musician, and ask 'What the dickens is this?' I can never include in my music all the beauty I hear in my mind...Bach achieved the most in this direction, in getting all possible beauties into a composition. Modern music, it seems to me, is over-colored. In some cases composers sacrifice form for color; and form is the foundation, while color is merely the frills. I myself am somewhat of a formalist. I believe that the human mind demands a certain amount of form. I am a slow worker...I never hurry myself; I wait for the inspiration. Dett wrote in the Norfolk Journal, speaking of his own compositions: [They] are not in any sense arrangements. The folk character is gained in some instances from only a line of folk song serving merely as a theme upon which an entirely new composition is created. All the material used in the development of the folk song composition is, as far as possible, drawn from folk song sources or very closely imitates folk song style. 45 Unsurprisingly, besides the tradition of Romantic-era piano music, the most important element in Dett's style is Negro folk music. Therefore it is important to understand something of this extraordinarily rich body of music. The following statement by Dett is central: "The most 44 R. Nathaniel Dett Collection at Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. I-448. 45 R. Nathaniel Dett, interview in Norfolk Journal, quoted in Jackson, 22. 42 vital element in music is rhythm . . ." 46 Body movement is an essential part of the singing of spirituals and influences its rhythmic character. According to John Wesley Work, "Rhythm arouses emotion and emotion arouses motion." 47 Movement is part of the performance, not something that one does as a result of it or as an accessory to it. There are not many movements in the suites that do not have an underlying rhythmic movement or figure. It is very important for the interpretation of his music to get a feel for what this movement is. Sometimes the rhythmic structure is very evident, such as in “Dance-Juba,” sometimes less so. It is also important for the performer of Dett's music to keep in mind that "His lyrical melodies reflect his deep interest in the voice." 48 Melodic expression is almost always paramount in interpreting his works. In “The Authenticity of the Spiritual,” Dett describes the scales, or "ancient modes" that occur in spirituals as: Pentatonic, Old Folk-Song Scale, Byzantine, Hungarian Gypsy, Mixolydian, Dorian, and Aeolian. The pentatonic is the most common, as it is in much folk music worldwide. The flatted seventh, or mixolydian, is prominent in spirituals such as “Roll, Jordan, Roll.” The Byzantine and Hungarian Gypsy scales are related since each is formed by two tetrachords containing a half-step, minor-third (augmented-second), half-step sequence. Dett mentions their use in Marche Slav by Tchaikovsky, as well as the spiritual “Father Abraham.” These scales occur also in Dett's piano music. The pentatonic scale may define two tonalities simultaneously, a minor third apart. Classical harmony defines this relationship as relative major and minor. Dett, among other American composers, exploits this relationship by fluidly moving between the two, without 46 R. Nathaniel Dett, “The Authenticity of the Spiritual,” in The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader: Essays on Black Sacred Music, ed. Jon Michael Spencer Dett, 109. 47 John Wesley Work, Folk Song of the American Negro (New York: Negro Universities Press, 1969; 1915), 38. 48 McBrier, introduction, Collected Piano Works, 11. 43 defining either for some time. This also manifests as movement and cadences between vi and I. The intersection of these two is a minor seventh chord, a sonority that Dett often uses in both his choral and piano music. The final chord of his arrangement of “Hew Down the Tree” is a colorful example in the choral music; examples in the piano music will be discussed in the following sections. Nowhere in Dett's music is this polarity, as well as the Russian style, as pronounced as in “O Holy Lord” for eight-part chorus. The piece begins in G major but keeps moving toward E minor, which is the actual key of the work — the two keys alternate so that for much of the piece the listener is not really aware of being in either key. Much parallel voice leading in low voices and full diatonic chords are in Russian style. Another of Dett's favorite sonorities is the augmented-sixth chord. This chord became almost ubiquitous, and one of the few instances of chromatic harmony, in popular ragtime and march pieces. The difference between its use as a decoration and Dett's use, is that Dett uses it as a color, often at structurally important points. At measure 39 in “Don't Be Weary, Traveler,” a tenor solo enters with the first instance of "with thy burden" on an F over a G major chord held in the chorus. The key at that point is B minor. The sound is held with a fermata before resolving, and marks a transition between sections. The climax of “His Song” from In the Bottoms is on a long-held augmented-sixth chord. Perhaps the performance style of the mournful type of spiritual, such as “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” in which fifths, as well as thirds, are bent downward, created an attraction to flatted-fifth sonorities like the augmented sixth. In the case of “His Song,” this augmented-sixth chord is also at the point in the piece corresponding with the golden mean. 49 49 Many composers, including J. S. Bach and Bartok, structured their pieces this way. This is the point which divides a piece into two sections so that the ratio of the larger to the smaller is the same as the ratio of the entire piece to the larger section. 44 Following his study at Oberlin, Dett showed an increasing interest in counterpoint. Even in his earlier, Romantic-influenced works, imitation is common, and, in his later suites canons and inversions are used more frequently. Eight Bible Vignettes contains a three-voice fugue. The Ordering of Moses contains a long fugue using the spiritual “Go Down Moses” as a subject. Certain traits stand out in his piano works. Melodies formed from whole-tone scales and chords based on them, such as French sixths and augmented chords are common from Enchantment onward. There is also a short example of this in the “Barcarolle” from In the Bottoms. Pan-diatonicism, particularly on white keys, occurs from the last movement of Cinnamon Grove onward. A favorite device is the use of bass fifths, either as a drone, ground bass, or in drumming patterns. Examples are the middle section of “Prelude-Night” from In the Bottoms (drone), “Dance of Desire” from Enchantment (drums), and “Madrigal Divine” from Eight Bible Vignettes (ground bass). 45 Dett and the Rosicrucians The Rosicrucian movement, of which the Rosicrucian Order, AMORC, is the most prominent modern representative, has its roots in the mystery traditions, philosophy, and myths of ancient Egypt dating back to approximately 1500 B.C. In antiquity the word “mystery” referred to a special gnosis, a secret wisdom. Thousands of years ago in ancient Egypt select bodies or schools were formed to explore the mysteries of life and learn the secrets of this hidden wisdom. Only sincere students, displaying a desire for knowledge and meeting certain tests were considered worthy of being inducted into these mysteries. Over the course of centuries these mystery schools added an initiatory dimension to the knowledge they transmitted. 50 It is not known when or how Dett became involved with the Rosicrucian order. Both Dett's mother Charlotte and brother Samuel were involved with the Masons; Samuel was an honorary thirty-third degree Mason. 51 Black masonic lodges existed in the nineteenth century and were important institutions in the struggle of African-Americans to become socially self- sufficient. 52 Both the Rosicrucians and Masons are initiatory societies with roots in the middle ages. According to McBrier, "Dett was greatly influenced by Rosicrucian philosophy. He was an active and enthusiastic supporter of the Rochester chapter of AMORC (Ancient, Mystical Order Rosae Crucis)." 53 Dett relocated to Rochester in 1931, therefore, he was probably involved by that time, and likely by the time of the writing of Enchantment in 1922. In 1957 Arthur C. Piepenbrink, Extension Director of the Rosicrucian Society, wrote: The Rosicrucian philosophy which was so much a part of Dr. Dett's life is unique in the field of classical study today. Free from dogmas, and religious and political alliances, the Rosicrucian Order AMORC instills in its members a sensitivity to their own divine heritage. It helps the individual to help himself - to discover a philosophy of life suitable to his needs and understanding based on a thorough knowledge of the universe in which he lives. It is one of the truly 50 Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.rosicrucian.org/about/mastery/mastery08history.html. 51 Simpson, 5. 52 Franklin, 286. 53 McBrier, Life and Works, 87. 46 great international organizations working for the betterment of humanity without respect to race or creed. 54 Sensitivity to one's 'own divine heritage' was expressed by Dett...he loved nature and never ceased marveling at its beauty. 55 It is further traditionally related that the Order’s first member-students met in secluded chambers in magnificent old temples, where, as candidates, they were initiated into the great mysteries. Their mystical studies then assumed a more closed character and were held exclusively in temples which had been built for that purpose. Rosicrucian tradition relates that the great pyramids of Giza were most sacred in the eyes of initiates. Contrary to what historians affirm, our tradition relates that the Giza pyramids were not built to be the tombs of pharaohs, but were actually places of study and mystical initiation. The mystery schools, over centuries of time, gradually evolved into great centers of learning, attracting students from throughout the known world." 56 "In ancient times, if you wished to study the great mysteries, you would travel to a temple and petition for admittance as a student. 57 54 Arthur C. Piepenbrink , letter from Rosicrucian Order, February 1957, quoted in McBrier, Life and Works, 87. 55 Ibid., 87. 56 Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.rosicrucian.org/about/mastery/mastery08history.html. 57 Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.rosicrucian.org/about/mastery/mastery06home.html. 47 Dett’s Poetry The Album of a Heart Dett was taught to recite poetry of Shakespeare and Tennyson by memory from a young age by his mother, Charlotte. 58 Poetry was very important to Dett. In 1911, while at Lane in Tennessee, he published a book of poems, The Album of a Heart. The volume comprises twenty-nine poems in Romantic style, ranging from the two-line “Bagatelle” to the final eleven- page “The Gossip or The Old Maid's Story.” Nature scenes tinged with loneliness are represented in poems such “At Niagara,“ To the Sea,” “After,” and “The Mountain.” Another nature poem, “Oh, Whisp'ring Tree,” was set to music by Dett. Night is a common theme, represented in “Au Soir,” “Twilight,” “Berceuse,” and “The Traumerei.” Young love is another subject, rounding out Dett's survey of Romantic themes. The feeling in most of these poems is youthful and optimistic. Music figures in one remarkable and delightfully humorous poem, “The Rubinstein Staccato Etude” (Fig. 5), which was reprinted in The Book of American Negro Poetry, edited by James Weldon Johnson. 59 Dett studied and performed this etude at Oberlin during his student days there. Dedicated to one of his piano professors, George Carl Hastings (1877-1925), the poem seems to begin with the teacher exhorting his student to a better performance: Staccato! Staccato! Leggier agitato! A parenthetical "Alas!" seems to commiserate with the student's (perhaps Dett's?) endless practicing to master the etude's difficulties. Dett's affectionate dedication might offer a clue that the mysterious inscription, “to the memory of Carl,” thirty 58 Simpson, 8. 59 James Weldon Johnson, and Alexander Street Press, The Book of American Negro Poetry: Chosen and Edited, with an Essay on the Negro’s Creative Genius (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Co, 1922), 196. 48 years later on “As His Own Soul” from the Eight Bible Vignettes, might be to George Carl Hastings. “The Rubinstein Staccato Etude” 60 Staccato! Staccato! Leggier agitato! In and out does the melody twist - Unique proposition Is this composition. (Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) Now in the dominant Theme ringing prominent, Bass still repeating its one monotone, Double notes crying, Up keyboard go flying, The change to the minor comes in like a groan. Without a cessation A chaste modulation Hastens adown to subdominant key, Where melody mellow-like Singing so 'cello-like Rising and falling in wild ecstacy. Scarce is this finished When chords all diminished Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, A pedal-point wonder Rivaling thunder. Now all is mad agitation again. Like laughter jolly Begins the finale; Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lend Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end! FIGURE 5 - "The Rubinstein Staccato Etude" Two poems from The Album of a Heart stand out as prophetic to Dett's life to come. “That's So!” (Fig. 6) expresses a stoicism in Dett's character that must have helped him to overcome the bitterness of his termination at Hampton twenty years later. 61 60 Nathaniel Dett, The Album of a Heart (Jackson, TN: Mocowat-Mercer, 1911), 22-23. 49 “That’s So!” 62 There'd be no Pleasure were there no Pain; E'en Sunshine would pall were there no Rain: We could not smile, if in all the years We'd never shed a few sad tears. What need of ambition if all were gain? There'd be no Pleasure were there no Pain. FIGURE 6 - "That’s So!" Music is again referenced in the striking “A Romance Sonata.” It is the most innovative of the volume and expresses a darkness not present in most of the rest of this set. Each section has a rhythm and rhyme scheme different from the others. This structure points to its being a kind of study for Dett's epic poem, Song of Seven, written in his last years at Hampton. The seven "movements" to this sonata/poem each have an Italian musical description: I. Andante Teneramente II Arietta. III. Cadenza Inganno IV. Nocturne V. Recitative VI. Largo Con Tristezza VII. Finale - Fuoco di Molto It is a narrative of broken love, beginning with the same kind of blissful, romantic musings present in some of the other poems, ending with despair and rage in the final section. Dett uses the image of a mockingbird, commonly associated with fate in Romantic poetry, as the turning point in the narrative in the third section. The ending features a tempestuous vision of an angry sea (which appears again in Song of Seven), augmenting it and turning it into a nightmare. The choice of the number seven for the movements is surely significant, connecting “A Romance Sonata” with the later epic and suggesting that Dett's interest in mysticism has 61 Simpson, 209. 62 Dett, The Album of a Heart, 11. 50 begun. His interpretation of the number seven seems to be in line with its darker associations in mythology such as The Seven Evil Spirits of Babylonia 63 (which Prokofiev dealt with in the cantata Seven, They are Seven) rather than with its meaning in Christianity. Song of Seven Dett completed Song of Seven in the late 1930's and wrote a preface in 1928, while still at Hampton, 64 explaining that he is using a stock poetic subject, that of "one who by suicide succumbs to a ravaging despair," in a new way. He speaks about the oneness of the arts but remarks that in music, "the rules governing the use of rhythm have been more liberally applied apparently than in the art of literature." 65 In his opinion, movements are created in musical compositions to create variety in pulse and rhythm. In literature, however, one style or meter is used and developed for an entire work. Dett uses Shakespeare, Tagore, Beowulf, David, and Milton as examples. His aim is to create a poetic work that exploits different metrical schemes in different sections (or “cantos” as he calls them), as was foreshadowed in “A Romance Sonata” and in keeping with his belief in rhythm as the most important element in music. Like “A Romance Sonata,” Song of Seven is constructed in seven sections of increasing length, each with its own strict rhythm and rhyme scheme. Alliteration is used obsessively, and Dett uses onomatopoeia occasionally. Images of a raging sea, waves, a turion (shoot of an aquatic plant) dripping with tears, gull cries, and an evil seductress paint a nightmarish, over- the-top picture of despair and terror. It is hard to know whether this is an expression of some dark corner of Dett's psyche or whether it is more tongue-in-cheek. Certainly the image of the 63 R. C. Thompson, translator, “The Seven Evil Spirits [The Devils and Evil Spirits of Babylonia],” accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/seven.htm. 64 Simpson, p. 623. 65 R. Nathaniel Dett, preface to “Song of Seven.” 51 sea as a sort of dark monster contrasts ironically with “Hampton, My Home by Sea,” the song Dett composed for Hampton University. 52 CHAPTER 4 MAGNOLIA Magnolia (Title page – Fig. 7) and In the Bottoms were both written at Lane College one year apart from each other and share many attributes in style. They are effectively written for the piano, melodic, and show the influence of the late-Romantic style. On June 3, 1914, Dett performed Magnolia and In the Bottoms in Chicago at Symphony Hall as part of an "All Colored Composers Concert." This concert was very important in bringing Dett's compositions and playing in front of a wider audience. Dett's performances were given the following notices: By far the most significant contribution to the evening was the playing by Mr. Dett of his two suites for piano [Magnolia and In the Bottoms]. Mr. Dett is a pianist of distinct quality and his music had an individual note of charm. It was not pretentious, did not seek to carry any deep message, nor make a propaganda, but was content to express with simplicity and intuitive feeling something of the Southland. It was not so folksonglike as we had expected, with little attempt for racial tone color, but the reflex of an individual to whom the things had personal meaning. There was melodic feeling, graceful rhythmic form, played with an appreciation that made them delightful. 1 Chicago Evening Post, Karleton Hackett It remained for the pianist of the evening [Dett] to show how the characteristic accents of Negro music may be developed into genuine art forms without resorting to imitation of the white man's music. 2 Chicago Daily Tribune, Glenn Dillard Gunn 1 quoted in Simpson, 48. 2 quoted in Simpson, 49. 53 FIGURE 7 - Magnolia Title Page 54 Magnolias owes a bit more to the salon music of Dett's time than In the Bottoms, which could be expected for Dett's first large composition. A writer for the Daily Oklahoman in 1924 describes it as "more poetic than deep, but it pictured the South faithfully in 'The Deserted Cabin' and 'My Lady Love.'" 3 McBrier calls it "descriptive music which portrays pictures associated with the life of the Negro in the South." 4 No. 1 “Magnolias” moderato molto cantabile D major McBrier describes this piece, inspired by the great magnolia trees on the campus of Lane, Dett's first academic position, as the outstanding one of the suite: In evaluating “Magnolias,” one finds the melody to be poetic, spontaneous, graceful, and sufficient to itself. The harmonic sequences are conventional, and the original color is derived from figuration which is contrapuntal. The sum total is a charming early Romantic piano composition. 5 The phrases are regular and somewhat predictable but tuneful and sweetly attractive (Fig. 8). The left hand is expertly crafted with steady eighth notes in widely-spaced arpeggios. This accompaniment includes some melting chromaticisms, a bit hackneyed, but effective nonetheless. A contrasting section, in B minor, features canonic writing between soprano and tenor over syncopated chords (Fig. 9). Dett already shows his interest in counterpoint. A Grieg- like section, with ninth chords and frilly triplets (Fig. 10), provides a return to the opening, restated as before. A sudden modulation to Db major in m. 51 is poetic, although somewhat of a cliché. A large buildup in chords and octaves on a half-diminished seventh chord leads to a majestic statement of the opening followed by a peroration in triplet full chords. The first phrase is heard once again, pomposo, then dreams its way up the keyboard. Deep, quiet chords 3 unknown reviewer, Daily Oklahoman, quoted in Simpson, 361. 4 McBrier, Life and Works, 19. 5 Ibid., 20-21. 55 close the piece on VII7 - I. Nothing original here, but Dett has expertly assimilated the late Romantic style as he inherited it. FIGURE 8 - "Magnolias" - Opening FIGURE 9 - "Magnolias" - Imitative writing m. 17-m. 20 56 FIGURE 10 - "Magnolias" – Triplets m. 33 – m. 36 “The Deserted Cabin” Largo con tristezza, melodia ben sostenuto, accomp. stacc. B minor Simpson remarks on “The Deserted Cabin's” resemblance to . . . the Indian and Hungarian music in minor keys, the Negro origin is evident in similar use of occasional groups of quick notes, leading to a syncopated accent, a device imparting "a touch of tragedy," then breaking suddenly "into the deep yearning expressed in the long notes. 6 Dett uses this type of rhythmic grouping of pickups followed by an accented-short-long rhythm (Fig. 11 - end of first complete measure continuing into the second), in other pieces such as “Mammy,” and as late as “Father Abraham” of the Eight Bible Vignettes, the opening of which is similar to “The Deserted Cabin.” This rhythmic trait occurs in spirituals, such as the verse of the spiritual “Father Abraham” (see Fig. 56 and 57). The accented-short-long rhythm is known as a Scotch snap or Lombard rhythm. 6 Simpson, 358. 57 FIGURE 11 - "The Deserted Cabin" Regular pairs of pianissimo phrases are accompanied by march-like, staccato chords. The third pair includes answers, suggesting call and response style, in the lower voices (mm. 10 and 12). An approach to C major (Neapolitan sixth - m. 14), and a Tchaikovsky-esque descending series of diminished chords over a tonic pedal point (mms. 18-20), add to the gloom. The final pppp cadence of A7 to B minor (lowered VII-i) is coloristic, adding a modal quality. The piece is unpretentious but effective. 58 No. 3 “My Lady Love” Allegretto grazioso A major A two-bar vamp, I, iii, ii, V, with bass parallel fifths, begins the piece, like a square dance. The fiddle-like tune, entering on the fifth bar, features many repeated notes (Fig. 12). Besides being a charming folk dance, “My Lady Love” is like an etude for repeated notes. The left hand continues the dance rhythm in stride-bass format. Sudden modulations to distant keys, such as F major in m. 17, hint at changing partners in set dancing. Sudden halts in mm. 36 and 38 are Dett's use of stop-time, described as two or more strong beats followed by a sudden silence rhythmically tapped by the feet. 7 The pianist should release the pedal, perhaps even tap the feet, as Scott Joplin directs the player in his stop time pieces, e.g. “Rag-time Dance” (1906) and “Stoptime Rag” (1910). The left hand crosses over the right in acrobatic fashion in mm. 27- 28 and 31-32. A middle section begins at m. 43, with the fiddle part in the left hand, now giving that hand a repeated-note exercise. More hand crosses and distant modulations add to the fun. More stop-time halts and a staccatissimo run announce the return of the opening. A bit of syncopation is introduced in the coda, winding up this piece of elegant and flirtatious style. 7 Ibid., 359. 59 FIGURE 12 - "My Lady Love" 60 No. 4 “Mammy” Lento con tenerezza Db major Opening – Fig. 13 This piece of great simplicity and charm was very popular when Dett performed it. It was even performed on an organ recital given by Clarence Eddy (1851-1937), with such success that it had to be repeated. 8 Its completely regular four-measure phrases seem repetitive, but if played with the tenderness (due Pedale is indicated) that Dett asks for, they can be sweet and touching. The piece is in a simple ternary song form. The first section is almost completely diatonic except for a secondary dominant at mm. 7 and 13. The pickup-Scotch-snap rhythm of “The Deserted Cabin” is now in a flowing triplet figure, often pentatonic. The left-hand accompaniment gently sways between bass notes and chords. These traits all contribute to creating an image of a rocking lullaby. FIGURE 13 - "Mammy" 8 Simpson, 77. 61 The second section features another diatonic melody in the left hand with gentle syncopations. The A7 chord at m. 31 is therefore all the more surprising, the right hand falling in the syncopated rhythm and rising to a fermata. Dett, thankfully from the player's perspective, doesn't spell it with the theoretically correct B double flats. The chord does not resolve immediately; this is a good early example of Dett's use of the augmented-sixth chord as a coloristic and structural device. Chromatic chords, contrasting with the rest of the piece, lead to the uneventful return of the first section. No. 5 “The Place Where The Rainbow Ends” Allegro Gb major “The Place Where the Rainbow Ends” is based on a poem by the same name by Paul Laurence Dunbar 9 (Fig. 14). Another of Dunbar's poems, “A Negro Love Song,” was the inspiration for “Honey,” from In the Bottoms. This bubbly and sparkling piece expresses the optimism of the Dunbar poem. It is a traditional rondo, with all its sections in closely related keys. Showy, but not difficult, piano writing makes this an attractive selection for students. The key of Gb also lies well on the keyboard. Its writing is derivative, particularly of the lighter Chopin pieces that Dett knew from his studies, but it makes an attractive and youthful close to Dett's first suite. The piece follows an extended rondo form, Introduction-A-B-A-C-D-C-A-B-coda. It is the longest of Magnolia, perhaps a bit overly long. A capricious introduction, with Chopin-like passage work, announces the first theme at m. 32 (Fig. 15). 9 Ibid., 360. 62 "The Place Where the Rainbow Ends" 10 THERE'S a fabulous story Full of splendor and glory, That Arabian legends transcends; Of the wealth without measure, The coffers of treasure, At the place where the rainbow ends. Oh, many have sought it, And all would have bought it, With the blood we so recklessly spend; But none has uncovered, The gold, nor discovered The spot at the rainbow's end. They have sought it in battle, And e'en where the rattle Of dice with man's blasphemy blends; But howe'er persuasive, It still proves evasive, This place where the rainbow ends. I own for my pleasure, I yearn not for treasure, Though gold has a power it lends; And I have a notion, To find without motion, The place where the rainbow ends. The pot may hold pottage, The place be a cottage, That a humble contentment defends, Only joy fills its coffer, But spite of the scoffer, There's the place where the rainbow ends. Where care shall be quiet, And love shall run riot, And I shall find wealth in my friends; Then truce to the story, Of riches and glory; There's the place where the rainbow ends. FIGURE 14 - "The Place Where the Rainbow Ends" - Paul Laurence Dunbar 10 Poem Hunter, accessed November 6, 2013, http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-place- where-the-rainbow-ends/. 63 FIGURE 15 - "Where the Rainbow Ends" – Main section Repeated chords in a catchy rhythm are followed by a leggiero arabesque, recalling somewhat the final movement of the Wanderer Fantasy of Franz Schubert. Dett plays with the 3/8 meter in swinging left-hand figures that create the image of a swirling waltz. The second section features a new melody in the tenor, in Db major, accompanied by right-hand flourishes. The third section, in B major, molto meno mosso, is more rhythmically flexible. A questioning phrase, using the same catchy rhythm as heard in the first section, is played in the tenor. It is answered, after a short breath, by a higher animato phrase. A 64 gentleman is asking a lady to dance. Cross-hand leaps add to the coquetry and fun in an even slower restatement at m. 146. The D section is more stormy, in G# minor, with left-hand octaves and right-hand arpeggios straight from the Chopin Bb minor Scherzo. The coda, beginning at m. 275, brings back a bit of the introduction. A sudden fortissimo D major chord intrudes; then the music rejoins its momentum, leading to a sudden pause at m. 315. Yet another dolce melody in hemiola is heard briefly at m. 315. Brilliant scales, octaves and chords finish up to a satisfying conclusion. “The Place Where The Rainbow Ends” is predictable salon-style music, nothing deep, but the rhythmic invention and variety suggest greater things to come. 65 CHAPTER 5 IN THE BOTTOMS In the Bottoms is Dett's best known suite. There have been at least six recordings on LP and CD of the entire suite, including by the author. There is a piano roll of “Dance-Juba” by Percy Grainger, available on Youtube 1 , and an LP recording of a version for two pianos by Edouard Hesselberg. 2 De Lerma calls this work a "monument." 3 Nowhere is Dett's mastery of pianistic color and texture more focused than in this suite. Each movement brilliantly expresses an image and program, each one like a miniature symphonic poem. Its first dedication was to Mr. and Mrs. Fred H. Goff, who had assisted Dett's studies at Oberlin. Later Dett rededicated “Dance-Juba” to Percy Grainger. Grainger championed In the Bottoms and often played “Dance-Juba” as an encore. This final movement is Dett's one piece that has remained a staple in piano repertoire. In a letter Dett mentions In the Bottoms, which he was in the process of composing at the time, as being more characteristic than Magnolia. 4 His own preface to the first edition describes it as a continuation of the mood and images of Magnolia, "but suggests ideas incidental to life in a more particular geographic territory." 5 A review from Musical America in 1913 states that the suite "fairly teems with musical ideas, and things of the cotton fields, of aged negroes, their sorrow and joys, of those intimate characteristic touches of humor." 6 1 Percy Grainger, pianist, “Dance-Juba” by R. Nathaniel Dett, Duo Art 6339-4 Reproducing Piano, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNZ5sj2Vjig. 2 Dominique-René de Lerma, R. Nathaniel Dett works, accessed November 3, 2013, http://chevalierdesaintgeorges.homestead.com/Dett.html. 3 Dominique-René de Lerma, Reflections, 204. 4 Simpson, 32. 5 Simpson, 365. 6 Unknown author, “New Music – Vocal and Instrumental,” Musical America, November 29, 1913, quoted in Simpson, 364. 66 Raymond Jackson relates the following traits of Negro folk music to In the Bottoms: It is an idiom sad but not somber, tragic but ecstatic, intense but bouyant...the Negro's love of gaiety and humor and his periodic rejection of the intense sorrow and seriousness that slavery brought him inspired the second strain of Negro folk music--light, mock, sentimental, full of pagan humor and sharp irony. 7 Dett makes the following remarks to the performer regarding the entire suite: "Metronome marks, which should be carefully observed, are given for all of the movements." He then references Beethoven’s statement regarding the Pastoral Symphony noted earlier: "Remember always that program music is at its best when most in accord with those sentiments uttered by the great Beethoven in regard to his own "Pastoral Symphony" when he said, -- "more an expression than a painting." 8 Dett is strongly rooted in nineteenth-century style, yet includes many ethnic characteristics from Negro folk music and spirituals. The performer should also keep in mind the above statements about the central place of humor in this style. There is a lightness and bouyancy about the music, never is it ponderous or maudlin. Dett explains that the rhythmic figure he uses throughout the suite, short, long, short   is from ante-bellum folk-dances.9 Debra Ann Miles calls this a "head" motif, and remarks that its use is reminiscent of late nineteenth century cyclic traditions in large works. 10 Interestingly, Dett's cyclic motif is a rhythmic figure, while in the European tradition they are commonly linear or harmonic. Miles also mentions two characteristics of In the Bottoms that are rooted in folk music: syncopation, and what she calls "gapped" or "altered" scales. (i.e. Pentatonic, Old Folk Song 7 Margaret Just Butcher, The Negro in American Culture, quoted in Jackson, The Piano Music of Twentieth-century Black Americans, 5. 8 Dett, The Collected Piano Works, 42. 9 Ibid., 42. 10 Debra Ann Miles, "R. Nathaniel Dett’s “In the Bottoms" Piano Suite: An Analysis with Historical Background” (master’s thesis, Oberlin Conservatory, 1983), 3. 67 Scale (no leading tone), Byzantine, Hungarian Gypsy, flatted seventh (Mixolydian), Dorian, and Aeolian). 11 Open fifths and fourths are prominent in both “Prelude-Night” and “Dance-Juba,” elements connected with spirituals and African music. Chords built on the sixth scale degree are also prominent and are used as both secondary key areas and pivot chords (Prelude m. 92), 12 examples of Dett's interest in relative major/relative minor tonal ambiguity. No. 1 “Prelude – Night” Adagio sostenuto D major Prelude - is nightfall; the heavy chords represent the heavy shadows, and the open fifths, the peculiar hollow effect of the stillness: the syncopated melody which occurs, is the "tumming" of a banjo, which music is, however, only incidental to the gloom...The Prelude should open and close with an air of mystery, and most of its serenade part be kept subdued as if sounding from afar. 13 The Rockford Republic reported Dett's own description before his performance of this piece on February 17, 1925: with his descriptive talk and illustration of the motifs used the little house and its flickering candle were picturized vividly in the composition, opening with soft, quiet passages descriptive of the shadows about the house and lightened with the echo of the banjos, closing again as the shadows deepen. 14 A reviewer for the Daily Oklahoman, after a performance of In the Bottoms, commented on this movement's expression of the "Negro's fear of darkness, mystery and dawn." 15 This mystery is marvelously, yet simply, expressed in low open fifths (Fig. 16). The tonality, in its four regular phrases, shifts vaguely from D to B. A sudden chromatic movement in mm. 14-15 adds to the strangeness of the sound before finally settling in D major. These phrases are repeated with creepy chromatic broken octaves high above. Dett's vision of night is not the same as the 11 Miles, 2. 12 Miles, 14. 13 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 42. 14 Concert review, Rockford Republic, February 17, 1925, R. Nathaniel Dett collection, Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. I-304. 15 Concert review, Daily Oklahoman, March 2, 1924, quoted in Simpson, 363. 68 usual nineteenth-century one of peace, protection and deliverance. This opening is a striking departure from the conservative harmonic idiom of Magnolia. 69 FIGURE 16 - “Prelude – Night” - Opening 70 The "tumming" section (mm. 37-48 – Fig. 17) introduces the rhythmic head motif, moving in a narrow pentatonic range over a held indefinite chord. The rhythm breaks into a full pentatonic cheerful melody in D major at m. 49, accompanied by a gentle dance-like rhythm with syncopations and an open-fifth drone in the bass. The short phrases are answered in a lower voice. Alternation of I and V harmonies in successive phrases gives a somewhat Caribbean flavor. The melody is restated, gradually becoming more full and confident. After a detour to F# minor, full octaves and chords play the melody and its answers. This dies off to a close and pause. Without warning, the opening fifths return, fortissimo, the unease of the opening is now arresting and fearful. A chromatic progression follows, building from piano and making use of the broken octaves, now in shrill, short statements. A questioning, marcato ed espressivo phrase finally leads to a calming and more restful ending. “Prelude-Night” is a quite original and masterful expression of different emotions and colors of a night scene, far from civilization, with sounds of nature and the banjo, all within a form and textures of remarkable economy. 71 FIGURE 17 - "Prelude - Night" - Middle section 72 No. 2 “His Song” Andante non troppo, ma più patetico D minor Opening – Fig. 18 His Song - The psychological phenomenon is historic, that the moods of suppressed people have oftenest found their most touching expression in song. An aged Negro will sometimes sit for hours in the quiet of an evening, humming an improvised air, whose weird melody seems to strangely satisfy a nameless yearning of the heart...Let the major-key portion of His Song have a decidedly hopeful tone as it has prophetic significance. 16 “His Song” is one of Dett's most beautiful works, simple in its texture, yet very intricate in construction, expressing a very personal experience of sadness, hope and resignation. As Miles points out, “His Song” is an anomaly in the suite because it is homophonic and contains no syncopation. 17 Entirely in four-part harmony, it suggests a capella choral music. Its lack of accompaniment is very unusual in Dett's piano music and difficult to bring off convincingly. Raymond Jackson helpfully remarks that "By the frequent indications in the music for the use of expressive rubato . . . the performer is made aware that this piece must sound spontaneously improvised. An objective, metrical rendition would be fatal to the inner spirit of this work." 18 There are some parallels between “His Song” and the choral motet, “Listen to the Lambs” (one of Dett's most popular, written the following year). The obvious one is the key, D minor, and the choral texture of “His Song.” The downward gesture from the third into the fourth measure is strongly related to the middle section in the choral motet, sung to "He shall feed his flock like a shepherd." (Fig. 19) In addition, the passionate melisma near the close is similar to one near the end of the motet. 16 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 42. 17 Miles, 4. 18 Jackson, 28, 73 FIGURE 18 - "His Song" - Opening FIGURE 19 – “Listen to the Lambs” – Soprano Solo “His Song” has a balance of shaping in its four-phrase grouping. The first three are predominantly upward, (the third being a repetition of the first) and the fourth downward. 19 Dett's idea of "weird" is expressed in the tritone leap from the second to the third measure and the sudden downward acceleration in the fourth measure. Well-voiced left-hand chords in tenths give good support to the melody. Choral style is also hinted at by the connection of the alto to the soprano between the second and third phrases. The group of four phrases is 19 Miles, 21. 74 repeated in call and response style, with the solo in the deep bass. Augmented-sixth chord color is prominent in the second and fourth phrases. Jackson says that the following section’s (beginning m. 33) "melody and harmonies become bolder and more adventurous, as if one had "gotten the feel of things," exhibiting courage and confidence for a new adventure." 20 The moods and tonalities shift, still in regular phrase pairs, until a single phrase at m. 57, with a more functional bass line, breaks the flow with more direction. An impressive deep bass line now descends in a powerful crescendo from F to Bb, with calls and answers above. The arrival at Bb forms the climax of the piece, on a full voiced augmented-sixth chord, at m. 69 (Fig. 20). It continues ringing, suspended, for eight measures. As mentioned previously, this point corresponds to the movement’s golden mean proportion. FIGURE 20 – “His Song” – m. 57 – m. 69 (climax) 20 Jackson, 29. 75 After this huge breath, the music builds once again over an A pedal point to a majestic statement of the opening in D major, a new bass line connecting the first two phrases together. This is Dett's expression of "prophetic significance." Even though he does not specify what that significance is, the hope for a promised land, so central to a people that had the common experience of losing their homeland and freedom, cannot have been far from his imagination. This vision crashes into despair with a sudden turn to Bb major at m. 101, followed by a wailing chromatic line descending over chromatic harmonies. The bass voice from the beginning call and response section closes in resignation. No. 3 “Honey – Humoresque” Allegretto F major Literally, "Honey" is a colloquialism - the familiar term of endearment (South). It may mean much, little, everything or nothing; the intimation here, is one of coquetry. It is after a poem, "A Negro Love Song" by Paul Laurence Dunbar...Flirt all you please with Honey 21 Dunbar's poem is quoted in Fig. 21. Dunbar was the first African-American poet to obtain national and international prominence. He was born in Dayton, OH, the son of former slaves and wrote verse during school days while working at a job running an elevator. His fame rests almost wholly upon his Negro dialect poetry, dialect poetry having a general vogue during and after his lifetime. Its vogue resulted from its qualities of "tenderness, sentimentality, homely humor, genial optimism." 22 His mother worked for the family of Wilbur and Orville Wright who helped young Laurence. Dunbar met Frederick Douglass in 1893. His reputation was enhanced after Dodd Mead and Co. combined Dunbar's first two books and published them as Lyrics of a Lowly Life. 21 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 42. 22 Johnson, Book of American Negro Poetry, 49-50. 76 “A Negro Love Song” Seen my lady home las' night, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh, Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye, An' a smile go flittin' by-- Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine, Jump back, honey, jump back. Mockin'-bird was singin' fine, Jump back, honey, jump back. An' my hea't was beatin' so, When I reached my lady's do', Dat I could n't ba' to go--- Jump back, honey, jump back. Put my ahm aroun' huh wais', Jump back, honey, jump back. Raised huh lips an' took a tase, Jump back, honey, jump back. Love me, honey, love me true? Love me well ez I love you? An' she answe'd, "Cose I do"--- Jump back, honey, jump back 23 FIGURE 21 - "A Negro Love Song" Paul Laurence Dunbar 23 Johnson, Book of American Negro Poetry, 52-53. 77 The capriciousness and tenderness of “Honey” is a welcome contrast to the darkness of the end of “His Song.” Dett perfectly captures the tender excitement of the young man thinking about his love with the syncopated left-hand (the rhythmic motif in augmentation) and right- hand grace-note anticipations. The sudden halt and rising fourth in the fourth measure, which repeats after each phrase, imitates the "jump back, honey, jump back" refrain of the poem (Fig. 22). A restatement in A minor is followed by a coquettish pair of phrases (mm. 17-20) with a tango rhythm in the left hand, ending lusingando. The young man does a few quick moves to entertain his lady. The opening returns once more. The next section, molto meno mosso e parlando (Fig. 23), represents a dialogue between the two lovers, as Raymond Jackson states. 24 He asks her if she loves him in a more pleading pair of phrases in mm. 37-40, waits for her answer during the echoing statements in mm. 41-44, and jumps in happiness at "Cose I do!" in the ending Allegro con brio. “Honey” is a short and masterful representation of Dunbar's charming vernacular poem without being a literal setting of its text. 24 Jackson, 30. 78 FIGURE 22 - "Honey" - Opening 79 FIGURE 23 - "Honey" - Recitative 80 No. 4 “Barcarolle – Morning” Moderato molto grazioso C major The rhythmic figure, - [Dett quotes the short, long, short rhythm] which forms the theme of this Barcarolle is in reality, the rhythmic motif of the whole Suite; it is of most frequent occurrence in the music of the ante-bellum folk-dances, and its marked individuality has caused it to be much misused for purposes of caricature. Here it paints the pleasure of a sunshiny morning on the Father of Waters...let your love of the beautiful in Nature permeate the Barcarolle. 25 Miles describes this piece as being in the style of Chopin. 26 The florid right-hand scales and arpeggios over left-hand bass notes and chords do suggest the same texture as many Chopin pieces, although there is little similarity between this piece and Chopin's “Barcarolle.” There are two alternating sections. The first begins with a left-hand vamp setting up the swaying barcarolle motion (Fig. 24). A humorous, piquant chord containing A and A# (which Dett arpeggiates in his recording) is heard in the second measure. A graceful right-hand glissando brings in the melody. It contains the rhythmic motif, with the ingenious addition of another eighth note in between each occurrence, creating a 6/8 meter. The arabesques, ranging to the highest register, musically paint the "sunshiny morning" sparkling on the water. 25 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 42. 26 Miles, 29. 81 FIGURE 24 - “Barcarolle - Morning" - Opening 82 The second section is also cleverly written for the piano (Fig. 25). A swaying melody and bass line, both in octaves, are punctuated by sixteenth groups and chords in the upper register. This texture, in addition to the now longer phrase lengths, beautifully creates the sound of open space on a large river. The entire section is written on four staves. The phrases build, never straying far from C major. A small interlude leads back to the playful glissando and first section. FIGURE 25 - "Barcarolle" - Second theme After only three phrases an oddly sounding whole-tone scale intrudes into the arabesques at m. 69, leading to a hesitant sounding close in E major. A strange five-measure detour, poco piu mosso e decisivo, now begins (mm. 71-75 – Fig. 26). The hypnotic swaying barcarolle disappears, as well as the regular phrase lengths. Quickly shifting harmonies become more chromatic, the tempo accelerates, crescendo is written three times, until a series of French-sixth chords descends precipitously. The tempo is suddenly regained along with the swaying rhythm and the melody, but with a more aggressive glissando. Finally all settles back down into C major. Obviously, the boat has hit some rough waters and the rider has had to 83 work quickly to prevent it from capsizing. This is a remarkable, and wonderfully descriptive passage, presaging Dett's later fascination with whole-tone color and parallel chords. FIGURE 26 - "Barcarolle" mm. 71-75 The material of the second section returns, more reflectively. A remarkable repetition of four notes, D, E, F, E, builds and is harmonized most ingeniously. Three dreamy arpeggios close the piece. In 1919 or 1920, Dett made a recording of “Morning-Barcarolle” for the Broome Special Phonograph label. George W. Broome was a black promoter based in Boston, whom Dett perhaps met while studying at Harvard. In addition, Dett is believed to be the first black pianist to make a piano roll, in 1912. 27 Dett's recording, with some cuts probably necessitated by the recording media, is fleet, light and capricious. Interestingly, he performs the double notes in the second section slightly unevenly, as in swing. 28 27 Tim Brooks, Lost Sounds: Blacks and the Birth of the Recording Industry, 1890-1919 (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 488-490. 28 Nathaniel Dett, “Barcarolle,” Nathaniel Dett, piano, in Lost Sounds: Blacks and the Birth of the Recording Industry, 1890-1919. Archeophone Records ARCH 1005, 2-CD set. 84 No. 5 “Dance- Juba” Non troppo allegro F major Opening – Fig. 27 Dance - This is probably the most characteristic number of the Suite, as it portrays more of the social life of the people. "Juba" is the stamping on the ground with the foot and following it with two staccato pats of the hands in two-four time. At least one-third of the dancers keep time in this way, while the others dance. Sometimes all will combine together in order to urge on a solo dancer to more frantic (and at the same time more fantastic) endeavors. The orchestra usually consists of a single "fiddler," perched high on a box or table; who, forgetful of self in the rather hilarious excitement of the hour, does the impossible in the way of double stopping and bowing...A word of warning cannot be suppressed in regard to the tempo of the "Dance." Do not take it too fast! Much of the dancing in the bottoms is done with a grace and finish that a Presto tempo never could suggest. 29 There are several arrangements of “Dance-Juba:” for two pianos, band, orchestra, and one for piano and mixed chorus that Dett made himself in 1934. Dett wrote words for this that described a king named Juba. The Juba dance (simplified from giouba) was an African step dance which somewhat resembled a jig with elaborate variations, and occurs wherever the Negro settled, whether in the West Indies or South Carolina. One variation – crossing and uncrossing the hands against kneecaps which fanned back and forth – was incorporated in the Charleston of the nineteen twenties. Juba and Jube are recurrent slave names particularly associated with dancers and musicians. Juba also occurs as the name of a supernatural being in some American Negro folklore . . . 30 When the use of drums or any kind of instruments by slaves was outlawed in 1740, slaves used objects such as bones, scraps of metal, and, most significantly, their feet to circumvent the laws. The virtuosity of tap dancing was a way to substitute for drumming. 31 29 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 42. 30 Marian Hannah Winter, “Juba and American Minstrelsy,” Chronicles of the American Dance, ed. Paul Magriel (New York: Da Capo Press, Inc., 1948), 40 31 Ibid., 40. 85 FIGURE 27 - "Dance-Juba" - Opening 86 Juba was also an historical dancer, by all accounts a spectacular virtuoso, in the mid- nineteenth century, who toured with a troupe across the United States and England. A free African-American, born William Henry Lane around 1825, he was “Beyond question the very greatest of all dancers. He was possessed not only of wonderful and unique execution, but also of unsurpassed grace and endurance.” 1 Dett was inspired to create this piece by watching two boys playing and dancing in front of his studio cottage at Lane. Watching as they played he caught the rhythm and only after completing the work discovered the rhythm to be that of an early New Orleans dance called "Juba," hence the title." 2 “Dance-Juba” is a rondo, A-B-A-C-A-coda. The rondo form aptly suggests Dett’s description of the dance, alternating a circle of onlookers with a smaller group of dancers. All the figurations contribute to the infectious, rhythmic propulsion of the piece. A foot stomp, followed by two quick hand claps, is represented in the left hand, the fiddle part in fourths in the right. The parallel fourths and pentatonic layout of the right hand and the simple alternation between I and ii harmonies in the left are traits suggested by African folk music. The first episode is a bit more boisterous, with percussive repeated notes played with both hands. The ascending walking bass line imitates more foot stomping. 3 The third section is more characteristic with the right hand humorously crossing over the left throughout. Jackson imaginatively likens its humorous bass line to "the take-off of a string-bass player whose musical escapade is accompanied with great delight by the strumming of the banjo." 4 To return to the first material Dett writes a longer modulatory passage replacing the fourths of the opening with 1 Winter, “Juba and American Minstrelsy” 42. 2 McBrier, Life and Works, 16. 3 Jackson, 31. 4 Ibid., 32. 87 sixths, increasing the difficulty. The coda accumulates excitement until the piece ends with a final statement of the rhythmic motif (m. 102) in large chords. Dett's metronome marking of = 120-144, is a somewhat large span of possible speeds. The upper end of this range sounds quite fast, making Dett's emphatic warning about too much speed (reminiscent of Scott Joplin's warnings for ragtime) somewhat puzzling. A case could be made for a brisk speed from recordings of fast tempo spirituals such as “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho” and “Religion is a Fortune” by period groups such as the Dixie Jubilee Singers. 5 The rhythm of “Religion is a Fortune” is also a bit similar to that of “Dance-Juba.” These recordings have great rhythmic precision, verve, and drive, which Grainger successfully captured in his piano roll, which is quick, at a speed of about 138. Whatever the tempo chosen, the piece needs to have both the grace but also the dash of Dett's description of the dancers, as well as Juba, the dancer. 5 A later and distinct group from the Fisk Jubilee Singers. 88 CHAPTER 6 ENCHANTMENT Enchantment, written in 1922, represents a departure on many levels from Dett's earlier suites. It is the least influenced by folk or ethnic idioms of Dett's suites and has a unique formal structure, following a program written by Dett. The fast, slow, fast, slow sequence of the movements, as well as their key relationships, C# minor, E major, C# minor, and A major, suggest a sonata. The cyclic use of themes across movements and thematic transformation also suggests that Dett was interested in more formal structures at this time, specifically the nineteenth-century approach to the writing of sonatas and other large works. On December 12, 1919, Grainger performed the premiere of Cyril Scott's first piano sonata in Boston, which was reviewed by Olin Downes. 6 Dett attended this performance; Grainger also performed “Dance-Juba” with much success, which Dett acknowledged. “Reflets dans l'eaux” and “Jardins sous la pluie” of Debussy were also performed on this program, which Grainger repeated in New York in 1920. Grainger wrote extensive program notes, offering his opinion that Scott's sonata was the most significant written since Brahms (reviewers of these concerts were more skeptical). It is certainly possible that Dett's hearing of the Scott sonata had an effect on his piano style and influenced his interest in the form. Parallel altered seventh and ninth chords begin to occur in Dett's music; these are features of Scott's music as well. Dett was evidently less interested in Scott's experiments in irregular meters, staying firmly rooted in rhythms derived from Negro folk music. Scott's own use of mystical ideas as subject matter for musical compositions, e.g. Scott's piano suite In The Garden of Soul Sympathy (1912), may also have appealed to Dett. 6 Olin Downes, concert review, Boston Post, December 12, 1919, R. Nathaniel Dett collection, Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. I-407. 89 The idea of writing a sonata-like suite with an extra-musical, narrative program, is unusual in keyboard music and is more common to the symphonic poems of Liszt, Tchaikovsky and Richard Strauss. An orchestral score of Liszt's Les Preludes was included in Dett's papers given to the Eastman School of Music. The keyboard writing in Enchantment is also more orchestral than that in Dett's first two suites. As discussed above, Dett's program strongly suggests a Rosicrucian connection, specifically an initiation rite. Dett's complete title and program: 7 Enchantment, A Romantic Suite for Piano on an Original Program I “Incantation” II “Song Of the Shrine” III “Dance Of Desire” IV “Beyond the Dream” The Program "What seek you? Say! And what do you expect?" "I know not what: the Unknown I would have!" What's known to me is endless; I would go Beyond the end. The last word still is wanting." I. INCANTATION A soul obsessed by a desire for the unattainable, journeying on an endless quest, wanders into a pagan temple, and there yields to an overpowering impulse of the moment to utter an Incantation before the shrine of an unknown goddess. II. SONG OF THE SHRINE From somewhere far within the shrine a mysterious voice answers - a "voice of molten melody Singing love that may not be." III. DANCE OF DESIRE A drum beats, and a gong sounds; strange shapes assemble for a carnival of passion, into whose company and revelry the soul finds itself drawn irresistibly. In the urge of the music the Incantation mingles with the now mocking Song of the Shrine. 7 R. Nathaniel Dett, The Collected Piano Works, 70-71. 90 After a mad swirl, there is a final crash, at the sound of which the apparitions vanish. IV. BEYOND THE DREAM And, as in a vision, the soul sees itself transfigured, appearing unto itself as an ever-shifting shoal of pale, opalescent fire, from which there rises in a visible exhalation, like smoke from smoldering incense, the still unsatisfied longing for the unattainable. I “Incantation” Un poco agitato, ma moderato C# minor This movement uses two alternating themes that capture the questioning petitions for initiation outlined in Dett's program. Many tempo alterations are indicated, requiring a rubato, parlando, and improvisatory performing style. The first theme (Fig. 28) outlines a triad, sweeping with large intervals up and down, played with the right hand thumb and harmonized with parallel augmented triads. Two shorter initial phrases are followed by a down-up sweep in triplets, marked accelerando which gives a precipitato effect, closing in the dominant. This group is repeated with left-hand syncopations, which give more urgency, ending on the tonic. The augmented triads show Dett's increasing interest in harmonies built on whole tones. Further material in the dominant minor follows using the same short-short-long phrase structure and making use of extended registers. The opening phrases return ending in a cascade of interlocking octaves and forceful C# minor close (Fig. 29). The petitioner has become more insistent, even angry. Dett's beloved augmented sixth chord occurs in m. 43, now including a ninth. 91 FIGURE 28 - "Incantation” - First theme 92 FIGURE 29 - "Incantation” – First section close The second section, mm. 48-93, in the relative major, features questions and answers, somewhat like call and response, but contrasting in character (Fig. 30). The questions are sequences of four chords in low register, all indicated with fermatas, and using altered seventh and ninths. The answers are in the high register in triplets marked Poco Allegro, capriccioso. The questioner is receiving evasive answers. Playful, delicate arpeggios are followed by another cascade, this time of parallel major chords. The questions return more forcefully, with richer chords and Dett playing with registral contrasts. 93 FIGURE 30 - "Incantation” – Second theme The remainder of the movement develops these elements in a fantasia. The opening theme, now re-harmonized, modulates through many keys alternating with the arpeggio idea. Two ninth-chord arpeggios sweeping up the entire compass of the keyboard, lead to a triumphant version of the opening in C# major, now played with both thumbs two octaves apart and heavy offbeat chords, a very orchestral texture. This is quickly dissembled by a series of descending chromatic chords and an even heavier statement of the theme, now in minor. The sequence of a triumphant statement followed suddenly by a darker minor one recalls the close of “His Song.” More octaves and sixteenth sextuplet chords build into a Lisztian fury interrupted by a pause. One more question and answer is followed by a presto cadenza using a diminution of the first theme, chords marching up the keyboard, and a prestissimo volante descent. The movement closes with major sub-dominant and tonic chords – this progression also colors “Dance of Desire.” The effect of the whole movement is of restless, emotional questioning. 94 II “Song of the Shrine” Lento con molto espressione E Major Opening – Fig. 31 This movement was a favorite of Dett and Grainger, who often performed it separately. There is a report of a performance of an organ arrangement in Chicago by one Theodore Phillips. 8 It is a look backward to the sugary salon style of some of Magnolia. The swaying left- hand accompaniment is more suggestive of the movements of a choir than “Magnolias,” however. It is in a strophic song form, the melody employing trochaic rhythms, with only one modulation to C# minor, marked doloroso. The idiomatic piano writing includes widely spaced left-hand harmonies and placement of the melody in middle voice with a counter melody above (mm. 9-12) require good voicing skills from the player. Dreamy arabesques up and down the keyboard provide decoration. The melody's rising and falling shape expresses a yearning character. FIGURE 31 - "Song of the Shrine” 8 Concert review, Maude Roberts George, Chicago Defender, unknown date, R. Nathaniel Dett collection, Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. I-471. 95 A long soliloquy from mm. 55 using imitative statements of the melody and long E pedal points (suggesting a rendition on organ) creates a wistful close, including some altered seventh and thirteenth chords towards the end. Perhaps Dett felt he needed to cleanse the palate after Incantation with a piece in a simpler, more retrospective style. Although it may strike some listeners as overly sentimental, the piano writing is always skillful and rewarding to the player. III “Dance of Desire” Con moto modulating introduction leading to C# minor An early reviewer wrote of “Dance of Desire's” “striking and barbaric orientalism, . . . throbbing tom-toms and primal drums,. . . swaying melody line, and frenetic presto ending in octaves . . . a splendid passionate evocation of the savage Oriental dance at its musical best." 9 Overlooking the somewhat amusing characterizations, in need of updating; this is a good description of Enchantment's most developed movement, which forms the center of the suite. Drumming on fifths in the bass and other imitations of percussion provide rhythmic propulsion. Frequent octave passages and low chromatic runs show the influence of Liszt and contribute to the orchestral texture. These qualities, combined with thematic transformation of themes heard in the previous two movements, (see Fig. 32 and 34) recall the Bacchanale movements of Berlioz (Symphonie Fantastique) and Liszt (Faust Symphony). Perhaps a tribute to Grainger, this movement is Dett's biggest bow to the nineteenth-century tradition of orchestral piano writing, of which Liszt was the greatest exponent. Dett’s version of this genre sounds considerably more folk-like, however, making it seem a little mismatched with the program. It is fun and attractive music nonetheless. 9 Anonymous review "A New romantic Piano Suite on Original Program by R. Nathaniel Dett," courtesy Oberlin College Archives, cited in Simpson, 376. 96 The piece begins with 52 measures of material, which, due to their start-and-stop nature and gathering momentum, have the feel of an introduction. Alternating drumming on an anapest rhythm, alternates with a low ninth chord and arpeggio sweep up the keyboard (the gong from Dett’s program). The sequence repeats in a circle-of-fifths progression. Tambourines are then suggested in rhythmic fifths and minor seconds in the left hand accompanied by capriccioso right-hand flourishes. A rising sequence of chromatic chords leads to an agitated passage with syncopated chords, first on black keys, then on white keys. Dett later takes up this idea of alternating seventh chords on black and white keys more extensively in “The Daybreak Charioteer” in Tropic Winter. A frenetic statement of the first “Incantation” theme is heard over pulsing syncopated chords (Fig. 32), leading to a black-key octave passage (mm. 45-48), which suggests Dett’s practicing of Chopin's black key etude as a youth at Oberlin. Rumbling left-hand octaves, practically lifted from Liszt's “Waldesrauschen,” close on C# minor at bar 53. The black key octaves point to F# major, the major sub-dominant of the main key. FIGURE 32 - "Dance of Desire" - Transformation of “Incantation” theme From this point on, a relentless rhythmic drive powers the movement. The main dance theme is folk-like (Fig. 33), with its mostly pentatonic mode and the same short-long-short rhythm that Dett uses as the motif for In the Bottoms, all over an eighth-note ostinato. Dett's favorite augmented sixth chord appears in m. 75, followed by a pentatonic cascade (mm. 80-83), the eighth-note ostinato pulsing all the while. A suspenseful sotto voce transition leads to a 97 sequence of chromatic chords (mm. 94 - 106) over accented bass syncopations. An espressivo flourish on what Dett calls the "Byzantine scale" leads to a development-like section. FIGURE 33 - "Dance of Desire" - Main theme The drumming opening now alternates with the "first theme," passing through many keys. At m. 146 the “Song of the Shrine” makes its "mocking" appearance in Eb, (Fig. 34) using its rising portion, alternating with angry statements of the dance theme, forte marcato, in the deep bass. More pianistic material follows, taking advantage of extremes of registers, chromatic parallel chords, and relentless syncopations. 98 FIGURE 34 - "Dance of Desire" - Transformation of “Song of the Shrine” theme At m. 176 a sort of recapitulation occurs, followed by more “Incantation” statements rising up the keyboard over Lisztian arpeggios. Low rumbling chromatic scales, angry statements of the dance theme in the bass, and a storm of octaves finish the piece on an sff C# minor chord. All together, this movement is a fascinating amalgam of nineteenth century virtuoso piano writing, thematic transformation, African drumming, African-American short-long-short dance rhythms, and chromatic harmony. It strongly suggests orchestration; perhaps if Dett believed himself more skilled in instrumentation, he would have created an orchestral version. IV “Beyond the Dream” Andante patetico A Major Opening – Fig. 35 After the mini symphonic poem of “Dance of Desire,” “Beyond the Dream” returns to the world of salon piano music, however with more sophistication than “Song of the Shrine.” A modified sonata form is used with two themes that are developed and recapitulated. Dett expertly uses extremes of register and wandering harmonic colors, often using chromatic third relationships, to communicate the idea of endlessness, reaching for something intangible and unattainable. 99 FIGURE 35 - "Beyond the Dream" - Opening 100 As Franz Liszt was lurking in “Dance of Desire,” Edvard Grieg, tinged at times with Wagner, makes a bow in this piece. Dett’s tribute to Grieg was perhaps made with Grainger, a protégé of Grieg, in mind. Dett also performed the “Notturno,” op. 54, no. 4 on a recital in 1935, so it is safe to assume that he was familiar with Grieg's popular piece when he composed Enchantment. Dett even marks the movement quasi notturno. The rhythmic relationship between the melody and accompaniment in mm. 3-4, which becomes pervasive later, duplicates the second melodic strain in Grieg's piece. The melody itself borrows part of the second theme from the last movement of Grieg’s Piano Concerto, op. 16. The accompaniment plays the second and third notes of a triplet, tying the first note, while the melody plays a duplet in cross rhythm. Whereas Grieg requires the cross rhythms to be played in one hand (often causing anguish to intermediate level piano students), Dett places them in different hands, taking advantage of registral differences, which become extreme in the second phrase. An eight-bar phrase is followed by two four-bar phrases that elide into a restatement. The restatement is imaginatively reharmonized with an A seventh chord proceeding down in parallel second-inversion triads, injecting a bit of blues sound with the flatted seventh. The restatement uses ornamented and broken sixths to harmonize the melody in effective bell-like piano writing. Short phrases in C# major and C major, E major (all chromatic third relations) dissolve into arpeggios, falling gradually down to a large E major arpeggio, passing through an inverted A ninth chord, again adding a blues color. A second tenor melody now follows, continuing the “Notturno” cross rhythm, with a rising and falling chromatic shape. A prominent harmony is a B half-diminished seventh chord over an E pedal, a sonority which also occurs often in Grieg's Piano Concerto. A modulation through C major to F major leads to another melody whose shape and harmonic sequences sound borrowed from “Liebestod” from Wagner's Tristan und Isolde, the “Notturno” cross 101 rhythm going all the while. This gathers momentum and plows up the keyboard on the B half- diminished seventh/E pedal sonority - marked stretto, another favorite Grieg indication. The falling-rising minor third motif makes an impassioned statement, planing down chromatically in major chords to two arpeggios through the entire keyboard range, again on a B half-diminished seventh/E pedal, and E Major. Perhaps this moment is the "visible exhalation" rising from the "opalescent fire" in the program. It leaves the music in a kind of suspension. Following Dett’s indicated pausa is a transition back to the opening material featuring the falling-rising third motif in diminution answered by swooning chromatic triads, sounding like a glissando. This repeats down the keyboard and rises again in a wedge-like chromatic figure to the return of the opening, now harmonized in tenths and sixths. More chromatic third relations are featured in phrases in Ab and C. A countermelody in cross rhythms is added, now both played in the right hand, requiring fine tonal control from the player. The second theme is heard sequentially through A, Db, F and A, outlining the augmented triad that opens the suite, answered by a fragments of the first theme. Increasingly tranquil phrases close with two- measure chords in mm. 191-199 and mm. 207-223, the latter with two-measure rests separating them. The final seven measures are an A major arpeggio reaching from the lowest note on the keyboard to the highest A. Space and suspension are expressed in this movement through masterful use of registers, well-voiced chords and cross rhythms. The completely idiomatic writing would not translate well to the orchestra. 102 CHAPTER 7 CINNAMON GROVE Simpson describes Cinnamon Grove as "not as popular as Dett's preceding suites, the overall mood of the first three parts is noticeably less active, less difficult for the pianist, and less dazzling as program music." 1 Its music is definitely lighter, and the style more conservative, than Enchantment, although the final movement contains some innovations of white-key diatonicism and quartal harmonies, which point forward to the third period of suites. Its most interesting aspects are perhaps the fusion of suite and sonata, as well as the poetic associations. Charles Griffes, in Roman Sketches, op. 7 (1915-1916), also a suite with poetic associations, could possibly have been a model, in addition to the MacDowell Sea Pieces mentioned previously. I Moderato molto grazioso, ma con moto on lines from "The Dream" by John Donne "Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream." (see Appendix A for complete poem) F major The Elizabethan era poetry of John Donne (1572-1631) ranges from erotic love poems written in his youth, to metaphysical and religious sermons written after he converted to Anglicanism and became a priest. After a long eclipse his poetry experienced a strong revival beginning in the early 20 th century. 2 The Dream is an erotic poem about a woman who wakes a man while he is dreaming about her, essentially a wet dream in Donne's conception. He then attempts to seduce her, 1 Simpson, 385. 2 M. Thomas Hester, Oxford Encyclopedia of British Literature, ed. David Scott Kastan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), Current Online Version: 2012, accessed November 3, 2013, http://www.oxfordreference.com.libproxy.temple.edu/view/10.1093/acref/9780195169218.001.0001/ac ref-9780195169218-e-0141?rskey=tOpAyw&result=140. 103 then she draws away. Sex and morality are the issues here, presented with the puns and sometimes obscene metaphors of Donne's style. Donne was also known for overturning the strict meters of Elizabethan poetry, perhaps a quality that appealed to Dett. Dett's very light, somewhat syrupy, piece, takes up the dream aspect of the poem without touching on its eroticism and obscenity. It is in the style of salon music, with very minor pianistic challenges, suitable for an intermediate student. Its indicated 4/4 meter should be performed as 2/2, due to its flowing eighth-note figures and static harmonies. Some rubato could be added to suggest an improvisation. Added sixth and ninth chords and diatonic harmonies communicate a dreamy, floating quality. The form is an unassuming sonata-allegro without development. Even the key relationships are traditional, with a second theme section in the dominant. This begins in m. 38 with a new melody presented in an inner voice, following a modulatory section (mm. 30-37) with more ninth chords. A quarter-triplet figure, also in an inner voice, begins in m. 52. More material follows based on the opening theme. A left-hand arpeggio under right-hand chords closes the section, like a passage straight out of Claude Debussy's early “Reverie.” The opening reappears with very minor changes, and all the previous material is uneventfully recapitulated in F major. 104 II Adagio cantabile on lines from Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore "When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes." (see Appendix B for complete poem) Db major Entire movement – Fig. 36 3 Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), Indian polymath, was the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize for literature in 1913. "Tall, robed, and bearded, he made a profound physical impression in the West." 4 Tagore obviously was a poet close to Dett's heart since this piece is in an entirely different order than the preceding one. It is one of his most beautiful and touching creations. Tagore must have been an inspiring figure for Dett, in a similar way to Coleridge- Taylor. Tagore symbolized the achievements of non-white cultures, not only in literature, but also in education, and philosophy. His friendship with Gandhi, and renouncing of knighthood following British massacres in India, made him also a political and social figure of high stature. Tagore was also a composer of songs, whose rabindrasangit style was named after him. 5 That possibly prompted Dett's interest in Gitanjali (1910), which is subtitled "Song Offerings,” and specifically the second of its long series of poems, which opens with "When thou commandest me to sing." 3 Cinnamon Grove by Robert Nathaniel Dett © 1928 (Renewed) SUMMY-BIRCHARD, INC. Exclusive Print Rights Controlled by ALFRED MUSIC All Rights Reserved Used by permission. 4 Encyclopedia Brittanica, quoted in Simpson, 387. 5 Simpson, 387. 105 106 FIGURE 36 - Cinnamon Grove Movement II 107 The style is choral, in four-part harmony throughout. The first three phrases are completely diatonic, except for flatted sevenths (Cb) in lower voices (mm. 3 and 4), and the climax at the close of the third, using once again an augmented-sixth chord. The flatted sevenths, so early in the piece, establish a connection to spirituals right away. The sequential leaps in the melody in the third phrase effectively contrast with the stepwise motion in the opening two. Rich, flowing lower voices also move in steps. The Db major tonality, associated with expressive keyboard music in the nineteenth century, completes the effect of unabashed romanticism. Dett's great abilities in choral writing serve well here. One phrase, mm. 25-28 is chosen to be repeated with ever richer harmonizations and lower voices in mm. 33-36 and mm. 45-48. Following the last of these, the music dissembles a bit with chromatically moving ninth chords beginning with a somewhat surprising downward leap at m. 51. A touch of minor sub-dominant harmony at m. 64 leads to the close on a simple I- vi-I progression, another example of Dett's predilection for this harmonic relationship. This piece was published separately in the October, 1933 edition of Etude. Simpson suggests a rendition by a brass quintet; 6 perhaps a string quartet version would be the best choice of an arrangement (in a different key), besides a choral version. 6 Simpson, p. 387. 108 III Ritmo moderato e con sentimento Quasi Gavotte on lines from "Epimetheus" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Have I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision. When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian?" (see Appendix C for complete poem) Bb minor As a boy Dett was taught to memorize much poetry by his mother. This presumably included the poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), the dean of nineteenth- century American poetry. Longfellow was also the author of Hiawatha, which was set by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor in his ground-breaking oratorio. Epimetheus uses a monotonous repetition of anapest, iamb, amphibrach rhythm, and an unvarying rhyme scheme. Dett seems less interested in the meaning of the poem, aside from its reference to a wedding (hymeneal) march, than in its repetitive, hypnotic rhythm. Dett's gavotte begins with a full measure rather than the half-measure typical of a traditional Baroque gavotte (Fig. 37) 7 . A march-like rhythm proceeds for two measures which then continues in an unbroken series of eighth notes. The square rhythm is broken only by a low drone of a fifth played on the second beat of the first measure. A three-eighth-note upbeat figure becomes prominent beginning in the second measure. Augmented-sixth chords in mm. 13-14 lead to a half close on the dominant at m. 16. A second dance strain then begins, suggesting a traditional binary form. This section includes a surprising approach to the distant key of A major in m. 31, which then closes on the tonic. 7 Cinnamon Grove, used by permission of Summy-BIrchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 109 FIGURE 37 - Cinnamon Grove Movement III – Opening The most remarkable trait of this piece is its pianistic texture. Parallel legato thirds, sixths, and octaves that sometimes enclose thirds, are everywhere. Nowhere else does Dett make such a reference to Johannes Brahms. Similarly to Brahms, it requires considerable skill from the player to perform the double notes and octaves legato in a softer dynamic. The first section closes more powerfully. The trio, Maggiore, is very simple, in a much thinner texture than the first section, and features a variation of the opening rhythm, two quarters and four eighths, in retrograde (four eighths and two quarters). The descending whole-tone scale in m. 8 is curious, contrasting with the diatonicism of most of the remainder of the piece. The 110 minor section is heard again as before. A nine-measure coda builds to powerful chords and another somewhat odd run of chromatic major thirds over a contrary motion bass. IV Allegretto "Oh, the winter'll soon be over, children, Yes, my Lord." F major In Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro as Sung at Hampton Institute, Dett sets “De Winter'll Soon Be Ober” with a pulsing ostinato on "winter" underneath the melody (see also Fig. 3). 8 In the last movement of Cinnamon Grove he reproduces this in smooth thirds in lower right-hand voices. The player should keep in mind the ostinato character of Dett's setting, suggesting a steady, non-rubato tempo. Dett's metronome mark of  = 104 in Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro is also a helpful guide. A left-hand dactylic arpeggio provides rhythmic variety. "Yes, my Lord" is repeated in mm. 15-16, creating a regular four-measure phrase grouping whose half close on the dominant in m. 16 (Fig. 38) 9 is answered by a full close in m. 32 (Fig. 39). 10 8 Dett, Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro as Sung at Hampton Institute, 82-83. 9 Cinnamon Grove, used by permission of Summy-BIrchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 10 Ibid. 111 FIGURE 38 - Cinnamon Grove Movement IV - Opening to m. 16 112 FIGURE 39 - Cinnamon Grove Movement IV m. 29 – m. 32 Dett strongly suggests Haydn in closing this suite-quasi-sonata with a rondo in 2/4. He perhaps also chose Haydn as a model because of Haydn's folk influences. The more aggressive B section, beginning at m. 33, is the first example of white-key diatonicism in Dett's piano music. The opening dactyl is extended, and continues with rather brusque widely-spaced octaves and chords. A striking series of quartal harmonies in mm. 53-56 (Fig. 40), 11 with offbeat accents, leads to the A section. This version puts the melody in the middle, with the thirds far above in addition to the bass line. This three-hand effect, straight out of Liszt, is considerably difficult (Fig. 41) 12 . FIGURE 40 - Cinnamon Grove Movement IV - Quartal harmonies 11 Cinnamon Grove, used by permission of Summy-BIrchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 12 Ibid. 113 FIGURE 41 - Cinnamon Grove Movement IV - Three-hand effect The C section, Minore in D minor, has short, regular phrases that use the dactyl rhythm in augmentation (Fig. 42) 13 . The fourth phrase, as noted before, is from “Run to Jesus” and is in Dorian mode. The espressivo marking provides a clue that it has a special identity. 13 Cinnamon Grove, used by permission of Summy-BIrchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 114 FIGURE 42 - Cinnamon Grove Movement IV - Second theme The first melody returns now in several keys. Quartal harmonies reappear in mm. 129 and 131 as well as a polytonal (E major, Db major) contrary motion scale in mm. 133-135. The music gradually gathers steam, with a new molto marcato melody played in octaves, sudden dynamic shifts, the three-hand spiritual variation, and a brief return of the "B" section, all in rapid succession. Noisy octaves and chords and a final volante flourish up the keyboard to close the movement. The children have gotten more and more excited and rowdy, joyously running about. 115 CHAPTER 8 TROPIC WINTER The ten-year period separating the composition of Cinnamon Grove and Tropic Winter was taken up with Dett's master's degree studies at Eastman and the composition of his largest work, the oratorio Ordering of Moses. At Eastman, Dett studied with Howard Hanson (1896- 1981), gaining more knowledge of and exposure to various twentieth-century compositional techniques and styles. Tropic Winter is the most experimental, most varied in style, and least integrated of the suites. Perhaps as a result, it is the least performed. As of this writing it has never received a commercial recording. Some of the movements, such as “The Daybreak Charioteer,” ” A Bayou Garden,” and “Noon Siesta,” are strikingly modernist, and are a significant departure from Dett's earlier works. Others are more backward looking or have roots in popular music of the time, such as “Pompons and Fans” and the closing movement, “Parade of the Jasmine Banners.” Here Dett returns to the concept of portraying images in music, although his notion of "tropic" seems somewhat vague. Dett's great lyric talent shines in “Legend of the Atoll” and “To a Closed Casement.” These two pieces form the emotional center of the suite. Even in Dett's most forward-looking music, melodic inspiration is central to his style. Solo piano music is an ideal vehicle for exploring novel and experimental ideas. Robert Schumann, Franz Liszt, Claude Debussy, Arnold Schoenberg, and Olivier Messiaen, to name only a few, are examples of composers that used this medium to break new ground in musical style. Dett has left behind the integrated sonata structures of Enchantment and Cinnamon Grove to try out new directions and sounds, unconstrained by the requirements of texts and large constructions that he needed to address in Ordering of Moses. 116 Of course the nature of experiments is that some are more successful than others, and the seven pieces of Tropic Winter are no exception. It could be said that, of the six, this suite is the most concerned with various types of harmonic sonorities. Most of the pieces seem to explore and play with a particular sound: “The Daybreak Charioteer” with minor seventh chords, ”A Bayou Garden” with fourths, “Pompons and Fans” with augmented chords, “To A Closed Casement” and “Noon Siesta” with white-key diatonicism. “Legend of the Atoll” returns to musical idioms from spirituals, “Parade of the Jasmine Banners” combines major seventh and ninth chords, and pentatonic melodies with a popular band sound. “The Daybreak Charioteer” Pomposo marziale moderato No key signature indicated; centered in Gb major/Eb minor Opening – Fig. 43 14 Sketches of portions of this piece are present in a notebook in the Hampton University Archives that dates from Dett’s time at Eastman. Dett chooses to open his last two suites with music that uses the piano's maximum resources of power. An image of a flaming chariot, guiding the sun up from the horizon, is expressed by an extremely thick texture of eight- or nine- note chords and octaves over the whole range of the instrument. This is the noisiest of all of Dett's piano movements; at one point he directs the player to brace the third finger with the thumb of the right hand to play single notes (m. 20) for maximum power. The elegance and delicacy of many of the early suite movements are far away. 14 Tropic Winter by Robert Nathaniel Dett © 1938 (Renewed) SUMMY-BIRCHARD, INC. Exclusive Print Rights Controlled by ALFRED MUSIC All Rights Reserved Used by Permission. 117 FIGURE 43 - "Daybreak Charioteer" The piece opens with a Gb major chord in the right hand and an Eb minor chord in the left. This minor seventh chord is the harmonic equivalent of the relative major/relative minor tonal ambiguity that Dett uses in many of his works. This chord moves up a half step to an E minor seventh chord in the second measure. This movement between two unrelated chords, from black keys to white keys, is exploited later, particularly in the coda (mm. 30-41). An octave melody in two-measure phrases rises, harmonized with unrelated minor- seventh chords, over deep bass octaves on weak beats. The effect is of a pompous march, as in Dett's indication. Stormy octave passages alternate with a restatement of the march theme over thick bass triplet chords (m. 24). The coda, con furore, is a tempest of more triplet left- hand octaves and chords on black keys alternating with white keys, ranging over the keyboard with abandon, finally ending with a ten-note Gb added-sixth chord. The effect is not too far from the clusters of Henry Cowell's (1897-1965) wilder pieces. It is a bombastic creation, difficult to bring off convincingly. 118 “A Bayou Garden” Adagio molto sostenuto Bb major Opening – Fig. 44 15 This movement is very evocative of a sultry, steamy garden. It opens pianissimo and is mostly quiet throughout. It is concentrated in the low register, reaching its highest note at its climax. Low right-hand quartal chords are placed over octaves in the deeper bass, also moving in fourths. The rhythms express well the slow swaying of large trees in a quiet breeze. Black keys move to white keys in the third measure, similarly to the opening of the previous movement. A dolce melody (m. 9), approaching Eb minor, slowly descends chromatically over parallel dissonances and fifths in the bass. A surviving sketch from 1931, during Dett's studies at Eastman, shows an earlier version of this section. 16 A rhythm of half-note, dotted-quarter and eighth, is introduced (mm. 13-15) and taken up later. G major is reached, with an added major seventh and ninth in m. 20. Parallel triads, in the rhythm heard in the previous section, build to a climax on a Bb major ninth in measure 28. Bb is finally established, making the key signature superfluous until now. The opening material returns, ending on a Bb major seventh. This short (38 measures) piece is quite effective, Dett using his new techniques of parallel dissonances and harmonic vagueness to express his image. The slowly moving chords are beautifully voiced for the instrument and make excellent use of the bass register. 15 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 16 Simpson, 393. 119 FIGURE 44 - "A Bayou Garden" 120 “Pompons and Fans” Grazioso G major Dett subtitles this movement "Mazurka,” a somewhat curious cross-cultural association for a piece about the tropics. A mazurka rhythm is definitely expressed, however, by its 3/4 meter, downbeat triplet leading to a half-note second beat, and regular four-measure phrases (Fig. 45) 17 . The indication, "hauntingly," in the third measure, suggests a performance in a rather free tempo, like a mazurka. Harmonically, this movement is considerably more conservative than the previous two; G major is firmly established from the beginning. The second pair of four-measure phrases moves to the dominant in m. 16. FIGURE 45 - "Pompons and Fans" 17 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 121 Each measure ends with an augmented chord, subtly upsetting the conventional key relationships. A lithe run in contrary motion major thirds (m. 8) also contribute to a sly, flirtatious character. The first group of four-bar phrases is repeated, which Dett suggests performing an octave higher. A second idea (m. 33), molto semplice, is a scalar dotted-rhythm melody over a non- moving A minor seventh (ii) chord. This repeats on E minor seventh eight measures later. The triplet figure of the opening is developed into a cadenza on the dominant which leads to the opening section. This is heard again but with cleverly shifting augmented chords. The second section also returns, followed by a coda which includes a flourish on an F sharp-eleventh chord (which includes the Eb, G, B augmented triad), and more whole-tone harmonies and parallels. The ending includes a descending bass line in whole tones, a whirling trill in the treble, and emphatic G major chords to close. “Pompons and Fans” is retrospective, recalling “My Lady Love of Magnolia,” simple and beguiling. It also makes extensive use of whole-tone harmonies, such as augmented chords. “Legend of the Atoll” Lento, recitando un poco dolente D major After Dett's musical travels he returns to the language of his beloved Negro folk music in “Legend of the Atoll,” notwithstanding the title. 18 If played well, with sensitivity, it contains some of Dett's most beautiful music, with touching and intimate simplicity. Beginning centered in A, its form is an alternation of solo and chorus, similar to many spirituals. He begins with an unaccompanied recitative, the first occurrence of this texture in Dett's piano music, and one he takes up further in Eight Bible Vignettes. Spiritual style is also 18 Whether or not Dett had a particular legend in mind is not known. 122 suggested by the Scotch snap/Lombard rhythm in the first measure, and the call-and-response- style chordal answers after each phrase. These rise and fall, questioningly, in minor thirds (Fig. 46) 19 . The final recitative phrase prominently features a flatted seventh, G, teneramente. A dreamy arpeggio on an A eleventh chord, and a final falling minor third answer sets up the chorus. FIGURE 46 - "Legend of the Atoll" - Opening A simple yearning, pentatonic melody, in 6/4 trochaic, swaying rhythm, begins in B minor over four-part harmony (Fig. 47) 20 . The second phrase features Dett's favorite augmented-sixth color. Successive phrases build through F# minor on the way to closing calmly in D major. The harmonizations feature relative minor/relative major ambiguity, with some chromatic chords. 19 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 20 Ibid. 123 FIGURE 47 - "Legend of the Atoll" mm. 15-18 All of these elements are heard again, much like the second verse and refrain of a spiritual. The recitative is now centered in D with the melody and chord responses reversed in register. The chorus is more richly harmonized in D major, in octaves, with rich fifths in the bass, and ninth and whole-tone colored chords. Its climax is now a lush D ninth chord. A final phrase of recitative and an adagio amen-like chord progression end the piece quietly and eloquently. “To a Closed Casement” Andante espressivo C major Opening – Fig. 48 21 “To a Closed Casement” is another lyrical expression of wistfulness and yearning. An image of a closed window perhaps suggested longing to Dett. In ternary song form, its first idea experiments with white-key harmonies. The left-hand melody is very simple, in a two-, two-, four-measure phrase structure. It first outlines C major and A minor triads in a trochaic rhythm and continues sequentially to lead to D minor, the key of the second idea. The right hand plays white-key chords in a pulsing eighth-note ostinato. This eighth-note motion continues unbroken through almost the entire piece, until m. 35. 21 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 124 The second idea is more troubled, with downward leaps and ornamentation, now in the right hand. The left hand plays a sighing figure in double notes. The first D minor statement is sequenced downward to C minor, a hint of Rachmaninoff. The opening material returns in a dialog between voices. A harmonic change into chromatic and whole-tone harmonies begins in m. 21. This builds up, rather unexpectedly, to a full-throated statement, passione e dramatico, of the second idea at m. 25. A G pedal point continues from m. 25 all the way to m. 38, as the music settles down, alternating between diatonic chords and whole tones. 125 FIGURE 48 - "To a Closed Casement" There is a sudden pause at m. 35, breaking the eighth notes. Broad, molto espressivo statements follow, arching up in seventh chords, still over the G pedal point. A final descent through more whole-tone harmonies and a series of slow arpeggiated chords, close the movement quietly in C. These recall the end of “Barcarolle” from In the Bottoms. This last section is a good example of Dett's use of whole-tone parallel chords to express a post-climactic bliss. The end of Dett's last piece, “Madrigal Divine,” is another. 126 “Noon Siesta” Lento quasi berceuse No key signature indicated - centered in A minor/G major Entire movement – Fig. 49 22 In some ways, this 28-measure miniature is the most striking of the set, in its modest way. It is played entirely on the white keys. The right hand plays two fourths, D/G and E/A in an unvarying, hypnotic, pianissimo, ostinato throughout. The left hand plays two lines, one below and the other crossing above the right hand. The lower line is marked piano, the upper pianissimo. Even though the notes are easily sight-readable, the sometimes rapid alternation of the two, necessitating rapid crosses of the left hand over the right, requires excellent tonal control from the player. Everything in this piece is derived from the tonal polarity of A and G. The upper line consists simply of sets of four descending notes in four-measure phrases, often with different indicated shapings. The starting notes of these are A, G, D, and E, outlining the polarity. The lower line is in two-measure phrases that close with an eighth-note triplet figure, which is sometimes extended by one or two notes to create additional activity. The final pitches of the first three phrases are A. These begin to change, moving to E, B, and F, until, in measure 18, a phrase begins with the triplet figure and returns to A, again establishing that tonality. A longer phrase at measures 23-25, along with a speeding up of the upper voice, subtly disrupts the rhythmic structure. The final pitches now descend to D and the final note, G. The final arpeggiated chord is G major plus the other two pitches of the ostinato, E and A, a thirteenth chord. The G tonality strikes the listener as completely unexpected, but the two tonal centers have been encapsulated in the right-hand ostinato all along. For the listener, the effect is of 22 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 127 someone nodding off and falling asleep at the final surprising chord, very similar to Schumann's “Kind im Einschlummern,” from Kinderszenen. 128 FIGURE 49 - "Noon Siesta" 129 “Parade of the Jasmine Banners” Allegretto grazioso Eb major In 1937 Grainger had asked Dett to compose a work for the high school orchestra for the National Music Camp at Interlochen. Dett declined, not feeling confident of his abilities in orchestration. 23 Perhaps this piece is a kind of effort to satisfy that request, it could be arranged effectively for a marching band or school orchestra. The key also suggests a possible intention for band. The sound is more light and conservative than the rest of the suite, like popular music of the time. Ferde Grofe (1892-1972) comes to mind. The many ninth, added sixth, and French sixths chords fit with the popular jazz styles of the day. It is a graceful march in 6/8 that ends more forcefully than it begins, like parade music (Fig. 50) 24 . Two ideas are presented, both strongly rooted in Eb. The first features some flowing triplets with leaps, the second, gaio, is a cute tune with a typical march long-short rhythm (Fig. 51) 25 . Both would sound well on clarinet. An imitation in mm. 10-11 is also a band music trait. A capricious recitativo con fantasia in mm. 17-18 is like a solo, answered by the group. 23 Simpson, 233. 24 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 25 Ibid. 130 FIGURE 50 - "Parade of the Jasmine Banners" - Opening 131 FIGURE 51 - "Parade of the Jasmine Banners" - Second theme The accompaniments emphasize the two beats in march style, sometimes with short chords, particularly during the second tune. The chords often contain added sixths, major sevenths, and ninths. They would be well scored for light brass. The first idea returns in minor at m. 58. A modulatory interlude leads to the second idea in Gb major, now in the left hand. A new scherzando version in octaves is accompanied by colorful jazz chords. The flourish is heard in minor going now to the first idea, back in the major. A trombone counter melody in left-hand octaves makes it more pompous (Fig. 52) 26 . The coda begins featuring a trumpet call on a repeated F#, with chromatic chords flirting with Eb minor in between. A long scale settles the excitement down to begin building again at m. 155. The march builds again to full triplet octaves and chords. A humorous, dissonant chord is hammered out at mms. 185-186 and 191-192, perhaps imitating a car horn. The final con entusiasmo chords are repeated Eb major chords with added seconds. 26 Tropic Winter, used by permission of Summy-Birchard, Inc. and Alfred Music. 132 FIGURE 52 - "Parade of the Jasmine Banners" – Recap with countermelody 133 CHAPTER 9 EIGHT BIBLE VIGNETTES "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus." 1 The Eight Bible Vignettes (Title page – Fig. 53) 2 were published separately by Dett's new publisher, Mills Music, from 1941-1943. They were intended for Grainger but not published as a set until after Dett's death in 1943. “As His Own Soul” and “Desert Interlude” were composed first in the summer of 1941, while on an artist's retreat at Yaddo, Saratoga Springs, NY. This offered time to compose and a welcome respite from his heavy teaching schedule at Bennett College in North Carolina. These two pieces were published in 1942 along with “Martha Complained,” “Father Abraham,” and “Bountiful Shepherd,” 3 which is possibly an earlier version of “Madrigal Divine.” It is remarkable how organically the pieces fit together into the large structure of the suite, considering that they originally appeared separately. Dett kept his primary family residence in Rochester, NY. He was involved at the time with assembling a large mixed-race choir in Rochester. 4 Racial reconciliation was an increasing preoccupation of Dett and finds its strongest expression in his final suite. It is his most ambitious achievement. Dett's ear for keyboard sonority was always finely developed but never at such a high level as in these pieces. The contrast of textures, from the lush Rachmaninoff-like accompaniments of “As His Own Soul” to the terse, stark opening of “Barcarolle of Tears” and “Other Sheep” is impressive. Imaginative use of the high and low range of the instrument, 1 Galatians 3:28. 2 Eight Bible Vignettes by Robert Nathaniel Dett © 1941 (Renewed) EMI MILLS MUSIC, INC. All Rights Controlled by EMI MILLS MUSIC, INC. (Publishing) and ALFRED MUSIC (Print). Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved. 3 Simpson, 246, 250. 4 Simpson, 246. 134 distinctive and surprising modulations, and beautifully voiced chords give this work a sensuality and pianistic beauty rare in twentieth-century American piano music until Samuel Barber. The harmonic experiments of Tropic Winter have now found a natural voice, coexisting comfortably with music in the Romantic style from Dett's earlier works. Of Dett's performance of Eight Bible Vignettes in Washington, D. C., Glenn Dillard Gunn wrote: These are eight original compositions and without parallel in the literature of the instrument. Except as the Bach Choral Preludes have been transcribed for it, or for one or two sacred pieces by...Franz Liszt, the piano is entirely the agent of secular expression. 5 5 Glenn Dillard Gunn, Concert review in Washington Times-Herald, mid-June 1943, quoted in Simpson, 396. 135 FIGURE 53 - Eight Bible Vignettes Title Page 136 No. 1 “Father Abraham” Molto maestoso F minor In 1942 Dett played “Father Abraham” in Niagara Falls, explaining that it was "derived from both a fourteenth-century Hebrew legend and a Negro spiritual." 6 Dett often lectured during recitals. In 1943, Dett performed excerpts on a concert in Washington, DC. The following is also from Glenn Dillard Gunn’s review: The composer spoke, from time to time, on the spiritual as form of folk art, and on the sacred folk art of the Jews. He has drawn upon both these sources for thematic material developed in a set of piano pieces. 7 On the title page 8 Dett quotes the melodies and text of the two themes that he uses: the Negro melody, "Father Abraham" (Fig. 54) and the Hebrew melody, “Leoni” (Fig. 55), although Dett gives no name for it, other than “Father Abraham.” 6 Simpson, 248. 7 Glenn Dillard Gunn, Washington Times-Herald, quoted in Simpson, 251. 8 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library. This page and title pages of some of the later movements of the Eight Bible Vignettes are not included in 1996 edition of the Collected Works. The 1973 edition includes some of the missing pages. 137 FIGURE 54 - "Father Abraham" spiritual FIGURE 55 - "Leoni" melody The melody is attributed to Myer Leoni, English cantor (d. 1796). Born Meir ben Judah Loeb, probably in Poland, he was first known in England as an opera singer named "Meir Leoni." In 1767 he was engaged as cantor at the Great Synagogue, London, on condition that he would conduct himself henceforth as an observant Jew. His tune for the Yigdal, known as the "Leoni 138 Yigdal," was heard at the synagogue in 1770 by the Methodist minister Thomas Olivers and adapted for the Christian hymn, "The God of Abraham Praise." 9 Yigdal ("May He be magnified"), is the opening word of a liturgical hymn based upon the Thirteen Articles of Faith enumerated by Maimonides. English translations of Yigdal, retaining the rhyme, have been composed, such as that of Alice Lucas (1852–1935). Her rendition begins: The living God we praise, exalt, adore! He was, He is, He will be evermore! No unity like unto His can be: Eternal, inconceivable is He. It concludes: He at the last will His anointed send, Those to redeem, who hope, and wait the end. God will the dead to life again restore. Praised be his glorious Name for evermore! 10 The text of the spiritual: Father Abraham Sittin' beside the Holy Lamb 'Way up on the mountain top; My Lord spoke and the chariot stop! 9 Roth, Cecil. "Leoni, Myer." Encyclopaedia Judaica. Ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik. 2nd ed. Vol. 12. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007. 647-648. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Accessed November 3, 2013, http://go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CCX2587512142&v=2.1&u=temple_main&it=r&p=GVRL&sw =w&asid=6ef8bb8ede1adc952e6ce140ce7ecfe3. 10 Rothkoff, Aaron, and Bathja Bayer. "Yigdal." Encyclopaedia Judaica. Ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik. 2nd ed. Vol. 21. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007. 373-374. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Accessed November 3, 2013, http://go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CCX2587521270&v=2.1&u=temple_main&it=r&p=GVRL&sw =w&asid=f4a958c25e541f181b8ebe344eea1eab. 139 Dett continues with two quotations, one from Genesis, the other from a second Negro spiritual, “I am Seeking for a City:” By myself have I sworn, saith the Lord: . . . That in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the seashore, and thy seed shall po- sess the gate of his enemies; And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; --Genesis 23:16-18 We will trabbel on together, Hallelujah, Gwine to war agin' de debbil, Hallelujah, Gwine to pull down Satan's kingdom, Hallelujah, Gwine to build up de walls o' Zion, Hallelujah. Dere's a better day a-comin', Hallelujah! --Negro spiritual " The lines from the spiritual come from the second verse and the first line of the third verse of “I am Seeking for a City.” Dett's use of it could hint at his nomadic existence at the time, shuttling between Bennett College and Rochester. Dett also states on the title page: It is something more than a mere coincidence that Abraham, patriarch of Old Testament history, should also be apostrophized in the Negro spiritual; for the emotional and mystical keynote of the Negro, even as of the Jewish folksong, is emancipation and great happiness in some future state. Moreover, from the standpoint of musicology, the interval of the augmented, or "barbaric" second (Byzantium mode) which occurs in the melody of the spiritual, identifies it as belonging more to the great family of oriental folksong than to any offshoot of Moody and Sankeyism, as has been sometimes alleged. In this piece, appropriately the first of this set of BIBLE VIGNETTES, parts of both the Jewish and the Negro tunes are used and, because of their similarity of mood and melody, it is hoped that their association will appear to be logical and natural. 11 11 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 150. 140 In his second paragraph Dett refers to the controversy in the early twentieth century concerning the originality of Negro spirituals. It was theorized by some writers at the time that the spirituals were in fact derived from white gospel hymns, in particular those by Ira David Sankey (1840-1908) and Dwight Lyman Moody (1837-1899), which were very popular. Dett participated in the debate, along with John Work, Jr. and others, arguing that the presence of certain musical traits, such as the augmented second, made the theory untenable. Even though a reviewer in Musical America thought the choice of the relationship between the two melodies "interesting . . . one that probably would not have occurred to anyone else," 12 the connection is very logical. Both melodies are published in versions in F minor (Anglican hymnal 13 and Dett's Negro Spirituals collection 14 ), and have a similar, arch shape. The spiritual is built on a triad, the Hebrew melody on an ascending scale. Dett has already convincingly explained the connection in meaning. The opening is impressive (Fig. 56) 15 , using the full sonorous resources and range of the piano, and written on four staves. The verse of the spiritual opens the piece (Fig.57, beginning m. 10). There is also a similarity in the shape of this melody to “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.” In Dett's arrangement of the spiritual “Father Abraham” for his edition of Negro Spirituals, the solo melody is answered by the chorus repeatedly exhorting the soloist: "Tell It!" in call and response style. Dett transcribes this arrangement powerfully for the piano. The chords are various chromatic chords such as augmented, ninth and half-diminished seventh. The pianist should imitate how a chorus would sound shouting "Tell It!" in the performance of the chords. Upbeat (anapest) combined with short-long (Scotch-snap or Lombard) rhythms are 12 Unknown reviewer, Musical America, quoted in Simpson, 397. 13 The Hymnal 1982: according to the use of The Episcopal Church (New York: The Church Hymnal Corporation, 1982), 401. 14 R. Nathaniel Dett, ed., Negro Spirituals (London: Blandford Press, 1959), 61. 15 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 141 prominent in the melody. The rhythmic and pianistic layout is reminiscent of “The Deserted Cabin” from Magnolia, now in a powerful version. 142 FIGURE 56 - "Father Abraham" - Opening 143 FIGURE 57 - "Father Abraham" - Dett’s arrangement from Negro Spirituals 16 16 Dett, ed. Negro Spirituals. London: Blandford Press, 1959 p. 61. 144 The refrain of the spiritual (rising and falling triad) is canonically interpolated, unaccompanied in Ab minor, a third relation away from the F minor main key. The change from massive to bare texture is striking. These two elements alternate through distant keys through the first fifteen measures, until a cadenza, sweeping up the keyboard, leads to the first statement of the Hebrew melody in m. 18. Interestingly, the Hebrew melody is presented first in Ab major, not in its original key of F minor. Only the first phrase appears, in imitative fashion, through four voices, soprano to bass. The tonic, dominant, tonic, dominant entrances mimic a fugal exposition. These statements are immediately followed by the figure in inversion, leading back to the tonic. Now in m. 27, piu espressivo, the melody appears in its original form in Ab minor, the second phrase presented in an answering voice. The third phrase is suggested by its rhythm but not its shape. The unadorned, almost severe, counterpoint, frequent rests, and approach to distant E minor give a rather tentative, questioning feeling. The impression is of a kind of exposition and working out of the elements of “Leoni.” This is suddenly interrupted by the reappearance of massive chords in m. 36. Now the rising/falling triad of the spiritual, a heavy staccato version of “Leoni,” and "Tell It!" chords are tossed around the keyboard in a kaleidoscope of keys. More canonic writing and another cadenza sweep moves to a “Leoni” statement in the original key of F minor (a kind of reverse development — the original version of an idea occurs after its working out). The maestoso ending returns followed by more flourishes. An arresting series of octatonic chords marches up the keyboard, then closing strongly in F major. 145 No. 2 “Desert Interlude” Larghetto patetico A minor Opening – Fig. 58 17 For “Desert Interlude,” Dett again quotes Genesis on the title page: And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread and a bottle of water, and gave it unto Hagar, putting it on her shoulder and the child, and sent her away. And she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beer-sheba. Genesis 21:14 Followed by his own remarks: DESERT INTERLUDE therefore, deals with that short period of time, wherein the banished Hagar, clasping the hand of Ishmael, her son, stood wonderingly, and despairingly in the desert, lost in dark contemplation. The loaf of bread was almost gone, and the water "was spent in the bottle." The heat of the wilderness, each moment grew more oppressive. -- What nostalgic thoughts of the home from which she lately had been thrust, --- what fears for the immediate future ---what maternal dread for the fate of her child, filled her breast! What should she do? Was there no hope? Had God, even as Abraham, forsaken her? 18 The choice of this Biblical episode is very significant. First, as noted before, in some traditions Hagar is considered to be a mother to the Africans, giving rise to the expression “Aunt Hagar’s chillun.” 19 Second, even though Abraham had rejected her, God had raised from her a great nation — this focus on the African nation is continued in the penultimate movement, “Other Sheep.” That Hagar was Sarai's 20 slave could not have been lost on Dett. He may also have been thinking of the dreadful Atlantic crossings of the slave trading ships in his words about Hagar's nostalgia for home and her fear. 17 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 18 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 165. 19 Geneva Smitherman, Black talk, 57. 20 First Biblical name for Abraham’s wife, later Sarah. 146 FIGURE 58 - "Desert Interlude" 147 Dett's great melodic gift shines in this movement in A minor, marked Larghetto patetico. The Dorian inflected melody is accompanied by a swaying left-hand figure of bass notes and chords. Movement and rhythm are always present in Dett's music, as in Negro spirituals. Simpson's remark on its "French flavor" 21 is perhaps suggested by harmonies such as the major sevenths at the end of the first two phrases, which are vaguely reminiscent of the “Gymnopédies” by Erik Satie (1866-1925). Dett’s harmonies are considerably more sophisticated, however. The opening two four-bar phrases are answered by two short phrases with blues-like alternation of D major and G dominant sevenths. Long, melismatic phrases from mm. 13-21, with sinuous tessituras of wide range, contribute to the Middle Eastern, Islamic, flavor. They suggest a performance on a reed instrument. The widely modulating harmonic progressions wonderfully express Hagar's wandering. A quiet close to the first section in slow parallel fifths over a deep bass uses a large keyboard range to musically convey a vast desert landscape. A contrasting section follows in densely-moving eighth notes in four-part texture, imitating choral writing. A pair of phrases is repeated a fourth higher, the melody continues its rise over the accompaniment of the opening, culminating in a particularly pathetic phrase using the "barbaric" second (m. 37). This ingeniously dovetails into bits of the opening phrases. A long flowing descent from mm. 49-53 in Dorian mode closes into the same fifths that end the first section. This movement is Dett at his finest. Idiomatic keyboard writing, unusual chord progressions that are always natural, never forced, and haunting melodic lines show his distinct personal style. The craftsmanship is first-rate. 21 Simpson, 398. 148 No. 3 “As His Own Soul” Moderato semplice quasi volkslied Gb major Opening – Fig. 59 22 Dett’s Biblical excerpt: 23 And it came to pass....that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. 1 Samuel 18:1 There is a letter from Dett to one Private R. A. Wilson of July 6, 1943 (three months before Dett's death), in which Dett handwrites the opening theme of “As His Own Soul.” In the letter he writes "Above is the first line of ‘As His Own Soul’ from my new suite, Bible Vignettes. At present this is my favorite number. However very soon it may not be." 24 “As His Own Soul” is dedicated "To the memory of Carl." Simpson mentions Dett's friend, pianist and composer Carl Diton, as a possible dedicatee but dismisses the idea since Diton died in 1962, nineteen years after Dett. 25 A more likely possibility is George Carl Hastings, Dett's second piano professor at Oberlin. Dett's poem, “The Rubinstein Staccato Etude,” was also dedicated to Hastings, more than thirty years earlier. Hastings had studied in Leipzig (as had many of the Dett's Oberlin teachers), and probably knew German well, perhaps prompting the "volkslied" indication. Then again, the identity of the dedication may be a mystery. 22 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 23 Dett, Collected Piano Works, 161. 24 R. Nathaniel Dett, Letter to Private R. A. Wilson, R. Nathaniel Dett Collection in Niagara Falls New York Public Library, cat. no. S2-144. 25 Simpson, 399. 149 FIGURE 59 - "As His Own Soul" 150 “As His Own Soul” is an A-B-A song form, with a simple melody (as Dett indicates), and uses a harmonic language that is more retrospective, using little of Dett's more modernistic traits. The keyboard writing is in the Russian style of Rachmaninoff and early Scriabin. The key is the quintessential Romantic pianistic tonality of Gb major, with the B section in the relative minor, Eb. The melody is unassuming, its anapest rhythms suggest a poetic setting, and its falling lines are gentle and caressing. The short-short-long phrase sequence fits with the "volkslied" idea. The long phrases are melismatic, especially in mm. 13-15. The interplay between the accompaniment and the melody is especially effective, the left hand engaging in short canonic imitations in mm. 1 and 3. Unobtrusive chromatic inflections enrich the almost complete diatonicism of the melody. Dett's expertise in choral writing shows well in this movement. The B section is plaintive in the relative minor and more chordal. Blues-like voice leading in lower voices gives color in m. 21. The four short phrases are repeated first in an upper register, then lower with Rachmaninoff-like sixteenth-note chromatic flourishes in the left hand. This rich accompaniment continues under the restatement of the A section, now in octaves, and again with imitations in the left hand in mm. 34 and 36. A climax is reached, extending the final phrase of the melody, in mm. 40-46, marked passione, with widely-spaced keyboard textures and chromatic progressions including an approach to C major. A coda takes up pieces of the melody now laden with lowered chromatic notes notated with many double flats; stubbornly refusing to enharmonically change key. Blissful pentatonic wisps and a plagal cadence end this most heartfelt piece. Its contrapuntal richness and interplay beautifully evoke the "knitting" of the text. 151 No. 4 “Barcarolle of Tears” Andante C minor Opening – Fig. 60 26 This is the only movement that Dett has not chosen to relate to a particular Biblical verse. Its extreme contrasts in mood and texture, and more modern style, point to an intensely personal expression. It contrasts with the preceding piece in almost every way possible. A bare, unaccompanied line, swaying in 6/4 rhythm, opens the piece and returns transposed at various points, like an obsessive ostinato or vamp. After the lush writing of “As His Own Soul,” its starkness is arresting, with the sadness of “Desert Interlude” but without any of its sensuality. This line alternates with a mournful, cantabile melody in thirds, making prominent use of augmented seconds. The texture is chorale-like four-part harmony. After the second appearance of the ostinato (m. 12) there is more imitative counterpoint (mm. 16-17). An outburst ensues in mm. 24-25 with full chords and octaves now reaching C major, like a release of repressed emotion. Parallel half-diminished seventh and ninth chords, marked disperato, lead to the ostinato once more. The meter now shifts to 4/4 with the same two beats per measure. A left-hand solo builds, almost atonally, to a majestic statement of full C major seventh chords over a C pedal, marked con decisione e devozione. The sudden appearance of organ-like sonorities is like a vision, a prophetic statement of deliverance, reminiscent of “His Song” from In the Bottoms. Like the earlier piece, however, it rises only to crash in despair on a half-diminished seventh chord with a rumbling trill in the deep bass. The ostinato returns, scored more richly this time, though, leading through parallel chords to the theme in thirds in A minor (m. 60). A final questioning C minor statement is followed by a fermata, and then a magical, plagally colored 26 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 152 cadence in C major. A richly textured Bb seventh chord in second inversion (bass F) is followed by a deep C major sixth. Bell-like slow arpeggios ascend to the top of the keyboard on each chord. The final arpeggio combines a C open fifth with A minor, the same axis of keys that the “thirds” theme was presented in. 153 FIGURE 60 - "Barcarolle of Tears" 154 This movement expresses deep sadness, hope, despair, and peaceful deliverance. Probably its only parallels in feeling are the Threnody pieces of the third year of Années de Pèlerinage. Perhaps, since no particular Biblical reference is present, its nature is autobiographical. No. 5 “I Am the True Vine” Con moto, ma espressivo Ab major The next four pieces form the second half of the series, now turning to the New Testament. As Abraham began the Old Testament section, Jesus begins the second half. “I Am the True Vine” is a three-voice fugue. Following are Dett’s excerpts: 27 I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. John 15:1 I am the vine, ye are the branches: John 15:5 On the title page of this movement (Fig. 61) 28 , Dett first quotes the beginning of the subject, showing that it is in fact a setting of a combination of the two verses: "I am the true vine, ye are the branches." He then writes: Because of the triune conception of the Divinity, this fugue is assigned to three voices; and as in the case of the other actual word quotations, the rhythm and flow of the text decided both the inspiration and the treatment of the theme. 29 The symbolism of three is communicated by the meter, three beats per measure and the three voice texture. The shape of the subject also prominently features an augmented triad, which divides the octave into three equal parts. It is not a strict fugue; after the exposition (mm. 1-21), 27 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library. This title page is not reproduced in the 1996 reprint of the Collected Works. 28 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 29 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library, cat. no., 170. 155 the subject only appears in its original form twice more, in mm. 26 and 58. Rather, elements of the subject and countersubject are manipulated and developed separately, using various inversions, strettos, and combinations of the shape of one element with the rhythm of another. FIGURE 61 - "I am the True Vine" - Fugue subject The subject is in two parts, corresponding to the phrases in the scripture. It begins on the accented second beat with the word "I." It descends through an Ab triad to its only chromatic note, E, accented now on the downbeat, corresponding with "true." The notes of the descending augmented chord formed by C, Ab and E become the main key areas: C major at m. 26, E (spelled Fb) at m. 46, and returning to Ab at m. 58. The second part of the subject is sequential, including a long-long-short rhythm. The exposition proceeds traditionally, in tonic, 156 dominant, tonic keys, with the entrances moving up the three voices. The countersubject has an ascending eighth-note scale (m. 9), which becomes pervasive through much of the rest of piece, suggesting the vine. The climax is reached at m. 50 during a stretto, which begins at m. 46. Keys spelled with double flats, Fb major, Gb minor, Cb major seem to reveal a bit of an academic bent, possibly Dett's desire to be theoretically correct. The only inversion of the opening figure, at m. 54 in Ab minor, feels plaintive, marked dolce e con espressione. Confidence is restored with the complete subject at m. 58, heard in the bass in the original key, and the fugue ends gently. The impression is of simplicity and unassuming gentleness. It is perhaps less compelling and has little of the great color of the surrounding movements, in a narrow keyboard range, with no doublings. Its brevity and unassuming nature connects with a gently confident and peaceful image of Jesus. No. 6 “Martha Complained” Larghetto C minor Martha is the female biblical character in the second half of Eight Bible Vignettes, corresponding with Hagar in the first. Dett writes the following notes and musical setting of the Biblical quotation: In MARTHA COMPLAINED, the ground bass represents the monotonous drudgery of work and the high-pitched melody, Martha's dissatisfaction with it. Her feelings become more and more tense until finally, in her impatience, she breaks a dish (an imaginative incident represented by the arpeggiated dissonant chord: [Dett writes out the ten-note chord, played hand over hand to the top of the keyboard] and this proves to be the last straw. She goes straight to the Master: "Lord, dost Thou not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Bid her therefore come and help me, - bid her therefore come and help me." 157 Luke 10:40 But Jesus reproves her: "Martha, Martha, Martha, You are careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: And Mary hath chosen that good part, Which shall not be taken away from her." Luke 10:41-42 To which it is easy to conceive the celestial choir responding: - AMEN Martha returns to her duties and upon reflection (it is the composer's thought) a change takes place in her feelings; the music changes from minor to major, indicating that something of light has passed into her soul. 30 Dett's ground bass is a widely-spaced arpeggio, repeated as an ostinato (Fig. 62) 31 . Triplets in 12/8 create a swaying motion but with the downbeats missing, giving a hesitant feeling. A figure which sighs Bb to A, in C minor, is repeated endlessly, expressing the drudgery Dett describes in his notes. The melody is high above, using the blues scale, ascending and descending over a large range. The arabesques of the melody are both vaguely middle-Eastern and Chopinesque. The keyboard texture is very much like a Chopin nocturne. A brief modulation to the subdominant in m. 15 again suggests the Blues. An improvisatory section interrupts the motion from mm. 23-39. An ascending passage with major thirds interlocking with a chromatic scale, creating whole-tone harmonies, is a bit reminiscent of Gershwin (Fig. 63) 32 . The ostinato returns in mm. 40, interrupted by the "broken dish" chord, a sudden percussive sonority with no relation to what preceded (Fig. 64) 33 . 30 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library. This title page is not reproduced in the 1996 reprint of the Collected Works. 31 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 158 FIGURE 62 - "Martha Complained" - Opening 159 FIGURE 63 - "Martha Complained" mm. 25-26 FIGURE 64 - "Martha Complained" - Broken dish chord The scripture setting follows, in recitative style (Dett marks parlando molto). After a fermata on a half-diminished seventh chord (by now the listener associates this sonority with Martha), Jesus answers; Largo, pianissimo and molto espressivo. Solemn parallel second- inversion chords give a bit of an African touch to the sound. The descending whole-tone scale in mm. 64, as well as the chord voicings, in right-hand ninths and left-hand tenths, in mm. 72-74, are remarkable, showing Dett's wonderful ear for pianistic sonority (see Fig. 65 for Dett’s setting) 34 . Martha's drudgery returns in m. 78 after the velato "Amen" of the "celestial choir," but now marked un poco piu teneramente. An unusual modulation through Bb minor and A minor 34 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 160 leads to Martha's music in C Major, now con molt' espressione. A beautiful alto line from mm. 91-95 closes on a C ninth chord with descending bell-like fifths and fourths answering. This sound mirrors the end of “Barcarolle of Tears,” expressing redemption and "light entering the soul." 161 FIGURE 65 - "Martha Complained" - Dett's text setting 162 No. 7 “Other Sheep” Largo - poco allegro G minor This is the most extended and complex of all the movements and is in some ways the focal point, both musically and spiritually. It could be said to be the externalization of Dett's personal feelings, expressed in “As His Own Soul,” to a statement about the reconciliation of all races as the members of one "fold," Dett's ideal. It also connects with and continues the sound as well as the story of Hagar from “Desert Interlude.” The keyboard writing is stark and orchestral, counterpoint is almost everywhere, and Chopin has gone away for good. The concentration on the sound of fifths, fourths, and octaves, as opposed to thirds and sixths, reflect Dett's knowledge of African music. The general effect is noble severity; uncompromising, majestic, and intensely beautiful in its otherness. The John quote and Dett's notes: 35 And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, . . . . . . . . . . John 10:16 That there were other groups besides the "chosen people" to whom the Messianic message should be brought, is evidenced by the pronouncement of the Master Who these might be, we do not know, but it is reasonable to suppose that they were outside the pale of the Twelve Tribes. The melody used for representation is one of many given the writer several years ago by a former pupil Mr. Dahklama Simango, a native African; and was chosen because it seemed to possess a certain yearning quality suitable for the portrayal of the feelings of those who "longed for light". The whole piece is a large two-part form, of which the first section is a set of variations, and the second section, (Poco Allegro), a sonata-allegro with coda. It is obvious that the opening phrase is an unaccompanied setting of the biblical quotation and as in "Martha Complained,” the divine words are followed by an imaginary "Amen" by the celestial choir. 36 35 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library. This title page is not reproduced in the 1996 reprint of the Collected Works. 36 Ibid., 180. 163 One might add the continuation of the John verse: and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd. 37 On the title page Dett writes out his setting of the scripture (Fig. 66) 38 . The short-long (Scotch snap or Lombard) rhythm that sets "other,” as well as falling minor thirds, and augmented seconds, announce its African quality. The tonality is vague, the keyboard texture of single line arresting, after the rich close of “Martha Complained.” The following “Amen,” again marked "velato,” features deep parallel fifths in the bass, conjuring a choral sound. FIGURE 66 - "Other Sheep" - Dett's text setting 37 John 10:16. 38 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 164 The chant is now heard in a high register, shrill against deep, sonorous chords on open fifths and fourths (Fig. 67) 39 . These harmonies wander from G into increasing numbers of flats, giving a Phrygian color. The chant itself features a repeated-note figure alternating duples and triplets, a parlando quality. The falling second and minor third in its second measure is a figure that Dett will use throughout the entire movement, unifying the variations with the sonata- allegro. The chant has four pentatonic phrases, the second and third of which are similar. The tonal center moves from G to Bb and returns to G, an example of what Western harmony calls a relative major, relative minor relationship — yet another example of this polarity, inherent in the pentatonic mode. 39 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 165 FIGURE 67 - "Other Sheep" - Opening 166 The variations proceed in a four-part texture with the chant moving to various voices, first the bass (variation 1), alto (variation 3), and tenor (variation 5). The accompanying voices take up the duple-triple alternation in rhythmic counterpoint beginning in variation 2, creating increasing complexity and pianistic difficulty. This has the effect of more voices joining in their own chant variations, creating polyrhythms in African fashion, and gathering intensity. Dett stays within the G minor tonality with touches of expressive chromaticism. Prominent features in the variations include the low tenor chant and wailing right-hand octaves in variation 5, and parallel fifths in variation 7. Variation 8, marked "Maggiore, dolce cantabile,” provides a respite, although its functional harmony and thirds are strangely jarring. Perhaps Coleridge-Taylor makes a final appearance here. Variation 10 (beginning in m. 90) is like a fantasy, its powerful keyboard writing utilizing full chords and double octaves. Dett separates out the chant's two elements, repeating the falling second-minor third figure in diminutions in mm. 98, 100 and 104. Rising parallel whole- tone harmonies begin in m. 97, introducing a Dett stylistic trait from modern European harmony. The final variation, Tempo primo, m. 108, returns to the chant, now with parallel ninth chords. A downward Ab major scale, mirroring the Phrygian aspect of Dett's harmonies, flourishes into Poco allegro. The sonata-allegro form beginning at m. 123 is brief, tersely written, and suggests African drumming (Fig. 68) 40 . A left-hand eighth-note ostinato rocks between two notes of a drone fifth in 2/4. The right hand plays fourths and fifths in a call-like figure derived from the beginning accompaniment to the chant, while drumming out a syncopated note. At m. 135 the left hand continues the eighth-note motion using the three-note descending figure from the 40 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 167 chant, rhythmically across the beat, punctuated by right-hand fifths. The short second-theme group is an unadorned line played by both hands in unison, making use of the three-note descending figure of the chant. It is chant-like with an undefined tonality. A group of sixteenth notes in m. 166 is developed later. FIGURE 68 - "Other Sheep" – Allegro 168 The development, beginning in m. 177, uses the opening allegro material in various keys, building to the return of the chant in the guise of its tenth variation, with ponderoso octaves and chords. It continues to gain power until fifteen successive sforzando octaves and chords climax with the chant hammered out in fury (m. 211). The music then becomes more reflective until the second theme is heard again, followed by a coda. The drumming ostinato is in the deep bass, while brusque right-hand statements build, using the sixteenth-note figure from the second theme, up to the top of the keyboard, strepitoso. Seven measures of rapid chords with Lydian touches, recalling the short-long snap of the opening scripture setting, close the movement powerfully. Dett's structure imaginatively unifies the variations and sonata-allegro with common elements in a movement of strong contrasts and power. The return of one of the variations in the development section of the sonata-allegro hints at the formal ambiguity exploited in the Romantic period by Liszt and others. The chant melody, plaintive and wild, combines with the rhythmic drive of the allegro to create a compelling portrait of virility and stark beauty. No. 8 “Madrigal Divine” Moderato, molto tranquillo C major Entire movement with the author’s setting of the text – Fig. 70-72 41 Dett places the text of Psalm 23 on the title page, 42 then writes: In designating this piece a "Madrigal" the earliest significance of the idea of a madrigal was followed: etymology tracing the origin to a word meaning "a shepherd's song.” 41 Eight Bible Vignettes, used by permission of EMI Mills Music, Inc. and Alfred Music. 42 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library. This page is not reproduced in the 1996 reprint of the Collected Works. 169 The melodic development simply follows the flow and rhythm of the text; the cadencing phrase of the first section is echoed instrumentally, and there is also a short instrumental interlude prefacing the return of the first idea, which idea then appears at the octave. Dissonant harmonies over a ground bass simulate the ringing of church bells; especially at the climax, this idea should be treated accordingly. 43 Dett has chosen the title to continue the "flock" idea of “Other Sheep.” The piece is essentially a setting of Psalm 23, "The Lord is my Shepherd." The ground bass is simply an alternation of tonic-dominant on beats 2, 3, 4 of a four beat measure, in the deep register of the piano. The absence of downbeats creates a gentle motion, suggesting both the swaying of large bells and the swaying movements of a choir. The setting is a melody over parallel dissonant chords, all on white keys. This pan-diatonicism extends through the setting of the first three verses (mm. 1-14). The chords contain many seconds and are often spread over ninths (mm. 1-4) and tenths (m. 7). The necessity of projecting the top-note melody over such large stretches presents a challenge for the player. Arpeggiating the chords is an option, but would lessen the slightly percussive bell-like effect that Dett requests in his notes. As mentioned earlier, the texture of parallel dissonant chords over fifths in the bass is remarkably similar to Balfour Gardiner’s “Prelude – de Profundis,” which Dett likely heard Grainger play on his recital programs (Fig. 69). The setting of "He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His names sake" is set in recitative style with repeated notes. This phrase is repeated, sotto voce, in a lower register. Dett's use of recitatives throughout the Bible Vignettes is remarkable and unusual, recalling his choral setting of Ave Maria as well as Liszt's late piano works. 43 from the R. Nathaniel Dett Collection, Niagara Falls, New York, Public Library. This title page is not reproduced in the 1996 reprint of the Collected Works. 170 Verse four, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. . .," is set in a more melodic texture, accompanied with left-hand thirds, sixths and occasional arpeggios. Its chant-like melody, containing many repeated notes, rises plaintively through a ninth from E to F#; Dett marks piu crescendo three times. The phrase peak on "Art with me" is echoed in call- response fashion. "Thy rod, thy staff" is troubled, with a pathetic augmented second in mm. 23- 24. "Comfort" descends peacefully through a D major seventh. Verse five builds majestically over a G pedal point, with the white-key pan-diatonicism returning. Strong accents on "enemies" could be Dett's personal defiance of the many who had criticized him unfairly though his life. "Runneth over" is a slide of downward triads, in exuberant Gospel music style. This section should be powerfully played, with true emportée feeling. The short interlude that Dett mentions (mm. 36-37) is a series of staccato bell chords, gently descending; also in Gospel style. Verse six, grandioso, returns to the parallel chords of the opening, with some whole- tone touches. The left hand carries the swaying motion of the beginning with rich white-key chords. The final sentence, "and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever," molto marcato e crescendo, melodically rises over a descending bass. The climax, on "forever," is reached with parallel whole-tone ninth chords, the whole-tone color expresses boundlessness, reaching for something unattainable. The parallel chords gradually descend while the bass rises, all in whole tones, until settling on a Bb major chord (m. 47). This passage is like Dett's other prophetic visions, only instead of being answered with resignation and despair, the piece closes with three long "Amens," all in white-key harmonies, over the opening ground bass. A majestic C major arpeggio eloquently ends this magnificent work, and Dett's vision of reconciliation and the promise of a new era. The symbolism of the number eight as superabundance and new beginning is completed. 171 FIGURE 69 - Balfour Gardiner's "Prelude de Profundis" 172 FIGURE 70 - "Madrigal Divine" page 1 173 FIGURE 71 - "Madrigal Divine" page 2 174 FIGURE 72 - "Madrigal Divine" page 3 175 CHAPTER 10 CONCLUSION Musical history is not kind to figures that fall outside preconceived ideas of musical periods, styles, and meanings. The following are some of the reasons why Dett's music is difficult to categorize. Dett was a composer with deep roots in Germanic Romanticism. His studies at Oberlin with professors who were mostly trained in Germany in the mid-nineteenth century made sure of that. Dominique-René de Lerma reminds us that the United States was close to Germany, in politics and culture, until the First World War. 1 Until the advent of Nadia Boulanger, American composers were either trained in Germany or by other musicians who were. Dett's suites were written between 1912 and 1943, a time in which the prominence of German culture in the United States was on the wane and a new modernism rapidly replaced Romanticism. Even Dett's experiments with new musical styles in his third period were much milder than many other compositions written in the 1930's and 40's. Compared with the leading composers of that period, Dett's style was ‘behind the curve.’ Tonality is always firmly established, except in one or two movements of Tropic Winter, and melody, rhythm and harmony are always the prominent elements of Dett's style. Dett composed at the end of an era in which the piano was a central element of middle class life. The ‘bread and butter’ of publishers was music written for the amateurs who played the piano in their homes. Therefore, much of his piano music does not make demands on the player that exceed the abilities of a good amateur. Today we live in a world of the proliferation of piano competitions. These require players to surmount an ever rising bar of prestidigitation 1 de Lerma, Reflections, 15. 176 and dazzling virtuosity, in increasingly, almost ridiculously, short amounts of time. Little, if any, of Dett's music is suitable to this world. It is not technically demanding enough and too subjective to be successful in competitions. Dett is a composer of African descent who did not embrace jazz. In fact, when offered a commission from Carl Engel of the Library of Congress to compose a work for piano, violin, saxophone, and banjo, Dett refused. In an exchange of letters, Dett explained that the instruments you suggested have never been approved by the Negro church as an institution. The fact that the Negro church has dominated Negro life almost entirely would make the use of the instruments which you suggest incongruous to the expression you seem to wish...The best class of Negro music, which is represented by the spirituals, could never in the Negro mind be interpreted on a banjo or a saxophone, which...were instruments of the devil....the associations of the saxophone have not been regarded as respectable... 2 Later, while teaching at Bennett, Dett took a poll of chorus students about whether spirituals should be "swung." The students reported that they liked swing music but not in spirituals. After hearing a popular quartet sing on the radio one student wrote "I like the music, but I don't like the way it was sung; it does not have musical value. I think it lowers the spirituals," and "I do not care particularly for these spirituals; a rather low element seems to have entered in . . . these are not close to the spirit of the old spiritual." Dett obviously agreed with the students' opinions. 3 Besides these somewhat superficial issues, there are more fundamental conflicts surrounding Dett's music. A good case could be made for Dett’s music as the most perfect answer to Dvořák's exhortation for American composers to find their own voice by uplifting their own folk music. After Harry Burleigh introduced Negro melodies to Dvořák, Dvořák challenged American composers to overcome their feelings of cultural inferiority by using these 2 de Lerma, Preface to the Collected Works, 6. 3 Simpson, 240-241. 177 melodies as a basis for composition, using European traditional models. 4 However, there was vast difference in the amount, and type, of resistance that Dvořák had to face in his effort to uplift the folk music of his native Bohemia and what Dett had to face. It was not so difficult for Dvořák, Liszt, Brahms, Glinka, Mussorgsky, among many others, to find acceptance for their use of ethnic music for the basis of their compositions. Dett experienced intense conflict from many sides, because of the long and difficult history of race relations in the United States. Many prominent American musical figures thought that Negro melodies were not appropriate for a school of composition. Any composer who would contradict that opinion and wishes to elevate steel band tunes or Mood Indigo [or Negro spirituals]..must have the freedom to do as he wishes. If he fails (and he would then be judged by European aesthetics) or not, he should be ready to be called an exploiter if he is White, or an Uncle Tom if he is Black. 5 In Racial Uplift and American Music: 1878-1943, Lawrence Schenbeck suggests that a main reason for Dett’s goals of the casting of Negro music in European forms, was to appeal to white audiences, taking “full advantage of continuing white nostalgia for the spirituals and also [linking] them to ‘universal’ (i.e., European) musical discourse.” 6 He places Dett, along with Du Bois, in the racial uplift ideology of the time. “Both Dett and Du Bois, as black-elite leaders, cultivated significant relationships with white patrons, allies, and co-workers in the ‘kingdom of culture . . .’”, “both demonstrably remained faithful to the core ideals they had embraced as members of what Du Bois famously termed the Talented Tenth.” 7 Indeed, in his essay “Negro Music” Dett remarks: Though one who makes pencil sketches on paper may achieve results every bit as perfect in their way as another who chisels similar figures from marble, there 4 de Lerma, Reflections, 15. 5 Ibid., 16. 6 Lawrence Schenbeck, Racial Uplift and American Music, 1878-1943 (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2012), 115. 7 Ibid., 108-109. 178 is little doubt as to which artist’s name will be written higher in the hall of fame. 8 Therefore one of Dett’s goals was with the upliftment of his material to form large musical works, just as it has been for countless composers throughout musical history. Schenbeck connects this desire with: Targeting sympathetic, educated whites and presenting oneself as part of the ‘better class’ of Negroes was an inescapable component in the constellation of uplift-centered practices that any reasonably clever person in that position had to employ. Dett was very good at it. 9 There certainly is much in Dett’s music that appeals to “sympathetic, educated whites,” however it is the opinion of the author that the suggestion that this arises from cleverness and a “psychic investment in the integration fantasy,” 10 conflicts with Dett’s stated mission and emphasis on artistic sincerity. Numerous critics commented on the directness and sincerity of his performances, both as pianist and choral leader. Motives of artifice are belied by Dett’s rejection of the easy popularity of writing music in the current ragtime style of his time and the personal messages and ideas in many of his piano works. This appraisal of Dett’s motivations as recently as 2012 show how difficult it is, even now, to appreciate this music on its own terms, apart from the tragic history of race relationships in America. Some of Dett's fiercest critics were musicians who greatly admired spirituals but wanted them preserved in their original form. They disapproved of the reworking of spirituals into choral motets or their use as the basis for composed art music. The following review of Dett's Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro: as Sung at Hampton Institute by George Pullen Jackson reflects a common view ". . . tunes are musicianly handled - perhaps too musicianly, for with their inappropriate and over-generous Italian expression, directions, and other artifices, one 8 Dett “Negro Music,” 128. 9 Schenbeck, 109. 10 Ibid., 116. 179 sees that they are polished up for the technically refined concert stage . . ." 11 Jon Cruz in Culture on the Margins: The Black Spiritual and the Rise of American Cultural Interpretation, explains the importance of spirituals in the development of American preservationism and ethnosympathy. He traces the history of their discovery by White America before the Civil War, their transformation into a cultural weapon in the service of Abolitionism, and their becoming an artifact. 12 When something becomes an artifact a debate begins to take place concerning whether it should be absolutely preserved in its original state, or whether it may be used as a basis for a new creation. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, the first half of the twentieth century was also the apex of a sort of preservation movement in European music. A canon of great works of classical music, predictably mostly German, was elevated to the status of unchangeable artifact, ignoring the traditions of improvisation and arrangement that were current at the time of their composition. Spirituals became not only artifacts, but symbols in the highly charged atmosphere of race relations in the United States. Consequently they were often either revered as unchangeable creations of beauty by preservationists, or corrupted in the most demeaning way by blackface minstrel groups. This polarized environment is the one that Dett created in, making him subject to much more artistic conflict than Dvořák. For example, in the European tour of the Hampton choir, disagreements arose about the presentation and repertoire for the concerts. Following the choir's return, Dett wrote an 11 review by George Pullen Jackson, quoted in McBrier, 52. 12 Jon Cruz, Culture on the Margins:The Black Spiritual and the Rise of American Cultural Interpretation, (NJ:Princeton University Press, 1999), 24. 180 article for The Crisis, 13 recounting the tremendous success of the European concerts. The Crisis responded in an editorial criticizing the deliberate omission of the racial unpleasantries encountered in Europe by the choir.. rather poor reporting, of which the unconscious motive was the wrong kind of race pride. But..he shows certain race prejudices, so characteristic of the "fine type" American Negro, full of Goodness, Truth and Beauty, that his mental processes form ideal illustrations of just what I mean. 14 Significantly, the editorial also complained that there were not enough spirituals on Dett's programs. Dett's object was that the Hampton choir could show European audiences that an African-American group could perform at the same level as the finest choirs in the world. Therefore his program tended to include more works from the classical repertoire rather than spirituals. Even The Crisis had difficulty understanding this mission. This conflict was likely a contributing factor to his dismissal from Hampton the year following the tour. There is a troubling subtext to the preservationist attitude toward spirituals and Negro folk music. The underlying message is that "Negro" choirs (and by extension all African- American musicians) should stick to their own music, and not arrange it in too complex a fashion or use it as the basis for anything more. Dett put himself in the center of this conflict, and paid dearly with the loss of his position at Hampton after nineteen years of service. Through all these trials, by all accounts, Dett remained an eloquent and dignified personality, greatly loved by his students and colleagues. His piano music, especially, reflects a great humanitarian, with lofty ideas about reconciliation and the unity of humankind, in keeping with his Rosicrucian beliefs. If he had continued writing more pieces like the early After the Cakewalk and Cave of the Winds, he would have avoided many of these conflicts and stayed within the box in which societal conditions placed him. However, his goals, both as a musician, 13 Journal of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. 14 quoted in Simpson, 198-199. 181 and as a person, were much higher. To interpret his music, the most important thing is to understand something of these qualities. Knowledge of spirituals, the social conditions of his time, and Black history is important, but at the root, Dett's music is an expression of his personality, his dignity, his playfulness, his sorrows, his triumphs, and his hopes for a better world. A great deal has been written about Dett, his importance to Black history, American musical history, and about his writings about spirituals. It is now high time for the categories to be broken, for Dett's music to be heard, and appreciated as the personal expression of a great human being. 182 BIBLIOGRAPHY Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://www.rosicrucian.org/about/mastery/mastery08history.html, and, http://www.rosicrucian.org/about/mastery/mastery06home.html. Barnabus Ministries. The Bible Study Site. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://www.biblestudy.org/bibleref/meaning-of-numbers-in-bible/8.html. Brawley, Benjamin. Paul Laurence Dunbar, Poet of his People. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1936. Brooks, Tim. Lost Sounds: Blacks and the Birth of the Recording Industry, 1890-1919. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2004. Butcher, Margaret Just. The Negro in American Culture, The piano music of twentieth-century Black Americans. New York: Knopf, 1956. Cone, James H. The Spirituals and the Blues :An Interpretation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1991; 1972. Courlander, Harold, and Alexander Street Press. Negro Folk Music U.S.A. New York: Columbia University Press, 1963. Cruz, Jon. Culture on the Margins :The Black Spiritual and the Rise of American Cultural Interpretation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999. Dett, R. Nathaniel. The Album of a Heart. Jackson, TN: Mocowat-Mercer, 1911. ---. The Collected Piano Works of R. Nathaniel Dett. Evanston, Ill: Summy-Birchard Co, 1973. With introductions by Dominique- René de Lerma and Vivian Flagg McBrier. ---. The Collected Piano Works of R. Nathaniel Dett. Miami, FL: Summy-Birchard Co, 1996. With introductions by Dominique- René de Lerma and Vivian Flagg McBrier. ---. “Dance-Juba”. Percy Grainger, pianist. Dio (sic, Duo?) Art 6339-4 Reproducing Piano. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNZ5sj2Vjig. ---. “Barcarolle”. Nathaniel Dett, pianist. Recorded 1919. Released on Lost Sounds: Blacks and the Birth of the Recording Industry, 1891-1922. Archeophone Records, 2005. CD. ---. Piano Works. Denver Oldham, pianist. Recorded 1988. New World Records NW 367-2, 1988. CD. ---. ed. Negro Spirituals. London: Blandford Press, 1959. 183 Dett, R. Nathaniel, Alexander Street Press, and Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute (Va.). Religious Folk-Songs of the Negro as Sung at Hampton Institute. Hampton, Va: Hampton institute press, 1927. Dett, R. Nathaniel, and Jon Michael Spencer. The R. Nathaniel Dett Reader : Essays on Black Sacred Music. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991. Black Sacred Music,; v. 5, no. 2; Variation: Black Sacred Music ;; v. 5, no. 2. “From Bell Stand to Throne Room,” “Understanding the Negro Spiritual,” “Helping to Lay the Foundation for Negro Music of the Future,” “Notes to the Hampton Choir at Carnegie Hall,” “The Development of Negro Religious Music,” “Negro Music of the Present,” “The Authenticity of the Spiritual”. R. Nathaniel Dett Materials in the Niagara Falls Public Library, Niagara Falls, NY. Deurer, Richard. “Egypt Art, Symbols and Definitions”. Accessed November 3, 2013. www.egyptartsite.com/symlst.html. Du Bois, W. E. B.. A Reader. New York: Harper & Row, 1970. Fisher, Kurt von, et al. "Madrigal." Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Accessed November 4, 2013. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.libproxy.temple.edu/subscriber/article/grove/ music/40075. Franklin, John Hope. From Slavery to Freedom: A History of Negro Americans. New York: Knopf, 1980. Gray, Arlene E., and E.W. Bridges Public Library (Niagara Falls, N.Y.). Supplementary Materials for the Dett Project : E.W. Brydges Public Library, Niagara Falls, N.Y. Crystal Beach, ON: A.E. Gray, 1983. Gray, Arlene E., and Niagara Falls Public Library. Listen to the Lambs : A Source Book of the R. Nathaniel Dett Materials in the Niagara Falls Public Library, Niagara Falls, N.Y. Crystal Beach, ON: A.E. Gray, 1984. ---. Nate, My Son the Story of R. Nathaniel Dett, Mus. D. Based on Materials in the Niagara Falls, New York Public Library. Crystal Beach, ON: A.E. Gray], In and out Print.), 1987. Hampton University Archives, Hampton University, Hampton, VA. Hester, M. Thomas. Oxford Encyclopedia of British Literature. ed. David Scott Kastan. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Current Online Version: 2012. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://www.oxfordreference.com.libproxy.temple.edu/view/10.1093/acref/978019516 9218.001.0001/acref-9780195169218-e-0141?rskey=tOpAyw&result=140. 184 Hochschule für Musik und Theater “Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy” Leipzig. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://www.hmt-leipzig.de/home/hochschule/profil. The Hymnal 1982: according to the use of The Episcopal Church. New York: The Church Hymnal Corporation, 1982. Jackson, Raymond. “The piano music of twentieth-century Black Americans as illustrated mainly in the works of three composers”. DMA thesis, The Juilliard School, 1973. Johnson, James Weldon, and Alexander Street Press. The Book of American Negro Poetry: Chosen and Edited, with an Essay on the Negro's Creative Genius. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1922. Kerlin, Robert. Negro Poets and Their Poems. Washington, DC: Associated Publishers, 1923. Lerma, Dominique René de. "Dett and Engel A Question of Cultural Pride." The Black Perspective in Music 1.1 (1973): 70-2. ---. Reflections on Afro-American Music. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1973. ---. R. Nathaniel Dett works. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://chevalierdesaintgeorges.homestead.com/Dett.html. ---. Program notes for R. Nathaniel Dett Piano Works. Denver Oldham, pianist. Recorded 1988. New World Records NW 367-2, 1988. CD. Malval, Fritz J. A Guide to the Archives of Hampton Institute. no. 5 Vol. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1985. McBrier, Vivian Flagg. R. Nathaniel Dett: His Life and Works, 1882-1943. Washington, D.C: Associated Publishers, 1977. Messiaen, Olivier. Preface to Quatour pour la Fin du Temps. Paris: Editions Durand & Cie,1942. Miles, Debra Ann. “R. Nathaniel Dett’s “In the Bottoms” Piano Suite: An Analysis with Historical Background". Master’s thesis, Oberlin Conservatory, 1983. Oberlin College and Conservatory. “Early History”. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://new.oberlin.edu/about/history.dot. Pope, Marguerite. A Brief Biography of Dr. Robert Nathaniel Dett. Hampton, VA: Hampton Institute Press, 1945. 185 Roth, Cecil. "Leoni, Myer." Encyclopaedia Judaica. Ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik. 2 nd ed. Vol. 12. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007. 647-648. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CCX2587512142&v=2.1&u=temple_main&i t=r&p=GVRL&sw=w&asid=6ef8bb8ede1adc952e6ce140ce7ecfe3. Rothkoff, Aaron, and Bathja Bayer. "Yigdal." Encyclopaedia Judaica. Ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik. 2nd ed. Vol. 21. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007. 373-374. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CCX2587521270&v=2.1&u=temple_main&i t=r&p=GVRL&sw=w&asid=f4a958c25e541f181b8ebe344eea1eab. Schenbeck, Lawrence. Racial Uplift and American Music, 1878-1943. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2012. Simpson, Anne Key. Follow Me: The Life and Music of R. Nathaniel Dett. no. 10 Vol. Metuchen, N.J: Scarecrow Press, 1993. Smitherman, Geneva. Black talk: Words and Phrases from the Hood to the Amen Corner. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000. Spencer, Jon Michael. The Rhythms of Black Folk: Race, Religion, and Pan-Africanism. Trenton, N.J: Africa World Press, 1995. Thompson, R. C., translator. “The Seven Evil Spirits [The Devils and Evil Spirits of Babylonia]”. Accessed November 3, 2013. http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/seven.htm. Washington, Booker T.. preface to Twenty Four Negro Melodies, by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Boston: Ditson, 1905. Winter, Marian Hannah. “Juba and American Minstrelsy,” Chronicles of the American Dance. ed. Paul Magriel. New York: Da Capo Press, 1948. Work, John Wesley. Folk Song of the American Negro. New York: Negro Universities Press, 1969; 1915. [Addendum: Kay Robertine Pace, “Solo Piano Suites of Robert Nathaniel Dett” (1984). This source is listed for information purposes only, as it came to the author’s attention following this paper’s completion. It is held by the Center for Black Music Research, Columbia College, Chicago, for reference only and is not available through interlibrary loan.] 186 APPENDIX A “THE DREAM” John Donne DEAR love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream ; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely ; yet My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, and fables histories ; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best, Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me ; Yet I thought thee —For thou lovest truth—an angel, at first sight ; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then, I must confess, it could not choose but be Profane, to think thee anything but thee. Coming and staying show'd thee, thee, But rising makes me doubt, that now Thou art not thou. That love is weak where fear's as strong as he ; 'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have ; Perchance as torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me ; Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come ; then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die. 187 APPENDIX B GITANJALI (second poem) Rabindranath Tagore When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony---and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence. I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach. Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. 188 APPENDIX C “EPIMETHEUS” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Have I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian? What! are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances As with magic circles bound me? Ah! how cold are their caresses! Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture! Children of my golden leisures! Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture? Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, When they came to me unbidden; Voices single, and in chorus, Like the wild birds singing o'er us In the dark of branches hidden. Disenchantment! Disillusion! Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation? Not with steeper fall nor faster, From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster, 189 Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling Of unrest and long resistance Is but passionate appealing, A prophetic whisper stealing O'er the chords of our existence. Him whom thou dost once enamour, Thou, beloved, never leavest; In life's discord, strife, and clamor, Still he feels thy spell of glamour; Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, Lives, like days in summer, lengthened! Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl, my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer, When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces: Let us turn and wander thither! 190 APPENDIX D DETT’S CONCERT REPERTOIRE DETT'S OWN WORKS: 1925 at ceremony after election as president of National Association of Negro Musicians - Song of the Shrine, Barcarolle Inspiration Waltzes, Cave of the winds - ca. 1903 at Halsted Conservatory Magnolia (sometimes without Deserted Cabin) In the Bottoms (often Barcarolle and Dance-Juba only) Enchantment (often without last movement or only Song of the Shrine) Sonata in E minor - Moderato Nobile (1924, 1925) Cinnamon Grove (1931, 1935) Dett often performed his own piano works along with his choral works, also joint recitals with Charles Flax, Baritone WORKS BY OTHER COMPOSERS: J. S. Bach - Capriccio on the Departure of a Beloved Brother, 1935 J. S. Bach-F. Liszt - Fantasia and Fugue G minor 1935 Beethoven, Sonata op. 10, no 2 - ca. 1903 at Halsted Conservatory Beethoven, Sonata op. 31, no. 2 Adagio only - ca. 1908 at Oberlin, 1935 MacDowell - Sea Pieces - ca. 1903 at Halsted Conservatory Chopin - Nocturne op. 37, no 1 - ca. 1903 at Halsted Conservatory Chopin - Nocturne C minor - 1926 at Hampton Chopin - Waltz Op. 64, no 2 - 1926 at Hampton Chopin Op. 25, no 3, Op. 10, no 4, ca. 1908 at Oberlin Chopin Ballade in G minor - 1908 at Oberlin Mendelssohn Hunting Song - ca. 1903 at Halsted Conservatory Schumann - Aufschwung - ca. 1903 at Halsted Conservatory, 1926 at Hampton Schumann - Whims - at Hampton 1926 Brahms - Rhapsodie in B minor - 1935 Grieg - Nocturne - 1935 Coleridge-Taylor - Let us Cheer the Weary Traveler (for Coleridge Taylor music club) Debussy - Arabesque - 1926 at Hampton Saint Saens - Etude en Forme de Valse - 1926 at Hampton Moszkowki, Barcarolle op. 27, no. 1 G minor - ca. 1908 at Oberlin Rubinstein Etude in C major, op. 23, no. 2 - ca. 1908 at Oberlin Schulz-Evler - Concert Arabesques ca. 1908 at Oberlin 191 APPENDIX E GRAINGER’S CONCERT REPERTOIRE AT THE TIME OF HIS ASSOCIATION WITH DETT Bach-Busoni - Chaconne - Boston 1919, 1920, NY 1920 J. S. Bach - WTC I C# minor - 1924 Ogden Hall at Hampton Scarlatti - Selected Sonatas - 1924 Ogden Hall at Hampton Scott - Sonata no. 1, op. 66 - Boston 12/12/1919 (Boston premiere - Dett also in attendance as Dance-Juba was the hit of the recital as reported by Olin Downes in Boston Post), NY 1920 Chopin - Sonata no. 3 in B minor - 1924 Ogden Hall at Hampton Schumann - Symphonic Etudes - 1924 Ogden Hall at Hampton Balfour-Gardiner Humoresque and Prelude (De Profundis) - 1920 New York Grainger arrangements, transcriptions - Molly on the Shore, One more day, my John, Shepherd's Hey, Country Gardens - 1919 Boston Debussy - Reflets dans l'eaux, Claire de Lune, Toccata, Jardins sous la pluie - 1919 Boston 192 APPENDIX F PIANO WORK LISTING "S" numbers are from Anne Key Simpson's biography S. 1 After the Cakewalk - Published 1900 by Van der Sloot Music Company, Williamsport, PA S.2 Cave of the Winds - Published 1902 by S. C. Fragard, Niagara Falls, NY S.3 Inspiration Waltzes - Published 1903 by Richard A. Saalfield, London S.4 My Agnes from Niagara - Published 1909 by S. C. Fragard, Niagara Falls, NY S.5 Magnolia - Published 1912 by Clayton F. Summy, Chicago Part I Magnolias; Moderato molto cantabile The Deserted Cabin; Largo con tristezza, melodia ben sostenuto, accomp. stacc. My Lady Love; Allegretto grazioso Part II Mammy; Lento con tenerezza The Place Where the Rainbow Never Ends; Allegro S.6 In the Bottoms - Published 1913 by Clayton F. Summy, Chicago Prelude - Night; Adagio sostenuto His Song; Andante non troppo, ma piu patetico Honey - Humoresque; Allegretto Barcarolle - Morning; Moderato molto grazioso Dance-Juba; Non troppo allegro S.7 Enchantment - Published 1922 by John Church, New York Incantation; Un poco agitato ma moderato 193 Song of the Shrine; Lento con molto espressione Dance of Desire; Con moto Beyond the Dream; Andante patetico S.8 Nepenthe and the Muse - Published 1922 by John Church, New York S.10 Cotton Needs Pickin' - 1924 unpublished S.11 Fair weather - Published 1926 by Theodore Presser, Bryn Mawr, PA S.12 Cinnamon Grove - Published 1928 by John Church, New York I Moderato molto grazioso ma con moto (on lines from "The Dream" by John Donne) II Adagio cantabile (on lines from "Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore) III Ritmo moderato con sentimento, quasi gavotte (on lines from "Epimetheus" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) IV Allegretto (on lines from a song in Religious Folk Songs of the Negro "Oh, the winter'll soon be over, children, Yes, my Lord.") S.14 Tropic Winter - Published 1938 by Clayton F. Summy, Chicago I Daybreak Charioteer; Pomposo marziale moderato II Bayou Garden; Adagio molto sostenuto III Pompons and Fans (Mazurka); Grazioso IV Legend of the Atoll; Lento V To a Closed Casement; Andante espressivo VI Noon Siesta; Lento quasi berceuse VII Parade of the Jasmine Banners; Allegretto grazioso S.15 Eight Bible Vignettes - Published 1941-43 by Mills Music, New York I Father Abraham; Molto maestoso II Desert Interlude; Larghetto patetico 194 III As his own Soul; Moderato semplice quasi volkslied IV Barcarolle of Tears; Andante V I am the True Vine; Con moto, ma espressivo VI Martha Complained; Larghetto VII Other Sheep; Largo VIII Madrigal Divine; Moderato, molto tranquillo Angel of the Dark - unpublished manuscript - Niagara Falls Public Library, Niagara Falls, NY 
work_s6sbakxqsbcbrm3vnap44nwjrm	----	02_ASQ467168 585..624 http://asq.sagepub.com/ Quarterly Administrative Science http://asq.sagepub.com/content/57/4/585 The online version of this article can be found at: DOI: 10.1177/0001839212467168 2012 57: 585Administrative Science Quarterly Heather A. Haveman, Jacob Habinek and Leo A. Goodman 1860 −How Entrepreneurship Evolves : The Founders of New Magazines in America, 1741 Published by: http://www.sagepublications.com On behalf of: Samuel Curtis Johnson Graduate School of Management at Cornell University can be found at:Administrative Science QuarterlyAdditional services and information for http://asq.sagepub.com/cgi/alertsEmail Alerts: http://asq.sagepub.com/subscriptionsSubscriptions: http://www.sagepub.com/journalsReprints.navReprints: http://www.sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.navPermissions: What is This? - Nov 19, 2012Version of Record >> at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ http://asq.sagepub.com/content/57/4/585 http://www.sagepublications.com http://www2.johnson.cornell.edu/publications/asq/ http://asq.sagepub.com/cgi/alerts http://asq.sagepub.com/subscriptions http://www.sagepub.com/journalsReprints.nav http://www.sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.nav http://asq.sagepub.com/content/57/4/585.full.pdf http://online.sagepub.com/site/sphelp/vorhelp.xhtml http://asq.sagepub.com/ Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (4)585–624 � The Author(s) 2012 Reprints and permissions: sagepub.com/ journalsPermissions.nav DOI: 10.1177/0001839212467168 asq.sagepub.com How Entrepreneurship Evolves: The Founders of New Magazines in America, 1741–1860 Heather A. Haveman, 1 Jacob Habinek, 1 and Leo A. Goodman 1 Abstract We craft a historically sensitive model of entrepreneurship linking individual actors to the evolving social structures they must navigate to acquire resources and launch new ventures. Theories of entrepreneurship and industry evolution suggest two opposing hypotheses: as an industry develops, launching a new venture may become more difficult for all but industry insiders and the socially prominent because of competition from large incumbents, or it may become easier for all people because the legitimacy accorded to the industry simplifies the entrepreneurial task. To test these two conflicting claims, we study the American magazine industry from 1741 to 1860. We find that magazine pub- lishing was originally restricted to publishing-industry insiders, professionals, and the highly educated, but most later founders came from outside publishing and more were of middling stature. Gains by entrepreneurs from the social per- iphery, however, were uneven: most were doctors and clergy without college degrees in small urban areas; magazines founded by industry insiders remained predominant in the industry centers. Our analysis demonstrates the importance of grounding studies of entrepreneurship in historical context. It also shows that entrepreneurship scholars must attend to temporal shifts within the focal industry and in society at large. Keywords: entrepreneurship, organizational founding, industry evolution, status In a pioneering analysis, Stinchcombe (1965) proposed that entrepreneurial dynamics are influenced by historical conditions. Large-scale changes such as urbanization, the creation of new policy regimes, and technological break- throughs may change the resources available to entrepreneurs, altering organi- zational founding rates by transforming the entrepreneurial task itself. Yet much research on entrepreneurship remains ahistorical. It assumes that the factors that make people more or less likely to create new organizations do not 1 University of California, Berkeley at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ vary over time or across space. Perhaps more important, it assumes that the direction and magnitude of these factors’ effects on entrepreneurial activity do not vary (see Isaac and Griffin, 1989, on ahistoricism in organizational analysis). In most studies of entrepreneurship, temporal and spatial variation in the eco- nomic, cultural, and political landscape is either ignored entirely or controlled by design, by focusing on a narrow slice of time and space. Research that takes a longer perspective has shown that the effects of changing social context are often surprisingly complex. Changes in one set of factors (e.g., government regulation, economic conditions, or technology) can prompt changes in another set of factors (e.g., competition or cultural mores) that, in turn, alter entrepreneurial dynamics in unexpected ways. For instance, founding rates of Massachusetts railroads varied greatly across regulatory regimes, which determined both the availability of resources entrepreneurs needed to get their railroads running and the nature of competition among incumbent railroads (Dobbin and Dowd, 1997). In the same vein, declines in federal grants to universities weakened scientists’ concerns about communal- ism and disinterestedness and increased their acceptance of property-rights claims on scientific discoveries (Etzkowitz, 1989); this normative shift made scientists more likely to participate in new biotechnology ventures (Stuart and Ding, 2006). To give a final example, capitalist development can either increase or decrease rates of entrepreneurship, depending on whether it occurs through endogenous development or is imposed by external fiat (Ruef and Reinecke, 2011). As these examples show, attention to history can solve puzzles about entrepreneurial dynamics by revealing how interactions among multiple factors open and close different paths to entrepreneurship. Our goal is to add to this stream of research by building a model of entrepre- neurship that is sensitive to historical context, one that ties individual actors directly to the evolving social structures they must navigate to acquire the resources they need to found organizations. In doing so, we seek to reconnect agency and structure (Sewell, 1992) by showing how entrepreneurs’ access to resources varies at any point in time between people in different social posi- tions and over time for people in any single social position. Social position refers to any characteristic or combination of characteristics (such as age, race, gender, income, education, occupation, or location) that stratifies people’s access to the resources they need to launch new ventures. As Stinchcombe (1965) explained, secular trends in society at large can improve or degrade the resources available to people in any particular social position. But over time, entrepreneurs’ own actions also alter access to resources for subsequent entrepreneurs by shaping the path of industry development. As a result, the benefit of being in any social position, even one that offers superior access to resources, will vary over time. Building on theories of industry evolution, we propose two opposing hypoth- eses. First, if as an industry develops it becomes increasingly easy to acquire resources and launch new ventures, then the earliest entrepreneurs will be socially prominent and come from occupations related to the focal industry or those with high prestige, while later entrepreneurs will be less distinguished and industry outsiders. Second, if as an industry develops it becomes increas- ingly difficult to acquire resources and launch new ventures, then the earliest entrepreneurs will come from the social periphery and a wide array of occupa- tions, while later entrepreneurs will include more members of the social elite 586 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ and more industry insiders. We focus on three aspects of social position— occupation, education, and geographic location—that have been shown to stra- tify entrepreneurs’ access to resources (e.g., Sorenson and Audia, 2000; Burton, Sørensen, and Beckman, 2002; Shane and Khurana, 2003; Backes- Gellner and Werner, 2007). Analyzing the effects of occupation, education, and location on entrepreneur- ship in a way that is sensitive to both trends in the focal industry and in society at large presents both empirical and methodological challenges. Empirically, it requires data covering long time periods—however long it takes for a new industry to become legitimated, demand to grow, and some incumbents to grow large—and data that span multiple locations. In this paper, we analyze geographically comprehensive data on one industry, American magazines, over a 120-year period. Our analysis begins in 1741, when the first American maga- zines were published, and ends on the eve of the Civil War in 1860, by which time the industry had become well established. Methodologically, it requires us to account for how historical trajectories of occupational status, educational stratification, and locational attractiveness jointly alter entrepreneurs’ access to resources and how altered access is conditioned on industry development. We accomplish this by using statistical techniques that can reveal temporal shifts in associations among multiple aspects of entrepreneurs’ social positions. To ground our study in historical context, we begin by tracing the expansion of the American magazine industry, focusing on how shifting resource levels, increas- ing legitimacy, growing customer demand, and intensifying competition altered the challenges facing entrepreneurs in this industry. ENTREPRENEURSHIP IN THE MAGAZINE INDUSTRY IN AMERICA The first American magazines appeared within three days of each other in February 1741, produced by rival printers Andrew Bradford and Benjamin Franklin. Their founders expected these publications would have long lives, but both were short-lived: Bradford’s lasted only three monthly issues and Franklin’s six. In the wake of these pioneering ventures, the American maga- zine industry struggled. Only 21 magazines were founded in the 35 years before the Revolution began. Not until peace was restored did magazine publishing gain a firm foothold on American soil. Between 1790 and 1830, the founding rate rose from two to 91 per year. Foundings began to outstrip failures and the number of magazines in print rose from 12 in 1790 to 346 in 1830. Industry growth continued to acceler- ate, and by 1860, almost 1,000 magazines were in print. As magazines grew in numbers, they became increasingly robust. The fraction that stayed in print for 25 years or more tripled, from 3.9 percent of magazines founded in the eight- eenth century to 11 percent of those founded in the 1840s and 1850s. Some magazines also began to reach mass audiences. Data on circulation are available for only a few magazines at scattered points in time, but 79 of the 245 magazines published between 1841 and 1860 for which data are available had circulations over 10,000; 15 boasted circulations over 100,000, including Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Magazine (1855–1922, circulation 164,000 in 1860) and Harper’s Weekly (1857–1916, circulation over 100,000 in 1860). To put this in perspective, by far the best-selling antebellum book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, sold 310,000 copies; the next-best-selling book sold fewer than 80,000 copies Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 587 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ (Zboray, 1993: 122). Mass-market publishing was centered in New York City, Boston, and Philadelphia. In the 1840s and 1850s, over 80 percent of the maga- zines published that we know had circulations greater than 10,000 were pub- lished in these three cities, and New York City, the largest in the nation, was home to over one-quarter of all magazines in print. Mass-market publishers like Harper & Brothers, the largest publishing house in the world at that time (Schlesinger, 2000), benefitted from economies of scale, and the vast resources they commanded made them fierce competitors: they could pay popular authors like James Fenimore Cooper and Nathaniel Hawthorne hand- somely for original poetry and prose. At the same time as magazine publishing became concentrated in New York City, magazines spread westward across the continent. The Blau index of geo- graphic heterogeneity (Blau, 1977), scaled to reflect both the number of loca- tions with printing presses and the number in which magazines were published, rose from 0.22 in 1793, when magazines were published in six of the 22 states and territories that had printing presses, to 0.46 in 1800, when magazines were published in 13 of the 24 states and territories that had print- ing presses. In the nineteenth century, this index rose slowly and in the 1840s and 1850s, it averaged 0.66. A number of factors contributed to American magazines becoming so numerous and robust, with some of them cultivating mass audiences. Technological, economic, and legal changes made the basic resources involved in magazine production, distribution, and contents more readily available every- where. In addition, magazines gained legitimacy in the eyes of the reading pub- lic and found a wide array of audiences. Magazine Production and Resource Acquisition To launch new magazines, entrepreneurs needed three main kinds of resources: for basic production, they needed printing presses and paper; to fill pages, they needed written and pictorial material; and to reach subscribers, they needed distribution channels. Below, we discuss how each of these resources developed from 1741 to 1860 and how these developments trans- formed the entrepreneurial task. Production. Early on, the scarcity of printers and printing presses greatly hampered the magazine industry. Printing presses were slow, cumbersome, manually powered mechanisms that required skilled craftsmen to operate (Berry and Poole, 1966; Moran, 1973), which made all publishing efforts, includ- ing magazines, costly and dubious ventures. Printing spread slowly to the back- woods (Wroth and Silver, 1951) as journeyman printers moved to find clients (Silver, 1967). Then in the first decades of the nineteenth century, a series of technological advances greatly improved the speed and quality of printing and so dramatically reduced printing costs (Berry and Poole, 1966; Moran, 1973). By the 1830s, steam-powered presses that could be run by less-skilled workers appeared in every state and territory. These new presses were also far more efficient: while manual presses in 1800 could produce perhaps 200 sheets per hour, in 1840, a steam-driven press could print as many as 8,000 sheets per hour. These technological innovations transformed printing from an art to an 588 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ industry by greatly increasing printing speed and reducing reliance on skilled workers, thus reducing costs (Lehmann-Haupt, 1951). Paper making in the eighteenth century was also slow and required skilled labor: cotton or linen rags were soaked in water and macerated to reduce them to pulp; mesh screens were then dipped into the wet mixture, pressed, and set to dry; dried sheets of paper were pulled off the screens, pressed again, and trimmed to size (Weeks, 1916; Berry and Poole, 1966; Smith, 1979). This cumbersome process also made paper very expensive. Technological advances improved paper making after the turn of the century. The introduction of new devices, such as the Fourdinier machine, made it possible for paper to be pro- duced on an industrial scale; this and subsequent technological innovations substantially decreased paper prices (Moran, 1973; Smith, 1979). In constant dollars, the cost of a ream of paper declined over 85 percent between 1810 and 1854 (Hunter, 1952; Starr, 2004). Contents. The earliest magazines were beset by problems of supply: few people were willing to contribute engaging original prose or poetry. In the eight- eenth century, the typical American man of letters was a gentleman-scholar whose output was an avocation. These patricians wrote to further personal political, artistic, religious, or scientific objectives, not to make money (Charvat, 1968; Dauber, 1990). Only men with independent means or sinecures that were remunerative but not strenuous could indulge in writing at this time; those who sought to earn their living by writing were doomed to fail. Perhaps the most prominent example of this is Charles Brockden Brown, who is often recognized as America’s first professional novelist. Unable to earn a living from the seven novels he published between 1798 and 1801, he was forced to work in his brothers’ export firm for several years, until he found an outlet for his lit- erary ambitions by publishing magazines (Dauber, 1990). The situation was exacerbated by the fact that copyright was virtually non- existent before 1790 and not applied to magazines until the 1820s (Bugbee, 1967; Charvat, 1968). As a result, magazines were free to reprint material from other sources. For instance, New York Magazine (1790–1797) reprinted 86 arti- cles from the vaunted Edinburgh Magazine, including travel stories, articles about new inventions, essays on morality and science, character sketches and short stories, and biographies (Pitcher, 2000: 129–149). The volume of rep- rinted material in American magazines was substantial; for example, almost half of the articles printed in the first three volumes of the Balance & Columbian Repository (1801–1811) came from other periodicals or books, both American and European (Pitcher, 2000: 151–181). Although magazines could glean free content from other publications, they had no legal protection for any original material developed by their own contributors, which hindered their abil- ity to differentiate themselves from rival periodicals. Understandings of what it meant to be an author changed slowly between 1820 and 1860, as America became a more market-oriented society and as lit- erature evolved to connote commodities created by professionals that were traded for profit. But even in 1860, few authors could earn enough from writing books to support themselves (Charvat, 1968; Dauber, 1990). A slow cultural shift from author as gentleman-scholar to author as professional was propelled by and reflected in an economic innovation by magazine publishers: in 1819, Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 589 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ the Christian Spectator (1819–1838) pioneered the practice of paying contribu- tors, offering $1 per page. This innovation diffused widely and had enormous economic and cultural impact. The first large-circulation magazine to pay contri- butors was Atlantic Magazine (1824–1825); many others followed suit over the next decade, notably Godey’s Lady’s Book (1830–1898) and Knickerbocker (1833–1865). As a result, writers like Edgar Allan Poe and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow could supplement what little they earned from publishing books by selling short stories and poems to magazines (Charvat, 1968). In 1843, the edi- tor of one prominent literary review commented on this nascent market for literature: Literature begins to assume the aspect and undergo the mutations of trade. The author’s profession is becoming as mechanical as that of the printer and the booksel- ler, being created by the same causes and subject to the same laws. . . . The pub- lisher in the name of his customers calls for a particular kind of authorship just as he would bespeak a dinner at a restaurant. (North American Review, 56: 110) Even literary reviews, whose contributors were most likely to view themselves as gentlemen-scholars, adopted this market-oriented practice; for example, the North American Review (1815–1940) did so in the mid 1820s. Thus the norm of magazine publishers paying for content made it possible for professional writers to literally scratch out decent livings with their pens. Distribution. Eighteenth-century magazines’ circulations were local: they were sold primarily at their printers’ shops or at tobacconists and general stores in nearby towns. Of the 50 eighteenth-century magazines whose pages gave any indication of their geographic reach, two-thirds were sold in a single city or town. To reach subscribers farther away, magazine founders had to build distri- bution networks from scratch. For instance, the American Magazine & Historical Chronicle (1743–1746), published in Boston, assembled a team of printers and booksellers in Philadelphia, New York, New Haven, and Newport who were responsible for distribution outside its city of publication. Similarly, the Royal American Magazine (1774–1775), also published in Boston, developed a net- work of sales agents throughout New England and south to the Carolinas. The development of the postal system created an extensive, reliable, and fast distribution channel for magazines. In 1741, when the first magazines were launched, there were only 31 post offices connected by a mere 1,500 miles of post roads (Rich, 1924; Kielbowicz, 1989; John, 1995). By the eve of the Revolution, the number of post offices had almost doubled, to 61, although the network of post roads had increased only slightly, to 1,800 miles. In the early republic, political elites viewed the postal system as a tool for creating a national community that would transcend state boundaries (Rich, 1924; Kielbowicz, 1989; John, 1995; Starr, 2004). Accordingly, Congress established the U.S. Post Office as a permanent arm of the state in 1794 and mandated the system’s expansion. After that, the postal system grew exponentially; by 1860, it included over 28,000 post offices and covered 240,000 miles of post roads (Kielbowicz, 1989; John, 1995). Although the postal system was virtually complete by the late 1820s (John, 1995), the federal government continued to invest heavily to expand it to cover the nation’s growing landmass. 590 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Improvements in transportation kept pace with the growth of the postal sys- tem, as mail transport shifted from horseback over unpaved pathways or ‘‘cor- duroy’’ log roads to horse-drawn carriages over paved roads, and as the post relied increasingly on steamboats, canals, and railroads (Kielbowicz, 1989; John, 1995). As a result, between 1800 and 1860, travel speeds increased greatly. For example, travel time from New York City dropped 88 percent for trips to Boston, 80 percent to Charleston, 81 percent to New Orleans, and 95 percent to Chicago (Carter and Sutsch, 2006). As the postal system developed, magazines evolved from serving mostly local audiences in a handful of Eastern cities to reaching national audiences (Mott, 1930, 1938; Kielbowicz, 1989). For example, the American Journal of Science & Arts (1818-1938) was originally sold from Boston south to Georgia and west to Ohio. In November 1820, at the close of its second volume, the editor claimed that his was ‘‘not a local but a national undertaking’’ that was ‘‘sustained by original communications . . . from the East and the West, the North and the South, and even occasionally from other countries’’ [‘‘Preface,’’ American Journal of Science & Arts, 2 (2): 176]. This was no idle boast: by the mid 1840s this magazine had built a subscription base that reached across the continent, even across the Atlantic to London, Paris, and Hamburg. Audience Demand and Magazines’ Legitimacy Perhaps the most fundamental fact standing in the way of the earliest American magazines was the lack of an audience, as the number of potential readers in the colonies was small: in 1740, the thirteen colonies had a popula- tion just over 900,000 (U.S. Census Bureau, 2006), most of whom were subsis- tence farmers who had little cash to spend on magazines. And because they were novel cultural products, the earliest magazines required considerable explanation and exhortation to attract readers. Andrew Bradford’s American Magazine (1741) began with eight pages detailing what it would and would not contain. In a crass attempt to demonstrate legitimacy, Mathew Carey’s American Museum (1787–1792) devoted twelve pages up front to a list of sub- scribers, highlighting support from luminaries like George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Carey’s unsubtle plea for legitimacy worked: his venture was one of the most successful magazines of the eighteenth century (Charvat, 1968; Mott, 1930), eventually enrolling 1,250 subscribers and producing twelve complete semiannual volumes. Early American magazines also stood in the shadow of British ones. They resembled British magazines in terms of physical format and contents, they used similar conventions for their layouts, and they reprinted many essays and poems by celebrated British authors from British periodicals. The founders of the Literary Gazette (1821) commented on this widespread practice: ‘‘The numerous scien- tific and literary journals of Great Britain are still found to be attractive to the American public, and the most popular of our journals are in a great measure filled with selections from them’’ (‘‘Prospectus,’’ 1821: 3). Such a strong and lasting connection to the British press should not be surprising, for these Americans were originally British subjects and most were descended from British subjects. They took pride in their heritage and admired their mother country’s culture. Notwithstanding American magazines’ tendency to resemble British ones, some magazine founders argued that British periodicals did not provide Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 591 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ adequate coverage of American affairs. The Preface to William Smith’s American Magazine & Monthly Chronicle (1757–1758) put this most plainly: It has long been a matter of just complaint among some of the best friends of our national commerce and safety that the important concerns of these colonies were but little studied and less understood in the mother country. . . it is complained that the difficulty of acquiring any tolerable notion of American affairs has been discoura- ging to many . . . it was proposed by some booksellers and others . . . to undertake a monthly magazine for the colonies, offering at the same time to procure considerable encouragement for it. . . . Entrepreneurs like Smith sought to provide locally relevant alternatives to British magazines by publishing local government proceedings, accounts of American religious revivals, essays on local politics, letters from travelers to the frontier, and information about Atlantic and Caribbean trade. Other American magazine founders, even in the colonial era, viewed their ventures as keystones of politi- cal freedom. This sentiment intensified during the Revolution, when magazines such as Hugh Henry Brackenridge’s aptly named United States Magazine (1779) argued the importance of instilling civic virtues in all citizens. Over time, the situation facing American magazine entrepreneurs improved greatly. First and most basically, the number of potential readers grew enor- mously. The population rose to 5.3 million by 1800 and then to 31.4 million by 1860 (U.S. Census Bureau, 2006). At the same time, the market economy grew while subsistence agriculture and barter declined (North, 1961; McCusker and Menard, 1991; Howe, 2009). As a result, the standard of living rose above the level in most European countries (McCusker and Menard, 1991). The growth of the money economy outstripped population growth: in constant dol- lars, GDP per capita increased 150 percent from 1790 (the first year data are available) to 1860 (U.S. Census Bureau, 2006), and industrial output per capita increased 400 percent (Davis, 2004). Together, these trends expanded the potential audience for magazines: there were many more people with much more cash to spend on magazines. Perhaps more importantly, magazines’ legitimacy improved markedly. Those who were involved in launching and running magazines were well aware of this; for instance, just two years after starting Hopkinsian Magazine (1824– 1832), the editor noted that ‘‘The peculiar difficulties attending the commence- ment of such a work, if not entirely removed, are greatly diminished. The importance of a cheap, periodical publication . . . is more and more felt. . .’’ [‘‘Preface,’’ 2 (2): iii]. In addition, the development of the norm of paying authors for their contributions meant that magazines became a primary channel for original essays, stories, and poetry (Charvat, 1968). The proliferation of origi- nal material made magazines more desirable to readers and in 1825, the indus- try entered its first ‘‘golden age’’ (Mott 1930, 1938; Tebbel and Zuckerman, 1991). Magazines became the preeminent means of disseminating literature, both original pieces and works reprinted from British sources. Demand increased as the range of material magazines published expanded. In the earliest years, magazines focused on ‘‘serious’’ literature (meaning pon- derous essays about philosophy, religion, politics, and natural philosophy) and were livened only a little by poetry. By the 1840s, magazines also published short stories and serialized novels, plus articles about less-weighty topics, 592 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ including sports, fashion, home life, education, travel, puzzles, and professional interests. Large publishing houses launched multiple magazines, each targeting a different, specialized audience. For instance, Frank Leslie launched six maga- zines, including a German-language general-interest journal, a humor magazine, and a ladies’ fashion magazine, while Harper & Brothers published a religious journal and two mass-market literary magazines. Demand for magazines also increased because new audiences developed, first among the members of the many different religious communities that flourished in this era. Magazine entrepreneurs created specialized periodicals for virtually all faiths, not just large ones like the Congregationalists, Baptists, and Presbyterians, but also small ones like the Mormons, Swedenborgians, Plymouth Brethren, Moravians, and Christadelphians. By the middle of the nineteenth century, religious periodicals had become ‘‘the grand engine of a burgeoning religious culture, the primary means of promotion for, and bond of union within, competing religious groups’’ (Hatch, 1989: 125–126). Religious magazines rose from 15 percent of magazines founded in the eighteenth cen- tury to 22 percent of those founded in the 1840s and 1850s. In these two decades, religious magazines outnumbered general-interest periodicals 568 to 540, and some, like the American Messenger (1843–1923), gained nationwide audiences. Religious fervor also spawned 181 magazines in the 1840s and 1850s that were devoted to reform efforts, including the abolition of slavery, temperance, protection for widows and orphans, and strict observance of the Sabbath (King and Haveman, 2008). Magazines helped the members of the emerging professions and other spe- cialized occupations develop common standards of practice and distinct identi- ties. Although in the eighteenth century, only two magazines were published for specialized occupations, both medical magazines, in the 1840s and 1850s, some 350 occupation-specific magazines were launched, not just for physi- cians, but also for lawyers, businessmen, engineers, and journeymen. These occupational communities were often cleaved by debates, many of which were carried in the pages of magazines. For example, among members of the evol- ving medical field, homeopaths, Thomsonians, eclectics, mesmerists, magne- tists, hydropaths, Grahamites, phrenologists, and osteopaths vied for legitimacy with allopaths (Starr, 1982). All of these camps launched magazines to promote their view of medical practice. The growing concern for ‘‘scientific’’ solutions to social problems promoted the founding of specialty agricultural, educational, and scientific magazines. The diffusion of crop rotation, the development of mechanical equipment like rakes and reapers, and the careful breeding of plants and animals boosted production and kept previously cleared farmland in use (McClelland, 1997). This agricultural revolution was supported by the publication of some 258 agricultural maga- zines in the 1840s and 1850s. Several of these had nationwide circulation; for instance, Country Gentleman (1852–1955) had over 25,000 subscribers between 1852 and 1860, while American Agriculturist (1842–1931) had 50,000 in 1860. Others, like the American Silk Grower’s Magazine (1844) and the Pomologist Magazine (1842–1843), targeted narrow audiences. Like agricul- ture, education became more formalized and ‘‘scientific’’ in the nineteenth cen- tury, as it slowly shifted from home to school (Douglas, 1977; Kaestle, 1983; Zboray, 1993). The proponents of different pedagogical systems competed for the attention of the new education profession (Kaestle, 1983), and many used Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 593 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ magazines to spread their pedagogical theories and practices. Some 125 edu- cation periodicals were published in the 1840s and 1850s, including Henry Barnard’s Connecticut Common School Journal (1838–1866) and Horace Mann’s Boston-based Common School Journal (1838–1852), the most famous educational periodicals of the era (Mott, 1930: 490–492). Finally, the increasing valorization of science led to and was reinforced by the publication of 69 scien- tific and engineering magazines in the 1840s and 1850s, including Scientific American (1845–the present). The Evolving Challenges of Entrepreneurship Between the appearance of the first American magazines in 1741 and the out- break of the Civil War 120 years later, the resources needed to publish maga- zines became more readily and universally available, the industry became more legitimate, and demand grew, especially for specialist magazines that targeted members of particular religious communities, reform movements, and occupa- tions. But these developments were offset by the increasing cost of content as authorship became a paid occupation and by fierce competition from large pub- lishers. The question remains as to what effect these changes had on the kinds of people who launched magazines. Competition and exclusion from resource acquisition. A long tradition in sociological research suggests that the entrepreneurial task becomes more for- midable as industries develop. In new industries, most organizations are young and small, and so little-known and resource-poor. Therefore barriers to entry for other new ventures are low. But as industries develop, they often come to be dominated by a few very large and old organizations that have forged strong ties to suppliers and distributors. Because the large, established firms that dominate older industries are both widely recognized and resource-rich, they are powerful competitors, and their presence may make it hard for others to launch new enterprises (Hannan and Freeman, 1989). This idea harkens back to Adam Smith (1970) and Karl Marx (1977), who argued that small businesses find it hard to compete against large incumbents, which benefit from economies of scale and so can pursue technological innovations and aggressive pricing strate- gies that small enterprises cannot afford. Another consideration is that ties to suppliers and distributors strengthen as industries develop (DiMaggio and Powell, 1983). It is more difficult for outsiders to penetrate the settled social relations that characterize long-established industries than the fluid situations that prevail in new industries (Fligstein, 2001). This line of argument suggests that as industries develop, entrepreneurs will have more difficulty acquiring and deploying the resources they need to launch new businesses. Successful entre- preneurs will increasingly be either industry insiders or outsiders with consider- able wealth or other resources, as only insiders and elites will have the resources needed to scale rising barriers to entry. Outsiders without wealth, connections, or reputations will be increasingly excluded. Legitimacy and easier access to resources. Other organizational research suggests instead that launching new ventures may be harder in newer indus- tries than in older ones. In new industries, customers and suppliers are 594 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ uncertain, even skeptical (Aldrich and Fiol, 1994), so entrepreneurs must strug- gle to define opportunities, identify resources, and pry resources away from existing organizations (Rao, 1998). Given this difficulty, entrepreneurs in new industries must depend on their personal reputations and connections to promi- nent others, which substitute for direct measurement of worth by customers and suppliers (DiMaggio, 1982; Granovetter and McGuire, 1998). Such relationships create halos that instill entrepreneurs’ activities with normative and pragmatic legitimacy (Crane, 1965; Merton, 1968; David, Sine, and Haveman, 2012). But as industries develop and expand, they become increasingly legitimate (Hannan and Freeman, 1989), which makes it easier for entrepreneurs to recruit employees, acquire funding and equipment, and solicit sales (Aldrich and Fiol, 1994). In addi- tion, as industries expand, deep pools of industry-specific resources build up (Hannan and Freeman, 1989), smoothing the path to entrepreneurship. Moreover, as industries develop, entrepreneurs learn what to do—and what not to do—from observing their predecessors (Aldrich and Fiol, 1994). This line of argument suggests that acquiring and deploying the resources needed to launch new ventures becomes easier as industries develop. If so, entrepreneurs in older industries will have less need for great wealth, high personal standing, or promi- nent friends than their counterparts in younger industries. The Evolving Value of Social Position: Occupation, Education, and Location As Stinchcombe (1965: 147) argued, the likelihood of people becoming entre- preneurs depends on social structure and people’s position within that struc- ture, which jointly determine their access to the resources needed to start their ventures. At any point in time, people in occupations related to the focal indus- try, in high-status occupations, with prestigious educational credentials, and in central locations will have easier resource access than people in unrelated occupations, in low-status occupations, with less-prestigious educational cre- dentials, and in peripheral locations. Moreover, entrepreneurs’ resource access will change as occupational status, educational stratification, and locational attractiveness evolve over time. Therefore, to test the arguments derived above, we must delve into the particularities of our research site and, guided by historical research, explain how the resources provided by magazine entre- preneurs’ social positions changed over time. Occupation. Occupation is an indicator of a variety of economic, social, and cultural resources. Prior experience in a related occupation gives entrepreneurs knowledge and skills that will help their ventures thrive; it also signals the legiti- macy of the new venture to resource providers (Spence, 1973; Freeman, 1986; Burton, Sørensen, and Beckman, 2002). Through their prior work experience, entrepreneurs also forge ties to resource providers (Freeman, 1986; Shane and Khurana, 2003). In addition, people in occupations, like the professions, that can claim specialized expertise and that are sanctioned by state authorities may have better access to economic and cultural resources than people in other occupations (Weeden, 2002). For all these reasons, people in the professions or in occupations related to the focal industry are more likely than people in other occupations to be able to acquire the resources they need to launch new ventures. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 595 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ In the samples we analyzed, four out of five magazine founders belonged to three occupational groups: the publishing trades (printers, publishers, editors, booksellers, bookbinders, and engravers), writers, and the traditional profes- sions (physicians, ministers, and lawyers). Other magazine founders we stud- ied were music composers and/or publishers, merchants, manufacturers, engineers, state officials, and teachers. In the eighteenth century, printing presses were rare and difficult to operate, and thus printers were highly skilled craftspeople. Although few received much formal education, many had ties to political elites: they printed official docu- ments for government officials, and many were appointed as postmasters. Moreover, in eighteenth-century America, especially after the Revolution, the wealth, income, and lifestyle of skilled artisans like printers were similar to those of merchants and others in non-manual occupations (Botein, 1981). Because print shops served as post offices, publishing houses, and bookstores, they were focal points for the exchange of news and intellectual engagement, serving the same civic function as English coffee houses, French salons, and German Tischgesellschaften (Wroth, 1931; Habermas, 1962; Everton, 2005). As the landlords of the eighteenth-century American public sphere, printers were well positioned to acquire content and oversee production, gain access to distribution channels, and attract audiences. A final consideration is that many printers had experience as newspaper publishers, which they could leverage when they launched magazines. During the nineteenth century, however, the social, cultural, and economic resources associated with printing declined. Printing became industrialized (Lehmann-Haupt, 1951), and printers were deskilled as printing presses became easier to use (Stott, 1990). Technological improvements, driven in part by demand from the growing magazine and newspaper industries, reduced printers from being proprietors of small businesses to being mere employees of publishing houses. Thus printers, like other skilled manual workers, saw their incomes, social status, and work autonomy decline (Commons et al., 1918; Stott, 1990). The impact of these technological and economic changes on mag- azine entrepreneurship is clear: by the mid-nineteenth century, magazine foun- ders could easily hire printers; they did not have to be printers themselves. These changes also lessened writers’ and editors’ dependence on printers, which made it more difficult for printers to acquire content. In contrast, other publishing-industry occupations (publishers, editors, and booksellers) continued to provide access to many resources needed to launch magazines. Their focus on the written word always demanded deep knowledge and possession of considerable cultural resources. Moreover, as publishing- industry insiders, they had ready access to persistently valuable social resources, such as ties to writers and to publishing houses. Therefore mem- bers of other publishing trades remained well placed to acquire original content for their new magazines and to hire printing presses to produce them. As explained above, eighteenth-century writers were almost all patricians: gentlemen-scholars who wrote for their own amusement and for the edifica- tion of others (Charvat, 1968; Dauber, 1990). They had the funds to support lives of leisure and the cultivation to write with style and thus had immediate access to both financial support and content. By contrast, mid-nineteenth- century writers were more heterogeneous: although some were members of the social and economic elite, an increasing number earned their living by 596 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ writing. Mid-nineteenth-century writers included not only belletrists, but also hack journalists, technical writers, and bohemians; thus their economic, social, and cultural resources varied considerably. This means that writers became generally less likely to have independent wealth or useful social connections, and more likely to be restricted in their cultural resources to narrower areas of practical expertise. Like writers, professionals’ status underwent a dramatic shift. In the eight- eenth century, most were members of the educated elite. Lawyers occupied the apex of colonial society; they were highly educated and well remunerated, and many were directly involved in colonial politics (Ferguson, 1984; Haber, 1991; de Tocqueville, 2000). Many of the eighteenth century’s most accom- plished gentleman-authors were lawyers (Ferguson, 1984). Ministers, too, were well educated and, in nine of thirteen colonies, they were supported by official, state-sanctioned churches (Ahlstrom, 1972; Haber, 1991). Although physicians were not quite so distinguished as lawyers or ministers, in part because they competed with low-status barbers, midwives, and lay practi- tioners, medicine was still an acceptable occupation for younger sons of well- to-do families (Starr, 1982; Haber, 1991). As the nineteenth century progressed, however, all three professions became contested. As the legal profession expanded, self-directed study or apprentice- ship became a common alternative to college training, and lawyers became more diverse in class, training, and credentials (Larson, 1977; Haber, 1991). Ministers were challenged as disestablishment isolated them from political elites and made them economically dependent on their local congregations (Douglas, 1977; Haber, 1991). Moreover, interdenominational disputes about theology and church organization undermined ministers’ claims to authority (Ahlstrom, 1972; Hatch, 1989). Traditional physicians faced increasing challenges from homeopaths, mes- merists, phrenologists, Thomsonians, and eclectics (Larson, 1977; Starr, 1982). Their incomes fell, and many had to supplement their medical practices with farming, ministerial work, or trade (Haber, 1991). By the mid-nineteenth century, membership in the legal, medical, and ministerial professions implied little of the wealth, power, or prestige that had distinguished these occupations during the eighteenth century, and so professionals had very limited access to the economic or cultural resources needed to launch magazines. Education. Education both affects and reflects entrepreneurs’ access to eco- nomic, social, and cultural resources. Most prosaically, education provides entre- preneurs with valuable knowledge and with ties to fellow students. Education also signals entrepreneurs’ social ties and knowledge to customers and resource providers alike; such signals are especially important in the context of entrepre- neurship because of the great uncertainty surrounding new ventures (Spence, 1973; Lazear, 1977; Backes-Gellner and Werner, 2007). Signals of cultural compe- tence, based on education, may be more important in an industry like magazine publishing that produces cultural goods whose use value is at least partly sym- bolic than in industries that produce more prosaic goods. For magazines, cultural competence entails knowledge of what others might want to read, which is based on the erudition developed through education. Overall then, people with more-prestigious educational credentials may find it easier to acquire resources to launch new ventures, especially in cultural industries. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 597 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Throughout our study period, education marked a stable pathway into the American social elite. College graduates were from wealthy families and, because of the erudition they acquired in college and the relationships forged there, they also had substantial cultural and social resources. Although the number of college students increased greatly, they were still rare: in 1800 there were a mere 2.7 college students per 10,000 Americans; in 1860, there were still only 10.5 per 10,000 (Burke, 1973: 22, Table 2.3). Collegiate life in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, which emphasized the classics, fostered the composition of the essays and belles lettres that formed the basis of many magazines’ contents. Students at several colleges even launched their own magazines, such as the University of North Carolina Magazine (1844–1948) and the Kenyon Collegian (1856–the present). Location. Finally, location stratifies access to a variety of resources. Many of the resources needed to start any organization—employees, materials, equipment, and information networks—are rooted in place because people do not readily relocate for jobs (Dahl and Sorenson, 2010), and information networks concentrate in space (Sorenson and Audia, 2000). Economies of scale, transportation costs, and spillovers of industry-specific tacit knowledge through flows of personnel all tend to concentrate organizations in specific locations (Krugman, 1991; Saxenian, 1994). Organizational legitimacy may also depend on the existence of proximate organizations: the more organiza- tions in a location that are similar to a focal organization, the more local cus- tomers, resource providers, and regulatory authorities will view the focal organization as a reasonable way to achieve valued goals (Hannan and Freeman, 1989; Sorenson and Audia, 2000). Location in areas where industry incumbents and resources cluster thickly together provides entrepreneurs with better access to the resources they need to start new businesses than locations where customers and incumbent organizations are spread thinly. But superior access to resources is tempered by stronger competition (Hannan and Freeman, 1989). At the time the first American magazines were launched in 1741, printing presses were crude devices requiring great skill to operate (Berry and Poole, 1966; Moran, 1973), and they were found in only eight colonies (Wroth and Silver, 1951: 69–70). Printing presses gradually spread across the nation, and in the early nineteenth century, a series of technological improvements made printing presses increasingly efficient and easy to operate. Countering these trends is the fact that during the nineteenth century, large publishing houses that produced mass-market magazines arose in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York, and they remained concentrated in those cities. Because these cities were the centers of the magazine industry, entrepreneurs located there had access to deeper pools of human and financial resources and to superior information about their industry than did entrepreneurs located elsewhere (Friedland and Palmer, 1984; Kono et al., 1998). Thus peo- ple in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York continued to have advantages over people in other locations. But entrepreneurs in these cities also had to over- come stiff competition from the large publishing houses that clustered in there. 598 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Predictions Because the status of many social positions changed greatly between the mid- eighteenth and mid-nineteenth century, the economic, cultural, and social resources available to people in many social positions also changed. Printers’ status and access to resources declined, while those of other publishing occu- pations remained strong. Writers became less patrician and more heteroge- neous, so their access to resources generally declined, although their access to resources specific to publishing remained valuable. Professionals were initially members of a cultivated elite, but during the nineteenth century, their knowl- edge and credentials became contested, and new practitioners without the education, social ties, or wealth of their predecessors came to predominate— although lawyers’ consistently high incomes may have buffered them from this trend. College education always indicated high status and was a consistently valuable source of cultural and social resources. Finally, although access to printing presses became widespread, location in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York still indicated high status and so retained considerable economic and cultural value. Table 1 summarizes these trends. Table 1 also shows the predictions generated by combining the two models of industry evolution (competitive exclusion from access to resources vs. legiti- mation and increased access to deeper pools of resources) with historical knowledge about how resource access changed over time for people in differ- ent occupations, with different education, and in different locations. On the one hand, if the rise of large publishing firms and the increasing cost of original content raised barriers to entry and made it more difficult for entrepreneurs to acquire the resources needed to launch new magazines, we would expect that magazine entrepreneurship would become increasingly confined to people in social positions that gave them superior access to these resources. Concretely, this competitive-exclusion model suggests that members of publishing trades (other than printers) should become more common among magazine founders Table 1. Change in the Status of Social Positions from the 18th to the mid-19th Century and Predictions about the Prevalence of Founders from those Positions* Predictions about the Prevalence of Magazine Founders Social Position Change in Status Competitive exclusion model Industry legitimation model Occupation Printer Declined # – Other publishing trades Remained high " # Writer Declined # " Professional Became contested # " College education Remained high " # Location in Philadelphia, Boston, or New York City Remained high " # * An " indicates that magazine founders were more likely to be in this social position in the mid-nineteenth century than in the eighteenth century; # indicates that magazine founders were less likely to be in this social position. As explained in the text, we make no legitimacy-based prediction about the change in the likelihood of printers being magazine founders. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 599 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ because people in those occupations could tap into ever-more-valuable industry networks. By the same token, industry outsiders, printers, writers, and profes- sionals should become less common among magazine founders because peo- ple in those occupations had declining access to economic, cultural, and social resources. In addition, college education should become more common among magazine founders because in this era college was always reserved for the economic elite and provided access to great cultural and social resources. Finally, more new magazines should be published in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York, as entrepreneurs in those cities always had access to superior eco- nomic and cultural resources. On the other hand, if the legitimation of magazines and the consequent increase in demand and industry-specific suppliers made it easier to gain access to the resources needed to found magazines, we would expect the opposite: over time, magazine entrepreneurship should be more open to people in all social positions, even those that afforded little access to cultural, economic, or social resources. Concretely, this industry-legitimation model suggests that peo- ple in the increasingly contested professions and other industry outsiders should become more common among magazine founders, as should writers, while members of publishing trades (other than printers) should become less com- mon as industry connections became less critical. In addition, college graduates should become less common among magazine founders because the eco- nomic, cultural, and social resources associated with college education became less important. Finally, fewer new magazines should be published in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York because access to the superior economic and cultural resources concentrated in those large cities became less important. Nearly all of our predictions fall into two neatly opposing patterns. The sole exception is printers. The two models do not yield clearly diverging predictions about the fraction of printers among magazine entrepreneurs. On the one hand, if technological change transformed printers from proprietors of the public sphere to mere employees of publishing houses, rendering them marginal to the task of acquiring content and handling production, printers would not accrue the same benefits as other industry insiders from competitive exclusion, and their representation among magazine founders would decline. On the other hand, if insider resources mattered less over time because of industry legitima- tion and increased demand, the direction of change in the fraction of printers would depend on which fell faster, the resource demands of founding maga- zines or the resource advantages of printers. METHOD Research Design We tested these predictions by analyzing original data on American magazines published between 1741, the year the first American magazines were founded, and 1860, the year before the outbreak of the Civil War. The dataset, gathered from nine primary and 88 secondary sources, encompasses virtually every magazine published during this time period, according to Mott (1930, 1938), whose history of the industry remains a standard reference.1 1 To save space, we do not cite these sources. A complete list is available from the first author. 600 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Following historians of magazines, we defined a magazine as a publication containing a variety of written and pictorial material, with more than transient interest, published at regular intervals (Mott 1930, 1938; Tebbel and Zuckerman, 1991). Accordingly, our dataset explicitly excludes newspapers, pamphlets, and occasional tracts. Magazines’ contents were more varied than those of pamphlets and newspapers, and they were of longer-lasting interest than those of newspapers. To exclude newspapers, pamphlets, and occasional tracts, the first author determined the nature of all publications using informa- tion in histories of publishing (e.g., Albaugh, 1994), descriptions in bibliogra- phies of the newspaper industry (e.g., Brigham, 1962), and inspection of archived copies of periodicals. We focus in this paper on American magazines founded in two time periods: from 1741 to 1800, during which time they were few in number, poorly under- stood, and small, and from 1841 to 1860, when they were common, generally accepted means of communication, and many reached mass audiences. We ended our analysis in 1860 because the Civil War brought with it a sudden decline in magazine publishing. We limited our analysis to these two time periods to maximize the temporal contrast between the early years of this industry’s history and the period in which it was well established. We did not study the intervening years because many of the causal factors we described above changed at different rates, so we cannot make clear predictions for these years. We sought social-position data on the founders of all 148 magazines launched between 1741 and 1800, and on the founders of a random sample of 150 magazines from the 2,678 founded between 1841 and 1860. The first period is long because so few magazines were founded before 1783, and we needed a reasonable number of observations on magazines and their founders to conduct statistical analyses. Because we could not observe everyone who tried to start magazines, but only those who succeeded, our analysis, like many other analyses of entrepreneurship, is biased toward success (Aldrich and Wiedenmayer, 1993). We mitigated this bias by sampling from all magazines, including those that failed after publishing a single issue. To gather data on founders’ social positions, we searched the American National Biography (2000), the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2006), Who Was Who in America, 1607–1896 (1967, rev. ed.), and Appleton’s Cyclopedia of American Biography (1887–1889).2 We also pored over histories of publishing (Thomas, 1874; Wroth, 1931; McMurtry, 1936; Oswald, 1937; Lehmann-Haupt, 1941, 1951; Silver, 1967) and accounts of intellectual and lit- erary life (Bender, 1988; Bercovitch, 1994). We supplemented these sources with data gleaned from the many sources we tapped to build the magazine dataset. Finally, we searched online for various combinations of founder name(s), magazine title, magazine founding date, and location (city and/or state). For the 148 magazines published in the eighteenth century, we identified the founders of 143 magazines, which were launched by four organizations and 165 individuals (all men). We uncovered data on all but three of these men. For the sample of 150 magazines from the mid-nineteenth century, we were able to identify founders of 125 magazines, which were launched by 17 organizations 2 Although Appleton’s has many biased entries, basic data about education and occupation are usu- ally reliable (Dobson, 1993). Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 601 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ and 125 individuals (120 men and five women). We were able to gather data on 104 of these individuals. The details of our samples are shown in table 2. Measures Founders’ social positions. Many magazine founders had multiple occupa- tions; e.g., lawyer and writer or printer, publisher, and postmaster. We first coded all occupations held by each individual—printer, other publishing trade, writer, minister, lawyer, doctor, other—as a series of dummy variables. We then coded each individual’s primary occupation as a series of dichotomous variables (printer, other publishing trade, writer, minister, lawyer, doctor, other), based on biographies and histories. For the vast majority of cases, this task was straightforward; for instance, we coded any professional who was also a college professor as a professional, because the former occupation was a pre- requisite for the latter. For the few ambiguous cases, we coded the earliest occupation as the primary one. There were seven such cases: five profession- als who later embarked on careers as writers, one lawyer who became a pro- minent landowner, and one writer who became a social reformer and lecturer. The American occupational structure changed greatly between the eight- eenth and mid-nineteenth century. It may be that any observed change in the fraction of magazine founders from a particular occupation was due to a change in the size of that occupation, rather than to industry dynamics or changes in occupational status. For example, if over time more magazine founders were ministers and more Americans were ministers, the first increase could be due entirely to the second. To account for shifts in occupational structure, we would want to scale the fraction of magazine founders in each occupation and time period by the fraction of Americans in the focal occupation and time period. Unfortunately, there are no occupational data in censuses conducted before 1850 and no historical demographic analyses of most occupations. But we were able to piece together data on the members of the three traditional professions—ministers, lawyers, and doctors—at the midpoints of the two time periods, 1770 for the first and 1850 for the second. For 1850, we obtained data from the census (U.S. Census Bureau, 2006). For 1770, we combined data from several sources. For clergy, the count for 1770 is based on our analysis of prosopographies of colonial clergy (Weis, 1950, 1976, 1977, 1978). For lawyers, the estimate for 1770 is based on Massachusetts Table 2. Descriptive Statistics on the Two Magazine Samples* 18th century (N = 148) 19th century (N = 150) No. of magazines with known founders 143 (96.6%) 125 (83.3%) No. of magazines with unknown founders 5 (3.4%) 25 (16.7%) No. of magazines founded by individuals 139 (97.2%) 108 (86.4%) No. of magazines founded by organizations 4 (2.8%) 17 (13.6%) No. of known individual founders (information available) 162 (98.2%) 104 (83.2%) No. of known individual founders (no information available) 3 (1.8%) 21 (16.8%) * The first four rows in this table compare the number of magazines over time; the last two rows compare the number of founders over time. 602 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ counts in 1740, 1775, and 1840 from a history of the legal profession in that state (Gawalt, 1979: 14, Table 1), combined with national and Massachusetts counts in 1850 from the census. For doctors, the estimate for 1770 comes from a history of the medical profession (Starr, 1982: 40). We then calculated the fraction of professionals among magazine founders in each time period relative to the fraction of professionals in the general population at the midpoint of each time period. Doing so allowed us to determine whether or not any observed change in the fraction of magazine founders who were professionals was due to a change in the fraction of Americans who were professionals. Because education was generally not formalized during our study period (Cremin, 1970a, 1970b; Douglas, 1977; Kaestle, 1983), the only education data we could obtain were about attending college. Accordingly, we coded education as a dummy variable indicating whether or not the founder had attended college. To account the fact that there were more college-educated people in the mid- nineteenth century than in the eighteenth century, we would have liked to gather data on the number of Americans with college educations, but such data are sim- ply unavailable. The closest measure available is the number of college students per capita. We gathered college enrollment data in 1800 (the first year such data are available) and 1850 (the midpoint of the second period) from a history of col- leges in the U.S. (Burke, 1973: 22, Table 2.3). We used these counts to calculate the fraction of college-educated magazine founders in each time period relative to the fraction of Americans who were college students in each time period. Magazine location. We created a trichotomous ordinal variable indicating whether a magazine was published in one of the three biggest cities (Philadelphia, Boston, or New York), another urban area, or a rural community. We distinguished between urban and rural areas using historical data on the populations of municipalities (Moffat, 1992, 1996; Purvis, 1995; U.S. Census Bureau, 1998). To make sure we had complete data on smaller urban places, we also conducted a series of Internet searches. Following the Census Bureau’s standards for this era, we used a threshold of 2,500 inhabitants to dis- tinguish urban areas from rural ones. To take into account the increasing urbani- zation of America, we measured the populations of the three biggest cities and of all other urban areas in 1770 and 1850, the midpoints of the two time peri- ods. To compare the locations where magazine founders launched their new ventures with the locations where the typical American lived, we first scaled the fraction of magazines founded in the three biggest cities in each time period by the fraction of the population in those cities at the midpoint of each time period. We also scaled the fraction of magazines founded in other urban areas in each time period by the fraction of the population in other urban areas. Methods of Analysis Bivariate analysis. To assess whether there were statistically significant changes over time in the frequencies of founders’ occupations and college edu- cation, we analyzed 2 × 2 contingency tables and conducted χ2 tests.3 The 3 When cell counts are lower than five, the χ2 test is not accurate; for tables with low cell counts, we used the Fisher’s exact test instead. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 603 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ unit of analysis here was the individual founder. For each occupation, we con- ducted a separate analysis, comparing frequencies of magazine founders in the focal occupation with frequencies of founders in any other occupation. This allowed us to assess the statistical significance of time trends for each occupa- tion separately, which is necessary because historical trends in access to resources varied across occupations. For location, we assessed the statistical significance of time trends by ana- lyzing a 3 × 2 contingency table (three locations by two time periods), again using the χ2 test. The unit of analysis here was the magazine because all foun- ders of a single magazine were in a single location. As explained above, the distributions of occupations, educational statuses, and locations from which founders were drawn changed greatly over our obser- vation period. We took these changes into consideration as much as possible, given limitations on the data available. We scaled the fraction of magazine foun- ders who were professional and college-educated by the fraction of profession- als and college students in the general population, respectively. This allowed us to compare the likelihood of a magazine founder being a professional or having a college education, relative to the typical American, in each time period. We also scaled the fraction of magazines launched in the three biggest cities and in other urban areas by the fraction of the population living in those locations. This allowed us to compare the likelihood of a magazine’s founder(s) being in urban areas, relative to the typical American, in each time period. We augmented this quantitative analysis with a qualitative analysis of maga- zine founders’ backgrounds; specifically, their education, their ties to other magazine founders and to prominent Americans, their careers, and the honors they garnered. These qualitative data, which we gathered from the archival sources described above, add rich historical detail to the statistical results. Multivariate analysis. Next, we analyzed temporal variation in the fre- quency of magazines with different combinations of founder occupations, edu- cation, and location. Because none of the resources associated with the social- position variables were stable over time, we must concern ourselves with not only with changes in the prevalence of founders from each social position, but also with changes in relationships among social positions. For example, if the proportions of both physician-founders and college-educated founders increased over time, the increase in founders who were college-educated and physicians might or might not account for the increase in physician-founders. Because all the variables in our analysis are categorical, and many conditional relationships may exist in the data, we used log-linear techniques (Goodman, 1970; Bishop, Fienberg, and Holland, 1975), which extend the analysis of two- variable contingency tables to multi-variable tables and so allow us to analyze conditional relationships among many categorical variables. In recent years, there has been a great deal of interest in modeling these kinds of relationships among categorical variables. In particular, qualitative comparative analysis (QCA), a technique developed by Charles Ragin (2000, 2008), is now common in organizational research (e.g., Fiss, 2011). But log-linear analysis offers signifi- cant advantages over QCA. Whereas QCA uses techniques drawn from Boolean algebra to identify minimum combinations of variables sufficient to produce a given outcome, log-linear analysis builds on existing statistical theory 604 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ and therefore is compatible with using tools of statistical inference to select between models and assess model fit. Because many organizational scholars are not familiar with them, we explain the basics of log-linear techniques and compare them with the more familiar multiple regression techniques (see also Knoke and Burke, 1980: 24–29). Like multiple regression, log-linear analysis assesses relationships—main effects and interactions—among a set of variables. But log-linear analysis is a more general technique than multiple regression because it does not require that one specify a dependent variable to fit a model. Nevertheless, the log-linear models we describe below can be interpreted within a logistic regression framework as equivalent to regressions of the log-odds of a magazine appearing in the sec- ond time period rather than the first on a set of independent variables (main effects and interactions). The key difference between log-linear analysis and regression is the proce- dure for model selection. Log-linear analysis starts with a fully specified (‘‘satu- rated’’) model, one that contains all possible combinations of main effects and interactions, and subtracts parameters (interactions between two or more vari- ables) step by step, while logistic regression starts with a model containing main effects only and adds interaction parameters. The goal in log-linear analy- sis is to determine the simplest model, the one containing the simplest set of parameters, that fits the data well. Log-linear analysis therefore involves com- paring a hierarchically nested set of models with the saturated model. The models are hierarchically nested because those containing complex interac- tions among a set of variables must necessarily contain all simpler interactions among those variables; for instance, a model containing a three-way interaction must contain all of the two-way interactions among the three variables, plus the main effects of all variables and the grand mean. For our log-linear analysis, the unit of analysis was the magazine. We cross- classified magazines according to five dichotomous variables: the presence or absence of a founder in the professions, the presence or absence of a founder in the publishing trades (including printing), the presence or absence of a foun- der with a college education, whether or not the magazine was published in one of the three biggest cities, and whether or not the magazine was published in the eighteenth or mid-nineteenth century. We simplified the occupation and location variables to generate a cross-classification table with reasonably large cell counts; including more fine-grained occupational categories or a more com- plex coding for location would have resulted in a prohibitively large numbers of cells with low observed counts because very few writers founded magazines in the eighteenth century and very few printers did so in the mid-nineteenth- century sample. As is customary in log-linear analysis, we coded all variables − 1 when the focal attribute was absent and + 1 when the focal attribute was present. Doing so yields effect estimates that are relative to category means (rather than to baseline categories, as in regression), which simplifies interpre- tation in models with large numbers of interactions. Because of the large number of parameters in even a simple model, the notation used in log-linear analysis differs from that used in regression analysis. Letters denote the variables in the cross-tabulation, and a set of letters enclosed in parentheses denotes each model. For instance, C might stand for college education, L for location in a large city, and T for time period. Then {CLT} would denote a model containing the grand mean for the table, three Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 605 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ main effects (C, L, T), three two-way interactions (C × L, C × T, and L × T), and one three-way interaction (C × L × T). A simpler model, nested within the first and denoted as {CT}{LT}, would contain the grand mean, three main effects (C, L, and T), and two two-way interactions (C × T and L × T). Most log-linear analyses make no distinction between independent and dependent variables. But we want to explain temporal variation in the fre- quency of magazines using founders’ occupations, education level, and loca- tion. Therefore we used Goodman’s (1972) modification of multiple regression for the analysis of categorical data, which treats one categorical variable as the outcome to be predicted, similar to logistic regression. Specifically, we mod- eled the difference between the second period and the first in the log-odds of newly founded magazines having founders in a given combination of social positions. Thus we treated time period (T) as the variable to be predicted, and the four social positions—professional occupation (P), publishing trades occupa- tion (B), college education (C), and location in one of the three biggest cities (L)—as the predictor variables. To control for time-invariant relationships between predictor variables, all models included the four-way interaction P × B × C × L and all the effects it hierarchically implies. Our discussion of the results focuses on interactions with time period. We used a stepwise procedure (Goodman, 1970) to select the model with the fewest parameters that that did not differ significantly from the observed pattern. We compared the observed frequencies in a five-way data table, cre- ated by cross-classifying the four dichotomous predictor variables and the dichotomous outcome variable, with the estimated expected frequencies under the selected model. To assess model fit to the data, we used three statistics, the likelihood-ratio χ 2 , the Pearson’s χ 2 , and the Akaike information criterion (AIC). We also used the estimated parameters obtained from the saturated model as a guide to selecting which parameters should be included in the selected unsaturated model (Goodman, 1970). RESULTS Bivariate Analysis Tables 3a, 3b, and 3c present our analysis of trends in occupation, education, and location. We used contingency tables to assess whether there are signifi- cant differences between the eighteenth and mid-nineteenth century. Table 3a analyzes occupation (it shows a separate contingency table for each occupa- tion), table 3b education, and table 3b location. For occupation and education, the unit of analysis is the individual founder; for location, it is the magazine. For each contingency table, we report the χ2 statistic and the statistical signifi- cance level for the difference between the two time periods. We begin by describing eighteenth-century magazine founders and then compare them with their mid-nineteenth-century successors. The eighteenth century. Most of the earliest American magazines were produced by members of the learned elite or people with experience in related industries. As shown in table 2, we identified 165 men who launched 143 magazines between 1741 and 1860; we were able to ascertain primary occupa- tions for 162 of them. Table 3a shows that over two-thirds of eighteenth- 606 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Table 3a. Changes over Time in Magazine Founders’ Occupations* Occupation 18th century (N = 162) 19th century (N = 103) w2 Publishing trades 109 (67.3%) 21 (20.3%) 55.4 ••• Not publishing trades 53 (32.7%) 82 (79.6%) Printer 81 (50.0%) 4 (3.9%) 61.5 ••• Not printer (includes other publishing trades) 81 (50.0%) 99 (96.1%) Other publishing trades 28 (17.3%) 17 (16.5%) 0.03 Other occupation (includes printer) 134 (82.7%) 86 (83.5%) Writer 6 (3.7%) 15 (14.6%) 10.2 •• Not writer 156 (96.3%) 88 (85.4%) Professional 30 (18.5%) 46 (44.7%) 21.0 ••• Not professional 132 (81.5%) 57 (55.3%) Minister 14 (8.6%) 24 (23.3%) 11.0•• Not minister (includes lawyer and doctor) 148 (91.4%) 79 (76.7%) Lawyer 12 (7.4%) 4 (3.9%) 1.4 Not lawyer (includes minister and doctor) 150 (92.6%) 99 (96.1%) Doctor 4 (2.5%) 18 (17.5%) 18.6 ••• Not doctor (includes minister and lawyer) 158 (97.5%) 85 (82.5%) Other 17 (10.5%) 21 (20.3%) 5.0• Not other (printing trade, writer, or professional) 155 (89.5%) 82 (79.7%) • p < .05; •• p < .01; •• p < .001; d.f. = 1. * For tables that contain cells with fewer than five observations, p-values are based on the Fisher’s exact test instead of the χ2 test. This table analyzes 162 magazine founders in the eighteenth century and 103 in the nineteenth century. The nineteenth-century sample omits one magazine founder, William August Munsell, who was eight years old when he started his magazine. Each founder’s occupation is assessed before he or she founded his or her first magazine. We analyzed each occupation independently by comparing the number of founders in the focal occupation with the number of founders in all other occupations. Table 3b. Change over Time in Magazine Founders’ Education* Education 18th century 19th century w2 College education 22 (13.6%) 17 (16.3%) 0.39 No college education 103 (86.4%) 87 (83.7%) * This table analyzes 162 founders in the eighteenth century and 104 in the nineteenth century. For the χ2 test, d.f. = 1. Table 3c. Change over Time in Magazine Locations* Location 18th century 19th century w2 Philadelphia, Boston, or New York 82 (55.8%) 53 (36.1%) Other urban area 27 (18.4%) 65 (44.2%) 23.1 ••• Rural area 38 (25.9%) 29 (19.7%) ••• p < .001; d.f. = 2. * This table analyzes all magazines for which location is known: 147 magazines in the eighteenth century and 147 in the mid-nineteenth century. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 607 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ century magazine founders whose primary occupations we could determine were in publishing: 81 were printers, and 28 were members of other publishing trades. In addition to Benjamin Franklin and Andrew Bradford, these included Isaiah Thomas, one of the most respected businessmen of his time (Wroth, 1931). Outside of the publishing trades, most other eighteenth-century magazine founders were writers (6) and professionals (30). Among the writers were Jefferson’s protégé John B. Colvin and the patricians Samuel Harrison Smith, John Lathrop, Jr., and Philip Freneau. The 14 clergy included the prominent Boston minister, linguist, and historian Thomas Prince, and the first bishops of the Methodist Church in America, Thomas Coke and Francis Asbury. Of the 12 lawyers, two were also clergymen, two were also poets, one was also a printer, and one was also a novelist. The prevalence of lawyers is not surpris- ing, given the many contributions they made to American letters (Ferguson, 1984). Finally, among the four physician-founders, three were of very high sta- tus: two were professors at Columbia’s Medical School and one was a protégé of Yale President Timothy Dwight. When we take into consideration the num- ber of professionals in the population at large (estimated at 0.26 percent of Americans in 1770), we find that magazine founders in the eighteenth century were 72 times more likely to be professionals than the typical American. This result was due largely to lawyers, who were 277 times more likely to found magazines than the typical American. Table 3b shows that many eighteenth-century magazine founders were highly educated. Five graduated from Harvard and six from Yale; others graduated from Princeton, University of Pennsylvania, Oxford, Edinburgh, Halle, Middle Temple, and an unidentified Scottish college. In total, 14 percent had attended college. In contrast, only 0.027 percent of Americans attended college in 1800 (the first year for which data are available). This means magazine founders were over 500 times more likely to have attended college than the fraction of Americans attending col- lege in 1800. In addition, several eighteenth-century magazine founders taught at colleges: two taught at Harvard, one at Yale, two at Columbia, and one at Vermont. Several others were renowned for their erudition. For example, the Reverend Samuel Williams, who launched an eclectic literary magazine, was commonly called ‘‘the most learned man in Vermont,’’ while John M’Culloch, who founded a religious monthly, compiled the first American history textbooks. Table 3c shows that eighteenth-century magazine publishing was confined almost exclusively to the Northeast. The three biggest cities of this era— Philadelphia, Boston, and New York—were home to over half of all magazines, even though they contained only 3.0 percent of the population in 1770. Magazine founders were 18 times more likely to be in those cities than the typical American. Notwithstanding this geographic concentration, the rural Northeast was also home to almost one-quarter of eighteenth-century magazines. In con- trast, only nine magazines were founded in the South; of these, four were launched in Charleston and two in Richmond, both major urban centers. Together, tables 3a–3c show that eighteenth-century magazine founders were drawn from related industries and the privileged few. Two segments of the elite were predominant: printers and allied tradesmen (the landlords of the public sphere) and educated elites (patrician professionals and scholars). Moreover, most of these men lived in the three biggest cities. 608 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Not surprisingly, given the small population of eighteenth-century America, many eighteenth-century magazine founders were closely connected to other members of the cultural, political, and economic elite. Among them were a nephew of Andrew Bradford (William Bradford, a printer, newspaper publisher, and founder of a prominent American coffee house) and a host of men who had close relationships with Benjamin Franklin: his friend James Parker, a pro- minent colonial-era printer; a nephew, Benjamin Mecom; his business partner Anthony Ambruster; his protégé Mathew Carey; and his former apprentice Enoch Story. The illustrious printer-cum-publisher, Isaiah Thomas, was followed into magazine publishing by a former partner (Elisha Waldo), a close friend (John Fellows), and six former apprentices. David Austin, a protégé of the great theologian Jonathan Edwards, launched two religious magazines, as did William Weyman, son of the prominent Episcopal minister Robert Weyman; Samuel Harrison Smith, the son of Revolutionary-era politician Jonathan Bayard Smith, founded a highly regarded literary review. The mid-nineteenth century. The contrast between mid-nineteenth- century magazine entrepreneurs and their eighteenth-century predecessors was in some ways quite stark. As table 2 shows, these people were so ordi- nary that we were unable to find any background information on 21 of the 125 we could identify by name. The fraction of founders we could identify by name for whom we could find no biographical data increased eight-fold between the two time periods, which was a statistically significant difference (χ 2 = 21.0, d.f. = 1, p < .001 according to Fisher’s exact test). Although even the most thor- ough searches for data on founders’ backgrounds are doomed to be incom- plete, given the scattered records available, the contrast between the general notoriety and full archival coverage of eighteenth-century magazine founders and the greater obscurity and sparser archival coverage of their mid-nineteenth- century successors is striking. As table 3a shows, magazine entrepreneurs’ occupations became more het- erogeneous from the eighteenth century to the mid-nineteenth century. Among those whose primary occupation we could pinpoint, the fraction of prin- ters declined significantly, from 50 percent to 4 percent. This decline may stem from printers’ shift from proprietors to employees; it also suggests the declin- ing importance of controlling the means of production as those means became simpler to operate. In contrast, the fraction of magazine founders in other pub- lishing trades remained constant at 17 percent, which demonstrates that the resources possessed by other industry insiders remained valuable. In addition, the fraction of magazine founders who produced content increased signifi- cantly, from 4 percent to 15 percent, which reflects the professionalization of authorship in America (Charvat, 1968). By the mid-nineteenth century, much lit- erature was produced by people who earned a living from their writing, selling to book and magazine publishers, who in turn sought to earn profits by selling to mass audiences. Some of these professional writers attempted to remove the middlemen by launching their own magazines. The fraction of magazine founders who were doctors and ministers, the two professions that were the most contested in the mid-nineteenth century, increased significantly, from 3 and 9 percent to 18 and 23 percent, respectively. The fraction of lawyers among magazine founders declined from 7 percent to 4 percent, although that difference was not statistically significant. Even after Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 609 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ taking into account the increasing prevalence of professionals in the American population (0.26 percent of the population in 1770, 0.42 percent in 1850), the representation of professionals among magazine founders rose. Mid-nine- teenth-century magazine founders were 107 times more likely to be profes- sionals than the typical American, compared with 72 times for eighteenth- century founders. These trends indicate that members of the increasingly con- tested medical and ministerial professions used magazines to support them- selves financially, to defend their scientific or theological positions, and to build communities of like-minded associates and followers. This conclusion is bolstered by the striking variety among doctors and minis- ters in the mid-nineteenth-century sample. Among doctors, there were college- educated allopaths as well as Thomsonians, eclectics, homeopaths, hydropaths, mesmerists, phrenologists, magnetists, Grahamites, vegetarians, and physical- culture advocates. A full 70 percent of these mid-nineteenth-century doctor- founders were affiliated with less-prestigious specialties or highly contested med- ical schools. Among minister-founders, there were Presbyterians, Congregationalists, Baptists, German Reformed, Methodists, Universalists, Moravians, Disciples of Christ, Seventh-Day Adventists, Lutherans, Jews, and spiritualists. Almost three-quarters of these were members of new upstart reli- gious groups. In addition, a quarter of magazines founded by ministers were pub- lished in languages other than English, which indicates that they served low- status immigrant communities. This is more than double the fraction of all maga- zines founded in the 1840s and 1850s that were published in languages other than English (11 percent), which suggests that minister-founders were more than twice as likely as other magazine founders to cater to immigrant communities. Evidence that magazine founders came from an increasingly broad array of social positions is partly reinforced by the analysis of education, as shown in Table 3b. College enrollments almost quadrupled between 1800 and 1860, but the fraction of college-educated founders remained almost constant. Therefore, although mid-nineteenth-century magazine founders were still highly educated—they were 161 times more likely than the typical American to have attended college—that was a big drop from 500 times more likely in the eight- eenth century. This suggests that as the magazine industry developed, high socioeconomic status, cultural refinement, and social connections, although still quite valuable, became somewhat less important for launching magazines. Table 3c shows that the fraction of magazines founded in the three largest cities declined substantially, from 56 percent in the eighteenth century to 36 percent in the mid-nineteenth century, even though these cities grew from hav- ing 3.0 percent of Americans in 1770 to 4.4 percent in 1850. Although maga- zine founders in the mid-nineteenth century were over eight times more likely to be in the three biggest cities than the typical American, this is a big drop from 18 times more likely in the eighteenth century. Due to rapid urbanization, smaller urban areas like Fort Wayne, Indiana, and Galveston, Texas, saw the greatest increase in magazine publishing, from 18 to 44 percent, while rural areas saw a slight decrease, from 26 to 20 percent. In the mid-nineteenth cen- tury, magazine founders were over five times more likely to be in small urban areas than the typical American. Taken together, the results on location indicate that even as large publishing firms appeared in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York, people in smaller urban areas that were often located far from these com- mercial centers were increasingly likely to found magazines. 610 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Together, tables 3a–3c suggest that magazine entrepreneurship spread beyond powerful elites and industry insiders. This conclusion is bolstered by the fact that many mid-nineteenth-century magazine founders came from mod- est backgrounds and made their reputations and fortunes through their periodi- cals. For instance, Thomas Hamilton, an African-American whose father was a carpenter and who received little formal education, founded the Anglo-African Magazine (1859–1860), which made him a leading voice among anti-slavery advocates. Similarly, Timothy Shay Arthur, a miller’s son who worked as a clerk for a wholesaler and an insurance company before he began to write fiction, published Arthur’s Home Gazette (1850–1854) and several other eponymous periodicals that showcased his work, which made him ‘‘the most published American fiction writer in the century’’ and ‘‘one of the most popular American authors of his time’’ (American National Biography, 2000). It had become so easy to acquire the resources needed to launch a magazine that a child man- aged to do so: our mid-nineteenth-century sample included an eight-year-old boy, William August Munsell, who founded The Bee (1844–1845) in Albany, New York; he continued to publish it until he came down with whooping cough. The fact that, like this child, many mid-nineteenth-century magazine founders had little access to social, cultural, or economic resources is a turn- around from the situation in the eighteenth century, when pioneering magazine editors and publishers relied on their economic, social, and cultural resources as printers or professionals, or their wealth and reputations as learned men. Yet, as the analysis of education shows, there were still many members of the elite among mid-nineteenth-century magazine founders. Theodore Dwight, Jr., son of Theodore Dwight Sr., nephew of both Aaron Burr and Yale President Timothy Dwight, Yale graduate, author of many popular books and a prominent journalist, launched his eponymous Dwight’s American Magazine & Penny Paper (1845–1851) as a vehicle for his own writing. Ormsby Macknight Mitchel, West Point graduate, astronomer, professor at Cincinnati College, and member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and the literary Semicolon Society, published the Sidereal Messenger (1846–1848), the first scientific astronomy journal. Alexander Lyman Holley, metallurgical engineer and son of the Governor of Connecticut, partnered with Zerah Colburn, a mechanical prodigy who published a standard textbook on steam locomotive design at the age of 22, to launch American Engineer (1857). Two trends are evident in comparing founders from the two time periods. First, between the eighteenth and mid-nineteenth centuries, magazine foun- ders were drawn from increasingly broad swaths of American society: fewer people from inside publishing, more from the increasingly contested medical and ministerial professions, fewer with college educations, and more from out- side the three biggest cities. Yet among mid-nineteenth-century magazine founders, the number of professionals and college-educated people were still far larger than their representation in the population at large, and far more mag- azine founders were in the three largest cities than the typical American. Moreover, the qualitative evidence indicates that many nineteenth-century magazine founders had strong ties to industry insiders and social elites. Thus although the preponderance of evidence suggests the development of the magazine industry from the eighteenth to the mid-nineteenth century widened rather than narrowed the range of social positions from which entrepreneurs were drawn, the evidence is somewhat ambiguous. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 611 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ This ambiguity is reinforced by analyzing trends in magazines launched by organizations. Seventeen of the 150 mid-nineteenth-century magazines we studied were affiliated with formal organizations: the New Jersey Historical Society, the Cherokee Georgia Baptist Convention, the Association of Working Women and Men, the faculty of the Reform Medical College of Macon Georgia, the Sons of Temperance, two teachers’ associations, two literary soci- eties, and eight groups of college students. This was a statistically significant increase from the eighteenth century, when four out of 148 magazines were launched by organizations (χ2 = 10.8, d.f. = 1, p < .001). This surge in the number of organizations founding magazines can be attributed to the growth of a modern ‘‘society of organizations’’ (Perrow, 1991). Nearly all of these organi- zations were populated by social elites, specifically, by the highly educated. Only three organizations that sponsored magazines—the labor union, the bota- nical medical college, and the frontier Baptist group—indicate access by non- elites to the resources needed to launch magazines. Multivariate Analysis Multivariate analysis of relationships between founders’ social positions and time clarifies the ambiguity arising from the bivariate analysis. The unsaturated model that fits the data best includes the following sets of effects: {PBCL}{PBT}{PCT}{PLT}{BCT}. Thus this model includes four three-way interac- tions between the predictor variables and time (P × B × T, P × C × T, P × L × T, and B × C × T), plus the two-way interactions between the four pre- dictor variables and time. Table 4 demonstrates why we selected this model. It Table 4. Log-linear Models of the Effects of Professional and Publishing Trades Occupations, College Education, and Location on Time Period* Model Marginals fitted Equivalent logistic regression interactions Degrees of freedom Likelihood- ratio w2 Pearson’s w2 AIC 1 {PBT}{PCT}{PLT} P × B, P × C, and P × L only 8 8.55 9.60 148.21 2 {PBT}{PCT}{BCT} P × B, P × C, and B × C only 8 10.05 7.81 149.71 3 {PCT}{PLT}{BCT}{BLT} All except P × B and C × L 7 12.81 12.74• 154.47 4 {PBT}{PLT}{BCT}{BLT} All except P × C and C × L 7 14.13•• 15.24•• 155.79 5 {PBT}{PCT}{BCT}{BLT} All except P × L and C × L 7 3.50 3.51 145.16 6 {PBT}{PCT}{PLT}{BLT} All except B × C and C × L 7 6.94 6.25 148.60 7 {PBT}{PCT}{PLT}{BCT} All except B × L and C × L 7 2.63 2.78 144.30 8 {PCT}{PLT}{BCT}{BLT}{CLT} All except P × B 6 12.53• 12.30• 156.19 9 {PBT}{PLT}{BCT}{BLT}{CLT} All except P × C 6 12.95•• 13.13•• 156.61 10 {PBT}{PCT}{BCT}{BLT}{CLT} All except P × L 6 2.10 2.14 145.76 11 {PBT }{PCT}{PLT}{BLT}{CLT} All except B × C 6 6.84 6.17 150.50 12 {PBT}{PCT}{PLT}{BCT}{CLT} All except B × L 6 2.45 2.77 146.11 13 {PBT}{PCT}{PLT}{BCT}{BLT} All except C × L 6 1.32 1.27 144.98 14 {PBT}{PCT}{PLT} {BCT}{BLT}{CLT} All 5 1.06 1.07 146.72 • p < .10; • p < .05. * P indicates the presence or absence of a professional on a founding team, B the presence or absence of a member of the publishing trades on a founding team, C the presence or absence of someone with a college education on a founding team, L whether or not a magazine was founded in one of the three biggest cities, and T the whether a magazine was founded between 1741 and 1800 or between 1841 and 1860. Each log-linear model also fits {PBCL}. Model 7 is the best-fitting unsaturated model. 612 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ presents a series of log-linear models of increasing complexity. For each model, we list the parameters fitted, note the degrees of freedom, and assess model fit. Model 7 is the selected model. It fits the data very well: likelihood-ratio χ2 = 2.63 (d.f. = 7, p = .917 compared with the saturated model), Pearson’s χ 2 = 2.78 (d.f. = 7, p = .905 compared with the saturated model). This means that the saturated model does not fit the data any better than the selected model, even though the selected model is more parsimonious (it contains fewer para- meters). We checked to see whether any more parsimonious model fit the data as well as model 7, but none did. For example, models 1 and 2 both exclude one of the interactions estimated in model 7 (B × C × T and P × L × T, respectively), but they do not fit the data as well as model 7. χ2 tests comparing models 1 and 2 with model 7 confirm that the parameters omitted in models 1 and 2 make statistically significant contributions to model fit. We then checked to see whether any equally parsimonious model (any model con- taining the same number of parameters) fit the data better than model 7. Models 3 to 6 are equal in complexity to model 7, but none fit the data as well as model 7. Finally, we checked to see whether more complex models (models that contain more parameters) fit the data better than model 7. Models 8 through 14 are all more complex than model 7, but none offer a significant improvement in fit over model 7. And among models with d.f. = 7, model 7 has the lowest AIC, which further supports its selection. Next, we used the estimated parameters obtained from the saturated model as a guide to which parameters should be included in the selected unsaturated model (Goodman, 1970). Model 1 in table 5 presents effect estimates from the Table 5. Estimates of Main Effects and Interactions: The Saturated Model and the Best-fitting Unsaturated Model* Parameter Equivalent logistic regression parameter (1) Saturated model (2) Best-fitting unsaturated model T Constant 0.54 0.35 PT Professional − 0.43 − 0.27 BT Publishing − 0.73 − 0.56 CT College education 0.30 0.09 LT Location (in Philadelphia/Boston/New York City) 0.36 − 0.16 PBT Professional × Publishing 0.57 0.43 PCT Professional × College − 0.73 − 0.58 BCT Publishing × College − 0.53 − 0.38 PLT Professional × Location − 0.66 − 0.23 BLT Publishing × Location − 0.36 CLT College × Location 0.46 PBCT Professional × Publishing × College 0.16 PBLT Professional × Publishing × Location 0.62 PCLT Professional × College × Location − 0.52 BCLT Publishing × College × Location − 0.48 PBCLT Professional × Publishing × College × Location 0.55 * P indicates the presence or absence of a professional on a founding team, B the presence or absence of a member of the publishing trades on a founding team, C the presence or absence of someone with a college education on a founding team, L whether or not a magazine was founded in one of the three biggest cities, and T the whether a magazine was founded between 1741 and 1800 or between 1841 and 1860. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 613 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ saturated model. It confirms our analysis of table 4. In the saturated model, BLT and CLT are the three-way interactions that are closest to zero, so a model that drops them, as does model 7 in table 4, is likely to fit the data well. Model 2 in table 5 presents the estimated effects of all parameters pertain- ing to the odds of appearing in the second time period rather than the first time period in the selected model. Coefficients were estimated using means con- straints: each effect was calculated at the sample means for all other variables. Thus, for example, the coefficient PT is the effect on the odds of a magazine’s being published in the second period rather than the first due to having a printer founder vs. not having one. Both the professional and publishing-trades occupa- tions (PT and BT) have negative effects on the odds of a magazine appearing in the mid-nineteenth century rather than the eighteenth century, but the effect for publishing trades is less than half the effect for professional occupations. Location in one of the three biggest cities (LT) has a small negative effect on these odds. The effect of founders’ education (CT) is close to zero, indicating that magazines in the second period were no more likely to have college- educated founders than those in the first. This pattern of results differs from the bivariate analysis in two respects: that analysis showed that the likelihood of having a professional founder increased and the likelihood of having a college-educated founder declined. Differences between the bivariate and multivariate results are due to interac- tions between the professional and publishing trades occupations, between both occupations and college education, and between the professional occupa- tion and location. Having professional founders and founders in the publishing trades (PBT) increased the odds of a magazine appearing in the mid-nineteenth century rather than the eighteenth century. While the members of each occu- pation on their own became less likely to found magazines (the effects for PT and BT are negative), members of the two occupations became more likely to found magazines together (PBT is positive). This suggests that the resources attached to these two occupations became increasingly complementary. Next, having college-educated founders and professionals (PCT) decreased the odds of a magazine appearing in the mid-nineteenth century rather than the eight- eenth century, as did having college-educated founders and founders in pub- lishing (BCT). This indicates that although the prevalence of magazine founders with a college education did not change overall (based on the near-zero effect for CT), magazine founders in the professions and publishing trades became significantly less likely to have attended college over time. Finally, location interacted with occupation: having a professional founder and being located in one of the three biggest cities (PLT) decreased the odds of a magazine being published in the mid-nineteenth century rather than the eighteenth century. In other words, having a professional founder and being located outside a major urban center increased the odds. Note that neither the publishing-trades occupation nor college education interacted with location, as BLT and CLT were not required for the selected model to fit the data well. Taken together, these results suggest that only those magazines with profes- sionals among their founders became more geographically dispersed, while magazines with members of the publishing trades and college-educated men remained just as concentrated in the major urban centers in the mid-nineteenth century as they were in the eighteenth century. 614 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION Our analysis shows that as the magazine industry evolved, people from increasingly broad swaths of American society were able to launch new maga- zines. This happened because magazines became legitimate cultural products, and industry-specific resources became widespread (Hannan and Freeman, 1989). This occurred even in the face of intense competition from mass-market magazines published in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York. In the eighteenth century, when magazines were novel cultural products, finding skilled printers, obtaining original content, securing distribution, and attracting readers demanded heavy investments of economic, cultural, and social capital. Thus most early magazine founders were printers or other mem- bers of the publishing trades, men who had the experience and connections necessary to secure scarce and hard-to-manage production resources. As the landlords of the eighteenth-century American public sphere, these men were also cultural arbiters, so they were well positioned to acquire content, gain access to distribution channels, and attract audiences. Other elites were com- mon among magazine entrepreneurs: patrician professionals and men of let- ters, who possessed the knowledge and cultivation necessary to provide content and attract a similarly elite audience and the economic resources needed to underwrite such risky ventures. Skeptics could be persuaded of the merits of these unusual new products by judging not the legitimacy of the prod- ucts themselves but, rather, the stature of the men who created them (DiMaggio, 1982; Granovetter and McGuire, 1998). By the mid-nineteenth century, the greater legitimacy accorded to maga- zines and the increased availability of industry-specific resources made it easier to launch and run magazines (Hannan and Freeman, 1989). Distribution through the mail was guaranteed by law, and postage rates for magazines were almost as low as for newspapers. Printing presses had become widespread, and print- ing had been transformed from a skilled craft done by business owners into routine factory work done by paid laborers. Professional writers were eager to contribute original material for pay, and copyright law was used by publishers to safeguard their investment in literary property. Moreover, accumulated expe- rience with magazines had reduced challenges for founders (Aldrich and Fiol, 1994): subscribers, writers and illustrators, financial backers, and government officials all accepted magazines as valued cultural products. Because acquiring key resources was easier, barriers to entry were lower in the mid-nineteenth century. But it was not easy for magazine entrepreneurs everywhere to acquire the resources their new ventures needed. By the mid-nineteenth century, the rise of large and powerful publishing houses in the three biggest cities— Philadelphia, Boston, and New York—meant that industry insiders (writers and members of the publishing trades) were more likely than doctors, clergy, or the members of other occupations to launch magazines in those locations. Magazine founders in these cities were also more likely to be college-educated than those located elsewhere. The rise of large publishing houses in these cit- ies excluded some people from launching new magazines there, but such com- petitive exclusion seems to have been limited in its geographic reach: in the mid-nineteenth century, more magazines were founded outside these centers than by publishing-industry insiders within them. Professionals, especially Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 615 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ small-town doctors and ministers without college educations, were most likely to take advantage of these opportunities, as magazines with professionals among their founders became more likely to be located outside the major urban centers. This was especially true for magazines founded by clergy: in the mid- nineteenth century, magazines founded by clergy constituted 24 percent of the sample we analyzed, but only 5 percent of those were located in the major urban centers. The publishing activities of these two groups underwent ‘‘antag- onistic expansion’’ (Starr, 2004: 26) as rival religious denominations and medical factions launched competing publications to criticize each other and tie their communities closer together (Hatch, 1989; Haller, 2000; Goldstein and Haveman, 2012). Because magazines became increasingly legitimate cultural goods, they became increasingly valuable platforms for these professional struggles. All of this suggests that the greater legitimacy afforded to magazine publishing by the mid-nineteenth century allowed founders with few social, cul- tural, or economic resources to launch magazines more easily than they could have in the eighteenth century—as long as they avoided the industry centers. Entrepreneurship in the Post-bellum Magazine Industry Our analysis ends in 1860, the year before the outbreak of the Civil War. While the American magazine industry was by then well established, it con- tinued to evolve. But did the ease (or difficulty) of acquiring resources to launch new periodicals change after 1860? The short answer is no. Despite a merger wave after World War II, which produced large concerns like Time Inc. that publish many magazines, market concentration in the industry remained low (Tebbel and Zuckerman, 1991). Today, there are about 20,000 print magazines in circulation; between 1981 and 2007, the market share (in terms of advertising revenues) of the four largest titles averaged 17 percent, while the market share of the eight largest averaged 28 percent, and the Herfindahl index of concentration averaged 118 (Noam, 2009: 161). 4 To put this in perspective, an index of over 1,000 is the usual threshold for a concen- trated market. These data on the contemporary magazine industry suggest that the trends we observed in the first 120 years of the industry’s history continued over the next 150 years. Even as mergers and the rise of new media continue to transform the social and spatial contexts of magazine pub- lishing, large New-York-based publishing concerns still dominate the national scene, while at the same time thousands of smaller publishing ventures thrive elsewhere. Directions for Future Research More work remains to be done to reconfirm and probe the claims we make here. For magazines in particular, we would like to know whether mid-nine- teenth-century entrepreneurs founded their magazines for the same reasons 4 Basing market share on circulation yields similar figures: 16 percent for the top four magazines, 22 percent for the top eight magazines, and 87 for the Herfindahl index (Noam, 2009: 161). Analyzing magazine-publishing firms instead of individual magazines reveals somewhat higher, but still quite modest, levels of market concentration: from 1984 to 2006, the market share of the four largest firms averaged 27 percent, that of the eight largest averaged 38 percent, and the Herfindahl index averaged 281 (Noam, 2009: 159). 616 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ and to serve the same kind of audiences as their eighteenth-century predeces- sors. An analysis of magazine genres or prospectuses could shed light on how founders’ motivations for their publishing ventures evolved as the industry became legitimate and deep pools of industry-specific resources developed. Such an analysis might reveal, for example, the social stratification of legiti- macy claims made by magazine founders, if elites founded different types of magazines than non-elites or justified their ventures with different language. Or it might reveal regional divergences in legitimacy claims, with founders in rural areas publishing different genres of magazines than those in urban areas. For other industries, especially in more modern settings, research on entrepreneurship could explicitly take into consideration how opportunities and constraints on entrepreneurship co-evolve with industry structure and with trends in society at large. Over the last three decades, organizational theorists have seen a dramatic shift in basic research questions, from explaining cross-sectional variation in organizational structure and perfor- mance to emphasizing time and change. Such explanations must explicitly recognize the complex interactions among various factors that may occur over time. Yet despite the increasing appeal of historically sensitive analysis, only a handful of studies of new-venture creation reflect this shift (e.g., Dobbin and Dowd, 1997; Stuart and Ding, 2006; Johnson, 2007; Ruef and Reinecke, 2011). Our study reveals one such complexity: two hypotheses derived from socio- logical theory—competitive exclusion from resource acquisition and increasing legitimacy and easier access to resources—were both partly confirmed and partly disconfirmed. The magazine industry became stratified into a core (in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York), where large incumbents could keep inde- pendent entrepreneurs at bay, and a periphery (in the burgeoning number of other urban areas), where incumbents were smaller and people in many differ- ent walks of life could acquire the resources to start magazines. As industries develop, they can become stratified along at least one dimension, if not sev- eral. These axes of differentiation and power may vary across industries— location for magazines and financial-service firms, product technology for personal-computer and mobile-phone manufacturers, or customer profile and price point for automobile manufacturers and wineries—but they are common enough to merit scrutiny by entrepreneurship scholars. Research on entrepre- neurship must recognize that such differences may alter the entrepreneurial task in important ways and so set important scope conditions on any theory of entrepreneurship. Acknowledgments This research was funded by National Science Foundation Grants #SES-0727502 and #SES-9906963, and by a grant from the U.C. Berkeley Institute for Research on Labor and Employment. We thank Associate Editor Martin Ruef and three anonymous ASQ reviewers for helpful comments. We also thank Adam Goldstein, Victoria Johnson, Jen Schradie, Toby Stuart, and Steve Vaisey, as well as seminar participants at Boston University and Emory University. Please send all correspondence to the first author. Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 617 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ REFERENCES Ahlstrom, S. 1972 A Religious History of the American People. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Albaugh, G. 1994 History and Annotated Bibliography of American Religious Periodicals and Newspapers. Worcester, MA: American Antiquarian Society. Aldrich, H., and M. Fiol 1994 ‘‘Fools rush in? 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Haveman, Habinek, and Goodman 623 at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ Weis, F. 1978 The Colonial Clergy of the Middle Colonies: New York, New Jersey, and Penn- sylvania, 1628–1776. Baltimore, MD: Genealogical Publishing Co. Wroth, L. 1931 The Colonial Printer. Charlottesville, VA: University Press of Virginia. Wroth, L., and R. Silver 1951 ‘‘Book production and distribution from the American Revolution to the war between the states.’’ In H. Lehmann-Haupt (ed.), The Book in America: A History of the Making and Selling of Books in the United States: 63–136. New York: R. R. Bow- ker & Co. Zboray, R. 1993 A Fictive People: Antebellum Economic Development and the American Read- ing Public. New York: Oxford University Press. Authors’ Biographies Heather A. Haveman is Professor of Sociology and Business at the University of California, Berkeley, Department of Sociology, 410 Barrows Hall, Berkeley, CA 9472- 1980 (e-mail: haveman@berkeley.edu). She studies how organizations, industries, and employees’ careers evolve and is currently working on several papers tracing the evolu- tion of the American magazine industry. She received a Ph.D. in organizational behavior and industrial relations from the University of California, Berkeley and an M.B.A. from the University of Toronto. Jacob Habinek is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Sociology at the University of California, Berkeley, 410 Barrows Hall, Berkeley, CA 94720 (e-mail: habinek@ berkeley.edu). In addition to entrepreneurship and industry evolution, his current research centers on the development of quantitative models for complex social pro- cesses, the dynamics of social networks, and the causes and consequences of stability and change across organizational fields. He is finishing a dissertation that examines the relationship between institutional change and organizational innovation in the life sciences. He holds an M.A in sociology from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. He expects to complete his Ph.D. in 2014. Leo A. Goodman is the Class of 1938 Professor of Sociology at the University of California, Berkeley, 410 Barrows Hall, Berkeley, CA 94720 (e-mail: lgoodman@ berkeley.edu). He is an elected member of the National Academy of Sciences, the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the American Philosophical Society. He has studied a wide variety of statistical problems and developed many statistical meth- ods that bring the same kind of rigor to the analysis of qualitative/categorical data that has been available in the analysis of quantitative data. He received an M.A. and Ph.D. in mathematics from Princeton University. 624 Administrative Science Quarterly 57 (2012) at UNIV CALIFORNIA BERKELEY LIB on December 17, 2012asq.sagepub.comDownloaded from http://asq.sagepub.com/ 
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work_smn4cq6uz5frnbxwot56y6wuim	----	bamsD1300131 1..25 Calhoun: The NPS Institutional Archive Faculty and Researcher Publications Faculty and Researcher Publications Collection 2015-11 The Materhorn: unraveling the intracacies of mountian weather Fernando, H.J.S. American Meteorological Society BAMS, November 2015, pp. 1945-1967 http://hdl.handle.net/10945/47754 Comprehensive, multiscale, and multidisciplinary observations allow scientists to discover novel flow physics, address current deficiencies of predictive models, and improve weather prediction in mountainous terrain. THE MATERHORN Unraveling the Intricacies of Mountain Weather by H. J. S. Fernando, e. r. PardyJak, S. di Sabatino, F. k. CHow, S. F. J. de wekker, S. w. HoCH, J. HaCker, J. C. PaCe, t. Pratt, Z. Pu, w. J. SteenburgH, C. d. wHiteman, y. wang, d. ZaJiC, b. balSley,* r. dimitrova, g. d. emmitt, C. w. HigginS, J. C. r. Hunt, J. C. knievel, d. lawrenCe, y. liu, d. F. nadeau, e. kit, b. w. blomquiSt, P. Conry, r. S. CoPPerSmitH, e. Creegan, m. Felton, a. graCHev, n. gunawardena, C. Hang, C. m. HoCut, g. HuynH, m. e. Jeglum, d. JenSen, v. kulandaivelu, m. leHner, l. S. leo, d. liberZon, J. d. maSSey, k. mCenerney, S. Pal, t. PriCe, m. SgHiatti, Z. Silver, m. tHomPSon, H. ZHang, and t. ZSedrovitS Through woods and mountain passes the winds, like anthems, roll. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow F or centuries, humans have been both fascinated and awed by mountain weather, and its intriguing aberrancy continues to baffle weather forecasters. For instance, a clear morning on a tranquil mountain slope can swiftly change into violent storms within hours while a nearby valley remains calm. The vari- ability of mountain weather spans a wide swath of space–time scales, contributing to a myriad of phe- nomena that stymie the predictability of mountain weather. Although isolated mountains are rare, about 20% of Earth’s land surface is covered by mountain- ous areas (Louis 1975). Topography less than 600 m in height (<5% of the atmospheric-scale height) is re- ferred to as hills, but demarcations between different topographic features remain ambiguous. Orographic mosaics that incorporate slopes, valleys, canyons, escarpments, gullies, and buttes (also known as com- plex terrain) cover about 70% of Earth’s land surface (Strobach 1991). The majority of the world’s urban areas have emerged in complex terrain because of accompanying water resources. Systematic studies of mountain weather date back to the 1850s, followed by a decline of scientific activity in the early 1900s owing to observational difficulties. A resurgence of research occurred in the midtwentieth century with the ad- vent of aerological networks (Bjerknes et al. 1934) as well as groundbreaking advances of mountain-wave and slope-f low studies (Prandtl 1942; Queney 1948; Long 1953). Vivid applications in areas of urban air pollution (Ellis et al. 2000; Fernando and Weil 2010), dispersion in cities (Allwine et al. 2002), wind energy harvesting (Banta et al. 2013), aviation (Politovich et al. 2011), alpine warfare (Winters et al. 2001), and firefighting (Albini et al. 1982) have burgeoned moun- tain meteorology, but understanding of f low physics and fidelity of predictions leaves much to be desired. Reviews of relevant past research are found in Taylor et al. (1987), Blumen (1990), Baines (1998), Belcher and Hunt (1998), Whiteman (2000), Wood (2000), Barry (2008), Fernando (2010), and Chow et al. (2013). Prompted by applications-driven overarching science questions, in 2011 the U.S. Department of Defense (DoD) funded a 5-yr Multidisciplinar y University Research Initiative (MURI) aimed at 1945NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | improving weather prediction in mountainous ter- rain. Dubbed MATERHORN, this effort involves 11 principal investigators from five academic institutions (see sidebar on “Program synopsis”). Ten additional collaborators have joined the project with an array of research tools [more information can be found online (http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/BAMS-D-12-00023.2) in the supplementary information]. At the outset, the ex- isting barriers to mountain weather forecasting were reviewed and critical science and modeling needs were identified, and based on which, a multifaceted research effort was developed. Commensurate with available resources, the focus was limited to arid/ semiarid regions and scales at or smaller than the me- soscale, thus deemphasizing issues such as orographic precipitation and marine pushes. Two extensive field campaigns were conducted within the first 3 years, and their design drew guidance from recent complex- terrain field campaigns such as Vertical Transport and Mixing (VTMX; Doran et al. 2002), Mesoscale Alpine Programme (MAP; Rotach and Zardi 2007), Meteor Crater Experiment (METCRAX; Whiteman et al. 2008), Terrain-Induced Rotor Experiment (T-REX; Grubišić et al. 2008), the Phoenix Air Flow Experiment (PAFEX; Pardyjak et al. 2009), Cold-Air Pooling Experiment (COLPEX; Price et al. 2011), Phoenix Evening Transition Flow Experiment (TRANSFLEX; Fernando et al. 2013), Boundary-Layer Late Afternoon and Sunset Turbulence (BLLAST; Lothon et al. 2014), and Meteo-diffusion (Leo et al. 2015a). The Granite Mountain Atmospheric Science Testbed of the U.S. Army Dugway Proving Ground (DPG) was selected as the field site. This site has the advantages of a large spatial extent, richness in mountain weather phenomena, interesting clima- tological regimes, distinct (but few) land-use types, an existing instrumentation network, and unique logistical support. A repertoire of measurement tools were used to observe processes over a wide range of space–time scales, which was augmented by model evaluations and improvements. This paper presents an over view of MATERHORN, starting with an outline of complex-terrain f low processes followed by discussions of critical science gaps, field campaigns, modeling efforts, and preliminary results. FLOW PROCESSES IN COMPLEX TERRAIN. Figure 1 schematizes mountain-valley flow processes over a DPG topographic map. Under weak synoptic (wind speed Us > 5 m s –1) conditions dominated by high pressure, the characteristic winds are downslope (katabatic) and downvalley at night (blue arrows) while upslope (anabatic) and upvalley during the day (red), signifying thermal circulation (Whiteman 2000; Fernando 2010; Zardi and Whiteman 2013). Pure slope and valley winds are rare in nature, since they interact among themselves and with synoptic flow. At night, downslope/downvalley winds drain through gaps and canyons (Mayr et al. 2007), separate out from the slopes as intrusions (Lu and Turco 1994), interact with smaller topographic features (Baines 1998), and, as will be discussed later, collide with each other to create spasmodic turbulence episodes. Colder nocturnal air draining down from the slopes accumulates in confined valleys, forming stable cold pools that are weakly turbu- lent (Whiteman et al. 2008; Monti et al. 2002). Pulsations of katabatic flow at critical internal-wave frequency (Princevac et al. 2008), interleaving intrusions arriving AFFILIATIONS: Fernando, di Sabatino, Pratt, dimitrova, Hunt, Conry, CoPPerSmitH, HoCut, leo, liberZon, mCenerney, Silver, tHomPSon, and ZSedrovitS—University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, Indiana; PardyJak, HoCH, Pu, SteenburgH, wHiteman, gunawardena, Hang, Jeglum, JenSen, kulandaivelu, leHner, maSSey, PriCe, and ZHang—University of Utah, Salt Lake City, Utah; CHow—University of California, Berkeley, Berkeley, California; de wekker, Pal, and SgHiatti—University of Virginia, Charlottesville, Virginia; HaCker—Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, California, and National Center for Atmospheric Research, Boulder, Colorado; PaCe and ZaJiC—U.S. Army Dugway Proving Ground, Utah; wang, Creegan, Felton, and HuynH—U.S. Army Research Laboratory, Adelphi, Maryland; balSley and lawrenCe—University of Colorado Boulder, Boulder, Colorado; emmitt—Simpson Weather Associates, Charlottesville, Virginia; HigginS—Oregon State University, Corvallis, Oregon; knievel and liu—National Center for Atmospheric Research, Boulder, Colorado; nadeau—École Polytechnique de Montréal, Montreal, Quebec, Canada; kit—University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, Indiana, and Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv, Israel; blomquiSt and graCHev—Univer- sity of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, Indiana, and National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, Silver Spring, Maryland, and University of Colorado Boulder, Boulder, Colorado * In memoriam. CORRESPONDING AUTHOR: Harindra Joseph Fernando, Envi- ronmental Fluid Dynamics Laboratories, Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering and Earth Sciences and Department of Aerospace and Mechanical Engineering, 156 Fitzpatrick Hall, Univer- sity of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556-5637 E-mail: hfernand@nd.edu The abstract for this article can be found in this issue, following the table of contents. DOI:10.1175/BAMS-D-13-00131.1 A supplement to this article is available online (10.1175/BAMS-D-13-00131.2) In final form 17 April 2015 ©2015 American Meteorological Society 1946 NOVEMBER 2015| http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/BAMS-D-12-00023.2 mailto:hfernand%40nd.edu?subject= http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/BAMS-D-13-00131.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/BAMS-D-13-00131.2 from different topographies (Fernando et al. 2013), and shear layers of flow fanning out from the gaps all contrib- ute to the weakly turbulent state. This differs from very stable boundary layers over flat terrain, where turbulence is highly intermittent in space and time (Mahrt 1999). As the nocturnal stable boundary layer (SBL) breaks down during the morning transition, paving the way for a daytime convective boundary layer (CBL), a flow reversal occurs from downslope/downvalley to upslope/ upvalley. Upslope flow may separate on the slopes in the form of thermal plumes, topped by cumulus clouds (Banta 1984; Hocut et al. 2015). During the evening transition, the signs of heat flux and vertical tempera- ture gradient reverse, convective turbulence collapses, and the downslope/downvalley flow system reemerges. A host of physical processes contribute to morning (Whiteman 1982; Princevac and Fernando 2008) and evening transitions (Hunt et al. 2003; Nadeau et al. 2011). Other flow types include local (micro) circula- tions driven by thermal and roughness contrasts arising from land-cover inhomogeneities (Jannuzzi 1993; Rife et al. 2002). Under strong synoptic conditions (Us ≫ Ut , where Ut is the characteristic velocity of the thermal circulation), flow is energetic and inertially dominated. When the approach flow is stably stratified (with velocity U and buoyancy frequency N), it responds to the topography (height h) by distorting the flow over horizontal spatial scales on the order of the Rossby deformation radius (Hunt et al. 2004). Ensuing local phenomena are de- pendent on the Froude number (Fr = U/Nh), with ther- mal circulation becoming insignificant when Fr > 0.5 (Poulos et al. 2000). Stably stratified mountain wakes consist of lee waves, propagating internal waves, rotors, separated flow, and intriguing vortex structures (Long 1972; Lin et al. 1992; Hunt et al. 2006). If the topography is 3D, the flow above the dividing streamline goes over the mountain while the rest flows around the mountain (Snyder et al. 1985). In 2D cases, the flow below the di- viding streamline is blocked upstream, but when there is a gap in the topography the flow can leak through it, depending on Fr and the gap aspect ratio (Baines 1979). At very high Fr, the flow is similar to the neutral case, with shear-layer separation and vortex shedding at the edges of the topography (Brighton 1978). Daytime heating leads to the CBL development, and when the synoptic condition is such that Us is of the same order as the Deardorff (1970) convective- scale w * , the upslope flow on the windward side is reinforced while that on the leeward side is weakened and separated to form recirculation cells (Fernando 2010). Numerical predictions under strong synoptic conditions (Us ≫ Ut ~ w*) tend to be better than those under thermal circulation conditions, but, in general, both could be desired for near-surface predictions (Fernando and Weil 2010). The complexities associated with interacting wakes and shear layers of neighboring mountains, canyon effects, gap flows, and microcircu- lations are only beginning to be investigated. C R I T I C A L S C I E N C E N E E D S . Pre c e d i ng MATERHORN, a workshop entitled “Overcoming Scientific Barriers to Weather Support in Mountainous Terrain” was held in Tempe, Arizona, 1–2 February T he Mountain Terrain Atmo- spheric Modeling and Observations (MATERHORN) Program was designed to investigate complex-terrain me- teorology over a wide range of scales, topographic features, and driving mechanisms by drawing expertise from multiple disciplines and by employing complementary research methodolo- gies. The principal participants are the University of Notre Dame (UND; lead); University of California, Berkeley (UCB); Naval Postgraduate School (NPS); University of Utah (UU); and University of Virginia (UVA). MATERHORN consists of four components working symbiotically: • The modeling component (MATERHORN-M) investigates predictability at the mesoscale, in particular, sensitivity (error growth) to initial conditions at various lead times, dependence on boundary conditions and input background properties, as well as merits of different data- assimilation techniques. It also at- tempts high-resolution simulations with novel modeling and terrain- representation methodologies. • The experimental component (MATERHORN-X) mainly conducts field measurements at unprecedented spatiotemporal detail by deploying arrays of rou- tine, high-end, and newly devel- oped instrumentation. Laboratory experiments are used for process studies. • The technology development component (MATERHORN- T) enables currently untenable meteorological observations. The developments include an instrumented UAV, sensors for moisture and fog measurements, and a combined hot-film/sonic anemometer system for probing turbulence down to Kolmogorov scales. Advanced data retrieval and processing algorithms are also attempted. • The parameterization component (MATERHORN-P) develops high- fidelity physics-based fundamental (quantitative) relationships for com- plex-terrain processes, which are implemented in mesoscale models followed by model evaluations. PROGRAM SYNOPSIS 1947NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | 2010. Twenty-six invitees representing academia and stakeholders compiled a list of research needs, bar- riers, and experiences (a report is available from the corresponding author), a subset of which was selected for investigations: 1) the predictability of near-surface wind and temperature in complex terrain remains poor, in part owing to meager understanding of near- surface processes; 2) surface-layer predictions are sensitive to soil moi sture and soil properties, which are inputs to the models, yet these key parameters are not accurately measured in field studies to quantify their role; 3) mesoscale models are more prone to forecast error when predicting in complex terrain than over flat terrain, possibly because of the large number of processes exclusive to complex terrain in the subgrid scales; 4) proper assimilation of near-surface observations is useful for improving short- range forecasts; 5) coordinated high-resolution observations from meso- to dissipation scales are needed using dense instrumentation networks, possibly using novel instrumentation, as most past observations have focused on a limited ranges of scales; 6) turbulence closure models and boundary layer parameterizations need to be revisited to help develop better subgrid parameterizations, particularly for the SBL; and 7) there is potential for ultra-high-resolution (<50-m horizontal) simulations using tech- niques such as the immersed boundary method (IBM). Considering 1–7, MATERHORN was focused on high-resolution observations, near-surface processes, Fig. 1. Physical processes in complex terrain, illustrated on a topographic map of the DPG domain. The spatial and the elevation (shading) scales are shown below. Blue arrows represent nocturnal flows; red arrows represent daytime flows. An arbitrary direction has been used for illustration of synoptic effects (which typically varies from northwest to north to northeast in DPG). Shown in the inset are the control center (red arrow) and Ditto meteorological building (circled) of GMAST. 1948 NOVEMBER 2015| the role of surface and upper-soil-layer properties, boundary layer parameterizations, data assimilation, and high-resolution (large eddy) simulations (LESs) within mesoscale models. MATERHORN-X. Two major field campaigns were conducted with high-resolution measure- me nt s , fo c us i ng on c ond it i ons d om i nate d by thermal circulations and strong synoptic forcing. Another smaller study focused on fog formation, which will be a topic of future publications. The field site, equipment, and execution of the first two experiments are discussed next. Field site. The Granite Mountain Atmospheric Science Testbed (GMAST) is a part of the U.S. Army DPG shown in Fig. 1. DPG is located 137 km southwest of Salt Lake City, Utah, and consists of 3700 km2 of land in complex terrain with two dominant land-use types: playa and desert shrub. The region is dry with annual precipitation of 197 mm yr−1 (WRCC 2014). Within the DPG is a nominally isolated topographic feature, Granite Mountain (GM), 11.8 km in length, 6.1 km at its widest, and peak elevation 0.84 km above the valley floor, which itself is 1.3 km above mean sea level (MSL). The surroundings of the GM are well instrumented for providing meteorological support for weapon systems testing, thus forming GMAST. With DoD-controlled roads, air space, and facilities, it was possible to operate unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV), low-flying manned aircraft, and large smoke- release apparatuses. A special agreement between UND, UU, and DPG allowed access to this highly secured DoD facility on the premise that DPG would also benefit from the findings to improve its own meteorological capabilities. The fall campaign period (25 September–31 October 2012) was characterized by quiescent, dry, fair weather (Us < 5 m s −1) periods dominated by thermal circulation and the spring campaign (1–31 May 2013) by synoptic forcing. A dry experimental run (25–30 August 2012) helped fine- tune the instrument placement and logistics. Instrumentation and observing locations. The GMAST core (basic) instrumentation consisted of 31 surface atmospheric measurement systems (SAMS), 51 mini- SAMS, and over 100 portable weather instrumenta- tion data systems (PWIDS). SAMS and mini-SAMS are 10-m towers with vane anemometers (RM Young model 05103) at 2 and 10 m above ground level (AGL) to measure wind speed and direction and the tempera- ture T and relative humidity (RH) at 2 m (Fig. 2). They both measure surface pressure and solar radiation, the difference being that mini-SAMS have additional T and RH sensors at 10 m while SAMS measure precipi- tation and soil temperature. PWIDS are 2-m portable masts on tripods, with a wind monitor and T–RH probes at 2 m. All data from the core instrumentation are transmitted wirelessly to the DPG Meteorology Division (Fig. 1) via a spread spectrum radio. The core infrastructure was augmented with an extensive suite of investigator-provided and DPG/ National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)/National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR)-loaned instrumentation concentrated at six intensive observing sites (IOS; Fig. 3), selected based on science plans and logistical constraints: A: IOS-Playa was in the Great Salt Lake Desert west of GM; the area is extremely flat, smooth, and mostly devoid of vegetation, with a thin crust of crystalline salt above layers of alkaline sediments (Boettinger 2009). It is character- ized by high albedo, low roughness length (see Table ES1), and seasonally changing moisture and albedo (Hang et al. 2015, manuscript sub- mitted to Bound.-Layer Meteor.). Studies on the surface energy budget, internal waves, finescale turbulence, skin flows, and the effects of con- trasting albedo, roughness, and moisture avail- ability were conducted therein. B: IOS-Obverse was the footprint where north/ northwesterly/northeasterly approach flow im- pinges on the GM, yielding a range of phenome- na such as dividing streamlines, vortex shedding, and wake flows. C: IOS-WS (west slope) was on the western slope of GM for studies on slope flows and their inter- action with synoptic, valley, and canyon flows. D: IOS-Gap was a flow exchange area covered by sparse desert shrub vegetation between west and east basins. This site covered a small gap and a big gap. (The nominally semienclosed area east of the GM is referred to as the east basin, and the similar confinement to the west of GM is the west basin.) E: IOS-ES (east slope) was on the eastern slope of GM. Covered by sparse desert shrub vegetation and long grasses, local slope flows played an important role at this site, including flow col- lisions, critical internal-wave oscillations, and seiching motions. F: IOS-Sagebrush was located east of the GM and centrally in the main valley. Covered by sparse desert shrub vegetation, it was highly representa- tive of the land cover in DPG. This site was in the 1949NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | path of the nocturnal mesoscale drainage flows over the Dugway Valley and at times was influ- enced by slope flows from different directions. The placement of auxiliary instrumentation in IOS was guided by physical intuition and mesoscale model (hindcasting) runs. Photographs of auxiliary instrumentation are shown in Fig. 4, and their speci- fications are in Table ES2. All IOSs had instrumented towers, at least one 20 m in height, along with a suite of other sensors. Some instruments were relocated and additional instrumentation was brought in pe- riodically as deemed necessary. The towers measured some or all of the following: 1) T, RH, wind velocities, momentum, and sensible heat f luxes (using 3D sonics and fine-wire thermocouples, located at 2, 5, 10, and 20 m and operating at 20 Hz); 2) CO2 and water vapor concentration (open-path infrared gas analyzers) and fine-structure temperature profiles (~25 thermo- couples up to 10 m, with enhanced vertical resolution near the ground); 3) full radiation budget (incoming and outgoing long- and shortwave f luxes at 2–3 m); 4) infrared (IR) surface temperature; and 5) soil heat f lux, soil moisture, soil thermal properties, as well as multiple levels of subsur- face temperature. Sonic an- emometers were also placed at 0.5 m AGL to investigate skin f lows, a known phe- nomenon (Clements et al. 20 03) yet u nresolved by both numerical models and observations. T he IOS -E S had f ive heavily instrumented tow- ers [ES-1–ES-5 (see Fig. 3), with ES5 at the foothill], with a total of 30 sonics, Krypton hygrometers, or LI-COR infrared gas ana- ly z ers (for eddy cova r i- a nc e , C O 2 , w ater v ap or f luxes), 9 HOBO tempera- ture dataloggers, 13 local energ y-balance measure- ment stations (LEMS), and lidars with hemispherical scanners. At times, three lidars were used for v ir- tual tower mode operations (Y. Wang et al. 2014, un- published manuscript) and on other occasions IOS-ES had tethered-balloon profiling. A fiber optic distrib- uted temperature sensing (DTS) system measured the temperature variation along a 2-km track of the slope at 0.5 and 2 m AGL. The DTS uses the Raman scattering principle for laser light confined within a fiber optic cable to determine the spatially resolved temperature of the cable (Thomas et al. 2012). IOS-ES also housed fine-resolution combo probes developed by MATERHORN-T, an extension of a prototype developed at NCAR. It consisted of in situ calibrated 3D hot films collocated with 3D sonic anemometers that measured turbulence down to Kolmogorov dis- sipation scales (Kit et al. 2010). A FLIR IR camera facing uphill measured the spatiotemporal distribu- tion of the surface IR temperatures. Smoke releases illuminated by a powerful argon–ion laser as well as by natural light portrayed large-scale f low structures and processes. The IOS-WS consisted of two towers (WS-1 and WS-2), a SAMS station, eight HOBOs, and a LEMS along the western slope of GM for observing the interactions of synoptic and slope f lows as well as contrasting developments of thermal circulations on the east and west slopes. WS-1 and the LEMS were Fig. 2. GMAST core instrumentation: (a) SAMS/mini-Sams, (b) PWIDs, (c) vane anemometer, and (d) HMP45 temperature–relative humidity probe in radiation shield. 1950 NOVEMBER 2015| on the lower portion of the slope approximately 20 m above the Playa f loor. The former was a 28-m tower instrumented with six levels of 3D sonics and T–RH sensors. During the fall campaign, IOS-WS hosted a sound detection and range/radio acoustic sounding system (SoDAR/RASS) , a ceilometer, and additional PWIDS. The 20-m WS-2 was located farther along the slope with five sonics, a vane anemometer, Krypton hygrometer, 12 thermocouples, and extensive surface energy budget instrumentation. The IOS-Sagebrush had a 20-m tower equipped with sonics, Campbell infrared gas analyzers, energy- balance equipment, and fine-wire thermocouples. Tethered-balloon soundings were operated at this site synchronous with the Playa sites. Upper-air (ra- diosonde) soundings were also launched at this site. Additional towers in the spring campaign included a 10-m mast approximately 2 km northwest of the main site with two 3D hot-film combos at two differ- ent heights and a 28-m tower with sonics and T–RH sensors at five heights. The IOS-Playa featured unique instrumenta- tion for finescale turbulence, employing a near- surface f lux Richardson number (hot wire) probe, complementing the ES-2/Sagebrush combos. Also at IOS-Playa were a high-resolution thermal image velocimetry system (for near-surface temperature and velocity f luctuations), tethered-balloon and radiosonde sounding systems, and a heavily instru- mented 20-m tower. In the spring, this site hosted two MATERHORN-T developed radio frequency (RF) measurement systems called RF polarimetric crosshairs. They characterized polarization signa- tures of signals on a receiving antenna, thus allowing the measurement of the electromagnetic response of emitted polarized radiation caused by environmental changes (Pratt et al. 2014). This instrument measured surface moisture at approximately 1-km scale (i.e., mesoscale grid resolution). For both campaigns, a RF-crosshairs system was deployed at the IOS- Gap. Manual soil moisture observations were also conducted at IOS-Playa during the spring campaign Fig. 3. Instrument placement during fall and spring campaigns. Insets provide details of IOSs as well as the full experimental domain (bottom-left inset). Only the additional instruments deployed (or relocated) for the spring experiment are shown under the “spring” column (courtesy of Dott. Ing. Roberto Perrone). 1951NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | to characterize soil moisture spatial variability and its role on the energy balance and land–atmosphere moisture exchange (Hang et al. 2015, manuscript submitted to Bound.-Layer Meteor.). The instrumentation at IOS-Gap was suitably distributed over small and large gaps southeast of the GM, at the top of Sapphire Mountain as well as at multiple locations in the proximity. During the spring, a mini-SoDAR, microwave radiometer pro- filer (MWRP; for vertical profiles of temperature, liquid water content, and humidity up to 10 km), ceil- ometer, and radiosonde launches were deployed ap- proximately 2.5 km southwest of Sapphire Mountain. The IOS-Obverse provided approach f low in- formation for t he spring ca mpaign, based on a 32-m tower located 400 m northwest of GM with 3D sonics collocated with T–RH sensors (2, 4, 6, 8, 16, and 28 m) and an open path CO2–H2O analyzer (LiCOR, 28 m). Also included were a MWRP, ceil- ometer, mini-SoDAR, and frequency-modulated continuous-wave (FM-CW) radar (Eaton et al. 1995) for profiling background thermodynamic structure. PWIDS recorded the local f low close to the GM lead- ing edge. A scanning lidar and three towers along the east side of GM captured the leeside separated f low. At least eight upwind radiosonde launches per intensive observing period (IOP) provided informa- tion for data-assimilation studies. Elaborate multiple smoke releases provided information on f low physics related to dividing streamlines, streak lines, and f low separation (Leo et al. 2015b, manuscript submitted to Bound.-Layer Meteor.). Aeria l measurements were performed by t he (manned) NPS Twin Otter Aircraft with Doppler Wind Lidar (TODWL) as well as unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV) dubbed DataHawk and ND-Flamingo. In the fall campaign, TODWL f lights crisscrossed the basin at 2400 m AGL, transecting the GM ridge, while conically scanning the terrain with onboard Doppler lidar to probe the mountain f lows (De Wekker et al. 2012). Seven TODWL f lights were conducted during IOPs 4–7, collecting data during four afternoons and three mornings. DataHawk flights flew circular Auto- Helix patterns, spiraling from the ground to 700 m AGL and then back down traversing the IOS-ES tower line, thus providing data from elevations that towers could not reach. A series of towers were also placed in a deep canyon close to IOS-ES for a special canyon f low experiment, which included smoke releases. Some duplicate measurements were recorded at IOS within close proximity to each other, providing an opportunity for intercomparison of instruments and high-resolution spatiotemporal information. Instruments were relocated as needed after prelimi- nary data analysis, but exhaustive time demands on researchers did not leave much room for coeval data analysis. IOPs and data. Each campaign included 10 IOPs where all instruments were operated in coordination. The core instruments (SAMS, mini-SAMS, PWIDS) and some selected observing platforms, however, were operated continuously. The IOPs were classified ac- cording to the synoptic wind speed (Table 1), and the IOP days were chosen a day earlier considering weather briefings by DPG forecasters with input from MATERHORN meteorologists as well as logistical and manpower constraints. The forecasting products employed included DPG’s high-resolution Weather Research and Forecasting (WRF) Model–based ad- vanced Four-Dimensional (4DWX) weather model- ing system developed by NCAR (Liu et al. 2008), a 30-member 4DWX ensemble, North American Meso- scale (NAM), and Global Forecast System (GFS) model outputs as well as satellite products. A typical IOP lasted 24 h, although a few lasted longer or shorter. The data (~50 TB) are stored on a dedicated server at UND. The data will be released to the scientific community 3 years after the end of each experiment. MATERHORN-M. The continuing work of MA- TERHORN-M seeks improvements in both mesoscale and submesoscale predictions. The model choices for the mesoscale are WRF and Coupled Ocean–Atmo- sphere Mesoscale Prediction System (COAMPS), but the focus hitherto has been on WRF, approaching from multiple angles using complementary efforts. To help instrumentation siting for campaigns, WRF was used to hindcast f low at DPG, which proved to be extremely useful. For example, the original design of IOS-ES assumed strong slope f lows from ES-5 to ES-2 towers, and hence the combo (hot film/sonic) probe systems for turbulence (which require approach f low to be within approximately ±30° of the probe direc- tion) were oriented accordingly. The simulations, however, indicated that downslope f lows below ES-4 are quickly overshadowed by valley and secondary f lows. This suggested reorientation of combos, thus circumventing a costly misperception. During cam- paigns, real-time WRF forecasts were made at high resolution (~1-km horizontal grid intervals), initial- ized four times per day (at 0000, 0600, 1800, and 2400 UTC). After the field programs, the forecasts were evaluated against observations, which has been particularly helpful in model performance evaluation and devising improvements (Pu et al. 2014). 1952 NOVEMBER 2015| Fig. 4. Salient instruments at DPG: (a) ES-1; (b) ES-2; (c) ES-3; (d) ES-4; (e) ES-5; (f) tethered-balloon soundings; (g) radiosondes; (h) HOBO weather stations; (i) dividing streamline smoke release located on the northwest side of Granite Mountain; (j) LEMS weather stations; (k) 3D hot-film combo probe; (l) Krypton hygrometer; (m) radiation balance observations at IOS-Playa; (n) radiation balance observations at IOS-Sagebrush; (o) net radiometer as the tower-mounted component of the energy budget; (p) ceilometers; (q) distributed tem- perature sensing system (DTS); (r) infrared gas analyzers; (s) fine-wire thermocouples coupled with 3D sonic anemometers; (t) flux Richardson number hot-wire probe for near-ground measurements; (u) FLIR IR camera; (v) high-resolution near-surface thermal-image velocimetry; (w) microwave radiometer profiler; (x) Flamingo UAV; (y) scanning lidars; (z) RF polarimetric crosshairs surface moisture probes; (aa) array of fine-wire thermo- couples, enhanced resolution near the ground; (ab) DataHawk UAV; (ac) SoDAR/RASS; (ad) Twin Otter with wind lidar (TODWL); (ae) mini-SoDARs; and (af) frequency-modulated continuous-wave radar (FM-CW) radar. 1953NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | A number of studies were conducted to evaluate forecasting and data-assimilation skills of WRF. In one study, the relative performance of a 3D variational data-assimilation method and an ensemble Kalman filter (EnKF) assimilation over complex terrain was evaluated (Pu et al. 2013). In two other studies, the EnKF system developed by NCAR’s Data Assimilation Research Testbed (DART; Anderson 2003; Anderson et al. 2009) was applied, assimilating radiosonde and surface observations from both campaigns. Errors in near-surface temperature and wind from WRF simu- lations in complex-terrain regions were also examined (Zhang et al. 2013; Zhang and Pu 2014). In two related studies, WRF biases due to poorly represented soil properties of DPG (Massey et al. 2014) as well as skills of PBL schemes (R. Dimitrova et al. 2015, manuscript submitted to Bound.-Layer Meteor.) were investigated. Inspired by the rich observational datasets of MATERHORN, another study concerned ensemble sensitivity analysis (ESA) as an alternative to adjoint sensitivity, focusing on quiescent f low at DPG and over the Salt Lake Valley. It particularly dealt with model-based studies on sensor placement configu- rations to maximize forecast accuracy and to enable the capture of useful dynamical processes (Hacker and Lei 2015), the results of which could be applied to a future experiment that dealt with fog in complex terrain (MATERHORN-Fog). Methods for observ- ing network design are immature at fine scales (e.g., 1–4-km horizontal grid spacing), during weak f lows, and over complex terrain. ESA becomes inaccurate when the underlying assumptions of linear dynam- ics and Gaussian statistics are violated or when the sensitivity cannot be robustly sampled, and hence the limits of applicability of ESA were of interest. For submesoscales, the emphasis is on the develop- ment of the IBM nested in WRF (i.e., for large-eddy simulations), enabling simulations over very steep slopes at very high resolutions (~10 m) using realis- tic atmospheric forcing. The goal is to achieve fully coupled mesoscale to microscale simulations without the undesirable numerical effects of terrain-following coordinates (Lundquist et al. 2010, 2012). Selecting the optimal transition point between the coordinate systems arguably minimizes model errors. The IBM method involves the use of a ghost-cell IBM that employs a Cartesian grid, where the effect of solid boundaries is realized by adding body forces, allow- ing the treatment of topography without terrain- following coordinates. SOME PRELIMINARY FINDINGS . A few n o t e w o r t hy o u t c o m e s o f M AT E R HOR N a r e summarized below, and detailed results are expected to appear in special issues of AMS journals as well as Boundary-Layer Meteorology and Environmental Fluid Mechanics. Forecasting challenges. The daily MATERHOR N weather briefings often pointed to the difficulties of predicting mountain weather, especially in the DPG region where a rich variety of synoptic and mesoscale systems, fronts, and airmass boundaries inf luence the weather. Intermountain cyclones and cold fronts are most frequent and intense during the spring, and their evolution is strongly inf luenced by the upstream Sierra Nevada. Surface pressure troughs and associated low-level conf luence (i.e., the Great Basin conf luence zone; Steenburgh et al. 2009) that often extend northeastward from the Sierra Nevada to DPG can be accompanied by abrupt transitions in sensible weather and serve as a locus for cyclogenesis or frontogenesis (e.g., Jeglum et al. 2010; West and Steenburgh 2010, 2011). Interactions between synoptic and mesoscale weather systems and the DPG terrain led to hazardous weather at times, unforeseen owing to significant model forecast errors, posing major challenges for operations. For example, during the afternoon hours of spring IOP8, WRF called for a weak trough to move southward through GMAST with moderate (~5 m s−1) northerly to northwesterly surface f low in its wake at 2200 UTC. Instead, this boundary was delayed, developed into a strong cold front, and moved through the GMAST domain with winds of approximately 15 m s−1 (Fig. 5), requiring an early termination of the IOP. As a part of data-assimilation studies, a 1-month- long, 3-hourly continuous data assimilation and forecast cycle was conducted (Zhang and Pu 2014). The results illustrated that the quality of EnKF/ WRF analysis is generally reasonable, and the short- range (3 h) forecast errors are comparable to those of NCEP’s NAM forecasts for both 10-m wind speed and temperature. Since the latter sets the gold stan- dard for operational forecasts, having EnKF/WRF performance statistically on par with NAM implies that substantial progress has been made with respect to EnKF/WRF; further improvements are continuing. With the data assimilation, the model reproduced reasonable forecasts of various synoptic and local f lows, including mountain–valley circulations and frontal passages. The f low features over different land types were also distinguished. Diurnally varying model biases for temperature and wind velocity were evident, especially in near- surface atmospheric predictions under quiescent 1954 NOVEMBER 2015| cases, consistent with other published work, indicat- i ng model i nadequacies (Mass et al. 2002; Cheng and Steenburgh 2005; Hart et a l. 20 05; Zha ng et a l. 2013). Flow-dependent er- rors associated with f low transitions as well as strong s y n o p t i c f o r c i n g w e r e also evident. Evaluations against synoptic-network a nd M AT E R HOR N r a- winsonde and tethersonde l a u n c h e s , n o n e t h e l e s s , showed that WRF is gen- era lly sk illed in predict- ing conditions above the surface layer in complex ter r a i n. A lt houg h w i nd pr e d ic t i on s i n t h e SBL were accurate, tempera- ture predictions remained a challenge. Bias and RMSE during the night were ap- prox i mately 2 a nd 4 K , respectively (Pu et al. 2014). Ongoing modeling ac- tivities continue to high- light challenges faced by (Army) forecasters at DPG, whose tools i nclude t he G M A S T o b s e r v a t i o n a l net work a nd t he NCA R 4DWX. The latter employs data assimilation, cycling eight times a day at 1.1-km re s olut ion, a nd it c om- bi ne s t he W R F pre d ic- tive core with current atmospheric conditions to make detailed predictions for the next several days. Because 4DWX uses WRF as its predictive core, MATERHORN WRF modelers’ experiences were similar to DPG’s experiences with 4DWX, such as an underpredicted diurnal cycle, biases in the near-surface wind speed, and insufficiently strati- fied conditions in the shallow SBL. The 30-member multiphysics ensemble version of 4DWX running at DPG mitigates the forecast errors that are rooted in specific physical parameterizations or sources of forcing at the boundaries. As the model–data com- parison continues, our hypotheses for model short- comings continue to unravel, pointing to problems of structure, physics, and parameterizations of WRF while defining avenues for improvements. Scale symbiosis. The dense instrumentation permit- ted both individual- and multiple-scale processes studies. For example, Fig. 6 shows horizontal wind components taken by TODWL at two representa- tive levels, selected from a series of measurements at about 2-km intervals in the horizontal with a vertical resolution of 50 m from about 250 m AGL to 500 m below the aircraft altitude. Note the coexisting f lows at multiple scales, with upper-level synoptic f low (macro-β scale; Fig. 6a), near-surface northerly upval- ley and upslope f lows (meso-γ scale), f low channeling Table 1. Classification of IOPs, dates, and types. IOP classification Definition (based on 700-hPa wind speed) Quiescent <5 m s−1 Moderate 5–10 m s−1 Transitional Variable, >10 m s−1 possible with frontal passages Fall 2012 IOPs IOP Period Type 0 1400 MDT 25 Sep–1400 MDT 26 Sep Quiescent 1 1400 MDT 28 Sep–1400 MDT 29 Sep Quiescent 2 1400 MDT 1 Oct–1400 MDT 2 Oct Quiescent 3 0200 MDT 3 Oct–0200 MDT 4 Oct Transitional 4 1400 MDT 6 Oct–1400 MDT 7 Oct Moderate 5 1400 MDT 9 Oct–1400 MDT 10 Oct Transitional (quiescent–moderate) 6 0200 MDT 14 Oct–0200 MDT 15 Oct Quiescent 7 1200 MDT 17 Oct–2000 MDT 17 Oct Transitional (quiescent–moderate) 8 0500 MDT 18 Oct –1200 MDT 19 Oct Quiescent 9 1400 MDT 20 Oct –1400 MDT 21 Oct Moderate Spring 2013 IOPs IOP Period Type 1 1400 MDT 1 May–1400 MDT 2 May Transitional (moderate–quiescent) 2 1400 MDT 4 May–1400 MDT 5 May Moderate 3 0500–1700 MDT 7 May Moderate 4 1400 MDT 11 May–1400 MDT 12 May Quiescent 5 1200 MDT 13 May–1200 MDT 14 May Transitional (moderate–quiescent) 6 1200 MDT 16 May–1200 MDT 17 May Transitional (moderate–quiescent) 7 1715 MDT 20 May–1400 MDT 21 May Quiescent 8 1400 MDT 22 May–1400 MDT 23 May Moderate 9 1000 MDT 25 May–1000 MDT 26 May Moderate 10 1400 MDT 30 May–1000 MDT 31 May Moderate 1955NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | through the small gap (micro-α scale), and vortex structures (micro-β scale) formed in the mountain wake (Fig. 6b). Yet, f low patterns in the two basins maintained their own unique characteristics; for example, as evidenced later, they have different PBL heights and microcirculation features. WRF 4DWX could predict the overall f low patterns, including the f low distortion by GM, but as expected finer features such as vortex structures and in-canyon f lows could not be captured (Fig. 6c). Surface energy budget and soil property differences. Measurements of individual components of radiation, surface energy budget (SEB), and related variables at three representative locations (IOS-Sagebrush, IOS-Playa, and ES-5) revealed the role of soil ther- mal property (e.g., thermal conductivity) gradients, which dictate the ground heat f lux and hence the soil moisture content (Table ES1). Soil moisture content and its spatial variability were much higher at the IOS- Playa than at the other two sites, thus creating a larger energy sink during the day. This is due to the shallow water table at IOS-Playa (~80 cm from the surface) during the spring compared to the other two sites with much deeper water tables (deeper than 200 cm; Soil Survey Staff 2014). The heat stored in the Playa was released during the night, leading to higher surface temperatures and longwave radiation emissions. The importance of soil properties was also ac- centuated by MATERHORN-M (Massey et al. 2014). It is known that the near-surface (2 m) temperature forecasts of WRF over the western United States, as well as by other modeling systems applied to various regions of the world, frequently underpredict the diurnal cycle with a strong nocturnal warm bias (Mass et al. 2002; Hart et al. 2005; Kilpelainen et al. 2012; Ngan et al. 2013; Zhang et al. 2013). Existing hypotheses concerning these forecast errors range from inadequate horizontal or vertical resolution to the inaccurate initialization and parameterization of the boundary layer to the land surface characteristics and processes (e.g., Hanna and Yang 2001; Marshall et al. 2003; Cheng and Steenburgh 2005). Using sur- face observations, soil observations from the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Soil Climate Analysis Network (SCAN). and SEB collected during the fall campaign, a pronounced nocturnal warm bias was identified over areas with silt loam and sandy loam soils at DPG (Massey et al. 2014). This bias could be traced to errors in the initialization of soil moisture and parameterization of soil thermal conductivity. WRF forecasts of nocturnal surface temperature as well as the predicted ground heat f lux, soil thermal conductivity, and near-surface radiative f luxes could be improved by initializing with measured soil mois- ture and replacing the Johansen (1975) parameteriza- tion for soil thermal conductivity in the Noah land surface model with that proposed by McCumber and Pielke (1981) for silt loam and sandy loam soils. We anticipate similar improvements for other arid regions during periods of low soil moisture. Surface-layer similarity theory. The Monin–Obukhov similarit y t heor y (MOST) has been extensively discussed and eva luated (e.g., Foken 2006), but questions linger on its applicability to complex ter- rain and morning and/or evening transition periods, as bot h v iolate t he basic tenets of MOST—that is, stationarity and horizontal homogeneity of the f low. Yet, models cont i nue to use MOST in a local sense, conveniently overlooking it s l i m it at ion s . D u r i n g t h e BL L A S T c a mp a i g n in France, Blay-Carreras et al. (2014) observed near- su r face cou nterg rad ient behavior of sensible heat f lu x e s d u r i n g t h e e v e - ning transition, when the MOST stability functions also deviated greatly from (neutrally stable) idealized Fig. 5. (a) Analyzed and (b) 14-h WRF 4DWX forecast of 10-m wind speeds at DPG depicted using a color scale (shown below, m s−1) and wind barbs (full and half barb denote 5 and 2.5 m s−1, respectively) at 2200 UTC 22 May 2013, during IOP8. 1956 NOVEMBER 2015| profiles typically used in weather prediction models (Smedman et al. 2007). A similar behavior was also observed during MATERHORN-X at all of the f lux sites. An intriguing result, in addition, was the nature of transition over surfaces with very different thermal characteristics (Jensen et al. 2015, manuscript submit- ted to Bound.-Layer Meteor.). Below 5 m, at the veg- etated IOS-Sagebrush, the local temperature gradient changed sign after the f lux changed sign, while at the Playa site the gradient preceded the f lux reversal. At each of the sites, the f luxes at all heights in the lower 20 m appear to change the sign roughly at the same time. Both countergradient situations lead to similar deviations from MOST, but at different times owing to the large thermal storage of the Playa. The abrupt collapse of turbulence obser ved during evening transition points to the inapplicability of MOST for transition periods (even in a local sense), calling for further studies on the (evening) collapse of convec- tive turbulence under different land-use conditions. The dependence of turbulence collapse on overlying capping inversions (Caughey and Kaimal 1977) and surface characteristics (Cole and Fernando 1998) has been pointed out in previous work, and our database offers opportunities for delving into such intricacies. Evening transition. The evening transition is rich in interesting physics, depending on the slope, vigor of prior convection, land use, shading, and existing local f lows. At the outset, it was hypothesized that the temperature jump across a shadow front (leading edge of a moving shadow created by the obstruction of sunlight by topography), similar to that observed by Nadeau et al. (2013) in the Swiss Alps and Katurji et a l. (2013) in Antarctica, would dominate the transitional behavior. Such a behavior was indeed found during a quiescent IOP of the spring field campaign, where transition followed the shadow front down the slope (Lehner et al. 2015). For the fall campaign, however, the data indicated otherwise; that is, two f low transition types (front and cooling slab) discussed and illustrated recently by Fernando et al. (2013) were present at IOS-ES, uncorrelated with the passage of the shadow front. When pres- ent, the transition front originated upslope of the observation towers and moved downslope, sequen- tially switching the wind direction of towers and intensifying turbulence, and these observations have some consistency with the mechanism proposed by Hunt et al. (2003). The DTS measurements of near- surface temperature vividly confirmed the frontal propagation (Fig. 7), where the lower (0.5 m) air layer showed progressive cooling due to the front arrival in consonance with the f low-reversal data of tow- ers. The front had an inclined nose, as evident from the reversal times at different heights (not shown). During slab transitions, winds of all towers reversed simultaneously as if a slab of dense f luid slid down the slope. Both mechanisms were found to exist in approximately equal numbers during quiescent IOPs in the fall. The investigations of morning transition were focused on physical mechanisms and processes—for example, those proposed by Whiteman (1982) and Princevac and Fernando (2008). The former is based on the growth of CBL within the valley and simultane- ous generation of an upslope flow that causes the stable core aloft the CBL to descend; the collusion between the two promotes the breakup of nocturnal stratifica- tion. Princevac and Fernando (2008) proposed that intrusions shaving off the upslope f low (see Fig. 1) may entrain into the growing CBL, thus providing an Fig. 6. Example of TODWL data obtained, 9 Oct 2012, during IOP 5, in the afternoon at 3000 m MSL repre- senting (a) upper-level flow at 1750 m MSL, (b) near-surface flow, and (c) 300-m-resolution simulations of near- surface flow for the same time (1700 MDT) using WRF. The arrows indicate recurring surface flow patterns in the afternoon boundary layer around Granite Mountain. 1957NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | additional breakup mechanism. Figure 7 shows that the morning warming at the east slope site first occurs close to the foothills, impeding the flow draining from high to low slopes, and continues down the slope with time. Wind transitions in the presence of slope breaks and spatially inhomogeneous surface warming have not been investigated, and our data repository offers a range of kindred research opportunities. Flows in the basins. The basinwide stratification is de- pendent on the spatial distribution of SEB, basin mor- phology, and large-scale forcing. Tethered-balloon f lights in the east and west basins during quiescent IOPs demonstrated the differences of stratification and SBL height. Southeasterly f lows originating at the Dugway Valley and the slopes of the Simpson, Keg, and Thomas Mountains travel to the east of GM, while southerly f lows on the west of GM originate at the Fish Springs Flat and upstream Snake Valley. The two sides communicate through intermountain (big and small) gaps. Figure 8 shows the measured vertical structure of fully established nocturnal downvalley f low in the basins, where a low-level jet is evident. The IOS-Sagebrush exhibits much cooler surface temperatures and a strong low-level elevated capping inversion that prevents the surface jet from mixing vertically. The larger ground heat f lux at IOS-Playa leads to warmer nighttime surface temperatures than at Sagebrush, allowing the nocturnal jet to mix deeper aloft. The two sites were simulated using WRF, where the modified land surface model of Massey et al. (2014) described earlier was employed but with a different model initialization (GFS) and without soil moisture assimilation. Six default PBL schemes were used, and starkly different predictions were obtained. The predictions based on Yonsei University (YSU) and quasi-normal-scale elimination (QNSE) (default) schemes are shown in Fig. 8, selected considering their performance statistics at 10 m. QNSE was found to perform better for the near-surface temperature (at 2 m) compared to YSU that performed better for the wind speed (at 10 m). Overall, the relative perfor- mance of PBL schemes depended on the type of ob- servation and the height range used for statistics [see the caption and R. Dimitrova et al. (2015, manuscript Fig. 7. Near-surface (0.5 m AGL) temperature measurements by DTS installed on the east slope of Granite Mountain on 9 Oct 2012 (IOP 5). DTS spanned a 2-km transect between towers ES-2 and ES-5. The timeline starts at local sunrise, determined using radiation measurements at ES-5 (located about 2000 m on the ordi- nate in this plot). The wind direction and speed are shown to the right for ES-2–ES-5, and the change of wind direction roughly coincided with the drop of local temperature. There is a progression of temperature drops from ES-5 to ES-2. 1958 NOVEMBER 2015| submitted to Bound.-Layer Meteor.)]. In addition, the performance is expected to be sensitive to the basin configuration, since nuances of f low physics therein determine the efficacy of a particular PBL scheme. A warm bias appeared near the surface, although the predictions of wind speed and direction were sat- isfactory. The YSU scheme predicted the position but not the magnitude of the Sagebrush jet, while overall disparities for IOS-Playa jet were marked. The wind direction was reasonably well predicted by both schemes over the entire 500-m column measured by tethered balloons. FM-CW radar showed a develop- ing inversion above the approximately 500-m level, just above the ceiling of balloon f lights, but this fea- ture was not captured by WRF. Such disparities call for continued improvements of PBL schemes for SBL. On the other hand, the observed differences of key variables between the east and west basins were reduced during the convective period, facilitated by significant exchange of air between them (i.e., ex- change f lows) through the big and small gaps (Fig. 6). Nevertheless, some differences were still noticeable. Fig. 8. (bottom) Comparison of the wind and temperature structure of the nocturnal SBL at IOS-Playa and IOS- Sagebrush during IOP1 on 29 Sep 2012. The profiles are compared with WRF (500-m grid size) simulations with two PBL schemes: YSU and QNSE schemes. Tethered-balloon ascent time is 0907–0927 UTC (0307–0327 MDT). Model output is averaged over 0000–0920 UTC (0300–0320 MDT). Six default PBL schemes in WRF were at- tempted, and two were selected based on overall statistical performance using data at 10 m. For the example shown, YSU provides the best overall performance up to 200 m and QNSE performs better beyond 200 m. (top) Power backscatter signal from FM-CW radar indicates a developing inversion at approximately 500 m during the measurement period (arrows), which was not captured by the simulations. 1959NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | This is evident from Fig. 9, where concurrent CBL measurements using TODWL and Datahawk UAV are shown for morning f lights of fall IOP5, with terrain- following PBL heights derived from the aerosol back- scatter profiles. A consistent picture emerges with PBL heights 100–300 m AGL, indicating evolving convective boundary layer with appreciable differ- ences in CBL heights between the basins. Slope and valley flow interactions. Valley circulations that develop on either side of Granite Mountain during quiescent IOPs are likely to be modulated by differential thermal forcing, for example, owing to the land surface contrast between sparsely vegetated areas to the southeast and the playa to the northwest (Rife et al. 2002). Adding to the complexity is the vacil- lating interbasin air exchange through the small and big gaps; see Figs. 3 and ES1. Air exchange through the narrow gap increases turbulence and vertical mixing when the f low is fanning out from the gap and when horizontal shear layers develop within the gap periodically. An interesting valleywide f low interaction phe- nomenon was observed during quiescent IOPs, when a southeasterly downvalley f low in the Dugway basin merged with southwesterly f low through the big gap. The vorticity that develops during this conf luence acted to steer the colder air of the valley f low toward the (relatively warmer) katabatic f low on the eastern slope of GM, leading to collision of two counterf lows. A set of small-scale processes (turbulence, instabili- ties, and intrusions) emerged during collisions, en- hancing the local subgrid-scale heat and momentum transfer. The corresponding lidar scans and laser- illuminated smoke visualization along the ES tower line are shown in Figs. 10a,c. Figure ES2 presents a movie of smoke f low visualization. Figure 10b de- picts a controlled laboratory experiment designed to mimic the collisions and parameterize observed high turbulent intensities and f luxes (Fig. 10d). The impact of collisions leads to rapid hydraulic adjustment in the basin flow, prompting the flushing of the basin on the north side while generating basin-scale oscillations (seiching), as evinced by IR imaging. As the colder air that had been pushed up the slope recedes back out into the basin, it is met by a reestablishing val- ley flow after the collision. This collision cycle repeated numerous times during quiescent evenings (Fig. 10d). Fig. 9. (a) Box-and-whisker plot of CBL heights derived from aerosol backscatter profiles along the (b) north– south TODWL flight legs. The data were collected during a morning mission between 1012 and 1052 MDT 10 Oct 2012. The horizontal line in the box and the bottom and top lines of the box show the median of the data and the lower and upper quartiles (25% and 75%), respectively. The whiskers show the minimum and maxi- mum values while * is the mean value. Potential temperature profiles from the radiosondes at the Playa (+) and Sagebrush (×) sites, a DATAHAWK UAV (O) profile near the ES-2 tower, and the CBL height based on FM-CW radar (♦) are shown in (a). 1960 NOVEMBER 2015| Similar flow collisions appeared in other locations that are conducive for opposing flows, as indicated by the decomposition of valley f low into topological struc- tures (Fig. 10e) using the proper orthogonal decompo- sition (POD) technique (Adrian et al. 2000). In general, collisions appear to be distributed over space and time within the SBL. WRF and other mesoscale models do not account for such spasmodic subgrid heat and/or momentum f lux–generating processes, and their in- corporation through conditional parameterizations is Fig. 10. A collision event during fall IOP2. (a) Lidar scans (located near ES-2) captured the collision between the downslope flow (red) and valley flow (blue), with the latter arriving almost normal to the slope because of its modification by the gap flow. Upon collision, the denser fluid undercuts the lighter fluid. (b) A laboratory experiment on collision of lighter (red) and denser (blue) fluids. Intense small-scale mixing is evident in (a) and (b). (c) A collision captured by smoke visualization on the slope (initially smoke travels to the right, downslope, and denser smoke-free flow undercuts it); the lower limit of beam does not coincide with the ground (see movie in Fig. ES2). (d) Collisions are temporally intermittent and associated with a rapid rise of turbulent kinetic energy (TKE), as evidenced by ES-2 anemometers. Arrow corresponds to the event in (a). (e) Collision events educed using the POD technique. The measured vector field (black) by towers and PWIDS is decomposed to small- and large-scale fields using POD, and the interpolated small-scale field is shown (white). The red arrow shows the collision area in (a), which is rich in smaller scales. Collisions were spatially distributed over the Dugway Valley, as evident from flow convergence and/or stagnation areas. 1961NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | crucial for modeling of mountain terrain winds. To this end, a comprehensive laboratory experiment is being conducted to develop parameterizations for fluxes as- sociated with the collisions as a function of governing dimensionless variables and delineate conditions for productive (high flux) collisions. Instrumentation siting for forecast accuracy. The ESA performed to guide the MATERHORN-Fog campaign (successfully conducted in January 2015) provides an example of ESA’s utility. It concerned a fog event over the Salt Lake City airport (SLC), an area with frequent wintertime fog affected by complex terrain and the site for MATERHORN-Fog. Perfect-model ensemble data- assimilation experiments using DART and realistic upper-air observing network provided the statistics for ESA. Results showed that water vapor mixing ratios over SLC are sensitive to temperature on the first model layer tens of kilometers away, 6 h prior to verification, and before the onset of fog (Wile et al. 2015). Sensitivity 12 h prior was weaker but led to qualitatively similar results. Temperatures were a predictor of inversion strength in the Salt Lake basin; the ESA linked fog to southerly flow that strengthened inversions. In linearity tests, small perturbations did not lead to the expected forecast change, but larger perturbations did, suggest- ing that noise can dominate a small perturbation in weak flow conditions. Variations in the ESA as a func- tion of ensemble size confirmed that the sensitivities are more difficult with smaller ensembles when flows are weak (Fig. 11). All of the linear ESA estimates sys- tematically overpredicted the actual response to a per- turbation, consistent with sampling error in estimates derived from a finite ensemble. Results from the ESA for fog over SLC motivated theoretical work as well as experiments with a simple model to elucidate the role of both sampling error and a commonly used approxi- mation in ESA (Hacker and Lei 2015). Ensuing results showed that sampling error can be mitigated by reduc- ing regression coefficients according to the expected error in the sensitivities and that the approximation can be easily avoided through a minimum-norm regression. Including full spatial analysis covariance information, and accounting for sampling error, improved the ESA predictions for where observations are most likely to reduce forecast uncertainty. SUMMARY. MATERHORN is truly a multidisci- plinary effort, where a group of physical scientists and engineers collaborate across disciplines to cre- ate knowledge and develop tools to help improve weather prediction in mountain terrain (see www .nd.edu/~dynamics/materhorn). It has four compo- nents: modeling (M), experimental (X), technology (T), and parameterization (P). From the inception, MATER HOR N-M was active, collaborated with stakeholders, and provided useful insights for ex- perimental planning and development of hypotheses. Noticeable forecast improvements for WRF were realized using new land surface parameterizations with improved soil moisture and thermodynamic representations. Ensemble sensitivity runs were conducted and a localization theory was derived. The degree of usefulness of data assimilation was evaluated, and new assimilation techniques are being attempted. The modeling realm is being extended to ultra-high-resolution simulations via immersed boundary methods implemented in WRF. MATER HOR N-X delved into eight orders of spatial scales (10−3–105 m, from Kolmogorov to me- soscales) and five or- ders of temporal scales (1–10 5 s). T he most extensive are the first t wo f ield campaigns conducted in a secure, r i c h l y i n s t r u m e nt- ed , complex-ter ra i n t e s t b e d (Fe r n a nd o a nd Pa rdy ja k 2013), n o v e l r e s u l t s o f wh ich were empha- sized in t his repor t. MATERHORN-T de- veloped new s ens or systems for moisture, fog, and turbulence as well as novel retrieval Fig. 11. The 6-h correlation (red) and ensemble sensitivity (blue) vs the num- ber of ensemble members for a single point of positive sensitivities at 39.5°N, 112.9°W. Green bars indicate the 95% confidence interval. Correlations and covariances, underpinning the ensemble sensitivities, are more difficult to detect with smaller ensembles. 1962 NOVEMBER 2015| http://www.nd.edu/~dynamics/materhorn http://www.nd.edu/~dynamics/materhorn algorithms. The data are being extensively used for gaining physical insights, process studies, and model improvements. MATERHORN-P continues to verify existing parameterizations and develop new ones that are being implemented in WRF. The project has entered its data processing and intensive modeling phases at full steam. The overall theoretical, numeri- cal, and technological development efforts as well as the massive dataset collected are expected to help future research in mountain meteorology immensely. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. The MATERHORN Pro- gram was funded by the Office of Naval Research (MURI) Award N00014-11-1-0709 (Program Officers: Drs. Ronald Ferek and Daniel Eleuterio), with additional funding from the Army Research Office (Program Officers: Gordon Videen and Walter Bach), Air Force Weather Agency, Re- search Offices of University of Notre Dame and University of Utah, and Wayne and Diana Murdy Family Endowment at Notre Dame. MATERHORN-M gratefully acknowledges the DART team at NCAR, the U.S. Army Test and Evalu- ation Command, DoD High-Performance Computing Modernization Program (HPCMP), High Performance Computing at UU, Center for Research Computing (CRC), and Engineering and Science Computing (ESC) at UND. The GIS rendition of Fig. 4 was skillfully prepared by Dott. Ing. Roberto Perrone, Territorial Planning Department of Province of Lecce, Italy. 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Meteor., 21, 270 –289, doi:10.1175/1520 - 0450(1982)021<0270:BOTIID >2.0.CO;2. 1966 NOVEMBER 2015| http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/JAMC-D-13-060.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1127/0941-2948/2009/362 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/2010BAMS3024.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/1520-0469(2000)057%3C1919%3ATIOKFA%3E2.0.CO%3B2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/1520-0469(2000)057%3C1919%3ATIOKFA%3E2.0.CO%3B2 https://ams.confex.com/ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper235742.html https://ams.confex.com/ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper235742.html http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/2011BAMS3032.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/S0022112008004199 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/2007JAS2110.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.3402/tellusa.v65i0.19620 https://ams.confex.com/ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper240171.html https://ams.confex.com/ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper240171.html http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/1520-0493(2002)130%3C0921%3AMFDBLC%3E2.0.CO%3B2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/1520-0493(2002)130%3C0921%3AMFDBLC%3E2.0.CO%3B2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1002/qj.71 http://dx.doi.org/10.1002/qj.7 http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/S0022112085000684 http://websoilsurvey.nrcs.usda.gov/ http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/2008MWR2811.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/BF00121870 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s10546-011-9672-7 http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s10546-011-9672-7 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/2010MWR3274.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/MWR-D-10-05076.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/1520-0450(1982)021%3C0270%3ABOTIID%3E2.0.CO%3B2 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/1520-0450(1982)021%3C0270%3ABOTIID%3E2.0.CO%3B2 —, 2000: Mountain Meteorology: Fundamentals and Applications. Oxford University Press, 355 pp. — , a n d C o a u t h o r s , 2 0 0 8 : M E T C R A X 2 0 0 6 : Meteorological experiment in Arizona’s Meteor Crater. Bull. Amer. Meteor. Soc., 89, 1665–1680, doi:10.1175/2008BAMS2574.1. Wile, S. M., J. P. Hacker, and K. H. Chilcoat, 2015: The potential utility of high-resolution ensemble sensi- tivities during weak f low in complex terrain. Wea. Forecasting, in press. Winters, H. A., G. A. Galloway Jr., W. J. Reynolds, and D. W. Rhyne, 2001: Battling the Elements: Weather and Ter rain in the Conduct of War. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 226 pp. Wood, N., 2000: Wind f low over complex terrain: A historical perspective and prospect for large- eddy modeling. Bound.-Layer Meteor., 96, 11–32, doi:10.1023/A:1002017732694. WRCC, 2014: Western historical climate summaries. Western Regiona l Climate Center, accessed 15 Sep 2015. [Available online at www.wrcc.dri.edu/ Climsum.html.] Zardi, D., and C. D. Whiteman, 2013: Diurnal moun- tain wind systems. Mountain Weather Research and Forecasting, F. K. Chow, S. F. J. De Wekker, and B. Snyder, Eds., Springer, 35–119. Z h a n g , H . , a n d Z . P u , 2 0 14 : P r e d i c t a b i l i t y of at mospher ic c ond it ion s over c omple x ter- r a i n w i t h e n s e m b l e K a l m a n f i l t e r d a t a a s - simi lat ion: Eva luat ion w it h obser vat ions f rom MATERHORN field program. 18th Joint Conf. on the Applications of Air Pollution Meteorology with the A&WMA, Atlanta, GA, Amer. Meteor. Soc., 16.5. [Available online at https://ams.confex.com /ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper240176.html.] —, Z. Pu, and X. Zhang, 2013: Examination of er- rors in near-surface temperature and wind from WRF numerical simulations in regions of complex terrain. Wea. Forecasting, 28, 893–914, doi:10.1175 /WAF-D-12-00109.1. half-page horizontal -- 6.5” x 4.5625” N e w f r o m A m S B o o k S ! Taken by Storm, 1938: A Social and Meteorological History of the Great New England Hurricane LourdeS B. 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This compelling history successfully weaves science, historical accounts, and social analyses to create a comprehensive picture of the most powerful and devastating hurricane to hit New England to date. www.ametsoc.org/amsbookstore “An engrossing account of New England’s worst natural catastrophe.” — K e r r y e m A n u e L , Professor of Atmospheric Science, MIT © 2013, hArdcover iSBn: 978-1-878220-37-0 LiST $40 memBer $30 1967NOVEMBER 2015AMERICAN METEOROLOGICAL SOCIETY | http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/2008BAMS2574.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1023/A%3A1002017732694 http://www.wrcc.dri.edu/Climsum.html http://www.wrcc.dri.edu/Climsum.html https://ams.confex.com/ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper240176.html https://ams.confex.com/ams/94Annual/webprogram/Paper240176.html http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/WAF-D-12-00109.1 http://dx.doi.org/10.1175/WAF-D-12-00109.1 http://bookstore.ametsoc.org/catalog/book/taken-storm-1938 
work_ssbozzgrongmvarhhb4z4xchdy	----	Microsoft Word - Layout-articles-20190515 Asian Social Science; Vol. 15, No. 7; 2019 ISSN 1911-2017 E-ISSN 1911-2025 Published by Canadian Center of Science and Education 169 On the Eternity of Beauty Again-Reading John Keats’s “ode on a Grecian Urn” Dongmei Song1 1School of Foreign Languages, Xinyang Normal University, Xinyang, China Correspondence: Dongmei Song. E-mail:songdongmei07@126.com Received: May 15, 2019 Accepted: June 17, 2019 Online Published: June 30, 2019 doi:10.5539/ass.v15n7p169 URL: https://doi.org/10.5539/ass.v15n7p169 Abstract John Keats was one of the most important figures of the early nineteenth-century Romanticism. He pursed all his life the eternal beauty and truth and showed a certain indulgence in the appreciation of beauty. This essay analyses why Keats never belongs to the school of Aestheticism, interprets the use of the images in John Keats’s “ode on a Grecian Urn” to demonstrate that the beauty in this poem is natural not philosophic. Keywords: Keats and romanticism, Aestheticism, Ode, symbol, eternity of beauty 1. Introduction: Keats and romanticism Romanticism, which Victor Hugo calls “Liberalism in Literature”, is “a movement that espoused the sanctity of emotion and imagination, and privileged the beauty of the natural world” (Zhang, 2006). The most important quality of this new movement is to give honor and glory to instinct and emotion, to venerate nature, and to become enthusiastic over remaking the world. Scholar David Wright once said in his English Romantic Verse “There was in fact no such thing as a Romantic Revival. It was rather a birth of a new kind of sensibility which had to do the new kinds of environment that man was in the process of creating for himself” (David, 1986). Romanticism is associated with vitality, powerful emotion, and dreamlike ideas. Many of the ideas and themes in Keats’s poetry are quintessentially Romantic concerns: the beauty of nature, the relation between imagination and creativity, the response of the passion to beauty and suffering, and the transience of human life in time. He has the power of entering the feelings of others—human, animal, even static things e.g. a Grecian urn which will be analyzed as a symbol of eternal beauty later in this essay. He declared that when he saw a bird on the lawn, he entered imaginatively into the life of the bird. Keats’s poetry is always sensuous, colorful and rich in images, which expresses the acuteness of his sense. Sight, sound, scent, taste, and feeling are all taken in to give an entire understanding of an experience. He takes delight in dwelling on beautiful words and phrases, which sound musical. Keats stressed the sense of beauty and imagination. In one of his letters, he said to a publisher “…that with a great poet the sense of beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration…” Keats emphasized beauty, because to him, as shown by his Ode on a Grecian Urn, beauty and truth were integrated and should not be separated. In his opinion, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Keats thought that imagination is the driving force of knowing and achieving beauty. So he used many images in his odes to symbolize and express eternal beauty. We must rely on the power of imagination to gain beauty sense from the inside of the heart. In the same letter mentioned above, he wrote “…imagination is true, beauty through imagination is also true because all our passion, just like the passion of love, in their lofty state can create beauty in essence…” Keats also pointed out that during the aesthetic process, the poet should be satisfied not only with his own passion but with the others passion to achieve rich and delightful imagination and to find vivid language to show his beauty more completely. 2. Why Keats Never Belongs to the School of Aestheticism Aestheticism which in a sense is called “art for art’s sake” puts art in the first place and above life. Aesthetes hold that life should imitate art, not art imitating life. According to them, all artistic works are absolutely subjective not objective. They believe that art should not be concerned with controversial issues, such as politics and morality and should only promote beauty in a fine style. Why do they aim at this? Just as Ralph Fox said: “‘art for art’s sake’ is the hopeless answer of the artist to ‘art for money’s sake’, hopeless because ivory never ass.ccsenet.org Asian Social Science Vol. 15, No. 7 2019 170 was a good material for fortification.” However, “Like love, poetry contains the possibility for evil as well as for good; what readers glean depends upon their faculties of judgment and perception rather than on the work itself” (Dai, 2003). Because Keats showed a certain indulgence in the appreciation of beauty, some people held the view that he had the inclination for “art for art’s sake” and blamed him as an escapist. Some critics even viewed him as the forerunner of the so called aestheticism, which represented by the English writer Oscar Wilde in the final decade of the 19th century. John Keats never belonged to the school of “art for art’s sake”. Actually, Keats’s pursuit of immortal beauty is not like water without a source, a tree without roots, subjective and unreliable. Once he said: “…if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all…” Keats suffered from very severe illness and was also harshly attacked by his rivals. He resented the bourgeois-aristocratic society. Just as he wrote in the following poem: “…With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt. Enriched from ancestral merchandize And for them many a weary hand did swelt In torched mines and noisy factories. And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt In blood from stinging whip:----with hollow eyes Many all day in dazzing river stood To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. Why were they proud? Because their marble founts Cush’d with more pride than do a wreth’s tears? Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs? Why were they proud? Because red-lined accounts? Were richer than the Songs of Grecian years? Why were they proud? Again we ask aloud Why in the name of Glory were they proud?...” Keats described the sufferings of the miners and workers and told people that the pride of bourgeoisie was built upon the blood and sweat of the common people. He was truly concerned with the interest of the mass. Based on this, don’t you think he will sing the praises of real and eternal beauty and truth? He, full of love and ambition, did make great efforts to perfect his writing skills, to pursue the real, eternal truth and beauty, rather than the abstract, meaningless ones especially by writing the Ode on a Grecian Urn. 3. Interpretation of the USE of the IMAGES in John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” Keats always blends human feelings with nature perfectly in his poems and makes people feel as if they were right on the scene (Li, 2017). “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is no exception. Dexu Zhang, after analyzing the recurring images of life and death in Keats’ poems, comments that the images in the poems in fact originate from the primitive memory of beauty and truth (Zhang, 2015). Zhang insists that Keats intuitively captures the dynamic relations between life and death, truth and beauty with his unique sensitivity and imagination (Zhang, 2015). There are five stanzas all together in John Keats’s “ode on a Grecian Urn”. In the first stanza, the speaker stands before the Grecian urn and as if speaking to it. He compares the urn to “still unravished bride of quietness”, “foster-child of silence and slow”, and a “Sylvan historian”. He also describes the exciting “mad pursuit” scene to readers and wonders about the figures on the side of the urn: who they are, what legend they depict, and from where they come. In the second stanza, the speaker looks at another picture on it: a young man playing a pipe, lying with his lover beneath an open area of trees. The speaker says that the piper’s “unheard” melodies are sweeter than mortal ass.ccsenet.org Asian Social Science Vol. 15, No. 7 2019 171 melodies because they are unaffected by time. He tells the youth that, though he can never kiss his lover because he is frozen in time, he should not grieve, for her beauty will never fade. In the next stanza, he looks at the trees surrounding the lovers and feels happy that they will never shed their leaves. He is happy for the piper because his song will be “for ever new”, and happy that the love between the lovers will last forever, unlike the mortal love which lapses into “breathing human passion” and eventually vanishes, leaving behind only a “burning forehead, and a parching tongue.” In the fourth stanza, there is another picture facing the speaker: A group of villagers lead a heifer to be sacrificed. He wonders where they are going and from where they have come. He imagines their little town, empty of all its citizens, tells to the urn that its streets will “for evermore” be silent, for those who have left it, frozen on the urn, and will never return. In the final stanza, the speaker again talks to the urn that it, like Eternity, “doth tease us out of thought.” He thinks that when one generation is dead, the urn will remain, telling the future generation its enigmatic lesson: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” Here Keats doesn’t force people to appreciate beauty but to lead readers to sense, to indulge in the content beauty. He insisted that poetry should be great and unobtrusive, “a thing which enters into one’s soul, and dose not startle it or amaze it with itself but with subject. –How beautiful are the retired flowers! How would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway crying out, ‘admire me I am a violet! Dote upon me I am a primrose!’” (Abrams, 1986). Keats, in this ode, using the Grecian urn as the carrier and woven by the beautiful, musical words and phrases, especially the magic symbols to arouse readers’ imagination in each stanza, depicts an eternal and immortal attractive panorama. Some people say the first symbol should be the urn itself. They have their reasons to say so, but the following given here emphasizes the understanding of the symbol. The urn, as the carrier of beauty, according to the dictionary, is “a vessel or vase with foot and usually with rounded body, which is especially used for storing ashes of the dead” (The new Oxford Illustrated Dictionary). Thus, the urn must be connected with death. As for death, Keats even longs for being dead in his another ode: Ode to a Nightingale Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! … Keats believes that to die is to be close to the eternity of beauty, because death is the end of everything, and it surpasses the limit of time and space. Having finished singing the praise of the immortal but free- flying nightingale, he, of course, pursued the perfect, immortal beauty, carried by the urn. Then from the first stanza, two symbols are found out: the still unravished bride of quietness, sylvan historian. Bride, a newly-married lady, is the most beautiful one on her day. She wears the exaggerated but classical, pleasant-looking white dress. She is sweet and charming with the especially well-decorated haircut. What’s more, she is “unravished”, perfect and pure. As the “foster-child of silence and slow time”, she is to be married to the quietness, who is calm, unchangeable, of course eternal at last. She inherits calmness and eternity and will pass on them to the next generation. Actually she melts the beauty into the immortality. As regards the Sylvan historian, sylvan means rustic and pastoral, representing a woodland scene. It is natural, harmonious beauty. Historian can tell us stories of history, which symbolizes age-old and eternal. This sylvan historian “canst thus express A flowery tale” and “leaf-fringed legend”. Don’t you think this is the eternity of beauty? In the second and third stanzas, Keats described a “fair youth” piping and chasing his “fair” lover beneath the trees without shedding leaves. Their “happy love” is the very symbol of the immorality of beauty. Firstly, they are pretty and happy: Keats used the word “fair” to characterize the two youths. It is fair (just), for being fair is being pretty. To be young is to be attractive. Then what are they doing? They are piping sweet melodies, “unheard” but “sweeter”. They are dating with each other. Though the “fair youth” can’t kiss the girl for being fixed on the urn, he should not be grieve, for she will be fair forever. The piping and the dating make them happy. ass.ccsenet.org Asian Social Science Vol. 15, No. 7 2019 172 Their happiness makes them more beautiful. Happiness is the forever thing people pursue, just like being depicted in the poem: O happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die. (Alexander Pope, 1688-1744) Beauty, caused by happiness here, will company the happiness into their enduring love. Secondly, their “happy love” will be “for ever warm and still to be enjoyed, for ever panting, and for ever young”. In the two stanzas, in order to stress their undying love, Keats used “for ever” and “happy”, both for six times. It is very obvious for us to understand love to be the symbol of immortal beauty in human’s life. Nobody says that he doesn’t know the monumental love between Romeo and Juliet. Everybody will remember the sorrowful but with the romantic ending love between Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai in China. Love, like forever green trees and forever happy melodist, is the very evidence of the eternity of beauty. In the last two stanzas, the scene for “the sacrifice”, the “green alter”, even the “Cold Pastoral” are all the symbols of immortal beauty. Sacrifice has long history with its divine ceremony. It’s said that all people in the holy celebration must be clean and tidy. They should wear colorful dress and show their beauty to God. Sometimes beautiful ladies even are cruelly offered as sacrifices to him. People believe in God just because they can be safe and happy under the aegis of him. They can survive generation after generation, becoming the immortal master of the universe. In the ode it is the heifer, “all her silken flanks with garlands drest”, that will be sacrificed to achieve the same goal: to be eternal! As to “green alter”, alter, the place where people put their sacrifices on, is in the relationship with holy eternity. To be green, on one side, is to be pretty and young; on the other side, is to be long and forever. Cold pastoral, as the symbol of eternity of beauty, is easy to be understood. Coldness is the state of being frozen. Pastoral, just as having been talked on the above, symbolizes beauty. Cold pastoral, being frozen beauty, expresses the exact meaning of eternal beauty. In fact, Keats employed very exquisite and musical wordings to pay a tributes to the immortal nature. He is not abstract aesthete. When he described the “season of mists and mellow fruitness” in his to autumn, he used concrete words and symbols that readers can see and touch, so that people can sense the happiness and satisfaction from their harvest. In this ode, trees, leaves, boughs, river, sea shore, mountain, forest, grass, even the peaceful citadel (these symbols, as parts of nature) leave readers deep impressions on the eternity of beauty. Greece, the ancient nation and still civilized one, permanently stands for beauty and long-history in the hearts of artists and readers. Keats employed very exquisite and musical wordings to describe the silent but permanent beauty. This kind of beauty is dynamic and vibrant, full of lives in it. The heroes and heroines played the pipe, chased the lover, dated with each other, and sacrificed etc, as if they are living in our lives, romantic and happy. This kind of beauty is also static and eternal. Although the young wanted to kiss his lover, he can’t in fact. He was frozen in time on the urn. Although the group of villagers leading a heifer to be sacrificed walked along the street noisily, they can’t go to the destination. They left but were frozen in time on the urn. The beauty Keats depicting the ancient urn associates readers with Laozi's silent aesthetics. Laozi, the ancient Chinese philosopher, proposed this kind of beauty: seeing the substantial through the abstract; seeing the being through the not being; seeing the dynamic through the static; and also seeing the truth through the facts. Laozi's silent aesthetics suggesting readers saying less(or not saying at all)but watching and imagining, expresses a kind of magnificent beauty, being active and energetic and also being silent and eternal. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said: “Nature is a revelation of God Art a revelation of man.” Keats, the poet and artist , using his perfect writing skills, sings high praise of the Grecian urn, which becomes eternity itself and leads readers to the deep thought he is conveying: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”, that is what people know and should know in the world. Acknowledgments This study is sponsored by 2016 Annual Planning Project of Philosophy and Social Sciences in Henan (2016BYY012) and the Planning Project of The 13th Five-Year Plan of National Educational Science (FEB160484) . References Abrams, M. H. (Ed.). (1986). The Norton Anthology of English Literature (5th ed., Vol. 2.). W. W. Norton & ass.ccsenet.org Asian Social Science Vol. 15, No. 7 2019 173 Company New York. Dai, N. Q. (2003). Western Classics in Literary Criticism (From Plato to Henry James) (1st ed.) Shanghai: Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press. David, W. (1986). English Romantic Verse. Penguin Group: England Viking Penguin Inc. Li, L. (2017). A probe into the sensory images of Keats' ode. Literary Education, (6), 18-19. https://doi.org/10.16692/j.cnki.wxjyx.2017.06.003 Zhang, B. X. (2006). A Companion to a Course of English Literature. Wuhan: Wuhan University Press. Zhang, D. X. (2015). Truth and beauty in human being’s diachronic life process. Foreign Language Education & Research, (10), 50-53. https://doi.org/10.16739/j.cnki.cn21-9203/g4.2015.04.010 Copyrights Copyright for this article is retained by the author(s), with first publication rights granted to the journal. This is an open-access article distributed under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). 
work_tfy2x5koljclpd3k2p56g7vdv4	----	INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI Journal of Lighting Engineering Volume 16, Number 1, June 2014 5 Last Issue of INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Lighting Engineering Journal, A Fresh Start for The International Sustainable Lighting Journal Dorin BEU, Florin POP Papers 7 Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions: an evaluation study of daylight design of operating theatres of Sungai Buloh Hospital, Selangor, Malaysia Choong-Yew CHANG, Michael PHIRI, Steve FOTIOS 21 From marvel to pollution. Excesses of outdoor artificial light through the ages Laurent CHRZANOVSKI 31 Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Cosmin ȚICLEANU Conferences and symposiums 45 SLLP 2014 International Conference on Sustainable Lighting and Light Pollution - 5-7 November 2014, Riviera Hotel, Seoul, Korea Theses and Dissertations 47 High-Performance Ray Tracing on Modern Parallel Processors Attila T. ÁFRA Information 51 LIGHTING IN THE NEW WORLD. Adapting Streetlights Procurement to the LED World Cristian ŞUVĂGĂU Anniversary 55 Honorary Professor Axel STOCKMAR - the time of anniversary Florin POP This issue is sponsored by The Lighting Engineering Laboratory UTC-N Universitatea Tehnică din Cluj-Napoca Lighting Engineering Laboratory INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering ISSN 1454-5837 print; ISSN 2968-9853 online Editorial board Editor-in-chief Dorin BEU, Reader, Technical University of Cluj-Napoca, Romania Executive editor Cătălin-Daniel GĂLĂŢANU, Professor, Technical University “Gh. Asachi” of Iasi, Romania Honorary founding editor Florin POP, Professor, Technical University of Cluj-Napoca, Romania Grega BIZJAK, Professor, University of Ljubliana, Slovenia Wout van BOMMEL, Consultant Professor, Fudan University, Shanghai, The Netherlands Jean Luc CAPRON, Ass. Professor, Institut Supérieur d'Architecture Saint-Luc, Bruxelles, Belgium David CARTER, Reader, University of Liverpool, UK Liisa HALONEN, Professor, Aalto University, Finland Jeong Tai KIM, Professor, Kyung Hee University, Yongin, Korea Marc FONTOYNONT, Professor, ENTPE Vaulx-en-Velin, Lyon, France Steve FOTIOS, Professor, University of Sheffield, UK Sermin ONAYGIL, Professor, Istanbul Technical University, Turkey Sorin PAVEL, Professor, Technical University of Cluj-Napoca, Romania János SCHANDA, Professor, University of Veszprém, Hungary Axel STOCKMAR, Professor, Technische Fachhochschule Hanover, Germany Frangiskos V. TOPALIS, Professor, National Technical University of Athens, Greece Georges ZISSIS, Professor, Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse, France Advisory board Cornel BIANCHI, Professor, CNRI – Romanian National Committee on Illumination Mircea CHINDRIŞ, Professor, Technical University of Cluj-Napoca, Romania Arturo COVITTI, Professor, Polytechnic of Bari, Italy Jan EJHED, Professor, Lighting Laboratory, KTH Technology and Health, Sweden Mihai HUSCH, Dr., CNRI – Romanian National Committee on Illumination Koichi IKEDA, Councillor Dr., Illuminating Engineering Institute of Japan, Japan Miomir KOSTIC, Professor, University of Belgrade, Serbia Marilena MĂIEREAN, Manager, Energobit Schréder Lighting, Cluj-Napoca, Romania Con OP DEN KAMP, Dr., Nederlandse Stichting voor Verlichtingskunde, The Netherlands Horia F. POP, Professor, Babeş-Bolyai University Cluj-Napoca, Romania Péter SCHWARCZ, Dr., Scientific Director, Tungsram Schréder, Hungary Cristian ŞUVAGĂU, Dr., BC Hydro, Canada Şerban ŢIGĂNAŞ, President Architect’s Order, Romania Editorial office UTC-N – Universitatea Tehnica 28, Memorandumului Str., RO-400114 - Cluj-Napoca, Romania Phone: +40 264 597254 • Fax: +40 264 592055 • e-mail: lec@mail.utcluj.ro http://users.utcluj.ro/~lec/journal Contact person: Dr. Dorin BEU INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI – Journal of Lighting Engineering - is a publishing media for valuable original scientific papers in the field of lighting engineering. The papers proposed for publication are considered based on their originality, meaningfulness and area of interest. In order to be accepted, the papers have to be remarkable in their field. The papers are evaluated by two independent reviewers. The contributions have to conform to the generally accepted practices for writing scientific papers, with respect to paper organization and style of writing. The journal is published every six month, in June and December. Two issues form a volume. It has its own web page, covering the editorial policy, publishing criteria, information for authors, as well as all papers, available in PDF format, with open access. The journal is classified by CNCSIS, code 244. The journal is indexed by Index Copernicus Journal Master List (ID 5747) and DOAJ - Directory of Open Access Journals (index no. 14545837). The journal was created following the EU program: "Lighting Engineering Centre - LEC - consulting and continuous formation, 1998/99 Tempus-Phare CMS - Compact Measures Project - CME-03551-97", presented on the web site http://users.utcluj.ro/~lec INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI – Journal of Lighting Engineering - is affiliated to the CNRI – CIE Romanian National Committee on Illumination, member of the CIE – Commission Internationale de l’Eclairage. INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering - has a scientific presentation and content, targeted to the continuing education in the lighting field. The objectives of the journal consist of the presentation of results of lighting research activity, dissemination of lighting knowledge, and education of interested people working in public administration, constructions, designers, dealers, engineers, students and others. Its content is organised in six parts: Editorial, Papers, Theses and Dissertations, Conferences and Symposiums, Information, Anniversary. Subscription Information The 2014 subscription rate is €50, including mail taxes. Orders and payment should be made by Editorial office. Copyright©2011 Laboratorul de Ingineria Iluminatului UTC-N Editura U.T.PRESS All rights reserved. According with the legal norms, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the Editor. 5 Last Issue of INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering, A Fresh Start for The International Journal of Sustainable Lighting Dorin BEU, Florin POP In 1999 the INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI Journal was launched to create a review of Central and East European lighting research. After 2009 the journal was re-centred to Ph.D. students. Despite the Romanian name of the Journal, all the papers, except the first issues, were written in English, but still it was perceived as a regional journal. It was focussed on lighting engineering and so, some issues like circadian rhythm did not fit well on this framework. Based on the experience we had so far, we decided that now is the moment for a fresh start. We join forces with Professor Jeong Tai KIM, Kyung Hee University, Korea, following his proposal to launch a new project: The International Journal of Sustainable Lighting (IJSL), as the successor of the former INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering. This is the right moment for a new approach, in a moment when health related issues, lighting pollution, green certifications are becoming mainstream that is why we also consider there is a need for a journal opened to all this aspects. Lighting was always a topic hard to classify, definitely a trans- disciplinary one which need to be addressed. In the upcoming years we will index the journal in the relevant databases, including Thompson-Reuters. Twenty years ago it was unthinkable to have papers from environment specialists or medical doctors, but this days it is common and the new IJSL will serve this purpose. An important trigger was the participation in the EU Cost LoNNe – Loss of Night Network ES 1204 which made us realise this new change. More details will be presented in the first issue which will be edited in June 2015. We hope that this new vision will be endorsed by reality, and it is a sign of change among the Editorial Board. The speed of change in the lighting industry plus new discoveries in light related health issues will increase the importance of lighting. So, a new, more dynamic website is essential in our effort to have the research results published as soon as possible. 6 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 5-6 1999-2014 The INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering started in 1999 and has 33 issues. It was launched through a European Research Program by Professor Florin POP, from Technical University of Cluj-Napoca, with the cooperation of the Universities of Helsinki, Barcelona and Naples. ["Lighting Engineering Centre - LEC - an excellence center for consultancy and continuing education the lighting field in direct link with the needs of the labour market, 1998/99 Tempus-Phare CMS - Compact Measures Project - CME-03551-97" was dedicated to disseminate lighting knowledge and to promote direct contacts between our students and other interested people - local designers, dealers, engineers - and lighting community with high specialists from Romania and abroad. This project, developed between December 15, 1998 – March 14, 2000, concentrated the efforts of university professors from Cluj- Napoca, Barcelona, Helsinki and Naples.] The first four issues were sponsored by EU, the following ones by ELECTRICA Local distribution branch and, later, by sponsors and Lighting Engineering Center/Laboratory UTC-N. The journal started as the only Romanian lighting journal which brought together specialists in lighting community; the objectives of the review consisted of the presentation of the results of the lighting research activity, the dissemination of the lighting knowledge, the education of the interested people working in public administration, constructions, designers, dealers, engineers, students and others. Initially, it was printed mainly in English, translated to Romanian, and few articles in Romanian with a large English abstract of the papers, to penetrate the Romanian market and to be in the support of Romanian professionals. This policy started with its first issue until the issue no. 11 (Vol. 5, No. 1, June 2003). Afterwards, the published articles were only in English with a large translation to Romanian – issues no. 12-14 (Vol. 5, No. 2, 2003 - Vol. 6, No. 2, 2004). Starting with issue no. 15 (Vol. 7, No. 1, 2005), the journal was printed entirely in English, sometimes with short abstracts of articles in Romanian. The journal is also presented in a PDF format on the web site, with open access. Step by step, it was transformed in a European journal with accent on Early Stage Researchers – ESR. The latest lighting developments researches, state of the art designs, PhD thesis and also the past and future lighting events in Europe were all put together. During 15 years, its pages hosted 228 authors with their research papers, scientific or technical information and celebration of personalities. High lighting personalities joined the Editorial and Advisory Boards and/or contributed with scientific papers to develop a prestigious lighting journal. We would like to address our heartiest thanks to all the people involved in the INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering presence in the lighting word. Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 CHALLENGES OF PROVIDING DAYLIGHT IN OPERATING THEATRES LOCATED IN THE TROPICAL REGIONS: AN EVALUATION STUDY OF DAYLIGHT DESIGN OF OPERATING THEATRES OF SUNGAI BULOH HOSPITAL, SELANGOR, MALAYSIA Choong-Yew CHANG, Michael PHIRI, Steve FOTIOS University of Sheffield, UK Abstract: The convention of the planning of modern operating theatre (OT) complex worldwide has been based on a deep-plan concept. Majority of the modern OTs were designed in such that the environments resembled specialist equipment rooms, which were usually windowless and thus there was no access to daylight. In contrast to this convention, studies have shown that daylight assists humans in reducing stress and depression, and more daylight is linked to greater job satisfaction of hospital staff. Incorporating daylight in OT can potentially create positive impacts on surgeons since surgical operations require relatively long working hours and intense focus. Research has shown that there are strong associations between patients’ satisfaction and surgeons’ job satisfaction and working conditions. Therefore daylighting should be an essential consideration in the design of OTs in order to enhance productivity, health and well-being of surgeons and other OT staff. In this paper, we discuss the challenges in daylight design of future OTs in the tropical regions. The empirical study is based on a maternity OT in Sungai Buloh Hospital, Selangor, Malaysia. The aim of the study is to evaluate the potentials of eight different types of windows for the purpose of daylight optimisation in OT. Based on the mapping of OT activities and the two daylighting metrics in the SLL Lighting Guide 2 (Hospital and Health Care Buildings) 2008 – i.e. average daylight factor and uniformity of daylight illumination, it was found that rooflight and roof monitor have the highest daylight performance for OTs. Keywords: Window Design, Evidence-Based Design, Design Intervention, Surgeons’ Working Conditions 1. Introduction Operating theatre (OT) is the “operative” core unit of every surgical hospital and it is one of the most sensitive areas as herein invasive manipulation on the patient takes place (Koneczny, 2009). A large amount of research have been carried out on the visual requirements and artificial lighting of OTs (Hemphälä et al., 2009), but there was no in- C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 8 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 depth study on the potential of introducing daylight into OTs. Literature reviews show the positive impacts of daylight on humans, and how daylight affects a person’s well- being through the visual system (visual performance, spatial appearance, visual comfort), the non-visual ocular systems (circadian regulation; mood, alertness and cognition), and skin exposure (thermal sensation and ultra-violet radiation) (Ulrich 1984; Beauchemin & Hays 1998; Benedetti et al 2001; Walch et al 2005; Veitch et al.2012). While much has been revealed regarding the healing effect of daylighting on patients in hospital patient rooms (Joarder, 2012), globally there is still a lack of daylighting considerations in the design of healthcare environments, particularly spaces such as OTs, which have traditionally been perceived as specialist equipment rooms in the hospitals. There is currently no published design guide and regulation in terms of daylight for OTs. BREEAM Healthcare 2008 has no mention of daylight requirement for OTs. The normal practice of creating OTs with no access to daylight has not been challenged by healthcare facility planners, architects, engineers and stakeholders who have given in to demands to install more controllable and manageable artificial lighting. During a hospital inception and planning stages, architects and healthcare planners tend to position the OTs in the deep plan where the sterile corridors and work corridors are placed parallel to each other on both sides of a row of OTs to enhance the efficiency of space circulation and servicing. This planning strategy results in OTs all having internal walls and thus the OTs have no access to daylight, except ‘borrowed’ daylight through internal windows in some cases. Many studies of task lighting have evaluated office-related tasks (Veitch 2001). In this case, examination and operation lighting in medicine, surgery and dentistry emerge as special instances of task lighting. While acknowledging that access to natural lighting enhances psychological well-being, studies on task lighting have taken the view that natural light alone is not enough for most tasks because of the wide variation in light intensity that exists even in spaces that have plentiful natural light. The problem is seen not as determining the contribution natural light makes but as establishing the lamp characteristics and specifications (Fotios 2001). Efforts centred on providing the correct lamp for the task lighting has resulted in daylight design for the OT that focuses on and dominated by supply and installation of the lamp over the operating table. Although useful when considering daylight provision in OTs, studies on the effect of illumination levels on outcomes such as errors in the performance of surgical procedures (Moorthy et al., 2003, Pluyter et al., 2010), prescription‐ dispensing error rate (Buchanan et al., 1991), medication dispensing errors (Flynn et al., 2002) do not mention the contribution of daylight i.e. the daylight component. When considering the daylight provision in the OTs and evaluating the experience of surgeons, confounding variables are health, age and eyesight of the surgeons. When people do not have adequate light or the ‘right’ kind of light, they may experience eyestrain, headaches and make more mistakes. Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 9 An important consideration with regard to daylighting provision for OTs is to determine visual preferences for the surgeons and other staff most likely to benefit directly from the presence of natural light or to be affected by symptoms such as eyestrain as a result of depriving them of suitable lighting. Generally, it is widely accepted that people have a strong preference for natural light over artificial light in a room and constant exposure to artificial light is commonly mentioned by nurses as one of the draining aspects of their work. The current legislation in Malaysia on daylighting requirement is very minimal, governing only the minimum proportion of window. For instance, Section 39 of the Uniform Building By-Laws 1984 states that for hospital patient room, window area shall be at least 15% of the floor area of the room. Presently there are 141 government hospitals in Malaysia. Among the 14 government hospitals located in the Federal Territories of Kuala Lumpur and Putrajaya as well as the State of Selangor, only 4 hospitals have OTs with windows. The Health Facility Planning Division, Ministry of Health, Malaysia revealed the following: firstly, there is presently no existing guideline on daylight design of OTs in Malaysia. Secondly, daylight and window view benefit the surgeons by providing relaxation of their minds; and younger surgeons tend to prefer the presence of daylight window in OT. Thirdly, most of the local hospitals rejected the idea of providing daylight windows for OT because of three main reasons: problem of discomfort glare and excessive heat gain resulting from daylight penetration; problem of maintenance (because window sills and frames potentially increase dust retention which compromises the sterility in the OT environment); and problem of privacy faced by the patient (because the surgical procedures may be exposed to other parties that view from outside). The pertinent question now is what type of daylight window has the potential of optimising the daylighting performance of an OT in the tropical region, for the purpose of enhancing the OT staff’s productivity, health and well-being? 2. Methodology A multi-method approach was adopted in the study. Quantitative methods were used on numeric description of daylight data and other physical data of the OTs. Qualitative methods were used on validating the accuracy and reliability of findings. Overall the research methods were based on the actual daylight measurement in a case study OT as well as the mapping of parameters – i.e. daylight distribution, staff activities and staff movements in OT. Digital model of the case study OT was constructed to carry out daylight simulation and analysis The case study OT was one of the two maternity OTs in Sungai Buloh Hospital (SBH), a 620-bed public hospital located in the district of Sungai Buloh, Selangor, Malaysia. The global location of SBH was referred to latitude 3.2191° N and longitude 101.5833° E. The orientation of window in the OT was 203° CW. There were 22 OTs in SBH including 5 windowless OTs. The case study OT was the only OT with external window with an unobstructed view to green landscape. C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 10 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 Figure 2.1 The case study OT – the Maternity OT No. 1 at Level 2, SBH The daylighting performance evaluation in the study was based on the two daylighting metrics stated in the SLL Lighting Guide 2 (Hospitals and health care buildings) – i.e. average daylight factor (ADF) and uniformity of daylight illumination (d). The recommended ADF is between 2% and 5%; uniformity of daylight illumination is between 30% and 50%. However the guidelines are for hospital spaces in general and there is no specific mention of daylight requirements or considerations for OTs. Average daylight factor (ADF) is the average value of daylight factor, which is the ratio of work- plane illuminance at a given point to the outdoor illuminance on a horizontal plane under the condition of a standard overcast sky. Uniformity of daylight illumination (d) of a given plane is calculated as the quotient of the lowest value of illuminance of the plane (Emin) and the average illuminance of that plane (Eav). Therefore d=Emin/Eav. In the study, ADF, Emin and Eav were derived from VELUX Daylight Visualizer 2. Figure 2.2 Medical staff and their activities during a surgical procedure in the case study OT Daylight measurements were taken on a horizontal task plane at the height of 1000 mm in the case study OT using a TES digital illuminance meter (model TES-1330A). The height of task plane was an estimate based on the height of operating table. The OT was divided into a 5 by 5 grids, each measuring 1500 mm by 1500 mm. The grid system was Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 11 intended to establish three “ring zones” – i.e. the outer ring along the four walls, the intermediate ring, and the centre where the operating table was situated. Illuminance readings in unit lux were taken at the centre point of each grid and then recorded on the layout plan of the OT. The readings were taken in two situations – i.e. when all the lamps in the OT were switched on, and when all lamps were switched off (so that the OT was only lit by daylight entered through the window). Daylight distribution layout was superimposed with the OT staff’s activities and movement layout in order to establish a mapping between these parameters. The purpose was to align daylighting analysis with activities taken place in OTs – i.e. the types of work of each of the OT staff, which comprises surgeons, anaesthetist and nursing staff. 3. Results Daylight measurements at the case study OT revealed that light distribution across the room was relatively uniform when all the lamps were switched on. However, when all the lamps were switched off, it was observed that the distribution of daylight has low uniformity as shown in Figure 3.1 below. Figure 3.1 A significant difference in terms of uniformity of illuminance when all artificial lighting was switched on (left) compared to the situation in which the same OT was solely lit by natural lighting (right) C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 12 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 Figure 3.2 OT staff’s activities and movement layout did not match the daylight distribution pattern in the case study OT Figure 3.3 Daylight factor analysis of the case study OT Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 13 Based on the daylight analysis using VELUX Daylight Visualizer 2, it was found that at the centre of operating table, the daylight factor was less than 1.0%, which was below the minimum 2% recommended in the SLL Lighting Guide 2. It implied that the distribution of daylight illumination in the case study OT was not useful for any surgery-related task that could take place around the operating table. The “punched window” approach of daylighting in the case study OT provided a very low uniformity of daylight illumination of 13% with an average daylight factor of 0.8%. This was far below the uniformity of 30% - 50% and average daylight factor of 2% - 5% recommended in the SLL Lighting Guide 2. A three-dimensional digital model of the case study OT was constructed to explore the daylight distribution based on seven other types of windows – i.e. claustras, clerestory, external reflectors, light duct, light shelf, rooflight and roof monitor. VELUX Daylight Visualizer 2 was used to analyse the daylight performance based on average daylight factor and uniformity of daylight distribution. The results are summarised in Figure 3.4 (a) and (b) below. C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 14 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 Figure 3.4 (a) Daylighting visualization and analysis based on various parametric daylight windows Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 15 C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 16 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 Figure 3.4 (b) Daylighting visualization and analysis based on various parametric daylight windows Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 17 From the analysis, it is clear that only rooflight and roof monitor meet the recommended level of uniformity of daylight distribution and average daylight factor, as shown in Figure 3.5 below: Figure 3.5 Daylighting performance of OT according to eight types of parametric daylight windows Despite the highest performance of rooflight and roof monitor in terms of average daylight factor and uniformity of daylight distribution, solar heat gain of each type of the daylight windows above deserve further studies to ascertain the its suitability for OT environment. 4. Discussion Based on the study above, it is evident that the issues related to daylighting of OT is more than just the provision of typical windows for the OT; daylight performance should be optimised. In order to optimise the daylight performance of OT, the following parameters need to be taken into consideration: 1. Window design: Size of window opening, shape of window, position of window, orientation of window, proportion of window size to room area, transmission of glazing; 2. Shading devices: external shading devices such as louvred screen; internal shading device such as roller blinds; 3. OT layout: room depth, ceiling height, shape & size of room, position of C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 18 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 operating table & instrument, positions of access to scrub room etc.; 4. Colour and texture of surfaces in OT (wall, floor, ceiling etc.); 5. Integration of artificial light – the window designs need to integrate with the artificial lighting layout and types of lamps (both ambient light and task light). The daylight experienced by surgeons when carrying out the medical procedures in the OT is essentially what should be investigated. The challenge is then that of measuring the amount of daylight experienced by the surgeons but also establishing the extent to which varying levels of daylight impact on the performance of surgery tasks. 5. Conclusions The present study shows the problems associated with daylight provision in OTs within the tropical region. There are lots of challenges with few options of addressing. The pilot study of OTs in Sungai Buloh Hospital (SBH), Malaysia shows the need to change attitudes and nature of provision dominated by artificial lighting, as well as the approaches in designing daylight windows. There were surgeons who specifically requested for windows to be incorporated into OT design. However, surveys have yet to be carried out to estimate the proportion of surgeons who have preference for daylight windows. And also to find out if their request was because of daylight illumination, or view outside, or both. Daylight availability through the window or via skylights has to be modelled to determine how it best serve activities in the operating theatres. Further studies will adopt a multi- method approach which will be used to collect data for analysis supported by measurements of daylight to establish the nature and characteristics of daylight provision. Staff productivity and satisfaction of work will be evaluated based on hospital records and other healthcare information systems, for example medical errors and staff retention. Surveys of clinical staff will be conducted to understand the level of work satisfaction in OTs with daylight and OTs without daylight. Computer simulated models of OTs will be used to examine different daylight design interventions. Results from the study will develop a suitable daylight design tool and guidance for OTs. References 1. Andrews J., 2013, Tight Fit: Designing A Hybrid OR In Limited Square Footage, Healthcare Design, 21 August 2013, 46- 51 2. Baillie J., (Editor), 2012, Prime performers for the Theatre, Health Estate Journal, August 2012, 55-66 3. Berry K., 2009, Working environments: Operating room architecture and design and the effects on staff morale, World Health Design, 2(1), 49-55. 4. Berry N.E., 2012, Greening the OR: Sunny Disposition, Greenhealth, June/July 2012, 8-9. 5. Commission Internationale de L’Eclairage (CIE) S 008/E 2002, Lighting of indoor work places, ISO 8995 2nd Edition 6. Dascalaki E.G., Gaglia A.G., Balaras C.A., Lagoudi A., 2008, Indoor environmental quality in Hellenic hospital operating rooms, Energy and Buildings, 41, 551-560. 7. Fotios S.A., 2001, Lamp colour properties and apparent brightness: a review, Lighting Research & Technology, 33, 163–181. Challenges of providing daylight in operating theatres located in the tropical regions Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 19 8. Gow C., Byrd B., 2013, Redefining the Operating Room, Healthcare Design, 20 August 2013, 42-45 9. Hemphälä H., Johansson G., Odenrick P., Åkerman K., Larsson P.A., 2009, Lighting Recommendations in Operating Theatres, Proceedings of the 17th World Congress on Ergonomics, Beijing, China, 9-14 August 2009, 1-5 10. Joarder M.A.R., 2011, Incorporation of Therapeutic Daylight in the Architectural Design of Hospital Buildings to Accelerate Clinical Recovery, Unpublished Doctoral Thesis, Loughborough University, UK 11. Joarder M.A.R., Price A.D.F., 2012, Impact of daylight illumination on reducing patient length of stay in hospital after coronary artery bypass graft surgery, Lighting Research & Technology, August 2013, 45: 435-449 12. Knave B., Bergqvist U., Böös S., Calissemdoff B., Carlsson L., Hedström L,. Levin M., Nylén P., Nyman K.G., Voss M., Wibom R., Lidén C., Wahlberg J.E., 1985, Bildskärmsarbeteochhälsa-en epidemiolgiskstudieavkontorsarbete, Läkartidningen, Vol. 82, Nr 9 13. Koneczny S., 2009, The operating room: Architectural conditions and potential hazards, Work, 33, 145-164. 14. Society of Light and Lighting (SLL), 2008, Lighting Guide 2: Hospitals and health care buildings, London: CIBSE Publications 15. Veitch J.A., Galasiu A.D., 2012, The Physiological and Psychological Effects of Windows, Daylight, and View at Home: Review and Research Agenda. Ottawa, National Research Council of Canada. 16. Walch J.M,. Rabin B.S., Day R., Williams J.N., Choi K., Kang J.D., 2005, The Effect of Sunlight on Postoperative Analgesic Medication Use: A Prospective Study of Patients Undergoing Spinal Surgery, Psychosomatic Medicine, 67, 156-163. 17. Zeit K.D. (Editor-in-Chief), 2013, Akron General Layers Technology In Hybrid OR Suite: The sum of its parts, Healthcare Design, 22 August 2013, 52- 53 Choong-Yew CHANG PhD Student at the University of Sheffield, School of Architecture; Senior Lecturer at Tunku Abdul Rahman University College (TAR UC), Faculty of Engineering and Built Environment, Jalan Genting Kelang, Setapak, 53300 Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Tel: +603-41450123 (Ext 435). Fax: +603-41423166. Email: c.y.chang@sheffield.ac.uk He is currently the leader for architecture degree programme at TAR UC, and has taught architectural design studio at the University of Malaya and TAR UC since 2008. As a registered architect in Malaysia, he has been practising and teaching for 13 years. His research interest is in daylight design of healthcare environments. Dr Michael PHIRI Lecturer and PhD Supervisor at the University of Sheffield. Tel: +44 (0)114 222 0363 Fax: +44 (0)114 2220315 Email: m.phiri@sheffield.ac.uk He has been responsible for over 30 research studies on architectural healthcare environments coordinating and directing research projects. He has received over 16 research grants from, HaCIRIC (Health and Care Infrastructure Research and Innovation Centre – EPSRC-Funded collaboration of Imperial College, Loughborough, Reading & Salford Universities), Department of Health, NHS Estates, Healthcare Scotland, C Y CHANG, M PHIRI, S FOTIOS 20 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 7-20 Guy’s & St Thomas NHS Trust, South Tees NHS Trust, Macmillan Cancer Support, Rotunda and Sligo General Hospitals, Ireland, Clinicenta and others. He is a chartered architect with over 17 years’ post- qualification experience in private and public practice. Professor Steve FOTIOS Professor of Lighting and Visual Perception at the University of Sheffield Tel: +44 (0)114 222 0371 Fax: +44 (0)114 222 0315 Email: steve.fotios@sheffield.ac.uk He has taught in the School of Architecture since 2005, having previously taught at UMIST (1993-1998), Robert Gordon University (1999-2000) and Sheffield Hallam (2000-2005). He supervises research of lighting; how does lighting affect our perception of space and our ability to perform visual tasks. He places a strong emphasis on methodology and how the manner in which experimental procedures will bias the outcome: this lead to the establishment of CIE technical committee TC1-80 to identify best practise in experimental procedures, and to LumeNet, a methodology conference for PhD students. Received: 1 June, 2014 Revised: 15 June, 2014 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 21-30 FROM MARVEL TO POLLUTION. EXCESSES OF OUTDOOR ARTIFICIAL LIGHT THROUGH THE AGES Laurent CHRZANOVSKI Babes-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca Abstract: Excesses of outdoor artificial light were recorded since ancient times in the many forms. In Antiquity, only very few cities, all of them in the South-Eastern part of the Mediterranean world, had their main streets illuminated. The first successful attempts to illuminate every night at least the most central parts of a city are all to be inscribed in the golden age of the Islamic expansion. At those times, Europe sunk in complete night darkness, cities like Paris being “supplied” with a single public candle at the main city gate. Soon, for the first time in History, “lighting excesses” did not concern only the Mediterranean area, the richest in good oils for lamps as well as in waxes. Then, historians could draw exactly the nature of the celebration, thanks to diverse sources, from a rare precision for these times. We realize that for the “homo religious” of the Medieval times, so many lamps were the “sun” he offered to the divine and the flame of divine blessing him. The emergence of light pollution was based on the higher capacity of adaptation of the man in comparison with most animals. The “moonlight towers” episode, which could have been used as a milestone in the fight against lighting pollution, is now largely forgotten by specialists. Keywords: lighting pollution factor, moonlight towers, lighting strategy 1. Introduction “At the tenth hour, which they call here licinicon, or as we say lucernalis, all the people assemble at the Anastasis in the same manner, and all the candles and tapers are lit, making an infinite light” (Etheria, The Pilgrimage, 2:24; VIth century AD travel diary) Most of us have forgotten that public lighting is, from a historical point of view, a relatively “new” concept. In Antiquity, only very few cities, all of them in the South-Eastern part of the Mediterranean world, had their main streets illuminated. Among them, we can quote the examples of Ephesos, Antioch or Edessa1. Even in the mighty Rome, peaking with more than a million inhabitants in its golden imperial period, wealthy people had to have a slave (the lanternarius) preceding them with a lantern to light their way in the dark streets of the capital. L CHRZANOVSKI 22 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 21-30 2. The emergence of outdoor artificial light The first successful attempts to illuminate every night at least the most central parts of a city are all to be inscribed in the golden age of the Islamic expansion: Baghdad, Cairo, Jerusalem and, of course, the prestigious Mozarab Cordoba, the best known example of a city renewal of both hydraulic conducts and street lighting, to be dated 850 AD. At those times, Europe sunk in complete night darkness, cities like Paris being “supplied” with a single public candle at the main city gate. Real studies and implementations of systematic planning to light properly the central part of a city are all to be seen much later, during the late 17th century2 (Paris in 16673, Amsterdam in 16694, Berlin in 16825, London in 16846 a.s.o.) and, even most of the lighting plans were carefully made, the lighting power of the street-lamps was still very modest, all of them still using simple candles or natural oil lamps. In this context, several Mediterranean civilizations developed, in their wealthiest periods, exuberant light festivals, the only occasions when some cities were lit “a giorno” for one or more nights. Herodotus and many others make extraordinary reports of the events they witnessed in Egypt, which had since the Pharaonic period a long tradition of “festivals of lamps”: “At Sais, when the assembly takes place for the sacrifices, there is one night on which the inhabitants all burn a multitude of lights in the open air round their houses. They use lamps in the shape of flat saucers filled with a mixture of oil and salt, on the top of which the wick floats. These burn the whole night, and give to the festival the name of the Feast of Lamps. The Egyptians who are absent from the festival observe the night of the sacrifice, no less than the rest, by a general lighting of lamps; so that the illumination is not confined to the city of Sais, but extends over the whole of Egypt. And there is a religious reason assigned for the special honour paid to this night, as well as for the illumination which accompanies it.” (Herodotus, II, 50) The most important of such celebrations was doubtless the five-days and five-nights celebration of the birthday of Isis7. As far as we know, each believer had to bear a lightened lamp to the temples, and light as many as he could at home. Initially confined to Egypt, the Isiac feast found its way, during Roman times, through all the main cities of the Empire, as the Graeco-Egyptian cults seduced a large number of Romans. Figure 1 Roman clay lamp of the Ist c. AD, boat- shaped, with representation of Sarapis and the Dioscures, used for Isiac celebrations But Isiac celebrations, as well as some other Greek and then Roman sacred feasts, From marvel to pollution. Excesses of outdoor artificial light through the ages Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 19-28 23 were certainly much closer to what happens nowadays in India8 during the Diwali (Birthday of the Goddess Lakshmi and Indian new year)9 or in Tibet during the ChötrulDüchen (butter lamps day in honor of Buddha)10. People used to light infinitely much more lamps than in usual days, but the largest concentration of flames had to be found near the temples, meaning the conditions of a “lit city” were still not fulfilled. In Figure 1 is presented special lamps for holy celebrations. Figure 2 An Indian craftswoman painting lamps to be used for the Diwali Figure 3 An Indian woman lights dozens of lamps in the street at Diwali Figure 4 Tibetan monks lighting butter lamps at ChötrulDüchen. We have to wait for the rise of Christianity to witness real massive lighting excesses, even if we must be cautious as most of the sources tend to be too emphatic when they describe holy celebrations. Besides Easter, but also the daily vespers in some holy cities like Jerusalem as witnessed by Etheria, the most incredible moments are linked to the death of a powerful ruler or clergyman11. The first of those events to be mentioned are doubtlessly the night processions in honor of Constantine the Great himself and of one of the Fathers of the Church, John Chrisostomos, whose funerals impressed the chronicles, both lighting the Bosphorus as it would have been daylight. Soon, for the first time in History, this kind of “lighting excesses” did not concern only the Mediterranean area, the richest in good oils for lamps as well as in waxes. French chronicles describe the mourning of Bishop Saint Germain, in 447, when the city of Auxerre shined by night as if it was daylight. But all these texts, even if very suggestive, do not provide us with exact quantities of lighting devices lit and hence do allow us to L CHRZANOVSKI 24 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 21-30 measure what our ancestors praised as “a copy of the sun”. One of the first events we can really measure and analyze in technical terms is the inauguration of the Cathedral of Segovia on August 14th, 155812. As a matter of fact, hundreds of small clay lamps, with their cotton wick, remains of their fuel - a mixture of pine resin - and their wooden supports have been discovered in the crypt of the cathedral, letting us understand which kind of devices were praised in the texts with the generic word “lamps”. Then, historians could draw exactly the nature of the celebration, thanks to diverse sources, from a rare precision for these times. The archives of the cathedral preserve, for the date of August 22nd, 1558 - eight days after the great celebration - the bill paid by the Bishop services to Sir Luis de Mendoça: 23,050 Maravedis for all the lamps, which had been placed inside and outside the Church for its inauguration. In a precise account made for the town hall, published shortly after the event, we can read: “the city appeared to merge from the light, the believers in procession carrying any sorts of lights. All the towers of churches, and of course of the cathedral, were decorated up to their summit by thousands of lit lamps”. Much more interesting are the following pages, through which we know that the municipal government took itself at its own expenses the two thousand lamps placed in the niches of the big bridge of the city, while the Bishop and the believers paid for the rest of the lamps, which exceeded twenty thousand units. Figure 5 Holy procession with candles at Lourdes: a modern image of how the ancient "rivers of light" should look like © Sanctuaire Notre Dame de Lourdes We hence understand that for a medieval Spaniard, 22,000 lamps lit meant a sort of “sunlight”, as no such quantity of light by night had been seen from generations. Judging by the fuel used, resin, which has a very high concentration of turpentine, we can estimate that a lamp emitted a light power of ca 1 candlepower (0.981 candela). From marvel to pollution. Excesses of outdoor artificial light through the ages Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 19-28 25 Figure 6 The Cathedral of Segovia and some of the lamps with their wooden support discovered in the crypt, now preserved in the Archaeological Museum Figure 7 The Cathedral of Segovia and some of the lamps with their wooden support discovered in the crypt, now preserved in the Archaeological Museum We realize that for the “homo religiosus” of the Medieval times, so many lamps were the “sun” he offered to the divine and the flame of divine blessing him. It is certainly an “excess” of lamps, but we are still far from the contemporary reality of “lighting pollution”13. In this field, we have to wait for the 1800's to witness the first man-made lamps, which really had a strong and negative impact on health. This time, it is no more to honor a heavenly god, but to praise another deity: the Progress. L CHRZANOVSKI 26 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 21-30 With the invention of the arc lamp, Europeans and Americans dreamed to have lighthouses for their cities, gigantic monuments that could light a whole town14. In Europe, projects submitted by engineers were mainly unrealizable by their disproportions, so that almost none of them had ever been implemented. Among the most utopic ones, let us remember the project published in 1885 by the famous architect Jules Bourdais and the light engineer AmédéeSébillot: a single tower of some 80 m height equipped with a single, so powerful, arc lamp that it was designed to light, alone, the hole French capital15. An interesting anecdote is the fact that Gustave Eiffel proposed his project of tower, also designed to be topped by very powerful arc lamps, in the same session of the French Civil Engineers Society, and had the chance to draw quick conclusions of the very negative reactions he witnessed when Bourdais' concurrent project was debated. As a matter of fact, arc lighting was so powerful that it was unsuitable for an indoor use and could blind a man if too close. In France, it met strong oppositions since its first applications. The Revue des DeuxMondes, in its edition of March the 15th, 1878, is maybe the first to quote the scientists, who dared to underline the health damages the new lighting technique can cause to the humans: “Quand vous regardez la lumière électrique, disent-ils, vous voyez tout autour comme les rayons divergents d'une auréole céleste; puis, après la contemplation de ce point lumineux, il reste dans la vue des taches de toutes couleurs qui semblent se promener dans l'espace; on n'yéchappe point en fermant les yeux, c'est une véritable cécité, momentanée sans doute, maisil n'est pas sans exemple qu'elle ne devienne éternelle. L'un des plus éminent sphysiciens de la Belgique, M. Plateau, a payé par la perte totale de la vue des observations qu'il a trop long temps continuées (...)”. Even before the 1880's, the French daily press starts to attack mercilessly the first arc lightings implemented in Paris, at the Opera square and on the Champs Elysées: “Au lendemain de cette épreuve, si nous en jugeons par notre vue, réputée bonne, compromise pour plusieurs jours, nous tenonsqu'il y a péril à rechercherce spectacle d'un nouveau genre (...) Pour le moment, mettonsnos lunettes de couleur, nosvisièresvertes, et craignonsquecette application de l'électricité, tout en ne nous rendant pas plus clairvoyants, ne devienneune occasion de triomphe pour les oculistes” (La Presse, 17th of June 1879). No wonder then that Bourdais' project was refused and that the Eiffel Tower, after years of debates, was accepted only at the condition the light it would emit would be only artistic and not designed to lighten the city. In Europe, light towers were hence confined to industrial areas such as railways maintenance stations, areas where they increased productivity and did not disturb inhabitants. In the USA, the debate was very different. Many town halls were searching a way to illuminate the dark streets of their cities without having to face the impressive expenses and public works that a gas lantern network presupposed. It was the birth of the “moonlight towers”. Soon, many cities launched the construction of grids of tall metallic towers designed to light the whole urban area. From marvel to pollution. Excesses of outdoor artificial light through the ages Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 19-28 27 The first tower has been built in San José (California) in 1881, bearing six lamps, representing a total power of 24,000 candles, i.e., one single tower producing as much light as all the lamps lighted in Segovia for the abovementioned cathedral inauguration festival more than 300 years before. Figure 8 Engraving showing San Jose's first moonlight tower, 1881 Many small cities followed, but the only large metropolis to develop this system was Detroit, as it is witnessed by Fred H. Wipple in his handbook “Municipal Lighting”16: “There are 122 towers of 153 feet each. Detroit has about 230,000 inhabitants, and has a dense business section of about one Figure 9 Detroit City Hall (Campus Martius square) with its moonlight tower, ca. 1900 square mile. This section has about 20 towers, which average 1,000 to 1,200 feet apart. The belt immediately contiguous, embracing the closely-built and densely shaded residence section has its towers about 2,000 feet apart. Beyond this the spaces widen to 2,500 feet apart, and in the suburbs they are spaced about 2,500 to 3,000 feet apart.” “The press of the country has uniformly conceded Detroit to be the best-lighted city in the world. All its streets, yards, backyards and grounds are illuminated as effectually as by the full moon at the zenith. The blending of light from the mass of towers serves to prevent dense shadows.” But this emphatic text hides a different reality. First, the lighting power of the L CHRZANOVSKI 28 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 21-30 towers was not stable, and then, it created an alternation of over-lighted zones with total dark zones, as every obstacle in the way of the artificial light (from a simple tree to a large building) generated a deep shadow zone. Security problems, at the heart of the Detroit town-hall decision of implementing “moonlight towers” were far from being solved. If Detroit has been praised in the newspapers when launching its tower grid, several other cities' decision-makers were not entirely satisfied by the system, such as G. Hodges, the Secretary of the Committee in charge of the lighting of Utica (New York), who conclude that towers had to be “used mainly in the outskirts and thinly settled districts. There they are a perfect success. In the heart of the city they are a failure”17. Soon, other reports began to be extremely negative, as the notice given by the City Recorder of Ogden (Utah), who wrote that “The tower system of electric lighting was tried here several years ago, and discarded as being a complete failure. It is a bad system of street lighting, being impossible to erect a tower high enough to throw the light into the streets uniformly. One side of the street will be shaded by the buildings, which produces an intense darkness (when contrasted by the light on the opposite side), which is very disagreeable. Our city is now lighted by electric lamps placed in the center of the street”18. Moreover, in semi-urban areas, the lighting pollution factor generated by the moonlight towers is finally recognized, studied and analyzed, as their impact on domestic animals was catastrophic: “the lights also brought unanticipated complications along with their steady illumination. Animals, for one thing, were unaccustomed to the newly extended daytime. Chickens and geese, unable to sleep in this new state of omnipresent light, began to die of exhaustion”19. Figure 10 One of Austin's Moonlight towers, 1890's Even the introduction of the incandescent lamp did not help to solve the problems raised by the moonlight towers. In the 1910's, almost all of them towers were dismantled throughout the USA. Today, only Austin, once nicknamed “the city of perpetual moonlight” has a plan to preserve the 16 towers, which survived until nowadays, from the original grid made by 31 such “monuments”20. From marvel to pollution. Excesses of outdoor artificial light through the ages Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 19-28 29 Figure 11 One of Austin's Moonlight towers, today Conclusion We can only underline that, unfortunately, man has a much higher capacity of adaptation in comparison with most animals. The “moonlight towers” episode, which could have been used as a milestone in the fight against lighting pollution, is now largely forgotten by specialists. Moreover, doctors, biologists, zoologists, neurologists a.s.o., are constantly demanded to bring new evidences of the lighting pollution damages on human and animal health21 to convince decision-makers to change their city lighting strategy. Sadly, from a unique and punctual gift of man to deities, light excess became normality in most of the developed countries. Should man be a bird, and die in the atrocious way described by the famous American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the world leaders would probably think more seriously about the impact of lighting on our lives? The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din Of wings and winds and solitary cries, Blinded and maddened by the light within, Dashes him self against the glare, and dies. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Lighthouse, 1848, verses 45-48 References 1. Seidel Y. 2005, Strassenbeleuchtung in der Antike, in L. Chrzanovski (ed.), Lychnological acts 1 Actes du 1er Congrès International d'études sur le luminaire antique (Nyon-Genève 2003), Montagnac, pp. 287-288; Seidel Y. 2009, KünstlichesLichtimindividuellen, familiären und öffentlichenLebensbereich, Wien (cf. pp. 91-121) 2. Koslowsky C. 2002, Court Culture and Street Lighting in SeventeenthCenury Europe, in Journal of Urban History 28, pp. 743-748; Koslofsky C. 2011, Evening's empire : a history of the night in early modern Europe, New York 3. Maréchal H. 1894, L’éclairage à Paris. Etude technique des divers modes d’éclairage employés à Paris, Paris 4. Multhauf L.S. 1985, The Light of Lamp-Lanterns: Street Lighting in 17th Century Amsterdam, in Technology and Culture, 26:2, pp. 236-252 5. Liman H. 2000, MehrLicht: Geschichte der BerlinerStrassenbeleuchtung, Berlin 6. deBeer E.S. 1941, The EarlyHistory of London Street Lighting, in History 25, pp. 311-324 7. Salem M.S. 1937, The 'LychnapsiaPhilocaliana' and the Birthday of Isis, in The Journal of Roman Studies 27:2, pp. 165-167 8. Chrzanovski L. 2010, Pour une ethnoarchéologie du luminaire: réalités lychnologiques de l'Inde d'aujourd'hui et de la Rome d'hier, in Sargetian.s. I, pp. 185-206 9. Crooke W 1923, The Divali, the Lamp Festival of the Hindus, Folklore, XXXIV: 4, pp. 267-292 10. Anderson S. 2006, Flames of devotion. Oillampsfromsouth and southeastAsia and the Himalayas, Los Angeles 11. Dendy D.R. 1959, The use of light in Christian worship, London L CHRZANOVSKI 30 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 21-30 12. Zamora Canellada A. 1976, Las lámparas de la inauguración de la catedral de Segovia, in Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas yMuseos LXXIX: 3, pp. 683-687; Zamora Canellada A. 2006, Museo de Segovia. Guía, Madrid 2006, pp. 115 - 121 (LámparasA-2100 - A-2106) 13. De Decker K. 2009, Moonlighttowers: Light pollution in the 1800's, in Low Tech Magazine, January 2009; permalink: http://www.lowtechmagazine.com/2009/01/ moonlight-towers-light-pollution-in-the-1800s.html 14. Cf. in primisSchivelbusch V. 1994, Luce. Storiadell’illuminazioneartificialenelsecolo XIX, Parma, (cf. pp. 120-139) (n.b.: Italian version of the German original edition: Schivelbusch V. 1983, Lichtblicke. Zur Geschichte der KünstlichenHelligkeitim 19. Jahrhundert, München) 15. Bourdais J., Sébillot A. 1885, Colonne-Soleil. Projet de phareélectrique pour la ville de Paris, Paris 16. Wipple F.H. 1888, Municipal Lighting, Detroit, p. 157 17. Wipple F.H. 1888, p. 164 18. Wipple F.H. 1888, p. 164 19. Garber M. 2013, Tower of Light: WhenElectricityWas New, People Used It to Mimic the Moon, in The Atlantic, 06.03.2013 edition; Permalink: http://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2013/03/t ower-of-light-when-electricity-was-new-people-used-it- to-mimic-the-moon/273445/ 20. Moore M., Strand K. 1991, PreservationStudy of the MoonlightTowers, Austin, Texas, in APT Bulletin 23:1, Conservation Engineering, pp. 29-38; Conquest J.M. 2013, Lightspace and the City of perpetualMoonlight, MA Thesis, University of Austin 21. Litterature in this field abounds; let us just quote some interesting recent papers with lists of further bibliographical references : The Royal Commission on Environmental Pollution, Artificial Light in the Environment, London 2009 (cf. Chapter "Impacts of Light Pollution on Organisms and Ecosystems", pp. 14-21); Barghini A., de Medeiros B.A.S 2010, ArtificialLighting as a Vector Attractant and Cause of Disease Diffusion, in Environmental Health Perspectives, Vol. 118:11, pp. 1503-1506; Heilig P. 2010, Light Pollution, in Spektrum Augenheilkunde 24, pp. 267–270; Hölker, F., T. et al. 2010, The darkside of light: a transdisciplinary research agenda for light pollution policy, in Ecology and Society15:4, pp. 13-24; Permalink: http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol15/iss4/art13/; Chun Shing J.P., Chu Wing S. 2012, Night-skybrightness monitoring in Hong Kong. A city-wide light pollution assessment, in Environmental Monitoring and Assessment 184, pp. 2537–2557 Laurent CHRZANOVSKI Archaeologist PhD Co-director, Dpt. of Roman Archaeology, Université Lyon II Lumière; Lecturer, Master II courses, Faculty of History, Babes-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca; Lecturer, Master II courses, Faculty of History, Lucian Blaga University, Sibiu E-mail: l.chrzanovski@bluewin.ch Str. 9 Mai, nr. 36, apt. 2, 550201 Sibiu (Romania); phone: +40 730 362 544 PhD in Roman Archaeology at the University of Lausanne (Switzerland); Postdoctoral studies in History and Sociology at the Romanian Academy, Cluj-Napoca Branch. Since 1995, his works focus on lighting devices and techniques through the ages, being responsible of the study and publication of several major lamp corpuses, from antiquity to early modern times, for museums in Switzerland, France and Russia. In this field, he is author/editor of 16 books and more than 50 scientific articles, as well as 7 major itinerant exhibitions (Switzerland, France, Romania). In the last years, his research focused on interdisciplinary studies for a better understanding of the artificial lighting phenomenon through the ages and the continents, associating archaeological evidences to historical sources, religious studies, ethno- anthropological studies, social studies, art studies a.s.o. He published the first results of this research in the volume De Prométhée à la Fée électricité. Pour une sociologie de l'éclairage à travers les âges, les croyances et les continents, Cluj-Napoca, 2013 (Editions de l'Académie Roumaine). Received: 5 June, 2014 Revised: 20 June, 2014 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 AIMING TO ACHIEVE NET ZERO ENERGY LIGHTING IN BUILDINGS Cosmin TICLEANU Building Research Establishment, Bucknalls Lane, Watford, United Kingdom Abstract: Energy consumption for interior lighting is rapidly increasing and takes up 17.5% of the total global electricity consumption on average. With European office buildings using 50% of their total electricity consumption for lighting alone, and other shares of electricity of 20-30% in hospitals, 15% in factories, 10-15% in schools and 10% in residential buildings, there is significant potential to reduce energy consumption for lighting. By implementing a combination of key measures, such as minimisation of lighting power density; use of highly-efficient lighting technologies based on renewable energy sources; use of appropriate lighting control systems; and maximisation of daylight use, energy saving targets can be pushed forward to aim at achieving net zero energy lighting in buildings. This paper presents findings from Building Research Establishment projects for public and private buildings to reduce lighting energy consumption whilst improving the quality of the internal luminous environment. Keywords: energy performance, interior lighting, daylight, efficient lighting, lighting controls. 1. Current background Lighting is a large and rapidly increasing source of energy demand in buildings. In 2005 grid-based electricity consumption for lighting was 2650 TWh worldwide, or around 19% of the total global electricity consumption, whilst the electricity consumption for interior lighting alone was estimated at 2438 TWh worldwide, or about 17.5% of the total global electricity consumption (Halonen, Tetri and Bhusal, 2010). Interior lighting accounts for a significant part of the electricity consumption in buildings. According to International Energy Agency (IEA) research, heating is the leading energy consumer in EU commercial buildings, followed by lighting (Figure 1). The electricity consumption for interior lighting varies with the type of building. In some buildings, lighting is the largest single category of electricity consumption; office buildings, on average, use the largest share of their total electricity consumption in lighting. 50% of total electricity C TICLEANU 32 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 consumption in European office buildings is used for lighting, 20-30% in hospitals, 15% in factories, 10-15% in schools and 10% in residential buildings (EC, 2011). Figure 1 Energy consumption by end use in EU commercial buildings (source: IEA) The heat generated by lighting represents a significant fraction of the cooling load in many internal spaces, and contributes to further consumption of electricity. Figure 2 illustrates findings of BRE and Carbon Trust analysis on carbon emissions from different building types and end uses (Carbon Trust, 2011). Carbon emissions from lighting are shown in orange. Whilst more than 50% of all lamps installed in Europe are still not classed as energy efficient, the potential for improvements and energy savings is significant. Increases in energy price can also act as a driver towards efficiency, and encourage energy-efficient lighting solutions. The EU is aiming for a 20% cut in Europe’s annual primary energy consumption by 2020. In order to increase energy efficiency, the Commission has implemented EU Ecodesign regulations (EC, 2009a; EC, 2009b; EU, 2012a) to gradually remove from the market inefficient products like tungsten lamps, less efficient tungsten halogen, compact fluorescent, Figure 2 Emissions by building type and end use (source: Carbon Trust). Figures on the right indicate carbon emissions in MtCO2; letters on the left indicate building types: A – industrial; B – retail; C – hotels & restaurants; D – commercial offices; E – schools; F – healthcare; G – government estate; H – further & higher education; I – sports; J – heritage & entertainment; K – public offices; L – transport/ communications; M – miscellaneous. and metal halide reflector lamps, all high pressure mercury lamps, less efficient sodium and metal halide lamps, the least efficient LED lamps and magnetic ballasts. Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 33 The Commission has also implemented Green Public Procurement (GPP) criteria to increase resource and energy efficiency within the public sector (EC, 2012). The GPP criteria also include lighting in buildings covering lamp efficacy and overall power consumption of the whole system. Other Commission measures refer to the use of smart meters that encourage consumers to manage their energy use better, and to the labelling of energy-using products (EU, 2012b). The Energy Performance of Buildings Directive (EU, 2010) strengthens the requirements for building energy performance by requiring each Member State to establish minimum energy performance requirements for new and existing buildings, and to implement energy certification schemes. The Directive also requires that all new buildings are nearly zero-energy by 2021, with new buildings occupied and owned by public authorities nearly zero-energy by 2019. An approved methodology is employed to determine energy performance which also includes impacts from daylighting and built-in lighting systems. In the UK, the updated Part L of the Building Regulations (DCLG, 2014) requires that new lighting in office, industrial and storage spaces should have an average luminaire efficacy (the amount of light emitted from the luminaire divided by its circuit wattage) of at least 60 lm/W. Lower efficacy values apply if some types of automatic lighting control are used in some types of space. An alternative, more complex approach uses the Lighting Energy Numeric Indicator (LENI), which is a measure of the energy used for lighting per square metre over the whole year. For lighting in other non-domestic spaces, an average lamp efficacy (the amount of light from the lamps divided by the circuit wattage) of 60 lm/W is required. For display lighting the average lamp efficacy should be at least 22 lm/W. In new dwellings three out of every four light fittings should be low energy, with a lamp efficacy of at least 45 lm/W. Other energy efficiency initiatives include schemes like BREEAM and the UK Enhanced Capital Allowance (ECA). BREEAM assesses the environmental performance of new and existing buildings, with BREEAM International addressing buildings outside the UK (BREEAM, 2014). Although it is a voluntary scheme, it is often required by client specifiers. Lighting related credits refer to minimum floor areas being adequately daylit, suitable shading, the right quality of light according to relevant codes and standards, appropriate lighting system zoning and control, separate sub-metering of energy use including lighting, and energy efficient external lighting. The ECA scheme (DECC, 2014) gives tax incentives for companies to install energy-efficient equipment including lighting, by writing off capital costs against Corporation Tax in the first year after installation. Despite the various measures to increase the efficiency of electric lighting, there is still substantial potential to reduce further the energy consumption for lighting and the associated carbon emissions. Whilst there is a trend in the international community to reduce the electricity consumption for lighting with new technology to below 10 kWh/m2 (EC, 2011), the arrival of C TICLEANU 34 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 advanced, optimised daylighting technologies and of state-of-the-art electric lighting technologies using renewable energy sources can help push forward the target by aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings. 2. Methods to achieve net zero energy lighting Modern lighting techniques and equipment, and more efficient light sources, provide opportunities for significant reductions in the use of energy, while achieving a greatly enhanced level of illumination and improved visual appeal. Cutting wasted energy for lighting can also reduce overheating, and therefore cut the high cost of air conditioning. Although lighting products are becoming more efficient, longer occupancy hours and higher light levels have increased the energy used for lighting in buildings. Also, inappropriate control strategies and improper choice of light sources result in energy being wasted. Key areas for minimising lighting energy consumption in buildings include: minimisation of lighting power density through optimisation of lighting strategies and levels of illuminance; use of highly- efficient lighting technologies; use of appropriate lighting control systems; and maximisation of daylight use. Quality should not be neglected when implementing measures to increase lighting efficiency, and therefore attention should always be given both to the effectiveness and the quantity and quality of lighting. 2.1 Minimising lighting loads The general illuminance level in a space has a substantial influence on the energy consumption for lighting. Reducing the general illuminance has a direct impact on energy consumption, as the power consumed is roughly proportional to illuminance. Recent research and consultancy projects carried out by BRE for public and private clients have revealed that illuminance levels in various types of internal space are higher than those recommended by current relevant standards and guidelines. For example, opportunities to decrease illuminance levels and therefore the lighting energy use have been noted in case of retail buildings. A survey carried out by BRE revealed that the average lighting power density in retail spaces was 36 W/m2, compared to 10–12 W/m2 in a modern office space with efficient lighting (Ticleanu, Littlefair and Howlett, 2013). Significant energy savings can be achieved by changing the lighting design philosophy so that instead of aiming for an overall level of illuminance the focus falls on the lit effect of the scheme, and hence on delivering lighting to where it is required. Two main techniques are proposed for retail buildings: using the right proportions of task and ambient lighting, so that low illuminance levels are achieved in the bulk of the store, whilst using accent lighting on displays to guide shoppers to key focal areas; and lighting the perimeter of the space to make the whole space look better lit by making the walls brighter. Another possibility is to use daylight to provide some or most of the ambient light levels. Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 35 A good practice example is shown in Figure 3, which illustrates a store that reduced its energy use by 30% and its carbon emissions by 23% by implementing measures that included lower ambient light levels of 300 lx and higher illuminances only on vertical surfaces of the merchandise. In combination with highly-efficient LED lighting, this led to a reduced lighting load of 7 W/m2 (Ticleanu, Littlefair and Howlett, 2013). Figure 3 Lower ambient light levels leading to lower energy consumption (source: Philips Lighting) These techniques can be employed in a similar manner in other types of space or building, in accordance with standard recommendations. Reducing illuminance levels to the values recommended by relevant standards and codes, and optimising lighting strategies typically lead to significant reduction of lighting power densities (in W/m2) and normalised lighting power densities (in W/(m2.100 lx)), with direct consequences for the energy use for lighting. 2.2 Using highly-efficient lighting technologies Fluorescent lamps are by far the most popular lamps for lighting non-domestic buildings, although metal halide lamps and even tungsten halogen lamps are widely used in various applications that include accent or display lighting. Metal halide lamps are also a typical choice for high bay internal spaces. LED technologies are increasingly used following their significant advances in the last years. Various types of luminaires are used for indoor lighting, depending on the type of building. Given the phase out of inefficient technologies brought about by EU legislation, new alternatives have been developed, with higher luminous efficacy and reduced environmental impacts. New types of lamp include LEDs, highly efficient fluorescent lamps and improved tungsten halogen lamps. Highly efficient compact fluorescent lamps use up to 80% less energy than conventional tungsten lamps, while improved tungsten lamps incorporating halogen technology use 20% to 45% less energy for the same light output than conventional tungsten lamps. The latest developments in compact fluorescent technology include lamps with higher luminous efficacy and lower mercury contents. Recent developments of the metal halide lamp type include ceramic metal halide lamps driven by electronic ballasts that are highly energy efficient. Having the array of wattages expanded to lower values of 20-22 W, ceramic metal halide lamps driven by electronic ballasts last up to 20,000 hours and can reach lamp efficacies of up to 104 lm/W. C TICLEANU 36 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 Figure 4 Accelerated increase in LED lamp efficacy (source: IET). The most significant technical developments have been made by LED technology, which is increasingly being used for various lighting applications and lasts longer than other light sources. Not only has the variety of LED fittings increased, but the luminous efficacy of LEDs is improving year on year and is now comparable with that of fluorescent lamps. Whilst state-of- the-art white LED lamps have already reached efficacies of 100-150 lm/W, LED lamp efficacy is growing fast and, as shown in Figure 4, further improvement is expected over the next 5-10 years (IET, 2013). Osram is already claiming a lamp efficacy of 215 lm/W for a T8 replacement LED tube that will be launched in 2015 in both warm white and cool white appearance (Osram, 2014). With a 95% efficiency driver, the claimed system efficacy is 205 lm/W. Other technical developments in lighting include high-efficiency optics for luminaires with increased light output ratio, and optimized lamp-ballast systems consuming less energy and providing longer lamp life. In order to reduce the energy consumption for lighting, the overall Figure 5 LED luminaire rated at 100 lm/W luminaire efficacy (source: Philips Lighting) efficiency of the lighting system should be addressed. There is no sense in placing an efficient lamp in an inefficient luminaire, so the most efficient luminaires should also be used. 2.3 Employing adequate lighting controls The control strategy for lighting in building is usually set according to the type and complexity of the building and application. It can include various controls ranging from localised manual switching to daylight-based photoelectric dimming and complex management systems. The choice of lighting controls from simple manual switches and dimming switches to presence detectors and light-level sensors has a large impact on total lighting energy use. However, currently most lighting control systems are under-specified, and electric light is often delivered to spaces where no one is present, or for which there is already adequate daylight. Most spaces are typically lit fully on during occupancy hours and this leads to substantial energy consumption even when sufficient illuminance levels can be provided by incoming daylight. Using photoelectric control linked to daylight sensors in daylit areas leads to significant energy savings depending on the characteristics of the interior space and the existing lighting systems. Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 37 Figure 6 Examples of user interfaces for lighting controls (source: Helvar). For example, the illuminance measured at various points inside a car showroom display area was in the range 860-5100 lx, which was generated mostly by daylight. However, all electric lighting was maintained fully on continuously during the day and there were neither daylight-linked, nor dimming controls. A multi-gang switch was used to manually control the lighting both in the showroom and other open-space areas. Implementing daylight-based controls of the electric lighting in the car showroom can save 25 MWh of electricity each year, or around 8% of the total electricity used (including all consumers e.g. cooling, small and large power), and 13 tonnes of carbon each year, or around 6% of the total carbon emissions of the showroom. Research shows that simply providing users with the capacity to control lighting levels in the space they occupy can significantly lower lighting energy use. Effective lighting controls can save 40-60% of the building’s lighting energy use (Littlefair, 2014). Energy can be saved after working hours and when work stations are unoccupied, and when daylight is sufficient. Even a short switch off (5 minutes or more) can save energy and money. If dimming is provided, additional savings can be made by dimming lamps early in the maintenance cycle when their output is high. This can typically save around 10% of lighting energy use even in a non-daylit space. With LED lighting the savings can be higher (15% or more) and the lifetime of the LEDs can be increased due to dimming (Littlefair, 2014). A wide variety of control types are now available (Figure 6), with new forms of manual control including wireless and smart phone controls. Occupancy sensing is especially valuable for infrequently used spaces. Photoelectric controls switch or dim the lamps in response to daylight. Time switching is appropriate for buildings with set hours of occupancy. Sophisticated lighting management systems are available which can control the lighting in an entire building, combining all these different control types if required. It is important to take into account the type of space, how it is used and the amount of daylight available. C TICLEANU 38 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 2.4 Maximising the use of daylight Daylight has physiological and psychological benefits for building occupants and can improve performance and wellbeing. At the same time it is a freely available light source that can provide high quality lighting to internal spaces at zero costs and with no carbon emissions. However, using daylight successfully requires careful planning and design to avoid associated problems such as glare from direct sunlight or solar heat gains. Sidelighting can provide a view out that may be appreciated by building occupants and can be integrated in multi- storey buildings. However, the amount of daylight that penetrates into the space depends on the building orientation and the absence of obstructions, and there is a higher risk of glare from direct and reflected sunlight. The distribution of daylight in the space from sidelighting is uneven, with higher daylight levels in areas nearer to windows and decreasing amounts further away into the space. For this reason, sidelighting is not effective for internal spaces with a deep layout. Advanced sidelighting strategies (Figure 7) can improve daylight penetration into the depth of the building by redirecting it onto a reflective ceiling. Light shelves, sun-directing glass or anidolic collectors can be installed in the upper part of windows to redirect daylight deeper into the buildings (Littlefair, 1996). Toplighting strategies (Figure 8) use openings in the roof to allow daylight penetration into a space: hence their application is limited to single-storey Figure 7 Sidelighting techniques. From top to bottom: variable-area, light-reflecting assembly; anidolic reflector system; anidolic ceiling arrangement. buildings, or to the top floor of multi- storey buildings. However, daylight uniformity is significantly improved throughout the whole space, and there is less impact from obstructions, with maximum available daylight at all times. Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 39 Figure 8 Toplighting techniques. From top to bottom: northlight; sawtooth; rooflight. There is a limited view out, but toplighting strategies in atria and courtyards allow occupants to experience connection to the outside at all times of the day. Because of higher and longer exposure to sunlight, irrespective of orientation, toplighting strategies – other than northlights – typically incur a higher risk of overheating than sidelighting. Soft-coat, low-emissivity glazing with low solar transmittance (g-value) but higher daylight transmittance should be considered for such strategies. Typically roof apertures over 8%–10% of the whole roof area can be sufficient to keep electric lighting turned off during a significant part of the daytime. Substantial savings can be made by capitalising on the availability of natural light, while creating a pleasant, airy atmosphere that is favoured by occupants. Optical systems are able to redirect or harvest daylight by means of tubular light- guiding systems, fibre optics, or arrays of mirrors and lenses. Daylight-guiding systems (Figure 9) can lead daylight collected at roof level into internal spaces via highly reflective, mirrored tubes, and are more effective under clear sky conditions, although some of them can deal quite effectively with diffuse skylight. This helps reduce the need for electric lighting during the day. Figure 9 Daylight guidance systems using light- pipes (source: Monodraught). C TICLEANU 40 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 Fibre optic systems rely mainly on direct sunlight, as they are typically integrated within complex arrangements using sun-tracking collectors. Sophisticated arrangements of mirrors and lenses can be used to direct daylight (mainly direct sunlight) into specific internal areas of interest. Using daylight as a primary light source can potentially save energy by reducing the need for electric lighting. However, over- glazing can lead to high solar heat gains. The aim should be to provide generous levels of daylight with reasonably low associated solar heat gains to avoid using extra energy for cooling. Daylight into internal spaces needs to be controlled, and lighting controls are required to adjust the electric lighting to match daylight variability. Significant energy savings can be achieved by correct zoning of the electric lighting that establishes the groups of luminaires that should be controlled simultaneously, based on different factors that include daylight availability. The electric lighting system needs to be controlled separately in the daylit and non- daylit areas to maximise energy savings while providing the required light levels. Typically, luminaires should be grouped together in each zone that receives a similar amount of daylight. 2.5 Using renewable energy sources Recent developments in renewable energy technologies, such as photovoltaic panels and wind turbines, have made it realistic to conceive nearly-zero or even zero energy lighting systems, particularly if highly-efficient lighting technologies and adequate controls are used. However, solar or wind powered lighting systems are still not commonly used in buildings due to a number of technical and financial challenges. Although government schemes support the uptake of such technologies by practising attractive feed-in tariffs, payback is typically long (particularly for smaller systems) and electricity generation is strongly affected by climatic conditions. Additional equipment is also required, such as inverters or batteries, and this requires supplementary storage and power optimisation. Nevertheless, by nature, LED lighting systems are most commonly DC devices, operating from a low voltage of direct current. This makes it easier to integrate them with renewable energy based technologies, whilst achieving a higher system efficiency that allows for net zero energy. 3. Case studies A number of projects have already been completed or are being assessed in order to reduce the energy consumption for lighting whilst improving the quality of the internal luminous environment. 3.1 Clothes store Illustrated in Figure 10, the LED-only scheme delivers an average light level of around 500 lx on the walkways and a light level on specific focal areas of the merchandise of around 900-1000 lx. By using LEDs rated 16 W and 50 lm/W, which deliver warm white light of 3000 K colour temperature and colour rendering index CRI of 90, the installed lighting load is 17 W/m2 (Ticleanu, Littlefair and Howlett, 2013). Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 41 Figure 10 Fully LED-lit clothes store (source: Reggiani). Figure 11 Daylight-based, dimmable T5 fluorescent fittings with adjustable reflectors and louvres producing the right light output at the level of the merchandise (source: Whitecroft Lighting) 3.2 Superstore The use of pre-wired, daylight-based, dimmable 2×73 W T5 Eco fluorescent fittings, with adjustable reflector and louvre for precise direction to the point of sale, as shown in Figure 11, provided a 28% energy saving, 30% reduction in the number of lamps required, and 25% reduction in installation time compared with the previous lighting scheme (Ticleanu, Littlefair and Howlett, 2013). 3.3 Supermarket The sales area is lit by a combination of ceiling-recessed square modules and round spotlights using LEDs with a colour temperature of 4000 K, while chiller cabinets are lit by 4200 K CRI 80 LED tubes concealed from the shoppers’ view and aimed at the merchandise (Figure 12). This delivered a well-lit solution at less than 9 W/m2 and achieved an energy reduction of approximately 40% (Ticleanu, Littlefair and Howlett, 2013). Figure 12 LEDs used for general and display lighting C TICLEANU 42 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 3.4 Fashion store It is proposed to upgrade the lighting in the 2-storey store shown in Figure 13 from conventional fluorescent and metal halide technologies to warm white LED lighting. The design philosophy is tackled to provide the right amount of light to each type of area (e.g. 300 lx ambient illuminance and a minimum of 500 lx accent illuminance in sales areas) and to minimise the number of luminaires by choosing optimum positions and tilt angles. In so doing, 51% electricity savings and carbon reduction would be achieved, and lighting power density would decrease by 46% to 18 W/m2 in sales areas and by 70% to 6 W/m2 in fitting rooms. Around 83% of the energy used by the new LED lighting system could be supplied by 100 monocrystalline PV panels rated at 320 Wp and 19.6% efficiency covering 163 m2 of the total roof area available (Topriska, 2012). Figure 13 Fashion store to incorporate LED lighting supplied with electricity from roof- mounted PV panels 3.5 Office building The office building illustrated in Figure 14 has been assessed in order to increase its energy efficiency and substantially reduce its carbon footprint. The current lighting system consists of fluorescent fittings using electromagnetic ballasts and is controlled via wall-mounted switches in offices and presence detection in circulation and other communal areas. No daylight-linked controls are used. The total lighting load currently installed is 14.3 kW, with an estimated energy consumption of 36,190 kWh/year, whilst the average lighting power density is around 14.7 W/m2 throughout the building. Figure 14 Glazed façade office building proposed to be lit by a net zero energy lighting system The aim is to develop a net zero energy lighting system using highly-efficient LED lighting, adequate lighting controls and roof-mounted PV panels. A change in layout is also considered, as the current cellular offices will be converted into larger open-plan office areas. By using the latest LED lighting systems, the total lighting energy consumption can be reduced by 54% to 16,560 kWh/year, at an estimated normalised lighting power density of 1.5 W/(m2.100 lx) on average in office areas and 2.5 W/(m2.100 lx) on average in other areas. Aiming to achieve net zero energy lighting in buildings Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 43 Large glazed areas are present on west, south and east façades. By adding daylight- based dimming controls to reduce the light output of electric lighting when sufficient daylight is available to achieve the maintained illuminances during work hours (9.00 to 17.30), the energy consumption for lighting can be further reduced by an additional 29% to 5,740 kWh/year. Net zero energy lighting can be further achieved by adding an array of grid- connected monocrystalline PV panels rated at 235 Wp and 14% efficiency, with a total estimated electricity production of 5,800 kWh/year (Park, 2013). The PV panes would require 50 m2 of roof area for the installation, and a simple payback period would be 10.5 years. 4. Conclusions Lighting is a rapidly increasing source of energy demand and takes a significant part of the electricity consumption in buildings. More than half of all lamp technologies installed in Europe are still not classed as energy efficient, and continuous increases in energy prices are expected for the coming years. The EU is aiming for a 20% cut in Europe’s annual primary energy consumption by 2020, and the Commission has implemented a number of measures to increase energy efficiency. These are supplemented by various schemes, standards and codes to reduce carbon footprint and energy use. In this context, where various drivers towards energy efficiency exist, the potential for improvements and energy savings in lighting of buildings is substantial. Although there is a trend in the international community to reduce the electricity consumption for lighting with new technology to below 10 kWh/m2, recently developed daylighting technologies and state-of-the-art electric lighting technologies using renewable energy sources can give the potential for net zero energy lighting in buildings. This can be possible if such technologies are integrated into optimised design strategies such as minimising lighting power density through optimising lighting strategies and levels of illuminance; use of highly- efficient lighting technologies; use of appropriate lighting control systems; and maximising daylight use. References 1. Breeam, Building Research Establishment Environmental Assessment Method, 2014, available online at: www.breeam.org 2. Carbon Trust, Lighting: Bright ideas for efficient illumination, 2011, London: The Carbon Trust. 3. DCLG, Approved Document L - Conservation of fuel and power, UK Building Regulations, 2014, Department for Communities and Local Government, available online at: www.planningportal.gov.uk/buildingregulations/ap proveddocuments/partl/approved 4. DECC, Enhanced Capital Allowance Scheme, 2014, available online at: etl.decc.gov.uk 5. EC, Commission Regulation (EC) No 244/2009 of 18 March 2009 implementing Directive 2005/32/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council with regard to ecodesign requirements for non-directional household lamps, 2009a, Official Journal of the European Union, L76:3-16. 6. EC, Commission Regulation (EC) No 245/2009 of 18 March 2009 implementing Directive C TICLEANU 44 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 31-44 2005/32/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council with regard to ecodesign requirements for fluorescent lamps without integrated ballast, for high intensity discharge lamps, and for ballasts and luminaires able to operate such lamps, and repealing Directive 2000/55/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council, 2009b, Official Journal of the European Union, L76:17-44. 7. EC, Green Public Procurement Indoor Lighting Technical Background Report, 2011, Brussels: European Commission. 8. EC, Green Public Procurement Criteria for Indoor Lighting, 2012, available online at: ec.europa.eu/environment/gpp/pdf/criteria/indoor_l ighting.pdf 9. EU, Directive 2010/31/EU of the European Parliament and of the Council of 19 May 2010 on the energy performance of buildings, 2010, Official Journal of the European Union, L153:13-35. 10. EU, Commission Regulation (EU) No 1194/2012 of 12 December 2012 implementing Directive 2009/125/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council with regard to ecodesign requirements for directional lamps, light emitting diode lamps and related equipment, 2012a, Official Journal of the European Union, L342:1-22. 11. EU, Commission Regulation (EU) No 874/2012 of 12 July 2012 supplementing Directive 2010/30/EU of the European Parliament and of the Council with regard to energy labelling of electrical lamps and luminaires, 2012b, Official Journal of the European Union, L258:1-20. 12. IET, Code of Practice for the Application of LED Lighting Systems, 2013, London: The Institution of Engineering and Technology. 13. Halonen L., Tetri E., Bhusal P. (Eds), Guidebook on Energy Efficient Electric Lighting for Buildings, 2010, Espoo: Aalto University. 14. Littlefair P., Designing with innovative daylighting, 1996, Bracknell: IHS BRE Press. 15. Littlefair P., Selecting lighting controls, 2014, BRE Digest 498. Bracknell: IHS BRE Press. 16. Osram, Osram constructs the world's most efficient LED lamp, 2014, Press Release, 28 March 2014, available online at: www.osram.com/osram_com/press/press- releases/_trade_press/2014/osram-constructs-the- worlds-most-efficient-led-lamp/index.jsp 17. Park S., Investigation of LED alternatives in an office building, 2013, Dissertation submitted for the MSc in Building Services Engineering with Sustainable Energy, Brunel University, September 2013. 18. Ticleanu C., Littlefair P., Howlett G., The essential guide to retail lighting: Achieving effective and energy-efficient lighting, 2013, Bracknell: IHS BRE Press. 19. Topriska E., Investigation of LED alternatives in retail lighting, 2012, Dissertation submitted for the MSc in Building Services Engineering with Sustainable Energy, Brunel University, September 2012. Cosmin ŢICLEANU PhD Eng BRE – Building Research Establishment Building 4, Room 331 Bucknalls Lane, Watford WD25 9XX, UK Phone: +44192366 4871 Fax: +44 1923 66 4781 E-mail: TicleanuC@bre.co.uk He holds a PhD in lighting for his thesis on integrated daylighting and electric lighting systems. As a senior consultant in lighting at BRE, he is involved with undertaking consultancy and research into all aspects of electric lighting and daylighting. His duties include modelling the UK lighting market and the impact of policy measures, providing answers to detailed technical questions on lighting, commenting on lighting standards and drafts of legislation, drafting specifications for energy efficient lighting products, consultancy on lighting for government and private sector clients, conducting research and consultancy projects and presentations and training on lighting. Received: 10 June, 2014 Revised: 20 June, 2014 Conferences and symposiums Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 45-46 International Conference on Sustainable Lighting and Light Pollution SLLP 2014 5-7 November 2014, Seoul, Republic of Korea Organized by Korea Society of Lighting and Visual Environment Graduate School of Public Health, Korea University Center for Sustainable Healthy Buildings, Kyung Hee University International Dark-Sky Association of Korea Supported by Ministry of Environment Ministry of Science, ICT and Future Planning National Research Foundation Korea About the Conference SLLP 2014 will provide a platform for exchange of knowledge, current status of the research, development, engineering experiences as well as views and predictions on the future R&D needs regarding sustainable lighting and light pollution. The conference is will compass the process of professional lighting research and development in areas of design, science, engineering and education and practice. The conference is ideal for scientific, social science and engineering legal academics, as well as regulators and lighting professionals. Conference Topics SLLP 2014 invites participation and paper and poster submissions across a broad range of sustainable lighting and lighting pollution. The conference will cover following topics but not limited to: Lighting and Design Interior and Exterior lighting Façade and Street lighting Commercial and Media lighting Design trends and Practices in lighting Resource - Culture, History, and Architecture Lighting and Technology Luminaries, Fixtures, Controls and Practices Solid-state lighting and LED applications Emerging products and Markets Efficacies and Costs Challenges and Benefits Lighting and Sustainability Façade design and Daylighting Daylighting availability and Modelling Glare and Controls Materials, Photometry and Cost Lighting and Energy legislation Lighting and Health Perception and Visual acuity Human-centric lighting and Exposure modeling Human Psychology/Physiology/Biology Circadian rhythm, Chronobiology and Melatonin Illness related to lighting case studies Lighting and Pollution Visual comfort and Conflicts Lighting standards and Legislation The Biological and Ecological effects of light Measurements and Assessment Conferences and symposiums 46 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 45-46 Outdoor lighting governance and Policy Preservation and Ecology Solution and Practices Sensing and Monitoring Abstract and Paper Submission The papers must report original, previously unpublished findings. Abstract of no more than 300 words will include the following information: Issues and Objectives Methodology and Validation Findings and Conclusions Suggestions and Discussion Abstract and manuscript submissions will be made directly through the online abstract and paper submission website. General Chairs of the Conference Professor Jeong Tai Kim Professor Eunil Lee Kyung Hee University Korea University Yongin 446-701 Seoul 136-705 South Korea South Korea Email: jtkim@khu.ac.kr Email: eunil@korea.ac.kr Important Dates Abstract Submission: 30 August 2014 Notification of Acceptance: 7 days after submission Full Paper Submission: 25 September 2014 Early Bird Registration: 10 October, 2014 Registration Participants are welcome to register online on our conference website through http://www.sllp.org Conference fee Every full submitted paper need to pay registration fee from one of its author. Conference fee include attendance for conference, refreshment during conference, conference materials, and official dinner. Accommodation, travel and insurance during stay are not included in the registration fee. Early bird registration by 10 October - for students: USD150 - for academics: USD300 Ordinary registration for students: USD200 Official language of the Conference English Publication All accepted papers will be included in the Conference Proceedings (Digital version) and Abstract Book. Selected papers will be candidates for publishing in international SCI journals. Venue and General Information The venue of SLLP 2014 is Riviera Hotel (http://www.hotelriviera.co.kr), Seoul. For detailed information on technical sessions, accommodations, transportation, registration, invited speakers and all other useful resources please visit the SLLP2014 conference website. Contacts Conference secretary E-mail: sllp2014@sllp.org Phone: +81-31-202-3995 Presentation selected from the Conference official flyer - see website Theses and Dissertations Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 47-50 High-Performance Ray Tracing on Modern Parallel Processors Attila T. ÁFRA, Babeș-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca The Thesis Advisor: Dr. Horia F. POP, professor, Babeș-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca. The Ph.D. thesis was defended in public meeting at the Babeș-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania, on 22 November 2013. The author obtained the scientific degree of Ph.D. in Computer Science. 1. Introduction One of the most fundamental problems in computer graphics is to generate realistic or stylized images of three-dimensional virtual scenes. This process is called rendering or image synthesis. Rendering has numerous important applications in a wide variety of domains. For example, in computer-aided design (CAD) it enables engineers to create, modify, and analyse models interactively in 3D. Virtual prototypes of products like vehicles and buildings can be presented to clients using arbitrary materials and lighting. The visualization of volumetric medical data, such as CT or PET scans, helps diagnosing and curing diseases. In feature films and games, complex fictional worlds can be portrayed with striking realism, which would not be otherwise achievable. In many cases, the rendered images must be as high-quality and as photorealistic as possible. This is a particularly difficult problem as it requires the accurate modelling of complex optical phenomena like reflection, refraction, scattering, multiple light bounces, depth of field, and motion blur. Ray tracing [SM03] is a powerful and elegant rendering algorithm that achieves this by simulating the interactions of light rays with the objects in the scene (see Figure 1 for an example image). Its primary drawback is that it is computationally expensive because a very large numbers of rays must be traced to obtain high-quality results. Figure 1 Example of a photorealistic image rendered with ray tracing (using NVIDIA Iray). Source: Delta Tracing. Ray tracing is an inherently parallel task as the rays of light can be traced independently from each other. This is a very useful property since processors are becoming more and more parallel, but fully exploiting the available parallelism is a challenging problem. Monte Carlo ray tracing algorithms [Szi08] typically have highly divergent control flow and incoherent Theses and Dissertations 48 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 47-50 memory accesses, which are not handled efficiently by current parallel architectures. Another major issue is the amount of required memory to render an image. Because of the random memory accesses, the entire geometry and all textures must be kept in high-bandwidth memory. In addition to the raw geometry, ray tracing usually requires an acceleration structure as well, which further increases the memory requirements and the pre-processing time. In this thesis, we present a collection of novel high-performance ray tracing algorithms that address the problems mentioned above. These algorithms improve the computational efficiency and reduce the memory requirements of advanced ray tracing based methods on modern parallel processor architectures. The ultimate goal of our research is to enhance the speed or visual quality of physically based rendering systems within the same resource budget. Ray tracing generates images by constructing light transport paths that connect pixels of the image plane with light sources in the virtual scene (see Figure 2). Figure 2 Image synthesis through ray tracing. Most ray tracing methods trace rays backward from the camera. The basis of physically based image synthesis is the rendering equation [Kaj86]. Solving the rendering equation is commonly done with Monte Carlo ray tracing methods. A fundamental operation in ray tracing is ray shooting, the objective of which is to find the closest intersection of a ray with the scene. The efficiency of ray shooting is one of the key factors that determine the overall performance of a ray tracing renderer. Thus, we have chosen ray shooting as the central topic of our research. Most modern processor architectures are highly parallel and are able to exploit application parallelism at multiple levels. In this thesis, we focus on three novel processor architectures: Intel Sandy/Ivy Bridge [Int12] (CPU), Intel Knights Corner [Int13] (MIC), and NVIDIA Kepler GK110 [Nvi12] (GPU). In the following sections, we summarize the main contributions of the thesis. 2. Coherent and Incoherent Ray Traversal Using the AVX Instruction Set The AVX instruction set introduced with Intel Sandy Bridge has doubled the peak floating point processing power of x86 CPUs. However, efficiently utilizing the 8-wide SIMD units for ray tracing is a difficult problem. We propose AVX-optimized ray traversal algorithms for both coherent and incoherent rays that provide higher performance than state-of-the-art SSE-based approaches. We use binary and 8-way branching BVHs as acceleration structures. We have measured improvements of up to 74% for coherent rays and up to 25% for incoherent rays. [Áfr11, Áfr13] 3. Stackless Multi-BVH Traversal for CPU, MIC, and GPU Extracting hidden coherence from random ray distributions requires the processing of very large ray batches Theses and Dissertations Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 47-50 49 [PKGH97]. Most hierarchical ray traversal algorithms maintain a stack, which prohibitively increases the memory requirements of tracing many rays in parallel. Consequently, the size of the ray batches must be relatively small, which leads to suboptimal coherence, and thus performance. The solution is to use stackless approaches instead, but for some efficient acceleration structures like the multi bounding volume hierarchy (Multi- BVH or MBVH), no such algorithms have been proposed so far. We present a stackless traversal algorithm for 4-way and binary MBVHs, which replaces the regular traversal stack with a small bitstack. The bitstack encodes the per-level traversal state using skip codes. This reduces the total traversal state size by about 22—51x. We demonstrate that our approach has low computational overhead (9-31%) on the latest CPU, MIC, and GPU architectures. [ÁS14] 4. Interactive Ray Tracing of Large Models Figure 3 The BOEING 777 model (337M triangles, 31.4 GB) rendered interactively with shadows and one- bounce indirect illumination using our proposed method. System configuration: Intel Core i7-2600, 8 GB RAM, NVIDIA GeForce GTX 560 Ti. Rendering massive models consisting of hundreds of millions or even billions of primitives has many challenges. Such scenes usually exceed the size of the available memory, in which case special out-of-core rendering methods must be used. Unfortunately, those usually have severe limitations in interactivity, visual quality, and shading complexity. We propose a new ray tracing based out- of-core rendering method, which supports accurate shadows and indirect illumination, and runs at interactive speeds on multi-core CPUs (see Figure 3). Its key components are: an out-of-core hierarchical model representation that stores triangles and level- of-detail (LOD) voxels, an efficient memory management method with asynchronous I/O, and a LOD-based kd-tree traversal algorithm. Our renderer has a unique set of features, combining the advantages of previous state- of-the-art approaches. [Áfr12b] 5. Incoherent Ray Tracing without Acceleration Structures Standard ray tracing methods build an acceleration structure for the scene to render, which must be updated or rebuilt every time the geometry changes. This makes rendering dynamic scenes with ray tracing much more difficult than with rasterization. A recently introduced approach called divide-and-conquer (DAC) ray tracing [KW11] eliminates the need to maintain an acceleration structure while providing competitive performance. However, very little research has been done on the implementation of this approach on parallel architectures. Another unexplored area is taking advantage of the actual ray distribution to perform more efficient primitive partitioning, which is not possible with prebuilt acceleration structures. Theses and Dissertations 50 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 47-50 We introduce an efficient DAC ray traversal algorithm optimized for incoherent rays and SIMD processing (using SSE and AVX instructions). In addition to these optimizations, we propose adaptive partitioning based on the active ray/ primitive ratio, which reduces the partitioning overhead. We demonstrate that our approach outperforms the previous state of the art by up to 2.2x. [Áfr12a] 6. Conclusion In this thesis, we investigate high- performance ray tracing on modern parallel processor architectures. Specifically, we propose methods that better exploit the available parallelism and memory of latest- generation hardware, and enable superior image quality and interactivity than previous approaches. We provide efficient solutions for both offline and real-time rendering. References [Áfr11] ÁFRA A. T.: Improving BVH ray tracing speed using the AVX instruction set. In Eurographics 2011 - Posters (Llandudno, UK, 2011), Eurographics Association, pp. 27–28. [Áfr12a] ÁFRA A. T.: Incoherent ray tracing without acceleration structures. In Eurographics 2012 - Short Papers (Cagliari, Sardinia, Italy, 2012), Eurographics Association, pp. 97–100. [Áfr12b] ÁFRA A. T.: Interactive ray tracing of large models using voxel hierarchies. Computer Graphics Forum 31, 1 (2012), 75–88. [Áfr13] ÁFRA A. T.: Faster Incoherent Ray Traversal Using 8-Wide AVX Instructions. Tech. rep., Babeș-Bolyai University, Cluj- Napoca, Romania, Aug. 2013. [ÁS14] ÁFRA A. T., SZIRMAY-KALOS L.: Stackless Multi-BVH traversal for CPU, MIC and GPU ray tracing. Computer Graphics Forum 33, 1 (2014), 129–140. [Int12] INTEL: Intel 64 and IA-32 Architectures Optimization Reference Manual, April 2012. [Int13] INTEL: Intel Xeon Phi System Software Developer’s Guide, June 2013. [Kaj86] KAJIYA J. T.: The rendering equation. In Proceedings of the 13th Annual Conference on Computer Graphics and Interactive Techniques (New York, NY, USA, 1986), SIGGRAPH ’86, ACM, pp. 143–150. [KW11] KELLER A., WÄCHTER C.: Efficient ray tracing without auxiliary acceleration data structure. High-Performance Graphics 2011 (Poster) (2011). [Nvi12] NVIDIA: NVIDIA’s Next Generation CUDA Compute Architecture: Kepler GK110. Whitepaper, NVIDIA Corporation, 2012. [PKGH97] PHARR M., KOLB C., GERSHBEIN R., HANRAHAN P.: Rendering complex scenes with memory-coherent ray tracing. In Proceedings of the 24th Annual Conference on Computer Graphics and Interactive Techniques (New York, NY, USA, 1997), SIGGRAPH ’97, ACM, pp. 101–108. [SM03] SHIRLEY P., MORLEY R. K.: Realistic Ray Tracing, 2 ed. A. K. Peters, Ltd., Natick, MA, USA, 2003. [Szi08] SZIRMAY-KALOS L.: Monte-Carlo Methods in Global Illumination — Photo- realistic Rendering with Randomization. VDM, Verlag Dr. Müller, Saarbrücken, 2008. Attila T. ÁFRA Ph.D. Ph.: (+4)0747-478999 Email: attila.afra@gmail.com Attila T. ÁFRA received his PhD degree in computer science with specialization in computer graphics from Babeș-Bolyai University, Romania in 2013. His research interests include rendering, ray tracing, global illumination, and parallel computing. Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 51-54 LIGHTING IN THE NEW WORLD Cristian ŞUVĂGĂU BC Hydro, Vancouver Adapting Streetlights Procurement to the LED World If there could be one “bright” example of a lighting application type in North America that is irreversibly “anchored” in the future, that would be the street and roadway lighting; and the future is all about Solid State Lighting. The awareness of limited resources as well as the increasing political interest in energy-efficiency, demands that we look beyond buildings for lighting upgrades. A typical North American municipality spends about 20-30% of its electricity bill on street lighting. While for example the Canadian province of British Columbia (BC) alone has about 350,000 streetlights there are approximately 4.5 million street lights in operation in Canada and about 70 million street lights in North America. If one considers an average 30% reduction in energy consumption due to more efficient emerging technologies, particularly LEDs, British Columbia could save approximately 100 GWh annually, and savings in North America could exceed 5,000 GW and 23 TWh. This would be enough to power 800,000 houses (a large city like Toronto). Additionally, greenhouse gas emissions could be reduced by over 7,000 thousand metric tons. Considering that there are over 250 million street lights worldwide, the potential benefits are staggering. In the last 5-6 years many cities across North America have implemented pilot LED street lighting projects (or even large implementations). In general, these projects successfully demonstrated several benefits and issues with LED street lighting in real- world environments: Key benefits: • Improved lighting uniformity over existing street lighting technology (HPS). • Energy savings can be significant (varies from manufacturer to manufacturer). • Adaptive street lighting has significant potential for even more energy savings. However, light levels from dimming must still meet IES RP-8-00 minimum illuminance/ luminance levels. • Public response is generally positive favoring LED street lighting due to reduced backlight and/or light trespass and preferable color quality versus HPS. Key issues: • Manufacturer claims are not always being demonstrated from measurements. • LED street lighting luminaires have different distribution patterns than conventional HID systems. Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 51-54 52 • The setting of low, extra conservative calculations values for the Light Loss Factor by users could be detrimental leading to an oversized LED wattage selection. • Initial cost often dominates any energy or maintenance savings. Long paybacks are presently challenging the technology adaption process. • Adaptive street lighting technology is limited to very few systems. There is a need of a common back-haul (from the streetlights receivers to the console control) communication protocol to allow cities to use controls from multiple vendors. • Since LED technologies are a moving target, users need to continuously update the technology and performance specifications for the products they purchase. • While using LEDs with higher CCT (i.e. 5000 K-6500 K) results in greater energy savings and efficiency they are perceived as uncomfortable too “blue”, people seem to prefer as optimal the warmer CCT (4000 K) however less efficacious (there is a reduction of 25% in energy savings between 6000 K and 4000 K). In a major trial in Seattle customer complaints had dropped to zero when fixtures with a CCT of 4100 K (vs 6000 K) were installed. After numerous pilot projects, many cities—both large and small—have initiated plans for rapid and widespread adoption of LED street lighting (Los Angeles – 130,000 lights, Seattle – 70,000, Las Vegas – 40,000, etc). However, even if currently there are numerous choices for good LED products (DOE reported in 2013 that over 13% of LED luminaires offered in USA were for street and roadway applications) municipalities have to overcome two major barriers: appropriate technical specifications and costs. This opens a vicious cycle: while larger cities seem to be advantaged (skilled, in-house engineers and ability to drive costs lower due to larger volume purchase), the small cities struggle for-ever waiting for the “next” brighter and cheaper LED generation and ultimately discourage even the larger cities for mass LED implementation. • Specifications - upgrading to energy saving street lights through new technologies, particularly LED, requires careful selection of fixtures appropriate to the specific roadway under consideration. The US Department of Energy- SSL Municipal Consortium and pioneer cities like Los Angeles have developed Model Specifications for LED streetlights and adaptive dimming controls that define clear, physical, photometric and measurement criteria, allowing municipalities to draw their own particular specifications. While improved light distribution is often a significant driver of energy savings, conventional lighting design practices are limited in their ability to easily analyze a large quantity of fixtures. • Costs - it is becoming evident that traditional purchasing needs an innovative approach to overcome these roadblocks. While some manufacturers are planning to offer leasing agreements to cities, other vendors seal governmental commitments by opening local assembly factories (thus contributing to job creation - a serious political motivator). Some large cities that own their own electrical utilities have found funding exactly in the huge dollar savings that LEDs bring. Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 51-54 53 To overcome the barriers for the adoption of LED streets lights in BC, the LED Street Lighting Across British Columbia consortium of partners - a working group that includes the provincial Government, BC Hydro (the province- owned electrical utility), local municipal governments, LightSavers Canada (mandated by the federal Natural Resources Canada), NGOs, and consultants - is working to develop and implement a pre- qualification process that will be used (http://www2.gov.bc.ca/gov/topic.page?id= 1D50F1AB00E441A3989E05049E829D25) to screen and procure LED streetlights The provincial program is aimed at the conversion of upwards of 130,000 streetlights to LED technology in BC within the next 3 to 5 years. The provincial program is planning to: • provide assistance to BC municipalities to understand the technical, financial and administrative aspects of LED technology. A Financial Analysis tool was specially created to build a compelling business case template for use by municipalities. • consolidate results of the various LED streetlight trials already performed in BC, reporting their performance attributes, and provide technical recommendations. More workshops and international seminars were offered to municipalities’ representatives in 2013 and 2014. • create an advanced technical specification template for BC provincial and municipal LED roadway projects. The owners of the projects can use this template completely or “cherry pick” to create their own specification document. • develop a provincial pre- qualification process that aims to simplify and accelerate joint procurement of LED streetlight luminaires in BC by using two fast evaluation tools (see below) to identify the most energy efficient LED luminaires that meet minimum LED technical standards while complying with IES RP8 streetlight lighting standards. • develop a joint provincial procurement program to facilitate municipalities’ acquisition of quality and affordable LED street lighting products. A pre-qualified pool of LED families of luminaires from tender-selected manufacturers will allow municipalities to benefit of lower costs while enabling smaller municipalities to group in order to attract price discount for large volumes. • help with provincial capital funding (BC Hydro incentives) to municipalities that will demonstrate energy savings by upgrading to LED streetlights. Here is a quick look at the two fast evaluation tools: DLC Qualified Listing The DesignLights Consortium® (DLC) is a non-profit US project to accelerate energy efficiency in the building sector through public policy, program strategies and education. Since 2010, the DLC has administered the Qualified Products List (QPL), a leading resource that distinguishes (http://www.designlights.org/QPL) quality, high efficiency LED products for the commercial sector. A majority of the products listed are outdoor LED luminaires. Manufacturers must submit documentation such as IES LM-79 and LM-80 laboratory reports that verify the performance of products seeking to be on the list. http://www.designlights.org/QPL Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 51-54 54 Streetlight luminaires must meet seven major criteria to be listed: minimum lumen output, zonal requirement, minimum efficacy, CCT, CRI, lumen maintenance, minimum warranty. SEAD Streetlight Evaluation Tool The Super-efficient Equipment and Appliance Deployment (SEAD) Initiative of the Clean Energy Ministry is a voluntary multinational collaboration, spearheaded by the US Department of Energy and Natural Resources Canada, whose primary objective is to advance global market transformation for energy efficient products. With SEAD, participating governments (the tool is used a lot in developing countries like India) have access to the resources and technical expertise. The SEAD Street Lighting Tool is a free, easy-to-use spreadsheet calculator for fast evaluation of equipment performance and costs in street lighting upgrades and retrofits. The tool makes it faster and easier to verify manufacturer performance claims, evaluate light quality (based on IES files), energy use (analyzes multiple fixtures simultaneously to determine if fixtures meet lighting targets for a specified roadway), and costs for the most common road layouts. (http://www.superefficient.org/SLtool). The Tool’s simple step-by-step approach makes the evaluation process less expensive and easier for first time users. By analyzing many fixtures at once it can improve upon manual life cycle cost evaluation methods and better identify the fixtures that are able to save the most energy (produces a short list of candidate fixtures for a specific upgrade). The tool has great potential to accelerate the pre-qualification process in procurement of streetlight luminaires. The BC Provincial Procurement received numerous vendor applications. After a careful evaluation of how well manufactures have responded to the technical specification for proposed multiple average road scenarios, a thorough checking of the DLC listing and a fast SEAD analysis only five manufacturers have been selected. These will be in place for 3-year term with two, 1 year options to extend and an annual refreshment to allow for new products or cost decrease. A demonstration site (with CCTs of 4000 K and 5000 K per each fixture) is set to allow cities to self-evaluate qualified vendors. Cristian ŞUVĂGĂU Dr., P.Eng., LC, CEM, MIES, MCIE BC Hydro PowerSmart, 900, 4555 Kingsway Burnaby, BC, V5H4TB Canada e-mail: cristian.suvagau@bchydro.com He holds a Ph.D. from the Technical University of Construction in Bucharest, Romania for his thesis on improved calculations methods. He has been practicing and teaching architectural lighting design and energy efficiency in Europe and North America for over 25 years. A senior lighting and energy management engineer with BC Hydro, he focuses on lighting efficiency and DSM programs and research. Anniversary Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 55-56 Honorary Professor Axel STOCKMAR - the time of anniversary Honorary Professor Axel STOCKMAR at the retirement time is a non-sense. Axel is still very active at a highest professional level, in service of Light & Lighting. His background and activity may be described in a few words, but his life dedicated for lighting is much more than that: Graduated Electrical Engineering (high voltage, power station and lighting engineering, Technical University Berlin), independent lighting consultant, founder of LCI Light Consult International, a company which has specialised in the development of methods and computer programmes for lighting calculations and designs, honorary professor of the Hanover University of Applied Science and Arts, member of many German (DIN, chairman of the exterior lighting committee), European (CEN, member of JWG road lighting) and International Committees on interior, exterior, sports, road, and tunnel lighting, member of the LUX EUROPA Council, President of the German National Committee (2000-2011) and Vice-President (since 2011) of the International Commission on Illumination (CIE). On September 22, 2008, Dipl.-Eng. Axel STOCKMAR appointed Honorary Professor of Fachhochschule Hannover. “FHH honors with the awarding of honorary professor Stockmar's diverse accomplishments and extraordinary commitment to the university. Since 1985 Axel STOCKMAR is at the FHH as a lecturer for the subject 'light engineering' in the degree program interior design works. His reputation is internationally very large and therefore we are delighted that we can make him this honor to participate.” (Web page Hochschule Hannover, University of Applied Sciences and Arts) Some achievements: Definition = of EULUMDAT luminaire data file format (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/EULUMDAT), = of calculation/measurement grid size (CIE X005:1992, EN 12193, EN 12464-1, EN 124642-2), Elaboration = of European utilization factor method (EN 13201-2), = of procedure for the selection of road lighting classes (EU project e-street, CIE 115:2010), = of energy efficiency measures for road lighting (EU project ESOLi), authoring more than 100 published articles and more than 150 presentations at publicly accessible conferences, co-author of 20 CIE Reports and other books, adviser of e.g. local authorities, law courts, the German Federation of the Blind and Partially Sighted (DIN 32975), and the German Rail (DB AG) working group ‘lighting’. Anniversary 56 Ingineria Iluminatului 2014; 16, 1: 55-56 Axel STOCKMAR is a discrete but strong personality, performing his research activity in the silence of his small LCI office but, also, around the world, from Kuala Lumpur to London or Berlin. I first met Axel at Lux Europa 1993, Edinburgh. I discovered a warm person, an open character. Later, I had the honour and happiness to be accepted among his friends and to cooperate at specific activities, research programs and lighting conferences. He supported me during my professional visit granted with the DAAD to some German lighting units - the first of them being his LCI office - Celle, June 1994. Then, I knew him as a warm husband and father, dedicated to the family and best education of his children. Axel has always enjoyed very much to join all ILUMINAT conferences 2001, 2003, 2005, 2007, 2009 organised under my coordination in the Technical University of Cluj-Napoca. I have met his personality at international lighting conferences and events during years 1993- 2009 (when I retired from the professional university and lighting activity). Throughout his visits to our ILUMINAT conferences, we both, together with our wives, Dorothea and Liana, had the great pleasure to discover the beauty of Romanian country - painted monasteries in Bucovina, happy cemetery in Săpânta and wood churches in Maramures, towns of Sibiu and Sighisoara, fortified evangelical church in Biertan. In September 2013, my son Horia and myself were honoured to join the 125th birthday celebration of Dorothea and Axel. Axel is a warm and kind friend, closed to the Romanian Lighting community. He offered me and my family a long lasting friendship which dates back even to the last millennium. Happy many returns to you and a long and fruitful retirement life! Florin POP Information for Authors (revised 1st January 2014) The journal INGINERIA ILUMINATULUI - Journal of Lighting Engineering has a scientific presentation and content, targeted to the continuing education in the lighting field, without commercial advertisings inside of its pages. The objectives of the journal consist of the presentation of the results of the lighting research activity, the dissemination of the lighting knowledge, the education of the interested people working in public administration, constructions, designers, dealers, engineers, students and others. The responsibility for the content and the English language of original papers rests solely with their authors. The opinions of the authors, references and collaborators are personal and do not necessarily coincide with those of the editor. The journal is structured in the following parts, the same being the submitted contributions: Editorial, Papers, Theses and Dissertations, Conferences and Symposiums, Information, Anniversary. Research papers describe original theoretical and laboratory/experimental investigations. Manuscripts should be as concise as possible. The editors reserve the right to reject any manuscript that is not completely legible or does not conform to the standards given in the Instructions for authors. All papers are independently reviewed by two peer reviewers. The editor-in-chief has the exclusive right to assign papers to members of the editorial board for their peer review process. The reviewers fill in due time a standard evaluation form. The reviewers' suggestions or requests for modifications are anonymously communicated to the authors. The final acceptance of the paper is conditional on authors addressing the anonymous referee comments. The authors will be provided with a free copy of the journal, after publication. The journal is available as PDF file in electronic format, with all the figures in their original colours: http://users.utcluj.ro/~lec/journal. Copyright©2011 Laboratorul de Ingineria Iluminatului UTC-N Editura U.T.PRESS All rights reserved. According with the legal norms, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the Editor. However, the authors are free to use their works in another publication, by notifying the Editor, and clearly refer to the original publication. Editorial recommendations Please use the Word more recent version. Papers should not normally be more than 5000 words long - at the Editor’ discretion. Setting page Paper A4 Top 2.2; Bottom 7.5 Left 2.5 (Inside); Right 3.0 (Outside) Header 1.5; Footer 6.5 Mirror margins (yes) Page Number Outside Two columns (except Title, Authors, Abstract and some Tables or Figures which need the entire width of page), Equal column width (Equal Width 7.5 cm) Paragraph First line by 0.5 Font: Style Times New Roman, Size 12 Line spacing: Single (1 line) Figure text, Table title, Text inside Figures and Tables - Size 10. Please add the Figures file as an attached file on JPEG format. Layout of the paper Two lines 12 p TITLE (14 Caps Bold) – one column One line 12 p Author/Authors (12 Bold), First name, Family name (CAPS), Affiliation (Company) (Size 12), without academic titles – one column Three lines 12 p Abstract - the summary should count 200- 250 words and have a structured form, i.e. reflect structure of an article - background, material and methods, results, new information, principal conclusions and recommendations – one column. One line 12 p Keywords (should not repeat the title of the manuscript) – one column One line 12 p two columns - starting from this point 1. Chapter title – (bold, but no CAPS) One line 12 p text One line 12 p 2. Chapter title ... One line 12 p text / and so on One line 12 p Acknowledgments. (if there are) One line 12 p References, in order - authors, title; journal - year, vol., first and last pages; books - printing house, year. References should be in Vancouver style. These should be presented in consecutive order (as they are cited in the text). The first 6 authors should be presented. Citations in the text should be marked by Arab numbers in brackets or in the upper. Each citation item should be placed in a separate paragraph. At the end, please add the presentation of the first 6 authors. 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work_tjwhisepvzdhbdbjjbcj5gqzo4	----	[PDF] Why and when peer prediction is superior to self-prediction: the weight given to future aspiration versus past achievement. | Semantic Scholar Skip to search formSkip to main content> Semantic Scholar's Logo Search Sign InCreate Free Account You are currently offline. Some features of the site may not work correctly. DOI:10.1037/a0028124 Corpus ID: 9379296Why and when peer prediction is superior to self-prediction: the weight given to future aspiration versus past achievement. @article{Helzer2012WhyAW, title={Why and when peer prediction is superior to self-prediction: the weight given to future aspiration versus past achievement.}, author={Erik G. Helzer and D. Dunning}, journal={Journal of personality and social psychology}, year={2012}, volume={103 1}, pages={ 38-53 } } Erik G. Helzer, D. Dunning Published 2012 Psychology, Medicine Journal of personality and social psychology Peer predictions of future behavior and achievement are often more accurate than those furnished by the self. Although both self- and peer predictions correlate equally with future outcomes, peers tend to avoid the degree of overoptimism so often seen in self-predictions. In 3 studies, the authors tested whether this differential accuracy arises because people give more weight to past behavior when predicting others, but emphasize agentic information, in particular data about their aspiration… Expand View on PubMed sites.lsa.umich.edu Save to Library Create Alert Cite Launch Research Feed Share This Paper 54 CitationsHighly Influential Citations 2 Background Citations 24 Methods Citations 5 Results Citations 4 View All Figures and Tables from this paper table 1 figure 1 table 2 figure 2 table 3 View All 5 Figures & Tables 54 Citations Citation Type Citation Type All Types Cites Results Cites Methods Cites Background Has PDF Publication Type Author More Filters More Filters Filters Sort by Relevance Sort by Most Influenced Papers Sort by Citation Count Sort by Recency The performance heuristic: a misguided reliance on past success when predicting prospects for improvement. Clayton R. Critcher, Emily Rosenzweig Psychology, Medicine Journal of experimental psychology. General 2014 17 View 1 excerpt, cites background Save Alert Research Feed Through your partner’s eyes: Perspective taking tempers optimism in behavior predictions Johanna Peetz, Aaron Maccosham, Kali May Psychology 2019 1 Save Alert Research Feed On the psychology of self-prediction: Consideration of situational barriers to intended actions C. S. Poon, D. Koehler, R. Buehler Psychology 2014 7 Save Alert Research Feed Title On the psychology of self-prediction : Consideration ofsituational barriers to intended actions C. S. Poon, D. Koehler, R. Buehler 2014 3 Highly Influenced PDF View 4 excerpts, cites background and results Save Alert Research Feed Taking another perspective on overconfidence in cognitive ability: A comparison of self and other metacognitive judgments Robert Tirso, L. Geraci Psychology 2020 Save Alert Research Feed Examining Underconfidence Among High-Performing Students: A Test of the False Consensus Hypothesis Robert Tirso, L. Geraci, Gabriel D. Saenz Psychology 2019 Save Alert Research Feed Unskilled and optimistic: Overconfident predictions despite calibrated knowledge of relative skill D. Simons Psychology, Medicine Psychonomic bulletin & review 2013 42 PDF Save Alert Research Feed Maybe holier, but definitely less evil, than you: Bounded self-righteousness in social judgment. Nadav Klein, N. Epley Psychology, Medicine Journal of personality and social psychology 2016 28 PDF Save Alert Research Feed Self-efficacy and performance relationships : examining the roles of personality, bias, and effort C. Dempsey Psychology 2016 Highly Influenced View 38 excerpts, cites results, background and methods Save Alert Research Feed The topography of generosity: asymmetric evaluations of prosocial actions. Nadav Klein, N. Epley Psychology, Medicine Journal of experimental psychology. General 2014 26 PDF Save Alert Research Feed ... 1 2 3 4 5 ... References SHOWING 1-10 OF 82 REFERENCES SORT BYRelevance Most Influenced Papers Recency Who knows what about a person? The self-other knowledge asymmetry (SOKA) model. Simine Vazire Psychology, Medicine Journal of personality and social psychology 2010 622 PDF View 1 excerpt, references background Save Alert Research Feed The Mixed Blessings of Self-Knowledge in Behavioral Prediction: Enhanced Discrimination but Exacerbated Bias N. Epley, D. Dunning Psychology, Medicine Personality & social psychology bulletin 2006 116 PDF View 6 excerpts, references background and results Save Alert Research Feed Good Intentions, Optimistic Self-Predictions, and Missed Opportunities D. Koehler, R. White, Leslie John Psychology 2011 26 PDF View 1 excerpt, references background Save Alert Research Feed Knowing me, knowing you: the accuracy and unique predictive validity of self-ratings and other-ratings of daily behavior. Simine Vazire, M. Mehl Psychology, Medicine Journal of personality and social psychology 2008 296 PDF View 2 excerpts, references background Save Alert Research Feed Considering the Situation: Why People are Better Social Psychologists than Self-psychologists Emily Balcetis, D. Dunning Psychology 2013 40 Save Alert Research Feed Feeling "holier than thou": are self-serving assessments produced by errors in self- or social prediction? N. Epley, D. Dunning Psychology, Medicine Journal of personality and social psychology 2000 568 PDF View 4 excerpts, references background Save Alert Research Feed The Relative Accuracy of Self-Predictions and Judgments by Others in Psychological Assessment J. S. Shrauger, T. M. Osberg Psychology 1981 305 View 1 excerpt, references background Save Alert Research Feed Assessing the Accuracy of Predictions about Dating Relationships: How and Why Do Lovers’ Predictions Differ from those Made by Observers? T. MacDonald, M. Ross Psychology 1999 102 View 3 excerpts, references background Save Alert Research Feed Perspectives on personality: the relative accuracy of self versus others for the prediction of emotion and behavior. J. Spain, L. G. Eaton, D. Funder Psychology, Medicine Journal of personality 2000 127 Save Alert Research Feed Self-Prediction: Exploring the Parameters of Accuracy T. M. Osberg, J. S. Shrauger Psychology 1986 165 PDF View 1 excerpt, references background Save Alert Research Feed ... 1 2 3 4 5 ... 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work_tsjcqpfbkbd7flalhuv2u65jpq	----	L&#x2019;Emploi des anticholinergiques en pre&#x00E9;m&#x00E9;dication p&#x00E9;diatrique E D I T O R I A L S 327 L'Emploi des anticholinergiques en pr m dication p diatrique L'association usuelle d'anficholinergiques a la pr~mrdication a suseit6 de vifs d~bats au cours des deux demi~res d~cennies mais il est maintenant apparent que ces m~dicaments sent moins fr&luem- men! utilisrs qu'auparavant. Cependant, on fair toujours exception pour la clien~le prdiatrique rnflrne ehez les auteurs qui s'inscrivent en faux centre l'usage eoutumier des anticholinergiques chez l'adulte. Les auteurs de manuels d'anesth~sie l~diatrique continuent de recommander l'emploi d ' u n agent anti-vagal pour prrvenir la bradycardie attribnable ~ la stimulation mrcanique, l'adminis- tration de succinylcholine ou d'halothane. L'injec- tion intraveineuse d'atropine eonstime toujours le meilleur moyen d'obtenir le blocage du vague e t e s t reeommandre chaque fois que l ' o n craint de sti- muler de puissants rrflexes comme le rrflexe oculo- cardiaque durant chirurgie pour strabisme. Dans ce numrro, Blanc et ses eollaborateurs s'interrogent sur le bien-fond6 de l'injection intra- veineuse d'anticholinergiques avant la manipula- tion des muscles extra-oculaires chez les bdbrs et les enfants. Selon eux, on peat se passer de l'atropine intraveineuse et de ses risques en puis- sance en employant plutrt l'atrepine intramuscu- laire assoeire ~ une technique d'anesth~sie bien conduite en normocapnie et bonne oxygrnation et une manipulation chirurgicale drlicate des muscles extra-oculaires. Les auteurs soulignent tome l ' i m - port,race de la eooprration entre ie chirurgien et l'anesthrsiste, le monitoring de la fr&tuence car- diaque et la nrcessit6 de relgtcher toute traction musculaire en prrsence de bradycardie. Jusqu'~ quel point le rrfl-exe oculo-cardiaque est-il dangereux et en fait, quels sent les risques de | a mrdieation anticholinergique intraveineuse chez le p:~lient prdiatrique? Au drbut de leur travail, Blanc et ses eollaborateurs exposent les dangers du rrflexe oeulo-cardiaque: arr~t eardiaque et fibrilla- tion ventriculaire: ils relSvent plus de 60 morts. M~me si d'autres 6lrments oat pu contribu6 ~t quelques-unes de ces catastroplaes, il reste que la description de ces dangers est impressionnante. Les antieholinergiques par vole intraveineuse peuvent sfirement bloquer effectivement le r~flexe oeulo-cardiaque, mais ~ quel prix? Le r~pertoire des complications graves ~ la suite d'injection d'atro- pine intraveineuse aux enfants est nettement moins impressiormant. Duns son expos6 centre l'emploi de l'atropine pour contrrler le rrflexe oculo-cardiaque, Schartz avaace que les arythmies attribuables ~ I'atropine apparaissaient plus graves que la bradycardie q u ' o n cherchait ~t prrvenir. Cependant, il ne peut docu- menter aueune suite ffieheuse h ees arythmies qui apparemment sent rentrres dans r o r d r e d'elles- m~mes, Une recherche fouilMe duns les publica- tions scientifiques n ' a pu relever rien de v~ritable- merit inquirtam h la suite d'injection d'atropine h dose normale administrre fi des enfants en bonne sanG; m~me des surdosages accidentels extremes, par vole orale, ont 6t6 bien tolrrSs. L'atropine est v~ritablement un m~dieament stir. Bien des anes- th~sistes pr~f~rent donner l'atropine intraveineuse aux enfants aux moment de l'induction de l'anes- thrsie, ceci 6pargne aux patients une injection intramusculaire et la srcheresse de la bouche qui l'accompagne. Quant aux srdatifs lorsqu'ils sent indiqu~s, ils peuvent facilement se donner par vole rectale ou orale. Quels conseils faut-il donc donner h l'anesthr- siologiste au sujet de la chirurgie ophtalmique chez les enfant,s? Plusieurs d'entre eux n ' o n t pus le prlvil~ge de travailler en intense cooprration avec l'ophtalmologiste comme le font le docteur Blanc et ses associSs; il dolt done choisir la vole qui lui appara$t la plus sfire pour le patient. I1 parait bien ~vident que des complications srrieuses peuvent ~t l'occasion survenir fi cause du r~flexe oculo- cardiaque. Les anticholinergiques par vole intra- veineuse sent efficaces pour bloquer ce r~flexe et on n ' a pas d ' r v i d e n e e que eette pratique cause des complications srrieuses chez les enfants en bonne sant~. J ' e o eonelus que la meilleure politique suivre est encore d'administrer l'atropine intravei- neusement 0.02 m g ' k g -1 de poids corporel au ma- lade imm&tiatement avant toute chirurgie impli- quant les muscles extraoculaires et de bien moni- toter la frrquence cardiaque. 328 Les brbrs et les enfants porteurs de maladie cardiaque congrnitale et sprcialement les l~sions obstrnctives (strnose aortique, strnose pulmonaire) mrritent un commentaire: ils tol~rent real la tachy- cardie qui accompagne l'atropinisation. Cependant, il faut remarquer que chez tes tout jeunes enfants la C A N A D I A N A N A E S T H E T I S T S ' SOCIETY J O U R N A L rEponse-tachyeardie est beaucoup moins marqu6e que chez les patients plus ages, Autre remarque, les patients avec maladie cardiaque cengEnitale se- raient de bons candidats ~t ce rrgime it condition que l'on suive scrupuleusement les recommandations de Blanc et ses collaborateurs. Eric Webb MD ~CP(C), W.E. Spoerel Me race(c) General anaesthesia in dentistry The present day anaesthetist has seemingly forgot- ten, or chooses to ignore, that he owes his position in the medical world to two dentists, Horace Wells, who inhaled nitrous oxide for the painless extrac- tion of an infected tooth and William Morton, who introduced anaesthesia with his demonstration that the inhalation of diethyl-ether allowed pain-free surgery. The first use of ether for the painless extraction of a tooth was recorded in 1842 in Rochester, New York. Dr. Elijah Pope removed a tooth for a Miss Hobbie who had been given ether on a towel. The anaesthetist was a chemistry student, William Clarke, who had gained his experience by arranging ether frolics.~ Nathan Colley Keep, later Dean of Dentistry of Harvard, gave on April 7, 1848, intermittent ether inhalations to the wife of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for her first delivery; this was the first recorded obstetrical anaesthesia in North America. 2 The specialty of anaesthesia owes a great debt historically to the dental profession. In the 139 years since Horace Wells first inhaled nitrous oxide, an independent medical specialty has emerged and millions of patients every year benefit from surgical operations without pain. Many advances in technology, pharmacology and phy- From the Department of Anaesthesia, University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario. Address correspondence to: Dr. W.E. Spoerel, Department of Anaesthesia, University Hospital, P.O. Box 5339, Postal Station "A", London, Ontario, Ca- nada N6A 5A5. siology have since expanded anaesthesia but we are still relying on the discovery of the dentist from Hartford, Connecticut. Unhappily, anaesthetists in turn have not shown much gratitude to the dental profession. Dental anaesthesia does not rank very high in the esteem of most anaesthetists and has little glamour. Much of the blame must go to tradition which has as- signed irrationally the oral cavity to one profes- sion and given the rest of the body to another. The medical profession has concentrated in hospitals where equipment and help are provided and, for the surgical patient, the required anaesthesia is also included at public expense. Dentistry in its surgical and restorative aspect is almost entirely based on office practice. It is relatively recent that selected oral surgeons have gained access to the operating theatre where they are tolerated somewhat reluctantly. However, the vast majority of dentists have no access to hospitals and consequently are cut-off from the hospital based anaesthetist. In his office the dentist is using his own equip- ment and has trained his office personnel to suit his style of practice. Dentists have developed their own approach to anaesthesia and employ regional anaes- thesia and techniques of sedation with great skill. A few dentists have obtained training in giving gen- eral anaesthesia, but the dentist-anaesthetist has no official status amongst the medical anaesthetists. The result is that the patient who can readily get a safe general anaesthetic for a minor plastic surgical procedure, has to suffer through a much dreaded and more taxing and painful dental procedure 
work_ufart6wxfbhgvgfop7ii2h2x5m	----	0002.qxd 2 Editorial Diabetes Spectrum Volume 19, Number 1, 2006 Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow As I take the helm as editor of Diabetes Spectrum, I would be remiss if I did not first take a moment to thank and congratulate Belinda Childs and her team of associate editors. For the past 5 years, they have done an outstanding job bringing those of us who practice in the diabetes arena a journal filled with the latest research translated into practical applications for clinical use. The passion they bring to diabetes care was evident with each issue they published. Congratulations to them all on a job more than well done. It is an honor— albeit a daunting one—to follow in their footsteps. I have no doubt we will see each of their names in future issues of Diabetes Spectrum, for in the way of the American Diabetes Association (ADA), no volunteer is allowed to fade away. We hope they will take opportunities to serve as guest editors and write articles and guest editorials for many years to come. It is my privilege to be the new edi- tor of Diabetes Spectrum. It is also my great fortune to be able to work with such an able editorial team. The new associate editors were hand-picked for their passion, dedication, knowledge, and desire to improve the lives of peo- ple with diabetes. I would be lying if I did not tell you that, selfishly, they were also chosen because they adhere to deadlines! The work each of us does with the ADA has personal as well as profes- sional meaning. I was 11 years old when my mother was diagnosed with diabetes. She already knew what the devastation of living with diabetes could be; her mother also had diabetes. My mother died in 1982, just at the start of the Diabetes Control and Complication Trial (DCCT). This was before blood glucose monitors were really available and before the impor- tance of good blood glucose control was understood. It was rare that a hemoglobin A1c measurement was obtained. Instead, the gold standard was measurement of fasting blood glucose. Only a few oral agents and insulins were on the market. No one understood the importance of the team approach. Patients were rarely, if ever, included in the development of their own care plans. Our knowledge of diabetes and diabetes care was just emerging. Often, I think of what a higher quality of life my mother would have had with all that we know about diabetes today. I entered the diabetes health care force in 1982 as a nurse practitioner, primarily to help with human insulin research trials and the DCCT. I thought I would work a few years, have a baby or two, and move on. Little did I know that I would be caught up in such a powerful and exciting time for diabetes care. I could never have imagined how much we would learn about diabetes or how crucial it would be for us to translate that knowledge into prac- tice. Nor could I have ever guessed how significant a role my patients would play in my ability to under- stand diabetes from their first-hand viewpoint. The diabetes care community is different from other chronic care models. It is one of the few health care models that uses all of the vari- ous health care team members based on the needs of the person with dia- betes. It is also one of the few models that recognizes the need for patients and their families to be part of the team, if not to lead the team. Because of this unique model, it is vital that the educational needs of all team members be met. The ADA, always a leader in diabetes care, publishes numerous journals for this reason. Over the years, through the dedica- tion of many, Diabetes Spectrum has emerged to meet the needs of the health care team. In the more than 20 years that I have been involved in diabetes care, our knowledge of diabetes and the best practices for its care and treat- ment has grown and changed signifi- cantly. However, the disease contin- ues to challenge all who are touched by it. During the years of our term, it is my hope that this editorial team will continue the tradition of former edito- rial teams of providing a forum for critical information to enhance our readers’ clinical skills, with the ulti- mate goal of improving outcomes for people with diabetes. Continuing the Tradition Davida F. Kruger, MSN, APRN-BC, BC-ADM, Editor 
work_d4xnhhbxo5b7xj4vyxsjht4v7i	----	THE FOUNDING OF A T R A D I T I O N : A U S T R A L I A N / A M E R I C A N L I T E R A R Y RELATIONS BEFORE 1868 by DAVID JOHN HEADON M . A . , U n i v e r s i t y o f S y d n e y , 1976 A T H E S I S SUBMITTED IN P A R T I A L F U L F I L M E N T OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY i n THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES D e p a r t m e n t o f E n g l i s h We a c c e p t t h i s t h e s i s a s c o n f o r m i n g t o t h e r e q u i r e d s t a n d a r d THE U N I V E R S I T Y OF A p r i 1 ( ^ ) D a v i d J o h n B R I T I S H 1982 H e a d o n , COLUMBIA 1982 In presenting t h i s thesis i n p a r t i a l f u l f i l m e n t of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of B r i t i s h Columbia, I agree that the Library s h a l l make i t f r e e l y available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of t h i s thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. I t i s understood that copying or publication of t h i s thesis for f i n a n c i a l gain s h a l l not be allowed without my written permission. Department of The University of B r i t i s h Columbia 1956 Main Mall Vancouver, Canada V6T 1Y3 Date DE-6 (3/81) i i ABSTRACT In t h e e i g h t y y e a r s f r o m t h e a r r i v a l o f E n g l i s h c o n v i c t s a n d t h e i r g a o l e r s i n A u s t r a l i a t o t h e d e a t h , i n 1868, o f A u s t r a l i a ' s f i r s t m a j o r w r i t e r , C h a r l e s H a r p u r , an A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n was b o r n . T h i s d i s s e r t a t i o n t r a c e s t h e d e v e l o p m e n t o f t h a t t r a d i t i o n , o n e w h i c h few s c h o l a r s h a v e r e c o g n i z e d . E v e n b e f o r e t h e a r r i v a l o f t h e F i r s t F l e e t o f c o n v i c t s , many B r i t o n s saw A u s t r a l i a as p o t e n t i a l l y a n o t h e r A m e r i c a ; c o n - s e q u e n t l y , A u s t r a l i a ' s e a r l y i n h a b i t a n t s d i d s o t o o . A few r a d i c a l s and i d e a l i s t s e v e n c o n t e m p l a t e d C o o k ' s P a c i f i c d i s c o v e r y a s a new a n d p o t e n t i a l l y g r e a t e r A m e r i c a . B o t a n y B a y ' s f i r s t d e c a d e s n a t u r a l l y w i t n e s s e d some c h a n g e s i n t h e s e i n i t i a l p e r c e p t i o n s . Up t o D a r l i n g ' s p e r i o d o f g o v e r n o r s h i p (1825-31), A u s t r a l i a ' s r u l i n g e l i t e , t h o u g h f o r c e d t o t r a d e w i t h b u s y - - a n d , a t t i m e s , r u t h 1 e s s - - Y a n k e e m e r c h a n t s , c o n s i d e r e d t h e c o n t i n u i n g p r e s e n c e o f A m e r i c a n b o a t s t o be a t h r e a t t o t h e c o l o n y ' s s e c u r i t y : A m e r i c a n c a p t a i n s a i d e d i n t h e n u m e r o u s e s c a p e s o f c o n v i c t s o t h e r w i s e doomed t o s p e n d t h e t e r m s o f t h e i r n a t u r a l l i f e i n New H o l l a n d . R e a c t i o n t o A m e r i c a n s and A m e r i c a n i n f l u e n c e , t h e n , d e p e n d e d on o n e ' s p o s i t i o n i n t h e c o l o n i a l h i e r a r c h y . H o w e v e r , a f t e r G o v e r n o r B r i s b a n e d e c i d e d t o a l l o w f r e e d o m o f t h e P r e s s i n 1824, s i g n i f i c a n t s h i f t s i n t h e A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s h i p b e g a n . An e x p a n d i n g A u s t r a l i a n m i d d l e c l a s s , c h a f i n g u n d e r t h e s t r i c t u r e s I I I o f c o l o n i a l r u l e from London, began t o i d e n t i f y i t s s i t u a t i o n w i t h t h a t o f t h e c i t i z e n r y i n p r e - r e v o l u t i o n a r y A m e r i c a . Led i n i t i a l l y by W.C. Wentworth, who p u b l i s h e d h i s S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n i n 1819> demand f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t grew. T h i s d i s s e n t s h o u l d be viewed as A u s t r a l i a ' s f i r s t l i v e l y and r e c o g n i z a b l y i n d i g e n o u s l i t e r a t u r e . I t draws h e a v i l y on American p r e c e d e n t . In the 1830's, '40's and 1 5 0 1 s , r e v o l u t i o n a r y w r i t e r s such as Benjamin F r a n k l i n , Thomas J e f f e r s o n , Thomas P a i n e , James O t i s and P a t r i c k Henry became i n c r e a s i n g l y p o p u l a r amongst A u s t r a l i a n s i n s e a r c h o f p o l i t i c a l s o v e r e i g n t y . A m e r i c a came under s c r u t i n y as a c o u n t r y e x p e r i e n c i n g p a r a l l e l g r o w i n g p a i n s , but a t a more advanced s t a g e o f development. At the same t i m e , the example of American independence was o f r h e t o r i c a l and p o l i t i c a l v a l u e f o r A u s t r a l i a n s when d e a l i n g w i t h a r i g i d C o l o n i a l O f f i c e i n London. W h i l e " B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n , " as A m e r i c a was o f t e n a f f e c t i o n a t e l y l a b e l l e d , was a p o p u l a r p o l i t i c a l weapon up t o the 1 8 5 0 1 s , he was a l s o o f g r e a t 1i t e r a r y s i g n i f i c a n c e i n the l a t e r 1830's. Consumption o f American books i n A u s t r a l i a i n c r e a s e d d r a m a t i c a l l y as the p o p u l a t i o n expanded and books became cheaper. In I 8 3 8 , John Dunmore Lang's Colon i s t r e p r i n t e d W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing's e s s a y , "On the Importance and Means o f a N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e . " C o n s c i o u s o f the e f f o r t s o f Americans such as Channing, Emerson, Brownson, F u l l e r and P a r k e r t o e s t a b l i s h a s t r o n g n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , a s m a l l group o f d e d i c a t e d A u s t r a l i a n s s t r o v e t o a s s e r t t h e i r own c r e a t i v e independence. They r e c o g n i z e d not o n l y A u s t r a l i a ' s p o l i t i c a l a f f i n i t y w i t h A m e r i c a , but s o c i a l , i n t e l l e c t u a l and l i t e r a r y a t t a c h m e n t s as w e l l . i v C o n n e c t i o n s b e t w e e n A u s t r a l i a and A m e r i c a became f a r more s o p h i s t i c a t e d i n t h e 1 8 4 0 1 s , 1 5 0 1 s and ' 6 0 ' s f o r a v a r i e t y o f r e a s o n s . One was t h e g o l d f i e l d s i n C a l i f o r n i a a n d A u s t r a l i a , w i t h t h e s u b s e q u e n t i n t e r c h a n g e o f p o p u l a t i o n . A n o t h e r was t h e more a d v a n c e d s y s t e m o f c o m m u n i c a t i o n s b e t w e e n t h e two c o u n t r i e s - - t h e A m e r i c a n C i v i l W a r , f o r e x a m p l e , was e x h a u s t i v e l y c o v e r e d i n a l l A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s . T h i r d , and f o r t h i s t h e s i s most i m p o r t a n t l y , t h r e e A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s , J o h n D u n - m o r e L a n g , D a n i e l D e n i e h y a n d C h a r l e s H a r p u r d e t e r m i n e d t o c o n s u l t a w i d e r a n g e o f A m e r i c a n s o u r c e s i n t h e i r q u e s t t o e s t a b l i s h b o t h a h i g h l y p r i n c i p l e d n a t i o n a n d a t r u l y A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e . Y e t , a s t h e w o r k s o f L a n g , D e n i e h y a n d H a r p u r i n d i c a t e , A u s t r a l i a n s o f t h e t i m e r e j e c t e d t h e p a t h o f e a s y i m i t a t i o n o f B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n . A l l t h r e e w r i t e r s e n v i s a g e d t h e i r c o u n t r y a s a f u t u r e w o r 1 d - 1 e a d e r . R e j e c t i n g b o t h d e s p o t i c c o l o n i a 1 - g o v e r n m e n t r u l e a n d A m e r i c a ' s a b h o r r e n t i n s t i t u t i o n o f s l a v e r y , t h e y w a n t e d t o e s t a b l i s h an i d e a l r e p u b l i c i n t h e s o u t h - - a U t o p i a o f y e o m a n - f a r m e r s . S h a p e d by t h e s e r e p u b l i c a n m u s i n g s , d e m o c r a t i c s e n t i m e n t s and Utopian s p e c u l a t i o n s , a l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n o f e n e r g e t i c i n t e r a c t i o n b e t w e e n A u s t r a l i a n and A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s , e n l a r g i n g on s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l r o o t s a s o l d a s t h e c o l o n y i t s e l f , was f o u n d e d . TABLE OF CONTENTS Page INTRODUCTION 1 PART ONE: TO 1838 CHAPTER I: "A NEW AMERICA" OR BRITAIN'S "SINK OF WICKEDNESS " 52 S e c t i o n A. E x p l o r a t i o n and S e t t l e m e n t 52 S e c t i o n B. A t t i t u d e s t o the New C o l o n y - - i n England and Tory A u s t r a l i a 76 S e c t i o n C. C o n v i c t A t t i t u d e s 96 CHAPTER I I : PUBLICIZING THE "GRAND BEACON" 126 S e c t i o n A. The P r e s s 126 S e c t i o n B. S o c i e t y and L i t e r a t u r e 151 CHAPTER I I I : THE WRITERS 181 S e c t i o n A. W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth 181 S e c t i o n B. John Dunmore Lang . . 197 S e c t i o n C. Amasa Delano and C h a r l e s W i l k e s 201 v i P a g e P A R T TWO: 1838-68 C H A P T E R I V : S P R E A D I N G DEMOCRACY 2 2 4 S e c t i o n A . l 8 4 0 ' s 2 3 0 S e c t i o n B. 18501 s 2 4 4 S e c t i o n C . 1860' s 2 6 7 C H A P T E R V : YOUNG A M E R I C A A T L A R G E IN T H E C O L O N Y . . 2 9 4 S e c t i o n A . A u s t r a l i a n s R e a d i n g 2 9 4 S e c t i o n B . D e e p e r i n t o t h e V o r t e x 3 1 3 S e c t i o n C . T h e " ' G o - A - H e a d - A - T i v e " A m e r i c a n s . . . . 3 2 9 S e c t i o n D. M o n e y o r E v a n g e l i s m ? 3 4 2 C H A P T E R V I : S I G N A L F I R E S ON T H E R E D D E N I N G H I L L S . . . 365 S e c t i o n A . J . D . L a n g : G o i n g t h e W h o l e H o g 3 6 9 S e c t i o n B . D a n i e l H e n r y D e n i e h y : T h e V e h e m e n t V o i c e o f t h e S o u t h 3 9 6 S e c t i o n C . C h a r l e s H a r p u r : T h e W i l d B e e o f A u s t r a l i a 428 C O N C L U S I O N 4 8 5 B I B L I O G R A P H Y 5 0 5 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS T h i s t h e s i s was w r i t t e n o v e r a p e r i o d o f f o u r y e a r s . It was a p r i v i l e g e d t i m e , f o r I was f i n a n c i a l l y s u p p o r t e d by t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a , e v e n t h o u g h i n d u l g i n g i n a l a b o u r o f l o v e . I a p p r e c i a t e t h e g r e a t f a i t h o f t h a t i n s t i t u t i o n . It h a s b e e n my g o o d l u c k , a l s o , t o h a v e w o r k e d w i t h some m a r v e l l o u s c o l l e a g u e s . In p a r t i c u l a r , I w o u l d l i k e t o a c k n o w l e d g e t h e h e l p a n d e n c o u r a g e m e n t o f two d e a r f r i e n d s , P e t e r Q u a r t e r m a i n , my s u p e r v i s o r , a n d J i m T u l i p , o f t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f S y d n e y . I'm a l s o i n d e b t e d t o my o t h e r two c o m m i t t e e m e n , K e i t h A l l d r i t t and D i a n a B r y d o n , f o r r e a d i n g t h e d r a f t a n d f o r m a k i n g u s e f u l s u g g e s t i o n s , and t o B i l l New, J o s e p h J o n e s , A d r i a n M i t c h e l l , L e s M u r r a y a n d t h e l a t e W a l t e r S t o n e , who a l s o g a v e v a l u a b l e a s s i s t a n c e when t h e n e e d a r o s e . T h a n k s a l s o t o M a r i a n F r a s e r a n d P a u l S t . P i e r r e , t h e p a t i e n t p r o o f - r e a d e r s o f my m a n u s c r i p t , a n d t o L y n d a M i l l e r , my t a l e n t e d t y p i s t . I am g r a t e f u l a l s o t o t h e m o s t e f f i c i e n t l i b r a r y s t a f f o f U . B . C , i n p a r t i c u l a r A l i c e M c N a i r a n d K a r e n P e p l o w , a n d t o I. K e p a r s , a s s i s t a n t t o t h e A c t i n g D i r e c t o r f o r A u s t r a l i a n S t u d i e s a t t h e N a t i o n a l L i b r a r y v i i i o f A u s t r a l i a . A t o t h e r t i m e s I was a i d e d i n my r e s e a r c h by s t a f f a t t h e M i t c h e l l a n d F i s h e r l i b r a r i e s i n S y d n e y , W . H . B o n d , l i b r a r i a n a t t h e H o u g h t o n L i b r a r y , H a r v a r d , a n d Edward Di Roma, C h i e f , E c o n o m i c a n d P u b l i c A f f a i r s D i v i s i o n o f t h e New Y o r k P u b l i c L i b r a r y . F i n a l l y , my f a m i l y . In A u s t r a l i a , my mum a n d d a d w e r e t h r o u g h o u t my m o s t d i l i g e n t r e s e a r c h a s s i s t a n t s , and my i n s p i r a t i o n . H e r e i n V a n c o u v e r , my w i f e p u t up w i t h my h o c k e y a n d t h e s i s m o o d s , f e d m e , t y p e d f o r me, a n d l o v e d me. S i m p l e w o r d s o f g r a t i t u d e a r e i n - s u f f i c i e n t . ix T h a t o u r c o l o n i a l l i t e r a t u r e . . . i s commonly s q u e e z e d i n t o t h e s k i m p i e s t o f c h a p t e r s i n o u r h a n d b o o k s o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , i s d u e , I t h i n k , t o an e x a g g e r a t e d r e g a r d f o r e s t h e t i c v a l u e s . Our l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n s h a v e l a b o r e d u n d e r t o o h e a v y a h a n d i c a p o f t h e g e n t e e l t r a d i t i o n - - t o b o r r o w P r o f e s s o r S a n t a y a n a ' s h a p p y p h r a s e - - t o e n t e r s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y i n t o a w o r l d o f m a s c u l i n e i n t e l l e c t s a n d m a t e r i a l s t r u g g l e s . T h e y h a v e s o u g h t d a i n t i e r f a r e t h a n p o l e m i c s , a n d i n c o n s e q u e n c e m e d i o c r e v e r s e h a s o b s c u r e d p o l i t i c a l s p e c u l a t i o n , and p o e t a s t e r s h a v e s h o u l d e r e d a s i d e v i g o r o u s c r e a t i v e t h i n k e r s . V e r n o n L o u i s P a r r i n g t o n , M a i n C u r r e n t s i n A m e r i c a n T h o u g h t ( 1 9 2 7 ) 1 1 INTRODUCTION . . . A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e w i l l o n l y be i n a f a i r way o f development when t h e r e i s s i d e by s i d e w i t h i t an A u s t r a l i a n s c h o o l o f c r i t i c i s m . F o r , a f t e r a l l , one s h o u l d be judged by one's own p e o p l e . A. P a t c h e t t M a r t i n i n S l a d e n ' s A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s (1888)2 Siiince the mid 1960's, A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s have acknowledged a s u r p r i s i n g l y c l o s e r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h w r i t e r s from the U n i t e d S t a t e s - s u r p r i s i n g b e c a u s e , i n s t a n d a r d c r i t i c a l a p p r a i s a l s and h i s t o r i e s o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e , few c o n n e c t i o n s a r e n o t i c e d . T h i s a p p a r e n t l y sudden development, most c o n s p i c u o u s i n r e c e n t p o e t r y , r a i s e s the q u e s t i o n : d i d e a r l i e r A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s read American a u t h o r s ? I r o n i c a l l y y e t a p p r o p r i a t e l y , i t took an A m e r i c a n , Joseph J o n e s , i n a 1976 U n i v e r s i t y o f Queensland book, t o ask a q u e s t i o n w h i c h l a i d down a c h a l l e n g e t h a t few o r no A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c s have a d e q u a t e l y 3 met: "How does a democracy h e l p beget o t h e r d e m o c r a c i e s ? " P a r t l y a n s w e r i n g i t , Jones o b s e r v e s : L o o k i n g , o r l i s t e n i n g [ t o n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e ] more i n t e n s i v e l y the c o m p a r a t i v e r e a d e r may 2 a l s o become a w a r e o f a t o n e t h a t he c a n n o t l a b e l a s t h e e c h o o f a n y s i n g l e A m e r i c a n b u t t h a t n e v e r t h e l e s s s e t s up a r e s o n a n c e , a l o w - k e y e d t h e m a t i c hum, w h i c h he w o u l d l i k e t o be a b l e t o r e c o r d more p r e c i s e l y b u t i s n o t q u i t e s u r e a b o u t . T h i s i s i n t r i n s i c a l l y more i m p o r t a n t t h a n s p o r a d i c " d o c u m e n t a r y " e v i d e n c e s : i t s p r e s e n c e means t h a t two s e p a r a t e l i t e r a t u r e s a r e c l o s e t o e a c h o t h e r ' s w a v e l e n g t h , s o t o s p e a k - - t h a t two p e o p l e s must be t h i n k i n g a n d r e s p o n d - i n g a l o n g s i m i l a r l i n e s . ^ In e s s e n c e , J o n e s d e n i e s t h e m a t t e r o f d i r e c t l i t e r a r y c o r r e s p o n d e n c e , o p t i n g f o r a more g e n e r a l i z e d " s p i r i t o f t h e t i m e s , " w h i c h i s u n - d o c u m e n t a b l e . He b e g s t h e v e r y q u e s t i o n he r a i s e s . It i s t h e p u r p o s e o f t h i s t h e s i s t o i d e n t i f y a n d c l a r i f y a v i g o r o u s c u r r e n t o f A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n a c t i v i t y d u r i n g t h e e a r l y h i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n w r i t i n g up t o C h a r l e s H a r p u r ' s d e a t h i n 1868. By t h e e n d o f t h e 1860' s , H a r p u r , D a n i e l D e n i e h y and J o h n Dunmore L a n g had a d v a n c e d a r a d i c a l c r i t i q u e o f t h e i r s o c i e t y a n d l i t e r a t u r e w h i c h p u b l i c l y c o n f i r m e d t h e d i a l o g u e b e t w e e n A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s a n d A m e r i c a n s f r o m J e f f e r s o n and P a i n e t o C h a n n i n g , E m e r s o n and W h i t m a n . I n d e e d , when A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s o f t h e 1880's a n d ' 90 ' s t u r n e d - - a s s o many A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c a n s , U t o p i a n s , S i n g 1 e - T a x e r s , s o c i a l i s t s a n d bushmen t h e n d i d - - t o A m e r i c a a s a s o u r c e o f p o l i t i c a l a n d l i t e r a r y i n s p i r a t i o n , t h e y w e r e o n l y r e p e a t i n g , i n a more i n t e n s e and w i d e - s p r e a d w a y , w h a t A u s t r a l i a n s h a d d o n e f o r a t l e a s t two g e n e r a t i o n s . T h e y m e r e l y c o n s o l i d a t e d what a m o u n t e d , by t h e n , t o an A u s t r a l i a n t r a d i t i o n . I t was t h e p r a c t i c e o f t h e a n t i - c o l o n i a 1 w r i t e r a n d t h i n k e r t o l o o k t o A m e r i c a n s o u r c e s . S i m i l a r l y , a l m o s t a c e n t u r y l a t e r , f r o m t h e m i d d l e 1960's o n , s o c i a l d i s c o n t e n t a n d d i s g u s t w i t h t h e p r e v a i l i n g 3 l i t e r a r y c l i m a t e a g a i n g e n e r a t e d r e b e l l i o u s a t t i t u d e s a n d a t u r n t o w a r d s A m e r i c a n m o d e l s . T h e r e a r e , b a s i c a l l y , f o u r c r i t i c a l v i e w s o f t h e l i t e r a r y r e l a t i o n s b e t w e e n A u s t r a 1 i a o a n d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . F i r s t , t h e r e a r e t h o s e who h a v e deemed e x p l o r a t i o n o f t h e A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n f r u i t l e s s b e c a u s e i t s i m p l y d o e s n ' t e x i s t . In 19^1, F r e d A l e x a n d e r , o n e o f t h e f i r s t h i s t o r i a n s t o comment o n t h e i n f l u e n c e o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , m a i n - t a i n e d t h a t " A u s t r a l iajh a r t a n d l i t e r a t u r e owes much t o E n g l i s h a n d E u r o p e a n i n f l u e n c e a n d t o t h e i r own s t u r d y i n d e p e n d e n c e ; t h e y owe l i t t l e t o A m e r i c a n s o u r c e s . " E q u a l l y c o n v i n c e d , V i n c e n t B u c k l e y p r o m u l g a t e d a s i m i l a r l i n e i n 1957: " • • • s o f a r t h e i n f l u e n c e o f A m e r i c a n p o e t r y h a s b e e n s o t t e n t a t i v e a s t o be a l m o s t i n d i s c e r n i b l e . " A s r e c e n t l y a s 1970, Norman H a r p e r , s t u d y i n g t h e h i s t o r y . o f A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s , w r o t e t h a t t h e " A m e r i c a n i m p a c t was r e l a t i v e l y s l i g h t . . . a n d i t w a s n ' t u n t i l t h e 1930's t h a t A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e came t o i n f l u e n c e A u s t r a l i a n n o v e l i s t s . " ^ T h e s e c o n d v i e w o r i g i n a t e s w i t h t h o s e who i g n o r e t h e A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n c o m p l e t e l y . S u c h e a r l y l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n s a s G . B ' . B a r t o n m i g h t be e x c u s e d o n t h e g r o u n d s t h a t t h e y w e r e s e e k i n g t o e s t a b l i s h s o u r c e s , r a t h e r t h a n s t u d y them i n d e t a i l , a n d k n o w i n g l i t t l e o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , g o t on w i t h t h e i n i t i a l l y i m p o r t a n t b u s i n e s s o f c a t a l o g u i n g what t h e y c o u l d . S i m i l a r l y , t h e n e x t g e n e r a t i o n o f m a i n l y a c a d e m i c c r i t i c s was w r i t i n g w i t h a L o n d o n a u d i e n c e i n m i n d , a n d c o n s e q u e n t l y w i t h a " c o l o n i a l " v o c a b u l a r y . B u t t h e n e g l e c t o f t h e A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n by s u c h a c o m p a r a t i v e l y r e c e n t c r i t i c a s 4 G . A . W i l k e s c a n o n l y be a s c r i b e d t o i g n o r a n c e . W i l k e s h a s a p r e - c o n c e i v e d n o t i o n t h a t t h e o n l y l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n i s t h e g r e a t E n g l i s h g 1i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n . S u c h c o n s e r v a t i s m i s e q u a l l y a p p a r e n t i n t h e t h i r d v i e w : t h e p a s s i o n a t e r e s i s t a n c e t o m o d e r n i s t v e r s e i n A u s t r a l i a d u r i n g t h e u n a d v e n t u r o u s y e a r s b e t w e e n 1920 and I960. T h e v i l l a i n , t h e r e a l t h r e a t , i s m o s t o f t e n i d e n t i f i e d a s t h e f r e e - v e r s e r f r o m A m e r i c a ; t h e d e f e n d e r s o f t h e f o r m a l t r a d i t i o n r a n g e f r o m a c a d e m y p o e t - c r i t i c s s u c h a s A . D . Hope a n d James M c A u l e y , t o f r e e l a n c e w r i t e r s l i k e James D e v a n e y a n d F . T . M a c a r t n e y . T h e f o u r t h v i e w , a p p a r e n t i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , i d e n t i f i e d A m e r i c a a s an o l d e r - b r o t h e r f i g u r e who had b e e n t h r o u g h an i d e n t i c a l t e e t h i n g s t a g e o f d e v e l o p m e n t . T h i s a t t i t u d e was a r t i c u l a t e d e a r l y by a number o f r a d i c a l n e w s p a p e r s i n t h e l 8 2 0 ' s and 1 3 0 1 s , n o t a b l y J o h n Dunmore L a n g ' s w e e k l y T h e C o l o n i s t (1835-41). It f o u n d s o c i a l e x p r e s s i o n i n p o t e n t i a l l y r e v o l u t i o n a r y a c t i o n s s u c h a s t h o s e o f T a s m a n i a ' s " P a t r i o t i c S i x " (1846) a n d t h o s e a t t h e E u r e k a S t o c k a d e ( 1 8 5 4 ) . 9 C l e a r l y , t h e A m e r i c a n q u e s t i o n , m a r k e d by t h e n e g l e c t , i g n o r a n c e a n d p r e j u d i c e o f a w i d e v a r i e t y o f c o m m e n t a t o r s f o r s o l o n g , n e e d s c a r e f u l e x a m i n a t i o n . One must a v o i d t h e c o n s t a n t s t r e a m o f u n r e s e a r c h e d , b a l d a s s e r t i o n s w h i c h o n l y s e r v e t o c o n f u s e t h e i s s u e s . T h e c o n t i n u e d f a i l u r e t o a c k n o w l e d g e t h e h i s t o r i c a l a n d l i t e r a r y i m p o r t a n c e o f an A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n h a s r e s u l t e d i n a d e n i a l o f t h e r e c o g n i t i o n d u e t o c e r t a i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s . a n d l t h i n k e r s , i n 5 p a r t i c u l a r J o h n Dunmore L a n g a n d D a n i e l D e n i e h y . T h i s t h e s i s , e x a m i n i n g t h e c h a n g i n g n a t u r e o f t h e A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n i n t e r a c t i o n i n p o e t r y a n d p r o s e , c o m p r i s e s two m a i n s e c t i o n s . T h e o p e n i n g s e c t i o n e x p l o r e s t h e f i r s t f i f t y y e a r s o f s e t t l e m e n t , b e g i n n i n g w i t h t h e c i r c u m s t a n c e s l e a d i n g up t o G o v e r n o r P h i l l i p ' s a r r i v a l a t S y d n e y C o v e a n d t h e s y m b o l i c u n f u r l i n g o f t h e U n i o n J a c k o n t h e n i g h t o f J a n u a r y 26th, 1788. It e n d s i n I838, when J o h n Dunmore L a n g ' s C o l o n i s t p r i n t e d W i l l i a m E l l e r y C h a n n i n g ' s e s s a y , "On t h e I m p o r t a n c e a n d Means o f a N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e . " T h e s e c o n d p e r i o d s t r e t c h e s f r o m I838 t o C h a r l e s H a r p u r ' s d e a t h i n 1868, an a p p r o p r i a t e d a t e t o mark t h e d e m i s e o f t h e f i r s t g e n e r a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n r a d i c a l s . D a n i e l D e n i e h y d i e d i n 1865» a n d L a n g ' s p o l e m i c a l o u t b u r s t s had waned by t h e l860's. D u r i n g t h i s t h i r t y - y e a r s p a n , r e p u b l i c a n v e r s e s , w i t h o b v i o u s A m e r i c a n a n a l o g u e s , c o n s i s t e n t l y f e a t u r e d i n c o l o n i a l n e w s p a p e r s . W r i t e r s p e n n e d t h e i r p r o t e s t s and p u b l i c i z e d t h e i r h o p e i n a f u t u r e Utopian A u s t r a 1 i ar.wh i c h m i g h t e v e n t u a l l y p r o v i d e a m o r a l e x a m p l e f o r a l l t h e w o r l d t o f o l l o w . My a p p r o a c h t o t h e y e a r s c o v e r e d by t h e t h e s i s a c c o r d s i n o n e i m p o r t a n t way w i t h t h a t o f W e l s h s c h o l a r , Raymond W i l l i a m s , i n h i s two c r i t i c a l h i s t o r i e s o f E n g l i s h i d e a s and v a l u e s , C u l t u r e and S o c i e t y (1958) a n d T h e L o n g R e v o l u t i o n (i960). W h i l e m i n e i s n o t a M a r x i s t c r i t i q u e , i t i s , l i k e W i l l i a m s ' , f o c u s s e d o n c u l t u r a l e v o l u t i o n - - on t h e i m p o r t a n c e n o t o n l y o f t h e e s t a b l i s h e d l i t e r a r y g e n r e s , b u t o f t h e w i d e r " b o d y o f i n t e l l e c t u a l a n d i m a g i n a t i v e w o r k w h i c h e a c h 1 2 g e n e r a t i o n r e c e i v e s a s i t s t r a d i t i o n a l c u l t u r e . " 6 F o r t h e g r e a t e r p a r t o f i t s h i s t o r y , A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m h a s a t w o r s t p a i d s c a n t a t t e n t i o n t o t h e A m e r i c a n c o n t r i b u t i o n , a n d a t b e s t b i t t e r l y a t t a c k e d i t s r a d i c a l p r o p o s i t i o n s . T h e l o n g - t e r m e f f e c t s o f t h i s c a n n o t be u n d e r e s t i m a t e d . G . B . B a r t o n ' s L i t e r a t u r e i n New S o u t h W a l e s ( 1 8 6 6 ) , w h i c h c o m p l a c e n t l y a s s e r t s A u s t r a l i a ' s d e b t t o t h e " M o t h e r C o u n t r y , " g a v e way t o H . M . G r e e n ' s An Out 1 i n e o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e (1930) a n d h i s l a t e r A H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e ( 1 9 6 1 ) . T h e s e , i n t u r n , g a v e way t o G . A . W i 1 k e s ' s A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e : .-A- C o n s p e c t u s ( 1 9 6 9 ) , i n w h i c h t h e w e i g h t f a l l s e x c l u s i v e l y 13 o n t h e " E u r o p e a n t r a d i t i o n . " T h e s e w o r k s g e n e r a t e an e m p h a s i s i n A u s t r a l i a n l e t t e r s w h i c h few c r i t i c s h a v e s e r i o u s l y q u e s t i o n e d , u n t i l r e c e n t l y . T h e f i r s t b e l l e t r i s t i c p o e t s i n A u s t r a l i a a n d t h e i r s u b s e q u e n t c r i t i c s t r u s t e d , a l o n g w i t h James M a c a r t h u r , t h a t " R e a s o n a n d E n g l a n d " 14 w o u l d p r e v a i l o v e r " d e m o c r a c y a n d A u s t r a l i a . " H o w e v e r , a f t e r t h e g o l d r u s h o f t h e 1 8 5 0 ' s a n d t h e s u d d e n s w e l l i n p o p u l a t i o n , t h e c o n - t i n u e d d o m i n a n c e o f E n g l i s h " R e a s o n , " e s p e c i a l l y i n A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c i s m , i s more d i f f i c u l t t o a c c o u n t f o r . What f a c t o r s i n f l u e n c e d c r i t i c s i n t h e y e a r s b e t w e e n B a r t o n ' s i n i t i a t i n g s t u d y a n d W i l k e s ' e q u a l l y r e s t r i c t i v e f r a m e w o r k ? T h i s c o m p l e x q u e s t i o n i s c e n t r a l t o an u n d e r - s t a n d i n g o f t h e A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n w i t h A u s t r a 1 i a n 1 i t e r a t u r e . T h e h i s t o r y f a l l s i n t o f o u r c l e a r p e r i o d s : t h e e a r l y y e a r s ( 1 8 1 0 - 6 0 ) ; t h e y e a r s o f a c a d e m i c c o l o n i a l i s m ( 1 8 6 0 - 1 9 0 0 ) ; t h e a r i d y e a r s ( 1 9 0 0 - 4 0 ) ; a n d t h e y e a r s d o m i n a t e d by t h e new c o l o n i a l s ( 1 9 4 0 - 7 0 ) . 7 1810-60 May t h i s - - t h y l a s t born INFANT--then a r i s e , To g l a d thy h e a r t , and g r e e t thy.'PARENT e y e s ; And AUSTRALASIA f l o a t , w i t h f l a g u n f u r l e d , A new BRITTANIA i n a n o t h e r w o r l d ! W.C. Wentworth, " A u s t r a l a s i a " (1823) 1 5 A u s t r a l i a ' s f i r s t f i f t y y e a r s as an E n g l i s h c o l o n y p r o d u c e d , not u n e x p e c t e d l y , l i t t l e w r i t i n g o f l i t e r a r y q u a l i t y and v i r t u a l l y no s e a r c h i n g c r i t i c i s m . Yet the c l i m a t e i n the e a r l y y e a r s f o r the a s p i r i n g w r i t e r h e l p s t o e x p l a i n c r i t i c a l r e s p o n s e s l a t e r i n the c e n t u r y and, f o r t h i s r e a s o n , w a r r a n t s some a t t e n t i o n . E n g l a n d , f o r the bard i n the A u s t n a l i a n w i l d e r n e s s , meant more than a mere l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n i n w h i c h he c o u l d w r i t e . I t r e p r e s e n t e d an e n t i r e way o f l o o k i n g a t the w o r l d . I t w o u l d , however, i n the l o n g run be an i r r e l e v a n t way, i n a n o t h e r hemisphere, under a d i f f e r e n t s k y - - and i t i s an i r r e l e v a n c e not u n l i k e t h a t s u f f e r e d by American w r i t e r s who, f o r o v e r two c e n t u r i e s , were a p t t o u t i l i z e an Old-World v o c a b u l a r y and t r a d i t i o n i n a New-World l a n d s c a p e . In 193**, W i l l i a m C a r l o s W i l l i a m s a r t i c u l a t e d the dilemma o f the American w r i t e r when, a t the b e g i n n i n g o f h i s e s s a y on "The American Background," he remarked on the d i s c o m f o r t o f the e a r l y s e t t l e r s : They saw b i r d s w i t h r u s t y b r e a s t s and c a l l e d them r o b i n s . Thus from the s t a r t , an A m e r i c a o f w h i c h they c o u l d have had no i n k l i n g drove the f i r s t s e t t l e r s upon t h e i r p a s t . They r e t r e a t e d f o r warmth and r e a s s u r a n c e t o something p r e v i o u s l y f a m i l i a r . But a t a c o s t . For what they saw were not rob i ns J ° 8 S i m i l a r p r o b l e m s f a c e d t h e f i r s t A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s , many o f whom, c o n f r o n t e d by t h e d i f f i c u l t i e s a n d c o n f u s i o n s o f n a m i n g a n e w , g l a d l y - - a n d m i s t a k e n l y - - t h o u g h t o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e a s an i n s i g n i f i c a n t b r a n c h o f E n g l i s h l i t e r a t u r e . T h i s a t t i t u d e , more t h a n a n y o t h e r , h e l p e d t o m o u l d d e r i v a t i v e c o l o n i a l t h i n k i n g . It s t i l l s u r v i v e s . In a c o u n t r y s t r u g g l i n g f o r p h y s i c a l s u r v i v a l , l i t e r a t u r e n e c e s s a r i had a low p r i o r i t y . A number o f y e a r s p a s s e d b e f o r e t h e wooden s c r e w - p r e s s b r o u g h t t o t h e s e t t l e m e n t by P h i l l i p , i n 1788, was e v e n u s e d . In f a c t , i t w a s n ' t u n t i l M a c q u a r i e ' s p e r i o d o f g o v e r n s h i p t h a t some poems w e r e p u b l i s h e d s e p a r a t e l y : M i c h a e l M a s s e y R o b i n s o n ' s s e r i e s o f b i r t h d a y o d e s (1810-21), a n d t h e " f r u i t s " o f t h e s e l f - p r o c l a i m e d f i r s t " A u s t r a l h a r m o n i s t , " B a r r o n F i e l d (1819).^ T h e n , a l i t t l e l a t e r , came W . C . W e n t w o r t h ' s p r i z e - w i n n i n g A u s t ra1 a s i a , an Ode (1823) a n d t h e " w i l d n o t e s " o f C h a r l e s T o m p s o n ' s " l y r e " (1826). Some i d e a o f t h e t e c h n i q u e s , m o t i v a t i o n s , a n d t h e i n t e n d e d a u d i e n c e o f t h e s e e a r l y p o e t s (and t h e i r l e s s e r c o n t e m p o r a r i e s ) c a n be g a i n e d f r o m R o b i n s o n ' s e x a m p l e . F o r h i s a n n u a l o d e s he r e c e i v e d two cows f r o m t h e g o v e r n m e n t h e r d - - a t o k e n o f M a c q u a r i e ' s a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h e 18 u p l i f t i n g , p a t r i o t i c a l l y E n g l i s h t o n e o f t h e p o e m s . N e e d l e s s t o s a y , b o t h o f t h e E n g l i s h m o n a r c h s a n d M a c q u a r i e w e r e l a u d e d by R o b i n s o n f o r t h e i r b e n e v o l e n c e , f o r e s i g h t a n d c o u r a g e . F i r m l y A u g u s t a n , t h e f i r s t o d e p u b l i s h e d i l l u s t r a t e s t h e s h a l l o w r h e t o r i c a l f l o u r i s h o f a l l t h a t f o l l o w e d o v e r t h e n e x t e l e v e n y e a r s : T h o u g h , w a f t e d by t h e r e f l u e n t T i d e s , Y o u r w a t e r y W a s t e h e r S o n s d i v i d e , 9 S t i l l s h a l l t h e Muse p r e f e r h e r t r i b u t e L a y , And A u s t r a l a s i a h a i l h e r e G E O R G E ' S N a t a l D a y . A u s p i c i o u s M o r n ! t o BRITONS d e a r : T h e P r i d e o f e a c h r e v o l v i n g Y e a r ! 19 L a t e r o d e s p r o p a g a n d i z e , p r o c l a i m i n g t h e c o l o n i s t s ' z e a l a n d a c h i e v e m e n t s : . . . BR I T T A N I A 1 S S o n s came f o r t h , t o b r a v e T h e d r e a r y P e r i l s o f t h e l e n g t h ' n i n g W a v e ; When h e r b o l d B a r k s , w i t h s w e l l i n g S a i l s u n f u r l e d , T r a c ' d t h e s e r u d e C o a s t s , and h a i l ' d a n e w - f o u n d W o r l d . S o o n a s t h e i r F o o t s t e p s p r e s s ' d t h e y i e l d i n g s a n d , A s u n more g e n i a l b r i g h t e n ' d on t h e L a n d : Commerce a n d A r t s e n r i c h ' d t h e s o c i a l S o i l , B u r s t t h r o u g h t h e g l o o m and b a d e a l l N a t u r e s m i l e . 2 0 B u t R o b i n s o n , a c o n v i c t e d b l a c k m a i l e r , p e r j u r e r a n d f o r g e r w i t h s e n s e e n o u g h t o be d i s i n g e n u o u s a t a t i m e when t h e r e w a r d s r e a p e d t h r o u g h g o v e r n m e n t a l p a t r o n a g e made i t w o r t h w h i l e , r a r e l y s t r a y e d f a r f r o m m o n o t o n o u s l y r e p e t i t i v e a d u l a t i o n t o w a r d s h i s S O V E R E I G N ! - - t o whom t h y P e o p l e b e n d , A n d h a i l t h e i r GUARDIAN, F A T H E R , F R I E N D ! . . . O h , d e i g n f r o m d i s t a n t S h o r e s t o h e a r T h e u n i v e r s a l W i s h , s i n c e r e , R e - e c h o ' d f r o m A U S T R A L I A ' S L a n d W h i c h g r a t e f u l owns t h y f o s t ' r i n g H a n d ; - - T h a t H E A V ' N i n d u l g e n t t o a N A T I O N ' S P R A Y E R , MAY LONG THEIR SIRE P R E S E R V E — T H E IR MONARCH S P A R E ! 2 1 Who c o u l d b l a m e him? R o b i n s o n knew w h e r e h i s n e x t meal was c o m i n g f r o m . If t h e n a r r o w n e s s o f s u b j e c t m u s t a t t i m e s h a v e made t h e o n s e t o f J u n e i n l a t e r y e a r s a b o r i n g p r o s p e c t f o r R o b i n s o n , t h e f i n a n c i a l r e c o m p e n s e a n d p r e s t i g e a s A u s t r a l i a ' s f i r s t " P o e t L a u r e a t " no d o u b t 22 c o m p e n s a t e d . F o r t h e f i r s t o f many t i m e s t o c o m e , e x t e r n a l 10 c o n s i d e r a t i o n s - - t h e p e r v a s i v e a c t u a l and p s y c h o l o g i c a l p r e s e n c e o f "Home"--heavily i n f l u e n c e d the pen o f the c o l o n i a l w r i t e r . I n e v i t a b l y , many l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s w o u l d , i n t h e f u t u r e , e s t a b l i s h t h e i r c r i t e r i a i n p u r e l y E n g l i s h terms. Though Robinson's c o n t e m p o r a r i e s d i d not e n j o y the same l o c a l esteem and f i n a n c i a l recompense f o r t h e i r v e r s e as he, they were no l e s s aware o f the a u d i e n c e they were a t t e m p t i n g t o p l e a s e and t h e a p p r o p r i a t e form t h e i r v e r s e s h o u l d t a k e . They, t o o , wanted t o maximize t h e i r chances o f a warm r e c e p t i o n from the E n g l i s h c r i t i c s . For example, i n 1819, B a r r o n F i e l d , the k i n g ' s r e p r e s e n t a t i v e i n the Supreme C o u r t o f the c o l o n y , p u b l i s h e d a s l i m two-poem volume w i t h 23 the m i l d l y a m b i t i o u s t i t l e F i r s t F r u i t s o f A u s t r a l i a n P o e t r y . Both o f the poems, "Botany-Bay F l o w e r s " and "The Kangaroo," penned s o l e l y f o r the consumption o f a d i s t a n t London p u b l i c , e x p l o i t the o d d i t i e s o f l o c a l f l o r a and f a u n a . F i e l d wasn't i n t e r e s t e d i n r e s p o n d i n g i n an i n d i v i d u a l way t o the c h a l l e n g i n g c i r c u m s t a n c e s i n which he found h i m s e l f . He d i d n ' t a t t e m p t t o see the c o u n t r y w i t h new e y e s . R a t h e r , 2k as one c r i t i c has s a i d , he " c o n c e p t u a l i z e d i t i n s t e a d . " A c c o r d i n g l y , t h e n , h i s t r a v e l o g u e i n c l u d e d A F l o w e r [which] gladden'd me above the r e s t , Shap'd t r u m p e t - 1 i k e , which from a palmy s t a l k Hangs c l u s t ' r i n g , h y a c i n t h i n e , c r i m s o n red M e l t i n g t o w h i t e . B o t a n i c S c i e n c e p a l l s The p l a n t EPACRIS GRAND I FLORA . . . 5 L a t e r , he 11 . . . [spies] the Flowret in the grass, Which forms the subject of this humble Song, And (treason to my wedded Flower) cried: — Th1 Australian 'fringed V i o l e t ' Shall henceforward be my pet! . . . And here are winged grasshoppers; And, as to gnats for waggoners, We have musquitoes w i l l suffice To drive her team of atomies. 26 This was exactly what the reading public back home, needing to be t i t i l l a t e d by the exotic, wanted to hear. They were already well on the way to establishing their own uninformed images of England's latest acquisition to the south, stereotypes to which many ambitious colonial bards and c r i t i c s happily succumbed for most of the nine- teenth century. Thus, some seventy years l a t e r , Douglas Sladen's three anthologies of 1888 are crammed f u l l of black gins, gum-trees, 27 kangaroos and Buddawong seed-nuts. Fields' purpose in F i r s t Fru i ts does not s i g n i f i c a n t l y d i f f e r from that of the host of reportage novelists in the following t h i r t y years up to 1850. Both convey information, often humorously, for a remote audience, seeking throughout to entertain and enlighten, c certainly not to disturb. The intention is not so much to convey accurate information as to meet the preconceptions of a distant reader. Knowing he would soon be returning to England, Field also wanted to establish for himself a modest reputation as a l i t e r a r y gentleman, a common colonial ambition. The problem of satisfying established, and foreign, l i t e r a r y c r i t e r i a also beset native-born writers throughout the century, 12 p a r t i c u l a r l y e a r l y b e l l e t r i s t i c p o e t s s u c h a s C h a r l e s T o m p s o n a n d W . C . W e n t w o r t h . B u t w h i l e c r i t i c s h a v e c o n s t a n t l y e m p h a s i z e d t h e i r E n g l i s h n e s s , t h e y h a v e d o w n p l a y e d t h e c i r c u m s t a n c e s u n d e r w h i c h t h e y w r o t e . B o t h Tompson a n d W e n t w o r t h d i s p l a y e d some a b i l i t y a s p o e t s ( p a r t i c u l a r l y T o m p s o n ) ; t h e y e m p h a s i z e d c o n t e m p l a t i o n , p e r s o n a l i t y and a f a i r l y s o p h i s t i c a t e d a w a r e n e s s o f t h e i r l o c a l e . B u t t h e i r c h o i c e o f p o e t i c f o r m and g e n e r a l a t t i t u d e s was no l e s s d e r i v a t i v e t h a n t h a t o f t h e e x p a t r i a t e s . T h e i r v e r s e l a u d e d A u s t r a l i a a s p o t e n t i a l l y a n o t h e r E n g l a n d . T o m p s o n w r o t e e l e g i e s , o d e s a n d p a s t o r a l s i n a t t i m e s s e l f - p r o c l a i m e d i m i t a t i o n o f t h e l i k e s o f P o p e , Cowper and 28 G r a y . H i s " A n E l e g y on W i n t e r i n A r g y l e s h i r e " d e a l s w i t h t h e o n - s e t o f w i n t e r i n New S o u t h W a l e s , n o t S c o t l a n d , t h o u g h t h e u n i n f o r m e d r e a d e r m i g h t n o t t h i n k s o : No m o r e a r e h e a r d t h e t h r u s h ' s m e l l o w n o t e s , No more t h e p l o v e r m o u n t s t h e e v ' n i n g b r e e z e , No more t h e s o a r i n g l a r k o n a e t h e r f l o a t s , S p o i l ' d o f t h e i r h o n o u r s , mourn t h e l e a f l e s s t r e e s . ^9 W i t h o u t t h e e a r l y r e f e r e n c e t o t h e " A n t a r c t i c w i l d s , " and t h e n e c e s s a r y u s e o f an a b o r i g i n a l p l a c e name, t h e poem i s s o c o n v e n t i o n a l a n d g e n e r a l i n i t s d i c t i o n a n d s y n t a x a s t o be t h o r o u g h l y a t home i n t h e n o r t h e r n h e m i s p h e r e . P e r h a p s W . C . W e n t w o r t h b e s t r e f l e c t s t h e p r e v a i l i n g s e n t i m e n t s o f t h o s e e s t a b l i s h i n g e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n l e t t e r s . H i s c o n c l u s i o n t o " A u s t r a l a s i a , " a t o n c e o p t i m i s t i c a b o u t an i n d e p e n d e n t f u t u r e and u n w a v e r i n g l y p a t r i o t i c t o B r i t a i n , i m p l o r e s " C e l e s t i a l p o e s y " t o 13 . . . g r a n t t h a t y e t an A u s t r a l M i l t o n ' s s o n g P a c t o l u s - 1 i k e f l o w d e e p a n d r i c h a l o n g : - - An A u s t r a l S h a k e s p e a r e r i s e , w h o s e l i v i n g p a g e T o N a t u r e t r u e may c h a r m i n e v ' r y a g e ; - - A n d t h a t an A u s t r a l P i n d a r d a r i n g s o a r , Where n o t t h e T h e b a n E a g l e r e a c h ' d b e f o r e . A n d , oh B r i t t a n i a ! s h o u l d ' s t t h o u c e a s e t o r i d e D e s p o t i c E m p r e s s o f o l d O c e a n ' s t i d e ; - - S h o u l d t h y t a m ' d L i o n — s p e n t h i s f o r m e r m i g h t - - No l o n g e r r o a r , t h e t e r r o r o f t h e f i g h t : — S h o u l d e ' e r a r r i v e t h a t d a r k , d i s a s t r o u s h o u r , When t h o u , no l o n g e r f r e e s t o f t h e f r e e , T o some p r o u d v i c t o r b e n d ' s t t h e v a n q u i s h ' d k n e e ; — May a l l t h y g l o r i e s i n a n o t h e r s p h e r e R e l u m e , a n d s h i n e more b r i g h t l y s t i l l t h a n h e r e ; May t h i s — t h y l a s t - b o r n INFANT— t h e n a r i s e , T o g l a d t h y h e a r t , and g r e e t t h y PARENT e y e s ; And A U S T R A L A S I A f l o a t , w i t h f l a g u n f u r l ' d , A new BRITANNIA i n a n o t h e r w o r l d ! 30 It was W e n t w o r t h w h o , i n 1853, w o u l d p i l o t t h e c a u s e o f t h o s e a d v o c a t i n g an u p p e r h o u s e i n New S o u t h W a l e s c o m p r i s e d o n l y o f men w i t h h e r e d i t a r y t i t l e s b a s e d o n l a n d h o l d i n g s - - a n A u s t r a l i a n H o u s e o f L o r d s . T h i s i s a f a r c r y f r o m t h e r a d i c a l c h a l l e n g e s and a n g r y y o u n g m a n ' s c o n f i d e n c e e v i d e n t i n h i s f i r s t p r i n t e d w o r k : A S t a t i s t i c a i , Hi s t o r icall and P o l i t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n o f t h e C o l o n y o f New S o u t h W a l e s (1819). 3 1 In t h i s c l i m a t e o f l i t e r a r y d e p e n d e n c e , c r i t i c s i n e v i t a b l y f o l l o w e d t h e a p p a r e n t t e n d e n c y o f m o s t l o c a l w r i t e r s a s , i n t h e l a t e e i g h t e e n t h a n d e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r i e s , t h e y h a d i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . r - , When s e r i o u s r e v i e w i n g b e g a n i n A u s t r a l i a i n t h e l 8 3 0 ' s , E n g l i s h p e r i o d i c a l s s e t t h e s t a n d a r d s . S i n c e m u c h , b u t by no means a l l A u s t r a l i a n w r i t i n g b e f o r e 1868 r e f l e c t e d s t o l i d l y c o l o n i a l t h i n k i n g , s o t o o d i d t h e c o n c o m i t a n t c r i t i c a l c o m m e n t a r y o n t h a t w r i t i n g . A c r i t i c a l o r t h o d o x y - - s u b s e r v i e n t t o E n g l i s h s t a n d a r d s - - t o o k s h a p e , i n s p i t e o f an e q u a l l y c o m m i t t e d b u t l e s s v i s i b l e and n u m e r o u s g r o u p o f A u s t r a l i a n s d e d i c a t e d 32 t o d e m o c r a t i z i n g s o c i e t y a n d l i t e r a t u r e . In 1969, G . A . W i l k e s r e m a r k e d t h a t i n t h e y e a r s b e t w e e n C o o k ' s l a n d i n g a t B o t a n y B a y , i n 1770, a n d t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f C h a r l e s T o m p s o n ' s W i l d N o t e s , i n 1826, A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e had a more c u l t i v a t e d t e m p e r t h a n i t was e v e r t o p o s s e s s a g a i n , and an e l e g a n c e o f f o r m t h a t i t w o u l d be l o n g i n r e c o v e r i n g . T h e l i b r a r i e s o f e d u c a t e d c o l o n i s t s a t t h i s t i m e t y p i c a l l y i n c l u d e d t h e w o r k s o f P o p e , Cowper a n d G o l d s m i t h , w i t h T h o m s o n ' s S e a s o n s , Y o u n g ' s N i g h t T h o u g h t s , a n d B l a i r ' s T h e G r a v e . It was c o m p l e t e l y n a t u r a l f o r l o c a l w r i t e r s t o f o l l o w t h e s e l i t e r a r y m o d e s . . . .33 When W i l k e s i d e n t i f i e s an e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y E n g l i s h l i t e r a r y s t y l e w i t h " c u l t i v a t i o n , " he r e v e a l s h i m s e l f a s an A n g l o p h i l e o f p e r h a p s l i m i t e d l i t e r a r y s e n s i b i l i t y . S e c o n d l y , i n u p h o l d i n g " c u l t i v a t i o n " a s d e s i r a b l e , he i s d e f e n d i n g t h e t r a d i t i o n t h a t f i n d s a e s t h e t i c a n d i n t e l l e c t u a l v a l u e s o l e l y i n t h e e i g h t e e n t h a n d n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y E n g l i s h p e r i o d i c a l . T h i r d , and m o s t i m p o r t a n t l y , t h i s v i e w o f l i t e r a t u r e n e c e s s a r i l y d e n i e s l i t e r a r y v a l u e t o a n y o t h e r k i n d o f w r i t i n g . In o r d e r t o e s t a b l i s h a more r e l i a b l e p e r s p e c t i v e , i t i s n e c e s s a r y , t h e r e f o r e , t o l o o k a t t h e a l t e r n a t i v e b o d y o f l i t e r a t u r e t o w h i c h m o s t l i t e r a r y c o m m e n t a t o r s h a v e p a i d v i r t u a l l y no a t t e n t i o n . In a c o u n t r y f o u n d e d a l o n g s c h i s m a t i c l i n e s , i n i t i a l l y c o m m i t t e d t o t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a s h a r p s o c i a l d i v i s i o n b e t w e e n t h e p r i v i l e g e d c o l o n i a l a d m i n i s t r a t o r and t h e l o w l y c o n v i c t , t h r e e k i n d s o f w r i t i n g a r e e v i d e n t . T h e r e i s t h a t p r o d u c e d by t h e l o c a l " a r i s t o c r a t i c " 15 c i r c l e s - - t h o s e u n q u e s t i o n i n g 1 y l o y a l t o t h e k i n g , o r s h r e w d e n o u g h t o mouth p a t r i o t i c s e n t i m e n t s . It e m p h a s i z e d t h e s c u l p t u r e d c a r e o f A u g u s t a n m o d e s , u s i n g a l a n g u a g e a l i e n t o A u s t r a l i a n c i r c u m s t a n c e s . T h e r e i s t h a t w r i t i n g p r o d u c e d by t h e s t e a d i l y more i n f l u e n t i a l m i d d l e c l a s s , w h i c h u s u a l l y f o u n d e x p r e s s i o n i n t h e n e w s p a p e r s . T h e t h i r d i s t h a t o f t h e i l l i t e r a t e c o n v i c t , w h i c h o f t e n i n v o l v e d s a r d o n i c a p p r a i s a l o f t h e a c t u a l i t i e s o f t h e A u s t r a l i a n e n v i r o n m e n t . It was o r a l , and c o n s t i t u t e d a f o l k l i t e r a t u r e . A s t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y p r o g r e s s e d , many c r i t i c s p a i d a t t e n t i o n o n l y t o t h e f i r s t g r o u p a n d t o t h e more d i g n i f i e d p r o d u c t s o f t h e s e c o n d . H o p i n g f o r p u b l i c a t i o n i n E n g l a n d , s u c h c r i t i c s w e r e l a r g e l y i n d i f f e r e n t t o a n y s i g n o f a g e n u i n e l y l o c a l l i t e r a t u r e u n t i l a t l e a s t t h e 1 8 9 0 1 s . C o n v i c t ":1 i t e r a t u r e , " i n t h e f o r m o f p i p e s , s o n g s and b a l l a d s , g r e w i n i t i a l l y o u t o f t h e h a r s h p e n a l e x p e r i e n c e . It was t h e f i r s t t o v o i c e d i s s e n t a g a i n s t t h e g o v e r n o r ' s a u t h o r i t a r i a n p o w e r . H o w e v e r , i n 1824 p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p was a b o l i s h e d , a n d t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f p r o t e s t a s s i m i l a t e d m i d d l e - c l a s s d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n . A s i n p r e - r e ' v o l u t i o n a r y A m e r i c a , t h e p r e s t i g e a n d i m p o r t a n c e o f n e w s p a p e r s g r e w . S i m p l e c r i e s o f s c o r n f o r a u t h o r i t y s t e a d i l y m a t u r e d i n t o t h e more s o p h i s t i c a t e d e x p r e s s i o n o f r e p u b l i c a n and n a t i o n a l i s t t h e m e s . S t r e n g t h e n e d by t h e s u c c e s s f u l r e v o l t i n A m e r i c a a n d t h e r e v o l u t i o n a r y c l i m a t e i n E u r o p e , g r e a t e r n u m b e r s o f p e o p l e a d o p t e d an a n t i - e s t a b 1 i s h m e n t s t a n c e . A m e r i c a was c o n c e i v e d o f a s i n s p i r a t i o n , model a n d e x a m p l e . B u t t h e o u t l e t f o r s u c h v i e w s up t o t h e 1 8 4 0 1 s was t h e s p o k e n w o r d o r n e w s p a p e r , n o t a b o o k o f poems o r n o v e l . H e n c e , i n s u b s e q u e n t l i t e r a r y a p p r a i s a l s a n d h i s t o r i e s , i t h a s b e e n l a r g e l y i g n o r e d . 17 1860-1900 A n t i c i p a t i n g t h e t o n e o f t h e p r i n c i p a l w o r k s o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m f o r t h e n e x t f i f t y y e a r s , i n 1864 H e n r y M e l v i l l e ( ' H e n r i c u s ' ) d e c l a r e d t h a t he a n d h i s f e l l o w - c o l o n i s t s . . . do n o t want a c o l o n i a l l i t e r a t u r e . We a r e E n g l i s h . E n g l a n d i s o u r c o u n t r y . T h e E n g l i s h l a n g u a g e i s o u r m o t h e r t o n g u e . T h e E n g l i s h l i t e r a t u r e i s o u r h e r i t a g e . 34 E n g l a n d , t o t h e m a j o r i t y o f c r i t i c s a n d many o f t h e w r i t e r s , was " H o m e " - - a n d t h o s e who d i s a g r e e d i n p r i n t w i t h H e n r y M e l v i l l e ' s o r t h o d o x p o s i t i o n n e v e r t h e l e s s f o u n d i t i m p o s s i b l e t o e s c a p e t h e M o t h e r C o u n t r y ' s p e r v a s i v e a u t h o r i t y . A n o t a b l e e x a m p l e i s t h e E n g l a n d - e d u c a t e d G . B . B a r t o n (1836-1901 ) , a u t h o r o f t h e f i r s t two i m p o r t a n t c r i t i c a l w o r k s o f t h e new c o u n t r y , b o t h p r i n t e d i n S y d n e y : L i t e r a t u r e i n New S o u t h W a l e s (1866) a n d T h e P o e t s a n d P r o s e W r i t e r s o f New S o u t h W a l e s (1866). A s R e a d e r i n E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e a n d L a n g u a g e a t t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f S y d n e y , he r e p r e s e n t s t h e f i r s t o f a l o n g l i n e o f u n i v e r s i t y - b a s e d c o m m e n t a t o r s e x e r t i n g c o n s i d e r a b l e i n f l u e n c e on t h e l i t e r a r y c l i m a t e o f t h e i r e r a . Not u n e x p e c t e d l y , w h i l e r e s t r i c t i n g t h e s c o p e o f h i s w o r k s t o "men who h a v e i d e n t i f i e d t h e m s e l v e s w i t h t h e C o l o n y , " B a r t o n s t i l l f e l t c o m p e l l e d t o b e g i n w i t h t h e k i n d o f d e f e r e n t i a l manner p r o p r i e t y d e m a n d e d : 18 T o t r a c e t h e g r o w t h o f l e t t e r s i n t h i s c o m m u n i t y , f r o m t h e e a r l i e s t p e r i o d o f b u r h i s t o r y t o t h e p r e s e n t t i m e , a n d t o shew i n what manner t h a t g r o w t h has b e e n i n f l u e n c e d by t h e p r o d u c t i o n s o f t h e m o t h e r c o u n t r y , a r e t h e o b j e c t s s o u g h t t o be a c c o m p l i s h e d i n t h e s e p a g e s . W i t h u s , L i t e r a t u r e r e q u i r e s t o be c o n s i d e r e d i n two a s p e c t s : f i r s t , a s a n a t i v e o r i n d i g e n o u s p r o d u c t ; a n d s e c o n d l y , a s a f o r e i g n o r i m p o r t e d o n e . T o o y o u n g t o p o s s e s s a " n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e " o f o u r o w n , t h e c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f f o r e i g n i n f l u e n c e becomes an a 11 - i m p o r t a n t one.35 Not t h a t t h i s s t o p p e d h i m f r o m a r t i c u l a t i n g , l a t e r i n t h e i n t r o - d u c t i o n , t h e r e a l p u r p o s e o f h i s w o r k - - t o i s o l a t e t h e e c o n o m i c a n d s o c i a l b a r r i e r s o p e r a t i n g a g a i n s t t h e f o u n d i n g o f an i n d e p e n d e n t 1i t e r a t u r e : If i t i s d e s i r a b l e t h a t t h i s c o u n t r y s h o u l d n o t be known • t o t h e r e s t o f t h e w o r l d s i m p l y i n i t s c o m m e r c i a l r e l a t i o n s , - - t h a t i t s h o u l d , i n due t i m e , p o s s e s s a l i t e r a t u r e o f i t s o w n - - h o w i s t h i s end t o be a c c o m p l i s h e d ? U n l e s s a r a d i c a l c h a n g e t a k e s p l a c e i n t h e t e m p e r o f t h e p e o p l e , t h e p r o s p e c t s o f an i n d e p e n d e n t l i t e r a t u r e a r e e x t r e m e l y d i m . If d i s c o u r a g e m e n t i n i t s b i t t e r e s t f o r m m u s t a l w a y s a w a i t t h e man o f l e t t e r s , t h e r e s u l t m u s t be i n j u r i o u s t o o u r c h a r a c t e r a s a c o m m u n i t y . . . We s h a l l t h u s be l e f t t o r e l y h e l p l e s s l y upon t h e p r o d u c t i o n s o f a n o t h e r l a n d , a s we do a t p r e s e n t . . . . .36 Y e t , i r o n i c a l l y , h i s own f r a m e o f r e f e r e n c e i s E n g l i s h . D e s p i t e h i s l a u n c h i n g an a t t a c k on t h o s e who " r e l y h e l p l e s s l y " on E n g l i s h a u t h o r s a n d c r i t i c a l s t a n d a r d s , B a r t o n h i m s e l f c o u l d n ' t a v o i d a s i m i l a r d e p e n d e n c e a t t i m e s . T h u s , i n t h e m i d s t o f a c o n c e r n e d p l e a f o r l i t e r a r y a u t o n o m y , he w r i t e s : I f , h o w e v e r , i n t h i s c o u n t r y , t h e p e o p l e w i l l p e r s i s t i n t h e i r c o l d i n d i f f e r e n c e t o t h e i r n a t i v e l i t e r a t u r e , t h e n we must e x p e c t t o go b a c k , and t o s e e t h e d a y s o f C h a t t e r t o n a n d G o l d s m i t h r e t u r n upon u s . 37 19 L a t e r , B a r t o n f o l l o w s h i s one-page a p p r a i s a l o f K e n d a l l ' s Poems and Songs (1862), " t h e h i g h e s t p o i n t t o which the p o e t i c g e n i u s o f our c o u n t r y has y e t a t t a i n e d , " w i t h a l m o s t two pages o f e x c e r p t s from the London Athenaeum. These e x c e r p t s p u r p o r t t o e s t a b l i s h c o n c l u s i v e e v i d e n c e o f the v a l i d i t y o f h i s l o f t y c l a i m . The d i f f i c u l t y i s t h a t the o n l y measure o f s u c c e s s t h a t B a r t o n has i s E n g l i s h " a u t h o r i t y " ; he cannot appeal t o h i s r e a d e r ' s own t a s t e or judgment. B a r t o n ' s g r e a t v i r t u e as a c r i t i c i s i n s e e i n g the f u n d a m e n t a l l y c o m p l i a n t temper o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e as i t s c e n t r a l problem. F i f t e e n o r so y e a r s a f t e r h i s two books were p u b l i s h e d , a r t i c u l a t e r e a c t i o n t o A u s t r a l i a ' s c o l o n i a l i s m began t o g a i n momentum. T h i s took p l a c e not i n the u n i v e r s i t i e s o r g e n t e e l c o u n t r y homes, but on the farms and i n the urban sprawl o f tenement houses. Yet academic c r i t i c s i n A u s t r a l i a i n the l a s t q u a r t e r o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y p e r s i s t e n t l y c l u n g t o the s t a n d a r d s o f a n o t h e r l a n d . The prominent members o f t h i s " c l a s s o f l e t t e r e d e l i t e , " t o use B a r t o n ' s p h r a s e , kept a l i v e the s p i r i t o f Sam B u c k l e y i n the novel The R e c o l 1 e c t i ons o f G e o f f r e y Hamlyn (1859): What h o n o u r s , what s o c i e t y , has t h i s l i t t l e c o l o n y t o g i v e , compared t o t h o s e open t o a f o u r t h - r a t e gentleman i n England? I want t o be a r e a l E n g l i s h m a n , not h a l f a one. I want t o throw i n my l o t h e a r t and hand w i t h the g r e a t e s t n a t i o n i n the world.3 9 T h i s , d e s p i t e r a p i d l y c h a n g i n g s o c i a l a t t i t u d e s and v a l u e s . W i t h the n a t u r e o f c l a s s s t r u c t u r e i t s e l f u n d e r g o i n g change, c r i t i c s , 20 e x c e p t t h o s e who l o o k e d t o t h e B u l l e t i n ( 1 8 8 0 - ) a s t h e i r f o r u m , b e g a n t o l o s e c o n t a c t w i t h t h e d e v e l o p m e n t s o f a b l o s s o m i n g new l i t e r a t u r e s l o w l y d i s c o v e r i n g an i n d e p e n d e n t , i f u n s o p h i s t i c a t e d v o i c e . F r a n k W i l m o t ' s comment some y e a r s l a t e r t h a t " a l l t r u l y c r e a t i v e w r i t i n g i s y e a r s i n a d v a n c e o f i t s c r i t i c i s m a n d . . . w r i t i n g f o l l o w i n g t h e o r g a n i z e d c r i t i c i s m i s a l m o s t c e r t a i n t o be c o n v e n t i o n a l " seems e s p e c i a l l y a p p l i c a b l e t o t h e a c a d e m i c c r i t i c s a n d c o m m e n t a t o r s o f t h i s p e r i o d . T h e l e a d i n g p r o p o n e n t s o f t h i s d e v e l o p i n g o r t h o d o x y , l e d by t h e p r o l i f i c a n t h o l o g i s t a n d s o m e t i m e p o e t a n d c r i t i c D o u g l a s S l a d e n ( 1 8 5 6 - 1 9 ^ 7 ) , w e r e t h e p o e t and c r i t i c A r t h u r P a t c h e t t M a r t i n ( 1 8 5 1 - 1 9 0 2 ) ; M e l b o u r n e b a n k e r a n d h i s t o r i a n , H e n r y G y l e s T u r n e r ( 1 8 3 1 - 1 9 2 0 ) , a n d h i s a s s o c i a t e A l e x a n d e r S u t h e r l a n d ( 1 8 5 2 - 1 9 0 2 ) , a o n e - t i m e P r o f e s s o r o f E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e a n d r e g i s t r a r a t t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f M e l b o u r n e ; and T . G . T u c k e r ( 1 8 5 9 - 1 9 ^ 6 ) , s c h o l a r , e s s a y i s t a n d e s t e e m e d P r o f e s s o r o f C l a s s i c a l P h i l o l o g y , a l s o a t M e l b o u r n e . A l l , i t i s w o r t h n o t i n g , w e r e E n g l i s h - b o r n , e x c e p t S u t h e r l a n d , a G l a s w e g i a n , and a l l r e s o l v e d t o f u r t h e r t h e i r r o l e a s e n l i g h t e n e d c o m m e n t a t o r s on t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f o n e o f B r i t a i n ' s c o l o n i e s . T h e p r e o c c u p a t i o n s o f many A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s , e s p e c i a l l y p o e t s , w e r e a l t e r i n g r a p i d l y a t t h i s t i m e , b u t t h e r e i s l i t t l e s i g n o f t h i s i n t h e s t a n d a r d c r i t i c i s m . 0 ' D o w d was w r i t i n g t o W a l t W h i t m a n , F a r r e l 1 21 t o Henry George; Heney, Gay and Le Gay B r e r e t o n were r e a d i n g Whitman and Thoreau; and Lawson, a l o n g w i t h Furphy and Da 1 ey,,._were f a m j j j a r w i t h American r a d i c a l example; but most o f the c r i t i c s o u t s i d e the Bui 1et i n adhered t o the proven f o r m u l a s . America went i g n o r e d . S l a d e n r e p r e s e n t s the p r o t o t y p e . A g r a d u a t e o f T r i n i t y C o l l e g e , O x f o r d , and the U n i v e r s i t y o f Melbourne, he spent f i v e y e a r s i n A u s t r a l i a (1879-84) b e f o r e r e t u r n i n g t o England t o "pursue h i s 41 h i s t o r i c a l s t u d i e s a t 'Home.'" He wasted no time e x p l o i t i n g h i s A u s t r a l i a n e x p e r i e n c e . D e c i d i n g t o h a r v e s t the " c o n t i n u i n g c r o p o f a n t i p o d e a n v e r s e and t o e x p o r t i t l i k e A u s t r a l i a n wheat and w o o l , t o the home c o u n t r y , " as one c r i t i c has put i t , S l a d e n had t h r e e 42 a n t h o l o g i e s p u b l i s h e d i n London i n 1888, a c e n t e n a r y y e a r . H i s d e d i c a t o r y l i n e s and the poem o p e n i n g t h e f i r s t volume a c c u r a t e l y r e f l e c t the e d i t o r ' s b i a s - - h i s c r i t e r i a f o r s e l e c t i o n . I t b e g i n s : " T h i s l i t t l e volume, i n s p i r e d by l i f e i n the G r e a t e r B r i t a i n under the S o u t h e r n C r o s s , i s d e d i c a t e d TO THE ENGLISH OF THREE CONTINENTS." The f i r s t and l a s t s t a n z a s d e m o n s t r a t e iiits q u a l i t y and d i r e c t i o n : We a r e a l l sprung from men who f o u g h t a t C r e c y ; We a l l were Englishmen when Shakespeare w r o t e ; And we a r e s t i l l c o m p a t r i o t s i n e s s e , Though c a l l e d A u s t r a l i a n s , Yankees, and what not . . . . We a l l a r e E n g l i s h , born i n one g r e a t u n i o n Of b l o o d and language, h i s t o r y and song, A l l E n g l i s h , and t o c h e r i s h our communion We w i l l p r e s e n t a common f r o n t t o wrong.^3 S t i r r i n g s e n t i m e n t s from a d r u m - b e a t i n g E n g l i s h p a t r i o t , but h a r d l y the s t u f f o f w h i c h f u l l y r e p r e s e n t a t i v e , l i v e l y a n t h o l o g i e s o f a 22 new c o u n t r y ' s w r i t i n g a r e m a d e . E a c h a n t h o l o g y o p e n s w i t h an i n t r o d u c t i o n by t h e e d i t o r , n o n e o f w h i c h r e v e a l s a n y s i g n o f c r i t i c a l p e r c e p t i o n and i n s i g h t . A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s i n c l u d e s an a d d i t i o n a l e s s a y by S l a d e n ' s f r i e n d , A r t h u r P a t c h e t t M a r t i n . A s k e d by t h e e d i t o r t o " p l e a s e g i v e y o u r own e x p e r i e n c e s - - w h a t l e d y o u , t r a i n e d and e d u c a t e d e n t i r e l y i n A u s t r a l i a , t o w r i t e v e r s e s ? " M a r t i n e a g e r l y g r a s p s t h e o p p o r t u n i t y t o e x p a t i a t e on h i s own i m p o r t a n c e i n a n t i p o d e a n p o e t r y . Nor i s i t b e n e a t h S l a d e n t o i n d u l g e i n a l i t t l e s e l f - a g g r a n d i z e m e n t . H i s p e r s o n a l c o n t r i b u t i o n t o A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s r a n k s t h i r d b e h i n d James B r u n t o n S t e p h e n s a n d H e n r y K e n d a l l ( w i t h M a r t i n a c l o s e f i f t h ) . T h e m o s t p r e c i s e c r i t i c a l c l a i m i n a n y o f t h e t h r e e i n t r o d u c t i o n s , t h a t " m o s t y o u n g C o l o n i a l p o e t s . . . e x c e p t t h e few who h a v e an o r i g i n a l g e n i u s , draw t h e i r i n s p i r a t i o n f r o m E n g l i s h p o e t s t h r o u g h t h e medium o f e i t h e r G o r d o n o r K e n d a l l , " i s a t l e a s t q u e s t i o n a b l e 45 i n t h e l a t e r l 8 8 0 ' s . S l a d e n , i t s e e m s , s u s p e c t e d t h i s h i m s e l f . In h i s c o n c l u s i o n t o t h e A u s t r a 1 i a n P o e t s i n t r o d u c t i o n , he a d m i t s t o b e i n g A g a i n , t h e g a p b e t w e e n l o c a l , i n f o r m e d o p i n i o n i n t h e p a p e r s a n d m a g a z i n e s , a n d t h e p u r p o r t e d l y r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s t a n d a r d w o r k . S l a d e n ' s f e a r s w e r e n o t u n f o u n d e d . " A b o r i g i n a l " p a p e r s s u c h a s t h e S y d n e y c o n s c i o u s , b e f o r e t h e book i s p r i n t e d , o f t h e p r o m i s c u o u s a b u s e t h a t w i l l be p o u r e d upon i t by t h e l o w e r c l a s s o f A u s t r a l i a n p a p e r s , w h i c h a r e n o t h i n g i f t h e y a r e n o t " a b o r i g i n a l . " ^ 23 Q u a r t e r l y Magazine and the B u l l e t i n p r e d i c t a b l y responded t o the " s l i p s h o d workmanship" and " t h r e a d b a r e s u b j e c t s " o f the a n t h o l o g i z e d poems. One c r i t i c r e g a r d e d the c o n t e n t as a l m o s t t o t a l l y d e r i v a t i v e 47 o f " t h e g r e a t works o f E n g l i s h m a s t e r s . " The Bu11et i n e x p r e s s e d dismay a t the p r o d u c t i o n s o f t h i s " r e p r e s e n t a t i v e A u s t r a l i a n , " main- t a i n i n g t h a t "modest n a t i v e s f a i r l y w i l t e d b e f o r e him. H i s 'Haw!1 48 pervaded the whole c o n t i n e n t . " But i f a n t i p o d e a n r e s p o n s e v a r i e d n o t i c e a b l y , S l a d e n must not have been g r e a t l y d i s c o m f i t e d . A l l t h r e e a n t h o l o g i e s were a commercial s u c c e s s where i t counted most: London. The s a l e o f twenty thousand c o p i e s o f A u s t r a l i a n Ba11 ads and Rhymes ensured the p o p u l a r i t y o f 49 the next two a n t h o l o g i e s . In the t h r e e c o l l e c t i o n s , London l i t e r a r y c i r c l e s had t h e i r s t e r e o t y p e s o f A u s t r a l i a (and i t s v e r s e ) c o n f i r m e d . They got e x a c t l y what they wanted t o hear: Your sons might not pass muster i n Bond S t r e e t o r Pa 11-Ma 11, Butlwhen bush f i r e s a r e r a g i n g , they go t o f a c e the h e l l . . And something o f the Norman must m i n g l e i n t h e i r b l o o d , Who emulate o l d England by f e n c e and f i e l d and f l o o d --50 S l a d e n ' s a n t h o l o g i e s not o n l y g a i n e d him money and renown, they enhanced the c r e d i b i l i t y o f c e r t a i n s c h o l a r s o f the p e r i o d . One b e n e f i c i a r y was A r t h u r P a t c h e t t M a r t i n who, no doubt a i d e d by the impetus g i v e n t o h i s p e r s o n a l c a r e e r as a r e s u l t o f the p u b l i c i t y d e r i v e d from A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s , d e l i v e r e d a l e c t u r e i n London on A u s t r a l i a n l e t t e r s w h i c h was s h o r t l y a f t e r w a r d s p u b l i s h e d by Henry S o t h e r a n , P i c c a d i l l y , as The B e g i n n i n g s o f an A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e (1898).51 24 S l a d e n l a b e l l e d P a t c h e t t M a r t i n " a r e p r e s e n t a t i v e A u s t r a l i a n 52 l i t t e r a t e u r . " H e n c e , i t i s n o t d i f f i c u l t t o a n t i c i p a t e M a r t i n ' s g r e a t r e v e r e n c e f o r t h e s t r o n g " B y r o n i c p e r s o n a l i t y " o f A u s t r a l i a ' s s o - c a l l e d " t r u e p i o n e e r p o e t , " Adam L i n d s a y G o r d o n , a s w e i l i a s t h e 53 i n v e t e r a t e l y c o l o n i a l t o n e o f a l l h i s c r i t i c a l w o r k . T h e p u r p o s e o f Beg i nn i n g s , p u b l i s h e d i n r e s p o n s e t o an e x p r e s s e d demand by t h e E n g 1 i s h p u b l i c , a n d t h u s t a i l o r e d t o t h e i r t a s t e , w a s , a s t h e p r e f a c e s u g g e s t s : . . . t o d e a l m e r e l y w i t h t h e be 1 1 e s - 1 e t t r e s - - w i t h t h e l i t t l e s c a n t y band o f p r o s e - w r i t e r s a n d v e r s e - m e n w h o , p r e s e r v i n g t h e l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n s and c u l t u r e o f t h e m o t h e r - l a n d u n d e r n o v e l c o n d i t i o n s a n d c i r c u m s t a n c e s , h a v e b e e n l a y i n g t h e f o u n d a t i o n s o f a f r e s h b r a n c h o f E n g l i s h l i t e r a t u r e i n t h i s f a r - o f f A u s t r a l w o r l d . 5 ^ T h e l e c t u r e b e g i n s w i t h an i n t e r e s t i n g c l a i m , o n e s o E m p i r e - c o n s c i o u s a s t o make e v e n S l a d e n l o o k a t r i f l e u n p a t r i o t i c : In t h e s t r i c t l o g i c a l s e n s e o f t h e w o r d s , t h e r e i s - - a n d t h e r e c a n b e - - n o s u c h t h i n g a s A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e ; a n y more t h a n t h e r e c a n be a S o u t h A f r i c a n , a C a n a d i a n , o r e v e n an A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . . . . [The U n i t e d S t a t e s ] t h o u g h p o l i t i c a l l y i n d e p e n d e n t - - a t t i m e s , I f e a r , h o s t i l e - - a r e s t i l l , i n t h e o l d G r e e k s e n s e , E n g l a n d ' s g r e a t e s t c o l o n y . 5 5 M a r t i n e f f o r t l e s s l y e n c o m p a s s e d ' J a 1 1 w r i t i n g i n E n g l i s h a s b e i n g e i t h e r f r o m " O l d E n g l a n d " o r "New E n g l a n d . " 5 6 G i v e n t h e e x t r e m e o r t h o d o x y o f h i s b e l i e f s and s t a n c e , t h e q u a i n t - n e s s o f t h e e n s u i n g c r i t i c a l j u d g e m e n t s comes a l m o s t a s a n t i c l i m a x . T h e r e i s p u z z l e m e n t a s t o why M a r c u s C l a r k e , i n H i s N a t u r a l L i f e , 2 5 " s h o u l d h a v e d e v o t e d s u c h an immense amount o f l a b o u r t o t h i s c o m p e n d i u m o f c r i m e , " d e l i g h t t h a t C l a r k e a n d H e n r y K i n g s l e y , "whom I c o n s i d e r t o be t h e f o u n d e r o f A u s t r a l i a n f i c t i o n , s h o u l d b o t h h a v e b e e n M o u n t e d P o l i c e m e n , " a n d , f i n a l l y , d i s m a y t h a t h i s f r i e n d G e o r g e G o r d o n M ' C r a e s h o u l d h a v e p u b l i s h e d " a t l e a s t two e p i c poems b a s e d on t h e t r a d i t i o n s and m y t h o l o g y o f t h e p o o r n a t i v e r a c e s whom we h a v e o u s t e d . B u t y o u c a n n o t w r i t e e p i c s on t h e A u s t r a l i a n b l a c k s ; y o u m i g h t a s w e l l c o m p o s e a s o n a t a on a m o n k e y . " " ^ I r o n i c a l l y , i n t h e l a s t p a r a g r a p h o f h i s a r t i c l e i n S l a d e n ' s A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s , M a r t i n c o n c l u d e s t h a t " A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e w i l l o n l y be i n a f a i r way o f d e v e l o p m e n t when t h e r e i s s i d e by s i d e w i t h i t an A u s t r a l i a n s c h o o l o f c r i t i c i s m . F o r , a f t e r a l l , o n e s h o u l d r O be j u d g e d by o n e ' s own p e o p l e . " P r e s u m a b l y M a r t i n f e l t h i m s e l f , a s an h o n o r a r y a n t i p o d e a n , p a r t o f t h i s s c h o o l when he l e c t u r e d on t h e s u b j e c t i n I 8 9 8 . He c o n s i d e r e d h i m s e l f q u a l i f i e d t o sum up t h e p r o g r e s s o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e a t t h e t u r n o f t h e c e n t u r y , d e s p i t e a l m o s t t w e n t y y e a r s o f c o n s i d e r a b l e B u 1 1 e t i n a n d o t h e r a c t i v i t y , t h i s w a y : I f e a r t h a t t h e y o u t h f u l v i g o u r and a b i l i t y o f t h e c o l o n i e s h a v e b e e n d i s p l a y e d o n t h e c r i c k e t - f i e l d a n d t h e m i n i n g m a r k e t r a t h e r t h a n i n t h e p o o r l y r e m u n e r a t e d s e r v i c e o f t h e M u s e s . 5 9 One o f t h e most r e p u t a b l e c r i t i c s w r i t i n g on A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e i n t h e l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , M a r t i n l e f t A u s t r a l i a f o r E n g l i s h s h o r e s i n 1 8 8 2 . He s t a y e d , p e r m a n e n t 1 y - - t o p r o d u c e Beg i nn i ngs 26 and w o r k s s u c h a s h i s p r o s e a n t h o l o g y , O a k - B o u g h and W a t t l e B l o s s o m ( L o n d o n , 1888), made up e n t i r e l y o f t h e w r i t i n g s o f A u s t r a l i a n s 1i v i ng i n E n g l a n d . 60 H a v i n g s p e n t a l m o s t a t h i r d o f B e g i n n i n g s on Adam L i n d s a y G o r d o n , M a r t i n s t i l l manages t o m e n t i o n b r i e f l y t h e B u i 1et i n p o e t s i n f l a t t e r i n g t e r m s . T h i s was n o t t h e c a s e i n a n o t h e r book p u b l i s h e d i n A u s t r a l i a a n d L o n d o n i n t h e same y e a r : T h e D e v e l o p m e n t o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e , by M e l b o u r n e ' s " l i t e r a r y - b a n k e r , " H . G . T u r n e r , a n d A l e x a n d e r S u t h e r l a n d , 61 two w r i t e r s e v e n more c o n s c i o u s l y c o l o n i a l i n t o n e t h a n M a r t i n . Begun a s a s e r i e s o f a r t i c l e s f o r t h e M e l b o u r n e R e v i e w , D e v e l o p m e n t a t t e m p t e d t o g i v e t h e m o s t c o m p r e h e n s i v e c r i t i c a l s t a t e m e n t on A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e t o t h a t p o i n t . Y e t i t t o t a l l y i g n o r e d t h e B u i 1et i n s c h o o l , a p o i n t n o t l o s t o n e i t h e r M a r t i n , o r , n e e d l e s s t o s a y , A . G . S t e p h e n s . S t e p h e n s r e s p o n d e d t o t h i s n e g l e c t , c a s t i n g d o u b t s on t h e q u a l i t y o f t h e s c h o l a r s h i p a p p a r e n t . I n d e e d , o n e h a s t o q u e s t i o n n o t m e r e l y t h e l i t e r a r y j u d g e m e n t s , b u t T u r n e r ' s e v e n more s u s p e c t h i s t o r i c a l p r o n o u n c e m e n t s . We f i n d g e n e r o u s p r a i s e f o r S l a d e n ' s a n t h o l o g i e s , w h i c h " a w a k e n e d an i n t e r e s t i n t h o s e c i r c l e s t h a t make o r mar t h e l i t e r a r y a s p i r a n t , " n a m e l y , t h e E n g l i s h l i t e r a r y e s t a b l i s h m e n t , t o whom T u r n e r a n d S u t h e r l a n d c l e a r l y d i r e c t t h e i r 62 c o m m e n t s . And we f i n d h i s t o r i c a l p r e m i s e s c l o a k e d by t h e smug c o n d e s c e n s i o n o f a member o f t h e A u s t r a l i a n u p p e r e c h e l o n - - a g r o u p no d i f f e r e n t , B r i t i s h h i s t o r i a n J . A . F r o u d e o b s e r v e d d u r i n g h i s - A u s t r a l i a n v i s i t i n t h e l a t e l 8 8 0 ' s , f r o m t h e i r B r i t i s h c o u n t e r p a r t s . A t o n e p o i n t T u r n e r n o n c h a l a n t l y d i s m i s s e s f i f t y y e a r s o f r a d i c a l 27 l a b o u r h i s t o r y i n a p a r a g r a p h : Some o f t h e m o s t f e r v i d o u t p o u r i n g s o f e l o q u e n c e , on w h i c h e x c i t e d c r o w d s hung w i t h r e d - h o t e n t h u s i a s m , d r e w t h e i r i n s p i r a t i o n f r o m s u c h s u b j e c t s a s a n t i - t r a n s p o r t a t i o n - - t h e u n l o c k i n g o f t h e l a n d s , - - t h e d i g g e r h u n t i n g f o r 1 i c e n c e s , - - o r t h e p i n c h b e c k g l o r y o f t h e E u r e k a s t o c k a d e . S e t f o r t h i n c o l d p r i n t , now t h a t a l l t h e s e t e m p o r a r y v; w r o n g s h a v e b e e n p e a c e f u l l y r e c t i f i e d , t h e y p r o v o k e a s m i l e a t t h e t e m p e s t u o u s w h i r l o f w o r d s t h a t p l a y e d r o u n d s u c h c o m p a r a t i v e l y u n i m p o r t a n t i s s u e s . & 3 T h e c o n c l u s i o n o f T u r n e r ' s s k e t c h o f ' . A u s t r a ] j a n . ) i t e r a t u r e . m o s t a c c u r a t e l y r e f l e c t s b o t h t h e i m p u l s e a t t h e h e a r t o f t h e c o l o n i a l m i n d a n d t h e b o o k ' s w o r k i n g p r i n c i p l e : We a r e j u s t i f i e d i n l o o k i n g f o r o r i g i n a l t h o u g h t , o r i g i n a l s o c i a l p r o b l e m s , a n d o r i g i n a l p h i l o s o p h i c a l t h e o r i e s ; l e t us h o p e t h a t i n w o r k i n g them o u t i n t h e p r i n t e d p a g e , t h e i n f l u e n c e o f t h e b e s t o f t h a t g r a n d l i t e r a t u r e w h i c h h a s b e e n o u r h e r i t a g e may a l w a y s be a p p a r e n t . ° 4 F o r t h o s e c r i t i c s m o v i n g i n t h e same c i r c l e s w i t h T u r n e r a n d S u t h e r l a n d , t h e r e w o u l d a l w a y s be an E n g l a n d . Thomas G e o r g e T u c k e r , t h o u g h no l e s s i n f l u e n c e d by t h e G r e a t T r a d i t i o n t h a n a n y o f h i s a c a d e m i c c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , a p p r o a c h e d t h e r e c e n t p r o f u s i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n b a r d s a r o u n d h i m f r o m a s l i g h t l y d i f f e r e n t s t a n d p o i n t . In t h e J u l y , 1899, e d i t i o n o f t h e M e l b o u r n e p e r i o d i c a l R e v i e w o f R e v i e w s , he c a l l e d f o r an end t o i n s u l a i — a n d h e n c e n a i v e - - l o c a l c r i t i c i s m . H i s l a t e r p a m p h l e t , T h e C u l t i v a t i o n o f L i t e r a t u r e i n A u s t r a l i a ( 1 9 0 2 ) , o p e n s w i t h t h e c o m m e n t , s o c h a r a c t e r i s t i c o f a common n e r v e s h a r e d by t h e M e l b o u r n e and S y d n e y c u l t u r a l e l i t e s , t h a t l i f e i s t o o b r i e f f o r t h e r e a d i n g o f A u s t r a l i a n 28 b o o k s . T u c k e r ' s p r e o c c u p a t i o n was l a r g e l y w i t h t h e t h e o r e t i c a l c r i t i c a l q u e s t i o n s r a i s e d by c o n t a c t w i t h a new l i t e r a t u r e . In a s e r i e s o f e a r l y l e c t u r e s , a p p e a r i n g i n p r i n t i n t h e M e l b o u r n e A r g u s , T u c k e r c a u t i o n e d t h e new g e n e r a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n r e a d e r s f o r i t s " k n o w l e d g e o f t h e B r i t i s h I s l e s [ b e i n g ] o n e o f b o o k s and h e a r - s a y o n l y . " He s t a t e d t h a t We h e r e i n A u s t r a l i a , t h r o u g h o u r g e o g r a p h i c a l e x t e n t a n d i s o l a t i o n , a r e v e r y a p t t o d e v e l o p p a t r i o t i c i g n o r a n c e on a d a n g e r o u s s c a l e . We a r e l i k e l y t o t a l k o u r s e l v e s i n t o b e l i e v i n g , a n d t o i n s t i l i n t o o u r c h i l d r e n t h e b e l i e f t h a t we a r e t h e m o s t i n t e l l i g e n t and b e s t - g o v e r n e d p e o p l e i n t h e w o r l d , w i t h t h e most w o n d e r f u l o f f u t u r e s b e f o r e u s .66 He a d v i s e d t r a v e l a s t h e o n l y means o f o v e r c o m i n g c u l t u r a l n a r r o w n e s s . F o r T u c k e r , t y p i c a l o f t h e l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s o f t h e p e r i o d , t h e way t o i n d e p e n d e n c e f o r A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e l a y i n c o n s o l i d a t i o n o f t h e h i s t o r i c l i n k s w i t h E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e . 29 1900-40 A u s t r a l i a b e l o n g s , by r a c e , p o l i t i c s and language t o a g r e a t c i v i l i z a t i o n t h a t reaches back f o r a thousand y e a r s , and i t i s c o n s t a n t l y r e c e i v i n g an i n f l o w , i d e a l as w e l l as human, from the c e n t r e o f t h i s c i v i l i z a t i o n . H.M. Green, An O u t l i n e o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e TT930) .6/ A u s t r a l i a ' s l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s were l e s s p a t e n t l y c o l o n i a l a f t e r 1900, but d i d n ' t r e j e c t a d e f e r e n t i a l r o l e e n t i r e l y . T u r n e r and S u t h e r l a n d v o i c e d the o p i n i o n o f most c r i t i c s o f t h e i r g e n e r a t i o n when they i n d i c a t e d t h a t the t e s t f o r A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e between 1850 and 1900 was "what the E n g l i s h r e a d e r was l i k e l y t o t h i n k o f i t , 68 what an E n g l i s h c r i t i c would be i n c l i n e d t o say o f i t . " However, a f t e r the i n t e n s e B u i l e t i n a c t i v i t y o f the 18901s, as w r i t e r s were emboldened t o be l e s s i m i t a t i v e o f E n g l i s h models, a change i n the t e n o r o f l o c a l c r i t i c i s m appeared imminent. J.F. A r c h i b a l d and A.G. Stephens h a r a s s e d " c o l o n i a l " c r i t i c s ; p u b l i s h e d Furphy, Lawson, P a t e r s o n and Dyson; condemned the " i m p e r i a l i s m " o f Tennyson and K i p l i n g ; and sought t o e s t a b l i s h a canon o f major A u s t r a l i a n works based on a r e j e c t i o n o f w r i t e r s i n any way d e r i v a t i v e o f the E n g l i s h t r a d i t i o n . Vance Palmer, t o o , e n e r g e t i c a l l y r a i l e d a g a i n s t the d e f i c i e n c i e s o f a c o m p l i a n t c u l t u r e : . . . a t the p r e s e n t s t a g e o f our c i v i l i z a t i o n we a r e con- t e n t t o read E n g l i s h books f o r the i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f our l i f e . We . . . a r e c o n t e n t t o i m i t a t e the customs o f o l d d e g e n e r a t e n a t i o n s , and t o l e t our i n d i v i d u a l i t y be o b s c u r e d by the d e t e s t a b l e word ' c o l o n i a l ! ; Under such c o n d i t i o n s our a r t must s u f f e r . ^ 9 30 E v e n C h r i s t o p h e r B r e n n a n , a d e v o t e d a d v o c a t e o f t h e E u r o p e a n t r a d i t i o n , f e l t c o m p e l l e d t o t a k e a s t a n d i n a 1902 a r t i c l e , " T h e U n i v e r s i t y a n d A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e : A C e n t e n a r y R e t r o s p e c t 1 : " : 1 A n a b s o l u t e d e p e n d e n c e . . . w a s i n i t s e l f b a d , e v e n g i v e n a g e n e r a l h i g h s t a n d a r d o f t a s t e i n L o n d o n . B u t w h e n L o n d o n h a d d e g e n e r a t e d , a s i t d i d i n t h e e i g h t i e s a n d n i n e t i e s , A u s t r a l i a w a s b o u n d t o t o u c h s h u d d e r i n g d e p t h s o f v u l g a r i t y . ? u T h e p r o l o n g e d c o l o n i a l b i a s i n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m , i t s e e m e d , w o u l d q u i c k l y d i m i n i s h e a r l y i n t h e c e n t u r y . B u t i t d i d n ' t d i s a p p e a r . F o r a v a r i e t y o f r e a s o n s , r e m n a n t s o f t h e c o l o n i a l c o m p l e x r e m a i n e d - - p o s s i b l y b y d e f a u l t . T h e r e s e e m e d t o b e n o c r e d i b l e a l t e r n a t i v e . H i s t o r i c a l l y , a f t e r F e d e r a t i o n , a s r e p u b l i c a n i s m r e c e d e d , n a t i o n a l i s t i c s e n t i m e n t s o m e h o w b e c a m e e n m e s h e d , d u r i n g t h e B o e r W a r , w i t h t h e c a u s e o f a w a n i n g E m p i r e . S o c i e t y n a r r o w e d p o l i t i c a l l y a n d p o e t s , w i t h o n l y a f e w n o t a b l e e x c e p t i o n s , r e s p o n d e d t o t h e d e s p o t i c p r e c e p t s o f V i s i o n m a g a z i n e , e m p h a s i z i n g , f r o m d e s p e r a t i o n , a t i r e d , a n a c h r o n i s t i c E u r o p e a n t r a d i t i o n . O u t o f t h i s v o i d , H . M . G r e e n p r o d u c e d t h e m a j o r c r i t i c a l w o r k o f t h e p e r i o d , A n O u t l i n e o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e (1930). D e s p i t e g o o d i n t e n t i o n s a n d f r e q u e n t p e r c e p t i v e c r i t i c a l j u d g e - m e n t s , O u t 1i n e s u f f e r s f r o m a f a i l u r e o f v i s i o n , a l a c k o f i n i t i a t i v e - - f o r w h i c h o n e m a y p e r h a p s b l a m e t h e t i m e s , r a t h e r t h a n t h e c r i t i c . G r e e n r e a f f i r m s , t h o u g h l e s s e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y , t h e o l d o r t h o d o x y . A s B r i a n K i e r n a n , a r e c e n t c o m m e n t a t o r , h a s n o t e d , t h e b o o k i s " o p e n i n g s e n t e n c e r e t a i n s t h e f a v o u r i t e m e t a p h o r a n d t h e g u a r d e d s t a n c e o f t h e 31 ' c o l o n i a l ' c r i t i c . n / l U n a b l e t o a v o i d t h e c o n s t r i c t i n g " t r a d i t i o n " i n w h i c h he was w r i t i n g , t h e a u t h o r o p e n s h i s a r g u m e n t w i t h l o g i c s t r i k i n g l y r e m i n i s c e n t o f T u r n e r a n d S u t h e r l a n d , a n d A . P . M a r t i n , t h i r t y y e a r s b e f o r e : A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e i s a b r a n c h o f E n g l i s h l i t e r a t u r e , a n d h o w e v e r g r e a t i t may become and w h a t e v e r c h a r a c t e r - i s t i c s i t may d e v e l o p , i t w i l l r e m a i n a b r a n c h . . . a p r o p e r u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f i t [ m u s t i n v o l v e ] an u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f i t s o r i g i n s a n d r e l a t i o n s h i p s . . . .72 G r e e n u t i l i z e s t h e f a m i 1 i a r " t r e e " m e t a p h o r o f h i s p r e d e c e s s o r s , a n d a p p r o v i n g l y e m p l o y s t h e " p a r e n t / c h i 1 d " d e v i c e . He s t r e s s e s t h e c r u c i a l i m p o r t a n c e o f w r i t e r s a n d c r i t i c s r e t a i n i n g t h e i r f i l i a l o b l i g a t i o n s , a n d l a t e r w a r n s o f t h e d a n g e r s o f i n d e p e n d e n t t h i n k i n g , o f " r e g a r d i n g t h e b r a n c h a n d i t s l e a v e s a s t h o u g h t h e y w e r e i s o l a t e d 73 f r o m t h e t r e e . " T o w a r d s t h e c l o s e o f h i s i n t r o d u c t o r y c h a p t e r , G r e e n p l a c e s h i s l i t e r a r y y a r d s t i c k p l a i n l y b e f o r e u s . T h e j u d g e m e n t s t o f o l l o w p r e s u p p o s e t h e f a c t t h a t " u n t i l q u i t e l a t e l y t h e l i t e r a r y a t m o s p h e r e o f A u s t r a l i a was more t h a n a g e n e r a t i o n b e h i n d t h a t o f E n g l a n d . " V i r t u a l l y a l l q u e s t i o n s o f i n f l u e n c e c o n c e r n t h e n a t i v e w r i t e r a n d h i s E n g l i s h m o d e l s : H a r p u r ' s o b v i o u s d e b t t o W o r d s w o r t h , S h e l l e y a n d T e n n y s o n ; K e n d a l l ' s t o S h e l l e y , a n d , i n " B e y o n d K e r g u e l e n , " t o S w i n b u r n e ; a n d s o o n . In c o n t r a s t , when G r e e n s u s p e c t s A m e r i c a n i n f l u e n c e on t h e A u s t r a l i a n b a l l a d t r a d i t i o n , h i s a p p r o a c h i s t e n t a t i v e . He c l e a r l y d o e s n ' t know t h e m a t e r i a l . A t o n e p o i n t , he m a i n t a i n s t h a t " T h e r e a r e w r i t e r s o f a s i m i l a r k i n d o f v e r s e i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s t o d a y . I n 1930, n o t e v e n p r e l i m i n a r y s c h o l a r l y r e s e a r c h on t h e 32 A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n had b e e n c a r r i e d o u t . In t h e p r e f a c e t o h i s l a t e r t w o - v o l u m e w o r k , A H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e ( 1 9 6 1 ) , G r e e n b r u s q u e l y r e c o r d s an a l t e r e d s t a n c e , b e i n g more k e e n l y a w a r e o f t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e 1 8 9 0 1 s i n m o u l d i n g a u n i q u e A u s t r a l i a n i d e n t i t y : It i s s c a r c e l y n e c e s s a r y t o a r g u e n o w a d a y s t h a t t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f A u s t r a l i a i s w o r t h d i s c u s s i n g on i t s own a c c o u n t , and n o t m e r e l y a s a p a r t o f t h e g r e a t l i t e r a t u r e i n E n g l i s h o f w h i c h i t i s an o u t g r o w t h . '6 I r o n i c a l l y , when H i s t o r y was p u b l i s h e d , t h e a u t h o r ' s c o n c e p t o f i n c l u s i v e l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y had d a t e d c o n s i d e r a b l y . H i s r e s t r a i n e d a d v o c a c y o f " t h e a b a n d o n m e n t o f o v e r s e a m o d e l s a n d t h e g r o w t h o f t h e i m p u l s e t o w r i t e i n o n e ' s own manner a b o u t what he h a s e x p e r i e n c e d " had b e e n u s u r p e d by t h e a g g r e s s i v e c o n s e r v a t i s m o f t h e new o r t h o d o x y o f l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s f r o m t h e a c a d e m y — A . D . H o p e , James M c A u l e y , B r a i n E l l i o t t , a n d , l a t e r , G . A . W i l k e s and L e o n i e K r a m e r . ^ New f o r c e s w e r e a t w o r k . 33 1940-70 . . . W h i t m a n ' s e x a m p l e p r o m p t e d a m u l t i t u d e o f i m i t a t i v e s c r i b b l i n g s w i t h o u t W h i t m a n ' s l u r c h i n g f o r c e , m a k i n g t h e w r i t i n g o f p o e t r y e a s y f o r e v e r y b o d y . A f e l l o w c o u l d go on t h e l o o s e i n s u c h v e r s e o r a g i r l l e t h e r h a i r d o w n , a n d w h e n e v e r a p o l i c e m a n t r i e d t o s t o p t h e n o i s e t h e y m e r e l y l a u g h e d a t law a n d o r d e r , u n t i l he g a v e up a n d j o i n e d t h e p a r t y . F r e d e r i c k T . M a c a r t n e y , A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y E s s a y s (1957)7^ In t h e two g e n e r a t i o n s s e p a r a t i n g B a r t o n ' s L i t e r a t u r e i n New S o u t h W a l e s a n d G r e e n ' s O u t l i n e , t h e d o m i n a n t c r i t i c a l a t t i t u d e t o w a r d s A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e a l t e r e d f r o m o n e o f i g n o r a n c e b a s e d on a s t r o n g s e n s e o f i t s i n f e r i o r i t y and l a c k o f s o p h i s t i c a t i o n , t o o n e o f i g n o r a n c e r o o t e d i n a p a t h y . A p a r t f r o m a r a n g e o f s c h o l a r l y a r t i c l e s on W a l t Whitman a n d F r a n k W i l m o t ' s e c l e c t i c c o m m e n t a r i e s , a t t e n t i o n t o t h e A m e r i c a n s was s l i g h t i n d e e d . From a b o u t 19^0 o n w a r d s , t h o u g h , a c u r i o u s c h a n g e o c c u r r e d . A p a t h y a n d un.fami 1 i a r i t y t u r n e d t o s u s p i c i o n , r e s e n t m e n t , e v e n v i n d i c t i v e n e s s , a s t h e new o r t h o d o x y o f u n i v e r s i t y c r i t i c s f l e x e d i t s m u s c l e s . T h i s g a v e A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c i s m a more a r t i c u l a t e , y e t no l e s s i n s u l a r a p p e a r a n c e . James M c A u l e y and H a r o l d S t e w a r t c o n j u r e d up t h e d e v a s t a t i n g 1 y s u c c e s s f u l " E r n Mai l e y " h o a x a s a 79 c h a l l e n g e t o t h e c a u s e o f m o d e r n i s m - - i n a d v e r t e n t l y r e e s t a b l i s h i n g a p r o v i n c i a l l i t e r a r y c l i m a t e i n F o r t i e s a n d F i f t i e s A u s t r a l i a a g a i n s t w h i c h o n l y a h a n d f u l o f p o e t s , a n d e v e n f e w e r c r i t i c s , s t r u g g l e d . T h e e n v i r o n m e n t , i n C h r i s W a 11 a c e - C r a b b e 1 s p h r a s e , was o n e o f " f o r m a l i s m 80 a n d B o g a r t i a n t o u g h n e s s . " T i e s w i t h t h e o l d o r d e r f l o u r i s h e d anew. 34 In c r i t i c i s m t h i s e m a n a t e d f r o m t h e m o s t i n f l u e n t i a l q u a r t e r s o f t h e l i t e r a r y e s t a b l i s h m e n t : f r o m l i t e r a r y j o u r n a l i s t s s u c h a s F r e d e r i c k T . M a c a r t n e y and James D e v a n e y ; f r o m t h e p o e t - e d i t o r s D o u g l a s S t e w a r t and K e n n e t h S l e s s o r ; a n d , m o s t i m p o r t a n t l y , f r o m s u c h a c a d e m i c c r i t i c s a s A . D . Hope and James M c A u l e y , G . A . W i l k e s a n d L e o n i e K r a m e r . F . T . M a c a r t n e y , an i d e o l o g i c a l c o l l e a g u e o f t h e a c a d e m i c c r i t i c s , was a f r e e l a n c e j o u r n a l i s t , Commonwealth L i t e r a r y Fund l e c t u r e r , c o - e d i t o r , w i t h E . M o r r i s M i l l e r , o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e : a B i b1i o g r a p h y (1956), a n d a s t r o n g p r e s e n c e i n A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c i s m f r o m t h e l a t e 19301s o n w a r d s . H i s A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y E s s a y s (1957) m e a s u r e s t h e a u t h o r ' s t e m p e r a n d e x e m p l i f i e s t h e r e a c t i o n a r y a t m o s p h e r e o f t h e b u l k o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m i n t h e 19501 s . M a c a r t n e y , a s e l f - c o n f e s s e d " p o l i c e m a n " d e f e n d i n g t h e o l d t i e s , w a s t e s l i t t l e t i m e g e t t i n g down t o t h e b u s i n e s s o f e n f o r c e m e n t . He b i t t e r l y a t t a c k s b o t h t h e p r o g r e s s o f p o e t i c m o d e r n i s m i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y a n d t h e t h e o r e t i c i a n s o f t h e m o v e m e n t . T h e A m e r i c a n s loom l a r g e a s t t a r g e t s f o r h i s v i t r i o l . In t h e f i r s t c o u p l e o f p a r a g r a p h s i n t h e o p e n i n g e s s a y , " A n A t t i t u d e t o L i t e r a t u r e " - - a m o s t c o m p r e h e n s i v e s t a t e m e n t o f t h e a u t h o r ' s b e l i e f s - - M a c a r t n e y i s o l a t e s T . E . Hulme and E z r a Pound a s t h e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y i n i t i a t o r s o f " t h e I m a g i s t s a m e - d a y 81 d r y - c l e a n i n g s e r v i c e f o r a r t a n d p h i l o s o p h y . " He t h e n i s o l a t e s t h e r o o t c a u s e o f t h e m o d e r n t e n d e n c y t o w a r d s f r e e b l a n k v e r s e : W a l t W h i t m a n , i r o n i c a l l y a p o e t w i t h a s u b s t a n t i a l , b u t s o f a r u n d o c u m e n t e d i m p a c t on t h e g e n e r a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n p o e t s b e f o r e M a c a r t n e y . In a manner r e m i n i s c e n t o f J a c k L i n d s a y ' s e d i t o r i a l q u i r k s 35 i n V i s i o n some y e a r s e a r l i e r , he p r o c e e d s t o d i s m i s s c a s u a l l y some o f t h i s c e n t u r y ' s m a j o r l i t e r a r y f i g u r e s a n d w o r k s i n a s e q u e n c e o f ' m e m o r a b l e j o u r n a l i s t i c o n e - l i n e r s : J o y c e ' s U1 y s s e s , " l i n g e r i n g ] as an immense n o v e l t y , l i k e t h e r e l e g a t e d b u l k o f a p e r f o r m i n g e l e p h a n t no l o n g e r i n t h e r i n g h a v i n g i t s t r i c k s e l a b o r a t e l y e x p l a i n e d , w i t h F i n n e g a n ' s Wake a s an a c c o m p a n y i n g a t a v i s t i c c h i m p a n z e e " ; G e r a r d M a n l e y H o p k i n s ' " i n v o l u t i o n s a n d c h i l d i s h t o n g u e - t w i s t e r s " ; t h e " v e r b a l c o n j u r i n g " a n d " b o y i s h t u r n s " o f T . S . E l i o t ; a n d E . E . C u m m i n g s ' " a d u l t n u r s e r y rhymes . . . n o t t o m e n t i o n t h e h o p e l e s s m u d d l e o f 82 s p e l l i n g , t y p o g r a p h y , and m e a n i n g . " M a c a r t n e y d e l i g h t e d l y p o i n t s t o t h e s u c c e s s f u l h o a x o f t h e E r n Mai l e y p o e m s , c o n d e m n i n g " t h o s e o r a c l e s whom James D e v a n e y i n P o e t r y i n Our T i m e c a11s ' t h e e x p l a i n e r s o f u n i n t e l l i g i b l e p o e m s . " " T e a c h e r , f r e e l a n c e j o u r n a l i s t and l i t e r a r y c r i t i c , D e v a n e y was a c o n - t e m p o r a r y o f M a c a r t n e y who a l s o e x e r t e d some e f f e c t on t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f p o s t - S e c o n d W o r l d War A u s t r a l i a t h r o u g h a r t i c l e s i n p e r i o d i c a l s s u c h a s Meanj i n , and h i s c r i t i ca1 w o r k P o e t r y i n Our T i m e (1952). L i k e M a c a r t n e y , D e v a n e y c i t e s E l i o t a n d P o u n d - - f o r him " p r e c i o u s a n d 8k i n e f f e c t u a l " p o e t s - - a s key i n f l u e n c e s on m o d e r n i s t p o e t r y . L i k e M a c a r t n e y , he q u o t e s p a s s a g e s o f Whitman and S a n d b u r g d i s a p p r o v i n g l y . B u t he g o e s o n e b e t t e r , c o n c l u d i n g t h a t t h e m a s t e r s p i r i t s c o f m o d e r n i s m s u c h a s T . E . H u l m e , F . S . F l i n t , H a r t C r a n e , who w e r e s o p r o m i n e n t i n o n e p h a s e o r o t h e r o f t h e m o v e m e n t , had no t r u e u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f p o e t r y a n d w r o t e n o n e w o r t h k e e p i n g . T h e s e p e o p l e h a v e f a r t o o much i n f l u e n c e . T h e y a r e r e a l l y s m a l l p o t a t o e s , b u t t h e y i m p r e s s p e o p l e . . . 85 36 No l e s s i n c e n s e d a t the i c o n o c l a s t i c b e h a v i o u r o f the c u r r e n t p r a c t i t i o n e r s o f m o d e r n i s t l i t e r a t u r e , p a r t i c u l a r l y the A m e r i c a n moderns, Kenneth S l e s s o r and Douglas S t e w a r t a t t a c k e d the a b r u p t t e c h n i c a l i n n o v a t i o n s they f e l t were d i s r u p t i n g the c o n t i n u i t y o f E n g l i s h v e r s e . In an e a r l y paper e n t i t l e d "Modern E n g l i s h P o e t r y " (1931), S l e s s o r e x p r e s s e d h i s a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h a t a r c h - e x p e r i m e n t e r E.E. Cummings' r e f r e s h i n g v i g o u r , but he c o u l d o n l y c o n c l u d e t h a t i t was, n e v e r t h e l e s s , a m a t t e r o f too much, too soon. V o i c i n g s e n t i m e n t s which a n t i c i p a t e d the tone o f most A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m f o r decades t o come, S l e s s o r warned: There can be no sudden e x p l o s i o n o f r e v o l t , such as i s a t t e m p t e d by the i n c e n d i a r i e s under the d o m i n a t i o n o f Cummings and G e r t r u d e S t e i n . Even T.S. E l i o t o b t a i n s h i s most p o w e r f u l p o e t r y by a s i m p l e i n f l e c t i o n o r v a r i a t i o n o f the s t a n d a r d i z e d pentameter. The d e f e n d e r s o f the E n g l i s h p o e t i c t r a d i t i o n , m u s t e r i n g behind the r e l i a b l e pentameter, c l e a r l y p e r c e i v e d the m o d e r n i s t r e b e l s as a v e r y r e a l t h r e a t . S l e s s o r e d i t e d S o u t h e r l y from 1956 t o 1961. Douglas S t e w a r t , l i k e S l e s s o r , was a man o f p r o f o u n d i n f l u e n c e i n the F i f t i e s and most o f the S i x t i e s t h r o u g h h i s own p o e t r y , and i n h i s c a p a c i t y as l i t e r a r y e d i t o r o f the B u l j e t i n (1940-60) and o f Angus and R o b e r t s o n p u b l i c a t i o n s . He p e r s i s t e n t l y e x p r e s s e d h i s deep c o n c e r n f o r the s t a t e o f Contemporary l i t e r a t u r e . An e x c e r p t from h i s c r i t i c a l work, The F l e s h and the S p i r i t (1948), w i l l s u f f i c e t o i l l u s t r a t e h i s c o m p l e t e i n t o l e r a n c e o f m o d e r n i s t t e n d e n c i e s and wr i t e r s : 37 S u r e l y i t i s the t w o f o l d d e s i r e o f e s c a p i n g from a r t and e s c a p i n g from Freud t h a t has b e g o t t e n the most d i f f i c u l t , the most " s o p h i s t i c a t e d " the most u n i n t e l l i g i b l e a r t o f our t i m e . The v u l g a r d i s p l a y s o f p r i v a t e e r u d i t i o n i n "The Waste Land" i n Pound's Cantos and i n Auden's New Year L e t t e r ; G e r t r u d e S t e i n ' s p r a t t l i n g , as o f an i d i o t c h i l d . . . a l l t h e s e which we f i n d " i n t e r e s t i n g " a r e m e r e l y , i n the a g g r a v a t e d form o f u n i n t e l 1 i g i b i 1 i t y , t h o s e " a l l e g o r i e s o f t h e s t a t e o f one's own mind" which Matthew A r n o l d r i g h t l y judged t o be an escape i n t o i n f e r i o r a r t . ^ 7 The Americans a g a i n emerge as a f e a r e d f o r c e i n the army o f t h e enemy. S t e w a r t c o u l d not condone what he termed i n a B u i l e t i j i a r t i c l e p o i n t e d l y e n t i t l e d "Goodbye t o the W r e c k e r s , " the " r e d u c t i o n o f the E n g l i s h 88 language i n t o a p r i v a t e mumbo jumbo." S t e w a r t ' s s e n t i m e n t s , a t once a n t a g o n i s t i c and r e s e n t f u l o f the d i f f i c u l t i e s posed t o the r e a d e r o f m o d e r n i s t v e r s e , t y p i f i e d t h e g r e a t b u l k o f academic c r i t i c i s m t h a t dominated t h e F i f t i e s . B r i a n K i e r n a n has r i g h t l y r e f e r r e d t o t h i s "major phase o f A u s t r a l i a n 89 l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m " as "smug and c o n f o r m i s t i n many ways." Indeed, t h r e e t h i n g s c h a r a c t e r i z e the temper o f the p e r i o d : an a n t i p a t h y , b o r d e r i n g on h o s t i l i t y towards m o d e r n i s t p o e t s , e s p e c i a l l y the A m e r i c a n s ; the overwhelming a n g l o c e n t r i s m o f E n g l i s h departments i n the major A u s t r a l i a n u n i v e r s i t i e s - - w h a t one v i s i t i n g American s c h o l a r 90 i d e n t i f i e d as a " d e b i l i t a t i n g p o m m i f i c a t i o n " ; and the i n s u l a r i t y , the " c l o s e d - s h o p " t e n d e n c i e s o f the Academy. Young c r i t i c s w i t h i n t e r n a t i o n a l i s m on t h e i r minds were r u n n i n g s c a r e d . Max H a r r i s was r i g h t when, i n 1966, he spoke of the "academic monopoly [ i n A u s t r a l i a ] 91 of the f u n c t i o n s o f c r i t i c i s m . " L a t e r i n the same a r t i c l e , he w r y l y and perhaps a l i t t l e d e s p a i r i n g l y r e f e r r e d t o the " v i c i o u s 38 c r i t i c a l c i r c l e o f Hope e n d l e s s l y on McAuley, McAuley on B u c k l e y , 92 B u c k l e y on Hope, and Dr. L e o n i e Kramer on them a l l . " McAuley and Hope made t h e i r b i a s e s v e r y c l e a r . Hope had no time f o r modernism, and he c o n s e q u e n t l y a t t a c k e d i t s l e a d i n g p r o p o n e n t s . A l o n g w i t h McAuley, he c o n s t a n t l y e x p r e s s e d h i s d e t e r m i n a t i o n t o keep A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e f r e e o f the t a i n t of r e b e l l i o u s e x p e r i m e n t i n e s s a y s such as " S t a n d a r d s i n A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e " ( i s s u e d i n 93 1956 as a C u r r e n t A f f a i r s B u l l e t i n ) , "The D i s c u r s i v e Mode" and " F r e e V e r s e : A Post-Mortem" ( t h e l a s t two i n c l u d e d i n The Cave and the 9/4 S p r i ng ). The t i t l e s t h e m s e l v e s r e f l e c t both the a u t h o r ' s i n f l e x i b l e sense o f h i s own c o r r e c t n e s s and h i s c a u s t i c a t t i t u d e towards t h o s e d a r i n g t o c a s t t h e i r h a t s i n w i t h the o p p o s i t i o n . The poet Les Murray's r e f e r e n c e t o r e c e n t A u s t r a l i a n r e v i e w i n g as "a Cosy Corner 95 and a s n a k e p i t " seems f a r more a p p r o p r i a t e t o the angry F i f t i e s . A p p r a i s i n g modernism, Hope u t i l i z e d a language o f v i o l e n c e , and once a g a i n the Americans were the p r i n c i p a l r e c i p i e n t s o f h i s h o s t i l i t y . In "The D i s c u r s i v e Mode" he r e f e r s t o the p r e s e n t d e s t r u c t i o n o f the l a n d s c a p e o f l i t e r a t u r e by the i n t r u s i o n o f a l i e n and s t e r i l e forms o f cheap amusement, by e x h a u s t i o n o f the h e a r t and mind, p r o c e e d i n g from greedy and i g n o r a n t e x p l o i t a t i o n o f t h e i r r e s o u r c e s , and by a p o i s o n i n g o f the atmosphere o f b e l i e f i n which the forms o f a r t b r e a t h e and f l o u r i s h . . . .96 Hope t r a c e s the modern h e r e s y back t o Edgar A l l a n Poe. P o e t r y , he m a i n t a i n s , had been " m u s i c , " b u t , under the impact o f the t r a d i t i o n founded by Poe, i t d e t e r i o r a t e d i n t o " t h e f o r m l e s s b a b b l e and vomit 97 o f the p o e t ' s s u b c o n s c i o u s mind." 39 In " F r e e V e r s e : A P o s t - M o r t e m " Hope g o e s f u r t h e r , l a y i n g t h e b l a m e f o r t h e p r o l i f e r a t i o n o f f r e e v e r s e i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y a t t h e f e e t o f W a l t Whitman and h i s s u c c e s s o r s - - t w o e x p a t r i a t e A m e r i c a n s who became F r e n c h p o e t s , F r a n c i s V i e l e - G r i f f i n a n d S t u a r t M e r r i l l , a s w e l l a s T . S . E l i o t and E z r a P o u n d . T r a c i n g t h e h i s t o r y o f f r e e v e r s e , Hope s u g g e s t s t h a t a f t e r P o u n d ' s '('1912" I m a g i s t a n t h o l o g y , f r e e v e r s e s p r e a d b a c k t o A m e r i c a , " m a i n l y by way o f M a r i o n M o o r e ' s 98 j o u r n a l P o e t r y , p u b l i s h e d i n C h i c a g o . " P r e s u m a b l y he h a s i n m i n d P o u n d ' s 1914 a n t h o l o g y and H a r r i e t M o n r o e ' s P o e t r y , w h i c h p u b l i s h e d M a r i a n n e M o o r e . T h e n c e , v i a t h e " h e r e t i c s " who p u b l i s h e d i n P o e t r y , s u c h a s P o u n d , Y e a t s , H . D . , W i l l i a m s , L a w r e n c e , S a n d b u r g , S t e v e n s a n d E l i o t , f r e e v e r s e s p r e a d " l i k e t h e g r e a t i n f l u e n z a e p i d e m i c s o f t h e p e r i o d , " t h r o u g h a p r o c e s s r e s e m b l i n g t h a t by w h i c h c e r t a i n p a r a s i t e s , l i k e t h e t a p e w o r m and t h e l i v e r f l u k e , o n l y become d a n g e r o u s i f t h e y a r e a b l e t o c a r r y o u t t h e i r s t a g e s o f g r o w t h i n t h e b o d i e s o f s e v e r a l t y p e s o f a n i m a l i n s u c c e s s i o n . 9 9 A few p a g e s l a t e r , Hope c l a r i f i e s h i s v i e w o f t h e s i t u a t i o n i n m i l i t a r y t e r m s . He r e f e r s t o t h e " c o r r u p t i o n o f t h e g a r r i s o n f r o m w i t h i n , " a n d t h e " b a r b a r i a n a s s a u l t f r o m w i t h o u t . T h e w r i t e r c l e a r l y s e n s e s h i s b e l e a g u e r e d c l a s s i c a l w o r l d t o t t e r i n g . James M c A u l e y a d o p t e d an e q u a l l y p o l e m i c a l p o s e . M o r e o v e r t l y p o l i t i c a l t h a n H o p e , h i s c r i t i c a l w o r k , T h e End o f M o d e r n i t y (1959), e s t a b l i s h e d M c A u l e y a s a c r i t i c d e t e r m i n e d t o i m p o s e t h e m o s t v i g o r o u s - - and n a r r o w - s t a n d a r d s on t h e w o r k s he a p p r a i s e d . ' ^ P o e t r y s h o u l d h a v e n o t h i n g t o do w i t h m e t a p h y s i c s , t h e o l o g y , o r a n y o f t h e " i d e o l o g i c a l ko d r i v e l o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y " l i k e " d e i s m , p a n t h e i s m , n a t i o n a l i s m , 1 02 s o c i a l i s m , d e m o c r a t i s m a n d t h e r e s t . " H i s t a r g e t s a r e f a m i l i a l — t h e s o - c a l l e d " o l d G u a r d o f r e v o l u t i o n a r i e s " l i k e E l i o t , P o u n d , J o y c e 1 03 a n d L e w i s ; h i s a r t i s t i c p o s i t i o n , t h o u g h p e r h a p s more e x t r e m e t h a n any o f h i s c o l l e a g u e s i n t h e Academy o t h e r t h a n H o p e , n e e d s some a t t e n t i o n , i f o n l y t o h e l p us t o a p p r e c i a t e more f u l l y t h e f o c u s o f t h o s e c r i t i c s who commanded t h e most a t t e n t i o n i n A u s t r a l i a i n t h e F i f t i e s a n d S i x t i e s . In h i s e s s a y " T h e M a g i a n H e r e s y , " M c A u l e y d e - c l a r e s t h a t i t i s t i m e t o r e c o g n i z e t h a t p o e t r y d u r i n g t h e p a s t o n e h u n d r e d and f i f t y y e a r s a n d more has d e s c r i b e d an immense d e t o u r . M c A u l e y f o u n d e d t h e p e r i o d i c a l Q u a d r a n t , and e d i t e d i t f o r t h e n e x t t w e n t y y e a r s ( 1 9 5 6 - 7 6 ) u n t i l h i s d e a t h . He was a l w a y s a p o t e n t f o r c e - - w h e t h e r a s e d i t o r , p o l i t i c a l c o m m e n t a t o r o r p o e t . In h e r Commonwealth L i t e r a r y Fund l e c t u r e (1957) e n t i t l e d " J a m e s M c A u l e y : T r a d i t i o n i n A u s t r a l i a n P o e t r y , " L e o n i e K r a m e r , h a v i n g c r i t i c i z e d T . S . E l i o t ' s " s u p e r f i c i a l t e c h n i c a l a n d i n t e l l e c t u a l g i m m i c k s , " c o n c l u d e s by s t a t i n g t h a t M c A u l e y ' s a t t e m p t s t o " b r e a t h e new l i f e and v i g o u r i n t o " t r a d i t i o n a 1 v e r s e f o r m s " a r e " c a l c u l a b l e r i s k s , f a r l e s s t o be f e a r e d t h a n t h e a p p a r e n t f r e e d o m o f l i t e r a r y n o n - c o n f o r m i t y . " ^ ^ L i t e r a r y b a t 11 e-1 i nes , i t s e e m s , w e r e c a r e f u l l y d r a w n b e t w e e n t h e i n s u r r e c t i o n i s t s a n d t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t . E q u i v o c a t i o n was n o t p o s s i b l e . 41 G . A . W i l k e s ' A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e : A C o n s p e c t u s (1969) i s o n l y a p r o d u c t o f i t s t i m e . When i t i s remembered t h a t i n h i s C . L . F . l e c t u r e (1956) on t h e l o n g poem i n A u s t r a l i a and A m e r i c a ( u s i n g t h e v e r s e o f , a m o n g s t o t h e r s , F r a n c i s Webb a n d W i l l i a m C a r l o s W i l l i a m s ) , W i l k e s c o u l d w r i t e t h a t p o e t s i n e a c h c o u n t r y had " t u r n e d t o h i s t o r i c a l s u b j e c t s . . . b e c a u s e t h i s i s n o r m a l i n ' c o l o n i a l ' l i t e r a t u r e s a t a c e r t a i n s t a g e o f t h e i r d e v e l o p m e n t , " we r e c o g n i z e a f r a m e w o r k c o n s i s t e n t n o t o n l y w i t h m o s t A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c a l w o r k s o v e r t h e 106 p r e v i o u s t w e n t y - f i v e y e a r s , b u t o v e r t h e l a s t c e n t u r y . W i l k e s ' t r a c i n g o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e " a s an e x t e n s i o n o f E u r o p e a n c i v i l i z a t i o n t o t h e s o u t h , " i s , f o r i . h i m , t h e o n l y v i a b l e s c h o l a r l y a p p r o a c h . A . D . H o p e ' s p r o n o u n c e m e n t i n h i s e s s a y , " T h e P r a c t i c a l C r i t i c , " r e f l e c t s a s i n g u l a r t r u t h when a p p l i e d t o t h e h i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c i sm: T h e poem i s a l w a y s u n d e r t h e c r i t i c ' s m i c r o s c o p e , and he seems n e v e r t o r e f l e c t t h a t w h i l e he i s t e s t i n g t h e poem t h e poem may i n f a c t be t e s t i n g h i m . S o m e t i m e s , i f he w e r e a w a r e o f i t , a v e r v s a r d o n i c e y e i s g a z i n g b a c k a t him t h r o u g h h i s l e n s . ^ T h e r e h a s b e e n an " o f f i c i a l " l i t e r a t u r e , c o g n i z a n t o f i t s E u r o p e a n r o o t s , w h i c h many c r i t i c s o v e r t h e y e a r s h a v e e m p h a s i z e d a t t h e e x p e n s e o f a g r e a t d e a l o f o r a l l i t e r a t u r e , r a d i c a l l i t e r a t u r e and U t o p i a n 1 i t e r a t u r e - - t h a t i s , t h e k i n d o f w r i t i n g u s u a l l y f o u n d o n l y i n t h e o r i g i n a l j o u r n a l f o r m i n w h i c h i t a p p e a r e d , a n d i n c o n s i s t e n t w i t h t h e e s t a b l i s h e d , " c o l o n i a l " c r i t e r i a . s o o f t e n u s e d a s t h e o n l y m e a s u r e s o f g o o d w r i t i n g . In t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , t h e s o c i a l d o m i n a n c e o f kl an A n g l o p h i l e e l i t e p r o b a b l y f o r c e d e m e r g i n g c r i t i c s t o v o i c e t h e s e o f f i c i a l v i e w s , l e s t , i n b r e a t h i n g A m e r i c a n n e s s , t h e y s h o u l d p r o c l a i m t h e m s e l v e s R e p u b l i c a n s , o r a t t h e v e r y l e a s t , a n t i - E n g 1 i s h . From t h e 1 9 ^ 0 ' s t o t h e 1 6 0 1 s , i n t h e m i d s t o f a l i t e r a r y c l i m a t e n e a t l y e n c a s e d i n an a n t i - m o d e r n i s t s h e l l , i n f l u e n t i a l c r i t i c s f r o m t h e A u s t r a l i a n A c a d e m y a g a i n p e r c e i v e d A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e a s a t h r e a t t o t h e o r d e r l i n e s s o f t h e i r own c o u n t r y ' s w r i t i n g . T h e y d e s i g n a t e d W h i t m a n , P o e , Pound a n d t h e i r " f e l l o w - t r a v e l l e r s " a s t h e enemy i n A u s t r a l i a ' s m i d s t . And y e t a s t r o n g l i t e r a r y c o n n e c t i o n b e t w e e n A u s t r a l i a and A m e r i c a - - w h i c h b l o s s o m e d s o r e m a r k a b l y i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A u s t r a l i a a n d a g a i n i n t h e l a t e 1 9 6 0 1 s — i s a l m o s t a s o l d a s w h i t e s e t t l e m e n t on t h e s h o r e s o f S y d n e y C o v e . 4-3 T I T L E P A G E / I N T R O D U C T I O N ENDNOTES ' V e r n o n L o u i s P a r r i n g t o n , Main- C u r r e n t s i n A m e r i c a n T h o u g h t , 3 v o l s . (New Y o r k : H a r c o u r t , B r a c e , 1927), P- v i . 2 A . P a t c h e t t M a r t i n , " C o n c e r n i n g A m e r i c a n P o e t s , " i n A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s : 1788-1888, e d . D o u g l a s B.W. S l a d e n ( L o n d o n : G r i f f i t h , F a r r a n , O k e d e n , W e l s h , 1888), p. x l i v . 3 J o s e p h J o n e s , Rad i c a l C o u s i n s : N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y Amer i c a n a n d A u s t r a 1 i a n Wr i t e r s ( S t . L u c i a : U n i v . o f Q u e e n s 1 a n d , P r e s s , 1976), p. i x . J o n e s , p . k\ . 5 F r e d A l e x a n d e r , A u s t r a l i a a n d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ( B o s t o n : W o r l d P e a c e F o u n d a t i o n , 19^1), p . 13. 6 V i n c e n t B u c k l e y , E s s a y s i n P o e t r y : Ma i n l y A u s t r a l i an ( M e l - b o u r n e : M e l b o u r n e U n i v . P r e s s , 1957), P- 51- 7 Norman H a r p e r , i n T h e A m e r i c a n A l l i a n c e , e d . J o h n Hammond M o o r e ( V i c t o r i a : C a s s e l l , 1970), p . 17- W i l k e s p l e a d s t h e d e a r t h o f e s t a b l i s h e d s o u r c e s . S e e , f o r e x a m p l e , G . A . W i l k e s , A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e : ' . A C o n s p e c t u s ( S y d n e y : A n g u s a n d R o b e r t s o n , 1969), p . kS. 9 See b e l o w , C h a p t e r IV, s e c t i o n s b) a n d c ) . ^ T h i s n e g l e c t i s n o t c o n f i n e d m e r e l y t o l i t e r a t u r e . " A u s t r a l i a n H i s t o r y , " Ray A i t c h i s o n w r o t e i n 1972 ( T h a n k s t o t h e Y a n k s ) , " h a s p l a y e d down t h e A m e r i c a n s t o r y . " S i n c e t h e e a r l y 1 9 4 0 ' s , h o w e v e r , l e d i n i t i a l l y by L l o y d C h u r c h w a r d and G o r d o n G r e e n w o o d , a n d more r e c e n t l y by J o h n Hammond M o o r e , Norman H a r p e r , E . D a n i e l P o t t s , A n n e t t e P o t t s a n d N o e l M c L a c h l a n , A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r i a n s h a v e c r e a t e d a s i t u a t i o n e n c o u r a g i n g , a t l a s t , t o b o t h a t e x t u a l a n d a c o n t e x t u a l l i t e r a r y s t u d y o f t h e c o n t a c t b e t w e e n t h e two c o u n t r i e s . My d e b t t o t h e a b o v e h i s t o r i a n s , a t many p o i n t s i n t h e t h e s : i . s , i s g r a t e f u l l y a c k n o w l e d g e d . ^ S e e b e l o w , C h a p t e r I I , s e c t i o n b ) . 1 2 Raymond W i l l i a m s , C u l t u r e a n d S o c i e t y (New Y o r k : C o l u m b i a U n i v . P r e s s , 1958), p . 320. 1 3 G . B . B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New S o u t h W a l e s ( S y d n e y : Thomas R i c h a r d s , 1866), p . 1; H . M . G r e e n , An O u t l i n e o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e ( S y d n e y : W h i t c o m b e & T o m b s , 1930); H . M . G r e e n , A H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e , 2 v o l s . ( S y d n e y : A n g u s a n d R o b e r t s o n , 1961); W i l k e s , p. 130. M o o r e , T . I n g l i s , S o c i a l P a t t e r n s i n A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e ( B e r k e l e y : U n i v . o f C a l i f o r n i a P r e s s , 1971), p. 239. ^ Poem r e p r i n t e d i n G . B . B a r t o n , e d . , T h e P o e t s a n d P r o s e W r i t e r s o f New S o u t h W a l e s ( S y d n e y : Gibbs'., S h a l l a r d , 1866), p p . 19-29- 16 W i l l i a m C a r l o s W i l l i a m s , S e l e c t e d E s s a y s o f W i l l i a m C a r l o s W i l l i a m s (New Y o r k : New D i r e c t i o n s , 1969), p . 13^. 45 ^ L i e u t e n a n t - C o l o n e l L a c h l a n M a c q u a r i e was Governor o f the c o l o n y from l a t e l 8 0 9 ~ t o 1821. 18 Robinson's odes commemorated the a n n i v e r s a r i e s o f the b i r t h - days o f George I I I (June 4)- and Queen C h a r l o t t e ( J a n u a r y 18). See Green, Hi s t o r y , p. 110. 19 M i c h a e l Massey R o b i n s o n , Odes o f M i c h a e l Massey R o b i n s o n , ;i;ntrod. George Mackaness (Sydney: D.S. F o r d , 1946), p. 21) (Ode f i r s t p u b l i s h e d i n Sydney G a z e t t e , June 9, 1810). 20 R o b i n s o n , p. 31 (Sydney G a z e t t e , June 8, 1811). 21 R o b i n s o n , p. 55 (Sydney G a z e t t e , June 10, 1815). 22 Green, H i s t o r y , p. 110. 23 B a r r o n F i e l d , F i r s t F r u i t s o f A u s t r a l i a n P o e t r y (Sydney, 1819). The two poems c o m p r i s i n g th.i:s volume a r e r e p r i n t e d i n B r i a n E l l i o t t and A d r i a n M i t c h e l l , eds., Bards i n the W i l d e r n e s s : A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i a l P o e t r y t o 1920 (Melbourne: N e l s o n , 1970). 24 B u c k l e y , E s s a y s , p. 4. I t s h o u l d be remembered, i n F i e l d ' s d e f e n c e , t h a t e a r l y American r e p o r t s such as John Smith's A True ) R e l a t i on (1608) and N a t h a n i e l Ward's S i m p l e C o b l e r o f Aggawam i n Amer i ca (1647) were a l s o o n l y b a r e l y d i s g u i s e d t r a v e l books w h i c h p o r t r a y e d A m e r i c a e x o t i c a l l y , i n an a t t e m p t t o encourage s e t t l e r s . 2 5 El 1 i o t t and Mi t c h e l 1 , p. 14. 26 E l l i o t t and M i t c h e l l , p. 15. 27 S l a d o n ' s a n t h o l o g i e s (1888) a r e d i s c u s s e d l a t e r i n t h i s c h a p t e r . Some decades a f t e r t h e i r p u b l i c a t i o n , B e r n a r d 0'Dowd a g a i n d i s c u s s e d the " f a l l a c y o f ' l o c a l c o l o u r . ' T h i s f a l l a c y i s the n o t i o n t h a t you can make a s e t o f v e r s e s A u s t r a l i a n by s p r i n k l i n g i t w i t h g o l d e n w a t t l e , k o o k a b u r r a f e a t h e r s , m y a l l blossom, and kangaroo t a i l s . . . ." See " L i t e r a t u r e i n A u s t r a l i a , " C o r r o b o r e e , I, No. 10 ( J u l y 1922), 3- 28 Tompson was j u s t twenty when h i s W i l d Notes from the L y r e o f a N a t i v e M i n s t r e l (Sydney, 1826) was p u b l i s h e d . H i s l a t e r p o e t r y remains u n c o l l e c t e d . E l l i o t t and M i t c h e l l r e p u b l i s h e d t h r e e o f h i s < poems. 2 9 E l l i o t t and M i t c h e l l , p. 2 9 . 30 B a r t o n , P o e t s and P r o s e W r i t e r s , p. 2 9 . 31 See below, C h a p t e r I I I , s e c t i o n a ) . 32 See below, C h a p t e r I I , i n p a r t i c u l a r . 3 3 W i I k e s , p. 16. 34 ' -' H e n r i c u s , 1 " C o l o n i a l C r i t i c i s m , " A u s t r a l a s i a n , F e b r u a r y 27, 1869• p. 269. 1 H e n r i c u s 1 was a pseudonym used by Henry M e l v i l l e , a c o l o n i a l j o u r n a l i s t . 35 B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e , p. 1. The i t a l i c s a r e mine. 36 B a r t o n , p. 13- 37 B a r t o n , p. 11. • 3 0 B a r t o n , pp. 105~7. 39 B a r t o n , p. 14; Henry K i n g s l e y , The R e c o l l e c t i o n s o f G e o f f r e y Hamlyn (London: M a c m i l l a n , 1859), pp. 400-1. 40 T h i s comment o f Wilmot's comes from one o f h i s u n c o l l e c t e d l i t e r a r y e s s a y s , e n t i t l e d "Modern P o e t r y . " Frank Wilmot C o l l e c t i o n , ML, MSS 4/4, M i t c h e l l L i b r a r y , Sydney. 47 4 1 Douglas B.W. S l a d e n , ed., A u s t r a l i a n B a l l a d s and Rhymes (London, W a l t e r S c o t t , 1888), p. 274. k 2 A.D. Hope, "The P r o v i n c i a l Muse: 1888-1900," A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y S t u d i e s , 8, No. 1 (May 1977), p. 1.7- S l a d e n ' s t h r e e a n t h o l o g i e s o f 1888 were A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s and A u s t r a l i a n Ba11 ads, a l r e a d y c i t e d , a l o n g w i t h A C e n t u r y o f A u s t r a l i a n Song (London: W a l t e r S c o t t , 1888). A u s t r a l i a n Poets i s d i f f e r e n t t o the o t h e r two a n t h o l o g i e s i n t h a t the e d i t o r aimed a t g i v i n g "specimens o f the b e s t poems produced i n the a n t i p o d e s i r r e s p e c t i v e o f s u b j e c t . " (p. x i x ) . 43 S l a d e n , A u s t r a l i a n B a l l a d s , pp. v - v i . 44 S l a d e n , A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s , p. x l i i . 45 S l a d e n , A u s t r a l i a n B a l l a d s , pp. x x i i i - x x i v . I t would be i n t e r e s t i n g t o know who S l a d e n had i n mind when he t a l k e d o f the "few" p o e t s w i t h " o r i g i n a l g e n i u s . " 4 6 S l a d e n , A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s , p. xxx. 47 Thomas Heney, "On Some A u s t r a l i a n Poems," Sydney Q u a r t e r l y Magazine, Sept. 1888. R e p r i n t e d i n John B a r n e s , ed.gThe W r i t e r i n A u s t r a l i a : A C o l l e c t i o n o f L i t e r a r y Documents, 1856 t o 1964 ( M e l - bourne: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1969), p. 38. 40 [A.G. S t e p h e n s ] , "D.B.W. S l a d e n , " B u l l e t i n , X V I I I , No. 918, ( S e p t . 18, 1897), red page. 4 9 Hope, " P r o v i n c i a l Muse," p. 23- 5 0 S l a d e n , A u s t r a l i a n B a l l a d s , p. 208. 5 ] L e c t u r e d e l i v e r e d March 27, 1898, a t South P l a c e I n s t i t u t e , London. I t was p u b l i s h e d as The B e g i n n i n g s o f an A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e (London: Henry S o t h e r a n , 1898). 48 52 S l a d e n , A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s , p. x x i i . 53 M a r t i n , Beg i nn i ngs, p. 16. ? M a r t i n , p. 8. 55 J M a r t i n , pp. 9-10. 56 p M a r t i n , p. 11. 5 7 M a r t i n , pp. 20, 25, 30/ 58 M a r t i n , i n S l a d e n , Aus t ra M a n P o e t s , p. x l i v . 59 M a r t i n , Beg i nn i ngs, p. 42. ^ M a r t i n p r a i s e s , amongst o t h e r t h i n g s , Gordon's a b i l i t y i n "A Song o f Autumn" t o be " i n England and A u s t r a l i a a t the same t i m e . " ( B e g i n n i n g s , p. 38.) ^ Henry G y l e s T u r n e r and A l e x a n d e r S u t h e r l a n d , The Development o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e (Melbourne, George R o b e r t s o n , I898). S l a d e n a f f e c t i o n a t e l y r e f e r r e d t o T u r n e r as a " l i t e r a r y - b a n k e r " i n A u s t r a 1 i a n P o e t s , p. x i i . 62 T u r n e r and S u t h e r l a n d , p. 22. T u r n e r and S u t h e r l a n d , p. 24. 64 T u r n e r and S u t h e r l a n d , p. 123. 65 T.G. T u c k e r , T h i n g s Worth T h i n k i n g About (Melbourne: George R o b e r t s o n , 1890), p. I85. T u c k e r , p. 189- ^ Green, O u t l i n e , p. 10. ^ T u r n e r and S u t h e r l a n d , p. v i i . 69 Vance Palmer, "An A u s t r a l i a n N a t i o n a l A r t , " S t e e l e Rudd's Magazine, J a n . 1905- R e p r i n t e d i n B a r n e s , W r i t e r i n A u s t r a l i a , pp. 168-70. I t i s w o r t h comparing Palmer's comments w i t h t h o s e o f the Rev. Sydney S m i t h . See below, C h a p t e r I, s e c t i o n b)'. 7 0 C h r i s t o p h e r Brennan, "The U n i v e r s i t y and A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e : A C e n t e n a r y R e t r o s p e c t , " Hermes, J u b i l e e No., 1902. R e p r i n t e d i n The P r o s e o f C h r i s t o p h e r Brennan, ed. A.R. C h i s o l m and J . J . Quinn (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1962), p. 28. 7 1 B r i a n K i e r n a n , " L i t e r a t u r e , H i s t o r y , and L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y : P e r s p e c t i v e s on the N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y i n A u s t r a l i a , " i n B a r d s , Bohemians, and Bookmen: Essays i n A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e , ed. Leon C a n t r e l l ( S t . L u c i a : U n i v . o f Queensland P r e s s , 1976), p. 8. 72 Green, O u t l i ne, p. 9- 7 3 Green, p. 12. 7 4 „ Green, p. 16. 7 5 Green, p. 72. A comparison between Henry Lawson and B r e t H a r t e i s b r i e f l y taken up i n C h a p t e r IX o f O u t l i ne. 76 Green, Hi s t o r y , p. x i . 7 7 Green, H i s t o r y , p. x i v . 78 F e d e r i c k T. M a c a r t n e y , A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y Essays (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1957), PP- 12-13- 79 See, f o r example, A.Norman J e f f a r e s , "The Ern Mai l e y Poems," i n The L i t e r a t u r e o f A u s t r a l i a , ed. G e o f f r e y Dutton ( M i d d l e s e x : P e n g u i n , 1964), pp. 407~12. 80 C h r i s W a l l a c e - C r a b b e , quoted i n A l e x a n d e r C r a i g , ed., Twelve P o e t s : 1950-1970 (Sydney: J a c a r a n d a P r e s s , 1971), p. 101. 50 ^ M a c a r t n e y , p. 1. 82 M a c a r t n e y , pp. 10-16. Oo M a c a r t n e y , p. 16. 84 James Devaney, P o e t r y i n Our Time (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1952), p. 7- 85 Devaney, p. 113- 86 Kenneth S l e s s o r , "Modern E n g l i s h P o e t r y . " P r i n t e d i n Sydney by the A u s t r a l i a n - E n g l i s h A s s o c i a t i o n as o f f p r i n t No. 9 i n O c t o b e r , 1931- E x c e r p t s c o n t a i n e d i n H e r b e r t C. J a f f a , Kenneth S l e s s o r (New York: Twayne, 1971), PP- 73~4. 87 Douglas S t e w a r t , The F l e s h and the S p i r i t (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1948), p. 94. 88 Douglas S t e w a r t , "Goodbye t o the W r e c k e r s , " Bui 1eti n, LXIJ I , No. 3269 (Oct. 7, 1942), red page (p. 2). 89 B r i a n K i e r n a n , C r i t i c i sm (Melbourne: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1974), p. 29. 90 John Greenway, " F o l k s o n g — A P r o t e s t , " A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y S t u d i e s , 2, No. 3 (June 1966), p. 192. 91 Max H a r r i s , " C o n f l i c t s i n A u s t r a l i a n I n t e l l e c t u a l L i f e : 1940-1964," i n L i t e r a r y A u s t r a l i a , ed. Clement Semmler and Derek W h i t e l o c k (Melbourne: F.W. C h e s h i r e , 1966), p. 26. 92 H a r r i s , p. 30. 93 See K i e r n a n , Cr i t i c i sm, pp. 37-40. 94 A.D. Hope, The Cave and the S p r i n g ( A d e l a i d e : R i g b y , 1965). 51 95 Les Murray, The Peasant Mandarin ( S t . L u c i a : U n i v . o f Queens- l a n d P r e s s , 1978) , p. v i i i . 96 Hope, Cave and S p r i n g , p. 2. 97 Hope, p. 5. See a l s o pp. 7~8. 98 Hope, pp. 38-9. " Hope, p. 38. Hope, p. 41. ^ James McAuley, The End o f M o d e r n i t y (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1959). 1 02 McAuley, End, pp. 63 _ 5- 1 03 See James McAuley, "Comment," Quadrant, V, No. 1 (Summer 1960-1), 3-h. 104 McAuley, Erid, p. 159- ^ 5 L e o n i e Kramer, James McAuley ( C a n b e r r a : C a n b e r r a U n i v . C o l l e g e , 1957), P-1 11- L e c t u r e p r i n t e d w i t h T. I n g l i s Moore's The M i s f o r t u n e s o f Henry Handel R i c h a r d s o n as a C.L.F. L e c t u r e s p u b l i c a t i o n . 106 G.A. W i l k e s , Some Trends i n A u s t r a l i a n V e r s e ( C a n b e r r a : Canberra U n i v . C o l l e g e , 1956), pp. 12-13. L e c t u r e p r i n t e d as a C.L.F. L e c t u r e s p u b l i c a t i o n . W i l k e s , C o n s p e c t u s , p. 131. Hope, Cave and S p r i n g , p. 7 6 . PART ONE: TO I838 51 CHAPTER I "A NEW AMERICA" OR BRITAIN'S "SINK OF WICKEDNESS"? The c o m p a r i s o n between the e a r l y c o l o n i s t s o f A m e r i c a , a t l e a s t t h o s e of the n o r t h e r n s t a t e s , and the f o u n d e r s o f A u s t r a l i a , must q u i c k l y run o f f i n t o c o n t r a s t . The p r i m a r y o b j e c t o f the P i l g r i m F a t h e r s , was the enjoyment o f o p i n i o n s i n peace. The e a r l y d e n i z e n s o f the s o u t h e r n w o r l d burned t h e i r f i r s t c h u r c h t o escape the tedium o f a t t e n d a n c e . The f i r s t p i l g r i m s o f New England a t t e m p t e d a community o f goods on the p l a n o f the a p o s t l e s . The f i r s t A u s t r a l i a n s drew t h e i r s t o r e s from the c o m m i s s a r i a t , and adopted the t r a d i t i o n s o f H o u n d s d i t c h and Wapping. The l e a d e r s o f the f i r s t Americans were t h e i r c l e r g y , - - the b i b l e was t h e i r p o l i t i c a l and c i v i l s t a n d a r d . The r u l e r s o f the f i r s t A u s t r a l i a n s were h a l f m a r i n e , h a l f s o l d i e r s , whose pay was supplemented by the s a l e o f s p i r i t s s o l d by c o n v i c t women, t h e i r m i s t r e s s e s . Thus f o r many yeans the government o f t h e s e c o l o n i e s was a b s o l u t e , and the u s u a l consequences sometimes appeared. John West, The H i s t o r y o f Tasmania (1852)1 Sect i on A_ E x p l o r a t i o n and S e t t l e m e n t Even a b r i e f s k e t c h o f the h i s t o r i c a l and g e o g r a p h i c a l l i n k s between the A u s t r a l i a n and American c o n t i n e n t s , and p e o p l e s , must b e g i n b e f o r e t ' t h e n a r r i v a 1 i n Botany Bay, i n 1792, o f the American t r a d i n g 53 s h i p P h i l a d e l p h i a . B e f o r e , even, the f i r s t s t e p s on A u s t r a l i a n s o i l , i n 1770, o f t h r e e American s a i l o r s - - G o r e , Matra and Thurmond-- aboard Cook's Endeavour. W e l l b e f o r e . I t b e g i n s even b e f o r e A u s t r a l i a was d i s c o v e r e d , not w i t h E n g l i s h , but w i t h S p a n i s h adventurers--men s t r i v i n g , t h r o u g h o u t the s i x t e e n t h c e n t u r y , t o g i v e s u b s t a n c e t o the myth o f the g r e a t s o u t h l a n d . In 1519, h i s i m a g i n a t i o n s t i r r e d by B a l b o a ' s t e s t i m o n y t h a t a new ocean l a y t o the w e s t , F e r d i n a n d M a g e l l a n pushed beyond the s t r a i t now b e a r i n g h i s name, a c r o s s the new ocean t o the P h i l i p p i n e s ; he thus began a r e m a r k a b l e e r a o f S p a n i s h e x p l o r a t i o n o f the P a c i f i c , an e x p l o r a t i o n o n l y p o s s i b l e because o f S p a n i s h s e t t l e m e n t o f the A m e r i c a s . Subsequent voyages aimed a t c o n s o l i d a t i n g e f f e c t i v e e x p l o i t - a t i o n o f the r i c h e s o f the S p i c e I s l a n d s . But t h e r e was more: t e r r a a u s t r a l i s i n c o g n i t a and the promise o f heaven. The myth o f the g r e a t u n d i s c o v e r e d s o u t h land loomed l a r g e i n the i m a g i n a t i o n o f e v e r y p o t e n t i a l a d v e n t u r e r , as d i d the Church's promise o f s p i r i t u a l reward f o r t h o s e 1 ions o f the f a i t h who c o u l d c o n v e r t the heathen t o the one t r u e r e l i g i o n . One hundred y e a r s o f S p a n i s h sea voyages thus began, amounting t o both the f i r s t s u b s t a n t i a l s t e p towards the d i s c o v e r y o f A u s t r a l i a , and the f i r s t c o n n e c t i o n between the American c o n t i n e n t and the u n d i s c o v e r e d l a n d t o the s o u t h . Throughout the s i x t e e n t h c e n t u r y , p o r t s i n Peru and M e x i c o were the means by which S p a n i s h e x p l o r e r s 2 equipped t h e i r s h i p s f o r the j o u r n e y west. A f t e r the l a s t o f the major S p a n i s h v o y a g e s - - Q u i r o s 1 second e x p e d i t i o n t o the New H e b r i d e s i n 54 1 6 0 6 — P h i l i p ' s c o f f e r s were h a r d l y improved. But two t h i n g s had been a c h i e v e d : the S p a n i s h had shown where l a n d was n o t ; and t h e i r i s l a n d d i s c o v e r i e s t o A u s t r a l i a ' s n o r t h had g i v e n g r e a t c r e d i b i l i t y t o the 3 concept o f an u n d i s c o v e r e d l a n d t o the s o u t h . An e n t i r e l y d i f f e r e n t American c o n n e c t i o n would have u n f o l d e d i f P h i l i p ' s e m i s s a r i e s had s t r u c k upon A u s t r a l i a ' s e a s t e r n s i d e . However, a c o m b i n a t i o n o f s e v e r e w i n d s , a f o r m i d a b l e s o u t h e r n s w e l l , arid n a v i g a t o r s d i s c o n c e r t e d by not s i g h t i n g l a n d f o r so long a t i m e , c o n f i r m e d a r o u t e t o the P h i l i p p i n e s and S p i c e I s l a n d s always t o the n o r t h . The S p a n i a r d s f a i l e d t o s i g h t A u s t r a l i a , but they had been on the v e r y b r i n k . One more s o u t h e r n t a c k o f s e v e r a l s h i p s would have made the d i f f e r e n c e . In t h e e a r l y y e a r s o f the s e v e n t e e n t h c e n t u r y , however, b e l i e f i n the r e p o r t s o f Q u i r o s (who was s u s c e p t i b l e t o h y p e r b o l e ) and T o r r e s was outweighed by the r e a l i z a t i o n o f Spawn's d e c r e a s i n g naval power, and the r i s e o f F r a n c e , H o l l a n d and England as t r a d i n g and m i l i t a r y r i v a l s . I t was l e f t up t o r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f t h e s e t h r e e n a t i o n s t o c l a r i f y the s u b t l e t i e s o f the P a c i f i c t h r o u g h voyages commencing not from South A m e r i c a , but from home p o r t s . I t would be o v e r two hundred y e a r s b e f o r e o c c u r r e n c e s i n A m e r i c a a g a i n a f f e c t e d the n a t u r e o f e v e n t s r e l a t i n g t o A u s t r a l i a and i t s near i s l a n d s . S p a i n ' s r o l e was o v e r ; England's y e t t o come. E l e v e n months a f t e r Q u i r o s landed i n the New H e b r i d e s , t h r e e weary s h i p s c a p t a i n e d by C h r i s t o p h e r Newport, w i t h George P e r c y , son o f the E a r l o f N o r t h u m b e r l a n d , and John Smith on b o a r d , dropped 55 anchor near the s o u t h o f Chesapeake Bay, V i r g i n i a . A t t e n t i o n thus s h i f t e d from the s o u t h e r n P a c i f i c t o the w e s t e r n A t l a n t i c , and would not r e v e r t t o the s o u t h f o r a c e n t u r y and a h a l f . When i t d i d , i n the l a t e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y , i t soon became c l e a r t h a t an A m e r i c a n / European t e n s i o n a g a i n c h a r a c t e r i z e d A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r y , j u s t as the s p i r i t o f e a r l y d i s c o v e r y i n the s o u t h e r n seas had been kept a l i v e by the S p a n i s h w o r k i n g out o f the New World. T h i s t e n s i o n a n t i c i p a t e s a s i m i l a r development i n the p r o g r e s s o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e . 1607-1788 On May 5 t h , 1768, r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f the Royal S o c i e t y i n t e r - viewed C a p t a i n James Cook t o a s c e r t a i n h i s s u i t a b i l i t y f o r a most i m p o r t a n t m i s s i o n : the o b s e r v a t i o n , from T a h i t i , o f the t r a n s i t o f Venus. The C o u n c i l l o r s e v e n t u a l l y approved o f Cook, but when h i s " c a t - b u i l t b a r k , " the Endeavour, l e f t Plymouth on August 26th, 1768, Cook c a r r i e d w i t h him a n o t h e r , and more i m p o r t a n t , s e t o f i n s t r u c t i o n s - - k from the A d m i r a l t y . A f t e r ' f u l f i l l i n g h i s o b l i g a t i o n s t o the Royal S o c i e t y , he was t o head s o u t h , t o a p p r o x i m a t e l y 40° o f l a t i t u d e , i n s e a r c h o f the renowned s o u t h e r n c o n t i n e n t , and c l a i m i t i n George I l l ' s name. N i n e t y - t h r e e o t h e r men s a i l e d w i t h Cook. The most v i s i b l e p e r - s o n a l i t y was u n d o u b t e d l y the d e b o n a i r b o t a n i s t and g e o l o g i s t Joseph Banks, i n h i s e a r l y t w e n t i e s and i n d e p e n d e n t l y w e a l t h y , who stepped on board w i t h an a p p r o p r i a t e r e t i n u e which i n c l u d e d two a r t i s t s , f o u r s e r v a n t s , and even a s p o r t i n g hound o r two. Less p r o m i n e n t , 56 but no l e s s s i g n i f i c a n t f o r t h e i r s y m b o l i c v a l u e t o t h e i r c o n t e m p o r a r i e s were two A m e r i c a n s : John Gore, a Second L i e u t e n a n t from V i r g i n i a , and James M a r i o M a t r a , both l o y a l t o the Crown, c o n f i r m e d T o r i e s w i t h - out any R e p u b l i c a n s y m p a t h i e s o r c o n n e c t i o n s a t a l l . I t i s worth remembering t h a t as the Endeavour g l i d e d p e a c e f u l l y down the C h a n n e l , Gore and Matra must have been w e l l aware o f the " W i l k e s and L i b e r t y " c a t c h c r y c u r r e n t l y s e n d i n g shock waves through London c i r c l e s - - a g r i m and c o n s t a n t reminder o f the f a i l u r e o f England's 5 r e p r e s s i v e c o l o n i a l p o l i c i e s i n A m e r i c a . John W i l k e s , an E n g l i s h m a n , v o i c e d the s p i r i t o f democracy w i d e l y i n h i s own c o u n t r y . He a d v o c a t e d the e t h i c a l r a m i f i c a t i o n s o f the c o n s t i t u t i o n and on p r i n c i p l e r e j e c t e d the Stamp and Townshend A c t s (which imposed d u t i e s on c e r t a i n American goodsand l e d t o the r a l l y i n g c r y o f "no t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n " ) . T h i s o p p o s i t i o n endeared him t o the g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f American c o l o n i s t s , and when he was i m p r i s o n e d f o r h i s s t a n d the B o s t o n i a n Sons o f L i b e r t y sent a l e t t e r o f s o l i d a r i t y , m a i n t a i n i n g t h a t . . . your p e r s e v e r a n c e i n the GOOD OLD CAUSE may s t i l l p r e v e n t the g r e a t system from d a s h i n g t o p i e c e s . ' T i s from your endeavours we hope f o r a r o y a l " P a s c i t e , ut a n t e , boves," and from our a t t a c h m e n t t o "peace and good o r d e r " we w a i t f o r a c o n s t i t u t i o n a l r e d r e s s : b e i n g d e t e r m i n e d t h a t the King o f Great B r i t a i n s h a l l have s u b j e c t s but not s l a v e s i n t h e s e remote p a r t s o f h i s dominions. 6 D u r i n g the next one hundred y e a r s , the name W i l k e s would r e c u r c u r i o u s l y w i t h i n the c o n t e x t o f A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c a n h i s t o r y . 7 In seeming r e c o g n i t i o n of the n a t u r e o f the t i m e s , and as i f t o 5 7 c o u n t e r b a l a n c e the two L o y a l i s t s on b o a r d , members o f Cook's crew, as was o f t e n t h e i r wont, p r e s s e d an American s a i l o r , John Thurmond, i n t o s e r v i c e as he wandered t h r o u g h F u n c h a l , the c h i e f p o r t o f the M a d e i r a s . A member o f the crew o f a New York s l o o p , Thurmond was brought on board the Endeavour s t r u g g l i n g t o the l a s t . P a r t i s a n , r e p u b l i c a n , he would not s e r v e the K i n g - - n o r would he see h i s homeland o r Europe a g a i n , b e i n g b u r i e d a t sea b e f o r e the c o m p l e t i o n o f the 8 voyage. Three A m e r i c a n s , t h e n , one a p a r t i s a n , the o t h e r two o f L o y a l i s t s t o c k , belonged t o the crew o f the Endeavour,the day Cook's f i r s t l i e u t e n a n t , Zachary H i c k s , s i g h t e d the e a s t e r n c o a s t o f A u s t r a l i a i n 1 7 8 8 . Over the next f i f t y y e a r s , many o f t h e i r countrymen would f o l l o w them, i n an a s s o r t m e n t o f r o l e s — s o m e as p o l i t i c a l p r i s o n e r s , a h a n d f u l t o s e t t l e , o t h e r s i n t r a d i n g , w h a l i n g o r s e a l i n g v e s s e l s . The A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n , d e s t i n e d t o be i n f l u e n t i a l i n the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n y ' s e a r l y h i s t o r y , had t r u l y begun. Not t h a t anyone a t the time p a i d any a t t e n t i o n t o the f a c t . C e r t a i n l y not the E n g l i s h a u t h o r i t i e s . T h e i r minds were on Americans i n a n o t h e r p a r t o f the g l o b e . F a t e ' s i n e v i t a b l e s t r a n g e t w i s t would soon i n e x t r i c a b l y l i n k both c o n t i n e n t s . The War o f Independence, and i t s i m p l i c a t i o n s , gave American p a t r i o t s the reason they sought t o f l a t l y r e f u s e t o c o n t i n u e a b s o r b i n g the p r i s o n e r s B r i t a i n had been r i d d i n g h e r s e l f o f s i n c e 1 7 1 7 - A new dumping ground was needed. At t h i s p o i n t , Cook's t r a v e l s and d i s c o v e r i e s i n the s o u t h e r n hemisphere assumed f a r g r e a t e r 58 importance f o r B r i t o n s . A t t e n t i o n t u r n e d t o the f a r - o f f i n l e t t o which Joseph Bank's pet s c i e n t i f i c p u r s u i t had g i v e n i t s name: Botany Bay. As Gordon Greenwood has put i t : "At no s t a g e i n the e a r l y h i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a was the i n f l u e n c e o f A m e r i c a more i m p o r t a n t o r more d i r e c t than a t the time when schemes f o r the s e t t l e m e n t o f Botany 9 Bay were under c o n s i d e r a t i o n . " B r i t a i n needed a new c o r n e r o f the w o r l d f o r her c o n v i c t s , as w e l l as a r e s e t t l e m e n t l o c a t i o n f o r the v a s t numbers o f American c o l o n i s t s who had remained c o n s t a n t t o t h e i r B r i t i s h background. A f t e r Joseph Banks came o u t , i n 1779, i n s u p p o r t o f a c o l o n y i n Botany Bay, p e o p l e on both s i d e s o f the A t l a n t i c began t o c o n s i d e r , f o r the f i r s t t i m e , comparisons between B r i t a i n ' s new t e r r i t o r i e s i n the s o u t h e r n hemisphere and the o l d e r ones i n N o r t h A m e r i c a . ^ Banks based h i s p r o p o s a l on the s u i t a b i l i t y o f Botany Bay as a penal s e t t l e - ment. I t seemed p h y s i c a l l y and g e o g r a p h i c a l l y s u i t e d t o t h e p u r p o s e - - b e i n g remote and h a v i n g a s m a l l , u s u a l l y p e a c e f u l n a t i v e p o p u l a t i o n , temperate c l i m a t e and adequate s o i l . Given s u f f i c i e n t p r o v i s i o n s , Banks p r e d i c t e d the new c o l o n y would become s e l f - s u f f i c i e n t a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y . He i n d i c a t e d as much t o a House o f Commons i n v e s t i g a t i v e committee,which q u i c k l y handed down a f a v o u r a b l e v e r d i c t . ^ But n o t h i n g s p e c i f i c was done f o r a c o u p l e o f y e a r s . I r o n i c a l l y , the man r e s p o n s i b l e f o r the f i r s t s u b s t a n t i a l p r o p o s a l f o r Botany Bay's f u t u r e was none o t h e r than James M a r i o M a t r a , the New York L o y a l i s t . A f t e r h i s r e t u r n from Cook's 1770 e x p e d i t i o n , Matra l e f t the navy, and, i n 1772, was a p p o i n t e d B r i t i s h Consul a t 59 T e n e r i f f e on a v e r y low income. D u r i n g the r e v o l u t i o n a r y f e r m e n t , he r e t u r n e d t o New York t o p r o t e c t h i s p r o p e r t y but found t h a t , l i k e 1 2 the g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f L o y a l i s t s , he had been e f f e c t i v e l y d i s p o s s e s s e d . Most s t a t e s passed l e g i s l a t i o n s i m i l a r t o M a s s a c h u s e t t s ' C o n s p i r a c y A c t o f 1779, w h i c h d e c l a r e d t h a t a l l L o y a l i s t p r o p e r t y was f o r f e i t e d t o the s t a t e . Matra deemed t h a t h i s l o y a l t y d e s e r v e d compensation and so, e a r l y i n 1783, he penned a s h o r t t r a c t e n t i t l e d The case and 1 3 c l a i m o f the Amer i can L o y a l i s t s i m p a r t i a l l y s t a t e d and cons i d e r e d . He c o n s i d e r e d the Crown l i a b l e . Hence, f a l l i n g back on p a s t c o n n e c t i o n s , he w r o t e t o Joseph Banks, on J u l y 28, 1783, a s k i n g f o r more d e t a i l on Bank's e a r l i e r p r o p o s a l s t o the p a r l i a m e n t a r y committee. The outcome was a s u b m i s s i o n , on August 23, 1783, t o Lord N o r t h ' s c o a l i t i o n government f o r a s e t t l e m e n t i n New South Wales. Matra c o n c e i v e d o f the a r e a scanned by Cook as p o t e n t i a l l y a n o t h e r A m e r i c a , recompense f o r the one l o s t , and an a p p r o p r i a t e asyrl.um t o t h o s e u n f o r t u n a t e A m e r i c a n l o y a l i s t s t o whom Great B r i t a i n i s bound by e v e r y t i e o f honour and g r a t i t u d e t o p r o t e c t and s u p p o r t . . . . 1 The myth o f A u s t r a l i a as a n o t h e r A m e r i c a was born. I t w o u l d a f f e c t the c o u r s e o f A u s t r a l i a n p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l and l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y f o r a t l e a s t the next one hundred y e a r s . In a d d i t i o n , Matra a s s e r t e d the enormous s t r a t e g i c v a l u e o f the l o c a t i o n , o f p a r t i c u l a r importance i n the e v e n t o f war w i t h e i t h e r H o l l a n d o r S p a i n — t h u s g i v i n g B r i t a i n y e t a n o t h e r reason f o r e s t a b l i s h i n g a c o l o n y . Wanting n o t h i n g s h o r t o f a new n a t i o n o f L o y a l i s t p i a n t a t i o n - o 60 owners d r a w i n g on the c o l o u r e d r a c e s o f the nearby i s l a n d s and C h i n a f o r c o o l i e l a b o u r , Matra e x p e r i e n c e d i n i t i a l t r o u b l e g a i n i n g a h e a r i n g . H i s f i r s t p r o p o s a l t o N o r t h ' s c o a l i t i o n government foundered when the m i n i s t r y v a c a t e d o f f i c e i n December, 1783- Lord Sydney, new S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e f o r C o l o n i e s i n P i t t ' s r e c o n s t r u c t i o n c a b i n e t , heard Matra o u t , but s u g g e s t e d a c o l o n y based on c o n v i c t t r a n s p o r t a t i o n . A p p r e c i a t i v e o f the i n f l e x i b i l i t y o f b u r e a u c r a c y , Matra a l t e r e d h i s p l a n t o i n c l u d e f e l o n s - - b u t as c u l t i v a t o r s o f t h e i r own s m a l l p l o t o f l a n d r a t h e r than as w h i t e s l a v e s . Though c a r e f u l l y c o n s i d e r e d , M a t r a ' s p r o p o s a l f a i l e d f o r two r e a s o n s . F i r s t , B r i t o n s were s t i l l too s e n s i t i v e t o the a s t o n i s h i n g sequence o f e v e n t s i n A m e r i c a t o f a v o u r a b l y e n t e r t a i n t h o u g h t s o f a d u p l i c a t e copy somewhere e l s e . The d i s t r e s s i n g i m p l i c a t i o n s o f the r e c e n t l y s i g n e d T r e a t y o f P a r i s , f o r m a l l y e n d i n g the war o f s e c c e s s i o n , were f r e s h i n t h e i r minds. Second, the i n f l u e n t i a l E a s t I n d i a Company s t i l l e n j o y e d a t r a d e monopoly i n C h i n a and the I n d i e s and i t was not about t o approve any p l a n s t h a t might t h r e a t e n , even m i l d l y , t h a t monopoly. So, d e s p i t e c o n t i n u i n g p r e s s u r e on the government from p r e s t i g i o u s L o y a l i s t a l l i e s , e n t h u s i a s m f o r M a t r a ' s p r o p o s i t i o n f a i l e d t o m a t e r i a l i s e a t a government l e v e l . Indeed, M a t r a ' s own a r d o r f o r a South-Seas c o l o n y waned as h i s p e r s o n a l l o t improved. He d i d w r i t e a n o t h e r s t a u n c h l y l o y a l i s t pamphlet i n 1788, but when many L o y a l i s t s were compensated f o r p r o p e r t y l o s s e s i n A m e r i c a , i t seems Matra s h a r e d t h e i r good f o r t u n e . He was made Consu1 - Genera 1 1 5 i n T a n g i e r s , d y i n g t h e r e on March -23, 1806. 61 One o t h e r p l a n was s u b m i t t e d t o Lord Sydney on J a n u a r y 13,1 1785, by S i r George Young, an a d m i r a l i n the Royal Navy. Though i n many ways a r e s t a t e m e n t o f M a t r a ' s p r o p o s a l s , i t d i d g i v e g r e a t e r emphasis t o the accommodation o f t r a n s p o r t e d c r i m i n a l s , though s t i l l i n the c o n t e x t o f a L o y a l i s t s e t t l e m e n t aimed a t e s t a b l i s h i n g a new and t h r i v i n g b a s t i o n o f Empire. P i t t and Sydney had o t h e r i d e a s , 16 however, and Young soon l o s t i n t e r e s t . E v e n t u a l l y , the i n d e c i s i v e Lord Sydney was j o l t e d by the sudden r e a l i z a t i o n t h a t two m a t t e r s needed a t t e n t i o n , u r g e n t l y : French encroachment i n t o the South Seas; and the d e t e r i o r a t i n g c o n v i c t s i t u a t i o n a t home. The magnitude o f the s e t b a c k t o the e f f i c i e n t o p e r a t i o n o f B r i t a i n ' s penal system caused by the f o r f e i t u r e o f the American c o l o n i e s c o u l d no l o n g e r be i g n o r e d . Thousands o f c o n v i c t s a w a i t e d t r a n s p o r t a t i o n — a s i t u a t i o n not h e l p e d when, i n 1783, V i r g i n i a and M a r y l a n d a g a i n r e f u s e d c a t e g o r i c a l l y t o c o n s i d e r a c o n t r a c t o r ' s p l e a t o a c c e p t 150 c o n v i c t s as p l a n t a t i o n w o r k e r s . Edmund Burke, t o o , c o n t i n u e d t o p u b l i c i z e the f a c t t h a t the f a t e o f 100,000 p r i s o n e r s hung p r e c a r i o u s l y i n the b a l a n c e . The overcrowded h u l k s were a f e s t e r i n g and v i s i b l e wound; t h u s , i n A u g u s t , 1786, Lord Sydney c o n f i r m e d a government p l a n t o send c o n v i c t e d f e l o n s t o Botany Bay. Working w i t h u n c h a r a c t e r i s t i c speed, he had a f l e e t ready f o r the j o u r n e y by May 13, 1787, under C a p t a i n A r t h u r P h i l l i p . " E l e v e n s h i p s c a r r y i n g a t o t a l o f 759 conv i c t s —568 men and 191 women — s e t out on the Capetown r o u t e on a j o u r n e y t h a t would end on J a n u a r y 26, 1788. 62 J u s t t h i r t y - e i g h t days a f t e r the F i r s t F l e e t d e p a r t e d P o r t s m o u t h , American t r a d e magnate, Robert M o r r i s , commissioned the c a p t a i n o f one o f h i s s h i p s , the A l 1 i a n c e , t o s a i l from the Delaware R i v e r t o Canton v i a New H o l l a n d ( A u s t r a l i a ) . M o r r i s , r e s p o n d i n g t o the f a c t t h a t the normal r o u t e round the Cape o f Good Hope c o u l d o n l y be used i n s p r i n g because o f s a i 1 i n g c o n d i t i o n s , wanted t o i n c r e a s e the b r e a d t h o f h i s C h i n a t r a d e . Under C a p t a i n Reed, the j o u r n e y was s u c c e s s f u l l y n e g o t i a t e d . An American v e s s e l had s a i l e d the Tasman Sea f o r the f i r s t t i m e . 1788-1812 S h o r t l y a f t e r the a r r i v a l o f the F i r s t F l e e t on J a n u a r y 26, 1788, P h i l l i p o r g a n i z e d the e r e c t i o n o f a f l a g s t a f f t o f l y the Union J a c k . S y m b o l i c a l l y , the o u t p o s t was c l a i m e d f o r George I I I and h i s s u b j e c t s , but American m e r c h a n t s , h a v i n g c a r e f u l l y o b s e r v e d the B r i t i s h government's movements t o s e t t l e New H o l l a n d , moved q u i c k l y t o c o n s o l i d a t e a r o l e i n the c o l o n y . The a m b i v a l e n t n a t u r e o f t h a t r o l e was e a r l y e s t a b l i s h e d by the f i r s t two American v e s s e l s t o s t o p a t the s e t t l e m e n t . On November 1, 1792, a P h i 1 a d e l p h i a n c a p t a i n , Thomas P a t r i c k s o n , s a i l e d h i s s h i p , the Ph i 1 a d e l p h i a, i n t o P o r t J a c k s o n . P a t r i c k s o n a r r i v e d w i t h a s p e c u l a t i v e cargo, and the a d d i t i o n a l s e c u r i t y o f a recommendation by P h i n e a s Bond, B r i t i s h m i n i s t e r t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s . N e c e s s i t i e s l i k e beef and p i t c h were q u i c k l y purchased by the a u t h o r i t i a t h i g h p r i c e s . U n f o r t u n a t e l y f o r the c o l o n y ' s w e l f a r e , l u x u r y items ,63 such as t o b a c c o , g i n and r u m - - l a t e r t o become the l i q u i d c o i n a g e o f New South Wales--were snapped up by the o f f i c e r s o f the 102nd r e g i m e n t , the New South Wales C o r p s , and s o l d a t l u d i c r o u s l y i n f l a t e d p r i c e s t o the ho'nmi 1 i t a r y p o p u l a c e . T h i s s e t a p r e c e d e n t t h a t would prove the s c o u r g e , and e v e n t u a l d o w n f a l l , o f the t h r e e g o v e r n o r s a f t e r P h i l l i p . ^ 7 Only when Governor M a c q u a r i e w i s e l y brought h i s own r r e g i m e n t , the 7 3 r d , w i t h him t o Sydney i n 1809 d i d the p r a c t i c e c e a s e , e n d i n g a p e r i o d o f some twenty y e a r s o f c o r r u p t m i l i t a r y p e r s o n n e l h o l d i n g New South Wales t o ransom i n rum. M o s t l y American rum. When P h i l l i p , d e s p e r a t e f o r s u p p l i e s , welcomed P a t r i c k s o n ' s s h i p , he i n a d v e r t e n t l y began a t r a d e t h a t would have dual consequences f o r the i n f a n t c o l o n y . I f the Americans s u p p l i e d New South Wales w i t h much-needed f o o d , they h e l p e d t o undermine i t w i t h rum. As one r e c e n t commentator has put i t : " H i s [ P a t r i c k s o n ' s ] hard s e l l marked the b e g i n n i n g o f a t r a d i n g advantage which the U n i t e d S t a t e s has 18 m a i n t a i n e d a g a i n s t A u s t r a l i a e v e r s i n c e . " Indeed, P a t r i c k s o n ' s f i n a n c i a l gamble a c t u a l l y p a i d o f f even more handsomely than he had a n t i c i p a t e d as P h i l l i p , i n d i r e need o f seaworthy v e s s e l s , c h a r t e r e d the Phi 1adelph i a f o r government e r r a n d s t o and from N o r f o l k I s l a n d . L a t e r he purchased the s h i p o u t r i g h t . A few weeks a f t e r the Phi 1 a d e l p h i a ' s a r r i v a l , a n o t h e r American v e s s e l , the Hope, a Rhode I s l a n d s e a l e r s k i p p e r e d by Benjamin Page, anchored i n Sydney Harbour. Though o f f i c i a l l y p u t t i n g i n t o Sydney t o r e p l e n i s h s u p p l i e s o f water and wood, Page i n d u l g e d i n some busy 64 t r a d i n g w i t h L i e u t e n a n t - G o v e r n o r G r o s e , the c o l o n y ' s i n t e r i m head a f t e r P h i l l i p ' s r e t u r n t o London due t o i l l - h e a l t h . One problem t h r e a t e n e d t o i n t e r r u p t the b a r g a i n i n g : Page's i n s i s t e n c e t h a t he would not s e l l the p r o v i s i o n s u n l e s s h i s c a r g o o f s p i r i t s was purchased 19 as w e l l . Grose's f e a r o f drought f o r c e d him t o a g r e e . The e l a b o r a t e c h r o n i c l e o f c o l o n i a l government a n t i p a t h y towards America had begun. I t would c o n t i n u e f o r many decades t o come. A m e r i c a , f o r the f i r s t t i m e , was an o f f i c i a l problem. Both the P h i l a d e l p h i a and the Hope e s t a b l i s h e d the p a t t e r n o f the v i s i t s o f American t r a d i n g s h i p s up t o 1800: unashamedly s p e c u l a t Of the f i f t e e n s h i p s a r r i v i n g i n P o r t J a c k s o n i n the p e r i o d , e l e v e n were v e n t u r e s a i m i n g a t q u i c k p r o f i t . W i t h the c o l o n y c h r o n i c a l l y s h o r t o f s u p p l i e s , Yankee c a p t a i n s demanded, and g e n e r a l l y g o t , c o l o s s a l p r i c e s f o r t h e i r s u p p l i e s and s p i r i t s . One e a r l y g o v e r n o r , H u n t e r , p r o t e s t e d h i s d i f f i c u l t l o t : "When d r i v e n t h r o u g h n e c e s s i t y t o p u r c h a s e from s p e c u l a t o r s and t r a d e r s who sometimes c a l l h e r e , we pay more than 500% above what the same a r t i c l e c o u l d be s e n t out f o r . " O c c a s i o n a l l y the American s p e c u l a t o r s were caught s h o r t . o When Page's u n c l e came t o the c o l o n y i n J u l y , 1794, as s k i p p e r o f t h e r e t u r n i n g Hope, he a n t i c i p a t e d a s u b s t a n t i a l p r o f i t / f r o m h i s s a l t e d s t o r e s and s p i r i t s but found the c o l o n y " t o o w e l l s u p p l i e d t o admit 20 o f any p u r c h a s e r s . . . ." However, such o c c a s i o n s were r a r e . More and more American t r a d e r s began h e a r i n g about the law which stopped B r i t i s h merchants from t r a d i n g i n New South Wales f o r f e a r o f v i o l a t i n g the i n f l u e n t i a l East I n d i a Company's c h a r t e r on the a r e a . 65 They came i n l a r g e numbers a f t e r 1800, c o g n i z a n t o f the f a c t t h a t i n 21 rum l a y t h e i r most s u b s t a n t i a l r e t u r n . The c o l o n y ' s p r o p e n s i t y f o r 22 s p i r i t u o u s consumption was a l r e a d y w e l l known. Encouraged by c o r r u p t c o l o n i a l o f f i c e r s , the rum t r a f f i c grew a l a r m i n g l y a t the t u r n o f the c e n t u r y . Governor John Hunter t r i e d t o stem the f l o w d u r i n g h i s a d m i n i s t r a t i o n (1795"9), but was s i n g u l a r l y u n s u c c e s s f u l ; Governor P h i l i p G i d l e y K i n g ( 1 7 9 9 - 1 8 0 6 ) , h i s s u c c e s s o r , a t t e m p t e d t o t a k e f i r m e r a c t i o n i n a d e t e r i o r a t i n g s i t u a t i o n . In J a n u a r y , 1801, he d e n i e d l a n d i n g r i g h t s t o the American s h i p F o l 1 e n s b y - - c a r r y i n g some 20,000 g a l l o n s o f s p i r i t s and wine. A few months l a t e r , the Mi s s o u r i , w i t h 14,000 g a l l o n s , was a c c o r d e d the same f a t e . In the f i r s t d i p l o m a t i c a c t i o n between A u s t r a l i a and A m e r i c a , King d e s p a t c h e d a c i r c u l a r t o the B r i t i s h c o n s u l i n New York i n f o r m i n g him t h a t f o r e i g n s h i p s c o u l d no l o n g e r l a n d more than t h r e e hundred g a l l o n s o f s p i r i t i n the c o l o n y . The r e s u l t was t h a t , between 1800 and 1804, w h i l e a l m o s t 70,000 g a l l o n s o f American s p i r i t s and wine were brought 23 t o the c o l o n y , o n l y 20,000 were a l l o w e d t o be l a n d e d . In t h i s c l i m a t e o f government d i s c o u r a g e m e n t and i n t i m i d a t i o n , an i l l i c i t t r a d e grew, and began t o p r o s p e r . D e f y i n g a f i v e per c e n t d u t y on s p i r i t s l a n d e d , and a d d i t i o n a l r e g u l a t i o n s imposed by K i n g , American rum-runners e i t h e r smuggled t h e i r p r o d u c t i n t o the c o l o n y v i a nearby beaches, o r s o l d i t t o o u t l y i n g dependencies o f New South Wales. O f f i c i a l d i s a p p r o v a l o f the t r a f f i c i n t e n s i f i e d up t o 1810. So d i d the i m p o r t a t i o n o f American rum. R e l a t i o n s between the l o c a l a d m i n i s t r a t i o n and v i s i t i n g American 66 t r a d e r s were f u r t h e r a g g r a v a t e d by the i s s u e o f s p e c i e . V i r t u a l l y e v e r y American v e s s e l t h a t put i n a t P o r t J a c k s o n i n t e n d e d t o proceed t o C h i n a , and each c a p t a i n was no doubt aware o f the C h i n e s e a v e r s i o n t o most w e s t e r n goods. Trade was d i f f i c u l t w i t h o u t an adequate amount o f s p e c i e , and here the t r a d e i n New South Wales came i n v e r y handy. U n f o r t u n a t e l y , American merchants wanted what the c o l o n y had too l i t t l e o f . London a d v i s e d i t s c o l o n i a l g o v e r n o r " t o p r e v e n t the c u r r e n t s p e c i e o f the C o l o n y from b e i n g c a r r i e d out o f i t , " but a c o m b i n a t i o n o f l o c a l s u s c e p t i b i l i t y and e f f i c i e n t m i l i t a r y c o r r u p t i o n proved too p o w e r f u l . As one New South Wales r e s i d e n t r e p o r t e d i n 1809: So n e c e s s a r y , i n d e e d , has i t been t o admit the i n t r o d u c t i o n o f a c e r t a i n q u a n t i t y o f S p i r i t s . . . t h a t when the s u p p l y . . . f a i l e d , S p i r i t s have been purchased from American t r a d e r s . . . a t the s e r i o u s s a c r i f i ce o f e v e r y p i ece o f co i n i t c o n t a i ned, money be i ng the on 1y payment wh i ch would be t a k e n . ^ In s p i t e o f the hard b a r g a i n d r i v e n by the A m e r i c a n s , and p e r s i s t e n t o f f i c i a l d i s a p p r o v a l o f t h e i r a c t i v i t i e s , t r a d e , l e g a l o r o t h e r w i s e , c o n t i n u e d unabated. Only w i t h the o n s e t o f the War o f 1812 d i d the s i t u a t i o n a l t e r d r a s t i c a l l y . A w h a l e r , the Ann, which docked on August 1, 1812, was the l a s t American s h i p t o v i s i t Sydney f o r o v e r t h r e e y e a r s - - a s i t u a t i o n due not so much t o c o o l postwar r e l a t i o n s as t o the f a c t t h a t the C h a r t e r Renewal A c t o f 1813 ended the E a s t I n d i a Company's monopoly. B r i t i s h merchants f i n a l l y g a i n e d a c c e s s t o the A u s t r a l i a n market, w h i l e f o r e i g n t r a d e r s were e f f e c t i v e l y ol p r o h i b i t e d . In a l l , some s i x t y - s i x American v e s s e l s conducted t r a d e w i t h the growing New South Wales c o l o n y i n the twenty y e a r s between 1792 and 25 1812. But the e x t e n t o f the i n t e r a c t i o n went w e l l y b e y o n d mere b a r t e r i n g f o r goods. A f t e r George Vancouver's Voyage Around the W o r l d , p u b l i s h e d i n 1798, made r e f e r e n c e t o the s i g h t i n g o f numerous f u r s e a l s i n the south-west c o r n e r o f A u s t r a l i a , i t d i d n ' t t a k e American s e a l e r s (and l a t e r w h a l e r s ) long t o i n v e s t i g a t e the r e p u t e d w e a l t h 26 o f the South Seas. Herman M e l v i l l e (1851) a n t i c i p a t e d A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r i a n s on the s u b j e c t by a c e n t u r y o r so i n p u b l i c i z i n g the importance o f the w h a l e r ' s r o l e : That g r e a t A m e r i c a on the o t h e r s i d e o f the s p h e r e , A u s t r a l i a , was g i v e n t o the e n l i g h t e n e d w o r l d by the whalemen. . . . The w h a l e - s h i p i s the t r u e mother o f t h a t now mighty c o l o n y . Moreover, i n the i n f a n c y o f t the f i r s t A u s t r a l i a n s e t t l e m e n t , the e m i g r a n t s were s e v e r a l times saved from s t a r v a t i o n by the b e n e v o l e n t b i s c u i t o f the w h a l e - s h i p l u c k i l y d r o p p i n g an anchor i n t h e i r waters.27 And c e r t a i n t y the whalemen had a s i g n i f i c a n t p l a c e i n the d e v e l o p i n g c o l o n y , but not i n i t s t e e t h i n g s t a g e . The i n i t i a l impact was c r e a t e d by the a u d a c i o u s a n t i c s o f the American s e a l e r s . Nantucket w h a l e r s 28 d i d not a r r i v e on the scene i n any l a r g e numbers u n t i l a f t e r 1836- Many o f the e a r l y merchant a d v e n t u r e r s from Boston and Rhode I s l a n d v i s i t i n g the New South Wales c o l o n y i n the f i r s t twenty y e a r s r e a d i l y adapted t o s e a l i n g when the need a r o s e . S t r u c k by the p o t e n t i a l r e s o u r c e s o f the South Seas, i t took them l i t t l e time t o a d j u s t t h e i r 68 normal r o u t e t o C h i n a , v i a the F a l k l a n d and C r o z e t t I s l a n d s , .to i n c l u d e A u s t r a l i a . Seal s k i n s were one o f the few commodities o f i n t e r e s t t o the C h i n e s e . I f they c o u l d combine s e a l i n g w i t h a l i t t l e s p e c i e reaped from the s a l e o f s p i r i t s and p r o v i s i o n s i n the A u s t r a l i a n market, so much the b e t t e r f o r t h e i r chances o f l e a v i n g C h i n a w i t h a b o u n t i f u l c a r g o . What meagre p r o s p e r i t y the communities o f Sydney and Hobart i n i t i a l l y e n j o y e d was l a r g e l y a t t r i b u t a b l e t o the s e a l e r s and w h a l e r s . A s u r p r i s i n g number o f f o r e i g n f i s h i n g s h i p s v i s i t e d P o r t J a c k s o n i n the y e a r s b e f o r e and a f t e r l800--the m a j o r i t y , a g a i n , A m e r i c a n . The f i r s t o f t h e s e t o s a i l t h r o u g h Bass S t r a i t , the b r i g Fanny i n November-December, 1802, was s h o r t l y a f t e r w a r d s f o l l o w e d by the U n i o n , a s e a l e r whose commander, Isaac P e n d l e t o n , d e c i d e d t o b e g i n 29 o p e r a t i o n s o f f the South A u s t r a l i a n c o a s t i n 180 3 - The b r i s k s e a l i n g and f i s h i n g t r a f f i c c o n t i n u e d apace u n t i l 1807, when i t s u d d e n l y became a p p a r e n t t h a t the r u t h l e s s p u r s u i t o f s e a l s k i n s , r e g a r d l e s s o f s e x , had v i r t u a l l y e x t i n g u i s h e d what c o u l d a t the time have d e v e l o p e d i n t o a u s e f u l s o u r c e o f revenue f o r the new l a n d . No r e c o r d e x i s t s o f any American s e a l e r i n A u s t r a l i a n w a t e r s a f t e r 1807- The f i r s t American w h a l e r t o c a l l i n a t P o r t J a c k s o n was the Ann, from New 30 B e d f o r d , w h i c h docked i n May, 1805, and a g a i n i n 1809 and 1812. American s e a l e r s were a b l e t o dominate the s e a l t r a d e i n the e a r l y l800's because o f the r a m i f i c a t i o n s o f the East I n d i a Company's c h a r t e r and the c o m p e t i t i v e n a t u r e o f the Yankee s e a l e r s t h e m s e l v e s , always ready f o r e i t h e r some f i s h i n g o r a f r a c a s . B r i t i s h w h a l i n g and s e a l i n g 6 9 i n t e r e s t s w e r e c o m p l e t e l y h a m p e r e d by t h e c h a r t e r , w h i c h g a v e t h e company m o n o p o l y t r a d i n g r i g h t s f r o m t h e S t r a i t s o f M a g e l l a n t o t h e C a p e o f Good H o p e . U n d e r t h e t e r m s o f t h e d o c u m e n t , B r i t i s h w h a l e r s c o u l d n o t b r i n g p r o v i s i o n s o u t f o r t r a d e w i t h New S o u t h W a l e s , h a v i n g 31 i n s t e a d t o u s e b a l l a s t . F u r t h e r m o r e , t h e i r s k i n s o r o i l c o u l d a t 32 a n y t i m e be s e i z e d a s e x p o r t s t a k e n f r o m a p r o h i b i t e d a r e a . T h e A m e r i c a n s e x p e r i e n c e d no s u c h s h a c k l e s , a n d w e r e c o n s e q u e n t l y v e r y u n p o p u l a r w i t h c o l o n i a l - g o v e r n m e n t o f f i c i a l s . I n c i d e n t s r e f l e c t i n g t h e a r d o u r o f t h e A m e r i c a n s e a l e r s a n d t h e s i n g 1 e - m i n d e d n e s s w i t h w h i c h t h e y p u r s u e d t h e j o b i n hand f i g u r e 33 p r o m i n e n t l y i n t h e e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n p r e s s . F o r t h e a u t h o r i t i e s , p a r t i c u l a r l y K i n g d u r i n g h i s y e a r s a s g o v e r n o r , t h e s e a l e r s w e r e a' s o u r c e o f c o n s t a n t a n n o y a n c e , i f n o t i n f u r i a t i o n . K i n g had an a w f u l t i m e w i t h t h e m , b e i n g s u s p i c i o u s o f t h e i r movements a n d a w a r e o f t h e p o t e n t i a l t h r e a t t h e y r e p r e s e n t e d t o h i s c o l o n y ' s s t a b i l i t y . H i s f a i l u r e t o a l t e r t h e E a s t I n d i a C o m p a n y ' s c h a r t e r c a u s e d K i n g t o e m b a r k on a p o l i c y o f h a m p e r i n g A m e r i c a n s e a l e r s i n A u s t r a l i a n w a t e r s a s much a s p o s s i b l e . A m e a s u r e o f t h e s e r i o u s n e s s w i t h w h i c h he v i e w e d t h e i r a c t i v i t i e s c a n be g a i n e d f r o m t h e f a c t t h a t , when r e q u e s t i n g a d v i c e f r o m L o n d o n on what f u t u r e a c t i o n s h o u l d be t a k e n w i t h f o r e i g n s h i p p i n g , i n N o v e m b e r , 1 8 0 2 , he i s o l a t e d o n l y t h e A m e r i c a n s a n d t h e F r e n c h . B e t w e e n 1 8 0 0 and 1 8 0 9 , i n f a c t , a v a r i e t y o f r e g u l a t i o n s w e r e p a s s e d by o f f i c i a l s w a n t i n g t o s u p p r e s s A m e r i c a n a t t e m p t s t o 35 e x p l o i t A u s t r a l i a n w a t e r s . A m e r i c a n i n t e r f e r e n c e i n c r e a s i n g l y p r e o c c u p i e d t h e B r i t i s h e s t a b l i s h m e n t . 70 1812-16 S e v e r a l y e a r s o f d e t e r i o r a t i n g A n g l o - A m e r i c a n s r e l a t i o n s f i n a l l y r e s u l t e d i n P r e s i d e n t Madison's d e c l a r a t i o n , on June 18, 1812, o f war w i t h E n g l a n d . He c i t e d " F r e e Trade and S a i l o r ' s R i g h t s " as 36 the r e a s o n s . In terms o f l i v e s and l o s s e s , the consequences o f the War o f 1812 f o r A m e r i c a were d i s a s t r o u s . The r e p e r c u s s i o n s o f the c o n f l i c t f o r c o l o n i a l A u s t r a l i a , on the o t h e r hand, b o r d e r e d a t times on the b i z a r r e . In O c t o b e r , 1812, London informed Governor M a c q u a r i e o f the o u t b r e a k o f h o s t i l i t i e s and o r d e r e d a l l t h o s e l o y a l t o t h e Crown t o "do t h e i r utmost i n t h e i r s e v e r a l s t a t i o n s , t o C a p t u r e o f the S h i p s and V e s s e l s b e l o n g i n g t o the C i t i z e n s o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s , and t o 37 d e s t r o y t h e i r Commerce." M a c q u a r i e was caught i n a compromising s i t u a t i o n . R e l a t i o n s w i t h the c a p t a i n s o f American m e r c h a n d i s e s h i p s and the few American f i s h i n g boats now i n s o u t h e r n w a t e r s had improved. C o n f r o n t e d w i t h the l i k e l i h o o d o f s p o r a d i c s u p p l i e s from England as a r e s u l t o f war, he b a d l y needed imported goods t o supplement a shaky s u p p l y (of few commodities) from the l o c a l market. M a c q u a r i e knew as w e l l as anyone the i n v a l u a b l e , though o f t e n c o n t r o v e r s i a l r o l e t h a t American p r o v i s i o n s had p l a y e d i n the c o l o n y ' s s h o r t h i s t o r y . But t h i s wasn't enough t o s t o p the war e d g i n g i n on the faraway c o l o n y i n ways both p s y c h o l o g i c a l and a c t u a l . In November, 1812, f o r example, the American p r i v a t e e r H51kar s e i z e d the E n g l i s h b r i g Emu, on i t s way t o New South Wales. A c a r g o o f d e s p e r a t e l y r e q u i r e d female c o n v i c t s hence f a i l e d t o r e a c h i t s d e s t i nat i o n - - a b i t t e r . r 71 blow t o the p r o s p e c t i v e husbands among the r a p i d l y growing e m a n c i p i s t op r a n k s . In the f o l l o w i n g y e a r , E n g l i s h S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e E a r l B a t h u r s t d e s p a t c h e d word t o M a c q u a r i e o f a rumoured p l a n f o r a combined F r e n c h - A m e r i c a n a t t a c k on Sydney. However, the s o u r c e , a Dane named J o r g e n J o r g e n s e n , d i d n ' t i n s p i r e much c o n f i d e n c e i n the c r e d i b i l i t y o f the s t o r y . B a t h u r s t , d e s p i t e w r i t i n g a t a time of c o n s i d e r a b l e e d g i n e s s i n London, c o u l d s t i l l r e c o g n i z e " t h e d o u b t f u l c h a r a c t e r o f t h i s I n d i v i d u a l , the g r e a t e r impr.obabj]j-ty^pf^the p l a n i t s e l f , and the s t i l l g r e a t e r i m p r o b a b i l i t y o f - s u c h a., person b e i n g 39 m i n u t e l y a c q u a i n t e d w i t h i t s d e t a i l s . . . ." B e l i e f i n the t h e o r e t i c a l p o s s i b i l i t y o f a t t a c k remained, though, and Macquarie gave c l o s e p e r u s a l t o J o r g e n s e n ' s a l l e g a t i o n s , then informed B a t h u r s t t h a t he would r e n d e r as e f f i c i e n t as p o s s i b l e the s m a l l l a n d f o r c e 40 a t h i s d i s p o s a l i n case o f f o r e i g n a t t a c k . Events i n the f o l l o w i n g y e a r s showed t h a t M a c q u a r i e ' s v i g i l a n c e was not c o m p l e t e l y m i s p l a c e d . The American f r i g a t e , E s s e x , c a p t a i n e d by D a v i d P o r t e r , rounded Cape Horn i n mid 1813 and moved i n t o the 41 P a c i f i c w i t h t h e o b j e c t o f h a r a s s i n g B r i t i s h s h i p p i n g . P o r t e r s u p e r v i s e d the c o n s t r u c t i o n o f a f o r t i f i e d base by p r i s o n e r s - o f - w a r ( g a t h e r e d from a v a r i e t y o f B r i t i s h s h i p s ) a t Nukahiva i n the Marquesas I s l a n d s . W h i l e the American s h i p was absent i n s e a r c h o f more b o o t y , f o u r t e e n p r i s o n e r s from the c a p t u r e d B r i t i s h s t o r e s h i p Ser i ngapatam, a l l o r d i n a r y seamen, overwhelmed t h e i r guards and s a i l e d the ex- w h a l e r t o P o r t J a c k s o n t o t e l l t h e i r s t o r y . When the v e s s e l a r r i v e d i n Sydney on J u l y 1-, 1814, a stunned p u b l i c was informed o f e v e n t s 72 i n the Sydney G a z e t t e o f the f o l l o w i n g d a y . n ^ P o r t e r ' s escapades were f i n a 1 1 y ha 1 t e d when the Essex was sunk by two B r i t i s h w a r s h i p s o f f the South American c o a s t , but not b e f o r e he had a c q u i r e d some $2.5 m i l l i o n w o r t h o f B r i t i s h naval p r o p e r t y . A u s t r a l i a , many w e l l - to-do c o l o n i a l s h a s t i l y r e a l i z e d , was s u s c e p t i b l e . t o f o r e i g n i n v a s i o n ; i f the French f a i l e d t o l a n d i n A u s t r a l i a , the Americans might. The " m o r t i f y i n g r e s u l t s " o f the a c t i o n s o f American p r i v a t e e r s on kk B r i t i s h s h i p p i n g added t o the u n r e s t . A m e r i c a , i t seemed, was s t i l l a c o n t r o v e r s i a l p r e s e n c e i n the s o u t h . A u s t r a l i a n w a t e r s were not an a p p r o p r i a t e p l a c e f o r r a n American kS v e s s e l between 1812 and 1816, f o r o b v i o u s r e a s o n s . War and i t s a f t e r m a t h i n e v i t a b l y weakened t r a d i n g l i n k s — a s i t u a t i o n worsened by the r e s u l t o f the major d e b a t e , i n 1813, o v e r the E a s t I n d i a Company's monopoly c h a r t e r . A f t e r numerous p e t i t i o n s by merchants from a l l major E n g l i s h c i t i e s , most o f them c i t i n g the c o n t i n u o u s advantage American t r a d e r s were e n j o y i n g , some i n f l u e n t i a l M.P.'s took up the cause o f E n g l i s h commerce i n p a r l i a m e n t . A f t e r a long and a t times b i t t e r c o n f l i c t , i t was d e c i d e d t h a t New South Wales s h o u l d no l o n g e r be a p a r t o f the E a s t I n d i a Company's a r e a o f j u r i s d i c t i o n . F u r t h e r m o r e , the E n g l i s h government l a t e r d e c i d e d t o s t r i c t l y e n f o r c e the N a v i g a t i o n Laws i n New South Wales. A l l B r i t i s h c o l o n i e s were f o r b i d d e n t o t r a d e w i t h f o r e i g n v e s s e l s - - a move d i r e c t e d kG p r e d o m i n a n t l y a t the A m e r i c a n s . Even s o , Governor M a c q u a r i e took s t e p s t o recommence t r a d e c o n n e c t i o n s when he a l l o w e d the American schooner T r a v e l l e r t o dock a t 73 P o r t J a c k s o n on F e b r u a r y 19, 1816, because o f the t e a and sugar on board. Both commodities the c o l o n y b a d l y needed. Having a l l o w e d e n t r y , M a c q u a r i e d e p a r t e d t o c a r r y out o f f i c i a l d u t i e s i n the c o u n t r y . W h i l e he was a b s e n t , W.H. Moore, a government s o l i c i t o r , and a regiment c h a p l a i n , the Reverend Benjamin V a l e , both r e s e n t f u l of the r i g i d i t y o f M a c q u a r i e ' s r u l e and h i s seeming p r e f e r e n c e f o r emancipated c o n v i c t s , c h a l l e n g e d the Governor's a c t i o n s by c l a i m i n g the T r a v e l l e r as a l a w f u l p r i z e under the B r i t i s h N a v i g a t i o n A c t . On h i s r e t u r n t o Sydney, M a c q u a r i e , o u t r a g e d by the a r r e s t o f the American v e s s e l , i m m e d i a t e l y o r d e r e d i t s l i b e r a t i o n , d e c l a r i n g i n a l e t t e r t o London t h a t he c l a i m e d p r e c e d e n t i n s u b s t a n t i a t i n g h i s a c t i o n s : The c o n s t a n t usage and custom o f t h i s p l a c e , from i t s f i r s t becoming a B r i t i s h s e t t l e m e n t , had been i n v a r i a b l y ( i n t i m e s o f peace) t o admit American s h i p s and c a r g o e s t o come t o e n t r y i n e v e r y r e s p e c t as i f they were B r i t i s h p r o p e r t y . The r E n g l i s h a u t h o r i t i e s a c c e p t e d M a c q u a r i e ' s d e f e n c e , c i t i n g twenty- f i v e y e a r s o f c o n t i n u o u s t r a d e w i t h American merchants, but i n s i s t e d t h a t i n f u t u r e the N a v i g a t i o n A c t be adhered t o . These i n s t r u c t i o n s e f f e c t i v e l y put an end t o the p o s s i b i l i t y o f a renewed r e g u l a r t r a d e w i t h American v e s s e l s u n t i l Sydney was re-opened t o American s h i p s i n 18 31--but not b e f o r e ai s u b s t a n t i a l A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n - s h i p had e s t a b l i s h e d i t s e l f i n the young c o l o n y . 74 1816-38 In the f i f t e e n y e a r s f o l l o w i n g the renowned T r a v e l 1er c a s e i n 1816, few American s h i p s used P o r t J a c k s o n as a p o r t o f c a l l . The American s e a l e r s G e n e r a l Gates ( i n 1819 and 1820) and Yankee c a l l e d b r i e f l y f o r r e f r e s h m e n t , h a v i n g t i r e d o f o p e r a t i n g i n New Z e a l a n d w a t e r s , and the C h i l e stopped i n 1823, owing t o an o u t b r e a k o f s c u r v y amongst the crew. A l s o , a s m a l l amount o f i n d i r e c t t r a d e o c c u r r e d 48 t h r o u g h the t r a n s h i p m e n t o f American goods i n E n g l i s h b o a t s . But the rush o f t r a d i n g a c t i v i t y t h a t c h a r a c t e r i z e d the y e a r s between 1800 and 1812 was not t o re-emerge f o r many y e a r s . When A u s t r a l i a n p o r t s were reopened t o American merchant v e s s e l s , the f i r s t s h i p t o a r r i v e was the Tybee, d e s p a t c h e d i n 1832 by the t r a d i n g f i r m o f N a t h a n i e l B. Rogers and B r o t h e r s o f Salem, M a s s a c h u s e t t s . The Tybee o f f e r e d a shipment . i n c l u d i n g t o b a c c o , rum, lumber and muskets. An enthused Sydney G a z e t t e , d e s p i t e h a v i n g e x p r e s s e d s u s p i c i o n o f American s t r a t e g i c d e s i g n s on the South P a c i f i c i n the l a t e 18201 s, i n s i s t e d on the c u l t i v a t i o n o f an "immediate i n t e r c o u r s e w i t h the 49 U n i t e d S t a t e s . " The i n c r e a s i n g number o f Americans who j o i n e d the Rogers B r o t h e r s i n r e s p o n d i n g t o the c a l l i n the next decade were m o s t l y South Sea t r a d e r s who s u p p l i e d P a c i f i c w h a l i n g bases i n r e t u r n f o r w o o l , o i l , h i d e s and i s l a n d p r o d u c t s . 5 ^ The American f i r m o f Kenworth and Company f i r s t s e i z e d the o p p o r t u n i t y when i t opened a branch t r a d i n g o f f i c e i n Sydney i n 1833- Other companies f o l l o w e d , l e a d i n g u l t i m a t e l y t o the appointment o f James H a r t w e l l W i l l i a m s as f i r s t U.S. Consul t o Sydney i n May, 1836."^ 75 The a t t i t u d e towards the U n i t e d S t a t e s was, by the m i d d l e 1830's, r a d i c a l l y d i f f e r e n t from the government-induced s u s p i c i o n o f e a r l i e r y e a r s . A decade o f a c t i v i t y by a f r e e A u s t r a l i a n p r e s s (and m i d d l e c l a s s ) r e c e p t i v e t o the d e m o c r a t i c c o n t e n t o f American p o l i t i c a l thought and i d e a s , and f i n a l l y a b l e t o e x p r e s s i t s a d m i r a t i o n p u b l i c l y , had a p p a r e n t l y c r e a t e d a c l i m a t e o f w i d e s p r e a d r e s p e c t f o r A m e r i c a ' s s u c c e s s f u l s t r u g g l e f o r i ndependence and r e p u b l i c a n government. W i l l i a m s ' a r r i v a l i n Sydney on the Draco on J a n u a r y 10, 1837, prompted a number o f r e p u t a b l e A u s t r a l i a n spokesmen t o s p e c u l a t e on the l i k e l i h o o d , i n the near f u t u r e , o f a s h i f t i n the c o l o n y ' s p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l and even l i t e r a r y p r i o r i t i e s . They a n t i c i p a t e d a movement away from the h i t h e r t o immutable t i e s w i t h Great B r i t a i n , i n the d i r e c t i o n o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s - - a c o u n t r y o f t e n a f f e c t i o n a t e l y r e f e r r e d t o as " B r o t h e r 52 J o n a t h a n . " A s u r v e y l i m i t e d t o the government r e c o r d s , t r a d i n g s t a t i s t i c s and " o f f i c i a l " i n t e r a c t i o n between A m e r i c a and A u s t r a l i a i n the f i f t y y e a r s a f t e r the a r r i v a l o f the F i r s t F l e e t r e n d e r s such a s h i f t i n e x p l i c a b l e . One must l o o k e l s e w h e r e . I f the g o v e r n o r s from P h i l l i p t o D a r l i n g and t h e i r u n d e r l i n g s were e x p e r i e n c i n g Yankee t r o u b l e s , what was the b u l k o f the p o p u l a t i o n — c o n v i c t s , e m a n c i p i s t s and new s e t t 1 e r s - - t h i n k i n g ? What f a c t o r s i n f l u e n c e d t h e i r concept o f America? Indeed, what l e d t o t h e i r c o n t e m p l a t i n g A m e r i c a i n the f i r s t p l a c e ? 76 S e c t i o n A t t i t u d e s t o t h e New C o l o n y - - i n E n g l a n d and T o r y A u s t r a l i a T h e b y - p r o d u c t s o f E m p i r e - - w a r , s p e c u l a t i v e i n v e s t m e n t , n e w l y d i s c o v e r e d f l o r a a n d f a u n a - - c o n s i s t e n t 1y c a p t u r e d t h e i m a g i n a t i o n o f l a r g e numbers o f E n g l i s h m e n i n t h e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y . O f a l l B r i t i s h c o l o n i e s , A m e r i c a , b e c a u s e o f i t s s h e e r s i z e a n d p o t e n t i a l , was m e n - t i o n e d m o s t o f t e n - - t h e more s o i n t h e 1 7 6 0 1 s and 1 7 7 0 1 s when i t t h r e a t e n e d t o t a k e t h e s e e m i n g l y i m p o s s i b l e p a t h o f p o l i t i c a l i n d e p e n - d e n c e . W h i g s , T o r i e s and R a d i c a l s i n B r i t a i n e a c h a d o p t e d a d i f f e r e n t pub 1 i c c p o s i t i o n on t h e A m e r i c a n War o f I n d e p e n d e n c e . In an a t m o s p h e r e o f o o f t e n a c r i m o n i o u s d e b a t e , p l a n s f o r a s e t t l e m e n t i n New H o l l a n d w e r e c o n f i r m e d . A l m o s t i n e v i t a b l y , e v e n t s i n A m e r i c a h e l p e d t o s h a p e p e o p l e ' s r e a c t i o n s t o B r i t a i n ' s l a t e s t c o l o n i a l p o s s e s s i o n i n t h e d i s t a n t s o u t h . A s o n e h i s t o r i a n h a s p u t i t , " t h e n e a r - c o i n c i d e n c e o f t h e c o l o n i s a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a and t h e A m e r i c a n War o f I n d e p e n d e n c e e n c o u r a g e d f r o m t h e o u t s e t c o m p a r i s o n s b e t w e e n t h e new d e p e n d e n c i e s i n t h e S o u t h 53 P a c i f i c a n d t h e o l d o n e s a c r o s s t h e P a c i f i c i n N o r t h A m e r i c a . " Many B r i t o n s , s h o c k e d by t h e r e v o l t i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , b e g a n t o 77 use A u s t r a l i a as a s u b s t i t u t e and compensation f o r t h e i r l o s t American dream. Of i n t e r e s t , h e r e , a r e the k i n d s o f comparisons made, and by whom. Four broad r e s p o n s e s g r e e t e d England's newest c o l o n y : the f i r s t was h e l d by a few Englishmen who, i n Botany Bay's e a r l i e s t y e a r s , p e r s i s t e n t l y c l u n g t o a r o m a n t i c c o n c e p t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a ' s p o t e n t i a l , d e s p i t e the f i r s t l o a d o f " s e t t l e r s " c o m p r i s e d a l m o s t e n t i r e l y o f c o n v i c t s . These i d e a l i s t s p o r t r a y e d A u s t r a l i a as a s p a c i o u s , new and improved E n g l a n d . A n o t h e r group wanted so much t o see i n i t i a l p o t e n t i a l r e a l i z e d t h a t i t was w i l l i n g t o d i s t o r t p r e l i m i n a r y f a c t u a l r e p o r t s from the c o l o n y t o match i t s p r e c o n c e i v e d n o t i o n s . A t h i r d assemblage, c o m p r i s i n g men l i k e S i r Joseph Banks and C a p t a i n W a t k i n Tench, saddened by the p r o s p e c t o f B r i t i s h c i v i l i z a t i o n d e c l i n i n g i n Europe, took s o l a c e i n the n o t i o n t h a t . i t might be " r e g e n e r a t i n g i n the new s o c i e t i e s which Englishmen had e s t a b l i s h e d " : namely, i n 5k A m e r i c a and A u s t r a l i a . A f o u r t h o p i n i o n , s h a r e d by many w r i t e r s , was t h a t A u s t r a l i a , because o f the d e p l o r a b l e c a l i b r e o f i t s f i r s t c i t i z e n s , o f f e r e d a t o t a l l y i n f e r i o r comparison w i t h A m e r i c a . How c o u l d a s e t t l e m e n t r o o t e d i n w i c k e d n e s s and t h i e v e r y p o s s i b l y bear c o n t r a s t w i t h a l a n d sworn t o uphold the t e n e t s put f o r t h i n the l o f t y p r o s e o f the D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence? The common f a c t o r o f a l l f o u r views was a tendency t o see A u s t r a l i a as i n some way a v a r i a t i o n o f an o l d e r mould: e i t h e r a b e t t e r A m e r i c a , acnew A m e r i c a , a n o t h e r A m e r i c a o r a w h o l l y i n f e r i o r A m e r i c a . Each w i l l be looked a t i n t u r n . The p o i n t t o be l a t e r t a k e n up i s t h a t http://that.it 78 g i v e n t h i s E n g l i s h p r o c l i v i t y t o make A m e r i c a n / A u s t r a l i a n c o m p a r i s o n s , mt was o n l y n a t u r a l t h a t r e s i d e n t s i n A u s t r a l i a i n the f i r s t f o r t y yeatrs s h o u l d do the same t h i n g . The spectrum o f c r i t i c a l r e s p o n s e s t o Botany Bay q u i c k l y e s t a b l i s h e d i t s e l f , b e g i n n i n g even b e f o r e the F i r s t F l e e t o f c o n v i c t s l e f t E n g l a n d . Perhaps t h e f i r s t w r i t e r t o c o n s i d e r the A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n c o n t r a s t , i n an e s s a y p r i n t e d i n the London Morning Posjt^ s h o r t l y a f t e r Lord Sydney's p l a n s f o r a s e t t l e m e n t became p u b l i c , asked t h a t " t h e o r i g i n and p r o g r e s s of our American C o l o n i s t s be, f o r a moment, c o n s i d e r e d , " and c o n c l u d e d t h a t Sydney's p l a n s would r e s u l t i n " e v e n t u a l b e n e f i t 55 t o the B r i t i s h e m p i r e . " A s c a t t e r i n g o f s i m i l a r l y premature o p t i m i s m appeared o v e r the next twenty y e a r s . Some of i t was grounded l o o s e l y i n e x p e r i e n c e , l i k e Joseph Banks' v i s i o n o f " t h e f u t u r e p r o s p e c t o f empires and dominions which now cannot be d i s a p p o i n t e d . Who knows but t h a t England may r e v i v e i n New South Wales when i t i s sunk i n E u r o p e . " 5 ^ Some o f i i t , c o m p l e t e l y u n r e l a t e d t o the r e a l i t i e s o f the new l a n d , s i m p l y found y e t a n o t h e r c o n t e x t f o r a p p l y i n g e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y " e n l i g h t e n m e n t " i d e a s based on s o c i e t y ' s p r o g r e s s . Erasmus D a r w i n , n a t u r a l i s t , p h y s i c i a n and o c c a s i o n a l p h i l o s o p h i c p o e t , was one. A c o n f e s s e d b e l i e v e r i n n a t u r e ' s c a p a c i t y t o e x i s t " i n a s t a t e o f p e r p e t u a l improvement," Darwin penned some l i n e s e n t i t l e d "A Voyage o f Hope--to Sydney Cove, Near Botany Bay," which appeared as a broad- s i d e i n 1789. I n s p i r e d by a specimen o f c l a y m o d e l l e d i n t o a m e d a l l i o n by J o s i a h Wedgewood, he f o r e s a w a b r i g h t f u t u r e f o r the g r e a t s o u t h l a n d : 79 There s h a l l broad s t r e e t s t h e i r s t a t e l y w a l l s e x t e n d , The c i r c u s w i d e n , and the c r e s c e n t bend; T h e r e , r a y ' d from c i t i e s o'er the c u l t u r ' d l a n d , S h a l l b r i g h t c a n a l s , and s o l i d roads expand. -- There the proud a r c h , C o l o s s u s - 1 i k e , b e s t r i d e Yon g l i t t e r i n g s t r e a m s , and bound the c h a f i n g t i d e ; E m b e l l i s h ' d v i l l a s crown the l a n d s c a p e - s c e n e , Farms wave w i t h g o l d , and o r c h a r d s b l u s h between. -- There sha1 1 t a l l s p i r e s , and dome-capt towers a s c e n d , And p i e r s and quays t h e i r massy s t r u c t u r e s b l e n d ; 57 Thomas K. Hervey went even f u r t h e r , i m a g i n i n g A u s t r a l i a as the s i t e o f a U t o p i a n b r o t h e r h o o d , To where a l o v e l i e r v i s i o n meets t h e eye; Where spreads the B r i t i s h name from sun t o sun, And a l l the n a t i o n s o f the e a r t h a r e One.58 C e r t a i n l y a c l u s t e r o f e u p h o r i c f o r e c a s t s t o s u i t a b l y l a u n c h a new land c o u l d have' been . a n t i c i p a t e d . However, i n A u s t r a l i a ' s c a s e , c i t a t i o n o f the American example was j u s t as q u i c k l y e s t a b l i s h e d as a t a c t i c o f t h o s e opposed t o f u r t h e r c o l o n i a l e x p a n s i o n who w i s h e d t o c e n s u r e the a u t h o r i t i e s . A c o n c e r n e d A l e x a n d e r D a l r y m p l e e x p r e s s e d d i s g u s t w i t h the d e c i s i o n " t o send the Conv i c t s t o Botany Bay, on the E a s t - S i d e o f New-Holland, w h i l s t T h i s C o u n t r y i s s t i l l s m a r t i n g f r o m a War w i t h Her o l d C o l o n i e s , whom she found h e r s e l f unable t o keep i n de- ,,59 pendance. Dr. Johnson, had he been a l i v e t o w i t n e s s the f i n a l i z a t i o n o f p l a n s f o r Botany Bay, would no doubt have c o n c u r r e d , s i n c e he viewed A m e r i c a ' s r e v o l u t i o n a r y l e a d e r s a s " d i c t a t o r s o f s e d i t i o n " and " i ncendaia r i es . . . [who] t o s s brands among a r a b b l e p a s s i v e l y combust i b l e. W i t h the new c e n t u r y , and a f r e s h g e n e r a t i o n o f o b s e r v e r s , came 80 a g r a d u a l l y w i d e n i n g c o n t e x t o f d i s c u s s i o n , and more r a t i o n a l comment. John P i n k e r t o n , a S c o t t i s h g e o g r a p h e r , t y p i f i e d the new composure: [The] c o l o n y met w i t h c o n s i d e r a b l e d i f f i c u l t i e s i n r e g a r d t o s u b s i s t e n c e , and the expence was c o n s i d e r e d as too g r e a t f o r the o b j e c t . But men of more e x t e n s i v e and p h i l o s o p h i c a l views b e h e l d w i t h complacence the d e s i g n o f t r a n s f e r r i n g the E n g l i s h r a c e and name t o such a d i s t a n t and i m p o r t a n t r e g i o n o f the g l o b e , w h i c h might s u p p l y new o b j e c t s t o commerce and s c i e n c e , and i n the c o u r s e o f a few c e n t u r i e s p r e s e n t as i t were a n o t h e r A m e r i c a , a c o u n t r y o f r i s i n g knowledge and c i v i l i z a t i o n , i n the m i d s t o f a b e n i g h t e d and savage r e g i o n o f the g l o b e . Nor were views o f a m b i t i o n and g l o r y u n d e l i g h t e d w i t h t h i s new d i f f u s i o n o f the g r e a t and s u r p r i s i n g p e o p l e o f a remote European i s l e , i n the most d i s t a n t e x t r e m i t i e s o f the n a v i g a b l e ocean.°' For P i n k e r t o n , A u s t r a l i a c o u l d w e l l be a r e m a r k a b l e new a d d i t i o n t o E n g l i s h power and p r e s t i g e ; l i k e A m e r i c a ; a n o t h e r b a s t i o n o f A n g l o - Saxon c u 1 t u r e . A r g u a b l y the most s e n s i b l e and i l l u m i n a t i n g v o i c e c o n c e r n i n g B r i t a i n ' s o n g o i n g r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h A m e r i c a and A u s t r a l i a between 1800 and 1830 was the Reverend Sydney S m i t h — c a u s t i c o b s e r v e r , r a c o n t e u r , and the most admired w i t i n Whig a r i s t o c r a t i c c i r c l e s i n the f i r s t q u a r t e r o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . Though a man so o f t e n g i v e n t o f a c e t i o u s comment t h a t c l o s e companions found i t d i f f i c u l t t o t a k e him s e r i o u s l y , Smith e s t a b l i s h e d h i m s e l f i n the pages o f the Whig E d i n b u r g h Review, from i t s i n c e p t i o n i n O c t o b e r , 1802, t o h i s l a s t p u b l i s h e d a r t i c l e i n 1828, as a l i v e l y spokesman f o r l i b e r a l p r i n c i p l e s and a s t a u n c h a d v o c a t e o f r e l i g i o u s t o l e r a t i o n and the r i g h t s o f the 62 u n d e r p r i v i l e g e d . The d i s c e r n i n g way i n w h i c h he t a c k l e d c o n t r o v e r s i a l 81 i s s u e s can be gauged from h i s s e r i e s o f a r t i c l e s on "Botany Bay" and " A m e r i c a . " S t r e t c h i n g over a p e r i o d o f t w e n t y - f i v e y e a r s , t h e s e a r t i c l e s amply d e m o n s t r a t e the tendency o f informed E n g l i s h commentators o f the p e r i o d t o c l o s e l y i d e n t i f y A u s t r a l i a ' s p r o g r e s s w i t h d e v e l o p - ments i n A m e r i c a . Smith u n f a i l i n g l y u t i l i z e d the same frame o f r e f e r e n c e f o r both c o u n t r i e s , and a s i m i l a r v o c a b u l a r y . H i s comments, by f a r the most e l a b o r a t e o f the day, need c l o s e a t t e n t i o n , i f the p r e d i s p o s i t i o n o f London c i r c l e s o f the time i s t o be e f f e c t i v e l y gauged. Smith's a t t i t u d e t o both c o u n t r i e s underwent a s e r i e s o f changes and m o d i f i c a t i o n s . In h i s f i r s t a r t i c l e on A u s t r a l i a he mouthed the o l d c o n s e r v a t i v e p r e j u d i c e s i n language not u n l i k e t h a t o f D a l r y m p l e some twenty y e a r s b e f o r e . A p p a r e n t l y angered by the c o m p o s i t i o n o f the new c o l o n y , and, i n 1803, u n w i l l i n g t o a c c e p t the q u e s t i o n s r a i s e d by the d e m o c r a t i c e x p e r i m e n t i n N o r t h A m e r i c a , Smith asked the q u e s t i o n d e s t i n e d t o d i s e n c h a n t a g e n e r a t i o n o f p r o s p e c t i v e A u s t r a l i a n s : "Are we t o spend a n o t h e r hundred m i l l i o n s o f money i n d i s c o v e r i n g i t s [ A u s t r a l i a ' s ] s t r e n g t h , and t o humble o u r s e l v e s a g a i n b e f o r e a f r e s h s e t o f Washingtons and F r a n k l i n s ? " As f a r as he was c o n c e r n e d , a r e p e t i t i o n o f the American e x p e r i e n c e i n A u s t r a l i a a t t h a t time seemed c e r t a i n : "The moment a f t e r we have s u f f e r e d such s e r i o u s m i s c h i e f from the escapade o f the o l d t i g e r , we a r e b r e e d i n g 64 up a young cub, whom we cannot r e n d e r l e s s ferocious,": o r more s e c u r e . " Smith a s s a i l e d both the s t r u c t u r e and the a d m i n i s t r a t i o n o f the new c o l o n y as too s h o r t s i g h t e d . 82 H e m e l l o w e d . T h r o u g h o u t t h e t u r b u l e n t y e a r s o f w a r w i t h F r a n c e ( a n d , i n 1812, w i t h A m e r i c a ) , S m i t h t u r n e d t h e a t t e n t i o n s o f h i s p e n t o a n u m b e r o f p h i l a n t h r o p i c e n d e a v o u r s u n r e l a t e d t o B r i t i s h t e r r i t o r i e s . T h e n , i n 1818, h e p u b l i s h e d t h e f i r s t o f t h r e e a p p r a i s a l s o f A m e r i c a i n t h e R e v i e w . C o l l e c t i v e l y , t h e y h a d a d e c i d e d e f f e c t o n h i s r e p u t a t i o n i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . T h e w e i g h t o f h o n e s t e v a l u a t i o n p r e s e n t t h r o u g h o u t w a s l o s t i n t h e h o r n e t ' s n e s t a r o u s e d b y t w o o f S m i t h ' s d i g r e s s i o n s o n A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . H i s i n f l a m m a t o r y s t a t e - m e n t , " L i t e r a t u r e t h e A m e r i c a n s h a v e n o n e , " i n t h e f i r s t a r t i c l e , i n t e n d e d t o c u t a n y e x c e s s i v e A m e r i c a n p r i d e a n d p a t r i o t i s m t o t h e q u i c k , w a s b e t t e r e d o n l y b y t h e c r u e l l y a c c u r a t e s e q u e n c e o f r h e t o r i c a l q u e s t i o n s h e i n c l u d e d i n t h e s e c o n d a r t i c l e , a r e v i e w o f a s t a t i s t i c a l w o r k o n A m e r i c a , i n 1820: I n t h e f o u r q u a r t e r s o f t h e g l o b e , w h o r e a d s a n A m e r i c a n b o o k ? o r g o e s t o a n A m e r i c a n p l a y ? o r l o o k s a t a n A m e r i c a n p i c t u r e o r s t a t u e ? . . . F i n a l l y , u n d e r w h i c h o f t h e o l d t y r a n n i c a l g o v e r n m e n t s o f E u r o p e i s e v e r y s i x t h r , : m a n a s l a v e , w h o m h i s f e l l o w - c r e a t u r e s m a y b u y a n d s e l l a n d t o r t u r e ? W h e n t h e s e q u e s t i o n s a r e f a i r l y a n d f a v o u r a b l y a n s w e r e d , t h e i r l a u d a t o r y e p i t h e t s m a y b e a l l o w e d : b u t t i l l t h a t c a n b e d o n e , w e w o u l d s e r i o u s l y a d v i s e t h e m t o k e e p c l e a r o f s u p e r 1 a t i v e s . 6 6 C o m m e n t s a p p a r e n t l y n o t e a s i l y f o r g o t t e n . O v e r h a l f a c e n t u r y l a t e r , T h e N a t i o n m e n t i o n e d S m i t h a s t h e a u t h o r o f " s a v a g e l y c o n t e m p t u o u s a r t i c l e s a b o u t A m e r i c a , " a n d a s l a t e a s 1963 a t e l e v i s i o n p r o g r a m m e o n a n A m e r i c a n n e t w o r k , e n t i t l e d " C r e a t i v e A m e r i c a , " f a s h i o n e d i t s e l f a s a r e p l y t o S m i t h ' s " s n e e r i n g " c o m m e n t . 6 ^ 83 B u t t h e p o p u l a r image o f S m i t h a s a d e n o u n c e r o f A m e r i c a n p o l i t i c s , c u l t u r e and mores s i m p l y d o e s n ' t m a t c h t h e f a c t s . T h e E d i n b u r g h R e v i e w , a n d S m i t h i n p a r t i c u l a r , a l w a y s t r e a t e d A m e r i c a n s u b j e c t s f a i r l y . I n d e e d , s o s t r o n g l y had S m i t h warmed t o t h e p r o g r e s s i v e n a t u r e o f t h e d e m o c r a t i c e x p e r i m e n t by 1818 t h a t he c o u l d d e s c r i b e h i m s e l f i n a 68 l e t t e r t o L o r d F r a n c i s J e f f r e y a s a " P h i l o y a n k e i s t . " S m i t h h e a r t i >1 y a p p l a u d e d many o f t h e l e g i s l a t i v e i n i t i a t i v e s i n t h e " l a n d o f J o n a t h a n , " t i m e and a g a i n i l l u s t r a t i n g i n p r i n t h i s a g r e e m e n t w i t h J e f f r e y ' s Image o f t h e m a j o r i t y o f A m e r i c a n s a s b r a v e , 69 e n t e r p r i s i n g a n d i n d u s t r i o u s ! He s c r u p u l o u s l y s i n g l e d o u t e n - l i g h t e n i n g a s p e c t s o f t h e i r c o u n t r y - - a n e f f i c i e n t l y managed e c o n o m y , low s a l a r i e s f o r t h o s e i n t h e p u b l i c s e c t o r , r e l i g i o u s t o l e r a t i o n , p o p u l a r e d u c a t i o n , u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e and f r e e d o m o f t h e p r e s s - - a s w o r t h y o f i m i t a t i o n by B r i t a i n . 7 ^ A s h i s image o f A m e r i c a t o o k o n a d i f f e r e n t f a c e , s o t o o d i d t h e way i n w h i c h he o b s e r v e d A u s t r a l i a ' s d e v e l o p m e n t . No l o n g e r c o n c e n t r a t i n g h i s a t t e n t i o n s o l e l y on t h e l o a t h s o m e f e a t u r e s o f t h e c o l o n y , he b e g a n t o t a k e n o t i c e o f c e r t a i n r e d e e m i n g f e a t u r e s , c o n s t a n t l y u s i n g A m e r i c a a s t h e b a s i s f o r c o m p a r i s o n . S i m i l a r i t i e s w e r e f i r m l y e n d o r s e d . T h e " l a n d o f c o n v i c t s a n d k a n g a r o o s was g r a d u a l l y s h o w i n g s i g n s o f d e v e l o p i n g i n t o " a v e r y f i n e a n d f l o u r i s h i n g s e t t l e m e n t , " t h e " A m e r i c a n a r r a n g e m e n t s r e s p e c t i n g t h e . e d u c a t i o n o f t h e l o w e r o r d e r s " b e i n g " e x c e l l e n t . " 7 ^ D i f f e r e n c e s w e r e c o n d e m n e d : 84 New South Wales i s a s i n k o f w i c k e d n e s s , i n which the g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f c o n v i c t s o f both sexes become i n f i n i t e l y more depraved than a t the p e r i o d o f t h e i r a r r i v a l . . . . The f e l o n t r a n s p o r t e d t o the American p l a n t a t i o n s , became an i n s u l a t e d rogue among honest men. . . . But i n Botany Bay, the f e l o n , as soon as he g e t s out o f the s h i p , meets w i t h h i s a n c i e n t t r u l l , w i t h the f o o t p a d o f h i s h e a r t , the c o n v i c t o f h i s a f f e c t i o n s , - - t h e man whose hand he has o f t e n met i n the same gentleman's p o c k e t - - . . . . In the f i v e y e a r s s e p a r a t i n g Smith's f i n a l two c r i t i q u e s o f A u s t r a l i a , a n o t i c e a b l e A m e r i c a n i z i n g o f h i s s t a n c e took p l a c e . He began t o equate the two c o u n t r i e s p o l i t i c a l l y and s o c i a l l y ; thus he opened h i s 1828 r e v i e w w i t h s m a t t e r i n g s of h y p e r b o l e more c h a r a c t e r - i s t i c o f the proponents o f propaganda e k i n g out a l i v i n g i n c o l o n i a l j o u r n a 1 s : I t i s now s e v e r a l y e a r s s i n c e we have s a i d a n y t h i n g i n o u r pages o f t h a t New World w h i c h B r i t a i n has been c r e a t i n g on the o t h e r s i d e o f the P a c i f i c - - a 1 though i t has been a l l the w h i l e i n a s t a t e o f c o n t i n u e d and even r a p i d advance- ment. . . . [ I t ] w i l l be no u n p l e a s i n g t a s k t o g l e a n from the works, a t the head o f t h i s a r t i c l e , some f u r t h e r n o t i c e s o f t h i s i n f a n t c o l o n y — d e s t i n e d , p e r h a p s , i n the c o u r s e o f ages, t o be the e a r l i e s t r e c o r d s o f a famous and p o t e n t nat i o n . ' ^ A u s t r a 1 i a - - n o l o n g e r B r i t a i n ' s g a r b a g e , " t h e f i f t h o r p i c k p o c k e t q u a r t e r o f the g1obe"--cou1d, t h r o u g h hard work, d i s c e r n i n g l e a d e r - s h i p and the c o n t i n u e d p r o g r e s s o f a l l branches o f i n d u s t r y , t r a n s f o r m 74 i t s e l f e n t i r e l y . Not i n t o a n o t h e r B r i t a i n , but "a new A m e r i c a . " A number o f Smith's c o n t e m p o r a r i e s were i n complete a c c o r d w i t h h i s endorsement o f American i n i t i a t i v e , b u t , l i k e Smith i n the e a r l y y e a r s , e q u i v o c a t e d o v e r A u s t r a l i a . The p r o s p e c t o f a m a s s i v e E n g l i s h 85 p r i s o n i n the P a c i f i c d i s t u r b e d . One such contemporary was the i n f l u e n t i a l u t i l i t a r i a n p h i l o s o p h e r Jeremy Bentham. In h i s own words more a " U n i t e d S t a t e s man" than an E n g l i s h m a n , Bentham c o r r e s p o n d e d a t l e n g t h w i t h prominent American l e a d e r s such as Benjamin F r a n k l i n , James, M a d i s o n , John Quincy Adams, and a v a r i e t y o f S t a t e g o v e r n o r s . 7 ' ' A lawyer h i m s e l f , Bentham p a r t i c u l a r l y a p p r e c i a t e d American l e g a l r e f o r m , and from 1817 onwards, the y e a r o f hismomentous P1 an o f P a r i i a m e n t a r y Reform i n the Form o f a_ Catech i sm, e t c . , he encouraged h i s countrymen to. s h a r e h i s views i n a wide v a r i e t y o f a v i d l y p r o - American pamphlets. The W e s t m i n s t e r Review, begun w i t h Bentham money i n 1 8 2 4 , con- s o l i d a t e d h i s s e n t i m e n t s i n t o an o r t h o d o x y i n the 1 8 2 0 1 s. " A m e r i c a , " the f i r s t i s s u e s t a t e d , " i s the o n l y country which has p r e s e n t e d us w i t h the s p e c t a c l e o f a p e o p l e governed by a system o f genuine r e p r e s e n t a t i o n . " 7 ^ A u s t r a l i a ' s b e g i n n i n g s were a b h o r r e n t . Bentham d e t e s t e d B r i t a i n ' s " p e r i o d i c a l h a r v e s t s o f m a l e f a c t o r s , " and i n a s e c t i o n o f h i s " P r i n c i p l e s o f Penal Law" on t r a n s p o r t a t i o n he compared a t l e n g t h the d i f f e r e n c e s between American h a n d l i n g o f the " r e f u s e o f the B r i t i s h p o p u l a t i o n " and A u s t r a l i a ' s . 7 7 I f the e f f e c t on America was r e g r e t t a b l e , the consequences f o r A u s t r a l i a n development t h r e a t e n e d t o be c a t a s t r o p h i c . L i k e S m i t h , Bentham o b j e c t e d t o the p o l i c y i n Botany Bay o f c o n g r e g a t i n g l a r g e numbers o f c o n v i c t s t o g e t h e r i n one p l a c e . New South Wales c o u l d become a s e t t l e m e n t o f " t h e h i g h e s t p o l i t i c a l i m p o r t a n c e , " but o n l y w i t h the " l a p s e o f a c e r t a i n number o f c e n t u r i e s , " and presumably o n l y i f an independent c o u r s e s i m i l a r 86 t o the American one were pursued. Most w r i t e r s who v o i c e d t h e i r o p i n i o n s on the Botany Bay penal s e t t l e m e n t i n the f i r s t t h i r t y y e a r s o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y - - a n d t h e r e weren't many--saw i t as a d e s p e r a t e l y i n f e r i o r A m e r i c a . They f e l t , a l o n g w i t h Bentham, t h a t c e n t u r i e s would be r e q u i r e d b e f o r e the c o u n t r y c o u l d overcome i t s d i s t r e s s i n g r o o t s . T h i n g s weren't as bad as S c o t t i s h bard James Montgomery's d e s o l a t e image s u g g e s t s : Pass we d r e a r New H o l l a n d ' s s h o a l s , Where no ample r i v e r r o l l s , — W o r l d o f unawaken'd s o u l s . 7 ^ But n e i t h e r d i d they w a r r a n t the buoyancy o f an Erasmus Darwin o r a 80 W i l l i a m L i s l e Bowles. Of t h o s e i n C h a r l e s Lamb's c i r c l e , Lamb h i m s e l f was the s h a r p e s t c r i t i c o f the New H o l l a n d e x p e r i m e n t . An " i n a u s p i c i o u s u n l i t e r a r y T h i e f l a n d " he l a b e l l e d A u s t r a l i a i n a r e v i e w o f B a r r o n F i e l d ' s 81 F i r s t F r u i t s (1820). H i s comments i n a l e t t e r t o F i e l d were s c a r c e l y more c o m p l i m e n t a r y : Do g i v e me some n o t i o n o f the manners o f the i n h a b i t a n t s where you a r e . They don't t h i e v e a l l day l o n g , do they? . . . Have you any p o e t s among you? Cursed p l a g i a r i s t s , I f a n c y , i f you have any. I would not t r u s t an i d e a o r a p o c k e t - h a n d k e r c h i e f o f mine among 'em.8 2 W i l l i a m H a z l i t t ' s e s t i m a t e o f h i s f r i e n d ' s a v e r s i o n " t o new f a c e s , t o new books, t o new b u i l d i n g s , t o new customs" might e x p l a i n Lamb's 83 r e a c t i o n , however. H a z l i t t , i n c o n t r a s t , was i n c l i n e d t o j u d g e the 87 i n h a b i t a n t s o f the c o l o n y a l i t t l e more s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y . Botany Bay was indeed an i r r i t a t i n g mote i n B r i t a i n ' s eye, but not a l l the c o n v i c t s earned t h e i r passage as c u t - t h r o a t s s and t h i e v e s . An i n d i v i d u a l may be o p p r e s s e d , a n a t i o n may be t r a m p l e d upon, mankind may be t h r e a t e n e d w i t h a n n i h i l a t i o n o f t h e i r r i g h t s , and the t h r e a t e n f o r c e d ; and not a f i n g e r i s r a i s e d . . . . At the v e r y time when a l l England went mad about the poor Queen, a man o f the name o f Bruce was sent t o Botany Bay f o r h a v i n g spoken t o a n o t h e r who was_c;on- v i c t e d o f s e d i t i o n ; and no n o t i c e was t a k e n o f i t . Robert Southey was a n o t h e r t o e x p r e s s a c e r t a i n sympathy f o r the t r a n s p o r t e d f e l o n s i n h i s Botany Bay . E c l o g u e s , w r i t t e n a t O x f o r d i n 1794 a t a time when he dreamt o f human p e r f e c t a b i 1 i t y , no m a t t e r what the c i r c u m s t a n c e s . Having read W a t k i n Tench's n a r r a t i v e s o f the c o l o n y , he d e p i c t e d the c o n v i c t e d E l i n o r , doomed f o r e t e r n i t y i n the f a r - o f f savage lands . . . Where angry England sends her o u t c a s t sons - - r e p e n t i n g her t r a n s g r e s s i o n s and c o n f i d e n t l y embracing the a f t e r 1 i f e : On t h e s e w i l d s h o r e s the s a v i n g hand o f Grace W i l l probe my s e c r e t s o u l , and c l e a n s e i t s wounds, And f i t the f a i t h f u l p e n i t e n t f o r Heaven.^5 Southey's i d e a l i s t i c p o l i t i c a l c o n c e p t s ( P a n t i s o c r a c y ) e n a b l e d him t o e n v i s i o n a b e t t e r f u t u r e , but the o p p r e s s i v e r e a l i t i e s o f the p r e s e n t were never f a r away. So w h i l e w r i t i n g h i s E c l o g u e s he i d e n t i f i e d l i f e i n Botany Bay, i n America and i n r e a c t i o n a r y England as an 88 i s o l a t i n g e x p e r i e n c e . "Whether I l i n g e r out e x i s t e n c e i n England i n A m e r i c a or among the c o n v i c t s o f New H o l l a n d i s a m a t t e r o f i n d i f f e r e n c e , " he 86 wrote t o Governor C h a r l e s B e d f o r d i n June, 1794. H i s s p e c u l a t i v e i d e a o f a f r e e commonwealth l o c a t e d i t s e l f a long way from r e p r e s s i v e Aust r a 1 i a. Much l i k e Southey i n l a t e r y e a r s , C o l e r i d g e r e j e c t e d Botany Bay o u t r i g h t , l a b e l l i n g i t a s e t t l e m e n t o f " d e s p a i r " when compared w i t h the l o f t y i d e a l s p e r v a d i n g the p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l atmosphere o f N o r t h A m e r i c a . At one p o i n t i n h i s e a r l y t w e n t i e s , he planned t o j o i n a communal s e t t l e - 88 ment on the banks o f the Susquehanna. The p l a n was s h o r t l y a f t e r w a r d s a b o r t e d , though C o l e r i d g e , d e s p i t e e s t a b l i s h i n g h i m s e l f as one of the most l u c i d c o n s e r v a t i v e v o i c e s o f h i s e r a , m a i n t a i n e d a h i g h r e g a r d f o r the U n i t e d S t a t e s up t o h i s death i n 1834. The Q u a r t e r l y Review o f 1835 posthumously p u b l i s h e d an e x t r a c t o f h i s " t a b l e t a l k , " where he once a g a i n i d e n t i f i e d h i s e l e v a t e d i m p r e s s i o n o f A m e r i c a ' s p o t e n t i a l : The p o s s i b l e d e s t i n y o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s o f A m e r i c a , - - as a n a t i o n o f a hundred m i l l i o n s of f r e e m e n , - - s t r e t c h i n g from the A t l a n t i c t o the P a c i f i c , l i v i n g under the laws o f A l f r e d , and s p e a k i n g the language o f Shakespeare and M i l t o n , i s an august c o n c e p t i o n . Why s h o u l d we not w i s h t o see i t r e a l i z e d ? America would then be England viewed t h r o u g h a s o l a r m i c r o s c o p e ; Great B r i t a i n i n a s t a t e o f g l o r i o u s m a g n i f i c a t i o n ! " A f l e d g l i n g c o l o n y c o m p r i s e d p r e d o m i n a n t l y o f c o n v i c t s , on the o t h e r hand, c o u l d h a r d l y bear the s t r a i n o f c l o s e and d i r e c t comparison a t t h i s p o i n t . Many of C o l e r i d g e ' s countrymen agreed w i t h him i n the e a r l y y e a r s of the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , though as the y e a r s passed and the i n v e s t m e n t p r o s p e c t s 89 o f A u s t r a l i a grew, t h e y , l i k e Sydney S m i t h , began t o v i e w A u s t r a l i a w i t h i n c r e a s i n g o p t i m i s m . A u s t r a l i a and America might be more c l o s e l y r e l a t e d than f i r s t t h o u g h t . •A. J- Ji* C l e a r l y , t h e n , many o f George I l l ' s s u b j e c t s a t home viewed e v e n t s i n both A u s t r a l i a and America as i n some way comparable, the m a j o r i t y a t f i r s t a g r e e i n g w i t h C o l e r i d g e , Bentham, W i l l i a m Cobbett and R i c h a r d Cobden t h a t the immediate p r o s p e c t s o f American democracy f a r outweighed t h o s e o f New H o l l a n d ' s remote p r i s o n . The i m p o r t a n t p o i n t t o be made, though, i s not t h a t one was a r b i t r a r i l y f a v o u r e d a t the expense o f the o t h e r , but t h a t the two c o n t i n e n t s were o f t t i m e s viewed w i t h the same s p e c t a c l e s - - w i s e J o n a t h a n ' s l a n d spoken o f i n the same b r e a t h as the s i n k o f w i c k e d n e s s . The comparison was a n a t u r a l . Sydney S m i t h , and, l a t e r , penal r e f o r m e r Edward Gibbon W a k e f i e l d , m e r e l y a r t i c u l a t e d w i d e s p r e a d . . 90 o p i n i o n . One c o u l d r e a s o n a b l y e x p e c t t h a t t h i s tendency would h o l d t r u e i n the t h o u g h t s and w r i t i n g s o f the f i r s t B r i t i s h s e t t l e r s Cand c o n v i c t s ) i n A u s t r a l i a . I f t h e i r countrymen back home kept i n s i s t i n g on the A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n c o n t r a s t , they c o u l d h a r d l y do o t h e r w i s e . And so i t happened. A r c h i b a l d A l i s o n ' s s t a t e m e n t , l o o k i n g back on the p r e v i o u s f i f t y t u r b u l e n t y e a r s o f r e p u b l i c a n a c t i v i t y , t h a t " t h e d e m o c r a t i c government o f A m e r i c a has s t r u c k f a r and wide i n t o the minds o f European p e o p l e , " r e t a i n e d a unique v a l i d i t y i n B r i t a i n ' s most r e c e n t a c q u i s i t i o n 91 i n the s o u t h . 90 The f o r c e s o f " A m e r i c a n i z a t i o n " worked i n many s t r a n g e ways r i g h t from the b e g i n n i n g , and i t mustn't have been long b e f o r e c i r c u m s t a n c e s caused l a r g e numbers o f men i n A u s t r a l i a , m o s t l y the g a o l e d , t o i d e n t i f y t h e i r p r e d i c a m e n t w i t h t h a t o f the i n h a b i t a n t s o f • p r e * r e v o l u t T o n a r y A m e r i c a . Any f a i n t hopes h e l d by the new a r r i v a l s i n A u s t r a l i a r e s t e d s q u a r e l y w i t h Tom P a i n e and h i s r e v o l u t i o n a r y b r o t h e r s . For the o c c a s i o n a l i n t r e p i d o p t i m i s t , such as the a g e i n g p r i s o n e r , Thomas Fyshe P a l m e i — C a m b r i d g e - e d u c a t e d p o l i t i c a l r e f o r m e r , U n i t a r i a n m i n i s t e r and one o f the f i v e " S c o t t i s h M a r t y r s " s e n t e n c e d t o t r a n s p o r t a t i o n f o r s e d i t i o u s p r a c t i c e s - - t h e new s i t u a t i o n c o u l d even prompt e x c i t e d a n t i c i p a t i o n : The s o i l i s c a p i t a l , t h e ' c l i m a t e d e l i c i o u s . I w i l l t a k e i t upon me t o s a y , t h a t i t w i l l soon be the r e g i o n o f p l e n t y , and wants on 1 y ' v i'rtue and 1 i b e r t y t o be a n o t h e r A m e r i c a . . . .9 2 H y p e r b o l e i n a c o u n t r y as y e t so raw and p h y s i c a l l y t a x i n g may have been u n r e p r e s e n t a t i v e , but i t was i n e v i t a b l e t h a t a t r a d i t i o n o f esteem f o r America shou1d e s t a b 1 i s h i t s e l f a t the o u t s e t , s i n c e Botany Bay p e r p e t u a l l y s e r v e d as the d e s t i n a t i o n f o r a l a r g e number o f independent and a r t i c u l a t e s p i r i t s who r e f u s e d t o be s i l e n c e d by the r e p r e s s i v e p o l i c i e s o f a nervous c o n s e r v a t i v e government. P o l i t i c a l p r i s o n e r s a r r i v e d more s t r o n g l y committed than e v e r t o the advocacy o f i n d i v i d u a l r i g h t s . The b u l k o f c o n v i c t s , o f c o u r s e , knew n o t h i n g o f the t h e o r e t i c a l j u s t i f i c a t i o n f o r the d e m o c r a t i c cause. They had a p a i r o f e y e s , saw American b o a t s , and schemed and schemed. 91 L o c a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s , t o o , r e i n f o r c e d the American c o m p a r i s o n . Governor P h i l l i p ' s Commission and I n s t r u c t i o n s from the C o l o n i a l O f f i c e , f o r example, were t h o s e n o r m a l l y d i s p a t c h e d t o N o r t h American G o v e r n o r s , but f o r the names. F u r t h e r , o f A u s t r a l i a ' s f i r s t f i v e g o v e r n o r s , H u n t e r , King and M a c q u a r i e c o u l d a l l c i t e American b a t t l e e x p e r i e n c e , as c o u l d a s u b s t a n t i a l number o f o f f i c e r s c o m p r i s i n g the o r i g i n a l m i l i t a r y government and many o f the Rum Corps t r o o p s who a r r i v e d i n 1790. The odd American place-name around Sydney--such as Concord, Bunker's H i l l , and L i b e r t y P l a i n s , near P a r r a m a t t a - - b e a r s some 93 t e s t i m o n y t o e m o t i o n a l a t t a c h m e n t s . Sydney's f i r s t i n h a b i t a n t s were e i t h e r members o f the g o v e r n i n g m i l i t a r y c l i q u e , bound t o s u p p o r t the K i n g and t o c a r r y out s c r u p u l o u s l y the e d i c t s s e n t by the c o l o n i a l a d m i n i s t r a t i o n i n B r i t a i n , o r they were c o n v i c t s , f o r c e d t o conform t o t h e s e p o l i c i e s . A " m i d d l e " c l a s s d i d not c o n s t i t u t e an e f f e c t i v e s o c i a l f o r c e u n t i l the end o f M a c q u a r i e ' s p e r i o d o f g o v e r n o r s h i p (1821). From t h e s e two p r i n c i p a l groups o f the c o l o n y - r u l i n g m i l i t a r y and f e 1 on ry--Amer i.'ca e 1 i c i t e d , not s u r p r i s i n g l y , t o t a l l y d i f f e r e n t r e a c t i o n s . As seen e a r 1 i e r , whi1e the former i n e v i t a b l y responded i n a c a u t i o u s f a s h i o n t o the American r e v o l u t i o n and i t s spokesmen e s p o u s i n g d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s , the l a t t e r e n v i e d the r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f a system which h e l d l i b e r t y , e q u a l i t y and independence as man's i n a l i e n a b l e r i g h t s . E v e n t u a l l y , as f r e e s e t t l e r s and e m a n c i p i s t s i n c r e a s e d the l o c a l p o p u l a t i o n , and a m i d d l e c l a s s g r a d u a l l y took shape, t h e s e i d e a l s found v o i c e . It was u n d o u b t e d l y imprudent f o r the few r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f t h i s group--merchant, s u r g e o n , landed f r e e s e t t l e r s - - 92 t o o p e n l y a d v o c a t e the American example d u r i n g the decades o f the f i r s t f i v e g o v e r n o r s ; b u t , a f t e r the a b o l i t i o n o f p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p i n 1824, few r e s t r a i n t s e x i s t e d t o d i s c o u r a g e p u b l i c c r i t i c i s m o f the a u t h o r i t i e s . As I w i l l l a t e r show, Governor D a r l i n g (1825_31) would become the scapegoat o f an i n c r e a s i n g l y b o i s t e r o u s m i d d l e c l a s s . For the g r e a t e r p a r t o f i t s f i r s t hundred y e a r s , A u s t r a l i a ' s r u l i n g c l a s s d e s p i s e d and perhaps f e a r e d the p o l i t i c a l p r e c e d e n t s b e i n g s e t i n A m e r i c a , and g r e e t e d r e p u b l i c a n v i s i t o r s n e r v o u s l y . A l t h o u g h , as we have s e e n , they were f o r c e d t o encourage a t r a d i n g c o n n e c t i o n w i t h Washington's r e b e l s i n the e a r l y y e a r s , they d i d n ' t much l i k e i t . But the c o l o n y c o n t i n u a l l y r e q u i r e d c e r t a i n n e c e s s i t i e s f o r i t s s u r v i v a l . I t must have n e t t l e d Hunter and h i s c o l l e a g u e s t o be c o n s t r a i n e d t o d e a l w i t h men unashamedly p u r s u i n g h i g h p r o f i t s , whatever the e m o t i o n a l c o s t , who came from a c o u n t r y not too many y e a r s ago a t war w i t h E n g l a n d , t a k i n g E n g l i s h l i v e s . Rum s m u g g l i n g , f i s h i n g v i o l a t i o n s , l o c a l d i s t u r b a n c e s i n c l u d i n g pub b r a w l i n g and c o n v i c t e s c a p e s , i n f l a t e d food and g e n e r a l m e r c h a n d i s e p r i c e s , and a d e s p e r a t e s h o r t a g e o f s p e c i e — a l l seemed t o 94 the a u t h o r i t i e s t o be a t 1 e a s t - p a r t i a l 1 y due t o Yankee m e d d l i n g . In the y e a r s up t o the end o f D a r l i n g ' s p e r i o d o f g o v e r n o r s h i p i n 1831, t h e r e i s no reason t o b e l i e v e t h a t the a t t i t u d e s o f A u s t r a l i a ' s r u l i n g m i n o r i t y - - t h e i r v i g i 1 a n c e — t o w a r d s the young American r e p u b l i c eased t o any g r e a t degree. I f a n y t h i n g , d u r i n g the y e a r s l e a d i n g up t o the war o f 1812, and t h r o u g h o u t the p e r i o d o f h o s t i l i t i e s , they appear t o have become a t r i f l e p a r a n o i d . The s c a r e p r o v i d e d by J o r g e n J o r g e n s e n ' s a l l e g a t i o n s o f a French/American i n v a s i o n , and the e x p l o i t s 93 o f the American p r i v a t e e r H o l k a r and D a v i d P o r t e r ' s f r i g a t e E s s e x , caused g r e a t c o n c e r n among the s m a l l but a l l - p o w e r f u l group i n A u s t r a l i a who had something t o l o s e . B a r r o n F i e l d ' s responses and w r i t i n g s perhaps t y p i f y the r u l i n g - c l a s s r a t i o n a l e o f the t i m e . H i s " m i l d , modest and c o n c i l i a t i n g manners" a t f i r s t prompted M a c q u a r i e t o b e l i e v e t h a t F i e l d (a poor p o e t , and o n l y m a r g i n a l l y b e t t e r as a j u d g e on the Supreme Court o f C i v i l J u d i c a t u r e i n New South Wales between 1818 and 1824) might f a v o u r the e m a n c i p i s t cause. However, as time soon r e v e a l e d , h i s d e c i s i o n s i n the 165 a c t i o n s a t law and 13 s u i t s i n e q u i t y t h a t he p r e s i d e d o v e r i n h i s f i r s t f o u r y e a r s i n the c o l o n y were marked by e r r a t i c , o f t e n r e a c t i o n a r y p r e j u d i c e s . He f o r c e f u l l y opposed t r i a l by j u r y and a l e g i s l a t i v e assembly f o r New 95 South Wales. In t h i s he was at one w i t h the " e x c l u s i v e " o r " e x c l u s i o n i s t " 96 cause. More i m p o r t a n t l y , he opposed any semblance o f d e m o c r a t i c l o b b y i n g , f e e l i n g i t i n d i c a t i v e of a r i s i n g American s p i r i t . When p e t i t i o n e d by a r a d i c a l group o f e m a n c i p i s t s demanding g r e a t e r e q u a l i t y o f o p p o r t u n i t y , he wrote t o r o y a l commissioner B i g g e : I see the shadow o f the s p i r i t o f the American r e v o l t a t t a x a t i o n r i s i n g i n the shape o f the p e t i t i o n f o r t r i a l by j u r y ; i t w i l l next demand l e g i s l a t i v e assembly; and . .. . end i n d e c l a r i n g i t s e l f a n a t i o n o f f r e e b o o t e r s and p i r a t e s . 9 7 Government f e a r o f p o s s i b l e n a v a l a g g r e s s i o n c o n t i n u e d w e l l i n t o the 1820's. When an E n g l i s h s e t t l e m e n t was planned f o r K i n g George's Sound (Western A u s t r a l i a ) i n 1826, f o r example, the l e a d e r o f the e x p e d i t i o n , C a p t a i n S t i r l i n g , a f t e r c h a n g i n g the s i t e t o some land near the Swan R i v e r , wrote home i n a s t a t e o f a l a r m t h a t an American w a r s h i p had been s i g h t e d nearby. The Home O f f i c e , though unimpressed by the p o s s i b i l i t i e s o f the t e r r a i n , r e c o g n i z e d a c e r t a i n s t r a t e g i c importance "No o t h e r m o t i v e . . . than the p o l i t i c a l one o f p r e v e n t i n g o t h e r n a t i o n s , as the French o r A m e r i c a n s , o f p o s s e s s i n g themselves o f the south-west c o r n e r o f New H o l l a n d , s h o u l d induce us t o a n t i c i p a t e , 9 8 them. . . . Governor D a r l i n g c o u l d even c o n c e i v e o f a d i r e c t t h r e a t t o Sydney as l a t e as A u g u s t , 1 8 2 7 - In t h a t y e a r the l o c a l government paper, the Sydney G a z e t t e , e x p r e s s e d i t s d i s e n c h a n t m e n t w i t h American a c t i v i t i e s t h r o u g h o u t the i s l a n d s o f the P a c i f i c and p u b l i c i z e d the d i s t i n c t p o s s i b i l i t y o f Americans " a n n o y i n g " the c o l o n y " a t no d i s t a n t d a y . " 9 9 D i s t r u s t o f America i n the c o l o n i e s was by no means l i m i t e d t o the K i n g ' s d i r e c t r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s . L o c a l s q u a t t e r s w i t h t h e i r eye on the c r e a t i o n o f a f a m i l y d y n a s t y o r , a t the v e r y l e a s t , the s e c u r i t y o f l i f e ' s c o m f o r t s on l a n d worked w i t h c o n v i c t l a b o u r , were o f t e n j u s t as adamantly a n t i - A m e r i c a n . John M a c a r t h u r , Rum Corps l i e u t e n a n t and a d v o c a t e o f a home-grown a r i s t o c r a c y , echoed F i e l d ' s s e n t i m e n t s i n h i s c r i t i c i s m o f M a c q u a r i e ' s l a n d p o l i c y . The r e s u l t , f o r M a c a r t h u r , o f d i s t r i b u t i n g o n l y s m a l l g r a n t s t o p o t e n t i a l A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s would "a t u r b u l e n t and immoral democracy l i k e t h a t o f A m e r i c a , w h i c h w i l l i n the end o v e r t u r n the government, and form a l i c e n t i o u s r e p u b l i c upon i t s r u i n s . H e demanded p r o t e c t i o n from the mob. P r o p e r t y , M a c a r t h f e l t , must have i t s due r e s p e c t and reward. Not a l l the new s e t t l e r s , however, wanted M a c a r t h u r ' s new England 95 on a n o t h e r s h o r e . As time p a s s e d , more and more r e f u s e d t o countenance t h e q u e s t i o n o f one i n s u l a r new a r r i v a l who asked where were the " b l u e - v e i n e d v i o l e t s , h a r e - b e l l s , b u t t e r - c u p s , d a i s i e s . . . ? Where were the l i o n s , the t i g e r s , e l e p h a n t . . . ? The s e q u e s t e r e d g l e n s or: purl i ng s t r e a m s , o r mountains peaked w i t h snow, the t o w e r i n g c r a g s , o r the g u s h i n g w a t e r f a l 1 s - - a l 1 t h a t s c e n e r y which was s u b l i m e ? " ^ They wanted t o s h a r e i n , t o a s s i m i l a t e the f r u i t s o f the new l a n d . But t h i s meant a g i t a t i n g f o r l e g a l and s o c i a l r e c o g n i t i o n i n the f a c e o f o p p o s i t i o n from the l a r g e landowners, the "pure m e r i n o s " o f the c o l o n y - - t h o s e who, a c c o r d i n g t o Roger T h e r r y , a l e g a l o f f i c i a l from I r e l a n d , "were not o n l y f r e e and u n c o n v i c t e d , but . . . c o u l d boast o f h a y i n g no c o l l a t e r a l r e l a t i o n s h i p or d i s t a n t a f f i n i t y w i t h t h o s e i n whose e s c u t c h e o n t h e r e was a b l o t . [They] formed the topmost round i n the 1 02 s o c i a l l a d d e r . " A u s t r a l i a ' s d e v e l o p i n g m i d d l e c l a s s , c o n f r o n t e d by s o c i a l b a r r i e r s , began t o a b s o r b and espouse American thi.nki.ng i n i t s s e a r c h f o r a s o c i e t y i n w h i c h they might have a g r e a t e r s t a k e . http://thi.nki.ng Sect i o n £ C o n v i c t A t t i t u d e s I t was n a t u r a l f o r the " m e r i n o s " of the c o l o n y t o r e j e c t e n t i r e l y any American p o l i t i c a l i d e a s which would l e a d t o changes i n the s t a t u s • quo; i t was e q u a l l y a p p r o p r i a t e f o r t h e i r c h a l l e n g e r s t o e n d o r s e t h e same m a t e r i a l . W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth's A S t a t i s t i c a i , ' H i s t o r i c a 1 and P o l i t i c a 1 D e s c r i p t i o n o f the C o l o n y o f New South Wales (.1819) gave f i r s t e x p r e s s i o n t o a r i s i n g v o c a l group about t o work s i g n i f i c a n t changes i n the c o l o n y ' s p r e v i o u s l y s i m p l e , t w o - p a r t s t r u c t u r e . D e s p i t e i n i t i a l s e t b a c k s t o the e m a n c i p i s t cause d u r i n g the y e a r s under Governor B r i s b a n e (1821-5), t h r e e o c c u r r e n c e s d u r i n g the p e r i o d a c t e d as the p r i n c i p a l c a t a l y s t s o f the p r e s s u p r i s i n g i n the l a t e l820's: John Dunmore Lang a r r i v e d i n the c o l o n y i n 1823 d e t e r m i n e d t o make i t h i s home; Wentworth r e t u r n e d t o New South Wales i n 1824 ( a f t e r a s t i n t a t Cambridge) w i t h W i l l i a m W a r d e l l , e x - p r o p r i e t o r and e d i t o r o f the London Statesman; and p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p was a b o l i s h e d i n 1824. T h e i r c u m u l a t i v e e f f e c t , as w i l l l a t e r be shown, produced a new a t t i t u d e towards America--one w h i c h i n c r e a s i n g l y i n c o r p o r a t e d American l i t e r a r y and r e l i g i o u s ideas t o complement p o l i t i c a l t h e o r y . But where were t h e p r e c e d e n t s p r i o r t o the l820's? 9 7 The w i d e s p r e a d a p p r o v a l o f American i d e a s e v i d e n t i n most c o l o n i a l newspapers o f the l a t e 1 8 2 0 ' s would appear an a b e r r a t i o n i f viewed s o l e l y i n terms o f the s e n t i m e n t s o f the r u l i n g e l i t e i n the p r e v i o u s t h i r t y y e a r s - - a t t i t u d e s r a n g i n g from w a r i n e s s t o o c c a s i o n a l h o s t i l i t y . I t becomes more e x p l i c a b l e , however, i f one examines American l i n k s i n terms o f the o t h e r , n u m e r i c a l l y overwhelming s e c t i o n o f the Botany Bay p o p u l a t i o n : the p r i s o n e r s . An i l l i c i t y e t t h r i v i n g c o n n e c t i o n e x i s t e d , one i m p o s s i b l e t o a s s e s s a c c u r a t e l y , y e t f o r c i n g the s p e c u l a t i o n , on the b a s i s o f the f a c t s we do have, t h a t i t had an immense impact on the c o n v i c t s - - a n d , u l t i m a t e l y , c o l o n i a l s o c i e t y and l i t e r a t u r e . To men i s o l a t e d on an i s l a n d p r i s o n , American ideas h e l p e d n o u r i s h the f a i n t c o n c e p t o f freedom; American s o i l s y m b o l i z e d t h a t freedom; and American s h i p s r e p r e s e n t e d the most v i s i b l e means of a c h i e v i n g i t . For some n i n e t y y e a r s , from the a r r i v a l o f the F i r s t F l e e t t o the r e s c u e o f a group o f F e n i a n s by the New B e d f o r d w h a l e r C a t a l p a , i n 1 8 7 6 , one s t i r r i n g , though f o r o b v i o u s reasons p o o r l y documented a r e a o f A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r y emerges as a saga o f escape on American 1 0 3 s h i p s . For the i l l i t e r a t e rank and f i l e , u n f a m i l i a r w i t h the r i g h t s Thomas P a i n e was i n s i s t i n g man had o r the p u r s u i t o f h a p p i n e s s promulgated by J e f f e r s o n , the t e n e t s o f the American D e c l a r a t i o n of Independence were embodied i n the boats t h e m s e l v e s . In a word, freedom. The h a r d s h i p s e x p e r i e n c e d i n the f i r s t d a r k y e a r s must have d i s p o s e d many a c o n v i c t t o f o c u s a l i t t l e o b s e s s i v e l y on the f l a g o f the Ph i 1 a d e l p h i a, the f i r s t American v e s s e l t o v i s i t P o r t J a c k s o n . 98 I t e v i d e n t l y d i d n ' t t a k e the p r i s o n e r s w i t h i n i t i a t i v e long t o make c o n t a c t , f o r , by the b e g i n n i n g o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , escape from the new • s e t t 1ement was so common t h a t l o c a l a u t h o r i t i e s i s o l a t e d a l l American boats i n N e u t r a l Bay, a few m i l e s n o r t h o f Sydney Cove. A compulsory ^200 bond was lodged by American c a p t a i n s on a r r i v a l i n Sydney, t o be f o r f e i t e d i f escapees were d i s c o v e r e d on the v e s s e l b e f o r e d e p a r t u r e . S i n c e the bond was l a t e r r a i s e d t o ̂ 500, t h i s .. i . 104 too must have proved s m a l l d i s c o u r a g e m e n t . A remark by C a p t a i n W.R. B r o u g h t o n , R.N., who s a i l e d from Botany Bay on the H.M.S. P r o v i d e n c e i n O c t o b e r , 1795, i n d i c a t e s the magnitude o f the problem t h a t government o f f i c i a l s f a c e d , so soon a f t e r f i r s t s e t t l e m e n t : "We a b s t a i n e d from f o l l o w i n g the example o f o t h e r s h i p s t h a t have touched a t t h i s c o l o n y , b y t n o t t a k i n g away any o f the c o n v i c t s , a p r a c t i c e v e r y g e n e r a l i n merchant s h i p s . M ^ 5 In t h i s p r a c t i c e , Americans assumed the most prominent r o l e f o r a v a r i e t y o f r e a s o n s , r a n g i n g from sheer e x p e d i e n c y t o p h i l a n t h r o p y . Some s k i p p e r s p r o b a b l y d e c i d e d on the spur o f the moment t o a i d e s c a p e e s , h a v i n g been f o r c e d t o w i t n e s s i n s t a n c e s such as t h a t o f the c o n v i c t Morgan, f o r whom a l a r g e g a l l o w s was c o n s t r u c t e d on P i n c h g u t I s l a n d so t h a t he c o u l d hang i n f u l l v i e w o f e v e r y v i s i t i n g s h i p , h a v i n g f i r s t been d i p p e d i n t a r t o e n s u r e he l a s t e d long enough t o s a t i s f a c t o r i l y 10 6 a d v e r t i s e the d i s a s t r o u s consequences o f v i o l a t i n g E n g l i s h laws. The American p r e s e n c e e x e r t e d both d i r e c t and i n d i r e c t e f f e c t s on the s t a b i l i t y o f the c o l o n y as a r e s u l t o f the i l l e g a l a s s i s t a n c e l e n t t o c o n v i c t s . The b e s t example o f the f o r m e r , and the most 99 renowned escape i n the e a r l y y e a r s o f the c o l o n y was t h a t o f Thomas M u i r , a h i g h - p r i n c i p l e d G l a s w e g i a n lawyer and p o l i t i c a l r e f o r m e r , and one o f the " M a r t y r s " b a n i s h e d from S c o t l a n d . The e x p l o i t s o f M u i r and h i s c o l l e a g u e s , c l o s e l y c o n n e c t e d as they a r e t o an a c c o u n t o f the e f f e c t o f the American r e v o l u t i o n on New South Wales and the c o l o n y ' s f i r s t c o n t a c t w i t h American p o l i t i c a l l i t e r a t u r e , w a r r a n t d e t a i l e d a t t e n t i o n a t t h i s p o i n t . What an impact the a r r i v a l o f the f i v e " S c o t t i s h M a r t y r s " must have had on the t i n y s o u t h e r n o u t p o s t . Sentenced t o t r a n s p o r t a t i o n t o Botany Bay f o r p e r i o d s r a n g i n g from seven t o f o u r t e e n y e a r s , f o u r o f them--Muir, Thomas Palmer, W i l l i a m S k i r v i n g and M a u r i c e M a r g a r o t - - a r r i v e d on the S u r p r i ze i n O c t o b e r , 1794. The f i f t h , Joseph G e r r a l d , a r r i v e d on the S o v e r e i g n i n November, 1795. As one commentator has put i t : "No s e r i e s o f t r i a l s i n S c o t t i s h h i s t o r y e v e r c r e a t e d such w o r l d - w i d e i n t e r e s t . In America they p r o v i d e d f r e s h m a t e r i a l f o r the d i s c u s s i o n which M u i r ' s c a s e had p r o v o k e d . " ^ 7 Many i n f l u e n t i a l Whigs o b j e c t e d t o the s e v e r i t y o f the s e n t e n c e s , because of the q u e s t i o n a b l e n a t u r e o f the c r i m e s . But t o no a v a i l . The c o n v i c t i o n s s t o o d , b r i n g i n g f i v e mentto Botany Bay on the wrong s i d e o f the law whose r e c e n t h i s t o r y - - l e t a l o n e p a s t d e e d s - - a s s u r e d t h a t t h e i r s t a y would prove o f i n t e r e s t t o anyone even v a g u e l y f a m i l i a r w i t h c u r r e n t e v e n t s o f w o r l d i n t e r e s t . What were t h e i r c r i m e s ? Thomas M u i r ' s c a s e sheds some l i g h t on a number o f a r e a s : the e d g i n e s s o f the P i t t government's h a n d l i n g o f American i s s u e s a t the t i m e ; the p r o f o u n d impact o f the American War o f Independence on a 100 S c o t t i s h l a b o u r movement a s p i r i n g t o p o l i t i c a l awareness; the r e a d i n g m a t e r i a l o f a t l e a s t a few o f the Botany Bay inmates; and the s u c c e s s - f u l e s c a p e - r a t e they e n j o y e d i n the y e a r s when rum was the p r i m a r y c o n c e r n o f t h e c o u n t r y ' s g a o l e r s . M u i r a t t e n d e d both the u n i v e r s i t i e s of Glasgow and E d i n b u r g h , a t one p o i n t s t u d y i n g under John M i l l a r , r - 108 the i l l u s t r i o u s l i b e r a l p r o f e s s o r o f j a w . The r e v e r b e r a t i o n s o f both the American War o f Independence ( w i t h i t s subsequent r e p u b l i c a n l e g i s l a t i o n ) and the French R e v o l u t i o n caused him, a l o n g w i t h a g r e a t number o f c o l l e a g u e s , t o adopt a r a d i c a l , a n t i - m o n a r c h i s t p o s i t i o n . As e a r l y as 1779, the impact o f American p o l i t i c s had worked what one o b s e r v e r c a l l e d "a g r e a t change i n the s e n t i m e n t s 109 o f the n a t i o n . Impassioned debate t h r e a t e n e d t o d i v i d e S c o t t i s h f a m i l i e s . As the 1780's, M u i r ' s i m p r e s s i o n a b l e y e a r s , began, c l e a r s i g n s t h a t " t h e s p i r i t o f l i b e r t y had t a k e n a n o r t h e r n t u r n " c o u l d be seen i n the r i s i n g c r y f o r c o u n t r y and burgh r e f o r m . T o p i c s l i s t e d f o r d i s c u s s i o n by members o f the E d i n b u r g h Pantheon D e b a t i n g S o c i e t y r e f l e c t e d the growing m i l i t a n c y . One asked s i m p l y : " S h o u l d the American War be i m m e d i a t e l y t e r m i n a t e d ? " ^ ' ' P o w e r f u l l y i n f l u e n c e d by the r a d i c a l mood o f the t i m e s , M u i r was soon e l e c t e d v i c e p r e s i d e n t o f the Glasgow A s s o c i a t e d F r i e n d s o f the C o n s t i t u t i o n and o f the Peopdse. At the g e n e r a l c o n v e n t i o n o f the S c o t t i s h S o c i e t i e s o f the F r i e n d s o f the P e o p l e i n E d i n b u r g h i n December, 1792, he read an i n f l a m m a t o r y a d d r e s s from the U n i t e d Irishmen o f D u b l i n - - o n e o f the reasons why he was a r r e s t e d i n J a n u a r y , 112 1793- The o t h e r reason c o m p r i s e d a f o u r - f o l d c h a r g e . In the 101 words o f the C l e r k o f the High C o u r t o f J u s t i c i a r y (of E d i n b u r g h ) , M u i r s t o o d accused o f SEDITIOUS SPEECHES and HARANGUES, a s p i r i t o f d i s l o y a l t y and d i s a f f e c t i o n t o the King and the E s t a b l i s h e d Govern- ment; . ... EXHORTING persons t o p u r c h a s e and peruse s e d i t i o u s and w i c k e d p u b l i c a t i o n s and w r i t i n g s . . . [and] f e l o n i o u s l y DISTRIBUTING or CIRCULATING [ t h i s m a t e r i a l ] . 1 1 3 F i n a l l y , the C l e r k e x c l a i m e d t h a t Thomas M u i r d i d sometime i n [September, O c t o b e r , o r November, 1792] . . . w i c k e d l y and f e l o n i o u s l y a d v i s e and e x h o r t John M u i r s e n i o r , l a t e h a t t e r i n Glasgow, Thomas W i l s o n b a r b e r i n Glasgow, and John B a r c l a y . . . t o read P a i n e ' s R i g h t s of Man, and t o p u r c h a s e the same; which book o r pamphlet, e n t i t l e d P a i n e ' s R i g h t s o f Man, i s a most w i c k e d and s e d i t i o u s p u b l i c a t i o n , c a l c u l a t e d t o v i l i f y the C o n s t i t u t i o n o f t h i s c o u n t r y , t o produce a s p i r i t of i n s u r r e c t i o n among the p e o p l e , and t o s t i r them up t o a c t s o f o u t r a g e and o p p o s i t i o n t o the E s t a b l i s h e d Government . . . [ F u r t h e r M u i r d i d d i s t r i b u t e and c i r c u l a t e ] 'The Works o f Thomas, P a i n e , Esq.' A l s o , a w r i t i n g o r p u b l i c a t i o n , e n t i t i H e d , 'A D e c l a r a t i o n o f R i g h t s , and an Address t o the P e o p l e , approved o f by a number o f the F r i e n d s o f Reform i n P a i s l e y ' . A l s o a paper o r p u b l i c a t i o n e n t i t u l e d , 'A d i a l o g u e b e t w i x t the Governors and the Governed;' A l s o , a paper o r p u b l i c a t i o n , e n t i t u l e d 'The P a t r i o t '. . . . M u i r a d m i t t e d h a v i n g d e l i v e r e d an a d d r e s s , but d e n i e d i t was s e d i t i o u s . He c a t e g o r i c a l l y d e n i e d the o t h e r a c c u s a t i o n s , a d m i t t i n g o n l y t h a t he e x e r t e d e v e r y e f f o r t t o p r o c u r e a more equal r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f the p e o p l e i n the House o f Commons. I f t h a t be a c r i m e , I p l e a d g u i l t y t o the c h a r g e . S h o r t l y b e f o r e b e i n g a r r e s t e d , M u i r had o b t a i n e d a French p a s s - p o r t , i n t e n d i n g t o seek r e f u g e i n A m e r i c a . I t was a l o g i c a l s t e p s i n c e the E n g l i s h government's r e p r e s s i v e measures were w i d e l y r e p o r t e d 102 t h r o u g h o u t the U n i t e d S t a t e s . When the s e d i t i o n t r i a l s began, f l a m e s o f o u t r a g e swept a l l A m e r i c a - - f a n n e d by two New York r e p r i n t s ( i n 1794 a l o n e ) o f the t r i a l . One U.S. S e n a t o r summed up the p o p u l a r f e e l i n g : A r e not M u i r and Palmer, and the o t h e r m a r t y r s o f S c o t t i s h d e s p o t i s m , t o a s t e d from one end o f the c o n t i n e n t t o the o t h e r ? 1 1 5 In New E n g l a n d , s c h o o l m a s t e r s were a p p a r e n t l y so moved by the c o u r t p r o c e e d i n g s t h a t e x c e r p t s from M u i r ' s a d d r e s s t o h i s a c c u s e r s were, i n l a t e r y e a r s , used i n l e s s o n s . One contemporary, S c o t t i s h j u d g e Lord Cockburn, remarked: " T h i s i s one o f the cases the memory whereof never p e r i s h e t h , h i s t o r y cannot l e t i.'ts i n j u s t i c e a l o n e . 1 , 1 1 6 M u i r ' s c o n t a c t w i t h America was a r e c i p r o c a l p r o c e s s . H i s p o l i t i c a l l e a n i n g s demanded t h a t he be f a m i l i a r w i t h American l e g i s l a t i v e p r e c e d e n t s and r e v o l u t i o n a r y l i t e r a t u r e ; l i k e w i s e h i s case was r e q u i r e d r e a d i n g i n American r e p u b l i c a n c i r c l e s . On t h i s b a s i s we can p o s i t t h a t d u r i n g h i s f i f t e e n - m o n t h s t a y i n A u s t r a l i a i t i s e x t r e m e l y u n l i k e l y t h a t the man Lord A d v o c a t e Robert Dundas l a b e l l e d a "demon o f m i s c h i e f " and the " p e s t o f S c o t l a n d " c o u l d have l i m i t e d h i m s e l f p u r e l y t o f a r m i n g a s m a l l p i e c e o f l a n d o p p o s i t e Sydney C o v e . ' ^ 7 Someone o f M u i r ' s i n d e p e n d e n t , c o n f i d e n t p e r s u a s i o n u n d o u b t e d l y would have u t i l i z e d the time t o d e m o n s t r a t e and, where p o s s i b l e , p u b l i c i z e h i s r e p u b l i c a n c o n v i c t i o n s . He had s t a t e d i n h i s t r i a l t h a t he 103 a d v i s e d the p e o p l e t o read d i f f e r e n t p u b l i c a t i o n s upon both s i d e s , which [ t h e q u e s t i o n o f p a r l i a m e n t a r y r e f o r m ] had e x c i t e d , and I am not ashamed t o a s s i g n my m o t i v e s . I c o n s i d e r the i g n o r a n c e o f the p e o p l e , on the one hand, t o be the s o u r c e from w h i c h d e s p o t i s m f l o w s : I c o n s i d e r , upon the o t h e r hand, an i g n o r a n t p e o p l e impressed w i t h a sense o f g r i e v a n c e s , and w i s h i n g t o have t h e s e g r i e v a n c e s r e d r e s s e d , t o be exposed t o c e r t a i n m i s e r y and complete r u i n . Knowledge must a l w a y s precede r e f o r m a t i o n , and who s h a l l d a r e t o say t h a t the p e o p l e s h a l l be d e b a r r e d from i n f o r m a t i o n , where i t c o n c e r n s them so m a t e r i a l l y ? ' ^ F u r t h e r , Governor Hunter.acknowledged i n a J e t t e r b a c k ^ t o Scot 1 and i n September, 1795, t h a t M u i r , S k i r v i n g Margarot and Palmer were a l l " v e r y g i f t e d 1 19 i n powers o f c o n v e r s a t i o n . " M u i r he deemed "a s e n s i b l e modest young man, o f a v e r y r e t i r e d t u r n , " but he was p r o b a b l y as poor a j u d g e o f t h i s a s p e c t o f M u i r ' s c h a r a c t e r as he was t h a t he "seemed t o bear h i s c i r c u m s t a n c e s w i t h n a p r o p e r degree o f f o r t i t u d e and r e s i g n a t i o n . " Some f i v e months a f t e r Hunter r e c o r d e d h i s c h a r a c t e r a s s e s s m e n t , M u i r escaped on the American Ebenezer D o r r ' s f u r t r a d e r , O t t e r . M u i r ' s escape has been r e c o u n t e d f u l l y e l s e w h e r e by two h i s t o r i a n s — M a r j o r i e Masson and J.F. Jameson--in the American H i s t o r i c a l Review 1 20 (1923). B r i e f l y , he was p i c k e d up o f f the c o a s t by the O t t e r on F e b r u a r y 17, 1796, l e a v i n g b e h i n d a l e t t e r s t a t i n g h i s i n t e n t i o n t o p r a c t i s e law i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . He got t o Monterey, C a l i f o r n i a , a f t e r t r a n s f e r r i n g t o the S p a n i s h gunboat, S u t i 1 , where he e x p e c t e d t o o b t a i n the S p a n i s h g o v e r n o r ' s p e r m i s s i o n t o j o i n Joseph P r i e s t l e y and o t h e r r a d i c a l B r i t i s h e x i l e s i n P h i l a d e l p h i a . I n s t e a d , the V i c e r o y o f M e x i c o o r d e r e d him t r a n s p o r t e d t o S p a i n . Aboard the f r i g a t e 1 0 4 N i n f r a when i t was a t t a c k e d by the s e v e n t y - f o u r gun B r i t i s h s h i p I r r e s i s t i b 1 e , M u i r was s e v e r e l y wounded, l o s i n g an eye, which r e s u l t e d i n h i s h o s p i t a l i z a t i o n a t C a d i z . French f o r e i g n m i n i s t e r T a l l e y r a n d , f a m i l i a r w i t h M u i r ' s p a s t , i n t e r c e d e d on h i s b e h a l f and he was t r a n s - f e r r e d t o P a r i s i n December, 1 7 9 7 , where, though i n i t i a l l y something o f a c e l e b r i t y , he soon s l i p p e d i n t o o b s c u r i t y as a r e s u l t o f the c o n s t a n t p o l i t i c a l u p h e a v a l s . He d i e d a pauper a t C h a n t i l l y , near P a r i s , on J a n u a r y 2 6 , 1 7 9 9 - - b a r e l y seven y e a r s a f t e r h i s i n s p i r i n g a d d r e s s t o the c o n v e n t i o n o f F r i e n d s o f the P e o p l e a t E d i n b u r g h . The e x t r a o r d i n a r y sequence o f e v e n t s s u r r o u n d i n g M u i r ' s escape makes i n t e r e s t i n g r e a d i n g . Two p o i n t s a r e r e l e v a n t h e r e : f i r s t l y , we know t h a t when M u i r a n t i c i p a t e d p r o c e e d i n g t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1 7 9 3 , he and some of h i s c l o s e a s s o c i a t e s w r o t e t o " t h e f i r s t p e o p l e o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s " e n d e a v o u r i n g t o f a m i l i a r i z e them w i t h 1 21 h i s s i t u a t i o n . I t i s c l e a r l y p o s s i b l e t h a t M u i r ' s escape from Botany Bay was p l a n n e d w e l l i n advance, i n d i c a t i n g an i l l i c i t escape c o n n e c t i o n between persons i n the s e t t l e m e n t and American s h i p p i n g / p o l i t i c a l i n t e r e s t s . Hunter c l a i m e d , i n a l e t t e r t o the Home S e c r e t a r y , t h a t " s e v e r a l p e o p l e " escaped on the O t t e r . In f a c t some t h i r t y - t w o b o l t e d f o r freedom--a measure o f both the sheer e f f i c i e n c y o f the o p e r a t i o n and the c o n s i d e r a b l e gap e x i s t i n g between o f f i c i a l r e p o r t s t h a t might r e f l e c t a d v e r s e l y on the c o r r e s p o n d e n t and the a c t u a l 1 2 2 f a c t s . S e c o n d l y , w h i l e i n Monterey, M u i r w r o t e e i g h t l e t t e r s , the f i r s t o f which he s e n t t o George Washington, then P r e s i d e n t o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s . U n l e s s the B r i t i s h p o l i t i c a l scene changed 105 a b r u p t l y , M u i r informed Washington, he i n t e n d e d t o s p e r d the r e s t of h i s l i f e " i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s , happy i f , i n the narrow range o f my a b i l i t i e s , I may be a b l e t o d e m o n s t r a t e by t h e i r e x e r t i o n my 123 d e v o t i o n and my a t t a c h m e n t t o the l a n d o f my a d o p t i o n . " G i v e n the o p e n l y a d m i t t e d esteem he had f o r A m e r i c a both b e f o r e and a f t e r h i s time i n A u s t r a l i a , and h i s i n t e n t i o n , d e c l a r e d a t the t r i a l , t o pass on r e l e v a n t i n f o r m a t i o n t o the o p p r e s s e d whenever he c o u l d , i t i s i m p o s s i b l e t o c o n c e i v e o f M u i r not p r o p a g a n d i z i n g i n the c o l o n y whenever he had the oppor tun i t y - - a n d t h i s wasn!:t when t a l k i n g w i t h Governor Hunter. The same may be s a i d o f h i s f o u r c o l l e a g u e s i n e x i l e , a l t h o u g h the impact o f S k i r v i n g and G e r r a l d c o u l d o n l y have been s l i g h t compared t o the o t h e r s . S k i r v i n g , the l e a s t c o m b a t i v e o f the group, f r e t t e d s o r e l y f o r h i s w i f e and c h i l d r e n , f i n a l l y d y i n g o f d y s e n t r y a f t e r o n l y e i g h t e e n months i n the c o l o n y . S i m i l a r l y f o r Joseph G e r r a l d , the e m o t i o n a l u p h e a v a l , a l l i e d w i t h the f o r b i d d i n g p h y s i c a l e f f e c t s o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n on a body a l r e a d y c o n s u m p t i v e , proved too much too q u i c k l y . Dead a f t e r o n l y f o u r months i n New South Wales, he would not have had an o p p o r t u n i t y t o p r o p a g a n i z e a t any l e n g t h about h i s s e v e r a 1 . y e a r s 1 e x p e r i e n c e as a lawyer i n P h i l a d e l p h i a i n the busy y e a r s o f the e a r l y 1780's (when the young r e p u b l i c was a t t e m p t i n g t o expand from a league o f f r i e n d - s h i p t o a t r u l y n a t i o n a l body). G e r r a l d had f i r s t - h a n d e x p e r i e n c e o f the now h i s t o r i c C o n s t i t u t i o n a l C o n v e n t i o n , a t t e n d e d by some o f t h e f i n e s t minds i n A m e r i c a , i n c l u d i n g W a s h i n g t o n , F r a n k l i n , M a d i s o n , Wythe, I n g e r s a l l and James W i l s o n . T h i s i n s p i r e d him t o w r i t e s e v e r a l 106 e s s a y s on u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e on h i s r e t u r n t o England i n 1 7 8 8 — w r i t i n g s f a m i l i a r t o many r e s i d e n t s o f New South Wales, even i f 1 2k G e r r a l d b a r e l y had time t o d i s c u s s them i n h i s land o f e x i l e . Perhaps because, u n l i k e M u i r , he i n t e n d e d making a l i t t l e money d u r i n g h i s e n f o r c e d s t a y r a t h e r than r i s k e s c a p e , Thomas Palmer s t i l l managed t o i n c u r the i r e o f the a u t h o r i t i e s t h r o u g h o u t h i s s i x y e a r s i n the c o l o n y . An a c q u a i n t a n c e o f Joseph P r i e s t l e y and h i s r e f o r m i s t Birmingham f r i e n d s i n E n g l a n d , he w r o t e t o a f r i e n d a few weeks b e f o r e b e i n g t r a n s p o r t e d t h a t I am not q u i x o t e enough t o a t t e m p t r e f o r m a t i o n i n r e l i g i o n o r p o l i t i c k s under a m i l i t a r y government w i t h a h a l t e r round my n e c k . ' 2 5 U n f o r t u n a t e l y h i s papers and e f f e c t s were l o s t s h o r t l y a f t e r h i s d e a t h . They may w e l l have c l a r i f i e d some o f t h e p u z z l i n g d e t a i l s o f h i s A u s t r a l i a n s t a y . From what we do know, i t i s c l e a r t h a t he was a n y t h i n g but r e s p e c t f u l t o a u t h o r i t y and he c o n s t a n t l y c h a l l e n g e d h i s g a o l e r s t o a c c o u n t f o r t h e i r a c t i o n s r a t h e r than p a s s i v e l y a c c e p t the l o t o f an e x i l e . On h i s way out i n the S u r p r i z e , Palmer ( a l o n g w i t h S k i r v i n g ) was charged by the s n i p ' s c a p t a i n w i t h c o n s p i r i n g t o m u t i n y , w i t h the aim o f assuming command o f the s h i p and t a k i n g her t o France and A m e r i c a . On a r r i v a l i n Botany Bay, the c h a r g e s weren't p u r s u e d , but Governor H u n t e r , d e s p i t e b e i n g i n i t i a l l y impressed by Palmer's s t e a d i - 1 26 •mss, soon had reason t o doubt the v a l i d i t y o f h i s f i r s t judgement. Palmer r e f u s e d t o a c c e p t the t r a d i n g monopoly e n j o y e d by members o f the 107 Rum Corps and, because of t h i s , they i n t u r n a t t e m p t e d t o o s t r a c i z e him. P u b l i c o r d e r s were i s s u e d s t a t i n g t h a t no s o l d i e r c o u l d speak t o him, under p e n a l t y o f one hundred l a s h e s . N e v e r t h e l e s s , Palmer, a l o n g w i t h James E l l i s and John B o s t o n , two young f r e e s e t t l e r s who accompanied him on the S u r p r i z e , managed t o pursue s u c c e s s f u l l y s s e v e r a l commercial avenues--among them, s h i p b u i l d i n g , s e a l i n g and m e r c h a n d i s e - t r a d i n g . Palmer r e f u s e d t o be d i s c o u r a g e d : "My f e l l o w - s u f f e r e r s laugh a t me, but I have no s c r u p l e i n s a y i n g i t [ A u s t r a l i a ] 127 i s the f i n e s t c o u n t r y I e v e r saw." As w i t h M u i r , i t i s d i f f i c u l t t o imagine t h a t Palmer, though a i m i n g t o s u r v i v e h i s imprisonment, c o u l d i g n o r e h i s e a r l i e r p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n the Dundee " F r i e n d s o f L i b e r t y 1 , 1 " a group committed t o p o l i t i c a l r e f o r m and c o m p l e t e l y f a m i l i a r w i t h c u r r e n t r e v o l u t i o n a r y l i t e r a t u r e . Palmer's m y r i a d o f a c t i v i t i e s i n New South Wales would have brought him i n t o c o n t a c t w i t h v i r t u a l l y a l l the i n f l u e n t i a l p e o p l e i n the c o l o n y e x c e p t f o r the g o v e r n o r and m i l i t a r y (a w o r r y i n g s i t u a t i o n f o r t h o s e i n a u t h o r i t y , g i v e n Palmer's p a s t r e c o r d as a promoter o f 128 " l e v e l l i n g d o c t r i n e s " ). For example, he s t r u c k up a c l o s e f r i e n d - s h i p w i t h the s e t t l e m e n t surgeon George Bass, who l e f t h i s l i b r a r y o f books i n Palmer's c a r e when he l e f t f o r England i n 1799- We know he m a i n t a i n e d h i s i n t e r e s t i n e v e n t s a t home, f o r he w r o t e t o a f r i e n d i n A u g u s t , 1797: We have read o v e r and o v e r a g a i n our l i t t l e s t o c k o f books, t h e r e f o r e any c e l e b r a t e d pamphlets t h a t our f r i e n d s have done w i t h , i t would be a c h a r i t y t o send.'29 108 A d i r e c t c o n n e c t i o n between Palmer and A m e r i c a cannot be p r o v e n , though he p r o b a b l y i n t e n t i o n a l l y s e l e c t e d Boston and Co. as the name o f h i s Sydney f i r m f o r i t s s y m b o l i c v a l u e . F u r t h e r m o r e , a c u r i o u s e p i s o d e took p l a c e a f t e r h i s death on the S p a n i s h i s l a n d of Guam 1 30 i n June, 1802. Because o f Palmer's u n i t a r i a n b e l i e f s , the C a t h o l i c p r i e s t s on Guam r e f u s e d t o bury him and h i s body was i n t e r r e d on a beach "among p i r a t e s " where i t l a y u n t i l May, 1804, when an American s h i p , the Mary, c a l l e d a t Guam. The c a p t a i n , f a m i l i a r w i t h Palmer's p a s t , conveyed the b o d i l y remnants t o B o s t o n . A t a b l e t was p l a c e d 1 31 o v e r h i s tomb i n one o f the c h u r c h e s o f t h a t c i t y . I t i s d i f f i c u l t t o a v o i d i n f e r r i n g t h a t d i r e c t c o n t a c t between Palmer and c i t i z e n s o f the new r e p u b l i c was l i k e l y . M a u r i c e M a r g a r o t , the son o f a wine and g e n e r a l merchant, grew up i n a h o u s e h o l d committed t o r e f o r m . H i s f a t h e r belonged t o an a c t i v e p o l i t i c a l group a t a time when the " W i l k e s and L i b e r t y " s l o g a n was r e v e r b e r a t i n g around B r i t a i n . The son adopted many o f h i s f a t h e r ' s f i g h t i n g t e n e t s . An a c q u a i n t a n c e o f the r e v o l u t i o n ' s l e a d e r s , and r e s i d e n t i n 1789 F r a n c e , Margarot had e s t a b l i s h e d h i m s e l f as a t h r e a t t o the Tory e s t a b l i s h m e n t w e l l b e f o r e he r e p r e s e n t e d the London C o r r e s p o n d i n g S o c i e t y a t the B r i t i s h F r i e n d s ' C o n v e n t i o n i n E d i n b u r g h 1 32 i n 1793. In A p r i l , 1792, he penned the f i r s t Address o f the L.C.S., a s s e r t i n g l i b e r t y as e v e r y man's b i r t h r i g h t i n the same manner as P a i n e i n R i g h t s o f Man. L a t e r t h a t y e a r , w i t h L.C.S. l e a d e r , Thomas Hardy, he t r a v e l l e d t o P a r i s w i t h a message o f c o n g r a t u l a t i o n s t o the F r e n c h N a t i o n a l C o n v e n t i o n . The communication f o r e c a s t t h a t " t h e 109 t r i p l e a l l i a n c e [not o f Crowns, but] o f the p e o p l e o f A m e r i c a , F r a n c e , and B r i t a i n , w i l l g i v e freedom t o Europe and peace t o the whole 1 33 w o r l d . " Two more pamphlets soon f o l l o w e d . One a d v o c a t e d a b s o l u t e e q u a l i t y b e f o r e the law, and the o t h e r wanted immediate p a r l i a m e n t a r y r e f o r m . Not s u r p r i s i n g l y , he too was a r r a i g n e d f o r s e d i t i o n and brought t o t r i a l i n J a n u a r y , 1794--an o c c u r r e n c e b r i n g i n g s m a l l r e l i e f t o h i s a c c u s e r s , f o r i f M a r g a r o t behaved w i t h b r a z e n abandon b e f o r e h i s t r i a l , he a p p a r e n t l y d e t e r m i n e d t o be even more t r u c u l e n t d u r i n g the p r o c e e d i n g s ; the scene was d e s c r i b e d as one o f " I n s o l e n c e , :. 134 E f f r o n t e r y , and P e t u l a n c e u n p a r a l l e l e d . " - The crowd l o v e d i t , 1 35 c h e e r i n g h i s e v e r y p u b l i c appearance. M a r g a r o t ' s a u d a c i o u s b e h a v i o u r c o n t i n u e d d u r i n g h i s e x i l e . Almost i m m e d i a t e l y a f t e r l a n d i n g i n Botany Bay he w r o t e t o the commanding o f f i c e r , L i e u t e n a n t - G o v e r n o r G r o s e , i n s i s t i n g on "Freedom, the common 1 36 b i r t h r i g h t :of B r i t o n s ! " I t d i d n ' t t a k e l o n g f o r cheek of t h i s k i n d t o i r r i t a t e the l o c a l a u t h o r i t i e s , and a t l e a s t one s e n i o r o f f i c e r soon c o n s i d e r e d M a r g a r o t ' s " t h e most s e d i t i o u s house i n the c o l o n y " - - an a c c u s a t i o n e s p e c i a l l y a p p r o p r i a t e ~ a f t e r s e v e r a l i n s u r r e c t i o n a r y i n c i d e n t s i n which M a r g a r o t took p a r t between 1800 and 1804. Governor Hunter c l o s e l y o b s e r v e d M a r g a r o t ' s movements a f t e r he was i n d i r e c t l y l i n k e d w i t h the r e b e l l i o u s p l a n s o f a group o f I r i s h c o n v i c t s i n September-October, 1800. I t seems, however, t h a t Margarot c o n t i n u e d t o propound h i s r e p u b l i c a n f e e l i n g s w i d e l y , u n t r o u b l e d f o r a few 1 37 y e a r s a t l e a s t , d u r i n g K i n g ' s p e r i o d o f g o v e r n o r s h i p . T h i s l a s t e d u n t i l March, 1804, when a band o f c o n v i c t s , l e d by 1 1 0 the Irishman P h i l i p Cunningham, r o s e iin f ut i 1 e r e v o l t a g a i n s t t h e i r 1 3 8 b e t t e r - e q u i p p e d k e e p e r s . A few months l a t e r , King o r d e r e d the s e i z i n g o f M a r g a r o t ' s p a p e r s . What he found f u r t h e r prompts one t o c o n s i d e r the d i s t i n c t p o s s i b i l i t y o f t h e r e e x i s t i n g i n the c o l o n y an i l l i c i t network of r e p u b l i c a n bases aimed a t u n d e r m i n i n g t h o s e 1 39 i n power. K i n g saw f i t t o comment on " t h e v e r y e l e g a n t R e p u b l i c a n s e n t i m e n t s " c o n t a i n e d i n M a r g a r o t ' s p o s s e s s i o n s , i n c l u d i n g a t t a c k s on h i s a d m i n i s t r a t i o n as w e l l as. B r i t i s h m i n i s t e r s , c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h E n g l i s h s y m p a t h i z e r s , and a r e c o r d o f r e p e a t e d meetings w i t h 1 4 o l o c a l r a d i c a l s . At one p o i n t , M a r g a r o t even r e c o r d e d h i s a n t i c i p a t i o n o f a r e p u b l i c i n A u s t r a l i a : " I t has been o b s e r v e d t h a t the Empire o f the World has u n i f o r m l y moved from E a s t t o W e s t - - i n makingvthe c i r c u i t o f the g l o b e i t must, t h e r e f o r e , a f t e r A m e r i c a has e n j o y e d i t , make 141 i t s way e a s t w a r d once more." Of the f i v e m a r t y r s , Margarot s t a y e d l o n g e s t i n A u s t r a l i a - - s i x t e e n y e a r s i n a l l . Given h i s r e c o r d b e f o r e , d u r i n g and a f t e r e x i l e , \ M a r g a r o t ' s sheer p r e s e n c e , l e t a l o n e h i s i n f l a m m a t o r y t e n d e n c i e s , would have e x e r t e d a v i g o r o u s e f f e c t on a s e t t l e m e n t s t i l l s m a l l enough f o r him t o be known by s i g h t t o v i r t u a l l y e v e r y r e s i d e n t . " M a r g a r o t ' s f e e l i n g f o r s o c i a l j u s t i c e was t r u e , " one h i s t o r i a n has 1 4 2 w r i t t e n , "and i n him the i n t e l l e c t u a l ' l e f t ' came t o A u s t r a l i a . " In 1 8 1 0 , Sydney l o s t the l a s t o f the S c o t s t r a n s p o r t e d f o r s e d i t i o n , but not b e f o r e i t had w i t n e s s e d , o v e r the p r e v i o u s f i f t e e n y e a r s , two m a r t y r s ' deaths and the p r e s e n c e f o r d i f f e r i n g p e r i o d s o f t h r e e p o t e n t i a l l y e x p l o s i v e a d v o c a t e s o f the r e p u b l i c a n cause. For reasons 111 o f s e l f - p r e s e r v a t i o n they may have been l o a t h t o r e f e r t o Governors Hunter, K i n g and B l i g h by the d e m o c r a t i c e p i t h e t " f e l l o w - c i t i z e n s " ; y e t i t seems u n l i k e l y t h a t any o f them c o u l d have f o r s a k e n the p r i n c i p l e s 143 f o r which they had so b i t t e r l y f o u g h t i n B r i t a i n . T h e i r S c o t t i s h 144 countrymen d i d n ' t f o r g e t them. Nor would A u s t r a l i a . The s t a n d taken i n the l a t e l 8 2 0's by r a d i c a l Sydney newspaper e d i t o r s s u g g e s t s c l o s e c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h the v a l u e s - - a n d American p r e c e d e n t s - - f i r s t a i r e d i n the c o l o n y by the M a r t y r s from S c o t l a n d . Thomas M u i r was o n l y one o f many c o n v i c t s t o stow away, buy o r beg h i s way on board a d e p a r t i n g American boat. We l a c k w i d e s p r e a d d o c u m e n t a t i o n o f t h i s phenomenon s i m p l y because no g o v e r n o r o r g o v e r n - m e n t o f f i c i a l who v a l u e d h i s p o s i t i o n was l i k e l y t o i n f o r m h i s London s u p e r i o r s t h a t escapes were commonplace. Governor Hunter's r e a c t i o n t o M u i r ' s escape was p r o b a b l y t y p i c a l . C o n f r o n t e d by the escape o f o v e r t h i r t y p e o p l e on the O t t e r , he f o r w a r d e d a d i s p a t c h t o the Home 145 S e c r e t a r y which r e c o r d e d the f l i g h t o f a mere " s e v e r a l p e o p l e . " A c o u p l e o f y e a r s l a t e r , i n 1 7 9 8 , he r e c o r d e d the escape o f a c o n v i c t 146 named Evan Morgan on the American s h i p Argo. G i v e n Hunter's a p p a r e n t tendency t o u n d e r e s t i m a t e , i t seems h i g h l y l i k e l y Morgan had some c o n v i c t company. D u r i n g h i s p e r i o d as Governor, King became so i r r i t a t e d by the number o f escapes t h a t he began r e g u l a t i n g the v i s i t s o f American s h i p s t o the c o l o n y . In June, 1 8 0 4 , he i s s u e d o r d e r s t o t h i s e f f e c t , c i t i n g as one o f h i s reasons the c o n s t a n t p r a c t i c a l a s s i s t a n c e American boats gave t o e s c a p i n g c o n v i c t s . S t i l l the p r a c t i c e c o n t i n u e d , f o r 1.12 i n the Sydney G a z e t t e o f August 12, 1804, n o t i c e was g i v e n t h a t no s e a l i n g v e s s e l "under F o r e i g n C o l o u r s " c o u l d r e t u r n t o a p o r t from which i t had been d i s c h a r g e d . A c t i n g S e c r e t a r y B l a x s e l l t e s t i l y o u t l i n e d one reason as " t h e I n j u r y H i s M a j e s t y ' s S e r v i c e s u s t a i n s by the numerous C o n v i c t s t h a t have escaped and been r e c e i v e d on board 147 American Merchant S h i p s on t h e i r D e p a r t u r e . " Escapes c o n t i n u e d unabated, f o r i n December o f the same y e a r King c o m p l a i n e d t h a t the American s h i p Un ion had i l l e g a l l y d e p a r t e d nearby N o r f o l k I s l a n d w i t h e l e v e n men on b o a r d , a i m i n g a t a s p e c u l a t i v e voyage around the i s l a n d s . A p p a r e n t l y the s i t u a t i o n was no b e t t e r as l a t e as 1821, when Commissioner Bigge saw f i t t o mention i t as a p e r e n n i a l c o n c e r n i n a l e t t e r t o London. The a u r a A m e r i c a h e l d f o r some c o n v i c t s e v i d e n t l y w i t h s t o o d both t r a v e l and d i s l o c a t i o n . Sent t o the new s e t t l e m e n t i n the P o r t P h i l l i p Bay r e g i o n , E n g l i s h c o n v i c t W i l l i a m B u c k l e y escaped i n t o the w i l d s w i t h a few companions: He and h i s comrades had o r i g i n a l l y thought o f w a l k i n g t o C a l i f o r n i a ; f o r they were not educated men, and t h e i r geography was weak; but when B u c k l e y was l e f t s o l i t a r y , he made no such a t t e m p t , because o f the d i s t a n c e p a r t l y , and p a r t l y because he was i n doubt as t o C a l i f o r n i a ' s p r e c i s e whereabouts.^*9 I f some c o n v i c t s s e c u r e d freedom as a r e s u l t o f the A m e r i c a - i n s p i r e d s t o r i e s abounding i n the c o l o n y , o t h e r s a p p a r e n t l y a c t e d on t a l e s one o r two removes from the t r u t h , a t t h e i r p e r i l . O c c a s i o n a l l y , g o s s i p c i r c u l a t i n g the grog shops o f Sydney had s t r a n g e consequences i n 113 a r e a s t o t a l l y removed from the s o u r c e . When the Un i on v i s i t e d Sydney i n J a n u a r y and June o f 1804, her crew members so h i g h l y p r a i s e d the c l i m a t e and economic p o t e n t i a l of Kangaroo I s l a n d t h a t o t h e r seamen passed on the i n f o r m a t i o n i n Tasmania d u r i n g t h e i r f i s h i n g voyages. Four Van Diemonian c o n v i c t s responded by s t e a l i n g a whale- _ boat and heading f o r the a c c l a i m e d i s l a n d o f m i l k and honey, accompanied by f o u r Tasmanian a b o r i g i n a l g i r l s , B e t t y , B u m b l e f o o t , Pussy and Sukey. They made i t , e v e n t u a l l y e s t a b l i s h i n g a camp i n the a r e a o f p r e s e n t - d a y K i n g s c o t e . ' The p e r v a s i v e American p r e s e n c e i n the i n f a n t c o l o n y , i f begun by the a l m o s t immediate a r r i v a l o f Yankee t r a d e r s and s e a l e r s , c o u l d o n l y have been f u r t h e r s t i m u l a t e d by the w o r l d - w i d e p u b l i c i t y a c c o r d e d the t r i a l s , and u l t i m a t e t r a n s p o r t a t i o n , of the f i v e " S c o t t i s h M a r t y r s . " Each man propounded a s t r o n g a t t a c h m e n t t o the new American democracy i n the arena where he had most t o l o s e - - t h e High C o u r t . There i s l i t t l e l i k e l i h o o d , as has been shown, t h a t they would have l e s s e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y f u r t h e r e d the r e p u b l i c a n cause i n A u s t r a l i a . D e s p i t e b e i n g warned by L t . Gov. Groseon a r r i v a l t o a v o i d "a r e c i t a l o f t h o s e \ p o l i t i c k s " t h a t had caused them so much m i s e r y , i t seems l i k e l y t h a t when M u i r and h i s countrymen s e t t l e d i n and around Sydney, the s i n k o f w i c k e d n e s s was f o r the f i r s t time i n t r o d u c e d t o the i d e a s f o r w h i c h the War o f Independence had been f o u g h t . T o m P a i n e and h i s d e m o c r a t i c b r o t h e r h o o d had a r r i v e d , though i t would be many y e a r s b e f o r e t h e i r s u p p o r t e r s c o u l d p u b l i c l y c e l e b r a t e the f a c t . 1/4- CHAPTER I. ENDNOTES John West, The H i s t o r y o f Tasmania ( L a u n c e s t o n , Tasmania: Henry D o w l i n g , 1852), I I , 339-40. 2 In 1791, the r e v e r s e would o c c u r . Food and s u p p l i e s from Botany Bay a i d e d C a p t a i n George Vancouver i n h i s e x p l o r a t o r y j o u r n e y a l o n g the n o r t h - w e s t c o a s t o f N o r t h A m e r i c a . See Gordon Greenwood, E a r l y A m e r i c a n - A u s t r a l i a n R e l a t i o n s (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1944), pp. 59~62. 3 The S p a n i s h voyages a r e t a k e n up by Greenwood i n E a r l y A m e r i c a n - A u s t r a l i a n R e l a t i o n s , C h a p t e r I For i n f o r m a t i o n on the Endeavour's f a t e , see K y l i e Tennant, A u s t r a l i a : Her S t o r y (London: M a c m i l l a n , 1956), p. 10. 5 The s i l v e r s m i t h , Paul R e v e r e , even saw f i t t o i n c l u d e the " W i l k e s and L i b e r t y " s l o g a n on a punchbowl d e d i c a t e d t o the "Immortal 92" members o f the M a s s a c h u s e t t s assembly who r e f u s e d t o r e s c i n d a c i r c u l a r l e t t e r they had e a r l i e r adopted c r i t i c i z i n g the n a t u r e o f the Townshend A c t s . See Samuel E l i o t M o r i s o n , The O x f o r d H i s t o r y o f the American P e o p l e (New York: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1965), P- 193- B o s t o n i a n Sons o f L i b e r t y t o W i l k e s (June 6, 1768), quoted i n B e r n a r d Ba i1yn , The I deo1og i ca1 O r i g i n s o f the Amer i can R e v o l u t i on (Cambridge: H a r v a r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1967), P- 111. 115 7 See below, C h a p t e r I I I , s e c t i o n C. g Norman B a r t l e t t , 1776-1976: A u s t r a l i a and America Through Two Hundred Years (Sydney: Ure S m i t h , 1976), p. 8. For i n f o r m a t i o n about the Americans aboard the Endeavour, I am i n d e b t e d t o B a r t l e t t , pp. 8-21. Q Greenwood, p. 38. ^ See below, C h a p t e r I, s e c t i o n b. ^ ' Greenwood, p. 39. 1 2 L o y a l i s t s numbered about one t h i r d o f the p o p u l a t i o n o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s when t h e r e v o l u t i o n a r y war began. 1 3 London, 1783- See Greenwood, p. 46. 1 4 Quoted i n Greenwood, p. 48. ^ Greenwood, pp. 46-51. ^ Greenwood, pp. 51~3- 1 7 John Hunter (Governor from 1795-9); P h i l i p G i d l e y King (1799- 1806); W i l l i a m B l i g h (1807-8). See, f o r example, Robert L a c o u r - Gayet, A C o n c i s e H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a (Harmondsworth: P e n g u i n , 1976), C h a p t e r s i x . 18 A i t c h i s o n , Thanks t o the Yanks, p. 2. 19 Werner L e v i , A m e r i c a n - A u s t r a l i a n R e l a t i o n s ( M i n n e a p o l i s : U n i v . o f M i n n e s o t a , 1947), p. 4. 20 Quoted i n Greenwood, p. 118. 21 See Greenwood, Appendix I. 116 22 John Dunmore Lang d r y l y noted t h a t " d u r i n g Governor K i n g ' s a d m i n i s t r a t i o n the p o p u l a t i o n o f New South Wales c o n s i s t e d c h i e f l y o f t h o s e who s o l d rum, and of t h o s e who drank i t . . . ." (John Dunmore Lang, Aji H i s t o r i ca 1 and S t a t i s t i ca 1 Account o f New South Wa1e s , Both as a_ Penal S e t t 1 ement and as a_ B r i t i s h C o l o n y (London: Cochrane S M'Crone, 1834), I, 78. 23 Greenwood, p. 128. 24 P a r l i a m e n t o f A u s t r a l i a , J o i n t L i b r a r y Committee, H i s t o r i cai Records o f A u s t r a l i a (Sydney, 1914- ) , s e r . 1, V I I , 479, 202. H e r e a f t e r , s o u r c e w i l l be c i t e d as HRA. 25 See Greenwood, Appendix I. 26 See, f o r example, H.A. L i n d s a y , "An American S e t t l e m e n t i n A u s t r a l i a , 1803," Quadrant, 5, No. 2 (Autumn 196l), 43- 27 Herman M e l v i l l e , Moby D i c k (1851; r p t . New York: W.W. N o r t o n , 1967), p. 100. 28 Compare the a c c o u n t s o f Greenwood and L e v i w i t h L.G. Church- ward, "Notes on American Whaling A c t i v i t i e s i n A u s t r a l i a n Waters 1 8 0 0 - 1 8 5 0 H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , 4, No. 13 (Nov. 1949), 59-63. 29 Churchward, p. 60 ( c f . Greenwood, p. 67). 30 Churchward, p. 59 Ic.f. Greenwood, p. 67, and L e v i , p. 26). 3 1 HRA, I, i i i , 765:• 32 Greenwood, pp. 67-8. 33 The a d v e n t u r e s o f t h r e e o f the f i r s t American e x p e d i t i o n s i n t o A u s t r a l i a n w a t e r s - - n a m e l y C a p t a i n Isaac P e n d l e t o n ' s U n i o n , C a p t a i n P e r c i v a l ' s Char 1es and Amasa Delano's P i 1 g r i m - - a t t e s t t o 117 some o f the c o l o u r and c o n t r o v e r s y s u r r o u n d i n g t h i s a s p e c t o f American i n t e r a c t i o n w i t h the c o l o n y . See Greenwood, C h a p t e r I I I , e s p e c i a l l y pp. 82-96. For more on Delano, see below, C h a p t e r I I I , s e c t i o n c- 34 HRA, 1, i i i , 636. T h i s i s s i g n i f i c a n t , s i n c e B r i t i s h r e l a t i o n s w i t h France were s o r e l y s t r a i n e d . In a g r e e i n g t o the T r e a t y o f Amiens (March, 1802) , B r i t a i n s u r r e n d e r e d a l l her c o l o n i a l c o n q u e s t s e x c e p t C e y l o n and T r i n i d a d . 35 See L e v i , pp. 28~9; Greenwood, pp. 82-3. 3 6 M o r i s o n , p. 382. 3 7 HRA, I, v i i , 523. 3 8 See HRA, I, v i i , 700, 728, 830; v i i i , 312, 352. 3 9 B a t h u r s t t o M a c q u a r i e (August 19, 1813), HRA, I, v i i i , 72. 4o See Greenwood, pp. 105 - 110. 41 See Greenwood, pp. 111-115. 42 A d i f f e r e n t v e r s i o n o f the s t o r y was g i v e n i n the Sydney G a z e t t e some months l a t e r ( F e b r u a r y 22, 1815)- 43 Greenwood, p. 114, f o o t n o t e 78. ^ London C o u r i e r , June 2, 1813; HRA, I, i x , 57, 849. See L e v i , p. 20. 45 A peace t r e a t y was s i g n e d a t Ghent on December 24, l 8 l 4 . 46 B a t h u r s t t o M a c q u a r i e (December 11, 1815), HRA, I, v i i i , 648. 47 B a t h u r s t t o M a c q u a r i e (March 8, l 8 l 6 ) , HRA, I, i x , 42-3- See Greenwood, pp. 1 3 9 " 4 l . 48 B r i s b a n e t o B a t h u r s t (June 25, 1825) , HRA, I, x i , 674. 118 49 Sydney G a z e t t e , August 21, 1832. See E. D a n i e l and A n n e t t e P o t t s , Young America and A u s t r a l i a n G o l d : Americans and the Gold Rush of the 18501s ( S t . L u c i a : U n i v . o f Queensland P r e s s , 1974), p. 1. ^ Churchward, "American W h a l i n g , " p. 62. A U.S. c o n s u l was a p p o i n t e d t o Hobart i n 1843 and Melbourne i n 1852. See L e v i , p. 35. 52 See M c L a c h l a n , pp. 372-3• 53 N.D. M c L a c h l a n , "'The F u t u r e A m e r i c a ' : Some B i c e n t e n n i a l R e f l e c t i o n s , " H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , 17, No. 68 ( A p r i l 1977), 365. 54 A l a n F r o s t , ' " ' A s i t were a n o t h e r A m e r i c a , ' " E i g h t e e n t h - C e n t u r y S t u d i e s , 7, No. 3 ( S p r i n g 1974), 270. 55 Quoted i n M c L a c h l a n , p. 366. ^ Banks t o Gov. Hunter (March, 1797), H i s t o r i c a l Records of New South Wales, I I I , 202-3. H e r e a f t e r , s o u r c e w i l l be c i t e d as HRNSW. ^ Ian T u r n e r , The A u s t r a l i a n Dream (Melbourne: Sun Books, 1968), p. 2. 58 Aust r a 1 i a, wi t h o t h e r poems, p. 41, quoted i n C o r a l L a n s b u r y , A r c a d y i n A u s t r a l i a (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1970), p. 16. 59 [ A l e x a n d e r D a l r y m p l e ] , A S e r i o u s A d m o n i t i o n t o the P u b l i c k , on the " I n t e n d e d " T h i e f - C o l o n y a t Botany Bay (London, 1786), quoted i n F r o s t , p. 265. ^ Samuel J o h n s o n , Po1i t i ca1 Wr i t ? ngs, V o l . X o f The Y a l e E d i t i o n o f the Works o f Samuel Johnson, ed. Donald J . Greene (New Haven: Y a l e U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s , 1977), pp. 443-4. 119 6 ' John P i n k e r t o n , Modern Geography, 2nd ed. (London, 1807), quoted i n F r o s t , p. 256. 62 Smith was, i n f a c t , " q u a s i e d i t o r " o f the f i r s t number. See Sheldon H a l p e r n , Sydney Smith (New York: Twayne, 1966), p. 30. Co The f i r s t a r t i c l e , " A u s t r a l i a , " was p u b l i s h e d i n 1803; the l a s t , "New South Wales," was p u b l i s h e d i n J a n u a r y , 1828. 64 Sydney S m i t h , The Works o f the Reverend Sydney S m i t h , 3 v o l s , i n one (New York: A p p l e t o n , i860), p. 21 ( c f . p. I 4 l ) . 6 5 The o t h e r two appeared i n J a n u a r y , 1820, and i n J u l y , 1824. 6 6 S m i t h , pp. 112, 141. 6 7 '..'Sydney S m i t h , " N a t i o n , XXII (March 9, 1876) , 164. 68 Sydney S m i t h , The L e t t e r s o f Sydney S m i t h , ed. Nowell L. Smith ( O x f o r d : C l a r e n d o n P r e s s , 1953), I, 305- 69 S m i t h , p. 140. See a l s o pp. 115, 202-9. 7°:Smith, pp. 108-9, 202-4. 7 1 S m i t h , pp. 122-4. 7 2 S m i t h , p. 130. [Sydney S m i t h ] , "New South Wales," E d i n b u r g h Review, XLVII ( J a n u a r y 1828) , 87. 7 k S m i t h , p. 179; [ S m i t h ] , "New South Wales,"' p. 97. 7 5 Bentham t o J a c k s o n , i n Andrew J a c k s o n , Correspondence o f Andrew J a c k s o n , ed. J.S. B a s s e t t , IV (Washington: C a r n e g i e I n s t i t u t i o n , 1931), 46. 7 6 " T r a v e l s" of- Duncan,' F*J j n t . a n.d. Fauy i n_ .the. United,. S t a t e s , " W e s t m i n s t e r Review, 1, No. 1 ( J a n u a r y 1824), 102. 120 7 7 Jeremy Bentham, The Works o f Jeremy Bentham, ed. John Bowring (London, 1838-43;•rpt. New York: R u s s e l l and R u s s e l l , 1962), I, 490. 78 Bentham, p. 497. 79 "A Voyage Around the W o r l d , " i n James Montgomery, Poems o f James Montgomery, ed. R.A. W i l l m o t t (London: R o u t l e d g e , Warne & R o u t l e d g e , i860) , p. 264. 80 See "The S p i r i t of D i s c o v e r y , " i n W i l l i a m L i s l e Bowles, The P o e t i c a l Works o f W i l l i a m L i s l e Bowles, ed. G. G i l f i l l a n ( E d i n b u r g h : W.P. Nimmo, 1855), p. 289. 81 C h a r l e s Lamb, The Works o f C h a r l e s and Mary Lamb, ed. E.V. L u c a s , I (London: Methuen, 1903), 197- Oo Lamb, VI ( 1 9 0 5 ) , 500-1. go W i l l i a m H a z l i t t , The Spi r i t o f the Age (1825; r p t . London: Grant R i c h a r d s , 1904), p. 265. 84 W i l l i a m H a z l i t t , The Complete Works o f W i l l i a m H a z l i t t , ed. P.P. Howe, XX (London: J . J . Dent, 1934), 136. 85 Robert Southey, The P o e t i c a l Works o f Robert Southey (London: Longman, 1838), I I , 72, 74. See a l s o F r e d e r i c ' s impassioned p l e a f o r d i v i n e f o r g i v e n e s s , p. 89. 86 Robert Southey, New L e t t e r s o f Robert Southey, ed. Kenneth C u r r y (New York: Columbia U n i v . P r e s s , 1965), I, 57. See a l s o I I , 36. 87 Quoted i n L a n s b u r y , p. 19. John Keats a l s o c o n c e i v e d o f New Holland as a l a s t and d e s p e r a t e f r o n t i e r . See John K e a t s , The L e t t e r s o f John K e a t s , ed. M a u r i c e Buxton Forman, 3 r d . ed. (London: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1947), p. 455. 121 88 Samuel T a y l o r C o l e r i d g e , The Complete Works of Samuel T a y l o r C o l e r i d g e , ed. W.G.T. Shedd (New York: H a r p e r , 1884), I I I , 623-4. For C o l e r i d g e ' s l a t e r t h o u g h t s on t h i s "stormy t i m e " i n h i s l i f e when A m e r i c a " r e a l l y i n s p i r e d Hope," see Samuel T a y l o r C o l e r i d g e , Inqu i r i ng S p i r i t , ed. K a t h l e e n Coburn (London: R o u t l e d g e and Kegan P a u l , 1 9 5 0 , P- 54. 8 9 Q u a r t e r l y Review, L I M , No. 105 ( F e b r u a r y 1835), 95- R e p r i n t e d i n I n q u i r i n g S p i r i t , p. 336. 9 0 See Edward Gibbon W a k e f i e l d , A L e t t e r From Sydney (1829; r p t . London: J.M. Dent, 1929), pp. 34-6, 66-9, 73"5, 156-9. 91 A r c h i b a l d A l i s o n (1833), quoted i n D a v i d Paul Crook, American Democracy i n E n g l i s h P o l i t i c s : 1815"1850 ( O x f o r d : C l a r e n d o n P r e s s , 1965), E p i g r a p h . 92 A_ N a r r a t i v e o f the S u f f e r i ngs o f T. F. Pa 1 mer and W. S k i r v i ng D u r i n g a Voyage t o New South Wales (Cambridge, 1797), quoted i n M a r j o r i e Masson and J.F. Jameson, "The Odyssey o f Thomas M u i r , " American H i s t o r i c a l Review, XXIX (1923), 54. The f i v e " S c o t t i s h M a r t y r s " w i l l be d i s c u s s e d l a t e r i n t h i s c h a p t e r . 93 The f i r s t two L i e u t e n a n t - G o v e r n o r s , Robert Ross and F r a n c i s G r o s e , both f o u g h t a t Bunker's H i l l . See C.M.H. C l a r k , A H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a , I (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1962), 132-3; M c L a c h l a n , pp. 367-8. q/. See, f o r example, Gov. King t o P o r t l a n d ( J u l y 8, 1801), HRA, 1 , iii, 111-112; HRA, 1, V, 631. 95 A u s t r a l i a n D i c t i o n a r y o f B i o g r a p h y , ed. A.G.L. Shaw and C.M.H. 122 C l a r k , I (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1966) , 373-4. H e r e a f t e r , s o u r c e w i l l be c i t e d as ADB. 96 The e x c l u s i o n i s t s were so named because o f t h e i r s t r i c t e x c l u s i o n o f e m a n c i p i s t s from t h e i r s o c i e t y . See K.S. I n g l i s , The A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i s t s (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1974), p. 14. 97 See A.W. J o s e , B u i l d e r s and P i o n e e r s o f A u s t r a l i a (London: J.M. Dent, 1928), p. 46. 98 y o HRA, 1, x i i , 775- QQ Sydney G a z e t t e , A u s t u s t 24, 1827. L e t t e r t o the London Morning C h r o n i c l e , e x t r a c t e d i n the A u s t r a l i a n , March 3, 1825, and quoted i n M c L a c h l a n , p. 369. ^ C.M.H. [Manning] C l a r k , A S h o r t H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a (New York: Mentor, 1963) , pp. 72-3- 102 Quoted i n I n g l i s , p. 14. 1 0 3 See, f o r example, Z.W. Pease, The C a t a l p a E x p e d i t i o n (New B e d f o r d , Mass.: George S. Anthony, 1897); Bruce Rosen, "The ' C a t a l p a ' Rescue," J o u r n a l o f the Royal A u s t r a l i a n H i s t o r i c a l S o c i e t y , 65, P t . 2 (Sept. 1979), 73-90. H e r e a f t e r , s o u r c e w i l l be c i t e d as JRAHS. 104 L.G. Churchward, " A u s t r a l i a n - A m e r i c a n R e l a t i o n s d u r i n g the Gold Rush," H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , 2, No. 5 ( A p r i l 1942), 11. A_ Voyage o f Di s c o v e r y t o the N o r t h P a c i f i c Ocean (London, 1804), quoted i n Masson and Jameson, p. 56. 1 06 See Tennant, A u s t r a 1 i a , p. 23. Henry W. M e i k l e , S c o t l a n d and the French R e v o l u t i o n (Glasgow: James M a c l e h o s e , 1912), p. 146. 123 1 08 M i l l a r , a prominent " F r i e n d o f the P e o p l e " i n 1792, l a t e r e m i g r a t e d t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s . For more i n f o r m a t i o n , see M e i k l e , pp. 106-111, 157- 109 Dr. S o m e r v i l l e , o f J e d b u r g h , quoted i n M e i k l e , p. 1. See C a l e d o n i a n M e r c u r y , March 3, 1784. ^ See M e i k l e , p. 2 ( a l s o p. 15). 1 1 2 By l a t e 1792, M u i r had adopted a r a d i c a l p o l i t i c a l p o s i t i o n (see M e i k l e , p. 109). H i s t r i a l was h e l d i n E d i n b u r g h on August 30-31, 1793. 113 An Account o f the T r i a l of Thomas Mui r , Esq., Younger o f Huntersh i l l , 2nd ed. (New York: Samuel C a m p b e l l , 1793), pp. 5-7. 1 14 Quoted i n Masson and Jameson, p. 51. ^ 5 The s p e a k e r was S e n a t o r G i l e s , i n the Senate on November 26, 1794 ( A n n a l s of C o n g r e s s , IV, 918). Quoted i n Masson and Jameson, p. 55- 116 Quoted i n M e i k l e , p. 131 ( c f . poem on p. 173). Quoted i n M e i k l e , pp. 133-4. 118 Quoted i n Masson and Jameson, p. 51. 1 1 9 HRNSW, I I , 856. 1 20 Masson and Jameson, pp. 55-71. See a l s o B a r t l e t t , pp. 34~5; ADB, I I, 266-7. 121 Quoted i n Masson and Jameson, p. 55. 1 22 See Masson and Jameson, pp. 57"8. 1 23 Quoted i n Masson and Jameson, p. 62. 1 24 See ADB, I, 438. 124 1 2 5 P a l m e r t o J . T . R u t t ( M a r c h 12, 1794), q u o t e d i n M a r j o r i e M a s s o n , " T h o m a s F y s h e P a l m e r , a P o l i t i c a l E x i l e , 1793," S c o t t i s h H i s t o r i c a l R e v i e w , X I I I , N o . 49 ( O c t . 1915), 162-3. l ?6 See HRNSW, I I , 882. 1 27 P a l m e r t o D r . D i s n e y ( A u g u s t 14, 1797), q u o t e d i n M a s s o n , p . 165- S h e r i f f o f P e r t h t o R. Graham (November 22, 1792), q u o t e d i n M e i k l e , .p. 98. 1 29 P a l m e r t o D r . D i s n e y ( A u g u s t 14, 1797), q u o t e d i n M a s s o n , p . 166. 1 30 P a l m e r l e f t S y d n e y f o r B r i t a i n i n J a n u a r y , 1801, on t h e u n s e a w o r t h y S p a n i s h s h i p , E l P 1 u m i e r , a f t e r s e r v i n g h i s s e v e n - y e a r s e n t e n c e . A f t e r a t e r r i b l e j o u r n e y t h e s h i p , a l m o s t s i n k i n g , p u t i n a t Guam. P a l m e r d i e d s h o r t l y a f t e r w a r d s . 1 3 1 A D B , I I , 312-13- 1 32 T h e L . C . S . was more r a d i c a l t h a n t h e S o c i e t y o f t h e F r i e n d s o f t h e P e o p l e . 133 Q u o t e d i n M i c h a e l R o e , " M a u r i c e M a r g a r o t : A R a d i c a l i n Two H e m i s p h e r e s , 1792-1815," Bui 1et i n o f t h e I n s t i t u t e o f H i s t o r i c a l R e s e a r c h , X X X I , N o . 83 (May 1958), 69- 134 Q u o t e d i n R o e , p . 70. 1 35 One r e a s o n f o r t h i s s u p p o r t was t h a t t h e L . C . S . p r i n t e d no l e s s t h a n 100,000 c o p i e s o f M a r g a r o t ' s i n d i c t m e n t ( S e e M e i k l e , p . 145) 1 36 Q u o t e d i n R o e , p . 72. 1 37 J / See R o e , p . 73- 125 1 3ft See I n g l i s , pp. 178-81; G e o f f r e y Chapman I n g l e t o n , ed., True P a t r i o t s A l 1 (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1952), p. 31. 1 39 M a r g a r o t had b u r n t some papers a few days b e f o r e the o u t - break (Roe, p. 74) . 140 See, f o r example, HRA, 1, v, 535- 141 Quoted i n Roe, p. 74. 14? ADB, I I , 206. ] k 3 See M e i k l e , p. 107. 144 See M e i k l e , p. 238. ] k S HRNSW, I I I , 47. 1 kfi Hunter t o U n d e r - S e c r e t a r y King (Nov. 1, 1798), HRA, 1, i i ; 235. 1 47 Sydney G a z e t t e , August 12, 1804. 148 Bigge t o G o u l b u r n , October 31, 1821, quoted i n J . J . Eddy, B r i t a i n and the A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i e s : 1818 — 31 ( O x f o r d : C l a r e n d o n P r e s s , 1969), p. 247 (See a l s o p. 250). I t i s worth n o t i n g t h a t John Dunmore Lang, w h i l e t r a v e l l i n g t h r o u g h the U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1840, met an e x - c o n v i c t who c l a i m e d he had met a " c o n s i d e r a b l e number o f B r i t i s h c o n v i c t s i n <the U n i t e d S t a t e s , who, l i k e h i m s e l f , had escaped t h i t h e r from New South Wales." See John Dunmore Lang, R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n i n America (London: Thomas Ward, 1840), pp. l 8 3 " 4 . 149 / W. Fearn-Wannan, comp.., A u s t r a l i a n F o l k l o r e (Melbourne: Lansdowne P r e s s , 1970), p. 563. ' See Greenwood, pp. 92-5. 1 5 1 HRNSW, I I, 868. l i b CHAPTER I I PUBLICIZING THE "GRAND BEACON 1 , 1 Sect i on A_ The P r e s s T h i s must be a l l o w e d on a l l s i d e s t o be a most pugnacious c o l o n y - - a v e r y c e n t r e o f j e a l o u s i e s and f e a r s - - s q u a b b l e and c o n t e n t i o n - - 1 i b e l and l i t i g a t i o n . ( A u s t r a 1 i an Q u a r t e r 1 y J o u r n a l , 1828 2 ) B e f o r e the m i d d l e 1820 1 s t h e r e was no scope i n New South Wales f o r p u b l i c d i s s e n t , nor indeed any s u c c e s s f u l u n i f i e d remonstrance a g a i n s t the s t a t e . P h i l i p Cunningham and h i s mob o f r e b e l I r i s h c o n v i c t s t r a g i c a l l y d i s c o v e r e d t h i s a t V i n e g a r H i l l i n 1804. The o n l y e f f e c t i v e p r o t e s t - - e s c a p e - - w a s i n d i v i d u a l , and hence o f l i m i t e d impact. Between 1820 and 1830, however, the s i t u a t i o n changed a p p r e c i a b l y f o r t h r e e r e a s o n s : f i r s t l y , under M a c q u a r i e ' s b e n e v o l e n t p o l i c i e s , the number of e m a n c i p i s t s had r i s e n so s h a r p l y by 1820 t h a t they c o m p r i s e d the l a r g e s t f r e e group i n the s e t t l e m e n t , and h were a n n u a l l y growing i n number. Having spent some o f the b e s t y e a r s 127 o f t h e i r 1 ives as " c a n a r i e s " i n a m e r c i l e s s new c o u n t r y , the e m a n c i p i s t s , now t h a t they were i n a p o s i t i o n t o do so, i n s i s t e d on the l a n d g i v i n g something i n r e t u r n . 5 V i g o r o u s l y e x p r e s s e d by W.C. Wentworth, e m a n c i p i s t r i g h t s became a c o n t e n t i o u s i s s u e . S e c o n d l y , as the decade p r o g r e s s e d , the number o f f r e e s e t t l e r s a r r i v i n g i n the c o l o n y s i g n i f i c a n t l y i n c r e a s e d , from 1,307 i n 1820, t o a l i t t l e under 5,000 by 1828; a f t e r 1828, under the i n f l u e n c e o f E.G. W a k e f i e l d ' s p l a n f o r c o l o n i a l s e t t l e m e n t , the i n f l u x o f immigrants r a r e l y f e l l below 2,000 a y e a r . A u s t r a l i a ' s p o p u l a t i o n jumped from 33,5*3 i n 1820, t o 70,000 i n 1830, t o 190, 408 i n 1840- The new a r r i v a l s , h a r d l y l i k e l y t o s u f f e r i n s i l e n c e under a system o f government e x p r e s s l y d e s i g n e d t o a d m i n i s t e r a penal c o l o n y , q u i c k l y began a g i t a t i n g f o r i n c r e a s e d p e r s o n a l freedoms, l e d by the i n d e f a t i g a b l e John Dunmore Lang. T h i r d l y , i n p a r t as a response t o the c o m p l a i n t s o f e m a n c i p i s t and immigrant a l i k e , Governor B r i s b a n e d e c i d e d t o " t r y the e x p e r i m e n t o f the f u l l l a t i t u d e of the freedom o f the P r e s s . " 7 D u r i n g t h i s time o f g r e a t change i n both the a g g r e g a t e p o p u l a t i o n o f the c o l o n y and i t s s o c i a l s t r u c t u r e , the a t t i t u d e s and p r i o r i t i e s o f many s e t t l e r s began t o a l t e i — d e s p i t e the o b s e r v a t i o n s t o the con- t r a r y o f "Fanny F l i r t , " who, i n a l e t t e r t o the Sydney G a z e t t e o f 1823, a t t a c k e d the narrow and e x c l u s i v e l y p r a c t i c a l minds o f the l o c a l male p o p u l a t i o n : "As t o c o n v e r s a t i o n , n o t h i n g can be so s h e e p i s h . Young A r a b l e ' s w i t s a r e gone a wool g a t h e r i n g - - e v e r s i n c e he commenced g r a z i n g . T a l k s o f m u s i c , and asks f o r a song, young W h o l e s a l e c h a u n t s g o v e r an i n v o i c e , 'Money i s your f r i e n d , i s i t n o t ? 1 " A s u r p r i s i n g 128 number o f commentators s i n c e then have a c c e p t e d her a p p r a i s a l as a c c u r a t e . Indeed, H.M. Green, a n a l y z i n g the f i r s t s i x t y y e a r s o f the c o l o n y i n h i s 1961 H i s t o r y , c a l l e d them "an age o f a c t i o n , o f l i t t l e e l s e but a c t i o n . . . . g r e a t i n n o t h i n g but a c t i o n ; i t s i d e a l s were a l m o s t w h o l l y m a t e r i a l and i t had l i t t l e i n t e l l e c t u a l and s c a r c e l y 9 any c u l t u r a l background. . . ." More r e c e n t a s s e s s m e n t s , however, have tended t o r e j e c t judgements o f t h i s k i n d as too s i m p l i s t i c . ^ As B r i a n K i e r n a n put i t i n 1976: . . . the e a r l i e r n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y was not as d i s c o n t i n u o u s w i t h the n i n e t i e s and the t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y as e a r l i e r a c c o u n t s had assumed. . . . A u s t r a l i a had a more complex and v i t a l c u l t u r e than the s t e r e o t y p e o f g e n e r a t i o n s a w a i t i n g the coming o f the B u l l e t i n a l l o w e d . I t was, o f c o u r s e , a " l i t e r a r y " c u l t u r e i n the f u l l e s t sense o f the word, and most o f i t s l i t e r a t u r e assumes most i n t e r e s t f o r us today X i n r e l a t i o n t o t h a t c u l t u r e and i t s i s s u e s . ' ' C e r t a i n l y , as one l o o k s more c l o s e l y a t the two decades f o l l o w i n g the "age o f M a c q u a r i e , " one becomes i n c r e a s i n g l y aware of an e r a o f a c t i o n and c o n s i d e r a b l e i n t e l l e c t ; o f a p u r p o s e f u l assemblage o f p e o p l e s t e a d i l y e s t a b l i s h i n g t h e i r i n d e f e a s i b l e r i g h t s t o l a n d , improved e d u c a t i o n f o r t h e i r c h i l d r e n and the freedom t o w o r s h i p the God o f t h e i r c h o i c e i n a c o u n t r y l e s s " o f a d o p t i o n o n l y " and more 1 2 " t h e i r own"; o f a p r e s s d e t e r m i n e d t o a s s e r t not j u s t i t s r i g h t t o e x i s t f r e e o f c o e r c i o n , but i t s v i t a l r o l e i n the c r e a t i o n o f a new n a t i o n ; and, f i n a l l y , o f a d e d i c a t e d band o f i n d i v i d u a l s aware o f the s i g n a l i m p o r t a n c e o f l i t e r a t u r e i n the s h a p i n g o f a c o u n t r y , and w i l l i n g t o l o o k t o s o u r c e s o t h e r than the Mother C o u n t r y f o r i n s p i r a t i o n . 129 The U n i t e d S t a t e s , f o r so many y e a r s a s u r r e p t i t i o u s element i n the c o l o n y ' s s o c i a l development, b e g i n s t o f i g u r e more p r o m i n e n t l y i n the p u b l i c f o r u m — n o t as a model so much as a c o u n t r y seen t o be e x p e r i e n c i n g a n a l a g o u s p o l i t i c a l (and l i t e r a r y ) problems, two o r t h r e e paces t o the f o r e , and s i m i l a r l y r e s o l v e d t o seek s o l u t i o n s i n a c o n t e x t independent o f B r i t a i n . When C h a r l e s Darwin v i s i t e d New South Wales as p a r t o f h i s w o r l d voyage on the Beag 1 e, he w r o t e i n h i s d i a r y on J a n u a r y 2 2 , I 8 3 6 : " I f o r m e r l y imagined t h a t A u s t r a l i a would r i s e t o be as grand and p o w e r f u l a c o u n t r y as N o r t h A m e r i c a , butnow i t appears t o me t h a t 1 3 such f u t u r e g r a n d e u r i s r a t h e r p r o b l e m a t i c a l . " Many A u s t r a l i a n s o f the time w o u l d , w h i l e r e s i s t i n g the v e r d i c t , have h a p p i l y endorsed the comparison i t s e 1 f - - p a r t i c u 1 a r 1 y members o f the c o l o n i a l p r e s s f o r t h e y , more than any o t h e r s i n g l e group i n the c o l o n y , had f o r the p a s t t e n y e a r s c o n s t a n t l y a d v o c a t e d the s t u d y o f American p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l , l e g a l , r e l i g i o u s and l i t e r a r y developments. They p e r s i s t e n t l y i d e n t i f i e d the problems and c h a l l e n g e s c o n f r o n t i n g A u s t r a l i a w i t h t h o s e f a c i n g the young r e p u b l i c a c r o s s the P a c i f i c . In e f f e c t , A m e r i c a was t h e i r most s e r v i c e a b l e weapon. The p r e o c c u p a t i o n s and r e a c t i o n s o f the p r e s s a t t h i s time emerge as by f a r the most e n e r g e t i c — a n d t r u l y r e p r e s e n t a t i v e - - 1 i t e r a t u r e o f the e r a . Yet a number o f s c h o l a r s o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e a p p r a i s i n g the p e r i o d have, i n t h e i r s t r i c t l y b e l l e t r i s t i c v i e w , noted 130 o n l y s u c h c o m p a r a t i v e l y v a p i d w o r k s a s C h a r l e s T o m p s o n ' s W i l d N o t e s ( 1 8 2 6 ) . H . M . G r e e n i s a n o t a b l e e x c e p t i o n . T h e b a l a n c e n e e d s a d j u s t i n g , m u c h a s i t d i d i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s w h e n V . L . P a r r i n g t o n , i n h i s M a i n C u r r e n t s i n A m e r i c a n T h o u g h t ( 1 9 2 7 ) , c o m m e n t e d : T h a t o u r c o l o n i a l l i t e r a t u r e . . . i s c o m m o n l y s q u e e z e d i n t o t h e s k i m p i e s t o f c h a p t e r s i n o u r h a n d b o o k s o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , i s d u e , I t h i n k , t o a n e x a g g e r a t e d r e g a r d f o r e s t h e t i c v a l u e s . O u r l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n s h a v e l a b o r e d u n d e r t o o h e a v y a h a n d i c a p o f t h e g e n t e e l t r a d i t i o n - - t o b o r r o w P r o f e s s o r S a n t a y a n a ' s h a p p y p h r a s e - - t o e n t e r s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y i n t o a w o r l d o f m a s c u l i n e i n t e l l e c t s a n d m a t e r i a l s t r u g g l e s . T h e y h a v e s o u g h t d a i n t i e r f a r e t h a n p o l e m i c s , a n d i n c o n s e q u e n c e m e d i o c r e v e r s e h a s o b s c u r e d p o l i t i c a l s p e c u l a t i o n , a n d p o e t a s t e r s h a v e s h o u l d e r e d a s i d e v i g o r o u s c r e a t i v e t h i n k e r s . 1 * T h e p o l e m i c s o f A u s t r a l i a ' s s o c i a l , p o l i t i c a l a n d t h e o l o g i c a l s p o k e s - m e n , a s e x p r e s s e d p r e d o m i n a n t l y i n t h e s u c c e s s i o n o f n e w s p a p e r s a n d m a g a z i n e s o f t h e e r a , r e q u i r e a t t e n t i o n . T h e i r c o l u m n s f o r m a n i d e o l o g i c a l l i n k b e t w e e n t h e r a d i c a l p h i l o s o p h i e s o f t h e p o l i t i c a l p r i s o n e r s t r a n s p o r t e d t o B o t a n y B a y i n t h e f i r s t t e n y e a r s o f s e t t l e - m e n t a n d t h e a g i t a t i o n f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t i n a l l A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s u p t o t h e m i d d l e l 8 5 0 ' s . A s t h e i n h e r i t o r o f B r i s b a n e ' s d e c i s i o n t o d o a w a y w i t h p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p , G o v e r n o r D a r l i n g c o u l d n o t h a v e a n t i c i p a t e d , o n h i s a r r i v a l , t h e i m m e n s e r e p e r c u s s i o n s o f h i s p r e d e c e s s o r ' s d e c i s i o n . H e w a s f o r c e d t o d e a l w i t h a m e d i u m w h i c h " c e a s i n g t o c r a w l , " a s H . M . G r e e n h a s p u t i t , " b e g a n s u d d e n l y t o r u n . " ^ 5 S e r v i l i t y d i s - a p p e a r e d i n t h e f a c e o f a n e x p a n d i n g a n d v o l a t i l e c o m m e r c i a l c l a s s b e n t o n q u e s t i o n i n g t h e d i c t a t e s o f c o l o n i a l a u t h o r i t y , s o m e t i m e s 131 f o r p r i n c i p l e d r e a s o n s , o t h e r times f o r p e r s o n a l g a i n . Any a t t e m p t t o g r a s p the a t t i t u d e s t o , o r m a n i f e s t a t i o n s o f , l i t e r a t u r e a t t h i s time v i r t u a l l y b e g i n s and ends w i t h the p r e s s . ^ Thomas McCombie went too f a r , i n 1858, when he argued t h a t The newspaper p r e s s c o n s t i t u t e s n e a r l y the o n l y l i t e r a t u r e p u b l i s h e d i n the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s . I t m o n o p o l i z e s the g r e a t e r p a r t o f the thought.'7 But up t o 1840, he i s p r o b a b l y c o r r e c t . The way i n which men used and abused the columns o f newspapers m i r r o r e d the r a p i d l y c h a n g i n g a f f e c t i o n s o f the community i t s e l f . I f t h e r e was l i t e r a t u r e a t t h i s t i m e , i t wasn't i n B a r r o n F i e l d ' s p a s t i c h e s c r i b b l i n g s ; i t b l a z e d r i g h t b e f o r e the eyes o f anyone w i t h a few pence t o s p a r e . C l o s e p a r a l l e l s e x i s t between t h e s e A u s t r a l i a n newspapers and 18 t h e i r American c o u n t e r p a r t s . For example, the p e r s o n a l a t t a c k s , p e t t y j e a l o u s i e s and v i t r i o l i c e d i t o r i a l s c h a r a c t e r i z i n g the c o l o n i a l p r e s s i n New South Wales i n the l a t e l820's and e a r l y ' 30' s a l s o t y p i f i e d American papers from the 1790' s t o a t l e a s t the 1830's. The p a l t r i n e s s a n d i n d e c e n c i e s which s u r f a c e d i n a P h i l a d e l p h i a l i b e l c a s e i n 1798 prompted the r e s i d i n g j u d g e , C h i e f J u s t i c e McKean, t o c o n c l u d e t h a t Everyone who has i n him the s e n t i m e n t s e i t h e r o f a C h r i s t i a n o r a gentleman cannot but be h i g h l y o f f e n d e d a t the en- venomed s c u r r i l i t y t h a t has raged i n pamphlets and news- papers p r i n t e d i n P h i l a d e l p h i a f o r s e v e r a l y e a r s p a s t , insomuch t h a t l i b e l l i n g has become a n a t i o n a l c r i m e , and d i s t i n g u i s h e s us not o n l y from a l l the s t a t e s around us, but from the whole c i v i l i z e d world.'9 132 Two decades and more l a t e r , e v i d e n t l y l i t t l e had a l t e r e d , s i n c e e d i t o r s o f penny-press newspapers i n America l i b e r a l l y used e p i t h e t s l i k e "Obscene vagabond," "loathsome and l e p r o u s s l a n d e r e r and l i b e l e r , " " P o l l u t e d w r e t c h , " " F o r e i g n i m p o s t e r , " " D a r i n g i n f i d e l , " " P e s t i l e n t i a l 20 s c o u n d r e l " and "Venomous r e p t i l e t o a t t a c k t h e i r i d e o l o g i c a l enemies. As i n A u s t r a l i a , p r e s s abuse tended t o f o c u s on e i t h e r f e l l o w - e d i t o r s o r p o l i t i c a l l e a d e r s . Attempted r e p r i s a l s by the p o l i t i c i a n s were g e n e r a l l y u n s u c c e s s f u l . Under s e v e r e p r e s s a t t a c k i n 1797, as Washington had e a r l i e r been, John Adams t r i e d t o s u p p r e s s the R e p u b l i c a n papers through the use of the S e d i t i o n Law o f 1797- He was b r i e f l y s u c c e s s f u l , u n t i l the p e o p l e r a l l i e d t o s u p p o r t the p a p e r s . Adams l o s t the 1800 p r e s i d e n t i a l e l e c t i o n t o J e f f e r s o n . In New South Wales, Governor D a r l i n g i n t r o d u c e d b i l l s i n 1827 and 1830 aimed a t s u p p r e s s i n g the a t t a c k s o f Robert W a r d e l l , A.E. Hayes and Edward Smith H a l l b u t , i n J a n u a r y , 1831, they were f i n a l l y deemed i n c o n s i s t e n t w i t h E n g l i s h law by the Whig S e c r e t a r y of S t a t e , and i n October o f t h a t 21 y e a r D a r l i n g was r e c a l l e d . Ralph D a r l i n g had a tough time o f i t i n h i s s i x y e a r s as g o v e r n o r . A n u m e r i c a l l y s m a l l but d e t e r m i n e d m i d d l e c l a s s i n t h e s e y e a r s seemed d e t e r m i n e d t o e s t a b l i s h i t s p l a c e i n s o c i e t y . For the most a g g r e s s i v e o f t h i s a s p i r i n g group, newspapers were the v e h i c l e . The p e r i o d o f p r e s s s e r v i l i t y was o v e r , and s e m i - e d u c a t e d , p a r t - t i m e e d i t o r s gave way t o "men o f p o s i t i o n and e d u c a t i o n , born t o a t r a d i t i o n o f l e a d e r s h i p , o r a t l e a s t d e t e r m i n e d t o l e a d , outspoken and i m p a t i e n t 22 o f a u t h o r i t y , t o whom j o u r n a l i s m was a means r a t h e r than an end." 133 S h o r t l y a f t e r t h e a b o l i t i o n o f p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p , t h e e d i t o r s o f S y d n e y ' s A u s t r a 1 i a n a n d M o n i t o r q u i c k l y a s s e r t e d t h e i r i n d e p e n d e n c e , r e j e c t i n g t h e p a r t i s a n g o v e r n m e n t l i n e o f t h e S y d n e y G a z e t t e . In t h e 1 8 3 0 ' s , m a t t e r s became more c o m p l i c a t e d when p a p e r s l i k e J . D . L a n g ' s C o l o n i s t a n d A . E . H a y e s ' C u r r e n c y L a d j o i n e d t h e t h r o n g a d v o c a t i n g d e m o c r a c y a n d e g a 1 i t a r i a n i s m , i n p o l i t i c a l o p p o s i t i o n t o t h e T o r y o r g a n o f t h e A u s t r a l i a l a n d e d g e n t r y o r e x c l u s i v i s t g r o u p , t h e H e r a 1 d . T h r o u g h o u t t h i s t i m e o f w i l d e x c i t e m e n t and a c c u s a t i o n - - w h e n a s a t 33 l e a s t o n e h i s t o r i a n h a s s u g g e s t e d " r e v o l u t i o n was j u s t p o s s i b l e " A m e r i c a n p o l i t i c a l p r e c e d e n t s , w r i t e r s , e v e n t s a n d p l a c e s f i g u r e d p r o m i n e n t l y i n d e b a t e . R a d i c a l c o l o n i s t s r e c o g n i z e d t h e i m m e d i a t e i m p a c t t h e i r a r g u m e n t s h a d o n t h e a u t h o r i t i e s i f e m b e l l i s h e d w i t h A m e r i c a n p r e c e d e n t s . So t h e y e x p r e s s e d a p p r o v a l o f A m e r i c a ' s p o l i t i c a l s y s t e m , a l o n g w i t h i t s e n l i g h t e n e d a t t i t u d e t o w a r d s e d u c a t i o n , f i n a n c e , f r e e d o m o f t h e p r e s s and r e l i g i o u s t o l e r a t i o n . L i k e w i s e g o v e r n m e n t o f f i c i a l s , o r l o c a l T o r i e s s u c h a s t h e M a c a r t h u r s , when l o o k i n g f o r s u b s t a n c e w i t h w h i c h t o p o i s o n t h e i r p e n s , t y p i c a l l y a c c u s e d on t h e b a s i s o f p r e v i o u s r e p r e h e n s i b l e A m e r i c a n s a c t i o n s , a i d e d by t h e u s e o f c l i c h e d a n t i - r e p u b l i c a n s l o g a n s ( o f t h e same v a r i e t y a s t h o s e u t i l i z e d by t h e F e d e r a l i s t s i n A m e r i c a ) . G o v e r n m e n t ' s p r o b l e m t h r o u g h o u t t h e p e r i o d was s i m p l e : t h e n e w s p a p e r s w e r e t o o p o p u l a r . And D a r l i n g knew i t . " T h e m i l i t a r y a n d t h e 24 p r i s o n e r s , " he n o t e d , a r e s e e n c o n s t a n t l y r e a d i n g t h e N e w s p a p e r s . " T h e two most c o n t r o v e r s i a l o r g a n s (and i t w o u l d s e e m , f o r t h a t r e a s o n , 134 most p o p u l a r ) were the A u s t r a 1 i an and Moni t o r . We aim, the A u s t r a 1 i an d e c l a r e d e a r l y i n 1825, " t o c o n v e r t a pr i son i n t o a c o l o n y f i t f o r a 25 freeman." W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth and Robert W a r d e l l , i t s two f o u n d i n g p r o p r i e t o r s , soon took s t e p s t o r e a l i z e t h e i r i n t e n t i o n . Throughout 1825 and 1826, f a m i l i a r w i t h American examples i n the same a r e a s , the A u s t r a l i a n a d v o c a t e d t r i a l by j u r y , a House e l e c t e d on a low p r o p e r t y f r a n c h i s e and the r e c o g n i t i o n o f e m a n c i p i s t s ' 26 c l a i m s t o the v o t e and j u r y s e r v i c e . The t h r e a t e n t a i l e d i n such an independent p l a t f o r m was not l o s t on E n g l i s h p o l i t i c a n s . Some s u g g e s t e d o u t r i g h t s u p p r e s s i o n , o t h e r s l e s s d r a s t i c , but s t i l l p u n i t i v e 27 measures. S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e B a t h u r s t was so d i s t u r b e d by the p o t e n t i a l f o r u n r e s t r e p r e s e n t e d by newly autonomous newspapers i n the s o u t h e r n c o l o n y t h a t , i n J u l y , 1825, he s u g g e s t e d t h a t D a r l i n g a u t h o r i s e a stamp t a x , r e g i s t r a t i o n o f newspapers and annual l i c e n c e s resumable a t any time a t the w i l l o f the Governor w i t h the a d v i c e 28 o f h i s E x e c u t i v e C o u n c i l . No doubt aware o f the unhappy demise o f the G r e n v i l l e m i n i s t r y s h o r t l y a f t e r i t i n s t i t u t e d the Stamp A c t i n March, 1765, D a r l i n g f o r a time r e f u s e d t o implement the s u g g e s t i o n s o f h i s s u p e r i o r ; he h e l d t o h i s d e c i s i o n t h r o u g h o u t 1826, d e s p i t e the w a r n i n g s o f s e v e r a l c o n c e r n e d members o f the Botany Bay c i t i z e n r y t h a t h i s 29 c o n t i n u e d t o l e r a n c e might e v e n t u a l l y l e a d t o a r e v o l t o f the downtrodden. D u r i n g 1826 Wentworth t e r m i n a t e d h i s a s s o c i a t i o n w i t h the A u s t r a l i a n , though c o n t r o v e r s y c o n t i n u e d t o e n g u l f the paper even w i t h o u t h i s c o n t r i b u t i o n . A June, 1 8 2 6 , e d i t o r i a 1 a s s u r i n g London r e a d e r s t h a t the s t a g e s towards s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t f o r the c o l o n y would not i n c l u d e 135 r e v o l u t i o n e v i d e n t l y amounted t o l i t t l e c o m f o r t f o r D a r l i n g . " ^ E x a s p e r a t e d , he f i n a l l y responded t o the c o n t i n u e d p e r s o n a l a t t a c k s on h i s c h a r a c t e r and a u t h o r i t y by i n t r o d u c i n g two b i l l s t o c o n t r o l the p r e s s . D a r l i n g j u s t i f i e d h i s a c t i o n on the b a s i s t h a t p r e s s l i c e n c e t h r e a t e n e d t o d e s t r o y the r e l a t i v e s t a b i l i t y o f the c o l o n y . Government, he c o n t e n d e d , s i m p l y c o u l d not f u n c t i o n i n the c l i m a t e o f s u s p i c i o n c r e a t e d by, p r i n c i p a l l y , W a r d e l l ' s A u s t r a l i a n and Edward Smith H a l l ' s Mon i t o r . H a l l ' s boast t h a t the imposing C y c l o p e a n eye o f h i s w e e k l y (emblazoned atop the f r o n t page) d e t e r m i n e d t o c a r e - f u l l y s c r u t i n i z e a l l government e d i c t s and a c t i o n s must have n e t t l e d D a r l i n g s o r e l y . Edward M a c a r t h u r , John M a c a r t h u r ' s son, p r o b a b l y had H a l l and h i s c o l l e a g u e s i n mind when he r e f e r r e d t o the s e r i o u s n e s s o f the c o l o n i a l s i t u a t i o n "now endangered by a d e m o c r a t i c s p i r i t s e d u l o u s l y encouraged, p r e f e r r i n g the r e p u b l i c a n i n s t i t u t i o n s o f Amer i c a . In H a l l ' s c a s e , the comment was p a r t i c u l a r l y a p p r o p r i a t e . The Mon i t o r ' s motto, " n o t h i n g e x t e n u a t e nor s e t down aught i n m a l i c e , " s c a r c e l y r e f l e c t e d i t s a g g r e s s i v e , a t t i m e s r u t h l e s s e d i t o r i a l l i n e . For some f i v e y e a r s a f t e r the i n c e p t i o n o f h i s newspaper, H a l l devoted h i m s e l f t o the r e a l i z a t i o n o f what he f e l t t o be fundamental l i b e r t i e s : t r i a l by j u r y , f r e e and e l e c t e d government and, most i m p o r t a n t o f a l l , a f r e e p r e s s . In most m a t t e r s a J e f f e r s o n i a n , he urged h i s c o m p a t r i o t s t o e s t a b l i s h the n a t i o n i n d e p e n d e n t l y on the b a s i s o f " L i b e r a l P r i n c i p l e s 32 and Free I n s t i t u t i o n s , R a t i o n a l L i b e r t y and Equal J u s t i c e . " For H a l l , the p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l advances i n A m e r i c a s e r v e d as u s e f u l 136 g u i d e l i n e s t o t h e A u s t r a 1 i an exper i e n c e — a i . f a c t which soon became o b v i o u s i n h i s l i v e l y p o l e m i c a l o u t b u r s t s a g a i n s t i n j u s t i c e , so r e m i n i s c e n t o f Samuel Adam's j o u r n a l i s t i c f l o u r i s h i n e a r l y 17701 s B o s t o n . H a l l r a i l e d a g a i n s t Packed J u r i e s , and M a g i s t e r i a l J u r i e s on M a g i s t e r i a l q u e s t i o n s , and T a x a t i o n w i t h o u t R e p r e s e n t a t i o n , [which] cannot l o n g e x i s t i n the b u r n i n g r a d i a n c e o f a f r e e and v i r t u o u s Press.33 In h i s u n f l a g g i n g t i r a d e s a g a i n s t government incompetence and r e p r e s s i o n , H a l l , " t h e A u s t r a l i a n C o b b e t t , " e v i d e n t l y f l a y e d D a r l i n g ' s 34 h i d e once too o f t e n d u r i n g March, 1827. In p r i v a t e c o r r e s p o n d e n c e , when c a s t i g a t i n g the s u b v e r s i v e i n f l u e n c e s a c t i n g on A u s t r a l i a n r a d i c a l s a t the t i m e , D a r l i n g s t a t e d t h a t "America i s the Grand 35 Beacon, which Mr. Wentworth and the o p p o s i t i o n papers have i n v i e w . " The c o u r s e w h i c h he had c o n s c i o u s l y a v o i d e d , i n d i s r e g a r d i n g B a t h u r s t ' s s u g g e s t i o n t o i n t r o d u c e i n h i b i t o r y l e g i s l a t i o n , now seemed i n e v i t a b l e . The c o l o n y needed t o purge i t s e l f o f the t r o u b l e s o m e " r e p u b l i c a n s " and r e t u r n t o the s e c u r i t y o f " p u r e l y A r i s t o c r a t i c k " government. So D a r l i n g , no doubt w i t h c o n s i d e r a b l e t r e p i d a t i o n , i n t r o d u c e d two b i l l s i n t o the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l , i n A p r i l , 1827, i n an a t t e m p t t o c o u n t e r the g r o w i n g s e d i t i o u s n e s s o f Sydney's newspapers. The b i l l s proposed compulsory r e g i s t r a t i o n o f newspapers, compulsory payment o f f i n e s imposed f o r blasphemous o r s e d i t i o u s l i b e l , resumable l i c e n c e s 36 and, o m i n o u s l y , stamp d u t y . The c o l o n y ' s C h i e f J u s t i c e , S i r F r a n c i s F o r b e s , a c c e p t e d the f i r s t 137 two measures but r e j e c t e d the n o t i o n o f resumable l i c e n c e s . - " The i m p o s i t i o n o f f o u r p e n c e stamp d u t y he a l s o r e f u s e d t o c o u n t e n a n c e , f i n d i n g i t i n c o n s i s t e n t w i t h E n g l i s h law and repugnant t o the freedom o f the p r e s s . The A u s t r a 1 i an, Mon i t o r , Sydney G a z e t t e and G1eaner, w h i l e c e l e b r a t i n g t h e i r s u c c e s s and the a p p a r e n t i n t e g r i t y o f F o r b e s ' l i b e r a l p r i n c i p l e s , s t i l l remained c e n s o r i o u s of the s u b s t a n c e o f the b i l l which d i d pass i n t o law on A p r i l 25. They sensed the f i r s t s t a g e o f a r e t u r n t o p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p . T y p i c a l l y , W a r d e l l r e v e r t e d t o the t a c t i c w h i c h had s e r v e d him (and h i s f e l l o w - e d i t o r s ) so w e l l i n the p a s t y e a r s : a n a l o g y w i t h e v e n t s i n r e v o l u t i o n a r y A m e r i c a . He c h a r a c t e r i z e d the p r e s s b i l l as an A u s t r a l i a n v e r s i o n o f the r e p e l l e n t Stamp A c t , and l i k e l y t o produce s i m i l a r r e s u l t s . For t h i s he was t r i e d — a n d found "not 38 g u i l t y , " m i d s t u p r o a r i o u s scenes o f e e l e b r a t i o n - - i n December. As i n E n g l a n d , the p a t t e r n o f • c o n s c i o u s 1 y i n v o k i n g American example t o v a l i d a t e one's o p i n i o n , whether by r a d i c a l c o l o n i s t o r c o n s e r v a t i v e , was becoming a f a m i l i a r one t o a l l i n h a b i t a n t s o f the 39 A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s . Sydney e d i t o r s t h r i v e d f o r some time i n con- d i t i o n s c o n d u c i v e t o t h e i r a g i t a t i o n f o r i n c r e a s e d l i b e r t i e s . So too d i d t h e i r Tasmanian c o h o r t s , f o r a s h o r t p e r i o d i n the 1820 1 s. Andrew Bent, a r g u a b l y the f o r e m o s t p r o m u l g a t o r o f p r o t e s t i n the extreme s o u t h e r n c o l o n y ' s f o r m a t i v e y e a r s , was the f i r s t t o mount a s u b s t a n t i a l c h a l l e n g e t o the l o c a l a u t h o r i t i e s when, s t i l l i n h i s m i d - t w e n t i e s , he e s t a b l i s h e d the Hobart Town G a z e t t e and S o u t h e r n R e p o r t e r . D i s s e n t r a p i d l y permeated the c o l o n y . In H.M. Green's 138 words: . . . i f the s t r u g g l e f o r the freedom o f the B r e s s was begun i n New South Wales by the A u s t r a l i a n , i t was k e e n e s t i n Tasmania . . . because here i t took the form o f a r e b e l l i o n . . . . ^0 Bent, v a r i o u s l y r e f e r r e d t o by h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s as the " F r a n k l i n o f the S o u t h e r n Hemisphere" o r a "second F r a n k l i n , " a g i t a t e d i n the 41 G a z e t t e f o r a f r e e p r e s s f o r the remote c o l o n y ; l a t e r , a f t e r b e i n g t r i e d and found g u i l t y o f l i b e l , he c o n t i n u e d t o v o i c e h i s s e n t i m e n t s 42 i n the C o l o n i a l Times and Tasmanian A d v e r t i s e r . For a time the v i t r i o l o f h i s pen e x e r t e d a s t r o n g e f f e c t . When Bent r e f u s e d t o a p p l y f o r a l i c e n c e f o r the Times under the L i c e n s i n g A c t of 1827 and put h i s paper " I n M o u r n i n g , " he e x p e r i e n c e d c o n s i d e r a b l e p o p u l a r s u p p o r t , something t a n g i b l e i n r e t u r n f o r . hi s c o n t i n u e d advocacy o f 43 the fundamental r i g h t s and c a p a c i t y o f the p e o p l e . J u s t as J e f f e r s o n had s a i d t h a t . . . whenever the p e o p l e a r e w e l l informed t h e y . c a n be t r u s t e d w i t h t h e i r own government; t h a t whenever t h i n g s get so f a r wrong as t o a t t r a c t t h e i r n o t i c e , they may be r e l i e d on t o s e t them t o r i g h t s . ^ --so an anonymous Hobart Town G a z e t t e c o n t r i b u t o r p r o c l a i m e d i n 1825 t h a t The p e o p l e a r e seldom wrong i n t h e i r o p i n i o n s ; i n t h e i r s e n t i m e n t s they a r e never mistaken.**5 The pressure* o f p e r s i s t e n t government c o e r c i o n f i n a l l y caused 1 3 9 Bent, f l a t broke and s p i r i t j a d e d , t o m i g r a t e t o Sydney. But he had s p r e a d the seeds w e l l , and h i s p r i n c i p l e s were v i g o r o u s l y d i s s e m i n a t e d 4 6 by o t h e r s , among them the e n i g m a t i c R i c h a r d L a t h r o p Murray. T o t a l l y f a m i l i a r w i t h American s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l h i s t o r y , Murray, l i k e Bent, was not a v e r s e t o u s i n g the hard l e s s o n s o f the American R e v o l u t i o n f o r h:i.-s own p u r p o s e s . For example, when campaigning i n h i s A u s t r a 1 - A s i a s t i c Review f o r B r i t i s h f i n a n c i a l a c c o u n t a b i l i t y f o r the c o n v i c t s t r a n s p o r t e d t o the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s , he t h r e a t e n e d t h a t I f . . . she [ B r i t a i n ] chooses t o throw t h a t expense upon us, we have t h a t same w h i c h our American p r e d e c e s s o r s e x e r c i s e d , t o d e a l w i t h them as b e s t s u i t s our own v i e w s - - t o adopt the B r i t i s h e x p r e s s i o n - - " a c c o r d i n g t o our c i r - cumstances and s i t u a t i o n ! ' C o l o n i a l r a d i c a l s i n New South W a l e s - - a l l Americans a t h e a r t , 4 8 s n a r l e d t h e g o v e r n o r - - c o n t i n u e d t o p r e s s t h e i r advantage t h r o u g h o u t the l a s t y e a r s o f D a r l i n g ' s p e r i o d o f t e n u r e . I t r a n k l e d the man t o be s c u r r i l o u s l y a t t a c k e d by the l o c a l papers and t o r e c e i v e s p a r s e s u p p o r t from the C o l o n i a l O f f i c e . Ha 11, whom Dar 1ling c o n s i d e r e d "an i l l - d i s p o s e d i f not dangerous man," p e r s i s t e d w i t h h i s demands f o r 4 9 g r e a t e r p e r s o n a l freedom f o r c o l o n i s t s . He was c o n v i c t e d a t o t a l o f seven t i m e s f o r c r i m i n a l l i b e l , and c o l o n i a l j u d g e s e v e n t u a l l y s e n t e n c e d him t o f i f t e e n months i n g a o l i n l 8 2 9 _ - o n l y t o f i n d t h a t f o r the Mon i t o r i t was b u s i n e s s as u s u a l . F u r t h e r l i b e l s and a d d i t i o n a s e n t e n c e s f o l l o w e d . Attempted r e p r e s s i o n merely c r e a t e d s t i f f e r r e s i s t a n c e . R e l a t i o n s d e t e r i o r a t e d r a p i d l y . D a r l i n g , f e e l i n g the h o s t i l e p r e s s now t o be no more than " i n f a t u a t e d i n c e n d i a r i e s , " 140 assumed a p o l i t i c a l p o s i t i o n much c l o s e r t o the e x c l u s i v e s , because 50 they s h a r e d a common enemy. M a c a r t h u r and h i s f e l l o w s e n t r e a t e d the g o v e r n o r t o a c t b e f o r e the s i t u a t i o n gave way t o r e v o l u t i o n , r e s u l t i n g i n the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l ' s unanimous s u p p o r t o f a new P r e s s law based on one o f the r e p r e s s i v e S i x A c t s o f l 8 l 9 - " ^ Any person c o n v i c t e d o f s e d i t i o u s l i b e l a second time c o u l d be l e g a l l y b a n i s h e d from the c o l o n y . The Mon i t o r i n s t a n t l y responded t o t h i s new c h a l l e n g e w i t h a b l a c k - b o r d e r e d e d i t o r i a l page d i s p l a y i n g a c o f f i n . I t r e f u s e d t o c a p i t u l a t e , c o n f i d e n t l y m a i n t a i n i n g w i t h f u l l b i b l i c a l f l o u r i s h : " I s h a l l r i s e 52 a g a i n . " Menacing statements such as t h i s one had, f o r c o l o n i a l c o n s e r v a t i v e s , been a l l too f r e q u e n t o f l a t e . Who, they asked t h e m s e l v e s , was t o blame? A n x i o u s t o m a i n t a i n Government p a t r o n a g e , the Sydney G a z e t t e condemned H a l l ' s e x t r e m i s t b e h a v i o u r , t h o u g h t f u l l y p r o v i d i n g a b i b l i o g r a p h y o f the "moral and p o l i t i c a l t r e a s u r e s " p e r v a d i n g h i s shadowy background: C o b b e t t ' s Code o f Anar c h y ; H a r r i e t W i l s o n ' s Memoirs; P a l e y ' s Moral P h i l o s o p h y ; P a i n e ' s R i g h t s o f Man; Common Sense, and Age o f Reason; Young's N i g h t Thoughts; . . . H o y l e ' s Games; L i c e n t i o u s n e s s the Essence o f Modern L i b e r t y ; A l l a d i n , o r the Wonderful Lamp; G a l l ' s P h r e n o l o g y ; Munro on Lunacy; Sc. &c. Sc.53 Among o t h e r dark and wayward i n f l u e n c e s , Thomas P a i n e a g a i n , g u i l t y no l e s s than t h r e e times o f c o r r u p t i n g the unsteady m o r a l s o f the c o l o n y . G r a v e l y c u l p a b l e i n Botany Bay's f i r s t y e a r s , i t appeared some f o r t y y e a r s l a t e r t h a t he s t i l l s t r o n g l y e p i t o m i z e d , f o r the v 141 a u t h o r i t i e s , the f o r c e s o f i n s u r r e c t i o n and a n a r c h y . Government s y m p a t h i z e r s f e l t s u r e t h a t the c o l o n y ' s r e s i d e n t r a b b i e r o u s e r , E . S . H a l l , a n d h i s c i t i z e n f r i e n d A t t w e l l Edwin Hayes, the " r e d - h o t R a d i c a l " who had assumed the e d i t o r s h i p o f the A u s t r a 1 i a n i n 1828, i n t e n d e d t o a p p l y s e v e r a l o f the a s s u m p t i o n s u n d e r l y i n g Pa i ne' s Common Sense and R i g h t s o f Man. And i t i s t r u e t h a t i n t h e i r e d i t o r i a l s they p u b l i c i z e d , t o use P a i n e ' s p h r a s e , the " i n- d e f e a s i b l e h e r e d i t a r y R i g h t s o f Man." L i k e P a i n e , they wanted t o r e a l i z e t h e i r n a t u r a l r i g h t s t o " 1 i b e r t y , p r o p e r t y , s e c u r i t y , and 54 r e s i s t a n c e o f o p p r e s s i o n . " But t h e r e the resemblance ceased. They were not p r e p a r e d t o make a t o t a l commitment t o the cause o f r e b e l l i o n i n New South Wales, much l e s s t o a d v o c a t e , as P a i n e d i d , 55 "The R e v o l u t i o n o f the W o r l d . " H a l l , i t s h o u l d not be f o r g o t t e n , was a p r o p e r t y owner. H i s was the d i s s e n t , t o a g r e a t e x t e n t , o f s e l f - i n t e r e s t ; i t was the l i g h t w e i g h t r a d i c a l i s m o f the e s s e n t i a l l y c o n s e r v a t i v e P h i 1 a d e l p h i a n lawyer John D i c k i n s o n pushed t o the l i m i t s , r a t h e r than the impassioned p h i l a n t h r o p i c z e a l o f a Tom P a i n e . D a r l i n g j u s t i f i e d h i s measures t o h i s London s u p e r i o r s i n two ways, c i t i n g the c o l o n y ' s p o p u l a c e , " c h i e f l y . . . o f c o n v i c t s , " and " t h e s e c u r i t y o f the c o l o n y , which the p u b l i c a t i o n s a l l u d e d t o 56 were i n a h i g h degree c a l c u l a t e d t o d i s t u r b and endanger." For Hayes and H a l l , the new P r e s s law was j u s t cause t o b a t t e r g o v e r n - ment a g a i n . Hayes' A u s t r a 1 i a n b i t t e r l y a t t a c k e d the measure as ' 'GAGGING-STRANGLING-PRESS-EXT INCTI ON," then f o r s i x weeks r e p l a c e d the u s u a l e d i t o r i a l w i t h a c u t o f a p r i n t i n g p r e s s c h a i n e d up by an 142 o f f i c e r and the p r i n t e r hanged on h i s p r e s s - - a l l w i t h i n an e n l a r g e d "D" i n the word "INDEPENDENT." 5 7 A f t e r i n i t i a l o u t r a g e , H a l l , s t i l l i n g a o l , w r o t e a l e n g t h y , reasoned l e t t e r t o S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e f o r the C o l o n i e s George Murray d e t a i l i n g h i s g r i e v a n c e s . In tones r e m i n i s c e n t o f D i c k i n s o n , and a g a i n a l l u d i n g t o the American s p e c t r e , the l e t t e r a c c u r a t e l y r e f l e c t s the t r u e Whiggism a t the h e a r t o f the a u t h o r ' s p h i l o s o p h y r a t h e r than any s u b s t a n t i a l t i e s t o m i l i t a n t a c t i o n . I t i s a f i n e example o f the l i v e l y p o l e m i c - - t h e t r u e l i t e r a t u r e - - o f the day: I d e e p l y r e g r e t . . . [ e k i n g ] out my e x i s t e n c e i n t h i s l a n d o f s l a v e r y , o f s l a v e r y I mean f o r men accustomed t o be f r e e . . . . I s i g h f o r the freedom and s e c u r i t y I l e f t behind me. R e f l e c t i n g on the f u t u r e I see n o t h i n g but p o l i t i c a l s t r u g g l e s f o r a b e t t e r o r d e r o f t h i n g s , w h i c h may p r o b a b l y end b e f o r e my death i n a c i v i l commotion. . . . For o f one t h i n g I am c e r t a i n , t e n y e a r s hence, the n a t i v e y o u t h w i l l not q u i e t l y submit t o t h a t p o l i c y and t h o s e measures, t o which the s t e a d y unshaken l o y a l t y of us o l d c o l o n i s t s induces us t o bend the neck w i t h some degree o f p a t i e n c e . The o n l y c o n s o l a t i o n l e f t me i n such a s t a t e o f t h i n g s i s t o endeavour t o persuade H i s M a j e s t y ' s Govern- ment, by my p u b l i c w r i t i n g s t o change t h e i r views and measures, e r e i t be too l a t e ; and, i n the meantime, t o d e t e r my countrymen a t home from v o y a g i n g t o a c o u n t r y w h i c h , b e s i d e s i t s n a t u r a l d i s a d v a n t a g e s , i s t o r n by p o l i t i c a l d i s s e n s i o n s , d e s t r o y e d by i m p o l i t i c l a w s , l a i d waste p e r i o d i c a l l y e i t h e r by f l o o d o r d r o u g h t , and d e m o r a l i z e d by the shameful h y p o c r i s y o f r e l i g i o u s p r o f e s s o r s on the one hand, and the open p r o f l i g a c y o f " . • immoral men on the other.5° i H a l l here e x p l o i t s a l l h i s r e s o u r c e s t e s t i f y i n g , among o t h e r t h i n g s , t o h i s wearisome u n r e w a r d i n g l o t , the absence i n the c o l o n y o f the fundamental r i g h t s t o w h i c h a l l Englishmen can l a y c l a i m and, f i n a l l y , the i n e v i t a b i l i t y o f an A u s t r a l i a n War o f I ndependence i f the Home 1 4 3 a u t h o r i t i e s f a i l t o r e c o g n i z e the j u s t n e s s o f h i s c l a i m s . Reasoned a t t a c k s on the l o c a l a d m i n i s t r a t i o n , such as H a l l ' s , f i n a l l y took t h e i r t o l l . D a r l i n g ' s a c t was deemed i n c o n s i s t e n t w i t h E n g l i s h law on J a n u a r y 6, 1831. In March, the new Whig S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e G o d e r i c h informed the g o v e r n o r t h a t he was t o be r e l i e v e d . The A u s t r a l i a n g l o a t e d : "Huzza — b o y s — A u s t r a l i a and Freedom f o r e v e r , " w h i l e the Mon i t o r j u b i l a n t l y d e c l a r e d , i n l a r g e c a p i t a l s : HE'S OFF! THE REIGN OF TERROR E N D E D 5 9 C o l o u r e d t r a n s p a r e n c i e s i n the windows o f H a l l ' s o f f i c e s c e l e b r a t e d the v i c t o r y : " L i b e r t y t o the P r e s s u n f e t t e r e d by the D a r l i n g Neck- 60 l a c e ! " The C o l o n i a l O f f i c e d e n i e d t h a t p r e s s a g i t a t i o n p r e c i p i t a t e d the g o v e r n o r ' s r e c a l l , but D a r l i n g was under no such i l l u s i o n . S a d l y , he r e f l e c t e d : " H i s [ H a l l ' s ] t r i u m p h i s c o m p l e t e . " 6 ^ J u s t as i n A m e r i c a , when p r o f o u n d changes f o l l o w e d J e f f e r s o n ' s e l e c t i o n t o _ t h e p r e s i d e n c y i n 1801, so i n A u s t r a l i a S i r R i c h a r d Bourke's s e v e n - y e a r term (1831-8) changed the f a c e o f A u s t r a l i a n s o c i e t y . When J e f f e r s o n assumed o f f i c e he a b o l i s h e d a l l the a r i s t o - c r a t i c t r a p p i n g s a t t a c h e d t o the p r e s i d e n c y , r e s o l v i n g t o "put her [ t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ] on her r e p u b l i c a n t a c k , and she w i l l now show 62 by the beauty o f her motion the s k i l l o f her b u i l d e r s . " Tory F e d e r a l i s t s p a l e d a t the thought o f a P r e s i d e n t so s t a u n c h l y r e p u b l i c a n as t o be v i r t u a l l y an a n a r c h i s t . A u s t r a l i a n e x c l u s i v e s c r i t i c i z e d Bourke's a d m i n i s t r a t i o n , i n a l i k e manner, f o r i t s a l m o s t r u t h l e s s i n s i s t e n c e on e v e r y c i t i z e n ' s r i g h t ~ - e m a n c i p i s t o r n o t - - t o s o c i a l , 144 r e l i g i o u s and p o l i t i c a 1 ' e q u a 1 i t y . T h i s a t t i t u d e , smacking o f p o t e n t i a l democracy, s o r e l y a n t a g o n i z e d Botany-Bay T o r i e s . Both J e f f e r s o n and Bourke r e g a r d e d the p l a i n e s t c i t i z e n as worthy o f both r e s p e c t and c o n s i d e r a t i o n f o r any government o f f i c e . S i g n i f i c a n t l y , Bourke never had t o c u r b the c o l o n i a l p r e s s , though l e g a l l y equipped t o do so t h r o u g h - out h i s term. In terms o f sheer v i t r i o l and v u l g a r abuse, l i t t l e s e p a r a t e d 63 the newspapers o f the l820's and t h o s e o f the 1 30 1 s. E d i t o r s c o n t i n u e d t o a t t a c k opponents w a s p i s h l y , s p a r i n g no p e r s o n a l d e t a i l s , whether c o r r o b o r a t e d o r n o t . Each j o u r n a l ' s p o l i t i c a l p o s i t i o n v i r t u a l l y d i c t a t e d i t s r e s p o n s e t o the s t o r y o f the day. What d i d undergo change, however, was the way i n which the U n i t e d S t a t e s - - " B r o t h e r Jonathan"--was t r e a t e d . The r i g i d i t y o f D a r l i n g ' s s t a n c e on p e r s o n a l freedom i n the 18201 s, whether j u s t i f i e d o r n o t , caused A m e r i c a t o c o n t i n u a l l y f i g u r e i n argument as a s t i c k w i t h w h i c h t o beat the o p p o s i t i o n . In t h e i r t h r e a t s and c o u n t e r - t h r e a t s , both s i d e s c o n c e i v e d o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s as a menacing model o f a g g r e s s i v e , e g a l i t a r i a n r u l e . Bourke's l i b e r a l Whiggism o f the 1830's, however, would f o s t e r none o f t h a t . Commentators began t o v i e w A m e r i c a i n a l e s s i m p a s s i o n e d , i f more i d e a l i s t i c l i g h t . More and more a r t i c l e s c o n s t r u c t i v e l y c r i t i c i z i n g A u s t r a l i a n s o c i e t y appeared. For a time t h e r e was s i m p l y no need t o p o r t e n d r e v o l u t i o n . R a t h e r , A u s t r a l i a n s asked themselves what h e l p A m e r i c a might o f f e r t h o s e c o l o n i s t s con- t e m p l a t i n g e v e n t u a l s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t . The emphasis s h i f t e d from d i s s e n t t o g r e a t e r r e s p o n s i b i l i t y and r e f l e c t i o n s on the b e n e f i t s o f p a t r i o t i s m . 145 Not how d i d A m e r i c a c a s t o f f the l a s t s h a c k l e s o f B r i t i s h o p p r e s s i o n , but how d i d she h a n d l e the p r o c e s s o f f o r m u l a t i n g a r e p u b l i c a n g o v e r n - ment based on the t e n e t s o f the 1776 D e c l a r a t i o n ? In t h i s c l i m a t e o f i n q u i r y and s o b e r d e l i b e r a t i o n , q u e s t i o n s c o n c e r n i n g the importance o f l i t e r a t u r e t o a new s o c i e t y were asked f o r the f i r s t t i m e . A few c o n c e r n e d c o l o n i s t s l i k e John Dunmore Lang wanted t o know whether l i t e r a t u r e c o u l d h e l p c r e a t e a n a t i o n a l c o n s c i o u s n e s s . They l o o k e d p r i m a r i l y t o A m e r i c a f o r news. Even b e f o r e D a r l i n g had l e f t the c o l o n y ' s s h o r e s , s i g n s o f c h a n g i n g p r i o r i t i e s had begun t o appear. An A u s t r a 1 i a n a r t i c l e i n September, 1831, i n w h i c h the U n i t e d S t a t e s was l a b e l l e d "a model f o r a l l new c o u n t r i e s and New South Wales ( h e r e a f t e r ) i n p a r t i c u l a r , " a n t i c i p a t e d the t r a n s i t i o n t o o c c u r i n l a t e r y e a r s . Pronounced a d m i r a t i o n f o r American i n s t i t u t i o n s found e x p r e s s i o n i n s e v e r a l l e a d i n g j o u r n a l s . Indeed, Thomas Fyshe Palmer's f o r e c a s t made s e v e r a l decades b e f o r e , of f u t u r e g r a n d e u r f o r the i s o l a t e d o u t p o s t t o which he had been t r a n s p o r t e d , f o r the f i r s t time g a i n e d w i d e s p r e a d p u b l i c i t y i n the c o l o n y i t s e l f i n the 1830's. The " F u t u r e America f a n t a s y " i n t e n s i f i e d . E . S . Ha 1 1 ' s Mon i.tor p r o c l a imed Amer i ca ' s res i d e n t s " t h e peopl e o f the b e s t Government i n the w o r l d , and i n f i n i t e l y the b e s t the w o r l d e v e r saw, and p r o b a b l y the v e r y b e s t i t w i l l e v e r s e e " ; a few y e a r s l a t e r H a l l judged the American C o n s t i t u t i o n f a r b e t t e r than the E n g l i s h , " b e i n g more f r e e and a t the same time more s t a b l e , and l e s s l i a b l e t o t u m u l t and s e d i t i o n . " The A u s t r a l i a n , b a r e l y a b l e t o c o n t a i n i t s z e a l , managed t o pause l o n g enough t o c o n s i d e r a b o u n t i f u l f u t u r e 146 f o r . i t s i n f a n t l a n d r e a l i z i n g a " h e i g h t o f p r o s p e r i t y and power which reduces the b o a s t e d growth o f America t o a s i z e and h e i g h t no 65 l o n g e r a s t o n i s h i n g . " O f t e n c o n s i d e r a t i o n s o f American independence were i n c o r p o r a t e d i n t o the w i d e r p l a n o f b o l s t e r i n g n a t i o n a l awareness. For example, a s h o r t - l i v e d l i t e r a r y j o u r n a l , The C u r r e n c y Lad (1832-3), p u b l i s h e d by H o r a t i o W i l l s , "an A u s t r a l i a n , " canvassed e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y i n the 66 f i r s t y e a r s o f the decade f o r a c e r t a i n combative n a t i o n a l i s m . W i l l s , whose e a r l y y e a r s s t r i k i n g l y resembled t h o s e o f the young Ben F r a n k l i n , r e c o g n i z e d A m e r i c a ' s i n t e g r a l r o l e i n a w o r l d now " f a s t 67 a p p r o a c h i n g t o r e p u b l i c a n i s m — t o cheap and w i s e government." He demanded t h a t A u s t r a l i a n "Sons o f the S o i l " s t r i v e t o p u b l i c i z e t h e i r l o v e o f the new l a n d l e s t they be overwhelmed by the numerous " h i g h - s a l a r i e d f o r e i g n e r s " p r e s e n t t h r o u g h o u t the c o l o n y , " t h o s e men l o l l i n g i n t h e i r c o a c h e s - - r i o t i n g i n the sweat o f your brow." The f i g h t , as W i l l s saw i t , was between the s e n a t e o f England and the NATIVES OF NEW SOUTH WALES--between men who have the f a t e o f A m e r i c a b e f o r e t h e i r e y e s , and men on whose brow a r e i n d e l i b l y t r a c e d the stamp o f f r e e and d e t e r m i n e d INDEPENDENCE:—"WE WERE NOT MADE FOR S L A V E S ! " 6 8 Always c o n s c i o u s o f the need f o r a marked change i n the t h i n k i n g o f the t y p i c a l c o l o n i s t i f s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t were t o be a c h i e v e d , W i l l s took as h i s motto f o r The C u r r e n c y Lad the c h a l l e n g e " R i s e A u s t r a l i a " and s e l e c t e d h i s j o u r n a l t i t l e f u l l y aware t h a t the term was " a f f i x e d as a mark o f reproach--now become a b o a s t f u l appendage." In t h i s 147 r e s p e c t , he e x p l a i n e d , t h e j o u r n a l ' s h i s t o r y r e s e m b l e d t h a t o f Y a n k e e 69 D o o d l e ' s . 3 By t h e m i d -l830 ' s , m o s t c o l o n i s t s w e r e a w a r e o f t h e g r e a t and c o n t r o v e r s i a l p r e s i d e n c y o f t h e new man i n W a s h i n g t o n a s a r e s u l t o f p r e s s c o v e r a g e . A n d r e w J a c k s o n ' s b e l i e f i n t h e i n h e r e n t c a p a c i t y o f t h e common m a n , p o l i t i c a l e q u a l i t y f o r a l l , e q u a l e c o n o m i c o p p o r t u n i t y , and t h e r e j e c t i o n o f s p e c i a l p r i v i l e g e , had g r e a t a p p e a l f o r a p o w e r - f u l e m a n c i p i s t g r o u p s t e a d i l y a s s e r t i n g i t s j u s t c l a i m t o a m e a n i n g - f u l r o l e i n t h e d e s t i n y o f i t s c o u n t r y . A u s t r a l i a n d e m o c r a t s J a p p r e c i a t e d O l d H i c k o r y ' s c o m m i t m e n t t o t h e p r i n c i p l e t h a t a l l men w e r e e q u a l i n t h e i r r e l a t i o n t o g o v e r n m e n t . Not s u r p r i s i n g l y , t h e n , S y d n e y j o u r n a l s r e p r o d u c e d t h e t e x t o f some o f J a c k s o n ' s s p e e c h e s a s a l e a r n i n g e x p e r i e n c e f o r t h e i r r e a d e r s . In 1836, t h e S y d n e y G a z e t t e e u l o g i z e d t h e f r o n t i e r P r e s i d e n t ' s " h o m e s p u n 1 ' 1 m e s s a g e s t o C o n g r e s s , m a i n t a i n i n g t h a t i t was s o " r e f r e s h i n g t o t u r n f r o m t h e d i c t a t o r i a 1ism o f m o n a r c h s p e e c h m a k i n g s , t o t h i s p l a i n - s p o k e n e m a n a t i o n f r o m t h e C h i e f o f a v a s t r e p u b l i c . . . . " 7 ^ A y e a r o r s o l a t e r t h e Mon i t o r r e p r i n t e d , p o i n t by p o i n t , J a c k s o n ' s f a r e w e l l a d d r e s s t o t h e 72 27th C o n g r e s s . In t h i s a d d r e s s , t h e r e t i r i n g P r e s i d e n t d i d l i t t l e more t h a n s u m m a r i z e t h e d o c t r i n e s e x p o u n d e d i n h i s e i g h t a n n u a l m e s s a g e s . T h e r e p r e s e n t a t i v e Mon i t o r r e a d e r w o u l d no d o u b t h a v e e n d o r s e d J a c k s o n ' s r e i t e r a t i o n o f h i s immense s a t i s f a c t i o n a t l e a d i n g a n a t i o n a t a t i m e when s p e c i a l p r i v i l e g e was d e a l t a v i r t u a l d e a t h b l o w ; h i s r e s t a t e m e n t o f t h e maxim t h a t " e t e r n a l v i g i l a n c e by t h e p e o p l e i s t h e p r i c e o f l i b e r t y , " and t h a t y o u " m u s t p a y t h e p r i c e 1 4 8 i f you w i s h t o s e c u r e the b l e s s i n g " ; h i s emphasis on the s a f e t y and advantages o f p l a i n and i n e x p e n s i v e i n s t i t u t i o n s , and on the a b i l i t y o f a u n i t e d p e o p l e t o ward o f f the e v e r - p r e s e n t danger o f s e c t i o n a l i s m ; and, f i n a l l y , the p o t e n t d e m o c r a t i c c o n v i c t i o n , a l l i e d w i t h a homely warmth, o f h i s c l o s i n g remarks: " I thank God t h a t my l i f e has been spent i n a l a n d o f l i b e r t y and t h a t He has g i v e n 7 3 me a h e a r t t o l o v e my c o u n t r y w i t h the a f f e c t i o n o f a s o n . " No a r i s t o c r a t i c t r a p p i n g s ; A u s t r a l i a n democrats l i k e d t h a t . Concern f o r i n s t i l l i n g a J a c k s o n i a n p a t r i o t i c l o v e o f c o u n t r y i n t o the l o c a l p o p u l a c e was one o f the h a b i t u a l p r e o c c u p a t i o n s o f John Dunmore Lang. Though a P r e s b y t e r i a n m i n i s t e r on God's m i s s i o n , Lang seemed t o a s s i g n a t l e a s t equal importance t o h i s r o l e as shaper o f an A u s t r a l i a n s p i r i t . One p a r t o f t h i s r o l e , as Lang c o n c e i v e d i t , i n v o l v e d o p p o s i n g the e x c l u s i v e s , o r budding T o r i e s o f the c o l o n y - - t h o s e men who f e l t p r i v i l e g e a p p l i e d t o o n l y one c l a s s i n the community. Hence, he devoted h i m s e l f t o r e l e n t l e s s l y d i s p a r a g i n g the j o u r n a l 7 4 o f t h i s group, the Sydney H e r a l d . The second, and more c o n s t r u c t i v e a s p e c t o f Lang's d i d a c t i c purpose found e x p r e s s i o n i n h i s advocacy o f p o s i t i v e c o u r s e s o f a c t i o n f o r s o c i a l improvement. The immigrant who deemed A u s t r a l i a "a c o u n t r y o f a d o p t i o n o n l y " had t o be c o n v i n c e d o f the e r r o r o f h i s w a y s . 7 5 As the 1 8 3 0 ' s p r o g r e s s e d , Lang t u r n e d more and more t o American example t o a u t h e n t i c a t e h i s p r e a c h i n g p i t c h . Lang's H i s t o r y o f New South Wales ( 1 8 3 4 ) , a v a l u a b l e work f o r many B r i t o n s o f the e r a a t t e m p t i n g t o a p p r e c i a t e developments i n the 149 s o u t h e r n c o l o n y , r e f l e c t e d h i s sympathy f o r American independence but d i d n ' t e x t e n s i v e l y a d d r e s s i t s e l f t o the i m p l i c a t i o n s o f r e p u b l i c a n 76 l e g i s l a t i o n f o r h i s adopted l a n d . The Col on i s t , however, p u b l i s h e d a wide range o f American m a t e r i a l d u r i n g i t s f i v e - y e a r p u b l i c a t i o n span, u n d e r s c o r i n g the common s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l d e s t i n y o f the two c o u n t r i e s . 7 7 A u s t r a l i a was a n o t h e r A m e r i c a , even i f u n t r i e d as a w o r k i n g democracy. As s u c h , J o n a t h a n ' s p r o g r e s s promised t o be of i n e s t i m a b l e b e n e f i t t o A u s t r a l i a n p o l i t i c i a n s s u f f i c i e n t l y p e r - c e p t i v e t o l e a r n by A m e r i c a ' s s u c c e s s e s and m i s t a k e s . And, o f c o u r s e , o the r e v e r s e . In the f u t u r e , "mutual advantages may be e x p e c t e d t o 78 f l o w . " When the f i r s t American C o n s u l , J.H. W i l l i a m s , a r r i v e d i n Sydney i n J a n u a r y , 1837, the C o l o n i s t grasped the o p p o r t u n i t y t o e x p a t i a t e on impending independence. In c o n t r a s t t o the s p i t e and anger o f the l 8 2 0 ' s , the tone o f the passage, r e p r e s e n t a t i v e o f the p r e f e r e n c e i n the t h i r t i e s f o r r e t r o s p e c t i o n and e x a m i n a t i o n , r e f l e c t s a s i n g u l a r i t y o f purpose from w h i c h Lang would never be d i v e r t e d : I t i s o n l y n a t u r a l , t h a t A u s t r a l i a s h o u l d l o o k on the v U n i t e d S t a t e s w i t h more than o r d i n a r y i n t e r e s t . Through- out the whole o f t h e i r h i s t o r y , t h e r e a r e c e r t a i n broad f e a t u r e s b e a r i n g no i m a g i n a r y resemblance t o our own. A m e r i c a was once a B r i t i s h dependency; A u s t r a l i a i s so now. A m e r i c a was once the r e c e p t a c l e o f t h o s e whom B r i t a i n b a n i s h e d from her bosom; E a s t e r n A u s t r a l i a i s t h a t r e c e p t a c l e now. America r e c e i v e d her language, her manners, her l i t e r a t u r e , and the germ o f her laws and p o l i t i c a l i n s t i t u t i o n s , from the B r i t i s h I s l e s ; so a l s o has A u s t r a l i a . America a t l e n g t h outgrew the trammels o f n a t i o n a l j u v e n i l i t y , and a s s e r t e d the p r e - r o g a t i v e o f mature manhood, w h i c h she i n the end com- p e l l e d her r e l u c t a n t p a r e n t t o acknowledge: i t i s p e r f e c t l y c o n s i s t e n t w i t h l o y a l t y and common sense t o p r e d i c t , t h a t a t some f u t u r e p e r i o d , - - f a r d i s t a n t no doubt i t i s , - - A u s t r a 1 i a w i l l pursue a s i m i l a r c o u r s e , and w i t h s i m i l a r s u c c e s s . No r e f l e c t i n g man can deny, o r even q u e s t i o n , t h a t t h i s T e r r a A u s t r a 1 i s i s d e s t i n e d - - u n l e s s D i v i n e P r o v i d e n c e s h a l l a l t e r t h a t c o u r s e o f e v e n t s w h i c h has h i t h e r t o a t t e n d e d the g e n e r a l h i s t o r y o f n a t i o n s — t o become too w e a l t h y , too p o w e r f u l , and too e n l i g h t e n e d , t o need the l e a d i n g s t r i n g s which now h o l d her.79 151 Sect i on B_ S o c i e t y and L i t e r a t u r e The pressmen, t h e n , were the f i r s t c o l o n i s t s t o t e n a c i o u s l y a f f i r m the immense i m p o r t a n c e A m e r i c a h e l d f o r p r e s e n t and f u t u r e A u s t r a l i a n s . They i n i t i a t e d , and m a i n t a i n e d , c l o s e i d e o l o g i c a l and s o c i a l t i e s w i t h the U n i t e d S t a t e s , the e f f e c t s o f w h i c h permeated a l l l e v e l s o f s o c i e t y . Many A u s t r a l i a n s , as a r e s u l t , assumed.a f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h t h e i r American c o u s i n s t r a n s c e n d i n g p o l i t i c a l a f f i l i a t i o n s . One contemporary o b s e r v e r , S u r g e o n - S u p e r i n t e n d e n t P e t e r Cunningham, even commented on the p h y s i c a l resemblance between "our c o l o n i a 1-born b r e t h r e n " and t h e i r American c o u n t e r p a r t s : They grow up t a l l and s l e n d e r , l i k e the A m e r i c a n s , and a r e g e n e r a l l y r e m a r k a b l e f o r t h a t G o t h i c p e c u l i a r i t y o f f a i r h a i r and b l u e e y e s . . . . C h e r r y cheeks a r e not accompaniments o f o u r c l i m a t e , any more than t h a t o f A m e r i c a , where a blooming c o m p l e x i o n w i l l s p e e d i l y draw upon you the o b s e r v a t i o n , "You a r e from the o l d c o u n t r y , I s e e ! " 8 0 As the 1830's p r o g r e s s e d , s i m i l a r views on s o c i a l , r e l i g i o u s and l i t e r a r y i s s u e s c o n s o l i d a t e d the bond between the two c o u n t r i e s . Q u i t e a s i d e from the sea and t r a d i n g c o n n e c t i o n , s o c i a l l y the American p r e s e n c e c r e a t e d an impact i n a v a r i e t y o f ways. D e s p i t e 152 the f a c t t h a t t h r o u g h o u t t h i s p e r i o d the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s and N o r t h A m e r i c a a c t i v e l y competed f o r immigrants from E n g l a n d , a t the community l e v e l many c i t i z e n s w i t h American a f f i l i a t i o n s and sympathies 81 made s i g n i f i c a n t c o n t r i b u t i o n s . When welcoming the f i r s t U.S. Consul t o A u s t r a l i a n s h o r e s , i n 1837, the H e r a l d c o n f i r m e d the v a l i d i t y o f the c l o s e t i e s o f f r i e n d s h i p between the two c o u n t r i e s , c i t i n g the s u r p r i s i n g number o f c o l o n i s t s w i t h r e l a t i o n s and f r i e n d s on the 82 o t h e r s i d e o f the P a c i f i c . So harmonious were the t i e s o f f r i e n d s h i p t h a t when C h a r l e s W i l k e s brought h i s g e o l o g i c a l e x p e d i t i o n t o Sydney i n December, 1839, he and h i s c o l l e a g u e s , f e e l i n g a l i t t l e homesick, g r a t e f u l l y responded t o the l a v i s h welcome they r e c e i v e d . Almost On as i f they were f a m i l y . This>was not s u r p r i s i n g , s i n c e the background o f some o f the community's most n o t e w o r t h y c i t i z e n s - - p r o m i n e n t i n a r e a s such as law, r e l i g i o n , p o l i t i c s , e d u c a t i o n and bus i n e s s - - _ a t t e s t e d t o a f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h America and d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s . F r a n c i s F o r b e s , f i r s t C h i e f J u s t i c e o f the Supreme C o u r t and thus the o n l y man i n the c o l o n y a b l e t o l e g a l l y / v e t o government b i l l s , was one. H i s c r u c i a l r o l e i n the d e f e a t o f s e v e r a l o f the most r e p r e s s i v e o f D a r l i n g ' s measures t o c o u n t e r a c t p r e s s s e d i t i o n r e f l e c t e d a commitment t o Whig l i b e r a l p r i n c i p l e s . D a r l i n g r e m o n s t r a t e d a g a i n s t F o r b e s ' m a n i f e s t 8k "Yankee p r i n c i p l e s . " L a t e r , p r e s i d i n g over a d i f f i c u l t case i n v o l v i n g one of the c o l o n y ' s l e a d i n g p r o p e r t i e d c i t i z e n s , John M a c a r t h u r , Forbes found both s i d e s c u l p a b l e but o r d e r e d M a c a r t h u r t o pay the 153 ^300 c o s t s . M a c a r t h u r ' s son had e a r l y a n t i c i p a t e d the d i f f i c u l t i e s t h a t l a y ahead f o r members o f he and h i s f a t h e r ' s c l a s s when d e a l i n g w i t h a man whose u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f e v e r y c i t i z e n ' s r i g h t s would i n - e v i t a b l y cause him " t o q u e s t i o n l o c a l r e g u l a t i o n s w h i c h , a l t h o u g h 85 o f m a n i f e s t u t i l i t y , a r e not s t r i c t l y s a n c t i o n e d by law." So an o b j e c t i v e and, above a l l , j u s t d e c i s i o n was p r o b a b l y t o be e x p e c t e d , p a r t i c u l a r l y from a man who, i n the o p i n i o n o f a fe11ow-judge, had g h i s mind "from e a r l y e d u c a t i o n . . . imbued w i t h American s y m p a t h i e s . " Exposure t o d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s d i d indeed f i g u r e i r i n F o r b e s 1 background. H i s g r a n d f a t h e r , o f S c o t t i s h a n c e s t r y , had s e t t l e d i n the Bermudas and, w i t h h i s s o n s , e s t a b l i s h e d commercial i n t e r e s t s i n nearby A m e r i c a . Forbes a p p a r e n t l y a t t e n d e d s c h o o l and t r a v e l l e d w i d e l y on the m a i n l a n d , thus a b s o r b i n g " p o l i t i c a l o p i n i o n s o f the 87 f r e e s t t e n d e n c y . " A c o n s i s t e n t a d v o c a t e o f c e r t a i n e s s e n t i a l r i g h t s of man, he not o n l y r e j e c t e d D a r l i n g ' s Stamp A c t , but a l s o i n t r o d u c e d t r i a l by j u r y (of f r e e men and c u r r e n c y l a d s ) and s t o o d f i r m l y behind a p o l i c y o f o p e n i n g the l a n d s f o r the s m a l l s e t t l e r . Large e s t a t e s , Forbes m a i n t a i n e d , would o n l y encourage a p l u t o c r a c y o f the v e r y few-- a view no doubt c a u s a l l y l i n k e d t o M a c a r t h u r ' s a t t a c k on him as a 88 "dangerous, d e t e s t a b l e , u n p r i n c i p l e d , immoral, base and a r t f u l man." Other prominent c i t i z e n s i n the c o l o n y s h a r i n g F o r b e s ' commitment t o c e r t a i n l i b e r a l American i d e a l s i n c l u d e d John McEncroe, James McEachern, Timothy P i t m a n , P r o s p e r de M e s t r e , and even t h e c o n s e r v a t i v e Edward Deas Thomson. Born i n A r d s a l l a g h , I r e l a n d , McEncroe, a C a t h o l i c p r i e s t (and l a t e r a r c h d e a c o n ) , was o r d a i n e d i n 1819 a t the age of 154 t w e n t y - f i v e . Three y e a r s l a t e r he v o l u n t e e r e d t o accompany B i s h o p E n g l a n d , a man o f g r e a t c h a r i s m a t i c energy and a proponent o f l i b e r a l p r i n c i p l e s , t o the American m i s s i o n . R e p u b l i c a n A m e r i c a d e e p l y impressed the young I r i s h m a n , i n c o n t r a s t t o the g r i m c o n d i t i o n s he had e x p e r i e n c e d a t home. He soon became e d i t o r o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s C a t h o l i c M i s c e l l a n y , an e x p e r i e n c e o f g r e a t b e n e f i t t o him i n e l i c i t i n g a s e l f - a p p r a i s a l o f both r e l i g i o u s and s o c i a l p r i n c i p l e s o f o r g a n i z a t i o n . McEncroe's c o l l e a g u e s weren't slow t o r e c o g n i z e h i s c o n s i d e r a b l e 90 n a t u r a l t a l e n t s , and he e v e n t u a l l y became a V i c a r - G e n e r a l . A f t e r r e t u r n i n g t o I r e l a n d i n 1829, McEncroe a c c e p t e d the p o s i t i o n o f o f f i c i a l c h a p l a i n o f the C a t h o l i c s o f A u s t r a l i a i n 1832. Though s c a r c e l y i n f l u e n t i a l i n the y e a r s up t o 1840, McEncroe's p e r s o n a l p r e s t i g e and a u t h o r i t y r a p i d l y i n c r e a s e d t h r o u g h o u t the f o l l o w i n g two decades as the numbers o f Roman C a t h o l i c s grew, and he h i m s e l f became e d i t o r , i n 1850, o f the v i g o r o u s and u n d e n i a b l y i m p o r t a n t 91 C a t h o l i c newspaper, the Freeman's J o u r n a l . Edward Deas Thomson, C o l o n i a l S e c r e t a r y o f the c o l o n y from 1837 t o I856, had, l i k e McEncroe, f i r s t - h a n d e x p e r i e n c e o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s . Born the youngest son o f an a c c o u n t a n t - g e n e r a l o f the r o y a l navy, S i r John Deas Thomson, and Rebecca F r e e r , o f South C a r o l i n a , h i s e d u c a t i o n took him t o E d i n b u r g h High S c h o o l , Harrow and Normandy, F r a n c e . F o l l o w i n g the death o f h i s mother i n South C a r o l i n a , Thomson v i s i t e d America t o s o r t o u t the e s t a t e i n l a t e 1826. For a l m o s t a y e a r he t r a v e l l e d t h r o u g h o u t the U n i t e d S t a t e s and Canada, k e e p i n g a j o u r n a l , a t h i s f a t h e r ' s r e q u e s t , on the American armed f o r c e s and 155 m a t t e r s o f g e n e r a l i n t e r e s t . He took up a p o s i t i o n as c l e r k o f the c o u n c i l i n New South Wales i n May, 1828, m a r r i e d one o f Governor Bourke's d a u g h t e r s f i v e y e a r s l a t e r , and was a p p o i n t e d C o l o n i a l 92 S e c r e t a r y and r e g i s t r a r o f the r e c o r d s a t the b e g i n n i n g o f 1837. Though an e n t r e n c h e d c o n s e r v a t i v e , Thomson d i d use h i s American e x p e r i e n c e t o good e f f e c t on o c c a s i o n t o c l a r i f y c e r t a i n a d m i n i s t r a t i v e 93 problems, e s p e c i a l l y i n the f i r s t y e a r s of r e p r e s e n t a t i v e government. James McEachern, one o f the S c o t t i s h s c h o o l t e a c h e r s brought out t o the c o l o n y by John Dunmore Lang i n an a t t e m p t t o r a i s e the q u a l i t y o f the c o l o n y ' s c i t i z e n r y , needed l i t t l e time t o d i s p l a y h i s c l o s e knowledge o f r a d i c a l w r i t i n g - - i n c 1 u d i n g Tom P a i n e ' s c a r d i n a l p r o s e - - o f the p r e v i o u s decades. One l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n c r e d i t s him w i t h b e i n g the a u t h o r o f the u n i q u e r a d i c a l pamphlet "The I n d e f e a s i b l e R i g h t s o f Man" (1842). L i k e McEncroe, however, McEachern belongs 94 more p r o p e r l y t o the n e x t p e r i o d . In the l i v e l y Sydney b u s i n e s s w o r l d , two merchants t o make t h e i r p r e s e n c e f e l t were Timothy Pitman and P r o s p e r de M e s t r e . Americans by b i r t h and u p b r i n g i n g , both were 95 n a t u r a l i z e d by s p e c i a l a c t s o f the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l . De M e s t r e ' s impact went beyond mere m e r c h a n d i s e . One o f the c h o i c e rumours >~ c i r c u l a t i n g the c o l o n y a t the time--and n o t h i n g t i t i l l a t e d the c o l o n i a l i m a g i n a t i o n more than j u i c y g o s s i p - - s u g g e s t e d t h a t poor P r o s p e r was 96 i n f a c t a b a s t a r d , the h a l f - b r o t h e r of Queen V i c t o r i a h e r s e l f ! American i d e a s e x e r t e d a marked e f f e c t i n o t h e r a r e a s o f the c o l o n i a l community, such as the temperance movement and r e l i g i o n . S o c i e t i e s p r e a c h i n g the l i m i t i n g o f l i q u o r consumption began a p p e a r i n g 156 i n the n o r t h e r n s t a t e s o f the Union from 1808 onwards, but f o r some y e a r s the s u c c e s s o f the temperance d o c t r i n e was l i m i t e d . I t s l o w l y permeated E n g l i s h s o c i e t y , m o s t l y v i a the new i n d u s t r i a l towns; i n America i t soon "ranked second o n l y t o the c r u s a d e f o r the a b o l i t i o n o f s l a v e r y i n the ferment of moral r e f o r m which was the most e x c i t i n g 97 and p o w e r f u l f o r c e i n n a t i o n a l a f f a i r s b e f o r e the C i v i l War." Two Quaker m i s s i o n a r i e s , James Backhouse and George Washington W a l k e r , i n t r o d u c e d temperance i n t o A u s t r a l i a . A f t e r a r r i v i n g i n Hobart Town i n F e b r u a r y , 1832, they spent t h r e e s u c c e s s f u l y e a r s i n Tasmania and the next two y e a r s (l835~7) i n New South Wales. T h e i r Quaker c r e e d caused Backhouse and Walker t o c h a l l e n g e , amongst o t h e r t h i n g s , c o l o n i a l m o r a l i t y and the w o e f u l s t a t e of e d u c a t i o n . At p u b l i c meetings they urged a l l l i s t e n e r s t o adopt the temperance c r e e d and 98 t o use the n o n - d e n o m i n a t i o n a l t e x t b o o k s o f the School S o c i e t y . One r e s u l t o f Quaker l a b o u r was the appearance i n Sydney, i n 1837, o f the A u s t r a l i a n Temperance Magazine, a j o u r n a l of i m p r e s s i v e l i t e r a r y 99 q u a l i t y and c i r c u l a t i o n f i g u r e s . A n o t h e r was the f o r c e f u l appearance o f an e n e r g e t i c t e e t o t a l l e r movement — the Sydney branch l e d by M.T. Adam, a n o t h e r o f Lang's S c o t t i s h i m p o r t s , who had t r a v e l l e d e x t e n s i v e l y i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s i m m e d i a t e l y b e f o r e coming t o A u s t r a l i a . ^ ^ At i t s h e i g h t the Temperance S o c i e t y boasted s u p p o r t from c o l o n i a l l e a d e r s such as D e n i s o n , F r a n k l i n , La Trobe, and even the poet C h a r l e s Harpur, f o r a b r i e f p e r i o d . ^ Warmly endorsed by the i n f l u e n t i a l f o u r t h e s t a t e i n the l820's and '30's, and s u p p o r t e d by the s t r o n g e m o t i o n a l t i e s of a p o w e r f u l 157 b l o c o f l o c a l c i t i z e n s , the importance o f the American c o n n e c t i o n f o r A u s t r a l i a must have impressed i t s e l f on e m i g r a n t s a r r i v i n g d u r i n g Bourke's g o v e r n o r s h i p . Almost i n e v i t a b l y , t h e s e m a n i f e s t a t i o n s o f f r i e n d s h i p and a d m i r a t i o n e x e r t e d a marked e f f e c t on the t e n t a t i v e g e s t u r e s towards a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e made f o r the f i r s t time i n the l830's. T h i s l e s s f i t f u l decade encouraged g r e a t e r c a t h o l i c i t y o f i n t e r e s t s . C o n n e c t i o n s between A u s t r a l i a n and American w r i t e r s advanced beyond s i m p l y p o l i t i c a l c o n s i d e r a t i o n s . T o r i e s and p a t r i o t s , c o n s c i o u s o f t h e i r s o c i a l p o s i t i o n and i t s r a m i f i c a t i o n s , p a t r o n i z e d a u t h o r s c l o s e t o t h e i r h e a r t s , and the spectrum o f American w r i t e r s d i s c u s s e d i n A u s t r a l i a broadened n o t i c e a b l y . W i t h the c o l o n y a p p r o a c h i n g i t s f i f t i e t h a n n i v e r s a r y , E n g l i s h b o o k s e l l e r s f o r the f i r s t time deemed A u s t r a l i a , i n p a r t i c u l a r Sydney and H o b a r t , an avenue o f p o t e n t i a l p r o f i t , and worthy o f some a t t e n t i o n . S p e c u l a t i v e c a r g o e s o f m o s t l y r e l i g i o u s , l i t e r a r y and p h i l o s o p h i c a l works had been a r r i v i n g i n the young s e t t l e m e n t i n g r e a t e r numbers s i n c e the end of M a c q u a r i e ' s term as g o v e r n o r (1821), but b o o k s e l l e r s t h r o u g h o u t the '20's p e s s i m i s t i c a l l y a p p r a i s e d the meagre f r e e p o p u l a t i o n as p r o s p e c t i v e consumers. On a r r i v i n g i n Hobart on h i s way t o Sydney, the Rev. John M c G a r v i e noted w i t h a l a r m , i n May, 1826, t h a t t h e r e 102 " i s not a b o o k s e l l i n g shop i n the town." He was d e s t i n e d t o f i n d the s e t t l e m e n t o f Sydney no d i f f e r e n t . In e s s e n c e , the m a j o r i t y o f books c i r c u l a t i n g the c o l o n y a t t h i s time l a y p r i m a r i l y w i t h i n the domain o f t h e moneyed mi n o r i t y - - t h a t group P e t e r Cunningham d e s i g n a t e d as more p r i m than t h e i r E n g l i s h 158 c o u n t e r p a r t s ; men who, f o r a t l e a s t a n o t h e r f i f t y y e a r s , c o n t i n u e d t o dream o f a p r o s p e r o u s and l e i s u r e l y r e t i r e m e n t a t "Home." In 103 England. T h i s e l i t e i n c l u d e d government o f f i c i a l s , m i l i t a r y o f f i c e r s , c l e r g y , p r o f e s s i o n a l men and merchants. C u r i o u s l y , w h i l e d e p r e c a t i n g the p o l i t i c s o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s , t h e s e men c o m p r i s e d a second avenue f o r the i n t r o d u c t i o n o f American works i n t o the c o l o n y . I f c o m b a t i v e e d i t o r s such as H a l l , Wentworth, Bent, Murray and W i l l s , and t h e i r e m a n c i p i s t sympath i z e r s , g r a v i t a t e d t o the l i v e l y t r a d i t i o n of American p o l i t i c a l w r i t e r s o f the R e v o l u t i o n f o r r a d i c a l p r e c e d e n t , t h e i r e x c l u s i v i s t opponents i n c r e a s i n g l y a p p r e c i a t e d — a n d purchased — t h e p r o d u c t s o f two Americans whose b e l l e t r i s t i c works, a p p r o p r i a t e l y Tory i n s p i r i t , began t o a r r i v e i n the c o l o n y i n the l a t e r 18201s: Washington I r v i n g and James Fenimore Cooper. As i n England (and, 1 Ok f o r t h a t m a t t e r , A m e r i c a ) , S c o t t and Byron topped the l a d d e r o f f a v o u r i t e s o f the A u s t r a l i a n g e n t r y , but I r v i n g and Cooper, a l o n g w i t h M i l t o n , Young, Cowper, Thomson and Shakespeare, a p p a r e n t l y o c c u p i e d the next rung o f p o p u l a r i t y . ^ 5 As e a r l y as the summer o f 1826, a p r i v a t e vendor i n Sydney, the A u s t r a l i a n Company, o f f e r e d f o r s a l e a t o t a l o f one hundred books by a u t h o r s they f e l t most l i k e l y t o s t i m u l a t e s a l e s . Washington I r v i n g was one. S i x months l a t e r , the o n l y a d v e r t i s e m e n t f o r books i n Tasmania d u r i n g 1826 appeared. A g a i n , a l o n g w i t h the s t a p l e s , I r v i n g ' s works were t e n d e r e d . ^ 6 I n t e r e s t i n the s t o r i e s , e s s a y s and c h a r a c t e r s k e t c h e s o f G e o f f r e y C r a y o n , Gent, c o n t i n u e d unabated f o r some y e a r s . Essays i n The S k e t c h Book ' ( l 8 l 9 ~ 2 0 ) d e s c r i b i n g 159 European t r a v e l , such as " R u r a l L i f e i n E n g l a n d , " "John B u l l " and "Westminster Abbey" no doubt had a s p e c i a l appeal t o the c o l o n i s t d e t e r m i n e d t o e v e n t u a l l y r e t u r n t o h i s homeland. An e x t r e m e l y i m p r e s s i v e : p r i v a t e l i b r a r y succumbed i n Sydney t o the a u c t i o n e e r ' s hammer i n 1828—the c o l l e c t i o n o f Dr. Henry G r a t t a n D o u g l a s . ' ^ 7 The t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s l i s t e d I r v i n g ' s works, t o g e t h e r w i t h t h o s e o f Shakespeare, S c o t t , Southey and Crabbe. About the same t i m e , i n the l a t e r l820's, i n t e r e s t i n the n o v e l s o f James Fenimore Cooper began t o m a t e r i a l i z e i n the pages o f s e v e r a l s a l e s s h e e t s . W e l l - t o - d o c o l o n i s t s a p p r e c i a t e d the a d v e n t u r o u s t a l e s o f both the young and aged N a t t y Bumppo, i n the f i r s t t h r e e n o v e l s o f the L e a t h e r - s t o c k i n g s e r i e s . C a t a l o g u e s o f 1828 l i s t e d such Cooper t i t l e s as The L a s t o f the Mohicans (1826) , The P r a i r i e (1827) and the sea s t o r y Red Rover (1828), j u s t a year o r two, sometimes o n l y months a f t e r t h e i r London p u b l i c a t i o n . Indeed, when Ralph M a n s f i e l d , e d i t o r o f the Sydney G a z e t t e , c o m p i l e d a c a t a l o g u e f o r the A u s t r a l i a n S u b s c r i p t i o n L i b r a r y , e a r l y i n 1829, the o n l y r e m o t e l y contemporary a u t h o r s he i n c l u d e d , a p a r t from the i r r e p r e s s i b l e S c o t t , were Cooper, I r v i n g and 108 John G i b s o n L o c k h a r t ( S c o t t ' s s o n - i n - l a w ) . I t was m e r e l y a m a t t e r o f c o u r s e , t h e n , t h a t M a n s f i e l d s h o u l d w r i t e t o h i s E n g l i s h a g e n t , the Rev. Robert Bourne, w i t h a l i s t o f r e q u i r e m e n t s s p e c i f y i n g the c o n s p i c u o u s need f o r " A l l Washington I r v i n g ' s Works, Known as G e o f f r e y 1 09 C r a y o n ' s . " Bourne c o u l d now send s u p p l i e s o f The S k e t c h Book a l o n g w i t h B r a c e b r idge Ha 11 (1822), a c o l l e c t i o n o f f o r t y - n i n e s k e t c h e s and t a l e s , a g a i n a l l e g e d l y by G e o f f r e y Crayon, w i t h a v a r i e t y o f 160 o f s e t t i n g s ( E n g l i s h as w e l l as French and S p a n i s h ) . E n t h u s i a s m f o r Cooper i n c r e a s e d i n the 18301s, as t h a t f o r I r v i n g g r a d u a l l y d e c l i n e d (though the b r a s h e i g h t e e n y e a r - o l d , James M a r t i n , i n p u b l i s h i n g The A u s t r a l i a n S k e t c h Book i n 1838, acknowledged Washington I r v i n g as h i s m o d e l ) . ''^ In terms o f a d v e r t i s e m e n t s f o r the period., Cooper ranked s i x t h behind S c o t t , B y r o n , Shakespeare, Johnson and G o l d s m i t h , but h i s i n f l u e n c e extended w e l l beyond t h i s . ' ' ' A r e c e n t c r i t i c , E l i z a b e t h Webby, has s u g g e s t e d the c o n s i d e r a b l e e f f e c t o f Cooper's e x t r e m e l y p o p u l a r I n d i a n c h a r a c t e r s - - s u c h as Chingachgook, Uncas, Magua, Hard-Heart and Mahtoree--on the l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n s o f e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n n o v e l i s t s . T h i s p a r t i c u l a r l y a p p l i e d t o the 1 1 2 p o r t r a y a l o f the a b o r i g i n e . E v i d e n t l y t h i s i n f l u e n c e d i d n ' t escape some o f the e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n r e v i e w e r s , e i t h e r . S h o r t l y a f t e r C h a r l e s R o w c r o f t ' s The Bushranger o f Van Piemen's Land (1846) was p u b l i s h e d , one c r i t i c c h a r a c t e r i z e d i t s c o n t e n t as "almost pure Fenimore Cooper, w i t h a b o r i g i n a l s s u b s t i t u t e d f o r Red I n d i a n s and an e n d i n g s t r a i g h t 1 1 3 f rom The L a s t o f the Moh i cans.'' In d i r e c t i m i t a t i o n o f t h e i r E n g l i s h paragons, t h e n , budding A u s t r a l i a n s q u i r e s approved o f I r v i n g , t h e i r American h u m o r i s t and 114 t r a v e l l e r , and Cooper, t h e i r romancer. Some e m i g r a t i n g B r i t o n s , however, r e c o g n i z i n g an o b l i g a t i o n t o t h e i r new l a n d , found t h e i r l o t i n A u s t r a l i a a complex one i n v o l v i n g mixed l o y a l t i e s . W i l l i a m Woo l i s , who came t o A u s t r a l i a w h i l e s t i l l i n h i s t e e n s , c l e a r l y e x p e r i e n c e d t h i s problem. In the e a r l y 18301 s, he produced two l o n g (and t u r g i d ) poems as h i s p a r t o f the bond w i t h h i s new c o u n t r y : 161 The Voyage; A_ Moral Poem W r i t t e n P u r ? n g , and D e s c r i p t i v e o f , a Voyage from England t o New South Wales (1832) and A u s t r a l i a : A Moral and D e s c r i p t i v e Poem (1833)- Both p r e s e n t a wearisome s u c c e s s i o n o f e i g h t e e n - c e n t u r y c o u p l e t s and s u g g e s t a c o n s c i o u s l y d e r i v a t i v e muse; and both a r e the o b v i o u s p r o d u c t s o f an a u t h o r caught between h i s s e l f - c o n f e s s e d " n a t u r a l f o n d n e s s " f o r "my n a t i v e c o u n t r y " (and an a p p r o p r i a t e awareness o f h i s p r i n c i p a l a u d i e n c e - - " t h e p e o p l e o f E n g l a n d , t o whom t h i s Poem i s more i m m e d i a t e l y a d d r e s s e d " ) and h i s d e s i r e t o be i m p a r t i a l , t o v i e w A u s t r a l i a w i t h f r e s h and o b j e c t i v e e y e s . In p a r t s o f A u s t r a l i a , Wool I s a t t e m p t s t o c o n s i d e r t h e i m p l i c a t i o n s o f h i s new e n v i r o n m e n t . The "Argument" o f t h e poem's l a s t C a n t o , s i g n i f i c a n t l y , e n d o r s e s an A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l a f f i n i t y : The C o l o n i a l P o e t s , Wentworth, Tompson, Lang, and H a l l o r a n - - t h e f a t e o f P o e t s , t h e i r m i s f o r t u n e s and m e l a n c h o l y e n d s — t h e reward o f m e r i t - - C o l u m b u s , C r i c h t o n - - t h e Augustan age, the C o u r t o f Augustus — the A u t h o r ' s a p o l o g y f o r d i g r e s s i o n - - t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s o f A m e r i c a , t h e i r g r e a t n e s s and 1 i bera 1 i t y - - a n example f o r A u s t r a l i a ! ' ' - * Though Wool I s ' tone t h r o u g h o u t s u g g e s t s t h a t tfte E n g l i s h l a n d s c a p e w i l l always dominate h i s i m a g i n a t i o n , he a r d e n t l y p r a i s e s the e g a l i t a r i a n p r i n c i p l e s on w h i c h A m e r i c a , " t h i s r i s i n g S t a t e , " was founded: 162 In t h o s e wide S t a t e s , u n s h a c k l e d as the s e a , W i t h sons as d a u n t l e s s , and w i t h h e a r t s as f r e e , Who w i t h one mind t r u e P a t r i o t i s m f e e l , And hand and h e a r t f i g h t f o r the common w e a l . . . . A l l equal t h e r e --no L o r d s , or E a r l s , o r K i n g s — No b o a s t e d b l o o d whence p r i d e d e s c e n d i n g s p r i n g s -- No t i t l e d monkies p e n s i o n ' d on the Crown, Whose n o b l e s s i r e s would be asham'd t o own. . . . 1 1 Behind h i s r h e t o r i c s t a n d s the f i g u r e of Thomas P a i n e . In the poem's l a s t l i n e s , the poet a d v o c a t e s A m e r i c a as the most e t h i c a l model f o r h i s adopted l a n d : . . . h e r e ' s a l e s s o n f o r A u s t r a l i a ' s c o a s t ! Oh! c o u l d her sons a s t a t e r e s p o n d i n g b o a s t ! ^7 He i m p l o r e s A u s t r a l i a t o form one kingdom more, Tread i n the paths o f t h o s e who went b e f o r e . Judge by the p a s t , and l e t the h i s t ' r y t e l l How kingdoms f l o u r i s h ' d , or how kingdoms f e l l -- How w e a l t h and l u x ' r y y i e l d e d t o t h e i r f o e s -- How t h e s e by v i c e s f e l l , and t h o s e by v i r t u e r o s e ! And may t h i s motto r i p e n i n y o u r s e l f , "Knowledge i s Pow'r, and Temperance i s H e a l t h ! " For good r e a s o n , l o c a l r e v i e w e r s e x p r e s s e d r e s e r v a t i o n s about the 1 1 8 poem's language; but they r e l i s h e d i t s l o f t y "TONE." S k i l l might be l a c k i n g , but not commendable p a t r i o t i c p r i d e . About the same time t h a t Wool Is p u b l i s h e d A u s t r a 1 i a, l e s s than h a l f a c e n t u r y a f t e r the f i r s t s e t t l e m e n t , the e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a t r u l y n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e was t a k i n g f i r s t r o o t i n the minds o f a few l o n e l y e d i t o r s and t h w a r t e d p o e t s who dreamed a unique but r e l e n t - l e s s c o u n t r y o f d r o u g h t , f i r e , f l o o d and a s t r a n g e n i g h t sky. One 163 was a s c h o o l t e a c h e r named C a r m i c h a e l , one o f the men brought out by J.D. Lang t o h e l p m o d i f y the l a r g e c o n v i c t b a l a n c e of the p o p u l a t i o n . C a r m i c h a e l , i n an a d d r e s s t o open the Sydney M e c h a n i c s ' School o f A r t s , m a i n t a i n e d t h a t The I r v i n g w o r l d o f the mind we have q u i t t e d , a l t h o u g h we may s t i l l g l a n c e a t the panorama o f i t s movements, as r e f l e c t e d i n the l i t e r a r y and s c i e n t i f i c p u b l i c a t i o n s o f our b e l o v e d f a t h e r - l a n d . Yet i f we mean t o r i s e i n the s c a l e o f n a t i o n s , we must p o s s e s s a l i t e r a t u r e and s c i e n c e o f our own.''^ L i f e under the more l i b e r a l regime o f Governor Bourke seemed t o i n v i t e such p r e c o c i o u s s p e c u l a t i o n , f o r , d u r i n g the next f i v e o r s i x y e a r s , s e v e r a l p u b l i c a t i o n s c o u l d n ' t r e s i s t e n c o u r a g i n g , i n a v a r i e t y o f ways, the f o r m a t i o n o f a n a t i o n a l c u l t u r e . A t t e m p t s ranged from the f l u r r y o f r h e t o r i c a l q u e s t i o n s o f the anonymous w r i t e r i n the Van Diemen's Land Month 1y Magazine: Why s h o u l d we not have our p o e t s ? A r e not the i n s p i r i n g i n f l u e n c e s o f n a t u r e s c a t t e r e d o v e r the land? Do not men e v e r y day behold the awful and the m a g n i f i c e n t ? Why may not some o f them break out s i n g i n g a t the s i g h t ? Is t h e r e n o t h i n g i n l o f t y summits and deep narrow g l e n s , and s i l e n t l i m i t l e s s woods, and o l d u n d a t e a b l e t r e e s ? ' 2 ^ - - t o the n o t a b l e p u b l i c a t i o n by Lang's C o l o n i s t , i n 1838, o f W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing's monumental e s s a y , "On the Importance and Means o f 1 21 a N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e . No doubt Lang, a l m o s t c e r t a i n l y p e r s o n a l l y r e s p o n s i b l e f o r the l a t t e r ( s i n c e he was i n Sydney a t the t i m e , and p o s s i b l y r e a d i n g 1 22 t o p r e p a r e f o r h i s f o r t h c o m i n g t r i p t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s ) , regarded 164 Channing's s e n t i m e n t s as e s s e n t i a l t o the development o f l i t e r a t u r e i n h i s new c o u n t r y ; i n d e e d , as an advanced and e l o q u e n t s t a t e m e n t o f the l o c a l p r o b l e m , and p o s s i b l e means o f a c t i o n . American p r e c e d e n t a g a i n emerged as p e r t i n e n t t o A u s t r a l i a n c o n d i t i o n s . Only t h i s time w i t h a d i f f e r e n c e . In the 1820's, A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s had u t i l i z e d and c o v e t e d an American C o n s t i t u t i o n a l r e a d y won. When Lang c i t e d Channing's s e n t i m e n t s on l i t e r a r y development i n 1838, the American t h e o l o g i c a n ' s s e a r c h i n g a p p r a i s a l r e t a i n e d a mutual r e l e v a n c e . Channing's appeal t o the American P h i l o s o p h i c a l S o c i e t y and a l l h i s f e l l o w c i t i z e n s t o h e l p work towards the e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f "a p u r e , deep, r i c h , b e a u t i f u l , and e n n o b l i n g l i t e r a t u r e " f o r h i s c o u n t r y , r e p r e s e n t e d o n l y one v o i c e i n a p u r p o s e f u l American t r a d i t i o n o f l i t e r a r y n a t i o n a 1 i s m s t r e t c h i n g a t l e a s t as f a r back as P h i l i p Freneau's d e s p a i r i n g c r y f o r l i t e r a r y i n t e g r i t y i n the 1786 poem " L i t e r a r y I m p o r t a t i o n " : Can we never be thought t o have l e a r n i n g o r g r a c e U n l e s s i t be brought from t h a t h o r r i b l e p l a c e Where t y r a n n y r e i g n s w i t h her impudent f a c e ; ' 2 3 ^ Channing's p l e a , l i k e so many o t h e r s b e f o r e him, went s u f f i c i e n t l y unanswered t h a t i n 1837 Emerson saw f i t t o d i s c u s s the problem once a g a i n , though more o p t i m i s t i c a l l y , i n h i s landmark o r a t i o n , "The 1 24 American S c h o l a r . " O l i v e r Wendell Holmes, l i k e so many o f h i s 1 25 countrymen, a t l a s t had h i s I n t e l l e c t u a l D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence. The f i f t y y e a r s between Freneau and Emerson, however, w i t n e s s e d a s u c c e s s i o n o f A m e r i c a n s , c o n s c i o u s o f l i v i n g i n an age o f p r a c t i c a l i t y 165 and p o l i t i c s , a t t e m p t i n g t o urge t h e i r companions t o do i n l i t e r a t u r e what they had done on the b a t t l e f i e l d and i n C o n g r e s s - - t h a t i s , t o e s t a b l i s h , i n Washington's words, "a most c o n s p i c u o u s T h e a t r e . . . 126 f o r the d i s p l a y o f human g r e a t n e s s and f e l i c i t y . " The s t a g e o f the American i m a g i n a t i o n b a r e l y had a s k e l e t a l framework e r e c t e d a t the end of the e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y . L o o k i n g back o v e r two c e n t u r i e s o f European s e t t l e m e n t i n the c o u n t r y , Channing c o u l d f i n d but two w r i t e r s worthy o f h o n o u r a b l e mention: J o n a t h a n Edwards and Ben F r a n k l i n — n e i t h e r , be 127 - i t n o t e d , g e n t e e l o r be 1 1 e s - 1 e t t r i s t e s , Men as p o l i t i c a l l y d i v e r s e as Noah Webster, F i s h e r Ames and James Ki rke P a u l d i n g added t o the debate o v e r the y e a r s , a debate w h i c h e f f e c t i v e l y c e n t r e d on two p o i n t s : f i r s t , the d e s p e r a t e need f o r a l l American w r i t e r s t o r i d themselves o f the " h a b i t o f s e r v i l e i m i t a t i o n " ; ' s e c o n d l y , the n e c e s s i t y f o r l o c a l w r i t e r s t o r e c o g n i z e and use the c r e a t i v e r e s o u r c e s o f t h e i r new"land. America had t o be d e l i v e r e d i n t o the a r t i s t i c c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f her w r i t e r s . On t h e s e two fundamental problems, Channing and Emerson seemed b e s t equipped t o comment, as w e l l as t o e l a b o r a t e on the c r u c i a l l y i m p o r t a n t t p e r i p h e r a 1 i s s u e s . I t was o n l y f i t t i n g , t h e n , t h a t t h e s e same two w r i t e r s , h a v i n g performed the c r u c i a l t a s k o f a r t i c u l a t i n g t h e i r c o u n t r y ' s problem i n the a r t s , s h o u l d c o n s t i t u t e two o f the most v i t a l i r i f 1 uences on the i m a g i n a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s — i n p a r t i c u l a r , D a n i e l Deniehy and C h a r l e s Harpur — i n the l 8 4 0 ' s , '50' s and '60's, as t h e y , t o o , sought t o s c a l e the f o r m i d a b l e h e i g h t s o f c r e a t i v e independence. The e x t e n s i v e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y t r a d i t i o n o f a f f i n i t y (and sense o f shared r e s o u r c e s ) between 166 A u s t r a l i a n and American w r i t e r s had begun i n e a r n e s t . With the p r o d i g i o u s impact o f Walt Whitman, B r e t H a r t e and Henry George, s e v e r a l decades l a t e r , i t would reach f u l l blossom. As i n A m e r i c a d u r i n g the same p e r i o d , some New H o l l a n d e r s a n x i o u s l y c a n v a s s e d t h e i r c o u n t r y i n the 18301s s e a r c h i n g f o r some e v i d e n c e , any t a n g i b l e s i g n , o f moral and i n t e l l e c t u a l improvement t o c o u n t e r a c t the 129 overwhelming r e l i a n c e on " f u t u r e p e r s o n a l c o m f o r t and competency." At t h a t t i m e , they l o o k e d i n v a i n . Channing's s t r i c t u r e s touched o n l y a few i n A u s t r a l i a , but f o r t h i s hardy s m a l l g a t h e r i n g - - o f men l i k e Lang and the y o u t h f u l C h a r l e s Harpur and D a n i e l Henry D e n i e h y - - h i s e x h a u s t i v e e v a l u a t i o n o f contemporary American l e t t e r s p r o v i d e d a v a l u a b l e g u i d e 1 30 t o f u t u r e a c t i o n . Deniehy, i n p a r t i c u l a r , would l a t e r a c t as s p o k e s - man and p u b l i c i z e r o f a l i t e r a t u r e r o o t e d i n A u s t r a l i a n s o i l . He en- v i s i o n e d a unique l i t e r a t u r e o f s u n s h i n e , l i g h t and democracy. In h i s a d d r e s s Channing f o l l o w e d a l o g i c a l o u t l i n e , moving e f f o r t - l e s s l y from the q u e s t i o n o f why any c o u n t r y needed an i n d i g e n o u s l i t e r a t u r e a t a l l t o the p r e s e n t s t a t e o f American l i t e r a t u r e and reason f o r i t s nebulous c o n d i t i o n , and, f i n a l l y , the p o s s i b l e c o u r s e s o f a c t i o n f o r e s t a b l i s h i n g a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e . That i s : prob1 em,causes, means o f r e d r e s s . Having d e f i n e d " N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e " s e v e r a l l y , a t the o u t s e t , as " t h e e x p r e s s i o n o f a n a t i o n ' s mind i n w r i t i n g . . . . the c o n t r i b u t i o n s o f new t r u t h s t o the s t o c k o f human knowledge. . . . the m a n i f e s t a t i o n o f a n a t i o n ' s i n t e l l e c t i n the o n l y forms by w h i c h i t can m u l t i p l y i t - s e l f a b r o a d , " Channing proceeded t o e x p r e s s h i s t h o u g h t s on l i t e r a t u r e 167 i n g e n e r a l . He r e g a r d e d l i t e r a t u r e as " p l a i n l y among the most power- f u l methods o f e x a l t i n g the c h a r a c t e r o f a n a t i o n , o f f o r m i n g a b e t t e r 131 r a c e o f men" and w r i t i n g as " t h e m i g h t i e s t i n s t r u m e n t on e a r t h . " A m e r i c a , he m a i n t a i n e d , l a c k e d both eminent w r i t e r s and the a p p r o p r i a t e r e s o u r c e s of i n s t r u c t i o n because "our w r i t e r s a r e accustomed t o p l e a d i n our excuse our y o u t h , the n e c e s s i t i e s o f a n e w l y - s e t t l e d c o u n t r y , and the d i r e c t i o n o f our b e s t t a l e n t s t o p r a c t i c a l l i f e . Be the p l e a s s u f f i c i e n t o r n o t , one t h i n g they p r o v e , and t h a t i s our c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f h a v i n g f a i l e d t o make i m p o r t a n t c o n t r i b u t i o n s t o the i n t e r e s t s o f the 1 32 i n t e l l e c t . " Words o b v i o u s l y commodious t o A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s a decade l a t e r g r o p i n g w i t h the same p r o b l e m , o n l y i n a more a c u t e and l e s s s o l v a b l e form. Indeed, some commentators on A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e would be e x p r e s s i n g i d e n t i c a l r e s e r v a t i o n s when the c o u n t r y was f e d e r a t e d i n 1 9 0 1 . 1 3 3 . Channing went on t o d e c l a i m h i s c o u n t r y ' s huge r e l i a n c e "on f o r e i g n minds" as one o f the main causes o f the deep m a l a i s e i n American w r i t i n g . L i k e " Deniehy and the l a t e r John Dunmore Lang, he u n d e r c u t the s t a u n c h Tory elements s t i l l c a s t i n g a p a l l o v e r the c a l l o w n a t i v e p r o d u c t : "We boast o f our p o l i t i c a l i n s t i t u t i o n s , and r e c e i v e our c h i e f t e a c h i n g s , 134 books, i m p r e s s i o n s , from the s c h o o l o f monarchy." Then, i n the most s i g n i f i c a n t c h a l l e n g e i s s u e d by the e s s a y , Channing q u e s t i o n e d the g e n e r a l l y a c c e p t e d concept o f " u s e f u l knowledge" as one o f p r a c t i c a l " u t i l i t y . " He broadened the q u a l i t a t i v e and q u a n t i t a t i v e i m p l i c a t i o n s o f the phrase w h i c h , f o r him, meant 168 knowledge w h i c h answers and m i n i s t e r s t o our complex and v a r i o u s n a t u r e ; we mean t h a t which i s u s e f u l , not o n l y t o the animal man, but t o the i n t e l l e c t u a l , m o r a l , and r e l i g i o u s man; u s e f u l t o a b e i n g o f s p i r i t u a l f a c u l t i e s , whose h a p p i n e s s i s t o be found i n t h e i r f r e e and harmonious exe r c i se.'35 U n l e s s America sought t o break the c o n s t r i c t i n g f e t t e r s o f a p u r e l y p i o n e e r i n g background and i n t e l l e c t u a l dependence, the f u t u r e l o o k e d b l e a k . In p o s s i b l y the best-known s e c t i o n o f the whole e s s a y , Channing p a s s i o n a t e l y harangued the f o r e b o d i n g consequences o f 1 i t e r a r y • s e r v i 1 i t y : A p e o p l e i n t o whose minds the t h o u g h t s o f f o r e i g n e r s a r e poured p e r p e t u a l l y , needs an energy w i t h i n i t s e l f t o r e s i s t , t o m o d i f y ' t h i s mighty i n f l u e n c e , and, w i t h o u t i t w i l l i n - e v i t a b l y s i n k under the w o r s t bondage, w i l l become i n t e l l e c t u a l l y tame and e n s l a v e d . . . . I t were b e t t e r t o have no l i t e r a t u r e than form o u r s e l v e s u n r e s i s t i n g l y on a f o r e i g n one.'3° Thus, he demanded t h a t America r e c o g n i z e i t s b e i n g u n i q u e l y s u i t e d t o v i e w "more j u s t l y " than any o t h e r c o u n t r y , the " g r e a t s u b j e c t s o f l i t e r a t u r e . " In Europe, one met " k i n g s , n o b l e s , p r i e s t s , p e a s a n t s . How much r a r e r i s i t t o meet men." The p a r t i c u l a r and s p e c i a l d e s t i n y o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s had t o be a r t i c u l a t e d t o e n a b l e American w r i t e r s t o c r e a t i v e l y e x p r e s s the democracy they s t o o d f o r : We d e l i g h t t o b e l i e v e t h a t God, i n the f u l n e s s [ s i c ] o f t i m e , has brought a new c o n t i n e n t t o l i g h t , i n o r d e r t h a t the human mind s h o u l d move here w i t h a new freedom, s h o u l d frame new s o c i a l i n s t i t u t i o n s , s h o u l d e x p l o r e new p a t h s , and reap new h a r v e s t s . ' 3 7 C o n c l u d i n g w i t h a programme.» o f a c t i o n , Channing f o r m u l a t e d p o s s i b l e c h a n n e l s : encouragement and f o s t e r i n g by the p e o p l e ; enlargement o f 169 l i t e r a r y i n s t i t u t i o n s , t o g e t h e r w i t h t e a c h i n g a t a more " p r o f o u n d " l e v e l ; b e t t e r u n i v e r s i t i e s ; and a new i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f the r e l i g i o u s p r i n c i p l e . At a t i m e when t a l k o f l i t e r a t u r e i n g e n e r a l , much l e s s l o c a l w r i t i n g , i n c u r r e d the w r a t h o f many o f the c o l o n y ' s more p r a c t i c a l l y minded c i t i z e n s , Lang's p u b l i c i t y f o r Channing's landmark a d d r e s s was 138 both b r a z e n and c o n s c i o u s l y p r o p h e t i c . L i k e C h a n n i n g , Lang w e l l a p p r e c i a t e d the c r u c i a l r o l e l i t e r a t u r e had i n the f o r m a t i o n o f a n a t i o n a l c o n s c i o u s n e s s . In c a l l i n g on one o f America's f i n e s t w r i t e r s t o i l l u m i n a t e the A u s t r a l i a n s i t u a t i o n , Lang was d o i n g no more than f o l l o w i n g a p a t t e r n o f a c t i o n w h i c h Wentworth had e s t a b l i s h e d some twenty y e a r s e a r l i e r . W i t h the d i f f e r e n c e t h a t i n I 8 3 8 , i n a s e t t l e m e n t then o v e r f i f t y y e a r s o l d , Lang c l e a r l y r e c o g n i z e d the f u t u r e r e l e v a n c e contemporary American s p e a k e r s might have f o r an A u s t r a l i a w i t h independence on i t s mind. In r e p r o d u c i n g Channing's d i s c o u r s e , the C o l o n i s t f o r g e d an A u s t r a l i a n l i n k w i t h American i n t e l l e c t u a l and l i t e r a r y a c t i v i t y t h a t would f l o u r i s h f o r the r e s t o f the c e n t u r y . Channing's d e c l a r a t i o n , "We l o v e our c o u n t r y much, but mankind more" a t t r a c t e d some prominent A u s t r a l i a n e m i g r a n t s w i t h a d e s i r e t o r a i s e t h e i r s t a t i o n and a t l e a s t two c u r r e n c y l a d s who, s t i l l s m a r t i n g from the s t a i n o f c o n v i c t i s m , would make i t t h e i r !>:• b u s i n e s s t o i n c u l c a t e the d e m o c r a t i c s e n t i m e n t s o f Channing, Emerson and the r e s t o f the prominent T r a n s c e n d a l i s t w r i t e r s upon the minds o f t h e i r countrymen. They were D a n i e l Henry Deniehy and C h a r l e s Harpur. 170 CHAPTER II ENDNOTES ' For the f u l l t e x t , see below p. 136. 2 A u s t r a l i a n Q u a r t e r l y J o u r n a l , J u l y , 1828, p. 246, quoted i n Green, H i s t o r y , I, 45. •3 See I n g l i s , A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i s t s , pp. 178—81; R u s s e l l Ward and John R o b e r t s o n , comps., Such Was L i f e : S e l e c t Documents i n A u s t r a l i a n S o c i a l H i s t o r y , 1788-1850 (Sydney: Ure S m i t h , 1969), pp. 23-5- See Gordon Greenwood, e d . , A u s t r a 1 i a : A S o c i a l and P o l i t i c a l H i s t o r y (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1955), p. 56; C l a r k , H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a , I I , 153~5- 5 I n g l i s , p. 14. See L a c o u r - G a y e t , Cone i se H i. s t o r y , pp. l45~6; Greenwood, S o c i a l and P o l i t i ca1 H i s t o r y , p. 84. 7 Quoted i n Eddy, C o l o n i e s , p. 105. 8 L e t t e r o f "Fanny F l i r t , a Maiden Lady," t o the Sydney G a z e t t e , October 9, 1823, quoted i n C l a r k , S h o r t H i s t o r y , p. 73; see C l a r k , I I , 157. 9 G r e e n , 1 , 2 . ^ See, f o r example, the c r i t i c a l assessments o f George N a d e l , M i c h a e l Roe and E l i z a b e t h Webby. ^ B r i a n K i e r n a n i n C a n t r e l l , ed., B a r d s , p. 14. 171 1 2 S o u t h - A s i a n R e g i s t e r , i , (1827); Sydney Morning Hera-lid, June 12, 1849. 1 3 C h a r l e s Darwin, The Voyage o f the B e a g l e (1906; r p t . London: J.M. Dent, 1955) , p. 428. 14 P a r r i n g t o n , Main C u r r e n t s , i n t r o d u c t i o n , p. v i . ' 5 G r e e n , 1 , 6 5 . 16 Much the same was t r u e i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . See, f o r example, James M e l v i n Lee, H i s t o r y o f American J o u r n a l i s m (New York: Garden C i t y P u b l i s h i n g , 1923), p. 8 1 . ^ Thomas McCombie, The H i s t o r y o f the Colony o f V i c t o r i a (Melbourne, I858), p. 323, quoted i n Henry Mayer, The P r e s s i n A u s t r a l i a (Melbourne: Lansdowne P r e s s , 1964), p. 16. 18 See, f o r example, Green, I , 79- 1 9 Quoted i n Lee, p. 101. 20 Quoted i n Lee, p. 198. 21 W a r d e l l and Hayes were s u c c e s s i v e e d i t o r s o f the A u s t r a l i a n (a newspaper founded by W a r d e l l and W.C. Wentworth i n 1824); H a l l was the f o u n d i n g e d i t o r o f the Mon i t o r (1826-38). For more i n f o r m a t i o n on D a r l i n g ' s r e c a l l , see R.B. W a l k e r , The Newspaper P r e s s i n New South Wales, 1803-1920 (Sydney: Sydney U n i v . P r e s s , 1976), pp. 17~18; J.A. F e r g u s o n , "Edward Smith H a l l and the Moni t o r , " J o u r n a l o f the Royal A u s t r a l i a n H i s t o r i c a l S o c i e t y , X V I I , P t . 3 (1932), 163-199- 22 Green , I, 74. 2 3 Eddy, p. 112. 24 D a r l i n g t o Horton ( F e b r u a r y 6, 1827), quoted i n Eddy, p. 113. 172 See a l s o W a l k e r , p. 15- 25 A u s t r a 1 i a n , J a n u a r y 6 , 1825. 26 See W a l k e r , p. 7« I t i s w o r t h n o t i n g t h a t Thomas J e f f e r s o n f e l t the i s s u e o f t r i a l by j u r y t o be r e l e v a n t t o t h e American s i t u a t i o n as l a t e as the 1790's. See h i s l e t t e r s t o James Madison ( P a r i s , December 20, 1787) and A l e x a n d e r Donald ( P a r i s , F e b r u a r y 7 , 1788) i n Thomas J e f f e r s o n , The Papers o f Thomas J e f f e r s o n , ed. J u l i a n P. Boyd, XII ( P r i n c e t o n , New J e r s e y : P r i n c e t o n U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 5 5 ) , 4 3 8 - 4 3 , 5 7 0 - 2 . The Boyd e d i t i o n i s i n c o m p l e t e ; I w i l l r e f e r t o i t as f a r as i t goes, t o J a n u a r y 2 4 , 1791, the t e r m i n a l d a t e o f the l a s t p u b l i s h e d volume. Correspondence a f t e r J a n u a r y , 1791, w i l l be e x c e r p t e d from Thomas J e f f e r s o n , The L i f e and S e l e c t e d W r i t i n g s o f Thomas J e f f e r s o n , ed. A d r i e n n e Koch and W i l l i a m Peden (New York: Random House, The Modern L i b r a r y , 1 9 4 4 ) . 27 See, f o r example, "The A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i e s , " Q u a r t e r l y Review, XXXI I ( 1 8 2 5 ) , 314. 28 See W a l k e r , p. 12. 2 9 See C l a r k , I I , 69. A u s t r a l i a n , June 2 8 , 1826. 31 E. M a c a r t h u r t o Horton ( J u l y 4 , 1 8 2 5 ) , quoted i n Eddy, p. 96. 3 2 ADB_, I , 501 . 33 Moni t o r , December 2 2 , 1826; see a l s o Moni t o r , November 2 4 , 1826. 34 P h r a s e used i n Sydney G a z e t t e , A p r i l 2 8 , 1831. See a l s o C l a r k , I I , 7 5 . 35 Quoted i n Eddy, p. 113. 36 See W a l k e r , pp. 1 2 - 1 3 ; C l a r k , I I , 7 5 " 6 . 37 For more on F o r b e s , see below, C h a p t e r I I , s e c t i o n b). 173 3 8 See C l a r k , I I , 79- 39 See, f o r example, Crook, American Democracy, p. 29. ^ G r e e n , 1 , 7 5 - 41 ADB, I, 87; E. M o r r i s M i l l e r , Pressmen and Governors (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1952), p. 85. 42 The Col on i a 1 T imes and Tasman i an A d v e r t i s e r ran from 1825 1859. I t was then i n c o r p o r a t e d i n t o the Hobart M e r c u r y . • 43 The L i c e n s i n g A c t was i n t r o d u c e d i n Van Diemen's Land by L i e u t e n a n t - G o v e r n o r George A r t h u r t o c u r b p r e s s l i c e n t i o u s n e s s . See ADB, I, 87. L e t t e r t o R i c h a r d P r i c e ( P a r i s , J a n u a r y 8, 1789), i n J e f f e r s o n , P a p e r s , XIV, 420. 45 Hobart Town G a z e t t e , A p r i l 22, 1825. 46 See M i l l e r , pp. 3"39- 47 A u s t r a l - A s i a t i c Review, Lead a r t i c l e , October 8, 1833- 48 D a r l i n g t o Murray (November 8, 1828), HRA, 1, x i v , 445- 49 D a r l i n g t o B a t h u r s t (September 4, 1826), HRA, 1, x i i , 529. 5 0 D a r l i n g ' s r e p l y t o a d d r e s s ( J u l y 4, 1829), HRA, 1, x v , 73"5. 51 See W a l k e r , p. 19- 52 Moni t o r , F e b r u a r y 20, 1830. 53 Sydney G a z e t t e , May 5, 1829- 54 See M c L a c h l a n , p. 372; W a l k e r , p. 16. 55 Quoted by Henry C o l l i n s i n i n t r o d u c t i o n to Thomas P a i n e , R i g h t s o f Man;- ( L o n d o n 1 791 -2; rpt... Harmpndsworth, 1969), p. 34. ^ ' Q u o t e d i n F e r g u s o n , p. 194. 5 7 Quoted i n W a l k e r , p. 17. 174 58 Quoted i n F e r g u s o n , pp. 193"4. Quoted i n I n g l i s , p. 43; Moni t o r , October 22, 1831. M o n i t o r , October 26, 1831 - 61 Quoted i n Eddy, p. 121. 62 L e t t e r t o John D i c k i n s o n (Washington, March 6, 1801), i n J e f f e r s o n , S e l e c t e d W r i t i n g s , p. 56l . 63 See, f o r example, C l a r k , I I I , 141. 64 The p h r a s e i s h i s t o r i a n N.D. McLachlan s. See M c L a c h l a n , p. 372. M o n i t o r , December.29, 1832; Mon i t o r , December 9, 1835; A u s t r a l i a n , November 11, 1834. See M c L a c h l a n , pp. 372-4. 66 Quoted i n I n g l i s , p. 43. Compare F r a n k l i n ' s A u t o b i o g r a p h y (London, 1868) w i t h the d e t a i l s o f W i l l s ' e a r l y l i f e i n ADB, I I , 605- 68 C u r r e n c y Lad, August 25, 1832; C u r r e n c y Lad, November 24, 1832, quoted i n M c L a c h l a n , pp. 374-5. 6 9 See ADB, ||, 605; Ing1 i s , p. 43- 7 ^ Andrew J a c k s o n was e l e c t e d P r e s i d e n t o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1828. 7 ' Sydney G a z e t t e , June 11, I 8 3 6 . I t would seem t o be no a c c i d e n t t h a t America r e c e i v e d p u b l i c i t y i n the G a z e t t e i n I836, s i n c e A.E. Hayes was e d i t o r o f t h a t newspaper from J a n u a r y 1, I 8 3 6 , t o August 29, 1836 ( W a l k e r , p. 22). 7 2 M o n i t o r , May 31-June 9, 1837- 73 See James P a r t o n , L i f e o f Andrew J a c k s o n (New York: Mason B r o t h e r , 1861), I I , 626-7; Robert R i m i n i , Andrew J a c k s o n (New York: Twayne, 1966) , p. 183- 175 74 See C l a r k , I I I , 141. H a n g ' s own newspaper, The C o l o n i s t (1835-40), begun p r i m a r i l y t o g i v e i t s f o u n d e r a p o l i t i c a l v o i c e , l a b e l l e d the H e r a l d " t h a t pure merino and h i g h Tory e s t a b l i s h m e n t " i n i t s i s s u e o f F e b r u a r y 28, 1838. 7 5 S o u t h - A s i a n R e g i s t e r , i (1827).. 7 ^ See below, C h a p t e r I I I , s e c t i o n b). 7 7 For example, the " P r o c e e d i n g s o f the Senate of the U n i t e d S t a t e s " o c c u p i e d a l m o s t as much space i n The C o l o n i s t as the " R e p o r t s from the House of Commons." See B a r t l e t t , p. 97- 78 C o l o n ! s t , J a n u a r y 19, 1837- 79 C o l o n i s t , J a n u a r y 19, 1837. 80 P. Cunningham, Two Years_ i n New South Wales (London: Henry C o l b u r n , 1827), I I , 54. 81 For more on the c o m p e t i t i o n f o r i m m i g r a n t s , see Cunningham, I, 5-8, 256; W a k e f i e l d , L e t t e r from Sydney, pp. 34, 68-9, 74; W.C. Wentwor t h ,,AA S t a t i s t i c a l , H i s t o r i c a i , and P o l i t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n o f the Colony o f New South Wales (London: G. and W.B. W h i t t a k e r , 1819), t i t l e page. 82 See H e r a l d , J a n u a r y 12, 1837- 83 See below, C h a p t e r I I I , s e c t i o n c ) . 84 ADB, I, 392; see a l s o C l a r k , I I , 73- 8 5 ADB, I, 393- 86 Quoted i n M c L a c h l a n , p. 368. 87 ADB, I, 392. One r e s u l t o f F o r b e s ' American t r a v e l was h i s s t r o n g commitment t o f r e e e d u c a t i o n (see ADB, I, 397). 176 p o ADB, I, 396. 8 9 See ADB, I I, 1 65- 90 P a t r i c k O ' F a r r e l l , The C a t h o l i c Church i n A u s t r a l i a : A_ S h o r t H i s t o r y , 1788-1967 (Melbourne: N e l s o n , 1968), p. 27. 9 1 Freeman's J o u r n a l (1850-71). 9 2 See AD_B_, I I , 523-*. 93 See ADB, I I , 526. For more d e t a i l e d i n f o r m a t i o n on Thomson, see the r e c e n t l y p u b l i s h e d book by S.G. F o s t e r , C o l o n i a l Improver: Edward Peas Thomson 1800-1879 (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1978). See George Nadel , A u s t r a l i a ' s C o l o n i a l C u l t u r e (Melbourne: F.W. C h e s h i r e , 1957), P - 21. Nadel ̂ h o w e v e r , might b e r . . . m i s t a k e n . The pamphlet, "The Indefeas i b1e R i g h t s o f Man;" o r the C o n t e s t Between the Antagon i s t i c Pr i n e i p i e s of Pemocracy and Ar i s t o c r a c y i n New South Wales (Sydney: R.S. McEachern, n.d. [1842]), was p u b l i s h e d anonymously. F u r t h e r , the r e f e r e n c e s t o McEachern on p. 5 i n d i c a t e t h a t though he m a i n t a i n e d t h a t " t h e r i g h t t o v o t e was based on the i n d e f e a s i b l e and p r i m o r d i a l r i g h t s o f man," he might not have been r e s p o n s i b l e f o r the pamphlet i t s e l f . 95 P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , i n t r o d u c t i o n , p. 1. 96 See I n g l i s , p. 19- For more on the de M e s t r e f a m i l y , see below, C h a p t e r I I I , s e c t i o n c), 97 M i c h a e l Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y i n E a s t e r n A u s t r a l i a , 1835" 1851 ( P a r k v i l l e , V i c t o r i a : Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1965), p. 165- 98 3 See ADB, I, 45. 9 9 See Roe, p. 165- 177 Lang's C o l o n i s t f a v o u r e d f u l l p r o h i b i t i o n from A p r i l , I836, onwa r d s . 1 0 1 See Roe, pp. 168-9- 1 02 Quoted i n E l i z a b e t h Webby, " E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e i n E a r l y A u s t r a l i a : 1820-1829," S o u t h e r l y , 27, Nov4 (1967) , 274. 1 03 See, f o r example, Cunningham, I I , 118-21; I n g l i s , p. 28. 104 S i r W a l t e r S c o t t ' s n o v e l s were p a r t i c u l a r l y p o p u l a r i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . See R u s s e l B. Nye and Norman S. Grabo, eds., The R e v o l u t i on and the Ear 1y R e p u b l i c, V o l . I I of Amer i can Thought and Wr i t i ng ( B o s t o n : Houghton M i f f l i n , 1965), p. x x x v i i . 1 0 5 See Webby, pp. 268, 276. 1 0 6 See Webby, pp. 271, 276. G r a t t a n c l a s h e d w i t h Governor D a r l i n g , and s u b s e q u e n t l y r e t u r n e d t o England i n 1827. See Webby, p. 272. 1 0 8 See Webby, pp. 273, 278-80, 282. See a l s o E l i z a b e t h Ann Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e and the Reading P u b l i c i n A u s t r a l i a 1800-1850: A Study o f the Growth and D i f f e r e n t i a t i o n o f a C o l o n i a l L i t e r a r y C u l t u r e d u r i n g the E a r l y N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y , " I, D i s s . U n i v . o f Sydney 1971, p. 247. 1 0 9 The l e t t e r was dated F e b r u a r y 25, 1829- See E l i z a b e t h Webby, " A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e and the Reading P u b l i c i n the E i g h t e e n - T w e n t i e s , " S o u t h e r l y , 29, No. 9 (1969), 17-18. For more on Cooper's i n c r e a s i n g p o p u l a r i t y i n the 1830's and 1840's, see Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I, 230; I I , 84, 102, 104, 107, 138-9, 145, 148-9, e t passim. For more on James M a r t i n ' s 178 The A u s t r a l i a n S k e t c h Book (Sydney: 'James Tegg, 1838), see C l a r k , H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a , I I I , 153 - 4; Webby i n C a n t r e l l , ed., B a r d s , pp. 2 5 - 6 ; Roe, p. 8 6 ; Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : I8OO - I 8 5 O , " I, 4 7 8 - 8 0 . 1 1 1 Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : I8OO - I 8 5 O , " I, 2 0 7 - 1 1 2 For more on the p o r t r a y a l o f the I n d i a n i n American f i c t i o n , see Lucy Lockwood H a z a r d , The F r o n t i e r i n American L i t e r a t u r e (New York: Thomas Y. C r o w e l l , 1 9 2 7 ) . A more r e c e n t view i s g i v e n by Edwin S i l l F u s s e l 1 , F r o n t i e r : American L i t e r a t u r e and the American West ( P r i n c e t o n , New J e r s e y : P r i n c e t o n U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 6 5 ) . 1 1 3 Quoted i n E l i z a b e t h Webby, "The A b o r i g i n a l i n E a r l y A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e , " S o u t h e r l y , 40, No. 1 ( 1 9 8 0 ) , 6 2 . 1 14 For c o n f i r m a t i o n o f t h i s v i e w , see W i l l i a m B. C a i r n s , B r i t i s h C r i t i c i sms o f Amer i can Wr i t i ngs , 1 7 8 3 - 1 8 1 5 , A_ C o n t r i b u t i o n t o the Study o f Anglo-Amer i can L i t e r a r y Rel a t i o n s h i ps (Madison, W i s c o n s i n : U n i v . o f W i s c o n s i n P r e s s , 1 9 1 8 ) , and P e r r y M i l l e r , The Raven and the Wha1e (New York: H a r c o u r t , Brace and Company, 1 9 5 6 ) . ^ 5 W i l l i a m Woo l i s , A u s t r a 1 i a : a_ Mora 1 and Descr i pt i ve Poem (Sydney: Stephens and S t o k e s , 1 8 3 3 ) , P- x v i . ' 1 6 Wool I s , pp. 68-9. 1 1 7 Wool I s , p. 70. 1 1 o M o n i t o r , May 1 , 1 8 3 3 - 1 1 9 H. C a r m i c h a e l , " I n t r o d u c t o r y D i s c o u r s e d e l i v e r e d a t the o p e n i n g o f the Sydney M e c h a n i c s ' School o f A r t s , " New South Wales Magazine, I, No. 2 ( 1 8 3 3 ) , 7 8 , quoted i n Nadel , p. 73- 179 1 20 Van Piemen's Land M o n t h l y M a g a z i n e , I (September, 1835), 5, quoted i n Nadel , p. 70. 121 Channing's e s s a y was f i r s t d e l i v e r e d as the Annual O r a t i o n o f the American P h i l o s o p h i c a l S o c i e t y , a t the U n i v e r s i t y o f P h i l a d e l p h i a , on October 18, 1823. I t i s r e p r i n t e d under the t i t l e , "Remarks on N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " i n W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing, The Complete Works o f W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing (London: " C h r i s t i a n L i f e " P u b l i s h i n g Co., 1884), pp. 134-43- John Dumore Lang r e p u b l i s h e d the e s s a y i n the C o l o n i s t , A p r i l 16, 1838. 1 22 Lang t r a v e l l e d t h r o u g h o u t the U n i t e d S t a t e s , from M a s s a c h u s e t t s t o South C a r o l i n a , i n 1840. 1 23 C h a n n i n g , p. 143; P h i l i p F r e n e a u , Poems o f F r e n e a u , ed. H a r r y Hayden C l a r k (New York: H a f n e r , I960), p. 94. 124 O r a t i o n d e l i v e r e d b e f o r e the Phi Beta Kappa S o c i e t y a t Harvard U n i v e r s i t y , Cambridge, August 31, 1837- 1 25 See Marcus C u n l i f f e , The L i t e r a t u r e o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s (Harmondsworth: P e n g u i n , 1964), pp. 46-7. 1 26 George W a s h i n g t o n , The W r i t i n g s o f George Washington, ed. John C. F i t z p a t r i c k , XXVI (Washington: U n i t e d S t a t e s Government P r i n t i n g O f f i c e , 1938) , 485- Channing, p. 136. 1 28 James K. P a u l d i n g , "A N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " from Sa1magund i , Second S e r i e s , August 19, 1820. Quoted i n Nye and Grabo, p. 308. 129 New South Wales Magazine, A u g u s t , 1833, quoted by Webby i n C a n t r e l l , ed., B a r d s , p. 24. 180 130 In E n g l a n d , the p u b l i s h i n g o f Channing's " N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e " e s s a y caused h i s r e p u t a t i o n t o r e a c h a peak. The same e s s a y was t r a n s l a t e d i n t o F r e n c h i n 1838, and w i d e l y r e a d . See A r t h u r W. Brown, Wi11iam E l l e r y Channing (New York: .Twayne, 1961), pp. 114, 140. ' 3 ' Channing, pp. 134-5- 1 32 Channing, p. 136. 1 33 Many Americans c o u l d s t i l l e x p r e s s r e s e r v a t i o n s about t h e i r own l i t e r a t u r e a t t h e t u r n o f the c e n t u r y . See, f o r example, Van Wyck B r o o k s , The W r i t e r i n America (New York: E.P. D u t t o n , 1953), p. 36. 134 Channing, p. 137- 1 35 Channing, p. 137- C h a n n i n g , p. 138. 1 37 J / Channing, p. 140. 1 3 8 See C l a r k , I I I , 155"6. 1 39 Channing, p. 135- CHAPTER I I I THE WRITERS Sect i on A W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth (1790-1872) Love f o r the c u t and t h r u s t o f p o l i t i c s and the p a s s i o n t o be i n d e p e n d e n t l y w e a l t h y dominated the t h o u g h t s o f a wide spectrum o f A u s t r a l i a n s , from e x c l u s i v e t o e m a n c i p i s t , c u r r e n c y l a d t o new a r r i v a l , i n the c o u n t r y ' s f i r s t f i f t y y e a r s . A shrewd few adapted e a s i l y t o the more e x p e d i e n t s o c i a l norms, thus amassing l a r g e f o r t u n e s . Of t h e s e , W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth s t a n d s a l o n e as the most c h a r i s m a t i c . The sheer b r e a d t h o f the man's t a l e n t s - - a s horseman, e x p l o r e r , g r a z i e r , s a t i r i s t , p r o p h e t i c b a r d , B a c c h a n a l , l a w y e r , newspaper e d i t o r , o r a t o r , p o l i t i c i a n and 1 i b e r t i n e - - j u s t i f y h i s c l a i m t o b e i n g the epitome o f the new c o l o n y ' s s t r e n g t h s and d e f i c i e n c i e s . He i s , i n a r e a l way, a r e p r e s e n t a t i v e man, the sum o f the community's a s p i r a t i o n s , achievements and f o l 1 i e s . ' A p p r o p r i a t e l y , Wentworth's p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l o p p o r t u n i s m 1 8 2 r e s u l t e d i n h i s b e i n g the f i r s t c o l o n i s t t o p u b l i c l y t a u n t the Mother C o u n t r y w i t h the t h r e a t o f c o l o n i a l r e b e l l i o n a l o n g American l i n e s . Though c o n s e r v a t i v e by i n c l i n a t i o n , Wentworth t h r o u g h o u t h i s c a r e e r f u l l y a p p r e c i a t e d the p o l i t i c a l c a p i t a l t o be made by comparing c u r r e n t A u s t r a l i a n e v e n t s t o e a r l i e r American r e v o l u t i o n a r y g e s t u r e s . He conducted h i s p u b l i c a f f a i r s a c c o r d i n g t o one r u l e o f b e h a v i o u r : when f r u s t r a t e d by r i g i d E n g l i s h b u r e a u c r a c y , c i t e American p r e c e d e n t . S c a r e t a c t i c s , y e s . And p o s s i b l y immoral, g i v e n h i s c o n s e r v a t i v e t e n d e n c i e s . But u n d e n i a b l y e f f e c t i v e , he f o u n d , and l i k e l y t o e x e r t an e f f e c t b e f o r e l o n g . Born sometime i n the e a r l y 1 7 9 0 's, the son o f a c o n v i c t mother and a surgeon f a t h e r who had a v o i d e d c r i m i n a l c o n v i c t i o n f o r highway r o b b e r y o n l y because o f h i s agreement t o j o u r n e y t o f a r - o f f New H o l l a n d , Wentworth soon marked h i m s e l f as a man c a p a b l e o f r i s i n g t o pre-esni nence 2 i n h i s n a t i v e l a n d . H i s y o u t h f u l p r o c l i v i t y f o r r e v e l r y and, as - one contemporary put i t , h i s tendency f o r "rough language" no doubt endeared him t o h i s peers a t a time when such b e h a v i o u r appeared the mark o f a manly s p i r i t . I t wasn't l o n g , however, b e f o r e boyhood b r a s h n e s s y i e l d e d t o the a d u l t ' s l i v e l y and more c r a f t y i n t e l l e c t . H i s language e v i d e n t l y remained unchanged, but the l i s t o f a m b i t i o n s grew. Wentworth's i n q u i r i n g mind began t o c o n c e i v e o f the i m p o r t a n t c o n t r i b u t i o n h i s f a r t i i , l y - - a n d country--demanded o f him. Though always a s t o u t a d v o c a t e o f the i n t r i n s i c w o r t h o f s u b j e c t s E n g l i s h and the B r i t i s h c o n s t i t u t i o n , Wentworth r e t a i n e d a deep r e s p e c t f o r the v a l u a b l e l e s s o n s o f the A m e r i c a n r e v o l u t i o n and the i n t e g r i t y 183 o f i t s p r i n c i p a l spokesmen (he named a p r o p e r t y bestowed on him by Governor M a c q u a r i e , "Vermont"). H i s l e t t e r s , p r i n t e d works and speeches u n f a i l i n g l y e x h i b i t a c u r i o u s d u a l i t y o f a l l e g i a n c e : l o y a l t y t o George M l , t o g e t h e r w i t h esteem f o r the s e r v i c e a b l e i d e a s o f O t i s , D i c k i n s o n , John Adams, H a m i l t o n , J e f f e r s o n and t h e i r countrymen. L i k e many o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , Wentworth o s c i l l a t e d between the two i n the l820's, f a v o u r i n g one o n l y as i t s u i t e d h i s l a r g e r purpose. Not t h a t t h o s e c l o s e t o him e v e r doubted which a l t e r n a t i v e he would u l t i m a t e l y choose; f o r the g r e a t e r p a r t o f h i s l a s t twenty y e a r s he r e s i d e d a t M e r l y House, i n D o r s e t , a c o n t e n t e d member o f B r i t a n n i a ' s h esteemed C o n s e r v a t i v e C l u b . Wentworth's A S t a t i s t i ca1 , H i s t o r i c a l and P o l i t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n o f the Colony o f New South Wales (1819) was one o f the most i n f l u e n t i a l books on the new s e t t l e m e n t t o be p u b l i s h e d i n the h a l f c e n t u r y t o 1838.5 To u n d e r s t a n d what l i e s behind i t , however, i t i s n e c e s s a r y t o b r i e f l y g l a n c e a t Wentworth's l i f e i n the y e a r s j u s t p r i o r t o the book's p u b l i c a t i o n . He t r a v e l l e d t o London i n 1816 d e t e r m i n e d t o pursue law a t the M i d d l e Temple, d e s p i t e h i s f a t h e r ' s e x p r e s s w i s h t h a t he j o i n the m i l i t a r y . The atmosphere p r e v a i l i n g i n p o s t - N a p o l e o n i c England f o r t u n a t e l y f a v o u r e d the son, e n a b l i n g him t o b e g i n s t u d i e s i n F e b r u a r y , 1817- A l e t t e r w r i t t e n t o h i s f a t h e r ' s p a t r o n and kinsman, Lord F i t z w i l l i a m , j u s t b e f o r e he began h i s s t u d i e s , p e r t a i n s t o more e n l i g h t e n e d p r e o c c u p a t i o n s than mere p e r s o n a l a g g r a n d i z e m e n t : 1 8 4 I t r u s t t h a t your l o r d s h i p w i l l . . . pardon me f o r : b r i e f l y d i s c l o s i n g the more remote o b j e c t s o f my a m b i t i o n s . I t i s . . . by no means my i n t e n t i o n i n becoming a member o f the bar t o abandon the c o u n t r y t h a t gave me b i r t h . I am s e n s i b l e o f the s a c r e d c l a i m s w h i c h i t has upon me. . . . In w i t h d r a w i n g m y s e l f , t h e r e f o r e , f o r a time from t h a t c o u n t r y , I am a c t u a t e d by a d e s i r e o f b e t t e r q u a l i f y i n g m y s e l f f o r the performance of t h o s e d u t i e s t h a t b i r t h has imposed; and, i n s e l e c t i n g the p r o f e s s i o n o f law, I c a l c u l a t e upon a c q u a i n t i n g m y s e l f w i t h a l l the e x c e l l e n c e o f the B r i t i s h c o n s t i t u t i o n and hope a t some f u t u r e p e r i o d t o a d v o c a t e s u c c e s s f u l l y the r i g h t o f my c o u n t r y t o p a r t i c i p a t e i n i t s a d v a n t a g e s . ^ The p a t r i o t , h e r e , i n n o c e n t l y e n v i s i o n s h i s s u c c e s s as t i e d t o the i n e v i t a b l e r i s e o f h i s n a t i v e c o n t i n e n t . The two may, i n the f o r e - s e a b l e f u t u r e , s e r v e and b e n e f i t each o t h e r f r e e of o u t s i d e i n t e r - f e r e n c e . Events soon shook Wentworth's y o u t h f u l n a i v e t e . For one t h i n g , he a t t e m p t e d t o g a i n a s i n e c u r e from S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e B a t h u r s t , a reward t o w h i c h he f e l t h i m s e l f e n t i t l e d by b i r t h and background. B a t h u r s t , w h i l e r e c o g n i z i n g the a p p l i c a n t ' s m e r i t as a p r o m i e n t c i t i z e n o f B r i t a i n ' s c o l o n i e s and e r s t w h i l e e x p l o r e r o f n o t e , r e f u s e d t o c r e a t e the new p o s i t i o n r e q u e s t e d : Vendue M a s t e r t o New South W a l e s . 7 Unused t o r e j e c t i o n , Wentworth r e a c t e d b i t t e r l y t o h i s f i r s t c o n t a c t w i t h b u r e a u c r a c y i n the Mother C o u n t r y , m a i n t a i n i n g t h a t " e v e r y a p p l i c a t i o n , unsupported by i n t e r e s t , " g must f a i l i n the f a c e o f "a government so c o r r u p t as the p r e s e n t . " The w o r k i n g s o f p r i v i l e g e f o r the f i r s t time m i l i t a t e d a g a i n s t him, and he d i d n ' t 1 i ke i t . Yet t h i s e x p e r i e n c e a l o n e f a i l e d t o unduly modify the smugness a c q u i r e d growing up i n A u s t r a l i a (and England) as a member o f a 185 f a m i l y w i t h p o w e r f u l moneyed i n t e r e s t s i n the community. For Went- w o r t h , h a v i n g proposed i n A p r i l t o John M a c a r t h u r ' s d a u g h t e r , c o n t i n u e d t o c l i n g t i g h t l y t o the a p p a r e n t c e r t a i n t y o f h i s coming m a r r i a g e , a u n i o n which promised t o f u l f i l h i s o v e r r i d i n g a m b i t i o n - - a u n i o n , as he put i t i n a l e t t e r t o h i s f a t h e r , so e s s e n t i a l t o the h a p p i n e s s o f your son and t o the accomplishment o f t h o s e p r o j e c t s f o r the f u t u r e r e s p e c t a b i l i t y and grandeur of our f a m i l y . . . .9 A l l g o i n g w e l l , the p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l s t a g e s o f the near f u t u r e promised t o be h i s . The combined f o r t u n e s o f the Wentworth and M a c a r t h u r f a m i l i e s would s u r e l y be s u f f i c i e n t t o dominate the c o r r i d o r s o f power i n New South Wales. I t was w i t h t h e s e t h o u g h t s o f h a s t e n i n g the ascendency o f a p r o p e r t i e d c l a s s o f gentlemen--a landed a r i s t o c r a c y - - f i r m l y i n mind t h a t Wentworth penned S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n . By May, 1818, the book was e s s e n t i a l l y c o m p l e t e . How t o a c c e l e r a t e theemergence o f h i s s o c i a l s t r a t u m ? Wentworth answered t h i s q u e s t i o n a s s e r t i v e l y , r e c o g n i z i n g , l i k e h i s American c o u n t e r p a r t s h a l f a c e n t u r y e a r l i e r such as James O t i s and John D i c k i n s o n , t h a t an a c c e p t a b l e s o l u t i o n t o the problem had t o e n t a i l u p h e a v a l s i n the l o c a l power s t r u c t u r e . He pursued two l i n e s o f argument: f i r s t , he s t r o v e t o e n t i c e p r o s p e c t i v e B r i t i s h e m i g r a n t s t o choose A u s t r a l i a r a t h e r than America as t h e i r d e s t i n a t i o n by s t r e s s i n g the " s u p e r i o r i t y " o f the f o r m e r ' s a d v a n t a g e s . B o l s t e r i n g i m m i g r a t i o n was c r u c i a l t o Wentworth's p l a n s f o r ' h i s n a t i v e c o u n t r y i f a change was t o be wrought i n i t s image as " t h e f i f t h and p i c k p o c k e t o u s 186 c o r n e r o f the g l o b e . " , u B r i t o n s c o n s i d e r i n g New H o l l a n d as t h e i r new home had t o be c o n v i n c e d t h a t the s e c u r i t y o f l i f e and p r o p e r t y c o u l d be g u a r a n t e e d . So the g r e a t b u l k o f Wentworth's book amounted t o an e l a b o r a t e handbook o f c o l o n i a l 1 i f e - - i n d i s p e n s a b l e p o i n t s on how t o s u r v i v e , then t h r i v e . The second a s p e c t o f the book's argument was more i m p o r t a n t : c o n s o l i d a t i n g the f i r s t s t e p s towards the a c q u i s i t i o n o f s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t f o r the c o l o n y . To do t h i s n e c e s s a r i l y i n v o l v e d r e v e a l i n g the m a l i g n a n c i e s o f a r b i t r a r y government and, o f c o u r s e , the p e r i l s o f d e s p o t i s m from too g r e a t a d i s t a n c e . W i t h B r i t i s h p o l i t i c i a n s and c o n s t i t u t i o n a l a u t h o r i t i e s i n mind as h i s a u d i e n c e , Wentworth v i g o r o u s l y p u b l i c i z e d the p r e s e n t w o e f u l s t a t e o f the c o l o n y ; he u t i l i z e d a l i v e l y r h e t o r i c a l s t y l e w h i c h f u l l y e x p l o i t e d h i s l e g a l , p h i l o s o p h i c a l , s c i e n t i f i c and h i s t o r i c a l l e a r n i n g . P o l e m i c a l p r o s e s u i t e d him. As G.B. B a r t o n so a p t l y put i t , where " t h e a u t h o r [Wentworth] touched upon p o l i t i c a l m a t t e r s , he was e v i d e n t l y b r e a t h i n g a c o n g e n i a l a t m o s p h e r e - - h i s lungs expanded and h i s cheeks glowed."'' Wentworth v o i c e d d i s g u s t w i t h the " a r i s t o c r a t i c body" i n New H o l l a n d "which would m o n o p o l i s e a l l s i t u a t i o n s o f power, d i g n i t y and emolument, and put t h e m s e l v e s i n a p o s t u r e t o domineer a l i k e over the 1 2 g o v e r n o r and the p e o p l e . " Such p e o p l e aimed a t c o n v e r t i n g " t h e g r e a t body o f the p e o p l e i n t o an h e r e d i t a r y d e f o r m i t y . " But Wentworth d i d n ' t c o n t e n t h i m s e l f w i t h s o l e l y n e g a t i v e c r i t i c i s m . No doubt c o g n i z a n t o f s e m i n a l e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y American p o l i t i c a l t r a c t s such as James O t i s ' The R i g h t s o f the B r i t i s h C o l o n i e s A s s e r t e d and 187 P r o v e d (1764), J o h n D i c k i n s o n ' s L a t e R e g u l a t i o n s r e s p e c t i n g t h e B r i t i s h C o l o n i e s C o n s i d e r e d (1765) a n d L e t t e r s f r o m a_ F a r m e r i n P e n n s y l v a n i a (1767-8), a s w e l l a s t h e c o n f i r m e d r e p u b l i c a n p r o p o s i t i o n s o f J o h n A d a m s , J e f f e r s o n , H a m i l t o n a n d t h e F e d e r a l i s t P a p e r s , he p r o c e e d e d t o o u t l i n e a s e r i e s o f p o s i t i v e r e f o r m s . T h e s e e c h o e d , i n p a r t o r w h o l e , t h e A m e r i c a n c o l o n i a l demands (and g r i e v a n c e s ) o f t h e 1 7 7 0 ' s . W e n t w o r t h demanded an e l e c t e d a s s e m b l y o f s m a l l p r o p e r t y h o l d e r s a n d a n o m i n a t e d l e g i s l a t i v e c o u n c i l ; e q u a l r i g h t s f o r e m a n c i p i s t s ; t r i a l by j u r y a n d a s a t i s f a c t o r y p r o c e s s o f a p p e a l ; 1 3 an e n d t o p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p ; and no t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n . L e s t a n y o f h i s a b s e n t - m i n d e d E n g l i s h r e a d e r s m i s s t h e i n t e n d e d a n a l o g y , t h e b r a z e n p a t r i o t , t h e s e l f - c o n f e s s e d " n a t i v e o f A u s t r a l i a , " c l a r i f i e d h i s p o s i t i o n , e l u c i d a t i n g t h e l e n g t h s t o w h i c h some c o l o n i s t s 14 m i g h t be p r e p a r e d t o go i f t h e i r p l e a s went i g n o r e d . N a m e l y , e m u l a t i o n o f , e v e n a l i g n m e n t w i t h , A m e r i c a . W e n t w o r t h s o b e r l y o u t l i n e d t h e A u s t r a l i a n c a s e , g i v i n g s p e c i a l a t t e n t i o n t o t h e l o g i s t i c s o f c o l o n i a l s t r a t e g y . If B r i t a i n c o n t i n u e d t o show i t had l e a r n e d n o t h i n g f r o m t h e " t e r r i b l e " l e s s o n o f t h e A m e r i c a n R e v o l u t i o n , A u s t r a l i a n s w o u l d be f o r c e d t o d i s c a r d t h e i r " i n t o l e r a b l e y o k e " a n d p l a c e t h e m s e l v e s " u n d e r t h e g o v e r n m e n t o f more j u s t and c o n s i d e r a t e r u l e r s . " F u r t h e r - m o r e , " f r o m c o n s t r a i n e d r e s i s t a n c e t o t y r a n n y , a n d i n v i n d i c a t i o n o f t h e i r m o s t s a c r e d and i n d u b i t a b l e r i g h t s " t h e y c o u l d r e a d i l y c o n - d u c t a g u e r i l l a war by i n i t i a l l y r e t r e a t i n g t o t h e s e c u r i t y o f t h e n e a r b y B l u e M o u n t a i n s : 188 To t h o s e who a r e a c q u a i n t e d w i t h the l o c a l s i t u a t i o n o f t h i s colony,--who have t r a v e r s e d the f o r m i d a b l e c h a i n o f mountains by which i t i s bounded from n o r t h t o s o u t h , who have viewed the impregnable p o s i t i o n s . . . the independence o f t h i s c o l o n y , s h o u l d i t be goaded i n t o r e b e l l i o n , appears n e i t h e r so p r o b l e m a t i c a l nor remote, as might o t h e r w i s e be i m a g i n e d . ^ U n l e s s B r i t a i n responded t o the c o l o n i a l c r y , he c o n c l u d e d , "such w i . l l be the consequences o f the i m p o l i t i c and o p p r e s s i v e system o f g o v e r n - ment pursued i n t h i s c o l o n y . " H i s w a r n i n g s c l o s e l y p a r a l l e l e d John D i c k i n s o n ' s e x h o r t a t i o n s e x p r e s s e d i n the d r a f t o f the " D e c l a r a t i o n o f the Causes and N e c e s s i t y o f T a k i n g up Arms" t h a t the American 16 Congress adopted on J u l y 6, 1775. Wentworth's scheme might not have been p r a c t i c a l (arms? men? s u p p l i e s ? revenue?) but i t s t i l l j a r r e d on the B r i t i s h i m a g i n a t i o n , g i v i n g f i r s t s i g n i f i c a n t c o l o n i a l v o i c e t o the d i r e c t c o n n e c t i o n between American r e v o l u t i o n a r y e v e n t s (and i d e o l o g y ) and the p o l i t i c a l scene i n New H o l l a n d . H i s r a t i o n a l e found ready a c c e p t a n c e amongst h i s more r a d i c a l n a t i v e c o l l e a g u e s t h r o u g h o u t the l820's as they g r a d u a l l y r e a l i z e d the power and i n f l u e n c e o f p r e s s s t r i d e n c y . S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n e s t a b l i s h e d the e f f e c t i v e n e s s of A m e r i c a as a t o o l f o r the use o f a m b i t i o u s A u s t r a l i a n s . From the o u t s e t , however, Wentworth c a t e g o r i c a l l y r e f u s e d t o a d v o c a t e the r e p u b l i c a n p o s i t i o n adopted by most o f h i s American p r e d e c e s s o r s . Indeed, one p a r a g r a p h a f t e r the t h r e a t o f r e b e l l i o n , he p r o t e s t e d a g a i n s t b e i n g c l a s s e d among t h o s e who a r e the sworn enemies o f a l l a u t h o r i t y There i s not a more s i n c e r e f r i e n d t o e s t a b l i s h e d government and l e g i t i m a c y than he, who 189 m i l d l y a d v o c a t e s the cause o f r e f o r m , and p o i n t s out w i t h decency the e x c r e s c e n c e s t h a t w i l l o c c a s i o n a l l y r i s e on the p o l i t i c a l body, as w e l l from an e x c e s s o f l i b e r t y as o f r e s t r a i n t : such a person may p r e v e n t a n a r c h y ; he can never o c c a s i o n i t . ' 7 He e v i d e n t l y wanted a p p r o p r i a t e r e c o g n i t i o n o f h i s c l a i m s — h i s due as an E n g l i s h m a n - - s o t h a t he, and o t h e r s o f h i s s o c i a l s t a n d i n g , might pursue h i g h e r g o a l s as s o c i e t y ' s p o p u l a r l e a d e r s . C e r t a i n l y S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n was no t r e a t i s e f o r an independent A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c . Democracy had no p l a c e i n Wentworth's p l a n s . Landed p r o p e r t y , he m a i n t a i n e d a t a n o t h e r p o i n t , c o n s t i t u t e d " t h e o n l y s t a n d a r d by w h i c h the r i g h t e i t h e r o f e l e c t i n g , o r b e i n g e l e c t e d , can i n any c o u n t r y be p r o p e r l y r e g u l a t e d . " The C o u n c i l t h a t Wentworth 1 8 had i n mind bore "many resemblances t o the House o f L o r d s . " In e f f e c t , he wanted t o r e p l a c e one p r i v i l e g e d group w i t h a n o t h e r more r e g i o n a l l y q u a l i f i e d . Once c e r t a i n r i g h t s were e s t a b l i s h e d , the p o l i c y changes o f the would-be incumbents promised t o be m i n i m a l . For Wentworth, Americans l i k e P a i n e and Sam Adams were anathema. Unashamed l e v e l l e r s and, God i n heaven, Democrats. Tory r e a d e r s o f S t a t i s t i Ca 1 ' Descr i pt i o n , s e n s i n g a t h r e a t t o t h e i r b e l i e f s w h i c h d i d n ' t e x i s t , s e e t h e d . In A u s t r a l i a , John M a c a r t h u r 1 9 the e l d e r viewed Wentworth's p r o p o s a l s w i t h " d e c i d e d d i s a p p r o b a t i o n " ; i n E n g l a n d , the Q u a r t e r l y Review a s s a i l e d the book as y e t a n o t h e r repugnant m a n i f e s t a t i o n o f t h a t " s p i r i t o f u n i v e r s a l i n q u i s i t i o n " c u r r e n t l y sweeping the c i v i l i z e d w o r l d . The Review w r i t e r t h o r o u g h l y r e s e n t e d t h a t c o l o n i a l u p s t a r t Wentworth's " d i c t a t o r i a l and menacing t o n e , " making c u t t i n g r e f e r e n c e t o h i s i n d u l g e n c e i n the " f a s h i o n a b l e 190 o c c u p a t i o n o f c o n s t i t u t i o n - m o n g e r i n g . " Unbeknownst t o t h e s e u l t r a - c o n s e r v a t i v e t h i n k e r s , i n l i t t l e more than a decade t h e i r s e n t i m e n t s would be the m i d d l e - a g e d Wentworth's. Small c o n s o l a t i o n , a d m i t t e d l y , i n 1819. Because o f i t s i n f o r m a t i v e n a t u r e and c o n t r o v e r s i a l s t a n c e , 21 S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n soon became a s t a n d a r d work. Three e d i t i o n s appeared i n f i v e y e a r s - - t h e second e d i t i o n an e n l a r g e m e n t , and the 22 t h i r d r u n n i n g t o two volumes. I t was no c o i n c i d e n c e t h a t from the p u b l i c a t i o n y e a r o f the f i r s t e d i t i o n onwards, the B r i t i s h P r e s s began t o pay " r e g u l a r i f not c o p i o u s a t t e n t i o n t o the o v e r s e a s 23 Empire. . . ." F u r t h e r m o r e , r e a c t i o n s t o the f i r s t two e d i t i o n s c l e a r l y e x e r t e d an i n f l u e n c e on the New South Wales A c t o f 1823, w h i c h g r a n t e d the c o l o n y a nominated L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l and t r i a l by j u r y i n c i v i l a c t i o n s , and enhanced the l e g a l s t a t u s o f e m a n c i p i s t s (though not a c c o r d i n g them any p o l i t i c a l r i g h t s ) . 2 * * Wentworth, i t a p p e a r e d , had s u c c e s s f u l l y launched h i s p u b l i c c a r e e r w i t h a mixed bag o f c a r e f u l l y r e s e a r c h e d i n f o r m a t i o n , bravado and d e l i b e r a t e l y p r o v o c a t i v e remarks prompting r e c o l l e c t i o n s o f the American d e b a c l e . Most i m p o r t a n t l y o f a l l , the c h a l l e n g e s i n h e r e n t i n S t a t i s t i ca1 D e s c r i p t i o n v i r t u a l l y g u a r a n t e e d t h a t the s t r u g g l e f o r fundamental p e r s o n a l l i b e r t i e s and s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t i n A u s t r a l i a over the next decades would be viewed by both s i d e s as c l o s e l y a n a l a g o u s t o the American e x p e r i e n c e . Wentworth f i r s t a r t i c u l a t e d the terms o f the o n g o i n g d e b a t e . 191 He was a l s o the f i r s t o f a number o f h i s countrymen t o a b r u p t l y m o d i f y t h e s e terms as h i s m a t e r i a l s i t u a t i o n improved. The e x p e d i e n t aims o f many A u s t r a l i a n s a t t h i s time cannot be o v e r l o o k e d . Ever m i n d f u l o f h i s p e r s o n a l a m b i t i o n t o f a s h i o n f o r h i m s e l f "a r e p u t a t i o n which s h a l l r e f l e c t a s p l e n d o u r on a l l who a r e r e l a t e d t o me," and aware o f the c o n s t r u c t i v e i m p r e s s i o n made by the f i r s t two e d i t i o n s o f S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n , Wentworth r e w r o t e the 1824 t h i r d e d i t i o n 25 more c a r e f u l l y , removing the menacing b l u s t e r . The B l u e Mountains s c e n a r i o d i s a p p e a r e d , f o r , d e s p i t e h i s f e e l i n g t h a t the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l was "a w r e t c h e d mongrel s u b s t i t u t e " f o r a L e g i s l a t i v e Assembly, an " a b o r t i o u s s u b s t i t u t e , " the 1823 A c t e v i d e n t l y p l a c a t e d him s u f f i c i e n He f e l t the c o n s t i t u t i o n o f the C o u n c i l and the system o f j u d i c a t u r e c o n t i n u e d t o i n f r i n g e "on the r i g h t s and l i b e r t i e s o f the c o l o n i s t s , " and s e r v e the i n t e r e s t s p r i n c i p a l l y o f the c o l o n y ' s " a r i s t o c r a t i c j u n t a " ; but the e m a n c i p i s t s now had g r e a t e r r e c o g n i t i o n a t the expense 27 o f the e x c l u s i v e s ' p r e v i o u s s t r a n g l e h o l d on p o l i t i c a l power. Went- worth c o n s t r u e d the s l e n d e r c o n c e s s i o n s as a s y m b o l i c a c t o f f a i t h . G r e a t e r l i b e r t i e s were " i m p l i e d l y p r o m i s e d " i n the c o n s t i t u t i o n t o 28 f o l l o w i n f o u r y e a r s t i m e . However, j u s t i n c a s e , Wentworth a g a i n r a i s e d the American a 1 t e r n a t i v e - - o n 1 y t h i s time l e s s b o m b a s t i c a l l y . He l i k e n e d c o l o n i a l communities t o a p i e c e o f unmoulded wax. . . . B e n e f i t s sown t h e r e w i l l y i e l d g r a t i t u d e ; j u s t i c e c o n t e n t ; i n j u r i e s h a t r e d ; o p p r e s s i o n r e s i s t a n c e i n the f i r s t i n s t a n c e , d e f e a t and s e p a r a t i o n i n t h e end. P a s t h i s t o r y a t t e s t s t h a t t y r a n n y f l o u r i s h e s but f o r a s e a s o n ; t h a t i n j u s t i c e t r i u m p h s but f o r a day.^9 192 The onus was on the M i n i s t e r f o r the C o l o n i e s , f o r h i s a c t i o n s would d e t e r m i n e whether, i n f i n e , t h e i r i n f a n t e s t a b l i s h m e n t s w i l l remain the a t t a c h e d and d u t i f u l c h i l d o f a c o n s i d e r a t e p a r e n t , o r s e i z e the f i r s t f a v o u r a b l e o p p o r t u n i t y t h a t s h a l l o c c u r t o renounce the c o n t r o l [ s i c ] o f en u n f e e l i n g master.30 S i g n i f i c a n t l y , even as h i s p e r s o n a l p o l i t i c s grew r a p i d l y more con- s e r v a t i v e i n the decades a f t e r 1830, Wentworth c o n t i n u e d t o a p p r e c i a t e the shock v a l u e o f c i t i n g American p r e c e d e n t s and the good sense o f c e r t a i n American p o l i t i c a l and e d u c a t i o n a l t h e o r y . A f t e r the p u b l i c a t i o n o f the t h r e e e d i t i o n s of S t a t i s t i ca1 Descr i pt i o n , Wentworth's l o c a l s u p p o r t e r s q u i c k l y grew i n number i n the f o l l o w i n g ten y e a r s . E m a n c i p i s t c o l l e a g u e s j u b i l a n t l y h a i l e d h i s r e f e r e n c e t o the c o l o n y ' s e x c l u s i v e s and t h e i r a t t e n d a n t s as n o t h i n g but "whores, and rogues, and vagabonds"; they a p p r e c i a t e d , t o o , h i s i n t i m i d a t i n g p r e s e n c e on the l o c a l scene a f t e r h i s r e t u r n from England 31 i n 1824. Wentworth's p r e d i c t i o n of a " g e n e r a l r e v o l u t i o n " and the b o l d independence o f h i s c l a i m s t e m p o r a r i l y boded i l l f o r the grand 32 p l a n s and s e c r e t a m b i t i o n s o f c o l o n i a l T o r i e s . The a g g r e s s i v e n a t u r e o f the W e n t w o r t h - i n s p i r e d p e t i t i o n t o D a r l i n g i n J a n u a r y , 1827, prompted the g o v e r n o r t o w r i t e i n a l e t t e r t o home t h a t He [Wentworth] speaks as he w r o t e When c o m p i l i n g h i s book, o f the independence o f the c o l o n y , and compares i t t o the s i t u a t i o n f o r m e r l y o f A m e r i c a , and the p r o b a b i l i t y o f i t s b e i n g d r i v e n , as A m e r i c a was, t o shake o f f the yoke. In s h o r t , he i s a n x i o u s t o become the man of the p e o p l e , and he seems t o t h i n k t h a t the b e s t means o f a c c o m p l i s h i n g t h i s i s by i n s u l t i n g the government.33 1 9 3 Two t h i n g s a r e i m p o r t a n t here: D a r l i n g ' s c o n c e p t i o n o f S t a t i s t i ca 1 D e s c r i p t i o n as a p o t e n t i a l l y r e v o l u t i o n a r y work and h i s i n s i g h t i n t o the p e r s o n a l m o t i v e s h i d d e n behind Wentworth's campaign f o r the p u b l i c b e n e f i t . O c c u r r e n c e s i n the l 8 3 0 ' s bore out the v a l i d i t y o f D a r 1 i ng ' s remarks. What c o n t r i b u t e d t o Wentworth's d e s e r t i o n o f the f r e e p o p u l a t i o n ? Among o t h e r t h i n g s , the g r a d u a l waning of e m a n c i p i s t / e x c l u s i v e h o s t i l i t y , Wentworth's s u b s t a n t i a l i n h e r i t a n c e a f t e r h i s f a t h e r ' s d e a t h i n 1 8 2 7 , h i s m a r r i a g e i n 1 8 2 9 , h i s a c q u i s i t i o n o f many l a r g e p r o p e r t i e s i n New South Wales, and the sudden i n c r e a s e o f e m i g r a n t s a r r i v i n g i n the c o l o n y . As the 1 8 3 0 's p r o g r e s s e d , he became the i n c r e a s i n g l y r e a c t i o n a r y spokesman not o f J a c k s o n i a n democracy, but o f H a m i l t o n i a n c l a s s p r i v i l e g e . Wentworth a s s e r t e d the c l a i m s o f p r o p e r t y and e d u c a t i o n f o r the moulding o f a s u i t a b l e g o v e r n i n g c l a s s . He s t a u n c h l y d e f e n d e d , as A l e x a n d e r H a m i l t o n had, the o l d a r i s t o c r a c y - - w h a t he i n 1 8 5 3 g r u d g i n g l y acknowledged as a " s q u a t o c r a t i c o l i g a r c h y " - - a g a i n s t the c l a i m s o f a r i s i n g t i d e o f e m i g r a n t s y e a r n i n g f o r more l a n d . 3 5 Though he r e f e r r e d as l a t e as A u s t r a l i a Day ( J a n u a r y 2 6 ) , 1 8 3 3 , t o government chosen by the " p e o p l e " when recommending the American r e c o r d f o r cheap government, he seemed by then t o h o l d a d i f f e r e n t c o n c e p t i o n o f the 3 6 p e o p l e . Government by the p e o p l e meant, f o r the Wentworth o f the m i d d l e 1 8 3 0 ' s , government i n the hands o f h i s own c l a s s . He wanted an e d u c a t e d r u l i n g m i n o r i t y , one c o n s t i t u t i o n a l l y l e g a l i z e d and r i c h enough t o r e s i s t the p e r i l s o f democracy. Wentworth's i d e a s a t t h i s time m i r r o r t h o s e o f John Adams as o u t l i n e d i n Defence o f the C o n s t i t u t i o n s 19* o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s (1787-8) and D i s c o u r s e s on D a v i l a (1790-1). The y e a r s f o l l o w i n g the f o r m a t i o n ( i n 1835) o f the i n s u l a r , e l i t i s t A u s t r a l i a n P a t r i o t i c A s s o c i a t i o n w i t n e s s e d a s e v e r e c u r t a i l - ment i n Wentworth's p o p u l a r s u p p o r t , s i n c e he now s p o k e ; f o r a c e r t a i n v e s t e d i n t e r e s t - - a m i n o r i t y o f w e a l t h y , a m b i t i o u s e m a n c i p i s t s and e m i g r a n t s , and growing numbers o f T o r i e s . A s u c c e s s i o n o f i n c i d e n t s soured the g e n e r a l p o p u l a c e : h i s r e f u s a l t o c h a i r the J a n u a r y , 1837, A u s t r a l i a Day meeting because o n l y n a t i v e - b o r n were g o i n g t o be p r e s e n t ; the c a n c e l l a t i o n o f h i s Sydney G a z e t t e s u b s c r i p t i o n ; h i s f u r t i v e , u n p r i n c i p l e d a t t e m p t t o s e c u r e m a s s i v e t r a c t s o f l a n d from the New Z e a l a n d Maori p e o p l e ; and f i n a l l y (and i n the eyes o f e g a l i t a r i a n A u s t r a l i a n s , most d e s p i c a b l y ) , h i s sudden s u p p o r t o f the movement t o 38 r e i n t r o d u c e c o n v i c t t r a n s p o r t a t i o n . Wentworth's thousands and thousands o f c o l o n i a l a c r e s needed cheap l a b o u r t o c o n v e r t them i n t o p r o f i t . To o b t a i n such w o r k e r s , he w i l l i n g l y backed movements t o s e c u r e more c o n v i c t s , o r , i f n e c e s s a r y , c o o l i e l a b o u r from nearby P a c i f i c i s l a n d s . Old f r i e n d s sensed a B e n e d i c t A r n o l d . Sydney's p o p u l a r p r e s s bombasted t h e i r hero o f y e a r s gone by, c a l l i n g him the Ursa Major o f A u s t r a l i a n 39 p o l i t i c s , a " r a b i d , f r o t h i n g b u l l d o g . " Perhaps s a d d e s t o f a l l , and the f i n a l i r o n y , was the i n d i c t m e n t d e l i v e r e d by the A u s t r a l i a n , . the paper Wentworth had h e l p e d t o found so t h a t i d e a l s such as i n - dependence, freedom, c o n s i s t e n c y , h o n e s t y and i n t e g r i t y c o u l d g a i n c r e d e n c e i n the c o l o n y . With A u s t r a l i a Day, 1842, but a week away, the A u s t r a l i a n pronounced: 195 Mr. Wentworth i s one o f t h o s e persons who was an i n f l u e n t i a l man. H i s day i s gone by. H i s o p i n i o n i s worth n o t h i n g . He s t a n d s a l o n e and i s a l t o g e t h e r d i s r e g a r d e d . C e r t a i n l y he f i r s t t a u g h t the n a t i v e s o f t h i s c o l o n y what l i b e r t y was, but he has b e t r a y e d them s i n c e and they have w i t h - drawn t h e i r c o n f i d e n c e i n him.**0 But Wentworth's i n f l u e n c e d i d not d e c l i n e . A c t u a l l y , f o r the next decade he was a r g u a b l y as p o w e r f u l as any s i n g l e man, o t h e r than the g o v e r n o r , i n the c o l o n y . But h i s d o c t r i n e s g a i n e d e n e r g e t i c s u p p o r t o n l y from h i s s o c i a l e q u a l s . The f r e s h waves o f poor, d e m o c r a t i c a l l y minded e m i g r a n t s , o f whom a s i g n i f i c a n t p e r c e n t a g e were r a d i c a l s and C h a r t i s t s , i n s t a n t l y d i s t r u s t e d A u s t r a l i a ' s g r e a t p a t r i o t . The d i s - l i k e was m u t u a l . For Wentworth, the mob c o n s i s t e d o f " i g n o r a n t p r e t e n d e r s " who, f o r the w e l l - b e i n g of the c o l o n y , had t o be e x c l u d e d from a l l branches o f e x e c u t i v e power on the b a s i s o f p r o p e r t y , e x p e r i e n c e k] and e d u c a t i o n . As A l e x a n d e r H a m i l t o n put i t , the " g r e a t b e a s t " had t o be c h e c k e d . Wentworth now f u l l y agreed w i t h the fundamental t e n e t o f H a m i l t o n i a n economics: "That power which h o l d s the p u r s e - kl s t r i n g s a b s o l u t e l y , must r u l e . " H i s money, a p p a r e n t l y , t e s t i f i e d t o h i s c a p a c i t y . As e v e n t s of the p e r i o d from 1838 t o 1868 d e m o n s t r a t e , even i n h i s f i n a l , p o l i t i c a l l y a c t i v e y e a r s , Wentworth never f o r g o t the a t t e n t i o n p a i d h i s f l i r t a t i o n s w i t h r e v o l u t i o n a r y A m e r i c a . I t i s q u e s t i o n a b l e whether he e v e r d i s p l a y e d a t o t a l a f f i n i t y w i t h any s i n g l e American p o l i t i c a l t h e o r i s t , but he always a t t e n d e d t o American u t i l i t y . W i t h A u s t r a l i a on the b r i n k o f s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t , and h i s own c o n s e r v a t i s m perhaps more s t r i n g e n t than a t any p r e v i o u s p o i n t i n h i s l i f e , Wentworth 1 9 6 c o u l d s t i l l m a k e l i b e r a l u s e o f A m e r i c a n p r e c e d e n t s d u r i n g t h e c o n s t i t u t i o n a l d e b a t e s o f t h e e a r l y 1 8 5 0 1 s . I n t h e p e r i o d f r o m t h e a b o l i t i o n o f p r e s s c e n s o r s h i p i n 1 8 2 4 t o t h e f i r s t p a r l i a m e n t e l e c t e d u n d e r a n e w c o n s t i t u t i o n , i n 1 8 5 6 , W e n t w o r t h , m o r e t h a n a n y o t h e r c o l o n i s t b e s i d e s L a n g , e s t a b l i s h e d A m e r i c a a s a f a s h i o n a b l e p o l i t i c a 1 w e a p o n . I n d o i n g t h i s , h e h e l p e d c r e a t e t h e c i r c u m s t a n c e s w h i c h c a u s e d , g r o w i n g n u m b e r s o f A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s f r o m 1 8 4 0 o n w a r d s t o c o n s i d e r A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y o u t p u t , u n c o n v e n t i o n a l a s i t w a s , a s a v i a b l e c r e a t i v e s o u r c e . W e n t w o r t h , w i t h L a n g , p u t A m e r i c a o n t h e m a p f o r A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s . 197 S e c t i o n B_ John Dunmore Lang (1799~1878) Lang's f i r s t and second e d i t i o n s of An H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l Account o f New South Wales (1834 and 1837) need some c o n s i d e r a t i o n a t t h i s p o i n t , as they a r e p r e l i m i n a r y m a n i f e s t a t i o n s o f h i s i m p o r t a n t s t a t e m e n t s , t r a c t s and d o c t r i n e s t o f o l l o w i n the next two d e c a d e s - d o c t r i n e s w h i c h were t o s t i r the b l o o d o f a new g e n e r a t i o n o f w r i t e r s making the f i r s t a t t e m p t t o a b s o r b the A u s t r a l i a n environment and 43 p e c u l i a r h i s t o r i c a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s i n t o t h e i r w r i t i n g . L i k e Wentworth's S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n some f i f t e e n y e a r s b e f o r e , Lang's f i r s t e d i t i o n , w r i t t e n d u r i n g h i s t h i r d voyage t o England i n 1833, o f f e r e d i m p o r t a n t c l u e s t o t h e w r i t e r ' s l a t e r p o l i t i c a l t h e o r y and p r a c t i c e . Wentworth a l e r t e d h i s countrymen t o A m e r i c a ' s v a l u e as a p o t e n t weapon o f i n t i m i d a t i o n , a p l o y w h i c h a n t i c i p a t e d the':tone of the c o l o n y ' s l820's; Lang's book more o b v i o u s l y c h a r a c t e r i z e d i t s decade i n s e e k i n g l e s s t o shock, and more t o g e t t i n g on w i t h the b u s i n e s s o f s h a p i n g a r a p i d l y e x p a n d i n g community. Lang sought t o i d e n t i f y the c o l o n y ' s h i s t o r y and c h a r a c t e r w h i c h , i n the m i d d l e 44 1830's, he r e g a r d e d as " p e c u l i a r l y B r i t i s h p r o p e r t y . " H i s book, l i k e Wentworth's, became a m a r k e t i n g s u c c e s s , b e i n g u l t i m a t e l y p u b l i s h e d 198 i n f o u r e d i t i o n s o v e r a p e r i o d o f some f o r t y y e a r s . D e s p i t e t h e W e s t m i n s t e r R e v i e w ' s m u c h - p u b l i c i z e d comment t h a t L a n g " m i g h t h a v e e n t i t l e d h i s w o r k , T h e H i s t o r y o f D r . L a n g , t o wh i c h i s a d d e d , t h e H i s t o r y o f New S o u t h W a l e s , t h e v o l u m e i s a more v a l i d " h i s t o r y " *5 t h a n W e n t w o r t h ' s , i f l e s s r e b e l l i o u s i n s p i r i t . I t became a s t a n d a r d n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y s o u r c e f o r t h o s e i n t e r e s t e d i n t h e c o l o n y . A s G . B . B a r t o n commented i n 1866, No a c c o u n t o f t h i s C o l o n y h a s met w i t h m o r e n o t i c e f r o m t h e E n g l i s h P r e s s t h a n Dr. L a n g ' s , a n d p r o b a b l y none h a s b e e n m o r e l a r g e l y c i r c u l a t e d . I t c a n n o t be d o u b t e d t h a t t h e v a r i o u s e d i t i o n s o f h i s H i s t o r y h a v e d o n e more t o a f f e c t p u b l i c o p i n i o n a t home, w i t h r e g a r d t o t h i s c o u n t r y , t h a n a n y o t h e r pub 1 i c a t i o n . * ^ L i k e W e n t w o r t h i n h i s f i r s t e d i t i o n , L a n g e x p r e s s e d an i n t e r e s t i n , and r e s p e c t f o r , t h e m o t i v a t i o n s o f t h e A m e r i c a n r e b e l s . T h e s e e d s o f l a t e r d i s c o n t e n t a p p e a r i n m i c r o c o s m . A t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f c h a p t e r t w o , f o r e x a m p l e , he comments on t h e t o i l and d e d i c a t i o n n e e d e d t o f o u n d t h e c o l o n y i n 1788. T h e f i r s t f e w p a g e s p r o v i d e some h i s t o r i c a l b a c k g r o u n d : B e f o r e t h e B r i t i s h c o l o n i e s o f N o r t h A m e r i c a w e r e v i o l e n t l y s e v e r e d f r o m t h e m o t h e r c o u n t r y , t h r o u g h u n w i s e i f n o t t y r a n n i c a l l e g i s l a t i o n , t h e p r o v i n c e o f V i r g i n i a had f o r a l o n g t i m e b e e n t h e o n l y a u t h o r i z e d o u t l e t f o r t h o s e c r i m i n a l s i n G r e a t B r i t a i n a n d I r e l a n d who had b e e n s e n t e n c e d t o t r a n s p o r t a t i o n . * 7 W o r t h n o t i n g i s n o t o n l y t h e e v i d e n t s y m p a t h y f o r t h e A m e r i c a n r e v o l u t i o n - i s t s , b u t L a n g ' s o b v i o u s f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h A m e r i c a n s o c i a l and e c o n o m i c h i s t o r y . L a t e r , he d i s p l a y s i n t i m a t e k n o w l e d g e o f t h e A m e r i c a n s y s t e m 199 o f r e l i g i o u s v o l u n t a r y i s m - - t o the p o i n t o f o p e n l y a d v o c a t i n g a s i m i l a r 48 system f o r New South Wales. The e l a b o r a t e e x t r a c t s on the American V o l u n t a r y System r e f l e c t the a u t h o r ' s m a n i f e s t d i s c o n t e n t w i t h the a u t h o r i t a r i a n measures o f B r i t i s h i m p e r i a l i s m , p a r t i c u l a r l y a p p a r e n t i n r e l i g i o n . Lang a t t a c k s the " t h o r o u g h l y e x c l u s i v e , i n t o l e r a n t , and t y r a n n i c a l s p i r i t of E p i s c o p a l d o m i n a t i o n i n the B r i t i s h c o l o n i e s , " i m m e d i a t e l y q u o t i n g from Smith's H i s t o r y o f New York t o p o r t r a y the m e l a n c h o l y dilemma o f the S c o t s P r e s b y t e r i a n s o f New York who e n c o u n t e r e d the " v i o l e n t " o p p o s i t i o n o f the dominant E p i s c o p a l P a r t y i n the e a r l y e i g h t e e n t h 49 c e n t u r y . He c o n c l u d e s the p o i n t by s t a t i n g t h a t I t was, d o u b t l e s s , the r e p e t i t i o n o f such a c t s o f i n t o l e r a n c e and o p p r e s s i o n . . . on the p a r t o f a d o m i n e e r i n g f a c t i o n s u p p o r t e d and a b e t t e d by the Government a t home, t h a t s e r v e d g r a d u a l l y t o wean the a f f e c t i o n s o f the American p e o p l e from t h e i r a l l e g i a n c e t o t h e i r r i g h t f u l s o v e r e i g n , and t h a t s u b s e q u e n t l y gave the American R e v o l u t i o n t h a t moral and r e s i s t l e s s f o r c e , t h a t e n a b l e d i t t o w r e s t the f a i r e s t p r o v i n c e s from the B r i t i s h Empire, and t o p l u c k the b r i g h t e s t j e w e l from the B r i t i s h Crown.^ u In the y e a r s f o l l o w i n g 1834, Lang's o u t l o o k r a d i c a l i z e d i n • a c c o r d a n c e w i t h h i s growing a b s o r p t i o n w i t h American r e p u b l i c a n i s m . The f i r s t e d i t i o n of H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l A c c o u n t , w i t h i t s r i d i c u l e o f c e r t a i n o f the t r a p p i n g s o f B r i t i s h c o l o n i a l government and i t s b o l d advocacy o f a new s e t o f c o l o n i a l p r i o r i t i e s ("Advance A u s t r a l i a , God save the K i n g ! " ^ ) i n i m p o r t a n t ways a n t i c i p a t e d the p u g n a c i t y of l a t e r e d i t i o n s . More s o p h i s t i c a t e d a p p r a i s a l s o f America 200 52 f o l l o w e d . By the time the t h i r d e d i t i o n was p u b l i s h e d i n 1852, Lang had assumed one of the most r a d i c a l s t a n c e s i n the c o l o n y . H i s s u c c e s s i o n o f pamphlets a s s e r t e d so f o r c e f u l a r e p u b l i c a n p o s i t i o n t h a t , by the e a r l y 1850's, i t was by no means o u t r a g e o u s f o r the W e s t m i n s t e r Review t o propose t h a t " h a v i n g now d e c l a r e d f o r a R e p u b l i c , 53 he p r o b a b l y means t o f i n i s h o f f by b e i n g i t s f i r s t P r e s i d e n t ! " From the time o f h i s v i s i t t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1840, Lang t o t a l l y committed h i m s e l f t o the p u b l i c i z i n g o f the i d e a l s o f the American r e p u b l i c , soon becoming the p r i n c i p a l spokesman o f A u s t r a l i a n democrats. loi Sect i o n C_ Amasa Delano (1763-1823) and C h a r l e s W i l k e s (1798-1877) Two o f the e a r l i e s t American commentators on the c u r i o s i t i e s o f A u s t r a l i a n l i f e were the " o l d weather beaten s a i l o r , " s e a - c a p t a i n , s e a l e r and sometime a u t h o r , Amasa Delano, and the c o n t r o v e r s i a l naval o f f i c e r , e x p l o r e r and s c i e n t i s t , C h a r l e s W i l k e s , l e a d e r of the r e - nowned American e x p l o r i n g e x p e d i t i o n t h a t v i s i t e d and c h a r t e d the c o a s t o f the A n t a r c t i c c o n t i n e n t , c o u n t l e s s P a c i f i c i s l a n d s and the American n o r t h w e s t c o a s t f o r a l m o s t f o u r y e a r s , from A u g u s t , I838, t o J u l y , 1842. Delano's a c c o u n t , A N a r r a t i v e o f Voyages and T r a v e l s i n the N o r t h e r n and S o u t h e r n Hemi s p h e r e s : compri s i ng Three Voyages Round the World (1817) , though d e v o i d o f any i n s i g h t i n t o the c o m p o s i t i o n o r p o l i t i c a l t e n d e n c i e s o f New H o l l a n d a t the b e g i n n i n g o f the n i n e - t e e n t h c e n t u r y , makes i n t e r e s t i n g r e a d i n g as i t p r o v i d e s an a l t e r n a t i v e p e r s p e c t i v e on the h i g h l y c o n t r o v e r s i a l i n c i d e n t s t h a t i n v o l v e d Delano and the crews o f h i s two s h i p s , P i l g r i m and P e r s e v e r a n c e , d u r i n g t h e i r many months i n A u s t r a l i a n w a t e r s t h r o u g h o u t 1804.55 As has been shown, the c o l o n y ' s e a r l y g o v e r n o r s , e s p e c i a l l y Hunter 2 0 2 and K i n g , e x p e r i e n c e d c o n s t a n t f r u s t r a t i o n w i t h American t r a d e r s and s e a l e r s . They were, on the one hand, f o r c e d t o countenance the American p r e s e n c e because the c o l o n y s o r e l y needed the food s t a p l e s the Americans c o u l d s u p p l y ; on the o t h e r hand, as a r e s u l t , they had t o endure the p e r s i s t e n t annoyances o f extreme Yankee t h r i f t and i n t e n s e s i n g 1 e - m i n d e d n e s s . The A m e r i c a n s , and hereDelano was un- 56 d o u b t e d l y t y p i c a l , drove a hard t r a d i n g b a r g a i n . Delano's N a r r a t i ve s u p p l i e s some i n s i g h t i n t o the m o t i v a t i o n s and a s p i r a t i o n s o f the hardy bunch o f American seamen who c r e a t e d so pronounced an impact on the i n f a n t P o r t J a c k s o n s e t t l e m e n t . He o u t l i n e s t h r e e a c t u a t i n g p r i n c i p l e s f o r the a d v e n t u r o u s 1 i f e he chose i n h i s y o u t h : The f i r s t t h a t I know o f was an a m b i t i o n t o e x c e l o t h e r s i n a c h i e v e m e n t s ; the next was, t o s a t i s f y my own c u r i o s i t y i n a knowledge o f the w o r l d , and p a r t i c u l a r l y t o know how f a r m y s e l f and o t h e r s were imposed upon w i t h e x a g g e r a t e d a c c o u n t s of the w o r l d , and f a l s e s t a t e m e n t s o f t h i n g s a g r e a t way from home; the t h i r d and l a s t , and f o r many o f my l a t t e r y e a r s by f a r the g r e a t e s t , was, h o n e s t l y and h o n o u r a b l y t o o b t a i n a competency s u f f i c i e n t t o s u p p o r t m y s e l f and f a m i l y , through an o l d age, s h o u l d I l i v e t o see i t ; t o do a b e n e v o l e n t a c t now and t h e n , and t o l e a v e an unblemished c h a r a c t e r behind me. 57 Ego, i n q u i s i t i v e n e s s and the New Eng1 and. d e s i r e t o make money, i t seems, a l l had an equal s t a k e i n d e t e r m i n i n g Delano's a c t i o n s . And' p r o b a b l y the a c t i o n s o f the m a j o r i t y o f h i s countrymen i n s o u t h e r n P a c i f i c w a t e r s . A f t e r e x p e r i e n c i n g numerous s k i r m i s h e s w i t h B r i t i s h s h i p s as a crewman aboard an American p r i v a t e e r w o r k i n g the West I n d i e s r o u t e , he spent v i r t u a l l y a l l the y e a r s between 1790 and 1810 2 0 3 e n d e a v o u r i n g t o f i n a l l y s e c u r e f i n a n c i a l r e s p e c t a b i l i t y f o r h i m s e l f and h i s f a m i l y - f i v e o f t h e s e y e a r s on the " l o n g , e x t r a o r d i n a r y and t e d i o u s " voyage t h a t i n c o r p o r a t e d the extended s t a y i n A u s t r a l i a n r Q w a t e r s . I t i s perhaps worth n o t i n g here t h a t Herman M e l v i l l e 5 9 based " B e n i t o Cereno" on C h a p t e r X V I I I o f Delano's N a r r a t i ve. When M e l v i l l e f i r s t p u b l i s h e d h i s t a l e i n Putnam's Monthly Magazine i n l a t e 1 8 5 5 , the N a r r a t i v e was v i r t u a l l y unknown,ieven i n A m e r i c a . 6 ^ The r e a d e r s h i p M e l v i l l e had a t the t i m e , a l o n g w i t h the r e v i v a l o f M e l v i l l e s c h o l a r s h i p i n the 1 9 2 0 ' s and beyond, p r o b a b l y p r o v i d e d Delano's book w i t h a g r e a t e r a u d i e n c e o v e r the y e a r s than i t might o t h e r w i s e have had. The A u s t r a l i a n s e c t i o n o f the N a r r a t i ve has i t s o d d i t i e s , j u s t l i k e the i n c i d e n t i n v o l v i n g the S p a n i s h c a p t a i n , Don B e n i t o Cereno (and h i s mutinous s l a v e s h i p ) , t h a t e x c i t e d M e l v i l l e ' s i m a g i n a t i o n . S u f f i c i e n t reason e x i s t e d f o r Delano t o have borne a grudge a g a i n s t George I I I and h i s r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s a b r o a d , but the N a r r a t i v e , s t r a n g e l y , 61 e x h i b i t s v i r t u a l l y no f e e l i n g s of a n i m o s i t y . Indeed, Delano, more c o n s c i o u s l y the m e t i c u l o u s l y h o n e s t , p o s s i b l y even n a i v e r e c o r d e r o f e v e n t s , waxes o p t i m i s t i c a l l y on both the c o l o n y and England's n o b l e r o l e i n " t h i s h i g h l y i m p o r t a n t u n d e r t a k i n g . " He even goes so f a r as t o a s c r i b e "two grand m o t i v e s " t o the E n g l i s h government i n the manner a l m o s t o f a W e s t m i n s t e r p r o p a g a n d i s t : [The] f i r s t was pure humanity i n s a v i n g the l i v e s o f such g r e a t numbers o f v a g r a n t s . . . the second was, the g r e a t and magnanimous p r i n c i p l e o f p l a n t i n g a c o l o n y i n the most remote r e g i o n o f the w o r l d , i n o r d e r t o c i v i l i z e the n a t i v e s and make t h a t c o u n t r y b e n e f i c i a l t o mankind. 6 2 204 Delano seems o b i i v i o u s t o the i n t r i g u e s and s o r d i d n e s s o f the mean 1804 c o l o n y , a l i t t l e l a t e r e x p r e s s i n g t o t a l a p p r o v a l o f the g o v e r n - ment's h a v i n g " l a i d the p l a t f o r m f o r c i v i l i z i n g and u n i t i n g a l l p a r t s o f the w o r l d . No n a t i o n has been so much i n the h a b i t o f d o i n g s i m i l a r 63 deeds." V i s i o n s o f a coming U t o p i a . E i t h e r Delano s i n g u l a r l y l a c k e d even the s l i g h t e s t c a p a c i t y f o r p e n e t r a t i v e o b s e r v a t i o n , o r he knew w e l l the b e n e f i c i a l e f f e c t s o f f l a t t e r i n g the s u b l i m e b y - p r o d u c t s 64 of E n g l i s h i n n o v a t i o n . I s u s p e c t the l a t t e r . P r o f i t a b l e v i s i t s by v e r s a t i l e s e a l e r s and t r a d e r s l i k e Delano i n Botany Bay's f i r s t l o n e l y y e a r s d i d much t o p r e p a r e the way f o r the c o n s o l i d a t i o n of s o c i a l , economic and p o l i t i c a l t i e s i n l a t e r " y e a r s . I t i s u n l i k e l y t h a t Delano, i n c o n t r a s t t o many o f h i s c o u n t r y - men, a s s i s t e d i n the escape o f c o n v i c t s from the c o l o n y . In f a c t , 65 he c l a i m e d some o f h i s men had been s h a n g h a i e d . But t o the e x t e n t t h a t he competed a c t i v e l y w i t h P o r t J a c k s o n s e a l e r s f o r the Bass S t r a i t s e a l t r a d e , a s s i s t e d government a u t h o r i t i e s i f the p r i c e was r i g h t , and pursued p r o f i t r e l e n t l e s s l y , he was t y p i c a l of the Americans w i t h whom the c o l o n y had f i r s t c o n t a c t . Amasa Delano's o b s e r v a t i o n s on the New South Wales s e t t l e m e n t were s l i g h t because he had v e n t u r e d i n t o s o u t h e r n w a t e r s w i t h the s o l e aim o f s e c u r i n g p r o f i t a b l e v e n t u r e s . A p a r t from h i s b r i e f , o p t i m i s t i c f o r e c a s t s f o r the f u t u r e o f the c o n t i n e n t , he took no 205 i n t e r e s t i n s p e c u l a t i n g on the r e p r e s s i v e p o l i t i c s o f New H o l l a n d o r r e s p o n d i n g t o any o f i t s unique problems. By c o n t r a s t , many members o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s m a r i t i m e e x p l o r i n g e x p e d i t i o n who v i s i t e d Sydney f o r s e v e r a l weeks i n l a t e 1839, and a g a i n i n March, 1840, d e t e r m i n e d t o do e x a c t l y t h a t . T h e i r d i a r i e s and o f f i c i a l j o u r n a l s convey an enormous amount o f i n f o r m a t i o n on the c o l o n y a t the end o f the 18301s. The more e n t e r t a i n i n g ones go beyond s i m p l e memos o f e v e n t s , a n i m a l s and s c e n e r y t o i n j e c t something o f themselves (and t h e i r background) i n t o what they r e c o r d . As a r e p r e s e n t a t i v e sample, t h r e e j o u r n a l s w i l l be d i s c u s s e d : the l e a d e r C h a r l e s W i l k e s 1 N a r r a t i v e o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s E x p l o r i n g E x p e d i t i o n (1845); naval L i e u t e n a n t George M. C o l v o c o r e s s e s 1 Fou r Yea rs i n a_ Government E x p l o r i ng Exped i t i on (1852); and a b l e seaman C h a r l e s E r s k i n e ' s Twenty Years B e f o r e the Mast (1890). W i l k e s 1 N a r r a t i ve, by f a r the most comprehensive and p e r c e p t i v e , w i l l be emphasized f o r t h a t r e a s o n . When John Quincy Adams, i n h i s f i r s t annual p r e s i d e n t i a l message on December 6, 1825, s u g g e s t e d t h a t a s h i p be r i g g e d out t o e x p l o r e the American n o r t h w e s t c o a s t , he gave p o s s i b l y f i r s t p u b l i c e x p r e s s i o n t o a r a p i d l y growing p r e o c c u p a t i o n o f h i s p e o p l e : the d e s i r e t o expand commercial i n t e r e s t s by c h a r t i n g remote a r e a s e i t h e r a t home o r o v e r s e a s . Growing numbers o f c i t i z e n s regarded t h i s i n c r e a s e o f knowledge as i n e x t r i c a b l y bound t o the cause o f e n h a n c i n g the n a t i o n ' s i n t e r n a t i o n a l image. Something had t o be done t o a s s e r t A m e r i c a ' s c l a i m as a major power. So, i n 1828, a group o f i n f l u e n t i a l government o f f i c i a l s proposed a major n a v a l e x p e d i t i o n . 206 In the ten y e a r s t h a t f o l l o w e d , the planned d e s t i n a t i o n , s i z e and l e a d e r s h i p o f the e x p e d i t i o n endured a s u c c e s s i o n o f changes, 68 d e l a y s and b i t t e r c o n t r o v e r s i e s . So stormy was the atmosphere t h a t i n the m i d s t o f the d e b a c l e one paper saw f i t t o comment t h a t "Success a l o n e can e f f a c e the r e c o l l e c t i o n o f the b i c k e r i n g s and h e a r t b u r n i n g s , the d e l a y s and b l u n d e r s , which have marked the p r o g r e s s 69 o f t h i s e x p e d i t i o n from i t s i n c e p t i o n t o the p r e s e n t t i m e . " Two p o i n t s about the f i n a l c o m p o s i t i o n o f the p a r t y , r e g a r d i n g t h o s e who made i t and t h o s e who d i d n ' t . F i r s t , the q u e s t i o n o f command. S e v e r a l m a s s i v e naval egos s u f f e r e d immeasurably when the a m b i t i o u s , but i n rank l o w l y newcomer, l i e u t e n a n t C h a r l e s W i l k e s , was s e l e c t e d t o command the e x p e d i t i o n i n March, I838. A no-nonsense d i s c i p l i n a r i a n w i t h s t r o n g f a i t h i n h i s a b i l i t y and commensurate sense of h i s b e i n g d e s t i n e d f o r g r e a t n e s s , W i l k e s made a c o n s i d e r a b l e impact on Sydney r e s i d e n t s d u r i n g the month-long s t a y o f the e x p e d i t i o n . For t h o s e p r i v i l e g e d c i t i z e n s on the permanent i n v i t a t i o n - 1 i s t o f Government House, he embodied s t y l e and panache. For some o f the s e n i o r c i t i z e n s , on the o t h e r hand, t h o s e who r e c a l l e d the e a r l y days i n Botany Bay and c i r c u m s t a n c e s o f s e t t l e m e n t , h i s name brought back memories o f a famous namesake a s s o c i a t e d w i t h the r e p u b l i c a n c a u s e , John W i l k e s - - the man f o r whom the a u r a o f monarchy h e l d no f e a r s , who had h e l p e d i n s p i r e a g e n e r a t i o n of Americans t o r e v o l t and thus i n d i r e c t l y c r e a t e the c i r c u m s t a n c e s which l e d t o the Botany Bay s e t t l e m e n t . John W i l k e s was C h a r l e s ' g r e a t - u n c l e . 7 ^ S e c o n d l y , s i n c e the e x p e d i t i o n a l l a l o n g aimed a t o b t a i n i n g the 207 most t a l e n t e d p e r s o n n e l a v a i l a b l e , s e v e r a l p r o m i n e n t s c h o l a r s c o v e t e d t h e p o s i t i o n o f o f f i c i a l h i s t o r i a n . One o f t h e l e a d i n g c a n d i d a t e s was N a t h a n i e l H a w t h o r n e , l a t e r t o become o n e o f t h e p r i n c i p a l f i g u r e s i n t h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y r e n a i s s a n c e t h a t b l o s s o m e d i n New E n g l a n d . Who knows what e f f e c t s m i g h t h a v e b e e n w r o u g h t i n h i s f i c t i o n i f he had b e e n a member o f t h e W i l k e s e x p e d i t i o n ? And he a l m o s t made i t . A s s i s t e d by two o l d s c h o o l f r i e n d s , H o r a t i o B r i d g e a n d S e n a t o r F r a n k l i n P i e r c e , who u s e d t h e i r i n f l u e n c e t o t r y a n d a f f e c t t h e S e n a t e N a v a l C o m m i t t e e , H a w t h o r n e , a t o n e p o i n t i n e a r l y 1837, l o o k e d h i g h l y l i k e l y t o w i n t h e $1500 a p p o i n t m e n t . But t h e power s t r u g g l e g o i n g on i n n a v a l command, a n d s c i e n t i f i c j e a l o u s y , c r e a t e d d e l a y s w h i c h e v e n t u a l l y d e s t r o y e d h i s c h a n c e s . 7 ' H a w t h o r n e d e e p l y l a m e n t e d t h i s l o s t o p p o r t u n i t y 72 f o r t h e r e s t o f h i s l i f e . H i s f r i e n d B r i d g e , many y e a r s l a t e r , p o n d e r e d t h e r e s u l t s o f a s u c c e s s f u l a p p l i c a t i o n : " . . . t h e c u r r e n t o f h i s l i f e w o u l d h a v e b e e n s t r a n g e l y d i s t u r b e d , and h i s l a t e r w r i t i n g s w o u l d , I t h i n k , h a v e t a k e n on an e n t i r e l y d i f f e r e n t c o l o r i n g - - w h e t h e r 73 f o r t h e b e t t e r , who s h a l l s a y ? " F a t e a l m o s t b r o u g h t H a w t h o r n e t o A u s t r a l i a n s h o r e s . B o s t o n ' s H e s t e r P r y n n e , A r t h u r D i m m e s d a l e and R o g e r C h i 11 i n g w o r t h m i g h t h a v e had t h e i r S y d n e y c o n v i c t c o u n t e r p a r t s . T h e e x p e d i t i o n f l e e t - - m a d e up o f t h e f l a g s h i p V i n c e n n e s a n d 7* f i v e o t h e r v e s s e 1 s - - f i n a 1 1 y l e f t t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s i n A u g u s t , I838. Two o f t h e s h i p s , V i n c e n n e s and a n o t h e r s 1 o o p - o f - w a r , P e a c o c k , a n c h o r e d o f f S y d n e y C o v e a few h o u r s a f t e r s u n s e t on November 29, 1839, a f t e r W i l k e s had n e g o t i a t e d t h e t r i c k y s h o a l s o f t h e h a r b o u r w i t h o u t t h e a i d o f a p i l o t . No o n e knew o f t h e a r r i v a l . T h u s , o n t h e m o r n i n g 208 o f the 3 0 t h , a n x i e t y g r i p p e d Sydney's p o p u l a t i o n o f 2 4 , 0 0 0 , many 75 o f whom f e l t t h e i r s e t t l e m e n t t o be under a t t a c k . T h e i r f e a r s were soon put t o r e s t , however, and f r i e n d l y r e l a t i o n s q u i c k l y e s t a b l i s h e d ; but the c i r c u m s t a n c e s o f a r r i v a l prompted W i l k e s and a number o f h i s c o l l e a g u e s t o comment on the meagre harbour f o r t i f i c a t i o n s . The e x p e d i t i o n commander s p e c u l a t e d : Had war e x i s t e d , we m i g h t , a f t e r f i r i n g the s h i p p i n g , and r e d u c i n g a g r e a t p a r t o f the town t o a s h e s , have a f f e c t e d a r e t r e a t b e f o r e d a y b r e a k , i n p e r f e c t safety.76 One o f h i s o f f i c e r s , L t . C o l v o c o r e s s e s , e x p r e s s e d l e s s c o n c e r n w i t h the t a c t i c s o f s e i g e . Amusing l o c a l r e a c t i o n s t r u c k h i s f a n c y : S e v e r a l o f the newspapers spoke o f i t [ t h e a r r i v a l o f the two s h i p s ] next morning as something v e r y r e m a r k a b l e , and j o c u l a r l y d e c l a r e d i t t o be a "Yankee t r i c k " done f o r the purpose o f s a v i n g the p i l o t a g e , and i n p e r f e c t k e e p i n g w i t h our u s u a l keenness i n money matters.77 H i s comments shed l i g h t on a c o u p l e o f a r e a s . For one, the e x p l o i t s o f e a r l y American s e a l e r s and t r a d e r s o b v i o u s l y d i d e s t a b l i s h c e r t a i n s t e r e o t y p e s about the Americans i n the minds o f A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s , not the l e a s t o f w h i c h was t h r i f t . Next, C o l v o c o r e s s e s conveys the i m p r e s s i o n t h a t A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n re 1 a t i o n s . w e r e , i n 1839, f r i e n d l y i n the extreme. Indeed, p e r u s a l o f o t h e r s o u r c e s p o i n t s t o an e x t r a - o r d i n a r i l y warm r e c e p t i o n f o r the r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n . Bonhomie marked the e x p e d i t i o n s e n t i r e s t a y , the immediate c o n v i v i a l i t y o f the A u s t r a l i a n h o s t s b e i n g more than r e c i p r o c a t e d by the w e l l - l i k e d "Yankees." "We were," s a i d the n a t u r a l i s t T i t i a n 2 0 9 P e a l e , summing up the s e n t i m e n t s o f a l l h i s c o l l e a g u e s , " g r e e t e d w i t h the utmost h o s p i t a l i t y , e v e r y a t t e n t i o n was p a i d us by the a u t h o r i t i e s and c i t i z e n s . We were e l e c t e d h o n o r a r y members o f the A u s t r a l i a n C l u b , who gave us a s p l e n d i d e n t e r t a i n m e n t under the p a t r o n a g e o f h i s E x c l S i r George G i p p s , the Governor. T h i s was f o l l o w e d by a c o n s t a n t round o f e n t e r t a i n m e n t s , both p u b l i c and 7 8 p r i v a t e , which l a s t e d w h i l e we remained." O f f i c e r s , s c i e n t i s t s and s a i l o r s a l i k e responded t o once a g a i n b e i n g i n a " c i v i l i z e d <:' • c o u n t r y . " Many became good f r i e n d s w i t h l o c a l f a m i l i e s . The p u b l i c a n s and owners o f Sydney pubs, inns and b r o t h e l s , o f c o u r s e , r e j o i c e d i n the boost t o ' : t h e i r t r a d e . "Yankee Doodle" everywhere competed a c t i v e l y w i t h " R u l e B r i t t a n i a , " the Marsei 1 1 a i s e a n d the R u s s i a n 7 9 anthem. ' For the American crewmen t h e r e was, as one h i s t o r i a n has 8 0 put i t , "a welcome i n e v e r y grog shop a l o n g the Sydney w a t e r f r o n t . " When the time came t o d e p a r t f o r A n t a r c t i c a , many members o f the e x p e d i t i o n e x p r e s s e d g r e a t r e l u c t a n c e t o l e a v e the warmth o f A u s t r a l i a n s h o r e s . For the o f f i c e r s , s h a c k l e d by rank, c r i t i c i s m went no f u r t h e r 81 than v o i c i n g p r o t e s t i n p r i v a t e . O r d i n a r y s a i l o r s , on the o t h e r hand, c o u l d a t t e m p t t o t a k e advantage o f t h e i r g r e a t e r anonymity by jumping s h i p . Many d i d , b r i e f l y r e v e r s i n g the p a t t e r n (of c o n v i c t escape t o American s a n c t u a r y ) t h a t had e s t a b l i s h e d i t s e l f over the 8 2 p r e v i o u s h a l f a c e n t u r y . The a t t r a c t i o n o f what W i l k e s i d e n t i f i e d as " t h e s t r o n g resemblance o f a l l t h a t we saw t o our own homes, and the i d e n t i t y o f language" proved too much f o r some s a i l o r s who p r e f e r r e d r a t h e r t o r i s k the consequences o f d e s e r t i o n than l e a v e Sydney's 210 s h o r e s f o r t h e h a r s h , a n d p o s s i b l y f a t a l A n t a r c t i c c l i m a t e . T h o u g h we know t h a t a t l e a s t o n e l o c a l r e s i d e n t was a l i t t l e d i s a p p o i n t e d w i t h t h e A m e r i c a n p a r t y i n t h a t t h e y w e r e n e i t h e r N e g r o e s n o r I n d i a n s a s s h e had e x p e c t e d , t h e g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f c o l o n i s t s d e l i g h t e d i n t h e u n e x p e c t e d v i s i t . A m e a s u r e o f t h e s t r o n g f e e l i n g s o f a f f i n i t y t h a t A u s t r a l i a n s had f o r t h e e x p e d i t i o n , a n d A m e r i c a n s i n g e n e r a l , c a n p e r h a p s b e s t be g a u g e d by W i l k e s 1 o b s e r v a t i o n on t h e r e t u r n t r i p i n M a r c h , 1840: Our r e c e p t i o n was f l a t t e r i n g ; s c a r c e l y was o u r a n c h o r w e l l down b e f o r e many o f o u r f r i e n d s came on b o a r d t o b i d us w e l c o m e ; and we f e l t t e n f o l d t h a t k i n d h o s p i t a l i t y w h i c h on o u r f o r m e r v i s i t we had f i r s t become a c q u a i n t e d w i t h . T h e y a p p e a r e d t o r e j o i c e i n o u r s u c c e s s a s i f we had b e e n t h e i r c o u n t r y m e n A s f a r a s A u s t r a l i a n s w e r e c o n c e r n e d , e v e n t s o f t h e p r e v i o u s f i f t y y e a r s had c e m e n t e d a s t r o n g bond o f f r i e n d s h i p b e t w e e n t h e m s e l v e s and t h e i r A m e r i c a n c o u s i n s - - t h e p l e a s a n t l y s u r p r i s e d r e c i p i e n t s o f w h i c h w e r e W i l k e s a n d h i s l a r g e g r o u p . E v e n t h e c u r r e n t E n g l i s h g o v e r n m e n t r e p r e s e n t a t i v e , G o v e r n o r G e o r g e G i p p s , i m p r e s s e d W i l k e s Q r w i t h " t h e l i b e r a l v i e w s a n d f e e l i n g s he e v i n c e d t o w a r d s o u r c o u n t r y . " F o r many A u s t r a l i a n s , i t seemed t h e e x p e d i t i o n had o n l y e n d o r s e d a f a m i l i a r i t y t h a t was a l r e a d y i n g r a i n e d . B u t What o f t h e o t h e r s i d e ? How d i d t h e r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f t h e g r e a t R e p u b l i c r e a c t t o a c o u n t r y t h a t o n l y a c o u p l e o f d e c a d e s a g o , a s E r s k i n e r e c a l l e d , had b e e n d e s i g n a t e d " t h e p i c k p o c k e t s ' q u a r t e r 86 o f t h e g l o b e ? " W i l k e s h i m s e l f c o u l d n ' t r e s i s t t h e t e m p t a t i o n t o r e m a r k o n t h e s i m i l a r i t i e s b e t w e e n t h e two c u l t u r e s . S e v e r a l p a r a l l e l s 2 1 1 s t r u c k him. N o t h i n g had e v i d e n t l y changed s i n c e John Dunmore Lang's H i s t o r i c a 1 and S t a t i s t i c a 1 Account some s i x y e a r s ear 1 i e r , f o r W i 1 k e s c o u l d see, l i k e Lang, t h a t " t h e a c q u i s i t i o n o f w e a l t h " amounted t o the p r i n c i p a l m o t i v a t o r o f most c o l o n i s t s , s p e c u l a t i o n b e i n g "as 87 r i f e as we had l e f t i t i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . " A l s o , as i n A m e r i c a , Sydney s u f f e r e d the marked " i n f l u e n c e o f the p u b l i c p r e s s , " the o n l y d i f f e r e n c e b e i n g o f degree. For i n the s o u t h e r n c o l o n y " i t i s more l i c e n t i o u s than any e x c e p t the lowest o f our newspapers." N e v e r t h e l e s s , w h i l e c e n s u r i n g the e x c e s s e s o f the p r e s s , he remained f a i t h f u l t o the i d e a l s on w h i c h h i s c o u n t r y had been founded i n t h a t he d i d p r a i s e the brave independence o f newspaper e d i t o r s . As i n t e l l i g e n t and c e a s e l e s s a d v o c a t e s o f r e f o r m and c o l o n i a l r i g h t s , they were, f o r 88 W i l k e s , " t h e p r i n c i p a l check on the Governor and h i s C o u n c i l . " A p p r o p r i a t e p u b l i c r e c o g n i t i o n , f i n a l l y , from a c i t i z e n o f the c o u n t r y which had p e r p e t u a l l y s e r v e d the r o l e as model o r s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y f o r t h e s e e d i t o r s down the y e a r s . N o r c o u l d the t r a i n e d and m e t i c u l o u s o b s e r v e r r e s t r a i n h i m s e l f from s p e c u l a t i n g on a r e p u b l i c a n f u t u r e f o r the f o u n d l i n g c o l o n y . He saw f a m i l i a r p r e l i m i n a r y s i g n s e v e r y w h e r e — a n e l i t i s t system o f government, q u a l i t y c i t i z e n s e x c l u d e d from the upper reaches o f g o v e r n - m e n t because o f t h e i r h a v i n g been born i n t o the " l o w e r c l a s s e s , " the c o n t i n u e d i m p l e m e n t a t i o n o f the a n a c h r o n i s t i c " r o y a l p r e r o g a t i v e " 89 and incompetent government from a f a r . A t s e v e r a l p o i n t s i n h i s work, W i l k e s v i r t u a l l y a g i t a t e s f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t f o r N e w South Wales, c o n s i s t e n t l y making r e f e r e n c e t o the c o l o n y as a c o u n t r y 212 t o t t e r i n g on the b r i n k o f c i v i l u p h e a v a l . In the c o u r s e o f some t w e n t y - f i v e pages, he r e f e r s t o New South Wales as " t h i s r i s i n g c o l o n y , " " t h e r i s i n g community," " t h i s r i s i n g s t a t e " and " t h e s e r i s i n g c o l o n i e s , " c u l m i n a t i n g i n a passage i n which he comes v e r y near t o l o s i n g the l a s t semblances o f a u t h o r i a l detachment: I cannot but b e l i e v e t h a t t h i s s t a t e o f s o c i e t y i s d e s t i n e d i n a v e r y s h o r t time t o undergo a g r e a t change; and many o f the i n h a b i t a n t s seem t o be of the same o p i n i o n , p a r t i c u l a r l y i f they o b t a i n a c o l o n i a l l e g i s l a t u r e . T h i s i t seems a l m o s t i n d i s p e n s a b l e they s h o u l d have, f o r the w i s h e s and wants o f the r i s i n g community a r e too l i t t l e known and heeded, a t the d i s t a n c e o f s i x t e e n thousand m i l e s , t o i n s u r e good government; and the a c t s and the v a r y i n g p o l i c y o f the mother c o u n t r y a r e so i l l adapted t o the s t a t e o f t h i n g s h e r e , as t o s t r i k e the most common o b s e r v e r s , and o n l y tend t o l o o s e n the t i e s 9 0 o f a f f e c t i o n t h a t b i n d the c o l o n i s t s t o i t . - 7 George C o l v o c o r e s s e s , whose.: j o u r n a l was p u b l i s h e d i n 1852, some seven y e a r s a f t e r W i l k e s 1 m a s s i v e t e x t , saw the i s s u e i n even more a b s o l u t e terms: There i s v e r y l i t t l e doubt t h a t when s u f f i c i e n t l y power- f u l , the c o l o n i s t s w i l l shake o f f the yoke o f the mother c o u n t r y , and e r e c t t h e m s e l v e s i n t o a s e p a r a t e s o v e r e i g n t y , *. such a s p i r i t b e i n g a b u n d a n t l y e v i d e n t , even a t p r e s e n t . They have not as y e t the s t r e n g t h n e c e s s a r y f o r an under- t a k i n g o f so g r e a t a magnitude; but none o f the i n c 1 i n a t i o n i s w a n t i n g , p a r t i c u l a r l y s i n c e the home government has t h r e a t e n e d t o s u b j e c t them t o what they c o n s i d e r u n j u s t t a x a t i o n . A l r e a d y the s t o r m - c l o u d has began [ s i c ] t o show i t s e l f above the h o r i z o n , and we w i l l v e n t u r e t o p r e d i c t , the time i s not f a r d i s t a n t when i t w i l l o v e r - spread the heavens, and shower upon them a l l the h o r r o r s o f f a m i l y s t r i f e . 9 ' Both W i l k e s and C o l v o r e s s e s f o r e s a w imminent change, and both c o n s i d e r e d 213 the l o c a l p o p u l a c e ready and w i l l i n g t o assume c o n t r o l . I f t h i s was t r u e - - a n d one must a l l o w , t o some e x t e n t , f o r the o b s e r v e r s ' s u b j e c t i v i t y - - t h e n , as the 1840 1 s began, the homeland o f t h e s e two w r i t e r s had been a p o w e r f u l c o n t r i b u t o r t o the v o l a t i l e p o l i t i c a l s i t u a t i o n they e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y d e s c r i b e d . The v i s i t o f the p r e s t i g i o u s W i l k e s e x p e d i t i o n c o n s o l i d a t e d f o r many A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s the g o o d w i l l t h a t had been s t e a d i l y g r o w i n g f o r some decades i n the c o n v i c t s e t t l e m e n t . The Americans a p p a r e n t l y r e g a r d e d the two-week s o j o u r n as a chance t o repay o l d d e b t s . James Dana, the e x p e d i t i o n m i n e r a l o g i s t , was s i m p l y stunned by the e x t r a v a g a n t welcome a c c o r d e d him and h i s countrymen: "we have open door and 92 open h e a r t s e v e r y w h e r e . " At l a s t , g r a t i t u d e f o r A m e r i c a ' s s u b s t a n t i a l c o n t r i b u t i o n t o the cause o f A u s t r a l i a n freedom c o u l d be shown. Openly and h o n e s t l y . The Americans responded i n k i n d , W i l k e s d e s i g n a t i n g New South Wales "a g l o r i o u s c o l o n y " w i t h a b r i g h t f u t u r e , and C o l - v o c o r e s s e s r e m a r k i n g on i t s b e i n g " e x c e e d i n g p r e c o c i o u s , a p p r o a c h i n g 93 f a s t t o commercial and p o l i t i c a l g r e a t n e s s . " In summarizing the p r e s e n t t h u s , both men p r o v i d e d a s y m b o l i c l i n k between the p o l i t i c a l advances o f the p r e v i o u s f i f t e e n y e a r s and the i n c r e a s i n g l y l a r g e s t r i d e s towards s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t o f the next f i f t e e n . When the l a s t o f the e x p e d i t i o n v e s s e l s d e p a r t e d Sydney Harbour i n March, 1840, f a r e w e l l e d by the f r i e n d s h i p o f a whole c o l o n y , no one c o u l d a n t i c i p a t e t h a t i n l i t t l e more than twenty y e a r s C a p t a i n W i l k e s would a g a i n be a l o c a l t a l k i n g p o i n t - - o n l y t h i s time i n l e s s p r o p i t i o u s c i r c u m s t a n c e s . As the e x p l o i t s o f the e x p e d i t i o n e x c i t e d 214 the A u s t r a l i a n i m a g i n a t i o n i n the r o l e i n the infamous T r e n t a f f a i r 94 e v e r y c o l o n i s t i n the l 8 6 0 ' s . e a r l y 1840's, so W i l k e s 1 p r i n c i p a l would engage the a t t e n t i o n o f 115 CHAPTER I I I ENDNOTES 1 R e f e r r i n g t o the y e a r s from 1789 t o 1850, H.M. Green has s a i d : "Of an age as i t has been o u t l i n e d i n t h i s H i s t o r y , o f i t s s t r e n g t h and a r r o g a n c e and c r u d i t y and i d e a l e n t h u s i a s m s , Wentworth i s r e p r e s e n t a t i v e as Harpur c o u l d never be " (Green, I, 46). A.C.V. Melbourne i n W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth ( B r i s b a n e : B i g g s , 1934), p. 6, g i v e s Wentworth's b i r t h d a t e as sometime i n " t h e l a t t e r p a r t o f 1792"; M i c h a e l P e r s s e , i n ADB, I I , 582, s u g g e s t s i t was sometime i n 1790. 3 B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, p. 20. k See ADB, I I , 583; I I , 589- 5 Wentworth, W.C, A S t a t i s t i c a i , H i s t o r i ca 1 , and P o l i t i ca 1 D e s c r i p t i o n o f the Colony of New South Wales (London: G. and W.B. W h i t t a k e r , 1819). W.C. Wentworth t o F i t z w i l l i a m ( J a n u a r y 15, 1817) , quoted i n Melbourne, pp. 17 _ l8. 7 Melbourne, p. 20. 8 W.C. Wentworth t o D. Wentworth (March 22, 1817), quoted i n Mel bourne, p. 21. 216 9 W.C. Wentworth t o D. Wentworth ( A p r i l 10, 1817) , quoted i n Melbourne, p. 2 4 . ^ Sydney Smith's m u c h - p u b l i c i z e d phrase. See above, Chapter I, s e c t i o n b), ^ B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wa1es, p. 122. 1 2 S i n c e S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n (1819) was not a v a i l a b l e w h i l e t h i s t h e s i s was b e i n g w r i t t e n , r e f e r e n c e t o i t i s made t h r o u g h secondary s o u r c e s . See I n g l i s , p. k\. 1 3 Sydney S m i t h , i n h i s r e v i e w of Wentworth's S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n (1819), endorsed Wentworth's f a i t h i n the p o t e n t i a l o f New H o l l a n d , but he c o u l d n ' t agree t h a t the s o u t h e r n " l a n d o f c o n v i c t s and k a n g a r o o s " was y e t ready f o r an e l e c t e d assembly: ". . . we a r e a f r a i d t h a t a Botany Bay p a r l i a m e n t would g i v e r i s e t o j o k e s . . . ." ( S m i t h , Works, pp. 122, 129). S e v e r a l y e a r s l a t e r , Robert Southey, j o t t i n g down the p r i n c i p a l p o i n t s o f S t a t i s t i ca 1 Descr, i j j t i on (1824), s p e c i f i c a l l y r e f e r r e d t o Wentworth's " c r y f o r an independent paper" i n Southey's Common-Place Book, ed. John Wood Warter (London: Reeves and T u r n e r , 1876), p. 578. 14 Wentworth r e f e r s t o h i m s e l f as a " n a t i v e o f A u s t r a l i a " on the book's t i t l e - p a g e . ^ 5 Quoted i n Ward and R o b e r t s o n , Such Was L i f e , p. 7 6 . See a l s o L e v i , p. 52; Green, I, 59; B a r t l e t t , pp. 83-4. The p e r t i n e n t pages i n S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n (1819) a r e pp. 163, 243_6. Ward quotes from S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n , 2nd ed. (1820), pp. 197"8, 277~80. 2 1 7 See Nye and Grabo, pp. 3 1 - 2 ; D a v i d L. J a c o b s o n , John D i c k i n s o n and the R e v o l u t i o n i n P e n n s y l v a n i a , 1 7 6 4 - 1 7 7 6 ( B e r k e l e y : U n i v . o f C a l i f o r n i a P r e s s , 1 9 6 5 ) , pp. 9 5 " 7 . ' 7 Ward and R o b e r t s o n , p. 7 7 . l Q Quoted i n ADB, I I , 5 8 4 . 19 Quoted i n Melbourne, p. 3 5 . 2 0 Quoted i n Eddy, p. 8 6 . 21 See L a n s b u r y , p. 42; B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, pp. 1 2 1 - 2 . 2 2 The second e d i t i o n o f S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n ( 1 8 2 0 ) ran t o 5 7 9 pages (compared w i t h the f i r s t e d i t i o n ' s 4 6 5 ) . The t h i r d e d i t i o n was ent i 1 1 ed  S t a t i s t i ca1 Account o f the B r i t i sh S e t t 1ements i n Aus t r a 1 as i a; i nc1ud i ng the Col on i es o f New South Wa1es and Van D i emen's Land, 3 r d ed., 2 v o l s . (London: Geo. B. W h i t t a k e r , 1 8 2 4 ) . 2 3 Eddy, p. 2 3 . 2 4 ADB, I I , 5 8 5 - 2 5 W.C. Wentworth t o D. Wentworth (May 1, 1 8 2 0 J , quoted i n C l a r k , I, 4 7 . 2 6 Wentworth, S t a t i s t i c a l Account ( 1 8 2 4 ) , I, 3 2 3 ; I, 3 2 6 . 27 ,Wentworth ( 1 8 2 4 ) , I, 3 3 1 ; I, 3 8 2 . Wentworth r e c o r d e d t h a t " l i k e the I n d i a n j u g g l e r ' s bag o f s e r p e n t s , t h e i r [ t h e e x c l u s i v e s ' ] n a t u r e i s not a l t e r e d , but they have h a p p i l y l o s t t h e i r p o i s o n o u s f a n g s " ( l , 3 8 3 ) . ? 8 Wentworth ( 1 8 2 4 ) , I, 4 1 7 - 218 2 9 Wentworth (1824), I, 418-19. 30 J Wentworth (1824), I, 420. See a l s o I, 417; I I , 302-3. 3 1 Wentworth (1824), I, 389. 32 Quoted i n Melbourne, p. 28. 33 D a r l i n g t o Hay ( F e b r u a r y 6, 1827), HRA, 1, x i i i , 81. In h i s p e t i t i o n , Wentworth demanded t r i a l by j u r y , t a x a t i o n by c o n s e n t , s u f f r a g e f o r t h e " e n t i r e f r e e p o p u l a t i o n " and an e l e c t e d assembly (ADB, I I, 585-6). 34 There a r e a number o f s i m i l a r i t i e s between Wentworth and H a m i l t o n : b o t h , i t seems, were c o n c e i v e d out o f wedlock; both i n f l u e n c e d the c o n s t i t u t i o n o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e c o u n t r i e s ; both e v e n t u a l l y defended a government o f p r o p e r t y and p r i v i l e g e i n o r d e r t o check impudent democracy; and both p r a i s e d the B r i t i s h C o n s t i t u t i o n , e s p e c i a l l y encouragement o f government by a w e a l t h y m i n o r i t y . 35 Quoted i n Meibourne, p. 89. The phrase i s from Wentworth's speech on the New South Wales C o n s t i t u t i o n B i l l (1853)- See C.M.H. C l a r k , ed., S e l e c t Documents i n A u s t r a l i a n H i s t o r y 1851 -1900, (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1955), pp. 334-40. 36 See A u s t r a 1 i a n , F e b r u a r y 1, 1833. 37 Both Wentworth and Adams e n v i s a g e d a c o n s e r v a t i v e p o l i t i c a l system i n which a w e a l t h y and e x p e r i e n c e d m i n o r i t y governed i n such a way as t o p r e v e n t what they r e g a r d e d as d e m o c r a t i c e x c e s s e s . Only c e r t a i n i n d i v i d u a l s i n a c o u n t r y ' s p o p u l a t i o n , they b e l i e v e d , were s u f f i c i e n t l y educated and t a l e n t e d t o l e a d . See Adams on "a n a t u r a l a r i s t o c r a c y among men," i n h i s l e t t e r t o Thomas J e f f e r s o n (November 219 15, 1813), i n Nye and Grabo, pp. 87-8. 3 8 See C l a r k , I I , 245; I I I , 158; ADB, I I , 587. 3 9 C l a r k , I I, 245. 40 A u s t r a 1 i a n , J a n u a r y 18, 1842. 41 Quoted i n Melbourne, p. 55- 42 Quoted i n P a r r i n g t o n , Main C u r r e n t s , T,"299-300. See a l s o R i c h a r d B. M o r r i s , ed., A l e x a n d e r H a m i l t o n and the Founding o f the N a t i o n (New York: D i a l P r e s s , 1957), pp. 130-9, 285"376. 43 John Dunmore Lang, An H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l Account o f New South Wa 1 es , both as a_ Pena 1 S e t t 1 ement and as a_ B r i t i s h Col ony, 1st ed., 2 v o l s . (London: Cochrane and M'Crone, 1834); H i s t o r i c a i and S t a t i s t i c a l A c c o u n t , 2nd ed., 2 v o l s . (London: A . J . V a l p y , 1837). 44 Lang (1834) , I, i x . 45 Quoted i n B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, p. 128. 46 B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, pp. 125"6. See a l s o ADB, I I , 77; N a d e l , p. 37- 4 7 Lang (183*0, I, 21. 48 See Lang (1834), I I , 277-307 ( e s p e c i a l l y 302-6). 4 9 Lang ( 1 8 3 4 ) , 1 1 , 275"7- 5 0 Lang (183*0, I I, 277- 5 1 Lang (1834), I I , 303. ' 52 In H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l Account (1837)> f o r example, Lang compares and c o n t r a s t s the American backwoodsman and the A u s t r a l i a n s q u a t t e r . See B a r t l e t t , pp. 94-6. 220 53 Quoted i n B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, p. 128. 54 Amasa D e l a n o , A N a r r a t i v e o f Voyages and T r a v e l s i n t h e N o r t h e r n and S o u t h e r n Hemi s p h e r e s : compri s i ng Three Voyages Round the World ( B o s t o n : E.G. House, 1817), p. 462. 55 See Greenwood, E a r l y A m e r i c a n - A u s t r a l i a n R e l a t i o n s , pp. 82-92. 56 See above, C h a p t e r 1, s e c t i o n a). 5 7 D e l a n o , pp. 421-2. 58 Delano, p. 421. See a l s o , D i c t i o n a r y o f American B i o g r a p h y , V (New York: C h a r l e s S c r i b n e r ' s Sons, 1930), 217. H e r e a f t e r , s o u r c e w i l l be c i t e d as DAB. 5 9 D e l a n o , pp. 318-53- ^ " B e n i t o Cereno" f i r s t appeared i n Putnam's M o n t h l y Magazine, VI (October t o December, 1855), 353-67, 459~73, 633"44. For d o c u m e n t a t i o n o f the r e l a t i o n s h i p between M e l v i l l e ' s and Delano's t e x t s , see Herman M e l v i l l e , P i a z z a T a l e s , ed. E g b e r t S. O l i v e r (I856; r p t . New York: H e n d r i c k s House, 1948), pp. 230-8. 6 ' E a r l y i n the R e v o l u t i o n a r y War, f o r example, Delano's f a t h e r was c a p t u r e d and h e l d p r i s o n e r on the B r i t i s h s h i p , Rai nbow (DAB, V, 217). In the N a r r a t i ve, t h e o n l y time Delano e x p r e s s e s h i s i m p a t i e n c e w i t h E n g l i s h h a u g h t i n e s s o c c u r s on p. 146, when he r e f e r s t o the " a b u s i v e a t t a c k s " by the Q u a r t e r l y Review on h i s countrymen. 6 2 Delano, p. 448. 63 D e l a n o , p. 449- 64 See, f o r example, Delano's i n t e n t i o n a l l y s e r v i l e l e t t e r t o Gov. K i n g , i n w h i c h he a t t e m p t e d t o s e c u r e ^400 f o r the a i d he gave t o an E n g l i s h s h i p i n d i s t r e s s ( D e l a n o , pp. 461-3). 221 See Delano, p. 463. 66 C h a r l e s W i l k e s , N a r r a t i v e of. the U n i t e d S t a t e s E x p l o r i n g E x p e d i t i o n d u r i n g the Years 1838, 1839, 1840, 1841, 1842, 5 vo1s. ( P h i l a d e l p h i a : Lea S B l a n c h a r d , 1845); Geo.[rge] M. Co 1 v o c o r e s s e s , Four Years i n a Government E x p e d i t i o n (New York: C o r n i s h , Lamport, I852); C h a r l e s E r s k i n e , Twenty Years B e f o r e the Mast ( B o s t o n : the a u t h o r , 1890). ^ 7 See D a n i e l C. H a s k e l l , The U n i t e d S t a t e s E x p l o r i n g E x p e d i t i o n , 1838-1842, and i t s P u b l i c a t i o n s 1844-1874 (New York: New York P u b l i c L i b r a r y , 1942), p. 2. 68 See, f o r example, H a s k e l l , pp. 2-4; D a v i d B. T y l e r , The Wi1kes Exped i t i o n ( P h i l a d e l p h i a : American P h i l o s o p h i c a l S o c i e t y , 19 6 8) , pp. 26-7. 69 N i l e s ' N a t i o n a l R e g i s t e r , LI I I (October 28, 1837), 130, quoted i n H a s k e l 1 , p. 4. 7 <^ See D a n i e l Henderson, The Hidden C o a s t s (New York: W i l l i a m S l o a n e A s s o c i a t e s , 1953), p. 5- 7 ' See T y l e r , p. 12; R o b e r t C a n t w e l l , N a t h a n i e l Hawthorne: the American Years (New York: R i n e h a r t , 1948), pp. 200-1, 462-3; H o r a t i o B r i d g e , P e r s o n a l R e c o l l e c t i o n s o f N a t h a n i e l Hawthorne (New Y o r k : H a r p e r s , 1893), pp. 82-3. 72 See Cantwel1, p. 463- 7 3 B r i d g e , p. 83. 74 ' H a s k e l l , p. 5. 7 5 See W i I k e s , I I , 160, 163- 222 7 6 W i I k e s , I I , 161. 7 7 C o l v o c o r e s s e s , p. 92. 78 Quoted i n J e s s i e Poesch, T i t i a n Ramsay P e a l e 1799~l885 and H i s J o u r n a l s o f the W i l k e s E x p e d i t i o n ( P h i l a d e l p h i a : American P h i l o s o p h i c a l S o c i e t y , 1961), p. 165. 79 J See W i l k e s , I I , 160; T y l e r , p. 129; E r s k i n e , pp. 95"6. 80 W i l l i a m B i x b y , The F o r g o t t e n Voyage o f C h a r l e s W i l k e s (New York: D a v i d McKay, 1966), p. 58. 81 See T y l e r , p. 127. 8? See T y l e r , pp. 120, 126-7, 15*; W i l k e s , I I , 277- 8 3 W i I k e s , I I , 160. 84 W i l k e s , I I , 362. The i t a l i c s a r e mine. 8 5 W i I k e s , I I , 242. 86 E r s k i n e , p. 94. The a u t h o r i i s , o f c o u r s e , a l l u d i n g t o Sydney Smith's phrase (see above, c h a p t e r I, s e c t i o n b ) . E r s k i n e then : launches i n t o a c o l o u r f u l s e r i e s o f comparisons between Sydney and a number o f American c i t i e s : "George S t r e e t [ i n Sydney] i s the Broadway o f Sydney. The Cove--God save the name!--is the o l d Ann S t r e e t o f B o s t o n ; South S t r e e t o f P h i l a d e l p h i a ; R i v e r o f S t y x , N o r f o l k ; Sausage Row, C i n c i n n a t i ; F i v e P o i n t s or the Hook o f New York; Hog Lane o f Canton. . . . There a r e p l e n t y o f o l d F a g i n s and o l d F a g i n ' s p u p i l s l i v i n g h e r e . Here you w i l l f i n d a l l n a t i o n s mixed up t o g e t h e r , e a t i n g , d r i n k i n g , s i n g i n g , d a n c i n g , g a m b l i n g , q u a r r e l i n g , and f i g h t i n g . " 8 7 W i I k e s , I I , 164. 88 Wi I k e s , I I , 225. 223 8 9 W i I k e s , I I, 220, 2 2 5 . 9 0 W i I k e s , I I , 201; 220-1, 225~6. 91 C o l v o c o r e s s e s , p. 100. 92 Quoted i n T y l e r , p. 124. 9 3 W i l k e s , I I , 276; C o l v o c o r e s s e s , p. 100. 94 See below, c h a p t e r IV, s e c t i o n c j . PART TWO: 1 8 3 8 - 1 8 6 8 ZZh- CHAPTER IV SPREADING DEMOCRACY No b e l i e v e r in the g l o r i o u s d e s t i n i e s of the A n g l o - Saxon r a c e can l o o k upon the e v e n t s o f the l a s t t h r e e y e a r s [1849-52] Without wonder and hope. The American and B r i t i s h empires a r e s e a t e d on a l l w a t e r s ; the o l d and new w o r l d s a r e f i l l e d w i t h the name and fame o f England and her c h i l d r e n . The l a n d s conquered by C a e s a r , t h o s e d i s c o v e r e d by Columbus, and t h o s e e x p l o r e d by Cook, a r e now j o i n e d t o g e t h e r i n one d e s t i n y . There a r e indeed p e c u l i a r i t i e s i n the v a r i o u s branches o f the Anglo-Saxon r a c e ; but they a r e o n l y the v a r i e t i e s o f the same f a m i l y , c o n s c i o u s of e t e r n a l u n i t i e s . How a w f u l l y grand a r e t h e i r p r o s p e c t s . A m e r i c a a t t r a c t e d by g o l d has pushed f o r w a r d her commercial p i o n e e r s , not o n l y t o the e x t r e m i t y o f her t e r r i t o r i e s , but t o a l l the i s l a n d s o f the P a c i f i c . The d i s c o v e r y o f g o l d i n C a l i f o r n i a was s c a r c e l y l e s s momentous t o the A u s t r a l a s i a n than t o the American c o n t i n e n t . They a r e now our n e a r e s t n e i g h b o u r s : t h e i r markets a r e a f f e c t e d by our own; t h e i r t e r r i t o r y o f f e r s the q u i c k e s t t r a n s i t t o Europe; e v e r y hour w i l l d e v e l o p the immense importance o f t h i s c o n t i g u i t y . John West, The Hi s t o r y o f Tasmania (1852) 225 When C h a r l e s D i l k e viewed a t f i r s t - h a n d both A u s t r a l i a and the U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1866-7, he was s t r u c k by the d i f f e r e n c e s between them as d e m o c r a c i e s . In the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s he found no t r a c e . . . a t p r e s e n t o f t h a t l o v e f o r g e n e r a l ideas which t a k e s A m e r i c a away from England i n p h i l o s o p h y . . . . Democracy i n the [ A u s t r a l i a n ] c o l o n i e s i s a t p r e s e n t an a c c i d e n t , and n o t h i n g more; i t r e s t s upon no b a s i s o f r e a s o n i n g , but upon a f a c t . 2 W h i l e r e c o g n i z i n g a d e a r t h o f any i d e o l o g i c a l commitment t o d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s , D i l k e d i s c o v e r e d p o w e r f u l e v i d e n c e o f what might be c a l l e d " p r a c t i c a l " democracy. He noted " t h a t no male c o l o n i s t a d m i t s the p o s s i b i l i t y o f the e x i s t e n c e o f a s o c i a l s u p e r i o r . " The u n c e r t a i n t i e s e v i d e n t i n 1838 had a p p a r e n t l y succumbed, o v e r the e n s u i n g t h r e e decades, t o a more r i g o r o u s s e l f - c o n f i d e n c e . Though the c o u n t r y might be r u d d e r l e s s and w a n t i n g a d i s t i n c t i v e n a t i o n a l i d e n t i t y , the A u s t r a l i a n i n the s t r e e t remained c o n v i n c e d o f h i s own " e q u a l i t y w i t h the b e s t " - - a c u r i o u s c o n t r a d i c t i o n which might h e l p t o e x p l a i n the complete c o l l a p s e o f the r e p u b l i c a n movement i n the community a t l a r g e (and i n l i t e r a t u r e ) i n the e a r l y y e a r s o f the t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y , when A u s t r a l i a n N a t i o n a l i s t s were s i d e - t r a c k e d by the Boer War, an Empire s t r i v i n g t o m a i n t a i n i t s waning c r e d i b i l i t y and F e d e r a t i o n , which promised much and produced l i t t l e . In the c r u c i a l y e a r s between 1838 and 1868, the o r i e n t a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s a l t e r e d i r r e v o c a b l y , from the l a s t v e s t i g e s o f a penal complex t o a semblance o f s e l f - a s s u r a n c e borne o f o v e r a decade o f c o n s t i t u t i o n a l autonomy and r e s p o n s i b l e government. D u r i n g 226 t h i s p e r i o d o f s w i f t change, America p l a y e d an even more prominent r o l e i n c o l o n i a l developments than i n e a r l i e r y e a r s . A g a i n , economic- a l l y , p o l i t i c a l l y and s o c i a l l y , the U n i t e d S t a t e s c o n t i n u e d t o a i d and c o u n s e l d e m o c r a t i c f o r c e s a t work i n A u s t r a l i a . But busy i n t e r - a c t i o n f o r the f i r s t time took p l a c e , prompted by g o l d d i s c o v e r i e s i n C a l i f o r n i a and New South Wales. John West, m i n i s t e r , e d i t o r and a s t u t e h i s t o r i a n , grasped the i m p l i c a t i o n s o f the new r e l a t i o n s h i p i n 1852 when he r e c o g n i z e d the Americans as A u s t r a l i a 1 s " n e a r e s t n e i g h b o u r s : t h e i r markets a r e a f f e c t e d by our own; t h e i r t e r r i t o r y o f f e r s the q u i c k e s t t r a n s i t t o Europe; e v e r y hour w i l l d e v e l o p the 3 immense importance o f t h i s c o n t i g u i t y . " Exchange o f both p o p u l a t i o n and commodities o c c u r r e d , and, more s i g n i f i c a n t l y , o f i d e a s . C u l t u r a l t i e s s o l i d i f i e d . As i n England d u r i n g the same p e r i o d , American books were f o r the f i r s t time read i n s u b s t a n t i a l numbers. In s h o r t , the s p o r a d i c and l a r g e l y e x p e d i e n t n a t u r e o f A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s t h a t c h a r a c t e r i z e d A u s t r a l i a ' s f i r s t f i f t y y e a r s was r e p l a c e d by c l o s e c o n t a c t and more comprehensive u n d e r s t a n d i n g - - a s i t u a t i o n r e f l e c t e d i n the l i t e r a t u r e o f the day. The r e l a t i o n s h i p between the two c o u n t r i e s a f t e r 1838 d e v e l o p e d , decade by decade, as a f u n c t i o n o f major s o c i a l e v e n t s and movements. In the F o r t i e s , a g i t a t i o n f o r a g r e a t e r say i n government and the m a s s i v e s u p p o r t f o r the a n t i - t r a n s p o r t a t i o n movement once more m o t i v a t e d l o c a l demagogues t o c i t e American p r e c e d e n t a f t e r the f a s h i o n o f the 18201 s. Two pamphlets t o appear i n A u s t r a l i a d u r i n g t h i s p e r i o d , e n t i t i e d I n d e f e a s i b l e R i g h t s o f Man (1842) and Common Sense (1847), 227 bear w i t n e s s t o a c o n t i n u i n g a p p r e c i a t i o n o f Thomas P a i n e ' s t a c i t r e l e v a n c e t o c o l o n i a l p o l i t i c s . Then t h e d i s c o v e r y o f g o l d , f i r s t i n C a l i f o r n i a i n 1849, and a c o u p l e o f y e a r s l a t e r i n New South Wales and V i c t o r i a , c r e a t e d a s o c i a l upheaval i n both c o u n t r i e s o f such magnitude t h a t t h e e y e s w i t h which each l o o k e d a t the o t h e r a l t e r e d c o n s i d e r a b l y . G o l d prompted A u s t r a l i a n s t o adopt new a t t i t u d e s towards themselves and t h e i r P a c i f i c n e i g h b o u r s . F u r t h e r m o r e , American know-how, what George F r a n c i s T r a i n c a l l e d "Yankee n o t i o n s , " a r r i v e d . 5 Under g o v e r n o r s from P h i l l i p t o Bourke, A m e r i c a had always been a s p e c i f i c t o o l t o w h i c h scheming c o l o n i s t s c o u l d t u r n ; i t was a weapon r e a d i l y a v i l a b l e t o i n t e r e s t e d p a r t i e s i n s p i r e d by an u l t e r i o r m o t i v e . Events o f the F i f t i e s changed a l l t h a t . A u s t r a l i a n s and Americans met a t c l o s e q u a r t e r s , exchanged g r e e t i n g s , p o l i t i c a l p h i l o s o p h i e s , songs and books. A s t r o n g demand f o r A m e r i c a n news r e s u l t e d i n A u s t r a l i a n s r e c e i v i n g the l a t e s t American happenings not o n l y v i a t h e London newspapers, but d i r e c t from San F r a n c i s c o (a bare t h r e e weeks away). I n i t i a l d i s t r u s t on the A u s t r a l i a n g o l d f i e l d s , based on t h e poor r e c e p t i o n a c c o r d e d many A u s t r a l i a n s i n 1849 C a l i f o r n i a , g r a d u a l l y changed i n t o a f a i r l y w i d e s p r e a d sympathy. Indeed, the A u s t r a l i a n p r e s s between 1850 and t h e c l o s e o f t h e American C i v i l War g e n e r a l l y d i s c u s s e d e v e n t s i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s w i t h an o b j e c t i v i t y , and o f t e n warmth, w h o l l y l a c k i n g i n t h e i r London c o u n t e r p a r t s . Seeds o f the i n t i m a t e s o c i a l t i e s o f the 18801s and 190's were sown i n t h i s decade. A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s , m i d - c e n t u r y , s t r u g g l e d t o a t t a i n a s t a t e o f mind t h a t would u l t i m a t e l y l e a d them t o the h a r v e s t and Walt Whitman. 228 S o c i a l l y r a d i c a l and e g a l i t a r i a n a t t i t u d e s took f i r m r o o t i n t h e A u s t r a l i a n i m a g i n a t i o n . S l a v e r y and the d r a m a t i c e v e n t s o f the C i v i l War i d e o l o g i c a l l y d i v i d e d A u s t r a l i a , i f the p r e s s i s any g u i d e , a l m o s t as much as i t d i d A m e r i c a . C o l o n i a l newspapers took t h e i r s t a n d f o r the N o r t h o r South. The i s s u e o f f r e e t r a d e , so i m p o r t a n t i n A u s t r a l i a l a t e r i n the c e n t u r y as the i d e a s o f Henry George g a i n e d prominence, s u r f a c e d f o r the f i r s t time i n t h e S i x t i e s as many A u s t r a l i a n s sought t o a p p r e c i a t e a l l the i s s u e s — not j u s t s i a v e r y — s u r round i ng the d r e a d f u l c o n v u l s i o n s d i v i d i n g t h e i r P a c i f i c c o u s i n s . As American f i r e d on A m e r i c a n , some A u s t r a l i a n s even began t o dream a grand dream: t h e i r c o u n t r y as God's chosen l a n d , a s o u t h e r n U t o p i a . ^ For A u s t r a l i a t o emerge as an e n l i g h t e n e d new w o r l d , J o n a t h a n ' s m i s t a k e s had t o be a v o i d e d . Between 1838 and 1868, t h e n , A u s t r a 1 i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s underwent a s e r i e s o f a l t e r a t i o n s . Only one t h i n g appeared unchanged by the passage o f y e a r s : the h i g h f r e q u e n c y o f escapes on American b o a t s . Ranging from the d r a m a t i c d e p a r t u r e s o f the e x i l e d Americans Benjamin W a i t , Samuel C h a n d l e r and James Gemmell from Van Diemen's Land i n 1841, through the I r i s h p a t r i o t s ' s i m i l a r e f f o r t s between 1851 and 1853, t o the b o l t f o r freedom o f John B o y l e O ' R e i l l y (on an American w h a l e r , near Bunbury, Western A u s t r a l i a ) i n 1869, and c u l m i n a t i n g , e i g h t y e a r s l a t e r , i n the d r a m a t i c escape o f s i x f e l l o w - I r i s h p o l i t i c a l p r i s o n e r s on the w h a l i n g s h i p Cata1 pa, the p e r i o d i s n o t a b l e f o r i t s famous e s c a p e s , each w i d e l y r e p o r t e d a t the t i m e . 7 229 W i t h t h e C a t a l p a r e s c u e i n I876, a n e r a i n A m e r i c a n / A u s t r a l i a n r e l a t i o n s c a m e t o a c l o s e . F i t t i n g l y , i n t h a t c e n t e n n i a l y e a r o f A m e r i c a n I n d e p e n d e n c e , p r i s o n e r s f r o m t h e l a s t g r o u p o f f e l o n s t o b e d e p o s i t e d a t a n A u s t r a l i a n s e t t l e m e n t w e r e d a r i n g l y h e i s t e d f r o m a n E n g l i s h g a o l a n d a s s i s t e d t o f r e e d o m o n a n A m e r i c a n b o a t t o r e s i d e i n Y a n k e e N e w E n g l a n d . T h e p a t t e r n o f n e a r l y a c e n t u r y o f s i m i l a r , t h o u g h o f t e n m o r e c o v e r t e s c a p e s , w a s c o m p l e t e . 130 S e c t i o n A_ 1840' s The p r i n c i p a l d i f f e r e n c e between the p o l i t i c a l u n r e s t i n A u s t r a l i a i n the 1 8 2 0 1 s and i n the 1840 1 s i s t h a t d u r i n g the former p e r i o d c o l o n i s t s aimed t o r e a l i z e no more than c e r t a i n fundamental r i g h t s they f e l t t h e i r p r e r o g a t i v e as E n g l i s h m e n , w h i l e i n the l a t t e r the impetus owed much t o an i r r e p r e s s i b l e f e e l i n g t h a t s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t s h o u l d , and s h o r t l y would become a r e a l i t y . T h i s change o c c u r r e d f o r a v a r i e t y o f r e a s o n s - - p r i n c i p a 11y an i n c r e a s e i n the number o f n a t i v e - b o r n A u s t r a l i a n s and a m b i t i o u s m i g r a n t s - - a n d was a c c e l e r a t e d by p o l i t i c a l A c t s i n the F o r t i e s t h e m s e l v e s . F i r s t , the C o n s t i t u t i o n A c t o f 1842 c r e a t e d b i t t e r n e s s amongst the r a d i c a l s , democrats and c h a r t i s t s i n the c o l o n y by imposing a £lO f r a n c h i s e and by r e t a i n i n g the i m p e r i a l government's r i g h t o f v e t o and c o n t r o l o v e r crown l a n d s ; and a t the same time i t s companion, the A c t f o r R e g u l a t i n g the S a l e o f Waste Land B e l o n g i n g t o the Crown i n the A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i e s (1842) t h o r o u g h l y d i s e n c h a n t e d t h e c o n s e r v a t i v e s . Both s i d e s , i n f a c t , a d v o c a t e d a s i m i l a r s t r a t e g y f o r f u t u r e a c t i o n as growing numbers o f c o l o n i s t s equated t h e i r s i t u a t i o n w i t h the p r e - r e v o l ut'ionar.y p e r i o d g i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . 2 3 1 Once a g a i n , American p o l i t i c a l example, and t o a l e s s e r e x t e n t t h o u g h t , assumed a d r a m a t i c r e l e v a n c e i n both New South Wales and Tasmania. In the l a t e 1 8 4 0 1 s, as the i s s u e o f p o s s i b l e r e i n t r o d u c t i o n o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n g r a d u a l l y c l a r i f i e d i n t o the p r i n c i p a l q u e s t i o n a t s t a k e i n the c o l o n y , both c o n s e r v a t i v e l a n d h o l d e r and e g a l i t a r i a n e m i g r a n t once more r e c a l l e d the i d e a l s o f the 1 7 7 6 D e c l a r a t i o n i n a p r o f u s i o n o f p r a i s e and c e n s u r e . American p r i n c i p l e s c o n t i n u e d t o preoccupy the c o l o n i a l i m a g i n a t i o n . C o n s t i t u t i o n a l debate i n a l l the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s ( e x c e p t Western A u s t r a l i a ) t h r o u g h o u t the F o r t i e s and e a r l y F i f t i e s drew s t r o n g l y on the l e g i s l a t i v e p r e c e d e n t s o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s , e i t h e r t o p r e s e r v e o r t o condemn the c u r r e n t s i t u a t i o n . W h i l e t h e r e remained no doubt t h a t the m a j o r i t y o f c o l o n i s t s c o n c e i v e d o f t h e m s e l v e s as f o r e e v e r t h e "Sons o f B r i t a i n , " u n d e n i a b l y " E n g l i s h f o r thousands o f y e a r s , " t h i s p r o v i d e d no b a r r i e r t o t h e i r p e r s i s t e n t q u e s t i o n i n g o f the Mother C o u n t r y ' s c o l o n i a l p o l i c y . And a p a r t o f t h i s i n q u i r y i n v o l v e d a c c l a i m i n g the b e n e f i t s o f independence d e r i v e d by the c i t i z e n s o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s . So o f t e n d i d the American c o n s t i t u t i o n get bandied around i n the Queensland L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l t h a t , as l a t e as 1 8 7 0 , one o f f i c i a l c h i d e d the body f o r sheer e x c e s s . ' ^ In New South Wales, the man who had been the f i r s t p u b l i c l y t o t a u n t England w i t h the t h r e a t o f an A u s t r a l i a n r e b e l l i o n , W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth, was a g a i n the most prominent speaker t o r e s o r t t o s i m i l a r t a c t i c s i n the decade l e a d i n g up t o s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t . J u s t as he had i n the f i r s t uncensored newspapers i n the 1 8 2 0 1 s, 232 Wentworth p l a y e d a major r o l e i n making America an a c c e p t e d , i f not p i v o t a l t a l k i n g p o i n t i n p a r l i a m e n t a r y c i r c l e s . By the F o r t i e s , however, he was an e n t r e n c h e d c o n s e r v a t i v e and he no l o n g e r w h i m s i c a l l y proposed r e v o l u t i o n . R a t h e r , he g r a v i t a t e d t o t h o s e men who s u i t e d h i s now more r e a c t i o n a r y p o l i t i c a l s t a n c e — s u c h as Washington, the Frenchman T o c q u e v i l l e and John C. Calhoun.'^ The a g e i n g Wentworth, as h i s contemporary ' John West put i t , " i s y e t a l i c t o r when he t u r n s towards the m u l t i t u d e , and a t r i b u n e o n l y when he f a c e s the s e a t 1 2 o f a u t h o r i t y . " The l i c t o r i n Wentworth r e a c t e d v i o l e n t l y , as T o c q u e v i l l e had a l s o , t o the p e r v a s i v e i n t i m a t i o n s o f J a c k s o n i a n democracy. T h i s new e q u a l i t a r i a n i s m , c a u s i n g e v e r y p o l i t i c i a n t o depend f o r s u r v i v a l on " K i n g Numbers," was anathema. For Wentworth, o n l y w e a l t h , p r o p e r t y and e d u c a t i o n c o u l d t r a i n men f o r the p r i n c i p a l 1 3 o f f i c e s o f s t a t e (as Adams had m a i n t a i n e d many y e a r s b e f o r e ) . Though T o c q u e v i l l e and Wentworth both f e a r e d l e v e l l i n g d o c t r i n e s , they responded t o the i m p l i c a t i o n s o f the American d e m o c r a t i c s t a t e i n w h o l l y d i f f e r e n t ways. T o c q u e v i l l e a c c e p t e d the f a c t t h a t the " n o b l e has gone down i n the s o c i a l s c a l e , and the commoner gone up. . . ..Every h a l f c e n t u r y b r i n g s them c l o s e r , and soon they w i l l t o u c h . " He r e c o g n i z e d t h a t the " g r a d u a l p r o g r e s s o f e q u a l i t y i s something f a t e d . " T o c q u e v i 1 1 e 1 s concept o f m a j o r i t y t y r a n n y r e s t e d on h i s o b s e r v a t i o n t h a t , i n A m e r i c a , i n d i v i d u a l i s m was b e i n g c o n t i n u a l l y compromised. True freedom of e x p r e s s i o n d i d n ' t e x i s t ' and c o n f o r m i t y abounded everywhere: " I know no c o u n t r y i n w h i c h , s p e a k i n g g e n e r a l l y , t h e r e i s l e s s independence o f mind and t r u e freedom o f d i s c u s s i o n 233 than i n America."''' Wentworth, on the o t h e r hand, not o n l y i n d i c t e d " t h e v i c i s s i t u d e s o f p u b l i c o p i n i o n . . . . the p r o v e r b i a l i n c o n s t a n c y o f the p o p u l a r g a l e , " he adamantly opposed the v e r y " s p i r i t o f democracy 16 a b r o a d , w h i c h was a l m o s t d a i l y e x t e n d i n g i t s l i m i t s . . . ." As a S e l e c t Committee p r e p a r e d the d r a f t f o r an A u s t r a l i a n C o n s t i t u t i o n i n 1853, Wentworth l a s h e d the group w i t h s t r i d e n t a n t i - r e p u b l i c a n i n v e c t i v e . When the time came t o comment i n the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l on the proposed C o n s t i t u t i o n B i l l ; i n A u g u s t , 1853, he l e f t no doubt as t o h i s p o s i t i o n , a s s a i l i n g democracy's " r e c k l e s s n e s s o f consequences." Who, Wentworth a s k e d , "would e v e r r e t u r n , i f once he l e f t t h e s e s h o r e s . . . so l o n g as s e l f i s h n e s s , i g n o r a n c e , and democracy h o l d sway?" He demanded the l e g i t i m i z i n g o f h i s r u l i n g c l a s s o f "Shepherd K i n g s , " an a m b i t i o n which c o u l d o n l y be r e a l i z e d i f the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l framed "a B r i t i s h , not a Yankee c o n s t i t u t i o n . " ' 7 A p p a r e n t l y o b l i v i o u s t o t h e l a r g e r p a t t e r n o f Tocquevi11e's argument-- w h i c h a t t e m p t e d , as George W. P i e r s o n has put i t , t o "make d e m o c r a t i e 1 8 s a f e f o r the w o r l d " --Wentworth proceeded t o quote e l a b o r a t e l y from the F r e n c h a r i s t o c r a t t o j u s t i f y h i s argument. He was by no means t h e f i r s t A u s t r a 1 i a n landowner t o use Tocquevi11e's Democracy i n 19 Amer i ca : - f o r h i s own p u r p o s e s . But where T o c q u e v i l l e a t t e m p t e d t o p u r i f y democracy, Wentworth and h i s c o l l e a g u e s d e t e r m i n e d t o oppose i t . Wentworth s p e n t h i s l a s t p o l i t i c a l y e a r s i n o p p o s i t i o n t o t h e r e c e n t r e p u b l i c a n o u t p o u r i n g s o f J a c k s o n i a n A m e r i c a ; y e t , t y p i c a l l y , even as he m a i n t a i n e d t h a t he was a man o f e n t r e n c h e d " C o n s e r v a t i v e 234 p r i n c i p l e s , " he r e v e r t e d t o h i s y o u t h f u l t r o u b l e - m a k i n g r o l e as i t 20 s u i t e d him. When Lord Grey e q u i v o c a t e d o v e r the r e p e a t e d remonstrances by the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t , Wentworth, t h r o u g h an a p p o i n t e d Committee, g r a t u i t o u s l y r e g r e s s e d t o h i s seasoned t r i c k o f a l l u d i n g t o the American R e v o l u t i o n . The Committee informed Grey t h a t the " a n n a l s o f America prove . . . [ t h a t i t was] o n l y when the m i s c h i e v o u s p r i n c i p l e o f d i r e c t i n t e r m e d d l i n g w i t h the f u n c t i o n s o f t h e i r l e g i s l a t u r e s was a s s e r t e d . . . t h a t t h o s e u n f o r t u n a t e h e a r t - b u r n i n g s a r o s e w h i c h l e d t o t h e i r dismemberment from the B r i t i s h 21 Empire." The o l d p o l i t i c a l f o x always r e c o g n i z e d , and t o r m e n t e d , the s o f t u n d e r b e l l y o f any o p p o s i t i o n . And when he d e a l t w i t h an i n t r a c t a b l e C o l o n i a l O f f i c e , A m e r i c a _ r e p e a t e d 1y prov ided h im_ wi th. t e e t h . C h a r l e s W i l k e s , d u r i n g h i s squadron's Sydney v i s i t i n l a t e 1839, o b s e r v e d t h a t the " r i s i n g c o l o n i e s " o f A u s t r a l i a were p r o c e e d i n g r a p i d l y towards autonomy. On many o c c a s i o n s t h r o u g h o u t the F o r t i e s , h i s comments seemed t o r e t a i n more r e l e v a n c e t o v o l a t i l e Tasmania than t o New South Wales. One o f W i l k e s ' countrymen v i s i t i n g Tasmania i n 1841, a merchant named Augustus Rogers, c e r t a i n l y thought so. In a l e t t e r home t o h i s b r o t h e r , i n November, he commented: . . . d o u b t l e s s one o f t h e s e days they w i l l "throw o f f the yoke" h e r e , t h e i r [ s i c ] b e i n g c o n s i d e r a b l e g r u m b l i n g a l r e a d y as t o t h e i r t r e a t m e n t by the mother c o u n t r y . . . .22 L i k e t h e i r m a i n l a n d countrymen, a g i t a t i n g Tasmanian c o l o n i s t s con- s i s t e n t l y e x h i b i t e d t h e i r a p p r e c i a t i o n o f American h i s t o r y and p o l i t i c a l t h o u g h t . 235 The e a r l y work o f newspaper e d i t o r s such as Andrew Bent and Robert Murray c a r r i e d o v e r i n t o the F o r t i e s as a r e s u l t o f the t e n a c i t y and d e d i c a t i o n o f men such as John Morgan. A commissioned o f f i c e r who had s e r v e d w i t h the Royal M a r i n e s i n the War o f 1812, Morgan b e f r i e n d e d John Quincy Adams i n the y e a r s between 1815 and 1817 when 23 Adams was ambassador t o London. Whether t h e i r f r i e n d s h i p a c t e d as a c a t a l y s t o r n o t , Morgan, e s p e c i a l l y i n h i s l a t e r y e a r s , v i g o r o u s l y espoused the p r i n c i p l e s f o r which the Americans had engaged i n the War o f Independence. Having a r r i v e d i n Richmond, Van Diemen's Land, i n 1834 as p o l i c e m a g i s t r a t e , Morgan spent s h o r t p e r i o d s as a f a r m e r , then as a j o u r n a l i s t , u n t i l he found h i s bent i n l i f e - - t h a t o f news- paper e d i t o r . Newspapers such as the Hobart Town A d v e r t - i s e r (1839), Tasmanian Weekly D i s p a t c h (l839 _ 4l) and the B r i t t a n i a and T r a d e s ' A d v o c a t e (1846-51) came under h i s c o n t r o l , e n a b l i n g him t o e x e r t 24 c o n s i d e r a b l e p o l i t i c a l i n f l u e n c e on the c o l o n y . In t h e s e p a p e r s , he c o n s i s t e n t l y made "commendatory r e f e r e n c e s " t o "American i n s t i t u t i o n s " (as L i n u s M i l l e r , one o f the Americans e x i l e d t o Tasmania a f t e r the 25 Upper Canadian r e b e l l i o n , once remarked ). C o m p l e t e l y d i s s a t i s f i e d w i t h the w o r k i n g s o f o f f i c i a l d o m , and the performance o f the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l i n p a r t i c u l a r , Morgan mounted a campaign t o r e s i s t the 1840 Road A c t - - a n a t t e m p t by the C o u n c i l t o r a i s e revenue t h r o u g h the t a x a t i o n o f f r e e c o l o n i s t s . L i k e so many c o l o n i s t s b e f o r e him d a t i n g back t o the young Wentworth, Morgan r e s o r t e d t o t h a t f a m i l i a r Yankee 26 c r y , "No T a x a t i o n W i t h o u t R e p r e s e n t a t i o n . " L o c a l a u t h o r i t i e s e x p r e s s e d shock and o u t r a g e a t t h i s b l a t a n t p r o v o c a t i o n . T h i s from a man who, e a r l i e r i n the y e a r , i n an a t t e m p t t o f o c u s c o l o n i a l o p i n i o n on the i n j u s t i c e s c o n f r o n t i n g them, h e l d a " N a t i o n a l Union D i n n e r " t o which he asked as many Americans and Frenchmen as he c o u l d f i n d . And he h e l d i t j u s t days b e f o r e A u s t r a l i a Day. And they t o a s t e d the 27 memory o f Washington and La F a y e t t e ! D e s p i t e government a t t e m p t s t o stem h i s r e p e a t e d a t t a c k s , Morgan c o n t i n u e d t o a i r h i s " 1 i b e r a 1 - c u m - t r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i d e a s " r e f e r r i n g , whenever he f e l t the need, t o memorable American p o l i t i c a l a c t i o n s 28 such as the Boston Tea P a r t y . O f t e n he c a r r i e d h i s words i n t o a c t i o n . When the Americans who were e x i l e d a f t e r the Upper Canadian r e b e l l i o n a r r i v e d i n Van Diemen's Land i n 1840, Morgan a p p a r e n t l y made a p o i n t o f t e n d e r i n g h i s s e r v i c e s t o a t l e a s t one o f them--Linus M i l l e r . M i l l e r mentions t h a t Morgan " t a l k e d much o f our i n s t i t u t i o n s , American e n t e r p r i s e , & c , w h i c h he g r e a t l y a d m i r e d , " and t h a t he q u i c k l y launched an urgent appeal' t o the l i e u t e n a n t - g o v e r n o r f o r the P a t r i o t s be t r e a t e d w i t h a l i b e r a l i t y a p p r o p r i a t e t o the o f f e n c e . T h e i r c r i m e r e p r e s e n t e d "a s t e r l i n g v i r t u e i n the e s t i m a t i o n o f n i n e - t e n t h s o f the c i v i l i z e d w o r l d , " Morgan b r a v e l y informed the i s l a n d , • 29 p o p u l a t i o n . H i s e f f o r t s t o promote a more independent Van Diemen's Land were not i n v a i n . Between 1845 and 1847, two i s s u e s e r u p t e d i n the c o l o n y , i n the second o f which Morgan h i m s e l f p l a y e d a l e a d i n g r o l e . In 1845, the Tasmanian G o v e r n o r , S i r John Eard1ey-Wi1 mot, r e s p o n d i n g t o h i s c o l o n y ' s debt o f some & 100,000, r a i s e d the d u t y on t e a , sugar and f o r e i g n goods from f i v e t o f i f t e e n p e r c e n t . S i x independent 237 members o f the L e g i s l a t i v e Counci1--named by t h e i r s y m p a t h i z e r s , 30 the " P a t r i o t i c S i x " - - r e s i s t e d the i n c r e a s e on the grounds o f i t s u n j u s t n e s s and e v e n t u a l l y r e s i g n e d from the C o u n c i l . Many heated p u b l i c meetings ensued, the l a r g e s t t a k i n g p l a c e i n H o b a r t , where p o s t e r s took up Morgan's e a r l i e r demand: "No T a x a t i o n W i t h o u t 31 R e p r e s e n t a t i o n . " The e n t h u s i a s t i c a c c e p t a n c e o f American c a t c h - c r i e s e v e n t u a l l y p a i d o f f , as the I m p e r i a l Government agreed t o g i v e monetary a s s i s t a n c e t o the f i n a n c i a l l y t r o u b l e d c o l o n y , and the " S i x " were r e i n s t a t e d . Less than two y e a r s a f t e r the i n c i d e n t i n v o l v i n g the " P a t r i o t i c S i x " had f i r s t f l a r e d up, Morgan s p a r k e d a n o t h e r c o n f r o n t a t i o n which r a p i d l y e s c a l a t e d i n t o a major i s s u e . S u s p e c t i n g y e t a n o t h e r u n l a w f u l t a x , he r e f u s e d on p r i n c i p l e t o pay a dog l i c e n c e - - a f a c t he made s u r e r e c e i v e d e x t e n s i v e c o v e r a g e i n the Br i t t a n i a. Summonsed, he s u d d e n l y found h i m s e l f the l i t i g a n t i n a t e s t c a s e . The l o c a l c o u r t judged him g u i l t y on two c o u n t s and i n s t i t u t e d a f i n e ; however, 32 Morgan a p p e a l e d t o the C h i e f J u s t i c e , who found i n h i s f a v o u r . J u b i l a n t , Morgan d e c l a r e d the d e c i s i o n a v i c t o r y f o r v i r t u e and l i b e r a l p r i n c i p l e s . The embarrassed Tasmanian G o v e r n o r , W i l l i a m D e n i s o n , no doubt m i n d f u l o f h i s p r e c a r i o u s p o s i t i o n i n the m i d s t o f the c o n t i n u o u s s t i r r i n g s o f young Democracy, must have p r i v a t e l y c u r s e d the l i b e r a l i z i n g t e n d e n c i e s o f the Home O f f i c e who i n s i s t e d on a v o i d i n g a n o t h e r A m e r i c a a t a l l c o s t s . Robert Lowe, t o become C h a n c e l l o r o f the Exchequer under G l a d s t o n e i n l a t e r p o l i t i c a l l i f e , p l a y e d a prominent r o l e i n perhaps the most 238 i m p o r t a n t p o l i t i c a l q u e s t i o n o f the F o r t i e s t o rock the C o l o n i a l O f f i c e s o f S t a n l e y and Grey: t h a t o f r e s i s t a n c e t o t r a n s p o r t a t i o n . The i s s u e i g n i t e d i n 1846 when W.E. G l a d s t o n e , S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e f o r War and the C o l o n i e s (and, by the by, a P o r t P h i l l i p p r o p e r t y - owner) proposed t o r e i n t r o d u c e c o n v i c t l a b o u r t o the A u s t r a l i a n 33 c o l o n i e s . A l l the major landowners and s q u a t t e r s endorsed the move. As K y l i e Tennant puts i t : " J u s t as the V i r g i n i a n s l a v e - h o l d e r s c l u n g t o the i n s t i t u t i o n o f s l a v e r y , so d i d the s q u a t t e r s c l i n g t o c o n v i c t - 34 ism." Lowe, a f r i e n d and s y m p a t h i z e r w i t h s q u a t t o c r a c y f o r the f i r s t few y e a r s a f t e r he a r r i v e d i n Sydney i n 1842, s p l i t i r r e v o c a b l y w i t h Wentworth o v e r the q u e s t i o n . However, Lowe had l e a r n t much i n the s h o r t time from h i s c o l l e a g u e and he, t o o , had become adept i n the a r t o f a l l u d i n g t o A m e r i c a a t j u s t the r i g h t moment t o engage crowd s u p p o r t . When s t i l l a p a r t o f the Wentworth c i r c l e , he had t h r i l l e d an 1846 A u s t r a l i a Day g a t h e r i n g w i t h h i s b a r r a g e o f v i t r i o l a g a i n s t Governor Gipps and the C o l o n i a l O f f i c e . Would the b l o o d y , e x p e n s i v e l e s s o n o f America have t o be l e a r n e d a g a i n by B r i t a i n , he a s k e d , t o t h e l u s t y and drunken c h e e r s o f a crowd o f m o s t l y landowners. The same group, however, were not q u i t e so t i t i l l a t e d w i t h Lowe's more e x p a n s i v e Yankee r e f e r e n c e a l i t t l e more than t h r e e y e a r s l a t e r . When the c o n v i c t s h i p Hashemy c a s t anchor i n Sydney Harbour on ' June 1 1 , 1849, a crowd o f some f i v e thousand g a t h e r e d a t C i r c u l a r Quay f o r a g r e a t p r o t e s t m e e t i n g . A v e t e r a n o f many an O x f o r d Union d e b a t e , Lowe knew e x a c t l y how t o appeal t o the p o p u l a c e . To thunderous c h e e r s , the Sydney Morning H e r a l d r e p o r t e d , he i m p l o r e d the crowd, 239 as the Van Diemonian Morgan had been d o i n g f o r y e a r s , t o demand t h a t c o l o n i a l i n t e g r i t y be r e c o g n i z e d : He c o u l d see from the meeting the time was not f a r d i s - t a n t when they would a s s e r t t h e i r freedom not by words a l o n e . As i n A m e r i c a , o p p r e s s i o n was the p a r e n t o f independence, so would i t be i n the c o l o n y . The t e a w h i c h the Americans f l u n g i n t o the water r a t h e r than pay the t a x upon i t , was not the cause o f the r e v o l t o f the American S t a t e s ; i t was the u n r i g h t e o u s n e s s o f the t a x - - i t was the d e g r a d a t i o n o f s u b m i s s i o n t o an u n r i g h t e o u s demand. And so s u r e as the seed w i l l grow i n t o t h e p l a n t , and t h e p l a n t t o t h e t r e e , i n a l l t i m e s , and i n a l l n a t i o n s , so w i l l i n j u s t i c e and t y r a n n y r i p e n i n t o r e b e l l i o n , and r e b e l l i o n i n t o independence.36 B e s t e d by the c u n n i n g use o f h i s own d e v i c e , Wentworth shouted i n t o the wind. In P a r l i a m e n t , he l a b e l l e d the A n t i - T r a n s p o r t a t i o n League members n o t h i n g but l e v e l l e r s and a n a r c h i s t s , but as he d i d so, he began t o l o o k more and more i s o l a t e d from the crowd t h a t had once w o r s h i p p e d him. A n t i - T r a n s p o r t a t i o n League banners f l e w on A u s t r a l i a n 37 s h i p s as f a r away as San F r a n c i s c o . U l t i m a t e l y , the Hashemy's branded c a r g o had t o be landed i n the f r o n t i e r o u t p o s t s o f Western A u s t r a l i a and Queensland. T h i s i s not a.l 1 . John West, the Tasmanian C o n g r e g a t i o n a l m i n s t e r and h i s t o r i a n , p l a y e d perhaps the major r o l e L n , h i s c o l o n y ' s a b o l i t i o n movement. H i s w r i t i n g s a t t e s t t o a c l o s e a c q u a i n t a n c e w i t h American w r i t e r s and e v e n t s . In 1847 he d i s c u s s e d the c a s e f o r a b o l i s h i n g t r a n s p o r t a t i o n i n a pamphlet e n t i t l e d Common Sense: an enqu i ry i nto the i nf1uence o f t r a n s p o r t a t ion on the c o l o n y o f Van D iemen's Land (1847). The s h o r t t i t l e i t s e l f g u a r a n t e e d an a u d i e n c e , i f o n l y f o r 240 c u r i o s i t y ' s sake--a f a c t o f which the w r i t e r must have been w e l l aware. P r o b a b l y i n t e n d e d . In the b o o k l e t , West e n v i s i o n e d a community o f s m a l l f a r m e r s r e p l a c i n g t h e p r e s e n t l a n d e d o l i g a r c h y . He s h a r e d ground w i t h P a i n e i n the sense t h a t both d e s i r e d t o d i s t r i b u t e the w e a l t h o f the community more e q u i t a b l y (though P a i n e f o r e s a w d i f f e r e n t 39 means ). But more i m p o r t a n t l y , h i s sense o f the independent yeoman- farmer gave A u s t r a 1 i a n v o i c e t o a n o t i o n w h i c h , i n m i d - n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a , had become " t h e myth" o f t h a t c o u n t r y , as Henry Nash 40 Smith d e m o n s t r a t e s i n h i s book, V i r g i n Lands (1957). Benjamin F r a n k l i n (from the 1750's o n w a r d s ) , St John de C r e v e c o e u r and Thomas J e f f e r s o n gave c l e a r e x p r e s s i o n t o t h e myth i n t h e second h a l f o f t h e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y by a d v a n c i n g the n o t i o n o f the farmer as the c o r n e r s t o n e o f a w o r k i n g R e p u b l i c . As J e f f e r s o n put i t , the " s m a l l 41 l a n d h o l d e r s a r e the most p r e c i o u s p a r t o f a s t a t e . " Through the encouragement o f t h e Western yeoman, A m e r i c a might w e l l r e a l i z e what i n Europe had been s i m p l y a Utopian dream. In A u s t r a l i a , i t was p r e c i s e l y t h i s i d e a t h a t Lang and Deniehy would make t h e i r own i n the 1840's and , 50's. / ( 2 West's l a t e r w r i t i n g s r e f l e c t e d a keen e n t h u s i a s m f o r a con- s t i t u t i o n a l u n i o n t o b i n d the c o l o n i e s . He wanted a s t r o n g f e d e r a l g o v e r n i n g body ( P a i n e , t o o , had argued f o r a p o w e r f u l c e n t r a l g o v e r n - ment i n h i s Common S e n s e ) . In f a c t , some h i s t o r i a n s have c r e d i t e d West w i t h b e i n g the f i r s t A u s t r a l i a n t o c o m p r e h e n s i v e l y t r e a t the f e d e r a t i o n q u e s t i o n . In a s u c c e s s i o n o f e i g h t e e n a r t i c l e s f o r the Sydney Morning H e r a l d i n 1854, under the s u g g e s t i v e nom de plume 241 o f "John Adams," he argued f o r a "Union o f the A u s t r a l i a n Col on i e s . The f o u r t h a r t i c l e a t t a c k e d the a d m i n i s t r a t i o n i n Downing S t r e e t where the "'groans o f A u s t r a l i a ' d i e away i n s i l e n c e . . . t h e r e d e s p a t c h e s , w h i c h have run o v e r h a l f the w o r l d , a r e couched i n o b l i v i o n ; w h i l e beneath, i n c e l l a r s o f unfathomable d e p t h , l o n g - f o r g o t t e n p e t i t i o n s t h a t have prayed i n v a i n , and m e m o r i a l s , as a dead man out o f mind, l i e deep i n d u s t ! " The e i g h t e e n t h a r t i c l e , concerned w i t h t h e terms o f a f e d e r a l c o n s t i t u t i o n , e l a b o r a t e d upon t h e example o f 45 the U n i t e d S t a t e s . West's p r e c i s i o n and e l o q u e n c e so impressed the H e r a l d ' s owner, John F a i r f a x , t h a t he h i r e d West as the paper's e d i t o r a c o u p l e o f months a f t e r the l a s t f e d e r a t i o n a r t i c l e appeared. As e d i t o r , West c o n t i n u e d t o pursue the paper's e s t a b l i s h e d c o n s e r v a t i v e l i n e , but i t i s c l e a r l y no c o i n c i d e n c e t h a t , whereas b e f o r e 185* the Hera 1d d e a l t w i t h American news o n l y i n e d i t o r i a l summaries, a f t e r t h a t y e a r i t had an e n t i r e s e c t i o n t o i t s e l f under the heading " A m e r i c a " o r "American News." A t t i t u d e s towards s l a v e r y and the American C i v i l War i n the l a t e 18501 s and '60's took shape i n the minds o f many c o l o n i s t s a c c o r d i n g t o the s t a n c e adopted by the H e r a l d on t h e s e i s s u e s . I f West's l o y a l t y t o the Mother C o u n t r y was o b v i o u s i n h i s f i r m c o n v i c t i o n t h a t England d e s i r e d t o a v o i d a r e p e t i t i o n of the American d e b a c l e i n A u s t r a l i a , he n e v e r t h e l e s s r e t a i n e d a tremendous a d m i r a t i o n f o r the U n i t e d S t a t e s . A m e r i c a was, t o use West's word, 47 A u s t r a 1 i a's "s i s t e r . " In both New South Wales and Tasmania, t h e n , t h r o u g h o u t the F o r t i e s and e a r l y F i f t i e s , the low hum o f a g i t a t i o n r o s e t o a clamour under 2 4 2 the impact o f the s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t q u e s t i o n and the p r i c k l y t r a n s p o r t a t i o n d i s p u t e . L o c a l s p o k e s m e n — i n c l u d i n g , as i n y e a r s gone by, o u t r a g e d 4 8 b u r e a u c r a t s - - r e a d i l y used American p r e c e d e n t s t o b o l s t e r t h e i r arguments, but i t i s i m p o r t a n t t o keep i n mind t h a t , a t t h i s t i m e , as i n e a r l i e r decades, the s o u r c e s o f p r o t e s t remained e s s e n t i a l l y u n a l t e r e d . The c r y f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t was a n y t h i n g but u n i v e r s a l . In t h e two major c o l o n i e s the p l u t o c r a t s and e d u c a t e d m i d d l e - c l a s s o r a t o r s c o n t i n u e d t o l e a d the way. Both groups were p r i m a r i l y concerned w i t h p r o t e c t i n g the " u n d e n i a b l e r i g h t s o f p r o p e r t y , " as Robert Lowe's 4 9 At 1 as put i t , not the " f a n c i f u l and m e t a p h y s i c a l r i g h t s o f man." In Tasmania, John West grasped the t e n o r o f the t i m e s a c c u r a t e l y : As might be e x p e c t e d , t h e p r e v a i l i n g s p i r i t of the c o l o n i e s i s d e m o c r a t i c : the democracy o f the m i d d l e c l a s s e s , not o f the mob.50 As we have seen, t h e s e were Wentworth's s e n t i m e n t s e x a c t l y . For as a group, the m i d d l e c l a s s e s c o n t e n t e d t h e m s e l v e s w i t h the s t e a d y a c q u i s i t i o n o f r i g h t s , g a i n e d i n r e l a t i v e l y o r d e r l y f a s h i o n . West's c o n c l u s i o n t o the second volume o f h i s H i s t o r y of Tasmania ( 1 8 5 2 ) was t y p i c a l o f the p l o y s used i n the p o l i t i c a l l i t e r a t u r e o f c o l o n i s t s owing a debt t o Wentworth's c o n t r o v e r s i a l S t a t i s t i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n ( 1 8 1 9 ) — n a m e l y , suggest the o b v i o u s m i l i t a r y r e s o u r c e s o f the c o l o n y ( d i s t a n c e s , mountainous r e g i o n s , the s t r o n g l i k e l i h o o d o f f o r e i g n a i d ) , make p a s s i n g r e f e r e n c e t o the c o u n t r y which had so s u c c e s s f u l l y u n d e r t a k e n s e v e r a n c e from the Empire ( t h e w e l l - r e a d West d i d so w i t h c u n n i n g s o p h i s t i c a t i o n by q u o t i n g humorous s a t i r i c a l e x c e r p t s from 243 Sydney Smith and Benjamin F r a n k l i n ) , then f l a t t e r the Mother C o u n t r y w i t h e a r n e s t d e c l a r a t i o n s t h a t she i s not about t o make the same m i s t a k e t w i c e . " E n g l a n d , " West m a i n t a i n e d , " w i l l not p e r m i t her 52 m i n i s t e r s t o o p p r e s s the c o l o n i e s . . . ." F i n a l l y , h a v i n g f l i r t e d w i t h r e v o l u t i o n a r y t a l k , s o l e m n l y r e a f f i r m the Englishman's n a t u r a l p r o c l i v i t y t o peace and b e l i e f i n s o c i a l o r g a n i z a t i o n : The l o v e o f o r d e r i s t o o s t r o n g i n the E n g l i s h b r e a s t t o t o l e r a t e a n a r c h y . . . . [ S i n c e ] l i f e i s s h o r t , no w i s e man would w i s h t o waste a c o n s i d e r a b l e p o r t i o n i n p a s s i n g t h r o u g h the d i s o r d e r s o f a r e v o l u t i o n t o g a i n the mere name o f a State.53 West was p r o b a b l y r i g h t , f o r no one i n the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s pushed, as Tom P a i n e and Sam Adams had pushed, f o r r e v o l u t i o n . D i s - enchanted C h a r t i s t s a r r i v i n g i n s u b s t a n t i a l numbers i n the F o r t i e s found a c o m p a r a t i v e l y p r o s p e r o u s new l a n d . C h a r l e s Di1ke d r y l y quoted an o l d j o k e . " Q u e s t i o n : 'What i s a C o l o n i a l C o n s e r v a t i v e ? ' Answer: 'A statesman who has got f o u r " p o i n t s " o f the P e o p l e ' s 54 C h a r t e r , and wants t o c o n s e r v e them." 1 The A u s t r a l i a n s i t u a t i o n was never s u f f i c i e n t l y c r i t i c a l t o s u s t a i n a r e v o l u t i o n . R a d i c a l w o r k e r s ' groups t h e m s e l v e s upheld such m i d d l e - c l a s s v i r t u e s as p i e t y , 55 t h r i f t , s o b r i e t y and i n d u s t r i o u s n e s s . These, o f c o u r s e , had been p r e c i s e l y t h o s e v a l u e s t h a t Benjamin F r a n k l i n a d v o c a t e d as d e s i r a b l e f o r an e x p a n d i n g m i d d l e - c l a s s A m e r i c a i n h i s A u t o b i o g r a p h y (1771-89). Even t e m p e r a m e n t a l l y , t h e n , A u s t r a l i a n s and Americans were b e g i n n i n g t o have much i n common. 244 S e c t i o n B_ 1850's F i r s t news o f the d i s c o v e r y o f g o l d i n C a l i f o r n i a a r r i v e d i n the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s i n December, 1848. W i t h the p r o s p e c t o f making one's f o r t u n e o n l y a s h o r t voyage away, many A u s t r a l i a n s were s o r e l y tempted t o t r y t h e i r l u c k a t the d i g g i n g s a c r o s s the P a c i f i c . E m i g r a t i o n t o A m e r i c a q u i c k l y " and g r e e d i l y ' began, as s i x crowded s h i p s s a i l e d out o f Sydney Harbour and one from Hobart ( i n December, 1849, and J a n u a r y , 1 8 5 0 ) , f o l l o w e d by s e v e r a l from Melbourne i n June. W i t h i n s i x months, 679 p e o p l e , o p t i m i s t s a l l , had headed out t o seek American g o l d . A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s were, f o r the f i r s t t i m e , t r u l y r e c i p r o c a l , as an A u s t r a l i a n p r e s e n c e r a p i d l y e s t a b l i s h e d i t s e l f on C a l i f o r n i a n s o i l . Tempting a d v e r t i s e m e n t s o f a l l v a r i e t i e s appeared everywhere t o l u r e the f o o t l o o s e . T a i l o r s wanted, t o r i g out the p r o s p e c t i v e d i g g e r , j o i n e r s t o c o n s t r u c t p o r t a b l e houses. A Mrs. B r i g n e l l a c t u a l l y o f f e r e d t o s e l l her house t o be t a k e n a c r o s s the P a c i f i c . Wrote the E n g l i s h - b o r n t r a d e r and w h a l e r Robert Towns: 245 The whole a f f a i r ( t o use a hackneyed p h r a s e ) , beggars d e s c r i p t i o n - - a p e r f e c t phenomenon . . . wonderfu1 and a t the same time t r u e . 5 7 At f i r s t , the l a r g e - c i r c u l a t i o n Sydney Morning H e r a l d added some f u e l t o the f l a m e s (though l a t e r i t was more c a u t i o n a r y ) . Four days i n t o the new y e a r , the paper's l e a d e r , e n t i t l e d "The New Gold C o u n t r y , " s t r o n g l y s u p p o r t e d the new t r a d i n g o u t l e t f o r Sydney's l o w - p r i c e d g r a i n and f l o u r . Tasmanian s h i p p e r s were e q u a l l y happy w i t h the p r o s p e c t o f g e t t i n g i n f l a t e d p r i c e s f o r t h e i r e x c e s s q u a n t i t i e s o f g r a i n and t i m b e r . Only Melbourne merchants and businessmen responded a n g r i l y from the b e g i n n i n g , a p p r e c i a t i n g t h e i r v u l n e r a b i l i t y . They s t o o d t o l o s e many v a l u a b l e w o r k e r s , w h i l e , because o f t h e i r g r e a t e r i s o l a t i o n , g a i n i n g no t r a d i n g advantage. An Argus l e a d e r i n J a n u a r y warned the l a b o u r i n g c l a s s e s t o be " c a r e f u l how they exchange h e a l t h , r O competence, and s e c u r i t y here f o r a f e v e r i s h dream i n C a l i f o r n i a . " A f t e r t h e . f i r s t group o f s h i p s d e p a r t e d Sydney, s c e p t i c i s m took h o l d o f the p o p u l a t i o n u n t i l a t l e a s t a few r a g s - t o - r i c h e s s t o r i e s c o u l d be c o r r o b o r a t e d . The a r r i v a l o f a s h i p from San F r a n c i s c o , w i t h t w e l v e hundred ounces o f g o l d , was a p p a r e n t l y c o n f i r m a t i o n enough. E m i g r a t i o n f i g u r e s r o s e s t e e p l y . So much so t h a t , d u r i n g the peak o f the e x c i t e m e n t , an e s t i m a t e d s i x thousand c o l o n i s t s l e f t A u s t r a l i a n . . 59 p o r t s ( m a i n l y Sydney) t o seek C a l i f o r n i a n r i c h e s . A s i g n i f i c a n t p e r c e n t a g e o f t h e s e were c o n v i c t s and e x - c o n v i c t s , o f whom one group i n p a r t i c u l a r was t o make a major impact on the C a l i f o r n i a n community: the infamous "Sydney Ducks." I n t e g r a t e d i n t o the mass o f h o p e f u l s l e a v i n g f o r San F r a n c i s c o 246 were a bunch o f n o t o r i o u s Sydney f e l o n s and f e l l o w - t r a v e l l e r s . They i n c l u d e d Thomas B e l c h e r Kay ( " S i n g i n g B i l l y " ) , Sam W h i t t a k e r , John J e n k i n s , the handsome f o r g e r "Gentleman J i m " S t u a r t and George ("Jack the Dandy") Adams. W i t h o v e r a dozen more l i k e them, t h e s e men c o n s t i t u t e d a gang known as the "Sydney Ducks" o r "Sydney Coves," and made t h e i r base i n a d i s t r i c t i n n o r t h e a s t San F r a n c i s c o soon 60 l a b e l l e d "Sydney Town." The "Ducks" were not the o n l y A u s t r a l i a n gang i n C a l i f o r n i a , m e r e l y the most renowned. "Duck" a c t i v i t y soon g a i n e d a r e p u t a t i o n among r e s i d e n t C a l i f o r n i a n s who, because they o f t e n l a c k e d p r o o f , began blaming u n s o l v e d c r i m e s on the r e p r e h e n s i b l e Sydney e m i g r a n t s . A l l c o n v i c t s , they s h r i e k e d , o r damn near i t . T h i s h o s t i l i t y , a l l i e d t o the growing c r i m e r a t e (much o f i t due to'.the Sydney gangs, some not) ,: had two consequences of more f a r - r e a c h i n g importance f o r A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s t h r o u g h the e a r l y l850's: f i r s t , a n t i - f o r e i g n l e g i s l a t i o n was i n t r o d u c e d t o c u r b the r e l e n t l e s s waves o f e m i g r a n t s a r r i v i n g on the American •west c o a s t - - p r i n c i p a l l y i n the form o f a B i l l " f o r the B e t t e r R e g u l a t i o n o f the Mines and the Government o f F o r e i g n M i n e r s . " A l e g i s l a t i v e committee proposed a t a x on : f o r e i g n e r s t o p r e v e n t the c o u n t r y b e i n g i n u n d a t e d by " t h e w o r s t p o p u l a t i o n o f the Mexican and South American 61 S t a t e s , New South Wales," and o t h e r a r e a s . S e c o n d l y , wide c r i m i n a l a c t i v i t y o c c a s i o n e d the f o r m a t i o n , i i n 1851 , o f the n o t o r i o u s Committee o f V i g i 1 a n c e - - a group c o n s t i t u t e d t o p r e v e n t c r i m e and p u n i s h o f f e n d e r s (by d e a t h , i f n e c e s s a r y ) . The b r u t i s h "Sydney Duck," John J e n k i n s , was the f i r s t c r i m i n a l hanged by the Committee w h i c h , t h r o u g h i t s 247 p r o c e s s o f " d e m o c r a t i c j u s t i c e , " a c c u m u l a t e d e v i d e n c e and then made d e c i s i o n s a c c o r d i n g t o a m a j o r i t y v o t e . When i t was f i n a l l y d i s b a n d e d , the Committee had c r o s s - e x a m i n e d n i n e t y - o n e s u s p e c t s , hung'' f o u r , whipped one, f o r c i b l y d e p o r t e d f o u r t e e n , o r d e r e d a n o t h e r f o u r t e e n t o l e a v e the a r e a , handed f i f t e e n o v e r t o the l e g a l a u t h o r i t i e s and d i s c h a r g e d f o r t y - o n e . ^ As a r e s u l t o f the v i g i l a n t e a c t i v i t y o f the Committee and the g e n e r a l low r e g a r d i n which A u s t r a l i a n a r r i v a l s were h e l d , the g o o d w i l l t h a t had marked c o n t a c t between A u s t r a l i a n s and Americans f o r so 63 many y e a r s began n o t i c e a b l y t o d e t e r i o r a t e . In 1850, C a l i f o r n i a 64 p o s t - o f f i c e w o r k e r s even r e f u s e d t o make up m a i l f o r New South Wales. New H o l l a n d e r s , i n t u r n , were informed t h a t o f s i x t e e n men a r r e s t e d i n San F r a n c i s c o i n 1849, t w e l v e were S y d n e y s i d e r s . A f t e r a f i r e i n December, the a u t h o r i t i e s d e t a i n e d some f o r t y - e i g h t Sydney men i n a t o t a l o f s e v e n t y . F u r t h e r , and more o m i n o u s l y , the Committee o f V i g i l a n c e c o n t i n u e d t o a s s e r t i t s r i g h t t o s c r e e n the p a s s e n g e r s o f a l l incoming A u s t r a l i a n s h i p s f o r u n d e s i r a b l e s . N a t u r a l l y , the Committee's c o n s i d e r a b l e power o f t e n produced e x c e s s e s . The most s e r i o u s example o c c u r r e d when an i n n o c e n t A u s t r a l i a n c a p t a i n was 66 a l m o s t hanged by a rampaging mob a f t e r a San F r a n c i s c o f i r e . As s t o r i e s o f C a l i f o r n i a myopia, i n t e n t i o n a l l y r e s t r i c t i v e l e g i s l a t i o n and the q u e s t i o n a b l e a c t i v i t i e s o f the V i g i l a n c e Committee found t h e i r way back t o A u s t r a l i a , the community, perhaps u n d e r s t a n d a b l y , responded b i t t e r l y . Maybe the e d i t o r s o f newspapers such as the A r g u s , P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e and Sydney Morning H e r a l d were r i g h t a f t e r 248 a l l when they had p r o p h e t i c a l l y warned o f the d i r e consequences o f r i s k i n g s e c u r i t y a t home i n s e a r c h of an i l l u s o r y f o r t u n e . 6 7 Only the w o r s t c l a s s o f a d v e n t u r e r would v e n t u r e t o the d i g g i n g s , a l l had admonished. F a i r f a x ' s Hera 1d, w i t h tongue i n cheek, r e p r i n t e d a Punch a r t i c l e p u r p o r t i n g t o be a c o m p i l a t i o n o f a d v i c e : ''What C l a s s ought t o go to_ the D i g g i n s ? Persons who have n o t h i n g t o l o s e e x c e p t t h e i r l i v e s . . . . " Things you w i l l f i n d u s e f u l a t the D i g g i n s . A r e v o l v i n g p i s t o l , some knowledge o f t r e a t i n g gun-shot wounds, a t o l e r a t i o n o f s t r a n g e b e d f e l l o w s . . . . ' 'What i s the best t h i ng t o do when you get t o the D i g g i n s ? Go back home. . . ."68 U n f o r t u n a t e l y , l i g h t - h e a r t e d h y p e r b o l e t u r n e d i n t o h o r r i d r e a l i t y f o r many A u s t r a l i a n s who, by the f i r s t h a l f o f 1851, were r e t u r n i n g i n l a r g e r numbers t h a n t h o s e about t o embark. Some were j u s t p l a i n d i s e n c h a n t e d . O t h e r s had got word o f the g o l d d i s c o v e r i e s o f an e x - C a l i f o r n i a n m i n e r , Edward H a r g r a v e s , i n t h e i r own A u s t r a l i a n back- y a r d . Having f i r s t r e c o g n i z e d the c l o s e s i m i l a r i t y between C a l i f o r n i a g o l d r e g i o n s and c e r t a i n a r e a s i n New South Wales, Hargraves d i s c o v e r e d commercial q u a n t i t i e s o f g o l d a t a p l a c e near B a t h u r s t , on F e b r u a r y 12, 1851. The f l o w o f A u s t r a l i a n t r a f f i c t o A m e r i c a h a l t e d a b r u p t l y . Far more p r o s p e r o u s f i e l d s i n New South Wales and V i c t o r i a were about t o open up. The C a l i f o r n i a n g o l d r u s h , f o r a t i m e , d i d e x e r t c e r t a i n b e n e f i c i a l e f f e c t s on the A u s t r a l i a n economy. A s t u t e businessmen, aware o f the sudden and massive market i n San F r a n c i s c o , e x p o r t e d , a p a r t from g r a i n and f l o u r , s u p p l i e s o f b e e r , t i m b e r , b u i 1 d i n g 'materia1s and c o a l . Possum-fur rugs and k n a p s a c k s , t o o , were i n demand. The h i g h p o i n t f o r l o c a l s p e c u l a t i v e c a r g o was reached i n 1850 when e i g h t y - s i x s h i p s s o l d ^95,473 w o r t h o f goods. C o m p e t i t i o n from the e a s t e r n U n i t e d S t a t e s , however, soon a s s e r t e d c o n t r o l and A u s t r a l i a n e x p o r t s dropped 69 t o a l m o s t n o t h i n g i n 1851 - A p a r t from p r o v i d i n g A u s t r a l i a n t r a d e r s w i t h a b r i e f b o o s t , renewed c o n t a c t w i t h A m e r i c a prompted some l o c a l o b s e r v e r s once a g a i n t o comment on the p o t e n t i a l f o r c l o s e t i e s between the two c o u n t r i e s . As the p r e s s u r e f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t i n A u s t r a l i a c o n t i n u e d t o b u i l d , some newspaper e d i t o r s c o u l d n ' t r e s i s t s p e c u l a t i n g , a l o n g w i t h the i r r e p r e s s i b l e John Dunmore Lang, on the p o s s i b i l i t y o f an A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c . One m a i n t a i n e d t h a t A u s t r a l i a n s w i l l not f a i l t o r e c o g n i z e i n the C a l i f o r n i a c o n s t i t u t i o n a model a f t e r which t h e i r own might be moulded. . . . The r e s u l t o f t h i s r e c o g n i t i o n may l e a d , even d u r i n g the e x i s t e n c e o f the p r e s e n t g e n e r a t i o n , t o t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f independent A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c s . 7 0 A n o t h e r applauded the A m e r i c a n s , who . . . accustomed t o a c t i o n , not w h i n i n g and p e t i t i o n i n g , have e l e c t e d t h e i r g o v e r n o r s , and a c c e p t e d t h e i r c o n s t i t u t i o n , w i t h o u t a moment's o b s t r u c t i o n ; and have o f f e r e d a p r a c t i c a l l e s s o n t o t h e s e c o l o n i e s w h i c h has produced a profound impress i o n . 7 ' But on the whole, the bad p r e s s a c c o r d e d C a l i f o r n i a ' s mob law and "kangaroo c o u r t s " overshadowed t h o s e who wished t o f o c u s on l o f t i e r i d e a l s . A l o t o f A u s t r a l i a n s s u f f e r e d i n C a l i f o r n i a . J.H. W i l l i a m s , the U n i t e d S t a t e s c o n s u l i n Sydney, knew i t (and, much t o the c h a g r i n 250 o f h i s countrymen, p u b l i c l y e x p r e s s e d h i s t o t a l d i s a p p r o v a l o f the 72 C a l i f o r n i a n a n t i - f o r e i g n e r l e g i s l a t i o n . ) And t h e i n d i g n a n t c o l o n i a l p o p u l a c e , d e s p i t e an ocean o f s e p a r a t i o n , knew i t . Henry P a r k e s , C h a r t i s t e d i t o r o f the Emp i r e , c o u l d n ' t c o n t a i n h i s o u t r a g e when informed o f the a c t i v i t i e s o f the Committee o f V i g i l a n c e and, worse, the p a r t i c i p a t i o n o f some A u s t r a l i a n s i n t h a t Committee a g a i n s t t h e i r f e l l o w s . C o n f r o n t e d by the probable' r e t u r n o f t h e s e q u i s l i n g s , i n the p r e s e n c e o f a h o s t o f repugnant Ca'l i f o r n i ans, he fumed: " L e t 73 no door be opened t o r e c e i v e b l o o d - s t a i n e d w r e t c h e s . " In t h i s atmosphere o f anger and resentment, a g g r a v a t e d by the l o c a l p r e s s , thousands o f Americans from a l l o v e r the c o u n t r y - o n l y a s m a l l p r o p o r t i o n C a 1 i f o r n i a n s - - p r e p a r e d t o a c c e p t the c h a l l e n g e o f the A u s t r a l i a n g o l d f i e l d s i n l a t e 1851 - A p p r o x i m a t e l y n i n e t e e n thousand made the j o u r n e y o v e r the next f i v e y e a r s , the f i r s t groups s a i l i n g from San F r a n c i s c o , but the g r e a t m a j o r i t y d e p a r t i n g from New York. L i k e t h e i r A u s t r a l i a n c o u n t e r p a r t s , t h e American newspapers i n i t i a l l y s c o f f e d o r i s s u e d s t e r n w a r n i n g s . "Beware," the New York Ih Hera 1d t r u m p e t e d , " o f t h e s e South Sea bubbles and Yazoo s p e c u l a t i o n s . But t h e i r e f f o r t s were t o no a v a i l ; s t o r i e s o f a t r u e E l Dorado t o the s o u t h m u l t i p l i e d . The f i r s t ' : i nf 1 ux o f Americans o c c u r r e d w i t h the s t i g m a o f C a l i f o r n i a s t i l l i n the a i r . D e s p i t e the growing f a m i l i a r i t y between the two c o u n t r i e s t h r o u g h o u t t h e p r e v i o u s f i f t y y e a r s , c e r t a i n members o f the f o u r t h e s t a t e i n s i s t e d on s t r e s s i n g the f r i c t i o n o f the r e c e n t p a s t . 251 P a r k e s 1 Empire c o n t i n u e d t o l a s h o u t : The b l o o d t h i r s t y mob cannot f l i n g c a l u m n i e s a g a i n s t A u s t r a l i a when g u i l t y o f such a c t s [as l y n c h i n g J e n k i n s ] . . . . When the i n f u r i a t e d c i t i z e n s o f San F r a n c i s c o s t r a n g l e d the t h i e f whom they had caught i n t h e i r s t r e e t s , they hanged t h a t l i b e r t y which they seemed t o t h i n k they c o u l d p r e s e r v e . . . .75 In l i k e manner, the Melbourne Argus s u g g e s t e d the i n t r o d u c t i o n o f i m m i g r a t i o n laws based on the American l e g i s l a t i o n , o n l y t h i s time t o bar u n d e s i r a b l e C a 1 i f o r n i a n s . 7 6 The c o n t i n u e d American endorsement o f s l a v e r y and i m p e r i a l i s t endeavours i n Cuba and Hawaii o n l y e x a c e r b a t e d the t e n s i o n . W i t h the s i t u a t i o n r e v e r s e d , many A u s t r a l i a n s began t o guard a g a i n s t " C a l i f o r n i a n s a v a g e s . " 7 7 A c o r r e s p o n d e n t o f the Sydney Morning H e r a l d s a r d o n i c a l l y c o n s i d e r e d the p o s i t i v e e f f e c t s o f B r i t i s h law on A m e r i c a n s , now " w i t h o u t the a i d o f Judge Lynch o r o f County J u s t i c e s , who smoke, chew t o b a c c o , and s p i t i n t h e i r C o u r t s o f J u s t i c e , w h i l e they s i t on the bench i n t h e i r s h i r t s l e e v e s , p i c k i n g t h e i r 78 t e e t h w i t h b o w i e - k n i v e s , and e n f o r c i n g t h e i r d e c r e e s w i t h r e v o l v e r s . " A c u r r e n t f a v o u r i t e o f the t i m e s , the " A u s t r a l i a n Gold D i g g e r ' s Song," c a p t u r e s the p r e v a i l i n g f e e l i n g : So boys w e ' l l now e n j o y o u r s e l v e s and have a j o l l y song, We c a r e not f o r A m e r i c a , and t h a t she!11 know 'ere l o n g , For though her " C a i " has g o l d e n mines, we have them here as w e i 1 , Much r i c h e r too ( B a l e Gammon b o y s ) , she c a n ' t our s t o r y t e l l . . . . Those d r a b i t e s t o l d us more than once, t h a t we were v i l l a i n s a l 1 , A l l rogues, and t h i e v e s and vagabonds, d e s e r v i n g s i x f e e t f a l 1 . . . . 7 9 252 However, d e s p i t e p r e s s and s o c i a l harassment, a r r i v i n g Americans 80 were r a r e l y p h y s i c a l l y abused. Resentment seldom went beyond t a l k . In f a c t , i t soon became o b v i o u s t o the l o c a l c i t i z e n r y t h a t t h i s f i r s t l a r g e i n p o u r i n g o f Americans i n t o A u s t r a l i a - - r e a l i n t e r a c t i o n , a t l a s t , had b e g u n — m i g h t r e a l i z e numerous b e n e f i c i a l r e s u l t s . Americans i n the f l e s h seemed t o b e l i e the n a s t y C a l i f o r n i a n s t o r i e s . As C. Rudston Read, a G o l d Commissioner, d i s c o v e r e d , most Americans were not c u t - t h r o a t s o r t r i g g e r - h a p p y . They worked h a r d , i n t e l l i g e n t l y , 81 and wanted o n l y t o a b i d e by p r e v a i l i n g B r i t i s h laws. S u s p i c i o n bred i n t h e s h o r t term q u i c k l y r e v e r t e d t o the r e s p e c t o f p a s t y e a r s . Americans were not a l l C a l i f o r n i a c u t - t h r o a t s . P r e d i c t a b l y , c o n s e r v a t i v e elements i n both England and A u s t r a l i a r e a c t e d t o t h e g o l d r u s h w i t h a l a r m . The London Times s e t the tone o f most f o r t h c o m i n g r e s p o n s e s . "What a r e we t o e x p e c t , " the e d i t o r lamented, " i n a second C a l i f o r n i a not s e p a r a t e d by a v a s t P a c i f i c Ocean, but p l a c e d by n a t u r e i n t h e v e r y c e n t r e o f t h o s e c o l o n i e s 82 which we have s e l e c t e d f o r the haunts o f c r i m e ? " Bad enough t h a t r e c e n t a g i t a t i o n f o r s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t i n the c o l o n i e s had taken on a d i s t u r b i n g A m e r i c a n f l a v o u r ; now B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n h i m s e l f was i n v a d i n g the A u s t r a l i a n g o l d f i e l d s t o a c t as a s u s t a i n e d s t i m u l u s t o r e p u b l i c a n a c t i v i t y . Or so the argument went. Government o f f i c i a l s c a u t i o u s l y a p p r a i s e d the American p r e s e n c e on the g o l d - f i e l d s from the o u t s e t . W i l l i a m P e t e r s , the B r i t i s h Consul i n P h i l a d e l p h i a , sent a r e p o r t t o the F o r e i g n S e c r e t a r y on August 30, 1852, e x p r e s s i n g the f e a r t h a t A u s t r a l i a was s h o r t l y t o 253 become a r e p u b l i c : "Hundreds, i f not thousands, o f a d v e n t u r e r s a r e e i t h e r now on t h e i r voyage, o r soon w i l l embark from v a r i o u s p a r t s o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s f o r A u s t r a l i a - - m o s t o f them bent 'on e x t e n d i n g the a r e a o f freedom' and on a i d i n g t h e i r f e l l o w men i n the 83 p u r s u i t o f L i b e r t y and R e p u b l i c a n i s m . " P e t e r s m a i n t a i n e d t h a t the Americans embarking f o r A u s t r a l i a were i n r e a l i t y r e v o l u t i o n a r i e s , members o f an o r g a n i z a t i o n known as the "Order o f the Lone S t a r , " 84 whose s o l e purpose was t o p r o p a g a t e r e p u b l i c a n i s m w o r l d - w i d e . C o l o n i a l S e c r e t a r y P a k i n g t o n i n t u r n d e s p a t c h e d c o p i e s o f P e t e r s ' 85 r e p o r t t o Governors F i t z r o y and La Trobe f o r comment. F i t z r o y r e p l i e d t h a t the a c c o u n t e x a g g e r a t e d the e x t e n t o f r e p u b l i c a n s e n t i m e n t . Dr. Lang n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g , he c o n s i d e r e d the A m e r i c a n s , and the p o p u l a c e a t l a r g e , t o o b u s i l y engaged i n a c q u i r i n g a f o r t u n e . La Trobe a l s o p l a y e d down the American p r e s e n c e ; i n a d d i t i o n , he m a i n t a i n e d t h a t the c o l o n i a l p r e s s and i t s e n t r e n c h e d t r a d i t i o n o f r a d i c a l i n t e r - a c t i o n w i t h American p o l i t i c a l t h e o r y and example posed a f a r more s e r i o u s t h r e a t t o c o l o n i a l s t a b i l i t y than the thousands o f Americans i n Melbourne and on the V i c t o r i a n g o l d f i e l d s . He was r i g h t . A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c a n s l o u d l y a g i t a t e d , i n the e a r l y F i f t i e s , f o r the i m p l e m e n t a t i o n o f the p r i n c i p l e s o f 1776. For a t i m e , the i n f l u e n t i a l Dr. Lang and the poet C h a r l e s Harpur c o u l d even c o n t e m p l a t e r e v o l u t i o n as a l e g i t i m a t e , . 86 c o u r s e or a c t 1 on. A d m i n i s t r a t i v e v i g i l a n c e p e r s i s t e d f o r s e v e r a l y e a r s . In l a t e 1853, the B r i t i s h M i n i s t e r i n Washington, John F. Crampton, informed P a k i n g t o n t h a t l i t t l e doubt remained i n h i s mind t h a t "a r e v o l u t i o n 25* i n A u s t r a l i a by w h i c h i t s c o n n e c t i o n s w i t h Great B r i t a i n s h o u l d be s e v e r e d would be an event h i g h l y a c c e p t a b l e t o the g r e a t mass o f the 87 American p e o p l e . " He was p r o b a b l y c o r r e c t i n h i s a s s u m p t i o n ; how- e v e r , most wanted a p e a c e f u l , r a t h e r than a v i o l e n t t r a n s f e r o f power. James Gordon B e n n e t t , e d i t o r o f the New York Hera I d , had s u g g e s t e d i n h i s e d i t i o n o f August 28, 1852, t h a t "a d e c l a r a t i o n o f independence i s s h o r t l y a n t i c i p a t e d " ( p r o b a b l y the s t i m u l u s f o r P e t e r s ' h a s t y d e s p a t c h ) ; b u t , t y p i c a l l y , he q u a l i f i e d t h e s e remarks i n l a t e r l e a d e r s . He a d v o c a t e d a " g r e a t independent r e p u b l i c " a l o n g American l i n e s i n A u s t r a l i a , though not one a c h i e v e d through "impending r e b e l l i o n . " B e n n e t t , e c h o i n g t h e s e n t i m e n t s o f h i s countryman C h a r l e s W i l k e s o v e r a decade e a r l i e r , p r e d i c t e d t h a t A u s t r a l i a n s would u l t i m a t e l y 88 " f e e l t h e m s e l v e s t o o l a r g e f o r t h e i r c o l o n i a l b r e e c h e s . . . ." C o n t r a r y t o the v i e w o f one commentator, t h a t the Americanswho invaded the A u s t r a l i a n g o l d f i e l d s "were l o u d d i s s e n t e r s and rowdy a g i t a t o r s who shoved the p e o p l e o f A u s t r a l i a towards the road t o s e l f - r u l e , " i t seems c l e a r t h a t the A u s t r a l i a n p e o p l e , i n l a r g e p a r t due t o American p r e c e d e n t and l i t e r a t u r e , were f i r m l y e s t a b l i s h e d on t h a t road i n the e a r l y l850's, t h e i r d i r e c t i o n a l r e a d y d e t e r m i n e d . F u r t h e r m o r e , the American e m i g r a n t s a p p e a r i n g a l l o v e r New South Wales and V i c t o r i a i n c l i n e d , f o r the most p a r t , t o views c o n s i s t e n t w i t h t h e i r a m b i t i o n t o make money. The American Consul i n Sydney, James W i l l i a m s , knew w e l l what k i n d o f American would be tempted t o make the j o u r n e y : ". . . our countrymen w i l l e a g e r l y s e i z e upon t h i s new 89 f i e l d o f p r o f i t a b l e a d v e n t u r e . " Few m i l i t a n t r e p u b l i c a n s v e n t u r e d 255 from A m e r i c a t o A u s t r a l i a i n the e n t i r e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . In the e a r l y l850's, d e s i r e f o r g a i n was the p r i n c i p a l m o t i v a t o r , not the w i s h t o d i s s e m i n a t e r e p u b l i c a n d o c t r i n e s . The l a t t e r might w e l l o c c u r , but o n l y between pannings f o r g o l d ; j u s t a s , i n e a r l i e r y e a r s , American w h a l e r s , s e a l e r s and t r a d e r s o f t e n h e l p e d c o n v i c t s t o escape w h i l e s i m u l t a n e o u s l y a c q u i r i n g s m a l l f o r t u n e s i n s o u t h e r n w a t e r s . Moreover, A m e r i c a , m i d - c e n t u r y , was i n a more advantageous p o s i t i o n c o m m e r c i a l l y t o e x p l o i t the A u s t r a l i a n market than she had e v e r been. "Her s h i p s , " as L.G. Churchward has put i t , "were the f a s t e s t i n the w o r l d , her s k i p p e r s the h a r d e s t , and her merchants 90 the k e e n e s t . " The Americans who came t o A u s t r a l i a between 1851 and I 8 5 6 , t h e n , can be l o o s e l y put i n t o two groups: merchants and m i n e r s . B e s i d e s the p r o f i t m o t i v e , they had a n o t h e r common f e a t u r e i n t h a t most had a s k i l l e d t r a d e o r p r o f e s s i o n on a r r i v a l , u n l i k e the A u s t r a l i a n s i n C a l i f o r n i a . The F l y i n g Scud, f o r example, a s h i p a r r i v i n g i n Melbourne i n September, 1854, c a r r i e d 135 p a s s e n g e r s , a l l o f whom were tradesmen 91 such as c a r p e n t e r s , masons, p l a s t e r e r s and b r i c k l a y e r s . W i t h few e x c e p t i o n s , the i m p r e s s i o n the Americans made on the i n i t i a l l y wary A u s t r a l i a n was a p o s i t i v e o n e — e i t h e r through d i l i g e n c e a t the d i g g i n g s (and i n the c a s e o f s e v e r a l Americans p a r t i c i p a t i n g i n the Eureka S t o c k a d e , d e v o t i o n t o the cause) o r commercial e x p e r t i s e i n Melbourne. The v i g o r o u s works o f two such r e p r e s e n t a t i v e Americans i n A u s t r a l i a , the merchant George F r a n c i s T r a i n and the miner C h a r l e s D. F e r g u s o n , 256 w i l l be d i s c u s s e d l a t e r . Merchants c o m p r i s e d a s i g n i f i c a n t p o r t i o n o f the new a r r i v a l s . In 1854, some 35% o f the American community r e s i d e n t i n V i c t o r i a 93 engaged i n t r a d e . Though l a v i s h l y p a t r i o t i c , e s p e c i a l l y on J u l y k, t h i s group i n t e r p r e t e d the " s p r e a d - e a g 1 i s t " d o c t r i n e as an e x p a n s i o n i n commerce, not as r e v o l u t i o n a r y r e p u b l i c a n i s m . Many, such as George F r a n c i s T r a i n , b e l i e v e d i n the p l a t f o r m o f "Young A m e r i c a " ( t h a t the d e s t i n y o f an emerging n a t i o n was t o become a r e p u b l i c ) o n l y i f the means t o the end was both l a w f u l and p e a c e f u l . T r a i n , a l e a d e r o f the American m e r c a n t i l i s t s i n Melbourne, prominent l o c a l c i t i z e n , and a d v o c a t e o f American democracy, r e a l i z e d o n l y too w e l l t h a t the s u c c e s s o f h i s b u s i n e s s v e n t u r e s i n V i c t o r i a depended e n t i r e l y upon the economic and p o l i t i c a l s t a b i l i t y o f the c o l o n y . He had f o r g e d c l o s e t r a d i n g t i e s w i t h Great B r i t a i n w h i c h he d i d n ' t i n t e n d t o undermine by p u b l i c l y a d v o c a t i n g the m i l i t a r y o v e r t h r o w o f the B r i t i s h . He was not a l o n e . Both J.M. T a r l e t o n , the U.S. Consul a t the time the Eureka u p r i s i n g took p l a c e , and J.F. M a g u i r e , h i s s u c c e s s o r , were prominent members o f the l o c a l Chamber o f Commerce. A l l American businessmen r e a l i z e d t h a t , no m a t t e r what t h e i r p e r s o n a l p o l i t i c a l a f f i l i a t i o n s , any d i p l o m a t i c b r e a c h w i t h B r i t a i n t h r e a t e n e d 95 t h e i r l i v e l i h o o d s . The poet c a l l i n g h i m s e l f an " a s p i r i n g g e n i u s o f Young A m e r i c a " who, w h i l e t r a v e l l i n g t o A u s t r a l i a on the c l i p p e r Ba11 imore, had w r i t t e n 0 A u s t r a l i a , l o o k out f o r your g o l d , We're bound t o change your Government, And then your mines t o hold.96 257 — n o doubt succumbed t o the p r e v a i l i n g p r e s s u r e s o f h i s countrymen on a r r i v a l . The m a j o r i t y o f A u s t r a l i a n s a p p r e c i a t e d the n a t i o n a l advantages t o be g a i n e d as a r e s u l t o f what the Hobart Guard i an, i n 1849, l a b e l l e d 97 Yankee " c h a r a c t e r i s t i c t a c t f o r b u s i n e s s and go-ahead-ism." F l a t t e r i n g r e p o r t s o f t h e i r e n e r g e t i c c h a r a c t e r c o n s t a n t l y appeared. Some l o c a l s , however, i n t e r p r e t e d Yankee keenness as sheer a v a r i c e . A c o n t r i b u t o r t o the Sydney Morning H e r a l d , i n A u g u s t , 1853, p e t u l a n t l y s t a t e d t h a t they " a r e coming i n more numerously than e v e r . I t i s easy t o r e c o g n i z e t h e i r p a l l i d c o u n t e n a n c e s , which always have a careworn a s p e c t . . . 98 [as] i f the w o r s h i p p e d d o l l a r had s e t i t s s e a l upon t h e i r v e r y f a c e s . " Perhaps i t depended on whether o r not one was i n a c t i v e c o m p e t i t i o n w i t h American businessmen. One o b s e r v e r o f the American t r a d e r s i n Melbourne suggested t h a t o n l y "open o p p r e s s i o n " would f o r c e them t o abandon t h e i r commercial p u r s u i t s f o r a r i f l e . Perhaps he was r i g h t ; they never s u f f e r e d the onerous hand o f E n g l i s h a u t h o r i t y . On the o t h e r hand, the American d i g g e r s d i d . S e v e r a l p l a y e d c r u c i a l r o l e s i n the r e v o l t a t the B a l l a r a t d i g g i n g s i n l a t e 185* t h a t became known as the Eureka S t o c k a d e . Events s u r r o u n d i n g the Eureka u p r i s i n g a c c u r a t e l y r e f l e c t the c o m p o s i t i o n o f the American c i t i z e n r y i n A u s t r a l i a a t t h a t t i m e — t h e i r m o t i v e s , c h a r a c t e r and d i f f e r e n c e s . In a d d i t i o n , the s u c c e s s i o n o f c o n t r o v e r s i a l i n c i d e n t s l e a d i n g up t o the Stockade c o n f i r m s the c o n t i n u i n g r e l i a n c e o f the A u s t r a l i a n p o p u l a c e on American r e v o l u t i o n a r y example a t times when i t wanted t o undermine r i g i d E n g l i s h law and a u t h o r i t y . 258 T h e l o n g p r e l u d e t o t h e b r i e f a n d o n e - s i d e d b a t t l e b e g a n a s e a r l y a s D e c e m b e r , 1851, when some f i f t e e n t o t w e n t y t h o u s a n d d i g g e r s , f u r i o u s a t t h e d o u b l i n g o f t h e m i n e r ' s l i c e n c e f e e , met a t M t . A l e x a n d e r t o v o i c e t h e i r p r o t e s t . T h e p o p u l a r c r i e s a t t h i s g a t h e r i n g , a n d a t a n o t h e r m i l i t a n t d e m o n s t r a t i o n a t B e n d i g o i n A u g u s t , 1852, w e r e v a r i a t i o n s on t h e o l d A m e r i c a n " t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n " t h e m e . By t h e e a r l y 1 8 5 0 1 s , o f c o u r s e , t h e p h r a s e had b e g u n t o t a k e on an A u s t r a l i a n l i f e o f i t s own a s a r e s u l t o f t h e a l m o s t 102 c o n t i n u o u s s t r u g g l e w i t h u n b e n d i n g c o l o n i a l g o v e r n o r s . R e l a t i o n s b e t w e e n t h e m i n e r s a n d t h e a u t h o r i t i e s k e p t s t e a d i l y f r a y i n g t h r o u g h 1853 and e a r l y 1854, a t w h i c h p o i n t t h e i n t r a c t a b l e S i r C h a r l e s Hotham t o o k o v e r a s G o v e r n o r o f V i c t o r i a f r o m La T r o b e . An e x r r e a r a d m i r a l i n t h e B r i t i s h N a v y , H o t h a m , d i s a p p o i n t e d w i t h h i s l a t e s t a p p o i n t m e n t , a p p r o a c h e d t h e j o b i n t h e s p i t - a n d - p o l i s h f a s h i o n o f a man a c c u s t o m e d t o s t r i c t r e g u l a t i o n s and b e h a v i o u r . L a n d d i d n ' t s u i t h i m . He i m m e d i a t e l y demanded a c c o u n t a b i l i t y f r o m h i s i n f e r i o r s a s t o why t h e s t a t e had a c c u m u l a t e d s u c h a l a r g e d e b t . He d e t e r m i n e d t o r e c t i f y t h e s i t u a t i o n . One o f t h e f i r s t t h i n g s t o c a t c h H o t h a m ' s t r a m m e l l e d e y e was:' t h e l a g i n t h e p a y m e n t o f m i n e r ' s l i c e n c e s . H i s d e c i s i o n t o p u t i n c r e a s e d p o l i c e - p r e s s u r e on t h e many t h o u s a n d s o f d i g g e r s t h r o u g h o u t V i c t o r i a g o l d f i e l d s e f f e c t i v e l y s e t a c h a i n o f e v e n t s i n m o t i o n t h a t w o u l d c u l m i n a t e i n t h a t g r i m D e c e m b e r 3 m o r n i n g . From S e p t e m b e r 13, l i c e n c e s w e r e c h e c k e d t w i c e a d a y . T h e r e s u l t i n g t e n s i o n r e a c h e d a f i r s t c l i m a x when t h e S c o t s m a n James S c o b i e d i e d , e a r l y i n O c t o b e r , 259 i n c i r c u m s t a n c e s w h i c h seemed t o i n d i c a t e a government c o v e r - u p o f 103 t h o s e r e s p o n s i b l e . Three t o f i v e thousand miners s t a g e d a l a r g e r a l l y o u t s i d e the Eureka H o t e l , B a l l a r a t , t o draw a t t e n t i o n t o g o v e r n - ment i n e r t i a ; American r e v o l u t i o n a r y c r i e s f i l l e d the a i r . Less than a f o r t n i g h t l a t e r the B a l l a r a t Reform League was i n s t i t u t e d a t a mass m e e t i n g . A g a i n , members e x c i t e d l y d i s c u s s e d the American r e v o l u t i o n . On November 11, a m a s s i v e League meeting r e s u l t e d i n agreement on a s t a t e m e n t o f p r i n c i p l e s w i t h a f a m i l i a r J e f f e r s o n i a n r i n g : "That i t i s the i n a l i e n a b l e r i g h t o f e v e r y c i t i z e n t o have a v o i c e i n the making o f the laws he i s c a l l e d upon t o obey. That t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n i s t y r a n n y . . . ." Henry Seekamp, r a d i c a l p r o p r i e t o r o f the B a l l a r a t Times, d e c l a r e d the League " t h e 104 germ o f A u s t r a l i a n independence." Events r a p i d l y e s c a l a t e d . F i r s t , on the n i g h t o f November 28, a gang o f I r i s h T i p p e r a r y boys a t t a c k e d t h e l a s t o f a column o f m i l i t a r y wagons, i n j u r i n g the American d r i v e r . Then, the next day, some t w e l v e thousand miners assembled i n B a l l a r a t a t a m e e t i n g . The " r e b e l " b l u e and w h i t e S o u t h e r n C r o s s f l a g f l e w f o r the f i r s t t i m e a m i d s t masses o f men c h a n t i n g American s l o g a n s and c a r r y i n g p l a c a r d s . A l l t h o s e i n v o l v e d swore the r e v o l u t i o n a r y Eureka Oath o f s o l i d a r i t y and began c o n s t r u c t i n g a s t o c k a d e f o r c e f u l l y t o r e s i s t the i n e v i t a b l e a t t a c k by the E n g l i s h m i l i t a r y . ' ^ 5 C o n t r a r y t o the s t o r y U.S. Consul T a r l e t o n s e n t t o h i s Washington s u p e r i o r s , both American f a c e s f a m i l i a r t o A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s p l a y e d a prominent r o l e i n the Eureka s t o c k a d e : r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f the w i l y 260 p r o f i t - m i n d e d b u s i n e s s community and a few a g g r e s s i v e l y r e p u b l i c a n 1 06 miners who c o u l d o n l y be pushed so f a r . D e s p i t e the b e s t e f f o r t s o f T a r l e t o n and h i s a i d e s t o a b s o l v e them w h o l l y , not o n l y from t h e Eureka c o n f l i c t i t s e l f but from the s u c c e s s i o n of i n c i d e n t s l e a d i n g up t o t h a t c l i m a x , a group o f m o s t l y anonymous American d i g g e r s j o i n e d hands w i t h t h e i r c o s m o p o l i t a n c o l l e a g u e s i n d e f i a n c e o f the a r b i t r a r y d e c i s i o n s o f E n g l i s h a u t o c r a t s . ' ^ 7 H i s t o r i a n s have found d i f f i c u l t y a s c e r t a i n i n g t h e i r numbers and m o t i v e s , but a g r e e on the f a c t t h a t "a f a i r l y l a r g e number o f A m e r i c a n s " took p a r t . E s t i m a t e s range from twenty t o o v e r one hundred. The c o n s e r v a t i v e guesses seem ... . 108 more 1 1 k e l y . The h a s t y p l a n s o f the Eureka r a d i c a l s o r i g i n a l l y d i v i d e d t h e i r meagre f o r c e i n t o t h r e e g r o u p s : the I r i s h pikemen, a group o f some t h i r t y C a l i f o r n i a n r i f l e m e n , and an a s s o r t m e n t o f m i s c e l l a n e o u s e n t h u s i a s t s headed by N e l s o n , an A m e r i c a n c a r p e n t e r . B e t r a y a l , a p a t h y and p r o b a b l y f e a r caused t h e s e groups t o d i s i n t e g r a t e t h r o u g h o u t the n i g h t l e a d i n g up t o the f r a c a s , but e i g h t known Americans p l a y e d a c t i v e r o l e s : the e n i g m a t i c James D. M c G i l l , c l a i m i n g he had a West P o i n t e d u c a t i o n , was put i n c h a r g e o f s t o c k a d e d e f e n c e s t r a t e g y and the Independent C a l i f o r n i a n Rangers (most o f whom, s u s p i c i o u s l y , were absent d u r i n g the f i g h t , i n c l u d i n g McGi11); N e i s o n , "an American c a r p e n t e r , a f i n e l y b u i l t man, f u l l o f energy and l i f e , who had a c o r p s under him composed o f the v e r y b e s t men i n the S t o c k a d e " ; the c o l o u r f u l Ohioan, C h a r l e s D e r i u s F e r g u s o n , d i g g e r , h o r s e - b r e a k e r and Cobb and Co. d r i v e r , who s e t t l e d i n A u s t r a l i a f o r some t h i r t y - o n e 261 y e a r s b e f o r e r e t u r n i n g t o America i n 1882; 3 James Hui1 , who had accompanied Ferguson t o A u s t r a l i a on t h e Don J u a n ; t h e New Y o r k e r James Brown, "a man-of-war's man" and sometime s a i 1 o r , gambler, d i g g e r and Mexican-War v o l u n t e e r ; the Negro John J o s e p h , a g r e a t s c r a p p e r , who "bore h i m s e l f t h r o u g h o u t the o r d e a l w i t h a g r e a t d e a l o f d i g n i t y " and, because o f i t , was s u b s e q u e n t l y a r r e s t e d (and l a t e r a c q u i t t e d i n r i o t o u s c i r c u m s t a n c e s ) f o r h i g h t r e a s o n ; A l a n s o n P. Ward, who had been "deputed t o c o l l e c t arms and ammunition" and, l i k e M c G i l l , d i d n ' t p a r t i c i p a t e i n the f i g h t ; and, f i n a l l y , an anonymous " b r a v e American o f f i c e r , who had the command o f the r i f l e - p i t men." At the b e g i n n i n g o f December, many o f the Americans a t the d i g g i n g s met a t the A d e l p h i c t h e a t r e , owned by one o f t h e i r countrymen, and r e s o l v e d t o a v o i d i n v o l v e m e n t i n the f r e n e t i c s e r i e s o f d i s p u t e s i n B a l l a r a t . However, d e s p i t e the b e s t e f f o r t s o f Consul T a r l e t o n and h i s m e r c h a n t - c o l l e a g u e s , some Americans e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y embraced the p o p u l a r cause as armed r e s i s t a n c e approached. Through a v a r i e t y o f means — some d i p l o m a t i c , o t h e r s p e r s o n a l l y r e s o u r c e f u 1--a 1 1 the A m e r i c a n s , w i t h the e x c e p t i o n o f J o s e p h , escaped c h a r g e s . ' " ^ The back-room d i p l o m a c y e n g i n e e r e d by T a r l e t o n and h i s a i d e , Dr. Kenworthy, t o get the c a p t u r e d Americans r e l e a s e d , prompted a c u r t response from two men, J.B. Humffray and C F . N i c h o l l s , who p r e s e n t e d Governor Hotham i n J a n u a r y , 1855, w i t h a p e t i t i o n t o the e f f e c t t h a t i f " H i s E x c e l l e n c y had s u f f i c i e n t <. e x t e n u a t i o n i n t h e conduct o f American c i t i z e n s , " we thought t h a t t h e r e were e q u a l l y good grounds f o r e x t e n d i n g s i m i l a r clemency t o a l l , i r r e s p e c t i v e o f n a t i o n a l i t y . . . .' 262 C u r i o u s l y , d e s p i t e h i s f e e l i n g t h a t " d e s i g n i n g f o r e i g n e r s " were c l e a r l y r e s p o n s i b l e f o r E u r e k a , Hotham c o u l d ask: "Were t h e r e any 1 12 Americans a t Eureka? I have not heard o f i t . " More s o p h i s t i c a t e d d i p l o m a c y w i t h A m e r i c a , i t seems, had a l r e a d y begun. A number o f y e a r s a f t e r the Eureka u p r i s i n g , Mark Twain j u b i l a n t l y p r o c l a i m e d i t i the f i n e s t t h i n g i n A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r y . I t was a r e v o l u t i o n - s m a l l i n s i z e , but g r e a t p o l i t i c a l l y ; i t was a s t r i k e f o r l i b e r t y , a s t r u g g l e f o r a p r i n c i p l e , a s t a n d a g a i n s t i n - j u s t i c e and o p p r e s s i o n . I t was the Barons and John, o v e r a g a i n ; i t was Hampden and Ship-Money; i t was Concord and L e x i n g t o n ; s m a l l b e g i n n i n g s , a l l o f them, but a l l o f them g r e a t i n p o l i t i c a l r e s u l t s , a l l o f them epoch-making. I t i s a n o t h e r i n s t a n c e o f a v i c t o r y won by a l o s t b a t t l e . I t adds an h o n o r a b l e page t o h i s t o r y ; the p e o p l e know i t and a r e proud o f i t . They keep green the memory o f the men who f e l l a t the Eureka S t o c k a d e . . . . I f not the major event i n A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r y , i t c e r t a i n l y assumed importance i n the second h a l f o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . C o n c i l i a t o r y E n g l a n d , once a g a i n i l l u s t r a t i n g she had l e a r n e d the American l e s s o n w e l l , soon a f t e r s e t t l e d on a more d e m o c r a t i c c o n s t i t u t i o n f o r the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s . The s p i r i t o f Eureka c o n t i n u e d , i n a number o f m i l i t a n t causes up t o 1901 ( c l a i m s f o r u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e and equal r i g h t s , p r o t e s t a g a i n s t l a n d laws, and worker demands), but o n l y 114 s p o r a d i c a l l y . A u s t r a l i a ' s p o p u l a t i o n , i n c r e a s i n g l y d i v i d e d a l o n g c l a s s l i n e s , never a g a i n t h r e a t e n e d any u n i f i e d r e s i s t a n c e t o E n g l i s h d o m i n a t i o n . S h o r t l y a f t e r E u r e k a , the r e b e l l i o n ' s d o u b t f u l l y competent l e a d e r , Irishman P e t e r L a l o r , d e c l a r e d " I c o n f i d e n t l y p r e d i c t a Bunker's H i l l . . . . n ' 1 5 L i k e many o f h i s i d e a l i s t i c comrades, he 263 c o n c e i v e d o f Eureka as the f i r s t s t e p t o s e p a r a t i o n a l o n g American l i n e s . The f i r s t l e a p towards a n a t i o n a l i d e n t i t y . But n o t h i n g m a t e r i a l i z e d . I t would t a k e A u s t r a l i a u n t i l w e l l i n t o the t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y even t o approach a t r u l y n a t i o n a l awareness, l e t a l o n e a n a t i o n a l i d e n t i t y . The Melbourne Age, i n May, 1855, t e n t a t i v e l y suggested "a f l a g o f our own," o n l y t o be f o r c e d i g n o m i n i o u s 1 y t o back down because o f the p i t i f u l l y s m a l l r e s p o n s e . ' ' ^ U l t i m a t e l y , Eureka was no more than a p o t e n t reminder t o Eng1ish government o f f i c i a l s i n A u s t r a l i a t h a t America had been l o s t because o f unwise p o l i c i e s . A u s t r a l i a had b e t t e r not be. The prominent r o l e p l a y e d by a number o f Americans a t Eureka d i d n o t h i n g t o stem the e x p a n s i o n o f American commerce i n A u s t r a l i a , p a r t i c u l a r l y i n V i c t o r i a . By the m i d d l e l850's, the American i n f l u e n c e on day-to-day l i f e i n the c o l o n i e s was f e l t i n a v a r i e t y o f a r e a s . Encouraged by the g l o w i n g r e p o r t s t h a t f o l l o w e d the i n i t i a l s c e p t i c i s m i n t h e i r d a i l i e s , l a r g e numbers o f Americans endeavoured t o e x p l o i t t h i s new and "wide f i e l d f o r American e n t e r p r i s e , " b r i n g i n g w i t h them not j u s t Yankee know-how, but an abundance o f Yankee g o o d s . ' ' 7 Axes, p i c k s , s h o v e l s , a l a r m c l o c k s , r o c k i n g c h a i r s and i r o n s t o v e s were i m p o r t e d , a l o n g w i t h l a r g e s u p p l i e s o f bacon and f l o u r . As L.G. Churchward has put i t , the "energy o f the American merchant community, 1 1 8 1853-7, was r e m a r k a b l e . . . ." A Boston w a t e r - c a r t f i r s t s e t t l e d the d u s t o f Melbourne s t r e e t s ; f i r e - f i g h t i n g s e r v i c e s began through American i n i t i a t i v e ; Americans owned some o f the best h o t e l s i n A u s t r a l i a ; and the Boston e n g i n e e r , Sam McGowan,constructed the 264 f i r s t magnetic t e l e g r a p h l i n e from Geelong t o Melbourne. A f i r s t c u l m i n a t i o n o f American i n f l u e n c e o c c u r r e d i n 1853 when the A u s t r a l i a n Steamship L i n e was e s t a b l i s h e d i n New Y o r k , though i t managed o n l y 119 one New York/London/Melbourne j o u r n e y . W i t h the h e l p o f f i n a n c e from George F r a n c i s T r a i n , Freeman Cobb and s e v e r a l o t h e r s e s t a b l i s h e d the Cobb and Co. American T e l e g r a p h L i n e o f Coaches. Cobb and Co. became "a handy a b b r e v i a t i o n o f Yankee 1 20 commerce." T r a i n , moreover, began Melbourne's s t o c k exchange w i t h an i n i t i a l membership c o n t r i b u t i o n o f t h r e e g u i n e a s . Because o f the s i g n a l American c o n t r i b u t i o n t o V i c t o r i a n commerce, a t one p o i n t he r e q u e s t e d t h a t George Washington's s t a t u e s t a n d a l o n g s i d e 1 21 Queen V i c t o r i a ' s o u t s i d e the exchange. T r a i n was a t the time the most renowned o f a g r e a t number o f Americans making a marked impact on the r a p i d l y e x p a n d i n g c o l o n i e s . The Melbourne Hera 1d 1 s l e a d i n g a r t i c l e i n p r a i s e o f Freeman Cobb ( F e b r u a r y 3, 1855), e n t i t l e d " J o n a t h a n the Smart," might w e l l have a p p l i e d t o any number o f h i s countrymen r e a p i n g s u b s t a n t i a l f i n a n c i a l d i v i d e n d s , p a r t l y through p e r s o n a l s t y l e and c h a r i s m a , p a r t l y t h r o u g h w i l y b u s i n e s s acumen. The American merchants and e n t r e p r e n e u r s i n A u s t r a l i a unashamedly geared t h e i r b u s i n e s s e s t o m a x i m i s i n g p r o f i t . They s u p p l i e d q u a l i t y s e r v i c e , but charged q u a l i t y p r i c e s . Many owned h o t e l s , r e s t a u r a n t s and b o a r d i n g houses. Sam Moss' C r i t e r i o n H o t e l , f o r example, p r o v i d e d Melbourne w i t h an o p u l e n c e and grandness o f c a t e r i n g never b e f o r e seen by many l o c a l s . A l l major c o l o n i a l f u n c t i o n s were h e l d t h e r e , from the Queen's B i r t h d a y B a l l t o mayoral banquets. Americans c o n g r e g a t e d 2 6 5 a t the C r i t e r i o n e v e r y Independence Day, where the S t a r s and S t r i p e s was c e r e m o n i o u s l y r a i s e d through the h o t e l ' s s k y l i g h t . Moss p r e s e n t e d such a t t r a c t i o n s as L o l a Montez and " R a i n e r s ' C e l e b r a t e d Troop o f E t h i o p i a n E n t e r t a i n e r s . " For h i s t r o u b l e , he charged the d i g g e r s handsomely. As d i d the " s p i r i t e d Y a n k e e " ' p r o p r i e t o r o f the K i d d ' s Exchange, i n K i a n d r a , New South Wales. He a s s u r e d p a t r o n s o f a hot meal ( t h e o n l y one on the d i g g i n g s ) , but e x p e c t e d a handsome f e e . The chance o f r e n e g i n g was rendered i m p o s s i b l e by the b u i l d i n g ' s 1 2 2 a r c h i t e c t u r e . J u s t one e x i t . Exponents o f Yankee t h r i f,t,„ and_,i n i t j a t i ve, c o l oured many o t h e r avenues c o l o n i a l l i f e as w e l l , r a n g i n g from L a n g l e y the a u c t i o n e e r , owner o f the S t . L o u i s Mart and S t . L o u i s S t o r e s , whose t a l e n t f o r h y p e r b o l e c o u l d c o n v e r t t h e t a t t i e s t book i n t o a c r u c i a l and c o v e t e d work o f a r t , t o the b a r b e r , C h a r l e s " P r o f e s s o r " Sands, who p r a c t i s e d , i n h i s own words, " t h e a r t o f h a i r - c u t t i n g and s h a v i n g on s c i e n t i f i c p r i n c i p l e s . " Sands r a r e l y c u t h a i r because he b u s i e d h i m s e l f w i t h the " t a l k i n ' and t r a d i n " n e c e s s a r y t o induce customers t o walk away 1 2 3 s a t i s f i e d w i t h h i s e x o r b i t a n t r a t e s . C l e a r l y , t h e n , what had been an i n t e r c h a n g e o f m o s t l y i d e a s , s i n c e the 1 8 2 0 1 s, became, i n the 1 8 5 0 1 s , one o f p o p u l a t i o n and s u p p l i e s . Gold n e c e s s a r i l y encouraged s p e c u l a t i o n and commerce, not r e p u b l i c a n musings. However, even as g o l d r u s h f e v e r g r i p p e d New H o l l a n d c o l o n i s t s , one a s p e c t o f s o c i e t y i n the g r e a t American d e m o c r a t i c e x p e r i m e n t i n c r e a s i n g l y d i s e n c h a n t e d A u s t r a l i a n p u n d i t s : s l a v e r y . A d m i r a t i o n f o r the superb c o n s t i t u t i o n a l advances o f the American r e v o l u t i o n a r y 266 f o r e f a t h e r s began t o wane as the 1 8 5 0 1 s p r o g r e s s e d and America, s u f f e r e d t h r o u g h the p r e s i d e n c i e s o f t h o s e weak sons o f J a c k s o n i a n democracy, F r a n k l i n P i e r c e and James Buchanan. To A u s t r a l i a n s , the "model R e p u b l i c " began t o . l o o k more and more l i k e a c o u n t r y on the b r i n k o f a c a t a c l y s m . Henry C l a y ' s Compromise o f 1 8 5 0 c o u l d not be m a i n t a i n e d , they s a i d , and, as e a r l y as 1 8 5 4 , one a s t u t e commentator suggested the l i k e l i h o o d , i n the not f a r d i s t a n t f u t u r e , o f c i v i l upheaval f o r the B r o t h e r s J o n a t h a n . 267 S e c t i o n C i8601 s When the i s s u e o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n re-anerged so v i g o r o u s l y i n A u s t r a l i a i n 1848, i t was i n e v i t a b l e t h a t c o l o n i s t s concerned w i t h the moral q u e s t i o n s u n d e r l y i n g the problem would t u r n t h e i r a t t e n t i o n , a t some p o i n t , t o the more s e r i o u s i m p l i c a t i o n s s l a v e r y h e l d f o r t h e i r American c o u s i n s . W h i l e F r e e - S o i l d o c t r i n e s loomed i n the 1848 American p r e s i d e n t a l e l e c t i o n s ("Free s o i l , f r e e speech, f r e e l a b o r 1 24 and f r e e men" ) , i n New South Wales the Sydney Morning H e r a l d p e s s i m i s t i c a l l y a p p r a i s e d the g r i m American s i t u a t i o n : " R i g h t s c l a s h w i t h r i g h t s , i n t e r e s t s w i t h i n t e r e s t s , i l l - f e e l i n g i s everywhere 1 25 engendered." Having a l i g n e d i t s e l f c o n s c i e n t i o u s l y w i t h t h o s e f o r c e s opposed t o t h e r e i n t r o d u c t i o n o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n i n t o New South Wales, the Hera Id's p o s i t i o n on s l a v e r y i n the 1850's was o b v i o u s . I t c o u l d not s u p p o r t enslavement under any c i r c u m s t a n c e s , economic o r o t h e r w i s e . Because o f the Hera 1d's c o n s i s t e n t l y l a r g e c i r c u l a t i o n t h r o u g h o u t t h i s p e r i o d - - s e c o n d t o none--the e d i t o r i a l s t a n d o f the newspaper h e a v i l y i n f l u e n c e d the a t t i t u d e s adopted by many A u s t r a l i a n 126 c o l o n i s t s . Some c o u n t r y newspapers s i m p l y r e p r i n t e d the H e r a l d 1 27 e d i t o r i a l w i t h o u t c i t i n g the s o u r c e . 268 P r e s i d e n t F r a n k l i n P i e r c e , the p o l i t i c a l unknown whose s u p p o r t e r s t r i e d t o c r e a t e an image f o r t h e i r c a n d i d a t e by naming him "Young H i c k o r y o f the G r a n i t e S t a t e , " a n t a g o n i z e d the e d i t o r s o f the Sydney Morning H e r a l d w i t h h i s e n t r e a t i e s t o the "God o f u n i v e r s a l b e n e v o l e n c e 1 28 and l o v e " t o b l e s s s l a v e r y . Throughout h i s t e n u r e , from 1852 t o I856, P i e r c e c o n s t a n t l y employed the e v a s i v e p h r a s e , " i n v o l u n t a r y s e r v i t u d e , " when he meant s l a v e r y . And he c o n s i d e r e d s l a v e r y "an 1 29 a d m i t t e d r i g h t " a l l o w e d by t h e C o n s t i t u t i o n . Hera Id r e a d e r s were not impressed. They deemed h i s s e e m i n g l y unashamed p a r a d i n g o f p r o - s l a v e s e n t i m e n t s an ominous s i g n f o r the f u t u r e o f the r e p u b l i c . One o f the most prominent A u s t r a l i a n s t o r e c o g n i z e the c l o s e c o n n e c t i o n between the American s l a v e r y and A u s t r a l i a n t r a n s p o r t a t i o n i s s u e s was the Tasmanian a b o l i t i o n i s t and sometime C o n g r e g a t i o n a 1 i s t m i n i s t e r John West, who assumed the e d i t o r s h i p of the Hera Id i n 1854. In h i s F e d e r a t i o n a r t i c l e s p r i n t e d j u s t p r i o r t o h i s becoming e d i t o r , West e n l a r g e d on comments made i n h i s e a r l i e r H i s t o r y of Tasmania (1852). W i t h h i s customary f o r e s i g h t , he p r o p h e s i e d the h o r r o r s t o come i f A m e r i c a f a i l e d t o f i n d a s o l u t i o n t o the " f a t a l o p p o s i t i o n of c o l o u r " : Three m i l l i o n s o f s l a v e s , w i t h a language p e c u l i a r t o t h e m s e l v e s , s i l e n t l y r e p r o a c h the o p p r e s s i o n which c o n s i g n s them t o p e r p e t u a l d e g r a d a t i o n , and by t h e i r immense number t h r e a t e n a t e r r i b l e vengeance. The u n i o n o f n o r t h and s o u t h has o f t e n been j e o p a r d i s e d by t h i s d i r e element i n the n a t i o n a l f e d e r a t i o n , and by t h i s i t i s perhaps d e s t i n e d t o p e r i s h . 1 3 0 269 F u r t h e r , a n t i c i p a t i n g the U t o p i a n s and dreamers who emerged i n A u s t r a l i a l a t e r i n the c e n t u r y , West c h a l l e n g e d l o c a l p o l i t i c i a n s t o t a k e the n e c e s s a r y s t e p s t o e s t a b l i s h the F e d e r a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a : L e t the A u s t r a l i a n s t a t e s m a n , t h e n , c a s t h i s eyes o v e r t h e s e c o l o n i e s , and l e t him f e l i c i t a t e h i m s e l f t h a t , through t h e i r l e n g t h and b r e a d t h , he w i l l d i s c o v e r no a s p e c t i n c o m p a t i b l e w i t h t h e i r u n i t y . I f managed c a r e f u l l y , A u s t r a l i a i t s e l f might f i n a l l y c o n s t i t u t e the model r e p u b l i c a n s t a t e . When P r e s i d e n t P i e r c e d e l i v e r e d h i s f a r e w e l l a d d r e s s t o C o n g r e s s , he c o u l d n ' t r e s i s t a l a s t rebuke o f f r e e - s o i l e r s and a b o l i t i o n i s t s . H i s comments drew a s h a r p , i n c e n s e d response from West's Hera 1d, but the paper s h o r t l y became aware t h a t h i s s u c c e s s o r , a n o t h e r Union Democrat, James Buchanan, promised p o l i c i e s and b e h a v i o u r s c a r c e l y d i f f e r e n t . In h i s i n a u g u r a l address, much t o the d i s g u s t o f many d i s a p p o i n t e d A u s t r a l i a n s , Buchanan a t t a c k e d the a n t i - s l a v e r y movement. They had d e a r l y hoped f o r a v i c t o r y f o r the " P a t h f i n d e r , " the d e b o n a i r e x p l o r e r - c u m - R e p u b l i c a n - P a r t y - 1 e a d e r , John C. Fremont. New South Welshmen p r o b a b l y took s o l a c e i n the f a c t t h a t a t l e a s t West f o r e c a s t 131 a R e p u b l i c a n v i c t o r y next e l e c t i o n . Perhaps the most i m p o r t a n t e f f e c t o f w i d e s p r e a d p r e s s d i s c u s s i o n o f the s l a v e r y q u e s t i o n i n the 1850 1 s was the c o r r o s i o n o f any b l i n d f a i t h which s e c t i o n s o f the A u s t r a l i a n p u b l i c might have r e t a i n e d i n American democracy. S l a v e r y s h a t t e r e d i l l u s i o n s . As t h e I 1 1 u s t r a t e d Sydney News put i t , s l a v e r y made America "an i n f i n i t e l y g r e a t e r and 1 32 more g u i l t y t y r a n t than any avowed despot i n the w o r l d . " Staunch 270 d e f e n d e r s o f American r e p u b l i c a n i s m i n A u s t r a l i a , such as the i n - d e f a t i g a b l e John Dunmore Lang, r e a l i z e d i t r e p r e s e n t e d the rock on w h i c h A m e r i c a would c o n s t a n t l y f o u n d e r u n l e s s something c o u l d be done t o t e r m i n a t e i t . When Abraham L i n c o l n , the R e p u b l i c a n c a n d i d a t e , g a i n e d a d e c i s i v e e l e c t o r a l c o l l e g e v i c t o r y on p r e s i d e n t a l E l e c t i o n Day, i860, the c a t a l y s t appeared. C i v i l war t h r e a t e n e d . On A p r i l 12, 1861, s o u t h e r n guns f i r e d on F o r t Sumpter. The f o u r y e a r s o f c i v i l c o n v u l s i o n i n America d e f i n e d y e t a n o t h e r p e r i o d o f l i v e l y i n t e r a c t i o n between A m e r i c a and A u s t r a l i a . D e s p i t e the d e c l i n e from 1856 onwards i n the number o f Americans r e s i d e n t i n A u s t r a l i a , and the d e c r e a s e i n t r a d i n g volume, A u s t r a l i a n s i n s i s t e d on k e e p i n g a b r e a s t o f the d e e p l y r e g r e t t a b l e , y e t f o r them i n e v i t a b l e war d i v i d i n g t h e i r American c o u s i n s . New South Wales, i n p a r t i c u l a r , w i t h i t s now e x t e n s i v e h i s t o r i c a l a s s o c i a t i o n w i t h the U n i t e d S t a t e s , devoured a l l the contemporary American news. In k e e p i n g w i t h the a m b i g u i t y t h a t had marked c o n t a c t between the two c o u n t r i e s s i n c e Governor P h i l l i p ; - s s e t t l e m e n t y e a r s , two r e a c t i o n s t o the C i v i l War predominated: on the one hand, p r o f o u n d sympathy f o r the p l i g h t o f a c o u n t r y w h i c h , s i n c e the c o l o n y ' s f i r s t y e a r s , had a i d e d and a b e t t e d c o l o n i a l men w i t h i n i t i a t i v e ; and, on the o t h e r hand, the r e c u r r e n c e o f p a r a n o i d f e a r s o f an American i n v a s i o n - - f e a r s , a g a i n , as o l d as the c o l o n y i t s e l f . The c r y f o r I m p e r i a l arms w i t h which t o defend the i s o l a t e d Empire o u t p o s t c o u l d be heard once more. On a t l e a s t t h r e e o c c a s i o n s d u r i n g the l860's--at the time o f the " T r e n t , " "Shenandoah" and "Alabama C l a i m s " d i s p u t e s - - a n A n g l o - A m e r i c a n war 271 seemed p o s s i b l e . Staunch l o y a l i s t s i n the c o l o n i e s took e v e r y 1 33 o p p o r t u n i t y t o c a s t i g a t e B r i t a i n ' s " d e g e n e r a t e c h i l d r e n i n A m e r i c a . " The i n f l u x o f Americans i n t o A u s t r a l i a i n the e a r l y F i f t i e s i i n i t i a t e d a c o n t i n u o u s demand f o r American i n f o r m a t i o n . Thus, when the American C i v i 1 War began, the c h a n n e l s f o r prompt conveyance of A m e r i c a n news were f i r m l y e s t a b l i s h e d . I n f o r m a t i o n came from e i t h e r London o r C a l i f o r n i a . N a t u r a l l y , the p a r t i c u l a r b i a s d i s p l a y e d depended on the o r i g i n o f the r e p o r t . E n g l i s h i n f o r m a t i o n always assumed an a r i s t o c r a t i c , s o u t h e r n s l a n t ; C a l i f o r n i a n s o u r c e s , a l t e r n a t e l y , 13* adopted a f i r m n o r t h e r n p r o - L i n c o l n s t a n c e . At f i r s t t h i s p r o v i d e d some c o n f u s i o n both f o r members o f the A u s t r a l i a n f o u r t h e s t a t e and f o r t h e i r r e a d e r s h i p . However, i t soon became o b v i o u s t h a t p r e j u d i c e d o v e r s e a s news r e p o r t s were f o r c i n g p r e s s - e d i t o r s i n t o a more i n t e r - p r e t a t i v e r o l e , a v i c a r i o u s i n v o l v e m e n t i n the a c t i o n t h a t had the 1 35 e f f e c t of v a s t l y i n c r e a s i n g C i v i l War c o v e r a g e . The A u s t r a l i a n p u b l i c wanted t o know what was happening; the A u s t r a l i a n e d i t o r o f t e n asked h i m s e l f why. Even s m a l l r u r a l papers v o i c e d an o p i n i o n . Over the f o u r - y e a r d u r a t i o n o f the war, the N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e p u b l i s h e d 1 36 no fewer than f o u r t e e n e d i t o r i a l s on v a r y i n g a s p e c t s o f the c o n f l i c t . I n i t i a l l y , a t t i t u d e s e x p r e s s e d tended t o r e f l e c t the d i s t a n c e between the two c o u n t r i e s . The Sydney Morning H e r a l d e a r l y e x p r e s s e d an a l m o s t d i s p a s s i o n a t e d e s i r e t h a t " t h e p r e s e n t c r i s i s i n A m e r i c a may t u r n out t o the p r o m o t i o n o f human freedom and t o the p r o s p e r i t y 1 37 o f the American S t a t e s . " E v e n t s , however, v e r y q u i c k l y t h r u s t A u s t r a l i a n s i n t o the a c t i o n . C h a r l e s W i l k e s , the American c a p t a i n 272 whose s h i p s had s t r u c k f e a r i n t o the h e a r t s o f a l l Sydney t h a t l a t e November morning i n 1839, reappeared t o p l a y a prominent r o l e i n an i n c i d e n t i n 1861 t h a t would once a g a i n prompt A u s t r a l i a n papers t o c o n s i d e r the p o s s i b i l i t y o f naval i n v a s i o n by the U n i t e d S t a t e s . As c a p t a i n o f the U.S.S. San J a c i n t o , W i l k e s boarded the B r i t i s h m a i l steamer T r e n t (on i t s way from Havana t o Southampton) on November 8, 1861, t o t a k e i n t o c u s t o d y two C o n f e d e r a t e d i p l o m a t s , S e n a t o r s James M. Mason and John S I i d e 1 1 - W i l k e s s h o u l d r i g h t l y have c o n s i g n e d the T r e n t t o p o r t f o r a d j u d i c a t i o n b u t , w i t h h i s tendency t o the grand g e s t u r e and l o v e f o r the s p o t l i g h t , he s e i z e d the s h i p i n A m e r i c a ' s name. B r i t a i n was o u t r a g e d , and the London p r e s s urged t h a t A m e r i c a o f f i c i a l l y a p o l o g i z e f o r t h i s i n s u l t t o the E n g l i s h L i o n . Lord R u s s e l l , on b e h a l f o f c a b i n e t , d r a f t e d an a p p r o p r i a t e demand w h i c h , f o r t u n a t e l y , P r i n c e A l b e r t m o d i f i e d . The d i s p a t c h d i d n ' t r e a c h American S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e Seward u n t i l December 19, and by t h i s time the d r a m a t i c p o p u l a r s u p p o r t f o r W i l k e s ' h e r o i s m and the w i d e s p r e a d n a t i o n a l i s t i c f e r v o u r i n t h e n o r t h had s u b s i d e d . C o o l e r heads p r e v a i l e d and A m e r i c a e v e n t u a l l y l i b e r a t e d the h o s t a g e s , but not b e f o r e England and her c o l o n i a l t e r r i t o r i e s around the w o r l d 1 3ft had begun m i l i t a r y (and p s y c h o l o g i c a l ) p r e p a r a t i o n f o r war. The E n g l i s h C o l o n i a l S e c r e t a r y e v i d e n t l y c o n s i d e r e d the s i t u a t i o n s u f f i c i e n t l y s e r i o u s t h a t on December 26, 1861, he informed A u s t r a l i a n government o f f i c i a l s o f h i s b e l i e f t h a t B r i t a i n "may s h o r t l y be i n v o l v e d 1 39 i n war w i t h the U n i t e d S t a t e s . " The f a c t t h a t the p r o t a g o n i s t i n the d i s p u t e was the v e r y man who had l e d an e l a b o r a t e American e x p e d i t i o n 273 t o the s o u t h some twenty y e a r s e a r l i e r a l s o w a r r a n t e d o f f i c i a l comment. In A u s t r a l i a , a v a r i e t y o f r e s p o n s e s g r e e t e d the T r e n t r e v e l a t i o n s . The mixed l o y a l t i e s o f the p e o p l e were r e f l e c t e d i n contemporary newspapers. John West's Hera 1d r e s e r v e d judgement, w h i l e the more d e m o c r a t i c a l l y i n c l i n e d Empire and M a i t l a n d E n s i g n s u p p o r t e d the n o r t h . The Empi re viewed the war as m e r e l y a r e v i v a l o f the feud between " A r i s t o c r a c y and Democracy." S e v e r a l c o u n t r y p a p e r s , mouth- p i e c e s o f the s q u a t t o c r a c y , took the o p p o r t u n i t y t o b e r a t e the n o r t h , and d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s i n g e n e r a l . C h a r l e s D i x o n , i n h i s Monaro Mercury and Cooma and Bombala A d v e r t i s e r , a t t a c k e d Abraham L i n c o l n , "a mere r u s t i c a t t o r n e y , " and c a l l e d f o r o f f i c i a l d i p l o m a t i c r e c o g n i t i o n o f the C o n f e d e r a c y , w h i c h he f e l t c o n t i n u e d t o f i g h t "Freedom's b a t t l e . " In the f i r s t t w e l v e months o f f i g h t i n g , the A u s t r a l i a n p r e s s , i g n i t e d by the T r e n t e p i s o d e , gave the C i v i l War e x h a u s t i v e c o v e r a g e . I n t e r e s t was based on both s e l f - i n t e r e s t and c o n s c i e n c e . Or perhaps the e r r a t i c Newcast1e Chron i c1e ed i t o r was not vo i c i ng a whol1y e c c e n t r i c o p i n i o n when he suggested t h a t " t h e p r o s p e c t o f o u r s e l v e s b e i n g i n v o l v e d i n h o s t i l i t i e s w i t h one o f the c o n t e n d i n g p a r t i e s i s 1*1 f a r more e x c i t i n g " than s i m p l y a p p r a i s i n g the p r o g r e s s o f the war. Whatever the r e a s o n , the A u s t r a l i a n p e o p l e r e c e i v e d a s u r f e i t o f i n f o r m a t i o n , and i f the f r e q u e n c y o f news r e p o r t s d e c r e a s e d a l i t t l e i n the m i d d l e w a r - y e a r s , i t i n t e n s i f i e d a g a i n i n 1865 when the C o n f e d e r a t e s h i p - o f - w a r Shenandoah steamed i n t o a s u r p r i s e d P o r t P h i l l i p on J a n u a r y 25, s p a r k i n g a second major d i s p u t e between England and the U n i t e d S t a t e s . Only t h i s t i m e , government a u t h o r i t i e s i n 274 Melbourne were t o p l a y a l e a d i n g r o l e . The C o n f e d e r a t e s h i p ' s twenty- f o u r - d a y s t a y f o r c e d A u s t r a l i a t o become d i r e c t l y i n v o l v e d i n t h e h e c t i c p o l i t i c s s u r r o u n d i n g the American C i v i l War. The Shenandoah had been the E n g l i s h s h i p Sea K i n g , a f a c t w h i c h n e i t h e r t h e E n g l i s h nor t h e C o n f e d e r a t e a u t h o r i t i e s a p p a r e n t l y wished t o h i d e ( i n t h a t the l e t t e r s o f the o l d name, a d o r n i n g the s h i p , were o n l y p a r t l y o b s c u r e d ) . F u r t h e r m o r e , as the Shenandoah, the v e s s e l had r e c e n t l y t a k e n a t e r r i b l e t o l l o f Union s h i p p i n g . Hence, when C a p t a i n James W a r d e l l p l a c e d h i s c r a f t on a government-1 eased s l i p f o r r e p a i r s , the Union government's c o n s u l i n Melbourne, W i l l i a m B l a n c h a r d , demanded t h a t S i r C h a r l e s D a r l i n g , V i c t o r i a ' s g o v e r n o r , 142 s e i z e i t as a p i r a t e s h i p . D a r l i n g r e p l i e d t h a t h i s government would o n l y " t r e a t her as a s h i p - o f - w a r b e l o n g i n g t o a b e l l i g e r e n t Power," no more. A few days l a t e r , B l a n c h a r d accused W a r d e l l o f r r e c r u i t i n g crew members i n Melbourne, thus v i o l a t i n g the n e u t r a l i t y o f t h a t p o r t . R e a l i z i n g t h a t i f the Shenandoah were a l l o w e d t o d e p a r t , she would o b v i o u s l y c o n t i n u e i n her d e s t r u c t i v e ways, B l a n c h a r d launched i n t o a f u r i o u s c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h h i s Union s u p e r i o r s i n Washington and w i t h D a r l i n g , i n an a t t e m p t t o f o r c e the g o v e r n o r i n t o a c t i o n . But h i s s e r i e s o f .angry:; e n t r e a t i es f a i l e d . In d e s p e r a t i o n , s h o r t l y b e f o r e the v e s s e l was a l l o w e d t o go, B l a n c h a r d s t e r n l y warned the V i c t o r i a n g o v e r n o r t h a t " t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s Government w i l l c l a i m i n d e m n i t y f o r the damages a l r e a d y done t o i t s s h i p p i n g by the s a i d v e s s e l , and a l s o w h i c h may h e r e a f t e r be committed. . . . " He was r i g h t . In 1872 an i n t e r n a t i o n a l a r b i t r a t i o n t r i b u n a l i n Geneva awarded 275 a damages c l a i m t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s , because o f the Shenandoah's 1*3 e x p l o i t s , amounting t o o v e r s i x m i l l i o n d o l l a r s . I f the T r e n t e p i s o d e had provoked A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i s t s m e r e l y t o d e t e r m i n e t h e i r s y m p a t h i e s , the Shenandoah's c o n t r o v e r s i a l s t a y , because o f i t s p r o x i m i t y , demanded a r e a c t i o n . Many thousands o f V i c t o r i a n s made the t r i p t o S a n d r i d g e t o i n s p e c t the s h i p , though i t i s i m p o s s i b l e t o d e t e r m i n e whether t h i s r e p r e s e n t e d a p o p u l a r v o t e i n f a v o u r o f the s o u t h o r j u s t p l a i n c u r i o s i t y . Melbourne's A r g u s , t h r o u g h o u t the war a C o n f e d e r a t e s u p p o r t e r , n a t u r a l l y f e l t t h a t the v i s i t o r s "showed t h e i r S o u t h e r n sympathies by c h e e r i n g the v e s s e l h e a r t i l y , " but t h i s comment more t r u l y gauges the eye o f the b e h o l d e r than the a c t u a l s t a t e o f a f f a i r s . The one u n m i s t a k a b l e d i s p l a y o f s u p p o r t f o r the C o n f e d e r a c y was shown by the moneyed members o f the Melbourne C l u b , who e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y wined and d i n e d the Shenandoah c a p t a i n and o f f i c e r s . T h e i r p a r t i s a n s h i p e l i c i t e d a h o s t i l e r e a c t i o n from a number o f the major A u s t r a l i a n p a p e r s — a m o n g them the Hera 1 d, Empi r e and Agei The Hera 1d drew a t t e n t i o n t o perhaps the most s u b t l e i m p l i c a t i o n o f the Shenandoah 1 s e s s e n t i a l l y p l e a s a n t s t a y when i t h i g h l i g h t e d the p o s s i b i l i t y o f the v e r y same s h i p r e t u r n i n g , a t war's end, under the s t a r s and s t r i p e s , bent on t e a c h i n g the l o c a l s the 1*5 e r r o r of t h e i r ways. The r e a l i s s u e had a t l a s t s u r f a c e d : i n the event o f a n o t h e r A n g l o - A m e r i c a n war, what would A u s t r a l i a ' s p o s i t i o n be? Where would the s y m p a t h i e s o f government l i e ? And what o f the p e o p l e ? The p r e s s u r e e x e r t e d on the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s by the T r e n t 276 and Shenandoah d i s p u t e s f o r c e d the l o c a l p o p u l a t i o n d e e p l y t o c o n s i d e r the c a u s e s , p r o g r e s s and r a m i f i c a t i o n s o f the American c o n f l i c t . Throughout, d i s c u s s i o n c o n t i n u e d not o n l y i n d e t a i l , but a t a most s o p h i s t i c a t e d l e v e l o f i n q u i r y . S l a v e r y , i n q u i s i t i v e A u s t r a l i a n newspaper e d i t o r s a s t u t e l y r e a l i z e d , was not the o n l y i s s u e a t s t a k e . V i r t u a l l y a l l p u b l i c a t i o n s a d v o c a t e d an a n t i - s l a v e l i n e , though t h i s by no means accompanied a p r o - U n i o n p h i l o s o p h y . U n l i k e the con- s i s t e n t l y b i a s e d , a n t i - d e m o c r a t i c o u t p o u r i n g s and h a l f - t r u t h s o f the B r i t i s h p r e s s i n the l860's, the New South Wales p r e s s , i n p a r t i c u l a r , aimed a t d e p i c t i n g the whole t r u t h as b e s t i t c o u l d . The r e f u s a l o f the Sydney Morning H e r a l d t o s u p p o r t w h o l e h e a r t e d l y one s i d e o r the o t h e r p o s s i b l y b e s t r e f l e c t e d the c o m p l e x i t i e s a t the h e a r t o f t h e c o n f l i c t . W h i l e r i g o r o u s l y opposed t o s l a v e r y i n any form, West c o u l d not on p r i n c i p l e deny the C o n f e d e r a c y ' s r i g h t t o s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t . And though c o n s c i o u s o f the s e r i o u s moral f l a w s i n B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n ' s make-up, he c o n t i n u e d t o r e c a l l the f r u i t f u l r e l a t i o n s h i p A u s t r a l i a had had w i t h A m e r i c a s i n c e the f i r s t y e a r s o f Botany Bay s e t t l e m e n t . One r e c e n t c r i t i c m a i n t a i n s t h a t i n t h e C i v i l War y e a r s , the Hera 1d 146 " a t t a i n e d m a t u r i t y and a w o r l d s t a n d a r d i n j o u r n a l i s m . " C e r t a i n l y West's s y m p a t h e t i c t r e a t m e n t o f the i s s u e s bore marked c o n t r a s t t o London newspapers o f the same p e r i o d , such as the b l u s t e r o u s Times:. Some r u r a l p a p e r s , t o o , responded t o the i n t r i c a c i e s o f the war w i t h a s i n g u l a r c a r e and r e a s o n t h a t a t t i m e s t r a n s c e n d e d t h e emotion and s u b j e c t i v i t y o f t e n m a r r i n g d i s c u s s i o n e l s e w h e r e . The M a i t l a n d E n s i g n , f o r example, w h i l e c o n c e d i n g A u s t r a l i a n d e f i c i e n c i e s , 277 s t o o d f i r m on i t s o b j e c t i o n t o the p r i n c i p l e o f bondage: We have had abundant p r o o f o f [ r a d i c a l p r e j u d i c e ] i n our own c o l o n y i n the c a s e o f the C h i n e s e , and the Americans a r e j u s t l i k e o u r s e l v e s , and p r o b a b l y ; . n e i t h e r much b e t t e r nor worse. S t i l l t h e r e i s a wide d i f f e r e n c e between h a v i n g a d i s l i k e t o c o l o u r e d p e o p l e and k e e p i n g them i n s l a v e r y , and t h a t i s the d i f f e r e n c e which t h e r e i s between the F e d e r a l s and C o n f e d e r a t e s . 1 * 7 L a t e i n 1862, the Yass C o u r i e r f o c u s s e d on two o f the l e s s - p u b l i c i z e d m o t i v e s r e s p o n s i b l e f o r the b l o o d y American war, by now one o f a t t r i t i o n : Here we have a s e r i e s o f murderous a s s a u l t s , and no o b j e c t g a i n e d - - o c e a n s o f b l o o d s p l i t , not f o r the sake o f freedom, but t o g r a t i f y f e e l i n g s o f d i s a p p o i n t m e n t and r e v e n g e . 1 * 8 Even the s t e n t o r i a n N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e , war-minded t h r o u g h o u t and eager f o r the b a t t l e t o e x t e n d t o A u s t r a l i a , had moments o f i n s i g h t . For i t s e d i t o r , a s t a t e s ' r i g h t e r and f r e e t r a d e r , s l a v e r y c o m p r i s e d o n l y one o f the war's c a u s e s . The o t h e r was the M o r r i l l t a r i f f , which r e s u l t e d i n an i n c r e a s e o f d u t i e s on c e r t a i n items r a t h e r than 1 *9 on the whole range o f i m p o r t s . For the C h r o n i c1e, the c h i e f cause o f the war was the Union's economic " s e l f - a g g r a n d i z e m e n t . " ^ 5 ^ Whether one a c c e p t e d t h i s o r not c l e a r l y depended on one's economic p e r s p e c t i v e . D a v i d Syme, a c o n v i n c e d p r o t e c t i o n i s t and e d i t o r o f the Melbourne Age, s t r o n g l y s u p p o r t e d the N o r t h ' s economic and moral s t a n d . ^ A f t e r the American C i v i l War, most c o n c e r n e d A u s t r a l i a n s , because o f the enormous amount of p u b l i c i t y g e n e r a t e d by the c o n f l i c t , had become even more f a m i l i a r w i t h the b e n e f i t s and d e f i c i e n c e s o f the r e p u b l i c a n system o f democracy i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . Perhaps the 278 g e n e r a l consensus was t h a t s l a v e r y , the s i n o f the f a t h e r s , had v i s i t e d i n a b r u t a l way the c h i l d r e n o f a l a t e r g e n e r a t i o n . For A u s t r a l i a n s , u n e q u i v o c a l p r a i s e f o r a l l American i n s t i t u t i o n s was no l o n g e r p o s s i b l e . In terms o f the American C i v i l War's e f f e c t on A u s t r a l i a , two t h i n g s s h o u l d be emphasized. F i r s t l y , t h r o u g h o u t the u p h e a v a l , A u s t r a l i a n a u t h o r i t i e s c o n s i d e r e d war w i t h America a c o n t i n u i n g p o s s i b i l i t y , as t h e i r p r e d e c e s s o r s had a t c e r t a i n t i m e s i n the p r e v i o u s f i f t y y e a r s . As a whole, the p o p u l a t i o n ' s a t t i t u d e towards t h e i r American c o u s i n s was a m b i v a l e n t a t b e s t . Y e t , s e c o n d l y , on one p o i n t a l l A u s t r a l i a n s were i n c o m p l e t e a c c o r d : a l l s h a r e d an o v e r - whelming a d m i r a t i o n f o r Abraham L i n c o l n . C o u n t r y - w i d e e x p r e s s i o n s o f g e n u i n e g r i e f g r e e t e d L i n c o l n ' s a s s a s s i n a t i o n l e s s than a week a f t e r Lee s u r r e n d e r e d a t Appomattox. For the f o u r - y e a r d u r a t i o n o f the war, the New South Wales p r e s s , c o n s c i o u s o f the c l o s e bonds w i t h America b u i l t up i n p a s t y e a r s , o f t e n e x p r e s s e d c o n f i d e n c e f o r the f u t u r e . There were moments, however, when the brave f r o n t c o l l a p s e d i n the f a c e o f A n g l o - A m e r i c a c o n f l i c t o v e r s e a s . The T r e n t a f f a i r u n s e t t l e d New South Wales. Both the Sydney Morn i ng Hera 1d and the Emp i re asked numerous q u e s t i o n s p e r t a i n i n g t o the e f f e c t i v e n e s s o f the c o l o n y ' s d e f e n c e s . The s t a t e g o v e r n o r t o u r e d harbour f o r t i f i c a t i o n s and w a r s h i p s m a i n t a i n e d a c t i v e s t a t u s . For t h r e e months t h e N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e remained c o n v i n c e d 152 t h a t an A n g l o - A m e r i c a n war had begun o v e r s e a s , or was imminent. C a u t i o u s c o l o n i a l s r a i s e d s i m i l a r c r i e s i n 1863, as A n g l o - A m e r i c a n 279 r e l a t i o n s a g a i n c o r r o d e d due t o the e x t e n s i v e damage caused by the C o n f e d e r a t e s h i p Alabama on the U.S. m e r c a n t i l e f l e e t i n 1862-3. T h i s time the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s a c t i v e l y formed a number o f v o l u n t e e r d e f e n c e f o r c e s such as Naval B r i g a d e s , A r t i 1 1 e r y U n i t s and R i f l e Companies. The New South Wales government c o n s t i t u t e d a S e l e c t Committee i n J u l y , 1863, t o e n q u i r e i n t o h a r b o u r d e f e n c e s , r e s u l t i n g i n the b u i l d i n g o f numerous f o r t i f i c a t i o n s around Sydney Harbour. I f A u s t r a l i a was t o be, as the N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e c l a i m e d , a " g o l d e n b a i t t o marauding e x p e d i t i o n s , " then m i l i t a n t New H o l l a n d e r s d e t e r m i n e d 1 53 t o g i v e them a f i g h t . A l b e i t a s h o r t one, f o r , d e s p i t e the measures t a k e n i n 1863 » two y e a r s l a t e r the C h ron i c1e s t i l l e x p r e s s e d i t s c o m p l e t e d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n w i t h the e x i s t i n g d e f e n c e s : " P e r h a p s , a f t e r Sydney, N e w c a s t l e and a few o t h e r p l a c e s have been knocked t o p i e c e s , the Government may b e g i n t o t h i n k o f s e c u r i n g them fr.om 1 5* a t t a c k . " Government and p r e s s f e a r s o f an American i n v a s i o n c o n t i n u e d f o r a number of' y e a r s a f t e r the end of the war, and the Mel bourne A r g u s 1 c o n t e n t i o n t h a t " t h e p o l i t i c a l and moral q u e s t i o n s [ r a i s e d by the Shenandoah 1 s e x p l o i t s ] have been by no means u n r a v e l l e d " r e t a i n e d a r e l e v a n c e t o the A u s t r a l i a n s i t u a t i o n u n t i l w e l l i n t o the 18701s. In the A u s t r a l i a n i m a g i n a t i o n , i t seems, A m e r i c a c o n t i n u e d t o be both c l o s e f r i e n d and p o t e n t i a l f o e . A p p r e h e n s i o n about t h e p o t e n t i a l t h r e a t posed by A m e r i c a n i m p e r i a l s t a r k l y c o n t r a s t e d the g r e a t l o v e and a d m i r a t i o n A u s t r a l i a n s had f o r the Union's l e a d e r t h r o u g h o u t the war. Abraham L i n c o l n ' s s t a t u s i n c r e a s e d n o t i c e a b l y as the f i g h t i n g got b l o o d i e r and the d e a t h l i s t 280 l o n g e r . In'mid-1 8 6 2 , a group o f community l e a d e r s i n Sydney w i r e d a message t o L i n c o l n p r a i s i n g h i s " f i r m n e s s and f i d e l i t y . " He was a p o p u l a r f i g u r e , indeed a h e r o , i n a land not i n c l i n e d t o i s s u e h i g h p r a i s e f o r p e o p l e i n a u t h o r i t y ; no doubt the Hera 1d spoke f o r many A u s t r a l i a n s when i t s u g g e s t e d t h a t " t h e r e a r e few men i n t h e w o r l d who have more of the esteem o f n a t i o n s than the p r e s e n t PRESIDENT o f A m e r i c a . " ' 5 6 L i n c o l n ' s sudden d e a t h , w h i l e a t the peak o f h i s powers and s t a t u r e , d e v a s t a t e d A u s t r a l i a when l o c a l newspapers f i r s t p u b l i s h e d the news on June 2k. The b l a c k - b o r d e r e d Empire e d i t o r i a l page s a d l y r e f l e c t e d t h a t " n o t h i n g can compensate f o r the l o s s which freedom and the w o r l d has s u s t a i n e d . Men l i k e LINCOLN b e l o n g t o a l l n a t i o n s , and have a p l a c e i n e v e r y h e a r t which t h r o b s f o r the l o v e o f l i b e r t y . " 1 5 7 Thousands o f Sydney p e o p l e c o u l d not g a i n a d m i t t a n c e t o L i n c o l n ' s memorial s e r v i c e i n the P r i n c e o f Wales Opera House because o f the o v e r w h e l m i n g l y l a r g e number o f mourners who t u r n e d o u t . John Dunmore Lang f e l t a deep s p i r i t u a l a f f i n i t y w i t h L i n c o l n and p a i d p u b l i c 1 £.8 t r i b u t e t o t h e dead P r e s i d e n t . Indeed, e u l o g i e s f o r L i n c o l n c o n s t a n t l y appeared i n A u s t r a 1 i a n newspapers f o r many months a f t e r 1 5 9 h i s death--and c o n t i n u e d t o a p p e a r , s p o r a d i c a l l y , f o r decades. Joseph Furphy, b a r e l y i n h i s t w e n t i e s when L i n c o l n d i e d , was one who d e t e r m i n e d t o p r e s e r v e h i s memory. In the poem, " E l e g y on L i n c o l n , " he mourns the l o s s o f an i n t e r n a t i o n a l s t a t e s m a n . The e n t i r e w o r l d ' s f u t u r e l o o k s b l e a k : 281 L i n c o l n i s gone--who r u l e d the Western Land From the P a c i f i c t o the A t l a n t i c ' s b r i m - - And c o l d and n e r v e l e s s l i e s t h e might hand That s t r u c k the f e t t e r s from the negro's l i m b . Now anarchy and r e s t overwhelm In m i d - c a r e e r our l o r d l y s h i p o f s t a t e For L i n c o l n ' s hand no l o n g e r h o l d s the helm To g u i d e her passage through the f e a r f u l s t r a i t . ' ^ 0 The p o l i t i c a l c o n t e n t might be n a i v e , but t h e r e i s no m i s t a k i n g the deep l o v e and r e s p e c t . in ENDNOTES CHAPTER IV ' West, H i s t o r y o f Tasmania, I I , 347"8. 2 C h a r l e s Wentworth D i l k e , G r e a t e r B r i t a i n : A Record o f T r a v e l i n Eng 1 i sh-Speak_i ng C o u n t r i e s Pur i ng 1 866 and 1867 (New York: H a r p e r , 1869), p. 319, 3 West, I I, 348. 4 The pamphlet, "The I n d e f e a s i b l e R i g h t s o f Man," i s e s s e n t i a l l y a c o l l e c t i o n o f d i v e r s e m a t e r i a l which r e j e c t s " t h e dangerous tendency o f A r i s t o c r a t i c i n f l u e n c e and Tory p r i n c i p l e s " (p. 2) and a s s e r t s " d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s " (p. 4). Two items r e p r i n t e d i n i t a r e i n t e r e s t i n g : a l o n g e x c e r p t from the f i r s t s e c t i o n o f the " D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence" and W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing ("Doctor Channing") on man's " i n d e f e a s i b l e r i g h t s " (pp. 14-15). Channing e l a b o r a t e s on the " l o g i c o f d e s p o t i s m " and i t s c o n t i n u i n g o p p o s i t i o n t o the l i b e r t y t h a t a l l men have a r i g h t t o e n j o y : " t h a t government i s most p e r f e c t , i n which P o l i c y i s most e n t i r e l y s u b j e c t e d t o J u s t i c e , o r i n which the supreme and c o n s t a n t aim i s t o s e c u r e the r i g h t s o f e v e r y human b e i n g . T h i s i s the b e a u t i f u l i d e a o f a f r e e government, and no government i s f r e e but i n p r o p o r t i o n as i t r e a 1 i ses t h i s . " For more on Common Sense ,see C l a r k , I I I , 422-3. 283 5 George F r a n c i s T r a i n , My L i f e i n Many S t a t e s and i n F o r e i g n Lands (New York: D. A p p l e t o n , 1902), p. 163- See below, C h a p t e r V I , s e c t i o n b), on D a n i e l Henry Deniehy. 7 For more on the escapes o f W a i t , C h a n d l e r and Gemmell, see below, C h a p t e r V, s e c t i o n bj; f o r i n f o r m a t i o n on the escapes o f the I r i s h p a t r i o t s - - T . B . MacManus, T.F. Meagher, John M i t c h e l and P a t r i c k 0 1 Donohue--see, f o r example, Jay Monaghan, A u s t r a l i a n s and the Gold Rush ( B e r k e l e y : U n i v . o f C a l i f o r n i a P r e s s , 1966), pp. 206-22; f o r i n f o r m a t i o n on John B o y l e O ' R e i l l y ' s e s c a p e , and h i s p a r t i n the C a t a l p a r e s c u e , see above, c h a p t e r I, s e c t i o n c, f o o t n o t e 103- 8 See, f o r example, M i c h a e l Roe, " 1 8 3 0 - 5 0 i n A New H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a 1 i a , ed. F.K. C r o w l e y . ( M e l bourne: W i l l i a m Heinemann, 197*), pp. 90-1; C l a r k , I I I , 195-6. 9 John Pascoe Fawkner, quoted i n C l a r k , I I I , 103- See a l s o I I I , 156. I ̂ See Lev i, p. 55 - I I See B a r t l e t t , p. 135; P. Loveday, "'Democracy' i n New South Wales," JRAHS, XXXXII, P t . 4 (1956), 187-200. 1 2 West, I I, 3*2. I 3 See Wentworth, quoted i n C l a r k , S e l e c t Documents, p. 338. 14 A l e x i s de Tocquevi11e, Democracy i n A m e r i c a , ed. J.P. Mayer and Max L e r n e r ( P a r i s , 1835, 1840; r p t . New York: H a r p e r , 1966), p. 5. ' 5 T o c q u e v i l l e , p. 235• 1 6 Sydney Morning H e r a l d , J u l y 28, 1848, quoted i n Melbourne p. 74; Empi r e , September 18, 1851 , quoted i n Melbourne, p. 78. 284 ' 7 Wentworth, quoted i n C l a r k , S e l e c t Documents, pp. 336-9- 18 George W. P i e r s o n , quoted i n A l e x i s de T o c q u e v i l l e , Democracy i n A m e r i c a , ed. R i c h a r d D. H e f f n e r (New York: Mentor, 1956), p. 13- 1 9 See M c L a c h l a n , p. 373, f o o t n o t e 59; C l a r k , I I I , 193"5. 20 Wentworth, quoted i n C l a r k , S e l e c t Documents, p. 340. 21 Quoted i n Melbourne, pp. 79-80. 22 Quoted i n E. D a n i e l P o t t s and A n n e t t e P o t t s , "The Voyages of W i l l i a m and Augustus Rogers o f Salem, M a s s a c h u s e t t s , t o A u s t r a l i a , 1840-1842," JRAHS, LIV, P t . 3 ( S e p t . 1968), 259- 2 V Adams was P r e s i d e n t o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s from 1825 t o 1828. F o r - i n f o r m a t i o n on the Adams/Morgan f r i e n d s h i p , see P e t e r B o l g e r , " L i e u t e n a n t John Morgan: The Dog Tax M a r t y r , " JRAHS, LV, P t . 3 ( S e p t . 1969), 272. 24 See ADB, I I, 258. 25 L i n u s W. M i l l e r , Notes o f an E x i l e t o Van Piemen s Land ( F r e d o n i a , New York: W. M c K i n s t r y , 1846), p. 362. For more on M i l l e r , see below, c h a p t e r VJ s e c t i o n b). 26 Tasmanian Weekly P e s p a t c h , October 30, 1840, quoted i n B o l g e r , p. 276. 27 See B o l g e r , p. 277. 28 See ADB, I I , 258; B o l g e r , p. 2 7 7 - Morgan was a l s o an a d m i r e r o f W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing (see Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y , p. 177). 2 9 Mi H e r , p. 259- 30 The " P a t r i o t i c S i x " were R i c h a r d P r y , Thomas George Gregson, M i c h a e l F e n t o n , C h a r l e s Swanston, W i l l i a m Kermode and John K e r r v 285 31 See C l a r k , I I I , 325 - 30; W. Fearn-Wannan, A u s t r a l i a n F o l k l o r e (Melbourne: Lansdowne P r e s s , 1970), pp. 410-11. 3 2 S e e - B o l g e r , pp. 278-9; ADB, I I , 258. See B a r t l e t t , p. 108. 34 Tennant, p. 160. 3 5 See C l a r k , I I I , p. 337- 3 6 Quoted i n C l a r k , I I I , 418. 37 See Monaghan, p. 251, f o o t n o t e 21. 3 8 See C l a r k , I I I , 423. 39 See P a i n e ' s A g r a r i a n J u s t i c e opposed t o A g r a r i a n Law, and t o A g r a r i a n Monopoly (1797). ^® Henry Nash S m i t h , V i r g i n Lands (New York: V i n t a g e Books, 1957), P. 153. 41 Quoted i n S m i t h , p. 144. 42 See below, c h a p t e r V I , s e c t i o n s a^and b). 43 A r t i c l e s p u b l i s h e d between J a n u a r y 30, 1854 and September 1, 1854. See A C e n t u r y o f J o u r n a l i s m : The Sydney Morning H e r a l d and i t s Record o f A u s t r a l i a n L i f e 1831-1931 (Sydney: John F a i r f a x , 1931), p. 355. 44 Sydney Morning H e r a l d , March 11, 1854, quoted i n C e n t u r y o f J o u r n a 1 i s m , p. 357- 45 See Sydney Morning H e r a l d , September 1, 1854. 46 Sub-headings used i n c l u d e d " C a l i f o r n i a , " "Utah " and "Oregon." See Maya V a l d a S a p i e t s , " A u s t r a l i a n P r e s s Coverage o f A m e r i c a , 1860-65, w i t h s p e c i a l r e f e r e n c e t o New South Wales," M.A. A u s t r a l i a n N a t i o n a l U n i v . 1969, p. 58. 286 Zj7 West, I I , 3*1- A s i m i l a r a t t i t u d e p r e v a i l e d i n o t h e r p a r t s o f the c o l o n y . See, f o r example, C l a r k , I I I , 452-3- See, f o r example, C l a r k , I I I , 436-7; Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y , P- 56. ^ Quoted i n C l a r k , I I I , 320. See a l s o I I I , 326. 5 0 West,III, 347- 5 1 See West, I I , 344-5- West quotes r u l e XVI o f F r a n k l i n ' s " R u l e s by which a G r e a t Empire may be Reduced t o a Small One." See Benjamin F r a n k l i n , The Papers o f Benjamin F r a n k l i n , ed. Leonard W. L a b a r e e , XX (New Haven: Y a l e U n i v . P r e s s , 1976), 397-8. 5 2 West, I I, 344. 5 3 West, I I, 343- S k D i I k e , pp. 307-8. 5 5 See T.H. I r v i n g , "1850-70," i n C r o w l e y , p. 126. 5 6 See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 2-3. 5 7 Quoted i n Monaghan, p. 96. 58 A r g u s , J a n u a r y 19, 1849, quoted i n Churchward, " A u s t r a l i a n - American R e l a t i o n s , " p. 15. 59 P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 2\ For more d e t a i l e d f i g u r e s , see Monaghan, pp. 121, 144, 177-8. 6 0 See B a r t l e t t , pp. 111-114. 61 Quoted i n L e v i , p. 39- 6 2 See B a r t l e t t , p. 115- 63 See, f o r example, L e v i , p. 41, f o o t n o t e 16. 64 P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 3. 287 65 Monaghan, p. 15*. See L e v i , p. 41 . 6 7 See Monaghan, pp. 7, 10-12, 15, 117-118. 68 Quoted i n Monaghan, pp. 28-9. 69 See A i t c h i s o n , p. 10; Monaghan, pp. 143~4; L e v i , p. 44. 7 ^ C o l o n i a l Times ( H o b a r t ) , F e b r u a r y 26, 1850. 7 1 Hobart D a i l y C o u r i e r , F e b r u a r y 16, 1850. 72 See P o t t s and P o t t s , pp. 3-4. 73 Quoted i n B a r t l e t t , p. 116. 7* Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 33. 7 5 Empire, August 20, October 22, 1851 - 76 See A i t c h i son, p. 11. 7 7 See P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 161 (and p. 27). 78 Sydney Morning H e r a l d , J a n u a r y 8, 1852. 79 Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , pp. 4-5- 80 See P o t t s and P o t t s , pp. 27-8. 81 See B a r t l e t t , p. 124; E. D a n i e l and A n n e t t e P o t t s , "American R e p u b l i c a n i s m and the D i s t u r b a n c e s on the V i c t o r i a n G o l d f i e l d s , " H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , X I I I , No. 50 ( A p r i l 1968), 148. 82 London Times, September 19, 1851 - 83 Quoted i n A i t c h i s o n , p. 19. 84 See P o t t s and P o t t s , "American R e p u b l i c a n i s m , " p. 145. 85 S i r C h a r l e s F i t z r o y was Governor o f New South Wales from 1846 t o 1855; C h a r l e s Joseph La Trobe was Governor o f V i c t o r i a from 1851 t o 1854. 288 86 See below, c h a p t e r V I , s e c t i o n s a j a n d c). Crampton t o P a k i n g t o n (October 31, 1853), quoted i n A i t c h i s o n , p. 20. 88 Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , "American R e p u b l i c a n i s m , " p. 146. 89 Quoted i n B a r t l e t t , p. 124. 90 Churchward, " A u s t r a l i a n - A m e r i c a n R e l a t i o n s , " p. 16. 91 See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 66. 92 See below, c h a p t e r V, s e c t i o n s c ) a n d d). 93 L.G. Churchward, "Americans and o t h e r F o r e i g n e r s a t E u r e k a , " H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , V I , No. 23 (Dec. 1954), 46. 94 See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 155_9. 95 See Churchward, "Americans and o t h e r F o r e i g n e r s , " pp. 46-7- 96 Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 155- 97 Hobart Town G u a r d i a n , J a n u a r y 31, 1849. 98 Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 100. 99 Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , "American R e p u b l i c a n i s m , " p. 147. C a l i f o r n i a , o f c o u r s e , was known as the " E u r e k a " s t a t e . Monaghan p o i n t s out trat-.Amer i can names began a p p e a r i n g t h r o u g h o u t the m i n i n g a r e a s o f A u s t r a l i a i n the 18501s (see p. 234). See Monaghan, p. 235. 102 See above, c h a p t e r IV, s e c t i o n a), 1 03 See, f o r example, Monaghan, pp. 242-3. 104 Quoted i n Robin G o l l a n , R a d i c a l and Working C l a s s P o l i t i c s (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , I960), p. 28; I n g l i s , p. 197- See Monaghan, p. 251. 289 * 10 6 See Churchward, "Americans and o t h e r F o r e i g n e r s , " p. 46; A i t c h i s o n , p. 32. ^ 7 See Monaghan, pp. 246-7. 108 See Churchward, "Americans and o t h e r F o r e i g n e r s , " p. 44; P o t t s and P o t t s , "American R e p u b l i c a n i s m , " p. 159; P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 189. 109 See below, c h a p t e r V, s e c t i o n c ) . See Churchward, "Americans and o t h e r F o r e i g n e r s , " p. 48; P o t t s and P o t t s , "American R e p u b l i c a n i s m , " pp. 157-8, 160, 163; P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 186-91, 215; A i t c h i s o n , pp. 31-4. 1 1 1 Quoted i n Churchward, "Americans and o t h e r F o r e i g n e r s , 1 pp. 48-9. 112 Quoted i n A i t c h i s o n , p. 32. See a l s o Monaghan, p. 257- 113 Mark Twain, F o l l o w i n g the E q u a t o r (New York: H a r p e r , 1897), I, 240. 114 See R. E l s e - M i t c h e l l , "American I n f l u e n c e s on A u s t r a l i a n N a t i o n h o o d , " JRAHS, LXI I , P t . 1 (June 1976), 9. 1 1 5 Quoted i n Monaghan, p. 265. See a l s o below, George F r a n c i s T r a i n on E u r e k a , c h a p t e r V, s e c t i o n c), 1 1 6 Quoted i n B a r t l e t t , p. 144. 1 1 7 See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 98. 118 Churchward, " A u s t r a l i a n - A m e r i c a n R e l a t i o n s , " p. 19. 119 See A i t c h i s o n , p. 16; P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 204-8; L e v i , pp. 45, 48. 1 20 P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 90. 290 121 A i t c h i s o n , pp. 16-17. For more on the t r a d e c o n n e c t i o n ' between A u s t r a l i a and America a t t h i s t i m e , see P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 96-122. 1 22 See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 73"8; A i t c h i s o n , p. 15; B a r t l e t t , p. 132. 1 23 See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , pp. 66, 71; B a r t l e t t , p. 125. 124 See M o r i s o n , O x f o r d H i s t o r y , p. 568. 125 Quoted i n B a r t l e t t , p. 107. 126 See Wa1ker, Newspaper P r e s s i n New South Wa1es, pp. 3 5 - 7 , 42-3. > 1 27 See J.H. Moore, "New South Wales and the American C i v i l War," A u s t r a l i a n J o u r n a l o f P o l i t i cs and H i s t o r y , XVI, No. 1 (Apr i1 1970), 29. 1 28 M o r i s o n , p. 576; S a p i e t s , " A u s t r a l i a n P r e s s Coverage," p. 76. See P i e r c e ' s " I n a u g u r a l A d d r e s s " (March 4, 1853), i n James D. R i c h a r d s o n , comp., A C o m p i l a t i o n o f the Messages and Papers o f the P r e s i d e n t s (Washington: Bureau o f N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e and A r t , 1908), V, 199, 201-2. 1 29 See, f o r example, " I n a u g u r a l A d d r e s s " (March 4, 1853), quoted i n R i c h a r d s o n , V, 202. See a l s o P o t t s and P o t t s , pp. 199-200. 1 30 Sydney Morning H e r a l d , May 26, 1854 (see C e n t u r y o f J o u r n a l i s m , p. 358). West had, o f c o u r s e , v o i c e d h i s p o s i t i o n on s l a v e r y i n h i s e a r l i e r H i s t o r y o f Tasmania (1852), when he s a i d : "More f o r t u n a t e . . . than A m e r i c a , i n t h e s e r e g i o n s no A f r i c a n s l a v e r y e x i s t s - - 291 the b r o t h e r w i l l not s e l l h i s s i s t e r , o r the f a t h e r h i s son. The temporary i n c o n v e n i e n c e o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n w i l l l e a v e no deep i n d e n t on c o l o n i a l s o c i e t y ; but the b l a c k brand of s l a v e r y i s i n d e l i b l e " ( I I , 3*7). F u r t h e r , two y e a r s a f t e r the 1854 F e d e r a t i o n a r t i c l e s , the i s s u e s t i l l remained unencumbered by r e g i o n a l and economic com- p l e x i t i e s : " W i l l A u s t r a l i a improve upon the p a t t e r n o f the N o r t h , o r f o l l o w the f o o t s t e p s o f the S o u t h ? " (Sydney Morning H e r a l d , May 22, 1856). 131 See R i c h a r d s o n , V, 432-6; S a p i e t s , pp. 9 5 - 6 . 1 32 Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 199- 133 Monaro Mercury and Cooma and Bombala A d v e r t 1 s e r , J a n u a r y 2 4 , 1862, quoted i n Moore, p. 31. 13* 3 See Moore, pp. 25, 29- 135 See S a p i e t s , pp. 209,'250. 136 See J.M. Graham, "The N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e and the American C i v i l War," JRAHS, LV I I I , P t . 3 ( S e p t . 1972), 202. 1 37 Sydney Morning H e r a l d , J u l y 29, 1 861 . 1 3ft See M o r i s o n , pp. 6 3 3 - 4 ; I n g l i s , pp. 2 2 7 _ 8 . 1 39 Quoted i n Moore, p. 32. 1 40 Quoted i n Moore, p. 32. 1 41 N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c 1 e , J a n u a r y 15, 1862. 142 B l a n c h a r d was the former e d i t o r o f an A b o l i t i o n i s t newspaper, the N a t i o n a l Era ( p u b l i s h e d i n W a s h i n g t o n ) . See P o t t s and P o t t s , Young A m e r i c a , p. 14. 292 1*3 Quoted i n E r n e s t S c o t t , "The 'Shenandoah' I n c i d e n t , 1865," i n A u s t r a l i a and t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , ed. Norman Harper (Melbourne: N e l s o n , 1971), p. 26. See a l s o I n g l i s , pp. 228-30; Dan O ' D o n n e l l , "The 'Shenandoah A f f a i r , ' and A n g l o - C o l o n i a l R e l a t i o n s w i t h the U n i t e d S t a t e s , 1864-1872," JRAHS, LVI I, P t . 3 (Sept. 1971), 213~42. For a t y p i c a l American r e a c t i o n , see the New York Times, A p r i l 29, 1865, quoted i n Frank C r o w l e y , comp., C o l o n i a l A u s t r a l i a 1841-1874, V o l . II o f A Documentary H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a (Melbourne: N e l s o n , 1980), pp. 489-91. 144 Quoted i n I n g l i s , p. 229. See Moore, p. 36. 1 4 6 S a p i e t s , p. 328. 147 M a i t l a n d E n s i g n , October 11, 1862. 148 Yass C o u r i e r , November 26, 1862. 1 49 See Graham, p. 203. The Melbourne A r g u s , to6, c o n s i d e r e d t a r i f f s t o be the p r i n c i p a l cause o f the C i v i l War ( I n g l i s , p. 228). 1 5 0 N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e , December 14, 1861. See S a p i e t s , p. 326. 1 52 See Graham, p. 207. 1 53 N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e , September 19, 1863. 154 N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c 1e, August 16, 1 865- 1 5 5 Melbourne A r g u s , F e b r u a r y 17, 1864. For more on the 18701s, see, f o r example, O ' D o n n e l l , p. 231. 1 56 Sydney Morning H e r a l d , August 10, 1864. 293 ' 5 7 Empi r e , June 2k, I865. 1 58 A t an i n-memof"iam s e r v i c e a t the S c o t s Church Sydney on J u l y 2, 1865, Lang mourned f o r the " i l l u s t r i o u s American p r e s i d e n t . . . . 'He e x t i n g u i s h e d negro s l a v e r y i n A m e r i c a . ' " Quoted i n Lang, John Dunmore Lang, ed. A r c h i b a l d G i l c h r i s t (Melbourne: Jedgarm P u b l i c a t i o n s , 1951), I I, 670-1. 1 59 See Moore, p. 37- 160 Joseph Furphy, The Poems o f Joseph Furphy (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1916), p. 55. See a l s o , "The Death o f P r e s i d e n t L i n c o l n , " pp. k3~Sk. 2 7 4 - CHAPTER V YOUNG AMERICA AT LARGE IN THE COLONY Sect i o n A_ A u s t r a l i a n s Reading There i s no doubt t h a t the t h r e e decades between 1838 and 1868 a r e c r u c i a l t o an u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f both A u s t r a l i a n s o c i e t y and i t s d e v e l o p i n g l i t e r a t u r e . In t h e s e y e a r s America f i g u r e d p r o m i n e n t l y - - e i t h e r p r o v i d i n g the model f o r the s l o g a n s t h a t c o l o n i a l o r a t o r s u t i l i z e d when a g i t a t i n g f o r the a b o l i t i o n o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n and s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t ; o r s u p p l y i n g many o f the men who p e o p l e d the g o l d - f i e l d s ; o r f u r n i s h i n g the m o t i v a t i o n , i n the F i f t i e s and S i x t i e s , f o r d i s c u s s i o n , by A u s t r a l i a n s , o f j u s t what they wanted f o r t h e m s e l v e s , t h e i r c o u n t r y and t h e i r l i t e r a t u r e . An a f f i n i t y of the i m a g i n a t i o n between the two c o u n t r i e s took r o o t . As we s h a l l see, men l i k e : t h e f l a m b o y a n t George T r a i n and C h a r l e s F e r g u s o n , by t h e i r p r e s e n c e i n the new c o u n t r y , h e l p e d t o shape the o p i n i o n s A u s t r a l i a n s h e l d of B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n . But they were c e r t a i n l y not the o n l y s o u r c e s o f i n f o r m a t i o n . In the decades a f t e r Lang p u b l i s h e d Channing's s e m i n a l a d d r e s s "On N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " as 295 more and more American books became a c c e s s i b l e t o a s u r p r i s i n g l y w e l l - r e a d , eager A u s t r a l i a n p u b l i c , the major works o f America's p o l i t i c a l and c r e a t i v e w r i t e r s began t o channel the t h o u g h t s o f t h e i r contemporary A u s t r a l i a n c o u n t e r p a r t s i n c e r t a i n v i t a l , and, most i m p o r t a n t l y , o r i g i n a l d i r e c t i o n s . ' In p a r t i c u l a r , John Dunmore Lang, C h a r l e s Harpur and D a n i e l Deniehy began l i s t e n i n g t o t h e f r e s h and c a p t i v a t i n g music emanat i ng from A m e r i c a , and p o n d e r i n g o v e r i t s r e l e v a n c e t o the new f r o n t i e r i n A u s t r a l i a . T h e i r works, c e r t a i n l y the most t r e n c h a n t and r e w a r d i n g o f t h e p e r i o d i n q u e s t i o n , w i l l be e x p l o r e d i n d e t a i l i n the next c h a p t e r . However, b e f o r e d i s c u s s i n g the unique c o n t r i b u t i o n t o e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e o f Lang, Harpur and D e n i e h y , t h e l i t e r a r y c o n t e x t i n which they found t h e m s e l v e s needs e l a b o r a t i o n - - i f o n l y t o i n d i c a t e the f a c t t h a t the d e t e r m i n a t i o n o f t h e s e t h r e e w r i t e r s t o seek American s o u r c e s was by no means a t y p i c a l . Indeed, i n the decades a f t e r I 8 3 8 , American p o l i t i c a l and i m a g i n a t i v e l i t e r a r y works were o p e n l y a v a i l a b l e t o , and o f t e n read and d i s c u s s e d by A u s t r a l i a n s i n a l l w a l k s o f l i f e , whether poet o r p o l i t i c i a n - , merchant o r miner. As Harpur g r a p p l e d w i t h Emerson's concept o f s e l f - r e l i a n c e (and the l i b e r a t i n g , d e m o c r a t i c i m p l i c a t i o n s o f t r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s t t h o u g h t ) a t h i s Hunter V a l l e y farm, p o l i t i c i a n s i n New South Wales and V i c t o r i a k e e n l y s u b s c r i b e d t o American r e v o l u t i o n a r y l i t e r a t u r e , and miners a t Turon and A d e l o n g and B a l l a r a t thumbed r e v e r e n t l y t h r o u g h U n c l e Tom's C a b i n ( 1 8 5 2 ) . I f t h e r e was a common f e a t u r e t o the works sought a f t e r , perhaps i t was t h a t most i n c l i n e d t o s e r m o n i z e . Vernon P a r r i n g t o n ' s c l a i m 296 t h a t t h e " f o u n d a t i o n s o f a l a t e r A m e r i c a w e r e l a i d i n v i g o r o u s p o l e m i c s , a n d t h e r o u g h s t o n e w a s p l e n t i f u l l y m o r t a r e d w i t h i d e a l i s m " r e l a t e s c l o s e l y t o t h e A m e r i c a n w o r k s f r o m P a i n e t o E m e r s o n a n d S t o w e : t h a t 2 A u s t r a l i a n s w a n t e d t o r e a d . B e f o r e 1833, e v e n i n E n g l a n d , f e w A m e r i c a n b o o k s w e r e a v a i l a b l e , a n d f e w e r s t i l l w e r e r e a d . M u c h t h e s a m e w a s t r u e i n A u s t r a l i a . A f t e r t h i s d a t e , h o w e v e r , a s t e a d i l y e x p a n d i n g n u m b e r o f A m e r i c a n b o o k s b e c a m e a v a i l a b l e i n b o t h c o u n t r i e s . O n c e a g a i n , 1838 e m e r g e s a s c o n v e n i e n t l y s y m b o l i c i n t h a t d u r i n g t h a t y e a r a l a w w a s e n a c t e d t o e s t a b l i s h r e c i p r o c a l i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t . T h e U . S . C o n g r e s s , h o w e v e r , r e f u s e d t o s u p p o r t t h e l a w , w i t h t h e r e s u l t t h a t E n g l i s h p u b l i s h e r s d e c l a r e d t h a t A m e r i c a n b o o k s c o u l d n o l o n g e r b e p r o t e c t e d b y c o p y r i g h t . A r a s h o f p i r a t e d A m e r i c a n e d i t i o n s a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y c a m e o n t o t h e m a r k e t a n d d e m a n d w a s s u c h t h a t , o v e r t h e e n s u i n g d e c a d e s , t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f c h e a p A m e r i c a n w o r k s g r e w t o e p i d e m i c 3 p r o p o r t i o n s . A s o n e c o m m e n t a t o r h a s r e m a r k e d : " T h e 18401 s a n d 18501 s w e r e t h e h e y d a y o f t h e c h e a p A m e r i c a n r e p r i n t . " I n e v i t a b l y , t h e g r e a t e r a v a i l a b i l i t y o f A m e r i c a n t e x t s i n E n g l a n d b e g a n t o e x e r t a n o t i c e a b l e e f f e c t o n A u s t r a l i a i n t h e 18401 s a n d t h e r e a f t e r . I n d e e d , a t o n e p o i n t i n t h e 1850 1 s , t h e i s s u e l e d t o a h e a t e d p u b l i c d e b a t e i n M e l b o u r n e b e t w e e n t h e A r g u s n e w s p a p e r a n d M e l b o u r n e ' s l e a d i n g b o o k s e l l e r ( a n d , u l t i m a t e l y , t h e d o y e n o f n i n e - ty t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A u s t r a l i a n p u b l i s h e r s ) , G e o r g e R o b e r t s o n . R o b e r t s o n , s y m p a t h e t i c t o t h e p l i g h t o f t h e c r e a t i v e w r i t e r i n a n y c o u n t r y , a d a m a n t l y d e f e n d e d t h e r i g h t o f A m e r i c a n a u t h o r s t o a p e r c e n t a g e o f 297 p u b l i c a t i o n p r o f i t s . The A r g u s , on t h e o t h e r hand, d e c l a r e d the cheap p i r a t e d e d i t i o n s "among the b e s t t h i n g s America sends t o u s . " F u r t h e r , i t a s s e r t e d t h a t R o b e r t s o n s t o o d as c u l p a b l e as anyone because t h e r e wasn't "a b o o k s t o r e i n t h e c i t y which does .not o f f e r t h e s e r e p r i n t s f o r s a l e . " The e d i t o r e x p r e s s e d h i s w i s h t h a t e v e r y decent household s h o u l d have "a good l i b r a r y o f cheap American r e p r i n t s . " The comments o f the Argus e d i t o r s u b s t a n t i a t e the f a c t t h a t a wide v a r i e t y o f American works c o u l d be purchased i n A u s t r a l i a by the e a r l y 18501s. P u b l i c a t i o n and d i s t r i b u t i o n o f American p o l i t i c a l and i m a g i n a t i v e works had i n c r e a s e d apace i n the F o r t i e s , and w i t h the i n f l u x o f Americans t o the A u s t r a l i a n g o l d f i e l d s a f t e r 1851, demand grew f u r t h e r . 7 E x p a t r i a t e Americans wanted t o keep a b r e a s t o f e v e n t s i n t h e i r own c o u n t r y - - t h u s p r o v i d i n g o b v i o u s o p p o r t u n i t y f o r the e n t e r p r i s i n g s p e c u l a t o r a b l e t o s a t i s f y community needs. C e r t a i n American b o o k s e l l e r s and a u c t i o n e e r s became renowned f o r t h e i r m i n i s t r a t i o n s (and a n t i c s ) , r e s p o n d i n g c o l o u r f u l l y t o t h e unprecedented demand f o r American works. One s e l l e r and m o b i l e l i b r a r i a n , a p p a r e n t l y a Young American f o l l o w e r o f T r a i n i a n economic t h e o r y , b o l d l y a d v e r t i s e d h i s wares i n l a r g e l e t t e r s i n . t h e V i c t o r i a n g o l d f i e l d s : "Baker's g G o l d - d i g g e r s ' Go-a-head L i b r a r y and R e g i s t r a t i o n O f f i c e f o r New Chums." With hardy s e l l e r s l i k e Baker and the i n t r e p i d a u c t i o n e e r L a n g l e y e v e r eager t o t u r n books i n t o p r o f i t , d i g g e r s w i t h the money t o s u p p o r t t h e i r h a b i t c o u l d a t l e a s t read the b e s t , d e s p i t e t h e i r immediate g d i s c o m f o r t s . 298 At a t i m e , t h e n , when A u s t r a l i a n s were b e g i n n i n g t o s o b e r l y a s s e s s t h e i r c o u n t r y ' s p r o s p e c t s and p o t e n t i a l , i n t e r e s t e d commentators had more c o n v e n i e n t a c c e s s t o American t e x t s . ^ The A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n c o n n e c t i o n q u i c k l y outgrew the s i n g l e d i m e n s i o n o f e a r l i e r y e a r s . For t h a t s m a l l band o f c o l o n i s t s c o n c e r n e d w i t h e x p l o r i n g t h e deep i m p l i c a t i o n s o f e s t a b l i s h i n g a c o u n t r y and i t s l i t e r a t u r e , America assumed both an a c t u a l and an i m a g i n a t i v e p r e s e n c e . And a f t e r I838, they c o u l d u s u a l l y o b t a i n the American t e x t s r e l e v a n t t o t h e i r p u r s u i t s . Those i n t e r e s t e d i n A u s t r a l i a ' s p r o g r e s s towards s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t and p o s s i b l e independence c o u l d r e a d i l y c o n s u l t the w r i t e r s o f the Great R e p u b l i c , who had been t h e r e b e f o r e . I t i s not d i f f i c u l t . t o guess t h e k i n d s o f p o l i t i c a l works t h a t s o l d w e l l . In Melbourne, the New Y o r k e r Benjamin M o r t i m e r aimed a t b e i n g the p r i n c i p a l s u p p l i e r o f American books. F u l l y aware o f the v o l a t i l e p o l i t i c a l c l i m a t e i n A u s t r a l i a , M o r t i m e r urged " t h e u t i l i t y o f s t u d y i n g the C o n s t i t u t i o n and the C o n s t r u c t i o n o f the Government o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s " and b o l d l y a d v e r t i s e d the works o f , among o t h e r s , J e f f e r s o n , C a l h o u n , C l a y , Maury and P r e s c o t t , a l o n g w i t h c o p i e s o f Webster's d i c t i o n a r y . B i o g r a p h i e s o f the major A m e r i c a n p o l i t i c a l f i g u r e s - - 1 i k e Washington, D a n i e l Webster, Henry C l a y and F r a n k l i n P i e r c e - - c o u l d a l s o be p u r c h a s e d , w h i l e t h o s e u n a b l e t o a f f o r d the t e x t s o f t e n r e l i e d on the newspapers t o p r o v i d e them w i t h c r u c i a l a r e a s o f i n f o r m a t i o n . 1 1 In J u l y , 1853, the A r g u s , f o r example, p r i n t e d J e f f e r s o n ' s D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence--the r h e t o r i c o f which was u n s w e r v i n g l y u t i l i z e d by miners i n t h e i r d e m o n s t r a t i o n s 299 l e a d i n g up t o Eureka. I n t e r e s t e d p a r t i e s i n New South Wales w i s h i n g t o c o n s u l t American w r i t e r s i n t h e i r p u r s u i t o f s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t had s i m i l a r r e s o u r c e s i n t h e i r l i b r a r i e s and l o c a l b o o k s t o r e s . The P a r l i a m e n t a r y L i b r a r y , founded i n the 1840's, p o s s e s s e d a comprehensive c o l l e c t i o n o f American 1 2 h i s t o r i c a l and p o l i t i c a l works. I t seems they were much i n demand f o r , i n the c r u c i a l debates o f the e a r l y 18501s, W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth r e f e r r e d t o the w r i t i n g s o f George Washington, A l e x i s de T o c q u e v i l l e and John C. Calhoun i n such a d e t a i l e d way as t o r e f l e c t not o n l y h i s own c l o s e f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h the d o c t r i n e s i n q u e s t i o n , but a s i m i l a r i n t i m a t e knowledge on b e h a l f o f h i s a u d i e n c e . I t i s worth m e n t i o n i n g , t o o , t h a t i n an a d v e r t i s e m e n t i n the Free P r e s s , o f March 1842, b o a s t i n g a " S a l e o f the most p o p u l a r Books e v e r known i n the C o l o n y " the sponsor saw f i t t o i n c l u d e Thomas J e f f e r s o n ' s name, a l o n g w i t h the s t a p l e s ( S h a k e s p e a r e , D i c k e n s , Cooper, I r v i n g 1 3 and S c o t t ) . F i n a l l y , w i t h the i n f l u x o f Americans i n t o A u s t r a l i a i n the 1-8501 s, t h e r e i s l i t t l e doubt t h a t , meeting a t c l o s e q u a r t e r s , the c i t i z e n s o f both n a t i o n s would have d i s c u s s e d and c o n t r a s t e d the p o l i t i c a l systems i n t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e c o u n t r i e s . George F r a n c i s T r a i n , f o r one, made i t h i s b u s i n e s s t o c i r c u l a t e h i s p r i v a t e c o l l e c t i o n o f c r u c i a l American works. L o c a l p o l i t i c i a n s bombarded him w i t h r e q u e s t s : . . . as they i n t e n d f r a m i n g a new c o n s t i t u t i o n , a l l hands a r e i n q u i r i n g f o r B a n c r o f t ' s H i s t o r y o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s , M a s s a c h u s e t t s s t a t e p a p e r s , F r a n k l i n ' s works, the c o n s t i t u t i o n , 300 and a l l the documents t h a t were p r i n t e d a t the dawn o f l i b e r t y i n ila bel 1 e Amer i c a . I had two c o p i e s o f the c o n s t i t u t i o n , both o f w h i c h a r e now i n the p o s s e s s i o n of M.L.C.'sJ't T r a i n ' s e x p e r i e n c e must have been a common one. However, i f the works of J e f f e r s o n , F r a n k l i n , Webster and t h e i r companions p r o c l a i m e d the d e s i r a b i l i t y o f r e p u b l i c a n i n s t i t u t i o n s and a d v e r t i s e d the p r a i s e w o r t h y f e a t u r e s o f " l a b e l 1 e Amer i c a , " one o t h e r book p o s s i b l y d i d more, s i n g l e - h a n d e d l y , t o t a r n i s h America's image: H a r r i e t Beecher Stowe's U n c i e Tom's Cab i n ; o r L i f e among the Lowly (1852). To most A u s t r a l i a n s , g r i m l y aware o f the way t h e i r c o u n t r y had been f o r g e d on the b l o o d i e d backs o f c h a i n e d c o n v i c t s , s l a v e r y was anathema. They c o u l d not w i l l i n g l y model themselves on a n a t i o n i n which s l a v e r y was l e g a l - - a n a t t i t u d e which c o n t r i b u t e d t o the huge s u c c e s s o f Stowe's s i n c e r e , though too s e n t i m e n t a l t a l e . An enormous s u c c e s s i n 18501s England ( i n d e e d a " b e s t s e l l e r " f o r the next f i f t y y e a r s ) and thus h a s t i l y d i s t r i b u t e d i n p i r a t e d e d i t i o n s , U n c l e Tom's C a b i n soon made a f o r c e f u l impact on A u s t r a l i a . ' 5 M i n e r s i n the b a c k - b l o c k s so s t r o n g l y s a n c t i o n e d i t s h o n e s t y o f purpose t h a t the "much-thumbed" volume v i e d w i t h the B i b l e f o r the d i g g e r s ' l o y a l t y . ' 6 Moreover, Stowe's momentous work succeeded i n the c i t i e s as w e l l . L o c a l bards w r o t e poems i n response t o i t ; songs, such as "The S l a v e Mother," owed t h e i r i n s p i r a t i o n t o i t ; even s h o p k e e p e r s , r e c o g n i z i n g the development o f a w i d e l y u n d e r s t o o d l o c a l c o n n o t a t i o n , u t i l i z e d the name.'7 Numerous l e c t u r e h a l l s were awash w i t h t e a r s s t i m u l a t e d by r e - t e l l i n g s of the p l o t . P e o p l e a n g r i l y q u e s t i o n e d the 301 e t h i c s o f a system which c o u l d t o l e r a t e such shameful abuse o f man by man. A u s t r a l i a n s were t o l d t h a t , i n A m e r i c a , g i r l s " w i t h eyes as b l u e . . . and c o m p l e x i o n s as f a i r as any o f A u s t r a l i a ' s f a i r e s t d a u g h t e r s . . . were bought and sold l i k e b e a s t s o f burden o r c h a t t e l s i n the m a r k e t p l a c e . " Many acknowledged U n c l e Tom's i n h e r e n t t r u t h as a " w i t h e r i n g e x p o s u r e o f the i n f i d e l i t y o f a n a t i o n t o i t s own 18 p o l i t i c a l c r e e d . " Yet A u s t r a l i a d i d have i t s c l a s s o f landed g e n t r y who r i g o r o u s l y d e n i e d Stowe's a s s u m p t i o n s i n U n c l e Tom's C a b i n . L i k e t h e i r c o u n t e r - p a r t s i n the s o u t h e r n s t a t e s o f A m e r i c a , they c o u l d o n l y see the p o s i t i v e b e n e f i t s o f s l a v e r y i n C h r i s t e n d o m f o r c o l o u r e d heathen r a c e s . They s u p p o r t e d W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth's p l e a f o r a c l a s s 19 o f "Shepherd K i n g s " i n A u s t r a l i a . Henry K i n g s l e y ' s p r o t a g o n i s t i n The R e c o l l e c t i o n s o f G e o f f r e y Hamlyn (1859) i l l u s t r a t e s the p o i n t a d m i r a b l y . R o a s t i n g i n "a p l a c i d , b u r n i n g summer" i n t h e A u s t r a l i a n o u t b a c k , he i d l y e x p a t i a t e s on the r e w a r d i n g c o m f o r t s o f s i t t i n g back, r e l a x i n g on a c o o l verandah: One t h i n g o n l y was wanted t o make i t p e r f e c t , and t h a t was n i g g e r s . To the winds w i t h U n c l e Tom's C a b i n , and Dred a f t e r i t , i n a hot w i n d ! What can an a c t i v e - m i n d e d , s e l f - h e l p f u l l a d y l i k e Mrs. Stowe, f r e e z i n g up t h e r e i n C o n n e c t i c u t , o b l i g e d t o do something t o keep h e r s e l f warm,--what can she, I ask, know about the r e q u i r e m e n t s o f a s o u t h e r n gentleman when t h e thermometer s t a n d s a t 125° i n the shade? P i s h ! Does she know the e x e r t i o n r e q u i r e d f o r c u t t i n g up a p i p e o f t o b a c c o i n a hot n o r t h wind? No! Does she know the amount o f p e r s p i r a t i o n and anger s u p e r i n d u c e d by k n o c k i n g t h e head o f f a b o t t l e o f Bass i n J a n u a r y ? Does she know the p h y s i c a l p r o s t r a t i o n w h i c h i s caused by b r e a k i n g up two lumps o f hard w h i t e 302 sugar i n a pawnee b e f o r e a t h u n d e r s t o r m ? No, she d o e s n ' t , o r she would c r y out f o r n i g g e r s w i t h the b e s t o f us! When the thermometer g e t s o v e r 100° i n the shade, a l l men would have s l a v e s i f they were a l l o w e d . An A n g l o - Saxon c o n s c i e n c e w i l l n o t , save i n r a r e i n s t a n c e s , bear a h i g h e r a v e r a g e heat than 9 5 ° . 2 u K i n g s l e y might have been h a v i n g f u n a t the expense o f the c l a s s he wished t o d e p i c t , but the i s s u e was one t h a t , f o r most A u s t r a l i a n s , c o u l d be approached w i t h l i t t l e humour. Of one t h i n g the a u t h o r c o u l d be c e r t a i n , however: i n 1859 h i s r e f e r e n c e s t o Mrs. Stowe, U n c i e Tom's Cab i n and Dred would not be l o s t on e i t h e r h i s Eng1i sh or h i s A u s t r a l i a n r e a d e r s . Both o f Stowe's a b o l i t i o n i s t n o v e l s , U n c i e Tom's Cab i n and Dred, A T a l e o f the G r e a t Dismal Swamp (1856) h e l d so much i n t e r e s t 21 f o r A u s t r a l i a n s t h a t they prompted a number o f s t a g e a d a p t a t i o n s . Frank F o w l e r , an E n g l i s h a u t h o r and j o u r n a l i s t who r e s i d e d i n A u s t r a l i a f o r h e a l t h reasons between 1855 and 1857, penned an a c c l a i m e d v e r s i o n o f Unc1e Tom's Cab i n ent i 11ed Eva, o r Leaves from U n c i e Tom's Cab i n. T h i s " c l e v e r and i n t e r e s t i n g " p r o d u c t i o n , w i t h i t s New O r l e a n s panorama and s p e c i a l e f f e c t s broken up by the banjo and tambourine i n t e r l u d e s o f E t h i o p i a n m i n s t r e l s , ran f o r s i x p o p u l a r n i g h t s a t the Lyceum 22 T h e a t r e . The Freeman's J o u r n a l r e v i e w e d the show i n f l a t t e r i n g 23 terms, l a b e l l i n g i t a p i e c e o f " c o n s i d e r a b l e a r t i s t i c m e r i t . " F o w l e r ' s knowledge o f American l i t e r a t u r e , as w i l l s h o r t l y be shown, extended w e l l beyond an a c q u a i n t a n c e w i t h Mrs..Stowe. A c o n t r i b u t i n g member o f N i c o l D r y s a l e Stenhouse's i m p o r t a n t c i r c l e o f w r i t e r s (which i n c l u d e d Deniehy and Harpur) i n Sydney d u r i n g the 18501s, 303 Fowler f r e q u e n t l y e x h i b i t e d an i n t i m a t e knowledge o f contemporary American l i t e r a t u r e e i t h e r i n p r i v a t e c o n v e r s a t i o n , i n h i s w r i t i n g s 2k o r on the podium. As A u s t r a l i a n knowledge o f American p o l i t i c a l e v e n t s and p o l i c i e s grew t h r o u g h o u t the 1850's, c o n f u s i o n and d i s e n c h a n t m e n t i n t e n s i f i e d . The image o f the f o r e f a t h e r s who shaped the American R e v o l u t i o n r e - mained u n t a i n t e d , but the e s c a l a t i n g problem o f s l a v e r y s h a t t e r e d i l l u s i o n s . So much s o , t h a t when Henry K e n d a l l ( s h o r t l y a f t e r the appearance o f h i s f i r s t book, Poems and Songs (1862)) p u b l i s h e d a group of s i x sonnets i n John West's Sydney Morning H e r a l d i n June 25 and J u l y , 1863, he c o u l d look a t the war o n l y w i t h sad r e s i g n a t i o n . No t a k i n g s i d e s , no r h e t o r i c , j u s t a d e s p e r a t e p l e a f o r a c e s s a t i o n o f the c o n f 1 i c t : Ay, s t o p and sob! t h i s mad'..unnatural i r e Which makes a man become h i s b r o t h e r ' s f o e , And goads and d r i v e s h i s son a g a i n s t the s i r e . B r i n g s w i l d e r t e a r s than we s h a l l e v e r know! 2 " K e n d a l l had had enough o f p o l i t i c i a n s from n o r t h and s o u t h , o r perhaps newspapers i n A u s t r a l i a , p r o c l a i m i n g the j u s t n e s s of one cause o r the o t h e r . He c o u l d see o n l y the sombre r e a l i t y o f s u f f e r i n g i n d i v i d u a l s : But y e t , w i t h i n a l o n e r e d - t r a m p l e d s p a c e , A Mother s i t s w i t h moan and broken w a i l . How can the woman o f t h i s d o l e f u l p l a c e Care aught f o r " G l o r y " t h a t they rave about!27 The tone o f the f i n a l sonnet d e s e r v e s mention. As the p o e t ' s "songs go f o r t h " from " w i l d A u s t r a l i a n h i l l s , " the g r i e f o f h i s American 3 0 4 b r o t h e r s assumes d e e p l y p e r s o n a l p r o p o r t i o n s . The e m o t i o n a l p r o x i m i t y and, above a l l , a sense o f the u n i v e r s a l human s i g n i f i c a n c e o f the f a r - o f f c o n f l i c t f o r both w r i t e r and contemporary r e a d e r a r e o b v i o u s . A measure o f the q u i e t agony o f s e v e r a l Walt Whitman poems i n Drum Taps ( I . 8 6 5 - 6 ) permeates the l i n e s : You y e a r n , my b r o t h e r s , f o r a r e g a l Rhyme Wherein might f l o w a t a l e o f g r i e f s u b l i m e , As f l o w the b r e e z e s b e a r i n g from the N o r t h The p a s s i o n o f a p a s s i o n - h a u n t e d c l i m e , But I am f a i n t ; and v o i c e s f u l l and f r e e A r e not o f s t o r m s . 2 8 I t i s an i n d i c a t i o n o f the d i s t u r b i n g impact of the American C i v i l War on A u s t r a l i a t h a t , f i r s t , K e n d a l l s h o u l d be moved t o respond so e l a b o r a t e l y , and, second, t h a t i n e x p r e s s i n g h i m s e l f i n such p r o f o u n d l y p e r s o n a l t e r m s , he c o u l d r e l y on h i s r e a d e r s e m p a t h i z i n g . Perhaps the most n o t i c e a b l e e f f e c t o f New-World r e v o l u t i o n a r y p r o s e and p o e t r y on A u s t r a l i a i n the decades a f t e r I838 was the impetus i t gave A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s t o b e g i n t o s p e c u l a t e more s e r i o u s l y on t h e i r c o u n t r y ' s v a s t m a t e r i a l and s p i r i t u a l p o t e n t i a l . Fanned by the l i b e r a l i z i n g t e n d e n c i e s o f Governor Bourke's t e n u r e as g o v e r n o r i n the 1 8 3 0 1 s , the end o f t r a n s p o r t a t i o n t o New South Wales, and a s t e a d y i n f l u x o f a m b i t i o u s e m i g r a n t s , a "custom o f p r o p h e t i c prophecy" 29 began. A u s t r a l i a s t i l l had a d i s t i n c t i v e and i n f l u e n t i a l group who, i n the event o f an A u s t r a l i a n War o f Independence, would choose, w i t h G e o f f r e y Hamlyn's Sam B u c k l e y , "The K i n g ' s (I beg pardon, the Queen's) s i d e , o f c o u r s e , " but g r e a t e r numbers were b e g i n n i n g t o s u s p e c t 305 u n q u e s t i o n i n g l o y a l t y t o a f a r - o f f s o v e r e i g n . J U For the f i r s t t i m e , some A u s t r a l i a n s r e a l i z e d t h a t the i d e a l o f s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t c o u l d become a r e a l i t y . Optimism g a i n e d new s t r e n g t h . When Thomas C a m p b e l l , i n 1828, pondered A u s t r a l i a ' s f u t u r e t h u s : D e l i g h t f u l l a n d ! i n w i l d e r n e s s even b e n i g n , The g l o r i o u s p a s t i s o u r s , the f u t u r e t h i n e . . . . Land o f the f r e e ! t h y kingdom i s t o come-- Of s t a t e s , w i t h laws from G o t h i c bondage b u r s t , And c r e e d s by c h a r t e r e d p r i e s t h o o d s u n a c c u r s t . . . . --he e n v i s a g e d a n o t h e r B r i t a i n i n a n o t h e r hemisphere, as h i s c o u n t r y - man Erasmus Darwin had when Botany Bay was f i r s t s e t t l e d . R a d i c a l t h i n k e r s i n l 8 4 0 ' s A u s t r a l i a , however, had d i f f e r e n t i d e a s . The h e s i t a n t e x p r e s s i o n s o f independence o f the ' 30' s grew more c o n f i d e n t , a s s e r t i v e . W.A. Duncan, a c o l o n i a l f i g h t e r f o r the r i g h t s o f the common man, p u b l i s h e d an anthem e n t i t l e d " A u s t r a l i a The Wide And The F r e e " i n 1842, which seemed l o g i c a l l y t o extend the d e c l a m a t o r y a r g u - ments o f p r o t e s t i n g c o l o n i a l newspaper e d i t o r s o f the l820's. In t h e poem, Duncan a d v o c a t e d a r e a p p r a i s a l o f t h e c o l o n y ' s r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h England. T y p i c a l l y , a l l u d i n g t o the American R e v o l u t i o n , he a s s e r t e d : I s i n g not o f wars, f o r our f i e l d s a r e u n s t a i n e d W i t h the b l o o d o f our p a t r i o t men; ' T i s i n peace, and by commerce our honours were g a i n e d ; Which i n peace o r by w a i — w e ' l l m a i n t a i n . 3 2 For p o s s i b l y the f i r s t t i m e , a c o l o n i a l w r i t e r t e n t a t i v e l y proposed the i d e a o f A u s t r a l i a as the u l t i m a t e New World--one as y e t u n t a r n i s h e d by w a r f a r e , and One f r e e o f Old-World p r e j u d i c e s and s o r d i d i n t e r n a t i o n a l 306 i n t r i g u e s : We b o a s t not indeed of a n t i q u i t y ' s badge, Nor our a n c e s t r a l deeds loud p r o c l a i m . . . . S t a r t i n g anew, A u s t r a l i a had the chance t o b u i l d a n a t i o n out o f i d e a l i s m , c a r e f u l l y a v o i d i n g the s m o u l d e r i n g ashes o f Europe. S t r o n g o v e r t o n e s o f r e s p o n s i b l e government, o f independence, pervade the poem. New-World r h e t o r i c abounds as Duncan broaches the i d e a o f a new b e g i n n i n g f o r the sons o f man i n the s o u t h e r n c o n t i n e n t . Over the next decades, some o f A u s t r a l i a ' s most a c t i v e men o f l e t t e r s began t o use, o r a t times s i m p l y e x p l o i t , an American v o c a b u l a r y . Henry P a r k e s , the w i l y m o n a r c h i c democrat, o r , i f you l i k e , d e m o c r a t i c m o n a r c h i s t , i n c l u d e d some o v e r t l y p o l i t i c a l poems i n h i s second volume o f ( r a t h e r poor) poems, Murmurs o f the Stream (1857). In "The Mother and Son," he makes s p e c i f i c r e f e r e n c e t o E n g l i s h s h o r t s i g h t e d n e s s when c o n f r o n t e d by a g e n u i n e l y p o p u l a r American r e p u b l i c a n movement: How i t s dogmas and e d i c t s had anger'd the brave To u n n a t u r a l war, by the w i l d Western wave! How i t s r e c o r d s were t r a c e d w i t h the sword i n the wild-wood And c i t i e s n e w - b u i l t o f A m e r i c a ' s c h i l d h o o d ! 33 In the poem's c o n c l u s i o n , Parkes e x p r e s s e s the hope t h a t no "son o f A u s t r a l i a " w i l l e v e r have t o s t a n d "a foeman" a g a i n s t England ( a f t e r the American example). A s i m i l a r s p i r i t o f democracy and independence pervades such poems as "A League Hymn" ( w r i t t e n " t o promote the o b j e c t s o f the A u s t r a l a s i a n A n t i - T r a n s p o r t a t i o n L e a g u e " ) , "Our Coming C o u n t r y - men" and "The Sun-Thought." Yet P a r k e s had none o f the m i l i t a n c y 307 p r e v a l e n t a t the d i g g i n g s , where the t h o u g h t s o f P a t r i c k Henry, Samuel Adams and Thomas P a i n e echoed c o n s t a n t l y i n the m i n e r s ' p r o t e s t s , h i g h l i g h t e d by the r e f r a i n o f the song, " V i c t o r i a ' s S o u t h e r n C r o s s , " which emerged from the Eureka S t o c k a d e : Be f a i t h f u l t o the S t a n d a r d , f o r v i c t o r y o f death.35 The most c o n s i s t e n t spokesmen f o r a r e p u b l i c a n , independent f u t u r e f o r A u s t r a l i a , however, were John Dunmore Lang, C h a r l e s Harpur and D a n i e l Deniehy. By the m i d d l e l850's, Lang had c o n f i r m e d h i s p o s i t i o n as the p u b l i c i s t o f the movement, i t s Thomas P a i n e , i f you l i k e ; Deniehy f i g u r e d as t h e sometime o r a t o r , i n s p i r a t i o n and c r i t i c o f t h e c a u s e , i t s Emerson; and Harpur, though h a r d l y p r a i s e d i n h i s own t i m e , emerged as the exemplar o f the new c r i t i q u e , i t s Walt Whitman. These men d i d as much as anyone t o c o n s o l i d a t e a d e m o c r a t i c f u t u r e f o r A u s t r a l i a . And so s u c c e s s f u l were they t h a t Henry K e n d a l l , Harpur's p r o t e g e o f s o r t s , c o u l d s e r i o u s l y s u g g e s t a U t o p i a n f u t u r e f o r A u s t r a l i a i n h i s 1859 poem "The Far F u t u r e . " In the same manner as Duncan (and, as I w i l l show, D e n i e h y ) , K e n d a l l imagined the p o s i t i v e b e n e f i t s o f b e i n g a young and g e o g r a p h i c a l l y i s o l a t e d c o u n t r y : The yoke o f dependence a s i d e she w i l l c a s t , And b u i l d on t h e r u i n s and wrecks o f the P a s t . 36 He c o u l d f o r e s e e a f u t u r e f r e e o f monarchy and s l a v e r y , a f u t u r e A u s t r a l i a acknowledged t o be the a r c h e t y p e o f democracy by the r e s t o f the w o r l d , i n c l u d i n g A m e r i c a : 3 0 8 When b u r s t i n g t h o s e l i m i t s above she w i l l s o a r , O u t s t r e t c h i n g a l l r i v a l s who've mounted b e f o r e , And, r e s t i n g w i l l b l a z e w i t h her g l o r i e s u n f u r l ' d , The empire o f empires and boast o f the w o r l d . T h i s i d e a o f A u s t r a l i a as a f u t u r e u t o p i a 1 - p u b l i c 1 y pushed by Deniehy-- would s u r f a c e o f t e n between i860 and the t u r n o f the c e n t u r y . Some l o c a l s , such as C h a r l e s T h a t c h e r , would u t i l i z e i t f o r ammunition i n an immediate cause ( i n T h a t c h e r ' s c a s e , the Land Q u e s t i o n i n the mid 3 7 1860' s ); o t h e r s , l a t e r i n the c e n t u r y , d e t e r m i n e d t o b u i l d t h e i r f u t u r e l i v e s on the premise t h a t the i d e a c o u l d be r e a l i z e d i n the s h o r t - t e r m . How e v e r i t was, though, the i d e a i t s e l f grew from an i d e o l o g i c a l frame o f r e f e r e n c e , and a v o c a b u l a r y , grounded i n p a r t a t l e a s t on the p o l i t i c a l - a n d s o c i a l p r i n c i p l e s o f the American R e v o l u t i o n Complementing the wide v a r i e t y o f American p o l i t i c a l works b e g i n n i n g t o e f f e c t changes i n A u s t r a l i a n s o c i a l l i f e was a c o r r e s p o n d i n g aware- ness o f , and p u b l i c i t y f o r more f a n c i f u l works by l e a d i n g contemporary American a u t h o r s . A g a i n , m i r r o r i n g the s i t u a t i o n w i t h p o l i t i c a l t r a c t s , the r a p i d l y e x p a n d i n g E n g l i s h market ( i n the l 8 4 0 ' s ) f o r p i r a t e d American books soon wrought i t s e f f e c t on A u s t r a l i a . Maya S a p i e t s has w r i t t e n t h a t i n E n g l a n d , as i n her c o l o n i e s , " t h e r a i l w a y paperback owed i t s s u c c e s s t o the a v a i l a b i l i t y o f the works o f such a u t h o r s as Fenimore Cooper, Washington I r v i n g , N a t h a n i e l P. W i l l i s , Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w and James R u s s e l l L o w e l l . " P i r a t e d one or two s h i l l i n g c o p i e s o f the Novel Newspaper s p e c i a l i z e d i n I r v i n g and Cooper, and responded t o the l a r g e demand f o r R i c h a r d Henry Dana J u n i o r ' s c l a s s i c Two Years B e f o r e the Mast ( 1 8 4 0 ) , C h a r l e s Brockden Brown's G o t h i c 309 r o m a n c e s , James K i r k e P a u l d i n g ' s W e s t w a r d H o ! (1832), a n d t h e p l a y s 39 a n d n o v e l s o f N a t h a n i e l P. W i l l i s a n d . R o b e r t M o n t g o m e r y B i r d . L o c a l - c o l o u r n o v e l i s t s o f t h e S o u t h , W i l l i a m G i l m o r e Simms a n d J . P . K e n n e d y , a l s o had an a u d i e n c e f o r t h e i r p a g e a n t s ; t h e d i m e n o v e l s o f Edward J u d s o n a n d J . P . Ingraham f l o u r i s h e d ; and J o h n B u l l ' s c h i l d r e n s o o n became f a m i l i a r w i t h t h e b o o k s o f P e t e r P a r l e y , S u s a n W a r n e r 40 and J a c k A b b o t . C o l o n i s t s w i t h h i g h e r a s p i r a t i o n s , o f c o u r s e , c o u l d r e a d i l y a c q u i r e t h e w o r k s o f E m e r s o n a n d C h a n n i n g , t h e poems and s h o r t s t o r i e s o f E d g a r A l l a n P o e , . o r e v e n t h e o c c a s i o n a l M e l v i l l e n o v e l . T h i s g r e a t e r a c c e s s i b i l i t y o f i m a g i n a t i v e w o r k s by A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s had d i s t i n c t c o n s e q u e n c e s f o r A u s t r a l i a b e t w e e n 1838 a n d 1 8 6 8 . C e r t a i n i n d i r e c t s t a t e m e n t s o f t h e t i m e g i v e us a c l u e . F r e d e r i c k S i n n e t t ' s t h r o w a w a y r e f e r e n c e t o N a t h a n i e l H a w t h o r n e ' s G o t h i c t a l e T h e H o u s e o f t h e S e v e n G a b l e s (1851) i n h i s " F i c t i o n F i e l d s " e s s a y (1856) t a k e s f o r g r a n t e d t h a t h i s r e a d e r s h i p h a d , a t t h e v e r y l e a s t , a n a c q u a i n t a n c e - 42 s h i p w i t h t h e New E n g l a n d a u t h o r ' s f i c t i o n . A s i m i l a r a s s u m p t i o n i s made i n an 1864 poem a t t r i b u t e d t o S i n n e t t - - t h i s t i m e i n r e f e r e n c e t o P o e : T h e l a t e l a m e n t e d E d g a r A l l e n [ s i c ] P o e , T h e a u t h o r o f " T h e R a v e n " , a s y o u know, Among h i s many we 1 1 - remembered rhymes Has w r i t t e n c e r t a i n v e r s e s upon c h i m e s . . . . * 3 T h e poem p u n s p r o f u s e l y , and much o f i t s humour w o u l d be l o s t on an a u d i e n c e who d i d n o t h a v e a k n o w l e d g e o f , and a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r , P o e ' s d a r k l y e v o c a t i v e p o e t r y and p r o s e . P o e ' s i m p a c t i n A u s t r a l i a , i n f a c t , 310 must have been a c o n s i d e r a b l e one, f o r Frank F o w l e r , as e a r l y as J u l y , 1856, d e l i v e r e d a l e c t u r e on the American w r i t e r a t the Sydney M e c h a n i c s ' School o f A r t s t o an u n e x p e c t e d l y l a r g e a u d i e n c e . The g r e a t mentor o f budding A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s o f the p e r i o d , N i c o l D r y s d a l e Stenhouse, c h a i r e d the m e e t i n g , a t t e n d e d by " s e v e r a l members o f p a r l i a - ment and many gentlemen d i s t i n g u i s h e d by t h e i r l i t e r a r y a t t a i n m e n t s . " Both o f the l e a d i n g Sydney newspapers o f the p e r i o d , the Empi re and Sydney Morning H e r a l d , c o v e r e d the l e c t u r e , the Empi re r e v i e w e r m a i n t a i n i n g t h a t " n o t h i n g he [ F o w l e r ] has essayed has g i v e n more g e n e r a l d e l i g h t than h i s e v e n i n g w i t h Edgar A l l a n Poe." F o w l e r , o f c o u r s e , was o n l y one o f a number o f w r i t e r s - - i n c l u d i n g Henry P a r k e s , Henry H a l l o r a n , J.S. Moore, J.L. M i c h a e l , R i c h a r d Rowe, Henry K e n d a l l , and, most i m p o r t a n t l y f o r my l a t e r p u r p o s e s , C h a r l e s Harpur and D a n i e l Deniehy--who g r a v i t a t e d t o Stenhouse's B a l m a i n (Sydney) home i n the l 8 5 0 ' s and '60's t o t a k e advantage o f the e x t r a o r d i n a r y r e s o u r c e s o f Stenhouse's l i b r a r y and p a r t a k e o f the f i n e c o n v e r s a t i o n and company t h a t always a t t e n d e d each v i s i t . Ann M a r i - J o r d e n s ' much-needed s t u d y , The Stenhouse C i r c l e ( 1 9 7 9 ) , d e a l s a t l e n g t h w i t h the more i m p o r t a n t g u e s t s o f Waterview House. S e v e r a l o f the p o i n t s she makes about members o f t h e group c l o s e l y r e l a t e t o t h e American c o n n e c t i o n . F i r s t , Stenhouse h i m s e l f , a generous p e r s o n a l i t y and u n d e n i a b l e i n f l u e n c e on a l l who g a t h e r e d about him, read e x t e n s i v e l y i n American l i t e r a t u r e . He s t r o n g l y endorsed the w r i t e r s o f the American \ T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t group, p a r t i c u l a r l y Emerson, and t h i s a p p r e c i a t i o n 311 i s r e f l e c t e d i n the s u b s t a n t i a l American h o l d i n g s i n h i s c o l 1 e c t i o n . H i s l i b r a r y c o n t a i n e d the works o f , among o t h e r s , Emerson, Channing, F u l l e r , Holmes, Poe, and a German t r a n s l a t i o n o f Stowe's U n c l e Tom's Cab i n. In a d d i t i o n , he c o u l d s u p p l y eager borrowers o f the " C i r c l e " w i t h an anonymous Handbook o f American L i t e r a t u r e , Samuel K e t t e l l ' s Specimens o f American P o e t r y (1829) and the f i r s t volume of the E c l e c t i c Magazine (New Y o r k , 1846) . Second, most o f the members o f Stenhouse's group, perhaps i n p a r t because o f t h e i r p a t r o n ' s i n t e r e s t , d i s p l a y e d a keen sympathy f o r American w r i t i n g . At t i m e s American a u t h o r s dominated the c o n v e r s a t i o n . R i c h a r d Rowe, not a g r e a t a d m i r e r h i m s e l f o f Emerson's p h i l o s o p h i c a l musings, c o u l d r e c a l l many c o n g e n i a l e v e n i n g s w i t h " l i t e r a r y f r i e n d s 48 t a l k i n g t r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s m . . . ." F o w l e r , c e r t a i n l y , was s t e e p e d i i n Emersonian p h i l o s o p h y and l i t e r a r y s t y l e - - a p r e o c c u p a t i o n which caused q u i t e a s t i r i n the s l i m w o r l d o f c o l o n i a l l e t t e r s . For him, Emerson's e s s a y s " c o n t a i n e d the p u r e s t i d e a l i s m , s i m p l e s t r e l i g i o n , 49 and p r o f o u n d e s t t h o u g h t . " There i s no doubt t h a t the major works o f American p o l i t i c a l and i m a g i n a t i v e l i t e r a t u r e e x e r t e d a p o w e r f u l e f f e c t on the A u s t r a l i a n i m a g i n a t i o n i n the F o r t i e s , F i f t i e s and S i x t i e s . They l a r g e l y shaped the A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r ' s concept o f A m e r i c a . However, the impact o f the Americans a c t u a l l y r e s i d e n t i n A u s t r a l i a a t the time cannot be u n d e r e s t i m a t e d - - i n p a r t i c u l a r , the e x i l e d Yankee p r i s o n e r s s e n t t o Van Diemen's Land f o r t h e i r p a r t i n the Upper Canadian r e b e l l i o n , 312 and the merchants and miners who came v o l u n t a r i l y , h u n g r i l y , t o A u s t r a l i a ' s s h o r e s i n s e a r c h o f a f a s t f o r t u n e . I t i s t o them t h a t we must now t u r n . 3 1 3 S e c t i o n B Deeper i n t o the V o r t e x ^ 0 '.'Be c a r e f u l , s i r , t o r e s t r a i n your e v i l p r o p e n s i t i e s here. Your n o t i o n s o f l i b e r t y and e q u a l i t y must be kept w i t h i n your own b r e a s t . Van Diemen's Land i s not A m e r i c a . " S i r John F r a n k l i n , Governor o f Van Diemen's Land, t o American e x i l e L i n u s W. M i l l e r , 184051 In 1837-8, a r e b e l l i o n took p l a c e i n Upper and Lower Canada as E n g l i s h and F r e n c h - s p e a k i n g C a n a d i a n s , c h a f i n g under the d e s p o t i s m and p a t r o n a g e o f a r b i t r a r y B r i t i s h r u l e , sought t o r e f o r m c e r t a i n a b h o r r e n t s e c t i o n s o f the c o n s t i t u t i o n r e l a t i n g t o c o l o n i e s . They f e l t t h e m s e l v e s e n t i t l e d t o a government more f i r m l y c o n t r o l l e d by l o c a l c i t i z e n s . As might be e x p e c t e d , many of the Upper Canadian r e b e l s , w i t h whom t h i s s e c t i o n w i l l be c o n c e r n e d , were Americans who p a r t i c i p a t e d i n the u p r i s i n g f o r a v a r i e t y o f i d e a l i s t i c and economic reasons ( w h i l e the g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f r e b e l s i n Lower Canada were French C a n a d i a n s ) . The r e v o l t f a i l e d d i s m a l l y . B r i t i s h m i l i t a r y and j u d i c i a l might moved q u i c k l y f i r s t t o c r u s h the o u t b r e a k s o f v i o l e n c e , and then s u i t a b l y p u n i s h the deeds o f the p r i n c i p a l i n s u r g e n t s . Twenty-nine men were e x e c u t e d ; e i g h t d e p o r t e d t o Bermuda; n i n e t y - s i x 314 French Canadians were s e n t t o New South Wales; w h i l e f i f t y - e i g h t A n g l o - C a n a d i a n s and U n i t e d S t a t e s c i t i z e n s found themselves b a n i s h e d t o Van Diemen's Land. Between J u l y , 1839 and F e b r u a r y , 1840, t h r e e s h i p s conveyed the e x i l e s t o H o b a r t , the m a j o r i t y , s e v e n t y - e i g h t i n a l l , aboard the B u f f a l o , the l a s t s h i p t o a r r i v e i n the s o u t h e r n --. c o l o n y . Van Diemen's Land made a p r o f o u n d i m p r e s s i o n on the Canadian P a t r i o t s . A r r i v i n g i n the i s l a n d p r i s o n a t a l m o s t e x a c t l y the same time as C h a r l e s W i l k e s and h i s f l e e t s a i l e d i n t o Sydney Harbour t o r e s t , r e s t o c k and r u m i n a t e on the r e p u b l i c a n p r o s p e c t s f o r New South Wales, the e x i l e s w i t n e s s e d the o p e r a t i o n s o f B r i t i s h j u s t i c e and s o c i a l o r g a n i z a t i o n from a f a r l e s s p r i v i l e g e d p o s i t i o n . P r i s o n e r s , they soon f o u n d , had no r i g h t s . E s p e c i a l l y p o l i t i c a l p r i s o n e r s . T h e i r f r e e countrymen, bound f o r the A n t a r c t i c , might g i v e vent t o d e m o c r a t i c musings, but the P a t r i o t s ' o n l y c o n c e r n was e s c a p i n g D e v i l ' s I s l a n d and r e t u r n i n g home. Seven of the e x i l e s , on r e t u r n i n g t o A m e r i c a a t v a r i o u s i n t e r v a l s t h r o u g h o u t the 1 8 4 0 's,determined t o 53 r e c o r d t h e i r i m p r e s s i o n s o f and r e a c t i o n s t o e n f o r c e d banishment. Of t h e s e , a r e p r e s e n t a t i v e group o f t h r e e w i l l be r e f e r r e d t o a t l e n g t h : the n a r r a t i v e s o f the Canadian Benjamin W a i t , and the Americans W i l l i a m Gates and L i n u s W. M i l l e r . The o t h e r s , a l o n g w i t h a more r e c e n t l y p u b l i s h e d book on a n o t h e r o f the P a t r i o t s , E l i j a h Woodman, w i l l be mentioned o n l y as they expand the major l i n e s o f argument i n 54 a way t h a t the t h r e e s e l e c t e d n a r r a t i v e s cannot do. The s p e c i f i c d e t a i l s o f the p r i s o n e r s ' e x i l e have been a d e q u a t e l y c o v e r e d e l s e w h e r e . 5 3 1 5 My c o n c e r n h e r e i s t o p l a c e t h e w o r k s i n a l i t e r a r y c o n t e x t , s h o w i n g t h e c o n t r i b u t i o n t h e y make t o A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e d e a l i n g w i t h c o n v i c t i s m i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . When M a r c u s C l a r k e s e r i a 1 i s e d h i s g r e a t ' b u t u n e v e n w o r k on c o n v i c t i s m , H i s N a t u r a l L i f e , b e t w e e n 1 8 7 0 and 1 8 7 2 , and p u b l i s h e d c o n v i c t - r e l a t e d m a t e r i a l i n O l d T a l e s o f a Young C o u n t r y ( 1 8 7 1 ) , he i n i t i a t e d t h e m o s t f r u i t f u l n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a t t e m p t a r t i s t i c a l l y t o come t o t e r m s w i t h A u s t r a l i a ' s t a r n i s h e d c r i m i n a l p a s t . But h i s s i n g u l a r c o n t r i b u t i o n was o n l y o n e o f a s e r i e s o f s u c h a t t e m p t s , r a n g i n g f r o m t h e e a r l y i d e a l i z e d a c c o u n t o f c o n v i c t l i f e , Q_u i n t u s S e r v i n t o n ( 1 8 3 0 - 1 ) , by H e n r y S a v e r y , t o t h e d a r k l y r e a l i s t i c s t o r i e s o f W i l l i a m A s t l e y ( " P r i c e W a r u n g " ) i n c o m p i l a t i o n s s u c h a s T a l e s o f t h e C o n v i c t S y s t e m ( 1 8 9 2 ) . Some k i n d o f f i t f u l t r a d i t i o n , t h a t i s t o s a y , e x i s t s i n A u s t r a l i a n 1 i t e r a t u r e - - t o w h i c h c e l e b r a t e d a u t h o r s l i k e Thomas K e n e a l l y a n d P a t r i c k W h i t e h a v e , more r e c e n t l y , c o n t r i b u t e d . T h e w o r k s o f t h e A m e r i c a n P a t r i o t s , who came t o A u s t r a l i a i n s u c h g r i m and e x a c t i n g c i r c u m s t a n c e s i n 1 8 3 9 _ 4 0 , n e e d t o be a c c o r d e d a p l a c e i n t h a t t r a d i t i o n , e v e n t h o u g h t h e i r b o o k s w e r e n o t p u b l i s h e d i n A u s t r a l i a . 5 7 T h e n a r r a t i v e s d e s e r v e r e c o g n i t i o n f o r s e v e r a l r e a s o n s : t h e y d e a l , a t f i r s t h a n d , w i t h t h e e v e n t s , p e o p l e a n d p l a c e s w h i c h C l a r k e and Warung d i s c o v e r e d o n l y t h r o u g h e x h a u s t i v e r e s e a r c h , and t o t h a t e x t e n t c o n v e y an i m m e d i a c y , v i t a l i t y a n d , a t t i m e s , a s a r d o n i c humour o f s u r v i v a l w h i c h l a t e r f i c t i o n w r i t e r s , p e r h a p s , c o u l d n o t e m u l a t e ; t h e i r a c c o u n t s , t h e p r o d u c t s o f s u r p r i s i n g l y l i v e l y a n d i n q u i r i n g 316 minds, a r e i n t r i g u i n g as l i t e r a t u r e ( W a i t ' s , i n p a r t i c u l a r , b e i n g rg a r t i s t i c a l l y o r g a n i z e d as a " f o u n d " novel ); they a d m i r a b l y r e f l e c t the t e n a c i t y o f the human s p i r i t , r e c o r d i n g the l o f t y s e n t i m e n t s o f men committed t o a s e t o f i d e a l s , and p r e p a r e d t o d i e f o r t h e i r p r i n c i p l e s i f n e c e s s a r y ; they f o c u s our a t t e n t i o n on N o r t h American men f i g h t i n g f o r e x a c t l y the same c o n c e s s i o n s as would occupy the minds o f A u s t r a l i a n s f o r decades t o come; and, f i n a l l y , they r e p r e s e n t f u r t h e r c o n s o l i d a t i o n o f the s h a r e d ground between A u s t r a l i a and A m e r i c a , and the l i t e r a t u r e s o f t h o s e two c o u n t r i e s . Here a r e a g g r e s s i v e r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n e x p e r i e n c i n g , a t c l o s e q u a r t e r s , the g r i m u n d e r c u r r e n t s o f the B r i t i s h c o l o n i a l sea. I n s p i r e d by the nerve and v i g o u r o f American n a t i o n a l i s m , which l a t e r c r y s t a l l i z e d as the i d e o l o g y of Young A m e r i c a , the American P a t r i o t s sought t o r e a l i z e the d e s t i n y o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s by t a k i n g p o s i t i v e s t e p s towards e n t r e n c h i n g t h o s e i d e a l s i n Canada. That they d i d n ' t p r o p a g a n d i z e i n Van Diemen's Land i s a measure o f the b r u t a l i t y and h o r r o r o f the system a g a i n s t which they were r e a c t i n g , and the sing1e-mindedness o f t h e i r endeavour t o r e t u r n "Home"-- meaning, i n c o n t r a s t t o the p r e o c c u p a t i o n o f a number o f t h e i r c o l o n i a l c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , the U n i t e d S t a t e s , not E n g l a n d . When compared t o the l o t o f the F r e n c h - C a n a d i a n e x i l e s i n Sydney, the Upper Canadian i n s u r g e n t s r e c e i v e d e x t r e m e l y h a r s h t r e a t m e n t . B r i t a i n ' s f i g u r e h e a d s i n the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s i n the 1840's, l i k e t h e i r p r e d e c e s s o r s , had l i t t l e time f o r e i t h e r p e t t y t h i e v e s , poachers o r m u r d e r e r s . But they a c t i v e l y d e s p i s e d t r e a s o n o u s a c t i v i t y . S i r 3 1 7 G e o r g e A r t h u r , L i e u t e n a n t - G o v e r n o r o f U p p e r C a n a d a i n 1 8 3 8 (and f o r m e r h o l d e r o f t h e same o f f i c e i n V a n D i e m e n ' s L a n d , 1824-6), g a v e t h e P a t r i o t s some i d e a o f what k i n d o f r e c e p t i o n t h e y c o u l d e x p e c t f r o m o f f i c i a l d o m i n t h e i r l a n d o f e x i l e i n h i s d e a l i n g s w i t h them b e f o r e s e n t e n c e was p a s s e d . T h e " o l d s i n n e r , " a s G a t e s c a l l e d h i m , had g a i n e d p r o m o t i o n t o t h e C a n a d i a n p o s t i n p a r t b e c a u s e o f h i s r e p u t a t i o n , 59 a c q u i r e d i n T a s m a n i a , f o r i n f l e x i b l e t r e a t m e n t o f d i s s i d e n t s . A r t h u r a p p r e c i a t e d s o b e r b e h a v i o u r and i n d u s t r i o u s h a b i t s i n h i s s u b o r d i n a t e s ; b u t t h e m i n u t e a n y o n e t h r e a t e n e d h i s o f f i c e , d i r e c t l y o r i n d i r e c t l y , he r e s p o n d e d v i c i o u s l y . He s u f f e r e d n o t f o o l s , had a 60 d i s t i n c t p r o p e n s i t y f o r h a n g i n g s , a n d a b h o r r e d r e b e l s . M r s . B e n j a m i n W a i t , f o r y e a r s a s t u b b o r n a g i t a t o r f o r t h e f r e e i n g o f h e r h u s b a n d a n d t h e r e s t o f t h e P a t r i o t s , s o o n r e c o g n i z e d t h a t s h e " c o u l d n o t e x p e c t e v e n a p a r t i c l e o f m e r c y " f r o m " t h e b l o o d - s t a i n e d h a n d s o f A r t h u r . " ^ ' Nor w o u l d A r t h u r ' s s u c c e s s o r i n Van D i e m e n ' s L a n d , S i r J o h n F r a n k l i n , a man o f g r o s s p h y s i c a l p r o p o r t i o n s , h e a r o f a n y s u g g e s t i o n o f l e n i e n c y f o r men f o u n d g u i l t y o f c h a l l e n g i n g t h e c o l o n i a l power o f t h e B r i t i s h L i o n . On b e i n g i n f o r m e d t h a t many o f t h e C a n a d i a n r e b e l s w e r e , i n f a c t , A m e r i c a n c i t i z e n s , F r a n k l i n r e p u t e d l y r e p l i e d , " S o much t h e w o r s e . You Y a n k e e s y m p a t h i s e r s must e x p e c t t o be p u n i s h e d . I do n o t c o n s i d e r t h e s i m p l e C a n a d i a n s , e s p e c i a l l y t h e F r e n c h i n Lower C a n a d a , s o much t o b l a m e , a s t h e y h a v e b e e n e x c i t e d t o r e b e l l i o n by 62 y o u Y a n k e e s . " D e s p i t e b e i n g a nephew o f t h e " i m m o r t a l B e n j a m i n F r a n k l i n , " i n L i n u s M i l l e r ' s w o r d s , he had d e c i d e d l y E n g l i s h a r i s t o c r a t i c 318 sympathies and r e g a r d e d the r e b e l s as the w o r s t k i n d o f c r i m i n a l w r e t c h . Throughout the s h o r t h i s t o r y o f the B r i t i s h o c c u p a t i o n o f New H o l l a n d , E n g l i s h b u r e a u c r a t s had a l m o s t unanimously d i s a p p r o v e d o f the p r i n c i p l e s f o r which the American R e v o l u t i o n had taken p l a c e , and t h a t c o u n t r y ' s r e p u b l i c a n c i t i z e n r y . F r a n k l i n , no e x c e p t i o n , would make the l o t o f the i n s u r r e c t i o n i s t s he had i n h i s c h a r g e as u n c o m f o r t a b l e as p o s s i b l e . C o n f r o n t e d by t h i s o f f i c i a l d i s a p p r o b a t i o n , the e x i l e s a p p a r e n t l y d e t e r m i n e d t o c l i n g even more t i g h t l y t o the p r i n c i p l e s which had o r i g i n a l l y m o t i v a t e d them t o j o i n the f r a c a s i n Upper Canada. P e r u s i n g the n a r r a t i v e s , one i s c o n s t a n t l y made aware of the r e p u b l i c a n t e n e t s t h a t the a u t h o r s s t o o d f o r , and f o u g h t f o r , and the l e n g t h s t o which they were p r e p a r e d t o go t o m a i n t a i n t h e i r humanity and, above a l l , i n t e g r i t y - - i n c o n d i t i o n s h o s t i l e t o t h e i r v e r y l i v e s , much l e s s b e l i e f s . The d e t e r m i n a t i o n and courage o f the S c o t t i s h M a r t y r s , e a r l y " v i s i t o r s " t o Botany Bay because o f t h e i r adherence t o the r i g h t s o f man p u b l i c i z e d by Thomas P a i n e , r e a p p e a r s i n the P a t r i o t a c c o u n t s , which were w r i t t e n i n p a r t t o c e l e b r a t e t h e i r t r i u m p h over the t e r r i b l e Tasmanian h a r d s h i p s . Because o f t h e i r d e v o t i o n t o t h e p r i n c i p l e s o f the American C o n s t i t u t i o n , as l a i d down by J e f f e r s o n and h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , and t h e i r t o t a l b e l i e f i n the u n i v e r s a l a p p l i c a t i o n o f t h o s e p r i n c i p l e s , the e x i l e s always exuded a c e r t a i n s u p e r i o r i t y o v e r t h e i r s u r r o u n d i n g s which made i t i m p o s s i b l e f o r them t o be c o e r c e d by t h e i r f o r b i d d i n g e n v i ronment. C o n f i d e n c e i n the j u s t n e s s o f t h e i r cause pervades the n a r r a t i v e s . 3 1 9 T h e s e a r e m e n a s s u r e d o f t h e i r r i g h t s a s c i t z e n s o f t h e s t a t e i n a w a y t h a t m a n y A u s t r a l i a n s o f t h e t i m e w e r e n o t . T h e i n d e f a t i g a b l e B e n W a i t , i n t h e i n t r o d u c t i o n t o h i s L e t t e r s f r o m V a n D i e m e n ' s L a n d , c a t a l o g u e s t h e s u m o f U p p e r C a n a d i a n g r i e v a n c e s ; a m o n g t h e m a r e t h e a b s e n c e o f a l l s e c u r i t y f o r l i f e a n d p r o p e r t y , t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n , d e s t r u c t i o n o f t h e l i b e r t y o f t h e p r e s s , w a s t e o f p u b l i c r e v e n u e " a m o n g s w a r m s o f f o r e i g n o f f i c i a l s " a n d t h e d e s t r u c t i o n o f t h e C o l o n i a l c o n s t i t u t i o n . A l l s t e m , c l a i m s W a i t , f r o m " t h e e x i s t e n c e 6 4 o f a n a r b i t r a r y , a r r o g a n t , v i n d i c t i v e , a n d f r a u d u l e n t o l i g a r c h y . . . . " H i s c h a r g e s e c h o t h o s e o f t h e A m e r i c a n r e v o l u t i o n a r i e s i n 1 7 7 6 ; a n d , i n f a c t , a m o u n t t o p r e c i s e l y t h e s a m e o b j e c t i o n s , t h o u g h m o r e c a u s t i c a l l y s t a t e d , t h a t ; i n c r e a s i n g 1 y m o b i l i z e d a g e n e r a t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a n s t o a g i t a t e f o r r e s p o n s i b l e g o v e r n m e n t b e t w e e n 1 8 2 4 a n d 1 8 5 6 . T h e l a r g e n u m b e r o f p a r t i c i p a t i n g A m e r i c a n s , t h e n a r r a t i v e s i n d i c a t e , r e c o g n i z e d i n t h e C a n a d i a n p r e d i c a m e n t t h e i r f o r e f a t h e r s ' p l i g h t i n t h e e a r l y 1 7 7 0 1 s - L i n u s M i l l e r , t h e e r r a t i c b u t c o m p e l l i n g l a w - s t u d e n t - c u m - r e b e l , p u t s i t b e s t a t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f N o t e s : I n t h e i r d i s t r e s s t h e y h a d t u r n e d t h e i r e y e s t o t h e s e U n i t e d S t a t e s ; s t u d i e d o u r g l o r i o u s a n d p e a c e f u l i n s t i t u t i o n s , u n t i l t h e y i m b i b e d t h e s p i r i t o f t h e h e r o e s o f t h e A m e r i c a n R e v o l u t i o n , a n d f e l t t h e G o d - l i k e d i v i n i t y o f l i b e r t y s t i r r i n g w i t h i n t h e i r s o u l s , a n d r o u s i n g t h e i r s l u m b e r i n g e n e r g i e s t o a c t i o n . ^ A l l C a n a d a , M i l l e r m a i n t a i n s , c r i e d o u t f o r h e l p ; i t w a s a c a l l w h i c h 6 6 n o p a t r i o t i c A m e r i c a n c o u l d p o s s i b l y i g n o r e . T h e f i r s t c h a p t e r o f M i l l e r ' s a c c o u n t a c c u r a t e l y r e f l e c t s t h e f e r v o u r o f t h e c o n c e r n e d 320 r e p u b l i c a n . H i s language i s s t e e p e d i n the r h e t o r i c a l s p l e n d o u r o f a committed a d v o c a t e o f J e f f e r s o n i a n democracy and P a i n e ' s r a d i c a l pronouncements. H i s comrades s c a r c e l y d i f f e r e d . 6 7 In the f i r s t c h a p t e r o f R e c o l 1 e c t i o n s , W i l l i a m G a t e s , the t w e n t y - t w o - y e a r - o l d f a r m e r , exudes the t r u e s p i r i t o f J e f f e r s o n ' s D e c l a r a t i o n i n h i s w i s h t h a t . . . Heaven speed the time when they [ t h e C a n a d i a n s ] t o o , l i k e the f a v o u r e d p e o p l e o f our own g l a d R e p u b l i c , s h a l l s i t under t h e i r v i n e s and f i g t r e e s w i t h o u t m o l e s t a t i o n , and i n t h a t f u l l and f r e e l i b e r t y which i s the i n a l i e n a b l e boon o f a l 1 men.68 P a i n e had t a l k e d o f " t h e seed time o f c o n t i n e n t a l u n i o n , f a i t h and 69 honor." The P a t r i o t s m e r e l y wanted t o c a s t the seeds a l i t t l e w i d e r and s t r e t c h the c o n t i n e n t a l i t t l e f u r t h e r . But they c o u l d n ' t s t r e t c h so f a r as t o i n c l u d e remote and b a r b a r o u s Van Diemen's Land. Inflamed by J e f f e r s o n ' s v i n d i c a t i o n o f each man's i n h e r e n t w o r t h , and P a i n e ' s c l a i m t h a t "as r e v o l u t i o n s have begun . . . i t i s n a t u r a l t o e x p e c t t h a t o t h e r r e v o l u t i o n s w i l l f o l l o w , " the American r e b e l s regarded t h e i r a c t i o n s i n Canada as n o t h i n g l e s s than t h e i r s a c r e d d u t y . P a i n e had e x h o r t e d them t o p r e a c h w i d e l y i n " t h i s day o f r e v o l u t i o n s , " and b e l i e v e i n the j u s t n e s s o f t h e i r c a u s e . 7 ^ For t h i s r e a s o n , a l l the P a t r i o t s c a t e g o r i c a l l y r e j e c t e d the l e g a l i t y o f t h e i r imprisonment and e x i l e . 7 ' They were not common c r i m i n a l s , and f e l t i n s u l t e d by the d e t e r m i n a t i o n o f t h e i r E n g l i s h p r i s o n warders t o c a t e g o r i z e them i n t h i s way; and worse, t o put them i n the same c e l l s as m u r d e r e r s , p r o s t i t u t e s , d r u n k a r d s and pimps, 321 the " o f f s c o u r i n g s o f E n g l a n d . " The P a t r i o t s f e l t s o i l e d by the e x p e r i e n c e , a f a c t w h i c h , perhaps b e t t e r than any o t h e r , e x p l a i n s t h e i r d e s i r e t o f l e e Van Diemen's Land as soon as p o s s i b l e , r a t h e r than view i t as a n o t h e r f r o n t i e r d e s p e r a t e l y i n need o f e x p o s u r e t o d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s . M i l l e r , i n one o f h i s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y b r a s h l e t t e r s w r i t t e n j u s t p r i o r t o an u n s u c c e s s f u l escape attempt, a r t i c u 1 a t e d the e x i 1 e s 1 s t a n d : . . . we have r i g h t s , w h i c h , n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g the c o n v i c t a p p a r e l upon our p e r s o n s , g a l l i n g c h a i n s upon our l i m b s , and the menial t a s k s which we a r e made t o p e r f o r m , we have never f o r f e i t e d . From the p e r i o d o f our f i r s t imprisonment i n Canada, t h o s e r i g h t s have been t r a m p l e d upon and v i o l a t e d . T r i e d under a p r o v i n c i a l a c t , e v i d e n t l y u n c o n s t i t u t i o n a l and repugnant t o the laws o f E n g l a n d , - - nay, not t r i e d , f o r the p r o c e e d i n g a g a i n s t us d e s e r v e d not the name o f a t r i a 1,--dragged t h r o u g h a thousand h o r r o r s t o the s h o r e s o f t h i s " f r e e and happy E n g l a n d , " i t was n a t u r a l f o r us t o hope f o r some a m e l i o r a t i o n o f our woes where the d i v i n i t y o f j u s t i c e p r e s i d e d i n p e r s o n ; but the e x p e r i e n c e o f a few months has t a u g h t us t h a t hopes founded upon so b a s e l e s s a f a b r i c must be v a i n and d e l u s i v e . 7 3 Because o f t h i s i l l e g a l imprisonment, the P a t r i o t s r e g a r d e d themselves not as p o l i t i c a l p r i s o n e r s , but as s l a v e s . In a l e t t e r t o h i s f a t h e r , E l i j a h Woodman c l o s e d w i t h a s t a n z a o f v e r s e musing on the blows o f f o r t u n e : Oh t h i n k on my f a t e , I once freedom e n j o y e d , Was happy as happy c o u l d be. From you I am s e v e r e d , as a s l a v e I'm employed And d e b a r r e d the sweet j o y s o f the f r e e . 7 4 Woodman was c e r t a i n l y no p o e t , but h i s l e t t e r s have a poignancy and, i n t h e i r s i m p l e way, a d i g n i t y o f c o m p o s i t i o n t h a t much contemporaneous 322 b e l 1 e s t r i s t i c l i t e r a t u r e w r i t t e n i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s a n d A u s t r a l i a c o u l d n o t e q u a l . In s p i t e o f t h e r e a l i z a t i o n o f t h e i r e s s e n t i a 1 power 1 e s s n e s s i n t h e i r s o m b r e , e n f o r c e d home, i n s p i t e o f b e i n g c o m p e l l e d t o c o n t e m p l a t e l i f e a s " a m a n a c l e d s l a v e , " a l l t h e P a t r i o t s r e f u s e d t o c a p i t u l a t e t o B r i t a i n ' s s y s t e m o f c o n v i c t t r a n s p o r t a t i o n . 7 5 F o r t h e m , i t r e p r e s e n t e d o n e o f t h e m o s t d r e a d f u l f o r m s o f l e g a l i z e d b r u t a 1 i t y and human d e g r a d a t i o n . And t h e y w o u l d n o t be f l o g g e d . F l o g g i n g was t h e most common f o r m o f p e n a l d i s c i p l i n e , b u t D a n i e l H e u s t i s , a V e r m o n t n a t i v e a n d o n e o f t h e m o s t i n t e l l i g e n t members o f t h e P a t r i o t s , m a i n t a i n e d t h a t " n o n e o f 76 t h e A m e r i c a n s w e r e f l o g g e d . " As o n e , t h e y r e f u s e d t o s u b m i t t h e m s e l v e s t o t h i s i n d i g n i t y . T h e A m e r i c a n C o n s t i t u t i o n ' s E i g h t h Amendment (1791) deems " a n y c r u e l o r u n e q u a l p u n i s h m e n t " i l l e g a l . 7 7 No d o u b t t h e e x i l e s f e l t f l o g g i n g v i o l a t e d b o t h t h e c r i t e r i a c i t e d i n t h e a m e n d m e n t . T o t h e e x t e n t t h a t t h e y - r e f u s e d t o y i e l d on t h i s p o i n t , t h e y w e r e a t l e a s t a b l e t o mount a muted p e r s o n a l p r o t e s t . M i l l e r s t a t e d t h a t he f e l t he " c o u l d e n d u r e a n y t h i n g b u t a f l o g g i n g ; and e v e n t h e t o r t u r e o f t h e l a s h I c a r e d b u t l i t t l e f o r , b u t t h e d e g r a d a t i o n I c o u l d n o t b e a r ; a n d r e s o l v e d t h a t I w o u l d n o t . " S t u b b o r n a d v o c a c y l e d t o a number o f h e a t e d c o n f r o n t a t i o n s w i t h p r i s o n o v e r s e e r s , b u t , i f H e u s t i s i s r i g h t , t h e P a t r i o t s c e l e b r a t e d a s m a l l b u t i m p o r t a n t t r i u m p h on t h i s i s s u e . F i r s t - h a n d e x p e r i e n c e o f l i f e on a t r a n s p o r t s h i p and i n a d e s p e r a t e p e n a l c o l o n y o b v i o u s l y c r e a t e d an i n d e l i b l e i m p r e s s i o n on e a c h o n e o f t h e p o l i t i c a l e x i l e s . T h e y r e a c t e d by c r i t i c i z i n g n o t 323 j u s t t h e s e o b v i o u s m a n i f e s t a t i o n s o f a c r u e l and u n f e e l i n g a d m i n i s t r a t i o n , but the w o r k i n g s o f the e n t i r e B r i t i s h s o c i a l system. The Van Diemonian o r d e a l c o n f i r m e d t h e i r w o r s t s u s p i c i o n s o f , and p r e j u d i c e s towards the r e a l n a t u r e o f the government t h e i r f o r e f a t h e r s had o v e r t h r o w n . W a i t , M i l l e r and Gates a s s a i l the s o r d i d m a c h i n a t i o n s o f E n g l i s h power a t e v e r y l e v e l - - t h e i n d u l g e n c e s o f E n g l i s h monarchy and i t s a r i s t o c r a c y , the c o r r u p t i o n and i n h u m a n i t y o f c o l o n i a l o f f i c i a l s such as A r t h u r 79 and F r a n k l i n , and the i n e q u a l i t i e s o f the E n g l i s h c l a s s system. M i l l e r w r y l y q u e s t i o n s the c r e d i b i l i t y o f a p e o p l e ' s P a r l i a m e n t which c o u l d spend "Seventy thousand pounds s t e r l i n g f o r her M a j e s t y ' s s t a b l e s , and t h i r t y - f i v e thousand f o r p u b l i c e d u c a t i o n i n the kingdom o f 80 G r e a t B r i t a i n and I r e l a n d ! " Wait r e g a r d s h i s whole endeavour as m o t i v a t e d by "a d e s i r e o f e x p o s i n g the system o f t r e a c h e r y and consummate b a r b a r i t y , as p r a c t i c e d . . . by the ' s e l f s t y l e d ' generous, 81 1i be ra 1 and humane B r i t i s h government." Adherence t o what s e t o f p r i n c i p l e s c o u l d p o s s i b l y l e a d a government t o l e n d i t s c o n s e n t t o an a r e a under i t s j u r i s d i c t i o n c o n t i n u a l l y p e r p e t r a t i n g the w o r s t k i n d s o f c r u e l t y on thousands o f men, women and c h i l d r e n ? For W a i t , u n f o r t u n a t e l y , might p e r m a n e n t l y r e s i d e s i n the hands, as Gates puts i t , o f "a number o f her q u e e n s h i p ' s most d u t i f u l m i n i o n s , " t h o s e men 83 e a s i l y i d e n t i f i e d i n a u n i f o r m " t i n s e l l e d w i t h B r i t i s h a u t h o r i t y . " Van Diemen's Land, f o r the P a t r i o t s , r e p r e s e n t e d one o f the w o r s t a b e r r a t i o n s o f a c a n k e r e d system r e s o l u t e l y opposed t o men a s s e r t i n g t h e i r i n d e f e a s i b l e r i g h t s . Hence, i g n o r a n t o f the e x i s t e n c e of any t h e r e i s o n l y one And, 324 r e p u b l i c a n s e n t i m e n t on the i s l a n d , much l e s s the m a i n l a n d , they c o u l d n ' t p o s s i b l y embrace the cause o f democracy i n a l a n d which s y m b o l i z e d the a n t i t h e s i s o f t h e i r p r i n c i p l e s . They saw o n l y a g i a n t p r i s o n . And hated i t . R e f e r r i n g t o i t v a r i o u s l y as " t h a t d e t e s t a b l e penal c o l o n y , " " t h e p u r g a t o r y o f E n g l a n d , " and " t h a t c u r s e d l a n d o f Van Diemen," a l l d e l i g h t e d i n l e a v i n g the i s l a n d a t l a s t , as one might s t r u g g l e f r e e , f i n a l l y , from the h i t h e r t o i r o n g r i p o f L u c i f e r him- 84 s e l f . They s t r o v e t o s t a y a l i v e o n l y because o f the p o s s i b i l i t y o f once a g a i n r e a c h i n g A m e r i c a ' s s h o r e s — t h a t "Land o f Freedom," 85 "asylum f o r the o p p r e s s e d " and "home o f the f r e e and the b r a v e . " They had t o make i t back b e f o r e they d i e d ; and when a t l a s t they d i d r e t u r n , f o r one o f the e x i l e s the n o r t h e r n heavens t h e m s e l v e s e l i c i t e d a r e s p o n s e : In c r o s s i n g the e q u a t o r , the s o u t h e r n c r o s s soon d i s - a p p e a r e d , w h i l e the n o r t h e r n s t a r , which had been h i d d e n from my view so l o n g , g r a d u a l l y a r o s e above the h o r i z o n , and I h a i l e d i t s f i r s t appearance as I would have done the f a c e o f an o l d f r i e n d . ^ P r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h a d e s i r e t o r e t u r n home i n e v i t a b l y meant t h a t i l l e g a l f l i g h t never v e n t u r e d f a r from t h e i r t h o u g h t s , though o f a l l the P a t r i o t s who committed t h e i r e x p e r i e n c e s t o p r i n t , o n l y Wait 87 managed a s u c c e s s f u l escape. M i l l e r t r i e d r e p e a t e d 1 y — e n d i n g up a t the dreaded P o r t A r t h u r p r i s o n f o r one such a t t e m p t — b u t , l i k e most o f h i s countrymen, he e x p e r i e n c e d the f r u s t r a t i o n (and, i n Van Diemen's Land, the t e r r o r ) o f c o n t i n u a l f a i l u r e . For some t i m e , the P a t r i o t s c l e a r l y viewed escape as the o n l y v a 1 i d response t o t h e i r 325 c o n t e m p t i b l e c i r c u m s t a n c e s . However, as t h i s o u t l e t proved i n c r e a s i n g l y d i f f i c u l t , i f not i m p o s s i b l e a f t e r Wait and two o t h e r P a t r i o t s s u c c e s s - f u l l y escaped i n 1842, they adopted a l t e r n a t e means o f s u r v i v a l : an a b s o l u t e commitment t o independent b e h a v i o u r and t h o u g h t , and a d e s i r e t o make the b e s t o f t h e i r l o t . The l a t t e r o f t e n took the form o f s a r d o n i c a l l y humorous a p p r a i s a l s o f e v e n t s and d e s c r i p t i o n s o f r e s i d e n t b u r e a u c r a t s . The P a t r i o t s would not be cowed by the b a r b a r i t y s u r r o u n d i n g them. In t h e i r a c c o u n t s , w r i t t e n so soon a f t e r r e t u r n i n g t h a t the t e r r i b l e memories were s t i l l f r e s h , they a l l r e f u s e d t o i n d u l g e i n 88 s e n s a t i o n a l i s m . Indeed, they i n t e n t i o n a l l y a v o i d e d the more h o r r i f y i n g a s p e c t s o f t h e i r y e a r s i n e x i l e . G a t e s ' a c h i n g r e a c t i o n i s t y p i c a l : There a r e s u f f e r i n g s t h e r e [ i n Van Diemen's Land] which not o n l y rend the f l e s h and break down the s t a l w a r t h e a r t o f proud manhood, but they p i e r c e the inmost s p i r i t and make dead e v e r y f e e l i n g o f humanity. There c o u l d be t a l e s t o l d o f t h a t , i s l a n d t h a t would c u r d l e the b l o o d - - t a l e s t h a t would make man b l u s h t o t h i n k them t r u e o f h i s f e l l o w man, and w h i c h , i f one s h o u l d r e l a t e them so f a r away, h i s l i s t e n e r s would but t h i n k him a t t e m p t i n g a game upon t h e i r c r e d u 1 i t y - - s o f i e n d - l i k e a r e many o f the h e l l i s h s o u l s t h a t l o r d i t t h e r e but b r i e f l y o v e r a gang o f t h e i r f e l l o w c l a y . I would not speak thus h a r s h l y ; but when one t h i n k s o f t h o s e s u f f e r i n g s which bowed h i s s p i r i t even t o the d u s t - - t h a t c r u s h e d and took from him h i s manhood, and degraded him t o t h e l e v e l o f a b e a s t , he must indeed be a man o f more p a t i e n c e than was even J o b , i f he can smother the b i t t e r n e s s o f h i s h e a r t . ^ T h i s i s a s t a t e m e n t o f g r e a t c o u r a g e - - u p l i f t i n g i r r i t s s p i r i t even as i t p r o f e s s e s i n t i m i d a t i o n . G a t e s , l i k e h i s f e l l o w s , endured. What c o n t i n u a l l y s u r p r i s e s one i n the n a r r a t i v e s i s each a u t h o r ' s a b i l i t y t o r i s e above h i s immediate s u r r o u n d i n g s i n a v a r i e t y o f ways: a spontaneous r e a c t i o n (such as the r o a r o f l a u g h t e r which 9 0 f o l l o w e d t h e i r b e i n g f i r s t a c c o u t r e d i n c o n v i c t c l o t h i n g ) , a b o a s t , 91 a d e c l a r a t i o n o f f a i t h , o r , sometimes, a wry j o k e . S u r v i v a l t a c t i c s pervade the a c c o u n t s . E a r l y i n t o t'heir imprisonment, the P a t r i o t s made a p o i n t o f c e l e b r a t i n g Independence Day i n d e f i a n c e o f t h e i r conf i nement: Out o f s e v e r a l pocket h a n d k e r c h i e f s a f l a g was m a n u f a c t u r e d , as n e a r l y r e s e m b l i n g the " s t a r - s p a n g l e d banner" as we c o u l d c o n v e n i e n t l y make i t . We p r o c u r e d some lemons and s u g a r , which e n a b l e d us t o pass around a r e f r e s h i n g bowl o f lemon- ade. . . . the heroes o f ' 7 6 were d u l y remembered. . . . 9 2 Songs sometimes f i l l e d the a i r i n a low moment. N e e d l e s s t o say, most were e i t h e r p a t r i o t i c o r n o s t a l g i c i n n a t u r e . P o p u l a r ones i n c l u d e d " H a i l C o l u m b i a , " "The S t a r - S p a n g l e d Banner," "Hunters o f 9 3 K e n t u c k y " and "Yankee Doodle." In t h i s , E l i j a h Woodman, one o f the group's more s e n i o r c i t i z e n s (he was f o r t y - t w o when i m p r i s o n e d ^ and he never d i d make i t back t o h i s homeland, d y i n g on the s h i p g o i n g back ) , p l a y e d a prominent and r e c o g n i z e d p u b l i c r o l e . On one o c c a s i o n , when s p i r i t s were d e p r e s s e d , he " s t r u c k u p ' P r e t t y Susan 1 and c o n t i n u e d s i n g i n g f o r some t i m e " t o e n l i v e n h i s despondent com- 9 5 p a n i o n s . On a n o t h e r o c c a s i o n , M i l l e r r e c o r d s , a p a r t y o f e x i l e s had j u s t r e t u r n e d t o t h e i r huts a f t e r a c h e e r l e s s day w o r k i n g i n m i s e r a b l e Van Diemonian r a i n : 327 A l l were s i l e n t . D r o o p i n g heads and sad countenances i n d i c a t e d t h a t the t h o u g h t s o f the m e l a n c h o l y p a r t y were o f b i t t e r wrongs, o r perchance o f d i s t a n t home and f r i e n d s . . . . Suddenly Mr. Woodman sprang from h i s b e r t h t o the f l o o r , and i n a tone o f v o i c e t h a t might have been heard a m i l e , s t r u c k up " t h e h u n t e r s o f K e n t u c k y . " The e f f e c t was i n s t a n t a n e o u s . As i f e l e c t r i f i e d , e v e r y man sprang t o the f l o o r ; s i c k , b l i n d and h a l t , j o i n e d i n the c h o r u s ; some danced, o t h e r s s h o u t e d , and a l l shook o f f the gloomy h o r r o r s o f Van Diemen's Land. 96 Whenever they t h r e a t e n e d t o succumb t o t h e i r w r e t c h e d p l i g h t , somehow, from somewhere, a new r e s o l v e was g a i n e d . Gates w e l l remembered: We e x h i b i t e d symptoms o f d i s a f f e e t i o n - - w e gave vent f r e q u e n t l y t o our c u r s e s . Though we were i n the hands o f c r u e l t y r a n t s , they had not power t o c h a i n our t h o u g h t s , and our Yankee s p i r i t s were not so f a r subdued but t h a t we would g i v e tongue now and then t o t h o s e thoughts. 9 7 Perhaps t h i s u n s w e r v i n g r e s o l v e i s b e s t r e f l e c t e d i n the f a c t t h a t not one o f them appears e v e r t o have l o s t h i s sense o f humour. R e c o l l e c t - ing the t e r r o r s o f the p a s t , M i l l e r and Gates c o u l d s t i l l manage t o laugh a t t h e i r j a i l e r s . S i r John F r a n k l i n , t h a t pompous, obese c a r i c a t u r e o f a man, comes i n f o r a s e r i e s o f barbed comments. "Old granny" o r " h i s b u l k i n e s s , " as they c a l l e d him, a p p a r e n t l y c u t an a b s u r d f i g u r e , and both a u t h o r s r i s e a d m i r a b l y t o the o c c a s i o n i n 98 t h e i r r e m i n i s c e n c e s . M i l l e r i n f o r m s h i s r e a d e r s t h a t a l l t h e i r b e s t i m a g i n a t i v e e f f o r t s would s t i l l f a i l t o g r a s p " t h e l e n g t h , b r e a d t h , depth and h e i g h t o f the g r e a t , h i g h and mighty F r a n k l i n , " w h i l e G a t e s , i n a passage o f S w i f t i a n s a v a g e r y , a l s o e x p r e s s e s ' h i s amusement a t 328 the g r e a t man's a p p e a r a n c e , f o r whether he was g r e a t i n the mental q u a l i t i e s , he was t r u l y g r e a t i n a l l t h a t makes the man, p h y s i c a 1 1 y - - f 1 e s h and b l u b b e r . H i s head was chucked down between h i s s h o u l d e r s , f o r the w i s e p r o v i s i o n , no doubt o f s h o r t e n i n g the esophagus; w h i l s t the stomach made equal advances toward the head, thus b r i n g i n g the two i n such c l o s e p r o x i m i t y , t h a t the sympathy which i s s a i d by p h y s i o l o g i s t s t o e x i s t between t h e s e organs was e x t r a o r d i n a r i l y d e v e l o p e d . But the v i t a l organs were so e n c r o a c h e d upon by t h e s e n e i g h b o u r s , t h a t they found i t e x c e e d i n g l y d i f f i c u l t t o keep the o l d man i n s u f f i c i e n t w i n d , w h i c h came p u f f i n g from h i s brandy b o t t l e d nose, l i k e steam from the escape p i p e o f an a s t h m a t i c boat.99 Humour, i t seems, was an i m p o r t a n t a i d i n m a i n t a i n i n g . o n e ' s independence o f s p i r i t i n c i r c u m s t a n c e s which encouraged t o t a l s u b m i s s i o n . 3 2 ? S e c t i o n C The "Go-A-Head-A-Tive" A m e r i c a n s 1 0 0 Young A m e r i c a . . . . owns the p a s t , uses the p r e s e n t , and d i s c o u n t s the f u t u r e . He d i v e s deeper, swims l o n g e r , and comes up d r i e r . He t h i n k s q u i c k e r , a c c o m p l i s h e s more, and l i v e s f a s t e r than any o t h e r p a r t y . George F r a n c i s T r a i n , Spread-Eag1e i sm (1859) 1 0 1 ~ Two broad groups o f Americans i n u n d a t e d A u s t r a l i a n c i t i e s and g o l d f i e l d s i n the 18501s: merchants and m i n e r s . Both had q u i c k p r o f i t on t h e i r minds. U n f o r t u n a t e l y , too few members o f e i t h e r group committed t h e m s e l v e s t o p r i n t — w h i c h i s a p i t y , because the s m a l l number o f s p e e c h e s , f i c t i o n a l a c c o u n t s and memoirs t h a t we do have a r e l i v e l y , humorous and i l l u m i n a t i n g . The works o f the t h r e e w r i t e r s t o be d i s c u s s e d — G e o r g e F r a n c i s T r a i n , C h a r l e s D. Ferguson and W i l l i a m H. T h o m e s — r e a d s u r p r i s i n g l y w e l l . They a r e e n t e r t a i n i n g a c c o u n t s , \ the p r o d u c t s o f a l e r t , p e n e t r a t i n g minds, and they assume more than j u s t h i s t o r i c a l s i g n i f i c a n c e . Each w r i t e r , i n h i s own way, t a k e s us back t o the 18501 s, w i t h i t s e x c i t e m e n t and c o n s t a n t u n p r e d i c t - a b i l i t y . T r a i n does so as the v i g o r o u s p o l e m i c i s t and epitome o f " S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm,V Ferguson as the wry, backwoods j a c k - o f - a 1 1 - t r a d e s , 330 and Thomes, i n h i s b e t t e r moments, as the keen o b s e r v e r o f h i s new 1 02 s u r r o u n d i n g s . T r a i n and F e r g u s o n , i n p a r t i c u l a r , r e p r e s e n t i d e n t i f i a b l e American s t e r e o t y p e s o f the t i m e s . L i k e the memoirs o f the American P a t r i o t s i n the 1 8 H 0 ' S , the works o f T r a i n , Ferguson and Thomes, though f o r o b v i o u s reasons not t e c h n i c a l l y a p a r t o f A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e , d e s e r v e a p l a c e because o f the i n s i g h t s they s u p p l y i n t o A u s t r a l i a n mores o f the time and i n t o the c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f Young A m e r i c a down under. Moreover, they c o n t r i b u t e t o the w i d e n i n g t i e s , m i d - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , between the A u s t r a l i a n and American c o m m u n i t i e s . However, w h i l e L i n u s M i l l e r and h i s e x i l e d American comrades w i t n e s s e d the b r u t a l a s p e c t s o f B r i t i s h c o l o n i a l i s m a t work, T r a i n , Ferguson and Thomes were the f o r t u n a t e i n h e r i t o r s o f the more p o s i t i v e c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s . T a n t a l i z e d by " t h e d a z z l i n g b r i l l i a n c y o f the S o u t h e r n E l Dorado," as T r a i n f e r v e n t l y put i t , and perhaps c o n c e i v i n g o f A u s t r a l i a as one more l i n k i n the l o g i c a l p r o g r e s s i o n o f A m e r i c a ' s " m a n i f e s t d e s t i n y , " 103 each man i n h i s own way l o o k e d on A u s t r a l i a as the new f r o n t i e r . A p l a c e f i n a l l y t o o b t a i n t h a t e l u s i v e f o r t u n e . Each man a r r i v e d w i t h d i s t i n c t i v e s k i l l s , a m b i t i o n s and p r e j u d i c e s , but i t i s not d i f f i c u l t t o a p p r e c i a t e t h e i r common American background. They a r e a l l p a t r i o t i c c e l e b r a n t s o f J u l y k and a l l c o n f i r m e d r e p u b l i c a n s ; but f o r them, Young American i d e o l o g y t r a n s c e n d s p o l i t i c a l c o n s i d e r - a t i o n s . They i n t e r p r e t i t as p r i m a r i l y an economic and s o c i a l d o c t r i n e . As Freeman Hunt, e d i t o r o f the New York H e r a l d o b s e r v e d , i n d i v i d u a l dynamism must be c a t e r e d f o r . One must g i v e the American a t l a r g e a 3 3 1 chance t o d e f i n e h i s own l i m i t s o f a p p l i c a t i o n . Only then can the w o r l d a p p r e c i a t e " t h a t Young America which pours i t s e n e r g i e s t h r o u g h a l l the c h a n n e l s o f commerce i n a l l q u a r t e r s o f the g l o b e — w h i c h , a t home o r a b r o a d , upholds the h i g h c h a r a c t e r o f i t s c o u n t r y — w h i c h i s ready t o p l a n t i t s e l f wherever g r e a t achievements a w a i t i t , whether amid the f u r s o f the N o r t h West o r on the quays o f the s e a b o a r d ; now p l o u g h i n g the . . A r c t i c i c e s , o r s e a r c h i n g f o r new p o i n t s of development under the E q u a t o r ; now c a r r y i n g our f l a g and i n s t i t u t i o n s t o e r e c t them on the g o l d e n r o c k s o f C a l i f o r n i a ; o r , as i f not f i n d i n g room enough w i t h i n our own b o u n d l e s s domain, a i d i n g t o e s t a b l i s h a new p o r t , b u i l d a new c i t y and c r e a t e a new commerce on the g o l d e n s o i l o f A u s t r a l i a . " 1 0 ^ T h i s a p p r a i s a l , w r i t t e n t o c l a r i f y T r a i n ' s g r o w i n g a c h i e v e m e n t s , c o u l d a p p l y j u s t as w e l l t o the dynamic Ferguson and some o f the c h a r a c t e r s i n Thomes' A u s t r a l i a n n o v e l s . " C i t i z e n George F r a n c i s T r a i n " u n d o u b t e d l y emerges as the most v i g o r o u s w r i t e r o f the t h r e e , and perhaps the most knowledgeable American commentator on the A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c o n n e c t i o n o f h i s g e n e r a t i o n . ' ^ 5 A c o m p u l s i v e t r a v e l l e r , d e f e n d e r o f f e m i n i s m , s l a v e r y , the F e n i a n movement and the Union ( w h i c h , thus enumerated, r e v e a l something o f the man's i d i o s y n c r a s i e s ) , T r a i n spent a p p r o x i m a t e l y t h r e e y e a r s i n A u s t r a l i a , d u r i n g which time he made an o u t s t a n d i n g c o n t r i b u t i o n t o the r i s e o f Melbourne as A u s t r a l i a ' s 1 0 6 f i n a n c i a l c e n t r e . In a d d i t i o n , however, he found the time t o w r i t e l e t t e r s home ( p r i n t e d as g u i d e s t o A u s t r a l i a i n the New York H e r a l d , l 8 5 3 - 5 ' ^ 7 ) and d e l i v e r a d d r e s s e s , each J u l y k, t o l a r g e and a p p r e c i a t i v e a u d i e n c e s o f American p a t r i o t s . H i s l e t t e r s , speeches and c r i t i c a l commentaries a l l found t h e i r way i n t o p r i n t . They form the b a s i s of 332 h i s c o n t r i b u t i o n t o the l i t e r a t u r e o f the t i m e s , and have been l a r g e l y i gnored. T r a i n p u l l e d no punches. B r a s h , e n t e r t a i n i n g , an " a d m i r a b l e specimen o f Young A m e r i c a , " he r e p r e s e n t s an i m p o r t a n t f i g u r e i n t h a t , by way o f the podium and h i s two books on A u s t r a l i a p u b l i s h e d i n the 1850's, he must have c o n t r i b u t e d s u b s t a n t i a l l y t o the s h a p i n g o f American c o n c e p t s o f A u s t r a l i a , and, t o some e x t e n t , the way i n which 108 A u s t r a l i a n s r e g a r d e d t h e i r American c o u s i n s . A f t e r h e a r i n g one o f T r a i n ' s a d d r e s s e s i n c e l e b r a t i o n o f "Young A m e r i c a , " C h a r l e s Ferguson d e c l a r e d t h a t "never b e f o r e o r s i n c e d i d I l i s t e n t o a more e l o q u e n t 109 s p e e c h . " The I l l u s t r a t e d London News even g r u d g i n g l y a d m i t t e d t h a t a t "a 'spread e a g l e ' speech he has few s u p e r i o r s . " ' 1 ^ T r a i n had the a b i l i t y t o move p e o p l e w i t h h i s o r a t i o n s and s t i m u l a t e r e a d e r s o f h i s p r o s e i n t o a c t i o n . In A u s t r a l i a , he d e l i v e r e d some o f h i s v e r y b e s t a d d r e s s e s . Freeman Hunt, i n t r o d u c i n g An American Merchant (1857) t o the p u b l i c , managed t o f i n d a l i t e r a r y c a t e g o r y — a n d i n c o l o n i a l A u s t r a l i a , a most v i a b l e one, as t h i s t h e s i s a t t e s t s — f o r T r a i n ' s w r i t i n g s : Commercial L i t e r a t u r e i s a new term. . . . I t seems t o have been thought t h a t the o n l y books f o r a merchant t o read o r t o w r i t e , were t h o s e f o r m i d a b l e rows o f ponderous l e d g e r s , d e a l i n g o n l y i n the i n e x o r a b l e l o g i c o f a r i t h m e t i c , t o which l e a r n i n g was a s t r a n g e r , w i t h i n whose l i d s a gleam o f f a n c y o r o f humor d a r e not i n t r u d e , and which summed up the s u b j e c t s and r e s u l t s o f commerce, i n the u n i n v i t i n g r h e t o r i c o f f i g u r e s . But Commerce no l o n g e r l i n g e r s around i t s a n c i e n t h a u n t s . I t now pervades t h e w o r l d . . . . Whatever i s v a l u a b l e t o man, c a l l s on the merchant f o r h e l p . The v e r y g o l d which the sands and the r o c k s o f 333 C a l i f o r n i a and A u s t r a l i a so p r o f u s e l y y i e l d , r e q u i r e s the merchant's s h i p s and system o f exchange t o make i t o f the v a l u e i t r e a l l y r e p r e s e n t s . Why then s h a l l not commerce be i n s t a l l e d among the o c c u p a t i o n s whose achievements s h a l l be deemed worthy o f r e c o r d , and p o s s e s s a l i t e r a t u r e p e c u l i a r l y i t s own. 1 1 ' C e r t a i n l y T r a i n d i d b r i n g c o n s i d e r a b l e l e a r n i n g t o h i s w r i t i n g , a d i s t i n c t i v e c r e a t i v i t y o f t h o u g h t . Reading the b e l l e t r i s t i c f i c t i o n o f the day ( i n c l u d i n g Thomes' mammoth e f f o r t s , though one h e s i t a t e s t o assume a c a t e g o r y f o r Thomes 1 p r o d u c t i o n s o t h e r than o f the "dime" v a r i e t y ) , i t i s u n l i k e l y t h a t one c o u l d f i n d a contemporaneous novel w i t h the o f f - h a n d f r e s h n e s s o f T r a i n ' s o p e n i n g t o Spread-Eag1ei sm (1859): "Young America A b r o a d , " thrown o f f w h i l e r u n n i n g about the w o r l d the o t h e r day. . . . 1 1 2 Y e t , i n t h a t s e e m i n g l y c a t c h y b e g i n n i n g , T r a i n s u b t l y p r o j e c t s p a r t o f the r a t i o n a l e f o r u n d e r s t a n d i n g h i s Young A m e r i c a p l a t f o r m . The f a c t t h a t he i s , i n h i s own words, not "a l i t e r a r y man--not a p o e t , " 113 i s b e s i d e the p o i n t . The p r o s e r a c e s , and we f i n d o u r s e l v e s caught up i n the w h i r l o f w o r d s - - e s p e c i a 11y when T r a i n r e c o r d s some o f the e x c i t e m e n t o f contemporary l i f e and the p o s s i b i l i t i e s i n h e r e n t i n Young American i d e o l o g y . H i s s t y l e seems t o be a m i x t u r e o f Western t a l l - t a l e swagger and Emersonian a p h o r i s m s : Our age i s the age. [Men o f p r e v i o u s g e n e r a t i o n s ] walked--we t a k e the r a i l - way. T h e i r d i s p a t c h e s went by h o r s e p o w e i — o u r s by e l e c t r i c i t y . The w o r l d i s l i b e r a l i z i n g . Even Pandemonium has got a new and r e v i s e d c o n s t i t u t i o n . The f i r e s a r e not so hot as under t h e o l d C a l v i n i s t i c reg ime. 334 Young A m e r i c a o b s e r v e s t h a t n a t u r e ' s f e a t u r e s a r e r e g u l a r . He l i k e s j o y , g l a d n e s s , b r i g h t c o l o r s ; g r o w l i n g , i l l - n a t u r e , s c o w l s he d e t e s t s . F l o w e r s , c l o u d s , l a n d and w a t e r have a thousand hues; the C r e a t o r d i d not d r e s s t h i s w o r l d i n d r a b . Young A m e r i c a b e l i e v e s i n a good h e a r t y l a u g h . L a u g h t e r i s the o n l y d i s t i n g u i s h a b l e mark from the brute~-anima1s never s m i l e . Only t h r e e c o r d s draw down the f a c e , but as many [as a] dozen t a k e i t up. . . . Some t h i n k me too f a s t , o t h e r s too slow; some s a y , modulate your v o i c e m o r e - - g e s t i c u l a t e l e s s - - d p n ' t get so e x c i t e d . Each g i v e s a d v i c e , but a l l c h e e r . ' 1 And, as r e a d e r s , we o f t e n f i n d o u r s e l v e s d o i n g j u s t t h a t . The a u t h o r i s as a u d a c i o u s as the e r a he d e s c r i b e s . T r a i n c o n f e s s e s t o never h a v i n g w r i t t e n f o r a n a r r o w l y l i t e r a r y market, and y e t i n h i s a u t o b i o g r a p h y , My L i f e i n Many S t a t e s and i n F o r e i g n Lands (1902), he s u g g e s t s t h a t Emerson "has had more i n f l u e n c e upon me than any o t h e r man i n the w o r l d . " ' ' 5 L i k e many o t h e r s t a t e m e n t s i n the book, the c l a i m i s a d u b i o u s one; T r a i n ' s soulmate seems o f t e n t o be Paul Bunyan, r a t h e r . t h a n the Concord T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t . However, he i s no l e s s e n t e r t a i n i n g f o r m i s t a k i n g h i s s o u r c e s . Indeed, i n terms o f l i n k i n g c o n c e p t s o f A m e r i c a b u i l t up i n A u s t r a l i a p r i o r t o t h e l850's w i t h t h o s e i n the l a s t decades o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , h i s works assume u n d e n i a b l e i m p o r t a n c e . They exude t h a t m i x t u r e of c h e e k i n e s s and independence, a c e r t a i n 1ikeab 1 e e f f r o n t e r y , t h a t p r o v i d e d one o f the s t e r e o t y p e s l a t e r A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s would make use o f . T r a i n e p i t o m i z e d the o u t s p o k e n , t h r i f t y , r e s o u r c e f u l A m e r i c a n . C h a r l e s Ferguson's e l a b o r a t e c a r e e r i n A u s t r a l i a , s t r e t c h i n g f o r a l m o s t t h i r t y - o n e y e a r s , s e r v e d t o e x t e n d t h a t model. I f we a c c e p t t h e a s s e r t i o n o f F.T. W a l l a c e , t h e c o m p i l e r o f Ferguson's memoirs, t h a t i n t h e i r p e r s o n a l i n t e r v i e w s l e a d i n g t o the book the p r o t a g o n i s t 335 " i n s i s t e d t h a t no e x a g g e r a t i o n s s h a l l be i n d u l g e d i n , and n o t h i n g s t a t e d b u t t h e s i m p l e t r u t h , " t h e n an e n t e r t a i n i n g r e c o r d o f some o f t h e more c o l o u r f u l a s p e c t s o f l i f e i n A u s t r a l i a i n t h e d e c a d e s a f t e r m i d - c e n t u r y e m e r g e s . ' ' 6 It i s t h e more c o m p e l l i n g f o r b e i n g l a r g e l y u n d e r s t a t e d , r e f l e c t i n g a f i r s t - h a n d r e a c t i o n t o , and f e e l f o r , t h e t i m e s ( a n d no o n e c o u l d h a v e p a r t i c i p a t e d more f u l l y i n t h e p a n o r a m a and e x c i t e m e n t o f a r a p i d l y d e v e l o p i n g n a t i o n t h a n F e r g u s o n ) . How much we owe t o W a l l a c e ' s c r e a t i v i t y we d o n ' t know, b u t c e r t a i n l y t h e p o r t r a i t o f t h e c e n t r a l " c h a r a c t e r " p r o j e c t e d by t h e book e f f e c t i v e l y g r a b s o u r a t t e n t i o n . F e r g u s o n c o n t i n u a l l y d e m o n s t r a t e d t h a t Y a n k e e v e r s a t i l i t y w h i c h A u s t r a l i a n s o f t h e t i m e s o much a d m i r e d . D r o v e r , b o o t l e g g e r , s h o p - k e e p e r , - m i n e r , o r i g i n a l E u r e k a S t o c k a d e r , Cobb and Company d r i v e r , a b a t t o i r w o r k e r , e x p l o r e r ( f o r e m a n w i t h t h e monumental b u t i l l - f a t e d B u r k e and W i l l s e x p e d i t i o n ) , h o r s e - b r e a k e r a n d t r i c k r i d e i — F e r g u s o n t r i e d h i s h a n d , u s u a l l y w i t h m a r k e d s u c c e s s , a t many p r o f e s s i o n s . T h e " t r u t h , " a s r e c o r d e d i n E x p e r i e n c e s , h a s a l l t h e c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f f i c t i o n . F e r g u s o n l e n t c r e d e n c e t o t h e m i d - w e s t e r n " t a l l t a l e " c l a i m s t h a t T r a i n made r e g a r d i n g " Y o u n g A m e r i c a . " F o r many A u s t r a l i a n s he ( F e r g u s o n ) m u s t h a v e r e p r e s e n t e d a r o b u s t e x t e n s i o n o f t h e D a v e y C r o c k e t t l e g e n d . In E x p e r i e n c e s , we t r a v e r s e , w i t h F e r g u s o n , t h e " m e n t a l p a n o r a m a " o f an i n v e t e r a t e a d v e n t u r e r , a man c o n t e n t t o a b s e n t h i m s e l f f r o m h i s home s t a t e , O h i o , f o r c l o s e o n t h i r t y - f o u r y e a r s . ' ' 7 " V i s i o n s o f g o l d , " t h e a u t h o r e x c l a i m s i n t h e o p e n i n g o f h i s f i r s t c h a p t e r , 336 e x c i t e d my b r a i n . I t was not the g o l d a l o n e , but an awaken- ing o f a s t r o n g d e s i r e o f a d v e n t u r e which had pervaded my s p i r i t from a s m a l l s c h o o l - b o y t a k i n g my f i r s t l e s s o n i n geography. F o r e i g n c o u n t r i e s marked upon the pages o f the l i t t l e s c h o o l a t l a s were f a s c i n a t i n g . . . .'' 8 From the o u t s e t , we a r e a l e r t t o the p r i o r i t i e s o f the man whose e x p e r i e n c e s we a r e about t o f o l l o w : t r a v e l , a d v e n t u r e and money- making. By the book's end, n o t h i n g has happened t o change the r e a d e r ' s f i r s t i m p r e s s i o n s . Ferguson s t a n d s u n r e p e n t a n t . A p p a r e n t l y f e e l i n g i t incumbent on him t o c o u n s e l c a u t i o n t o any young r e a d e r s ( " s t i c k t o your farm o r your t r a d e , s t a n d by the o l d homestead where you were b o r n " ) , h i s r e a l n a t u r e a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y responds i n d i r e c t c o n t r a d i c t i o n t o such d u t i f u l l y c o n s e r v a t i v e u r g i n g s . He c a p t u r e s the s p i r i t o f the whole e n t e r p r i s e i n a few l i n e s : F o l l o w your own i n c l i n a t i o n as I d i d , f o r t h a t you w i l l be s u r e t o do, as I d i d , and so w i l l e v e r y boy. I f he i s i n c l i n e d t o be a l a w y e r , t h e r e i s no use i n t r y i n g t o make a clergyman o f him; so o f one who i s bound t o t r a v e l , you cannot keep him a t home.''9 Ferguson would not a c c e p t the i n s u l a r l i f e o f a s m a l l town i n Ohio. He b e l i e v e d the w o r l d beckoned t o e v e r y young man, and t h a t Americans were p e c u l i a r l y s u i t e d t o respond t o the c h a l l e n g e . Oddly, d e s p i t e Ferguson's penchant f o r a l i f e o f a c t i o n , E x p e r i e n c e s t e s t i f i e s t o the f a c t t h a t he has a l i t e r a r y i n t e r e s t ; he e x h i b i t s f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h w r i t e r s r a n g i n g from Shakespeare and D i c k e n s t o 1 20 h i s countryman Poe. Moreover, a c o m p e l l i n g p e r s o n a l i t y emerges from the book. The w r i t e r can be w r y l y humorous when the o c c a s i o n 337 w a r r a n t s - - f o r example, when he r e c o r d s the demise o f a Shakespearean a c t o r o f note from p u b l i c p e r s o n a l i t y t o b i l l i a r d - r o o m employee as " r a t h e r a sudden drop from K i n g Lear and Hamlet, P r i n c e o f Denmark, 121 down t o a common b i l l i a r d marker." At a n o t h e r p o i n t , he impresses w i t h h i s s i n c e r e and moving a t t e m p t t o b r i d g e the s w i r l i n g w a t e r s o f the American C i v i l War, f o r he approaches the c o n f l i c t i n t e l l i g e n t l y , 1 22 w i t h a deep sympathy f o r both s i d e s . But Ferguson i s b e s t when s i m p l y b e i n g h i m s e l f . Perhaps the most e n d e a r i n g example o f t h i s o c c u r s when he d e s c r i b e s h i s b e a u t i f u l f e m a l e p a r t n e r a t a J u l y k d i n n e r . R i s i n g s p l e n d i d l y t o the t a s k , he e x c l a i m s , a l l b r i g h t - eyed i n n o c e n c e : . . . 0 how she d i d s h i n e - - t h e o b s e r v e d o f a l l o b s e r v e r s . The s t a r - s p a n g l e d banner on the w a l l , emblem o f my b e l o v e d c o u n t r y , p a l e d and gr^w dim i n c o n t r a s t w i t h the sweeping t r a i n o f my p a r t n e r . L i k e T r a i n , Ferguson no doubt e x e m p l i f i e d f o r a l l the A u s t r a l i a n s w i t h whom he came i n c o n t a c t t h a t p a r t i c u l a r American t y p e whose e n t h u s i a s m and v i g o u r were c o n t a g i o u s . W i l l i a m Henry Thomes 1 c h a r a c t e r s i n h i s t h r e e n o v e l s s e t i n V i c t o r i a r e v e a l a knowledge o f A u s t r a l i a and A u s t r a l i a n c o n d i t i o n s 1 2k c l e a r l y based on h i s own e x p e r i e n c e s . Thomes' e n t e r p r i s e , l i k e F e r g u s o n ' s , l e d him t o t r y a number o f p r o f e s s i o n s - - s u c h as p r i n t e r , r e p o r t e r , s o l d i e r , s a i l o r , g o l d - d i g g e r , shop-keeper and, i n the r o l e o f which we have most i n f o r m a t i o n , t h a t o f " d i m e - n o v e l " a u t h o r . Thomes spent a t l e a s t t w e l v e months i n A u s t r a l i a , a r r i v i n g i n 1852-3 338 and l e a v i n g i n l a t e 185*, o r e a r l y 1855-'^ D u r i n g t h a t t i m e , he a c c u m u l a t e d s u f f i c i e n t f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h l o c a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s t h a t he c o u l d g i v e h i s f i c t i o n a t l e a s t an a u t h e n t i c framework o f l o c a l c o l o u r . H i s n o v e l s sag under the w e i g h t o f the w o r s t a s p e c t s o f Cooperesque r o m a n t i c i s m ( i n the t r a d i t i o n o f the " L e a t h e r s t o c k i n g " s e r i e s ) , and tend t o e x p l o i t such d e v i c e s as s e n s a t i o n a l c h a p t e r head- i n g s , but we do f i n d t r a c e s o f keen o b s e r v a t i o n and a g r a s p o f American 126 and A u s t r a l i a n manners. The e g a l i t a r i a n conduct o f h i s p r i n c i p l e American c h a r a c t e r s makes s e n s e - - t h e y a r e s t r o n g b e l i e v e r s i n r e p u b l i c a n i s m and the r i g h t s of man--though Thomes' w o r l d has been, as one c r i t i c has i n d i c a t e d , " c r e a t e d f o r h e r o e s , and . . . a hero i s i p s o f a c t o 1 27 a gentleman--even i f o n l y one o f N a t u r e ' s gentlemen." We must r e c o g n i z e him, f i r s t , as an i n c o r r i g i b l e American romancer, but h i s A u s t r a l i a n n o v e l s a r e a t t i m e s more than j u s t h i s t o r i c a l c u r i o s i t i e s . In The Gold Hunters ' A d v e n t u r e s ; o r L i f e i n A u s t r a 1 i a (1864), w r i t t e n , the a u t h o r s o u r l y i n f o r m s us, f o r the b e n e f i t o f " t h o s e who used t o d r i n k my l i q u o r and f e a s t a t my t a b l e , " Thomes t a k e s us on the t r a v e l s o f two American m i n e r s , F r e d e r i c k (Fred) B u t t o n and the 1 28 n a r r a t o r , J a c k . L u c k l e s s on the C a l i f o r n i a n d i g g i n g s , they head t o M e l b o u r n e , w h i c h they f i n d much more t o t h e i r l i k i n g . They s t r i k e up a f r i e n d s h i p w i t h a t i c k e t - o f - 1 e a v e man named S m i t h , who h e l p s them f i n d t h e i r way t o B a l l a r a t . At t h i s p o i n t , the s e t t i n g e s t a b l i s h e d , the t h r e e embark on a s u c c e s s i o n o f p i c a r e s q u e a d v e n t u r e s : among them, the t r a c k i n g down and c a p t u r e o f the i n e v i t a b l e gang o f bush- r a n g e r s ; a t r i u m p h a n t r e t u r n t o Government House, Melbourne, t o be 339 lauded f o r t h e i r h e r o i c deeds; the e v e n t u a l r e c o v e r y o f the b u s h r a n g e r s ' b u r i e d t r e a s u r e ; the f r e e i n g o f a y o u t h about t o be u n j u s t l y l y n c h e d ; and, i n the second h a l f of the book, t h e i r l i v e l y e x i s t e n c e on the B a l l a r a t g o l d f i e l d s . The B a l l a r a t s e c t i o n , i n p a r t i c u l a r , has d i s t i n c t f i c t i o n a l p o s s i b i l i t i e s , but Thomes seems more i n t e r e s t e d i n s a t i s f y i n g the r e q u i r e m e n t s o f a r e a d e r i n t h i r s t o f e n d l e s s a c t i o n than i n making the e f f o r t t o g i v e h i s c h a r a c t e r s depth and e x p l o r e the i m p l i c a t i o n s o f h i s f r o n t i e r s e t t i n g . Thomes 1 second book, The Bushrangers (1873). i s s c a r c e l y d i f f e r e n t from h i s f i r s t . I t makes use o f t y p i c a l l y s e n s a t i o n a l s u b j e c t h e a d i n g s , which f a i r l y r e p r e s e n t the plot--among them a r e "A C o q u e t t e a t Work," "Rescue o f an E n g l i s h B a r o n e t , " " A l l i g a t o r s and t h e i r A t t a c k s , " "Forward t o the Rescue," "The L o s t C h i l d " and "The Hunt f o r the B a r o n e t ' s 1 29 Daughter." However, t h e r e a r e c e r t a i n redeeming f e a t u r e s i n B u s h r a n g e r s . In the book's o p e n i n g pages, f o r example, J a c k a c c u r a t e l y v o i c e s Young American wander 1 u s t : Heaven o n l y knows what s e n t me t o A u s t r a l i a the second t i m e . I was v e r y c o m f o r t a b l e i n B o s t o n , f o r I had money, and i t was s a f e l y i n v e s t e d . I had f r i e n d s , or r a t h e r t h o s e who p r o f e s s e d t o be such. I had p l e a s a n t rooms, and a p a i r o f f a s t h o r s e s ; and men s a i d t h a t I was a l u c k y dog, and d e s e r v e d my good f o r t u n e , and I have no doubt they were s i n c e r e i n t h e i r e x p r e s s i o n s . But s t i l l I was not happy and c o n t e n t e d \ f e l t as though I c o u l d s e t t l e down and remain a q u i e t c i t i z e n . . . and made d e s p e r a t e a t t e m p t s t o c o n v i n c e m y s e l f t h a t I was happy. But a l 1 i n v a i n . 1 3 ° The n a r r a t o r ' s words c o u l d j u s t as e a s i l y be T r a i n ' s o r F e r g u s o n ' s . 340 L a t e r , he a u t h e n t i c a l l y d e s c r i b e s the g r i m r e a l i t i e s o f the A u s t r a l i a n e n v i ronment: I thought o f the c l o u d s o f b l i n d i n g d u s t which d r i v e the i n h a b i t a n t s o f A u s t r a l i a f r a n t i c as i t f i l l s t h e i r e y e s , noses, e a r s , and mouths, and burns the s k i n o f the f a c e l i k e c a u s t i c . I r e c o l l e c t e d the wet w i n t e r s , when the r a i n f a l l s as though r i v e r s i n the c l o u d s had broken l o o s e , and were d e t e r m i n e d t o sweep away a l l v e s t i g e o f l a n d ; the p i e r c i n g c o l d which i s e n c o u n t e r e d on the m o u n t a i n s ; the mud; the snakes; the m i l l i o n s o f i n s e c t s , w h i c h d r i v e s l e e p from the eyes o f the t e n d e r - s k i n n e d . . . The names o f Thomes' c h a r a c t e r s - - ! i k e H e z e k i a h Hopeful (from H i l l s b o r o u g h County, New H a m p s h i r e ) , C a p t a i n K e e l h a u l and B i l l T h r a s h e r --come s t r a i g h t from the "dime" d i c t i o n a r y . And y e t , w h i l e he u s u a l l y c o n t e n t s h i m s e l f w i t h s t e r e o t y p e d s i t u a t i o n s i n h i s s t o r i e s , he can o c c a s i o n a l l y d e p i c t i n c i d e n t s w i t h some s o c i a l s i g n i f i c a n c e . One such i n c i d e n t o c c u r s towards the end o f Bushrangers when J a c k f i n d s h i m s e l f the u n w i l l i n g v i c t i m o f the E n g l i s h c l a s s system. Though he has been i n s t r u m e n t a l i n the s a f e r e t u r n o f the E n g l i s h a r i s t o c r a t S i r W i l l i a m B y e f i e l d ' s l o n g - l o s t d a u g h t e r , J a c k ' s r e q u e s t t o marry t h i s same g i r l prompts an unceremonious r e p l y from her f a t h e r . S i r W i l l i a m a d m i t s t h a t J a c k i s "a f i n e , generous f e l l o w . . . but s t i l l not her equal i n p o s i t i o n o r f o r t u n e . " An o u t r a g e d J a c k r e p l i e s : I i n t e n d t o prove t o you t h a t an American s o v e r e i g n i s f u l l y equal i n p o s i t i o n , i f not s u p e r i o r i n some r e s p e c t s , t o an E n g l i s h b a r o n e t . ' ^ 2 T h i s scene, s e v e r a l pages l o n g , i n d i c a t e s Thomes 1 awareness o f some o f the s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l r e p e r c u s s i o n s o f the American p r e s e n c e 3*1 i n an E n g l i s h c o l o n y i n the 18501 s; u n f o r t u n a t e l y , he a l l too o f t e n c o n t e n t s h i m s e l f w i t h the less-demanding t a s k o f r e p l i c a t i n g the .' s t a n d a r d s i t u a t i o n s o f the limp r o m a n t i c n o v e l . The memories o f T r a i n , Ferguson and Thomes, both f i c t i o n a l and f a c t u a l , n o t a b l y e n l a r g e our n o t i o n s o f the American i n A u s t r a l i a , m i d - c e n t u r y . They a r e a r t i c u l a t e , a t times s t i r r i n g spokesmen f o r t h e i r c o u n t r y , and the works d i s c u s s e d h e r e , i f not c o n s c i o u s l y l i t e r a r y , r e f l e c t c o n s i d e r a b l e c r e a t i v e r e s o u r c e f u l n e s s . The s t a y o f the t h r e e Americans i n A u s t r a l i a was m u t u a l l y p r o f i t a b l e . T r a i n got h i s f o r t u n e , Ferguson s a t e d h i s t h i r s t f o r a d v e n t u r e , and Thomes a c q u i r e d m a t e r i a l f o r h i s n o v e l s . A u s t r a l i a , on the o t h e r hand, 1 33 got " A m e r i c a n i z e d , " t o use T r a i n ' s word. B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n had a r r i v e d and many, l i k e T r a i n , " a t once undertook t o s p r e a d the g o s p e l 1 3* o f A m e r i c a n i s m . . . ." A f t e r i n i t i a l s u s p i c i o n , the g r e a t m a j o r i t y 1 35 o f t h e s e Americans were w e l l r e c e i v e d . Some s t a y e d f o r good. 3 U Sect i on p_ Money o r E v a n g e l i s m ? The f i c t i o n a l work o f Thomes and the p u r p o r t e d l y n o n - f i c t i o n a l a c c o u n t s o f T r a i n and Ferguson a l l , i n some way, r e f l e c t the a s p i r a t i o n s and i d e a l s o f Young America i n A u s t r a l i a a t a c r u c i a l time f o r both the development o f the American s p i r i t abroad and the e f f e c t o f t h a t s p i r i t on the h a s t e n i n g l i t e r a r y and s o c i a l e v o l u t i o n o f i n f a n t A u s t r a l i a . T h e i r t h o u g h t s bear c l o s e l y on the n a t u r e o f the A u s t r a l i a n / American c o n n e c t i o n o f the t i m e . U n l i k e the American P a t r i o t s e x i l e d t o Van Diemen's Land who a r r i v e d i n t h e i r i s l a n d p r i s o n g r i m l y d e t e r m i n e d t o r e t u r n t o t h e i r homeland as soon as p o s s i b l e , by whatever means a v a i l a b l e , the F i f t i e s Young Americans e a g e r l y sought A u s t r a l i a ' s g i l d e d s h o r e s . They f e l t themselves bound f o r a new E l Dorado, not 1 36 f o r D e v i l ' s I s l a n d . B a r e l y a decade s e p a r a t e d the two g r o u p s , and o f t e n as one reads the Young A m e r i c a n s , i r o n i c c o n t r a s t s w i t h t h e i r p r e d e c e s s o r s a r i s e . T r a i n , Ferguson and Thomes s i m p l y do not l o o k a t A u s t r a l i a i n the l 8 5 0 ' s w i t h the same eyes as t h e i r c o u n t r y - men had s u r v e y e d Canada, and l a t e r Van Diemen's Land, i n the l a t e l 8 3 0 ' s and e a r l y l 8 4 0 ' s . The a g g r e s s i o n o f the new Young A m e r i c a n s i s economic, not m i l i t a r y . T r a i n , f o r example, i s c o n t e n t t o b o a s t , 3 4 3 w h i l e h i s p r e d e c e s s o r s sought t o defend honour and p r i n c i p l e w i t h t h e i r l i v e s , i f n e c e s s a r y . One o f the p r i n c i p a l c h a r a c t e r s i n Thomes 1 The Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , Fred B u t t o n s , perhaps sums up the a t t i t u d e o f many o f h i s r e a l - l i f e c o u n t e r p a r t s when he i s asked t o comment on the l i n k s between A u s t r a l i a n and American r e p u b l i c a n i s m . He responds c a u t i o u s l y : 1 3 7 "We don't c a r e t o t a l k on the s u b j e c t . " L a t e r , when p r e s s e d , he g i v e s a more e l a b o r a t e d e f e n c e o f the p r o f i t - m i n d e d American E a g l e s i n A u s t r a l i a a t the t i m e : Go and t e l l the d i s s a t i s f i e d miners t h a t we w i l l never p l o t a g a i n s t them, a l t h o u g h i t i s p r o b a b l e t h a t we s h a l l not t a k e up arms i n t h e i r d e f e n c e . We a r e t r a d e r s , and have done w i t h f i g h t i n g , and w i s h t o remain n e u t r a l . ' 3 8 The z e a l o u s commitment t y p i f y i n g the Upper Canadian r e b e l s had e v i d e n t l y l a p s e d . Americans f o u g h t a t Eureka~-a few, b r a v e l y i n d e e d - - b u t the i n t e g r i t y and, above a l l , r e s o l u t e p r i n c i p l e s o f a c t i o n a p p a r e n t i n Canada were g e n e r a l l y m i s s i n g i n A u s t r a l i a . When brought t o t r i a l , the American P a t r i o t s e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y espoused e g a l i t a r i a n n o t i o n s d e s p i t e s e v e r e c o e r c i o n . In A u s t r a l i a , however, i f C h a r l e s Ferguson can be taken as r e p r e s e n t a t i v e , p a r t i c i p a n t s a t t e m p t e d t o e x t r a c t t h e m s e l v e s by any means p o s s i b l e from the a b o r t e d r e b e l l i o n . Never a thought o f a moral s t a n d . A r r a i g n e d , and e x t r e m e l y v u l n e r a b l e , 1 3 9 Ferguson posed as a M e t h o d i s t m i n i s t e r --a p l o y w h i c h , w i t h the b a c k i n g o f the American Consul -and American merchants i n Melbourne, a p p a r e n t l y worked. Reading Ferguson's a c c o u n t o f the s t r i f e , one i s s t r u c k by h i s t o t a l l y o b j e c t i v e tone. He remembers not what we d i d , but r a t h e r the "many g r i e v a n c e s they s u f f e r e d and o f w h i c h they 1 kO c o m p l a i n e d . " And he i s a t p a i n s t o i n d i c a t e h i s c h a r i n e s s when a number o f d i g g e r s s t r o n g l y a d v o c a t e mi 1 i t a n t a c t i o n j u s t p r i o r t o 1 4 1 the Eureka r e v o l t . Thomes' brusque f i n a l d i s m i s s a l o f Eureka i n 1 hi a few l i n e s r e f l e c t s a t r u t h . Most American m i n e r s , urged on by t h e i r merchant countrymen (who wanted t o a v o i d a r i f t w i t h E n g l i s h c i v i l a u t h o r i t i e s ) , saw f i t t o remain n e u t r a l . Moreover, o f t h o s e who a c t u a l l y took p a r t , some d i d so f o r a v a r i e t y o f e s s e n t i a l l y p e r s o n a l r e a s o n s . R e f l e c t i n g on the a f t e r m a t h o f the r e v o l t decades l a t e r , Ferguson c o n c l u d e s h i s comments i n a b l u n t l y d i s i n t e r e s t e d 1 * 3 way. The f e r v e n t b e l i e f i n the T i g h t n e s s o f t h e i r cause t h a t had s e r v e d t o i n s p i r e M i l l e r , Wait and Woodman seems t o be s i n g u l a r l y l a c k i n g i n the m o t i v a t i o n s o f a g r e a t many o f t h e i r countrymen who a r r i v e d i n A u s t r a l i a i n the 1 8 5 0 ' s . Reading the Young A m e r i c a n s , we r e a l i z e t h e i r m o t i v a t i n g f a c t o r t o be a l a r g e l y p e r s o n a l g o a 1 - - n a m e l y , a c c u m u l a t i n g a f o r t u n e as soon as p o s s i b l e . I f the P a t r i o t s a r e J e f f e r s o n and P a i n e ' s men, the Young Americans a r e , t o a l a r g e e x t e n t , H a m i l t o n ' s . T r a i n c o n t i n u a l l y s t r o v e t o d e f u s e p o t e n t i a l l y v i o l e n t c o n f l i c t s . He c o u n s e l l e d good- w i l l i n the cause o f e x p a n d i n g commerce and w a r i l y c o n t e m p l a t e d the 1 hh "many r e v o l u t i o n i s t s " i n V i c t o r i a . In f a c t , as T r a i n p r e p a r e d t o d e p a r t A u s t r a l i a ' s s h o r e s , the Melbourne H e r a l d p r a i s e d h i s " s t r i c t and h o n o u r a b l e a b s t i n e n c e from a l l p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n our l o c a l and 145 n a t i o n a l p o l i t i c s . " The Age a g r e e d . For T r a i n , A u s t r a l i a r e p r e s e n t e d but a rung i n the Young American l a d d e r . He r e s t r i c t e d h i s m i l i t a n t 345 a c t i v i t y t o c o n s c i o u s l y r e p u b l i c a n remarks i n h i s l e t t e r s t o American newspapers. One o f t h e s e l e t t e r s c o l o u r f u l l y o u t l i n e s h i s c a s e , g i v i n g the r a t i o n a l e o f h i s " c o m m e r c i a l " l i t e r a t u r e . Imagining a d i a l o g u e between E n g l i s h c i v i l a u t h o r i t i e s and Young A m e r i c a , he has the E n g l i s h p a r t y suggest d e s p e r a t e Yankee m o t i v e s - - t o w h i c h Young A m e r i c a b r a z e n l y r e p l i e s : How a b s u r d . . . . we have come t o make money not t o r e v o l u t i o n - i z e your c o u n t r y . Don't be f r i g h t e n e d g o v e r n o r ; our r e v o l v e r s we brought f o r s a l e - - n o t f o r r e b e l l e a d . ' ' * 6 In T r a i n , and t h o s e he l e d , the e x p l o i t a t i v e f a c e o f A m e r i c a t h a t the New H o l l a n d c o l o n y had been f o r c e d t o approve i n i t s e a r l y y e a r s r e s u r f a c e s w i t h a vengeance. Yet a more s u b t l e vengeance, at, once f l a t t e r i n g and d e v i o u s . The p r e v a i l i n g a t t i t u d e towards England o f the Young Americans bears marked c o n t r a s t t o the P a t r i o t s . W h i l e o c c a s i o n a l c r i t i c i s m 1 of E n g l i s h c o l o n i a l methods o c c u r s i n the works o f the Young A m e r i c a n s , 147 they g e n e r a l l y encourage f e e l i n g s o f c o m p a t i b i l i t y . T r a i n ' s l i v e l i h o o d depended on c o o p e r a t i o n , and he u n d e r s t o o d the importance o f good r e l a t i o n s . The w i l l i n g n e s s o f Thomes' c h a r a c t e r s t o woo the E n g l i s h , t h e i r d e s i r e t o be upwardly m o b i l e , a g a i n c o n t a i n s a g r e a t d e a l of t r u t h . No one had more d e s i r e than T r a i n , and when the o c c a s i o n r e q u i r e d i n g r a t i a t i n g words, he c o u l d respond a p p r o p r i a t e l y . Aware o f the l a r g e r e a d e r s h i p h i s books c o u l d e x p e c t i n B r i t a i n , he o f t e n a c c l a i m e d the b e n e f i c i a l e f f e c t s o f E n g l i s h s e t t l e m e n t . Indeed, i n h i s w r i t i n g s he w h o l e h e a r t e d l y approves and u t i l i z e s the f a m i l i a r 346 r h e t o r i c a l metaphor o f e a r l i e r E n g l i s h s p e a k e r s . With s l i g h t a l t e r a t i o n s 148 T r a i n t a l k s o f " t h e g i f t e d mother and the p r o g r e s s i v e c h i l d . " In The American Merchant, he e u l o g i z e s the r e l a t i o n s h i p i n g l o w i n g , but awful p o e t r y . T r a i n i s , a f t e r a l l , a businessman: So h e r e ' s a h e a l t h t o h a l l o w e d A l b i o n , the j e w e l o f the s e a , And her d a u g h t e r , f a i r C o l u m b i a , the happy and the f r e e ; Long may t h e i r sons t h e i r p r a i s e s s i n g , i n f r i e n d s h i p ' s j o v i a l s t r a i n s , And d r a i n the cup o f f e l l o w s h i p w h i l e y e t a drop remains. S t i l l , he c a n ' t r e s i s t , a t t i m e s , a s s e r t i n g h i s r e a l f e e l i n g s as he a c c l a i m s A m e r i c a n commercial s u p e r i o r i t y . In the c o c k y o p e n i n g s e c t i o n t o Spread-Eag1ei sm (1859), e n t i t l e d " E v e r y Man H i s Own A u t o c r a t , " w r i t t e n a few y e a r s a f t e r h i s A u s t r a l i a n s t a y , T r a i n a d a p t s h i s " c o m m e r c i a l " p r o s e t o a c c e n t u a t e h i s A m e r i c a n - n e s s . W i t h measured f r o n t i e r c r u d i t y , he s k e t c h e s the Young American purpose: Tooverawe the w o r l d and t o p a t r o n i z e Great B r i t a i n , and i f t h e s a i d G r e a t B r i t a i n do not behave h e r s e l f b e f o r e her l u s t y and saucy progeny, t o " g i v e her a 1i ck i ng 1 1 — such i s the w i s h o f "Young America."150 Diplomacy c o l l a p s e s and r e a l backwoods bravado t a k e s o v e r . Towards the end o f " A u t o c r a t " he a f f i r m s American ascendancy i n terms o f a c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y l i g h t - h e a r t e d c o m p a r i s o n : England and America a r e p a r t n e r s , not r i v a l s . The younger n a t i o n i s the j u n i o r , who manages the w e s t e r n branch o f the o l d c o n c e r n ; y o u t h g i v e s a c t i v i t y , and hence the young man opens h i s l e t t e r s b e f o r e b r e a k f a s t , on the s t e p s o f the p o s t - o f f i c e , ' w h i 1 s t the o l d gentleman p r e f e r s b r e a k i n g the s e a l i n d r e s s i n g - g o w n and s l i p p e r s a f t e r d i n n e r . . . . o l d England r o s e w i t h renewed v i g o r , i n Young America.'5' 347 T r a i n o f t e n aimed a t e l i c i t i n g a u d i e n c e l a u g h t e r t o sweeten t h e p i l l o f a more s e r i o u s a s s e r t i o n . C l e a r l y , he f e l t " g o - a - h e a d - a - t i v e " 1 52 A m e r i c a had s u r p a s s e d E n g l a n d . J u s t as Thomes has h i s c h a r a c t e r s q u e s t i o n E n g l i s h m e r c a n t i l e and i n d u s t r i a l e f f i c i e n c y w h i l e t h e m s e l v e s i l l u s t r a t i n g Yankee "know-how," so T r a i n b l u s t e r s a t l e n g t h about i n n a t e American c a p a c i t y . Englishmen might be s c a r e d of new c h a l l e n g e s 1 53 and c h a n g i n g c i r c u m s t a n c e s , but not A m e r i c a n s . In c o n t r a s t t o " t h e s l o w c o n s e r v a t i s m and unchangeab1eness o f the E n g l i s h c i v i l o f f i c e " s t a n d s rugged, tempestuous Young A m e r i c a . T r a i n b r o a d l y h i n t s t h a t i f a r e a l c o n t e s t o f w i l l s were t o m a t e r i a l i z e , the E n g l i s h would be overwhelmed: . . . A m e r i c a i s s t i l l a t f u l l speed, w h i l e England has stopped t o c o a l ! We a r e now neck and neck i n commerce. Where s h a l l we be t h i r t y y e a r s hence? . . . England knocks down the g a t e s of s t u b b o r n n a t i o n s , as i n C h i n a , and America w a l k s i n and t a k e s the t o l l o f commerce. John B u l l f i g h t s , J o n a t h a n n e g o t i a t e s , but w i l l f i g h t i f o c c a s i o n demands i t . 1 5** At one p o i n t i n " A u t o c r a t " he o u t l i n e s , p o i n t by p o i n t , h i s v e r s i o n o f the Young American p l a t f o r m , b u t , i n f e n c i n g thus h i s n a t u r a l f l a r e f o r the r h e t o r i c of h i s c a u s e , the s t a t e m e n t doesn't read n e a r l y as w e l l as a s e c t i o n a l i t t l e e a r l i e r where he f u l l y c a p t u r e s the s p i r i t o f the m e r c a n t i l e Young Americans i n A u s t r a l i a : S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm i s an I n s t i t u t i o n . Young A m e r i c a i s a n a t i o n , and s i g n i f i e s p r o g r e s s . Young A m e r i c a don't mean s u c k i n g b a b i e s a l o n e - - n o r s c h o o l b o y s — n o r f a s t young men. Of c o u r s e n o t . I t t a k e s the c o u n t r y — the whole c o u n t r y , and n o t h i n g but the c o u n t r y . Every man, woman and c h i l d , o l d and y o u n g — e v e r y i n d i v i d u a l 348 b o r n s i n c e t h e n a t i o n ' s b i r t h - d a y , i s a Young A m e r i c a n . It i s Y o u n g A m e r i c a a s an a m i a b l e r i v a l t o o l d E u r o p e . . . . Young A m e r i c a i s t h e v a n g u a r d o f c h a n g e — t h e c o m i n g o f a g e . H i s w a t c h w o r d i s R e f o r m . . . . B e i n g t r u e t o h i m s e l f , he c a n ' t be f a l s e t o h i s n e i g h b o u r . We c a n n o t f a s t e n an ism o n him ( e x c e p t S p r e a d - E a g 1 e i s m ) . . . . Young A m e r i c a w i l l be w a n t e d . T h e t i m e s a r e c h a n g i n g .155 T h i s e x c e r p t a l m o s t r e a d s a s a f o u n d poem o f t h e e r a . D i r e c t , c o n f i d e n t , c h a 1 1 e n g i n g - - a n d r e p r e s e n t a t i v e . An e l e m e n t o f F e r g u s o n ' s a d v e n t u r o u s a d v i c e t o t h e y o u n g i s c a p t u r e d h e r e . And much m o r e . T r a i n e m e r g e s a s t h e e m b o d i m e n t o f e n t e r p r i s i n g ( b u t a l w a y s c o n c i l a t o r y a n d e x p e d i e n t ) m e r c a n t i l e A m e r i c a i n a v i g o r o u s p i e c e o f i n t e n t i o n a l l y p o l e m i c a l p r o s e . T h e z e a l o u s n a t i o n a l i s m o f T r a i n a n d h i s c o l l e a g u e s c a n n e v e r be q u e s t i o n e d . L i k e t h e e a r l i e r A m e r i c a n P a t r i o t s , t h e y c o n s t a n t l y p r a i s e r e p u b l i c a n i n s t i t u t i o n s i n r a p t u r o u s t e r m s . T r a i n ' s w r i t i n g s and s p e e c h e s e x h i b i t a c l o s e k n o w l e d g e o f h i s c o u n t r y ' s c o n s t i t u t i o n a l and p o l i t i c a l h i s t o r y . ' 5 6 A g a i n , l i k e h i s c a p t i v e c o u n t r y m e n i n e a r l i e r Van D i e m e n ' s L a n d , T r a i n r e g a r d e d h i s s o u t h e r n s o j o u r n a s a t e m p o r a r y o n e . T h e t o n e o f o n e o f h i s l e t t e r s t o t h e B o s t o n P o s t , w r i t t e n i n l a t e 1 8 5 4 , c l o s e l y r e s e m b l e s t h e P a t r i o t s ' p a s s i o n a t e m i s s i v e s t o home i n t h e e a r l y l 8 4 0 ' s : . . . b u s y a s y o u may be w i t h t h e c r o w d i n g e v e n t s o f t h i s w o n d e r f u l a g e , y o u need n o t f o r g e t u s , f o r some t i m e we a r e c o m i n g h o m e ! — t h e v e r y t h o u g h t o f w h i c h s u p p o r t s us i n o u r e x i l e , and n e r v e s us t o r e n e w e d e x e r t i o n .157 P a s s i n g through P o r t P h i l l i p Heads on the way back t o A m e r i c a , he can 349 1 58 h a r d l y c o n t a i n h i s e x h i l i r a t i o n and j o y . Ferguson c o n t r a s t s i n t e r e s t i n g l y i n t h i s r e s p e c t . A w h o l e h e a r t e d p a t r i o t - - h e c a l l e d one o f h i s mines the "Sons o f Freedom" and l i k e d t o quote the c e l e b r a t e d 1 59 t h r e e t e n e t s o f the D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence --he n e v e r t h e l e s s warmed t o A u s t r a l i a as T r a i n c o u l d not. As a miner and g e n e r a l r o u s t a b o u t , Ferguson got t o know A u s t r a l i a i n a way t h a t h i s merchant f e l l o w - A m e r i c a n d i d n o t , so t h a t he e x p e r i e n c e s the gloom and sadness 160 o f a n a t i v e when he f i n a l l y s a i l s out o f the Sydney Heads. The Young A m e r i c a n s , because o f t h e i r g r e a t e r i n v o l v e m e n t i n the A u s t r a l i a n community when compared t o the P a t r i o t s , were moved t o s p e c u l a t e on the p o t e n t i a l r e p u b l i c a n f u t u r e o f t h e i r adopted l a n d . They were aware o f the s t r o n g f o r c e s a t work i n the young c o u n t r y . T r a i n made i t c l e a r t h a t he would not r e s o r t t o arms i n s u p p o r t o f l o c a l independence, but he o c c a s i o n a l l y assumed the r o l e o f Young A u s t r a l i a n p r o p a g a n d i s t . U s i n g language r e m i n i s c e n t o f C h a r l e s W i l k e s b e f o r e him, T r a i n c o n t e m p l a t e d the f u t u r e o f the c o u n t r y he r e g a r d e d as " t h e b r i g h t e s t s t a r i n the whole B r i t i s h g a l a x y ! " 1 ^ 1 In h i s l e t t e r s t o American newspapers, h i s n a t u r a l e b u l l i e n c e and awareness o f the a f f i l i a t i o n s o f h i s a u d i e n c e l e d him t o c o n j e c t u r e 162 an imminent r e p u b l i c a n h o r i z o n f o r A u s t r a l i a . Sometimes he sounds a l i t t l e a b s u r d , as i n the c r u d e French o f h i s o u t b u r s t , " V i v e l e 1 63 A u s t r a l i a ! V i v e l e Melbourne! V i ve l e R e p u b l i q u e ! " Yet he can be e q u a l l y c a l c u l a t i n g . A s s e s s i n g the e f f e c t i v e n e s s o f the B a l l a r a t r e v o l t , he c h a r g e s h i s words w i t h o v e r t o n e s o f 1776: 350 The l o v e o f l i b e r t y t h a t i s c o n v u l s i n g the s h a k i n g t h r o n e s o f the o l d w o r l d has touched the g i a n t c h i e f t a i n o f the A u s t r a l i a n s , and the " s o u t h e r n c r o s s , " t h r e e - f o u r t h s o f the p e o p l e s a y , must be the f l a g o f the s o u t h e r n El D o r a d o . ' 6 I t i s no s u r p r i s e when, a few l i n e s l a t e r i n the same l e t t e r , he d e s i g n a t e s the Eureka r e b e l l i o n as the " A u s t r a l i a n Bunker H i l l . " (Did t h i s have any b e a r i n g on Mark Twain's s i m i l a r a s s e r t i o n decades l a t e r ? ) Thomes' c h a r a c t e r s , t o o , o c c a s i o n a l l y f l i r t w i t h r e v o l t b u t , when p r e s s e d , they r e a c t as T r a i n d i d - - t r e a d i n g w i t h c a r e , r a t h e r than commitment.'^ 5 35/ CHAPTER V ENDNOTES One v i s i t o r o f the time w r o t e t h a t " t h e r e i s a g e n e r a l t h i r s t f o r r e a d i n g t h r o u g h o u t A u s t r a l i a . . . . Everybody r e a d s . " See D. M a c k e n z i e , Ten Years i n A u s t r a l i a , 2nd ed. (London: W i l l i a m O r r , 1852), p. 44. 2 P a r r i n g t o n , Main C u r r e n t s , i n t r o d u c t i o n , p. V I I . 3 See C l a r e n c e Gohdes, American L i t e r a t u r e i n N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y Eng1 and ( C a r b o n d a l e , I l l i n o i s : S o u t h e r n I l l i n o i s U n i v . P r e s s , 1944), pp. v i i , 16. ^ S a p i e t s , p. 8. 5 George R o b e r t s o n (l825~98) was A u s t r a l i a ' s f o r e m o s t book p u b l i s h e r b e f o r e 1890; h i s namesake (1860-1933), o f Angus and R o b e r t s o n p u b l i c a t i o n s fame, was t h e p r i n c i p a l book p u b l i s h e r i n the decades a f t e r 1890. See A r g u s , A p r i l 18-26, 1854, quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , Young Amer i c a , p. 68. 7 See, f o r example, Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I , 116. 8 See W i l l i a m H o w i t t , Land, Labour, and Gold (London, 1855), quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 67. 9 For more on the a u c t i o n e e r L a n g l e y , see H o w i t t , quoted i n Nancy K e e s i n g , ed., H i s t o r y o f the A u s t r a 1 i a n Gold Rushes (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1967) , pp. 124-5- 352 ^ See N a d e l , A u s t r a l i a ' s C o l o n i a l C u l t u r e , pp. 76, 104-5. '' See S a p i e t s , p. 12; P o t t s and P o t t s , pp. 66-7• 1 2 S a p i e t s , p. 12. 1 3 See B a r t l e t t , p. 135; Free P r e s s , March 31, 1842, quoted i n Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I , 77-8. 14 Geo.[rge] F r a n c i s T r a i n , An.American Merchant i n Europe, As i a , and A u s t r a 1 i a: A_ Ser i es o f L e t t e r s (New York: G.P. Putnam, 1857), P. 386. ' 5 In E n g l a n d , t w e l v e d i f f e r e n t e d i t i o n s had been p r i n t e d by December, 1852, and twenty-seven e d i t i o n s by A p r i l , 1853• See S a p i e t s , p. 9; Gohdes, pp. 29, 101, 141. 1 g Quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 67. See a l s o , K e e s i n g , p. 125. ' 7 See Monaghan, p. 232; C l i v e T u r n b u l l , A u s t r a 1 i an L i ves (Melbourne: F.W. C h e s h i r e , 1965), p. 19- The poem, "Suggested by the P e r u s a l o f U n c l e Tom's C a b i n , " by " T h e t a , " a p p e a r i n g i n The Sydney U n i v e r s i t y Magazine, 1 ( J a n . 1855), 70-1, f a i r l y r e p r e s e n t s the A u s t r a l i a n poems w r i t t e n i n s u p p o r t o f the a n t i - s l a v e r y cause. I t beg i n s : Up, ye sons o f l i b e r t y ! Up, and s e t your b r e t h r e n f r e e . . . . T y p i c a l o f the t i m e , the poet r e c o r d s i n a l a t e r s t a n z a h i s sadness t h a t s l a v e r y ' s c u r s e s h o u l d brand Those whose f a t h e r s made a s t a n d , B e a r i n g freedom's banner h i g h , F i g h t i n g f o r t h e i r l i b e r t y . . . . 353 18 Hobart D a i l y C o u r i e r , J u l y 1, September 30, October 12, 15, 1853, quoted i n Monaghan, p. 232. 1 9 Quoted i n C l a r k , S e l e c t Documents (1851-1900), p. 339- 20 K i n g s l e y , p. 397. 21 Dred (1856) d i d not have the same impact i n A u s t r a l i a as i t s p r e d e c e s s o r , and y e t i t s t i l l prompted s e v e r a l e d i t o r i a l s i n the Sydney Morning H e r a l d . See P o t t s and P o t t s , p. 67. 22 See Sydney Morning Hera 1d, August 25, 26, 28, September 1, I 8 5 6 . 23 Freeman's J o u r n a 1 , August 30, I856. Ik See Ann-Mari J o r d e n s , The Stenhouse C i r c l e (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1979), p. 5*.. 25 F i v e o f the sonnets appeared i n the Sydney Morning H e r a l d , J u l y 2, 1863, and one on June 15- They a r e r e p r i n t e d under the t i t l e , "Sonnets r e f e r r i n g t o the War i n A m e r i c a , " i n Henry K e n d a l l , The P o e t i c a l Works o f Henry K e n d a l l , ed. T.T. Reed ( A d e l a i d e : L i b r a r i e s Board o f South A u s t r a l i a , 1966), pp. 289"92. 26 "The N i g h t B e f o r e the B a t t l e , " K e n d a l l , p. 290. 2 7 "The Mother," K e n d a l l , p. 291. 28 "From A u s t r a l i a , " Kendall., p. 292. Compare t h i s sonnet w i t h poems i n Whitman's Drum Taps (1865) such as " E i g h t e e n S i x t y - One," " B e a t ! Beat! Drums!" " R i s e 0 Days from Your Fathomless Deeps," "Come. Up from the F i e l d s F a t h e r " and "The Wound-Dresser," i n Walt Whitman, Leaves o f G r a s s , ed. S c u l l e y B r a d l e y , H a r o l d W. B l o d g e t t , A r t h u r G o l d e n , W i l l i a m White (New York: New York U n i v . P r e s s , 1980), I I , 466T7, 479-82, 483-6, 486-7, 488-9. 354 29 I n g l i s , p. 275. For a good example o f e a r l y c o l o n i a l o p t i m i s m , see C u r r e n c y Lad, October 27, 1832, where the w r i t e r c l a i m s t h a t " t h e s t a g n a n t w a t e r s o f i g n o r a n c e . . . have now g i v e n p l a c e t o t h o s e f o u n t a i n s o f knowledge, which i s s u e t h e i r a l m o s t b o u n d l e s s streams t o f e r t i l i z e , e n r i c h , and b l e s s the w o r l d . " 3 ^ K i n g s l e y , p. 238. 31 " L i n e s on the D e p a r t u r e o f E m i g r a n t s f o r New South Wales," i n Thomas Campbel1, The Complete Poet i ca1 Works of.Thomas Campbel1, ed. J . L o g i e R o b e r t s o n (London: Henry Frowde, 1907), p. 283. 32 A u s t r a l i a n , December 23, 1842 (p. 2). For more on Duncan, see Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y , pp. 105-7- 33 Henry P a r k e s , Murmurs o f the Stream (Sydney: J. Waugh, 1857) p. 25. 34 P a r k e s , pp. 21, 27-8, 29. 35 Quoted i n I n g l e t o n , True P a t r i o t s A l 1 , p. 256. 36 K e n d a l l , pp. 241-2. The poem was f i r s t p r i n t e d i n The A u s t r a 1 i an Home Companion and Band o f Hope J o u r n a l , November 5, 1859- 37 See the poem "Hurrah f o r A u s t r a l i a " i n C.R. T h a t c h e r , T h a t c h e r ' s C o l o n i a l M i n s t r e l (Melbourne, 1864), p. 24, r e p r i n t e d i n C r o w l e y , C o l o n i a l A u s t r a l i a , p. 477- 38 S a p i e t s , p. 8. 39 Dana's Two Years B e f o r e the Mast (1840) was a d v e r t i s e d i n A u s t r a l i a as e a r l y as 1843. See the s a l e o f books a d v e r t i s e d i n the P o r t Phi 11ip H e r a l d , March 3, 1843 (quoted i n Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I , 169). 355 4 0 See S a p i e t s , pp. 8-9; Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I , 60-1 . L] Maya V a l d a S a p i e t s has s a i d t h a t " E n g l i s h c r i t i c s began t o t a k e American n o v e l i s t s s e r i o u s l y o n l y a f t e r the p u b l i c a t i o n o f Edgar A l l a n P o e 1 s s h o r t s t o r i e s o f the 1840's" ( S a p i e t s , p. 8). See a l s o Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I , 61, 153- 42 F r e d e r i c k S i n n e t t , The F i c t i o n F i e l d s o f A u s t r a l i a , ed. C e c i l H a d g r a f t (Melbourne, 1856; r p t . S t . L u c i a , Queensland: U n i v . o f Queensland P r e s s , 1966), p. 23. 43 Quoted i n S i n n e t t , p. 12. ^ Empi r e , J u l y 11, I856. See a l s o Sydney Morning H e r a l d , J u l y 9, I 8 5 6 . Fowler devoted a s e c t i o n t o Poe ( a l o n g w i t h L o n g f e l l o w and Emerson) i n h i s posthumously p u b l i s h e d L a s t G l e a n i n g s (London: Sampson Low, Son, and M a r s t o n , 1864), pp. 227_8. In p a r t i c u l a r , he a p p r e c i a t e d the American's "most f a n t a s t i c o r i g i n a l i t y . " 45 Waterview House was the name o f Stenhouse's Balmain r e s i d e n c e . 46 See J o r d e n s , pp. 24, 48, and c h a p t e r 7, e n t i t l e d "The S t e n - house L i b r a r y . " 47 See J o r d e n s , p. 126. 48 Quoted i n J o r d e n s , p. 52. 49 , F o w l e r , p. 229. See a l s o , J o r d e n s , pp. 95"6; B a r t o n , Poets and P r o s e Wr i t e r s , p. 115- 50 The s e c t i o n t i t l e i s t a k e n from one o f Benjamin Wait s l e t t e r s i n L e t t e r s from Van D i emen's Land, wr i t t e n dur i ng Four Years Impr i son- ment f o r P o l i t i c a l O f f e n c e s Committed i n Upper Canada ( B u f f a l o : 356 A.W. Wi l g u s , 1843), p. 48. 5 ' M i l l e r , Notes o f an E x i l e , p. 271. 52 See George Mackaness, " E x i l e from Canada," JRAHS, 1, P t . 6 (Dec. 1964), 429; George Rude, P r o t e s t and Punishment--the S t o r y o f the S o c i a l and P o l i t i ca1 P r o t e s t e r s T r a n s p o r t e d t o A u s t r a l i a 1788-1868 ( O x f o r d : C l a r e n d o n P r e s s , 1978), p. 10. 53 W a i t , L e t t e r s from Van Diemen's Land (1843); M i l l e r , Notes o f an E x i 1 e (1846); W i l l i a m G a t e s , R e c o l l e c t i o n s o f L i f e i n Van Diemen's Land, ed. George Mackaness, 2 v o l s . ( L o c k p o r t , 1850; r p t . Sydney: D.S. F o r d , 1961); C a l e b Lyon, N a r r a t i v e and R e c o l l e c t i o n s o f Van D i emen's Land dur i ng a_ Three Y e a r s ' Capt i v i t y o f Stephen S. W r i g h t (New York: New World P r e s s , 1844); Robert Marsh, Seven Years o f My L i f e , o r a N a r r a t i v e o f a P a t r i o t E x i l e ( B u f f a l o : Faxon and S t e v e n s , 1847); D a n i e l D. H e u s t i s , A N a r r a t i v e o f the A d v e n t u r e s and S u f f e r i ngs o f Capta i n Dan i e1 D. Heust i s ( B o s t o n : S.W. W i l d e r , 1848); Samuel Snow, The E x i 1 e ' s R e t u r n : o r , N a r r a t i v e o f Samuel Snow ( C l e v e l a n d Smead R. Cowles, 1846). 54 The more r e c e n t book on Woodman i s F r e d Landon, An E x i 1 e from Canada ( T o r o n t o : Longman, Green, i960). 5 5 See, f o r example, Edwin C. G u i l l e t , The L i v e s and Times o f the P a t r i o t s ( T o r o n t o : Thomas N e l s o n , 1938); J . D a v i s B a r n e t t , "The Books o f the P o l i t i c a l P r i s o n e r s and E x i l e s o f I838," O n t a r i o H i s t o r i c a l S o c i e t y Papers and R e c o r d s , XVI (1918), 10-18. See P a t r i c k W h i t e , A F r i n g e o f Leaves (London: Cape, 1976); Thomas K e n e a l l y , B r i n g L a r k s and Heroes (Melbourne: C a s s e l l , 1967). 357 5 7 L i n u s M i l l e r , f o r example, g i v e s us r a r e f i r s t - h a n d i n f o r m a t i o n on the infamous P o r t A r t h u r p r i s o n i n the remote s o u t h c o a s t o f Tasmania. He spent time t h e r e as an inmate (see N o t e s , c h a p t e r s XXV and XXVI, e s p e c i a l l y pp. 328-33). P o r t A r t h u r "was s i t u a t e d a t the t i p of a p e n i n s u l a which was j o i n e d t o the i s l a n d by a narrow isthmus where h a l f - s t a r v e d dogs were s a i d t o roam f r e e " ( L a c o u r - Gayet, C o n c i s e H i s t o r y , p. 162). 58 For more on t h i s , see Mary Brown's i n t r o d u c t i o n t o Benjamin W a i t , The Wa i t L e t t e r s ( O n t a r i o : P r e s s P o r c e p i c , 1976), pp. 5_9. 59 3 3 G a t e s , I, 32. 60 See W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , pp. 42, 140. 61 See W a i t , The Wa i t L e t t e r s , p. 21. See a l s o pp. 22-32; Mrs. Wa i t ' s 1 e t t e r s i n Wa i t , L e t t e r s from Van D i emen's Land. 62 Robert Marsh, quoted by George Mackaness i n h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o G a t e s , p. 6. See a l s o W a i t , The Wa i t L e t t e r s , p. 132; M i l l e r , pp. 339-40. 6 3 Mi 1 l e r , p. 27*. 64 W a i t , L e t t e r s from Van Diemen's Land, i n t r o d u c t i o n . See a l s o p. 45; W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , p. 51. 6 5 M i l l e r , p. 2. 6 6 See M i l l e r , p. 3- 6 7 Many Canadians were no d i f f e r e n t , i f Wait i s i n any way t y p i c a l . The T o r o n t o P a t r i o t even c a l l e d him a "Yankee Dandy" (quoted i n G u i l l e t , p. 109). Wait o f t e n mentioned " t h e cause o f t r u t h and the r i g h t s o f man" i n h i s w r i t i n g s . See W a i t , The Wa i t L e t t e r s , pp. 12, 16, 41, 51. 358 68 G a t e s , I, 9. See a l s o p. 8; Samuel Snow, quoted i n B a r n e t t , p. 12. 69 Thomas P a i n e , Common Sense, ed. Isaac Kramnick ( P h i l a d e l p h i a , 1776; r p t . Harmondsworth: P e n g u i n , 1976), p. 82. 7 0 P a i n e , R i g h t s o f Man, pp. 182-3, 184. 7 1 See, f o r example, W a i t , The Wai t L e t t e r s , pp. 19, 79-80, 148-9; M i l l e r , pp. 91, 232, 350, 352. 72 M i l l e r , p. 233- See a l s o p. 119; W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , p. 126. 7 3 M i l l e r , p. 232. 74 Woodman, quoted i n Landon, p. 196. See a l s o p. 220; W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , p. 34. 7 5 W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , p. 34. 7 6 H e u s t i s , quoted i n Gu.il l e t , p. 211. See a l s o G a t e s , I , 53, 70. 7 7 See H. McQueen, " C o n v i c t s and R e b e l s , " Labour H i s t o r y , No. 15 (Nov. 1968), 22. 7 8 M i l l e r , p. 331. See a l s o p. 336. 79 A r t h u r , i n p a r t i c u l a r , i s s e v e r e l y c r i t i c i z e d — b e i n g v a r i o u s l y c a l l e d " t h e b l o o d y R o b e s p i e r r e o f the Canadian R e v o l u t i o n " ( W r i g h t , quoted i n G u i l l e t , p. 197) and " t h e Bloody E x e c u t i o n e r " ( W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , p. 62). 80 M i l l e r , p. 217- See a l s o pp. 213-16. 81 W a i t , L e t t e r s from Van Diemen's Land, p. 48. 82 W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , p. 82. 8 3 G a t e s , I , 40, 30. 84 G a t e s , I, 31 (see a l s o I I , 30-1); W a i t , L e t t e r s from Van Diemen's Land, p. 48; Woodman, quoted i n Landon, p. 257; M i l l e r , http://Gu.il 359 pp. 254, 326-7, 366, 368-9. O r W a i t , The Wait L e t t e r s , pp. 11, 144; G a t e s , I I , 16, 40. M i l l e r , p. 370. 87 See George Mackaness 1 i n t r o d u c t i o n t o G a t e s , I, 6. See a l s o G a t e s , I I , 16; M i l l e r , pp. 286, 304. 88 See, f o r example, Marsh, quoted i n GuI1 l e t , pp. 194-7; M i l l e r , pp. 325-6; Woodman, quoted i n Landon, pp. 217 - l8; G a t e s , I, 41, 54, 70-1; I I , 31. 89 G a t e s , I I , 32. See a l s o Woodman, quoted i n Landon, p. 211. 90 See G a t e s , I, 42; Snow, quoted i n Gui1 l e t , p. 212. 91 •See, f o r example, Woodman, quoted i n Landon, pp. 226, 262. 92 H e u s t i s , quoted i n Gu11 l e t , p. 197- 9"? 3 J G a t e s , I, 33- 94 Landon's An E x i l e from Canada, t r a c e s the f u l l s t o r y . 95 Woodman, quoted i n G u i l l e t , p. 196. 96 M i l l e r , p. 299- The f i r s t v e r s e o f "The Hunters o f K e n t u c k y " i s g i v e n i n Landon, p. 206. 97 G a t e s , I, 55. See a l s o , W a i t , The Wa i t L e t t e r s , p. 65; M i l l e r , p. 323. 98 3 Mi H e r , p. 298; G a t e s , I , 44. 9 9 Mi H e r , p. 263; G a t e s , I , 45. ""^ Geo.[rge] F r a n c i s T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm (New York: Derby & J a c k s o n , 1859), p. xv. T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i s m , pp. x i - x i i . 360 102 For more on T r a i n ' s use o f the term "Spread-Eag le i sm," see Spread-Eag le i sm, pp. v i i - i x . 103 L e t t e r o f T r a i n , December 6, 1853, i n George F r a n c i s T r a i n , A_ Yankee Merchant i n G o l d r u s h A u s t r a l i a - - t h e L e t t e r s o f George F r a n c i s Tra i n, ed. E. D a n i e l and A n n e t t e P o t t s (Melbourne: Heinemann, 1970), p. 88. See a l s o , New York H e r a l d , F e b r u a r y 15, December 2, 1853, quoted i n E. D a n i e l and A n n e t t e P o t t s ' i n t r o d u c t i o n t o T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p. xv. 1 0 4 Freeman Hunt, i n t r o d u c t i o n t o T r a i n , An American Merchant (1857), p. v i . T r a i n s i g n s h i m s e l f " C i t i z e n George F r a n c i s T r a i n " a t the end o f the p r e f a c e t o h i s a u t o b i o g r a p h y , My L i f e i n Many S t a t e s and i n F o r e i g n Lands (1902), p. xv. The book was p u b l i s h e d about s i x t e e n months b e f o r e T r a i n d i e d , i n h i s mid-70's. 106 See P o t t s and P o t t s ' i n t r o d u c t i o n t o T r a i n ' s L e t t e r s ; A i t c h i s o n , Thanks t o the Yanks, pp. 13~22. 1 0 7 See T r a i n , An American Merchant (1857) and L e t t e r s (1970). 108 New York H e r a l d , J u l y 21, 1856, quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s ' i n t r o d u c t i o n t o T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p. xx. 1 09 C h a r l e s D. F e r g u s o n , The E x p e r i e n c e s o f a F o r t y - n i n e r d u r i n g T h i r t y - F o u r Y e a r s ' R e s i d e n c e i n C a l i f o r n i a and A u s t r a l i a , ed. F r e d e r i c k T. W a l l a c e ( C l e v e l a n d , Ohio: W . i l l i a m s , 1888), p. 328. Quoted i n T r a i n , Spread-Eaglei.sm, p. x v i i i . Freeman Hunt, i n t r o d u c t i o n t o T r a i n , An American Merchant, pp. i i i - i v . 361 112 T r a i n , Spread-Eaglei-sm. P- v. 1 1 3 T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm, p. v i . 1 '^ T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm, pp. x - x i . 1 1 5 T r a i n , My L i f e , p. 61. I t i s worth n o t i n g t h a t Emerson a l s o knew o f T r a i n , though h i s t h o u g h t s on the a g g r e s s i v e merchant-cum- p o l i t i c i a n were not q u i t e so f l a t t e r i n g . He noted i n h i s Journa1 (1862) t h a t " T r a i n s a i d i n a p u b l i c speech i n New Y o r k , ' S l a v e r y i s a d i v i n e i n s t i t u t i o n . ' 'So i s h e l l , ' e x c l a i m e d an o l d man i n the crowd." See Ralph Waldo Emerson, The J o u r n a l s of Ralph Waldo Emerson, ed. Edward Waldo Emerson and Waldo Emerson F o r b e s , IX ( B o s t o n : Houghton, M i f f 1 i n , 1913) , 460. 1 1 6 F e r g u s o n , E x p e r i e n c e s o f a F o r t y - n i n e r (1888) , p. v i i i . 1 1 7 F e r g u s o n , p. 447- See a l s o , p. 444. 1 1 8 r Q F e r g u s o n , p. 9. 119 ,_ , 0 1 F e r g u s o n , p. 421. 1 20 See F e r g u s o n , pp. 3 7 2 , 401. 121 F e r g u s o n , p. 329- See, i n a d d i t i o n , pp. 247, 270, 332, 487. 1 22 See F e r g u s o n , pp. 3 2 6 - 7 . 1 23 F e r g u s o n , pp. 331-2. 1 24 W i l l i a m H. Thomes, The Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s ; o r L i f e i n A u s t r a 1 i a ( B o s t o n : Lee and Shepard, 1864); W i l l i a m H. Thomes, The B u s h r a n g e r s : a_ Y a n k e e 1 s A d v e n t u r e s dur i ng h i s Second V i s i t t o A u s t r a l i a ( B o s t o n : Lee and Shepard, 1873); W i l l i a m H. Thomes, The Bel 1e o f A u s t r a l i a , o r Who Am [? ( B o s t o n : De W o l f e , F i s k e , 1884). 3 6 2 1 2^ 3 See DAB, X V I I I , 4 4 7 ~ 8 ; B.R. E l l i o t t , "An A m e r i c a n - A u s t r a 1 i a n N o v e l i s t o f the N i n e t e e t h C e n t u r y : W.H. Thomes," The A u s t r a 1 i a n Q u a r t e r l y , XXIX, No. 3 ( S e p t . 1 9 5 7 ) , 7 9 " 8 l . 1 2 6 C h a p t e r headings such as " D i s c o v e r y o f S t o l e n T r e a s u r e s i n the Stockman's C e l l a r (XIV) and " F i n d i n g a 1 1 0 l b . Nugget (XXXVII) i n Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s . 1 27 E l l i o t t , p. 7 9 . For an example i n a Thomes n o v e l , see B u s h r a n g e r s , p. 3 4 8 . 1 2 8 Thomes, Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , p. 1 4 . 1 2 9 3 C h a p t e r s XXVIII, X X X I I I , XL, XLV, L I M and L V I M , r e s p e c t i v e l y . 1 3 0 Thomes, B u s h r a n g e r s , p. 9 . 1 3 1 Thomes, B u s h r a n g e r s , p . 1 0 . 1 3 2 Thomes, B u s h r a n g e r s , p p . 4 5 0 - 1 . 1 3 3 T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p . 9 2 . 1 3 4 3 T r a i n , My L i f e , p . 1 5 7 . 1 3 5 See, f o r example, F e r g u s o n , p . 2 4 0 ; T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p p . 1 1 9 , 1 2 1 ; Thomes,Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , p . 1 3 4 . 1 3 6 " D e v i l ' s I s l a n d " was a name commonly a s c r i b e d t o Tasmania d u r i n g the f i r s t h a l f o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . 1 3 7 Thomes, Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , p . 3 5 4 . See a l s o , p p . 265-72. 1 3 8 T h o m e s , G o l d . H u n ^ r V _ A d v e n t u r e s , p . 3 5 5 - 139 S e e M o n a g h a n , A ^ i S j r ^ i a n j . a n d t j ^ G o l d R u s h , P - *68. 1 4 0 F e r g u s o n , p . 2 7 5 - 1 4 1 S e e F e r g u s o n , p . 2 8 1 . 363 142 See Thomes, Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , pp. 554-63 ( e s p e c i a l l y P. 563). 143 See F e r g u s o n , pp. 300-1. 144 T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p. 44. 145 Melbourne H e r a l d , November 3, 1855, quoted i n P o t t s and P o t t s ' i n t r o d u c t i o n t o T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p. x i x . 146 T r a i n ' s L e t t e r t o the Boston P o s t , A p r i l 11, 1855, quoted i n T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p. 158. See a l s o , My L i f e , p. 160. 147 T r a i n d i d , f o r example, u n c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y r e f e r t o " t h e c u r s e o f E n g l i s h t y r a n n y and i n j u s t i c e " i n one o f h i s l e t t e r s t o the Boston P o s t (October 30, 1854). See a l s o , F e r g u s o n , p. 254. 148 p. 344. 149 T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm, p. 40. See a l s o , An American Merchant, T r a i n , An American Merchant, p. 354. See a l s o , Spread-Eag1i sm, pp. x x i i i , 39- ' ^ T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm, p. x v i i i . See a l s o , p. x i i . ' 5 ' T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i s m , p. x x x i i i . 1 52 T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i s m , p. xv. See a l s o , Thomes, Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , p. 132. 153 See, f o r example, Thomes' Gold H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , p. 132; T r a i n , My L i f e , pp. 131, 138. 1 54 T r a i n , The American Merchant, p. 354. 1 55 T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i sm, pp. v i i i - i x . See a l s o , pp. x i n - x i v , 59. 364 1 5 6 S e e , f o r e x a m p l e , T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i s m , p p . x x , 4 0 , 5 7 ; L e t t e r s , p . 109- 1 5 7 L e t t e r t o B o s t o n P o s t , F e b r u a r y 2 , 1 8 5 5 , q u o t e d i n L e t t e r s , P. 1 5 2 . 158 S e e T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p . 1 8 6 . 1 5 9 F e r g u s o n , p p . 256, 420. 1 6 0 F e r g u s o n , p . 490. 1 6 1 T r a i n , S p r e a d - E a g l e i s m , p . 42. 1 6 2 S e e T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p . 84. 1 6 3 L e t t e r t o B o s t o n P o s t , J u l y 6, 1854, q u o t e d i n T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p . 1 2 0 . 164 L e t t e r t o Boston P o s t , A p r i l 11, 1855, quoted i n T r a i n , L e t t e r s , p . 1 6 0 . See a l s o , L e t t e r s , p . 1 4 0 ; S p r e a d - E a g l e i s m , p . 59. 1 65 S e e , f o r e x a m p l e , T h o m e s , G o l d H u n t e r s ' A d v e n t u r e s , p . 339- 3 £5 CHAPTER VI SIGNAL F I R E S ON THE REDDENING H I L L S I w i s h y o u w o u l d a b o l i s h t h e u s e o f t h e word ' C o l o n i a l , 1 a t a n y r a t e w i t h r e g a r d t o l i t e r a t u r e , a n d c a l l i t [ A u s t r a I i a n l i t e r a t u r e ] e i t h e r ' A u s t r a l i a n ' o r ' N a t i o n a l . ' Depend upon i t t h a t A u s t r a l i a w i l l n e v e r be more t h a n ^ a c i p h e r among t h e n a t i o n s , u n t i l h e r s o n s a s s u m e t o t h e m s e l v e s n a t i o n a l c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s , and p r o u d l y s t a m p them by t h e p e n t o be a c k n o w l e d g e d a n d a d m i r e d by t h e w o r l d ! " T h e C o l o n i a l L i t e r a r y J o u r n a l , F e b r u a r y 2 7 , 1845 . . . A u s t r a l i a [ i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y ] n e e d e d an E m e r s o n t o r e p e a t : ' A l l a r t - - y e t t o be c r e a t e d ; a l l 1 i t e r - a t u r e - - y e t t o be w r i t t e n ; a l l n a t u r e - - n e w and u n d e s c r i b e d . . . . Why s h o u l d n o t A m e r i c a n s e n j o y an o r i g i n a l r e l a t i o n t o t h e u n i v e r s e ? ' An A u s t r a l i a n Whitman was r e q u i r e d t o i n j e c t n a t i v e l i f e a n d v i g o u r , a Poe t o p r o c l a i m a c u l t u r a l d e c l a r a t i o n o f i n d e p e n d e n c e , and a b o v e a l l a M e l v i l l e t o w r i t e a m a s t e r p i e c e . ' G e o f f r e y S e r l e , From D e s e r t s t h e P r o p h e t s Come ( 1 9 7 0 ) 2 In h i s H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e , H . M . G r e e n p r o p e r l y d r a w s a t t e n t i o n t o t h e f a c t t h a t , a s l a t e a s t h e l 8 8 0 ' s , a s i g n i f i c a n t number o f A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s and a g r e a t many more r e a d e r s s t i l l 3 l o o k e d t o E n g l a n d f o r n e w s . P r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h t h e l o c a l p r o d u c t 366 c o u l d a t times be a demora1ising1y l o n e l y p u r s u i t , and d e s p a i r r e g u l a r l y s u r f a c e d i n the works of e a r l y w r i t e r s who d e t e r m i n e d t o be A u s t r a l i a n . S t r o n g d r i n k p r o v i d e d the most common balm f o r the a r t i s t i c s o u l i n s e a r c h o f immediate c o m f o r t and c o m p a n i o n s h i p . For most o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , i n f a c t , t h e r e i s l i t t l e doubt t h a t the tone o f c o l o n i a l s o c i e t y owed much t o t h e i n p u t o f "nouveau r i c h e b o o r s , " as G e o f f r e y S e r l e has c h a r a c t e r i z e d them, p e o p l e m o t i v a t e d o n l y by a d e s i r e t o make money and r e t i r e t o the c o m f o r t s o f home, England. P e o p l e w i t h no time f o r the r u s t i c c o l o n i a l p r o d u c t . In the decades a f t e r 1838, no one was more aware o f the c o n s t a n t l y d e b i l i t a t i n g i n f l u e n c e of t h i s group than D a n i e l Deniehy, John Dunmore Lang and C h a r l e s Harpur. In d e f i a n c e o f the "Home" m e n t a l i t y , they r e c o g n i z e d two t h i n g s : one, t h a t c u l t u r e c o u l d not be r e a d i l y t r a n s p l a n t e d from one hemisphere t o a n o t h e r ; and, two, t h a t A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e c o u l d o n l y be advanced by w r i t e r s d e t e r m i n e d t o c r e a t e anew. S u n l i g h t would have t o be l e t i n . B e l i e f i n the v a l i d i t y of t h i s e n t e r p r i s e q u i t e n a t u r a l l y took them t o the Americans f o r i d e a s . But they approached i n d e p e n d e n t l y , and a l e r t . For them--the b r a s h p i o n e e r s - - i t was a d i a l o g u e o f e q u a l s . The f i r s t t r u l y c r e a t i v e l i n k s between A u s t r a l i a and the U n i t e d S t a t e s were f o r g e d i n the 1840's, 150 1 s and '60's. When Lang p r i n t e d Channing's a d d r e s s , hoping t o s t i m u l a t e l o c a l l e t t e r s , he, a l o n g w i t h h i s more p e r c e p t i v e countrymen, a p p r e c i a t e d the d i s t i n c t h i s t o r i c a l d i f f e r e n c e s between A u s t r a l i a and A m e r i c a . U n l i k e A m e r i c a , A u s t r a l i a had no p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l and a r t i s t i c d e n s i t y . 5 As F r e d e r i c k S i n n e t 367 c h a r a c t e r i z e d i t i n I856: "The a n t i q u i t y o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s q u i t e puts us t o shame. . . ." The American l e s s o n , t h e r e f o r e , c o u l d o n l y a p p l y up t o a c e r t a i n p o i n t . When Emerson d e l i v e r e d h i s a d d r e s s , "The American S c h o l a r , " t o the Cambridge Phi Beta Kappa S o c i e t y i n A u g u s t , 1837, t h e r e were many a p p a r e n t s i m i l a r i t i e s between h i s comments and numerous contemporary a s s e r t i o n s i n A u s t r a l i a . 7 But A u s t r a l i a a t t h a t t i m e had o n l y f i f t y y e a r s o f w h i t e c i v i l i z a t i o n behind i t (and no rumoured p r i o r s e t t l e m e n t ). A m e r i c a , w i t h o v e r two c e n t u r i e s o f w h i t e s e t t l e m e n t , was r i p e f o r a r e n a i s s a n c e i n l i t e r a t u r e . Rank and f i l e A u s t r a l i a n s , on the o t h e r hand, would remain a c q u i s i t i v e f o r many y e a r s t o come--1eaving behind a t r a i l o f v i s i o n a r i e s w i t h o u t a s u b s t a n t i a l a u d i e n c e . C o n f r o n t e d c o n s t a n t l y by the l o c a l p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h m a t e r i a l w e l l - b e i n g , c o n f r o n t e d by a community s t r u g g l i n g t o overcome a c u t e d i s l o c a t i o n , f a c e d w i t h the i n t r a c t a b l e n a t u r e o f the a u t h o r i t i e s and a s i t u a t i o n where t h e r e seemed t o be " n o t h i n g f o r the p u b l i c mind t o break i t s e l f on," Deniehy, Lang and Harpur sought t o e s t a b l i s h A u s t r a l i a 9 i n the i m a g i n a t i o n o f t h e i r f e l l o w s . In t h e i r d i s t i n c t ways, they a t t e m p t e d t o c r e a t e a unique i d e n t i t y f o r s u c c e e d i n g g e n e r a t i o n s by f o r m u l a t i n g an o r i g i n a l , r a d i c a l c r i t i q u e f o r s o c i e t y and l i t e r a t u r e . Doing t h i s i n v o l v e d a d i a l o g u e w i t h B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n , an acknowledgement o f the advances made i n A m e r i c a . The w r i t e r s from the U n i t e d S t a t e s t h a t r e p u b l i c a n A u s t r a l i a n s approved o f a d d r e s s e d t h e i r works t o a l l 10 p e o p l e , not j u s t t o the a r i s t o c r a c y . 368 I t i s a t once t y p i c a l and s y m b o l i c t h a t Deniehy, Lang and Harpur s h o u l d be the s o l e — a n d e x t r e m e l y voc i f erous—members o f an a n t i - w a r a l l i a n c e i n the mid 18501s, p r o t e s t i n g p o s s i b l e A u s t r a l i a n i n v o l v e m e n t (on the B r i t i s h s i d e ) i n the Crimean War. 1 1 A l l t h r e e viewed A u s t r a l i a n p a r t i c i p a t i o n as a dangerous p r e c e d e n t . Avowedly " r e d r e p u b l i c a n , " they s t r o n g l y a d v o c a t e d an independent p o l i t i c a l c o u r s e . For Deniehy and Harpur, i n p a r t i c u l a r , p o l i t i c a l autonomy demanded, as i t s n a t u r a l c o n c o m i t a n t , l i t e r a r y independence. W i l l i a m Wool I s , i n the e a r l y 1830 1s, had s u g g e s t e d the f o r m a t i o n o f a " s t r o n g n a t i o n a l l i t e r a r y 1 2 c u l t u r e . " In the t h r e e decades a f t e r 1838, Deniehy and Harpur s e r i o u s l y a p p l i e d themselves t o the t a s k . Emerson's q u e s t i o n s would be t h e i r s : What s h a l l be the s u b s t a n c e o f my s h r i f t ? Adam i n the g a r d e n , I am t o new name a l l the b e a s t s i n the f i e l d and a l l the gods i n the sky. I am t o i n v i t e men drenched i n Time t o r e c o v e r themselves and come out o f t i m e , and t a s t e t h e i r n a t i v e immortal a i r . I am t o f i r e w i t h what s k i l l I can the a r t i l l e r y o f sympathy and emotion. . . . I am t o c o n s o l e the brave s u f f e r e r s under e v i l s whose end they cannot see by a p p e a l s t o the g r e a t o p t i m i s m , s e l f - a f f i r m e d i n a l l bosoms. 1 ' That they c o u l d not come up w i t h Emerson's answers would be a measure not so much o f i n f e r i o r i n t e l l e c t , as of the sharp c o n t r a s t between the c u l t u r a l m i l i e u o f Concord, M a s s a c h u s e t t s ? a n d o f Sydney, New South Wales. 30 Sect i on A_ John Dunmore Lang (1799-1878): Going f o r the Whole Hog'** Go on w i t h your g r e a t l a b o u r ! The a p p r o v a l o f e v e r y t h i n k i ng son o f the s o i l . . . i s s u r e l y an a n t e p a s t of what w i l l be y o u r s i n the coming ages. D a n i e l Deniehy, i n l e t t e r t o John Dunmore Lang, 1854?'5 Be i t t h i n e t o o , i n thy grand Old age, t o f a s h i o n w i t h p a t e r n a l hand A c h a r t e r t h a t s h a l l a l l our r i g h t s c o m p l e t e ! C h a r l e s H a r p u r , "To Dr. Lang, on Reading One of h i s B o o k s " ! 6 In I960, A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r i a n Robin G o l l a n a s s e r t e d t h a t "modern h i s t o r i a n s have so f a r f a i l e d t o a c c o r d [John Dunmore Lang] h i s p r o p e r p l a c e i n the h i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n d e m o c r a c y . " ' 7 Very l i t t l e has o c c u r r e d s i n c e t o a l t e r the v a l i d i t y o f t h a t judgement today. We s t i l l have no comprehensive t e x t o f Lang's w r i t i n g s and speeches-- A r c h i b a l d G i l c h r i s t ' s two volumes o f e x c e r p t s , though h e l p f u l , a r e o d d l y i n d e x e d , and f r e q u e n t l y he a l t e r s the a c t u a l t e x t t o s u i t h i s 18 own p u r p o s e s , o r perhaps t o " i m p r o v e " the o r i g i n a l --and any s c h o l a r 370 a p p r o a c h i n g t h i s n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c o l o s s u s o f A u s t r a l i a n p o l i t i c s , r e l i g i o n and l i t e r a t u r e has v i r t u a l l y no c r i t i c a l t r a d i t i o n i n w h i c h 19 t o w r i t e . There i s a need f o r some c o n c e r t e d s t u d y of the man's voluminous o u t p u t , h i s c h a r a c t e r and m i l i e u . He needs t o be p l a c e d i n a more adequate h i s t o r i c a l and l i t e r a r y c o n t e x t . Even C.M.H. C l a r k , i n volumes two and t h r e e o f h i s monumental A H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a (1968, 1973), s c a r c e l y a c c o r d s Lang the a t t e n t i o n he d e s e r v e s . An o u t s p o k e n P r e s b y t e r i a n m i n i s t e r , h i s t o r i a n , l a n d r e f o r m e r , p o e t , c r i t i c , j o u r n a l i s t , i m m i g r a t i o n and e d u c a t i o n t h e o r i s t , a n t h r o p o l o g i s t , and c o n f i r m e d p o l i t i c a l a c t i v i s t and r e p u b l i c a n , Lang b e s t r o d e the narrow w o r l d o f c o l o n i a l A u s t r a l i a . Most o f h i s countrymen l a b o u r e d , 20 a t one time o r a n o t h e r , under h i s v a s t and c o m p e l l i n g shadow. T y p i c a l l y p e r v e r s e , Lang r e v e r s e d t h e u s u a l human p r o g r e s s i o n from y o u t h f u l r a d i c a l t o middle-aged c o n s e r v a t i v e . As he grew o l d e r , he came t o q u e s t i o n more a s s e r t i v e l y the n a t u r e o f a u t h o r i t y and the a c c e p t e d s o c i a l h e i r a r c h y . L i k e the g r e a t number o f American r e v o l u t i o n a r y w r i t e r s w i t h whom he came s t e a d i l y t o i d e n t i f y , Lang had a g e n e r a l d i s t r u s t o f p o w e i — e s p e c i a l l y power a t one remove, government from a d i s t a n c e . A f t e r a v i s i t t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1840, though s t i l l h o l d i n g t e n a c i o u s l y t o a r i g i d C a l v i n i s t v i e w o f the w o r l d , Lang d e t e r - mined t o promulgate l e v e l l i n g r e p u b l i c a n d o c t r i n e s t h r o u g h o u t A u s t r a l i a . In 1843, he i n t e n t i o n a l l y invoked the s p e c t r e of the American R e v o l u t i o n by a l l u d i n g t o the o l d " t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n " maxim. By 1850 he c o u l d , u n l i k e h i s f r i e n d Dan Deniehy, c o n t e m p l a t e w i t h a p p a r e n t c o n s e n t (assuming the E n g l i s h government m a i n t a i n e d i t s i n t r a c t a b l e 371 ways) an A u s t r a l i a n armed r e v o l t . As h i s p o l i t i c s r a d i c a l i z e d , Lang's debt t o the p r o t a g o n i s t s o f the American R e v o l u t i o n grew. H i s l a t e r p r o s e c o n t a i n s many passages coming v e r y c1ose i n s p i r i t , and indeed i n s p e c i f i c v o c a b u l a r y , t o the p r i n c i p a l spokesmen o f 1776, e s p e c i a l l y J e f f e r s o n and P a i n e . To p u b l i c l y advance h i s main themes, Lang r e p e a t e d l y looked t o the American 21 model. I f D a n i e l Deniehy and C h a r l e s Harpur were t o have an a u d i e n c e f o r t h e i r i d e a s , they r e q u i r e d Lang, l i k e Tom P a i n e , a n e c e s s a r y s t e n t o r i a n f i g u r e , t o m a n u f a c t u r e an amenable s o c i a l c l i m a t e . A Scot by b i r t h , Lang a t t e n d e d the U n i v e r s i t y o f Glasgow between 1812 and 1820, and though t r a i n i n g f o r the m i n i s t r y under the s t e r n hand o f the E v a n g e l i c a l s , he seemed t o a b s o r b some p a r t o f h i s w i d e r , more d e m o c r a t i c s u r r o u n d i n g s . For two decades, S c o t t i s h r a d i c a l s had f o u g h t a s t o u t r e p u b l i c a n f i g h t , i n s p i r e d i n l a r g e measure by 22 P a i n e ' s R i g h t s o f Man. The P a i s l e y p o e t , A l e x a n d e r W i l s o n , caught the dominant mood some y e a r s l a t e r i n h i s A d d r e s s t o Synod o f Glasgow S Ayr (1844): The R i g h t s o f Man i s now w e l l kenned, And red by mony a hunder; For Tammy P a i n e the b u i k has penned, And l e n t the c o u r t a l o u n d e r . 2 3 C e r t a i n l y when Lang a r r i v e d i n New South Wales i n May, 1823, he had a c l e a r i d e a o f the r i g h t s o f the B r i t i s h - b o r n s u b j e c t , as Governor B r i s b a n e soon d i s c o v e r e d when he g r a t u i t o u s l y i n s u l t e d P r e s b y t e r i a n i s m 24 i n the w i d e l y c i r c u l a t e d Sydney G a z e t t e . Lang's o u t r a g e d r e p l y , 372 a s s e r t i n g the " c i v i l and r e l i g i o u s l i b e r t i e s " o f the f r e e - b o r n S c o t , gave the l o c a l s some h i n t o f what the f u t u r e might h o l d , p a r t i c u l a r l y f o r t h o s e i n a u t h o r i t y . Lang soon f e l t the new l a n d t o be h i s t r u e home, and i t wasn't long b e f o r e he began t o r e f l e c t on the p o s s i b i l i t i e s and c h a l l e n g e s e n t a i l e d i n t h e p e c u l i a r , and remote- environment w i t h w h i c h he had d e c i d e d t o i d e n t i f y h i m s e l f . Some o f h i s e a r l y poems bespeak a v i g o r o u s n a t i o n a l s p i r i t . In t h e poem b o l d l y e n t i t l e d " A u s t r a l i a n Anthem" (1826), Lang f o r the f i r s t time e n l a r g e d on h i s dream f o r the f u t u r e o f the s o u t h e r n c o n t i n e n t : A u s t r a l i a ! l a n d o f hope! Thy sons s h a l l bear thee up Even t o the s k i e s ! And e a r t h ' s e x a l t e d ones S h a l l h a i r thee from t h e i r t h r o n e s , Queen o f the S o u t h e r n Zones. A u s t r a 1 i a, r i s e ! 2 5 Not memorable p o e t r y , but then t h a t p r o b a b l y wasn't the w r i t e r ' s i n t e n t i o n . He wanted t o awaken h i s countrymen t o t h e p o t e n t i a l g r e a t n e s s o f t h e i r f u t u r e d e s t i n y as a l e a d e r i n the s o u t h e r n hemisphere: 0 be i t then t h y c a r e , From S u p e r s t i t i o n ' s s n a r e And S l a v e r y ' s c h a i n , To s e t the w r e t c h e d f r e e ; T i l l C h r i s t i a n l i b e r t y , Wide o'er the S o u t h e r n Sea, Triumphant r e i g n ! 2 6 A q u a r t e r o f a c e n t u r y l a t e r , Lang would enumerate A u s t r a l i a ' s r e s p o n s i b i l i t y as a p o t e n t i a l w o r l d l e a d e r , b u t , i n h i s e a r l y y e a r s i n the c o l o n y , 373 he s o u g h t o n l y t o i n s t i l l i n t h e m i n d s o f a l l A u s t r a l i a n s a s e n s e o f i d e n t i t y w i t h t h e i r new c o u n t r y . H e n c e , i n a n o t h e r e a r l y p o e m , t h e h u m o r o u s " C o l o n i a l N o m e n c l a t u r e " ( 1 8 2 4 ) , he p r o p o s e d a b a n d o n i n g names w h i c h s u g g e s t e d E m p i r e , i n f a v o u r o f names o f S c o t p a t r i o t s a n d , more i m p o r t a n t l y , " n a t i v e n a m e s , " s u c h a s C o o k b u n d o o n , C a r r a b a i g a , W i n g e c a r r i b b e e , T h e W o l l o n d i l l y , Y u r u m b o n , B u n g a r r i b b e e . F u r t h e r , t h e v o l u m e o f poems e n t i t l e d A u r o r a A u s t r a l i s : a S p e c i m e n o f S a c r e d P o e t r y f o r t h e C o l o n i s t s o f A u s t r a l i a , p r i n t e d i n 1826, i n c l u d e d , i h a d d i t i o n t o G r e e k a n d German t r a n s l a t i o n s , some poems t r a n s l a t e d f r o m a l o c a l A b o r i g i n a l d i a l e c t . T h i s d e s i r e t o c o n s o l i d a t e an o r i g i n a l A u s t r a l i a n p e r s p e c t i v e q u i t e d i s t i n c t f r o m B r i t a i n e v i d e n t l y p r o m p t e d L a n g , a t some p o i n t i n h i s c a p a c i o u s r e a d i n g , t o c o n s u l t A m e r i c a n p r e c e d e n t s . In a M a y , 1 8 3 3 ? a d d r e s s , he c i t e d t h e w o r d s o f c u r r e n t A m e r i c a n p r e s i d e n t A n d r e w J a c k s o n t o e s t a b l i s h t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f a c o u n t r y ' s g e n e r a l 28 " p o p u l a t i o n , " i n p a r t i c u l a r t h e " c u l t i v a t o r s o f t h e s o i l . " A l i t t l e l a t e r , i n t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n o f h i s H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l A c c o u n t ( 1 8 3 4 ) , a s we h a v e s e e n , he d e m o n s t r a t e d a s u r p r i s i n g l y •! d e t a i l e d k n o w l e d g e o f A m e r i c a n p o l i t i c a l , r e l i g i o u s and s o c i a l h i s t o r y . T h i s w o r k p r e p a r e s t h e r e a d e r o f L a n g i n two ways f o r t h e s t a t e m e n t s a n d d o c t r i n e s t o c o m e . F i r s t , he e m e r g e s a s a c l e a r and o r i g i n a l t h i n k e r d e t e r m i n e d t o j u d g e W e s t m i n s t e r l e g i s l a t i o n a n d b u r e a u c r a t i c a c t i o n on e t h i c a l , r a t h e r t h a n p a t r i o t i c g r o u n d s . T h e r e v o l u t i o n i n 29 374 A m e r i c a , he s u g g e s t s , o c c u r r e d as a r e s u l t o f a r b i t r a r y and t y r a n n i c a l l e g i s l a t i o n . Second, Lang d i s p l a y s an o b v i o u s sympathy f o r the m o t i v e s which prompted r e b e l l i o n i n A m e r i c a . A c a r e f u l r e a d i n g o f the two- volume Hi s t o r y h e l p s t o e x p l a i n the more r a d i c a l r e v i s i o n s o f the 1837 second e d i t i o n as s i m p l y a n o t h e r s t e p i n the e v o l u t i o n o f Lang's p o l i t i c a l p o s t u r e d u r i n g the second h a l f o f h i s long l i f e . A d m i r a t i o n f o r democracy and American r e p u b l i c a n government n e c e s s a r i l y i n v o l v e d Lang, a t some s t a g e d u r i n g the m i d d l e 18301 s, i n an a b r u p t r e a p p r a i s a l o f h i s b e l i e f s and f u t u r e d i r e c t i v e s . In H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l Account (1837), i t becomes c l e a r t h a t Lang's p o l i t i c a l p o s i t i o n and p h i l o s o p h i c a l a t t i t u d e towards government have undergone a marked change. He s t i l l p l e a d s h i s own, and the c o l o n y o f New South Wales' " a f f e c t i o n toward the mother c o u n t r y , " but h i s a t t i t u d e towards l o c a l government has hardened n o t i c e a b l y : The d e v i c e o f a l e g i s l a t i v e c o u n c i l a p p o i n t e d by the crown i s n o t h i n g more nor l e s s than an i n g e n i o u s d e v i c e f o r i n v e s t i n g a g o v e r n o r , o r perhaps the mere agent o f a s e c r e t a r y o f s t a t e , w i t h a b s o l u t e power and f o r c o n c e a l i n g from the p e o p l e he governs the f a c t t h a t he p o s s e s s e s such power.30 He e n t e r t a i n s the thought o f a "more p o p u l a r form o f government" i n d e f i a n c e o f the i m p r e c a t i o n s o f the " c o l o n i a l t o r i e s " i n A u s t r a l i a . Lang was o b v i o u s l y b e g i n n i n g t o i d e n t i f y more f u l l y w i t h the p e o p l e . Thus h i s f o r e c a s t o f the coming A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c comes as no s u r p r i s e . The terms i n w h i c h he sees the r e p u b l i c a r e i n t e r e s t i n g , though, e s p e c i a l l y the r e c o u r s e t o a n a l o g y , so s t r o n g l y r e m i n i s c e n t o f Tom P a i n e ' s p r o s e s t y l e i n Common Sense (1776): 375 The c o l o n i s t s o f A u s t r a l i a w i l l d o u b t l e s s a t some f u t u r e p e r i o d e s t a b l i s h a r e p u b l i c a n government f o r t h e m s e l v e s and e l e c t a p r e s i d e n t o f the A u s t r a l i a n s t a t e s . I t i s a s i n g u l a r f a c t i n the h i s t o r y o f nra.ti;orts t h a t Great B r i t a i n , w i t h an e s s e n t i a l l y m o n a r c h i c a l government, has f o r a long time p a s t been l a y i n g the f o u n d a t i o n o f f u t u r e r e p u b l i c s i n a l l p a r t s o f the g l o b e and w i l l d o u b t l e s s be l e f t a t l a s t , l i k e the u n f o r t u n a t e hen t h a t has hatched ducks' eggs, t o b e h o l d her numerous brood s u c c e s s i v e l y t a k i n g t o the water.31 In the t r a d i t i o n e s t a b l i s h e d by Wentworth, Lang i n d i r e c t l y , but no doubt p u r p o s e f u l l y , l i n k s A u s t r a l i a ' s tomorrow w i t h A m e r i c a ' s y e s t e r d a y . In the y e a r s f o l l o w i n g the p u b l i c a t i o n o f the second e d i t i o n o f H i s t o r i.ca 1 and S t a t i s t i ca 1 A c c o u n t , Lang's p u b l i c pronouncements assumed a tone s t e a d i l y more i r r i t a t e d w i t h the proponents o f a r i s t o c r a c y and more d e e p l y i n tune w i t h the American system of democracy. In 1840, he d e c i d e d t o v i e w t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s a t f i r s t hand--as de 32 T o c q u e v i l l e had done, so f r u i t f u l l y , l e s s than a decade e a r l i e r thus e s t a b l i s h i n g a c o n n e c t i o n d e s t i n e d t o a f f e c t the c o u r s e o f A u s t r a l i a n h i s t o r y and l i t e r a t u r e f o r decades t o come. Lang's v i s i t i n c o r p o r a t e d a wide number o f both n o r t h e r n and s o u t h e r n s t a t e s , and from the o u t s e t he m e t i c u l o u s l y r e c o r d e d a l l h i s i m p r e s s i o n s . T h i s r e s u l t e d , soon a f t e r , i n the c o p i o u s R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n i n A m e r i c a 33 (1840). Lang wanted t o a p p r a i s e the s t a t e o f the American P r e s b y t e r i a n movement,and, i n h i s own words, w i s h e d " t o throw a d d i t i o n a l l i g h t 34 upon the moral and r e l i g i o u s a s p e c t s o f American s o c i e t y . " (In a t t e m p t i n g the l a t t e r , he s u p p l i e s an even b e t t e r i n s i g h t i n t o the s u b s t a n c e o f h i s own p o l i t i c s a t t h a t time.) But perhaps most p e r t i n e n t l y , Lang wanted t o i n s t i t u t e a d i a l o g u e between A u s t r a l i a and the U n i t e d 376 S t a t e s by way o f a l e r t i n g Americans t o " t h e b l e s s i n g s o f c i v i l i z a t i o n i n the s o u t h e r n hemisphere . . . I mean the c o n t i n e n t o f New H o l l a n d , 35 and the a d j a c e n t i s l a n d s . " In Lang's hands, a f t e r h i s momentous 1840 j o u r n e y , a r e a l c o n n e c t i o n o f s u b s t a n c e between the two t r a n s - P a c i f i c c o n t i n e n t s b e g i n s . R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n i s a f i n e r e s o u r c e f o r .students o f e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n r e l a t i o n s . In i t , Lang broaches s e v e r a l a r e a s o f common i n t e r e s t : the r e p u b l i c a n system o f government, the b a n e f u l e f f e c t s o f a r i s t o c r a c y (compared w i t h democracy), a b o l i t i o n and s l a v e r y , u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e , v o l u n t a r y i s m and u n i v e r s a l e d u c a t i o n . D i s e n c h a n t - ment w i t h the E n g l i s h t h e o r y and p r a c t i c e o f government pervades the book. Many passages r e c a l l the c r i t i q u e s o f James O t i s and John D i c k i n s o n , and a r e , i n s u b s t a n c e , c l o s e t o the speeches which marked the f i r s t and second C o n t i n e n t a l C o n g r e s s e s - - a t once b i t t e r and m i l d l y c o n c i l i a t o r y . Lang d i s c u s s e s John B u l l ' s c h i e f f a i l i n g : . . . I c o n f e s s I am s t i l l as much as e v e r i n the d a r k as t o where the C h r i s t i a n i t y o f the B r i t i s h Government i s c e n t r e d , o r i n what i t c o n s i s t s . . . . [ I t ] i s a s u b t l e and e v a n e s c e n t q u a l i t y , which p e r p e t u a l l y e l u d e s the s e a r c h o f the i n q u i r e r , and o f which t h e r e i s no p o s s i b i 1 i t y o f f i x i n g the hab i t a t . . . . i t i s l i k e a s q u i r r e l i n a n a t i v e f i g - t r e e i n an A u s t r a l i a n f o r e s t - - t h e r e i s no doubt the c r e a t u r e i s i n the t r e e , f o r the b i a c k f e l lows saw i t go i n ; but where i t i s e x a c t l y among the t h i c k f o l i a g e no man can tel1.37 Even i n h i s most s e r i o u s moments, Lang c o u l d n o t , a t t i m e s , r e s i s t the p l a y f u l a n a l o g y ( a l t h o u g h h e r e , as i n most o f h i s w r i t i n g , one s u s p e c t s c a r e f u l method behind the s a r d o n i c h u m o u i — a g a i n , Lang 377 u t i l i z e s a d i s t i n c t l y l o c a l i z e d a n a l o g y ) . In a l a t e r c h a p t e r , he c l a r i f i e s the c o n t r a s t between the E n g l i s h system and the American system i n terms o f i t s e f f e c t on the common p e o p l e . Whereas the E n g l i s h lower o r d e r s , "mere P a r i a h s , o r o u t c a s t s from s o c i e t y , " a r e made t o f e e l the w r e t c h e d n e s s and g o d l e s s n e s s o f t h e i r i g n o b l e l o t , t h e i r American c o u n t e r p a r t has h i s r i g h t s and p r i v i l e g e s as w e l l as the w e a l t h i e s t i n the l a n d ; and i t i s n a t u r a l , t h e r e f o r e , t h a t he s h o u l d l o v e the c o u n t r y t h a t s e c u r e s and p r o t e c t s them. The S t a t e has watched over him i n h i s y o u t h , and not o n l y g i v e n him an e d u c a t i o n t o f i t him f o r a v i g o r o u s manhood, but thrown open t o him e v e r y avenue t o honour and p r e f e r - ment. . . .38 Lang c a t e g o r i c a l l y r e j e c t s C a p t a i n M a r r y a t ' s c h a r g e t h a t the American 39 p e o p l e have been " d e m o r a l i z e d " by t h e i r sudden r i s e i n s t a t u s . On the c o n t r a r y , he f i n d s them both more r e l i g i o u s and e m i n e n t l y more c a p a b l e . As Thomas J e f f e r s o n , t h r o u g h o u t h i s p o l i t i c a l c a r e e r , put g r e a t f a i t h i n " t h e good sense o f the p e o p l e , " so Lang, i n 1840, c l e a r l y showed t h a t he had assumed a s i m i l a r p o s i t i o n . J e f f e r s o n m a i n t a i n e d t h a t wherever the p e o p l e a r e w e l l informed they can be t r u s t e d w i t h t h e i r own government; t h a t whenever t h i n g s get so f a r wrong as t o a t t r a c t t h e i r n o t i c e , they may be r e l i e d on t o s e t them t o rights.^° T h i s was a l m o s t e x a c t l y the s t a n d Lang took i n h i s l i v e l y d e a l i n g s w i t h the B r i t i s h C o l o n i a l O f f i c e t h r o u g h o u t the 1840 1 s and 1 5 0 1 s . At v a r i o u s p o i n t s i n R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n , Lang's sense of the 378 sharp c o n t r a s t between an a r i s t o c r a t i c and d e m o c r a t i c o r d e r i n s o c i e t y becomes c l e a r . He r e f e r s , a t one s t a g e , t o " t h e a r i s t o c r a t i c l e s s o n o f b r i b e r y and c o r r u p t i o n . " C o n f r o n t e d by an e a g e r , a m b i t i o u s e g a l i t a r i a n p e o p l e i n A m e r i c a , he sees as i n e v i t a b l e the demise o f p r i v i l e g e d systems around the g l o b e - - a n d , l i k e P a i n e , J e f f e r s o n and Samuel Adams, he r e j o i c e s : . . . I have no doubt w h a t e v e r , t h a t . . . the f u l l t i d e o f d e m o c r a t i c i n f l u e n c e t h a t i s a l r e a d y s e t t i n g i n w i t h a y e a r l y i n c r e a s i n g f o r c e and volume from the g r e a t Western w o r l d upon our s h o r e s , w i l l sweep away i n s u c c e s s i o n the law o f p r i m o g e n i t u r e i n Great B r i t a i n , and the law o f e n t a i l s , h e r e d i t a r y l e g i s l a t i o n , and the E s t a b l i s h e d Church. ^ A g a i n , i n t e n t i o n a l l y , he l o o k s w i t h s u p p r e s s e d e n t h u s i a s m t o the "coming s t r u g g l e " when the "moral and r e s i s t l e s s i n f l u e n c e " o f America's " e d u c a t e d m i l l i o n s " w i l l " ' o v e r t u r n , o v e r t u r n , o v e r t u r n . ' " An ominous o u t l i n e o f Lang's c h a l l e n g e s t o t h e c o l o n i a l a u t h o r i t i e s i n A u s t r a l i a and E n g l a n d , some t e n y e a r s hence, i s v i r t u a l l y mapped i n the l a s t s e c t i o n s o f c h a p t e r s i x . The p r e s e n t c o m b a t i v e mood o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s - - o f Young A m e r i c a growing i n c o n f i d e n c e - - w i 1 1 s h o r t l y be Lang's own p u b l i c commitment. In the same manner as h i s countrymen, D a n i e l Deniehy and John West, Lang had g r a v e r e s e r v a t i o n s about the e x i s t e n c e o f b l a c k s l a v e r y i n a s o - c a l l e d d e m o c r a t i c c o u n t r y . U n l i k e the g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f A u s t r a l i a n s , however, he was a b l e t o w i t n e s s i t s o p e r a t i o n a t f i r s t hand. Lang hated what he saw, but he n e v e r t h e l e s s r e f u s e d t o be swept away by the wind o f a b o l i t i o n i s t propaganda. Indeed, though 379 he f e l t t h a t s l a v e r y i n America and Texas would.soon be a b o l i s h e d , he d i d not b e l i e v e t h a t the a b o l i t i o n i s t t a c t i c o f d i r e c t c o n f r o n t a t i o n would p r o v i d e the means. He admired the s i n c e r i t y o f the movement, i t s "honesty o f i n t e n t i o n , " but he f e l t i t s : m i 1 i t a n c y c o u l d o n l y l e a d t o the s e v e r a n c e o f the U n i o n , which would i n t u r n r e s u l t i n the a b o l i t i o n o f s l a v e r y i n America b e i n g " i n d e f i n i t e l y and h o p e l e s s l y 44 p o s t p o n e d . " T w e n t y - f i v e y e a r s b e f o r e i t happened, Lang f a i l e d t o a n t i c i p a t e a N o r t h e r n m i l i t a r y d e f e a t o f the South, but he d i d p r e d i c t t h a t i n s l a v e r y , the "grand anomaly i n the p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l system o f A m e r i c a , " t h e r e l a y the " s o u r c e a l i k e o f p r e s e n t weakness" 45 and " f u t u r e c a l a m i t y . " And he s a i d as much t o the American a u d i e n c e s he was a b l e t o r e a c h . In an a d d r e s s t o the American C o l o n i z a t i o n S o c i e t y of New Y o r k , on May 13, 1840, Lang r e f u s e d t o sweeten the p i l l o f c r i t i c i s m f o r f e a r o f c a u s i n g o f f e n c e . That was never h i s way. At one p o i n t he p r o c l a i m e d : I t r u s t I am under no o b l i g a t i o n t o c o n c e a l from t h i s assembly my own c o r d i a l a b h o r r e n c e o f s l a v e r y , as a c i v i l i n s t i t u t i o n , and my own e a r n e s t d e s i r e f o r i t s immediate and e n t i r e a b o l i t i o n . I have e v e r regarded s l a v e r y as an e v i l and b i t t e r t h i n g f o r the c o u n t r y i n which i t e x i s t s , as w e l l as f o r i t s m i s e r a b l e v i c t i m s . I t i s the grand c a l a m i t y o f t h i s c o u n t r y , t h a t such a system was e n t a i l e d upon i t from a bygone age. I t c o n s t i t u t e s the o n l y dark spot i n your s t a r - s p a n g l e d b a n n e r - - t h e o n l y gloomy and p o r t e n t o u s c l o u d i n the firmament o f your g l o r y . * " F u r t h e r , Lang a g a i n made r e f e r e n c e t o A u s t r a l i a ' s f u t u r e n o b l e r o l e . In a passage o f s e m i n a l importance t o the h i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a n / American r e l a t i o n s , he j u b i l a n t l y a s s e r t e d t h a t Great B r i t a i n was 380 c u r r e n t l y r a i s i n g up a second A m e r i c a i n the S o u t h e r n Hemisphere, t o t r e a d , I t r u s t , the same path o f g l o r y as t h i s g r e a t n a t i o n has t r o d d e n i n the N o r t h . 47 Over the next t e n y e a r s , as Lang, l i k e so many o f h i s A u s t r a l i a n c o l l e a g u e s , r e a 1 i z e d A m e r i c a was i n danger o f d e s t r o y i n g i t s e l f o v e r s l a v e r y , he began t o put h i s t r u s t i n the d e s t i n y o f A u s t r a l i a as 48 p o t e n t i a l l y the w o r l d ' s s p i r i t u a l l e a d e r . S l a v e r y c o n s t a n t l y w o r r i e d Lang as he a p p r a i s e d A m e r i c a ' s s o c i a l i n s t i t u t i o n s , but he s t i l l s t r o n g l y s u p p o r t e d American i n n o v a t i o n s i n r e l i g i o n and e d u c a t i o n . C o n t r a s t i n g the e f f e c t o f u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e on the p e o p l e o f Great B r i t a i n and the U n i t e d S t a t e s (where "a w i s e and p a t e r n a l government a r e e m p l o y i n g e v e r y a v a i l a b l e means o f i n - 49s f o r m i n g the u n d e r s t a n d i n g and i m p r o v i n g the h e a r t s o f the p e o p l e " ) Lang s t a t e d t h a t he e n t e r t a i n e d no f e a r s f o r i t s u n q u a l i f i e d s u c c e s s i n A m e r i c a , p r o v i d e d i t was accompanied by two t h i n g s : u n i v e r s a l e d u c a t i o n and freedom o f r e l i g i o n . 5 ^ In complete sympathy w i t h the most c r u c i a l p r i n c i p l e f o r which the American R e v o l u t i o n was f o u g h t , he e x p r e s s e d e n t i r e agreement w i t h the Americans i n t h i n k i n g t h a t a man's l i b e r t y , l i k e h i s p r o p e r t y , i s s a f e s t i n h i s own hands; and I am v e r y much d i s p o s e d t o agree w i t h them a l s o i n t h i n k i n g t h a t i t i s not s a f e a t a l l any where e l s e . 5 1 A p p l i c a t i o n o f the same p r i n c i p l e t o A u s t r a l i a was but a s h o r t s t e p away. Lang's American s o j o u r n o b v i o u s l y c l a r i f i e d ideas t h a t had been brewing i n h i s mind s i n c e h i s u n i v e r s i t y days i n and around the 381 r a d i c a l c e n t r e o f Glasgow. R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n i n A m e r i c a c h r o n i c l e s Lang's i n c r e a s i n g l y m i l i t a n t a t t i t u d e towards E n g l i s h dominance, but i t a l s o s e r v e s as e v i d e n c e o f p o s s i b l y the f i r s t s i g n i f i c a n t i n t e r a c t i o n between a r t i c u l a t e spokesmen from A m e r i c a and A u s t r a l i a . Lang c o u l d never be s i l e n t on i s s u e s about which he f e l t s t r o n g l y , and i t i s c e r t a i n t h a t , w h i l e i n A m e r i c a , he sought t o e n l i g h t e n t h o s e he met about s o c i a l c o n d i t i o n s i n A u s t r a l i a . And he met some o f A m e r i c a ' s most eminent c i t i z e n s - - among them Noah Webster, the committed n a t i o n a l i s t and l e x i c o g r a p h e r , John T r u m b u l l , a u t h o r o f " M ' F i n g a l , " and even P r e s i d e n t Van Buren, who impressed Lang,when they c h a t t e d , w i t h h i s i n f o r m a l i t y . There was none o f the " s t i f f n e s s and h a u t e u r " c h a r a c t e r i s t i c o f the 11 52 " m i l i t a r y R e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f R o y a l t y . " As u s u a l , Lang c o u l d n ' t r e s i s t the o p p o r t u n i t y o f b a i t i n g h i s A u s t r a l i a n Tory enemies. In a d d i t i o n , R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n r e f l e c t s the a u t h o r ' s c l o s e knowledge of America through i t s c a s u a l mention of a v a r i e t y o f major American l i t e r a r y , r e l i g i o u s and p o l i t i c a l f i g u r e s . A more d e t a i l e d s t u d y o f Lang might do w e l l t o t o u c h on the common ground he s h a r e d w i t h two Americans he d e e p l y a d m i r e d - - t h e impassioned t h e o l o g i a n J o n a t h a n 53 Edwards (whose g r a v e Lang made a s p e c i a l p o i n t o f v i s i t i n g ) and the t h e o l o g i a n and s c i e n t i s t C o t t o n Mather,,.whose h i s t o r y o f the American c h u r c h , M a g n a l i a C h r i s t i Americana (1702), Lang r e g a r d e d 54 as a " g r e a t work." Lang makes i n c i d e n t a l m e n t i o n , as w e l l , o f W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing ("a l i t e r a r y man and a man o f t a l e n t " " ) , Emersonian T r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s m , Dr. W i t h e r s p o o n , Aaron B u r r , Washington 382 and P a t r i c k Henry. C h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y , he r e f e r s t o W i r t ' s a c c o u n t o f Henry's l e g e n d a r y speech (17&5) t o the V i r g i n i a House o f B u r g e s s e s , i n which Henry i s s u e d h i s renowned c h a l l e n g e t o George I I I : T a r q u i n and Caesar had each h i s B r u t u s , C h a r l e s the F i r s t h i s C r o m w e l l , and George the T h i r d . . . may p r o f i t by t h e i r example! I f t h i s be t r e a s o n , make the most o f i t ! ^ ' T h i s i s _ L a n g ' s language. The American v i s i t r e p r e s e n t e d a t u r n i n g p o i n t i n Lang's p e r s o n a l p h i l o s o p h y o f government. He r e t u r n e d t o A u s t r a l i a i n March, 1841, a p p a r e n t l y r e a d y i n g f o r a c o n c e r t e d d r i v e towards an e v e n t u a l A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c . However, he r e a l i z e d t h a t t h i s r e s u l t c o u l d o n l y be v a c c o m p l i s h e d s l o w l y , and t a i l o r e d h i s speeches a c c o r d i n g l y . As the F o r t i e s p r o g r e s s e d , Lang's p u b l i c v o i c e grew more a s s e r t i v e ; by the end o f the decade, he c o u l d j u s t l y l a y c l a i m t o b e i n g the A u s t r a l i a n Thomas P a i n e . He s t e a d i l y sought t o a p p l y what he had l e a r n t i n 1840, b e g i n n i n g w i t h the g r a d u a l i n t r o d u c t i o n o f an American r e v o l u t i o n a r y v o c a b u l a r y i n t o the A u s t r a l i a n p o l i t i c a l a r e n a . A c o u p l e o f y e a r s a f t e r h i s r e t u r n , i n a speech i n the L e g i s l a t i v e C o u n c i l on j u d i c i a l e s t i m a t e s (1843), Lang paraded a l l the o l d c l i c h e s - - i n p a r t i c u 1 a r . t h e " t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t r e p r e s e n t a t i o n " s1ogan--a1ong w i t h a few o r i g i n a l d e p a r t u r e s , as i f t o s i g n a l h i s f u t u r e i n t e n t i o n s . Blaming "a j e a l o u s d e s p o t i s m , " Lang p r e d i c t e d t h a t the p e o p l e , h a v i n g o b t a i n e d one i n c h o f the freedom t h a t b e l o n g s t o them o f r i g h t , can o n l y r e g a r d t h a t i n c h as o f v a l u e i n so 3 8 3 f a r as i t e n a b l e s them t o o b t a i n the whole ' e l l ' t h a t i s t h e i r due. The s t r u g g l e may be l o n g and a r d u o u s , but the v i c t o r y i s s u r e . 5 8 T a k i n g c a r e t o a v o i d i m p l i c a t i n g h i m s e l f a t t h i s p r e c a r i o u s s t a g e , f o r t r e a s o n r e t a i n e d a h a r s h p r i s o n s e n t e n c e , Lang p r u d e n t l y e x p l a i n e d the i n e v i t a b l e consequences o f a r b i t r a r y r u l e . A l i e n a t i o n , he c r i e d , would t a k e h o l d o f the p e o p l e , and more: . . . what can we e x p e c t but t h a t [a f e e l i n g o f a l i e n a t i o n ] w i l l g r a d u a l l y r i p e n i n t o d i s a f f e c t i o n , and t h a t d i s a f f e c t i o n w i l l a t l e n g t h d i s p l a y her i n s u r g e n t f l a g and r a l l y around i t a hundred thousand f r e e b o r n A u s t r a l i a n s t o r e p e a t the same scenes . . . as have been e x h i b i t e d a l r e a d y i n the misgoverned c o l o n i e s o f B r i t a i n i n o t h e r and f a r d i s t a n t 1ands. But w h i l e due c a u t i o n t y p i f i e d Lang's p u b l i c l y e x p r e s s e d s e n t i m e n t s , i n p r i v a t e h i s r e p u b l i c a n r e s o l v e b e l l o w e d . Never one t o a c c e p t o p p o s i t i o n t o h i s i d e a s l i g h t l y , the z e a l o t i n Lang was b e g i n n i n g t o t i r e of h i s c o n s t a n t c l a s h e s w i t h Governor G i p p s , as w e l l as w i t h the men who made up the A u s t r a l i a n s q u a t t o c r a c y . I m p a t i e n t w a i t i n g f o r a more v o l a t i l e c o l o n i a l c l i m a t e - - o f the k i n d t h a t i n America gave b i r t h t o Common Sense and a f l o o d o f l e s s c a p t i v a t i n g r e v o l u t i o n a r y pamph1ets--Lang penned i n h i s notebook, dated J u l y 7 , 1 8 4 5 , a ;: " P r o c l a m a t i o n o f the League o f L i b e r a t o r s . " In the document he gave f u l l freedom t o h i s t a l e n t f o r r h e t o r i c , c o n t r a s t i n g the h e i g h t s o f " t h e s a c r e d cause o f freedom" w i t h the depths o f the " g a l l i n g and 5 9 d e g r a d i n g yoke" o f B r i t i s h c o l o n i a l rule.' More s i g n i f i c a n t l y , though, he a t t e m p t e d t o g i v e s u b s t a n c e not o n l y toua r e p u b l i c a n dream, 384 but t o an American one. H i s concept o f A u s t r a l i a , l i k e t h a t o f h i s countrymen John West and D a n i e l Deniehy (whom Lang o b v i o u s l y i n f l u e n c e d ) , c o n s i s t e d o f a s o c i e t y o f s m a l l yeoman-farmers, a l l d e d i c a t e d t o the p r e s e r v a t i o n o f p o l i t i c a l e q u a l i t y and d e t e r m i n e d t o b r i n g about the t r a n s f e r o f power t h r o u g h b l o o d l e s s means. As he put i t i n h i s l a t e r work, Freedom and Independence f o r the Golden Lands o f A u s t r a l i a (1852), he wanted t o make " t h e w i l d e r n e s s and the s o l i t a r y p l a c e r e j o i c e w i t h the happy abodes o f a numerous, v i r t u o u s and C h r i s t i a n 60 p o p u l a t i o n . " Here a g a i n was A u s t r a l i a n e x p r e s s i o n o f the "myth" o f the s m a l l farmer t h a t J e f f e r s o n and F r a n k l i n had done so much t o 61 e s t a b l i s h i n A m e r i c a . Lang f e l t t h a t o n l y through a g r a r i a n e x p a n s i o n on s m a l l - s c a l e r e p u b l i c a n l i n e s c o u l d A u s t r a l i a t r a n s c e n d i t s t a r n i s h e d c r i m i n a l p a s t . At t h i s s t a g e he c o u l d not a d v o c a t e m i l i t a n t r e v o l t t o a c h i e v e h i s aim, though h i s s t i r r i n g words seemed t o be c a r r y i n g him i n e v i t a b l y towards t h a t end. Lang was e v o l v i n g i n t o an o f f e n s i v e p o l i t i c a l p a m p h l e t e e r . A l e t t e r Lang w r o t e t o Lord S t a n l e y i n the same y e a r as the League P r o c l a m a t i o n c o n f i r m e d h i s g r e a t e r m i l i t a n c y i n a few ways. Shrewdly p l e a d i n g not " t h e s l i g h t e s t p o s s i b l e d i s r e s p e c t " t o Governor G i p p s , he spoke i n g e n e r a l t e r m s - - i f they can be so c a l , l e d - - o f c o l o n i a l g o v e r n o r s " p l a y i n g the i m a g i n a r y p r e r o g a t i v e o f the crown a g a i n s t 62 the i n h e r e n t r i g h t s and the d e a r e s t i n t e r e s t s o f the p e o p l e . " Lang a p p a r e n t l y f e l t the time had come t o make b l a t a n t l y o b v i o u s t o a l l , the s i m i l a r i t i e s between the p r e s e n t l o t o f h i s c o l o n i a l countrymen and t h a t o f A m e r i c a j u s t p r i o r t o the R e v o l u t i o n . He went on t o 385 i l l u s t r a t e the sharp d i f f e r e n c e s between e x p a t r i a t e Englishmen i n t e n t on e x p l o i t i n g A u s t r a l i a and t h o s e who had d e c i d e d t o make A u s t r a l i a t h e i r home. A g a i n , d i r e c t l y a l l u d i n g t o the r i g h t s conceded the N o r t h A m e r i c a n s , Lang touched on a new theme which Deniehy, a few y e a r s l a t e r , would a b s o r b and make h i s own: the n a t u r a l a r i s t o c r a c y o f t a l e n t t h a t J e f f e r s o n i n s t i l l e d i n the American mind. Lang put i t t h i s way: . . . I am not i n s e n s i b l e t o the p o w e r f u l l y b e n e f i c i a l i m p u l s e t h a t would i m m e d i a t e l y be g i v e n t o the c o l o n i a l mind by t h r o w i n g open the h i g h e s t o f f i c e s under the l o c a l government t o the h o n o r a b l e a m b i t i o n o f our ingenuous y o u t h , and by making t h o s e o f f i c e s dependent i n f u t u r e , not on p a t r o n a g e o r i n t e r e s t , but on acknowledged a b i l i t y . 6 ^ Lang spent the p e r i o d 1846-9 i n England a g i t a t i n g f o r C o l o n i a l - O f f i c e s u p p o r t o f h i s p l a n s t o s t i m u l a t e w i d e s p r e a d B r i t i s h e m i g r a t i o n t o A u s t r a l i a i n o r d e r t h a t h i s v i s i o n o f a C h r i s t i a n p o p u l a t i o n o f s m a l l f a r m e r s might come t o p a s s . He e x p e r i e n c e d o u t r i g h t r e s i s t a n c e , i f not a n t i p a t h y . The l e v e l l e r i n him had s u f f e r e d f o o l s f o r too l o n g . As.C.M.H. C l a r k puts i t , two Langs r e t u r n e d t o A u s t r a l i a : 64 the o l d a n t i p o p i s h z e a l o t and the a s s a u l t i v e new democrat. Three y e a r s had been t o o l o n g i n the w i l d e r n e s s o f E n g l i s h government c o r r i d o r s . The time had come f o r unabashed advocacy o f an A u s t r a l i a n R e p u b l i c . The time had come t o push p u b l i c l y f o r the i n d e f e a s i b l e r i g h t s o f the A u s t r a l i a n man. I t was time t o t a k e the f i g h t t o the men Lang now saw as the l a t e s t o f h i s growing l i s t o f enemies. On November 14, 1849, s h o r t l y b e f o r e he r e t u r n e d t o A u s t r a l i a , 386 L a n g w r o t e a n o p e n l e t t e r t o E a r l G r e y w h i c h w a s l a t e r p u b l i s h e d i n t h e B r i t i s h B a n n e r . T h e c o n t e n t s i n d i c a t e d t h a t L a n g w e l l k n e w t h e k i n d o f l a n g u a g e t o w h i c h t h e E n g l i s h r e s p o n d e d . A m e r i c a ' s e s c a p e f r o m t h e f o l d o f E m p i r e s t i l l g r a t e d m a n y a c q u i s i t i v e B r i t i s h c i t i z e n s a n d , r e c o g n i z i n g t h i s , L a n g d e v o t e d m o s t o f h i s l e t t e r t o t h e c l o s e s i m i l a r i t i e s b e t w e e n A m e r i c a a n d A u s t r a l i a . "I a m n o w r e t u r n i n g t o A u s t r a l i a , " h e d e c l a r e d , " w i t h t h e b i t t e r e s t d i s a p p o i n t m e n t a n d d e e p e s t d i s g u s t , c h e r i s h i n g p r e c i s e l y t h e s a m e f e e l i n g s a s t h e c e l e b r a t e d D r . B e n j a m i n F r a n k l i n d i d w h e n h e l e f t E n g l a n d a s a B r i t i s h s u b j e c t f o r t h e l a s t t i m e . " 6 5 L a n g h a d a t l a s t i d e n t i f i e d h i m s e l f u n e q u i v o c a l l y w i t h t h e c a u s e o f A u s t r a l i a n i n d e p e n d e n c e a f t e r e n c o u n t e r i n g t h e e x p e d i e n t w o r k i n g s o f t h e E n g l i s h m i n i s t r y , j u s t a s F r a n k l i n o p t e d f o r t h e r e v o l u t i o n a r y c a u s e w h e n e x p o s e d t o t h e m a n y d e v i o u s p o l i t i c a l g a m e s i n L o n d o n . 6 6 B u t i n c a s e h i s a l l u s i o n t o t h e A m e r i c a n s c i e n t i s t a n d s t a t e s m a n w a s l o s t o n s o m e o f h i s y o u n g e r a u d i e n c e , L a n g c l a r i f i e d t h e p o i n t . W i t h t h e c o n t i n u a t i o n o f t h e p r e s e n t c o l o n i a l p o l i c i e s , h e m a i n t a i n e d , t h e p e o p l e o f N e w S o u t h W a l e s w o u l d b e f u l l y j u s t i f i e d " i n r e s o r t i n g t o m e a s u r e s o f s e l f - p r e s e r v a t i o n . " 6 7 F u r t h e r m o r e , b e c a u s e o f C o l o n i a 1 - O f f i c e i n e f f i c i e n c y a n d g o v e r n m e n t p r o c r a s t i n a t i o n , t h e s i t u a t i o n h a d e s c a l a t e d t o s u c h _ a n . a l a r m i n g e x t e n t t h a t . t h e c o l o n i s t s " w i l l n o w ' g o f o r t h e w h o 1e h o g , ' o r f o r n o t h i n g a t a l l . " L a n g w o u 1 d b e p r o v e d w r o n g - - b u t i n 1849, h i s p o l e m i c a l t h r u s t s m u s t h a v e d i s - c o m f o r t e d m a n y i n t h e u p p e r e c h e l o n s o f D o w n i n g S t r e e t p o w e r . A n d h e w e n t o n : 387 . . . your l o r d s h i p has f o r t h r e e y e a r s p a s t been k n o c k i n g a t the g a t e o f f u t u r i t y f o r the p r e s i d e n t o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s of A u s t r a l i a . Be a s s u r e d , my l o r d , he i s g e t t i n g ready and w i l l s h o r t l y be o u t ; and he w i l l a s t o n i s h the w o r l d w i t h the m a n l i n e s s o f h i s p o r t and the d i g n i t y o f h i s demeanor. In the c o n c l u d i n g s e c t i o n o f the l e t t e r , Lang extended the s u b s t a n c e o f h i s dream by r e i t e r a t i n g the p o i n t he had made i n h i s 1845 P r o c l a m a t i o n ; he i n s i s t e d t h a t w i t h o u t the " b a l e f u l d o m i n a t i o n o f D o w n i n g - s t r e e t " and h a v i n g "no f o u l b l o t o f s l a v e r y t o d e f i l e h i s n a t i o n a l e s c u t c h e o n , l i k e Zachary T a y l o r , p r e s i d e n t o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s o f A m e r i c a , " an A u s t r a l i a n P r e s i d e n t would be f r e e t o d i r e c t " t h e b r i l l i a n t c a r e e r " o f h i s c o u n t r y i n such a way t h a t i t might 68 g e n e r a t e s o c i a l p a t t e r n s t o l e a d the w o r l d . D a n i e l Deniehy, a few y e a r s l a t e r , would a g r e e . On a r r i v a l back i n A u s t r a l i a , Lang endeavoured t o make good on the d i r e c t t h r e a t s c o n t a i n e d i n h i s l e t t e r t o Grey. I f the Sydney P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e was r i g h t i n s a y i n g t h a t the l e t t e r r e p r e s e n t e d " t h e f i r s t s t a k e d r i v e n i n t o the a n t - h i l l , " then Lang d e t e r m i n e d t o 69 r e p e a t the e f f o r t as much as p o s s i b l e i n the next few y e a r s . H i s o p e n l y r e p u b l i c a n w r i t i n g s came i n c r e a s i n g l y t o resemble Thomas P a i n e ' s a t the time o f w r i t i n g Common Sense (though Lang was l o a t h e t o a d v o c a t e v i o l e n c e and, w h i l e a t t a c k i n g E n g l i s h m a l p r a c t i c e , u s u a l l y a b s o l v e d the monarchy). In A p r i l , 1850, Lang d e l i v e r e d t h r e e l e c t u r e s i n Sydney which were soon p u b l i s h e d under the t i t l e The Coming Event; o r the U n i t e d P r o v i n c e s o f A u s t r a l i a . 7 ^ He makes no d i r e c t r e f e r e n c e t o Common Sense, but t h r o u g h o u t the l e c t u r e s a number o f the p o i n t s 3 8 8 he makes v i r t u a l l y r e p l i c a t e P a i n e ' s . Even h i s c h o i c e o f t i t l e seems t o owe something t o P a i n e who had, f o r example, spoken o f the independence o f A m e r i c a as "an e v e n t , which sooner o r l a t e r must a r r i v e , so from the l a t e r a p i d p r o g r e s s o f the c o n t i n e n t t o m a t u r i t y , the event c o u l d not be f a r o f f . " 7 ' F u r t h e r , Lang uses the p h r a s e , 7 2 "common s e n s e , " t h r o u g h o u t The Coming Event. The s i m i l a r i t i e s between Lang and P a i n e a r e s t r i k i n g . Both 7 3 the A u s t r a l i a n and the American a b h o r r e d government from a d i s t a n c e . Both d e d i c a t e d t h e m s e l v e s t o c o n v i n c i n g t h e i r f e l l o w s t h a t independence c o u l d o n l y happen w i t h v i g i l a n t , and, most i m p o r t a n t l y , immediate Ik commitment. Both e x p l o i t e d a r e v o l u t i o n a r y , e g a l i t a r i a n v o c a b u l a r y , t a l k i n g c o n s t a n t l y o f , i n Lang's words, the " n a t u r a l and i n h e r e n t r i g h t , i n d e f e a s i b l e and i n d e s t r u c t i b l e " o f the c o l o n i s t s o f New South Wales t o t h e i r " e n t i r e freedom and i n d e p e n d e n c e . " 7 5 P a i n e ' s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o the R i g h t s o f Man spoke, i n 1 i ke terms, o f "a_ system o f un i v e r s a 1 76 peace, [founded] cm the i ndefeas i b l e and hered i t a r y R i g h t s o f Man." Lang and P a i n e both p r o c l a i m e d the need f o r a u n i t e d f r o n t o f c i t i z e n s , and sought the e x p r e s s i o n o f t h a t s o l i d a r i t y i n t i t u l a r form as an i n t e g r a l p a r t o f the a t t e m p t t o change the t h i n k i n g o f a n a t i o n . Naming was i m p o r t a n t t o t h e m . 7 7 Both saw the need t o i n c i t e t h e i r c o m p a t r i o t s t o s e v e r t i e s w i t h Great B r i t a i n i n an a t t e m p t t o e n s u r e peace w i t h the r e s t o f the w o r l d . They were d e e p l y s u s p i c i o u s o f 78 Old-World l i a s o n s and scheming. Where they d i f f e r e d was on the i s s u e o f t a c t i c s . Lang i n 1 8 5 0 c o u l d a t times toy w i t h the i d e a o f a 389 m i l l t a r y r e v o l t : . . . [ t a x a t i o n w i t h o u t c o n s e n t ] roused the s p i r i t and nerved the arm o f the American C o l o n i s t s f o r t h e i r g r e a t and s u c c e s s f u l s t r u g g l e f o r e n t i r e freedom and independence i n the y e a r 1776; and i t i s m o r t i f y i n g t o r e f l e c t , t h a t B r i t i s h d e s p o t i s m s h o u l d have become no w i s e r from the l e s s o n i t was then t a u g h t , n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g the l a p s e o f f u l l s e v e n t y y e a r s . Does Great B r i t a i n r e q u i r e t h a t i n s t r u c t i v e l e s s o n t o be t a u g h t her i n the S o u t h e r n Hemisphere, as i t was i n the N o r t h e r n ? I t would appear t h a t she does.79 However, wary o f the f a c t t h a t i n the F i f t i e s a s i g n i f i c a n t (though d e c r e a s i n g ) m a j o r i t y o f h i s a u d i e n c e were B r i t i s h - b o r n , when he c l a r i f i e d the i s s u e i t was g e n e r a l l y t o endorse a p o l i c y o f non- v i o l e n t t r a n s f e r o f c o l o n i a l power. He s p e c i f i c a l l y d i s c l a i m e d " a l l d e s i r e o r i n t e n t i o n t o have r e c o u r s e i n any way'to p h y s i c a l f o r c e , " w a n t i n g i n s t e a d "a c o u r s e o f p e a c e f u l but e a r n e s t and e n e r g e t i c : 80 a g i t a t i o n . " P a i n e , on the o t h e r hand, r e a l i z e d t h a t independence 81 c o u l d o n l y be g a i n e d by f o r c e f u l means. In h i s Coming Event l e c t u r e s , Lang o u t l i n e d h i s most comprehensive p l a n , up t o t h a t p o i n t , f o r h i s p r o j e c t e d r e p u b l i c . At s e v e r a l p o i n t s he i n d i c a t e d h i s debt t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s C o n s t i t u t i o n and f e d e r a l 82 system. That i s , he made e l a b o r a t e use o f the American system-- and y e t , l i k e Deniehy, he a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y c o n c e i v e d o f A u s t r a l i a s u r p a s s i n g the model: . . . I q u e s t i o n whether even the U n i t e d S t a t e s o f America w i l l have a more e x t e n s i v e f i e l d o f p o l i t i c a l power and o f moral i n f l u e n c e t o e x p a t i a t e o v e r than w i l l one day acknowledge the s o v e r e i g n t y o f the U n i t e d P r o v i n c e s o f A u s t r a l i a . 8 3 390 Ten y e a r s e a r l i e r , a d d r e s s i n g an American a u d i e n c e , he had b r a z e n l y m a i n t a i n e d a s i m i l a r p o s i t i o n : . . . i t must be e v i d e n t t o e v e r y i n t e l l i g e n t A m e r i c a n , t h a t the s e r i e s o f c o l o n i e s t h a t have thus been s u c c e s s - f u l l y p l a n t e d on the s h o r e s o f the A u s t r a l i a n C o n t i n e n t . . . w i l l , i n a l l l i k e l i h o o d , exceed a l l former p r e c e d e n t , w i l l , a t no d i s t a n t day, e x e r t a mighty i n f l u e n c e , e i t h e r f o r good o r f o r e v i l , on a l a r g e p r o p o r t i o n o f the whole f a m i 1 y o f man. 8* But t h e r e i s no doubt t h a t i n h i s more p u b l i c i z e d Coming Event l e c t u r e s , the a g i n g myth o f A u s t r a l i a as a b e t t e r A m e r i c a was g i v e n perhaps i t s most prominent a i r i n g . Deniehy, s t r o n g l y i n f l u e n c e d by Lang t h r o u g h o u t t h i s p e r i o d , would t r y and g i v e the dream some l i f e i n l a t e r y e a r s . Lang's r a d i c a l i s m came t o t h e b o i l i n t h e e a r l y 1 8 5 0's. He d e l i v e r e d h i s Coming Event l e c t u r e s i n v a r y i n g forms t h r o u g h o u t " the c o l o n i e s , a r g u i n g c o n s t a n t l y , l i k e J e f f e r s o n , f o r the i n t r o d u c t i o n Or o f c e r t a i n fundamental p r i n c i p l e s . H i s e f f o r t s c u l m i n a t e d i n the p u b l i c a t i o n , i n 1 8 5 2 , o f the long p o l i t i c a l t r e a t i s e Freedom and Independence f o r the Golden Lands o f A u s t r a 1 i a - - h i s major attempt t o put h i s adopted c o u n t r y on what J e f f e r s o n once c a l l e d "a r e p u b l i c a n 86 t a c k . " Less r h e t o r i c a l and more a r t i c u l a t e than the Coming Event l e c t u r e s , Freedom and Independence s t r u c k r e s p o n s i v e c h o r d s a t home and a b r o a d . E s s e n t i a l l y , i t s y n t h e s i z e d the f r a g m e n t a r y r e p u b l i c a n i d e a s t h a t Lang had been w i d e l y d i s s e m i n a t i n g i n A u s t r a l i a d u r i n g t h e p r e v i o u s two y e a r s . I t was h i s major s t a t e m e n t o f l i b e r a t i o n , not j u s t f o r . t h e b e n e f i t o f h i s countrymen, but f o r the w o r l d t o p e r u s e . 391 The volume ran t o t h r e e e d i t i o n s . In the i n t r o d u c t i o n , Lang p r o c l a i m s the work t o be h i s " p r o p o s a l t o e s t a b l i s h f r e e i n s t i t u t i o n s t h r o u g h o u t the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s on the b a s i s o f u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e and equal e l e c t o r a l d i s t r i c t s . " R e l y i ng h e a v i 1 y on James Grahame 1 s H i s t o r y o f the Un i t e d S t a t e s o f N o r t h A m e r i c a ( 1 8 3 6 ) , he l a u n c h e s h i s f i r s t e l a b o r a t e d e f e n c e o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m as the most d e s i r a b l e p o l i t i c a l model a v a i l a b l e . F u r t h e r , f o r a B r i t i s h c o l o n y a s p i r i n g t o independence, i t i s the o n l y "form 88 o f government e i t h e r p r a c t i c a b l e o r p o s s i b l e . At one p o i n t , Lang i l l u s t r a t e s j u s t how f a r h i s C a l v i n i s m has been usurped by h i s demo- c r a t i c i n c l i n a t i o n s . Why s h o u l d [Englishmen] o b j e c t t o a form o f government which has g i v e n b i r t h , i n e v e r y department o f human e x c e l l e n c e , t o a s e r i e s o f the g r e a t e s t and n o b l e s t men t h a t have e v e r t r o d the earth?°" In k e e p i n g w i t h h i s p u b l i c s t a t e m e n t s down the y e a r s , he s u p p o r t s h i s arguments by c i t i n g e s t a b l i s h e d s o u r c e s such as James O t i s , Benjamin F r a n k l i n , C o t t o n Mather, the d e c i s i o n s o f the American c o l o n i a l l e g i s l a t u r e s , the 1765 New York C o n v e n t i o n and the f i r s t 90 C o n t i n e n t a l Congress i n Ph i 1 a d e l ph i a (177**). Indeed, O t i s and F r a n k l i n - - " t h a t g r e a t a u t h o r i t y " whose o p i n i o n on c o l o n i a l m a t t e r s 91 " i s worth t h a t o f a hundred W e s t m i n s t e r R e v i e w e r s " - - a r e the o n l y two w r i t e r s quoted by Lang i n h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n . The c l a r i t y o f t h e i r arguments a i d s Lang t h r o u g h o u t h i s s e a r c h i n g e n q u i r y . The t a r g e t s f o r Lang's v i t r i o l a r e the same as i n e a r l i e r y e a r s : Empire r u l e from London and the supposed i n f a l l i b i l i t y o f B r i t i s h 3 9 2 o f f i c i a l s i n the c o l o n i e s . (He b i t t e r l y a t t a c k s , i n p a r t i c u l a r , Governors Gipps and F i t z r o y . ) But he now more d i r e c t l y h i n t s a t the p o s s i b i l i t y o f d i r e c t m i l i t a r y a c t i o n by New South Welshmen i f t h e i r demands a r e not i m m e d i a t e l y met. Lang uses an o l d p l o y , one f i r s t e x p l o i t e d by h i s p e r e n n i a l opponent, W i l l i a m C h a r l e s Wentworth, decades ear 1 i e r : . . . the passes o f the B l u e M o u n t a i n s , on the road t o the Gold Mines o f the i n t e r i o r , l i k e the S t r a i t s o f Thermopylae, c o u l d be defended by a mere h a n d f u l o f A u s t r a l i a n Greeks a g a i n s t the whole power o f P e r s i a . I f "two o r t h r e e thousand b a d l y armed men" s h o u l d a t t e m p t a r e v o l u t i o n a r y movement a t the A u s t r a l i a n mines, t h e r e i s no c a l c u l a t i n g the p o s s i b l e i s s u e . 9 2 A g a i n , the s p e c t r e o f r e v o l t r a i s e d t o o b t a i n Col o n i a 1 - O f f i c e c o n c e s s i o n s . A f a m i l i a r American and, by the e a r l y l 8 5 0 ' s , A u s t r a l i a n p a t t e r n . In the y e a r s a f t e r the p u b l i c a t i o n o f Freedom and Independence, 9 3 Lang c o n t i n u e d t o stump f o r independence and an A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c . D u r i n g t h a t t i m e , i t became more and more o b v i o u s t h a t , l i k e W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing, Lang d e s p i s e d war, but he c o n s i d e r e d some i s s u e s w o r t h f i g h t i n g f o r . S t i l l an avowed enemy o f U n i t a r i a n i s m , Lang e v i d e n t l y knew h i s Channing w e l l , and i n s e e k i n g t o e x p l a i n h i s s t a n d on war i n a S c o t s Church sermon i n 185*, he a l l u d e d t o the American > when s e e k i n g j u s t i f i c a t i o n : I have no sympathy w i t h t h o s e who m a i n t a i n t h a t a l l war i s u n l a w f u l and u n j u s t . The American d i v i n e , Dr. Channing, s a y s : "A community may employ f o r c e t o r e p r e s s the v i o l e n c e of i t s own c i t i z e n s , t o d i s a r m and r e s t r a i n i t s i n t e r n a l f o e s ; on what ground, t h e r e f o r e , can we deny i t the r i g h t o r r e p e l l i n g the i n r o a d s and a g g r e s s i o n s o f a f o r e i g n p o w e r ? " 9 * 393 Two t h i n g s a r e i n t e r e s t i n g h e r e : the man Lang had c a t e g o r i z e d as t a l e n t e d , but c e r t a i n l y not a " C h r i s t i a n d i v i n e " i n 1840, had e v i d e n t l y assumed t h a t e l e v a t e d p o s i t i o n i n the P r e s b y t e r i a n m i n i s t e r ' s t h i n k i n g 95 i n the m i d d l e l 8 5 0's. S e c o n d l y , Lang's t o n e , i n h i s sermon, s u g g e s t s t h a t h i s c o n g r e g a t i o n had a t l e a s t a w o r k i n g knowledge o f Channing's p r o s e . In k e e p i n g w i t h t h i s s t a n d , Lang v i o l e n t l y denounced the p r o s p e c t 96 o f A u s t r a l i a n i n v o l v e m e n t , a l o n g s i d e B r i t a i n , i n the Crimean War. On the o t h e r hand, he sought t o j u s t i f y the Eureka Stockade and e s t a b l i s h i t as but the f i r s t s k i r m i s h o f a l o n g campaign c l i m a x i n g i n the independence o f both V i c t o r i a and New South Wales. Lang blamed Eureka w h o l l y on A u s t r a l i a ' s r u l i n g c o l o n i a l o f f i c i a l s and t h e i r s y m p a t h i z e r s among the l o c a l g e n t r y . In a l e t t e r t o the Sydney Emp i r e , a week a f t e r the s h o r t b a t t l e , he a r t i c u l a t e d h i s p o s i t i o n - one as c l o s e as he would p u b l i c l y get t o e n c o u r a g i n g armed r e v o l u t i o n . Lang had come a l o n g way s i n c e the t e n t a t i v e c r i t i c i s m s o f E n g l i s h r u l e i n the f i r s t e d i t i o n o f h i s H i s t o r i c a l and S t a t i s t i c a l A c c o u n t s , twenty y e a r s e a r l i e r : No sane person w i l l suppose t h a t t h i s o u t b r e a k i s l i k e l y t o end w i t h the s h o o t i n g down o f t h i r t y d i g g e r s a t B a l l a r a t . The b l o o d shed w i l l not be f o r g o t t e n . The men i n whose s p i r i t s the wound t h a t has thus been i n f l i c t e d w i l l r a n k l e long and w i d e l y , w i l l " n u r s e t h e i r w r a t h t o keep i t warm" f o r some o t h e r and more f i t t i n g o c c a s i o n . I f a r e p u b l i c , such as c e r t a i n a t l e a s t o f the more prominent d i g g e r s p r o p o s e d , were s u c c e s s f u l l y e s t a b l i s h e d a t P o r t P h i l l i p , i t would be a b s u r d t o say t h a t an i r r e p r e s s i b l e d e s i r e t o f o l l o w t h i s example would not be i m m e d i a t e l y c r e a t e d i n ten thousand b r e a s t s i n New South Wales, i n w h i c h no such 39* f e e l i n g now e x i s t s . We have p r e c i s e l y the same g r i e v a n c e s t o c o m p l a i n o f as the P o r t P h i l l i p p e o p l e . L e t i t be remembered t h a t t h e s e g r i e v a n c e s a r e i n c o m p a r a b l y g r e a t e r than any the American c o l o n i s t s had t o c o m p l a i n o f when they put f o r t h t h e i r famous d e c l a r a t i o n o f independence i n 1776.97 T h i r t y y e a r s o f l i v i n g i n a c o u n t r y a t b e s t d e s c r i b e d as a "dependency o f E n g l a n d , " t h i r t y y e a r s s t r u g g l i n g t o m o t i v a t e a community t o r e s i s t b e i n g "a mere f o o t b a l l , k i c k e d about a t p l e a s u r e by e v e r y u n d e r l i n g i n Downing S t r e e t , " had wrought s i g n i f i c a n t changes i n 98 Lang. In the e a r l y 18501 s, a t the peak o f h i s powers, he had e s t a b l i s h e d h i m s e l f as the preeminent spokesman f o r the A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c a n movement. H i s commitment t o the cause o f the c o l o n i e s had deepened t o such an e x t e n t t h a t i n 1855 he d r a f t e d a D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence f o r the " P r o v i n c e o f V i c t o r i a " w h i c h s u g g e s t e d " f o r c e 99 o f arms" as a f e a s i b l e a l t e r n a t i v e . The m i n i s t e r had t u r n e d i n t o a m i l i t a n t . In the s p i r i t o f 1776. Lang's A u s t r a l i a n countrymen f i n a l l y r e j e c t e d h i s c h a l l e n g i n g brand o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m . A number o f reasons f o r t h i s have been s u g g e s t e d : h i s dogmatic r e l i g i o u s s t a n d ; h i s c o n t i n u a l and l e n g t h y o v e r s e a s t r i p s ; and h i s u n n e c e s s a r i 1 y v i t r i o l i c , p e r s o n a l a t t a c k s on h i s p o l i t i c a l e n e m i e s . P e r h a p s the b e s t e x p l a n a t i o n , however, i s t h a t i n the f i n a l a n a l y s i s even the more " r a d i c a l " c o l o n i s t s f e l t s a t i s f i e d , i n the e a r l y l 8 5 0's, t h a t s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t was imminent and 3 9 5 w o u l d , moreover, s u p p l y the a p p r o p r i a t e v e h i c l e f o r p o l i t i c a l i n - dependence. Lang's r e p u b l i c c o u l d w a i t a w h i l e . Though not a " l o n e p r o p h e t , " as one h i s t o r i a n has c l a i m e d , Lang never a c h i e v e d w i d e s p r e a d s u p p o r t f o r h i s i d e a s . ^ C h a r l e s Harpur backed him as much as he c o u l d , but Harpur was t o o busy f i g h t i n g h i s own b a t t l e f o r l i t e r a r y s u r v i v a l i n a g r a s p i n g community. Lang's l e g a c y was t o g i v e A u s t r a l i a n s a g r e a t e r c o n f i d e n c e i n t h e m s e l v e s , a sense o f l e g i t i m a t e autonomy. For a number o f y e a r s , 1 0 2 m i d - c e n t u r y , he f u l f i l l e d h i s d e s i r e t o be "a T r i b u n e o f the P e o p l e . " As s u c h , he would not l e t h i s c o u n t r y p l a y a s e r v i l e r o l e i n i t s r e l a t i o n s w i t h E n g l a n d . For h i s parameters o f r a d i c a l a c t i o n Lang l o o k e d , t h r o u g h o u t h i s p u b l i c l i f e , t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s f o r g u i d a n c e . Yet he r e c o g n i z e d the danger o f m e r e l y s u b s t i t u t i n g one dominant i n f l u e n c e w i t h a n o t h e r . In Freedom and Independence, he spoke i n c l e a r terms o f the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s becoming "one mighty power i n the P a c i f i c , t h a t w i l l condescend t o p l a y 'no second f i d d l e 1 t o B r o t h e r J o n a t h a n , 1 0 3 but w i l l c l a i m p e r f e c t e q u a l i t y w i t h him from':the f i r s t . . . ." I t was an a p p r o p r i a t e l y grand v i s i o n f o r a man who e v e r r e f u s e d t o t h i n k as a s u b o r d i n a t e would. Z?<o S e c t i o n B D a n i e l Henry Deniehy (1828-65): The Vehement V o i c e o f the S o u t h 1 0 * 4 "We have no l o n g l i n e o f p o e t s , o r s t a t e s m e n , o r w a r r i o r s ; i n t h i s c o u n t r y , a r t has done n o t h i n g , but n a t u r e e v e r y - t h i n g . I t i s o u r s , t h e n , a l o n e t o i n a u g u r a t e the f u t u r e . " D a n i e l Henry Deniehy, 1853 1 0 5 A p p r a i s a l s o f Deniehy's c a r e e r i n p o l i t i c s and l e t t e r s s i n c e h i s death have produced some i n t e r e s t i n g o d d i t i e s . He d i e d i n 1865 i n B a t h u r s t , a town west of Sydney t o which he had gone w i t h o u t h i s w i f e and c h i l d r e n i n the l a s t y e a r o f h i s s h o r t l i f e i n a f i n a l , d e s p e r a t e a t t e m p t t o c u r e h i s a l c o h o l i s m and improve h i s f i n a n c i a l s i t u a t i o n , o n l y t o be b u r i e d i n a pauper's g r a v e . When, a m i d s t a l l the n a t i o n a l i s t i c clamour s u r r o u n d i n g the 1888 c e n t e n n a r y c e l e b r a t i o n s , h i s bones were exhumed and p l a c e d beneath a handsome monument a t Waverly Cemetery, Sydney, A u s t r a l i a n s remembered him o n l y f o r h i s l i t e r a r y work, not f o r h i s p o l i t i c a l c a r e e r as a moderate r e p u b l i c a n . ' ^ ' In the y e a r s s i n c e , as F r a n c e s D e v l i n G l a s s p o i n t e d out i n 197**, b i o g r a p h i c a l a c c o u n t s have i n c r e a s i n g l y s t r e s s e d Deniehy's p o l i t i c s a t the expense o f h i s l i t e r a r y p u r s u i t s . Thus, i n her most i n f o r m a t i v e 3 9 7 t h e s i s , she a t t e m p t s t o " r i g h t the b i o g r a p h i c a l b a l a n c e " by once a g a i n e m p h a s i z i n g h i s c a r e e r as a " p u b l i c i s t and l i t e r a r y c r i t i c . " " " * 7 N e e d l e s s t o say Deniehy, l i k e h i s American New England c o u n t e r p a r t s , d i d not c o n c e i v e of the two r o l e s , t h a t o f p u b l i c p e r s o n a l i t y and man o f l e t t e r s , as s e p a r a t e and d i s t i n c t e n t i t i e s . In both r o l e s he p r o j e c t e d an i n t e g r a t e d v i s i o n - - a v i s i o n s t r i k i n g l y s i m i l a r i n v o c a b u l a r y , p o l i t i c a l and l i t e r a r y s t a n c e , t o some o f the most prominent contemporary w r i t e r s i n A m e r i c a , whom he had r e a d . W.B. D a l l e y , one o f Deniehy's f r i e n d s and h i m s e l f a p o l i t i c i a n , r e f e r r e d t o Deniehy as " t h e most b r i l l i a n t o f the n a t i v e - b o r n i n h a b i t a n t s 1 0 8 o f t h i s c o u n t r y . " He was p r o b a b l y r i g h t . In h i s b r i e f c a r e e r , Deniehy d i s t i n g u i s h e d h i m s e l f i n many a r e a s as p o e t , s h o r t s t o r y w r i t e r , l i t e r a r y c r i t i c , o r a t o r , p o l i t i c i a n , e s s a y i s t , h i s t o r i a n and r e p u b l i c a n p u b l i c i s t . J u s t as he had e x p r e s s e d g r e a t a d m i r a t i o n f o r the range o f t a l e n t s o f the I r i s h r a d i c a l and p o l i t i c a l e x i l e , John M i t c h e l , so Deniehy a s p i r e d t o r e a d i n g and commenting on an e x t r a - 1 0 9 o r d i n a r i l y l a r g e range o f s u b j e c t s . Only i n t h i s way might he p r e p a r e h i m s e l f t o c o n t r i b u t e t o A u s t r a l i a n p r o g r e s s . B e f o r e d e a l i n g w i t h the major a s p e c t s o f Deniehy's p o l i t i c a l and a r t i s t i c s t a n c e as a w r i t e r (and i t s k i n s h i p w i t h American themes), t h r e e p o i n t s need c l a r i f i c a t i o n . F i r s t l y , w i t h a commitment no l e s s i m p a s s i o n e d than Walt Whitman's i n h i s 1 8 5 5 " P r e f a c e " t o Leaves of G r a s s , Deniehy v i g o r o u s l y espoused the need f o r A u s t r a l i a ' s n a t i v e sons t o r e c o g n i z e t h e i r m i s s i o n i n t h e i r new l a n d . In a l e t t e r t o John Dunmore Lang, he spoke o f "my d u t y i n e s t a b l i s h i n g R e p u b l i c a n 3 9 8 I n s t i t u t i o n s and a d v a n c i n g i n e v e r y genuine method, my n a t i v e l a n d , " and responded w i t h a body o f work and a p u b l i c l i f e c o n s i s t e n t w i t h t h i s c o n c e p t i o n . ' " ^ F u l l y aware o f the h a z a r d s , he r e l u c t a n t l y e n t e r e d l o c a l p o l i t i c s w i t h a f i r s t n o m i n a t i o n speech e x e m p l i f y i n g h i s superb o r a t o r i c a l s k i l l . Deniehy a p p r e c i a t e d the impact o f a q u e s t i o n i n g , a g g r e s s i v e New-World vocabulary:. . . . a c r i s i s , you t e l l me, and I b e l i e v e i t , i s a t hand, o r i s r a p i d l y a p p r o a c h i n g , and you want me. When the s i g n a l f i r e s a r e r e d d e n i n g the h i l l s a t m i d n i g h t , when the sharp t u c k o f the drum and the f i e r c e , t a u n t i n g i n v i t a t i o n of the trumpet a r e a b r o a d , i s i t f o r the r e c r u i t t o p l e a d t h a t h i s d r i l l i s i n c o m p l e t e ? ' 1 1 H i s t o n e , h e r e , c l o s e l y resembles t h a t i n Thomas P a i n e ' s s e r i e s o f p a m p h l e t s , "The American C r i s i s " ( 1 7 7 6 - 8 3 ) . The f i r s t o f P a i n e ' s t h i r t e e n pamphlets began: "These a r e the times t h a t t r y men's s o u l s . The summer s o l d i e r and the s u n s h i n e p a t r i o t w i l l , i n t h i s c r i s i s , s h r i n k from t h e s e r v i c e o f t h e i r c o u n t r y ; but he t h a t s t a n d s i t now, 1 1 2 d e s e r v e s the l o v e and thanks o f man and woman." For Deniehy, the p o l i t i c a l s i t u a t i o n i n 1 8 5 0 1 s A u s t r a l i a p a r a l l e l e d t h a t i n 1 7 7 0 ' s A m e r i c a . I t i s perhaps no a c c i d e n t t h a t i n h i s voluminous l i b r a r y Deniehy had a copy o f W i l l i a m W i r t ' s S k e t c h e s o f the L i f e and C h a r a c t e r 1 1 3 o f P a t r i c k Henry ( 1 8 1 7 ) - L i k e Henry, Deniehy had l e g e n d a r y v e r b a l s k i l l s , and he used t h i s power t o g e n e r a t e p u b l i c awareness o f h i s p e r s o n a l v i s i o n f o r A u s t r a l i a . S e c o n d l y , t h r o u g h o u t h i s l i f e Deniehy promoted an independent A u s t r a l i a . A f t e r s p e n d i n g what he termed a " s w a l l o w ' s s e a s o n " i n 399 I r e l a n d , he r e t u r n e d t o A u s t r a l i a i n ]8kk f u l l o f e n t h u s i a s m f o r the I r i s h n a t i o n a l i s t cause and d e t e r m i n e d t o i n i t i a t e a s i m i l a r e n t e r p r i s e 114 a t home. In one o f h i s poems he c o n t r a s t e d the h o n e s t y and i n t e g r i t y o f I r i s h p a t r i o t Henry F l o o d ( t h e " I r i s h B a l l a d s i n g e r ' s j o y " ) w i t h the " f l o o d " o f c o r r u p t i o n i n l o c a l p o l i t i c s . 1 1 5 I t i s w o r t h n o t i n g t h a t i t was F l o o d who, i n 1782, had thundered i n the I r i s h House o f Commons: A v o i c e from A m e r i c a shouted t o L i b e r t y , the echo o f i t caught your p e o p l e as i t passed a l o n g the A t l a n t i c , and they renewed the v o i c e t i l l i t r e v e r b e r a t e d h e r e . 1 ' " ; Deniehy, t h r o u g h o u t h i s p o l i t i c a l c a r e e r , c o n s t a n t l y p l e a d e d f o r the same humane, e g a l i t a r i a n v a l u e s t h a t J e f f e r s o n had a r t i c u l a t e d i n the D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence. T h i r d , and f i n a l l y , h a v i n g r e c o g n i z e d A u s t r a l i a ' s unique c i r c u m - s t a n c e s , Deniehy r e a l i z e d t h a t h i s c o u n t r y would need c r e a t i v e , i n - dependent t h i n k e r s ; he d e t e r m i n e d t o be one. He wanted no models. As,G.B. B a r t o n w r o t e , two y e a r s a f t e r Deniehy's d e a t h : "Minds o f h i s stamp a r e e s s e n t i a l l y c r e a t i v e . They a r e never s a t i s f i e d w i t h a b s o r b i n g the p r o d u c t i o n s o f o t h e r s . P l a s t i c power i s p a r t o f t h e i r n a t u r a l c o n s t i t u t i o n . " 1 1 7 In a r r i v i n g a t h i s p o l i t i c a l p o s i t i o n , Deniehy c o n s u l t e d a wide range o f p o l i t i c a l t h e o r i s t s , i n c l u d i n g such d i s p a r a t e s o u r c e s as Locke, C a r l y l e , de T o c q u e v i l l e , Cobden, Burke, Hume, P l a t o and A r i s t o t l e . A p p r o p r i a t e l y , h i s s t a n c e r e f l e c t e d both r a d i c a l and c o n s e r v a t i v e a t t i t u d e s : he a d v o c a t e d change, but o n l y through s y s t e m a t i c , above 400 a l l o r d e r l y government l e g i s l a t i o n . Yet on one i s s u e he was adamant. Deniehy b e l i e v e d , as F r a n c i s G l a s s has s a i d , t h a t the "American e x p e r i m e n t i n democracy, r e p u b l i c a n i s m and c o l o n i a 1 i z a t i o n , r a t h e r than F r e n c h democracy, o r even B r i t i s h monarchism, would be the 118 p o l i t i c a l example t h a t A u s t r a l i a would u l t i m a t e l y f o l l o w . " J e f f e r s o n - i a n r e p u b l i c a n i s m p r o v i d e s the main w o r k i n g p r i n c i p l e o f a l l Deniehy's w r i t i n g s . In one o f h i s speeches t o the A u s t r a l i a n League, he p o i n t e d t o the " d e m o c r a t i c t e n d e n c i e s o f the age" and gave " p h i l o s o p h i c a l reasons why a new community . . . c o u l d o n l y d e v e l o p e [ s i c ] i t s e l f ,119 i n t o a R e p u b l i c . I n e v i t a b l y , he c o n s u l t e d the American r e v o l u t i o n a r y w r i t e r s ; one can see i n h i s e s s a y s elements o f F r a n k l i n , J e f f e r s o n , Henry, P a i n e and Adams. T h i s s t u d y , i n t u r n , took him i n t o the w i d e r r e a l m o f American l i t e r a t u r e t o encompass, most n o t i c e a b l y , the p r i n c i p a l T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s : Emerson, P a r k e r , Channing, F u l l e r and Brownson. In a d d i t i o n t o t h e s e , h i s l i b r a r y b o a s t e d works by F r a n k l i n , I r v i n g , L o n g f e l l o w , Poe, Hawthorne and M e l v i l l e , as w e l l 21 as Holmes, B r y a n t , Brown, Stowe and George W. C u r t i s . Deniehy's e a r l i e s t s t o r i e s , w r i t t e n w h i l e s t i l l i n h i s t e e n s , b e t r a y a y o u t h f u l d e s i r e t o be o f f e n s i v e l y A u s t r a l i a n . P u b l i s h e d s h o r t l y a f t e r h i s t r i p t o I r e l a n d and E n g l a n d , they f l a u n t n a t i v e p r i d e i n a way r e m i n i s c e n t o f many American w r i t e r s , from F r a n k l i n t o Whitman. For Deniehy, t h e r e was ground t o be made up, and he makes h i s l o y a l t i e s q u i t e c l e a r . For example, i n one s t o r y , "A Legend o f Newtown" (1845), he p o r t r a y s the l o c a l Sydney a r i s t o i as " w h i t e beavered and tweed-coated gentlemen . . . [whose] v e r y p o c k e t s , w h i c h ornament 401 t h e i r u n m e n t i o n a b l e s , seem t o b u t t o n up o f t h e m s e l v e s , w i t h an a i r which seems a l m o s t t o say ' t h e r e i s something i n 'em,' and the a i r o f heaven i s t a i n t e d w i t h the odour o f c i g a r s , and the e f f l u v i a o f -. 1 22 c o l o n i a l a l e . . . ." In marked c o n t r a s t , the h e r o , E l l i o t E g e r t o n , a t r u e "son o f the s o i l , " has an e n t h u s i a s m which made him proud o f the l a n d o f h i s b i r t h , j e a l o u s and : s e n s i t i v e o f the s l i g h t s t o o o f t e n thrown on h e r , and the v a p i d s n e e r s w h i c h e x p a t r i a t e d w i t l i n g s f i n d so much g r a t i f i c a t i o n i n showering on the l a n d w h i c h s u p p o r t s them, and g i v e s them t h e i r d a i l y bread. The c h i v a l r y o f h i s y o u t h f u l s p i r i t made him l o o k f o r w a r d t o d i s t i n g u i s h i n g h i s c o u n t r y a t h i s own hands, and stamping her fame, among the n a t i o n s , i n the b u r n i n g c h a r a c t e r s o f g e n i u s and i mmorta1i t y . The young Deniehy o b v i o u s l y saw the need t o be p u b l i c l y a s s e r t i v e . Old p r e j u d i c e s had t o be overcome and s o c i a l b a r r i e r s d i s m a n t l e d . Some y e a r s l a t e r - - i n perhaps h i s g r e a t e s t speech, a t the r a l l y t o d i s c u s s the C o n s t i t u t i o n B i l l i n A u g u s t , l 8 5 3 - _ h e c o u l d i n t e n t i o n a l l y i n v o k e the name t h a t had been used abroad f o r so long t o e f f e c t i v e l y s t a i n the s o u t h e r n c o l o n y : "Botany Bay." S a i d a more mature Deniehy, combat i v e l y , I am proud o f Botany Bay, even i f I have t o b l u s h f o r some o f her c h i l d r e n . I t a k e the name as no term o f r e p r o a c h when I see such a h i g h , t r u e , and manly s e n s i b i l i t y on the s u b j e c t o f t h e i r p o l i t i c a l , r i g h t s ; t h a t the i n s t a n t the l i b e r t i e s o f t h e i r c o u n t r y a r e t h r e a t e n e d , they c o u l d assemble, and w i t h one v o i c e d e c l a r e t h e i r d e t e r m i n e d and undying o p p o s i t i o n . 1 -> L i k e Channing, r i g h t s , " w h i c h Deniehy had he i n t e n d e d a deep " r e v e r e n c e f o r t o communicate l o u d l y L i b e r t y , f o r human t o a l l h i s f e l low 402 1 24 c o l o n i s t s . From an e a r l y age, he sought t o t e a c h , as Emerson, Channing, P a r k e r , Brownson, R i p l e y and A l c o t t s e t about e d u c a t i n g t h e i r countrymen. F u r t h e r m o r e , Deniehy's p r i d e , i f a t times a l i t t l e too f o r t h - r i g h t , w a s not n a r r o w l y b o m b a s t i c , f o r he c o n c e i v e d of a framework i n w h i c h l o v e o f one's l a n d c o u l d be u s e f u l l y a p p l i e d . Deniehy's sense o f " s o c i a l p r o g r e s s " i n v o l v e d a v i s i o n o f an A u s t r a l i a n p o p u l a c e awakened t o the communal b e n e f i t s o f l i t e r a t u r e and s t a u n c h l y humane p r i n c i p l e s . As F r a n c e s G l a s s has r i g h t l y s u g g e s t e d , he b e l i e v e d i n 1 25 "an i n t e g r a t e d s o c i a l , p o l i t i c a l , a e s t h e t i c and i n t e l l e c t u a l i d e a l . " Independence, Deniehy once d e c l a r e d , would n e c e s s a r i l y l e a d t o a " r e a l l y r e s p o n s i b l e " government ' . ' e n t i r e l y i d e n t i f i e d w i t h the p l a c e and p e o p l e , " and the "growth o f a n a t i o n a l c h a r a c t e r , " the " n e c e s s i t y t h a t would ensue o f making the b e s t o f e v e r y t h i n g around us and so 126 c o n v e r t i n g the c o u n t r y r e a l l y i n t o a Home." One o f h i s l i t e r a r y r e v i e w s makes mention o f the "mora 1 arid menta 1 v i t a l i t y " so v i t a l t o 1 27 a d e v e l o p i n g community. G l a s s c a l l s t h i s n o t i o n " s i m p l e - m i n d e d , " but i f t h i s i s s o , then some of A m e r i c a ' s f i n e s t l i b e r a l spokesmen 1 28 o f the e r a were e q u a l l y n a i v e . George R i p l e y , f o r example, founded the s o c i a l i s t community Brook Farm, w i t h a group Hawthorne termed "a knot o f dreamers," i n the hope o f c o m b i n i n g honest t o i l w i t h 1 29 i n t e l l e c t u a l freedom, c u l t u r a l r e f i n e m e n t and r e l i g i o u s e n q u i r y . Emerson and Thoreau c o n c e i v e d o f a s i m i l a r model f o r s o c i e t y . Theodore P a r k e r , t o o , worked towards an i d e a l A m e r i c a 403 when the few s h a l l not be advanced a t the expense o f the many . . . [and] when a l l men s h a l l eat bread i n the sweat o f t h e i r f a c e , and y e t f i n d l e i s u r e t o c u l t i v a t e 1 30 what i s b e s t and d i v i n e s t i n t h e i r s o u l s . . . . J W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing, a g r e a t f a v o u r i t e o f D e n i e h y ' s , devoted much of h i s time t o the same s u b j e c t . He c o n s i d e r e d e v e r y man c a p a b l e o f moral p e r f e c t i o n , and s t r e s s e d human d i g n i t y and w o r t h i n some o f h i s most famous e s s a y s - - s u c h as "Honour Due To A l l Men" (1830), " S e l f - C u l t u r e " (1838), and "On the E l e v a t i o n o f the L a b o u r i n g C l a s s e s " (1840). Channing e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y p r o c l a i m e d t h a t the mass o f the p e o p l e a r e b e g i n n i n g t o comprehend them- s e l v e s and t h e i r t r u e h a p p i n e s s . . . they a r e c a t c h i n g g l i m p s e s o f the g r e a t work and v o c a t i o n of human b e i n g s , and a r e r i s i n g t o t h e i r t r u e p l a c e i n the s o c i a l s t a t e . ^ Thomas J e f f e r s o n , o f c o u r s e , had made i d e a l i s m a v i a b l e response o f a l l f u t u r e Americans when he l i s t e d , as among man's i n a l i e n a b l e r i g h t s , 1 32 " l i f e , l i b e r t y and the p u r s u i t o f h a p p i n e s s . " In c o n s t r u i n g an o p t i m i s t i c f u t u r e f o r h i s c o u n t r y , Deniehy dreamed a r e p r e s e n t a t i v e New World dream, as we s h a l l see, and i f he l a c k e d the s u p p o r t o f an a p p r e c i a b l e number o f h i s own countrymen, he must have found g r a t i f y i n g sustenance among the d i s t i n g u i s h e d New England w r i t e r s c o m p r i s i n g an i m p o r t a n t s e c t i o n o f h i s l i b r a r y . Yet even i f we p e r c e i v e Deniehy's n o t i o n o f A u s t r a l i a ' s f u t u r e a s , i n the b r o a d e s t s e n s e , i d e a l i s t i c , i t i s c e r t a i n t h a t he took p a i n s t o ground h i s framework on s e v e r a l h a r d , r e a l i s t i c p r i n c i p l e s - - from the a p p l i c a t i o n o f which he would not f l i n c h . A g a i n , they 404 r e f l e c t the i n f l u e n c e o f contemporary American t h o u g h t , though c o m p r i s i n g the b a s i s o f an immediate c o u r s e o f a c t i o n i n an A u s t r a l i a n c o n t e x t . F i r s t , Deniehy i n s i s t e d on the "fundamental p o p u l a r r i g h t " o f a l l men t o nominate t h o s e "who a r e t o make, or c o n t r o l the making o f , laws b i n d i n g on the community." E n d o r s i n g a b a s i c J e f f e r s o n i a n p r i n c i p l e (and l i k e v o c a b u l a r y ) , he o f t e n spoke i n d e f e n c e o f " t h e e l e c t i v e p r i n c i p l e and the i n a l i e n a b l e r i g h t and freedom o f e v e r y c o l o n i s t ... . t o work out the whole o r g a n i z a t i o n and f a b r i c o f our 133 p o l i t i c a l i n s t i t u t i o n s . " Thomas P a i n e , t o o , had p r o j e c t e d t h i s 134 as one o f man's " n a t u r a l r i g h t s " i n the R i g h t s o f Man. L i k e P a i n e and J e f f e r s o n , Deniehy opposed t h o s e a r i s t o c r a t i c t r a p p i n g s he f e l t t o be i n t o t a l o p p o s i t i o n t o the t e n e t s o f a democracy—name 1 y, 1 35 nomineeism, p a t r o n a g e and p r i m o g e n i t u r e . He viewed them as t o t a l l y i n a p p r o p r i a t e , indeed i n s u l t i n g t o a l a n d s t r i v i n g t o overcome the h o r r o r s o f i t s c o n v i c t p a s t . S e c o n d l y , w h i l e he admired the sound m o t i v a t i o n s o f the genuine 1 36 r e v o l u t i o n a r y temperament, Deniehy c o u l d n ' t approve o f i t s e x c e s s e s . Even when, i n h i s m i d - t w e n t i e s , he promulgated the cause o f b e l l i g e r e n t r e p u b l i c a n i s m on paper and i n the l e c t u r e h a l l , he s t i l l c o u l d not c o u n t e n a n c e , as a p r e r e q u i s i t e o f t h i s programme, m i l i t a n t r e v o l t . Deniehy would have agreed w i t h P a i n e t h a t i t was time t o s t i r , but not i n armed r e s i s t a n c e . He s h a r e d the c o n s e r v a t i v e i n c l i n a t i o n s o f both Channing and J e f f e r s o n when f o r c e d t o c o n t e m p l a t e mob j u s t i c e . Thus h i s d i s a v o w a l o f the Eureka Stockade p a r t i c i p a n t s , whose conduct amount t o " r e b e l l i o n " : 405 The e x e r c i s e o f p h y s i c a l f o r c e on the p a r t o f the d i g g e r s has c o u n t e r a c t e d the i n f l u e n c e s o f t h o s e moral a g e n c i e s t h a t were s i l e n t l y but s u r e l y , s t e p by s t e p , d i s e n t h r a l l i n g t h e s e g o l d e n lands. 1 3 7 T h i r d l y , Deniehy c a t e g o r i c a l l y r e j e c t e d a r i s t o c r a c y and A u s t r a l i a ' s c o n t i n u e d o b e i s a n c e t o E n g l a n d . U n l i k e so many o f h i s countrymen, he put E n g l i s h i n s t i t u t i o n s t o the t e s t . L i k e P a i n e , Deniehy c o n c l u d e d t h a t England's government and s o c i a l h i e r a r c h y had been founded by 1 3ft the repugnant use o f f o r c e ( o r i g i n a l l y the Norman C o n q u e s t ) . He r e f u s e d t o a c c e p t , on t h i s b a s i s , t h a t A u s t r a l i a had t o adopt a s e r v i l e r o l e when a s s e s s i n g E n g l i s h demands; thus he a s s o c i a t e d w i t h Lang and Harpur i n o p p o s i t i o n t o A u s t r a l i a n i n v o l v e m e n t i n the Crimean War. A f t e r a meeting o f s u p p o r t f o r the E n g l i s h cause was h e l d a t Malcolm's C i r c u s , i n Sydney, Deniehy c a u s t i c a l l y a p p r a i s e d the p r o - c e e d i n g s : Look a t the m a t e r i a l o f the j o k e : War between a l l i e d England and F r a n c e w i t h the C z a r o f R u s s i a , on a q u e s t i o n about the Greek Church, and a meeting o f a c e r t a i n number of persons a t Sydney on the s h o r e s o f P o r t J a c k s o n i n the A u s t r a l i a n c o n t i n e n t , s i x t e e n thousand m i l e s o f f , t o e x p r e s s t h e i r " l o y a l t y " (who e v e r doubted i t , o r complimented them enough t o s u s p e c t i t ? ) and d e v o t i o n (how e l e g a n t l y the c h o i c e o f the noun) t o Her M a j e s t y . . . . Three months l a t e r , a p p r a i s i n g the S o l i c i t o r - G e n e r a l ' s proposed t a x t o s u p p o r t the w a r r i n g L i o n , Deniehy a p p a r e n t l y found the h i s t o r i c a l p a r a l l e l s w i t h p r e - r e v o l ut i ona ry Amer i ca too g r e a t t o r e s i s t . He added h i s name t o the growing l i s t o f A u s t r a l i a n commentators s i n c e Wentworth ( i n 1819) who had t h r e a t e n e d England w i t h open c o l o n i a l 4 0 6 r e v o l t . For Deniehy, the i d e a o f the t a x was about the most monstrous p r o p o s i t i o n we have e v e r h e a r d , and would tend as much t o a l i e n a t e the P e o p l e o f t h i s C o l o n y from the p a r e n t stem as the infamous Stamp A c t o f A m e r i c a a c c e l e r a t e d the r u p t u r e w i t h , and u l t i m a t e l y produced the s e p a r a t i o n o f the American c o l o n i e s from the B r i t i s h Crown. ^ ° The e n e r g e t i c A u s t r a l i a n t r a d i t i o n o f v e r b a l i n t i m i d a t i o n l i v e d on. R e v o l u t i o n a r y r h e t o r i c , i n Deniehy's hands, c o n t i n u e d t o be a u s e f u l t o o l d e s p i t e the l i k e l i h o o d o f s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t i n the near f u t u r e . F o u r t h l y , Deniehy d e p l o r e d the p a r o c h i a l p r e t e n t i o u s n e s s he found around him. Hence, he waged a c o n t i n u a l war o f words w i t h the A u s t r a l i a n proponents of a r i s t o c r a c y . I f the s u p e r i o r a t t i t u d e s of E n g l i s h p a t r i c i a n s were d i f f i c u l t t o a c c e p t , d e s p i t e an ocean o f d i s t a n c e , the p r e t e n s i o n s o f the l o c a l " e x p a t r i a t e d w i t l i n g s " proved 141 i m p o s s i b l e . " C o l o n i a l T o r y i s m always s t i n k s , " he once s a i d , 1 4 2 " f o r i t has s u f f e r e d by t r a n s i t from the o l d c o u n t r y . . . ." Deniehy d e s p i s e d Wentworth's n o t i o n o f a nominated Upper House, and i n one memorable speech he put p a i d t o the p r o p o s a l f o r e v e r . J u s t as J e f f e r s o n f e l t bound, i n the 1 7 9 0 ' s, t o d e s t r o y the c r e d i b i l i t y o f the F e d e r a 1 i s t s - - t h o s e men he f e l t t o have been " d a z z l e d by the g l i t t e r i n g o f crowns and c o r o n e t s , " and who "always c o n t r i v e t o 1 4 3 n e s t l e t h e m s e l v e s i n t o the p l a c e s o f power and p r o f i t " --so Deniehy, i n the e a r l y l 8 5 0 ' s , denounced, and u l t i m a t e l y d e m o l i s h e d any p o s s i b i l o f an A u s t r a l i a n House o f L o r d s . He laughed the " h a r l e q u i n a r i s t o c r a t s those A u s t r a l i a n m a g n i f i c o e s " back i n t o temporary o b l i v i o n when he 1 4 4 c o i n e d the p h r a s e " b u n y i p a r i s t o c r a c y " t o c h a r a c t e r i z e t h e i r pose. 407 F i f t h , and l a s t l y , w h i l e s t i l l a v e r y young man, Deniehy r e c o g n i z e d the d e s p e r a t e need h i s c o u n t r y had f o r a b l e r e p u b l i c a n p r o p a g a n d i s t s . R i s i n g t o the c h a l l e n g e o f Wentworth's a t t e m p t t o e s t a b l i s h a p r i v i l e g e d Upper House, he soon assumed c o n s i d e r a b l e r e s p o n s i b i l i t y as a p o p u l a r d i s s e m i n a t o r o f d e m o c r a t i c d o c t r i n e s . H i s l i t e r a r y l i f e , f o r a t i m e , took on s e c o n d a r y importance. In A m e r i c a , d u r i n g the same y e a r s as Deniehy's a c t i v e p o l i t i c a l i n v o l v e m e n t , George W i l l i a m C u r t i s , a R h o d e - I s l a n d o r a t o r , e d i t o r and e s s a y i s t , worked i n c e s s a n t l y t o m o b i l i z e h i s c o u n t r y ' s i n t e 1 1 i g e n t s i a - - m o s t o b v i o u s l y i n a c l a s s i c a d d r e s s t h a t he d e l i v e r e d t o the L i t e r a r y S o c i e t i e s o f Wesleyan U n i v e r s i t y , C o n n e c t i c u t , i n 1856. A f t e r l i s t i n g as t h e theme f o r h i s o r a t i o n " t h e d u t y o f the American s c h o l a r t o p o l i t i c s , " C u r t i s a d d r e s s e d h i m s e l f t o the i s s u e o f whether o r not the s c h o l a r ' s r o l e made n o n - i n v o l v e m e n t o b l i g a t o r y : Because we a r e s c h o l a r s o f to-day s h a l l we s h r i n k from t o u c h i n g t h e i n t e r e s t s o f to-day? Because we a r e s c h o l a r s s h a l l we c e a s e t o be c i t i z e n s ? Because we a r e s c h o l a r s s h a l l we c e a s e t o be men?1 When C u r t i s asked t h e s e q u e s t i o n s , he had i n mind the i s s u e o f s l a v e r y , and the s c a l d i n g Kansas debate i n p a r t i c u l a r , y e t the q u e s t i o n s he 146 asked were u n i v e r s a l ones. In A u s t r a l i a , Deniehy, Lang and Harpur by t h e i r a c t i o n s answered an u n e q u i v o c a l "no" t o them a l l . C l o s e l y a s s o c i a t e d w i t h Lang's A u s t r a l i a n League, which d e d i c a t e d i t s e l f t o the e s t a b l i s h m e n t of an A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c , Deniehy d e l i v e r e d p u b l i c l e c t u r e s on the s u b j e c t o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m a t the A u s t r a l i a n 408 147 C o l l e g e i n S y d n e y , a n d i n G o u l b u r n . H a v i n g b e e n f o r c e d t o l e a v e S y d n e y f o r G o u l b u r n i n 1 8 5 4 , w h i l e a t t h e h e i g h t o f h i s p o p u l a r i t y and p o w e r s , t o t r y and p u t h i s f i n a n c i a l a f f a i r s o n a more s e c u r e f o o t i n g , D e n i e h y r e f u s e d t o be i n t i m i d a t e d by t h e s h i f t t o a l e s s e r l o c a t i o n . He r e g a r d e d i t o n l y a s a t e m p o r a r y m e a s u r e : . . . I e r e l o n g s h a l l r e t u r n t o S y d n e y w i t h p l e n t y i n b o t h p o c k e t s , l e a d i n g t h e v a n o f a R e p u b l i c a n " o p p o s i t i o n " t h a t w i l l , I t r u s t , s c a t t e r t o t h e w i n d s t h e p r e s e n t c o r r u p t and i m b e c i l e A d m i n i s t r a t i o n - - a n A d m i n i s t r a t i o n t h a t h a s d o n e i t s l e v e l b e s t t o b r i n g c g n t e m p t t o t h e g r e a t i n s t i t u t i o n o f p o p u l a r g o v e r n m e n t . . . In f a c t , i n some ways t h e move t o t h e c o u n t r y r e p r e s e n t e d an i d e a l o p p o r t u n i t y t o a d v a n c e what he c a l l e d , i n a l e t t e r t o L a n g , " o u r 149 c a u s e , " a t t h e e x p e n s e o f t h e a d v o c a t e s o f " E n g 1 i s h m a n i s m . " A f t e r b e i n g i n G o u l b u r n f o r w e l l o v e r a y e a r , D e n i e h y b e l i e v e d he had " g o t a r e g u l a r R e i g n o f T e r r o r , i n t h e p l a c e . " ' 5 ° He p e r s i s t e n t l y a d v o c a t e d a t h o u g h t f u l e g a l i t a r i a n i s m s e e m i n g t o owe much t o J e f f e r s o n - i a n t h o u g h t . ' 5 ' L i k e J e f f e r s o n , who t h r o u g h o u t h i s l i f e r e m a i n e d c o n v i n c e d t h a t " t h e r e p u b l i c a n i s t h e o n l y f o r m o f g o v e r n m e n t w h i c h i s n o t e t e r n a l l y a t o p e n o r s e c r e t war w i t h t h e r i g h t s o f m a n k i n d , " 1 52 D e n i e h y v i g o r o u s l y e s p o u s e d t h e e q u a l r i g h t s o f a l l men. T o do t h i s , he had a "means o f p l a y i n g f i e r c e l y e n o u g h on t h e e n c r o a c h m e n t s 1 53 o f t h e s q u a t o c r a t i c and q u a s i - a r i s t o c r a t m a b s . . . . " I n e v i t a b l y , D e n i e h y ' s a c t i v e r e p u b l i c a n i s m t o o k him c l o s e r a n d c l o s e r t o t h e m a i n s t r e a m o f A m e r i c a n d e m o c r a t i c a n d T r a . n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t t h o u g h t . C l e a r s i m i l a r i t i e s a p p e a r . F o r o n e , D e n i e h y o f t e n e x p r e s s e d h i s t o t a l b e l i e f i n t h e o n l y a r i s t o c r a c y t h a t f o r him r e a l l y c o u n t e d . As he put i t i n h i s speech a t the C o n s t i t u t i o n Committee R a l l y (1853): . . . f e l l o w - c i t i z e n s , t h e r e i s an a r i s t o c r a c y worthy o f our r e s p e c t and o f our a d m i r a t i o n . Wherever human s k i l l and b r a i n a r e eminent, wherever g l o r i o u s manhood a s s e r t s i t s e l e v a t i o n , t h e r e i s an a r i s t o c r a c y t h a t c o n f e r s e t e r n a l honour upon the l a n d t h a t p o s s e s s e s i t . That i s God's a r i s t o c r a c y , gentlemen; t h a t i s an a r i s t o c r a c y t h a t w i l l bloom and expand under f r e e i n s t i t u t i o n s , and f o r e v e r b l e s s the c l i m e where i t t a k e s root.154 Here was p r e c i s e l y the n o t i o n o f a n a t u r a l a r i s t o c r a c y among men t h a t J e f f e r s o n so s u c c e s s f u l y i n c u l c a t e d i n h i s countrymen; the v e r y i d e a t h a t W i l l i a m W i r t p r a i s e d h i s c o u n t r y f o r when r e c o g n i z i n g t h a t system w h i c h c o u l d a l l o w P a t r i c k Henry t o r i s e t o such a prominent n a t i o n a l p o s i t i o n ; the same p r o p o s i t i o n t h a t Theodore P a r k e r , Emerson and the o t h e r T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s took f o r g r a n t e d . ' 5 5 Emerson, though, went f u r t h e r than Deniehy and h i s American countrymen t o c o n s i d e r the i m p l i c a t i o n s t h a t the p o l i t i c a l r e v o l u t i o n had f o r t h e o l o g y . In h i s H a r v a r d " D i v i n i t y School A d d r e s s " (1838), he a s s e r t e d h i s b e l i e f i n the p e r f e c t i b i l i t y o f man--an a b s o l u t e democrat i c not i o n : The i n t u i t i o n o f the moral s e n t i m e n t i s an i n s i g h t o f the p e r f e c t i o n o f the laws o f the s o u l . . . . I f a man i s a t h e a r t j u s t , then i n so f a r i s He God; the s a f e t y o f God, the i m m o r t a l i t y o f God, the m a j e s t y o f God do e n t e r i n t o t h a t man w i t h j u s t i c e . . . . Good i s p o s i t i v e . E v i l i s m e r e l y p r i v a t i v e , not a b s o l u t e . I t i s l i k e c o l d , which i s the p r i v a t i o n o f h e a t . A l l e v i l i s so much death o r n o n e n t i t y . Benevolence i s a b s o l u t e and r e a l . •> U n l i k e Hawthorne, who c o n s i d e r e d e v i l a r e a l i t y o f human e x i s t e n c e , Emerson f e l t e v i l t o be no more than the absence o f good. Thus, he d e n i e d i t s e x i s t e n c e . I f a l l the p e o p l e c o u l d be e d u c a t e d — a n d f o r 410 Emerson a p o l i t i c a l democracy c r e a t e d the c o n d i t i o n s under which such an i d e a l might be rea 1 i zed — then mankind c o u l d r e a c h p e r f e c t i o n . W h i l e Deniehy might w e l l have been aware t h a t t h i s view was i m p l i e d by h i s v i s i o n o f "God's a r i s t o c r a c y " i n A u s t r a l i a , he was c e r t a i n l y not p r e p a r e d t o v o i c e i t . The narrow i n t e l l e c t u a l c l i m a t e i n h i b i t e d him and the immediate p r a c t i c a l i t y o f h i s aims p r e c l u d e d i t . Even Emerson,in a more l e i s u r e l y New E n g l a n d , s u f f e r e d because he e x p r e s s e d h i s v i e w s ; H a r v a r d d i d not i n v i t e him back f o r t h i r t y y e a r s . Deniehy's A u s t r a l i a n v e r s i o n o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m , however, d i d i n v o l v e h i s e n e r g e t i c s u p p o r t o f l i t e r a t u r e as a pre-eminent c o n t r i b u t o r t o the n a t i o n a l f a b r i c . N a t i o n s , he f e l t , r o s e out o f t h i s n a t i v e l i t e r a t u r e , j u s t as g r e a t w r i t e r s would i n c r e a s i n g l y emerge from an e s t a b l i s h e d n a t i o n . Channing had a l r e a d y e x p r e s s e d t h i s s e n t i m e n t i n h i s " N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e " a d d r e s s (1 8 2 3 ) : . . . [ l i t e r a t u r e ] i s p l a i n l y among the most p o w e r f u l methods o f e x a c t i n g the c h a r a c t e r o f a n a t i o n , o f f o r m i n g a b e t t e r r a c e o f men; i n t r u t h , we apprehend t h a t i t may c l a i m the f i r s t rank among the means o f improvement.'5 7 By t h e e a r l y 18 5 0's, as Deniehy began t o p u b l i c l y f o r m u l a t e h i s c o n c e p t i o n s o f the n a t i o n - s t a t e , he had read and a b s o r b e d Channing t h o r o u g h l y , r e g a r d i n g him as y e t " a n o t h e r g r e a t man" from America (though o f " l o w e r i n t e l l e c t u a l r a n g e " than e i t h e r Emerson o r Theodore 1 ̂ 8 P a r k e r ). L i k e Channing, Deniehy d i r e c t e d h i s remarks c a r e f u l l y toward the p a r t i c u l a r a u d i e n c e he d e s i r e d . Thus, when c o n s i d e r i n g the e f f e c t o f l i t e r a t u r e on the l o c a l p o p u l a c e , he sought t o emphasize the o b l i g a t i o n o f c e r t a i n groups: 411 As a p u b l i c d u t y , we know none more i m p o r t a n t - - f o r p a r e n t s p a r t i c u l a r 1 y - - t h a n t o a i d i n the c u l t i v a t i o n o f n a t i v e 1 i t e r a t u r e . . . . 1 -*9 - - j u s t as Channing had done i n the l a s t p a r a g r a p h o f " S e l f - C u l t u r e , " an essay t h a t , as I w i l l s h o r t l y i n d i c a t e , Deniehy f e l t t o be o f v i t a l i m p o r t a n c e f o r h i s own countrymen. Deniehy saw h i s own p e r s o n a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o be t h a t o f e n c o u r a g i n g and, i f p o s s i b l e , e n n o b l i n g the l o c a l p r o d u c t . He coaxed and a s s i s t e d p r o s p e c t i v e a u t h o r s as much as p o s s i b l e , d e l i g h t f u l l y c a p t u r i n g the s p i r i t o f the whole u n d e r t a k i n g i n the same Freeman's J o u r n a l a r t i c l e j u s t r e f e r r e d t o : The l i t t l e p a c k e t o f j u v e n i l e m a n u s c r i p t dropped w i t h a nervous hand and b e a t i n g h e a r t i n t o the s l i t o f a l e t t e r - box a t a p u b l i s h i n g o f f i c e , may p r e l u d e g r a v e and n o b l e l a b o u r s i n r i p e r y e a r s - - l a b o u r s which may perhaps make men speak w i t h a l i n g e r i n g note o f k i n d n e s s i n t h e i r v o i c e s o f A u s t r a l i a , f o r the sake o f t h i n g s done by the hand, once so shame-fast [ s i c ] and so s m a l l , t h a t q u i v e r e d a t a l e t t e r - b o x one a f t e r n o o n l o n g , long ago.160 A l l the T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t w r i t e r s i n the 1830 ' s and '40 1 s a f f i r m e d the n e c e s s i t y o f e s t a b l i s h i n g an independent n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e . Channing s t a t e d t h a t "a n a t i o n s h a l l t a k e a p l a c e , by i t s a u t h o r s , among the l i g h t s o f the w o r l d , " w h i l e O r e s t e s Brownson, i n h i s e s s a y , "American L i t e r a t u r e " (1840) p o i n t e d out i n s i n g u l a r l y b l u n t language the a b s o l u t e n e c e s s i t y f o r o r i g i n a l t h i n k i n g , l e s t n a t i v e minds become 161 " c r i p p l e d " and l i t e r a t u r e d e t e r i o r a t e t o the "tame and s e r v i l e . " Deniehy r e c o g n i z e d and a p p l i e d the t r u t h o f t h e i r remarks t o the rough-hewnAustra1ian s i t u a t i o n . Indeed, he o f t e n u t i l i z e d a r e c o g n i z a b l y American T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t v o c a b u l a r y , b e i n g e s p e c i a l l y fond o f 4 1 2 Emerson's c o n c e p t o f " s e l f - r e l i a n c e " - - t h e American's emphasis on the i n t e g r i t y o f the i n d i v i d u a l p e r s o n o r s t a t e . When c o n t r a s t i n g the m e r i t s o f A u s t r a l i a a d o p t i n g e i t h e r a s u b o r d i n a t e o r independent p o l i t i c a l r o l e , i n one o f h i s A u s t r a l i a n League l e c t u r e s ( 1 8 5 4 ) , Deniehy i n c l u d e d Emerson's phrase t o c l a r i f y h i s sense o f c o n s t i t u t i o n a l l i b e r t y : " t h e r e must be something r a d i c a l l y v i t i a t i n g i n dependence, 1 6 2 and something supremely b e n e f i c i a l i n freedom and s e l f - r e l i a n c e . " In the same y e a r , when a t t a c k i n g the Tory b i a s o f the Sydney Morning Hera 1 d , he p o r t r a y e d t h a t newspaper as a " s t u r i i b l i n g b l o c k " i n the way of " i n d e p e n d e n c e , " " l o c a l f e e l i n g , " " s e l f - r e l i a n c e " and " n a t i o n a l 1 6 3 development." Deniehy a l s o made use o f Channing's n o t i o n o f " s e l f - c u l t u r e . " In one o f h i s l a s t l i t e r a r y r e v i e w s , he e x p r e s s e d h i s sympathy f o r the poet Henry K e n d a l l who, " l i k e most n a t i v e men, 1 6 4 l a b o u r e d under d i s a d v a n t a g e s i n h i s work of s e l f - c u l t u r e . " P r e - sumably he had Channing's d e f i n i t i o n o f " s e 1 f - c u 1 t u r e " i n mind: " t h e c a r e which e v e r y man owes t o h i m s e l f , t o the u n f o l d i n g and p e r f e c t i n g 1 6 5 o f h i s n a t u r e . " I t i s s a d l y i r o n i c t h a t i n t h i s same e s s a y , Channing s h o u l d i s s u e a s t e r n w a r n i n g a g a i n s t the e v i l s o f a l c o h o l : Of a l l the f o e s o f the w o r k i n g c l a s s , t h i s i s the dead- l i e s t . N o t h i n g has done more t o keep down t h i s c l a s s , t o d e s t r o y t h e i r s e l f - r e s p e c t , t o rob them o f t h e i r j u s t i n f l u e n c e i n the community, t o r e n d e r p r o f i t l e s s the means o f improvement w i t h i n t h e i r r e a c h , than the use o f a r d e n t s p i r i t s as a d r i n k . ' ^ When Deniehy w r o t e h i s r e v i e w , he was h i m s e l f s t r u g g l i n g w i t h the a l c o h o l w h i c h , a y e a r o r so l a t e r , would k i l l him. 413 The o b v i o u s c o r o l l a r y o f e n c o u r a g i n g a n a t i v e l i t e r a t u r e , f o r Deniehy, i n v o l v e d u r g i n g the y o u t h of one's c o u n t r y t o r i s k r i d i c u l e by f o u n d i n g a l i t e r a t u r e based on l o c a l m a t e r i a l , r e s p o n s e s and p r e - o c c u p a t i o n s . S h o r t l y a f t e r Deniehy's d e a t h , D a l l e y j u s t l y drew a t t e n t i o n t o Deniehy's d e v o t i o n d u r i n g " h i s b r i e f manhood t o the i n s t r u c t i o n 1 67 and e l e v a t i o n o f h i s young countrymen." When b a r e l y t w e n t y - t h r e e , Deniehy c o u l d , w i t h Whitmanic f l o u r i s h , e u p h o r i c a l l y c o n t e m p l a t e the p r e s s i n g c l a i m s o f A u s t r a l i a ' s y o u t h : . . . t h a t n o b l e r a c e now g a t h e r i n g i n the porches and v v e s t i b u l e s o f manhood, and which i s t o send f o r t h the c r e a t o r s . . . . We have l o v i n g f a i t h i n the coming men o f A u s t r a l i a . Our b e l i e f i s s t r o n g and s t e a d y i n t h e g e n i u s and the p u r i t y and the moral s t r e n g t h even now amid our n a t i v e p o p u l a t i o n , c l i m b i n g and f l o w e r i n g w i t h the p r o f u s i o n o f a b o r i g i n a l v i n e s i n the c e n t r a l w i l d e r - ness. . . J 6 8 L i k e Whitman, Deniehy a p p r e c i a t e d the need f o r h y p e r b o l e t o a c h i e v e a d e s i r e d e f f e c t . To be an e f f e c t i v e p r o p a g a n d i s t one had t o b e - as Whitman o b v i o u s l y r e c o g n i z e d i n h i s 1855 " P r e f a c e " — b o t h a b u n d a n t l y o p t i m i s t i c and c o n s c i o u s l y p r o p h e t i c . Whitman f e l t the " g e n i u s o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s " t o be always most i n the common p e o p l e , s o u t h , n o r t h , w e s t , e a s t , i n a l l i t s S t a t e s , through a l l i t s mighty a m p l i t u d e . The l a r g e n e s s o f the n a t i o n . . . were monstrous w i t h o u t a c o r r e s p o n d i n g l a r g e n e s s and g e n e r o s i t y o f the s p i r i t o f the c i t i z e n . . . . The p r i d e o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s l e a v e s the w e a l t h and f i n e s s e o f the c i t i e s ' 7 and a l l r e t u r n s o f commerce and a g r i c u l t u r e , and a l l the magnitude o f geography o r shows o f e x t e r i o r v i c t o r y , t o e n j o y the s i g h t and r e a l i z a t i o n o f f u l l - s i z e d men, o r one f u l l - s i z e d man u n c o n q u e r a b l e and s i m p l e . 414 The American poets a r e t o e n c l o s e o l d and new, f o r A m e r i c a i s the r a c e of r a c e s . . . . T a k i n g h i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f h i s c o u n t r y ' s need one s t e p f u r t h e r , Deniehy s u r v e y e d the f i e l d o f contemporary A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s f o r t h o s e q u a l i t i e s w h i c h he d e s i r e d t o advance as exemplary f o r the purposes o f a coming r e p u b l i c a n A u s t r a l i a . By 1865, he c o u l d d e c l a r e t h a t A u s t r a l i a had i t s " n a t i v e men o f ' m i n s t r e l f i r e ' " ; o f the group, he r e g a r d e d C h a r l e s Harpur as the "most e m i n e n t . " ' 7 ^ Thanks i n g r e a t p a r t t o Deniehy's d e d i c a t i o n and i n f l u e n c e , Harpur had emerged i n the 1850's as the new n a t i o n ' s most a r t i c u 1 a t e - - a n d c o n t r o v e r s i a l - - 1 i t e r a r y f i g u r e . Deniehy f i r s t mentioned Harpur i n a p u b l i c l e c t u r e (on modern E n g l i s h p o e t r y ) t h a t he d e l i v e r e d i n 1851.'7' He made f l a t t e r i n g r e f e r e n c e t o Harpur's a b i l i t y and promised t o t a k e up the m a t t e r i n d e t a i l a t some l a t e r d a t e . He was as good as h i s word. Twice i n the next s i x y e a r s , r e g a r d l e s s o f the i n e v i t a b l e p e r s o n a l a t t a c k s aimed a t him f o r d e f e n d i n g a l o c a l p o e t , Deniehy p u b l i c l y a f f i r m e d h i s b e l i e f i n the q u a l i t y o f Harpur's v e r s e - - o n c e i n an e l a b o r a t e r e v i e w p u b l i s h e d i n Henry P a r k e s ' Empi re i n 1853, and once i n a p u b l i c l e c t u r e , c h a i r e d by N i c o l Stenhouse, a t the Sydney M e c h a n i c s ' School o f A r t s i n 1857. 1 7 2 F r a n c e s G l a s s has c a l l e d Deniehy's r e v i e w ( o f Harpur's The Bush- r a n g e r s , A P l a y i n F i v e A c t s , and Other Poems) the "most p e n e t r a t i n g l y 1 73 a e s t h e t i c c o n s i d e r a t i o n Harpur ever r e c e i v e d i n h i s l i f e t i m e . " C e r t a i n l y Deniehy's a p p r a i s a l o f Harpur's l o n g poem, "The Creek o f the Four G r a v e s , " c o n t a i n s some moments o f a c u t e i n s i g h t i n t o the 415 poem's m o t i v e s and d i r e c t i o n . More i m p o r t a n t h e r e , however, i s the way i n w h i c h Deniehy g r e e t e d Harpur's c o n t r i b u t i o n t o the " h i g h e r s p i r i t u a l l i f e " o f h i s c o u n t r y . For Deniehy, Harpur had, i n the volume i n q u e s t i o n , e s t a b l i s h e d h i m s e l f as one o f " t h o s e sons o f morning who s h a l l y e t e n l i g h t e n and d i g n i f y our home, b u i l d i n g up as w i t h the hands o f a n g e l s the n a t i o n a l mind." Deniehy c l e a r l y viewed Harpur as a c u l t u r a l a s s e t , a man around whom a c u l t u r e , a n a t i o n a l l i f e , c o u l d be p a r t i a l l y woven: Very s u r p r i s i n g as the f a c t w i l l u n q u e s t i o n a b l y be t o our E n g l i s h f r i e n d s , whose n o t i o n s o f our s o c i a l s t a t e - - o f the elements o f a p e c u l i a r n a t i o n a l e x i s t e n c e , g a t h e r i n g r a p i d l y below the s h i f t i n g s u r g e s , the ebb and f l o w o f a m a n y - c h a r a c t e r e d i m m i g r a t i o n , a r e shaped from . . . the " N o t e s " o f some r e t u r n e d p a s s a g e r e o f s i x o r t w e l v e months' f l y i n g e x p e r i e n c e i n the S o u t h e r n W o r 1 d - - A u s t r a 1 i a has a l r e a d y n u r t u r e d i n her w i l d e r n e s s e s a poet of her own. I t was o n l y f i t t i n g , t h e n , t h a t i n a l i g n i n g h i m s e l f w i t h the T r a n s c e n d e n t - a l i s t endeavour t o i s o l a t e and encourage s i m i l a r f i g u r e s i n A m e r i c a , Deniehy s h o u l d make s p e c i f i c r e f e r e n c e t o both Emerson and Channing t o r e i n f o r c e h i s argument. He compared Harpur t o the "American Emerson," then proceeded t o u t i l i z e a Channing maxim as r e i n f o r c e m e n t f o r h i s argument: Channing never u t t e r e d a more memorable t r u t h , and none s h o u l d be made t o s i n k deeper in'.the minds o f our growing s t u d e n t s , than t h a t men o f a n a t i o n a r e not a l o n e i t s o n l y g e n u i n e p r o d u c t s . Such i n c i d e n t a l a l l u s i o n s t o the Americans appear t o c o n f i r m the f a c t t h a t A u s t r a l i a ' s "growing s t u d e n t s " o f l i t e r a t u r e were t h o r o u g h l y 416 f a m i l i a r w i t h the works o f t h e i r contemporary American c o u n t e r p a r t s . L i k e Deniehy, they r e c o g n i z e d c l o s e c o n n e c t i o n s between the American s i t u a t i o n and t h e i r own. Deniehy's r e v i e w e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y a c c l a i m e d Harpur's s u p e r i o r c r e d e n t i a l s . L i k e Channing, Deniehy demanded o r i g i n a l i t y ; not s i m p l y t h a t Harpur was born on A u s t r a l i a n " s o i l , and grew," but t h a t h i s l a r g e l y " f r e e , s e l f - d e p e n d e n t , and s e l f - m o u l d e d i n t e l l e c t " promised a body o f work p e c u l i a r l y i n t o u c h w i t h h i s A u s t r a l i a n environment and i s s u e s o f l o c a l i m p o r t a n c e . And l i k e Emerson, Deniehy f a v o u r e d , a t t h i s time i n h i s c o u n t r y ' s l i t e r a r y development, an emphasis on c o n t e n t , r a t h e r than form. J u s t as Emerson, i n h i s r e v i e w o f t h e younger W i l l i a m E l l e r y Channing's p o e t r y (1871), a p p l a u d e d h i s f r i e n d ' s "more p u r e l y i n t e l l e c t u a l . . . American v e r s e s " and the "absence o f a l l c o n v e n t i o n a l imagery" and "workmanship," so Deniehy f o c u s s e d on the abundance o f i d e a s i n Harpur's v e r s e . ' 7 5 O r e s t e s Brownson had s a i d , some ten y e a r s e a r l i e r , t h a t " n o t h i n g i s more c e r t a i n than t h a t the men, who c r e a t e a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e , must be f i l l e d w i t h the s p i r i t o f t h e i r n a t i o n , be the i m p e r s o n a t i o n s o f i t s w i s h e s , hopes, f e a r s , s e n t i m e n t s . " ' 7 ^ Deniehy f e l t Harpur's Bushrangers volume t o be imbued w i t h j u s t such c o n t e n t . F i l l e d w i t h the t h i r s t and i m a g i n a t i o n o f the young c o n t i n e n t . Having made s i m i l a r c l a i m s about Harpur as t h o s e proposed i n h i s e a r l i e r r e v i e w , Deniehy c o n c l u d e d h i s School o f A r t s l e c t u r e by c l a r i f y i n g , f o r h i s a u d i e n c e , the p a r a l l e l between the l i t e r a r y c l i m a t e s o f A u s t r a l i a and the U n i t e d S t a t e s . R e f e r r i n g t o the a c t i v e 417 encouragement o f p o e t r y i n c e r t a i n p a r t s o f A m e r i c a , he ended w i t h the q u e s t i o n : " w i t h how much advantage might not p o e t r y be c u l t i v a t e d i n A u s t r a l i a ? " ' 7 7 Harpur's p o e t r y f u l f i l l e d " t h e h i g h e s t f u n c t i o n s o f the Muse." A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e and, more r e l e v a n t l y , A u s t r a l i a n s o c i e t y , needed a s u c c e s s i o n o f sons o f the b o u n t i f u l s o i l t o plough f u r t h e r a f i e l d . Deniehy o b v i o u s l y f e l t the time had come t o c o n v e r t n a t i v e p r i d e and p a s s i o n i n t o p o s i t i v e achievement. N a t u r a l l y , a f t e r Deniehy made the c o n n e c t i o n between a l o c a l poet and the n a t i o n a l d e s t i n y , c o n s e r v a t i v e f o r c e s i n A u s t r a l i a - - many s t r u g g l i n g s t i l l t o make the l e a p from c o m f o r t a b l e c l a s s i c i s m t o e n e r g e t i c r o m a n t i c i s m - - f e l t i n s u l t e d by the c o n t e n t , the sheer a f f r o n t e r y o f h i s l e c t u r e . John West's Hera 1d r e v i e w e r c a s t i g a t e d Deniehy f o r h o l d i n g up " t o the a d m i r a t i o n and i m i t a t i o n o f our c o l o n i a l y o u t h the w r i t e r s o f namby-pamby, wishy-washy, m i l k - & - w a t e r v e r s e s . " I f A u s t r a l i a n s c o u l d n ' t be s e l f - c r i t i c a 1 , then they would ' ' i n f a l l i b l y c o n t i n u e i n the s t a t e o f g r o s s e g o t i s m and overweening s e l f - c o n f i d e n c e which Mr.. Deniehy's l e c t u r e shows i s so d e e p l y p l a n t e d i n the c o l o n i a l mind. T h i s want o f a t r u e sense o f our i n s i g n i f i c a n c e we see i l l u s t r a t e d e v e r y day." I t was w i l f u l l y p e r v e r s e o f Deniehy t o p a r a d e , f o r u n i v e r s a l i n s p e c t i o n , " p e r s o n s and t h i n g s A u s t r a l i a n , as w i l l a s s u r e d l y be laughed a t , and t h a t most h e a r t i l y i n Europe." Deniehy responded 1 79 by d e n y i n g the H e r a l d c o r r e s p o n d e n t ' s c h a r g e s . In the heat o f the b a t t l e between the proud n a t i v e and the d e b i l i t a t i n g E n g l i s h f o r c e s a c t i v e l y a t work i n the c o l o n y , Deniehy must have a g a i n found s o l a c e i n the f a c t t h a t i f the i m p r e s s i v e Channing was c o r r e c t i n a s s e r t i n g 4)8 t h a t the g r e a t d i s t i n c t i o n o f a c o u n t r y l a y i n i t s p r o d u c t i o n o f s u p e r i o r men, then so was he. F u r t h e r , and f o r Deniehy p o s s i b l y more r e w a r d i n g , Channing m a i n t a i n e d t h a t The most i l l u s t r o u s b e n e f a c t o r s o f the r a c e have been men who, h a v i n g r i s e n t o g r e a t t r u t h s , have h e l d them as a s a c r e d t r u s t f o r t h e i r k i n d , and have borne w i t n e s s t o them a m i d s t g e n e r a l d a r k n e s s , under s c o r n and p e r s e c u t i o n . . Even Deniehy's enemies c o u l d not q u e s t i o n the i n t e g r i t y o f h i s o p i n i o n s and h i s I r i s h - A u s t r a l i a n s t u b b o r n n e s s . In p r o c l a i m i n g Harpur's n a t i o n a l i m p o r t a n c e , Deniehy gave the c o l o n i a l community e v i d e n c e o f h i s n o t i o n o f the " r e p r e s e n t a t i v e man" ( t o use Emerson's phrase) i n s o c i e t y . F r a n c e s G l a s s r i g h t l y g i v e s C a r l y l e c r e d i t f o r a r t i c u l a t i n g , i n the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , the i d e a o f the g r e a t man, b u t , more p e r t i n e n t l y , i t was Emerson who p o p u l a r i z e d 181 the n o t i o n . P o s s i b l y i n d i r e c t response t o Emerson's f e e l i n g t h a t the " s e a r c h a f t e r the g r e a t men i s the dream o f y o u t h , and the most s e r i o u s o c c u p a t i o n o f manhood," Deniehy saw the i m p e r a t i v e need f o r A u s t r a l i a t o produce t h o s e m a s s i v e t h i n k e r s , t h o s e rugged, undaunted masters and c o n f e s s o r s f o r t r u t h and r i g h t which the b o l d yeomanry o f e v e r y European l a n d and the g i a n t American S t a t e s have brought forth. 1 ° 2 He f i r m l y b e l i e v e d i n the g r e a t man as n a t i o n a l t r e a s u r e , and d i d h i s b e s t i n h i s s h o r t c a r e e r t o b r o a d c a s t the t a l e n t s o f t h o s e he l R 3 f e l t e n t i t l e d t o p u b l i c a c c l a i m . 419 Deniehy had a c l e a r i d e a o f both the s t a n c e t h a t A u s t r a l i a ' s emerging w r i t e r s and l e a d i n g c i t i z e n s s h o u l d t a k e and t h e i r p r o d i g i o u s r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o the community. Here a g a i n , a s t r o n g c o n n e c t i o n w i t h contemporary American t h i n k i n g becomes e v i d e n t . He o b v i o u s l y absorbed the c o r e o f the American argument, and t h i s r e s u l t e d i n h i s u p h o l d i n g the p r i n c i p l e o f o r i g i n a l i t y a t a l l c o s t s . When p r a i s i n g the e x p a t r i a t e Frank F o w l e r , and h i s c o n t r i b u t i o n t o l o c a l l e t t e r s , Deniehy s t r o v e t o e s t a b l i s h F o w l e r ' s newness, d e n y i n g the a c c u s a t i o n 184 t h a t he was "but a ' d i l u t i o n o f Emerson.'" D e s p i t e the g r e a t a d m i r a t i o n t h a t he had f o r Emerson, he d i d not want l o c a l w r i t e r s t o s i m p l y r e p l a c e one model f o r a n o t h e r . S h o r t l y b e f o r e he d i e d , Deniehy showed t h a t he had not wavered from h i s p o s i t i o n when he warned the up-and-coming Henry K e n d a l l t o a v o i d s a t u r a t i n g h i m s e l f i n Poe o r 1 85 Tennyson, l e s t he compromise h i s commitment t o A u s t r a 1 i a n n e s s . "He i s g r e a t , " Emerson had s a i d , "who i s what he i s from n a t u r e , 186 and who never reminds us o f o t h e r s . " The Americans encouraged l e a d e r s , not f o l l o w e r s , as Deniehy w e l l u n d e r s t o o d . Nor was i t s u f f i c i e n t s i m p l y t o be o r i g i n a l . Deniehy's c o n f e s s o r s f o r t r u t h and r i g h t had t o r e c o g n i z e t h e i r g r a v e r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o g a i n an e d u c a t i o n and, i n t u r n , t o e d u c a t e t h e i r f e l l o w s . Imposing t h e s e r i g o r o u s s t a n d a r d s on h i m s e l f , Deniehy, d e s p i t e b e i n g c o n s t a n t l y p r e s s e d t o e n t e r p o l i t i c s from 1853 onwards, r e f u s e d t o embark on a p o l i t i c a l c a r e e r f o r a n o t h e r t h r e e y e a r s — w h e n he deemed the move as v i t a l l y n e c e s s a r y . In a l e t t e r t o Henry P a r k e s , i n December, 1854, he summarized the reasons f o r h i s i n i t i a l r e l u c t a n c e : 420 My e d u c a t i o n , i n the deep sense o f the word, i s not y e t c o m p l e t e - - ! have not y e t b u i l t m y s e l f i n t o what I c o n c e i v e t o be the r e q u i s i t e s p i r i t u a l and mental p r o p o r t i o n s - - I have not y e t l e a r n t , thought and o b s e r v e d enou ghJ87 And even when he f i n a l l y sought the p o l i t i c a l a r e n a , he d i d so w i t h f u l l knowledge o f h i s i n s u f f i c i e n c y : I would f a i n have known m o r e o f mankind e r e I undertook t o l e g i s l a t e f o r them. I would f a i n have abode l o n g e r i n t h a t atmosphere w h i c h M i l t o n termed " t h e s t i l l and s e v e r e a i r o f g r e a t s t u d i e s . " ' 8 8 Perhaps the time had come, w i t h A u s t r a l i a on the b r i n k o f making some c l a i m t o w o r l d c i t i z e n s h i p , t h a t men o f h i s p e r s u a s i o n , r e g a r d - l e s s o f t h e i r i n a d e q u a c i e s • s h o u l d s t a n d up f o r t h e i r p r i n c i p l e s . A u s t r a l i a ' s sons o f morning had t o r e a l i z e t h e i r pedagogic r e s p o n s i b i l i t i e s . For Deniehy, t h i s was o f p r i m a r y i m p o r t a n c e . A r e v i e w o f a l l h i s w r i t i n g s and speeches r e f l e c t s h i s c l e a r commitment t o e d u c a t i n g the p e o p l e i n an i m p r e s s i v e v a r i e t y o f s o c i a l , r e l i g i o u s , p o l i t i c a l , p h i l o s o p h i c a l , moral and l i t e r a r y s u b j e c t s . In A u s t r a l i a d u r i n g the g o l d - r u s h y e a r s , t h i s wasn't an e n v i a b l e t a s k . Theodore P a r k e r ' s a p p r a i s a l o f the American dilemma, i n h i s e s s a y " E d u c a t i o n , " c o u l d j u s t as e a s i l y have been D e n i e h y ' s : We t h i n k the end o f man i s t o l i v e f o r t h i s : w e a l t h , fame, s o c i a l rank. G e n i u s , wisdom, power o f mind, o f h e a r t and s o u l , a r e counted o n l y as means t o such an end. So i n the hot h a s t e t o be r i c h , famous, r e s p e c t a b l e , many l e t manhood s l i p t h r o u g h t h e i r f i n g e r s , r e t a i n i n g o n l y the r i c h e s , fame and r e s p e c t a b i l i t y . Never t i l l m a n l i n e s s i s thought the end o f man, never t i l l e d u c a t i o n i s v a l u e d f o r i t s e l f , can we have a w i d e , generous c u l t u r e , even among the w e a l t h i e s t c l a s s . ' 8 ^ 421 Deniehy had P a r k e r ' s e s s a y s i n h i s l i b r a r y , and, not c o i n c i d e n t a 1 1 y , he r e g a r d e d the A b o l i t i o n i s t m i n i s t e r as b e i n g i n the f i r s t rank 190 o f " t h e g r e a t and r e f i n e d and c u l t u r e d t e a c h e r s o f A m e r i c a . " In r e c o g n i z i n g the d e s p e r a t e need f o r u n i v e r s a l e d u c a t i o n i n A u s t r a l i a , Deniehy once a g a i n g r a v i t a t e d t o a fundamental n o t i o n h e l d by American w r i t e r s from J e f f e r s o n t o the New England T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 - i s t s and Whitman. The e n l i g h t e n e d J e f f e r s o n had been one o f the f i r s t A m e r i c a n s t o encourage f r e e and w i d e s p r e a d e d u c a t i o n . Democracy n e c e s s i t a t e d an i n t e l l i g e n t and informed p o p u l a c e . W i t h t h i s i n mind, the l a t e r T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s endorsed the need f o r the a r t i s t t o advance p r i n c i p l e s d e s i g n e d t o encourage and e n l i g h t e n the common man. In the l 8 2 0 ' s and '30's, f o r example, Channing worked t e n a c i o u s l y t o e d u c a t e the poor and w o r k i n g c l a s s e s t o h e l p t h e m s e l v e s , e n d e a v o u r i n g t o e l e v a t e the t e n o r o f t h e i r e n t i r e e x i s t e n c e . H i s l e c t u r e s r e v e a l g r e a t i n s i g h t i n t o the p r i n c i p a l causes o f human m i s e r y and d e g r a d a t i o n . Deniehy's s t a n c e might w e l l have owed i t s s u b s t a n c e t o i d e a s propounded by Channing i n h i s second l e c t u r e on the " L a b o u r i n g C l a s s e s " : Undoubtedly some men a r e more g i f t e d than o t h e r s , and a r e marked out f o r more s t u d i o u s l i v e s . But the work o f such men i s not t o do o t h e r s ' t h i n k i n g f o r them, but t o h e l p them t o t h i n k more v i g o r o u s l y and e f f e c t u a l l y . Great minds a r e t o make o t h e r s g r e a t . T h i s s u p e r i o r i t y i s t o be used, not t o break the m u l t i t u d e t o i n t e l l e c t u a l v a s s a l a g e , not t o e s t a b l i s h o v e r them a s p i r i t u a l t y r a n n y , but t o rouse them from l e t h a r g y , and t o a i d them t o j u d g e f o r t h e m s e l v e s . In the M e c h a n i c s ' I n s t i t u t e s i n A u s t r a l i a , Deniehy r e c o g n i z e d one i m p o r t a n t means o f p o p u l a r e d u c a t i o n . He l i k e d t o c a l l the I n s t i t u t e " t h e P e o p l e s ' U n i v e r s i t y o f the age," and f e l t i t t o be an i m p o r t a n t 422 example o f the p e o p l e t a k i n g " t h e i r own c u l t u r e i n t o t h e i r own hands." Channing o f t e n c h a l l e n g e d moneyed i n t e r e s t s i n h i s s o c i e t y and r e f e r r e d 193 t o h i m s e l f as a " l e v e l l e r " ; Deniehy p r o b a b l y had no o b j e c t i o n s t o the term e i t h e r . From the b e g i n n i n g o f h i s p u b l i c l i f e , Deniehy p e r p e t u a l l y a s s a i l e d t h o s e who s u p p o r t e d , d i r e c t l y o r i n d i r e c t l y , the "supremacy 194 o f a c l a s s " o r " t h e predominance o f a c r e e d . " He v i o l e n t l y opposed any s t a t e where, as he put i t i n one o f h i s poems, the P e o p l e s t a n d B a r r e d o u t . . . .1^5 A g a i n , he found an abundance o f s u p p o r t from the A m e r i c a n s . Brownson perhaps put i t most s u c c i n c t l y f o r h i s countrymen when he pronounced 196 t h a t " a l l who a r e born a t a l l a r e w e l l b o r n . " Y e t , as the F i f t i e s p r o g r e s s e d and Deniehy's e x p e r i e n c e o f l o c a l p o l i t i c s grew, he began t o dream a more i n c l u s i v e , a m b i t i o u s r e p u b l i c a n dream. He g r a d u a l l y a r t i c u l a t e d a v i s i o n of a s o c i e t y o f undaunted, r e p r e s e n t a t i v e men, where a l l the s e p a r a t e i d e a s he had c o n t i n u a l l y been a d v o c a t i n g merged t o g e t h e r t o produce one n a t i o n a l l y aware r a c e . A t r u l y brave and humane new w o r l d where c u l t u r e and the common man were i n s e p a r a b l e Deniehy dreamed, i n o t h e r words, the f i r s t comprehensive A u s t r a l i a n U t o p i a n dream. D i s e n c h a n t e d w i t h p o l i t i c s , he broadened, r a t h e r than narrowed- the scope o f h i s awareness--perhaps as h i s o n l y escape from the d e p r e s s i n g here and now. Deniehy f e l t t h a t i t was w i t h i n A u s t r a l i a ' s 423 g r a s p , i n the near f u t u r e , t o e s t a b l i s h a s o c i e t y o f e d u c a t o r s and t h o s e w a n t i n g t o be e d u c a t e d , t o e s t a b l i s h a v i a b l e s o u t h e r n U t o p i a . He proposed A u s t r a l i a as the model s o c i e t y A m e r i c a had hoped t o be, but now no l o n g e r c o u l d , because o f the c a n c e r o f s l a v e r y : The b u s i n e s s i s not now, how t o f u r t h e r the i n t e r e s t s o f two o r t h r e e t h r i v i n g l i t t l e c o l o n i e s a t a remote p o i n t o f the P a c i f i c , anomalous i n t h e i r o r i g i n , but o f f e r i n g a f a i r f i e l d f o r the immigrant whose l a b o u r s were i l l - r e q u i t e d i n Europe. Now the a f f a i r i n hand, i s how p r e p a r a t i o n s may be made f o r the s a f e conduct o f the g r a n d e s t e x p e r i m e n t i n f a s h i o n i n g a scheme o f l i b e r t y and s o c i a l h a p p i n e s s , the w o r l d has y e t b e h e l d . Wrecked on her s l a v e r y i n s t i t u t i o n , A m e r i c a has but p a r t i a l l y s o l v e d the g r e a t q u e s t i o n ; i t remains f o r A u s t r a 1 i a . ' 9 7 I r o n i c a l l y , the American T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s p r o b a b l y h e l p e d Deniehy t o r e a c h t h i s c o n c l u s i o n , f o r no one was more o u t s p o k e n about the h o r r i f i c i n s t i t u t i o n o f s l a v e r y than the l i b e r a l humanists i n the U n i t e d S t a t e s . Pennsy1 v a n i a n j o u r n a l s i n the 17701s rang w i t h P a i n e ' s d e n u n c i a t i o n s o f s l a v e r y , j u s t as New England p u l p i t s and newspapers i n the l830's, '40's and '50's r e v e r b e r a t e d w i t h the a b o l i t i o n i s t 198 a s s a u l t s o f Channing, P a r k e r , F u l l e r and Thoreau. Channing and 199 P a r k e r , i n p a r t i c u l a r , p l a y e d major r o l e s i n the a n t i - s l a v e r y cause. Both preached the i n s u r m o u n t a b l e b a r r i e r t h a t s l a v e r y p r e s e n t e d t o a s o c i e t y which p r i d e d i t s e l f on i t s f r e e i n s t i t u t i o n s . Deniehy a g r e e d ; f o r him, A m e r i c a had been " f o r ages s p o i l e d and damned . . . by reason o f the c a s t e - a b y s s e s o f S l a v e r y . . . . 1 , 2 0 0 As e a r l y as 1853, i n f a c t , Deniehy had begun t o s y s t e m a t i c a l l y a p p l y t o A u s t r a l i a the same k i n d o f o p t i m i s t i c language and s e n t i m e n t t h a t had c h a r a c t e r i z e d 424 p a t r i o t i c w r i t i n g i n p o s t - r e v o l u t i o n a r y A m e r i c a . A r t h u r i n The Idea o f P r o g r e s s i n A m e r i c a , 1815~1860 (1951), shows The p h i l o s o p h y o f p r o g r e s s d e v e l o p e d by e a r l y European and American w r i t e r s proved e s p e c i a l l y a d a p t a b l e t o the American f a i t h i n the i d e a t h a t the U n i t e d S t a t e s were d e s t i n e d t o c a r r y out a p o l i t i c a l e x p e r i m e n t i n d e m o c r a t i c government. The r o o t s o f the idea o f a unique American m i s s i o n extended f a r back i n i t s h i s t o r y . From the time o f i t s d i s c o v e r y A m e r i c a had been c e l e b r a t e d as a l a n d o f d e s t i n y . W i t h the s u c c e s s o f the American R e v o l u t i o n a sharp break seemed t o be made w i t h the p a s t . 2 0 1 O p t i m i s t i c prophecy became p a r t i c u l a r l y common i n America i n the decades from 1830 t o the b e g i n n i n g o f the C i v i l War. O r e s t e s Brownson v o i c e d the p r e v a i l i n g a t t i t u d e o f many o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s when he ? 0 ? d e c l a r e d , i n 1842, t h a t "We a r e THE PEOPLE OF THE FUTURE. . . ." By the e a r l y l850's, Deniehy f e l t t h a t o n l y h i s c o u n t r y had the r i g h t t o m o r a l l y assume such a t i t l e . In h i s 1853 r e v i e w o f Harpur's poems, f o r example, he c o n s t a n t l y a l l u d e d t o the f u t u r e , e m p h a s i z i n g the v i t a l m i s s i o n o f both the i n d i v i d u a l poet and the l a n d he r e p r e s e n t e d . Harpur, Deniehy m a i n t a i n e d , was a type o f the growing n a t i v e mind, [who] must e x a l t e v e r y hope f o r the grandeur o f our n a t i o n a l d e s t i n i e s . . . . Out o f the mental a c h i e v e m e n t s o f the n a t i v e - b o r n , o f men who owe t o the s o i l , not o n l y , t h e i r b i r t h but t h e i r e d u c a t i o n , f l o w our d e e p e s t hopes f o r the p r o g r e s s o f our c o u n t r y . . . . We cannot change the i r r e v o c a b l e P a s t , but we may even now do much f o r what s h a l l g l o r i f y the f u t u r e . . . .2°3 so much E k i r c h , how J u s t a month b e f o r e h i s p o l i t i c a l c a r e e r came t o a c l o s e ( i n 425 i 8 6 0 ) , Deniehy r e a f f i r m e d h i s b e l i e f i n a U t o p i a n A u s t r a 1 i a - - o n 1 y t h i s t i m e ; i n an even more i d e a l i s t i c form, and i n a form which had a l r e a d y been t e n t a t i v e l y e x p l o r e d by Lang and John West. Deniehy, t o o , c o n c e i v e d o f a s o c i e t y o f sma11-farmers i n A u s t r a l i a ( i n the s p i r i t o f J e f f e r s o n ) , but he took the model a l i t t l e f u r t h e r , s p e a k i n g of " t h e growth o f home f e e l i n g s , " " t h e e x t e n s i o n o f t h o s e moral and d o m e s t i c c h a r i t i e s w h i c h bound the human r a c e i n one common b r o t h e r h o o d , " o f a "community o f f a m i l i e s " p r o s p e r i n g i n the A u s t r a l i a n 204 w i l d e r n e s s t o produce a "happy and c o n t e n t e d " n a t i o n . I t was a grand dream, and, though t e n t a t i v e , one o f the f i r s t a t t e m p t s by a n a t i v e A u s t r a l i a n t o e x p l o r e the moral i m p l i c a t i o n s and d e l i n e a t e the s p i r i t u a l groundwork o f an e s s e n t i a l l y f r e e community about t o embark on i t s f i r s t j o u r n e y as a n a t i o n , independent o f the encumbrances o f w a r - t o r n Europe. F r a n c e s G l a s s c a l l s Deniehy's c o n c e p t i o n the " s i m p l e - 205 minded e x p r e s s i o n " o f a " n a i v e U t o p i a n hope." T h i s may be so, but i t c e r t a i n l y took him a l o n g the same T r a v e l ' d Road as some o f A m e r i c a ' s f i n e s t w r i t e r s and t h i n k e r s . A l o n g and honoured t r a d i t i o n . And i t was an i d e a w h i c h found a s u r p r i s i n g l y l a r g e a c c e p t a n c e by many o f Deniehy's own countrymen when they s e a r c h e d f o r s o c i a l a l t e r n a t i v e s 9 n fi i n the heady decades o f the 1880's and '90's. In a l e t t e r t o Emerson i n 1840, George R i p l e y , one o f the f o u n d e r s o f Brook Farm, e x p r e s s e d h i s sense of the aims and o b j e c t i v e s o f the s e t t l e m e n t i n terms f u n d a m e n t a l l y s i m i l a r t o t h o s e o f Deniehy: Our o b j e c t s , O a s you know, a r e t o i n s u r e a more n a t u r a l u n i o n between i n t e l l e c t u a l and manual l a b o r than now 426 e x i s t s ; t o combine the t h i n k e r and the w o r k e r , as f a r as p o s s i b l e , i n the same i n d i v i d u a l ; t o g u a r a n t e e the h i g h e s t mental freedom by p r o v i d i n g a l l w i t h l a b o r adapted t o t h e i r t a s t e s and t a l e n t s , and s e c u r i n g t o them the f r u i t s o f t h e i r i n d u s t r y ; t o do away w i t h the n e c e s s i t y o f menial s e r v i c e s by o p e n i n g the b e n e f i t s o f e d u c a t i o n and the p r o f i t s o f l a b o r t o a l l ; and thus t o p r e p a r e a s o c i e t y o f l i b e r a l , i n t e l l i g e n t , and c u l t i v a t e d persons whose r e l a t i o n s w i t h each o t h e r would p e r m i t a more s i m p l e and wholesome l i f e than can be l e d a m i d s t the p r e s s u r e o f our c o m p e t i t i v e i n s t i t u t i o n s . 2 0 7 Brownson, Emerson, Channing and, e a r l i e r , J e f f e r s o n , a l l e l a b o r a t e d on A m e r i c a ' s n o b l e m i s s i o n and s a c r e d t r u s t . They, t o o , had l a r g e dreams, s t e e r i n g t h e i r s h i p , as J e f f e r s o n put i t , " w i t h Hope i n the 208 head, l e a v i n g Fear a s t e r n . " They, t o o , embraced a U t o p i a n f a i t h i n the f u t u r e . A m e r i c a i n the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , l i k e A u s t r a l i a , was not ready t o t u r n the dream i n t o s u b s t a n c e . Brook Farm f a i l e d , j u s t as W i l l i a m Lane's Cosme s e t t l e m e n t i n Paraguay i n the l 8 Q 0 ' s 209 would f a i l . But, a s i d e perhaps from i t s overwhelming o p t i m i s m and b e l i e f i n the u n l i m i t e d p o t e n t i a l o f d e m o c r a t i c man, t h e r e was n o t h i n g wrong w i t h the dream. Or the dreamers. Only t h o s e on whose s h o u l d e r s f e l l the t a s k o f a p p l i c a t i o n . In h i s l i t e r a r y r e v i e w s , Deniehy had k i n d words f o r a wide range o f American w r i t e r s - - f r o m I r v i n g , L o n g f e l l o w , Poe and N a t h a n i e l P a r k e r 210 W i l l i s t o Emerson, P a r k e r , Channing and F u l l e r . He a p p r e c i a t e d t h e i r a r r a y o f s k i l l s , y e t , l i k e h i s c o l l e a g u e Harpur, he was p r i n c i p a l 427 a t t r a c t e d by t h e i r tone. He p e r c e i v e d not the " s l i g h t e s t aroma o f 21 1 p a t r o n a g e " when he read the A m e r i c a n s . L i k e them, he r e s p e c t e d a l l humanity, and t h i s showed i t s e l f i n a l l the major c o n c e r n s o f Deniehy's w r i t i n g . He wanted t o i n s t i l l a d e m o c r a t i c s p i r i t i n the minds o f h i s c o m p a t r i o t s . Channing had s a i d t h a t the " t r u e s o v e r e i g n s o f a c o u n t r y a r e t h o s e who d e t e r m i n e i t s mind, i t s mode o f t h i n k i n g , 212 i t s t a s t e s , i t s p r i n c i p l e s . . . ." Had he l i v e d beyond h i s t h i r t y - seven y e a r s , and had he been f a v o u r e d w i t h an e d i t o r d e t e r m i n e d t o r e f l e c t h i s t o t a l a r t i s t i c and p o l i t i c a l s t a n c e , Deniehy would un- d o u b t e d l y have-been a c c o r d e d the r e c o g n i t i o n he d e s e r v e d a t the hands o f the B u l l e t i n g e n e r a t i o n , and t h o s e s u c c e e d i n g i t . Harpur's words i n the p o i g n a n t s o n n e t , "To. My Young Countryman, D.H.D.," might w e l l have been the s e n t i m e n t s o f many young A u s t r a l i a n s , down the y e a r s : Thy manhood's mental a m p l i t u d e expands B e f o r e me i n i t s omens, when I f i n d Something o f promise f a s h i o n e d by thy hands, Some blossom b r e a t h i n g o f thy f o r m i n g mind.213 Though the a v a r i c e and i n t r i g u e s o f c o l o n i a l s o c i e t y a l m o s t c e r t a i n l y caused Deniehy t o r e s i s t p r o p o s i n g a s o c i a l model f o r the f u t u r e based on the p e r f e c t i b i l i t y o f man, as Emerson had done, i t i s s i g n i f i t h a t as h i s p e r s o n a l f o r t u n e s d e c l i n e d , h i s p u b l i c s t a t e m e n t s grew s t e a d i l y more o p t i m i s t i c . In t u r n i n g now t o C h a r l e s Harpur, we w i l l see t h a t q u i t e the o p p o s i t e o c c u r r e d . Harpur's w o r l d - v i e w s l o w l y d e t e r i o r a t e d . Sect i on C_ C h a r l e s Harpur (1813-68) : The W i l d Bee o f A u s t r a 1 i a 2 1 k And wonder ye not i f h i s speech be uncouth, Nor l o o k ye much f o r h i s rhymes t o be smooth, Nor t h a t the f l i g h t s h o u l d be l o f t y and f r e e Of one w i t h so l i t t l e o f l e a r n i n g as he; For a l l o f h i s a p t e s t y e a r s were p a s t [ s i c ] In p r i m a l s o l i t u d e s w i l d and v a s t . C h a r l e s Harpur, i n t r o d u c t i o n t o Poems (1883) when o'er My c o u n t r y s h a l l have swept the r i p e n i n g days Of c e n t u r i e s , her b e t t e r sons s h a l l p r i z e My l o n e l y v o i c e upon the p a s t ; Charges Harpur, "To An Echo on the Banks o f the H u n t e r " ( 1 8 4 3 ) 2 1 5 A u s t r a l i a n c r i t i c s need t o do a g r e a t d e a l more work on C h a r l e s Harpur b e f o r e i t c o u l d be s a i d t h a t h i s r e p u t a t i o n , whether b e t t e r o r perhaps worse than i t i s a t p r e s e n t , was f i n a l l y based on s u f f i c i e n t s c h o l a r l y r e s e a r c h . The b a r r i e r , o f c o u r s e , as w i t h Deniehy and Lang, i s t h e l a c k o f an a u t h o r i t a t i v e t e x t . Harpur e n t h u s i a s t s c o n f r o n t a w o e f u l l y i n a d e q u a t e a s s o r t m e n t o f h i s works: two books, by no means 429 c o m p r e h e n s i v e , p u b l i s h e d i n t h e p o e t ' s own t i m e ; a c o r r u p t t e x t ( 1 8 8 3 ) , p u b l i s h e d some f i f t e e n y e a r s a f t e r H a r p u r ' s d e a t h , i n t e n d e d t o a d e q u a t e l y r e f l e c t t h e p o e t ' s b e s t w o r k , b u t i n r e a l i t y s e r i o u s l y m a r r e d by t h e e m e n d a t i o n s and d i s t o r t i o n s o f an e d i t o r d e t e r m i n e d 216 t o s h a p e a g e n t e e l p o e t i n W o r d s w o r t h ' s i m a g e ; a s h o r t c o l l e c t i o n , o f 1 9 4 4 , c u l l e d f r o m t h e 1883 t e x t ; a n d , f i n a l l y , a more r e p r e s e n t a t i v e r e c e n t c o m p i l a t i o n o f H a r p u r ' s p o e t r y , p r o s e and c o r r e s p o n d e n c e ( 1 9 7 3 ) , 217 r e s p o n s i b l y e d i t e d , b u t a f a r f r o m d e f i n i t i v e c o l l e c t i o n . G i v e n H a r p u r ' s s i n g u l a r c o n t r i b u t i o n t o e a r l y A u s t r a l i a n l e t t e r s a n d , i n d e e d , t o t h e c o m m u n i t y t a k i n g s h a p e a r o u n d h i m , t h e f a c t t h a t we d o n ' t h a v e an e d i t i o n o f h i s c o l l e c t e d w o r k s c o n s t i t u t e s a s i z a b l e o b s t a c l e t o a n y t r u l y v a l i d a n a l y s i s o f t h e d e v e l o p m e n t o f l i t e r a t u r e i n n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y A u s t r a l i a , much l e s s t o an e f f e c t i v e a p p r a i s a l 2 l 8 o f t h e man a n d h i s p o e t r y . In S e p t e m b e r , 1 8 4 5 , W . A . D u n c a n ' s W e e k l y R e g i s t e r s o u g h t t o e n c o u r a g e t h e k i n d o f l o c a l r e a d e r s h i p 219 i t f e l t H a r p u r d e s e r v e d . T h e p l e a h a s g o n e u n a n s w e r e d f o r a l m o s t a c e n t u r y a n d a h a l f . R e c e n t c r i t i c s , h o w e v e r , h a v e i l l u m i n a t e d c e r t a i n i m p o r t a n t 220 a s p e c t s o f H a r p u r ' s o e u v r e . I i n t e n d t o e x t e n d t h e d i s c u s s i o n i n o n e p a r t i c u l a r d i r e c t i o n by l o o k i n g more c l o s e l y a t an a r e a t h a t h a s b e e n m e n t i o n e d o f t e n i n t h e p a s t , b u t s c a r c e l y e l a b o r a t e d o n : H a r p u r ' s p l a c e i n t h e l i v e l y t r a d i t i o n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r a d i c a l t h o u g h t i n A u s t r a l i a , p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t h e 1 8 4 0 ' s and ' 5 0 ' s , a n d h i s c o n n e c t i o n s , a s a r e s u l t o f t h i s a c t i v i t y , w i t h A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s 221 f r o m J e f f e r s o n a n d P a i n e t o C h a n n i n g a n d E m e r s o n . H a r p u r , i n 430 f a c t , put t h e s e w r i t e r s t o a s t r i c t e r e t h i c a l t e s t than d i d any o f h i s A u s t r a l i a n c o n t e m p o r a r i e s . He probed f o r moral t r u t h s i n o r d e r t o g i v e the c o u n t r y of h i s b i r t h - - s o young and so v u l n e r a b l e t o r i d i c u l e - - a b a s i s f o r p o s i t i v e f u t u r e achievement. Harpur spent l e n g t h y p e r i o d s o f h i s l i f e on remote f a r m s , p h y s i c a l l y and i n t e l l e c t u a l l y i s o l a t e d . W h i l e i n l a t e r y e a r s he sometimes rued h i s l o t when he pondered the d e l i g h t s accompanying r e s i d e n c e i n Sydney, near Stenhouse and h i s e n e r g e t i c c i r c l e o f f r i e n d s , a t the time he c o u l d s t i l l respond v i g o r o u s l y t o the r u r a l environment i n which he m o s t l y found h i m s e l f . The h a r s h c o u n t r y l i f e encouraged independent t h o u g h t . No wonder the A m e r i c a n s , w i t h t h e i r c o n t i n u i n g 222 emphasis on Man A l o n e i n N a t u r e , a p p e a l e d . In " S e l f - R e l i a n c e , " Emerson v o i c e d the fundamental t e n e t b e h i n d t h i s i d e a when he s a i d : 223 " I n s i s t on y o u r s e l f ; never i m i t a t e . " Harpur wouldn't i m i t a t e , but the v e r y n a t u r e o f h i s e x i s t e n c e caused him t o embrace a p h i l o s o p h y o f l i f e and l i t e r a t u r e which resembled prominent American w r i t e r s i n s e v e r a l u n m i s t a k a b l e ways. F i r s t , c a r r y i n g a C u r r e n c y Lad's deep resentment a t b e i n g e x c l u d e d from the f r u i t s o f h i s n a t i v e l a n d , he adopted a r a d i c a l s t a n c e towards a u t h o r i t y . P o s s i b l y a r o u s e d by the a t t i t u d e s o f h i s c o n v i c t f a t h e r who had, w i t h Wentworth and o t h e r s , p l a y e d a p a r t ( d u r i n g the l 8 2 0 ' s ) i n the campaign f o r the r e c o g n i t i o n of e v e r y B r i t o n ' s i n h e r e n t r i g h t s , Harpur soon i n c l i n e d towards a 224 r e p u b l i c a n p h i l o s o p h y o f government. I t was the o n l y system he f e l t c o u l d a d e q u a t e l y meet the u n i q u e needs o f a new c o u n t r y . The r e p u b l i c a n s y m p a t h i z e r i n time became an o u t s p o k e n p o l i t i c a l a g i t a t o r 431 f o r A u s t r a l i a n s o v e r e i g n t y and an a c t i v e a d h e r e n t o f the u n i v e r s a l r i g h t s o f man. For a w h i l e , Harpur even f e l t t h a t the end j u s t i f i e d the means. He c o u l d , u n l i k e Deniehy, a d v o c a t e armed r e s i s t a n c e as a p o s s i b l e means o f l i b e r a t i o n . S e c o n d l y , t h r o u g h o u t h i s l i f e t i m e , Harpur m a i n t a i n e d a p r o f o u n d l o v e f o r h i s c o u n t r y , i t s s p e c i a l q u a l i t i e s . I f e v e n t u a l l y d i s e n c h a n t e d w i t h the greed and a m b i t i o n o f h i s countrymen, l i k e Whitman, he never l o s t c o n f i d e n c e i n the l a n d i t s e l f . Harpur's a r d e n t p a t r i o t i s m — I a t l e a s t as f e r v e n t as t h a t o f Deniehy and L a n g - - l e d him t o p r o j e c t A u s t r a l i a , a t one p o i n t , as the p o t e n t i a l s t a g e f o r mankind's f i n e s t f u t u r e a c c o m p l i s h m e n t s . I t i s s a d l y i r o n i c , however, t h a t the man who p r o u d l y d e s i g n a t e d h i m s e l f "An A u s t r a l i a n , " and whose f a m i l y s i m p l y y e t e l o q u e n t l y c a p t u r e d h i s one t r u e v o c a t i o n i n l i f e on h i s g r a v e headstone when they i n s c r i b e d the word " P o e t , " s h o u l d have been r e j e c t e d by so many o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s f o r p r e c i s e l y t h o s e reasons he h e l d d e a r e s t : Harpur f o u g h t hard t o e s t a b l i s h n a t i v e p r i d e 225 and a r o b u s t , i d e n t i f i a b l y A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e . In t h i s , he i s l i k e the American T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s . T h i r d l y , Harpur r e c o g n i z e d , a l o n g w i t h Deniehy, an extreme need h i s c o u n t r y had f o r s p i r i t u a l l e a d e r s : p r o p h e t s , moral g u i d e s were r e q u i r e d t o c o u n t e r a c t the a c q u i s i t i v e t e n d e n c i e s o f a f r o n t i e r s o c i e t y . In A m e r i c a , Walt Whitman f o u g h t an i n c r e a s i n g l y s u c c e s s f u l b a t t l e t o e s t a b l i s h the v a l i d i t y o f h i s r o l e as American Poet and a r b i t e r o f s o c i a l v a l u e s . Harpur had an e q u a l l y p a s s i o n a t e sense o f p o e t i c m i s s i o n — and l i k e Whitman he adopted a wayward, y e t u n d e n i a b l y i m p r e s s i v e 432 a p p e a r a n c e , w i t h an e l a b o r a t e h o s t o f w i s e , g r e y w h i s k e r s - - y e t he u l t i m a t e l y f a i l e d t o c a p t u r e h i s c o u n t r y ' s i m a g i n a t i o n . P e r h a p s p i o n e e r i n g v a l u e s s t i l l had t o o g r e a t a h o l d . F o u r t h , a n d f i n a l l y , H a r p u r r i g o r o u s l y e s p o u s e d r e l i g i o u s p r i n c i p l f o u n d e d o n a r a t i o n a l , e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y b a s i s , d e s p i t e t h e a n t a g o n i s m h i s b e l i e f s c r e a t e d i n t h e c o m m u n i t y . He w o u l d n o t be c o e r c e d , e v e n by t h e C h u r c h . 2 2 ^ T h e s t r u g g l e t o e s t a b l i s h h i s own i d e n t i t y a n d t h e c r e d e n t i a l s o f t h e g r o u p he r e p r e s e n t e d i n e v i t a b l y l e d H a r p u r , a s i t had D e n i e h y , t o A m e r i c a n s o u r c e s . O n c e a g a i n , E m e r s o n a n d C h a n n i n g r e c e i v e d s p e c i a l a t t e n t i o n , t h o u g h H a r p u r a p p r o a c h e d them c o n f i d e n t l y , a s an e q u a l . He was a t t r a c t e d by many o f t h e T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s ' p r i n c i p l e s - t h e i r s e n s e o f t h e p o e t a s s e e r a n d c r i t i c o f s o c i a l i n j u s t i c e s , t h e i r a t t i t u d e t o w a r d s t h e l u m i n o u s q u a l i t i e s o f n a t u r e , t h e i r u n d e n i a b l y d e m o c r a t i c t o n e a n d b e l i e f i n a p o s s i b l e b r o t h e r h o o d o f m a n , t h e i r a d v o c a c y o f u n i v e r s a l e d u c a t i o n , a n d , p e r h a p s most i m p o r t a n t l y f o r H a r p u r , t h e i r c o m m i t m e n t t o E m e r s o n ' s c o n c e p t o f " s e l f - r e l i a n c e . " 227 H a r p u r w o u l d c a l l i t " s o c i a l i n d i v i d u a l i z a t i o n . " O n l y t h r o u g h t h i s p r o c e s s c o u l d s o c i e t y b e g i n t o i n h e r i t t h e s p i r i t u a l a n d m o r a l b e n e f i t s o f a r e p u b l i c a n g o v e r n m e n t . H a r p u r f o r e s a w i n A u s t r a l i a ' s f u t u r e n o t s o much a d e m o c r a t i c s o c i e t y , a s a s o c i e t y o f D e m o c r a t s . In t e r m s o f a c t u a l o u t p u t , H a r p u r ' s n a r r a t i v e a n d d e s c r i p t i v e 433 v e r s e , o f t e n i n a c c u r a t e l y deemed by c r i t i c s t o r e p r e s e n t the whole o f h i s a r t i s t i c s t a n c e , c o m p r i s e s but a s m a l l p a r t o f h i s t o t a l p o e t i c work. The e d i t o r o f the posthumous 1883 volume, i n p a r t i c u l a r , d i d the poet l e s s than j u s t i c e by imposing h i s own sense o f l i t e r a r y decorum on the poems i n hand. In t r y i n g t o package Harpur f o r what he c a l l e d " s y m p a t h e t i c r e c o g n i t i o n from the sons o f song i n E n g l a n d , " he o n l y succeeded i n making him appear c o n v e n t i o n a l and, worse, 228 d e r i v a t i v e . (Deniehy, i n 1 8 8 4 , _ s u f f e r e d , the.same f a t e a t _ t h e J n a n d s o f h i s e d i t o r . ) " In f a c t , Harpur r e l i s h e d p o l e m i c a l p o e t r y , and w r o t e an abundance o f p a t r i o t i c c h a n t s , s a t i r e s , e p i g r a m s , p a r o d i e s and p o l i t i c a l songs, u s u a l l y aimed a t a s m a l l number o f f a m i l i a r p e r s o n a l enemies and i n s t i t u t i o n s . R a d i c a l humanist thought i n f l u e n c e d him g r e a t l y — p a r t i c u l a r l y t h a t emanating from A m e r i c a . Sometime i n h i s t w e n t i e s , i t seems, Harpur assumed a p o l i t i c a l p o s i t i o n c l o s e l y a l l i e d w i t h t h a t o f some o f A m e r i c a ' s l e a d i n g spokesmen d u r i n g the 229 R e v o l u t i o n , p a r t i c u l a r l y P a i n e and J e f f e r s o n . J e f f e r s o n put t h a t p o s i t i o n w e l l when he a f f i r m e d h i s b e l i e f i n the r e p u b l i c a n as " t h e o n l y form o f government w h i c h i s not e t e r n a l l y a t open o r s e c r e t war 230 w i t h the r i g h t s o f mankind. . . ." Harpur, t o o , remained t h r o u g h o u t h i s l i f e a c o n v i n c e d democrat; he never l o s t f a i t h i n the v a l i d i t y o f the d o c t r i n e , though he would e v e n t u a l l y d e s p i s e some o f i t s so- c a l l e d e n t h u s i a s t s i n A u s t r a l i a . In the e a r l y 1840's, Harpur p u b l i s h e d i n c e s s a n t l y , p a r t i c u l a r l y \ i n W.A. Duncan's A u s t r a l a s i a n C h r o n i c l e and W e e k l y ' R e g i s t e r . In the 434 R e g i s t e r a l o n e , between J u l y , 1843, and the end o f 1845, he c o n t r i b u t e d t h i r t y - t h r e e s i g n e d poems and, a c c o r d i n g t o E l i z a b e t h Webby's e s t i m a t i o n , 231 some t h i r t y - n i n e anonymous s a t i r e s . H i s meeting w i t h F a t h e r John McEncroe, d u r i n g t h i s p e r i o d , may have i n s p i r e d him; o r p o s s i b l y the i n c r e a s i n g encroachment o f Wentworth and the P a t r i o t i c A s s o c i a t i o n s p a r k e d a g r e a t e r m i l i t a n c y . I t might have been r e a d i n q P a i n e ' s 232 R i g h t s o f Man. But whatever the r e a s o n , Harpur's v e r s e began t o s t e a d i l y p u b l i c i z e the cause o f p o l i t i c a l l i b e r t y and t o r a i l a g a i n s t the i n e q u i t i e s o f A u s t r a l i a n s o c i e t y and Europe's p r o l o n g e d r e s i s t a n c e t o d e m o c r a t i c i d e a s . In 1845, the Reg i s t e r p u b l i s h e d "The Tree o f L i b e r t y , " a poem i n which Harpur added f u r t h e r s u b s t a n c e t o the e n e r g e t i c t r a d i t i o n A u s t r a l i a n spokesmen had e s t a b l i s h e d o f i n v o k i n g American r e v o l u t i o n a r y p r e c e d e n t s . The poem beg i ns w i t h f a m i l i a r s y m b o l i c purpose: W e ' l l p l a n t a T r e e o f L i b e r t y In the c e n t r e o f the l a n d , And round i t ranged as g u a r d i a n s be, A vowed and t r u s t y band.^33 Harpur wanted the o p t i m i s m o f the New W o r l d , not the a n i m o s i t i e s o f the O l d : But here a t l a s t , u n c u r s ' d by c a s t e , Each man a t N a t u r e ' s c a l l S h a l l p l u c k as w e l l what none may s e l l , The f r u i t t h a t blooms f o r A l l . Throughout the F o r t i e s , he e n l a r g e d on h i s i d e a s f o r a new s o c i a l s t r u c t u r e ; he e n v i s a g e d a system more c l e a r l y i n tune w i t h the needs 435 o f the g e n e r a l p o p u l a c e , one which would encourage a p e o p l e t o be 234 "Eager, and n o b l e , and e q u a l , and f r e e . . . ." Harpur w h o l e - h e a r t e d l y endorsed Emerson's assessment o f the s o c i a l i m p l i c a t i o n s o f a u t h o r i t a r i a n and d e m o c r a t i c systems. In " P o l i t i c s , " Emerson put i t t h i s way: S i m i l a r l y , Harpur sensed the g r e a t b e n e f i t l i b e r t y promised t o each i n d i v i d u a l : namely, i n t e l l e c t u a l independence. But on a n a t i o n a l l e v e l , t h i s c o u l d o n l y be a c h i e v e d t h r o u g h the p e r s i s t e n t propaganda o f a group o f d e d i c a t e d i d e a l i s t s . Harpur s t r o v e t o be one. "Words," he once w r o t e a p p r o v i n g l y , "may r e v o l u t i o n i s e o r r e a r / A mighty 236 s t a t e . " He w r o t e much, as h i s d e v o t i o n t o an A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c hardened. A note which accompanied the r e p r i n t i n g o f "A Tree o f L i b e r t y " i n the P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e (1849) began d e f i a n t l y : For the r e p u b l i c a n s p i r i t o f t h i s and o t h e r s , i f not a l l o f my n a t i o n a l poems, I can o f f e r no a p o l o g y . Why, indeed s h o u l d I? B e l i e v i n g , as I do, t h a t men p r o g r e s s as s e q u e n t l y from m o n a r c h i a l t o r e p u b l i c a n ideas . . . as they do from f e u d a l and d e s p o t i c ones t o t h o s e o f a l i m i t e d Here a g a i n i s the " i d e a o f p r o g r e s s " s u r f a c i n g i n an A u s t r a l i a n con- t e x t . In h i s m i d d l e y e a r s , Harpur, l i k e Lang and Deniehy--and b e f o r e them, a s u c c e s s i o n o f Ameni:cans--fel t t h a t a New-World d e m o c r a t i c monarchy. 237 s o c i e t y , b e g i n n i n g a f r e s h and u n t a i n t e d by the Old W o r l d , c o u l d 436 c o n v e r t o p t i m i s t i c prophecy i n t o r e a l i t y . T h i s commitment t o t h e t h e o r y and p r a c t i c e o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m changed not a t a l l i n the next s i x y e a r s , f o r i n a n o t h e r o f h i s many p r o s e notes t o i n d i v i d u a l poems (dated May, 1855), he advanced the f o u n d a t i o n s o f h i s b e l i e f i n democracy and d e m o c r a t i c t h i n k i n g even more c l e a r l y . In s p i r i t e x a c t l y l i k e Thomas P a i n e , Harpur d e c l a r e d : As I f e e l but l i t t l e r e s p e c t f o r Monarchy men and Empire- w o r s h i p p e r s (as such) I cannot a p o l o g i s e f o r s p e a k i n g o f them somewhat c o n t e m p t u o u s l y . I am not o n l y a d e m o c r a t i c R e p u b l i c a n i n t h e o r y , but by e v e r y f e e l i n g o f my n a t u r e . I t s f i r s t p r i n c i p l e s l i e f u n d a m e n t a l l y i n the moral elements o f my b e i n g , ready t o f l o w e r f o r t h and bear t h e i r p r o p e r f r u i t . Hence, as I h o l d m y s e l f , on the ground o f God's humanity, t o be p o l i t i c a l l y s u p e r i o r t o no f e l l o w b e i n g , s o , on the same ground, I can f e e l m y s e l f i n f e r i o r t o none. . . .238 The s i m i l a r i t i e s between P a i n e and Harpur would f o r a time i n - c r e a s e i n the e a r l y l 8 5 0 ' s as Harpur's p o l i t i c a l s t a n c e ( l i k e t h a t o f John Dunmore Lang d u r i n g the same p e r i o d ) grew more m i l i t a n t . At a time when even committed r e p u b l i c a n s l i k e h i s f r i e n d Dan Deniehy r e f u s e d t o c o n t e m p l a t e arms, Harpur p u b l i c l y p r o c l a i m e d h i m s e l f a 239 " p h y s i c a l f o r c e r e v o l u t i o n i s t . " In the P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e ( 1 8 5 4 ) , he r e p u b l i s h e d an e a r l i e r poem, "War Song f o r the N i n e t e e n t h Century,' t h i s time w i t h the a d d i t i o n o f a new, and more o p e n l y a g g r e s s i v e c o n c l u d i n g s t a n z a . The l a s t f o u r l i n e s s t r i k e a r e v o l u t i o n a r y note r a r e l y seen i n A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e b e f o r e o r s i n c e : But unarmed r i g h t aye w i t h e r s In wrong's a l l b l a s t i n g b r e a t h -- Then on, ye Red R e p u b l i c a n s , To Freedom or t o Death.^40 437 The c h a l l e n g e e n t a i l e d i n the poem was h e i g h t e n e d by Harpur's p r o s e addendum; i n i t , he e l a b o r a t e d on h i s concept o f "Red R e p u b l i c a n s " as "men whose c o n v i c t i o n s o f the p o l i t i c a l n e c e s s i t y o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m i s u n s h a k a b l y founded upon the God-designed s o v e r e i g n t y o f the p e o p l e ; and who a r e p r e p a r e d , t h e r e f o r e , whenever a t r u e o c c a s i o n o f f e r s , t o champion i t s advent a t a l l h a z a r d s , and i n a l l p l a c e s . " In the s p i r i t o f P a i n e , Harpur o m i n o u s l y h i n t e d t h a t the time was f a s t a p p r o a c h i n g which would t r y the s o u l s o f a l l A u s t r a l i a n men. In 1851, Harpur had hoped t o have a volume o f h i s poems p u b l i s h e d 241 under the t i t l e , The W i l d Bee o f A u s t r a l i a . The volume f a i l e d t o m a t e r i a l i z e , but Harpur c o n t i n u e d t o s t i n g the f o r c e s o f monarchy and h e r e d i t a r y t i t l e i n A u s t r a l i a f o r y e a r s t o come. H i s f a i t h i n the e g a l i t a r i a n commitment o f l o c a l p o l i t i c i a n s e v e n t u a l l y d i s a p p e a r e d , but he always c l u n g t o a b e l i e f i n the "onward marching s p i r i t / Of 242 immortal l i b e r t y . " R e p u b l i c a n i s m would e v e n t u a l l y have i t s day. And-yet d e s p i t e t h i s hard-edged s i d e both t o h i s p e r s o n a l i t y and the m a j o r i t y o f h i s p o e t i c o u t p u t , Harpur has c o n t i n u e d t o be f r e q u e n t l y judged i n terms o f a r e p u t a t i o n founded on the b a s i s o f a c o r r u p t t e x t , which l a r g e l y i g n o r e s h i s f i g h t i n g s i d e . Our p i c t u r e o f t h i s s e m i n a l A u s t r a l i a n poet needs r e d r e s s i n g , t h r o u g h the a i d o f a f a i t h f u l and comprehensive t e x t which r e f l e c t s the whole man. A l l the w a r t s . Such a t e x t would show t h a t Harpur s c r u p u l o u s l y a v o i d e d a narrow a p p l i c a t i o n o f e g a l i t a r i a n p r i n c i p l e s . He was no smug j i n g o i s t ; r a t h e r , he employed h i s i d e a o f r e p u b l i c a n i s m w i d e l y , j u s t as the American r e v o l u t i o n a r i e s had. Harpur a r t i c u l a t e l y responded t o P a i n e ' s c r y , 438 many y e a r s e a r l i e r , f o r a l l men t o work towards " t h e c i v i l i z a t i o n 243 o f N a t i o n s w i t h each o t h e r . " Harpur, t o o , propounded an i n t e r - n a t i o n a l i s t c r e e d as the o n l y t r u l y d e m o c r a t i c r e s p o n s e : He but p r o f a n e s the s p i r i t o f p a t r i o t i s m i n h i s p r e t e n s i o n s t h e r e t o , whose f r a t e r n a l sympathies a r e not c o - e x t e n s i v e w i t h humanity, and as wide as the w o r l d , however they may p r i m a r i l y c e n t r e amongst h i s own countrymen and i n the l a n d o f h i s n a t i v i t y . Nay, wherever T r u t h o b t a i n s w i t h the g r e a t e s t c e r t a i n t y , and r e c t i t u d e o f ..conduct p r o s p e r s . _ ~ most u n i v e r s a l l y — t h i t h e r s t i l l s h o u l d our s y m p a t h i e s tend as t o our b e t t e r c o u n t r y — t h e c o u n t r y o f Man. . . . The s e n t i m e n t s e x p r e s s e d here stem d i r e c t l y from the R i g h t s o f Man, which we know .Harpur had r e a d . He c e r t a i n l y l i k e d t o u t i l i z e P a i n e ' s phrase when p r o s e l y t i z i n g , and he many times went on p u b l i c r e c o r d 245 i n s u p p o r t o f movements o f n a t i o n a l l i b e r a t i o n around the g l o b e . Only w i t h i n t h i s l a r g e r i n t e r n a t i o n a l framework d i d Harpur respond t o the problems o f h i s own c o u n t r y ; h i s was not a narrow n a t i o n a l i s m o f the k i n d t h a t t y p i f i e d the Home-Rule movement i n I r e l a n d . Harpur, i t a p p e a r s , had read P a i n e too c l o s e l y f o r t h a t . The more immediate i s s u e s a t home he n e c e s s a r i l y viewed w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f extreme sympathy f o r f o r e i g n r e v o l u t i o n a r y movements. Thus he a d d r e s s e d h i m s e l f t o the p r e v a i l i n g c r i s i s o f i d e n t i t y i n A u s t r a l i a , f u l l y a p p r e c i a t i n g , as a n a t i v e - b o r n l i k e Deniehy, the r e t a r d i n g p r e s e n c e o f m o n a r c h i c f e e l i n g i n the c o l o n y . He d e p l o r e d the c o n s e r v a t i v e i n f l u e n c e o f the " s q u a t t e r y " o r l o c a l p a s t o r a l i s t s . Here were "men b r i m f u l o f E n g l a n d i s m " e x e r t i n g a dominant i n f l u e n c e on a c o u n t r y 246 thousands . o f m i l e s away from t h e i r acknowledged homeland. When 439 they had made t h e i r f o r t u n e , they would t h a n k f u l l y s e t s a i l f o r E n g l a n d . For Harpur, t h e s e were the men who r e p r e s e n t e d the p r i n c i p a l b a r r i e r t o e f f e c t i v e p o l i t i c a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l independence i n 247 A u s t r a l i a . Not the E n g l i s h monarchy o r p a r l i a m e n t . Hence he took e v e r y a v a i l a b l e o p p o r t u n i t y t o s a t i r i z e o r a t t a c k o u t r i g h t the power- f u l b l o c o f l o c a l " s n o b - t o r i e s , " p u t t i n g them i n the same c a t e g o r y as the Duke o f W e l l i n g t o n , an Irishman whom Harpur deemed a sycophant 248 t o the E n g l i s h t h r o n e . "Money's w o r t h , " Harpur c o m p l a i n e d b i t t e r l y i n the l a t e 1840's, was the s o l e p r i o r i t y o f l o c a l s q u a t t e r s , and such men t h r e a t e n e d t o s u b v e r t any a t t e m p t s t o c r e a t e a n a t i o n a l 249 c o n s c i o u s n e s s . There i s g r e a t p o i g n a n c y s u r r o u n d i n g one o f Harpur's p r o s e n o t e s , w r i t t e n i n l a t e r l i f e , i n which he d i s p a s s i o n a t e l y r e c o r d s the l o s s o f t h i s i d e a l i s m , how h i s " f i r s t f a i t h i n the p e r f e c t - i b i l i t y o f the r a c e " was " c o n s i d e r a b l y d i s c o u n t e n a n c e d by my w o r l d l y 250 e x p e r i e n c e . " I t s h o u l d be remembered, however, t h a t Walt Whitman i n h i s l a t e r work e x p r e s s e d a s i m i l a r d i s e n c h a n t m e n t w i t h h i s c o u n t r y - men. The o p t i m i s m o f Whitman's l 8 5 5 " P r e f a c e " s t a r k l y c o n t r a s t s h i s l a t e r d i s i l l u s i o n m e n t i n D e m o c r a t i c V i s t a s (1871): . . . s o c i e t y , i n t h e s e S t a t e s , i s c a n k e r ' d , c r u d e , s u p e r - s t i t i o u s and r o t t e n . . . . The u n d e r l y i n g p r i n c i p l e s o f the S t a t e s a r e not h o n e s t l y b e l i e v ' d i n ( f o r a l l t h i s h e c t i c glow, and t h e s e m e l o d r a m a t i c s c r e a m i n g s , ) nor i s humanity i t s e l f b e l i e v ' d i n . What p e n e t r a t i n g eye does not everywhere see t h r o u g h the mask? The s p e c t a c l e i s a p p a l l i n g . We l i v e i n an atmosphere o f h y p o c r i s y t h r o u g h - o u t . . . . our New World democracy, however g r e a t a s u c c e s s i n u p l i f t i n g the masses out o f t h e i r s l o u g h s , i n m a t e r i a l - i s t i c development, p r o d u c t s , and i n a c e r t a i n h i g h l y d e c e p t i v e s u p e r f i c i a l p o p u l a r i n t e l l e c t u a l i t y , i s , so f a r , an a l m o s t complete f a i l u r e i n i t s s o c i a l a s p e c t s , and i n r e a l l y grand r e l i g i o u s , m o r a l , l i t e r a r y , and e s t h e t i c r e s u l t s . 2 5 ' 440 H a r p u r ' s e n e r g y f o r t h e f i g h t e v e n t u a l l y waned i n h i s l a s t y e a r s , b u t n o t b e f o r e he had h a t e d o u t l o u d a l l t h e o b s t a c l e s he saw o b s t r u c t i n g t h e p a t h t o l o c a l i n d e p e n d e n c e . Y e t v i t r i o l i c a t t a c k s o n h i s e n e m i e s c o m p r i s e d o n l y a p a r t o f h i s b o l d n a t i o n a l p r o g r a m m e . M o r e c o n s t r u c t i v e l y , he e m b l a z o n e d h i s n a t i v e f a i t h and p a t r i o t i s m i n c e s s a n t l y i n t h e p a g e s o f c o l o n i a l n e w s p a p e r s . T h e y o u t h f u l s t r i d e n c y o f e a r l y poems s u c h a s " T o t h e L y r e o f A u s t r a l i a " : W i t h h e r g r e e n f o r e s t s r o u n d me, a b o v e h e r b l u e s k y , I l a p i n t h y m e a s u r e s some n a t i o n a l d r e a m ; And I f i n d t h a t t h e n o t e s , t h o u g h u n s t u d i e d a r e h i g h . When t h e g l o r y o f f u t u r e A u s t r a l i a ' s t h e t h e m e ! 2 5 2 - - w a s l a t e r b a l a n c e d by h i s d i l i g e n t a t t e m p t s t o map t h e u n i q u e e n v i r o n m e n t a n d p o l i t i c a l p o s s i b i l i t i e s o f A u s t r a l i a . Naming p l a y e d an i m p o r t a n t p a r t i n H a r p u r ' s scheme o f t h i n g s . L i k e E m e r s o n , he r e c o g n i z e d t h e p o e t a s t h e t h i r d c h i l d o f t h e U n i v e r s e : " t h e s a y e r , 253 t h e n a m e r . . . . " H a r p u r 1 s - n a t u r a l i s t b e n t e m e r g e s i n s e v e r a l l o n g and f a s c i n a t i n g n o t e s t o t h e p o e m s - - e s p e c i a 11y t h a t o n t h e " C h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f t h e C o c k a t o o , " w h e r e he d i s c u s s e s t h e s o p h i s t i c a t e d 254 w a r n i n g s y s t e m o f a f l o c k o f c o c k a t o o s . He a l s o w r o t e an a r t i c l e 255 on t h e s t r a n g e s o n g s o f i n d i g e n o u s b i r d s . S y m p a t h y w i t h t h e c u r i o s i t i e s o f h i s h o m e l a n d s t i m u l a t e d H a r p u r ' s i n t e r e s t , t o o , i n A u s t r a l i a ' s A b o r i g i n a l p o p u l a t i o n , a n d he r e s p o n d e d t o i t s a b u n d a n c e o f c o m p l e x d i a l e c t s and w o n d e r f u l l y r h y t h m i c n a m e s . H i s n o t e s t o t h e poem " T h e K a n g a r o o H u n t " r e f l e c t more t h a n a p a s s i n g i n t e r e s t . F u r t h e r , 256 he c a l l e d h i s T u r o s s R i v e r f a r m " E u r o m a , " an A b o r i g i n a l w o r d . 441 Almost i n e v i t a b l y , Harpur's abundant f a i t h i n A u s t r a l i a ' s p o t e n t i a g r e a t f u t u r e l e d him, amidst the e x c i t e m e n t and s u c c e s s o f the a n t i - t r a n s p o r t a t i o n movement i n the l a t e 1840 1 s, t o p r o j e c t a U t o p i a n v i s i o n . By the m i d p o i n t of the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , as we have seen, many Americans had r e c o r d e d a s i m i l a r b e l i e f i n t h e i r c o u n t r y as the n a t u r a l f u l f i l l m e n t o f the R e p u b l i c a n dream and the epitome o f p r o g r e s s r a n g i n g from P a i n e ' s statement i n Common Sense t h a t "We have i t i n our power t o b e g i n the w o r l d o v e r a g a i n " t o Emerson's, some s e v e n t y y e a r s l a t e r : I t seems so easy f o r America t o i n s p i r e and e x p r e s s the most e x p a n s i v e and humane s p i r i t ; new-born, f r e e , h e a l t h - f u l , s t r o n g , the l a n d o f the l a b o r e r , o f the democrat, o f the p h i l a n t h r o p i s t , of the b e l i e v e r , o f the s a i n t , she s h o u l d speak f o r the human r a c e . America i s the c o u n t r y o f the f u t u r e . 2 5 7 Harpur, l i k e h i s f r i e n d s Lang and Deniehy, might have c o n c u r r e d w i t h the Concord p h i l o s o p h e r , were i t not f o r the i n s t i t u t i o n o f s l a v e r y ; o r Q f o r d e m o c r a t i c A u s t r a l i a n s , t h i s was an a b h o r r e n t s t a i n . At h i s most o p t i m i s t i c , Harpur penned an "Anthem f o r the A u s t r a l a s i a n League," which u n f o r t u n a t e l y remains u n c o l l e c t e d : S h a l l we s i n g o f L o y a l t y To the f a r South's f i e r y youth? Yea--but l e t the paean be Of l o y a l t y t o God and T r u t h : To Man, t o p r o g r e s s , and t o a l l The f r e e t h i n g s , n o b l y f r e e , Of w h i c h t h e i r l o v e d A u s t r a l i a s h a l l The g o l d e n c r a d l e be. 442 H a r k ! h e r s t a r - e y e d D e s t i n i e s P o u r t h e i r v o i c e s o ' e r t h e s e a s - - H i t h e r t o t h e L a n d o f G o l d , A l l w h o w o u l d b e f r e e ! H e r e a d i a d e m b e h o l d F o r i m m o r t a l L i b e r t y ! N o t f o r O l d W o r l d q u e e n s a n d k i n g s , V i l l a i n S l a v e r y ' s o u t w o r n t h i n g s ! S h a l l w e s i n g o f L o y a l t y I n t h i s n e w a n d g e n i a l L a n d ? Y e a - - b u t l e t t h e p a e a n b e O f l o y a l t y t o L o v e ' s c o m m a n d , T o T h o u g h t , t o B e a u t y , a n d t o a l l T h e g l o r i o u s A r t s t h a t y e t I n g o l d e n A u s t r a l a s i a s h a l l L i k e c h r y s o l i t e s b e s e t . 2 5 9 T h e d i c t i o n a n d c o n t e n t h e r e , t h o u g h a b s t r a c t , a r e t h o r o u g h l y f a m i l i a r . A b o u t t h e s a m e t i m e a s h i s f r i e n d D e n i e h y , H a r p u r h a d b e g u n t o e x p l o i t a r e p u b l i c a n v o c a b u l a r y e m p h a s i z i n g N e w - W o r l d t e r m s s u c h a s " l o y a l t y , " " p r o g r e s s , " " d e s t i n i e s " a n d " l i b e r t y . " F o r b o t h D e n i e h y a n d H a r p u r , A u s t r a l i a h a d t h e p o t e n t i a l t o b e c o m e t h e c r a d l e o f w o r l d - w i d e d e m o c r a c y a n d , i n t u r n , t h e A r t s . H a r p u r ' s " A n t h e m , " f u r t h e r m o r e , p l a c e s h i m i n t h e t r a d i t i o n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n t h o u g h t a s R . B . W . L e w i s h a s o u t l i n e d i t i n T h e A m e r i c a n A d a m (1955). A c c o r d i n g t o L e w i s , t h e A d a m i c " A m e r i c a n m y t h " c o n c e i v e d o f " t h e w o r l d a s s t a r t i n g u p a g a i n u n d e r f r e s h i n i t i a t i v e , i n a d i v i n e l y g r a n t e d s e c o n d c h a n c e f o r t h e h u m a n r a c e , a f t e r t h e f i r s t c h a n c e h a d b e e n s o d i s a s t r o u s l y 260 f u m b l e d i n t h e d a r k e n i n g O l d W o r l d . " H a r p u r h a d a l m o s t e x a c t l y t h e s a m e i d e a , o n l y h e p r o j e c t e d " A u s t r a l a s i a , " n o t A m e r i c a , a s t h e c h o s e n s i t e f o r h u m a n i t y ' s n e w b e g i n n i n g . S a d l y , a s t h e l 8 5 0 ' s w o r e o n , H a r p u r r e a l i z e d h e c o u l d n o l o n g e r p o s e A u s t r a l i a a s a m o d e l s t a t e i n t h e f a c e o f t h e s o r d i d p r a c t i c a l i t i e s 443 o f c o l o n i a l p o l i t i c s and the u n k i n d c e n s u r e s o f some r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f the l o c a l l i t e r a r y e s t a b l i s h m e n t . H i s i d e a l i s m , l i k e h i s b l o o d and t h u n d e r , began t o s u b s i d e . And e v e n t u a l l y t o p e r i s h . Harpur's c o n f i r m e d r e p u b l i c a n i n c l i n a t i o n s i n e v i t a b l y p l a c e d him i n c l o s e p r o x i m i t y t o the mainstream o f contemporary American t h i n k e r s . He s h a r e d many o f t h e i r e g a l i t a r i a n p r e d i l e c t i o n s . But the c o n n e c t i o n s run d e e p e r , m a i n l y because o f h i s temperamental k i n s h i p , the p a r t i c u l a r problems and p r e j u d i c e s t h a t he e n c o u n t e r e d i n h i s own c o u n t r y , and h i s c l o s e s c r u t i n y o f Emerson's e s s a y s . S t r i k i n g a f f i n i t i e s emerge, w i t h the A u s t r a l i a n and the American t h i n k i n g a l o n g s i m i l a r l i n e s . Harpur, f o r example, f e l t v e r y s t r o n g l y about the p o e t ' s r o l e i n s o c i e t y - - h i s moral r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o l e a d and t e a c h . I t i s a p i t y t h a t because o f the e d i t o r i a l p o s i t i o n o f the 1883 Poems t h i s a s p e c t o f the man has r e c e i v e d so l i t t l e a t t e n t i o n , f o r i t i s e s s e n t i a l t o an u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f h i s t h o u g h t . In h i s e a r l y poems, Harpur r- s t r u g g l e d t o e x p r e s s h i s f i e r c e l o v e o f c o u n t r y and d e e p - s e a t e d sense o f d u t y t o the l a n d o f h i s b i r t h . The c a u t i o n o f one born o f c o n v i c t p a r e n t s , though, dominates: And might I but hope t h a t one song I may waken As a v o i c e i n the g a l e t h a t d r i v e s o v e r the g l a d e Should r i d e , when my c o u n t r y her empire hath t a k e n . On the f l o o d o f her ages, I'd count me r e p a i d . ' But h i s c o n f i d e n c e and s e l f - p r i d e c l e a r l y grew i n h i s t w e n t i e s , as the poem "The Dream by the F o u n t a i n , " w r i t t e n and p u b l i s h e d i n 1843, 262 i n d i c a t e s . H e s i t a n c y g i v e s way t o g r e a t e r s e l f - a s s u r a n c e . Perhaps even a l i t t l e b r a g g a d o c i o . The s u g g e s t i o n of the Muse t h a t the poet Be then t h e Bard o f thy C o u n t r y ! 0 r a t h e r , Should such be thy c h o i c e than a monarchy w i d e ! Lo 1 ' t i s the Land o f the g r a v e o f thy f a t h e r ! ' T i s the c r a d l e o f L i b e r t y ! - - T h i n k , and decide.263 - - g e n e r a t e s courage and o p t i m i s m , such t h a t the poet can make a s i m i l a r l y a u d a c i o u s c l a i m i n the poem's c o n c l u d i n g s t a n z a . Now, and i n the f u t u r e : No m a t t e r how few i n my wanderings cheer me, I know t h a t ' t i s mine 'mid the P r o p h e t s t o s t a n d ! No m a t t e r how many t h a t blame be anear me, I f e e l 1 i k e a Monarch o f Song i n the Land! Y e t , w h i l e Harpur s t r i v e s t o e s t a b l i s h the poet's v i t a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y i n a new and d e m o c r a t i c s o c i e t y , he cannot escape an O l d World c l i c h e t o d e s c r i b e the subsequent f e e l i n g . Whitman wouldn't even t h i n k o f c a l l i n g h i m s e l f a "Monarch." Harpur's b r a s h n e s s , from one so young and raw, o f f e n d e d the d e l i c a t e s e n s i b i l i t i e s o f c e r t a i n s e c t i o n s o f the c o l o n i a l l i t e r a r y e s t a b l i s h m e n t . Indeed, twenty y e a r s a f t e r "The Dream by the F o u n t a i n " f i r s t appeared i n the A u s t r a l a s i a n C h r o n i c l e , G.B. B a r t o n e x p r e s s e d h i s s h a r p d i s a p p r o v a l o f Harpur's s e l f - a p p o i n t e d Whitmanesque t i t l e . T h i s , s a i d B a r t o n , " i s something new t o L i t e r a t u r e . I f Mr. Harpur i s e n t i t l e d t o t h a t r o y a l d e s i g n a t i o n , he i s i n the u n e n v i a b l e p o s i t i o n 264 o f a Monarch w i t h o u t s u b j e c t s . " I t i s perhaps worth m e n t i o n i n g a t t h i s p o i n t t h a t , u n l i k e Whitman, Harpur would never be a l l o w e d ' kks the s e l f - s a t i s f a c t i o n o f r e c e i v i n g l e g i t i m a t e l y p o p u l a r a p p r o v a l o f h i s b a r d i c pose. W i t h Deniehy t h r e e y e a r s dead, few mourned Harpur's p a s s i n g i n 1 8 6 8 , d e s p i t e h i s u n c e a s i n g e f f o r t s t o p u b l i c i z e both the r o l e o f the poet i n g e n e r a l and h i s own v i t a l commitment t o A u s t r a l i a ' s s o c i a l , moral and a r t i s t i c development. As the F o r t i e s p r o g r e s s e d , Harpur endeavoured t o make good on the promises e n t a i l e d i n "The Dream by the F o u n t a i n . " Midway t h r o u g h 1 8 4 5 , i n Duncan's Reg i s t e r , he o u t l i n e d h i s sense o f the p o e t ' s 2 6 5 l o f t y c a l l i n g and i m p o r t a n t s o c i a l m i s s i o n . Then, about a y e a r l a t e r , he e l a b o r a t e d on t h e s e i d e a s i n the Ma i t l a n d Mercury by way o f a General P r e f a c e t o the p r i n t i n g o f o v e r f o r t y o f h i s poems. I t b o l d l y s k e t c h e d h i s f u t u r e p l a t f o r m o f a c t i o n . For Harpur, the t r u e v o c a t i o n o f t h e P o e t i c Muse i s a t once t o q u i c k e n , e x a l t and p u r i f y our n o b l e r and more e x q u i s i t e p a s s i o n s ; and by i n f o r m i n g the i m a g i n a t i o n w i t h wi s"dom--suggest i ng b e a u t y , both t o e n l a r g e and recompense our c a p a c i t i e s of p a t h e t i c f e e l i n g and i n t e l l e c t u a l enjoyment, and f u r t h e r , i n n a t i o n a l and s o c i a l r e g a r d s , t o i l l u s t r a t e whatever i s v i r t u o u s i n des i gn, and g l o r i f y a l l t h a t i s n o b l e i n a c t i o n ; t a k i n g o c c a s i o n a l s o , a t the same t i m e , t o pour the l i g h t n i n g o f i n d i g n a t i o n upon e v e r y - t h i n g t h a t i s mean and c o w a r d l y i n the p e o p l e , o r t y r a n n i c a l and c o r r u p t i n t h e i r r u l e r s . 2 ° ° I t i s d o u b t f u l whether Harpur, when he w r o t e t h i s p r e f a c e , was v e r y f a m i l i a r w i t h the p r i n c i p l e s u n d e r l y i n g Emerson's l i f e and work ( t h e poet i n Whitman, o f c o u r s e , was s t i l l untapped p o t e n t i a l , as he put h i s e n e r g i e s i n t o the B r o o k l y n Da i 1 y Eag 1 e). We do know t h a t by the m i d d l e 18 5 0 ' s he had a copy of Emerson's E i g h t Essays (London: Tweedie, 446 1852) and, by the 1860 1 s, he had an o b v i o u s g r a s p o f the New E n g l a n d e r ' s t h o u g h t . But when he w r o t e the Mercury p i e c e , t h i s was p r o b a b l y not the c a s e . And y e t i n i t , we f i n d so much Emersonian c o n t e n t : Emerson's s t r e s s , i n "The P o e t " on "not m e t r e s , but a metre-making argument" p a r a l l e l s Harpur's i n s i s t e n c e t h a t p o e t r y have r e a l s u b s t a n c e by d i r e c t i n g i t s e l f t o l i t e r a r y and s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l c o n c e r n s r e l e v a n t 268 t o the p o p u l a t i o n ; Harpur's r e c o g n i t i o n o f the i n s t r u c t i v e o f f i c e o f the a r t i s t e s t a b l i s h e s him as one o f Emerson's t r u e s c h o l a r s , whose r o l e was " t o c h e e r , t o r a i s e , and t o g u i d e men by showing them f a c t s 269 a m i d s t a p p e a r a n c e s " ; and Harpur, l i k e Emerson, i n s i s t e d on the p o e t ' s d u t y t o p u b l i c l y a s s a i l i n j u s t i c e and any abuses o f power. I f the poet f u l f i l l e d t h i s o b l i g a t i o n , he became, f o r Emerson, one 270 o f the " c h i l d r e n o f the f i r e . " I t i s no c o i n c i d e n c e t h a t Harpur saw f i t t o u n d e r l i n e t h i s same p h r a s e , y e a r s l a t e r , i n h i s Tweedie ed i t i on. Above a l l , Harpur m a i n t a i n e d t h a t the poet had an o b l i g a t i o n t o f o l l o w h i s own i n s t i n c t s , not s o c i e t y ' s — a c o u r s e which promised a rough, u n s e t t l i n g r o a d . When Harpur had t h r e e a r t i c l e s on Emerson pub 1 i s h e d by the Sydney Times i n 1864, he was, by t h e n , f u l l y aware o f the s l i n g s and arrows o f a f i c k l e f r o n t i e r community. Thus, he warmly p r a i s e d Emerson's independence o f s p i r i t , h i s c o n t i n u e d d e t e r - m i n a t i o n t o speak out a g a i n s t s o c i a l wrongs. Of Emerson, Harpur s a i d : "he has no d e s p a i i — n a y , he i s e v e r r e a d i e s t t o champion a s e e m i n g l y d e s p e r a t e t r u t h . In the same s p i r i t he c o n c e i v e s t h a t whatever 271 d i s t u r b s and s t a r t l e s . . . must be . . . good and wholesome." In a c c l a i m i n g t h i s s i d e o f Emerson, Harpur must have known he was i n d i r e c t l y s i n g l i n g out f o r a c c l a i m a p a r t o f h i s own make-up. For some t h i r t y y e a r s he had c o n s t a n t l y paraded h i s c o n t r o v e r s i a l views on s u b j e c t s as w i d e l y d i f f e r i n g as the Crimean War, r e l i g i o n , e d u c a t i o n , r e p u b l i c a n government, a b o r i g i n a l r i g h t s and A u s t r a l i a ' s s q u a t t o c r a c y , i n d e f i a n c e o f the m a j o r i t y f e e l i n g o r o u t s i d e p r e s s u r e s . J u s t a s , i n A m e r i c a , Emerson was j o i n e d on the p u b l i c p l a t f o r m by Channing, Thoreau, F u l l e r , P a r k e r and Brownson. " I t i s not p o s s i b l e t o e x t r i c a t e y o u r s e l f , " Emerson once put i t , "from the q u e s t i o n s i n w h i c h your 272 age i s i n v o l v e d . " Harpur g a i n e d the k i n d o f forum n e c e s s a r y f o r h i s a t t e m p t t o p o p u l a r i z e h i s views when he d e l i v e r e d a l e c t u r e e n t i t l e d "The N a t u r e and O f f i c e o f P o e t r y " a t the Sydney M e c h a n i c a l School o f A r t s i n 273 l a t e September, 1859- Those f a m i l i a r w i t h h i s p r o s e o v e r the p r e v i o u s f i f t e e n y e a r s would have r e c o g n i z e d the p r i n c i p a l themes o f the t a l k as r e c u r r i n g ones i n Harpur's work. But now he proposed them even more a s s u r e d l y . As Channing had done i n h i s e s s a y , " N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " Harpur a s s e r t e d t h a t f o r p o e t r y t o be i m p o r t a n t i t had t o c o n c e r n i t s e l f not o n l y w i t h " t h e u t t e r a n c e o f e x q u i s i t e f e e l i n g and b e a u t i f u l f a n c y , " but w i t h " a l l manner o f moral t r u t h and s o c i a l 274 wisdom. . . ." The poet who " r e g a r d s h i s a r t as m e r e l y amusive, i s e i t h e r unaware o f i t s o r a c u l a r p o s s i b i l i t i e s , o r he has ' f a l l e n from h i s h i g h e s t a t e , ' and become unequal t o i t s d e s t i n y . " Put b l u n t l y , and u s i n g Emerson's (and Whitman's) t e r m i n o l o g y : kk8 . . . the t r u e s o c i a l m i s s i o n o f the p o e t , i n v i r t u e o f . the n a t u r a l bent o f h i s g e n i u s , i s t o e x a l t and p u r i f y our n o b l e s t and most e x q u i s i t e p a s s i o n s ; and by i n f o r m i n g the i m a g i n a t i o n w i t h s u g g e s t i o n s o f l o v e and i d e a l i s m s o f b e a u t y , a t once t o n o u r i s h our c a p a c i t i e s f o r p a t h e t i c f e e l i n g , and e n r i c h our powers of i n t e l l e c t u a l enjoyment. And f u r t h e r , i n n a t i o n a l r e g a r d s , i t i s i n h i s v o c a t i o n , t o i l l u s t r a t e whatever i s v i r t u o u s i n d e s i g n and g l o r i f y a l l t h a t i s n o b l e i n a c t i o n ; and a t the same t i m e , o r from time t o t i m e , as o c c a s i o n may a r i s e , t o e x p l o d e the thunder o f h i s i n d i g n a t i o n a g a i n s t whatever i s d e g e n e r a t e and s l a v i s h i n the p e o p l e , and whatever i s t y r r a n i c and c o r r u p t i n the i r r u l e r s . Here l a y one o f the e s s e n t i a l a s p e c t s o f T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t t h o u g h t . In o p p o s i t i o n t o what Harpur l a t e r termed a "sham age," both the 2 Americans and t h e A u s t r a l i a n a f f i r m e d t h e i r s t a t u s as moral l e g i s l a t o r s . Only then c o u l d they l a y c l a i m t o b e i n g " o r i g i n a l " men. At hits most impudent--and i n t r e p i d - - H a r p u r d e c l a r e d t h a t he was " m i s s i o n e d t o do more, f o r the i n t e l l e c t u a l f u t u r e o f my c o u n t r y than any o t h e r w r i t e r i t p o s s e s s e s , e i t h e r by b i r t h o r a d o p t i o n , " and y e t by h i s n a t u r e he c o u l d not p e r m a n e n t l y a t t a i n a h e i g h t t h a t 275 made him i n d i f f e r e n t t o c r i t i c i s m . He s c e p t i c a l l y a p p r a i s e d Emerson's pronouncement t h a t the " P o e t " would always be known t o h i s 276 own, and always c o n s o l e d " w i t h t e n d e r e s t l o v e . " Harpur knew too 277 w e l l the m a c h i n a t i o n s t y p i c a l o f l o c a l l i t e r a r y p o l i t i c s . So w h i l e he s h a r e d so many a t t i t u d e s w i t h the A m e r i c a n s , and d i d h i s b e s t t o promulgate h i s v i e w s , the u n a l t e r a b l e f a c t remained t h a t A m e r i c a , by 1850, c o u l d s u p p o r t and m o d e r a t e l y encourage i t s a r t i s t s i n a way t h a t was i m p o s s i b l e i n A u s t r a l i a f o r many decades t o come. G o l d - c r a z e d A u s t r a l i a i n the F i f t i e s ran roughshod o v e r the c o n s c i e n t i o u s 4 4 9 few who presumed t o l e g i s l a t e on e t h i c a l grounds, o r who i n s i s t e d on p u t t i n g the poem b e f o r e the h o r s e and nugget. Harpur and Emerson a l s o s h a r e d a b e l i e f i n the d o c t r i n e o f s e l f - r e l i a n c e . When Harpur d i s c o v e r e d Emerson, p r o b a b l y sometime d u r i n g the l a t e r l 8 4 0 ' s , he had a l r e a d y a r r i v e d i n d e p e n d e n t l y a t the c o n c l u s i o n t h a t o n l y t h r o u g h d e t e r m i n e d p e r s o n a l autonomy c o u l d the i n d i v i d u a l , o r poet or s c h o l a r , t r u l y f u l f i l h i s p o t e n t i a l and make a l a s t i n g i m p r e s s i o n on the h i s t o r y of h i s l a n d . Emerson's e s s a y on " S e l f - R e l i a n c e " m e r e l y c o n f i r m e d Harpur i n h i s f i n d i n g s , and T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t d i c t a such as "Whoso would be a man must be a n o n c o n f o r m i s t , " w i t h t h e i r r i n g o f s a c r e d t r u t h , must have hardened 278 h i s r e s o l v e i n times o f doubt. C e r t a i n l y Harpur r e g a r d e d t h i s a r e a of Emerson's thought as p r e e m i n e n t l y i m p o r t a n t . For Harpur, Emerson " a t h i s b e s t " was the p r o f o u n d "Bard o f s e l f - r e l i a n c e , " 279 not the m y s t e r i o u s , Swedenborgian a d v o c a t e o f the O v e r - S o u l . In a p r o s e note t o h i s poem " F i n a l i t y " (1847), Harpur proposed h i s own sense o f i n d i v i d u a l s e l f - r e l i a n c e i n terms o f a n a t i o n a l programme c e n t e r i n g on two a r e a s : e d u c a t i o n and what he l a b e l l e d 280 " s o c i a l i n d i v i d u a l i z a t i o n . " Through t h e s e means e v e r y i n d i v i d u a l might be improved t o the f u l l e x t e n t and . a c c o r d i n g t o the s p e c i f i c c h a r a c t e r o f h i s c a p a c i t y . T h i s i s demanded by a new and s i n g u l a r ( s e l f - s u s t a i n e d and s u s t a i n i n g ) o r d e r o f c o n s c i o u s n e s s , which i s f a s t d e v e l o p i n g i t s e l f i n the whole human r a c e . A l l the g r e a t p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l and r e l i g i o u s i n t e r e s t s t h a t were o r i g i n a l l y o n l y o p e r a n t as m o t i v e powers upon men i n b o d i e s o r n a t i o n a l l y , a r e b e g i n n i n g t o c e n t r e and m a n i f e s t themselves i n Man the i n d i v i d u a l . . . . Hence, t o o , men can no l o n g e r mould 450 them c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y i n t o masses. . . . men, h a v i n g p r o g r e s s e d beyond the s t a t e - 1 e g i s 1 a t i o n c o n t e m p o r a n e o u s l y o b t a i n i n g , may become more and more, t o the d e s t i n e d e x t e n t , each and a l l o f them, Governments i n t h e m s e l v e s . T h i s i s a s e m i n a l passage. The p e r s o n a l p h i l o s o p h i e s o f A u s t r a l i a n and American w r i t e r s have perhaps never been c l o s e r , b e f o r e o r s i n c e , than they a r e i n t h i s e x t r a c t . Here, i n Harpur, a r e Emerson and Channing and Thoreau and P a r k e r and R i p l e y . Only by g o i n g i t a l o n e can the i n d i v i d u a l o b t a i n " s p i r i t u a l p r e r o g a t i v e s . " Harpur, a c u t e l y aware o f the s t i 1 1 - d i f f i c u 1 t l o t o f the C u r r e n c y Lad a t a time when v e s t e d i n t e r e s t s i n A u s t r a l i a were a t t e m p t i n g t o r e i n t r o d u c e t r a n s - p o r t a t i o n , sought t o i n s t i l l i n d i v i d u a l i n t e g r i t y and r e s p o n s i b i l i t y i n the p o p u l a t i o n . He wanted t h o s e who had f o r so l o n g been v i l i f i e d t o s t a n d up f o r t h e m s e l v e s . I t i s no a c c i d e n t t h a t Harpur marked w i t h a p p r o v a l Emerson's q u e s t i o n i n the essay " C h a r a c t e r " : " I f I 281 quake, what m a t t e r s i t what I quake a t ? H In some p o s i t i v e way, Harpur wanted t o a r t i c u l a t e the p r i n c i p l e s u n d e r l y i n g John Dunmore Lang's r h e t o r i c a l c a l l t o a l l t h i n k i n g A u s t r a l i a n s t o make t h e i r s t a n d f o r p o l i t i c a l independence. Harpur h e l d t o the concept o f i n d i v i d u a l s o v e r e i g n t y so f i e r c e l y t h a t he c o u l d , on o c c a s i o n , be e s p e c i a l l y c r i t i c a l o f Emerson when he d e t e c t e d i n the American the s l i g h t e s t s t r a y i n g from the f u l l i m p l i c a t i o n s o f s e l f - r e l i a n c e . Noble and manly c o n d u c t , f o r Harpur, grew out o f the " s p i r i t e d ways / And n a s c e n t s e l f - r e l i a n c e s " o f y o u t h , and a n y t h i n g l e s s than t h i s r i g o r o u s s t a n d a r d t r i g g e r e d a h a s t y 282 rebuke. Harpur would have n o t h i n g o f e q u i v o c a t i o n , nor would he 451 e n t e r t a i n t h o u g h t s t h a t c o u l d not be grounded i n reason o r w h i c h c a r r i e d the t a i n t of a r i s t o c r a t i c c o n d e s c e n s i o n and p r e j u d i c e . The A u s t r a l i a n r e j e c t e d Emerson's n o t i o n of g r e a t men and h i s b e l i e f t h a t you s h o u l d not " c r i t i c i s e a f i n e g e n i u s . " He had had q u i t e enough o f a u t h o r i t y - f i g u r e s when growing up under the r e s t r i c t i o n s o f a penal c o l o n y : . . . [Emerson] has, l i k e C a r l y l e , an a l m o s t i n s a n e a d m i r a t i o n o f c o n q u e r i n g h e r o e s , and o f the mere m a t e r i a l m a g n i f i c e n c e o f armed power. . . . To use a taw term o f s c h o o l b o y s , he would have us "knuck1edown" a t once t o e v e r y v e r i t a b l e man-compel 1er, e v e r y genuine G i a n t B l u n d e r b o r e . . . . But i t i s time a l l t h i s d e m i - d e i f i c a t ion were s c o u t e d from our e t h i c s . I f men a r e e v e r g i a n t s i n any p o l i t i c a l sense, i t [ i s ] o n l y because o f the s l a v i s h w i l l i n g n e s s o f t h e i r c o n t e m p o r a r i e s t o be d w i n d l e d i n t o d w a r f s . And i t s h o u l d be the a c t o f good c i t i z e n s h i p , t h e r e f o r e , - - n o t t o w o r s h i p , but t o c l e n c h a c o l l a r o f i r o n about the t h r o a t o f e v e r y such h e r o i c a l man compound.284 Harpur always put Emerson's pronouncements t o the p r a c t i c a l t e s t . He had seen s u f f i c i e n t i l l - d i r e c t e d h e r o - w o r s h i p i n New South Wales t o make him a t l e a s t s u s p i c i o u s o f t h o s e i n power. U n l i k e Emerson, he knew o n l y too w e l l from h i s own e x p e r i e n c e t h a t unwise^and f o o l i s h 285 l e g i s l a t i o n was not "a rope o f sand" w h i c h p e r i s h e d , " i n the t w i s t i n g . " The r i g i d n a t u r e o f c o l o n i a l government had shown him t h a t change c o u l d o n l y be engendered by an abundance of t o i l , sweat and commitment. For the p r a c t i c a l l y minded Harpur, Emerson's e n l i g h t e n e d b e l i e f s sometimes d e p a r t e d too a b r u p t l y from the s l o u g h o f g r i m r e a l i t y . F u r t h e r m o r e , Harpur l o o k e d askance a t Emerson's seeming c o n t r a d i c t i o n s . The New E n g l a n d e r ' s p r o p e r Concord manners on o c c a s i o n drew Harpur's c r i t i c i s m . How c o u l d the man who so o b v i o u s l y a p p r e c i a t e d farm l i f e 452 when he w r o t e t h a t the d a y - l a b o u r e r i s reckoned as s t a n d i n g a t the f o o t o f the s o c i a l s c a l e , y e t he i s s a t u r a t e d w i t h the laws o f the w o r l d . H i s measures a r e the h o u r s ; morning and n i g h t , s o l s t i c e and e q u i n o x , geometry, astronomy, and a l l the l o v e l y a c c i d e n t s o f n a t u r e , p l a y t h r o u g h h i s mind. - - a l s o say: I c o u l d b e t t e r eat w i t h one who d i d not r e s p e c t the t r u t h o r the laws, than w i t h a s l o v e n and u n p r e s e n t a b l e p e r s o n . Moral q u a l i t i e s r u l e the w o r l d , but a t s h o r t d i s t a n c e s , the senses a r e d e s p o t i c . Z O D On t h i s p o i n t , w i t h the A u s t r a l i a n d e f e n s i v e l y c o n s c i o u s o f h i s s o c i a l s t a n d i n g , Harpur and Emerson were w o r l d s a p a r t . Reading Emerson on manners, Harpur may v e r y w e l l have d i s m i s s e d him as a n o t h e r Tennyson, an " o l d - w o r l d 'Towney'--a d r e s s e r o f p a r t e r r e s , and a peeper i n t o 9 Pt 7 p a r k s . " Harpur saw h i m s e l f , by c o n t r a s t , always as n a t u r a l and s e l f - s u f f i c i e n t man, a t r u e , though o f t e n l o n e l y a d v o c a t e o f democracy. W i t h a f l o u r i s h so c h a r a c t e r i s t i c o f Whitman and Thoreau ( p a r t i c u l a r l y i n Wa1 den ( 1 8 5 4 ) ) , Harpur p r o j e c t e d h i m s e l f as a man o f the woods and mountains--a w i e l d e r o f the axe, and m a i n l y c o n v e r s a n t w i t h a b o r i g i n a l n a t u r e : - - a man made s t e r n and s e l f - r e l i a n t , and thence p l a i n , and even f i e r c e , by n a t a l nearness ( i f I may so speak) t o the i ncunabu1 a m u n d i . 2 S 8 For a b r i e f moment, h e r e , Harpur becomes Emerson's "namer," a s p i r i n g t o a c o n d i t i o n i n complete a c c o r d w i t h h i s e n v i r o n m e n t . In the s e c t i o n e n t i t l e d " S p r i n g , " from Walden, Thoreau g i v e s e x t r a o r d i n a r y 'i 453 e x p r e s s i o n t o t h e s a m e k i n d o f b a r d i c i l l u m i n a t i o n : W h e n I s e e o n t h e o n e s i d e t h e i n e r t b a n k , - - f o r t h e s u n a c t s o n o n e s i d e f i r s t , - - a n d o n t h e o t h e r t h i s l u x u r i a n t f o l i a g e , t h e c r e a t i o n o f a n h o u r , I a m a f f e c t e d a s i f i n a p e c u l i a r s e n s e I s t o o d i n t h e l a b o r a t o r y o f t h e A r t i s t w h o m a d e t h e w o r l d a n d m e , - - h a d c o m e t o w h e r e h e w a s s t i l l a t w o r k , s p o r t i n g o n t h i s b a n k , a n d w i t h e x c e s s o f e n e r g y s t r e w i n g h i s f r e s h d e s i g n s a b o u t . I f e e l a s i f I w e r e n e a r e r t o t h e v i t a l s o f t h e g l o b e . . . . " A t t h o s e m o m e n t s w h e n h e e x p e r i e n c e d t h i s " n a t a l " p r o x i m i t y , H a r p u r n o d o u b t f e l t t h a t n o t e v e n E m e r s o n c o u l d l a y s i m i l a r c l a i m t o a c t i n g o u t t h e f u l l i m p l i c a t i o n s o f h i s p h i l o s o p h i c a l p o s i t i o n a s M a n T h i n k i n g a n d A l o n e . T h e s a m e p r a c t i c a 1 - m i n d e d n e s s a n d i n a b i l i t y t o i m a g i n a t i v e l y e s c a p e h i s s u r r o u n d i n g s t h a t l e d H a r p u r t o i m p u g n E m e r s o n ' s s o c i a l a n d p o l i t i c a l i d i o s y n c r a s i e s , c a u s e d h i m s e r i o u s l y t o q u e s t i o n E m e r s o n ' c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e O v e r - S o u l . H e d e p l o r e d h i s " m y s t i c i s m " o r " T r a n s c e n d e n t t r a s h , " E m e r s o n ' s a t t e m p t t o e x p l o r e p h i l o s o p h i c a l a n d r e l i g i o u s d e p t h s t h a t s e e m e d t o H a r p u r t o b e a r n o r e l a t i o n s h i p 290 w i t h t h e h e r e a n d n o w . A s a n o t h e r n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A u s t r a l i a n p o e t , H e n r y H a l l o r a n , p u t i t , H a r p u r w a n t e d o n l y " L i f e a s i t i s . . . . ' H a r p u r r e g a r d e d E m e r s o n ' s O v e r S o u l , h o w e v e r , a s o n l y a t e m p o r a r y a b e r r a t i o n , m u c h l i k e h i s o w n s h o r t - t e r m l a p s e s i n t o b o u t s o f i n - t e m p e r a n c e : . . . h o w d r u n k h e m u s t h a v e g o t t e n ( n a t u r a l l y s o s t r o n g - h e a d e d a s h e i s ) u p o n t h e l u n a r v i n t a g e o f S w e d e n b o r g , a n d o t h e r s o f t h e i 1 1 u m i n a t e , b e f o r e c o m m i t t i n g h i m s e l f t o t h a t p e r i l o u s e s s a y - - t h e O v e r S o u l ? 2 9 2 454 I n t e r e s t i n g l y , Harpur's p r i n c i p a l o b j e c t i o n t o Emerson's n o t i o n f o c u s s e d o n . i t s b l a t a n t d i s r e g a r d o f i n d i v i d u a l autonomy. He d i d n ' t s i n g l e out i t s e t h e r e a l n a t u r e — r a t h e r the f a c t t h a t , a c c o r d i n g t o Emerson's i d e a , "we have no r a t i o n a l i n d i v i d u a l i t y . " How c o u l d men, w i t h t h e i r s o u l s thus t h r e a t e n e d w i t h e t e r n a l a b s o r p t i o n i n t o the mass, become e s t a b l i s h e d as Governments i n t h e m s e l v e s ? Emerson's Over-Soul t h r e a t e n e d Harpur's p r o c e s s o f s o c i a l i n d i v i d u a l i z a t i o n . He would have none o f i t , and d i s m i s s e d the hazardous concept as 293 "Emerson a t the Worst." The s e r e n e s i d e o f Emerson's c h a r a c t e r t h a t Harpur not o n l y a c c e p t e d , but c e l e b r a t e d , i n v o l v e d h i s a b s o l u t e commitment t o , and p r o f o u n d i n s i g h t i n t o N a t u r e . He r e g a r d e d Emerson's major e s s a y o f t h a t t i t l e as one o f h i s f i n e s t l i t e r a r y c o n t r i b u t i o n s ( " I t i s as i f he had ensconced h i m s e l f b o d i l y i n t o the h e a r t o f the G r e a t Mother. . u 2 ^ ) . And no w o n d e r " N a t u r e " (18 3 6 ) s u p p l i e s Harpur wi t h more than ample j u s t i f i c a t i o n f o r h i s chosen v o c a t i o n , p o l i t i c a l s t a n c e and a t t i t u d e towards the language o f p o e t r y i t s e l f . How the A u s t r a l i a n , i n h i s bush e n v i r o n m e n t , must have warmed t o c h a p t e r IV ("Language") o f the e s s a y , i n p a r t i c u l a r , w i t h i t s c o m p e l l i n g e x p r e s s i o n o f b e l i e f i n the bard o f the w i l d e r n e s s t u r n e d n a t i o n a l p r o p h e t and namer i n the l a n d : The p o e t , the o r a t o r , bred i n the woods, whose senses have been n o u r i s h e d by t h e i r f a i r and a p p e a s i n g changes, y e a r a f t e r y e a r , w i t h o u t d e s i g n and w i t h o u t h e e d , - - s h a l l not l o s e t h e i r l e s s o n a l t o g e t h e r , i n the r o a r o f c i t i e s o r the b r o i l o f p o l i t i c s . Long h e r e a f t e r , a m i d s t a g i t a t i o n and t e r r o r i n n a t i o n a l c o u n c i 1 s , - - i n the hour o f r e v o l u t i o n , - - 455 t h e s e s o l e m n i m a g e s s h a l l r e a p p e a r i n t h e i r m o r n i n g l u s t r e , a s f i t s y m b o l s a n d w o r d s o f t h e t h o u g h t s w h i c h t h e p a s s i n g e v e n t s s h a l l a w a k e n . A t t h e c a l l o f a n o b l e s e n t i m e n t , a g a i n t h e w o o d s w a v e , t h e p i n e s m u r m u r , t h e r i v e r r o l l s a n d s h i n e s , a n d t h e c a t t l e l o w u p o n t h e m o u n t a i n s , a s h e s a w a n d h e a r d t h e m i n h i s i n f a n c y . A n d w i t h t h e s e f o r m s , t h e s p e l l s o f p e r s u a s i o n , t h e k e y s o f p o w e r a r e p u t i n t o h i s h a n d s . 2 9 5 T h e p a s s a g e a l m o s t r e a d s a s a b i o g r a p h y o f H a r p u r , w i t h t h e s o l e d i f f e r e n c e t h a t n o t e v e n l a r g e h e l p i n g s o f n a t i o n a l p r i d e , p o e t i c a m b i t i o n a n d h a r d w o r k c o u l d s h a p e H a r p u r , s o e a r l y i n h i s c o u n t r y ' s l i t e r a r y l i f e , i n t o a p o e t a b l e t o f a i t h f u l l y r e c o r d t h e m u s i c o f t h e A u s t r a l i a n w o o d s i n l a n g u a g e r e c o g n i z a b l y i n h a r m o n y w i t h t h e u n i q u e s o u t h e r n l a n d s c a p e . I n h i s p o e t r y t h e r e o c c u r r e d a c o n s t a n t b a t t l e b e t w e e n N e w - W o r l d i d e a s a n d O l d - W o r l d v e r s e f o r m s a n d l a n g u a g e . A s a p o l i t i c a l t h i n k e r a n d l i t e r a r y t h e o r i s t , H a r p u r w a s d e s t i n e d t o b e c l o s e t o h i s A u s t r a l i a n c o u n t r y m e n m o s t o f h i s l i f e . A s a p r a c t i s i n g p o e t , h o w e v e r , h e w o u l d a c h i e v e t h i s i d e a l p o s i t i o n b u t r a r e l y . CHAPTER VI ENDNOTES ' The t i t l e o f c h a p t e r VI a l l u d e s t o a passage i n D a n i e l Henry Deniehy's " F i r s t N o m i n a t i o n Speech f o r A r g y l e " (I856), r e p r i n t e d i n E.A. M a r t i n , The L i f e and Speeches o f D a n i e l Henry Deniehy (Melbourne: George R o b e r t s o n , 1884), p. 58. See below, s e c t i o n b). G e o f f r e y S e r l e , From D e s e r t s the P r o p h e t s Come (Melbourne: Heinemann, 1973), pp. 58-9- •3 See Green, Hi s t o r y , I, 137"8. k S e r l e , p. 55- 5 See, f o r example, I n g l i s , pp. 275~6. I n t e r e s t i n g l y enough, when n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y Americans l o o k e d t o England and Europe, many s t i l l f e l t t h e i r own c o u n t r y t o be c u l t u r a l l y i n f e r i o r . See, f o r example, P h i l i p Rahv, ed. , D i s c o v e r y o f Europe (New York: Doubleday, I960); C u s h i n g S t r o u t , The American Image o f the Old World (New York: Harper S Row, 1963). 6 S i n n e t , p. 23. 7 See, f o r example, N a d e l , A u s t r a l i a ' s C o l o n i a l C u l t u r e , pp. 68-9, 74. g U n l i k e A m e r i c a , whose r e p u t e d V i k i n g s e t t l e m e n t prompted W i l l i a m G i l m o r e Simms t o a c c l a i m American a n t i q u i t y . See Simms, 457 "The Epochs and Events i n American H i s t o r y , " i n Views and Reviews i n American L i t e r a t u r e , H i s t o r y and F i c t i o n (New York: W i l e y and Putnam, 1845). Q David B l a i r , "Sydney i n 1850: M o r a l s and Manners," Centenn i a 1 Magazi ne, I, No. 10 (May 1889) , 689, quoted i n Ken S t e w a r t , "The C o l o n i a l L i t e r a t u r e i n Sydney and M e l b o u r n e , " New L i t e r a t u r e Review, No. 6 (1979), 11. ^ See Gohdes, Amer i c a n L i t e r a t u r e i n N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y E n g l a n d , pp. 11-12. 1 1 See F r a n c e s D e v l i n G l a s s , " D a n i e l Henry Deniehy (1828-65): a Study of an A u s t r a l i a n Man o f L e t t e r s , " D i s s . A u s t r a l i a n N a t i o n a l U n i v e r s i t y 1974, p. 245. 1 2 Quoted i n Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I, 405- 13 Emerson, J o u r n a l s , V, 288-9. 14 The s e c t i o n t i t l e comes from John Dunmore Lang's l e t t e r t o E a r l Grey, November 14, 1849, i n which he t h r e a t e n s the S e c r e t a r y o f S t a t e f o r the C o l o n i e s t h a t u n l e s s c o n c e s s i o n s a r e made, t o "use a v u l g a r but v e r y e x p r e s s i v e p h r a s e , which I t r u s t your l o r d s h i p w i l l e x c u s e , [the A u s t r a l i a n c o l o n i e s ] w i l l now 'go f o r the whole hog,' o r f o r n o t h i n g a t a 11." R e p r i n t e d i n A r c h i b a l d G i l c h r i s t , ed., John Dunmore Lang, .11'.".,'. (Melbourne: Jedgarm P u b l i c a t i o n s , 1951), p. 459. ' 5 Deniehy t o John Dunmore Lang, June 6, 1854 ( ? ) , quoted i n C y r i l P e a r l , B r i 1 1 i a n t Dan Deniehy: a F o r g o t t e n Genius (Melbourne: Thomas N e l s o n , 1972), p. 35- 458 16 A d r i a n M i t c h e l l , ed., C h a r l e s Harpur (Melbourne: Sun Books, 1 9 7 3 ) , p. 9 1 . 1 7 G o l l a n , R a d i c a l and Working C l a s s P o l i t i c s , pp. 9 ~10 . 18 G i l c h r i s t , John Dunmore Lang ( 1 9 5 1 ) . 19 J.B. H i r s t has p o i n t e d out t h a t , l e s s than a decade a f t e r h i s d e a t h , p u b l i c e f f o r t s t o honour Lang c o m p l e t e l y i g n o r e d h i s r e p u b l i c a n i s m . See J.B. H i r s t , "The P i o n e e r Legend," Hi s t o r i c a i S t u d i e s , X V I I I , No. 2 ( O c t . ' / 1 9 7 8 ) , 3 2 8 ; R.J. McDonald, " R e p u b l i c a n i s m i n the F i f t i e s , " JRAHS, L, P t . 4 (Oct. 1 9 6 4 ) , 262-76. - - . 20 For more d e t a i l e d b i o g r a p h i c a l i n f o r m a t i o n , see ADB, I I , 7 6 - 8 3 ; G i l c h r i s t , f o r e w o r d ; D a v i d S. M a c m i l l a n , John Dunmore Lang (Melbourne: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 6 2 ) . 21 Lang's p r e o c c u p a t i o n s i n c l u d e d r e p u b l i c a n i s m , i m m i g r a t i o n , e d u c a t i o n , a n t i - t r a n s p o r t a t i o n and v o l u n t a r y i s m i n r e l i g i o n . 22 See c h a p t e r I, s e c t i o n c ) , on the " S c o t t i s h M a r t y r s " i n Botany Bay. 23 Quoted i n M e i k l e , S c o t l a n d and the French R e v o l u t i o n , p. 121. 24 See Macmi11 an, p. 3• 2 5 John Dunmore Lang, Poems: Sacred and S e c u l a r (Sydney: W i l l i a m Maddock, 1 8 7 3 ) , p. 106. W h i l e Lang's "Anthem" i s c o n s t r u c t e d i n such a way as t o e n a b l e i t t o be sung t o t h e t u n e o f "God Save the K i n g , " the c o n t e n t c l o s e l y p a r a l l e l s t h a t i n American poems such as Timothy Dwight's " C o l u m b i a " ( 1 7 7 7 ) , J o e l Barlow's The Columbiad (1807) and numerous poems by P h i l i p Freneau (such as "American L i b e r t y , " "A P o l i t i c a l L i t a n y , " and "America I n d e p e n d e n t " ) . 459 26 Lang, Poems, p. 107. 27 Lang, Poems, p. 154. 28 Quoted i n M a c m i l l a n , p. 10. Lang used the same passage, twenty y e a r s l a t e r , i n h i s Freedom and Independence f o r t h e Golden Lands o f A u s t r a 1 i a (London: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, 1852), p. 269. 29 See c h a p t e r I I I, s e c t i o n b). 30 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 224. I was unable t o o b t a i n a copy o f Lang's second e d i t i o n (1837) when w r i t i n g the t h e s i s . 3 ' Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 226. 32 Lang r e f e r s t o Democracy i n America as an " a d m i r a b l e work," and he l a b e l s T o c q u e v i l l e h i m s e l f " t h e a b l e s t European w r i t e r who has y e t w r i t t e n on the s u b j e c t [of A m e r i c a and her i n s t i t u t i o n s ] . " See John Dunmore Lang, R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n i n A m e r i c a (London: Thomas Ward, 1840) , pp. 11, 271. 33 Between 1840 and 1841, Lang v i s i t e d M a s s a c h u s e t t s , C o n n e c t i c u t , Rhode I s l a n d , New Y o r k , New J e r s e y , P e n n s y l v a n i a , Delaware, M a r y l a n d , V i r g i n i a , N o r t h and South C a r o l i n a . See Lang, R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n i n A m e r i c a , p. 9. 34 Lang, p. 10. 35 Lang, p. 1. 36 Lang makes s p e c i f i c r e f e r e n c e t o James O t i s ' The R i g h t s o f the B r i t i s h C o l o n i e s A s s e r t e d and Proved (1765) i n h i s l a t e r Freedom and Independence (1852), p. v i . 460 3 7 Lang, R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n , p. 2 6 1 . See a l s o , John Dunmore Lang, The Comi ng Event; o r , the Un i t e d P r o v i nces o f A u s t r a l i a (Sydney: D.L. Welch, n.d [ 1 8 5 0 ] ), p. 6 . Lang, p. 3 6 4 . 3 9 ^ Lang, p. 3 9 - 40 L e t t e r s t o Edward C a r r i n g t o n ( J a n u a r y 16, 1 7 8 7) and R i c h a r d P r i c e ( J a n u a r y 8 , 1 7 8 9 ) , i n J e f f e r s o n , P a p e r s , IX, 4 9 ; XIV, 420. ^ Lang, p. 4 2 . 4 2 Lang, p. 3 0 6 . 4 3 See Lang, p. 2 1 7 . 4 4 Lang, pp. 424-5- 4 5 Lang, p. 4 1 9 - 46 Lang, pp. 4 5 4 - 5 - See a l s o , f o r example, Freedom and In- dependence, p. 2 8 7 . 4 7 Lang, p. 4 6 5 . 48 In 1 8 6 3 , Lang would p u b l i c l y blame both the N o r t h ( " i t s long and g u i l t y c o m p l i c i t y i n t h a t p e c u l i a r s i n o f the n a t i o n " ) and the South ( " i t s d i r e c t maintenance and s u p p o r t o f the hated i n s t i t u t i o n 1 o f s l a v e r y ) f o r the C i v i l War. See G i l c h r i s t , p. 6 6 8 . 4 9 3 Lang, p. 2 9 9 - 5 0 See Lang, pp. 2 7 1 , 2 9 6 ; G i l c h r i s t , p. 2 7 1 . 5 1 Lang, p. 2 9 9 - 5 2 Lang, pp. 1 5 0 - 2 , 2 5 6 . For more on Van Buren, see Freedom and Independence, p. 1 6 7 - 5 3 Lang, p. 2 9 4 . 461 ^ Lang, p. 13- 5 5 Lang, p. 373- 5 6 Lang, pp. 109, 294, 378-9, 426-7. 5 7 Lang, p. 109. rO Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 347- 59 Quoted i n T u r n e r , The A u s t r a l i a n Dream, pp. 32-4. Lang, Freedom and Independence, pp. 163~4. I t i s w o r t h n o t i n g , h e r e , t h a t n e w s l e t t e r No. 3 (May, 1980) o f the " A u s t r a l i a : B i c e n t e n n i a l H i s t o r y (1788-1988)1' p r o j e c t , l i s t s as a " c e n t r a l theme" f o r the " H i s t o r i c a l Geography" s e c t i o n o f the p r o j e c t the " l o n g - s t a n d i n g A u s t r a l i a n i n f a t u a t i o n w i t h the yeoman f a r m e r . . . ." 61 See s e c t i o n above on John West, Chapter IV, s e c t i o n a). 62 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 364. 63 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 364. 64 See C l a r k , Hi s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a , I I I , 444-5- ^ 5 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 457. F r a n k l i n would become a f a v o u r i t e s o u r c e f o r Lang. In Freedom and Independence (1852), Lang's major r e p u b l i c a n t r e a t i s e , he r e f e r s t o F r a n k l i n c o n s t a n t l y , t a k i n g c a r e t o i d e n t i f y t h e i r common p u r s u i t . In 18501s A u s t r a l i a (and E n g l a n d ) , F r a n k l i n e v i d e n t l y had s u f f i c i e n t p r e s t i g e t h a t he c o u l d be used as Lang's p r i n c i p a l model and i n s p i r a t i o n . See Freedom and Independence, pp. i x - x , 35-7, 39, 339- 66 See M o r i s o n , O x f o r d H i s t o r y o f American P e o p l e , p. 210. 67 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 459- 68 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 460. D e s p i t e the " b l o t " o f s l a v e r y , 462 T a y l o r ' s e l e c t i o n t o the P r e s i d e n c y i n 1844 was i n d i r e c t l y r e s p o n s i b l e f o r two o f A m e r i c a ' s f i n e s t l i t e r a r y works: N a t h a n i e l Hawthorne's The S c a r l e t L e t t e r (1850) and Walt Whitman's Leaves o f Grass (1855). See M o r r i s o n , p. 568. 6 9 P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , J u l y 13, 1850. 7 0 The l e c t u r e s were d e l i v e r e d A p r i l 11, 16, 23, 1850- The f i r s t and second l e c t u r e s were combined and p u b l i s h e d as The Coming Event (1850). See McDonald, p. 262. 7 ^ P a i n e , Common Sense, pp. 91-2. The emphasis i s mine.' 7 2 Lang, pp. 5, 8, 27, 30. 73 For example, Lang, p. 7; P a i n e , Common Sense, p. 90. 7 4 See Lang, p. 5; P a i n e , Common Sense, i n t r o d u c t i o n , pp. 63-4. 7 5 Lang, p. 9- See a l s o , p. 7- 7 ^ P a i n e , R i g h t s o f Man, pp. 183_4. See a l s o , pp. 90-1; Common Sense, p. 98. 7 7 C o n s c i o u s o f the importance o f the t i t l e , the " U n i t e d S t a t e s of A m e r i c a , " Lang d e c l a r e d a t the end o f h i s f i r s t l e c t u r e : " . . . I a n t i c i p a t e t h a t the U n i t e d P r o v i n c e s o f A u s t r a l i a - - f o r I would d e c i d e d l y p r e f e r t h a t name t o the U n i t e d S t a t e s , both because i t i s e q u a l l y a p p r o p r i a t e , and because i t would p r e v e n t a l l a m b i g u i t y , showing t h a t we had no c o n n e c t i o n w i t h the shop o v e r the w a y - - w i l l , e r e l o n g , be the g r e a t l e a d i n g power o f the S o u t h e r n Hemisphere, and w i l l one day e x e r c i s e an i n f l u e n c e o v e r the c i v i l i s e d w o r l d not i n f e r i o r t o t h a t even o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s " (p. 16). See a l s o , pp. 27, 37; Freedom and Independence, pp. 253, 262-3. 463 78 See Lang, pp. 10-13,.31— 2; P a i n e , Common Sense, pp. 86~7• 79 Lang, p. 19- 80 Lang, p. 33- C o n s c i o u s o f h i s a u d i e n c e , Lang c o n c l u d e d h i s second l e c t u r e c r a f t i l y , m a i n t a i n i n g t h a t "I would not f o r a l l the w o r l d t h a t t h a t coming e v e n t , w h i c h , I c o n f e s s , I l o o k and l o n g f o r w i t h a l l my h e a r t , s h o u l d c o s t our Mother dear one s i n g l e t h r o e , one moment's agony, I w i s h not a man from England t o be shot on the o c c a s i o n , nor a s i n g l e s i x p e n c e o f E n g l i s h money t o be l o s t . I w i s h the i n t e r e s t i n g e v e n t t o t a k e p l a c e w i t h o u t a s i n g l e c r y on the p a r t o f the p a r e n t , o r the s l i g h t e s t s t r u g g l e on the p a r t o f the c h i l d " (p. 38). 81 P a i n e , Common Sense, pp. 71"5. 8? See Lang, pp. 14-15, 26-30. 83 Lang, p. 37- See a l s o , p. 16. 84 John Dunmore Lang, The Moral and R e l i g i o u s A s p e c t o f the F u t u r e A m e r i c a o f the S o u t h e r n Hemisphere (New York: James Van Norden, 1840), pp. 5-6. 85 See C l a r k , I I I , 445. For a summary statement o f J e f f e r s o n ' s p r i n c i p l e s , see, f o r example, h i s I n a u g u r a l A d d r e s s (March 4, 1801), i n R i c h a r d s o n , I, 321-4. 86 See l e t t e r t o John D i c k i n s o n (March 6, 1801), i n J e f f e r s o n , L i f e and S e l e c t e d Wr i t i ngs, p. 561. 87 Lang, Freedom and Independence, p. x. 88 Lang, p. 64. See a l s o , Coming Event, p. 64. 89 Lang, pp. 6 4 - 5 . 464 90 Lang, pp. v i , i x - x , 15, 35~ 4 0 , 339- 91 Lang, p. 339- 9 2 Lang, p. 361. See a l s o , pp. 203-4, 211, 220, 259-60. 9 3 See McDonald, pp. 267, 275- 94 Quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 567. Lang uses Channing as a s o u r c e i n Freedom and Independence, p. 266. 95 See Lang, R e l i g i o n and E d u c a t i o n , p. 373- 96 See G i l c h r i s t , p. 561; I n g l i s , p. 219. 97 Empi r e , December 12, 1854, quoted i n G i l c h r i s t , p. 581. 9 8 Lang, Coming Event, p. 36. 99 Lang's " D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence," i n G e o f f r e y S e r l e , The Golden Age (Melbourne: Melbourne U n i v . P r e s s , 1963), a p p e n d i x 6. 1 ^ See G i l c h r i s t , p. i x ; McDonald, pp. 271-2. 1 0 1 McDonald, p. 273- 102 Lang, Freedom and Independence, p. 339. 1 03 \ Lang, p. 259- 104 Over Deniehy s g r a v e , i n Waverly Cemetery, i s the f o l l o w i n g t r i b u t e : The Vehement V o i c e Of The S o u t h , Is Loud Where The J o u r n a l i s t L i e s ; But Calm Hath Encompassed H i s Mouth, And Sweet Is The Peace In H i s Eyes. See ADB, IV, 46. 1 0 5 Deniehy, "On the C o n s t i t u t i o n B i l l , " i n A.L. McLeod, ed., A u s t r a l i a Speaks (Sydney: Wentworth P r e s s , 1969), P- 30. McLeod's 465 e x t r a c t uses the f i r s t person " I " (compared w i t h the t h i r d person "he" o f o r i g i n a l a c c o u n t i n Sydney Morning H e r a l d , August 16, 1853)- See H i r s t , "The P i o n e e r Legend," p. 328. G l a s s , "Deniehy: A u s t r a l i a n Man o f L e t t e r s , " pp. i x , x i i i . •j Qg Deniehy i n Freeman 1 s J o u r n a l , 1865, quoted i n B a r t o n , '. L i t e r a t u r e o f New South Wales, p. 60. 109 Deniehy, "John M i t c h e l l [ s i c Mi t c h e l ] as a L i t e r a r y Man," Freeman's Journa1 , September 15, 1858. R e p r i n t e d i n B a r t o n , Poets and P r o s e W r i t e r s , pp. 109-113. ^ ® Deniehy t o John Dunmore Lang, June 6, 1854 ( ? ) , quoted i n P e a r l , p. 35. Deniehy, " F i r s t N o m i n a t i o n Speech f o r A r g y l e " ( I 8 5 6 ) , quoted i n M a r t i n , L i f e and Speeches o f Deniehy, p. 58. I 1 2 Thomas P a i n e , The Complete W r i t i n g s o f Thomas P a i n e , ed. P h i l i p S. Foner (New York: C i t a d e l P r e s s , 1945), I, 50. II 3 See " C a t a l o g u e " o f Deniehy's b o o k s - - M i t c h e l 1 L i b r a r y 018 2D--item 308. 114 Deniehy, "John M i t c h e l l [ s i c Mi t c h e l ] as a L i t e r a r y Man," Freeman's J o u r n a 1 , September 15, I858. ^ 5 Deniehy, "A famous man was H a r r y F l o o d , " S o u t h e r n C r o s s , October 15, 1859, p. 2. Quoted i n Robert E. S p i l l e r , e t . a l . L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y o f the U n i t e d S t a t e s , r e v . ed. (New York: M a c m i l l a n , 1959), p. 198. ^ 7 B a r t o n , P o e t s and P r o s e W r i t e r s , p. 148. 466 118 G l a s s , a p p e n d i x D, p. 371. 119 "Mr. Deniehy's L e c t u r e b e f o r e t h e A u s t r a l i a n League," p P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , March 18, 18$4. 1 20 In h i s " A u s t r a l i a n League" l e c t u r e (March 18, 1854), f o r example, Deniehy quoted from F r a n k l i n ' s " s q u i b s and j e u x d ' e s p r i t " t o . i 1 1 u s t r a t e "a p a r a l l e l s t a t e o f government p r o f l i g a c y i n the N o r t h American c o l o n i e s b e f o r e the R e v o l u t i o n , t o t h a t p r e v a i l i n g i n A u s t r a l i a a t t h i s moment." T h i s was p r o b a b l y the r e s u l t o f Lang's i n f l u e n c e . 1 ? 1 See Deniehy's " C a t a l o g u e ; " iterns 93, 114, 139, 145, 150, 152, 164, 166, 167, 168, 197, 245, 257, 266, 280, 297, 298, 302, 305, 308, 309, 313, 320, 358, 366, 374, 379, 380, 390, 391, 399, 400, 408, 438, 450, 689, 704. 1 22 Deniehy, "A Legend o f Newtown," Sent i n e i , November 5, 1845; Age ( S y d n e y ) , November 8, 1845. 123 Quoted i n McLeod, p. 30. 124 Channing, i n t r o d u c t o r y remarks t o " E s s a y s , D i s c o u r s e s , e t c . i n Works, p. 61. 1 2 5 G l a s s , p. 198. 126 Deniehy, " A u s t r a l i a n League" l e c t u r e , P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , March 18, 1854. 1 27 Deniehy, Review o f The B u s h r a n g e r s , A P l a y i n F i ve A c t s , and Other Poems by C h a r l e s Harpur, Emp i r e , A p r i l 22, 1853- G l a s s , p. 198. 1 29 Quoted i n Parke Godwin, George W i l l i a m C u r t i s (New York: H a r p e r , 1893), p. 6. 4 6 7 1 3 0 Theodore P a r k e r , "Thoughts on Labour" ( 1 8 4 8 ) , quoted i n Robert E. C o l l i n s , Theodore P a r k e r : American T r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s t (Metuchen, New J e r s e y : Scarecrow P r e s s , 1 9 7 3 ) , pp. 5 ~ 6 . 1 31 Channing, "On the E l e v a t i o n o f the L a b o u r i n g C l a s s e s , " l e c t u r e I, Works, p. 8 3 . See a l s o , l e c t u r e I I , i n which Channing e x p r e s s e s h i s d e s i r e f o r the l a b o u r e r t o be "a s t u d e n t , a t h i n k e r , an i n t e l l e c t u a l man . . ." (Works, p. 9 2 ) . 1 3 2 See d i s c u s s i o n o f J e f f e r s o n ' s f r a m i n g o f the D e c l a r a t i o n o f Independence i n Nye and Grabo, American Thought and W r i t i n g , pp. 5 0 ~ 5 8 . 1 3 3 Quoted i n McLeod, pp. 2 7 _ 8 . -See a l s o , J e f f e r s o n , " O p i n i o n upon the q u e s t i o n whether the P r e s i d e n t s h o u l d v e t o the B i l l , d e c l a r i n g t h a t the s e a t o f government s h a l l be t r a n s f e r r e d t o the Potomac, i n the y e a r 1 7 9 0 , " J u l y 1 5 , 1 7 9 0 , quoted i n J e f f e r s o n , S e l e c t e d Wr i t i ngs, p. 3 1 6 . 1 3 4 J See P a i n e , R i g h t s o f Man, pp. 9 0 , 9 2 , 1 6 6 . 1 3 5 See, f o r example, Deniehy's "The Peerage and Baronetage of New South Wales," P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , November 5 , 1 8 5 3 ; " I n the e a r l y p a r t o f the r e i g n o f George I I I . . . "[The E v i l s of P a t r o n a g e ] , G o u l b u r n H e r a l d , J u l y 2 2 , 1 8 5 4 ; " P l a c e and P a t r o n a g e , " Goulburn H e r a l d , September 2 9 , 1 8 5 5 ; " I n s u p p o r t o f Murray's ant i - p r i mogen i:ture B i l l , " Sydney Morning H e r a l d , J u l y 3 , 1 858. 1 3 6 See Deniehy, "John M i t c h e l l " [ s i c Mi t c h e l ] a r t i c l e , i n B a r t o n , Poets and P r o s e W r i t e r s , e s p e c i a l l y pp. 1 1 0 - 1 1 1 . 1 3 7 Deniehy, " R e b e l l i o n a t B a l l a r a t , " G o u l b u r n H e r a l d , December 1 6 , 1 8 5 4 . Compare t h i s w i t h John Dunmore Lang's r e a c t i o n (see above, 4 6 8 s e c t i o n a) 1 3 8 Compare Deniehy, quoted i n McLeod, p. 3 1 , w i t h P a i n e , R i g h t s o f Man, p. 9 4 . 1 3 9 Deniehy, "The M e e t i n g a t the C i r c u s , " P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , June 6 , 1 8 5 4 . 1 4 0 Deniehy, "The S o l i c i t o r - G e n e r a l ' s Proposed War Tax," G o u l b u r n Hera 1 d , September 2 , 1 8 5 4 . 1 4 1 See above, f o o t n o t e 122. 1 4 2 Deniehy, "Address t o Secure Lang's R e t u r n f o r the C i t y , " P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , A p r i l 2 9 , 1 8 5 4 . 1 4 3 L e t t e r s t o James Madison (December 2 8 , 1 7 9 4 ) and Mann Page (August 3 0 , 1 7 9 5 ) , i n J e f f e r s o n , S e l e c t e d W r i t i n g s , pp. 5 2 9 , 5 3 4 . 1 4 4 Quoted i n McLeod, p. 2 9 . 1 4 5 C u r t i s , "The Duty o f the American S c h o l a r t o P o l i t i c s and the Times," i n George W i l l i a m C u r t i s , O r a t i o n s and A d d r e s s e s o f George W i 1 1 i a m C u r t i s , ed. C h a r l e s E l i o t N o r t o n (New York: Harper & B r o t h e r s , 1 8 9 4 ) , 1 , 5 . 1 4 6 On May 25, 1 8 5 4 , the Kansas-Nebraska B i l l passed the Senate w i t h a c l e a r m a j o r i t y . A c c o r d i n g t o the terms o f the b i l l , the f u t u r e s t a t u s o f K a n s a s — w h e t h e r f r e e o r s l a v e — w o u l d be up t o the i n h a b i t a n t s o f t e r r i t o r y i t s e l f . S o u t h e r n s l a v e h o l d e r s and N o r t h e r n a n t i - s l a v e r y men e n t e r e d a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y i n m a s s i v e numbers. So much b l o o d was shed t h a t the a r e a was soon c a l l e d " B l e e d i n g Kansas." See M o r i s o n , pp. 5 8 9 - 9 3 - 469 1 Z)7 See Deniehy's " L e c t u r e b e f o r e the A u s t r a l i a n League," P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , March 18, 1854; "Address t o Secure Lang's R e t u r n f o r the C i t y , " P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , A p r i l 29, 1854; "New C o n s t i t u t i o n B i l l M e e t i n g i n G o u l b u r n , " G o u l b u r n H e r a l d , November 25, 1854. 148 Deniehy t o M i s s I r o n s i d e , May 25, 1854, quoted i n P e a r l , p. 31- 1 49 Deniehy t o John Dunmore Lang, June 6, 1854 ( ? ) , quoted i n P e a r l , p. 35- Deniehy t o John A r m s t r o n g , J a n u a r y 1, 1856, quoted i n B.T. Dowd, " D a n i e l Henry Deniehy: G i f t e d A u s t r a l i a n O r a t o r , S c h o l a r and L i t e r a r y C r i t i c , " JRAHS, X X X I I I , P t . 2 (1947), 71. ^ J e f f e r s o n ' s " e s s e n t i a l p r i n c i p l e s " of government, as o u t - l i n e d i n h i s I n a u g u r a l A d d r e s s (March 4, 1801), c l o s e l y resembled D e n i e h y ' s . See above, f o o t n o t e 85. 1 52 J e f f e r s o n , "Response t o the A d d r e s s o f Welcome" from the Mayor o f A l e x a n d r i a (March 11, 1790), i n P a p e r s , XVI, 225- 1 53 Deniehy t o John A r m s t r o n g , J a n u a r y 1, 1856, quoted i n Dowd, p. 71. 1 54 Q u o t e d ! i n McLeod, p. 30. See a l s o , " E l e c t i o n e e r i n g i n West Syd. ," Sydney Morning H e r a l d , May 28, 1859. ^ 5 See, f o r example', J e f f e r s o n ' s l e t t e r t o John Adams (October 28, 1813), i n J e f f e r s o n , S e l e c t e d W r i t i n g s , pp. 632-4; W i l l i a m W i r t , S k e t c h e s o f the L i f e and C h a r a c t e r o f P a t r i c k Henry ( P h i l a d e l p h i a : J.S. W i n s t o n , 1817. 470 ' R a l p h Waldo Emerson, "The D i v i n i t y School A d d r e s s , " i n The C o l l e c t e d Works o f Ralph Waldo Emerson, I (Cambridge, M a s s a c h u s e t t s : B e l k n a p P r e s s , H a r v a r d , 1971), 77"8, h e r e a f t e r c i t e d as Col 1ected Works. As o n l y two volumes o f t h e C o l l e c t e d Works have thus f a r been p u b l i s h e d , q u o t a t i o n s from works y e t t o be c o l 1ected w i l l be taken from Works o f Ralph Waldo Emerson ( E d i n b u r g h : W.P. Nimmo, Hay & M i t c h e l l , 1906), h e r e a f t e r c i t e d as Works. Channing, "Remarks on N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " Works, p. 135- 1 58 Deniehy, " F r e d e r i c k R o b e r t s o n ' s L e c t u r e s , " S o u t h e r n Cross> November 12, 1859, quoted i n M a r t i n , p. 154. 159 Deniehy, "Mr. Frank Fowler's M a g a z i n e , " Freeman's J o u r n a 1 , J u l y 11, 1857. R e p r i n t e d i n B a r t o n , Poets and P r o s e W r i t e r s , p. 113- 1 60 Deniehy, "Mr. Frank Fowler's Magazine," i n B a r t o n , p. 114. l 6 l Channing, "Remarks on N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " Works, p. 134; O r e s t e s A. Brownson, "American L i t e r a t u r e " (1839)> i n The Works o f O r e s t e s A. Brownson, c o l l . by Henry F. Brownson ( D e t r o i t , 1882-1902; r p t . New York: AMS P r e s s , 1966), XIX, 27. 1 62 Deniehy, " A u s t r a l i a n League" l e c t u r e , People's A d v o c a t e , March 18, 1854. 163 Deniehy, "Address t o Secure Lang's R e t u r n f o r the C i t y , " P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , A p r i l 29, 1854. 164 Deniehy, " A u s t r a l i a n N a t i v e - B o r n Poets I I , " Sydney Morn i ng Hera I d , October 10, 1864. I t can, o f c o u r s e , be argued t h a t Deniehy i s here v o i c i n g i d e a s f a s h i o n a b l e a t t h e t i m e , r a t h e r than s p e c i f i c a l l y American ones ( w i t n e s s the p o p u l a r i t y , i n England and A m e r i c a , of 471 Samuel S m i l e s ' S e l f - H e l p (London: J . Murray, 1859)). T h i s can be c o u n t e r e d , however, by c i t i n g the a c t u a l v o c a b u l a r y Deniehy u s e s , d e r i v e d as i t o b v i o u s l y i s from Channing and Emerson. 1 C h a n n i n g , " S e l f - C u l t u r e , " Works, p. 65. Channing, Works, p. 70. 167 Quoted i n B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, p. 60. 168 Deniehy, "Mr. N i c h o l l ' s G a l l e r y a t Wool loomoo l o o , " Empi r e , November 19, 1851 - See a l s o , F. D e v l i n G l a s s , "D.H. Deniehy as a C r i t i c o f C o l o n i a l L i t e r a t u r e , " A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y S t u d i e s , IX, No. 3 (May 1980), 330. 169 Walt Whitman, P r e f a c e , 1855, t o F i r s t Issue o f Leaves o f G r a s s , i n P r o s e Works 1892, ed. F l o y d S t o v a l l , II (New York: New York U n i v . P r e s s , 1964), 435~7. Whitman's thought i n the 1855 P r e f a c e seems t o d e v e l o p through the r h e t o r i c he uses. C a r r i e d away by language, i d e a s o c c u r t o him. Whether t h i s i s a l s o t r u e o f Deniehy i t i s i m p o s s i b l e t o s a y , s i nee .we a r e f o r c e d l a r g e l y t o r e l y on contemporary newspaper a c c o u n t s . 1 7 < ^ Deniehy, " N a t i v e - B o r n A u s t r a l i a n P o e t s , No. I , " Sydney Morning H e r a l d , September 29, 1864. 1 7 1 See C e c i l W. S a l i e r , "The L i f e and W r i t i n g s of C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " JRAHS, X X X I I , P t . 2 (1946), 94. 1 72 Deniehy, Review o f The B u s h r a n g e r s , A P l a y i n F i v e A c t s , and Other Poems by C h a r l e s H a r p u r , Emp i r e , A p r i l 22, 18 5 3; "The P o e t r y o f C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " Sydney Morning H e r a l d , November 27, 1857- 472 1 73 G l a s s , "Deniehy as a C r i t i c , " p. 332. 174 See G l a s s , "Deniehy as a C r i t i c , " pp. 332-3- 1 7 5 Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The New P o e t r y , " The D i a l , O c t o b e r , 1840. R e p r i n t e d i n P e r r y M i l l e r , The T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s : An A n t h o l o g y (Cambridge: H a r v a r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1950), pp. 375~8l . 1 76 Brownson, "American L i t e r a t u r e " (1839), Works, XIX, 28. ' 7 7 Deniehy, "The P o e t r y o f C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " Sydney Morning H e r a l d , November 24, 1857. 178 " C o r r e s p o n d e n t , " i n Sydney Morning H e r a l d , November 27, 1857• I 79 Deniehy, l e t t e r t o the e d i t o r , Sydney Morning H e r a l d , November 28, 1857- 1 80 Channing, "Remarks on N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " Works, p. 135- See a l s o , p. 134. l 8 l G l a s s , "Deniehy: A u s t r a l i a n Man o f L e t t e r s , " p. 46; W i l l i a m J . Sowder, Emerson's Impact on the B r i t i s h I s l e s and Canada ( C h a r l o t t e s - v i l l e , V i r g i n i a : U n i v . P r e s s o f V i r g i n i a , 1966), pp. 200-202. 182 Emerson, "Uses o f Great Men," i n R e p r e s e n t a t i v e Men (1850), Works, p. 715; Deniehy, " F i r s t N o m i n a t i o n Speech f o r A r g y l e " (I856), quoted i n M a r t i n , p. 57- 1 g o See, f o r example, Deniehy, " L e g i s l a t i v e Advancement o f Knowledge," G o u l b u r n H e r a l d , August 5, 1854; L a y i n g o f the f o u n d a t i o n s t o n e a t the G o u l b u r n M e c h a n i c s ' I n s t i t u t e , G o u l b u r n H e r a l d , J a n u a r y 6, I858. For more on t h e s e a d d r e s s e s , see G l a s s , "Deniehy: A u s t r a l i a n Man o f L e t t e r s , " pp. 46-7- 473 184 Deniehy, "Mr. Frank F o w l e r ' s Magazine," i n B a r t o n , P o e t s and P r o s e Wr i t e r s , p. 115- 1 85 See Deniehy, " A u s t r a l i a n N a t i v e - B o r n Poets I I , " Sydney Morning H e r a l d , October 10, 1864. 186 Emerson, "Uses o f G r e a t Men," i n R e p r e s e n t a t i v e Men (1850), Works, p. 716. In r e c e n t decades, both American and A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s have once a g a i n seen the need t o s t r e s s the " l o c a l " i n t h e i r work. C h a r l e s O l s o n , W i l l i a m C a r l o s W i l l i a m s and J o n a t h a n W i l l i a m s i n A m e r i c a , and Les Murray and Bruce Dawe i n A u s t r a l i a , a r e perhaps the b e s t examples. 187 Deniehy t o Henry P a r k e s , December 16, 1854, quoted i n Dowd, p. 69. 188 Deniehy, " F i r s t N o m i n a t i o n Speech," quoted i n M a r t i n , p. 57. 1 89 P a r k e r , quoted i n C o l l i n s , p. 11. 190 Deniehy, " F r e d e r i c k R o b e r t s o n ' s L e c t u r e s , S o u t h e r n C r o s s , November 12, 1859- 191 Channing, Works, p. 93- See a l s o , " S e l f - C u l t u r e , " Works, pp. 65, 69, 76; P a r k e r , quoted i n C o l l i n s , p. 109. 1 92 Deniehy, L a y i n g o f t h e F o u n d a t i o n S t o n e , G o u l b u r n H e r a l d , J a n u a r y 6, I858. I t s h o u l d be mentioned here t h a t the " M e c h a n i c s ' I n s t i t u t e " was an E n g l i s h i n v e n t i o n ; the "Lyceum" o r "Chautauqua" was an American i m i t a t i o n . In E n g l a n d , the I n s t i t u t e s were i n t r o d u c e d t o improve the l o t o f the lower c l a s s e s , w h i l e i n America the Lyceums were i n t e n d e d t o c r e a t e an informed p o p u l a c e . I t i s o b v i o u s t h a t w h i l e he a c c e p t e d the term " M e c h a n i c s ' I n s t i t u t e , " Deniehy f o r e s a w 474 t h i s body f u l f i l l i n g an American f u n c t i o n . 193 Channing, quoted i n Brown, p. 98. 194 Quoted i n McLeod, p. 30. 195 Deniehy, "An I m p r o v i s a t i o n , " People's A d v o c a t e , F e b r u a r y 18, 1854. 196 Brownson, "American L i t e r a t u r e " (1839), i n Works, XIX, 35- See a l s o , Channing, "On the E l e v a t i o n o f the L a b o u r i n g C l a s s e s , " l e c t u r e I I , Works, p. 94. 197 Deniehy, "Mr. R.H. H o r i i e ' s Book on A u s t r a l i a , " S o u t h e r n C r o s s , December 31, 1859. 198 For a d i s c u s s i o n o f American a t t i t u d e s t o s l a v e r y , see A l b e r t K. Weinberg, M a n i f e s t D e s t i n y ( B a l t i m o r e : Johns Hopkins P r e s s , 1935)- 199 See, f o r example, Channing's " S l a v e r y " (1835), "The A b o l i t i o n i s t s " (1836), "A L e t t e r t o the Hon. Henry C l a y " (1837), "Remarks on the S l a v e r y Q u e s t i o n " (1839), " E m a n c i p a t i o n " (1840) and "The Duty o f the F r e e S t a t e s " (1842), i n Works, pp. 488-629; Robert C. A l b r e c h t , Theodore P a r k e r (New York: Twayne, 1971), pp. 91-122. 2 ^ Deniehy t o Henry P a r k e s , November ( ? ) , I856, quoted i n P e a r l , p. 55. 201 A r t h u r A l p h o n s e E k i r c h , The Idea o f P r o g r e s s i n A m e r i c a , 1815-1860 (New York: P e t e r S m i t h , 1951), p. 38. 202 Brownson, "Young A m e r i c a , " New York Mi r r o r , XX (October 22, 1842), 338, quoted i n E k i r c h , p. 52. See a l s o , E k i r c h on Whitman (p. 52), Channing (pp. 150-3), P a r k e r (pp. 153-5), F u l l e r (p. 157), Emerson (pp. 157-62) and Thoreau (pp. 162-3)- 475 203 D e n i e h y , R e v i e w o f T h e B u s h r a n g e r s , Empi r e , A p r i l 2 2 , 1853- 204 D e n i e h y , In s u p p o r t o f t h e F r e e S e l e c t i o n C l a u s e , S y d n e y M o r n i n g H e r a l d , O c t o b e r 2 7 , i 8 6 0 . D e n i e h y ' s i d e a , h e r e , m u s t be d i s t i n g u i s h e d f r o m t h e A m e r i c a n n o t i o n o f " M a n i f e s t D e s t i n y " i n o n e i m p o r t a n t s e n s e . W h i l e he i n t e n d e d h i s s o u t h e r n U t o p i a t o s e r v e a s a model t o a t t r a c t t h e w o r l d , t h e A m e r i c a n c o n c e p t o f " M a n i f e s t D e s t i n y , " a s A l b e r t K. W e i n b e r g h a s shown i n M a n i f e s t D e s t i n y , was t o i n s t r u c t t h e w o r l d . G l a s s , " D e n i e h y : A u s t r a l i a n Man o f L e t t e r s , " p . 2 5 3 - 205 „,_„_ „ 206 . , . . . See below, c o n c l u s i o n . 207 George R i p l e y t o Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1840, quoted i n George H o c h f i e l d , ed., S e l e c t e d W r i t i n g s of the American T r a n s c e n d e n t a 1 i s t s (New York: New American L i b r a r y , 1966), p. 373- 208 L e t t e r t o John Adams ( A p r i l 8, 1816), i n J e f f e r s o n , S e l e c t e d Wr i t i ngs , p. 667. 2°9 c k , , • See below, c o n c l u s i o n . 210 See Deniehy, " F r e d e r i c k R o b e r t s o n ' s L e c t u r e s , " S o u t h e r n C r o s s , November 12, 1859; " L o n g f e l l o w ' s Recent Poems. 'The C o u r t s h i p o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h , "' S o u t h e r n C r o s s , December 17, 1859; "Washington I r v i n g , " S o u t h e r n C r o s s , F e b r u a r y 11, i860; "George Sand," r e p r i n t e d i n B a r t o n , Poets and P r o s e W r i t e r s , pp. l 4 0 r l . See a l s o B a r t o n , pp. 101, 103-6, 131-2; M a r t i n , pp. 154-5, 177"9, 188, 217. 211 Deniehy, " R o b e r t s o n ' s L e c t u r e s , " 1859-212 Channing, "Remarks on N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e , " Works, p. 138. 476 213 C h a r l e s Harpur, Poems (Melbourne: George R o b e r t s o n , 1883). 214 In 1851, two y e a r s b e f o r e Harpur p u b l i s h e d h i s The Bushrangers and Other Poems, he had i n t e n d e d t o p u b l i s h a volume o f poems, many o f them s t a u n c h l y r e p u b l i c a n , t o be e n t i t l e d The W i l d Bee o f A u s t r a l i a . See S a l i e r , p. 93- 215 Harpur, "To an Echo on the Banks o f the H u n t e r , " A u s t r a 1 as i an C h r o n i c l e , March 14, 1843, r e p r i n t e d i n Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800- 1850," I I I , 41. 216 See C.W. S a l i e r , "Harpur and h i s E d i t o r , " S o u t h e r 1y, X I I , No. 1 (1951), 47-54. 21 7 Harpur, Thoughts: A S e r i e s of Sonnets (Sydney: W.A. Duncan, 1845); The B u s h r a n g e r s , a P l a y i n F i v e A c t s , and Other Poems (Sydney: W.R. P i d d i n g t o n , 1853); Poems (Melbourne: George R o b e r t s o n , 1883); S e l e c t e d Poems o f C h a r l e s Harpur, ed. Kenneth H. G i f f o r d and Donald F. H a l l (Melbourne: J.C. Stephens, 1944); A d r i a n M i t c h e l l , ed., C h a r l e s Harpur (Melbourne: Sun Books, 1973). 218 J u d i t h W r i g h t makes the same p o i n t i n W r i g h t , C h a r l e s Harpur (Melbourne: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1977), p. 44. 219 Weekly R e g i s t e r , September 27, 1845. See Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I I , 342. 220 See, f o r example, W r i g h t , C h a r l e s Harpur (1977); E l i z a b e t h P e r k i n s , "Emerson and C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y S t u d i e s , V I , No. 1 (May 1973), 82-88; P e r k i n s , "The R e l i g i o u s F a i t h o f C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " Quadrant, X X I I I , No. 143 (June 1979), 29~35; V i j a y M i s h r a , "The L i t e r a r y R e p u t a t i o n o f C h a r l e s Harpur: 1868-1900,'1 S o u t h e r l y , 477 XXXVI, No. 1 (1976), 432-40; M i s h r a , " C h a r l e s Harpur's R e p u t a t i o n 1853-1858: the Y e a r s o f C o n t r o v e r s y , " A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a r y S t u d i e s , V I I I , No. 4 (October 1978), 446-56. 221 The o n l y c r i t i c who has g i v e n Harpur's f i g h t i n g s i d e any p r o l o n g e d a t t e n t i o n i s h i s b i o g r a p h e r , J . N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , i n h i s C h a r l e s Harpur, an A u s t r a 1 i a n (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1962). 222 T h i s t o p i c a l o n e , l o o k i n g a t Americans such as Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Hawthorne and M e l v i l l e , would be w o r t h a l o n g e s s a y , i f not a t h e s i s . 223 Emerson, " S e 1 f - R e l i anee," i n E s s a y s : F i r s t Ser i es (1841), C o l l e c t e d Works, I I , 47. 224 See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , p. 14. 225 See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , p. 23; C l a r k , H i s t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a , M l , 457. 226 See P e r k i n s , " R e l i g i o u s F a i t h , " 29"35- 227 Harpur, p r o s e p r e f a c e t o " F i n a l i t y , " Empi r e , June 30, 1851, quoted i n Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y , p. 148. 228 Harpur, Poems, p. x i i i . 229 I t seems Harpur a l s o had a d m i r a t i o n f o r the " f a t h e r " o f t h e A m e r i c a n R e v o l u t i o n - - h e named one o f h i s sons"Washington." See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , p. 168. See a l s o , p. 152. 2 3 0 J e f f e r s o n , P a p e r s , XVI, 225. 2 3 1 See Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I I , 52. 232 -See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , p. 82; Harpur, "Edmund B u r k e , " quoted i n M i t c h e l l , p. 151. 478 233 Harpur, "Tree o f L i b e r t y , " quoted i n T u r n e r , The A u s t r a 1 i a n Dream, pp. 50-1. 234 Harpur, "The E m i g r a n t ' s V i s i o n , " Poems, p. 199. 235 Emerson, " P o l i t i c s , " i n E s s a y s : Second S e r i e s (1844), Works, p. 207. As E l i z a b e t h P e r k i n s i n "Emerson and C h a r l e s H a r p u r " (1973) has shown, Harpur a c q u i r e d a copy o f Emerson's E i g h t Essays (London: Tweedie, 1852) i n 1855. The a c t u a l t e x t , i n which Harpur marked the passages he l i k e d and d i s l i k e d , i s i n the M i t c h e l l L i b r a r y . "I w i l l r e f e r t o the marked Tweedie t e x t t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s e c t i o n . T h i s passage from " P o l i t i c s , " f o r example, Harpur endorsed i n h i s t e x t . 2 3 6 Harpur, "Words," i n M i t c h e l l , p. 94. 237 Harpur, P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , December 8, 1849, quoted i n Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I I , 88. 9 38 Harpur,"Note t o R e p u b l i c a n L y r i c , " i n M i t c h e l l , p. 148. 239 Quoted i n N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , p. 194. 240 Harpur, i n P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e , J a n u a r y 7, 1854. 241 See above, f o o t n o t e 214. 242 Harpur, i n a war song f o r the A u s t r a l i a n League (1853), quoted i n J . N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , "A C u r r e n c y Lad P o e t , " Quad r a n t , VII (1963), 23. See a l s o , "Never Mind," i n M i t c h e l l , p. 82. 243 P a i n e , R i g h t s o f Man, p. I69. 244 Harpur, Sydney C h r o n i c l e , December 23, 1847. 245 Harpur o f t e n used the term " r i g h t s o f man." See, f o r example, Harpur, quoted i n N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , " C u r r e n c y Lad P o e t , " p. 23; C h a r l e s Harpur, an A u s t r a l i a n , p. 192. For more on Harpur's s u p p o r t 479 o f n a t i o n a l l i b e r a t i o n movements, see "On the E a s t e r I l l u m i n a t i o n o f St P e t e r ' s a t Rome" ( M i t c h e l l , p. 8 8 ) ; "John H e k i " (Poems, p. 244). 246 Harpur, quoted i n M i t c h e l l , p. x v i . See a l s o , "Bush J u s t i c e , 1 p. 1 0 1 . 247 Harpur d i d not hate England i n the way t h a t Thomas P a i n e d i d . See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s H a r p u r , p. 5; P a i n e , Common Sense, pp. 7 1 - 8 l . 248 See Harpur, i n M i t c h e l l , pp. 79, 92, 96; G o l l a n , R a d i c a l and Working C l a s s P o l i t i c s , p. 17; Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y , p. 75- 249 Harpur, quoted i n N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, p. 138. See a l s o Harpur, "The New Land O r d e r s , " i n M i t c h e l l , p. 146. I t i s worth m e n t i o n i n g t h a t Harpur's s e n t i m e n t s here c l o s e l y resemble t h o s e o f Emerson; i n h i s F o r t u n e o f the R e p u b l i c . See Emerson, Works, pp. 959-71. 250 Harpur, "A C o n f e s s i o n , " i n M i t c h e l l , p. 140. 251 Whitman, D e m o c r a t i c V i s t a s ( 1 871), i n P r o s e Works 1892, M , 369-70. 252 Harpur, "To the L y r e o f A u s t r a l i a " ( w r i t t e n i n 1835), quoted i n S a l i e r , p. 92. Between September and December, 1842, Harpur p u b l i s h e d . e i g h t p o e m s - - i n c l u d i n g " L y r e " and " A u s t r a l i a Huzza!"-- w h i c h he l a b e l l e d h i s " A u s t r a l i a n L y r i c s . " 253 Emerson, "The P o e t , " i n E s s a y s : Second S e r i e s ( 1 8 4 4 ) , Works, p. 133- Harpur, i n h i s Tweedie t e x t o f Emerson's e s s a y s , marked w i t h o b v i o u s a p p r o v a l a s e c t i o n from "The P o e t " where Emerson s t a t e s t h a t " p o e t r y was a l l w r i t t e n b e f o r e time was, and whenever we a r e 480 so f i n e l y o r g a n i s e d t h a t we can p e n e t r a t e i n t o t h a t r e g i o n where the a i r i s m u s i c , we hear t h o s e p r i m a l w a r b l i n g s , and a t t e m p t t o w r i t e them down. .... The men o f more d e l i c a t e ear w r i t e down t h e s e cadences more f a i t h f u l l y , and t h o s e t r a n s c r i p t s , though i m p e r f e c t , become the songs o f the n a t i o n s " (Works, p. 134). Harpur agreed w i t h Emerson's i d e a t h a t the t r u e poet o b s e r v e d the e s s e n c e o f t h i n g s , the r e a l name, but he seems t o have e x p e r i e n c e d t h e s e moments o f p o e t i c i n s i g h t o n l y r a r e l y . 254 Harpur, " C h a r a c t e r i s t i c s of the C o c k a t o o , " i n M i t c h e l l , pp. 168-9. See a l s o "A Storm i n the M o u n t a i n s " and "The Kangaroo Hunt," i n which Harpur, i n . l o n g p r o s e n o t e s , d i s c u s s e s t h e A u s t r a l i a n l o c u s t and s e v e r a l A u s t r a l i a n b i r d s ( M i t c h e l l , p. 56; Normington- R a w l i n g , "A C u r r e n c y Lad P o e t , " pp. 16-18). 255 See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, p. 274. 256 See W r i g h t , pp. 15, 30-1; N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, pp. 21, 316. 257 P a i n e , Common Sense, p. 120; Emerson, "The Young A m e r i c a n " ( F e b r u a r y 7, 1844), i n Col 1ected Works, I, 230. 258 In a p r o s e note t o h i s long poem, "The Temple o f Infamy" (1847), Harpur d e c l a r e d t h a t America had become a l a n d o f "go-ahead s e l f i s h n e s s . " I t was "unworthy o f the g r a v e s o f a Washington, a Henry and a Channing!" (quoted i n N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, p. 152). Harpur must have d e e p l y r e s e n t e d the i n f l u x i n t o 1850' s A u s t r a l i a o f p r o f i t - m i n d e d Americans such as George F r a n c i s T r a i n , who f l a u n t e d Young A m e r i c a ' s economic r a p a c i t y . 48] 259 Q u o t e d ! i n S a l i e r , pp. 93-4. See a l s o , "The E m i g r a n t ' s V i s i o n , ' Poems, pp. 197-9. 260 R.W.B. L e w i s , The American Adam ( C h i c a g o : U n i v . o f C h i c a g o P r e s s , 1955), p. 5- 261 Harpur, "To the L y r e o f A u s t r a l i a , " quoted i n S a l i e r , p. 92. 262 "The Dream by the F o u n t a i n " f i r s t appeared i n Duncan's A u s t r a l a s i a n C h r o n i c l e , June 10, 1843. See N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s H a r p u r , p. 94; Webby, " L i t e r a t u r e : 1800-1850," I I I , 40. Harpur, i n M i t c h e l l , pp. 85-6. 264 B a r t o n , L i t e r a t u r e i n New South Wales, p. 99. Henry K e n d a l l , on the o t h e r hand, c l e a r l y approved o f Harpur's pose. The l a s t s t a n z a of K e n d a l l ' s poem, "To C h a r l e s H a r p u r " (1862), i n d i c a t e s h i s p o s i t i o n : I would s i t a t your f e e t , f o r I f e e l I am one o f a g l o r i o u s band That e v e r w i l l own you and h o l d you t h e i r C h i e f , And a Monarch of Song i n the l a n d ! ( P o e t i c a l Works, p. 45) K e n d a l l d e t e r m i n e d t o r e p r i n t and p u b l i c i z e Harpur's b o a s t . 2 6 5 Weekly R e g i s t e r , J u l y 26,11845. 266 M a i t l a n d M e r c u r y , June 3, 1846, quoted i n N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, p. 114. 267 See above, f o o t n o t e 235- 268 Emerson, "The P o e t , " i n E s s a y s : Second S e r i e s (1844), i n Works, p. 135. Harpur marked t h i s pasage a p p r o v i n g l y i n h i s Tweedie t e x t . 482 269 Emerson, "The American S c h o l a r " ( 1 8 3 7 ) , i n Col 1ected Works, I , 62. 270 Emerson, "The P o e t , " i n Works, p. 133- 271 Harpur's t h r e e a r t i c l e s on Emerson appeared i n the Sydney Times, A p r i l 23, A p r i l 30, May 7, 1864. T h i s e x t r a c t comes from the t h i r d a r t i c l e , May 7, 1864, p. 3- 272 Emerson, F o r t u n e o f the R e p u b l i c , i n Works, p. 969- 273 See "Mr. Harpur's L e c t u r e , " Empi r e , October 3, 1859 - 2 7 4 Harpur, " E p i t a p h , " i n M i t c h e l l , p. 176. 275 See P e r k i n s , "Emerson and C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " p. 84; J o r d e n s , pp. 62-3. Harpur, i n h i s Tweedie t e x t , c l e a r l y showed' h i s d i s a g r e e - ment w i t h Emerson's s t a t e m e n t t h a t "Men o f c h a r a c t e r l i k e t o hear o f t h e i r f a u l t s . . . ." See Emerson's " C h a r a c t e r , " i n E s s a y s : Second S e r i e s (1844), Works, p. 167. 276 T h i s passage, from Emerson's "The P o e t , " Harpur marked w i t h t h r e e heavy c r o s s e s o f d i s a p p r o v a l i n h i s Tweedie t e x t . 277 See, f o r example, Harpur i n M i t c h e l l , pp. 127, 132, 175- Emerson, " S e l f - R e l i a n c e , " i n E s s a y s : F i r s t S e r i e s (1841), Col 1ected Works, I I , 29. 279 Harpur, "To the A m e r i c a n , Emerson," i n M i t c h e l l , p. 89. 280 Harpur, Empi r e , June 30, 1851, quoted i n Roe, Quest f o r A u t h o r i t y , pp. 148-9. See a l s o , N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, p. 161. 281 Emerson, " C h a r a c t e r , " i n Works, p. 167- 483 282 Harpur, "Monodies" I I , Poems, p. 173- Emerson, " N o m i n a l i s t and R e a l i s t , " i n E s s a y s : Second S e r i e s (1844), Works, p. 217- T h i s passage i s marked w i t h heavy c r o s s e s i n Harpur's Tweedie t e x t . 284 Harpur, Sydney Times, A p r i l 23, 1864. "True g r e a t n e s s i n man," f o r Harpur, depended on the " q u a l i t i e s o f j u s t i c e , h o n e s t y and f r a t e r n a l f a i t h and hope, i n h o l y a l l i a n c e w i t h g e n i u s , o r the h i g h e s t o r d e r o f t a l e n t . . . ." (quoted i n N o r m i n g t o n - R a w l i n g , C h a r l e s Harpur, p. 167). 285 Emerson, " P o l i t i c s , " i n Works, p. 202. T h i s passage i s marked w i t h heavy c r o s s e s i n Harpur's Tweedie t e x t . 286 Emerson, " N o m i n a l i s t and R e a l i s t , " i n Works, p. 213; "Manners, 1 i n E s s a y s : Second S e r i e s (1844), i n Works, pp. 181-2. Both passages a r e marked i n Harpur's Tweedie t e x t , the f i r s t a p p r o v i n g l y , the second w i t h c r o s s e s o f d i s a p p r o v a l . 287 Harpur, "On Tennyson," i n M i t c h e l l , p. 126. 289 288 M i t c h e l 1 , p. 126 Henry David Thoreau, " S p r i n g , " i n Wa1 den (1854), i n The W r i t i n g s o f Henry D a v i d Thoreau, II ( B o s t o n : Houghton, M i f f l i n , 1893), 472. 290 Harpur, Sydney Times, A p r i l 23, 1864. See a l s o , "Emerson," i n M i t c h e l l , p i 175; "Emerson a t the Worst," r e p r i n t e d i n P e r k i n s , "Emerson and C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " p. 83. 291 Henry H a l l o r a n , "The Bards' C o l l o q u y , " r e p r i n t e d i n B a r t o n , Poets and P r o s e W r i t e r s , p. 213. 484 292 Harpur, Sydney Times, A p r i l 30, 1864, p. 3. 293 See P e r k i n s , "Emerson and C h a r l e s H a r p u r , " p. 83. 294 Harpur, Sydney Times, May 7, 1864, p. 3- 2 9 5 Emerson, " N a t u r e " (1836) , i n C o l l e c t e d Works, I, 21. CONCLUSION We have no r e c o r d s o f a bygone shame, No r e d - w r i t h i s t o r i e s o f woe t o weep: God s e t our land i n summer seas a s l e e p T i l l H i s f a i r morning f o r her waking came. John F a r r e l l , "No," i n How He Died and Other Poems, ( 1 8 8 / T T 1 Between Harpur's death i n 1868 and Bernard 0'Dowd's " P o e t r y M i l i t a n t " a d d r e s s i n 1909, the l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n o f i n t e r a c t i o n between A u s t r a l i a n and American w r i t e r s , so i m p o r t a n t t o Lang, Deniehy and Harpur i n the m i d d l e decades o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , d e v e l o p e d e x t e n s i v e l y . However, d e s p i t e the w e a l t h o f documents now a v a i l a b l e , p a r t i c u l a r l y i n m a n u s c r i p t and newspaper form, A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a r y s c h o l a r s have as a r u l e i g n o r e d the c o n n e c t i o n . More work i s needed t o c l a r i f y the p a r a l l e l s between Harpur's g e n e r a t i o n o f c u r r e n c y 2 l a d s and the g e n e r a t i o n i n " r e v o l t " t h a t f o l l o w e d . For when many A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c a n s , U t o p i a n s , S i n g 1 e - T a x e r s , s o c i a l i s t s and bush- men t u r n e d , i n the 1880's and '90's, t o i n d i v i d u a l American w r i t e r s as a s o u r c e o f p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l and l i t e r a r y i n s p i r a t i o n , they m e r e l y r e p e a t e d a l a r g e r p a t t e r n as o l d as the c o l o n y i t s e l f . They 486 c o n s o l i d a t e d an A u s t r a l i a n t r a d i t i o n . To put i t t h i s way, however, i s t o c l a r i f y a s i t u a t i o n which a t the time was b a r e l y comprehended. 0 1 Dowd 1 s g e n e r a t i o n , i n f a c t , 3 knew l i t t l e o f Harpur's - - p a r t l y because o f a p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h i t s own e r a ; p a r t l y because o f i g n o r a n c e and poor s c h o l a r s h i p ; and p a r t l y because some o f i t s more a r t i c u l a t e spokesmen, i n c l u d i n g O'Dowd h i m s e l f , c o n s i d e r e d t h a t t h e i r f a t h e r s ' g e n e r a t i o n had f a i l e d t o f o l l o w t r u l y d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s . As we have seen, i f A u s t r a l i a n s o f the 1880 1 s remembered Lang, Deniehy and Harpur a t a l l , they remembered them f o r the wrong r e a s o n s ; Lang 1 s works were out o f p r i n t , w h i l e the w r i t i n g s o f Harpur and Deniehy became a v a i l a b l e i n l 8 8 3 _ 4 , i n 4 t e x t s which v i r t u a l l y i g n o r e d t h e i r c o m b a t i v e and p r o p h e t i c s i d e s . I n a c c u r a t e i n f o r m a t i o n abounded. In F e b r u a r y , 1889, f o r example, Henry Lawson e u l o g i s e d P e t e r L a l o r , the l e a d e r o f the Eureka S t o c k a d e , i n the poem "Eureka (A F r a g m e n t ) . " He demanded t h a t miners i n the a f t e r 1i f e R o l l up and g i v e him welcome such as o n l y d i g g e r s c a n , For w e l l he b a t t l e d f o r the r i g h t s o f miner and o f man.5 Lawson might not have been so f l a t t e r i n g had'.he known t h a t s h o r t l y a f t e r L a l o r was e l e c t e d t o the V i c t o r i a n L e g i s l a t i v e Assembly i n I 8 5 6 ( l e s s than two y e a r s a f t e r E u r e k a ) , he not o n l y a c c e p t e d o f f i c i a l p a t r o n a g e , but s u p p o r t e d a p l u r a l p r o p e r t y f r a n c h i s e and was un- accountably: absent when the House v o t e d on the p r i n c i p l e o f manhood s u f f r a g e . 6 Lawson's c o n t e m p o r a r y , B e r n a r d O'Dowd, was one o f the 487 few who were a b l e t o g r a s p the e s s e n c e of what had happened s i n c e the g r a n t i n g o f c o l o n i a l s e l f - g o v e r n m e n t i n 1856- "Our f a t h e r s , " 01Dowd a s s e r t e d i n an a r t i c l e on Walt Whitman (1899), came from l a n d s where the l a b o u r e r who worked w i t h h i s hands was t r e a t e d as d i r t by e v e r y o n e , t i t l e d or n o t , who d i d n ' t work a t a l l . They knew a l l t h i s , and l o a t h e d i t , and y e t , when they came out h e r e , they a l l o w e d the germs o f the v e r y same s o r t o f t h i n g t o get r o o t i n the v i r g i n s o i l o f t h i s c o u n t r y u n t i l we f i n d the e l e c t o f t h e p e o p l e t h r o w i n g o f f t h e i r a l l e g i a n c e t o the p e o p l e who .have r a i s e d them and t r u s t e d them, f o r the sake o f a r i b a n d o r a s t a r . . . . . [When] i n the f i f t i e s we got u n i v e r s a l s u f f r a g e and a g l o r i o u s c o n s i t u t i o n , one would have thought t h a t a f r e e p e o p l e , i n a brand new c o u n t r y , would have done something t o s e p a r a t e the few good laws from the l e p r o u s ones, and have p a r t e d w i t h the l a t t e r f o r e v e r . But no; they were E n g l i s h , and t h e r e f o r e good. And a c c o r d i n g l y , the whole o f the u n j u s t laws o f d i s t r e s s f o r r e n t , the c o m p l i c a t e d f e u d a l b a r b a r i s m s o f r e a l p r o p e r t y law, the anomalous and c r u e l laws which s n a t c h the c h i l d from the i n n o c e n t mother i n c a s e s o f s e p a r a t i o n , the v i l e law which e n a b l e s j u d g e s t o t e l l j u r i e s t h a t a poor man's d a u g h t e r ' s honour i s worth l e s s i n the eyes o f the law than t h a t o f a r i c h man's d a u g h t e r , the infamous d o c t r i n e o f the " s t a t i o n i n l i f e " - - a l l t h e s e t h i n g s and many more, c r u e l i n o p e r a t i o n and a n t i - d e m o c r a t i c i n n a t u r e , were meekly t o l e r a t e d by our a l l e g e d democracy, and a r e t o the p r e s e n t day.7 A p p a r e n t l y i g n o r a n t o f the s t a u n c h r e p u b l i c a n and U t o p i a n w r i t i n g s o f some o f i t s p r e d e c e s s o r s , 0'Dowd's g e n e r a t i o n d e t e r m i n e d t o c r e a t e anew, r e j e c t i n g the h y p o c r i s i e s o f the p a s t . In each o f the d i v e r s e paths which A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s f o l l o w e d i n the l880's, '90's and e a r l y 1 900'.'s, American thought a g a i n f i g u r e d p r o m i n e n t l y . But i n the a f t e r m a t h o f the C i v i l War, most A u s t r a l i a n s l o o k e d a t A m e r i c a — a s Lang, Deniehy and Harpur e a r l i e r h a d — w i t h no i l l u s i o n s about i t s i n f a l l i b i l i t y . America a f t e r the C i v i l War came 4 8 8 t o s y m b o l i z e i n d u s t r i a l r u t h 1 e s s n e s s . I n d e e d , b y 1901, a s o n e h i s t o r i a n h a s p u t i t , t o A u s t r a l i a n s " t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . . . w a s n o t t h e l a n d o f t h e f r e e a n d t h e h o m e o f t h e b r a v e , b u t t h e l a n d o f t h e w a g e s l a v e g a n d t h e h o m e o f t r u s t s , c o r p o r a t i o n s , a n d m i l l i o n a i r e s . " A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s a n d t h i n k e r s , p e r u s i n g t h e i r o p t i o n s c a r e f u l l y a n d s e e i n g t h e i r c o u n t r y a s u n i q u e l y c o n d u c i v e t o s o c i a l e x p e r i m e n t , b e g a n t o f o c u s a t t e n t i o n o n i n d i v i d u a l A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s . T h e y w e r e n ' t i n t e r e s t e d i n t h e p o l i t i c a l a n d f i n a n c i a l l e a d e r s o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , b u t l o o k e d t o t h e m u c h - m a l i g n e d s e e r s , s o c i a l r e f o r m e r s a n d p o e t s . M o r e a n d m o r e A u s t r a l i a n s i n t h e l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y c o n - s i d e r e d s o c i a l i s m t o b e t h e n e w C h r i s t i a n i t y . P r o p h e t s , t h e r e f o r e , h a d t o b e f o u n d f o r a s o c i e t y f o r t u n a t e e n o u g h t o b e i n a p o s i t i o n t o l e a r n f r o m O l d a n d N e w W o r l d m i s t a k e s . A d i s p a r a t e group o f A m e r i c a n s a n d t h e i r e m p h a t i c a l l y d e m o c r a t i c w r i t i n g s g a i n e d p r o m i n e n c e o n t h e A u s t r a l i a n s t a g e i n t h i s a t m o s p h e r e o f p r o t e s t , l a b o u r d e m a n d s a n d U t o p i a n s p e c u l a t i o n : r e p u b l i c a n s i n t h e l 8 8 0 ' s o n c e m o r e c o n s u l t e d T h o m a s P a i n e ' s r e v o l u t i o n a r y w r i t i n g s a n d p u b l i c i z e d t h e A m e r i c a n D e c l a r a t i o n o f I n d e p e n d e n c e , e v i d e n t l y u n a w a r e o f t h e i r o w n c o u n t r y ' s r a d i c a l p a s t ; S i n g 1 e - T a x e r s l o o k e d t o H e n r y G e o r g e , t h e h i g h p r o p h e t o f t h e i r m o v e m e n t , a n d h i s P r o g r e s s a n d P o v e r t y (1879) a n d S o c i a 1 P r o b l e m s (1884); i d e a l i s t s w i t h U t o p i a n t h o u g h t s o n t h e i r m i n d s r e a d E d w a r d B e l l a m y ' s L o o k i n g B a c k w a r d : 2000-1887 (1888) a n d I g n a t i u s D o n n e l l y ' s C a e s a r ' s C o l u m n (1890) , a n d s o u g h t d e t a i l e d i n f o r m a t i o n a b o u t A m e r i c a n U t o p i a n c o m m u n i t i e s s u c h a s I c a r i a ( e s t a b l i s h e d i n 1848 b y E t i e n n e C a b e t ) ; s o c i a l i s t s a n d b u s h m e n e a g e r l y d i s c u s s e d a n d 489 d i s t r i b u t e d not o n l y the works o f George, B e l l a m y and D o n n e l l y , but o t h e r r e f o r m i s t l i t e r a t u r e such as Laurence G r o n l u n d ' s The C o o p e r a t i v e Commonwea1th (1884), Henry Demarest L l o y d ' s Wealth A g a i n s t Commonwealth (1,894) and the pamphlets o f D a n i e l de Leon, J a c k London, Eugene Debs, V i n c e n t S t . John and E.A. Trautmann; w h i l e the hardy band o f A u s t r a l i a n " r e g e n e r a t e d Democrats and r a v i n g W h i t m a n i c s , " t o use 0'Dowd's p h r a s e , unashamedly e x a l t e d t h e i r W a l t ' s Leaves of G r a s s , a t t i m e s p a u s i n g long enough t o r e f l e c t on the t r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s m o f Emerson and Thoreau g as w e l l . I n s p i r i t e d by the b r e a d t h o f American w r i t e r s a v a i l a b l e (and one s h o u l d add t h a t Mark Twain and B r e t H a r t e had a keen l o c a l f o l l o w i n g , w h i l e Poe, L o n g f e l l o w , W h i t t i e r , L o w e l l , J o a q u i n M i l l e r , Holmes and John Hay were a l s o r e a d ^ ) , A u s t r a l i a n l i t e r a t u r e d u r i n g t h i s p e r i o d assumed a v i t a l i t y , sense of r e b e l l i o n and l i t e r a r y c a t h o l i c i t y w h i c h would not reappear u n t i l the l a t e 1960 1 s and e a r l y '70's. What l e d A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s i n the l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t o c o n s u l t t h e i r American c o u n t e r p a r t s ? The answer s e r v e s t o u n d e r l i n e the c l o s e , though a t the time u n d e t e c t e d t i e s between Harpur's g e n e r a t i o n and O'Dowd's. When Lang c o n t e m p l a t e d A u s t r a l i a as " t h e f u t u r e America o f the S o u t h e r n Hemisphere," he acknowledged the p o l i t i c a l c r e d e n t i a l s o f F r a n k l i n , O t i s and P a t r i c k H e n r y . ^ When Deniehy f o r m u l a t e d the framework o f h i s i d e a l A u s t r a l i a n r e p u b l i c and i t s l i t e r a t u r e , he went t o J e f f e r s o n , Channing, Emerson, P a r k e r and Brownson f o r h e l p . When Harpur asked: 490 Why p i l e we s t o n e on s t o n e , t o r a i s e J a i l , Fane, o r P u b l i c H a l l ; - - w h y p l a n F o r t r e s s o r Tower f o r f u t u r e days; Yet l e a v e u n b u i l t , t o wrong o r g u i l t , The n o b l e r p i l e - - t h e Mind o f Man?' 2 --he gave l i t e r a r y e x p r e s s i o n t o h i s s e a r c h f o r "a N a t i o n ' s t h i nk i ng power"; Emerson s u p p l i e d him w i t h the i n s p i r a t i o n f o r an e f f e c t i v e answer. S i m i l a r l y , i n the l a s t decades o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , when A u s t r a l i a n s s e a r c h e d once a g a i n f o r a more t h o u g h t f u l and humane s o c i a l o r d e r , t h e i r r e c o g n i t i o n o f the e x p e r i e n c e and, above a l l , wisdom o f c e r t a i n American r e b e l l i o u s t h i n k e r s s t i m u l a t e d the A u s t r a l i a n / American l i t e r a r y c o n n e c t i o n i n t o new l i f e . With Deniehy's dream o f a r e p u b l i c o f yeoman-farmers i n s h r e d s ( f o r the p a s t o r a l i s t s and s q u a t t e r s had s u c c e s s f u l l y d e f i e d government e f f o r t s t o e s t a b l i s h communities o f s m a l l - s c a l e f a r m e r s ) , A u s t r a l i a n s began c h a n g i n g t h e i r p r i o r i t i e s , s t r e s s i n g the " u n i o n movement as a g a i n s t the t r a d e s 1 3 u n i o n . " They r e g a r d e d Labour's s t r u g g l e a s u n o r e than j u s t a p o l i t i c a l i s s u e ; i t i l l u m i n a t e d the much l a r g e r p h i l o s o p h i c a l q u e s t i o n o f human d e s t i n y . As a r e s u l t o f t h i s new emphasis, l i v e l y i n t e r a c t i o n between A u s t r a l i a n s and Americans took p l a c e . John F a r r e l 1 (1851-1904), f o r example, i n i t i a t e d a long c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h Henry George; O'Dowd and h i s Melbourne group o f " p e r s o n a l mates" began a b r i e f but f r u i t f u l c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h Walt Whitman; S i n g l e - T a x Leagues, B e l l a m y C l u b s and d e b a t i n g s o c i e t i e s d e d i c a t e d t o the d i s c u s s i o n o f Leaves o f G r a s s , m u l t i p l i e d t h r o u g h o u t A u s t r a l i a ; and Henry George and Mark Twain o. 491 both made e x t e n s i v e l e c t u r e t o u r s o f A u s t r a l i a i n the l890's.'H Three a s p e c t s o f t h i s i n t e r a c t i o n need t o be mentioned; a l l d e s e r v e c l o s e s t u d y . F i r s t l y , the works, o f A u s t r a l i a n s such as F a r r e l l and W i l l i a m Lane (1861-1917) suggest t h a t t h i s g e n e r a t i o n , l i k e the p r e v i o u s one, responded warmly t o the e g a l i t a r i a n tone o f t h e i r American c o u n t e r p a r t s - - i n such a way as t o r e c a l l Deniehy's s p e c i a l r e g a r d f o r Emerson's a b i l i t y t o t a l k " w i t h you as an equal i n e v e r y s e n s e . " ' 5 Of Henry George, Lane d e c l a r e d , e c h o i n g L i n c o l n , t h a t he "wrote i n the language o f the p e o p l e f o r the p e o p l e and w i t h a f o r c e and 16 f i r e t h a t o n l y one o f the p e o p l e c o u l d f e e l . . . ." S e c o n d l y , d e s p i t e t h i s a p p r e c i a t i o n o f the d e m o c r a t i c v a l u e s o f the American w r i t e r , and d e s p i t e c o n s t a n t e x p r e s s i o n s o f d i s g u s t f o r n a t i o n a l and l i t e r a r y s u b s e r v i e n c e , some o f the more prominent w r i t e r s o f 0'Dowd's g e n e r a t i o n d i s p l a y a c u r i o u s tendency t o h e r o - w o r s h i p . Frank C o t t o n , a contemporary o f F a r r e l l and 0'Dowd, v o i c e d a t y p i c a l A u s t r a l i a n r e a c t i o n t o Henry George when he d e s c r i b e d him as a " h e r o , sage, and 'The Prophet o f San F r a n c i s c o ' . . . ."'7 Poems of the p e r i o d d e p i c t e d George i n s i m i l a r l y u n c r i t i c a l language. F a r r e l l , f o r example, p u b l i s h e d two sonnets d e d i c a t e d t o him, the f i r s t of which b e g i n s : Seer o f the new g r e a t dawn! whose s t r o n g v o i c e r i n g s A c r o s s d r e a r wastes of l i f e where L i f e grows p a l e And c r i e s " A r i s e ! " t o wan-cheeked men who w a i l Beneath the i r o n f e e t o f men-made k i n g s . Speak! and l e t l i g h t , as from an a n g e l ' s w i n g s , F l o o d t h i s dark w o r l d . . . J 492 Edward B e l l a m y , t o o , was p o p u l a r l y p e r c e i v e d i n r e v e r e n t , indeed d i v i n e terms. Lane p u b l i c l y acknowledged him as h i s m a s t e r , on one o c c a s i o n r h e t o r i c a l l y i n q u i r i n g ( i n h i s paper, the W o r k e r ) : I f J e s u s i s not w i t h the Labour Movement, where i s he? Is t h e r e not i n 'Looking Backward' the C h r i s t - s p i r i t b r e a t h i n g ? ' - ' O'Dowd and h i s Melbourne group o f p l a s t e r e r s , d r a p e r s and boot-shop a s s i s t a n t s p r a i s e d Walt Whitman i n even more e x p l i c i t p h r a s e s o f v e n e r a t i o n . The o p e n i n g s a l u t a t i o n s o f 0'Dowd's l e t t e r s t o Whitman b e s t r e f l e c t t h e i r a t t i t u d e . One l e t t e r b e g i n s "Dear W a l t , my b e l o v e d 20 m a s t e r , my f r i e n d , my bard my p r o p h e t and a p o s t l e . " T h i r d l y , t h e dream o f A u s t r a l i a - a s a b e t t e r A m e r i c a , the l o c a t i o n f o r mankind's l a s t chance, not o n l y r e s u r f a c e d i n the l a s t decades o f the n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , i t a t times dominated the t h o u g h t s o f some o f A u s t r a l i a ' s l e a d i n g w r i t e r s . In 1859, C h a r l e s Harpur e x h o r t e d a l l A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s t o come t o r e c a l l the p a s t , enchant the p r e s e n t , and r e a l i s e the f u t u r e - - r e s t o r e the l o s t , renew the changed, e n r i c h the poor, and r e u n i t e , by an i m m o r t a l i s i n g p i c t u r e - p o w e r , the l i v i n g and the d e a d . 2 ' Though a l m o s t c e r t a i n l y unaware o f Harpur's hopes f o r the f u t u r e , members o f 0'Dowd's g e n e r a t i o n took up the c h a l l e n g e t o e s t a b l i s h an i d e a l community--0'Dowd h i m s e l f , as we s h a l l see, even e c h o i n g Harpur's a c t u a l words. R e m i n i s c e n t of Young American spokesmen e a r l i e r i n the c e n t u r y , the u l t r a - n a t i o n a l i s t Bui 1et i n (1887) d e c l a r e d 493 t h a t " i t i s d e m o n s t r a b l e t h a t the i n t e l l e c t o f the [ A u s t r a l i a n ] p e o p l e i s f r e e r , s t r o n g e r and more o r i g i n a l than i n the a g e - o l d s t a t e s o f Europe, and even o f A m e r i c a . To s o l v e the problems o v e r which the o p p r e s s e d masses o f n o r t h e r n n a t i o n s a r e now p o r i n g i n 22 v a i n i s the d e s t i n y of A u s t r a l i a . . . ." A u s t r a l i a n e x p r e s s i o n o f what R.W.B. Lewis has termed the "Adamic myth" was p a r t i c u l a r l y 23 common a t t h i s t i m e . Thomas Heney ( 1 8 6 2 - 1 9 2 8 ) , f o r example, p r o p h e s i e d t h a t from a m o t h e r - c i t y s h a l l go f o r t h T r i b e a f t e r t r i b e o f her most v a l e d - sons. Whether t h e i r s t e p s i n c l i n e t o s o u t h o r n o r t h Or where the w e s t e r n w i l d t h e i r coming shuns, A new w o r l d w a i t s them and a f u t u r e w a i t s . . . .2** John F a r r e l l 1 s c o n c e p t o f the dream was c o l o u r e d by an even more e x c i t e d a n t i c i p a t i o n o f the f u t u r e . He p r o j e c t e d t h a t 'Here w i l l we found a m a n l i e r E n g l i s h r a c e -- A w o r l d - l i k e n a t i o n , s t r o n g and k i n d and f r e e , Whose name t h r o u g h a l l the a f t e r t i m e , s h a l l be High among names, u n s u l l i e d by d i s g r a c e . . . . And, w i t h f a i r Peace's w h i t e , pure f l a g u n f u r l e d , Our c h i l d r e n s h a l l , upon t h i s new-won s h o r e -- Warmed by a l l sorrows t h a t have gone b e f o r e -- B u i l d up the g l o r y o f a grand New World. " 2 5 As F a r r e l l saw i t , A u s t r a l i a now c o n s t i t u t e d the n a t i o n o f innocence and u n l i m i t e d p o t e n t i a l . The c o u n t r y w i t h a m a n i f e s t d e s t i n y . In h i s f i r s t f i v e books (1 9 0 3 - 1 B e r n a r d 0'Dowd f r e q u e n t l y gave h i s A u s t r a l i a n v e r s i o n o f the "Adamic myth." H i s f i r s t book, Dawnward? ( 1 9 0 3 ) , b e g i n s w i t h the poem " A u s t r a l i a , " i n which he a s k s : 494 '-Last s e a - t h i ng dredged by s a i l o r Time from Space, A r e you a_ d r i f t S a r g a s s o , where the West 1n ha 1cyon ca1m r e b u i 1 d s her f a t a l n e s t ? Or Delos o f a_ comi ng Sun-God 1 s r a c e ? 2 / The l a s t l i n e emphasizes 0 1 Dowd 1 s d e t e r m i n a t i o n t o c l i n g t o the p o s s i b i l i t y o f a b r i g h t f u t u r e f o r h i s c o u n t r y d e s p i t e the h a r d s h i p and d i s a p p o i n t m e n t s o f the p r e v i o u s decade, w i t h i t s s e v e r e drought (1890-2) and c r u c i a l worker d e f e a t s a t the hands o f government and landed i n t e r e s t s . But h i s v i s i o n was g r a d u a l l y d a r k e n i n g . Behind the f a c a d e o f o p t i m i s t i c r h e t o r i c i n h i s long m e d i t a t i v e poem, The Bush (1912), one senses growing r e s i g n a t i o n . For decades, i d e a l i s t i c A u s t r a l i a n s had f a i t h f u l l y h e l d t o the b e l i e f t h a t the new e r a was t h e i r s a l o n e t o i n a u g u r a t e . However, O'Dowd summed up the f e e l i n g p r e v a l e n t i n the y e a r s j u s t p r i o r t o the o u t b r e a k o f World War I when he b i t t e r l y a p p r a i s e d the p r e s e n t and p o s i t e d what he c a l l e d " H y - B r a s i l " i n the a g a i n - d i s t a n t f u t u r e : Where i s A u s t r a l i a , s i n g e r , do you know? These s o r d i d farms and j o y l e s s f a c t o r i e s , M e p h i t i c mines and l a n e s of p a l l i d woe? Those u g l y towns and c i t i e s such as t h e s e W i t h i n c e n s e s i c k t o a l l unworthy power, And a l l o l d s i n i n f u l l m a l i g n a n t f l o w e r ? No! t o her bourn her c h i l d r e n s t i l l a r e f a r i n g : She i s a Temple t h a t we a r e t o b u i l d : For her the ages have been long p r e p a r i n g : She i s a prophecy t o be f u l f i l l e d ! 2 ^ In D e m o c r a t i c V i s t a s ( 1 871), a d i s i l l u s i o n e d Whitman a t t a c k e d the v a l u e s o f contemporary A m e r i c a , p u b l i c i z i n g the gap between the r e a l and h i s i d e a l A m e r i c a : "Today, ahead, though d i m l y y e t , we see, 495 i n v i s t a s , a c o p i o u s , sane, g i g a n t i c o f f s p r i n g . For our New World I c o n s i d e r f a r l e s s i m p o r t a n t f o r what i t has done, and what i t i s , 29 than f o r the r e s u l t s t o come." So too O'Dowd, l i k e Harpur b e f o r e him, s t r u g g l e d t o come t o terms w i t h h i s e q u a l l y f o r m i d a b l e c o n c e p t s o f p r e s e n t and f u t u r e A u s t r a l i a . In " P o e t r y M i l i t a n t " (1909), he s t r e s s e d the need f o r the A u s t r a l i a n poet o f the f u t u r e t o be o r i g i n a l , a s e e r and "an Answerer, as Whitman c a l l s him, of the r e a l q u e s t i o n s 30 o f h i s age. . . ." W r i t t e n about the same time as The Bush and b e g i n n i n g w i t h the a s s e r t i o n t h a t he l i v e d " i n a community h y p n o t i z e d 31 by c o m m e r c i a l i s m , " the a d d r e s s i s s e m i n a l . Not o n l y does i t l i n k him c l o s e l y w i t h Harpur, whose 1859 l e c t u r e , "The N a t u r e and O f f i c e o f P o e t r y , " d e a l t w i t h a l m o s t i d e n t i c a l themes, but i t seems a f i t t i n g s y m b o l i c c o n c l u s i o n t o a p e r i o d o f w i d e s p r e a d a c t i v i t y between A u s t r a l i a n and American w r i t e r s . Throughout the d i s c o u r s e , O'Dowd r e c a l l s 32 Whitman's s e n t i m e n t s . Indeed, he c o n c l u d e s by q u o t i n g the l a s t two s t a n z a s o f "Song o f the Answerer": The words o f the t r u e poems g i v e you more than poems, They g i v e you t o form f o r y o u r s e l f poems, r e l i g i o n s , p o l i t i c s , war, peace, b e h a v i o u r , h i s t o r i e s , e s s a y s , d a i l y l i f e , and e v e r y t h i n g e l s e , They b a l a n c e r a n k s , c o l o u r s , r a c e s , c r e e d s , and the s e x e s , They do not seek b e a u t y , they a r e sought, F o r e v e r t o u c h i n g them, o r c l o s e upon them f o l l o w s b e a u t y , l o n g i n g , f a i n , l o v e - s i c k . They p r e p a r e f o r d e a t h , y e t a r e they not the f i n i s h , but r a t h e r the o u t s e t ; They b r i n g none t o h i s o r her t e r m i n u s , o r t o be c o n t e n t and fu11; Whom they t a k e , they t a k e i n t o space, t o b e h o l d the b i r t h o f s t a r s , t o l e a r n one o f the meanings, To l a u n c h o f f w i t h a b s o l u t e f a i t h , t o sweep through the c e a s e - l e s s r i n g s , and never be q u i e t again.33 From a t l e a s t as e a r l y as 1870 t o the b e g i n n i n g o f World War I, Whitman e x e r t e d a c o n s i d e r a b l e i n f l u e n c e on A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s - - a m o n g them, O'Dowd, Thomas Bury, W i l l i a m Gay, F r a n c i s Adams, Thomas Heney 34 and John Le Gay B r e r e t o n . A l l a p p r e c i a t e d h i s t r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s m , 35 s p i r i t e d n a t i o n a l i s m , humanism and i r r e p r e s s i b l e o p t i m i s m . Whitman was, f o r many A u s t r a l i a n s , the g r e a t Democrat. In J u l y , 1883, the Bu11et i n l a b e l l e d him "more than a w r i t e r o f m y s t i c runes--he i s a g r e a t - h e a r t e d man, who l o v e s h i s c o u n t r y and h i s countrymen, and the 36 whole w o r l d , w i t h an undying l o v e . " But perhaps John Le Gay B r e r e t o n (1871-1933) g r a s p e d the n a t u r e o f the A u s t r a l i a n response t o Whitman more a b l y than any o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s when he s a i d t h a t the American 37 poet was " t h o r o u g h l y imbued w i t h the p r i n c i p l e o f UNIONISM. . . ." In the A u s t r a l i a n i m a g i n a t i o n Whitman c r o s s e d b a r r i e r s , f o r he was a c e l e b r a t e d poet w i t h a p r o f o u n d s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l awareness. O'Dowd made a number o f s p e c i f i c c l a i m s f o r him: he a s s e r t e d , most i m p o r t a n t l y , t h a t the w r i t i n g s o f h i s American "Comrade" encouraged the w o r l d - w i d e f o u n d i n g o f "an i n t e r n a l b r o t h e r h o o d movement"; he f e l t t h a t Whitman, more than any o t h e r p o e t , d i g n i f i e d " t h e common average man"; and he c e l e b r a t e d Whitman's n o t i o n o f the g r e a t e s t 38 c i t y h a v i n g the g r e a t e s t men and women. As O'Dowd put i t i n one o f h i s e a r l y l e c t u r e s (1891?) : Walt Whitman i s c e r t a i n l y f o r e m o s t among t h o s e whose aim i s t o b u i l d up the masses by b u i l d i n g up grand i n d i v i d u a l s , not o n l y grand moral and i n t e l l e c t u a l [ b e i n g s ] , but superb p h y s i c a l beings.39 497 In l a t e r y e a r s , a f t e r Whitman's d e a t h i n 1892, O'Dowd g a i n e d a more mature p e r s p e c t i v e on h i s own p e r s o n a l r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h the American poet and on the d e s i r a b l e e x t e n t o f Whitman's e f f e c t on A u s t r a l i a n s o c i e t y and l i t e r a t u r e . He m a i n t a i n e d i n 1899 t h a t " w h i l e I don't say t h a t we must t a k e him as an A u s t r a l i a n B i b l e , I do say t h a t our hope o f d e m o c r a t i c s a l v a t i o n l i e s i n our e v o l v i n g f o r o u r s e l v e s and i n o u r s e l v e s an a t t i t u d e o f mind i n V i c t o r i a n m a t t e r s something s i m i l a r t o t h a t w h i c h i n s p i r e d Whitman i n h i s t r e a t m e n t o f American 40 m a t t e r s . " The exuberance and heat o f y o u t h had begun t o d i s a p p e a r . O'Dowd had grown more p r a g m a t i c , more c o n s c i o u s l y d o c t r i n a l , which was a p i t y because some e x t r a o r d i n a r y l i t e r a t u r e came out o f t h a t s h o r t but i n t o x i c a t i n g meeting. between A u s t r a l i a n y o u t h and i n n o c e n c e , and American age and e x p e r i e n c e , when O'Dowd and Whitman e n e r g e t i c a l l y compared notes i n the l a s t two y e a r s o f Whitman's l i f e . In t h i s c o r r e s p o n d e n c e , the A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n r e a l l y blossoms. In h i s f i r s t l e t t e r (March 3, 1890) O'Dowd d e l i c a t e l y c h i d e d Whitman f o r c o n f i n i n g h i s "'Come, I w i l l make the c o n t i n e n t i n d i s s o l u b l e ' 41 t o A m e r i c a . " Whitman responded w i t h customary warmth, w i s h i n g " t o hear e v e r y t h i n g & a n y t h i n g a b ' t you a l l -- and ab't the A u s t r a l i a n bush S b i r d s and l i f e S t o i l & i d i o s y n c r a s i e s t h e r e -- £ how i t l o o k s -- and a l l the sheep work &c: you p l e a s e me more than you know by 42 g i v i n g such t h i n g s f u l l y -- w r i t e o f t e n as you f e e l t o £ can. . . ." And O'Dowd d i d w r i t e f r e q u e n t l y , t o u c h i n g on a wide v a r i e t y o f s u b j e c t s . The h i g h p o i n t i n the c o r r e s p o n d e n c e u n d o u b t e d l y o c c u r r e d when O'Dowd-- 498 the young poet's s e n s i b i l i t y r i s i n g t o the c h a l l e n g e o f a r t i c u l a t i n g the s t r a n g e and wondrous a f f i n i t y he f e l t w i t h h i s m e n t o i — g r a s p e d the s p e c i a l n a t u r e o f t h e i r r e l a t i o n s h i p by a c c l a i m i n g Whitman's ab i 1 i t y t o make t h o s e g r e a t [ A u s t r a l i a n ] gum t r e e s a r r a y themselves i n such new meanings f o r us. Our a m y g d a l i n e ( E u c a l y p t u s Amygdalina) once was your redwoods r i v a l , now each t o w e r i n g o v e r ; i t s n a t i v e f o r e s t w a f t s c o m r a d e - g r e e t i n g s t o the o t h e r , j o i n i n g i n t r e e - f a s h i o n "hands a c r o s s the sea.n i>3 Whitman, i n t u r n , d e l i g h t e d t h a t h i s " m i s s i v e s " had " s t r u c k deep" i n t o the h e a r t s of e n t h u s i a s t i c A u s t r a l i a n democrats, responded i n n o w - f a m i l i a r terms by s a y i n g : "I w r i t e t o you as an e l d e r b r o t h e r 44 might t o the young b r o ' s & s i s t e r s . . . ." The s t a t e m e n t i s ; r e p r e s e n t a t i v e ; he sums up a c e n t u r y o f A u s t r a l i a n / A m e r i c a n i n t e r - a c t i o n , s t r e s s i n g e q u a l i t y and the i n t i m a c y o f f a m i l y . Whitman l e f t a s u b s t a n t i a l l e g a c y t o O'Dowd and h i s "mates" i n the s o u t h . To be reminded o f i t , they o n l y had t o l o o k a t the t i t l e - p a g e o f any o f the e d i t i o n s o f Leaves o f Grass from the 1876 v e r s i o n t o the f i n a l " d e a t h - b e d " e d i t i o n (1891-2). S i g n i n g h i s name f o r the w o r l d , Whitman beckoned: Come, s a i d my Sou 1, Such v e r s e s f o r my Body l e t us w r i t e , ( f o r we a r e one,) That s h o u l d I a f t e r d e a t h i n v i s i b l y r e t u r n , Or, l o n g , l o n g hence, i n o t h e r s p h e r e s , There t o some group o f mates the c h a n t s resuming, ( T a l l y i n g E a r t h ' s s o i l , t r e e s , w i n d s , tumultuous waves,) Ever w i t h p l e a s ' d s m i l e I may' keep on, Ever and e v e r y e t the v e r s e s owning. . . .̂ 5 The v e r y language seemed u n c o n s c i o u s l y d i r e c t e d a t h i s A u s t r a l i a n b r o t h e r h o o d . CONCLUSION ENDNOTES ' John F a r r e l l , "No," i n How He D i e d and Other Poems (Sydney: T u r n e r and Henderson, 1887), p. 29. 2 See H.M. Green, H i s t o r y , I, 498-510. 3 B e r n a r d O'Dowd (1866-1953). 4 See above, c h a p t e r V.l i 5 Henry Lawson, "Eureka (A F r a g m e n t ) , " i n Poems (Sydney: John F e r g u s o n , 1979), P- 10. See I n g l i s , The A u s t r a l i a n C o l o n i s t s , pp. 205_6. 7 Bernard O'Dowd, "Walt Whitman: H i s Meaning t o V i c t o r i a n s - Democracy v. F e u d a l i s m , " The T o c s i n , A p r i l 13, 1899, r e p r i n t e d i n A.L. McLeod, ed., Walt Whitman i n A u s t r a l i a and New Z e a l a n d (Sydney: Wentworth P r e s s , 1964), pp. 110-111. Ruth Megaw, "The American Image i n A u s t r a l i a , " i n P a c i f i c C i rc1e 2, ed. Norman Harper ( S t . L u c i a , Queensland: U n i v . o f Queens- l a n d P r e s s , 1972), p. 73- • 9 See, f o r example, L.G. Churchward, "The American I n f l u e n c e on the A u s t r a l i a n Labour Movement," H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , V, No. 19 (Nov. 1952), 258-77; Robin G o l l a n , "American P o p u l i s m and A u s t r a l i a n U t o p i a n i s m , " Labour H i s t o r y , No. 9 (Nov. 1965), 15"21; F. P i c a r d , 500 "Henry George and the Labour S p l i t o f 1891," H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , V I , No. 21 (Nov. 1953), 45-63; B. M a n s f i e l d , "The Background t o R a d i c a l R e p u b l i c a n i s m i n New South Wales i n the E i g h t e e n - E i g h t i e s , " H i s t o r i c a l S t u d i e s , V, No. 20 (May 1953), 338-48; Gavin S o u t e r , A P e c u l i a r P e o p l e : A u s t r a l i a n s i n Paraguay (Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1968), pp. 16-19; Robin G o l l a n , "The A u s t r a l i a n Impact," i n Edward B e l l a m y A b r o a d , ed. S y l v i a E. Bowman (New York: Twayne, 1962), pp. 119-36; McLeod, passim. ^ See, f o r example, Grace Diana Ai1 wood-Keel, "Homespun E x o t i c : A u s t r a l i a n L i t e r a t u r e , 1880-1910: A Study o f W r i t i n g i n A u s t r a l i a i n the ' N a t i o n a l i s t P e r i o d , ' w i t h P a r t i c u l a r Emphasis on Overseas I n f l u e n c e , " D i s s . U n i v . o f Sydney 1978, pp. 88-9, 287, 361-2, 374, 389-92; Coleman 0. Parsons,' "Mark Twain i n A u s t r a l i a , " A n t i o c h Review, X X I , No. 4 ( W i n t e r 1961.-2), 455-68; Joseph Furphy [Tom C o l l i n s ] , R i g b y ' s Romance (Broken H i l l , 1905-6; r p t . Sydney: Angus and R o b e r t s o n , 1946), pp. 8, 21, 70, 95, 129, 148, 210, 249; Lucy F r o s t , " T a k i n g Yankee D r o l l e r i e s S e r i o u s l y : B r e t H a r t e and Mark Twain," i n Amer i can S t u d i e s Down Under, ed. Norman Harper ( S t . L u c i a , Queensland: U n i v . o f Queensland P r e s s , 1976), pp. 126-42. 1 1 Lang, F u t u r e Amer i c a , p. 3- 1 2 Harpur, " F i n a l i t y , " i n M i t c h e l l , p. 77- 1 3 G o l l a n , " A u s t r a l i a n Impact," p. 123. 14 1 See C h a r l e s A l b r o B a r k e r , Henry George (New York: O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1965), Pp. 545"8, 674; McLeod, pp. 18-39; Churchward, "American I n f l u e n c e on the A u s t r a l i a n Labour Movement," pp. 259-61 ; 501 K e e l , p. 366; Henry George J r . , T h e L i f e of Henry George ( T o r o n t o : P o o l e P u b l i s h i n g , 1900), pp. 522-42; P a r s o n s , pp. 455-68. ' 5 Deniehy, " F r e d e r i c k R o b e r t s o n ' s L e c t u r e s , " S o u t h e r n C r o s s , November 12, 1859. 16 Lane, i n Boomerang, December 21, 1889, quoted i n P i c a r d , p. 47. See a l s o , s e c t i o n s on B e l l a m y and Gronlund i n Churchward, p. 259; G o l l a n , " A u s t r a l i a n Impact," p. 125; G o l l a n , "American P o p u l i s m , 1 p. 21. 17 Quoted i n P i c a r d , p. 48. 18 F a r r e l l , How He D i e d , p. 135. 19 Lang, i n Worker, August 7, 1890, quoted i n G o l l a n , " A u s t r a l i a n Impact," p. 132. 20 O'Dowd t o Whitman, March 12, 1890, quoted i n McLeod, p. 19. 21 See "Mr. Harpur's L e c t u r e , " Empi r e , October 3, 1859 - 2 2 " A u s t r a l i a ' s D e s t i n y , " B u i l e t i n , V I I I , No. 407 (Nov. 19, 1887) , 4. The e d i t o r i a l b e g i n s : " A u s t r a l i a i s a land o f u n l i m i t e d p o t e n t i a l i t i e s . Not a l o n e i n t h e f i n i t e space o f human i n t e r e s t which i n d u s t r y and commerce can measure, but i n the m a t t e r a l s o o f t h o s e h i g h e r and n o b l e r o b j e c t s i n which the a b s o l u t e h a p p i n e s s and r e l a t i v e freedom o f the human f a m i l y a r e c o m p r i s e d . " 23 See L e w i s , American Adam, p. 1. 24 Thomas Heney, "Ode i n Commemoration o f the Commencement o f the A u s t r a l i a n Epos," i n F o r t u n a t e Days (Sydney: T u r n e r and Henderson, 1886), p. 17. 502 2 5 F a r r e l l , "No," i n How He D i e d , pp. 3 2 - 3 - 26 0 1 Dowd 1 s f i r s t f i v e books were Dawnward? (Sydney: B u l l e t i n Newspaper Co., 1 9 0 3 ) ; The S i l e n t Land and o t h e r V e r s e s (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1 9 0 6 ) ; Dominions of the Boundary (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1 9 0 7 ) ; The Seven Deadly S i n s , a S e r i e s o f S o n n e t s , and o t h e r V e r s e s (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1 9 0 9 ) ; The Bush (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1 9 1 2 ) . 27 O'Dowd, " A u s t r a l i a , " i n The Poems o f Bernard O'Dowd (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1 9 4 1 ) , p. 3 5 . See a l s o , "Our Land," i n Poems, pp. 257~9- O'Dowd, "The Bush," i n Poems, p. 208. 2 9 Whitman, D e m o c r a t i c V i s t a s (1 8 7 1 ), i n P r o s e Works 1892, I I , 362. 30 O'Dowd, " P o e t r y M i l i t a n t , " i n Poems, p. 4 . 31 O'Dowd, i n Poems, p. 4 . 3 2 See Poems, pp. 4 , 9 , 28, 3 1 - 2 . 33 Quoted i n Poems, pp. 3 1 - 2. See Whitman, Leaves o f G r a s s , I, 143. 34 See, f o r example, Henry K e n d a l l , "Notes upon Men and Books-- Walt Whitman," Freeman's J o u r n a 1 , December 16, 1871, quoted i n L e o n i e Kramer and A.D. Hope, Kenda11 (Melbourne: Sun Books, 1 9 7 3 ) , PP- 9 6 - 1 0 3 ; McLeod, p a s s i m ; J o n e s , Rad i c a i Cous i ns; A i l w o o d - K e e l , pp. 4 6 9 - 8 5 ; E l l i o t t and M i t c h e l l , B a r d s , pp. 1 1 9 - 2 0 ; W i l l i a m Gay, Wa1t Whi tman: The Poet o f Democracy (Melbourne:.. E.A. P e t h e r i c k , 1 8 9 3 ) ; W i l l i a m Gay, Complete P o e t i c a l Works (Melbourne: L o t h i a n , 1 9 1 1 ) ; F r a n c i s W.L. Adams, Songs o f the Army of the N i g h t (Sydney: A u t h o r , 1 8 8 7 ) ; John Le Gay B r e r e t o n , The Song o f B r o t h e r h o o d , and Other V e r s e s (London: G. Al 1 en, 1896). 503 35 See, f o r example, McLeod, pp. 9-10, 19, 22, 25, 46, 71-2, 105. 3 6 B u i l e t i n , J u l y 14, 1883, quoted i n A i l w o o d - K e e l , * p . 469. 37 B r e r e t o n , " H i n t s on Walt Whitman's 'Leaves o f G r a s s , ' " Hermes, J u l y 25, August 14, 1894, quoted i n McLeod, p. 70. Quoted i n McLeod, pp. 23, 30, 42. See a l s o , pp. 28, 32, 97. 39 O'Dowd, "The D e m o c r a t i c Idea i n Whitman's Works" (1891?), quoted i n McLeod, p. 42. 40 O'Dowd, "Walt Whitman: H i s Meaning t o V i c t o r i a n s - - D e m o c r a c y v. F e u d a l i sm," Toes i n , A p r i l 13, 1899, quoted i n McLeod, p. 113. See a l s o , p. 141. 41 O'Dowd t o Whitman, March 12, 1890, quoted i n McLeod, p. 20. 42 Whitman t o O'Dowd, October 3, 1890, quoted i n McLeod, p. 26. 43 O'Dowd t o Whitman, September 1, 1890, quoted i n McLeod, p. 24. 44 Whitman t o O'Dowd, October 3, 1890, quoted i n McLeod, p. 27. 45 Whi tman, Leaves o f G r a s s , I I I , opp. 650. 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NEWSPAPERS Age (Sydney) A u s t r a 1 i a n C o l o n i a l Times (Hobart) C o l o n i s t C u r r e n c y Lad Emp i re Freeman's J o u r n a l G o u l b u r n H e r a l d Hobart Dai1y C o u r i e r Hobart Town G a z e t t e Hobart Town Guard i an London Times Ma i t l a n d Ens i g n Mon i t o r N e w c a s t l e C h r o n i c l e P e o p l e ' s A d v o c a t e Sent i n e i S o u t h - A s i a n R e g i s t e r S o u t h e r n C r o s s Sydney G a z e t t e Sydney C h r o n i c l e Sydney Morn i ng Hera Id Weekly Reg i s t e r Yass C o u r i e r 
work_nwclqrkdzfdbdmqbexxikhr5aq	----	SAMPLE THESIS TITLE WITH A CONCISE AND ACCURATE DESCRIPTION EVANGELICALISM AND THE MAKING OF SAME-SEX DESIRE: THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF CONSTANCE MAYNARD (1849-1935) by Naomi Lloyd A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (History) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) August 2011 © Naomi Lloyd, 2011 ii ABSTRACT Although a devout Evangelical Anglican, living in an era that largely pre-dated the dissemination of sexological discourses of female same-sex desire, Constance Maynard, the prominent Victorian feminist and educational reformer, pursued a series of same-sex relationships. Religion is often understood to exercise a repressive influence on sexual desire. This study, however, takes as its starting point the historian of sexuality Michel Foucault‘s contention that sexual regulation produces desire rather than repressing it. It charts the role of Evangelical discourse – both regulatory and non-regulatory – in the structuring of Maynard‘s dissident sexual subjectivity. Arguing that sexuality, and female homoeroticism in particular, is crucial to an understanding of turn-of-the-century British culture, this dissertation explores transitions in Maynard‘s same-sex desire as they were occasioned by shifts in her religious subjectivity, examines the role of other cultural discourses in precipitating changes in her religious beliefs, and delineates the implications of transitions in the relationship between Evangelicalism and these other discourses for turn-of-the-century British society. A central focus of this dissertation is the discourse of modernity. Modernity is often represented as the product of the triumph of science, reason, and progress over an out-dated, irrational, repressive religion. This dichotomy is a gendered one; masculinity is often aligned with the former terms and femininity with the latter. Dominant narratives of modernity also fail to take into account the indebtedness of the latter to imperialism. The making of Maynard‘s same-sex desire disrupts the science/religion, masculine/feminine, and metropole/colony binaries that inform narratives of modernity. Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity and her modernizing sexual discourse were the products of Evangelicalism in dynamic interaction with, rather than in opposition to, the scientific discourses of natural theology, evolution, eugenics, and psychoanalysis. The constitution and contestation of Maynard‘s religio-scientific imperialist iii discourse in her same-sex relationships demonstrates the role of imperialism in the production of modern sexuality. Discourses of modern sexuality feature prominently in the making of contemporary geopolitical divides. To move beyond these divides it is necessary to recognize the complex interactions between religion and science that have produced modern western sexuality, and to situate its production in the context of the uneven relationship between metropole and colony. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT .................................................................................................................................. ii TABLE OF CONTENTS ............................................................................................................ iv ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ......................................................................................................... v Introduction .................................................................................................................................. 1 Chapter 1: Religious Desire and Human Eros: Childhood and Early Adulthood ............... 34 Chapter 2: “That Infidel Place”: Women’s Higher Education, the Crisis of Faith, and Dissident Sexuality ...................................................................................................................... 92 Chapter 3: Familiar Desires: Evangelicalism, Familial Discourse, and Homosexual Subjectivity ................................................................................................................................ 155 Chapter 4: Motherhood: A Class Act? Class, Race, and Empire in the Evangelical Middle- Class Family .............................................................................................................................. 227 Chapter 5: Queer Intimacies: Evangelicalism, Homoeroticism, and Empire ..................... 301 Conclusion ................................................................................................................................. 362 Bibliography .............................................................................................................................. 374 Appendices ................................................................................................................................ 388 Appendix A: Chronology of Constance Maynard‘s Life ...................................................................... 388 Appendix B: Dates of the Writing of the Autobiography ..................................................................... 389 v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This dissertation is the product of a solitary journey in which the support of others has, nevertheless, been crucial. I am particularly grateful to Prof. Joy Dixon, my research supervisor. Not only is she a leading scholar in the field of religion, gender, and sexuality in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Britain but she has also been an attentive and generous supervisor. Her clear and incisive criticism of my work has been invaluable, as has her confidence in my ability to make a contribution to the field. The innovative theoretical frameworks that she has forged in her work have enabled me to think in more nuanced ways about the complex relationship between religion, gender, and sexuality. I have also been fortunate to have committee members who have provided valuable input at various stages of my project. I have appreciated Prof. Pamela Dalziel‘s ability to hone in on weaknesses in my work and to articulate these unflinchingly, while expressing a sustained confidence in it. Prof. Robert Brain joined the committee late in the process. I am indebted to him for his reading of my dissertation at short notice and his well-formed, thorough, and perceptive suggestions. Prof. William Pinar, with his wide-ranging and interdisciplinary interest in religion, queer sexuality, and critical race theory has prompted some important lines of enquiry. In the history department of UBC I have found an intellectually engaged, rigorous, and hospitable scholarly community. Faculty members have been willing to give generously of their time to students. I have also benefitted from the administrative expertise of the head of the department, Prof. Daniel Vickers, and two graduate advisors, Prof. William French and Prof. Alejandra Bronfman. The graduate secretary, Gloria Lees, has negotiated the complex bureaucratic processes with a well-practiced ease, has communicated the latter clearly to vi students, and has persevered with both. This, along with the efficiency and flexibility of all the staff of the history department, has made the process a smoother one. My research has entailed intermittent trips to the archives of Queen Mary College, University of London and I have valued the assistance of the archivist, Lorraine Screene. Closer to home, the librarians and the staff in the reference, interlibrary loan, and thesis formatting departments of Koerner Library at UBC have also provided much-appreciated support, as have the staff at the Faculty of Graduate Studies. I started this intellectual journey in the women‘s and gender studies program at UBC. Prof. Sneja Gunew played an important formative role in the early stages of my scholarly development and I also benefitted from the support of Professors Geraldine Pratt and Valerie Raoul. The lively and welcoming student body produced friends who have been an inspiration through this process. My thanks, in particular, to Xin Huang who has demonstrated that rare combination of an intrepid, clear-sighted, and efficient approach to her own work with a generous interest in that of others. I am also indebted to Almas Zakiuddin and Itrath Syed whose interest in religion and gender has prompted some very fruitful conversations. Time spent in San Diego led to a friendship with Evelyn Kirkley and Jill Bormann; I have valued their unstinting and gracious support. It is often families who bear the brunt of sustained scholarly ventures such as this one. I am particularly grateful to my partner, Bethan Theunissen, for her unwavering conviction that this project was worth the many sacrifices entailed, her consistent interest in it, and her generous emotional and financial support. I have also benefitted from the support of my parents, Leslie and Jeannette Lloyd, and that of my siblings; they, along with my partner, have modeled the diverse ways in which faith might be negotiated. Finally, this project would not have been possible without generous funding from the University of British Columbia and for this I am very grateful. 1 Introduction Marion and I stood on opposite sides of the tall white china stove, warming our hands . . . I could tell now that Marion was praying, and that God was near. I could only see part of her serge dress, and her knee and her foot. Once her long fingers came around the angle of the stove and we held hands for half a minute and then parted again. There was a thrill, a strange momentary smiling of the heart, an actual physical sensation, and I knew that I loved her. I had thought that never again should I love in the sense of having my heart‘s life implicated, and here the deed was done, and could not be undone, and a sense of awe and even terror came over me as well as a wave of extraordinary sweetness. 1 Thus wrote the prominent Evangelical Anglican and Mistress of Westfield College Constance Maynard (1849-1935) of the final moments of a religious retreat she had convened for her students in the Thuringian Forest in Germany in 1897. 2 Marion Wakefield, a young Anglo-Irish woman imbued with the optimism of a recent spiritual experience, was the guest 1 Constance Maynard, Unpublished Autobiography, 1897, 411-12, Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London (hereafter cited as Autobiography). The autobiography is also available on microfilm: Constance Maynard, The Diaries of Constance Maynard, The Origins of Modern Feminism, pt. 1 (Brighton, Sussex: Harvester Microform, 1987). Maynard divided her autobiography into parts, which she subdivided into chapters. With some exceptions the page numbering starts afresh with each new part. The chapter numbers run in a single sequence from one to fifty-five. I have cited the part number and chapter using numbers for ease of reading rather than the spelled- out form (―Part 6, Chapter 6,‖ rather than ―Part Six, Chapter Six‖) favored by Maynard. I have also included the year, which refers to the year of her life that she is chronicling. From her account of 1893, Maynard forewent part and chapter numbers in favour of years and I have followed this schema. Maynard wrote the autobiography over a twenty-year period, from 1915 until her death in 1935. Where it is significant, I have thus also included the date of the writing of the account (for a list of dates at which the various sections were written, see Appendix B). Unless otherwise indicated, italics are in the original. The autobiography is comprised of long, transcribed passage from the journals of her ―inner spiritual life,‖ her Greenbooks. These are supplemented by details from a parallel set of Diaries, a record of the ―external events‖ of her life, interleaved with commentary on both from the time of writing the autobiography. In all her notebooks, Maynard records her conversations with family and friends as direct speech. In the absence of other sources, it is these that have been drawn upon. It is important to remember, however, that as the product of her memory, they may not be entirely accurate. 2 The word ―evangelical‖ (derived from the term ―evangel‖ or gospel) had been used from the time of the Reformation to denote Protestantism. However, during the eighteenth-century revivals it came to denote a particular configuration of faith within Protestantism, namely, as historian of evangelicalism David Bebbington notes, a fourfold emphasis on the necessity of conversion, on the atoning work of Christ on the cross, on the Bible as the Word of God, and on good works as the outcome of the individual‘s experience of the grace of God at conversion (David W. Bebbington, Evangelicalism in Modern Britain: A History from the 1730s to the 1980s [Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1992], 2-3). Evangelicalism was a cross-denominational movement: George Whitefield and John and Charles Wesley were Anglicans, but the movement they founded seceded from the Anglican Church upon their deaths, and was known as Methodism. By the last two decades of the eighteenth century evangelicalism had permeated most Protestant denominations including Baptists, Independents (or Congregationalists), and the Society of Friends (Quakers). In this study I follow the convention of capitalizing the word ―evangelical‖ to refer to Anglican Evangelicalism, and use the lower case when referring to evangelical Nonconformity or evangelicalism generally. 2 speaker at Maynard‘s retreat. The touching of their hands, the ―strange momentary smiling‖ of Maynard‘s heart, and her sense of her heart‘s life becoming implicated in Wakefield‘s, were the product of a spiritual intimacy cultivated during the retreat. The emergence of homoerotic desire within contexts of Evangelical devotion was not new to Maynard. Raised in ―the full light of Evangelical doctrine,‖ 3 and remaining an Evangelical until her death, she had nevertheless pursued a series of homoerotic relationships through the course of her life. Her eight-year relationship with Wakefield was the last and most significant of these; it commenced, after some delay, in 1899. Maynard kept a careful account of her homoerotic relationships in a series of spiritual diaries which she named her Greenbooks, or ―the story of my own Christian life & those things that touch it most nearly.‖ 4 Her use of a religious genre, the spiritual diary, to describe these relationships attests to the Evangelical piety from which they had emerged and within which they were conducted. 5 Maynard‘s dissident sexual desire was inextricably intertwined with her pursuit of religious aspirations. In 1899 or 1900 Edith Ellis (1861-1916), the wife of the renowned English sexologist Havelock Ellis (1859-1939), commenced a relationship with Lily Kirkpatrick, an Irish artist living in St. Ives. This was also the most significant of a number of same-sex relationships she had pursued. Havelock Ellis published Sexual Inversion, the first English medical text on homosexuality, in 1896 and Edith is widely believed to be the subject of one of Ellis‘s six 3 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 1, 1849-1860, 3. 4 Constance Maynard, Greenbook, 27 October 1903, 249, Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London (hereafter cited as Greenbook). The Greenbooks (also designated ―Green-books‖ and ―Green Books‖ by Maynard) are also available on microfilm: Constance Maynard, The Diaries of Constance Maynard, The Origins of Modern Feminism, pt. 1 (Brighton, Sussex: Harvester Microform, 1987). 5 Pauline Phipps notes that Maynard‘s ―outpourings about love‖ were ―analyzed within the context of faith.‖ Pauline Phipps, ―Faith, Desire, and Sexual Identity: Constance Maynard‘s Atonement for Passion,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality 18 no. 2 (May 2009), 265. 3 studies of ―female inversion,‖ ―Miss H.,‖ case study 36. 6 Sexual Inversion, which represented female homosexuality as the product of a male psyche at odds with a female body, marked the beginning of the scientific study of female homosexuality in Britain. Havelock presented homosexuality as a harmless anomaly and thus challenged the contemporary legal, medical, and social censure of it. He was more sympathetic to male inversion than female inversion, but Edith nevertheless understood her same-sex desire in sexological terms; in an undated letter to her close friend, the homosexual activist and sexual utopian, Edward Carpenter, she took up the discourse of inversion to describe her same-sex desire: ―my inversion is the talk of [the] Higher Thought. How it has got out heaven knows or whether they only think it or know it I don‘t quite realize.‖ 7 Although Sexual Inversion was published in Britain in 1897 (it was first published in Germany in 1896), sexological explanations of female same-sex desire remained the preserve of a small medical elite in the ensuing thirty years. In 1928 the author Radclyffe Hall published her novel, The Well of Loneliness, which drew on sexological discourse to represent female homosexuality; Hall was prosecuted for obscenity in the same year. It was only at that point, as a consequence of the publicity surrounding the trial, that the broader British public became acquainted with sexological discourse on female ―sexual inversion.‖ Despite the relatively late dissemination of sexological discourses of female inversion, sexology has predominated in scholarly studies of modern British homosexuality. While acknowledging its largely unsympathetic approach to female homosexuality, historians have nevertheless argued that in an era in which sexual relations between women were inconceivable 6 Jo Ann Wallace, ―Edith Ellis, Sapphic Idealism and The Lover‘s Calendar (1912)‖ in Sapphic Modernities: Sexuality, Women and English Culture, ed. Laura Doan and Jane Garrity (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 189. 7 Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 189. Of ―Miss H.‖ Havelock Ellis noted, ―she believes that homosexual love is morally right when it is really part of a person‘s nature, and provided that the nature of homosexual love is always made plain to the object of such affection. . . . The effect of her loving women is distinctly good, she asserts, both spiritually and physically, while repression leads to morbidity and hysteria.‖ Havelock Ellis, Sexual Inversion in Studies in the Psychology of Sex, vol. 1, 3rd ed. (New York: Random House, 1942), 226, quoted in Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 189. 4 to most (the ostensibly passive sexuality of women was believed to require an active male participant), sexology, by naming female sexual inversion, gave women a public language for same-sex desire, lent legitimacy to physical expressions of that desire, and enabled like-minded women to identify one another. 8 Intimate and demonstrative expressions of ―love‖ such as Maynard‘s are either deemed the product of romantic friendships (friendships between women informed by the heightened sentiments of the Romantic movement and often represented as platonic) or, if understood to be sensual or erotic, they are situated on a teleological trajectory as the less coherent, less self-aware, and less sexual products of the pre-sexological era. The scholarship on female homosexuality has, as Harry Cocks asserts of the history of modern sexuality generally, tended to ―recapitulate existing stories of modernity.‖ 9 Positing a singular trajectory of secularization, with the late-nineteenth century as a watershed moment in Britain‘s transition from a religious to a secular society, historians have represented science as the paradigm within which modern sexual discourse emerged. 10 Singular trajectories of secularization that posit science as a simple advance on religion have, however, precluded scholars from considering the possibility that religiously inflected homoerotic relationships such as Maynard‘s, rather than simply an antecedent to modern homosexuality, constitute a different and equally valid genealogy of it. 11 8 Lucy Bland thus argues that sexology gave women the means by which to ―claim the right to be sexual.‖ Lucy Bland, Banishing the Beast: Feminism, Sex and Morality (London: Tauris Parke, 1995), 256. 9 H. G. Cocks, ―Religion and Sexuality,‖ in Palgrave Advances in the Modern History of Sexuality (London: Palgrave, 2006), 157-79. For the study of sexology and female homosexuality, see Jennifer Terry, An American Obsession: Science, Medicine, and Homosexuality in Modern Society (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999); Lisa Duggan, ―The Trials of Alice Mitchell: Sensationalism, Sexology, and the Lesbian Subject in Turn-of- the Century America,‖ Signs 18, no. 4 (1993): 791-814; and Siobhan B. Sommerville, ―Scientific Racism and the Invention of the Homosexual Body,‖ in Sexology in Culture: Labelling Bodies and Desires, ed. Lucy Bland and Laura Doan. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 60-76. 10 Joy Dixon, ―Sexology and the Occult: Sexuality and Subjectivity in Theosophy‘s New Age,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality 7, no. 3 (1997): 411. 11 Important exceptions, discussed below, include Martha Vicinus, ―‗The Gift of Love‘: Nineteenth-Century Religion and Lesbian Passion,‖ Nineteenth-Century Contexts 23, no. 2 (2001): 241-64; Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 265-86; 5 In recent years feminist historians of religion, amongst others, have begun to question the secularization theory that has informed the scholarly aligning of modernity with science. While noting the range of ways in which the term ―modernity‖ has been used by historians, 12 they have been particularly concerned with the notion of modernity as a period of ―disenchantment‖ consequent on the eschewal of religion, following Max Weber‘s formulation in his 1917 lecture ―Science as a Vocation.‖ 13 Alex Owen, exploring the fin-de-siècle mystical revival, argues not only that ―belief was capable of renegotiating the rationalism and even scientism of the period‖ 14 but also that turn-of-the-century religion was ―itself constitutive . . . of key elements of modern culture.‖ 15 Joy Dixon has drawn attention to the failure of proponents of secularization theory to take gender into account. Nineteenth-century women were aligned with spirituality and the religious language evident in turn-of-the-century feminist rhetoric points to the persistence of religion as a discourse of cultural authority for women. 16 For Owen and Dixon the problem with the contemporary mobilization of the category ―modernity‖ is that the binary terms through which it is defined – secular/religious, science/religion, sexually liberated/repressed, and masculinity/femininity – derive from the discourse of secularization itself. Rather than allowing Wallace, ―Edith Ellis‖; and Joanna Dean, Religious Experience and the New Woman: The Life of Lily Dougall (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2007). 12 For example, the term ―modernity‖ has been used to describe the socio-economic transformation from agrarian to industrialized societies; the rise of rationality, science, and the pursuit of human progress during the Enlightenment era; the emergence of the modern nation state, the advent of mass democracy, and the processes of rationalization that accompanied these; the advent of industrial capitalism in the nineteenth century and, more recently, new modes of producing knowledge, and new specifications of collectivities and identities. Stuart Hall, introduction to Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies, ed. Stuart Hall et. al. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 3-17. 13 Joy Dixon, ―Modernity, Heterodoxy, and the Transformation of Religious Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, ed. Jacqueline deVries and Sue Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010), 212. 14 Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 11. 15 Owen, Place of Enchantment, 8. 16 Joy Dixon, ―A New Age for Women: Suffrage and the Sacred,‖ in Divine Feminine: Theosophy and Feminism in England (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 177-205. See also, Callum Brown, The Death of Christian Britain (London: Routledge, 2001). 6 for the investigation of the process through which ―modernity‖ was constituted, including how these terms were consolidated and came to exist in opposition to one another, the current understanding of ―modernity,‖ allows only for the confirmation of these terms and their oppositional relationship. 17 Feminist historians of sexuality have also begun to undertake a gendered critique of the exclusionary effects of secularization theory on their field of study. Lesley Hall observes that histories of sexuality have ―placed most weight on scientific, medical and legal treatises or articles in learned journals by men with the appropriate professional qualifications.‖ 18 Victorian women, however, worked in different genres, including ―polemic literature, religious discourse, works of popular instruction, essays, social surveys, textbooks for social workers,‖ many of which have not been considered by historians of sexuality. 19 While some scholars have argued that Victorian and Edwardian women‘s religious beliefs led to inherently conservative views of sexuality – they draw attention to women‘s campaigns to resist the state legislation of prostitution and their involvement in the prostitute ―rescue‖ mission and the social purity and eugenics movements, for example 20 – others have noted the opportunity such campaigns afforded women to speak about sex publicly for the first time. 21 The latter have explored Victorian women‘s recourse to religious language to develop independent and even dissident 17 Dixon draws attention to the ―radical contingency of our analytic categories and the need to subject those categories to an ongoing historical critique.‖ Joy Dixon, ―‗Out of Your Clinging Kisses . . . I Create a New World‘: Sexuality and Spirituality in the Work of Edward Carpenter,‖ in The Ashgate Research Companion to Nineteenth-Century Spiritualism and the Occult, ed. Tatiana Kontou and Sarah Wilburn (London: Ashgate, forthcoming). 18 Lesley A. Hall, Outspoken Women: An Anthology of Women’s Writing on Sex, 1870-1969 (London: Routledge, 2005), 2. 19 Ibid. 20 Michael Mason, The Making of Victorian Sexual Attitudes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). 21 Bland, Banishing the Beast, xix; Frank Mort, Dangerous Sexualities: Medico-Moral Politics in England since 1830 (New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987), 86; and Hall, Outspoken Women, 12. 7 understandings of sexuality. 22 The historian of religion and gender Sue Morgan notes the indebtedness of Marie Stopes‘s Married Love (1918), the paradigmatically modern text on sexuality, to the writings of Victorian Christians such as the physician Elizabeth Blackwell and, paradoxically, the social purity reformer Ellice Hopkins, both of whom made recourse to later nineteenth-century incarnational theology to validate the body and its desires. Morgan suggests that religious discourse was in fact ―deeply imbricated in the making of modern British culture‖ and that women played a central role in the religious making of modern sexuality. 23 In the early 1980s historians of same-sex desire began to explore the role of religion in the making of Victorian homosexuality. They focused primarily on male homosexuality and Anglo- and Roman Catholicism. David Hilliard‘s 1982 essay ―UnEnglish and Unmanly: Anglo- Catholicism and Homosexuality‖ inaugurated this field. Hilliard argued that the homosociality of the Anglican priesthood and of the monastic orders, the aestheticism of Anglo-Catholic religious practice, and the marginality of Anglo-Catholics within the Church of England rendered this tradition attractive to male homosexuals. Taking up Hilliard‘s work and focusing on both men and women, Frederick Roden delineated a three-stage model of the emergence of modern homosexual identity in literary religious discourse, from an erotic interest in homosocial religious institutions in the work of John Henry Newman and Christina Rossetti, to a troubled awareness of the possibilities of homoeroticism in the religious poetry of Gerald Manley Hopkins and Eliza Keary, to a fully-fledged, religiously-constituted homosexual identity in the writings of the aunt-niece couple Katharine Bradley and Edith Cooper (who published under the pseudonym ―Michael Field‖) and in the work of Oscar Wilde.‖ 24 In a ground-breaking essay 22 Sue Morgan, ―‗The Word Made Flesh‘: Women, Religion and Sexual Cultures,‖ in DeVries and Morgan, Women, Gender and Religious Cultures, 162. 23 Ibid., 159. 24 Frederick S Roden, Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Religious Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2002). 8 that addressed both women and Protestantism, Martha Vicinus argued that the same-sex relationships of Mary Benson, the Evangelical Anglican wife of the Archbishop of Canterbury Edward Benson, were the product of the spiritual mentoring that was central to Evangelical piety. 25 In the only essay to explore Maynard‘s religious beliefs and her same-sex desire, Pauline Phipps suggested that a Puritan theology of atonement provided Maynard with a discourse of penance in advance of her ―sin,‖ thus facilitating Maynard‘s pursuit of illicit sexual desire, and that it enabled her to achieve a modern sexual identity similar to that of sexological discourse. 26 As persuasive and as path-breaking as these studies have been, the relationship between religion and homosexuality has sometimes been under-theorized and, as a result, the relationship of religiously-structured homoeroticism/homosexuality to modern sexuality either unexplored or oversimplified. In undertaking an assuredly useful examination of religious institutions, practices, and theologies, these scholars nevertheless adopt an instrumentalist approach to religion; religion is seen to ―facilitate,‖ ―foster,‖ ―create space for,‖ ―provide a vehicle for,‖ ―underwrite,‖ or ―legitimate‖ homosexual desire. 27 The assumption of many of these scholars that same-sex desire and homosexual identity pre-existed religious belief precludes the possibility of exploring the role of religious discourse in the constitution of sexual subjectivity, 28 and of a religiously structured dissident sexual subjectivity in the making of modern sexuality. A too-rapid attribution of sexual identity of the sexological kind prevents an exploration of the 25 Vicinus, ―Gift of Love,‖ 242. 26 Phipps, ―Faith.‖ See also, Pauline Phipps, ―An Atonement for Ambition and Passion: The Experience of British Victorian Educational Pioneer, Constance Louisa Maynard (1849-1935)‖ (Ph.D. dissertation, Carlton University, 2004). 27 Phipps, for example, asserts that Maynard ―adopted‖ faith as ―a means of understanding and resisting her same- sex desire‖ and that Maynard used religious discourse (the notion that love was a gift from God) to ―justify‖ and to ―rationalize‖ her illicit desires. Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 266. 28 Dixon, ―Your Clinging Kisses.‖ 9 intersections between pre-sexological and sexological discourse, whether in the form of resistance, convergence, or mutual constitution. The possibility of iterations of desire that are both self-aware and non-identitarian is overlooked and the diversity and complexity of modern iterations of same-sex desire is reduced to identitarian formulations. In order to fully understand modern sexuality, the complex relationship between religion and science from which it emerged, and broader transformations in late nineteenth-century British culture within which it was constituted, it is necessary to explore the role of the religion in the constitution of sexual subjectivity. By charting the role of religious discourse in the making of Constance Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity, this dissertation challenges the binary categories that inform secularization theory (secular/sacred, science/religion, sexual liberation/sexual repression, amongst others), maps the historically particular, dynamic, and diverse relationships between these discourses, and suggests that the process of social transformation evident in turn-of-the-century Britain was more complex than singular trajectories of secularization have allowed. The making of Maynard‘s same-sex desire suggests that Evangelicalism, rather than an anachronism, was integral to the production of modern sexuality. Maynard is best known for her pioneering work in the British movement for women‘s higher education. The daughter of Henry Maynard (1800-1888), a prosperous colonial merchant with offices in Pancras Lane, London, and of a mother of French Huguenot descent, Louisa Maynard, nee Hillyard (1807-1878), she was one of the first women to pursue a university education. She gained admission to Girton College, Cambridge (or, more accurately, its predecessor, the College for Women at Hitchin), the first British residential college for women, in 1872, just three years after it had been founded by Emily Davies. She was the first Girton student to sit the Moral Science Tripos examination. In 1882, at the age of thirty-three, Maynard 10 established Westfield College (since incorporated into Queen Mary, University of London), the first British college to formally grant degrees to women; she served as its principal until her retirement in 1913. 29 Over the course of her life Maynard published just under thirty books, primarily smaller ―shilling books‖ of a theological, instructional, or devotional nature, and over thirty essays, of a similarly religious nature, in a wide range of primarily Christian periodicals. 30 Towards the end of her life Maynard, who was not given to self-aggrandizement, perceived herself to have attained a unique position among Anglican Evangelicals: ―I cannot but feel that I hold a place in the true Evangelical Church of today that I think no other woman holds.‖ 31 Maynard was indeed a prominent Victorian Evangelical; she knew and was known to many other leading Evangelicals. Lord Shaftesbury had attended the planning meetings for Westfield College in 1880 and well-respected Evangelicals such as Dr. Henry Wace, who had been principal of King‘s College, Dr. W. H. Barlow, and Canon James Fleming sat on the Westfield Council. Others, such as the Evangelical Bishop of Durham, Handley Moule, sent their daughters to Westfield. 32 Josephine Butler, whom Maynard met at the 1881 Christian Women‘s Union Conference in Liverpool, where Maynard presented her proposal for a Christian women‘s college, encouraged her in this endeavor. 33 Catherine Marsh, the daughter of 29 Oxford granted degrees to women in 1921 and Cambridge in 1948. Women had graduated from the University of London, in small numbers, from 1880. Bedford College, founded in 1849, prepared students for London degrees, and University College admitted women to most of its faculties after 1878, when the University of London opened its degrees to women, but these colleges were not residential. In 1882, the year Westfield opened, Maynard counted eleven women amongst two hundred men at the University of London graduation ceremony. In 1989 Westfield merged with Queen Mary to become ―Queen Mary and Westfield College.‖ The college moved from Finchley Road, Hampstead Heath (its home from 1891) to the Queen Mary campus in Mile End. The Hampstead Heath campus was purchased by King‘s College, but parts of it have recently been sold. In 2000 the name ―Queen Mary and Westfield College‖ was changed to ―Queen Mary College.‖ 30 This is a rough count since some of Maynard‘s articles were published anonymously as was the convention in most journals of the period. Although Maynard mentions some of her publications in her diaries, it is difficult to ascertain whether the list is definitive. 31 Autobiography, 1919, 76. 32 Autobiography, 1903, 502. 33 Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 41, 1881, 84. 11 the Evangelical theologian William Marsh, whom Maynard met in 1905 when Marsh was eighty-seven, was similarly supportive. 34 Through her involvement with the Salvation Army in the early 1880s, Maynard was also well-acquainted with William and Catherine Booth. Maynard was also a feminist. In addition to her work in women‘s higher education, she supported suffrage and spoke enthusiastically of Millicent Fawcett, the moderate suffragist and president of the National Union of Women‘s Suffrage Societies. Her support for suffrage is evident in an account of the 1908 suffrage march, written for the benefit of former Westfield students: It was not thought well that our College should take the prominent part others did – Girton, Somerville etc. marching under their distinctive banners. Neither did we forbid it as Holloway authorities did to their present Students. The result was that all the Staff (save of course Miss Whitby) and five of the elder students went. I am too much identified with Westfield to be able to go. . . . It was all most orderly and quiet and those who went enjoyed it very well, seeing Miss Fawcett, Miss Davies, and all the other celebrities concerned. 35 Maynard was also an avid supporter of Josephine Butler and her campaign in the 1870s and 1880s to repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts and, like many Victorian feminists, she endorsed the social purity movement that emerged from that campaign. 36 Maynard also participated in early efforts to consolidate an international women‘s movement. At the invitation of Lady 34 ―It was a wholly new world to her, but her ready sympathy came forward & embraced it. . . She saw clearly how one generation cannot serve another but each must serve its own, & there was not a trace of being shocked or of standing aloof from what I had to tell.‖ Autobiography, 1905, 540. 35 Constance Maynard, Budget Letter, 30 June 1908, quoted in Sondheimer, Castle Adamant, 66. Like other forerunners in women‘s higher education, she did not engage actively in the suffrage campaign for fear of alienating her already uncertain constituency. Emily Davies had withdrawn from suffrage work for similar reasons. M. C. Bradbrook, “That Infidel Place”: A Short History of Girton College, 1869-1969 (London: Chatto & Windus, 1969), 13. 36 The Acts allowed for the medical examination of women suspected of prostitution in garrison towns and ports and the incarceration in ―lock hospitals‖ of those found to have contracted sexually transmitted diseases until they were deemed healthy. Their male clients, military men for the most part, were exempt. The Acts were thus seen by those who sought their repeal to sanction the sexual double standard as well as prostitution. The social purity movement sought to procure the support of the state, including law-makers and the police, to eradicate prostitution. 12 Aberdeen, Ishbel Hamilton-Gordon, she presented the report on women‘s education at the 1899 Quinquennial Meeting of the International Council of Women. Maynard can thus be considered an evangelical feminist and located in the very diverse company of other such women, including Butler (1828-1906) and Booth (1829-1890), the latter of whom was not affiliated with the women‘s movement but nevertheless promoted women‘s rights within Salvationism. Despite Maynard‘s prominence amongst evangelical women, she has been largely overlooked by historians of both British evangelicalism and Anglicanism. While she is known to historians of gender, feminism and sexuality, no full-length study of her life has emerged from these disciplines either. The only biography of Maynard was published in 1949 by Catherine Beatrice Firth, a Westfield graduate, a friend of Maynard‘s, and one of the five women literary executors to whom Maynard entrusted her manuscripts. 37 Firth‘s biography, while excluding Maynard‘s homoerotic relationships, gives due consideration to both her religious beliefs and her educational achievements and remains a largely reliable and informative account. 38 More recent work on Maynard has, for the most part, been subject to what Dixon refers to as the ―historiographical division of labor‖ that has seen ―women‘s politics and women‘s spirituality . . . dealt with in separate literatures, and only a few attempts made to map the relationships between them.‖ 39 Studies of Maynard as a pioneer in the campaign for women‘s higher education rarely explore the relationship between her work in education and her 37 Firth entered Westfield in 1901 and studied under the well-respected historian Caroline Skeel, won the prestigious University of London Gilchrist Scholarship for her work in history in 1904, and in 1912 was the first Westfield student to attain a D. Lit. Sondheimer, Castle Adamant, 8, 56. 38 Firth found Maynard‘s outpourings about love ―startling, sometimes painful‖ and ―which [wished?] that she could turn away from records which, it seemed, no stranger‘s eye should read.‖ Catherine Beatrice Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, Mistress of Westfield College: A Family Portrait (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1949), 5. 39 Dixon, Divine Feminine, 2-3. 13 Evangelicalism. 40 Maynard‘s founding, of the first college to grant women‘s degrees, as one in which ―the name of Christ is loved & honoured‖ 41 may also have proved problematic for historians of feminism; despite a growing scholarship on religion and feminism, the indebtedness of the latter to the former has yet to be fully acknowledged. 42 Certainly, the Puritanical framing of Maynard‘s Evangelicalism, her religious dogmatism, and her proselytizing are impediments to empathy for twenty-first century feminists. Maynard‘s feminist engagement with women‘s higher education was nevertheless driven by Evangelical aspirations. She believed herself to have received a prophetic calling as a child and soon after entering Girton, at the age of twenty-three, identified women‘s higher education as the arena within which she was to exercise that calling. She saw as her predecessors Christian women who had engaged in social reform, including ―the pioneers of nursing – Florence Nightingale, sweet Agnes Jones, and grave Sister Dora; the true hero, Josephine Butler; the single woman theologian of the nineteenth century, Dora Greenwell; the helpers of the utterly degraded, Mrs. Raynard and Mrs. Bayley; the persuaders to righteousness, Miss Marsh, Mrs. Pennefather, and Mrs. Catherine Booth; the sailor‘s friend, Miss Weston.‖ 43 Her taking up the cause of women‘s higher education was a variation of the characteristic Evangelical theme of 40 Maria Tamboukou, ―Erasing Sexuality from the Blackboard,‖ Australian Feminist Studies 17, no. 38 (2002): 135- 49; ―Of Other Spaces: Women's Colleges at the Turn of the Nineteenth Century in the UK,‖ Gender Place & Culture: A Journal of Feminist Geography 7, no. 3 (2000): 247- 63; and ―Spacing Herself: Women in Education,‖ Gender and Education 11, no. 2 (1999): 125-39. Also, Martha Vicinus, Independent Women: Work and Community for Single Women, 1850-1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985) and Deirdre Raftery, ―The Opening of Higher Education to Women in the Nineteenth Century: ‗Unexpected Revolution‘ or Inevitable Change?‖ Higher Education Quarterly 56, no. 4 (October 2002): 330-46. 41 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 355-56. 42 Two articles on Maynard attempt to bridge some of the divides that characterize the scant scholarship on Maynard. In ―‗One Life to Stand Beside Me‘: Emotional Conflicts in First-Generation College Women in England,‖ Vicinus examines the relationship between Maynard‘s educational endeavours and her homoeroticism (Feminist Studies 3 [Fall 1982]: 603-28) and Phipps examines the relationship between Maynard‘s faith and her homoerotic desire (―Faith,‖ 265-86). 43 Constance Maynard, ―From Early Victorian Schoolroom to University: Some Personal Experiences,‖ Nineteenth- Century 76 (1914): 1069. 14 social reformism, only in this instance directed as much at Evangelicals themselves as non- believers. At Westfield Maynard sought simultaneously to promote the cause of women‘s higher education amongst traditionally conservative Evangelicals and to promote the gospel amongst educated women. The same-sex desire and the homoerotic relationships pursued by this prominent Evangelical Victorian emerged as a product of her prophetic calling as she undertook it within the context of women‘s higher education. At first glance the idea that Victorian Evangelicalism should produce same-sex desire, structure homosexual subjectivity, and provide a language for homoeroticism/homosexuality seems counter-intuitive. For contemporary historians, Victorian Evangelicalism seems quintessentially sexually repressive. Evangelical discourse was taken up in the late eighteenth century by an emerging middle class intent on consolidating class and racial difference. 44 Evangelicals aligned sexual continence with respectability and juxtaposed these with the ostensibly lax sexual morality of the upper and working classes and the putative sexual excesses of the indigenous peoples of the empire. 45 The repressive effects of Evangelicalism were evident at the level of public policy as the Society for the Suppression of Vice and the Encouragement of Virtue promoted the vigorous prosecution of obscene publications from 1850, and the National Vigilance Association (NVA), which succeeded it in 1875, pursued harsh measures to eradicate prostitution. Understandings of Victorian Evangelicalism as singularly sexually repressive have, however, often been informed by ahistorical notions of both religion and sexuality, which have 44 Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780- 1850), rev. ed. (New York: Routledge, 2002). 45 Catherine Hall, ―Of Gender and Empire: Reflections on the Nineteenth Century,‖ in Gender and Empire, ed. Philippa Levine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 46-76; Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995); Philippa Levine, ―Sexuality, Gender, and Empire,‖ in Gender and Empire ed. Philippa Levine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 134-55; Ann Laura Stoler, Race and the Education of Desire: Foucault's History of Sexuality and the Colonial Order of Things (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995); and Ann Laura Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002). 15 precluded an exploration of other ways in which Evangelicalism and sexuality may have intersected. Scholars of religion and sexuality have often understood sexual desire to be the result of a biological drive that is unchanging in form. While the diversity of religious traditions has been acknowledged, religion has nevertheless often been represented as a response to spiritual or psychological needs deemed similarly universal and transhistorical. In making recourse to psychoanalytic theory, scholars of religion and sexuality often re-inscribe the essentialism inherent in ahistorical readings of sexuality and religion. They represent religion as the product of the sublimation of sexual desire, thus assuming a pre-constituted sexual drive and religious traditions that are unchanging in their motivation. If readings of religion as sexually repressive represent religion and sexuality as inherently antithetical, this usage of psychoanalytic theory collapses ―religion‖ into ―sexuality.‖ 46 Religion is deemed simply a manifestation of sexual desire. The possibility that religious discourse produces and structures sexual desire is precluded. Such readings of the relationship of religion and sexuality are not uniform within psychoanalytic theory. Freud, in fact, by opposing the biological models of sexuality promulgated by earlier sexologists and by arguing for the role of parents in the structuring of infants‘ otherwise polymorphous or undifferentiated sexuality, presented a more dynamic model of sexuality which attempted to take cultural factors (the family) into account. Freud did not historicize the family, however; his theory of the child‘s psychosexual development depended on the nuclear, middle-class family of western culture. He did not theorize the role of religion in either the constitution of the family or in the structuring of the child‘s sexual subjectivity. Some gender historians have attempted to do this. Thus Barbara Taylor, in her analysis of the erotic history of the feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, takes as her starting point the Freudian notion that ―the worshipful identification with deified parents . . . are the threads from which our 46 Joy Dixon, ―Your Clinging Kisses.‖ 16 subjectivity is woven,‖ but goes on to argue that Wollstonecraft, confronting a lack of parental affection, pursued an amorous relationship with the divine. She explores the key role of ―the religious imagination in the formation of [Wollstonecraft‘s] sexual subjectivity.‖ 47 The Freudian focus on the nuclear family is thus extended to include the divine. 48 Taylor does not, therefore, represent religion as the product of the sublimation of sexual desire; instead, she suggests that religious desire and human eros are independent and parallel discourses which may nevertheless intersect. While her use of psychoanalytic theory is more nuanced than that of other historians of religion and sexuality, Taylor nevertheless still tends to construe religion and sexuality in ahistorical terms. 49 Michel Foucault‘s The History of Sexuality, Volume One (1976), arguably the text that established the modern study of sexuality, provides an often overlooked framework for investigating the historical particularity of religion, sexuality, and their relationship to one another. Foucault refuted prevailing psychoanalytically indebted readings of Victorian sexuality 47 Barbara Taylor, Mary Wollstonecraft and the Feminist Imagination (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 116. 48 For an example of a related, though not historical, approach, see the work of the Lacanian feminist Julia Kristeva, particularly In the Beginning Was Love: Psychoanalysis and Faith (1987) and Tales of Love (1987). Kristeva suggests that the successful negotiation of the loss of the mother (in Lacan‘s reworking of Freud‘s oedipal theory), entails the child identifying with a third party, or the Other, which Kristeva defines as an illusion or fantasy. As Dawn McCance notes, Kristeva suggests that in Catholicism, Christ and the Virgin Mary constitute the Other; they serve as the mirror in which the child may construe her/his unity and thus attain subjecthood. Dawn McCance, ―Kristeva‘s Melancholia: Not Knowing How to Lose,‖ in Religion in French Feminist Thought: Critical Perspectives, ed. Morny Joy, Kathleen O'Grady and Judith L. Poxon (New York : Routledge, 2003), 139. 49 Taylor thus notes that the primary demand we make of ourselves, each other and our gods . . . is the demand for a viable self- identity that is psychically and culturally viable. How such a viable subjectivity is established is in part – but only in part – a matter for history. Clearly the components of selfhood change over time – does it for example include a soul? – but the fundamental psychological processes through which self-identities are forged, I am proposing, are ubiquitous and constant. It is these processes that give persuasive weight to religion‘s universalist claims: not the claim of this or that religion to the exclusive possession of universal truth, but rather the capacity of all religions, as [William] James suggests, to speak to the demand of our being human.‖ Taylor, Mary Wollstonecraft, 128; Taylor is referencing William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience (London: Penguin, 1985), 259, first published in 1902. While Taylor goes to some pains to refute ahistorical notions of religion, she nevertheless asserts the ubiquity of the individual‘s need to forge identities and represents that process as the transhistorical purpose of religion. 17 as ―repressed‖ (the ―repressive hypothesis‖) and resisted predominantly Marxist notions of power as singularly oppressive or restrictive. He took historically specific discourses as his point of departure (―the history of sexuality – that is the history of what functioned in the nineteenth century as a specific field of truth – must be written from the viewpoint of a history of discourses‖ 50 ). By discourses he meant the institutions, practices, and language associated with a field of knowledge. Foucault argued that the proliferation of discourses on sexuality in a variety of disciplines during the Victorian era – sexology, psychology, psychiatry, pedagogy, and demography, for example – attested to the productive rather than restrictive nature of power and had the effect of saturating Victorian society with sexual desire rather than repressing it. Foucault did not eschew the notion of repression altogether, but saw it as part of a dual dynamic – repression/proliferation – intrinsic to the operation of power. The veiled or oblique terms in which sexuality was framed in Victorian discourse, the heightened significance sex gained as a result, the consequent notion that sex was a secret that required discovery and that it comprised the truth of the self, and the individual‘s recourse to sexual discourse to ascertain the truth of sex, produced and proliferated sexual desire. This desire, in requiring management, appeared to legitimate the regulatory discourse that produced it; the reach of power was thus extended into the intimate lives of Victorians. Foucault‘s analytic of modern power was concerned not only with the production of sexual desire but of sexual subjectivity and the sexual subject. He argued that individuals, by making recourse to sexual discourse to speak their truth, gained sexual subjectivity while simultaneously rendering themselves subject to that discourse. Foucault charted the transition from the religious regulation of sexuality in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to the scientific regulation of sexuality in the nineteenth century. He argued that an increasing focus on sexual sin during the Counter Reformation, and 50 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 1., An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1990), 69. 18 the meticulous charting of sexual desire in the Catholic confession, produced rather than repressed sexual desire. At first glance his work may seem to support secularization theorists‘ aligning of modernity with science and secularization, including the failure to gender secularization theory. Foucault did, indeed, overlook the Victorian alignment of women with religion and the persistent role of religion as a source of cultural authority for nineteenth-century women. One objective of this study is to gender his account of Victorian sexuality by taking as a starting point for an analysis of Victorian women‘s religiously inflected sexual discourse, the theoretical approach he developed to investigate the relationship between religion and sexuality in the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. His analysis of the Catholic regulation of sexual desire allows for the possibility that the regulatory discourse of Victorian Evangelicalism and women‘s sexual discourse in particular, rather than being singularly repressive, produced sexual desire and structured sexual subjectivity. At the same time this dissertation refutes the notion that Foucault endorsed simple, unilinear trajectories of secularization. By arguing that the Catholic confession provided the prototype for modern medical epistemology, the modern subject, and the modern operation of power, he drew attention to the imbrication of religion and science in the later Victorian period, and opened the way for more nuanced analyses of the relation of religion to modern sexual discourse. 51 Some historians have begun to pursue a Foucauldian approach to religion. Dixon thus argues that religion, rather than being an ―ontological category,‖ 52 is a cultural formation, one that informs, and is informed by, other cultural discourses. 53 51 David Halperin, How to Do the History of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 106; and Cocks, ―Religion and Spirituality,‖ 157. 52 Dixon, Divine Feminine, 13. 53 To approach religion as a cultural discourse is not to arbitrate on, or to provide rational explanations for, numinous elements within it. Rather it is to chart the broader cultural discourses that structured such expression of the numinous and to trace their culturally specific effects. 19 This study examines Evangelicalism as a cultural discourse and explores the historically specific structuring of Maynard‘s sexual desire. It argues that if sexual subjectivity is discursively constituted it is also multivalent and dynamic. The dissertation thus identifies five chronological but overlapping phases of Maynard‘s religious history, situates these within wider transitions in Victorian religious culture, and investigates Maynard‘s shifting sexual subjectivity as a product of changes in her religious subjectivity. It examines the Puritan, Presbyterian- indebted, Anglicanism of her parents‘ faith, her subsequent encounter with Evangelical revivalism in the form of the Ulster revivals of the late 1850s, her entering Girton College as a young adult in the early 1870s and undergoing a crisis of faith, her rapprochement with Evangelicalism through her involvement with the holiness movement in the 1880s, and her engagement with theological modernism from the late 1890s until her death in 1935. The larger shifts in Victorian religious culture which gave rise to Maynard‘s changing religious beliefs, were themselves the product of interaction with other cultural discourses. This study focuses on intersections between Evangelicalism, on the one hand, and gender, science, and imperialism, on the other. While Foucault‘s notion of the productive nature of power provides a starting point for this dissertation, it also requires qualification. Victorian Evangelical regulatory discourse did not address female same-sex desire directly. It was only in the 1920s, as sexological explanations of female same-sex desire gained prominence, that religious authorities began to censure female homosexuality or ―sexual inversion.‖ (In 1924, the COPEC Commission asserted that while the Church ―might view ‗the pervert with deepest sympathy,‘ it should ‗regard him or her as a defective whose abnormality must be isolated and submitted to special treatment‘‖ 54 ). Nevertheless, Victorian Evangelicals were centrally preoccupied with the possibility that human 54 Christian Conference on Politics, Economics, and Citizenship (COPEC), ―The Relations of the Sexes‖ (London; Longmans, Green and Co., 1924), 31, quoted in Morgan, ―Word Made Flesh,‖ 178. 20 love in any of its forms might eclipse the love of God. Here they were in continuity with their eighteenth-century Puritan forebears. As one Puritan divine noted, to love family and friends was acceptable, but ―to love them with a particular love, as things distinct from God, to delight in them merely as creatures; to follow them as if some good, or happiness, or pleasure were to be found in them distinctly from what is in God: this is a branch of spiritual Adultery, I had almost said Idolatry.‖ 55 Maynard understood the elevation of human love over divine to be her ―besetting sin,‖ her single most significant temptation. In 1927 she wrote to her future literary executors: ―My life has had golden opportunities, but looking back I see it is full of inadequacies and failures and bitter disappointments, and these chiefly founded on the mistake of preferring Human love to Divine.‖ 56 This dissertation thus modifies Foucault‘s approach to regulatory sexual discourse by examining the effects on Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity of the Evangelical monitoring of the affections. For Evangelicals, as for Foucault‘s sixteenth-century Catholics, confession was central to piety. It was a confession that did not require the mediation of a priest, but was made through prayer to God; nevertheless, the presence of other believers or the recording of confessions in spiritual diaries lent urgency and legitimacy to confession. For Maynard the confessional aspect of diary writing was primary. ―People say that sometimes confession to another human being is good for one,‖ she wrote in 1903: ―the accusation we make against ourselves before God are so dim & vague, but to a man we give the details of our sin, time & place & opportunity. This 55 Catherine A. Brekus, ―Writing as a Protestant Practice: Devotional Diaries in New England,‖ in Practicing Protestants: Histories of Christian Life in America, 1630-1965, ed. Laurie F. Maffly-Kipp, Leigh E. Schmidt, and Mark Valeri (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2006), 25. A clear discourse of affective idolatry was evident in nineteenth-century Britain also, as Vicinus notes: ―all who read Jane Eyre (1847) knew the danger of making an idol of one‘s beloved. Jane is justly punished for loving Mr. Rochester too much, for making him stand ‗between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun.‘‖ Vicinus, Intimate Friends 87, quoting Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975), 287. 56 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 306. 21 effect was produced on me by writing this last page or two.‖ 57 Driven by religious imperatives, she confessed both fully and quite frankly to her privileging of human desire over divine, with an urgent Evangelical sense of the necessity of maintaining a righteous relationship with God. ―All is open & acknowledged now, to God, to myself, to this book, & cannot again be hidden & slurred over,‖ 58 she observed in 1885 after her short-lived homoerotic relationship with fellow Westfield teacher, Frances Ralph Gray. In her autobiographical account of this period she notes, ―If I die, I must die in the attempt to belong only to God.‖ 59 The effects of Maynard‘s diary- based confession were unstable, however; the naming of desire, even in the process of renouncing it, proliferated that desire and facilitated its enactment. If Foucault‘s work on sexual regulation constitutes one framework within which to explore the relationship between Maynard‘s Evangelicalism and her dissident sexual subjectivity, it is not the only one. Foucault‘s relatively narrow focus on sexual regulation prevented him from considering the role of religious desire in inciting human eros, structuring sexual subjectivity, facilitating erotic relationships, and producing discourses of sexuality. 60 An erotic discourse of religious desire, or the longing for spiritual intimacy with Christ, existed alongside repressive Evangelical sexual discourse, but has been largely overlooked by historians of sexuality. With the evangelical revivals of the Victorian era – the Irish revival of 1859, the holiness movement which emerged in the 1860s, the Moody and Sankey campaign of the 1870s, 57 Greenbook, 23 March 1903, 192. 58 Greenbook, 5 April 1885, 40. 59 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 48, 120. 60 He nevertheless gestured towards this possibility: ―The ars erotica did not disappear altogether from Western civilization. . . . In the Christian confession, but especially in the direction and examination of conscience, in the search for spiritual union and love of God, there was a whole series of methods that had much in common with an erotic art.‖ Foucault, History of Sexuality, 70. He defined ars erotica as ―truth is drawn from pleasure itself . . . [pleasure is understood] first and foremost in relation to itself; it is experienced as pleasure, evaluated in terms of its intensity, its specificity, its duration, its reverberations in the body and soul‖ (57). See chapter three for a discussion of this. 22 and the turn-of-the-century Torrey, Chapman, and Alexander revival meetings – Victorians made increasing recourse to metaphors of love, courtship, and marriage, all of which derived from the Christian scriptures, to define their relationship with Christ. Effusive articulations of spiritual desire, articulated in the language of human eros, led to slippages between the two. Metaphors of human eros had been an integral part of the Evangelical discourses of conversion and spiritual mentoring from the eighteenth-century revivals. John Wesley had argued that individuals‘ attraction to one another elucidated God‘s love for humankind; he went on to suggest that ―in human relations, spiritual knowledge can best be conveyed and absorbed when teacher and pupil gaze at each other ‗with a lover‘s eye.‘‖ 61 For Maynard it was only through human love, including love ―in its form of passion,‖ 62 that the would-be believer understood God‘s love. 63 She believed an erotically inflected love to be the context within which spiritual birth took place and early spiritual mentoring was conducted. Cases such as Maynard‘s suggest that contemporary evangelical notions of homosexuality as alien to the tradition or as the product of modern and degenerate discourses of sexuality are misplaced. Female homoeroticism was a product of Evangelicalism and, in an era in which women predominated in Evangelicalism and in which devotional friendships were homosocial, an unacknowledged female homoeroticism both structured and sustained Evangelicalism. The Evangelical discourse of the family was, however, the most significant non- regulatory mechanism to structure Maynard‘s same-sex desire. The mutual constitution of Evangelical discourses of literal marriage, motherhood, and the family on the one hand, and their spiritual counterparts on the other – the use of the earthly family as a metaphor for the 61 Mack, Religion of the Heart, 135, 142. 62 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885, 139. 63 Here she resembled Mary Benson, whose ―intense Evangelical belief in a personal savior began in earthly love.‖ Vicinus, ―Gift of Love,‖ 242. 23 spiritual and vice versa – rendered the discourse of the literal family unstable. The representation of the believer‘s relationship with God as a father-child relationship and with Christ as a bride-bridegroom relationship, and the depiction of the church as the ―family of God,‖ provided a challenge to the literal family by allowing for the possibility that relationships within the spiritual family might trump earthly ones. Maynard‘s same-sex desire emerged as she took up the mother-daughter metaphor for her spiritual friendships along with the notion that it was through an erotically inflected love that individuals apprehended the love of God. Maynard‘s subsequent struggle with her ―besetting sin‖ led to the emergence of what I designate a ―homosexual subjectivity.‖ The necessity of combatting the attractions of ―human love‖ led to an unrelenting investigation of its nature; Maynard came increasingly to insist on the difference between her homoerotic desire and platonic notions of love. Eventually she turned to heterosexual discourse and ritual to argue for the sexual valence of her intimate same- sex relationships, even while rejecting the love that characterized those relationships as inimical to her love of God. She came to an awareness of the sexual nature of her desire in the course of repudiating it; that awareness was, nevertheless, not cast in identitarian terms and is best characterized as a homosexual subjectivity rather than a homosexual identity. Maynard‘s religiously structured homosexual subjectivity contests the alignment of modernity with secularization; it also challenges the category ―modern sexuality.‖ Frank Mort notes that ―sexual theory is littered with reductionisms, they have proved simplistic because they fail to grasp the plurality of sexual systems and force disabling choices around polarised oppositions.‖ 64 These ―reductionisms‖ derive in part from the notion that Foucault aligned modern sexuality with sexual identity and juxtaposed the latter with the sexual acts that were the 64 Mort, Dangerous Sexualities, xx. 24 focus of his study of the earlier religious regulation of sexuality. 65 Eve Sedgwick has criticized New Historicist scholars for inadvertently replicating the teleological thinking of the Whiggish histories they seek to critique when they make rigid distinctions between sexual acts and identities, and position the latter as an advance on the former. 66 Queer postcolonial scholars have extended this critique by drawing attention to the imperialism inherent in this teleology: the singular sexual identities that have come to define modern sexuality are western and are contrasted with the ostensibly less advanced, fluid, and less visible iterations of same-sex desire evident in non-western cultures. 67 In response to both these criticisms, New Historicist David Halperin theorizes the present as sexually heterogeneous, comprised of diverse sexual practices and identities with varying genealogies. 68 For historians of Victorian sexuality the question of what constitutes ―modern‖ sexuality has been complicated by the question of whether women‘s same-sex relationships were in fact sexual and how the term ―sexual‖ should be defined. Historians have debated whether the lack of textual evidence for female same-sex genital activity in the Victorian era reflects the lack of a concomitant practice and have asked whether the absence of public discourses of female same- sex sexuality rendered it impossible for later Victorian women to understand and to pursue sexual relationships with one another. Vicinus‘s answer to these questions represents a growing 65 David Halperin believes this widely held reading of Foucault‘s History of Sexuality to be inaccurate; he suggests it represents Foucault‘s approach to sexology but not to homosexuality generally. David, M. Halperin, How to do the History of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 9. 66 Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley: University of California, 1990), 47, quoted in Halperin, History of Homosexuality, 10. 67 Gayatri Gopinath,―Homo-Economics: Queer Sexualities in a Transnational Frame‖ in Burning Down the House: Recycling Domesticity, ed. Rosemary Marangoly George (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998), 102-24; Geeta Patel, ―Home, Homo, Hybrid: Translating Gender,‖ in A Companion to Postcolonial Studies, eds. Henry Schwarz and Sangeeta Ray (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2000), 410-27. 68 Halperin, History of Homosexuality, 12. Here Halperin draws on Dipesh Chakrabarty‘s work on modernity and religion in ―Minority Histories, Subaltern Pasts‖ in Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 200), 97-113. 25 consensus in the field. She argues that ―erotic play was an integral part of [Victorian women‘s] lives‖ 69 and that expressions of the erotic ranged ―from the openly sexual, to the delicately sensual, to the disembodied ideal.‖ 70 Vicinus suggests that a pre-sexological censuring of female same-sex relationships as morbid, damaging, or ill-pursued led Victorian women to forego accounts of such relationships. Others scholars have noted that Victorian women generally (like most Victorian men) rarely wrote about genital sexuality in their diaries. Yet others have pointed to ostensibly non-genital sexuality, such as the sadomasochism of Victorian barrister Arthur Munby and maid-of-all-work Hannah Cullwick, and questioned whether genital sexuality should be the index against which sexual intercourse is defined. 71 Debates regarding the sexual practices that accompanied the same-sex desire of Victorian women have contributed to variations amongst scholars regarding the appropriate terms with which to designate such women and their relationships. Thus, while Vicinus believes ―all categories and definitions must remain provisional,‖ she uses the term ―lesbian,‖ which she expands to include a ―range of activities and identities,‖ as a ―a convenient linguistic reminder that sex matters.‖ 72 Other historians, taking up the critique of identity inherent in queer theory – the notion promulgated by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick and Judith Butler that the act of classifying 69 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, xix-xx. Early work on this question, by the historians Carroll Smith-Rosenberg and Lillian Faderman, yielded the answer that Victorian women‘s homosocial relationships, their ―romantic friendships,‖ were rarely sexual. The publishing of Anne Lister‘s diaries by Helena Whitbread in 1998 challenged Smith-Rosenberg‘s and Faderman‘s analyses; Lister described genital sexuality with women and kept a tally of the orgasms she experienced. In 2004 Martha Vicinus revisited the female friendships Faderman had studied and drew attention to articulations of sexual desire intrinsic to them. Carroll Smith-Rosenberg, ―The Female World of Love and Ritual: The Relations between Women in Nineteenth-Century America,‖ Signs 1, no. 1 (1975): 1-29; Faderman, Lillian. Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth-Century America (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 11-36; Anne Lister, The Diaries of Anne Lister, 1791-1840, ed. Helena Whitbread (London: Virago, 1988); and Vicinus, Intimate Friends. 70 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, xx. 71 Sharon Marcus, Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 43. See also Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995). 72 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, xxiii, xxii. 26 and categorizing homosexuals is intrinsic to their subjugation – reject the term ―lesbian‖ as an identitarian formulation. Joanna Dean, while not espousing queer theory, nevertheless echoes the approach of its practitioners, when she argues that the ―retroactive application [of the term ―lesbian‖] imposes a modern identity politics on a more multivalent past‖ and suggests of the relationship between the Anglo-Catholic Lily Dougall and Sophie Earp that it ―could no more be ‗romantic friendship‘ in the asexual terms of the mid-nineteenth century, than it could be a ‗lesbian‘ relationship in the highly sexualized terms of post-1928 modern lesbian identity.‖ 73 Maynard was well able to identify sexual desire. As early as 1872 she had pursued a flirtation with her cousin‘s husband, the St. Andrews Classics professor Lewis Campbell, and had come to an understanding of her own erotic power and of the possibly sexual valence of touching. She recognized parallels between the articulation of desire in this relationship and caressing, kissing, and sharing a bed in the later 1870s with Louisa Lumsden, her first female love; she described the effects of touch in both relationships as an ―electric thrill.‖ 74 She understood her capacity to awaken sexual desire in women; she described herself as inciting her love‘s sexual ardor, ― it was I, I who had lighted the fire.‖ 75 She was intent on distinguishing sexual desire from platonic love, and used a variety of terms to do this: ―[love] in its form of passion,‖ 76 ―passionate affection,‖ 77 ―strong personal love,‖ 78 ―thrill of excitement,‖ 79 and 73 Joanna Dean, Religious Experience and the New Woman: The Life of Lily Dougall (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2007), 72. 74 Greenbook, 30 December 1877, 270. 75 Autobiography, 1899, 448. 76 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885, 139. 77 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 46, 1885, 58. 78 Greenbook, 28 June 1907, 173. 79 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 34, 1878, 355. 27 ―raptures.‖ 80 In a characteristic Victorian discourse of sexuality, she ultimately acknowledged that, in her relationship with Wakefield, the ―white rose‖ of purity had been supplanted by the ―red rose‖ of passion. 81 Maynard never understood her same-sex desire to represent the truth of herself or to constitute a sexual identity, however. Her homosexual subjectivity represents an articulation of Western female same-sex desire that cannot be classified using identitarian formulae. The queer theorist Judith Halberstam has coined the term ―perverse presentism‖ for a methodology in which the past throws into question accepted understandings of the present. 82 Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity raises questions about the contemporary alignment of female same-sex desire with lesbianism; it suggests that other discourses of female same-sex desire may characterize contemporary western culture and disrupt the western privileging of discourses of sexual identity over sexual acts. In examining the relationship of religion, science, and modernity in the making of Maynard‘s dissident sexual subjectivity, this study is indebted not only to the work of Foucault but also to a number of more recent works in the field. Dixon challenges singular trajectories of secularization by demonstrating that the categories of analysis upon which it depends, and which we think of as ―either/or‖ – such as the secular and sacred or science and religion – were actually 80 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 46, 1883, 59. In the late 1890s she the same metaphor to describe heterosexual transgression and her own same-sex desire. See chapter five for a fuller discussion of this trope. 81 In this study I eschew the term ―lesbian‖ in order distinguish between Maynard‘s same-sex sexual subjectivity and contemporary sexual identity. I use the term ―same-sex sexuality‖ to denote genital sexuality between women, ―homosexual subjectivity‖ to denote Maynard‘s recourse to heterosexual discourse to validate a specifically sexual desire, and ―same-sex desire‖ or ―homoerotic desire‖ to denote a less clearly defined erotically inflected desire for women. Following Jeffrey Weeks, I use the term ―sexuality‖ in a broader sense than Foucault, to denote ―a general description for the series of historically shaped and socially constructed beliefs, behaviours, relationships, and identities.‖ Jeffrey Weeks, ―The Body and Sexuality‖ in Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies, ed. Stuart Hall, David Held, Don Hubert and Ken Thompson (Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1996), 368. 82 For Halberstam, Anne Lister‘s masculinity raises questions about the subordination of gender to sexuality in lesbian feminist representations of female masculinity. She notes: ―what we do not know for sure today about the relationship between masculinity and lesbianism, we cannot know for sure about historical relations between same- sex desire and female masculinities.‖ Female Masculinity (Durham, N. C.: Duke University Press, 1998), 54. 28 often ‗both/and‖ for Victorians. 83 Richard Dellamora, pointing to the persistence of religious discourse in literary modernism, as evidenced in Radclyffe Hall‘s The Well of Loneliness, argues that the ―religious discourse of sexual difference stands in complex, ambivalent, often resistant relationship to sexological discourse. Chronologically, it can precede, parallel, dialogue with it, and contest the truths of emergent sexology.‖ 84 Wallace, turning to Edith Ellis, asserts that it was ultimately less Havelock Ellis‘s sexology that provided the explanatory framework for her same-sex sexuality than the esoteric spirituality of Edward Carpenter. 85 She suggests that Ellis found Havelock‘s ―rationalist, ‗scientific‘ analysis a necessary but not sufficient way of understanding and representing the experience of being an invert.‖ 86 Cocks summarizes this new direction in the field when he argues that the history of sexuality should be read ―not as a simple story of secularization which is shaped by the death of religion, but one that is informed by a dialogue between the secular and the spiritual.‖ 87 If Maynard‘s homoeroticism emerged as a product of her Evangelicalism, and she did not engage overtly with sexological discourse, she nevertheless took up scientific discourse to understand sexuality, both her own same-sex desire and the ―deviant‖ sexuality of her adopted daughter Stephané Fazulo (―Effie Anthon‖). Natural theology – or the belief that God could be 83 Ruth Livesay, Socialism, Sex, and the Culture of Aestheticism in Britain, 1880-1914 (Oxford, 2007), 6, quoted in Dixon ―Your Clinging Kisses.‖ Dixon notes that Livesay is addressing the relationship between politics and aesthetics, but she argues that the same may be said for politics (and other categories) and religion. 84 Richard Dellamora, ―The Well of Loneliness and the Catholic Rhetoric of Sexual Dissidence,‖ in Catholic Figures, Queer Narratives, ed. Lowell Gallagher, Frederick S. Roden, and Patricia Juliana Smith (New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2007), 114. 85 Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 193. 86 Jo-Ann Wallace, ―‗How Wonderful to Die for What You Love‘: Mrs. Havelock Ellis‘s Love-Acre (1914) as Spiritual Autobiography,‖ paper presented at the Religion and Sexuality in Britain 1870-1930 Workshop held at the University of British Columbia, 27-30 August 2009, 10. 87 Cocks, ―Religion and Spirituality,‖158, my emphasis. Martha Vicinus anticipated this line of enquiry when in 1984 she observed that ―a major contribution of the sexologists, and perhaps one reason why they came to be accepted, was their vocabulary, which made it possible to describe the complex connections among spirituality, sexuality, and personal emotions.‖ Martha Vicinus, ―Distance and Desire: English Boarding-School Friendships,‖ Signs 9, no. 4 (Summer, 1984): 621. 29 known through nature and thus through scientific enquiry – was integral to Maynard‘s parents‘ Evangelicalism and her childhood was characterized by amateur scientific pursuits such as astronomy, geology, botany, and physiology. Maynard‘s attempt to synthesize Darwinism and Evangelicalism in the early years of the twentieth century attests to the esteem in which she held science. Her adoption of Fazulo in 1888, her discovery in the mid-1890s of Fazulo‘s purported sexual deviance (her masturbation), and her recourse to eugenic discourse to deter Fazulo from marrying, further illustrates the imbrication of science and religion in Evangelical discourses of sexuality. When, in 1915, Maynard started to write her autobiography, she turned to another scientific discourse, Freudian theory, to attempt to understand her homoerotic desire. This study thus charts not only the religious genealogy of Maynard‘s homosexual subjectivity but the scientific discourse that existed in a variety of relationships to that genealogy. Maynard‘s writings suggest that neither a simple model of the ―ascendancy‖ of science, nor a model that posits the discrete existence of religious and scientific discourse in turn-of-the-century Britain, is adequate in understanding either modern sexuality or modernity. If for historians of religion the category ―modernity‖ has precluded the study of the role of religion in the making of modernity, for historians of empire the category ―modernity‖ has prevented an adequate consideration of the role of imperialism in the discursive and material production of British modernity. The raw materials, labour, and land upon which the industrialization – and thus ―modernity‖ – of Britain depended were the product of imperialist expansion which, for indigenous people, did not represent ―progress.‖ Scholars of religion and gender have begun to attend to the imperial framing of religious women‘s activism in the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Historians of Christianity have noted that missionary women wrote many of the articles and tracts that shaped metropolitan Britons‘ understanding of empire, while metropolitan women associated with the missionary movement disseminated their 30 writings. 88 A recent literature within the history of sexuality, yet to be taken up by scholars of religion, turns to intimate domestic relationships as sites at which colonial ―grammars of difference‖ were constituted. 89 Ann Stoler, whose work has played a key role here, has demonstrated how the racial categories of the empires of nineteenth-century Europe were made, un-made, and re-made in changing colonial policies on miscegenation, marriage, prostitution, and concubinage and in the intimate relationships that both conformed to and challenged such policies. Studies of female sexuality, and female homoeroticism in particular, have been absent from this scholarship which, for the most part, addresses colonial contexts. In the scholarship on homosexuality and religion, Hilliard inaugural essay charted the ways in which both Catholicism and male homoeroticism disrupted dominant discourses of masculinity as they defined the British nation. Few subsequent scholars have taken up the nation as a frame for their enquiry into Victorian religion and homosexuality, however. 90 Maynard‘s father, Henry, was a colonial merchant. As a young man he had made his fortune in the Cape Colony, and after returning to Britain he pursued a lucrative trade with this 88 Antoinette Burton draws on postcolonial feminists‘ description of the subjugation of indigenous women upon which Western women based their autonomy and notes how the Evangelical feminist Josephine Butler positioned British women as the guardians of ostensibly helpless ―native‖ women in her campaign against the Indian Contagious Diseases Acts in the late 1880s. Turning to theosophy, Dixon notes that ―the racial politics of empire were crucial in framing the context for the emergence of feminine/feminist spirituality within the Theosophical Society‖; the rewriting of Hinduism and Buddhism by British theosophists was characterized by ―inequalities of power that structured exchanges in the colonial context‖ (Dixon, Divine Feminine, 11). See also: Hall, ―Of Gender and Empire‖; Patricia Grimshaw, ―Faith, Missionary Life, and the Family,‖ in Gender and Empire, ed. Philippa Levine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 260-80; Susan Thorne, Congregational Missions and the Making of an Imperial Culture in Nineteenth-Century England. (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1999); Rhonda A. Semple, ―Professionalising their Faith: Women, Religion and the Cultures of Mission and Empire,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, eds. Jacqueline deVries and Sue Morgan, (London: Routledge, 2010), 117-37; Dixon, Divine Feminine. 89 Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler, ―Between Metropole and Colony. Rethinking a Research Agenda,‖ in Tensions of Empire. Colonial Cultures in the Bourgeois World, ed. Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 3. 90 David Hilliard, ―UnEnglish and Unmanly: Anglo-Catholicism and Homosexuality,‖ Victorian Studies 25 (1982): 181-210. Hilliard noted that the widespread characterization of Anglo-Catholicism as effeminate and foreign comprised an effort by the middle class to consolidate its power by aligning the British nation with a robust and masculine Evangelical Anglicanism. 31 colony. References to the empire, or even to the Cape, are rare in Maynard‘s early writings. Where they do appear, they demonstrate the inextricably intertwined relationship of Evangelicalism, imperialism, and commerce. The 1880s saw the emergence of high imperialism which brought to the fore conjunctions that had long existed between Christianity and the British Empire. In 1886 and 1896 Maynard also undertook trips to the Cape Colony. Her scientific ventures in these and subsequent years – her synthesis of Darwinism and Evangelicalism and her appropriation of eugenic discourse in the early 1900s – demonstrate the increasing prominence of imperialism in her Evangelicalism. Taking up Stoler‘s work, I examine two sites of imperially and religiously inflected intimacy in Maynard‘s life at the turn of the century – her mothering of her adopted Italian daughter, Effie Anthon, and her homoerotic relationship with the young Anglo-Irish Wakefield – and ask what may be learnt about the construction and contestation of the ―intimate frontiers of empire‖ at these metropolitan religious sites. 91 In particular I am interested in investigating the metropole/colony dichotomy as it has informed narratives of modernity and as it was constituted and contested in Maynard‘s intimate relationships. Equally importantly, these chapters explore the dynamic process through which scientific discourses of gender, class, and race gained prominence in Maynard‘s making of a ―modern‖ Evangelicalism, while at the same time drawing attention to the strands of resistance to dominant constructions of gender, class, and race inherent in Evangelicalism itself. Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity and her sexual discourse are thus explored as products of a religious subjectivity in dynamic interaction with the broader cultural discourses of science and empire. These chapters, like the dissertation as a whole, challenge the notion of Victorian women as peripheral to both later nineteenth- and early twentieth-century imperialism and to the making of modernity. 91 Albert L. Hurtado, Intimate Frontiers: Sex, Gender, and Culture in Old California (Albuquerque : University of New Mexico Press, 1999). 32 At the start of this introduction I noted that only one scholar has published a biography of Maynard and I suggested that the conjunction of Evangelicalism and feminism may have rendered Maynard a less congenial biographical subject for feminist scholars. In some ways she is appealing as she evinces many of the traits of contemporary representations of the New Woman: an early graduate of Girton College and an educational entrepreneur, an avid cyclist (―the very putting of my pack together & setting off in complete freedom with no guide but the map, has a real charm for me‖ 92 ), a committed vegetarian (primarily as a result of her struggle with gout), and an advocate of such innovative practices as massage (―then my little massage lady would come up at 9 oc, & give me ‗such a lovely pinching, such a good hard scrubbing‘, that I could sleep‖ 93 ). Even her sexual purity stance (along with its paradoxical sexual transgression) was not unknown to the New Woman. However, Maynard‘s Evangelical support of the missionary cause, her endorsing of the racial discourse that permeated it, her later engagement with evolutionary discourses of race, and her turn to eugenics towards the end of her life would be objectionable to most contemporary feminists. 94 Her Evangelically inflected, self-assured sense of racial and class superiority, her jingoism, and her political conservatism render her difficult to like or to admire. Moreover, while her life demonstrates the role of religion in the making of dissident sexuality, it is not a sanitized, laudatory, or exemplary sexuality, and neither is it a dissidence that Maynard embraced wholeheartedly. She is not a heroine of the kind usually featured in biographies of sexual dissidents or of feminists. 92 Autobiography, 1904, 526. 93 Autobiography, 1902, 487. 94 New Women were, of course, also implicated in imperialist discourse. See Angelique Richardson, Love and Eugenics in the Late Nineteenth Century: Rational Reproduction and the New Woman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Iveta Jusova, The New Woman and the Empire (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2005); and Lloyd, Naomi. ―The Universal Divine Principle, the Spiritual Androgyne, and the New Age in Sarah Grand‘s The Heavenly Twins,‖ Victorian Literature and Culture 37, no. 1 (March 2009): 177-96. 33 It may be tempting to exonerate Maynard from her class and racial discourse by noting the pervasiveness of such sentiments amongst middle-class Victorian women. Maynard herself, however, set the precedent for a different approach to biography, what may be deemed the ―anti- heroine‖ approach. In her biography of Dora Greenwell she wrote: ―it was not a satisfactory life. She herself described it in unflinching terms as consisting in ‗total inadequacy,‘ and in truth those who love her best can scarcely demur to this verdict.‖ Maynard went on to ask, ―Why, then, is her life worth writing and reading?‖ and answered in a characteristically Evangelical manner: ―Because of the inner struggle and victory on ground which is now the battle-field, the ‗storm-centre‘ of our generation.‖ 95 Greenwell had successfully navigated the late Victorian crisis of faith. For the contemporary historian Maynard‘s life is ―worth writing and reading‖ because it elucidates a religious genealogy of modern sexuality. It contests the secular/sacred, science/religion, metropole/colony binaries that have defined narratives of modernity by demonstrating the diverse and dynamic intersection of these discourses in the making of modern sexuality. Discourses of modern sexuality, characterized by a religion/science dichotomy, feature prominently in the making of contemporary geopolitical divides; they are part of a neo- imperialism that juxtaposes a scientific, rational, and progressive west with a religious, irrational, and regressive east. One way in which to move beyond these divides is to recognize that modern western sexuality is not the singular product of scientific discourse but rather the effect of complex interactions between religion and science and to chart the varied legacies of these intersections. It is also important to situate the production of modern western sexuality in the context of the uneven relationship between metropole and colony. A study of Maynard‘s same-sex desire demonstrates the significance of female sexuality, and female homoeroticism in particular, to this venture. 95 Constance Maynard, Dora Greenwell: A Prophet for our Own Times on the Battleground of Our Faith (London: H.R. Allenson, 1926), 175. 34 Chapter 1: Religious Desire and Human Eros: Childhood and Early Adulthood When in 1915 Constance Maynard (1849-1935) sought to recapture the ethos of her childhood for the autobiography she had begun writing, she turned to Edmund Gosse‘s 1907 memoir of his Plymouth Brethren upbringing, Father and Son. Maynard‘s mother Louisa (1807- 1878), like Edmund‘s father Philip, had been ―the over-powering force . . . that ruled us all.‖ 1 Although an Anglican, like Philip Gosse she embraced the Puritan belief in ―the total depravity of human nature,‖ propounded a dichotomous theological anthropology (―flesh & spirit, earth & heaven, carnal & spiritual, the old man & the new man, there stood the two natures, & there was practically no communication between the two‖), and advocated a decisive rejection of ―the world.‖ 2 While not ―evangelistic‖ like Gosse, she had nevertheless plied her Puritan beliefs unrelentingly, attempting to inculcate in her children ―a humble, teachable, unworldly spirit.‖ 3 Maynard described her upbringing as ―of the very strictest sort, guarded & repressive to the last point of anything fanciful, foolish, or exaggerated.‖ 4 Fearful of the corrupting influence of an inherently sinful world, Louisa eschewed the season in London, deterred her children from befriending neighbors, and barred them from attending the theatre, playing cards, and reading most novels. 5 At Oakfield Lodge, the family home, she implemented an austere emotional regime, requiring of her children a ―brisk attentive cheerfulness‖ that induced ―a kind of bright 1 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 157. 2 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 1, 1849-1860, 10 and Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 242. I am capitalizing the word ―Puritan‖ in this study to denote some of the continuities of Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s religious beliefs with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Puritanism and to distinguish this sense of the term from its more general usage in the Victorian era. 3 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 145. 4 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 1, 1849-1860, 4. 5 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 62. 35 hardness of manner‖ and ―good strong self-control.‖ 6 Maynard‘s father Henry (1800-1888), who like Philip Gosse had come under his wife‘s religious sway, worked ―in a much milder, quieter way . . . along precisely the same lines.‖ 7 It was the sexually repressive aspects of her mother‘s Puritanism that most preoccupied Maynard when in 1915 she sat down to write her account of her childhood. She suggested that by prohibiting her daughters from making friends, her mother had denied them potential suitors. Sexual attention was central to young women‘s self-esteem, Maynard asserted, and deterring it had potentially deleterious effects on women. ―I [later] read, e.g. in Mrs. Humphrey Ward‘s books, of ‗the little flatteries & courtesies that every girl should have,‘‖ she wrote, ―how they ‗make her feel her own worth,‘ how sorry she is for a heroine who is 6 months cut off from them, & does not wonder that ‗the hot red blood of youth‘ led her into mischief.‖ 8 By deterring her children from reading novels Louisa had put a significant source of knowledge of courtship and marriage beyond her daughters‘ reach. ―Love & Marriage were great things,‖ Maynard observed, ―must they be for ever hidden away, & never touched on by speech or writing[?]‖ 9 She recognized a gendered element in Louisa‘s undervaluing of ―love & marriage.‖ ―Even an ordinary girl‘s heart, had not that some sort of importance of [in] the world?‖ she asked the anticipated readers of her autobiography. 10 In a modernist remaking of Victorian childhood that constitutes a gendered counterpart to that of Edmund Gosse and Samuel Butler, Maynard thus suggested that her childhood had been sexually repressive and that that repression was the consequence of her mother‘s Puritanism. 6 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 62 and Part 2, Chapter 8, 1870, 194. 7 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 146. 8 Ibid.,163. 9 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 128. 10 Ibid. 36 Historians of sexuality have, from the early twentieth century, presented science, and particularly sexology, as the discourse that liberated Victorians from the repressive effects of religion such as those described by Maynard and Gosse. Adopting singular trajectories of secularization, they argue that Britain‘s transition from a religious to a secular society in the later nineteenth century was marked by a shift from repressive, religiously based approaches to sexuality to enlightened, liberated attitudes that were the product of modern science. However, by deriving their frame of reference from secularization theory, scholars of modern sexuality have tended to replicate, rather than investigate, the binary terms – secular/sacred, science/religion, sexually liberated/repressed, amongst others – upon which their histories are predicated. 11 For Maynard, religion was not singularly sexually repressive. If in her autobiography she was intent on chronicling the repressive effects of her mother‘s Puritanism, she was equally concerned with delineating the effects of a revivalist Evangelicalism in validating her feelings, inciting religious desire, and through the latter providing her with a discourse for sexual desire. Although she remained an Evangelical Anglican through the course of her life, and lived during a period in which the sexological discourse of female ―sexual inversion‖ did not circulate widely, she pursued a series of erotic relationships with women. 12 In her autobiographical writings she represented Evangelicalism as the framework within which her sexual desire had been incited, her dissident sexual subjectivity constituted, and her same-sex relationships 11 Joy Dixon, ―‗Out of Your Clinging Kisses . . . I Create a New World‘: Sexuality and Spirituality in the Work of Edward Carpenter,‖ in The Ashgate Research Companion to Nineteenth-Century Spiritualism and the Occult, ed. Tatiana Kontou and Sarah Wilburn (London: Ashgate, forthcoming). 12 While discourses of female homosexuality were known to some women in same-sex relationships, to the creators and consumers of Victorian pornography, and to members of the legal and medical professions, it was only with the trial of Radclyffe Hall in 1928 for the publication of The Well of Loneliness, which made a plea for the tolerance of female inverts based in part on sexological discourse, that the wider British public became acquainted with female ―sexual inversion.‖ 37 pursued. 13 She thus differed from the modernist Gosse in depicting religion rather than secularism as the antidote to the Puritan repression of her childhood. This chapter examines Maynard‘s Puritan upbringing, her encounter with revivalist Evangelicalism, the awakening of her religious desire, and the religious structuring of her homoerotic subjectivity. The role of a historically specific Puritan Evangelical discourse in the constitution of Maynard‘s homoerotic desire demonstrates the cultural contingency of sexual desire and sexual subjectivity. Maynard‘s religiously structured homoerotic desire also contests the secular/sacred, science/religion, modern/antiquated, liberationist/repressive alignment of binaries that underpins secularization theory. More than this, however, the making of Maynard‘s dissident sexual desire reveals the dynamic, variable, and historically particular relationship between the terms of these binaries. It suggests that sexuality is a particularly productive site for analyzing the varying relationships between scientific and religious discourse, in particular in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. For a young Maynard religion and science were not opposed to one another but intricately interconnected. Like many Evangelicals her parents endorsed natural theology, the belief that God was known not only through scripture (revealed theology) but through nature, and specifically through the intricate adaptations of organisms to their environment. As a child and young adult, Maynard pursued a variety of scientific pursuits under this rubric. Scientific discourse was thus intrinsic to her early religious beliefs and it informed her religiously structured sexual subjectivity. Maynard‘s 1915-1925 account of her childhood demonstrates a different conjunction of religion and science. Here she brought what she deemed two discrete discourses, Evangelicalism and psychology, into dialogue with one another in a way that illuminates both their co-constitution of and the contestation between Evangelicalism and 13 Pauline Phipps, ―Faith, Desire, and Sexual Identity: Constance Maynard‘s Atonement for Passion,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality 18 no. 2 (May 2009), 265. 38 psychological discourse. The diverse relationships of religion and science in the making of Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity and her discourse of sexuality suggest that the antithesis between religion and science, sometimes represented as natural by scholars of secularization, is actually historically specific and variable. Maynard‘s early erotic history also suggests a more complex relationship between the sexual liberation/sexual repression binary; it not only reveals an interdependence between these discourses but, paradoxically, demonstrates their inadequacy in delineating sexual histories. Constance Maynard was born on 19 February 1849, the fifth of six children of Henry and Louisa Maynard. The Maynard family was representative in many ways of the well-heeled, entrepreneurial upper-middle-class constituency of Evangelical Anglicanism. Henry was a colonial merchant and a banker in a family-based business. He and his brother, Charles, had been sent by their father to the Cape Colony in 1819 to work as agents for the Cape Town firm of an uncle, Henry Nourse. 14 The two brothers had established a family firm, Maynard Brothers, in Grahamstown on the Cape‘s eastern frontier during the 1820s and made their fortunes in the lucrative wool trade. 15 In 1837 Henry returned to England to marry Louisa Hillyard, whom he had courted for ten years. Louisa was the descendant of well-to-do Huguenot émigrés who had settled near Selborne in Hampshire in the late seventeenth century. The family had subsequently joined the Church of England; her grandfather, Gabriel Talhourdin (b. 1743), had been rector of Bentley, near Selborne, for forty years. 16 Louisa had been raised on the family estate, Thorpelands, in Hampshire. 14 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 150. 15 Basil Alexander Le Cordeur, The Politics of Eastern Cape Separatism, 1820-1854 (Cape Town: Oxford University Press, 1981), 42, 54. 16 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2,1861-1862, 25. 39 After marrying in 1837, Henry and Louisa Maynard settled in affluent north-west London, in Henry‘s rented terrace home, Chalcots, on Haverstock Hill. Henry managed the London branch of Maynard Brothers from its Pancras Lane offices. Their first two children were born at Chalcots: Josephine, who was called ―Tissy‖ (b. 1839), and Henry who was called ―Harry‖ (b.1840). In 1843 the family moved to 17 Park Terrace, Highbury, where Gabrielle, or ―Gazy‖ (b.1845), Dora (b. 1847), Constance (b. 1849), and George (b. 1850) were born. In 1853, with the extension of the railway beyond London, the Maynards, like many wealthy Londoners, moved to the countryside. They lived in Southborough near Tunbridge Wells for a year. In 1854 Henry Maynard purchased Oakfield Lodge in the village of Hawkhurst in Kent, the family home for the next forty years. Oakfield Lodge was, as Maynard‘s first biographer Catherine Firth avers, ―discreetly opulent‖ with its wide front porch supported by four Greek pillars and its fourteen acres of land. Stables with living quarters for the groom were located on the estate – the family owned a number of carriages – in addition to cottages for the butler and gardener. The Maynards employed numerous servants; just before her death in 1878 Louisa requested that her coffin be carried to the graveside by six manservants in the family‘s employ. Family holidays were spent at Folkestone, Eastbourne, Hastings, or Tunbridge Wells, and in 1857, when Constance was eight, the Maynards went to Switzerland for the summer. By the early 1870s the financial prospects of the Maynard daughters were very good (―those were the years we were really rich, & Father put aside a sort of minimum of ₤20, 000 for each daughter with more in the distance‖ 17 ). In their seminal study of the English middle class, Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall draw attention to the significance of Evangelicalism to the consolidation of the collective identity of the middle class and to its political influence. Eschewing the radical rhetoric of 17 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 175. 40 French or American revolutionaries, and asserting the primacy of the ―spiritual condition of humanity,‖ an emerging middle class extended its public influence in the campaigns for moral reform, including the anti-slavery campaigns of 1780-1820 and the campaign for the reform of manners and morals. 18 Like earlier generations of Evangelicals, the Maynards combined a political conservatism with the refusal of overt political interests. During Maynard‘s childhood ―no newspapers were read, no politics talked over at meals, no books discussed or great questions broached.‖ 19 Rare expressions of interest in national life focused, for the most part, on the ―spectacular‖ rather than the ―political,‖ as Maynard‘s biographer Catherine Firth notes; Maynard watched the fireworks in Paris for Napoleon III‘s birthday in 1867, shared public concern over the illness of the Prince of Wales in 1871, and discussed the capitulation of Paris to the Prussians during the Franco-Prussian war. 20 A typically Evangelical gendering of roles characterized the Maynard family. Henry left Oakfield twice a week for his London offices while Louisa was responsible for establishing and sustaining the religious tenor of Oakfield, and for undertaking the religious education of the Maynard children. 21 In later years Maynard observed that her upbringing was ―was more than Evangelical, it was Puritan in its exclusion of all but the eternal interest.‖ 22 The term ―Puritan‖ had emerged in the seventeenth century to refer to those Anglicans who sought to ―purify‖ (the word from which the term ―Puritan‖ derives) the Church of England of all vestiges of Catholicism for which they 18 Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780- 1850, rev. ed. (New York: Routledge, 2002), 82-83. 19 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 31. 20 Catherine Beatrice Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, Mistress of Westfield College: A Family Portrait (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1949), 62. 21 Mary King, Reminiscences of the Henry Maynard Family, 9. Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London (hereafter cited as Reminiscences). This text is also available on microfilm: Constance Maynard, The Diaries of Constance Maynard, The Origins of Modern Feminism, pt. 1. Brighton, Sussex: Harvester Microform, 1987. 22 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 1, 1849-1860, 4. 41 could not find biblical substantiation, and which they believed to be idolatrous – ornaments, vestments, the sign of the cross, the ritual directions and formulas of the Book of Common Prayer, and the episcopal courts. Theologically, Puritans drew on the teachings of the sixteenth- century French reformer, John Calvin; they espoused two key doctrines: the ―total depravity‖ of human nature and the doctrine of election. Scholars have debated the extent to which Evangelical Anglicanism was in continuity with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Puritanism, 23 however a more direct link with Calvinism is evident in Louisa‘s Huguenot heritage and her engagement with Presbyterian theology, which was also indebted to Calvin‘s teachings. Louisa and Henry turned to the teachings of a small but influential group of Church of Scotland theologians: Edward Irving (1792-1834), John McLeod Campbell (1800-1872), Thomas Erskine (1788-1870), and Thomas Chalmers (1780-1847). 24 In this they were in accord with shifts in Evangelical Anglicanism in the late 1830s which saw an earlier ―moderate‖ phase of Evangelical Anglicanism, led by William Wilberforce (1759-1833) and the ―Clapham Sect,‖ give way to a more rigid, second-generation, Calvinist iteration of the movement. Henry and Louisa also made recourse to the teachings of the Anglican divine William Law (1686-1761), particularly his Treatise On Christian Perfection (1726) and A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life (1728) which had influenced John and Charles Wesley, George Whitefield, and the senior Henry Venn. 23 Herbert Schlossberg contends that it was Dissent rather than the Church of England that retained the Calvinist spirit of the Puritans. The Silent Revolution and the Making of Victorian England (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2000), 48. Nigel Scotland sees greater continuity between the revivalism of the eighteen century and the Puritans of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Evangelical Anglicans in an Age of Revolution, 1789-1901 (Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2003), ix. Josef Altholz agrees with Scotland arguing that the ―evangelicalism that remained within the Church of England [after the Wesleyan secession] link[ed] up with the survivals of seventeenth- century Puritanism and produc[ed] the most active Church movement in the new century.‖ The Religious Press in Britain, 1760-1900 (New York: Greenwood Press, 1989), 15. Raphael Samuel, on the other hand, argues that the term ―Puritan‖ was almost obsolete by the nineteenth century but was brought back, and reworked, for primarily political purposes – aligned with Oliver Cromwell and the Commonwealth – to forward the democratic cause of Nonconformity. ―The Discovery of Puritanism, 1820-1914: A Preliminary Sketch‖ in Revival and Religion Since 1700, ed. Jane Garnett and Colin Matthew (London: Hambledon Press, 1993), 201-47. 24 So important were these Scottish theologians to Henry Maynard that in 1871 he and Constance visited the ailing Campbell in Rosneath. Campbell gave Henry and Constance first-hand accounts of the other heroes of their faith: Dr. Chalmers ―was a man of grand catholicity of spirit‖ while ―everyone who came near Irving felt the noble simplicity & intense devotion of his character.‖ Greenbook, 30 May 1871, 164. 42 While the Maynard family was characteristic in many ways of the well-to-do constituency of Evangelical Anglicanism, the indebtedness of Henry and Louisa to Presbyterianism caused their theology to diverge from mainstream Evangelicalism. Like many Evangelicals, they took as the starting point of their theology the doctrine of original sin and the inevitable sinfulness of human nature (―total depravity‖). With the fall humans had forfeited their ―spiritual nature‖; the ―natural man‖ was alienated from God and his efforts of no merit in God‘s sight. Following William Law, however, the Maynards rejected the Evangelical atonement doctrines of substitution (the notion that Christ had died in the place of sinners) and of imputed righteousness (the notion that at conversion Christ‘s righteousness was imputed to sinners) as ―unjust & unfair.‖ 25 They turned instead to Irving and Campbell‘s low Christology. In his The Orthodox and Catholic Doctrine of our Lord’s Human Nature (1830) Irving argued that Christ‘s Atonement could only be understood through his incarnation and lifelong obedience to God. In his The Nature of the Atonement and it Relation to Remission of Sins and Eternal Life (1856) Campbell concurred. Although Irving and Campbell sought to effect a shift away from the crucifixion to the incarnation as the means of atonement, and their theology thus ultimately had a liberalizing effect on Presbyterianism, Maynard‘s parents re-inscribed the centrality of the crucifixion in their reading of Irving and McLeod Campbell. 26 Christ had taken sinful human form and had redeemed humanity not in the single event of the crucifixion, but in a lifelong crucifixion of the ―old nature.‖ He had thereby demonstrated both his divinity and the means by which humanity was to be redeemed. Human redemption required a similar, metaphorical and life-long crucifixion of ―the natural man.‖ For Louisa Maynard the ―great death of our Lord 25 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 243. Robert Story of Rosneath and Erskine had adopted similar views. Greenbook, 4 December 1870, 7. 26 Gerald Parsons, ―Victorian Britain‘s Other Establishment: The Transformation of Scottish Presbyterianism,‖ in Religion in Victorian Britain, vol. 1, Traditions, ed. Gerald Parsons (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988), 124. 43 Jesus Christ & His perfect atonement‖ was inextricably linked to the ―death, the humiliation & crucifixion that must go on in every believing heart.‖ 27 Maynard‘s Greenbooks, the spiritual diaries she commenced in January 1866 at the age of sixteen, reflect the influence of her parents‘ theology on their daughter. Mary King, Maynard‘s older cousin and the spiritual mentor of her adolescence and early adulthood, had explained the implications of Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s theology to Maynard: ―The Spirit of God must enter our hearts, & there nail the old nature to the cross.‖ 28 She entreated Maynard to ―ask every day that you may be shown what your cross is, & be made willing to bear it.‖ 29 Maynard endorsed King‘s teaching. ―It was the Master‘s path, perfect self-crucifixion,‖ she wrote, ―so we cannot walk after Him in the same path without meeting the cross too. And this not once but every day.‖ 30 She nevertheless struggled with the renunciation of self that King enjoined. ―I think it is a more difficult thing than people generally suppose,‖ she observed in 1867, ―to open one‘s heart for the Lord to enter, & tell him we always want to live just as He would have us, & be trained for Him alone, because that involves such endless humiliations & crossing.‖ 31 A pervasive and characteristically Puritan sense of the ―conviction of sin‖ and spiritual failure characterized her early adult piety (―when I have time to think there are always sad thoughts ready to come, thoughts that I have forsaken the right way, & am letting myself go, & losing ground, & that it will be a hard toil up to the point again‖ 32 ). 27 Greenbook, Good Friday 1869, 145. 28 Greenbook, 7 December 1867, 151. 29 Ibid., 154. 30 Greenbook, 16 August 1871, 221-22. 31 Greenbook, 1 April 1867, 50-51. 32 Greenbook, 13 March 1868, 41. 44 For many Evangelicals, the rejection of ―the world‖ was balanced by a necessary engagement with it through evangelism, philanthropy, and social reform. These were absent from Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s piety, however. Although the Maynards followed Erskine, Campbell, and Irving in adopting Arminianism (or the belief in the universality of salvation) at a time when most nineteenth-century evangelicals, including Anglicans (but not Methodists and some Baptists), propounded a version of the Calvinist doctrine of election, Arminianism did not lead to a clear discourse of conversion in the Maynard household. Maynard notes that ―until I reached Belstead [School] at 14 ½, I had heard very little of conversion as a real personal matter, for it was never pressed, &, within the walls of my home, the term was never used.‖ 33 Instead, her parents embraced ―quietist‖ forms of ―mysticism‖ from a broad range of sources (including William Law, Jacob Boehme, the fourteenth-century mystical treatise the Theologica Germanica, the French Quietists Madame Guyon (1648-1717) and François Fénelon (1651- 1715), the Pietist Philip Jacob Spener (1635-1705), the Moravian Count Zinzendorf (1700- 1760), and Plymouth Brethrenism) to advocate a ―stillness‖ before the crucified Christ that eschewed activity for complete reliance on Christ. For Maynard‘s parents, holiness ―did not depend on . . . any good works we may say or do, but simply on the growth of the new nature, & the crucifixion of the old.‖ 34 If Maynard‘s parents‘ quietist Puritanism led to the eschewal of evangelism, philanthropy and social reform, it nevertheless found an outlet in an all-encompassing intellectual engagement with theology and a characteristically Puritan search for doctrinal truth. For Henry Maynard even the most reputable of theologians had made egregious errors. He advised Constance ―to [be] always on guard, to take no one on trust, to weigh all things in the balance of the sanctuary . 33 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 243. 34 Greenbook, 10 March 1867, 47. 45 . . no matter who says it.‖ 35 He believed spiritual error to be the result of ―the plain logic of cause & effect which guide men in life . . . forsak[ing] them in religion.‖ 36 Looking back on her parents‘ religion in 1925 Maynard noted that ―the object of life on earth I was told was to secure Truth – ‗My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge,‘ – that I think was dear Father‘s favourite text, & all else was secondary.‖ 37 A paradoxically Enlightenment commitment to reason informed Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s search for religious ―truth.‖ While the intellect of the ―natural man‖ was of little use to him, the regenerated intellect was crucial to following Christ after redemption. Louisa advised her children that Christians were ―not called to follow blindly, but to pray that we may spiritually understand & so be able to intelligently obey His will.‖ 38 The nineteen-year old Maynard compared her religious training to that of a more characteristically Evangelical friend, Julia Walford: ―I love & admire her spirit as I do but few others, & yet . . . we have been educated differently . . . I look at religion from an abstract point of view, to look for reasons & principles of things. . . . Her one thought is that she knows enough to save a soul from death.‖ 39 Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s elevation of reason suggests a more complicated relationship between the secular/sacred and rational/irrational alignment of binaries promulgated by secularization theorists. A discourse of reason featured prominently in Henry and Maynard‘s Puritan Evangelicalism. It points to the necessity of historicizing reason itself. Rather than a discourse outside of history, its meaning was shaped in particular historical contexts, including religious ones. 35 Greenbook, 13 April 1869, 166-67. 36 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 131 and Greenbook, 12 April 1869, 165. 37 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 29. 38 Greenbook, 19 February 1867, 41. 39 Greenbook, 13 July 1868, 163-64. 46 An interest in science accompanied Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s elevation of reason and was integral to their Puritan Evangelicalism. Henry Maynard‘s espousal of natural theology was evident as he read his daughter Joseph Butler‘s Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed (1736) and William Paley‘s A View of the Evidences of Christianity (1794) and asserted that these ―bore permanent witness to some of the foundational truths of our religion.‖ 40 Henry encouraged his children in a variety of scientific pursuits. Their 1860s schoolroom was equipped with a microscope, telescope, and aquarium. As the result of a rare encouragement of friendship they became acquainted with the family of the well-respected mathematician, astronomer, and chemist Sir John Herschel. The Herschels‘ home, Collingwood, was in Hawkhurst, just a mile from Oakfield. 41 Like Herschel, the Evangelical vicar of the village, the Rev. Fred Howlett, was a Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society; Maynard noted that he ―gave his life to the Sun, & made some real discoveries & threw sun-spots on a white screen in his garden for us to see.‖ 42 The pursuit of science had been part of British evangelicalism from its start. John Wesley had written admiringly of Newton in his Concise Ecclesiastical History (1781) and had published two scientific works: the two-volume Survey of the Wisdom of God in the Creation (1763) and The Desideratum: or Electricity Made Plain and Useful (1760). In fact, Bebbington argues that the dynamism of the revivals was the result of Wesley‘s and Jonathan Edwards‘s ―re- 40 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 56-57. 41 In her autobiography Maynard notes that ―once in the dark he played notes on the violin & threw patterns on the ceiling, & gave us a lecture on the connection between Light & Sound.‖ Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861- 1862, 32-33. Maynard also learnt to make crystals from the Herschels, and writes in the 1870s of buying ―Alum, Sulphate of copper, Ferrocyanide of potassium, and a few other things‖ to demonstrate this to her students. Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 36, 1880, 414. She was to remain lifelong friends with the Herschel daughters. 42 When as a nine-year-old Maynard visited Howlett‘s home, she ―saw one of the very first Spectroscopes that ever was made; a clumsy enough affair I doubt not, but it did its work, for I saw sodium and magnesium wire and other such things make blazing alterations in the spectrum.‖ Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 33. 47 writing‖ of Protestantism in the idiom of Enlightenment science. 43 Adopting an empiricism characteristic of Enlightenment thought, Wesley spoke of personal religion as ―practical‖ or ―experimental,‖ argued that the presence of God could be experienced at salvation, and enjoined would-be believers to test it for themselves. 44 Bebbington contends that although evangelical formulations differed from those of other Enlightenment thinkers, ―evangelicals accepted the standard method of the Enlightenment as the high road to knowledge‖; science, ―as an essential component of the Enlightenment worldview, came naturally to most evangelicals.‖ 45 For Bebbington, it was thus Enlightenment science that gave rise to evangelicalism. His hypothesis suggests that the discourse of reason evident in Henry Maynard‘s theology derived from evangelicalism‘s scientific legacy. If evangelicalism was in some respects a product of Enlightenment science, in the first half of the nineteenth century some of the most prominent scientists were evangelicals and science was pursued within the framework of natural theology. At Cambridge, Evangelicals Isaac Milner (1750–1820), Francis Wollaston (1762- 1823) and William Parish (1759–1837) successively held the Jacksonian Professorship of Natural Philosophy. 46 In Scotland a group of evangelical scientists gathered around the prominent Presbyterian minister Thomas Chalmers. 47 Chalmers was the leader of the group of Presbyterians who seceded from the Church of Scotland to form the Free Church in the 1843, but he was also a well-respected mathematician associated with the University of St. Andrews. He had written The Adaptation of External Nature to the 43 David Bebbington, ―Science and Evangelical Theology in Britain from Wesley to Orr,‖ in Evangelicals and Science in Historical Perspective, ed. David N. Livingstone, D. G. Hart, and Mark A. Noll (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 126. 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid., 126, 124. See also Phyllis Mack Heart Religion in the British Enlightenment: Gender and Emotion in Early Methodism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008),13-14, 15, 178. 46 Ibid., 123, 127. 47 Ibid., 123. 48 Moral and Intellectual Condition of Man in 1833, the first of the Bridgewater Treatises. The Bridgewater Treatises, published between 1833 and 1840, were central to natural theology, as their subtitle, ―The Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested in the Creation,‖ suggests. Hugh Miller, second only to Chalmers, his mentor, in leading the 1843 Disruption, had in the course of his work as a stone-mason made significant advances in geology; his findings garnered praise from no less than Charles Darwin, T. H. Huxley, Charles Lyell, and Louis Agassiz. 48 As an adolescent Maynard encountered Chalmers‘s work through her parents‘ interest in Presbyterianism and read his contribution to the Bridgewater Treatises. In 1866 Maynard wrote, ―I also want very much to see Paley‘s Natural Theology, for somehow, everything of that sort of clear resoning [sic] seems getting more & more valuable to me.‖ 49 It was the evangelical Scottish amateur geologist Hugh Miller, however, whom a young Maynard most admired. In July 1871, at the age of twenty-two, she read his The Two Records: Mosaic and Geological, lectures given to the Young Men‘s Christian Association between November 1853 and February 1854. 50 Maynard‘s ready recourse to scientific discourse to describe her parents‘ theology illustrates the imbrication of science, reason, and religious discourse in the late 1860s: At one time people said there were four elements __ that seemed very simple, every child could learn it, & apparently test it‘s [sic] truth, but in questions of chemistry or indeed any science, this arrangement led to inextricable difficulties. There are now declared to be more than sixty elementary substances, all with hard names . . . Better to have one fixed unvarying knowledge of what the elements are which will guide us through the perplexities of doctrine & practice, as well as everyday life, than to be dazzled by a 48 David N. Livingstone, Darwin’s Forgotten Defenders: The Encounter between Evangelical Theology and Evolutionary Thought (Grand Rapids, MI: W.B. Eerdmans, 1987), 9. 49 Greenbook, 8 September 1866, 139. 50 An interest in science was evident in Maynard‘s other reading matter during this period. She read Edward Tylor‘s Researches into the Early History of Mankind and the development of Civilization (1865), John Herschel‘s Familiar Lectures on Scientific Subjects (1866), Rev. T. R. Birks‘ The Treasures of Wisdom: Or Thoughts On The Connection Between Natural Science, and Revealed Truth With An Essay On The Analogy Between Mathematical and Moral Certainty (1855) and Mrs. E. C. C. Baillie‘s The Protoplast. A Series of Papers (1853). 49 delusive simplicity, which we must renounce & begin on a new plan if we would learn anything of the deep things of God. 51 Maynard‘s statement not only demonstrates faith in science as an appropriate means of elucidating, in a rational manner, the necessary complexity of her parents‘ theology, it also reveals the scientific structuring of Evangelical faith. Insofar as natural theology was concerned, the ―fixed unvarying knowledge of . . . the elements‖ was literally the building block of religious belief. However, Maynard‘s comment has as much to do with the epistemology of Evangelicalism as its content. For her religious knowledge was similar to scientific knowledge; it was synonymous with the ―fixed unvarying knowledge of . . . the elements.‖ Maynard‘s comment points to the role of the methods and doctrines of science in the codifying of Evangelical values. 52 If a discourse of reason was intrinsic to the Maynard‘s Puritan Evangelicalism and disrupts the alignment of the rational/irrational and secular/religion binaries that secularization theorists have sometimes assumed to be inevitable, Maynard‘s interest in science disturbs the allied science/religion binary. It points to the necessity of charting the historically specific and varied relationship of religious and scientific discourse. The more complex relationship between science and religion inherent in Maynard‘s parents‘ Evangelicalism and in her own childhood faith anticipates the varied relationships between these discourses in her adulthood. For the remainder of her life Maynard was to value the amateur scientific education her upbringing had afforded her. At the same time she was to become profoundly ambivalent about the rationality that characterized her parents‘ faith. She argued of her childhood that ―the spiritual life was over-balanced on the intellectual side as against the volitional, & so the 51 Greenbook, 17 March 1868, 46-47. 52 Robert Brain, e-mail message to author, 8 April 2011. For a further discussion of this issue, see chapter four. 50 emotional side suffered.‖ 53 Her parents had failed to train their children in ―real, devotional, practical Religion.‖ 54 Her mother‘s ―mind was half Greek Philosopher [Stoic] as well as half Christian,‖ Maynard wrote, ―& her reticence on the devotional side was complete.‖ 55 There was ―not much about definite prayer, not much about reading the Bible.‖ 56 Religious emotion was discouraged; she had been ―early taught that emotion, & feelings of happiness & security were not the test.‖ 57 For Maynard the overly cerebral nature of Henry and Louisa Maynard‘s Puritanism was responsible not only for the repression of religious emotion but also for the austere emotional regime Louisa Maynard had instituted at Oakfield and for her undervaluing of ―love & marriage.‖ In her autobiography Maynard represented an emotionally charged revivalist Evangelicalism as the antidote to her mother‘s repressive Puritanism. In Family Fortunes, Davidoff and Hall argued that Evangelicalism was taken up in the late eighteenth century by an emerging middle class intent on consolidating a collective identity distinct from that of the working and upper classes. Subsequently they and other scholars have suggested that sexual discourse played an important role in this endeavor. 58 Aligning respectability with sexual conservatism, the middle class propounded chastity before marriage and sex only for reproductive purposes within marriage, prohibited masturbation, repudiated divorce, and eschewed birth control. 59 While such discourse has been characterized as sexually repressive, what has been largely overlooked by historians of sexuality is the erotically inflected 53 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 140. 54 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 241 55 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 163. 56 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 244. 57 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 140. 58 Davidoff and Hall, Family Fortunes. 59 Michael Mason, The Making of Victorian Sexual Attitudes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994); Frank Mort, Dangerous Sexualities: Medico-Moral Politics in England since 1830, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2000). 51 discourse of religious desire evident in the evangelical revivals of the later nineteenth century. Maynard encountered revivalist Evangelical Anglicanism in 1859, at the age of ten, while visiting a former governess, the Irish Miss Richardson, in Brighton. This iteration of Evangelicalism, in all likelihood a product of the Ulster revivals of 1859-1859, awakened Maynard‘s religious desire. ―At Hawkhurst,‖ she wrote in later years, ―it [church] had been nothing but a form, but here Mr. Vaughan‘s sermons brought something that appealed to one‘s heart, & that one could carry away.‖ 60 It was not only Mr. Vaughan‘s sermons that incited Maynard‘s religious feeling but the ―responses of a crowded hearty Evangelical congregation that I heard for the first time.‖ 61 These gave her ―a sort of thrill, & the dull Prayer-book suddenly became interesting.‖ 62 A new emotionally engaged discourse of religious longing is evident as Maynard recounts that ―at the beginning of the Litany I used to watch for the solemn words, – ‗O holy blessed & glorious Trinity, three Persons & one God,‘ &, sinking right down in the high old pew, say them slowly to myself out of a full heart, as though I were committing my whole being to a stupendous & merciful power far above me.‖ 63 Subsequent accounts of religious desire are characterized by a similar longing for an escape from the narrow confines of human life. Two years after the awakening of her religious desire, when she was twelve, Maynard wrote of a spiritual experience with her governess, Miss Armstrong (known as ―Grandam‖): I remember sitting particularly by the schoolroom window one evening in Oct. 61, & watching the full moon rise behind the oak trees, clear & still & perfect. We were silent a long time, both our thoughts being lifted off this world, mine in vague longings & lofty aspirations after I knew not what, hers, I doubt not in confident anticipation of what 60 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 1, 1849-1860, 9. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid. 52 awaited her when the time of her trial should cease. At last she spoke, telling me the thoughts & longings of her heart about the world to come. 64 Maynard‘s description of religious longing demonstrates the Puritan coloring of her revivalist Evangelicalism. Her parents had taught her that Christians were ―pilgrims & strangers‖ in a foreign country, that the world was inherently sinful and posed a threat to the spiritual life, and that earthly life was thus a struggle. 65 The hymns the Maynard family recited and sang on Sunday evenings described the arduous nature of earthly existence, the transience of human life, and the enduring value of spiritual pursuits; they expressed a longing for a timeless eternity of the kind articulated by Maynard‘s governess. These hymns, which derived from the first thirty years of the century, were slow and solemn, and had titles such as ―What is life? ‘tis but a vapour,‖ ―Change is our portion here,‖ and ― O Zion, when I think of thee.‖ A favorite hymn of Maynard‘s began: This world I deem But a beautiful dreams Of shadows that are not what they seem and continued: I gaze aloof On the tissued roof Where Time and Space are the warp and woof, Which the King of Kings As a curtain flings O‘er the dreadfulness of Eternal things. 66 64 Greenbook, 11 July 1867, 90-91. 65 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 145. 66 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 29. 53 Maynard‘s desire to transcend the constraints of earthly life was, like her initial religious awakening, accompanied by a longing to relinquish the self to an all-powerful divine: I had a row of tiny little dwarf cactus plants on a stand in my bedroom, & one night the full moon shone on them. I can re-call the feeling now that came over me, for it was of an endless, timeless, white peace, which . . . was beautiful. It was like a wave of Eternity coming over my little warm hurrying life & sweeping it away. And yet I loved it, & wanted to be one with it! 67 In charting the relation of religious discourse to sexual desire historians have often turned to psychoanalytic theory and have described religious eros as the sublimation of sexual desire. E. P. Thompson is the best-known proponent of this approach. In The Making of the English Working Class he drew attention to Methodist hymns in which believers articulated the desire to abide in the wounds of the crucified Christ. Thompson argued, making recourse to the Freudian unconscious, that such articulations were evidence, as historian of Methodism Phyllis Mack puts it, of ―the twisted fantasies of sexual release merg[ed] with a profound death wish, the desire for the obliteration of the ego in a final disappearance into Christ‘s wound/womb.‖ 68 More recently scholars of religion have challenged such psychoanalytic readings. Their resistance to them is part of a broader critique of the unthinking mobilizing of political, economic, and social factors to explain religious phenomena. Mack thus argues that in Methodism ―words like sacrifice, redemption, conversion, repentance, or ecstasy are not understood in terms of their stated meaning or their meaning for historical actors, but as pointers to other, more profound meanings: poverty, social marginality, sexual desire, the desire for power – terms that have come to define . . . the categories of modern social science.‖ 69 Dixon 67 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 27. 68 Mack, Heart, 19, referencing E. P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (London: Victor Gollancz, 1980). 69 Mack, Heart Religion, 9. 54 argues, speaking of readings of religion that prioritize psychoanalysis in particular, that ―the primacy of an a-historical sexual domain tends to leave the category of the spiritual . . . untheorized.‖ 70 The a priori subordination of religion to psychoanalytic explanation does not allow for the examination of religion as a historical phenomenon, for the analysis of the aspirations of religious adherents as historically contingent, or for the plotting of the diverse, historically specific intersections between religion and sexuality. The French philosopher Georges Bataille, whose transgressive writing on religion and sexuality may seem to have little in common with most scholarship on Victorian religion and sexuality, nevertheless provides a useful starting point for the renewed discussion of the latter. In Erotism: Death and Sensuality Bataille refuses psychoanalytic readings of religious desire and maintains that while religious experience may evince elements of the erotic, religious desire and human eros are separate and parallel discourses. 71 In his study of religious desire and human eros in seventeenth-century English devotional literature, Richard Rambuss provides some important guidelines for scholars of religion and sexuality: ―Our aim should be neither to reduce religion into sex nor to desexualize devotion. At the same time, we need to be wary of any blanket spiritual allegorization of the more sensual and corporeal provocations of religious experience.‖ 72 The feminist historian Barbara Taylor, in her biography of Mary Wollstonecraft, observes a similar distinction between religious desire and human eros and charts intersections between the two in Wollstonecraft‘s life. An erotic element was inherent in Wollstonecraft‘s piety, Taylor avers: ―For Wollstonecraft, to know God is not merely to appreciate Him . . . but to adore Him – and this not only because His perfections inspire adoration but because the 70 Dixon, ―Your Clinging Kisses.‖ 71 Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1962), 223-26. 72 Richard Rambuss, Closet Devotions (Durham: Duke University Press, 1998), 100-101. 55 epistemic impulse toward Him is essentially imaginative and erotic in character.‖ 73 For Taylor, to render religion a primary category of analysis is thus not synonymous with refusing the erotic in religious desire. Maynard, living in a later era than Wollstonecraft‘s and engaging with a different religious tradition (Wollstonecraft‘s piety had been forged both as part of, and in opposition to, Unitarianism), evinced a religious desire that had some similarities with Wollstonecraft‘s. Her longing to be subsumed by a divine being who is all-powerful, illimitable, and beyond time, evinces sensual elements. However, her religious longings are not simply reducible to sexual desire; she aspired to a union with the divine that would exceed finite human love. In later years, after satisfying human eros, she nevertheless continued to pursue what she deemed a more significant and enduring religious desire. Maynard‘s religious desire was, like Wollstonecraft‘s, historically contingent; it was the particular product of mid-nineteenth-century Puritanical Evangelicalism. The role of natural theology in its structuring constitutes one aspect of her religious desire‘s historical specificity. Her Evangelical piety was constituted within, and intrinsic to, her adolescent and early adult interest in science, such as astronomy. In 1862 Constance‘s brother George brought home a map of the stars that he had traced from an atlas at school and ―every clear night we ran out to study [the stars]. We got hold of the Zodiac after a while, & then as winter drew on came the supreme joys of seeing the Pleiades rise above the great belt of oaks to the east, followed by the splendour of Orion.‖ 74 In accordance with natural theology, astronomy had religious resonances for Maynard: ―here was a sort of outlet into Eternity, & I seemed to lose myself in vague glory.‖ 75 73 Barbara Taylor, Mary Wollstonecraft and the Feminist Imagination (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 108. 74 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 32. 75 Ibid. 56 The Romantic poetry Maynard had read as a child – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and the predecessor of Romanticism, John Milton – facilitated the commutation of natural theology to religious desire. Of a stay in Frant in East Sussex in 1866 Maynard wrote in later years, ―I smelt the wet earth fragrant after the rain, I saw the moon fly through the clouds, & my whole soul seemed to be drawn out of me into a wider nobler world . . . far from this burst of Nature-worship obscuring spiritual religion, it seemed to lead me to prayer of a higher & more intimate sort, so that it was entirely good.‖ 76 Maynard‘s religious desire attests to the imbrication of religion and science during this period; it reveals the historical particularity of Evangelicalism, science, and their relationship with one another. The God whom Maynard desired was to be found in the wonders of the natural world as revealed by science. From the early 1860s Maynard encountered mainstream Evangelicalism in a more sustained way. These years were, Maynard asserted in her autobiography, the ―glory days‖ of Evangelicalism, and her oldest brother Harry was ―our chief, & almost only, outlet into the life & labour of the Evangelical world . . . he was in with the central workers.‖ 77 Harry had started work at his father‘s London firm in 1859, and had become involved in Evangelical circles in London. He led a Sunday afternoon service for the patients of the Consumption Hospital and later preached for the Evangelization Society. 78 The Maynard family visited him in London regularly. In the winters of 1862-3 and 1863-4 Henry Maynard rented houses in Highbury and Manchester Square respectively and Constance heard sermons by prominent evangelical preachers such as Sir Arthur Blackwood, Sir Emilius Bayley, Mr. Henry Grattan Guiness, Mr. Langston, Marcus Rainsford, Donald Fraser, Mr. Aitken, and Lord Radstock. There were 76 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 78. 77 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 5, 1867, 86. 78 Ibid. 57 connections between these preachers and some of the most illustrious figures of Evangelical history. Mr. Langston, whom Maynard heard preach frequently, had been a tutor in William Wilberforce‘s (1759-1833) household; the Evangelical divine William Romain (1714-1795) had laid his hand on his head. 79 Mr. Blackwood, in whose parish Harry resided, had turned to serious Christianity after being challenged by prominent Evangelical Catherine Marsh on going to balls (―Did it ever strike you that you are pursuing shadows?‖ 80 ). In the ensuing years Maynard started attending annual evangelical meetings, such as the May meeting at Exeter Hall and the annual London Week of Prayer held at the Freemason‘s Hall. From her cousin, Mary King, she learned of the Mildmay Meetings. 81 Through Evangelicalism she encountered the devotional side of religion; she learnt from Evangelical preachers that ―the new birth within was a real experience, a whole life, & the food it took in was from reading the Bible, & the air it breathed was from prayer.‖ 82 Maynard juxtaposed the Evangelicalism to which she was increasingly exposed with the cerebral Puritanism of her parents: ―I so greatly loved the sermons I heard, the hymns I learned . . . when something more central than reason & judgment was appealed to.‖ 83 Maynard‘s admission to Belstead School in Ipswich, Suffolk, in the autumn of 1863, when she was fourteen years old, extended her engagement with revivalist Anglican Evangelicalism. The Maynard daughters had, like most middle-class Victorian daughters, received an education from a succession of governesses until at around the age of fourteen they were sent to school for a couple of years. Unlike the newer girls‘ schools such as Frances Mary 79 Greenbook, 24 August 1871, 230 80 Greenbook, 4 January 1871, 37. 81 Greenbook, 29 October1870, 260. 82 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 246. 83 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 29. 58 Buss‘s North London Collegiate School for Girls or Dorothea Beale‘s Cheltenham Ladies College, Belstead was structured on the older, family-based model of girls‘ boarding schools. 84 It was run by the Evangelical Mrs. Umphelby, who assumed the role of ―mother‖ to her students and undertook the religious duties commensurate with that role. ―Mamie‖ Umphelby endorsed a revivalist Evangelicalism that was more mainstream than that of Maynard‘s parents; she embraced susbstitutionary theory and imputed righteousness. (―‗He died for me,‘ was the summary of her adoring devotion‖ 85 ). From Mrs. Umphelby Maynard became acquainted with a more optimistic Evangelicalism that focused not on the conviction of sin, but on the assurance of salvation. Umphelby informed her students ―as a certain & direct promise,‖ that ―sin shall not have dominion over you.‖ 86 Belstead and Mrs. Umphelby had come under the sway of the Ulster revivals of 1859. Maynard wrote of the religious ethos at Belstead: [it] was strong, and quite different from that at home, though the strongly emotional wave, caught from the revival of 1859, was dying down. In Gazy‘s years – 1860 to ‘63 – the girls used to have special Prayer meetings among themselves, and used to shout the Revival hymns when out on walks in the country . . . all was so utterly unlike the slow and generally mournful songs to which I was accustomed, and I could not but enjoy them. . . . Not a word did I hear now about ―truth,‖ but the stress was on devotion. 87 The hymns Maynard learnt at Belstead were characterized by ―glad certainties and ringing melodies.‖ They had words such as: He is fitting up my mansion Which eternally shall stand, For my stay shall not be transient In that holy, happy land. 84 Martha Vicinus, ―Distance and Desire: English Boarding-School Friendships,‖ Signs 9, no. 4 (Summer 1984): 600-22. 85 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 243. 86 Greenbook, 14 March 1866, 43-44. 87 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 51. 59 On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of life is blooming, There is rest for you. 88 Maynard wrote later of this period that ―it was one of those happy times (so very very seldom do I feel so on account of sin & weakness) when my heart felt somewhat at leisure from itself, to flow upwards to its Maker & Saviour.‖ 89 Belstead offered Maynard a rare opportunity to befriend other Evangelical middle- and upper-class girls. She became enamored of two fellow students, Virginia Dalrymple and Fanny Williams. ―Of all the thirty,‖ she wrote in later years, ―only two excited that touch of real love that puts the one loved into a separate compartment.‖ 90 Dalrymple was ―loving & teachable, with a beautiful truthfulness & a clear openness of character, & I think the most fearless moral courage I ever knew.‖ 91 The Evangelical Williams‘s heroism in the face of worldly parents and ridiculing brothers inculcated in Maynard a ―private & exstatic love‖ for her. Historians have debated the extent to which the same-sex friendships of Victorian women or girls were erotic. Influenced by the cult of sensibility and the later Romantic movement, and living in an era that pre-dated the circulation of a pathologizing discourse of female ―inversion,‖ Victorian girls and women spoke in emotionally effusive terms of their love for female friends, addressing them as ―darling,‖ ―love,‖ ―my dearest,‖ for example; they touched, kissed and embraced their friends far more than in contemporary British culture, and regularly shared a bed. The initial construal of this register of affection as platonic (and of female same-sex relationships 88 Constance Maynard, ―An Individual Retrospect of the Religious Thought of the Nineteenth Century,‖ Expositor 4 (September 1901): 173. 89 Greenbook, 14 March 1866, 43-44. 90 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 3, 1863-1864, 45. 91 Greenbook, 15 June 1866, 104. 60 as ―romantic friendships‖ after the influence of Romanticism) has been largely supplanted by the recognition that ―erotic play was an integral part of [Victorian women‘s] lives.‖ 92 At the same time Sharon Marcus argues for the careful distinguishing of female homosociality, homoeroticism, and homosexuality in women‘s same-sex relationships. The same expressions or demonstrations of affection might carry different meanings for Victorian women or girls in different contexts, and the meaning of such expressions can only be ascertained within the wider context of the relationship. 93 Marcus‘s injunction to scholars of female sexuality to demonstrate rather than simply assert their claims – whether of friendship, homoeroticism, or homosexuality – is an important one. Maynard‘s account of her 1868 encounter with Dalrymple in Hastings, when she was nineteen years old, renders the erotic nature of the relationship overt: I was walking alone along the Pantiles, when somebody from a shop-door said as it were just in my ear, ―Consy, don‘t you remember me?‖ I turned & there was Virginia Dalrymple, grown up now, dressed in black, tall & beautiful, just 18 almost to the day. I was so utterly bewildered, & such a rush of feeling came over me, that I felt as though I had nothing to say, & had better go away & leave her. I did not know till that minute how much I loved her, & I could only hold her hand & look at her . . . I was bound to go home for tea, & I rather foolishly left her at once, feeling a kind of security that I should meet her again. But I never did, though I hovered about, & ran twice to the station on the day she was to leave, & my heart was rather desolate. I had to content myself with taking down her photograph & enlarging it & colouring it, and subsequently hanging it in my bedroom at Oakfield. 94 Maynard‘s intense emotion, her awkwardness, her belated attempt to meet Dalrymple, her despair at failing, and her subsequent idealization of her friend denote an erotic attachment. Her feelings towards Dalrymple are characteristic of what Martha Vicinus describes as the ―raves,‖ 92 Martha Vicinus, Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved Women, 1778-1928 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), xix-xx. 93 Marcus, Between Women, 32. 94 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 117-18. 61 of girls‘ boarding schools. These erotically inflected relationships, known also as ―pashes‖, ―spoons,‖ ―smashes,‖ ―gonages‖ (for ―gone on‖ someone), and ―flames,‖ usually took place between schoolgirls and older students (such as prefects, games captains, head girls) or young school teachers. Ravees undertook small acts of self-sacrifice – such as making the beloved‘s bed, taking flowers to her room, filling her hot water bottle – while maintaining a distance from her. 95 Desire was enhanced by a play on the public/private divide that saw passion nurtured in private but discussed in public with other students. 96 Until well into the twentieth century raves were considered an inevitable part of schoolgirls‘ lives and potentially beneficial to them; they were seen as the means by which young women honed the emotions required in marriage; their eroticism went largely unnoticed or at least unacknowledged until the dissemination of sexological discourse. 97 At the time of writing her autobiography Maynard was aware of ―raves‖ and deemed them a natural and intrinsic part of girlhood. In an account of her feelings for one of her governesses, Henriete Kröger, she notes: ―I was only nine, rather too young for a passionate attachment, yet I cherished a vague admiration for her.‖ 98 Examining ―raves‖ in the context of the new, larger girls‘ schools that replaced the traditional family-based schools, Vicinus argued that the professionalism that marked relationships between teachers and students in the newer schools intensified students‘ desire, while the esprit de corps that characterized the student body also rendered self-control and the maintenance of personal autonomy an integral part of that desire. The rave ―flourished on a paradox of fulfillment through unrequited love.‖ 99 Maynard‘s seeking but ultimately not 95 Vicinus, ―Distance and Desire,‖ 607. 96 Ibid., 608. 97 Ibid., 617. 98 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 127. 99 Vicinus, ―Distance and Desire,‖ 608. 62 achieving a meeting with Dalrymple, her private nurturing of her ―love‖ for her by enlarging her photograph, coloring it, and hanging it in her bedroom, the ease with which she accepted this ―service‖ as a replacement for a more direct encounter with Dalrymple, and the prominence of fantasy or imagination in the relationship, are characteristic of the distance-and-desire conundrum of raves in the larger, newer girls schools. In Maynard‘s case, however, the emotional ―distance‖ that precipitated her erotic attraction to Dalrymple was the product not of the professionalization of relationships between teachers and students in the girls‘ schools (Dalrymple was a fellow student and Belstead was an older, family-based school) but of the religious framing of the relationship and of Dalrymple‘s perceived spiritual superiority. If historians of sexuality have drawn attention to the overlooked erotic in Victorian girls‘ and women‘s ―friendships,‖ historians of Victorian religion and homosexuality have begun to explore the religious framing of Victorian homoeroticism. Spiritual friendships have been a central focus of this enquiry. Frederick Roden draws attention to the Victorian interest in biblical accounts of same-sex friendships such as those of Christ and John, David and Jonathan, and Ruth and Naomi. Along with David Hilliard, he argues that Anglo- and Roman Catholics‘ valorization of intense and demonstrative spiritual friendships facilitated expressions of homoerotic desire between men. 100 Vicinus notes a similar effect on women of the Evangelical Anglican elevation of spiritual friendship. 101 While these studies have been both persuasive and path breaking, the relationship between religion and homoeroticism or homosexuality has sometimes been under-theorized. Scholars of Victorian religion and homosexuality have not, for the most part, taken up the tools of postmodern theory to examine in depth the relationship 100 Frederick S Roden, Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Religious Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2002) and David Hilliard, ―UnEnglish and Unmanly: Anglo-Catholicism and Homosexuality,‖ Victorian Studies 25 (1982): 181-210. 101 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 85-108. 63 between the religious discourse that defined these friendships and the dissident sexual subjectivity of some of their participants. In order to order to understand the diverse ways in which religion and sexuality intersected in the Victorian era, and to chart the varying relationships between religion and science in the production of sexual dissidence, it is necessary to explore spiritual friendships not only as sites at which same-sex desire was articulated or even produced, but as sites at which religious discourses structured homoerotic subjectivity in a range of complex ways. Maynard‘s relationships with Dalrymple and Williams demonstrate the structuring of Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity by both Puritan and Evangelical discourse. What drew Maynard to Dalrymple was her willingness to ―own herself wrong, & condemn her faults.‖ 102 ―Oh,‖ she enthused, ―when divine Love acts upon a nature, so naturally lovely as Virginia‘s, how beautiful it is!‖ 103 The role of Puritanism in structuring Maynard‘s homoerotic subjectivity was further evident as she observed admiringly, ―How many more marks she bore, of being under the Master‘s chastening hand than I did,‖ 104 and bemoaned herself in contrast: ―I do not yet fully know how hopelessly lost my nature is, or I should not be in the least surprised. I want to be taught to say, ‗In me, that is in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing,‘ & then surely my way would be clear.‖ 105 Dalrymple‘s renunciation of self, and Maynard‘s admiration of that renunciation, suggests another source of the distance-and-desire dynamic that defined girls‘ erotic attractions in the new, larger schools. The sacrifices for the beloved, including the sacrifice of that desire, may well have been informed by a Puritannically inflected Evangelical discourse. 106 Maynard‘s 102 Greenbook, 15 June 1866, 104. 103 Ibid. 104 Ibid. 105 Ibid., 105. 106 I examine this in greater detail in chapter two. 64 love for Dalrymple found its highest expression in religious solicitude: ―O dear Saviour, tell me, does she indeed flee to Thee to hide her? Then all will be well. Be Thou her strong tower whereunto she may continually resort. Keep her faithful, humble, waiting at Thy feet, & then she will be safe amid all the dreadful vanities, & seductions, & flatteries of the world.‖ 107 The Puritan Evangelical structuring of Maynard‘s early homoerotic subjectivity was also evident in her friendship with Belstead student Fanny Williams. Maynard was attracted to Fanny Williams because she ―knows the Saviour and speaks of what will please Him, in a way no one else does‖. 108 When in the late 1860s the two women‘s intimacy burgeoned it was within the context of Evangelical devotion. 109 They shared biblical texts with one another, gave each other religious literature to read, and discussed the books they‘d read. During an 1869 meeting they spoke of the spiritual struggles they had endured in the preceding year. The primacy of both women‘s religious aspiration was evident as Williams sung Maynard a hymn replete with spiritual longing: ―O to be over yonder.‖ 110 After leaving Belstead in 1864, Maynard longed for further religiously based contact with Williams: ―I feel sure I could help her on, having been far more clearly taught, & I know she would help me by her unworldliness.‖ 111 In 1873 she noted of their burgeoning friendship, ―I think the Master may often give warmth of feeling as a refreshment in our blind fold walking with him & Fan ‗strengthens my hand in God,‘ as no 107 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 118. 108 Greenbook, 19 January 1873, 23. 109 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 64. 110 Greenbook, 1869, 140. 111 Greenbook, 13 March 1869, 130. 65 mortal can do except Cousin Mary.‖ 112 Maynard‘s homoeroticism was produced within and framed by more primary and enduring Evangelical aspirations. Historians of Victorian religion and homosexuality have explored the religious institutions, practices, texts, and theologies through which homoerotic desire was expressed, in what we might refer to as ―non-regulatory discourses,‖ yet few have examined the relationship of regulatory religious discourse to same-sex desire. In examining the relationship of Victorian religion to same-sex desire, they have not taken up Foucault‘s notion that the religious regulation of sexual desire produced rather than repressed illicit desire. 113 In subsequent chapters I will explore Foucault‘s assertion in greater depth. Here I would like to take up his work to examine the role of the Evangelical regulation of the affections in the production of female same-sex desire and to simultaneously point out deficiencies in Foucault‘s analysis revealed by the religious production of female same-sex. When Constance and her sisters returned from Belstead their mother put an end to the more exuberant Evangelical piety her daughters had acquired there. In her memoirs of the Maynard family, Constance‘s cousin, Mary King, observed this process: Gazy & Dora brought back Revival hymns from Belstead, & were delighted with their expressions of feeling. The strong personal love to the Saviour, the telling of His tender compassion & the pardon through the blood of the Cross, these hymns were new & glorious to them, especially to Gazy, but they were quietly checked & discouraged, & the young minds were brought back to the thoughts of reverence & duty toward God, that side of religion which belonged to the Protestant, Puritan, & Huguenot attitude of both parents, & of their ancestors. 114 112 Greenbook, 19 January 1873, 24. 113 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 1., An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1990). 114 King, Reminiscences, 34-35. 66 Louisa Maynard rejected religious emotion of the kind Umphelby encouraged at Belstead; she believed that ―enthusing‖ over conversion ―degenerated into romantic cravings for spiritual experience.‖ 115 She argued of Evangelical hymns that ―the tune was far too quick and shrill, the words were uneducated, the rhymes inexcusable, the meaning superficial, and worst of all, it was putting into the mouths of the young and ignorant a conviction that was to most of them wholly untrue.‖ 116 King also encouraged Maynard to eschew Umphelby‘s emphasis on religious feeling. Umphelby, in seeking to impress upon others the ―love & joy‖ of Christian experience, had forgotten the ―pain, & faith, & self-denial‖ through which they were attained. 117 Young hearts needed to focus on ―the pure go ld & gems of faith & humility & patience‖ 118 and religious emotion shouldn‘t be mistaken for religious treasure itself. Louisa Maynard had also sought rigorously to deter her daughters from befriending other girls, fearing that such friendships might entail an engagement with the world that was deleterious to their piety (she had ―dreaded every sort of external influence for us‖ 119 ). After Maynard left Belstead at the end of 1864 her mother consistently thwarted her attempts to visit Williams, possibly because she disapproved of Williams‘s ―unbelieving‖ and irreverent brothers. In 1871 Maynard noted she had begun ―to feel a great longing for Christian love & fellowship.‖ 120 In 1873 Constance‘s older sister Gabrielle, who was involved in a homoerotic relationship with a woman named Ellen Carfrae, wrote to Constance: ―I think perhaps it is having had few friends that we seem to have a large supply of admiration & affection ready for 115 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 374. 116 Maynard, ―An Individual Retrospect,‖ 173. 117 Greenbook, 27 April 1868, 87. 118 Ibid. 119 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 160. 120 Greenbook, 6 November 1871, 287. 67 those who do win an entrance at all; what do you think?‖ 121 At the same time Gabrielle conceded that ―there are so many ‗good‘ people who so not seem to touch one at all, that I dare not say this explains it all.‖ 122 Gabrielle‘s observation both demonstrates and qualifies Foucault‘s contention that regulatory discourse is productive rather than repressive of dissident sexual desire and that, in the Victorian era, the latter emerged as an effect of sexual regulation rather than being suppressed by it. Louisa‘s regulation of her children‘s religious emotion and of her daughters‘ spiritual friendships rendered spiritual women particular objects of desire for them. Gabrielle‘s comments demonstrate that while not all these friendships were desiring ones, the erotic was at the heart of some of them. The genealogy of Constance and Gabrielle‘s homoeroticism disrupts the sexual repression/sexual liberation binary upon which some iterations of secularization theory depend. Their dissident sexual desire was the effect of their mother‘s regulatory discourse; repressive religious discourse and an emancipatory dissident sexual desire were interdependent. The alignment of the repressive/liberation binary with the religion/science one is simultaneously undermined. Lastly, Maynard‘s own aligning of the Puritan/Evangelical and sexually repressive/liberationist binaries is disrupted. Louisa‘s Puritan regulating of her daughters‘ emotions, her repression of her desire, and her restricting of her friendships had actually incited and structured, rather than simply repressed, Constance and Gabrielle‘s sexual desire. Gabrielle‘s suggestion that her mother‘s restricting of her daughters‘ friendships had produced in them an ―excessive affection‖ for certain women suggests a qualification – a gendering – of Foucault‘s work on sexual regulation. It draws attention to the necessity of 121 Greenbook, 9 February 1873, 33. 122 Ibid. Like Constance‘s friendships, Gabrielle‘s erotically inflected friendship with Ellen Carfrae was informed by religious aspiration and an admiration of Carfrae‘s piety: ―Nelly seems to me one who ‗draws all her courage from His love‘‖ (ibid). 68 taking religion into account in histories of Victorian sexuality consequent on the alignment of middle-class women with religion earlier in the century. The ―spiritualization‖ of femininity led to the notion that middle-class women were, for the most part, chaste, passionless, and sexually ignorant. The regulation of a self-aware sexual desire, of the kind described by Foucault, was often deemed unnecessary. Constance and Gabrielle‘s homoeroticism demonstrates an alternative genealogy of same-sex desire than that proposed by Foucault. It was the product not of explicitly sexual regulation, but of their mother‘s monitoring of their affections. It points to the necessity of investigating a greater diversity of discourses in charting the emergence of dissident sexual subjectivity than just the overtly sexual. Just as Maynard‘s Evangelical religious desire had been informed by the scientific discourses of natural theology, so her homoerotic subjectivity was indebted to a scientifically inflected religious desire. The amateur study of astronomy, botany, zoology, and geology within a natural theology framework established the terms of her religious and also of her sexual desire. God was infinite, omniscient, and eternal and yet his intricate working in nature, illustrated by Paley‘s argument from design, attested to the possibility of intimacy with his creation. In future years Maynard understood erotic relationships, which were always pursued as a part of her piety, as a break with the mundane limits of earthly existence, offering an experience of a timeless eternity, while simultaneously allowing for an intimacy commensurate with God‘s work in nature. The role of natural theology in the framing of Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity and of her erotic relationships will be considered more fully in subsequent chapters. Here I will delineate a genealogy of one central scientific metaphor which Maynard mobilized to represent sexual desire, that of electricity, as it emerged within Evangelical discourse. 69 The preachers Maynard heard during the 1860s made frequent recourse to science. Dr. Stevenson thus compared the ―heart of man‖ to a ―photographic camera‖ in 1866, 123 Mr. Grattan Guinness used crystal-making as an image for the Christian life, 124 and Maynard also heard sermons on the spiritual applications of light and a prism of glass, 125 of geology, 126 and of astronomy. 127 Maynard‘s interest in electricity was evident in the summer of 1875 when she attended the annual conference of the British Association in Bristol on the invitation of a fellow student, Isabel Gamble, whose brother, Jack, was Secretary of the ―G. Section,‖ the Mechanics. 128 She wrote in retrospect, ―I went sometimes to Section F, Economics, & again to Section D, Physiology, but I think stayed most in Section G, for there the world seemed to be spinning & buzzing with the expectation of discoveries. They were indeed close, close at hand, for the Xrays, the electric light, telephone, & wireless telegraphy, & many another wonder stood just on the threshold.‖ 129 In 1882 Maynard attended the ―Electric Exhibition‖ at the Crystal Palace and wrote: As evening drew on we had the lights, & I saw . . . ‗some lovely little hen‘s eggs with a knot of incandescent wire inside each.‘ . . . Exactly at 7oc there was a furious splutter, & for a little while ‗the strongest light in the world was turned on, the only light that can throw a shadow in the sunshine.‘ There it was, 150,000 candlepower, & certainly it ignored all the other light, & from high overhead threw black shadows on the palms & ferns upon the floor. 130 123 Greenbook, 21 January 1866, 9. 124 Greenbook, 12 January 1872, 63-64. 125 Greenbook, 27 April 1866, 65-66. 126 Greenbook, 18 August 1867, 105-6. 127 Greenbook, 14 April 1869, 8-9. 128 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 24, 1875, 682. 129 Ibid., 683. 130 Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 42, 1882, 110. 70 Maynard had encountered Evangelical writing on electricity long before these events, in the 1860s. Like Evangelical preachers, Evangelical authors took up scientific discourse to describe religious devotion. In Tongue of Fire (1856), one of the texts read by Maynard and her parents, William Arthur made extended use of electricity as a metaphor for the Holy Spirit. Electricity explained the omnipresence of the Holy Spirit; the Holy Spirit was like ―the universal flow of electric power . . . filling up with a finite infinity the whole expanse of the solar system at once.‖ 131 The task of the preacher was to court the divine presence in a manner similar to the storing and transmission of electricity: ―The preacher must first imbibe the Divine fire, and then hold it in his heart, as a Leyden jar will hold the invisible electricity.‖ 132 Finally Arthur described the electric charge as the influence ordinary Christians, charged by the Spirit, had upon one another, a charge that was possible only by ―unearthing‖ themselves. 133 In the late 1860s Maynard adopted the metaphor of electricity to describe the effects of rare meetings with Christian friends. In 1868, she described herself as receiving an ―electric charge‖ upon first making the acquaintance of a young Evangelical neighbor, Lucy Wace, the daughter of a local clergyman. Her sense of the ―charge‖ seems not to have been the result of human eros but of religious desire: Lucy ―was a simple home-loving Christian girl, not at all clever & not very interesting, but she was ready on occasion to talk of the hope that was in her.‖ 134 In later years Maynard drew on the metaphor of electricity to describe a talk she had had 131 William Arthur, The Tongue of Fire, or The True Power of Christianity (London: Hamilton: Adams & Co, 1856), 176. 132 Arthur, Tongue of Fire, 254. 133 ―When a lecturer on electricity wants to show an example of a human body surcharged with his fire, he places a person on a stool with glass legs. The glass serves to isolate him from the earth, because it will not conduct the fire – the electric fluid. Were it not for this, however much might be poured into his frame, it would be carried away by the earth; but, when thus isolated from it, he retains all that enters him. . . . If thou, then, wouldst have thy soul surcharged with the fire of God . . . thou must draw nigh to the source of that fire, to the throne of God and of the Lamb, and shut thyself out from the world – that cold world, which so swiftly steals our fire away.‖ Arthur, Tongue of Fire, 312. 134 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 116. 71 with a fellow Christian, Annie Boothby: ―I felt the thrill of that wondrous ‗electric battery‘ pass between our spirits when they touched.‖ 135 In the 1870s and 1880s, in developing a vocabulary for sexual desire, Maynard was to return to the metaphor of electricity; she described the experience of being touched by Lewis Campbell and Louisa Lumsden, her first adult loves, as an ―electric thrill.‖ ―If I touched him but by accident a sort of electric thrill passed through him,‖ she wrote of Campbell and of Lumsden, ―if I slept with her, if I touched her the least bit I was kept awake by an electric thrill all the short summer night.‖ 136 Science, pursued under the rubric of natural theology, thus played a significant role in structuring Maynard‘s religious desire in the 1860s and 1870s. By providing her with a vocabulary for religious intimacy and later for sexual intimacy, it also shaped her homoerotic subjectivity. Sexuality was the site at which religion and science converged at other key points in Maynard‘s life; her life demonstrates the significance of sexual subjectivity and sexual discourse in charting the relationship between late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century religious and scientific discourse. In the early 1900s Maynard developed a theory of sexuality that was the product of a theologically modernist attempt to reconcile Evangelicalism with Darwinian evolution. Darwinian theory had disrupted the convergence of religion and science evident in Evangelical natural theology and led to notions of science as ―modern‖ and religion as antiquated. Maynard‘s sexual theology demonstrates the re-convergence of religious and scientific discourse. At around this time Maynard also grappled with the sexual ―deviancy‖ of her adopted daughter, Stephanie Anthon (Anthon‘s habit of masturbation) and took up eugenic discourse to account for it; her eugenic Evangelicalism demonstrates the ascendance of scientific discourse in one iteration of turn-of-the-century Evangelicalism. Maynard‘s imperially inflected 135 Greenbook, 7 April 1878, 69. 136 Greenbook, 17 October, 1880, 70 and Greenbook, 30 December 1877, 270. 72 relationship with Marion Wakefield in the years 1897 to 1911 saw Darwinism, eugenics, and Evangelicalism converge and diverge, constituting and contesting one another, at the site of homoerotic desire. Between 1915 and 1925 when Maynard was writing her autobiographical account of her childhood and early adulthood, she turned again to science – psychology and psychoanalysis in particular – in an attempt to account for her homoerotic relationships, as discussed below. Maynard‘s sexual discourse suggests that neither a simple model of the ―ascendancy‖ of science nor one that posits the discrete existence of religious and scientific discourse in turn-of-the-century Britain is adequate for understanding Victorian sexuality or for delineating the process of secularization. The year 1869 marked a new conjunction of religion and sexual desire in Maynard‘s life. She received and rejected a marriage proposal from a family friend, Henry Collisson, and she also experienced the ―second conversion‖ of the holiness or higher life movement. For Maynard the two events were related; she recognised human eros and religious desire as parallel but potentially overlapping discourses and titled her autobiographical account of 1869, ―Love, human and divine.‖ Harry Collisson, the son of an Anglo-Irish Evangelical clergyman and a family friend, proposed to Maynard on the platform of Charring Cross station, as she was leaving for Oakfield after a short stay with the Collisson family. The Greenboook entry of the day of the proposal makes no mention of it but simply cites Jeremiah 2: 17 and 19: Hast thou not procured this unto thyself, in that thou hast forsaken the lord thy God, when He led thee by the way? Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, & thy backslidings shall reprove thee; know therefore & see that it is an evil thing & bitter, that thouhast forsaken the Lord thy God, & that my fear is not in thee, saith the Lord God of hosts. 137 137 Greenbook, 15 July 1869, 64. 73 A few weeks later, Maynard provided a lengthier explanation of her response to Collisson‘s proposal: While I was at Highbury, I was sadly unconcentrated at prayer. I remember finding ―The Vicar of Wakefield‖ in the bookshelf, & reading that one night till very late, & my thoughts were so scattered, it seemed a mockery to kneel down to pray. . . . I seldom prayed with my whole heart. Thus I became earthly minded, & . . . the love of approbation crept in, in all the help I gave in that trying time. 138 Maynard understood Collisson‘s proposal as the consequence of ―two of my most powerful enemies of all the sin that dwelleth in me,‖ namely, ―the want of concentration, &, the love of approbation.‖ 139 She had pursued human approval over divine. In her autobiographical account of her early adulthood, with its focus on sexual repression, Maynard attributed her response to Collisson‘s proposal to her sexual ignorance: ―The quite ordinary tutelage in the approaches of love that is given by novels was absent, & I was left in a whirl of ignorance & even resentment.‖ 140 Maynard‘s Greenbook entries support her sense that her response to Collisson was the product of a lack of sexual knowledge. However there is another factor in play. If Maynard‘s mother‘s Puritanism had precluded an engagement with novels that might have educated her on the issue of ―love & marriage,‖ religion, in the form of Evangelicalism, had provided her with an understanding of religious desire and thus an index against which to evaluate human eros, including Collisson‘s proposal. 138 Greenbook, 17 August 1869, 87. 139 Greenbook, 15 July 1869, 64-65. In 1874 Mary Bethune, a friend of Maynard‘s, was to echo similar Calvinist- inflected response to a marriage proposal. She understood her fear and uncertainty in the face of potential marriage to be God‘s humbling of her for taking pride in a strong faith. ―‗I cannot pray now,‘ she told Maynard, ‗at least I cannot ask for anything except that God would punish me. I used to feel so strong & brave, & like to read the promises, & prided myself on my faith being so strong that I could believe & take them. Now God has humbled me, for I feel so very weak, & scarcely believe anything, & only pray for Him to punish me still more for my wickedness, & have it all out, & set me right.‖ Greenbook, 25 January 1874, 200. 140 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 176. 74 With the series of revival movements that marked the latter half of the nineteenth century, Evangelicals increasingly structured their relationship with Christ around biblical metaphors of love, courtship, and marriage, evident for example, in depictions of God‘s relationship with Israel as a marriage (Isa. 54; Hos. 1-3; Song of Songs), the Church as the Bride of Christ (Matt. 9; John 3, II Cor. 11), and the return of Christ as a marriage supper (Rev. 19; 22). In 1868 Maynard thus heard a local Evangelical clergyman, Mr. Ridgeway, give a sermon on the erotic poem of the Hebrew Bible, Song of Songs. Ridgeway informed his congregation that ―it is the voice of the bride, & there is no uncertainty in her words: ‗I am my beloved‘s.‘‖ 141 In 1871 she heard a Mr. Sullivan preach on the biblical metaphor of marriage for the relationship between Christ and the believer: ―Christ loves to awake[n] desire in His people; the Beloved withdraws Himself, & all the Bride‘s love is aroused & she cannot rest till she has found Him.‖ 142 If later nineteenth-century evangelicals mobilized discourses of human eros to depict Christian piety, Victorians in general turned to religious discourse to re-conceptualize sexual desire. 143 Writers such as Coventry Patmore (in The Angel of the House [1854]), Alfred Tennyson (in works such as ―The Princess‖ [1847]), Charles Kingsley (in Yeast [1851]), the Brownings, and John Ruskin, influenced by Romanticism, turned to spiritual discourse to reject the commercial spirit of the ―marriage market,‖ to attribute grander dimensions to desire, and to posit love as an antidote for ―the painful mood of baffled thought, and the decline of religious 141 Greenbook, 2 May 1868, 90. 142 Greenbook, 8 January 1871, 41. 143 Walter E. Houghton, The Victorian Frame of Mind 1830-1870 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957), 375. Houghton argues that ―in the literature of love written in the forties and fifties there occurs a persistent note of reconstruction‖ (ibid.). See also H. G. Cocks, ―Religion and Spirituality‖ in Palgrave Advances in the Modern History of Sexuality, ed. H. G. Cocks and Matt Houlbrook (New York : Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 157-79. Cocks argues that ―when speaking of the various intimacies, sexual or otherwise, of Victorians, it is impossible to understand them without reference to a religious or spiritual context.‖ Spirituality is ―located at the heart of Victorian marriage, as a key ingredient of sexual intimacy‖ (158). 75 faith.‖ 144 These writers represented love as ―not only the supreme experience of life, but its end and object – the very means by which the soul is saved.‖ 145 Houghton notes the words of Lord Allen in William Hurrell Mallock‘s satirical New Republic: ―What seems to me the thing so peculiarly modern, is this notion of love as something which, once truly attained, would, as Browning says, ‗make Time break, / Letting us pent-up creatures through / Into Eternity, our due.‘‖ 146 The turn to religious language to describe sexual desire had diverse effects. In some instances Victorians sought thereby to counter what they deemed sensual indulgence and carnal desire, particularly that of men. 147 Martha Vicinus suggests that the ―concerted effort to spiritualize all love‖ was partly a reaction to the sexual disorder of the French aristocracy and the frightening consequences of the French Revolution. Presenting women as the ―angel of the house‖ and love not as a ―temptation to be struggled against but a great ethical force which can protect men from lust and even strengthen and purify the moral will,‖ 148 they encouraged a reverent devotion by married men for their wives and chastity in unmarried men. Vicinus nevertheless distinguishes between de-eroticizing and de-corporealizing love. With the mobilizing of religious discourse, desire was not necessarily denied, but it ―was deemed morally superior if its bodily nature was subsumed to its spiritual potential.‖ 149 The turn to religious discourse might have exactly the opposite effect, however. Some Victorians drew on religious discourse to challenge notions of sexual intercourse as inherently 144 Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 375. 145 Ibid., 373. 146 William Hurrell Mallock, New Republic or Culture, Faith and Philosophy in an English Country House, bk. 4, ch. 2, 240-41 (London, n.d.) quoted in Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 373. 147 Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 373. 148 Ibid., 375. 149 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, xviii. 76 sinful or degrading, a product of the lower or animal self. For them sexual desire was ―given by God, and the body the intended means by which, under the control of the soul . . . desire was to be realized.‖ 150 The religious validation of sexual desire and its corporeal manifestation was evident in strands of Victorian Christianity itself. The historian Michael Mason, in an overview of religion and sexuality in the Victorian era, delineates a variety of religious approaches to sexuality ranging from the marital eroticism of the Anglican Church, consequent on a Swedenborgian influence, to the sexual austerity of Unitarianism. Swedenborgians propounded a vision of the afterlife based on the sexual pleasure enjoyed within marriage – a kind of ―transcendental sensualism‖ – that rendered sexual satisfaction within marriage a necessity. Mason argues that there was a revival of marital eroticism amongst Protestants generally in the nineteenth century in response to the celibacy of the Catholic orders, neo-Malthusian principles of population control, and some feminists‘ intentional adoption of celibacy. 151 Anglican clergyman and author Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) epitomizes this eroticism; he ―regarded marital sex as a religious and spiritual rite, a kind of ‗communion‘ between husband and wife.‖ 152 In the late 1870s Ellice Hopkins, the social purity feminist and High Church Anglican, drew on incarnational theology (―the Word made flesh‖) to valorize sexual intercourse; for Hopkins the body‘s ―life-giving functions were an integral part of human spiritual development.‖ 153 Within religious heterodoxy, the turn-of-the-century homosexual activist Edward Carpenter, making recourse to theosophy or esoteric Buddhism, represented the divine as immanent in nature – representing the unity of the physical and spiritual – and argued that 150 Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 376. 151 Michael Mason, The Making of Victorian Sexual Attitudes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). 152 John Maynard, Victorian Discourses on Sexuality and Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 96, quoted in Cocks, ―Religion and Spirituality,‖ 166. 153 Sue Morgan, ―The Word Made Flesh: Women, Religion and Sexual Cultures,‖ in Jacqueline deVries and Susan Morgan, ed., Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain (London: Routledge, 2010),166. 77 sexual intercourse, including homosexual sex, by reconciling these antimonies, effected the individual‘s union with the divine. 154 These religious approaches demonstrate that religious discourse might validate corporeal sexuality and intensify sexual desire by attributing to it dimensions that exceeded those of mundane, earthly love. Not only is the alignment of religion with sexual repression disrupted here but the spirit/body dichotomy with which it is often associated, is also undermined. Maynard had encountered secular discourses of desire during her childhood. Novel reading had been prohibited by her mother but the reading of poetry was permitted. Louisa Maynard had read her children parts of Thomas More‘s ―Lalla-Rookh‖ (1817). As a thirteen- year-old Maynard had listened to her oldest sister, Josephine, read a few chapters of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow‘s ―The Song of Hiawatha‖ (1855), and in later years she read Longfellow‘s ―Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie‖ (1847). From the early 1860s she began to read Alfred Tennyson‘s work. In her autobiography she recalled lines from Tennyson‘s ―Fatima‖ (1832), ―O love! O fire! Once he drew / In one long kiss my whole soul through / My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.‖ 155 Tennyson‘s evoking of spiritual language to describe kissing – his notion that Fatima‘s ―whole soul‖ was drawn through her lips – intensified desire by attributing 154 Dixon, ―Your Clinging Kisses.‖ 155 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 38. The relevant stanza from ―Fatima‖ reads: Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver‘d in my narrow frame. O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro‘ My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. The literary scholar D.G. Riede, addressing the orientalist exoticism of ―Fatima,‖ observes that the sexual frankness of the poem, Tennyson‘s transition from the more covert eroticism of ―Mariana‖ (1832), is made possible by ―displacing desire onto an Oriental subjectivity.‖ ―Tennyson‘s Poetics of Melancholy and the Imperial in ‗Fatima‘ (1832),‖ Studies in English Literature 1500-1900 40, no. 4 (2000): 672. If Christian discourse afforded nineteenth- century poets a new, extravagant register of desire, that discourse was also intimately intertwined with Britain‘s imperial project, as I suggest in chapter five. 78 to it dimensions that exceeded the earthly while at the same time accentuating its corporeality. Tennyson‘s use of spiritual discourse for sexual desire in ―Fatima‖ rendered sexual desire more accessible to Maynard, for whom discourses of religious desire were primary. ―What could that feel like?‖ she asked the anticipated reader of her autobiography and concluded, ―I thought I could guess at it.‖ 156 Maynard‘s holiness conversion in 1869 saw the heightening of religious desire and the further structuring of her sexual subjectivity. The holiness movement emerged amongst British evangelicals in the late 1860s and 1870s and, as Bebbington notes, set the direction of evangelical piety for much of the twentieth century. 157 It originated in America in the 1830s as part of a second wave of revivals or the ―Second Great Awakening.‖ Charles Finney, Phoebe Palmer, and Robert and Hannah Pearsall Smith, amongst others, took up and gave a new emphasis to Wesley‘s doctrine of sanctification through faith and his promulgation of the perfectibility of human nature in Plain Account of Christian Perfection (1766). They argued that a second conversion, known as ―immediate sanctification‖ (or purification from sin), was both possible and necessary; the believer need only profess complete dependence on Christ and a state of perpetual sanctification would be attained. ―Immediate sanctification‖ thus entailed ―resting in God.‖ The Pearsall Smiths, who were Philadelphian Quakers influenced by American Methodist W. E. Boardman‘s Higher Christian Life (1859) and the quietism of their own Quaker tradition, led the movement in Britain, where it was also known as the ―higher life‖ movement and gained momentum in the 1870s and 1880s. In Britain the Church of England was the center of the holiness movement; the Keswick Convention for the Promotion of Practical Holiness, 156 Ibid. 157 David W. Bebbington, Evangelicalism in Modern Britain: A History from the 1730s to the 1980s (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1992), 151. 79 which took place annually from 1875, rendered the term ―Keswick‖ synonymous with Anglican holiness piety. Maynard first encountered the holiness movement in the late 1860s; her Belstead friend, Fanny Williams, gave her two holiness texts to read in March 1869: The Holy Life (probably John Wesley‘s A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life (1728)) and The Secret of Victory. 158 When on November 25, 1869 Maynard was reading aloud from Boardman‘s Higher Christian Life (1859), another classic of the movement, to her brother George, she experienced what she deemed ―second conversion‖ or ―immediate sanctification‖: ―all that I had felt . . . about . . . ‗Abiding in Christ,‘ came over me with a new power, & I saw . . . the secret of His life was perfect faith, & it may be the secret, the spring of mine.‖ 159 Maynard understood dependence upon Christ to be central to sanctification, and represented that dependence as union with Christ. ―I have never before seen the believer‘s union with Christ so thoroughly apprehended & realized,‖ 160 she wrote of the diary of an early proponent of ―entire consecration,‖ Mary Fletcher, a colleague of John Wesley, whose autobiography was widely read by nineteenth-century Evangelicals. 161 In the months that followed her 1869 holiness conversion Maynard read the work of William Romaine (1714–1795), another contemporary of Wesley within Anglican Evangelicalism, in which piety was represented as a state of intimacy with Christ: ―Go to your closet & converse with Him. Go to church to meet Him. Make Him your companion. . . . Pray 158 Greenbook, 21 March 1869, 137. The names of the authors of these works are not mentioned. In the autobiography she describes them as Abiding in Christ and The Joy of Obedience. Autobiography, Part 2,Chapter 7,1869, 184. 159 Greenbook, 25 November 1869, 166. 160 Greenbook, 25 July 1869, 70. 161 Mary Bosanquet Fletcher (1739-1815) was one of Wesley‘s most important women preachers and wife of one of his closest colleagues, John Fletcher. The Fletchers were important theologians in their own right and both endorsed the doctrine of immediate sanctification. 80 without ceasing to Him as your bosom-friend.‖ 162 Holiness piety included a focus on Christ as Friend and Lover that had been absent from Maynard‘s upbringing: We have been brought up to think of our Saviour as abstract Salvation, the Way back to God, the Truth, the Life, more than as a living Friend . . . now I would know more. I would get very near to Him, & ‗touch Him‘ in a way that He does not disapprove, but encourages, because I want Him to do what I cannot do, I want to be made perfectly whole, to be able to love Him with all my heart, & serve & praise Him with every part of my life. 163 A quote in Maynard‘s journal from Deborah Alcock‘s historical novel The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century (1871) exemplifies a religious desire based on the anthropomorphic theology of holiness piety: ―The personal love of Christ to you, felt, delighted in, returned, is actually, truly, simply, without exaggeration, the deepest joy & the deepest feeling that the heart of man or woman can know.‖ 164 The 1873 ―second blessing‖ of Maynard‘s Belstead friend, Fanny Williams, illustrates the eroticism inherent in some iterations of holiness piety. After acknowledging her dependence on Christ for complete consecration, Williams admitted to Maynard that there was an erotic element in her relationship with Christ (―I think there is a sort of natural love mixed up with it, for I seem quite to hold Him, but then that is just what I want‖ 165 ). Maynard recalled her describing her love of Christ with ―perfect contentment‖; it was ―More dear, more intimately nigh / Than even the sweetest earthly tie.‖ 166 The erotic resonances inherent in Evangelical 162 Greenbook, 9 October 1870, 249. Romaine had, until the arrival of John Newton in London in 1780, been the sole beneficed Evangelical in London. His trilogy on Christian spirituality, The Life of Faith (1763), The Walk of Faith (1771), and The Triumph of Faith (1795), set out the elements of his Evangelical Calvinism. Both Romaine and Fletcher were of Huguenot descent. 163 Greenbook, 1 December 1869, 5. 164 Greenbook, 2 July 1871,192. 165 Greenbook, 3 August 1873, 116. 166 Greenbook, 31 December 1872, 275. 81 religious desire were evident in the verse of the hymn she asked Maynard to transcribe in her Bible: ―Both Thine arms are clasped around me / And my head is on Thy breast, / For my weary soul hath found Thee / Such a perfect, perfect rest. / Dearest Saviour, / Now I know that I am blest.‖ 167 The alignment of middle-class women with spirituality provided them a socially sanctioned discourse of desire, the religious desire for Christ. Victorian Evangelicals were aware of the potentially erotic dimensions of such a devotion to Christ; while some propounded it, others refused it. In 1868, when Maynard was nineteen years old, Mary King, her cousin and spiritual mentor, cautioned her against erotic religious desire. ―There is such a thing as idolatry of our blessed Saviour __ do you know what I mean?‖ she asked her. ―You may feel His sacred presence near, & lean your weakness upon his tender love, & yet all the while it may only be the luxury of feeling, & sentiment, you may be treating Him like an earthly friend or lover.‖ She had had a conversation with a local clergyman, Mr. Noel, on revivalism, and asked him whether he ―did not think that the excitement of it is especially bad for the young?‖ He replied, ―I call it being in love,‖ and went on to ―tell her sad cases among poor factory-girls & people in London, where all the feeling had been the merest excitement & romance; which vanished in a year of two, leaving the heart more reckless & hard than before, & bringing the greatest discredit to religion.‖ 168 King contended that the presence of the erotic in Evangelical devotion was the work of the ―natural man‖ rather than the ―spiritual man.‖ She advised her spiritual charge on how to distinguish erotic and thus misguided desire for Christ from legitimate religious feelings. ―You say, I felt Jesus so near me, my whole soul flowed out in love & adoration,‖ she suggested to Maynard. ―Well, & what did He do for you? When Jesus came near to people on earth, I know He never left them without healing them if 167 Greenbook, 19 January 1873, 23. 168 Greenbook, 1 October 1869, 143. 82 sick or giving them sight if blind, & he does the same now __ so what did He come to do for you?‖ 169 For King authentic religious feeling was to be distinguished from erotic human desire by whether or not it was accompanied by tangible improvements in the believer‘s life. Despite King‘s warnings, Maynard was to pursue an erotically inflected relationship with Christ. A year after Collisson‘s proposal she turned again to the relationship between religious and human eros: Yesterday I finished reading the ―Hotel du petit St. Jean.‖ It is only a story, & a love story too, yet I shall always remember it with great pleasure. It shews almost unconsciously to itself I believe, how narrow & selfish is the earthly passion of love even in its most intense form . . . but the love of Christ, O that is growth & expansion, the opening out of ―eternal life‖ in our heart. 170 The more mundane love of Collisson could not compare with the religious eros of Evangelical- ism as she had experienced it as a child or with the spiritual friendships she had pursued with her Belstead peers. Maynard had experienced human and divine love and the latter had proved more compelling. While in her biography Maynard was intent on charting the role of Evangelicalism in awakening her religious desire, she was equally concerned with delineating the repressive effects of her mother‘s Puritanism. She turned to psychology, including psychoanalysis, to describe that ―repression‖ and to explore its effects. She remained ambivalent about her same-sex desire at the end of her life. While she understood some of her homoerotic relationships to be ―gifts‖ from God, she also believed that the religious dimension of her work at Westfield had been compromised by her ―reckless satisfying of passion.‖ 171 At the same time she entertained regrets 169 Greenbook, 16 April 1868, 71. 170 Greenbook, 15 July 1870, 219. 171 Greenbook, 5 April 1927. 83 at never having married. She lived in an era in which married middle-class women were barred from paid employment or the pursuit of a career and her founding of Westfield had required the eschewal of marriage. Although she never doubted the validity of the religious calling, she wondered whether she might find in her childhood a psychological reason, in addition to a religious one, for her failure to marry. Recently historians have turned to sexology and to psychoanalysis, to explore intersections between religion and science in the making of modern homosexuality. Dixon draws attention to the historical conjunction of the emergence of theosophy and sexology and argues that theosophists ―influenced, assimilated, and reworked new sexological and psychoanalytic claims.‖ 172 Cocks suggests that the history of sexuality should be read ―not as a simple story of secularization which is shaped by the death of religion, but one that is informed by a dialogue between the secular and the spiritual.‖ 173 Although Maynard lived and wrote until 1935, seven years after the publication of The Well of Loneliness (1928) and Hall‘s obscenity trial, she did not reference sexology overtly in her life writing. Her turn to psychology nevertheless represents an iteration of the dialogue between science and religion that Dixon and Cocks describe. It constitutes in Maynard‘s life another instance of the co-constitution and contestation of religion and science at the site of sexual discourse. Maynard‘s turn to psychology was most evident in the prioritizing of her childhood to account for her failure to marry and her homoerotic desire. 174 In 1915 when Maynard wrote the autobiographical account of her childhood, she did not have access to Sigmund Freud‘s most comprehensive account of female homosexuality, his 1920 study ―The Psychogenesis of a Case 172 Dixon, ―Sexology and the Occult,‖ 411. 173 Cocks, ―Religion and Spirituality, 158, my emphasis. 174 Phipps draws attention to Maynard‘s ―oddly hybrid statements that mixed the language of faith with psychological notions like that of sexual instinct.‖ Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 281. 84 of Homosexuality in a Woman.‖ 175 However, in 1905 Freud published his Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality in which he established some of the central tenets of his theory of homosexuality. Scholars have rightly pointed to the multivalence of Freud‘s work on this topic. 176 In the Three Essays he argued for the initial bisexuality of all individuals and homosexuality as an innocuous outcome of it, while simultaneously developing his theory of the Oedipus complex and suggesting that homosexuality was the product of ―developmental inhibition and infantilism.‖ 177 The child failed to progress beyond an early identification with the parent of the opposite sex to an identification with the parent of the same sex and thus could not construe the parent of the opposite sex as the object of their desire. 178 It is not clear whether Maynard had access to the Three Essays, and if she did, whether she understood her same-sex desire in the light of the theory of homosexuality presented there. She did not take up identitarian concepts of sexuality but did suggest, at times, that there was ―something wrong‖ in her attraction to women. She did not draw explicitly on the Freudian notion of the Oedipal complex. However, Maynard had in common with Freud the identification of childhood as a crucial stage in the sexual development of individuals and identifies her own 175 He had also written ―A Case of Paranoia,‖ in 1915 dealing with female homosexuality and there had been a footnote to same-sex desire in his 1905 case study of Dora. Teresa de Lauretis, ―Letter to an Unknown Woman,‖ in That Obscure Subject of Desire: Freud’s Female Homosexual Revisited, ed. Ronnie C. Lesser and Erica Schoenberg (London: Routledge, 1999), 42, 45. 176 De Lauretis, ―Letter to an Unknown Woman,‖ 45 and Robert May, ―Re-Reading Freud on Homosexuality,‖ in Disorienting Sexuality: Psychoanalytic Reappraisals of Sexual Identities, ed. Thomas Domenici and Ronnie C. Lesser (London: Routledge, 1995), 156-57. 177 Sigmund Freud, The Psychogenesis of a Case of Homosexuality in a Woman,‖ in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 18, 155, trans. and ed. J. Strachey, quoted in de Lauretis, ―Letter to an Unknown Woman,‖ 40 and Sigmund Freud, Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (New York: Basic Books, 1962), 87, quoted in Robert May, ―Re-Reading Freud,‖ 160. 178 In Psychogenesis he represents his young female client‘s attraction to an older woman as the product of the persistence of a pre-Oedipal desire for the mother while also drawing attention to her mother‘s neglect of her daughter (Freud, Psychogenesis, 168-69, quoted in de Lauretis, ―Letter to an Unknown Woman,‖ 46). However he lays greater emphasis on her simultaneous rejection of her father and of all men and, following sexological theory, the innate masculinity of the woman (Freud, Psychogenesis, 157-160 and 168-169, quoted in de Lauretis, ―Letter to an Unknown Woman,‖ 41, 44). 85 mother as playing an important role in that development. She supplemented the notion of her mother‘s repressive Puritanism with the allegation that she had neglected her emotionally. Her mother ―had no delight in actual babies,‖ she asserted in her autobiography; 179 she ―never petted us & seldom caressed us.‖ 180 Her mother had also absented herself from key periods in her daughter‘s childhood. ―I cannot remember any personal intercourse with [her] until I was about four or five years old,‖ she wrote, ―but from that age onward she was both the sun & moon to our little lives, until we were twelve or thirteen, when we seemed again to lose touch with her.‖ 181 Henry Maynard demonstrated a similar lack of affection: ―Our father was a just & good man, but stern, & also possessing a nervous temperament that could not endure the restlessness of early childhood. To us he was an awe-inspiring presence at meals, but not much else, & never once do I remember his playing a game with us, or even letting one of us sit on his knee.‖ 182 This constituted, she says pointedly, ―a rather loveless picture of the crucial years of infancy.‖ 183 In May 1926 she argued that her homoerotic desire was the product of parental emotional neglect: ―There was something within me which seemed to have a foremost and imperious claim, a hunger which must be satisfied whatever kind of food was offered.‖ 184 Maynard‘s notion of ―repression‖ seems also to have had some commonalities with Freud‘s. In his work on neurosis Freud had argued that repression – or the refusal of pleasurable instincts as a result of anxiety consequent on the threat of punishment – was integral to the constitution of the self; abnormal repression occurred when fear of punishment persisted and 179 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 1, 1849-1860, 5. 180 Ibid., 8. 181 Ibid., 5-6. 182 Ibid., 6. 183 Ibid. 184 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 44, 1882, 3, written May 1926. 86 feelings of desire were quashed in ways that were unwarranted. Like many Victorians, Maynard used the term ―repression‖ long before Freud took it up and in ways that both differed from and anticipated Freud‘s theory. 185 An overt referencing of psychology, if not psychoanalysis, was evident in 1915 when she noted of her sister Gabrielle‘s acceptance of her mother‘s austere affective regime that ―her sense of duty must have been so strong that the raging in secret found no expression at all, &, as psychologists tell us, that is the surest way of smothering an emotion in oblivion.‖ 186 As early as 1876 Maynard had linked the suppression of sexual desire with mania, arguing that a young female servant at Oakfield had fallen prey to ―a complete & sudden mania‖ as the result of a long-suppressed and illicit attraction to a male servant. 187 In her autobiography she entertained the idea that her same-sex desire was the result of the repression of her (heterosexual) sexual instinct. In May 1926 Maynard took up psychoanalytic discourse overtly. 188 She suggested that her work at Westfield had been ―spoiled and devastated by love,‖ or ―by what psycho-analysts call by highly disagreeable names, such as ‗the thwarted sex-instinct.‘‖ 189 The ―thwarting‖ of her ―sex instinct‖ seems to refer both to her repressive upbringing, including her mother‘s emotional austerity and her undervaluing of ―love & marriage,‖ and to Maynard‘s refusal of marriage for the pursuit of a religious calling to women‘s higher education. Taking up Catholic discourse to render the latter evident, while at the same time endorsing the psychoanalytic notions of sexual instinct, she wrote in a different context that ―in a passionate nature there are 185 She used the term in the former sense when in 1915 she described her upbringing as ―repressive to the last point of anything fanciful, foolish, or exaggerated.‖ Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 4. 186 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 104. 187 Greenbook, 2 March 1876, 247. In her autobiography she wrote, ―This long suppression & sense of guilt was the real cause of her mania.‖ Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 27, 1876, 25. 188 Phipps points to this in her article on Maynard. Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 280. 189 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 44, 1882, 3, written in May 1926. 87 instinctive elements which make it almost impossible to choose the Cloister.‖ 190 In June 1927, however, after further consideration of this issue, she rejected what she understood to be psychoanalytic explanations of same-sex desire rooted in theories of repression. She set aside the idea that her failure to marry was the product of a repressive upbringing and the lack of opportunity for the expression of heterosexual desire at Westfield. ―It is all very well to call this loneliness ‗sex-feeling,‘‖ she argued of the isolation she felt at Westfield, ―but I can honestly say my thoughts never strayed to a man.‖ 191 Demonstrating the primacy of her religious belief she asserted decisively: ―My craving and loneliness was not the instinct toward marriage, it was the instinct towards God, which can be satisfied with nothing less.‖ 192 If Maynard privileged religion in this contest, her Belstead friendships demonstrated that the ―instinct towards God‖ was nevertheless inextricably intertwined with an erotically inflected intimacy with women. The latter relationships were an integral part of a more enduring pursuit of religious desire. While Maynard‘s positing of an instinct towards the divine in the place of an instinct towards marriage is not helpful to historians (it entails an essentialism that is not conducive to historical enquiry), her refusal of the Freudian notions of sexual instinct is instructive. Her engagement with psychological discourse, her acceptance of the notion of repression, her rejection of her homoeroticism as the product of it, and her reworking of the psychological discourse of ―instincts‖ to legitimize religious aspirations illustrate the complex interactions of religion and science that characterized the early twentieth century. Maynard‘s childhood and early adulthood demonstrate the varying ways in which her sexual subjectivity had been shaped by (a historically specific) religious discourse. Her erotic history is thus better elucidated using a 190 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 306. 191 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 52, 1888, 172, written in June 1927. 192 Ibid., 172-7. 88 Foucauldian approach that places greater weight on cultural discourse than a Freudian one that represents sexual desire as a largely ―natural instinct.‖ Maynard‘s overt refusal of psychoanalysis in her autobiography may be matched by a much larger, unnamed project to posit a religious genealogy for her same-sex desire that countered psychoanalytic explanations. There is an urgency and an anger in Maynard‘s account of her childhood that cannot adequately be explained by either her occasional regrets regarding marriage or her attitude to her homoeroticism, which varied over time. Instead, it is possible that her anger was a response to a dawning recognition of psychoanalysts‘ pejorative descriptions of female inversion and that she wrote her account of her childhood and early adulthood in explicit, if largely unnamed, dialogue with them. Such a ―dialogue‖ would explain her persistent assertion of the primacy of religious desire – not as a guise for her homoeroticism but as the framework within which it had emerged. This kind of extended engagement with psychoanalysis is suggested in a poem Maynard transcribed in an unpublished anthology of poems she collated later in life. ―The Psychologist,‖ written by G. A. Studdert Kennedy (1883– 1929), chaplain to King George V, and published in 1927, rejects psychoanalysis; its practitioners are seen as having misconstrued religious desire by subordinating their subjects to scientific analysis: He takes the saints to pieces, And labels all the parts . . . The Freudian unconscious Quite easily explains The splendour of their sorrows, The pageant of their pains. The manifold temptations, Wherewith the flesh can vex The saintly soul, are samples Of Œdipus complex. The subtle sex perversion, His eagle glance can tell, 89 That makes their joyous heaven The horror of their hell. 193 Maynard‘s account of her childhood and early adult sexual subjectivity challenges histories of sexuality that present science, and sexology and psychology in particular, as the discourses that liberated Victorians from the repressive effects of religion. Evangelicalism had awakened Maynard‘s religious desire, Evangelical devotion had structured her erotic subjectivity, and the homosocial contexts of Evangelical devotion had facilitated the expression of the erotic. For Maynard the sexually repressive/liberationist binary did not align with the religious/secular one but with the Puritan/Evangelical one. However, even the latter binary is not borne out in Maynard‘s writings; Louisa Maynard‘s suppression of her children‘s emotions, her deterring them from making friends, her withholding discourses of sexual knowledge from them, and her neglecting ―love & marriage‖ for her daughters served ultimately to produce emotion, sexual desire, friendships, and homoerotic relationships. Maynard‘s early homoerotic subjectivity demonstrates both Foucault‘s notion of the productive nature of power evident in the regulation of desire and the role of the non-regulatory discourse of religious desire in the production of same-sex desire. Maynard‘s early homoeroticism disrupts the alignment of the modern/outmoded binaries with the secular/sacred, science/religion, sexually liberationist/ repressive binaries upon which discourses of modernity rely. It was constituted within the pursuit of intimacy with the divine, the primary objective of her life. If Maynard‘s homoeroticism challenges the binaries of secularization theory that inform dominant notions of modernity, it also challenges the discreteness of these categories; religion and science were profoundly imbricated in Maynard‘s accounts of her childhood. Both her religious and homoerotic desire were inflected by scientific discourses indebted to natural 193 Constance Maynard, Undated Anthology of Poems by Various Poets, Anecdotes and Reminiscences of [Friends and Colleagues], vol. 1. Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London. 90 theology. Maynard‘s autobiographical account of her childhood and early adulthood, written much later (between 1915 and 1925), shows the then more distinct discourses of religion and science to converge, constitute, and contest one another in diverse ways. The sexual liberation/repression binary is also destabilized in Maynard‘s autobiography. Evangelicalism had provided Maynard with a register for emotion and a language of desire against which she measured her parents‘ Puritanism; psychology had enabled her to identify the latter as ―repressive.‖ However, while she described her liberation from a repressive Puritanism, she did not believe her ―liberation‖ to be complete or to be a singularly happy one. Her narrative of sexual liberation is part of a broader project to chart the multiple, complex, contradictory, and often painful ways in which religious and sexual discourse had intersected in her life. Her autobiography thus attests to what Foucault deemed the ultimate inefficacy of writing of histories of sexuality as a narrative of progressive sexual liberation. The productive effects of ostensibly repressive sexual regulation render this the repression/liberation dichotomy invalid while the centering of sex as the ―secret of the self‖ that accompanies such histories perpetuates the very operation of power that Foucault exposed. More worthwhile is the charting of the historically specific way in which sexual desire, sexual subjectivity, and sexual identity are constituted. Maynard‘s account of her childhood and early adulthood shows religion, science, and sexual subjectivity constituted within a historically specific iteration of Puritan Evangelicalism. It also demonstrates the dynamic nature of religion, science, and sexuality. As changes in wider Victorian culture took place, the relation between these discourses shifted and with them both Maynard‘s religious and sexual subjectivity. Paradoxically, the Evangelical valorization of natural theology – the turn to science to exemplify religious principles – compelled an engagement with science that was ultimately disruptive to Evangelical faith. The following 91 chapter examines the next significant shift in Maynard‘s piety – a prolonged faith crisis – in the context of the wider Victorian crisis of faith and charts the structuring of Maynard‘s homoerotic subjectivity within its contours. It turns to Maynard‘s years as a student at Girton College, the first residential college for women in the United Kingdom, and her co-founding with fellow Girton graduate Louisa Lumsden of St. Leonards School for girls in St. Andrews, Scotland. Science continued to play a prominent role in this stage of Maynard‘s life. Darwinian evolution was a significant factor in precipitating her doubt and the homoerotic relationship she pursued with Lumsden, the first of her adult relationships, was informed by a scientifically produced doubt. 92 Chapter 2: “That Infidel Place”: Women’s Higher Education, the Crisis of Faith, and Dissident Sexuality In 1869 Anna Lloyd, one of the first students to gain admission to the newly established College for Women in Hitchin, 1 was sharing a railway coach with a clergyman accompanying two ladies to London, when she heard him remark, ―This is Hitchin, and that I believe is the house where the College for Women is – that infidel place.‖ 2 The anecdote is, as Janet Howarth notes, part of the founding myth of Girton College, Cambridge (initially named the College for Women and located in Hitchin), the first residential college for women in Britain; M. C. Bradbrook took up the trope for the title of her centenary history of the college, “That Infidel Place”: A Short History of Girton College, 1869-1969. 3 The accusation of religious infidelity was not unique to the clergyman in Lloyd‘s narrative; the founder of the Christian Women‘s Education Union (CWEU), Miss Cavendish, thought that Girton students ―believed in Darwinism‖ and were ―very atheistical.‖ 4 Nor was Girton the only women‘s college to be so designated. The University of London, which had commenced a lecture series for women the year before, had been referred to as that ―godless institution of Gower Street‖ 5 and Bedford College as a ―godless institution‖ also. 6 Despite such allegations the women‘s colleges have 1 The college moved to Girton, just outside Cambridge, in 1873. 2 E. M. Lloyd, Anna Lloyd, 1837-1925: A Memoir with Extracts from her Letters (London: Cayme Press, 1925), 57- 58. 3 Janet Howarth, ―The Church of England and Women‘s Higher Education, c.1840-1914,‖ in Politics and Culture in Victorian Britain: Essays in Memory of Colin Matthew, ed. Peter Ghosh and Lawrence Goldman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 153-70. 4 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 36, 1880, 431. 5 N. Harte, The University of London, 1836- 1986 (London: Athlone Press, 1986), 64, 132, quoted in Howarth, ―The Church of England,‖ 159. 6 Oliver Lodge, Past Years (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1931), 160-61, quoted in Howarth, ―The Church of England,‖ 159. 93 received little attention from scholars of the Victorian crisis of faith. 7 These scholars have focused instead on the battles over faith that took place at the men‘s universities, such as the long-running dispute at Oxford between Edward Pusey, the leader of the Tractarian movement who advocated the universal truth of Christianity, and the Broad Church Benjamin Jowett, Regius Professor of Hebrew at Christ Church, who promulgated free enquiry. 8 Scholars have carefully delineated the result of such animosities, such as the dismissal of Frederick Denison Maurice (1805-1872), a professor at King‘s College London, after the publication of his Theological Essays (1853) in which he rejected orthodox notions of hell. The faith crises of individual university men have also been investigated, whether the 1862 loss of faith of the don of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, Leslie Stephen, best known for his work on the Dictionary of National Bibliography and his dissemination of agnosticism, or Henry Sidgwick‘s 1869 repudiation of his Trinity fellowship in order to free himself ―from dogmatic obligations‖ 9 and to protest the mandatory subscription by Cambridge fellows to the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England. The focus of historians of the Victorian crisis of faith on men‘s universities is, to some extent, warranted. Oxford and Cambridge were governed by the Church of England, with the training of clergymen as their central purpose; it was there that the challenge of Broad Church theology and agnosticism to Tractarian and Evangelical orthodoxies was most keenly felt. The failure of historians of the Victorian faith crisis to consider the women‘s colleges is, nevertheless, surprising. While women were barred from ordained ministry in most Christian denominations, they had been aligned with religion from the start of the century and exercised 7 Alison Mackinnon, ―Educated Doubt: Women, Religion and the Challenge of Higher Education,‖ Women's History Review 7, no. 2 (1998), 241-259. 8 Peter Hinchliff, ―Religious Issues, 1870-1914‖ in The History of the University of Oxford, vol. 7, Nineteenth- Century Oxford, pt. 2, ed. M. G. Brock and M. C. Curthoys (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), 97. 9 V. H. H. Green, Religion at Oxford and Cambridge (London: SCM Press, 1964), 303-4. 94 significant religious authority in the broader cultural context; they were responsible for the religious education of their families, disseminated religious belief through a range of local philanthropic activities, and upheld religious values in national campaigns for social reform. Women‘s turn to higher education, where reason, scientific enquiry, and a critical approach to knowledge were increasingly encouraged, renders women‘s colleges a potentially productive site of enquiry. 10 An investigation of the women‘s colleges might also elucidate the often overlooked role of gender in the Victorian crisis of faith. For women the simple act of applying to universities entailed a transgression of religious norms of marriage and motherhood; a crisis of faith contingent on their refusal of religious gender norms (or a reconfiguration of faith in which gender played an important role) may well have accompanied Victorian women‘s pursuit of higher education. Finally, the role played in founding the women‘s colleges by university dons, prominent in histories of the faith crisis, renders the women‘s colleges worth investigating. 11 For example, the Christian Socialist F. D. Maurice was instrumental in founding in 1848 a college for the training of governesses, Queen‘s College in Harley Street in London, an important antecedent to the women‘s residential colleges; he was also involved in establishing Newnham College, Cambridge, in 1871. 12 Henry Sidgwick, and J. R. Seeley, the Regius Professor of Modern History and the author of the theologically liberal Ecce Homo (1866), were involved in the founding of Girton College; Sidgwick founded Newnham College in 1871. The role of these dons in the founding of women‘s colleges, and their influence on the women to whom many of 10 Mackinnon, ―Educated Doubt,‖ 242. 11 Sheldon Rothblatt, The Revolution of the Dons: Cambridge and Society in Victorian England (London: Faber & Faber, 1968), quoted in Mackinnon, ―Educated Doubt,‖ 242. 12 B. Megson and J. Lindsay, Girton College, 1869-1959: An Informal History (Cambridge: Girton Historical and Political Society, 1960), 1. The founder of Girton College, Emily Davies had been inspired by Maurice‘s Christian Socialism; Davies‘s brother, Llewelyn, a well-respected Anglican clergyman was a close associate of Maurice and later served as principal of Queen‘s College. M. C. Bradbrook, “That Infidel Place”: A Short History of Girton College, 1869-1969 (London: Chatto & Windus, 1969), 35. 95 them lectured, constitutes another reason for investigating women‘s colleges as potential sites of the Victorian faith crisis. Joy Dixon argues that by excluding women generally from accounts of that crisis, historians have re-inscribed ahistorical Victorian notions of the ―secular man‖ and ―spiritual woman.‖ 13 Her analysis contributes to gender history, which emerged around thirty years ago and sought to address perceived deficits in women‘s history. Historians such as Joan Scott argued that by simply recovering women‘s histories, historians were taking an additive approach that left the methodological assumptions of masculinist histories intact. 14 Drawing on a poststructuralist approach, they sought to examine the processes through which dominant discourses of masculinity and femininity were constituted, how individual gender identities were forged in relation to these discourses, and how the relations between the sexes changed over time. 15 They emphasized the dynamic nature of gender discourse; the meaning of sexual difference was seen to be ―constantly negotiated through competing cultural representations of masculinity and femininity at any given historical moment.‖ 16 The co-constitution of masculinity and femininity, contradictions in gender discourse, and instances of their paradoxical imbrication were brought to the fore. The difference between prescriptive and descriptive discourse was charted. Religion played a fairly minimal role in gender history in its early years. However, as the historian Sue Morgan suggests, religion has the potential to revolutionize gender history‘s theoretical framework; by examining the complex and diverse ways in which 13 Joy Dixon, ―Modernity, Heterodoxy, and the Transformation of Religious Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, ed. Jacqueline deVries and Sue Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010), 212. 14 Joan Scott, ―Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,‖ American Historical Review 91, no. 5 (December 1986): 1055. 15 Sue Morgan, ―Rethinking Religion in Gender History: Historiographical and Methodological Reflections,‖ in Gender, Religion and Diversity: Cross-Cultural Perspectives, ed. Ursula King and Tina Beattie (New York: Continuum, 2004), 113-14. 16 Morgan, ―Rethinking Religion,‖ 114. 96 religious women negotiated dominant religious discourses of gender, historians of religion and gender are able to develop more nuanced frameworks within which to analyze gender. 17 Dixon, turning to assumptions of the spiritual woman and secular man in histories of the Victorian era, notes the gendering of trajectories of secularization that align masculinity, rationality, and the secular with the modern and juxtapose these with a femininity, irrationality, and religion considered antiquated. 18 Some scholars have resisted the rigid antimonies of secularization, opting for the notion of religious transformation instead. However, by describing that transformation as the privatization of piety consequent on its ―feminization,‖ they have also reified the secular man/ spiritual woman dichotomy. 19 Dixon takes up the words of Joan Scott to suggest that historians of gender explore ―the production of the category ‗women‘ itself as a historical or political event,‖ along with the historically contingent and dynamic relationship of the secular to the sacred in the later nineteenth century. 20 In a study of the challenges posed to orthodox faith by liberal theology, evolutionary biology, comparative religion, and sexology and psychology, she charts the slippages between the sacred and the secular consequent on the reconfiguration of faith that was one response to the faith crisis; this draws attention to the historically specific constitution and contestation of the ―spiritual woman‖ within the unstable relationship between the sacred and the secular. 21 17 Morgan, ―Rethinking Religion,‖ 113. 18 Joy Dixon, Divine Feminine: Theosophy and Feminism in England (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 19-20. 19 Dixon, ―Modernity,‖ 211. 20 Joan Scott, Gender and the Politics of History, rev. ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 206-7, 218, quoted in Dixon, ―Modernity,‖ 212. 21 Dixon, ―Modernity,‖ 226. 97 In Chapter One I drew attention to the dynamic nature of Maynard‘s piety, situating it within the changing contours of Victorian religious culture, and argued that Maynard‘s homoerotic subjectivity was a product of her piety. Her religious and sexual subjectivity were constituted within the Puritanism of her childhood, which itself took place within a wider turn to Calvinism in the Church of England in the 1830s, as it intersected with a revivalist Evangelicalism encountered in the context of the Ulster revivals of the late 1850s. The 1870s saw another shift in Maynard‘s piety; this took place within the broader contours of the Victorian crisis of faith. An 1872 visit to her cousin Fanny Campbell and Fanny‘s husband Lewis, Professor of Classics at the University of St. Andrews, her subsequent admission to Girton in 1872, and her three years of teaching at St. Leonards between 1877 and 1880 brought Maynard into contact with Broad Church theology, Unitarianism, and agnosticism; Maynard found her faith challenged. Encounters with Darwinian theory and early discourses of psychology at Cambridge fractured the science-religion alliance of the natural theology of her childhood and precipitated an enduring faith crisis. In this chapter I explore Maynard‘s erotic subjectivity as it was (re)structured in the context of the later Victorian crisis of faith. While feminist scholars have drawn attention to the aligning of women with spirituality in late eighteenth-century evangelical discourse, and have more recently explored the gendering of faith and doubt, they have not examined the erotic as it underpinned the evangelical structuring of gender. Neither have they charted shifts in the erotic concomitant on the Victorian crisis of faith and the effects of these on gender discourse. They have not asked what sexual subjectivity structured by the crisis of faith might tell us about the relationship between the sacred and the secular. We have still to explore what sexuality might tell us about the relationship between the Victorian crisis of faith, secularization, and the making of modernity. 98 At the outset of her faith crisis, in 1872, Maynard embarked on an erotic liaison with Lewis Campbell – her first self-aware pursuit of sexual desire – and at Girton in 1873 she commenced her first adult homoerotic relationship, a seven-year relationship with fellow Girton graduate Louisa Lumsden. The framing of these relationships by the discourse of faith crisis suggests that sexuality may have played a more significant role in the crisis of faith than historians have allowed – as a factor that precipitated doubt, a site at which to enact the tensions between faith and doubt, an alternative to faith, and/or a starting point for the reconfiguration of faith. Maynard‘s erotic relationships elucidate the complex interactions between discourses of the secular and sacred and of femininity and masculinity. Her erotic relationships of the 1870s demonstrate a doubting Evangelicalism drawn to skepticism and, on the part of her lovers, a skepticism informed by religious hope that disrupts the discrete categories of faith and doubt upon which secularization theory has depended. They also disrupt the alignment of doubt with masculinity and of faith with femininity, an unspoken assumption of much secularization theory, and also of some refutations of that theory that focus on women‘s role in the reconfiguration of religious discourse at the turn of the century. An exploration of the role of religious discourse in the making of sexual desire reveals the diversity of women‘s responses to the faith crisis, responses ranging from agnosticism to a reconfiguration of religion informed by ―modern thought,‖ to a more traditional piety that nevertheless remained crucially engaged with modern science. Higher education comprised the context within which Maynard‘s relationships with both Campbell and Lumsden were pursued and, paradoxically, a focus on sexuality provides one of the most productive sites for the investigation of the faith crisis as it played out in the women‘s colleges. The Victorian crisis of faith was precipitated by a range of factors. Fossil finds by geologists in the late eighteenth century challenged Christian notions of the earth‘s relative 99 youth, while Charles Darwin and Arthur Wallace‘s theory of evolution, first presented publicly at the Linnean Society of London in July 1858, suggested that humans, rather than being the unique creation of God, were the random outcome of the material process of natural selection. Essays and Reviews (1860), the work of six Oxbridge dons and a Cambridge layman, advocated German biblical criticism and the new sciences of geology and biology, and suggested controversial theological innovation; written by church ―insiders,‖ it is rightly believed to have posed a greater threat to Victorian faith than Darwin‘s On the Origin of the Species (1859). German biblical criticism paved the way for Essays and Reviews by approaching the Bible not as a history but as a collection of texts from a variety of genres (genealogies, digests of laws, biographies, folk myths, erotic songs), while simultaneously disputing the age, authorship, and historical veracity of the books that comprise it. The ethical evaluation of the Bible, using its own standards of morality, has also been acknowledged as a significant threat to the faith of Victorian Christians; the doctrines of original sin, atonement, and eternal punishment were increasingly seen by Victorians to be incompatible with the biblical values of compassion, justice, and human dignity. Scholars of the mid-century crisis of faith have been slower to examine the rise of the chronologically congruent women‘s movement and the ―woman question‖ as a factor that precipitated doubt; they have also overlooked the ways in which sexual discourse was interwoven with faith crisis. Maynard‘s faith crisis was precipitated by a visit to her cousins, Lewis and Fanny Campbell, in St. Andrews, Scotland, in February 1872 when she was twenty-two years old. Lewis Campbell (1830–1908) was professor of Greek at the university; his translations of Plato and his work on Greek tragedy had won critical acclaim. Campbell‘s work in the Classics was indebted to Benjamin Jowett; he had studied with Jowett at Balliol College, Oxford in the early 1850s. Much later in his life, in 1894, Campbell co-edited Plato‘s Republic with Jowett, 100 published extracts from Jowett‘s work on Plato (1902), and edited his theological essays (1906); with Evelyn Abbott, he wrote a biography of Jowett, Life and Letters of Benjamin Jowett (1897) and edited his correspondence, Letters of B. Jowett (1899). Jowett was a leading Broad Churchman and a key contributor to the Broad Church Essays and Reviews (1860); his theologically liberal influence on Campbell was evident in Campbell‘s The Christian Ideal (1877). At the start of this chapter I argued that the role of theological liberals in the cause of women‘s higher education is one reason to consider the new women‘s colleges as sites of faith crisis. The Broad Church Campbell demonstrates this role in relation to Maynard, a soon-to-be Girton student. During long walks to the mouth of the Eden river or along the cliffs of St. Andrews, Campbell discussed his religious beliefs with Maynard and their differences soon became apparent. Where Maynard, like her parents, understood the Bible to be the ―voice of God,‖ and infallible in its original languages if not in translation, Campbell, in a characteristically Broad Church manner, deemed the Bible a ―collection of the writings of the best & most inspired men of old days,‖ documenting their ―aspiration[s] after goodness,‖ but not infallible. 22 In contrast to Louisa Maynard‘s Puritan notion of the Christian as a ―stranger and pilgrim,‖ Campbell valued the world and saw worldly knowledge as an important resource for faith: ―I hold Christianity to be the chief light of the world given by God to men, but there are many other lights we should not despise. Plato for instance, & all the lights of philosophy are very grand, & there are also the lights of reason, science, nature & art – these all come from God & we should take them thankfully.‖ 23 Campbell also rejected the Puritan division between the ―spiritual man‖ and ―natural man‖ and the condemnation of the latter; ―[One] must condemn 22 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 122. 23 Ibid., 128. 101 sin,‖ he averred, ― – [but] the world is in our hearts.‘‖ 24 He cautioned Maynard to be ―very careful not to define too strictly between flesh & spirit,‖ observing that ―whatever touches us deeply on any side, surely touches our inner man, our spirit.‖ 25 Maynard was appalled by Campbell‘s ―heresy.‖ She wrote of his admiration of Shakespeare: ―Shakespeare . . . who wrought to the highest pitch of excitement the very faculties of the ‗old nature‘ the Gospel came to crucify.‖ 26 She informed Campbell that those who sought ―to live to God must condemn the world.‖ 27 Campbell and Maynard‘s religious differences illustrate a characteristic nineteenth- century gendering of faith and doubt. Earlier in the century women had been aligned with spirituality, motherhood, and the home; this, and the passivity, imitation, and emotion that characterized Victorian discourses of femininity, resulted in the representation of women as repositories of religious belief during the faith crisis. Men, aligned with the secular workplace, and endowed with the characteristics of action, originality, and rationality, were represented as engaging in a vigorous battle with doubt and more likely to chart the lesser known paths of theological liberalism, agnosticism, or atheism. Campbell‘s construal of worldly knowledge as a resource for theological reflection, his conflating of the ostensibly secular ―flesh‖ or body with the religious ―spirit,‖ and his subsequent representation of himself as Maynard‘s ―secular conscience‖ evinces a paradoxical process of rewriting the spiritual in a secular idiom. However it was a ―rewriting‖ that consolidated dominant discourses of masculinity; it was the male Campbell who ventured into the public world of the ―secular‖ to re-write the spiritual for Maynard, who was located in the ―private‖ world of orthodox faith. A hierarchical ordering of 24 Ibid., 124. 25 Ibid., 130. 26 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 274. 27 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 124. 102 gender contingent on the privileging of masculine doubt or the masculine reconfiguring of faith over orthodox faith was evident as the liberal Campbell positioned himself as Maynard‘s mentor: ―I must be your secular conscience, & I want you to read books of a more hard worldly character. All your heroes are religious heroes . . . Dr. C. [Campbell], Fenelon, & Mdme. G. [Guyon] give you one side only, & though it is a beautiful & exalted one it will not do alone.‖ 28 ―I cared most about ‗confessing Christ,‘‖ Maynard was later to write, ―& he cared most about getting me out into a good strong current of secular thought.‖ 29 Her observation not only describes the Victorian gendering of faith and doubt but also anticipates its disruption, a disruption that was effected at the site of sexual desire. Walter Houghton argues that Victorian discourses of gender were informed by sexual discourse; the ―Angel of the House,‖ or the figure of the woman as the ―teacher, the natural and therefore divine guide, purifier, inspirer of man,‖ as Charles Kingsley put it, was erotically inflected. 30 With the crisis of faith ―women worship,‖ as it was known in the sixties, was taken up as an antidote for ―the painful mood of baffled thought, and the decline of religious faith.‖ 31 The doubter ―could find in love . . . a religion, naturalistic or Platonic, to take the place of Christianity.‖ 32 Houghton attributes much of Victorian love poetry, and Robert Browning‘s in particular, to the desire to establish a spiritual dimension to human love in the face of a dissipating faith. Leslie Stephen, one of the period‘s most vociferous proponents of agnosticism, demonstrated this function of sexual desire when he observed to Julia Duckworth, his future wife, ―[I] always shall feel for you something which I can only call reverence as well as love. . . . 28 Greenbook, 7 July 1872, 182. 29 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 10, 1872, 307. 30 Fanny Kingsley, Charles Kingsley: His Letters and Memoirs, vol. 2 (London, 1877), 283, quoted in Walter E. Houghton, The Victorian Frame of Mind 1830-1870 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957), 351n27. 31 Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 375. 32 Ibid., 385. 103 You see, I have not got any saints and you must not be angry if I put you in the place of where my saints ought to be.‖ 33 Maynard‘s relationship with Campbell also demonstrates the role of the erotic in inflecting a traditionally feminine piety with an ostensibly masculine doubt. It shows the efficacy of the erotic in effecting reversals in the dominant discourse of gender and religious belief and points to the dynamic nature of both. Theological debate inculcated intimacy between Campbell and Maynard: ―In spite of these contradictions which I felt to be grievous,‖ Maynard wrote, ―so gentle was his spirit that we became much more intimate.‖ 34 In addition to presenting himself as Maynard‘s theological mentor, Campbell took up the role of her tutor on the subject of love and provided her with a knowledge of ―love‖ that had been missing from her childhood. He defined love as an ―irrepressible yearning‖ that entered the heart and sought to ―help, & protect, & shield it‘s [sic] object from pain & evil.‖ 35 Passion was all-consuming: ―Every one who has suffered from one of the two great human passions, ambition & love, must feel for a time at least as if nothing on the face of the world were worth the doing.‖ 36 He nevertheless believed the ―passion of love‖ was ―in some degree a weakness – ‗a letting one‘s whole being out on one side‘‖ 37 ; it undermined the self-control necessary for a strong character. Maynard 33 Noel Gilroy Annan, Leslie Stephen. His Thought and Character in Relation to His Time (London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1951), 75, quoted in Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 390. A similar tone characterizes Matthew Arnold‘s ―Dover Beach‖: Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world . . . Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain (lines 1-2 and 5-6, quoted in Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind,389). 34 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 274-75. 35 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 126. 36 Ibid., 125. 37 Ibid. 104 was grateful for Campbell‘s mentoring in love. ―It was like letting me see into a new world,‖ she wrote, ―for though I have my own ideas & feelings, I have scarcely read any novels, & never heard anyone speak of it before.‖ 38 She recognized Campbell‘s erotic interest in her; in the evenings sitting over her needlework, she would ―look up to find his eyes fixed on me, sometimes with a vague regret, and sometimes with the sweetest playfulness it is possible to imagine.‖ 39 If Evangelicalism had provided Maynard with a discourse of religious desire, religion – the religious discussion characteristic of the Victorian faith crisis – also constituted the framework within which she gained an education in human eros. The proximity of religious and sexual discourse during the faith crisis, the rewriting of the sacred and the secular at the site of the erotic and concomitant slippages between masculinity and femininity were evident as the world-weary Broad Churchman Lewis Campbell became enthralled with the Evangelical Maynard. In later years Maynard observed that Campbell was ―very lonely, and wandered about in the vast region he had chosen without companionship.‖ 40 His wife Fanny ―lived in her busy world,‖ and ―the long starvation of his life only made the craving greater.‖ 41 A week after she left St. Andrews, Campbell wrote her a sonnet describing her influence on him during the preceding weeks: Angel, that when like summer dust my heart Was hot & dry within me, didst not fear To whisper comforts in a grief-dulled ear And pour thy balm upon a desperate smart, – Forgive, if blameless of dissembling art, Too eagerly I drank when thou was here The proffered benediction from thy clear Deep eyes, strong pleaders for the holier part. 38 Ibid. 39 Catherine Beatrice Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, Mistress of Westfield College: A Family Portrait (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1949), 99. 40 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 269. 41 Ibid. 105 And oh forgive, now thou art no more near, If on my desert soul scant trace remain Of all that thou didst water with such care. My thirst returns. Yet milder doth appear The aspect of the old familiar pain, And happy memories linger in the air. 42 At first glance Campbell‘s poem demonstrates a characteristic gendering of faith and doubt within the discourse of sexual desire. He portrays Maynard, to whom he is attracted, as the ―Angel‖ who has attempted to bring him spiritual relief. Taking up a prominent biblical metaphor he represents her efforts towards his spiritual restoration as the cultivation of verdant gardens in desert landscapes (―For the LORD shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the LORD; joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving, and the voice of melody‖ [Isaiah 51:3]). 43 This trope from the Hebrew Bible is reworked in the Christian New Testament to represent Christ‘s redemption of an errant humanity (―whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life‖ [John 4:14]). While Maynard seeks to bring spiritual relief to Campbell, Campbell perceives his desolation as the consequence of the absence of human love (―Forgive, if blameless of dissembling art, / Too eagerly I drank when thou was here / The proffered benediction from thy clear / Deep eyes‖ [lines 5-8]). Although Campbell represents the absence of love as his primary privation, and Maynard‘s spiritual endeavors as having only a negligible effect (―on my desert soul scant trace remain‖), his poem betrays religious longings. He slips back and forth between religious and 42 Greenbook, 17 May 1872, 145. 43 The origin of this trope lies in the story of Israel‘s exodus from Egypt and Moses smiting the rock in order to provide water for the Israelites in the desert (Exod. 17:6). It becomes a key metaphor for God‘s restoration of his relationship with Israel: ―He turneth the wilderness into a standing water, and dry ground into watersprings‖ (Ps. 107:35) 106 sexual desires (his heart ―hot & dry‖ and his ―desert soul‖) and between the ―wounds‖ of doubt and despair and the painful absence of human love (the uncertain referent of ―that old familiar pain‖). He seeks a ―benediction‖ (line 7) from the ―deep eyes‖ that have been ―pleaders for the holier part‖ (line 8). By representing Maynard as a Christ-like figure offering life-giving water, he acknowledges his spiritual need. His notion of Maynard applying a balm to the ―desperate smart‖ of his parched heart reconfigures biblical discourse to represent the erotic as the site of the spiritual (the term recalls the biblical notion of the ―balm of Gilead‖ 44 ) and exemplifies Campbell‘s contention that ―whatever touches us deeply on any side, surely touches our inner man, our spirit.‖ 45 His turn to the erotic is not devoid of faith. He recognizes in Maynard‘s love both a spiritual and an erotic effect. Campbell had turned to the Evangelical Maynard for respite not only from his loneliness but also his spiritual desolation; the erotic had prompted the re- emergence of the spiritual. By utilizing spiritual discourse for an ostensibly ―secular‖ love, and by slipping back and forth between the expression of religious and sexual desire, Campbell demonstrates the imbrication of the secular and sacred. He had appropriated a spiritualized discourse of the erotic to replace orthodox faith and had thus rewritten the ―secular‖ in a ―spiritual‖ idiom. Campbell‘s articulation of religious desire at the site of the erotic also evinces slippages between femininity and masculinity. By assuaging his doubt through adopting a discourse of desire which, in utilizing a spiritual vocabulary, was feminine, he blurred the boundaries between masculinity and femininity. His erotic discourse thus undermines the notion of the genders as entirely discrete and in a singularly oppositional relationship to one another. Iterations of desire such as 44 The prophet Jeremiah, speaking for God to an indifferent and idolatrous Israel, used the metaphor of a wound to describe the sins of Israel and balm (a medicinal salve) as its antidote: ―Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there? why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?‖ (Jer. 8:22). 45 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 130. 107 this show gender distinctions to be unstable and dynamic; neither femininity nor spirituality was necessarily fixed to a particular sex (i.e. femaleness). Sexual desire also precipitated a reversal of the traditional gendering of faith and doubt for Maynard. If Campbell was drawn to Maynard‘s piety, Maynard was attracted to Campbell‘s skeptical intelligence. ―I love to know his beautiful mind, & am grateful for his affection,‖ she wrote in the summer of 1872. 46 Her attraction to Campbell allowed her to entertain doubts that she might otherwise have eschewed. She found herself ―obliged to think, & no longer to admire the ‗child-like‘ faith I had been taught was supreme.‖ 47 Maynard did not renounce her Evangelical faith but she began to question some of its central tenets. The sacred and the secular intersected as doubt permeated her faith. ―This my first going ‗into the world,‘‖ she wrote, ―has shaken all that was in me of mere education & the principles taken on trust from others.‖ 48 Maynard understood sexual desire to be in close proximity to faith crisis; she saw her sexual awakening and her crisis of faith as intertwined, and dealt with them simultaneously in her autobiographical account of 1872. ―Mind was awakened,‖ she observed, ―so that I felt I could appreciate something of the learning & talents of others, but far more than this love was awakened.‖ 49 Sexual desire precipitated shifts in the gendering of faith and doubt in Maynard‘s and Campbell‘s relationship; the erotic reveals the dynamic nature of both gender and religious belief. The physical expression of Maynard‘s relationship with Campbell entailed little more than an instance of Campbell‘s passionately kissing Maynard‘s hand (―taking my little cold hand 46 Greenbook, 7 July 1872, 183. 47 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 10, 1872, 288. 48 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 132. 49 Greenbook, 31 December 1872, 273. 108 in his gave it long, long kisses‖ 50 ). The gesture should not be underestimated, however, as hands had a heightened sexual resonance for Victorians. A few years later Maynard described a suitor who ―gently laid one of his hands over mine,‖ and her ―hastily‖ drawing her hand away and putting ―both [her hands] behind my back.‖ 51 In 1872 she was aware of the awakening of sexual desire. In later years, she wrote of her relationship with Campbell: It was slow, very slow, in coming on, & he did not hurry me. To him I know it was an enchantment beyond words to come upon a heart still locked, a deep cold well still covered, & the first delicate solicitations to open were accompanied by a depth of deference never omitted, never forgotten. It is not one girl in a thousand that has experienced a wooing so noble, so pure, so enchantingly respectful, as that he gave to me then. I reciprocated it, of course I did, for the feeling was epoch-making, & stood alone. 52 At the age of twenty-three, and within the context of the crisis of faith, the middle-class Maynard had come to recognize her erotic/sexual power. ―He made me aware that this power was mine,‖ she confided to her Greenbooks in December that year. 53 In her autobiography she elaborates: ―I think the pleasure arose in great part from an unexpected consciousness of power. I thought I was almost nothing in the world, & it was a complete surprise to feel I had power.‖ 54 Like most of her contemporaries she understood female sexual desire in heterosexual terms only. For Maynard the awakening of sexual desire, although contingent upon the traditional gendering of faith and doubt, not only gave rise to doubt that was deemed masculine but also resulted in an 50 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 279. 51 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 33, 1878, 299. 52 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 278. 53 Greenbook, 31 December 1872, 273-74. 54 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 379. 109 awareness of her own erotic power that disrupted notions of middle-class women as singularly passionless or sexually passive. 55 At St. Andrews, Maynard had encountered pleasure of varying kinds: ―youth, & energy, & high spirits, & gentleness, & power to charm & please, were real things.‖ 56 Her liaison with Lewis Campbell prompted romantic fantasies; she found herself dwelling ―with pleasure on . . . the love which Cousin Lewis gave me,‖ 57 and noted in the months after her return to Oakfield, ―there are long stories in my imagination & trains of passionate excited feeling, in which if I once get involved I am almost helpless.‖ 58 The eschewal of pleasure, or self-denial, was central to the Puritan crucifixion of the old nature. ―Happiness consists in the denial of that self, which it is the aim of Pleasure to feed & gratify,‖ Maynard‘s mother had advised her.‖ 59 The imagination was a particular source of pleasure to be guarded against. Her cousin and spiritual mentor Mary King had warned her that the central chambers of the heart were where Christ dwelled, and if this was not the case the heart sought satisfaction in secondary chambers such as the imagination. 60 While the body and the mind were neutral territories, the heart was the seat of corruption. For King and for Maynard the primary fault of fantasy was the elevation of the self 55 The diaries of Mabel Loomis Todd (1856-1932), a well-respected New England wife and editor of Emily Dickinson‘s work, are another exception to representations of the passionless and prudish middle-class woman. Discovered by Peter Gay in 1984, they show Todd, raised in the Puritan tradition to value sexual experience, seek sexual gratification, and share sexual knowledge with close friends. Peter Gay, Education of the Senses, vol. 1, The Bourgeois Experience: Victoria to Freud (New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), 71-89. 56 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 15, 536. Maynard did not eschew ―earthly‖ pleasure altogether, but grappled with whether ―inner‖ and ―outer‖ pleasures could ever be compatible. However, as a young adult, and for most of her life, she believed pleasure to be a besetting obstacle to her spiritual journey. ―In my heart ‗the pleasures‘ are more apt than ‗the cares of this life‘ to overrun the growing seed,‖ she wrote an observed that ―pleasant time[s]‖ . . . have been ―signal failures‖ spiritually. Greenbook, 25 June 1871, 191. 57 Greenbook, 28 April 1872, 133. 58 Greenbook, 6 January 1868, 6-7. 59 Greenbook, 1 May 1866, 68. 60 Greenbook, 4 July 1872, 178. 110 (they ―nearly always tend to the exaltation of myself‖ 61 ). Maynard strove, in characteristically Evangelical terms, to ―bring into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.‖ 62 At key moments in the history of Christianity the need has arisen to reconcile human eros and religious desire. 63 The tension between them heightened during the Victorian era, as sexual discourse was applied to religious experience (through the appropriation of biblical notions of Christ as lover, suitor, or bridegroom to describe piety) and as religious discourse was taken up to describe sexual experience. For those Christians living in the centuries directly before the nineteenth, Neo-Platonism, or the notion that earthly reality comprises a foreshadowing of the divine ideal, provided a place for sexual desire within a religious framework; human eros was seen to anticipate but not to eclipse union with the divine. 64 Mary Wollstonecraft articulated a Neo-Platonic discourse of human eros: ―would not the object, not seen through the medium of the imagination, soon reduce the passion to an appetite, if reflection, the noble distinction of man, did not give it force, and make it an instrument to raise him above this earthly dross, by teaching him to love the centre of all perfection . . .?‖ 65 There is some evidence that Victorian Evangelicals espoused Neo-Platonic notions of love. Social purity reformer and High Church Anglican Ellice Hopkins thus described conjugal intimacy as ―an anticipation of the delights of heaven, where ‗the soul surrender[ed] herself . . . to the eternal Loveliness, as a bride surrenders 61 Greenbook, 2 June 1872, 161. 62 Greenbook, 6 January 1868, 6-7. 63 Barbara Taylor, Mary Wollstonecraft and the Feminist Imagination (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 109. 64 Ibid. 65 Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Women, with Strictures on Moral and Political Subjects (1792), in The Works of Mary Wollstonecraft vol. 5, ed. Janet Todd and Marilyn Butler (London: Pickering, 1989), 180, quoted in Taylor, Mary Wollstonecraft, 113. 111 herself in unutterable love to her husband.‘‖ 66 Human love could also be seen as a ―gift from God‖ and a necessary antecedent to divine love. 67 In the 1870s, however, Maynard turned to an evangelical theology of God‘s providence – of God working through the circumstances of one‘s life – as a framework for understanding the relationship between sexual desire and religion. She laid particular emphasis on the role of emotions in enabling the believer to discern the intentions of the divine. In her study of early Methodism, Phyllis Mack notes that the revivals precipitated a transition from the notion of emotion as an external force that invaded the believer (―fevers put inside him by Satan‖) to a process intrinsic to the self and a means through which the divine might communicate with the believer. 68 The unregenerate soul was one in torment, conversion produced joy, and sanctification brought an all-encompassing sense of assurance. 69 The new convert thus ―tried to attune himself to the flow of emotion moving between himself and others and between himself and God.‖ 70 Maynard espoused a similar theology of feeling, one that had become characteristically Victorian. ―As for my feelings,‖ she wrote, ―whether physical or mental, they are like the strings of a harp which our Maker can tighten or slacken at will, & I am in His hand.‖ 71 In 1872 she understood her sexual feelings to be an indication of God‘s intention 66 Sue Morgan, ―‗The Word Made Flesh‘: Women, Religion and Sexual Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, ed. Jacqueline deVries and Susan Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010), 162. 67 Martha Vicinus, Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved Women, 1778-1928 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 85. 68 Phyllis Mack, Heart Religion in the British Enlightenment: Gender and Emotion in Early Methodism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 15. Mack later references the literary critic G. H. Barker-Benfield in this regard: ―he observes a cultural shift from passions to sentiments, from emotion understood as an external force that overwhelms the individual, to emotion as innate feeling or sentiment emanating from an inherent tendency to compassion.‖ G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992) 270, quoted in Mack, Heart Religion, 19-20. 69 Mack, Heart Religion, 15-16. 70 Ibid., 15. 71 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 347. 112 to bring the theologically liberal Campbell to a knowledge of the Christ of Evangelical Anglicanism. ―Circumstances are the expression of His will,‖ she observed, ―& I cannot think that I should have been brought to St. A. just when he [Campbell] wanted me, & our love awakened, if I am to leave him where I found him [spiritually].‖ 72 Sexual desire was an instrument through which God revealed God‘s salvific intentions for others. Of herself Maynard asserted, ―the temporary excitement seems to draw me closer still to my Saviour.‖ 73 Evangelicalism had provided her with a discourse of feeling, had awakened religious desire and had presented her with contexts for the expression of homoerotic intimacies; in her relationship with Campbell, at a time of imminent faith crisis, Evangelicalism legitimated a self-aware sexual desire. While Evangelicalism validated human eros, it also established the limits of the erotic; the broader religious framework within which Maynard understood sexual desire required the ultimate subordination of desire to spiritual imperatives. She determined to surrender her new- found erotic power ―into my Master‘s hands.‖ 74 She strove to commute human eros into purely spiritual desire, ―tak[ing] it back anew from Him as spiritual undying love, not the mere gratification of natural instinct.‖ 75 It was, she reasoned, ―through the [spiritual] love of our fellows that the Friend who sticketh closer than a brother, sends some of His sweetest messages & mercies.‖ 76 Maynard‘s attempts to ―convert‖ Campbell did not meet with success; he remained avowedly theologically liberal. Her liaison with him ended soon after she left St. Andrews, was 72 Greenbook, 14 September 1872, 206. 73 Greenbook, 7 July 1872, 183. 74 Greenbook, 31 December 1872, 273. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid., 273-74. 113 resumed briefly during a trip with Lewis and Fanny to Italy in 1880, but came to an end in 1882 when their theological differences proved insurmountable. With the exception of an infatuation with a young man late in her life, Maynard was to pursue desiring relationships only with women in subsequent years. Forty-three years later she wrote, ―Love for a man has never come since, no, not even a moment‘s illusion of it.‖ 77 Maynard‘s 1872 visit with the Campbells paved the way to her admission to Hitchin in October 1872. Campbell was, like Maurice and Seeley, a proponent of educational reform and of women‘s higher education. He had tutored one of the first two women to successfully sit the Classics Tripos at Cambridge before she left for Girton: Rachel Cook, the daughter of the Professor of Moral Philosophy at St. Andrews (1860-1868). During Maynard‘s stay at St. Andrews he gave her Greek lessons three times a week. At St. Andrews Maynard engaged with a university community for the first time (―there were all the University Professors to learn by sight, & which chair they each held, & the two towering Principals, Dr. Tulloch for Theology, & Dr. Sharp for all the other subjects‖ 78 ), met a number of St. Andrews‘ and other professors at social functions at the Campbell‘s home (including Edward Caird, Professor of Moral Philosophy at Glasgow University and Thomas Spencer Baynes, Professor of Logic at St. Andrews) and attended lectures at St. Andrews. The Campbells also introduced Maynard to the widow of Professor Cook and Cook‘s oldest daughter, Isabella, who informed Maynard about the College for Women at Hitchin, founded just three years earlier, where her sister Rachel was pursuing the Classic Tripos. Maynard‘s decision to apply to Hitchin was made during this visit. Her pursuit of higher education emerged from the broader context of her relationship with Campbell; it demonstrates the significance of theologically liberal men to women‘s higher 77 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 278. 78 Ibid., 256. 114 education and suggests the role they may have played in the faith crises women experienced while at college. In her autobiography Maynard represented her admission to Girton as the attainment of ―freedom.‖ She ―got liberty, got it as exceedingly few girls in the seventies got it, got it in full measure.‖ 79 She had depicted her childhood as ―a cage with bars, too narrowly restraining.‖ 80 Her mother had curtailed her freedom by preventing her from forming friendships and thus experiencing the ―knock-about of real life‖; she had ―damped down‖ her children‘s ambition. 81 Maynard‘s characterization of her parents‘ Puritanism as singularly repressive and her pursuit of higher education as an escape from it, is not entirely accurate, however. Women‘s higher education was a controversial endeavor amongst Anglicans (and Victorians generally). It was seen to be impious because it deterred women from marriage, motherhood, and the home, the telos of middle-class femininity. 82 Women who pursued higher education were often deemed ―unnatural‖ and their education ―unsexing.‖ The alignment of a university education with masculinity was evident as the Evangelical Mrs. Umphelby, whose school Maynard had attended for a year, informed her in later years that her decision to enter Hitchin made her almost ―give me up‖: ―The cause of ‗Women‘s Rights,‘ the Suffrage, anything that seemed like ‗imitation of men,‘ was to her a thing positively to shudder over.‖ 83 Medical discourse bolstered the gendering of intellectual endeavor; medical professionals made ―repeated allegations of possible 79 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 237. 80 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 34, 1878, 336. 81 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 103. 82 Bradbrook, “That Infidel Place,” 4. 83 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 17, 1874, 648. 115 infertility, brain damage, or a mental breakdown from overwork‖ consequent on women‘s pursuit of a university education. 84 The rigorous Puritan pursuit of the truth that had been part of Maynard‘s parents‘ piety had, however, produced a respect for intellectual endeavor that allowed them to override anxieties surrounding women‘s higher education. 85 Louisa Maynard agreed to Constance applying to Girton because ―learning was a beautiful thing; and more especially Philosophy and Greek. Then there was Science, too, she knew I loved Science.‖ 86 The theological discussion and debate that characterized her childhood and the more weighty religious reading encouraged by her parents had fostered Maynard‘s intellectual development and supplemented the otherwise paltry education she had, as a middle-class girl, received from intermittent governesses and a year at boarding school. 87 Maynard‘s parents‘ earnest pursuit of doctrinal truth, their valorization of intellectual endeavor, and their recourse to reason were, like the naturalist societies, intellectual periodicals, and debating clubs, aspects of the amateur intellectualism of the early Victorian middle class. In 1866 her father gave her a Hebrew-Greek-Latin Bible; she studied Latin with her brother George and Greek with her sister Gabrielle. Exegetical texts were staple reading matter. 88 In the years 84 Martha Vicinus, ―‗One Life to Stand Beside Me‘: Emotional Conflicts in First-Generation College Women in England,‖ Feminist Studies 3 (Fall 1982): 607. 85 Pauline Phipps draws attention to Maynard‘s ―strict yet oddly progressive parents‖ who acquiesced to her pursuit of higher education, but she does not explore the religious practices and beliefs that underpinned their ―progressiveness‖ (Pauline Phipps, ―Faith, Desire, and Sexual Identity: Constance Maynard‘s Atonement for Passion,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality 18, no. 2 (May 2009): 266. 86 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 103. 87 In a 1914 article Maynard described the paltry formal education she had received as a child: ―Think of a bright, pleasant schoolroom in a country house . . . a room containing many things, but witnessing no real teaching.‖ Constance Maynard, ―From Early Victorian Schoolroom to University: Some Personal Experiences,‖ Nineteenth- Century 76 (1914): 1060-73. 88 For example, she read Robert Ridgeway‘s The gospel in type; or, The evangelical meaning of the Hebrew ritual (1865), F. W. Krummacher‘s Relics of Elijah the Tishbite: Being a Selection of the Most Striking Passages Omitted in the Existing Translation, and Luther‘s commentary on Galatians. 116 after Maynard returned from Belstead school she read the classics that had shaped her parents‘ theology, including William Law‘s The Way to Divine Knowledge (1752) and Spirit of Love (1752-1754), Jacob Boehme‘s Dialogue Between an Enlightened and an Unenlightened Soul, selections from Theologia Germanica and works by Thomas Erskine (in all likelihood his On the Unconditional Freeness of the Gospel [1828] and The Brazen Serpent [1831]), parts of Edward Irving‘s Collected Writings and Orations (For the Oracles of God, Four Orations (1823)). With her mother she compiled a book of extracts from William Law (published in 1867) and in 1869 the two developed a catechism delineating ―the first principles of our most holy faith.‖ 89 In 1871, Maynard and her parents commenced and completed the ambitious task of revising the Anglican Book of Common Prayer (Henry Maynard was a member of the Prayer Book Revision Society led by Lord Ebury from 1859 to 1889). In an essay on her early years at Girton she acknowledged, ―Outside the schoolroom there was in my home a real education of the powers of mind and will, and I was better equipped for prosecuting higher studies than were many.‖ 90 In June 1872 Maynard sat the Hitchin Entrance Exam and later that month learnt that she had passed; in October 1872 she entered the college as one of its fourth cohort of students. Her parents allowed her to attend the college for a year on condition she returned home and did not seek paid employment thereafter. Maynard won each extra year successively from her parents. In 1875 she became Girton‘s first student to successfully sit the Moral Science Tripos exam. 91 When, in 1869, the derisive clergyman had described Hitchin as an ―infidel place,‖ Anna Lloyd had responded fervently, ―Oh, no! not infidel: why do you say that?‖ and had gone on to explain ―that the College for Women was founded on the same principles as the men‘s Colleges 89 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 68. 90 Constance Maynard, ―Girton‘s Earliest Years,‖ in Between College Terms (London: James Nisbet, 1910), 179-80. 91 She received a second class. Two Cambridge men had received first class passes, and three second; Maynard had placed second in her class. 117 of Cambridge, & did not their founder desire and provide for religious observance?‖ 92 In taking Lloyd‘s response at face value, some historians have assumed that the students who attended the College for Women conformed to one form of Anglican orthodoxy or another. It is certainly true that Davies, eschewing Henry Sidgwick‘s advice, had aligned the College with Anglicanism (Sidgwick felt the college should take the nondenominational path the men‘s colleges were starting on). Lloyd‘s assertion, in response to the clergyman‘s derision, that the College for Women was founded on religious principles, was itself a skillful negotiation of Hitchin students‘ liberal theology, heterodoxy, and agnosticism. As Maynard wrote of Girton students in later years, ―it may seem but a poor object for which to work, that we might win the commendation given by that exclusively feminine word ‗nice,‘ but it was the best of all shelters for our secretly growing and maturing cause.‖ 93 ―The main idea,‖ she adds, ―was to escape observation.‖ 94 The perceived ―masculinity‖ of university education prompted a strategic adoption of femininity by Hitchin students and because femininity was aligned with spirituality the presentation of an orthodox piety ensued. When, in October 1872, Maynard commenced her studies the student body consisted of thirteen students and almost all had been influenced by Unitarianism or agnosticism. A member of the first cohort of students, the Unitarian Miss Townshend, ―a dim, lanky aesthetic creature, embodying the wholly new ‗pre-Raphaelite‘ ideas‖ 95 had, along with the rationalist Miss Gibson, established the freethinking ethos of Hitchin. 96 Of the three other senior students at Hitchin, Sarah Woodhead (the first woman to sit a Cambridge Tripos exam [Mathematics]) was a Quaker 92 Lloyd, Anna Lloyd, 57-58. 93 Maynard, ―Girton‘s Earliest Years,‖ 190. 94 Ibid., 189-90. 95 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 339. 96 Greenbook, 1 December 1872, 260. 118 who had moved to the ―Unitarian side of Quakerism‖ and was ―likely to go further,‖ 97 and Louisa Lumsden, an Anglican, and Rachel Cook, a Presbyterian (the first Girton students to sit the Classics Tripos), were on a similar trajectory. Isabel Gamble, the niece of John Addington Symonds, had been raised in an Evangelical household but was now the ward of her uncle and had, Maynard contended, been ―soaked in doubt & paganism day after day.‖ 98 In October 1873 two free-thinking students, Henrietta Müller and Malvina Borchardt, arrived at Girton. Borchardt, who was from a Jewish family, was ―a blank materialist,‖ and Müller ―had made Suffrage her religion.‖ 99 Both led an aggressively agnostic campaign until their influence was exceeded by that of a Miss Kilgour and Joan Grüner, ―agnostics of a gentler type.‖ 100 In 1872 only two students evinced an orthodox faith of the kind with which Victorian women were usually associated: Elizabeth Welsh was an Irish Evangelical Presbyterian (but even she was in the throes of faith crisis), while (Jane) Frances Dove, a devout High Church Anglican, was ―the one contented conservative among them.‖ 101 The Girton students‘ questioning, rejection, and/or reworking of faith was not merely an interesting anomaly, nor were the women involved unimportant. Most students went on to exercise significant influence on education, suffrage, and British politics, albeit in diverse ways. Louisa Lumsden (1840-1935) gained renown as a public speaker on women‘s suffrage, women‘s higher education, and animal rights. Rachel Cook (1848-1905) became a well-respected educationist, journalist, and public speaker. She led a successful campaign to open the 97 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 341. 98 Ibid., 351. 99 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 14, 1873, 489. 100 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 25, 1875, 725. 101 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 341. The theological liberalism and agnosticism of Girton students has been acknowledged by some commentators; in their history of Girton Megson and Lindsay note in passing the ―agnosticism of the rebellious ‗Pioneers.‘‖ Megson and Lindsay, Girton College, 36. 119 University of Manchester to women and played a prominent role in Liberal politics, chairing the Lancashire and Cheshire Union of Women's Liberal Associations from its formation in 1893 and becoming its president in 1900. In 1874, after marrying Charles Prestwich Scott (1846–1932), editor of the Manchester Guardian, she contributed frequently to that newspaper. Elizabeth Welsh became the principal or Mistress of Girton in 1885. Henrietta Müller became a women‘s right activist, a prominent suffragist, and a member of Karl Pearson‘s Men and Women‘s Club. Malvina Borchardt (d. 1916) became Headmistress of Devonport High School for Girls and later opened a hostel for women students on Gower Street, London. With their firm rejection of traditional feminine norms and their engagement with significant political issues, these women were the antecedents of the ―New Woman‖ of later decades. In her study of the life of the Anglican modernist Lily Dougall, Joanna Dean draws attention to the difficulties confronting women who questioned orthodox belief and/or sought to re-configure or relinquish it. Accounts of faith crisis, such as Thomas Carlyle‘s Sartor Restartus (1833-1834), J. A. Froude‘s Nemesis of Faith (1849), J. H. Newman‘s Loss and Gain (1848), Samuel Butler‘s The Way of All Flesh (1903), and Edmund Gosse‘s Father and Son (1907) rendered doubt and the reconfiguration of faith a masculine endeavor. Dean argues that ―it was not simply that the models were masculine or that the narratives drew upon the male – and upper class – trajectory of university education and clerical careers, but that the very nature of the crisis was conceived of in ways that conformed to a masculine sense of religious identity.‖ 102 The religious/agnostic or orthodox/liberal divide was itself a gendered one; it was more difficult for women to cross than men. Dean suggests that it was for this reason that women writers chose male protagonists in their fictional delineations of their own faith crises. She cites as examples Mary Ward‘s bestselling Robert Elsmere (1888), Margaret Deland‘s John Ward, Preacher 102 Joanna Dean, Religious Experience and the New Woman: The Life of Lily Dougall (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2007), 47. 120 (1888), and the New Woman novels such as Olive Schreiner‘s The Story of an African Farm (1883), and Dougall‘s unpublished Lovereen (1891). 103 While Dean‘s gender analysis is astute, not all Victorian women confronted doubt with this caution. The Hitchin students demonstrated an assertive doubt, agnosticism, and atheism. Their ready engagement with skepticism disrupts the Victorian gendering of faith and doubt. They were ―accustomed to doubt everything & distrust everything,‖ Maynard wrote. 104 Sundays were not observed; church services were often skipped and students defied Sabbatarianism by meeting on Sunday evenings to discuss politics or to analyze the latest novel. 105 Expressions of outrage at Christian theology were not unusual (―‗Any good man could manage the world better!‘ one would exclaim with hot indignation, ‗it is a disgrace to anyone who had charge of it. Nothing shall tempt me to worship Him‘‖ 106 ), along with a snide derision (―flippant quoting of Bible texts to give them an absurd meaning‖ 107 ) and a jaded dismissal (Seeley‘s Ecce Homo [1866] was deemed ―the only sensible book on Religion that had been written during the last forty years‖ 108 ). The ―masculine‖ skepticism of the Hitchin students calls into question the singular trajectories of secularization (and opposing representations of the turn-of-the-century transformation of religion) that rely on the notion of the ―spiritual woman‖ and ―secular man.‖ They also challenge the alignment of masculinity with maleness and femininity with femaleness. Even where Hitchin students did not reject faith but reconfigured it, they demonstrated a rationality, intellectual audacity, and resolve, that were aligned with masculinity in dominant 103 Ibid., 55. 104 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 445-46. 105 Ibid., 390. 106 Firth, Catherine Louisa Maynard, 124. 107 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 390. 108 Firth, Catherine Louisa Maynard, 124. 121 Victorian discourse. Rachel Cook ―could not see how one man‘s life could reveal the infinite God.‖ 109 She propounded a radical immanentism instead: ―every man & woman . . . revealed Him in some degree.‖ 110 Isabel Gamble rejected the Evangelical doctrines of original sin and humanity‘s alienation from God (―I cannot believe that there is, or ever can be any separation between God & us‖) and posited in its place a faith characterized by a high view of humanity (―God made us, & I think a little child is perfectly good & innocent, only contact with the world defiles & lowers them‖ 111 ). Like Cook she rejected the divinity of Christ, and Christian anthropomorphism, for a more diffuse and abstract understanding of God: ―God is love, & I want no Mediator,‖ she informed Maynard, ―it is only because you are so used to the idea of Christ coming between, that you make him God.‖ 112 The influence of Townshend‘s Unitarianism was evident in Gamble‘s and Cook‘s reconfiguration of their faith. Unitarianism, a rationalist Christian movement, emphasized freedom of thought, rejected the divinity of Christ, and promoted an engagement with scientific and philosophical discourse. Unitarians endorsed a high view of humanity and an optimistic worldview. They also often resisted dominant Victorian gender norms; girls were given the same schooling as boys and sometimes treated as their equals. 113 It was therefore unsurprising that some Girton students should turn to Unitarianism upon pursuing higher education and encountering challenges to their faith. Girton‘s acceptance of Unitarians in 1869 demonstrates the influence on Girton of educational reformers such as Sidgwick and Seeley who, while not Unitarians themselves, sought to wrest the universities from the control of the Church of 109 Greenbook, 24 November 1872, 254. 110 Ibid. 111 Greenbook, 3 November 1872, 242. 112 Greenbook, 22 March 1874, 230-31. 113 Rita McWilliams-Tullberg, Women at Cambridge: A Men’s University – Though of a Mixed Type (London: Victor Gollancz, 1975), 23. 122 England; it also points to the importance of the very earliest women‘s colleges as sites of advanced theological debate. The Hitchin students‘ radical questioning did not simply constitute a transgression of gender norms, it was also the product of them. They had had to contravene dominant notions of femininity in order to seek admission to higher education; their refusal of norms of femininity and their doubt were intricately intertwined. Their contravention of feminine gender norms was evident as they took an independent, active, and even commanding interest in the policies of the college. When Seeley failed to address the subject matter for the Little-Go (or Previous) examinations, which preceded the final examinations at Cambridge, they informed him they would no longer attend his classes and would study for the examinations instead; he resigned. In 1873 they petitioned the Girton administration to be exempt from taking the Little-Go examinations, which detracted from their study for the final examination, and recruited seven of the lecturers to their cause. Davies wrote to Mme. Bodichon, a friend and a key supporter of Girton, ―Is it not vexing to see such a spirit shown? I am afraid we shall have no lasting peace while any of the Pioneers remain.‖ 114 A willingness to contravene dominant norms of gender, and perhaps even a self-conscious experimentation with masculine subjectivity, was evident as the students attempted to stage a Shakespeare play, ―taking male parts and dressing accordingly,‖ at a time when middle-class women‘s cross-dressing was considered scandalous. 115 When Davies intervened and the plans were brought to a halt, the college was almost closed as Miss Gibson and other key students considered leaving ―as a protest against tyranny.‖ 116 114 Megson and Lindsay, Girton College, 21. Long after the pioneers had departed, in 1879, the principal Miss Bernard still noted of one student ―I Suppose Miss ---‘s idea is that the students must be protected from the tyranny of the Mistress: but I think on the whole the Mistress needs protection from some of the students‖ (ibid., 36). 115 McWilliams-Tullberg, Women at Cambridge, 65. 116 Megson and Lindsay, Girton College, 14. 123 Their repudiation of orthodox Christianity led Hitchin students to question the ethics with which it was associated: ―religion [was] first (of course) [to be doubted] but after that ethics . . . any sort of rule of absolute & final Right & Wrong was discarded, & every thing was for growth, self-expansion, and trial of the native powers of experiment.‖ 117 Maynard noted that Woodhead ―seems in theory (though not in practice) to have reached a point where right & wrong are undistinguishable.‖ 118 The critique of Christian ethics led to the questioning of conventional sexual morality; Hitchin students doubted ―the very foundation stones of society, such as marriage.‖ They would ―talk as though their object was to establish ‗Free Love, & the Crêche.‘‖ Conversation, Maynard noted, frequently ―veer[ed] downwards through the pages of Swin- burne.‖ She acknowledged that ―some part of the Early Victorian standard of right & wrong had been formed of the merest conventions, & flimsy in the extreme,‖ but believed it had ―died an over-violent death at the hands of these daring young women.‖ It was a death in theory, for the most part (―it was wonderful the restraint they exercised‖); nevertheless, the questioning of marriage, the anticipation of ―free love,‖ and their Swinburne-type discussions constitute a marked transgression of dominant middle-class norms of femininity. 119 If the rationality that characterized the Hitchin students‘ rejection or reconfiguration of their beliefs was one site at which the alignment of femininity with religious orthodoxy was contested, Maynard‘s Puritan Evangelical piety and her response to a crisis of faith, was another. In pursuing a severely scriptural and doctrinally precise theology, Puritans valorized the intellect and reason rather than emotions and experience. Maynard believed her faith to be founded on reason. In elevating reason, Maynard‘s Puritan Evangelicalism also contained within it the 117 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 445-46. 118 Greenbook, 1 May 1873, 66. 119 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 445-46. 124 potential for doubt. Paradoxically, a long-held respect for the truth that was the legacy in part of her parents‘ faith compelled Maynard to engage fully with the skepticism of her peers. In Chapter One I examined the imbrication of science and religion in natural theology and the religious and erotic subjectivity to which it gave rise. Maynard‘s enthusiastic pursuit of amateur science as a child and young adult were perpetuated at Girton. Even while visiting St. Andrews in 1872 she had attended a course on ―the Circulation‖ by Dr. Oswald Bell: ―We learned all the valves of the heart ‗from life,‘ & we had a sheep‘s lungs on a plate & inflated them by blowing, & we heard all about ventilation, & what the blood did as it courses about.‖ 120 In Girton in 1872 a chance clash between the Logic and Physiology classes, and her decision to pursue the former, quashed her hopes of pursuing a degree in Natural Science. She nevertheless sought every opportunity to study science informally. During one lunch hour she ―ran up to the Laboratory . . . & bent glass tubes with a blow-pipe, successfully,‖ 121 she attended lectures in which ―we had sheep‘s liver & kidneys to dissect & learn their uses‖ 122 or they dissected bullock‘s eyes, and she purchased dead rats from the local Rat-catcher for the purpose of dissection. 123 She was able to attend the occasional physiology class and consulted frequently with the science lecturer, Mr. Hicks. 124 Hicks informed Maynard that ―he wished I were a Science Student,‖ and Maynard contended, ―I wished it too.‖ Both the rationalism of Maynard‘s Puritanism and her elevation of science – the pursuit of science under the rubric of religion evident in Evangelicals‘ endorsement of natural theology – fostered Maynard‘s faith crisis at Girton. Drawing on the empiricist methodology of the 120 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 254. 121 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 14, 1873, 393. 122 Ibid. 123 Ibid. 124 Ibid., 414. 125 Evangelical revivals, and evincing an admiration of science from which it had emerged, she asserted: A number of independent witnesses to any fact make it worthy of consideration. . . . Now as every Christian is a fresh signature to God‘s covenant, so the same advantage must be allowed to the other side, & the array of the best & brightest minds backed by the whole range of the Natural Sciences, seems to me to be cumulative evidence of a very formidable character in defence of Deism. I believe I could see their side & admit that the Bible account of man‘s creation & fall is almost impossible in the face of these facts. 125 The most serious threats to her faith were scientific: psychology and Darwinism. Although in later years Maynard understood her studies to have contributed to her faith crisis, she did not recognize this in the 1870s and it was engagement with fellow students that rendered the challenges of psychology and Darwinism apparent to her. 126 Cook inflicted one of the most severe blows to Maynard‘s faith when she posited a psychological explanation for it; she contended that Maynard had ―first created the belief & then act[ed] upon it . . . your belief is just the natural outcome of your feelings & aspirations of faith & love.‖ 127 The ―suggestion that Religion had its parent in Desire & not Reason‖ 128 was shocking to Maynard; it was a ―shaft of doubt . . . [that] pierced my heart.‖ 129 The study of an emerging psychology that was part of the Moral Science Tripos between the years 1872 and 1875 exacerbated her doubt: It is rather trying to see how very much education & mere habit does for one. Prayer, remembrance of God, & all these things seem to me much more habits of mind & much less directly supernatural than they did before, & it is somehow humiliating that these high things should be subject to the ‗Law of Contiguity,‘ &c that we read of in our 125 Greenbook, 23 November 1873, 171. 126 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 13, 1873, 480. 127 Greenbook, 24 November 1872, 256. 128 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 24, 1875, 703. 129 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 400. 126 Psychology. I wonder if God confines Himself now a days to observing the laws of mind as He does those of matter. I always held that miracles on mind had not ceased. 130 As an adolescent Maynard had rejected material miracles after reading the work of evangelical scientists such as Hugh Miller; she had nevertheless believed in God‘s miraculous intervention in the minds of believers through prayer, Bible reading, and religious discussion. She now doubted that even the mind was the site of God‘s miraculous intervention in human lives and in human history. The middle-class‘s avid interest in science was paradoxically to challenge the religious rubric under which it was pursued. Maynard‘s years at Girton demonstrate the rift between science and religion occasioned by Darwinian theory. In November 1873, the senior student Louisa Lumsden confronted her with Darwinian evolution: [she] held that the world is certainly improving (paradise of course having given place to Darwin‘s theory), & though Christianity was a great advance on old Jewish tradition, it has not done very much for the world, & is not the right religion for such an age as this. The only hope lies in the further discoveries of Natural Science, & they at present seem drawing near to the doctrine that mind is only the subtlest form of matter, & if so of course finishes with it. 131 Maynard had long accepted the challenge to traditional evangelical notions of time posed by late eighteenth- and nineteenth-century geologists but evolution presented a further challenge. In 1874 she read a characteristically Broad Church essay by Emily Davies‘ brother, Llewelyn, the close associate of F. D. Maurice: ―The Debts of Theology to Secular Influences,‖ published in his Theology and Morality: Essays on Questions of Belief and Practice (1873). She paraphrased Davies on the bifurcation of science and religion that was taking place in her era: 130 Greenbook, 24 September 1873, 148-49. 131 Greenbook, 13 November 1873, 167. Lumsden eventually drew back from her early materialism and, espousing a characteristically New Woman heterodoxy, advocated ―a bond of perfect brotherhood under any religion.‖ ―Was this not a grand & wide thing? Was this not loving God Himself, as all good came from Him?‖ she asked Maynard. Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 31, 232. 127 For long it was held, Religion & Science must agree __ God‘s word & work must declare the same truths, but we are being forced fr. this position. The principle of continuous evolution is the pride of modern science, & the transmutation of force is struggling to extend itself to the evolving of life. What then is the meaning of Creation, wh. is associated with interruptions of order? Time also is pushed away to an infinite distance, & where is God our Creator? Is He not being explained away? And not only so, but implicit life in Adam & Eve, the Flood, &c, exposes us to the most serious difficulties. 132 The lowest point of Maynard‘s Girton faith crisis took place in 1874: ―On [Wednesday] night . . . I sat on my floor in the dark & cried bitterly. . . it seemed as if everything will be analysed away. Am I then losing my early faith? Oh it cannot be. 133 Heart and mind warred with one another in a battle that was structured as much by a Puritan/Evangelical dichotomy as a secular/religious one: The heart & the reason are in deadly opposition, pulling as it were in a great Tug of War without intermission day & night, though it is the heart makes the outcries & prayers & laments, it is the reason that wins, gaining slowly inch by inch & step by step. You cannot stand out against clear reason, & reason whispered day & night that the foundation on which the vast & splendid superstructure was built was untenable, was rotten, & that the whole thing could not bear examination.‖ 134 The materialist implications of Darwinian theory were evident a year later as she asked herself ―Was I merely the result of my organization?‖ 135 Although scholars of religion and sexuality have begun to explore conjunctions between the Victorian faith crisis and sexual subjectivity, they have not yet developed a fully-fledged theoretical framework within which to pursue this enquiry. Anne McClintock, exploring Victorian sexuality in a very different context, provides one possibility for understanding the 132 Greenbook, 26 April 1874, 240. 133 Greenbook, 15 March 1874, 227-28. 134 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 19, 1874, 746-47. 135 Greenbook, 17 May 1875, 109. 128 public structuring of private desires. Drawing on Leonore Davidoff‘s work, she argues that the sadomasochistic relationship of the middle-class English barrister Arthur Munby and maid-of- all-work Hannah Cullwick was informed by broader social divisions. Munby and Cullwick‘s fetishizing of the domestic constituted an attempt to remediate the psychic injuries they had sustained as social divides impacted their lives. Hannah Cullwick sought to render visible, and to ameliorate, the painful invisibility of servants and their work in middle-class homes and Munby sought to remediate the injury sustained by middle-class boys at the mandatory spurning of infant intimacies with working-class nurses. In the following section I explore the (re)structuring of Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity within the context of the broader crisis of faith by arguing that the erotic generally, and not only fetishism, is structured by broader social divisions and that the crisis of faith produced keenly felt religious divisions in Victorian society. Maynard‘s erotic liaison with the Lewis Campbell had taken place in the context of a society riven by religious divisions. Their sexual desire was constituted amidst tensions between theological liberalism and Evangelicalism. While Maynard had initially embraced her intellectual awakening, she ultimately deemed her encounter with Campbell‘s skeptical intelligence injurious. She noted in later years that ―a cleft had come in the familiar territory, and there was a distance between me and my kin, that I did not know how to bridge over.‖ 136 This injury was exacerbated by her encounters with the freethinking and often agnostic Girton students. In 1874 she had observed in anguish, ―doubt can wound, most painfully wound, where it does not slay.‖ 137 She nevertheless pursued brief homoerotic relationships with Rachel Cook and Isabel Gamble, and towards the end of her studies commenced a seven-year relationship with the near-agnostic Louisa Lumsden. Maynard‘s erotic relationships of the 1870s, and 136 Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 102. 137 Greenbook, 3 May 1874, 243. 129 particularly her seven-year relationship with Lumsden, were an attempt to revisit the site of the injury sustained by her encounter with the discourses of doubt and to ameliorate its effects. 138 Her attempt to remediate the ―wound‖ of doubt in her erotic relationships reveals the proximity of religion and sexuality during the faith crisis. When Maynard entered Hitchin in 1872 her approach to the students was dictated by her Evangelical beliefs; she strove to ―shew love, His love, that I may shew them Him, & bring their hearts to surrender all to Him.‖ 139 Her evangelism was not the broad-based or ―indiscriminate‖ variety of later generations; rather, as with Lewis Campbell, she believed her erotically inflected feelings towards particular Girton students to indicate God‘s salvific intentions for them. Seeking the conversion of friends was the highest outworking of her love for them. She was drawn to Cook and Gamble, but both rejected Maynard‘s proselytizing efforts decisively. She nevertheless attempted to establish the devotional practices that were central to her friendship with Fanny Williams; for Evangelicals religious and emotional intimacy were indistinguishable. Gamble, who had been raised an evangelical, tried to meet her halfway. ―I asked Isabel to sing to me,‖ Maynard wrote, ―& she chose, ‗As pants the heart,‘ & then ‗Eternal Father‘ & other well-known hymns. All night I could have listened to her clear voice & held her hand.‖ Since Gamble lacked faith, the rituals of Evangelical devotional practice were meaningless: ―yet it filled me with sadness & longing, because her heart does not believe what she sang.‖ 140 Maynard nevertheless pursued night-time intimacies with Gamble. ―I had some happy minutes with Isabel in bed in the moonlight & firelight,‖ she observed in her Greenbook, ―& I said her my dear evening hymn, ‗Giver of sleep, unsleeping Lord,‘‖ but she conceded that ―through it all 138 Vicinus notes Maynard was ―greatly preferred the sophisticated . . . agnostics‖ to the orthodox religious women who entered Girton in subsequent years. Vicinus, ―One Life,‖ 610. 139 Greenbook, 1 January 1873, 2. 140 Greenbook, 14 December 1873, 178. 130 I think I never felt so helpless . . . to do the least bit of good.‖ 141 Maynard continued to think about and pray for Gamble: ―Now, night by night I think, ‗Isabel is lying down without one word of prayer. I must say it for her‘; then I fancy her beside me & beg that we may both see the truth, whatever that sight may cost.‖ 142 Her desire was enacted at the site of faith and doubt. Eventually Cook and Gamble‘s determined resistance of Evangelicalism brought an end to Maynard‘s intimacies with them. The role of Evangelicalism in structuring Maynard‘s erotic desire was evident as she contended that Isabel‘s religious difference rendered her ―a fair soulless Undine [rather] than a warm living friend.‖ 143 If Maynard‘s sexual desire was structured by religious discourse, the religious desire inherent in her crisis of faith was also informed by sexual discourse. Maynard believed her persistent questioning to have incurred God‘s displeasure and her failure to win Girton students to Christ to be the result of a Christian witness rendered ineffective by doubt. Prayer, which she deemed central to spiritual life, was difficult. Maynard turned to her homoerotic relationships to articulate a longing for Christ: Oh to sleep with Him, & wake with Him morning by morning! Oh to work in His presence, looking for every half hour, to feel how near He stands __ to be with Him at meal times, & singing, & when I walk with any one of the others, to have Him ‗draw near & go with us‘ – to really touch Him that ½ hour, when however busy I break my morning‘s work to read the Bible __ & at night to pour out my heart before Him in praise & intercession! Is it too high a standard? too religious an ideal for this active, hard- working world? I think not. 144 The relationship between religious and sexual discourse was a reciprocal one. Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity was structured by religious discourse and her homoerotic relationships pursued as 141 Greenbook, 8 March 1874, 224. 142 Greenbook, 9 April 1876, 19. 143 Greenbook, 31 December 1876, 132. 144 Greenbook, 8 February 1874, 206. 131 part of larger religious aspirations, but those relationships also informed Maynard‘s understanding of the divine. Maynard‘s seven-year relationship with Louisa Lumsden, the first of her substantial homoerotic relationships, demonstrates the role of the faith crisis in structuring Maynard‘s desire, the imbrication of faith and doubt in some iterations of dissident desire, and slippages between discourses of masculinity and femininity in erotic relationships structured by the crisis of faith. Lumsden, the daughter of an upper-middle-class Scottish family, had been the acknowledged leader of the Girton students from the inception of the college. Austere and sometimes severe, she was a formidable presence (she ―stood at the head of the College, aloof & dignified, an object of some fear to all the younger sort‖ 145 ). Lumsden successfully sat the Cambridge Classics Tripos exam in December 1872 and in May 1873 was appointed Classics lecturer at Girton. She was nine years older than Maynard, who confessed to being more afraid of her than of any of the male lecturers with the exception of Sidgwick. 146 Fear and admiration were intertwined, however: ―we all heartily admired her, & felt how much the College owed to her perfect standard of refinement, & her lofty aspirations for the whole cause of ‗Higher Education‘ which was then on its trial.‖ 147 Lumsden had been raised in the Scottish Highlands, the most conservative region of Presbyterianism, and had endured an upbringing similar to Maynard‘s – one in which Calvinism was embraced – but her years at Girton had precipitated a crisis of faith. Like Cook and Gamble, she rejected the notion of Christ as mediator to God. 148 A familiarity with biblical criticism informed her refutation of the divinity of Christ (―The 3 Gospels Matt, Mark, & Luke do not 145 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 420. 146 Ibid. 147 Ibid., 438-39. 148 Greenbook, 25 May 1873, 77. 132 represent Him as God at all, neither does St. Paul. John certainly does, but then his Gospel was written much later when Christianity was deeply tinctured with Alexandrian philosophy, as is shewn by his using the strange term [‗logos‘]‖ 149 ). Ethical concerns contributed to Lumsden‘s doubt, and the problem of evil in particular (―sad sad wail over the suffering & fear & agony & cruelty in the world rising up in a great cry to heaven, & yet God looks on silently‖ 150 ). A commitment to animal rights and anti-vivisectionism informed her struggle with the problem of evil (―I can only hope that in another life animals will be better off, & free from man‘s rule‖ 151 ). Lumsden‘s attempt to pursue a friendship with Maynard in May 1873 was precipitated by her desire to confide her doubts to Maynard: In a little while she hesitated & stopped & said, ―Are you proof against being shocked?‖ And on my assuring her that I was, she unfolded to me her thoughts by separate scraps. How brought up in Scotch calvinism [sic] her whole soul rebelled at the extreme injustice – then she took up Dr. Campbell‘s view, & said it was a grand idea, but then gradually came the disclosure, ―What was the life of Christ? Surely He is not God.‖ 152 Maynard was also entrenched in a faith crisis. The subsequent relationship between the two women was framed by their respective but quite different faith crises: Maynard‘s questioning of Evangelicalism and Lumsden‘s more radical entertaining of Unitarianism and even agnosticism. Despite the threat that Lumsden‘s questioning posed to Maynard‘s foundering faith, Maynard responded to Lumsden with alacrity. She had earlier recognized her attraction to theological liberals or near-agnostics. ―Oh why is it that I must love just the very two who do not seem able to believe Revelation!‖ she wrote of Cook and Gamble in 1873. 153 When, in early 149 Ibid., 74-76. 150 Greenbook, 1 February 1874, 204. 151 Greenbook, 27 October 1873, 158. 152 Greenbook, 25 May 1873, 74-76. 153 Greenbook, 13 November 1873, 168. 133 1875, Lumsden resigned from Girton, Maynard noted, ―For me personally, perhaps her absence was good, for I had a real touch of love for her, & love across such a chasm as divided us, tends to be a painful thing.‖ 154 Despite love across the ―chasm‖ of religious difference being a ―painful thing,‖ in the summer of 1876, after Maynard had graduated from Girton and had been living at home for six months, she sought to renew her friendship with Lumsden. She wrote to her proposing to visit her at her home at Glenbogie near the town of Lumsden in Aberdeenshire. Despite marked religious differences, incipient antagonism, and even frustration with Lumsden, Maynard moved with her to St. Andrews and co-founded St. Leonards School for Girls with her in 1877; she spent a number of vacations with her. In her autobiography Maynard wrote of the summer of 1877 that ―for all my griefs I could not keep my hands off Miss Lumsden, and begged her to come home with me.‖ 155 In Easter 1878 they again vacationed together on the west coast of Scotland, at Brodrick, Arran, and Maynard wrote in her spiritual journal: ―Why am I thrown thus against L. over & over again?‖ 156 Despite her discomfort at being continually ―thrown against L.,‖ she noted, ―each time is now sweeter than the last . . . & night by night folded close, ah so close. With me such a life seems to touch a sweetness beyond words.‖ 157 Religious difference did not preclude erotic attraction for Maynard at this time; it fostered it. During Maynard‘s visit with Lumsden in Scotland in the summer of 1876, she came to a self-aware love of her friend. Her father‘s business, Maynard Brothers, was facing bankruptcy. Her brothers Harry and George had moved into their father‘s firm after their schooling, 158 and 154 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 22, 1875, 544. 155 Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 31, 1877, 237. 156 Greenbook, 21 April 1878, 71-72. 157 Ibid. 158 Autobiography, Part 1, Chapter 2, 1861-1862, 35. 134 Harry‘s repugnance for his father‘s business and his ineptitude brought the family close to financial ruin in the mid-1870s. Maynard‘s confiding of these details to Lumsden drew the two women together. ―Now at last we were in each other‘s confidence,‖ she wrote in her Greenbook, ―& had taken at least a few steps toward mutual understanding. To know = to love her.‖ 159 The term ―love‖ was a capacious one for Maynard. Lewis Campbell had described love as an ―irrepressible yearning‖ that entered the heart and sought to ―help, & protect, & shield it‘s [sic] object from pain & evil.‖ 160 This discourse of love was, with its lack of gendered referents, a wide-ranging and unstable one. The multiple meanings of ―love,‖ the absence of pejorative discourses of female homosexuality, and the belief that female sexual desire was inherently heterosexual, allowed Maynard to address, even in unselfconscious ways, the sexual desire inherent in her homoerotic friendships. She spoke of love as a rare phenomenon that was the result of a highly selective process. Beginning to love someone was a sudden and decisive event more akin to ―falling in love‖ (a term Maynard was later to use of her relationships with women) than to becoming friends as it is currently understood. In later years Maynard described her sister-in-law Jean Maynard ―coming to love‖ Marion Wakefield: She told me how her love for M. came about. . . . [Jean] looked in on M. who sat up in bed & asked her in. Jean came & gave her a kiss, & then laid down her head on the pillow beside her & there was silence. After a while Marion put her arm over her & said ―Oh Jean, this is peace!‖ & J. replied, ―Yes, this is the true Sabbath rest.‖ Again there was a long silence, but the touch of personal feeling had come to J. in those two seconds . . . & she felt she loved her with a love she never again could lose. Beginning to love someone thus had heightened significance for Maynard. When in 1901 a Mrs. Maitland-Herriot came to love Maynard, Maynard could not reciprocate the sentiment. 159 Greenbook, 30 July 1876, 70. 160 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 126. 135 Love was ―such a great word to use‖; she hoped for ―intercourse & help & even friendship, but scarcely love.‖ 161 In late 1876, confronting the need to seek employment in order to alleviate her family‘s financial stress, and with Lumsden‘s encouragement, Maynard sought and was given a temporary position at Cheltenham College, where Lumsden was working as Classics tutor. 162 Maynard worked as Lumsden‘s assistant from October 1876 to July 1877. The early months at Cheltenham were a highpoint in Maynard‘s relationship with Lumsden. Lumsden was gratified by Maynard‘s joining her at Cheltenham; upon her arrival ―[she] drew me on to her knee as she sat in the deep arm-chair, and told me it was ‗beyond her wildest dreams,‘ to have me really there and all her own.‖ 163 The two shared a room and a bed 164 and Maynard wrote enthusiastically of this period: ―work, pleasure, sympathy, friends – all is shared, & then the long, long clasp of living love.‖ 165 Lumsden evoked a discourse of marriage to describe the pleasure of her relationship with Maynard: ―many different times did she express her joy at the 161 Greenbook, 7 September 1901, 51. When, in 1896 Maynard‘s friend and first convert, the social reformer Mary Higgs (nee Kingsland), challenged Maynard‘s exclusive notions of love by noting that the mandate of Christians was to love broadly, Maynard answered, ―Mary listen. I have never deluded myself that I had that Divine love, never.‖ For Maynard, ―love to the individual is a strange thing & can‘t be created at will.‖ Greenbook. Long Vacation of 1896, 388. 162 Maynard‘s decision to seek employment was also the product of the Puritan work ethic that Louisa Maynard had inculcated in her children; she believed herself not to be making the most effective use of her time or abilities: ―[the] thought of . . . the undefined monotonous ease of home going on & one for years, seemed to me too terrible to bear . . . Somehow at home I can live & do well & yet not be using more than ½ or ⅓ of myself.‖ Greenbook, 31 December 1876, 132. 163 Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 30, 1876, 152. 164 Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 31, 1877, 224. 165 Maynard renders this text in the following way in her autobiography: ―the work of the day, and then coming home to be alone with a noble heart, a high refinement yet a perfect simplicity of taste, and then to crown all, the abandonment of enthusiastic love.‖ Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 35, 1879, 374. Lumsden, in her short, sanitized biography (she had been appointed DBE by the time she wrote it and was ninety-two-years old), noted only that she ―had a very happy year‖ at Cheltenham and that she and Maynard had ―charming rooms on the Royal Parade.‖ She suggested that Maynard had gone to Cheltenham after Lumsden had asked the principal Miss Beale to let her have an assistant because Latin had become so popular. Louisa Lumsden, Yellow Leaves (Edinburgh : Blackwood, 1933), 60. 136 thought of having me there for her ‗wife.‘‖ 166 According to Maynard, Lumsden later averred, ―I am only too happy; my work, my home, my wife, all are good and I am satisfied.‖ 167 Maynard took up the marriage metaphor in a similar manner. ―Sometimes it seemed as if I were going through the whole deepening & expanding story of love, betrothal, & marriage in all its unutterable sweetness,‖ she observed. 168 Maynard‘s and Lumsden‘s respective faith crises structured their sexual subjectivity and their erotic relationship in significant if different ways. Maynard understood her feelings for Lumsden to be indicative of God‘s salvific intentions for her and believed her move to Cheltenham to serve the higher purpose of procuring Lumsden‘s conversion. ―What [was] the meaning of my Girton training, of my long love of her, of this strange coming to Cheltenham, & of the warm invitation fr. the Committee [if not to draw her to Christ]?‖ she asked herself. 169 Maynard sought to achieve Lumsden‘s conversion as a means to allay some of her own doubts – her foundering faith had come to rest increasingly on the testimony of fellow Christians, including narratives of conversion. Paradoxically, however, her erotic attraction to Lumsden was more centrally indebted to an urgent desire to re-stage, in the realm of human relationships, a relationship with the divine that was besieged by doubt. By becoming enamored of an agnostic, Maynard was able to re-create and to re-visit the struggle, suffering, sense of failure, and ultimately the spiritual desolation that marked her relationship with God. Lumsden‘s relationship with Maynard was similarly informed by the orthodox Christianity it supplanted. Paradoxically, her eschewal of faith took place alongside a religious longing that took Maynard as its object and her representation of her sexual desire was informed by religious discourse. 166 Greenbook, 30 July 1876, 70. 167 Greenbook, 12 November, 1876. 168 Greenbook, 30 December 1877, 268. See chapter three for a full discussion of the marriage metaphor as it was evoked by Maynard and her lovers. 169 Greenbook, 30 December 1876, 127-28. 137 Victorian homosexuals, like their heterosexual counterparts, often turned to love as an antidote to doubt. John Addington Symonds thus observed, ―in my sorest needs I have had no actual faith. . . . To the skirts of human love I have clung, and I cling blindly.‖ 170 The re- emergence of an explicitly spiritual discourse at the site of a dissident erotic is evident in the writings of the homosexual activist George Ives, who presented homosexuality as ―the Faith‖ and argued that ―Love is the centre, the First Cause of the universe, therefore everything that is of Love is holy. . . . We must not despise the Form, yet without the Soul it is nothing.‖ 171 Homosexual men drew on spiritual discourse to vindicate a sexual intercourse not only deemed the product of the lower animal self (as it was in heterosexual discourse), but with the passing of the 1885 Labouchère Amendment, as illegal. 172 Unlike Ives, neither Maynard nor Lumsden self-consciously re-configured religious discourse to sacralize dissident sexual desire. Like most Victorian women they did not identify their desire as ―sexual.‖ Nevertheless the near-agnostic Lumsden turned to religious discourse to express her love for Maynard. She took up a biblically inflected Greek phrase to speak of her love: ―‗έν σοί έσμεν, ξγμέν έν σοί‘ [―we are in you, we live in you‖]; she said looking deep into my eyes.‖ 173 The phrase had resonances of Christ‘s farewell address to his disciples (―Yet a little while, and the world seeth me no more; but ye see me: because I live, ye shall live also. At that day ye shall know that I am in my Father, and ye in me, and I in you‖ (John 14;19-20). 170 Horatio Brown, John Addington Symonds. A Biography (London: Smith, Elder, & Co, 1903), 185, 238 quoted in Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 388-89. 171 Joy Dixon, ―‗Love is a Sacrament That Should Be Taken Kneeling‘: Sexuality, Religion, and the Troubled History of ‗Secularization‘‖ (keynote address presented at the Annual Meeting of the Victorian Studies Association of Ontario, Toronto, ON, May 2006). 172 Ives wrote in 1894 that the ―Faith or Higher Philosophy or whatever you like to call it,‖ demonstrated that while ―what they see is beastly and low, what We mean, the angels could sing upon their harps, or ponder in the woods of Paradise.‖ Dixon,―Love is a sacrament,‖ 7. 173 Greenbook, 12 November 1876, 115-16. Maynard referred to Lumsden‘s Greek expression again in 1880, when she left St. Leonards: ―At Cheltenham she said ‗En soi zymen, esmen en soi‘ Was that true? . . . I almost think it was.‖ Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 37, 460. 138 Lumsden‘s ―we are in you, we live in you‖ also echoed Acts 17:28, ―εν αυτω γαπ ζωμεν και κινουμεθα και εσμεν (―For in him we live, and move, and have our being‖) part of Paul‘s speech to the Athenians, in which he cites the poets of ancient Greece: ―as certain also of your own poets have said, ‗For we are also his offspring.‘‖ Just as Paul appropriated the words of the Greek poets for his Christian message, so the Classicist Lumsden re-situated Paul‘s words in an ostensibly secular discourse. The devout, enthusiastic, and compassionate young Maynard represented a Christ-like figure for the doubting Lumsden. 174 Maynard occupied the space in Lumsden‘s life and psyche that had been vacated by orthodox religious belief. The contours of that space were structured by the religion it displaced. 175 By emulating a predominantly masculine ―woman worship‖ of the kind identified by Houghton and exemplified by Lewis Campbell, Lumsden evidenced the unstable relationship between both the secular and the sacred and masculinity and femininity. The dynamic nature of the relationship between the secular and the sacred was evident as Lumsden subsequently entertained a notion of God as the ultimate Fulfiller of human desire: ―can there be food for hunger, & love for the affections, & after all no God to fill all these desires?‖ 176 Lumsden‘s religious dissidence was accompanied by a more overt transgression of dominant norms of femininity; she articulated what we might now characterize as a transgender or transsexual subjectivity. For a number of nineteenth-century women homoerotic desire coincided with a transgender subjectivity and/or a masculine appearance. Vicinus notes that 174 Robert Barrett Browning articulated a similar sentiment in his ―Two in Compagna‖: I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul‘s springs – your part my part In life, for good and ill (Stanza 2, quoted in Houghton, Victorian Frame of Mind, 388) 175 Joy Dixon, examining the life and beliefs of Ives, notes how ―the spaces available to dissident desire were shaped, given their contours, by the spaces no longer occupied by faith.‖ Dixon, ―Love is a Sacrament,‖ 3. 176 Greenbook, 22 February 1874, 217. 139 ―[Rosa] Bonheur regularly wore trousers and a smock. Boys and men ridiculed [Anne] Lister for her stride and manner. [Harriet] Hosmer went about Rome at night unaccompanied. [Charlotte] Cushman wore tailored jackets and ties and spoke in what critics called a ‗man-ny voice.‘‖ 177 In 1873 Lumsden spoke to Maynard ―a good deal about her endless longings to have been a man.‖ 178 Maynard in turn noted that Lumsden ―had naturally the longest and most steady stride I have ever known in a woman,‖ and in later years observed admiringly, ―there was a good deal of the man about her, and the best side came out here, when the strong and weighty became so exquisitely tender, so delicate and considerate.‖ Lumsden welcomed Maynard‘s notion that sex was an effect of earthly existence only: ―Ah, if I believed so, what could it matter that I was compelled to be a woman this little time, 50 or 60 years at most, & then a free spirit with all eternity before me!‖ 179 Lumsden‘s faith crisis, and her reconfiguring of religious discourse at the site of the erotic, also illustrates the dissident gender subjectivity that might inform doubt and which doubt itself might foster. Her relationship with Lumsden in all likelihood contributed to Maynard‘s later theological effort to interrogate gender and to validate female masculinity. In a 1910 essay, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ she demonstrated a sense of the contingency of sex/gender by seeking a reason for sexual difference. She argued that ―from the physiological standpoint there seems to be no absolute necessity for the cleavage among living creatures that we know as sex. Reproduction is carried on without it in large families of the lower creatures, and our life-history might conceivably have been arranged without this duality that cuts so deep into our existence.‖ 180 Ultimately she contended that sexual difference was necessary for the spiritual 177 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 3. 178 Greenbook, 7 June 1873, 84. 179 Ibid. 180 Constance Maynard, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ in Between College Terms (London: James Nisbet, 1910), 66. 140 progress of individuals (―the Creator designed the cleft of physical sex . . . in order that it might be the basis of mental and spiritual divergences, and thus each might lead the other upward‖ 181 ). She argued that the purpose of marriage was to model gender complementarity. In 1924 she took this argument a step further, in terms characteristic of Victorian sexual difference feminism (but also somewhat circuitously), suggesting that sexual difference was necessary if women, who represented maternal love, were to lead men, who were responsible for the gains of an earlier material age, towards the new spiritual era. Maynard‘s gender theory was not as dualistic as first appears, however. In a 1924 text, We Women: A Golden Hope, she developed a more dynamic approach to gender informed by Darwinian theory. She suggested that the development of gender in the individual paralleled that of the history of the human race as expounded in Genesis. In the individual, the ―Man-spirit‖ was evident in the early, destructive phases of childhood, the ―Woman-Spirit‖ appeared much later in both boys and girls, just as Eve had been created after Adam. She argued for the co-existence of both genders in most individuals: I hope I am making it clear that we deal with ―spirits‖ and not with the outer form of the individual. Every soul is said to be a ―microcosm,‖ and there is no doubt at all but that every noble character shows forth both these ―spirits.‖ It is a poor, cowering, weak woman who has not within her some of the love of adventure with a spice of peril, some of the virility and endurance that is part of our primary inheritance; and he is a barbarous and contracted man within whose soul the Woman-spirit, Eve, does not reign with all the compassion for the weak, with the gentler, persistent, home-producing powers that she, the mother of life, brings with her. 182 Christianity, with its notion of a body that was distinct from the spirit, enabled Maynard to distinguish between gender – the ―Man-spirit‖ and ―Woman-spirit‖ – and biological sex. A sexual equality discourse emerged more prominently as Maynard contended, contrary to Darwin, 181 Ibid., 83. 182 Constance Maynard, We Women: A Golden Hope (London: Morgan & Scott, 1924), 49. 141 that ―where the cleft of sex is emphasized (as among the nobles of France in the reigns of Louis XIV. and XV.) there society is debased and weak, and where the cleft is slurred over and the sexes treated as nearly alike as possible (as in the Society of Friends), there it [society] is noble and strong and does great things.‖ 183 She had actually endorsed a more fluid notion of gender in her 1910 essay, also arguing that ―we all, whether we are man or women, inherit the nature of both parents, and there may be found men who, quite unconsciously, inherit the best instincts of woman, even as there are certainly some women who, without a shade of foolish affectation, are strong men at heart.‖ 184 For Maynard the discourse of masculinity was mobile and not fixed to a particular sex; the most successful women demonstrated both the ―man spirit‖ and the ―woman spirit,‖ but for some women the ―man spirit‖ was predominant. 185 The latter reference seems to be to Lumsden, the most masculine of Maynard‘s loves. In that essay Maynard also suggested that individuals of the same sex might model the gender complementarity of marriage (it was ―quite possible that two women, and perhaps more rarely two men, should have this effect on one another‖ 186 ). Ultimately, however, Maynard saw physical sex as aligning with gender for the most part (―but the main number of men and women will ever, by the secret instructions of Nature, observe the lines allotted to them‖ 187 ). Within what may appear to be a characteristically Victorian endorsement of sexual difference, Maynard nevertheless accommodated the notion of continuity between the sexes and had also argued for the possibility of women and men crossing that divide altogether. It would be a mistake, however, to see her theology as approximating contemporary queer disruptions of a 183 Ibid., 133. Here the influence of Westfield Vice-Principal, the Irish Quaker Anne Richardson is evident. 184 Maynard, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ 83-84. 185 Maynard, We Women, 133. 186 Maynard, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ 83. 187 Ibid., 84. 142 binary system of sexual difference. To Maynard‘s mind, transgendered subjects conformed to binary sexual difference rather than challenging it; her understanding of variations in sexual identity were theorized within, rather than disruptive of, binary categories of sexual difference. She nevertheless looked forward to a future dispensation in which sexual difference would be eradicated: ―Sister and Mother singly, and Bride collectively,‖ she wrote in 1924, ―such is our portion until we are finally made one with the whole human race, so completely one that not even the least scar remains to tell of the cleft between the sexes that had such power to determine our lot on earth.‖ 188 Maynard‘s belief that the afterlife offered an existence free of sexual difference was matched by the conviction that sexual difference was inconsequential in undertaking spiritual work in the earthly realm (―wherever each soul can go it may go, whether to withdraw into the lonely solitudes of prayer, or to work in the streets of its busiest cities, or to climb the heights of self-sacrifice, and reach the very snows of martyrdom . . . the whole country is open to those who have the courage to explore it‖ 189 ). St. Paul had made no distinction between men and women in his prayer for the Colossian converts. ―Does he pause here and add a little rubric to say that the splendour of this outlook is for men,‖ she asks her readers, ―and that the women must be content with a lower stage and humbler duties . . . Not by the slightest hint does he qualify the grand sweep of his hopes, and expressly states in Eph. iv. that they are for everyone.‖ 190 In mid-1877 Lumsden and Maynard left Cheltenham to found St. Leonards School for girls in St. Andrews, Scotland. The school was to be the first of the new public schools for girls in Scotland, modeled after the English girls‘ schools. Lewis Campbell was involved in its founding and Fanny Campbell approached Maynard and Lumsden to assist them with the 188 Maynard, We Women, 126. 189 Ibid. 190 Maynard, We Women, 127. 143 project. Maynard suggested Lumsden as headmistress and agreed to accompany her. At St. Leonards the women‘s religious differences gained heightened significance with the question of the place religion would have at the school. Maynard sought to make religious education central to the curriculum, while Lumsden strove to minimize it. Maynard wrote, ―the line of our separation glows like red hot iron, & not a day passes without my touching it & suffering keenly.‖ 191 Her relationship with Lumsden was not, however, pursued despite religious difference; it was taken up because of it and perpetuated by it. The ―line of . . . separation‖ between the two allowed Maynard to re-visit the psychic injury sustained in her encounter with the forces of theological liberalism and agnosticism at St. Andrews and Girton College and to restage her own foundering relationship with God. She was thus able to re-enact in a human relationship – and thus to validate – the distress she was experiencing in her relationship with God. At St. Leonards, Maynard‘s relationship with Lumsden, like her relationship with God, became increasingly difficult to sustain. She found living day by day with an unconverted Lumsden demanding, in the same way that she found living with an unresponsive and distant divine arduous. She had described her spiritual desolation as ―a blank empty space above me.‖ 192 She spoke of her sense of distance from Lumsden in terms that echoed her crisis-ridden and embattled relationship with the divine. ―I saw & felt the barrier strong & high as ever,‖ she wrote, ―& could not help crying when alone in my room.‖ 193 ―What can I answer,‖ she asked herself with some anguish, ―when the nearer she draws to me in the full grandeur of her 191 Greenbook, 31 December 1878, 176. 192 Greenbook, 30 December 1877, 268-69. 193 Greenbook, 26 November 1876, 117. 144 woman‘s nature, the more fearfully I feel the blank and dissatisfaction.‖ 194 As Maynard re- enacted her embattled relationship with the divine in her relationship with Lumsden, the Puritan theology of her childhood became increasingly prominent, eclipsing the Evangelicalism she had later espoused and precipitating a shift in her sexual subjectivity. In her essay on Maynard, Pauline Phipps argues that the Puritanism of Maynard‘s upbringing produced a sadomasochistic sexual subjectivity in adulthood. She suggests that ―in her early adulthood she assumed a submissive feminine role in her relationships‖ but that from her early thirties, after she had become Mistress of Westfield, she ―reversed the role,‖ ―toying with‖ and ―controlling‖ students who ―craved the love of their older and wiser mistress.‖ 195 I argue instead for more nuanced and diverse shifts in Maynard‘s religious and sexual subjectivity and more complex relationships between her religious belief and sexuality. Nevertheless, Maynard‘s relationship with Lumsden can be characterized as a masochistic one, and that masochism derived from her Puritanism. The Puritan notions of self-sacrifice, the alignment of love and suffering, and a quietist understanding of piety as self-abnegation informed her relationship with Lumsden. While the espousal of Puritan theology does not inevitably lead to masochism, submissive relationships, or ―passivity,‖ these characteristics were instantiated in Maynard‘s relationship with Lumsden, because it was a re-staging of Maynard‘s embattled relationship with God. Love, submission, and suffering were intertwined in Maynard‘s parents‘ Puritan theology. God demonstrated His love for humankind through the suffering of Christ on the Cross and the believer reciprocated this love by embracing a similar ―crucifixion‖ of self, with the help of Christ. Mary King, Maynard‘s childhood spiritual mentor, prayed with Maynard ―for 194 Greenbook, 3 June 1877, 195-96. 195 Pauline Phipps, ―Faith, Desire, and Sexual Identity: Constance Maynard‘s Atonement for Passion,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality 18, no. 2 (May 2009): 268. 145 a perfect subjection of will, & whole-hearted surrender to death of the old nature.‖ 196 Maynard concurred; Christ called believers to follow him ―in his crucifixion of the flesh & self- abasement.‖ 197 She understood that such crucifixion and self-abasement could only be accomplished as a response to Christ‘s love for her (―Only love can do it. Let me know more of Thy great & constant love of me, and it will not be hard‖ 198 ). Maynard‘s understanding of divine chastisement saw love, submission, and suffering similarly imbricated. In 1869, she wrote of her sense of spiritual transgression: ―I do not wish to hold out, but fully surrender, & come to be forgiven at once, & punished if must be.‖ 199 God‘s punishing the believer was a sign of His love. ―I can feel love, not anger, thro it all,‖ she observed, ―so though I am very sorrowful, I cannot despair, & it only makes me cry to Him & pray the more.‖ 200 The holiness piety that Maynard embraced in 1869 perpetuated some of the emphases of her parent‘s Puritan faith; the renunciation or emptying of the self was a prelude to the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Strength was attained in the believer‘s utter weakness. The influence of her parents‘ Puritanism on Maynard‘s piety had been evident during her visit to St. Andrews in 1872. Here she had befriended Mary Bethune, a serious Christian of around her own age. One night after attending a concert, Maynard ―slipped into her room . . . tho it was very late‖ with a view to sharing religious devotions with Bethune. Bethune, like Maynard, held the Calvinist doctrine of ―total depravity‖ and bemoaned her sinful state: ―[how] thoroughly I hate, how I despise myself!‖ 201 In her Greenbook Maynard observed that ―Cousin 196 Greenbook, 11 October 1868, 27. 197 Greenbook, 19 February 1869, 107. 198 Greenbook, 12 August 1868, 111. 199 Greenbook, 18 July 1869, 69. 200 Ibid., 65. 201 Greenbook, 14 April 1872, 120. 146 L. [Lewis Campbell], could he have heard her, would have thought it a morbid exaggerated feeling, induced by too narrow a religious education, & that it would have been truer to rejoice in her natural gifts & be thankful for them.‖ 202 ―But ah,‖ she continues, ―I fear he does not know what it is to stand convicted of sin before the pure, unflinching, consuming love of God.‖ 203 She and Bethune read Psalm 130, De Profundis, together, which begins with the words: 1. Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O LORD. 2. Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications. 3. If thou, LORD, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand? 4. But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared. Maynard, who described Bethune as ―a great noble creature, a sort of ‗lion cub,‘ with a disposition & abilities many might well envy,‖ admired her humbling of herself before God. 204 Her intimacy with Bethune was thus predicated on a shared Puritan piety characterized by an acute conviction of sin, a sense of unworthiness, and self-abnegation before the divine. Maynard‘s relationship with Lumsden saw the outworking of the terms of Puritan theology not in the women‘s piety but in their relationship with one another. The Puritan regulation of the imagination evident in Maynard‘s effort to quell all romantic thoughts of Campbell in 1872 did not ultimately so much thwart her imagination as structure it along Puritan lines. Similarly, the hesitancy around pleasure of that period did not repress the erotic as much as give it a particular form. The Puritan structuring of Maynard‘s homoerotic subjectivity was evident in the later 1870s in her desire to suffer for Lumsden. During July 1877 she revisited the life and works of Jean Baptiste Vianney (1786-1859), the Curé d'Ars (the parish priest of the French village of 202 Ibid. 203 Ibid. 204 Greenbook, 7 March 1872, 119-20. 147 Ars) and a hero of her parents‘ faith. Vianney asserted that there was in mortification ―a sweetness & a consolation wh. when once tasted, it is impossible to dispense with; you must exhaust the cup to the bottom.‖ 205 Maynard admired Vianney‘s ―intense humility & unswerving mortifications.‖ 206 She took up the ―cup‖ of suffering that came with her pursuit of Lumsden‘s salvation, ―begging only that I may bear the full cup steady . . . leaving the results to Him who dictated them.‖ 207 Maynard‘s suffering for Lumsden was informed by, and resembled, Christ‘s crucifixion and its redemptive objective as well as the believer‘s consequent crucifixion of the self. Maynard sought not only Lumsden‘s salvation, but also the restoration of her own relationship with God. More importantly, and more poignantly, by using the crucifixion as a metaphor, she sought also to render apparent her own anguished suffering and isolation before an apparently absent God. Her language echoes that of Christ on the cross. In later years she wrote of Lumsden (and by extension God) that it was ―as though having once clinched my will it was not within my power to unclinch it again.‖ 208 Maynard‘s erotically inflected Puritan masochism was enacted in her physical relationship with Lumsden. She observed that ―the talks on the Religious Instruction . . . were the saddest, & all that time if I slept alone I used to cry bitterly.‖ She continues, however, ―if I slept with her, if I touched her the least bit I was kept awake by an electric thrill all the short summer night, with but the shortest snatches of sleep till the red sunlight lay in streaks on the wall.‖ 209 Elsewhere she notes, ―L‘s physical power over me was so painful that I think she could 205 Greenbook, 22 July 1877, 210. 206 Ibid. 208-9. 207 Greenbook, 3 June 1877, 196. 208 Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 31, 1877, 218. 209 Greenbook, 30 December 1877, 270. 148 have kept me awake til I died of it, so intense so unsparing was it.‖ 210 The details of her physical relationship with Lumsden are not given further articulation, although she does note that on one occasion of discord with Lumsden she awoke to find that Lumsden had ―[begun] some of her old tender caresses.‖ 211 It seems likely that at this early stage of Maynard‘s erotic history, genital sexuality was not part of her expression of same-sex desire. She was nevertheless aware of the importance of the body to her ―love‖ of Lumsden. In her most candid discussion of homoerotic desire, she compared her relationship with Lumsden and with Dr. James Robertson, an unsuccessful suitor who had courted her while she was at St Leonards. ―Strange it is to look back on these two kinds of love, thus brought into a sharp contrast,‖ she wrote, ―and it shows once more how certain superficial matters, things almost belonging to the body rather than the soul, have their weight in ‗l‘amour tout simple.‘‖ 212 She continues: ―This would be very humiliating did one not take the body as the exponent of the mind.‖ 213 Paradoxically, in re-staging her relationship with God in the intimacy of her relationship with Lumsden, and in pursuing religious aspirations, Maynard had come to recognize the significance of the body to sexual desire. Maynard‘s enactment of her faith crisis in her relationship with Lumsden demonstrates not only the imbrication of faith and doubt and the interdependence of the spiritual and the secular, but also of the soul and body, with which these former terms are often aligned. She had found it necessary to address the injuries of her faith crisis with an embodied entity (Lumsden) and as religious desire had informed sexual desire, she had gained an appreciation of the corporeality of the latter. 210 Greenbook, 3 May 1883, 70. 211 Greenbook, 15 June 1877, 200. 212 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 35, 1879, 354. 213 Ibid. Grappling with sexual desire, and specifically with homoerotic desire, at this time (she wrote this part of her autobiography sometime between 1917 and 1924), she notes ―Even now, at the close of my life, I do not understand the matter so I need not write anymore‖ (ibid.). 149 The religious difference that had informed the eroticism of Maynard‘s and Lumsden‘s relationship ultimately led to its demise. Lumsden‘s refusal to convert precluded the possibility of the shared spiritual intimacy upon which Maynard‘s friendships, like those of most Evangelicals, were predicated. In her Greenbook she noted: ―simply hundreds of things, my dearest things, I cannot tell her, for scornful silences, rebuffs and misunderstandings are too much for me.‖ 214 Lumsden in turn was frustrated to learn that Maynard‘s confidence went not ―with length of acquaintance, nor similar circumstances, nor even affection, but with a fellow- feeling on certain points.‘‖ 215 Maynard had by this time begun to question the Puritan prioritizing of reason that had informed her faith crisis and to turn back to the revivalist Evangelicalism of her childhood. Her decision to return to Evangelicalism demonstrates not so much a capitulation to dominant discourses of femininity, as a self-aware recuperation of faith on the basis of an esteem for Evangelical discourses of religious feeling. While Maynard did not turn back to Evangelicalism because it was the context in which she could pursue sexual desire, her sexual subjectivity was inextricably intertwined with Evangelical discourse; Evangelicalism had provided her with a discourse of emotion, desire, and intimacy. Lumsden could not countenance Maynard‘s Evangelicalism and her valorizing of emotion. She was opposed to discourses of religious feeling and evangelical revivalism: [She] had been in a ―Revival‖, & hated & dreaded the whole thing – that girls of that age were so susceptible a touch would send them off, but that she wd rather some bad habit went through the School (as boys sometimes take to drinking) than that such a spirit shd enter, because the excitement flared up & passed, & the heart was left closed & cold to all real good for years after. 216 214 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 37, 1881, 456. 215 Greenbook, 15 June 1877, 199. 216 Greenbook, 25 March 1877, 166. 150 She believed Maynard to have succumbed to the easy sentiment of an intellectually impoverished evangelicalism. Of Maynard‘s devotional reading she noted, ―I wonder at you so much, that you who have read the really strong meat of philosophy & thought shd put up with a weak senseless little modern book like that.‖ 217 Lumsden seems to have understood her same-sex desire in transgender/transsexual terms; her rational rejection of orthodox Christianity was one outworking of her masculinity. Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity was intricately intertwined in Evangelicalism, however. It was compelled less by a desire to recuperate femininity than as a way to privilege desire, both religious and sexual. It offered a long-sought after alternative to the emotional austerity and sexual repression of her Puritan childhood. It demonstrates the significance of religious discourse to the making of some Victorian women‘s sexual desire and suggests that sexuality is a factor that requires further investigation when accounting for the perpetuation, by women themselves, of the trope of the ―spiritual woman.‖ For these women the loss of religious discourse entailed a loss of a discourse of sexual desire. Maynard‘s turn back to Evangelicalism also points to the need for a more extensive theorizing of the relationship of femininity to same- sex desire, different from but as comprehensive as the kind that has been undertaken by historians of sexuality in relation to female masculinity and same-sex desire. 218 In July 1880 Maynard resigned from St. Leonards. The religious framework within which she had conducted her relationship with Lumsden was evident when, addressing God, she wrote in her Greenbook that ―I thought I was sent to lead that noble heart to Thee, and all this very day has ended in wreck and failure and grief.‖ 219 Referencing the New Testament parable 217 Greenbook, 1 April 1877, 168. 218 See, for example, Judith Halberstam, Female Masculinity (Durham, N. C.: Duke University Press, 1998). 219 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 37, 1881, 460. 151 in which a man buys a field to procure the treasure within it (an analogy for the sacrifices that are to be made in attaining the Kingdom of Heaven), Maynard wrote: ―I gave up so much to win this prize, – ah, perhaps too much! – to win it. I have spent my whole treasure, I‘ve got nothing left; I have suffered and spared nothing, nothing, and yet she is not the richer.‖ 220 The imbrication of Maynard‘s relationship with God and her relationship with Lumsden – not as either/or but both/and – is evident in this transposition of the biblical text. In accompanying Lumsden to St. Leonards Maynard had not only sought to attain the salvation of Lumsden and, indistinguishably, to attain Lumsden herself, she had also sought to restage the injuries sustained in her relationship with God as a result of her crisis of faith and to attempt to ameliorate those. Maynard moved to London after her resignation and pursued part-time study of art at the Slade School. Lumsden remained at St. Leonards; there is no evidence to suggest that she pursued other erotic relationships with women, or any erotic relationships at all, in subsequent years. Maynard‘s religious subjectivity and the homoerotic relationships she pursued during the 1870s, like those of her adolescence and early adulthood, demonstrate the central role of piety in the constitution of her sexual subjectivity, the influence of wider religious trends on her religious beliefs, and the dynamic nature of her religious and sexual subjectivity. During the 1870s her religious subjectivity shifted; she moved from a confident Puritan Evangelical faith to a characteristically Victorian crisis of faith which resulted in a transition in her sexual subjectivity. The relationships she pursued with both Lewis Campbell and Louisa Lumsden were, unlike her school girl ―raves,‖ forged across the chasm of religious difference; the erotic became the site at which her crisis of faith was precipitated and at which she sought its resolution. Maynard‘s erotic relationships with Campbell and Lumsden demonstrate the importance of sexuality as a site of enquiry for scholars of the Victorian crisis of faith. Her attraction to 220 Ibid. 152 agnostics or near-agnostics and her re-staging of her relationship with the divine in these ostensibly ―secular‖ spaces evidences the unstable relationship between the secular and the sacred during her faith crisis. The turn to sexual desire by the theologically liberal Campbell and the near-agnostic Lumsden, and the spiritual terms in which they described the erotic, suggests that discourses of religion and sexuality were in close proximity during the crisis of faith; it demonstrates the consequent blurring of what scholars have deemed ―secular‖ (the rejection of faith and the privileging of the erotic) and ―sacred.‖ Maynard and Campbell‘s relationship also illustrates the historically specific constitution of the ―spiritual woman‖ and the ―secular man‖ of dominant Victorian discourse. However, Campbell‘s re-writing of the sexual in a spiritual idiom and Maynard‘s entertaining of a masculine doubt illustrates the fluidity of masculinity and femininity and of their respective alignment with doubt and faith. The faith-crisis erotic, as it was instantiated in Maynard‘s life, produced doubting belief and faith-inflected doubt. It illustrates, in the realm of sexuality, the inadequacy of the discrete, binary categories of doubt and faith, secular and sacred, body and soul, and masculinity and femininity that inform dominant theories of secularization. Maynard‘s erotic relationships of the 1870s suggest that it is not simply a case of ―slippages‖ between the secular and sacred, their ―blurring‖ or ―imbrication‖ – these are merely heuristic devices for a contemporary readership. Rather, Maynard‘s relationships illuminate the indistinguishable nature of doubt and faith, evident in a variety of forms of doubting-faith and faith-inflected doubt. Maynard‘s erotic relationships of the 1870s also demonstrate the importance of the women‘s colleges as sites of investigation for scholars of the Victorian faith crisis. Her faith crisis was precipitated by Lewis Campbell, a Classics Professor, proponent of women‘s higher education, and exponent of liberal theology. It suggests that other prominent theological liberals or agnostics involved in women‘s higher education – Maurice, Sedgwick, Seeley – may have had 153 a similar influence on college women. Maynard‘s relationship with Lumsden constitutes a valuable example of the outworking of the crisis of faith amongst college women. Lumsden‘s dissident gender subjectivity points to a broader discomfort amongst college women with Victorian norms of femininity and the role of gender (specifically the transgression of gender norms required to pursue higher education) in precipitating a faith crisis. It points to the importance of taking gender into account as a factor in investigating the Victorian crisis of faith. Lumsden‘s forthright, assertive doubt and her rational reconfiguration of a tentative faith, along with her reworking of the erotic as a site of the sacred, resulted in a ―blurring‖ of masculinity and femininity similar to that of Campbell. Maynard‘s rational Puritanism and her reasoned questioning of her faith demonstrate what has often been deemed a masculine vigor and intellectual rigor. Even after her turned back to Evangelicalism, reason and emotion co-existed uncomfortably in her religious subjectivity. Rather than a simple reprisal of femininity, her return to Evangelicalism was the effect of her indebtedness to its discourse of feeling and of sexual desire. The fact that this entailed an adoption of dominant norms of femininity points to the constraints consequent on the historical aligning of femininity with emotion, where an embrace of the latter brought with it some of the liabilities of the former. Rather than representing the consolidation of discourses of femininity it reveals the points of tension inherent in them. Ultimately Maynard found a tenuous holding ground for her faith in an empiricism that derived from both Evangelicalism and Puritanism. Turning back to what Bebbington describes as the Enlightenment legacy of the eighteenth-century revivals, Maynard foregrounded an epistemology based on experience of the divine. In April 1875, while still at Girton, she had had Connie Herschel and Mary Kingsland to tea and afterwards wrote, ―we sat in the dusk for a long talk on the ‗Rational basis of Faith‘: We came to the conclusion that as in every case Intuition or 154 ‗direct Presentation‘ is the only certain knowledge (serving as a basis for demonstration), so in Christianity there is no proof but the immediate trying it, like sight & hearing.‖ 221 Maynard‘s perception that religious experience was the best evidence of faith was to foster a shift in her religious subjectivity. At the start of the 1880s she turned again to the holiness movement, and more particularly to the Salvation Army. A different iteration of desire, structured by the holiness movement, was to come to the fore in the next phase of Maynard‘s religious history. What is most remarkable about Maynard‘s erotic relationships of the 1870s, perhaps, is the relative insignificance of gender to sexual desire. Leila Rupp, in her history of same-sex sexuality, writes that ―there are various ways that sexual acts involving two genitally alike bodies may in fact not be best conceptualized as ‗same-sex.‘ In some cases, what is more important than the fact of genital similarity is the fact of some kind of difference: age difference, class difference, gender difference . . . are far more important to the people involved and to the societies in which they lived than the mere fact of touching similar bodies.‖ 222 Maynard‘s relationships with Campbell and Lumsden suggest a corollary to Rupp‘s assertion; for her, differently sexed bodies may have been less a factor in precipitating desire than religious difference was. She believed that Campbell‘s liberal theology had ultimately been injurious to her faith; Lumsden‘s near-agnosticism offered her the opportunity to remediate that injury and it was this, rather than Lumsden‘s physical sex, that incited Maynard‘s desire and structured her relationship with the other woman. 221 Greenbook, April 25 1875, 88-89. 222 Leila Rupp, ―Toward a Global History of Same-Sex Sexuality,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality, 10 (2001): 287-288, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friendships, xxi-xxii. 155 Chapter 3: Familiar Desires: Evangelicalism, Familial Discourse, and Homosexual Subjectivity When in 1882 Maynard was offered the position of principal or ―Mistress‖ of Westfield College, the college for women whose founding she had championed, she compared accepting it to entering a religious order (―I heard the harsh grating of the convent gate closing behind me‖ 1 ) and delineated the similarities between herself and the seventeenth-century Jansenist abbess of the Port Royal convent, Jacqueline-Marie-Angélique Arnauld or La Mère Angélique (―I thought of . . . her white woollen dress & scarlet cross, & looking down on my own black dress I thought, ‗. . . it is the same dress . . . it is done from the same motive‘‖ 2 ). Religious orders were of great interest to Victorians. The Oxford Movement of the 1830s had sparked their restoration; the first Anglo-Catholic convent had been established in 1845 and by the end of the century, around 1,300 Anglo-Catholics had affiliated with religious orders. 3 Maynard‘s recourse to Catholic discourse is nevertheless surprising; Catholicism (both Anglo- and Roman), with its notion of priests as intermediaries to God, the practice of aural confession, the ornate ritual that characterized church services, and the elevation of celibacy, was anathema to most Evangelicals. Maynard established the college in response to a religious calling to women‘s higher education and in a period in which, for middle-class women, the pursuit of a career was deemed to be incompatible with marriage. In the early 1880s the metaphor of entering a religious sisterhood thus seemed to Maynard to best describe her acceptance of the position of principal of 1 Effie Notebooks, 27 October 1888, 172. 2 Effie Notebooks, Retrospect of 1888, 27 October 1888, 96-97. 3 Michael Mason, The Making of Victorian Sexual Attitudes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 18. 156 Westfield. 4 Despite Maynard‘s history of homoerotic relationships, she viewed the renunciation of marriage with regret. At St. Leonards she had been courted by a distinguished Scottish clergyman, Dr. James Robertson of Wittinghame; she had repelled his advances but had nevertheless observed that she could ―hardly bear steadily to look on such a blessing within arm‘s length & yet be firm & reasonable.‖ 5 The founding of Westfield College was Maynard‘s most significant achievement and the college was an important milestone in the women‘s movement for higher education. 6 It was the first residential college for women in London and the first British college to award women graduates degrees (the college was affiliated with the University of London which granted women degrees from 1878, far predating Oxford and Cambridge). 7 Maynard served as its 4 The use of the metaphor of religious orders to describe women‘s colleges was not unusual. In an essay on the position of women in history, the near-agnostic Louisa Lumsden argued that the convents had been the last productive sites of women‘s learning, and that Protestants, by bringing about their closure after the Reformation, had thwarted women‘s intellectual development. She suggested that by offering women intellectual training the colleges comprised a form of modern-day sisterhood. Louisa Lumsden, ―The Position of Woman in History,‖ in The Position of Woman: Actual and Ideal (London: Nisbet, 1911), 29-66. 5 Greenbook, 28 July 1877, 211. 6 For the history of Westfield College and its role in the movement for women‘s higher education, see Janet Sondheimer, Castle Adamant in Hampstead. A History of Westfield College 1882-1982 (London: Westfield College, University of London, 1983); Eleanor Carus-Wilson, Westfield College, University of London, 1882-1932 (London: The Favil Press, [1932]); Martha Vicinus, Independent Women: Work and Community for Single Women, 1850- 1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985); Martha Vicinus, ―‗One Life to Stand Beside Me‘: Emotional Conflicts in First-Generation College Women in England,‖ Feminist Studies 3 (Fall 1982): 603-28; and Elizabeth Edwards, ―Homoerotic Friendships and College Principals, 1880-1960,‖ Women's History Review 4, no. 2 (1995): 149-163. The first journal to publish an article on the college was Girls Own Paper. Mary L. G. Petrie, ―The Dream of Princess Ida,‖ Girls Own Paper [15 December 1883]: 171. The writings of former faculty and staff are also important sources for the history of Westfield. Two unpublished works by Maynard and Anne Richardson were written in about 1927: ―The Inception of Westfield College‖ by Maynard and ―Notes on the History of Westfield College up to 1913, and on Some of its Foreign Connections Since‖ by Richardson. Maynard‘s ―Some Thoughts on the Cultivation of the Intellect: A Paper Read at the Annual Meeting for the Christian Women‘s Union, Held at Liverpool, October 1881‖ (London: Westfield College, 1888) became the prospectus for the new college. Richardson also wrote an article on Maynard in Wings, the journal of the Women‘s Total Abstinence Union. Publications by other former staff and students include: Dr. Marian Delft‘s ―Reminiscences of Westfield College mainly 1906-194‖ and ―Botany at Westfield 1906-48‖; E. C. Lodge‘s Terms and Vacations (1938); and M . D. Stocks, My Commonplace Book (1970) and Still More Commonplaces (1973). 7 Oxford granted degrees to women in 1921 and Cambridge only in 1948, although women were allowed to take the exams. Women had graduated from the University of London, in small numbers, from 1880. (In 1882, the year Westfield opened, Maynard counted eleven women amongst two hundred men at the University of London graduation ceremony.) Bedford College, founded in 1849, prepared students for London degrees, and University 157 principal from 1882 to 1913, when she retired. Westfield faculty and students went on to hold prestigious positions in education. 8 While feminist scholars have been quick to note the significance of Westfield College for women‘s higher education, they have neglected the role of Maynard‘s religious belief in the founding and structuring of the college. One feminist historian of education, Janet Howarth, nevertheless notes that women‘s schools and colleges, ―as a recognized female domain with influential male patrons,‖ offered ―interesting parallels with the contemporary Anglican sisterhood and deaconess movements‖ and observes that ―many headmistresses of the period took their religious vocation just as seriously and saw their work literally as ‗ministry.‘‖ 9 While feminist scholars have for the most part overlooked the religious framing of Westfield, and Maynard‘s persistent use of the Anglo-Catholic sisterhood metaphor in particular, scholars of Victorian homosexuality have studied religious orders as important sites at which homoerotic/homosexual desire was enacted. 10 They have, in recent years, turned to queer theory as a theoretical framework for this enquiry. Queer theory emerged in the early 1990s as a response to the identity politics of gay and lesbian theory (and activism). Queer theorists Judith Butler and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, indebted to the work of Foucault, argued that the subjugation of sexual dissidents was a product College admitted women to most of its faculties after 1878, when the University of London opened its degrees to women, but these colleges were not residential. 8 By 1913, when Maynard retired, about a dozen former students had been appointed headmistresses of the new girls‘ high schools, and half the new graduates of each year had gone into teaching (Sondheimer, Castle Adamant, 68). Katherine Tristram, Westfield‘s first tutor, became Principal of Osaka Girls‘ High School in Japan. Frances Ralph Gray, an early Classics lecturer, was appointed Head of St. Katherine‘s School for Girls (1894-1903) in St. Andrews and then High Mistress of the prestigious St. Paul‘s School for Girls in London (1903-1927). 9 Janet Howarth, ―The Church of England and Women‘s Higher Education, c.1840-1914,‖ in Politics and Culture in Victorian Britain: Essays in Memory of Colin Matthew, ed. Peter Ghosh and Lawrence Goldman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 169-70. 10 See David Hilliard, ―UnEnglish and Unmanly: Anglo-Catholicism and Homosexuality,‖ Victorian Studies 25 (1982): 181-210; Philip Healy, ―Man Apart: Priesthood and Homosexuality at the End of the Nineteenth Century,‖ in Masculinity and Spirituality in Victorian Culture, ed. Andrew Bradstock (New York: St. Martin's Press, 2000), 100-115; and Frederick Roden, Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Religious Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2002). 158 not so much of the hierarchical structuring of sexual categories (the privileging of heterosexuality over homosexuality) as of the construction and perpetuation of the categories themselves. Drawing on post-structuralist theory, and deconstruction in particular, they argued that the notion of sexual identity could not adequately encapsulate the diverse, contradictory, and dynamic discourses that structured the individual‘s sexual subjectivity. 11 The terms ―heterosexual‖ and ―homosexual,‖ rather than antithetical, had been implicated in one another‘s making, evinced continuities, and thus did not actually exist in an oppositional relation to each other. 12 Questions regarding the politics of queer theory emerged as a result of the latter analysis. Queer theory had originated as part of separatist movements with the gay and lesbian movement and some strands within it bore its imprint in positioning queer as inherently transgressive of heterosexuality. A more nuanced approach to the politics of the term ―queer‖ has emerged in scholarly work in recent years; it has expanded the category in order to account for a wider array of political possibilities for queerness (understood as a critique or refusal of identity rather than an identity). The question that has now emerged is how the relationship between transgression or subversion and the term ―queer‖ might best be understood. 13 11 David Halperin describes the term ―queer‖ in this way: ―Queer is by definition whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant. There is nothing in particular to which it necessarily refers. It is an identity without an essence. ‗Queer‘ then, demarcates not a positivity but a positionality vis-à-vis the normative.‖ David Halperin, Saint Foucault: Towards a Gay Hagiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 62. 12 Thus, in Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (1985) Sedgwick challenged the heterosexual/homosexual binary by pointing to the same-sex desire evident in relationships between heterosexual men. Halperin, in historicizing homosexuality, sought to ―denaturalize heterosexuality, to deprive it of its claims to be considered a ‗traditional value,‘ and ultimately to destroy the self-evidence of the entire system on which the homophobic opposition between homosexuality and heterosexuality depended.‖ David, M. Halperin, How to do the History of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 10. 13 Frank Mort thus notes that ―one strand of queer theory has been organised around a surprisingly fixed and quasi- essentialist version of homosexual selfhood; with queer pitched against ‗straight‘ and perversion pitted against normality in a stark series of oppositions‖ (Frank Mort, Dangerous Sexualities: Medico-Moral Politics in England since 1830 [New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987], xviii). He argues that ―sexual theory is littered with reductionisms, they have proved simplistic because they fail to grasp the plurality of sexual systems and force disabling choices around polarised oppositions‖ (xx). 159 In the study of religion and homosexuality the influence of queer theory has been evident in the work of Frederick Roden, amongst others. In her text Tendencies (1993) Sedgwick suggested that the term ―queer,‖ rather than denoting the refusal of sexual identity only, might refer to practices, discourses, or identities that challenged or transgressed dominant cultural norms of any kind. Roden takes up Sedgwick‘s capacious definition of the term ―queer‖ to develop a theoretical framework through which to investigate the relationship between Victorian Catholic (and Anglo-Catholic) orders and same-sex desire. Positing a two-fold definition of the term ―queer,‖ he suggests that the newly revived orders constituted culturally queer or non- heteronormative spaces within Victorian society that facilitated the articulation of sexually queer desire. 14 By defining non-heteronormative spaces as those in which marriage and the family are eschewed, and by positing non-heteronormative sites as those from which same-sex desire emerged in the Victorian era, Roden situates homoeroticism and homosexuality beyond the parameters of the heterosexual family. In her study of female same-sex relationships, Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England (2006), Sharon Marcus takes issue with approaches such as Roden‘s. 15 Drawing on Sedgwick‘s queer epistemology, as advanced in Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (1985), she argues that queer and feminist scholars, by positioning homosexuality outside heterosexuality and as an inevitable challenge to it, perpetuate the subjugation inherent in the mobilizing of heterosexuality and homosexuality as categories. Marcus‘s work is a direct challenge to Martha Vicinus‘s Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved 14 Roden, Same-Sex Desire, 1. His understanding of cultural queerness is also indebted to Theodora Jankowski, who used the concept of ―queer virginity‖ in her study of early modern English drama to argue that ―any early modern virgin who chose willingly to prolong her virginity – or especially to adopt it as a permanent condition‖ occupied a ―dissident and highly resistant‖ position in the gender/sex system. Theodora Jankowski, Pure Resistance: Queer Virginity in Early Modern English Drama (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 113, quoted in Roden, Same-Sex Desire, 6. 15 Sharon Marcus, Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). 160 Women, 1778-1928 (2004). Marcus argued that Vicinus, in arguing that Victorian women who pursued same-sex relationships posed an inevitable challenge to the patriarchal family, had utilized a lesbian feminist theoretical framework of the kind promulgated by Adrienne Rich; she had thus perpetuated the minoritizing discourse of homosexuality that Sedgwick had criticized. 16 Marcus claimed instead that Victorian women‘s friendships, homoeroticism, and homosexuality were integral to the making of femininity, heterosexual sexuality, marriage, and the heterosexual family. 17 Homoerotic and even homosexual relationships between women were acknowledged, accepted and encouraged by Victorians who saw them as preparation for, and a supplement to, marriage. In this chapter I explore Maynard‘s founding of Westfield College and the homoerotic relationships she pursued in the light of these debates on the relationship of ―queer‖ articulations of desire to heterosexuality. I argue that Roden‘s two-fold definition of the queerness of the discourse on Anglo-Catholic religious orders illuminates some important aspects of the relationship between Maynard‘s Evangelical holiness piety, her founding of Westfield College, and her homoeroticism. However, I am more centrally concerned with the relationship of Westfield College to the heterosexual family. I argue that as a culturally queer religious space that has some similarity to the sisterhoods Roden describes; it was not distinct from the family but actually a product of it. Expressions of homoerotic desire that took place within its walls were not the result of an ―escape‖ from the Victorian family, but were in fact co-produced with it. This chapter is thus indebted, to a degree, to Marcus‘s theoretical framework as it derives 16 Marcus argues that ―lesbian historians have inserted their subjects into the historical record by representing them as an outlawed minority defined by their exceptional sexual desire for women, their transgressive identification with masculinity, and their exclusion from the institutions of marriage and family.‖ They ―share the assumption that the opposition between men and women governs relationships between women, which take shape only as reactions against, retreats from, or appropriations of masculinity.‖ Marcus, Between Women, 11. 17 Marcus argues that ―in lieu of marginal and subversive identities, this book offers an alternative concept . . . the social relationship, which is not reducible to sex, power, or difference.‖ Marcus, Between Women,14. 161 from Sedgwick, but it also draws centrally on Vicinus‘s work on familial metaphors and female homoeroticism/homosexuality. Marcus‘s reading of Vicinus‘s text was not an inaccurate one. Not only was Vicinus‘s approach at odds with Rich‘s lesbian feminism but Vicinus also took up familial metaphors as the organizing principle of her text. 18 She argued that in an era that predated the dissemination of sexological discourse, Victorian women took up mother-daughter and husband-wife metaphors to denote same-sex relationships. 19 Vicinus‘s investigation of the use of familial metaphors by sexually dissident women suggests that she understood the relationship between Victorian same-sex sexuality and the heterosexual family to be more complex than Marcus had indicated. In this chapter I argue that the mutual constitution of Evangelical discourses of literal marriage, motherhood, and the family on the one hand, and their spiritual counterparts on the other, fostered culturally and sexually queer spaces in Evangelical discourse on the Victorian family. Maynard‘s homoerotic relationships of the 1880s emerged within these spaces; her accounts of them constitute an Evangelical genealogy of same-sex desire. More than this, culturally and sexually queer spaces within Maynard‘s Evangelicalism structured what may be deemed a specifically Evangelical homosexual subjectivity on Maynard‘s part in the mid-1880s. This subjectivity is distinguishable from her homoerotic subjectivity of earlier years, and parallels in some ways the subjectivity that was a product of the sexological discourse on ―female inversion‖ in subsequent generations, although it lacks its identitarian formulation. In 18 Vicinus‘s use of the term ―lesbian‖ did not in fact coincide with Rich‘s political lesbianism; her intention in using the term was actually to foreground the sexual in Victorian women‘s same-sex relationships. By exploring female masculinity Vicinus rejected lesbian feminists‘ eschewal of butch lesbians or transgendered women. 19 Martha Vicinus, Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved Women, 1778-1928 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), xxv. 162 the 1880s Evangelical discourse enabled Maynard to understand her desire as sexual and to argue that it had a significance comparable to that of heterosexual desire. If Maynard‘s same-sex relationships of the 1880s show the Evangelical family and female homoeroticism to be co-produced, they do not demonstrate, as Marcus asserts, the wholesale subsuming of female homoeroticism, female homosexuality, and female marriage to the ideological imperatives of the heterosexual family. This chapter charts a range of relationships of female same-sex desire to the heterosexual family in Maynard‘s adoption of mother-daughter and husband-wife metaphors, including ones that resist and disturb heterosexual familial discourse. The disruptive potential of women‘s homoerotic or homosexual relationships emerged not through institutions located outside the family, but as part of its production. Similarly, disruptions to Evangelical discourses of sexuality emerged not outside of Evangelicalism but as part of its making. Maynard‘s homoerotic relationships of the 1880s suggest that same-sex desire was integral to Evangelicalism rather than (simply) a transgression of it and that culturally and sexually queer spaces were intrinsic to the Evangelical family. In 1880 Maynard, having resigned her post at St. Leonards in Scotland, moved to London. She took up lodgings with her brother George at 66, Upper Berkeley St, and enrolled as a part-time student at the Slade School of Art located in University College, Gower Street. She had had an interest in art as a child, had shown some promise, and had been allowed to take drawing lessons in London at the ―Life School‖ at Newman St. Art School. At the Slade she studied under the French painter and etcher Alphonse Legros (1837-1911), a friend of the British painter James Whistler. 20 Initial success at the Slade – she was admitted by Legros into the Life School only ten days after the commencement of her studies, when most students required a term 20 For a more detailed discussion of Maynard‘s time at the Slade, see Catherine Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, Mistress of Westfield College: A Family Portrait (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1949), 170-72. 163 or even a year – led to a subsequent recognition of her limitations. Maynard also had reservations about the wholehearted pursuit of art by Christians. Turning instead to her ―inner life,‖ she sought a solution to her prolonged faith crisis and found a partial answer in the holiness movement. The holiness movement was part of what Alex Owen, disputing singular trajectories of secularization, describes as the fin-de-siècle mystical revival. Later nineteenth-century Victorians, disillusioned with both scientific materialism and orthodox religion, turned to mystical iterations of religion including ―medieval and Renaissance Christian mysticism, heterodox inspirational neo-Christianity, and Eastern religions.‖ 21 Maynard recognized a shift in broader Victorian culture towards religious revivalism. In characteristically Evangelical fashion she differentiated between manifestations of God on the one side and the devil on the other. ―After an age of deadness on both sides,‖ she observed, in 1874, ―spiritualism is reviving, & with it fresh & more open life in the church, __ I mean teaching like R. P. S. [Robert Pearsall Smith] [,] power like Moody & Sankey, gifts of healing like D. Trudel.‖ 22 Of holiness piety Maynard noted in later years, ―the whole inner circle of the Church of Christ was feeling after closer relations with Him, and while some called it ‗a clean heart,‘ and some ‗a life of complete devotion,‘ and others ‗the baptism of the Spirit,‘ they were all every one of them out after the same thing.‖ 23 Maynard had first encountered the holiness movement in the late 1860s; she had experienced the second conversion, or entire consecration, in 1869. The movement had gained 21 Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 21. 22 Greenbook, Christmas Day 1874, 172-73. 23 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 1-2. 164 momentum in the 1870s and 1880s. 24 Maynard attended the Brighton holiness conference in 1875 and in London in the 1880s she was a member of the Portman Chapel whose minister, Rev. E. W. Moore, was a leading exponent of holiness Evangelicalism. 25 By 1880, however, her religious subjectivity had shifted. She had experienced a faith crisis during the 1870s and observed in later years that ―it remained impossible to shut one‘s eyes and go back into the old position . . . since for me that position was a false one.‖ 26 By turning to holiness piety in the 1880s, she sought a different engagement with the movement than that of the late 1860s. During her faith crisis Maynard had come to believe that reason could no longer be primary in the legitimation of her faith. 27 She was drawn to the ―mysticism‖ of holiness advocates because it offered an alternative means to validate faith (―it is almost as though they would say, ‗Let there be no rational basis for faith; it yet produces these results in the soul, therefore it is true‖ 28 ). The religious experience of individual Christians, both past and present, gained heightened significance for Maynard. She wrote in retrospect that ―to me the thought of the Church Universal, so well learned in younger days, became as true an inspiration as the thought of Christ Himself, and one more tangible, more open to be seen, handled and verified.‖ 29 She turned to Christian history for accounts of the Church Universal. ―The long procession moved before the eye of my soul,‖ she noted, ―– martyrs, missionaries, sufferers; the recluses of 24 David W. Bebbington, Evangelicalism in Modern Britain: A History from the 1730s to the 1980s (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1989), 161. 25 Moore was a friend of the renowned Keswick holiness advocate Evan Hopkins. 26 Constance Maynard, ―An Individual Retrospect of the Religious Thought of the Nineteenth Century,‖ pt. 2, Expositor (September 1901): 253. 27 Of this era of her life she later noted, ―reason . . . stands aside as though she would say . . . ‗I have led you as far as I can, and you have been obedient. It is not irrational that you should now go further.‘‖ Maynard, Individual Retrospect, 259. 28 Ibid., 254. 29 Ibid. 165 Port Royal, the persecuted Huguenots and Covenanters, the Moravians working in Labrador or among the Lepers.‖ 30 Contemporary Evangelicals, like their historical counterparts, might, through their recounting of spiritual experience, also offer evidence for the validity of Christianity (―the great tent at Keswick, and Moody‘s crowded meetings, and hot mission rooms in London, and gatherings in lonely cottages, where a few Methodists met kneeling on the brick floor‖ 31 ). In the early 1880s, in an effort to reinvigorate her foundering faith, Maynard turned to the Salvation Army, a nondenominational holiness organization, and sought within its auspices a more collective piety through which evidence of Christianity might be found. Her engagement with holiness piety in the early 1880s thus differed from her more individualistic approach in the late 1860s. The Salvation Army was a primarily working-class holiness organization founded in 1878 by William and Catherine Booth. Religious experience was central to Salvationism. Army meetings were characterized by the sharing of stories of conversion and of triumph through spiritual struggle. Maynard attended her first meeting of the Salvation Army in December 1880. ―It was a ‗Testimony Meeting,‘‖ she wrote, ―and . . . in nearly everyone the ring of the true metal was loud and clear, and it did my heart good.‖ 32 Smaller ―experience meetings‖ derived from the Methodist ―class meetings‖ which were characterized by ―intimate discussion and mutual confession.‖ 33 Access to believers‘ religious experience enabled the upper-middle-class and class conscious Maynard to overlook the working-class ethos of the Army. She observed that the ―jumping red jerseys, mistaken and flippant expressions in the ‗War Cry,‘ everything I had 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid. 32 Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 39, 1880, 37. 33 Phyllis Mack, Heart Religion in the British Enlightenment: Gender and Emotion in Early Methodism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 135. 166 found repulsive vanished before the glorious reality of living transforming power.‖ 34 During the 1880s, Maynard endeavored ―to learn from those whose spiritual life had in it any element of victory‖ and to ―help those still further astray or still more despairing.‖ 35 The holiness movement‘s emphasis on religious experience rather than on scholarly expertise gave Victorian women a rare institutional discourse of spiritual authority. 36 Following the New Testament Pentecost story, the leaders of the movement taught that the baptism of the Holy Spirit was available to women and men and equipped them equally for Christian ministry. 37 Catherine Booth thus asked fellow Salvationists, ―Who shall dare thrust women out of the Church‘s operation or presume to put my candle which God has lighted under a bushel?‖ 38 Under Booth‘s influence, the Army became one of the most egalitarian religious movements for Victorian women; women were eligible for all ranks, were appointed on equal terms with men, and were given equal authority: they preached, administered communion, and oversaw Army corps or mission stations. In the early 1880s Maynard witnessed the leadership of women in the Salvation Army; she heard Catherine Booth speak at weekly Army meetings at St. Andrew‘s Hall, and in 1881 she met the twenty-two year old Kate Booth, the Booth‘s oldest daughter, who was leaving for France to establish a branch of the Salvation Army there. At the age of twelve Maynard had received a prophetic calling. Soon after gaining admission to Girton College, Cambridge, in 1872 she had come to understand women‘s higher education to be the arena within which her prophetic calling was to be exercised. ―Whether God 34 Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 39, 1880, 37. 35 Maynard, Individual Retrospect, 258. 36 Nancy Hardesty, Women Called to Witness: Evangelical Feminism in the Nineteenth Century (Nashville, Tenn: Abingdon Press, 1984), 49-50. 37 Ibid. 38 Catherine Booth to William Booth, 9 April 1855, Catherine Mumford Booth Papers, British Library, Add. Mss. 64802, f. 68, quoted in Pamela Walker, Pulling the Devil's Kingdom Down: The Salvation Army in Victorian Britain (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 20. 167 spoke to me, or my heart cried to God, I do not know,‖ she wrote in later years, ― I only know that a definite thrill went through me, ‗Oh, how I want a College, just like this in its high standard of work, its liberty, & everything! & yet not like this . . . but where the name of Christ is loved & honoured.‘‖ 39 The Salvation Army‘s legitimation of women‘s religious leadership, its belief in the egalitarian empowering of Christians by the Holy Spirit, prompted her to take up a prophetic calling to women‘s higher education. As Pauline Phipps notes, for Maynard ―ambition, passion, and faith‖ were interconnected and ―propelled [her] toward an independent career.‖ 40 By 1880 Maynard had worked for seven years in contexts inimical to her faith. She had come to a different understanding of the world from that of her Puritan parents. ―I now see that the world being the great educating influence in which we are placed,‖ she observed in 1878, ―it is not what is intended to stand aside entirely & look on it as on a vain shew.‖ 41 Nevertheless, separation from the world remained compelling; an ―excess‖ of separation was far better than ―the blunting, dulling wretched compromise so often carried on.‖ 42 She longed to immerse 39 Autobiography, Part 3 Chapter 11, 1872, 355-56. It was not unusual for Victorian women, and indeed Evangelicals, to see themselves as prophets. In her campaign against the Contagious Diseases Acts in the 1860s and 1870s the Evangelical Josephine Butler identified herself with John the Baptist (and his antecedent, the prophet Isaiah) or a ―voice crying in the wilderness‖ (Isa. 43:10). Helen Mathers, ―‗‘Tis Dishonour Done to Me‘: Self- Representation in the Writings of Josephine Butler‖ in Sex, Gender, and Religion: Josephine Butler Revisited ed. Jenny Daggers and Diana Neal (New York: Peter Lang, 2006), 37-53. (See also Lucretia A. Flamming, ―‗And Your Sons and Daughters Will Prophesy‘: The Voice and Vision of Josephine Butler,‖ in Women’s Theology in Nineteenth-Century Britain: Transfiguring the Faith of Their Fathers, ed. Julie Melnyk [New York: Garland, 1998], 151-64). Florence Nightingale, an Anglican, had received a prophetic call in 1837, when she was sixteen; see Christiana De Groot, ―Florence Nightingale: Mother to Many,‖ in Recovering Nineteenth-Century Women Interpreters of the Bible, ed. Christiana De Groot and Marion Ann Taylor (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007), 118. The High Church Anglican Christina Rosssetti assumed a prophetic role by ―aligning her words with those of the Old Testament prophets Jeremiah, Amos, and Isaiah,‖ in her ―stinging political and cultural critique‖ of Victorian society. Amanda W. Benckhuysen, ―The Prophetic Voice of Christina Rossetti,‖ in De Groot and Taylor, Recovering Nineteenth-Century Women Interpreters, 174. 40 Pauline Phipps, ―Faith, Desire, and Sexual Identity: Constance Maynard‘s Atonement for Passion,‖ Journal of the History of Sexuality 18, no. 2 (May 2009): 271. 41 Greenbook, 14 July 1878, 98. 42 Ibid. 168 herself in communities that shared her beliefs. Her founding of Westfield College may be understood in part as a response to the holiness movement‘s reinvigoration of her Puritan desire for purity and separation from the world. While in the 1880s Maynard sought separation from the world, and while this entailed the eschewal of marriage and motherhood, neither her founding nor her structuring of Westfield College, can be deemed a straightforward rejection of the Evangelical family. The culturally and sexually queer desire that informed Maynard‘s venture was in fact the product of Evangelical familial discourse rather than an exception to it; insofar as the Evangelical family was a central Victorian institution Maynard‘s same-sex desire was an integral part of, rather than marginal to, Victorian society. Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall argue, in their study of the rise of the English middle class, that the elevation of the family by middle-class Evangelicals was a historically specific effect of early industrial Britain. Families were central to middle-class entrepreneurship: marriages were the means by which business alliances were forged, male entrepreneurs depended on their wives‘ fortunes to found or expand businesses, the procuring of credit depended upon a solid, reputable family life, and businesses were often family owned. 43 An emerging middle class, predominantly Evangelical in belief, sought and found validation for the family in biblical texts. By turning to spiritual metaphors of marriage, motherhood, and the family, they validated and valorized the earthly family and by making recourse to the earthly family to describe spiritual truths they elucidated and legitimated the ―spiritual family.‖ Evangelicals deployed the biblical marriage metaphor to depict God‘s relationship to the Church, while simultaneously elevating literal marriage. The marriage metaphor also structured relationships between husbands and wives by requiring wives‘ submission to their husbands (―Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. . . . Husbands, love your 43 Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780- 1850, rev. ed. (New York: Routledge, 1987), 193-315. 169 wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it‖ [Ephesians 5:22, 25]). Metaphors of motherhood represented God‘s blessing of Israel while simultaneously valorizing the role of literal mothers who brought salvation to their families. The pious earthly home was represented as a model of the Heavenly Home and simultaneously as evidence of it. 44 Literal and spiritual versions of marriage, motherhood, and the family were co-produced in Evangelical discourse. The evangelical Victorian family is often understood as a rigid and unchanging structure. However, the co-production of the literal and spiritual family led to instabilities in evangelical discourses about the literal family. The meanings of marriage, family, and motherhood vacillated unsteadily between incommensurable referents and generated resistances at the heart of the family. Spiritual marriage to Christ, for example, might prove more compelling than literal marriage. The ―family of God,‖ to which those who converted belonged, might undermine the cultural significance of the earthly family. In a chapter of We Women: A Golden Hope (1924) entitled ―Sister, Mother, Bride,‖ Maynard demonstrated the instability within Evangelical discourse on the family, contingent upon the co-production of its spiritual and literal versions, and the resistance offered by a spiritual discourse of the family to the literal family. Christ had both mobilized and valorized the notion of the spiritual family or ―family of God.‖ He had said, ―For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother‖ (Matthew 12:50). 45 He had given precedence to the spiritual family, suggesting that whoever ―left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands‖ for his sake and the gospel‘s would ―receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands‖ (Mark 10: 29, 44 Davidoff and Hall, Family Fortunes, 109. 45 Constance Maynard, We Women: A Golden Hope (London: Morgan & Scott, 1924), 111. 170 30). 46 ―In His anxiety to establish a perfect relation with the whole human race,‖ Maynard noted, ―[he] tended to crush down the natural relation.‖ 47 Texts such as Maynard‘s suggest that the rigidity of evangelical representations of the earthly family was in fact a response to the instability of evangelical familial discourse. The ostensibly inflexible middle-class discourse of marriage, motherhood, and family was actually the unstable result of competing discourses of the family, earthly and heavenly. Evangelical discourses of earthly and spiritual motherhood were central to Victorian notions of femininity. The association of mothers with Christ elevated motherhood while mothers illustrated Christ‘s love. In a book-length narrative poem entitled A True Mother (1916) Maynard demonstrated the mutual constitution of literal and spiritual motherhood. Mothers were the incarnation of Christ for their children, just as Christ was the incarnation of God: ―The Word made flesh.‖ God found no other way Whereby to speak to hearts of men of old; . . . ―As He is, so are we.‖ Made flesh again. ‘Tis I, unworthy, have to take this place . . . They catch my tone, they look me in my face; This is the only transcript they can read. 48 At the same time, Victorians, including Maynard, represented Christ and God as mother-figures. Boyd Hilton argues that the years 1850 to 1870 witnessed a transition in Christian theology from an emphasis on atonement to incarnation. He suggests that with the turn to incarnational theology – a focus on the life of Christ rather than his death – men and women began to worship 46 Maynard, We Women, 111. 47 Ibid. 48 Constance Maynard, A True Mother (London: Marshall Bros., 1916), 36-37. 171 a Christ of ―almost feminine tenderness and humanity.‖ 49 In her 1893 study of the Decalogue, the High Church Anglican Elizabeth Wordsworth, principal of Lady Margaret Hall, contended that Christ, by sacrificing himself for humanity, had elevated the role of mothers (―by giving us an example of self-sacrifice, by laying down His life for us, He has given a new beauty to that most mysterious and affecting relation between mother and child‖) and that mothers in turn had become a type for Christ ―as no other human type can do.‖ 50 Some female exegetes moved from notions of Christ as a mother to an exploration of the maternal elements of God. Rossetti wrote of the Victorian mother, ―And well may she glory, inasmuch as one of the tenderest of divine promises takes (so to say) the divine form: ‗As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you‘ (Is. lxvi.13).‘‖ 51 Samuel Taylor Coleridge‘s ―To An Infant,‖ transcribed by Maynard in her Greenbooks in 1876, demonstrates the broader cultural adoption of notions of God‘s motherhood and the blurring of spiritual and earthly motherhood consequent on the proximity of representations of a maternal God and godly mothers: O thou that rearest with celestial aim The future Seraph in my mortal frame, Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet As I totter with unpractised feet Still let me stretch my arms & cling to thee Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy! 52 49 Boyd Hilton, Age of Atonement (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 333, quoted in Helen Mathers, ―The Evangelical Spirituality of a Victorian Feminist: Josephine Butler 1828-1906,‖ Journal of Ecclesiastical History 52, no. 2 (April 2001): 304. The quotation is originally from J. Seeley's Ecce Homo (1866). 50 Elizabeth Wordsworth, The Decalogue (London: Longmans, Green,1893), 143 quoted in Rebecca G. S. Idestrom, ―Elizabeth Wordsworth: Nineteenth-Century Oxford Principal and Bible Interpreter,‖ in De Groot and Taylor, Nineteenth-Century Women Interpreters, 190-91. 51 Christina G. Rossetti, Seek and Find: A Double Series of Short Studies of the Bedicite (New York: Pott, Young, & Co., n.d.), 30-31, quoted in Roden, Same-Sex Desire, 38. 52 Greenbook, 16 July 1876, 61. 172 Maynard was in later years to develop a feminist theology in which biblical references to God as mother featured prominently (see chapter four). Although motherhood was an important trope in the biblical narrative, Evangelicals‘ appropriation of it was not inevitable; theirs was not a straightforward re-enacting of the familial practices delineated in the Bible (which varied vastly) but a historically specific phenomenon. The privileging of the motherly aspects of the divine in the face of the paucity of such a discourse in the New Testament, and very few references to it in the Hebrew Bible, attests to the role of the cultural context – the socio-economic importance of the family in industrial Britain – in the structuring of Victorian theology. In addition to this, the alignment of women with piety in evangelical discourse had rendered women newly responsible for the religious education of children. 53 Historians of feminism have often observed the prominence of the metaphor of motherhood in the rhetoric of Victorian feminists. Taking up the discourse of motherhood, Victorian women argued for the entry of women into the professions on the grounds that, as nurses, teachers, and social workers, they were extending the beneficial influence of mothers into the public arena. The evangelical discourse of the family was an important precedent to the emergence of the feminist use of the metaphor of motherhood to extend women‘s sphere of influence. The prioritizing of the spiritual function of mothers in Evangelical discourse allowed for the splitting off of notions of spiritual from literal motherhood and the eschewal of literal mothering altogether. Florence Nightingale exemplifies this process; she represented herself as a mother to the British nation in pursuing a religious calling to preserve life by instituting health 53 Nancy Cott, The Bonds of Womanhood: “Women’s Sphere” in New England, 1780-1835 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 84-87, quoted in Christiana De Groot and Marion Ann Taylor, ―Recovering Women‘s Voices in the History of Biblical Interpretation,‖ in De Groot and Taylor, Nineteenth-Century Women Interpreters, 5. 173 reforms and teaching sanitation. 54 Culturally queer discursive spaces emerged with the Evangelical co-production of spiritual and literal motherhood as women pursued spiritual motherhood instead of, rather than alongside, literal motherhood. Familial metaphors predominated in Maynard‘s representation and administration of Westfield College. She constituted a new family ―within the walls of her college,‖ positioned herself as mother to her students and staff, and ran the college like a family. 55 She was not alone amongst college principals in making the family the model for women‘s colleges. 56 Vicinus argues that principals modeled colleges after the family to alleviate the tension they felt between ―the old social expectations of marriage and children, and the new opportunities for independence and personal fulfillment.‖ 57 She suggests that Maynard negotiated the cultural dissonance of her position as principal of Westfield by exercising her authority ―in a classic wifely fashion, by influencing the girls through her love and example.‖ 58 There is much that is insightful in Vicinus‘s explanation of Maynard‘s recourse to familial metaphors in founding and administering Westfield, however a more extensive analysis of Maynard‘s Evangelical piety is required to fully understand her recourse to familial metaphors, the indebtedness of Victorian feminist metaphors of motherhood to Evangelicalism, and the relationship between metaphors of motherhood and female homoeroticism. 54 Christiana De Groot, ―Florence Nightingale: Mother to Many,‖ in De Groot and Taylor, Nineteenth-Century Women Interpreters, 121. 55 Vicinus, ―One Life,‖ 609, 614-15. 56 Elizabeth Edwards explores the ways that the principals of the women‘s colleges used the familial metaphor to structure those institutions. For example, Elizabeth Wordsworth, the principal of Lady Margaret Hall, situated herself as mother of her students and the college strove to provide its students with ―a common life with the ways and tone of a Christian family.‖ Elizabeth Edwards, ―Educational Institutions or Extended Families? The Reconstruction of Gender in Women‘s Colleges in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries,‖ Gender and Education 2, no. 1 (1990): 65. 57 Vicinus, ―One Life,‖ 603. 58 Ibid., 612. 174 Prior to founding Westfield, Maynard read Isaiah 54 and 60 and believed God to be speaking to her through these texts. Both used marriage and motherhood as metaphors to describe God‘s renewed covenant with a wayward Israel: ―Fear not; for thou shalt not be ashamed: neither be thou confounded . . . for thou shalt forget the shame of thy youth, and shalt not remember the reproach of thy widowhood any more. For thy Maker is thine husband; the LORD of hosts is his name‖ [Isaiah 54: 4-6, 7, 17]). 59 After years of doubt and an acute sense of spiritual failure, Maynard believed God to be renewing His relationship with her. More than this, she believed that God, by promising her not only spiritual marriage but spiritual motherhood, was reinstating her prophetic calling to women‘s higher education (―Sing, O barren, thou that didst not bear; break forth into singing, and cry aloud, thou that didst not travail with child: for more are the children of the desolate than the children of the married wife, saith the LORD‖ [Isaiah 54: 1-3]). Maynard‘s founding of Westfield College was the result of a culturally queer refusal of earthly marriage and motherhood in favor of spiritual marriage to Christ and spiritual motherhood. Her establishing of Westfield cannot, however, simply be characterized as a rejection of Evangelical marriage, motherhood, and the family; it was the product of the interdependent and unstable relationship between Evangelical discourses of the spiritual and earthly family. If Maynard‘s founding of Westfield was a culturally queer product of Evangelical familial discourse, it was also informed by the latent feminism of holiness Evangelicalism. 60 By 59 Greenbook, 6 May 1883, 84. 60 The term ―feminism‖ was first used to describe an ideology or movement in the 1890s; the first recorded usage, according to the Oxford English Dictionary was in an article in the Day News of 12 October 1894 (De Groot and Taylor, ―Recovering Women‘s Voices,‖ 5fn17). As Helen Mathers notes, its ―application to the Victorian context has been legitimized by recent women‘s historians‘ use of the term. Jane Rendall, for example, uses ―feminism‖ to denote ―the way in which women came . . . to associate together . . . to reorganize and to assert their common interests as women.‖ Jane Rendall, The Origins of Modern Feminism: Women in Britain, France, and the United States 1780-1860 (Basingstoke, 1985), 1, quoted in Mathers, ―Josephine Butler,‖ 283-84. See also, Barbara Caine, Victorian Feminists (New York : Oxford University Press, 1992), 4-7. 175 founding Westfield, Maynard sought both to promote women‘s education amongst Evangelicals and to provide women with a university education based on Christian principles. In her book- length feminist treatise, We Women: A Golden Hope (1924), written in her later years, Maynard described the relationship between spiritual and literal motherhood in ways that rendered the feminist potential of her Evangelicalism apparent: when I use the term ―mother,‖ it is not to be restricted to the physical mother only. All honour be paid to her; but the formation of the mind, the characters, and the aims of life is a longer, slower, more complex, more perilous matter by far than the formation of the body, and in this work unmarried women have no insignificant share . . . those of us who are without such exacting ties who take charge of those older, we who teach and train and nurse . . . we also are mothers of the soul. 61 In later years, Maynard charted, in a characteristically Evangelical feminist manner, the changes in girls‘ upbringing that women‘s higher education had brought about. The potential of the ―thousands of girls‖ growing up in ―our pleasant country homes‖ 62 had in earlier years been thwarted by their cosseting. ―The clash of life was denied,‖ she contended, ―the exertion of the judgment was of no use as opinions were offered by Society ready made, strong enthusiasms were considered a little unseemly, and (if the parents could contrive it) the daughters were saved from even touching the hard corners of the world or thinking of its cruel realities.‖ 63 Evil was ―not to be conquered or remedied, but simply to be thrust out of sight.‖ 64 She noted that ―one redeeming light . . . shone steadily through this poverty of twilight . . . here was an outlet beyond the fireside, scope for the exertion of heroic forces, a path of limitless patience.‖ 65 A religious 61 Maynard, We Women, 22-23. 62 Constance Maynard, ―From Early Victorian Schoolroom to University: Some Personal Experiences,‖ Nineteenth- Century 76 (1914): 1067. 63 Ibid., 1068. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid., 1069. 176 calling had enabled women to renounce a stultifying home life and had encouraged Christian girls to pursue higher education. 66 In a 1914 article she called for the ―immense expansion‖ of ―the idea of motherhood,‖ and noted the diverse arenas to which single middle-class women had been called (education, medicine, the colonies, social reform, literature, art, and music). 67 In 1880 Maynard made contact with Miss Caroline Cavendish, an advocate of the higher education of Christian women and founder and honorary secretary of the Christian Women‘s Education Union (CWEU), to explore the possibility of founding a college for women informed by Evangelical Anglican principles. 68 Under the auspices of the CWEU Maynard began to disseminate her vision for a woman‘s college. In 1882 she met the wealthy Evangelical heiress, Miss Anne Dudin Brown, through a mutual friend, Colonel Martin Pietrie (whose daughter, Mary, was amongst the first cohort of women students at University College), and was invited by Dudin Brown to be part of a small committee she had appointed to consider her project. Dudin Brown made a £10,000 donation towards the venture and the committee worked quickly; two adjoining terrace houses were purchased on Maresfield Gardens, off the Finchley Road in Hampstead. 66 Responses to Westfield, both within Evangelical circles and beyond, were predictably mixed. Evangelicals tended to see missionary training as more practical and important than women‘s higher education. It was on this basis that Lord Shaftesbury opposed the college in an early meeting of prominent Evangelicals to discuss its founding. Mr. T. A. Denny who ―represented the wealth of the Church‖ and was a generous benefactor of evangelical organizations, told Maynard that ―nothing short of conversion interests me‖ (Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 43, 1882, 120). The well-known Evangelical writer Mrs. Rundle Charles, a friend of Maynard‘s, distanced herself from the College on entirely different grounds, those espoused by many non-Evangelicals in academic circles: ―there is a danger of especially religious foundations becoming cliquish and narrow, and a hot-house as to religious temperature‖ (Autobiography Part 5, Chapter 36, 1880, 431). Lady Stanley of Alderley (the aunt of Dean Stanley, the dean of Westminster, a prominent liberal theologian and friend of Benjamin Jowett), who sat on the Girton Council with Maynard, advanced a similar criticism, scathingly: ―You must be so very, very Evangelical! . . . there you can sit & all be pious together‖ (Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 44, 1882, 10). Emily Davies was supportive however: ―she said that though it might seem to be a rival to Girton, she ‗grudged no success whatever to our common cause,‘ & most especially because she was convinced that the new College was ‗founded on sound principles & in trustworthy hands,‘ & herewith she enclosed ₤5 ‗as a token of goodwill.‖ (Autobiography Part 6, Chapter 43, 1882, 123). 67 Maynard, ―From Early Victorian Schoolroom,‖ 1061. 68 For an account of the founding of Westfield and its earliest years see Sondheimer, Castle Adamant, 10-47 and Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, 157-210. 177 Maynard was appointed Mistress of Westfield (after the Girton nomenclature) from the start. Katherine Tristram (1858-1948) served as the first tutor and Frances Ralph Gray (1863- 1935), a Newnham graduate, was appointed Classics Lecturer a year later. Anne Richardson (1858-1942), daughter of the Anglo-Irish Quaker industrialist, John Grubb Richardson, was to be Maynard‘s primary source of professional support during her thirty-one-year tenure at Westfield (1882-1913). A Newnham student like Gray, Richardson transferred to Westfield in 1884 after meeting Maynard and discovering that they shared a vision for an overtly Christian women‘s college. She was appointed Classics Lecturer in 1887, Vice-Principal in 1915, and worked at Westfield until her retirement in 1925. The College opened its doors in October 1882. The size of the student body remained small during Maynard‘s years, never exceeding sixty students. Westfield College may be considered a culturally queer physical space within later Victorian Evangelicalism. The college was not unlike the Catholic sisterhoods in being based on religious principles and requiring particular religious practices of its members. Many of its students were daughters of clergymen (Nonconformist and Anglican), and the college‘s motto was ―Behold the handmaid of the Lord.‖ Every morning Maynard convened mandatory prayers before breakfast in the dining hall and after breakfast optional hymn singing took place in the Common Room. Every Tuesday evening ―Bible Class‖ was conducted and was compulsory. Church attendance on Sundays was also mandatory, though students could choose which church to attend. On Sunday evenings ―Function‖ was held; students were expected to assemble in Maynard‘s room for the reading of religious literature, the singing of hymns, and the reciting of religious poetry. On week-day evenings small groups of students met with Maynard for Bible study. Religiously motivated philanthropic work was also instituted. Westfield was a non- heteronormative religious space. It enabled Evangelical women to eschew or defer marriage on religious grounds; it equipped them to pursue a career in higher education or another profession. 178 The historian of Westfield, Janet Sondheimer, notes that ―well under half of those who entered the College between 1882 and 1913 eventually married‖ and that ―few students rushed into matrimony straight from College.‖ 69 If Westfield was a culturally queer religious space, it was nevertheless one that had been established as a product of the evangelical co-production of the literal and spiritual family. Just as the unstable relationship between discourses of earthly and spiritual marriage, motherhood, and family produced culturally queer discursive spaces in Evangelicalism (queer spaces in language, practices, and institutions), so they produced expressions of sexually queer desire. Like its cultural counterpart, sexual queerness was a part of the making of earthly marriage, motherhood, and family rather than a transgression of it. In the 1880s, within the broader context of her association with the Salvation Army, including its collective piety and the elevation of religious experience, Maynard took up the role of spiritual mother at Westfield. Within the holiness movement Maynard‘s dissident sexual subjectivity shifted and she pursued a different iteration of homoerotic relationships from her relationship with Lumsden which was structured by the crisis of faith. In Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved Women, 1778-1928 Vicinus explores Victorian women‘s varied use of mother-daughter metaphors to denote friendships between older and younger women. She examines the use of the mother-daughter metaphor in religious contexts in her study of the erotic history of the Evangelical Anglican Mary Benson (1842-1918), the wife of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Edward Benson. Benson, believing that it was through the love of spiritual friends that God‘s love was apprehended, pursued a series of homoerotic relationships within the framework of spiritual mother-daughter friendships. 70 69 Sondheimer, Castle Adamant, 68. 70 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 85-108. 179 The transposition of discourses of literal to spiritual motherhood had been evident from the earliest days of evangelicalism. Mack argues that women‘s influence on evangelicalism was evident in the prominence of the mother-child metaphor in the language of conversion and sanctification. Methodist women participating in the labor of the repentant sinner to accept Christ were derisively referred to by outsiders as ―obstetrical saints.‖ 71 Mary Bosanquet (later Fletcher) saw herself as the daughter of her spiritual confidante Sarah Ryan and Ryan, in turn, saw herself as the mother of her band in London. ―My dear children,‖ she wrote to them, ―I travail in birth till Christ be formed in your heart.‖ 72 Mack argues of women‘s spiritual friendships that we can ―speak of an erotics of friendship, a valorization of romantic gestures and emotions that were consciously cultivated as an aid to spiritual progress.‖ 73 Maynard had taken up the role of ―spiritual mother‖ while a student at Girton College. 74 In the summer of 1874 she had renewed her friendship with Mamie Umphelby, the principal of Belstead School. Umphelby understood herself to be the spiritual mother of her students and their salvation to be her primary maternal responsibility (―Then she began to speak of her children; ‗I love them all, dear lambs. . . . And I hope & pray & agonize to meet them all again, with not one missing, & as far as I know not one has yet died out of Christ‖ 75 ). At Girton, in the midst of a deepening faith crisis, Maynard took up the salvific function of Evangelical motherhood, hoping that by presenting God with new souls, God might overlook her doubts and her inability to draw close to Him. She instituted a Bible study group in November 1873, in 71 G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 270, quoted in Mack, Heart Religion, 129. 72 Mack, Heart Religion, 160. 73 Lillian Faderman, Surpassing the Love of Men: Romantic Friendship and Love Between Women from the Renaissance to the Present (New York: William Morrow, 1981), 119-43, quoted in Mack, Heart Religion, 154. 74 Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 276. 75 Greenbook, 22 August 1874, 47-48. 180 November 1874 founded the Girton Prayer Meeting, which attracted a newer generation of Girton students, and was instrumental in the conversion of a number of Girton students, including, in November 1874, the social reformer Mary Kingsland (later Higgs), who was her first convert. The conversion of the Girton student Amy Mantle in May 1875 demonstrates the importance of the motherhood metaphor to Maynard‘s understanding of conversion and spiritual mentoring and the interchangeability of literal and spiritual motherhood in Evangelical discourse. In the months prior to Mantle‘s conversion Maynard prayed and read the Bible with her. When Mantle converted, Maynard‘s represented herself as Mantle‘s spiritual mother: ―Amy so long lost is found & my heart sings within . . . my child, my darling, first & best His for ever, & secondly mine for ever.‖ 76 Mantle took up the mother-daughter metaphor upon her conversion (―stretching out her arms [she] whispered, ‗Mother!‘‖ 77 ). Mantle‘s mother had died when she was a child and the polyvalent and unstable evangelical discourse of motherhood allowed her to institute Maynard both as a spiritual mother and as a literal mother-substitute. All Maynard‘s converts at Girton assumed the role of Maynard‘s spiritual children. Their relationships with her were characterized by physical expressions of affection. The Girton converts would sit on Maynard‘s knee when they came to confide in her. 78 The sharing of problems often led to sharing a bed at night; when Lizzie Burgess seemed to be struggling with her newfound faith, ―Maynard went to her room ―[lay] beside her . . . read Ps. 117 . . . put out the light & folded her in my arms.‖ 79 Physical intimacy could be quite robust; on this occasion Burgess, ―with a shudder of pain . . . flung herself on to me harder than ever as if to get rid of her 76 Greenbook, 3 May 1875, 92. 77 Ibid., 99. 78 Greenbook, 1 October 1875, 110-11. 79 Ibid., 117. 181 life in mine.‖ ―It was not a time for human words,‖ Maynard observed. 80 When in 1874 Mantle confided in Maynard that she felt neglected by her family, Maynard believed her ―too excited for me to speak of the Master,‖ but ―tried to soothe her with a little natural love.‖ 81 Kissing after devotional meetings was also common: ―we had a kiss all round.‖ 82 Maynard spoke of herself as sometimes ―devoured with kisses‖ from her spiritual children. 83 Like ideal Victorian daughters, the Girton Christians ―seem[ed] not to know how to spend enough love‖ on her. 84 Vicinus suggests that ―as a paradigm of intimacy, nothing could surpass the mother-child relationship,‖ 85 and notes ―a regression to a childlike dependency and erotic satisfaction‖ in some metaphorical mother-daughter relationships. 86 Maynard and Mantle‘s spiritual mother- daughter relationship had strong erotic resonances. 87 ―Often when she has ‗come to be loved,‘‖ Maynard wrote in 1875, ―I have called her ‗Baby.‘‖ 88 When in the months following her conversion Mantle feared doubt had destroyed her faith, she wrote to Maynard: ―See what your baby was like, but she is gone too now __ you have no baby. . . . I can‘t write more, but you cannot think how much she who was your baby loves you.‖ 89 Maynard replied, ―My darling, my 80 Ibid., 118-19. 81 Greenbook, 31 May 1874, 257. 82 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 16, 1874, 581. 83 Ibid., 593. 84 Greenbook, 24 October 1875, 129. 85 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, xxv, xxix, 113. 86 Ibid., xxvii, 235. 87 Phipps notes that the motherly role adopted by Maynard at Girton and Westfield was a ―passionate‖ one. Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 272. 88 Greenbook, 3 May 1875, 99. 89 Greenbook, 21 August 1875, 86. 182 baby, you shall have hard work indeed to make me give you up.‖ 90 She confessed to Maynard, ―I know it is wrong; I am giving you almost the Saviour‘s place, & I must try to turn my heart fr. you __ But oh! I do love you so __ you don‘t the least know.‖ 91 In later years the sexual resonances of the evangelical metaphor of motherhood were evident as Maynard‘s lover, Frances Ralph Gray, attempted unsuccessfully to renew a relationship with Maynard that she had earlier terminated: [Ralph] was not well, and I went up to see that she was rightly attended to. As I left she said with gentle hesitation, ―You never bite my fingers now, as you used to do.‖ ―Oh no, never,‖ I replied lightly. . . . The sweet low voice went on, ―And you never rock me in your arms and call me your baby.‖ ―No,‖ I said in the same even tone. 92 The discourse of spiritual motherhood that was given precedence in Evangelical women‘s spiritual mentoring practices allowed for the re-enactment of the erotic elements inherent in literal mother-daughter relationships. Because Victorian women were aligned with piety, and mothers were represented as Christ-figures, Victorians‘ religious desire was intertwined in complicated ways with mother-figures. The erotic in mother-child relationships was, in the case of Evangelical families, informed by, and inseparable from, religious desire. Maynard saw love, even love ―in its form of passion,‖ 93 as an acceptable antecedent to Christian conversion and a valid accompaniment to spiritual mothering. 94 In her final years at St. Leonards in the late 1870s, when her relationship with Louisa Lumsden was in decline, she 90 Ibid., 88. 91 Greenbook, 17 October 1875, 127. 92 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 54, 1890, 286-87. 93 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885, 139. 94 Phipps, drawing on Vicinus‘s work on Benson, notes that for Maynard ―same-sex passion was . . . a permissible part of women‘s friendship, but it was morally superior if directed toward Christ.‖ Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 271. 183 had become enamored of two students, the seventeen-year-old Kate Milligan, and the precocious, fourteen-year-old Mary Tait. 95 Maynard believed that her ―falling in love‖ with Milligan, as she put it, indicated God‘s intention for her to draw Milligan closer to Him. In her Greenbook she observed that if Milligan was not a Christian, ―she must be very nearly so, & I long to get a little nearer her.‖ 96 When Tait became infatuated with Maynard, Maynard saw her infatuation as pointing to the role she was to play in Tait‘s conversion. ―Is it the first drop of the shower? the first seed of the harvest?‖ she wrote in her Greenbook, ― Oh, I feel glad, so glad, yet with a solemn sense of responsibility . . . It is but little though yet __ it is this. Mary Tait, a strange taciturn girl of 14 . . . seemed to feel a sort of attraction for me.‖ 97 The intertwining of religious aspiration and sexual desire in the early stages of Evangelical discipleship rendered it difficult for Evangelical women to distinguish clearly between the two. 98 When, despite Maynard‘s protestations, Lumsden expelled Tait from St. Leonards for increasingly disruptive behavior, the interdependence of the erotic and Evangelical religious desire was apparent as 95 ―Amid the 87 girls that have passed through our hand from the first these two stand to me with a complete difference of feeling. Many girls I care for truly, but these two I love with that touch of excitement that makes me know intuitively whether or not they are in the room, and feel honoured by their appeal to me in any little trouble.‖ Greenbook, December 31 1878, 176-77. 96 Greenbook, 7 July 1878, 97. ―For more than a month now I have been in love with Katherine Milligan. I can call it nothing else, for my eye seeks her out instinctively in the Schoolroom or Playground & is satisfied with the sweet quick flash of recognition‖ (ibid.). 97 Greenbook, 10 November 1878, 147. 98 In this respect Victorian women differed from men for whom distinct registers of sexual desire – either permissible or illicit – were available. Thus, for example, Charles John Vaughan, the headmaster of Harrow from 1844 to 1859, was forced to resign from his position when John Addington Symonds, a sixth-form pupil at the time, discovered that his headmaster and one of his friends had exchanged love letters and, after entering Oxford, reported this to his father on the advice of an Oxford tutor. David Amigoni, ―Translating the Self: Sexuality, Religion, and Sanctuary in John Addington Symond‘s Cellini and other Acts of Life Writing,‖ Biography 32, no. 1 (Winter 2009): 13. Amigoni notes that although Symonds ―sympathised with Vaughan‘s homosexuality, he condemned the man‘s hypocrisy and misuse of power.‖ Clinton Machann, ―The Memoirs of John Addington Symonds and Victorian Auto/biography,‖ A/B: Autobiography Studies 9, no. 2 (1994), 202-11, quoted in Amigoni, ―Victorian Life Writing,‖ 13. 184 Maynard lamented, ―Oh my child, my child, are you lost to me indeed? And I was the link which you were dimly feeling after a higher life – are you then lost to that too?‖ 99 A few weeks after Tait‘s expulsion, Maynard came to a partial recognition of her culpability in her erotically inflected relationship with Tait; she had forgotten her ―public office, which is truly the Lord‘s work as well as the School‘s . . . been led into private affection and . . . done it an injury.‖ 100 She acknowledged that ―among the girls even-handed justice is the first essential, and . . . any individual preference must in its expression be jealously guarded, and in public entirely repressed.‖ 101 She nevertheless affirmed the central place of ―love‖ (including love ―in its form of passion,‖ 102 ) in evangelism and in spiritual mothering. God did not mean her ―to take all this in an exaggerated form, but to remember that a Christian is allowed to love truly and heartily, that when we see any one not far from the Kingdom of God, we are permitted looking upon them to love them above the crowd that stands around.‖ 103 Maynard‘s theology of spiritual friendships was not idiosyncratic or anomalous to evangelicalism; rather, eroticism was an identified and valued part of evangelical conversion and also of sanctification. Wesley had argued that individuals‘ attraction to one another elucidated God‘s love for humankind. 104 He went on to suggest that ―in human relations, spiritual knowledge can best be conveyed and absorbed when teacher and pupil gaze at each other ‗with a lover‘s eye.‘‖ 105 Insofar as the production of erotically inflected desire was integral to 99 Greenbook, 12 April 1879, 59-60. 100 Greenbook, 20 July 1879, 115. 101 Ibid. 102 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885, 139. 103 Ibid., 115-16. 104 Mack, Heart Religion, 135. 105 Ibid., 142. 185 conversion and to spiritual mentoring, and insofar as women played an important role in one another‘s evangelism and spiritual mentoring, female homoeroticism can be seen to be integral to the production and perpetuation of Evangelical piety rather than a transgression of it. In the early 1880s Maynard took up the role of spiritual mother to the five young women who formed the first cohort of Westfield students. Her spiritual mothering took place within the context of the holiness movement; she took the students to Salvation Army meetings and they initiated small, informal evening meetings with her at which they requested guidance on spiritual questions. After one Army meeting at which the women heard William Booth speak, one of Maynard‘s students, the nineteen-year-old Margaret Brooke, invited Maynard to her room and asked her to pray with her for ―entire consecration.‖ ―I want to know definitely what it means to be quite given up, so will you ask that it may be true?‖ she asked Maynard. 106 In the context of heady discussions of the high ideals of holiness piety and the exchanging of motherly physical intimacies, Maynard fell in love with Brooke (―on [Monday] evening last, suddenly without an hour‘s warning I fell in love with Margaret Brooke‖ 107 ). A characteristic holiness discussion on the eschewal of the world framed the women‘s nascent desire: That [Sunday] night . . . speaking again of the world she [Brooke] said fervently, ―One cannot have the best of both, and we must have the best of heavenly things!‖ – and then leaning hard on me in the dark, ―but oh, with love, I shall never never want such things. I have been longing for this my whole life. You fit right down into every corner till no part is empty and hungry – oh, how I have wanted you.‖ 108 For Brooke holiness piety did not preclude expressions of homoerotic desire; indeed the two went together. The higher religious aspirations of holiness piety were birthed in the love 106 Greenbook, 3 December 1882, 18. 107 Greenbook, 5 November 1882, 4-5. 108 Greenbook, 12 November 1882, 8. 186 between women. Brooke‘s ―wanting‖ Maynard, the sense she had of Maynard fitting into the corners of her life that were ―empty and hungry,‖ was a characteristic and appropriate prelude to the experience of God‘s love. For Brooke Maynard‘s love was an integral part of her pursuit of ―the best of heavenly things.‖ Maynard‘s relationship with Brooke was framed in the discourse of motherhood. Maynard observed of her awakening desire for Brooke that ―I shall have no love but these my children, and if one springs thus far beyond the usual mark bringing that touch of excited joy that is not to be commanded, must I ignore it, must I resolutely cast it away . . . ?‖ 109 Brooke also understood her desire within the framework of a mother-daughter relationship. She asked Maynard in ensuing months, ―Is it nice to feel that one little child is just all, all your own, first and only and for ever?‖ 110 The Victorian Evangelical discourse of spiritual mothering, which was co-produced with the discourse of literal motherhood, invited and legitimated homoerotic desire. As Vicinus notes in her study of Mary Benson, it was through an erotically inflected spiritual mothering that Evangelical women came to understand God‘s love. 111 Both Mary Benson and Maynard developed theologies of God as mother. 112 What has yet to be investigated 109 Greenbook, 22 March 1883, 71. 110 Greenbook, 2 March 1883, 63. 111 Martha Vicinus, ―‗The Gift of Love‘: Nineteenth-century Religion and Lesbian Passion,‖ Nineteenth-Century Contexts 23, no. 2 (2001): 242. 112 Ibid., 257. Interestingly, in 1906 the fifty-seven year old Maynard visited Lambeth Palace and met with Archbishop Benson, Mary Benson, Lucy Tait (Benson‘s lover at the time), a Mrs. Davidson and Mother Emma of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (S. P. G). Maynard writes of Mary Benson, who was sixty-five at the time: The amusing one was Mrs. Benson, for she did not seem able to say anything without attracting attention. Seating herself on the sofa beside Mother Emma with her quiet face & her nun‘s dress, she called me to her other side, & taking a hand of each of us, she joined them over her knee, saying ‗There, I am the uniter of the Church! Her is the unconquerable old-fashioned Evangelical (& she gave my hand a squeeze) & here is the solid unchanging High Church woman, & both are one in me.‖ Autobiography, 1906, 556. Both women played prominent roles in the Evangelical Anglican Church, both understood that role as the exercise of spiritual motherhood, and both had pursued a series of homoerotic relationships. 187 is whether their representations of God bear the erotic imprint of spiritual mother-daughter relationships from which they emerged. In addition to this, the erotics of spiritual mothering, and the Evangelical origins of motherhood as a prominent trope in Victorian feminism, suggest the possibility of a maternalist eroticism in Victorian feminism itself, which is often portrayed simply as moralistic, asexual, and/or prudish. It may be that historians, in making the latter determination about middle-class women and their sexual desire, have simply been looking in the wrong places. Holiness piety structured Maynard‘s homoerotic relationships in the 1880s and thereafter. Evangelical piety in general was premised on God‘s revelation of God‘s self to the believer and the believer‘s disclosure of the ―inner self‖ to God. Victorian Evangelicalism, while in many ways different from mysticism, shared with it an ideal of the dissolution of the self‘s boundaries before the divine as a defining feature of spiritual practice. Holiness Evangelicals sought to be wholly known by God, to give all of the self to God, and to ultimately be one with God. Maynard beseeched God intermittently to ―search‖ her heart and know her (―Thou seest the whole, I hide nothing. I want Thine eyes everywhere‖ 113 ). She saw her evening devotion as a time to ―[stand] awhile in the pure light of His searching presence.‖ 114 She cited Psalm 139 in this regard: 1. O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me. 2. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off. 3. Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. 4. For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether. 113 Greenbook, 25 July 1902, 145. 114 Greenbook, 25 June 1871, 192. 188 In spiritual iterations of mother-daughter relationships the requirement for self-disclosure was heightened by the explicitly devotional framework within which these relationships were forged. This element of the structuring of Maynard‘s homoeroticism by holiness piety was most apparent in her final relationship, with the young Anglo-Irish student of Westfield and her subsequent secretary, Marion Wakefield, in the early 1900s. Wakefield, as Maynard‘s spiritual daughter, strove to ―confess‖ herself fully to Maynard. ―My Mistress,‖ she entreated Maynard, ―do not mistake me. You have been a Mother to me, & my whole heart has been opened to you without reserve.‖ 115 Maynard, in turn, reveled in Wakefield‘s self-revelation. ―Here was an answer indeed,‖ she wrote. ―There is no doubt, no reserve . . . but that exquisite abandonment, that unstudied freedom & self-revelation that is unspeakably precious to my heart.‖ 116 The holiness concept of sanctification as the ―emptying‖ of self in order to experience the indwelling of Christ, and the notion of holiness Evangelicals that spiritual friendships were an important means to attaining that union, also informed the eroticism of Maynard‘s mother- daughter relationships. These constructs derived from the revivals of the eighteenth century. Hester Ann Rogers, a contemporary of John Wesley, explained the union with God inherent in the doctrine of ―entire sanctification‖: ―I come empty to be filled; deny me not. . . . I take hold of thee as my fullness! Everything that I want, Thou art. . . . I am conquered and subdued by love . . . I am now one with God.‖ 117 The notion that spiritual friendships played a primary role in the believer‘s attainment of union with the divine resulted in an unusual intimacy amongst spiritual friends. In a sonnet entitled ―Prayer,‖ part of the ―A Six Weeks Sleep‖ sonnet series Maynard wrote about Wakefield, she described the dissolution of boundaries between one another that 115 Greenbook, 10 September 1903, 216. 116 Greenbook, 31 December 1903, 288. 117 ―The Experience and Spiritual Letters of Mrs. Hester Ann Rogers‖ (London, 1841), quoted in Mack, Heart Religion, 130. 189 accompanied the dissolution of the boundaries of the self before the divine. She described a ―sacramental union‖ in which her soul and Wakefield‘s escaped the body, transcended the narrowness of time and space, and merged with one another and the divine: As darkness gathers, burns a fire divine, And bonds that tie to earth a while are riven. As two flames melt in one and upward soar, I clasp her hands, I clasp her soul in mine, And one prayer enters at the gates of heaven. (―Prayer,‖ lines 10-14). 118 Benson had exhorted her lover Charlotte Mary Bassett to a similar spiritual union: ―[Not] one whit less than all you will I have, in that mysterious, sacramental union where one can have all, and yet wrong no other love.‖ 119 Feminist historians have only recently begun to explore Victorian women‘s recourse to religious discourse to describe sexual desire. Sue Morgan thus notes that social purity reformer and High Church Anglican Ellice Hopkins described conjugal intimacy as ―an anticipation of the delights of heaven, where ‗the soul surrender[ed] herself . . . to the eternal Loveliness, as a bride surrenders herself in unutterable love to her husband.‘‖ 120 Maynard‘s erotic relationships suggest that such articulations had their origins in the homosocial spiritual friendships Evangelicals sanctioned. In devotional relationships the surrender of the self to God, and the rendering of the self permeable to the Spirit, took place alongside a spiritual friend‘s simultaneous surrendering of the self to God and rendering of the self transparent. The joint pursuit of intimacy with God by spiritual friends facilitated intimacy with one another. It is 118 Constance Maynard, Original Poems, vol. 1, 78. Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London. 119 Mary Benson to Charlotte Bassett, 17 February [1879], Mary Benson Diaries and Letters, Deposit Benson, Bodleian Library, Oxford University, 3/28, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 94. Emphasis in the original. 120 Ellis Hopkins, Christ the Consoler. A Book of Comfort for the Sick (London, 1879), 120 quoted in Sue Morgan, ―‗The Word Made Flesh‘: Women, Religion and Sexual Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, ed. Jacqueline deVries and Susan Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010),162. 190 unsurprising therefore that this intimacy had an erotic inflection and that the language of religious desire was taken up to describe sexual desire. Discourses of Evangelical religious devotion provided Maynard with a heady language for sexual desire. She and Wakefield took up the scripturally based, holiness inflected, libidinal adoration of the divine in articulating human eros. Wakefield gave herself to Maynard wholeheartedly: ―I love you with my whole heart & mind & being; all that is in me flows out to you in love. I am all yours & for always, & I lie down wrapped round in your love, – content . . . & that is enough,‖ 121 Wakefield wrote, echoing Psalm 139:3 (―thou compassest my path and my lying down‖). Her love for Maynard, like her love of God, was unceasing and eternal: ―My heart is full of a great love for thee . . . such as it is, it is thine now & always without intermission or end, beyond the Now into the Hereafter, all thine, beloved.‖ 122 The co-production of spiritual and literal mothering, and the sexually queer space it produced, was evident as Wakefield declared to Maynard: ―I give to you as one gives to God, without reserve and yet without fear.‖ 123 If evangelical holiness piety invited, indeed depended on, erotically inflected relationships between women, it also mandated the subordination of homoerotic desire to religious desire. Women‘s regulation of desire was as important to the perpetuation of Evangelicalism as the inciting of desire. At the Slade in 1880 Maynard had started a small Bible study group and through this group she was instrumental in the conversion of a fellow Slade student, Mabel Prideaux. Her spiritual mothering of Prideaux had awakened Prideaux‘s desire (she ―fell in love [with Maynard] . . . all at once, with no warning, but quite irretrievably‖ 124 ). While accepting Prideaux‘s attentions, Maynard nevertheless enjoined her to make God the 121 Greenbook, 10 September 1903, 216-17. 122 Greenbook, 31 December 1903, 287. 123 Greenbook, 25 April 1908, 226. 124 Greenbook, 19 December 1881, 16. 191 object of her desire. 125 Prideaux agreed with Maynard that the commutation of human love to divine was the goal towards which to work. According to Maynard, she observed: ―I am calling sentiment religion, I am following her like a shadow. My religion must be my very own‖ 126 ). In the following months Maynard believed Prideaux to have made the switch in the object of her desire. ―I do believe,‖ she wrote, ―that the Saviour takes His right place with her, for she tests everything in His presence alone, & speaks & acts with a complete independence of my judgement.‖ 127 Evangelical women‘s regulation of desire had its origins in Puritan theology. As Catherine Brekus notes of the New England Puritans of the eighteenth century, ―the most painful struggles involved ‗weaning‘ themselves from their attachments to loved ones‖ 128 and ―in anguished diary entries, both ministers and lay people expressed fears of loving their spouses, children, or friends more than God.‖ 129 Victorian evangelicals were similarly aware of the possibility of earthly love of all kinds usurping love of the divine. In 1838 Hannah Allen wrote of her pending marriage, ―I am fearful at times, lest I should allow my affections to cleave too closely, to the hindrance of my spiritual growth. Oh! that I may make no idol in my heart . . . may we both be ready and willing to yield up our all to thee.‖ 130 In a sonnet inspired by 125 In her autobiography Maynard added an explanatory sentence to her cautionary response to Prideaux‘s desire which both exemplifies the role of love (including erotic desire) in spiritual mentoring and the necessity of subordinating human love to religious desire: ―This isn‘t religion, this is the reflection of religion from human love.‖ Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 41, 1881, 93. 126 Greenbook, December 19 1881, 16. 127 Ibid., 17. 128 Catherine A. Brekus, ―Writing as a Protestant Practice: Devotional Diaries in New England,‖ in Practicing Protestants: Histories of Christian Life in America, 1630-1965, ed. Laurie F. Maffly-Kipp, Leigh E. Schmidt, and Mark Valeri (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006), 24. 129 Ibid., 24-25. 130 [Jane Budge], A Beloved Mother: Life of Hannah S. Allen, By Her Daughter (London: Harris & Co., 1883), 33, quoted in Marcus, Between Women, 65. As Vicinus notes, Charlotte Brontë‘s Jane Eyre (1847) contains one of the most well-known articulations of the idolizing of human love; Jane acknowledges that she has allowed Rochester to 192 Wakefield, Maynard described the process of subordinating human affections to the love of God: ―To spread before Thee (even while we fear) / Treasures most deeply hidden & most dear, / And pray Thee take them in Thy hands & reign. . . . And ever Love shall take the lower place / And hold her peace to watch the coming light.‖ 131 The pursuit of homoerotic desire was acceptable as long as it was subordinated to the love of the divine. Unlike sexology, the Evangelical regulation of women‘s affections did not distinguish between homosexuality and heterosexuality or between platonic affection and sexual desire. The regulation of platonic affections is evident in Maynard‘s book-length poem on motherhood; her protagonist prays, ―Oh Father, forgive! Am I straying from Thee? / Are Thy gifts too sweet, too much? From my children I backward flee.‖ 132 Cautions against female homoeroticism emerged from a broader evangelical regulation that applied to a range of human relationships. This was because female homoeroticism was a part of the production of the Evangelical family; it was an effect of the spiritual discourses of motherhood that were inextricably intertwined with, and shored up, middle-class notions of motherhood. The co-production of the literal and spiritual family rendered both the site of diverse affections. The unstable discursive structuring of each iteration of the family generated an array of desires, platonic and sexual. All of these required careful monitoring if the middle-class family formation was to remain cohesive. Although evangelical prohibitions of female homoeroticism differed from sexological discourse in not distinguishing between homosexuality and heterosexuality, they did share with sexology a narrative of spiritual danger and this narrative may have informed later sexological stand ―between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun.‖ Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 87. 131 ―Conclusion,‖ Maynard, Original Poems, vol. 1, 89. Phipps draws attention to Maynard‘s belief that women needed to ―control their passion through prayer in order to keep their ‗hearts forever sheltered in His hand‘ (Autobiography, 1899, 450).‖ Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 271. 132 Maynard, A True Mother, 26. 193 discourses on female same-sex desire. A note of danger, rather than simple caution, was evident in the early 1880s as Maynard described Prideaux‘s infatuation with her: ―I tried to stop this, but her heart seemed burning. Oh my darling, take care, we are scarcely meant for this.‖ 133 Much later, in an autobiographical account of a holiday taken in the Alps in 1874 (written in 1915), Maynard articulates a sexual danger very similar to that evoked by sexological discourse. She had encountered a woman who, she felt, set human (homoerotic) desire above the love of God: The Gräfien was very affectionate, putting her arm round me & kissing me many times. I was carried away by pure beauty [of the Alps]. . . yet some obscure hint in her tone seemed to say, ―I prefer human affection,‖ & a strange sort of chill ran over me, as though my heart was warned away from hers & ran up & up & pierced into the deep blue sky overhead & called out, ―Jesus is[t] schöner, Jesus ist reiner!‖ [―Jesus is more beautiful, Jesus is purer!‖] At such a moment I feel by a sort of quick instinct that everything is dark without the Saviour‘s presence, that, come life come death, I am His own child, & have a bond with Him, secret but strong for eternity. 134 While many of Maynard‘s converts achieved the subordination of sexual eros to religious desire, there were those who found it impossible to subordinate homoerotic desire to the love of God. Katherine Tristram, the first tutor at Westfield College, was unable to negotiate the dual demands of religious and human desire attendant on conversion; she told Maynard that the physical side of love had become ―a horrible snare to her‖ and in 1884 she left Westfield for Japan to serve as a missionary with the Christian Missionary Society. 135 At Girton in 1875, Amy Mantle had also been unable to transfer her desire from Maynard to the divine. Maynard lamented her role in the latter eventuality; as a spiritual mother she had accepted and encouraged a desire that was rightly God‘s (―the sad part to me is the thought that I have stolen some of the love that ought to be my Lord‘s. . . .When God says to me, ‗Take this child & nurse it for me,‘ 133 Greenbook, December 19 1881, 17. 134 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 17, 1874, 636. 135 Greenbook, 20 April 1884, 202. 194 shd I steal its heart?‖ 136 ). In 1902, Prideaux was still in thrall to Maynard. Maynard‘s Quaker colleague, Anne Richardson, who held a theology of desire similar to Maynard‘s, drew attention to the fault line in the notion of human love as necessary to understanding divine love: ―There is something so satisfying in feeling oneself loved, that I fear lest it shd stop effort half-way. I mean all that love & aspiration that shd climb up to the love of Christ alone, [has] a tendency to lie down satisfied on true human love, as they wd on no other thing in the whole world.‖ 137 When, in 1882, Maynard fell in love with Brooke and Brooke returned her feelings, she viewed the purpose of the erotically inflected relationship as spiritual – the erotic signaled God‘s intention for her to mentor or mother Brooke spiritually – but she also expressed anxiety about the possibility of human love eclipsing religious aspirations. In her Greenbook she admitted that the relationship was ―hardly safe, even thus far.‖ 138 Remembering the Tait incident, when the favoring of one student had had disruptive effects on the others, Maynard had what she deemed the first ―straight out‖ talk about ―love‖ with a beloved. Taking up the Puritan discourse of her childhood and the self-control inherent in the discourse of the ―rave,‖ she ―told her how the capacity for loving meant always the capacity for suffering, and how I must expect the utmost self-control from her . . . for I belonged to the object not the individual, and all students must be alike to me.‖ 139 She informed Brooke that she would ―never forgive myself if when she was sad she only came to me for help instead of going there beside her little white bed [to pray].‖ 140 Doggedly Maynard attempted to subordinate her own human eros to religious desire: ―A Love 136 Greenbook, 17 October 1875, 127-28. 137 Greenbook, 13 March 1884, 184. 138 Greenbook, 12 November 1882, 12. 139 Ibid., 9-10. 140 Ibid. 195 that some people say is absolutely satisfying, & affords the most overwhelming joy that the heart is capable of‖ was to be replaced by ―Thou art my portion.‖ 141 In his groundbreaking account of Victorian sexuality Foucault refuted the ―repressive hypothesis‖ that characterized historians‘ work on this era, suggesting that it was based on a fundamental misconception about the nature of power. Distinguishing between sexual regulation and sexual repression, he argued that sexual regulation, as the means through which power was exercised, was productive rather than repressive in its effects. By mandating the close monitoring of sexual desire, sexual regulation incited desire. It thus extended the reach of power into the inner recesses of subject‘s psyche and, within the broader social context, generated an ever-growing domain of influence and permeated that domain increasingly thoroughly. The proliferation of discourses of sexuality in the Victorian era – sexology, psychology, psychiatry, pedagogy, demography – attested to the productive nature of power; these discourses ―put sex into discourse‖ in a growing number of arenas. Foucault was primarily concerned with scientific discourses of sexuality, or scientia sexualis, however he believed that the Catholic confession had structured the regulatory discourses of modern social science. Sexual desire and sexual subjectivity were constituted in the confession as the religious subject examined his/her conscience, charted ―thoughts, desire, voluptuous imaginings, delectations, combined movements of the body and soul,‖ and spoke the truth of his/her desire. 142 Victorian social scientists adopted the epistemology of the confession; they understood the truth of the self to be produced through the confession of sexual desire, derived knowledge about sexuality from the confessional accounts of their subjects, and developed categories of sexual identity predicated on the latter. 141 Greenbook, 23 December 1883, 151. 142 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 1., An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1990), 19. 196 As a number of scholars have noted, Foucault‘s account of Victorian sexuality did not take gender sufficiently into account. By focusing on science in the later nineteenth century he overlooked the alignment of women with religion, the subsequent persistence of religious discourse in the Victorian era, Victorian women‘s religiously informed involvement in the regulation of sexuality, and the effects of the latter on women‘s sexual subjectivity. Feminist scholars have drawn attention to the role of middle-class women in the regulation of sexuality of working-class women in the metropole (in the earlier nineteenth-century prostitute rescue mission and the later nineteenth-century social purity movement, for example) and of working- class and native women in the colonies (in campaigns against sexual permissiveness and miscegenation). They have also argued that, paradoxically, women‘s leadership in public campaigns for sexual reform – such as the movement to repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts of 1860s 143 – enabled middle-class women to speak about sex publicly for the first time; by ―putting sex into discourse,‖ these women began to develop their own discourse of sexual knowledge. What has yet to be investigated is the effects of Victorian women‘s regulation of sexuality on their own sexual subjectivity. Foucault argued that the regulation of sexual desire proliferates sexual desire in regulatory authorities and in their subjects. Is his contention borne out in the case of middle-class women, as they involved themselves in the regulation of sexuality? Scholars have also yet to explore the extent to which middle-class women regulated their own desire or the relationship between the private and public regulation of desire. The regulation by Evangelical middle-class women of the homoerotic desire inherent in their relationships provides a useful starting point for the investigation of their involvement in the public regulation of sexuality. 143 The Acts allowed for the medical examination of women suspected of prostitution in garrison towns and ports and the incarceration in ―lock hospitals‖ of those found to have contracted sexually transmitted diseases until they were deemed healthy. They were seen by those who sought their repeal to sanction the sexual double standard as well as prostitution. 197 Maynard‘s effort to ―regulate‖ Brooke‘s desire in early 1883 ―put sex into discourse‖ and demonstrates the paradoxical effects Foucault delineates – but as a product of religious rather than scientific discourse. 144 From Maynard‘s cautionary admonitions the two women went on to reflect on the awakening of their desire for one another. Brooke recounted to Maynard ―how one day (some three weeks ago) I [Maynard] laid my hand an instant on her shoulder . . . [and] she longed to kiss it.‖ 145 Maynard had seen Brooke‘s ―bright blushes‖; putting her arm round Brooke she had ―told her I know what that alteration of colour meant, and asked if I could help her.‖ 146 Brooke confided to Maynard that after this comment ―the tide of love rose with a bound . . . she could scarcely control herself.‖ 147 Maynard ―held her close, close,‖ as Brooke continued: ―All my heart is yours . . . it is not mine any more. It is yours, and I can never take it back.‖ 148 Maynard observed of her effort to constrain Brooke‘s desire, ―Thus I spoke, but oh how my heart went out to hers that lay against mine in the darkness.‖ 149 Maynard‘s ―straight out‖ talk with Brooke demonstrates, in the realm of religion, the paradoxically productive effects of the regulation of sexual desire. The Evangelical regulation of desire, by ―putting sex into discourse,‖ incited and proliferated it. Evangelical women‘s regulation of their own and one another‘s homoerotic desire also produced a discourse of knowledge about female same-sex desire in a period that predated the dissemination of sexological discourses of female inversion. In April 1883, months after her talk with Brooke, Maynard heard Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, the first British woman doctor and co- 144 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 12. 145 Greenbook, 12 November 1882, 10. 146 Ibid. 147 Ibid. 148 Ibid., 11. 149 Ibid., 9-10. 198 founder of the London School of Medicine for Women, address the issue of sexual education at a meeting called by the Society of Friends to call for the repeal of the Contagious Diseases Acts. Blackwell, who had in 1880 published The Human Element in Sex, argued that the sexual desire of men and women was equally strong. ―In all this dangerous subject,‖ she advised her listeners, ―remember the senses are equal, but the man leans to the physical side and the woman to the mental.‖ 150 In suggesting how parents should respond to their children‘s awakening sexuality, Blackwell rejected the notion that the body and sexual desire were intrinsically sinful. ―If God made our souls and the devil our bodies, keep the whole thing down with a strong hand,‖ she noted, ―but if it is really His work that the future of the race is lodged in this duality, let us bow before it as something to be treasured and honoured.‖ 151 Blackwell did not contest the body/soul dichotomy of traditional Christian theology, but she refused to align it with the evil/good dichtomy. She anticipated and affirmed sexual desire and its corporeal outworking and advised the management of sexual desire rather than its repression. After hearing Blackwell speak, Maynard, taking on the role of a parent to Brooke, suggested that this was a difficult line to walk, both in her own life and in her capacity as Brooke‘s spiritual mother. ―I know how hard this is,‖ she wrote, ―and when I see an ardent Keltic nature like that which has crept so close to my heart, one that at nine fell heartily in love with a tall silent lad, and has had ‗a perfect trail of them ever since,‘ I begin to see how hard is the task I have undertaken. . . . Oh to deal wisely now.‖ 152 Maynard did not distinguish between Brooke‘s childhood heterosexual infatuation and her attraction to Maynard herself. 150 Greenbook, 1 April 1883, 74-75. 151 Ibid., 75. 152 Ibid., 76. Although Maynard agreed with Blackwell, she felt ambivalent about her; she was ―one of these people who see no sense in an individual conversion, and yet whose whole life and aim are unsparingly given to the Christianising of a nation‖ and believed Josephine Butler to be ―the angel of light in this cause‖ (ibid., 74). Blackwell had been raised a Congregationalist, had become a Christian Socialist in 1882, and then in 1891 199 Maynard‘s aligning of Brooke‘s heterosexual and same-sex desire suggests that Evangelical women may have been more self-consciously aware of the sexual nature of the desire they regulated, as spiritual mentors, than has been previously thought. The nineteenth- century alignment of middle-class femininity with piety, modesty, and chastity had led to a reluctance amongst Victorians to provide sexual education to middle-class girls and women. While the New Women of the 1880s and 1890s waged a battle for sex education – resisting the conflation of purity with sexual ignorance – most Victorians viewed sex education as a threat to middle-class women‘s inherent modesty. Maynard‘s comments suggest that middle-class Victorian women may have seen spiritual mothering as a form of sexual mentoring, in which the inciting of human eros and its subordination to religious imperatives provided a prototype for heterosexual marriage. Evangelical women‘s spiritual mentoring may even be viewed as an iteration of what Foucalt calls ―ars erotica.‖ Foucault suggests that ―in the Christian confession, but especially in the direction and examination of the conscience, in the search for spiritual union and the love of God, there was a whole series of methods that had much in common with an erotic art.‖ 153 These included: ―guidance by a master along a path of initiation, the intensification of experiences extending down to their physical components, the optimization of effects by the discourse that accompanied them.‖ 154 The inciting, monitoring, and managing of desire intrinsic to Evangelicalism rendered a discourse of desire, knowledge of it, and a type of ―sex education‖ necessary. In subsequent months Maynard and Brooke reached an uneasy resolution to their desire; Brooke adopted two different modes of relating to Maynard, one for embraced the Christo-Theosophical Society (Lucy Bland, Banishing the Beast: English Feminism and Sexual Morality, 1885-1914 [London: Penguin, 1995], 68). 153 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 70. 154 Ibid. 200 public and one for private (―‗You are two people,‘ she says, ‗and I love my Mistress dearly, but I love my own Love better‘‖ 155 ). The imbrication of Evangelical discourses of marriage and Maynard and Brooke‘s homoerotic relationship was certainly evident in 1883 when the two women took up the language and rituals of heterosexual marriage to define their relationship. 156 Maynard initiated this discourse. As she wrote in her Greenbook, ―she [Brooke] had not one thought beyond being my friend, just one among a dozen . . . till some words of mine one night late as I stood by her door, saying, ‗Suppose I had been a man, could you have married me, Margaret?‘‖ 157 Maynard‘s words had been, ―like a match to a mine,‖ for Brooke; they had ―fired a whole train of dormant thought & feeling, & nothing in the world wd do for her but she must be first & alone.‖ 158 Brooke took up the discourse of marriage readily; she ―called herself my little wife, and told me she had the dearest, strongest, most reverenced husband in the whole world, and that never a single thought could again go astray – never.‖ 159 Maynard subsequently drew back from the marriage metaphor for fear it would deter Brooke from marrying, but in private she asserted that it was appropriate. Her understanding of her homoerotic desire shifted. Initially she had seen it as indicative of God‘s intention for her to participate in the salvation or spiritual mentoring of the beloved; she now saw Brooke, in her new role of wife, as a gift from God. ―I did not ask for thee, God gave thee,‖ she noted, ―and now I claim the right to love and protect and cherish thee to my very life‘s end.‖ 160 155 Greenbook, 3 May 1883, 83. 156 Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 277. 157 Greenbook, 9 September 1884, 256-57. 158 Ibid. 159 Greenbook, 22 March 1883, 70. 160 Ibid., 71. 201 Historians of sexuality note that female marriages were not unusual in the nineteenth century. Women in same-sex relationships called one another ―husband‖ and ―wife‖; they sometimes also lived together and/or owned property together, took marriage vows and validated these vows legally (through the changing of wills, for example), and consummated these relationships sexually. 161 Vicinus points to the fluidity of women‘s use of familial metaphors to describe their homoerotic or homosexual relationships with one another.‖ 162 Relationships that began as mother-daughter relationships might become husband-wife ones, but the two discourses might also be simultaneously mobilized. 163 Phipps notes that Maynard vacillated between the roles of mother and husband in conceptualizing her homoerotic desire. 164 Maynard‘s adoption of heterosexual marital discourse to describe her relationship with Brooke reveals an Evangelical genealogy of Victorian women‘s recourse to the marriage metaphor. It was the product of the co-production of earthly and spiritual marriage in Evangelical discourse, of the instabilities consequent on each serving as a referent for the other, and of the challenge the discourse of spiritual marriage (marriage to Christ) offered literal marriage. The instability of Evangelical familial discourse was an important antecedent to what Vicinus rightly describes as the multiple, fluid, and ambiguous appropriation of familial discourse by Victorian women to represent same-sex relationships. Evangelical notions of literal 161 Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 22. Anne Lister‘s (1791-1840) ―marriages‖ provide the most well-known examples. She exchanged rings with one of her early lovers, Mariana Belcombe, and deemed the sexual relationships she pursued while ―married‖ to Belcombe, adulterous. Lister‘s subsequent ―marriage‖ to the wealthy heiress Anne Walker entailed taking vows on the Bible, exchanging rings, and remaking their wills; upon consummating their relationship, Lister invited Walker to take the sacrament with her to formalize the marriage (26). 162 Ibid., xxix. 163 Ibid., 50. The American sculptor, Harriet Hosmer (1830-1908), a member of a community of women artists in Rome, wooed Lady Ashburton (1827-1903) ―with the promise, ‗when you are here I shall be a model wife (or husband whichever you like)‖ while at times referring to Ashburton as ―the dear mother,‖ for example. Harriet Hosmer to Lady Ashburton, Sat. Oct. [1872?], Ashburton Accession, Ashburton Collection, National Library of Scotland, 11488/81, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 50. 164 Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 272. 202 and spiritual motherhood, and literal and spiritual marriage, were co-produced, interdependent, and unstable. The status of the literal mother was the product of her spiritual functions and Evangelical spiritual mothering (outside of literal motherhood) shored up literal motherhood, but might also undermine it by providing women with an alternative to literal motherhood. The notion of spiritual marriage, or marriage to Christ, similarly consolidated and contested literal marriage. Evangelicalism, and the holiness movement in particular, also facilitated slippages between spiritual mothering and spiritual marriage. Evangelicalism provided no image of a female divine and women may thus have turned to one another for images of a divine feminine to supplement the Father-Son dyad of the New Testament. Spiritual mothers sought to represent Christ to their ―daughters‖ and were seen by younger women as Christ-like. In addition to this, Evangelicals held up spiritual friendships as models for marriage. Husbands and wives, like spiritual friends, were to engage in the cultivation of their spiritual lives, pursue union with Christ, and undertake shared religious service. The possibility that spiritual friendships might, as a corollary, supplant ―marriages‖ gained some acceptance. Marcus observes of the Victorian era that ―for those who took seriously the doctrine ‗We are all one in Christ,‘ the concrete differences between spouses and friends became less significant.‖ 165 Finally, the preponderance of cross-age courting and marriage in heterosexual Victorian relationships allowed for the appropriation of the marriage metaphor by women in mother-daughter spiritual friendships. Slippages between spiritual mothering and same-sex marriage were evident in Maynard‘s relationship with Brooke, as she represented Brooke‘s love as divine compensation for the marriage she had renounced upon founding Westfield. 166 This slippage had been evident in the late 1870s when, upon leaving St. Leonards and Lumsden, she had sought a woman with whom 165 Marcus, Between Women, 67. 166 Greenbook, 5 November 5 1882, 4-5. 203 to share her religious calling. ―My true love is yet to seek, & I do not know where to look for her,‖ she had prayed. ―Find my life, my love, my work, for me!‖ 167 The influence of the cross- generational aspect of Victorian heterosexual marriage was evident in Maynard‘s description of Brooke: ―On [Sunday] night, heartily tired as I had been, I did not sleep for a minute after 1 o‘clock, but lay there absorbed in the mere fact that she was asleep in my arms peaceful as a little child, yet an incarnation of intensity, sweetness and purity such as a man of profound insight need never desire to stray beyond.‖ 168 In early 1883 Westfield student Emily F. Maunder demonstrated the destabilizing of literal marriage consequent on Evangelicals‘ appropriation of a spiritual framework for marriage and the sexually queer spaces that emerged as a result. Maunder formed what Maynard described as an ―unhealthy attachment‖ to Maynard. ―For two or three nights she crept stealthily about the house like a cat,‖ Maynard wrote, ―ending by coming into my room shivering and miserable, & when in my bed clinging to me desperately.‖ 169 In a fit of ―hysterical mania,‖ possibly prompted by jealousy of Maynard‘s relationship with Brooke, she accompanied these enactments of desire with a fervent attempt to name same-sex desire: ―What do you call this?‖ she said once, clinging to me harder than ever. Afraid of crossing her I replied, ―The beginning of friendship, is it?‖ & in tones more of grief than in scorn she said, ―Friendship, did you say?‖ & then sinking her voice in a profoundly solemn note she added slowly, ―I call it Love & Marriage. We are two no longer, I am part of you & you are part of me. I know all your thoughts by instinct. We can never be separated. Two souls one for ever.‖ 170 167 Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 41, 1881, 80. Her desire in later years for ―one life to stand beside me‖ (Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 50, 172), a life that could unite with hers in Christ and in His Service as she oversaw Westfield, illustrates the proximity of Evangelical friendship and same-sex marriage. 168 Greenbook, 22 March 1883, 70. 169 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 45, 1883, 23. 170 Ibid., 24. 204 Maunder‘s sentiments point to the role of religious discourse in defining heterosexual marriage (―two souls one for ever‖), to the readiness with which a discourse of ―love & marriage‖ could, through the spiritual framing of heterosexual desire, be applied to homosexual desire and to the sexually dissident corporeal effects of the construal of marriage in spiritual terms. In subsequent years Maynard was to encapsulate the queer effects of the Evangelical spiritualizing of marriage in a sonnet to her lover Marion Wakefield, titled ―Separation‖: ―our souls are caught / Together in the mesh of Heaven one aim, / One love, one hope, will guide us to the end.‖ 171 Maynard had first encountered the use of heterosexual marriage as a metaphor for homoerotic relationships in 1876 when Louisa Lumsden described Maynard‘s joining her at Cheltenham in these terms (―many different times did she express her joy at the thought of having me there for her ‗wife‘‖ 172 ). That Maynard understood marriage in an Evangelical frame is evident as, in the process of seeking Lumsden‘s conversion, she turned to biblical injunctions on marriage and specifically to St. Peter‘s instructions to wives of unbelieving husbands for guidance (―I lay out before myself to follow carefully the directions given in 1. Pet. 3. 1-4, as explained by J. Scott, & each time in play she calls me her ‗wife‘ I think of it‖ 173 ). In May 1883 Maynard and Brooke took up the ritual of marriage in addition to its language. 174 One night that month – ―O night I cannot forget,‖ Maynard wrote – Brooke ―lay in my arms in a sort of heaven of rapture. ‗Say once more I am truly your wife,‘ she said, and then 171 ―Separation,‖ Maynard, Original Poems, vol 1, 81. 172 Greenbook, 30 July 1876, 70. 173 Greenbook, 22 October 1876, 113. The writer of 1 Peter 3 advised wives that if husbands ―obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives‖ (1. Pet. 3. 1). 174 She had also turned to literary narratives of heterosexuality and spoke of Brooke as ―die herrliche Last‖ (―the glorious burden‖) (Greenbook, 12 November 1882, 9-10). This was a phrase taken from Goethe‘s 1798 epic poem Hermann and Dorothea in which the eponymous male hero carries a young and injured Dorothea out of a revolutionary France to safety. Brooke referred to Maynard as ―my Godgifu‖ (Old English for ―Godiva‖ ), the eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon noblewoman who, according to legend, rode naked through the streets of Coventry to convince her husband, Leofric, earl of Mercia, to lower the excessive taxes he had imposed on his tenants. 205 ‗No one in the whole world has a heart like my husband, and I give myself to him now and for ever.‘‖ 175 Taking up the words of the marriage ceremony, Brooke intoned ―in her clear steady voice . . . solemnly and slowly, ‗For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, I take thee; by my own free choice I take thee for ever till death come though it cannot part us.‘‖ 176 Brooke entreated Maynard to say her part, but Maynard could not. ―I dared not bind that noble heart by words she might feel a fetter one day in years to come,‖ she wrote. 177 In the privacy of Greenbook, however, Maynard observed, ―I doubt if ever man cd. be found to love her with deeper honour & more intense tenderness. Mine, mine, oh Margaret, surely I have a sort of right now to live for you & die for you. 178 From August 1883, Maynard ―let her again & again call me her ‗husband,‘ and hiding her whole self in my breast, say, This is my home, my shelter, my all . . . I have all the beautiful parts of love & marriage & home & none of the troublesome parts.‖ 179 Feminist scholars have debated whether Victorian women‘s application of a spiritual discourse to sexual desire de-corporealized or de-eroticized sex. Lucy Bland argues that Victorian women‘s use of a spiritual language for desire might heighten the erotic while simultaneously refusing the corporeal. Religious discourse allowed Victorian women to ―explore the potential for other states of being – states of pleasure – which were not invariably rooted in physical sensation.‖ 180 She suggests that ―for a woman to feel able to value the physical side of sexuality; and to claim the right to be sexual in all its physicality as well as its 175 Greenbook, 3 May 1883, 84. 176 Ibid. 177 Ibid. 178 Greenbook, 21 August 1883, 117. 179 Ibid., 116. 180 Bland, Banishing the Beast, 276. 206 sublimity, many of the younger generation of feminists turned to the new sexology.‖ 181 Morgan, on the other hand, notes the validation of corporeal pleasure evident in Marie Stopes‘s recourse to religion to describe mutual orgasm (―the apex of rapture‖ 182 ) in her best-selling Married Love (1918) and argues that Stopes‘s approach had its antecedents in the discourse of religious Victorians such as the social purity activist Ellice Hopkins and the physician Elizabeth Blackwell who took up religious language to legitimate bodily sexual pleasure. In the 1894 edition of the The Human Element in Sex, Blackwell argued that ―the physical pleasure which attends the caresses of love is a rich endowment of humanity, granted by a beneficent Creative Power. . . . The sex act itself, rightly understood in its compound character [is] . . . divinely created‖ 183 The turn to religious discourse to describe sexual desire enabled women to rehabilitate understandings of sex in an era in which sexual ignorance, sexual coercion in marriage, and extensive and sometimes life-threatening childbearing, often rendered sexual intercourse a negative experience. In Sex and Sanctity (1914) Lucy Re-Bartlett thus suggested that ―in the past, women‘s way of preserving her ideality has often lain in abstracting herself partially, that is to say with her mind and heart, from all that part of the sexual relation which she has found unlovely. . . . The woman of to-day who can understand no such splitting off of ideality – whose faith is high enough to let her both feel and passionately affirm that there is no part of life which cannot and should not be beautiful . . . ‗opens gates.‘‖ 184 For Bartlett ―while 181 Ibid., 277. 182 Sue Morgan, ―The Word Made Flesh: Women, Religion and Sexual Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, ed. Jacqueline deVries and Susan Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010), 162. 183 Elizabeth Blackwell, The Human Element in Sex, Being a Medical Inquiry into the Relation of Sexual Physiology to Christian Morality (London: J. &A. Churchill, 1894), 14, quoted in Lesley Hall, ed. Outspoken Women: An Anthology of Women’s Writing on Sex, 1870-1969 (New York, NY : Routledge, 2005), 18. 184 Lucy Re-Bartlett, Sex and Sanctity (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1914), 63, quoted in Hall, Outspoken Women, 42-43. 207 sensuality is of the body only, passion is also of the mind and soul.‖ 185 The appropriation of a heterosexual discourse of desire facilitated by the application of a spiritual discourse to heterosexuality allowed Maynard and Brooke to represent the corporeal component of their relationship more directly and to begin to acknowledge its sexual nature. Maynard had sought consistently to legitimate same-sex desire in her discourse on love. In this she differed from her Victorian counterparts who were more aware of pejorative discourses of female same-sex sexuality and sought to downplay or conceal their desire. 186 While attempting not to allow same-sex relationships to eclipse her relationship with the divine, Maynard had nevertheless mobilized the terms: ―[love] in its form of passion,‖ 187 ―passionate affection,‖ 188 ―strong personal love,‖ 189 ―and ―raptures,‖ 190 to distinguish erotic desire from platonic. Maynard‘s appropriation of the metaphor of heterosexual courtship and marriage constituted part of her ongoing effort to foreground and to validate homoerotic desire in the absence of an overt public discourse for it. At night when she gathered Brooke to herself ―all so yielding and unconscious‖ she asked, ―Is not the love of the man stronger fiercer than that of the women? – so I feel to thee, my own, my love, my heart‘s darling.‖ 191 In March 1883 she wrote of Brooke, ―Last night she came after I had put out the lights and in an instant more I had my 185 Bland, Banishing the Beast, 276. 186 Thus, when Charlotte Cushman commenced an affair with the young Emma Crow, she advised Crow, ―Yes darling, there are people in the world who could understand our love for each other. Therefore it is necessary that we should keep all expression of it to ourselves – & not demonstrate too clearly our great devotion to each other: we only excite observation & envy & jealousy & this is best avoided.‖ Charlotte Cushman to Emma Crow, 3 May, 1860, Charlotte Cushman Papers, vol. 1, Cushman Collection, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 42-43. 187 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885, 139. 188 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 46, 1885, 58. 189 Greenbook, 28 June 1907, 173. 190 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 46, 1883, 59. 191 Greenbook, 22 March 1883, 70. 208 arms around her, my love, my darling. . . . Her presence brings a strong fascination that is partly physical and draws out my love with a force almost painful. ‖192 She noted that ―only L. had the same physical power over me greater perhaps, certainly seeming so, because so painfully exercised. . . . This one, though so strong, is all gentleness and peace.‖ 193 Brooke‘s informal marriage ceremony enhanced the women‘s sexual intimacy. In August 1883 Maynard wrote, ―there never now seemed the slightest check against our deepening, broadening love & at night we lay folded close, ah so close, & felt as if we knew what satisfaction meant at last to both heart & body, & as if nothing could ever part us now.‖ 194 In November 1883 she spoke of the ―thrills of strong excitement that came on me by surprise, & that I tried to put down for they seemed almost as much physical as mental,‖ and then notes, ―but this week over, I gave way.‖ 195 Maynard continued to see Brooke as a gift from God: ―Who am I that all this should be given to me?‖ 196 While historians of sexuality have agreed that female same-sex marriages were not unusual, they have disagreed on the extent to which they were accepted by Victorians, 197 and on whether or not they posed a challenge to heterosexual marriage. Vicinus argues that female marriages were derided by Victorians and posed a threat to heterosexual marriage. 198 Marcus 192 Ibid. 193 Ibid., 72. 194 Greenbook, 21 August 1883, 116. 195 Greenbook, 4 November 1883, 138. 196 Ibid. 197 Vicinus notes that as early as 1852 Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861), after meeting American actress Charlotte Cushman (1816-1876) and Matilda Hays (1820-1897) in Paris, wrote to her sister, ―it is a female marriage.‖ She had told her companion at the time, ―Well, I never heard of such a thing before,‖ and had been informed in turn that ―it is by no means uncommon.‖ Julia Markus, Dared and Done: The Marriage of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1995), 256, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 9-10. 198 She deems the economic threat most prominent (Vicinus, ―One Life,‖ 604-5). Those women who were able to live together often held professional positions and their entry into the public sphere, appropriation of jobs, and 209 asserts that female marriages were accepted by Victorians and integral to the perpetuation of heterosexual marriage. 199 In this chapter I have argued that Maynard‘s same-sex desire was the product of Evangelical familial discourse; it emerged from culturally and sexually queer spaces that were the effect of the Evangelical co-production of literal and spiritual marriage, motherhood, and the family. Maynard‘s Evangelical ―marriages‖ nevertheless offered a substantial critique of heterosexual marriage. Her ―marriage‖ to Louisa Lumsden demonstrates the disruptive effect of female marriages on heterosexual marriage. As Vicinus notes, Lumsden and Maynard‘s ―marriage‖ posed a challenge to heterosexual marriage by providing Maynard with an important means to evaluate the marriage proposal of a suitor, a distinguished Scottish clergyman from Wittinghame, Dr. James Robertson, who courted Maynard while she was at St. Leonards. 200 Maynard contrasted Lumsden‘s depth of feeling for her with Dr. Robertson‘s less convincing approach: ―As I put on my cloak and went off to School I used to hug myself and think, ‗Now I know what love is!‘‖ she wrote. Anything Robertson offered was ―timid and colourless in comparison.‖ 201 An Evangelical discourse of feeling played an important role here. Evangelicalism had equipped Maynard with a register for assumption of the male role of breadwinner were seen to threaten men‘s economic privilege. For Vicinus, the increasingly unstable institution of heterosexual marriage played a role as well: ―the naturalness and the moral superiority of normative heterosexuality‖ was being called into question by ―controversial agitation both for and against prostitution, raising the age of consent, divorce, birth control, male friendship, and other issues.‖ Vicinus, Intimate Friends, xvi. 199 Marcus contends that female marriages were inherently sexual and were widely accepted as such by Victorians (Marcus, Between Women, 203). She answers ―no‖ to two key questions posed to her in the course of her research: ―Weren‘t Victorians too invested in female sexual purity to admit that lesbians existed?‖ (12) and ―Didn‘t most people think of women who had sex with other women as deviants, almost a third sex, who had little in common with women who became wives and mothers?‖ (13). 200 Vicinus, ―One Life,‖ 613. 201 Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 31, 1877, 223. In addition to this, as Vicinus notes, Robertson had little interest in Maynard‘s educational work: ―if he mentioned me, it was with reference to himself. There was not one word about giving me a fine, full, rounded life.‖ Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 33, 1878, 298. Maynard made a similar comparison between Marion Wakefield, her last significant homoerotic relationship, and her good friend the South African missionary Dudley Kidd: ―I do not deny that I loved him, but there was no excitement about it. I loved Marion far more.‖ Autobiography, 1897, 419. 210 emotions and had compelled her to examine her emotions. ―From my heart I respect & honour you,‖ she wrote to Robertson in April 1877, ―but these feelings however strongly admitted will not stand in the place of love & I cannot with truth say that I return the affection in the way you desire‖ 202 In 1879, when Robertson resumed his courtship, Maynard wrote in her Greenbook that ―there is a certain amount of subjective feeling I must have.‖ 203 She believed her absence of feelings of desire for Robertson to indicate God‘s disapproval of the relationship. 204 She had ―truly laid myself in the hands of Him who can touch every string of my being into tune or discord,‖ 205 and God had not responded. She asked herself, ―What other test or criterion could I have?‖ 206 The implication of the Evangelical elevation and analyzing of feeling for women‘s privileging of erotic feeling was evident when in later years Maynard asserted more confidently that ―the thought of giving myself body and soul for ever seemed a simple impossibility, for the man held for me not one spark of personal attraction.‖ 207 The significance of religious desire or of feeling to faith led Maynard to consider sexual desire a significant indicator in ascertaining the merits of a heterosexual marriage proposal. Women‘s same-sex ―marriages,‖ even if co- 202 Greenbook, 23 April 1877, 179-80. 203 Greenbook, 11 April 1879, 54. 204 Greenbook, 24 March 1878, 66-67. 205 Ibid. 206 Greenbook, 11 April 1879, 54. When Maynard‘s sister Josephine (―Tissy‖) attempted to reinstitute the rational approach to decision-making promulgated by their mother, Maynard rejected it: ―she thinks I have been unwise, & reminds me strongly how Mother always laid the stress on what was, not on what was felt . . . but once more a single thread of feeling holds me back, a thread I cd easily snap, but I do not like to, fearing it may be the guiding clue in the Lord‘s hand, wh. if I break I shall lose my way‖ (Greenbook, 13 April 1879, 61). Dora, Constance‘s sister, articulated a similar notion that God used feeling to direct the believer in affairs of the heart. She had refused a marriage proposal from the son of a friend, Frank Moilliet. Jebb, their mother‘s servant, who had assured her, ―Well, dear Miss . . . I suppose it is right so, for if the Lord had meant it otherwise, He wd have given you a heart to love him‖ (Greenbook, 13 October 1878, 143). Later, when Dora prompted in part by a passionate attachment to Frank‘s mother, acquiesced to the proposal, she wrote to Constance, ―You know the old Jebb said that ‗if it had been right, the Lord wd have given me a heart to love him,‘ so now I hope that is what He has done‖ (Greenbook, 17 November 1878, 151-52). 207 Autobiography, Part 5, Chapter 35, 1879, 354. 211 produced with heterosexual marriage and considered secondary and a stepping stone to it, nevertheless proved disruptive of a masculinist economy of desire by providing women with particular criteria for marriage. Female ―marriages‖ could also alter the expectations of female onlookers regarding heterosexual marriage. While pursuing relationships with Brooke and Gray at Westfield, Maynard had also been attracted to her fellow teacher and eventual vice-principal, Anne Richardson. One of Richardson‘s Quaker contemporaries, Evelyn Sturge, approached Maynard ―full of eager delight‖ and informed her: ―Oh I've heard such a lovely thing! A lady said to me that you and Miss Richardson together gave her a new idea of married life! – You are naturally so different; and yet you are so essentially one, and have such perfect confidence in one another, – she said it was the finest thing of the kind she had ever seen.‖ 208 Maynard noted, ―there is some truth in it. . . . We are almost painfully unlike, so strong is she in intellect, so all but hard, so alarmingly masculine in force of both mind and will . . . and I can truly say ―There is none like her, none.‖ 209 Maynard‘s relationship with Richardson, like her earlier relationship with Lumsden, was informed by Evangelical notions of gender complementarity. Maynard‘s role in her homoerotic relationships varied – she represented herself as Brooke‘s husband, for example – but, for Maynard, the notion persisted that marriage was defined by the uniting of two different genders. This demonstrates the Evangelical discourse from which Maynard‘s discourses of same-sex desire emerged. Same-sex marriage bore the imprint of both literal and spiritual marriage; it was an effect of the co-production of the two. Maynard‘s subsequent and short-lived relationship with the Westfield Classics Lecturer Frances Ralph Gray illustrates the emergence of a specifically homosexual subjectivity 208 Autobiography, 1901, 473. 209 Ibid. 212 consequent on Maynard‘s recourse to religious narratives of heterosexual desire to describe her homoerotic relationships. Maynard turned to these narratives in an effort to renounce homoerotic desire. Her renunciation of same-sex desire required a prior legitimation of it as the equivalent of heterosexual desire. In the process of repudiating homoerotic desire she thus developed a homosexual subjectivity that was distinct from her earlier homoerotic subjectivity; in the manner of women who had access to sexological discourse in later years, she insisted upon the specifically sexual nature of her ―love‖ for women. In May 1884 Maynard began to woo Gray. ―I admired Ralph Gray with my whole heart,‖ she wrote in later years, ―& by this time love in its form of passion had been well awaked.‖ 210 Her relationship with Brooke had waned. ―I love her dearly still,‖ she observed, ―but all the halo of nameless charm has fallen fr. her. . . . As a student she is almost perfect, as the choice of my life, I draw back.‖ 211 She recognised a certain ―unfaithfulness‖ to Brooke in pursuing her attraction to Gray, but believed love could be neither gainsaid nor concealed (―love is too restless to be hidden‖ 212 ). Brooke, recognizing Maynard‘s infatuation with Gray, sought to annul her ―marriage‖ to Maynard. Just as Evangelical holiness piety had precipitated her desire, and had provided her with contexts of intimacy, so it equipped Brooke with a discourse of separation from Maynard. With a dignity that far exceeded her years she informed Maynard that ―we had not after all the claim on each other man & wife had.‖ 213 She took up the holiness discourse of renunciation to achieve the transfer of her desire from Maynard to God. ―Laying her treasure down [,] [she] stands away fr. it, quite away, clasping her hands behind her back lest she shd be tempted to 210 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1886, 139. 211 Greenbook, 9 September 1884, 255. 212 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1886, 131. 213 Greenbook, 9 September 1884, 257-58. 213 touch it,‖ 214 Maynard wrote. Brooke freed Maynard from any obligations to her: ―And now I release you quite perfectly, darling, & we will love each other just as much as ever & be true friends.‖ 215 Maynard agreed to the ―divorce‖ and was repentant at the role she had played in initiating the ―marriage‖: ―I could only say ‗Yes, Margaret, I wd like it,‘ & stay there long before her struck through & through with remorse . . . [and] humiliation . . . thus to be found so poor so wrong in one of the strongest points of my being.‖ 216 The pursuit of holiness was primary in each women‘s life – each sought to subordinate human love to religious desire – and their relationship had been initiated, conducted, and terminated within the discourses of holiness piety. Initially Brooke expressed joy at the ―sacrifice‖: ―I have gained, nothing but gained, & I didn‘t expect it & I don‘t deserve it! . . . My life is just overflowing with happiness.‖ 217 In subsequent months Brooke spoke more soberly of the ―marriage‖: ―‗I was intoxicated with love,‘ she said sadly, ‗I saw nothing right.‘‖ 218 In May 1884 Maynard wrote Gray a passionate poem commemorating Gray‘s one-year anniversary at Westfield, and Gray responded ardently. ―[She] followed me to my room, Maynard wrote. ―I half turned, & her arms were round my neck in a moment & she caught her breath with a sort of sob as her head fell on my shoulder, & her lashes were wet as I kissed her eyes.‖ 219 At the end of that year Maynard sought a declaration of love from Gray: Sitting in the firelight by her low couch . . . Putting my cheek down on her I said, – 214 Greenbook, 19 October 1884, 273. 215 Greenbook, 9 September 1884, 257. 216 Ibid. 217 Greenbook, 19 October 1884, 273-74. 218 Greenbook, 8 November 1885, 88-89. 219 Greenbook, 18 May 1884, 210. 214 . . . half in play, – ―You must love me just a very little, just sometimes, Ralph, do you see?‖ She threw her arms round me, & said, ―Miss Maynard!‖ – It was a cry like the beginning of an entreaty yet she stopped. ―Well?‖ I asked, & quite shivering with the effort she said, ―I do.‖ My heart was full, & stayed in the close embrace. . . . I said, ―Oh Ralph, it seems almost too good. I have been loving you for sometime now, darling.‖ Then we parted for the time, but a happy, happy feeling went with me & will not leave me. . . . Oh Ralph, mine, I can hardly yet believe it. 220 Long years of taking the initiative in matters of faith enabled Maynard to act proactively in affairs of the heart, to exercise a form of sexual agency. Indeed the spiritual and sexual agency were indistinguishable as Maynard believed her attraction to women to denote God‘s salvific intention for them and her wooing of them to serve this end. In April 1884 Anne Richardson, still a student at the time but a friend of Gray‘s, warned Maynard that the attention she was giving Gray would have a detrimental effect on Gray‘s character. 221 At around the same time Westfield‘s first lecturer, Katherine Tristram, confessed that her desire for Maynard was insurmountable. It seemed to Maynard that she was surrounded by examples of ―love‖ gone awry (―it [love] has wrought evil to my Katie . . . it has brought weakness to me through my Margaret . . . it has dimmed my position altogether with Ralph‖ 222 ). Maynard‘s understanding of, and attitude towards, her love of women shifted again. 223 In the early 1880s she had seen Brooke as a gift from God and had perceived the primary liability of 220 Greenbook, 10 December 1884, 290-91. 221 Richardson and Gray were both Classicists. Ancient Greek and Rome had provided a significant discourse of same-sex desire for male Victorians and for some women, such as the aunt-niece couple Katharine Bradley and Edith Cooper (Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 99). It is possible that Richardson and Gray had some knowledge of Juvenal‘s satirical discourse on female same-sex desire. In 1891 Dr Barlow, a member of Council, visited Westfield to observe the workings of the College and pronounced ―the Classical teaching of Miss Gray and Miss Richardson . . . ‗accurate and delicately shaded and above the ordinary Oxford lecture in refinement and taste.‘‖ The historian of Westfield Janet Sondheimer notes that ―since the author being expounded by Miss Richardson was Juvenal this was a tribute indeed‖ (Sondheimer, Castle Adamant, Chapter 3). However, although both Richardson and Gray suggested to Maynard that there was ―something wrong‖ with her relationships with women, neither cited Roman or Greek sources directly. 222 Greenbook, 20 April 1884, 202. 223 Phipps perceives a change in Maynard‘s approach to same-sex desire; she suggests that by the end of 1884 Maynard was ―writing more candidly about same-sex love.‖ Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 277. I see the transition happening more gradually, over a longer period of time. 215 homoerotic desire to be its weakening effect. In 1872 Lewis Campbell had taught her that love was ―in some degree a weakness – ‗a letting one‘s whole being out on one side.‘‖ 224 ―Leaning‖ thus became a prominent trope in Maynard‘s representation of the problem with human love in the early 1880s. At the end of 1883 she wrote of ―natural passion,‖ ―I have looked for it & leaned on it & craved for more, & weakness has come into my life.‖ 225 She took up the metaphor of a plant to describe her life; she strove to lean neither to the left or right but rather to grow straight towards the Sun that was the divine. From late 1883 when her relationship with Brooke became more sexual, Maynard began to view homoerotic desire more sternly. ―As the days go on,‖ she wrote at the end of 1883, I feel more & more ashamed of the latter half of this last term. The physical got the better of the mental, moral, & spiritual at once . . . & though vague, it is a wrong one cannot repair again.‖ 226 She nevertheless still understood her love for women in fairly innocuous terms. Love ―is to me so very very precious, & my natural passion for it has carried me away,‖ she suggested. 227 In April 1884 Maynard made ―the resolution . . . that throughout this May term I will have nothing to do with this softening side of love, so help me God,‖ 228 but had nevertheless commenced a relationship with Gray. In the ensuing months she entreated God to help her subordinate human love to religious desire (―drive it [the lesson] in, spare me none of the pain, none of the 224 Greenbook, 21 April 1872, 125-26. 225 Greenbook, 23 December 1883, 150. 226 Ibid., 149-150. 227 Greenbook, 23 December 1883, 150. Revisiting this journal entry while writing her autobiography in 1926, Maynard replaced the word ―physical‖ with ―physical instincts‖ and replaced ―natural passion‖ with ―human love on its passionate side‖ evidencing a more definite sense of the sexual in her relationship with Brooke. She noted that ―the physical instincts got the better of the mental, moral & spiritual all at once, & that power of endurance which, with all my faults, has ever stood by me, now all but failed me‖ ( Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 46, 1883, 63). 228 Greenbook, 20 April 1884, 202. 216 humiliation, only only [sic] don‘t let me forget it all my life long‖ 229 ). In early 1885 she identified the pursuit of human love more severely as a ―temptation‖: ―Talk about the temptations of Satan, there is no need for him ever to try a second one on me, when the one is invariably successful.‖ 230 Until this time, Evangelicalism had provided the framework within which Maynard‘s sexual desire was incited and her relationships pursued; her ―love‖ of women had been a prelude to evangelism and an accompaniment to spiritual mentoring. Now, however, Maynard took up a different Evangelical framework within which to interpret her desire, that of temptation and sin. In her attempt to repudiate her attraction to Gray, and to turn to God instead, Maynard made recourse to a number of religious narratives of heterosexual courtship and marriage, seeking to name and give content to the love she found so compelling. In September 1885 she turned to Sir Edwin Arnold‘s ―Indian Song of Songs‖ (1875). Arnold‘s The Light of Asia, Being the Life and Teachings of Guatama, Prince of India and Founder of Buddhism (1879) was the most popular British iteration of Buddhism in the 1880s. 231 ―Indian Song of Songs‖ was his rewriting of a Sanskrit pastoral drama, the Gîta Govinda, composed by the twelfth-century poet Jayadeva, one of the best-loved Sanskrit poets. Maynard believed that the ―Indian Song of Songs‖ ―shewed the position better‖ than its biblical counterpart when it came to the relation of human eros to religious desire. 232 The biblical Song of Songs, when read allegorically by Christians, represents the Church as a female lover courting and courted by a male Christ. Arnold‘s poem depicted the human soul (in the guise of Krishna) as a male betrothed to the Love 229 Greenbook, 9 September 1884, 260. 230 Greenbook, 5 April 1885, 39. 231 Joy Dixon, ―Modernity, Heterodoxy, and the Transformation of Religious Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain, ed. Jacqueline deVries and Sue Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010), 220-21. 232 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885-1886, 131. 217 of God, a feminine entity (represented in the poem by Radha, the spirit of intellectual and moral beauty). The male human soul is courted by women lovers (in the form of shepherdesses who make an appeal to Krishna‘s love of sensual pleasure). In her journal Maynard observed of the human soul in ―Indian Song of Songs,‖ that ―he is weak & is led away again & again by her [divine love‘s] rival, passionate human Love.‖ 233 She took the subject position of the male human soul of the poem to represent her temptation by a feminine ―passionate human Love.‖ In her journal she thus glossed the lament of the feminine Love of God for the loss of the (male) human soul to its female temptresses in the following way: Earth will of earth! I mourn more than I blame. . . The temptress was too near, the heaven too far . . . Make then the most of that whereto thou‘rt given Feign her thy Paradise, the Love of loves Say that her eyes are stars, her face the heaven, – It shall be vain, Nor wilt thou so believe thine own blind wooing, Nor slake thine heart‘s thirst even at the cup Which at the last she brings for thee, – Because still vain Is love that feeds on shadows . . . 234 Maynard‘s recourse to Arnold‘s narrative exposes the sexually queer possibilities concomitant on the co-construction of literal and spiritual marriage in the Christian tradition and in Victorian re-workings of Hinduism informed by Christianity. She was able to insert herself into heterosexual narratives of courtship and marriage and thus to legitimate the sexual nature of female same-sex desire because the use of biblical metaphors for God‘s relationship with Israel and with the Church de-naturalized literal courtship (and marriage). It required believers to situate themselves in a marriage-like relationship with Christ. Arnold‘s ―Indian Song of Songs‖ 233 Ibid. 234 Ibid. Maynard‘s gloss followed the text of Arnold‘s poem quite closely, but she omitted more overt references to sexual intercourse such as ―Her bosoms the two worlds, with sandal-groves / Full-scented, and the kiss-marks‖ and ―undoing / her girdle of carved gold, and yielding up, / Love's uttermost.‖ Edwin Arnold, The Indian Song of Songs, from the Sanskrit of the Gita Govinda of Jayadeva, with Other Oriental Poems (London: Trübner, 1875), 69-72. 218 effected a similar transposition of courtship discourse from the earthly to the spiritual realm. Maynard‘s turn to a religious narrative to simultaneously validate and renounce same-sex desire reveals the mechanism through which religious discourse facilitated a self-aware homosexual subjectivity. By appropriating the Hindu poem to describe homoerotic desire, and by assuming the male subject position, she drew attention to the sexual nature of her love for women; while renouncing homoerotic desire she sought simultaneously to insist on its sexual nature. As she observed in later years, ―the conviction remained with me that the one great temptation & weakness of my soul was expressed in these noble words. . . . ‗The temptress was too near & Heaven too far.‘‖ 235 Maynard‘s casting of herself as a sort of Krishna figure also represents what Joy Dixon describes as the ―colonial syncretic‖ that characterized British appropriations of Hinduism and Buddhism. 236 (In chapter five I explore the relationship between Maynard‘s Evangelicalism, her homoeroticism, and imperialist discourse.) Maynard also turned to the biblical discourse of the spiritual family of God in the course of insisting on the sexual nature of her love of women and renouncing the latter. She suggested that she was called to forego her relationship with Gray because those who worked for God, while promised brothers, sisters, and children to replace the loss of biological family members, were not promised husbands or wives: Never shall we find the exclusive bond of the husband and wife. There is a ―whole family in heaven and earth,‖ there is ―a household of faith‖ but if we try to step beyond this open and recognisable relation which can easily admit a dozen more, and which finds new brothers and sisters, and mothers and children, all the world over – then we are going astray. ―For they Maker is thine husband, the Lord of Hosts is His name, and thy Redeemer the Holy One of Israel‖ (Isa. LIV. 5). 237 235 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1885-1886, 131. 236 Joy Dixon, Divine Feminine: Theosophy and Feminism in England (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 11. 237 Maynard, We Women, 113. 219 The ties of husband and wife were ―too close too sweet too exacting for purely spiritual work.‖ 238 By taking up a biblical discourse of heterosexuality to renounce her desire, and by deeming her relationship with Gray the equivalent of a marital one, Maynard insisted on its sexual nature and evinced a homosexual subjectivity. Her analysis illustrates the proximity of literal and spiritual discourses of the family and of marriage as well as the permeability of the two. The pursuit of a religious calling brought the believers parents and siblings ―in Christ‖ who were comparable to literal parents and siblings. It could not, she averred, bring the believer a spouse. Her very insistence on this betrays the possibility of the latter consequent on the unstable relationship between literal and spiritual families. By October 1885, Gray had grown uncomfortable with Maynard‘s attentions. She moved out of Westfield and into the apartment her sister, Sarah, and her father shared. Maynard believed God had removed Gray from her because her relationship with her had eclipsed her relationship with God. ―Oh, my Ralph,‖ she wrote, ― [because] I have loved you too well, or rather in too earthly a fashion, you are taken fr. me.‖ 239 In April 1886, Gray rejected Maynard decisively. Maynard had expressed dissatisfaction at Gray‘s increasing emotional distance (―I have wanted you so badly this term. I don‘t get over missing you . . . & you refuse all my invitations, & you are making me afraid of you‖), and Gray had responded angrily, ―I‘m glad you are a little afraid of me, for perhaps it will make you treat me with more respect.‖ 240 Maynard was profoundly shocked at Gray‘s rejection; she later deemed it the moment that ―broke her life in two,‖ and the catalyst of her subsequent eleven-year depression. Her understanding of homoerotic ―love‖ shifted once again. When in early April 1886 Margaret 238 Greenbook, 5 April 1885, 40. 239 Greenbook, 20 December 1885, 94. 240 Greenbook, 11 April 1886, 128-29. 220 Brooke left Westfield for good, a more severe approach to desire was evident as Maynard reflected on their relationship of earlier years: love of this kind, love fed on grace & innocence & sweetness, love so secure that it flings the reins on the neck of passion & delights in being carried beyond the ordinary looks & tones of human intercourse, love that circles round & round itself rejoicing over its nest & needing no further outlook, – that love such as this is to me a snare & a poison. 241 After Gray‘s rejection later that month she took up an Evangelical theology of circumstance to argue that the rejection represented God‘s wrath towards her. ―It has been the source of all my (external) troubles at the College without exception,‖ she wrote. ―It is not a mistake any more, I think, it is a sin. . . . It must all be given up, not in its effects only but in its innermost principle.‖ 242 What is remarkable about Maynard‘s changing attitude towards her same-sex desire was the role played by circumstances. In a pre-sexological era, Maynard, who seems to have had no knowledge of other pejorative discourses of female same-sex desire, believed God to be revealing His mind to her through the responses to her of the women she courted. As these responses fluctuated, her attitude to her dissident desire changed. Gray‘s rejection of Maynard precipitated a shift in Maynard‘s religio-erotic subjectivity; it brought to the fore the Puritanism of her childhood, which was embedded in her holiness piety. In the mid-1880s Maynard took up the severe Puritan discourse of idolatry to characterize the sin of ―human love.‖ As a young adult she had understood the Christian journey as one in which the believer was frequently beset by enemies and lured by idols of a foreign land. The consequences of succumbing to spiritual enemies and idolatry were severe: ―Ye have seen all the evil that I 241 Greenbook, 4 April 1886, 126. 242 Greenbook, 17 April 17 1886, 130-31. Maynard was not alone in her reading of a lover‘s rejection as evidence of divine anger. When Harriet Hosmer rejected Margaret Coutts Trotter for Lady Louisa Ashburton, Trotter ―was convinced that God had punished her for loving Ashburton more than Him.‖ She believed God had ―broken the will of which he [sic] saw that there was good reason to be jealous – for God is a jealous God and will be first.‖ Margaret Coutts Trotter to Lady Louisa Ashburton, (?1867), Ashburton Accession, Ashburton Collection, National Library of Scotland, 11388/98, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 87. 221 brought upon Jerusalem . . . [because] they went to burn incense & to serve other gods . . . Wherefore my fury & mine anger was poured forth.‖ 243 After Gray‘s rejection, Maynard took up the Biblical prophets‘ representation of a wayward ancient Israel as a whore to denote her idolatry. This metaphor derived from the discourse of spiritual marriage elucidated in the Hebrew Bible to describe God‘s relationship with Israel. It referred to Israel‘s turning to foreign gods and the range of behaviors that went with it, including illicit sexuality. Maynard deemed herself, like ancient Israel, to have broken her covenant with God in her pursuit of a now explicitly conceived sexual desire. The sexual queerness possible within the mobile biblical discourses of courtship and marriage, and slippages between literal and metaphorical notions of courtship and marriage were evident as, turning to the writings of the prophet Hosea, Maynard imagined a wronged and vengeful God punishing her, His unfaithful wife, for her idolatrous sexual relationship with a woman: And now will I discover her folly in the sight of her lovers, . . . And I will visit upon her the days when she decked herself with jewels & went after her lovers, & forgot me, for she must pay for the wretched past as well as for the present. . . . Therefore I will allure her & bring her into the wilderness, for I see it is the only way left me; stripped of all, in utter desolation I can begin to speak, & I will speak to her heart, for then at least her heart will lie open. 244 If the co-production of spiritual and literal marriage in biblical discourse enabled Maynard to take up discourses of heterosexual courtship and marriage to describe her homoerotic relationships, the spiritual metaphor of sexual unfaithfulness enabled her to articulate a 243 Greenbook, 5 September 1869, 112-13. 244 Greenbook, 30 April 1886, 142. The actual text of Hosea 2 reads: 10. And now will I discover her lewdness in the sight of her lovers . . . 13. And I will visit upon her the days of Baalim, wherein she burned incense to them, and she decked herself with her earrings and her jewels, and she went after her lovers, and forgat me, saith the LORD. 14. Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably to her. 222 homosexual subjectivity even while condemning her pursuit of (homosexual) human love over religious desire. Pursuing Hosea‘s image of an unfaithful Israel consigned by God to the desert, Maynard represented her renunciation of desire as entry into a desert. She had earlier portrayed her sexual desire as a ―hunger for love.‖ 245 After Gray‘s rejection in April 1886, she drew on the biblical story of the exodus, which combined the tropes of the desert and hunger, and represented the desert, or her renunciation of all desire, as the product of her illicit satisfying of that hunger. An underlying resistance to God‘s ostensible requirement that she forfeit same-sex desire was nevertheless evident as she noted that ―I have been very hungry, & have said as it were, ‗Well I did not know there wd. be actually nothing to eat in the desert except manna.‖ 246 In later years she compared herself to Christ in the desert tempted with bread by Satan: ―The suggestion used to come to me, ‗Command these stones that they become bread,‘ but I always replied, ‗No. I belong to God now.‘‖ 247 The pursuit of same-sex desire which had initially been part of her piety, inherent in her evangelism and spiritual mothering, was now positioned in stark opposition to it. Paradoxically, however, her use of the metaphor of hunger for same-sex desire and bread for its sating, suggested that same-sex desire was more fundamental to Maynard‘s life than her dispensing with it indicated. 248 Maynard also took up a biblical discourse of physical infirmity to describe her homosexual desire. After rejecting her advances, Gray explained to Maynard that she ―saw there were two sides to me – one independent, practical, hard-working, wholly devoted to the College, 245 Greenbook, 1 February 1896, quoted in Autobiography, 1896, 372. 246 Greenbook, 30 April 1886, 143. 247 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 50, 1887, 184. 248 Phipps notes that she ―admitted that her ‗hunger for love‘ was something ‗deeply rooted in [her] and difficult to give up.‘‖ Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 277. 223 & this she loved, the other ‗something wrong.‘‖ This was the side Gray felt ―doomed nearly always to be in contact with.‖ 249 Maynard had come to a similar decision, ―It is as if one part of me were so soft it is scarcely fitted to live in the world at all, while the rest is independent enough for anything. I used to be independent all round; something has got very wrong.‖ 250 She turned to the story of Christ‘s healing of the invalid at the Pool of Bethesda (―to-day Jesus sees me lie here & says, ‗Wilt thou be made whole?‘‖ 251 ). The invalid had lain at the pool for thirty- eight years hoping to be cured by its waters before Christ healed him. Maynard was thirty-seven in 1886 and believed that she, like the invalid, was not beyond Christ‘s healing. 252 Her appropriation of a biblical discourse of pathology to explain her homoerotic desire suggests a possible convergence between religious and sexological discourses of female inversion in later years. The eleven years following Maynard‘s renunciation of homosexual desire, from 1886 to 1897, were marked by a prolonged depression. Having repudiated human love, she set about ―waiting on God‖ for an experience of divine love, but with little success. 253 For Maynard the repudiation of ―human love‖ put the divine beyond reach. Homoerotic love was an important site of her encounter with the divine; without ―human love,‖ her faith foundered. The prophet Hosea was not to have the final word on her homoerotic desire, however. In 1897 she fell in love with Marion Wakefield, the young Anglo-Irish cousin of Anne Richardson. Reading 249 Greenbook, 30 April 1886, 139-40. 250 Greenbook, 17 April 1886, 30-31. 251 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 49, 1886, 161-62. 252 Ibid., 162. 253 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 50, 1887, 179. 224 circumstances as the expression of God‘s will again, but in a more propitious context, she understood Wakefield to be a ―gift from God.‖ 254 At the beginning of this chapter I suggested that Maynard‘s recourse to the Anglo- and Roman Catholic sisterhoods to represent her acceptance of the position of principal of Westfield was somewhat surprising in the light of Evangelical hostility towards Anglo-Catholics and Catholics. In recent years historians of Victorian religion have pointed to the gender and sexual anxieties underlying this hostility. Evangelicals deemed the rituals of Anglo-Catholicism overly sensual, viewed the confessional as a site of lasciviousness and/or seduction, and represented monasteries as institutions of homosexual license and convents as sites of (hetero)sexual violence. Blurring religious and sexual discourse they depicted conversion to Catholicism as a process of seduction. 255 Gender anxieties informed notions of sexual degeneracy; the Anglo- Catholic clergy with their long vestments and ostensibly excessive refinement were deemed effeminate; the Catholic Church was represented as a ―perverted and vampiric mother,‖ or the sexually degenerate ―whore of Babylon.‖ 256 Underlying both sexual and gender panic was a sense that Catholicism constituted a threat to the family. For example, of the Anglo-Catholic manual on confession, The Priest in Absolution (1866), Archbishop Tait alleged, ―I cannot imagine that any right minded man could wish to have such questions addressed to any member of his family.‖ 257 Maynard‘s founding of Westfield College and her pursuit of a series of homoerotic relationships within its walls suggest that Evangelical anxieties concerning Catholicism may have been exacerbated by developments within Evangelicalism itself. The co-production of 254 Phipps notes that ―even in her seventies‖ Maynard argued of Wakefield, ―that God had blessed her with love for someone who had loved her passionately in return.‖ Phipps, ―Faith,‖ 277. 255 Ellis Hanson, Decadence and Catholicism (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1997). 256 Ibid., 264. 257 Ibid., 283. 225 literal and spiritual marriage, motherhood, and family in evangelical discourse – the use of each as a metaphor for the other – rendered earthly marriage, motherhood, and the family unstable. Culturally queer spaces emerged within the very making of the evangelical family as meaning vacillated between spiritual and earthly discourses of the family. The disruption of the evangelical alignment of women with literal marriage and motherhood effected by this co- production heightened evangelical anxiety regarding women‘s role and norms of femininity. Maynard rejected earthly marriage and motherhood in favor of their spiritual counterparts in founding Westfield College. If the co-production of literal and spiritual marriage led to culturally queer spaces within evangelicalism, it also produced sexually queer spaces in this tradition. The notion that Christians were the family of God resulted in the construal of mentoring relationships between women as mother-daughter relationships. Metaphors of motherhood were animated by powerful but volatile expressions of religious eros. This was particularly true of holiness piety, a revivalist movement within evangelicalism that was characterized by heightened expressions of religious desire. The proximity between spiritual friendships and marriage, consequent on the framing of marriage by spiritual language, led to slippages between the pursuit of divine love with a spiritual friend and of human love with a spouse. It may well have been gender and sexual anxieties within holiness evangelicalism that exacerbated evangelical antipathy for Anglo- and Roman Catholicism. Evangelical gender and sexual panic with regard to Catholic practices of celibacy, same-sex religious orders, priests‘ disruption of dominant discourses of masculinity, and sensuality in religious devotion, was a response to, and may have served as a regulatory mechanism for, perceived excesses within holiness evangelicalism itself. An Evangelical concern over human love – or idolatrous relationships – usurping love for the divine may have informed Evangelicals‘ turn to sexual 226 discourse and the recapitulation of Reformation notions of the Catholic Church as the ―whore of Babylon.‖ Evangelical disquiet with the prominence of women in the holiness movement, and also perhaps with erotically inflected mother-daughter relationships, may account for representations of the Catholic Church as a sexually voracious and/or vampiric ―mother.‖ Evangelical women‘s refusal of marriage for a religious vocation, and their pursuit of such vocations in close friendships (even ―marriages‖) with other women, may also have fueled evangelical criticism of Catholic celibacy as a perversion of marriage. The blurring of the lines between Evangelicalism and Catholicism, and between sexual anxieties within and outside Evangelicalism, was evident in Maynard‘s life when, in a moment of remorse, she observed of her time at Westfield, ―If only I could have given that love, that preoccupation of the heart, to Christ alone! I had entered the Cloister voluntarily, and I had perpetually transgressed its first rule.‖ 258 258 Greenbook, 8 February 1935, 255. 227 Chapter 4: Motherhood: A Class Act? Class, Race, and Empire in the Evangelical Middle-Class Family When on October 19, 1888, Constance Maynard met six-year-old Stephanë Fazulo, the Italian child she was to adopt, her impressions were not favorable. Fazulo, who had been living in a Parisian orphanage, wore a ― a shabby red frock, scarlet stockings that did not match, darned to the last point all over the knees with still a third red, a black jacket, a rough white knitted handkerchief, & a blue serge cap much the worse for wear.‖ 1 It was Fazulo‘s poor sight that was decisive for Maynard. ―[As] I looked at her sitting there,‖ she wrote later that day, ―a quiet reasonable thought passed through my mind, ‗Of course she won‘t do.‘ It was no sort of repulsion, but a kind of calculation, founded on her spectacles & the squint they were intended to correct, for which I had not been prepared.‖ 2 After some deliberation, Maynard nevertheless went ahead with the adoption. She believed herself guided by God. 3 In her incisive account of this adoption story, the historian Pamela Walker notes Maynard‘s belief that Effie Anthon, as Maynard renamed Stephanë Fazulo, would ―cross class and cultural lines and eventually share Maynard‘s education and social life.‖ 4 Her decision was informed by a reformist Evangelical belief that God‘s grace would not only accomplish Anthon‘s spiritual regeneration but also elevate her socially. Twenty years later, however, Maynard had given up all hope for Anthon. Part of the title for this chapter is taken from Bonnie Fox‘s essay, ―Motherhood as a Class Act: The Many Ways in which ‗Intensive Mothering‘ is Entangled with Social Class,‖ in Social Reproduction: Feminist Political Economy Challenges Neo-liberalism ed. Meg Luxton and Kate Bezanson (Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 2006). 1 Effie Notebooks, 19 October, 1888, 159, Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London. The notebooks are also available on microfilm: Constance Maynard, The Diaries of Constance Maynard, The Origins of Modern Feminism, pt. 1. Brighton, Sussex: Harvester Microform, 1987. While some of the entries in these notebooks list the day, month, and year, most list only the month and year. I have followed Maynard‘s scheme. 2 Ibid. 3 Effie Notebooks, 4 November 1888, 208. 4 Pamela J. Walker, ―Adoption and Victorian Culture,‖ History of the Family 11, no. 4 (2006): 212. 228 Taking up eugenic discourse she argued that she was ―a wreck, a ruin, diseased, unclean, untrue‖ 5 and ―wondered why I had gone on so long with this being who to me appeared dirty all through in a fashion irremediable.‖ 6 Anthon‘s long struggle with masturbation prompted Maynard‘s recourse to eugenic discourse. Anthon was the illegitimate child of an Italian mother who had been seduced by an Italian Protestant clergyman; Maynard argued that her ―illicit‖ sexuality was hereditary. The role of eugenics in the making of race was evident as Maynard associated Anthon and her parents‘ ostensible sexual immodesty with a purportedly degenerate Italian sexual laxness. 7 This chapter examines Maynard‘s relationship with Anthon as a site at which to chart the final shift in Maynard‘s religious subjectivity and explores the effects of her changing religious beliefs on her sexual discourse. From 1900 she began to engage with theological modernism. With Westfield College firmly established, she pursued as her primary objective the ―modernizing‖ of Evangelicalism. Holiness piety had provided her with a temporary respite to her crisis of faith, but had not provided answers to the questions that informed that crisis. ―There was no admixture of the new insight with the old faith,‖ she wrote in a 1901 article for The Nineteenth Century, ―and therefore [holiness piety] could not deal with the central grief, written deep within.‖ 8 A long-held frustration with Evangelicals‘ intellectual timidity, and particularly that of the holiness Evangelicals, prompted Maynard‘s turn to modernism. Of the 1906 Keswick 5 Effie Notebooks, January 1909, 224. 6 Effie Notebooks, February 1909, 243. 7 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 220. 8 Constance Maynard, ―An Individual Retrospect of the Religious Thought of the Nineteenth Century, Part II,‖ Expositor (September 1901): 253. 229 Conference she noted, ―the intellectual interest seemed to me to be extraordinarily low; for the most part it was stereotyped poor & limited.‖ 9 As in earlier years, broader cultural discourses, science in particular, played an important role in Maynard‘s shifting religious beliefs. She turned to the Darwinism that had so challenged her faith in the 1870s and sought to reconcile it with Evangelicalism; her ―synthesizing‖ of the two at the turn of the century comprised her primary effort to modernize Evangelicalism. Maynard‘s modernizing project was also crucially informed by the high imperialism of the turn of the century, which saw both the expansion of the British Empire and anxieties about its viability. Her turn to Darwin to modernize Evangelicalism was influenced by her imperialist sentiments and her reworked theology bore their imprint. From her synthesis of Darwinism and Evangelicalism, Maynard developed a new, scientific and imperially inflected feminism; this too was part of her project to modernize Evangelicalism. Maynard‘s ―modern‖ Evangelicalism represents the reconfiguring of faith in response to ―modern thought‖ of the kind that scholars of gender and religion have pointed to in refuting singular trajectories of secularization. It demonstrates one process through which scientific discourse gained ascendance in turn-of-the-century Evangelicalism. The eugenics discourse that emerged with Maynard‘s attempt to synthesize Evangelicalism and Darwinism illuminates the often overlooked role of scientifically inflected re-workings of religion in the ascendance of the eugenics movement, including feminist iterations of it. Maynard‘s forging of an Evangelical discourse of modernity also points up the historically specific constitution of discourses of modernity. It points to the inadequacies of contemporary categories of ―modernity‖ that, by assuming religion to be antithetical to science, exclude religion from consideration and/or, by re- inscribing a metropole/colony dichotomy, ignore the indebtedness of British modernity to imperialism. Indeed, I argue that the scientifically inflected religious discourse of empire of the 9 Autobiography, 1906, 562. 230 turn of the century provides one of the most persuasive reasons for questioning dominant notions of ―the concept of a rational secularized culture . . . [as] a key signifier of modernity.‖ 10 As in earlier years, Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity and her sexual discourse were structured by shifts in her religious beliefs. The former thus constitute particularly productive sites for investigating those beliefs and, in this case, for examining the relationship between religion, science, and empire in the making of modernity. The next chapter explores Maynard‘s homoerotic relationships as a site at which Maynard‘s modern imperially inflected synthesis of Darwinism and Evangelicalism found articulation. This chapter examines her relationship with Anthon, with a particular focus on Maynard‘s sexual discourse, in order to chart the making of Maynard‘s imperialism and her scientific discourse at the turn of the century and to plot the ways in which these intersected with her making of a modern Evangelicalism and Evangelical feminism. In recent years scholars of British imperialism have undertaken a thorough critique of Enlightenment-indebted definitions of ―modernity,‖ arguing that by aligning modernity with the triumph of reason, the ascent of science, and human progress, the indebtedness of British modernity to imperialism has been elided. The innovations of the industrial revolution, upon which Western notions of modernity are based, were predicated on the enslaving or subjugation of indigenous peoples, the occupation of their land, and the appropriation of their resources. Postcolonial scholars see the failure of British historians to recognize the imperialist making of British modernity as a product of the division of national and imperial history that has long characterized British historiography. Ann Stoler and Frederick Cooper have called for a theoretical framework that integrates ―metropole‖ and ―colony.‖ While much postcolonial scholarship in British studies focuses on the colonies, some scholars have begun to explore the 10 Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 10. 231 making of imperialist discourse in the British ―metropole‖ as one means of challenging the metropole/colony divide. Feminist historians of gender and empire, for example, have begun to chart the complicity of metropolitan British women and British feminism in the making and sustaining of imperialist discourse. 11 The autonomy of middle-class British women and their quest for education, access to the professions, and citizenship, has been shown to depend upon their positioning themselves as the guardians of indigenous women. 12 Scholars of religion, gender, and empire have charted the implication of the religious subjectivity and religious work of metropolitan British women in imperialism and have begun to position discourses of modernity in relation to this enquiry. However, feminist historians of Christianity have yet to explore the engagement of metropolitan Christian women with the overlapping discourses of modernity, science, and empire. This chapter utilizes scholarship on the family, drawing attention to the sexual discourse of the middle-class family, as a framework for investigating the relationship of religion, science, and empire in Maynard‘s making of modern Evangelicalism. With the efforts of some British historians to integrate national and imperial historiographies, scholarship on the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century family has been transformed. Feminist historians have noted that the nuclear family that was the acme of middle- class culture, and indebted to evangelicalism, was posited as the telos of the ―civilizing‖ mission 11 For key texts in the field of European women and empire see Gayatri Spivak, ―Three Women‘s Texts and a Critique of Imperialism,‖ Critical Enquiry 12 (Autumn 1985): 243-61; Antoinette Burton, Burdens of History: British Feminists, Indian Women, and Imperial Culture, 1886-1915 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994); Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995); Ann Laura Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002) and Race and the Education of Desire: Foucault's History of Sexuality and the Colonial Order of Things (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995); and Catherine Hall, ―Of Gender and Empire: Reflections on the Nineteenth Century,‖ in Gender and Empire, ed. Philippa Levine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 46-76. 12 Thus, for example, Antoinette Burton notes how the Evangelical feminist Josephine Butler‘s positioned British women as the guardians of ostensibly helpless ―native‖ women in her campaign against the Indian Contagious Diseases Acts in the late 1880s (Burton, Burdens of History, 127-170). See Spivak‘s ―Three Women‘s Texts‖ for the initial formulation of this concept. 232 in imperialist discourse. 13 Catherine Hall thus argues that ―civilizing‖ indigenous peoples most often meant ―turn[ing] sinners into new Christian subjects, living industrious, domesticated, and familial lives‖ 14 – lives defined by a ―set of ‗proper‘ relations between men and women‖ 15 and companionate marriage. A related body of literature inaugurated by Stoler and Cooper explores the intimate domains of sex, sentiment, and domestic arrangement as key micropolitical sites at which the macropolitics of empire were constituted and contested. 16 Within the colonial home Europeans aligned middle-class competencies, sensibilities, and moral values with ―whiteness‖ in forging difference between themselves and their children on the one hand, and ―native‖ women and children on the other. The sexual production of race accompanied its cultural production. Situating Foucault‘s work on sexuality within an imperial frame, Stoler examines the making, unmaking, and remaking of racial categories in changing colonial policies on miscegenation, prostitution, and concubinage as they were enacted or resisted in intimate relationships of empire. 17 Studies of imperial intimacy have tended to focus on colonial contexts. Among the few studies of the metropolitan family that do exist, the British home is represented as a material product of imperialism and a showcase for it. 18 Anne McClintock‘s work is a notable exception. 13 Hall, ―Of Gender and Empire‖; McClintock, Imperial Leather; Philippa Levine, ―Sexuality, Gender, and Empire,‖ in Levine, Gender and Empire, 134-155; Rosemary Marangoly George, ―Homes in the Empire, Empires in the Home,‖ in Burning Down the House: Recycling Domesticity, ed. Rosemary Marangoly George (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998), 47-74. 14 Hall, ―Of Gender,‖ 59. 15 James Mill, The History of British India, 2 vols. (1818; New York, 1968), 309-10, quoted in Hall, ―Of Gender,‖ 51. 16 Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler, ―Between Metropole and Colony. Rethinking a Research Agenda,‖ in Tensions of Empire. Colonial Cultures in the Bourgeois World, ed. Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 1-56; Stoler, Education of Desire; Stoler, Carnal Knowledge. 17 Stoler, Education of Desire and Carnal Knowledge. 18 McClintock, Imperial Leather; Antoinette Burton, ―Women and ‗Domestic‘ Imperial Culture: The Case of Victorian Britain,‖ in Connecting Spheres: European Women in a Globalizing World, 1500 to the Present, ed. Marilyn J. Boxer and Jean H. Quataert (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 174-84. 233 Turning to the sexual within the domestic, and drawing on the earlier work of Leonore Davidoff, she examines the imperial framing of the sadomasochistic relationship between the Victorian barrister Arthur Munby and the maid-of-all-work Hannah Cullwick; Cullwick‘s ―dirtying up‖ as a servant for Munby demonstrates slippages between discourses of class (servanthood) and race (African slavery) in the middle-class home. Walker‘s study of Maynard‘s adoption of Stephanë Fazulo demonstrates another way in which imperialist discourse informed the making of the metropolitan middle-class family. She notes that, at a time when middle-class women‘s femininity was predicated on successful motherhood, Maynard turned to an imperially inflected eugenics as a means to excuse her failed ―mothering‖ of Anthon. 19 She rightly notes that Maynard‘s recourse to eugenics provides ―one close view of . . . [the] shift‖ towards ―more biological explanations for human behavior in the later nineteenth century.‖ 20 Walker identifies important similarities between eugenics and Evangelical holiness piety that facilitated the assimilation of eugenic discourse into Evangelicalism: both systems of thought shared ―a belief that the body expressed truths about the individuals‘ character and inheritance.‖ 21 However she relinquishes this line of enquiry for the assertion of the co-existence of the two discourses (Maynard drew on ―a combination of racial, medical and religious explanations‖ 22 ). While drawing attention to the role of Maynard‘s middle-class status in her adoption of Anthon, and pointing to intersections in class and racial discourse in Maynard‘s turn to eugenics, Walker also neglects the role of Evangelicalism in the making of class and overlooks the role of class discourse in the incorporation of eugenic discourse into Maynard‘s Evangelicalism. As a result, 19 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 213. 20 Ibid., 212. 21 Ibid., 220. 22 Ibid., 214. Walker also argues that ―determined to deter Effie from marriage, Constance put aside the language of evangelicalism and turned to scientific reasoning‖ (218). 234 the relation of class to racial discourse in Evangelicalism is underexplored as is the role of class- based metropolitan Evangelical eugenic discourse in the making of colonial discourses of race. In this chapter I argue that rather than simply demonstrating the co-existence of two discourses, 23 Evangelicalism and eugenics, Maynard‘s relationship with her adopted daughter illustrates a shift from a traditional Evangelicalism to a more scientific iteration of it. Maynard‘s turn to eugenics was the consequence not only of a need to account for her maternal inadequacies but also of a far larger ―modernizing‖ project that was precipitated with her synthesizing of Evangelicalism and Darwinism in the early 1900s. I argue, contra Walker, that holiness piety and eugenics, while sharing some similarities, were actually in substantial opposition to one another. Maynard‘s account of her adoption of Anthon offers a rare record of a working-class woman refusing a middle-class woman‘s eugenic effort to police her sexuality. It is all the rarer for Anthon‘s recourse to holiness piety in this endeavor. Maynard, with the self- assurance of many women of her class, left a candid record of Anthon‘s refusal of her eugenic Evangelicalism. 24 Anthon‘s challenge to Maynard‘s eugenic discourse of sexuality elucidates the contest through which eugenic versions of evangelicalism triumphed in early twentieth- century Britain. It illustrates how Evangelical notions of grace came to be set aside for theories of heredity, how a new Evangelicalism that deemed the body all-significant came to triumph over an older, traditional Evangelicalism in which the wellbeing of the spirit was largely dissociated from that of the body, and how the fluid discourse of the evangelical family – in which spiritual understandings of the family of God vied with literal understandings of the family – came to be supplanted by a more rigid eugenic discourse in which the literal family and the law of heredity predominated. Maynard‘s account of her adoption of Anthon also illustrates 23 Walker suggests that ―although divine authority and medical authority might seem to contradict each other, Maynard struggled to balance the two in her effort to explain and reform Effie.‖ Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 212. 24 Walker notes that although ―Constance‘s perspective predominates in this story . . . it is possible to glimpse Effie‘s point of view in her letters and in conversations Constance recorded‖ (Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 213). 235 the role of class in the metropolitan Evangelical making of imperialist discourse and the role of imperialism in the making of an Evangelical discourse of modernity. The first part of this chapter explores Stoler‘s notion that racial discourse was culturally produced within the colonial family through the alignment of ―whiteness‖ – or in this case a white Englishness – with middle-class competencies, sensibilities, and values. It extends Stoler‘s analysis by examining the role of the latter in the making of race in the metropolitan family. Maynard‘s attempt to make a middle-class British child of Anthon, her failure to achieve this, and her subsequent re-making of Anthon‘s working-class status reveals the artificiality, fluidity, and instability of class difference. It suggests a similar artifice and instability in the metropolitan construction of racial difference. The second section examines Maynard‘s attempt to modernize Evangelicalism by synthesizing it with Darwinism at the turn of the century. High imperialism played an important role in this endeavor and the ―modern‖ Evangelical feminism that was an effect of it. Maynard‘s eugenic response to Anthon‘s supposedly illicit sexuality demonstrates the emergence of eugenic discourse within Maynard‘s modern Evangelicalism. The tenuous nature of Maynard‘s making of Anthon‘s class and racial difference, and the contradictions and resistances within her understanding of Anthon, led Maynard to embrace eugenic discourse, which fixed class and racial difference as ―natural‖ or ―biological.‖ Maynard‘s sexual discourse therefore constitutes a crucial site for understanding the relationship between religion, science, and empire in Maynard‘s making of a modern Evangelicalism. Stephanë Rosabianca Fazulo was the ―illegitimate‖ daughter of an unmarried Italian woman, Rosabianca Fazulo (1862-1930), 25 and a married Italian Protestant clergyman, Oscar Concordia. She had been conceived one night in 1881 when Concordia, a friend of the Fazulo 25 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 213. 236 family, had offered to sit with the ill Rosabianca. Rosabianca, on being found to be pregnant, had been banished from her family, and abandoned by Concordia. She had gone to stay with relatives in Naples and it was here that Stephanë was born in 1882. Two years later Rosabianca was found by Salvation Army officers (in Tuscany or in the south of France, the facts are not clear), homeless, begging, and ―nearly out of her mind with anxiety & shame & despair.‖ 26 The English feminist Josephine Butler learned of her plight and took her into her home in Winchester for three months, ―calmed & restored her, taught her both French & English,‖ and returned her to the Salvation Army in France. 27 By 1886 she was working as a Salvation Army cadet in the Army‘s orphanage in Paris. 28 Stephanë‘s history during these years is less clear; it is likely that she was cared for in France while her mother was in England. In March 1886, when she was four years old, she was placed in the Salvation Army‘s Paris orphanage. She was not told that Rosabianca was her mother; she knew her only as one of the Army cadets. She had been told her mother and father were dead. 29 In 1888, the Salvation Army, short of funding, closed its Paris orphanage. Stephanë, six years old at the time, was placed in the care of Ellen Pash, an officer with the Salvation Army and a Girton graduate with whom Maynard was acquainted. Pash took Stephanë to England in the hopes of finding a home for her. 30 Rosabianca, probably in an effort to remain near her daughter, also moved to England; she was working in a London hospital and living with a grocer 26 Effie Notebooks, 19 October 1888, 163. 27 Effie Notebooks, Retrospect of 1888, 19 October 1888, 85. 28 Effie Notebooks, 19 October, 1888, 163. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid. It was unusual for the Salvation Army to pursue adoption when a child‘s mother was still alive. Walker notes, quoting J. Fairbank‘s Booth’s Boots (1983), that evangelicals who administered rescue homes believed ―the child would help ensure the mother‘s redemption and many insisted that no sinner should escape the consequences of sin‖ (Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 211-13). Like evangelical rescue homes, the Army preferred children to remain with their mothers; we cannot be sure why, in this case, Pash sought adoption for Anthon. 237 and his wife in Bishopsgate Within when, in October 1888, Pash took Anthon to see Maynard. Pash had written to Maynard about the child, asking her to look out for adoptive parents for her, and Maynard had asked to meet her. Maynard chronicled the adoption and her subsequent relationship with Anthon in seven volumes of notebooks. In the 1880s adoption procedures had not yet been formalized in Britain (adoption was only legalized in 1926). 31 While, as Walker notes, the adoption of working-class children by working-class families was not uncommon (it allowed working-class children to remain close to their families and friends), adoption amongst the middle class was rare. 32 The adoption of children by unmarried middle-class women was a contravention of norms of middle-class femininity. Ellen Pash thus wrote to Maynard: ―of course the world would object, but . . . Christ demanded sacrifices.‖ 33 The multivalence of evangelical discourses of the family – and the contestation between literal and spiritual meanings of family in particular – was evident as, in the following weeks, Maynard turned to the Bible in an attempt to ascertain God‘s will. She could not be sure whether God was calling her only to spiritual motherhood (in her role as Mistress of Westfield College) or to literal motherhood also. ―All night long the alternatives keep coming before my mind,‖ she wrote, ―‗Whoso receiveth one such little child in my name, receiveth me,‘ & then again, ‗Whoso forsaketh not father or mother or child for my sake, cannot be my disciple.‘ Which was true of these solemn voices?‘‖ 34 Through a series of external events Maynard came to believe that God was directing her to adopt the child. Her decision to adopt 31 See Leonore Davidoff‘s ―Kinship as a Categorical Concept,‖ Journal of Social History (2005): 411-28, quoted in Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 214. 32 Walker, Adoption,‖ 212. 33 Effie Notebooks, 26 October 1888, 169. 34 Effie Notebooks, 30 October 1888, 190. 238 Anthon illustrates the role of evangelical discourse in producing dissident configurations of the family. Evangelical discourses of the family were nevertheless deeply implicated in the constitution and maintenance of class difference. In the late eighteenth century, the family had become a crucial cultural institution for an emerging middle class intent on distinguishing itself from the aristocracy and working class. 35 It was a site at which the boundaries of the working and middle class were entrenched. Maynard was from an upper-middle-class Evangelical Anglican family. The importance of the middle-class family in the consolidating of class difference was most evident in Maynard‘s early life in her years at Girton College. She entered Girton (then ―Hitchin‖) in 1872, at a time of heightened class consciousness in Britain. The Reform Act of 1867 had extended the franchise to the majority of working-class men; the democratization of education followed, with the passage of the 1870 Education Act mandating the education of all children up to the age of twelve and allowing women to serve on School Boards. The founding of Girton College in 1869 was part of this movement, but in its earliest years women‘s higher education comprised a site at which class difference was entrenched rather than contested. Soon after entering Girton, Maynard noted with satisfaction the ―perfect standard of refinement‖ established by Louisa Lumsden, the leading student. Although not an aristocrat, Lumsden was from an ancient Scottish family; her mother ―been a Forbes of Forbes Castle‖ and the other Girton students came from similarly auspicious homes. 36 When, from its third year, Girton began admitting students of the lower sections of the middle class – daughters of less affluent Nonconformist clergy, and after some discussion, the daughter of a London shopkeeper – Maynard viewed the incoming students with dismay. ―They were the first drops of 35 Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall. Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780- 1850, rev. ed. (New York: Routledge, 2002). 36 Greenbook, 30 July 1876, 66-67. 239 that shower that brought to so low a level the refinement of our Women‘s Colleges,‖ she wrote in later years. 37 Her attitude to class was not significantly different ten years later when she founded Westfield College. When the college opened in 1882 she noted that ―it is hard, very hard to gather in real gentlewomen, for the classes below come pressing upward, ever upward, & they must be accepted.‖ 38 At Girton in the early 1870s, Maynard turned to the family to consolidate class difference. The families of the newer students were, she argued, ―absolutely intolerable in their want of good taste & good breeding.‖ 39 They were ―people we should not think of ‗knowing‘ at home, people whom to ‗know‘ & to welcome to your home, meant the exclusion of your equals.‖ 40 Sexual discourses of the evangelical family played an important role in inscribing class difference too. Maynard‘s discovery that the daughter of the London shopkeeper, Amy Mantle, had been born out of wedlock, constituted an almost insurmountable barrier to their friendship. ―Now indeed I was under a blow,‖ she averred in her autobiography. ―A girl who ought never to have been born, a girl stained through & through with disgrace, a girl without a name to sign, with no real relatives, __ my mind seemed to fly about over the shocking history.‖ 41 By 1873, however, Maynard was compelled to engage with the newer group of lower middle-class Girton students. Her efforts to befriend and to convert the first generation of Girton students had failed, and believing it necessary to disseminate the gospel, she turned with reluctance to the newer incoming students. ―Hitherto I had sought the society of my superiors,‖ 37 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 11, 1872, 341. 38 Autobiography, 1911, 636-37. 39 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 22, 1875, 546-47. 40 Ibid. 41 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 16, 1874, 575. 240 she wrote in later years, ―now I turned round & tried to give out my treasures to those who were not only young & ignorant, but recognised as inferiors.‖ 42 She won converts amongst these students and the potentially egalitarian nature of the spiritual ―family of God‖ came into conflict with the class-based Evangelical discourse of the literal family. Maynard turned to the latter to negotiate the demands of the spiritual mother-daughter relationship. When her converts talked to Maynard about their families, a means of instituting intimacy amongst young middle-class women, Maynard entrenched class difference by refusing to reciprocate (―One of them . . . said, ‗Here I‘ve told you the characters of all my family, & we‘ve consulted about them all, & I haven‘t one idea how many brothers & sisters you have!‖ 43 ). More significantly, she took up spiritual discourse and ―de-corporealized‖ her converts in order to assume the role of their spiritual mother. ―[They] were hopeless,‖ she wrote in later years, ―until I divested them of both body & mind & looked at them as immortal souls, & then I loved them dearly, both collectively & separately.‖ 44 Maynard understood the body to be an important designator of class but, paradoxically, the body/spirit dualism of traditional Evangelical discourse enabled her to overcome it; while perpetuating class divides, the body/spirit dualism nevertheless allowed for some interchange across them. In 1888 a belief in the superiority of the middle-class family informed Maynard‘s class subjectivity and enabled her to override the claims of Rosabianca Fazulo, a working-class mother, on Fazulo‘s daughter. 45 In November 1888 she met with the Salvation Army solicitor, Dr. Ranger. He informed her that under English law parents could not be irrevocably separated 42 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 14, 1873, 496. 43 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 22, 1875, 547. 44 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 25, 1875, 756. Paradoxically the divesting of the lower middle-class Girton students of their corporeality did not preclude the expression of physical intimacies intrinsic to spiritual mother- daughter relationships. 45 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 214. 241 from their children. If Rosabianca became economically independent through marriage or through her work, she might take Anthon back into her custody. 46 With Maynard‘s consent, Ranger, over-awed by Maynard‘s upper-middle-class status, drew up a contract that would make it as difficult as possible for Fazulo to ascertain, let alone to assert, her parental rights (―The use of this document is chiefly to . . . make her think this transfer much more irrevocable than really it is‖ 47 ). Walker suggests that Maynard may have further prevented Fazulo from making a claim on Anthon by orchestrating her removal to South Africa as a nurse for the Cape General Mission in 1892. 48 The paradoxical role of the discourse of the spiritual family in entrenching class difference was evident when later in November 1888, Maynard took Anthon to Dr. Ranger‘s office to effect the adoption. Ellen Pash and Mr. and Mrs. Lampard, the couple with whom Fazulo lodged, were present and, Maynard writes, a ―fourth [person] sat still and stony & I knew it was the mother.‖ 49 Fazulo ―had on the neat hospital dress, & looked lady-like, tall & imposing,‖ 50 but as the meeting progressed she became increasingly distraught. As ―poor Rosabianca‘s sobs [rose] in intensity,‖ 51 Maynard wrote, she went up to her and ―said quite low in her ear, ‗I will care for your child. I will love her. . . . I will do all that I can that she shall 46 Effie Notebooks, 8 November 1888, 212-213. Walker, quoting G. Belmer‘s Friends of the Family (1998), confirms that ―in 1888, no parent could relinquish rights and responsibilities for a child nor could another adult assume them.‖ Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 212. 47 Effie Notebooks, 8 November 1888, 214. 48 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 214, quoting, Memorandum, 1892; Council Minutes 13 June 1891, 18 April 1892, South African Pioneer, January 1893. Although she made occasional trips to Britain, Fazulo lived in South Africa until her death in 1930. In1894 she married fellow missionary Samuel Holt and, after working in Cape Town, they settled at a mission station at Mount Packard, near Umtata, in Tembuland (217). 49 Effie Notebooks, 16 November 1888, 222. 50 Ibid., 223. 51 Ibid., 226. 242 grow up a Christian, & you will live with her in heaven.‘‖ 52 Making recourse to the spiritual family, Maynard restructured Anthon‘s literal family. She later prayed that Anthon ―might be His child fr. the [very] first, & that He wd. raise her up to do great good for His kingdom, so that many & many might thank God for the work of that day.‖ 53 She prayed also that she and Anthon might ―prove the beauty of an ideal relation of Mother & daughter, loving each other unreservedly, [because] we loved our Lord still more.‖ 54 In this instance an evangelical bifurcation of the body and spirit enabled the upper-middle-class Maynard to devalue the physical working-class family. The radical potential of the spiritual discourse of the family was defused as spiritual discourse served to consolidate the formation of this middle-class family. Scholars of British imperialism have explored the efforts of colonial authorities to re- structure indigenous families along the lines of the middle-class British family as part of the ―civilizing mission,‖ and the role of Christian missionaries in that endeavor. Missionaries in the Caribbean and Africa sought to bring African families into conformity with middle-class British ones; in India they attempted to achieve the disbanding of women‘s quarters in Muslim and Hindu households and endeavored to restructure matrilineal extended Nair households, for example. 55 Such efforts co-existed, paradoxically, with the tragic wrenching of children from Aboriginal families in Australia and Canada as part of the ―civilizing‖ mission. Maynard‘s evangelical unmaking of the family of the working-class Fazulo provides a metropolitan counterpart to the colonial re-structuring of indigenous families. It suggests that the dehumanizing process through which colonial authorities were able to reconfigure the families of indigenous people had its counterpart in middle-class attitudes towards the working class in the 52 Ibid., 228. 53 Ibid., 229. 54 Effie Notebooks, 4 November 1888, 208. 55 Hall, ―Of Gender‖; Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism (The New York: Routledge, 1998), 168. 243 metropole. It brings to the fore the role of Evangelicalism in that process of dehumanization. The Evangelical discourses of the spiritual and literal family worked in tandem in this project; the Evangelical discourse of the literal family elevated the middle-class family, while the discourse of the spiritual family eroded indigenous and working-class family formations. Maynard‘s subsequent efforts to ―reform‖ the foreign and ostensibly working-class Anthon‘s behavior demonstrates the role of metropolitan class relations, and middle-class approaches to working-class families in particular, in the making of race in the colonies. In a recent study Seth Koven argues that some middle-class Londoners‘ practice of ―slumming‖ (visiting or living amongst the poor in the East End neighborhoods) shaped Victorian philanthropy and social welfare: the ―private lives of individuals intersected with the public histories of benevolence.‖ 56 Maynard‘s relationship with Anthon demonstrates an intermediate step in this process, the dissemination of the attitudes of middle-class ―slummers‖ throughout the middle class. Indeed, Maynard‘s and Anthon‘s relationship can be understood within the framework of social reform represented by some forms of slumming, even though it was mostly removed from the poor neighborhoods of London. Unlike Koven‘s middle-class subjects, Maynard‘s attitude to Anthon was not, as far as we can see, sexually inflected. It nevertheless entailed a discourse of sexual regulation and demonstrates a similar combination of curiosity and repulsion, the amelioration of class difference with its consolidation, that marked the efforts of reformist ―slummers.‖ Maynard‘s and Anthon‘s relationship suggests that slumming was not only a spatially located practice pursued by a small minority of middle-class Londoners, but might better be understood as one mode through which middle-class Britons related to the working class in a range of locations, including the middle-class home. 56 Seth Koven, Slumming: Sexual and Social Politics in Victorian London (Princeton, NJ : Princeton University Press, 2004). 244 Maynard‘s early relationship with Anthon was marked by the curiosity and the earnestness, the self-interest and the altruism, that characterized social reform efforts. Anthon had been placed in an orphanage in Kilburn upon arriving in London. Upon collecting her after the adoption proceedings, Maynard noted with interest, but also distaste, the condition of the orphanage girls: two ―rather workhouse looking girls with cropped heads & long straight coarse pinafores opened the door.‖ 57 There followed a great effort on Maynard‘s part to reform Anthon‘s appearance. The two proceeded to Garrould‘s department store on Edgeware Road and ―we went round to various counters buying navy blue stocking[s] & gloves, navy blue ribbon for hat & hair, a little lace . . . then went to other shops for a straw hat, & shoes, &c.‖ 58 Later, at a friend‘s home, Anthon set about brushing her hair, and Maynard ―slipped the new [dress] over her head . . . tied her hair back with the navy blue ribbon,‖ and, she notes, ―there was our little maid tidy & complete.‖ 59 Anthon‘s physical transformation altered Maynard‘s attitude towards her: ―For the first time it came to me that it was a dear little face; the spectacles were off, the cast in the eye did not shew much, & the little cheeks though usually rather pale looked very soft, & the mouth was frank & pleasant with its line of baby-teeth still quite perfect.‖ 60 Koven notes the role of cross-class dressing in slumming; middle-class reformers assumed the clothing of the poor in order to ascertain first-hand the living conditions of the work houses and low-incoming lodging. He notes that clothing ―was both a metaphor and a marker‖ of class identity, but the ability of the wealthy to ―cross-dress‖ indicated the instability of this 57 Effie Notebooks, 29 October, 1888, 170. 58 Ibid., 182-83. 59 Ibid. 60 Ibid., 185. 245 indicator of class and of class itself. 61 Maynard‘s sought the reverse effect with Anthon; by re- clothing her she believed she had made the first step in rendering her a middle-class child. This was not to be the case, however. Anthon‘s resistance to Maynard‘s reformist project paradoxically facilitated the perpetuation of the ―slumming‖ framework within which this relationship took place. In her work on imperial intimacy, Stoler explores the cultural production of race within the intimate domain of the family; European women aligned whiteness with middle-class European competencies, sensibilities, and moral values in forging difference between themselves and their children on the one hand and their ―native‖ servants and their children on the other. Maynard‘s difficulties in rendering Anthon an ideal middle-class child demonstrate the role of particular competencies, sensibilities, and moral values in the making of class in the British metropole, and the role of these in the making of the racial categories of empire. Little is known about the two-and-a-half years after Anthon‘s adoption – the period is largely unchronicled by Maynard 62 – but by 1891, when Anthon was nine years old, Maynard believed her adopted daughter had failed to attain the character of a middle-class child. Anthon had a ―forward & managing disposition,‖ demonstrated an exaggerated sense of her achievements, was insufficiently contrite when found out in her transgressions, exuded an unshakeable sense of self- satisfaction, and lacked a ―sense of honour.‖ 63 Anthon seemed unaware of class distinctions; she spoke to Maynard and her family in patronizing ways, was rude to Maynard‘s students, and failed to demonstrate the requisite noblesse oblige to the servants. 64 Her behavior also 61 Koven, Slumming, 19. 62 The period is not covered in Maynard in the Effie Notebooks, and Anthon is mentioned only intermittently in the autobiography; the Greenbooks for these years have been destroyed. 63 Effie Notebooks, January 1896, 162. 64 Effie Notebooks, August 1891, 3. 246 contravened the gendered making of middle-class character. ―Of grace, reticence, pretty stand- back manner or nobleness of bearing, she has not one vestige,‖ Maynard wrote in 1892. 65 Anthon‘s most pronounced deficit lay in the area of sentiment; she lacked the ability of the ideal middle-class daughter to feel ―correctly‖ and to love ―properly.‖ Feelings were central to the Victorian middle class‘s construction of class difference. The middle class differentiated itself from the working class on the basis of a refinement of feelings, particularly the wider range of feelings they believed they experienced and the appropriateness of their emotions. In her study of eighteenth-century Methodism, Phyllis Mack delineates an Evangelical genealogy for the middle class‘s association of the ability to feel ―properly‖ with morality. Contrary to common perception, the awakening of emotion in the revivals was not as important to evangelicals as its subsequent analysis and education. 66 The Christian journey required ―a radical and painful self-fashioning‖ including ―master[ing] ‗bad‘ feelings like anger or envy while nurturing ‗good‘ feelings like compassion or tenderness.‖ 67 Early evangelicals endured a ―lifelong struggle to achieve higher and higher levels of self-analysis, moral improvement, and appropriate feelings.‖ 68 Feeling, and the ability to analyze feeling, were integral to Evangelical spirituality and thus gained a moral and a rational valence that facilitated the making of class and racial distinctions. Boundaries between classes were animated by affect; the repugnance felt by some of the middle class for the working class was one such boundary-marking emotion. The family was the site at which feeling was cultivated. For girls, the education of feelings was undertaken and evidenced in the mother-daughter relationship. Despite Maynard‘s 65 Effie Notebooks, May 1892, 96. 66 Phyllis Mack, Heart Religion in the British Enlightenment: Gender and Emotion in Early Methodism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 67 Ibid., 15. 68 Ibid., 18. 247 best efforts, however, by 1891 Anthon failed to evince the feelings of a middle-class daughter. She did not demonstrate the effusive love of the ideal Victorian daughter for her mother; when Maynard visited her at the small family school, Selwood, at which she boarded, ―though pleased to see us, [she] was not in the least rapturous.‖ 69 At other times Anthon loved too quickly and enthusiastically. ―A few hours of kindness,‖ Maynard wrote, ―is quite enough to make her transfer the most loving terms, wh. is a kind of ignorance of the heart rather than the head, wh. is rather trying.‖ 70 Her affection demonstrated other moral shortcomings; she loved only ―as long as loving is pleasant, & becomes heartless when it brings with it any effort or trouble.‖ 71 Maynard derided the ―miserable narrowness & poverty of [Anthon‘s] views of affection & fidelity.‖ 72 For Anthon, however, middle-class feelings and their moral content were a luxury. The uncertainty of sources of affection concomitant on orphanage life led her to seek affection wherever it could be found and the working-class culture of the Salvation Army orphanage supported wider affective networks than the nuclear family. Maynard‘s disappointment in Anthon reveals an underlying assumption about the malleability of class and particularly of the role of Christianity in the construction of class difference. Maynard had believed that a Christian education would achieve the transformation of Anthon‘s character (through conversion) and would simultaneously equip her with the sensibilities, values, and competencies of a middle-class child. Evangelicalism, the middle-class family, and the making of class difference were inextricably intertwined. Eventually Maynard argued that the ten-year old Anthon‘s failure to love her as the ideal middle-class daughter loved and admired her mother, to identify the requisite shades of feeling in a range of relationships, 69 Effie Notebooks, November 1891, 35. 70 Effie Notebooks, May 1892, 99. 71 Effie Notebooks, August 1891, 27. 72 Effie Notebooks, May 1902, 6. 248 and to prioritize individual expressions of feeling over corporate ones, rendered her a ―moral idiot.‖ The moral framework within which feeling was understood was evident at the end of 1892 when Maynard suggested that ―the last strands of my respect for her character & trust in her affection or stability gave way & we went on morally parted & mechanistically united.‖ 73 Her response to Anthon‘s transgression of the sensibilities of the English middle class also had an affective element; she felt a ―real sense of repulsion & degradation‖ towards her. 74 Maynard‘s subsequent relationship with Anthon illustrates the artificiality of class difference, the effort required to sustain it, and the anxieties that surrounded class status. Although Anthon had resembled a working-class child when Maynard first met her, her class standing was actually ambiguous. Her mother‘s family held ―a very good bourgeois position in Rome‖ 75 and her father, a Protestant clergyman, ―was also of [a] respected middle-class Roman family.‖ 76 Despite having lived in an orphanage for two years, she spoke a ―pretty, distinct, fine French.‖ 77 At the time of her adoption, a working-class home had been deemed unsuitable by those who knew her (―all agreed she seemed eminently unsuited to the humblest ranks‖ 78 ). Anthon‘s misbehavior had become a source of class-based anxiety to Maynard; she feared that her adopted daughter‘s behavior might undermine her own social status. When Maynard failed to transform Anthon into a middle-class British child, she resorted to extreme measures, which nevertheless still demonstrated the artificiality of class. After one spate of misbehavior on Anthon‘s part, Maynard arranged for her to work as a servant for two weeks for a dressmaker, 73 Effie Notebooks, December 1892, 202. 74 Effie Notebooks, September 1891, 31. 75 Effie Notebooks, Retrospect of 1888, 19 October 1888, 83. 76 Ibid., 84. 77 Effie Notebooks, 29 October 1888, 181. 78 Effie Notebooks, 28 October 1888, 177. 249 Mrs. Kent, a friend of the head servant at Westfield, Goldsmith. 79 At Mrs. Kent‘s, Anthon would ―help make beds, dust, wash up, & join in everything . . . she should have her hair plaited up, & be treated as one to help, not to be waited on.‖ 80 The two weeks of service demonstrated in the starkest terms what Anthon‘s fate would be should she fail to assimilate the sensibilities, values, and competencies of the middle class. It was a punishment not only for Anthon‘s misbehavior but also for her insensitivity to class distinctions and her failure to appreciate Maynard‘s efforts to elevate her socially. Maynard‘s relegating of Anthon to Mrs. Kent also took place within the social reform framework; like many of the efforts of middle-class reformers it represented both an attempt, albeit a paradoxical one, to better Effie socially, while at the same time entrenching class difference. The home of a working-class woman became the site at which Maynard, as a middle-class woman, sought to consolidate the boundaries of class. At the conclusion of the two weeks Maynard was dismayed to find that Anthon, who had adapted very quickly to her environment, had appropriated the speech, behaviors, and sentiments of the working-class Mrs. Kent. It was Anthon‘s disregard of the elevated role of the middle- class family, her blithe contravention of its boundaries as an ostensibly middle-class child, and her irreverent eschewal of the feelings that sustained it, that Maynard found most disturbing. During her stay at the Kents, Anthon had begun to call Mrs. Kent‘s son-in-law, Mr. Rowland, ―Dad-dad!‖ 81 She treated Mrs. Kent as her grandmother. ―Mrs. Coryton has been ‗Grannie‘ for long, & now I find Mrs. Kent is Grannie, & I do not like that,‖ Maynard observed. 82 She remarked of Anthon‘s ready forging of familial relations that ―the poor little thing brought on herself another lecture‖; ―[I tried] to instil [sic] into that unsensitive [sic] little mind a little of the 79 Walker notes that Maynard sought to ―use service as a punishment and a threat.‖ Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 215. 80 Effie Notebooks, March 1892, 81. 81 Effie Notebooks, May 1892, 98. 82 Ibid. 250 deep meaning & the beauty of Father & Mother, & how we cd. not have two.‖ 83 Anthon‘s behavior was in accord with working-class modes of family and of feeling. In later years the mother of a friend of Anthon‘s, Mrs. Bennett, explained to Maynard why she allowed Anthon to call her ―mother‖: ―by her calling me Mother I take it on myself to talk to her sometimes as a Mother should to a wayward child [.] I have several Girls of my own & wile [sic] away from home I do Pray that they may find someone that will do them good & not evil.‖ 84 The necessity of young working-class girls and boys leaving home early in search of employment rendered more porous understandings of the family – the validating of surrogate parents – both necessary and valuable. Anthon, an illegitimate child separated from her mother, had an even more urgent need for understanding the familial network as diffuse, varied, and extensive. While Maynard‘s reformist efforts had demonstrated the artificiality of class, Anthon‘s ready acclimation to the Kents illustrates the substantial effects of class discourse. Class difference was no less material in its effects for being artificial. The artificiality of class difference nevertheless led to anxieties amongst the middle class. These were evident as, after Anthon‘s stay at Mrs. Kent‘s, Maynard, concerned at her daughter being deemed working class, strove again to re-make Anthon‘s social status. Here again the broader discourse of social reform was evident in the private life of a middle-class woman, in the sphere of the middle-class home, and not only in the impoverished neighborhoods of London. On their way back to Westfield, Maynard urged Anthon to relinquish the cockney accent she had taken up at the Kents‘ (she ―made her speak very slowly & particularly, saying it was only the very best speaking that cd. come to Westfield!‖) and forbade her from speaking of her 83 Effie Notebooks, May 1892, 99. 84 Effie Notebooks, May 1908, 170. 251 experience as a servant (―she was not to talk to the students of where she had been‖ 85 ). The significance of dress to the signification of class status was evident when, upon arriving, the two ―crept into the house, & [Maynard] let down her [Anthon‘s] hair, put on the loose brown velveteen frock & absolutely new shoes & brought her out into society.‖ Maynard‘s making, unmaking, and remaking of Anthon‘s class demonstrates, within the realm of the middle-class home, the class anxieties that informed the broader social reform endeavors of the middle class. In mid-1892 Maynard, exasperated with Anthon‘s failure to assimilate the sensibilities of the middle class, attempted to terminate ties with her entirely. Dr. Ranger had informed her that the adoption deed stated that if ―unforeseen circumstances‖ arose before Anthon reached the age of seventeen, she had only to write to Anthon‘s mother explaining the situation and after six months she would be free of all responsibility for Anthon; she could ―send her to the Workhouse, if [she would].‖ 86 Maynard wrote to Fazulo in South Africa informing her that she was ―very reluctantly . . . going to give her [Anthon] up‖ and asking her what she ―wd. wish done with her?‖ 87 With very little hesitation Maynard thus sought to re-make Fazulo‘s working- class family. When Fazulo failed to reply, Maynard arranged a place for Anthon in a London orphanage, Miss Sharman‘s Orphanage, located in West Square, Southwark, home to 220 children. Although she visited Anthon at Miss Sharman‘s a few weeks after she entered the orphanage, it was almost six months before she saw her again and five months thereafter that she visited her for the third time. Anthon was told of her pending removal to Miss Sharman‘s by Lily Coryton, her Selwood teacher, the night before her departure. 85 Effie Notebooks, May 1892, 99-100. 86 Effie Notebooks, 4 June 1892, 112. 87 Ibid., 118, 119. 252 Anthon‘s placement at Miss Sharman‘s resulted in a more permanent and more precipitous social descent than her two-week sojourn at Mrs. Kent‘s. The fascination for the slums and their residents which informed middle-class ―slumming‖ was evident in Maynard‘s approach to Anthon when, upon visiting her at the orphanage in January 1893, she noted ―how changed she was.‖ ―Really,‖ she wrote in her notebook, ― I now & then had to stop & take a look at her, to make sure it was the same child, so altered was she in every point at once!‖ 88 Once again dress proved a significant marker of class difference: ―Let me describe her. Terra- cotta dress hanging limply down as far as the tops of her very thick boots, comfortable brown ulster with thick cape to it, & a black sailor hat, & woolen gloves.‖ 89 It was a discourse of dirt that most preoccupied Maynard and which enabled her to delineate class difference. In his text on slumming, Seth Koven draws attention to middle-class women reformer‘s fascination with dirt. 90 He argues that, as a result, dirt had came to do important ideological work; it had ―implications for the social politics and policies [reformers] advocated.‖ 91 Maynard‘s relationship with Anthon demonstrates a preoccupation with dirt in the form of a discourse of hygiene. She noted that at the orphanage baths were used by many in series, that Anthon had no toothbrush, and that she was as a result, grubby. Anthon‘s ―terribly grey pocket handkerchief‖ 92 epitomized the orphanage‘s poor standards of cleanliness. The girls were given one handkerchief a week, Anthon explained, because ―there are 400 girls, & it would make a good bit more washing if they had two.‖ 93 Of an excursion with Anthon soon thereafter, 88 Effie Notebooks, January 1893, 6-7. 89 Ibid. 90 Koven, Slumming, 21. 91 Ibid., 184. 92 Effie Notebooks, May 1893, 30. 93 Effie Notebooks, January 1893, 14. 253 Maynard noted, ―I put the wretched rag into the Automatic Machine, & scented it with ‗Sacred Lotos.‘‖ 94 She observed that ―even in so trifling a thing as this, to think my poor child has come so low! She, whom I kept so clean & fresh & tried to make so dainty in her tastes & ways.‖ 95 Most vexing of all was Anthon‘s lack of awareness of dirt; when Anthon dirtied her hands while on a boat trip on the Thames in 1893, Maynard observed, ―there was not a trace of disgust at having them so dirty.‖ 96 Maynard and Anthon‘s differing perceptions of dirt demonstrate different values attributed to it and the relatively arbitrary elevation of dirt and cleanliness as markers of class difference. When, in August 1893, Maynard was allowed to take Anthon away from the orphanage for a few days, she attempted to address her grubbiness. ―First we went to a barber's & had the poor little rough ill-kept head nicely cropped & then shampooed,‖ she wrote. Anthon took up Maynard‘s discourse of cleanliness. She informed her that she wished she ―had a cold bath every morning as I used to have with you,‖ 97 bathed frequently, and brushed her teeth diligently. She spoke with distaste of the shared baths at the orphanage (―I call those koind of ways, ‗filfthy [sic]‖). Maynard spoke with satisfaction of Anthon‘s turnaround: ―it was touching to see her suddenly thus awake to a kind of repulsion I know she had not felt before.‖ 98 Anthon‘s cleanliness was an enduring focus for Maynard. Years later, when Anthon was admitted to a Salvation Army rescue home, Maynard gave her a ―heavy parcel‖ with ―everyday things that make for cleanliness‖: ―(1) Sponge of mine (2) Buttermilk Soap (3) Large bottle of ‗Scrubb‘ (4) 94 Ibid., 14-15. 95 Ibid. 96 Effie Notebooks, May 1893, 30. 97 Effie Notebooks, August 1893, 37-38. 98 Ibid., 38 254 New hair-brush with lovely ‗box-wood‘ back. (5) New white india-rubber comb, that all dirt might be detected at once. (6) Toothbrush (7) Rose tooth powder.‖ 99 Maynard‘s preoccupation with Anthon‘s cleanliness exemplifies in the realm of a private relationship Koven‘s notion that well-to-do women found in the discourses of cleanliness a means to expand their social authority over the poor. 100 Maynard, who had been involved in the making and the re-making of Anthon‘s class through the practices of dressing and personal hygiene, ultimately turned to the body to fix class difference; in the end Anthon‘s body attested to her ―natural‖ affiliation with the working class. When, in 1894, Anthon had been dismissed from the orphanage and placed into domestic service, Maynard observed, ―strong & stout indeed she looked, her body many inches wider that it was from the Home, & her face with the peculiar shiny red that servant maids often shew.‖ 101 Anthon was now ―on a quite different level,‖ Maynard concluded. 102 She had come to accept that her efforts to transform Anthon had failed, to doubt the malleability of class status, and to make recourse to the body as a means of naturalizing class difference. She contrived ―another relation‖ with her, the possibility of her one day ―being my real servant.‖ 103 Anthon‘s affective orientation, or her associational preferences, also played a key role in Maynard‘s re-classing of her and in her naturalization of Anthon‘s working-class status. At the orphanage Maynard found Anthon still unappreciative of the significance of the middle-class family, as Maynard perceived it, and the feelings that informed the structure of that family 99 Effie Notebooks, December 1897, 82. 100 Koven, Slumming, 183. 101 Effie Notebooks, May 1894, 111. 102 Effie Notebooks, January 1893, 20. 103 Effie Notebooks, November 1893, 69. Walker notes, ―Maynard‘s approach to Effie increasingly suggested that she was a dependent social inferior.‖ Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 217-18. 255 formation. When, quite contrary to Maynard‘s expectations, Anthon initially spoke ―happily of everyone‖ at Miss Sharman‘s, Maynard asked herself, ―after all the love & petting & talking to in bed that E. has had, it is a strangely easy accommodation to this new, bare, unindividual phase of life. Does E. really not value these things? & does the swarming crowd in the playground make up for everything?‖ 104 When in 1894 Anthon entered domestic service and Maynard visited her in Brighton, she again remarked on the promiscuous distribution of Anthon‘s affection and contrasted it with her own more individualistic approach: ―To me the crowds on the beach with their talk & their finery & their endless children; or the passers in the streets with their bargains & business, present no more possibilities of companionship than do the stones in the houses,‖ she observed, ―but to E. all are . . . interesting.‖ 105 Anthon was unable to gauge and to give weight to class difference; she would ―point to a small shop & say ‗That‘s where Miss Edwards lives, my Sunday School teacher, oh, such a nice young lady she is.‘ She will deftly thread her way through a crowd of loitering fellows with their canes & cigars, & speak of them respectfully as ‗those gentleman.‘‖ 106 For Maynard, Anthon‘s inability to recognize class difference and to behave according to middle-class precepts – both ostensibly acquired characteristics – precluded Anthon from becoming a member of the middle class. Now, however, Maynard saw these traits as ―natural‖; Anthon‘s failure to recognize class difference and act accordingly rendered her representative of the working class. ―I have been trying to analyse the feeling I have while with her,‖ she wrote in 1894, ―& find that she is a link with the class below such as I have never had before. That is the new thing to me, & it is distinctly interesting theoretically & most wearisome 104 Effie Notebooks, July 1892, 175. 105 Effie Notebooks, July 1894, 121-22. 106 Ibid., 123. 256 practically . . . she herself is one of the people.‖ 107 Anthon‘s putatively innate inability to recognize and behave according to the mores of the middle class made her working-class in a way that both naturalized class difference and made crossing class divides impossible. Maynard‘s representation of Anthon as inherently and inevitably of the working class was belied by the effort she exerted to entrench and to sustain Anthon‘s class difference. After reconfiguring her relationship with Anthon as one of a mistress to a servant, she sought Anthon‘s class-based deference. This she achieved when, in November 1895, she placed the thirteen-year- old Anthon in the care of former Oakfield servants, Lizzie Rickwood and her mother Jeb, who had started an ―all-sorts shop‖ in Hastings. Rickwood sought to convey to Anthon her lowly ―station in Life.‖ She believed that inculcating Anthon‘s class-based deference towards Maynard was necessary if she was to understand her place in society: ―we must make her give you due respect as a Lady, or we shall not be able to make her do it with others.‖ 108 She noticed that Anthon continued to call Maynard ―Auntie‖ and assured her, ―I have stopped her doing that . . . we always call you Miss Maynard to her, & she does to us.‖ 109 In a letter to Maynard, Anthon wrote: ―‗Mrs. Rickwood says it is a great thing for a poor girl like me to have a lady like you to look after her.‖ 110 Maynard commented approvingly in her notebook that this was ―an altogether new point of view for the poor child.‖ 111 When in January 1896 Maynard visited Anthon, Rickwood compelled Anthon to wait on Maynard: ―E. came in carrying a lamp & a load of housemaid‘s things . . . & proceeded to rake out the ashes & ‗do the grate‘ in a masterly way.‖ 112 107 Ibid., 124. 108 Effie Notebooks, January 1896, 147. 109 Ibid., 148. 110 Effie Notebooks, December 1895, 139. 111 Ibid. 112 Effie Notebooks, January 1896, 154-55. 257 Anthon felt torn between the role of servant and daughter. ―The next morning,‖ Maynard wrote, ―the same scene of lighting the fire was repeated, only the manners seemed to break down rather more, for she came suddenly peeping over the bed & kissed me.‖ 113 The process through which Maynard re-made her relationship with Anthon demonstrates the artificiality of class difference even in the face of its naturalization. When in 1892 Maynard surrendered Anthon to Miss Sharman‘s, she sought to adopt another Italian child, the ten-year-old Margaret Calabrese 114 (or ―Margaret Addelen‖ as she was known). Addelen was installed at Selwood School – in Anthon‘s clothes, bed, and room – on the same day Anthon was moved to Miss Sharman‘s orphanage, as part of an experiment to ascertain whether Addelen would make a more suitable daughter than Anthon. Maynard‘s deliberations over Addelen expose the national and racial assumptions to which her classing of Anthon had led. As Maynard pondered adopting Addelen, she noted ―my sisters seem only wise when they say, ‗Not an Italian, this time.‘‖ 115 She concurred: ―she is Italian, & that is enough. Not the false, vain, untrustworthy Italian that shews in poor E. but the emotional, feeble, shew-off Italian, un-robust & un-sturdy in nature.‖ 116 Maynard deemed Anthon‘s dissembling, her bravado, her lack of honour, ―Italian.‖ As Walker notes, ―race in Victorian England is most often understood to operate on a metropole-empire axis . . . [b]ut in this case, the troubled vision of southern Italy was critical.‖ 117 Slippages between race and class demonstrate the proximity of these discourses for the middle-class Maynard. Anthon‘s ―Italianness‖ had not deterred 113 Ibid., 161. 114 Effie Notebooks, December 1892, 199. 115 Effie Notebooks, July 1892, 183. 116 Effie Notebooks, August 1892, 193. 117 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 220. 258 Maynard from viewing Anthon as representative of the British working class, and as a member of the working class Anthon subsequently fell more easily into the category ―foreign.‖ In later years Maynard was to turn increasingly to a scientific discourse of race to describe Anthon; this was the consequence of her synthesizing of Evangelicalism and Darwinism at the turn of the century. From the late 1890s on, Maynard began to engage with theological modernism, and her effort to synthesize Evangelicalism and Darwinism emerged as a product of that engagement. Theological modernism was a later nineteenth century effort across a number of Christian denominations to bring Christian doctrine into dialogue with contemporary science, biblical criticism, philosophy, history, and ethics. 118 Most modernists subscribed to the ideals of free enquiry, sought to integrate the modern sciences with Christian belief, espoused the findings of biblical criticism, and upheld the notion that theology was dynamic. 119 With the 1889 Anglo- Catholic publication of Lux Mundi, edited by Charles Gore, modernist Catholicism, or what Gore called ―Liberal Catholicism,‖ came to the fore. 120 In 1898 the Churchmen‘s Union for the Advancement of Religious Thought, later renamed the Modern Churchmen‘s Union, brought together an array of Anglican modernists including Broad Church Anglicans. While Anglican Evangelicals remained largely suspicious of modern thought, in 1905 the Group Brotherhood emerged, promulgating a more conservative iteration of modernism than the Churchmen‘s Union; it was renamed the Anglican Evangelical Group Movement (AEGM) in 1923 and promulgated ―Liberal Evangelicalism.‖ 118 Martin Wellings, Evangelicals Embattled: Responses of Evangelicals in the Church of England to Ritualism, Darwinism and Theological Liberalism, 1890-1930 (Carlisle, UK : Paternoster Press, 2003), 227. 119 Kenneth Hylson-Smith, Evangelicals in the Church of England, 1734-1984 (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1989), 248. 120 Wellings, Evangelicals Embattled, 192. 259 A willingness to entertain Darwinian theory was an important strand of Anglican modernism from the outset. In the text that was the most significant precursor to Anglican modernism, Essays and Reviews (1860), Baden Powell had described On the Origin of Species as a ―masterly volume‖ that ―must soon bring about an entire revolution in opinion in favour of the grand principle of the self-evolving powers of nature.‖ 121 In the Anglo-Catholic Lux Mundi (1889) Aubrey Moore and J. R. Illingworth enthusiastically embraced evolutionary theory. In 1900 a small group of Evangelicals were beginning to express anxiety over the failure of their peers to engage with modern thought. Canon G. S. Streatfield, vicar of Christ Church, Hampstead, published a two-part article entitled ―Questions that Must Be Faced; or, Evangelicalism and Modern Thought,‖ in an Evangelical Anglican periodical, the Record. 122 He urged his readers to consider evolution, as advocated by Illingworth and Moore and also by High Churchman Charles Gore and by the Scottish Evangelical Henry Drummond. Maynard shared Streatfield‘s concerns, but felt he had not gone far enough; his approach was ―timid.‖ 123 She was nevertheless reassured to find that she was ―not quite alone‖ in her thinking. 124 Maynard effected her first synthesis of Evangelicalism and Darwinian theory in the 1901/1902 academic year as part of a course for the Westfield Divinity program. A long-held Evangelically indebted interest in science led her to turn to Darwinism in the early 1900s. ―I chose Evolution,‖ she wrote later of her attempt to ―modernize‖ Evangelicalism, ―[because] we had been brought up on Science, rather than on Philosophy or Literature, & the language was 121 Adrian Desmond and James Moore, Darwin (London: Michael Joseph, 1991), 100. 122 G. S. Streatfield, ――Questions that Must Be Faced; or, Evangelicalism and Modern Thought,‖ pt. 1 and pt. 2, The Record, 7 June and 14 June, 1901, 588-9 and 610, quoted in Wellings, Evangelicals Embattled, 195. 123 Autobiography, 1901, 469. 124 Ibid. 260 familiar to me.‖ 125 In a 1905 pamphlet, ―The Moral Equivalent of War,‖ written for the Church Missionary Society, Maynard engaged with evolutionary theory in a publication for the first time. A chapter of Between College Terms (1910) entitled ―The Creation of Eve: A Study in the Ethics of Love‖ provided the framework for her full-length study, Progressive Creation (1927); two later papers Maynard presented at the Victoria Institute, ―The Influence of Christianity on the Position of Women‖ (1919) and ―The Bible in the Twentieth Century‖ (1922), 126 further developed that framework. Maynard defined evolution as the notion that ―creation is not sudden but very gradual, and that life begins in its lowest forms and works upwards‖ and embraced the long trajectory of time required by Darwin for evolution. 127 With regard to the stickiest problem of Darwinian evolution, the origins of humankind, Maynard acceded to Darwin‘s explanation (―the body of man is made in the same fashion as those of the animals, and a branch is chosen representing a creature of arboreal habits‖ 128 ) with one qualification: ―the repulsive anthropoid apes are in no sense our ancestors, but are a degraded collateral branch.‖ 129 Maynard agreed with Darwin‘s assertion that humankind was far older than a literal reading of the Bible allowed and adopted a minority Evangelical pre-Adamite view in which human-like creatures were seen to pre-exist Adam, but it was only with Adam that humans gained spiritual faculties and began to bear God‘s 125 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 19, 1874, 754. 126 Autobiography, 1909, 609. 127 Constance Maynard, ―The Bible in the Twentieth Century,‖ Journal of the Transactions of the Victoria Institute 54 (1922): 37. In the 1860s she had read the Scottish geologist Hugh Miller‘s refutation of traditional biblical chronology and by the mid-1870s contemporary geological notions of time were a source of cheer rather than consternation. Autobiography, Part 5 Chapter 36, 1880, 413. 128 Constance Maynard, Progressive Creation (London: SPCK, 1927), 40. 129 Ibid. 261 image. 130 Prior to the fall, conscience was absent from the human race; the story of the fall provided an account of ―the birth of conscience in the soul of primitive man.‖ 131 She thus advocated a metaphorical reading of the Genesis account of the creation of Adam and Eve and of the Fall. The story symbolized the long development of humankind at geographically disparate sites: Let Adam and Eve be multiplied into the tribes and nations of the earth; let the Garden of Eden be in every place where the earth is sufficiently matured to produce the lovely vegetation of the Tertiary Period; let the time of the Temptation and the apprehension of the meaning of Sin and disgrace be lengthened from one day to several thousand years, and we have conceded all that Science requires. 132 Maynard nevertheless insisted on special creation at three junctures of ―evolution‖: in the emergence of matter, animal life, and the soul. 133 In addition to this, her synthesis had a religious telos. The telos of the gradual ascent of the individual and of the race was Christian salvation. God was a spirit, and ―His supreme and final object is to create spirits who shall be in sympathy with Him.‖ 134 130 David N. Livingstone, ―Preadamites: The History of an Idea from Heresy to Orthodoxy,‖ Scottish Journal of Theology, 40 (1987): 41, quoted in Wellings, Evangelicals Embattled, 215. J. A. Fleming had thus made a distinction between ―rational‖ and ―spiritual‖ humans; the former comprised the generations that existed before Adam and the latter the one after him. A. Rendle Short also espoused pre-Adamite theory in his The Bible and Modern Research (1931) (ibid.). 131 Constance Maynard, The Religious Training of Immaturity (London: The National Sunday School Union, 1923), 42. 132 Maynard, Progressive Creation, 51. 133 Autobiography, 1924, 24-25; Maynard, ―Bible in the Twentieth Century,‖ 39; and Maynard, Progressive Creation, 54. 134 Maynard, Progressive Creation, 28. The Scottish geologist Hugh Miller had also posited a spiritual telos for creation. Maynard noted in 1871 that ―he then adverts to the regular advance of Creation, from the first semblance of life in ‗the egg-like mollusc‘, to man, then redeemed man, & then to its union with God in the person of our everlasting Saviour.‖ Greenbook, 4 July 1871, 198. 262 Some of Maynard‘s non-Evangelical peers recognized the shortcomings of her synthesis. 135 However, Evangelical Anglicans had been slow to engage with Darwinism; within an Evangelical context Maynard‘s synthesis was innovative. In 1909 she sent three chapters of a book on evolution that she had commenced in 1903, Studies in Creation, to the Evangelical Eugene Stock, ―an example of the best & most enlightened of his type of faith.‖ 136 He responded that this teaching was exactly what was needed; that the leaders to whom we looked for help were persistently silent; that men like the Dean of Westminster & the Bishop of Durham must really know all about Evolution & must to some extent accept it, yet, amid reiterated complaints of the books already written, why did they never give us one single constructive word? why did they dwell on negative only, & never tell us what to believe. Such a book was imperatively needed. 137 By rendering Darwinism palatable to Evangelicals within a discourse of modernity, Maynard‘s synthesis of Darwinism and Evangelicalism may be said to constitute a ―modern‖ iteration of Evangelicalism. The aspect of Darwinian evolution that most influenced Maynard‘s approach to the young Anthon in the very early years of the twentieth century was his theory of morality. Darwin‘s evolutionary theory had had a marked moral emphasis. In Descent he argued of humans‘ moral development that ―the moral sense of conscience . . . is the most noble of all the 135 For example, according to Maynard, Eleanor McDougall, Classics Lecturer at Westfield between 1902 and 1914, asserted of Maynard‘s 1909 text that ―in all ancient documents, you should get back to the writer‘s point of view, & not read into it your own further knowledge.‖ Autobiography, 1909, 604. 136 Ibid. 137 Ibid., 605. The book was never published. It was withdrawn by Maynard from the publisher when the tide seemed to be turning against Darwinian evolution (―I placed it with Hodder & Stoughton, & all seemed to be going well, when in June came the ‗Darwin Centenary.‘ Amid much praise of the great pioneer it was distinctly said that his fundamental law of ‗The struggle for Existence & survival of the Fittest,‘ was proved to be not true, & we must look elsewhere for a solution. . . . I imagined my book could no longer be a help, I recalled it from the publishers.‖ Autobiography, 1909, 605. 263 attributes of man.‖ 138 He represented morality as a characteristic of the ―civilized‖ races; a ―moral being‖ was one who ―[a]fter some temporary desire or passion has mastered his social instincts, he reflects and compares . . . and . . . resolves to act differently for the future – and this is conscience.‖ 139 For Maynard the Bible, with its sometimes questionable morality, attested to the evolutionary nature of the conscience. She believed that not all nations had come to possess a conscience; the remnants of pre-lapsarian and pre-ethical nations persisted in the ―primitive‖ nations of her era. In a 1905 booklet written for the Christian Missionary Society, The Moral Equivalent of War, she developed an evolutionary reading of both religion and race in which she posited a spiritual hierarchy that placed the British at the apex, followed by the Japanese, Chinese, Hindus, and Africans. Africans, she asserted, lacked a valid religion and even the moral foundation required for Christian conversion was absent: ―there is a possible affection and obedience . . . but no initiative, no responsibility, and we shrink from them as shells, as impositions, as hopelessly inferior, as lacking in the bare, moral groundwork, that bed-rock of the knowledge of good and evil, that we take for granted as existing in every man.‖ 140 In two later publications, The Religious Training of Immaturity (1923) and The Birth of Conscience (1928), she linked ontogeny (development of the individual) with phylogeny (that of the species or race) to argue that the child‘s gradual attainment of a conscience echoed that of the race. 141 Slippages between a discourse of child development and a racist theory of moral development were evident in Maynard‘s discourse when, in 1896 when Anthon was ten, 138 Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex (London: John Murray, 1871), 148, 934, quoted in Lucy Bland, Banishing the Beast: English Feminism and Sexual Morality, 1885-1914 (London: Penguin, 1995), 88. 139 Bland, Banishing the Beast, 86-87. 140 Constance Maynard, The Moral Equivalent of War (London: Church Missionary Society, 1905), 6. 141 She had come to see ―for the first time that Creation in the past exactly resembles Creation in the present, from the speck of protoplasm to the living babe, & from the foolish ignorant babe to the grand, honourable, effective man.‖ Autobiography, 1901, 470. 264 Maynard visited South Africa. In an account written for The South African Pioneer, the periodical of the South African General Mission, she described the Pondo, an African ethnic group living in the Eastern Cape, as a ―nation of children.‖ While the ―outward form may be well-knit and powerful . . . the character within is always that of a child following its own untaught devices.‖ It was difficult, she asserted, ―for a mature mind to know how to deal with them.‖ 142 Similarly, Anthon‘s inability to act morally and to feel ―properly‖ was seen as the product of a primitive ―racial‖ heritage. In a 1905 letter Maynard wrote that Anthon was a ―real Moral Idiot . . . Intellectually & Volitionally strong rather than above average, there is an absolute gap or vacuity where the instinctive Moral sense ought to be.‖ 143 For Anthon, ―nothing . . . works within, but all has to come to her from without.‖ 144 Maynard‘s engagement with Darwinian theory led her to represent Anthon‘s ―moral idiocy‖ as the product of an inferior racial heritage. In a complex dynamic that elevated Anthon‘s spirituality while simultaneously deriding her lack of conscience, and which was characteristic of missionaries‘ approaches to their subjects, Maynard nevertheless argued that while ―Effie‘s moral sense [was] sadly low, religious instinct [was] very strong.‖ 145 Even after Anthon had converted in 1896 she would, as the result of the permeation of Maynard‘s Evangelicalism by evolutionary discourse, remain a member of a different class and race. Anthon was ―either walking with God from hour to hour like a real saint‖ or, as the result of an absent moral sense, was ―right down in the mire & mud where no respectable self-respecting souls go.‖ 146 The fluidity of discourses of class and race 142 Constance Maynard, ―A Nation of Children or Impressions of a Fortnight in Pondoland,‖ The South African Pioneer 10 (1897): 154. 143 Effie Notebooks, September 1905, 109. 144 Effie Notebooks, March 1905, 69. 145 Effie Notebooks, March 1892, 72. 146 Effie Notebooks, March 1905, 69. 265 evident at the outset of Maynard‘s relationship with Anthon had, as a result of her taking up of Darwinian evolution, been stabilized. Maynard‘s relationship with Anthon between 1888, when Anthon was six, and 1894, when she was twelve, demonstrates the cultural production of an imperial Englishness within the intimate space of the metropolitan family, and the central role of class in that process. It illustrates the sensibilities, competencies, and moral values that informed the middle-class making of race, the importance of the family as a site at which class difference was constituted, and the role of family-based emotions and of the body in the maintenance of class difference. Maynard‘s making and unmaking of Anthon‘s middle-class status shows class difference to be artificial, requiring constant consolidation, and anxiety-laden. In the next section I take up Stoler‘s work on the sexual production of racial difference to examine Maynard‘s regulation of Anthon‘s sexuality in the years between 1894 and 1915, focusing on her engagement with eugenics. Maynard‘s response to Anthon‘s masturbation and to her desire to marry illustrates the ascendance of a scientific discourse within her Evangelicalism, consequent on her synthesizing of Darwinism and Evangelicalism. Her turn to Darwin enabled Maynard to fix an otherwise precarious class difference by attributing to it a biological discourse; that discourse fostered slippages between class and race. The competition between Maynard‘s eugenic Evangelicalism and Anthon‘s more traditional Salvationist version shows sexual discourse to be an important site for charting the relationship between religion and science in Evangelical discourse. In January 1894, when Anthon was twelve, she was expelled from Miss Sharman‘s orphanage after being accused of having taught some of her peers to masturbate. She had, Miss Sharman alleged, ―got into the beds of the other children at night, & taught them ‗disgusting & 266 filthy tricks.‘‖ 147 Sharman evoked a medical metaphor to describe masturbation; she told Maynard that ―nothing is so catching,‖ that such behavior was ―a terrible thing to get among children,‖ and that ―only twice before in these 27 years I have been here, have I had it, & never so clear a case, so bad as this.‖ 148 She nevertheless put medical discourse at the service of religious imperatives; she could not be sure how Anthon had learnt to masturbate, but asserted that in ―one girl in a thousand or so, real wickedness, real degradation seems to come out of their hearts without any example, any putting in first.‖ 149 Anthon ―had been isolated since the very hour the evil was discovered‖ and she was determined ―at all costs . . . [to] have the Home pure & good.‖ 150 She suggested that ―for 4 or 5 years to come at least, E. wd. be like poison to other children‖ 151 and that she should be kept separate from them. With Maynard‘s consent she removed Anthon from the orphanage and placed her with an elderly couple in Brighton where she would work as a servant and attend board school. 152 The expulsion of two girls to whom Anthon had taught her ―shameful ways‖ was also necessary as what Anthon had taught them might ―at some other time . . . come to mind again.‖ 153 When in 1894 Miss Sharman informed Maynard about Anthon‘s ―dirty tricks,‖ Maynard was not sure what they entailed (―I cannot now understand what she has done‖ 154 ). It was not unusual for a pious, upper-middle-class woman such as Maynard to be ignorant of the discourse 147 Effie Notebooks, January 1894, 73. 148 Ibid., 74. 149 Ibid. 150 Ibid., 75. 151 Ibid. 152 Effie Notebooks, January 1894, 75. 153 Ibid., 74. 154 Ibid., 73-74. 267 of masturbation. The nineteenth-century alignment of middle-class femininity with piety, modesty, and chastity had led to a reluctance amongst Victorians to provide sexual education to middle-class girls and women. Ignorance of discourses of ―masturbation‖ did not, of course, preclude its practice. In her advice manual The Secret Book, Containing Private Information and Instruction for Women and Young Girls (1888), Priscilla Barker noted that ―only a few weeks ago a married woman told me she had carried on the practice for years, not knowing that the thing was sinful.‖ 155 Miss Sharman herself claimed only to know about masturbation through her contact with ―the Matrons at Dr. Bernado‘s [sic] Homes.‖ 156 Maynard nevertheless understood the sexual valence of Anthon‘s behavior; her ignorance of the discourse of masturbation did not prevent her from attempting to reform Anthon‘s sexuality. Maynard had encountered public discussion of sexuality as a supporter of Josephine Butler‘s campaign to repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts in the 1870s and 1880s, and in the social purity movement that emerged from that campaign. Although not an active participant in either movement, she had supported them. In 1883 she had attended a meeting convened by the Society of Friends to address the Contagious Diseases Acts or the ―state regulation of vice‖: I have seen and heard this awful subject touched on before, but here, where we were all of one mind we were all so safe, and those who spoke, spoke bravely … one after another the speakers took up the warfare on definitely Christian grounds that did one‘s very heart good. Best of all was the long-tried warrior and leader, Josephine Butler, pleading for right and justice in perfect self-abnegation. 157 155 Priscilla Barker, The Secret Book: Containing Private Information and Instruction for Women and Young Girls (Brighton: P. Barker, [1888]), quoted in Pat Jalland and John Hooper, Women from Birth to Death: The Female Life Cycle in Britain, 1830-1914 (Atlantic Highlands, N.J. : Humanities Press International, 1986), 242. Elizabeth Blackwell described ―an agonized letter received from an intelligent and pious lady, dying from the effects of this inveterate habit . . . begun in childhood in ignorance of any moral or physical wrong which might result to her nature.‖ Elizabeth Blackwell, Essays in Medical Sociology, 1902, vol. 1, 36-37, 42-43, quoted in Jalland and Hooper, Birth to Death, 244. 156 Effie Notebooks, January 1894, 73. 157 Greenbook, 28 January 1883, 52. 268 Feminist scholars have argued convincingly that feminist opposition to the CD Acts – including that of its Evangelical leader Josephine Butler – was not as much about sexual repression as it was about opposing the sexual double standard. For Maynard, Butler‘s ―pleading for right and justice‖ encapsulates both a rejection of the double standard and a concern for sexual purity. At the same time Maynard harbored a characteristically middle-class fear of sexual ―sin.‖ In 1881 she accompanied Susan Bernard, the sister of Girton Mistress Lettice Bernard, to a tea and meeting for ―poor lost girls‖ and observed, ―for three weeks beforehand I dreaded it, for I have never even touched the fringes of this awful subject.‖ An Evangelical social purity alignment of piety, sexual purity, and physical wellbeing is evident as Maynard describes Bernard as ―a strong clean angel.‖ Maynard could not bridge the social chasm represented by the sexual sin of the ―lost girls‖: ―I knew I was entirely helpless and I never went near these things again.‖ 158 Maynard‘s nascent social purity feminism had come to the fore in 1885 when the well- known journalist W. T. Stead, the Salvation Army officer Bramwell Booth, and Rebecca Jarrett, a working-class woman, undertook to expose child prostitution and sexual trafficking. Stead, who effected the ―purchase‖ of the young Eliza Armstrong, wrote of it in his widely-read and sensationalist article, ―The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon.‖ 159 Maynard supported Stead, Booth, and Jarrett unequivocally. She attended a Salvation Army meeting at Clapton Training Houses in November 1885 where ―we were asked to send our sympathy to Mr. Stead & Mr. Bramwell Booth at that moment in the dock of the Old Bailey, & the 6 or 7,000 rose to their feet like one man & the ‗Amen‘ was like a cannon-shot.‖ 160 On November 15 1885, Maynard noted with disapproval that Stead, Booth, and Jarrett had been found guilty: 158 Autobiography, Part 6, Chapter 40, 1881, 58. 159 Judith R. Walkowitz, City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late-Victorian England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 81-134. 160 Greenbook, 8 November 1885, 85. 269 Thousands of real crimes of the most awful nature are going unpunished, & this one ―mock crime‖ is heavily visited. Poor Jarrett, she said, ―I have done many, many bad things in my life, & only one good one, & for that I am sent to prison.‖ Stead is a hero, & I think a little prayer is now going up fr. thousands of us, that God wd be with him this first [Sunday] in prison. 161 For Maynard the trial of Stead, Jarrett, and Booth brought the ―horrors of lust‖ to light. The issue of sexual conduct was, furthermore, a national one. In Stead, Jarrett, and Booth, ―England is proved true at heart after all, something in it is pure & sound & clear as a crystal, amid all the masses of surrounding corruption. Hope, hope, for our country!‖ 162 Maynard‘s aligning of sexual purity with the wellbeing of the nation was a characteristically social purity stance; it paved the way for her engagement with eugenics. In 1894 Anthon failed to show contrition at her expulsion from Miss Sharman‘s and Maynard threatened to break ties with her completely. Anthon wrote remorsefully: ―My dear Auntie, I am very very sorry, & promise you I will never do it again if you will only forgive me . . . please answer as quickly as you can, & send forgiveness for me.‖ 163 When Maynard visited Anthon in Brighton and discovered she had been moved to a new family, the Taylors, and was sharing a bed with their eleven-year-old daughter, Maria, she ―forced [herself] to tell [Mrs Taylor] how bad E. had been, & to beg her not to let the two sleep together.‖ 164 She told Anthon the ―Taylors could not keep her if she said anything bad to little Maria . . . went over & over this point.‖ 165 Anthon ―faithfully promised she would not, that she knew it was wrong, & would 161 Greenbook, 15 November 1885, 86-87. 162 Greenbook, 31 December 1885, 97. 163 Effie Notebooks, January 1894, 80. 164 Effie Notebooks, February 1894, 93. 165 Ibid., 97. 270 indeed put it behind her for ever.‖ 166 Maynard prayed with Anthon that ―God would indeed forgive her & enable her to keep her promise, & to begin a new life.‖ 167 Anthon was subsequently rejected by the Taylors and placed with a Mrs. Coomber, a widow with no children. Maynard wrote to Coomber asking her ―to employ E. usefully in her spare time, & be sure not let her run about with other children.‖ 168 Maynard, who had withdrawn from Anthon, took up her ―motherhood‖ more actively during these years to prevent the perpetuation of the effects of Anthon‘s sexual ―sin.‖ In the years between 1894 and 1896, when Anthon was boarding with working-class families and attending board school, her behavior became increasingly disruptive and she was sent away from a number of work places. In 1896, Maynard took her to see Dr. Barnardo with the hope that he might be able to give her advice regarding Anthon‘s ―secret vice‖ and the disruptive behavior with which Maynard believed it was associated. Maynard hoped that Barnardo might take her into one of his homes. Like Sharman, Barnardo used the metaphor of disease to describe masturbation and refused to accommodate Anthon (―A child that cannot be classed with other children, is not a child for him, & he wd. no more take her than if she were in the midst of the small-pox‖ 169 ). He contended that ―the grace of God has been known to triumph, __ but very rarely. The unclean secret thoughts & acts destroy the very foundations of character, & such unhappy creatures seldom reach 30, & often die idiots.‖ 170 In 1896 Maynard 166 Ibid. 167 Ibid. 168 Ibid., 101. 169 Effie Notebooks, September 1896, 181. 170 Effie Notebooks, December 1915, 60. Barnardo had been embroiled in a sexual scandal of sorts a number of years earlier, in 1877. He had been accused not only of staging the before-and-after photographs of street children (through which he sought to procure funding for his homes), but of representing the children in a sexually provocative manner. While the latter charges were never proven, they circulated widely and may well have resulted in a more rigid approach to children‘s sexuality on Barnardo‘s part. Koven, Slumming, 88-139. 271 turned to the Salvation Army as a last resort; she approached one of the Army‘s prostitute rescue homes, the Clock House at Walthamstow, and asked them to admit the fourteen-year-old Anthon. She believed that for Army rescue home workers, ―nothing was a surprise . . . they knew all the forms her wickedness was likely to take, & had experience of them every one.‖ 171 Anthon was accepted into the Clock House upon the approval of Mrs. Bramwell Booth. Soon after arriving at the Clock House, Anthon was converted. My dear Godmother,‖ she wrote Maynard, ―I am very glad you sent me here for something lovely has happened, I have done what you have prayed for eight years at least, I have given myself to God.‖ 172 In recent years scholars of religion and class have disputed singular notions of working- class irreligion and the secularization theories they substantiate by drawing attention to forms of working-class piety that took place outside of weekly attendance at church and chapel. 173 The Salvation Army, which drew on working-class culture and offered devotional opportunities beyond those of a Sunday morning, straddled the divide between the informal religious practices of the working class and the church or chapel. Scholars of religion and class have also refuted notions that working-class religion was an imposition of the middle class on the working class to procure compliance to the economic and political inequities of industrial capitalism. 174 Walker thus asserts that ―the Salvation Army was as authentic, complicated, and mediated expression of working-class belief and desire as any other movement of working-class people.‖ 175 She 171 Effie Notebooks, October 1896, 11. 172 Ibid., 12. 173 Sarah C. Williams, Religious Belief and Popular Culture in Southwark, c.1880-1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 174 E. P. Thompson, for example, had argued in The Making of the English Working Class that Methodism was the ―‗chiliasm of despair‘ taken up by workers defeated by the onslaught of industrial capitalism.‖ Pamela Walker, Pulling the Devil's Kingdom Down: The Salvation Army in Victorian Britain (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 4. 175 Walker, Pulling, 66. 272 suggests that to dismiss Salvationists as ―deluded or duped denies the creativity of those men and women as well as the particularity of their vision.‖ 176 Anthon‘s conversion therefore should not be seen as a capitulation to Maynard‘s piety. She had resisted conversion for eight years and her turn to Christ in 1896 was a response to the spiritual mothering of a Salvation Army staff member, Ensign Martin, rather than a capitulation to Maynard‘s belief system. Her volition was nevertheless constrained by the very difficult circumstances of her life. She had experienced not only Maynard‘s unstable mothering but also chronic geographical mobility and a precipitous social downfall; she had neither friends nor family beyond Maynard and the Salvation Army. These circumstances contributed to her turn to Christian faith; she came to an understanding of Christ as unchanging. ―I am just going to write you out [Ensign Martin‘s] favourite chorus,‖ the sixteen-year-old Anthon wrote to Maynard, ―I love it because she does & because it is so true: Yesterday, to-day for ever / Jesus is the same, / We may change but Jesus never / Glory to his name. 177 For Anthon, Christ‘s love was unconditional and unwavering. Anthon‘s evangelicalism had much in common with Maynard‘s. She demonstrated a profound sense of sin, identified masturbation as a sin, and was no more able than Maynard to reflect on the very difficult circumstances (including those precipitated by Maynard) that had prompted her actual wrongs. She expressed deep contrition for her conduct of earlier years and sought Maynard‘s forgiveness (―Oh write & tell me that I have in some measure atoned for the years of trouble & anxiety I caused you‖ 178 ). At the same time, evangelicalism offered Anthon a chance to resist Maynard‘s class-inflected ―mothering‖ of her. She took up the notion of Christ‘s 176 Ibid. 177 Effie Notebooks, December 1896, 26. 178 Effie Notebooks, March 1903, 18. 273 faithfulness to criticize, in an oblique way that did not jeopardize her tenuous tie with Maynard, Maynard‘s inconsistency and volatility and to establish a new standard of mothering for Maynard. When she lost her temper and was rude, played truant from school, and/or took money from the Home, she wrote Maynard, ―I feel sure that you will forgive me . . . ‗Jesus Christ, the same yesterday & today & for EVER‘‖ 179 or ―Dear Godmother do forgive me . . . ‗Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.‘‖ 180 Evangelicalism provided Anthon with a discourse through which she was able to challenge the exclusions inherent in the middle-class making of the family. Evangelicalism was not entirely implicated in constructions of the middle-class family; it allowed for the contestation of class status as well as its consolidation. This contestation of class was apparent in Maynard‘s life as early as the 1870s when, through her evangelism, she constituted a ―spiritual family‖ from amongst the Girton students of the lower ranks of the middle class. The social reformer Mary Kingsland, the daughter of a Dissenting minister in Bradford, was Maynard‘s first convert and one of Maynard‘s spiritual children. Kingsland was also the victim of Maynard‘s consolidation of class difference through her spiritual mothering. When Kingsland was appointed Mathematics and Natural Science tutor at Girton in 1874, Maynard‘s class-based sensibilities came to the fore and she resisted the appointment (―oddly enough, now that poor little Mary was one with me in the spiritual life (& a more earnest, eager, intelligent disciple no one could desire) the more did her accent, manner, hand-writing, & a dozen other trifles grate upon me‖ 181 ). Kingsland‘s evangelical piety posed a challenge to Maynard‘s classism, however. She asked herself, ―Yet, was I not a traitor to our one Great 179 Effie Notebooks, March 1897, 53. 180 Effie Notebooks, September 1898, 110. 181 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 19, 1874, 148-51. 274 Cause? Here she was, glowing with the new life & an ardent Evangelist . . . & who was I to withstand an appointment that might bring the Kingdom of Heaven near to at least a third of the Students?‖ 182 When in 1875 Kingsland experienced the ―baptism of the Spirit‖ advocated by the Pearsall Smiths and the holiness movement, and long-sought by Maynard, Maynard‘s class prejudice was further challenged: It was a kind of shock to me that this girl whom I had tended to despise as so dreadfully uncultivated, a girl who did not know one Italian painter from another, nor even the Greek philosophers apart, that she should soar up to Heaven & leave me behind. It was humbling indeed, it was even humiliating, for I had several times talked to them about the Baptism of the Spirit as the culmination of the Christian life . . . & yet here was I without it. 183 Maynard‘s alignment of spiritual progress with refinement of character and social elevation was disrupted. Her spiritual relationship with Kingsland shifted. She envisaged herself now as Kingsland‘s spiritual equal rather than her spiritual mother: ―It is no longer direct teaching, it is ‗sharing the spoil.‘‖ 184 When Kingsland visited Oakfield, Maynard‘s home for two weeks in the summer of 1876, a further shift in the relationship was effected as Kingsland took up the role of spiritual mother to Maynard. Maynard had, after leaving Girton, immersed herself in theological study to the detriment of both evangelism and ―the practical work among the poor.‖ Kingsland spoke severely to her about this: ―Study will not do alone, but practice must accompany every step as verification.‖ 185 She added, ―just [because] you are so good, I do so want you to be better, for you just escape being so beautiful.‖ 186 Maynard took up the role of spiritual daughter; she accepted Kingsland‘s reprimands. If the Evangelical discourse of the 182 Ibid. 183 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 22, 1875, 563-64. 184 Greenbook, 10 June 1876, 43-44. 185 Ibid. 186 Greenbook, 3 September 1876, 95. 275 earthly family was deeply implicated in the forging of class difference, and if Maynard had taken up spiritual discourse to further this difference (by ―de-corporealizing‖ her converts), Kingsland demonstrated how Evangelical discourse might also be taken up to redraw the parameters of the spiritual family. Religion offered middle-class women a discourse of cultural authority, which they sometime exercised by assuming a dominant role in relation to women of the lower classes (including the lower middle class), but it also afforded the latter the possibility to contest that domination by asserting their own spiritual authority. The potentially disruptive effects of Evangelical discourse in the physical realm – in relation to the earthly middle-class family – were evident in the late 1890s when Anthon made recourse to Evangelicalism to challenge Maynard‘s ―mothering‖ of her. Evangelical discourse also enabled Anthon to resist Maynard‘s entrenching of her working-class status. In 1899 Maynard had temporarily installed her as a servant at Westfield for a number of days, unbeknown to the teaching staff and students, to ascertain whether this might be Anthon‘s future vocation. Anthon, however, believed that God had called her to the Salvation Army, and to its Cadet Training Program specifically, rather than to domestic service. Major Bennett of the Salvation Army supported Anthon‘s aspirations, observing pointedly to Maynard that ―‗you make her under-housemaid, don't you?‘ __ with an amused smile, __ ‗well, I think you will find she is above that now & wouldn't care to come. Why, she is nearly ready for Office work, & might earn her own living.‘‖ 187 While Maynard had drawn on Evangelical discourse to situate Anthon as a member of the working class, lacking middle-class sensibilities, values, and competencies, Anthon drew on Evangelical discourse in an effort to better herself socially. In 1903 Anthon was accepted into the Salvation Army‘s Cadet‘s Training Home in Clapton with a view to being made ―Lieutenant for the Social Work.‖ Soon thereafter, however, 187 Effie Notebooks, November 1899, 121-22. 276 she was discovered to have succumbed to her ―secret vice‖ and Mrs. Booth, upon learning of this, deemed commissioning impossible. In the years prior to her conversion Anthon‘s attitude to masturbation had been in stark contrast to those of the authority figures in her life. At Miss Sharman‘s orphanage she had ―not seem[ed] to be in the least sorry or penitent‖ for teaching her peers to masturbate. 188 In 1896 Dr. Barnardo had noted that ―she had no sense of shame.‖ 189 After her conversion in 1896 she waged a harrowing battle against it. In 1897 Bennett informed Maynard that Anthon had ―actually said that she wished we would bind her hands when she goes to bed at night, & this is done every night.‖ 190 At the end of 1897 Bennett reported, ―the Sergeant who sleeps in her room tells me she has seen her many times get out of bed & walk about the room & then kneel down & cry & pray before she has the victory.‖ 191 In 1903 Anthon was given a probationary appointment under Bennett‘s supervision at the Clock House. Here Anthon continued to wage a battle with her ―secret vice‖; in April 1905 Bennett informed Maynard that she ―had again given way to her old sins & they had decided to send her away as a ward-maid in an Infirmary or Hospital.‖ 192 Maynard‘s response to Anthon‘s ―secret habit‖ in the early 1900s was an effect of her synthesis of Evangelicalism and Darwinism around this time. For Maynard the latter paved the way to embracing eugenics. Her disagreement with Anthon over Anthon‘s ―vice‖ illustrates the contest between a more modern, scientific iteration of Evangelicalism and earlier, more traditional versions. By the end of the nineteenth century the medical profession had made a compelling bid to establish sexuality as its rightful domain. Masturbation was deemed by many 188 Effie Notebooks, January 1894, 77. 189 Effie Notebooks, September 1896, 181. 190 Effie Notebooks, March 1897, 48. 191 Effie Notebooks, November 1897, 67. 192 Effie Notebooks, March 1905, 70. 277 to be a medical problem. In 1897 Major Bennett had informed Maynard that ill health was a significant outcome of masturbation; Maynard wrote that in the opinion of the Salvation Army, ―everything, spiritual & moral progress, courtesy, intellect, physical health, even her very eyesight, depend on one secret habit.‖ 193 Bennett‘s explanation seems to have been indebted to the hydraulic theory of sexuality propounded by William Acton in The Functions and Disorders of the Reproductive Organs in Youth, in Adult Age and in Advanced Life (1857) in which masturbation was believed to drain the limited energy of the body, resulting in nervous exhaustion, fatigue, illness, and/or a premature death. In February 1904 Anthon was diagnosed with tuberculosis, which was incurable at that time. It was prevalent amongst the poor who lived in crowded urban areas and as a result it spread quickly. 194 Many doctors believed it was hereditary and some believed sexual promiscuity to be a precipitating factor. 195 When in 1907 an ill Anthon ―somehow conveyed a sort of satisfaction in being my ‗poor worn-out old Eff,‘‖ the convergence of scientific discourse with Evangelicalism was evident in Maynard‘s vituperative response: I reminded her how the S.A. Authorities had told me . . . that all her weakness & illness was due to her own wickedness, & that, had they not stopped her by strong measures, she might be by this time either a hopeless invalid or a sort of idiot. That to give way as she did for years had brought her now a long & sore punishment . . . & to think of her so early in life as ―worn-out‖ was to me repulsive because it was connected with sin. 196 From 1905 until her death ten years later, Anthon moved from one service position to another, living in locations that spanned the south of England. She experienced further 193 Effie Notebooks, December 1897, 69. 194 As Walker notes, tuberculosis was the most common factor in the deaths of people under the age of thirty. Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 218. 195 Ibid. 196 Effie Notebooks, April 1907, 148. 278 downward social mobility. A short temper prevented her from working in households with large staffs; she worked primarily as the sole servant, a ―general,‖ of less affluent families where social improvement was impossible. 197 She turned to marriage as a possible source of consolation and companionship. Maynard took up eugenic discourse in response. The racial discourse that had informed Maynard‘s making of Anthon‘s working-class status in earlier years was rendered explicit. Anthon‘s marital aspirations were also the occasion of clearer resistance on Anthon‘s part to Maynard‘s medically inflected Evangelicalism and Maynard‘s making of her class and ―race‖ in earlier years. It was Maynard‘s response to Anthon‘s desire to marry, a desire she entertained from the time of her dismissal from the Clock House in 1905, which best demonstrates the effects of Maynard‘s modernizing of Evangelicalism, and specifically her synthesis of Evangelicalism and Darwinism. When, in 1905, the twenty-seven year old Anthon began to consider marriage, she received the support of Major Bennett of the Salvation Army. Bennett perceived marriage to be a solution to Anthon‘s ―secret habit‖ (―to put it in plain language she is a girl that needs to be married. . . . I have known of many who have married & have settled down happily. I am of course speaking of this particular class of girl . . . it may be God's way out of our difficulties‖ 198 ). The Salvation Army had, despite Major Bennet‘s delineating of the physiological consequences of Anthon‘s ―secret vice,‖ never viewed Anthon‘s masturbation as harshly as Maynard had. Although Booth refused to commission Anthon in 1903 and Bennett dismissed her from the Clock House in 1905, the officers of the Salvation Army attempted to downplay and even to overlook Anthon‘s ―vice.‖ In 1903, when Booth deferred her commissioning, the Clapton Home‘s officers informed Maynard, ―it would discourage [Anthon] too sorely to tell her this,‖ 197 Effie Notebooks, January 1909, 229. 198 Effie Notebooks, August 1908, 204. 279 and that she would ―be given a sort of temporary commission‖ instead; Anthon would be told that her poor health was the primary reason for the postponement of her commissioning. 199 Bennett, stricken by Maynard‘s accusations that she had failed to deal adequately with Anthon‘s transgressions, had subsequently compelled Anthon to ―confess her evil deeds before the assembled officers of the Clock House‖ and to ask them ―whether she should be dismissed from their special work.‖ 200 The Clock House officers ―forgave her, & most kindly gave her another chance.‖ 201 Salvationist theology offered a less severe iteration of Evangelicalism in which a discourse of grace predominated. Unlike Bennett, Maynard was opposed to Anthon marrying. ―That extraordinary nature should not be perpetuated,‖ 202 she wrote in May 1906, and two years later, ―Marriage, indeed! _ with her diseased body & yet more diseased mind.‖ 203 Maynard‘s endorsement of Darwinian evolution had facilitated her engagement with eugenic discourse. Eugenics was a system of selective breeding developed by Francis Galton, a scientist and geographer, and a cousin of Charles Darwin, in the 1880s. Galton coined the term ―eugenics‖ in 1883 from a Greek word meaning ―good in birth‖ and defined eugenics as ―the science of improving stock.‖ 204 As early as 1865, in an essay entitled ―Hereditary Talent and Character,‖ Galton assumed a direct transmission of all traits from parents to their offspring. The physical and mental feebleness of the poor, and particularly of the casual poor or ―residuum,‖ was not the product of overcrowded and unsanitary living conditions, but the result of a heredity degeneracy. 199 Effie Notebooks, October 1903, 33. 200 Effie Notebooks, February 1905, 63. 201 Ibid., 64. 202 Effie Notebooks, May 1906, 125. 203 Effie Notebooks, August 1908, 197. 204 Bland, Banishing the Beast, 222. 280 Sexual discourse was central to eugenics. For many eugenists, sexual promiscuity was hereditary, as were the sexually transmitted diseases that often accompanied it; the latter resulted in irrevocable physical demise. 205 Single working-class mothers or children born out of wedlock were the problematic result of a hereditary feeble-mindedness. Eugenists sought to prevent ―unfit‖ women from procreating. Galton‘s eugenics was indebted to his cousin Charles Darwin‘s theory of evolution. In a conversation with Alfred Russel Wallace, Darwin had noted with concern the failure of the mechanism of natural selection to function in Victorian society, partly as a result of measures instituted to facilitate the survival of the poor which meant that the population was ―more largely renewed in each generation from the lower than from the middle and upper classes.‖ 206 He argued that it was possible that the Anglo-Saxon race would regress; ―the nation will retrograde as has occurred too often in the history of the world. We must remember that progress is no invariable rule.‖ 207 Many feminists embraced eugenics. They argued that women‘s superior sexual self-control, their role in sexual selection (delineated by Darwin), and their role as mothers qualified them to serve as guardians of the Anglo-Saxon stock. 208 They positioned motherhood as central to the wellbeing of the nation. 209 Maynard‘s interest in eugenics was evident as early as 1885 when she visited the anthropometric laboratory Galton set up as part of the London International Health Exhibition and wrote approvingly of it. 210 205 Ibid., 240. 206 Alfred Russel Wallace, My Life: A Record of Events and Opinions (London: Chapman and Hall, 1905), 509, quoted in Diane B. Paul, ―Darwin, Social Darwinism and Eugenics,‖ in The Cambridge Companion to Darwin, 2nd ed., ed. Jonathan Hodge and Gregory Radick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 225. 207 Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex, vol. 1(London: John Murray, 1871), 77. 208 Bland, Banishing the Beast, 88. 209 Ibid., 230. 210 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 48, 1884-1885, 106. 281 In 1909 when a twenty-seven-year-old Anthon expressed a desire to marry, the influence of eugenics on Maynard‘s Evangelicalism was evident: ―I was always frightened about it long ago, because the tendency to vice is strongly inherited. You got yours doubtless from your poor wicked mother, & I trembled to think of children being brought into the world with this black stamp upon them.‖ 211 She argued that Anthon‘s having learnt to masturbate untaught by others indicated the hereditary nature of sexual vice (―when a person is the originator of a disease or evil thing, it is sure to be inherited‖ 212 ). Maynard believed the physical effects of sexual degeneracy to be indisputable. ―Doctors say it is simply wicked to marry when this disease has even once laid hold of you,‖ she informed Anthon, ―& yours is three times. Rickets, hip-disease, consumption, __ all these things come out in poor innocent children.‖ 213 Paradoxically Maynard‘s Darwinism and her eugenics, the product of her ―modernizing‖ Evangelicalism, demonstrate the long-term influence of evangelical values on science. For the revivalist Jonathan Edwards, and later for Thomas Chalmers, nature was a system defined by uniform and regular laws; it was the product of a faithful God. Edwards thus noted in a paper on atomism that the ―laws of nature‖ were ―the stated methods of God‘s acting with respect to bodies, and the stated conditions of the alteration of the manner of his acting.‖ 214 Convergences between commerce, religion, and science were evident as the entrepreneurial middle class took up the analogy of an economic system to describe nature, and economically inflected values such 211 Effie Notebooks, November 1909, 33. 212 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 44. Maynard was far from alone in coming to this conclusion. In 1909 Dr. Howard A. Kelly had argued that masturbation arose from ―parents who are intemperate, whether through weakness of will or excess of passion.‖ Jalland and Hooper, 246, quoting Howard A. Kelly, Medical Gynecology, 1909, 72, 291-98. 213 Effie Notebooks, November 1909, 34. 214 Jonathan Edwards, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, Vol. 6, Scientific and Philosophical Writings, ed. Wallace E. Anderson (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980), 216, quoted in John Hedley Brooke, ―The History of Science and Religion: Some Evangelical Dimensions,‖ in Livingstone, Hart, and Noll, Evangelicals and Science, 23. 282 as thrift, efficiency, and regularity were inscribed in both evangelicalism and science. Atonement had been described in terms of the laws of debt and ransom; a similarly causal explanation was evident in the related notion that sin required punishment. As John Hedley Brooke notes in his reading of Boyd Hilton, this ―temporal sequence‖ could be ―inscribed in nature itself.‖ 215 Linear notions of time and progress ensued, and paradoxically these paved the way for evolutionary theory and for its acceptance amongst evangelicals. Maynard‘s Puritanically inflected holiness piety emphasized sin and its effects. ―The complete ‗Forgive & Forget‘ of the atmosphere of the S.A. is not quite the whole of the education given us by our Divine Ruler here below,‖ she wrote in another context, ―& the ‗Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap‘ of Ethics, ought now & then to be emphasised.‖ 216 Medical notions of time – and more specifically long aetiologies for disease – informed her evangelicalism and produced a reading of Anthon‘s past in which linearity and causation featured prominently. However, Evangelicalism did not necessarily produce linear notions of time and the endorsing of evolution or eugenics. Notions of redemption, such as those of the Salvation Army which emphasized grace, transformation at conversion, and lifelong forgiveness of sin, disrupted a cause-and-effect logic, but Maynard eschewed this theology. Until around 1905 Anthon‘s ―secret vice‖ had, as far as Maynard was concerned, been indicative of more severe spiritual sins and had also been ameliorable. While increasingly assimilating medical discourse, she had hoped along more traditional Evangelical lines that, with the ―second conversion‖ or ―entire consecration‖ of holiness piety, Anthon‘s mind, will, and body would be infused by the Holy Spirit and that she would be healed of her ―secret vice‖ and the tuberculosis that she believed was a consequence of it (if Anthon ―persevered in right for 215 Boyd Hilton, Age of Atonement, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 25, quoted in Brooke, ―Science and Religion,‖ 25. 216 Effie Notebooks, January 1907, 141. 283 some 2 or 3 years more . . . I should see her fresh & strong & bright as she ought to be‖ 217 ). She understood Anthon‘s ―secret vice‖ to be the symptom of the more serious sins of ―falsehood & conceit‖ 218 and ―pride & independent spirit.‖ 219 With the mobilizing of eugenic discourse, however, Maynard begun to identify Anthon with her sexual ―sins.‖ In attempting to deter Anthon from marriage she compiled an outline of Anthon‘s life that took sexual sin as its primary focus: (1) At ten Miss Coryton asked me to take you away from School, because you talked such shocking horrid things to the other girls. (2) At 12 you were dismissed in the utmost disgrace from the Orphanage, because you got into children‘s beds at night, & taught them to do things too horrible to speak of. I cannot soil my pen by writing them down. (3) At 14 you fell . . . 220 (4) At 15 I took you to Dr. Bernado [sic] with his immense experience. He said . . . ―Only one girl in 2,000 invents vice. . . . I would as soon have a girl with the Plague in my Village Homes, as have that girl.‖ (5) At 16 began the battle, long & dreadful, with this horrid vice. 221 Walker contends that Maynard turned to eugenics in later years to clear herself from the stain of failed motherhood. Anthon‘s ―secret vice‖ was a bodily weakness ―that neither prayer nor religious instruction could vanquish.‖ 222 While Walker‘s point is certainly valid, there was more at play here. Maynard‘s sense of failure as a mother had racial and national resonances and these in turn derived from her feminism. 217 Effie Notebooks, April 1907, 148. 218 Effie Notebooks, May 1905, 75. 219 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 115. 220 Maynard believed, incorrectly according to Anthon, that Anthon had had sexual relations with a young man who shared her Brighton lodgings. 221 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 40-41. 222 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 219. 284 Maynard‘s reconciliation of Darwinism and Evangelicalism had not only resulted in a ―modern‖ Evangelicalism, but had produced a modern Evangelical feminism. In The Descent of Man and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871) Darwin had supplemented his theory of natural selection with the theory of sexual selection to account for differences between the sexes. He argued that competition for females led to ―the man attaining to a higher eminence, in whatever he takes up, than can woman – whether requiring deep thought, reason or imagination, or merely the use of the senses and hands.‖ 223 He had associated women with the ostensible tenderness and selflessness of the maternal role, asserting that ―woman seems to differ from man in mental disposition, chiefly in her greater tenderness and less selfishness . . . owing to her maternal instincts.‖ 224 Darwin‘s theory of gender was imbricated in imperialist discourse. He argued that in the ―higher races‖ sexual difference was more marked. At the same time he asserted that women shared with the ―lower races‖ a ―lack of willpower, emotionality, dependence, imitativeness, and little capacity for abstract thought.‖ 225 Darwin thus represented women as the ―lower race‖ of gender, and the ―lower races‖ as the female type of the human species. 226 The philosopher and sociologist Herbert Spencer (1820-1903) had re-worked Darwinian theory, drawing on Darwin‘s interest in morality, to argue that the antagonism intrinsic to early human societies was, in humankind‘s more advanced phases, replaced by altruism and the pursuit of the common good. In The Ascent of Man (1894) the Scottish evangelical Henry Drummond took up Spencer‘s theory of altruism to situate human evolution in a larger spiritual framework and to argue that motherhood was the means by which altruism was fostered. 223 Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex, 1st ed (London: John Murray, 1871), 327. 224 Darwin, Descent, 326. 225 Harry Campbell, Differences in the Nervous Organism of Man and Woman, 612, quoted in Bland, Banishing the Beast, 74. 226 Nancy Stepan, ―Race and Gender: the Role of Analogy in Science‖ in The Anatomy of Racism, ed. D. Goldberg (Minneapolis: University of Minneapolis Press, 1990), 40, quoted in Bland, Banishing the Beast, 74. 285 Maynard followed Drummond in her reading of femininity. Like him, she argued that maternal love was the font of all that was good: ―Of what is Maternity the mother? Of children? No, not of them only . . . Of love itself . . . of love as the pure and undefiled fountain of all that is eternal in this world.‖ 227 She subverted Darwin‘s gender hierarchy by reading the biblical story of the creation of the sexes in an evolutionary frame. In her 1924 text We Women: A Golden Hope she suggested that Adam, whom she understood to represent men, had been created first, and this correlated with the emergence an early and more primitive ―Man-spirit,‖ while Eve, created after Adam, represented the later emergence of the more advanced ―Woman-spirit.‖ Her feminist reworking of Darwinism was accompanied by the re-inscribing of the primitive/civilized dichotomy that sustained Darwin‘s racial discourse. Refusing Darwin‘s notion of the proximity of women and ―primitive‖ races, in We Women she suggested that in most races of the world the manly qualities were well developed; they had been in use for long spans of time. The womanly virtues were ―a far later product,‖ 228 less common amongst ―primitive‖ societies, and never ―foremost in [the minds] . . . of savages.‖ 229 British motherhood was thus more advanced than that of ―primitive‖ peoples. Maynard‘s re-reading of Darwin allowed her to situate mothering within a national and imperial frame. At the 1908 Church Congress held in Manchester, she addressed a meeting of girls on the topic of ―Women and the National Character.‖ 230 Britain had a special national character defined by its honesty, industry, public spirit, and simplicity. She suggested that these characteristics, all of which Christianity had helped foster, uniquely qualified England for 227 Constance Maynard, We Women: A Golden Hope (London: Morgan & Scott, 1924), 28. 228 Constance Maynard, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ in Between College Terms (London: James Nisbet, 1910), 69. 229 Maynard, ―Creation of Eve,‖ 69. 230 Constance Maynard, ―Women and Our National Character,‖ in Between College Terms (London: James Nisbet, 1910), 257-71. 286 imperial rule: ―To England, in the good providence of God, is entrusted so large a share in the rule of the world. . . . We may be sure that neither choice was arbitrary, but founded on character.‖ 231 Maynard understood the family to play a key role in relation to the nation. In a 1910 essay, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ she suggested that from the family sprang ―the main rules of ethics and the right functions of the State‖; the family trained future citizens in steadiness, forbearance, and justice. 232 British women were the repositories of British morality; they were the guardians of the nation: ―we also are mothers of the soul, the mothers of the nation.‖ 233 Children too were situated in a national frame. In her 1919 article ―The Influence of Christianity on the Position of Women,‖ she argued that children, women‘s supreme responsibility, ―first belong[ed] to the family, but as they grow on they become the Children of the Nation, the priceless heritage of the country at large.‖ 234 With the emergence of eugenics, middle-class British women were again represented as ―mothers of the race.‖ Women evinced the capacity to regenerate the British physically through their choice of healthy and fit spouses (sexual selection), through the careful raising of children, and as overseers of the morality of the society. The efficiency of the nation and the viability of the empire lay in their hands. Maynard believed that by attempting to dissuade Anthon from marriage and motherhood, she was performing not only her maternal duty but also her duty as a mother of the British nation. Believing the family to be significant in shaping the nation, she sought to deter Anthon from creating a family that would weaken the nation through its perpetuation of hereditary sexual vice and the physical disability that accompanied it. The 231 Maynard, ―Women and Our National Character,‖ 259. 232 Maynard, ―Creation of Eve,‖ 76. 233 Maynard, We Women, 23. 234 Constance Maynard, ―The Influence of Christianity on the Position of Women,‖ Journal of the Transactions of the Victoria Institute 51 (1919): 43. 287 imperialist framing of her eugenic discourse was evident as she asserted, ―the good doctor‘s [sic] lament sadly, because our beautiful sound healthy English stock is getting spoiled by miserable diseased people having children.‖ 235 Although once her adopted daughter, Anthon was now a foreigner whose intemperate passions threatened to corrupt Anglo-Saxon stock. Nevertheless, Maynard attempted to assume a motherly role towards Anthon in order to fulfill her obligations as a metaphorical mother of the nation. When Maynard took up eugenic discourse, it was not in opposition to Evangelicalism, but as part of it. She thus informed Anthon that ―there are cases when God (not man) says ‗No.‘‖ 236 Because of ―wickedness & disease‖ Anthon had been called to celibacy, and while God could not ameliorate the physical effects of masturbating, ―even your poor, broken, crippled sort of life may be offered as a sacrifice to God, & used by Him for beautiful results.‖ 237 Her transition to a eugenic Evangelicalism had been gradual. It was anticipated in 1894 when she accepted Miss Sharman‘s use of the disease metaphor for masturbation, in 1896 when she took up Dr. Barnardo‘s use of the same metaphor, and in 1897 when she accepted Major Bennett‘s description of the physical effects of masturbation. By 1909 eugenics predominated, as Maynard asserted that masturbation was a hereditary disease for which there was no religious antidote. Maynard‘s renunciation of marriage to pursue a religious calling, and her struggle with homoerotic desire, also played a role in her ready recourse to eugenics. She too had been called to celibacy, she informed Anthon, but, in contrast to Anthon, her eschewal of ―the joys of marriage‖ was ―because of honour & love & self-sacrifice.‖ 238 The instability of elements of eugenics and traditional Evangelicalism in Maynard‘s 235 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 42. 236 Effie Notebooks, November 1909, 32-33. 237 Ibid., 35. 238 Ibid., 33-34. 288 belief system was evident as, at times, she set aside eugenics altogether for Evangelical notions of personal responsibility. In 1909 she turned her argument around to suggest that Anthon‘s vice was not hereditary; Anthon had been its originator. She informed her that ―in my compassion for you I tried to shelter you behind your poor Mother & said perhaps some of the blame of your bad life was due to her.‖ 239 She now told her, ―you are the one in whom the vice originates, & it is not taken from another. You cannot shelter behind your mother, __ she has no disease, & your constitution is good. At 10 you were an ‗iron-strong‘ child, sound all through, & it is your own choice has made the poor which you are.‖ 240 The interdependence of religious and medical discourse was evident when Maynard wrote later that her ―object in the whole matter was to detach her [Anthon] from man, & to attach her to God; to shew her that her history taken as a whole, hereditary & originated, mental moral & physical, rendered her unfit for marriage.‖ 241 Racial discourse was intrinsic to eugenics in general and, as Walker notes, to Maynard‘s eugenics in particular. 242 Her turn to eugenics went hand-in-hand with her foregrounding of Anthon‘s Italian heritage. Maynard was to see Anthon as enduringly Italian and to associate her sexual excess with that identity. When in 1912 she sent Anthon to Italy in a final effort to restore Anthon‘s health, she suggested that ―the sense of being among her very own people‖ would exercise a salubrious effect on Anthon‘s health; she asked herself, ―why oh why have I left this poor exotic sitting so many months on the beach at Margate?‖ 243 When Maynard first met Rosabianca Fazulo in 1888 she observed that Fazulo‘s beauty was ―of an unintellectual & 239 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 53. 240 Ibid., 40-43. 241 Ibid., 63-64. 242 Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 219-20. 243 Effie Notebooks, March 1912, 134. 289 animal type.‖ 244 As eugenic discourse dominated Maynard‘s thinking, she asserted of Anthon that ―even quite as a child, she had no natural modesty, no shame.‖ 245 Sexual concerns had also been at the fore when she had decided against adopting a second Italian child, Margaret Addelen, in 1894. Addelen‘s nature was ―far more awake with regard to the young men than it ought to be at 10 ½ . . . there was the emotional flutter, the desire to please, the answers in turns too shy & too pert, the care how she looked, & all the 100 minute signs that shew the difference between man & woman is felt without stopping.‖ 246 Maynard‘s transition from construing Anthon as a working-class Briton to perceiving her as an Italian demonstrates the proximity of class and racial discourse; Effie‘s sexual laxity rendered her more ―foreign‖ than even the working class for Maynard, it was akin to that of the ―primitive‖ people of the British Empire. Maynard‘s opposition to Anthon‘s marrying precipitated Anthon‘s rejection of eugenic Evangelicalism and demonstrates the contestation between it and a more traditional Evangelicalism. In 1905 Anthon was in substantial agreement with Maynard‘s medically inflected and Puritanical approach to her ―secret vice.‖ She wrote to Maynard that masturbation had ―cursed my life, ruined my prospects & dragged me down.‖ 247 From the end of 1905, however, a fissure emerged between the two women‘s approaches to masturbation. Without disputing Evangelical censure, Anthon began to give precedence to an Evangelical theology of grace and to the possibility that the present was not a singular effect of her past. ―Still ‗forgetting those things that are behind, I press forward to the mark,‘ __ that is what I have to do now, isn't it?‖ she asked Maynard. ―The past can never be recalled,‖ she continued, ―but the present can be 244 Effie Notebooks, 16 November 1888, 223. 245 Effie Notebooks, March 1897, 54. 246 Effie Notebooks, September 1892, 194. 247 Effie Notebooks, May 1905, 72. Quotations from Anthon here and below derive from letters written to Maynard by Anthon and transcribed by Maynard in her notebooks. 290 lived for Him.‖ 248 She challenged Maynard‘s eugenic belief that the body had a singular meaning – that it represented the state of the soul – and that both were fixed within a linear trajectory of time: ―if my poor suffering body always reminds you of a depraved heart, I feel as if I should never again want to tell you of my health.‖ 249 She argued that Maynard‘s forgiveness of her would disrupt the cause-and-effect dynamic of Maynard‘s Evangelicalism and by extension the linear notion of time it informed. ―If I can only feel that you forgive, & that you accept, & that you love me,‖ she wrote to Maynard, ―the fact ‗It is your own fault‘ will not seem quite so bitter.‖ 250 In 1909, when Maynard sought to deter Anthon from marrying, Anthon resisted Maynard. ―I do not feel reconciled to always remaining single like you were talking to [m]e about the last time I saw you,‖ she wrote to Maynard. ―I have always looked so forward to one day having a nice little home & a good man as my husband.‖ 251 Later that year she was more decisive: ―my will is not in any way subdued to what you seem to think is God's plan for me. I really cannot see it at all.‖ 252 Anthon drew on an evangelical discourse of love to oppose Maynard‘s eugenics. She had argued in earlier years that love would enable potential Christian husbands to overlook her ―illegitimacy‖ (―if a man was a Christian & loved me he wd. never once think of my parents‘ sin‖ 253 ). She now asked Maynard, ―what does a man really care for the past concerns of his wife if he really love the women for her own sake[?]‖ 254 248 Effie Notebooks, November 1908, 223. 249 Effie Notebooks, April 1907, 149. 250 Effie Notebooks, January 1909, 236. 251 Effie Notebooks, February 1909, 46. 252 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 36. 253 Effie Notebooks, May 1906, 125. 254 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 36-37. 291 Maynard responded to Anthon‘s early rebuttals by arguing that Anthon was ignorant of the laws of heredity. She contended that ―any man who were to begin to love you . . . might yet say, ‗Never mind. We love each other, & that is the one thing needed.‘ Would that shew that he was kind & good? No, it would only shew that he was as utterly ignorant of all the laws of God about life & health & inheritance, as you are. If he had not read one single book on these wonderful laws, his judgement wd. be as worthless as yours.‖ 255 The disagreement over Anthon‘s marrying was ultimately an epistemological one; it was about the relation of scientific know-ledge to religious knowledge, and about who within evangelicalism had the right to define it. Anthon refused Maynard‘s contention that she was ignorant of heredity: I think I have also got the brain to understand the meaning of Inheritance. If my Mother has no disease, there is somewhere in that family, or in my poor father's, the tendency to this fearful complaint or I should never have had it, & even if I was a strong child at 10, the germs were there & there is not getting away from the fact . . . all the evil tendencies in both their passionate natures have been brought out again in my life. 256 Nevertheless she challenged the epistemological grounds upon which Maynard‘s made her argument and claimed that her life experience constituted as creditable grounds as Maynard‘s reading of the literature on heredity in assessing the question of marriage. ―Though I may not have read the books you have read or hear the lectures you have heard & given,‖ she wrote to Maynard, ―yet I think I have seen more of the sin & the dark side of life & of the world than you have ever seen, I have not been in those homes for nothing, & have seen cases there that I would not like to have you witness.‖ 257 For Anthon knowledge was the result of a particular 255 Ibid., 43. 256 Ibid., 48-9. 257 Ibid., 48. 292 situatedness; Maynard might, as a middle-class woman, have access to book knowledge, but she lacked the knowledge of working-class life. Anthon knew of ―many many girls with far worse health [who] are married, & have nice little homes & sweet children around them.‖ 258 Anthon also drew attention to the sexual ignorance of middle-class women: ―I am keeping straight, but oh the struggles. I could not tell you neither would you understand, how could you?‖ 259 She exposed the strategic silence by which middle-class women foregrounded their modesty while regulating the sexuality of working-class women: ―you say you would not soil your pen to write of things in the past, I think you have already written enough to drive me right away from any thoughts of being good & straight.‖ 260 She noted the hypocrisy in a class-based discourse of sexuality, arguing that ―you say my mother fell, but she is not the only one of many hundreds who have done the same, but she does not happen to have been one of the lucky ones with plenty of money & able to hush it over & cloak it up like the Royalty & what is called the Society of today.‖ 261 Anthon also stringently rejected Maynard‘s singular focus on her sexuality and her identification of her with her sexual ―sin.‖ She took up Evangelical discourse to resist Maynard‘s eugenic Evangelicalism, asserting that ―you have drawn up a long list in your letter, __ My God, is the past never to be silent? . . . Ever since I knew anything about the religion of God, I have been taught to forget the past & live in the present, & not to dwell on past failures.‖ 262 Two years later, in 1911, she took a firm stand for evangelical notions of grace over eugenic notions of heredity, telling Maynard that ―I know I was wicked, but I think I have reaped 258 Ibid., 36. 259 Ibid., 61. 260 Ibid., 50. 261 Ibid., 51. 262 Ibid., 49. 293 enough for what I sowed, & I don‘t believe God means me to suffer all my life, & lose all my happiness.‖ 263 The influence of an evangelical veneration of love and feeling, not unlike that experienced by Maynard in earlier years, was evident as she averred, ―I am a woman with a woman's heart & power to love, & cannot help my inmost & sacred feelings. They come to all girls, & cannot easily be set aside.‖ 264 Anthon also rejected Maynard‘s class-based and cavalier evangelical making and unmaking of the family. The latter had been apparent again in the late 1890s when Anthon, who had forged a motherly relationship with the Salvationist Ensign Martin, began to think of her biological parents: ―I do not know what has come over me (but I suppose it is natural),‖ she wrote to Maynard, ―but I do worry now about my own father & mother, & lay [sic] awake sometimes hours wondering & worrying about them. I long to know what they were like both in feature & character, & I want to know all about myself & them before I was six.‖ 265 Maynard promised to tell Anthon the story of her parentage in 1903 when Anthon was twenty-one, and this she did. She explained that Rosabianca, who was living in the Cape, had married a fellow missionary, Samuel Holt, and had given birth to a son. Anthon expressed the desire to meet Rosabianca some day. Towards the end of 1903 Anthon learnt that her mother would visit England on furlough at the end of the year and wrote Maynard, ―I feel if she is coming I can‘t let her return without seeing her & that darling boy.‖ 266 Maynard wrote back laying exclusive claim to the maternal relation: I told her how we must first of all respect her feelings in trying to do right, & that if her husband & friends discovered she had a grown-up daughter, why the poor thing wd. be 263 Effie Notebooks, January 1911, 88. 264 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 39. 265 Effie Notebooks, May 1898, 96. 266 Effie Notebooks, November 1903, 46. 294 covered with shame & disgrace & no one knows what she might do. I described the transfer in the lawyer‘s office, I quoted part of the deed, & told the child I was after all the only Mother she would ever know. 267 Maynard‘s refusal to allow Anthon to make contact with her mother, and to allow Rosabianca to decide on whether to pursue the relationship or not, demonstrates the persistence of Maynard‘s middle-class making and unmaking of working-class families. She privileged the middle-class family formation (and middle-class notions of sexual propriety associated with it) by giving priority to her own rather tenuous maternal relationship with Anthon over Anthon‘s efforts to reconstitute her working-class family. When in 1911 Maynard, driven by eugenic discourse, attempted to thwart Anthon‘s desire to establish a family of her own, Anthon drew attention to the class assumptions that informed their respective understandings of family. Maynard could afford to renounce marriage: You have all you wish for, comforts, money, people who study your comfort, your own dear brothers & sisters who love you & are loved by you, all these things help to make up to you for a single life, but mine is different. I have none of the things I mention, I have only you . . . [who] may soon be called away from earth to be with Him. Then indeed I shall be alone with no one to care for me, no protector. 268 Maynard had both the wealth and the immediate family that rendered it possible to embrace celibacy. Anthon, who understood the necessity of a broad and diffuse familial network characteristic of the working classes, had no-one. When Maynard suggested work in an orphanage as an alternative to marriage and motherhood, Anthon questioned, for the first time, Maynard‘s adoption and mothering of her; she drew attention to the middle-class‘s use of the family to establish boundaries between classes and intimated that her own marginalization by Maynard was a consequence of it: ―Speaking of other people‘s children, they are not like one‘s 267 Effie Notebooks, December 1903, 47. 268 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 37. 295 own, are they? Have I been so to you?‖ 269 Anthon understood the middle-class discourse of the family to be intertwined with the making of class difference. Anthon‘s health deteriorated rapidly after 1912. A trip to Italy planned by Maynard as a final attempt to restore Anthon‘s health failed; the severity of Anthon‘s illness compelled her to return to England early. Ties between Maynard and Anthon became increasingly tenuous as Maynard felt disappointment in the failure of her plan, underestimated Anthon‘s illness, and neglected Anthon while making plans for her retirement from Westfield. In March 1914 two middle-class women, a Mrs. Tarbutt and a Miss Rose, arranged for the now bed-ridden Anthon to be admitted to the Home for Incurables at Ramsgate; Maynard covered most of the costs. In June 1915, however, Maynard, unwilling to support Anthon any further, arranged for her to be admitted to a workhouse infirmary. On September 10 th Anthon was moved temporarily to the Minster Infirmary near Ramsgate and established in the Women's Side Ward. 270 There she died in November 1915. Maynard was not present at Anthon‘s death. Upon learning of a sudden deterioration in Anthon‘s health earlier in November, she had gone to visit her, but Anthon was no longer conscious. The matron of the infirmary believed she might live for up to a fortnight, and Maynard took final leave of Anthon. In the process she engaged in one last re-making of Anthon‘s class status; she refused to cover the expenses of Anthon‘s funeral, thus consigning her to a pauper‘s burial. 271 On Tuesday, November 16th, Maynard received a telegram announcing Anthon‘s death: ―Stephanie Anthon 4.30 this morning.‖ 272 On Friday November 20 th she wrote 269 Ibid. 270 Thanet Union Infirmary, as Walker notes from Anthon‘s death certificate. Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 219. 271 Walker draws attention to the degradation inherent in the latter: ―even the poorest family would incur debt sooner than dishonour the deceased with a pauper burial.‖ E. Ross, Love and Toil: Motherhood in Outcast London (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 193, quoted in Walker, ―Adoption,‖ 219. 272 Effie Notebooks, November 1915, 47. 296 in her notebook: ―The funeral is at 2.30 today.‖ 273 She did not attend it. In her dealings with Anthon, Maynard had not been part of a network of accountability (―no one in the world knows how I go on with her. Home people have ceased to enquire, & Anne & Ralph very naturally treat her as if she had died long ago‖ 274 ). Nevertheless, Anthon had had at least two defenders in the course of her life. Both challenged Maynard‘s treatment of Anthon on Evangelical grounds. When in 1896 Maynard sought to annul the adoption, Ellen Pash was outraged. She informed Maynard that ―had she thought the bond wd. not be permanent she ‗would never have allowed it.‘‖ 275 When in 1912 Maynard wrote a dismissive note to Miss Ward, the woman with whom Anthon was lodging in Italy, in response to her concerns about Anthon‘s deteriorating health and her need to return to England early, Ward also took up Anthon‘s cause: ―I really believe that poor girl is friendless, think of how sad that must be! She needs a permanent home where she will be very kindly treated.‖ 276 Anthon was ―one of these little ones that believe on Christ.‖ 277 Maynard‘s turn to eugenics had, in fact, been informed by dark and complex feelings towards Anthon. She had felt profound anger at Anthon‘s failures and revulsion towards her ―sexual vice.‖ In 1909 she described how disgust had overwhelmed her just before a visit from Anthon: ―a surge of repulsion rose up in me, & I hardly knew how to go downstairs to meet her; a wreck, a ruin, diseased, tuberculous, unclean, untrue, __ all the most terrible thoughts & hates rose up within me, & would not be suppressed.‖ 278 She ―wondered why I had gone on so long 273 Ibid., 51. 274 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 65. 275 Effie Notebooks, 11 June 1892, 132. 276 Effie Notebooks, November 1912, 185. 277 Effie Notebooks, January 1913, 199. 278 Effie Notebooks, January 1909, 224. 297 with this being who to me appeared dirty all through in a fashion irremediable. There was nothing to be done but to loathe such a compound of vices & evils as she was.‖ 279 A discourse of dirt and of illicit sexuality converged; Anthon‘s ―dirtiness‖ of earlier years had become associated with her sexual vice. The line between disgust and affection, and even admiration, was paradoxically a fine one, however. At moments of Anthon‘s ―deep disgrace,‖ such as her dismissal from the Clock House in 1905 for the pursuit of her ―secret vice,‖ Maynard ―felt drawn to her as never before since she was a little child.‖ 280 She met a spiritually broken, ―humbled,‖ and contrite Anthon with an excess of affection. Anthon was her ―crown of blossoms that has been dashed in the mud, my rose that has been snapped off & trampled underfoot‖ 281 ; she referred to her as ―my dear battered bruised Anthon.‖ 282 In her struggle with masturbation Anthon had ―tried so long & so hard‖ 283 and had never given up. ―My poor old Eff,‖ she wrote in her notebook, ―God measures us not by success but by the amount of effort put forth, & . . . compared with most of us, you are a bit of a hero.‖ 284 Maynard had vast reserves of hope for Anthon: ―She is going to be a hero, my Anthon, & I see the beginnings of it now in her sore humiliation.‖ 285 Both Maynard and Anthon shared a singular ―hunger for love.‖ 286 Both believed that 279 Effie Notebooks, February 1909, 243. 280 Effie Notebooks, May 1905, 77. 281 Effie Notebooks, January 1909, 231. 282 Effie Notebooks, September 1905, 110. 283 Effie Notebooks, May 1905, 77. 284 Effie Notebooks, December 1911, 121. 285 Effie Notebooks, May 1905, 77. 286 On Maynard‘s description of her own ―hunger for love,‖ see Greenbook, 1 February 1896, quoted in Autobiography, 1896, 372. 298 marriage and motherhood would satisfy that hunger. As Anthon began to insist on the right to marry, Maynard assured her that she knew how ―one longs for love, & for a little home of one's own? . . . Oh, how I should have loved to be a true, happy wife & mother! And I was devotedly loved.‖ 287 By 1888 when Maynard adopted Anthon she had renounced the homoerotic relationships that she initially deemed divine compensations for marriage and motherhood. Between the years 1886 and 1897 she waged a ―successful‖ battle with homoerotic desire. From 1897, however, she commenced a final homoerotic relationship with a young Anglo-Irish woman, Marion Wakefield, and began an unsuccessful struggle to subordinate human love to divine. She observed that ―to look back is to be deeply ashamed . . . & I am covered with confusion to think of the discrepancy between what I knew & what I did.‖ 288 The identification suggested in Maynard‘s fervent attachments to and detachments from Anthon is not unlike that of middle-class women towards the prostitutes of London‘s slums. In Maynard‘s case this identification derived from similarities to as well as differences from the working-class ―other.‖ This was rendered explicit as Maynard observed, ―poor, poor Effie, her faults after all are only my own ‗writ large.‘‖ 289 Anthon‘s refusal to forego marriage – her prioritizing of human love over what Maynard deemed divine imperatives – was comparable to her own pursuit of homoerotic desire. If Maynard sensed a certain similarity between Anthon‘s struggles and her own – their desire to marry, what Maynard saw as their calling to celibacy, their struggles to subordinate human love to divine – Maynard was nevertheless certain that Anthon‘s sins were far more egregious than her own. Anthon‘s sins may have been her own ―writ large‖ but they were ―so 287 Effie Notebooks, November 1909, 32. 288 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 44, 1882, 19. 289 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 64. 299 very very large, so blatant, it is hard to tackle them.‖ 290 Love – or rather the misguided pursuit of love – became a site at which class and racial difference was consolidated. Maynard noted that unlike her, Anthon lacked ―the many veils of reticence, of love of approbation, of instinctive modesty, of sense of fitness or beauty, of a natural recognition that a thing or a person is higher or better than oneself, __ the scores of other feelings that come into life as checks to expression, as hiding our bareness, as softening or turning aside the unadorned crude edge of our greed for self.‖ 291 It was the recognition of their similarity that led Maynard to chart such a rigid line between her own sexuality and Anthon‘s, to turn to eugenic discourse and its more unyielding class and racial explanations of dissolute sexuality. Maynard‘s regulation of Anthon‘s sexuality suggests a far more complex dynamic in middle-class women‘s regulation of the sexuality of working-class and indigenous women than simply an evangelical prudishness. If, as I have argued in the preceding chapters, evangelical discourse produced desire as much as it restrained it (and produced it in the process of restraining it), then it is necessary to examine middle-class women‘s erotic subjectivity – and specifically the struggles of evangelical women to subordinate human love to the divine – in positing explanations for their regulation of the sexuality of working-class and indigenous women. Maynard‘s relationship with Anthon offers an explanation for the dual disgust/attraction dynamic that informed the approach of some middle-class ―slummers‖ to their working-class peers. The ―sins‖ of the latter may have epitomized, for middle-class Victorian women and men, their own sins ―writ large.‖ At the start of this chapter I suggested that the family was an important site for the 290 Ibid. Maynard may have been expressing similar sentiments when in 1897 she heard from Major Bennett that Anthon was a fallen woman: ―Yet it kept coming to me that wilful sins are perhaps much more alike in the sight of God than I was counting them, & that in no sense should the ordinary world's judgment be my judgment, after all the personal teaching I had had on such matters.‖ Effie Notebooks, May 1897, 56. 291 Effie Notebooks, December 1909, 64-65. 300 constitution and contestation of class difference, and I explored the role of middle-class sensibilities, values, and competencies in Maynard‘s making and unmaking of Anthon‘s middle- class status. Evangelical notions of grace, the body/spirit dualism, and the fluid discourse of the literal and metaphorical family provided some porosity to class boundaries. Maynard‘s constitution of Anthon‘s class and racial difference demonstrates the artificiality of class, the effort required for the sustaining of class difference, and anxieties inherent in it. Maynard‘s recourse to eugenics in the early 1900s entailed the fixing of Anthon‘s class difference. It illustrates the central role of class in the construction of racial difference. Maynard‘s turn to eugenics was occasioned by her synthesizing of Darwinism and Evangelicalism. Here heredity trumped grace, the literal body the body/spirit dualism of traditional Evangelicalism, and the literal family the spiritual one. An imperialist discourse of motherhood intrinsic to Maynard‘s Darwinian feminism found expression in Maynard‘s eugenic Evangelicalism, as she nevertheless construed herself as mother of the nation in overseeing Anthon‘s the body and her morality, in associating these with the efficiency of the nation, and in thus attempting to sustain Britain‘s imperial prominence. The effects of evangelical discourse were variable, however. The fluid evangelical discourse of the family that allowed Maynard to remove Anthon from her mother by prioritizing spiritual motherhood, also allowed Anthon to contest Maynard‘s motherhood. It allowed her to resist Maynard‘s eugenic prioritizing of the body and heredity, class, and race. The contest between these two iterations of evangelicalism demonstrates the process by which eugenic discourse gained ascendance in turn-of-the-century evangelicalism. It also illustrates the agency, albeit a limited one, of working-class evangelicals in their dealings with their middle-class co- religionists. 301 Chapter 5: Queer Intimacies: Evangelicalism, Homoeroticism, and Empire In 1899 Maynard wrote a series of thirty-seven sonnets, ―A Six Weeks [sic] Sleep,‖ which took as their subject the young Anglo-Irish woman, Marion Wakefield (b. 1876), with whom the fifty-year-old Maynard had fallen in love, and who was at the time being treated for neurasthenia. The sonnets were never published and, as Maynard later acknowledged, were of varying literary merit. Nevertheless, ―A Six Weeks Sleep‖ constitutes a significant new resource for the study of female same-sex desire in the Victorian era. 1 In the sonnets Maynard, adopting a range of poetic personae from which to reflect on the body of the recumbent Wakefield – Sleep, Death, Life, Health etc. – expressed ―a love so fervent‖ that she doubted Wakefield, the last of her loves, would ever have its equal offered to her. 2 Religious discourse, homoerotic desire, and imperial sentiments intertwine in the sonnets. Maynard represents Wakefield as a gift from God as her glance lingers sensually on her body (―But thou, Thyself has given me this rose / And added human comfort to divine‖). At the same time Maynard remembers the bodies of the British in the battle fields of the South African War, which had just erupted: Before my passive mind two visions rise, – The one from where the Transvaal comes the roar Of shots fired by the sullen Boer, And the war‘s dread crimson mounts before my eyes. And then, a room all hushed in twilight calm, Where she, my white rose, gently breathing lies, Her thoughts like petals folded inwardly. (―Visions,‖ lines 5-11). 3 1 Constance Maynard, Original Poems, vol. 1, 88, Constance Maynard Papers, Queen Mary College, London. In a commentary that accompanies ―A Six Weeks Sleep,‖ Maynard wrote that ―when the door was closed and bolted on Marion [visitors were prohibited during Wakefield‘s rest-cure] I attempted to write a sonnet about her, & then being cheered by finding I could do it, I went on writing one a day till the release. There they stand 37 of them, of unequal merit, but some are good‖ (ibid.). 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid., 75. 302 The visual juxtaposition of the ―war‘s dread crimson‖ and ―my white rose,‖ and the aural contrast of ―the roar‖ of the war and the ―hushed‖ room in which Wakefield lies, establishes a gendered public/private and imperial/domestic dichotomy. Masculinity, violence, and the colonial battle field are juxtaposed with femininity, purity, and the home. In the sonnet ―Marion Speaks a Second Time‖ imperial aspirations, illicit gender longings, and same-sex desire converge in ways that disrupt the gendering of the private and public, of domestic and imperial space. Maynard, relinquishing her vantage point as an observer, slips into the textual body of Wakefield, and effects the incorporation of Wakefield‘s body and psyche (and thus also her own) into the colonial landscape. A murmur from the Transvaal hoarse & long Sounds through four thousand miles of foaming deep, And visions haunt me that I cannot sleep, Of awful slaughter in the gathering throng, My blood from fighting fathers rises strong, To cheer the men who storm the rocky steep. And when my will loses its hold on life, And dreams hold sway in reckless brilliant show, They wildly plunge in battle‘s roar (―Marion Speaks A Second Time,‖ lines 3-11). 4 Maynard‘s erotic inhabiting of Wakefield‘s body refuses the alignment of middle-class women with the domestic, and of the divide between the wider domestic (the ―home‖ of the British nation) and empire (the ―away‖) upon which British imperialism was predicated. In Wakefield‘s body Maynard is, in fact, part of ―the battle‘s roar.‖ With the recent effort to integrate national and imperial historiography, historians have argued that the metropole/colony dichotomy, which has long characterized British historiography, derives from the colonial period and was in fact central to the maintenance of the 4 Ibid., 79. 303 British Empire. The injustices of imperialist expansion were made possible through the imagining of Britain as an ―island nation,‖ entirely distinct from the empire of which it was actually an integral part. The metropole/colony dichotomy has also informed some theories of secularization and dominant constructions of modernity. The representation of modernity as the triumph of Enlightenment science, human reason, and progress is predicated on distinguishing Britain from its colonies and rendering the latter peripheral to Britain. For the indigenous people of the empire, British modernity was not synonymous with progress. Neither was British imperialism, even in the later nineteenth century, a singularly secular process. Scholars in postcolonial studies have begun to explore the mechanisms through which the metropole/colony divide was sustained. With the cultural turn, scholars have moved from institutional and high political questions to a consideration of empire in the everyday lives of Victorians. 5 Feminist scholars have turned to the associated issue of how empire was understood by metropolitan Britons, how imperial power relations were normalized, and how the British came to feel ―at home with the empire.‖ 6 In this chapter I explore how the metropole/colony dichotomy was constituted and contested in the Maynard-Wakefield relationship. I examine how Maynard constructed Wakefield‘s ―Irishness‖ and her own ―Englishness,‖ and how in the process imperial categories of race, class, sexuality, and gender were made, unmade, and re-made. The Maynard-Wakefield relationship does not represent the conventional English/Irish, colonizer/colonized binaries; Wakefield was not an impoverished Irish Catholic peasant, but rather a middle-class Anglo-Irish Quaker who had been educated in England. Maynard‘s racializing of Wakefield is achieved across other axes of difference including class, region, age, and educational difference. The 5 See, for example, Catherine Hall and Rose, Sonya O., eds. At Home with the Empire: Metropolitan Culture and the Imperial World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 9. 6 Hall and Rose, At Home with the Empire, 5, 25. 304 Maynard-Wakefield relationship shows imperial grammars of difference to be relative rather than absolute, contingent on context and also variable. At different sites within the empire ―colonial discourses were made and remade rather than simply transferred or imposed.‖ 7 This chapter traces the role of religious discourse in consolidating the domestic and imperial grammars intrinsic to it. Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s relationship also witnessed the disruption of the metropole/colony dichotomy and the exposure of power relations otherwise deemed natural; empire was rendered visible at the site of metropolitan same-sex desire. Evangelicalism provided Wakefield with a discourse of authority that challenged Maynard‘s imperial subjecthood and disrupted her imperial imaginings. It prompted Maynard‘s unmaking of Wakefield‘s Irishness. As Wakefield took up the erotically inflected role of spiritual ―mother‖ to a young Westfield student, Mary Armitage, and Maynard‘s relationship with her was threatened, Maynard returned to the metropole/colony dichotomy and her earlier discourse of race. The ―spiritual Wakefield‖ vied with the ―Irish Wakefield‖ in Maynard‘s imagination, and the imperial landscape upon which the relationship had been forged was exposed. Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s erotic relationship thus provides a productive site at which to explore the making of the frontiers of empire. By illustrating the means by which a metropole/colony dichotomy was the creation of British imperialism, and the power relations of empire were normalized, this chapter offers a critique of both secularization theory and notions of modernity that perpetuate unthinkingly the divisions between private and public, domestic and imperial, ―home‖ and ―away.‖ It also challenges theories of religious transformation, posed in response to singular trajectories of secularization, which by associating the religious with the private at the turn of the century, exclude religion as a factor in making of high imperialism and exclude both religion and imperialism as factors in the making of British modernity. Maynard‘s dissident sexual relationships thus show sexuality to be an effective site at which to chart the 7 Hall and Rose, At Home with the Empire, 6. 305 making and unmaking of the metropole/colony dichotomy as it normalized empire, naturalized imperial power relations, and informs secularization theory. The study of sexuality has played a key role in the field of (post)colonial studies, where two broad approaches have been pursued. The first focuses on the erotic imagination and its role in imperial conquest, and is sometimes indebted to Freudian (and Lacanian) theory; it is evident in Frantz Fanon‘s study of male desire in the structuring of colonial power relations, Edward Said‘s construal of heterosexual male fantasy as central to Orientalist discourse, and Anne McClintock‘s analysis of the gendering and sexualizing of Africa and the Americas in discourses of imperial conquest. 8 A second approach focuses on imperial sexual regulation and sometimes draws on Foucauldian theory. Stoler‘s work has been key here; she argues that the racial categories upon which European imperial authority depended were constituted and contested in changing colonial policies on miscegenation, prostitution, and concubinage. 9 Few scholars, with the exception of McClintock in her study of the imperially inflected sadomasochism of Arthur 8 There is an extensive literature on the erotic imagination and empire. For an overview see Ania Loomba, ―Gender, Sexuality and Colonial Discourse,‖ Colonialism/ Postcolonialism (New York: Routledge, 1998), 151-83 and Stephen Garton, ―Dominance and Desire,‖ in Histories of Sexuality: Antiquity to Sexual Revolution (New York: Routledge, 2004), 124-47. For studies of the European male imagination and the harem and/or veiled woman see Meydu Yegenoglu, Colonial Fantasies: Towards a Feminist Reading of Orientalism, (New York : Cambridge University Press, 1998); Sarah Graham-Brown, ―The Seen, the Unseen and the Imagined: Private and Public Lives,‖ in Feminist Postcolonial Theory: A Reader ed. Reina Lewis and Sara Mills (New York: Routledge, 2003), 502-19; Sara Mills, ―Gender and Colonial Space,‖ in Lewis and Mills, Feminist Postcolonial Theory, 692-719. For studies of the British heterosexual male erotic imagination generally see Ronald Hyam, Empire and Sexuality. The British Experience (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1990). For studies of the European male imagination and African or Native American women see Anne McClintock, ―The Lay of the Land: Genealogies of Imperialism,‖ in Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in Colonial Conquest (New York: Routledge, 1995), 21-74; Rey Chow, ―Where Have All the Natives Gone?‖ in Lewis and Mills, Feminist Postcolonial Theory, 324-49. For studies of the European homoerotic or homosexual imagination see Jonathan Dollimore, Sexual Dissidence: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991); Christopher Lane, The Ruling Passion: British Colonial Allegory and the Paradox of Homosexual Desire (Durham: Duke University Press 1995); Mukulika Banerjee, The Pathan Unarmed: Opposition and Memory in the North West Frontier (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001); Philip Holden, Imperial Desire: Dissident Sexualities and Colonial Literature (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003); and John Tosh, ―Manliness, Masculinities and the New Imperialism,‖ in Manliness and Masculinities in Nineteenth-Century Britain: Essays on Gender, Family and Empire (New York: Longman, 2005). 9 Ann Laura Stoler, Race and the Education of Desire: Foucault's History of Sexuality and the Colonial Order of Things (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995) and ―Sexual Affronts and Racial Frontier: European Identities and the Cultural Politics of Exclusion in Colonial South East Asia,‖ in Tensions of Empire ed. Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 198-237. 306 Munby and Hannah Cullwick, have followed Stoler‘s and Cooper‘s injunction to utilize a single analytical framework for the analysis of the relationship between metropole and colony. If scholarship on empire and the erotic imagination has furthered our understanding of the imperial motivations of European men primarily, scholarship on sexual regulation has opened the way for an enquiry into the role of sexual discourse in the complicity of middle-class European women in imperialism. Historians of gender draw attention to the participation of middle-class women in campaigns to regulate the sexuality of both working-class women in the British metropole (evidenced in the earlier nineteenth-century prostitute rescue mission and the later nineteenth-century social purity movement), and of working-class and native women in the colonies (in campaigns against sexual permissiveness and miscegenation). For these women the ―civilizing mission‖ entailed the re-making of putatively excessive or deviant indigenous sexuality; middle-class women sought unilaterally, and often with insufficient understanding of the effects of their interventions, to prohibit concubinage, outlaw polygamy, and raise the age of sexual consent, amongst other issues. 10 Scholars disagree on the extent to which middle-class British women can be blamed for the rigidifying of racial boundaries in the latter half of the nineteenth century. However, most agree that their leading role in sexual reform, social purity, and the eugenic movements dovetailed with the efforts of colonial authorities to consolidate the racial categories of empire in response to the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857, the uprising at Morant Bay in 1865, and the threats posed to imperial racial categories by growing mixed-race colonial populations. 11 For the most part, though, historians of empire have assumed that the 10 See, for example, Himani Bannerji, ―Age of Consent and Hegemonic Social Reform,‖ in Midgley, Gender and Imperialism, ed. Clare Midgley (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995), 21-44; Philippa Levine, ―Sexuality, Gender, and Empire‖; and Hall, ―Of Gender and Empire.‖ 11 In Empire and Sexuality: The British Experience, Ronald Hyam argued that middle-class British women held more puritanical attitudes to sex than their colonial male counterparts, and by opposing concubinage and prostitution were largely responsible for the transition to more segregated colonial societies. Feminist scholars, while not denying the complicity of middle-class British women in imperialist sexual discourse, have challenged the singular focus on middle-class women as the cause of rigidifying racial boundaries in the latter half of the nineteenth century. 307 involvement of middle-class women in sexual regulation was the product of their passionlessness and prudishness. These they attribute to the aligning of middle-class women with religion earlier in the century. 12 The possibility that religion and sexuality existed in a different relation to each other, and that personal passionlessness might not have been the corollary of public sexual regulation, is not considered. Scholars working in the area of religion and homoeroticism in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Britain have not, for the most part, taken up empire as a category of analysis. David Hilliard‘s 1982 essay ―Un-English and Unmanly: Anglo-Catholicism and Homo- sexuality,‖ the founding study in this field, paved the way for just such an enquiry. Hilliard argued that the association of middle- and upper-class homosexual men with Catholicism and Anglo-Catholicism – religious traditions deemed un-English and effeminate – disrupted dominant British discourses of nation. Few scholars of religion have taken up Hilliard‘s national framing of dissident sexuality and explored the relationship of religion, homoeroticism, and imperialism. 13 Alex Owen‘s work is an important exception. In a recent study of the homosexual relationships of the influential occultist Aleister Crowley, Owen argues that Crowley‘s spiritual efforts to explore the outer reaches of consciousness through homosexual sex They contest the voluntarist notion of agency underpinning this thesis, noting the penalties imposed on middle-class British women who deviated from gendered sexual norms and drawing attention to the role of colonial authorities in securing the emigration of British women in order to consolidate a masculinist imperial authority. Feminist scholars of empire also point to British men‘s complicity in the imperial regulation of sexuality through their support of the missionary, social purity, and/or eugenics movements. See Ann Laura Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 32-34. For an approach that assumes greater agency on the part of colonial British women, see Antoinette Burton, Burdens of History: British Feminists, Indian Women, and Imperial Culture, 1886-1915 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994). 12 Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780- 1850, rev. ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002). 13 David Hilliard, ―UnEnglish and Unmanly: Anglo-Catholicism and Homosexuality,‖ Victorian Studies 25 (1982): 181-210. 308 magic entailed an enactment of bourgeois individualism and mastery that was informed by, and that informed, imperialist discourse. 14 It is Owen‘s earlier work on spiritualism that is more pertinent to this study, however. There she pointed briefly to the enactment of an imperial erotic amongst middle-class women in the materialization séance. Making recourse to Lacanian theory to situate the unconscious in history she observed how working-class mediums ―materialized‖ female figures of imperial conquest – ―Pocahontas,‖ the Orientalist ―Yolanda‖ and African children – and how middle- class sitters caressed and embraced them. 15 Like Maynard in the sonnets above, the illicit sexual desires of these middle-class women were entangled with unconscious imperial longings. Their articulation of desire entailed rendering domestic space an imperial landscape and taking up imaginary positions within it. In so doing they both rendered the domestic/imperial, home/away dichotomies visible and questioned their validity. Maynard‘s upbringing had been intricately intertwined with British imperialism; the prosperity of the Maynard family was itself the result of imperial trade. As a young man Henry Maynard had made his fortune in the Cape Colony. He and his brother, Charles, had been sent by their father to the Cape in 1819 to work as agents for the Cape Town firm of an uncle, Henry Nourse and Co. 16 Nourse, a socially and economically prominent British businessman, was a key proponent of the 1820 South African immigration scheme, one of the largest British settlements in Africa. In the 1820s Henry and Charles Maynard settled in Grahamstown on the Cape‘s eastern frontier, the focus of Nourse‘s immigration scheme, and established a trading company, Maynard Brothers. In 1823 they were trading gunpowder and arms with the Zulu 14 Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). 15 Alex Owen, The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Victorian England (London: Virago, 1989). 16 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 7, 1869, 150. 309 from Natal in exchange for ivory and other tropical products, but they made their fortune, like other frontier farmers, by introducing sheep to the area and engaging in the lucrative wool trade. 17 When, in 1837, Henry Maynard returned to England to marry Constance‘s mother, Louisa Hillyard, he continued to direct the trade with South Africa (then the Cape Colony and the two Boer republics, the Transvaal and the Orange Free State) from the Pancras Lane offices of Maynard Brothers. In 1862 he was appointed a director of the Cape of Good Hope Telegraph Company and in 1863 a director (and later governor) of the South African Bank. 18 When diamonds were discovered in South Africa in 1867, Maynard Brothers was one of the first companies to trade them (―Harry brought us a rough diamond to see. It came from the Cape, & now is sold for ₤ 1,050‖ 19 ). Between 1861 and 1886 Henry and/or his sons Harry and George made eight trips to South Africa on behalf of Maynard Brothers. The convergence of the Maynard family‘s evangelical sentiments and their commercial interests was evident during these trips to the Cape. Twenty-three years earlier Louisa Maynard and her children greeted the return of Henry and Harry Maynard from the Cape with a banner bearing the words, ―This is the Lord‘s doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.‖ 20 The bifurcation of national and imperial historiography has rendered the imperial indebtedness of the middle-class Maynard family largely invisible. Few studies of Maynard map the connections between the ―discreet opulence‖ of her Kent home, her father‘s years in South Africa, and his ongoing business interests there. The metropole/colony divide of the nineteenth-century that sustained the empire is thus 17 The Maynard brother‘s expansionist predispositions were evident during the 1835 British Frontier War with the Xhosa; they gave unequivocal support to the punitive British response to Xhosa military attempts to re-claim land appropriated by the British. When the British government appropriated further land from the Xhosa – the Province of Adelaide – Charles Maynard submitted no fewer than three requests for land in the area. 18 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 23, 1875, 640. 19 Greenbook, 26 June 1871, 85. 20 Catherine Beatrice Firth, Constance Louisa Maynard, Mistress of Westfield College: A Family Portrait (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1949), 42. 310 perpetuated in contemporary scholarly work. It is also present in theories of secularization that exclude both empire and religion from consideration. Maynard‘s early writings make little mention of empire or of her father‘s colonial business interests; they illustrate the erasure of empire consequent on a metropole/colony divide. They also demonstrate the ―domestication‖ of empire, or its normalizing in the middle-class domestic setting. ―Our dog at this time was called Kaffir,‖ 21 Maynard notes in passing, and also mentions ―the comfortable old carriage & pair, with its footwarmer & its heavy fur rug made of a South African kaross.‖ 22 The Maynard family supported missionary organizations and regularly attended the Mildmay Conference, the annual gathering of one of the most influential missionary bodies in England (initially named the Barnet Conference and founded by Rev. William Pennefather in 1856), but missionary organizations are only intermittently mentioned in Maynard‘s pre-1880 writings. It is during the period identified by historians as ―high imperialism,‖ that Maynard‘s imperialist sentiments gain prominence in her writings. The period between 1880 and 1918 was one of intense colonization and anti-colonial resistance, in which the empire gained prominence in popular culture while its viability was at the same time increasingly questioned. The 1890s saw the ―scramble for Africa.‖ Anti-colonial challenges to empire within the colonies and concerns about the ethics of imperial rule in Britain, evident with the First Indian War of Independence (the ―Sepoy Rebellion‖) of 1857 and the Morant Bay Uprisings in Jamaica in 1865, came to a head with the South African War of 1899-1901. Unexpected and unprecedented losses for the British in its early years led to concerns about the viability of empire; these were exacerbated, although from a different constituency, by the treatment of Boer and African 21 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 6, 1868, 127. 22 Autobiography, Part 3 Chapter 11, 1873, 371. In 1876 Maynard Brothers faced bankruptcy after Harry had appointed an inept business manager to oversee a business venture in the Cape and the imperial context comes into view briefly, but with urgency, in Maynard‘s writings. 311 prisoners of war after Britain‘s fortunes changed. Ireland, recognised by these historians as the first of Britain‘s colonies, a prototype for Britain‘s subsequent colonies, and a test case for the resilience of empire, was also an important focus in these years as William Gladstone attempted unsuccessfully to pass Home Rule Bills in 1886, 1892, and 1912. Maynard had visited South Africa with her brother George in 1886 and again in 1896. The heightening of imperialist sentiments generally in this era was, for Maynard, augmented more specifically by these visits. Her involvement with the Salvation Army from the early 1880s was matched by an engagement with missionary organizations, and this had a similar effect. She attended meetings of the Christian Missionary Society, the Foreign Evangelisation Society, and the Colportage Society. She became interested in the work of Henry Grattan Guinness, nephew of the founder of the brewing empire and a well-known Irish Evangelical. In 1873 he founded the East London Missionary Training House with Dr. Thomas Barnardo, where missionaries representing over thirty different denominations were trained for work worldwide. 23 She was proud of the students who graduated from Westfield and became missionaries (about a quarter of the graduates by 1913). 24 Maynard pursued her relationship with Wakefield against the backdrop of heightened British imperialism and a more avid interest in the empire on Maynard‘s part. A substantial record of the Maynard-Wakefield relationship exists, but only in the well- preserved writings of the more prominent Maynard. 25 Although Wakefield‘s writings have not 23 In 1877 Guinness had founded the Livingstone Inland Mission and in 1888, the Congo-Baolo Mission (along with the Regions Beyond Missionary Union in 1898) and it was this aspect of Guinness‘s work to which she was drawn. 24 Thirty went to India, eight to China and eight to the Middle East, four each to Japan and African, one to Java, and another to South America. Others worked in the London headquarters of missionary organizations. Janet Sondheimer, Castle Adamant in Hampstead. A History of Westfield College 1882-1982 (London: Westfield College, University of London, 1983), 67. 25 Maynard chronicled her relationship with Wakefield in multiple sources: in the Greenbooks that were devoted to her ―inner life,‖ in the Diaries in which Maynard recorded the external events of her life, in her travel diaries, and in her unpublished autobiography, a synthesis of her life writing. The Greenbooks provide the most comprehensive record of the relationship, with the exception of the account of the heady first years (1897-1899), which has been 312 been preserved, her point of view is, to some extent, represented in Maynard‘s Greenbooks, in transcriptions of Wakefield‘s letters and in detailed accounts of Maynard‘s conversations with her. Information on Wakefield‘s immediate family can also be gleaned from the writings of her more prominent aunt, Jane Marion Wakefield Richardson. Marion Wakefield was the cousin of Maynard‘s Westfield confidante, the lecturer and later vice-principal of Westfield, Anne Wakefield Richardson. Anne was the daughter of the prominent Anglo-Irish Quaker linen manufacturer, John Grubb Richardson, best known in both Ireland and Britain for Bessbrook, the model village founded around spinning mills in Newry where Protestants and Catholics lived and worked together, their children were educated together, and temperance predominated. Wakefield, like Richardson, was the descendant of prominent Irish Quaker linen manufacturers. 26 During the great famine, however, her father had moved to London, where he had worked as a barrister. In the 1880s the family fell on hard times, returned to Ireland, and took up residence in diminished circumstances at Cloncore House in Portadown, County Armagh. Marion, the youngest of four children, was still a child at the time; she considered Cloncore House her childhood home. Maynard first learnt of Wakefield while planning a spiritual retreat for a small group of Westfield students. It was early 1897 and Maynard was forty-eight years old; she was in her fourteenth year as Mistress of Westfield. Anne Richardson had recommended her young cousin as a possible speaker for the retreat. Wakefield, Richardson informed Maynard, had ―had a removed along with the account of the preceding ten years in which she grappled with depression. Maynard‘s unpublished autobiography, written thirty years later, includes some excerpts from the missing sections from the Greenbooks. 26 The wider Wakefield family and its predecessors are well represented in Irish Quaker historiography. They were part of a small group of interlinked Quaker families – Christy, Sinton, Malcomson, Richardson, Greer amongst others – who had been instrumental in establishing the linen industry in Ulster in the seventeenth century. By the early nineteenth century the Christy-Wakefield linen bleaching and manufacturing business, located in Moyallon near Gilford, County Armagh close to the first Quaker settlement in Ireland at Lurgan, was prospering. Richard Vann and David Eversley, Friends in Life and Death: The British and Irish Quakers in Demographic Transition, 1650-1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 62. 313 remarkable spiritual experience, leading her to speak with deeply convincing power in the cottage meetings around her home, which lies in the desolate bog-land beyond Portadown.‖ 27 Richardson did not elaborate on her cousin‘s spiritual experience, but she did describe Wakefield as a ―pleasant, hearty, country girl, something of a tom boy [sic] in times past, & still fond of cycling & shooting.‖ 28 Wakefield was twenty years old. Of Wakefield‘s response to Maynard‘s invitation, Maynard writes only that ―she was bewildered, but willing to come.‖ 29 In late March 1897 Maynard met Wakefield at Liverpool Station as she and a small group of students prepared to make their way to Germany. Wakefield, she wrote, was ―crude, abrupt, easy-going in manner, and I rather avoided her.‖ 30 A week later, however, Wakefield had changed: ―her Irish openness confronted with English reserve became a very pretty sort of deference as to those older & wiser than herself, & in this she never afterwards faltered.‖ 31 The role Maynard‘s disapproval played in the transforming of Wakefield‘s ―Irish openness‖ into ―a pretty sort of deference as to those older & wiser than herself‖ 32 demonstrates the making of imperial female English bourgeois subjectivity. In construing Wakefield‘s ―crude, abrupt, easy- going‖ manner as ―Irish,‖ Maynard was utilizing etiquette as a domestic discourse by which to entrench the racial discourse that supported a metropole/colony bifurcation. 33 Despite Wakefield‘s middle-class upbringing, her English schooling, and her evangelical Christianity, Maynard associated her with the rough, impulsive, and ill-mannered Irish. She was also 27 Autobiography, 1897, 407. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid., 408. 31 Autobiography, 1897, 407-408. 32 Ibid. 33 Autobiography, 1897, 408. 314 constituting her own Englishness by suggesting the English were reserved, refined, and aware of the social niceties concomitant on hierarchies of difference (age, education, social, and regional location, in this case). The use of etiquette entrenches a metropole/colony dichotomy while rendering empire commonplace. The awareness of difference, and the enactment of requisite forms of deference through which subjects of empire were deemed ―civilized,‖ required an acceptance of the political hierarchies in place. Conversely, the ability of the English to comply with the correct etiquette – to recognize social difference, and accord it the requisite deference – often simply entailed an acceptance of their own superior location within these hierarchies. The political nature of etiquette, a product of middle-class upbringings, entrenched and also concealed the metrople/colony dichotomy. In recent years some historians of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Ireland have taken up postcolonial theory to describe relations between Britain and Ireland in the nineteenth century. Luke Gibbons argues that the inclusion of the Irish in the racial categories of empire demonstrates the flexibility and resilience of imperial difference-making; as ―white,‖ the Irish Catholic peasantry confounded the ―scopic drive‖ through which, as Homi Bhabha suggests, racial difference was consolidated. Nevertheless, imperial categories of race were re-made to include the Irish as the imperial subjects of the British. 34 Binary categories – the juxtaposition of putatively regressive Irish Catholic peasantry with the progressive Protestant industrialist of the English metropole – cannot adequately account for the complex making of racial discourse in Ireland, however. British imperial power in Ireland was exercised through complex and sometimes competing racial classifications. The Anglo-Irish, although sometimes embraced as 34 Luke Gibbons, ―Race Against Time: Racial Discourse and Irish History‖ in Cultures of Empire: Colonizers in Britain and the Empire in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, ed. Catherine Hall (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), 208. 315 allies of the British, were more often maligned as backward in their agrarian ways, incompetent managers of their estates, and dissolute in their frivolous urban pursuits. Maynard‘s racializing of Wakefield exemplifies the relative and context-dependent terms in which imperial difference was constituted; it demonstrates the fact that fixed, binary categories cannot adequately describe ―the mapping of difference across nation and empire.‖ 35 Maynard was never to speak of her Anglo-Irish colleague Anne Richardson in racialized terms. The Richardsons were a wealthy and politically prominent Ulster family, however. 36 John Grubb Richardson had weaving factories in the Lisburn area, had founded the Inman line of steamers, and had set up mercantile houses in Belfast, Liverpool and New York. The Richardson family also had two members in parliament: John Nicholson Richardson, Anne‘s step-brother, and Frank Leverton Harris, her brother-in-law. Wakefield‘s widowed mother and her children lived in far less salubrious circumstances. Maynard‘s construal of Wakefield as ―almost the same but not quite‖ demonstrates that, as Catherine Hall and other scholars of European imperialism have noted: ―white skin in itself was not always enough to secure full belonging to the nation or the Empire.‖ 37 Maynard‘s making of a metropole/colony dichotomy was further evident in her visit to Wakefield‘s home, Cloncore House, in 1903. Homes were central to Maynard‘s grammar of class and racial difference. Her sense of the ―nobility‖ of her first love, Louisa Lumsden, had been confirmed in a visit to her childhood home in Arran, Scotland in 1876. Although 35 Catherine Hall, Civilising Subjects: Colony and Metropole in the English Imagination, 1830-1867 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 20. 36 Richard T. Vann and David Eversley, in their study of Quaker demography in Britain and Ireland note that the Richardsons ―were the only family [in Ulster?] that lived in a grander style‖ (Richard Vann and David Eversley, Friends in Life and Death: The British and Irish Quakers in Demographic Transition, 1650-1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 54. 37 Hall, ―Of Gender and Empire,‖ 49. 316 Lumsden‘s home was not an entirely ―grand‖ place, Mrs. Lumsden, ―a Forbes of Forbes Castle,‖ had ―kept a stately place by instinct.‖ 38 Maynard‘s perceptions of Cloncore were very different: For years I had promised my M. that before I died I would come & see ―the hole‖ whence she came to me, & the surroundings that nourished her young life. . . . I had heard many descriptions of the house, yet even so I was not prepared for its utterly forlorn shape, a foundation of bald concrete hastily altered & patched up to form a dwelling, low & apparently roofless, one cannot decide whether it is a ruin or not. 39 A covert conflation of Wakefield‘s home with the homes of the Irish peasantry is evident in Maynard‘s description of Cloncore. In describing the house‘s ―flat outline & awkward chimneys,‖ 40 Maynard may have been thinking of the peasant dwellings built into hillsides, which seemed to emerge from the bog itself. She situated the ―ruin‖ of Concore house in ―anachronistic time‖; she would later refer to it as a place where ―no visitors & no change & no prosperity ever come.‖ 41 She thus utilized Wakefield‘s home to structure the metropole/colony binary and to render that difference commonplace or ―natural.‖ The poverty of the Irish, as a factor that distinguished them from the British, was not seen as the result of a historically specific British imperialism, but as natural as the bog itself. The diminished circumstances of Wakefield‘s family and its geographical location, in the ―desolate bog-land of Portadown,‖ contributed to Maynard‘s recourse to an imperial discourse of race to describe Wakefield. Laura Tabili, disputing readings of contemporary British racial discourse as homogenous and chronologically uniform, argues that the racializing of some communities living in Britain – 38 Autobiography, Part 4, Chapter 29, 1876, 116. 39 Greenbook, 8 August 1903, 209. In her travel diary written at the same time, Maynard noted that ―it is curious to leave [live] in such a solitary desolate place, & you cd. walk from my bedroom out onto the flat roof, & look over all the stretches of black bog-land & green meadows.‖ Travel Diaries, 1 July 1903- 24 September 1903, August 11- 19, 1903. 40 Greenbook 6 October 1903, 225. 41 Greenbook, 3 June 1902, 120. 317 Irish, Jewish, German, and Arabs – at particular points during the nineteenth century was the product of increasing tensions in associated regions of the British empire. 42 The Home Rule question had brought the Irish into particular prominence in the final decades of the nineteenth century. The Liberal Prime Minister, William Gladstone, responding to increasing pressure from the Irish Parliamentary Party, had introduced Home Rule Bills in 1886 and 1893, providing for a separate Irish parliament with authority over Irish affairs. The Bills met with consternation; the British population and Irish Protestants feared a Roman Catholic ascendancy in Ireland, the secession of Ireland from the United Kingdom, and ultimately the demise of the British Empire. Tensions over Home Rule contributed to Maynard‘s ready recourse to racial discourse in framing her early impressions of Wakefield. Her racializing of Wakefield and her home comprised an imaginary making of the English nation and the United Kingdom at a time when the parameters of both were being contested. Paradoxically, the cohesion of the United Kingdom in the nineteenth century, and of the English nation that dominated it, required the inclusion but subjection of the Irish, whose subordinate role was central to the maintenance of empire. There was a significant Anglo-Irish contingent among the Westfield students. During her cycling tour of Ireland in 1895, when Maynard had visited the Richardsons‘ home, Moyallon, she observed that at supper she ―cd. look at 10 Westfield students in a row.‖ 43 The prominence of the ―Irish question‖ was evident at Westfield. Anne Richardson represented the Unionist side, while Westfield‘s first Classics Lecturer, Frances Ralph Gray, represented the nationalist side. When the students began to take up the issue, Maynard intervened: ―On St. Patrick‘s day, I 42 Laura Tabili, ―A Homogeneous Society? Britain‘s Internal ‗Others‘, 1800-present‖ in At Home with the Empire: Metropolitan Culture and the Imperial World, ed. Catherine Hall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 53-76. 43 Travel Diaries, 1 July 1895-28 September 1895, 10 August 1895, 62. 318 found a wreath of potatoes round the clock in the hall, & a green flag, & mottoes like, ‗Repeal the Union‘ & ‗Down with Sassenach,‘‖ she wrote. ―This was only fun, but really to have Ralph a Tipperary nationalist & Anne strong ‗Ulster,‘ was serious, & I had to ask them never to mention Ireland at meals.‖ 44 Maynard does not address Home Rule at length in her journals or in accounts of her visits to Ireland. In typically Evangelical fashion she eschewed overt political engagement (while nevertheless holding Conservative views). It is evident, however, that Richardson‘s Unionist views influenced Maynard. Like most Anglo-Irish Quakers, Anne Richardson opposed Home Rule; she viewed her father‘s benevolent if somewhat paternalistic exercise of authority at Bessbrook as a prototype for national politics. Her step-brother, James Nicholson Richardson, had been elected Liberal MP for County Armagh in 1880, but had vacated his seat in the House of Commons in 1885 to campaign exclusively against Gladstone‘s Home Rule Bills. 45 In 1893 Richardson began campaigning publicly for the Unionist cause, working alongside him. 46 Maynard sympathized with Richardson‘s Unionist activism: Ireland was at this time in a bewildering crisis, & Anne was drawn away from the College, heart & soul. She served on Committees where she was the only woman, she attended great Ulster Demonstrations in the Albert Hall, she addressed hundreds & sometimes thousands at once, & did it admirably & well, & was truly effective in her wise & sober indignation. 47 44 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 55, 1892-1893, 304. 45 Anne Richardson‘s brother-in-law, Frederick Leverton Harris, the only Quaker to be elected a Conservative MP during Victoria‘s reign, also took up the Unionist cause around this time. 46 In a letter to The Times, written from the Albemarle Club on March 8, 1893, she elaborated on the reasons for Irish Liberal opposition to Home Rule: ―they know – and who has a better right to know? – that only in the impartial justice of an Imperial Parliament is there any hope for ‗free speech‘ and ‗equal law‘ in a country where the spirit of faction divides the people . . . they oppose it because, in John Bright‘s words, ‗it would set up in Ireland an ascendancy a hundred times more baneful, a hundred times more harmful than any ascendancy‘ he or they have fought against in the past.‖ Anne Richardson, ―Irish Opposition to Home Rule,‖ The Times (London, U.K.), March 17, 1893. 47 Autobiography, Part 7, Chapter 55, 1892-1893, 322. 319 Maynard‘s description of Gladstone, written at the time of his funeral in 1898 which Maynard attended, indicated (in a muted manner, for she admired his piety) her disapproval of his Home Rule initiatives: ―an unblemished Christian man, sometimes mistaken, but never hiding that he desired to be a humble & faithful follower of Christ.‖ 48 The metropole/colony dichotomy was more vehemently re-entrenched at a time of anti-colonial resistance and imperial grammars of difference more vigorously naturalized. Soon after arriving at Berka in Germany in 1897 Wakefield was able to achieve a shift in the macropolitics of empire as they played out in the micropolitics of her relationship with Maynard. Religion, and more specifically Wakefield‘s ―remarkable spiritual experience,‖ provided her with a discourse of authority that countered Maynard‘s making of race and nation. The spiritual became the terrain on which the unstable power relations between the two women played out and in which practices of empire were consolidated and contested. After her faith crisis of the 1870s Maynard had turned to religious experience – the experience of Christ in the life of the believer and the transformation that ensued – as the only incontrovertible evidence for Christianity‘s claims. Paradoxically, despite years of seeking a direct encounter with Christ, Maynard could claim no such experience. Maynard‘s faith was self-avowedly founded on the spiritual experiences of others, both those of her contemporaries and those of Christians of the past. 49 Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s relationship developed within the context of Maynard‘s aspirations for a personal experience of the divine. Maynard told Wakefield of her spiritual struggles, of the long years of waiting futilely for direct experience of Christ, and of her sense of spiritual failure. ―I told her I was like one who is always striking 48 Autobiography, 1898, 429. 49 See chapter two for more on Maynard‘s crisis of faith and chapter three for a discussion of the holiness piety that emerged from it. 320 matches & yet never getting the fire alight,‖ she wrote, ―A crack, a spark, – there is real light, real fire. . . . There is the instant‘s flash of possibility, & then black night closes down . . . thus I make thousands of grasps of faith.‖ 50 Wakefield responded to Maynard‘s sorrow with Christ‘s assurance: ―Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.‖ 51 She prayed for Maynard ―with the greatest simplicity & frankness.‖ 52 Maynard was later to write that ―it gives me a joy I cannot well describe to be dealing with one [Marion] who has a real first hand spiritual experience, one whose obedience is owed to some far higher & more subtle level than any earthly one.‖ 53 In a poem that is part of Maynard‘s 1899 sonnet series, ―A Six Weeks Sleep,‖ Maynard, addressing God, wrote, ―Thou livest for me within those [Marion‘s] cloudless eyes.‖ 54 Her words demonstrate the role Evangelical women played in embodying Christ for one another, which was particularly important in the light of the predominantly male personalities of the Christian trinity. Wakefield‘s ability to effect a turnaround in the way Maynard viewed her was a result of this potentially egalitarian strand inherent in evangelicalism. The piety so valued by Evangelicals was a gift that was accessible to all and the exercise of that gift had the capacity to destabilize, if not to entirely disrupt, the racial hierarchies of empire. The erotic valence within evangelical devotion further turned the tables on Maynard. Just as the metropole/colony dichotomy and the racial discourse that informed it had been constituted and naturalized in domestic discourse – through Maynard teaching Wakefield etiquette and her representation of Wakefield‘s home – so too was its disruption effected within domestic 50 Autobiography, 1897, 410. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid. 53 Greenbook, 16 September 1901, 59. 54 Maynard, Original Poems, vol. 1, 84. 321 discourse. This turning point in Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s relationship took place in the kitchen of the cottage in the Thuringian forest. Marion and I stood on opposite sides of the tall white china stove, warming our hands. . . . I could tell now that Marion was praying, and that God was near. I could only see part of her serge dress, and her knee and her foot. Once her long fingers came around the angle of the stove and we held hands for half a minute and then parted again. There was a thrill, a strange momentary smiling of the heart, an actual physical sensation, and I knew that I loved her. I had thought that never again should I love in the sense of having my heart's life implicated, and here the deed was done, and could not be undone, and a sense of awe and even terror came over me as well as a wave of extraordinary sweetness. 55 Barbara Taylor, in her biography of Mary Wollstonecraft, draws attention to the role of the religious imagination in structuring an idealizing erotic imagination. An amatory identification with the divine led Wollstonecraft to idealize her male and female loves. Maynard‘s account of ―coming to love‖ Wakefield demonstrates in a related manner the role of religious discourse in the structuring of the erotic imagination. Maynard, making direct reference to Christ, subsequently asserted that Wakefield had been ―made to reflect the direct beams of the Sun of Righteouness,‖ 56 and was ―clothed with beauty and splendour.‖ 57 Her later observation that she ―had robed and crowned her,‖ points to the central role of religious longing in the pursuit of this relationship. Maynard‘s turn to religious discourse to describe her desire for Wakefield illustrates the imbrication of the spiritual and the erotic in Evangelical piety. Taking up a different metaphor for Wakefield, Maynard wrote of her in later years: 55 Autobiography, 1897, 411-12. 56 Ibid., 217. 57 Greenbook, 23 April 1908, 223. 322 The strong, swift, beautiful Marion who leaped in at the window, her face alight with the joy of Heaven and the fresh night-wind in her garments was still to me the ideal Marion, the one I loved with a high love, the one who was the angel sent to fill up and perfect my solitary life, the one I longed for with a longing unutterable. 58 Maynard was drawing on the Song of Solomon 2: 8-9, here: ―8. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. 9. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.‖ The passage continues: 11. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; 12. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; 13. The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. Maynard thus represented Wakefield as the coming of the spring in her life. It was both a spiritual and an erotic re-awakening. As Maynard‘s erotically inflected evangelical intimacy with Wakefield deepened, she ceased framing Wakefield‘s actions in an imperial discourse of race. The Wakefield who represented the possibility of an encounter with the divine, indeed who represented Christ himself, superseded the ―Irish‖ Wakefield in Maynard‘s imagination. Just as in her sonnet ―Marion Speaks a Second Time,‖ Maynard had situated a Wakefield in the battlefields of South Africa, and just as spiritual mediums and their sitters had materialized figures of imperial fantasy in the sitting rooms of middle-class homes, so Maynard‘s coming to love Wakefield while praying in the cottage kitchen exposed the larger imperial landscape in which the metropolitan domestic was situated. However Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield also demonstrates the disruption of imperial grammars of difference in middle-class domestic discourse. 58 Autobiography, Part 7, 411. 323 While Wakefield‘s evangelical Quakerism allowed her to challenge Maynard‘s racializing of her, that evangelicalism was also imbricated in imperialist discourse. The Quaker Historian Maurice J. Wigham notes that the quietist Quaker belief in the ―Light Within‖ militated against Quaker evangelical or missionary efforts. However, with the Wesleyan revivals of the eighteenth century an evangelical form of Quakerism emerged, led by Joseph John Gurney (1788-1847). A special conference to promote Home Mission was established by Quakers at the Dublin Yearly Meeting of 1884. Wakefield‘s evangelism was effected through the Cookstown Methodist church. From here she conducted ―cottage meetings‖ (small home- based devotional meetings), in all likelihood amongst the Catholic peasantry. Her evangelical work should thus be seen in conjunction with the broader efforts of the British government to secure the conversion of Irish Catholics to Protestantism as a strategy of imperial rule, a strategy which simultaneously instituted the metropole/colony dichotomy at the site of the domestic. When placed alongside Maynard‘s imperialist ―racializing‖ of Wakefield, it attests to the multiple levels upon which imperialist discourse was constructed and contested. If the religiously inflected erotic saw the unmaking of Wakefield‘s ―Irishness,‖ Maynard‘s evangelical re-imagining of Wakefield did not escape imperialist framing. No longer the impetuous, wild, somewhat rough and rural young Irish woman Maynard had initially met, Wakefield became, in Maynard‘s imagination, the young Protestant evangelist bringing the gospel to the Catholic peasantry. Torn between inviting Wakefield to Westfield College as a student and allowing her to continue her evangelical work in Ireland, Maynard writes: ―I wanted her to stay on just as she was amid her peasants, her bogs, & her cottage Bible readings, my white rose unsullied.‖ 59 Maynard‘s representation of Wakefield as part of a Protestant evangelicalism entailed a re-drawing of the metropole/colony dichotomy; Wakefield was now a 59 Autobiography, 1897, 411. 324 member of the metropolitan religious elite, bringing the gospel to the benighted Catholic peasantry. The instability and contingency of the metropole/colony dichotomy, the shape- shifting capacity that allowed for the re-entrenching of imperial rule in the face of contestations of categories of difference, is demonstrated here. Its illusory nature is also exposed and its effects shown to be no less powerful for being both imaginary and dynamic. Maynard was ultimately to overcome her reluctance to uproot Wakefield from the Irish countryside; not long after the Berka retreat she invited her to enroll at Westfield College as a student. Wakefield did not immediately take up Maynard‘s invitation, nor did she reciprocate Maynard‘s passion at the time. It was only a year later that she enrolled at Westfield, and only in 1899, two years after Berka, that she ―came to love‖ Maynard. From 1899 on, however, she reciprocated Maynard‘s desire with a passion Maynard had never before experienced. Wakefield‘s heart had ―caught fire,‖ Maynard observed. ―I had tried for years,‖ she wrote of other friends, ―& they had failed me, & at last here was one who responded eagerly.‖ 60 At Westfield, Wakefield ―in her long grey dressing gown, with her fair hair in a thick Marguerite plait . . . [she] would steal in [to Maynard‘s room] and seek shelter in my arms.‖ 61 In her autobiographical account of that year, she asks candidly, ―And what of me?‖ and answers, ―I was passionately in love with her.‖ 62 Writing about 1899 thirty years later, Maynard observed, ―one word is scribbled across it in letters of fire, & that word is Marion.‖ 63 During the Easter break of 1899 Maynard and Wakefield vacationed at Argelès in the Pyrenees; Maynard describes 60 Ibid., 448 and 438. 61 Ibid., 445. 62 Ibid. 63 Autobiography, 1899, 438. 325 Wakefield bathing in the Gave, ―a snow white Naiad in her native home,‖ while she kept watch above. 64 As with her other homoerotic relationships Maynard was concerned about the threat posed by homosexual desire to the women‘s love of God. In the relationship prior to this one, the ill-fated liaison with Ralph Gray that Maynard had pursued fifteen years earlier, Maynard had come to believe that same-sex desire was of the same order as heterosexual desire. Its unrestricted pursuit was comparable to the pursuit of illicit heterosexual desire. She therefore strove to contain her own and Wakefield‘s desire. Although such efforts were motivated by spiritual imperatives, spiritual discourse was inextricably intertwined with imperialist discourse. Imperial grammars of racial difference depended on the juxtaposition of the sexually chaste or continent middle-class woman with the putatively sexually excessive indigenous and working-class woman. 65 The sexual morality of the British middle class provided justification for the ―civilizing mission‖ of the British Empire. Maynard endorsed these views. She wrote that men in general might live on an animalistic or an ethical plane and that British men lived on the latter. She argued further that in ―these inner facts, typical of the English mind, lie the secret of our power and our justice, and hence comes our right to rule the savage and outcast nations that dwell in the dark places of the earth.‖ 66 British women exemplified a purity that was the result not of an ethical nature, but of a spiritual one; they were characterized by ―a faculty that loves beauty and purity and kindness for their own sakes, an instinct toward that which is white and undefiled, an innate reverence for the things of heaven . . . every task leads without 64 Ibid., 440. 65 Siobhan B. Sommerville, Scientific Racism and the Invention of the Homosexual Body,‖ in Sexology in Culture: Labelling Bodies and Desires, ed. Lucy Bland and Laura Doan (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998), 60-76. 66 Constance Maynard, ―The Creation of Eve,‖ in Between College Terms (London: James Nisbet, 1910), 80-81. 326 hesitation to that which is pure.‖ 67 Women demonstrated to men ―that the severity of virtue is radiantly lovely, and the laxity of vice is hideous, deformed, repulsive.‖ 68 It was ―the naturally upward-tending instincts of the woman that cause her to be the guardian of the moral order, as the man is that of the physical and mental order.‖ 69 Maynard‘s discourse of sexuality was indebted to Darwinian discourse, as this latter comment suggests. It was the product of her modernizing of Evangelicalism, her synthesis of Evangelicalism and Darwinism, in the early years of the twentieth century. She thus took up Darwin‘s evolutionary readings of sexuality – his notion that the lower races were characterized by sexual promiscuity, that a higher sexual morality characterized the ―higher‖ races, and that the family, and by extension women, were the repositories of that morality. Maynard‘s evolutionary reading of sexuality was evident in the article she wrote for The South African Pioneer on the trip she made to South Africa in 1896, ― A Nation of Children or Impressions of a Fortnight in Pondoland.‖ Here she attributes the Pondo‘s ―primitive‖ state to a lack of industry, ambition, and struggle on their part. ―When one thinks of the immense amount of reform needed in these dark and bewildered lives,‖ she observed, ―one feels as if one could never begin it. To deal with an inveterately idle race, a race so utterly destitute of ambition that to ‗get on‘ in any direction, even the most material, is no spur or no allurement, is a very hard thing.‖ 70 Sexual discourse was integral to Maynard‘s synthesizing of Evangelicalism and Darwinism and to her constituting of racial categories of difference. The Pondo, she suggested, were a sensual nation. In old age they exhibited ―in flesh and blood all the indulged appetites, 67 Ibid., 81-82. 68 Ibid., 89. 69 Ibid., 82. 70 Maynard, ―A Nation of Children,‖ 154. 327 the persistent aims and pleasures of a very lifetime.‖ 71 Young Pondo women were the most ―repugnant,‖ Maynard contended. ―When a girl gets to marriageable age,‖ she continued, ―when she ‗comes out,‘ there is a change for the worse . . . the expression in the face becomes sensual and sly and in every way dreadful.‖ 72 She suggested that ―the whole self-complacent expression was of a mind deep in the mud of a sensual life and too ignorant to be aware that anything else existed.‖ 73 She buttressed her description of excessive female sensuality with a discourse of dirt. As a girl approached marrying age, ―her skin is rubbed with oil and clay, and the terrible pent- house of strings of red clay [the styling of Pondo women‘s hair] is coaxed into existence. There is . . . no possibility of ever being clean again.‖ 74 Physical dirt, sexual impurity, and religion were in close proximity as Maynard asserted that these were not the conditions for a ―clean and Christian life.‖ 75 Maynard‘s sexual making of racial grammars of difference took place in the context of anxieties about the demise of the British empire, anxieties precipitated by Britain‘s failure to suppress the Boers effectively during the South African War, anxieties about the dissolution of empire prompted by the Home Rule question, and concerns of the eclipsing of British industry 71 Ibid., 153. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid., 171. Maynard was far from alone amongst religious women of the turn-of-the century in putting social purity discourse at the service of a religiously structured imperialism. In The Power of Womanhood (1899), Ellice Hopkins, a social purity feminist and founder of the White Cross Organization, represented male sexual purity as a pre-requisite for national progress. A sexually-based racism similar to that of Maynard‘s was evident as in her pamphlet The British Zulu (1891) in which she rendered the terms ―Zulu‖ and sexual depravity synonymous. ―‗Are you quite sure‘, she asked her readers, ‗that the average Englishman has got much beyond the level of the dirty savage?‘‖ Sue Morgan, ―The Word Made Flesh: Women, Religion and Sexual Cultures,‖ in Women, Gender and Religious Cultures in Britain eds. Jacqueline deVries and Susan Morgan (London: Routledge, 2010), 170. In The Decalogue the High Church Anglican Elizabeth Wordsworth associated sexual purity with national virility, and positioned middle-class women as examples to poorer women of that ethic; she advised women that ―the well-being of a nation depends on the purity, delicacy, sweetness, and goodness of its women, especially perhaps among the more influential classes. The mere sight of a good, holy, and refined woman is a kind of gospel to the poor and illiterate‖ (Idestrom, 191, 28). 328 by the new industrial powers of Germany and America. She turned to the Darwinian racial discourse because it represented the new authority of science and thus an effective means for consolidating the racial discourses upon which an imperiled empire depended. Maynard‘s evolutionarily indebted diatribe against Pondo sensuality demonstrates the centrality of sexuality to scientific discourses of race in an Evangelical context during the early 1900s. Stoler draws attention to the unstable process by which colonial grammars of difference were constituted. ―Colonialism was not a secure bourgeois project,‖ she contends. ―It was not only about the importation of middle-class sensibilities to the colonies, but about the making of them.‖ 76 Her starting point is thus not ―the hegemony of imperial systems of control,‖ but ―their precarious vulnerabilities.‖ 77 Re-reading Foucault in an imperial frame, she argues that the colonial bourgeois self was constituted in an unstable space in the Victorian psyche, between the pursuit and repudiation of desires inculcated by racially based sexual regulation (―the management of European sexuality in the colonies . . . animated a range of longings as much as it was a consequence of them‖). 78 The repudiation of such desire ―reaffirmed that the ‗truth‘ of European identity was lodged in self-restraint, self-discipline, in a managed sexuality that was susceptible and not always under control.‖ 79 Like that of Stoler‘s colonial women and men, Maynard‘s bourgeois imperial subjecthood was founded on the repudiation of desire that sexual discourse incited. For Stoler, however, the discourse of race replaced that of the confession as the regulatory discourse that 76 Stoler, Education of Desire, 99. 77 Ibid., 97. 78 Ibid., 176. 79 Ibid., 177. 329 incited and produced desire and thus ultimately produced imperial bourgeois subjectivity. 80 For Maynard the two were inextricably intertwined; the Evangelical confession through which sexual desire was both regulated and precipitated was imbricated with a language of race. The production and renunciation of desire in Evangelical discourse informed her imperial subjectivity; the latter depended on a sexual purity that was spiritually defined. For Maynard the making of imperial subjectivity was thus a religio-racial project. As Stoler suggests, it was also a precarious one. Maynard‘s regulation of her own and Wakefield‘s desire demonstrates the instabilities inherent in the Evangelical making of an imperial grammar of racial difference in the metropole. Uncertainty underlay Maynard‘s perpetuation of characteristically imperialist discourses of sexual morality: she recognized the vulnerability of British women to sexual transgression. Her discourse of sexual (and social) purity derived from the Bible. In a 1910 essay she argued that women‘s sexual laxity was a long-established fact. ―From the beautiful narrative of the Dawn of Conscience,‖ she wrote, referring to the Genesis account of the fall, ―down to Herod‘s birthday and the fatal effects of excitement, the woman is fully as often represented as tempting as being tempted.‖ 81 Women were not to ―soil our own thoughts by reading novels based on the complexities of Sex‖ 82 and to avoid the ―turning of the subject over and over with morbid curiosity and interest.‖ 83 They were to ―keep the mind clean and sweet by filling it with noble thoughts and high ambitions.‖ 84 80 ―Was the obsessive search for the ‗truth about sex‘ in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries directly culled from earlier confessional models, as Foucault claims, or was this ‗truth about sex‘ recast around the invention of other truth claims, specifically those working through the language of race?‖ Stoler, Education of Desire, 6. 81 Constance Maynard, We Women: A Golden Hope (London: Morgan & Scott, 1924), 75. 82 Ibid., 76. 83 Ibid., 77. 84 Ibid. 330 The alignment of European women with sexual purity, cleanliness, and whiteness was integral to the making of the metropole/colony dichotomy. Believing herself to have precipitated Wakefield‘s erotic ardor, Maynard attempted to reverse its effects. She mobilized a spiritual discourse of household cleaning to exhort Wakefield to a similar end. ―She [Wakefield] told me I was laying my hand on the centre, the bull‘s-eye, the core of everything; where she had never thought human sympathy could reach,‖ she wrote, ― and I told her not to live in the cellar, but to go down, tidy up, scrub it out, lock the door, and come up and live in the sunshine.‖ 85 By monitoring her own and Wakefield‘s sexual desire she sought their conformity both to Evangelical precepts and to imperialist discourse. Undergirding this discourse of the domestic was the necessity of sustaining the metropolitan/colony dichotomy as it was constituted at the site of female sexuality. Just as Maynard had evoked the South African War at Wakefield‘s bedside in her 1899 ―Marion Speaks a Second Time,‖ and Owen‘s mediums and middle-class sitters had materialized figures of imperial conquest in the homes of their middle-class sitters, so empire was instantiated in this iteration of the erotic ―domestic.‖ In her essay on the nineteenth-century advertising of soap, McClintock describes the practices of washing and cleaning through which an emerging British middle class established a boundary between itself and the working class. In the inner sanctum of the bathroom, and with the aid of soap, the middle class recruited the body to the making not only of class but also of racial difference. Advertisements represented soap as magically erasing not only the dirt with which the middle class associated the working class, but the darker skin colour that was central to their construction of racial difference. McClintock does not address the question of how, beyond personal cleanliness, middle-class women, who were increasingly exempt from household cleaning, were implicated in the making of the boundaries of class and race. Seth 85 Ibid., 448. 331 Koven suggests that some middle-class women turned to the slums and undertook, on a far broader scale, the cleanliness activities of the household at the same time both consolidating and contesting the boundaries of class. 86 A discourse of morality intrinsic to the cleanliness of the home (a godly middle-class home was a clean one) was simultaneously transposed onto the impoverished inhabitants of London‘s slums. Discourses of personal hygiene, morality, and social hygiene converged as cleanliness and sexual morality were represented as pre-requisites for a healthy society. Koven notes, however, that a paradoxical fascination by and eroticization of dirt accompanied middle-class women‘s social ―housekeeping.‖ They were drawn to ―the titillating squalor of the slums.‖ 87 Fearful of polluting their own bodies – both physically and sexually – in their work there, they were nevertheless attracted to dirt and the dirty bodies of those amongst whom they lived. Maynard had been involved in establishing the Women‘s University Settlement at Southwark in 1887; Alice Gruner, a peer from her Girton days, had proposed the venture. She appears not to have spent time at the settlement house, however, or to have had prolonged involvement with it; she disagreed with the founding committee on key (but unnamed) issues. The operation of the erotic across class boundaries had nevertheless been evident in Maynard‘s life at Girton College. Her befriending of Amy Mantle, the daughter of a London shopkeeper, was itself a transgression of class boundaries (―she came direct out of ‗Stagg & Mantle‘s‘ shop in Leicester Square‖); Maynard subsequently discovered to her horror that Mantle had been born out of wedlock. 88 In later years Maynard also expressed fears of contamination concomitant on crossing sexually structured class divides – both on the occasion of attending an outreach 86 Koven, Slumming, 186. 87 Ibid., 5. 88 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 14, 1873, 496. 332 meeting for prostitutes at an Evangelical ―rescue mission‖ and in her dealings with the ―secret vice‖ and ostensible fallenness of her adopted daughter, Effie Anthon. With Mantle, Maynard articulated a similar disgust. ―I had felt repelled, shockingly repelled,‖ she wrote in later years, ―& had now & then looked on her as the thing too low to be touched.‖ 89 Mantle was ―a girl stained through & through with disgrace,‖ and, she added with consternation, ―I had touched her, had let her kiss me & cling to me!‖ 90 Maynard subsequently recorded a far more sympathetic, romantically lugubrious, response to Mantle‘s illegitimacy. She observed that ―the sort of repulsion I felt before is lost in tenderness, & the feeling that some day she must know this, & that she will feel herself unworthy to be touched, & perhaps break her heart in grief & shame, makes me long to give her good measure while I can. And so tonight I have let her kiss me & call me her friend.‖ 91 In later years she noted more candidly, ―she partly attracted me & partly repelled me.‖ 92 Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield saw an eroticized discourse of dirt and cleaning transposed into the spiritual realm. It represents another avenue through which middle-class women, themselves exempt from domestic housework, participated in the project of making class and racial boundaries. Its effects, like other instances of Maynard‘s application of spiritual discourse to earthly phenomena, were no less material for being the product of spiritual discourse. Not long after meeting Wakefield, while still in Berka, Germany, Maynard reflected on the ―sinfulness‖ inherent in her same-sex desire. She examined the ―motives, desires, and 89 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 25, 1875, 726. 90 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 16, 1874, 575. 91 Greenbook, 17 May 1874, 250-1. 92 Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 16, 1874, 573. 333 affections‖ that eclipsed religious desire, her own woeful failure in this arena, and the forgiveness of God that enabled her to approach the problem anew. She turned to the metaphor of personal cleanliness – bathing – to describe the process: Next morning . . . as I poured out my bath I thought how often washing was mentioned in the Bible. . . . Motives, desires, affections, all can be made quite clean in the sight of the Lord. And the water that was crystal clear to begin with, becomes defiled. It bears our sins and takes them away. As I carefully poured away the india-rubber folding bath into the large enamel pail, I said with a sense of triumph, ―Done with! Gone! Never to be brought up against anymore! ‗I will remember them no more ever.‘ ‗The iniquity of Jacob shall be sought for & not found,‘ any more than that water could be hunted up when thrown away, & brought up as testimony against me. Sin can be gone, gone for ever. And it is. Surely it is!‖ 93 Religious discourse, by inciting desire as part of the conversion and spiritual mentoring process and by then requiring its repudiation, offered Maynard the means to engage in an eroticized dialectic of cleansing and dirtying that replicated that of middle-class men and women in the slums. Her use of the ―bathing‖ metaphor attests to the proximity of notions of cleanliness and sexual purity. As mentioned earlier, in the generation before Maynard‘s, middle-class barrister Arthur Munby and maid-of-all work Hannah Cullwick demonstrated a similar preoccupation with dirt and rituals of cleaning, but in a different context and to different ends. Their sex play entailed, amongst other things, Cullwick bathing Munby, Cullwick ―dirtying‖ up as a housemaid, and the two keeping a close tally of the numbers of shoes cleaned by Cullwick in the course of her work. Munby was drawn both to the dirt that was intrinsic to the home, the removal of which was Cullwick‘s responsibility, and to the working-class Cullwick whom he identified with that dirt. 94 Indeed, as Leonore Davidoff notes, the family home was a site at which the sexualized 93 Autobiography, 1897, 409. 94 Leonore Davidoff, ―Class and Gender in Victorian Britain: Arthur J. Munby and Hannah Cullwick,‖ Feminist Studies 5, no. 1 (1979): 87-141. 334 boundaries of class difference were instituted through a discourse of the body and related tropes of dirt and cleanliness. Middle-class women were associated with the heart or hearth of the home, men with the head or study, and servants with the basement and ―back passages‖ through which dirt was removed. McClintock draws attention to slippages between discourses of class and race in Munby and Cullwick‘s sadomasochism; Cullwick ―blacked up‖ as a slave, she wore a slave band and collar, and addressed Munby as ―Massa.‖ 95 The ―home‖ and ―away‖ binary of imperialist discourse was contested as Cullwick and Munby‘s sadomasochism, like Maynard‘s sonnet, ―Marion Speaks a Second Time,‖ re-created an imperial landscape within the space of the domestic. As Stoler suggests, bourgeois Europeans‘ sexually-based making of racial boundaries was precarious; the inciting and repudiating of desire through which they were constituted was unstable. If Maynard attempted to rally both herself and Wakefield to spiritual purity, in the privacy of her diary a battle raged between religious aspiration and human eros. In her sonnet series, ―A Six Week‘s Sleep,‖ commenced at this time, Maynard turned to the characteristically Victorian symbol of the rose to represent purity and passion, rendering explicit the evangelical association of sexual purity with cleanliness and whiteness. Of her desire for Wakefield she wrote: The rose, the rose, the brave & joyous rose! – From all the flowers that spring our lives to cheer, Chosen for ever as Love‘s emblem here, His sacred hidden home of sweet repose. What depth of passion can its heart disclose. . . . (―Red Roses,‖ lines 1-5) Christ, however, required the setting aside of the red rose of earthly passion: 95 Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995). 335 But truth is hidden from the love-charmed eyes The blaze of passion hides Heaven‘s solemn light. And, knowing here what alien splendour lies, The pure severity of Christ the Lord Passes the red rose by without a word, But even on His breast He lays the white (―Red Roses,‖ lines 9-14) 96 Maynard noted that followers of Christ were to ―walk with Him in garments clean & bright.‖ 97 If love could be ―pure white,‖ however, it was not a love that always appealed to Maynard. She argued that through Wakefield, life had ―made an appeal to me like a glorious scale of colour, a language not of thought but of emotion, an unanalysed happiness.‖ 98 Her resentment of the Christian ethic of purity was evident as she wrote plaintively, ―all the while Christ stood beside me, offering me white, pure white. He never speaks of any colour. He has nothing but white.‖ 99 At night, with Wakefield ―clinging‖ to Maynard in ―passionate longing,‖ Maynard nevertheless spoke to her of the ―dangers of love‖: how it was opening the door of the heart so wide that easily possible wrong might steal in; how it was a movement so swift that the slightest swerve might land you at the opposite point; how it was a tower so high that a single inch of slant in the foundation meant destruction later on; and … [we] must pray [Maynard exhorted Wakefield] with all our strength that this overwhelming force might be kept right, absolutely right. 100 In putting into discourse the possibility of a desire that exceeded desire for the divine, Maynard proliferated her own and Wakefield‘s desires, and facilitated their enactment. Ultimately, 96 Maynard, Original Poems, vol.1, 72. 97 Ibid., 72. 98 Autobiography, 1897, 410. 99 Ibid. 100 Autobiography, 1899, 447. 336 Maynard was unable to stay the ―overwhelming force‖ of passion; in her autobiography she acknowledged that the ―red rose‖ of passion had supplanted the ―white rose‖ of divine love and sexual purity. What is most telling about Maynard‘s capitulation to desire is the similarity of the tropes she used for it and for illicit heterosexual desire. By pursuing pleasure rather than duty middle- class women had become the temptresses of men. Maynard compared them with prostitutes and the brothels where ―‗the best in the world,‘ Love, is parodied and twisted into the worst sins of which human nature is capable‖ 101 In We Women: A Golden Hope (1924) she exhorted middle-class women to sexual purity by suggesting that ―when the white roses fall they cannot be replaced,‖ continuing, ―I fear, that the petals are dropping, and that we are losing the lovely distinction that makes us fair to look upon.‖ 102 She had enjoined women to be ―passion pure in snowy bloom, through all the years of April blood‖ 103 and had gone so far as to take up the Holiness Code and 2 Corinthians 6:17-18 to implore contemporary Victorian women to desist from flirtatious behavior and the sexual immorality to which it led. She enjoined her readers to ―Come out from among them and be ye separate, and touch not the unclean thing.‖ 104 Her descriptions of a desire pursued too avidly in her relationship with Wakefield (and her earlier one with Gray) echo precisely these metaphors. ―Oh! let us pray for ―Passion pure in snowy bloom through all the years of April blood!‖ she wrote in her Greenbooks of her relationship with Wakefield. 105 She had envisaged her desire for Gray as the idolatrous touching of the unclean and her eschewal of it as entering a desert. Not 101 Maynard, We Women, 61. 102 Ibid., 77. 103 Ibid., 74. 104 Ibid., 66. 105 Autobiography, 1899, 450. 337 only do these metaphors indicate that Maynard understood same-sex desire as commensurate with heterosexual desire, they also suggest that she saw her own experience with same-sex desire as sufficiently authoritative to serve as a resource for advice on heterosexual morality. For Maynard, women‘s friendships anticipated marriage not only in equipping women with the correct attitudes and values, as scholars like Sharon Marcus have suggested, but also in serving a sexual purpose, albeit one that was to be carefully curtailed. A covert recognition of the sexual nature of her own desire is evident in We Women, as she refutes Coventry Patmore‘s contention that women struggle less with sexual desire than men (―Where she succeeds with cloudless brow, / In common or in holy course, / He fails in spite of prayer and vow, / And agonies of faith and force‖ 106 ). For some women the struggle with desire was a rigorous one: ―we are secretly conscious that this verse does not present the whole truth. Some of us have not a ‗cloudless brow,‘ but rather have to exert strong control over the mysterious claims of passion.‖ 107 Ania Loomba asserts, with regard to imperialist sexual discourse, that ―female volition, desire and agency are literally pushed to the margins of the civilized world in representations of indigenous women as sexually deviant.‖ 108 Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s same-sex desire, while not demonstrating the ―female volition,‖ and ―agency‖ to which Loomba alludes, nevertheless demonstrates the emergence of that desire, the importance of the domestic as a site of its enactment – both domestic discourse and the domestic that is the nation – and the subsequent disruption of the distinction between ―home‖ and ―away,‖ or metropole and colony, in imperialist discourse. 106 Maynard, We Women, 74. 107 Ibid., 75. She nevertheless concluded that ―on the whole, I think the distinction given in these verses holds good and the region of purity which it is an effort in the man to attain has an easy and magnetic attraction for the normal woman‖ (ibid.). 108 Loomba, ―Gender, Sexuality and Colonial Discourse,‖ 154. 338 Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s subsequent relationship was characterized by a vacillation between spiritual purity and sexual passion. Wakefield‘s purity was integral to Maynard‘s religious aspirations; Maynard was depending on Wakefield to lead her to Christ. The evangelical understanding that perpetual repentance was part of the Christian journey, and that God‘s forgiveness was unlimited, facilitated Wakefield‘s recuperation of spiritual purity. Towards the end of 1899 she wrote to Maynard, ―My Mistress, everything now is pure & clear as our streams which walk in the light, & from my heart I thank God for this last summer. It is ‗passion pure in snowy bloom.‘‖ 109 At this time Maynard re-imagined Wakefield as her ―white rose‖ (a ―treasure so stainlessly sweet & pure‖ 110 ) and spoke of her repeatedly as such (―seldom, very seldom, it is one gets in this life a thing quite unblemished, quite at the highest point, that one may well turn it over in profound content‖ 111 ). Wakefield‘s spiritual purity, and the promise she appeared to offer Maynard of a direct encounter with Christ, was also integral to Maynard‘s erotic imagination. Evangelicalism‘s dialectic of sin and salvation, the metaphors of dirt and cleanliness through which it was communicated, the believer‘s perpetual ―falling from the faith‖ and redemption, informed Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity and structured her relationships with Wakefield; her desire was predicated on the intermittent making and unmaking of Wakefield‘s purity. It was Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s intention to live together at Westfield indefinitely; Maynard hoped that Wakefield would eventually succeed her as Mistress of Westfield. Soon after Wakefield‘s arrival there, however, this plan was thwarted. In 1899 Wakefield failed her Matriculation exam, and in addition to this she was required at home as a companion for her 109 Autobiography, 1899, 450. 110 Ibid. and Greenbook, 19 February 1902, 98. 111 Greenbook, 3 June 1902, 125. 339 mother; she returned to Ireland. In early 1901 Maynard contrived to have Wakefield return to Westfield to work as her secretary. An Evangelical theology of circumstances, and of feelings in particular, informed Maynard‘s request. ―I can hardly think that love such as that is meant to be laid aside,‖ she wrote in 1901, ―starved, turned off from its natural goal & fulfilment of our living thus together.‖ 112 In March 1901 the Westfield Council approved the position, and in September 1901 the way was cleared for Wakefield to return to Westfield. Wakefield reiterated Maynard‘s theology of circumstance. ―If this is not guidance,‖ she wrote exuberantly to Maynard, ―I do not understand what is.‖ 113 Maynard concurred; in her Greenbook she wrote, ―I can only open wide my arms in welcome, & thank Heaven even once more for this the sweetest of my many gifts.‖ 114 In a pre-sexological era, before a discourse of sexual inversion circulated broadly and before the church censured female same-sex sexuality, an Evangelical theology of feeling and of circumstances determined the acceptability of women‘s homoerotic relationships. They understood the relationship within the religious framework of joint service of God. ―We two will not look merely at each other,‖ Maynard wrote, ―that we will keep for a rest & refreshment between whiles, – but our main attitude shall be standing side by side giving all our united strength to help others, & to set their feet on level ground.‖ 115 The second section of this chapter explores the making and unmaking of Maynard‘s imperial subjectivity, as a part of the construction of the metropole/colony dichotomy, in the domestic discourse of motherhood. When, in 1901, Wakefield arrived at Westfield College to work as Maynard‘s secretary, Maynard took up the mother-daughter metaphor characteristic of 112 Greenbook, 1 January 1901, 4. 113 Greenbook, 11 September 1901, 56. 114 Ibid., 57. 115 Greenbook, 9 March, 1901, 16-17. 340 Evangelical spiritual friendships. ―Marion was given me,‖ she observed, ―and the child added to the mother's heart.‖ 116 Christianity provided a framework within which Wakefield could be both Maynard‘s daughter and her spiritual guide. Wakefield was as the ―little child that is eventually to lead me straight into the Kingdom of Heaven,‖ 117 Maynard suggested, drawing on Isaiah 11:6. Her construing of Wakefield as a child entailed a shift in the power relations of the relationship, an undermining and confining of Wakefield‘s spiritual authority. It allowed Maynard to take up the metaphorical role of spiritual mother and to lay claim to a spiritual authority that had, until then, been Wakefield‘s, and which had allowed Wakefield to resist Maynard‘s racializing of her. At the same time it enabled Maynard to institute within the discourse of the spiritual family the power relations of the empire. Within the scholarship on gender and empire a large literature has emerged on the making of bourgeois European women‘s subjectivity in relation to, and at the expense of, indigenous and working-class women. This scholarship was inaugurated in a 1985 essay by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak in which she delineated the constitution of the western female individual (and individualist) through the marginalizing of ―native‖ women in women‘s literature and in feminist literary criticism. 118 Feminist postcolonial scholars have yet to examine middle-class women‘s sexual relationships as a site at which this subjectivity was constituted. It is Sharon Marcus‘s Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England, a text which overlooks British imperialism, that best explores the ―will to power‖ in the sexual 116 Greenbook, 25 August, 1901, 46. 117 Greenbook, 19 February 1902, 98. 118 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ―Three Women's Texts and a Critique of Imperialism,‖ Critical Inquiry 12, no. 1 (Autumn 1985): 243-261. 341 making of the female bourgeois subject. Marcus argues that dominance, aggression, and competition often characterized relationships between Victorian mothers and their daughters. 119 Maynard, as Wakefield‘s spiritual mother, exemplifies the feminine ―will to power‖ delineated by Marcus. In her role as spiritual teacher to Wakefield, Maynard exercised a mastery which, like that of Aleister Crowley‘s spiritual mastery over his acolyte Victor Neuberg in the early 1900s, had an imperial subjectivity as its effect. While scholars of religion have examined the imperialist effects of missionary Evangelicalism, they have yet to consider the power dynamics within Evangelicalism, in metropolitan Evangelical organizations and between Evangelical women, that informed missionary imperialism. Maynard‘s spiritual motherhood demonstrates, within metropolitan Evangelicalism, a religious mastery that informed an imperial bourgeois subjecthood and a characteristically imperialist disregard for the religious beliefs of others. She precipitated a crisis in Wakefield‘s faith with the intention of rendering Wakefield‘s piety more relevant to her own ―modern‖ Anglican Evangelicalism. As much as Maynard was enamored of Wakefield‘s spirituality at the start of their relationship, she felt it was limited by its simplicity. ―Long ago, in the Thuringian forest I heard that note of certainty, & was profoundly impressed by it,‖ she observed in her Greenbook, ―& yet it was mingled with a sort of dogmatism that I felt sure could not stand the knocks & blows of modern thought, & the courage was three parts of it the courage of ignorance.‖ 120 In rural County Armagh, Wakefield had not encountered Darwinian theory, modern geology, biblical criticism, psychology and philosophy, with which Maynard had grappled at Girton College and which had informed her modernist reworking of Evangelicalism in the early 1900s. Maynard‘s 119 Marcus, Between Women, 27. 120 Greenbook, 13 December 1903, 271. 342 own crisis of faith had left her spiritually bereft. Although she had synthesized Evangelicalism and Darwinism, thus addressing a significant intellectual challenge, she remained spiritually untouched by the venture. She thought that by evoking a similar crisis of faith in Wakefield, she might find an answer to her unrequited spiritual longing. In her role as spiritual mother to Wakefield, she thus initiated Wakefield into the hazards of ―modern thought.‖ Maynard‘s ―educating‖ of Wakefield‘s religious desire evoked grief, loss, and confusion in Wakefield. As early as 1897 she wrote to a Westfield friend, Ellie Clarke, that she had ―been through fire & water‖ and that the ―utterly unreasonable happiness, the fullness of joy‖ she had experienced before the Berka retreat had left her. In later years, Wakefield told Maynard that ―the vision which had come to me at 19 [in 1895] & had altered all life to me . . . had been obscured & as I almost thought lost.‖ 121 Although Maynard does not describe Wakefield‘s faith crisis in detail, Wakefield later agreed that psychology had played a primary role: ―‘Psychology,‘ I suggested. ‗Psychology,‘ she replied, ‗that terrible book of Prof. James.‖ 122 At times Maynard regretted having initiated Wakefield into the uncertainties of modern thought. ―All the freedom & assurance of the old days are gone,‖ she noted in 1903, ―& she is not at home in the new world of thought but is timid & cannot find the right words. . . . This roused me more sharply than any other prick in the world could do. ‗That is your doing. You led her in. Now you must lead her out.‘‖ 123 She also, however, found the power it afforded her over Wakefield‘s spirituality erotically compelling, as is evident in the libidinal terms with which she described Wakefield‘s loss of faith. ―It was as though a young tree was felled,‖ she noted, ―or so cruelly lopped that it stood ever in my sight bare & appealing, all its sweet verdure 121 Greenbook, 16 October 1903, 238-39. 122 Greenbook, 28 June 1907, 172. 123 Greenbook, 18 January 1903, 185. 343 gone, no sight, no sound left, but what had been the home of beauty & life & fragrance, all despoiled & silent.‖ 124 Trees, like flowers, were a recurring trope in the language of women‘s homoeroticism in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. Ethel Smyth, looking back on the failure of her friendship with Mary Benson, wrote that she and Benson were ―like two trees whose upper branches, occasionally mingling, gave the illusion of one tree, whereas their roots were far, far apart.‖ She compared her more successful relationship with Lady Ponsonby to ―the trees on that wild Mecklenburg coast,‖ where ―storms in the upper branches merely drive the roots deeper.‖ 125 When Wakefield‘s spirituality seemed to revive (―shoots were timidly rising again, & feeling their way into the light & air, & every day they strengthened‖ 126 ) Maynard reveled more overtly in her spiritual deflowering of Wakefield: ―And I have educated her & changed her, & led her through deep waters & out again.‖ 127 The erotic elements in Maynard‘s role as Wakefield‘s spiritual teacher were rendered overt in the realm of fantasy, in the ―A Six Weeks Sleep‖ sonnet cycle. Here Maynard, in the guise of a personified Sleep, imagined a more complete mastery of Wakefield: Mine, folded safe from care & pain, Mine the fair limbs, sweet lips, & veiled eyes Blind, dumb & helpless, in my power she lies, My captive, fettered by silken chain. No, none may vex or claim her, none may wake, I, Sleep, her servant, am her master too, 124 Greenbook, 1 October 1901, 67-68. Maynard had written of her own faith crisis many years earlier: ―Worse, far worse than this, I did not stand where I was before, but some real thing had happened to me that it is difficult to state without overstating. A storm had tossed about my sweet orchard blossoms, which, if it continued, might destroy the whole crop of fruit of my life . . . The particular thoughts on which I based the whole of my beliefs, hopes, duties, aspirations, & calls to action were evidently not the adamant I had supposed, but were assailable . . . The whole of religion was changing from ‗certainty,‘ to ‗a high degree of probability‘, & the effects of conduct I so infinitely valued might conceivably have other causes that the one to which I had attributed them all.‖ Autobiography, Part 3, Chapter 12, 1873, 447. 125 Ethel Smyth, As Time Went On, 15, 99-100, quoted in Vicinus, Intimate Friends, 133, 134. 126 Greenbook, 1 October 1901, 67-68. 127 Greenbook, 3 June 1902, 125. 344 I hold my orders from the Man Divine. She is to labour for his blessed sake, To love, to dare, to suffer and to do, – Till then I hold her captive. She is mine. (―Sleep Speaks,‖ lines 6-14) 128 Pauline Phipps describes Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield as a sadomasochistic one, and indeed, the Evangelical origins of contemporary tropes in sadomasochism are evident in this poem. Such a characterization needs nevertheless to be dealt with quite carefully. Two misreadings are evident in Phipps discussion. These are best exemplified by examining further what Phipps deems ―sadomasochistic.‖ In early 1903 Maynard had taken up a discourse of self- denial in her relationship with Wakefield: ―[self-denial] is one of the very foundations of the Christian effort, & no house can be reared high without it. Nothing can take its place, & I am now so surrounded with pleasant duties & with the love of true hearts, that unless I pick it up intentionally, here & there, it does not come in the course of the day.‖ 129 She imposed a ―fast‖ on physical affection with Wakefield (―in public all will be exactly the same, but in private we will have no playing together, but will sit close together & talk, or kneel & pray‖ 130 ). Wakefield agreed with Maynard‘s theology of self-sacrifice; but struggled with it in practice. ―I just hate suffering . . . & real self-renunciation, the death of the self with its will & desires, – that is blankly impossible,‖ she proclaimed. 131 Maynard observed that ―she kept to it very strictly, & exactly as I had wished, & it was a real comfort to feel how excellently well she had herself in 128 Maynard, Original Poems, vol.1, 75. 129 Greenbook, 25 January 1903, 190. 130 Ibid. 131 Autobiography, 1899, 445. 345 hand, but the strain was considerably greater on her than on me . . . [and] on Sunday] I took it off again.‖ 132 For Phipps these practices represent ―sadism‖ and ―masochism‖ on Maynard‘s part. She believes Maynard‘s denial of sexual pleasure is masochistic and her denying of it to Wakefield, her young lover, is sadistic. The problem with Phipps‘s analysis is the conflation of the contemporary practice of sadomasochism, which is founded on the notion of the self-aware consent of participants, with more general discourses of ―sadism‖ and ―masochism‖ which might nevertheless pertain to sexual practice in the past or present. The contemporary definition of sadomasochism does not apply here: Wakefield‘s consent (if it can be deemed consent) to the denial of sexual pleasure is not directed at enhancing that pleasure, and neither is Maynard restricting Wakefield‘s pleasure at her express request. The problem with utilizing the more general discourses of ―sadism‖ and ―masochism‖ instead, is that they are reductive. Maynard took up a discourse of self-denial because she believed that self-denial was the means to intimacy with God; she feared that unimpeded pleasure would distract her from the pursuit of religious objectives. Her imposing of such self-denial on Wakefield is indeed problematic, especially in the light of Wakefield‘s discomfort with it, but it should be understood as part of the women‘s shared Evangelical piety. Maynard‘s practice of the renunciation of sexual pleasure, and even her imposition of it on Wakefield, did have sexual resonances for Maynard, and these explain the continuity of these tropes in contemporary sadomasochism. However, Maynard‘s primary objective was religious (and it is this religious context which gives these tropes their current purchase in contemporary sadomasochism). In order to understand the complex relationship between Evangelicalism and contemporary sadomasochism, it is thus necessary to distinguish contemporary sadomasochism from ―sadistic‖ or ―masochistic‖ practices and at the same time not to reduce religious practices too quickly to the latter. This 132 Greenbook, 12 February 1903, 190-91. 346 does not, of course, prevent the criticism of certain religious practices. Nor does it preclude the recognition of sexual resonances within them and the exploration of continuities between past religious practice and contemporary sexual practices. Wakefield finally managed to negotiate her doubt. Maynard wrote that ―her feet stood in the Temple court, & her face was lifted to the opening heavens, & all doubt & hesitation & dumbness & reluctance were over & gone. . . . Tested, tried, knocked hither & thither by many trials, & abrupt new criticisms, & long stretches & strains, there it is, & it is all pure now & all permanent.‖ 133 Wakefield offered to share with Maynard her new-found spiritual certainties. ―She put her long arms round me,‖ Maynard wrote at the end of 1903, ―& said solemnly, ‗My Mistress, what I have, I have for both of us. That is the condition, as it were. It is God Himself who has woven our lives together.‘‖ 134 Maynard responded with alacrity: ―a treasure of loveliness & purity that cannot be surpassed, & that is mine, mine.‖ 135 Imbricated in Maynard‘s making of spiritual motherhood in relation to Wakefield was an imperial subjectivity that sought, by relegating Wakefield to the position of a spiritual child and by evoking a faith crisis in her, to meet her own spiritual needs. The metaphor of spiritual mothering ultimately constituted a fault line in Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s religiously structured relationship. In 1903, when Wakefield was compelled to return to Ireland, Maynard recommended Jean Richardson, Anne Richardson‘s sister (and Wakefield‘s cousin), as a temporary spiritual mentor for Wakefield. Much to Maynard‘s distress, Wakefield took on the role of ―spiritual child,‖ reviving Richardson‘s piety just as she had done with Maynard‘s. Richardson had, in Maynard‘s estimation, however, always been 133 Greenbook, 13 December 1903, 271. 134 Ibid. 135 Greenbook, 31 December 1904, 364-65. 347 more spiritual than Maynard. ―Jean & she [Marion] have taken hands in a living clasp & have soared away, & they see things I cannot see, & love things I cannot love,‖ she wrote. 136 At this time Maynard seems to have recognized one of the limits of religiously structured homoerotic desire. ―Something was gone,‖ she wrote of Wakefield‘s defection, ―something that as long as we are human entities enclosed in separate minds & bodies, must be of exceeding worth to us.‖ 137 The practice of self-denial, and attempts to transmute sexual desire into religious desire, also contributed to the demise of Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s relationship. While neither self- denial nor the commutation of erotic desire into religious desire are inherently anti-erotic, there was always the possibility that desire might dissipate altogether. In 1902 Wakefield wrote to Maynard that she had achieved the goal of transcending sexual desire: The thought of you is only restful now, & I do without you very contentedly, & am conscious of the treasure that is always & irrevocably mine. . . . It is very blessed to have got to this place of peace which is so deep & real, & to leave behind, – may it be forever, – that restless craving for the expression of love when absent, & the reckless abandonment of one‘s whole being to it when together. Both of these I have known at times, & the one is weakening & the other leads to harm, & upsets the balance of life. But there, my sweet Mistress, we wont [sic] even think of that side, but throw ourselves into our work & the needs of others. 138 In 1904 Maynard sought to consolidate her relationship with Wakefield. She presented Wakefield with a ring and the two conducted their own ―marriage ceremony.‖ In October 1904, however, Wakefield took up the role of spiritual mother to Mary Armitage, a Westfield student. Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s marriage did not protect their relationship from the fluidity of the discourse of spiritual mothering. Nor did Wakefield hide her emerging relationship with 136 Greenbook, 23 December 1903, 273-74. 137 Greenbook, 31 December 1903, 289. 138 Greenbook, 29 December 1902, 175. 348 Armitage from Maynard. Instead, overlooking her recent ―marriage‖ with Maynard, she revived the mother-daughter model that had never fully receded from their relationship. She reassured Maynard of her daughterly love (―she told me I was her mother . . . & she was mine for ever.‖ 139 ) while at the same time confiding in Maynard her new found love: She put my books on the table hurriedly, snipped off the Electric light, & got into bed, clasping me strongly in her arms in the darkness, & being silent for a minute. Then came the confession, that [she] loved Mary Armitage, that the deep fountains of that wondrous heart had broken up suddenly, & that she loved her in a way that was a wholly new experience. . . . M. clung to me almost like one drowning, & said, ―I had to come to you straight off & tell you. I have hardly slept at all. Oh what a wonderful thing love is!‖ 140 In her Greenbook, Maynard wrote of Wakefield‘s reneging on their marriage vows: She did not understand the sacred bond exactly as I understood it. And how should she? I at 50 & over, gleaning up the last inestimably precious roses of love in the summer of life, & she at 23 with her heart brimful of first experiences, how could they be the same. . . . I see now the equilibrium was not stable & the position could not hold for ever [sic]. To me it stood alone, while to her it was the presage of a glorious region she was just entering. 141 If Wakefield‘s infatuation with Armitage revealed to Maynard some of the inequities in her own relationship with Wakefield, it also revealed to Wakefield the extent of Maynard‘s influence over her. ―Oh my mistress . . . I had no idea till this began how you had made me, heart & soul . . . when we talk about love. . . I have no thoughts but your thoughts. You have made me.‖ 142 This Wakefield understood as the product of Maynard‘s ―mothering‖: ―You are my Mother indeed . . . You took me up so empty & ignorant that you see I have no others.‖ 143 139 Autobiography, 1904, 529. 140 Greenbook, 27 November 1904, 351-52. 141 Greenbook, 29 September 1906, 122. 142 Greenbook, 27 November 1904, 353. 143 Greenbook, 26 December 1904, 361. 349 Wakefield saw Maynard‘s ―making‖ of her – her erotic and religious mentoring of her – as a form of ―civilizing‖: Maynard had ―made her from being a wild ignorant creature to what she was.‖ 144 Maynard‘s spiritual mothering of Wakefield, particularly the inciting and managing of her sexual desire, had been accomplished within an imperial frame. The purity that Maynard had both made and re-made was part of the making of the imperial bourgeois subject. Imperial categories of racial difference – both their consolidation and their contestation – informed Maynard‘s sexual discourse. The following months revealed to Maynard, in a very tangible way, her own overweening influence on Wakefield, as Wakefield took up in her relationship with Armitage the religious rituals, texts, and language that had defined Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s relationship: when she . . . showered down [on Mary] all the treasures, every hymn & verse & thought & poem, that she & I had collected in 7 years of friendship, all in a few weeks; when I remembered the opal ring so solemnly given at the close of those 7 years, & then found that in one year they were wearing beautiful opal brooches which they had given one another; – well I felt I had trusted a ―child‖ in the sense of ignorance, as well as in the sense of receptive beauty. 145 Once again Maynard encountered a paradox inherent to religiously structured desire: ―I had expected this some day and I had encouraged it, telling her that she must have children and ‗really love‘ them and yet when the point comes there is an element in it that is hard.‖ 146 Although Wakefield‘s and Armitage‘s relationship had been structured by the religious rituals, texts, and language that had defined Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield, the Wakefield- Armitage relationship was not entirely of Maynard‘s making. Wakefield had earlier attempted to 144 Autobiography, 1904, 529. 145 Greenbook, 29 September 1906, 121-22. 146 Greenbook, 27 November 1904, 352. 350 reframe her physical affection towards Maynard within a discourse of spiritual purity, insisting on the pure motives that informed it. ―Oh, my love, my darling, I am all yours, every inch of me,‖ she informed Maynard, ―& . . . it is all good & all pure love, untouched by the least thing else, & then came a whispered ‗May I?‘ & those fresh full young lips were laid on mine.‖ 147 Wakefield also took up a Platonic framework for desire in her relationship with Armitage which was contrary to Maynard‘s way of thinking. [Marion] held me in her arms [and] whispered, ―Mistress, do you ever learn about the love of Christ from the love you feel yourself?‖ ―I don‘t think I do,‖ I said, ―the two never seem really alike,‖ ―But they are,‖ she answered eagerly, ―they are.‖ ―What our hearts can feel for another, is a real reflection of what He goes on feeling for us.‖ 148 For Maynard a Platonic framework for desire was impracticable; human love too quickly subsumed religious desire. In understanding Wakefield to be her daughter, Maynard believed she had found ―some one who will pour their life into mine, & increase my effectiveness by the saving of my force.‖ 149 Even before Wakefield started at Westfield as Maynard‘s secretary, however, Maynard expressed concerns about her possible idleness. Maynard wrote, ―if she feels me idle & rebelling as I sometimes pass a day or two in being, she will catch it at once, & the mark I endue may be indelible in her more strong & rigid nature than it is in mine.‖ 150 Maynard took up a discourse of race to express her reservations about Wakefield‘s work ethic. ―I may become 147 Greenbook, 21 May 1902, 117. 148 Greenbook, 27 March 1905, 15. 149 Greenbook, 28 September 1902, 163. 150 Greenbook, 25 May 1901, 24. 351 irritated at her forgetfulness or untidiness or Irishness,‖ she wrote, ―& there would not be the same untouched unruffled confidence on her side any more.‖ 151 Barbara Taylor, in her study of the religious structuring of Mary Wollstonecraft‘s erotic imagination, notes that Wollstonecraft‘s religious desire led her to an expectation of perfection in those she loved. Like Wollstonecraft, Maynard cast her idealization of Wakefield in perfectibilist terms. For Maynard, however, notions of perfection were informed by an imperial, industrial capitalist social context. In this final section of the chapter I examine the demise of Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield as the failure of an imperially informed ideal, chart Maynard‘s renewed recourse to discourses of race with regard to Wakefield, and trace the re- constituting of a metropole/colony dichotomy within the relationship, as a ―spiritual Wakefield‖ was once more supplanted by the ―Irish Wakefield‖ in Maynard‘s imagination. The characteristics of productivity, effectiveness, and thriftiness were central to the middle class and to industrial capitalism. Davidoff and Hall draw attention to Evangelicals‘ doctrine of personal responsibility or ―the right use of ‗talents,‘ of time and money, which was a moral imperative.‖ 152 McClintock, taking up an earlier essay by Davidoff, which is in turn indebted to the work of Max Weber, represents the middle-class home as the arena in which rationalization was implemented and practiced. 153 In her loosely autobiographical book-length narrative poem, A True Mother, Maynard drew attention to the importance of industry to her upbringing. The Mother in the poem avers: One of the secrets of their happiness (A secret for which I my Mother bless) Is, they shall find employment all day long . . . 151 Ibid. 152 Davidoff and Hall, Family Fortunes, 86. 153 McClintock, Imperial Leather, 167-69. 352 No vacant dreary hours to drag along . . . The boys and girls alike must work their best. 154 In 1865, after Constance had returned from Belstead, she and Gabrielle and Dora ―started to be very industrious, we made time-tables of the hours for reading & learning & drawing, & at the end of each week counted how much had been done.‖ 155 Maynard had learned to account carefully for the minutes of her day. ―But the great point was the ‗Keeping a Bill,‘ i.e writing down not what you intended to do, but what you actually did do,‖ she wrote. ―A ‗good‘ Bill, accounted for 36 hours in the week, & I have known it to rise to 43, & a ‗bad‘ Bill was under 30.‖ 156 The careful accounting of time by Maynard and her sisters shows the domestic to be an integral part of its industrial capitalist context; it points to the role of domestic Evangelical discourse in promulgating notions of a thrifty, productive, and self-conscious use of time upon which the mechanization of industry depended. Maynard‘s childhood use of time also demonstrates the role of the home in the structuring of the metropole/colony dichotomy. At Westfield, Maynard rationalized her time in similar ways to those of her childhood: ―Wake between 5:30 & 6. Write till 7. Prayers & B‘fast 8. Sec.s letters 9-11. Run in the garden for 15 or 20 minutes. More writing til 1., a friendly chatter. Then a sleep, tidying up, Tea at 4 oc, & then 2 ½ valuable hours for study. Dinner at 7. Play ½ hour. Bible Class at 8 every evening except Sat. & Prayers at 9.45.‖ 157 She contrasted this to Wakefield and her upbringing. ―I not only know but see with my own eyes that the life she has lived is disadvantageous,‖ she wrote in 1902, ―it tends to slackness & indolence in 154 Maynard, A True Mother (London, 1916), 43-44. 155 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 4, 1865-1866, 55. 156 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 8, 1870-1871, 206. 157 Autobiography, 1900, 461. 353 everything she touches, & though she combats the results bravely, a stream of the tendency is forever pouring through her life.‖ 158 If Maynard was concerned about Wakefield‘s idleness, she was also alarmed by her constitutional weakness and her tendency to neurasthenia. Maynard wrote, ―I am baffled again & again by her want of vitality. . . a passivity that must be bad for any one at 25.‖ 159 For Maynard, Wakefield‘s lethargy had moral resonances. She situated Wakefield‘s constitutional weakness in an evolutionary frame, aligning productivity with human advancement. ―I only hope that . . . a higher level of life may be hers in the future,‖ 160 she wrote. Here too Maynard re-made the metropole/colony dichotomy. In opposition to her careful English budgeting of time and energy, Wakefield ―with Irish recklessness would tend to dissipate what little force she had gained the moment she felt it in her possession.‖ 161 Before her ―marriage‖ to Wakefield in 1904, Maynard saw both Wakefield‘s poorliness and her Irishness as remediable. ―Her health & her being Irish are to be my definite trials & I must bear with them for life,‖ she speculated. ―Both are a matter of degrees, & both may be greatly bettered & helped.‖ 162 In 1902 Maynard, taking up the discourse of race again, confronted Wakefield on her laxity; she ―shewed her how ‗Irish‘ she was still, i.e. slack, & forgetful & untidy & unfinished in her doings for me.‖ 163 Wakefield accepted Maynard‘s 158 Greenbook, 16 April 1902, 108-9. 159 Greenbook, 2 March 1902, 102. While Wakefield‘s neurasthenia seemed in part congenital (her sister Florence had suffered from prolonged ―nervous exhaustion‖ and her father had struggled with poor health) it seems likely that the stress of embarking on a relationship with Maynard, Mistress of Westfield College, while attempting to complete her matriculation exam, had precipitated its onset in 1899. Maynard observes as much: ―Yet the effect on her [of their relationship] was not good; she worked far too hard as the Matriculation drew near.‖ Autobiography, 1899, 444. 160 Greenbook, 23 April 1902, 111. 161 Greenbook, 31 December 1904, 364-65. 162 Ibid. 163 Greenbook, 29 December 1902, 175. 354 criticisms of her work and endeavoured to improve. Maynard also addressed Wakefield‘s uncertain health. She took Wakefield to her own doctor, Dr. Neatby, who pronounced Wakefield ―in a condition of ‗malnutrition‘ all over, a case of ‗thorough neurasthenia.‘‖ 164 The remedy was the same as in 1899: ―There was nothing for it but she must return to ‗the Cage‘ for another 6 weeks sleep & overfeeding.‖ 165 Wakefield reluctantly agreed. Although resistant to the second rest-cure, Wakefield‘s approach to her neurasthenia conformed to Maynard‘s. ―Mistress mine,‖ she wrote, ―I will do my best to get well. No one can feel more than I do how bad the sort of life I am compelled to lead is for me. . . . It is ruination to character.‖ 166 Neither Wakefield‘s efforts to improve her work ethic, however, nor her rest-cure achieved the kind of change Maynard sought. As Maynard‘s efforts to ―re-make‖ Wakefield proved futile, she effected a split in her image of Wakefield. As with her Girton students thirty years earlier, she separated Wakefield‘s spirit from her body: ―there was her forgetfulness & unhandiness, every bit of which I believe was physical, save the very small amount due to being Irish.‖ 167 Wakefield‘s ―innermost soul,‖ was, however, ―true, sweet & sincere . . . There is no break there, no jar, but all is sound.‖ 168 In this manner, Maynard was able to protect her idealized image of Wakefield, and to preserve the role Wakefield played in Maynard‘s spiritual aspirations. With Wakefield‘s infatuation with 164 Greenbook, 9 March 1902, 102. Maynard notes that is was ―a case moreover ‗not complicated by hysteria or hypochondriasis,‘ & though this absence makes the matter more serious I cannot help feeling glad that her diseases are true‖ (ibid.). 165 Autobiography, 1902, 484. Maynard notes here that Wakefield commenced her rest-cure ―with a pulse at 55 or even lower, a very poor circulation‖ and, tall as she was, weighing only 9 stone (126 pounds).‖ 166 Greenbook 16 April 1902, 108-9. Maynard wrote in her diary: ― She is better, and distinctly stouter, exactly eight pounds heavier than when she came. It was all right as long as she was in bed, but now it is enough. She must leave. Dinner was a pitiful sight with the consumption patients forcing themselves to eat large portions of meat. . . . The atmosphere of ―Cheer up! You‘re getting on famously!‖ is not for Marion at all.‖ Diary,7 May 1902, 89. 167 Greenbook, 29 September 1906, 120. 168 Ibid., 124. 355 Mary Armitage, however, Maynard‘s divided image of Wakefield was threatened. Distracted by Armitage, Wakefield‘s work deteriorated. ―But alas,‖ Maynard wrote, ―the rising of momentary disappointment & irritations against her thousand negligences has begun to invade inner territory.‖ 169 The distinction between the body and spirit collapsed as Maynard deemed Wakefield morally deficient: ―When the desires seem exerted to the utmost & there is still failure, one can only suppose the will is utterly weak & irresolute, & that the character is slack & unreliable. . . . there seemed to me a certain moral element in it.‖ 170 Maynard‘s discourse of morality was itself infused with the values of the industrial middle class, however. Of Wakefield‘s expenditure of her limited energies on Mary Armitage, Maynard concluded, ―that is the one thing about which she seems to have no conscience of real debtor & creditor.‖ 171 When Wakefield quickly passed on to Armitage the religious language, texts, and rituals that had defined her relationship with Maynard, Maynard evoked another value of the industrial middle- class: ―oh it was wasteful, wasteful!‖ 172 Within the intimate discourse of female homoeroticism industrial capitalist values were enacted and a metropole/colony dichotomy simultaneously constituted. Wakefield, like the Irish peasantry, lacked the foresight to plan and to budget, was unable to exercise thrift, and had no sense of the relationship between debtor and creditor. Paradoxically, Wakefield‘s body was to provide the final frontier of resistance to Maynard‘s idealizing and imperial impulses. Of Wakefield‘s neurasthenia Maynard wrote: ―Oh how determined I was to conquer it, & to bring her back to me what I call well!‖ 173 At the time of Wakefield‘s infatuation with Armitage, however, Maynard conceded defeat. Taking up 169 Greenbook, 28 May 1905, 34. 170 Greenbook, 8 October 1905, 65-66. 171 Greenbook, 31 December 1904, 364-65. 172 Greenbook, 29 September 1906, 122. 173 Ibid., 122-23. 356 eugenic discourse, she averred, ―But alas & alas, I was combating a dead weight of heredity that I could not move though the whole force of my life was laid fair & square against it.‖ 174 Fearing that a failure of respect would compromise both her love for Wakefield and the spiritual ideal she had attempted to protect, Maynard informed Wakefield in November 1904 that she was no longer suitable for the post of secretary. In her autobiographical account of the demise of her relationship with Wakefield, written thirty years later, Maynard noted more candidly: ―She [Wakefield] fell in love with a new Student, Mary Armitage. . . . She became slack & idle toward me, & I bitterly felt the strong force of another heart.‖ 175 If the Evangelically indebted erotic destabilized the metropole/colony dichotomy that it also constituted, then the failure of the erotic led to the re-stabilizing of that dichotomy in more rigid terms. Wakefield did not oppose her ―dismissal‖ from Westfield. 176 In a series of letters written to Maynard in October 1905, she acknowledged but also contested Maynard‘s sense that the relationship was threatened by Maynard‘s impending loss of respect for Wakefield. Wakefield was horrified by the notion that ―externals‖ such as the carelessness, negligence, and laxity could overshadow the internal life of the spirit: ever since thou didst tell me thou didst keep in thy mind a divided image of me, I have felt a fear – hardly expressed in thought even – yet I see now it was lest you should find the two images were in reality one. The shock with which I realised that a thing which seemed to have to do only with the mere externals of life, could touch the very centre & citadel, the sanctuary & holy place, which I thought was impossible of access to all the world & to all influences, – the shock realising that this could touch the precious bond between thee & me, has been great, but I believe it was necessary to wake me to my senses. 177 174 Greenbook, 29 September 1906, 123. 175 Autobiography, 1904, 529. 176 Wakefield‘s response exemplified for Maynard the spiritual qualities she had initially seen in Wakefield: ―The complete magnanimity of her acceptance of it, the entire confidence in me, the undivided homage to Truth & Duty.‖ Greenbook, 8 October 1905, 66. 177 Greenbook, 11 October 1905, 67. 357 Wakefield acknowledged that there had been on her part ―an unpardonable slackness & weakness of will in the past, which deserves your severest condemnation,‖ but added ―that it is not an integral part of my nature, that I need not be weak, that I can say No, that I have the power to break old life long habits & make new ones.‖ 178 Maynard‘s understanding of the relationship between the body and the soul had varied through the course of her life. During her upbringing her parents had espoused an incarnational theology that appeared to reconcile body and soul. On the one hand their theology of atonement emphasized the incarnation of Jesus, rather than just the crucifixion. On the other hand they argued that through his life Jesus had subordinated the flesh to the spirit, thus achieving divinity and demonstrating the process by which individuals were to be redeemed. During the course of Maynard‘s life a body/soul dualism was evident in the vying of literal and spiritual discourses of the family. It allowed Maynard to divorce her Girtonian converts from their bodily presentation of lower-middle-class traits. In her relationship with Anthon and with Wakefield, the influence of evolution and eugenics on Maynard‘s theology was evident as she relinquished the body/soul dualism for a notion of the body as the marker of the spiritual. Wakefield, like Anthon, held firmly to a body/soul dualism to resist Maynard‘s eugenics; not only was her spirit distinct from her sometimes indolent nature and her weakened body, but it was able to effect changes in both. In the years following Maynard‘s and Wakefield‘s separation, Maynard began to entertain the notion that she had idealized Wakefield: ―I viewed her with the rainbow eyes of love, wh. are full of hope, endless hope. She was beautiful already, that I always saw the ideal in her, & thought that with just one shove of all the force of Love, & we should reach it!‖ 179 178 Ibid., 67-68. 179 Greenbook, 29 September 1906, 120. 358 Maynard regretted her disenchantment or the passing of love‘s illusions, noting, ―Oh I cannot bear to think that the reign of triumphant Love is over, & that I look with merely reasonable eyes, appraising good & ill. But I do now.‖ 180 In September 1906 Maynard informed Wakefield that ―the plans of Hope had been chiefly my invention & my mistake.‖ 181 In September 1906 Wakefield wrote to Maynard acknowledging that their relationship had taken a different form. ―I could not help being sad when I was near thee,‖ she observed, ―it brought ‗all the might have been‘ of the last 10 years home to me. I can‘t get used to . . . feeling that of necessity our interests must be different, in detail at any rate.‖ 182 She acknowledged, however, that she could not sustain the life at Westfield: ―I am well now only because I live the half-life I do.‖ 183 If Wakefield‘s life was now a ―half-life,‖ she was nevertheless aware that it was her own life: It has been a painful process this drawing away of my life into a narrow little channel of its own; but it has got to be done, & we will not shrink from it. And I have been thinking lately that perhaps it has been necessary to my full development that I should have a life that was all my own, however small & bounded it was. 184 Wakefield‘s subsequent evaluation of the relationship was to be far harsher. Maynard, in an entry in her 1923 Greenbook, notes that Wakefield had accused her of ―stealing ten years of her life.‖ Wakefield averred that it was ―because of your own desperate need at the time that you 180 Ibid. 181 Greenbook, 30 September 1906, 127. 182 Ibid., 125. 183 Ibid. 184 Greenbook, 9 October 1906, 128. 359 did not see the harm you were doing me. When you overwhelmed me lavishly, and thought you were opening doors to my mind, you were actually repressing me.‖ 185 At the start of this chapter I observed how, within the domestic setting of a rest-cure home, Wakefield‘s body and psyche became metonymical, in Maynard‘s erotic imagination, for the contested landscapes of the British Empire. Maynard‘s erotically inflected imperial aspirations challenge the bifurcation of the public and private and their aligning with masculinity and femininity. Her imperial imaginings also contest the alignment of the private/public binary with the nation/empire one that took place with the aligning of the British nation with the middle-class family and the rendering of both distinct from their larger contexts. Maynard‘s imperial imaginings at the bed of Wakefield, evident in her sonnet ―Marion Speaks A Second Time,‖ show empire to be at the heart of the domestic. Her subsequent relationship with Wakefield demonstrates the imbrication of the homoerotic with the middle-class domestic context (with discourses and practices of the family), the role of religion in constituting the domestic as homoerotically inflected, and the significance of the homoerotic domestic in the making and unmaking of the metropole/colony dichotomy. The relationship between these two women also points up the role of religion in the constitution and contestation of the metropole/colony dichotomy as it was forged within and naturalized by domestic discourse. Maynard made Wakefield‘s ―Irishness‖ and her own ―Englishness‖ as she sought to reform Wakefield‘s manners as a mother might, in her characterization of Wakefield‘s home, and in her juxtaposition of their childhoods. Just as in 1899 she located the recumbent Wakefield in the battlefields of the South African War, so subsequently she imagined her in the imperial and racialized landscape of ―the desolate bog-land of Portadown.‖ 186 In so doing, Maynard situated Wakefield (and the Irish) as tangential to the English nation, ―almost the same but not quite,‖ 185 Greenbook, 30 December 1923, 260. 186 Autobiography, 1897, 407. 360 and simultaneously as indispensable to a cohesive United Kingdom whose coherence depended on the political dominance of the English. Wakefield‘s ―remarkable spiritual experience‖ provided a counter-discourse to Maynard‘s imperial making of Wakefield‘s ―Irishness‖; Maynard‘s infatuation with both Wakefield‘s piety and with Wakefield herself undermined Maynard‘s imperial longings By taking up the discourse of spiritual motherhood, however, she effected a shift in the balance of power between the two women and simultaneously consolidated an imperial subjectivity in relation to Wakefield. Maynard‘s efforts to regulate her own and Wakefield‘s desire had unpredictable effects, however; they resulted in the proliferation of the women‘s desire, the deconstructing of an imperial semiotics of ―whiteness‖ and ―cleanliness,‖ and the disruption of imperial discourses of sexuality that aligned middle-class British women with sexual chastity and upon which the metropole/colony dichotomy depended. It was Wakefield‘s erotic imagination that put paid to Maynard‘s consolidation of an imperial subjecthood through the practice of spiritual mothering. The fluid metaphorical discourse of the family that had structured the Maynard-Wakefield relationship paradoxically facilitated Wakefield‘s relationship with Mary Armitage. Wakefield‘s ―spiritual mothering‖ of Armitage revealed to both Maynard and Wakefield the extent of Maynard‘s ―making‖ of Wakefield – of her educating of Wakefield‘s erotic and religious desire. For Maynard, who had sustained a body/spirit dualism for much of her life, and for whom spiritual discourse had often contributed to the devaluing of the body, Wakefield‘s physical body provided stubborn resistance to the imperial imaginings that were intrinsic to Maynard‘s spiritual aspirations. In recent years, queer postcolonial feminists have argued that the western linkage of ―coming out‖ to leaving home perpetuates the ―homonormativity‖ or ethnocentricity of queer scholarship. They argue that the home/away dichotomy has been transposed in contemporary 361 accounts of coming out in a manner that reinforces the broader home/away or west/―the rest‖ dichotomy by rendering the ―away‖ of coming out a progressive form of homosexuality. As a result home is re-inscribed as inherently heterosexual. These scholars draw attention instead to the heterogeneity of desires that constitute the domestic, and to enactments of homoeroticism within the multiple relations of extended households. 187 In chapter three I argued that sexually queer discursive spaces were attendant upon and integral to the Evangelical making of the family. Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield shows the domestic to be integral to the inciting and repudiating of same-sex desire. The latter process was also integral to the forging of Maynard‘s imperial subjecthood; it demonstrates the imbrication of the domestic and the imperial, of ―home‖ and ―away,‖ and thus attests to the importance also of moving beyond the bifurcation of the national and imperial in the writing of British histories. 187 Gayatri Gopinath Impossible Desires: Queer Diasporas and South Asian Public Cultures (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005) and ―Homo-Economics: Queer Sexualities in a Transnational Frame,‖ in Burning Down the House: Recycling Domesticity, ed. Rosemary Marangoly George (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998), 102-24; Anne-Marie Fortier, ―Making Home: Queer Migrations and Motions of Attachment‖ in Uprootings/Regroundings: Questions of Home and Migration, ed. Sara Ahmed (2003), 115-135; and Geeta Patel, ―Home, Homo, Hybrid: Translating Gender,‖ in A Companion to Postcolonial Studies, ed. Henry Schwarz and Sangeeta Ray (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000), 410-27. 362 Conclusion ―What remains to be better understood is the degree to which . . . religious constructions, which seem so foreign to us today, were experienced as explanatory and enabling in a period that defined itself by its newness.‖ 1 Thus notes Jo-Ann Wallace in an essay on Edith Ellis‘s sapphism. Wallace suggests that Ellis‘s belief in the transformative nature of passionate love, including same-sex desire, led to a modernist interest in new forms of relationship, new configurations of community, and a new society. 2 Drawing on the monistic theology of the homosexual utopian Edward Carpenter, she sought to reconcile the body and soul that, she believed, Christianity sundered. 3 Carpenter had situated sexual desire in a spiritual frame, arguing that the union of the body and soul in sexual intercourse accomplished the believer‘s union with the divine, who was both material and spiritual. Sex apprehended in a spiritual way had the ability to transform human relationships; it provided the starting point for social transformation. 4 Homosexuals, who through social censure had been disenfranchised from their bodies, were to lead the movement for social transformation; they understood the importance of 1 Jo-Ann Wallace, ―‗How Wonderful to Die for What You Love‘: Mrs. Havelock Ellis‘s Love-Acre (1914) as Spiritual Autobiography,‖ paper presented at the Religion and Sexuality in Britain 1870-1930 Workshop held at the University of British Columbia, 27-30 August 2009. 2 Jo Ann Wallace, ―Edith Ellis, Sapphic Idealism and The Lover‘s Calendar (1912)‖ in Sapphic Modernities: Sexuality, Women and English Culture, ed. Laura L. Doan and Jane Garrity (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 185. ―Edward Carpenter is a prophet of the soul and of the body,‖ she wrote, ―he proclaims the emancipation of the soul through the completion of its relation to the body.‖ Mrs. Havelock Ellis, ―Edward Carpenter‘s Message to His Age,‖ in Three Modern Seers (London: Stanley Paul & Co., 1910), 225, quoted in Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 193. 3 For Edward Carpenter‘s sexual theology see Joy Dixon,―‗Out of Your Clinging Kisses . . . I Create a New World‘: Sexuality and Spirituality in the Work of Edward Carpenter, ‖ in The Ashgate Research Companion to Nineteenth- Century Spiritualism and the Occult ed. Tatiana Kontou and Sarah Wilburn, Forthcoming ( London: Ashgate, 2011). 4 Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 185; Edward Carpenter, ―The Homogenic Attachment,‖ in The Intermediate Sex (New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1912), 68-69, quoted in Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 195. 363 the body to the soul, of sexuality to spirituality, and vice versa. 5 Speaking as ―Miss H.,‖ case study 36 in her husband‘s study of homosexuality, Sexual Inversion (1897), Edith Ellis echoed Carpenter. She averred that ―the effect on her of loving women is distinctly good . . . both spiritually and physically‖‘; as a member of the Fellowship of the New Life she pursued the belief that progressive human relationships were the first step to social transformation. 6 Unlike Ellis, Constance Maynard was not a modernist; she espoused very different understandings of same-sex desire, the body and the soul, and the relationship between ―passionate love‖ and social transformation. She was aware of monistic theologies such as Ellis‘s and Carpenter‘s, and from the early 1900s associated her same-sex desire with ―attacks of pantheism,‖ or the appeal of an immanentist theology in which God was not only manifest through nature but was also synonymous with it. She nevertheless consistently refused such theologies in favor of a self-aware dualism, believing the distinction between good and evil to be fundamental to the Christian doctrine of atonement. Maynard did not automatically align the good/evil binary with the soul/body one; she viewed the body as intrinsically neutral, like the mind, but understood both to be subject to the corrupting influence of the heart or emotions. 7 Her recognition of the corporeality of desire – her homosexual subjectivity – emerged as a product of Evangelical discourse, but it was nonetheless in tension with her faith. Her struggle to repudiate the same-sex desire that threatened the primacy of her love of God led her to investigate that desire more carefully, and she came to the understanding that it was commensurate with heterosexual desire. Like most evangelicals, she believed social transformation to be contingent upon the spiritual regeneration of the believer; it was the effect 5 Edward Carpenter, ―The Place of the Uranian in Society,‖ in The Intermediate Sex, 114-15, quoted in Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 195. 6 Havelock Ellis, Sexual Inversion in Studies in the Psychology of Sex, vol. 1, 3rd ed. (New York: Random House, 1942), 226, quoted in Wallace, ―Edith Ellis,‖ 189. 7 Autobiography, Part 2, Chapter 9, 1872, 243. 364 of the individual‘s recognition of sin, acceptance of the redeeming work of Christ, and dependence on sanctification by the Holy Spirit. Maynard‘s erotic history nevertheless demonstrates some continuity with Ellis‘s modernist sapphism and with that of Radclyffe Hall (1880-1943) in the next generation. Although Maynard did not self-consciously espouse a theology that reconciled ―sexual inversion‖ and religion – the physical consummation of same-sex desire found no explicit place in her theology – same-sex desire did feature prominently in her religious practice. Along with John Wesley, she believed the relationship of the would-be convert to the believer to have erotic overtones; these echoed the desire of God for the salvation of the non-believer. God‘s love of humans could, as expressed in the biblical metaphor of love, courtship, and marriage, evince erotic elements, as could the believer‘s in return. It was thus quite possible that God would indicate his salvific intentions for an individual through the believer‘s erotic desire for the unconverted, and that erotic desire should inform the spiritual mentoring that took place after conversion. While Maynard didn‘t perceive her work in social reform – her role in the movement for women‘s higher education – to be the direct effect of a divinely sanctioned same- sex desire, homosexual desire and same-sex relationships were nevertheless integral to her socially transformative religious calling. She believed a devotional intimacy with Christ to be crucial to the pursuit of that calling and perceived spiritual friendships to be the means by which that intimacy was attained. She looked to spiritually structured homoerotic relationships to find a companion with whom to share her calling. Maynard‘s erotic history brings to the fore both culturally and sexually queer discourses within evangelicalism. These were the product of the co-production of earthly and spiritual courtship, marriage, motherhood, and the family. Maynard‘s founding of Westfield College demonstrated an acceptable Evangelical refusal of literal marriage and motherhood for 365 ―marriage‖ to Christ and spiritual motherhood. The evangelical recourse to biblical metaphors of love, courtship, and marriage to describe the believer‘s relationship with Christ incited sexual desire, and the pursuit of spiritual mother-daughter friendships, with their religiously directed cultivation of the erotic, produced Maynard‘s sexually queer desire. The struggle to subordinate human eros (or ―inordinate affection‖) to religious desire that was the product of evangelicals‘ elevation of the erotic, paradoxically rendered same-sex desire central to Maynard‘s piety; it proliferated that desire and created the conditions for its articulation. Her same-sex desire and her homosexual subjectivity were thus not alien or incidental to evangelicalism, an unfortunate by-product of the need to experience human love in order to understand divine love, but intrinsic to it. Evangelicalism depended for its perpetuation on erotically inflected conversion and spiritual mentoring processes – the erotic was integral to religious desire – and insofar as women‘s homosocial devotion was central to the tradition, it depended on female homoerotic desire. Continuities between the religious making of Maynard‘s dissident sexual subjectivity and that of more recognizably queer figures like Ellis and Hall are evident in the persistence, albeit to different ends, of Christian tropes in the writings of Ellis and Hall. Crucifixion appears as a prominent metaphor in the work of both modernists. A protagonist of Ellis‘s novel Love Acre (1914), while speaking of heterosexual love, articulates Ellis‘s understanding of sexual inversion: ―These are the crucified loves who save others though they cannot save themselves . . . It is the sweetest of all miracles . . . To save through losing and to grow beautiful through sorrow.‖ 8 In The Well of Loneliness (1928) Radclyffe Hall represents Stephen Gordon as a Christ-figure calling for justice for sexual inverts: ―you Stephen, who drained our cup to the 8 Mrs. Havelock Ellis, Love-Acre: An Idyl in Two Worlds (New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1914), 188, quoted in Wallace, ―How Wonderful to Die,‖ 16-17. 366 dregs – we have asked for bread; will you give us a stone.‖ 9 For both Ellis and Hall the crucifixion aptly denotes the anguish of homosexuals at their vilification. It evidences, as Richard Dellamora notes, the paradoxical use of religious terms by sexual dissidents in constructing an identity. 10 It is important however, as Dellamora asserts, to explore the reason for this turn to religious discourse. It would be a mistake to see these writers‘ use of religious language simply as the most effective way to challenge the Church‘s censure of homosexuality. Maynard‘s irate response upon coming to the decision that her same-sex desire was sinful sheds light on the use of Christian discourse by sexual dissidents. ―I have been very hungry, & have said as it were,‖ she wrote in 1886, ―‗Well I did not know there wd. be actually nothing to eat in the desert except manna.‘‖ 11 Maynard and Hall expected Christianity to satisfy their same-sex desire. The dissident erotics inherent in the Catholic worship of Christ and of the Virgin Mary 12 and the Catholic Church‘s elevation of same-sex spiritual friendships and their dependence on a homoerotic desire, had led to the expectation that same-sex desire was a ―hunger‖ that could be sated within Christianity. Indeed for Maynard and Hall the two were indistinguishable; homoerotic desire was contained within and informed the believer‘s desire for God. The metaphor of motherhood was, paradoxically, central to this expectation. Hall represents Stephen Gordon not only as a Christ figure but also as the Virgin Mary from whom a homosexual community seeks the spiritual birth denied them by the Catholic Church (―they possessed her. Her barren womb became fruitful – it ached with its fearful and sterile burden. It 9 Radclyffe Hall, The Well of Loneliness (London: Virago Press, 1994), 476, quoted in Richard Dellamora, ―The Well of Loneliness and the Catholic Rhetoric of Sexual Dissidence,‖ in Catholic Figures, Queer Narratives, ed. Lowell Gallagher, Frederick S. Roden, and Patricia Juliana Smith (New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2007), 125. 10 Dellamora, ―Well of Loneliness,‖ 115. 11 Greenbook, 30 April 1886, 143. 12 Dellamora, ―Well of Loneliness,‖ 114-128. 367 ached with the fierce yet helpless children who clamour in vain for their right to salvation‖). 13 By representing Stephen Gordon as the Virgin Mary who, with her ―barren womb,‖ seeks to give spiritual birth to sexual inverts, Hall shares with Maynard the appropriation of a culturally and sexually queer spiritual motherhood. The birth that the inverts in Hall‘s novel seek and the ―bread‖ that both they and Maynard sought, the divinely sanctioned satisfaction of same-sex desire, was understood by Hall, and in this instance also by Maynard, as their right. It is the product of the homoeroticism that had been incited by Catholicism and evangelicalism, which had been an acceptable part of the piety of each tradition, and upon which both traditions had depended. Hall and Maynard turned to religious discourse in order to describe their sexual dissidence because, they suggested, it was the tradition that gave both them, and their dissident desire, birth. They also used it in order to express the sense of betrayal consequent on the rigidification of attitudes towards same-sex desire in each tradition. In the mid-1880s Maynard had come to believe that her pursuit of same-sex desire was contrary to God‘s will. In light of the earlier centrality of same-sex desire to evangelism and spiritual mentoring, this constituted a painful reversal. Hall‘s religiously framed anguish suggests a similar sense of betrayal. Maynard‘s erotic history is in continuity not only with what we might characterize as modernist sapphism, but also with modern homosexuality more broadly. The fact that she came to a homosexual subjectivity through an engagement with religious discourse challenges the tendency of scholars to conflate ―modern‖ sexuality with both science and sexual liberation. At the same time it calls into question the identitarian framework within which histories of modern sexuality have often been understood. Maynard came to a sense of the sexual nature of her desire without espousing categories of sexual identity. The making of her dissident sexuality demonstrates the significance of sexual subjectivity as a site at which to explore and to contest a range of binaries that have underpinned singular trajectories of secularization – secular/sacred, 13 Dellamora, ―Well of Loneliness,‖ 125, quoting Hall, The Well, 476. 368 science/religion, sexual liberation/repression, masculine/feminine, and metropole/colony – and for charting the historically contingent, dynamic, and variable relationships between these ostensibly antithetical terms. Nowhere is the significance of sexuality to the investigation of modernity more evident than in iterations of sexuality forged during the crisis of faith, a period traditionally seen as the watershed moment in Britain‘s transition from a religious to a secular society. The alacrity with which Maynard, and many other Victorians, turned to ―love‖ in the face of faith crisis, demonstrates the proximity of religious and sexual desire in later Victorian Britain. During a period which, paradoxically, saw religious discourse increasingly mobilized to describe human love, courtship, and marriage (a counterpart to the mobilizing of these metaphors to describe religious experience), the sacred remained imbricated with the sexual. By representing ―love‖ as a replacement for faith, and by utilizing religious discourse in this process, those who relinquished religion formulated expressions of sexual desire that paradoxically contained the residues of faith. Such articulations of desire existed alongside those of religious adherents for whom an erotic engagement with non-believers had fostered a faith that incorporated doubt. Maynard‘s religious belief was dynamic. Transitions in religious belief were not unusual for Victorians but Maynard, as the head of a university college, was particularly well-positioned to discern and to engage with shifts in Victorian religious culture. In this study I have explored the Presbyterian-inflected Evangelical Anglicanism of Maynard‘s upbringing, her childhood and adolescent encounters with the Ulster revivals in the late 1850s and early 1860s, her encounters with theological liberalism and agnosticism at St. Andrews and Girton College in the 1870s and her crisis of faith, her renegotiation of her Evangelical faith through an involvement with the holiness movement in the 1880s, and her reconfiguration of her faith as a result of her engagement with theological modernism in the early years of the twentieth century. Shifts in 369 Victorian religious culture and in Maynard‘s own religious beliefs were effected as religious discourse interacted with other cultural discourses. Transitions in Maynard‘s religious subjectivity in turn effected changes in her sexual subjectivity. In this project I have been most interested in changing understandings of science and imperialism and their effects on Victorian religious belief and on Maynard‘s religious subjectivity. I have examined the ways in which the scientific discourses of natural theology, evolution, eugenics, and psychoanalysis, along with the high imperialism of the turn of the century, were constituted within, contested by, and/or qualified Maynard‘s religious beliefs. Maynard‘s sexual subjectivity thus becomes an important site for exploring not only her religious subjectivity but also the relationship between religion, science, and imperialism. Maynard‘s sexual desire and her sexual discourse show the relationship between science and religion in the later nineteenth and early twentieth century to have been a dynamic one. Her childhood sexual desire was structured by the natural theology that was central to her parents‘ Puritan Evangelicalism. The amateur study of astronomy, botany, zoology, and geology within a natural theology framework established the terms of her religious and also of her sexual desire. God was infinite, omniscient, and eternal, and yet worked intricately in nature. Erotic relationships broke with the mundane limits of earthly existence and offered an experience of a timeless eternity, while echoing the idea of the intimacy of the God with the creation which was evident in the argument from design. Maynard‘s sexual discourse in the early 1900s, and particularly in her relationship with her adopted daughter Effie Anthon, demonstrates a different and far less salutary conjunction of science and religion. The eugenic discourse evident in Maynard‘s Evangelical efforts to understand Anthon‘s ―secret vice‖ and to prevent her from marrying, illustrates the process by which scientific discourse came to inform some iterations of turn-of-the-century Evangelicalism. Maynard‘s eugenics was a product of her attempt to 370 modernize Evangelicalism by synthesizing it with Darwinian theory. This process shows religion to be a site at which discourses of modernity were constituted, while at the same time disrupting the science/religion binary that informs secularization theory. Maynard‘s effort to regulate Anthon‘s ―foreign‖ sexuality also demonstrates one way in which scientific discourses of class and race came to supplement an older missionary discourse in early twentieth-century Evangelicalism, as discourses of class became central to the making of the racial discourses of empire. Maynard‘s ―modern Evangelical feminism,‖ another outworking of Maynard‘s synthesis of Evangelicalism and Darwinism, illustrates one site at which Darwinism and eugenics came to permeate turn-of-the-century feminism. Finally, Maynard‘s autobiographical account of the sexual repression of her childhood reveals a dialogue between psychoanalysis and Evangelicalism in which some aspects of psychoanalytic discourse were assimilated into Maynard‘s modern Evangelicalism while others were resisted. Maynard‘s last homoerotic relationship, with the Anglo-Irish woman Marion Wakefield, demonstrates the indebtedness of Maynard‘s re-configured, ―modern‖ scientific Evangelicalism and her re-worked ―modern‖ feminism to her imperialist discourse. It suggests that modernity is a product of imperialism, both discursively and materially; it disrupts the metropole/colony binary that has enabled secularization theorists to present modern Britain as the product of Enlightenment reason, science, and progress. By taking the erotic subjectivity of sexually- dissident Victorian women seriously, this project suggests new ways of thinking about middle- class women‘s complicity in empire. It argues that studies of middle-class women‘s sexuality that have focused on their passionlessness and prudishness, and the discourses of sexual regulation believed to arise from the latter, may be the effect of an unthinking reiteration of imperialist Victorian discourses of gender. It opens up an enquiry into religiously produced same-sex and heterosexual female desire as a site at which empire was enacted and/or contested. 371 Evangelicalism rendered the boundaries between the ―races‖ a sexualized one – the pious and chaste middle-class Victorian women versus the promiscuous indigenous women – and it also rendered the transgression of those boundaries sexually compelling. Maynard‘s relationship with Wakefield demonstrates not so much the role of the erotic in the transgression of a ―racial‖ boundary – the English Maynard‘s attraction to a racialized Anglo-Irish Wakefield – as much as its role in exposing the artificiality, contingency, and malleability of the racial categories of empire. Finally, Maynard‘s erotic history has an important contribution to make to the emerging enquiry into the relationship between religion, dissident sexuality, and social transformation. Edith Ellis and Edward Carpenter‘s heterodox theology constitutes one turn-of-the-century site at which these discourses intersected. For Ellis and Carpenter, the reconciliation of the body and spirit effected in sexual union rendered sexuality a primary site for experiencing the divine and the starting point for social transformation. ―I conceive,‖ Carpenter wrote, ―a millennium on earth . . . when men and women all over the earth shall ascend and enter into relation with their bodies—shall attain freedom and joy.‖ 14 This kind of theology is not only historically significant, but it also offers an important and appealing alternative to many contemporary religious approaches to same-sex desire (and to sexual desire generally) which, by distinguishing between the body and soul, and privileging the latter over the former, compel religious adherents to make a choice between their sexuality and faith. At the same time, however, it is necessary to recognize that the scholarly investigation of heterodox religion and sexuality, as valuable as it is, is only one part of a necessarily more complex project. Maynard‘s negotiation of desire, her very failure to present a sustained positive approach to same-sex desire, reminds us of the complexity, diversity, and historically specific nature of the relationship between religion and sexual discourse. Equally specific (and possibly diverse) solutions are required to the problems 14 Edward Carpenter, Towards Democracy (London, 1949), 14-15, quoted in Dixon, ―Your Clinging Kisses.‖ 372 posed by contemporary Christian traditions that perpetuate the negative aspects of Maynard‘s approach. By investigating the greatest possible array of religious negotiations of the erotic, historians will be best placed to address the complexity of contemporary religious approaches to same-sex desire and to sexual desire generally, approaches which have often been damaging to religious adherents. The relationship between same-sex desire and social transformation also needs careful examination. By subsuming same-sex desire to social transformation scholars may elide the complexity of the relationship between them. Maynard, for example, did not perceive her work in social reform – her role in the movement for women‘s higher education – to be the direct effect of sexual desire. It was the product of a religious calling; her same-sex relationships emerged as part of that calling. Moreover, her social reform efforts existed in diverse relationships to social transformation. While Maynard was undoubtedly instrumental in forwarding the cause of women‘s higher education and of women‘s increased participation in the public sphere, including suffrage, she simultaneously drew upon and stabilized dominant discourses of gender, class, and race. Her work in the cause of women‘s higher education was undertaken while, and by, consolidating her class and racial superiority as an upper-middle-class English woman. The religious desire that motivated her reformism, and the same-sex desire that her piety produced, had disruptive potential. Her religious theology evidenced egalitarian strands, and her piety and her same-sex desire compelled her not only to cross but also to question class and racial divides. However, class and racial hierarchies were also entrenched within Maynard‘s articulation of religious and sexual desire. The notion of social transformation has thus itself to be historicized and its effects carefully calibrated. The goal should be to keep the theoretical nexus of possible connections between religion, sexuality, and social change as 373 broad as possible so as to facilitate the historical investigation of many different conjunctions (or lack thereof) between these three phenomena. 374 Bibliography Primary Sources Manuscript Collections Constance Maynard Papers. Queen Mary College, London. Works by Constance Maynard Maynard, Constance. An Alpine Meadow. 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Wellings, Martin. Evangelicals Embattled: Responses of Evangelicals in the Church of England to Ritualism, Darwinism and Theological Liberalism, 1890-1930. Carlisle, UK: Paternoster Press, 2003. Williams, Sarah C. Religious Belief and Popular Culture in Southwark, c.1880-1939. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. 388 Appendices Appendix A: Chronology of Constance Maynard’s Life 1849 (19 February) Birth in London. 1853 Family moves to Tunbridge Wells, Kent. 1854 Family moves into Oakfield Lodge, Hawkhurst, Kent. 1863 Attends Belstead School in Ipswich, Suffolk for a year 1869 Experiences ―entire sanctification‖ of holiness piety; Harry Collisson proposes and she refuses. 1872 Visits her cousin Fanny Campbell and her husband, the Classicist, Lewis Campbell in St. Andrews, Scotland. She passes the entrance exam for Hitchin College for Women. Commences her undergraduate degree at Hitchin. 1875 Successfully sits the Moral Tripos examination. 1876 Takes up a part-time position at Cheltenham College as Louisa Lumsden‘s assistant. 1877 Co-founds St. Leonards School for girls in St. Andrews with Lumsden. 1878 Death of mother, Louisa Maynard 1880 Resigns from St. Leonards and moves to London. Commences art course at Slade Art School, University College, London. 1881 Presents ―Some Thoughts on the Cultivation of the Intellect‖ at the Annual Meeting for the Christian Women‘s Union in Liverpool. 1882 Founds Westfield College. 1888 Death of father, Henry Maynard; adoption of Stephanë Fazulo (―Effie Anthon‖) 1905 Publishes The Moral Equivalent of War 1910 Publishes Between College Terms 1913 Retires from Westfield; establishes a home (―Sundial‖) in Little Bookham, Surrey. 1914 Publishes Watching the War: Thoughts for the People. 1915 Death of Anthon. 1916 Publishes A True Mother. 1923 Moves to Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire. 1924 Publishes We Women: A Golden Hope. 1926 Publishes Dora Greenwell: A Prophet for our Own Times on the Battleground of Our Faith. 1927 Publishes Progressive Creation. 1935 (26 March) Dies at home; buried at Gerrards Cross parish church on 29 March. 389 Appendix B: Dates of the Writing of the Autobiography Maynard wrote her autobiography between the years 1915 and 1925. She did not write it in chronological order, but instead started with her adolescence and progressed to 1880. It had initially been her intention to chronicle only her years at Girton and the events leading up to them. Then, in 1925, after five years, she wrote an account of her childhood, her years at Westfield College, and her retirement years. Known dates of writing for the particular sections of the autobiography are as follows: Autobiographical Account Date Written 1849-1864: Childhood 1925 1865-1876: Early adulthood, including Girton College 1915-1916 1876-1879: Cheltenham College and St. Leonards 1918-1919  1879 1917, 1919, 1924 1880-1913: Slade School, Westfield College, Retirement years 1924-1935  1880 1924  1881-1885 1926  1885-1891 1927  1903-1905 1930 
work_q3km4o35wvfxdcc3wi5zyuuplq	----	Microsoft Word - x caricamento.docx UNIVERSITÀ DEGLI STUDI DI MILANO DIPARTIMENTO DI LINGUE E LETTERATURE STRANIERE DOTTORATO DI RICERCA IN LINGUE, LETTERATURE E CULTURE STRANIERE XXVIII Ciclo BETWEEN RHETORIC AND PERFORMATIVITY THE VERBAL AND VISUAL ART OF FOUR MODERNIST WOMEN Tesi di dottorato di: Francesca Chiappini R09991 Tutor: Chiar.ma Prof.ssa Caroline Patey Coordinatore del Dottorato: Chiar.ma Prof.ssa Giuliana Garzone Anno Accademico 2014/2015 To my husband Table of contents Acknowledgments v List of figures vii Chronologies xiii PART I Introduction 1 1. The corpus 3 2. Some methodological considerations 4 2.1. Visual modernity and urban aesthetics 5 2.1.1. Views on modernity 9 2.2. Recent feminist insights 13 2.3. Gendered spaces, gender practices 15 2.4. Performers 20 2.5. The relevance of life-writing 23 2.5.1. From subjectivity to collective consciousness 26 2.6. Life-painting 30 PART II Chapter 1. Form, space and colour 33 1.1. Djuna Barnes’s poetic fait divers 34 1.1.2. Patterns of fall 37 1.1.3. Metamorphic spaces: black and white 43 1.1.4. Synecdoche and the poetics of dismemberment 48 1.2. Zelda’s waltz 52 1.2.1. Fairy-tale colours: hyperboles 53 1.2.1.1.Visual prose 61 1.2.2. Nightmarish colours: plethora and horror vacui 62 1.2.2.1.In excess 67 1.2.2.2.“The vertigo of the list” 69 1.3. Mina Loy’s essential lines 71 1.3.1. Geometrical fascinations 72 1.3.2. Access-line to avant-garde 76 1.3.3. Gendered geometries 81 1.3.4. The rhetoric of gendered line 85 1.4. The Baroness’s erotic corpus 86 1.4.1. Illuminated manuscripts 88 1.4.2. Colouring the verse 93 1.4.3. From idiosyncrasies to hypotyposis 99 1.5. Unaffiliated aesthetics 101 Chapter 2. The lure of the city 103 2.1. Close-ups and snapshots in Djuna Barnes 104 2.1.1. The female Spectator 105 2.1.2. Rhetorical implications 108 2.1.3. Frames: from journalism to fiction 113 2.1.4. Theory and praxis of urban walking 120 2.2. Zelda Fitzgerald’s second birth 122 2.2.1. Subverted perspectives 124 2.2.2. Beyond the frame 128 2.2.3. Hypotaxis and palimpsest: the architecture of vision 133 2.2.4. Urbanised prose 134 2.3. Modern simulacra: Loy’s urban myths 138 2.3.1. Disorienting architectures, degenerate myths 139 2.3.2. Frames and dissolution 146 2.3.3. Haunting city, haunted language 152 2.4. The Baroness’s physical poetry 155 2.4.1. Sexualised city, mechanised body 155 2.4.2. Urbanised language 163 2.4.3. Urbanised faces 169 2.5. Metropolitan paradigms 172 Chapter 3. Remediating the self-portrait 175 3.1. Fraught autobiographies and self-construction 179 3.1.1. Attempts at self-portraits: masquerades 182 3.2. Fiction: proliferation of masks 187 3.2.1. Backfiring alibis: masks in Barnes’s Nightwood 188 3.2.1.1.Masks and space, enclosure and transition 193 3.2.2. Auto/biographical traps in Loy’s Insel 197 3.2.2.1.Delusion, trust and treason 201 3.3. From performance to performativity 204 3.3.1. Issues of genre and gender in women’s modernist theatre 205 3.3.1.1.Disrupting drama: Loy’s The Pamperers 208 3.3.1.2.Appropriating autobiography: Barnes’s The Antiphon 212 3.3.2. Transitions 219 3.4. Into performativity 220 3.4.1. From life-writing to self-staging: Alabama and Zelda 222 3.4.2. A dramatic identity: the Baroness 226 3.4.2.1.Shocking Elsa: gender matters 227 3.4.2.2. Psychogenesis of the Baroness as poet 234 3.4.2.3.New York masks and performative poems 237 3.4.2.4.The final performance of Mamadada 244 Conclusions 249 Bibliography 251 v Acknowledgments With genuine pleasure, I wish to thank various people for their contribution to this project, both inside and outside the University of Milan; without their help, support and advice, this work would have not been possible, nor would it have been so fruitful. First of all, I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Professor Caroline Patey, my research supervisor and tutor at the University of Milan, for her deep and eclectic knowledge, enthusiastic encouragement and useful critiques. Her comments have been fundamental for a convincing arrangement of contents, structuring of the comparative settings, and critical grounding of my approach. Her appreciation of the final work is an incredibly valuable result for me. I would also like to express my gratitude to Professor Emma Wilson, of the University of Cambridge, for her constructive suggestions during the planning and development of this research. Under her guidance I spent my second year of research at the University of Cambridge, where I could enrich my theoretical background and sharpen my critical thinking, thanks to the unlimited availability of library resources. Professor Wilson’s constant support, motivation and friendliness accompanied my work throughout. I also felt honoured beyond words when Professor Irene Gammel, Ryerson University of Toronto – on whose extensive work I based my every reading of the Baroness’s corpus – expressed to me her appreciation of my ideas and considerations, and supported me by endeavouring to find opportunities to collaborate with her in the upcoming future. Besides my academic advisors, I would like to thank Rachel C. Franks, who is just about to complete her degree in Classics at the University of Cambridge. Without her proofreading my arguments would probably not sound as convincing, and my phrasing would not be as neat. Her insightful comments, encouragement, and friendship have been precious for my work, and I cannot imagine a better critical reader. Thanks to Philippa Buckley, also a Cambridge graduate, whose last-minute proofreading has been of perfect timing and help. My fondest gratitude goes to my family. To my husband, who – beside having patiently read my work looking for typos – supported me in the several moments when I vi felt overwhelmed, and when I could not find the necessary concentration. His patience while I was away for research, his love and firm faith in me, which he expressed to me every minute, were invaluable. Thanks to my mother, father and sister, who believed in me as I first engaged in this PhD, and celebrate with me today for having completed it. My gratefulness also goes to my best friends (and bridesmaids), Cristina Berti and Francesca Maino, who, despite distance, backed me up when I did not feel in my best shape, and ignited me with positive energy every time we were on the phone – thanks to Skype. And thanks to Elizabeth Wyatt, dearest friend and best travel companion, who so many times had me as a guest when I had to do research at the British Library in London. Her kind words and caring made me feel beloved on my research trips – and on our leisure trips too. And thanks to Elesse Eddy, whose supportiveness and liveliness so often injected me with optimism and can-do-spirit, thus helping me to put things into perspective. Last but not least, I must thank my fellow PhD students of the Department of English at the University of Milan, particularly Marco Canani, in whose company the long afternoons at the Faculty were enjoyable, and Adele Tiengo, with whom I shared these stressful but immensely rewarding few final months of work. vii List of Figures A: By Djuna Barnes, Zelda Fitzgerald, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, Mina Loy in alphabetical and chronological order. Barnes, Djuna, 1913, “The Tingling, Tangling Tango as ‘Tis Tripped at Coney Isle,” ink on paper, in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, (31 August 1913). Source: New York, ed. Alyce Barry (London: Virago Press). ______, 1913, “Thomas Baird” and “Dan Sheen,” from Veterans in Harness, ink and pencil on paper, in Brooklyn Daily Eagle (12 October – 14 December 1913). ______, 1914, “Though He Is a Diamond in the Rough You Can’t Get Away from Him Without Taking a Memory You Are Not Likely to Forget,” ink on paper, in New York Press, (10 May 1914). Source: Poe’s Mother. Selected Drawings of Djuna Barnes, ed. Douglas Messerli (Los Angeles: Sun and Moon Press, 1995). ______,1915, “Irvin Cobb,” ink of paper, in New York Press, (28 March 1915. Source: Poe’s Mother. Selected Drawings of Djuna Barnes, ed. Douglas Messerli (Los Angeles: Sun and Moon Press, 1995). ______,1915, The Book of Repulsive Women. Ink on paper. Source: The Book of Repulsive Women. 8 Rhythms and 5 Drawings, Djuna Barnes (Manchester: Carcanet, 2003). ______,1917, “Strange Forms Crying to One Another on the Beach,” ink on paper, in New York Morning Telegraph Sunday Magazine, (15 July 1917). Source: New York, ed. Alyce Barry (London: Virago Press). ______, 1919, Self-Portrait. Ink on paper, in Pearson’s Magazine XLV, (December 1919). Source: Poe’s Mother. Selected Drawings of Djuna Barnes, ed. Douglas Messerli (Los Angeles: Sun and Moon Press, 1995). ______,1928, Ryder. Charcoal pencil on paper. Source: Ryder, Djuna Barnes (Champaign; London: Dakley Archive Press, 2010). Fitzgerald, Zelda, 1925-1940, Self-Portrait. Watercolour, at “F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum,” Montgomery, AL. Source: Zelda: An Illustrated Life. The Private World of Zelda Fitzgerald, eds. Eleanor Lanahan et al. (New York: Abrams, 1996). ______, 1940s, Central Park. Gouache on paper (53 x 41,3 cm), at “F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum,” Montgomery, AL. Source: Zelda: An Illustrated Life. The Private World of Zelda Fitzgerald, eds. Eleanor Lanahan et al. (New York: Abrams, 1996). ______, 1944, Pantheon and Luxembourg Gardens. Gouache on paper (37,47 x 53,66 cm), at “F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum,” Montgomery, AL. Source: Source: Zelda: An Illustrated Life. The Private World of Zelda Fitzgerald, eds. Eleanor Lanahan et al. (New York: Abrams, 1996). viii ______, 1944ca, Washington Square. Gouache on paper (34,6 x 46,4 cm), at “F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum,” Montgomery, AL. Source: Zelda: An Illustrated Life. The Private World of Zelda Fitzgerald, eds. Eleanor Lanahan et al. (New York: Abrams, 1996). ______, 1944ca, Notre Dame, Paris. Watercolour and graphite on paper (33,7 x 43,2 cm), at Montgomery Museum of Fine Arts, Montgomery, AL. Source: Zelda: An Illustrated Life. The Private World of Zelda Fitzgerald, eds. Eleanor Lanahan et al. (New York: Abrams, 1996). ______, 1946-1947ca, Puppeufee. Gouache on paper (29,2 x 47,6 cm), at “F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum,” Montgomery, AL. Source: Zelda: An Illustrated Life. The Private World of Zelda Fitzgerald, eds. Eleanor Lanahan et al. (New York: Abrams, 1996). Freytag-Loringhoven (von), Elsa, 1917-1919ca, Earring—Object. Mixed media. Photograph. Mark Kelman Collection, New York. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1920ca, Limbswish. Metal Spring, curtain tassel. Photograph. Mark Kelman Collection. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1920ca, Portrait of Marcel Duchamp. Assemblage of miscellaneous objects in a wine glass. Photograph by Charles Sheeler. Francis M. Naumann Collection, New York. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1922ca, Portrait of Marcel Duchamp. Pastel and collage (31 x 46 cm). Arturo Schwartz Collection (Milan) at Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1922ca, Lullaby. Black ink on paper. The Little Review Records, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Libraries. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1922ca, Tryst. Black ink on Hotel Hudson stationary paper. The Little Review Records, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Libraries. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1923-24, Forgotten – like this Parapluice. Gouache and ink. Marianne Elrick- Manley Fine Art. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1923-1924ca, Dada Portrait of Berenice Abbott. Collage of fabric, paper, glass, cellophane, metal foils, stones, cloth, paint etc. (21,9 x 23,5 cm). Mary Reynolds ix Collection, Museum of Modern Art, New York. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1924ca, Facing. Ink and pastel on foil (19 x 10,8 cm). Francis M. Naumann Fine Art. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag- Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1924ca, Wing of Lucifer. Balck ink on verso of postcard to Djuna Barnes. University of Maryland Library. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1923-1926ca, [I hate hate]. Red ink on paper. Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven Papers, University of Maryland Library. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). Loy, Mina, 1906, L’Amour dorloté par les belles dames. Drawing and gouache. Collection of Roger L. Conover. Source: Becoming Modern: The Life of Mina Loy, Carolyn Burke (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux). ______, 1906, La Maison en papier. Drawing and gouache. Collection of Michael Duncan. Source: Becoming Modern: The Life of Mina Loy, Carolyn Burke (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux). ______, 1905, Self-Portrait. Pencil on paper. Collection of Roger L. Conover. Source: Cultures of Modernism: Marianne Moore, Mina Loy, & Else Lasker-Schüler: Gender and Literary Community in New York and Berlin. Christanne Miller (Ann Arbor, MI : University of Michigan Press, 2005). ______, 1916, “Consider Your Grandmother’s Stays,” ink on paper, in Rogue 3(2), (November 1916). Source: Becoming Modern: The Life of Mina Loy, Carolyn Burke (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux). ______, 1950ca, Househunting. Assemblage, Peggy Guggenheim Collection. Source: Jacket2 5, 1998, Jaketmagazine.com. ______, 1955-1959ca, Christ on a Clothesline. Collage and mixed media in deep glass covered box (105, 4 x 61 cm), at Francis N. Naumann Fine Art, New York. Source: “Daughters of Dada” 8 June – 28 July 2006, Exhibition Catalogue. B: By others [Anonymous], 1926ca, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven with Djuna Barnes on the Beach at Le Crotoy, Normandy. Photograph. Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven Papers, Special Collection, University of Maryland at College Park Libraries. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel x (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). Bain, George Grantham, 1910ca, Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. Photograph. Collection George Grantham Bain, Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag- Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1910ca, Claude McKay and Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. Collection George Grantham Bain, Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). Bernstein, Theresa, 1917ca(a), The Baroness. Pencil on Paper. Collection Francis M. Naumann. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1917ca, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. Oil (30,5 x 23 cm) Collection Francis M. Naumann. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). Coburn, Alvin L., 1905, “Broadway at Night.” Photography, at Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Source: New York Nocturne: The City After Dark in Literature, Painting, and Photography, 1850-1950, William C. Sharpe (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008). International News Photography, 1915, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven [with aviator hat, horizontal pose]. Photograph (December 1915). Bettman/Corbis/Magma Archives, New York. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1915, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven [with crown], Photograph (December 1915). Bettman/Corbis/Magma Archives, New York. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). ______, 1915, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven [with aviator hat, vertical pose]. Photograph (December 1915). Bettman/Corbis/Magma Archives, New York. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). Ray, Man, 1920, Else Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. Photograph in The Little Review (September-December 1920). Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia. Source: Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, eds. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). ______, 1921. Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven (a & b). Photographs in New York Dada, (April 1921). Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia. Source: Baroness Elsa: Gender, Dada, and Everyday Modernity, Irene Gammel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002). xi Stein, Georges, 1901, Notre Dame—Paris. Oil on canvas (60 x 92 cm) Private Collection. Source: Nineteenth-Century European Drawings, Paintings and Sculpture. (New York: Shepherd Gallery, 1979). Stieglitz, Alfred, 1911-1913, “Two Towers—New York.” Photography, at Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Source: Camera Work: A Pictorial Guide, with Reproductions of All 559 Illustrations and Plates, Fully Indexed, ed. Marianne Fulton Margolis (New York: Dover Publishing, 1978). xii xiii Chronologies Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven (1874-1927)1 1874 12th July: birth of Else Hildegard Plötz in Swinemünde, Germany, to Adolf Plötz and Ida Marie Kleist. 1886 Attends Höhere Töchterschule at Kirchplatz 3. 1890 June: graduates at Girl’s Highschool, Swinemünde. 1891 October 1890-March 1891: attends Königlich-Preussische Kunstschule, Berlin. 1893 February: mother dies of uterine cancer. Diagnosed syphilis. Summer: father physically attacks her; escapes to Berlin. 1894 Models for Henry de Vry’s living pictures in Berlin, Halle and Leipzig. Contracts gonorrhoea. 1895 Works as chorus girl at Berlin Zentral Theater. 1896 February: hospitalisation and treatment for syphilis. March: receives small inheritance from mother. Meets artist Melchior Lechter and becomes “the jewel” of his art circle. 1898 Summer: elopes with sculptor and photographer Richard Schmitz, to Switzerland and Italy. Affair with Richard’s brother Oscar A. H. Schmitz in Sorrento. Protodada intrusion into pornographic cabinet in museum in Naples. 1899 Models, designs and paints in her Rome studio supported by Richard Schmitz. 1900 February: briefly lodges with Oscar A. H. Schmitz in Munich. February-March: meets Munich’s avant-garde Kosmiker circle. Autumn: affair with architect August Endell and training as Kunstgewerbler. 1901 July-August: returns to Berlin. August: marries August Endell and settles in the Zehlendorf-Wannsee district. 1 My essential chronology only includes dates, events and publications that seemed to me functional to the reading of my thesis. I selected data from Gammel’s “Chronology” of the Baroness in her biography (2002). xiv December: To Italy with Endell until early 1902. 1902 February: meets archaeology student Felix Paul Greve at Wolfskehl’s in Munich. 1903 January: Embarks for Naples with Greve and Endell. May: Greve called back to Bonn, convicted for fraud and incarcerated for one year. He begins writing Fanny Essler based on Elsa’s sexually explicit letters. 1904 January: divorce from August Endell. Spring: settles in Rome’s Piazza di Spagna. May: reunites with Greve in Germany. 1905 Settles with Greve in Wollerau, Switzerland. Publication of seven jointly written poems under pseudonym “Fanny Essler”. Winter: Greve completes novel Fanny Essler. 1907 August: marries Felix Greve in Berlin-Wilmersdorf. 1908 January: hospitalisation for nervous breakdown. 1909 Summer: Greve stages suicide in Berlin and departs for America. Else continues to reside on Münchnerstrasse and plays role of widow. 1910 June: arrives in New York. Changes her name into Elsa. Unites with Greve in Pittsburgh. 1912 Models in Cincinnati. Felix Paul Greve/Frederick Philip Grove settles in Manitoba. 1913 Settles at 228 West 130th Street, Harlem, New York. February: Armory Show in New York. November: marries Leopold Baron von Freytag-Loringhoven at New York City Hall. 1915 Models at Art Students League and Ferrer School. International News Photography records Elsa’s first original costumes. Begins friendship with Marcel Duchamp. Studio in Lincoln Arcade Building. 1916 First contacts with Djuna Barnes. 1917 Incarcerated on varied occasions. 1918 Returns to New York and settles in unheated loft on Fourteen Street. Intensified artistic activity (Earring-Object and Cathedral sculptures). xv June: Publication of first English poem, “Love-Chemical Relationship” in The Little Review. 1920 Portrait of Marcel Duchamp and Limbswish sculptures. June-August: International Dada Fair held in Berlin. October: The Little Review charged with publishing obscenities for serialising Ulysses. 1921 Visits The Little Review office with her hair shaved and head shellacked. Moves to subbasement at 228 West 18th Street. June: Man Ray’s and Duchamp’s film collaboration: Elsa, Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven, Shaving Her Pubic Hair. 1922 January: starts publishing in the Liberator (“Dornröschen”) June: intervenes at Louis Bouché’s exhibition at the Belmaison Gallery in Wanamaker’s Gallery of Modern Decorative Art. Winter: Portrait of Marcel Duchamp. December: Ezra Pound suggests to Margaret Anderson German publication venues for the Baroness. Moves to Hotel Hudson. 1923 January: publishes in Broom (“Circle”). April: leaves for Berlin-Charlottenburg, Germany. May: Anderson and Heap settle in Paris. Summer-Autumn: correspondence with Abbott, who visits her in Berlin. Dada Portrait of Berenice Abbott and Forgotten-Like This Paraplui(c)e. Application for visa to France denied. Suicidal letters. 1924 June-October: lives in Berlin-Schöneberg, Neue Winterfeldstrasse 10. July: visits French consulate in Berlin with a birthday cake on her head. August: Djuna Barnes visits her in Berlin. May: Hemingway publishes two of the Baroness’s poems in the Transatlantic Review. September: settles at Victoriastrasse 26 in Potsdam. 1925 February-April: resides at the Bodelschwing Home for women in Gottesschutz, Erkner. April: Stays briefly at the Landesirrenanstalt psychiatric asylum in Eberswalde. 1926 Visa granted. April: travels to Paris and settles at the Hôtel Danemark at 21 rue Vavin. June: trip with Djuna Barnes to Le Crotoy on the French Normandy coast. 1927 August: opens modelling school at 7 impasse du Rouet in Paris. Guggenheim types Baroness’s artistic grant letter. October: closes modelling school. Poem “Café du Dome” appears in Transition. 14th December: dies of gas asphyxiation in her apartment at 22 rue Barrault, Paris. xvi Mina Loy (1882-1966)2 1882 27th December: Mina Gertrude Lowy is born in London to Sigmund Felix Lowy, Hungarian Jew, and Julia Bryan, English Evangelical. 1892 Enrolled in Progressive School in Hampstead. 1897 Enrolled in St. John’s Wood School on Elm Tree Road, London. 1900 Sent by father to Munich Künstlerinnenverein. 1902 Returns to London, studies with Augustus John. 1903 Moves to Paris, attends Académie Colarossi. Marries Stephen Haweis. 1904 Alters her surname from Lowy to Loy in 1904, for her submission to the Salon d’Automne in Paris. 1906 Elected member of Salon d’Automne. Enters Gertrude & Leo Stein’s Salon. Separates from Stephen Haweis Gives birth to a daughter from her relationship with French doctor Henry Joël le Savoureux. 1907 Reconciles with Stephen Haweis and moves with him to Florence. 1909 Gives birth to a son to Stephen Haweis. 1913 Paintings exhibited in London. Returns to Paris. Tightens friendship with Mabel Dodge, John Reed, Stein and Toklas. Engages Carl Van Vechten as literary agent. Haweis departs. 1914 Works in Futurist environment, with Papini and Marinetti. Writes Feminist Manifesto, unpublished in Loy’s lifetime, and “Parturition” “Aphorisms on Futurism” published in Camera Work and Trend. 1915 “Love Songs” 1-4 published in inaugural issue of Others: A Magazine of the New Verse Other poems published in Rogue. 1916 Moves to New York, meets Arthur Cravan. 1917 Begins work in lampshade studio. April: completes “Love Songs” (1-34), now titled “Songs to Joannes,” published in Others. Divorces from Haweis. 2 My essential chronology only includes dates, events and publications that seemed to me functional to the reading of my thesis. I selected data from Burke’s biography of Minal Loy (1996). xvii 1918 Marries Cravan in Mexico. Loses him en route to Buenos Aires; he disappears forever. 1919 Gives birth to Cravan’s daughter, whom she would not see again. Returns to Florence. Publication of Auto-Facial-Construction. 1920 Returns to New York. The Pamperers appeared in The Dial’s 1921 Returns to Florence. Haweis kidnaps their son. 1922 Moves to Berlin. 1923 Returns to Paris. Son dies in Haweis’s custody. First part of “Anglo-Mongrels” and “the Rose” published in The Little Review; Lunar Baedecker published by Contact, Paris. Lampshade enterprise grows. 1925 Exhibits art (paintings, drawings, design work) in New York and Connecticut. 1926 New lampshade shop in Paris. 1927 Appears at Natalie Barney’s salon and lectures on Gertrude Stein. 1930 Sells lampshade shop. In 1930s starts working on Insel, published posthumous in 1991. 1931 Becomes Paris art agent for son-in-law Julien Levy, New York art dealer. 1933 Exhibitions of her paintings in Connecticut and New York. 1936 Returns to New York. Lives with her daughters in midtown. Increasingly reclusive and distracted, except for strong friendship with Joseph Cornell. 1948 Moves to 2nd St., then Stanton St., near the Bowery, lives in a communal home. Begins working on three-dimensional assemblages and “enlightenment poems.” 1953 Moves to Aspen, Colorado, to join daughters and grandchildren. 1958 Jonathan Williams publishes Lunar Baedeker & Time-Tables. 1959 Exhibitions of her assemblages in New York. 1966 25th September: dies of pneumonia. xviii Djuna Barnes (1892-1982)3 1892 12th June: Djuna Chappel Barnes is born to Wald Barnes, unsuccessful painter, composer and musician, and Elizabeth in Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York. Raised by her paternal grandmother, Zadel Turner Barnes, writer, journalist, and Women’s Suffrage activist who had once hosted an influential literary salon. 1897 Fanny Faulkner, Wald’s mistress, moves in with Djuna’s family. 1910 Summer: Common-law marriage between Djuna and Percy Faulkner. Move in Bridgeport, Conn. Later in summer: leaves Faulkner and returns to her family farm in Huntington. 1912 July: Elizabeth separates from husband and takes Djuna and her brothers to New York. September: enters Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. November: moves with mother and brothers at 1320 Ward Avenue, Morris Park, Bronx. 1913 March: leaves Pratt Institute. June: her illustrated articles begin appearing in the Brooklyn Eagle. 1914 Submits to force-feeding for article on New York World magazine, in support of hunger-striking suffragists. 1915 Moves from mother’s dwelling to Greenwich Village, at 42 Washington Square South, then 220 West 14th Street. November: publishes The Book of Repulsive Women on Bruno’s Weekly. Attends Art Students League of New York. 1916 Meets Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. November: publishes the first report of the Baroness’s costuming. 1917 16 May: granmother Zadel dies of uterine cancer in Huntington. 1919 May 1917-June 1919 lives with Courtenay Lemon in Greenwich Village. 1921 Sent as correspondent to Paris by McCall’s. September: trip to Berlin. October: meets Thelma Wood in Paris. 1923 Story collection A Book is published by Boni and Liveright. September: moves in with Thelma Wood at 173, boulevard Saint-Germain, Paris. 3 My essential chronology only includes dates, events and publications that seemed to me functional to the reading of my thesis. I selected data from Herring’s “Chronology” of Djuna Barnes in his biography (1995). xix 1927 August: moves with Wood into recently purchased flat at 9, rue Saint-Romain, Paris. 1928 Ryder and Ladies Almanack are published. 1929 Djuna and Wood separate. A Night Among the Horses, revised version of A Book. is published by Boni & Liveright. 1930 Returns to New York. 1932 August: spends month with Penny Guggenheim and entourage at Hayford Hall, England. 1936 February: works for the WPA, compiling a guide to New York City. Much of the year is spent between London and Paris. Nightwood is published in London by Faber & Faber, with a forward of T.S. Eliot. 1937 July: Paris apartment is sold. August: moves to London. The American edition of Nightwood is published by Harcourt, Brace and Howe. 1939 February: Peggy Guggenheim takes her to nursing home for treatment of alcoholism. July: moves to Paris, lives at Hôtel Récamier. October: Returns to New York. 1940 March: sent by family to sanatorium on Lake George, New York. May: travels to Arizona ranch to live with Emily Coleman. June: returns to New York. September: moves into 5 Patchin Place, Greenwich Village. 1958 The Antiphon is published by Faber & Faber. 1982 Taken to nursing home in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. 18th June: dies in Patchin Place. Creatures in an Alphabet published. xx Zelda Fitzgerald (1900-1948)4 1900 24th July: Zelda is born in Montgomery, Alabama, youngest of six children, to Minerva Buckner and Anthony Dickinson Sayre, justice of Supreme Court of Alabama. 1914 Enrolled in Sidney Lanier High School. Starts taking ballet lessons. 1918 Graduates from Sidney Lanier High School. June: Scott is assigned to Camp Sheridan near Montgomery, Alabama. Zelda and Scott meet at Montgomery Country Club Dance. 1920 Scott and Zelda marry at St Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. Honeymoon at Biltmore Hotel. May: Fitzgeralds rent house at Westport, Connecticut. 1921 Zelda gives birth to Frances “Scottie” Fitzgerald. October 1920-April 1921: Fitzgeralds take apartment at 38 West 59th Street, New York City. May-July: Fitzgeralds make first trip to Europe; sail to England, then visit France and Italy. Return home and visit Montgomery. 1922 November 1921-June 1922: Fitzgeralds rent house at 626 Goodrich Avenue, St. Paul. April: “Friend Husband’s Latest,” review of Scott’s The Beautiful and Damned, appears in The New York Tribune as Zelda’s first commercial publication. 1922 June: writes essay “Eulogy on the Flapper” for Metropolitan Magazine. Summer: Fitzgeralds move to White Bear Yacht Club. 1923 Fitzgeralds find themselves in debt. 1924 October 1922-April 1924: Fitzgeralds rent house at 6 Gateway Drive in Great Neck, Long Island. Zelda’s essay “Does a Moment of Revolt Come Sometime to Every Married Man?” appears in McCall’s. Zelda starts painting as a hobby. Probably starts working at her Self- Portrait. Mid-April: Fitzgeralds sail for France. They visit Paris, then leave for Riviera; stop at Grimm’s Park Hotel in Hyères and settle in June at Villa Marie, Valescure, St. Raphaël. 1925 February: Fitzgeralds travel to Rome and Capri April: Fitzgeralds move back to Paris; rent apartment at 14 rue de Tilsitt. 4 My essential chronology only includes dates, events and publications that seemed to me functional to the reading of my thesis. I selected data from Milford’s biography of Zelda Fitzgerald (1983). xxi 1926 January: takes “cure” at Salies-de-Béarn. December: Fitzgeralds return to America. 1927 March 1927-March 1928: Fitzgeralds rent “Ellerslie,” near Wilmington, Delaware. 1928 April-August: Fitzgeralds return to Paris; rent apartment at 58 rue de Vaugirard. Mid-summer: Zelda begins ballet training with Mme. Lubov Egorova. 1929 Invited to join San Carlo Opera Ballet Company in Naples, but declines. June: Fitzgeralds leave Paris for Riviera; rent Villa Fleur des Bois, Cannes. October: Fitzgeralds return to Paris by way of Provence; take apartment at 10 rue Pergolese. 1930 Five short stories published for College Humor. February: Scott and Zelda travel to North Africa. March: Zelda is diagnosed as a schizophrenic and admitted to Malmaison Clinic outside Paris; she discharges herself. May: hospitalised at Val-Mont Clinic in Glion, Switzerland. June: enters Prangins clinic at Nyon, Switzerland. 1931 September: released from Prangins. Fitzgeralds return to America. Rent house at 819 Felder Avenue in Montgomery. 1932 February: second breakdown; enters Phipps Psychiatric Clinic of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. March: completes first draft Save Me the Waltz, while at Phipps Clinic. June: discharged from Phipps. October: Publication of Save Me the Waltz. 1934 February: third breakdown; returns to Phipps Clinic. March: transferred to Craig House, Beacon, New York. March-April: Zelda’s art exhibition in New York – received unenthusiastically. May: transferred back to Sheppard-Pratt Hospital outside Baltimore. 1936 Enters Highland Hospital in Asheville. 1940 April: discharged from Highland Hospital; lives with her mother at 322 Sayre Street in Montgomery. December: Scott dies. 1940s Realises some of her most famous canvases, whose precise dating is not available. Of those analysed in this thesis, Central Park is attributed to the early forties; Pantheon and Luxembourg Gardens, Washington Square, Notre xxii Dame, Paris were probably painted around 1944. Puppeufee was realised between 1946 and 1947. In the late forties, Zelda also realises the Alice in Wonderland set, and other fairy-tales-inspired gouaches; she also completes a cycle displaying biblical scenes, as a result from her newly embraced Catholic faith. 1947 Returns to Highland Hospital from Montgomery. 1948 10th March: Zelda dies in a fire at the Highland Hospital in 1948 and is buried in Rockville, Maryland, alongside Scott. 1 Part I Introduction You cannot paint it today as you painted yesterday. You cannot paint tomorrow as you paint today. […] But how and as you will – paint it today. H.D. (1921) he early twentieth century witnessed a special intensity in the relationship among different forms of artistic expression. Cases of osmosis multiplied between writing and painting, entailing the negotiation of techniques, giving voice to a myriad of hybrid forms. As argued by Johanna Drucker (1994),5 modernism was the movement that more than others promoted a unique tightness between visual and verbal, which often resulted into interesting overlaps. Several artistic partnerships between artists and writers of the twentieth century come to mind to show how fruitful the interaction between these two expressivities was; even when contacts were not direct between artist and writer, contemporary criticism has highlighted fascinating analogies among compositive choices.6 On the background of these lively interactions, gender introduces a significant variation that underlies and accompanies many celebrated artistic bonds within women’s modernist and ‘post-modernist’ contexts – like the Left Bank in Paris7 and Greenwich Village in New York.8 5 Johanna Drucker, 1994, Theorizing Modernism: Visual Art and the Critical Tradition. (Chichester; New York: Columbia University Press). 6 A fascinating example could be the one provided by Crivelli (2003), Lo sguardo narrato, which highlights suggestive symmetries between Virgina Woolf’s and Wassili Kandinski’s formal choices. 7 See Shari Benstock, 1987, Women of the Left Bank: Paris, 1900-1940 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002); Andrea Weiss, 1995, Paris was a Woman: Portraits from the Left Bank (San Francisco: Harper). 8 See Christine Stansell, 2000, American Moderns: Bohemian New York and the Creation of a New Century (New York: Metropolitan Books). T Part I 2 My contribution to this already rich field of research is to investigate the cases of some female writers who were artists at the same time, as they occupy a position of their own in the already fascinating frame of writing-artistic partnership. Their experience of word and image seems to be much more organic both in their works of art and writing; the texture entangling exchanges of expressive techniques and gender awareness appears to be particularly dense, unmediated and spontaneous, original and more dynamic. It is interesting to observe how these female artists’ twin talents of writing and painting clearly influenced verbal and visual choices in terms of genres, forms and patterns. In addition, these women traced their own paths as divergent from that of men’s, both of the past and of their time. My investigation is grounded in the early twentieth century, in the fertile field of European and American modernism(s). The early twentieth century is an intense period for women, who endeavour to define their role in society and to newly legitimise their position in the panorama of the modern city. They also acquire new exposure in the context of art and literature, where, more than in the past centuries, they are in a position to find new identities. Gender awareness certainly contributes to form this new artistic identity, but cannot be simplistically understood as an umbrella term. It contributes substantially but very differently in the wroks of the women artists considered in this thesis, and usually problematises further the relationship between writing and painting, rather than clarifying it. Fortunately, the level of intentionality and of critical awareness in experimentation demonstrated by these artists, together with the rich critical work on the facets of such artistic dynamism, has provided a sound base for this thesis. Nonetheless, it has triggered further questioning on some aspects still little explored, including possible de-coding of the regularities and patterns which occur in the bonds between art, writing and gender. In the already extensive criticism of (some of) these artists, there seems to be a still little trodden path of intermediality, upon which my thesis aims to expand. Such intermediality binds texts to visual art, to gender politics and performativity in a way that needs a systematic outlook. The interconnectedness of verbal and visual means of communication urges a methodological proceeding that crosses different critical frameworks into new combinations, so as to account for such complex interactions. 1. The corpus 3 1. The corpus In this (gendered) conversation between image and word, the women writers and artists I have chosen to explore offer a very fascinating hunting ground. Specifically, Djuna Barnes, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, Mina Loy, and Zelda Fitzgerald appear to share artistic milieux and similar biographical experiences, so that they fit comparative settings. On the transnational chessboard of modernism, these four women moved among major centres – including London, Berlin, Munich, Paris, Italy and New York – to weave a complex network of ‘upstream modernism’. Some of them met, like Djuna Barnes and Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, who found themselves working side by side (though not together) in the New York of the 1910s, and in the Paris of the 1920s. Mina Loy too had contacts with Djuna Barnes in Paris, as we learn from some vignettes of Barnes, and from some hints in the writings of Gertrude Stein. Zelda Fitzgerald, also in Paris in the 1920s, seems not to partake in the relationships binding the other three authors; in fact, she only began writing and painting extensively in the 1930s. Yet, she shows several fascinating affinities with the others. Analysing these four writers together gives an opportunity to study a sort of alternative pantheon of modernism, not only from a gender perspective, but from a comparative perspective too. Their works show how contacts between composite techniques belonging to verbal and visual languages ground on common rhetorical basis. Therefore, my thesis will be structured in two main sections. The first and relatively brief introductory one will pinpoint some methodological directions, a specifically angled recognition of the studies that have so far dealt with the interactions among gender, words and images; of the different schools of criticism, I will focus on those which provide useful methodologies to the analysis of the selected corpus. The second section will stage comparative close reading and close observation, with the aim to identify formal correspondences between verbal and composing techniques. Such correspondences occur so frequently, in fact, that they trigger reflection on the reasons why and on the ways in which they are implicated in the creative process: the use of colour and the expansion on the surface, the portrait as verbal and visual genre, the use of the frame, the presence of the mask recur extensively in both the verbal and visual works considered, so that they can be identified as potential patterns of two Part I 4 analogous processes of creation. The third chapter will access an even less stable field of analysis, at the cross-road among literature, performance and performativity. Here, the mask appears as a remediated form of both the self-portrait and the autobiography, which stages processes of self-construction, rather than of self-displaying. As the self- portrait can be referred to as both a visual and verbal trope, its modern application, the mask, proves a fascinating site of interdisciplinary and intermedial analysis. For my comparative sets, I only chose the works of visual and verbal art that best suit the exploration of the common rhetorical ground, although such choice implicates considerable shifts in geographical and temporal terms. Since I also chose not to include sections dedicated to the biographies of the writers, in order to avoid excessive digression, I included selected chronologies as preliminary reading. Still, I will provide relevant information on the lives and works, as I propose my comparative analysis. 2. Some methodological considerations Clearly, the women writers under analysis have already been targeted by critical approaches, but in very different measures. For instance, Djuna Barnes immediately attracted the attention of the critics for being the (writing and drawing) pen of New York 1910s journalism, and later for becoming one of the most noteworthy writers of the Left Bank in Paris. Mina Loy too became almost immediately notorious, initially for her visual art, and then for her poetry. Elsa von Freytag Loringhoven, by contrast, endured a long period of critical neglect, only to be addressed by criticism in the early 2000s.9 In all cases, the visibility of the artists’ works owes much to feminist criticism. It was second-wave feminism, in particular, that was largely responsible for the re- evaluation of Zelda Fitzgerald, whose legacy had been long overshadowed by the name of her husband and by her later schizophrenia-affected years; still, her struggle for assessing her identity as a woman artist is not the only interesting aspect. 9 The first collection of the the Baroness’s uncensored work is dated only 2011, witht Gammel’s Body Sweats. 2. Some methodological considerations 5 Despite having gone through different reception and appreciation, these writers are united by geographical and artistic transitions, and by the peculiarity of being constantly in conversation, and in contrast, with other expressions of men’s avant- garde. In the paragraphs that follow, I will try to chart the most relevant aspects of the interactions between their art and writing, and will briefly design the most useful critical means, which I will then employ in the close analysis. 2.1. Visual modernity and urban aesthetics The study of the interaction between images and literature is a long- and well- established critical tradition, which since the sixteenth century has been exploring the connection between visual art and literature; although it has changed, evolved and adapted to suit various combinations, visual studies remains a hotspot of interest at this time. As a research approach, visual studies has been at the cutting edge throughout centuries thanks to a great versatility: though applied to different cases, it could – and still does – always provide the opportunity to engage in the relations and osmotic processes which take place between words and images, especially in the avant-gardes of the twentieth century. Clearly, some names from the twentieth century resonate in the background of my analysis, such as the studies of Panofsky in the field of art criticism, and the achievements of Mitchell for pinpointing some tenets of the naturally dynamic field of the visual studies. Yet, it is impossible to quote all the authors who nurtured such vast critical field. Indeed, the very elusiveness of visual studies provides the epistemological resiliency necessary to confront the unclear and mutable structures and dynamics occurring between verbal and visual languages. The boundaries of the research area of the visual studies is hard to define, since it borders on neighbouring fields such as art history, media studies, visual anthropology, critical theory, cultural studies, and aesthetics. Part I 6 As James Elkins argued in 2013,10 thus further developing his 200311 introductory reflections, the study field of the visual studies is more easily defined as distinct from other strains of art criticism, rather than as a clearly identified research area: In particular, I think it is crucial that visual studies takes images as examples of political, gender, and other issues. When that happens, cultural and philosophic criticism can take center stage, and images that are presented, at first, as enabling moments in the critique can become merely exemplary. A sign that an image is being used as an example is that the author's points about gender, subjectivity, political identity, or other subjects might be made just as well without the image. (Elkins 2013: 27) Elkins’s observations sound particularly relevant for the approach of the works that I have chosen, where formal aspects including line, colour, and shape intertwine on canvas with political, gender, and social issues. The twentieth century offers particularly challenging material for visual studies approaches: Whatever we decide to make of visual practices, it is best if we do it in full awareness of the fact that the desire to interpret may take us in directions that ruin the very theories and concepts we want to use and even undermine our understanding of the objects that we set out to study. Visual studies is easy because it has already asked and answered the big questions, giving its authors the freedom to take pleasure in all the bizarre and quirky productions of contemporary culture. […] We need to become irritated at our favourite theories and theorists and tired of our usual list of visual objects. Visual studies should be ferociously difficult, as obdurate and entangled in power as the images themselves. (Elkins 2003: 201) Particularly, the visual dimension in the corpus I designed is majorly articulated by the artists’ urban experiences; this trait invites me, therefore, to mainly turn to the methodologies of the visual studies which better explore the paradigms of verbal and visual representation of the urban panorama. The wide range of such applications certainly resonates of Henri Lefebvre’s work, La Prodution de l’espace (1974), where 10 James Elkins, 2013, Theorizing Visual Studies: Writing through the Discipline (London; New York: Routledge). 11 James Elkins, 2003, Visual Studies: A Skeptical Introduction (London; New York: Routledge). 2. Some methodological considerations 7 he explored the importance of space in the social formation of space and spatial meanings. His work also inevitably grounds on Michel Foucault’s studies of the late 1970s on spatial order and the network of power, where the paradigm power- knowledge offers a theoretical perspective to interpret the role of the urban space in the formation of cultural and social dynamics. I tried however to focus my glance on some studies that seemed particularly suitable to the texts and artworks selected, especially those addressing the representation of mainly two cities, Paris12 and New York, in their specific twentieth-century topographies. The idea of space changes radically at the beginning of the twentieth century and heavily affects the self-perception of the individual in relation to what surrounds them; the subject is now understood as a metaphorical, psychic space in relation to the geographical and metaphorical spaces surrounding him/her. De Certeau, Laura Marcus, and Karen Jacobs elaborated the concept of a new space, mainly embodied in the modern city, but metaphorically existing at many levels of human perception. In The Practice of Everyday Life (1984), Michel de Certeau developed the two concepts of space already identified by Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of perception; what in Merleau-Ponty were ‘geometrical space’ and ‘anthropological space’, become for De Certeau ‘place’ and ‘space’. The concept of space is, in particular, further complicated, and proves relevant as a theoretical ground for the close analysis which I will develop on the case studies: A space exists when one takes into consideration vectors of direction, velocities, and time variables. Thus space is composed of intersections of mobile elements. Thus space is composed of intersections of mobile elements. It is in a sense actuated by the ensemble of movements deployed within it. Space occurs as the effect produced by the operations that orient it, situate it, temporalize it, and make it function in a polyvalent unity of conflictual programs or contractual proximities. On this view, in relations to place, space is like the word when it is spoken, that is, when it is caught in the ambiguity of an actualization, transformed into a term dependant upon many different conventions […] and modified by the transformations caused by successive contexts. (1984: 117) 12 Relevant studies, including Benjamin’s Paris: Capital of the Nineteenth Century, and Prendergast’s Writing the City: Paris and the Nineteenth Century, address the dynamics of space of the French metropolis in formation. Part I 8 According to the dynamic understanding of the concept of space, the ‘self’ can be represented as a (not necessarily harmonic) space, framed by boundaries which may or may not be easily crossed. Outside the frame of his/her self-space, the subject meets other individuals, other self-spaces, within the wider frame of society – a collective space. According to this perspective, society is configured as a space inclusive of other spaces, whose boundaries cross, clash, and overlap in a horizontal complex texture. But spaces within society work vertically and hierarchically too. Eventually, thus complicating even further an already intricate picture, all the metaphorical space- entities (‘anthropological spaces’) move and interact on an actual geographical space, defined as ‘place’. A place (lieu) is the order (of whatever kind) in accord with which elements are distributed in relationships of coexistence. It thus excludes the possibility of two things being in the same location (place). The law of the ‘proper’ rules in the place: the elements taken into consideration are beside one another, each situated in its own 'proper' and distinct locations, a location it defines. A place is thus an instantaneous configuration of positions. It implies an indication of stability. (De Certeau 1984: 117) The ontological diversity between ‘place’ and ‘space’ lies in the presence or absence of stability. The complication of what sounds theoretically perfect is embodied in the interaction between ‘place’ and ‘space’ in reality. The ‘place’ is only immutable and stable in the theoretical instant, which in the reality needs to be framed within time. The specific configuration of a place only exists in the time of its experiencing by the subjects, and can therefore maintain that particular configuration for a limited time interval. As De Certeau argues, “a space is a practiced place. Thus the street geometrically defined by urban planning is transformed into a space by walkers.” (118) Such a metaphor proves particularly suitable to the texts, as it conveys the dual nature of the city. The city as a theoretical entity is defined as a gathering of places, it has its geographical and geometrical stability, which constitutes its margin of objectivity; the modern city, setting and object of many of the works in question, evolves and changes rapidly, so that it reduces its margin of stability. However, the city exists for, and is experienced by its subjects, or ‘anthropological spaces’, who differently practice its 2. Some methodological considerations 9 places. A city does not exist until it is actualised in its dynamic space. The most evident consequence of such a process already explains ambiguities of dualism as centre vs. periphery, which will be a nodal point in the analysis of the corpus. De Certeau’s formulation proves useful for the definition of ‘space’ as a fundamental topos of modernity; in the corpus I defined, it is the trope of the geographical space, either objective or experienced by the subject; it is an existential topos, the frame of mind of the individual who perceives the self; it is a representational trope, the artist’s tool to picture the self as un/related to other subjects and to geographical places and experienced spaces. As an archetype of modern perception and representation, the ‘space’ is an active frame in all the works considered, either literary or visual.. In the wake of such critical framework, it sounds relevant that Djuna Barnes focused on the representation of the city as a place, on the crystallisation of a specific, instant configuration of the city into sketches, articles and short stories. Conversely, Zelda Fitzgerald was deeply affected by the ephemeral connotation of the modern place and thus committed her work to the representation of the (same) city as an emotional space. In all the artists, though, it is interesting to witness how experience transforms a place into a dynamic ‘space’, filtered by the frames of the self – among which, of course, gender awareness. The artists often try to establish a centre, a reference point in opposition to which they can define themselves; thus, they attempt to represent their geographical and metaphorical positions within ‘practiced places’ and in relation to others’ ‘anthropological spaces’. 2.1.1. Views on modernity Grounding on Benjamin’s formulations (which I will also use in several moments), Deborah Parsons’s (2000)13 and Laura Marcus’s (2013)14 considerations provide a useful framework. Their studies stress how gender frames a woman’s understanding 13 Deborah Parsons, 2000, Streetwalking the Metropolis: Women, the City, and Modernity (Oxford: Oxford University Press). 14 Laura Marcus, 2013 “Modernism and Visual culture,” in A Handbook of Modernism Studies, ed. by Jean-Michel Rabaté (Chichester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons), pp. 239-255. Part I 10 of the outside world in a way that is always influenced by her point of view, even when she tries to take an unemotional perspective of a place – this idea will prove helpful to address Djuna Barnes’s New York journalism. As Parson argues, a women’s gaze is never ‘gender neutral,’ yet the role of gender is never fixed and is not always easily traceable in a text. Laura Marcus arrives to similar conclusions, when, like Deborah Parsons, she investigates modernism as the outcome of the evolution of the point of view in the early twentieth century. Laura Marcus’s essay “Modernism and Visual culture,” published in 2013, explains how modernism is still one of the most appealing and suitable investigation fields of the contemporary age to theorise and speculate on the connection between visual and verbal: Many modernist writers turned with exceptional frequency and fullness to the visual arts, in their endeavours to define and work through questions of aesthetics and ideology, including issues concerning representation and mimesis, the nature of “the image,” realism and anti-realism, temporality and consciousness, organic form, and artistic and cultural evolution. To this extent, literary modernism is a visual culture. (Marcus 2013: 239) According to Marcus, who builds on Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of its Mechanical Reproducibility” (1936), modernism saw one main change in the human understanding of the outside world – and consequently of the inner dimension. The introduction of technological forms displaced the value of artistic realism, introduced the idea of mechanical reproducibility, and undermined any artistic claim for originality. Technological devices necessitated a new understanding of the concept of point of view, now mediated by a mechanical frame. For both Parsons and Marcus, the fullest embodiment of such a revolution in the conceptualisation of ‘point of view’ and ‘perspective’ is to be witnessed in cinema, which had a significant resonance on literature. 2. Some methodological considerations 11 Originated from technology’s impact on art,15 the ‘mind’s eye’ is defined as the artist’s framing of reality, a mediation tool which works similarly to the camera- eye in cinema, and cannot be fully identified with the concept of point of view; such a reflection is essential in the approach of Zelda Fitzgerald’s work, that presents a ‘double’ point of view, at once objective and emotional. The ‘mind’s eye’ preserves a dimension of creativity and originality which combines the artist’s point of view and representational strategies. The concept of the ‘mind’s eye’ works aprioristically in different forms of art, as it belongs to the human, experiencing person, before being actualised in visual or verbal texts. The mind’s eye, understood as a frame of understanding for the anthropological space, is what allows the modern man and the modernist artist to relate with others within the geographical and experienced places of modernity. As such, it arouses questions on the nature and changes that happened in the experiencing consciousness and, sometimes, pushes to approach concepts such as reflection and mirroring as frames of self/perception. The mind’s eye permeates modernist and verbal visual texts, more or less explicitly, to problematise the modern triangle self-other(s)-context. In the texts that I will analyse, the context will mostly be the modern city, the quintessential ‘space’ of modernity, according to De Certeau. In addition, Karen Jacobs (2001)16 expands on the dynamics of the act of viewing in modernist writing and painting, better defining the mind’s eye as a process. Such are the words she uses to describe the mechanism of seeing and representing, explained as a “retrospective metanarrative” encapsulating the ways in which “the gaze and its objects collude to produce meaning in many modernists texts” (Jacobs 2001: 1): 15 As a reproduction of the real world, cinema impacted “literature, philosophy, human perception, the history of dreaming.” (Marcus 2013: 240) In doing so, cinema shifted the artistic focus from the subjects and scenes represented – and from the way they were depicted – to the narrating perspective from which they are observed; the point of view becomes, in other words, the only passage in the dynamics of representation which leaves space to the artistic touch. When Laura Marcus, building on Fredric Jameson (1990), claims that human mind and understanding of the world have changed, she explains how they developed on the idea of the ‘mind’s eye’; a modernist understanding of the ‘mind’s eye’ is an entirely new concept defined as an equivalent of the ‘camera-eye’, the new form the human point of view. As phrased by Fredric Jameson: “Did human nature change on or about December 28, 1895?” (the date of the first screening of films by the Lumière brothers) “Or was some cinematographic dimension of human reality always there somewhere in prehistoric life, waiting to find its actualization in a certain high-technical civilization? (and thereby now allowing us to reread and rewrite the past now filmically and as the philosophy of the visual)?” Fredric Jameson (1990), Signatures of the Visible. 16 Karen Jacobs, 2001, The Eye's Mind: Literary Modernism and Visual Culture (Ithaca, NY; London: Cornell University Press). Part I 12 On the one side resides the subject lens, whose cultural transparency and symbolic agency are conjoined in the union of look and word; on the other side lingers the silent object to which it is wedded, the precarious but necessary body destined to disappear. The gaze deployed in this relation may be characterized at once as means of knowing and as a weapon of embodiment, suggesting and anxious recognition of the fundamental dependency and antipathy between the two. (Jacobs 2001 :1) Jacobs argues how the Western tradition (dating from Descartes) promoted a disembodied observer, predicated on the “disavowal of its own embodiment” to achieve knowledge. Although this position may be further discussed, it is undeniable that the escalating dominance of the image at the turn of the twentieth century questions the fantasy of a transparent subject. (Ibid.) The idea of the image as penetrating and mediating any sphere of social life influences the understanding of the self, more and more perceived as an experiencing body, or, as an embodied image – “afterimage,” for Jacobs. The modernist period focuses on the body which stays behind the neutral lens of the observer, and searches for new ways of knowing through the participant-observer. As a consequence of such a process,17 modernism proclaims and consolidates the need for new visual techniques, understood as distinct kinds of observers and visual relationships. As the modernist observer’s posture of neutral detachment is continually denaturalized and subjectivized from the beginnings of the twentieth century [...] I ask, how does “the eye in the text” renegotiate its relation to forms of knowledge and power? (Jacobs 2001: 3) According to Karen Jacobs, the dominance of the image requires the subject to re-think itself as a body and the Other as a knowing embodied self. This radical change in self- perception and in all the knowing relations issued by the subject is the cipher of modernism, and the new mind’s frame which underlies most modernist works. What 17 The emergence of these new kinds of visual relations is, according to Jabcobs, dependent in fact on three related cultural developments contemporary with the rise of modernism: “the impact of newly skeptical philosophical discourses of vision,” which Jacobs identifies with psychoanalysis, Marxism, and existential philosophy, “the accelerating impact of visual technologies, such as photography and film” and the “emergence of anthropology and sociology as academic disciplines.” (Jacobs 2001: 2) 2. Some methodological considerations 13 is a paradigm of the ‘being’ becomes a paradigm of ‘representation’, differently textured in each work of modernist writing and visual art. Jacobs holds the ‘embodiment of the observer’ as the key change in the perceptive mechanism of the modernist individual. A closely related issue follows in Jacobs’s reasoning, which relates the agency of the gaze to gender; Jacobs uses the discussions of the relationship between the observing subject and its embodiment to further investigate how the female observer becomes an experiencing (and performing) body. In her picturing of society, the context is provocatively traditional, conforming to patriarchal frames. Women’s artistic ambition is perceived as a “usurpation” of “cultural prerogatives” (Jacobs 2001: 257), and is transferred into the body metaphor as a violence of women on men. Instancing Judith Butler’s positions, Jacobs shows how gender is purely performative, legitimised by a social system of convention and how, as such, it does not necessarily correspond to sexuality, a biological fact. Between natural sexuality and performative gender, Jacobs places the subject, the body. The complex process from sexuality to gender through the subject’s body is run by the embodied mind’s eye, which experiences the outside world through internal and external frames. In the case of women, the embodiment of subjectivity into a gendered performative identity experiences the prejudice imposed by a chauvinistic frame, and struggles for legitimacy. As part of the process through which the mind’s eye observes and represents the world, the woman’s body underlies any artistic representation of the city and individuals inside it. Developed by the mind’s eye into gender, the modernist woman’s body is at once subject and object, as well as frame and narrative technique. 2.2. Recent feminist insights Feminist approaches to literary criticism have proved essential to the re-evaluation of the corpus under analysis, which often went unnoticed upon first publications. As argued by Peter Barry (2002),18 feminist critical readers treated “literature as a series 18 Peter Barry, 2002, “Feminism literary criticism,” in Beginning Theory: An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory (Manchester: Manchester University Press), pp.124-138. Part I 14 of representations of women’s lives and experience” and therefore places “considerable emphasis on the use of [...] non-literary material (such as diaries, memoirs, social and medical history) in understanding a literary text” (Barry 2002: 124). Gayle Greene and Coppelia Kahn’s contribution to feminist literary criticism,19 for instance, were groundbreaking in this sense, and so were Elaine Showalter’s critical readings,20 which were oriented to the appreciation of the need for specific spectacles to read women’s texts. Feminist insights from the 1990s and 2000s, which have been gathered under the umbrella term of third-wave feminism,21 have widened the range of applications of feminist readings, expanding the focus onto sexuality, challenging categorisations, abolishing expectations and stereotypes, and defending sex-related art, pornography and sex-positivity. In the introduction to this sort of ‘third-wave feminism’ in Manifesta, the authors Jennifer Baumgardner and Amy Richards suggest that feminism can change with every generation and individual; they claim that belonging to feminism as an emancipated system of frameworks in various disciplines should not constrain women’s criticism to homologation: “We’re not doing feminism the same way that the seventies feminists did it; being liberated doesn’t mean copying what came before but finding one’s own way – a way that is genuine to one’s own generation” (Baumgardner and Amy Richards 2001: 130).22 Basing on such assumptions, third-wave feminism expanded further to include critical fronts also embraced by gender studies, its neighbouring discipline. Recent feminist criticism has been extremely helpful in the articulation of the body as a central critical notion; such an insight is particularly helpful in approaching the Baroness’s corpus, for instance, where body and sexuality need to be appreciated as experiential tools used to gain knowledge of the world. In “Writing the Body,”23 Ann Rosalind 19 Gayle Greene and Coppelia Kahn (eds.), 1985, Making a Difference: Feminist Literary Criticism (London: Routledge). 20 Elaine Showalter (ed. by), 1985, The New Feminist Criticism: Essays on Women. Literature and Theory (London: Virago). 21 The term ‘third-wave feminism’ was coined by Rebecca Walker in the essay “Becoming the Third Wave” dated 1992, which became the manifesto for the third wave’s attempt to broaden feminism’s scope. 22 Jennifer Baumgardner and Amy Richards, 2001, Manifesta: Young Women, Feminism, and the Future (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux). 23 Ann Rosalind Jones, 1986, “Writing the Body. Toward an Understanding of ‘l’écriture féminine’ Feminist Studies,” in Feminist Literary Theory. A Reader, ed. by Mary Eagleton (Oxford: Basil Blackwell), pp. 328-331. 2. Some methodological considerations 15 Jones suggests how women “gained a greater spontaneity and abundance in body and language” (Jones 1986: 328) once they became aware of the implications of body ownership. The body has been the key to the appropriation of feminine spaces on behalf of women, and has signified an overturn in the semantic use of the term and in the appropriation of language. However, the leap between body and language has not been immediate. Verbal hesitancy, due to a society dominated by men’s aesthetic and rhetoric, needed to be overcome; women’s language was conquered at a mass level, but was far from being a spontaneous outpouring of the body. Often, in Djuna Barnes and Loy, for instance, the process of writing takes the metaphoric shape of the body, twisted and in pain, to signify the difficulties met in the attempt to overcome the obstacles which prevented women from writing. In Barnes’s work, as well as in Loy’s and in the Baroness’s poems, the body is a space, a starting point, the driving force and the processing metaphor of the assessment of twentieth-century women’s writing. 2.3. Gendered spaces, gender practices While they body is the major experiential tool for the writers under analysis, gender represents the performative process that involves, but is not limited to, the use and fashioning of the body. As a consequence, I need to flank my background of feminist readings with gender studies, before engaging in the analysis of the corpus. Particularly, I refer to those studies that argue how readings of modernism have often been perceived from a masculine perspective, so that, for a long time, the position and role of women in the avant-gardes has been neglected by criticism. Upon compilation of her anthology of women modernist writers,24 which includes three out of the four writers investigated in this thesis, Bonnie Kime Scott claimed that: Modernism as we were taught it at mid-century was [...] unconsciously gendered masculine. The inscriptions of mothers and women, and more broadly of sexuality and gender, were not adequately decoded, if detected at all. 24 Bonnie Kime Scott (ed. by), 1990, The Gender of Modernism. A Critical Anthology (Bloomington- Indianapolis: Indiana U.P.). Scott’s anthology clearly echoes Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar’s more comprehensive work of 1985, The Norton Anthology of Literature by Women. Part I 16 Typically, both the authors of original manifestos and the literary historians of modernism took as their norm a small set of its male participants. (Scott 1990: 2;7) It is only late in the twentieth century, in fact, that feminine manifestos start gaining a more substantial critical attention. Only with gender-oriented insights in modernism had such manifestoes as Valentine de Saint-Point’s 1912 Il manifesto della donna futurista, or Mina Loy’s 1914 Aphorisms of Futurism been acknowledged literary value. As phrased by Lisa Tickner: “a combination of factors made the assertion of a virile and creative masculinity both imperative and problematic.” (Tickner 1994: 47)25 The challenge to a masculine canon of modernism has been started, in fact, more than a century ago. It finds roots, for instance, in Havelock Ellis’s Sexual Inversion (1897)26 and Edward Carpenter’s The Intermediate Sex (1908),27 which first associated such concepts as “inversion” and “intermediality” to sexuality. Some voices can be considered as thresholds, like Simone de Beauvoir, with her groundbreaking statement “One is not born a woman, one becomes one” (1973: 301),28 or Virginia Woolf herself. But there is no time here to into a history of gendered thinking. Foucault certainly marked a turning point of in the final divorce between sex and sexuality, the latter being a relational process.29 (Foucault 1978: 155) Gender approaches after 25 Tickner, Lisa 1994, “Men’s Work? Masculinity and Modernism,” in Visual Culture: Images and Interpretations, eds. N. Bryson, M. A. Holly, K. Moxey (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, pp.42-80. 26 Co-authored with John Addington Symonds, first published in German in 1896. 27 Reader of the German sexologist Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, Carpenter identified some people as belonging to both genders: “It is beginning to be recognised that the sexes do not or should not normally form two groups hopelessly isolated in habit and feeling from each other, but that they rather represent the two poles of one group - which is the human race; so that while certainly the extreme specimens at either pole are vastly divergent, there are great numbers in the middle region who (though differing corporeally as men and women) are by emotion and temperament very near to each other.” (Carpenter 1908: 117) Edward Carpenter, 1908, The Intermediate Sex: A Study of Some Transitional Types of Men and Women (London: Routledge, 2015). 28 Simone de Beauvoir, 1973, The Second Sex (New York: Vintage Books). 29 Michel Foucault, 1978, The History of Sexuality. Volume I: An Introduction. Trans. by R. Hurley, (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990). 2. Some methodological considerations 17 Foucault branched out into several insights which examine the fluid nature of gendered identities in relation to its constructive factors within modernity.30 Nearer to us and relevant to my analysis are some insights that connect gender practices to spatial and visual aspects of modernity. For instance, in Sexuality and Space (1992), architectural theorist Beatriz Colomina gathered articles on multidisciplinary feminist approaches and debates on gender and sexuality to architectural research. Through the displacement of traditional architecture, the focus of feminist research broadened to include social and relational components between spaces and their users, who are sexual and gendered practitioners. As a result, space (particularly the urban space, addressed by all four the writers under analysis) became a concern of gender studies too, because, as gendering processes, they determine the construction of gender individuals into social beings. As Colomina remarks in her introduction to the collection, the idea of space is intrinsic to the conceptualisation of the body and of its understanding on behalf of the owner and of the others: The concern of the symposium was not with space as yet another symptom of sexuality, repressed or otherwise. It is not a question of looking at how sexuality acts itself out in space, but rather to ask: How is the question of space already inscribed in the question of sexuality? This formulation required that we abandon the traditional thought of architecture as object, a bounded entity addressed by an independent subject and experienced by a body. Instead, architecture must be thought as a system of representation [...] Likewise, the body has to be understood as a political construct, a product of such system of representation rather than the means by which we encounter them. (Colomina 1992: ii) 30 One of these is Rita Felski’s 1995 The Gender of Modernity (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press). There, not only does she challenge conventional male-centred theories of modernity, but also called into question those feminist perspectives that had either demonised modernity as the progeny of patriarchy, or else assumed an unmotivated critical position to men in general. Felski combined cultural history with cultural theory to examine the gendered meanings of such notions as feminine writing, revolution, and perversion. Her approach was comparative and interdisciplinary, covering a wide variety of resources that range from sociological theory, literary and art theory, to politics and sexological discourse. While she exposed many male and female authors of the twentieth century under her relational scrutiny, Felsky showed how complex and contradictory the connections between femininity and modernity are. Her multi-perspective approach to femininity aligns with the postulates of gender, which, in denying biological sex, is a fluid continuum which flows through personal experience and socio-cultural dimension. Part I 18 The contribution of this new approach is not just seeing the body as experiencing the space, but as a space itself constructed by other spaces around it – which becomes the space for the body to perform. Colomina’s project to discuss the mutual relationship between architectural space and femininity had a significant resonance and motivated many others to explore the issue; among several scholars concerned with the task, Clare Hemmings31 offers a critique of dominant formations of gender and sexuality, with particular attention to bisexuality, and explores the relationships between sexual and gendered identities, subjects, and communities through a geographical insight. Her study supports my thesis, as at least three of my “itinerant” writers were openly bisexual; while bisexuality is rarely examined as an analytical tool nor as defining position, the intersection between bisexuality and space is even less investigated as a condition influencing poetic and artistic choices. What is particularly interesting about identifying the feminine body as a gendered space is the attempt to challenge the established patriarchal model of Western civilisation through a spatial metaphor. Throughout history, women had few circumscribed places designed for them within the urban panorama; the family house, as indoor space, yards and gardens as outdoor practicable areas. Crossing such borders questioned a woman’s respectability, unless she was accompanied by a man. This point proves pivotal, for instance, to the analysis of Barnes’s Nightwood. Modernity asked women to redesign their – first of all physical – position within society, and therefore in the urban environment. While initially not associated with regular physical sites, women’s spaces began to acquire relevance hand in hand with women’s emancipation; women’s communities, reading societies, political and intellectual circles were increasingly recognised as micro-identities in the multi-faceted reality of modern city life. In the search for definition of feminine spaces and identity, the body is spontaneously understood as a woman’s prime space, whose property has to be claimed from the unrighteous historical male owners. The theme of violence in occupying spaces – which easily fits into the war-defined twentieth-century scenario – stratifies naturally on the newly formulated concept of body-space, so that women’s 31 Clare Hemming, 2002, Bisexual Spaces: A Geography of Sexuality and Gender (New York; London: Routledge). 2. Some methodological considerations 19 appropriation of urban spaces and of their own bodies is carried out on the same binome ‘occupation-liberation’. The balance between the complementary processes, through which the body defines new spaces, and the modern spaces, defines the body as a space itself, are well described by Kirsi Saarikangas (2007),32 who describes body and urban architecture as parallel ‘processes’ rather than completed structures: Built space consists of several overlapping, intertwined spaces. The relations between architecture and sexual difference are also multifaceted and linked with the process of planning, use and the architectural space itself and furthermore with construction technologies, as well as representations of and writings about architecture. Consequently, relations between architecture and sexual difference raise questions about architectural spaces and their representations, spatial practices and planning as gendered and gendering processes. (Saarikangas 2007: 55) The feminist focus on sexual difference, together with the debate on the definition of gender identities were framed within a wider shift from a static understanding to architecture, to dynamic approaches to urban networks. The role of the user, in particular the woman user, becomes crucial in the “spatial turn” (Saarikangas 2007: 59) which for Saarikangas (and de Certeau, in fact) seems to embody the most meaningful aesthetic change from the fin du siècle to modernity. Modern urban life consisted, for women, in moving at an accelerated pace and across ambiguous spaces, new modes of communication and new visual and symbolic codes. In other words, modernity placed a new stress on the concepts of observing and displaying. As persuasively formulated by Whitney Chadwick and Tizra True Latimer:33 The figure of the “emancipated” modern woman became to interwar modernity [...] what the figure of the dandy/flanêur had been to modernity in Baudelaire’s era, personifying the social, political, intellectual and 32 Kirsi Saarikangas et al. (eds.) 2007, Imagining Spaces and Places (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013). 33 Whitney Chadwick and Tirza T. Latimer, 2003, “Becoming Modern. Gender and Sexual Identity after World War I,” in The Modern Woman Revisited: Paris between the Wars, ed. by Chadwick (London: Eurospan), pp. 3-19. Part I 20 technological changes that shaped daily life in bourgeois Western urban centers. The modern woman was, above all, an image, mediated and mediatized by emerging industries such as the illustrated press, pulp fiction, advertising and cinema. La femme moderne, as pictured in the mass media [...] was literally “going places.” (Chadwick and Latimer 2003: 3) Chadwick and Latimer debate on how, interestingly, the media originally meant to display aspects and subjects of modernity, became in fact frames to look at, whose subjects represented role models to emulate. The society which produced visual culture was indeed dependent on the same visuality it created. In the process where representation and observation fed one another mutually, women personified both the icon to follow and the follower. It is no coincidence that fashion as an industry and as a life-style flourishes in the ’20s, interpreting the duplicity of the modern woman’s image. In those years, gender became a primary concern because of its dominant performative component, consisting in the visible image of the self. In fact, gender remains today unavoidable and of primary importance in the retrospective analysis of profiles of the ’20s, because it embodied the visual demand enstaged by modernity. As poetically phrased by Latimer,34 many of the works produced by “the gallery of amazon geniuses” (Latimer 2003: 129) between the 1920s and the 1940s revolve around the relationship between sexual and artistic identity. All the writers I have chosen created, to different extents, their own dramatis personae, who in life and art would perform a gendered and fashioned version of their ‘stage director’. While gender does not coincide with either sexuality or looks, it is strongly influenced by them. Gender is a mask to construct, taking into account the subjects’ identities and the society where they would perform their gendered personae. 2.4. Performers On the wave of socio-cultural investigations of gender, scholars have broadened the horizons of inspection of the relations between gender and modernity and formulated 34 Tirza Latimer, 2003, “Looking like a Lesbian. Portraiture and Sexual Identity in 1920s Paris,” in Chadwick (2003), pp. 129-143. 2. Some methodological considerations 21 interesting theories. Among those who understood gender as a composite and fluid expression, Judith Butler has deeply investigated the idea that gender can only be grasped for short instants, as every moment adds stratification. In fact, Judith Butler insisted on the performative quality of gender, a construction, a temporary fashioning of the self. Butler argues that gender does not exist as a stable entity and cannot, in any case, be de-contextualised from the social environment where it is enacted. Gendered performances are consequently changeable and contradictory, so it is paradoxical to attempt to classify them according to traditional categorisation: When one performance of gender is considered real and another false, or when one presentation of gender is considered authentic, and another fake, then we can conclude that a certain ontology of gender is conditioning these judgments, an ontology (an account of what gender is) that is also put into crisis by the performance of gender in such a way that these judgments are undermined or become impossible to make. (Butler 2004: 214) As Butler suggests in Undoing Gender (one of the sources I majorly use in my third chapter), gender can never be real or fake, right or wrong; it is always real in the moment when it is performed, so that it resists any definition. The solution Bulter advances, however, does not fall into agnosticism, it operates only within the boundaries of the negotiable. As widely discussed by Judith Butler, gender is hardly ever fixed; accordingly, the gender personae created by the artists considered are never conclusive, or even long-lasting. As for Barnes, for example, “neither her look nor her sexuality was fixed,” (Allen 2003: 145) nor certainly, I would add, her gender. Her life was marked by sexual and geographical mobility, which resulted in several gender articulations. Barnes’s friend and fellow artist, the Baroness, developed exponentially the idea of instability of gender and plurality of the fashioned persona, giving life to a wide spectrum of ‘faces’. In my opinion, the case of the Baroness fits particularly well with the theories elaborated by Judith Butler on the need to ‘undo’ gender categories; although the connection has not yet been made, I found that the Baroness responds to Butler’s formulation so well, that she could successfully serve as testing ground for Butler’s criticism. Part I 22 As Butler embraces the fluidity of gender, she cleverly acknowledges how the attempt to identify as many gender categories as there are differences among the subjects considered, is simply paradoxical: One tendency within gender studies has been to assume that the alternative to the binary system of gender is a multiplication of genders. Such an approach invariably provokes the question: how many genders can there be, and what will they be called? (Butler 2004: pp.42-43). According to Butler, the legitimacy of gender studies originates precisely from the unavoidability of its social dimension, yet categories remain idealisations, and are, therefore, limited to their fixity. Flexible as they might be, categories are limited, because they tend to crystallise reality into approximations. On a feminist note, Butler argues that categories based on sexuality are the legacy of patriarchy aimed to regulate, rather than to acknowledge what exists. Though unavoidable, the compromise between social norm and gender should not be prescriptive. Butler calls categories “instruments of a regulatory regime” (Butler 1991: 13)35 and indefatigably questions them as (partially) unrighteous assumptions; in Undoing Gender, she wonders whether there is a gender orientation prior to the social norm which could be analysed as unbound to social frames: Is there a gender that pre-exists its regulation, or is it the case that, in being subject to regulation, the gendered subject emerges, produced in and through that particular form of subjection? Is subjection not the process by which regulations produce gender? (Butler 2004: 41) Although she does not provide a clear answer, she remains skeptical about the chance of conceiving gender outside society. Gender belongs to the praxis of being, therefore cannot be understood as an abstract concept; as individuals, we only witness what happens within the boundaries of collectivity. 35 Judith Butler, 1991. ‘Imitation and Gender Insubordination, in Inside/Out. Lesbian Theories, Gay Theories, ed. by Diane Fuss (London and New York: Routledge). 2. Some methodological considerations 23 2.5. The relevance of life-writing In different ways, all four the artists examined can be considered life-writers (and “life- painters”) because of the sensible search of their own selves textured in their verbal and visual works. The strategies, literary and graphic features, genres and forms employed, though, could not be more varied. As I found out, the need to define the writer’s identity interests any reasoning on their writings. Unquestionably, modernity confronted women with the challenge to redefine selfhood and autonomy as opposed/integrated with to collectivity; after having faced problems of exclusion for centuries, women needed to find their position and identity in the social, political and artistic fields as never before. Although women’s recording of their lives in diaries, memoirs and (in fewer cases) fiction and poetry were no news at the beginning of the twentieth century, women’s forms of autobiography were not considered to be as authoritative as men’s autobiographic tradition. As argued by Gilbert and Gubar,36 women’s writing had always been considered as anomalous and exceptional, the ‘writer’s pen’ being a masculine prerogative. Unofficial, parallel, underground, occasional, unrecognised, women’s art had never gained organic consistency, while the identity of women was considered as subordinate to the identity of men. Because of its private nature, women’s writing was classified as second-rate literature, a drawing-room diversion unworthy, in most cases, of critical attention; according to the first feminist scholars, this happened because women were in fact considered to be second-rate human beings, always daughters, sisters, wives, mothers – but never just women. Throughout the twentieth century, women began to acquire a strong collective identity, engaged in politics, relevant in society and active in the literary field. Feminist readers acted on two fronts, looking retrospectively at women’s texts of the past, and looking for new voices in the present. Through the deliberate choice to reach a reader, women’s life-writing acquired a new meaning and covered a deeper awareness. As suggested by Marlene Kadar,37 life-writing is a dynamic broad term which includes 36 Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, 1979, The Madwoman in the Attic: the Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination (New Haven: Yale University Press). 37 Marlene Kadar (ed. by), 1992, Essays on Life Writing: From Genre to Critical Practice (Toronto; London: University of Toronto Press). Part I 24 the issues of experience and (not just self-) representation, and which most importantly changes according to time, context and milieu. There are at least three ways to view life-writing, each of which includes an attempt to define or redefine what exactly life-writing is. [...] life- writing is not a fixed term, and that it is in flux as it moves from considerations of genre to considerations of critical practice. [...] There is also the consideration that changes in how we perceive life-writing evolve as political and literary movements evolve. (Kedar 1992: 3) For this reason, it is extremely important not to limit women’s writing to labels; among other scholars, Kedar questions the popular and long practised view of women’s life- writing as restricted to a particular literary genre. Life-writing may be viewed strictly as a limited and limiting genre, as it was in the eighteenth century. At that time it was equivalent to ‘biography’, and biography used to be considered more generally to include autobiography and perhaps other kinds of autobiographic writing. (Kedar 1992: 3) Although all four writers I consider poured parts of their lives in their works, to different extents and with different levels of awareness, it sounds reductive at the very least to privilege autobiographical readings of their works.38 In questioning what she herself calls ‘gynocentrism’, meaning the almost exclusive autobiographic-oriented reading on behalf of feminist scholars, Keadr formulated a fluid and flexible definition of life-writing: 38 However, patriarchal schemes or criticism were not solely responsible for the identification of women’s life-writing with autobiography. If we go back to the early stages of the relationship between feminism and autobiography, we can see how in the 1960s and 1970s autobiography seemed to provide a privileged space for women to discover new forms of subjectivity both through the reading and writing of texts which explored the female subject. Only later, as poststructuralist theory began to transform feminist thinking, women’s writing began to be liberated from patriarchal constrictions to specific genres.38 Women’s life-writing started to enjoy the freedom to explore other forms, genres and disciplines. Psychoanalytic insights began to interweave more explicitly with the texture of writing in a way that is beautifully phrased by Judith Butler in Precarious Life, 2004: “I am not fully known to myself, because part of what I am is the enigmatic traces of others.” (Anderson 2006: 123) As women were no longer sure about the integrity of their selves, life-writing became an eclectic wide-ranging field for self-representation and exploration. Linda Anderson, 2006, “Autobiography and the feminist subject,” in Ellen Rooney (ed. by), The Cambridge Companion to Feminist Literary Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 119-135. 2. Some methodological considerations 25 At the most extreme end of the spectrum, life-writing is a way of looking at more or less autobiographical literature as long as we understand that ‘autobiographical’ is a loaded word, the ‘real’ accuracy of which cannot be proved and does not equate with either ‘objective’ or ‘subjective’ truth. Instead, it is best viewed as a continuum that spreads unevenly and in combined forms from the so-called least fictive narration to the most fictive. […] My own working definition of life-writing is: ‘life-writing comprises texts that are written by an author who does not continuously write about someone else and who also does not pretend to be absent from the text. (Kedar 1992: 10) Kedar’s considerations condense the tension attached to women’s life-writing, taking into account not only the subject but all the ‘enigmatic traces’ which contribute to its identity. As some critics have pointed out, it is challenging to define women’s life- writing of the early twentieth century, as it is hard to define the writing subject. As I anticipated, women were demanded to define their identity and position within modern urban and metaphoric spaces; this process ran together with the attempt of finding new discursive strategies. Through life-writing, women both describe and actualise the process of finding and defining a new identity. Life-writing is not just a mere recording of facts happening to the woman, but a way to construct the experiencing self. As phrased by Carla Kaplan (1996),39 there is a “dialectical tension between different forms of talk and the structures of social relation they allegorize” (Kaplan 1996: 145). Kaplan comes to this conclusion after having long discussed the hermeneutic relationship between the attempt to define the self and the process of writing about it, the self being a social entity. As the self acts daily within the social environment, the process of writing about the self through any form of life-writing is a “persuasive or seductive performance” which is always designed to be shared by others – or is aware of this possibility. Kaplan is very firm in asserting how “no act of publication, after all, is finally an act of silence” (Kaplan 1996: 146) and as such publication is planned to be enjoyed by readers or interlocutors. 39 Carla Kaplan, 1996, The Erotics of Talk: Womens’ Writing and Feminist Paradigms (New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press). Part I 26 2.5.1. From subjectivity to collective consciousness Assuming that women’s life-writing of the early twentieth century is indeed performative – saying emblematically Fitzgerald’s performative fiction, or the Baroness’s verse – and that the identity of the interlocutor is not necessarily stable, the main issue still lies in defining the identity of the writing subject. In 1997, a study edited by Linda Coleman put together several papers focusing on the matter of women’s life-writing in the first half of the century, with the purpose of clarifying the position of women within the social and literary panorama.40 In the forward she argues how the process of ‘finding a voice’ is expressed in ‘building a community’, and how, therefore, a woman’s ‘I’ in the 1910s and 1920s can be understood as collective. Through life-writing women created connections to a community of sympathetic others, real or imagined. Feminists themselves, in the attempt to gain social visibility for political purposes, spoke frequently of ‘women’ as a group, sometimes even used or implied the term ‘class’. The question arises spontaneously, then, about whether and to what extent the individual subject flanked the collective awareness of women in those decades because women’s life-writing of the early twentieth century – very frequently in the texts analysed – often sees a dual nature in the writing subject. The distance between collectivity and subjectivity needs to be contextualised more than once throughout the century, and takes always different forms in the corpus selected. Such a process of change and evolution ran, historically, through the experimenting of different forms and genres, thus implying complicated relationships between gender and genre. Narrative forms like the short story had became, for instance, widely explored fields of practice and investigation for women writers since the end of the nineteenth century. In this respect, the case of Djuna Barnes appears interesting, while she transited between journalism and literature at the beginning of her career. According to Linda Coleman, reporting and urban short story writing were a fertile practice field for women who wanted to detach themselves from autobiography; as sort of less institutional literary forms, they offered the space to assume impersonal tones, or to play with the narrating voice. Taking Lydia Maria 40 Coleman, Linda S. (ed. by), 1997, Women’s Life-Writing: Finding Voice, Building Community (Bowling Green: Popular Press). 2. Some methodological considerations 27 Child’s Letters from New York (1843) as a pioneering example of how ‘women’s genres’ could pierce the public arena, Anne R. Malone (author of one of the essays in Coleman’s 1997 collection) argues that women entered the field of ‘urban writing’ as both cause and effect of having a new collective and stronger presence in the urban panorama.41 Elizabeth Goldwin’s statement that “female epistolary voices tend to describe confinement more than liberation, isolation more than interaction” (Malone 1997: 239) starts to crumble in front of Lydia Maria Child’s public Letters, carefully constructed as political epistles. As phrased by Malone, “Child’s emergence into the crowded streets of New York City marks the entrance of the female spectator into the public arena” (Malone 1997: 239). The word “spectator” here is consciously and wittingly employed to shake the legacy of the London (male) Spectator. This idea of a female “urban spectator” entitled women, according to Malone, “to interiorize the city for herself and for her readers” (Malone 1997: 240). This latter consideration sounds particularly relevant for my upcoming work on Barnes’s reporting/literary short stories: a form on the edge between high culture and entertainment, hybrid between literary and informal language, seemed to suit the evolving position of women in literature. This comment on Barnes’s magazine-writing can be inscribed in a wider consideration on the fact that all the writers under analysis wrote, to different extents, on female magazines. As argued by Hanscombe and Smyers in Writing for their Lives,42 women found a “vital outlet for the writing – both experiment and comment – of the network of women” (Hanscombe and Smyers 1987: 150) in journals and magazines which took life as a composite picture of literary and art circles. According to them, magazines and journals edited by women enabled them to explore new communicative systems: talking about themselves and being listened to by a no- longer-ideal audience (potentially not a judgemental readership), searching for and experimenting with new genres, literary features and techniques free from patriarchal schemes, and trying to define their identity as both communities and individuals. The flourishing of several journals, magazines and papers illustrates the extent to which 41 Anne R. Malone, 1997, “Sugar Ladles and Strainers: Political Self-Fashioning in the Epistolary Journalism of Lydia Maria Child,” in Women’s Life-Writing: Finding Voice, Building Community, ed. by Linda Coleman (Bowling Green: Popular Press), pp. 239-256. 42 Gillian Hanscombe and Virginia L. Smyers, 1987, Writing for their Lives: The Modernist Women, 1910-1940 (London: Women’s Press). Part I 28 women’s life-writing in these years passed through urban writing. Some examples are particularly noteworthy to prove the point of how malleable this kind of writing was, and how well it suited the needs of women life-writers.43 Even semantically, some of the most famous magazines – the Transatlantic Review (on which three out of four of the writers under analysis wrote, at different times), This Quarter, Transition and Close-Up – suggest the dynamism and mobility of the writing produced between the centres of London, Paris and the American cities. That these writers and editors paid close attention to each other’s work; that they took each other seriously as writers trying to support themselves by writing; that they took each other seriously as women trying to find consonances between ‘art’ and ‘life’; all these stances are revealed both in their personal correspondence with each other and in their published review’s of each other’s work. (Hanscombe and Smyers 1987:151) Hanscombe and Smyers epitomised women’s periodical publishing as ‘the stand of the individual against immensities’ – phreased after Harriet Monroe’s review of Poetry (founded in 1912). However, the word “against” between ‘I’ and ‘collectivity’ does not suggest contrast; instead, it is an attempt at contradistinction, to define the individuality of a woman writer as distinct from plurality. Hanscombe and Smyers’s dramatic phrasing encourages further enquiries on the identity of the so-called ‘immensities’; the most obvious one is the legacy and proportion of men’s writing. Yet others can be identified as more figurative ‘immensities’ from which the individual needed to distance herself. Some of the works under examination in my thesis evidence how some literary forms entered the practice field of life-writing, generating interesting hybridities. For instance, Loy’s Auto-facial Construction, 1919, is a crossing between the public and 43 Dora Marsden’s feminist-based paper The Freewoman, set up in London in 1911, evolved into The New Freewoman in 1913 under the editorship of Harriet Shaw Weaver, and finally into The Egoist in 1914. Initially, the paper was meant to be a radical feminist polemic and was animated by a strongly political engagement; after a few years, though, it shifted in spirit to become a place of literary debate and experimentation. Marianne Moore and H.D. published verses in Poetry, started by Harriet Monroe in Chicago in 1912 opening doors for poetic experimentation; in the same spirit, Margaret Anderson’s Little Review, introduced in 1914, also in Chicago, went even further publishing the daring experiments of Mina Loy, Gertrude Stein, Djuna Barnes, Mary Butts and Kay Boyle. The both personal and professional interaction among the woman editors of such journals intensified even more in the 1920s, to construct a more intricate portrait of women’s writing activity, carried on simultaneously at an individual and collective level. 2. Some methodological considerations 29 private spheres, where with a personal touch she explores the ideal mimetic relation between one’s face and one’s personality in the form of an advertising pamphlet. Poetry, too, either Barnes’s or Freytag-Loringhoven’s, is used to create a precarious, fascinating balance between attempts at modern lyric impersonality and the unavoidable concessions to an intrusive self. The tension between personality and impersonality was a burning issue for emerging woman writers of these years and is indeed related to the relationship between personal and collective ‘I’. First and foremost, Loy’s writings, but also Barnes’s and Loringhoven’s, show the ambivalence towards a modernist aesthetic of impersonality, as well as their changeable investment in subjectivity and embodiment. To many woman writers of the network, for instance Susan Gilmore, impersonality was a masculinist striving for invisibility through the “transcendence” of the “emotional” and the “personal,” (Gilmore 1998: 271) and she uses Loy’s “Feminist Manifesto” to categorise Loy’s project as a contrary aesthetic that “foregrounds the female poet’s visibility” and an “authority borne not of cultural transcendence but of cultural disenfranchisement.” (Gilmore 1998: 276)44 Particularly in women’s life-writing of these years, the ambiguity is given by the intrusion of the subject into the text. Sometimes it is behind the curtain, wittingly orchestrating the text from the back as in Barnes’s New York short stories; other times it is the outpouring emotions in the clearly autobiographic memories of Fitzgerald’s fiction. Some other times it blinks through the voice of different characters in the novels of the mature, parisienne novelist Barnes. As a general comment, it seems that precisely because they were relatively new to these experiences of community, women could not endorse – or however keep negotiating – the masculine efforts of impersonality, which were typical of masculine high modernism. Once again, the metaphor of space proves useful to better understand modernist women’s life-writing. Modernity urged women to find new spaces, both physical places and intellectual frames; public spaces, primarily streets, became the scenes of pieces of their new (life-)writing; private spaces (once place of confinment) evolved into public spheres as meeting points for intellectual circles for women’s networks. 44 Susan Gilmore, 1998, “Imna, Ova, Mongrel Spy: Anagram and Imposture in the Work of Mina Loy,” in Maeera Shreiber and Keith Tuma (ed. by), Mina Loy: Woman and Poet, Orono, ME: National Poetry Foundation, pp. 271-317. Part I 30 According to Merry Pawlowski,45 the overlap between what was public and private in women’s lives and writings in modernity characterises ‘herstory’ as firmly different from history; under this light she reads Virginia Woolf’s Three Guineas, where “public and private forms” are employed to “displace the boundaries between the public and the private arenas as gendered masculine and feminine” (Pawlowski 1997: 257). As women explored new spaces and discovered new trajectories, they acquired new voices, met new narratives and therefore needed to find appropriate strategies to express themselves. Such forms of narrative, adequate to tell ‘herstory’ and to suit new genres in life-writing, had to be capable of challenging the traditional dichotomies between the public and private spheres which were stratified in language. If borders are permeable between public and private spaces so that they melt fluidly into one another, the language similarly oscillates from formal to informal, from witty to emotional, from extensive to cryptic, from impersonal to personal. 2.6. Life-painting The fact that all the writers considered were visual artists, and often stage performers, relates to the issue of the representation of the self explored for life-writing. In fact, the set of questions and ambiguities regarding the subject behind and within the text applies similarly to visual representation. The pairs debated in life-writing, including ‘individual-collective’, ‘personal-impersonal’, ‘private-public’, also feature in paintings, drawings and collages in similar ways as they underlie verbal texts. When modernist ideas of visual representation took over, women had already been making an impression in the artistic field for a while. As argued by Kirsten Swift:46 Without hesitation, without even a nod to Victorian womanly reserve, Cassatt proclaimed her ambition to be a professional artist. The hunger and 45 Merry Pawlowski, 1997. “Public and Private Tyrannies: Virginia Woolf, Life-Writing, and the Feminist Revision of History” in Women’s Life-Writing: Finding Voices, Building Community, Linda Coleman (Bowling Green: Bowling Green State University Press), pp. 257-278. 46 Kirsten Swinth, 2001, Painting Professionals: Women Artists & the Development of Modern American Art, 1870-1930 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press). 2. Some methodological considerations 31 drive compressed in that short command, ‘Now please don’t let your ambition sleep’, ring with a larger impact. The ambition of Cassatt and her peers shook up the art world. It disrupted entrenched beliefs about art, refinement, and high culture. A modern, twentieth-century and avant- garde art world would be profoundly shaped by late-nineteenth-century women's urgent desire to become artists. (Kirsten 2001: 2) From the mid-nineteenth century, women started to develop careers that transcended the stereotypes of woman painting as a drawing-room recreation. The flower painter and dilettantish amateur quite rapidly became a professional artist both in America and in central Europe, so that in the early twentieth century, woman artists occupied a more solid position in a newly realigned art world. Throughout the century, the amount of female professional artists increased to such an extent to equal the male artists in numbers, competence and creativity, constituting an extensive network. Questions on the identity of the female painter arise similarly to the identity question of the life-writer. The same need to define the individual as part of a micro- collectivity of women artists, and as profiles of macro-collectivity of modernist artists, underlies and determines choices of setting and characters. With the exception of Zelda Fitzgerald, the three other authors under analysis were part of groups and art circles, and were as well part of wider art movements such as modernism and Dada. Nevertheless, they had to find new poetics of representation, asserting their role as active painters instead of passive depicted subjects. As argued by Griselda Pollock,47 gender and power are connected in such a way throughout history, that the men had always been the subject who painted, and women the subject painted. In “Modernity and the Spaces of femininity,” (1988) she provocatively asks whether we could expect to “rediscover paintings by women in which they battled with their sexuality in the representation of male nude.” (Pollock 1988: 76) The reason for this disparity is the always existing “historical asymmetry” between painter and painted one, which embodies the sexist, social and economical difference produced by the Western heteronormativity. The first issue faced by female professional artists was therefore whom to represent – and in what setting; prerogatives on the representation of female subjects 47 Griselda Pollock, 1988, “Modernity and the Spaces of Femininity,” in Vision and Difference: Femininity, Feminism and Histories of Art, ed. by GriseldaPollock (London: Routledge), pp. 50-90. Part I 32 were still claimed by modernist male artists in line with the gender-power relationship which had been structuring art history. Indoor spaces were compromised by the same scheme. The actual change plays on a revolution of the point of view, adopted by the painter, conveyed to the subject, and shared with the observers.48 Such changes allowed women subjects to shift from passive to active, from being subjected to the representation to being willing and participating subjects on the canvas. Through the denial of men’s voyeuristic and judgemental prerogatives in the depiction and observation of female subjects, pioneers such as Mary Cassatt and Berthe Morisot emancipated women as artistic subjects. The same dynamics between gender, power and genre are reverberated in women’s search for new ways to the self-portrait. Exploring the self-portrait, modernist women painters interrogates themselves, their fellow artists and all women, investigating their position in the modern space. It is undoubtedly hard to define the ways in which women artists depict their own selves – and the process of self-making – in paintings, sketches, and many other forms; yet, while it is difficult to trace tendencies and trends, as in the case for life-writing, the investigation of such complicated space helps to better understand the presence of forms of self-telling in their literary works too. Self-portrait became a trope of self-interrogation, rather than just a visual genre, constantly negotiated as a form of self-displaying and self- concealing. The literary texts and figurative works that I am about to explore with a (necessarily) comparative analysis are situated at the crossroads where all forms of self-construction, self-telling and self-portraying fascinatingly intersect. 48 Pollock’s several comparative examples corroborate her thesis that the appropriation of woman subjects on behalf of women painters happened through subtle, yet meaningful strategies, such as the gaze direction of the depicted woman. When she compares Renoir’s and Cassatt’s The Loge (1874 and 1882 respectively), she highlights how “the mark of difference between the [two] is the refusal in the latter of that complicity in the way the female protagonist is depicted” (Pollock 1988: 76). Unlike Renoir’s lady, Cassatt’s woman looks unaware of being observed while enjoying the opera: “she does not return the viewer’s gaze,” and in so doing denies the “convention which confirms the male viewer’s right to look and appraise” (Pollock 1988: 76). 33 Part II Chapter 1 Form, space and colour Phrases came. Visions came. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful phrases. Virginia Woolf, 1927. juna Barnes, Zelda Fitzgerald, Mina Loy and the Baroness all share an interactive practice of writing and drawing. As they chose to tread provocative expressive routes visually and verbally at the same time, they reveal a sort of urgency for a joint analysis of their works. The significance of visual traits in their writings, and the relevance of narrative dimensions in their visual works invited me not to split their visual and verbal corpora artificially, but rather to address them in their compact unity. Such an approach reveals how these artists’ verbal and visual texts vivify each other reciprocally. The investigation of common tropes and topoi has led me to interrogate some of the processes though which words and images by the same writer are articulated in similar ways, so as to shed light on the reciprocal influence that texts and images have on one another through time and space. Nevertheless, such methodology also allowed me to trace assonances among these writers’ works. Temporary alliances between literary and visual genres appear to take shape and to apply in several cases; yet, such loose bonds seem to be easily untied, in some cases, to be newly assembled in endless combinations. It becomes interesting, then, to explore the rhetorical fundaments of such correspondences, observing how patterns and motifs are reiterated through different media. D Part II 34 1.1. Djuna Barnes’s poetic fait divers Among the artists that I have chosen, Djuna Barnes is the one who reflects the most upon the relationship between trait and space, both in writing and in drawing. Barnes’s reasoning is neither theoretical nor programmatic, but seems to be consciously textured in her works, and evolves hand in hand with her growth as an artist and writer. Since hers is a progressive reasoning, it touches different phases of connection between verbal and visual narrative strategies. The initial years of her career, in particular, show a tight symmetry in her verbal and visual choices of representation. In the mid 1910s, she was based in New York and was the top-lead voice of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle and the New York Morning Telegraph. In this phase of her career, she engaged in a double task, both writing for the masses in magazines and journals, and putting her avant-garde inspirations into practice among a restricted circle of bohemian intellectuals in Greenwich Village. Such an imprint contributed consistently to the shaping of her first literary endeavour. In 1915, Barnes saw her first collection of illustrated poems, The Book of Repulsive Women, published on the avant-garde local magazine Bruno’s Weekly.49 Perhaps, Barnes’s transition from crime news to poetry also grounds partly on the fact that verses can condense better than prose-words, and suited better her quest for dryness and incisiveness. In particular, verses seem to suit particularly well the expression of sorrow, whereas prose-words scale it down.50 49 While experiencing the transition from mass journalism to elite literature, she was undergoing another transition in the practice of visual genres. When she first came to New York she enrolled for six months at the Pratt Institute, where she received academic guidelines to develop her already outstanding graphic and painting talent. Although she had to quit her courses due to economic hardship, she gained awareness of her visual skills, immediately embracing techniques of Dadaistic matrix. The paintings that she produced in these years show how, even within an avant-garde movement such as Dada, she carved out an original and unique style, which did not fully conform to “mainstream” patterns. The more she moved from journalistic prose to verses, the more urgently she felt the need to search into the essentiality of the drawn shape; she took sketches to essential traits – yet never losing the shape – and exacerbated her already fractioning use of colours into an antithetical contrast of black vs. white. 50 An interesting study on the expression of suffering through words conducted by Joakim Öhlén, researcher in health and care at the University of Gothenburg, has provided scientific ground to the generally shared idea that the complexity of human suffering is better evoked through the poetic word. In “Evocation of meaning through poetic condensation of narratives in empirical phenomenological inquiry into human suffering” (2003) he explored the process of expressing pain through words, and detected an ontological affinity between suffering and the poetic word: both are composite, fragmenting, ambiguous, vague, stratified, and are therefore naturally associated. In the case of Barnes, however, the process of essentialising the language into verses is not meant to disclose, and rather aims at encoding, encrypting and disguising the underlying meaning. 1. Form, space and colour 35 Certainly, the presence of reporting in Barnes’s first verses is self-evident. It can be witnessed in the metropolitan setting which is typical of her articles; in addition, the topics faced belong without exception to crime news. The eight poems of the collection build up crime scenes with female subjects as victims of rape, murder, autopsy. The very structure of the collection presents itself as a metropolitan scene of the crime(s): I. From Fifth Avenue Up II. In General III. From Third Avenue On IV. Seen From the “L” V. In Particular VI. Twilight of the Illicit VII. To a Cabaret Dancer VIII. SUICIDE Corpse A Corpse B (Barnes 1915: 3) Because of its urban setting and themes, some critics (Doughty 1991: 137) even argue that The Book of Repulsive Women is closer to being crime news in verses rather than poetry with full rights; yet, an attentive reading of the language employed and of its tropes supports the classification of the work among the best pieces of avant-garde poetry. Differently from the crime news, which would punctually record facts, the identity of the woman is not explicit; it is not clear whether it is the same woman suffering different kinds of violence – rape, murder, autopsy – or if several women are caught in the different scenes of violence. The woman appears as a collective subject in this poem, that aims at establishing a connection between (fallen) women and the modern city: The anonymity of urban life simultaneously provides her nameless female subjects with the freedom of movement and the solitude that lead them to spiritual death. Frequently these depraved females are identified with New York itself [...]. The woman is prostituted by city life and as always in Part II 36 writing, her illicit sexuality is, in turn, associated with mortality and death. (Burke 1991: 70) In the case of Djuna Barnes in the early 1920s, there is a morbid connection between the woman and the city, an unhealthy relationship of attraction and repulsion, of enslaving and being enslaved, of frenzied dynamism and deathly stillness. Disturbing overlaps seem to occur in her poems, where the woman passes from dominating the urban scene – a metaphor for the city as a place of social performance – to being objectified by the city, even to being raped and killed by that same animated chimera. In the years close to the publication of The Book of Repulsive Women, Barnes was also exploring the style and techniques of Aubrey Beardsley, with particular attention to the study of dichromatism.51 Such studies flow naturally in the composition of the drawings enclosed in The Book of Repulsive Women. Perhaps initially attracted by his choices for decadent themes such as artificiality, decay, vampirism, perversity and sensuality, she was mostly attracted to the study on techniques, which suit well the dry verses of the collection: colourlessness, an essential polarity of black and white masses matched with a starkness of lines and shapes which impacts the viewer (Thornton 1983: 183).52 Yet, the drawings realised for the 1915 collection added a margin of obscurity to the already grotesque and sometimes disturbing vignettes by Beardsley. Barnes severed ties with Beardsley’s decadent style in opting for a form of encoding which goes far beyond the mysterious allure of his drawings. Such mystery provokes the impression that something is encoded under the surface, where an immense abyss of hollow and despair seem to hide just beneath the unstable surface of words and illustration. Instead of being expressed through words, such a disquieting sensation peers out from the unsaid words, and from the border-line between positive and negative spaces in the drawings. What remains unspoken and undrawn, censored and unutterable in the barrier between words and between traits, is 51 In 1915 and 1916 her drawing style became so rich in references to Aubrey Beardsley that she was hailed “The American Beardsley” in Bruno’s Weekly, III, July 22, 1916. 52 However, and as Thornton suggests, Beardsley’s taste for decorations is not shared by Barnes. What in Beardsley is the balanced, yet disquieting compromise between decadent art and decoration, in Barnes is polarized in the total and more disturbing exploration of perversion and wickedness. 1. Form, space and colour 37 even more interesting than what is stated in Barnes’s suffered, viscous words or shown in her distorted and noxious traits. 1.1.2. Patterns of fall Many of the poems of The Book of Repulsive Women rest explicitly on spatial patterns, which are evident at first sight in the graphic layout of the verses. Similar rhetorical organisations of spaces and lines can be traced in the drawings too, which evidence vertical pushes and paradigms of fall. Under this light, poems and drawings are worth a comparative analysis, since they both rest on a system of drives, balances and contradictions between the ‘full’ and the ‘empty’, between the black and the white, between the line and the space. From Fifth Avenue Up SOMEDAY beneath some hard Capricious star— Spreading its light a little Over far, We’ll know you for the woman That you are. For though one took you, hurled you Out of space, With your legs half strangled In your lace, You’d lip the world to madness On your face. We’d see your body in the grass With cool pale eyes. We’d strain to touch those lang’rous Length of thighs, And hear your short sharp modern Babylonic cries.53 (Barnes 1915: 6) 53 Referring to Barnes’s verse “short sharp modern / Babylonic cries,” Carolyn Burke (1991: 70) identifies the metropolis as a modern Babylon; the metaphor could be extended, though, to let Babylon stand for the impossibility to communicate among modern human beings. Part II 38 In the first three stanzas, the frame of space opens on a vertical directrix. The first few verses are vague (“someday,” “some”) and serve to define a “capricious star,” whose light is feeble and gentle. The atmosphere conveyed by these lines sounds fairy-tale- like; the star, cunning and tricky, does not seem to be harmful, though the light it sheds is not completely positive (“hard”). The sounds are chosen to lead the reader into a half-sleep, a state that precedes dreams and nightmares. The misty view is obtained by the choice of vague words, by repetition (“some-”), by the alternation of long and short verses, and by the use of sibilant and liquid consonants – particularly in the third verse, which is heavy with alliterations. The last two verses of the first stanza, though, break up the dream-like picture by introducing the figure of a woman; the focus zooms in at great speed onto “the” woman, who is immediately presented as a negative character. The impersonality of the first few lines is completely replaced by the focalisation on two parties, “you” and “we.” Thus, the narrator collocates herself and the reader on the accusation bench meant to judge the indicted. The first line of the second stanza is extremely interesting, because it seems to start clarifying the position of the woman: she has been a victim of violence on the part of “one,” whose identity is not disclosed. It is not clear if the “one” belongs to the “we” introduced a few lines earlier, but this (presumably male) character has committed an act of violence towards the woman: he “hurled” her and had her legs “half strangled” as an act of preventive punishment, an act despite which she would “lip the world to madness.” The violence sounds like a prior event, which has not prevented the woman from corrupting the world she came into, and which condemned her to guilt. This as a reason to judge her, however, does not make full sense; or rather, it does syntactically, but the sense it carries is not sufficient justification to express an indictment on the woman. She has been the victim of violence, and yet we are called to judge against her for corrupting “the world.” This passage may perhaps acquire more sense if contextualised within Barnes’s vision of motherhood, perceived as the original sin, because it is the consequence of an act of violence. For Barnes, all human relationships are corrupted in the first place, because human nature is itself corrupted. Therefore, sexual intercourse is, according to her, hardly ever desired by women; and even when it is, it only satisfies the animal impulse of mating. Although the specifics of this version of the original sin are clearer in other works, the seed of this 1. Form, space and colour 39 phenomenology of the anti-word, a communicative system aimed at confusing and taking meaning away, instead of adding sense, lies certainly in the verses of The Book of Repulsive Women: “repulsive” because they rejected a chauvinistic cultural indoctrination, because they refused to accept heterosexual attraction as the only one, and because they rebelled against the idea of living the domestic drama. The landscape of the scene under analysis seems to be similar to that depicted in the poem, with “the Star” dominating the setting. This reading invites us to extend the meanings of “the star” of the poem to build up the metaphor with the biblical Nativity and Fall. The theme of the woman’s Fall as an alternative myth to Lucifer’s Fall is the ground of Ladies Almanack, and remains a theme of great concern for Barnes in all her major works;54 in The Book of Repulsive Women, it proves particularly interesting for its dynamic push in the creation of the phenomenology of form and space. In the first stanza, the setting is the sky; the third stanza shows the body of the woman on the ground where she lands after a “hurling” fall, caused by the act of violence which ripped her into pieces. The body of the woman appears to have no unity during the fall, as we only see fragments of her body being tossed “out of space.” This 54 Such as Ryder, where Barnes explains how every physical intercourse between a man and a woman is an act of violence on his part. In Ryder, she refers to “original sin” as the act of procreation, and speaks of it in similar terms to those used in “From Fifth Avenue Up.” In the novel, the Genesis of Evil, i.e. the archetypical pregnancy is built up in the first chapter, entitled “Jesus Mundane,” which serves as an introduction: “And when, of times, thou art in no wise concerned with the religion, and art not touched by the Nativity, nor confounded beneath the Star, nor made still by the dust that goes down from God, then go thou to thyself, and pluck thyself against the day when thou wilt need thy past days for a sign and a seasoning [...] that which thou art, that in the end must thou bring as a sign against thy body.” (Barnes 1928: 5) Nativity is intended as both biblical and earthy, and in both cases is a ‘sign against thy body’, where ‘thy’ is the woman. Pregnancy leads to the generation of a corrupted creature, conceived in rape, where the man represented both Adam and the snake. Throughout Ryder, the chemical, indissoluble bond between life and death occurs in images of the childbed, where babies kill their mothers, and are therefore cursed and condemned to death. In other passages of Ryder, Amelia’s warning to her daughter not to ever get pregnant nor be touched by a man make Barnes’s position on motherhood even more radical: “Once I was safe enough [...] so take warning by my size and don’t let a man touch you, for their touching never ends, and screaming oneself into a mother is no pleasure at all.”(p.95) And, later, after her baby’s birth, “No mother would be mother ever and she could, in mid- fight, throw herself a moment out of scent” (p.97). The sexual intercourse is a “fight,” where the woman is chased and captured and cannot escape because she is victim of both the man and her own sick, self- destroying sexual impulse. As a matter of fact, the fil-rouge “from the cradle to the grave” runs through Barnes’s whole work; it starts from The Book of Repulsive Women, continues in Ryder, and is reiterated in Nightwood, her masterpiece of 1936, which opens with a woman dying in childbirth, her sentenced to be guilty of murder from his first breath. This reflection on birth and death persists in Barnes’ writing through to her last work. The last images of The Antiphon, the drama in verses of 1958, deal with the question of the death of Augusta and Miranda: “Could I know / which would be brought to childbed or the other?” (Barnes 1958: 126) Part II 40 three-word phrase, itself a whole line, comes slightly unexpected, because the most logical gravity-ruled fall motion would have implicated “in space,” or “through space.” Potentially, “out of space” strengthens the idea of abnegation, a crime that goes against the laws of heaven and of earth, and cannot be located in either realm. When the woman reaches the ground in the third stanza – after the swirling motion in the second – her body does not regain its unity. In the last stanza of the poem, which recalls so heavily the style of the crime new, the star is bound to the grass through the female body, making the metaphor pattern of fall even more tragic: Plunging grandly out to fall Upon your face. Naked—female—baby In grimace, With your belly bulging stately Into space. (Barnes 1915: 6) The woman, who has been hurled out of space and onto the grass by the original act of violence, prepares now to get “into space,” the world, through the birth of her child. The association between the woman, who had once been a baby and is now about to generate one, is built and maintained through nakedness. Again, the sinister association of cradle and grave looms hopelessly. The vertical directrix that constituted the line of observation and the main reading direction, now impacts on the grass, which is the first horizontal surface of the scene. The dynamic vertical push heading downwards is intersected by its perpendicular, which corresponds to the earthly collocation of the woman. In addition, the verb chosen for the woman’s pregnant belly, “bulging,” meaning ‘swelling out’, underlines all its threatening, majestic (and progressive) expansion; it is even amplified by the adverb “stately” and is further strengthened by the alliteration of ‘b’ with “belly.” “Bulge” is in fact a verb of state that preserves a dynamic push; “to bulge into space” at the end of the poem establishes another directrix which is perpendicular to the one outlined in the first part of the poem, and is recalled at the beginning of the last stanza. In geometrical terms, the two directrixes carve the genealogy of woman – and 1. Form, space and colour 41 the genealogy of sin – in space; the act of violence hurls the woman from sky to earth through the non-space, a dimension of negation. Once on earth, the woman spreads the seed of violence into space through the birth of the fruit of violence.55 The system of vertical pushes that structures the poem is maintained in the drawings. Among the five illustration accompanying the poems, the second one resonates the content of the text of “From Fifth Avenue Up.” Djuna Barnes, 1915. Illustrations to The Book of Repulsive Women, drawing n° 2. The subject of this frame displays the same woman of the first vignette – recognisable by the coat, if not by somatic traits – staring at a creature in the sky that looks at her with an indifferent, enigmatic expression. The heavy, indefinite object that dominates the lower part of the scene, and which first captured the attention of the observer, assumes even more weight when its function is revealed; it is the counterweight that pulls the woman down in the opposite direction, back to Earth, while she was trying to elevate herself. But neither heaven nor earth are merciful towards the woman, and 55 Although it may sound so from the explanation of Barnes’s position on motherhood, she never blames women of being guilty of motherhood. Men, selfish, wretched creature whose only task is to satisfy their impulses are the cause of women’s pains. Even in the rare cases where the woman is consensual to the violence (because the intercourse is and remains a violence in any circumstance), they are not to be blamed, because in such cases they are responding to a primitive need transmitted to them by the fact of being born by a man. Part II 42 rather condemn her to be torn apart by two opposite tensions. In the light of the first poem, it could stand for the “bulging belly,” here emblematically set aside from the woman’s body. In a symbolical interpretation of the drawing, the foetus is represented as detached from the woman’s body, because such a nucleus of corruption has been instilled in her from the outside. The act of violence indicated in the poem took place at an undetermined time when the woman’s place was heaven; such an interpretation finds support in the image of the “capricious star” that tears off the texture of the sky, and opens a crack from which it looks mercilessly at the woman. The woman hangs in a foetal position from the hook, as to suggest her coming to existence. Since she experienced rape and has, therefore, been made impure, not only is she compelled to leave the world of stars, but she has to carry the fruit of sin on Earth; as such, the pregnant belly cannot be positive, and takes the aspect of a rotten fruit whose weight burdens her to the ground. The spatial directrix that dominates the image echoes the vertical stretch that gave structure to “From Fifth Avenue Up.” The image is extremely dynamic thanks to the empty space under the woman, a white, endless mass that illustrates the “out of space” concept mentioned in the poem. In addition, the suspension of the black shape of the woman onto the empty white space underneath evokes the same feeling as is obtained through the enjambments and dashes in the poem. In the drawing, the feeling of being just about to fall into the abyss is as pressurising as in the poem, and is obtained through the same device: the black trait etching the white space. The black quivering lines, presumably filaments of ground or eradicated roots that hang from the black triangular mass, empower the vertical force-line heading downwards, and evoke an association with the grave. The triad of the poem, “star, out of space, grass,” is perfectly maintained in the drawing, where it is obtained through the alternation of masses of positive (white) and negative (black) spaces.56 56 Wucius Wong, 1993, Principles of Form and Design, (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons), p.71. Usually, in black and white drawings, when the artist makes a choice for either the form or the background, they automatically define the other one; on a positive background, the lines defining the forms are meant to be black, while the space inside is as white as the background. The opposite happens when the background is black, in which case images are positive. In either case, one of the two prevails over the other, and usually it is the form, which dominates the space. 1. Form, space and colour 43 Through her study on the invisible border-line between black and white, Barnes could use the line to explore the paradox of ‘non-space’. The woman’s fate, her eternal place (or better, non-place), is to hang forever from a hook, in the endless circle of birth, delivery and death, and to remain trapped in the eternal loop of enduring and generating pain. The poem shows the exact same cyclical orientation, as its scenarios are presented in the same order; the nothingness of the star leaves its place to violence, which results in the woman being thrown to the ground, where she eventually spreads the same evil through the curse of her pregnancy. Scenarios follow one another with the same merciless inexorability of the black line on the white space; the dry, incisive, rapid words chosen to sketch the three masses occupy privileged positions within the verses: they either constitute a full verse, as “capricious star–” and “out of space,” or are placed at the edge of the verse as “in the grass.” Here too they work as alternation of whites and blacks, obtained with a single decisive stroke. In the drawing too, the three spaces of sky, non-space, and earth are connected by a vertical line of force represented by the Fall of the woman. The alternation of black and white, positive and negative spaces, background and foreground, create a conflict that is powerfully marked by the border lines between them, the lines that define the shape of the woman. In both poem and drawing, the pattern of Fall is staged through the action of a vertical line pushing the woman downwards. In both, the grass (or ground) represents the horizontal directrix that symbolises the spreading of the seed of sin, the new life. 1.1.3. Metamorphic spaces: black and white Both “From Fifth Avenue Up” and the second drawing display a woman torn by antithetic forces, whose consequences are described in the final couple of poems. Death – presumably by suicide, as suggested by the section title – is introduced as the final moment of stillness; whether it also involves the end of pain and suffering, however, is unclear. Corpse A THEY brought her in, a shattered small Part II 44 Cocoon, With a little bruised body like A startled moon; And all the subtle symphonies of her A twilight rune. Corpse B THEY gave her hurried shoves this way And that. Her body shock-abbreviated As a city cat. She lay out listlessly like some small mug Of beer gone flat. (Barnes 1915: 9) The titles given to each poem (“Corpse A” and “Corpse B,” as if they were morgue tags) underscore the anonymity and objectification of the bodies, and the indifference with which they are treated. The first poem of the pair starts again with “they” (like in the former poem) which is no better explained here, whereas the object “her” is likely to be one of the women already introduced in the preceding poems. The sign of violence against the body is in the foreground, but this time it stigmatises a “body” that seems to be conceived as a whole; it is no longer ripped into scattered limbs, and is even associated with something unitary and heavenly, “the moon.” The best case scenario would be that death has finally reunited the fragments of her body, previously shattered like the cocoon (again a reference to the motherly womb) she was brought in, in order to give her body some rest from the bruises caused by life. However, the image of the “twilight rune” at the closure sounds inauspicious. Twilight is not a reassuring time, and sounds even shadier in association with the rune; predictably, the second poem develops the threatening message encrypted in the twilight “rune.” In death, the body can still be undignified and degraded. The body of the girl undergoes further humiliation; it is declassified to an animal, the “city cat,” and to an object, “some small mug of beer.” The small poem is played on the alternation of long verses and very short lines, which are meant to make it dense and rapid; but the last four verses are particularly tight. They are strictly connected by a scheme of imperfect rhymes and by an intricate net of consonances and alliterations: “city cat,” “lay out 1. Form, space and colour 45 listlessly,” “some small mug,” which contribute to underline the degradation of the body into something insignificant. While the sequence of the poems is concluded by the death of the subject(s), there is no sign of death in the illustrations. Although they are presented as illustrations to the collection of poems, they preserve in fact a margin of independence; they rather transfigure the contents of the poems, sometimes even contradicting them. The subjects animating the vignettes are distorted to deformation, and their traits are so reduced to the elementary, that they become unclear. The effect is a disturbing mysteriousness, cryptic and hermetical, as if it were meant to reflect the incisive and elliptical verses. Djuna Barnes, 1915, Illustrations to The Book of Repulsive Women. Analogies between the poems and the images can however be found not just in the dryness of style and the use “dichromatism.” At least two of the drawings display animal features, a theme which in the poems is only hinted at. Only the last poem Part II 46 announces the analogy of the woman with an animal, the “city cat.” This latter association, which may as well be metaphoric, introduces the theme of animal-like humans, which is extensively developed in the sequence of images. Zooming out onto Barnes’s whole body of work, the relationship between human beings and beasts is indeed a theme of great interest, since she believed that human nature is intrinsically monstrous. Metamorphosis is essential in the attempt to build sense from the sequence as a whole, because it is difficult for the individual vignettes to convey a meaning related to the verses. If interpreted as a process of transition from a monstrous nature to its disguise in daily life, the drawings build a sense of their own, which is fairly independent from the poems. In fact, the five drawings gathered after the sequence of poems are not necessarily introduced as functional illustrations to the text. The first edition of Bruno’s Weekly carried the title “The Book of Repulsive Women. 8 Poems and 5 Drawings” – they are explicitly not ‘illustrations’. It is a indeed legitimate assumption to conclude that they were meant to support the content of the poems, but such a likely option needs to leave space for additional nuances. The drawings introduce new atmospheres too, besides new themes. They build an oneiric, delirious, dream-like atmosphere that is hard to trace in the poems, which are closer to crime chronicle. The atmosphere of the poems is that of a sequential history of violence, whose borders are sometimes blurred and undefined, sometimes blade-sharp and precise. On such blurred borders do the drawings expand. The process of metamorphosis is graphically enhanced by the alternations of black and white forms and spaces, that can be interpreted as the process of sliding in and out of sleep. My interpretation of the sequence – which is not the only one possible, given the crypticity of the images – is based on the explanation of employing blacks and white to represent the abyss of non-space. In the first picture, the positive form of a woman walking her pets animates the negative background space. The harmless chickens, a bizarre choice for a pet, seem to disappear from the scene for now, but only to yield their place to the monstrous creatures of the fourth image, which are hostile to the woman. Once the woman has fallen asleep – symbolised potentially by the star of the second drawing – she is pushed into a metamorphic process which pictures her 1. Form, space and colour 47 half-human and half-beast in the third drawing. This picture suggests that human beings are their own bitter enemies when they give space to their beastly inner nature. The features of the woman become fluid in the third drawing; the monstrous traits seem to have left her body only to gain concreteness and autonomy in the fourth frame. Here, in the darkest moment of the sequence, all the components, the body and the beasts, meet and try to relate to one another – unsuccessfully. The grotesque creatures originate from the black drape that covers the woman, again in a play of positive and negative spaces and forms. The image is predominantly black, and displays two levels of dichromatism; the woman lying on top of the picture in the foreground is a positive form which turns into a positive space when the focus shifts on the cloak; the cloak, initially a negative form covering the woman, turns into a negative space for the animals, which populate the lower part of the image. If the second drawing appeared to be dynamic, since it staged three layers of contrasts, this one only presents two, strengthening the opposition between human and animal natures; the directrix is again vertical and consists mainly in the cloak, which unrolls downwards. The metaphoric meaning of this force-line is not far from the one of the second picture; the woman, after having reconciled with her primordial, monstrous nature, generates other monsters, which are likely to be the real content of the cocoon in the second vignette. In the fifth drawing, the mighty black mass standing for the nightmare of the female condition disappears from the background, yet does not completely vanish, and shifts inside the woman, into her dress: black and white masses are exactly inverted in comparison with the first image. All the darkness of the nightmarish sequence has been absorbed inside the woman, rather than being around her. Now conscious of her contradictory nature, she is awake, and has to continue her daily façade, since any attempt at investigating her own self would be painfully disastrous. Ironically, the part missing from her sketched body is the belly, as to suggest that the only way to survive decently would be to renounce maternity. Part II 48 1.1.4. Synecdoche and the poetics of dismemberment The sketch, either verbal or visual, is defined by swiftness, selection and the enhancement of some features. Barnes certainly made the most of such characterising features in her both her journalistic writing, which I will address in the second chapter, and in her 1915 poems. Selection is indeed inevitable, perception itself being necessarily selective; yet sketches can achieve mimesis sufficiently to recreate a scene experienced by the artist. Barnes’s sketches are mimetic enough to allow analogy, and therefore to enable the observation of the analogical connection from the image to the meaning. However, something is faulty in the analogical link. In Barnes’s verbal and visual sketches, signifiers are clear, and shapes and words make formal sense. Yet, the encoding process disguises the connection from the signifier to the signified, and the meaning gained from the analogical link is unclear and enigmatic. According to Richard Sha, the dignity of the sketch as an art form lies in its rhetorical aesthetics; in his opinion, the “lessness”57 of the sketch is more artful, more truthful, because it empowers the observer with a wider margin of abstraction. The essentialisation of forms is not detrimental to the dignity of the sketch as a form of art, but is instead its main strength: Thus far I have argued that the aesthetics of the sketch is rhetorical since absence must be made meaningful and since the verbal sketch is based on the figure of analogy. […] It is precisely this “aesthetic function” that makes the sketch so ideologically powerful. […] And given that perception itself is highly, albeit necessarily, selective because we cannot pay attention to every gradation in visual field, the sketch as a process of abstracting details seems merely to reproduce the selectiveness of perception itself. (Sha 1998: 10-11) The sketch is, according to Sha, calculated to be compensatory. Thanks to a combined process of analogy and abstraction, it works equally well as any other more complete narrative (visual or verbal) genre, which employs a more complex system of signs. 57 Because the sketch is based on the principle that “less is more,” sketchers must transform the signs of lessness into a systematic rhetoric in order to convince the readers and observes that fewer signs can open access to a wider system of analogical connections. 1. Form, space and colour 49 Although Sha’s reasoning proceeds with an exploration of the sketch as a meaningful representative choice in Britain during the Romantic period, his premises on the aesthetics of the sketch support the comparison between Barnes’s visual and verbal sketch from a rhetorical point of view.58 The trope that better serves the compensatory process of the observation of the sketch is the synecdoche. In the poems and drawings of The Book of Repulsive Women, which we could define as poetic and dichromatic sketches, she makes widespread use of synecdoche in her exposition of the human body. Women’s bodies are never referred to as unitary figures, but are only evoked through fragmented body parts; the reader’s spontaneous attempt at reconstructing the body as a whole fails. The final pair of poems asses quite clearly that the body parts of the woman cannot compose a whole body – like the dissected pieces of a body after the autopsy. In a 1917 ink drawing, Barnes depicts a scene that seems to echo the dismemberment of the final scenes of the poems of The Book of Repulsive Women; as such, it proves a useful term of comparison to illustrate her use of synecdoche, and to clarify why the analogical process of association from the part to the whole cannot succeed. 58 Sha stresses how women’s sketches ground on different histories. The legacy of the sketch in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries based on the prejudice that visual art could only be a leisure-time activity for women, whereas for men it was an artistic endeavour. “Women’s sketches were supposed to be an end in and of themselves, while men’s were potentially only part of the artistic process. Sketches by men might embody genius, while those of women were praiseworthy if they were “correctly” drawn” (Sha 1998: 73). Although Barnes’s sketches were produced in America, where the chauvinistic imprint on visual art was less rooted than in Europe, they were initially welcomed with suspicion, because they appeared “badly” drawn. The only way to give them authority was to connect them to very well written, and widely read, short stories and articles. In this way, when Barnes published The Book of Repulsive Women, the drawings were not disregarded as the unworthy, un-arty, recreational work of an emancipated woman. Richard Sha, 1998, The Visual and Verbal Sketch in British Romanticism (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press). Part II 50 Djuna Barnes, 1917, “Strange Forms Crying to One Another on the Beach,” in New York Morning Telegraph Sunday Magazine, (15 July 1917). According to Phillip Herring (1995), Barnes’s attitude towards depicting bodies in agony reflects the violence endured as a child. As is claimed by Bonnie K. Scott (1995) – and by other feminist critics too59 – themes such as physical violence and rape in Barnes’s work are influenced by, but are not limited to, the reiteration of personal trauma. Whatever the reasons are for Barnes to represent bodies in pain, it is interesting to witness how she does it. In the picture above, the pattern of dismemberment seems to be the same employed in the poems of two years earlier. None of the women is drawn in full shape, but not because of a lack of space. The same considerations on the use of positive and negative spaces and forms made upon the drawings of The Book of Repulsive Women are valid here too; the black space is dominant, being the background for the sea on the top right and for the women’s bodies at the centre. In this drawing, the principles of black and white spaces, 59 See the critical essays edited by M. L. Broe (1991) in Silence and Power. 1. Form, space and colour 51 on which forms should be depicted by contrast, are transgressed: the woman at the top- right stands out white on both the black shore and white sea; two women in the centre are drawn in mainly black on black background, whereas they should be positive forms. The result of this strange match of black form on black space is uncanny, impacting on the observer with a sense of unease. The body parts left white, though, stand out brighter and clearer: they belong to the black form of the woman, yet their connection cannot be complete, because they are chromatically antithetical (black and white). Dismembered, disconnected, torn apart from one another, the body parts of Strange Forms – a title that evokes a process of dehumanisation – cannot connect to give life to a body, whole and alive. The associative, unifying process (synecdoche) normally activated spontaneously by the observer cannot be initiated, impeded as it is by the incoherent management of black and white – not aligned with subjects and background. Likewise, in the poems of The Book of Repulsive Women, body parts appear isolated in space, irretrievably separate. The verses depict a scene of body forms alternating in and “out of space,” torn up by violence; nothing can amend for the prior violence inflicted on the body, and the fruit of rape can only be rotten. Barnes’s peculiar use of the synecdoche might be inscribed in the profound reflection on the human condition, which, according to her, is corrupted and doomed to suffering. As such, even figures of speech – meant literally to speak about such violence and pain – lose their function; they simply cannot represent a deeper sense, embodied in the metaphor of the body as a whole, when such meaning is missing. The union between the parts and the whole is denied because that whole no longer exists. In such a perspective, body scraps (the units of a faulty synecdoche) are not meant to be mended together, but rather witness an eternal condition of disharmony. The unsaid, the undrawn, embodies the missing meaning disguised by the traits, in a sort of exacerbated litotes. Barnes’s synecdoches appear to be purposed to a certain effect on the reader/observer. She counts on the fact that synecdoches is a spontaneous analogical processes, activated when there is a compensatory need. Interrupting the connection between sign and signified, she makes readers and observers try to initiate the association of meaning to the sign, only to leave them trapped and frustrated in the attempt. Part II 52 1.2. Zelda’s waltz Zelda’s approach to prose-writing in the early phase of her career took place at the beginning of the 1920s, with the article “Eulogy of the Flapper” written for the Metropolitan Magazine in 1922. Then, she wrote nothing substantial until the beginning of the 1930s. This phase of literary silence is due to the fact that in 1920 she began a decade of riotous living in America and France with her husband, Scott. In her youth, her career and popularity, and her dedication to ballet almost monopolised her time, so much that only in 1930 could she turn back to writing, publishing five stories for College Humour. Her first (and only one) novel, Save Me the Waltz is dated 1932, when she had to interrupt her dancing practice in order to be interned for psychic diseases. It was written in six weeks, and expresses contradictory feelings, including melancholy, frustration and nostalgia. While Zelda’s activity as a writer was sporadic throughout her life, and ended definitely in 1932 with her novel, her activity as a painter intensified in the 1940s. Although she had taken private painting lessons in the 1920s, and had started drawing paper dolls for her child, she only started to paint intensively after 1936, when she entered the Highland Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina – where she spent the last 12 years of her life. There she began to focus her creative energy exclusively on visual art and started working on monographic collections; the two most relevant ones are Alice in Wonderland and a collection which displays scenes from the Bible – Zelda became a dedicated Christian during the last years of her life. In the double and interactive light of Zelda’s writing and painting I will explore forms of excess, which originate from a desire to exhibit all of her thoughts on the page at once. I will compare such narrative techniques with the paintings, in order to highlight analogies and reverberations. The short stories she wrote around 1930, gathered in the collection Bits of Paradise portrays a fairy-tale time in the life of the Fitzgeralds, as it is recalled by Scottie, their daughter, in the forward to the 1973 edition: To be sure, when it came to drawing upon their experiences in Europe, a serious conflict of interest arose between the characters of Tender Is The Night and those in my mother’s novel, Save Me The Waltz. But this is 1. Form, space and colour 53 another story, and the one told in this book is of the brighter side of their personal paradise a mutually complementary sense of humor and zest for living. (Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald [1973]: xvii) In spite of the common stylistic features, there is a substantial difference between the two phases of Zelda’s literary output. The first phase, which includes the writing of several short stories, is playful and naïve. The second one, during which she wrote her novel, reverberates in the prose the anxieties and darkness of the time she spent in psychiatric hospitals. Similarly, Zelda’s early paintings, reminiscent of her Parisian years, show pastel, fairy-tale-like colours. Later canvases display instead darker nuances and psychedelic compositions, as to reflect the context in which they were painted. The comparison of early writings and early paintings, and of the novel and later canvases, designs extremely fertile areas of analysis. 1.2.1. Fairy-tale colours: hyperboles Scott’s agent had earned the couple a conspicuous amount of money for Zelda’s prose sketches of popular female types, but only by selling them under Zelda and Scott’s joint by-line, or under Scott’s name alone. At the time, the stories had been published individually on magazines and tabloids, and it is only subsequently that they have been gathered in the collection College Humour as being written by Scott and Zelda; only the latest collection, Bits of Paradise, credits eight short stories to Zelda alone, written between 1929 and 1932, with just one written by the two of them together in 1925. Overall Zelda’s prose is polished and sensitive in all the stories, with only a few redundant pieces, excessively weighed down by linguistic frills. I chose to analyse the language of the short stories because they work as the best verbal counterpart for Zelda’s early paintings, which are rich and full of colours, dynamic, but not chaotic. The passages chosen show the use of colours in both a semantic and formal way, and support the hypotheses that I have put forward while analysing the paintings: for Zelda, colour was more than a visual device, it was a thought-form – just as much as the trait Part II 54 was for Barnes – loaded with and meant to express emotions that enframed any verbal, visual or performative articulation. The considerations that I am going to make on The Girl the Prince Liked could be successfully applied to the other short stories of College Humour too, because they all suit the same fairy-tale structure, semantic orientation and organisation of contents. Most interestingly, though, they share the same verbal texture, rich in adjectives, long sentences and rhetorical devices – which I figuratively defined as the ‘colours’ of Zelda’s narrative. Hyperbole and overstatement are the two most evident features, forms of textual exuberance. While introducing the main character, always a young female heroine, she usually employs a thick concentration of details and superlatives; Helena, for instance, is introduced as incredibly wealthy, dynamic, driven and popular: At first it was disconcerting because her vitality did not come and go like most people’s, but simply changed from one sort to another. From a vibrant excitement that she could convey when she wanted to be disturbing, it would quiet down into a smoldering yellow light back of her light eyelashes, back of her yellow-brown eyes crouching there, independent of Helena, watching you, always taking note of everything. (Fitzgerald 1930: 209) This passage serves as a good example of Zelda’s use of both ekphrastic colours (which she describes as usually bright, and shining), and of ‘verbal colours’, consisting in the profusion of adverbs, adjectives and qualifying clauses. Colours are light and pastel, like those colouring the atmosphere of a fairy-tale, of which Helena is the fair and blond princess – the analogy with the historical Zelda is self-evident. As to further emphasise the brightness of the picture, the adjective “yellow,” repeated twice, connects to the semantic field already defined by “vibrant, smoldering, light,” so that the scene-colours appear redundant. Alongside the description of bright colours, the system of hyperboles makes the narrative appear colourful and carnivalesque, immediately establishing a connection with Zelda’s rich, colourful, stuffed canvases. Starting with the second sentence, clauses overcrowd syntax: the main clause that opens the passage begins with the anastrophe between the verb-unit “quiet down” and its figurative place complement “from excitement,” and is further complicated by a relative clause, which in its turn encapsulates a temporal clause. The subsequent 1. Form, space and colour 55 clauses are progressively condensed: the main clause continues with the parallelism in “back of her,” the second of which is elliptical of the verb; the aside “independent of Helena” is confusing, because it could refer to both her eyes or to “vitality” which was the subject of the main clause; in either case, it just opens the way to more clauses, two implicit relative clauses in gerunds, which refere to Helena. The agglomeration of clauses is further burdened by lexical choices that contribute to the stratification of meaning and the addition of details; nouns are accompanied by often unnecessary adjectives that intensify their already explicit meaning; a few lines before the passage quoted, Helena is described as a “small, slight, little girl full of sudden, flashing indications of a firm and constant energy.” (208) The alliteration of ‘s’ and consonance in ‘t’ of the first triplet make the whole adjectives- noun unit more cohesive; similarly, the reiteration of ‘f’ and ‘s’ sounds in “full of sudden, flashing” produces the same result of connecting words on the level of sound too. Adjectives still match nouns in pairs such “vibrant excitement” and “light eyelashes,” which both sound redundant. The richness of ‘verbal colours’ escalates throughout the story, reaching a climax of superlatives and hyperbolic phrases. The area where Helena moves for the summer is particularly wealthy, “the people there were terribly rich and awfully proud of their fine possessions” (209). In short sentences like this, Zelda’s tendency to never leave a noun un-intensified becomes persistent and harassing; “terribly rich,” a cohesive pair in ‘r’-consonance, precedes the chain of sounds in ‘f’ and ‘p’, which tightens the following pairs of adverb and adjective (“awfully proud”) and of adjective and noun (“fine possessions”). None of such embellishments, neither adverbs nor adjectives are necessary to define the scene; they just work in the same direction as the redundant, abundant colours of Zelda’s gouaches. The description continues with a ridiculous concentration of superlatives and amplifiers: “everybody who counted had everything; their houses were full of […]” to which a list of luxury goods follows. Widening the scope to the whole story, it emerges that linguistic and syntactic excess (or colouring) is a modus operandi; another interesting example can be witnessed a few paragraphs after the one I have just analysed, where she describes how city-dwellers are used to pouring out of their metropolitan winter residences into the more peripheral glamorous vacation site. Part II 56 When summer came, all the people who liked summertime moved out to the huge, clear lake not far from town, and lived there in long, flat cottages surrounded with dank shrubbery and pine trees, and so covered by screened verandas that they made you think of small pieces of cheese under large meat-safes. All the people came who liked to play golf or sail on the lake, or who had children to shelter from heat. All the young people came whose parents had given them for wedding presents white bungalows hid in the green – and all the old people who liked the flapping sound of the water at the end of their hollyhock walks. (Fitzgerald 1930: 211) The passage goes on with a long list of “all the” kinds of people “who came” to the lake for various reasons, in a chain of anaphoric sentences. It possesses the same features highlighted in the previous one, but also shows some variations. Similarly to the previous passage, the main clause is in second position, anticipated by a temporal clause, and is again interrupted by a relative clause; unlike the other description I quoted, though, the sentence continues with a series of paratactic clauses, which prevent the paragraph from excessive convolution. Even though the meaning of the sentence is easily understood, there is an anacoluthon that slows the reading: “they” in “that they made you think” stands for the cottages, whereas the subject of the main clause and of its coordinate clause was “the people”. Once again, adjectives (positive or superlative) work like colours in making the image more vivid. “Huge, clear lake,” “long, flat cottages” follow the pattern of never leaving a noun unqualified by at least one or two adjectives; they provoke semantic redundancies, such as in “flapping sound of water” and “hollyhock walks.” Parallelism is another overemployed device, used to create a rhythmic sequence of sentences, and to connect the various components of the picture; the feeling gained by the series of “all the people who came” and similar variables applies well to the picture of the lake, whose water produces regular smooth waves. Similarly to how the water alternates breaking and undertow, the villagers flow into their summer-cottages and then flow back to town when autumn comes. As it emerges from Zelda’s prose, colours act as the articulation of Zelda’s thoughts, because their use is linguistic and syntactic, other than semantic; ‘narrative colours’ such as unnecessary clauses, and ‘linguistic colours’ such as adjectives and adverbs are wedged into the sentence and verge towards its breaking point, without 1. Form, space and colour 57 actually running into nonsense – at least in the short stories. Ekphrastic colours come as additional, to make the already dense scene appear more concrete; they aim to stratify on the linguistic texture with a visual margin. In the passage that I have just considered, white and green are the main colours and further animate the already glittering picture evoked in the scene. Elsewhere in the text, she describes Helena standing out at social occasions through a syntactically complicated sentence, adding colourful connotations such as “her gray fur coat trailing behind her like a Greek toga, everything gray but her black suede slippers and herself. She was rose-gold.” (211) In this very condensed description of Helena’s looks, dark shades prevail only to form a strong contrast with the colour of her complexion and hair; the combination of grey, rose and gold is unusual and refined, and suits well the context of sophisticated leisure pastimes, such as “sipping the egg-nog in one place, nibbling the cinnamon in another.” (211) When used to increase the visual potential of already evocative frames, colours are emotionally loaded, employed in similar ways as in the paintings. Once summer is finished, autumnal colours begin to take the place of white and green, as in the scene that prefigures the return to town: “by the time the tiny purple asters baked in the yellow autumn sun, she was so definitely bored that night after night she didn’t go out at all, leaving the dregs of the summer moon to a disbanding crowd.” (211) The association of purple and yellow suits the dusky atmosphere of the finishing summer. Words such as “dregs” and “disbanding” sound melancholic and wistful, carrying the bitterness of a happy season coming to its end. According to Leadbeater,60 purple and violet have the highest vibration in the visible spectrum, and trigger spiritual wandering. Moreover, coupling purple and yellow results in a discordant match, whose jarring effects amplify the subsequent image of a crowd, disbanding under the “dregs 60 Colour phenomena, such as the theory of emotions related to different tones, ceased being regarded as occasional or random at the beginning of the twentieth century. Two studies on this topic were compiled by Leadbeater in 1901 and 1902, respectively Thought-Forms and Man Visible and Invisible. Although Leadbeater’s studies were and are not among the best-known of the 1910s, I found them relevant as critical support, since they codified colours in charts and match them with the correspondent emotion: “BEFORE we can intelligently study the details of these various bodies, we must familiarize ourselves with the general meaning of the various shades of color in them […] I am endeavouring to give, as nearly as possible, the exact shade which expresses the unmixed emotion whose name is attached to it; but human emotions are hardly ever unmixed, and so we have constantly to classify or to analyse indeterminate hue in the formation of which many factors have played their part.” (Leadbeater 1902: 89) Obviously, as Leadbeater appreciates, human emotions are far from being universal, and their association to colours is highly influenced by personal experiences and environment.. Part II 58 of the summer moon.” Every time actual colours appear in the text, they have the role to intensify and stress the scene described with the purpose of making it easier to picture in the reader’s mind. The gouache painting The Pantheon and the Luxembourg Gardens, which Zelda painted in the early thirties, serves as ideal term of comparison for the emotional and yet genuine prose of the College Humour stories, since it seems to echo the sense of youth that is found in her short prose.61 The colours used to depict the Parisian frame are similar to those employed in the short story, particularly the association of greys and gold. In addition, the view on the garden recalls the fairy-tale colours of the scene in the countryside holiday resort. Most interestingly, though, the painting shows the reiteration of narrative techniques and rhetorical features employed in the prose, including parallelisms and hyperbole. Zelda Fitzgerald, 1944. Pantheon and Luxembourg Gardens. 61 The third time the Fitzgeralds moved to Paris, in 1928, they had an expensive apartment at 58 Rue Vaugirard, on the corner of Luxembourg Gardens. 1. Form, space and colour 59 This picture sums up well Zelda Fitzgerald’s fairy-tale-like use of colours; here, pastel tones and nuances are used for the emotional arrangement of Zelda’s memories about Paris. The objects represented on the foreground juxtapose all the protagonists of the Parisian streets. Cars speed alongside buses, and carriages and baby prams run on the same force-line; all means of transport on wheels are juxtaposed to convey a predominant curve of speed that crosses layers of the perspectival cone to reach the foreground. However, the origin of the force-line is not in the middle of the surface, and the perspectival cone appears oblique; this peculiar choice gives a sense of instability to the picture, which derives from the decentralisation of the dominant agglomeration of objects in the space. Such a device is applied to the background too, where the Pantheon, meant to be the main form on the last field of perspective, is placed in the top-left of the picture. The speed applied to the force-line and the precarious balance of the whole frame does not prevent the observer from enjoying the view of the gardens behind the gates, thanks to a lift-up of the perspectival side on the right. Such subjective and personal adaptations of perspective and proportion announce Zelda’s attitude towards traditional representational devices and topoi. She is free to move across tradition and interpretation in the name of the emotions she wants to texture on the canvas. The simultaneous perception of the forms (means of transports and monuments) and spaces (background and foreground) is above all conveyed by an interesting use of the colours, which we could define hyperbolic. The anti-mimetic palette chosen ranges in the scale from red to yellow, counterbalanced by the scale from white to black. Such nuances pervade the whole canvas, sometimes even appearing redundant. However, the balance seems to be in the middle of each scale, and the general impression of the painting is watery, mild and emotional, as it lingers on oranges and light greys. John Gage, whose comprehensive studies62 address use and practice of colour in Western culture, together with the attempts throughout history to endow the colour with symbolical power, reminds us that the artist’s choice of palette is never neutral. According to Gage, the evocative and symbolic power of the colour lies in its use within tradition and culture. Zelda’s use of colours seems to echo 62 John Gage, 1993, Colour and Culture: Practice and Meaning from Antiquity to Abstraction (London: Thames and Hudson); John Gage, 1999. Colour and Meaning: Art, Science and Symbolism (London: Thames & Hudson). Part II 60 many suggestions from both traditional and contemporary art: romantic, watery tones merge with the fascination of urban photography in black and white, and sunset colours evoke Impressionistic manners of representing landscapes. The peculiar match of the two colour-scales suggests a knowing contrast between warm and cold colours, used to create a cohesive balance of appeased oppositions; since both reds and greys are kept mild by intermediate tones, they emanate languid thoughtfulness, ironic amusement, and witty extravagance. Dark grey and bright red are reduced to spots and energetic quick strokes, so as to convey a hilarious flap of vitality; thanks to the strong presence of the oranges, the greys do not let the painting slide into melancholy and sadness, but find a compromise in a sense of fairy-tale-like reminiscence. The original use of perspective also produces an interesting effect. In Zelda’s picture, forms and spaces in both background and foreground seem all to have the same weight. Zelda only employs proportion partially, reducing the size of the Pantheon on the farthest level of representation, and of the cars on the second level. Yet, there is no darkening in the tones of either of the sky or the objects, and the Pantheon is just as white as the marble horses on top of the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens. The deriving suggestion is that all levels of her reminiscence are called to the foreground, and overcrowd the observer’s gaze simultaneously. An additional consideration strengthens the hypothesis that colour is employed as a visual narrative strategy to gain simultaneity. Zelda’s paintings, including the one under analysis, are often animated by sprayed-masses of colours, most of the times sketched clouds, vegetation or pollution. Such airy and blurred bolls are realised in a softened nuance of the colour which is predominant in the picture, thus creating the sense of reiteration that is usually produced, in prose, by repetitions and parallelisms. This latter technique, which is particularly successful with the use of watercolours, suits Zelda’s effort to bind together all the components on the canvas, by blending them in a fairy tale picture. This is an innovative and non-academic use of the colours, because colours should remain within the form, and should help the visual separation of the forms from one another and from the background. But Zelda uses colour to exceed the limits of the form. In the painting under analysis, the orange clouds of smoke merge with the trees behind the gates, with the clouds in the yellowish sky, and with the pollution emanated by the cars; it is hard to define which form is the prime, 1. Form, space and colour 61 whether it is the tree, cloud or smog which gives life to the other two. But the result is to bond together all the three potential forms; meanwhile, the watered-down orange spray breaks from one space into the other, crossing all the layers of space. Forms and spaces appear connected so that they coexist in the project of a simultaneous representation, and can be enjoyed at once by the observer. 1.2.1.1. Visual prose One particular passage that comes towards the end of the short story appears suitable to accompany some conclusive considerations on Zelda’s early writing and painting. My reading of Zelda’s use of colours in the prose leads to the conclusion that her writing is always directed towards visual picturing. The way she uses colours to strengthen contents and connect forms to spaces is comparable to her use of colours on the canvas; both aim to let the reader and the observer picture her exact thoughts, not through neat details but through the complexity and simultaneity of her emotions. Picture to yourself Helena, trim, golden, dynamic, getting out of a yellow taxi in front of a place so big and full of spires that you are one of those dots of people in the engraving of Biblical market squares. And picture the most romantic young man of our era, sitting whistling on the top of the second flight of longs steps, without a butler or a soldier or a lackey in sight. (Fitzgerald 1930: 216) In these few lines, all the colours that I have discussed in the few last pages, the ekphrastic and narrative ones used in the prose, and the watercolour nuances used on canvas, merge together; syntactic rambling, lexical richness, hyperbolic language and bright tonalities all cooperate in the colourfulness of the description, which represents a visual and emotional trope of excess. This scene encompasses all the colours of the protagonist, disseminated in the story. Her name is followed by a long juxtaposition of adjectives and qualifiers that do not belong to the same semantic area, but recall and bring together any description of the character; her blondness is juxtaposed, through asyndeton, to her vitality, which is Part II 62 put besides her getting out of a yellow taxi – the principal colour in the story – in front of a palace which is unsurprisingly connoted by superlative qualities such as “big and full.” Dynamism, the colour yellow, and a constant sense of excess have been the leitmotifs of the whole story, radiating from the main character to the other characters, and onto all the places – symmetrical to the way in which Zelda established resonances between forms and spaces in the paintings. Once the story meets its happy ending, all the colours converge into the final scene that urges the reader to arrange a mind- painting. Zelda’s exhortation is key to our interpretation – “picture to yourself” – as if the whole point of the story was to let the reader gain a vision where everything about the character could coexist. 1.2.2. Nightmarish colours: plethora and horror vacui Moving now to later works, the dimension of excess changes from the colourful overcrowdings that I have addressed so far. Orange nuances evolve into dark reds, fairy-tale-recollections evolve into oneiric and sometimes nightmarish compositions. Zelda’s already hyperbolic prose evolves into plethoric obscurity in Save Me The Waltz.63 In the novel, the bright strokes of colours animating the frames of the short 63 The novel did not arouse critical attention when it was first published in 1932, or at least it was considered to pale beside her husband’s masterpieces. The first few reviews were extremely negative, and labelled the book as overwritten, the plot uninteresting and the characters weak. Among the ferocious comments from critics, William McFee’s lines in the New York Sun are quite emblematic; he condemned the book for its “crudity of conception,” “ruthless purloining of technical tricks” and “pathetic striving after philosophic profundity.” His positive conclusion that “there is the promise of a new and vigorous personality in fiction” (Milford 1970: 263) does not really suffice to balance the severity of his critique. Besides such merciless criticism, anyway, there lay Scott’s unsupportive attitude. Whilst he had encouraged Zelda to endeavour short story writing – prompted mainly out of financial need – he severely opposed this attempt at long prose. Zelda engaged upon the task without her husband’s knowledge, and completed the novel so quickly that Scott could intervene very little in it before the first publication. Whether he felt that the novel exposed too much of his private life, or he was angry because Zelda in fact drew upon material he had written in the past five years for Tender is the Night, he accused her of plagiarism, and discredited the book. In the 1970s, feminist critics swung its reputation to the other extreme: no longer judging the novel solely in comparison with Scott’s fiction or just as a biographical source, they rather celebrated it as indisputable feminist masterpiece: “feminist critics extolled the novel as brilliant, comparing the work to T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” in its ability to portray accurately twentieth-century despair and anonymity and to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” for its pioneering feministic spirit.” (Nanney 1993: 220) Lisa Nanney, 1993, “Zelda Fitzgerald’s Save Me The Waltz as Southern Novel and Künstlerroman,” in The Female Tradition in Southern Literature, ed. Carol S. Manning (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press), pp. 220-232. 1. Form, space and colour 63 stories are taken to an extreme; vibrating masses of emotions, which overcrowd the picture, make it hard to even imagine the scene; while in Provençe with David, Alabama describes the sunset with a triumph of colours and sounds, assonances and adjectives that burden the reading: It was as if the sun had absorbed the coloring of the countryside to brew its sunset mixtures, boiling and bubbling the tones blindingly in the skies while the land lay white and devitalized awaiting the lavish mixture that would be spread to cool through the vines and stones in the late afternoon. (Fitzgerald 1932: 87) The syntax is convoluted in this sentence, which accounts for six clauses; most of them are non-finite-verb clauses and contain a great number of adjectives and adverbs. The presence of colours complicates (rather than enriching) the understanding. Assonances in ‘b’ and ‘l’ are almost obsessive in the central part of the sentence, and, more than just bonding words together, they capture the attention in a way that makes it harder for the reader to focus on the sense. While Zelda’s aim was probably to let the reader gain the exact picture of her thoughts through semantically and formally overcrowded frames, the effect she obtains is in fact striking the reader with an excess of information, colour and emotion. A few pages later, she sorrowfully pictures David in his Left Bank studio in Paris: There he lost himself in the retrospect of autumn disembodied from its months, from heat and cold and holidays, and produced his lullabies of recapitulation that drew vast crowds of the advance guard to the Salon des Independents. (Fitzgerald 1932: 102) The tone of this short piece regarding David is halfway between dream and waking, as wandering in memories. The perception of the Parisian idyll has evidently changed: the words she chooses are far from the exuberant escalations of the stories, where Paris was painted with fresh enjoyment and amusement. “Lost,” “disembodied,” “heat and cold” (a pair of extremes), “recapitulation,” “vast crowd” build up a lexicon of bitterness towards her husband’s distance in favour of his artistic career. Alabama, like Zelda, loved Paris, its aliveness, its artistic push and the popularity she and her husband Part II 64 acquired whilst there; but she also absorbed its conflicts, contradictions, paradoxes and shadows, all of which she tried to condense in writing and painting. The visions of Save Me The Waltz are more mature, stratified into obscurity and sometimes so full of contradictions that it is hard to create a coherent frame. As evidenced by this short sample, the enthusiastic hyperboles of the stories appear exacerbated in the novel. Agglomeration has turned into overcrowding, a feverish response to a feeling of horror vacui. Such features are even more evident in Puppeufee, which, having being painted a decade after the novel was written, stages the most extreme developments of Zelda’s plethoric narrative. Zelda Fitzgerald, 1946-1947, Puppeufee. Zelda painted Puppeufee (The Circus) in gouache on paper one (or two) years before her death. At that point she had been treated at Highland Hospital for more than ten years, her cures sometimes consisting in drugs and electroshock. She made this painting for her grandson Tim, potentially drawing inspiration from a French fairy tale about dolls that dance on a carousel. Only, the excesses of red tones are far from the fairy-tale nuances of the canvases she painted ten years earlier, and the characters have nightmarish traits. 1. Form, space and colour 65 Her composition also reveals a deeper level, made of reminisces from her performances, and a thick stratification of emotions related to her dedication to ballet. It shows spiralling force-lines and fluid shapes, which are similar to those of the urban frame analysed above. But the dynamic pushes appear exacerbated into a vortex of humans and toys, the perspectival cone appears twisted and unstable, and the choice of colour-theme is certainly extreme. Overall, the picture appears too disquieting to be just a gift for her grandson. All of Zelda’s interests and passions, her fears and obsessions merge in a grotesque abundance of both colours and form. As to the plethora of colours, the dominant shade is bright red, which carries the weight of Zelda’s passions and anguishes (Leadbeater 1901). Still, there are a few resonances created by local dichromatic alternations, which are worthy of mention. Curiously, the skirt of the girl on the left is patterned with the same red and white stripes of the tent, thus establishing a resonance between the centre and the periphery of the picture. The tutu of the girl on the right is instead significantly lighter than those of the other dancers, and constitutes the highlight of the picture, defining the ballerina as the absolute focus of the composition. The lightness of the tutu of the front-right ballerina also influences the colouring of the master, whose right leg is of a significantly lighter tone than the rest of his body. Such an apparently meaningless detail in fact strengthens the idea that he finds himself in between different realities; he is not part of the performance enacted by the dancers, but as a human being he takes part of the farce of life. His black suit also creates a resonance with the dark buildings in the background, thus connecting him to all the graphic and metaphorical levels of the picture. Symbolically, he is the man who belongs to the city, and who daily wears a mask to act on the life-scene, as if he was a character in a performance.64 As to the plethora of forms, the heterogeneous crowd of puppets, circus with nightmarish features, (over)populates the canvas, in response to an evident horror vacui. If compared to the other puppets in the frame, which whirl in the circular motion 64 The facial expressions of the two ballerinas in the foreground are also worth noting; they look extremely alike, they have the same neck posture, same haircut and colour, and same intense involved close-eyed smile. This feature can be certainly attributed to the traditional physical similarity of ballerinas, and to the fact that they are performing a scene together. This superficial comment, though, invites further observation: first of all, the master of revels who stands on the right has the same facial expression of the dancers – and of all the performers in the background too; secondly, these two ballerinas strongly resemble Zelda herself. Such hint to performance is intended to remain undeveloped here, only to be better expanded in the third section. Part II 66 of the carousel, the two dancers in the inner circle appear to be relatively stable. The same can be said for the toy soldier on the bottom left, which stands dazed, while sharing the foreground with the two dolls. The fact that he belongs to the external circle of the carousel, and should therefore be spinning like the other puppets on his band, brings a sense of the uncanny to his figure. Even more destabilising is the figure of the master of revels, who literally walks across two concentric bands, although one of the two is spinning and the other is steady. Moreover, he seems to walk from outside the carousel to the inner circle by stepping on the red and white cover-tent. For this reason, he encourages a reflection on the management of space and on the three-dimensional representation. When Zelda chose to look inside the carousel from the top of it, and to place all her puppets in concentric bands, she should have given up any vertical stratification; yet, thanks to the stretching and overlapping of the forms and the pervasiveness of red shades, the three dimensions of the representation coexist on the surface. Height and depth collapse inwards and are flattened onto the only represented dimension, width. However, height and depth disappear without sacrificing dynamism, conveyed by a definite centrifugal push whose storm-centre is steady. The position of the soldier and of the master of revels challenge the laws of space, perspective and proportion, but for a higher task of simultaneity: their role is to connect all the vertical and horizontal layers of the composition, and to orchestrate them in such a way that heterogeneous spaces, forms and force-lines can act together within the outer frame, without being blurred in a chaotic vortex. In this painting there are no colour-sprayed clouds to connect space-layers, because forms suffice to obtain a similar result, crossing spaces in all directions. Thanks to such overcrowding of figures (distorted to fit within the frame), overlapping of perspectival layers, and dominance of red shades, the painting appears weary and nightmarish. Narrative and narratological devices used by Zelda in the past seem to have come to an edge of excess, and appear transfigured in the cornucopia of forms and colours. 1. Form, space and colour 67 1.2.2.1. In excess The rhetorical substrate of the evolution from hyperbole to plethora deserves particular attention. From the rhetorical point of view, hyperbole and plethora share the quality of amplification. However, hyperbole has more to do with conceptual exaggeration. Plethora, by contrast, can be both considered as conceptual exaggeration and linguistic/syntactic overdoing – this latter referring to the excessive use of linguistic ornaments such adjectives, adverbs, unnecessary clauses or redundancies. The dangers of this trope of the excess are self-evident: where linguistic embroidery weighs the sentence to Zelda’s levels, it complicates the reading and goes against understanding goals. As emerged from the texts analysed, Zelda makes use of an inconsiderate amount of adjectives and adverbs, asides and anacolutha; sometimes she even layers plethora over already hyperbolic sentences. In Save Me The Waltz, plethora assumes different and interesting forms, from the overabundance of subjects – “David David Knight Knight Knight” (34) – and abuse of punctuation – “car-at-your-disposal, the mystery-car, the Rajah’s-car, the death-car, the first-prize” (89). Elements taken individually constitute units of dense meaning, little pictures of sense, and capsules of colours and emotions; but when agglomerated into the same sentence, spanning several lines, they suggest a sense of unease, as if each of them was too full, too intense to be put together with other similarly overflowing units. Such impression results in a feeling of stifling cohesion, as if each of the linguistic elements was trying to force the borders of its position and claim more privileged space. This last impression is in fact similar to the one gained from Puppeufee, where form, space and colour are interrelated and run over into one another – as the elements of a plethoric visual syntax. Colour binds forms with other forms and spaces with other spaces, and then finally connects forms and spaces. Forms themselves cross space- layers by transgressing three-dimensionality, and spaces seem to overcrowd the foreground sacrificing perspectival hierarchy. Forms, colours and spaces exist all together and all at the same time: with the same level of simultaneity they were perceived or conceived by the artist, and with the same simultaneity they are perceived by the observer. Naturally, the bundle of syntactic elements in and of the forms, spaces Part II 68 and colour on the canvases, influence the semantic level. While syntactic units claim for space, the related meanings make claims on a priority they simply cannot obtain, because they were equally condensed in the mind that conceived them. Places and settings are absolutely extraordinary. France, including Provence, Paris, and all the other places visited, is magnificent. America is simply catalysing and scintillating. Even characters seem to be, in a way, excessive. It often sounds like people and places act to embody the most superlative versions of themselves. David is “too handsome to be so well-known,” (32) Alabama’s family is perfect (her mother says in the first few pages how “all my children were sweet children” (5), Alabama herself is stunning, skilful, popular and (over)sensitive. While all the characters live a span over their reach, the tension they endure to always satisfy their own and others’ expectations is clearly sensible. Alabama’s breakdowns are as deep and intense as her euphoric outbursts; she develops somatic disorders, often caused by jealousy. When other women praise her husband’s handsomeness, she often feels “sick at her stomach – too sick to answer” (114). When David actually dances or “walks away” (Ibid.) with other women, Alabama falls ill and finds solace in champagne. Obviously, Alabama is the most elaborated character in the novel, whose behaviour is at times paradoxical and oscillates from euphoria to depression. Plethora fits her as the only trope where all her contradictions can coexist in a frozen tension among the parts, aware that, should one prevail, all the others would fall into nonsense and destroy the character. Ultimately, if we widen the zoom to structural levels, excess is employed as a narratological device, as it organises contents into chapters and sections. The novel is divided into four chapters, each of which has up to three paragraphs. Yet the division is neither geographical, nor temporal, nor is it related to the characters involved in each section. The sections mirror Alabama’s perception of the happenings of her life; when something meaningful (to her) happens, that is the end of a paragraph. The overall impression is strange: a condensation of settings, people and events animates the scene, which does not end where a pause would be necessary to the content. Such structure reverberates quite explicitly the frames of Zelda’s paintings, where characters look as if they wanted to walk outwards, and clouds of colour seem to be about to overflow the space of the canvas. 1. Form, space and colour 69 In conclusion, tropes of excess are pervasive in Zelda’s late production. Interestingly, Zelda takes advantages of the potential danger of plethora, in establishing a sympathetic connection with her readers. The whirlwind of emotions experienced by Alabama makes her extremely credible and human, easy to sympathise with. Likewise, the emotional burden carried by the simultaneity of all the forms of plethora on canvases is not easy to handle. All meanings and feelings are on the foreground with no screen. Through various forms of plethora, Zelda removes any hierarchy among layers and forms and language, giving the same perceptive priority to all components. In such precarious momentum, where formal, semantic and structural plethora coexist on the edge of collision, and head inevitably toward chaos, compensatory pushes of contradictory forces form a beautifully complicated ensemble. 1.2.2.2. “The vertigo of the list”65 I want to conclude this chapter on Zelda’s excesses by showing the paradoxes deriving from the use of exacerbated plethora. There are relevant passages in Save Me the Waltz that show how plethora can evolve into an unsuccessful version of itself, once it crosses the edge, the momentum of balance: Lustily splashing their dreams in the dark pool of gratification, their fifty thousand dollars bought a cardboard baby-nurse for Bonnie, a second-hand Marmon, a Picasso etching, a white satin dress to house a beaded parrot, a yellow chiffon dress to snare a field of ragged-robins, a dress as green as fresh wet paint, two white knickerbocker suits exactly alike, a broker’s suit, an English suit like the burnt fields of August, and two first-class tickets for Europe. (Fitzgerald 1932: 58) Once again, the main clause is not in first position, which is instead occupied by a carnival of consonance, adverbs, gerunds, metaphors and colours. Yet, this passage displays a sort of faulty hypotaxis, where not only do clauses omit their semantic 65 Umberto Eco, 2009, La vertigine della lista. Part II 70 connections, but appear to be forced into a list. The elements listed are heterogeneous, including a baby-nurse for Bonnie, an etching by Picasso and a second-hand fashionable car, followed by clothing items that are described in the usual pattern ‘adjective(s) plus noun’. Each piece of clothing is described with a colourful association or a dynamic picture, as if Zelda wanted the reader to picture their exact trim. The verb chosen for the satin white dress is “host,” while that for the yellow chiffon dress is to “snare” the flowers on it; the third dress is “as green as fresh wet paint,” an unusual term of comparison; similarly the English suit, is originally described as being “like the burnt fields of August.” Such comparisons, synesthetic verbs and associations fit Zelda’s tendency to range through the most varied semantic and emotional spheres in order to stratify emotions in the reader’s mind. But this sample shows how Zelda’s wish to condense everything into one sentence cannot always be met. Sometimes, the sentence collapse because its units cannot hold together, being too heterogeneous to find semantic links. There are some moments where not even punctuation helps coherence; passages where, despite apparently regular sentence organisation, the fragments of her visions make a whole picture hard to reconstruct, and the clauses remain disconnected like the items of a list, rather than as the sense units of a discourse. When Alabama feels scared or unprepared to face a new situation, or when she is annoyed at someone or at the circumstances, her (Zelda’s) capacity to weave plethoric textures goes missing, and syntax becomes rather a patchwork of clauses, juxtaposed, listed without immediate coherence. As soon as David shows her picture of them in the tabloid, for instance, she nervously walks from the bed to the window, pensive, and stares at the road outside: A stone minuteman kept the peace of the indolent fields. A driveway crawled from under the feathery chestnuts. Iron-weed wilted in the heat; a film of purple asters matted over their stalks. Tar melted in the sun along the loping roads. The house had been there for ever chuckling to itself in the goldenrod stubble. (Fitzgerald 1932: 44) All of the sentences, except the last one, are made up of only a main clause, exemplifying a technique different from the one illustrated so far. In such passages, Zelda employs her own adaptation of the free indirect speech, or even (a hiccupping) 1. Form, space and colour 71 stream of consciousness. Like hyperbole can evolve into plethora grounding on a rhetorical affinity, plethora too can develop. However, plethora already embodies a form of excess, so that, necessarily, it cannot escalate higher to another extreme form. If the plethora captures a tension on the edge of breaking, its evolution takes place when the conflicting pushes lose their balance. Then, it inevitably collapses, changing drastically its virtual directrix of expansion. When the units fail to connect, the momentum goes lost, and the plethoric tension falls alongside the steep verticality of a list. 1.3. Mina Loy’s essential lines Mina Loy’s verbal and visual work is centred on her peculiar use of the line, which, in her avant-garde art, is essential, radical, and aphoristic. However, this particular correspondence between poetic and drawn lines only took place between the 1914 and 1916, the years in which visual art and writing seemed to have the same weight. Until 1913 (before she moved to Italy), Mina Loy could have been described as a minor post-Impressionist painter, known, according to Caroline Burke, “for the elegance of her draughtsmanship and the delicacy of her water-colors.”66 She was not famous as a writer, by that time. Then, after she moved to New York in 1916, her genius seemed to canalise mainly into writing, which eventually became her privileged, if not exclusive, form of artistic expression. Loy’s shift from visual art to literature, of which I will here explore the short phase of balanced coexistence, appears to be based on an aesthetic reflection on the potential of the graphic line. Looking at Loy’s production as a whole, her artistic evolution from academic painter to avant-garde writer hinges on a process of essentialisation of the drawn line, which gradually appears geometrised in her visual works, to eventually become textured in graphic poetry. Particularly, the years between 1913 and 1920 shaped her poetics starting from the study of the line, which became 66 Carolyn Burke, 1985, “Mina Loy: Reimagining the Poetic Line,” in HOW(ever) 2(4), (November 1985), n.p. Part II 72 progressively sharper. Such a process, carried on within the space of both drawing and writing, lies on comparable rhetoric structures and is therefore worth being analysed: The pencil line that she had learned to control with such delicate strength could be reimagined in the poetic line, carving its way sinuously through the formal arrangements of the poem. Similarly, the white spaces around and between words could join in the play of speech and silence, of shape and its shadow. Poetry provided her with a way to explore what she called (in “Aphorisms”) “the fallow-lands of mental spatiality.” And it made possible the enactment of a female inwardness that she had hitherto depicted from without, in numerous portraits of female subjects limited by the requirements of figuration and perspective. (Burke 1985: 7) As suggested by Burke, influences from Futurism, Stein and other post-modernist voices, encouraged Loy to reconsider her previous visual art, and through the study of the line, to transfer her artistic skills into poetry. 1.3.1. Geometrical fascinations Once Loy moved to Paris, her career as an avant-garde painter can finally take wing.67 She caught the attention of critics in the 1906 Salon d’Automne, where she exhibited six watercolours, which clearly show how the fascination of geometry enters Loy’s so far academic canvases.68 67 In London, she had attended several art-schools for women, since her self-respecting bourgeois father had been persuaded that his daughter’s artistic accomplishment would increase her marriageability. The first private art school in which Mina was enrolled by her father was the St. John’s Wood School on Elm Tree Road, London, which combined proximity with respectability, and with solid connections to the Royal Academy schools. Then, her father sent her to Munich, to the house of a baronial couple whom he had heard of via the British Consulate. Mina stayed in Munich for one year, absorbing the suggestions of the Munich Jugendstil. Then, after a brief return to London, she finally moved to Paris. In Paris, her painting style started to gain self-awareness and a personal touch, influenced by Impressionist models. (Burke 1985) 68 These watercolours gained Loy membership to the drawing section of the Salon d’Automne, a privilege that entitled her to exhibit her drawings without them needing to be approved by the committee. 1. Form, space and colour 73 Mina Loy, 1906, L'Amour dorloté par les belles dames. Mina Loy, 1906, La Maison en papier. A brief analysis of these watercolours shows how, in the early 1900s, the fascinations of the geometrical line start invading Loy’s fluid compositions. These watercolours mesmerised the critics for their mixture of styles and subjects; they drew themes from the decadence of the nineties, complicated with caricature, irony and irreverent nudity. These watercolours represent a phase of passage between the use of colours on paper and oil on canvas at the art schools in England and Munich, and the almost exclusive use of pen and pencil in France and Italy. As such, they offer a chance to identify Loy’s moments of theoretical and practical reasoning on the representational strengths of either form of art. They show interesting polarities, alternating meticulous details to blurred forms, and alternating thick geometrical lines to watery strokes. In L’Amour dorloté, the geometric grid in the background shows Loy’s eagerness to experimenting with the combination of geometry and loose lines, ink traits and watery shapes within the same space. In this watercolour, thick geometrical Part II 74 lines are only present in the background with decorative purposes.69 The Greek fret seems to be a picket fence that encloses the space for the women and for the rose vase behind them. Even as a background detail, though, the geometrical grim inspires a reflection on its function in the separation of levels within the composition. If it were not for the vase with roses, the geometrical band could have resembled a fret on the wall behind the woman; but since it stands behind the plant, it is more likely to be the fence of a domestic garden where a group of women is spending some leisure time. There is nothing beyond the fence, a merely grey neutral background surface.70 Graphically, the position of the geometrical motif is more interesting, because it invites a reflection on the management of positive and negative spaces. Looking at the picture as a whole, the left side is significantly lighter than the right; darkness seems to proceed rightwards, starting from the all-white figure of the woman on the extreme left, to the greyness of the woman on the extreme right. Coherently, the dress of the woman who turns away from the scene with her arms folded appears lighter on the left side and darker on the right side of her skirt. The woman on the left is completely white, there are no volumes or shadings on her figure and the art-nouveau- style decorations on her dress appear meticulous but fading amidst her general lightness. By contrast, the decorations on the dress of the woman on the right are nonexistent, flattened and absorbed by the greyness of her costume, which blurs with the floor, also grey. The opposition between light and darkness on the left and on the right of the frame is condensed at the centre, where the all-white angel of Love in the front leans backwards into the arms of the all-grey woman. The same opposition of 69 L’Amour dorloté shows well Loy’s artistic eclecticism: art nouveau is particularly evident, interestingly flanked by echoes of Pre-Raphaelite postures. Love is an effete Pre-Raphaelite who swoons in the lap of a fashionable woman, who leans over him in a parody of the mother-with-child pose, which is ironic, because Love, usually a child-angel, is here equipped for adult male sexuality. But the naked body depicted in the centre also recalls the androgynous figures of Burne-Jones. The ensemble could also be a parody of the Passion, where the Christ leans on the Virgin. Either way, the ironic composition satirises the conventions of Loy’s artistic training in an obvious reversal of sexual dynamics. It is the man’s body, defenceless and uncovered, which is displayed for the contemplation of the ladies within the frame and outside. The women who surround the central group show Beardsleyesque profiles, while their costumes blur into one another and with the background. This reference to Beardsley suggests Loy’s awareness of the artistic vanguard around her, but the women also illustrate Loy’s own personal style. 70 Perhaps, and grounding on Loy’s previous academic art studies, the completely grey space outside the garden could signify that there was nothing for respectable women beyond the borders of their household. Nothing metaphorically, because an upper-class woman had to be inscribed within her family; nothing literally, because women were not allowed to leaves the gates of their house or protected yards if they were not chaperoned by someone of the family or trusted and respectable. 1. Form, space and colour 75 light and dark is proposed again on the right, although inverted, since the white woman stands behind the woman in grey. This game of contrasts certainly creates interesting resonances within the frame, as Loy agitates somehow the relationships between space and form, whose distance is usually marked by a contrast between colours. Negative space fills in the forms in the foreground, whereas white space makes the woman on the farthest layer stand out in the background. Such contrasts between blacks and whites are essentialised and condensed in the geometrical fret, which, under this light, appears to be the arrival point of all the other spatial reasoning of the foreground. While the formal focus of L’Amour dorloté mainly concerns the study of form and space and the hierarchy between them, La Maison en papier shows a deeper attention to the potential of the geometrical line.71 In this watercolour, a genre where traditionally there would be no space for geometry, Loy employs a geometrical device with a structural role, thus depriving the watercolour genre of its traditional smoothness and softness. In La Maison en papier the geometrical line is thicker and monumental, and has a structural role. While it constitutes the net of the shoji paper wall, it also separates the two spatial layers of the composition. All the figures on the foreground seem involved in serenades to the girl at the window, who clearly prefers the attention of the women rather than that of the men. The girl at the centre of the geometrical net, who finds herself in in-between the two spatial layers, is particularly interesting from a graphic point of view. Looking at the continual black thick line, there does not seem to be a window in the paper wall. Yet, ninety per cent of the leaning girl is grey, suggesting her body is behind the shoji wall; her right arm stretched to reach the flowers is white suggests that she is leaning through the open window. While initially the paper wall created by the geometrical net appeared to be a flat background, it is, through the girl, turned into a separé between background and foreground. 71 This watercolour too shows Loy’s eclecticism: the presence of the Vienna Secession, echoing Hoffmann’s essentialism, combines with Pre-Raphaelite ‘egoless purity’, just as well as with Japonism. Other exotic touches characterise the subjects’ facial traits; the naked girls leaning out the window recalls Gauguin’s Tahitians, while the man bent over in the foreground and the man on his back have Asian traits. The woman on the left has a Beardsleyesque profile and the woman next to her seems to mimic Burne-Jones’s style. Art nouveau is also evident, in the indoor decoration with peacocks visible through the paper wall, and in the orientalism conveyed by the shoji wall. Part II 76 Loy’s choice to locate her exploration of the potential of the geometrical line within the space of a genre that had traditionally very little to do with geometry demonstrates the progression of her thoughts on the modernist push of blurring genres. Taking colours away from the watercolour-technique, only to replace them with shades of grey obtained by watering ink, shows the stage she had reached in her shift towards the pencil sketch and ink drawing. The geometrical line and absence of colour produce a denaturalisation of the watercolour-genre itself, emptied of its foundations to become the study-ground for new representational paradigms. 1.3.2. Access-line to avant-garde The cartoon below illustrates the consequences, implications and radicalisation of Loy’s experiments with geometries applied to the visual art. Essential and dichromatic, radicalised in the masses of black and white of ink drawing, exhibits the evolution of Loy’s reasoning on the management of spaces and lines. Mina Loy, 1916, Consider Your Grandmother’s Stays. 1. Form, space and colour 77 Consider Your Grandmother’s Stays is an ink drawing Mina made shortly after going to America.72 It appeared on Rogue, a U.S. based magazine, in November 1916, accompanying an ironic pro-suffragist article by Dame Rogue. In the article, old corsets represent oppression (compression), and try to stop the activism of corsetless- corsets, the Suffragists. The pun on “stay”73 – the name of the underbodice stiffened by tight and rigid strips – obviously conveys the equation between the bodily and political forced immobility of women. Loy’s eclecticism appears here brought to the service of reportage – thus triggering connections to Barnes’s illustrated journalism of those years, which I will discuss in the next chapter.74 The oriental taste – which influences significantly all the forms of art nouveau in this decade – is conveyed by the woman’s Geisha-style makeup. The lines of art nouveau are still evident in the composition, but are essentialised, condensed into the pattern of the woman’s skirt and in the flowers she holds in her left hand. The grey, watery colours of the Parisian gouaches have been completely dried off by black masses organised geometrically in the skirt, and the difference between the foreground and background has been turned into one of direct opposition with the contrast of black vs. white. This vignette exemplifies how the process of geometrisation and essentialisation of the drawing line is complete by 1916, and offers an excellent term of comparison for the study of Loy’s use of essential lines in the writings of the same years. Many motifs of Loy’s earlier visual art persist in this image, signifying that Loy’s theoretical and artistic developments involved the form, rather than the contents. 72 1916 was an extremely productive year for poetry, and therefore the perfect time for it to be revolutionised: “it was the time of the manifestos, movements, overnight schools, sudden departures,” recalled Louis Untermeyer. “The Cubists, Futurists, Imagists, Impressionists, Vorticists had all taken a hand at rejuvenating the staid and perplexed Muse.” (Untermeyer 1919: 320). Louis Untermeyer, 1919, The New Era in American Poetry (New York: Henry Holt and Company). 73 Jessica Burstein, 2012, Cold Modernism: Literature, Fashion, Art (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press). 74 By 1916, Loy had gained the attention of Djuna Barnes too, who was impressed and attracted by the artistic and sexual license of Loy’s first “Love Song” – better known as “Pig Cupid.” Barnes wrote about Loy on the New York Morning Telegraph while accounting for the décor typical of Greenwich Village: “A touch of purple here, a gold screen there, a black carpet, a curtain of silver, a tapestry thrown carelessly down, a copy of Rogue on a low table open at Mina Loy’s poem.” Quoted in Jo-Ann Wallace and B. J. Elliott, 2014, Women Writers and Artists: Modernist (Im)Positionings, London: Routledge. Barnes’s article, illustrated with a caricature of Mina Loy, highlights two main aspects: first of all, it shows the activity of the ‘net’, which I discussed in the premises of my work; the trans-Atlantic community of women intellectuals, writers and artists was a tight net of acquaintances, acknowledgment and appreciation of one another’s work. Secondly, it shows how Loy entered the world of avant-garde art thanks to her poetic work, although she had already been well-known for a few years as a post- Impressionist painter. Part II 78 It is what happened just before 1916, that helps explaining the dramatic essentiality of the 1916 cartoon. After the Parisian years, Loy moved to Italy, where she came in touch with the Futurist movement. She quite spontaneously espoused ideas and principles of the Futurist aesthetics, which showed assonances with her Parisian reflections of the management of line and space. In 1914, Loy was travelling in Italy, from Florence to Rome, to attend the First Free Futurist International Exposition with Marinetti. In June of the same year, Stieglitz’s Camera Work came out with an edition featuring Aphorism on Futurism as central literary text; the same edition also included a poem by Stein and a review by Dodge, thus putting Loy’s work into perspective. In the assertive, telegraphic and definitive form of the aphorism – which perfectly suits the studies on the neat and essential line – Loy marks her choice to embrace the fascinations of geometry in verbal expression too.75 Loy’s Aphorisms are particularly meaningful as a term of comparison to the ink drawing because they condense her theoretical and practical reflections on the importance of geometry in either visual of verbal texts, “the fallow-line of mental spatiality.” (Loy 1914: 427) more broadly they contain her views on local and transatlantic avant-gardes; formally, they are imbued with Loy’s personal reading of the ‘manifesto’-means to spread new aesthetics. Aphorisms on Futurism […] THE velocity of velocities arrives in starting. IN pressing the material to derive its essence, matter becomes deformed. AND form hurtling against itself is thrown beyond the synopsis of vision. THE straight line and the circle are the parents of design, form the basis of art; there is no limit to their coherent variability. […] OPEN your arms to the dilapidated; rehabilitate them. 75 A good aphorism has a mathematical, axiomatical aura, and can stand the test of time and criticism; as phrased by Friedrik Schlegel in one aphorism about aphorisms itself, “an aphorism ought to be entirely isolated from the surrounding word like a little work of art, and complete in itself like a hedgehog.” In the original German: “Ein Fragment muß gleich einem kleinen Kunstwerke von der umgebenden Welt ganz abgesondert und in sich selbst vollendet sein wie ein Igel” Schlegel on Athenaeum, Fragment 206. 1. Form, space and colour 79 BUT the Future is only dark from outside. Leap into it—and it EXPLODES with Light. (Loy 1914: 427-428) The layout is what strikes at first sight. Lines appear concise and prescriptive, a quality reiterated by their graphic distribution. Loy’s aphorisms are highly visual, thus embodying the common rhetorical ground of Loy’s visual and poetic art. Her Aphorisms actually illustrate the principles of new poetry: they describe the “capacity” of the human mind, analogically connected to the “mental spatiality” of poetry. The “velocity” and compression of the future are conveyed by both semantics and graphics, which appear cohesive in their purpose to be quick, straightforward and unquestionable. Such are the terms of the reformation of poetry, that needs to become both visual and verbal, so as to increase its communicative strength: promptness and simultaneity from the geometrical line, and stratification from the verbal organisation. In order for this reformation to take place, poetry needs to overcome any aesthetic of constriction and enclosure – that, for Loy, also has gender implications. It needs to “hurtle against itself,” and to be “thrown,” violently, beyond the “synopsis of vision.” In order to do so, form (both the poetic and the visual one) needs to be essentialised to its graphic prototype, the line. The aphorism “THE straight line and the circle are the parents of design, form the basis of art” (emphasis is mine) represents a declaration of intent and the starting point of Loy’s process of destruction and re-birth of her own art and poetry, because both originate from the ‘line’. Such an assertion is apodictic and supports many of the considerations I have made while decoding Loy’s process of essentialisation in her visual art. It also supports the structure of this whole first section of this thesis, which rests on the assumption that the trait is archetypical to both writing and drawing, and that any trope that can applied to the line forms a rhetorical foundation for both literature and visual art. Loy says “the straight line and the circle” as if to differentiate between straight and curved lines, but they are only variations of the same archetype, which can be straight, curved, or arranged into sequences of signs to constitute words. The “line” acquires great semantic power because it applies both to the drawn and to the poetic line; combined together on one blank space, they can cover every meaning, Part II 80 concrete or abstract, and every nuance of knowledge. Instead of encapsulating meaning, Loy’s trait multiplies meanings into endless possible connections. Spatial and visual words empower verbal language with all the potential of visuality. In the subsequent verses, Loy continues explaining the power of visual language, and therefore of visual poetry, when lines are arranged into the “new form.” (428) CONSCIOUSNESS cannot spontaneously accept or reject new forms, as offered by creative genius; it is the new form, for however great a period of time it may remain a mere irritant—that molds consciousness to the necessary amplitude for holding it. […] LET the Universe flow into your consciousness, there is no limit to its capacity, nothing that it shall not re-create. UNSCREW your capability of absorption and grasp the elements of Life— Whole. […] HERE are the fallow-lands of mental spatiality that Futurism will clear— MAKING place for whatever you are brave enough, beautiful enough to draw out of the realized self. […] (Loy 1914: 427-428) The “new form,” the Futurist visual line, “can compress every aesthetic principle in one line.” (428) By transferring the power of the geometrical line into poetry (which might as well be interpreted as the reason why after moving to New York Loy turned to writing almost exclusively) the verse becomes signifier for endless signified meanings. In order to empower the line with this freedom, poets need to abandon the illusion of control that was traditionally implicit in the management of poetic language; once the freedom of visual words has been accepted, the human mind (“mental spatiality”) is a tabula rasa, as blank as the space that will host lines and forms. By giving up the illusion of being masters of sense, poets and artists need to “dissolve back to their innate senselessness,” becoming rather masters of sound, of evocation, 1. Form, space and colour 81 enabling endless connections traced in space. The sequence of aphorisms triumphs with the final statement, which is alliterate and incisive, “ACCEPT the tremendous truth of Futurism.” (428) With these words, not only does Loy gain visibility within the Italian Futurist circle, which she would soon leave, but enters an international community of female vanguard intellectuals by writing her own manifesto. In fact, Loy’s declamatory tone conform only partially to the oratorical pattern typical of the vanguard manifestoes. The way in which human mind and the blank page are put into connection is highly physical, since the blank page and human body are connected through the analogical term of space. This analogy is reinforced by the performative language employed: not only does the poet have to simply write verses and draw lines, (s)he needs to perform them, to “OPEN your arms” and to “Leap into” the future, in order to experience its “light.” Similarly, the reader needs to sensorially “experience” the text, rather than just read it. Such dynamics show a sort of sensualisation of the manifesto oratorical style, a (physical) appropriation. These peculiarity of Loy’s narrative, which contributes to explain her divorce from Italian male-centred Futurism, also prepares to the reading of Loy’s poetry, where geometries and lines appear as gendered suggestions, in the fusion of graphics, words, and body. 1.3.3. Gendered geometries The application of a gendered aesthetics of space and line to poetry is best exemplified by “Parturition,” a poem that connects baby-delivery and ‘poem-delivery’ basing on the same spatial analogy of page and body proposed in the Aphorisms. Published in Trend in 1914, “Parturition” versifies the physical experience of giving birth from the woman’s point of view, detailing an area of female experience rarely thought suitable for literature. Virginia Kouidis was the first critic to observe this, emphasising the significance of this poem in the history of modern poetry as well as in the literature of modern sexuality (1980: 40).76 Other scholars also praised “Parturition” for having addressed the issue of labour “fifty years before such a subject 76 Virginia Kouidis, 1980, Mina Loy: American Modernist Poet (Baton Rouge; London: Louisiana State University Press). Part II 82 became acceptable” (Burke 1985: 95) and for having depicted the intensely physical experience through an unprecedented attention to the woman’s body (Kinnahan 1994: 56). My contribution aims to extrapolate the intrinsic reflection on the concept of line and space, to eviscerate how the “synopsis of vision” of the “straight line and the circle” has been textualised into the 1914 poem, published in the same year as the Aphorisms. Parturition I am the centre Of a circle of pain Exceeding its boundaries in every direction The business of the bland sun Has no affair with me In my congested cosmos of agony From which there is no escape On infinitely prolonged nerve-vibrations Or in contraction To the pinpoint nucleus of being Locate an irritation without It is within Within It is without. The sensitized area Is identical with the extensity Of intension […] (Loy 1923: 4) At first glance, the poem appears ‘regular’ in its overall layout, far from some excesses of Futuristic visual poetry. The declamatory effect of the Aphorisms is maintained by the vertical layout of the lines, some of which are long, and some of which are instead one-word-lines. Punctuation is scarce, but rhythm is conveyed by the blank space surrounding each verse – miming, in fact, breathing, in the alternation of long breaths to hiccupping short breaths. In the first verse, the woman makes claims on the reader’s attention, clarifying that the focus is on her and on her agony. The duplicity of the agony is supported by the fact that the woman is identified with Loy herself, so that the effort is both to 1. Form, space and colour 83 deliver a child, and to write a poem on it. The lexicon of the first few verses is highly spatial, and seems to apply the programmatic intentions expressed in the aphorisms. There, she had identified the line and the circle as the parents of design and the basis of art; here she defines her position at the “centre / of a circle,” a concept that she pictures in the space of poetic lines. The way in which Loy opposes design and poetry, in these verses, is typical of Futurism. Yet, here geometry is re-inscribed into gendered semantics. First, she sets words free from referential links by picturing a clear geometrical setting with “I am the centre / of a circle;” the lack of a preposition of space such as “I am at the centre” eliminates the analogical step where the reader’s mind would have to position the subject within a geometrical space. The woman is the geometrical sign – thus reiterating the spatial analogy between page and body expressed in the Aphorisms. But this process of abstraction is immediately re-inscribed in a physical dimension, from which geometry exits as gendered, the circle “of pain.” This gendered geometry of the Futurist line/verse, and consequently of the poetical space, marks Loy’s distancing from Futurism as a masculine movement. The poem continues on this phenomenology of the gendered space and embodied line, illustrating the dynamic nature of the “circle.” The third verse explains how the circle is “exceeding its boundaries in every direction,” and offers, again, a multiplex reading. Certainly, the most literal understanding refers to an increasing agony, and therefore to a growth in size of the geometrical figure that represents the pain. But this verse also echoes one of the Aphorisms, the one where the “Future” (the chronological future and the future of poetry, Futurism) “EXPLODES with light.” Certainly the semantic field of ‘excess’ and ‘explosion’ is typical of Futurist poetics, but, in Loy’s poetry, it is further stratified. It is in fact re-semanticised into a gendered geometry, and therefore re-contextualised into gendered embodied verses. The process leading to “explosion” is here identified as an oxymoron, “congested cosmos,” which reiterates the conflicting pushes that animate the belly (and the creative mind) in labour. The alternation of such opposite pushes, centrifugal (pushing outwards) and centripetal (converging to the centre), continues metaphorically, with a clever game of “within” and “without” arranged in an alternate rhyme scheme. The “pinpoint nucleus” is located within and without the circle, thus perpetuating the centrifugal push expressed in the third verse. Now, though, the centre is actually exceeding the borders, Part II 84 reaching the space outside and around it. The act of childbirth here is pluri-semantic; it is both to be taken literally, as the delivery of a baby, and metaphorically, as the birth of ‘new form’ of poetry; moreover, it can be read as the birth of a new woman, who breaks the enclosure that constrained her in an act of painful liberation. Through the ‘centre-circle paradigm’, Loy advocates a different perception of motherhood from past icons; the modern mother can be single, not necessarily inscribed within patriarchal schemes such as marriage – the logics of enclosure. Having a child outside marriage – “a fashionable portrait painter / running upstairs to a woman’s apartment” – must not cause the woman’s fall, but her re-birth instead. Loy re-designs motherhood by centring it on the woman’s body, and places the new perspective into her gendered space and gendered poetry. If the woman is the centre of the circle, by which the woman-centred view of history is intended, the centrifugal push signifies the woman who forces the barriers of her historical confinement. The premises that enable such a process of re-writing and re-inscription of women’s history into a woman-centred geometry lie in the overlapping of the linguistic and graphic systems: the poetic space is empowered with structural and geometric value thanks to the intersection and cooperation of drawn and poetic lines, blurred into one, a Loy describes in the poem: “blurring spatial contours.” An entire vision, based on a new advocated role (and position) of the woman and on a new way of writing poetry, becomes an aesthetic system. Reading “Parturition” through the aesthetics of space defined in the Aphorisms provides a clue for quantifying Loy’s contribution to modernity on the level of form. But another, perhaps neglected, aspect of its modernity lies in the theoretical, programmatic embodiment of verses in a system of gendered space and lines that put Loy ahead of the Futurist vanguard. Loy’s poetry subsequent to 1914 – year of both the Aphorism and“Parturition” – shows the irreversibility of her gendering processes of geometry and rhetoric. Love Songs is a collection of poems that also faces topics concerning women’s issues (including sexual taboos) from the point of view of a woman; such a gendered point of view appears to the reader as witty and ironic, and as reliable and authoritative, precisely because aphorism is employed as the general and main rhetorical structure in these poems. 1. Form, space and colour 85 Spawn of Fantasies Silting the appraisable Pig Cupid his rosy snout Rooting erotic garbage “Once upon a time” Pulls a weed white star-topped Among wild oats sown in mucous-membrane (Burke 1996: 156) The opening of the first poem of Love Songs immediately designs the geometric structure of the poem. The initial (aphoristic) picture presents no lyric voice, in order to suggest that what is being said is apodictic, and needs no supplementary explanation. As if the words were being spoken by an Oracle, they are fragmented syntactically, their truth enclosed in partial statements. Words float on the page as a collage of lines, a geometrical but free composition. Allegory, irony, paradox, bathos and other tropes add complexity to the aphoristic fragments, and so erotic fantasies replace and demystify romantic icons. Carnality replaces love, and the embodiment of the poetic line passes through the body that is sexually aroused. The poem (like the whole collection), whose juxtapositions create a kaleidoscope of ironic associations, is in fact a collage of the syllogistic deductions which are derived from the apodictic premise that the woman’s body is inherently erotic. It is not relevant that the sentences are not complete, as in a traditional aphorism, because Loy’s poetic aphorisms acquire truthfulness in their own embodiment – if anything, they gain credibility because they are fragments, crystallised pearls of truth that resemble the essential and elliptical prototype of the line – now gendered and sensualised. 1.3.4. The rhetoric of a gendered line Loy’s great versatility as a poet, playwright, actress, model, designer and artist makes it interesting to follow the steps of her rhetorical patterns. Her nomadism across different countries, and across different avant-garde experiences, make of Loy’s artistic identity a conundrum: despite in conversation with all of them, she cannot be contained by any label. Part II 86 Only her 1914 Aphorisms help to find some orientation, as they identify the paradigm of deconstruction and re-construction necessary to forge new forms of representation. Colours must disappear first, then shapes, to arrive “beyond the synapsis of vision” (427) where the line and the circle exist as absolute and true, primordial and archetypical. These lines sound like a declaration of her own poetics, since geometry and logics of space would permeate, since 1914 onwards, every poetic writing. Perhaps, and as suggested by Loy herself, the aphorism can be identified as the rhetorical foundation of her verbal and visual expression of these decades. Loy’s fundamental assumption, her aphorism, is the line, necessarily gendered as it appears in “Parturition.” Following deductively from the gendered line, the whole system of representation stands as unified and compact.77 Loy’s Aphorisms appear in fact as system, a sequence of aphorisms related to one another, which explain different aspects of what Loy calls “the tremendous truth of Futurism.” (428) In Loy’s Futurism, poetry and art must be denuded of all their embellishments; left naked, poetry and art find their common origin in the line, which they embrace as a common parent. The prototypical line is a pure, geometrical concept, and therefore needs to be true. Once poetry and art have acknowledged the absoluteness and truth of the line, of its infinite referential power and of its potential connections, they can be framed in the praxis of gender, since they enter the page though the body of the artist, can start building up new systems of signs. In such gendered geometry, art and poetry (re)discover their ontological closeness, they are able to build up a new poetic that is necessarily shared by both of them. 1.4. The Baroness’s erotic corpus In the Baroness’s work, the feminine body, erotic and sexual, occupies a central position. Narrative suggestions, evocations and continuous provocations of and to the feminine body make the Baroness’s corpus lively and passionate, vivid and sensual. 77 Bice M. Garavelli, 2010, Il parlar figurato. Manualetto di figure retoriche (Roma; Bari: Laterza), p. 96. 1. Form, space and colour 87 The reason for the significant presence of the body and its processes in her poems is the fact that, for her, life and art were indivisible. Her poetry had to record her life, and her life was majorly occupied by sex – in the form of intercourse, claim for women’s right, and fight against sexual discrimination. The poems written in her adolescence deal with early sexual (dramatic) experiences. At twenty years old she was in Munich and Berlin, absorbing Expressionist ideals and earning her own money as a model for erotic sculptures and for painters – things that we learn indeed from the youth poems. Her German poems describe the sexual impotence of her first husband, and the sexual quest of her affair with Felix Paul Greve, whom she subsequently married. She and Greve moved to Italy, where she was close to Futurism and where she recorded in verses her first orgasm, experienced at the age of almost thirty. Back to Germany, a series of her poetic portraits were published under the name “Fanny Essler,” a joint pseudonym for Felix and Else. When she arrived in New York for the first time in 1910, she poured her frustration and anger at the failure of her second marriage into her verses, verses where the body gives expression to all her contradictory feelings. From 1918 her poems were regularly printed (although not without effort) in The Little Review by Margaret Anderson. In such publications, the Baroness led the fight against censorship and puritanical prejudice through her display of the body in all its forms, needs and depictions. Even when she returned to a post-war Berlin to live in abject poverty, even when she checked into a mental institution, she never ceased to write about (and through) her body. Until the end, before (probably) committing suicide in Paris, she wrote visual poems for Ford’s Transatlantic Review, in which the body was the main topic. In these years, the Baroness’s body, performing and parading, naked and haunting, was at the centre of not just her art, but at the centre of New York bohemia too. As is recorded by the Baroness’s friend and fellow painter Theresa Bernstein, the Baroness’s body was raw wax for her to mould art on, and her art was a carousel of bodies. Part II 88 Theresa Bernstein, 1917ca, The Baroness. Theresa Bernstein, 1917ca, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. Elsa’s nudity, captured in Theresa Bernstein’s canvases, is equally provocatively exhibited in her poems, which narrate the body in different ways, and, more interestingly, in different media. The centrality of the body influenced the choice of representative forms; to the Baroness, any choice of genre, language, code, support, was and had to be justified if purposed to achieve vivid images, physically concrete art-pieces. On her page, the ink of the words merges with the tones of the watercolour, or chemical painting, and other materials, including glass, tinfoil and feathers. 1.4.1. Illuminated manuscripts Very often, as in the the two examples below, the Baroness’s hand-written and decorated poems invite a spontaneous – and provocative – association with the medieval technique of the miniature. However, her intentions in animating the written page with drawings is more than decorative, since drawings and verses establish a comprehensive narrative. While in medieval miniature the illumination was often an 1. Form, space and colour 89 ornament to the text, the Baroness’s verses would prove lacking of relevant portions of contents, should the drawings be taken away. EvFL, 1922ca, Lullaby. EvFL, 1924ca, Wing of Lucifer. EvFL, 1924ca, the reverse of Wing of Lucifer. Part II 90 As it clearly emerges from the reading/observation of these two manuscripts (both postacrds to Djuna Barnes),78 the sketches would make little sense if taken individually; in Lullaby, for instance, the three objects represented would look like little more than doodles if they were extracted from the page. The totem of Lucifer would make little sense if not paired with the tantric verses of the poem; the association of the content (a feminine body reacting to sexual arousal) gives an ironic slant to the demoniac title. Lullaby is very explicit, naming its sexual topic in the second verse. In an original way, this poem about the feminine orgasm starts from what should already be the acme of a poetic climax, only to escalate further, leading us to “glory.”79 In addition to growing in size, they grow in abstractness, suggesting the mind-blowing bodily feeling they imitate. The first doodle illustrates a penis demystified in size and role, reduced to a sexual tool aimed at the task which is expressed in the first three verses. The second drawing is similar to the first, but is more dynamic, ambiguous, since it alludes to three different forms: a penis, a pen, and a snake. Obviously, the association of this drawing to the alliterate verses “death / devout” builds on common associations, including the association between the snake and death. Worth a mention is the association of pen and penis, certainly no news, but rarely put into such a context; in a poem (hand-)written by a woman and concerning the feminine orgasm, the pen stands for the pleasure a woman gains from writing – no longer men’s prerogative. For Elsa, this kind of pleasure is not merely intellectual – as it was according to the Gilbert- Gubar’s understanding – but strongly physical; the act of holding a pen(is) empowers 78 Both of the poems address body-related themes that caused the Baroness defamation and censorship in her own time. The only possibility of the Baroness’s poems being published – although not as integral collections – laid in the hands of Djuna Barnes, to whom most of the Baroness’s poems were dedicated, including Wing of Lucifer. Barnes was the Baroness’s most consistent patron and friend after they first met in New York; she was also Elsa’s editor, but, despite concerted effort during the mid-1920s, Barnes’s project to see Elsa’s poems published as a collection never came to fruition. Censorship was prohibitive, and Elsa was too eccentric to gain critical credit; in fact, Elsa quite quickly lost the approval of mainstream society, by wearing ice-cream-soda spoons as earrings and tomato cans strung over her breasts, which she intended to symbolise the commodification of exaggerated femininity. 79 In Lullaby, the ironic tone of the whole poem is obvious from the title. By labelling this description of the female orgasm as a ‘lullaby’, the Baroness stands against a whole tradition where it was a woman’s established duty to satisfy her husband sexually before she could lie down to sleep. Woman’s craving for sexual pleasure had been considered a hysterical deviation for centuries – just as much as any literary and artistic endeavour that exceeded a mere recreation of the drawing-room. The orgasm, intense and unconcealed, is the new woman’s lullaby; the pleasure of openly writing about everything is the modern woman’s crusade. 1. Form, space and colour 91 the woman with physical control over the man’s centuries-old pleasure tool, putting women in a privileged position. The third drawing is also ambiguous, resembling the sun, a spiral and a vortex; again, the connection between the drawing and the verse is tight: “earthflight” is a compound created to condense the force-line between earth and air, in order to make it faster and more compact. Two opposite dimensions meet in one word that condenses their horizontal (earth’s) and multi-directional (air’s) pushes in a spiral of light that also invades the space of the verses. All the drawings are enriched by ink shading and cross-hatching which blend the lines to create volumes. What could appear to be a graphic ornament is instead immediately made extreme by vertical smudging. As the drawings are realised with ink, fast-drying and permanent (the same ink of the words, thus tightening the connection between image and word), it is likely that the Baroness smudged each drawing as soon as she had finished it, before even proceeding to write the following lines. The space set aside for words is therefore already invaded by the drawings before it can be occupied by verses; the drawing space is equally contaminated by words, because there is no explicit or implicit frame to circumscribe their area. The fourth stanza begins with “by” put on the same line as the spiralling sun, which is mentioned again in the subsequent verse. The vortex illustrating the “earthflight” in the third stanza also illustrates the fourth stanza, where the sun is more explicitly referred to; thus, it connects the two stanzas on both the semantic (vortex, sun) and graphic (smudging ink) levels. More than the other drawings, the spinning sun erodes the distance between words and the drawn shape, between ink-words and ink-lines. Such a process embraces the Futurist and Dadaist impulse to remove the distance between verbal and visual genres, but also responds to the Baroness’s personal artistic idiosyncrasies. The fourth drawing only confirms and reiterates what I have suggested so far; the “sun’s / passion shape” is completely abstract, recalls the shape of the clouds, thus connecting it to the previous stanzas and preparing us for the abstractness of the last concept of the poem - “glory.” None of the drawings, especially the last two, possess a single straight line. Lines are curvy, fluid, sinuous and sexual; their borders are smudged to create shadows and volumes; their vibrations propagate in the space of the verses and connect the drawings to one another. Rhetorical ornaments, figure of Part II 92 sounds and of speech function as connectors and intensify the cohesive nature of the drawings. Consonances are noticeable in each stanza – ‘m’ in the first one, ‘d’ in alliteration in the second one, ‘th’ and ‘h’ in the third and ‘s’ in the fourth one. The general sound of the poem, when it is read aloud, is sensual and evocative, rhytmed by pauses which echo a panting breath. The intersection of words and images is perhaps ever more articulated in Wing of Lucifer. Interestingly, Zelazo and Gammel placed Wing of Lucifer under the section entitled “Poems of Embodiment.” The poems belonging to this section are from different dates, but share a semantic quality: they do not address sex or the feminine orgasm as explicitly as Lullaby (which belongs to the “Visual Poems” section), but the act is embodied in words through semantic, sound and graphic evocation. Every verse is constituted by one word, even when the word is just a preposition. The whole poem is played on the alternation of short words, either monosyllables or prepositions, to long words, either gerunds or compound coinages. Verbal language is essentialised, drained to its basis. Punctuation is reduced to a minimum presence, here dashes and full stops. There are no capital letters (all the manuscripts are in block capitals) to signal the beginning of a new sentence; in fact, there are no sentences at all. All kinds of words, verbs, adverbs, adjectives and prepositions, are entitled to occupy one line on their own, because each of them contributes to the rhythm of the poem. These strategies, half-way between the verbal and the visual, are noticeable at first glance, and prepare a dynamic structure for the content, which describes a process in fieri. The totemic sketched figure is shaped alongside the verses, curving and bending in parallel with them, and thus emphasises the graphic layout of the poem. One verse, “overturn,” very nearly collides with the waist of the totem, who could easily be a representation of a demon, or of a demoniac woman. The verse “surrendering” yields to its proximity with the drawing and invades it, in a sort of post- modern run-on line. If read together, verses and sketch do not create mere resonances, but a truly intertwined structure that sees verbal and visual genres intersect graphically and semantically. The interesting invasion of words into the drawing space and vice- versa is based on a programmatic blurring of the borders between media, which fluidly merge on the common ground of the page. Words bulge into space, running into the 1. Form, space and colour 93 drawing, before meeting the forthcoming line. Such a tight, dialogic use of the written and drawn line goes beyond Barnes’s resonances between words and sketches. The use of verses and drawing together, not merely juxtaposed, is one of the Baroness’s most fascinating idiosyncrasies through which she represented dynamic processes on the page. Not only did she alter how poetry is written, but also how poetry is read; her poems were written on postcards (in the case of the two poems analysed), plastic dishes, fabrics-offcuts and even fireworks, they were dynamic and vibrant but also devastatingly precise and revelatory. None of the Baroness’s paintings, including Facing, exceed 30x30cm in size. By doing so, she demystified visual art by bringing it into an intimate sphere, realising masterpieces on postcards and low-quality paper sheets. She combined the performative exaggeration of the body being fashioned into a work of art with the minimisation of traditional art-forms such as watercolour and portraiture, in order to protest against the idea of art as a commodity and against the objectification of the feminine body. 1.4.2. Colouring the verse As inseparable as drawn lines and verse are when they appear on the same page, so are colours and verses when they stratify on their reciprocal sense. The Baroness wrote intentionally verses on pages which had been previously coloured, even if she risked making words unreadable. The Baroness’s coloured poems occupy a hybrid position between art and literature; they are drenched with colours arranged in abstract compositions, thus requiring an art-critical approach; yet, being on paper rather than canvas, colours appear to be functional to the verse, rather than vice versa. Although evidently anti-academic, the Baroness’s colours are hardly ascribable to any specific avant-garde movement. They are vibrant, dramatic, plastic, sculptural, thick and three-dimensional. Their feverish, obsessive presence takes hold of the observer at first glance, because her approach to the palette is more visceral, physical, and her colours on the page look like modelling clay, concrete and invasive. The pages appear to be burdened with colour, almost to the point that paper struggles to support Part II 94 words as well. In some paintings, forms are recognisable, and their connection to the content of the text is clear. Sometimes, instead, the association of colours and words is sensorial, based on the emotional weight of colours. The written paintings below are almost contemporary, yet they are incredibly different, thus showing the versatility of the Baroness’s hybrid pages. EvFL, 1923-24ca, Forgotten – like this Parapluice. EvFL, 1924ca, Facing. Forgotten – like this parapluice pays homage (ironically) to Duchamp’s Fountain (1917), thus triggering a consideration on the difference between masculine and feminine Dada. Neither Duchamp, nor Breton among the Dadaists, seemed in fact to be interested in the use of colours, rather exploring the fascinations of the form. By contrast, colours are pervasive in the Baroness’s paintings on paper and in her collages. Perhaps, there is a connection between colours and gender, or at least between colour and emotion. Sensuality extends to the line, which appears fluid, curve, creating an 1. Form, space and colour 95 impression of ‘roundness’.80 In the Baroness’s painting, the background comes forward thanks to the lavatory hanging on the wall, which in turn spills water onto the objects on the foreground. In this way the three-dimensional structure is compressed, and all the objects in the painting are given the same priority in the observer’s attention. However, the space does not seem to be as important as the forms; its colours are neutral, sandy and greyish, and the objects do not seem to use it very much. Objects etch the space with thick and seductive border-lines, but they seem to float in space rather than to stand out from dimensional walls. In the Baroness’s Parapluice the background space is actually quite irrelevant. The umbrella, whose black and thick lines stand out amid an aura of red colour, grabs the observer’s attention. The strong vibration produced by the contrast of black and red and the slightly mis-centred position of the umbrella both convey a sense of unease to the picture; the umbrella does not lean against a wall, as the title ‘forgotten parapluie’ would invite to expect – it is not possible, simply because there is not a wall for it to lean against. The background loses its spatial role, because it does not fulfil its task of sustaining the objects. The umbrella leans instead on the lavatory, a prosaic replacement that takes any melancholic romance away from the scene. The thick black net structure of the umbrella guides the observer’s gaze to the written text, which, like the other elements, stands out against the neutral background. While in Lullaby and Wing of Lucifer the drawings were realised with writing-ink, here the writing is made with the black painting of the umbrella and the fountain. This illustrates the (provocative) nonchalance with which the Baroness inter-bred representational media, thus producing fascinating cross-fertilisations. As suggested by the few lines, the card is addressed to Berenice Abbott, one of the Baroness’s friends and patrons. The Parapluice (pun with ‘Berenice’) must have been motivated by a feeling of nostalgia at a time when the two artists were not as close as they had once been. All the visual corollary made of the forgotten umbrella, suspended fountain, and walking-away-foot, acquires sense with the semantic field created by “forgotten” and 80 The association comes spontaneous with Zelda’s canvas, also exploding with colours; there too, forms are convex and curvy, lines are fluid and sensual, and the composition appears emotional, seductive and feminine. Like in Zelda’s paintings, in the Baroness’s painting too is there little attention to traditional perspectival cones or diagonals, as everything is just put forward simultaneously for the attention of the observer. Part II 96 “faithless.” The words are not just a title for the painting; they are a short, but effective verse to which the painting serves as background. Meaningfully, the support used for this work is not the canvas, which would suit the considerable amount of colour, but a sheet of paper instead, as to underscore that the colour is functional to the verse. The poem Facing shows how tightly colours and verse interact on the Baroness’s page; the whole palette is spread on the paper sheet, so saturate of colours that it does not even seem able to support for hand-writing – with the result that the words melt into the abstract, pastel masses of colour. At the price of making words almost unreadable, the Baroness wants words and images to be inseparable in this poem. Expressionist echoes vibrate in the colour-strokes, which look so tangible that they are almost sculptural, an effect conveyed by the choice of pastel. Geometrical lines cut the surface of the painting, which sees no distinction between background and foreground. Yet, seductive spiralling and curve lines are also present, animating portions of space around and beneath the text. The coexistence of such abstract lines and colourful arrangements is once again functional to the text. The opening image of the poem is the ‘sphinx’, a mythological, inscrutable embodiment of knowledge, who speaks by riddles and is of no help to most humans. In this poem, the Baroness interrogates the sphinx about the past, the future, the essence of God, but is disappointed in receiving the same “riddle eternal” as an answer. Such a mystery can only be represented through complexity – that is to say, in the complete intersection of verses, lines, shapes and colours. The minimalistic stanzas contain essential units of sense, which are spatially disconnected from one another, in order to mimic the fragmentary nature of human knowledge. The human Streben to answer existential questions is represented by extremely elliptical one- or two-lines stanzas made of prepositions of place and motion like “Way – – – away!,” “To / Into” and “where – to.” The idea behind this essentialisation of the language is that semantic words failed to carry meaning, both when asking for it and when encapsulating it; they are only good to build riddles that torture the human mind. For this reason, semantic words, including nouns and verbs, are removed from language in favour of prepositions and dashes, which better embody the upwards and onwards drives of the human intellect. “Towards / whom” continues the poem, as if the upwards push should lead to God; but then the author asks, “Who – / Is – / He.” 1. Form, space and colour 97 Verbal meaning is also replaced by the emotional evocations of colours.81 The purple diagonal line accompanies this question and the following “Where – / To” question, highlighting the upward motion involved in looking for these answers. The purple spiral is placed under the verb “whirl” to intensify how much the human intellect fumbles around in chaos. Her questions about the identity of God, of the direction to follow and the way to take, are left unanswered, because the sphinx does not reveal anything: “Not / Tells / Riddle / Eternal.” At the beginning and at the end of the poem the sphinx stands unperturbed and indifferent to human sorrow.82 More interestingly, the purple line that accompanies the modern individual’s fragmentary Streben also serves to separate off a corner for other verses. The space cut by the diagonal line in the bottom-right is coloured with the same nuances of red, purple and green (the combination of which conveys a sense of great anxiety) as the poem Facing, but the direction of the strokes is perpendicular to those that serve as a coloured background for the verses. The colours establish a connection between the two poems, but the direction of the strokes strengthens a formal difference. The verses in the bottom-right corner are a quotation in German from Goethe’s Wandrers Nachtlied: “Ach – Ich bin des / Treibens müde – / Was soll all der / Schmerz und Lust? / Süßer Friede – / komm – ach komm / in meine Brust!.”83 Goethe’s poem on the weariness caused by the Wanderung was obviously well-known in Germany and Europe at the time the Baroness quoted it – it had also been set to music by Franz Schubert in 1815. But it is interesting to witness how the Baroness reinterprets the quotation to let it suit to her own Wanderung. First of all, the poem is in a subordinate position in the bottom corner, yet still steals space from the Baroness’s widely spread verses. Secondly, the partition of the verses is different from that originally employed by Goethe in his poem. While Goethe wrote “Ach Ich bin des Treibens müde!” in a whole line, the Baroness breaks the original verse into two parts, connected by an enjambment “Ach – Ich bin des / Treibens müde.” Likewise, she splits article from 81 Carol P. Biggam, 2012, The Semantics of Colour: A Historical Approach (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press). 82 The poem is not the only type of verbal text to find space on the coloured surface. In the top-right corner the inscription “To Djuna” makes it clear that the poem contained in the card is not meant to be a private existential wandering of the mind on the essence and meaning of human existence. 83 “I am weary with contending! Why this pain and desire? Peace descending, come ah, come into my breast!” translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Part II 98 subject (“der / Schmerz”) and later verb from complement (“komm / in meine Brust!”) between two lines, whereas Goethe’s poem had no enjambments. The degraded, marginal positioning of Goethe’s poem, in addition to the disarticulation of the original verses, produces a debasement of mainstream high poetry; but even more meaningfully, it suggests that it is necessary to demystify the traditional Wanderung, which was yet impossible in the Baroness’s time. Goethe’s search for knowledge, truth and meaning embodied a Romantic positive push, a unitary push of the human soul that aimed at a superior level of conscience. As such, so unitary and complete, it was spoken by full sentences, emphatic and driven, but organised in the orderly lines of a song (Nachtlied). The Baroness’s Dada Wanderung, by contrast, is not a unitary impulse; it is a collage of disembodied questions, fragments of language and punctuation (“Where – To”) which are juxtaposed in space in no recognisable poetic scheme. Goethe’s exclamation marks and commas are flattened into dashes, thus suggesting the absence of the Romantic enthusiasm; dashes stand for torment, for the hiccupping, delirious wandering of the modern mind. The final exclamation mark in the Baroness’s quotation therefore acquires the tones of a desperate call, more than the involved invocation it was in Goethe’s poem. Even “Friede” gains a different connotation; while it meant ‘peace’, ‘fulfilling’ and the achievement of the wanderer’s tasks in Goethe’s poem, it acquires more extreme nuances in the Baroness’s quotation. It could represent ‘peace’ from her restless inner search, or equally ‘listlessness’ or ‘apathy’, similar to the indifference of the sphinx. The Baroness’s tension cannot be expressed by words only, because verbal language collapses under the weight of the enigma; it needs to be expressed by graphics and colour too, by sensual lines loaded with the emotions of cold and dark colours. On this small foil of paper of 11x19cm, the Baroness condensed most antithetic pairs: English vs. German language; literature vs. visual art; classic literature vs. Dada anti-art; rich, articulated, complete syntactical structures vs. fragmented, elliptical, mutilated language; organic, recognisable poetic genre vs. collages of poetic units scattered in space. The list could obviously continue with many other pairs, such as male vs. female writing, or genre vs gender, each of which could be widely discussed. But my intention in addressing this hybrid card – at once definable as poem, painting 1. Form, space and colour 99 and collage – was to highlight the Baroness’ idiosyncratic use of colours and words, thus illustrating their reciprocal functionality in her work. Colours and words are intersecting, intertextual, and intersemiotic, orchestrated in only apparent chaotic arrangements. 1.4.3. From idiosyncrasies to hypotyposis Like for Loy, for the Baroness too it is hard to extrapolate a trope that could ground her idiosyncratic simultaneous use of colours, verses and drawings on the same page. Looking at the Baroness’s entire corpus, which includes the most diverse genres and art-forms, I found a common denominator, whose presence is, in a way, rhetoric. The feminine body is a constant presence in all of the Baroness’s works: her own body, posing unadorned and naked in the early photographs; her parading body, dressed in Dada couture of her own making; her sexualised body, caught in the sexual act in most of her poems. (Her) feminine body represents the constant embodiment of her verses, performances, pictures and sculpture. Therefore, I would argue that there is a rhetorical foundation for the Baroness’ work, namely hypotyposis of the body, which is omnipresent and unavoidable: “Her dancing body, ever present in these verbal collages, also take us beyond the page” (Gammel 2011: 7). The hypotyposis is an extremely powerful rhetorical device, thanks to its striking visual component. Its basic definition as “lifelike description” of something that is not present involves an important visual margin, which in the case of the Baroness is strengthened by the addition of actual visual elements alongside the words. The Baroness’s double language suits this rhetorical device particularly well, because the visual intersects with and vivifies the verbal, and vice versa. In this way, language becomes dynamic, involving a continuous addition of sense, and avoiding its sedimentation. Furthermore, the reader adds another level of sense-stratification through the interpretation of verbal and visual signs and of their combination. Thus, the Baroness’s text is activated as a complex process where the double nature of the language amplifies the contents, and the necessarily double-reading on behalf of the reader/observer amplifies the range of possible interpretations. Part II 100 From my readings, I have highlighted at least four levels at which the hypotyposis of the sexualised body structures the narrative of the Baroness. The first level of presence of the body in the poems sees it as the object of discourse. The first section of Gammel and Zelazo’s edition of the Baroness’s work, Body Sweats, is named “Coitus is Paramount. Poems of Love and Longing,” and gathers most of the poems concerned with the representation of the body during sexual intercourse: this presentation of the body is the purest, most explicit way in which the body is explored in the verses. Poems of this section are Ejaculation, Desire, Firstiling, that address the coitus in a direct way, and where the body is mainly semantic. Other poems in this section, including King Adam, Aphrodite to Mars, History Dim, are pseudo-mythical poems that rewrite human history and beliefs in an ironic way. Here, the body is still explicitly addressed in the description of sexual climax, but it also acquires allegorical function, metaphorical weight and an ironic tone. In King Adam, the Genesis of man is re-written with mocking and provocative tones, as Adam does not seek forbidden knowledge but strives for the moment of ejaculation. More interestingly, though, the hypotyposis of the body acts at a structural or functional level. In these poems, including Wing of Lucifer, the body is not addressed explicitly, but is evoked by the mention of bodily functions. Another one of them, Kindly,84 opens solemnly, with “God spoke kindly to mine heart –” and continues with a bathos “He said: “Thou art allowed to fart!”.” The poem then goes on with a series of “(f ––)” on the edge of each line – onomatopoeic sounds that gained this poem censorship until the 2011 edition. Such poems can be defined as “poems of embodiment” (Gammel & Zelazo 2011), given the hypotyposis of the body at a semantic and structural level. The third level of hypotyposis of the body in the Baroness’s poetry is the processual one. Most of the poems included in the sections “Poems of the City and Consumption” and “Performing Nature” show how the sexuality of the Baroness’s body extends into the metropolis and into nature. By setting bodily sexuality within both metropolitan and natural scenes, the Baroness challenges the Dada paradigm of 84 This poem became famous for its inscription inspired by Joyce’s Ulysses. This poem is deliberately provocative, part of the Baroness’s project of liberating women from sexual taboos, the struggle for gender equality and denunciation of social psychological and physical pressures on women. Such a programmatic protest, which was unsurprisingly attributed to the Baroness’s suspected neurasthenic disease, was expressed through the description of physical functions. 1. Form, space and colour 101 the dominating machine. The frame of the body is applied to her poems about nature to reach an “ironic inversion of romanticism’s encounter with the sublime” (Zelazo & Gammel 2011: 120). Likewise, the paradigm of the sexual body is applied to the city: instead of enduring a mechanisation on behalf of the city, the body succeeds in sexualising all kinds of urban experience. The city is narrated through the phases of a bodily process, producing a sexual narrative of the metropolis. On such dynamics, I will however debate in the next section, which centres on the relationship between women, art, writing, and city. The graphic arrangement of the verses establishes vertical pushes that dart through the page, in the quick sequences of one- or two-words verses. Such visual directrix, alongside the highly physical relationship between the author and her poetry – every poem being written by hand – seals the presence of the body at the compositional and graphic level too. In conclusion, the hypotyposis of the body, multi- layered and multi-functional, inter-medial and constitutive, is the rhetorical structure that supports the Baroness’s entire production. 1.5. Unaffiliated aesthetics In different ways, the art of all four writers is always on the verge between word and image. Looking at the comparative settings proposed, fascinating conclusions arise on the nature of these artists’ experiments with intermediality. The use of drawing as corresponding to poetry characterises, for instance, several combinations in the corpora of both Djuna Barnes and Mina Loy, to the point that it seems a pattern. Similarly, profusion of colours in Zelda Fitzgerald’s paintings appears to be associated with her preference for dense and articulated prose, as if her desire to condense memories, impressions and wishes, could be fulfilled by these two genres. It has been interesting, then, to study how these sorts of ‘temporary alliances’ between verbal and visual genres stand on rhetorical basis. However, such bonds between poetry and drawing, and between colour-painting and prose, seem to be easily untied, in some cases. For instance, many of the Baroness’s poems display elliptical verses as merging with the colours of the background, thus not conforming the Part II 102 regularities highlighted. Yet, again, the pervasive use of colours appears to be somehow related to gender awareness, in the paintings by Zelda and Elsa. Such difficulty to encapsulate the corpus in strict formulations represents indeed its source of interest and continuous critical challenge. Modes of provocation, exploration, artistic transit, reckless intermediality in all four writers also defy their assimilation into aesthetic groups. In different ways, each of them detached from recognised avant-gardes, thus avoiding theoretical crystallisation. Most of the times, challenging borders was a dangerous choice, as we are constantly reminded while reading the work of the Baroness. In this respect, the cases of Barnes, Loy and the Baroness proved particularly meaningful to study the problem of critical labelling.85 While their geographic wanderings coincided with artistic wanderings, they always put themselves outside the many artistic groups they transited across, including women’s groups. Duchamp’s comment on the Baroness “She is not a Futurist. She is the future” could easily apply to all four the profiles, since in different ways they showed to be ahead of avant-garde itself. Undoubtedly, there are plenty of further channels of analysis, besides their use of lines and colours, that illustrate how all four found ways to run ahead of their time. One of these is the exploration of the antithetical pair centre vs. margin, which runs throughout their corpora in the forms of representating the urban landscape. 85 This is because all of them formed their identities as artists while being geographically and intellectually involved in European centres of avant-gardes – each of which had a specific manifesto – including Munich (for both), Berlin, Paris (at different times) and Italy. Zelda Fitzgerald, instead, remained almost completely outside the scheme of artistic affiliations, as she was never actively, or directly, involved with her husband’s intellectual acquaintances. She certainly came in touch with Parisian modernism, but as ‘wife of the genius’ Scott (to use Stein’s phrasing), rather than for her own talents – that up to those years were not directed to writing or painting anyway, but to dance exclusively. 103 Chapter 2 The lure of the city And all great art is born of the metropolis (or in the metropolis). Ezra Pound, 7th November 1912. he city of New York underwent great and fast transformation between the nineteenth and twentieth century, becoming at once the city of focus and transit of many artists and writers, including the four under consideration. Particularly, it impacted significantly upon their narratives, contents, and even language. During its climb to become the financial capital of the century in the 1910s and 1920s, the city of New York experienced growth in every field, from the economic to the social, to the artistic – a process whose speed obviously involved bitter downsides. Both lure and downsides are extensively textured in the visual and verbal corpora of the writers I have chosen, in such ways that they seem to fit de Certeau’s much later considerations: Its [New York’s] present invents itself, from hour to hour, in the act of throwing away its previous accomplishments and challenging the future. A city composed of paroxysmal places in monumental reliefs. The spectator can read in it a universe that is constantly exploding. (de Certeau 1984: 91) Certainly, New York was not the only “gigantic mass” to throw a lure of attraction and repulsion on artists and writers. The opposite forces that animated the city fascinated and repelled artistic creativity on a transatlantic axis between European and American metropolises. Cities began to expand, metaphorically too, to form a trans- and T Part II 104 international urban koiné of artists and writers that connected Dos Passos to Gertrude Stein, Scott Fitzgerald to T.S. Eliot. In All that is Solid Melts into Air (1983),86 Marshall Bermann shows the complex dynamics between modernism and modernity, meeting and interacting on the urban field. The complex “texturology” (de Certeau 1984: 92) emerging from Bermann’s work supports the idea of cities as transnational geographical and metaphoric spaces, where philosophical thought, literary production and art intertwine. Borders among such disciplines become porous; a new aesthetic of urban modernity lives on the surface of the city and hermeneutically serves the purpose of representing and interpreting the modern city. New York seems to exert a particular fascination on Barnes, Loy, Zelda and Elsa. At least for some years, New York became the gravitational centre of their lives and works, though not for all simultaneously. Djuna Barnes’s stories and related vignettes, and Zelda Fitzgerald’s Save Me the Waltz, along with her paintings, portray the formation process of the new American urban core, depicting both its vitality and its conflicting aspects through different but powerful means of expression. The poems by the Baroness and those by Mina Loy expand on the downsides of galloping capitalism and on the birth of consumerism. As in the first chapter, here I have highlighted the three main ways in which the city is represented, borrowing the specific terminology from the visual art; the snapshot,87 the panoramic tableau and the collage apply to both verbal and visual representations of the city. Once I have traced the techniques with close-reading and close-observation, I will illustrate the common rhetoric denominators which support these artistic expressivities. 2.1. Close-ups and snapshots in Djuna Barnes In most of her articles and stories from 1913 onwards Barnes used to assume the role of a city walker, whose task was to frame and to picture aspects of the city. While 86 Marshall Bermann, 1983, All that is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Verso). 87 A term which I borrow from photography, in fact, but which I mainly apply to Djuna Barnes verbal and visual sketches of the American years. Like the snapshot, Barnes’s sketches are quick and spontaneous, and they are specifically aimed to portray small portions of (urban) reality. 2. The lure of the city 105 many scholars see Barnes’s journalistic pieces as mere “muscular stretching” in preparation for her more mature works such as Nightwood (Levine 1991: 29), they do have literary and artistic relevance in their own right. Particularly, they show a unique balance of text and image which is hard to trace in later works. Such integration offers the perfect ground of analysis to compare the rhetoric of words and drawn lines, to highlight symmetries and parallelisms. Barnes wrote more than forty pieces of journalism about New York, including interviews, articles, stories, anecdotes and satires. The stories are extremely varied, and while some read naïve and amusing, other explore serious social issues – always with Barnes’s typical humour. Douglas Messerli, who wrote the forward to the first edition of New York (the 1989 collection of Barnes’s American articles and short stories edited by Alyce Barry), asserts that Barnes succeeded in grasping the “simultaneity of the beastly and the saintly, of cultures ‘high’ and ‘low’. In these still- fresh portraits, the city of New York is perceived by Barnes as an enormous landscape of theatre, of circuses, operas, street performances, carneys, hawkers, con-men, clowns, and just a few saints.” (Messerli 1990: 12) Barnes’s idiosyncratic combination of high style, comic acuity, and disquieting oddness allows her to frame all the alienated, uncomfortable scenes of an urban panorama as well as the most fascinating ones. 2.1.1. The female Spectator A close-up point of view appears to be the first common denominator of Djuna Barnes’s texts and images. As if they were verbal snapshots, isolated frames that zoom on particular scenes, all the stories about New York begin in medias res. No background knowledge is provided about the scene which is about to be shown; introduction and setting lack completely: Once, twice, thrice the cup of life has been emptied; once, twice, thrice the wheel has ceased to spin and run down; once, twice, thrice a girl, leaning across a polished table top, has learned that only a strip of wood separates her from the garden of love. […] So, at Coney, the night in a fashionable Part II 106 hotel sees the same play out to the end. Beneath the glare of the electric lights, under the seductive charm of the band behind the palms, the straight black eyes of Therese glow. (Barnes 1913: 43) The incipit of “The Tingling, Tangling Tango as ‘Tis Tripped at Coney Isle” depicts the scene of the dance room with a few quick strokes that let the reader sketch the essence of the setting. The linguistic texture is at once dense, synthetic, precise and evocative. The use of adjectives is considerable but controlled, while Barnes is focused on defining a few effective details, which make the scene essential but vivid. Syntax does not merely describe, but indeed embodies the scene itself using rhythm: sentences are hardly ever longer than one clause, and the use of full-stops and semi-colons is extensive. Overall, the syntax is dry and paratactic, as hammering, regular and definite as ink strokes. All the meaning is condensed in well-chosen words, including “run down,” “spin” and “lean,” that weave a texture of motion and dynamism. The language of this piece also shifts on the visual sphere, where a contrast between black and white, darkness and light dominates the scene. Rhetorical devices enrich the linguistic level with metaphors, similes and synaesthesia, but, to those who are familiar with Barnes’s satirical tones, the tropes employed acquire irreverent nuances. Grandiloquent and synesthetic phrases like “under the seductive charm of the band behind the palms” obtain an ironic and sarcastic effect. The drawing accompanying “The Tingling, Tangling Tango as ‘Tis Tripped at Coney Isle” shows strong assonances with the verbal text of the story, thus supporting the suggestion that words and images share the same rhetorical ground. 2. The lure of the city 107 Djuna Barnes, 1913, “The Tingling, Tangling Tango as ‘Tis Tripped at Coney Isle.” Evident at first glance, the exaggeratedly posh pose of the male character in the vignette accompanying the story echoes the irony that in the text is obtained through the hyperbole. The woman behind him, might as well be Therese, whose “straight black eyes […] glow.” In the vignette, the point of view is close-up, there is almost no background, and figures are incomplete. While in the short story specific lexicon and accurate word-choices arrange the scene with a few details about the characters and even fewer about the setting, in the drawing Barnes only takes care of the facial expressions, whereas she leaves the clothing, furniture and even the lower part of the woman’s body incomplete. The body of the man is only hurriedly outlined and filled in with approximate black colouring. In comparison to the careful studies of the Beardsleyan vignettes, this one clearly reflects the speed of the sketch, which leaves little time for further stratification. The stories and vignettes only display the foreground, and are often unconcerned about leaving details or aspects of the foreground unexplored, so that the reader can complete the image independently. The quick and evocative nature of the sketch suits perfectly the articles and illustrations about New York. As Sha observed, the sketch is the closest visual means to human perception, because it is selective, and it only allows the observer to see the meaningful aspects; from these, the observer can abstract the rest of the scene, which is otherwise only Part II 108 partially perceived by the individual. Barnes’s vignettes are extremely basic, incomplete and with very little stylistic elaboration. The contiguity of text and image at this level is self-evident: the stories begin in media res, they have neither past nor continuation, no development, growth or change; similarly, the drawings have no three-dimensional stratification, they have no past, or background, because the foreground is the only dimensional space available. 2.1.2. Rhetorical implications The adoption of a close-up point of view is what enables the comparison between text and drawing of “The Tingling, Tangling Tango as ‘Tis Tripped at Coney Isle.” Among the implications of such narrative choice, there are elements of rhetoric and syntax that are worthy of attention. Once again, the synecdoche is the dominant rhetorical feature. According to hde Certeau, synecdoche naturally accompanies the adoption of close-up points of view, which in turn urge the artist to select carefully the parts which are implied in the figure and to charge them with metaphorical meaning. Synecdoche expands a spatial element in order to make it play the role of a “more” (a totality) and take its place (the bicycle or the piece of furniture in a store window stands for a whole street or neighbourhood). […] Synecdoche makes more dense: it amplifies the details and miniaturizes the whole. (de Certeau 1984: 95) In the small portion of text illustrated and in the related drawing, synecdoche is still efficient enough to let us abstract (sketched) figures and a (very incomplete) setting; but we are unable to abstract a whole scene from the fragments, which we can only leave as juxtaposed in the air. In this phase of Barnes’s work, synecdoche starts developing the dysfunctionality it later acquires in The Book of Repulsive Women. Like sketched lines, sentences also fail to connect back to a totality: the various fragments do not seem to refer to a whole and syntactic items appear to fail building up full sentences. In Barnes’s visual frame, lines and details are juxtaposed into sorts 2. The lure of the city 109 of paratactic organisations; in the text, clauses are similarly juxtaposed in asyndeton. Parataxis can therefore be broadly applied to both writing and drawing as a composition technique: in writing, parataxis consists in the juxtaposition of sentences, whose dependence on one another is weak and lose; likewise, lines are hardly ever continuous in Barnes’s drawings, which depict instead an approximated sketch – such a strategy, which evokes but does not manifest a whole, serves as a counterpart to the weak links among sentences in parataxis. Referring once again to de Certeau, asyndeton is a syntactic structure which well suits close-observation, in this case streetwalking; it understates the connections between fragments, empowering (or forcing) the reader to see with the eyes of the streetwalker: Asyndeton, by elision, creates a “less,” opens gaps in the spatial continuum, and retains only selected parts of it that amount almost to relics. […] Asyndeton disconnects them by eliminating the conjunctive or the consecutive (nothing in place of something). (de Certeau 1984: 95) In the case of some stories, the language is so drained that it becomes almost mechanical, thus apparently contradicting de Certeau’s opinion that the margin of subjectivity in the close-up observation is irreducible. Incipit in medias res, “right- word” strategy and elliptical syntax all took Barnes to extreme sorts of experimentation which challenge the very limits of prose, in an extreme use of asyndeton: Scene: The tracks along Meeker Avenue. Year: 1913. Time: 3:30, any day. (Incidental remark: It was some job getting Connors on the run.) John Kelley “Kid” Connor’s motorman, comes along on the front deck of a trolley car, power and brake handle in hand; old, too, and “wise in his craft.” (Barnes [1989]: 81) “Conductor ‘Kid’ Connors. Forty Years Ringing Up Fares” belongs to a series of nine interviews, “Veterans in Harness,” that Barnes conducted in the autumn of 1913 for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle; the interviewees are elderly men, mostly former immigrants, who are still at their jobs. However, the interviews are not conducted with a question and answer model, they are rather organised as sketched portraits that Part II 110 alternate direct speech with descriptive sections. Each interview is constructed to be a little frame of the subject, which is similarly reproduced in the sketched portrait. The opening lines of “Conductor ‘Kid’ Connors. Forty Years Ringing Up Fares” (1913) show how far Barnes reached in her experimentation with parataxis. Commas, semicolons or weak conjunctions like “and” and “or” do not support the diversity between the clauses they connect; most clauses cannot be even classified as such, because they lack either subject or verb, or both. They are so elliptical that they resemble asides, but they are used as clauses, put next to one another in a paratactic organisation. Sometimes commas are even put after a lone complement, a time adverb or a conjunction, as if to separate the numerous items of a list rather than to assemble the clauses of a sentence. The beginning of the story is so condensed that it recalls stage directions, thus hinting at a possible incursion of drama into journalistic prose. Setting, time, characters and scene are condensed in a few lines, listed through an essentialised conception of asyndeton. The interviews (verbal sketches) are all accompanied by quick and essential face-portraits, sometimes caricatures, often partially unfinished or so quickly sketched that they appear incomplete. Among the many portrait-frames that accompany the interviews, the illustrations of “Veterans in Harness” support my argument that the sketching style is close to parataxis in narrative terms. The sketched portraits of Thomas Baird and Dan Sheen belong to the same collection of interviews, and well exemplify the phase of sketching style that Barnes was exploring in 1913. Figures are not as essential as those of The Book of Repulsive Women, which would only be published two years later. We cannot yet speak of dysfunctional synecdoche, which only takes place in parallel to the approach to poetry as a literary genre. But the figure is not complete either, and lines are not always continuous, somatic traits are roughly outlined, and some details are even absent. Perhaps there is still too much of the human figure in these pictures to compare it with the bodily fragments scattered in space in the drawings of 1915, but they show the direction of Barnes’s techniques. 2. The lure of the city 111 Djuna Barnes, 1913, “Thomas Baird” and “Dan Sheen,” from Veterans in Harness. The beard of Thomas Baird, his right ear and his right eye are left to the observer’s compensatory imagination. Dan Sheen’s face is created by an opposite technique that yet produces a similar effect to that of the first image. The right side of his face appears heavily crosshatched, so that the eye is reduced to a black patch and the observer has to engage in a visual process of compensation to complete the figure. The evolution of Barnes’s drawing style is clear to see when her drawings are compared in chronological sequence; “Thomas Baird” and “Dan Sheen” illustrate the 1913 stage, while “Irvin Cobb” and “James Buchanan Brady,” below, show the progression towards the essentiality of the 1915 drawings. Part II 112 Djuna Barnes, 1915, “Irvin Cobb.” Djuna Barnes, 1914, “Though He Is a Diamond in the Rough You Can’t Get Away from Him Without Taking a Memory You Are Not Likely to Forget.” The sketches of Irvin Cobb and James Buchanan Brady explain how fundamental the years spent as a journalist have been for Barnes’s developing a fully aware artistic reflection. From a linguistic point of view, Barnes’s stories represent an interesting moment of transition. Tropes are not yet completely emptied of their rhetorical function, but they are strongly challenged, as remarked by the irreverent similes of “Becoming Intimate with the Bohemians.” The prose has few examples of the one- or two-words lines that are found in the 1915 poems, but it is fragmented into brief clauses through the use of asyndeton. Syntactic units may not be verses yet, but they certainly show a push in that direction, only being held together by weak paratactic links. As a counterpart, the drawings do not initially exhibit the massive dichromatism of later illustrations, but as they approach 1915, the drawings indulge in progressively more essential lines and colour masses. When considered chronologically, they exhibit a progression towards encoding and encrypting, which passes through the fragmentation or agglomeration of the drawn lines. 2. The lure of the city 113 2.1.3. Frames: from journalism to fiction Comparing the stories with the related drawings on a rhetorical level, thus evidencing the use of corresponding visual and verbal techniques, drives me to widen the scope to the narratological level. The aim is to illustrate how the nature of the point of view, tropes, and narrative choices converge into (and are determined by) the construction of the frame, which is the narratological structure of the urban texts and images under analysis. Throughout Barnes’s whole literary work, the frame undergoes transformations and evolutions, but is always structural to the composition. Both in the early stories and in later, longer works, the frame circumscribes – and sometimes imprisons – content and characters. Some of Barnes’s stories from the 1915s and her 1928 novel Ryder appear ideal to illustrate how the frame evolves from the New York journalism to the literary works of the late twenties. “Becoming Intimate with the Bohemians” (1916) is one of Barnes’s most famous New York stories, and serves as a great example of how the frame is used as a common narratological device of the verbal and visual vignettes in the early phase of Barnes’s career. The wider frame is Greenwich Village, home of the New York bohemians. The area is clearly delimited by Barnes’s point of view, who uses the word “foreigners” to describe those who do not belong to the quarter, and employs phrases like “I personally am with them.” Within the wider frame of the artistic ghetto, Barnes brings together sketches of the most relevant characters, such as the writer and painter Marsden Hartley, Guido Bruno, editor of the Bruno’s Weekly, and other bohemians. Four o’clock in the afternoon and someone has spilled a glass of wine; it creeps across the tablecloth in a widening pattern of sulky red. It is morning in Bohemia. In a little back room, with pictures hanging crooked on the wall, lies King McGrath, far from the tumult and shouting […] Yea, for the King has a cold. Now, while Jack lies there staring at the painted face of the Virgin, […] the Queen of Bohemia arises, and I cannot tell you her name. (Barnes [1989]: 223) Part II 114 This passage evidences once again a considerable use of parataxis. A very essential but clear context can be pictured from the first few words; the initial paradox (“four o’clock in the afternoon […] it is morning in Bohemia”) clarifies immediately the exceptional qualities of Greenwich Village, the bohemian quarter. The “people of the night” are presented in a rhetorical texture of paradoxes and bathos (“the King has a cold,”) soon establishing themselves as being marginalised from the rest of the metropolis. Within such a frame, Barnes zooms on corners and subjects as if she were tracing quick ink strokes on the blank space, etching isolated details on the white background. The external frame is clearly New York itself, while many of the vignettes focus on depicting interesting corners of the city. “Becoming Intimate with the Bohemians” exemplifies Barnes’s habit of tracing the frame very clearly from the beginning of a story. Specific time and place indications come sharp and precise, essential, as decisive and clear as a sketched lines. The description starts with only a few details of interest, with the circumstantial indications, which would normally be expected not to be mentioned. Such a technique, for example, focusing on a “sulky red tablecloth” before (in fact, without) any mention of an inn or a café, is representative of Barnes’s report-style. As it is typical of the sketch, the narrator is in charge of what the reader is allowed to see; she provides very rich descriptions of restricted portions of the sight- field, but leaves the reader completely ignorant about what is outside them. Because of this lack of context and circumstance, the reader cannot develop a personal opinion on what or whom is described. The narrator’s opinion is not explicit, but is conveyed through both the semantic and the rhetorical texture. Suspense, irony, sarcasm, litotes, climax and bathos manoeuvre amusingly the reader’s gaze and opinion. The narrator also assumes an ‘I’-form, which is most of the time autobiographical, taking on Barnes’s role of reporter, interviewer, observer and bohemian artist. The restricted area of the frame had been carefully sketched and enriched by the narrator so that the reader is prepared to share her point of view once she has revealed her position. Such an intention is strengthened by the occasional use of “we” and “us,” which in many of the stories suggests the reporter’s wish to create a united front with her audience. The passage above also displays dense intertextuality, which is another representative feature of Barnes’s writing and drawing. She makes reference to Nina 2. The lure of the city 115 Hamnett, known as Queen of Bohemia in New York and Paris, and to Jack McGrath, known as the King of the Village. In the context of the frame as narratological topos, intertextuality assumes the potential of being the means that could take the reader outside the frame of the text. However, it does not give access to the context or setting of the story. Instead, intertextuality defines the nature of Barnes’s stories, which run on the edge of journalism as a commodity and transnational literature. In the following passage, anarchist Polly Holladay’s eatery and Bravoort pub are hinted at as an artist hangout. The names of van Gogh and Bakst evoke a certain kind of art, thus suggesting the set of ideas shared by the people in the basement of the Bravoort, including Barnes herself: Well, isn’t Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else – and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian? […] He feels that he has to be negligent before he can be Nietzsche. Between this hour and six, which is known as Polly’s hour or the hour of the Dutch Oven or the Candlestick, the tea tipplers and the cocktail dreamers gather slowly in the basement of the Bravoort. Upstairs is respectability, wife, children, music; a violin plays a sorry tune like melancholic robins on a telegraph wire charged with gossip. In the basement is all that is naughty: spicy girls in gay smocks or those capricious clothes that seem to be making faces at their wearers, such as the gowns of Gaugh. Wild, wild exotics of fabrics – effects of Bakst. Men with arms full of heavy literature, pockets jingling with light coin, resplendent in ties – hold, Allen Norton has described them: […] And again – but no, you have an idea of those wrinkling satin ties. (234) Traditional rhetoric is degraded by irreverent similes, for example: “a violin plays a sorry tune like melancholic robins on a telegraph wire charged with gossip;” bathetic juxtapositions such as “Men with arms full of heavy literature, pockets jingling with light coin” mock the rhetorical legacy of the anticlimax, only to further play with syntax and colloquial incursions such as “resplendent in ties – hold” and “And again – but no, you have an idea.” The scene that I have considered exemplifies Barnes’s conception and use of the frame as a structural device and as a rhetorical feature in the early years. Within the external frame of New York, Greenwich Village stands as a frame in its own right, which in its turn contains a myriad of smaller, close-up frames. In this case, the story Part II 116 shows two levels, and represents therefore an evolution of the simple frames of the stories presented so far. The two frames do not communicate with one another, but remain parallel and symmetric. The vertical tension between the upstairs floor and the basement of the Bravoort is constructed through the differences between the people attending the two parallel settings; upstairs is an exhibition of a bourgeois (stereo)type, which is unequivocally recalled by the juxtapositional chain “respectability, wife, children, music.” A few strokes sketch the scene, which is later overloaded with the pathos of the “melancholic tunes,” and which is eventually satirised by the ridiculing simile of the gossipy robin on the telegraphs. The basement, specular to the upstairs floor, is crowded with all kinds of “naughty” characters. Interestingly, and thus highlighting the narrative symmetry, the characters that animate the basement are sketched and juxtaposed with the same quickness as the attendants of the upstairs room. The same ironic contrast between polished vocabulary and prosaic details is employed in the description of the lower floor. For the upstairs room, Barnes carefully chooses bourgeois stereotypes, which contain implicit criticism of the falsity and emptiness of decayed values. Upper-class prescriptions of respectability, of a family- model where the wife takes care of several children within protected spaces, with the soft notes of drawing-room violin in the background, are unmasked by the subsequent simile, where the word “gossip” reveals the nature of the context. The basement, instead, is animated by girls, who are surrounded by semantic threads of naughtiness and irreverence, but also of truthfulness, with the adjectives “spicy,” “gay,” “capricious,” “wild” and “exotic.” Such would be the subjects of a modern painting, where van Gaugh’s exotic female subjects caught outdoors replace indoor settings and wives or wives-to-be of traditional portraiture. While the articles and short stories offered a limited field for Barnes to test the potential of the frame, the long prose of Ryder – which we cannot really define as ‘novel’ – proved an adequate testing ground. Barnes’s 1928 text evidences an extremely varied use of the frame, of which innumerable creative applications add to the reader’s confusion. In Ryder, published in 1928, the frame appears deeply transfigured, endlessly stratified and complicated. Ryder differs greatly from any of Barnes’s previous literary endeavours, both in terms of form and content. Within the external frame of the family chronicle, Ryder is a highly experimental work which 2. The lure of the city 117 covers a wide range of literary genres and forms. According to Ponsot,88 it imitates and mocks an outstanding range of literary forms, including “sermone, anecdote, tall tale, riddling, fable, elegy, dream, epigram, vision, parable, tirade, bedtime story, lullaby, satiric couplet, parallel structuring, ghost story, debate, sententia or aphorism, and emule or epitome activated as epiphany” (Ponsot 1991: 94). The drawing style too appears to have evolved from the journalistic vignettes, and has become stratified and intertextual, recalling traditional genres and rhetoric, which are constantly challenged by mundane contents. Within such experimental virtuosity, it is clear that such traditional elements as coherence or cohesion have no place in the plot or in the style. Fragments of bodies – similar to those in The Book of Repulsive Women – serve the purpose of creating continuity, although certainly not a unity. Once again, dysfunctional synecdoches prevent the parts from being connected by abstraction. Parataxis and asyndeton are also present, although exacerbated in flashing deliriums; the endless monologues of doctor O’Connor, which run for entire paragraphs before meeting a full stop, serve as good examples of the evolution of parataxis. The units (not even sense units) are emptied of syntactic connectors, juxtaposed with no semantic connection, only graphically aligned by commas and semicolons. He [a man, not further qualified] looked into that mirror when he was a growing lad – in that room he was born, – well, he looked into that mirror as a lad, and understood that face. What must it be? When he looks and sees a face he does not understand? Troubled – why? […] He says to himself, ‘I must abandon you. How shall I abandon you?’ Thus he makes for himself a pact. If I kill me, my corpse shall be, in my terms absolute, and by myself, myself made not myself – voilà! (Barnes 1928: 203) The doctor, who speaks, is meant to be a mentor to Wendell, an inveterate cheater who only causes pain to his whole family. But the doctor’s parables show no moral, no sense and no point. Clearly, his didactic dialogue is merely formal, as he raves following spontaneous associations. Rhetorical questions, parataxis and any other type of syntax undermine the construction of unitary meaning. Narration is denied, as 88 Marie Ponsot, 1991, “A Reader’s Ryder,” in Broe (1991), pp. 94-136. Part II 118 progression is impossible to pursue. Sentences only have the looks of meaningful sequences, but they end up being delirious juxtapositions of incoherent clauses. By extension, dialogical articulations only maintain the external structure of actual conversation. Ryder is the longest ‘novel’ Barnes has written, longer than Nightwood. Yet, every chapter is stylistically and semantically different from the others, as if each of them enclosed in a frame one aspect of human misery. In Ryder, the frame as a topos is developed to become symbolic and structural. One chapter is a letter; another one is a parable; others are confessions, poems or passionate exhortations. There is no connection between them except for the fact that their characters are all members of Wendell Ryder’s family. The chapters-list gives an idea of the diversity of the narrative frames, also considering that none of them are longer than a few pages. 1: Jesus Mundane 2: Those Twain – Sophia’s Parents! 3: Sophia and the Five Fine Chamber-pots 4: Wendell Is Born 5: Rape and Repining! -- 6: Portrait of Amelia’s Beginning -- […] 16: The Coming of Kate-Careless, a Rude Chapter 17: What Kate Was Not 18: Yet for Vindication of Wendell 19: Amelia and Kate Taken to Bed […] 27: The Beast Thingumbob 28: If Some Strong Woman – 29: The Psychology of Nicknames 30: The Cat Comes Out of the Well 31: No Greater Love Hath Any Man. 32: The Soliloquy of Dr. Matthew O’Connor (Family Physician to the Ryders) on the Way to and from the Confessional of Father Lucas […] 44: Fine Bitches All, and Molly Dance 45: Dr. Matthew O’Connor Talks to Wendell on Holy Inspiration 46: Ryder – His Race 47: Going To, and Coming From 48: Elisha in Love with the Maiden 49: Three Great Moments of History 50: Whom Should he Disappoint Now? (Barnes 1928: 1) 2. The lure of the city 119 Each of the chapters/frames encloses a vignette whose borders cannot be crossed by the characters. Individuals are prisoners in their frames of daily sorrow, victims of human relationships which they are unable to develop through communication because their own psyche has become a prison, a frame. Similarly, the drawings do not offer a means of escape for their subjects. They either illustrate one of the chapter’s scenes, or reproduce caricatures of the subjects; prisoners within the limits of their own frames, characters cannot transit across the borders of the vignettes, which do not constitute a sequence. Like the verbal language, which evidences significant changes from the New York years, the style of the drawings appears radically different from the urban sketches. It clearly hints at European woodcuts and emblems of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but such authoritarian visual genres are soon desecrated by bestial subjects. Djuna Barnes, 1928, illustration from Ryder. Barnes’s attitude to visual traditional genres appears similar to the ways in which she puts herself into conversation with the literary tradition. While she de-authorises woodcuts and emblems by associating them with subjects of modern degradation, she demystifies a different literary form in every chapter, or frame. Such processes also Part II 120 stage complex and sometimes problematic dynamics between gender and genre. The hybrid literary and visual forms that Barnes explores from time to time – early in her report-short-stories and later in her eclectic ‘novel’ – invite us to reflect on such issues as genre negotiation with men’s literary tradition. I will address such issues in the third chapter, where gender- and genre-claims become louder as I analyse Barnes’s later works. 2.1.4. Theory and praxis of urban walking According to de Certeau, whose formulations are useful to approach Barnes’s stories, streetwalking and close observation push the artist to focus on particular city-frames, excluding what surrounds them. Such an approach results in a range of formal instinctive style choices, including brevity, conciseness and precision, and in the use of specific tropes of thought and speech, including respectively synecdoche and asyndeton. However, Barnes’s use of such devices results in a peculiar kind of fragmentation that goes beyond the general effect of the sketch-like quickness they normally achieve. In order to study Barnes’s peculiar ‘street-walking’, de Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life (1984) can be usefully supplemented by Giuliana Bruno’s Atlas of Emotions (2002). According to Bruno, a close-up point of view is not only subjective, but emotional too, so that there is an interesting connection between motion and emotion. When we speak of site-seeing we imply that, […] the spectator is rather a voyageur, a passenger who traverses a haptic, emotive terrain. (Bruno 2002: 16) A mapping of space is engaged in the (e)motional dynamics of establishing, traversing, and leaving places. (Bruno 2002: 84) Rather than being ‘emotional’, though, Barnes’s gaze appears ‘gendered’. In this respect, Bruno’s reflections on space-gendering appear more suitable. 2. The lure of the city 121 The figure of the promenade is […] created by way of peripatetics located in the path of reception, and developed along the observer’s route. The architectural ensemble […] share the framing of space and the succession of sites organized as shots from different viewpoints. Additionally, the elements are adjoined and disjoined by way of editing. […] Architecture – apparently static – is shaped by the montage of spectatorial movements. (Bruno 2002: 56) Far from being emotional, Barnes’s gaze is nevertheless ‘gendered’, as it re-defines the paradigm of urban streetwalking for twentieth-century women. It can perhaps be argued, that, being a woman artist in the metropolis, Barnes needed to find a sort of legitimacy for her own “streetwalking.” She succeeded in fashioning for herself the role of the reporter – neutral, professionally allowed to work on site; by doing so, she became a ‘female spectator’ of the city, thus defining a new (gendered) perspective of urban walking. To some extent, Barnes seems to embody a peculiar type of flâneuse, which does not however fully correspond to Deborah Parson’s considerations in Streetwalking the Metropolis (2000). Barnes’s New York activity as a journalist does not really fit in the idea of a “leisured flâneuse” in the Baudelaireian style, as it is suggested by Parsons. Barnes’s flânerie is rather connected to the forms of journalism, including down-to-earth pragmatism mitigated by humour, satiric appeal and irony – far from what Parsons defines as Barnes travelling through “the inner streets of the mind and the outer streets of the city, to trace a self and a text” (Parsons 2000: 182). Perhaps, to conclude, a very loose connection can be evoked with Virginia Woolf’s 1927 essay “Street-Haunting. A London Adventure.” Both Barnes and Woolf walked the streets, Barnes with reporting purposes, Woolf with the expedient of buying a pencil – to sketch, indeed, peculiar corners of the metropolis. While Woolf’s sketches, somehow more fluently, portray a flashing fluid of witty ekfrastic vignettes, Barnes’s urban frames are organised into a wide and rich system, the most external of which is the metropolis itself. Part II 122 2.2. Zelda Fitzgerald’s second birth Unlike Barnes, who was born and grew up in New York, Zelda only moved to New York as an adult, after spending a tranquil, pampered childhood and adolescence in the countryside. This latter circumstance was foundational, according to Nancy Milford, who starts Zelda’s biography by saying: “If there was a confederate establishment in the Deep South, Zelda Sayre came from the heart of it.” (Milford 1970: 1) According to Milford, the years spent in Montgomery influenced her later experience of New York. She highlights that Zelda’s origins and her position as the youngest daughter of a wealthy southern family let her grow up as the jewel of the family, the beauty of the countryside, talented, dreamy and emotional. “From the beginning she was her mother’s darling and her pet. […] Mrs Sayre nursed Zelda until she was four years old. She showered her with attention and praise; her faults were quickly excused.” (Milford 1970: 3) Thus, Zelda’s girlhood passed like a romance, in a privileged environment, where she, the Montgomery dancing belle, was paid attention by friends, men and relatives, and was praised for her beauty and her talents. Zelda’s completely different (from Barnes’s) experience of the city, so romantic and familiar, was deeply embedded in Zelda’s personality and psyche, and flew naturally into her adult writing and painting once she committed to represent metropolitan scenarios. Significantly, she came to know about New York through Scott’s letters, where he told her about the marvels of the metropolis. From these tales Zelda started weaving a romantic vision of a city she had never seen before, making of it a sort of a larger-scale-Montgomery – a dreamy composition of expectations, opportunities, fantasies and love. Such a mental canvas was impressed deeply upon Zelda’s teen-psyche, and always remained an emotional substrate in any later representation of the city. For years before actually moving to New York, she dreamed about its lightened streets, its stages, ballet rooms, social events, idealising the whole metropolitan lifestyle in vivid colours. In Save Me The Waltz, Alabama (her fictional alter ego) recalls how she used to daydream about New York; like Zelda, Alabama first gets to know New York through her boyfriend’s letters, and starts composing mental images of the city, images that always accompany her later recollections. 2. The lure of the city 123 [Alabama] “I meant to make money in America.” “Everybody intends to.” “I had letters.” “You can put them in your book when you write it.” “I am not a writer.” “All people who have liked America write books. You will get neurosis when you have recovered from your trip, then you will have something that had so much better be left unsaid that you will try to get it published.” “I should like to write about my travels. I liked New York.” “Yes, New York is like a Bible illustration, isn’t it?” “Do you read the Bible?” “The book of Genesis.” (Fitzgerald 1932: 72) Significantly, New York is described in biblical tones, with the traits of a genesis; for Alabama and Zelda, whose careers and artistic profiles were launched in the metropolis, New York assumed all the traits of a second birth. What appears to be a naïve conversation, full of day-dreams, is in fact dense in contents, commonplaces, rhetoric and references. The American dream is enclosed in the first two lines, and is followed by another commonplace, that of writing a travel-book about the American city. In this collection of stereotypes, the Englishman sounds assertive and aphoristic,89 and Alabama/Zelda sounds witty too, with the ironic statement “I am not a writer.” Zelda’s verbal and visual recollections of the city (which she compiles years after having left New York through the voice of Alabama) always maintain a common substrate of romance, which might derive from her juvenile romantic experiences of Montgomery and idealisation of New York. She never gave up her deeply-rooted fantasy of New York as a dreamland full of opportunities, even when it strongly contradicted her direct experience. Thanks to this thick emotional substrate, her frames of New York and Paris are different from those of the other writers; she encloses a rich, even panoramic view of the city within her frames, emotional tableaux that condense events and memories in peculiar, idiosyncratic ways. 89 Elsewhere in the novel, Alabama’s perception of Englishmen in America is clarified: “These Englishmen were sent to New York to save them from decadence and the American gentleman is seeking refinements in England.” Part II 124 2.2.1. Subverted perspectives Zelda Fitzgerald’s urban paintings are evidently antipodal to Barnes’s dry sketches of New York. They are also realised later in time, and, while they were painted in the 1930s and 1940s, they depict the New York of the 1920s. Zelda’s pictures of New York are retrospective, in clear contrast to Barnes’s on-site sketches, because Zelda became a professional painter only decades after having lived in New York. Zelda Fitzgerald, 1944ca, Washington Square. Zelda Fitzgerald, 1940s, Central Park. The nature of Zelda’s point of view in her paintings of New York emerges as peculiar at first glance. Far from depicting a reduced portion or small details, Zelda’s frames show extensive panoramic views of the city, observed from a distant point of view. However, the observation point remains only physically detached. Zelda’s paintings do not appear to fit the conventions of panoramic perspective, if we judge by Benjamin’s thoughts (1939) on panoramic representations of the urban reality. Zelda’s representations of the city are all characterised by a feeling of nostalgia, stratified with memories, expectations, and enthusiasm – all in the space of the same frame. Such a peculiar retrospective panoramic view sets the mechanics of a dual point of view. In the two paintings above, Zelda finds herself both inside and outside the city she paints; she is physically distant but psychologically involved. In 2. The lure of the city 125 Washington Square, the arch, the buildings behind it, and the shops90 compose the panoramic view framed in the painting. But the married couple marching in the foreground – Zelda’s daughter Scottie and Ensign Jack Lanahan, married in 1943 – seem to marching toward us and outside the frame. The baby-pram, the young child and the dog behind them probably represent Zelda’s family life, and the phases of Scottie’s growing-up. Leaving biographical correspondences aside, the painting is particularly interesting because of its point of view, which is half panoramic, half internal. Differently from that of Barnes, Zelda’s frame is never closed or completely circumscribed. The figures inside find a way to force the frame-borders, as a consequence of her emotional involvement. All memories are connected in Zelda’s mind, so that when she tries to frame them, no matter how panoramic the frame is, they give the impression of coming from, and heading towards, what it outside the frame. Central Park illustrates this last suggestion even better; although the observer is in the park, she renders an overall, panoramic representation of the city. Multiple, heterogeneous components of the modern city coexist within the frame: skyscrapers, the park and its river, pedestrians, artists, businessmen reading newspapers. These aspects of the urban context are configured in opposition to one another, and yet they establish a strange dialogue. Nature, for example, represented by the trees, is opposed to the cement of the buildings on the skyline, but it is nonetheless connected to them somehow: the leaves on the trees are vaporised into patches of the same colour in the air which symbolically cross the bridge, and then become sky clouds. They gradually lose substance, to become the smog inhaled by the people on the other bank. Thanks to Zelda’s oneiric poetics of representation, dynamism prevails and allows metamorphosis to occur, even between apparently incompatible opposites. In the modern city, nature melts with urban architecture and businessmen walk side by side with ballet dancers. Perhaps it could be argued that the bold juxtaposition of people from different contexts embodies Zelda’s desire to incorporate all aspects of her life in a collage-painting. However, every subject or aspect of the painting connects strictly to the others through colours, shapes and style. The frame encompasses a colourful and flowing representation of the city, more than a patchwork of collage-units. The 90 The shop’s tent on the left has the same pattern of the Puppeufee circus tent. Part II 126 merry emotion, expressed through the colours, permeates and connects all the elements in the frame of happy memories, all of which the observer enjoys simultaneously. The two paintings analysed seem to echo Scott’s (and David’s) juvenile letters, which coloured New York with candy colours and day-dreams. The following passage from Save Me The Waltz, which describes Alabama and David’s euphoric life in the metropolis, highlights the similarity between Zelda’s visual and verbal narrative technique: The New York rivers dangled lights along the banks like lanterns on a wire; the Long Island marshes stretched the twilight to a blue Campagna. Glimmering buildings hazed the sky in a luminous patchwork quilt. Bits of philosophy, odds and ends of acumen, the ragged ends of vision suicided in the sentimental dusk. The marshes lay black and flat and red and full of crime about their borders. Yes, Vincent Youmans wrote the music. Through the labyrinthine sentimentalities of jazz, they shook their heads from side to side and nodded across town at each other, streamlined bodies riding the prow of the country like metal figures on a fast-moving radiator cap. (Fitzgerald 1932: 57) The point of view belongs to Alabama, who is both physically and emotionally involved in the frame described; but since the book is written in retrospect and the narration is in the third person, Zelda’s external description lends a panoramic margin to the view. The picture resulting from such a combination is therefore panoramic in the spectrum which is covered by the frame, but is also highly involved and emotional. Urban features of New York and Long Island, like streets, buildings and marshes, are secondary to the realisation of the tableau. They serve as background for the pastel colours of twilight, and for art, philosophy, jazz music, the true subjects of the painting. This emotional tableau condenses the light and darkness of the city. The harmonious contrast between what is melancholic and “sentimental,” and between what is artificial and technological, is smoothened and reconciled in Zelda’s rhetorical use of language, which floods the page from the first sentence. “The New York rivers dangled lights along the banks like lanterns on a wire” opens the panoramic frame by depicting the coexistence of natural and artificial lights in the city. The contrasting elements of the streetlights on the banks and the river 2. The lure of the city 127 reflecting the light of dusk are connected through a texture of assonance, consonance and alliteration. “L” is the prevailing sound, repeated in alliteration (“lights-lantern”) and reiterated in the following metaphor, of which it stresses the weight: “glimmering buildings hazed the sky in a luminous patchwork quilt.”91 While walking as a child with her mother, Alabama confessed her desire to move to New York once she has grown up. ““I want to go to New York, Mamma,” said Alabama as they read Dixie’s letters. “What on earth for?” “To be my own boss.”” David’s letters92 too leave a great impression on Alabama’s young imagination – like Scott’s letters did on Zelda – and root deeply in her mind. As it emerges from the paintings and the novel, Zelda-Alabama sees the city through the lenses of her girlish expectations, even after witnessing the dark sides of the metropolis. Thus there are at least three temporal phases stratified in the novel’s urban visual and verbal frescoes: Alabama’s childhood and girlhood, the (fictional and biographical) years spent there as a young wife, and the recollective adulthood when she condenses it all in her emotional panoramas. Another meaningful example93 underscores Alabama’s (and Zelda’s) very visual recollection in the novel. After a few glamorous years in New York, Alabama and David leave for Europe. Heading to Paris through Provence, the couple looks back from their vantage point on the ship at the New York skyline. The coast of Europe defied the Atlantic expanse; the tender slid into the friendliness of Cherbourg amidst the green and faraway bells and the clump of wooden shoes over the cobbles. 91 A darker shade, contextualising the sense of anxiety related to the double faced city, is textured in a gloomier semantic chain, which includes “bits,” “ends,” “suicide” and “crime,” and is reinforced by colours like “black” and “red.” Light and darkness, pastel nuances and dark colours are not simply juxtaposed but intertwined in the same tableau, harmonised by jazz rhythms. 92 When David left for the port of embarkation, he wrote Alabama letters about New York. “City of glittering hypotheses,” wrote David ecstatically, “chaff from a fairy mill, suspended in penetrating blue! Humanity clings to the streets like flies upon a treacle stream. The tops of the buildings shine like crowns of gold-leaf kings in conference—and oh, my dear, you are my princess and I’d like to keep you shut for ever in an ivory tower for my private delectation.” (23) 93 Or, as another example: “In the city, old women with faces as soft and ill-lit as the side-streets of Central Europe offered their pansies; hats floated off the Fifth Avenue bus; the clouds sent out a prospectus over Central Park. The streets of New York smelled acrid and sweet like drippings from the mechanics of a metallic night-blooming garden. The intermittent odours, the people and the excitement, suctioned spasmodically up the side-streets from the thoroughfares, rose in gusts on the beat of their personal tempo. Possessing a rapacious, engulfing ego their particular genius swallowed their world in its swift undertow and washed its cadavers out to sea. New York is a good place to be on the upgrade.” Part II 128 New York lay behind them. The forces that produced them lay behind them. That Alabama and David would never sense the beat of any other pulse half so exactly, since we can only recognize in other environments what we have grown familiar with in our own, played no part in their expectations. (Fitzgerald 1932: 73) In Alabama’s memories, New York is the place where she was born as an artist and dancer. As she leaves New York behind, she recalls melancholically the forces that animated the city, the impulses that steadily tore apart the bowels of the urban texture, making such a “gigantic mass” into a perpetually dynamic creature. Going beyond de Certeau’s personification of the city in the “gigantic mass,” the metropolis appears sublime to Alabama, like a creature fed by creativity, capable of demanding the best and the worst from its inhabitants. In Alabama’s extremely concrete mental image, the city is daubed with big, emotional strokes. Her expectations for their new life in France are as vivid as the warm colours of her canvases. The scene is almost synesthetic, dense as it is with sounds, colours and emotion. Even more intense is the panoramic frame of Manhattan behind them. The city, which we could imagine being painted in orangey and grey tones, is associated with “the forces which forged them” by syntactic analogy. Thus, the leitmotif of the city being alive begins and is then strengthened in the subsequent sentences. 2.2.2. Beyond the frame Alabama’s (and Zelda’s) point of view qualifies as dual. Especially in the last piece analysed, the point of view on the city could not be physically more external. It is even conveyed in third person, which should invite a certain detachment. But the view of the two coasts is not just subjective and nostalgic, it is at once extremely emotional and concrete. Alabama visualises vividly the French soil, the shore with its pebbles, and even the gentle noise of driftwood lapping onto these stones. Such peculiar duality finds only partially space in theoretical formulations, especially de Certeau’s and Benjamin’s ones on the panoramic view. 2. The lure of the city 129 To Benjamin, “long perspectives of streets and thoroughfares correspond to the inclination, noticeable again and again in the nineteenth century, to ennoble technical necessities by artistic aims.” (Benjamin 1939: 159) Here, the tendency to represent unitary panoramic views of the city appears to stem from a political plan which aimed at depicting, or encouraging, a sense of coherence and order through architecture: The institutions of secular and clerical dominance of the bourgeoisie were to find their apotheosis in a framework of streets. Streets, before their completion, were draped in canvas and unveiled like monuments. (Ibid.) Here, Benjamin roots the origin of the panoramic view in a European architectural tradition, which he applied particularly to the Paris of the nineteenth century. Still, Benjamin’s considerations do not apply to Zelda’s tableaux of Paris, which discard such concept of the panoramic view, understood as neat and ordered. Benjamin’s thoughts about the panoramic observer seem virtually to find, even momentarily, development in de Certeau’s reasoning. In The Practice of Everyday Life de Certeau appreciates that the symmetry between the panoramic and the unitary, between the tableau and objectivity, is valuable only on a theoretical level: The panorama-city is a “theoretical” (that is visual) simulacrum, in short a picture, whose condition of possibility is an oblivion and misunderstanding of practices. […] another “spatiality” (an “anthropological” poetic and mythic experience of space), and to an opaque and blind mobility characteristic of the bustling city. (de Certeau 1984: 93) Yet even de Certeau’s reasoning applies only marginally to Zelda’s use of the panoramic model. In depictions of New York, a city which lacked a centuries-long tradition of urban representations, the panoramic pattern in the “European” sense does not find space – not at the beginning of the century at least. Panoramic representations evolved spontaneously in Europe throughout centuries, whereas they were developed at a later date in the United States and was interpreted in different ways. Zelda’s peculiar points of view on the city sets up conversations with other panoramic models from the early 1900s, including those proposed by photographers Part II 130 such as A. L. Coburn and Alfred Stieglitz. Between the 1900s and 1910s – and in the 1910 collection, named New York – Coburn realised several photogravures and photographs of the city displaying a strong Impressionistic taste to the panoramic frame, which seems to be evoked in Zelda’s watercolours. Stieglitz’s role-plays between subjective and objective, between panoramic and close-up, and between internal and external point of view, seem to be also part of Zelda’s background. Alvin L. Coburn, 1905, “Broadway at Night.” Alfred Stieglitz, 1911-1913, “Two Towers—New York.” Almost thirty years after Coburn’s and Stieglitz’s works, Zelda proposed a curious technique, which moved from panorama to close-up in the wake of a newly formed tradition of interpretations and re-scriptures of the panoramic view. Zelda Fitzgerald’s external, all-embracing point of view becomes paradoxically emotional and intensely subjective. The falsifying impersonality of the panoramic view, which was mistrusted by de Certeau and Benjamin, may be re-evaluated if, by analysing Zelda’s technique, we acknowledge that an irreducible subjectivity of perspective enriches, rather than invalidates, the panoramic representation. 2. The lure of the city 131 The following comparison appears relevant to highlight even more the contrast between the European panoramic model and Zelda’s own emotional panoramic view: Georges Stein,1901, Notre Dame—Paris. Zelda Fitzgerald, 1944ca, Notre Dame, Paris. While Georges Stein’s panoramic view of Notre Dame square and streets (1901) displays considerable originality in the proto-Impressionist painting style and technique, it shows to be influenced by a European tradition of panoramic representation, thus conforming nineteenth-century panoramic models. From almost the same observation point, Zelda’s assemblage condenses instead everything but objectivity and proportion. In her emotional tableaux, she gives birth to a kind of panoramic view which is opposed to the (mainstream) European understanding of Part II 132 ‘panorama’. Like she does in the New York frames, she splits the point of view into two, a physical and an emotive perspective, which do not coincide. Zelda’s two paintings of Notre Dame are very similar and it is unclear which was painted first. Yet, somehow, they are complementary, and are worth being analysed together. The first painting seems to be less complete than the other; it clearly shows the use of graphite together with colours, and the top left corner is particularly bare. However, the foreground seems to be more complete, since in the second canvas the carriages on the left side of the frame are cut in half. Moreover, the shapes in the first painting are watery, less concrete and poorly detailed; the carriage caps turn into umbrellas in the first foreground, and the buildings in the background blur with the yellow spray on the left. The second painting is wider in scope on the right hand side, which encompasses the riverbank and part of the bridge, but the carriages on the left side are cut off. The umbrellas are still there, orange this time, but they are being carried away by the wind.94 The orangey clouds of the bushes and trees turn into a kind of smoke in the air, and eventually into clouds, thus connecting earth and sky. The desire to connect all the layers and dimensions of the composition is once again achieved through the use of colours, which remain Zelda’s main narrative device. The unusual but suggestive matching of greys, oranges and reds produces a melancholia that echoes Zelda’s mood as she committed her memories of the city to the painting. The unrealistic shades she uses to personalise her urban scenes remind us that we are looking through the frame of Zelda’s emotions.95 Very often, and as the paintings of Notre Dame show, the objects and subjects of her painting exceed the frame. The cut-off carriages in the second Notre Dame exemplify how the dynamic pushes that move the objects within the frame do not find 94 Umbrellas are a leitmotif in paintings during the 1930s and 40s; a luxury accessory until the nineteenth century, umbrellas became more accessible in the twentieth century, a fancy utility for ladies of fashion and wealthy men. For Zelda, the umbrella was certainly an accessory which confirmed her attention to the Parisian fashion just as much as her drop-waist skirts and high heels. 95 Without digressing too far from the topic of the frame in the two Notre Dame paintings, I think a brief consideration of the physiognomy of the horses is worthwhile. Although the low quality of my resized images makes it hard to notice, the horses have red lips and eyelashes; such a ‘make-up’ gives them a similar look to the other painting I analysed in the first section, Puppeufee. This detail should not be neglected, because it triggers a reflection on the concept of the puppet that I will develop later in my work. While in Notre Dame the horses’ faces might just convey a naïve tone to the whole picture, reminding us of Zelda’s playful way of subjectivising the frame, they can be understood within a wider discourse on Zelda’s reasoning on the mask. 2. The lure of the city 133 an origin or end there. As a matter of fact, such an overflow of figures outside the frame only confirms the amount of pathos and emotions that overload the canvas. Zelda’s paintings are emotional, other than motional, since they are moved by dynamic pushes that find their origin in her psyche. While viewing the panorama, the observer also enjoys an open window into Zelda’s mind, her memories and feelings. 2.2.3. Hypotaxis and palimpsest: the architecture of vision The narrative of ‘exceeding the frame’ acts in both paintings and texts; in both, it lies on rhetorical basis, particularly on a figure of speech, the hypotaxis. On canvas, elements connect, intertwine, stratify on one another like a continuum flux, that even forces the borders of the frame. Characters seem to move on centrifugal pushes, and to head towards outside the frame. All elements seem to be fluid, moving in and out the frame, overloading the surface with colours and emotions. In prose, the flow of words and thoughts seems to force syntactical schemes similarly to how shapes and characters force the borders of the frame in the pictures. The rhetorical common ground for these ‘excesses’ seems to be the use of hypotactic constructions. Hypotaxis implicates complicated structures. As it consists in the subordination of syntactic units in a complex sentence through the use of causal, consequential or other conjunctions, the reading requires more time. A text organised with a hypotactic structure is more complicated, but also appears more cohesive, so that the general sense is that of a whole concept. While each paratactic unit could theoretically stand on its own, hypotactic units need the clauses on which they depend to make full sense. As a result, paratactic discourse produces a sequence of independent concepts, while hypotaxis develops one articulated and complex concept. If visually we can imagine parataxis as linear, hypotaxis consists of a complicated architectural structure that has as many levels as the clauses it includes in a sentence. Zelda Fitzgerald’s verbal and visual corpora share an extensive use of hypotaxis, here considered as a linguistic strategy and a forma mentis. Zelda’s thinking presents itself as highly visual, and as such imprints on her narrative choices. On canvas, the simultaneous work on shape, line and colour allowed her to increase her spectrum of Part II 134 expressive possibilities; on the written page, her use of complex syntax and her way of playing with adjectives and words in profusion enabled her to deal with the complexity of the character’s (and her own) simultaneous thoughts and emotions. The result is, in both cases, the construction of architectural systems of vision: The rickety taxi poured them through the splendid funnels of Provencal shade and scrambled them over the parched stretches between the vineyards. It was as if the sun had absorbed the colouring of the countryside to brew its sunset mixtures, boiling and bubbling the tones blindingly in the skies while the land lay white and devitalized awaiting the lavish mixture that would be spread to cool through the vines and stones in the late afternoon. (Fitzgerald 1932: 87) When Alabama feels overwhelmed, as in the passage above, regular hypotaxis turns into a critical over-stratification of clauses, which expresses the character’s will to convey all her feelings and thoughts at once. In such view, a full stop, or even a semicolon, would interrupt the flow of her emotions, which may be contradictory, but always simultaneous. The hypotactic structure serves in such cases to support the labyrinthine architecture of Alabama’s psyche. In both paintings and novel, Zelda forces the tolerance threshold of narrative structures, altering their standards to suit the complexity and simultaneity of her emotions. Whilst in Barnes’s work parataxis was carried to its extreme, namely asyndeton, hypotaxis is taken to excess in Zelda’s feverish emotional compositions. 2.2.4. Urbanised prose The city is constantly present in the novel in themes and references. But as the narration proceeds, and as Alabama grows up as a city woman, the urban architecture and its rhythms affect the character’s thinking too. Once in Paris, her obsession for ballet becomes dominant, the central (if not the only) topic of narration for several chapters. Panoramic views are internalised by Alabama, who is self-focused in her loneliness and her obsession. The colours of Paris only marginally touch Alabama’s 2. The lure of the city 135 attention, since she is focused on the colours of her daily rehearsal. November filtered the morning light to a golden powder that hung over Paris stabilizing time till the days stayed at morning all day long. She worked in the grey gloom of the studio and felt very professional in the discomfort of the unheated place. (Fitzgerald 1932: 135) Compared with the extensive description of New York, the references to Paris hardly create frames; in fact, they resemble single strokes, giving mere hints of the city only to quickly return to Alabama’s concerns. In the short quotation above, the autumnal light tinges the frame with gold nuances and colours it with melancholic tones. But the focus is immediately moved back to Alabama, who rehearses in the grey light of the studio. The urban picture suffused with a golden light remains empty. At other points the frame does not remain empty, but appears too sketched and elusive to be classified as a panoramic view, as in this description of Alabama’s journey to her ballet lesson: One morning Alabama came early to her lesson. Paris is a pen-and-ink drawing before nine o’clock. To avoid the thick traffic of the Boulevard des Batignolles, Alabama tried the Metro. It smelled of fried potatoes, and she slipped in the spit on the dank stairs. (Fitzgerald 1932: 161) The passage above, which represents one of the rare cases when Zelda detaches herself from hypotactic patterns, reflects Alabama’s hurry to reach the studio; among the one- verb sentences, a panoramic reference to Paris finds limited space. The metaphor of Paris as a pen-and-ink drawing is particularly meaningful: not only does it reinforce the argument that Zelda’s thinking is highly visual; it also signals how deeply the city has been internalised in her thoughts. The reference to Paris comes absentmindedly and remains undeveloped, suggesting that she is unconsciously aware of the city around her. Although urban panoramas are hints in the narration, the city does not disappear completely. Long and panoramic descriptions of the city do become rare, but the narration starts to be studded with phrases which typically belong to the urban semantic field. Daily actions, thoughts and reflections start echoing urban architecture Part II 136 and rhythms. The city passes from being an explicit setting to being a metaphor of life and eventually a form of thought. Initially, the city (New York) is continuously named, referred to, described; then, as the years go by and Alabama moves from New York to Paris, it gradually disappears from the text and becomes embodied in its language. Their life moved along with a hypnotic pound and nothing seemed to matter short of murder. (Fitzgerald 1932: 134) Bonnie was growing fast and full of anecdotes. (Fitzgerald 1932: 134) Short and apparently weightless phrases such as these pass by unnoticed in a reading that does not target the exploration of the faces of the city in the text. But, as a matter of fact, the lexicon they stage is not neutral. The life of Alabama and her family is described as moving “along with a hypnotic pound;” for as normal as it is to perceive one’s own life to pass at a very high speed, the phrase chosen recalls the hypnotic pound of the city, its hectic beat, and relentless motion. Likewise, by describing Bonnie as “growing fast and full of anecdotes,” Zelda underlines the symmetry with the fast evolutions of the city itself, always full of anecdotes to tell, learn or gossip about. Gradually, the city shifts from being an exterior place to an interior place, a frame of mind rather than a setting. “If you don’t stop that humming, Alabama, I’ll lose my mind,” he complained. She supposed it was annoying the way the music of the day kept running through her head. There was nothing else there. Madame told her that she was not a musician. Alabama thought visually, architecturally, of music— sometimes it transformed her to a faun in twilit spaces unpenetrated by any living soul save herself; sometimes to a lone statue to forgotten gods washed by the waves on a desolate coast—a statue of Prometheus. (Fitzgerald 1932: 162) In this passage, David is exasperated by Alabama’s obsession with ballet. When she is at home, she hums the themes of her choreographies and revises steps; she has even convinced Madame to take Bonnie as a pupil. David’s plea that she contains herself 2. The lure of the city 137 starts a chain of association in Alabama’s mind that appear extremely relevant. That “Alabama,” and therefore Zelda, “thought visually” was already clear. But her also thinking “architecturally” supports my suggestion that the city becomes textured into the language. Many of the elements that were once objects in Zelda’s panoramic and emotional frames recur in her architecturally articulated thoughts. Familiar twilight colours permeate the dreamy space of her vision, where she is alone; a monument dominates the scene, a statue of Prometheus, perhaps inspired by the torch-bearing Statue of Liberty. The statue, the waves and the coast immediately recall her farewell to New York, which she paid from the boat as she wandered on board, picturing the French shores. Zelda’s language seems unconsciously to conform to Hemingway’s statement that “prose is architecture,” with which he expressed the need to reinvent prose at a structural level. The frame acts in a similar and yet more complicated way in Zelda’s novel, because the panoramic view is both ekphrastic and psychological. On the ekphrastic level, the frame encloses wide portions of the urban scenario that appear to be coloured by Alabama’s feelings, which are in turn as carnivalesque as Zelda’s memories. On the psychological level, there is an interesting reversal in which, instead of having emotions permeate the urban frame, the urban architecture moulds thoughts and feelings. There are moments when Alabama’s psyche and the city seem to overlap: Through the blue lights of the place and the red lamps in iron grilles, the white skin of Madame glowed like the Arctic sun on an ice palace. She did not drink much but ordered caviar and smoked many cigarettes. Her dress was cheap; that saddened Alabama—she had been such a great dancer in her time. After the war she had wanted to quit, but she had no money and kept her son at the Sorbonne. Her husband fed himself on dreams of the Corps des Pages and quenched his thirst with reminiscences till there was nothing left of him but a bitter aristocratic phantom. The Russians! suckled on a gallant generosity and weaned on the bread of revolution, they haunt Paris! Everything haunts Paris. Paris is haunted. (Fitzgerald 1932: 138) The scene opens with the blue lights and red lamps at the venue where Alabama and Madame are attending a gala event. The colours of the place smoothly become the colours of Madame, within the same sentence. This is a signal that we are witnessing Part II 138 the scene through the mind-frame of Alabama, for whom places, people and memories melt in the space of her daydreams. The associative chain runs from Madame to her cheap dress, to her unfortunate financial decadence, to her husband, who contributed to her economic failure, and eventually to the Russians in Paris. Paris, haunted by the Russians, soon becomes the space of her mind, which is haunted by everything. In this light, word-choice shows double-edged. Once Alabama has grown up, her connection with the city is so strong that she uses words that can apply to both herself and to Paris. Sometimes, the loaning of a word from one context to the other is clear; at other times, phrases are combined so naturally that it is hard to say whether they refer to the character or to the city. The urbanisation of language results from the ultimate merging of Alabama’s mind and heart with the urban landscape. The (emotional) textualisation of the urban scenario, which is tellingly progressive in the novel, represents how the relationship between character and city, subject and context, has overstepped the frames of the page and of language. Like in Zelda’s urban poems, where subjects seemed to step over the frame in fluid streams of colours, in the novel, characters have absorbed urbanity at an unconscious level; they have become a whole with the city, in a waltz of colours and synesthetic shifts. 2.3. Modern simulacra: Loy’s urban myths In a 1924 letter published in the Transatlantic Review, Mina Loy chastises those who ignore the impact of modernity on literature and art.96 Modernism is a prophet crying in the wilderness of stabilized culture that humanity is wasting its aesthetic time. For there is a considerable extension of time between the visits to the picture gallery, the museum, the library. It asks ‘what is happening to your aesthetic consciousness during the long long intervals?’ The flux of life is pouring its aesthetic aspect into your eyes, your ears— and you ignore it because you are looking for your canons of beauty in 96 The whole letter is quoted in Lawrence Rainey, 2005, Modernism: An Anthology (Oxford; Malden, MA: Blackwell). 2. The lure of the city 139 some sort of frame or glass case of tradition. (Rainey 2005: 437) This quotation appears particularly relevant for its explicit use of the word “frame,” which is the core of my analysis in this section. But I also chose it from among Loy’s several aphorisms on modern art because of its figurality and spatiality, which are idiosyncratic in her poems and canvases. According to her, traditional culture, including art and literature, is “stabilized,” static and obsolete in museums and libraries; allegorically, modernism denounces such ‘waste of aesthetic time’ on behalf of humanity, which seems deaf to the call of modernity. It also denounces those who look for aesthetic canons in museums and libraries, which only host simulacra. 2.3.1. Disorienting architectures, degenerate myths Loy’s 1924 letter helps to introduce what seems to be her tendency to evoke tradition then to empty it from the inside. Particularly, the way in which Loy dialogues with myth conveys specific spatial traits to her poetics. Her poetry, as originating from her architectural aesthetics, is intrinsically spatial, both considering the layout and the forms it stages. The poems and canvases Loy realised during her stays in New York – meaningfully described by Roger L. Conover as “the land without myth and the land of gender” (Loy [1997]: xiv) – prove ideal for the exploration of urban paradigms of space. Particularly relevant to my investigation is “Lunar Baedeker,”97 which Loy wrote between 1920 and 1923, and which gave its name to her first American poetry collection in 1923. In the poem, Loy introduces the myths, chimeras and curses of the city, qualifying them as spatial paradigms, so as to rewrite urban architecture and to re-establish urban spatial hierarchies. “Lunar Baedeker” ranges through mythological 97 Baedeker Verlag was a German publishing house founded in 1827. Intended for those visiting cultural capitals, Baedeker travel guides outlined what was worth seeing, both outdoor sites and indoor museums. Loy’s “travelogue” undermines Baedeker’s ready-made-itineraries right from the title, which ironically suggests sightseeing by night. While travel guides are intended to orient readers, readers of Loy’s “Lunar Baedeker” are likely to be disoriented, firstly because of the nocturnal setting to the wandering, and secondly because of the collage-like organisation of sites and frames. All the poems in this collection throw us into the middle of things, giving us little context, and showing panoramic views, or close-up sketches. Part II 140 and Biblical references, which seem to constitute a genesis of the modern city through the degradation of myths. Lunar Baedeker A silver Lucifer serves cocaine in cornucopia To some somnambulists of adolescent thighs draped in satirical draperies Peris in livery prepare Lethe for posthumous parvenues Delirious Avenues lit with the chandelier souls of infusoria from Pharoah’s tombstones lead to mercurial doomsdays Odious oasis in furrowed phosphorous the eye-white sky-light white-light district of lunar lusts Stellectric signs […] Onyx-eyed Odalisques and ornithologists observe the flight of Eros obsolete 2. The lure of the city 141 And “Immortality” mildews in the museums of the moon “Nocturnal cyclops” “Crystal concubine” Pocked with personification the fossil virgin of the skies waxes and wanes (Loy 1923: 81) Undoubtedly, the almost sculptural graphic organisation of the verses imitates the verticality of New York skyscrapers, thus visually preparing the setting. A similar evocation comes from figures of sound: jarring alliterations, “silver” and “serves,” and “cocaine” and “cornucopia,” and “waxes and wanes,” open and close the poem. But the feeling of unease that pervades the first few lines does not only come from the shrill acoustics produced by sibilant and occlusive consonants. Once it has been clarified where and what it is that the fallen angel is distributing, the Biblical image of the silver Lucifer is immediately degraded. While this steep degradation strengthens the vertical motion of the Fall which is evoked by the presence of Lucifer himself, the architectural structure of the poem is reverberated in a mythical atmosphere. The vertical downward push is maintained throughout the poem, firstly by the image of the “peris,” androgynous elves of Persian mythology representing the descendants of fallen angels, and then by the continuous tension between earth and sky, street-lights and “sky-lights.” While the presence of Lucifer and the nocturnal atmosphere prepare the setting of a ghostly city, the inhabitants change into “somnambulists” ready to cross the River of Forgetfulness in Hades. The oxymoronic and alliterative pair “posthumous parvenus” places the city dwellers into a paradox that reiterates the analogy between the city at night and the infernal city. The stanza beginning with “delirious avenues” connects the image of the city by night, home to sinful souls, to the carousel of white lights. The opalescence of the moon is far from bringing positive clarity and light to the night time; as the moon dilutes all colours until everything fits the grey-scale, it dries out reason until everything and everyone is delirious. Illness and sickness spread deceitfully, hiding behind appealing positive images such as “infusoria / from Part II 142 Pharoah’s tombstones.” The vertical force-line connecting earth and sky is here opposed to the horizontal sprawling of bacteria, a motion which is also evoked by “mercury” a few verses later. While perpendicular force-lines push against one another, the collision is also called to mind by “doomsdays,” meaningfully used in the unusual plural form. The urbanism pronounced by “Delirious Avenues” is developed into the triangle sky-city-individual, embodied by the trio of lights “eye-white sky- light / white-light.” Such a triplet introduces the connection between man, earth, and sky by alluding to the invention of electric light, condensed in “stellectric signs;” such a neologism, which combines the words “stellar” and “electric,” invokes the impact electricity had on reshaping the landscape of cities at night. Loy’s “logopoeia” – to borrow the phrase coined by Pound when he presented her to the readers of The Little Review – results from her aesthetic system; since she blamed traditional language for being unable to grasp “the flux of life,” she assembled verbal units to suit the dynamism of their subject matter. Words such as “stellectric” are not merely a capricious protest against traditional poetic language, but they embody a profound critique of univocal and static codes. Such reasoning on verbal language also applies to her visual language, where, as we will see, it is expressed through the collage technique. “Onyx-eyed Odalisques,”98 Loy’s phrase for ‘prostitution’, tightens the bond between stone and flesh and therefore between object and subject; but it also opens the way for a metaphor of urban love, which is then explicated in the phrase “Eros obsolete.” Such a qualification suggests modern life and urban scenarios leave space for neither love nor myth. Not for traditional, majestic, authoritative myth, anyway. If a myth of modernity exists, it lies in the deconstruction of the ancient one, in its fragmentation and serialisation. As a consequence, “Immortality” (personified) is declassed, resised to a minimum and assigned to detrimental organisms like “mildews.” This is Loy’s way of paying tribute to techno-scientific discovery, the modern chimera. The many spatial metaphors of the poem, not least the enclosure of “Immortality” into a microscopic space, culminate in the final stanza, another architectural and metaphorical construction. The poem ends meaningfully with the image of a non-living 98 Eyes are a prominent theme in Loy’s verse; often, she uses false eyes to demonstrate the absence of a soul. 2. The lure of the city 143 thing that was once alive (the fossil), wrapped in a cloud of metaphors about the moon and virginity; the metaphor of the moon as a virgin draws from the mythic association of the virginal goddess Diana/Artemis with the moon. However, classical myth is turned into a fossil in the modern world; if the virginal moon-goddess was meant to move tides and regulate the rhythms of life in the past, its fossil only “waxes and wanes” fruitlessly in the metropolitan night. The architectural force-lines of the poem, which I named vertical and horizontal, do not aim to trace a path (like in a Baedeker travel guide) but serve only as the echo of a once functional structure. The modern, ghostly city presents instead emptied structures, collapsed frames that contain no myth or knowledge, instead function as a memento mori for the contemporary reader. Loy’s sacred or mythical figures stand for a gallery of simulacra, aimed at pointing out that images have lost substance. By extension, modern mankind, which is to blame for having created and lost control over machines, lacks substance too. Dehumanised into “puppets,” men have become simulacra of their own selves, parading in a city that resembles a gallery of ghosts. The poetics encapsulated in the lines of “Lunar Baedeker” runs through all phases of Loy’s production, and across all forms of expression of her artistic genius. The comparison of “Lunar Baedeker” to a much later painting, Househunting (1955), is justified by the presence of the same degradation of the myth – and of images into simulacra. In Househunting, Loy rephrases her discourse on urban indoor and outdoor spaces in visual terms, grounding on the same tropes and techniques (i.e. myth and collage) she had used back in 1923. All the elements and motifs that I have pointed out in her poem appear in the varied units of the assemblages, including factories, smog, barracks and alienated individuals. Part II 144 Mina Loy, 1950ca, Househunting. Although Loy composed Househunting only in the late 1950s, the collage is reminiscent of surrealist techniques in the disposition of shapes, use of colours, and management of the space. Echoes of Breton’s Surrealist Manifesto (1924), like the ‘pure psychic automatism’ in the assemblage of forms, surface from the mythical architecture of Loy’s 1955 collage. The observer’s attention is caught straight away by the flat, pinkish, mottled background and is then led immediately to the monumental half-bust of the woman in the foreground. The colour of the background (recalling that of wallpaper or wall- carpet) and the presence of a female subject produce an involuntary evocation of a house, or at least of an indoor space. So do the domestic objects gathered above her head, in the concave aureole: knitting kit, a teapot, a laundry basket and a clothesline to which a pair of trousers is pinned. According to Burke, this is “the most personal of Mina’s constructions.” (Burke 1996: 422) Yet the Italianate buildings hovering in the background and the windows and bridges floating around the half-bust suggest that the scene does not necessarily take place indoors. Carolyn Burke’s interpretation, validated by her conversations with Peggy Guggenheim, suggests that the metropolitan units around the subject represent a door-way to her soul, a hypothesis that also explains the title; according to such an interpretation, Loy realised “a construction that 2. The lure of the city 145 summed up years of trying to understand the costs of ‘outcasting’ – living in a way that did not ‘fit in anywhere’.” (Burke 1996: 422) Burke’s interpretation does not explain fully, however, the intertextuality of the canvas, nor does it consider its position in the relationship with the mythical (and myth-themed) tradition. The woman, modelled in the delicate flesh-tones of the Pre- Raphaelite school, seems to reference Botticelli’s Venus, basing on the analogy between the paper concave aureole on her head and Venus’s shell. But any comparison is discarded immediately by her puppet features, which echo the somnambular profiles of “Lunar Baedeker.” Glorious and monumental, the modern Venus stands isolated, de-humanised, rather than über-human like she was in Botticelli’s Venus. Loy’s puppet-Venus looks absentminded and alienated, while she is transplanted from the sea that gave her birth, to the urban surface. Her blank gaze reflects the emptiness of the wall behind her, that evokes the unreal tones of the city by night of the poem. On such surface, the monumental woman collects her scattered memories. All the units around her are linked by their belonging to the urban architecture, a detail that establishes a connection between human being and the city. Like they used to do in the poem, buildings and streets in the painting reduce the woman to a puppet, who is now only capable of collecting her thoughts in disconnected cement units. The puppet hints at the degradation of the myth in the same way that Eros was depicted as a pathetic obsolete bird in “Lunar Baedeker.” Myth has to maintain a (paradoxical) frame that activates the intertextual reference. But Loy’s intention of emptying the architectural mythical structure from the inside is clear both in the transfiguration of the woman into a puppet and in the materials employed to realised it – cardboard and paper. Loy’s reference to a repositioning of myth, traditional themes and artistic styles in modern spaces is undoubtedly a rhetorical game aimed at de- institutionalising any past trust in superior knowledge. The only kind of knowledge accessible to the modern man is fragmentary and self-referential, like the spread out scraps of memories and thoughts. The comparison of “Lunar Baedeker” and Househunting can be inscribed in a narrative of deconstruction that runs across two decades in Loy’s production. While the ghostly architectures of “Lunar Baedeker” seem prophetic in the depiction of progressive consumption brought about by capitalism, the disconnected collage-units Part II 146 of Househunting illustrate the consequences of such a system, and of the dysfunctional relationship between man and machine. 2.3.2. Frames and dissolution Loy’s poetics of dismemberment and alienation, well embodied by monumental architectures and mythical frames, is further developed in Loy’s later works. Particularly, later poems focus on the consequences of urban progressive consumption, resulting in the progressive dissolution of mankind. The comparison of “On Third Avenue,” written in 1942, and Christ on a Clothesline, painted in 1959, offers the opportunity to study how the consequences of urbanisation and mechanisation are similarly addressed in verbal and visual codes, despite the temporal distance between poem and painting. The ghostly materiality of “Lunar Baedeker,” has evolved into immateriality in “On Third Avenue,” and the opalescent, sterile light of the moon has turned into the artificial lights of factories. On Third Avenue 1 “You should have disappeared years ago”— so disappear on Third Avenue to share the heedless incognito of shuffling shadow-bodies animate with frustration whose silence’ only potence is respiration preceding the eroded bronze contours of their other aromas through the monstrous air of this red-lit thoroughfare. 2. The lure of the city 147 Here and there saturnine neon-signs set afire a feature on their hueless overcast of down-cast countenances. For their ornateness Time, the contortive tailor, on and off, clowned with sweat-sculptured cloth to press upon those irreparable dummies an eerie undress of mummies half unwound. 2 Such are the compensations of poverty to see— Like an electric fungus sprung from its own effulgence of intercircled jewellery reflected on the pavement like a reliquary sedan-chair, out of a legend, dumped there, […] Such are the compensations of poverty to see— Transient in the dust, the brilliancy of a trolley loaded with luminous busts; lovely in anonymity they vanish Part II 148 with the mirage of their passage. (Loy 1923: 109) “On Third Avenue” opens with an idea of disintegration, which is certainly reiterated by the layout. The ghostly crowd of somnambulists depicted in “Lunar Baedeker” appears further dehumanised and prepares for the metamorphosis into machines, which are later processed inside the factory. People are dehumanised into “shadow- bodies,” anonymous and serial like the other products of consumerism; their human traits have “disappeared years ago.” Paradoxically, the normally overcrowded street is identified with the place where individuals exchange their humanity for anonymity, the “heedless incognito.” An atmosphere of immateriality lingers everywhere around the disappearing and disappeared human being, since the “potence” of the city lies in its intangible qualities: its shadows, “eroded contours,” “respiration,” and “aromas.” The objectification of the individual is simultaneous to the personification of the city, animated by red lights. The pale allusion to a majestic and monumental past is weak, with a brief mention of “bronze,” but is almost immediately turned into a gigantic and monstrous creature consisting of the thick urban air. Neon-signs have completely replaced any other source of light, leaving nothing of the (already fossil) moon of “Lunar Baedeker.” If “bronze” appeared too weak as a hint to monumentality, the stanza’s opening “For their ornateness” confirms the connection, introducing the sad metaphor of the modern man, “clowned with sweat-sculptured cloth.” While subjects devolve into “dummies,” “Time” is personified as “the contortive tailor” who works with “material” as in “fabric;” he also alters “the material” in a broader sense, as he transforms people from subjects into objects, or “mummies.” While the degraded version of the Greek god Chronos reminds us of the space denied to myth by modernity, the image of the mummy also fits into Loy’s deadly imagery; like the “virgin fossil” in “Lunar Baedeker,” here Time dresses figures like mummies, the material vestiges of what once were living people. Neither myth nor legends find space or authority, as is suggested by the denigrating description of the “reliquary sedan- chair / out of a legend” in the second section. They are only present all over in a depowered version, to remind us that mankind, the once flourishing civilisation that invented myth, has now been mechanised. 2. The lure of the city 149 The second part of the poem reiterates the refrain “Such are compensation of poverty / to see –––––,” which opens the anaphoric sequence of “like.” Nature and technology are condensed into oxymoronic pairs echoing the “stellectric signs” of “Lunar Baedeker,” but they stress more the responsibility of the individual. The imagery of scientific progress comes back with the identification of a fungus (the mildews of the previous poem), which is pervasive, devious and generated by man. The fungus of technology, the seed of capitalism, contained its curse from the beginning, but dazzled with its effulgence – the electric light. Images of a deceitful and transient brilliance are intensified in the last two stanzas, burdened by the lexicon of ephemerality: “transient,” “trolley,” “vanish,” “mirage,” “passage.” The mocking intentions of the exaggerated consonances in ‘l’ and the alternate rhyme schemes, which are absent in the rest of the poem, underscore the black humor of “lovely in anonymity.” Not only does the scene dematerialise people and things, but things that are already intangible, such as movement and light, become ethereal. In fact, it also dissolves people who were not fully material in the first place, the “shadow-bodies.” “On Third Avenue” solidifies individuals for a brief moment into sculptures made by Time. They are maintained and employed as forms, or frames, but they are no longer structures. Within the emptied shell of myth and urban architecture, both having been eroded from the inside by the fungus of technology, everything is immaterial. In the mythical past which is echoed by both the poems, myth used to stand for knowledge and entry to a higher truth, and architecture had functional and structural valence. Now, neither myth nor architecture has a meaning beyond the exterior frame, which is self-referential. The immateriality of the human beings in “On Third Avenue” is based on the progressive erosion of the spiritual substance enclosed by their bodies, a spirituality that has been taken away by mechanical processes. Human bodies are dehumanised into puppets, thus revealing their self-referential nature. Similarly, in Christ on a Clothesline, painted in 1959, dehumanisation has allegorical tones, embodied and demystified in the figure of an ‘Everyman-Christ’ hanging among dirty rags. Part II 150 Mina Loy, 1955-1959ca, Christ on a Clothesline. Dark red shades, suiting the tones of the Passion, colour the atmosphere. The decadent buildings on the background and the dehumanised, dissolving human figure on the foreground recall explicitly the themes of “On Third Avenue,” thus enhancing a comparative study of poem and image. In the painting, the dark red band at the bottom evokes the border of a balcony or building, but it does not lessen the uneasy feeling of suspension which is conveyed by the figure hanging from the clothesline, and by the view, from a probably high storey, of the opposite buildings. What is striking about the figure pinned to the clothesline is the flatness of his expression and the anonymity of aspect, which remind us of the “anonymity” of the “mummies” of the 1942 poem. If it were not for the title, the stigmata on hands would probably go unnoticed. The very face of the Christ repudiates a visual tradition of representation of Christ on the Cross, whose facial expression is usually captured in extreme sufferance. Rather, the indifferent face of this Christ, alienated from the context of the ultimate sacrifice, seems to suggest that there is no sacrifice in modernity which is capable of redeeming mankind. The apologetic gesture that he is miming with his hand works eloquently in the same direction. Another trait empowers the comparison of this Everyman-Christ to the 2. The lure of the city 151 “shuffling shadow-bodies” of the “On Third Avenue” poem is that the man-Christ appears incorporeal and airy, his legs dissolving into a rag fluttering in the wind. Such airiness puts into (evanescent) shape the lexicon of ephemerality that characterises the finale of the poem. Like in the poem, the process of de-humanisation seems to be also caused by the city behind him. The ramshackle barracks in the background, the brick buildings behind it and on its right, even the brick-edge seem to come forward in light of the consideration that they might be the cause of the man’s condition; they slowly replace the man in the foreground becoming, like they do in the poem, the focus of narration, while men fade into the background. In this reframing of the picture, the Christ acquires (or in fact loses) identity, since it comes to represent the everyman living in the metropolis. In “Lunar Baedeker” the silver Lucifer, the most luminous of all angels in God’s eyes, falls into no Inferno but into the modern hell, the city, to traffic cocaine; likewise, the Passion of Christ, symbol of the divine sacrifice to wash human sins, hangs now like an over-washed rag, which will never be white again. The association between the washing of sin and the cleaning of a rag is as sacrilegious as it is tragic; it is so tragic, in fact, that it is bathetically funny in a tone of black-humour. Objectified, de-humanised, dissolving into a ripped rag, the religious icon is only one of the many simulacra of Western art and civilisation. Like myth, the religious icon was once a quintessential image, which had a complex architectural structure; although visible to anyone, it referred to a higher knowledge. Now, de-contextualised as it is, it has lost sense and purpose. To conclude, it is worth remarking that in Loy’s aesthetics, it is not just the superior truth or knowledge which should be doubted; if there ever was this truth, it has been lost and to search for it is pointless. What is more radically questioned is the power of the image itself, which is mistrusted to the point that it cannot be anything but self-referential or self-ironic. By deconstructing the content and substance of myths and icons, Loy only leaves their frames, thus setting a museum gallery of skeletons and fossils of what once was referential art. Part II 152 2.3.3. Haunting city, haunted language In Becoming Modern, Carolyn Burke considers that: [The “Love Songs”] are haunting not only for their exploration of sexual dissonance but because they are drenched in the atmosphere of World War I. They are a peculiar kind of war poetry. Their range of attitudes – the tonal shifts from hopefulness and anticipation through wariness and suspicion to vexation and bitterness – may all be understood as those of the outsider, the nonparticipant, the woman whose life is put on hold yet deeply affected by the collapse of civilization around her. (Burke 1996: 208) As the war affected her poetry in many ways, indeed thematically, but also linguistically and psychologically, thus the city is inevitably textured in the poems between the 1920s and 1940s in several ways.99 War and city appear to impact on Loy’s poetry primarily in narratological terms: the frame becomes the only feature capable of representing the process of de-humanisation. The frame also becomes the limit of human observation, thus becoming the margin of subjectivity, the “mental spatiality.” The product of such framing, the verbal or visual image, is therefore identified as unreliable and unstable, changing according to the point of view, the context or the cultural and biographical background of the observer. Moreover, it can be reframed, interpreted and read differently by the observer. Acknowledging the ontological unreliability of the image is certainly the hardest premise to accept in Loy’s aesthetics, because it conditions any reading and observation of her works. Yet, it is the most fascinating too, since it is only possible to find connections among the units of Loy’s collages once it has been accepted that the image has no fixed objective reality. Loy’s urban framings produced a particular kind of collage, that involves deep rethinking on the nature of the point of view. While the collage does not necessarily imply multiple points of view, Loy’s use of miscellaneous materials also suggests the 99 Loy’s late poems, composed in the 1940s, continue to study the evolution of the processes of dislocation. “Compensation of Poverty” addresses the city directly, without centring on human beings, since they have been ingurgitated by the monstrous urban mass. 2. The lure of the city 153 presence of different points of view, a myriad of angles, perspectives and heights. Different points of view assume the metaphorical valence of different frames of mind, opinions, judgements: the traditional and the new; the human and the mechanical; the androgynous and the gendered; many antithetical pairs can coexist side by side, since every individual could potentially enframe the city from endless points of observation, or even from a same point of view but at different moments; under such premises, the image’s margin of changeability grows exponentially. Moreover, the discrepancy between how the image is conceived and realised (either in words or in a painting), and how it is perceived and interpreted by its audience, enlightens an interesting aspect that Loy addresses directly. In both poems and paintings, the city gradually advances to take the foreground, pushing individuals to the background. In this way, Loy shows how the city, which was indeed shaped by individuals, tends eventually to ingurgitate its own creators. If the city is the product and the producer of its own images, the individual is by analogy the creator and the creation of the city and of its innumerable images. This dialectic tension between foreground and background prompts reconsideration of the instability of the urban image, which is re-qualified as dynamic and dialectical, rather than just unstable and changeable. As Roger L. Conover, editor of The Lost Lunar Baedeker, observed, “her anti- career, if you like, was marked by so many seeming contradictions, counter- allegiances and inconsistencies that she was often considered unbalanced.” (Loy [1997]: xiii) Embracing Conover’s view, Loy’s collages serve the aim of dissolving the legacy of form, genre, gender and traditional rhetoric from the inside out, regardless of any consequent contradiction. Particularly, her poems enter many of the controversial sites of the city, both indoor and outdoor places; bedrooms, bourgeois homes, streets and alleys are the setting for Loy’s poetic lens on people, clothing, habits and vices. In this sense, Loy’s poems and paintings are highly spatial, representing both the interior space of the psyche and the material spaces of the city. Poems are designed to become architectural spaces, structured by language; for Loy, the poetic space is the place to dismantle “the architectural structures that confine the self, enforce gender limitations and restrict feminine sexuality.”100 (Churchill 2006: 100 Suzanne W. Churchill, 2006, The Little Magazine Others and the Renovation of Modern American Poetry (Aldershot: Ashgate). Part II 154 181) The representational implications of such motion are certainly numerous and varied, inevitably affecting language too. In fact, the linguistic disconnectedness of Loy’s poems and paintings does not result from an inability of visual and verbal codes to recount modernity; on the contrary, it is a conscious choice made with regards to contents, language, narrative system and code, so that images could keep pace with the constantly moving, dialectical, contradictory reality of the city. As a result, her poetic language does not merely have demystifying, deconstructive purposes, but is instead programmatic and constructive. In this respect, many of her early critics objected to the use of intellectual formulations and archaic vocabulary. Only contemporary fellow writers such as Pound, Moore and Williams, not to mention all the European modernists, could peer inside her “Trojan verse” to see that it was “hijacking Victorian vocabulary and conceptual posturing in order to subvert the values and expose the mechanism such constructions were meant to euphemize.” (Conover 1997: xv) Over three decades, Loy developed a consistent (yet not systematic) corpus of poems and collages that is useful today in mapping the city’s progression towards capitalism and in studying the effects of that capitalism on art. If Loy’s engagement with politics was acknowledged and praised by a reduced scholarship at her time, her political and social critique and her economic insight have certainly been re-evaluated from the 1980s onwards, and are largely praised by ecocriticists today. Loy’s condemnation of thoughtless consumption is textualised in Loy’s radically sharp- edged and embodied language. While her themes denounce the objectification of the subject and the commodification of art, her language shows to have absorbed the same paradigms of disintegration and mechanisation. In this way, her verbal and visual corpus appears cohesive in semantic and formal choices, as well as in rhetorical foundation, thus resulting into an interesting and idiosyncratic field of investigation. 2. The lure of the city 155 2.4. The Baroness’s physical poetry While the city is hardly ever represented in the Baroness’s paintings and drawings of the 1910s and 1920s, the visual aesthetics of the embodied metropolis and mechanised individual is significantly present in the poetry of those years. The volume of poems about the city, which mainly incorporates the city of New York – but appears reminiscent of Berlin and Paris too – has a relevant sculptural margin. The principles of the Baroness’s collage technique derive from the hypotyposis of the body in her verses, through which she could unframe the various facets of metropolis in order to then blend them together, inscribing them into the experiential frame of her own body. In her (therefore physical) urban poetry, which she tellingly always wrote by hand rather than by machine, the whole page becomes the frame. Her writing hand becomes the channel for the city to flow through her body, to be eventually poured on the page in a sexual, embodied language. On this note, her poetry is extremely visual, since it comes to the page mediated through the body and organised in graphic verses.101 Among the frames she dissolves and blends in name of a physical and visual poetry, there are frames of vision and interpretation; concepts of ready-made; traditional communicative patterns and linguistic conventions. 2.4.1. Sexualised city, mechanised body “How to perform the city in poetry” is the very suitable title under which Gammel and Zelazo gathered those of the Baroness’s poems which clearly refer to urban reality. These poems are based on a surreal hybridisation, where words oscillate osmotically 101 In “Thoroughly Modern Elsa,” 2011, Brian Kim Stefans underscores the fact that the Baroness wrote all her poems by hand, never using typewriters. I have identified such willing use of her body to write poetry as the key of the Baroness’s embodying process, of city into language and of the body into verses. The fact that she wrote her poems by hand represents the control she had over the blank page and the extremely physical relationship she had with writing. Moreover, by writing everything by hand she tightened the connection between verses (often written in red or green) and the numerous sketches that she realised within the poetic space. The absolute and in-depth integration of body and city lies on the Baroness’s aesthetics of unframing and reframing the individual – even blurring biological sex in the process – and the metropolis. Brian Kim Stefans, 2011 “Thoroughly Modern Elsa,” in Los Angeles Review of Books, (16 December 2011) (Los Angeles, CA: LARB), n.p. Part II 156 between machine and body, nature and artifice, spiritual and earthly worlds. In some poems, such as “This is the Life – in Greenwich Village,” the metropolis appears as a transgressive and contradictory place; “Tryst,” for instance, documents the city’s sensory overload. Other poems, like “Appalling Heart,” represent the city as both the object and the medium of perception. “This is the Life – in Greenwich Village” (1919-22ca) shows a sequence of very different ‘stanzas’; it begins with a dialogical exchange within a studio, and continues with scraps of conversation emanating from the room. The second piece of conversation highlights the usual double entendres of Elsa’s sexual humour, with words such as “tinkle,” “sousing” and “vibrate.” The poem continues with Greenwich Village by night, narrated by the same voices as the first part: This is the Life – in Greenwich Village […] Evening (Jazz music – voices – penetrating from illustrator youth door) (Raucous Female Voice) They don’t need to go to bed at all! (High Pitched Male Voice) Ain’t Life – dear simple – when you look at it – – – – (Raucous Female Voice) Evaporated! (Suave Host Voice) Emotional Economy (Raucous Female Voice) Mass famine – Cheap overproduction – Two-in-one – all in nix mix up mess – Backyard tincan clutter clatter-ratter – […] (Chorus prim) Impossible – dangerous – uncivilized Untinned – natural – animal! 2. The lure of the city 157 Don’t let it in again. (EvFL [2011]: 108) In this poem, which evidences a strong dramatic component, scraps of overheard conversation are assembled into a hybrid form between theatre and poetry. The layout is as well relevant, presenting isles of language (written in red ink) only apparently organised in dialogical form, but without semantic relations. Neither the conversation nor the description of the quarter is discursive, being hiccupping and fragmented instead. The fictitious dialogue is deconstructed into brief cues and sometimes even just into exclamations that do not really answer the interlocutor. The critique encoded into the deconstructed frame of human communication is quite evidently that technological society has deprived human beings of their natural social skills and their spontaneous impulse to communicate. Every word or phrase between the dashes sounds like a micro-frame enclosing a hint or a flash of a vision. Consumerism is condensed in a few verses, each of which encapsulates the massiveness of the phenomenon in short phrases, as in a structural oxymoron; “mass,” “over-,” “all” belong to the same semantic area of excess, which contrasts with the other extreme of consumerism, compression, condensed instead in consumer-friendly deals, “two-in-one,” serial production, “tincan.” The antithetical pairing “nix mix” seals this contrasts between too much and nothing, between overproduction and mass famine, the essence of consumerism. The last stanza is left to the chorus, introduced to stress the dramatic tone of the Baroness’s poem, and to show her position on separation of genres. As in classical theatre, the chorus has the role of commenting on the main action or theme with a moralist overtone; but the identity of the chorus is here transfigured into that of the judgemental, hypocritical well-thinking mass, thus exemplifying the only possible outcome of the encounter between traditional forms and modernity. “Impossible” can refer to both the consumerism attacked in the previous stanza, or the savage, “untinned” animalistic nature of the uncivilised. The last verse is also ambiguous, where “it” could refer to basically everything talked about in the poem, and “in” could refer to either the studio, the main setting of the poem or to the consumerist society. Although this poem is representative of the Baroness’s urban poetics, it offers limited examples of her linguistic play, which is instead more substantial in other Part II 158 works, for instance “Appalling Heart.” “Clutter clatter-ratter” is the only visible phonetic play of the poem analysed, and it is nowhere near as extreme as verses like “Palstapatt pornéoqvorr” from “Teke Heart,” or “Swish – sh – sh – sh – sh –” from “To Home.” As a general tendency, the urban poems are less abstract and less playful with phonetics than the other Futurist/Surrealist poems she composed in the same years; yet, there are a few interesting examples. Some of the features present in “This is the Life – in Greenwich Village” appear meaningfully exacerbated in poems like “Tryst,” which was probably written in 1922. Tryst Smouldertint – Icefanged – Black – Unrest – Bloodshot – Beetling – Snorting – River – Chafes At Checked Motion – Sluggish Glowering – Foggy Neck – Soggy Chest – Crest Hoary – – – – Groggy With Quest – (EvFL [2011]: 104) 2. The lure of the city 159 To Ocean – – – – Towering Glory. (EvFL [2011]: 104-105) As the image shows clearly enough, “Tryst” was written in black ink (whereas “Greenwich Village” was written in red) on Hotel Hudson stationery paper. Such a choice supports the remarks about the Baroness’s aim to demystify long-established genres both formally and physically; the act of entrusting her poem to a small sheet of a city-hotel-headed paper highlights her intentions to blur the limits between art and consumerism and to criticise the serialisation of art. The machine-typed heading also contrast ironically with the title, a literary word for lovers’ secret rendezvous. However, in the poem there is very little of the romantic context announced in the title. It rather assembles a series of flashing heterogeneous images of both the city and the body. While the city is certainly New York, the frame encompassing the steep waterfall of verses is once again the page, made physical by the hand-writing. The body in the poem could belong to either a man or woman given the presence of both “soggy / chest” and “his / quest;” there might as well be two bodies. Regardless of the number of bodies actually involved, “Tryst” illustrates how embodied the Baroness’s poems can be, and to what extent the urban texture can be integrated with the body in a reciprocal, osmotic process. The restless city, caught in its frantic motion with all the colours and contrasts of the first few verses, is progressively blurred with the body; the river is “snorting;” the human neck is “foggy.” Such a co-penetration lies obviously in the premise of the un-framing of both the city and the body in the first place. Part II 160 Gradually, the urban motion is humanised and sexualised, while the human intercourse is mechanised.102 The process does not lead to an exchange though, or to a reversal where the city becomes completely human and the body completely alienated. On the contrary, the poem indulges in the depiction of the osmotic process itself. The “quest” can apply to both the city and the body; the river runs towards its goal, the ocean, achieved at the end of the poem. But the quest is “his / quest” too, aiming to its “towering glory.” Both the river’s quest and “his” quest culminate in the ocean, so that the metaphor of water applies to both the river’s delta and to the bodily fluxes. The finale in crescendo, “towering / glory,” condenses all the vertical tension of the poem, which is in fact a climax. Certainly, there is a strong analogy between the climax, and the “towering” graphic structure of the poem. The layout itself evokes sculpturally the verticality of the urban buildings, while they mime the crescendo of physical pleasure. On this note, skyscrapers are re-coded as phallic shapes, and sexual tension is transferred into urban schemes. Such an interaction is made possible by the frame of the (physical) page, lieu of encounter of body and urbanity. Indulging on the visuality of “Tryst,” which offers an absolute vertical directrix, the dashes seem to acquire additional meaning. The dashes, the Baroness’s favourite punctuation mark, appear intensified and agglomerated towards the end, guiding the reading breath in that direction. The use of single-word lines and long dashes produce a post-modern version of the enjambments-fall, which is to be read quickly and frantically: At the same time, the Baroness’s dash symbolizes her extensive linking – her integrationist sensibility traversing multiple media. In part through her use of both the dash and the portmanteau, the Baroness’s poems mirror her 102 Eco-critic Donna Haraway’s qualifies the modern body as a cultural object and a hybridisation between nature and machine, a sort of a cyborg. In the Baroness’s poems, the body is indeed absorbed by and integrated within the urban landscape, so that it is remodelled as a cyborg; nature is blended with technology, as in the poem “X-Ray,” which describes radiation being transmitted through trees and people. But the process is reciprocal, and the city is humanised, naturalised and textured into a bodily language. In her prose poem “The modest Woman,” she defines herself as an engineer and a product of engineering at the same time: “Why should I – proud engineer – be ashamed of my machinery – part of it?” The Baroness, the engineer of a fascinating but peripatetic way of writing poetry, a poet unaccepting of normative methods, was also the engineer of her body, which she adorned with vegetables and technology. 2. The lure of the city 161 own body. They are sinewy and muscular – flexing against the page, against syntax, and against language itself, creating an embodied, performative poetics. (Stefans 2011: 12) Even the dash, according to Stefans, is sexualised. It guides us along the bodily and urban musicality of the poem, along its frantic, constantly accelerating rhythm. Although phonetic mannerism is restrained in this poem, the verses appear cohesive thanks to figures of sound; two pairs of verses show, for instance, their second verse as beginning with the high-sounding consonant of the previous verse, such as “snorting – / river –” and “sluggish / glowering.” Other verses have alliteration in the initial consonant and rhyme too, like “chest – / crest.” These and many other phonetic links among the verses seem to contrast with the punctuation and the layout, which aim to distance them from each other. Yet, even such contrasting tensions apply to the relationship of attraction-repulsion which exists between the city and the body. All the features highlighted for “This is Life” and “Tryst” are mixed together in the carnivalesque whirlwind of “Appalling Heart,” the third example of this paragraph. The title anticipates the boundary between the city and the body, preparing the reader for the metaphor of a beating heart. Such metaphor is evidently conveyed by the graphic organisation of the verses, longer than usual, yet full of caesuras. They look and sound like heartbeats, hammering and rhytmed by dashes and pauses, exclamations and graphic distancing. Appalling Heart City stir – wind on eardrum – dancewind: herbstained – flowerstained – silken – rustling – tripping – swishing – frolicking – courtesing – careening – brushing – flowing –lying down – bending – teasing – kissing: treearms – grass – limbs – lips. […] shellscented – seafaring – foresthunting – junglewise – desert gazing – rides heart from chest – Part II 162 lashing with beauty – afleet – across chimney – tinfoil river to meet another’s dark heart Bless mine feet! (EvFL [2011]: 103) City, nature and body are perfectly integrated in this poem thanks to their encounter on the page-frame, surface of osmotic interaction between verbal, visual, acoustic. First un-framed and then reassembled by the writing hand, urban, natural and bodily parts do not form a collage: the units are too dynamic, feverish and fleeting, but at the same time they are all tightly connected together through the physical act of writing. It is rather a comprehensive process, which is driven by the human heartbeat as its engine. The city is a “dancewind,” a neologism that condenses the ideas of a whirlwind, dancing motion and natural wind in the same word. The city vibrates with a heartbeat and fuels all sorts of motions, expressed with gerunds so as to stress their dynamism. Some of the motions are mechanical, like “rustling,” others are natural, like “flowing” and “bending,” some are human, like “teasing” and “kissing.” The pair “kissing: treearms” is deeply suggestive, since it is particularly evocative of the following associative chain “grass – / limbs – lips.” The city finds a way to urbanise nature, “tinfoil river,” and nature breaks into the urban landscape with a savage energy, “seafaring” and “junglewise.” One of the verses that I omitted condenses “appalling sister!” following an associative chain similar to the one I quoted. This verse makes the link explicit between city and nature, sisters in diversity, but nevertheless “lashed with beauty.” Phonetic links help to connect the units/beats between the dashes, which once again act as the metronome of the poem. As a last comment on this poem, a great number of words are neologisms or compounds, puns and word-plays; the linguistic texture is so different from the other two poems analysed that it invites a digression on the Baroness’s work on and use of language. 2. The lure of the city 163 2.4.2. Urbanised language As argued by Gammel and Zelazo, the Baroness’s urban poems are not just close-up vignettes of the metropolitan landscape, but they also absorb the language and semiotic system of the city itself. While attempting to deconstruct the consumerist culture, the Baroness both consumes and is consumed by the metropolis through language.103 While speeding through the subway tunnels, or walking up Broadway or Forty-Second Street at night, the Baroness’s quick eye would register the illuminated advertisements for Pepsodent, Wrigley’s Spearmint, or Maxwell Coffee. (Gammel and Zelazo 2011: 98) The transgressive body is urbanised at the same time as the city is turned into a transgressive creature. In light of this process, language is reinvented to incorporate the fusion of body and machine. Words belonging to the corporeal and metropolitan semantic areas cross their formal frames, thus producing hybrid idioms. The Baroness’s techniques of portmanteau are indeed typical of a transnational urban avant-garde, concerned with exploring processes of mechanisation through the language. The highly original glossary the Baroness constructs in her poems always derives from the assumption that language is the key to unframing all systems. Poems like “Phalluspistol,” “Noiseflickingswish,” or sculptures like Limbswish (a word that occurs often in her poetic oeuvre) are miniature works of art in their very titles, as they condense the prosthetic body, modern technology and natural instincts. Only language that is free to undo its formalities has the potential to create infinite assemblages, and can therefore keep up with the dynamism of the embodied city in motion, and the mechanised body in process. The Baroness’s language is therefore kinetic and processual, briefly enframing a body-nature-machine assemblage in the space of a neologism, only to release it immediately afterwards so that the parts can mutate and combine again. There is more than one way in which the Baroness reinvents language so that it is no longer a codified and frozen system. The first and more basic way is certainly 103 In the poem “Tailend of Mistake” she encapsulates this dichotomy in the opposite pair “consumptive/assumptive.” Part II 164 the Futuristic phonetic poem. Phonetic poetry was not, for the Baroness, only the “language of trauma,” the sound made by poets “to protest the sounds of cannons of World War I” (Gammel 2011: 15). Phonetic poetry was for her the sound of the human body too, the sound of sexuality pervading everything around her. While her techniques echo linguistic practices of the Futurists, the Dada poets or the Berlin Surrealists,104 her acoustic poems were free from any avant-garde practice, and independent from any ready-made – so that they were always fresh and genuine, but also “uncomfortable, arresting and seductive.” (Gammel and Zelazo 2011: 17) The Baroness’s sonic poems emphasise the libidinal performance in such a way that it validates the already strong corporeal presence. While exposing urban mechanisms, her portmanteau words support the embodiment of her poems, sexualise the poetic rhythm to a greater extent (while the content is already sexualised by the language) and enact Shklovskian “defamiliarisation” (1917),105 which implicates a conceptual and perceptual renovation of the language. Her sonic poems capture and somehow fill the gap between sensory perception and the acquisition of meaning, because, while dislocating meaning, they actually liberate it in a proliferation of fusions, fractures and sounds. Some poems, like “Teke Heart,” are completely acoustic, proving that sounds effect an extra-lexical stammering, suggesting that the rhythm of a poem does not need to be semantic. This poem in particular recalls a dialogue because of its question marks and exclamation marks, thus suggesting that communication needs to be liberated from the constricting frame of linguistic coherence: Teke Heart Qvixfrinjachléde – jachleide – jachmosa – Mosa – achmosa – qvarksirnk – ach – qvarlsé Kalstu ljasab – rinne vrusta – Acha aché – Jach – ché? […] Acke flasse – qvmk. Teke Achm – té Ackm –tk – kté! 104 Perhaps she had read the sound poetry that the Berlin poet Elsa Lasker-Schüler had written in 1902. 105 In his 1917 essay “Art as Device,” Shklovsky illustrates “defamiliarisation” as the artistic technique used by avant-gardes of presenting common things in unfamiliar order, in order to alter the perception of the familiar. 2. The lure of the city 165 A – ja – ja hachm ackm sjrinstre – […] (EvFL [2011]: 184) Human verbal conversation as a traditional communicative pattern is deconstructed into pure sounds, and replaced by sensorial exchanges. It is not even relevant to investigate which language do sounds belong to; German seems to be an option, but there are sounds such as “é” or “ché” that could equally come from French or Italian. Other poems alternate sounds, words and compounds which have been invented for the purpose; this is the case of “To Home,” dedicated to Jane Heap, who in 1923 organised the Baroness’s return to her German home-cities, Munich and Berlin. To Home Gull scream to: Fieldadmarshmiralshall J.H. Of Dreadnaught: T.L.R. Shaggy – merry- gray skin caviar pimply chevreaux – Patent leather’s black shine – taffeta’s shirred – Twirrly – whirly – green-gem-studded-deep miriardbreasted – spume milk laced – carbonpaper – tinsel – tinfoil tinted – frothknit –crochet –scallop filigree – galloping – stamping horse – Race glass sea – agog! Boundless – abounding – Gog – agog! Cradle beloved of bronzed – steel orb adventure! Tall salt sea mate seetheart –silver arrow beflitt by rocking – dipping carmine eyed – beaked – tied – gulls – […] Diamond nostrils ejaculate Brilliant carouse! Mine – thine To home! Hussa! Toot! Ree daareee – Part II 166 […] “Pl – p – up – Plup lup – lup p – Llllup – ee – ee ee – Ee – ee – ee – – – – […] (EvFL [2011]: 185) In the poem, the editor is described as an “admarshmiralshall” (admiral and marshall) riding a horse, both literally and metaphorically; Heap financed the Baroness’s journey home and led the avant-garde press with her work at The Little Review – which is hinted at by “carbonpaper.” The whole poem has a galloping rhythm, which can also be heard by reading the sounds-sequence “Pl – p – up – / Plup lup – lup p – / Llllup – ee – ee ee – / Ee – ee – ee – – – –.” As Gammel-Zelazo argues, the sound of the animal’s hooves triggers an association with the roar of a ship’s engine, reinforced by the “Slllllush” and “swish” of the waves (2011: 17). The poem obviously does not lack a sexual component; verses such as the first one, and others like “Diamond nostrils ejaculate / Brilliant carouse! / Mine – thine –” permeate the metaphor of the galloping with a sexual allure. All the elements of the poem, the horse, the sea and the ship combine and blend in the sensorial pleasure of the body – likely the Baroness’s own body, since she underscores her presence in the poem with “Mine.” Once again, nature, technology and body are all integrated through language in a sensory carnival, also stressed by the fifty-six verses of pure sounds that follow the last semantic verse “To home!” The Baroness’s use of German, her native language, is particularly interesting too. After she moved to America, she mainly wrote in English and translated some of her previous poetry from German into English. On a scrap of paper, she wrote verses using bright red ink which show her considerations about German and English languages: 2. The lure of the city 167 EvFL, 1923-1926, [I hate hate]. (EvFL [2011]: 262) Since this reflection is relatively mature (it was written between 1923 and 1926) it does not account for her whole oeuvre, which is far from been written entirely in English.106 Yet, her preference for English over German is expressed more than once, even in some letters.107 While French and Italian loanwords or partial loans are not just sporadic, German words, sounds and structures are certainly not occasional. The “hate hate hate” is even harder to believe if we consider the large contribution she made to German avant-garde poetry before learning English. On the contrary, German is highly incorporated into the Baroness’s English poetry, both in the early poems when she was getting acquainted with the language and later, once English had become her first language. 106 The Baroness’s spelling oddities in English would be equally worthy of further analysis. Irregularities prove too widespread in her poetic work to be merely ascribed to her German origins. For instance, she always spells ‘people’ as *‘poeple’, and frequently omits the letter ‘c’ in words as ‘excitement’ or ‘acknowledge’; she is inconsistent with the use of ‘e’ or ‘a’ in participial adjectives (‘independent/independant’), she neglects the apostrophe in possessives, and abuses the hyphen as a word-connector (*‘after-all’). Sometimes, spelling errors also have semantic implications, for example her use of ‘were’ instead of ‘where’, or ‘than’ for ‘then’. Mistranslated Germanisms occur with considered regularity, like ‘becoming’ to mean ‘get’ (German bekommen), while full German words are frequently used within verses in English. In a letter to Djuna Barnes, dated in the 1920s, she declared: “It is written like half mad in syntax […] I am half mad – as is only sensible.” Clearly, a lack of proficiency in the English language cannot be identified as the (only) cause for Elsa’s spelling oddities, that may embody a cry of protest against grammar and linguistic prescriptivism. The Baroness’s letter is quoted in Hjartarson, Paul I. and Douglas O. Spettigue (eds.), 1992, The Baroness Elsa (Ottawa: Canada Oberon Press), pp. 36-37. 107 In a letter to Djuna Barnes, she wrote that she was “aroused by English sound – and depressed by German.” Part II 168 In 1912 she wrote a poem, “Herr Peu à Peu,” composed in a playful mixture of German and English, which starts with “Er ist our Distinguished Conductor / In Cincinnati108 – Der City of Pork –” and continues with similar alternations. Even when her poems became closer to her idiosyncratic use of dashes as the years went by, she never gave up German completely. “Love – Chemical Relationship” is a perfect example of her taste for linguistic hybridity; the poem is dedicated to Marcel Duchamp (“Un enfant Français: Marcel (A Futurist”) and is written in a mock Old English style, with “thou”s, “thee”s and verbs in -st second person singular. One of the most suggestive verses of the poem is the following: “Unity – Einklang – harmony – Zweifellosigkeit!” Looking at the Baroness’s poetic production, it seems that German words are used through need when she cannot find satisfactory English translations; “Zweifellosigkeit” is an exquisitely German word and concept, which would probably lose part of its strength once translated to “incontrovertibleness.” The theory of an intentional use of German where English lacks a successful translation applies to both the poems the Baroness wrote in German and later translated in English, and also to all those she wrote directly in English. Although she might have loved the sound of English words more than German words, she would not accept the compromise of translation when German offered a more suitable word. Moreover, German words are not the only way in which the German language is present is the Baroness’s poetry. So far I have referred to words like “shellscented,” “foresthunting” or “culturedignity” as simple compounds, neologisms or portmanteau words; but, as a matter of fact, they imitate the peculiarity of the German language of building Komposita. The advantage of German composite words is that the meaning of the words is also condensed into a larger whole. Such grammatical and conceptual cohesion exists only in German, among the European languages spoken by the Baroness. In tune with her non-acquiescent demand for speed and conceptual effectiveness, the Baroness seems to have transferred this German grammatical 108 In 1912 the Baroness had moved to Cincinnati on the Ohio River. The urban centre boasted a great number of German American societies, and had a German theatre with regular performances in Turner Hall. 2. The lure of the city 169 scheme to English, disregarding linguistic legitimacy in the name of unframing language. The Baroness herself does not sound fully aware of the reasons why she prefers English when she writes “I hate hate / hate something about German / sounds – words.” German permeates the texture of her poetic work so pervasively that it is hard to think that such a presence came unconsciously or unwanted into the texts. Rather, the openness of the English language towards loanwords and Komposita fits perfectly with the pattern of unframing, thus inviting to conclude that unframing recurs as a topos of all her art, including literature, visual art and carnivalesque performances. 2.4.3. Urbanised faces Although the city is not directly represented in the Baroness’s paintings and sculptures of the 1910s and 1920s, it is nevertheless themed in her visual art, once again through the exploration of the relationship between body and urban machine. EvFL, 1920ca, Portrait of Marcel Duchamp. EvFL, 1922ca, Portrait of Marcel Duchamp. Part II 170 EvFL, 1923-1924ca, Dada Portrait of Berenice Abbott. The canvases and sculpture above, evidently reminiscent of Dada techniques, show how the Baroness’s negotiation of the portrait as a traditional genre is contextualised in her New York canvases. In the portraits of Marcel Duchamp and Berenice Abbott, she mixes organic and synthetic materials, in order to explore (visually too) the conflicting relationship between what is bodily and what is mechanical, between what is natural and what is urban. In autumn 1922 The Little Review published an issue featuring several portraits of Duchamp by Man Ray and Joseph Stella. The Baroness, who was disappointed by his “determinedly frivolous – light – playful – prideless attitude,” turned her love (“what does he care about art? He is it”) for him into the opposite: “I hate him at present [and] I have a right to.”109 But the Baroness seemed not to find it hard to experience both love and hate at once, and in winter 1922 she had a photograph of her Portrait of Marcel Duchamp published in The Little Review: Serving up the artist like a desert in a wine glass, adorning him with feathers like a Ziegfeld girl, while perhaps alluding to Duchamp’s investment in a feather-dyeing business, she poked fun at the fashionable avant-gardist who had it too easy in America and who was selling himself like a prostitute for public art consumption. (Gammel 2003: 301) 109 Elsa to Jane Heap, quoted in Gammel, 2003, p. 300. 2. The lure of the city 171 While she was working on the sculptural version of her “M’ars,” she challenged the domains of painting. His face looks like a leathery exotic mask smoking a calumet; with an odd smile, his face recalls the figure of a native American, evoking a “quintessential shape shifter, a cross-cultural border traveller.” (Gammell 2003: 303) His bicycle wheel displayed on the right, resembling a spider web, underscores the connection between mechanical and natural structures. Such a connection is also stressed by her actual use of mechanical units combined with natural fabric, stitching them together with sewing thread. Looking at the composition, the colours and materials convey a certain unity to the heterogeneous units of the collage. The three fundamental unframed systems at the base of the Baroness’s art and poetry are intertwined in this painting too: the body, represented by Duchamp’s crookedly smiling face, is immediately objectified by the mask; nature is vaguely echoed in the stylised leaves on the right and in the spider-web structure; urban technology mechanises the spider-web into a bicycle wheel and also affects Duchamp’s masklike face, which is displayed as one object among the others, locked in its place, unable to move or even to acquire a different expression. The Dada Portrait of Berenice Abbott, suffused with warm colours, uses similar techniques to the portrait of Duchamp. Berenice is showered with all sorts of ornaments, including hair jewellery, a brooch, fake eyelashes on her red ruby eyes, and buckles; her face too is completely transfigured into a mask, perhaps even more exuberantly than Duchamp’s masklike face. Her doll’s lips contrast with the handlebar moustache in order to stress Berenice’s androgyny. All elements that refer to her life and career are present, such as the references to photography – hinting at Abbott’s career as Man Ray’s studio assistant. The black sun, geometrically round and surrounded by geometrical solar spikes, alludes to the reflectors used in professional photography. Crouching on the pedestal, a half-human and half-lizard figure holds a geometrised umbrella adorned with beads. In the foreground, the Baroness’s dog (who had displayed affection for Abbott), looks like a totemic figure, surrounded by a golden aura, which is in fact a round jewel. This portrait, like the one of Duchamp, contains all the elements of the Baroness’s aesthetics, although it insists on a critique of urban (bourgeois) consumerism. The abundance of jewels and precious objects appears to objectify Berenice’s face, rather than to adorn it. Her face is turned into an exhibition Part II 172 object, thus presenting the theme of the mask and of the daily performance. The body is accustomed, customerised in a society of exteriority, consumerism and appearance; so is art, turned into an auction item, dressed up with exterior embellishments but on the edge of implosion. Nature is there too: the feathers being used as a beauty accessory and the horsehair brush symbolise the ruin of nature, which is domesticated, robbed and sold on the global market. Technology is less evident as a theme, only hinted at through the geometry of the forms and the references to photography, but it dominates the canvas with material and fabrics. Both the portraits of Berenice Abbott and Marcel Duchamp, and the sculptural portrait of Marcel Duchamp evidence the Baroness’s use of an extraordinarily wide range of materials, including organic and metallic paint, tinfoil, synthetic lacquer with varnish, glue, celluloid, organic thread, paper, cloth, horsehair, feathers, metals and glass. Captured in such heterogeneous assemblages, Marcel Duchamp and Berenice Abbott stand for the emblem of the modern man, a hybridised creature part-way between body and machine. In this light, the modern man appears to be once again (like in the poems) the victim of and responsible for the mechanisation of nature and his own body; while he transfers his sexuality onto the metropolitan and natural landscapes around him, technology mechanises him in return, turning him into an androgynous and un-gendered individual. 2.5. Metropolitan paradigms The tension between visual and verbal is an element of constant dislocation in all texts analysed so far, which are in conversation with aesthetic experiences of the urban landscape in the early twentieth century. Particularly, while they move across (and take distance from) modern avant-gardes, all four writers under consideration interestingly explore the tension between centre and margin. Although they write at the centre of the urban scene, they often find themselves directed towards the margins. While Barnes, Loy and Zelda Fitzgerald all experience the conflict of being simultaneously on the margins and at the centre (of both the urban panorama and of avant-garde), the Baroness problematises this pairing in more radical terms. Her 2. The lure of the city 173 literary, artistic and social acting all challenge theoretical discourses on marginality, especially because of the implications involved in her eccentricity; instead of stigmatising a marginal position and occupying an alternative focus (Hooks 2000),110 she imposes herself into the centre of the same social context which had marginalised her. This paradoxical, yet circular, process gives rise to a final reflection on the relationship between periphery and centre, which helps in the attempt to position the verbal and visual poetics of the other writers considered too. In different ways, but in the same decades, in the same geographical areas, yet at different times, Barnes, Loy, Zelda and the Baroness embodied forms of ‘ex- centricity’, which allowed them to shift between centre and periphery, in a circular process of marginalisation and re-centralisation. The adoption of urban spatial concepts such as ‘centre’ and ‘periphery’, extended in terms of ‘centre’ and ‘margin’, results therefore ambiguous. For a start, such paradigm does not take into account the changeability of points of view, the plurality of which is fundamental in the representation of the polymorphous urban texture. In an attempt to invalidate the legitimacy of marginality and centre as restrictive categories, Jussila Heikki111 (1998) pointed out the danger of expanding the conflict to the paradigm ‘normal-other’. The many contributors to Perceptions of Marginality discuss the consequences of accepting any neat line actually as separating centre and periphery, normality and otherness. In the urban space, the physical act of moving away from the centre is gradual and progressive, as is the reverse approach back to the centre. Therefore, a more fluid movement seems to smooth the tension between geographical antipodes, thus allowing the categorisation of ‘peripheral’ to be not necessarily permanent. When spatial concepts such as ‘centre’ and ‘periphery’ are extended to gender, they generate even greater confusion. The borders between normality and otherness appear diffusive, and the shift from one to the other happens in unpredictable ways. However, and as is argued by Judith Butler in Undoing Gender, there will hardly ever be enough degrees that would be sufficient to cover every nuance of ‘otherness’, and 110 Bell Hooks, 2000, Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (Cambridge, MA: South End Press). 111 Heikki Jussila, Walter Leimgruber and Roser Majoral (eds.), 1998, Perceptions of Marginality: Theoretical Issues and Regional Perceptions of Marginality in Geographical Space (Aldershot: Ashgate). Part II 174 to define its distance from a pre-established ‘normality’. She comes to quite radical conclusions, in challenging the attempt to widen gender categories in contrast to a normalised social model: “how many genders can there be, and what will they be called?” (Butler 2004: 43) Butler’s critique reveals that the process of deciding what is ‘normal’ and what is ‘other’ is essentially arbitrary. If we re-apply Butler’s observations back to the starting opposition between centre and periphery, we can say that the position of the women writers under analysis was constantly ‘in transit’. Not only did they move across geographical borders, but across avant-gardes too, uncaring of (or resistant to) being affiliated to one or the other. They also moved across literary and artistic media, and explored the relationships between genre and gender as a zone of transit and negotiation. 175 Chapter 3 Remediating the self-portrait However you think of it, it ends up as the fundamental fact of the mask. W. Benjamin, 1929. ll four of the writers under analysis seem to have difficulties with the idea of telling stories about themselves. From the texts and images that I have analysed so far, life-writing (or -painting) has been raised more than once as a problematic issue, including well-disguised hints at autobiographical experiences and attempts at verbal or visual self-portraits. Approaching now the last site of discussion in my thesis, I want to explore one more topos of the tension between verbal and visual expressivities; the relevance and weight of the autobiographical material in the texts appears in fact to derive from different forms of remediation of the self-portrait, the quintessential visual trope of representation. As I anticipated when presenting the theoretical frameworks of my thesis, displaying the self proves, at very least, challenging for women writers and artists in modernity. Such resistance is based on several factors, most importantly on the need to define the identity of the feminine, gendered self, between individuality and collectivity; additional problems derive from the need to renegotiate their position within the literary tradition, particularly toward literary and visual genres that were traditionally defined as ‘feminine.’ Among these traditional forms of ‘feminine writing’ are those that talk about the self in private, intimate ways: diaries, memoirs, letters and, most importantly, autobiography. Separate from the monumentality of masculine (auto)biography, intended as mainstream and official chronicles of (patriarchal) power, feminine autobiography was perceived as an intimate, less theorised, and more fluid form of writing, often a channel for confession, and a A Part II 176 medium to express gender subordination. (Jelinek 1980; 1986)112 Ultimately, the main challenges consisted in defining (op)positions within and against “modernist masculinity.” (Tickner 1994) Within such a framework, traditional forms of self-depiction prove unsuitable, and therefore need reshaping. Under the impact of “a new level of critical self- awareness” (Marcus 2002: 196),113 modernist women writers engage in an aesthetic turn that affects biography and autobiography as genres, blurring the borders between them. In the early twentieth century, biography (re)emerges in both theory and practice, as crossing national boundaries114 to pinpoint a series of new common tenets. (Marcus 2002: 194) Strachey’s contribution was groundbreaking in this respect, as he created a visible distance with the Victorian biography – with the exception of a few late Victorians who had started to reform the genre.115 The “new biography” had to proceed instead in the search of fragments, rather than truth or objective knowledge. (Strachey 1918: viii) While the two decades 1920-1940 were,116 as phrased by Hesketh Pearson, “the day of the biographer” (1930: 289),117 the instability of barriers between biography, autobiography and other forms of self-telling characterises modernism. Ezra Pound’s Gaudier-Brzeska: A Memoir and Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, Forster Maurice, Joyce’s Giacomo Joyce [1914] and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man were only few of the many experimental works that proliferated in those years. Women partook actively in such a challenge, including, for instance Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and Everyone’s Autobiography, or Virginia Woolf’s Orlando and Flush. 112 See Estelle Jelinek (ed. by), 1980, Women’s Autobiography: Essays in Criticism (Bloomington; London: Indiana University Press); Estelle Jelinek, 1986, The Tradition of Women's Autobiography: From Antiquity to the Present (Boston: Twayne Publishers). 113 See Laura Marcus, 2002, “The Newness of the New Biography: Biographical Theory and Practice in the Early Twentieth Century,” in Mapping Lives: The Uses of Biography, ed. Peter France (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 193-218. 114 Marcus notes how central figures like Lytton Strachey, André Maurois and Emil Ludwig, who developed akin aesthetics on the new ways to write biographies, had in fact little, if any, actual contact. 115 In Eminent Victorians, Strachey acknowledges that the work of a few late Victorians, including Samuel Butler, Charles Whibley and Edmund Gosse had started reforming the genre, although he thought the the genre was overtaken by unnecessary length and a pointless search for objectivity. 116 Ruth Hoberman, 1986, Modernizing Lives: Experiments in English Biography, 1918-1939 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press). 117 From Hesketh Pearsons, 1930, Ventilations: Being Biographical Asides, quoted in Altick, Lives and Letters, p. 289. In Introduction to an Anthology of Modern Biography, 1936, David Cecil claimed that biography was “the only new form of modern literature” (ix), thanks to the alliance of science and psychology it propelled. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 177 In participating in such a debate on the renewal of the biographic and autobiographic genres, women also felt compelled to legitimise their voice as female modernist writers, therefore introducing the issues of femininity and gender in their autobiographical narratives (Cosslett et al. 2000).118 While traditional women’s autobiography was perceived as private, confessional and intimate – as opposed to masculine autobiographies, weighty and meant for public consumption – new forms of feminine autobiographical writing include the processes of “making the self, bringing into being and constructing it for oneself and for others […] to a developing sense of the self as made, rather than given, constructed, rather than innate.” (Wallace 2009: 64)119 Such narratives focus on the myriad ways in which feminine identities are constructed (and reconstructed), alongside the dynamics of appropriation of the body, and of its interactions with other embodied selves (Marshall, 1996).120 While autobiography becomes in modernism a new comprehensive genre to “include all writing that inscribes subjectivity” (Mellor 1993: 157),121 it is also the medium through which to illustrate the “technology of the self.”122 (Nussbaum 1995: xi) Under these premises, the self-portrait as trope of representation began to be differently textualised in fiction, poetry and drama, to show processes of self- construction, rather than of self-displaying. Max Saunders’ studies provide a useful theoretical background for understanding the forms of autobiographical writing in the early twentieth century, an elusive field of study where cross-fertilisation and inter- breeding complicate the establishment of critical frameworks. Saunders’ 2010 Self Impressions: Life-Writing, Autobiografiction, and the Forms of Modern Literature offers a taxonomy of the varied forms that writers from the 1870s to the 1930s experimented with, in terms of life-­‐writing for the purposes of fiction. The forms he identifies – especially those exploring the relationship between self-portraiture, 118 Tess Cosslett, Celia Lury and Penny Summerfield (eds.), 2000, Feminism and Autobiography: Texts, Theories and Methods (London: Routledge). 119 Wallace, Miriam, 2009, “Writing Lives and Gendering History: Mary Hay’s Female Biography (1803),” in Romantic Autobiography in England, ed. Eugene Stelzig (Farnham; Burlington, VT: Ashgate). 120 Helen Marshall, 1996, “Our Bodies Ourselves: Why we Should Add Old Fashioned Empirical Phenomenology to the New Theories of the Body,” In Women’s Studies International Forum 19(3), pp. 253-265. 121 Ann K. Mellor, 1993, Romanticism and Gender (Abingdon; New York: Routledge). 122 Felicity A. Nussbaum, 1995, The Autobiographical Subject: Gender and Ideology in Eighteenth- Century England (Baltimore; London: Johns Hopkins University Press). Part II 178 imaginary portraits and fiction – are particularly relevant to the understanding of the forms of ‘attempted’ self-portraits realised by the writers under analysis. A “(gendered) autobiografiction” is key to deciphering such a varied body of works. It identifies connections between traditional male and female autobiography, between the turn-­‐of-­‐the-­‐century practices of ‘New Biography’ and the loose borders of the auto/biographical fiction, and with the issues of heteronormativity and gender construction. In different ways, all four writers engaged in the production of attempted self- portraits, that evidence at once the presence of, and the resistance to, the autobiographical element. Many of their texts arise in contrast with the traditional features, to engage in dialogical forms of self-disclosure and self-disguise. For instance, Djuna Barnes took a strongly contrary position against the practices of disclosure in biography and autobiography: “A biography, against my protest, both to author and to proposed publisher, will in a horrible probability appear in 1972. The awful point in all this sort of ridiculous “publishing” of a person, is for the public pleasure, I can’t stop it, so I shall suffer one more of these cheap “interpretations,” as they are called […] God help my work, which is all they should be interested in. (To Peggy Guggenheim, undated) But Peggy, you know what I think about this “tell all” to the idiotic public. Please do not speak of me, or say anything to these public gossips and slanderous tongues. And no pictures, of course! I know, everyone is writing about everyone. It’s “the thing” – and how they love the 20’s, knowing nothing about them, told or not told. And nothing is correctly reported. (To Peggy Guggenheim, 22 March 1978) How many writers write “The Story of Their Lives”? Had I written mine, you would have read it. (To Agnes C. Ringer, 6 February 1968) (Caselli 2009: 191)123 In the letters that Barnes sent to Peggy Guggenheim, she expresses horror at the idea of a biography of herself. Her sincerity intensifies as she begs her friend not to speak 123 I quote from Caselli 2009, p. 191, while the original letter remains unpublished and only available in Barnes’s archive. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 179 about her or broadcast pictures of her, and as she refers to biography merely as “the thing,” a sort of infection in which “everyone writes about everyone.” Especially in light of Barnes’s early activity as a reporter, the vocabulary that she uses is noteworthy: “publishing,” “idiotic public,” “public gossip,” and “nothing is correctly reported” hint back ironically at the beginnings of her career, when she ‘reported correctly’ urban facts. Report narrative, however, must not be applied to the self, as she finds “ridiculous” the “‘publishing’ of a person.” While playing with the semantics of ‘publishing’ (inverted commas in the original letter), Barnes calls into question several issues, including the distance between individual identity and public identity, between subject and mask, and the role of gender in fashioning a ‘commercial’ profile. Most interestingly, she invites us to be cautious in the tracing and framing of autobiographical material in her work. She almost warns us against attempting strict autobiographical or psychoanalytical readings of her work to learn more about the writer, rather than enjoying the reading – “which is all they should be interested in.” Yet, although she wrote no autobiography, the presence of autobiographical material is pervasive in her writings, as extensively argued by Phillip Herring (1995); there are also enough hints to justify psychoanalytical readings of this significant autobiographical presence, as argued by Louise DeSalvo (1991). The conflicting attitude of ‘assistance-resistance’ towards autobiography and self-portrait, reframed in terms of gender and empowerment, is addressed in different ways in the works under analysis. Like Barnes, all the artists considered seem to resist open disclosure; rather, they allocate their autobiography to literary masks, which change it, denounce it, disguise it, and reshape it into endless variables. 3.1. Fraught autobiographies and self-construction Echoing the similarities between biography and portrait,124 auto-biography and self- portrait also seem to be comparable at semantic and at formal level. In terms of 124 Literally “Portraits share affinities with the literary from of biography” in Shearer West, 2004, Portraiture (Oxford: Oxford University Press), p. 50. Part II 180 contents, both explore themes such as power, gender, group subjects, and individual subjects; formally, they “are not just likenesses, but works of art that engage with ideas of identity as they are perceived, represented, and understood in different times and places.” (West 2004: 11) Furthermore, both self-portraiture and autobiography seem to investigate the relationship between subject (sitter) and ‘painted’ icon, which, according to Antonia Byatt, has put in contact portrait and fiction since the birth of the novel (Byatt 2001).125 Helpful to my analysis, Byatt delves into matters of authenticity, inviting reflections on the discrepancies between historical narrators and (autobiogra)fictional characters, and between painter and subject of the self-portrait. The focus on self-portrait as ‘icon’ is particularly relevant to explore the role and weight of autobiographical material in the corpus selected, which seems to be a constant undercurrent to the text as it both discloses and disguises the historical narrator. All conventions of traditional autobiography, including sequentiality, linearity and reliability are challenged and opposed in what appears to be a carousel of masks and puppets, rather than characters. Particularly Barnes’s and Loy’s novels and dramas – alongside the nightmarish circuses of Zelda’s paintings – seem to be haunted by a proliferation of masks, alter egos, Doppelgänger, aliases and imaginary self- portraits. It is Mina Loy, in fact, who triggers us to reflection with her pamphlet in verses Auto-Facial Construction (1919) with an ironic play between revealing and hiding. Her pamphlet echoes, mockingly, the assertiveness of manifestoes, while it promises to instruct how to “construct” a daily façade. While Loy invites individuals to take control of their own facial making(-up), and warns them from the risks of letting society shape it for them, she implicitly acknowledges that context and circumstances do have that power to influence an individual’s looks. Such a tendency must be counteracted by the subjects, who need rather to create their own looks and therefore their social-use-image. I will instruct men or women who are intelligent – And for the briefest period, patient, – To become masters of their facial destiny. […] 125 Antonia S. Byatt, 2001, Portraits in Fiction (London: Chatto & Windus). 3. Remediating the self-portrait 181 This means renascence for the society woman, The actor, the actress, The man of public career, for everybody who desires it. The initiation to this esoteric anatomical science is expensive, But economical in result; For it places at the disposal of individuals A permanent principle for the independent conservation of beauty To which, Once it is mastered, They have constant and natural resource. (Loy 1919: 334) Loy’s instructions on the need to refashion the exterior looks to gain social benefits in terms of visibility and success call into question an aesthetic discourse on the communicative aims of the portrait. Traditionally, the portrait served to magnify the public image of the character depicted; such image was textured and carried by the image, rather than by the subject in person. What Loy suggests is that the subject’s real face now has the role which was once attributed to the face painted on canvas. The body and the exterior looks are now entrusted with broadcasting a profile, in place of the portrait. While the individual’s control over the public image is emphasised, ironically, by hyperboles (“masters,” “initiation” and “permanent”), the idea that it is the subject which has to change, rather than the image, is revolutionary. Rather than focusing on remediating the self-portrait, modern subjects should invest in renewing their looks and fashioning their own body, to produce the new icon, which becomes necessarily performative and dynamic in its social role. The consequences of such self- construction appear implicit in the process of disguise. No longer are subjects “masters” of their individuality, but of their “facial construction” instead. Mina Loy’s pamphlet Auto-Facial-Construction seems to be an ideal starting point for the analysis of the re-fashioning of the self-portrait in modernist feminine life-writing. According to Loy’s scholar Rochelle Rives (2011),126 Auto-Facial- Construction critically engages with the trope of prosopopoeia whereby the making of face amounts to the making of a speaker and, in the modernist context, a personality. 126 Rochelle Rives, 2001, “Modernist Prosopopoeia: Mina Loy, Gaudier-Brzeska and the Making of Face,” in Journal of Modern Literature 34(4) (Summer 2011), pp. 137-159. Part II 182 For Loy, the possibility of efficiently articulating just what one means necessitates a sculptural restructuring of the face as it consolidates an individual organized around categories of personality and subjectivity. This sculptural vision […] predicated its expressive strength on the power of personality as a consolidation of the interior and exterior dimensions of the human subject. (Rives 2011: 137) Rives’ arguments, which contextualise the process of facial construction in visual, “sculptural” terms, underscore how the close relationship between subject and face (formerly, in traditional self-portraiture, between subject and image) has implications on the construction of one’s personality, because the face is part of the subject. In addition, the idea of ‘interior-exterior’ has to be redefined, since both are embodied by the performing subject. 3.1.1. Attempts at self-portraits: masquerades In the works under analysis, the parallel pair ‘self-portrait’ and ‘autobiography’ shifts into the terms of ‘self-construction’ and ‘life-writing’. The unsuitability of the former pair to depict the self-constructed modern woman is suggested by the scarceness of self-portraits by the forur artists, as opposed to a proliferation of masks, and by the perpetual challenge of autobiography as a traditional genre. The sort of “womanliness” depicted in the very few existing self-portraits goes in the direction of what, in those years, Joan Riviere labelled as ‘masquerade’.127 In 1929 Riviere claimed that “womanliness could be assumed and worn as a mask,” (304) distinguishing therefore a “genuine womanliness” and “womanliness as ‘masquerade’.” Although, as she explained, there is “no any such difference, whether radical or superficial” (Ibid.) between these two sorts of ‘womanlinesses’, the works that I explore show that the difference exists in the attitude at womanliness, between being and acting as a woman. In light of such considerations, the self-portraits by Barnes, Loy and Fitzgerald can be defined as ‘attempted self-portraits’, because they already point in the direction of self-construction. Among the profiles under analysis, Zelda was the only one who 127 Joan Riviere, 1929, “Womanliness as a Masquerade,” in The International Journal of Psychoanalysis 10, pp. 303-313. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 183 actually realised a self-portrait in colours. According to Sally Cline (2002),128 Zelda started her self-portrait in 1925, and then carried it with her during her travels with Scott. Although other sources attribute Zelda’s watercolour self-portrait to later years, Cline argues that the fact that she used watercolour and gouache on paper rather than canvas supports her hypothesis that the portrait was realised during the years of travelling. As far as I can judge, it is hard to date the self-portrait precisely; but the technique Zelda employed makes me inclined to think it was done early in her career. Not only do the colours range between pastel nuances and orangey tones, but also the lines are smooth and regular. Although her facial expression is stern and potentially upset, a trait suggestive of Zelda’s melancholy in the 1940s, her face is well proportioned and realistic, far from the puppet-like features that are common in her work from the 1940s. Zelda Fitzgerald, 1925s/1940s, Self-Portrait. Regardless of when it was actually realised, Zelda’s self-portrait possesses important qualities that fit my motive of the negotiation of the traditional self-portrait and 128 Sally Cline, 2002, Zelda Fitzgerald: Her Voice in Paradise (London: John Murray). Part II 184 autobiography. It undoubtedly echoes Marie Laurencin’s watercolours on paper – this affinity is reinforced by the fact that Zelda was probably in Paris when she completed her self-portrait. It also converges loosely with the style of fashion cartoons, especially if we consider that, in those years, Zelda had engaged in the production of a small collection of fashionable watercolour paper dolls for her little daughter. Colours are anti-mimetic, in tune with an Impressionist mood; they engage in a subtext of chromatic resonances where the greys and blues around her nose echo the colour of her eyes and are in an open contrast to the rosy and orangey tones of the cheeks, amplified by the golden colour of the hair. Make-up dominates the foreground with Zelda’s notorious red lipstick and blushed cheeks. Her looks convey Zelda’s love for fashion even if the portrait does not show her clothing: the short fringe haircut and red lips are eloquent enough. Already in this early self-portrait, realised anyway before Save Me The Waltz, Zelda presents herself as a fashionable woman, with her make up on, in the anticipation of iconic Alabama, who wore her red lipstick since when she was a little girl. Loy’s and Barnes’s remediation of the genre appears more radical at the first glance. Mina Loy, 1905, Self-Portrait. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 185 Loy’s self-portrait is a sketch in pencil on paper. While the pose is rather traditional, the interesting characteristic of Loy’s self-portrait consists in the use of the sketch- technique, quick and unfinished, as opposed to the features of canonical self-portrait. While her lineaments are indeed neat even in the sketch-like technique employed, there are parts that appear unfinished, and roughly cross-hatched. Potentially, the choice to entrust a small-sized pencil sketch with the responsibility of being the only self-portrait that Loy realised is telling in itself, as it undermines the authority of the self-portrait as a genre. This choice suggests perhaps that there are more suitable forms, i.e. masks, to actually represent the individual – somewhat paradoxically. Loy’s most relevant remediation of the self-portrait can be witnessed, in fact, in her literary texts rather than in her paintings and drawings. Perhaps the verbal text offered a way to reveal and conceal, to make contradictory facets coexist, to combine many aspects of the human image in a way that mimetic representation could not. Barnes’s Beardsleyan ink caricature of herself puts her more openly at odds with the genre of self-portrait. Djuna Barnes, 1919, Self-Portrait. Part II 186 She appropriates the genre ironically, staging the terms of a provocation to the authority of portraiture, challenged by new media of visual representation such as the newspaper cartoon, and by the mocking tones of the caricature. She sketched her own self-portrait as essential and dry as the portraits of intellectuals and friends she wrote about in her articles. Big pendant earrings are the only detail of her facial looks, which, together with her middle-parted hairstyle, evoke the 1910s trend. The choice of the vignette as a medium for self-portrait suggests perhaps that she, like Loy, related the size (only 8x12 cm) to self-portraiture in the traditional self, and preferred to explore the potential of other forms of self-telling. This quick overview of the actual self-portraits realised by the artists under analysis (except for the Baroness, who did not realise any) suggests a sense of impatience mingled with scepticism towards the visual genre. For different reasons, they all appear to be attempts at (either unfinished or parodic) self-portraiture, rather than ‘fully fledged’ self-portraits. They appear as momentary recreations, sketches, or unserious diversions, based on the assumption that self-portrait, in a narrow sense, is a blind alley. Moreover, the smallness of their number is emphasised by a large number of fictional masks, puppets and doppelgänger, which are more suitable, perhaps, to narrate the processes of the construction of the self.129 In the following paragraphs, I will explore the terms of negotiations of self-portrait in their literary bodies, stressing how masks gradually, sometimes completely, replaced the autobiographical characters. On this note, I will try to identify the roles of such masks and their ways to alter, or even “counterfeit” (Caselli 2008: 215) autobiographical material. 129 Interestingly, Barnes’s Nightwood is the first among Barnes’s text that lacks illustration, as if to suggest that visual genres have been remediated into verbal texture, rather than being just terms of comparison for new literary forms. Douglas Messerli, the editor of several collections of Barnes’s writings and drawings, tellingly hypothesises that “the drawings of Djuna Barnes must be understood within the context of her writings. […] In her great Nightwood (1936), which contains no drawings, Barnes focuses much on her imagistic (and structural) concerns on linguistic descriptions of tableaux vivants, “living pictures.” Accordingly, it is impossible in the work of Djuna Barnes utterly to separate the visual from the linguistic. Her pen seems as ready to sketch visual images as it is to write down words.” (Messerli 1995: 5) In Nightwood, visual art and language have reached a superlative level of fusion in Barnes’s language, which seems to broaden even W.T. Mitchell’s ‘branch’ of the family of images that goes under the name of “verbal images.” Barnes’s verbal images do not merely consist in the metaphors and description identified by Mitchell, but contain images in both formal and lexical ways. In such a perspective, argues Messerli, Nightwood does not need to be illustrated in order to show images to the reader. Douglas Messerli, (ed. by), 1995, Poe’s Mother. Selected Drawings of Djuna Barnes (Los Angeles: Sun and Moon Press). 3. Remediating the self-portrait 187 3.2. Fiction: proliferation of masks The scarcity of self-portraits invites us to meditate on the new, problematic relationship between subject-construction and self-representation. Interestingly, this lack of self-portraits is mirrored by a parallel proliferation of masks in the works under analysis. As the ‘painted subject’ evolves into ‘painted face’ in the shift from self- portraying to self-constructing, the distance widens between the historical narrator and the fictional alias in the process of ‘making-up’. While the autobiographical fiction as a ‘genre’ already increases the liberty (and liberation) of the narrator to create distance from the historical narrator, the autobiography-based characters of Barnes’s and Loy’s novels are actual masks, who play at hiding and revealing, disclosing and deceiving. In their novels, the mask is therefore a site of ambiguity, a liminal space where the character can undermine the authority of the narrator. In the novels of Barnes and Loy particularly, masks seem to express an “act of resistance,” to use Adrienne Rich’s phrasing (1980).130 However, not only do they resist what Rich calls “compulsory heterosexuality,” but also they appear reluctant to disclose themselves. It is therefore interesting to explore the mask as site of both ambiguity and resistance, and to study how it is differently employed as a narrative device in Barnes’s and Loy’s novels to re-fashion and redeem forms of self-portraying – and self-disguising. In this light, the mask is employed to re-mould and re-orient autobiographical material, and plays with the conventions of autobiography as a genre. While delving into the analysis of such processes, the interactions between gender and genre come to the surface, making the mask appear as the quintessential vehicle of ambiguity and transition. 130 Adrienne Rich, 1980, “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” in Blood, Bread and Poetry: Selected Prose 1979-1985, Adrienne Rich (Norton: New York, 1985), pp. 23-75. Part II 188 3.2.1. Backfiring alibis: masks in Barnes’s Nightwood Nightwood is a novel where, undoubtedly, masks proliferate.131 Investigating Nightwood’s double-edged masks, which work as both protection and prison for the characters, also offers an opportunity to expand on spatial dynamics, thus engaging in the processes of space-gendering and space-appropriation. While the novel lends itself to several readings,132 my analysis focuses on how Barnes’s autobiographical fiction opposes the conventions of traditional feminine autobiography, perceived as confining the writing subject, creating new forms of feminine self-portraying. In Barnes’s aesthetics, constructing mask(s) is the only possible way for subjects to socialise, and therefore to exist – to avoid “the morbidity of life,” (Barnes 1918) i.e. the absence of social masks.133 As a consequence, her fictional masks explore in almost meta- theatrical terms the process of construction of their alibis for their (fictional) lives. In the meantime, such masks also show us the weight of autobiographical material in the character’s (self-)construction, thus constantly framing the mask as a remediated form of the self-portrait. Through mask construction, the characters of Nightwood aspire to liberation, thus overcoming both spatial and heteronormative enclosures. However, they seem to fail in the attempt. Although they expend all efforts to make their masks credible, and try to involve other characters in their masquerades to validate their alibis for living, they end up imprisoned in the fictitious identities that they have created. 131 To suggest that Nightwood is not the first text in which Barnes enjoys challenging the potential extents of autobiography, it is worth hinting back at Ryder, 1928. As I argued, Ryder could hardly be defined as clustered into genre definitions, not even loose one such as ‘autobiografiction’. Ryder, with its challenge of the family autobiography, announced to the readership Barnes’s impatience towards traditional form of self-portraits, in that case family portrait, provocatively featuring more than thirty genres and sub-genres across fifty chapters. 132 T.S Eliot himself, upon reviewing Nightwood for the 1936 Faber & Faber edition, wrote: “To say that Nightwood will appeal primarily to readers of poetry does not mean that it is not a novel, but that it is so good a novel that only sensibilities trained on poetry can wholly appreciate it. Miss Barnes’s prose has the prose rhythm that is prose style, and the musical pattern which is not that of verse. This prose rhythm may be more or less complex or elaborate, according to the purposes of the writer; but whether simple or complex, it is what raises the matter to be communicated, to the first intensity.” (Barnes 1936: i) 133 In a 1918 interview with Guido Bruno, she declared: “Morbid? You make me laugh. This life I write and draw and portray is life as it is, and therefore you call it morbid. Look at my life. Look at the life around me. Where is this beauty that I am supposed to miss? The nice episodes that others depict? Is not everything morbid? I mean the life of people stripped of their masks. Where are the relieving features?” (Barnes 1919: 385) (emphasis is mine). Alyce Barry et al. (eds.), 1985, Djuna Barnes: Interviews (Washington, DC: Sun and Moon). 3. Remediating the self-portrait 189 Undoubtedly, Nightwood contains autobiographical overtones, with Barnes being profiled as Nora, and Thelma Wood as Robin.134 Yet, such correspondences are never univocal and complete, and certainly do not exhaust the possibilities of these masks. This first obstacle, consisting in the difficulty to establish a one to one proportion between each character and historical people around Barnes, warns us of the dangers of embracing exclusive or simplistic autobiographical readings. Not only do characters stand for more than one person in Barnes’s life, as affinities that Barnes as historical narrator has chosen for them, but they also try to ‘autonomously’ construct other masks to wear over their own (already fictional) identities, thus questioning the authority of the autobiographical narrator. In the first few pages of the novel, readers immediately meet the first of many processes of self-construction, which appears as well-thought and long pre-meditate, specifically purposed to the camouflage of the character’s essence. Guido is busy fabricating a family heritage that could cancel and conceal his Jewishness, his “impermissible blood,” and support his claim to a noble Austrian estate. Against the panels of oak that reared themselves above the long table and up to the curving ceiling hung life-sized portraits of Guido’s claim to father and mother […] The likeness was accidental. Had anyone cared to look into the matter they would have discovered these canvases to be reproductions of two intrepid and ancient actors. Guido had found them in some forgotten and dusty corner and had purchased them when he had been sure that he would need an alibi for the blood. (Barnes 1936: 6) Guido’s constructed identity introduces us to a pattern of fabrication and falsification, aimed at concealing and forgetting the character’s essence. More significantly, it introduces a meta-narrative dimension – or even meta-theatrical, in a broad sense – a sort of narrative ‘mask on top of the mask’: each of the characters tries knowingly and deliberately to disguise or change their essential (fictional) identity, of which little trace is left. Guido disguises his Jewishness to turn himself into an Austrian pureblood; nobody knows who Guido was before, or beyond, his camouflage of noblesse. 134 Robin, generally accepted (Herring 1995) as the fictional adaptation of Thelma Wood, has been connected to the Baroness too (Gammel 2003), thanks to her traits of circus performer, and to Barnes herself, as suggested by her geographical migrations. Part II 190 Interestingly, Felix, his son, appears to be the exact replica of his father’s mask, since he stages exactly the same tragic pantomime as his father. Felix […] turned up into the world with these facts, the two portraits and nothing more. […] Felix called himself Baron Volkbein, as his father did before him. How Felix lived, how he came by his money – he knew figures as a dog knows the covey and as indefatigably he pointer and ran – how he mastered seven languages and served that knowledge well, no one knew (Barnes 1936: 7) In this case too, nobody, certainly not other characters, nor in fact us readers, have a chance to learn who Baron Felix had previously been, or who he was behind the aristocratic mask he constructed. In this respect, autobiographical reading triggers speculation (Herring 1991). Felix has been interestingly associated with two possible matches from Barnes’s acquaintances: the novelist Felix Paul Grieve and the Baron Leopold von Freytag-Loringhoven, respectively second and third husbands of the Baroness. The former staged an actual process of name- and identity-switch from being the German translator Felix Paul Greve to acting the Canadian fiction writer Fredrik Phillip Grove. The possibility of the latter of the two rests on the fact that, through marriage, the Baron von Loringhoven transferred his noble title to Elsa, similarly (conversely, in fact) to how, in the novel, “Baron” Felix transforms the American circus performer Robin into an Austrian Baronin. For Felix, and for all the masks in the novel, setting up a stable ‘home’ is a crucial (and excruciating) matter of concern. This theme perhaps hints ironically at Barnes’s own several trans-Atlantic migrations, which suggest that identity does not correspond to stability and domestic enclosure. In fact, trans-national migration is widely explored in the description of Felix, too, who frames it in religious terms. He identifies the “step of the wandering Jew” as characterising trait: “no matter where and when you meet him you feel that he has come from some place […] some secret land he has been nourished on but cannot inherit, for the Jew seems to be everywhere from nowhere.” (7) Felix’s masks are endlessly duplicated in the novel. First he tries to extend his “alibi for the blood” to Robin, transforming her into a Baronin, and then to their son, the noble scion, who can secure the family progeny, and thus consolidate the lie. His 3. Remediating the self-portrait 191 construction of a mask for Robin begins with the construction of an apparatus of space- related memories of the city he wants them to live in, Vienna: “he took her first to Vienna. To reassure himself he showed her all the historic buildings […] With methodic anxiety he took her over the city.” (38) Buildings and monuments are meant to impress an architecture of memories in Robin’s mind, because Robin, like Felix, has no past – or none that we are told of, anyway. Felix also tries to create a present and future identity – “you are a Baronin now” – that he filters through the teaching of the German language; yet, he slowly becomes aware that his attempts are doomed to failure. While watching Robin sleep in a spontaneous and unrefined posture on an armchair, “he knew that he was not sufficient to make her what he hoped.” (39) The dichotomy of ‘memory vs. oblivion’ runs as fil-rouge throughout the narrative, and is particularly relevant for the investigation of Barnes’s conflicting position on autobiography. Robin is haunted by the fear of forgetting and being forgotten, but at the same times rejects any set of memories that Felix (and later Nora and Jenny) constructs for her. Robin seems repelled, like Barnes, by the idea of seeing her story manipulated by others. Zooming out of the single novel, the tension between craving for/avoiding self-history (and ‘herstory’) provides a clue for the evaluation of the autobiographical material in Djuna Barnes’s works, from Ryder to the Antiphon. Since Felix’s plan to create a mask of nobility for Robin fall through, he fails to construct his own mask too – he had decided to create Robin’s mask to validate his ‘fictional’ identity. This kind of failure, the inability to construct masks, is the (pathetic) tragedy in which all the characters of Nightwood are trapped. The quintessential image of self-construction in the novel is embodied by the character of Jenny Petherbridge, Robin’s mistress, who takes her away from the love and care of Nora.135 Barnes’s scholars have identified Jenny as the fictional adaptation of Henrietta McCrea Metcalf, Thelma Wood’s mistress, who eventually caused the break-up. Jenny is a widow four times over and “gains happiness by stealing the joy 135 The case of Jenny Petherbridge appears particularly interesting for the discourse of the proliferation of the mask. Her (abusive) masks multiply in an endless gallery of reflections, like a kaleidoscope of fragments of the identities she has stolen: “By weeping she [Jenny] appeared like a single personality, who, by multiplying her tears, brought herself into the position of one who is seen twenty times in twenty mirrors – still only one, but many times distressed.” (Barnes 1936: 68) Part II 192 of others” (58); she steals other people’s identities as well as she steals valuables and trifles, as a sort of identity-kleptomaniac, to construct her own mask(s): Her walls, her cupboards, her bureaux, were teeming with second-hand dealings with life. It takes a bold and authentic robber to get first –hand plunder. Someone else’s marriage ring was on her finger; the photograph taken of Robin for Nora sat upon her table. The books in her library were other people’s selections. She lived among her own things like a visitor to a room kept ‘exactly as it was when –.’ (59-60) She had a continual rapacity for other people’s facts; absorbing time, she held herself responsible for historic characters. […] As, from the solid archives of usage, she had stolen or appropriated the dignity of speech, so she appropriated the most passionate love that she knew, Nora’s for Robin. She was a “squatter” by instinct. (61-62) Like Felix, Jenny is eager to set up her own kleptomaniac archive of memories, in which she also wants to inscribe (Nora’s) love for Robin. Just like Felix’s (formerly Guido’s) portraits of his parents (actually two unknown actors posing in aristocratic costumes), though, the objects that Jenny collects are “second-hand.” Both Felix and Jenny are aware that the past they are making up is completely fraudulent, based on plagiarism of identity and theft of goods, and designed to deceive those around them. Yet they are eager to have at least some sort of background, regardless of whether it is “authentic” or “second-hand,” because they know that, without their masks, they cannot access personal or social dynamics. The dichotomy of ‘second-hand vs authentic’ demonstrates once again the problem of autobiography in Barnes. Somehow Barnes, like her characters, willingly fabricates the autobiographic material that is conveyed by her masks. Perhaps such a choice originates from the desire to challenge authenticity as one of the postulates of traditional autobiography. Barnes’s autobiographical fiction conveys the deconstruction of both genre and gender practice, to not only to redeem feminine autobiography, but also to liberate women from subordination, freeing them to rewrite their own individual and collective histories. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 193 3.2.1.1. Masks and space, enclosure and transition The masks of Nightwood seem to connect to urban outdoor and indoor spaces, primarily streets and houses. Robin, the ‘silent protagonist’ of the novel,136 is portrayed as an elusive character, who expresses her independence by wandering alone. All the masks that Felix, Nora and Jenny try to construct for her correspond to the spatial site of the house. As such, they carry the stifling traits of the practices of confinement and enclosure within domestic walls traditionally imposed upon women. Therefore, masks become narrative spaces, sites to question spaces traditionally intended for women, both in a narrow sense, i.e. the domestic walls, and in a broad sense, i.e. the feminine autobiography. The idea that Robin’s wanderings between America and France symbolise Barnes’s transatlantic migrations and her identity as a writer on the move is only a hypothesis. It is a fact, instead, that Nightwood relies on a network of migrations that interweaves the lives of the characters on a transatlantic basis. Robin grew up in America, but moves to Austria, where she meets Felix and Dr O’Connor, and then to Paris, where she meets, and moves in with, Nora; eventually, she moves back to America with Jenny, whom she had also met in Paris.137 Nora and Dr O’Connor (he has moved to Paris in the meantime) develop a strange friendship in Paris; their conversations – in which Felix is also named a few times (perhaps he is in Paris, too) – persuade Nora to follow Robin and go to America – there are no hints at specific locations, only at woods and countryside. Both Vienna and Paris become sites of imprisonment, as they correspond to the domestic(ating) masks that Felix first, and then Nora and Jenny later, set up for her. Eventually, she has to escape from their houses and presence, attempting to find her liberation in the lonely outdoors. The opposition between domestic walls and streets in the novel becomes the means for discussing (and contesting) spaces – both house 136 Chafid Rohman, “Revising the Human: Silence, Being, and the Question of the Animal in Nightwood,” in American Literature 79(1), (March 2007), pp. 57-84. 137 The map of the places included in Robin’s wanderings supports, in fact, the association of Robin to the Baroness; such correspondence is also validated by the association of the ‘Baron’ Felix to the historical Baron von Freytag-Loringhoven, third husband of the Baroness. However, the Robin’s migration-map appears exactly reverse, if compared to the Baroness’s one: German-born Else Plötz went to America, where she married the German Baron; only late in her life, she went back to Europe, first to Berlin and the to Paris, where she died. Part II 194 and autobiography – that were traditionally gendered as feminine, and for claiming access to new spaces for both art and femininity. In this light, both domestic space and autobiography are perceived as enclosure; migration/transition, in the sense of both geographic migration and exploration of traditional genres, stand instead for liberation. Robin’s wanderings “in search of a home” (34) attract others, who feel immediately protective towards her, and try to give her what she is looking for.138 Robin insists on the fact that she needs a mask in order not to forget herself, thus validating the potential semantic overlapping of domestic space, memory, and autobiography: She kept repeating in one way or another her wish for a home, as if she were afraid she would be lost again, as if she were aware, without conscious knowledge, that she belonged to Nora, and that if Nora did not make it permanent by her own strength, she would forget. (50) Only, their domestic constructions cannot contain Robin139 because they are part of their own fictional identities. Nora seems only momentarily to succeed where Felix had failed, when she takes Robin to live with her. After a while, Robin becomes restless again, and starts leaving at night for her urban wanderings. Meaningfully, the domestic “museum” of memories that Nora has constructed for Robin acquires stifling traits. Nora starts nourishing herself on the memory (an empty mask) of Robin, rather than on her very rare physical presence. By the time Robin leaves, Nora has already replaced the real Robin with the domestic mask she had constructed for her, and continues to live in a gallery of memories. Their once idyllic domestic space, furnished with things that Nora and Robin had bought together,140 turns into an obsession for both of them: for Robin, because she cannot be contained; and for Nora, because her 138 Although Nora tries better than Felix to follow Robin in her wanderings to Munich, Vienna, Budapest and Paris, she eventually tries to domesticate her, once again creating an indoor place for her that eventually becomes a prison. 139 The very name of Robin evokes her innate impatience when feeling caged. 140 “Every item in the house, every word they spoke, attested their mutual love, the combining of their humors.” (50) 3. Remediating the self-portrait 195 domestic construction backfires, and obsesses her with memories of Robin.141 Following the thread of unrestrainable Robin’s sequence of ‘going away’, exiting and escape, her, the novel itself appears extremely dynamic. While she is married to Felix, she goes out and wanders for days; upon leaving him and their baby she shouts “I’ll get out.” (44) Such behaviour turns out to be a pattern.142 Equally abruptly does she leave all the spaces designed to imprison her, from Felix’s hotel room, to Nora’s house, to Jenny’s flat, to the very carriage in which she was travelling with Jenny, turned hysterical by jealousy – the last scene in which we see Robin before she leaves for America. Once again, Nora’s words reiterate the distance between memory and space: “Robin can go anywhere, and I nowhere, because I remember.” (176) From this perspective – and also making the connection with Djuna Barnes’s own ‘street-walks’ in Paris – the city appears to embody the site of modern women’s claim for accessing (not just urban) spaces that were previously off limits. On this note, Robin’s transitions acquire (auto)biographic multi-referentiality: evoking both the historical persons of the Baroness and Barnes’s own travels, she acquires a collective identity, representing all female intellectuals, who moved on the transnational chessboard of women’s (transiting) modernism. The refashioning of autobiography is carried out through the negotiation of paradigms of genre and gender, including idioms of spacing. The ultimate challenge to genre itself appears to be phrased in terms of narrative spaces. While the lack of “identity of name between the author […], the narrator of the story, and the character” (Lejeune 1975:12) was already enough to break the “autobiographical pact”143 and enter the looser field of autobiographical fiction, the ‘narratological handover’ from Nora to Dr O’Connor classifies Nightwood as one among the most interesting cases of 141 Initially, not long after Robin has left, Nora feeds herself on such memories, confessing to the doctor: “once, when she was sleeping, I wanted her to die” (116) and then, later, “I’m happier when I’m alone now, without her, because when she was here with me, in this house, I had to watch her wanting to go.” (126). However, memories become haunting to Nora, and at least in two separate moments she feels the need to take off her mask and leave the house: first when she leaves at night to go to the Doctor’s room to speak about Robin; the second and decisive moment is when she definitely shuts the doors of her house in Paris to go to America in search of Robin. 142 “Like a painting of the douanier Rousseau, she seemed to lie in a jungle trapped in a drawing room.” (31) 143 Lejeune, Phillip, 1975, “The Autobiograhical Pact,” in On Autobiography, Philippe Lejeune, transl. by Katherine Leary, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), pp. 3-30. Part II 196 modernist autobiografiction.144 For the first two chapters, Nora is in charge of the diegesis (Hayden 2012), but, after a physical transition across her own house and Dr O’Connor’s flat,145 she gets literally “usurped” of her role as narrator.146 (Hayden 2012: 74) Doctor O’Connor is an extremely interesting mask, that offers a fertile site to inscribe the reflection of the (dismissed) authority of the autobiographic(tional) narrator into a discourse of gender and dynamics of power. In the novel, his appointment as “modern Tiresia” 147 (Booker 1991: 210-211) enables him to understand and inhabit other people’s minds, becoming a professional but affectionate confidante to Felix, Nora – and through them, to Robin. In such gown – a “flannel nightgown”148 – he is a self-professed prophet and self-acclaimed psychoanalyst, who uses an exaggerated variant of the talking therapy – perhaps as a parody of Freudian psychoanalysis. Like all other masks in the novel, though, the usurped narratorial role, understood as the ultimate self-constructed and kleptomaniac mask, backfires: ironically, he ends up lost in his (narrative) logorrhoea, overwhelmed by the weight of 144 It also sounds worth hinting at the fact that Dr ‘Matthew-Mighty-grain-of-salt Dante O’Connor’ is the only explicitly intertextual character we meet across Barnes’s works. There are certainly resonances among other characters, but Ryder’s Dr O’Connor and Nightwood’s Dr O’Connor are the only two who have the same name. In fact, they seem to be substantially the same character. In both novels, Dr O’Connor’s mask brings him social privileges and he constantly boasts about his gynaecological practice, for having contributed to bring the other characters to the world. In both novels, although more explicitly in Nightwood, his medical and psychoanalytical practices “are constantly undermined and ultimately undone by his professionally incongruous deployment of a cross-gendered voice inherently resistant to, and rupturing of, the very masculinist medical authority he illegitimately invokes” (Hayden 2012: 74) However, there is an evolution of his function from Ryder to Nightwood. In the 1928 novel, the doctor is only one of the (delirious) voices, whose verbal ramblings have the same weight of those of other characters, despite their larger verbal volume. In Nightwood, instead, he takes over the voice of the narrating ‘I’. 145 First, Doctor O’Connor goes visit Nora to her house; then, she goes to his flat to speak with him about Robin. This ‘spatial intersection’ is pivotal for the handover of the narratorial voice. 146 Hayden, Sarah, 2012, “What Happens When a Transvestite Gynaecologist Usurps the Narrator?: Cross-Gendered Ventriloquism in Djuna Barnes’s Nightwood” in Cross-Gendered Literary Voices: Appropriating, Resisting, Embracing, eds. Rina Kim and Claire Westall, (Houndmills; Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 74-92. 147 M. Keith Booker, 1991, Techniques of Subversion in Modern Literature: Transgression, Abjection and the Carnivalesque (Gainesville: University of Florida Press), p. 268. 148 As Nora enters Dr O’Connor’s room, she has the impression to be violating an intimate space both literally and figuratively. She finds him lying in bed, “heavily rouged and his lashes painted,” wearing a blond wig and “a woman’s flannel nightgown.” (Barnes 1936: 71) 3. Remediating the self-portrait 197 his monologues.149 When Dr O’Connor’s “cross-gendered ventriloquism” (Hayden 2012) backfires, it forces him to relinquish his narratorial authority and “abandon the diegesis” (Hayden 2012: 77). However, there is no second handover back to Nora: after “Matthew’s eventual, catastrophic renunciation of speech for silence,” (Ibid.) the novel finishes with an inconclusive ending. In conclusion, the exploration of the processes, dynamics and implications of self-construction in Nightwood helps to reveal Barnes’s transgressive and transitional position towards the traditional topoi of the autobiographic genre and of the self- portrait. Additionally, it enables the exploration of her politics of negotiation of literary and social spaces that appear to be regulated by heteronormativity. The collection of masks that we encounter in Nightwood acquires the features of a gallery of partial self- portraits; every character shows affinities with Barnes herself, either with her identity as a woman, with her a profile as a writer, or with her self-construction as a public icon. Every mask is entrusted with a small bite of her story, which is twisted into a disrupted collection of confessions and lies, anecdotes and made-up stories. Meaningfully, Dr O’Connor’s relinquishment, marking the end of Nightwood, also marks the end of Barnes’s long-fiction writing. Only after ten years would Barnes engage again with literary endeavour with her drama in verses the Antiphon, which, through performance, increases exponentially the power of the mask as a form of life- writing and self-portraying. 3.2.2. Auto/biographical traps in Loy’s Insel Mina Loy approaches the problem of remediation of self-portrait and autobiography in more psychological terms. More specifically, she expresses her similarly conflicting relationship with genre conventions in a play with the reader’s expectations. Her only 149 In Nightwood, all dialogues are rather groundless. However, communication seems to get harder and harder towards the end, since when Dr O’Connor undertakes the role of the narrator. One of the many examples of how he and Nora talk to each other, rather than with, is set in the Nora’s house: “Nora got up nervously and began walking. ‘I’m so miserable, Matthew, I don’t know how to talk, and I’ve got to. I’ve got to talk to somebody. I can’t live this way.’ She pressed her hands together, and without looking at the doctor, went on walking. ‘Have you any more port?’ he enquired, putting the empty bottle down. (Barnes 1936: 117) Part II 198 novel, Insel, published posthumously in 1991, stages a parodistic narrative of genre and gender,150 which satirises both tradition and avant-garde. She plays with the conventions of official biographic and autobiographic genres; for example, her position is clear from the title of the biography, named Insel after the biographee, but in fact telling the story of the narrating ‘I’ Mrs Jones.151 Loy also addresses dialogically some of the central tenets of Surrealism, thus providing a unique criticism of the movement while she was close to its centre.152 The experiential dimension and plastic figuration of the mask were certainly at the heart of Surrealism in the 1930s (Cheng 2009: 61),153 where the mask was capable of both epitomising and exceeding the visual domain. (Lusty 2007: 84)154 Of the Surrealist mask, though, Loy proposes a variation that crosses visibility and vision, authenticity and fraud. Insel chronicles the struggle for artistic self-determination of Mrs Jones, the autobiographical narrator, in the face of an elusive biographee, a “more or less surrealist painter” (Loy [1991]: 3), who is able to induce states of delusion and hallucination. This strange encounter initiates the narrator to the world of the unconscious, which she describes as “a wilful descent into a forbidden psychology.”155 (Loy [1991]: 99) 150 As Hayden notes, “Loy adulterates Oezle’s biography with myriad inventions, omissions and alterations – pushing this ostensible roman à clef towards a parody of that form.” (Haden 2015: xvi) 151 The novel is loosely based on Loy’s friendship of three years with the German Surrealist painter Richard Oelze. 152 See Susan Rubin Suleiman, 1985, “Dialogue and double allegiance: Some Contemporary Women Artists and the Historical Avant-garde,” in Women Artists and the Surrealist Movement, ed. Whitney Chadwick (New York: Thames and Hudson), pp. 129-135. 153 Joyce Cheng, 2009, “Mask, Mimicry, Metamorphosis: Roger Caillois, Walter Benjamin and Surrealism in the 1930s,” in Modernism/Modernity 16, No. 1 (January 2009), pp.61-86. 154 Natalya Lusty, 2007, Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis (Aldershot: Ashgate). 155 According to Hilda Bronstein, Loy’s words and themes echo those of Andre Breton in the First Surrealist Manifesto of 1924, where he writes of “la promenade perpetuelle en pleine zone interdite.” As Bronstein argues, “Breton’s reference is to the quest for access to the “forbidden zones” of dreams and the imagination, where, liberated from the constraints of reason and reality, the creative potential of the unconscious mind of the Surrealist might be harnessed in the name of social revolution.” (Bronstein 2000). To Bronstein, Insel addresses the problematic for women artists and writers in relationship to Surrealism, which, in Ades’s phrasing, “threatens to squeeze out any possibility for women in the Surrealist orbit to see them selves as other than the object or complement of male desire” (Ades 1998: 107) Hilda Bronstein, 2000, “In Traces of the “actual”: How Writing Writes Itself” in HOW2 1(4), September 2000, n.p. Dawn Ades, 1998, “‘Orbits of the Savage Moon’, Surrealism and the Representation of the female subject in Mexico and Postwar Paris,” in Mirror Images: Women, Surrealism and Self-Representation, eds. Whitney Chadwick and Dawn Ades (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), pp. 106-127. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 199 Mrs Jones, the fictional adaptation of Mina Loy herself, is the real protagonist, who from the very beginning conquers the centre. In fact, we learn very little of Insel, while we rather follow the life of Mrs Jones, learning about the influence that Insel has on her psyche. The beginning of the novel proves telling, as it immediately orientates the focus on the biographer, rather than on the biographee: The first time I heard of Insel was the story of a madman, a more or less surrealist painter, who, although he had nothing to eat, was hoping to sell a picture to buy a set of false teeth. He wanted, he said, to go to the bordel but feared to disgust a prostitute with a mouthful of roots. […] What an incongruous end, my subconscious idly took note, for a man who must have once had such a phenomenal attraction for women. […] For, to my workaday consciousness, he only looked like an embryonic mind locked in a dilapidated structure. (Loy [1991]: 3) While the narrating ‘I’, Mrs Jones, comes forward before Insel, the semantic field of ‘impressions’ opposes immediately the idea that the biographer should have extensive knowledge of the biographee. Such verbal phrases as “I heard of,” “must have had,” and “looked like” map immediately the site of action of this auto/biography, which is the “subconscious,” rather than the “workaday consciousness.” On this note, Mrs Jones continues, a few pages later, with a blame that is absurd and paradoxical, especially set at the beginning of a biography: “I began to think it improbable I should even find a basis for this biography.” (16) Clearly, Loy uses the novel to openly challenge traditional autobiography and self-portrait. In a meaningful dialogue, the terms of such an opposition are made explicit directly by Insel and Mrs Jones, who debate on how to write Insel’s biography. While set into explicit comparison in irreverent tones, verbal and visual genres are framed in the open critique to art consumerism – which we also saw addressed by Barnes in the letters to Guggenheim. “I know how you can make money,” I exclaimed agog with enthusiasm. “Write your biography.” “I am a painter,” he objected. “It would take too long building a style.” Part II 200 “You’d only have to write the way you paint. Minutely, meticulously – like an ant! Can you remember every moment, every least incident of your life?” “All,” he replied decisively. […] “the truth? Anyway, you can write under a pseudonym.” “People would recognise me.” […] Then, “No,” he reversed, “It’s not my medium.” “Insel,” I asked breathlessly, “would you let me write it?” […] “Don’t overdo it,” warned Insel, “it never works.” “You can have your dinners with me and tell me – Can you really remember – the minutest details?” “Every one,” he assured me. “What a book,” I sighed with satisfaction. (Loy [1991]: 13-14) This passage, loaded with irony about the ludicrous ambitions of traditional auto/biography to tell everything and “the truth,” sets the premise for Mrs Jones’s work as a biographer – and ultimately of Loy as writer of autobiografiction. The terms of Mrs Jones’s biography, anticipated by the unusual opening of the novel, appear parodically antithetical to the conventions of the genre; punctuality, accuracy, linearity are completely dismissed by Mrs Jones’s biography, and replaced with vagueness, impression, and fluidity of space and time. The character himself is far from the ‘ideal biographee’, as Mrs Jones later complains: “the minute details were fewer than I had bargained for, his leitmotif being his strangeness in so seldom having spoken.” (14) As a result, the character of Mrs Jones’s potentially best-selling “book” is a mask, trapped in the awkward position of being at once at the centre and on the margin of its own biography. The nebulous mask of Insel becomes therefore an ambiguous site of appropriation, where the negotiation of self-portrait and autobiography, and of Surrealist mask and modernist biography is based on play with reliability and deception. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 201 3.2.2.1. Delusion, trust and treason In Hayden’s suggestive phrasing, masks (rather than characters) of Insel appear like a “network of false and chimerical connections to the surface.” (Hayden 2015: xvii) While Insel becomes a mask, with endless potential for manipulation, disarticulation and re-articulation, fantasising and projection, Mrs Jones’s camouflage as a biographer reveals Loy’s sites of negotiation. In this respect, it is worth mentioning that the 2015 edition of the book – the first one following the 1991 edition – came with an alternative ending, only recently unearthed in the Loy archives. The new ending, “Visitation of Insel,” refocuses the reading of the novel on the identity of the character of Insel, putting him under a new, spectral light; more interestingly to my discourse on remediation, it undermines, the authority of Mrs Jones as auto/biographical narrator. While the novel was already considered to be an interesting case of modernist experimentation, which delved into the difficult relationship between genre and gender, and between self-portraiture and self-construction, the “Visitation of Insel” opens new debates, as it further problematises the authority of the narrating voice. Mrs Jones appears peculiar even among the ranks of postmodern characters and Surrealist masks. In the novel, she is the undisputed and univocal narrating voice, and is despotic, in usurping Insel’s space as biographee, thus openly challenging patriarchal power of traditional biography. Under the blame that her biographee has “no life to write,”156 (18) she re-orientates the focus of her alleged biography onto herself, thus also moving towards autobiographic fiction. Until the alternative finale “Visitation of Insel” was published a few months ago, readership used to point at Insel as the ambiguous, elusive, sometimes lame character, and trusted Mrs Jones instead, enough to believe her viewpoint. Despite her unusual egocentrism as a biographer, and although trust in Mrs Jones’s judgement was at times shaken by her occasional trips into her subconscious,157 she appeared as a reliable narrator overall. By doing so, Loy 156 The phrasing emphasises Insel’s duplicity as an ‘unreal character’, which eventually turns out to be his real nature: ““You atrocious fake – you have no life to write – you’re acting Kafka!” (18) 157 For instance: “The psychic effort of reacting oneself from the creative dimension where one can remain indefinitely – like a conscious rock – immovable – in intellectual transmutation of long since absorbed actualities, while the presents actuality is let to hang – was devastating.” (22) Part II 202 played with the reader’s expectations about autobiographic and biographic genres, even when the text is explicitly presented as a biography sui generis. By appointing Mrs Jones as (self-appointed in her turn) biographer (yet in parodistic tones), Loy took advantage of the commonplaces about the biographic narrator, who is traditionally reliable. “Visitation” introduces the hypothesis that Mrs Jones is not reliable at all, and that in fact Insel does not exist, but is a projection of her own subconscious. XVII There was no mistaking this ecclesiastic ‘current’. Here was my drug addict; divested of those shreds of flesh, easily as an aria relayed across the Atlantic, a recognisable ‘invisibility’ come to visit me. (159) While “Visitation” also stages a different narrative flux, now consisting in fragments,158 the mystical apparition of Insel certainly raises a lot of questions about him as a character, and about Mrs Jones’s capacity to distinguish the real from the fictional. We thought him to be a rarefied corporality due to his drug addiction and starvation, his elusive personality, and his tendency to come and go in Mrs Jones’s life. Yet, such clues are unravelled and given alternative explanation, upon the Insel’s ‘revelation’ as a ghost. Suddenly, all the references in the book about Insel’s rarefied, “transparent” corporality which “dissolved into a strange mirage” (27) acquire ironic tones, with the description of the palpable “invisibility” of his apparition. His physicality is often referred to as “forever fleeing,” “ghostly,” “blurred;” one specific passage seems to gain meaning: Whenever I let him in he would halt on the threshold drawing the whole of his luminous life up into his smile. It radiated round his face and formed a halo hovering above the rod of his rigid body. He looked like a lamppost alight. Perhaps in that moment before the door opened he recreated himself out of a nothingness into which he must relapse when being alone his magnetism had no one to contact. (31) 158 Mrs Jones appears ‘weakened’ after the two years that have passed since we last saw her in the novel; she has lost part of her autonomy as a character, now depending on her daughters, who take the role of keepers rather than carers. More interestingly, she seems to have lost her narrational authority too. We have no fluent narrative, thoughts appear fragmented in contents and layout, and her stomach-pain appears much worsened. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 203 Upon first reading, we ascribed such traits to the poetics of transparency and paradox related to the character, who, tellingly, “existed on either side of paradox;” Insel also makes explicit how “in Kafka […] I found a foreshadowing of my hounded existence.”159 (17) In light of the finale, we realise how, like Kafka’s characters, he was an enigmatic mask. While the actual (fictional) existence of Insel is not the target of my analysis,160 it is interesting to reflect on the programmatic terms of Loy’s engagement with narratology. “Visitation” was meant to be an addendum to the very first edition, meaning that Loy played intentionally with conventions and assumptions since the first draft. According to Martin Price,161 the reader’s spontaneous trust in the narratorial voice lies on a long-established and unconscious reflex of trusting the narrator, who we assume has told us “all” or “all we are meant to know.” In the case of the auto/biography, we count on the narrator’s omniscience, or, at least, reliability. In the case of modernist and post-modernist texts, Price warns us against such cases of ‘reader’s overreaching’: When we read a novel, whatever we need to know about a character is revealed to us in that work. By the end of the work our awareness of the character has come to some kind of resting point. We know by then all we need to know or at least all we are meant to know. All the questions or problems that are raised by the characters are resolved. If they are not, if the novel deliberately leaves the character ambiguous, the very ambiguity is a resting point. (Price 1983: 45) Price’s comments explain the feeling of fulfilment enjoyed by the reader when the novel is finished, and are therefore relevant to explore the reader’s reaction when 159 Both Kafka’s Der Prozess and Das Schloß are explicitly referred to in order to exemplify Insel’s existence, at once tragic, numb and creative. 160 However, Julia Jordan’s 2011 considerations about the proliferation, in modernist literature, of “anti- characters” such as Insel are fascinating and helpful to explore the potential of the mask in fictional autobiographies. Her reflections on authorial actual or pretended “not-knowingness,” investigated in the works of Green, Woolf, Ford, Becket and others, provide useful hints to the framing of Insel character. (Jordan 2011: 170) Julia Jordan, 2011, “Autonomous Automata: Opacity and the Fugitive Character in the Modernist Novel and After,” in The Legacies of Modernism: Historicising Postwar and Contemporary Fiction, ed. David James (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 96-113. 161 Price, Martin, 1983, Forms of Life: Character and Moral Imagination in the Novel (Haven: Yale University Press). Part II 204 “Visitation” comes to shock us. In most cases, argues Price, when the plot comes to a resolution, or when mysteries are revealed, the reader feels reconciled; when ambiguities remain and mysteries are not explained, the reader’s fulfilment turns into resignation. Instead, those finales such as “Visitation” – that bring with coups the theatre, or shocking twistings – leave readers in a state of alarm, while they engage in critical thinking to find explanations. The unexpected finale comes twenty-five years after the first publication of the novel, to our confusion, more dramatically than the way in which it confuses 2015 readers who approach Insel and “Visitation” as a whole book. While earlier criticism on Insel sees itself newly challenged, more recent studies can range through newly problematic terms of analysis. Mine, in particular, has only begun to scratch the surface of the processes through which negotiations of genre and gender, (self-)portraying vs (self-)construction can be thematised through the topos of the mask – which in women’s modernity qualifies both as a remediated version of self-portrait and autobiography, and as a site of metanarrative consideration. 3.3. From performance to performativity Most of the women under analysis engaged with the stage, either acting or writing for the theatre. The theatrical performance already appears as a liminal zone between the verbal and the visual, where the aesthetic partnership between word and image merge together on the stage. Moreover, performance adds further layers to the process of (self-)construction, consequently requiring the study of both ‘representational idioms’ and ‘performative idioms’ (Pickering 1994; 1995).162 Thus, while the character seems to be more accessible by being visible on the stage, it becomes harder to identify it, as it hides behind both the self-constructed mask, and the mask of his/her dramatis persona. 162 Although Pickering 1994 study addresses science rather than literature, his phrasing sounds happily applicable to literary paradigms of representation. Andrew Pickering, 1994, “After Representation: Science Studies in the Performative Idiom” in PSA: Proceedings of the Biennial Meeting of the Philosophy of Science Association, pp.413-419, and Pickering, 1995, The Mangle of Practice: Time, Agency, and Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). 3. Remediating the self-portrait 205 The study of the gendered modernist theatrical mask serves here the illustration of another form of remediation of the self-portrait. It represents the intermediate stage between self-fictionalisation, which we saw with Barnes and Loy, and performativity – which I will address taking Zelda and the Baroness as cases of study. The field of investigation appears uneven and unstable, a farrago of tradition, disruption, acceptance and resistance, in which the play between self-disclosure and self-display assumes kaleidoscopic shapes. The exploration of this negotiation, which fluctuates between the subliminal and the explicit, the said and the unsaid, appears to me particularly fascinating in the theatrical works of Djuna Barnes and Mina Loy, respectively The Antiphon and The Pamperers; aside from offering interesting resonances with the other works explored in the thesis, they trigger reflections of the relationship between acting and playwriting. 3.3.1. Issues of genre and gender in women’s modernist theatre As a field of investigation, modernist theatre seems to be more problematic than modernist fiction, which is widely studied; particularly, criticism of women’s modernist theatre remains circumscribed to a restricted scholarship, as of today.163 There are several causes for such critical neglect, the main of which, according to Toril Moi,164 is the fact that modernism in itself “is profoundly antitheatrical.” (Moi 2004: 249) “Modernism,” as a theoretical formula, has traditionally been attributed by critics mainly to the visual arts, fiction, and poetry, while drama has been neglected except for the consideration of a chosen few, including Ibsen and Strindberg.165 Moi’s 163 See Katherine E. Kelly (ed. by), 2002, Modern Drama by Women 1880s-1930s: An International Anthology (London; New York: Routledge). 164 Toril Moi, “Ibsen, Theatre, and Ideology of Modernism,” in Theatre Survey 45(2), (November 2004), pp. 247-252. 165 Moi’s scholar Kirsten Shepherd-Barr argues that the reason for widespread ignorance of modernist and post-modernist drama fits within a wider set of problems: “Theatre scholars have long been aware of how histories of modernism have neglected the stage. In fact, this awareness is linked to a larger problem of neglect of the genre of theatre within literary studies in general. The continued recycling of the same standard narratives of modernism – with a few important exceptions […] – indicates a lack of interdisciplinary awareness in literary modernism despite the claims of its historians and practitioners.” (Shepherd-Barr 2005: 59) Kirsten Shepherd-Barr, 2005, “Modernism and Theatrical Performance,” in Modernist Cultures 1(1), (Summer 2005), pp. 59-68. Part II 206 j’accuse of criticism is reiterated in even more severe terms by scholars who endorse the case of women’s modernist drama. As argued by Katherine Kelly, critique has been dismissive of women’s endeavours in theatre since the beginning: in the “eight of nineteen critical histories of the ‘new,’ ‘the continental,’ and the ‘modern’ drama published in the U.S. between 1910 and 1964,” the only women dramatists “mentioned more than once are Elizabeth Baker, Lady Gregory, Susan Glaspell and Githa Sowerby” (Kelly 2004: 3). As she takes a strongly critical position against a long-established chauvinist practice spread in the critique of modernist drama, Kelly continues: Barrett H. Clark’s encyclopedic Study of the Modern Drama (1925, 1928) devotes 1.5 of its 500 pages to considering the dearth of female dramatists on the modern stage. Clark draws particular attention to the absence of talented women playwrights on the continent. Aside from Marie Lenéru, he “can think of no woman who has written a really big play.... And Italy and Spain?... I have neither seen nor read a single play by a Spanish or Italian woman.” (309) […] Clark identifies fewer than seven “good” plays written by women, noting that all of them suppress evidence of the author’s gender: “Do you discover in any of these the feminine note?” Clark asks rhetorically. “If so, what is it?” (309) To write “well” is to suppress the “feminine note,” to write like a man. (Kelly 2002: 3-4)166 In fact, modernist women’s playwriting has been victim of feminist policies of the time, too, which rather focused on women’s activism in politics, their professions, and social life. Only in the 1990s did scholarship begin to evaluate the presence of women in modernist drama,167 which, according Bzowski’s “checklist,” (1992) accounts for almost 5,000 women playwrights active between the 1900s and 1930s: provocatively, Kelly asks “How could the work of 4,700 women writing in the U.S. and England – to cite two national examples – be mislaid?” (Kelly 2002: 2) In light of Kelly’s words, the fact that Mina Loy’s plays should have passed practically unnoticed during her time sounds unsurprising. Her plays continued to 166 Kelly quotes from Barrett H. Clark, 1925; 1928, Study of the Modern Drama (New York: D. Appleton & Co). 167 See James Ellis and Joseph Donohue (eds.), 1985, English Drama of the Nineteenth Century: An Index and Finding Guide (New Canaan, CT: Readex Books), and Frances D Bzowski, 1992, American Women Playwrights, 1900–1930: A Checklist (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press). 3. Remediating the self-portrait 207 remain unappreciated even when her international fame as poet grew, overshadowed as they were by the resonance of her poetry. Some plays, like The Sacred Prostitute, remain unpublished as of today. It is only when the masculine canons of Surrealism and Futurism started undergoing revision through a gendered lens, that Loy’s “Futurist” theatre also begins to be re-evaluated (Schmid 1996).168 The two very short dramas named Collision and Cittàbapini were published together as Two Plays on New York’s The Rogue in 1915, while The Pamperers appeared in The Dial’s “Modern Forms” section in 1920. In the same year, Loy also wrote The Pamperers, the longest of her dramas, which I take as first case study in this chapter. Although Loy’s theatrical production amounts to four short plays – a slim volume indeed if compared to the size of her production in verses and prose – it is worth critical attention: not only do such plays address similar themes to those faced in the poems, including the conflicting relationship between man and city, and a colliding dehumanised mechanical world; more interestingly, they inscribe the (self-)constructed stage-mask – now only a feeble echo of the self-portrait – in a framework of evoked and denied relationships with both traditional drama and modernist life-writing. The reception of Djuna Barnes’s The Antiphon (1958), which I chose as the second case study in this chapter, is more fortunate. Mainly, this is because The Antiphon was written when Barnes’s fame as an artist had been long-established; in addition, she dismissed herself her four one-act plays of the 1920s as “juvenilia.” (Herring 1991: 118-126) Although interest towards Barnes’s early plays, especially The Dove (1923) has been recently rekindled (Plumb 2002),169 their notoriety does not match that of The Antiphon. In Barnes’s Antiphon, all the threads of her life-long narrative in verses and prose interweave to create a vibrantly patterned texture: her conflicting position towards autobiography, her attraction-repulsion to self-display, her fascination for the mask as the site of disguise as well as of remediation, merge in the ultimate construction of the stage-mask. Extensive criticism accompanies the reading of Barnes’s Antiphon from its first edition, review by Montale (1958) as “a sponge of prussic acid;” even before publication, Edwin Muir described the manuscript 168 Schmid, Julie, 1996, “Mina Loy’s Futurist Theatre,” in Performing Arts Journal 18(52), pp. 1-7. 169 Cheryl J. Plumb “Djuna Barnes: The Dove (U.S.A.)” in Kelly, 2002, pp. 350-362. Part II 208 as “one of the greatest things that have been written in our time, and it would be a disaster if it were never to be known.”170 (1956: 175) Loy’s The Pamperers and Barnes’s The Antiphon are evidently very distant from one another; still, they rest on aesthetic common denominators and address the tension between self-disclosing and self-constructing – resulting, in turn, from the fusion of self-portrait and autobiography – as it is re-inscribed in the (porous) frame of the stage. In both texts, an interesting overlap emerges between stage-masks and audience – once they both recognise themselves as acting. 3.3.1.1. Disrupting drama: Loy’s The Pamperers When she approached playwriting, Loy was not new to the stage. Both beforehand, in Florence, and afterwards, in New York (1906-1920), she would be working as both a playwright and an actress. In Florence, she became acquainted with the Provincetown Players including Gordon Craig; in New York she played Mrs Lima in Alfred Kreymborg’s Lima Beans (1916), duetting with William Carlos Williams as Mr Lima. She also acted in Lawrence Vail’s What D’You Want in 1920. On the one hand, Loy’s engagement in the theatre (both acting and writing) is relatively well known by theatre scholars today; on the other hand, yet, the weight and implications of her activity as both actress and playwright in the misogynist Futurist context, and its relevance to the processes of dramatic mask-construction and self-display, remain less explored. Her first protest against traditional men’s drama is embodied by a reversal of conventional dramatic spaces. In several plays, including The Pamperers (1920), staging overwhelms the character. In such cases, the city is upgraded from background to character, and as such is antagonised by individuals (who are relegated to the background) and confronted by the figure of the poet, who highlights the degeneration of humanity complementary to the rise of technology. Such reversal can be inscribed in a gendered poetic of claiming spaces (both theatrical and urban) that were historically hegemonised for men. As argued by Schmid (1996): “Dwarfed by 170 Edwin Muir to T.S. Eliot, 13 January 1956. In Phillip H. Butler (ed. by), 1974, Selected Letters of Edwin Muir (London: Hogarth Press), pp.175-176. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 209 scenography made up of colliding planes, lights, mountains, and city scapes, the sole character, Man, becomes incidental in both performances.” (Schmid 1996: 4) The second polemic in Loy’s plays is the set of characters, which, as suggested by Schmid, appears newly gender-oriented.171 Tellingly enough, “Man” is the only character of the play in both Cittàbapini and Collision. While such subversion of traditional character-set can be read as parody, it brings the dichotomy ‘individual vs collectivity’ into Loy’s specific artistic surroundings. In such sorts of conflict, the Futurist poets Papini and Marinetti appear sometimes on the ‘individuality-front’ with Loy, while they play the role of the poet who denounces the paradoxes of urban collectivity; other times, they oppose Loy, assuming the collective identity of men’s avant-garde. This brings autobiography on stage, inscribing it in a strange play between individual self-portrait and ‘collective’ self-portrait. The Pamperers offers a superior level (than the other plays and fiction) of negotiating portraiture, self-portraiture and auto-biography. In this play, autobiography emerges from the ramblings of the miscellaneous crowd of characters, among which Diana is Loy’s ‘autobiogradramatical’ (rather than autobiografictional) mask. While producing social prototypes and artistic stereotypes, The Pamperers stages potentially auto/biographical masks, triggering meta-social and meta-theatrical reflections. Such a group of masks, as is evident from the list of dramatis personae, is spied by the audience, who observes the scene “as if a camera is panning an evening in a literary salon, catching various images and bits of conversation as it moves through the room.” (Schmid 1996: 5) THE PAMPERERS Invisible Obvious Picked People Houseless Loony Porcelain breath – Sevres bow – Gilded crimson – Curved flutings – Brocade – Tailored muscles – Whipped cream – Blue spirals – Salved lips – Salon – Debussy – Azaleas – Ancestors – Armorial complacencies – Ooze 171 For instance, Cittàbapini’s has only one character, the Greenish Man, who is trapped in a narcissistic machine of self-glorification. Part II 210 Picked People melted by a distinguished method among the upholstery. TAG ENDS OF OVERHEARD CONVERSATION The social fabric is a curtain…and that warm garnet fold-shadow there, for souls’ hide and seek… Decency shudders in the bare moment, taut between vestibule and auto…my crystalline lorgnette…trees…at this season all are undressed. The earth a poignant undertaker… I wish I had a wig darling. …Observe the legs, the agony of the crucified…the tendons…delicate as Dresden china 15th century. …ah yes! the troubles of the steam-heating plant…man from Milan knows his business… Oh Prince how charming of you…and what is your opinion of the sex question? How simple…still I can’t quite agree with you…we shall never give up wearing silk stockings. SOMEBODY Ossy you know has discovered a genius…coming from the club…wonderful chap, see his predatory eye…picking up cigar ends…the grand passion…pockets full… (Schmid 1996: 10) Of the traditional structure of theatrical text, only the skeleton is maintained; title, presentation of the dramatis personae, stage directions are still traceable, but appear ironically transfigured. Stage directions are replaced by/degraded to a heterogeneous list of objects, symbols, tools, background music, and actions. This impression persists when the play begins; no voice prevails over the others, but many conversational topics are introduced: moralism, fashion, sex, religion, art. The characters make up a large number of masks, some of which are collective and choral. Their ranks include “Someone,” “Someone else,” “1st, 2nd Friend,” who stand for collective masks. Other masks appear more characterised than the “pickled people,” since they have a name; yet, they are not individualised characters, and remain only prototypical. “Ossy” gives voice to common prejudices and commonplaces; “Loony” profiles (ironically) the Futurist mask: although he has been identified by critics as Papini, he could stand for any of the Italian Futurists, whose positions are strongly chauvinistic. Diana, who stands for Loy herself, is the only fully fledged characters, however defined by fragmentary and rambling monologues. To mingle 3. Remediating the self-portrait 211 such heterogeneous types of characters, syntax appears elliptical and juxtapositional: contemporary artists (Marinetti, “the man from Milan”) and fairy-tale characters (Prince Charming) coexist side by side in the same line. A critique of “Mainstream” Futurist art is captured by highlighting its paradox of being objectified by the bourgeois consumerism of art. Meaningfully, “Somebody Else” says of Marinetti: “I don’t want to know anything about Marinetti but I respect him…he has a clean collar I am willing to accept the creed of any man who wears a clean collar.” (12) Immediately afterwards, Diana provocatively invites her tablemates to “consume” art, since “genius,” too, is “served directly to the consumer.” (12) Quite clearly, Loy’s attack to the commodification of art connects to the commodification of the feminine body, which is also understood as a ‘good’ by consumerist society. In her statement “there are only two kinds of people in society…geniuses and women,” Loy expresses more explicitly the gendered terms of contrast between her own views and Futurism. While “geniuses” might be male Futurists, in this context, who produced genial art but also made a business of their genius, Diana’s ironic statement “I am Woman,” pinpoints clearly Loy’s position. The contrast between Diana, the autobiographical mask, and Loony, the (parodistic) prototype, spokesman for Italian Futurism, highlights his chauvinistic vision, as he explains why she would not fit into Futurism, which is clearly “a Fraternity;” she would be “slighted,” “criticised,” “witless.” In the face of sequences such as the one that I have just addressed, where autobiography seems to overcome dramatic fiction, the theatrical frame often reappears abruptly. For instance, a conversation between Diana, Loony and Somebody, is suddenly invaded by a stage-direction reference to the curtains (only later clarified as the windows curtains of the pub), which emphasise the theatricality of the space, and evoke an immediate meta-theatrical reflection: OSSY: Oh Di, he wants a widow…James! Draw the curtains. The curtains are drawn The gilded shutters thrown back –) LOONY: (To the grand outdoors) What an idea to muffle It up like that Part II 212 Oh thou from whom all colds are caught…they’re afraid of you catching cold! Similarly, a few pages later, Loony is enraptured in one of his monologues about everything and nothing; distracted by an accidental move of Diana, who indicated an ashtray, he suddenly interrupts his monologue to (presumably) shout: LOONY : There, there! My good people…don’t ask me to say anything…but forgive me Like the “curtains,” (unconvincingly) clarified to be part of the setting, “people” could refer to just the Picked People in the pub; yet, a posited extension of this apostrophe to the audience legitimises further reflection. Such ambiguities re-design the space of the stage, which becomes site of exchange between dramatic fiction and real life: the Picked “People” overlap with the audience, in the extension of the ‘collective mask’; if we extend such allegory of the crowd to ourselves, we may have to conclude that, essentially, we are all masks. The comprehensive stage of The Pamperers, including both stage and hall, becomes the (aesthetic) frame in which the borders between life and performance get permeable. From such a reading of Loy’s works, no substantial difference exists between depiction and construction, and none between stage performers and real people, as they both flow into the mask. In the wake of this suggestion, self-portraying and autobiography are re-contextualised in the dimension of the performance, a zone of transit from literature to life. From such a perspective, these reflections open gateways to the field of performativity, where the mask is no longer on stage, but stages itself in real life. 3.3.1.2. Appropriating autobiography: Barnes’s The Antiphon Djuna Barnes’s The Antiphon seems to build, almost forty years later, on Loy’s delusional masks, on the similar suggestion that ‘persons’ and personae overlap. Drama as a literary genre also suits her experiments of mixing together life and 3. Remediating the self-portrait 213 performance, both in the sense of practicing as an actress, and in her practice of writing for the theatre; in this respect, her double-edged involvement in theatre paves the way for interesting dialogues between stage-masks and audience.172 Barnes’s dramatic (auto)biographical masks are inscribed in openly meta- theatrical poetics, through which Barnes discloses to the audience the dynamics of character-construction. While Loy’s meta-theatrical subtext sends signals to the audience/readership, Barnes’s explicit meta-theatrical frame has clearer effects; primarily, it discloses theatrical practices of wearing, changing, and taking off masks, thus revealing the fictional margin of theatre. More significantly, since the drama has (twisted) (auto)biographical traits, meta-theatre triggers speculation on the potential nature of the mask as a consciously ‘performing self-portrait’. Ultimately, the process of character-construction appears managed by both the playwright and masks themselves, involved in a strange ‘powerplay’. In this light, Barnes’s alter ego in The Antiphon, Miranda, shows awareness of being a mask, a performing self-construction. Yet, her autobiographical traits pledge no starring role or privileged point of view. The autobiographical mask is no narrator, as it has instead been in Nightwood – even then, as we saw, Nora’s position of authority was usurped by other characters. In the play, Miranda is only one of the many masks bringing onto stage the twisted adaptation of Barnes’s family life, a miscellaneous (self-)story where elements of theatrical tradition, life-writing and fabrication merge together. After a page full of meticulous stage directions, the play opens on Miranda and Jack as they are busy in a strange ‘dialogue’: MIRANDA Here’s a trip in nature; here’s gross quiet, 172 In her early career, Barnes was involved as an actress and writer in the Provincetown Playhouse and the Theatre Guild, and was a columnist for the Theatre Guild Magazine. After the launch of such playwrights as O’Neill and Odets, the Provincetown Playhouse ironically evolved from its original form of niche experimental theatre for an audience of Greenwich Village bohemians to a commercially successful Broadway company; but Barnes preserved the original avant-garde élan of the group, re- proposing similar experimental techniques in both language and forms in The Antiphon. In terms of contents too, The Antiphon recalls typical themes of Barnes’s aesthetics: original sin and sexual violence, disguise, puppets, frames and mirrors come back in a circus of literary quotations, intertextuality with the classics and references to her other works. Part II 214 Here’s cloistered waste; Here’s rudeness once was home. JACK There’s no circulation in the theme… The very fad of being’s stopped… MIRANDA The wall is chapped where once the altar stood, The basin dry, the music-stands in dust. Horn and fiddle… JACK Mute as Missae pro Defunctis […] (Barnes 1958: 7-8) The conversation – which is more a succession of fragmented thoughts – is centred on Miranda’s exploration of the (patriarchal) spaces of her family home. In her pondering back-and-forth walks, Miranda visits again the domestic walls, a site of physical and metaphorical enclosure. We immediately discover that Titus, one of the most ‘encumbering’ presences in the play, has died long ago. The intertextuality of Barnes’s text immediately raises the issue of Barnes’s constantly ambiguous position towards dramatic tradition. The substrate of Shakespearian quotations is more pervasive than other sporadic references to the classics. Undoubtedly, the names of Miranda and Titus can hardly be read as neutral, while employed in drama. In a way, Barnes’s middle-aged Miranda counterfeits Shakespeare’s maiden, protected and beloved by her father. The Antiphon’s Miranda is instead cynical and disenchanted, for having been abused by a Calibanesque version of Prospero, her father Titus. While the name of Titus evokes explicitly Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, Barnes’s homicidal Miranda assumes some tones of vindictive Lavinia, craving revenge for the violence endured. King Lear is also a strong presence; when Jack calls himself “juggler” or “Fool,” he claims a role similar to that of Kent in King Lear, bringing forth the truth on the past “under cover […] of a bizarre 3. Remediating the self-portrait 215 behaviour”173 (Altman 1991: 279). This Shakespearian farrago, which makes tragedy and comedy come to interesting compromises, is not the only term of Barnes’s dramatic intertextuality; in fact, Shakespeare is not the only interlocutor of Barnes’s conversation with men’s theatre. Themes and forms from Barnes’s contemporaries are explicit enough. O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night, Ibsen’s Doll’s House, Strindberg’s The Father and Miss Julie, and T.S. Eliot’s The Family Reunion are all evoked to not only confront traditional drama, but men’s drama in general. The masks involved in the play, most of which find (various) matching in Barnes’s family life, are miscellaneous for role and nature. The basic set of acting characters is made up of Miranda, Augusta, Miranda’s mother, Jonathan, one of Miranda’s brothers and a coachman, and Jack; according to Dianne Warren,174 “Jack/Jeremy is pivotal to The Antiphon’s action, as the builder of the Ark” (Warren 2008: 144). Yet, the presence of other ‘absent’ characters is considerable: Titus, Miranda’s abusive father – an ironic reversed/perverted version of Prospero – is constantly evoked, and so are her two other brothers, Elisha and Dudley, who conspire with Jonathan against Augusta. Besides the three members of Hobbs family, there are other absent characters, including Victoria, Elvira, Kappelmeister Stack, and Titus’s various lovers, who all “provide (contrasting) stories” (Caselli 2009: 225) Moreover, the characters’ projections range through ancient myth and history, through fairy-tale and urban reality: they wish they were Helen of Troy, Napoleon, “bloody Cinderella” and police. They also try to steal the mask of other characters, like Augusta, who attempts to strip her daughter Miranda of her costume. The plot remediates, or rather, “counterfeits” (Caselli 2009: 215) Barnes’s history of domestic abuse175 in the form of – parodistic – “revenge tragedy.” (Herring 1991: 281) Augusta is the silently aware mother (unlike Barnes’s mother, as far as I can judge)176 of the sexual violence her husband perpetrated against Miranda and her 173 Meryl Altman, 1991, “No Audience at All?” in Broe (1991), pp. 271-285. 174 Diane Warren, 2008, Djuna Barnes’s Consuming Fiction (Aldershot: Ashgate). 175 As suggested by Ann B. Dalton, Barnes history of sexual abuse is textured over and over in Barnes’s corpus. While hints are spread everywhere, more definite remediation of the story (besides The Antiphon) are evidenced in The Doves, Barnes’s 1923 play, and Ryder, her 1928 experimental novel. Ann B. Dalton, 1993, “‘This is obscene’: Female Voyeurism, Sexual Abuse, and Maternal Power in The Dove,” in The Review of Contemporary Fiction 13, (Fall 1993), pp. 117-139. 176 Barnes dedicated The Book of Repulsive Women to her mother, writing: “TO MOTHER, who was more or less like all mothers, but she was mine, – and so – She excelled.” Part II 216 brothers, and she is psychologically and physically abusive towards her children too. The conflictual relationship between Miranda and her brothers, mirrors partly the tension between Djuna and her brothers – although none of them ever attempted to murder their mother like Elisha and Dudley. Instead, Miranda’s hatred towards her polygamous and rapist father, Titus – a reversed/perverted Prospero – more closely mirrors the relationship between Djuna and her own father.177 Upon evaluation of the autobiographical material of The Antiphon, Barnes’s biographer Phillip Herring argues that the play is an actual (rather than parodistic as I suggested) “revenge tragedy” where she poured her frustration and pain for the domestic violence she had endured as a young girl: “Art was Djuna Barnes’s only refuge and her only means of striking back, whether out of the desire for justice or for vengeance.” (Herring 1995: 281) However, Barnes’s declared position towards self- disclosure, and her advocacy of liberating feminine writing from confession and self- commiseration, warn us, perhaps, from reading The Antiphon as a site of “refuge.” Rather, I focus on what Herring argues about Barnes’s art as her means for “striking back” – in a broader sense. Barnes’s Antiphon can be legitimately read as a site of “vengeance” for the endured violence,178 and also appears as a site for other colliding “anatomies of revenge” (Caselli 2009:191-256) – the most evident of which, perhaps, is the problematic relationship with literary tradition. While clinging to the pieces of autobiography (which remind us of the identity- giving function of the “home” understood as the architecture of memories in 177 As one of Barnes’s many ‘intertextual characters’, Titus appears a more definite figure and a stronger presence than the others, thanks to an intertextual reference to Barnes’s first novel, Ryder. Like Wendell, Titus is polygamous and uncaring of the pain he causes to his legal wife, who (like Amelia) is not in a financial position to leave him. In addition to his polygamy, though, Titus is incestuous and is convinced that, like his wife, his children are his property. 178 As also argued by Louise DeSalvo, in her 1991 “To Make Her Mutton at Sixteen”: Rape, Incest, and Child Abuse in The Antiphon.” There, she defines The Antiphon as an “utterly realistic, and highly accurate portrayal of the psychodynamics and sexual pathology that operate within a family,” where children are victims of routinised abuses (DeSalvo 1991: 300). According to her, Barnes’s drama is a therapeutic strategy used by Barnes to deal with the trauma. However, as psychoanalysis is constantly teased across Barnes’s texts (see the logorrheic self-appointed psychoanalyst Dr O’Connor), other scholars are more sceptical towards defining the masks of the drama as “accurate portrayal,” exploring instead the ways in which autobiography is “counterfeited.” (Caselli 2009: 215-256) In this respect, Augusta’s words to Miranda sound telling: “May God protect us! I wonder what you’ll write / when I am dead and gone” (Barnes 1958: 113) Louise A. DeSalvo, 1991, “To Make Her Mutton at Sixteen”: Rape, Incest, and Child Abuse in The Antiphon,” in Broe, 1991, pp. 300-339. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 217 Nightwood), the masks of The Antiphon stage the (paradoxical) tragedy of not knowing who they are. MIRANDA Who are you, Jack Blow? JACK At this very moment I haven’t the faintest notion. Miranda’s ironical question sounds paradoxical too. More subtly, though, her question suggests that she is asking him who he is beyond the mask. Yet, masks cannot reach beyond the surface of their mask, to discover their real identity, because performance has become the space for self-knowledge and existence, of representation and construction. As they cannot reach beyond their masks, characters engage in identity handovers and role-plays that puncture their auto/biographical foundation. While they fully disclose the mechanics of self-construction, which hinges on a literal and metaphorical change of costume, they also show the extents and potential of being, rather than wearing, masks. In this way, as Augusta strips Miranda of her stage clothing to wear it herself, we see echoes of the usurpation of the autobiographical legacy that we had witnessed in Nightwood. Augusta, envious of her daughter’s (fictional) life, invites her into a role-play: “So, let us play. The epilogue is over, / The boys are asleep and we are girls again.” (III: 101) The meta-theatrical referentiality of “play” introduces us to the ambiguity of the upcoming masquerade. Like a consenting puppet, Miranda does not resist: “without asking permission, AUGUSTA takes off MIRANDA’s shoes, puts them on her own feet, and in exchange puts her slippers on MIRANDA.” (III: 105) Such consensual usurpation, which takes place in meta-theatrical terms, invites reflection of the destiny of Miranda’s autobiographical estate. Apparently, as we read from Miranda’s reply, autobiography can be appropriated:179 AUGUSTA Who are you become? 179 In fact, the case of Jenny Petherbridge in Nightwood anticipated this sort of identity-kleptomania that expresses itself in the theft of personal belongings, in order to physically construct a museum of objects, the architectures of memory. Part II 218 MIRANDA Have I not said it? One of a strolling company of players. Say wardrobe mistress, trying many parts. You see yourself, you have my rings and boots, My cloak and hat. (III: 116) Miranda replies that she has become a sort of puppet, stripped off of her self together with her clothes. Without it, she is just a mask, potentially being anyone. Moreover, she invites Augusta to look at herself wearing her daughter’s stage costume: she has become her daughter. Ultimately, Miranda’s reply “one of a strolling company of players,” invites a final reflection on the use of meta-theatre as a site of conversation between stage- masks and audience, and thus to posit remarks on the implications of their relationship. As argued by Altman: If actors merely dramatize the sinfulness of human pride – the desire to appear what they are not, to mock God by recreating ourselves in a fictional image – what better medium than the theatre could Barnes have found for her final anatomy of the deceptions and manipulations of women and men practice upon those close to them, and upon themselves? […] It is in this light that we must understand the self-referentiality of The Antiphon, its constant allusion to role, scene, and costume, its controlling metaphor – constantly drawing attention to itself – that all the stage is a stage. (Altman 1991: 275) Building on Altman’s explanation of meta-theatre as the meeting of stage-performance and life-performance, the practices of self-construction activated by masks on stage are revealed to be the same used by people in their daily life. In support of this last hypothesis – which puts Barnes’s play in a communion of intentions with Loy’s Pamperers – several moments appear relevant. While Jack frequently calls to mind that he is orchestrating the play – he is, however, only partially in control – he apostrophises Miranda that “We’re all at profile in this session” (emphasis mine.) In such moments as this latter, stage and audience overlap, as they both are defined by their constructions. On this note, Jack’s rhetorical question “No audience at all?” assumes a new nuance; if there is no real difference between masks and the audience, 3. Remediating the self-portrait 219 who are in turn performers in their lives, perhaps there really is no audience at all. This, in fact, would explain the characters’ “fear that someone is listening and that no one is listening.” (Altman 1991: 277) Characters are afraid that there is no audience because this would prove their fictional nature; but they are also afraid that there is an audience because, without their masks, they do not exist. 3.3.2. Transitions My analysis of Mina Loy’s and Djuna Barnes’s works has tried to illustrate how fiction and drama become for them means of exploring several conflicting relationships and problematic partnerships: the power-play between author and mask, trading their roles of puppet and puppeteer; the position of female modernist artists, as friends and foes of men’s avant-garde; and the tension between genre heteronormativity and gendered claim for authority/authorship. In this perspective, their work can be considered pioneering: The Americans are doing what the Elizabethans did—they are coining new words. They are instinctively making the language adapt itself to their needs […] Women writers have to meet many of the same problems that beset American [writers]. They too are the casualties of their own peculiarities as a sex; apt to suspect insolence, quick to avenge grievances, eager to shape an art of their own. In both cases, all kinds of consciousness- -consciousness of self, of race, of sex, of civilization--which have nothing to do with art, have got between them and the paper, with results that are, on the surface, at least, unfortunate. (Woolf 1925: 269) What Woolf writes about the need to create a new language in which to narrate a “new tradition” and a new history can be extended to my discourse on modernist women and their appropriation of genre. Their attempts at liberating auto-biography, emancipating it from site of secrecy, confession and submission, can be precisely interpreted as eagerness “to shape an art of their own.” As argued by Woolf, contextual “kinds of consciousness” such as gender flow in the dynamics of self-construction to forge new identities and social selves. In light of the texts analysed, literature of self-construction offered an opportunity to coin new icons, forms, models, poses and languages. The Part II 220 new set of icons proves dynamic and flexible, thus avoiding the prescriptive nature of old ones. Among the (only few mentioned) sites of negotiation addressed by these two writers, their focus on the identity-trade between personae and persons paves the way to my approach of performativity. While Loy’s and Barnes’s modernist dramas appear as galleries of self-constructions, rather than portraits, they also appear as kaleidoscopic halls of mirrors, where the self plays at hiding and peeping from behind the frames. Ultimately, such halls are spaces of transition, where masks find ways to leave the text to enter (or go back to) life, which they live as just another performance. 3.4. Into performativity So many stage-masks (which already in Barnes and Loy mingle and overlap with the audience) compel us to reflect on the ways in which the mask can exceed the space of the stage, thus entering the space of performativity. Aesthetics of performativity have been addressed by critics since the 1960s and 1970s, when “performative utterances” were identified as constructions of language that not only were describing a given reality, but also changed the social reality described in return. (Austin 1962)180 However, performative idioms began to be associated with discourses of gender identity from the late 1970s and 1980s. By the 1980s, it was not news that heteronormativity was a problematic issue for literary women: to name but a few studies, Havelock Ellis’s Sexual Inversion (1897) and Edward Carpenter’s The Intermediate Sex (1908) show how gender was understood as separate from (and segregated by) biological sex since the dawn of the twentieth century. Women’s modernity also explored sexual ambiguity, shown, for instance, in the terms of Joan Riviere’s “masquerade” (1929) – later also taken up in psychological insights by Lacan (1986).181 Mid-century works such as de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex were considered as groundbreaking by later scholars such as Butler,182 who acknowledged how de 180 John L. Austin, 1962, How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press). 181 Jacques Lacan, 1986, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis (Harmondsworth: Penguin), p. 193. 182 Judith Butler, 1986, “Sex and Gender in Simone de Beauvoir’s Second Sex” in Yale French Studies 72, (Winter 1986), pp. 35-49. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 221 Beauvoir’s book proves essential in understanding that “gender is gradually acquired.” (Butler 1986: 35) While after Foucault’s encyclopaedic History of Sexuality (1976), studies of performativity proliferate, it is Judith Butler who seems pivotal in charting the territory from performance to performativity. While I have relied from the beginning on Butler’s post-structuralist poetics of “undoing” (2004) as the framework of my exploration of performative self-construction, her studies on the practices and “politics of the performative” (1997)183 provide further grounding for the study of self- staging, particularly for the case of the Baroness. Butler suggests, interestingly, that anyone’s speech or actions are inescapably, consciously or not, “performed” for an audience, even if that audience is only imagined. In fact, Butler’s considerations help to reframe Loy’s and Barnes’s deliberate overlapping between personae and persons as the experiments of performativity. Scholars today (e.g. Davies 2008)184 put Butler’s criticism into “conversation” with literary womanhood, thus showing the endless potential application of her critical works. While Jenkins’s politics of “forgiving, giving over and giving away”185 can perhaps be applied to the position of my chosen writers toward autobiography, I want to delve more specifically into the processes of self-constructing in extra-textual contexts, applying Butler’s theory to the case of the Baroness. In performativity, the self is considered as the quintessential theatrical mask, which crosses (and cross-fertilises) self-construction and self-staging. The upcoming analysis of Zelda Fitzgerald and (more extensively) of the Baroness as personae will explore the sites of transition of the performative self, and therefore the ultimane remediation of the self-portrait. Specifically, Zelda’s autobiographical novel shows the mutual influences between fiction and performativity in the construction of the icon; the case of the Baroness shows instead how politics of construction can prove eventually destructive. 183 Judith Butler, 1997, Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative (London; New York, Routledge). 184 Bronwyn Davies (ed. by), 2008, Judith Butler in Conversation: Analysing the Texts and Talks of Everyday Life (London; New York: Routledge). 185 Fiona Jenkins, 2008, “Forgiving, Given Over, Given away: A Response to Judith Butler” in Davies, 2008, pp. 39-54. Part II 222 3.4.1. From life-writing to self-staging: Alabama and Zelda The case of Zelda Fitzgerald conveys an interesting and unusual example of performativity which is situated between text, reception, and performativity: alongside the activation of the ‘life influencing writing’-paradigm, which implicates discourses of genre remediation, the case of Zelda also shows the reverse process: the autobiographical characters of the stories, and the autobiografictional heroine of the novel, characterise Zelda in return, flowing into the construction of her iconic public profile. In the first place, Zelda’s performativity is related to the construction of her public image as the emblematic expression of the jazz-age and heroine of the roaring- twenties derive in fact largely from her appreciation of fashion. Very early in her life, she started staging herself as a fashion icon, as soon as she, in fact, understood the importance of having a successful public image. Such process is recorded in Milford’s biography of Zelda, which defines fashion as the means of Zelda’s birth as an American icon. Zelda had organdie dresses with great flounces and ruffles, and a glorious pair of velvet lounging pants, but very little that was appropriate for New York. Scott felt she needed the tactful guidance of Miss Hersey taste, and together they bought her a smart Patou suit. (Milford 1970: 65) According to Zelda’s biographer Nancy Milford, the construction of Zelda’s public character began with dressing up fashionably. In order to stress Zelda’s wish to 3. Remediating the self-portrait 223 conform to the roaring-twenties, flapper role-model,186 Milford also quotes a letter by Zelda, who describes New York as a glamorous city, where “girls in short amorphous capes and long flowing skirts and hats like straw bathtubs waited for taxis in front of the Plaza Grill” and “girls in long satin coats and colored shoes and hats like straw manhole covers tapped the tune of a cataract on the dance floors of the Lorraine and the St. Regis.” (66) However, among all New York flappers and fashionable ladies, Zelda excelled. Initially, her icon benefited from the fame of Scott, and of the notoriety of herself and Scott as a couple – “they were being heralded as models in the cult of youth.” (69) However, today’s reception of Zelda derives very little from her biographic chronicle, but more substantially from her own autobiographic novel. As a consequence, our knowledge of her is permeated by the iconicity and success of Alabama as a character. Furthermore, it is interesting to notice that, even when Zelda was still alive, her public image enjoyed an aura of success and perfection, that came from fictional characters based on her, both her own fictional heroines and Scott’s Zelda-based characters. Such models amplified her iconicity in such a way that it rebounded on the same historical person who had created them. Zelda’s stories for College Humor, written between 1929 and 1930, stage a gallery of women protagonists, who, despite being little developed as characters, have autobiographical traits. “The Original Follies Girl,” “The Southern Girl,” “The Girl the Prince Liked,” “The Girl with Talent,” and “A Millionaire Girl” all have blond and 186 Zelda’s novel and paintings are rich in references to women’s fashion, mainly inspired by Chanel and Patou drop-waist skirts, hats, and accessories. The fashion industry and fashionable women began a relationship based on mutual exchange, in which the fashion industry dictated a new canon to which women of fashion contributed by conforming to and spreading it in verbal, visual and performative self- portraits. With their books and paintings, together with their fashionable look, Barnes and Fitzgerald contributed to the proliferation of the casual chic style of the misérbailisme de luxe, which suited the post-war, working but elegant woman. The discourse on fashion has a place, in my opinion, in the larger discourse on the definition of a collective identity that I have developed in the first part of my thesis. The pair individuality vs./being part of the collectivity was one of the crucial questions in the definition of women’s identity at the beginning of the twentieth century; certainly, the 1920s and 1930s dress- code contributed to the development of a transnational female community. Hanscombe and Smyers’s description of a transnational ‘network of women’ applies perfectly to my small but telling group of women intellectuals. With Barnes and Fitzgerald moving from New York to Paris, and Loy and the Baroness moving from Europe to New York, I traced a geographical directrix between the main centres of female literary and artistic avant-garde. One of the traits common to these unique profiles is certainly that they fashioned themselves to suit the new icon of the female intellectual travelling across the Atlantic. Part II 224 fair fashionable women as protagonists. In this sense, the ‘iconic idiom’ of Zelda deriving from her own heroines, an idiom of beauty, liveliness, fashion and partying girl, was starting to affect her public profile. Before 1936, when Save Me The Waltz was completed, such an icon, which we identify with a sort of anticipation of Alabama, existed already as the set of superlative characteristics defining Zelda’s public profile. All these features, and other, more complex traits converged in the construction of Alabama, an ideal self-portrait of herself. The main difference between the novel’s character and the real Zelda is that Alabama could take the place she was offered at Naples Ballet, which Zelda had declined. By attributing the success of becoming prima ballerina to Alabama, which she herself was denied, Zelda enhanced of her already iconic public profile. Strangely enough, after Alabama was created as an idealised autobiographical character, a sort of Alabama-epitome exceeded the text to apply back to Zelda and boast her public image, turning her into the legend we know today. In respect to our Alabama-mediated reception of the historical Zelda Fitzgerald, we think of her as a successful character, problematic and complex, but glowing with fame. We do not recall Zelda’s defeat in having to turn down the offer; we recall instead Zelda’s success as a ballerina (which was quite modest, in fact), which mainly comes from our readings of Alabama’s success. In terms of performativity, then, Zelda’s appears to be a most interesting case, which involves the action of two main forces mutually influencing one another in a singular hermeneutic process. The former concerns the textualisation of autobiography into the iconic characters of the stories. The latter includes the process for which such masks rebound, thus influencing the public icon of the historical narrator while she was still alive. Indeed, such resonance converges back again to the shaping of a more complex idealised autobiographical character, Alabama. As a paragon, Alabama’s influence eventually outsizes the text and feeds the already iconic profile of Zelda – which has survived with heroic traits until today. While we perfectly know, today, that the stories for College Humor were in fact written by Zelda, at the time they were attributed to Scott, or to Scott and Zelda joint-writing. In fact, there is an additional set of role-models, beside Zelda’s stories heroines and Alabama, which influenced the shaping of her performative person. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 225 Zelda’s icon also owned its resonance to Scott’s writings, which largely contributed to add definition to Zelda’s model with a series of blond, beautiful, rich and successful characters. As a matter of fact, in 1921 he was interviewed for the Shadowland magazine, where he declared “I married the heroine of my stories.” Indeed, Rosalind and Daisy, from Scott’s This Side of Paradise and The Great Gatsby respectively, and Gloria and Nicole from The Beautiful and The Damned and Tender Is The Night, are to different extents shaped after Zelda’s kaleidoscopic but mesmerising personality. As I conclude my very brief thoughts on Zelda’s performativity, which broadcasted a monumental profile constructed as she was still alive by her own fictional and non-fictional mask, I want to say a few words on the effects that the reception of the heroic traits Zelda’s profile has had on today’s forms of creativity. While the 2010s have been proving extremely productive in terms of remediating the story of Zelda and Scott as a couple in both fiction and movies,187 I would like to explore a specific form of remediation of Zelda’s autobiography, which finds itself between criticism and literature. In 2011, Tiziana Lo Porto and Daniele Marotta produced a graphic biography of Zelda Fitzgerald, Superzelda, that fits in a trend of international rekindled interest in the Fitzgeralds, which has seen regular peaks since Scott’s death – the latest peak has been in the years 2011-2013. The original 2011 Italian version was immediately translated into English by Antony Shugaar, thus gaining international critical attention for its double value as a biography of the artist Zelda Fitzgerald and as a work of art in itself. Superzelda is a noteworthy example of when criticism moves towards and merges with art, to eventually generate new art. In Superzelda, the majority of the dialogue is real, extracted from diaries, letters, interviews and short stories. In its vignettes and witty speech bubbles, this graphic novel critically explores Zelda’s consuming artistic genius to explore the stunning personality of Zelda Fitzgerald as a 187 In this respect, 2013 has been Scott and Zelda’s year: alongside 2013 Hollywood film version of The Great Gatsby, featuring an Oscar-nomination-worth Leonardo DiCaprio as Gatsby, three new novels reimagine Zelda and Scott’s love story in different terms. Therese Anne Fowler’s Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald (2013), narrated by Zelda in Montgomery shortly before Scott’s death in 1940, addresses a double-edged Zelda as naive girl and muse. Instead, Erika Robuck’s Call Me Zelda (2013) sees a nurse, Anna, who meets Zelda at the Phipps Psychiatric Clinic in Baltimore. Shortly afterwards, Anna agrees to leave the hospital and work privately for the Fitzgeralds at La Paix, their Baltimore mansion. Robuck delves into the Fitzgerald legend, and encourages Zelda to write out stories from her past. Beautiful Fools: The Last Affair of Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald by R. Clifton Spargo (also 2013) fictionalizes Zelda and Scott's final trip together, to Cuba, in 1939. Part II 226 writer, dancer and visual artist, as well as a passionate woman. As a graphic novel, Superzelda also emphasises the performative traits of Zelda’s life, made already iconic by the corpus of works by Scott and Zelda, and by the history of reception around Zelda’s public figure. What drew my attention to this piece of ‘artistic criticism’ in the first place was the title, “Super-,” which echoes the heroic qualities of the author of Save Me The Waltz. This graphic novel, however, is designed to be a reliable autobiography, made amusing and quick to read because of the choice of genre, but as close as possible to the life of the historical Zelda. In my opinion, and as is proved by Lo Porto and Marotta’s work, the identity of the wonder woman that we associate with Zelda Fitzgerald today has also been filtered by the heroic features of her own autobiografictional characters. The attribution of a heroic aura to the protagonist of a graphic novel certainly also comes from a tradition of the genre itself, which usually narrates the vicissitudes of a heroic character. But Superzelda’s heroism might have as well been induced by the use of Save Me The Waltz as a source for the graphic novel – a use legitimised by the evident assonances between Alabama and Zelda. Regardless of what exact influence Zelda’s novel had on Superzelda, the graphic biography still corroborates today the image of a super-woman that Zelda’s own fictional adaptations, above all Alabama as an ‘ideal self-portrait’, have contributed to create. Moreover, this example of dialogue between literature and criticism evidences a specific story of performativity and reception; Zelda’s iconic masks had a large part in constructing performative Zelda, resulting as a modern hero, “beautiful and damned” (Scott Fitzgerald: 1922) who is ready to be objectified by new forms of biography. Rather than targeting historical Zelda, however, such biographies address performative Zelda. 3.4.2. A dramatic identity: the Baroness Instead of constructing masks for the stage, the Baroness constructed masks to stage her own self. Such masks were, as anticipated, erotically charged and provocative, her self-imaging dangerous and appealing, dramatic and tragic. In these last few paragraphs, I will explore how Else Plötz became the Baroness, an epithet she 3. Remediating the self-portrait 227 constructed in New York, focusing particularly on how she turned herself into a work of art. As it has emerged, the body is the device through which to read the Baroness’s embodied and idiosyncratic poetry. It is interesting now to investigate the performative component of her poetry, to discover mutual influences between poetic performativity and her life-performativity; between how she produced Dada works, and how she wore Dada in clothing and manners; between how she sexualised her art and the way in which art transformed her body. Within such loose frames, gender politics are negotiated in interesting ways, even rejected and “undone” (Butler 2004). Clearly, the body is at the heart of the Baroness’s dramatic identity and make Butler’s considerations particularly useful. Interestingly, her formulations seem to theorise the Baroness’s persona. 3.4.2.1. Shocking Elsa: gender matters The Baroness excesses backfired, in the end, thus making her one of the most interesting and dramatic (tragic) – yet majorly neglected – personalities of her time. In Gammel’s telling phrasing: Like no other artist, the Baroness ultimately consumed herself in and through her art. The performance of herself as the Baroness, as both persona and real woman, left no screen for protection. (Gammel 2003: 16) Impossible to go unnoticed by her contemporaries, the Baroness impressed those who lived around her. As Djuna Barnes described her, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven was the most bewildering personality animating Greenwich Village artistic life in the 1910s. Among the endless definitions have been provided to try and contain her personality, none seemed able to suit her; excluding the ones that stigmatised her negatively as mentally disturbed,188 even looser ones seem often inappropriate or 188 The non-acquiescence with which the Baroness lived and created her work unsettled even the avant- garde and is the driving force of Jones’s critical readings of Dada. Amelia Jones, 2005, Irrational Modernism: A Neurasthenic History of New York Dada (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). Part II 228 insufficient – cross-cultural, trans-sexual, anti-artist etc. Even among the Dada artists she excelled for her diversity, so that she was even defined the “New York’s first punk persona 60 years before their time” (Hughes 1997: 1).189 She certainly anticipated postmodernist culture, whose “dominant characteristic […] is that everything performs” (Auslander 2004: 99).190 The Baroness chose to live at once as an artist and as a work of art herself, making of her own body a “fashioned persona” (Caselli 2009: 67). So extraordinary was her behaviour that she even stunned Margaret Anderson, founder of the avant-garde magazine The Little Review. When Elsa first came to the magazine offices, she presented herself as follows: So she shaved her head. Next she laquered it a high vermillon. The she stole the crêpe from the door of a house of mourning and made a dress of it. […] She came to see us. First she exhibited the head at all angles, amazing against our black walls. The she jerked off the crêpe with one movement. It’s better when I’m nude, she said. (Anderson 1969: 211) A similar performance, probably the same, is described by Djuna Barnes, who focuses on Elsa’s extreme performativity and self-display, nonetheless on the hard time that her non-acquiescence caused her: “She had a head like a Roman emperor’s, short, sometimes razored, once shellacked, red hair. She batiqued her tailored suites, made earrings from grave-flowers and Christmas tree decorations, and had a voice and constitution of iron. […] She was very difficult to know.” (Herring 2005: 254) Her personality was impossible not to notice; either it would shock or repel, but it certainly impressed anyone who met her. She served as source of inspiration for female characters in Barnes’s short stories and Nightwood; she impressed upon the artistic sensibility of Williams Carlos Williams, and was depicted in George Biddle’s An 189 Robert Hughes, 1997, “Days od Antic Weirdness: A Look Back at Dadaism’s Brief, Outrageous Assault on the New York Scene,” Time 149(4), (27 January 1997), pp. 70-72. 190 Philip Auslander, 2004, “Postmodernism and Performance,” in The Cambridge Companion to Postmodernism, ed. Steven Connor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 99-115. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 229 American Artist’s Story and Matthew Josephson’s Life Among the Surrealists: A Memoir. The body used as an artistic tool by the Baroness invites the validation of Butler’s practice of undoing categories. The Baroness’s choice to use her own sexuality as an artistic means urges a thought on gender, and eventual gender categories which she is trying to challenge – or establish. While analysing the Baroness’s embodied poems I stressed how the body was for her a cognitive tool, an experiential device that influenced and was influenced by all aspects of human experience. Now, I reiterate this aspect underlining how the body was also a social medium, which the Baroness employed to interact with others. As to the choice of fashioning herself as a living work of art, Butler’s considerations prove useful to relate the Baroness’s artistic choices to gender implications: The body implies mortality, vulnerability, agency: the skin and the flesh expose us to the gaze of others but also to touch and to violence. The body can be the agency and instrument of all these as well, or the site where “doing” and “being done to” become equivocal. Although we struggle for rights over our own bodies, the very bodies for which we struggle are not quite ever only our own. The body has its invariably public dimension. (Butler 2004: 21) As Butler points out (perhaps still in response to the body politics of Julia Kirsteva), the body is the channel of communication between the self and the society in which the subject lives; as such, it can be fashioned in endless ways, each time carrying a different message. In the case of the Baroness, the conception of the body goes together with her idea of performativity: not only did she decide to make of her body a fashioned identity; not only did she construct an alter ego, a social model; she rather created a multitude of masks, a range of dynamic, unstable, creative icons, continually igniting herself with new, astonishing identities. Part II 230 George Grantham Bain. 1910ca, Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. The willing ambiguity with which she connoted her performances makes her an interesting case study for gender theories. Sometimes she would wear men’s clothes; other times she would impersonate feminine exotic masks; other time she played androgynous roles. The transfiguration of the Baroness’s body into a social device towards artistic expression, ends up validating Butler’s theories on the legitimacy of undoing categories. When Butler says that “the body can be […] the site where “doing” and “being done to become equivocal,” (Butler 2004: 21) she almost seems to depict the Baroness attitude. The Baroness’s deliberated confusion of gender and overt sexualisation of herself as a work of art challenged all gender aesthetics. The many masks worn by the Baroness encourage reflections on the relationship between this fashioned persona and the human being who created them, or in other words, between the performative body and the self. If a constant element can be traced across all the fictional, visual and dramatic masks presented so far, it is that it is always impossible to look behind the mask to find out the real self. Like in Barnes’s work, the subject behind the masks goes forgotten because it is corrupted and broken. In Loy’s work, the subject is a mask, and is mostly unaware of being one, because the image is all what is given to know. Zelda was known and is remembered today like her heroic, nonetheless dramatic, icon. For the Baroness, we can draw 3. Remediating the self-portrait 231 similar conclusions, yet her self appears more even elusive; as illustrated by Djuna Barnes, nobody really knew Elsa: she disappeared completely behind the mask of the Baroness. Anybody could appreciate the Baroness, the disguise, and be stunned by her eccentric costumes – still no one could say that they knew her real ‘I’. Butler seems again to provide a useful account of such an implication of the undoing process: The “I” that finds itself at once constituted by the norms and dependent on them but also endeavours to live in ways that maintain a critical and transformative relation to them. This is not easy, because the “I” becomes, to a certain extent unknowable, threatened by unviability, with becoming undone altogether, when it no longer incorporates the norm in such a way that makes this “I” fully recognizable. (Butler 2004: 3) A social, fashioned, artificial ‘I’ is nonetheless an ‘I’, built instead of the self. By doing and undoing gender identities and public icons – ‘I’s – of herself, the Baroness undoes radically, and provocatively, her own self in order to build the mask. The Baroness’s masked-‘I’ consisted, paradoxically, in the collage of her endless representations, thus embodying a post-modernist sensibility. Her dynamic I-changes were misunderstood in her time, to the point that she was diagnosed as psychologically unstable; in the end, then, the kaleidoscopic personality that made her famous and that fascinated her fellow artists at her time was the same cause of her marginalisation. Quoting Gammel again: Her poetry remained unpublished, for most ‘magazines are opposed to my very name’[…] Her visual art […] became canonized under the name of another artist. The Baroness herself was shelved in cultural history under the rubric of eccentricity and madness. (Gammel 2003: 5) Still, and indeed paradoxically, it was the same society that stigmatised her to create some of her masks. To social prescriptions, she rebelled; artistic prescriptions, she exceeded; gender prescriptions, she rejected and reassembled. As Butler says “the terms that make up one’s gender are, from the start, outside oneself, beyond oneself in a sociality that has no single author;” (Butler 2004: 1) gender, being the result of many – conflicting – components, can only make sense when caught as a momentary, non- fixed snapshot of a self in constant evolution. Part II 232 The gender that the Baroness expressed changed unpredictably and shockingly: sometimes she would parade holding giant penis sculpture in her hand, and sometimes she would mime feminine masturbation (Walser 2014),191 it makes little sense to retain any stable gender categorisation; it would probably lead to an even more confusing attempt to find a category for almost each performance. Her ambivalence as androgyne allowed her to test a stunning range of erotically charged positions – young ingénue, female flâneur, erotic art worker, priapic traveller, chorus girl cum prostitute, actress, cross-dresser, lesbian, and syphilitic patient – all in a span of just a few years. None of these identities ultimately defined her, however; she impersonated each but always moved on in her journey through roles and identities. (Gammel 2003: 58). The range of the fashioned profiles which Gammel delineates mirrors the wide variety of the Baroness’s – sexual – disguises; her sexual tastes were, indeed, changeable. Among the many considerations that Djuna Barnes mentioned referring to the definition of gender categories, one is particularly relevant to this discussion. Though it refers to Barnes’s own sexual tastes, it applies well to the Baroness too; having affairs with both men and women, Barnes downplayed and denigrated her own lesbianism, in response to Emily Coleman’s question whether she was a lesbian: “I might be anything. If a horse loved me, I might be that.”192 (Coleman to Djuna Barnes, 27 October 1935). “Protean gender bender” and “androgynous new woman” (Gammel 2003: 4), the Baroness had – thanks indeed to her ambivalence – the possibility to embody any kind of (un)gendered characters, any mask, male or female, even unsexed, thus gaining the widest freedom of expression. 191 Adrienne Walser, 2014, “Living Dada. A review of ‘Irrational Modernism: A Neurasthenic History of New York Dada’,” in Jacket2, (5 May 2014), n.p. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 233 International New Photography, 1915, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven [with aviator hat, horizontal pose]. International New Photography, 1915, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven [with crown]. Like her body, her art was androgynous: “Feminine in attracting the viewer’s gaze to the female body, masculine in producing an unexpected shock effect.” (Gammel 2003: 182) And sexuality was indeed for the Baroness a means to creativity, through which she opened herself to the world. Even though Butler did not express her opinion on her, the scholarship around the Baroness’s scholarship, including both her contemporaries – Anderson, Heap and even Pound – and her modern readers – from feminist critics to Irene Gammel – agree that sexuality is the doorway between her poetry and performativity. The transfiguration of life into art could take place through and because of her sexual body; life was one with art, and her body was the work of art; literary and visual techniques completely overlap with acting and performativity. In the very first few pages of Undoing Gender, Butler points out two kinds of undoing gender, a ‘good’ one and a ‘bad’ one. For Butler, undoing gender can be destructive because it undermines the capacity of a person to live a normal – social – life. When this happens, the subject remains cut out from any accepted dimension and, as in the case of the Baroness, ends up being rejected and ostracised. Part II 234 Sometimes a normative conception of gender can undo one’s personhood, undermining the capacity to persevere in a livable life. Other times, the experience of a normative restriction becoming undone can undo a prior conception of who one is only to inaugurate a relatively newer one that has a greater livability as its aim. (Butler 2004: 1) Being her masks so different, creative and paradoxical, the Baroness ended up destroyed by excesses: “she always pushed her work to the extreme edges of genres, creating hybrid genres.” (Gammel 2003: 10) Caught up in extremes like male/female, erotic/grotesque, European/American, she often struggled to find her own place; her work reflected her hybrid self: Her ambiguous sexuality, provocative performances and shocking art contributed to the building of her reputation as an outsider. By living at once, as I explained, at the core and on the margins of artistic, cultural, and social life, she constantly challenges us to reflect on the cost of her bewildering artistic choices. 3.4.2.2. Psychogenesis of the Baroness as poet As I pointed out, the most peculiar aspect of the Baroness’s dramatis persona is that the same society that marginalised her for her eccentric and provocative behaviour also placed her under the spotlight. Whereas in the early (European) phases of the process of mask-construction there were some remnants of the person, traces of her disappear in the American Baroness. Uncaring of being was discriminated and marginalised as a person, of living on the edge of poverty and in and out of prison, the Baroness as dramatis persona lived in the absolute centre, only caring for the spectacular sides of her life. The “psychogenesis” of ‘the Baroness’s is strongly related to sexual experience, and is described with impressively accurate details in Else’s auto- analytical memoirs, poetry and letters. The birth of the mask needs to be traced in Else’s childhood in Sweinemünde, a sad theatre of fatherly violence.193 Despite the 193 In this paragraphs, I use Else and Elsa accordingly to the phases of her life, respectively when she was in Germany or had moved to America – where she changed her name. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 235 abuses Else endured from her father, and despite the fact he infected her with syphilis, she had contradictory feelings towards him; she hated him, but also described him in all accounts as a handsome man with a magnetic personality, virile, muscular and attractive. Else’s poem “Coachrider” condenses the contrasting feelings she had for her father, and most importantly she confessed how such violence affected her psyche in terms of identity-definition. Coachrider He’s Papa – I’m his small daughter […] Ter – ri – ble! Mighty – knowing – jolly – fanatic – Cunning – cruel – possessed – despotic – detestable – Horrid! Fi! Fi! I hate that Papa! Who am I? […] Aaaaaaa-niiiiiii – Mama – don’t let him I can’t – caaaannnt!No-o-o-o-o – no-o-o-o-o-o-o – […] Look at Papa – killer! He beams – loveably – virile – despotic by blood – I adore – abhor him – […] (Gammel 2011: 134) All verses are telling enough to describe the cruelty of the abuse; despite it, though, some verses show a twisted appreciation of him. Between these two contradictory feelings lies the identity issue of young Elsa, who wonders “Who am I?” While Else’s letters reveal the absolute and chronic fear she and her siblings lived in, her poem(s) seems to give (yelling) voice to that silence. In addition, they show how the Baroness’s existential doubts and her need to express her oppressed feelings through poetry had a common origin in (a deviated) sexuality. Since her poetry is about experiencing, and since the body was her primary experiential and artistic tool, poetry had to be sexualised. It is clear, as Gammel has shown, that performative poetry hacks back to Elsa’s biography. If the rebel sexuality that stigmatises the Baroness finds roots in Else’s outraged childhood, the Baroness’s hatred of the bourgeois also can be traced back to her youth. Bourgeois façades of respectability and decency prevented her mother from Part II 236 confessing that her husband had infected her with syphilis and urinal infection, and she did not get treated for such diseases until it was too late. Furthermore, when her father took an iconic bourgeois woman as their step-mother while his children were still mourning their mother, Elsa felt she could not bear to live in the house anymore. Unsurprisingly, the conflict between her and her father, after which she left the house, was violent, physically and emotionally. Once she had exited her father’s house, Else started being progressively replaced by the Baroness – although she only gained this epithet after her third marriage, she started constructing the dramatis persona which would bear this name much earlier. The first place she went to was Berlin, where she started acting like the Baroness, sexually free, anti-bourgeois, rebel. As Gammel remarks, she (unlike Nietzsche’s friend Lou Salomé) lacked the social standing that would make her rebel position philosophical and intellectual, or protect her from public judgement, so already in Berlin she was harshly attacked for her libertine costumes. Still, Berlin was a second birth for Else – less and less Else and progressively more the Baroness. In Funny Essler, the novel Felix Greve wrote about his wife and to which Else potentially contributed, the Berlin-experience is described as follows: Fannys erster Tag in Berlin war wie eine Erwachen. […] Jetzt merkte sie plötzlich, daß sie während all der langen Monate nur eins getan hatte: sie hatte geträumt. Von wem geträumt, wovon? Von einer unbestimmten Zukunft […] Sie dachte an ihre letzte Vergangenheit: da hatte alles geschlafen: ihr Blut und ihre Sinne. Wie eine Nachtwanderin hatte sie gelebt. (Grieve 1905 :3)194 Grieve describes this change from Else into a newer version of herself as a regression rather than a progression. He says: “Fanny hatte eine Bewegung gemacht wie etwa ein wildes Tier,”195 (6) a wild animal. This remark, which obviously makes us think of Robin in Nightwood, encapsulates Else’s metamorphosis into the Baroness-epitome, 194 The translation is mine: “Fanny’s first day in Berlin was like an awakening. […] Now she realised suddenly that during the past months she only had been doing one thing: she had been dreaming. About whom, about what? About an undefined future. […] She thought about her recent past; she everything had slept: her blood and mind. She had lived like a somnambule (intentionally translated into French to create an assonance with the description of Robin in Nightwood.) Felix P. Grieve, 1905, Fanny Essler (Stuttgart: Axel Juncker Verlag). 195 The translation is mine: “Fanny had developed a behaviour like a wild animal.” 3. Remediating the self-portrait 237 wild, unruled, undomesticated. What may sound like a regression, is in fact a process of ‘disrobing’ of social conventions, bourgeois hypocrisy and gender prescription. What the new Elsa dressed herself in, instead, was a costume – several costumes, in fact. 3.4.2.3. New York masks and performative poems Elsa’s American self was even more eccentric than that of the ‘newly awakened’ Berliner Else. Upon the opening of the International Exhibition of Modern Art in New York in 1913, she had just left Cincinnati and was already famous in New York, launched by Frank Crowninshield on Vanity Fair as the most extreme champion of American Dada – alongside Duchamp, who exhibited his Nude Descending a Staircase (1912) at the Regiment Armory. A few months after the exhibition, she finally gave a name to the dramatis persona she had gradually become; she married the German expatriate, Leopold Karl Friedrich Baron von Freytag-Loringhoven.196 Gammel too described this moment as Else’s “public initiation into her artistic role, similar to Mary Phelps Jacob’s metamorphosis into Caress Crosby.” (Gammel 2003: 160) Indeed, Else’s evolution into ‘the Baroness’s was an initiation, rather than a metamorphosis; the dramatis persona existed already, only needing to be named. Like Zelda, who named her fictional heroine Alabama only long after having created her as a public icon, Else constructed a personality to which she only later gave a name. Since when she became the Baroness, her activity intensified on both the fronts of (performative) writing and performativity. Her poetic production underwent intensification, increasingly focusing on the relationship between the sexualised mask and the performative verse. In this respect, the fact of having become ‘the Baroness’s 196 Their marriage ended soon afterwards, though, when in 1914 the Baron embarked for Europe to enrol as a volunteer in the German Army during the First World War – they never saw each other again. He was made a war prisoner and committed suicide while interned in Switzerland in 1918. As a ‘war bride,’ the Baroness started costuming herself in ways that echoed war episodes, with tones of protests. Part II 238 was a turning point. The ‘signature-poem’ below197 shows how the new title was for Else an alternative, artistic self. Of course, the choice of a German aristocratic title might sound inconsistent with her non-conformity and anti-German-language sentiment, but Elsa wore the title as a provocation, a “red flag to declare her cultural aristocracy in democratic America.” (Gammel 2003: 161) Man Ray, 1920, Else Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. While her costumes advocated that sexuality be liberated and femininity emancipated from being the commodity of men, her poems continued to be equally provocative, as denouncing sexual heteronormativity: 197 It is also worth pointing out that the picture above was used as cover-picture on The Little Review in relation to the obscenity trial over the publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses in the American literary magazine, occurred in 1921. After The Little Review published the “Nausicaa” episode of Ulysses in the 1920 July–August issue of the magazine, the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice instigated obscenity charged against editors Margaret Caroline Anderson and Jane Heap. After this episode, the Baroness had aggressively promoted Ulysses. Gammel writes, “If Heap was the field marshal for The Little Review’s vanguard battle against puritan conventions and traditional sexual aesthetics, then the Baroness was to become its fighting machine.” (Gammel 2003: 240) 3. Remediating the self-portrait 239 Holy Skirts: Thought about holy skirts – to tune of “Wheels are growing on rose- bushes.” Beneath immovable – carved skirts of forbidding sexlessness – over pavement shoving – gliding – nuns have wheels. […] (Gammel 2011: 121) These few lines from “Holy Skirts” (1920 ca.) condense many themes of impassioned protest also expressed in the performances, including repressed feminine sexuality, church-imposed constriction and mechanical de-sexualisation of women’s body. The analogy of the woman’s body underneath her skirt with a sexless engine can certainly find a performative counterpart in the Baroness’s Dada miscellaneous clothing – electric battery and electric wire were used as accessories. This simple, but very telling example, is only one of many correspondences we could establish between the Baroness’s poetry and her daily performance. In New York, Elsa’s performances became a carnival of dressing and undressing; she posed nude for art-schools in Berlin and Munich, and later in New York; for photographers like George Grantham and Man Ray; for friends and painters like Theresa Bernstein: Man Ray, 1921. Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven (a & b). Part II 240 In New York, she started wearing self-made clothes, and started cross-dressing. Although we need to be cautious in defining Elsa’s behaviour as ‘feminist’ – it only fit in a wider policy of undoing and protest – she did make her entrance into New York Fifth Avenue society dressed in a man’s suit and smoking a cigarette, to protest against sexual disparities and discrimination: she was promptly arrested and an article was written about her in the New York Times, denouncing her indecency, “She Wore Men’s Clothes.” This first American episode fits well the dialectic paradigm of being ostracised and yet being made a protagonist by the same social context. But it also reveals her complete devotion to her cause; she knew that walking around in men’s clothes would cause her arrest just as much as she was aware that performing naked near Central Park would cost her both prison and labels such as ‘mad’ or ‘mentally deviated.’ Yet, she would gain the front page. When in February 1915 Britain (mainly London) was bombed, and when Britain replied in March by bombing German trains, the Baroness Elsa198 paraded in an aviator costume. International New Photography, 1915, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven [with aviator hat, vertical and horizontal pose]. 198 In America, she made one of the most important steps that marked her irrevocable change into the persona she created for herself; she changed her name from the German Else to the Americanised Elsa. Certainly, such change is not just in her name, as it corresponds with her plan to translate everything she had written in German into English. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 241 It was in these years that costumes started replacing clothing, since performance and daily life overlapped and merged. As Margaret Anderson recalled: Tired of conventional dressing, she began creating costumes which resulted in her arrest whenever she appeared upon the streets. […] Tired of official restraint, she leaped from patrol wagons199 with such agility that policemen let her go in admiration.” (Anderson 1930: 179) While promenading on Fifth Avenue, she wore black lipstick, fake eyelashes made of parrot-feathers, yellow face-powder, American stamps on her cheeks, skirts decorated with horse blanket pins and electric batteries and tomato cans as accessories; she paraded on New York streets in her self-made iconoclastic dresses that mixed natural with artificial fabrics, technological devices and industrial serial devices with fresh vegetable and fruit. (Gammel 2003: 183) As Gammel remarks, this was her way of protesting against the “commodification of an exaggerated femininity.” (Gammel 2011: 7) The trash that she wore, empty cans and broken cutlery, having found them as raw material and reassembled them into fashion items, represented her response to mass production and consumerism and to serialisation induced by technological progress. The accessories that she realised with all sorts of materials for her parades were sculptures of their own: 199 Margaret Anderson, 1930, My Thirty Years’ War (New York: Horizon, 1969). Part II 242 EvFL, 1917-1919ca, Earring—Object. EvFL, 1920ca, Limbswish. The Earring—Object exemplifies the complexity of the Baroness’s artifacts, or stage- costumes; “Limbswish,” – the long pendant ornament the Baroness created from a metal spring and curtain tassel which she wore at her belt – highlights an interesting correspondence with the namesake poem, thus remarking the fully accomplished osmotic nature of the relationship between her art, poetry and her body, fused in the performance. All the elements of Else’s past, her biographical traumas, the Berlin awakening, the Munich sexual follies, seem to flow into New York’s architectures, in a complete synergy between life and stage, body and metropolis. While studies proliferate that explore encounters of body and city, body and technology in modernism,200 Gammel defines an actual fusion, for the case of the Baroness, between body and mask: by “spontaneous theatrical street performance”201 (1991: 213) Gammel explains the aesthetic-grounded overlap between performance and performativity. 200 See for example Tim Armstrong, 1998, Modernism, Technology, and the Body: A Cultural Study (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press); Harold B. Segel, 1998, Body Ascendant: Modernism and the Physical Imperative (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press). 201 Irene Gammel, 1991, “The City’s Eye of Power: Panopticism and Specular Prostitution in Dreiser’s New York and Grove’s Berlin,” in Canadian Review of American Studies 22(2), (Fall 1991), pp. 213- 214. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 243 The Baroness took theatrical performance out from the theatre and dancing halls, which had become museums of art, cosy, static, inadequate; so she took it onto the street, the dynamic space of post-modernity. George Grantham Bain, 1910ca, Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. George Grantham Bain, 1910ca, Claude McKay and Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven. She contributed to the change that transformed Allen Street, Second Avenue and the Bowery from spaces traditionally defined by the trade of prostitution, to spaces for other kinds of sexual trade, a forum of hybrid sexual culture and practice. Through her bodily bricolage, graffiti-covered skin, organic-technologic accessories, clothes hand- made from newspaper-cuts and stamps, and all her other extravagances, she created a gallery of performance out of her own body, embodying a satirical cabaret star, a protesting street jester. At this stage, though, the Baroness’s identity as a performer, her urban radicality, her dissident sexuality and disrupting androgyny, all her costumes, were becoming increasingly consuming; the more her mask was consumed by her viewers, the more it consumed her in both flesh and mind. As beautifully phrased by Gammel: For the Baroness’s practice of her art from in the flesh involved the ultimate risk to body and self: hers was quite literally the daily enactment Part II 244 of the sujet en procès, the subject of postmodernity that is simultaneously in process and on trial. (Gammel 2003: 191) 3.4.2.4. The final performance of Mamadada The New York years finished in 1923, by which time she had become the star artist of The Little Review and a model and artist for the New York Dada Magazine; she was openly supported by male artists such as William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound,202 and was Man Ray’s Dada muse; she was the central knot in the Dada network in New York, and a crucial profile in the transatlantic intellectual women’s network. Yet, she had to leave. She was forced to acknowledge that she had not found the support for her art that she was hoping to find in New York, and that although she had plenty of friends, many of whom generously supported her, she was poor and starved, in her in-and-out from prison life. She told Heap: “I starve without money – I can not support my art. I have no chance here none at all – I hate this country – I am nauseated to see the monstrous faces – send me to Paris.”(1923; Gammel 2003: 23)203 When she arrived in Berlin, she found a city devastated by war, and realised that she had gone to an “deathtrap” – as she wrote to Djuna Barnes. It was not Else, anyway, that would die, it was ‘the Baroness’: “The Baroness in Greenwich Village, arraigned in gaudy accoutrements, was a character. Now, in German homespun, she was just a poor pitiful frau.” (Gammel 2003: 323) Although she continued to produce art, supported as she was by Berenice Abbott and Djuna Barnes, the dramatis persona she had interpreted in America started deteriorating. She no longer dominated the streets parading in her costumes, but felt “at the mercy of street riffraff,” as she wrote in a 1924 letter to Djuna Barnes. (Ibid.) Although she produced excellent art in Berlin too, because her artistic élan had not extinguished, she was no longer the Baroness- 202 Pound praised the Baroness openly several times in the 1920s, but in 1955 he paid tribute to her in his Canto 95, where he wrote: “The immense cowardice of advertised literati / & Else Kassandra, “the Baroness” / von Freytag etc. sd/several true things /in the old days / driven nuts, / Well, of course, there was a certain strain / On the gal in them days in Manhattan the principle of non-acquiescence / laid a burden. / Dinklage, where art thou, / with, or without, your von?” Pound 1955: 646). Ezra Pound, 1955, The Cantos of Ezra Pound (New York: New Directions, 1971), p. 646. 203 Elsa to The Little Review, 1923, “Since you made that appointment with me.” Quoted in Gammel, 2003, p.127. 3. Remediating the self-portrait 245 persona. She did maintain ‘Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven’ as the name on her passport, but she was no longer the Baroness-character. The Paris that she entered in 1924 is defined by Gammel as “The Baroness’s last Dada Dance.” And such it was, the deathly dance of a maenad, at the end of which she collapsed. With her fame preceding her, she entered Gertrude Stein’s circle; she tightened her friendship with Djuna Barnes; she impressed male artists like Hemingway and Ford, who wrote beautifully Dada verses about her; she made new connections and started new projects. But the ‘Dada dance’ involved her art rather than her performative attitudes, since the Baroness-character had left little trace; her extravagance left gradually her body and flowed instead into her verses, sculptures, assemblages and paintings. By contrast, her looks had become quite ordinary. [Anonymous], 1926ca, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven with Djuna Barnes on the Beach at Le Crotoy, Normandy. During the Parisian years, she developed a chronic form of depression and started acting suicidal, as she several times wrote to Djuna. Eventually, she started losing weight and became ill, her depression consuming her. On 14 December 1927, her body was found dead (of gas-asphyxiation) in her bed, ironically unspectacular and pathetic, considering how her life had been. Part II 246 In New York, Elsa and the Baroness were the same person(a), engaged in an aesthetics of the body, in which sexuality was both an experiential tool and a communicative channel, and ultimately the public voice of an anarchic, ‘proto-punk’, non-acquiescent mind. Uncaring of what the audience might say about her, either good or evil, the New York performer wanted them to talk about her, to be constantly under the spotlight. For the time she was alive, and indeed for a while after her death, she was a living performance, a living self-portrait. As conclusive remark, I want to address the resonance that the Baroness has on today’s audience. Although the Baroness is still not widely known, Gammel’s endeavours in the 2000s, culminating in the 2011 Body Sweats collection, have majorly contributed to the rekindling of critical interest in the Baroness’s life and wor. Still, it is also interesting to witness how the re-discovery of this artist has not only impressed scholars, but a wider audience too. In 2013, Lily Benson and Cassandra Guan directed The Film Ballad of Mamadada. Only broadcasted in 2014 and still quite hard to find even via the internet, the film is a post-modernist biodrama that in rapid sequences alternates historical photos, manuscript poems and sketches, short black-and-white records, with the reconstructed life of the Baroness, portrayed by Joanna Pickering wearing reproductions of the Baroness’s clothing. Flashing sights of the Baroness’s friends – Duchamp, Man Ray, Djuna Barnes, and others – are alternated with longer fragments recounting the most meaningful moments of Elsa’s life. The soundtrack, mainly consisting in musical post-modernist arrangements and dissonant tones, intertwines moments of silence and white-noise to frantic rhythms, stressing respectively slow and fast sequences of images. The voice of Ulrike Muller reads out the Baroness’s acoustic verses, stressing with her soprano timber the span of tension created by the futurist sounds. It is worth noting that the project started on a small budget, mainly supported by donors – including myself – who contributed via online fund-raising. To me, Mamadada exemplifies how the Baroness’s dramatis persona continues to perform today, to shock and attract, igniting others’ creative genius for the production of new art. Widening the scope, both the ‘living masks’ that I have considered, the dramatis personae of Zelda Fitzgerald and the Baroness, have enhanced in recent years the production of not only criticism, but art; a rekindled 3. Remediating the self-portrait 247 interest in Zelda’s icon has inspired Superzelda (2011) by Lo Porto and Marotta, while the re-evaluation of the Baroness has inspired Mamadada (2013-14). Both works, the graphic novel and the filmballad, have a biographic intention and are perhaps born as new-media-biographies. Still, as the lives of the biographees cannot be separated from their art, fused in performance, the biography also needs to be in some way artistic and performative. Ultimately, I can see a cyclical pattern in progress, where art gives way to short- and long-term criticism, which originates new art. Such ‘second-generation’ works of art give further creative voice to the primary works and back to their authors, but inevitably stratify meanings and forms on them, thus inspiring new criticism and launching ever-new debates and dialogues. 248 249 Conclusions The extremely varied artistic output that I have targeted with my research is located on the threshold of intermediality, continuously moving across ink and colour, word and frame; but it is also nurtured by several tensions, such as the dialogue between popular and high forms of literature, and between diachrony and synchrony. The bewildering results of such interactions have provided an endless engine of creativity and, therefore, a fascinating field of investigation. While the interaction between the three main paradigms pinpointed at the beginning – literature, visual art, and gender – has been the yardstick by which each work was measured, it generated further areas of intersection. Each of the comparisons that I have proposed has produced several debates, requiring a diverse range of approaches. As I aimed to identify the common rhetorical patterns in works of figurative art and literary texts by female artists, other questions arose, including the conflicting relationship between gender and genre. Texts, images and performances reveal different forms and extents of self- disclosure and self-concealing, which chart ‘selves’ in search for new identities and in conversation with other possible communities and networks. While both the unusual and original forms of such intersections outline a rewarding field of investigation in itself, these artists’ works owe a lot to the life-giving function of the body, which is endlessly modulated throughout their verbal, visual and performative works. Body parts and bodies in pain are sites of protest and resistance; excited and sexualised bodies become the site of new experiences and sexual freedom, in spite of the traditional delineations of gender. Somehow, these bodies, which draw, paint and perform, are conceived as activating the connections between different media. As an intrinsic component of this relationship, gender interweaves a pattern between visual and verbal specifics to create an intricate web of cross-fertilisation. Gender, life-giving and yet sometimes consuming, also provides a common ground for all the works of each artist; viewing these works with the lens of gender means that the corpus can be viewed and analysed as a compact, although extremely varied, body of works. Texts, art and performance by every writer appear connected in a sort of broadened hermeneutic circle in which each piece of art influences and enriches Conclusions 250 readings and interpretations of the other. Verbal texts, which already have a high visual potential, reverberate the pictorial/graphic power of visual works. Likewise, canvases and sketches are enriched by a narrative dimension which derives from the literary works around them. I have used these fascinating connections as a springboard for my comparison of texts and artworks by different writers. As I moved through temporary alliances between verbal and visual genres, only to see them dissolved and then re-assembled, I could appreciate all the more the complicated network of interferences and implications of intermediality. My comparative analysis has therefore tried to move with a similar fluidity and openness to that of the text, to enter into equally dynamic debates and potentially to trigger further critical enquiries. 251 Bibliography The bibliography is divided into eight thematic sections, as follows: A PRIMARY TEXTS BY DJUNA BARNES, ZELDA FITZGERALD, ELSA von FREYTAG-LORINGHOVEN, MINA LOY B OTHER PRIMARY TEXTS C CRITICISM ON BARNES, FITZGERALD, FREYTAG-LORINGHOVEN (von), LOY D (WOMEN’S/) MODERNITY, MODERNISM AND AVANT-GARDES E VISUAL STUDIES AND ART F SEXUALITY, GENDER, AND PERFORMATIVITY G LIFE-WRITING H RHETORIC A – PRIMARY TEXTS BY DJUNA BARNES, ZELDA FITZGERALD, ELSA von FREYTAG-LORINGHOVEN, MINA LOY Barnes, Djuna. 1915. The Book of Repulsive Women. 8 Rhythms and 5 Drawings. Manchester: Carcanet, 2003. ______. 1928. Ryder. Champaign; London: Dakley Archive Press, 2010. ______.1928(b).Ladies’ Almanack. Champaign; London: Dakley Archive Press, 1995. ______. 1936. Nightwood. New York: New Directions Publishing, 2006. ______. 1958. The Antiphon. London: Faber and Faber. ______. [1989]. New York. ed. by Alyce Barry, London: Virago Press. Fitzgerald, Zelda. 1932, Save Me the Waltz. London: Vintage Books, 2001. Fitzgerald, Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald. [1973] Bits of Paradise. London: Penguin. Freytag-Loringhoven (von), Elsa. [2011]. Body Sweats. The Uncensored Writings of Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. Irene Gammel and Suzanne Zelazo (eds.) Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Loy, Mina. 1914. “Aphorism on Futurism.” In Modernism: An Anthology, ed. by Lawrence Rainey. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005, pp. 427-428. ______. 1919 “Auto-Facial-Construction.” In Manifesto: A century of Isms, ed. by Mary Ann Caws. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001, pp. 334-335. ______. 1923, The Lost Lunar Baedeker. Manchester: Carcanet, 1997. ______. [1991]. Insel. Brooklyn; London: Melville House Publishing, 2014. Bibliography 252 B – OTHER PRIMARY TEXTS Anderson, Margaret. 1930. My Thirty Years’ War. New York: Horizon, 1969. Fowler, Therese Anne. 2013. Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Grieve, Felix P. 1905. Fanny Essler. Stuttgart: Axel Juncker Verlag. Lo Porto, Tiziana e Daniele Marotta. 2011. Superzelda. La vita disegnata di Zelda Fitzgerald. Roma: Minimum Fax. Pound, Ezra. 1955. The Cantos of Ezra Pound. New York: New Directions, 1971. Robuck, Erika. 2013. Call Me Zelda. New York: Penguin Group. Spargo, Clifton R. 2013. Beautiful Fools: The Last Affair of Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald. London: Duckworth Overlook. C – CRITICISM ON BARNES, FITZGERALD, FREYTAG-LORINGHOVEN (von), LOY Altman, Meryl. 1991. “No Audience at All?” In Silence and Power. A Reevaluation of Djuna Barnes, ed. by Mary Lynn Broe. Carbondale; Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, pp. 271-285. Barry, Alice et al. (eds.) 1985. Djuna Barnes: Interviews. Washington, DC: Sun and Moon. ______ (ed. by). 1987. 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work_qkkjtlndqzd4pedwvgp4jcy6ea	----	REVISTA DO GEL Grupo de Estudos Linguísticos do Estado de São Paulo Grupo de Estudos Linguísticos do Estado de São Paulo REVISTA DO GEL ISSN 1984-591X Revista do GEL São Paulo v.6 n.2 p. 251 2009 Diretoria do GEL / 2009-2011 Revista do GEL Universidade Federal de São Carlos revistadogel@gel.org.br Presidente: Gladis Maria de Barcellos Almeida http://www.gel.org.br/revistadogel Vice-Presidente: Roberto Leiser Baronas Tesoureira: Flávia Bezerra de Menezes Hirata-Vale Secretária: Mônica Baltazar Diniz Signori Comissão Editorial Executiva Alessandra Del Ré Cristina Carneiro Rodrigues Flávia B. M. Hirata-Vale Gisele Cristina de Sousa Luciana Gimenes Olga Ferreira Coelho Ruth Lopes Editora Responsável Olga Ferreira Coelho Revisão e Normatização Rosane de Sá Amado Adélia Maria Mariano da S. Ferreira Diagramação Editora Paulistana Conselho Editorial Antônio Alcir Bernárdez Pécora (Unicamp), Carlos Subirats Rüggeberg (Universidade de Barcelona), Clélia Cândida Abreu Spinardi Jubran (Unesp-Assis), Danilo Marcondes Souza Filho (PUC-RJ), Evani de Carvalho Viotti (USP), Helena Nagamine Brandão (USP), Ieda Maria Alves (USP), Jacques Fontanille (Universidade de Limoges), José Borges Neto (UFRJ), Kanavilil Rajagopalan (Unicamp), Lourenço Chacon (Unesp-Marília), Marco Antônio de Oliveira (UFMG), Maria Célia de Moraes Leonel (Unesp-Araraquara), Maria Filomena Gonçalves (Universidade de Évora), Maria Irma Hadler Coudry (Unicamp), Marta Luján (Universidade do Texas-Austin), Mirta Groppi A. de Varella (USP), Otto Zwartjes (Universidade de Amsterdã), Pierre Swiggers (Universidade Católica Louvain), Raquel Santana dos Santos (USP), Renata Maria Faccuri Coelho Marquezan (Unesp-Araraquara), Roberto Gomes Camacho (Unesp-SJRP), Wilmar da Rocha D’Angelis (Unicamp). Publicação semestral Solicita-se permuta/Exchange desired Revista do GEL / Grupo de Estudos Linguísticos do Estado de São Paulo. Vol. 1 (2004). São Paulo: Grupo de Estudos Linguísticos do Estado de São Paulo, 2004- Semestral ISSN 1984-591X Sumário/Contents EDITORIAL ......................................................................................................................... 7 ARTIGOS/ARTICLES A VOGAL EPENTÉTICA EM ENCONTROS CONSONANTAIS HETEROSSILÁBICOS NO PORTUGUÊS BRASILEIRO: UM ESTUDO EXPERIMENTAL The epentectic vowel between the consonants in different syllables (heterosyllabic): an experimental study Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA ..................................................................... 9 TRANSITIVIDADE DOS VERBOS ALTERNANTES: UMA PROPOSTA SEMÂNTICA Transitivity of alternating verbs: a semantic approach Larissa CIRÍACO ................................................................................................................. 36 A RELATIVA RESUMPTIVA EM DOIS MOMENTOS DO PORTUGUÊS BRASILEIRO Relative acquisition and linguistic change in brazilian portuguese Adriana Stella C. Lessa de OLIVEIRA ................................................................................ 61 MODELAÇÃO DE DADOS E PRODUÇÃO DE “REALIDADES” NA ANÁLISE SOCIOLINGUÍSTICA data modelling and the production of “realities” in sociolinguistic analysis Gredson dos SANTOS ......................................................................................................... 85 LINGUAGEM E EMOÇÕES language and emotions Marinalva Vieira BARBOSA ............................................................................................. 104 A KOINIZAÇÃO DE UMA AUTOTRADUÇÃO DE MANUEL PUIG: O VOSEO The koinization of a selftranslation of manuel puig: the voseo Andreia do Santos MENEZES ........................................................................................... 125 “POÉTICA”, DE MANUEL BANDEIRA: ANÁLISE SEMIÓTICA “Poética”, by manuel bandeira: a semiotic analysis Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA ........................................................................................ 140 PRODUÇÃO ESCRITA EM FRANCÊS COMO SEGUNDA LÍNGUA: UMA EXPERIÊNCIA BASEADA EM GÊNEROS TEXTUAIS Written production in french as a second language: an experience based on textual genres Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA ................................................................................................ 160 O DESAFIO DE ENSINAR INGLÊS: EXPERIÊNCIAS DE CONFLITOS, FRUSTRAÇÕES E INDISCIPLINA The challenge of teaching english: experiences of conflict, frustration and indiscipline Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI .................... 175 REFLEXÕES SOBRE A TRAJETÓRIA DO ENSINO DE LÍNGUAS ESTRANGEIRAS NO BRASIL Considerations regarding the course of foreign language teaching in brasil Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA ............................................................................................ 207 ACORDO ORTOGRÁFICO E A UNIDADE IMAGINÁRIA DA LÍNGUA PORTUGUESA Spelling agreement and the imaginary unity of portuguese language José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO .................................................................................... 232 RESENHA/REVIEW ELOS DE MELODIA E LETRA Alexandre Marcelo BUENO .............................................................................................. 243 ÍNDICE DE ASSUNTOS ................................................................................................. 249 SUBJECT INDEX ............................................................................................................ 250 ÍNDICE DE AUTORES / AUTHORS INDEX ............................................................... 251 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 7-8, 2009 7 Editorial Este volume da Revista do GEL reúne descrições do português do Brasil, ensaios sobre o ensino de língua estrangeira, análises de diferentes gêneros discursivos e reflexões historiográficas e epistemológicas acerca de campos específicos dos estudos da linguagem. O artigo de Silveira e Seara acrescenta dados ao conjunto de pesquisas dedicadas à vogal epentética no PB. As autoras verificam que, o mais das ve- zes, esse segmento apresenta as características acústicas da vogal alta, embora também possa caracterizar-se como vogal média-alta. Ciríaco, em abordagem que coordena sintaxe e semântica lexical, traz uma proposta de classificação dos verbos alternantes quanto a sua transitividade. O estudo de Oliveira, por sua vez, focaliza a mudança no sistema de relativização no português do Bra- sil em sua correlação com mudanças no sistema pronominal. Depois desse conjunto de artigos caráter descritivo, Santos, focando-se especificamente nas “realidades” apresentadas em análises sociolinguística, lida com os modos de instaurar o ‘real’ em ciência da linguagem. Voltados para os contextos do ensino-aprendizado de línguas, há qua- tro trabalhos: o artigo de Barbosa analisa de discursos de professores e alunos do ensino fundamental e médio, buscando mapear certas relações entre lin- guagem e emoções. Lousada discute resultados de experiência, fundamentada em estudos de gêneros textuais, sobre o ensino de produção de escrita para estudantes de francês. A contribuição de Zolnier e Miccoli corresponde a um relato de resultados de pesquisa desenvolvida junto a professores de inglês. O texto de Hanna apresenta uma revisão histórica do ensino de línguas estran- geiras modernas no Brasil, do século XVI ao XIX. Buscando confirmar a aplicabilidade de certo aparato teórico, os ar- tigos de Menezes e Almeida tratam de operações meta-literárias em Puig e Bandeira no que se refere, respectivamente, à captação do fenômeno linguís- 8 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 7-8, 2009 tico do voseo numa autotradução e a um poema acerca do fazer poesia. Na mesma direção, o texto de Silva Sobrinho, valendo-se de achados teóricos da História das Ideias Linguísticas, da Semântica da Enunciação e da Análise do Discurso, avalia filiações de sentidos do documento que recentemente apro- vou o Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa. A resenha produzida por Bueno avalia Elos de melodia e letra, livro que reúne análises de canções sob a perspectiva da semiótica greimasiana. Parece estar, mais uma vez, bem representada aqui a diversidade de intereses dos estudos da linguagem no Brasil. Olga Ferreira Coelho Editora responsável Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 9 A VOGAL EPENTÉTICA EM ENCONTROS CONSONANTAIS HETEROSSILÁBICOS NO PORTUGUÊS BRASILEIRO: UM ESTUDO EXPERIMENTAL Francine SILVEIRA 1 Izabel Christine SEARA2 RESUMO: A vogal epentética tem sido tema de estudo de inúmeras pesquisas no português brasileiro. Com o intuito de acrescentar dados a esses estudos, esta pesquisa traz a caracterização acústica de segmentos vocálicos presentes entre as consoantes dos encontros consonantais hete- rossilábicos. Os parâmetros analisados são: duração relativa e os dois primeiros formantes orais (F1 e F2, referentes à altura e à anterioridade vocálicas, respectivamente). Foram informantes desta pesquisa 4 falantes nativos de Florianópolis (2 femininos e 2 masculinos) com idades entre 24 e 30 anos e com Nível Superior completo. Observamos, em nossos dados, um percentual de aproximadamente 73% de ocorrência de um segmento vocálico entre as consoantes dos encontros consonantais heterossilábicos. Tal segmento apresenta, na maior parte das vezes, características acústicas da vogal alta [i], podendo ainda se caracterizar como uma vogal média alta ou um schwa. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Encontros consonantais heterossilábicos. Vogal epentética. Análise acústica. Fonética experimental. Português brasileiro. Introdução O fenômeno linguístico de interesse do presente artigo é a vogal epen- tética no português brasileiro (doravante PB). O termo vogal epentética é 1 P r o g r a m a d e P ó s - G r a d u a ç ã o e m L i n g u í s t i c a , U F S C , F l o r i a n ó p o l i s , S C , B r a s i l . f r a n c i n e 1 4 1 0 @ h o t m a i l . c o m 2 Departamento de Língua e Literatura Vernáculas, Laboratório de Fonética Aplicada (FONAPLI), UFSC, Florianópolis, SC, Brasil. izabels@linse.ufsc.br 10 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA usado para indicar a vogal inserida em encontros consonantais heterossilábi- cos (consoantes em sílabas diferentes) do tipo advogado e amnésia. A epên- tese vocálica possibilita, assim, se ter uma nova sílaba ou uma simplificação da sílaba (ALBER; PLAG, 2001; CAGLIARI, 1981). Com o objetivo de possibilitar uma discussão mais acurada acerca da epêntese vocálica, muitas vezes perceptível, mas não registrada pela ortogra- fia padrão, coletamos dados de fala de nativos de Florianópolis, com idades entre 24 e 30 anos, de ambos os sexos. Esses dados continham os contextos em que tais vogais ocorreriam. Nossa hipótese é a de que a vogal epentética nem sempre é a mesma no PB. A fim de verificarmos tal hipótese, observaremos como esse segmento se caracteriza acusticamente e o seu percentual de ocorrência, respondendo ainda a alguns questionamentos suscitados pelas pesquisas sobre o tema. Para isso, dividiremos o restante deste texto em 4 seções. Na primeira, será apresentada uma revisão da literatura concernente ao objeto de estudo. Na segunda, será mostrada a metodologia de coleta e análise dos dados. Na terceira, serão descritos e discutidos os resultados obtidos. E, finalmente, na quarta seção, as conclusões serão apresentadas. Status da vogal epentética Nos encontros heterossilábicos, as consoantes ocorrem em sílabas di- ferentes e, devido às possibilidades de combinações entre as consoantes, esses encontros são subdivididos em dois grupos. No primeiro grupo, ocorre em final de sílaba uma consoante pós-vocálica considerada como coda no PB, como /N/, /R/, /S/, /l/, sendo seguida por outra consoante que ocupa o onset da sílaba seguinte, como em: gancho, carta, festa e salto, respectivamente. No segundo grupo, uma consoante diferente das consoantes pós-vocálicas encontradas no PB ocorre em final de sílaba, sendo ainda seguida por outra consoante na sílaba seguinte, como aparece nas palavras afta, dogma, advogado. A diferença entre esses dois grupos de encontros heterossilábicos está na possibilidade de, no segundo grupo, poder haver a inserção de vogais epentéticas. O acréscimo de um segmento à forma básica de um morfema é o que Cagliari (2002) chama de epêntese ou inserção, um dos processos fonológi- cos que pode ocorrer na língua portuguesa. Cagliari (1981) observou ainda a ocorrência de epêntese entre sequências de oclusivas, de nasais e de fricativas Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 11 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental com outras consoantes, tais como: obter, submarino, abnegado, advogado, compacto, pigmeu, amnésia, afta, dentre outras. Afirma ainda que a vogal pode ser realizada como [ι] , mas também pode apresentar uma qualidade mais baixa e mais central como [ə] sempre que for precedida por oclusiva velar e seguida por oclusiva alveodental surda ou nasal alveodental como em factual [fakətuaw] e acne [akəni]. Silveira (1988) também verifica, em encontros consonantais que de- nomina de impróprios — ou seja — em sílabas diferentes, um som vocálico entre as consoantes como em [apitu] – apto, [afita] – afta. A explicação dada pela autora para esse evento é a dificuldade de pronúncia das sequências de consoantes desses encontros. Com o objetivo de elaborar um atlas linguístico da região sul, em 1980, foi constituído o projeto ALERS.3 Em Santa Catarina, foram entrevistados 80 informantes das zonas rural e urbana, do sexo masculino, com idades entre 28 e 58 anos e escolaridade variando de não alfabetizado à 4ª série do Ensino Funda- mental.4 Dentre os dados pesquisados, foram analisadas (submetidos à análise de outiva) as variantes fônicas de palavras como advogado, mais especificamente a sequência de sons de fala [dv]. Para esse fenômeno, foram registradas as seguin- tes realizações: [dev] 78,75%; [dv] 11,25%; [div] 5%; [tev] 2,50%; [dif] 1,25%, sendo 1,25% das respostas definidas como “prejudicadas”. Percebe-se então que, em 87,5% das realizações, atesta-se a presença da vogal epentética. Collischonn (2000), para testar algumas de suas conclusões sobre a epêntese, utilizou dados do Projeto VARSUL.5 Seu objetivo era constatar a presença ou não de um elemento epentético vocálico, não estando, porém, em análise a qualidade da vogal produzida. O estudo foi realizado em três capi- tais — Porto Alegre, Florianópolis e Curitiba — totalizando 72 informantes. 3 Projeto ALERS - Atlas Linguístico-Etnográfico da Região Sul - formado por uma equipe interinsti- tucional, constituída de três grupos estaduais, sediados na Universidade Federal do Rio Grande do Sul (UFRGS), Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina (UFSC) e Universidade Federal do Paraná (UFPR). O objetivo do projeto era registrar e organizar, sob forma de um atlas linguístico-etnográfico, as variantes geolinguísticas - fônicas, morfossintáticas e semântico-lexicais - da língua portuguesa falada na área rural da Região Sul, presentes em localidades representativas. Disponível em: <http:// www.humanas.ufpr.br/departamentos/delin/linguist/alers.htm>. Acesso em: 15 de março de 2006. 4 Equivalente hoje ao 5o. ano do Ensino Fundamental. 5 O Projeto VARSUL (Variação Linguística Urbana na Região Sul) foi constituído oficialmente em 1990 e visa à instalação de um Banco de Dados linguísticos a partir da documentação do português falado nas áreas urbanas linguisticamente representativas dos estados do Paraná, Santa Catarina e Rio Grande do Sul. Disponível em: <http://www.cce.ufsc.br/~varsul/objetivo.htm>. Acesso em:15 de março de 2006. 12 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA A faixa etária foi dividida em dois grupos: com mais de 50 e com menos de 50 anos. Para a escolaridade, também foram considerados os níveis Fundamental I e II e Ensino Médio. Como resultado, o estudo da epêntese mostrou-se vari- ável e dependente de fatores linguísticos. Apareceram como fatores mais favoráveis à aplicação da epêntese: (a) posição pretônica; (b) contexto seguinte nasal ou fricativo não-sibilante; (c) consoante precedente alveolar. Como fatores menos favoráveis à aplicação da epêntese, apareceram: (a) posição postônica; (b) contexto seguinte sibilante; (c) consoante precedente velar. Com base nos dados levantados, Collischonn (2000) observou que a predição feita por Itô (1986),6 de que a epêntese vocálica não possui nenhu- ma relação direta com o acento, não se confirmou nessa pesquisa. A explica- ção da pesquisadora para o comportamento da epêntese em relação ao acento baseou-se nas restrições de acento em português, que claramente favorecem a colocação do acento na penúltima sílaba da palavra, sendo evitada qualquer inserção de sílaba à direita, para impedir o deslocamento do acento. Silveira (2005), em um estudo experimental, analisou acusticamente a ocorrência da vogal epentética entre várias sequências de segmentos de fala (conforme Tabela 1) como também a sua duração. Nesse estudo, foram pes- quisadas as produções de 2 informantes, um do sexo masculino, com Nível Superior incompleto; e outro do sexo feminino, com Nível Superior comple- to, com idades entre 20 e 30 anos. As palavras foram elocucionadas de forma isolada e inseridas em frases veículo. Os resultados de Silveira (2005) mostraram que o informante do sexo masculino realizou mais vezes a vogal epentética quando comparado com as realizações do informante do sexo feminino, tanto na análise das palavras isoladas quanto nas palavras inseridas em frases-veículo. Considerando que o contexto de palavra isolada se aproxima mais de um contexto dito formal, uma vez que, nesse contexto, o falante exerce maior controle sobre sua fala, nos dados analisados em Silveira (2005), não foram observadas diferenças que levassem a ratificar a afirmação de Câmara Jr. (1986a), segundo a qual o falante reduz a vogal epentética em situações formais do uso da língua culta. 6 Itô (1986) conclui que a epêntese vocálica não possui nenhuma relação direta com o acento, pois, como a epêntese e a silabação ocorrem simultaneamente, ambos os processos são pré-requisitos para a acentuação das palavras . Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 13 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Tabela 1: Palavras analisadas quanto à vogal epentética em Silveira (2005) b+p, t, d, k, m, n, s, z, x, , v, l subproduto, obter, subconsciente, submarino, abnegado, absoluto, obséquio, sub-reptício, objeto, óbvio, sublocação p+t, s captou, psicose d+m, v,  admirar, advogado, adjetivo t+m ritmo k+t, s, n compacto, fixe, técnica g+m, n pigmeu m+n amnésia f+t afta Houve uma maior frequência de ocorrência de vogal epentética quando o contexto seguinte era preenchido pelos segmentos de fala nasais [m] ou n. Quando o ambiente precedente era a consoante d, a ocorrên- cia da vogal epentética só se deu em contexto de frase. Quando precedido por g, a vogal epentética foi realizada tanto em palavras isoladas quanto em frases-veículo. Outro resultado de relevância foi a realização categó- rica da vogal epentética tanto em palavras isoladas quanto nas frases-veí- culo, quando o contexto precedente e o seguinte eram nasais (m e n), como na palavra amnésia. Diante dos sons de fala p, t, k e f, não foi observada a ocorrência da vogal epentética em nenhum dos contextos analisados. Os valores obtidos pelos formantes (F1 e F2) da vogal epen- tética foram comparados aos valores apresentados em Sousa (1984) para as vogais do PB, separadamente para homens e mulheres. Silvei- ra (2005) chegou então à conclusão de que a vogal pronunciada era um , como já previam Cagliari (1981) e Câmara Jr. (1986a), em análises auditivas. A epêntese não é um fenômeno exclusivo do PB, podendo ser vista, por exemplo, no irlandês, conforme atesta Carnie (1994), dizendo que, nessa língua, há dois tipos de processos epentéticos: o primário e 14 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA o secundário. No primário, a vogal epentética é inserida entre as duas consoantes, sendo a primeira uma consoante sonora. No secundário, a epêntese é inserida na posição de onset do encontro consonantal. Ou, ainda, pode ser observada em línguas crioulas, conforme descrevem Al- ber e Plag (2001), quando se referem à epêntese usada na simplificação da estrutura silábica. Relatam também que a epêntese geralmente ocorre como uma vogal. Cristófaro-Silva e Almeida (2006) realizaram um estudo e, base- ados em seus resultados, afirmam que, de fato, a vogal epentética varia de uma língua para outra. Dessa forma, apresentam a vogal [] como a vogal epentética usada no Japonês; a vogal [] como a usada no Inglês e no Hebraico; a vogal [] usada no Espanhol; e a vogal  como a usada no PB. Para a realização desse estudo, foram feitos dois experimentos: um que avaliava os valores da vogal regular e outro que avaliava os valores da vogal epentética no dialeto de Belo Horizonte (MG). Foram selecionados três encontros consonantais heterossilábicos nos quais a vogal epentética poderia ocorrer: kt, pt e [t. Os encontros pt e [t foram esco- lhidos para avaliar se a consoante surda ou sonora poderia influenciar na ocorrência da vogal epentética. Dois critérios deram base à pesquisa: o primeiro era referente ao modo de articulação. Assim, todas as consoantes do encontro eram oclu- sivas. O segundo era referente à ocorrência da vogal epentética nos dife- rentes ambientes (Tabela 2). O Experimento 1 foi composto por 16 informantes (8 homens e 8 mulheres), distribuídos em duas faixas etárias diferentes (menos de 25 anos de idade e mais de 35 anos de idade). Todos tinham Nível Superior incompleto e eram nascidos e residentes em Belo Horizonte. As sequên- cias consonantais avaliadas foram: kt, pt, [t e kt, pt, [t; e as palavras gravadas foram inseridas em textos e em sentenças isoladas. O objetivo do Experimento 1 foi caracterizar a ocorrência de cada vogal epentética, contrastar essas ocorrências em cada contexto similar, con- siderar se qualquer sequência de segmento pode favorecer a epêntese e avaliar a duração da vogal epentética. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 15 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Tabela 2: Ocorrência da vogal epentética conforme o contexto (a partir de CRISTÓFARO-SILVA; ALMEIDA, 2006) C2 C1 p  t d k g f v s z  m n p 404 1 1 1 319 41  23 1 89 75 41 3 13 42 225 2 84 70 20 t 3 2 3 94 19 2 1 50 46 d 1 35 2 13 1 6 148 27 k 530 1 3 652 5 1 101 g 1 3 10 1 2 116 424 f 23 5 1 1 Os resultados do Experimento 1 mostraram que a vogal epentética ocorreu um grande número de vezes, sendo favorecida quando uma das con- soantes do encontro era vozeada. Concluíram ainda que a vogal regular é mais longa do que a vogal epentética. Esses dados ratificam os de Silveira (2005), uma vez que essa autora observou uma maior ocorrência da vogal epentética nos contextos de oclusivas sonoras e de nasais. O Experimento 2 foi composto também por 16 informantes (8 ho- mens e 8 mulheres), distribuídos nas mesmas faixas etárias e escolaridade do Experimento 1. Todos eram nascidos e residentes em Belo Horizonte. As sequências avaliadas [kt], [pt], [t] foram inseridas em 20 palavras com a vogal epentética em posição átona e em 16 palavras com a vogal epentéti- ca em posição tônica. Essas palavras foram inseridas em sentenças isoladas. O objetivo do Experimento 2, corpus com o maior número de palavras em que a vogal epentética poderia ocorrer, foi caracterizar a ocorrência da vogal epentética, considerar se qualquer ambiente a favorece, avaliar a sua duração e verificar se o acento tem influência sobre a duração da vogal epentética. Os resultados corroboraram os apresentados no Experimento 1, considerando a taxa de ocorrência da vogal epentética e os valores de duração. A vogal epen- tética ocorreu mais em posição átona, na qual era também mais longa, do que em posição tônica. A partir desse levantamento de estudos sobre a vogal epentéti- ca, surgiram questões a serem respondidas por este estudo experimen- 16 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA tal. São elas: (a) a vogal epentética tem sua emissão reduzida no regis- tro formal da língua culta (CÂMARA Jr., 1986b)? (b) a vogal epentética é condicionada pela tonicidade da sílaba? Ou melhor, esse fenômeno é mais recorrente em posição pretônica, como em objeto, opção, do que em posição postônica, como em ritmo (COLLISCHONN, 2000; CRISTÓ- FARO-SILVA; ALMEIDA, 2006)? (c) a presença de consoante vozeada na posição da primeira consoante favorece o aparecimento da epêntese (CRISTÓFARO-SILVA; ALMEIDA, 2006)? Corpus, coleta e análise Nesta seção, apresentaremos o corpus montado, a metodologia de coleta dos dados, assim como a maneira de analisar o fenômeno em estudo. Montagem do corpus Para a obtenção de dados que possibilitassem a análise da vogal epentética e que levassem em conta fatores condicionantes das variações observadas, foi elaborado um corpus com base nas palavras que consti- tuíram os estudos elaborados por Cagliari (1981) e Collischonn (2000). Esses autores pesquisaram as seguintes palavras: técnica, fixe, objeto, ritmo, obter, amnésia, absoluto, óbvio, advogado, submarino, compac- to, afta, admirar, adjetivo, subconsciente, obséquio, psicose, abnegado, subproduto, captou, pigmeu, sub-reptício, sublocação. Delas, escolhe- mos as que representassem o maior número de encontros consonantais, considerando o modo de articulação das consoantes envolvidas (C1 e C2), e que ocorressem em maior frequência no CETENFolha7 (ver Tabe- la 3). Em seguida, dividimos as palavras em grupos, conforme o ambien- te consonantal (Tabela 4). Posteriormente, as palavras foram produzidas isoladamente e inseridas em contextos frasais na tentativa de obter uma maior naturalidade. Se compararmos os resultados apresentados na Tabela 3 (número de ocorrências das palavras investigadas na pesquisa) com aqueles exibidos pela 7 “Corpus de Extractos de Textos Electrónicos NILC/Folha de S. Paulo” é um corpus de cerca de 24 milhões de palavras em português brasileiro. Disponível em: <http://acdc.linguateca.pt/cetenfolha>. Acesso em: 20 de março de 2006. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 17 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Tabela 4 (classificação das palavras da Tabela 3, conforme as consoantes que compõem os grupos heterossilábicos) e com os da Tabela 5 (percentu- al de ocorrência dos grupos heterossilábicos, classificados a partir de suas segundas consoantes), verificamos que os encontros consonantais que pertencem a palavras que apresentaram maior ocorrência no corpus do CETENFolha são os que exibiram o maior número de epênteses vocálicas. Vejamos: os grupos cujas segundas consoantes são v (advogado) e n (técnica) mostraram, respectivamente, 100% e 90% de epênteses. Esses dados parecem nos dar indícios de que a frequência de uso dessas palavras na língua pode propiciar o aparecimento da epêntese vocálica. Tal questão será investigada em um próximo estudo, uma vez que a distribuição dos dados aqui apresentada não permite um estudo aprofundado a partir desse novo condicionamento. Tabela 3: Número de ocorrências das palavras consideradas para o corpus de encontros consonantais heterossilábicos, segundo o banco do CETENFolha Palavra Número de Ocorrências Percentual advogado 6050 32,14% técnica 4599 24,43% ritmo 2694 14,31% objeto 2620 13,92% obter 2222 11,80% afta 275 1,46% compacto 219 1,16% amnésia 45 0,24% fixe 43 0,23% psicose 36 0,19% abnegado 21 0,11% 18824 100% 18 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA Tabela 4: Palavras consideradas para a presente pesquisa segundo o grupo consonantal Primeira Consoante Segunda Consoante Palavras Nasais m Nasais n amnésia Fricativas f Plosivas t afta Plosivas k Plosivas obter, compacto k Fricativas s fixe p psicose d v advogado   objeto k  Nasais n técnica; abnegado t m ritmo Coleta de dados A pesquisa teve como informantes quatro indivíduos previamente se- lecionados. Dois informantes do sexo masculino e dois do sexo feminino com idades entre 24 e 30 anos e Nível Superior completo. Todos os informantes eram nascidos na cidade de Florianópolis (SC) e não apresentavam proble- mas auditivos ou discursivos aparentes que invalidassem os resultados obti- dos. Foi solicitado a eles que lessem cinco vezes as frases formuladas com as palavras alvo e sete vezes as palavras isoladas. Dessas sete palavras isoladas, apenas cinco foram consideradas para análise. A primeira e a última repetição foram descartadas com a finalidade de eliminar a entoação característica de início e de final de elocução. Os dados dos dois primeiros informantes foram gravados em ambiente silencioso, mas sem tratamento acústico. Foi utilizado um microfone (shure modelo SM48) unidirecional e os dados foram gravados diretamente em um software de análise de fala (Cool Edit 2000, criado por David Johnston), com taxa de amostragem do sinal de 22.050 Hz, suficiente para visualização das Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 19 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental fricativas presentes nos dados a analisar. Já os dois últimos informantes foram gravados em um estúdio com tratamento acústico. Ao final das gravações, obtivemos um total de 440 dados (4 informan- tes x 11 palavras x 10 repetições), referentes à vogal epentética. Desses, 220 estavam em palavras isoladas, 110 em frases do cotidiano do tipo: (1) Samba é um ritmo alegre. (2) Contrate um advogado responsável. E outros 110 em frases-veículo do tipo: (3) Digo ritmo baixinho. (4) Digo advogado baixinho. Parâmetros analisados Como nosso objetivo foi caracterizar a vogal em encontros consonan- tais heterossilábicos, analisamos as frequências dos dois primeiros formantes orais, suficientes para a caracterização acústica de segmentos vocálicos. O primeiro formante oral (F1) traz informações relativas à altura da língua, sen- do seus valores inversamente proporcionais à altura desse articulador móvel. Assim, vogais altas (posição alta da língua) possuem F1 baixo e vogais baixas (posição baixa da língua), F1 alto. As vogais médias apresentam valores in- termediários de F1 entre vogais altas e baixas. O segundo formante oral (F2) é referente ao movimento horizontal do articulador móvel (anterioridade/pos- terioridade da língua). As vogais anteriores apresentam valores de F2 em altas frequências, as posteriores apresentam valores em baixas frequências. Já as vogais centrais exibem valores intermediários em relação aos valores de F2 das vogais anteriores e posteriores. Etiquetagem dos dados Os dados gravados tiveram os segmentos-alvo marcados e etiquetados cuidadosamente (manualmente através do software Praat). Depois de checadas todas as marcações realizadas, por intermédio de um script gerado também para uso nesse mesmo programa, os valores das frequências dos formantes e 20 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA da duração dos segmentos-alvo foram obtidos automaticamente. Um exemplo da marcação e etiquetagem utilizada nesta pesquisa pode ser visto na Figura 1. Figura 1: Tela com: (a) forma de onda; (b) espectrograma com história formântica; (c) modelo de marcação e etiquetagem da vogal epen- tética na palavra amnésia, produzida como mnz (parte vi- sualizada mn). Discussão dos resultados Nesta seção, verificaremos a hipótese levantada e responderemos às questões suscitadas a partir dos dados apresentados por autores que pesquisa- ram sobre o tema. A primeira delas é a de observar se a vogal epentética tem sua emissão reduzida no registro formal da língua culta (CÂMARA Jr., 1986b). Se a expressão “emissão reduzida” significar redução da frequência de ocorrência, podemos responder a essa questão olhando os dados mostrados na Tabela 5. Nela, observamos o número total de encontros heterossilábicos e o percentual de ocorrência de epêntese nesses dados em dois contextos que se diferenciam pela formalidade. Espera-se que, em frases, haja uma maior ocor- rência dessa vogal, uma vez que o falante tem menos controle da sua produção se comparado aos dados presentes nas palavras isoladas, mesmo sabendo que Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 21 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental tal característica não representa uma diferença entre formalidade e informali- dade. Os resultados desse fenômeno apresentam-se de maneira diversa entre os dois sexos. Ou seja, podemos dizer que, para os informantes femininos, há uma redução na ocorrência de vogais epentéticas quando o sujeito produz as frases (75%) em relação à ocorrência de epênteses em palavras isoladas (84%). Já para os do sexo masculino, ocorre exatamente o inverso: em frases ocorrem mais epênteses (71%) do que em palavras isoladas (65%), parecendo que, nesse caso, a inserção em palavras isoladas leve a um “maior controle”, corroborando a colocação de Câmara Jr. (1986b). No entanto, pela falta de sistematicidade desses resultados, não parece que esse fator leve a uma diminuição na frequ- ência de ocorrência de vogais epentéticas em situações de maior controle (nas palavras isoladas), pelo menos para falantes femininos. Tabela 5: Percentual de ocorrência de vogais epentéticas em contextos frasais e em palavras isoladas FRASE FEMININO MASCULINO 2ª consoante No total encontros heterossilábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência No total encontros heterossilábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência M 10 4 40% 10 9 90% N 30 27 90% 30 27 90% V 10 10 100% 10 7 70% J 10 7 70% 10 10 100% S 20 13 65% 20 9 45% T 30 21 70% 30 16 53% Total 110 82 75% 110 78 71% PALAVRA FEMININO MASCULINO 2ª consoante No total encontros heterossilábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência No total encontros heterossilábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência M 10 10 100% 10 8 80% N 30 28 93% 30 29 97% V 10 10 100% 10 10 100% J 10 8 80% 10 8 80% S 20 14 70% 20 6 30% T 30 22 73% 30 11 37% Total 110 92 84% 110 72 65% 22 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA Agora, se a expressão “emissão reduzida” significar redução de duração dos segmentos, ao analisarmos tal parâmetro nos dados inseridos em contextos que possam traduzir um maior controle ou maior formalidade da elocução (em palavras isoladas) em relação aos contextos menos controlados (em frases), ob- servamos diferenças estatisticamente significativas8 entre as médias das dura- ções relativas apenas para os informantes do sexo feminino. Nesse caso, as vo- gais epentéticas são mais longas quando inseridas em contextos de frases. Desse modo, os informantes femininos ratificam o que atesta Câmara Jr. (1986b), isto é, situações mais controladas parecem levar a uma redução significativa da duração de tais segmentos (para mais detalhes, ver Tabela 14 ao final desta seção). A segunda questão a ser respondida é se a vogal epentética é con- dicionada pela tonicidade da sílaba. Ou melhor, se esse fenômeno é mais recorrente em posição pretônica, como em objeto, opção, do que em posição postônica como em ritmo (COLLISCHONN, 2000; CRISTÓFARO-SILVA; ALMEIDA, 2006). Pela Tabela 6, observa-se que os dados desta pesquisa corroboram as afirmações feitas por Collischonn (2000) e Cristófaro-Silva e Almeida (2006) em relação à maior ocorrência da vogal epentética quando em posição pretônica, fato mais evidente nas produções masculinas (84% em pretônico para 49% em postônico). Tabela 6: Percentual de ocorrência de vogais epentéticas em contextos átono (pretônico) e tônico (postônico) Vogal epentética Feminino Masculino No total encontros heterossi- lábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência No total encontros heterossi- lábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência Pretônico 120 97 81% 120 101 84% Postônico 100 77 77% 100 49 49% O terceiro questionamento concerne à presença de consoante vozeada na posição da primeira consoante como favorecedora do aparecimento da epêntese (CRISTÓFARO-SILVA; ALMEIDA, 2006; SILVEIRA, 2005). Podemos dizer 8 Submetemos os valores da duração relativa ao teste t com grau de significância de 0,05 e as diferenças mostraram-se estatisticamente relevantes. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 23 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental que o vozeamento da primeira consoante do encontro parece, de fato, favorecer o aparecimento do elemento vocálico. No entanto, novamente se vê uma diferença nos resultados apresentados por ambos os sexos, pois, enquanto, para os homens, a presença de uma consoante vozeada quase dobra o percentual de ocorrência da vogal epentética (49% diante de não vozeadas e 91% diante de vozeadas); para as mulheres, o percentual é ligeiramente maior na presença de consoantes vozeadas (87% contra 73%), conforme pode ser constatado na Tabela 7. Tabela 7: Percentual de ocorrência de vogais epentéticas cuja primeira consoante do encontro seja vozeada ou não-vozeada Vogal epentética Feminino Masculino No total encontros heterossi- lábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência No total encontros heterossi- lábicos Ocorrência epêntese Percentual ocorrência Não- vozeada 120 87 73% 120 59 49% Vozeada 100 87 87% 100 91 91% Passemos agora às questões levantadas nesta pesquisa. Primeiramente veremos, pela Tabela 8, que há uma grande ocorrência da vogal epentética nos dados analisados, todos referentes ao dialeto florianopolitano (73%). Tabela 8: Percentual total de ocorrência de vogais epentéticas nos dados analisados Número total de encontros heterossilábicos Ocorrência de epêntese Percentual de ocorrência Feminino 220 173 79% Masculino 220 150 68% TOTAL 440 323 73% A partir da constatação de que a vogal epentética é largamente produzida nos dados, vamos analisar as características acústicas de tal segmento, a partir de seus dois primeiros formantes e de sua duração relativa. As pesquisas aqui citadas apresentam 24 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA as vogais epentéticas como altas e/ou médias altas ou ainda como um schwa (Projeto ALERS; CAGLIARI, 1981; CRISTÓFARO-SILVA; ALMEIDA, 2006). Formantes Nas Tabelas 9, 10, 11 e 12, são exibidas as médias dos formantes e da duração relativa dos segmentos em estudo, juntamente com o desvio padrão (DP) e o coeficiente de variação (CV),9 este último refletindo um pouco me- lhor a dispersão em torno da média. Como partimos da hipótese de que as vogais epentéticas apresentam-se como vogais altas, médias altas ou schwa, separamos tais dados nas tabelas a seguir. Apresentamos também os dados correspondentes a cada contexto estudado e ao sexo em separado. Tabela 9: Média da duração relativa e da frequência dos formantes da vogal epentética produzida por falantes do sexo masculino em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em contexto de frases Masculino Vogal [i] [e] Parâmetro Dur. Rel. F1 F2 Dur. Rel. F1 F2 MÉDIA 3,48 310 2019 2,83 445 2127 DP 0,55 35,50 303,83 0,56 65,16 285,56 CV 15,84% 11,45% 15,05% 19,63% 14,65% 13,43% Tabela 10: Média da duração relativa e da frequência dos formantes da vogal epentética produzida pelos informantes do sexo masculino em encon- tros consonantais heterossilábicos em contexto de palavras isoladas Masculino Vogal [i] [e] Parâmetro Dur. Rel. F1 F2 Dur. Rel. F1 F2 MÉDIA 2,69 296 1976 2,50 448 2075 DP 0,73 38,81 234,21 0,55 80 213 CV 27,19% 13,11% 11,85% 21,91% 17,86% 10,26% 9 Coeficiente de variação é expresso como um percentual e descreve o desvio padrão relativo à média, sendo dado pela seguinte equação: CV=(s/x)* 100%; onde s é o desvio padrão amostral e x é a média amostral. (TRIOLA, 2005). Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 25 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Tabela 11: Média da duração relativa e da frequência dos formantes da vogal epentética produzida por falantes do sexo feminino em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em contexto de frases Feminino Vogal [i] [e] schwa Parâ- metro Dur. Rel. F1 F2 Dur. Rel. F1 F2 Dur. Rel. F1 F2 MÉDIA 2,73 298 1991 2,51 552 2295 2,04 601 1689 DP 0,59 53,49 365,94 0,51 127,78 252,97 0,13 132,53 182,13 CV 21,48% 17,97% 18,38% 20,29% 23,13% 11,03% 6,58% 22,05% 10,78% Tabela 12: Média da duração relativa e da frequência dos formantes da vogal epentética produzida pelos informantes do sexo feminino em encon- tros consonantais heterossilábicos em contexto de palavras isoladas Feminino Vogal [i] [e] schwa Parâ- metro Dur. Rel. F1 F2 Dur. Rel. F1 F2 Dur. Rel. F1 F2 MÉDIA 2,78 307 2296 2,12 575,99 2297,07 2,15 670 1689 DP 0,57 53,31 378,98 0,34 115,45 369,51 0,32 142,35 212,22 CV 20,45% 17,36% 16,51% 16,01% 20,04% 16,09% 14,76% 21,24% 12,56% Os dados apresentados nas Figuras 2 a 7 distribuem-se conforme o modo de articulação da segunda consoante do grupo consonantal, inseridos em contextos de frases ou palavras isoladas. Nessas figuras, os segmentos que apresentam menor dispersão, aos quais sobrepomos um círculo, consi- deramos que caracterizam a posição da vogal epentética no espaço acústico vocálico. Pode-se notar ainda que, enquanto, para as mulheres, é possível se verificar a produção dos três segmentos, para os homens, apenas as vogais alta e média alta são observadas. Em contexto de frase, os dados nos quais se observou a presença da vogal epentética exibem um comportamento variável dependente do modo de articulação das consoantes que seguem esse elemento vocálico. Nos ambien- tes nasais, percebem-se, a partir das Figuras 2 e 3, nas produções femininas, parâmetros referentes às vogais anteriores, tanto média alta quanto alta, mas também referentes à vogal neutra. Veja também as Tabelas 11 e 12. 26 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA Figura 2: Espaço acústico vocálico em Hertz das vogais epentéticas em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em ambiente nasal nas produções femininas Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 27 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Figura 3: Espaço acústico vocálico em Hertz das vogais epentéticas em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em ambiente nasal nas produções masculinas Em ambientes fricativos (Figuras 4 e 5), vê-se uma tendência à pre- sença da vogal alta, para os dois sexos. No entanto, dados relativos às vogais média alta e neutra aparecem somente nas produções femininas, conforme se observa na Figura 4. Em contexto de palavras isoladas, os dados se comportam de maneira idêntica ao contexto frasal para as vogais que são seguidas por consoantes nasais e fricativas. No entanto, em ambiente plosivo, a diferença observada entre os sexos em contexto frasal não se mantém quando em contexto de pa- lavras isoladas. Pelas Figuras 6 e 7, vê-se que as vogais epentéticas revelam características acústicas próprias tanto de vogais anteriores altas quanto de médias altas. 28 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA Figura 4: Espaço acústico vocálico em Hertz das vogais epentéticas em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em ambiente fricativo nas produções femininas. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 29 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Figura 5: Espaço acústico vocálico em Hertz das vogais epentéticas em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em ambiente fricativo nas produções masculinas Encontramos ainda, entre os dados analisados, frequências que carac- terizam a vogal neutra []. O Schwa, para os falantes femininos, apresenta os seguintes valores frequenciais médios de F1= 583Hz e F2= 1750 Hz (trato L=15 cm).10 10 As frequências de ressonância aqui modeladas correspondem à vogal neutra []. Gannar Fant, em seu livro intitulado “Teoria Acústica da Fala” (1960), apresenta, para o cálculo das frequências de ressonância em um tubo uniforme, a seguinte fórmula: Fn=(2n-1) C/4L, onde C é a velocidade do som no ar (C=35cm/s); L é o comprimento do tubo e n é um número inteiro (n=0, 1, 2, 3, ...) (FANT, 1960, apud LIEBERMAN; BLUMSTEIN, 1988). 30 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA Figura 6: Espaço acústico vocálico em Hertz das vogais epentéticas em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em ambiente plosivo nas produções femininas A partir das caracterizações acústicas apresentadas anteriormente, pode- mos afirmar que a vogal inserida em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos ma- nifesta-se, no dialeto florianopolitano, tanto como uma vogal anterior alta quanto uma anterior média alta, ou seja, como um contínuo que se estende de uma posi- ção média à alta. Nesse caso, podemos dizer que nossos dados corroboram as co- locações de Cristófaro-Silva e Almeida (2006) para o dialeto de Belo Horizonte, como também as colocações de Cagliari (1981) e do Projeto ALERS, já que, em Florianópolis, são produzidas tanto a vogal alta, quanto a média alta. No entanto, também verificamos a ocorrência de uma vogal mais baixa e centralizada, já cita- da em Cagliari (1981). Esse comportamento variável confirma nossa hipótese de que, no PB, a vogal epentética nem sempre é a mesma. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 31 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental Figura 7: Espaço acústico vocálico em Hertz das vogais epentéticas em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em ambiente plosivo nas produções masculinas Pelas figuras anteriormente apresentadas, vemos que há dados que poderiam caracterizar outros segmentos vocálicos, porém a quantidade des- ses dados nos impossibilita apresentarmos conclusões mais seguras acerca da presença desses outros elementos vocálicos como característicos da vogal epentética. Duração Com relação à duração das vogais epentéticas nos ambientes anali- sados (frases e palavras), optamos por considerar o valor relativo a fim de neutralizar diferenças na velocidade de fala dos informantes (Tabelas 9 a 12). 32 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA Assim, obtivemos o valor relativo dividindo a duração da vogal epentética pela duração da palavra em que tais vogais se inseriam. Em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos em que a primeira con- soante ocupava a posição de coda de uma sílaba tônica, com a epêntese ela passa a ocupar a posição de onset de uma outra sílaba cujo núcleo é a própria vogal epentética. Essa sílaba é vista agora como postônica (exemplo: ritmo xtm). No entanto, a consoante que pertencia a uma sílaba pretônica, ao se juntar à vogal epentética, forma uma nova sílaba que continua em posição pretônica (exemplo: obter tx). Dessa maneira, consideraremos essa nova posição de tonicidade nos dados relativos à duração de sílabas pré- e postônicas. Tabela 13: Média da duração absoluta da vogal e da palavra em que a vogal epentética se insere; média da duração relativa dessa vogal epen- tética diante de diferentes modos de articulação consonantais — informantes de ambos os sexos Masculino Feminino Duração Duração Diante de: Vogal (D1) Palavra (D2) D1/D2 Vogal (D1) Palavra (D2) D1/D2 Nasais 25,27 597,57 4,23% 14,57 677,86 2,15% Fricativas 26,71 669,82 3,99% 13,78 681,91 2,02% Plosivas 26,4 395,29 6,68% 16,02 556,45 2,88% MÉDIA 26,13 554,23 4,97% 14,79 638,74 2,35% DP 0,76 142,30 1,49 1,14 71,29 0,46 CV 2,90% 25,68% 29,99% 7,68% 11,16% 19,70% De maneira geral, pela Tabela 13, podemos dizer que os falantes mas- culinos apresentam em média o dobro da duração relativa de suas vogais epentéticas em relação à média apresentada nas produções dos falantes femi- ninos diante de todos os contextos consonantais investigados. Podemos dizer ainda, pela Tabela 14, que a vogal epentética no dialeto florianopolitano apresentou, em média, maior duração relativa quando em po- sição postônica do que pretônica nas produções femininas, e o inverso ocorre nas produções masculinas, sendo as realizações em posição pretônica ligeira- Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 33 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental mente maiores nas produções masculinas. Podemos dizer ainda que a duração relativa média das produções femininas em posição pretônica corresponde a quase metade das produções masculinas. Tabela 14: Média da duração da vogal epentética produzidas em ambiente pré- e postônico para falantes femininos e masculinos Feminino Frase Palavra Duração Frase Duração Palavra Duração Relativa Frase Duração Relativa Palavra Postônica 20,75 20,16 491,65 651,44 4,22% 3,09% Pretônica 19,68 20,99 503,10 739,67 3,91% 2,84% Masculino Frase Palavra Duração Frase Duração Palavra Duração Relativa Frase Duração Relativa Palavra Postônica 19,52 18,02 378,14 481,11 5,16% 3,75% Pretônica 31,32 27,78 509,87 667,08 6,14% 4,16% Conclusões Tentamos, ao longo do texto, responder às várias perguntas coloca- das por diferentes estudos sobre o tema aqui pesquisado, como também as colocadas pela presente análise. Concluímos, assim, que os dados descritos se mostraram consistentes e, com base neles, podemos dizer que existe uma grande ocorrência de um segmento vocálico epentético entre as consoantes dos encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no falar florianopolitano. A maior parte desses segmentos apresenta características semelhantes às da vogal [], podendo, no entanto, ocorrer também como [] ou um schwa [] (este último segmento presente apenas nas produções femininas). Dessa forma, confirma- se nossa hipótese de que a vogal epentética nem sempre é a mesma no PB. 34 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 Francine SILVEIRA e Izabel Christine SEARA SILVEIRA, Francine; SEARA, Izabel Christine. The epentectic vowel between the consonants in different syllables (heterosyllabic): an experimental study. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009. ABSTRACT: The epenthetic vowel has been the subject of several researches on Brazilian Portuguese. In order to add data to such studies, this essay aims at presenting acoustic characteristics of vocalic segments that are between consonant clusters. The parameters analyzed are: the relative duration and the first two oral formants (F1 and F2, the former refers to vocalic height and the latter refers to anteriority, respectively). The informants of this research were 4 native speakers from Florianópolis (SC) (2 male and 2 female) aged 24 to 30 years and college graduated. We observe in our data the existence of a vocalic seg- ment between the hetero- syllabic consonant cluster. The segment presents most of the times acoustic characteristics of the high front vowel , which can be characterized as a mid-high vowel or a schwa. KEYWORDS: Hetero-syllabic consonant clusters. Epenthetic vowel. Acoustical analysis. Experimental phonetics. Brazilian Portuguese. Referências ALBER, Birgit; PLAG, Ingo. Epenthesis, deletion and the emergence of the optimal syllable in Creole. Língua, Amsterdam, Elsevier, v. 111, n. 11, p. 811-840, 2001. CAGLIARI, Luiz Carlos. Elementos de Fonética do português brasileiro. 1981. Tese (Livre-Docência em Fonética e Fonologia) - Universidade Estadual de Cam- pinas, Campinas, 1981. ______. Análise fonológica: introdução à teoria e à prática: com especial destaque para o modelo fonêmico. Campinas: Mercado de Letras, 2002. CÂMARA Jr., Joaquim Mattoso. Problemas de linguística descritiva. 12. ed. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1986a. ______. Estrutura da língua portuguesa. 16. ed. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1986b. CARNIE, Andrew. Whence Sonority? Evidence from Epenthesis in Modern Irish. Working Papers in Linguistics, Cambridge, v. 21, p. 81-108, 1994. COLLISCHONN, Gisela. A epêntese vocálica no português do sul do Brasil: análise variacionista e tratamento pela teoria da otimalidade. Letras de Hoje, Porto Alegre, p.285-318, 2000. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 9-35, 2009 35 A vogal epentética em encontros consonantais heterossilábicos no português brasileiro: um estudo experimental CRISTÓFARO-SILVA, Thaïs; ALMEIDA, Leonardo. On the Nature of Epenthetic Vowels. 2006. Trabalho apresentado na 10th Conference on Laboratory Phonology, Paris, julho 2006. ITÔ, J. Syllable Theory in Prosodic Phonology. 1986. PhD Dissertation. University of Massachussetts, Massachussets, 1986. LIEBERMAN, P.; BLUMSTEIN, S. Speech physiology, speech perception, and acoustic phonetics. Cambridge: CUP, 1988. SILVEIRA, Francine. Vogal epentética entre encontro consonantal separável do português brasileiro. Artigo apresentado para a conclusão da disciplina “S.E. em pro- cessamento acústico da fala”, UFSC, Florianópolis, 2005. SILVEIRA, Regina Célia Pagliuchi da. Estudos de fonética do idioma português - série: gramática portuguesa na pesquisa e no ensino. v. 6. 2. ed. São Paulo: Cortez, 1988. SOUSA, Elizabeth M. de. Para a Caracterização Fonético-Acústica da Nasalidade no Português do Brasil. 1984. 170 p. Dissertação. (Mestrado em Linguìstica) - Uni- versidade Estadual de Campinas, Campinas, 1984. TRIOLA, Mario F. Introdução à estatística. Rio de Janeiro: LTC, 2005. 36 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 TRANSITIVIDADE DOS VERBOS ALTERNANTES: UMA PROPOSTA SEMÂNTICA Larissa CIRÍACO1 RESUMO: Este artigo traz uma proposta semântica para se classificar os verbos alternantes quanto a sua transitividade. Parte-se de uma análise das propriedades semântico-lexicais acarretadas pelos verbos causativos do Português Brasileiro, assumindo-se ser a transitivi- dade um fenômeno de interface entre a sintaxe e a semântica lexical. A proposta mostra não só a propriedade semântica relevante para a transitividade, mas também os processos gerais responsáveis pelas alternâncias verbais. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Transitividade. Propriedades semânticas. Verbos alternantes. Introdução Sintaticamente, os verbos podem ser classificados quanto ao número de argumentos que tomam numa sentença. Se tomarem dois ou mais argu- mentos, são chamados verbos transitivos; mas se tomarem apenas um argu- mento, são chamados verbos intransitivos. O verbo matar, por exemplo, é classificado como transitivo, pois aparece com dois argumentos: um sujeito e um complemento. O verbo morrer, por outro lado, é classificado como intran- sitivo, pois toma apenas um argumento: (1) Paulo matou a mosca. (2) Paulo morreu. 1 Programa de Pós Graduação em Estudos Linguísticos da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade Fede- ral de Minas Gerais; Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais, Brasil. laciriaco@gmail.com Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 37 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica Entretanto, para verbos que apresentam dois padrões de realização ar- gumental, esse critério não é suficiente para estabelecer sua transitividade: (3) a. João quebrou o vaso. b. O vaso quebrou. Quebrar participa de uma alternância de transitividade: pode aparecer em uma sentença com dois argumentos, como em (a), ou em uma sentença com apenas um argumento, como em (b). Depara-se, pois, com o problema de como determinar a transitividade desse tipo de verbo. Seria ele transitivo ou intransitivo? Que informações possibilitam ao falante saber que matar é um verbo transitivo e que morrer é intransitivo? Considerando-se esse conheci- mento, como seriam classificados então os verbos alternantes? Assumindo, em relação à aquisição e ao conhecimento que o falante tem de sua língua, que seria mais custoso postular, para uma teoria gramati- cal, a existência de duas entradas lexicais diferentes para os verbos alternan- tes, adota-se a hipótese de que existe uma ‘forma básica’ para a transitividade. Parte-se também do pressuposto de que existem componentes de significado importantes para se determinar a transitividade verbal. Em outras palavras, a transitividade é vista como uma categoria gramatical de interface entre a sintaxe e a semântica lexical, ou seja, apresenta não apenas uma face sintática (como a forma sentencial na qual aparece o verbo); mas também uma face semântica, relativa às informações semântico-lexicais dos verbos. Adotando-se a proposta de Cançado (2005, 2003) para os papéis temá- ticos, assumem-se propriedades semântico-lexicais acarretadas pelos verbos como parte do conhecimento gramatical dos falantes. Desse modo, busca-se, neste artigo, um modo de estabelecer a transitividade básica dos verbos no português brasileiro, utilizando-se essas propriedades semântico-lexicais. O trabalho está assim organizado: a primeira seção é dedicada às ques- tões levantadas neste artigo, com algumas considerações sobre seu tratamento na literatura linguística. Na segunda seção, esclarece-se o suporte teórico utili- zado: a noção de acarretamento lexical proposta por Dowty (1989) e a proposta obre as propriedades semânticas relevantes na composição de papéis temáticos de Cançado. A terceira seção se dedica à apresentação da proposta deste artigo: 38 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO a análise da propriedade semântica relevante para a transitividade dos verbos alternantes; uma extensão das considerações para os verbos inergativos e inacu- sativos; os prováveis processos gerais envolvidos na mudança de transitividade dos verbos, e, ainda, uma visão panorâmica sobre a semântica dos verbos em geral decorrente da análise feita neste artigo. Por fim, a quarta seção conclui o trabalho, retomando resumidamente a proposta apresentada. O problema da transitividade A questão de se definir a transitividade de um verbo parece crucial quando lidamos com algumas alternâncias verbais. Para problematizarmos essa questão, tomemos como exemplo a alternância causativo-ergativa: (4) a. Maria entornou o leite. b. O leite entornou. Observando as sentenças acima, aparentemente, a sentença em (b) seria derivada da sentença em (a) por um processo de alçamento do com- plemento para a posição de sujeito e apagamento do argumento externo. A evidência para se pensar nesse processo advém do fato de que o complemento da sentença em (a) possui a mesma interpretação do sujeito da sentença em (b). Ainda, a formação da sentença em (b) parece obedecer a outras restrições, visto que o verbo entornar não aparece como intransitivo se seu sujeito não puder ser interpretado como paciente: (5) * João entornou.2 Por outro lado, o raciocínio contrário também poderia ser feito: aparen- temente, a sentença (a) poderia ser derivada da sentença (b) por um processo de inclusão de um argumento na estrutura argumental do verbo. Nessa perspecti- va, emerge, pois, a questão de qual forma seria básica e qual seria a resultante. 2 Uma sentença como essa é possível apenas dentro de um contexto discursivo, em que o complemento do verbo é retomado. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 39 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica A transitividade é um tema recorrente na literatura linguística. Encon- tram-se abordagens semânticas, sintáticas e discursivas sobre esse fenômeno (cf. HOPPER e THOMPSON, 1980; BOWERS, 2002, BASSANI, 2008 e outros). Levin (1993) assume que dadas duas ocorrências de um mesmo ver- bo, uma transitiva e outra intransitiva, a intransitiva deveria ser considerada a fundamental, pois, semanticamente, ela estaria contida na forma transitiva do verbo. Porém, no trabalho de Levin e Rappaport-Hovav (1995), há uma refor- mulação dessa proposta. Segundo as autoras, se um verbo possui as ocorrên- cias transitiva e intransitiva, sua forma mais básica deve ser a transitiva, pois, do contrário, não seria possível derivar a forma transitiva da intransitiva, pelo simples fato, rejeitado por elas, de que um argumento teria de ser incluído na estrutura argumental do verbo. Entretanto, as autoras não explicam como ve- rificar que a forma básica é a transitiva. Whitaker-Franchi (1989, p. 121), em- bora sem discutir o tema, cita casos que considera serem ilustrativos de uma “causativização ou transitivização”, ou seja, “verbos mais tipicamente usados como intransitivos que apresentam um emprego transitivo mais excepcional”: (6) Essa escova dói a cabeça.3 (7) A bicicleta sua você. (verbo suar) Tais processos se contrapõem ao que a autora chama de “decausati- vização ou ergativização”, ou seja, “o emprego intransitivo de verbos tipica- mente transitivos”: (8) a. Elisa abriu a gaveta. b. A gaveta abriu. Porém, a autora também não mostra quais são os verbos “tipicamente tran- sitivos” e quais são os verbos “tipicamente intransitivos”, nem como podemos ve- rificar a forma típica de transitividade dos verbos. Talvez, dentro dessa perspectiva, fosse necessária uma análise baseada na frequência de uso para verificar quais ver- bos são “tipicamente transitivos” e quais são “tipicamente intransitivos”, o que não se encaixaria numa pesquisa com os pres-supostos teóricos aqui adotados. 3 Exemplos de Whitaker-Franchi (1989, p.121). 40 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO Há também autores que não fazem distinção entre formas inacusativas (ou ergativas) de verbos como quebrar e sumir e de verbos como aparecer e cair (BURZIO, 1986; ELISEU, 1984). No entanto, considera-se a alternância uma forte motivação sintática para tratar esses verbos de forma distinta. O verbo quebrar pode manifestar duas transitividades, ao passo que o verbo aparecer não: (9) a. João quebrou o vaso. b. O vaso quebrou. (10) a. João apareceu. b. *Alguém apareceu João. Com a observação dos dados da língua e das direções apontadas na li- teratura, parece razoável assumir que existem verbos basicamente transitivos que se tornam intransitivos e vice-versa. Acarretamentos lexicais e propriedades semântico-lexicais Cançado (2005, 2003) entende que o conteúdo semântico dos papéis temáticos é relevante para uma teoria gramatical, visto que fenômenos sintá- ticos são sensíveis a propriedades semântico-lexicais. A partir disso, a autora reformula o conceito de papel temático, tratando de maneira mais fina seu conteúdo e visando a uma definição mais formal. A autora entende o papel temático de um argumento como um grupo de propriedades semânticas. Segundo ela, os itens lexicais carregam proprie- dades lexicais de sentido, além de informações sobre sua compatibilidade com outras propriedades. São essas propriedades que compõem o papel te- mático de um dado argumento. Assume-se, então, assim como Jackendoff (1983, 1990); Foley e Van Valin (1984) e Dowty (1989, 1991), um conceito de papel temático derivado, ou seja, os primitivos em sua proposta são essas propriedades e não as noções de “agente”, “paciente”, “tema”, etc. Para se chegar às propriedades que compõem os papéis temáticos, Cançado utiliza-se da ideia de acarretamento lexical, proposta por Dowty (1989) a partir da noção de acarretamento lógico. O acarretamento, uma re- Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 41 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica lação estritamente semântica entre sentenças, é aquilo que se pode inferir ne- cessariamente sobre uma sentença S somente por saber que ela é verdadeira. Dowty estende essa noção aos itens lexicais, mais especificamente, aos ver- bos. Aplicando a definição, numa sentença do tipo [x V y], os acarretamentos lexicais de x são aquilo que se pode inferir necessariamente sobre esse argu- mento somente por sabermos que [x V y] é verdade. Portanto, o papel temáti- co do argumento x será o conjunto de propriedades acarretadas lexicalmente a x, pelo verbo: (11) Maria quebrou o vaso com um martelo. O papel temático de Maria é o conjunto de propriedades que se pode inferir necessariamente sobre Maria na sentença acima: ser animado, ser o desencadeador do processo de quebrar, ter intenção, usar um instrumento, etc. Observe que o papel temático de um argumento é composto por proprie- dades acarretadas lexicalmente pelo verbo quebrar a Maria, mas também por propriedades acarretadas de forma composicional. A ideia de composiciona- lidade é outra noção importante nessa proposta. Na proposta de Cançado, é assumido que na atribuição de papel temático aos argumentos de um predica- dor devem-se considerar não apenas as propriedades acarretadas lexicalmente pelo verbo, mas também as propriedades inferidas pela composição dos itens lexicais na sentença. Para os propósitos deste artigo, é importante, em primeiro lugar, dei- xar clara a diferença entre propriedades acarretadas lexicalmente e proprie- dades acarretadas composicionalmente. As propriedades acarretadas lexical- mente numa sentença [x V y] são aquelas acarretadas a x ou y pelo verbo V, ou seja, são as propriedades que poderão ser inferidas necessariamente a x ou y em qualquer composição sentencial. Em outras palavras, os acarretamentos lexicais de um verbo consistem em tudo o que se pode concluir sobre seus argumentos somente por conhecer seu sentido lexical, independentemente da composição da sentença em que esse verbo aparece. Já as propriedades acarretadas composicionalmente são aquelas que podem variar conforme as sentenças em que o verbo e seus argumentos aparecem, pois dependem da composição dos sentidos dos itens lexicais. Em segundo lugar, é importante frisar que o papel temático não está marcado no léxico, a priori. Os primitivos 42 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO lexicais são as propriedades semânticas que compõem o papel temático que será atribuído ao argumento. Com isso, o objetivo deste artigo será investigar de maneira mais fina as propriedades relevantes para se definir a transitivida- de básica de um verbo, investigando principalmente as propriedades acarre- tadas lexicalmente pelos verbos a seus argumentos. Outro ponto importante é usar a noção de acarretamento lexical como instrumento formal de análise. Esse procedimento leva a uma atribuição de papel temático mais sistemática, eliminando alguns problemas decorrentes das definições descritivas comu- mente utilizadas. Cançado destaca apenas quatro propriedades como relevantes grama- ticalmente.4 As propriedades semânticas destacadas são: ser o desencadeador de um processo, ser afetado por esse processo, estar em determinado estado e ter controle sobre o desencadeamento, processo ou estado. A propriedade de ser o desencadeador é definida como ter algum papel no iniciar do evento. Se, por exemplo, numa sentença da forma [x V y], é acarretada ao argumento x, no conjunto de propriedades acarretadas a x, ou seja, Pn(x), a propriedade de ter um papel no iniciar do evento, dizemos que x tem a propriedade de de- sencadeador como uma das propriedades componentes de seu papel temático. Veja o exemplo: (12) João quebrou a porta. Na sentença acima, do tipo [x V y], podemos inferir para x, no conjun- to Pn(x), a propriedade de ser o desencadeador do evento de quebrar a porta como uma das propriedades de seu papel temático. A propriedade de ser afetado por um processo é definida como a mu- dança de um estado A para um estado B. Será adotada uma noção bem ampla de mudança de estado, abrangendo a mudança de um lugar para outro, ou seja, o deslocamento; a mudança de posses; a mudança de estado físico, ou seja, mudança de constituição física de pessoas e objetos; a mudança de esta- do de existência, ou seja, mudança do estado de não existir para o estado de passar a existir; a mudança de estado psicológico ou mental; etc. No exemplo 4 Em (11) acima, por exemplo, dentre os acarretamentos listados como parte do papel temático atribuído a Maria está a propriedade de ‘ter mãos’. Essa não é uma propriedade relevante para qual- quer fenômeno sintático na língua e, portanto, não possui estatuto teórico. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 43 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica acima, temos que o argumento a porta possui, dentre o conjunto de proprieda- des acarretadas lexicalmente a ele na sentença, a propriedade de ser o afetado no evento descrito. A propriedade de estar em determinado estado, ou, abreviadamente, de estativo, ocorre quando uma proposição acarreta a seu argumento que suas características não se alterem em um intervalo de tempo t. Essa propriedade pode estar associada a outras propriedades, como ser o possuidor, estar em uma experiência psicológica, ser o valor, a qualidade, o lugar, etc.: (13) João leu um livro. As proposições semânticas acarretam ao argumento um livro, no con- junto de propriedades acarretadas a ele, a propriedade de estar em determina- do estado, ou seja, ter suas características preservadas em todos os intervalos de tempo do evento descrito por ler. Diferentemente de outras propostas da literatura, Cançado não entende a noção de controle como associada apenas à noção de agente. Essa proprieda- de é assumida de forma mais ampla, e definida como a capacidade de se inter- romper uma ação, um processo ou um estado, estando intimamente relacionada à animacidade. Portanto, essa propriedade ocorre apenas em composição com alguma das outras propriedades explicadas acima, mas nunca isoladamente.5 Definindo a transitividade dos verbos alternantes Para dar início à análise, vamos retomar um exemplo da alternância causativo-ergativa: (14) a. João quebrou o vaso. b. O vaso quebrou. Em (a) tem-se uma sentença transitiva, que ilustra a perspectiva causa- tiva de um evento no mundo (algo/alguém causou uma mudança de estado em 5 Para maiores explicações da composição de controle com as outras propriedades, consulte-se Cançado (2003, 2005). 44 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO um objeto/pessoa) e, em (b), tem-se, com o mesmo verbo, uma sentença in- transitiva, que ilustra a perspectiva ergativa (algo/alguém mudou de estado).6 Primeiramente, vamos chamar as sentenças acima de ‘construções’, ou seja, um verbo V pode figurar em uma construção transitiva, com dois ou mais argumentos e também em uma construção intransitiva, com apenas um argumento. Cada uma dessas sentenças seria uma construção sintática dife- rente com o mesmo verbo. Portanto, dizer que o verbo V encontra-se em uma construção transitiva ou intransitiva é diferente de dizer que ele ‘é’ um verbo transitivo ou intransitivo. E, neste artigo, ‘ser’ um verbo transitivo ou intransi- tivo refere-se à forma básica desse verbo. Entende-se por ‘forma básica’ nada mais que a simples projeção de todos os argumentos semânticos acarretados de seu sentido, ou seja, a atribuição de todas as propriedades acarretadas le- xicalmente pelo verbo a seus argumentos. Assim, a forma básica seria em última instância um conceito semântico, e não sintático. Além disso, propõe- se que a partir dessa forma semântica básica, direta, seja ela bi-argumental ou monoargumental, propriedades semântico-lexicais permitem ou não a cons- trução da outra forma de transitividade na sintaxe. Nesses termos, tanto a for- ma de transitividade básica de um verbo quanto a possibilidade de mudança de sua transitividade estão marcadas na estrutura argumental do verbo, como propriedades semântico-lexicais mais gerais. Em outras palavras, essas carac- terísticas sintáticas são derivadas de propriedades semânticas primitivas dos itens lexicais, ou seja, se traduzem quando propriedades semântico-lexicais específicas são “lidas” pela sintaxe.7 Para estabelecer quais verbos são basicamente intransitivos e quais verbos são basicamente transitivos, serão usados, como instrumento formal de análise, os acarretamentos lexicais dos verbos. Retomando a definição, pode-se dizer que se [x V y] acarreta propriedades para x, ou seja, Pn(x), então, pode-se inferir Pn(x) em qualquer contexto em que esse verbo ocorra. Para analisar o exemplo acima, vamos utilizar, num primeiro momento, as formas [x V y] e [w V]8 para designar respectivamente as sentenças transitiva e in- 6 Estudos sobre a alternância causativo-ergativa podem ser encontrados em Whitaker-Franchi (1989), Souza (1999), Naves (2005) e Ciríaco (2007), para algumas referências em português. 7 Note que a palavra ‘derivada’ não está sendo utilizada aqui no sentido da gramática gerativa, ou seja, não como sinônimo de transformação. É importante frisar que não se assume, neste trabalho, nenhu- ma precedência de uma forma sintática sobre outra, cada uma é projetada diretamente na sintaxe a partir de sua estrutura argumental. 8 As variáveis em itálico serão utilizadas com mais rigor adiante. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 45 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica transitiva em que aparece o verbo quebrar, sem preocupação ainda de dizer qual dessas formas é a mais básica para a transitividade. Observe que em (a), tem-se a forma transitiva [x QUEBRAR y], e no conjunto Pn(x), tem-se a propriedade de ser o desencadeador do processo, que pode ser chamada de P1(x). Entretanto, se mudarmos o contexto sentencial para a forma intransitiva em (b) acima, ou seja, [w QUEBRAR], ainda assim podemos inferir P1(x), ou seja, podemos inferir que existe um desencadeador para o processo. Isso mostra que, independentemente da composição senten- cial, mesmo não estando x explícito na sintaxe, pode-se inferir essa proprieda- de. Isso porque a propriedade de desencadeador9 é um acarretamento lexical do verbo quebrar, ou seja, uma propriedade inferida necessariamente. Em outras palavras, os acarretamentos lexicais fazem parte do próprio sentido do verbo. Informalmente, pode-se inferir necessariamente do verbo quebrar que ‘algo quebra algo ou faz algo quebrar’. Por outro lado, observe este outro exemplo de alternância: (15) a. João sumiu a chave. b. A chave sumiu. Em (15a), tem-se a forma transitiva [x SUMIR y], e, dentre as proprieda- des acarretadas a x, no conjunto Pn(x), tem-se a propriedade de ser o desencadea- dor do processo, P1(x). Entretanto, em (15b), em que se tem a forma [w SUMIR], não se pode inferir a propriedade de desencadeador. Portanto, a propriedade de desencadeador não é um acarretamento lexical do verbo sumir, ou seja, não pode ser inferida necessariamente do sentido do verbo. Informalmente, o sentido do verbo não diz necessariamente que ‘algo some algo ou faz algo sumir’. A partir dessa análise, estabelece-se, do ponto de vista semântico, que verbos alternantes basicamente transitivos são aqueles que têm como um de seus acarretamentos lexicais a propriedade de desencadeador do processo. Assume-se, então, a presença dessa propriedade como um diagnóstico se- mântico da transitividade de um verbo. O verbo que apresentar essa proprie- dade como acarretamento de seu sentido aparecerá invariavelmente na sin- 9 A fim de agilizar a leitura deste artigo, informalmente, se fará referência às propriedades apenas pelos nomes de ‘desencadeador’, ‘afetado’, etc., mas lembramos que essas são propriedades que compõem um papel temático e não o papel em si. 46 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO taxe como transitivo. O verbo causativo quebrar é um verbo basicamente transitivo, pois tem como acarretamento lexical um desencadeador. O ver- bo sumir, por outro lado, é um verbo basicamente intransitivo, pois não tem como acarretamento lexical a propriedade de desencadeador. Observe que apenas a noção estritamente semântico-lexical do acarre- tamento, que diz respeito apenas ao conteúdo semântico-lexical dos verbos da língua, foi utilizada. Pragmaticamente, todo evento no mundo pode ter uma causa, motivo ou explicação para ocorrer, que não pode ser confundido com a propriedade acarretada lexicalmente de desencadeador, que compõe um papel temático. Para uma sentença como: (16) A Joana caiu. aplicando a noção de acarretamento, em (16), tem-se [x CAIR] e não se pode inferir um desencadeador do processo dentre o conjunto de pro- priedades acarretadas pelo verbo cair. O verbo cair não acarreta, necessa- riamente, que ‘algo fez a Joana cair’. Assim, cair não acarreta lexicalmente um desencadeador, mas somente um afetado no processo. Entretanto, isso não impede a formação de uma estrutura sintática complexa, com o verbo cair, em que haja um desencadeador expresso; isto é, é perfeitamente pos- sível dizer algo como: (17) A chuva fez a Joana cair. A variável x será fixada nesta análise como o sujeito das formas transi- tiva e intransitiva básicas, ou seja, [x V y] e [x V]; e a variável y como o com- plemento da forma transitiva básica, ou seja, [x V y]. A partir dessas formas mais básicas de transitividade, podem ser aplicados processos de intransitivi- zação ou transitivização de um verbo, que obedecem a restrições específicas. Sendo assim, a forma [y V] expressará a forma derivada do processo de ‘erga- tivização’, em que y, que possui propriedades semânticas específicas para tal, é mapeado na posição de sujeito. A forma [z V x] também denotará a forma derivada do processo de ‘causativização’, na qual o argumento x é mapeado na posição de complemento e um outro argumento, z, pode ser inserido em sua estrutura como sujeito. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 47 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica Outro ponto a ser esclarecido é sobre a diferença entre causatividade, uma noção semântica, e transitividade, uma noção sintático-semântica. Um verbo causativo é aquele que possui pelo menos dois argumentos, acarretando a um deles a propriedade de desencadeador e ao outro a propriedade de afeta- do. Um verbo transitivo é aquele que, semanticamente, possui como acarreta- mento lexical a propriedade de desencadeador e, sintaticamente, manifesta-se na forma [x V y]. Estendendo a proposta à hipótese inacusativa Na tradição dos estudos formalistas, os verbos intransitivos dividem- se em duas sub-classes, conforme a hipótese inacusativa: inacusativos e iner- gativos, sendo cada classe associada a propriedades semânticas e sintáticas específicas. Semanticamente, conforme Ciríaco e Cançado (2006), os verbos inacusativos selecionam um argumento com a propriedade de afetado; já os inergativos selecionam um argumento com as propriedades de desencadea- dor e de afetado. Sintaticamente, numa análise gerativa, os inergativos são aqueles que possuem um sujeito em estrutura profunda e os inacusativos são aqueles que possuem um sujeito derivado (BURZIO, 1986; PERLMUTTER, 1978). Essa característica sintática levou os verbos inergativos à condição de verdadeiros intransitivos, pois, ao contrário dos inacusativos, eles possuem um sujeito em estrutura profunda: (18) João correu. (19) João apareceu. Em (18) temos um verbo inergativo, correr, sendo seu sujeito gerado como argumento externo. Em (19), temos um verbo inacusativo, aparecer, que possui um sujeito derivado, gerado como argumento interno, e posterior- mente movido para a posição de sujeito. Entretanto, na proposta deste artigo, não se assumem níveis sintáti- cos, nem movimentos entre esses níveis. Assume-se que existe, para os ver- bos alternantes, uma forma semântica básica de transitividade e que a outra forma de transitividade é licenciada por propriedades semântico-lexicais dos verbos. Ambas as formas são projetadas diretamente na sintaxe. Analisemos, 48 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO então, dentro desta proposta, os verbos correr e aparecer quanto a sua transi- tividade. Em (18), tem-se a forma [x CORRER], em que se podem inferir para x as propriedades de ser o desencadeador e de ser afetado no processo. Em (19), tem-se a forma [x APARECER] e não se pode inferir um desencadeador para o processo, apenas um afetado. O desencadeador é um acarretamento lexical somente para o verbo correr, mas não para o verbo aparecer. Na se- ção anterior, estabeleceu-se que a presença da propriedade de desencadeador como acarretamento lexical de um verbo indica que esse verbo é basicamen- te transitivo. Porém, além dessa propriedade, vimos também que os verbos basicamente transitivos apresentam a forma [x V y]. O verbo correr possui a propriedade de desencadeador como acarretamento lexical, no entanto, apre- senta a forma [x V]. Entretanto, observe que o verbo correr, e também outros verbos inergativos, podem recuperar a forma transitiva [x V y] através de um complemento cognato especificado: (20) a. João correu a corrida de São Silvestre. b. João cantou uma canção triste. c. A bailarina dançou uma dança esquisita. d. O atleta nadou um nado eclético. As construções acima mostram que os verbos inergativos podem acei- tar dois argumentos em sua estrutura sintática, o que, juntamente com o fato de que esses verbos acarretam a x a propriedade de desencadeador do pro- cesso, os levaria à condição de verbos basicamente transitivos, pelo menos, implicitamente. Seguindo esse raciocínio, os verbos inacusativos devem ser considerados os únicos verbos realmente intransitivos, porque além de não acarretarem um desencadeador do processo, a forma transitiva [x V y], proto- tipicamente, não pode ser recuperada: (21) a. * João caiu uma caída feia. b. * João chegou uma chegada esquisita. c. * Maria apareceu uma aparecida de repente. d. * O nenê nasceu uma nascida difícil. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 49 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica Sintaticamente, verbos inacusativos são os únicos verbos que não aceitam dois argumentos em sua estrutura sintática, e, semanticamente, não possuem o acarretamento lexical de desencadeador; em realidade, eles acar- retam a x apenas a propriedade de ser o afetado no processo.10 Vale, aqui, uma outra observação sobre mais alguns verbos comumente uti- lizados como intransitivos. Observe que os verbos levantar, sentar, mover, mexer, etc. numa construção como a expressa em (22), acarretam a x não apenas a pro- priedade de desencadeador, mas também a propriedade de afetado no processo: (22) O menino levantou/ sentou/ moveu/ mexeu. Essa característica os faz semelhantes aos tradicionais verbos inerga- tivos, vistos mais acima. Entretanto, note também que existe a possibilidade de essas construções ocorrerem com a partícula se: (23) O menino se levantou/ sentou/ moveu/ mexeu. Em hipótese, a presença do clítico se estaria associada a uma mu- dança na diátese do verbo, de acordo com a tradição dos estudos lexica- listas (GRIMSHAW, 1990; DOBROVIE-SORIN, 2006; entre outros), po- dendo ser essa uma forma derivada de alternância. Sendo assim, o indício de que essa seria uma construção resultante de uma mudança de diátese associado ao fato de que tais verbos possuem como acarretamento lexical a propriedade de desencadeador, os levaria à condição de verbos basica- mente transitivos. Em tese, as sentenças abaixo formariam então um tipo de alternância, em que em (a) tem-se uma construção causativa e, em (b), uma construção inergativa, ou seja, com características típicas das cons- truções com verbos inergativos: (24) a. João levantou o menino. b. O menino (se) levantou.11 10 As propostas sintáticas de Hale e Keyser (1993) e de Radford (1998) também apontam nessa direção. 11 Essa construção tem sido chamada de ‘média’, conforme Creissels (2006) e outros autores. Dife- rente da construção medial, que possui um sujeito com a propriedade de afetado, a média possui um sujeito com as propriedades de desencadeador e afetado, assemelhando-se às construções com verbos inergativos. 50 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO Tal alternância estaria associada a restrições específicas, visto que ela não é possível em determinados contextos: (25) a. João levantou o livro. b. * O livro levantou. Os processos de causativização e ergativização O processo de ergativização, de natureza semântico-lexical e operan- do sobre a estrutura argumental do verbo, ocorre quando o argumento de um verbo que recebe a propriedade de afetado é mapeado na posição de sujeito. Esse processo ocorre sempre com verbos causativos, basicamente transitivos, que podem aparecer em uma construção de perspectiva causativa (como em (a)) ou em uma de perspectiva processual (como (b)): (26) a. João / o vento quebrou o vaso. b. O vaso quebrou (com o vento). Pode-se perceber, então, que o verbo causativo quebrar, basicamente tran- sitivo, passa pelo processo de ergativização quando aparece em uma construção intransitiva. Temos, então, as seguintes estruturas para esse verbo: [x V y] ou [y V]. A causativização, também de natureza semântico-lexical, consiste em inserir um argumento desencadeador à estrutura argumental de um verbo basi- camente intransitivo, dando origem à forma causativa sintética [z V x], que cor- responde semanticamente à forma causativa analítica [z CAUSA x V]. Nesse processo, o verbo tipicamente processual incorpora uma causação: (27) a. A chave sumiu. b. João fez a chave sumir. c. João sumiu (com) a chave.12 12 Observe que a preposição com é possível em alguns contextos de causativização. Essa ocorrência reforça a nossa proposta sobre esse processo, pois, conforme hipótese de Cançado (2005), preposições encabeçando argumentos nesses casos, assim como a partícula se, seriam marcas morfológicas de uma alternância de diátese. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 51 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica O verbo processual sumir, basicamente intransitivo, aceita o processo de causativização e aparece em uma construção transitiva. Temos, então, as seguintes estruturas para esse verbo: [x V] ou [z V x]. Recapitulando, considera-se que o verbo quebrar é um verbo basi- camente transitivo e que o verbo sumir é basicamente intransitivo. O pri- meiro aceita o processo de ergativização, como em (26b). O segundo aceita o processo de causativização, como mostra a sentença em (27c). Vejam-se alguns exemplos de verbos basicamente transitivos que aceitam o processo de ergativização: (28) a. Eduardo entortou a maçaneta. b. A maçaneta entortou. (29) a. Maria abriu a porta. b. A porta abriu. (30) a. A tempestade afundou o barquinho. b. O barquinho afundou. (31) a. Joana encheu o tanque. b. O tanque encheu. (32) a. A costureira rasgou o vestido. b. O vestido rasgou. (33) a. O garçom entornou o vinho. b. O vinho entornou. Para todos os verbos acima, das sentenças causativo-transitivas em (a), do tipo [x V y], pode-se inferir a propriedade de desencadeador do processo. Do mesmo modo, também numa sentença com a estrutura [y V], em (b), po- de-se inferir um desencadeador para o processo. Portanto, o desencadeador é um acarretamento lexical dos verbos entortar, abrir, afundar, encher, rasgar e entornar, pois, independentemente do contexto sentencial em que ocorrem, pode-se inferir essa propriedade. É possível perceber para os exemplos em (b) acima, que se a maçaneta entortou, então, necessariamente, algo a fez entor- tar; se a porta abriu, então, necessariamente, algo a fez abrir; se o barquinho afundou, então, necessariamente, algo o fez afundar; e assim sucessivamente 52 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO com os outros verbos. Portanto, conclui-se que os verbos acima são verbos causativos basicamente transitivos, que aceitam o processo de ergativização, tendo como resultado as construções ergativas em (b). Vejam-se também alguns exemplos de verbos basicamente intransiti- vos que aceitam o processo de causativização: (34) a. O nenê acordou. b. O barulho acordou o nenê. (35) a. A criança adormeceu. b. A música adormeceu a criança. (36) a. A festa começou. b. A banda começou a festa. (37) a. O vinho acabou. b. O padre acabou (com) o vinho (38) a. As flores desabrocharam. b. O sol desabrochou as flores. Para os exemplos em (a) acima, tem-se a forma intransitiva [x V], em que não se pode inferir, no conjunto Pn(x), a propriedade de desencade- ador; embora, nas sentenças em (b), com a forma [z V x], essa propriedade possa ser inferida para z. A propriedade de desencadeador, então, não é um acarretamento lexical dos verbos acordar, adormecer, começar, acabar e desabrochar. Não se pode inferir necessariamente do sentido desses verbos um desencadeador: se é verdade que o nenê acordou, não se pode inferir necessariamente que algo acordou o nenê; se é verdade que a criança ador- meceu, não se pode inferir necessariamente que algo adormeceu a criança; se é verdade que a festa começou, não se pode inferir necessariamente que algo/alguém começou a festa; se é verdade que o vinho acabou, não se pode inferir necessariamente que algo/alguém acabou o vinho; e se é verdade que as flores desabrocharam, não se pode inferir necessariamente que algo/ alguém desabrochou as flores. Portanto, conclui-se que os verbos acima são verbos basicamente intransitivos, que aceitam a causativização, como mostram os exemplos em (b). Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 53 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica Para os verbos inergativos, tem-se um processo de causativização di- ferente do visto até aqui. É um processo semelhante, porque também se trata da inserção de um argumento desencadeador à estrutura argumental do verbo, mas diferente porque origina construções que serão chamadas de ‘duplas- causações’: (39) a. O garoto correu. b. A professora correu o garoto atrevido para fora da sala. (40) a. Os filhos estudam.13 b. O pai estudou os filhos até a faculdade.14 (41) a. Os meninos almoçaram. b. Eu já almocei os meninos. As sentenças em (b), da forma [z V x], podem ser chamadas du- plas-causações porque a propriedade de ser o desencadeador do proces- so compõe o papel temático de seus dois argumentos, z e x. Em (40b), por exemplo, a professora possui, dentre as propriedades que compõem seu papel temático, as propriedades de ser o desencadeador e de ter con- trole, notadas como D/C; enquanto o garoto possui, dentre as proprie- dades que compõem seu papel temático, as propriedades de ser o desen- cadeador do processo e de ser afetado nesse processo, ou seja, D/A. O processo que origina uma dupla-causação pode ser considerado um tipo de causativização. Entretanto, nem todo verbo basicamente transitivo passa pelo pro- cesso de ergativização, assim como nem todo verbo basicamente intransi- tivo passa pelo processo de causativização. Parece que existem restrições semântico-lexicais que licenciam esses processos. Primeiramente, têm-se alguns exemplos de verbos basicamente intransitivos que não aceitam a formação de construções causativas: 13 Toma-se o verbo estudar na acepção de atividade. Sabe-se ser possível uma outra construção, como João estuda matemática, que é um accomplishment. Entretanto, ela não invalida o exemplo. Sobre aspecto lexical ou aktionsart, consulte-se Vendler (1967), Verkuyl (1989) e ainda Wachowicz e Foltran (2007). 14 Exemplo de Cançado (2005). 54 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO (42) a. O nenê nasceu ontem. b. * João nasceu o nenê. (43) a. O copo caiu. b. * João caiu o copo. Do mesmo modo, construções de dupla-causação não ocorrem para todos os verbos inergativos: (44) * João nadou o menino na piscina. (45) * Maria voou o passarinho pela sala. Portanto, devem existir restrições semântico-lexicais específicas que governam a aplicação do processo de causativização. Têm-se, também, alguns exemplos de verbos basicamente transitivos que não aceitam aparecerem em construções ergativas, por não atenderem às restrições semântico-lexicais necessárias (CIRÍACO, 2007; WHITAKER- FRANCHI, 1989): (46) a. Joana empurrou o carrinho. b. * O carrinho empurrou. (47) a. O jogador chutou a bola. b. * A bola chutou. Para concluir, uma última observação sobre os processos refere-se aos tipos de construções que deles resultam. Foi visto, até aqui, que o processo mais geral de causativização se relaciona a construções causativas e a constru- ções de dupla-causação, com cada uma obedecendo a suas próprias restrições. Do mesmo modo, a ergativização, de modo geral, consiste no mapeamento do complemento do verbo na posição de sujeito. Em tese, esse processo mais geral estaria relacionado também a outros tipos de construções além das er- gativas, como a medial (mostrada em (49)) (CIRÍACO, em preparação) e a ergativa cindida (mostrada em (50)) (CANÇADO, 2006): Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 55 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica (48) Vasos quebram facilmente. (49) João quebrou a perna. Para uma classificação semântica dos verbos em termos acionais Também como extensão desta proposta, em termos preliminares, ter- se-ia uma relação entre as propriedades semânticas acarretadas pelos verbos e seus tipos acionais. Relacionam-se accomplishments aos verbos de causação, achievements aos verbos processuais e atividades aos verbos que chamaremos de causação/processo, ou médios. Essa distinção segue um critério temático-lexical: os verbos de causação, que normalmente denotam accomplishments aspectu- almente, são aqui definidos como aqueles que acarretam a x a propriedade de desencadeador do processo e a y a propriedade de afetado no processo. Por pos- suírem a propriedade de desencadeador como acarretamento lexical de x e por to- marem um segundo argumento, podendo ter a forma [x V y], conclui-se também que verbos causativos são verbos basicamente transitivos. Eles podem alternar ou não: aqueles que alternam formam ergativas através do processo de ergativização e passam a descrever um achievement. Há também aqueles que não alternam: (50) a. João quebrou o vaso. / O vaso quebrou. b. João escreveu a carta. / * A carta escreveu. Os verbos de processo são aqueles que acarretam a x a propriedade de afetado, e, podendo estar na forma [x V y], acarretam a y a propriedade de estativo. Um exemplo seria: (51) Maria recebeu uma carta. Vale lembrar mais uma vez que a definição semântica de transitividade encontrada nesta pesquisa se limita aos verbos alternantes, não possuindo es- copo sobre verbos como receber, mesmo porque não é necessário um critério para além do critério de número de argumentos para definir sua transitivida- de. Dentre os verbos processuais, que, normalmente, denotam achievements, 56 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO estão os inacusativos, que possuem a forma [x V]. Esses constituem a única classe de verbos realmente intransitivos nesta proposta, pois não acarretam lexicamente a x a propriedade de desencadeador, nem possuem um comple- mento. Existem aqueles que alternam, através do processo de causativização, e aqueles que não alternam: (52) a. A fruta amadureceu. / O calor amadureceu a fruta. b. O açúcar caiu. / * O menino caiu (com) o açúcar.15 Parece que, se se assumisse um contínuo entre os verbos causativos e os processuais, entre eles estariam verbos que denotam atividades. Esses verbos ou aparecem usualmente na forma [x V y] ou podem ter essa forma recuperada, como os verbos inergativos, transformando-se em accomplish- ments. Eles acarretam a x, no conjunto Pn(x), a propriedade de ser o desenca- deador do processo, ser o afetado por esse processo e também de ter controle. Dada essa característica, esses verbos serão chamados de verbos de causação/ processo ou verbos médios, pois existe uma causação sendo desencadeada e sofrida pelo mesmo participante do evento: (53) a. João desceu a escada. b. João correu (a corrida de São Silvestre). Tais verbos, principalmente aqueles do tipo de descer, não podem ser considerados causativos, pois não acarretam a y a propriedade de ser afeta- do, mas sim de estar em determinado estado. Observe que a escada em (a) é apenas um objeto de referência. Semanticamente, eles são considerados basi- camente transitivos, pois possuem o acarretamento lexical de desencadeador. Já sintaticamente, eles podem ou não vir acompanhados de um complemento. Para finalizar essa seção, vale lembrar que essas considerações têm caráter meramente especulativo, devendo ser desenvolvidas em um traba- lho a parte. 15 Como bem lembrado pelo parecerista anônimo que avaliou este artigo, o léxico do português dispõe do verbo derrubar para expressar a perspectiva causativa deste evento no mundo. A não ocorrência da alternância em (52b) pode ser vista como um caso de bloqueio lexical (ARONOFF, 1976). Ainda assim, a argumentação acima não fica comprometida, como pode ser comprovado por outros verbos inacusativos: Maria apareceu. / * João apareceu Maria. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 57 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica Considerações finais Em síntese, esta é uma proposta que relaciona a questão da transi- tividade dos verbos alternantes às propriedades semânticas acarretadas le- xicalmente por eles. Em primeiro lugar, assumiu-se ser a transitividade um fenômeno que se encontra na interface entre a sintaxe e a semântica-lexical e que propriedades semântico-lexicais são importantes para defini-la. Em se- gundo lugar, adotou-se a proposta de uma forma básica para a transitivida- de dos verbos alternantes, sendo essa forma básica de natureza semântica. Nessa perspectiva, as propriedades semânticas acarretadas pelo sentido de um verbo, marcadas em sua estrutura argumental, definem sua transitividade sintática básica quando da projeção de todas as propriedades acarretadas le- xicalmente em argumentos. Em terceiro lugar, assumiu-se que as alternâncias verbais, que envolvem mudança na transitividade, são também projetadas na sintaxe se licenciadas por propriedades semântico-lexicais. Assim, os proces- sos gerais de causativização e ergativização, descritos neste artigo, obedecem a restrições semânticas dessa natureza e são responsáveis por vários tipos de alternâncias verbais, como a causativo-ergativa, a medial, etc. Nessa proposta, definiu-se como verbo basicamente transitivo aquele que possui a forma [x V y] e acarreta a x, no conjunto Pn(x), a propriedade de desencadeador do processo. Desse modo, a transitividade de um verbo alternante está relacionada à presença ou à ausência do acarretamento lexical da propriedade de desencadeador, para além da forma sintática. Relacionou- se também essa proposta à tradicional hipótese inacusativa, verificando que verbos inacusativos são os únicos a que se pode chamar de verdadeiramen- te intransitivos. Por fim, forneceu-se uma caracterização geral dos verbos, relacionando-se propriedades semanticamente acarretadas e o aspecto lexical. Embora esse paralelo entre propriedades semânticas e propriedades acionais não tenha sido discutido em maiores detalhes, ele aponta algumas direções para uma nova pesquisa, mais extensa, a ser desenvolvida futuramente. Conclui-se, portanto, esse trabalho, realçando que além de fornecer um meio formal para verificar a transitividade de um verbo e de descrever os processos envolvidos nas alternâncias verbais de forma mais geral, mostrou- se a relevância de certas propriedades semânticas para a explicação de fenô- menos sintáticos. 58 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO Agradecimentos: Aos pareceristas anônimos que avaliaram este texto para publicação, pelos comentários que em muito beneficiaram este artigo e ao apoio financeiro do CNPq (bolsa de doutorado). CIRÍACO, Larissa. Transitivity of alternating verbs: a semantic approach. Revista do Gel, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009. ABSTRACT: This paper presents a proposal for classifying alternating verbs in relation to its ‘basic form’ of transitivity. Based on the analysis of lexical-semantics properties entailed by Brazilian Portuguese causative verbs, it is assumed that transitivity can be described not only in syntactic terms but also through semantic properties. The relevant semantic property for transitivity and the general processes responsible for transitivity alternations are also shown. KEYWORDS: Transitivity. Semantic properties. Alternating verbs. Referências ARONOFF, Mark H. Word structure. 1974. 243f. Tese (Doutorado). Massachusetts Institute of Technology, MA, 1974. BASSANI, Indaiá de Santana. Sintaxe da transitividade: Verificação de uma proposta para as sentenças de alternância ergativa do Português do Brasil. Revista Virtual de Estudos da Linguagem – ReVEL, v. 6, n. 10, 2008. BOWERS, J. Transitivity. Linguistic Inquiry, Cambridge, v. 33, n. 2, p. 183-224, 2002. BURZIO, L. Italian Syntax: a government and binding approach. Dordrecht: D. Reisel Publishing Company, 1986. CANÇADO, M. Um Estatuto Teórico para os Papéis Temáticos. In: MÜLLER, Ana Lúcia; NEGRÃO, Esmeralda; FOLTRAN, Maria Jose (Orgs.) Semântica Formal. São Paulo: Contexto, 2003. p. 95-124. ______. Posições Argumentais e Propriedades Semânticas. DELTA, São Paulo, v. 21, n.1, p. 23-56, 2005. ______. Talking about Agents and Beneficiaries. In: RARA & RARISSIMA CONFEREN- CE, 2006, Leipzig, Alemanha. Proceedings… Leipzig: Max Planck Institute, 2006. Dis- ponível em <http://www.letras.ufmg.br/marciacancado/Talking%20about%20Agents %20 and%20Beneficiaries%20in%20Brazilian%20Portug….pdf>. Acesso em: 20 jan. 2008. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 59 Transitividade dos verbos alternantes: uma proposta semântica CHAFE, W. L. Meaning and the Structure of Language. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1970. CIRÍACO, L. Interface sintaxe-semântica lexical: restrições à formação de construções passivas e mediais. Tese (Doutorado em Estudos Linguísticos) – Faculdade de Letras, Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais, Belo Horizonte, em preparação. ______. A alternância causativo-ergativa no PB: restrições e propriedades semânticas. 2007. Dissertação (Mestrado em Estudos Linguísticos) – Faculdade de Letras, Universi- dade Federal de Minas Gerais, Belo Horizonte, 2007. CIRÍACO, L.; CANÇADO, M. Inacusatividade e Inergatividade no PB. Cadernos de Estudos Linguísticos, Campinas, n. 46, v. 2, p.207-225, 2006. CREISSELS, D. Syntaxe générale, une introduction typologique. Paris: Hermès, 2006. DOBROVIE-SORIN, C. The SE-anaphor and its role in argument realization. In: EVERAERT, M.; RIEMSDIJK, Henk van. (Orgs.) The Blackwell Companion to Syn- tax. v. 4. Oxford: Blackwell, 2006. p. 118-177. Disponível em: < http://www.llf.cnrs.fr/ Gens/Sorin/>. DOWTY, D. On the Semantic Content of the Notion of Thematic Role. In: CHIERCHIA, G.; PARTEE, B.; TURNER, R. (Orgs.) Properties, Types and Meaning. Studies in Linguistic and Philosophy 2: Semantic Issues. Daordrecht: Kluver, 1989. p. 69-124. ______. Thematic Proto-roles and Argument Selection. Language, Baltimore, v. 67, n. 3, p. 547-619, 1991. ELISEU, A. Verbos ergativos do Português: descrição e análise. 1984. Dissertação (Mestrado em Letras) – Universidade de Lisboa, Lisboa, 1984. FOLEY, W.; VAN VALIN, R. Functional Syntax and Universal Grammar. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. GRIMSHAW, J. Argument Structure. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990. HALE, K.; KEYSER, S.J. On argument structure and the lexical expression of syntactic relations. In: ______. (Orgs.) The view from building 20. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1993. p. 53-110. HOPPER, P.; THOMPSON, S. A. Transitivity in Grammar and Discourse. Language, Baltimore v. 56, p. 251-299, 1980. JACKENDOFF, R. Semantics and Cognition. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983. 60 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 36-60, 2009 Larissa CIRÍACO ______. Semantic Structures. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990. LEVIN, B. English verb classes and alternations: a preliminary investigation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1993. LEVIN, B.; RAPPAPORT. M. H.. Unaccusativity. At the syntax-lexical semantics in- terface. Linguistic Inquiry Monograph, Cambridge, v. 26, 1995. NAVES, R. Alternâncias sintáticas: questões e perspectivas de análise. 2005. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) – Universidade de Brasília, Brasília, 2005. PERLMUTTER, D. Impersonal passives and the Unaccusative Hypothesis. Berkeley Linguistics Society, Berkeley, v. 4, p. 157-189, 1978. RADFORD, A. Syntax: a minimalist introduction. Cambridge: CUP, 1998. SOUZA, P. A alternância causativa no Português do Brasil: defaults num léxico gerativo. 1999. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) – Universidade de São Paulo, São Paulo, 1999. VENDLER, Z. Linguistics in Philosophy. New York: Cornell University Press, 1967. VERKUYL, H. J. Aspectual classes and Aspectual composition. Linguistics and Philosophy 12. Daordrecht: Kluver, 1989. p.39-94. WACHOWICZ, T.; FOLTRAN, M. J. Sobre a noção de Aspecto. Cadernos de Estudos Linguísticos, Campinas, v. 48, p. 211-232, 2007. WHITAKER-FRANCHI, R. As construções ergativas: um estudo sintático-semânti- co. 1989. Dissertação (Mestrado em Estudos Linguísticos) – Universidade Estadual de Campinas, Campinas, 1989. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 61 A RELATIVA RESUMPTIVA EM DOIS MOMENTOS DO PORTUGUÊS BRASILEIRO Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA1 RESUMO: Este estudo focaliza a mudança no sistema de relativização em PB (português brasileiro) verificada por Tarallo (1983). Com base em investigação empírica, levanto a hi- pótese de que mudanças ocorridas no sistema pronominal do PB a partir do século XIX atingiram a relativa resumptiva. Em favor dessa hipótese os corpora analisados mostram que: a) embora a estratégia resumptiva mantenha uma frequência marginal do século XVIII ao século XX, houve um aumento da frequência dessa estratégia no último século; e b) mu- danças no sistema pronominal, em PB, apresentam relação com mudanças encontradas na estratégia resumptiva. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Aquisição da Linguagem. Mudança Linguística. Português Brasileiro. Relativa Resumptiva. Relativa Cortadora. Teoria Gerativa. Considerações iniciais De acordo com Tarallo (1983), além da relativa padrão, definida como estratégia do pronome relativo, exemplo (1), e da estratégia do pronome re- sumptivo, exemplo (2), verificadas em outras línguas românicas, surgiu em PB, no século XIX, um terceiro tipo de relativa que o autor denominou cor- tadora, exemplo (3). (1) O rapaz com quem simpatizo é este. 1 Professora Adjunta do Departamento de Estudos Linguísticos e Literários da UESB, Vitória da Conquista, Bahia, Brasil. adriana.lessa.de@uol.com.br, alessa@uesb.br Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 62 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 (2) O rapaz que eu simpatizo com ele é este. (3) O rapaz que eu simpatizo é este. Segundo o autor, esse processo de mudança do sistema de relativiza- ção do PB culminou com a substituição da estratégia padrão pela estratégia cortadora, a qual, na segunda metade do século XIX, já apresentava uma fre- quência de 59,5%. Tarallo (1983) analisa que a origem dessa nova estratégia tem relação direta com o surgimento de categorias vazias em posição de ob- jeto em PB, constatado no mesmo período. Interessa a este estudo saber se esse processo de mudança que fez surgir a relativa cortadora em PB atingiu a estratégia não-padrão mais antiga – a relativa resumptiva. Assim, com base em análises de dados dos sécu- los XVIII, XIX e XX estudados por Tarallo (1983) e de dados de cartas de mercadores do século XVIII, discuto esse fenômeno de mudança a partir de duas hipóteses aqui suscitadas: 1) a mudança no sistema de relativização em PB inclui a estratégia resumptiva, que altera sua estrutura subjacente; e 2) a mudança da relativa resumptiva partiu da associação dessa estratégia com a estratégia emergente – a relativa cortadora. A estrutura das relativas em PB Hipótese do movimento-wh vs. apagamento Para Tarallo (1983), as estratégias de relativização padrão e não-padrão consistem em dois processos: a) de movimento, no caso da relativa padrão; e b) de apagamento, no caso das não-padrão. O autor explica que a estratégia padrão requer um movimento do NP-wh para COMP, deixando uma catego- ria vazia na cláusula encaixada (figura 1). Para o segundo processo, Tarallo (1983) apresenta três tipos de estruturas: a) a estratégia resumptiva, que não requer movimento-wh, apresentando um complementizador que em COMP e um pronome resumptivo, em vez da categoria vazia (figura 2a); b) a estraté- gia gap-leaving, específica das relativas de sujeito e objeto direto, na qual o COMP é [-wh] e a categoria vazia não deriva de movimento-wh (figura 2b); e c) a estratégia cortadora (PP-chopping), que também apresenta um que complementizador, não apresenta pronome resumptivo e tem a preposição apagada na cláusula encaixada (figura 2c). A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 63 Figura 1: The Standard Variant S 1 NPi S’ 1 Comp S +whi 1 ...NPi... gap Figura 2a: The Resumptive Pronoun Variant S 1 NPi S’ 1 Comp S que 1 -wh ...NPi... pronoun Figura 2b: The Gap-Leaving Variant S 1 NPi S’ 1 Comp S que 1 -wh ...NPi gap Figura 2c: The PP-Chopping Variant S 1 NPi S’ 1 Comp S que 1 -wh ... PP... 1 P NPi ø gap (TARALLO, 1983, p. 45-48) Hipótese do movimento-wh vs. apagamento baseada no modelo raising A proposta de Kenedy (2002) para a estrutura das relativas não-pa- drão em PB está diretamente ligada à restrição a prepositional-stranding, que existe em português e demais línguas românicas. Estabelecendo uma relação entre esse fenômeno e um suposto corte da preposição nas relativas cortadoras, o autor toma por base a hipótese do núcleo [P+D] (formulada por SALLES, 1997, 1999) para explicar a estrutura das resumptivas e corta- doras em PB. De acordo com essa hipótese, em línguas de pied-piping obri- gatório (como o português, que faz comumente contração entre preposição e determinante), a preposição e o DP são movidos juntos. Nessas línguas ocorreria um complexo [P+D] (conjunto de traços φ para KENEDY, 2002), que se comporta como uma unidade sintática formada pela incorporação em P dos traços φ marcados em D. Segundo o autor, na relativização em línguas como o português, a ope- ração de movimento reconhece em [P+D] um constituinte único que deverá ser deslocado integralmente, resultando no pied-piping da preposição. Então, assumindo a hipótese de relativização por alçamento de Kayne (1994),2 2 Com Kayne (1994) é retomado um tipo de análise em que se concebe que o sintagma alvo da relati- vização é um constituinte alçado do CP relativo. De acordo com o modelo proposto por ele, conheci- do como raising analysis (análise por alçamento), os DPs podem selecionar como seu complemento Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 64 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 Kenedy (2002) propõe que a estrutura da relativa pied-piping em PB é o que se apresenta em (4) abaixo. (4) [a [CP [pessoa [P+D com quem]]i [IP você falou ti]]] (KENEDY, 2002, p. 15) Para o caso das relativas não-padrão em PB, o autor assume a estrutu- ra das relativas-that, nos termos de Kayne (1994), e propõe que a estratégia resumptiva teria uma estrutura como em (5a) e a estratégia cortadora uma estrutura com em (5b). No caso da cortadora, o autor argumenta que, dada a unidade de traços do núcleo [P+D], o apagamento da cópia do DP torna obri- gatório o apagamento também da preposição em PF. (5) a. [DP a [CP [DP moça]i [C’ que [IP eu falei [PP com [DP ela]i]]]]] b. [DP a [CP [DP moça]i [C’ que [IP eu falei [PP com [DP [DP moça]i]]]]]] (adaptado de KENEDY, 2002, p 131-132) A hipótese do movimento-wh para as três estratégias Diferentemente do que propõem Tarallo (1983) e Kenedy (2002), para Kato (1993), o processo que subjaz aos três tipos de estratégias de relativiza- ção em PB é sintaticamente o mesmo. Para a autora, há nos três casos a ligação do operador relativo-wh a uma posição vazia v – variável – na sentença. um CP. Para o autor, a estrutura da relativa seria [DP D 0 CP], a única compatível com o LCA (Axioma de Correspondência Linear). Assim, de acordo com essa proposta, os três tipos de relativas do inglês são derivados a partir do alçamento para o domínio de checagem de C de: a) um NP nas relativas- that; b) um DP nas relativas-wh; ou c) um PP nas relativas pied-piping (cf. estruturas em (ib), (iib) e (iiib), respectivamente). No caso das relativas-wh e das relativas com pied-piping, há previsão de mais alçamento: o NP incluído no DP movido é alçado para o SpecDP, na caso das relativas-wh; e, no caso das relativas com pied-piping, esse NP é alçado para o SpecPP, via Spec do DP-wh, prova- velmente, segundo o autor. (i) Relativas-that: a. The picture that Bill saw. b. [DP the [CP picturei [C’ that [IP Bill saw ti]]]] (ii) Relativas-wh: a. The picture which Bill saw. b. [DP the [CP [DP picturej [D’ which tj]]i [ C 0 [IP Bill saw ti ]]] (iii) Relativas pied-piping: a. The hammer with which Bill broke it. b. [DP the [CP [PP hammerj [P’ whith [DP (tj) which tj]]] [C 0 [IP he broke it ei]]]] (adaptado de KAYNE 1994, p. 87-89) A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 65 Assim, a autora defende que a diferença entre as estratégias resumptiva e cortadora de um lado e a padrão, de outro, não tem a ver com a natureza categorial do COMP, mas com a posição da variável, que está fora do IP, no caso das primeiras, e dentro, no caso da última. Estas duas posições são universalmente disponíveis, pois a GU (Gramática Universal) permite que o operador relativo-wh esteja ligado a elementos que se encontram no interior de IP e fora dele, em deslocamento à esquerda (comumente referido como tópico). Assim, a autora postula que: a) nas três estratégias, o item lexical que é um pronome relativo, extraído de uma posição não-canônica; b) a posição da variável presa a este pronome é de deslocamento à esquerda (Left Dislocation = LD), gerado na base; e c) o pronome resumptivo é co-referente à variável em LD. (6) a. A moça (CP com quemi (IP eu falei (PP ti) ontem). b. A moça (CP quei ( (LD ti ) (eu falei com elai ) ontem). (KATO, 1993, p.227) Segundo Kato, em (6a) a relativização opera diretamente sobre o obje- to do verbo, enquanto que em (6b) o que é relativizado é o NP na posição de LD. O pronome relativo que (de acordo com a classificação da autora) é liga- do ao vestígio em LD, que é co-referente ao pronome pessoal ela dentro do IP. As relativas de LD do PB em uma proposta de Raising analysis A proposta de Kato (1993) é revista por Kato e Nunes (2009), que propõem uma análise por alçamento para as relativas não-padrão em PB, as- sociando essa hipótese à estrutura [D0 CP] proposta por Kayne (1994) para as relativas. Os autores assumem que todas as relativas restritivas em português brasileiro apresentam um determinante que relativo (homófono ao comple- mentizador declarativo) em lugar de um complementizador, conforme o sis- tema de Kayne (1994) para as relativas-wh. Assim, de acordo com Kato e Nunes (2009), um DP encabeçado pelo determinante relativo pode ser gerado na posição LD. Depois de concatenado na posição de LD, esse DP é alçado e adjungido a CP e seu complemento al- çado e adjungido a DP. Sob esta análise, as derivações de relativas padrão e não-padrão são como se exemplificam em (7), (8) e (9): Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 66 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 (7) Relativas padrão: a. [aquela [CP [DP pessoai[DP que ti]]k [CP C [IP tk comprou o livro]]]] b. [o [CP [DP livroi[DP que ti]]k [CP C [IP aquela pessoa comprou tk]]]] c. [o [CP [PP livroi [PP de [DP ti [DP que ti]]]]k [CP C [IP você precisa tk ]]]] (8) Relativas não-padrão com resumptivo foneticamente realizado: a. Eu tenho [uma [CP [DP amigai [DP que ti]]k [CP C [LD tk [IP elai é muito en- graçada]]]]] b. Este é [o [CP [DP livroi [DP que ti]]k [CP C [LD tk [IP o João sempre cita elek]]]]] c. Este é [o [CP [DP livroi [DP que ti]]k [CP C [LD tk [IP você vai precisar delek amanhã]]]] (9) Relativas não-padrão com resumptivo nulo: a. Este é [o [CP [DP livroi [DP que ti]]k [CP C [LD tk [IP eu entrevistei a pessoa que escreveu prok ]]]]] b. Este é [o [CP [DP livroi [DP que ti]]k [CP C [LD tk [IP você estava precisando prok]]]] (KATO; NUNES, 2009, p.114) Mudança da relativa resumptiva em PB Indícios gerais da mudança O gráfico a seguir traz dados do século XX, além dos dados dos dois séculos anteriores. Os dados do século XX comparados aos dados da segunda metade do século XIX mostram que o processo de mudança do sistema de relativização em PB continuou avançado nesse período. 3 3 O gráfico 1 é uma adaptação de gráfico apresentado por Tarallo (1983, p. 207). Como não se tinha acesso a dados da primeira metade do século XX, foram considerados apenas os dados da segunda metade desse século, o que não inviabiliza a análise proposta. Planilha do gráfico 1 séc.XVIII 1ª metade séc. XVIII 2ª metade séc. XIX 1ª metade séc. XIX 2ª metade séc. XX 2ª metade padrão 99 89,2% 89 88,1% 73 91,3% 63 35,4% 21 6,5% não-padrão resumptiva 11 9,9% 8 7,9% 1 1,3% 9 5,1% 49 15,1% não-padrão cortadora 1 0,9% 4 4% 6 7,5% 106 59,5% 254 78,4% total 111 100% 101 100% 80 100% 178 100% 324 100% A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 67 Gráfico 1. Frequência das estratégias de relativização em PB nas funções de OI, Obl e G, do século XVIII ao século XX Como se pode observar no gráfico 1, a substituição, em PB, da relativa padrão pela relativa cortadora (ou com resumptivo nulo), que ocorreu marca- damente a partir do século XIX é intensificada no século XX, enquanto que a relativa resumptiva (ou com resumptivo realizado) permanece como uma estrutura marginal ao longo dos três séculos. Essa frequência marginal da re- lativa resumptiva durante um período considerável pode indicar que essa es- tratégia teve e continua tendo um papel específico. Tarallo (1983) propõe que não haveria diferença entre as línguas, de modo geral, em relação à existência ou não dessa estratégia, mas apenas em relação à quantidade e produtividade; e que, em muitas línguas, como o inglês, por exemplo, essa estratégia seria utilizada apenas como último recurso. É interessante observar, nesse gráfico, que a estratégia resumptiva, que tinha uma frequência próxima aos 10% no século XVIII, caiu para 1,3% na pri- meira metade do século XIX, para depois voltar a aumentar. Nesse período, a estratégia cortadora supera a estratégia resumptiva, enquanto a padrão se mantém absoluta, chegando até a apresentar um aumento de três pontos percentuais, ul- trapassando os 91%. Somente na segunda metade de século XIX é que a relativa cortadora assume a competição com a padrão, superando-a. Ou seja, a estratégia resumptiva parece ter passado por uma crise na primeira metade do século XIX. Talvez, esse tenha sido o período em que uma mudança tenha ocorrido também com essa estratégia. A hipótese suscitada neste estudo é que a relativa resumptiva passou da estratégia sem LD para a estratégia com LD, a partir desse período. 0% 10% 20% 30% 40% 50% 60% 70% 80% 90% 100% séc.XVIII 1ª metade séc. XVIII 2ª metade séc. XIX 1ª metade séc. XIX 2ª metade S éc.XX 2ªmetade padrão resumptiva cortadora Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 68 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 Evidências da mudança da relativa resumptiva e as relações deste fenômeno com mudanças no sistema pronominal Os dados investigados por Tarallo (1983) são comparados, neste estudo, a dados extraídos de cartas de mercadores do século XVIII. Este corpus reúne 93 cartas, sendo 23 delas cópias das demais. O período de produção das cartas de mercadores corresponde ao segundo período (segunda metade do século XVIII) dos dados de Tarallo (1983), com uma diferença de, mais ou menos, uma década. A escolha desse corpus neste estudo se fundamentou, principalmente, no fato de se tratar de um tipo de escrita que se aproxima muito do que prova- velmente era a oralidade na época, pois marcas grafo-fonéticas como a oscila- ção entre <b> e <v>, por exemplo, em travalho por trabalho e save por sabe, ou entre <e> e <a> em tenho e tanho, generos e genaros etc. revelam um redator que deixa transparecer, na escrita, variações fonéticas. Além disso, os textos assemelham-se a um fluxo de fala contínuo, em que os limites dos períodos são tênues e, muitas vezes, quase impossíveis de serem estabelecidos, como ocorre com a oralidade. Sabemos que o ensino não era de amplo acesso no século XVIII, o que indica que as características orais nesses textos escritos podem estar relacionadas a um baixo nível de escolaridade de seus redatores. Recolhi nessas cartas 519 cláusulas relativas, das quais 12 (2,3 %) são resumptivas. Esse percentual de resumptivas é ligeiramente menor do que o percentual encontrado por Tarallo (3,0%) nos corpora que investigou. Quanto às cortadoras, nenhuma foi encontrada entre as relativas recolhidas. Construo abaixo um gráfico que representa a frequência de relativas resumptivas em cada uma das funções sintáticas do termo relativizado (S - sujeito, OD - ob- jeto direto, OI - objeto indireto, Obl - objeto oblíquo, G - genitivo) nos três corpora analisados: corpus de cartas de mercadores do século XVIII, investi- gado neste estudo; corpora dos séculos XVIII e XIX, investigados por Tarallo (1983); e corpus do século XX, também investigados por Tarallo (1983).4 4 Os corpora dos séculos XVIII e XIX constituem-se de cartas e peças teatrais, originárias de diversas regiões do Brasil, escritas entre 1725 e 1880, nas quais foram encontradas 1.579 cláusulas relativas. Já o corpus do século XX se constitui de 45h de entrevistas, com 40 informantes da cidade de São Paulo, nos quais foram encontradas 1.700 cláusulas relativas, sendo 162 (9,4 %) delas relativas re- sumptivas. A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 69 Gráfico 2. Frequência das relativas resumptivas por posição sintática Deixando de lado certo risco de imprecisão pelo fato de os dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX não serem exatamente dados orais, como os do século XX5, podemos fazer as seguintes observações por meio do gráfico6 2: a) a po- sição de G é a que apresenta os maiores percentuais de pronome resumptivo realizado em relativas tanto nos dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX quanto nos dados do século XX; b) nos dados do século XX, a posição de OI se desta- ca como a segunda que apresenta maior percentual de pronome resumptivo realizado em relativas e a posição de OD como a que apresenta o menor per- centual; c) há um aumento da ocorrência de relativas resumptivas nos dados do século XX em todas as posições, com exceção da posição de OD, que apresenta um índice inferior ao dos dados dos dois séculos anteriores; e d) o 5 Vale ressaltar que Tarallo (1983) objetivou construir os corpora dos séculos XVIII e XIX o mais próximo possível da produção oral, daí a escolha de cartas e peças teatrais. 6 Os valores apresentados nesse gráfico correspondem à frequência das resumptivas em cada posição sintática, pois o que está sendo considerado é a possibilidade de ocorrência ou não de uma resumptiva nessas posições. Na planilha abaixo as letras (RR) representam as relativas resumptivas. Planilha do gráfico 2 sujeito obj. direto obj. indireto obj. oblíquo genitivo RR g e - ral R F % RR g e - ral R F % RR g e - ral R F % RR g e - ral R F % RR ge- ral R F % Dados do século XVIII (car- tas de mercadores) 2 106 2 6 157 4 0 25 0 0 51 0 4 23 17 Dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX (TARALLO, 1983, p. 201) 10 693 1,4 17 416 4,1 3 79 4 10 330 3 16 61 26,2 Dados do século XX (TARALLO, 1983, p. 90) 103 992 10,4 10 384 2,6 16 76 21,1 24 231 10,4 9 17 52,9 0% 10% 20% 30% 40% 50% 60% S OD OI Obl G Dados do século XVIII (cartas de mercadores) Dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX (Tarallo, 1983: 201) Dados do século XX (Tarallo, 1983:90) Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 70 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 maior aumento de frequência de pronome resumptivo realizado em relativas ocorreu nas posições de OI e G. Em outras palavras, de modo geral, a frequência das relativas resump- tivas aumentou nos dados do século XX em relação a todas as posições, com exceção da posição de OD, que, pelo contrário, diminuiu (reduziu de 4,1% para 2,6%). Temos aqui certamente um indício de que houve uma alteração no comportamento da relativa resumptiva, do século XIX para o XX. O gráfico logarítmico a seguir ajuda a refinar a análise acima. Através deste gráfico, podemos observar, em cada corpus, se as relativas resumptivas (de S, OD, OI, Obl e G) foram, proporcionalmente, mais ou menos frequentes que as relativas em geral. Considerando o posicionamento dos símbolos – tri- ângulo, círculo e asterisco – localizados acima ou abaixo do eixo de valor 1 (no gráfico 3 abaixo), podemos ler que a realização da relativa resumptiva é favorecida ou desfavorecida, respectivamente, na posição sintática em ques- tão. E, pela distância que esses símbolos apresentam em relação a esse eixo, podemos verificar a intensidade do (des)favorecimento desse tipo de relativa, em relação a cada posição sintática. Quanto mais os referidos símbolos se afastam do eixo 1, a intensidade do (des)favorecimento aumenta.7 7 Os dados da planilha abaixo correspondem à razão entre a frequência das relativas resumptivas em cada posição sintática e a frequência geral das relativas em cada uma dessas posições. Na planilha abaixo, as letras (RR) representam as relativas resumptivas. Planilha do gráfico 3 sujeito obj. direto obj. indireto obj. oblíquo genitivo RR % ge- ral % ra- zão RR % ge- ral % ra- zão RR % ge- ral % ra- zão RR % ge- ral % ra- zão RR % ge- ral % ra- zão Dados do século XVIII (cartas de mercadores) 16,7 29,3 0,6 50 43,3 1,2 0 6,9 0 0 14,1 0 33,3 6,4 5,3 Dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX (TARALLO, 1983, p. 201) 17,8 43,9 0,4 30,4 26,3 1,2 5,4 5 1,1 17,8 20,9 0,8 28,6 3,9 7,3 Dados do século XX (TARALLO, 1983, p. 90) 63,6 58,3 1,1 6,2 22,6 0,3 9,9 4,5 2,2 14,8 13,6 1,1 5,5 1 5,5 A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 71 Gráfico 3. Frequência proporcional de relativas resumptivas de acordo com a função sintática do termo relativizado Esse gráfico mostra que, dentre as posições sintáticas do termo re- lativizado, a que mais favoreceu o aparecimento do pronome resumptivo, tanto nos dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX quanto nos dados do século XX, foi a posição de G. Porém, a semelhança entre os dados do século XX e os dados dos dois séculos anteriores para por aí. Nos dados do século XX, as posições preposicionais, de modo geral, favorecem a ocorrência da relativa resumptiva, enquanto que nos dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX as posições de OI e Obl ou favorecem pouco, como é o caso da primeira, ou não favorecem, como é o caso da segunda. Nas cartas de mercadores, relativas resumptivas nessas duas funções sequer aparecem. E as funções de G e de OI são as mais favorecedoras a ocorrências de relativas resump- tivas nos dados do século XX. Entre as posições não-preposicionais a situação se inverte. A posição de OD aparece como a segunda que mais favorece relativas resumptivas nos dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX, tanto nas cartas de mercadores quanto no corpus coletado por Tarallo (1983). Nos dados do século XX, a frequência de relativas resumptivas diminuiu drastica- mente nessa posição, passando a posição de OD a ser, inclusive, a única posição sintática que não favorece a ocorrência de relativas resumptivas 0,1 1 10 sujeito obj. direto obj. indireto obj. oblíquo genitivo Dados do século XVIII (Cartas de mercadores) Dados dos séculos XVIII e XIX (Tarallo, 1983, p. 201) Dados do século XX (Tarallo, 1983, p. 90) Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 72 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 em PB contemporâneo. Já a posição de S apresentou-se como favorece- dora à ocorrência de relativas resumptivas nos dados do século XX, em contraste com os dados dos dois séculos anteriores, nos quais a relativa resumptiva apresenta-se como desfavorecida nessa posição. Abaixo es- tão exemplos de relativas resumptivas de S encontradas nas cartas de mercadores. (10) a. Ahi vay oVendedori, Antonio Rodriguiz [que elei lhedira o meu modo deviver]... (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/82) b. Ahi lhe Remeti eses Conhicimentos e Facturasi [que elasi Rezão [para Vossa Mercê fazer [oque bem quizer do Algodão e das 3 Caixas de Asucar]]] ... (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/69 ) Tarallo (1983) não aponta a posição de sujeito como favorecedora da relativa resumptiva em PB contemporâneo. Entretanto, de acordo com os dados de Mollica (2003) (que utiliza método de coleta e análise de dados diferente do método desse autor), a partir do ensino médio, os falantes só empregam resumptivos com função de sujeito. E a única relativa resumptiva que aparece em corpora (em narrativas orais e escritas de informantes não escolarizados e com diversos níveis de escolaridade) investigados por Corrêa (1998, p. 74,79) é uma relativa de sujeito. Esses dois gráficos demonstram em resumo que: a) houve uma in- versão entre as posições de OD e S em relação ao favorecimento da relativa resumptiva; e b) as posições de G e OI foram as que apresentaram maiores índices de aumento de frequência de relativas resumptivas, assumindo essas duas posições o posto de as mais favorecedoras da estratégia de relativização resumptiva em PB contemporâneo. Podemos estabelecer um paralelo entre esses fatos e determinadas mudanças no sistema pronominal do PB, ampla- mente debatidas na literatura. Kato (2002) propõe que a mudança no sistema pronominal do PB teria provocado três grandes alterações: a) criou-se em PB um paradigma de pronomes fracos quase homófonos ao de pronomes fortes; b) para a 3ª pessoa o PB perdeu o clítico (forma fraca acusativa); e c) também para a 3ª pessoa o PB vem perdendo a flexão de concordância (forma fraca nominativa). Podemos dizer que essas mu- A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 73 danças gerais reúnem os diversos aspectos de alteração do sistema pronominal do PB que vêm sendo pontuados, há certo tempo, por vários autores. Segundo Galves (1986, p.74), o objeto nulo é extremamente fre- quente, não apenas na língua oral, mas também na língua escrita. Por outro lado, em PB contemporâneo, o pronome ele sujeito, sem valor particular, é utilizado de preferência ao sujeito nulo (ver Galves, 1989, p. 52). Assim, uma explicação possível para a inversão entre as funções de OD e S no favorecimento da relativa resumptiva seria, não coincidentemente, a mo- dificação no sistema pronominal do PB que teria resultado num crescente preenchimento fonético do sujeito (reflexo da perda da flexão de concordân- cia) e um crescente não preenchimento fonético do objeto (aparecimento do objeto nulo referencial), desembocando num quadro inverso ao que ocorria no PB dos séculos XVIII e XIX. Ou seja, assim como o aparecimento da relativa cortadora pode estar associado ao fenômeno de surgimento de ob- jetos nulos em PB, conforme propõe Tarallo (1983), avalio que o aumento do favorecimento da relativa resumptiva de sujeito pode estar associado ao crescente preenchimento do sujeito. Além disso, podemos observar que, nas relativas resumptivas reco- lhidas nas cartas de mercadores do século XVIII, o pronome resumptivo que aparece na posição de OD é o clítico –o (cf. exemplos de (11) a (16) abaixo). Em PB contemporâneo, o pronome que aparece como resumptivo é, como atesta Galves (1989, p. 55) e outros autores, o pronome tônico ele. O uso do clítico –o como resumptivo está completamente fora de cogitação em PB contemporâneo, inclusive na escrita. (11) ...nacharua Aguia Vão 28 Sacas eObrigado deArrosi [que osileva o contra mestre no seu rancho - com amarca “2]. (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/155 ) (12) Pella Factura enCluza Vera Vossa mercê eu ter Carregado abordo daCharua Nova Cappitam Joze da Trindade Caruon e 40 Sacas Com 198 arrobas 11 {M} de Arros emSacadoi Emportando em 129 $ 552 réis [que Vossa Mercê oi Vendera pello milhor preço] (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/157 ) (13) Esta vai no Paquete dasCartasi [que [sedis] oifazem sahir dous dias atrás denossa sahida] (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/412) Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 74 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 (14) Terá abondade dizer oSenhor Alexandre Jorge Garreiro que oseu dinheiro foi impregado emassucari [que oimeti emCaixas defixadura emO Navio Santo Estevão;] (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/412) (15) ...odito deClarara no seu testamentoi [qual 8 não tive aCruzidade de Oi Ver,]...minúscula (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/441 e 442) (16) esó mefalta para o inteiro complemento, e3 pipas deVinhoi [quepela muita abondancia não oiquerem comprar; ]... (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/295) Também verificamos uma diferença em relação à relativa resump- tiva de G. Nas cartas de mercadores, a relativa resumptiva de G é constru- ída com o pronome possessivo seu (cf. exemplos de (17) a (20) abaixo), enquanto que a relativa resumptiva de G em PB contemporâneo, como sabemos, é construída com preposição + pronome resumptivo, formando o PP dele. De acordo com Cerqueira (1993, p.152), o uso quase categórico da forma dele em lugar de seu na indicação de posse reflete uma mudança no sistema flexional do PB. (17) ...O Meu Mano e Senhor as Minhas ultimasi avossa merce forão em 30 de Dezembro do Anno pasado [que os seusi Contheudo lhe Confirmo,] ... (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/236) (18) Mano eSenhor As minhas ultimasi AVossa Merce forão em O 1º do Corrente [Que osSeusi Contheudos lhe Confirmo]... (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/240 ) (19) ...em virtude dellas Receby Conhecimento eFactura do Carregadoi deSua Conta naGallera Tentativa Cappitam João Xavier Antunes no vallor de 631:990 [que fico delijenciando asuai venda,]... (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/130) (20) Aminha ultimai aVossa merce foy em 30 de Dezembro [que oSeui Contheudo lhe Confirmo] (Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa - mss. 224/249) 8 Neste caso, qual está sendo analisado como que. A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 75 No PB do século XX, também não encontramos mais o clítico –lhe nas resumptivas de OI. De acordo com Galves (1997, p. 155), o clítico de 3ª pessoa é muito raro, e o lhe é utilizado, praticamente, apenas como correspon- dente a você, ou seja, na 2ª pessoa do discurso9. Dessa maneira, semelhante- mente à relativa resumptiva de G, a relativa resumptiva de OI passou a ter um PP na função de pronome lembrete. Assim, não deve ter sido por acaso que as relativas resumptivas nessas duas posições apresentaram o maior índice de aumento de frequência, destacando-se essas posições como as grandes favo- recedoras da relativa resumptiva. Ou seja, esses dados mostram uma assimi- lação do padrão oblíquo. Esses dados corroboram a hipótese número 1 deste estudo, isto é, esses dados estão indicando que o fenômeno de mudança no sistema de relativização do PB, que fez surgir a cortadora e promoveu a substituição da estratégia padrão por esta estratégia, atingiu a relativa resumptiva. De acordo com essa ideia, a relativa resumptiva de agora não tem a mesma estrutura que subjazia à relativa resumptiva do PB até a primeira metade do século XIX. Há um contraste entre as propostas de Kato (1993) e Kato e Nunes (2009), por um lado, e de Tarallo (1983) e Kenedy (2002), por outro. Pode- mos identificar duas gramáticas diferentes nessas propostas: uma na qual está presente a estrutura de LD, a dos primeiros, e outra na qual essa estrutura não existe, ou não é relevante para a relativização, a dos últimos. Podemos considerar que essas duas gramáticas possam se constituir em dois momentos históricos do PB. O momento atual do PB é o de uma língua com proeminên- cia de tópico e sujeito.10 Como explicar o aumento da frequência de relativas resumptivas? Pela proposta de Tarallo (1983), a mudança da relativização em PB circunscreve-se a uma mudança que ocorre na estrutura da relativa resumptiva, na qual os resumptivos passam a ser opcionalmente apagados, juntamente com a preposição no caso das relativas preposicionais. Também pela proposta de Kenedy (2002), a relativa cortadora se constitui a partir de uma estrutura como a da relativa resumptiva, apagando-se a cópia mais baixa. A previsão 9 Exemplo: Eu lhe disse que seria assim (=Eu te disse que seria assim). 10 Para discussão sobre tipologia das línguas veja Li e Thompson (1976). Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 76 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 que se pode fazer a partir dessas propostas seria de diminuição da frequên- cia de relativas resumptivas, uma vez que passa a existir a possibilidade de apagamento desse resumptivo, mantendo-se a mesma estrutura. Entretanto, tal previsão contraria o que observamos nos corpora. Assim, por essas duas propostas fica difícil explicar o aumento, de modo geral, da frequência de relativas resumptivas observado nos dados. Os dados que analisamos acima confirmam a relação não só entre as mudanças no sistema pronominal e o surgimento da relativa cortadora como também entre as mudanças no sistema pronominal e mudanças no comporta- mento da relativa resumptiva, conforme hipótese aqui defendida. A relação entre essas mudanças é clara para as relativas preposicio- nais e para a de OD, uma vez que o PB passou a admitir um resumptivo nulo nessas posições. Com relação à relativa de S não se tem, todavia, essa clareza. Vários estudos têm demonstrado que em português brasileiro não há resumptivos nulos em posição de S (FIGUEIREDO SILVA, 1996; FERREI- RA, 2000). Como se observa em (21), se a categoria vazia não pode ocorrer em contexto de ilha, está envolvida, nesse caso, uma operação de movimento. (21) esse é [o funcionário]i que o gerente elogiou a decoração que elei/ *Øi fez Kato e Nunes (2009) argumentam que, uma vez que se verifica, atra- vés de configurações de ilha, a impossibilidade da existência de um pronome nulo em posição de sujeito, sentenças como (22a) só podem ser derivadas pela estratégia padrão (cf.(22b)). (22) a. a pessoa que Ø comprou o livro (KATO; NUNES, 2009, p.109) b. [DP a [CP [DP pessoak [DP que tk]]i [CP C 0 [IP ti comprou o livro]]]] Pelo que se vê, não podemos pensar em uma operação de apagamento para as relativas de S, pois a categoria vazia nesse caso é um vestígio de movi- mento. Entretanto, verificamos no gráfico 3 que a mudança no sistema de rela- tivização em PB do século XVIII para o XX implicou uma drástica mudança no comportamento das relativas de S e OD, as quais inverteram suas posições quanto ao favorecimento da estratégia resumptiva. A ocorrência de pronome resumptivo em posição de S passou de desfavorecida a favorecida, enquanto ocorrência de pronome resumptivo em posição de OD fez o caminho oposto. A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 77 Se a mudança na relativização em PB está, de fato, relacionada à mudan- ça no sistema pronominal, como as alterações desse sistema podem ter atingido a relativa resumptiva de S, cujo resumptivo não é substituído por uma categoria vazia do tipo pro? Em outras palavras, como a relativa resumptiva de S passou a ser mais frequente sem o envolvimento de um tipo de mudança pronominal relacionada a S, como a perda do sujeito nulo, por exemplo? Vamos analisar essa questão considerando que a possibilidade de a construção de tópico estar na base de, pelo menos, algumas das relativas de sujeito (sem resumptivo realizado) não está descartada com a inexistência de resumptivo nulo em relativas de sujeito. Assim, para a relativa em (23) temos duas possibilidades de estrutura subjacente. Se essa relativa estiver associada à sentença em (24a), ela terá a estrutura da relativa padrão em (24b) como estrutura subjacente. (23) Essa música que todo mundo está dizendo que vai fazer sucesso ... (24) a. Todo mundo está dizendo que essa música vai fazer sucesso. b. [DP essa [CP [DP músican [DP que tn]]i [CP C [IP todo mundo está dizendo [CP que [IP ti vai fazer sucesso]]]]]]] ... Mas, ao lado dessa possibilidade figura a possibilidade dessa relativa estar associada à estrutura de tópico em (25a), perfeitamente aceitável em PB. Nesse caso, a relativa em (23) teria a estrutura em (25b). A diferença entre essa estrutura e a estrutura da relativa não-padrão cortadora proposta por Kato e Nunes (2009) está no fato de que não se tem em (25b) um resumptivo nulo. O que ocorreria, nesse caso, seria um movimento do termo topicalizado da posição de S para a posição de tópico, de onde esse item seria extraído no processo de relativização.11 (25) a. essa músicai, todo mundo está dizendo que ti vai fazer sucesso. b. [DP essa [CP [DP músican [DP que tn]]i [CP C [Top ti [IP todo mundo está dizendo [CP que [IP ti vai fazer sucesso]]]]]]] ... 11 Ross (1967) opõe construções de LD, identificada pela presença de um resumptivo (cf. (i)), a cons- truções de tópico, em que ocorre uma categoria vazia (cf. (ii)). Como em PB o resumptivo pode ser nulo, essa distinção nem sempre é possível, segundo Pontes (1987) (cf. (iii)). (i) (As for) Johni , I saw himi yesterday. (ii) Beansi I don’t like Øi . (apud KATO, 1993, p. 229) (iii) Cerveja, eu gosto pro/t. Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 78 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 Assim como ocorre com as construções de tópico, na posição de sujei- to no IP da relativa, pode haver um vestígio de movimento, como em (25b), ou um pronome resumptivo, como em (26). Neste caso, temos a relativa re- sumptiva. (26) [DP essa [CP [DP músican [DP que tn]]i [CP C [Top ti [IP todo mundo está dizendo [CP que [IP elai vai fazer sucesso]]]]]]] ... Dessa maneira, o aumento da frequência de relativas resumptivas em posição de sujeito pode ser justificado se consideramos a hipótese número 1 deste estudo. Ou seja, se consideramos que a mudança no sistema de relativi- zação em PB alterou a estrutura subjacente da relativa resumptiva, passando esta de uma estrutura sem envolvimento de LD para uma estrutura com base na construção de LD (cf. (8)) ou na construção de tópico, como em (26). Assim, na perspectiva dessa análise, o aumento da frequência de relativas re- sumptivas está associado ao fato de o PB contemporâneo ser uma língua com proeminência de tópico e sujeito, o que levaria naturalmente a relativa com estrutura de tópico a ser mais frequente, como se observa nos dados. Então, pela presente análise, a relativa resumptiva em PB teve um tipo de estrutura até a segunda metade de século XIX – uma estrutura sem LD ou tópico – e, a partir desse período, mudou essa estrutura para a construção de LD, no caso das relativas de OD, OI, Obl e G, e para a construção de tópico no caso da relativa de S. Considerando a proposta de relativização por alçamento de Kayne (1994) para as relativas-wh, as relativas resumptivas produzidas por merca- dores do século XVIII em (10a), (13) e (19) teriam a estrutura em (27a), (27b) e (27c), respectivamente. (27) a. [DP o [CP [DP vendedork [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP elei lhe dirá o meu modo de viver]]]] b. [DP o [CP [DP Paquete das Cartask [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP oi fazem [sahir ...]]]] c. [DP o [CP [DP carregado de sua contak [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP fico dilijen- ciando a suai venda]]]] De que maneira a mudança da relativa resumptiva se deu em PB é o que pro- curo discutir ao propor a hipótese número 2, que será analisada na subseção a seguir. A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 79 Reanálise da estrutura subjacente da relativa resumptiva em PB Assumindo que a relativa cortadora tem a estrutura de LD como es- trutura subjacente, levanto a hipótese de que essa relativa como input levou a criança a uma reanálise da relativa resumptiva, aproximando a estrutura subjacente desta da estrutura da relativa cortadora. Uma situação de mudança hipotetizada por Kato (1993, p. 256) cor- robora essa hipótese. Segundo a autora, o genitivo seu/sua, assim como os clíticos, admite alternante nulo, ao lado do pronome regido por preposição (cf. (28)) (28) a. Joãoi disse que seui pai anda doente. b. Joãoi disse que o pai delei anda doente. c. Joãoi disse que o [ø]i pai anda doente. (KATO, 1993, p. 246) Kato (1993, p. 251-252) explica que, quando o paradigma apresenta prossintagmas nulos, o input sintático que cont ém tais prossintagmas torna- se passível de ser analisado como produto de duas gramáticas diferentes. As- sim, a categoria vazia em (28c) que é a representação de um constituinte nulo membro do paradigma (meu, teu/seu, ø) para uma geração, pode ser reanali- sada por uma nova geração como um constituinte nulo no interior do NP (pai ø(= de João/dele)), com as mesmas características do constituinte vazio da relativa cortadora com PP complemento de verbo. A representação paralela a (28c), internalizada pela nova geração, seria (29). (29) Joãoi disse que o pai [ø= de João (dele)]i anda doente. (KATO, 1993, p. 252) De acordo com a hipótese deste estudo, um processo semelhante a esse ocorreu com a relativa cortadora tomada como input por uma nova gera- ção, no decurso de sua aquisição da linguagem. Tal processo de reanálise da categoria vazia dessa relativa implicou reanálise da estrutura subjacente da relativa resumptiva, que foi associada à cortadora. Então, sendo o constituinte vazio da relativa cortadora de OI, Obl e G um PP = pro, o preenchimento fonético desse constituinte, quan- do se realiza uma relativa resumptiva, pode ser reanalisado como P + expressão-R ou P + pronome tônico. Se esse processo ocorreu, de fato, Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 80 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 a relativa resumptiva foi associada completamente à relativa cortadora e a estrutura subjacente da relativa resumptiva foi reanalisada como es- trutura de LD. Assim: (30) à relativa cortadora: a. [DP o [CP [DP meninok [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP o pai proi anda doen- te]]]]]... foi associada a relativa resumptiva, que ganhou a estrutura: b. [DP o [CP [DP meninok [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP o pai delei anda doen- te]]]]]... no lugar da estrutura sem LD: c. [DP o [CP [DP meninok [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP seui pai anda doente]]]]]...; (31) à relativa cortadora: a. [DP o [CP [DP homemk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP aquela moça deu uma bofetada proi ]]]]]... foi associada a resumptiva, que ganhou a estrutura: b. [DP o [CP [DP homemk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP aquela moça deu uma bofetada nelei ]]]]]... no lugar da estrutura sem LD: c. [DP o [CP [DP homemk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP aquela moça deu-lhei uma bofetada ]]]]]... No caso da relativa de Obl, em que já ocorria um PP e não um clítico ou um possessivo como pronome resumptivo, a categoria vazia da cortadora foi também associada à possibilidade de preenchimento por um PP, modificando, de qualquer forma, a estrutura subjacente da resumptiva, em conformidade com o paradigma que se formava. Dessa maneira: (32) à relativa cortadora: a. Há [DP D [CP [DP clientes bonsk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP a gente já está habituado a trabalhar proi] foi associada a relativa resumptiva, que ganhou a estrutura: b. Há [DP D [CP [DP clientes bonsk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP a gente já está habituado a trabalhar com elei] no lugar da estrutura sem LD: A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 81 c. Há [DP D [CP [DP clientes bonsk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP a gente já está ha- bituado a trabalhar com elei] Na posição de OD, podemos ter uma categoria vazia, que é um pro = DP, ou um vestígio de movimento. Independentemente dessa ambiguidade estrutural, a associação da relativa resumptiva à estrutura da relativa cortado- ra, levou a nova geração à construção de um novo paradigma para as relativas resumptivas, substituindo também a relativa de OD sem LD pela relativa com LD. Nessa mudança, o pronome resumptivo em relativas de OD não será mais um clítico devido às alterações no sistema pronominal. Isto acabou por promover um alinhamento dos pronomes: todas as posições sintáticas passa- ram a comportar as formas ele/ela como pronome resumptivo. Dessa forma: (33) a resumptiva de OD sem LD: a. ... são [DP D [CP [DP projetosk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP aqui se limitam a pô-losi em prática]]]. foi substituída pela resumptiva de OD com LD: b. ... são [DP D [CP [DP projetosk [DP que tk]]i [CP C [LD ti [IP aqui se limitam a por elesi em prática]]]. Por fim, no caso da relativa de sujeito, a associação da resumptiva ocorreu com a construção de tópico, completando o novo paradigma das re- lativas resumptivas. Assim: (34) a resumptiva de S sem Top: a. ... [DP essa [CP [DP moçak [DP que tk]]i [CP C [IP você disse [CP que [IP elai é bonita]]]]] foi substituída pela relativa resumptiva de sujeito com estrutura de Top: b. ... [DP essa [CP [DP moçak [DP que tk]]i [CP C [Top ti [IP você disse [CP que [IP elai é bonita]]]]] Considerações finais A discussão em torno das hipóteses defendidas neste estudo indica que duas estruturas distintas subjacentes à relativa resumptiva correspon- Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 82 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 dem a dois períodos históricos do PB. Assim, concluo que a relativa re- sumptiva que conhecemos hoje, como falantes do PB contemporâneo, tem como base sentencial a construção de LD (como propõem KATO, 1993 e KATO; NUNES, 2009), a mesma base sentencial das relativas cortadoras; e um tipo de relativa resumptiva sem construção de LD vigorou em PB, de acordo com a hipótese aqui defendida, até a segunda metade do século XIX, aproximadamente. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA, Adriana Stella C. Relative acquisition and linguistic change in Brazilian Portuguese. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009. ABSTRACT: The present research focuses on the change of the BP (Brazilian Portuguese) relativization system verified by Tarallo (1983). Based on empirical evidence, I try to prove the hypothesis that changes on the PB pronominal system that happened in the XIX century reached the resumptive relative. In favor of this hypothesis the analyzed corpora show that: a) although the resumptive strategy keeps a marginal frequency from the XVIII century to the XX century, there was an increase of the resumptive strategy frequency in the last century; and b) changes in the BP pronominal system show relations to changes found in the resump- tive strategy. KEYWORDS: Brazilian Portuguese. Language Acquisition. Linguistic Change. PP-Chopping Relatives. Resumptive Relatives. Generative Theory. Referências CERQUEIRA, V. C. A forma genitiva “dele” e a categoria de concordância (AGR) no português brasileiro. In: ROBERTS, I.; KATO, M. (Orgs.) Português Brasileiro. Uma Viagem Diacrônica, Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1993. p. 129-162. CORRÊA, V. R. Oração Relativa: o que se fala e o que se aprende no português do Bra- sil. 1998. 164p. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) – Universidade Estadual de Campinas, Campinas, 1998. FERREIRA, M. B. Argumentos nulos em português brasileiro. 2000. 113p. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) – Universidade Estadual de Campinas, Campinas, 2000. FIGUEIREDO SILVA, M. C. A Posição Sujeito em Português Brasileiro: Frases Finitas e Infinitivas. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1996. 201p. A relativa resumptiva em dois momentos do português brasileiro Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 83 GALVES, C. A Sintaxe de português brasileiro. In: GALVES, C. (Org.) Ensaios sobre as Gramáticas do Português. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 2001. p. 43-60. (publicado também em 1986) ______. O objeto nulo e a estrutura da sentença em português brasileiro. In: GALVES, C. (Org.) Ensaios sobre as Gramáticas do Português. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 2001. p. 73-96. (publicado também em 1989) ______. A sintaxe pronominal do português brasileiro e a tipologia dos pronomes. In: GALVES, C. (Org.) Ensaios sobre as Gramáticas do Português. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 2001. p. 153-176. (publicado também em 1997) KATO, M. Recontando a história das relativas em uma perspectiva paramétrica. In: ROBERTS, I.; KATO, M. (orgs.). Português Brasileiro. Uma Viagem Diacrônica. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1993. p. 223-261. ______. Pronomes fortes e fracos na sintaxe do português brasileiro. Revista Portuguesa de Filosofia, Coimbra, v. XXIV, p.101-122, 2002. KATO, M.; NUNES, J. A uniform raising analysis for standard and nonstandard relative clauses in Brazilian Portuguese. In: NUNES, J. (Org.) Minimalist essays on Brazilian Portuguese syntax. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2009. p. 93-120. KAYNE, R. S. The Antisymmetry of Syntax. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994. 186p. KENEDY, E. Aspectos estruturais da relativização em português – uma análise ba- seada no modelo raising. 2002. 145p. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) – Universidade Federal de Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro, 2002. LI, C.; THOMPSON, S.. Subject and topic: a new typology of language. In: LI, C. (Ed.) Subject and Topic. New York: Academic Press, 1976. p.457-461. MOLLICA, M. Relativas em tempo real no português brasileiro contemporâneo. In: PAIVA, M; DUARTE, M. (Orgs.) Mudança linguística em tempo real. Rio de Janeiro: Contra Capa Livraria, 2003. p. 129-138. PONTES, E. O Tópico no Português do Brasil. Campinas: Pontes, 1987. 169p. ROSS, John R. Constraints on Variables in Syntax. 1967. 523p. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) ― Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, 1967. SALLES, H. Prepositions and the Syntax of Complementation. 1997[S.P]. Tese. (Dou- torado em Linguistics) - University of Wales, Bangor, 1997. Adriana Stella C. LESSA-DE-OLIVEIRA 84 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 61-84, 2009 ______. Aspectos da sintaxe de clíticos e artigos em português. Brasília: Editora da UnB, 1999. Disponível na Internet via hsalles@unb.br. TARALLO, F. Relativization Strategies in Brazilian Portuguese. 1983. 273p. Tese (Doutorado em Filosofia) ― University of Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, 1983. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 85 MODELAÇÃO DE DADOS E PRODUÇÃO DE “REALIDADES” NA ANÁLISE SOCIOLINGUÍSTICA1 Gredson dos SANTOS2 RESUMO: O texto faz considerações críticas sobre o tratamento quantitativo dos dados no interior da sociolinguística e seu impacto na formulação de “realidades” no que tange ao espaço linguístico brasileiro. O trabalho comenta brevemente como as operações de seleção, tratamento, análise e interpretação de dados, segundo uma metodologia quantitativa, “forma- tam”, em distintos graus de intensidade, o “real” que está no escopo da análise sociolinguística. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Filosofia da Ciência. Filosofia da Linguística. Sociolinguística. Introdução A filosofia da linguística é uma área que tem como principal preocupa- ção a relação entre as diversas teorias linguísticas e o seu objeto de estudos. Em outras palavras, uma das tarefas que a filosofia da linguística impõe a si é verificar criticamente até que ponto as formulações das teorias produzidas no interior dos estudos linguísticos se aproximam ou se afastam do “real” que pretendem investigar. Esse campo de estudos enquadra-se numa área mais 1 Este texto é fruto de algumas indagações do autor decorrentes das discussões travadas na disciplina Seminários Avançados III, oferecida pelo Programa de Pós-graduação em Letras e Lin- guística da Universidade Federal da Bahia (UFBA) e coordenada pela professora Dra. Rosa Virgínia Mattos e Silva. As reflexões apresentadas são absolutamente provisórias. Embora o texto resulte das discussões realizadas nas aulas de Mattos e Silva e do professor Dr. Carlos A. Faraco, e embora este último tenha feito algumas sugestões de abordagem na linha da epistemologia da linguística, os equí- vocos presentes no trabalho são, evidentemente, de minha inteira responsabilidade. 2 Programa de Pós-Graduação em Letras e Linguística, Instituto de Letras, UFBA, Salvador, Bahia, Brasil. Professor Assistente de Linguística do Centro de Formação de Professores, da Univer- sidade Federal do Recôncavo da Bahia (UFRB). gredsons@bol.com.br Gredson dos SANTOS 86 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 ampla do conhecimento, a filosofia da ciência, que se volta para a natureza das teorias e práticas científicas e a sua relação com os resultados que produ- zem. No âmbito da linguística brasileira, as discussões acerca da natureza das várias teorias que aqui frutificaram ainda são tímidas. No entanto, a reflexão crítica acerca do trabalho científico é um imperativo ético e acadêmico: ético porque diz respeito, necessariamente, ao comprometimento do cientista com os valores da transparência e publicidade de seu trabalho, além do seu com- promisso socialmente assumido de contribuir para a compreensão de fatos do mundo; acadêmico porque a revisão crítica do trabalho conduz a resultados mais condizentes com a “verdade” buscada pela sua prática, além de refinar o alcance das formulações feitas no interior de dada teoria. Aí está situada a relevância do trabalho que aqui se propõe, na medida em que este busca pro- duzir uma pequena reflexão sobre um dos modos – dentre tantos outros - de operar com o fato linguístico. O objetivo geral deste texto é tecer considerações críticas sobre o tra- tamento quantitativo dos dados no interior da análise sociolinguística e seu impacto na formulação de “realidades” no que tange ao espaço linguístico brasileiro. O trabalho pretende ainda comentar sucintamente como as opera- ções de seleção, tratamento, análise e interpretação de dados, segundo uma metodologia quantitativa, “formatam”, em distintos graus de intensidade, o “real” que está no escopo da análise sociolinguística. Segundo aponta Borges Neto (2004, p. 9), uma vez que a filosofia da linguística (às vezes chamadas também de epistemologia da linguística) pre- cisa de “boas descrições” das teorias linguísticas, esse campo de saber se vin- cula estreitamente à história/historiografia da linguística. O presente trabalho, ao propor uma reflexão crítica sobre uma técnica de análise sociolinguística, não é propriamente um trabalho de sociolinguística. Nosso posicionamento vincula-se a uma formulação produzida no in- terior da filosofia heideggeriana. Em Ciência e pensamento do sentido (2002), o filósofo alemão, desdobrando sua afirmação de que “a ciência é a teoria do real”, faz uma reflexão sobre o sentido das palavras “teoria” e “real”, mostrando com isso que teoria pode ser entendida: 1) como observação (contemplação), que prescindiria de qualquer elaboração do real – o que permitiria falar em ciên- cia pura, desinteressada e sem propósito; 2) no sentido de tratar, empenhar-se, trabalhar – sentido mediante o qual “a ciência é uma elaboração do real terrivel- mente intervencionista” (HEIDEGGER, 2002, p. 48). Nesse particular, importa Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 87 lembrar que o filósofo distingue, em sua reflexão, o modo grego de pensar o fazer científico (contemplar o vigente em sua vigência) e o modo moderno. As- sumindo que o segundo conceito é o que marca a ciência moderna, Heidegger postula que “a ciência põe o real”, transformando-o em objetidade – um real capaz de ser submetido a um conjunto de operações e processamentos, isto é, numa sequência de causas aduzidas que se podem prever. Mais adiante em sua reflexão, assegura que qualquer real que tenha sua “objetidade” processável passa a ser o traço fundamental de representação produzida pela ciência mo- derna – a ciência moderna torna o real objetidade, recorta-o de modo a poder calculá-lo. Mas, um traço característico desse proceder da ciência é justamente que, para que a ciência se produza, ela precisa de um método, que não pode ser questionado pelo cientista em sua atividade como cientista (o cientista deve se- guir o método, deve submeter-se a ele) – a não ser que se afaste dessa posição. Por isso é que Heidegger afirma na sequência de sua exposição: “Nenhuma físi- ca tem condições de falar da física, como física [...] o mesmo vale para a filolo- gia. Na condição de teoria da língua e de literatura, a filologia nunca poderá ser objeto de um exame filológico. É o que vale para toda a ciência” (2002, p. 55). Assumindo como pressuposto válido as formulações presentes em Heiddeger (2002 e 2008), Borges Neto (2004), Freire-Maia (2008), entre ou- tros, proceder-se-á aqui a uma discussão bem geral em torno de certos aspec- tos da análise sociolinguística, mormente no que diz respeito a noções como as de “fatores sociais”, “vernáculo” e “norma culta” e a acomodação das mes- mas em análises estatísticas. Breves considerações em torno do conceito de “verdade” e de sua relação com a ciência3 Uma consulta a dicionários etimológicos associa o significado da pa- lavra latina veritas ao sentido que costumamos atribuir à palavra verdade, que diz da qualidade pela qual as coisas se apresentam tais como são. Além disso, verdade expressa uma conformidade do que se diz com o que é. No âmbito da 3 As considerações que se fazem aqui não são uma formulação do autor deste texto, que assume aqui sua limitação em produzir uma reflexão mais profunda no campo em que ora se aventura. As palavras escritas nesta seção são antes anotações de leituras feitas de obras que tratam do assunto, mormente Heidegger (2002 e 2008), Freire-Maia (2008) e Borges Neto (2004). Saliente-se ainda que as noções expostas a seguir importam ao trabalho na medida em que o autor tentará relacioná-las a alguns aspec- tos do modelo sociolinguístico de análise linguística. Gredson dos SANTOS 88 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 filosofia em geral e da filosofia da ciência em particular, o conceito de ver- dade não é algo de fácil definição, justamente porque é um conceito asso- ciado à transcendência, é uma noção primária e intuitiva, aut-evidente e ao mesmo tempo misteriosa, assim como as noções do belo, do bem e do ser. É Freire-Maia (2008, p. 27-28) que nos aponta que, embora derivada de veritas, a palavra verdade pode ser empregada em três dimensões distintas: 1) a que está ligada à própria origem latina: uma narração fiel ao que aconteceu. Veritas. Neste caso, se dizemos “É verdade que Paulo viajou”, isso realmente ocorreu; Paulo não está mais entre nós; 2) outro sentido provém da palavra correspondente em grego: aleteia. Neste caso, a verdade resulta de um descobrimento. A verdade é como a re- velação de algo que estava encoberto. “Este livro é de linguística...” significa que se trata de um livro que aborda um assunto em particular e não qualquer um; algo que foi constatado no momento em que se examinou o livro; 3) o outro sentido está relacionado com a palavra hebraica emunah. Algo verdadeiro e confiável. “Fulano não é meu amigo de verdade” significa que, se posto à prova, não se mostra amigo, não é confiável. Ainda segundo Freire-Maia, esses três aspectos da verdade podem ser assim tratados. Se nos referimos a algo passado e sua descrição nos permite prever o que virá a acontecer no futuro, está-se usando o emunah, que diz daquilo em que se pode confiar; de algo cujo comportamento esperado será confirmado. Se a descrição está relacionada a algo que exatamente aconteceu, então é o veritas latino que aparece. Quando, por outro lado, se conhece algo que não se conhecia antes, ou quando algo que não era visto passa a ser, então ocorre a verdade aleteia. Há ainda duas outras maneiras de se tentar precisar o conceito de ver- dade. Neste particular, pode-se afirmar que há dois tipos de verdade: as lógi- cas e as factuais. Uma verdade lógica independe de fatos. Se se diz que 2 = 2, está-se enunciando uma verdade lógica. Se o termo “variantes” é empregado para se referir a duas coisas diversas, mas de mesma natureza, como duas formas iguais de se dizer a mesma coisa, sejam elas quais forem, pode-se assumir isso como uma verdade lógica, tal como (2+4) = (3+3). As verdades factuais são verdades empíricas. Sua validade advém da verificação do que se diz e de sua correspondência com o que é ou com o que aconteceu. São exemplos de verdades factuais: “o gavião voa”; “mamíferos não põem ovos”; “a língua portuguesa deriva da língua latina”. Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 89 Heidegger (2008), em sua Introdução à filosofia, especialmente na pri- meira seção do livro, em que discute as relações entre filosofia e ciência, atribui a essência da verdade e o seu pertencimento ao ser-aí. O ser-aí é, em linhas bem gerais, aquele que tem como essência a qualidade de poder, na acepção do autor, “ser-um-com-o-outro”: o homem, que diferente dos objetos sem vida (classificados pelo filósofo como entes por si subsistentes), é um ser cuja natu- reza implica o compartilhamento da verdade, o desvelamento do ente. Em sua constituição ôntica, o ser-aí é um ser descobridor, ao passo que a verdade do ente por si subsistente é o ter sido descoberto (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 127-8). Note-se que, nesta preleção, o filósofo levanta a discussão acerca da essência da verdade em virtude de pretender abordar a essência do conhecimento científico. Heidegger aponta ainda que o conceito escolástico de verdade – ca- racterizada como adequação do intelecto às coisas – está associado à posição que encara a verdade como uma verdade proposicional. De acordo com esse entender, a verdade é uma verdade do juízo, do enunciado, na medida em que este tem o caráter de mostrar as coisas. Cabe lembrar que é esse conceito de verdade que é tradicionalmente associado à práticaacientífica. Disso implica que se a verdade reside mesmo na proposição e a ciência pode ser definida como um conhecimento que busca a verdade, então ela, a ciência, é uma co- nexão de proposições verdadeiras (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 50). Mas Heidegger, mesmo reconhecendo que essa concepção de verdade goza de prestígio no interior da história da filosofia, lembra que nem todo juízo mostra e levanta a seguinte ponderação: Mas, se a ciência deve ser o encontro e a determinação da verdade, então se torna simultaneamente questionável se o conceito basilar de verdade como verdade pro- posicional é suficiente para esclarecer a essência da verdade científica. Talvez resida até mesmo na caracterização da verdade como verdade proposicional e na determi- nação da ciência a partir de seu resultado um único e mesmo erro fundamental. Por meio de uma apreensão mais radical da essência da verdade, precisamos nos colocar em condições de, desde o começo, ver também a essência da ciência de modo mais originário. Precisamos chegar até o ponto em que evitemos desde o principio tomar a ciência como um conteúdo proposicional. (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 51-2) Como se vê, o autor associa o entendimento da essência da ciência à própria busca da essência da verdade, na medida em que se admite que o conhe- cimento científico busca atingir a verdade. Para isso, o autor elabora uma crítica ao conceito tradicional de verdade como uma proposição, como um juízo. Ele Gredson dos SANTOS 90 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 não nega que a verdade exista. De maneira bem direta, afirmará que “verdade significa desvelamento do ente” (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 82). Entretanto, como há entes de diversos modos de ser, existem correspondentemente diversas “mo- dulações da verdade” (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p.112). Com tal raciocínio, o autor conclui que uma determinação essencial da verdade é o fato de que ela não reside na proposição, mas no ser-aí (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 114). Evidentemente que a noção de verdade, especialmente quando corre- lacionada à ideia de ciência, implica também pensar o que vem a ser o “real”. Se pensarmos à maneira platônica, o real são as ideias. Esse modo de pensar implica rejeitar a realidade de todas as outras coisas. Analisando o problema ontológico na filosofia da ciência e como ele pode ser aplicado à Linguística, Borges Neto (2004, p. 42) destaca a posição de Popper (1963), para quem é possível pensar no real a partir de três dimen- sões. O primeiro mundo que goza de realidade é o dos objetos físicos (livro, lápis, campo gravitacional etc.); o segundo mundo real é o dos processos mentais (saudade, crença, desejos etc.); o terceiro compreende as entidades e relações teóricas (teorias, conceitos, argumentos etc.). Segundo mostra Bor- ges Neto, Popper entende, diferentemente de Platão, que os objetos do tercei- ro mundo são criações da psicologia humana que passam a existir, de fato, a partir do momento em que são criados, ganhando realidade autônoma. Outra via em que se pode pensar o que vem a ser o real é a partir da dicotomia já clássica entre realidade subjetiva e realidade objetiva. Os objetos pertencentes à realidade subjetiva seriam aqueles cuja existência não pode ser definida a partir de parâmetros únicos universalmente válidos. Um exemplo: num estádio de futebol uma torcida vê seu time perder. Naquela multidão, muitos podem ficar extremamente tristes e até com raiva de um ou de todos os jogadores. Isso não impede, entretanto, que um grupo saia satisfeito com a atuação do time, mesmo em face da derrota, e não tão triste assim. O exemplo nos diz o seguinte: os sentimentos de raiva, satisfação e tristeza são coisas que existem, mas obviamente não podem ser tocadas, cheiradas e nem são sentidas com mesma intensidade em todas as pessoas. Isso é basicamente o que caracteriza o real subjetivo. Os objetos da realidade objetiva são aqueles que podem ser percebidos por nossos órgãos do sentido ou por equipamentos que ampliam essas limitadas capacidades (como telescópio, microfone, quimógrafo etc.) ou podem ser defi- nidos por meio de uma relação matemática única. Outro exemplo: se menciono Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 91 “triângulo equilátero”, todos, independentemente do tamanho que atribuam ao objeto, terão em suas mentes uma figura de três lados A, B e C em que A=B=C. Se falo “cadeira”, as pessoas que conhecem o objeto pensarão em algo que é feito para sentar, independentemente do formato, tamanho, cor etc. Se, considerando essas coisas, voltarmos a pensar no conceito de ver- dade e no que é a ciência, podemos formular provisoriamente que a ciência se preocupa fundamentalmente com o real que pode ser apreendido de modo objetivo, sobretudo em função do modo como os próprios cientistas operam e dos instrumentos de que lançam mão para apreender e representar esse real. É novamente Heidegger (2008, p. 169) que coloca a questão: a ciência é, então, um tipo de verdade? O filósofo responde afirmativamente: a ciência é um tipo de verdade. A verdade, porém, pertence essencialmente ao ser-aí. Esse existe na verdade; a verdade é existente. A ciência como possibilidade de existência do ser-aí é uma possibilidade do ser na verdade. (2008, p. 169) Convém ressaltar que o filósofo adverte que não se deve tomar a ciência como uma atividade absoluta na lida com a verdade. Ela não implica necessa- riamente nenhuma elevação do ser-aí humano, mas “na medida em que é uma possibilidade do ser aí, pode ser dessa ou daquela maneira, pode atuar dessa ou daquela forma” (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 172). Também diz o autor que a verdade científica não é a única espécie de verdade nem a mais elevada, mas é certamente “uma postura fundamental possível da existência huma- na” (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 178). A partir desse ponto, podemos começar a pensar como essas conside- rações podem se relacionar com a linguística em geral e com a sociolinguísti- ca em particular. Em outros termos, uma questão que pode ser levantada diz respeito a como as análises linguísticas no interior de uma disciplina como a sociolinguística podem ser entendidas como uma postulação do real em termos de representação no âmbito do exercício teórico de uma prática científica. Antes de abordarmos mais de perto essa questão, será reproduzida aqui uma longa citação de Heidegge), que servirá de base para as considerações a serem traçadas na próxima seção do trabalho. Eis as palavras do filósofo: [...] Somente a ciência traz consigo a autêntica verdade sobre o ente. Um simples exemplo pode deixar claro esse estado de fato: tomemos o modo como é descoberto o Sol. Para os gregos dos primeiros tempos, em seus primórdios, ele era o deus Gredson dos SANTOS 92 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 Hélios, o deus que atravessava o espaço celeste em sua carruagem de fogo e submer- gia no oceano. Mais tarde, essa interpretação foi perdendo força, e o Sol tornou-se um disco que percorre sua trajetória. Logo o disco se mostrou como uma esfera de fogo, como uma bola que se movimenta em torno da Terra. Depois disso, foi a Terra que se tornou uma esfera que se movimenta em torno do Sol, que é o centro. E por fim, esse sistema solar apareceu como um sistema entre muitos outros. Nosso Sol foi então amplamente investigado por meio do espectro solar. Onde está então a verdade? Será que a física e a astronomia atuais conse- guem afirmar que elas descobriram o sol tal como ele é? Onde se acha o critério para que a concepção atual do sistema solar possa se mostrar como a única concepção verdadeira, para que ela possa ser assumida ao mesmo tempo como mais verdadeira do que as concepções mais antigas e até mesmo mais verdadeira do que a concepção mítica? No entanto, não continuamos, ainda assim, a falar do pôr-do-sol? Seria esse apenas um modo de falar? Re- almente não o vemos se pôr, e esse desvelamento do sol não domina nosso ser-aí, cotidiano? (2008, p. 176) Essas palavras não são de modo algum uma tentativa de usurpar a cre- dibilidade e consistência das formulações que faz a ciência. Com elas quer o autor mostrar que o conhecimento científico goza de uma especificidade em relação ao ente, que resulta na definição mesma de ciência e de verdade: dei- xar justamente o ente ser como ele é. A ciência é, assim, “ser no desvelamento do ente em virtude do desvelamento” (HEIDEGGER, 2008, p. 192). Isso envolve a contemplação do ente, que, na teorizaçãoacientífica, é impelido a “responder” aos questionamentos da ciência. Assim, quando um cientista se debruça sobre, por exemplo, como se dá a aquisição por uma criança de um segmento silábico com onset ramificado em língua portuguesa, ele opera com procedimentos que “forçam” o surgimento daquilo que era um todo, um continuum fônico indistinto (para os pais da criança, por exemplo); o cientista “provoca”, então, a emergência dessa categoria outrora invisível (ou inexis- tente mesmo) e o surgimento de um padrão de regularidade e hierarquia que torna possível ao pesquisador postular a tal entidade e colocar como problema a sua aquisição. Estas últimas observações apontam para um fato que marca a ciência moderna: a intervenção no real. Uma vez que uma ciência só é ciência na medida em que circunscreve o seu real, o seu positum, passa a fazer parte de sua essência a modulação do ente a ser desvelado por ela – alguns exemplos da linguística podem mesmo nos mostrar isso. Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 93 A “realidade” da linguagem na linguística As teorias linguísticas são uma maneira que os pesquisadores encon- traram de produzir uma interpretação de um real difícil de ser definido e cap- tado em sua integralidade. Se perguntarmos a um homem comum o que é uma língua talvez ele tenha uma dificuldade de fornecer uma definição precisa ou talvez ele a defina tal como ouviu na escola. Uma coisa é certa, porém, qual- quer que seja a alternativa: todos nós, especialistas ou não, nos percebemos como seres cuja existência bio-psico-social se dá na e pela língua. Ela está tão em nós que submetê-la aos rigores da investigação científica não é uma tarefa fácil. Uma das razões se deve ao fato de que a língua(gem) enquanto objeto de investigação não pode ser estudada sem que esse mesmo objeto se constitua instrumento mesmo de análise do pesquisador. Em outras palavras: a botânica se dedica à análise de algo que é exterior ao ser do cientista. Nessa ciência, o objeto será estudado com o recurso a instrumentos que não são em sua natureza “botânicos”. São sempre instrumentos exteriores à constituição vegetal. Tal não é de modo algum o caso da linguagem.Se, na ciência em geral, a terminologia é um problema importante na medida em que participa da definição mesma do campo das diversas teorias elaboradas, na linguística esse problema, por exemplo, é ainda mais complicado: o significado de um termo pode ser objeto de análise (basta pensarmos no problema clássico da Semântica) e ao mesmo tempo meio sem o qual dada análise não se sustenta (pensemos na rigorosa definição de competência em Chomsky ou nos problemas em torno do conceito de palavra em Morfologia). Note-se que a Terminologia é uma disciplina no interior da linguística. E não é novidade a frustração de Saussure com a impre- cisão dos termos empregados em linguística (cf. BENVENISTE, 1995, p. 44). No que tange ao modo como o real buscado pela linguística é formu- lado pelos pesquisadores da área, pode-se dizer que esse real (que, por sinal é “manipulado” de modos bem diversos em função do modo como é con- templado teoricamente4) nem sempre encontra correspondência com o modo como os usuários não-linguistas o percebem. Basta pensarmos no seguinte: 4 Um exemplo dessa “manipulação”: se no âmbito do modelo Padrão, a teoria chomskyana era basi- camente um “sistema de regras”, a partir dos anos 80 a gramática passa a ser vista pelos gerativistas como um “sistema de princípios”, em que a subespecificação de parâmetros variáveis é a explica- ção dada para a diversidade das línguas – note-se que postular “princípios” e “parâmetros” é uma operação que dá existência, no nível teórico, a “coisas” que não podem ser captadas diretamente da realidade. Gredson dos SANTOS 94 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 é provável que quando pense na expressão “língua portuguesa”, um linguista logo pense em um mosaico de coisas que compõem essa entidade. Há quem pense nos parâmetros que a especificam frente aos princípios presentes nas demais línguas. Alguns talvez pensem como uma realidade estruturada em níveis como a fonologia, a sintaxe e a morfologia. Há ainda os que podem considerar a expressão inadequada se se pensa no modo como se fala em Por- tugal e no Brasil. É possível que um sociolinguista imagine logo um conjunto de variáveis morfossintáticas e fonéticas que compõem essa entidade... Certamente, isso tudo, todos esses conceitos, todas essas entidades do terceiro mundo de Popper (1963), não são reais para um falante comum. Isso explica o fato de muitos acharem mesmo absurda a ideia de que, para certos indivíduos (os linguistas), não exista o modo certo de falar. Para os falantes co- muns esse mundo povoado de “coisas” como fonemas, morfemas, tópico, foco, anáfora, sujeito nulo, ergativos e tudo o mais que a imaginação dos pesquisado- res “inventa” não existe, e a expressão “língua portuguesa” é mesmo referente a algo usado com as mesmas características do norte ao sul do Brasil. A verdade que a linguística persegue, ao implementar suas investiga- ções, mesmo se considerarmos o âmbito restrito de atuação dos linguistas, não é mesmo de fácil demonstração. Se, como afirmou Heidegger (2008), a ciência desvela o ente e esse desvelar se faz múltiplo em função da diversidade do ser do ente, podemos dizer que o ente que a linguística procura desvelar tem uma constituição ôntica tal que seu desvelamento está ligado ao próprio modo como o ser-aí (neste caso o linguista) se coloca junto a esse ente. Em resumo: o ente se revela múltiplo e, além disso, o ser-aí que o desvela ocupa posições diversas. Borges Neto (2004, p. 34), tentando encontrar uma resposta para o pro- blema da multiplicidade de teorias linguísticas, lançou mão da noção de obje- to observacional e objeto teórico. Nos termos do autor, o objeto observacional é o conjunto dos fenômenos estudados iguais a todas as teorias. Entretanto, no nível da formulação teórica, esse objeto é notado de diversas maneiras. Isso explicaria a diversidade de teorias linguísticas: o objeto observacional é uno, mas o objeto teórico é diverso. Uma interpretação talvez nem tanto diversa do problema pode ser a se- guinte: o ente linguagem (objeto observacional, nas palavras de Borges Neto) não é de modo algum igual se é observado por um linguista ou por um falante comum. Aquilo que os linguistas veem como linguagem certamente difere do que os demais humanos veem, embora a percepção natural inicial possa Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 95 ser idêntica. Além disso, esse ente, mesmo entre os linguistas, é de diversas maneiras, isto é, ele se mostra de diversas formas – o que talvez nos permita dizer que ele não é um objeto observacional, mas vários mesmo. Além disso, o modo como o ser-aí (linguista ou não) que o investiga se coloca junto a ele é bem multifacetado – isso se alinha bem à noção de objeto teórico colocada por Borges Neto. Em outras palavras: talvez o objeto observacional uno, tal como proposto por Borges Neto, só possa ser postulado como um uno muito etereamente. Assim é que a língua no interior da doutrina saussuriana é inter- pretada como uma entidade dupla-face que é, ao mesmo tempo, indivi- dual e social. Mas o interessante é que a noção de fato social em Saus- sure, herdada das formulações durkheimianas, não é múltipla. O social da linguagem, no âmbito deste raciocínio, é que ela é compartilhada (sempre da mesma forma) por um grupo de indivíduos, visto também como corpo coletivo uno que compartilha algo que está nesse corpo, mas é fora dele. Tanto assim que as chamadas variações foram atribuídas, no interior da proposta saussuriana, às idiossincrasias do indivíduo (e não como uma propriedade intrínseca à natureza do ente língua), não mere- cendo maior atenção por parte do linguista, que tinha à mão um estado de língua para estudar. Uma questão que se coloca é: até que ponto tal formulação é ver- dadeira ou falsa? Em outros termos, qual o grau de realismo da proposta saussuriana? A resposta tem um caráter epocal. É evidente que quando essas ideias começaram a circular elas gozavam de aceitação por parte de uma ampla comunidade de linguistas que, conforme o seu senso de realidade, viam nessa formulação uma tradução do ser da língua. Entre- tanto, quando começou a ser testada, quando começou a ser colocada à prova, as formulações estruturalistas começaram a dar sinais – para certo grupo de linguistas – de que seu grau de realismo não era tão forte quando se olhava mais amplamente para o ente linguagem. É Lucchesi (2004, p. 57) que mostra o dilema: “a questão da mudança converteu- se então num anátema no âmbito da linguística saussuriana ortodoxa, uma ameaça permanente à sua concepção da língua”. Com isso, na visão daqueles que propunham uma alternativa à análise estrutural, a teoria estruturalista não deixava, para usar uma terminologia heideggeriana, o ente ser como ele é. Nesse sentido, a intervenção saussuriana nesse real Gredson dos SANTOS 96 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 era tão forte que tentava impor uma adequação da natureza do ente à contemplação do ser-aí e não o contrário. Na tentativa de solução desse problema, a interpretação sociolin- guística propõe uma mudança nas regras desse jogo teórico. Resolve in- tegrar a variabilidade à natureza mesma do ente linguagem e assume uma interpretação do ser social da linguagem diversa: o social não é mais o social homogêneo de Durkheim. Agora, esse “social” implica necessaria- mente uma multiplicidade de individualidades, de identidades mesmo. E isso se transfere para a língua: se ela é algo social, ela é também diversa. Com isso, a teoria tentava melhor acomodar a mudança em seu interior – note-se que isso ilustra bem o fato de qualquer modelo teórico opera uma intervenção no real; os modelos nunca são apenas uma contemplação do ente como ele é. Nesse caso, pode-se mesmo falar numa adequação das principais formulações estruturalistas à nova teoria, que não é de modo algum um rompimento qualitativo face à concepção anteriormente vigente. Ou seja: a sociolinguística – sem uma revisão crítica dos fundamentos – integra em seu mundo teórico uma série de entidades que povoavam outro mundo (cf. LUCCHESI, 2004, p. 206). Dois, dentre os vários problemas de cunho epistemológico que isso implica, são estes: a lín- gua é então um reflexo (total ou parcial) das contradições sociais? O desvelar-se do ente da teoria sociolinguística em função da multipli- cidade de identidades a que ele se prende revelar-se-á menos proble- mático, ou seja, o ser-aí sociolinguista estará mais próximo da verdade do ente? O tratamento da linguagem na teoria sociolinguística e a modelação do real Em Ciência e pensamento do sentido, Heidegger faz a seguinte observação: Como a arte, a ciência tampouco é, apenas, um desempenho cultural do homem. É um modo decisivo de se apresentar tudo que é e está sendo. Por isso devemos dizer: o que se chama de ciência ocidental europeia determina também em seus traços fundamentais e em proporção crescente, a realidade na qual o homem de hoje se move e tenta sustentar-se. (2002, p. 39) Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 97 Essa reflexão nos conduz a entender que o fazer científico não é uma atividade afastada do real que investiga. Ela, de fato, determina esse real. No dizer de Heidegger, a ciência vai ao mundo tomar-lhe as contas. Para isso, precisa recortá-lo de modo a poder mensurá-lo (pense-se já aqui na análise quantitativa da variação linguística). Assim, a verdade da ciência é uma ver- dade derivada dessa alteração no real, ainda que possamos considerar que tal atividade tente priorizar o deixar ser do ente como ele é. No âmbito da teoria sociolinguística, a questão do tratamento do real é uma constante. O fato de a teoria ter integrado em seu interior os conceitos estruturalistas de sistema, estrutura e regularidade, colocando-os junto às no- ções de variação e mudança, impõe aos pesquisadores uma postura de busca de adequação dos procedimentos a esse novo real que lhes afronta. Um desses procedimentos inclui a análise estatística rigorosa, que é uma tentativa que os sociolinguistas empreendem de dar maior objetidade ao ente que investigam e fazer emergir os padrões de regularidade que a teoria atribui à variação linguística. Em Sociolinguística quantitativa: instrumental de análise, Guy e Zil- les oferecem ao leitor detalhes dos procedimentos da metodologia quantita- tiva em sociolinguística. Numa seção em que esclarecem o que é e por que usar o VARBRUL, os autores declaram: de modo geral, o uso do VARBRUL facilita a construção de um modelo quan- tificado de processos linguísticos (e dentro de certos limites [...] dos processos sociais) que controlam e produzem os padrões regulares da variação linguística (2007, p. 105). Note-se, nesta observação, a palavra “construção”. Seu emprego evi- dencia a intervenção do método no real a ser investigado. Uma vez que esse real não salta aos olhos do linguista de forma estruturada e justamente pelo fato de que esse real não pode dizer como quer ser abordado, o linguista precisa fazer uma intervenção. No caso da teoria sociolinguística, isso im- plica construir os padrões de regularidade das formas linguísticas. É inte- ressante notar ainda que os próprios autores admitem a limitação do método no que tange à modelação/construções dos padrões sociais ligados à análise linguística. Note-se ainda que isso se relaciona com o problema epistemo- lógico que colocamos acima, na medida em que o modelo capta melhor os padrões de regularidade linguística do que propriamente sociolinguística. Gredson dos SANTOS 98 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 Evidentemente que essas observações não têm nenhuma pretensão de discutir falhas do modelo ou mesmo de levantar dúvidas sobre sua validade. O objetivo básico é tentar mostrar como a prática dominante na sociolin- guística quantitativa produz um real cuja natureza pode se distanciar mais ou menos do ente investigado. Um problema interessante na análise sociolinguística é a definição da amostra e seu tratamento. O uso do programa coloca questões que vão desde a extensão da amostra bem como sua representatividade face à comunidade em que ela é coletada até a melhor forma de executar seu tratamento no pro- grama. Isso por si já mostra que, mesmo coletada do modo mais rigoroso pos- sível, a amostra é já um recorte do real que pode apresentar maior ou menos discrepância em relação à realidade tal como ela é. Evidentemente que esse é um problema presente em toda a ciência, já que ela não é (nem pretende ser) a reprodução do real que investiga. Mas é Heidegger novamente que nos diz: toda objetivação do real é um cálculo, quer corra atrás dos efeitos e suas causas, numa explicação causal [o que não parece ser o caso da sociolinguística], quer, enfim, assegure em seus fundamentos, um sistema de relações e ordenamentos. (2002, p. 50) Nesse caso, isso implica necessariamente o emprego de um método que deve ser aceito pelo cientista como válido e como o mais apropriado para sua análise. Assim, o que se evidencia é que, em função desse impera- tivo, o cientista – no nosso caso, o linguista – não consegue tocar a essên- cia de sua prática. Nas palavras de Heidegger (2002, p. 56), não assiste ao cientista “a possibilidade de acesso ao incontornável de sua essência”. É por isso que o autor afirma que nenhuma física é capaz de falar da própria física. De modo mais direto, o que se quer com isso é afirmar que, embo- ra consciente de sua operação e de que ela é uma dentre outras possíveis, o sociolinguista no exercício de seu método tem que assumi-lo como o mais apropriado para tratar do real. Com isso escapa-lhe, entretanto, a consciência de que esse real apropriado ao método é um real particular, definido em seus termos no exercício teórico de uma disciplina ou dou- trina científica. Para ilustrar: uma questão mal resolvida em muitos trabalhos so- ciolinguísticos diz respeito ao tratamento de categorias que pertencem Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 99 à chamada variável explanatória, mais especificamente dos fatores cha- mados de extralinguísticos. É comum encontrarmos trabalhos que quan- tificam e confrontam ocorrências de formas entre homens e mulheres, mas não elaboram uma reflexão das representações de gênero no inte- rior da comunidade em que a amostra foi colhida. Muitos dos trabalhos limitam-se ao estabelecimento de categorias tais como escolaridade, classe social, gênero etc., sem uma reflexão do quanto tal categorização se aproxima e importa, de fato, para a compreensão de como a utiliza- ção de certos fatos de língua está vinculada às práticas sociais/culturais/ identitárias do grupo estudado. É muito comum a ideia de que basta cor- relacionar frequências de certas formas linguísticas a categorias como escolaridade e faixa etária para se ter um retrato sociolinguístico com- pleto da comunidade de fala. A noção de vernáculo, muito importante no âmbito da teoria, guia a coleta da amostra – tanto em termos de extensão da mesma quanto no que tange ao modo de coleta dos dados. Entretanto, a de- finição seca de vernáculo como o falar “espontâneo” do falante em situações “naturais” de interação é muitas vezes assumida sem uma re- flexão crítica da própria noção de identidade: o que seria “natural” em termos de interação? A depender do perfil da comunidade investigada, não seria “natural” falar em situações formais? A identidade fragmen- tária do falante e mesmo da comunidade, muitas vezes é tratada como uma questão de estilo, apenas, não como algo que é da própria consti- tuição ôntica do indivíduo. Qual a implicação mais séria disso? Esse modo acrítico de exame pode realmente “forjar” um real ou mesmo deformá-lo, produzindo cenários que, de fato, não guardam a proximidade imaginada com a realidade. Guy e Zilles fazem uma advertência similar: Uma prática bastante comum nos estudos sociolinguísticos no Brasil tem sido a de organizar amostras estratificadas, com igual número, de por exemplo, homens e mulheres, jovens e velhos etc. [...]. a prática de constituir amostras estratificadas faz sentido. No entanto, as categorias utilizadas – sexo, idade, escolaridade, etnia, classe social etc. – são muitas vezes estabelecidas de modo apriorístico ou mesmo pré-teórico. O avanço na pesquisa está apontando para a necessidade de repensar tais categorias. (2007, p. 111) Gredson dos SANTOS 100 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 Outro exemplo: uma categoria que se revela extremamente problemá- tica no âmbito da sociolinguística brasileira é o que se chama geralmente de “norma culta”. Por vários motivos essa noção é problemática: pela própria noção de norma (herdada da tradição coseriana); pelas implicações semân- ticas do adjetivo que compõem a expressão; pelo problema de delimitar a extensão do que vem a ser isso, já que ela apresenta muitas coincidências com outras normas. Até mesmo um critério como o de que falantes com curso superior com- pleto são os falantes da norma culta é extremamente problemático. E isso le- vanta uma questão séria que não é enfrentada (e é mal resolvida) no geral dos trabalhos de sociolinguística: a norma culta é um vernáculo? Se a resposta é afirmativa, há que se considerar que o Brasil da época do NURC mudou bas- tante e que há muitos brasileiros (e conheço de perto vários casos) que hoje têm curso superior e cujos pais nunca foram à escola – daí: se o vernáculo é adqui- rido na convivência com a família, como considerar que um falante de nível superior cujos pais não tenham sido nem alfabetizados tenha como vernáculo a norma culta? Como lidar com essa discrepância entre método e conceito? Como se vê, a entidade norma culta tem existência complicada e já é de difícil aceitação hoje. Faraco (2008), que faz um exame aprofundado do conceito de norma culta e de outros que lhe estão associados, chega mesmo à seguinte conclusão: Por tudo que afirmamos no texto, talvez melhor faríamos se abandonássemos a de- nominação norma culta. De um lado, nos livraríamos de sua carga de injustificável elitismo. Por outro lado, estaríamos nos aproximando de uma análise mais precisa da realidade linguística brasileira na medida em que não há, pelo menos no plano da fala, diferenças substanciais entre o que se poderia chamar de norma culta e a linguagem urbana comum. (2008, p. 64) Como se vê, a modelação dos dados no interior da análise sociolin- guística intervém num real que, em função do método analítico a que é sub- metido, pode se distanciar muito do ente a ser desvelado pelo ser-aí pesqui- sador. Problema similar já foi discutido por Odete Menon (1993), durante o Seminário Nacional sobre a Diversidade Linguística e o ensino de Língua Materna. Naquela ocasião, a autora discutia A questão das afirmações gene- ralizantes sobre o português do Brasil e os dados do projeto NURC. Sintetizo a seguir alguns pontos da argumentação dela. Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 101 Menon cita o trabalho de Moreira da Silva (1983, p. 4, apud MENON, 1996, p. 208), que afirma que o pronome se não ocorre na língua oral. Destaca também que Pontes (1992, p. 21) faz uma afirmação semelhante, ao dizer que no PB oral, o se desaparece em construções existenciais. Logo a seguir, Menon faz a seguinte afirmação: Coincidentemente, ambos são mineiros e, no seu dialeto, existe uma tendência, constatada já há algum tempo, a de apagar o pronome se reflexivo de alguns verbos pronominais. Mas daí a estender esse fato a nível de PB e a todos os se, inclusive o que exerce função de sujeito, vai uma certa extrapolação. É perfei- tamente plausível que o fenômeno em tela se estenda a outras regiões do Brasil. No entanto, é nesse momento que se apresenta uma séria dificuldade: a falta de trabalhos descritivos dos vários dialetos do PB para se contrapor a esse tipo de afirmação. (MENON, 1996, p. 208) Ao longo de seu texto, a autora segue apontando outros exemplos de afirmações generalizantes sobre o PB com base no Projeto NURC, ao passo que destaca alguns problemas metodológicos do Projeto e enfatiza a neces- sidade de trabalhos mais pontuais acerca do português falado por indivíduos escolarizados e não-escolarizados. O que tudo isso sugere é que a verdade do ente buscada pela socio- linguística é uma dentre outras e que, nem sempre, as imagens que ela cria desse real permitem que o ente seja mesmo como ele é. Como o desvelamento desse ente se sujeita também ao modo como o ser-aí se coloca junto a ele, só o olhar afastado, só a contemplação descerradora do ente pode aproximar as formulações teóricas do próprio ente contemplado. O problema é que o exer- cício do método, como salienta Heidegger (2002), pressupõe sua aceitação de certa forma incondicional – e é aí que se revela, como nos aponta o filósofo, esse caráter terrivelmente intervencionista da ciência enquanto teoria do real. É aí que se revela a construção de uma realidade operada pelo tratamento do linguista – é, portanto, essa situação própria da ciência que justifica que se desenvolva uma ‘filosofia da linguística’. Considerações finais Este texto pretendeu fazer uma breve reflexão sobre o modo como a sociolinguística trata os dados que coleta e como isso implica uma produção do real que pode ser mais o menos condizente com o ente que a teoria procura Gredson dos SANTOS 102 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 desvelar. Durante as considerações destacou-se que, em alguns trabalhos so- ciolinguísticos, as noções de “sociedade”, “grupos sociais”, “comunidade” são empregadas de modo apriorístico ou mesmo pré-teórico, o que pode compro- meter o alcance das formulações de tais estudos. Além disso, apontou-se que tal situação se relaciona também ao fato de que ao submeter os dados a um tratamento estatístico computacional sem uma reflexão crítica sobre o método em si, o sociolinguista “forja” uma “realidade” da qual ele nem mesmo tem consciência. Note-se que não se está negando aqui a validade do modelo labo- viano; o que interessa aqui é dizer que, como qualquer outro, é um modelo que intervém no real de um certo modo. Assim, quando se faz sociolinguística (ou gerativismo ou linguística histórica) há que se seguir um método, mas é funda- mental ter clareza de que o método não nos dá o ente tal como ele é. As conclusões sinalizam para os seguintes aspectos: a) urgente se faz a produção de trabalhos no âmbito da filosofia/historiografia/epistemologia da linguística brasileira – o que permitiria uma revisão crítica dos trabalhos que têm sido produzidos. Tal revisão poderia contribuir para uma melhor avalia- ção do impacto que as pesquisas linguísticas em geral e as sociolinguísticas em particular têm na compreensão dos diversos fenômenos que circunscre- vem a realidade linguística do Brasil. Além disso, tal revisão poderia contri- buir ainda para uma aplicação mais efetiva da pesquisa sociolinguística no espaço escolar brasileiro; b) apenas o exercício do método não fornece ao sociolinguista elementos para que ele pense sua prática – daí porque é impor- tante um exame dos fundamentos filosóficos do seu método e de sua ciência. Agradecimentos: Ao professor Carlos Alberto Faraco e à professora Rosa Virgínia Mattos e Silva. SANTOS, Gredson dos. Data modelling and the production of “realities” in sociolinguistic analysis. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009. ABSTRACT: This text makes critical considerations on the quantitative data treatment in sociolinguistics and its impact on the formulation of “realities” with regards to the Brazilian linguistic space. Furthermore, this paper holds brief comments on how the data selection, treatment, analysis, and interpretation operations, following a quantitative methodology, “format”, in different intensity degrees, the “real” which is in the scope of the sociolinguistic analysis. KEYWORDS: Science Philosophy. Linguistic Philosophy. Sociolinguistics. Modelação de dados e produção de “realidades” na análise sociolinguística Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 85-103, 2009 103 Referências BENVENISTE, Émile. Saussure após meio século. In: ______. Problemas de linguís- tica geral I. Tradução de Maria da Glória Novack e Maria Luisa Neri. Campinas, SP: Pontes, 1995. p. 34-49. BORGES NETO, José. Ensaios de filosofia da linguística. São Paulo: Parábola, 2004. FARACO, Carlos Alberto. Norma culta brasileira: desatando alguns nós. São Paulo: Parábola, 2008. FREIRE-MAIA, Newton. Verdades da ciência e outras verdades: a visão de um cien- tista. São Paulo: EdUNESP; Ribeirão Preto, SP: SBG, 2008. GUY, Gregory R.; ZILLES, Ana. Sociolinguística quantitativa: instrumental de análise. São Paulo: Parábola, 2007. HEIDEGGER, Martin. Ciência e pensamento do sentido. In: ______. Ensaios e confe- rências. Tradução de Emmanuel Carneiro Leão, Gilvan Fogel e Márcia Sá Cavalcante Schuback. Petrópolis, RJ: Vozes, 2002. p. 39-60. ______. Introdução à filosofia. Tradução de Marco Antonio Casanova. São Paulo: Martins Fontes, 2008. LUCCHESI, Dante. Sistema, mudança e linguagem: um percurso na história da lin- guística moderna. São Paulo: Parábola, 2004. MENON, Odete Pereira da Silva. A questão das afirmações generalizantes sobre o por- tuguês do Brasil e os dados do NURC. In: CARDOSO, Suzana Alice Marcelino (Org.). Diversidade linguística e ensino. Salvador: EdUFBA, 1996. p. 206-214. PONTES, Eunice. Espaço e tempo na língua portuguesa. Campinas: Fontes, 1992. POPPER, Karl. Conjecturas e refutações. Brasília: Editora da UNB, 1963. 104 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 LINGUAGEM E EMOÇÕES Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA1 RESUMO: Neste artigo, o objetivo será tecer algumas reflexões sobre a problemática de pôr as emoções como objeto de interesse dos estudos da linguagem. Especificamente, focalizarei a questão da circunscrição do universo patêmico e dos traços linguísticos das emoções. O estudo desenvolve- se em torno de discursos de professores e alunos do Ensino Fundamental e Médio. A base teóri- ca é derivada das concepções de sujeito e linguagem defendidas por Bakhtin (1976 [1926]; 1995 [1929a]; 1997 [1929b]) e dos estudos desenvolvidos por Plantin (2003; 2004) e Plantin et al (2000). PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Discurso. Sentidos. Emoções. Introdução As emoções podem ser objeto de interesse dos estudos da linguagem? Por vias teóricas diferentes, acompanho Charaudeau (2000) na resposta afirmativa para tal questão. Ainda o sigo na defesa de que a resposta precisa ser cercada de um quadro teórico que descreva as condições em que podem aparecer como elemento de linguagem, pois estudos como os desenvolvidos por Plantin (2003), visando a construir formas de abordagens da emoção falada e da fala emocionada demons- tram que a abordagem discursiva do tema ainda exige construções tanto do objeto como do campo teórico e metodológico de sustentação. Nos estudos da linguagem, ainda é difícil estabelecer diferenciação entre “a expressão de emoção (as marcas de afetividade na linguagem) e os patêmicos ou os elementos suscetíveis de provocar emoção no alocutário” (AMOSSY, 2006, p. 197). 2 Neste artigo, tratarei da questão da categorização semântica do uni- verso patêmico e da circunscrição dos traços linguísticos das emoções (e os 1 Pós-doutoranda do Programa de Pós-graduação em Educação da Faculdade de Educação da Uni- camp, Campinas, São Paulo, Brasil. marinalvav@gmail.com 2 “l’expression de l’émotion (les marques de l’affectivité dans le langage) et les pathémes ou éléments susceptibles de créer l’émotion chez l’allocutaire”. Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 105 seus possíveis efeitos de sentidos). A base teórica deste estudo é derivada das concepções de sujeito e linguagem defendidas por Bakhtin (1976 [1926]; 1995 [1929a]; 1997 [1929b]) e dos estudos desenvolvidos por Plantin (2003; 2004) e Plantin et al (2000). Para desenvolver as análises, tomo como base discursos produzidos por alunos e professores nas interações em sala de aula. O que defino como “discurso de emoção” é o resultado dos esforços empre- endidos por ambos para se contraporem aos temas e posicionamentos de seus interlocutores imediatos nas interações. A seleção do corpus para estudo é baseada na concepção de paradigma indiciário proposta por Ginzburg (1999), que permite, no trabalho com os atos de linguagem, conceber sujeitos cujo discurso não se perde ou se explica por meio da eleição de traços generali- zantes de pertencimento a uma comunidade (neste caso, a comunidade de professor ou de aluno), mas também não são atos absolutamente singulares e, por isso, sem relação com outros discursos. A definição do corpus indiciário depende da inter-relação entre pequenos acontecimentos. Sobre a circunscrição linguística A maioria dos trabalhos (dos poucos!) que discute a inscrição do afe- tivo na linguagem volta-se para a necessidade de definir o aspecto linguístico das emoções por ser esta uma questão de difícil solução. Engelmann (1978), ao fazer uma revisão das variações semânticas das palavras e conceitos liga- dos ao campo das emoções, dos sentimentos, das paixões, em idiomas como o francês, inglês, alemão, italiano e português, afirma que há uma dificuldade muito grande em construir uma dimensão linguística para as emoções. Nas palavras do autor, “Queríamos delimitar o universo e explicitar os usos do ou dos termos para rotular esse universo. Fomos frustrados com relação a essa expectativa” (p. 38). Eggs (2000), ao defender a relevância e a atualidade da Retórica das Paixões, assinala que todas as emoções, atitudes, os bons e maus hábitos, as manifestações feias e belas são lexicalizados e gramaticalizados em uma multiplicidade de palavras, torneios e construções enunciativas que surgem por meio de uma determinada forma de organização do discurso de emoção. Plantin (2003) complementa essa concepção ao defender que há uma estrutu- ração do emotivo na língua cuja materialização é possível de ser identificada nas formas de organização do discurso. Tais afirmações autorizam um estudo Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 106 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 discursivo das emoções a partir da perspectiva de que o componente afetivo tem uma face linguística que pode ser apreendida se colocarmos o próprio processo de constituição do discurso como base. Focalizar a organização linguística das emoções não responde à ne- cessidade de identificar as experiências subjetivas dos sujeitos objetivadas no léxico ou nos enunciados de caráter afetivo. O objetivo é considerar termos linguísticos arregimentados como estratégias para melhor construir o projeto de dizer de ordem emotiva. Para analisar o discurso de emoção focalizando sua estruturação, Plan- tin (2003) propõe, com base na consideração de elementos lexicais, uma es- trutura sintática para o que denomina enunciados de emoção. Este recebe a seguinte definição: “o enunciado de emoção atribui uma emoção a uma pes- soa [seja ela o próprio locutor ou o interlocutor] e, em certos casos, menciona a fonte da emoção” (p. 108).3 Pela conceitualização apresentada, a declara- ção “eu estou triste porque minha amiga partiu” pode ser caracterizada como enunciado de emoção porque apresenta um sujeito que enuncia sua tristeza (lugar psicológico marcado por um substantivo subjetivo) e localiza a fonte dessa emoção (a partida da amiga). Os três elementos identificadores são: quem fala (se é o sujeito ou não das emoções), o que fala e porque fala. Na afirmação “Eu vou perder a paciência com você logo no começo da aula”, o que permite caracterizar o enunciado de emoção é o sintagma “perder a paciência”, que se sustenta na declaração de um estado subjetivo afetivo. E não só os termos de nomeação principais, mas também os seus derivados morfolexicais (vergonha → vergonhoso, envergonhado) são considerados para definir os enunciados de emoção. A consideração dos derivados sustenta- se na concepção de que não é necessário, nos estudos do discurso, construir categorias linguísticas que deem respostas precisas às categorias de emoções. Neste estudo, a definição do que seja um termo de emoção não se sustentará somente na consideração de elementos linguísticos já reconhecidos como per- tencentes ao campo semântico das emoções. Haverá distensão porque mui- tos enunciados serão definidos como tais pelo seu funcionamento discursivo. Isso pode fazer com que um léxico, embora não classificado semanticamente como de emoções, seja a base para a definição de um enunciado de emoção porque carregado de sentidos afetivos ou porque pode provocar/atribuir esses 3 “l’enoncé d’émotion attribue une émotion à une personne et, dans certains cas, mentionne la source de l’émotion”. Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 107 sentidos no outro e ao outro. E não se trata de um tipo de análise que transfor- ma a linguagem num domínio puro e simples da subjetividade, mas, sim, da consideração de determinados aspectos discursivos que permitem afirmar que um recurso linguístico específico, dependendo dos objetivos do discurso e das circunstâncias em que é usado, pode produzir efeitos de emoção. Ainda sobre a organização dos enunciados, a mudança do sujeito das emoções muda o estatuto estrutural do enunciado. Na afirmação “ela é uma pessoa que provoca tristeza”, “ela” é posta como a fonte geradora da emoção, o locutor e, por empatia, o interlocutor são os sujeitos do sentimento. Essa noção explica as atribuições indiretas de emoção, feitas cotidianamente como no caso do enunciado “Ele ficou vermelho professora”. O termo de emoção remete à leitura que o locutor faz das ações do interlocutor. A estruturação dos termos e enunciados de emoção obedece aos direcionamentos e objetivos do discurso. Sua organização linguística põe o enunciador no lugar de ava- liador, pois, trabalhando com o que lhe é dado pelo campo do visível e pelo que é enunciado pelo outro, organiza o discurso envolvendo recursos verbais e extraverbais. Tal organização pode indicar solidariedade pela assunção da posição de empatia ou pode indicar rejeição, esta marcada, por exemplo, pela ironia. Por meio do trabalho com o linguístico, os interlocutores se recolo- cam, excluem e incluem a si mesmos e ao interlocutor no jogo interlocutivo. A seleção de um elemento linguístico e não de outro aponta para um trabalho não aleatório; ao contrário, é resultado das percepções avaliativo-afetivas, direcionadas ao objeto e/ou ao outro sujeito. A localização dos enunciados com base em termos ou palavras perten- centes ou não ao universo semântico das emoções não implicará a afirmação de que, embora descreva uma emoção, o sujeito esteja emocionado ou então que o discurso produzirá efeitos de sentidos emotivos. Tendo por referência o que diz Ducrot (1984) sobre a orientação argumentativa, a orientação dos sentidos afetivos de um termo ou palavra pode mudar, quer seja para não produzir efeitos de emoção ou para produzir, de acordo com as orientações e objetivos do discurso. Essa flexibilidade leva Plantin (2003) a propor que também existem os termos indiretos de emoção, derivados de enunciados que não comportam palavras que remetam diretamente ao campo semântico das emoções, mas que são suscetíveis de provocar e/ou conotar efeitos afetivos. Isso ocorre sobretudo quando se conhece a situação enunciativa, pois é o tema que define o caráter afetivo ou não. Exemplificam essa questão os efeitos de Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 108 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 sentidos produzidos pelas pequenas palavras e diminutivos usados pelos pro- fessores para responder às ações dos alunos.4 Assim, no que tange à dimensão linguística, a hipótese assumida é o de que a língua constitutiva do discurso de emoção é uma sistematização aberta, formada com base nas “ações do sujeito sobre a linguagem”. Esse trabalho é responsável por deslocamentos nos sistemas de referências da língua, produzindo com isso certa novidade não só em termos de sentidos afetivos como também em referência ao uso dos termos linguísticos (GERALDI, 1991). Os deslocamentos serão fundamentais para compreender os sentidos do discurso e, sobretudo, a re- lação sujeito e discurso de emoção. Consequentemente, o que será apresentado a seguir como a dimensão linguística do discurso não pretende ser um modelo, mas condições de possibilidades para a inscrição do afetivo na língua. Abrindo parêntese para análise A necessidade de especificar o termo linguístico afetivo Para justificar o posicionamento assumido acima, desenvolverei a análi- se de uma pequena sequência discursiva, resultante de uma situação de intera- ção entre professores e alunos, em que as palavras “surpresa” e “perplexidade” aparecem para definir a reação do locutor diante das ações dos seus interlocu- tores. Nas definições dicionarizadas, essas duas palavras, quando adjetivos, são dadas como sinônimos. Isto é, qualificam o mesmo estado de emoção de uma pessoa diante de um acontecimento inesperado. Numa possível semântica das emoções, seriam sinonímias. Por essa indiferenciação, o uso de um termo ou de outro seria simples paráfrase para melhor clarear os sentidos do discurso, já que não há distinção entre as duas palavras no plano conceitual. No entanto, na sequência abaixo, situação em que o sujeito do discurso atribui-se uma emoção para responder aos seus interlocutores, podemos constatar que, se essas pa- lavras podem funcionar como sinônimos perfeitos, existem situações em que apresentam empregos específicos que mudam a sua significação não permitin- do tratá-las como termos que remetem ao mesmo estado afetivo. Vejamos: 4 O termo “pequenas palavras” aparece neste trabalho em uma filiação indireta aos estudos desenvolvidos por Bouchard (2000), para definir e tratar do caráter afetivo das expressões “muito bem”, “é isso mesmo” e do pronome relativo “isso”. Este texto não foi citado nas referências. Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 109 A7SEF [...] 01 A1 professo::ra/ hoje nosso grupo vai ver um 02 filme pra aula de geografia 03 P (...) não/ eu preciso admitir que estou 04 surpresa (.) não/ perplexa MESMO(.) to::do 05 dia: têm uma historia nova pra não ficar 06 na aula de português (.)não dá pra 07 negar que vocês são criativos 08 A1 i::h p’ofessora\ foi a p’ofessora de 09 geografia que passou o filme 10 P eu sei:::/ mas vocês não podem ver o filme 11 no’tro horário// (..) tem que ser sempre 12 na minha aula// (.) 13 A2 ((rindo)) é:h que a gente não tem tempo 14 P e com a cara de pau também/ (.) L/ você 15 sabe que essa historia me deixa mais 16 irritada ainda/(.)você já pensou na confusão 17 se eu resolvesse atender a falta de tempo de 18 todo aluno que me pede// [...] A enumeração, que pode ser vista como necessidade de clarear os sen- tidos do primeiro termo, no caso acima é um importante indício de que a distinção remete à preocupação do locutor em precisar para o interlocutor a dimensão crescente dos seus sentimentos diante das ações deste. Ou seja, a necessidade de configurar o grau de força, de progressão do sentimento enunciado é o elemento que não permite o estabelecimento de uma relação tranquila de sinonímia entre os dois termos. Trata-se de um discurso que se- gue o movimento imposto pelo grau de inventividade dos interlocutores, daí o enunciado irônico de que “não dá pra negar que vocês são criativos”. “Sur- presa” e “perplexa” não foram enumerados por causa da preocupação em fazer o locutor compreender o que estava sendo nomeado, mas, sim, visando a fazê-lo compreender a dimensão da força das suas (re)ações. Ou a dimen- são de como estavam sendo recebidas. Tanto que há simetria crescente entre “estou surpresa (.) não/ perplexa MESMO” e a afirmação seguinte: “to::do dia: têm uma história nova pra não ficar na aula de português”. A surpresa mudou para perplexidade na medida em que as estratégias dos interlocutores Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 110 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 se renovaram para atingir sempre o mesmo objetivo: não assistir à aula de língua portuguesa. Se consideramos a vizinhança entre os termos linguísticos, o uso do “não” para negar a primeira definição e a contiguidade do intensificador “mesmo” corroboram com a hipótese de que o sentido de perplexa não é o mesmo que o de surpresa. Há um trabalho com a “intenção” de fazer os dois termos significarem de modos diferentes. Na linha 14, a qualificação direta dos sujeitos desse ato como “cara de pau” e o ato de fala seguinte – “L/ você sabe que essa história me deixa mais irritada ainda/” – explicam o enunciado de emoção inicial: trata-se principalmente de irritação diante das insistentes estratégias. A perplexidade descrita tem um acento avaliativo negativo. No entanto, como a diferenciação progressiva e o traço avaliativo apreciativo foram definidos pelos objetivos do discurso e no interior mesmo da interação verbal, não criaram nenhum tipo de incongruência por causa da sinonímia existente entre os termos lexicais. O que ocorre na construção do enunciado de emoção analisado é um típico trabalho do sujeito sobre a linguagem com o objetivo de provocar no in- terlocutor compreensão específica. Pensando numa possível correspondência do linguístico com os objetivos do discurso, o adequado seria pôr no lugar de “perplexo” o termo “espanto”, que estabeleceria força semântica maior para o discurso. Entretanto, o termo “espanto”, nas práticas linguageiras cotidianas, pressupõe também o medo. No contexto das interações em sala de aula, não há o objetivo de dizer que as ações do aluno provocam medo ou susto; isso tocaria na representação sobre o modo de ser do professor. Dizer-se perplexa retorna para o outro uma avaliação negativa, mas que não compromete a po- sição do enunciador. O trabalho sobre a língua visando à construção de si e de sentidos afetivos geram certa novidade que impede classificações rígidas sobre o léxico das afetividades. Embora os termos “surpresa” e “perplexo” pertençam ao campo semântico mais amplo das emoções, são os usos que orientam os traços específicos das significações no interior de um determina- do discurso. O sentido afetivo dos diminutivos A repetição constante dos diminutivos nas interações em sala de aula geralmente é vista como formas mecânicas de o professor responder ao alu- Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 111 no. Para um interlocutor exterior que não se detenha no todo discursivo, não há dúvidas que são repetitivas e banalizadas. Porém, se considerarmos que os usos de tais recursos linguísticos são característicos dessa fase de esco- larização (desaparecem ou perdem a intensidade nas demais fases), pode-se concluir que seus sentidos estão ligados às pequenas táticas próprias da sala de aula. Em outras palavras, tanto professor como aluno reconhecem e legiti- mam seu funcionamento e, consequentemente, o uso cotidiano os ressignifica conforme o movimento do discurso. Assim, de acordo com Auchlin (2000), a compreensão dos seus sentidos não depende de representação conceitual, mas da experienciação, mais ou menos direta, mais ou menos composta, do que podemos fazer delas em um contexto específico de discurso. Os seus sentidos estão ligados ao contexto das interações, aos objetivos do discurso e, ao serem enunciados, têm os sentidos construídos por meio da inter-relação entre discurso verbal e elementos extraverbais, conforme pode ser verificado na sequência retirada de aula numa quarta série: A1EF4S [...] 85 A1 o seu palhaço é feio= 86 A2 =ti:::a ele tá me chamando de fé::ia 87 (inaudível) 88 P já vai minha querida(.)não desperdicem 89 cola (...) gente/o material é pra ser 90 usado mais de uma vez por isso vocês 91 precisam ser cuidadosos(...)C/ você não 92 pode ficar tratando mal a M (...) gente/ 93 pode ficar cada um no seu lugar 94 A3 que cor eu pinto o olho//= 95 P =por que você está choran:::do// o que foi 96 que aconteceu:::// 97 A2 ele tá xingando o meu palha::ço e não–nã– 98 nã–não gosto 99 P C/ eu já não disse pra você não ficar 100 implicando com a coleguinha/ (.) isso é 101 muito feio e papai do céu não 102 gosta(.)o::h minha linda/vem sentar aqui 103 perti:nho da tia (.) bem perto da mesa da 104 tia (...) I:::SSO\ agora faz o seu Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 112 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 105 trabalhinho faz ((a aluna para de chorar e retoma a 106 atividade)) [...] Diante do choro, que materializa uma emoção, a professora procura construir um discurso para solucionar a polêmica e restabelecer a execução da atividade (construir um palhaço). Para tanto, usa abundantemente os di- minutivos. Se acompanharmos o movimento do discurso, vemos que é por meio deles que regula as ações entre os interlocutores, criando uma situação favorável para que um pare de chorar e sem pôr o outro também em posição de descontentamento. O alvo da crítica (85 e 86) era o palhaço e não a aluna. Esta, porém, faz uma interpretação por analogia e confunde proprietário com propriedade, o que permite a conclusão de que ela está sendo caracterizada de feia. A intervenção da professora começa, por se tratar de um discurso dirigi- do a crianças, com a definição da aluna ofendida por “coleguinha”, o que (re) estabelece a igualdade entre os dois não só no que se refere ao tamanho físico, mas, sobretudo, quanto à necessidade de serem companheiros. A definição di- minutiva, seguida da afirmação carregada de valor moral religioso, busca en- sinar que o desrespeito ao igual desagrada a um ente maior. O pequeno lugar atribuído pelo termo “coleguinha” também é atribuído indiretamente ao autor da crítica que, pela expressão “isso é muito feio e papai do céu não gosta/(.)”, é figurativizado como pequeno, igual à coleguinha ofendida. O termo “papai do céu”, nas interações cotidianas, é comumente usado pelas mães. A partir da linha 102, o discurso ganha um tom afetivo, revelando, pelo uso dos termos “minha linda” e “pertinho”, um trabalho discursivo para incidir sobre a imagem que a aluna criou de si (daí o choro), ou na imagem dada pelo outro sobre sua produção. O choro pressupõe descontentamento e tristeza conforme atesta a própria resposta: “ele tá xingando o meu palha::co” e “não–nã–nã–não gosto”. O adjetivo “linda”, se considerada a situação de enunciação, segundo Kerbrat-Orecchioni (2002), tem valor axiológico sub- jetivo, mas também pode se desdobrar em adjetivo de valor afetivo. Para que responda a segunda condição, é necessário que enuncie, ao mesmo tem- po, uma propriedade do objeto ou do sujeito e uma reação afetiva do sujeito falante. A expressão adjetiva “minha linda” particulariza a aluna na relação entre interlocutores. Entretanto, seu valor afetivo não se constrói isoladamen- Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 113 te, mas na relação com o todo do enunciado: “O::h minha linda vem sentar pertinho da tia”. A expressão adjetiva e o advérbio de lugar no diminutivo não só retornam à aluna um tom afetivo apreciativo, mas também criam a ideia de pertencimento (marcado, sobretudo, pelo possessivo minha) e de proteção (diminutivo pertinho). Por ser uma resposta maternal ao sofrimento da aluna, o termo “o::h minha linda” passa a ser a definição para a criança que chora porque teve o seu trabalho considerado feio. É uma resposta à sensibilidade que motivou o choro mais que referência à beleza física. Assim, no pedido para que a aluna sente “pertinho”, tem-se uma resposta afetiva (poderíamos falar de uma espé- cie de reação afetiva ao choro) que objetiva diminuir o sofrimento pela oferta de uma espécie de recompensa: a proteção e o aconchego da proximidade. É a partir do valor que essa imagem tem para o mundo infantil que a professora organiza o seu discurso, define o tom para se dirigir à aluna. E, por fim, o ter- mo “trabalhinho” recria outro lugar para o trabalho nesse pequeno universo. Os argumentos com diminutivos têm duplo valor: podem conotar sentidos de afetividades e de ironias. São também um recurso para ridi- cularizar o que seria para o locutor uma infantilização ou inadequação do interlocutor. No Ensino Médio e na Universidade, aparecem em discursos que criticam, reprovam as ações e, por isso, atribuem um pequeno lugar ao interlocutor resultante da interpretação de que seu gesto é medíocre. Entre adultos e crianças, outros são os sentidos. Os argumentos fundados em pa- lavras no diminutivo figurativizam um mundo condizente com a posição do interlocutor e, por isso, não provoca estranhamento à criança. Ao contrário, alimenta as interações com pequenas demonstrações de cuidados, carinho e incentivo, tornando próximos os interlocutores, uma vez que, nas palavras de Rimé (2005, p. 120), “as crianças são mais sensíveis ao contágio que os adultos”. 5 As mudanças e os acréscimos de sentidos ocorridos nas pequenas pa- lavras e diminutivos estão diretamente vinculados à orientação apreciativa das enunciações. Esse excedente que transforma os termos linguísticos pode ser apreendido no interior das enunciações vivas, pois tal alargamento se constrói com base nos valores e aspectos da existência humana que se torna- ram objetos da fala e da emoção humana, e são integrados no horizonte social 5 “les enfants sont plus sensibles à la contagion que les adultes”. Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 114 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 de um determinado grupo de sujeitos em constante interação. A compreensão dos sentidos patêmicos dos diminutivos, assim como os efeitos de sentidos considerados cognitivos, pragmáticos e axiológicos, dependem da conside- ração das circunstâncias nas quais aparecem. As palavras utilizadas por um falante vêm carregadas com as informações que a situação de discurso passa de forma objetiva para o material semântico, e que apenas as reconhecem os sujeitos envolvidos no contexto de produção. Em suma, banalidade do uso dos diminutivos no cotidiano não impõe a banalização dos seus sentidos se- mânticos e, exatamente por isso, em cada situação de uso surge a remissão a novos temas. No contexto da sala de aula do EF, tendo em vista a posição dos interlocutores, passam a ter valor de retornos afetivos, pois o professor, no sentido retórico do termo, os insere no seu discurso com o objetivo de tocar e convencer para ensinar. Fechando o parêntese: a construção dos sentidos afetivos Considerar as especificidades dos atos nos obriga a analisar a lingua- gem abrindo mão da máquina estrutural que transforma os acontecimentos em abstrações estáveis. Pela perspectiva de Bakhtin, não há como falar na construção de um sistema que garanta a existência estável de um campo se- mântico das emoções. Os termos linguísticos por si sós, nas condições de discurso, não garantem a construção dos sentidos, afetivos ou não, porque o uso da linguagem, o “falar depende não só de um saber prévio de recursos expressivos disponíveis mas de operações de construção de sentidos destas expressões no próprio momento da interlocução” (GERALDI, 1991, p. 9). Pode-se dizer que os signos de cunho afetivo apresentam um potencial se- mântico próprio da língua, mas a consideração do contexto concreto de sua realização é fundamental para sua definição. O processo de (re)atualização dos sentidos ou de um signo linguístico nas interações assume função pri- mordial para qualquer estudo que se debruce sobre a constituição do afetivo como elemento de linguagem pois, ainda segundo Geraldi, é a dinâmica do trabalho linguístico que é relevante. Os elementos linguísticos que apareceram nos discursos de professo- res e alunos podem ser definidos como índices de contextualização do dis- curso de emoção, uma vez que é pela combinação de diferentes elementos (entonação, recursos linguísticos, razão das produções do discurso) que se Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 115 realiza o investimento afetivo em termos discursivos. Entre esses elementos, estão as repetições, os discursos diretos (com finalidade de narrar os estados afetivos), os nomes e adjetivos pertencentes (em termos de significação no sentido bakhtiniano) ao campo semântico das afetividades. Entretanto estes não são formas especializadas de comunicação afetiva, muito menos de uma emoção específica. O efeito de sentido pode ser obtido pelo emprego de al- gumas palavras, mas também por meio daquelas que não remetem ao campo semântico das afetividades. Em várias situações de interação, os sentidos foram construídos pelo uso de elementos linguísticos diretos, na medida em que as palavras trazem, elas mesmas, uma significação afetiva, ou também por termos indiretos. A semântica desse tipo de discurso é subversiva, escapa ao controle porque não está submetida a uma lógica racional interna, e sim ao que é pró- prio do sujeito. Tal situação é bem sintetizada pelas conclusões que Charau- deau apresenta quando afirma que: a) Existem palavras que descrevem de modo transparente emoções como “cólera”, “angústia”, “horror”, “indignação”, etc., mas sua aparição não significa que o sujeito que as emprega as sinta como emoção (problema da autenticidade), nem que produ- zirão um efeito patêmico no interlocutor (problema de causalidade). Às vezes, temos o fenômeno curioso de despatemização quando essas palavras são empregadas com demasiada insistência como faz a mídia (parece se produzir, então, uma interrupção meta-enunciativa). b) Existem palavras que não descrevem emoções, mas são uma espécie de bons can- didatos ao seu desencadeamento: “assassinato”, “conspiração”, “vítimas”, “mani- festação”, “assassino”, por exemplo, são suscetíveis de nos conduzir a um universo patêmico. Sim, mas qual? Não é a mesma coisa quando falamos de uma manifes- tação silenciosa (expressão de dor e de indignação) como aquela da marcha branca dos Belgas a propósito do processo de Dutroux, aquela das mulheres da Praça de Maio na Argentina ou a dos espanhóis contra o ETA; ou quando falamos de uma manifestação agitada, e mesmo violenta (expressão de desespero e reivindicação), como ocorre na África e ou no Oriente Médio. Esse universo também não será o mesmo quando sei que a vítima de um acidente aéreo é uma “velha dama”, “meu patrão”, “um banqueiro riquíssimo”; dito de outra maneira, como demonstra a teo- ria dos topoi (Ducrot), a orientação argumentativa (aqui diremos patêmica) de uma palavra pode mudar, ou mesmo inverter-se, de acordo com seu contexto e, eu diria, sua situação de uso. c) Enfim, conforme já dito, existem enunciados que não apresentam palavras patê- micas se não tivermos conhecimento da situação de enunciação: “basta!” “gritam as vítimas do enésimo bombardeio da sua cidade”; “Meu filho era puro, inocente”, diz Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 116 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 um pai debruçado sobre um túmulo no momento em que era entrevistado em uma reportagem na Bósnia; “Um dia comum em Sarajevo”, diz um jornalista na televi- são, mostrando as imagens do último bombardeio que acaba de acontecer na cidade. Esses três tipos de problema lembram que a construção discursiva do sentido como aposta de efeitos intencionais visados depende das inferências que podem produzir os participantes do ato de comunicação e essas inferências dependem do conheci- mento que podem ter da situação de enunciação (2000, p. 139-140).6 Das conclusões de Charaudeau (2000) é possível derivar que os ele- mentos linguísticos que formam os enunciados e discurso de emoção não são adquiridos em um dicionário. Afirmação óbvia, mas que parece ser constan- temente esquecida pelos linguistas que tratam do tema. Se o discursivizar das emoções fosse mero ato de apropriação de um sistema de expressões e termos 6 “a) il est des mots qui décrivent de façon transparente des émotions comme “colère”, “angoisse”, “horreur”, “indi-gnation”, etc., mais leur apparition ne signifie pas que le sujet que les emploie les ressente comme des émotions (problème d’authenticité), ni qui ils produiront un effet pathémique auprès de l’interlocuteur (problème de causalité). Parfois on a même affaire à ce phé- nomène curieux de despathèmisation lorsque ces mots sont employés avec trop d’insistance, como le font les médias (il semble se produire alors un décrochage méta-énonciatif); b) Il est des mots qui ne décrivent pas des émotions mais sont comme sortes des bons candidats à leur déclenchement : “assassinat”, “complot”, “victimes”, “manifestation”, “tueur” par exemple, sont susceptibles de nous entraîner dans un univers pathémique. Oui mais lequel ? Il ne sera pas le même selon que l’on parle d’une manifestation silencieuse (expression de la douler et d’indignation), comme celle de la marche blanche des Belges à propos de l’affaire Dutroux, celle des femmes de la place de mai en Argentine ou celle des espagnols contre l’ETA, ou que l’on parle d’une ‘manifestation agitée’, voire violente (expression du desepoir et de revendication), comme en Afrique ou au Moyen Orient. Cet univers ne sera pas non plus le même selon que j’apprends que la victime d’um vol est une ‘vieille dame’, ‘mon patron’, un ‘banquier richissime’, ou que la autrement dit, comme le montre la théorie des topoï (Ducrot), l’orientation argumentative (ici nous dirons pathémi- que) d’un mot peut changer, voire s’inverser, selon son context et, ajouterai-je, sa situation, sa situation d’emploi ; c) enfim, comme on l’a déjà dit, il est des énoncés qui ne comportent pas de mots pathémi- ques dès lors que l’on a connaissance de la situation d’énonciation : ‘Assez !’ crient des gens victimes du énième bombardement de leur ville ; ‘Mon fils était un pur, un innocent ‘ dit um père penché sur une tombe et interviewé lors d’un reportage en Bosnie ; ‘Un jour ordinaire Sarajevo’ dit un jounaliste à la télévision en montrant les images du dernier bom- bardement qui vient de se produire dans cette ville. Ces trois types de problèmes rappellent que la construction discursive du sens comme mise en œuvre d’effts intentionnels visés dépend des inférences que peuvent produire les partenaires de l’acte de communication et que ces inférences dépendent elles-mêmes de la connaissance que ces partenaires peuvent avoir de la situation d’énonciation” (p. 139-140). Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 117 prontos, não haveria por que falar em construção de sentidos. Muito menos haveria razão para apontar a importância da historicidade na constituição do sujeito e da linguagem, pois tanto a semântica das palavras como os próprios atos que tais palavras constituem teriam sempre o mesmo sentido. É na diferenciação feita por Bakhtin (1995 [1929a]) entre tema e significação (um dos momentos em que trabalha para romper a oposição entre a significação estável e os sentidos vindos da realidade transitória) que se podem encontrar elementos para explicar a construção de senti- dos do discurso afetivo, pois se trata de algo que não está na língua nem no sujeito, mas na inter-relação deste com o contexto constitutivo do discurso. Na distinção feita pelo autor, a significação é a parte estável da língua, mas por si só não responde pelos sentidos das enunciações. É a capacidade potencial de construir sentidos, algo próprio dos signos linguísticos. Inegavelmente existem termos linguísticos que comportam com mais clareza a significação afetiva (alegria, tristeza, medo etc.), porém é na situação histórica e concreta de realização da enunciação que os sentidos efetivamente se constroem. Nas situações concretas e vivenciais, aquele que fala serve-se da lín- gua para suas necessidades enunciativas concretas e, por isso, o centro de gravidade, para ele, não está na conformação da norma ou na utilização de um recurso linguístico específico, mas no novo sentido que cada forma pode adquirir no contexto da enunciação. O que importa para um interlocutor que está alegre ou triste necessariamente não é o uso de tais signos linguísticos, mas aquilo que permite que as palavras usadas o figurativizem para seu in- terlocutor como um sujeito triste ou alegre. No mundo das práticas efetivas, não há separação entre as abstrações conceituais e o próprio ato vivido. Um constitui o outro e daí a dificuldade de estabelecer um grande espectro de termos lexicais e elementos ou torneios sintáticos que remetam ao universo das afetividades de modo abstrato e limpo. O aprendizado do sentir e discur- sivizar as afetividades se dá pelos mesmos caminhos com que aprendemos a nos mover em determinada língua. O sentido dos enunciados e palavras afetivas se constitui pela realiza- ção do tema da enunciação, que é único e irrepetível. A significação da pala- vra “tristeza”, por exemplo, está garantida pelo conjunto histórico de valores de uma sociedade, mas a efetiva condição de termo linguístico expressivo da emoção tristeza vai ocorrer em um contexto histórico e concreto. Os sentidos Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 118 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 afetivos não estão na língua, porém, sua constituição resulta da interação en- tre interlocutores inseridos nos universos de linguagem. Somente se realizam no processo de compreensão responsivo. As valorações são constitutivas dos sentidos dos termos linguísticos afetivos. Em outras palavras, a língua afetiva ganha sentido pelo valor ine- rente a todo ato humano. Nos casos dos usos dos diminutivos e pequenas ex- pressões linguísticas, a mudança ou acréscimo de significação estava central- mente organizada em torno da apreciação. Para Bakhtin (1995 [1929a]), não há palavra cujo sentido se realize sem os valores apreciativos, que, de fato, são os responsáveis pelos deslocamentos semânticos. Como já assinalado, a palavra em uso está sempre relacionada à vida e esta ganha materialidade nas entonações resultantes de valores atribuídos ou agregados pelo que é dito por cada locutor. Ao dar vida à palavra com sua entonação, o sujeito dialoga di- retamente com os valores de sua comunidade, expressando seu ponto de vista em relação a esses valores. Assim, os sentidos dos termos e enunciados de emoção não são aden- dos conotativos juntados pela ação do falante à significação denotativa. Aliás, Bakhtin rejeita tal dicotomia porque ela separa, impõe hierarquias naquilo que não está separado ou hierarquizado. Isto é, separa sentido e signo linguís- tico quando o signo é sempre pluriacentuado. Defender a existência de uma semântica universal das afetividades é, antes de tudo, buscar construir garan- tias no código, o que, devido às condições de uso, é uma impossibilidade, pois o conotativo e o denotativo existem no sistema abstrato da língua. Nas situações de uso, os sentidos nascem da “luta incessante dos acentos em cada área semântica da existência” (BAKHTIN, 1995 [1929a], p. 136). Os sentidos afetivos são irredutíveis às relações concreto-semânti- cas ou às relações lógicas, que por si mesmas carecem de momentos dia- lógicos. Pode-se até trabalhar definições lógicas ou concretas dos termos linguísticos de emoção, mas enquanto tais eles não discutem entre si ou promovem encontros que possibilitem o nascimento do discurso de emo- ção. Para se tornarem significativas, “as relações lógicas e concreto-se- mânticas devem, como já dissemos, materializar-se; ou seja, devem passar a outro campo da existência, devem tornar-se discurso, ou seja, enuncia- do e ganhar autor, criador de dado enunciado cuja posição ele expressa” (BAKHTIN, 1997 [1929b], p. 184). Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 119 Considerações finais Pelo exposto, pode-se concluir que a linguagem afetiva se constitui a partir de procedimentos linguísticos complexos e, para compreender seu funcionamento, é necessário combinar diferentes meios linguísticos e extra- linguísticos. Para Drescher, a construção dos sentidos emotivos depende, com certa variação, da consideração de pelo menos quatro aspectos semântico- comunicativos: “[...] a subjetivação, a intensificação, a visualização e a ava- liação” (2003, p.162). 7 Juntos formam o todo que permite definir o caráter afetivo da lin- guagem. Porém, segundo a autora, os diferentes estudos que tratam da face semântica do afetivo não conseguem oferecer respostas consistentes para o entrelaçamento desses quatro elementos. Caminhando no mesmo sentido, penso que não há avanços nas discussões promovidas pelos linguistas que tratam da questão porque ou os sentidos afetivos são postos como somente pertencentes ao campo das relações fora da linguagem, ou são postos como estritamente pertencentes à língua. Nas duas situações, apagam-se as tensões entre tema e significação. Entretanto, ainda muito colada às teorias comunicativas, Drescher define os quatro aspectos considerando as intervenções de uma psique individualizada na construção dos sentidos de cunho afetivo. Assim, assumo seus postulados de que os quatro elementos acima são fundamentais à identificação da dimensão lin- guística dos termos ou enunciados de emoção (e, sobretudo, sobre o que seja um discurso impregnado de sentidos afetivos), mas penso ser necessário (re)defini- los à luz das discussões que Bakhtin (1995 [1929a]) faz entre tema e significação e, consequentemente, entre verbal e extraverbal. Aliás, os quatro aspectos elen- cados por Drescher estão contidos nas três questões utilizadas por Bakhtin para explicitar como se efetiva o diálogo entre o verbal e o extraverbal na construção da linguagem, a saber: 1) “o horizonte espacial comum entre os interlocutores”; 2) “o conhecimento e a compreensão compartilhada entre os interlocutores de um determinado discurso”; 3) “a avaliação comum que fazem da situação em que se dá a produção do enunciado” (1976 [1926], p. 4 ). O autor defende que o diálogo entre o verbal e o extraverbal, confor- me demonstrado no tópico anterior, não pode ser reduzido a relações lógicas, 7 “[...] la subjectivisation, l’intensification, la visualisation et l’évaluation”. Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 120 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 linguísticas, psicológicas ou naturais. São relações específicas, próprias dos acontecimentos de linguagem e, por isso, se estabelecem entre enunciados ou mesmo no interior dos enunciados. No interior dessa inter-relação, constro- em-se os índices de valores, uma vez que não são meras interligações entre enunciados, e sim interações complexas entre sujeitos por meio da lingua- gem. Por essa concepção, as avaliações e julgamentos de valores são centrais na constituição do linguístico. O tom e o valor elevam o ato de linguagem à condição de evento único. Em síntese, a semântica do linguístico de cunho afetivo engloba, pressupõe: 1) A subjetividade ou subjetivação: é um dos elementos que permite ao sujeito trazer para a linguagem seu traço de singularidade. É o que adiciona à palavra, ao enunciado, a coloração nova que faz do tema um acontecimento irrepetível. Como a concepção de subjetivo adotada tem bases fincadas no so- cial, o modo como vemos, sentimos, amamos é construído pela mediação da palavra do outro. Ou seja, nossos perceptos e afetos compõem a reunião entre elementos linguísticos e a parte presumida de um enunciado. O presumido pode ser flagrado, nos discursos analisados, por exemplo, nos modos de cada profes- sor agenciar um acontecimento como a insubordinação de um aluno. Existem os que chamam a coordenação da escola para retirá-lo da sala; existem os que gritam e assumem também uma posição de insubordinação; existem os que se põem a resolver a situação por meio do discurso, assumindo a posição de alteridade que resiste ao outro porque tem lugar delineado e único nos aconte- cimentos de sala de aula. Todas as possibilidades são legítimas dentro do “ser professor”. A opção por uma ou outra é o que denuncia a interpretação única que cada um faz sobre esse ser para si. Nessas situações, o componente afe- tivo surge como um índice legítimo da presença e do trabalho do sujeito na linguagem. Trabalho esse que se organiza baseado nas representações (que se traduzem em entonações emotivo-volitivas) que têm de si e do outro e não um componente obscuro que invade a linguagem, turvando sua clareza. 2) A entonação ou intensificação: segundo Bakhtin (1995 [1929a]), é o nível mais óbvio na constituição e identificação dos acentos avaliativos. No nível enunciativo, a entonação reforça a veracidade do enunciado, pois é dada ao interlocutor como ponto de partida para compreender o que lhe está sendo dito, personificando, portanto, o enunciado. É algo que não se reduz ao movimento da voz, ainda que a englobe, mas é o lugar da memória, dos tons que cada sujeito passa a propor para si com base na imagem social do Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 121 lugar que ocupa. Uma mãe que busca acalentar um filho fala ou canta em tom baixo e lento. A professora do Ensino Fundamental que tenta ajudar o aluno a construir uma atividade usa tom semelhante ao da mãe que fala ao filho. A entonação reflete a relação do sujeito com o meio social ao qual pertence. A professora apresenta memória desse lugar impregnada de tons que se con- fundem com o lugar da professora, da mãe, da tia. Esses múltiplos tons se constituem pelas similaridades com aqueles devido às próprias atribuições do ser professora nessa etapa de escolarização. Não imaginamos a leitura do A B C para alunos das séries iniciais feita de forma extremamente rápida. Temos uma memória, e a professora também a tem, que adota um ritmo cadente para ler. A entonação pode ser flagrada na escolha e disposição do material verbal. Isso explica por que as pequenas palavras, conforme apontadas nas análises, nem sempre reconhecidas como pertencentes ao universo das emoções, ga- nham carga de sentidos afetivos quando inseridas no conjunto do discurso de professores e alunos. Sua significação se constitui pelo tom cadente e, sobretudo, porque inserido em práticas discursivas voltadas a um interlocutor ainda criança. Também encontramos entonação pelas valorações feitas por meio da linguagem, pois “quase todo exemplo de entoação viva na fala con- creta emocionalmente carregada se processa como se ela se endereçasse, por trás de objetos e fenômenos inanimados, a participantes animados e agente na vida” (BAKHTIN, 1976 [1926], p. 7). Em suma, a entonação modifica as sig- nificações, as transforma em sentidos concretos, de maneira tal que os signos linguísticos passam a ser sempre outros. 3) A visualização ou a unidade do visível: no caso das interações ver- bais, é o elemento resultante do excedente de visão, da posição isotópica ocu- pada pelo locutor. Do lugar que ocupa, que jamais pode ser ocupado pelo interlocutor para falar de si, o locutor tem acesso ao corpo do outro, aos seus gestos e ao mundo em que aquele está inserido. O excedente de visão lhe per- mite construir representações, leituras e interpretações sobre os movimentos mais ínfimos do outro. Permite, portanto, um trabalho com a finalidade de produzir efeitos de proximidade, de presença e de participação. O professor que percebe a desatenção do aluno aproxima-se, por exemplo, implicando-o, citando-o diretamente, para (re)capturar sua atenção. A constante movimen- tação do auditório, geralmente, é interpretada como sinais de cansaço dos interlocutores. A partir disso, o locutor opta por falar de forma mais lenta, mais enfática, pode pôr em pauta questões que imagina serem de interesse dos Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 122 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 seus ouvintes, fazer referência irônica (usando recursos linguísticos específi- cos) à dispersão do interlocutor. É do conjunto visto e sabido que se constrói o enunciado. São ações que não têm articulações específicas no verbal, mas orientam a construção dos sentidos e direcionam o enunciado. Dão forma significativa a sua dimensão linguística. 4) A dimensão avaliativa: os três elementos elencados acima, direta ou indiretamente, são formas de avaliação ou materializam acentos avaliativos. Não é possível a existência de enunciação sem modalidade apreciativa. Os estudos ligados à filosofia da linguagem já há muito apontam a relação entre emoções e avaliação, mas negando causalidade entre elas: isto é, as emoções não nascem de avaliações precedentes. Ao contrário, os acentos avaliativos são saturados de afetividades. Estas, construídas no diálogo linguageiro do sujeito com o seu entorno. Por meio desse diálogo ocorrem as mudanças dos sentidos, resultado das avaliações, reavaliações e deslocamentos das palavras de um contexto apreciativo para o outro. Não há discurso, enunciados ou palavras cuja significação seja construída sem acento avaliativo. Bakhtin é contundente: “Sem acento apreciativo, não há palavra (1929, p. 132)”. Morin o complementa: “os valores só são valores saturados de afetividade”. Assim, “nossa realidade [inclusive a linguística] é uma co-criação em que a afetivi- dade entra com a sua parte” (2002, p. 122). Optar por uma análise dos elementos linguísticos entrelaçados pelos recursos expressivos, conforme realizado neste estudo, significa considerar a linguagem afetiva como acontecimento: algo que se organiza em torno da tensão criada sempre entre o locutor e o interlocutor e destes com a própria língua. O que nasce do encontro é acontecimento porque não é determinado pela rigidez do sistema nem pela soberania do sujeito. Aliás, a tensão nasce exatamente porque há indeterminação. O discurso é um espaço sem garantias rígidas e por isso é necessário o trabalho, o que obriga o sujeito a trabalhar com e sobre a linguagem para dar conta de um projeto de dizer. Assumir esse postulado não significa defender que o plano do signo linguístico não é relevante para compreender os sentidos do discurso de emo- ção, mas assumir que sua semântica não pode ser construída sem comportar necessariamente duas dimensões em estreita correlação: a significação dada pela estrutura (aquilo que é sempre igual) e os sentidos dados pela enunciação (aquilo que é mutável e/ou adaptável) - ou seja, é necessário assumir que o mesmo (o linguístico) pode ser sempre outro (por isso, a palavra é signo por Linguagem e emoções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 123 excelência) quando os sujeitos fazem uso da língua. Segundo Geraldi (2004), isso traz intranquilidade àqueles que estão acostumados a sempre apostar nas estabilidades dos sistemas com a finalidade de reter os sentidos dos enuncia- dos como algo que pode ser rigorosamente recuperável. Porém, apostar nas instabilidades dos sentidos, não fechá-los em sistemas, no que tange ao dis- curso de emoção, pode ser uma alternativa para rompermos a oposição entre sentido e fato, entre o universal e o individual, entre a língua e a linguagem. VIEIRA BARBOSA, Marinalva. Linguistic and semantic aspects of the emotions in discourses. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009. ABSTRACT: This article aims at analyzing some aspects that constitute the problem of placing emotions as the core interest of language’s studies. Specifically, I will focus on the circumscription of the “pathémique” universe and of the linguistic traces of emotions. The study is based on discourses of teachers and students from Primary and High School. The theoretical base derives from the conceptions of subject and language defended by Bakhtin (1976 [1926], 1995 [1929a] e 1997 [1929b]) and by studies developed for Plantin (2003; 2004) and Plantin et al (2000). KEYWORDS: Discourse. Meanings. Emotions. Referências AMOSSY, R. L’argumentation dans le discours. Paris: Armand Colin, 2006. AUCHLIN, A. Grain fin et rendu émotionnel subtil dans l’observation dês interactions. In: PLANTIN, C.; DOURY, M.; TRAVERSSO, V. (Orgs.). Les emotions dans les inte- ractions. Lyon: PUF, 2000. p. 195-204. BAKHTIN, M. Discurso na vida e discurso na arte. Trad. inédita de Cristovão Tezza do artigo “Discourse in Life and Discourse in Art”, publicado como apêndice in: VO- LOSHINOV, V.N. Freudianism: a marxist critique. New York: Academic Press, 1976. [1926]. ______. (VOLOSHINOV) Marxismo e filosofia da linguagem. Trad. Michel Lahud e Yara Frateschi Vieira. São Paulo: Hucitec, 1995 [1929a]. ______. Problemas da poética de Dostoievski. 2. ed. Trad. Paulo Bezerra. Rio de Ja- neiro: Forense, 1997 [1929b]. Marinalva VIEIRA BARBOSA 124 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 104-124, 2009 BOUCHARD, R. M’enfin!!! Des ‘petits’ pour les ‘petites emotions’? In: PLANTIN, C.; DOURY, M.; TRAVERSSO, V. (Orgs.) Les émotions dans les interactions. Lyon: PUF, 2000. p. 223-238. CHARAUDEAU, P. Une problématisation discursive de l’émotion. In: PLANTIN, C.; DOURY, M.; TRAVERSSO, V. (Orgs.). Les émotions dans les interactions. Lyon: PUF, 2000. p. 125-156. DUCROT, O. Le dire et le dit. Paris: Editions Minuit, 1984. DRESCHER , M. La dimension interactive de l’investissement affectif. In: COLLETTA, J.M.; TCHERKASSOF, A. (Orgs.). Les émotions: cognition, langage et developpement. Paris : Mardaga, 2003. p. 165-172. EGGS, E. Logos, ethos, pathos: l’actualité de la rhétorique des passions chez Aristote. InÇ PLANTIN, C.; DOURY, M.; TRAVERSSO, V. (Orgs.). Les emotions dans les interactions. Lyon: PUF, 2000. p. 15-32. ENGELMANN, A. Os estados subjetivos: uma tentativa de classificação de seus relatos verbais. São Paulo: Ática, 1978. GERALDI, J. W. Portos de passagem. São Paulo: Martins Fontes, 1991. _______. A aula como acontecimento. Aveiro: Theoria Poiésis Práxis, 2004. GINZBURG, C. 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Paris: PUF, 2005. 125125Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 125 A KOINIZAÇÃO1 DE UMA AUTOTRADUÇÃO DE MANUEL PUIG: O VOSEO Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES2 RESUMO: Partindo do pressuposto de que as traduções realizadas à língua espanhola são frutos de um processo de koinização, analisaremos um caso específico de autotra- dução: o romance Sangre de amor correspondido, do argentino Manuel Puig, elaborado originariamente em português brasileiro, em 1982, com cenários e personagens cariocas, e traduzido no mesmo ano pelo próprio autor. As obras de Manuel Puig, como ele mesmo afirmou, estão muito calcadas nas falas de pessoas reais guardadas em sua memória. Nesta, tratando-se de personagens brasileiras, como se concretizaria esse processo de rememora- ção em espanhol? Elas falariam como argentinos? Procurando responder a essa pergunta, focalizaremos a presença/ausência, na tradução, do voseo, uma das características mais marcantes da fala argentina. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Autotradução. Espanhol. Voseo. Koinização. Manuel Puig. Sangre de amor correspondido. Introdução Utilizaremos como material de análise neste artigo o romance Sangre de amor correspondido, uma autotradução realizada pelo escritor argentino Manuel Puig da sua obra Sangue de amor correspondido. A primeira versão foi elaborada originariamente em português em 1982 quando o autor vivia na 1 Consideremos a variante utilizada nos meios de comunicação de massa, traduções, dublagens, manuais de espanhol como língua estrangeira e em alguns momentos da literatura, como uma koiné, sendo o termo “koinização” o “proceso dinámico, normalmente de estabilización (regularización o acomoda- ción lingüística) y mezcla de dialectos” (MEDINA LÓPEZ, 1997, p. 33). 2 Programa de Pós-graduação em Língua e Literaturas de Língua Espanhola da FFLCH-USP, São Paulo, SP, Brasil. andreiasmenezes@uol.com.br Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 126 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 cidade do Rio de Janeiro para onde havia se mudado no ano anterior. Depois, o romance foi traduzido no mesmo ano ao espanhol pelo próprio autor. Observamos que o processo de feitura, tanto da obra em português quanto da sua tradução ao espanhol, é bastante singular. Vejamos a seguinte afirmação do próprio autor sobre esse tema: Chego ao Rio de Janeiro e começo a descobrir uma música e um colorido na lin- guagem popular que me fascinam [...] Como esse homem, quase que totalmente analfabeto, consegue esse colorido na sua fala, esse colorido, essa musicalidade? Convidei-o para gravar nossas conversas e daí saiu este romance que foi escrito, não digo em português, foi escrito num dialeto do Estado do Rio. Eu necessitava, seguindo minhas pesquisas de sempre, da música, e da cor, dos valores pictóricos da linguagem popular. Necessitava continuar minha procura num idioma, num dialeto de lá. Depois eu mesmo traduzi este romance para o espanhol. (GARCÍA RAMOS apud CARRICABURO, 1999, p. 474)3 Encontramos outras declarações do autor nas quais ele fala sobre a sua insegurança em escrever em espanhol por não estar certo quanto a que variante seguir, bem como por estar há muito tempo longe da “língua argen- tina viva”. Em função desses fatores, lançava mão da estratégia de escrever rememorando falas já antes ouvidas. No entanto, nos deparamos, neste caso, com um processo distinto. A primeira versão foi escrita em uma língua estrangeira à do autor, a qual pouco dominava no momento da escritura, e a obra em espanhol é uma tradução, de maneira que o recurso da memória parece ficar comprometido. Poderia o au- tor, na obra em espanhol, escrever com base em falas da sua memória, mesmo não sendo os personagens e o cenário argentinos? Falariam os personagens brasileiros de Sangre de amor correspondido como argentinos na obra em espanhol? Que estratégia utilizou o autor? Acreditamos que existe nas traduções realizadas em língua espanhola, tanto as literárias como as dos meios de comunicação em massa, a busca por 3 No original: “Llego a Río de Janeiro y empiezo a descubrir una música y un colorido en el lenguaje popular que me fascina. [...] ¿Cómo ese hombre, casi analfabeto o analfabeto del todo, logra ese colori- do en su habla, ese colorido, esa musicalidad? Lo invité a hacer grabaciones de nuestras conversaciones y de ahí salió esta novela que fue escrita, no digo en portugués, fue escrita en un dialecto del Estado del Río. Yo necesitaba, siguiendo mi investigación de siempre, la música, y el color, los valores pictóricos del lenguaje popular. Necesitaba seguir mi búsqueda en un idioma, en un dialecto de allí. Luego yo mismo traduje la novela al español [...]”. 127127 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 127 uma koiné dessa língua, e pensamos que esta autotradução elaborada por Puig não foge desse movimento. Buscaremos mostrar, com base no texto em espa- nhol, algumas estratégias que acreditamos evidenciar essa busca. Deteremos nosso foco de análise a presença/ ausência do voseo na obra em espanhol. O voseo na Argentina Dentre os traços mais característicos do espanhol falado na Argentina está o voseo. O voseo é uma forma de tratamento informal de segunda pessoa utilizado em algumas regiões da América Latina, sendo que na Argentina, ela praticamente substituiu o tratamento de tú (CARRICABURO, 1999, p. 30). Em artigo publicado em 1941, Fontanella (apud CARRICABURO, 1999, p. 30) apontava que o uso do vos se estendia a todas as classes sociais, porém realizava-se somente “com quem se tem confiança, entre iguais e de superior a inferior, neste caso com o duplo objetivo de destacar a distância ou com tom protetor, carinhoso”.4 Essa pesquisadora destaca também o fato de que naquele momento era o tú a forma de tratamento que o Conselho Nacio- nal de Educação da Argentina indicava para ser ensinado e empregado pelos professores ao dirigir-se aos seus alunos, dando origem à existência de três formas de tratamento no uso coloquial: o vos, informal, o usted, formal, e o tú como uma forma intermediária entre as duas. Carricaburo (1999) aponta que na atualidade o tú desapareceu na Ar- gentina como forma de tratamento informal, ainda que as crianças saibam utilizá-lo em função do contato que mantêm com meios de comunicação em massa, os quais difundem outras variantes do espanhol5. Segundo essa pes- quisadora, na Argentina: [...] com relação ao tú, a invasão do vos foi completa. A escola deixou de ser o centro irradiador da segunda pessoa do singular. As professoras já não são obrigadas a tratar de tú os seus alunos e o vos não é somente habitual na literatura infantil, mas também é utilizado nos livros escolares de leitura. A menor quantidade de imigrantes espanhóis 4 No original: “entre quienes tienen confianza, entre iguales y de superior a inferior, en este caso con el doble valor de destacador de distancia o con tono protector, cariñoso”. 5 Carricaburo (1997, p. 27) fala sobre um “tú ficcional” na Argentina por estar associado à ficção ou ao que seja alheio à Argentina: “El niño argentino suele utilizar el tuteo e incluso el futuro sintético durante el juego. Igualmente los adolescentes relacionan el tuteo con los teleteatros, ya sean de otros países americanos o grabados en la Argentina y que a través del tú quieren captar un mercado más amplio” . Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 128 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 também influenciou a perda do tú. [...] Praticamente ninguém emprega hoje o tú na linguagem cotidiana. Isso porque o vos é algo mais que norma culta, é a norma geral em quase toda a República. (CARRICABURO, 1999, p. 32-33)6 Quanto à extensão geográfica do voseo na Argentina, segundo Carri- caburo (1999), somente na Patagônia e na Terra do Fogo pode-se encontrar a coexistência do tuteo com o voseo. Também na região de Santiago del Es- tero, encontra-se o voseo pronominal, mas com a flexão verbal do tuteo. Como dissemos, pode-se encontrar o voseo em diversas regiões da América Latina, porém não se realizando da mesma maneira. Na Argentina, ocorre o voseo denominado “tipo argentino”, ou tipo II para o pesquisador Rona (apud CARRICABURO, 1999, p. 40). Nessa classe de voseo argenti- no, a diferença entre os usos dos verbos e dos pronomes entre o tú e o vos é evidente apenas nos seguintes casos: - no uso do pronome sujeito (vos x tú); - no Presente do Indicativo (por exemplo: trabajás x trabajas, comés x co- mes, partís x partes, tenés x tienes), exceto o verbo estar, que tem a mesma forma do tú (estás); - no Imperativo Afirmativo (por exemplo: trabajá x trabaja, comé x come, partí x parte, decí / di), exceto o verbo estar que tem a mesma forma do tú (está); - nos pronomes complemento de preposição (por exemplo: contigo x con vos, para ti x para vos, por ti x por vos). Em todos os outros tempos verbais, bem como no oblíquo te e nos pos- sessivos tu e tuyo, as duas formas de tratamento não apresentam diferenciação. O voseo na literatura argentina Encontramos em escritores argentinos como Cortázar e Borges o uso corrente do voseo em suas obras, no entanto, na literatura do chamado “pós- 6 No original: “[...] con respecto al tú la invasión del vos ha sido completa. La escuela ha dejado de ser centro irradiante de la segunda persona del singular. Las maestras ya no son obligadas a tratar de tú a sus alumnos y el vos no es sólo habitual en la literatura infantil, sino que también se utiliza en los libros escolares de lectura. La menor cantidad de inmigrantes españoles asimismo ha incidido en la pérdida del tú. [...] Prácticamente nadie emplea hoy el tú en el lenguaje cotidiano. Y es que el vos es algo más que la norma culta, es la norma general en casi toda la República.” 129129 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 129 boom”, tal uso começa a decair. Carricaburo (1999) relata que, por media- dos dos anos 70, começa a haver uma diminuição do interesse pela literatura hispano-americana, coincidentemente com uma piora da situação econômica dos países dessa região. Frente a essa conjuntura, os escritores começam a produzir uma literatura com vistas ao mercado espanhol. Dá-se início, en- tão, conforme havíamos mencionado anteriormente, à “estandardização” da linguagem utilizada pelos escritores em suas obras literárias. Além disso, a pesquisadora cita também como potencializador desse “espanhol estândar” o fato de muitos dos escritores argentinos haverem se radicado em outros paí- ses, havendo assim uma perda da identidade rio-platense. A autora cita o que aconteceu no caso da tradução. Carricaburo (1999) diz que no campo da tradução houve uma tendência à utilização de um “espa- nhol estândar” que permitisse a venda das obras traduzidas ao maior número possível de países. Essa autora diz também que, durante os anos 60, as tradu- ções argentinas de romances policiais lançavam mão do lunfardo e de gírias rio-pratenses, fato esse que já não ocorre mais, nem mesmo nas traduções de romances policiais. Quanto ao uso do voseo, há uma forte diminuição do uso dessa forma de tratamento nas traduções elaboradas na Argentina. O voseo na obra de Puig Continuando com El voseo en la literatura argentina, de Norma Car- ricaburo, encontramos um estudo sobre a obra de Puig (1999) no que tange ao uso do voseo que nos será sumamente útil neste sub-capítulo. Na citada obra, a autora faz um levantamento quanto ao emprego do voseo nos romances de Manuel Puig. Nesse levantamento, a autora mostra que não há uma constante numérica quanto à utilização dessa forma de trata- mento nas obras do autor. Tal inconstância se deveria ao fato de que a opção com relação ao uso de tú ou de vos não é aleatória. Carricaburo começa sua análise pelo primeiro romance do autor, La traición de Rita Hayworth (apud CARRICABURO, 1999). Neste romance, o tú é utilizado na fala de personagens espanhóis, em diálogos cinematográficos ou nos escritos da personagem Esther, que deseja escrever empregando uma linguagem que se aproximasse ao que considerava ser um discurso literário. O voseo é a forma realista pela qual se expressam as personagens, de tal ma- neira que é a forma de tratamento predominante do romance. Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 130 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 Este também é o caso de Boquitas Pintadas (apud CARRICABURO, 1999), segundo romance do autor. Aqui também o uso do tuteo se restrin- ge a situações bem determinadas, como quando lança mão do discurso das radionovelas, letras de bolero, orações religiosas ou cartas de conselheiras sentimentais de revistas femininas. Carricaburo (1999) chama a atenção para o monólogo da personagem Nené. Nessa passagem, há uma mescla entre o tuteo e o voseo. O primeiro é utilizado quando a personagem se dirige a Deus ou ao falecido ex-namorado. De acordo com a pesquisadora, o tuteo seria um indicador da falsidade desse monólogo. Buenos Aires Affair (apud CARRICABURO, 1999) segue a mesma estrutura dos romances anteriores no que se refere ao emprego do tuteo: este é utilizado apenas em inserções de outros discursos, como epígrafes ou os mo- nólogos que a personagem Gladys constrói durante suas experiências sexuais. Quanto ao romance seguinte, El beso de la mujer araña (apud CARRICABURO, 1999), pode-se dizer que segue as mesmas estratégias dos anteriores no que se refere à utilização das formas de tratamento. Contudo, como o emprego dos discursos provenientes do cinema e do bolero já não se trata de inserções na narração apenas, mas fazem parte da própria estrutura do romance, o número de usos de tú é consideravelmente maior do que nos ro- mances anteriores, pois é nesses discursos que aparecem as formas tuteantes. Com Púbis Angelical (apud CARRICABURO, 1999) começa o ciclo dos romances de Puig escritos fora da Argentina. Além disso, a própria história transcorre fora do país de origem do escritor, no México. Nesse romance, as formas de tratamento servem para caracterizar a origem das personagens: os mexicanos usam tú, enquanto os rio-prantenses usam vos. Maldición eterna a quien lea estas páginas (apud CARRICABURO, 1999) foi um romance escrito durante a estada de Puig em Nova York, origi- nariamente em inglês para depois ser traduzido pelo próprio autor à sua língua materna. A versão em espanhol, segundo Carricaburo (1999), não apresenta nenhum uso de vos. Seu último romance, Cae la noche tropical (apud CARRICABURO, 1999), foi escrito quando Puig vivia no Rio de Janeiro. As personagens principais são duas senhoras, ambas com idade por volta dos 80 anos. Puig decidiu-se por essas personagens porque, segundo ele, devido ao longo período que se encontrava afastado da Argentina, já não se considerava capaz de utilizar per- sonagens argentinos jovens, pois não saberia mais como eles falariam (apud 131131 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 131 CARRICABURO, 1999). Em função disso, resolveu criar duas personagens an- ciãs seguindo a estratégia de rememorar as falas de suas tias. Aqui, utiliza muito pouco as formas tuteantes: não há nenhuma forma pronominal de tú e escassos no caso dos registros verbais. Sangre de amor correspondido (1982) foi escrito no período entre esses dois últimos romances citados. Analisaremos, a seguir, o seu caso espe- cífico quanto ao voseo. O voseo/tuteo em Sangre de amor correspondido Como acabamos de ver no sub-item anterior, o uso do voseo está pre- sente em quase todos os romances de Puig e não é aleatório, mas serve sempre como caracterizador: inserção de discursos não literários, como os do cinema, dos boleros, dos tangos ou folhetinescos, ou ainda caracterização de persona- gens argentinos em contraste com outros estrangeiros. Vimos também que no romance Maldición eterna a quien lea estas páginas, segundo Carricaburo (1999), não há o uso de vos em nenhum momento na versão em espanhol do original em inglês. Sabemos que Sangre de amor correspondido teve um pro- cesso de feitura semelhante ao daquela obra, ou seja, foi escrito primeiramente numa língua estrangeira ao autor para em seguida ser traduzida ao espanhol. Como se dá, então, o uso dessa forma de tratamento tão característica do espa- nhol utilizado na Argentina nessa obra? Foi, como no caso do romance escrito originariamente em inglês, completamente abolido da versão em espanhol? Encontramos em Sangre de amor correspondido a utilização de estra- tégias pelas quais se esquiva do uso das formas marcadas do voseo do espa- nhol da Argentina, ou seja, os pronomes sujeitos, o Imperativo Afirmativo, o Presente do Indicativo e os pronomes complemento de preposição. Ou seja, fez uso apenas de formas verbais e pronominais que possuem a mesma forma tanto para tú como para vos, de maneira que não se pudesse definir claramente qual a forma de tratamento que estava sendo utilizada. Vejamos a seguir alguns exemplos dessas estratégias:7 1. Imperativo Afirmativo com forma de 2ª pessoa em tratamento de você em português; perífrase impessoal “haber + que” e construção impessoal com se puede em espanhol: 7 Todos os grifos são nossos. Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 132 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 Fecha os olhos, coloca as duas mãos sobre seus olhos e me procura. (1982, p. 57) Hay que cerrar los ojos, taparse los ojos con las manos, y después se puede empezar a buscar al que está escondido. (1998, p. 60) 2. Imperativo Afirmativo com forma de 2ª pessoa em tratamento de você em português; mudança para a forma de tratamento usted em espanhol: Você está acostumado a ir pra cama sem comer (...) Foda-se e cale a boca, porra! vá, vá dar uma olhada nessa porta, pra ver se está bem fechada, e na janela, dê uma olhada na tranca, que hoje aqui não entra ninguém. (1982, p. 130) Ya estás acostumbrado a irte a dormir sin comer (...) ¡Jódase y cálle- se, mierda! Y vaya a revisar esta puerta, a ver si está bien cerrada, y la ventana, revise la tranca, que acá hoy no entra nadie. (1998, p.134-135) 3. Imperativo Afirmativo com forma de segunda pessoa em tratamento de você em português; uso de verbos dicendi em espanhol: Jure me dizer a verdade, eu lhe peço. (1982, p. 113) Te pido que jures decirme la verdad. (1998, p. 117) 4. Imperativo Afirmativo em tratamento de você em português; uso de outro modo e tempo verbal em espanhol: Se levante! Não quero ouvir nem uma palavra sua. (1982, p. 57) ¡Todavía no te has levantado! No quiero oír más una palabra tuya. (1998, p. 60) 5. Perífrase “ter + que” em português; perífrase impessoal “haber + que” em espanhol: (...) você tem que dizer a verdade, embora isso lhe faça doer. (1982, p. 149) (...) hay que decir la verdad, aunque te joda. (1998, p. 155) 6. Presente do Indicativo em tratamento de você em português; construção com verbo “estar” em espanhol: “Ah, você não quer sair por causa das mulheres que estão passeando por aí (...)”. (1982, p. 101) 133133 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 133 “¡Ah, estás escondido por todas esas mujeres que andan paseando por ahí!”. (1998, p. 104) 7. Presente do Indicativo em tratamento de você em português; mudança de modo em espanhol: “Aquela outra garota me dá o que você não me dá, você tem mas não me dá”. (1982, p. 77) “La Azucena me da lo nunca me diste, no porque no tengas, sino por- que nunca me quisiste dar”. (1998, p. 81) 8. Presente do Indicativo em tratamento de tu + 3a pessoa em português; for- ma de tratamento usted em espanhol: (...) tu tem uma porrada de mulher aí (...). (1982, p. 78) (...) usted tiene un montonal de mujeres (...). (1998, p. 82) 9. Presente do Indicativo em tratamento de tu + 3a pessoa em português; “haber + que” em espanhol: “Pô, Josemar! Como é que tu consegue ter mulher assim?”. (1982, p. 98) “¡Eh, Josemar! ¿cómo hay que hacer para tener tantas mujeres?”. (1998, p. 101) 10. Construção condicional com Futuro do Subjuntivo com a forma de tra- tamento você em português; construção condicional com verbo “estar” em espanhol: “Olha, filha, eu não aguento mais, se você quiser botar as cartas na mesa (...)”. (1982, p. 45) “Yo no aguanto más así, si estás dispuesta a colocar las cartas sobre la mesa (...)”. (1998, p. 47) 11. Forma de tratamento você em português; uso de expressão com substantivo em espanhol: “Pô, você hein! se esconde tão bem!”. (1982, p. 57) “¡Ay, qué tipo este! ¡qué bien que se sabe esconder!” (1998, p. 61) Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 134 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 12. Uso de você em posição de objeto indireto precedido pela preposição contra em português; uso de pronome possessivo como complemento da pre- posição em espanhol: Você era um roceiro que não tinha nada, por que então todos contra você? (1982, p. 78) Eras un chacarero que no tenía nada ¿por qué todos en contra tuyo? (1998, p. 82-83) 13. Uso de pronome sujeito “tu” em português; omissão do pronome sujeito em espanhol: “Tu vai levar, a vaca não pega ninguém”. (1982, p. 31) “No, vas a obedecer, la vaca no ataca a nadie”. (1998, p. 31) 14. Uso de contigo como objeto indireto em português; uso de pronome átono em espanhol: “Olha minha filha aí, eu preciso falar contigo”. (1982, p. 41) “M’hijita, no te vayas, tengo que hablarte de algo”. (1998, p. 43) 15. Uso de contigo como objeto indireto; omissão dessa estrutura em espanhol: “Hoje eu vou dormir contigo na tua cama”. (1982, p. 85) “Esta noche me voy a dormir a tu cama”. (1998, p. 89) 16. Uso de você precedido da preposição pra em português; uso da forma de tratamento usted em espanhol: Quem é você? Eu estava falando pro cagão, pro Josemar, e não pra você, eu não conheço você. (1982, p. 121) ¿Quién es usted? Yo le estaba hablando al cagón, a Josemar, no a usted, a usted no lo conozco. (1998, p. 125) Como expusemos anteriormente, o voseo utilizado na Argentina se eviden- cia por meio do pronome sujeito, Imperativo Afirmativo, Presente do Indicativo, com exceção dos verbos ser, ir e estar, e pronomes complemento precedido de pre- posição. Analisemos, então, os exemplos selecionados e vejamos mediante que es- tratégias Puig (1998) se exime da utilização dessas formas verbais e pronominais. Encontramos nos exemplos 1, 5, e 9 a utilização de formas verbais em espanhol nas quais ocorre o que podemos denominar como uma neutralização 135135 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 135 do sujeito. Nesses trechos selecionados vemos ou o uso do verbo haber ou o da impessoal com “se”, formas essas nas que o sujeito de segunda pessoa não se manifesta na forma verbal. Outras estratégias de “neutralização” utilizadas foram: a mudança para perífrases com o verbo estar e ir, que são os únicos que no Presente do Indicativo não diferenciam as formas vos / tú (pares de exemplos 7 e 10); o uso de verbos dicendi e consequente mudança do verbo principal para o modo subjuntivo (par de exemplos 3); a mudança do modo Imperativo Afirmativo para o Pretérito Perfeito (par de exemplos 4) ou para o Presente do Subjun- tivo (par de exemplos 7); a adoção de substantivo em lugar de um pronome sujeito (par de exemplos 12) ou a omissão deste (par de exemplos 13); os pronomes precedidos por preposição foram omitidos (par de exemplos 15) ou transformados em pronomes átonos (pares de exemplos 14), ou ainda trans- formados em pronomes possessivos, com a manutenção do verbo ir conjuga- do no Presente do Indicativo em 2a pessoa, já que, como já dissemos, forma parte com o verbo estar dos únicos que neste tempo verbal não possui formas diferenciadas para tu e vos (par de exemplos 13). Em todos esses exemplos mencionados neste parágrafo, foram adotados, na versão em espanhol, pro- nomes, verbos, modos e tempos verbais que não marcam a diferença entre o tuteo e o voseo argentino. No entanto, chamou-nos a atenção os casos dos pares de exemplos 2, 8 e 16, nos quais houve uma mudança da forma de tratamento informal utili- zada em português para a formal em espanhol, adotando, assim, a forma usted e, consequentemente, as formas verbais e pronominais da 3a pessoa. No par de exemplos 2 selecionado, a personagem-narradora Josemar está se dirigindo à personagem Zilmar, estabelecendo um diálogo. Como a personagem Zilmar não reconhece neste momento da narrativa a Josemar como personagem, mas somente como narrador, estabelece-se aí uma relação a qual podemos chamar de hierarquicamente distinta. Josemar trata Zilmar in- formalmente de você, chegando a lançar mão de termos chulos para referir-se a este, como podemos ver no próprio trecho selecionado. Já Zilmar trata seu interlocutor formalmente, utilizando a forma de tratamento senhor. No entan- to, na versão em espanhol, vemos que há uma alternância entre a formalidade e a informalidade quando a personagem Josemar se refere à personagem Zil- mar. Vemos que, durante esse mesmo diálogo, Josemar utiliza formas verbais e pronominais de 2a pessoa (estás, irte), que são, como dissemos anteriormen- Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 136 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 te, as mesmas tanto para tú quanto para vos. Um pouco mais adiante, lança mão de formas verbais de 3a pessoa referentes à forma de tratamento formal usted no Imperativo Afirmativo, forma verbal que, como já afirmamos, ex- pressa a diferença entre o tuteo e o voseo argentinos. Nesse mesmo momento do romance, a personagem-narradora Josemar estabelece diálogo com outras duas personagens: Lourdes, mãe de seus filhos, e Carminha, sua própria mãe. No trecho 16, vemos quando ele fala com Lourdes. Vejamos a seguir quando conversa com sua mãe: 17. Fique aí em Bauru, que ocê já não tem mais casa, nem comida, e sua velha foi pra outro lugar porque está doente. (1982, p. 122) Usted quédese ahí en Baurú, que no tiene más casa, ni comida, y su vieja se fue a otra parte porque está enferma. (1998, p. 126) Observamos por meio dos pares de trechos 16 e 17 selecionados que, quando as personagens Lourdes e Carminha se dirigem a Josemar, passa algo semelhante ao que descrevemos no parágrafo anterior: em português, as personagens femininas tratam Josemar informalmente de você/ocê, en- quanto em espanhol utilizam usted. Nestes dois últimos casos, a diferença quanto ao caso anterior está em que não há uma alternância entre as formas informais e formais como no da personagem Josemar com relação a Zilmar. Esse usted é frequente em usos coloquiais em que se procura repreender alguém com quem habitualmente se utiliza tratamento informal, e é um dos recursos que mais evidenciam a tentativa de não definir o texto na direção do vos ou do tú. Por que o uso dessas estratégias? [...] eu escrevia rememorando filmes que tinham me dado muito prazer. Puig (apud GILLIO, 2001)8 Acreditamos que os exemplos selecionados no sub-capítulo anterior evidenciam a intenção deliberada que teve Puig em não utilizar, na versão em 8 No original: “[...] yo escribía rememorando películas que me habían dado mucho placer.” 137137 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 137 espanhol, formas verbais ou pronominais que pudessem corroborar tanto o uso do tuteo como o do voseo. Tudo indica que tais estratégias foram intencionais, porque requerem um grande controle em relação ao que “fluiria” tentando aproximar-se da fala de nativos do espanhol de qualquer região. Ou seja, esse procedimento parece indicar que Puig buscou verdadeiramente não utilizar na versão em espanhol nenhuma estrutura linguística no que se refere ao voseo que pudesse fazer com que se identificasse o texto com alguma região hispano-falante determi- nada, mais especificamente a Argentina, país de origem do autor. Mas não só isso, ele utilizou estratégias no que tange à forma de tratamento que fazem com que não se possa dizer que o texto traz traços da fala argentina, mas tam- pouco pode-se afirmar o contrário. Parece que Puig se insere no movimento de koinização encontrado nas traduções realizadas para a língua espanhola. Acreditamos, no entan- to, que tal uso tem objetivos determinados. Julgamos que o fato de as personagens serem brasileiras contou nessa escolha. Corroboram nossa afirmação os estudos já mencionados de Carricaburo (1999) quanto ao uso do voseo nos demais romances de Puig. Como vimos, o uso do tuteo limitava-se à inserção de discursos provenientes do universo musical, ci- nematográficos ou folhetinescos, ou seja, lançou mão do mencionado tú ficcional. Já o voseo estava relacionado à realidade ou ainda servia como caracterizador de personagens rio-pratenses frente a outros provenientes de outros países hispano-falantes. O movimento de koinização do espanhol das traduções foi exacerbado pelo surgimento da indústria cinematográfica e televisiva. As obras de Puig têm forte influência do discurso do cinema. O escritor chegou a afirmar em entrevista concedida a Soler Serrano (2002) que a maior influência na sua escritura não provém da literatura, mas dos filmes aos quais assistia desde pequeno, sempre intermediados por traduções. O escritor afirmou, também, que quando começou a escrever, primei- ramente roteiros cinematográficos, lançava mão da memória. Já comentamos sobre o uso desse recurso na escritura dos romances de Puig, que afirmava escrevê-los rememorando falas de parentes e amigos. Porém, no início de sua carreira, as falas que rememorava para escrever eram as provindas dos filmes de Hollywood: Andreia DOS SANTOS MENEZES 138 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 Eu queria fazer cinema. Fazia roteiros com temas muito escapistas em geral que, além do mais, copiavam filmes de Hollywood, e dos quais ninguém gostava, [...] eu escrevia rememorando filmes que tinham me dado muito prazer. (GILLIO, 2001)9 Ademais, Puig teve uma experiência laboral como tradutor de legen- das de filmes. Ou seja, a presença da comentada koiné está interligada à pró- pria vida e produção literária do autor. Pensamos que essa relação de Puig com as dublagens em espanhol de filmes estrangeiros também possa estar relacionada ao movimento singular de koinização que encontramos em Sangre de amor correspondido. Sendo a obra uma tradução de um original escrito em uma língua estrangeira, locali- zada num espaço estrangeiro, com personagens estrangeiras, pensamos que o trabalho de associar sua escrita a vozes provindas de sua memória também esteve presente na produção da obra em espanhol. No entanto, talvez tenha estado mais relacionado à memória das falas provindas das dublagens dos filmes, falas essas, como vimos, frutos de uma koiné. DOS SANTOS MENEZES, Andreia. The Koinization of a selftranslation of Manuel Puig: the voseo. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009. ABSTRACT: Assuming that the translations made from Spanish into another language re- sult from a koinization process, we will analyze a specific case of self-translation: the novel Sangre de amor correspondido written by the Argentinian writer Manuel Puig. The novel was elaborated in Brazilian Portuguese in 1982, with scenes and characters from Rio de Janeiro. The translation into Spanish was made in the same year by the author. In general, the works of Manuel Puig, as he himself affirmed, are based on the memory of real people speech. With the presence of Brazilian characters, how does the memory process occur in the Spanish version? Do the characters speak as the Argentinian ones? In order to answer these questions, we will focus our analysis on the presence/absence of the voseo in the Spanish version because it is one of the most important characteristics of Argentinian speech. KEYWORDS: Self-translation. Spanish. Voseo. Koinization. Manuel Puig. Sangre de amor correspondido. 9 No original: “Yo quería hacer cine. Hacía guiones con temas muy escapistas en general que además, copiaban películas de Hollywood, y que, además, no gustaban a nadie. [...] yo escribía rememorando películas que me habían dado mucho placer.” 139139 A koinização de uma autotradução de Manuel Puig: o voseo Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 125-139, 2009 139 Referências CARRICABURO, N. El voseo en la literatura argentina. Madri: Arcos Libros, 1999. GILLIO, M. E. Manuel Puig, a diez años de su muerte: “Yo escribía rememorando películas”. Disponível em: <http://www.pagina12.com.ar/2000/00-09/00-09-18/pag15. htm>. Acesso em: 15 ago. 2001. MEDINA LÓPEZ, J. Lenguas en contacto. Madri: Arcos Libros, 1997. PUIG, M. Sangue de amor correspondido. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 1982. ______. Sangre de amor correspondido. Barcelona: Seix Barral, 1998. SOLER SERRANO, Joaquín. Videoteca de la memoria literaria: Manuel Puig por Joaquín Soler Serrano. Barcelona: Editrama, 2002. 140 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 “POÉTICA”, DE MANUEL BANDEIRA: ANÁLISE SEMIÓTICA Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA1 RESUMO: Manuel Bandeira escreveu vários poemas que tratam do “fazer poesia”, ora di- zendo para que a poesia serve, ora dizendo como ela deve ser. Este trabalho apresenta uma análise de um desses poemas – “Poética” – sob a perspectiva da semiótica francesa. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Semiótica. Poesia. Manuel Bandeira. Greimas. Introdução Ao longo de sua carreira, Manuel Bandeira escreveu vários poemas que podem ser considerados “poéticas”, ou seja, eles tratam do “fazer po- esia”, ora dizendo para quê a poesia serve, ora dizendo como ela deve ser. Este trabalho apresenta uma análise de um desses poemas – “Poética” – sob a perspectiva da semiótica francesa ou greimasiana. Procuramos fazer uma análise minuciosa do poema, descrevendo também a organização do plano da expressão (HJELMSLEV, 1975) e salientando suas relações com o plano do conteúdo. Procuramos, ainda, responder à seguinte pergunta: Em que medida o poeta segue, no próprio poema, o que ele preconiza? Ou seja, procuramos averiguar como se relacionam o conteúdo e a expressão nesse poema, veri- ficando se o que se diz em uma dessas faces é de fato o que se faz na outra. Um ponto importante a mencionar é o fato de que a semiótica tem como princípio o estudo do texto em si, ou seja, ela tem como fio condutor uma investigação cujo ponto de partida é o exame do texto “de dentro para fora, esforçando-se por construir, antes de tudo, uma escrupulosa descrição “interna” do texto, para, só então, ir em busca das suas conexões intertextuais 1 Programa de Pós-graduação em Semiótica e Linguística Geral da Faculdade de Filosofia, Letras e Ciências Humanas da USP, São Paulo, SP, Brasil. dayane.almeida@usp.br “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 141 ou contextuais. Assim, a semiótica considera que o texto é um todo de sig- nificação que “produz em si mesmo as condições contextuais de sua leitura” (BERTRAND, 2003, p. 23). Sendo a obra de Bandeira já amplamente estudada e sendo “Poética” um texto bastante conhecido e examinado, pode-se indagar a respeito da re- levância de nosso trabalho. A esta indagação respondemos que ao estudar o poema em questão sob um novo ponto de vista – o da semiótica – o nosso objeto passa a ser diferente daquele de estudos previamente realizados, uma vez que, como afirmou Saussure (1969), é o ponto de vista que cria o objeto. Análise do poema “Poética” integra o quarto livro de poemas de Manuel Bandeira, in- titulado Libertinagem e publicado em 1930. Podemos perceber que nele o autor expressa como deveria ou não deveria ser a poesia, de acordo com a sua perspectiva, paralela aos preceitos modernistas. Dentre os poemas de Bandei- ra que podem ser considerados uma ars poética, talvez este seja o mais co- nhecido e aclamado. Quanto a isso, citamos o crítico Ivan Junqueira, quando afirma que ‘Poética’ não é apenas um dos melhores poemas do autor, mas também um dos mais importantes que escreveu, talvez o mais significativo no que se refere ao discurso metalinguístico e à síntese de seus procedimentos líricos (2003, p. 107). Vejamos a transcrição do poema: POÉTICA2 Estou farto do lirismo comedido Do lirismo bem comportado Do lirismo funcionário público com livro de ponto expediente proto- [colo e manifestações de apreço ao sr. diretor Estou farto do lirismo que pára e vai averiguar no dicionário o cunho [vernáculo de um vocábulo 2 Todos os poemas de Bandeira aqui analisados foram extraídos da obra Estrela da vida inteira (1993). Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 142 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 Abaixo os puristas Todas as palavras sobretudo os barbarismos universais Todas as construções sobretudo as sintaxes de exceção Todos os ritmos sobretudo os inumeráveis Estou farto do lirismo namorador Político Raquítico Sifilítico De todo lirismo que capitula ao que quer que seja fora de si mesmo. De resto não é lirismo Será contabilidade tabela de co-senos secretário do amante exemplar com [cem modelos de cartas e as diferentes [maneiras de agradar às mulheres, etc. Quero antes o lirismo dos loucos O lirismo dos bêbedos O lirismo difícil e pungente dos bêbedos O lirismo dos clowns de Shakespeare - Não quero mais saber do lirismo que não é libertação. Quanto ao poema estar de acordo com os preceitos modernistas, vale ressaltar que isso é o que ocorre em todo o livro em que se insere, já que os poemas de Libertinagem foram escritos entre 1924 e 1930, período de muita força do movimento. O próprio Bandeira admite, no Itinerário de Pasárgada, que esses foram os anos de maior força e calor do movimento modernista. Não admira, pois, que seja entre os meus livros o que está mais dentro da técnica e da estética do modernismo (1984, p. 91). De acordo com “Poética”, a poesia deve ser “livre”. Livre das formas preestabelecidas, das palavras empertigadas, dos modelos tradicionais. Livre “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 143 para falar de qualquer tema. Dessa forma, “Poética”, assim como “Os sapos” (Carnaval, 1919), soa como um grito de libertação. Grito que, na verdade, perpassa todo o livro Libertinagem, desde seu título, pois libertinagem aqui não tem o significado associado à “prática do libertino”, mas sim, a uma “ir- reverência com relação a dogmas e crenças oficialmente aceitos”,3 uma vez que o próprio Bandeira, ao comentar o seu livro anterior (O ritmo dissoluto), afirma que nele alcançou uma “completa liberdade de movimentos” e com- plementa: “liberdade de que cheguei a abusar no livro seguinte, a que por isso mesmo chamei Libertinagem” (1984, p. 75). Ou, como disse Ribeiro Couto, “libertinagem de temas, de matéria. Total liberdade” (apud JUNQUEIRA, 2003, p. 89). Ao comentar Libertinagem na sua História concisa da literatura brasileira, Alfredo Bosi afirma que o livro apresenta “um fortíssimo anseio de liberdade vital e estética” (2006, p. 363). Passemos agora à análise do poema. Primeiramente, faremos o exame do plano do conteúdo, indo em seguida ao plano da expressão, procuran- do destacar, sempre que possível, as relações existentes entre esses planos. Procuramos verificar quais as estratégias utilizadas na construção do sentido nesse poema e, para tanto, iniciaremos abordando o nível narrativo, conforme o percurso gerativo do sentido (GREIMAS; COURTÉS, 1983). Observamos que há um enunciado no qual um sujeito estava em conjunção com um objeto de valor não desejável (o lirismo comedido, bem comportado, namorador, etc.) e em disjunção com o objeto de valor desejável (o lirismo dos loucos, dos bêbados, etc.). Os valores não desejados são aqueles que estão de acordo com um destinador-manipulador (GREIMAS; COURTÉS, 1983) represen- tável aqui pela “poesia tradicional”. Ao dizer que está farto de determinado tipo de lirismo, o sujeito rompe com o contrato antes estabelecido com tal destinador e passa a responder à manipulação de um novo destinador, qual seja, a “poesia modernista”. Passa, portanto, a querer-estar em conjunção com um novo objeto de valor: o lirismo no qual estão inscritos os valores que lhe foram sugeridos pelo seu novo destinador. A expressão Abaixo os puristas nos faz perceber a presença de mais um actante, ou seja, de um anti-sujeito (os puristas). Quando rompe o contrato com o primeiro destinador, o sujeito opera uma transformação, pois passa da conjunção com determinado objeto de valor para a disjunção. Como o sujeito do fazer é igual ao sujeito do estado (S1=S2), trata-se de uma renúncia (BARROS, 2001). Isto é, ocorreu uma pri- 3 Conforme o dicionário Houaiss. Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 144 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 vação reflexiva, pois o sujeito abriu mão do objeto. A partir do momento em que o sujeito anuncia querer outro objeto, o poema não apresenta mais nenhu- ma ação, nenhum fazer que repare a sua falta. O sujeito, portanto, mantém-se como um sujeito virtual, que quer ser ou fazer algo. Em termos passionais, temos, numa primeira fase, um sujeito da liberalidade ou do desprendimento, uma vez que ele quer-não-estar em conjunção com o objeto de valor (neste caso, o lirismo comedido), e um sujeito da revolta, ou seja, um sujeito que se volta contra os valores de seu destinador. Em seguida, o que figura é um sujeito do desejo, ou seja, aquele que quer-estar em conjunção com o objeto (ou seja, o lirismo livre). O quadrado semiótico que representa tais posições modais seria o seguinte: Figura 1 - Quadro semiótico: querer-ser No que diz respeito à continuidade versus descontinuidade (TATIT, 2001, p. 177), o sujeito, ao propor uma ruptura com os valores preestabele- cidos e acolher, logo sem seguida, novos valores, está afirmando a desconti- nuidade. Em primeiro lugar, ele propõe uma “parada da continuação”, mas ao afirmar os novos valores que agora quer, ele finaliza o percurso afirmando uma “continuação da parada” e inserindo-se, em termos tensivos, numa área de retenção, conforme o quadrado semiótico a seguir: querer-ser querer-não-ser não-querer-ser não-querer- não-ser Continuidade Relaxamento (continuação da continuação) Descontinuidade Retenção (continuação da parada) Não-Continuidade Contenção (parada da continuação) Não-Descontinuidade Distensão (parada da parada) Figura 2 – Continuidade versus descontinuidade “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 145 A ruptura proposta vai ao encontro de um dos ideais no movimento modernista que, nas palavras de Mário de Andrade, era uma estética renova- dora. Segundo ele: O modernismo no Brasil foi uma ruptura, foi um abandono de princípios e de téc- nicas consequentes, foi uma revolta contra o que era a Inteligência nacional (...). (1980, p. 258). Cabe ainda ressaltar que, ao caracterizar os dois tipos de lirismo, o sujeito acaba fazendo uma avaliação de cada um deles, passando, portanto, à condição de um destinador-julgador, que sanciona positivamente um tipo de lirismo e ne- gativamente o outro. O tipo de lirismo que recebe a avaliação negativa chega até mesmo a ser considerado pelo sujeito como um não-lirismo ou como um lirismo mentiroso. Ao negar um determinado lirismo e afirmar o outro, dizendo em segui- da De resto não é lirismo, o narrador (que, no nível narrativo, conforme acabamos de mencionar, assume também o papel de julgador) desmascara o lirismo nega- do, dizendo que ele nem ao menos é lirismo. Se arrolarmos aqui as modalidades veridictórias (GREIMAS; COURTÉS, 1983), podemos dizer que esse lirismo negado é da ordem da mentira, pois parece lirismo, mas não é: A análise do nível discursivo nos mostra que, no âmbito da sintaxe discursiva (Cf. FIORIN, 2005, p. 55), há uma debreagem enunciativa, que ser parecer não-ser não-parecer segredo mentira verdade falsidade Figura 3 – Modalidades veridictórias Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 146 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 inscreve no enunciado um narrador em primeira pessoa, como podemos ver pelo uso dos verbos em primeira pessoa (estou, quero). A debreagem enuncia- tiva não é apenas da categoria de pessoa, mas também da categoria de tempo; o “agora” é dado pela utilização dos verbos no presente do indicativo. Ao final do poema, no último verso, ocorre uma debreagem enuncia- tiva de segundo grau, indicada pelo uso do travessão. Ocorre, pois, a inclusão de um interlocutor. Na verdade, narrador e interlocutor designam a mesma pessoa no discurso, porém em duas instâncias enunciativas distintas. Esse recurso, ao lado do fato de esse verso ser o último do poema, confere um destaque ao verso, que reitera e reforça o que estava sendo dito. Ele acaba por resumir ao mesmo tempo em que conclui decisivamente qual é o tipo de lirismo desejado: o lirismo que é libertação. Ainda no mesmo nível analítico, passemos ao estudo da semântica dis- cursiva (FIORIN, 2005, p. 88). Constatamos que o tema principal desse texto é o “fazer poesia”, o que fica evidente desde o seu título, dado que poética é “o estudo da criação poética em si mesma” (ARISTÓTELES apud KOSHIYAMA, 1996, p. 83). Ao longo do texto o narrador enumera características disfóricas ou eufóricas para a poesia, representada aqui pelo lexema lirismo, que aparece doze vezes. As características disfóricas são introduzidas por expressões como estou farto, abaixo e de resto não é, que “acentuam o caráter contestatório do poema” (BRANDÃO, 1987, p. 22). O poema pode ser dividido em blocos, sendo que em cada um deles determinadas figuras se agrupam formando um percurso figurativo. Dessa forma, o primeiro percurso figurativo observado é aquele composto por comedido, bem comportado, funcionário público, livro de ponto, expediente, protocolo e manifestações de apreço ao sr. diretor. Esse é o percurso figurativo do “ajustado e rotineiro” (BRANDÃO, 1992, p. 124). Já as figuras dicionário, puristas, barbarismos universais, sintaxes de exceção e rit- mos inumeráveis compõem o percurso figurativo do purismo de linguagem. No bloco que se inicia com o verso “Estou farto do lirismo namorador”, os termos namorador, político, raquítico e sifilítico formam o percurso figurativo do liris- mo interesseiro. Por fim, o último bloco com características disfóricas é aquele que contém as figuras contabilidade, tabela de cossenos, secretário do amante exemplar, modelos de cartas, que compõem o percurso figurativo da mecaniza- ção ou do excesso de rigidez formal, no sentido da utilização de moldes prees- tabelecidos. Observamos, ainda, que neste último bloco são expandidas tanto a série do “lirismo rotineiro”, quanto a do “lirismo interesseiro”. O poema sugere “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 147 que há, na poesia disforizada, uma poderosa conexão com a tradição, o que não permite a experimentação de novas formas artísticas. Os quatro percursos figurativos apontados estão, na verdade, interli- gados, remetendo a um único tema que é o da opressão. Todas as figuras remetem, de alguma forma, a um tipo de aprisionamento. O lirismo asso- ciado a tais figuras é um lirismo oprimido, preso a comportamentos, formas, modelos, convenções, etc. De acordo com Brandão (1987, p. 23), esse poema “recusa as manifestações líricas que se caracterizam seja pela contenção, pela disciplina ou por estarem a serviço exclusivo de interesses outros”. Por outro lado, na penúltima estrofe, as figuras loucos, bêbedos e clowns de Shakes- peare formam o percurso figurativo da liberdade – corroborado pelo último verso: Não quero mais saber do lirismo que não é libertação –, uma vez que esses papéis não estão presos às convenções sociais. Basta lembrar que os bêbados e loucos usufruem de certa licença para fazer qualquer coisa sem censura. Temos, pois, dois percursos figurativos em oposição que recobrem dois temas antagônicos: a opressão e a liberdade do “fazer poético”. Voltando ao adjetivo pungente (verso 18), uma consulta ao dicionário Houaiss nos revelou as seguintes acepções (grifo nosso): 1. Que tem a ponta rígida e aguçada, capaz de ferir, perfurando; pontiagudo. 2. Que provoca dor viva, aguda, penetrante, cáustica; lancinante. 3. Derivação por metáfora: que afeta e/ou impressiona profundamente o ânimo, o sentimentos, as paixões; muito comovente. 4. Derivação por metáfora: que desperta sensação física aguda, penetrante. 5. Derivação por metáfora: que provoca no paladar sensação forte, picante, azeda, amarga ou afim. As palavras que grifamos acima constituem, todas, figuras de in- tensidade (FONTANILLE; ZILBERBERG, 2001). No mais, interessa-nos particularmente a definição de número 3. Através dela, fica claro que, para o enunciador de nosso texto, a poesia deve “tocar a alma”. O lirismo pungente é aquele capaz de comover, de provocar os sentimentos. E a poesia só pode atingir essa pungência se for livre. O gráfico da correlação entre extensi- dade e intensidade pode nos ajudar a compreender tal relação. Pungente corresponde a um “mais” no eixo da intensidade, que é onde se encontra a valoração. Um “mais” em tal eixo corresponde a outro “mais” no eixo da Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 148 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 extensidade que aqui chamaremos de “liberdade formal e temática”. O “lirismo verdadeiro”, segundo “Poética”, se encontra na área onde se jun- tam o máximo da pungência e o máximo da liberdade formal e temática. Ao contrário, quanto menor for a liberdade, menor será o valor e estará configurado o “não-lirismo”. Vejamos: Essa análise vai ao encontro do que diz Jozef (1989, p. 91), ao afir- mar que Bandeira pretende a “libertação da inspiração poética dos entraves temático-formais”. É interessante, ainda, observar que, além de vocábulos relacionados estritamente ao universo poético ou linguístico, encontramos outra isotopia que tem como traço principal o /humano/. Muitos substantivos e adjetivos do poema referem-se a uma atividade ou comportamento humano. Sabemos, po- rém, que o texto não é sobre a vida e os tipos de homens, pois essas palavras e expressões estão associadas ao lirismo, ou seja, é de poesia que fala o texto. É a própria palavra lirismo (bem como o título Poética), que é a chave para que o enunciatário já “entre” no texto pensando neste como um tratado de poesia. Ainda sobre os tipos humanos, os que aparecem disforicamente e re- metem à opressão são justamente aqueles que vivem de alguma forma presos às regras e valores convencionais (o funcionário público, o sr. diretor, o se- cretário). Ao contrário, os tipos euforizados são, conforme já mencionamos, aqueles que vivem com mais liberdade e rompem com as convenções. Sobre estes últimos, Brandão (1987, p.27) afirma: Intensidade Extensidade lirismo + – – + Liberdade formal e temática Valoração não- lirismo Figura 4 – Lirismo versus não-lirismo “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 149 Todos eles representam manifestações espontâneas, impulsos sem repressão nem censura. Cada um, a sua maneira, rompe com as regras sociais preestabelecidas: de sanidade (o louco), de boa conduta (o bêbado), de seriedade (o palhaço). Diante do que foi exposto até aqui, percebemos que o poema eufo- riza um lirismo livre, uma poesia “livre das amarras” e propõe uma ruptura (conforme comentamos quando da análise do nível narrativo) com a poesia dita tradicional. A crítica de “Poética” se dirige mais especificamente à poe- sia parnasiana e pós-parnasiana (cujos preceitos principais eram o purismo, a supervalorização das formas, a perfeição) e à poesia romântica, visto que: O lirismo namorador / raquítico / sifilítico compõe um conjunto que tem sua referên- cia na temática romântica. O poeta questiona aqui alguns dos motivos mais utiliza- dos por nossos românticos, o amor inconsequente, o patriotismo, o estado doentio. (BRANDÃO, 1987, p.24) A partir da análise dos níveis narrativo e discursivo, podemos depreen- der a categoria semântica básica que está no nível fundamental. Na verdade, são duas as categorias de base nesse texto: Opressão versus Liberdade e Integração versus Transgressão, sendo Transgressão e Liberdade os polos afirmados e In- tegração e Opressão os negados, conforme o quadrado semiótico abaixo: As várias relações que observamos nesse texto, nos três níveis do per- curso gerativo do sentido, podem ser homologadas, conforme se vê no qua- drado semiótico a seguir: Opressão Integração Liberdade Transgressão Não-Opressão Não-Integração Não-Liberdade Não-Transgressão Figura 5 – Quadrado semiótico: opressão versus liberdade Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 150 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 Adotando uma postura crítica com relação à poesia “tradicional”, o enunciador acaba por valorizar o seu contrário. Levando em consideração, neste momento, os estudos de Fontanille e Zilberberg (2001) acerca do valor, podemos associar o lirismo valorizado (a poesia modernista) ao regime da par- ticipação, que tem por operador a mistura – valorizando, assim, uma poética mais livre e diversificada – em oposição à valorização da poesia “tradicional” do raro, do puro, associada ao regime da exclusão, que tem por operador a tria- gem. Podemos visualizar melhor tais relações através do quadro abaixo: Assim, o poema nega os valores de absoluto, ao passo que afirma os valores de universo. A valorização da poesia tradicional pode ser representa- Não-Opressão Não-Integração Não-Disforia Contenção Não-Continuidade (parada da continuação) Não-Liberdade Não-Transgressão Não-Euforia Distensão Não-Descontinuidade (parada da parada) Opressão Integração Disforia Relaxamento Continuidade (continuação da continuação) “Poesia Tradicional” Liberdade Transgressão Euforia Retenção Descontinuidade (continuação da parada) “Poesia Modernista” Figura 6 – Quadrado semiótico Valores de absoluto Valores de universo Regime Exclusão Participação Operadores Triagem/Fechamento Mistura/Abertura Benefícios Concentração Expansão Poética “tradicional” Poética “modernista” Figura 7 – Valores de absoluto e valores de universo “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 151 da pelo gráfico a seguir, onde a um “mais” no eixo da intensidade (valoração) corresponde um “menos” no eixo da extensidade e vice-versa. Esse tipo de correlação é chamado de inversa e quanto mais se avança em direção ao “me- nos”, aos valores de absoluto, maior é a valorização: Por outro lado, a valorização da poesia modernista – que tende para o “misturado”, para o universal, para o diverso – é dada através de uma correla- ção chamada conversa, onde um “mais” no eixo da intensidade pede um outro “mais” no eixo da extensidade. Quanto mais se avança em direção ao “mais” (ao universal), maior é o valor, conforme podemos ver no seguinte gráfico: Apesar de esse “eu” professar uma lógica da inclusão, da heteroge- neidade (Todas as palavras, Todas as construções, Todos os ritmos), suas “reivindicações” encontram-se dentro de uma lógica da triagem, no que se Absoluto Valoração Intensidade + – – + Extensidade Poesia tradicional Figura 8 – Poesia tradicional + – – + Universal Valoração Intensidade Extensidade Poesia modernista Figura 9 – Poesia modernista Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 152 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 refere aos lirismos a serem descartados, excluídos (lirismo comedido, lirismo raquítico, lirismo namorador, etc.). Ou seja, para carregar a bandeira de uma poética que admite a participação, ele permanece no regime da exclusão, ao excluir o exclusivo. Gostaríamos, ainda, de tecer um breve comentário acerca da aspec- tualidade em “Poética”. Considerando o que afirma Zilberberg (apud TA- TIT, 2001, p. 49), ao sustentar que a aspectualidade “conteria apenas valo- res demarcatórios, ou de ‘limite’ (‘saliências’) e valores segmentais ou de ‘gradação’ (‘passâncias’)”, verificamos que, em “Poética”, estão presentes os valores de limite, como se pode ver principalmente pela expressão Estou farto, presente muitas vezes ao longo do poema e que remete a um aspecto terminativo. Por outro lado, se considerarmos que, ao propor a ruptura com as poéticas vigentes, o sujeito também anuncia que quer outros valores em troca, podemos afirmar que o aspecto é incoativo, pois uma ação vai começar. O aspecto é o ponto de vista sobre um processo e “Poética” apresenta dois deles: um que está ao fim e um que está por começar. A mesma coisa aconte- ce se observarmos separadamente o verso Estou farto do lirismo que para e vai averiguar no dicionário o cunho vernáculo de um vocábulo, onde estão presentes duas ações: uma que para (aspecto terminativo) e uma que se inicia – vai averiguar – (aspecto incoativo). Finda a análise do plano do conteúdo, concentraremos nossa atenção nas questões referentes ao plano da expressão, a fim de proceder a uma descri- ção deste e, quando possível, relacioná-lo ao plano do conteúdo. Assim como todos os poemas de Libertinagem, “Poética” é composto de versos livres. São 20 versos, de variados comprimentos, que se organizam em algumas estro- fes, também divididas irregularmente. A primeira estrofe é composta de três versos, de tamanhos bastante distintos: 8, 11 e 38 sílabas cada um. Os três expõem características do lirismo que está sendo apresentado. O primeiro traz um adjetivo (comedido), o segundo, uma locução adjetiva (bem comportado) e o terceiro utiliza a expressão funcionário público, junto com todas as suas características, para qualificar o lirismo. Notamos, ainda, neste último verso, a aliteração do [p] justamente nesta sequência sem vírgulas: público / ponto / expediente / protocolo / apreço. Além disso, vemos que os elementos da série presente nesse verso não estão separados por vírgula, como estariam normal- mente. Essa ausência de vírgulas marca a adoção de uma estética modernista, habituada desde Alcools (APOLLINAIRE, 1971) a infringir ou até abolir a “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 153 pontuação. Em segundo lugar, ela pode ser lida como aceleração, que indica a exasperação desse enunciador, que “desabafa” seu descontentamento com a poética tradicional num só impulso, contrapondo-se, já aí, ao “comedido” e “bem comportado”. Os três versos juntos formam uma única proposição, um período composto por três elementos coordenados. Nos dois primeiros versos, vemos uma semelhança sonora entre as duas palavras finais: ambas são adjetivos, ambas são paroxítonas e ambas começam e terminam com sons semelhantes: comedido – comportado. Ao compor um verso tão longo quanto o último – com uma métrica totalmente distinta das que a tradição utilizava – o enunciador mostra que não tem comedimento4 e vai, assim, ao encontro do que afirma quando diz estar farto do lirismo comedido. Dessa forma, o plano da expressão corrobora e reforça o que se diz no plano do conteúdo. Aparece, em seguida, um verso isolado, mas que retoma a ideia da primeira estrofe e até mesmo repete o início do primeiro verso (Estou farto do lirismo). Desta vez, porém, não há apenas um adjetivo ou locução adjetiva qualificando lirismo, mas sim, uma oração subordinada inteira (que para e vai averiguar no dicionário o cunho vernáculo de um vocábulo). Este verso é formado por 30 sílabas, mas se fosse dividido em três partes, teria três partes iguais, como se fossem três versos decassílabos: Es / tou / far / to / do / li / ris / mo / que / pá / ra e / vai / a / vê / ri / guar / no / di / cio / ná / rio o / cu / nho / ver / ná / cu / lo / de um / vo / cá / bu / lo. Não podemos deixar de reparar na semelhança sonora entre as pala- vras vernáculo e vocábulo, que formam uma rima interna ao verso. Ainda com relação a esse verso, o fato de ele ser divido em três partes remete a outras séries de três que permeiam todo o poema, conforme vemos a seguir:5 4 Considerando uma das acepções de comedimento, dada pelo dicionário Houaiss: “moderação deter- minada pelas exigências das circunstâncias, dos deveres, dos usos; continência”. 5 Os três elementos desta série são, ainda, seguidos por “sobretudo” e um outro sintagma (adjetival e preposicionado). Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 154 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 versos nome adjetivo ou locução adjetiva série 1 1 lirismo comedido2 lirismo bem comportado 3 lirismo funcionário público versos pronome indefinido sintagma nominal5 série 2 6 todas as palavras7 todas as construções 8 todos os ritmos versos adjetivo (proparoxítono) série 3 10 político11 raquítico 12 sifilítico versos nome complemento nominal série 4 17 lirismo dos bêbados18 lirismo dos bêbados6 19 lirismo dos clowns de Shakespeare Também o verso de número quinze, ao descrever o que seria o “não- lirismo”, pode ser divido em três partes. Ele diz que o “não-lirismo” será: 1. contabilidade; 2. tabela de cossenos; 3. secretário do amante exemplar [...]. Cada uma dessas séries encontradas no plano da expressão tem uma correspondência no plano do conteúdo. Vejamos:6 verso ou série plano do conteúdo verso 4 purismo de linguagem verso 15 mecanização; excesso de rigidez formal série 1 ajustado e rotineiro série 2 poética livre; lirismo livre série 3 lirismo interesseiro série 4 poética livre; lirismo livre Voltando ao quinto verso, verificamos que ele também aparece so- zinho visualmente, mas está intimamente ligado à estrofe que segue, pois 6 Antes do complemento nominal há dois adjetivos: O lirismo difícil e pungente dos bêbados. “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 155 os três versos de tal estrofe (que estão coordenados) são sua continuação. Esses quatro versos formam um bloco (conforme já vimos durante a análise do plano do conteúdo) e constatamos que da primeira parte para esta há uma mudança de tom. Os quatro primeiros versos introduzem o tema e têm um tom melancólico, “cansado”. Já este segundo bloco apresenta um tom mais exaltado e lembra um manifesto. Quanto à métrica, o verso que está isolado possui 5 sílabas (redondilha menor) e esse é um fato interessante, pois tal mé- trica, que foi muito utilizada tradicionalmente, aparece justamente no verso que introduz o bloco de ideias contra as características tradicionais da poesia. Os demais versos possuem, respectivamente, 18, 16 e 14 sílabas. Também nessa estrofe há um paralelismo na construção, pois os três versos têm a mes- ma estrutura sintática e se iniciam por “todos/as” (fato já indicado quando mostramos as séries existentes). A próxima estrofe é formada por cinco versos e apresenta algumas singularidades. Além de ser a maior em número de versos, é a única que possui versos compostos por uma só palavra, sempre um adjetivo propa- roxítono e com o mesmo final, sendo também a única vez que ocorre uma rima em todo o poema, usada, segundo Koshiyama (1996, p. 89), “de um modo irônico”. A separação desses adjetivos em três versos diferentes dá uma maior ênfase à ideia que se quer passar. No último verso, mais uma vez, existe uma oração subordinada qualificando o lirismo (que capitula ao que quer que seja fora de si mesmo), da mesma maneira que ocorreu no verso 4. Na estrofe seguinte, há apenas dois versos, um de sete sílabas (redondilha maior) e outro de 50 sílabas. Percebemos também uma grande recorrência de sons nasais (consoantes e vogais) no último verso: contabilidade / cossenos / amante exemplar com cem modelos / maneiras / mulheres e mais uma vez apa- rece uma enumeração sem vírgulas. Voltando à questão da extensão do verso, na verdade, tanto esse verso quanto os outros de tamanho bastante grande podem ser vistos como pequenos trechos em prosa dentro dos poemas. É como se o poeta quisesse mostrar que o lirismo livre pode ser expresso por qualquer forma, por qualquer gênero. Poemas desse tipo, com esses versos “em prosa”, ocorrem ao longo de todo o livro Libertinagem – como em “O Cacto” e “Camelôs” – e tam- bém em outros momentos no decorrer da obra de Bandeira, como, por exemplo, nos poemas “Jacqueline”, do livro Estrela da manhã e “Nova poética”, do livro Belo Belo. Transcrevemos a seguir trechos dos poemas supracitados: Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 156 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 1. “(...) Um dia um tufão furibundo abateu-o pela raiz. O cacto tombou atravessado na rua, Quebrou os beirais do casario fronteiro, Impediu o transito de bondes, automóveis, carroças, Arrebentou os cabos elétricos e durante vinte e quatro horas privou a [cidade de iluminação e energia:  Era belo, áspero, intratável.” (O Cacto) 2. “(...) Alegria das calçadas Uns falam pelos cotovelos:  “O cavalheiro chega em casa e diz: Meu filho, vai buscar um pedaço de [banana para eu acende o charuto. Naturalmente [o menino pensará: Papai está malu...” (...)” (Camelôs) 3. “(...) Houve tempo em que olhei para os teus retratos de menina como olho [agora para a pequena imagem de Jacqueline morta. Eras tão bonita! Eras tão bonita, que merecerias ter morrido na idade de Jacqueline  Pura como Jacqueline. (...)” (Jacqueline) 4. (...) O poema deve ser como a nódoa de brim: Fazer o leitor satisfeito de si dar o desespero. Sei que a poesia é também orvalho. Mas este fica para as menininhas, as estrelas alfas, as virgens cem por [cento e as amadas que envelheceram sem maldade. “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 157 Além disso, lembremos-nos de que Bandeira é também bastante co- nhecido pela composição de “poemas em prosa”, tais como “Lenda Brasilei- ra” e “Noturno da Rua da Lapa”, também de Libertinagem. A próxima estrofe é a que fala sobre o lirismo desejado. Até o momen- to todos os “blocos” foram introduzidos por negações (Estou farto..., Abai- xo..., Estou farto..., De resto não é...) e agora é a única vez no poema em que há uma afirmação: Quero antes... A métrica continua irregular e, assim como na primeira estrofe, há a repetição da palavra lirismo em todos os versos, numa estrutura paralela. Por fim, o último verso vem também sozinho. Para falar que o que deseja é o lirismo que é libertação, o poeta volta a utilizar a negação (uma negação dupla), o que reforça a ideia de que o que se quer é apenas o lirismo libertação. Acerca da importância de tal negação nesse último verso, citamos Brandão (1987, p. 28): A palavra lirismo é, a um só tempo, objeto de ‘Não quero mais saber (do)’ e sujeito de ‘(que) não é libertação’. A dupla negação projeta para fora de si o seu oposto positivo, sem perder, contudo, a raiz da negatividade que o alimenta. Do interior da negação surge a forma ambicionada (...). Atualizar a forma sugerida, isto é, dizer, por exemplo, que o último verso do poema tem o sentido de ‘Apenas quero o lirismo que é libertação’ seria eliminar aquilo que ele tem de mais significativo, que é sua insatisfação, sua incompletude... Considerações finais O estudo semiótico que fizemos de “Poética” mostrou-se bastante pro- veitoso, permitindo-nos realizar uma descrição minuciosa dos seus planos da expressão e do conteúdo, trazendo, ainda que modestamente, novas luzes para a avaliação da obra poética de Manuel Bandeira. A partir dos elementos expostos, é possível afirmar que em “Poética” há uma convergência entre expressão e conteúdo, uma vez que o que se diz em uma dessas faces é o que se faz na outra. O poeta segue no próprio poema o que ele pre- coniza: usa imagens cotidianas e um vocabulário simples, além de compor o poema com uma “liberdade de formas”, isto é, com divisão irregular entre estrofes, versos livres, ritmo irregular, versos “muito longos”. Portanto, o próprio poema apresenta, no plano da expressão, os preceitos indicados no plano do conteúdo. Dayane Celestino de ALMEIDA 158 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 ALMEIDA, Dayane Celestino de. “Poética”, by Manuel Bandeira: a semiotic analysis. Re- vista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009. ABSTRACT: Throughout his career, Manuel Bandeira wrote some poems that talk about “making poetry”, saying either what the poetry is for or how it should be. This paper presents an analysis of one of these poems – “Poética” – from the perspective of French Semiotics. KEYWORDS: Semiotics. Poetry. Manuel Bandeira. Greimas. Referências APOLLINAIRE, Guillaume. Alcools. Paris: Larousse, 1971. ANDRADE, Mário de. A escrava que não é Isaura. In: ______. Obra imatura. São Paulo: Itatiaia, 1980. BANDEIRA, Manuel. Estrela da vida inteira. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 1993. ______ Itinerário de Pasárgada. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 1984. BARROS, Diana Luz Pessoa de. Teoria do discurso: fundamentos semióticos. São Paulo: Humanitas, 2001. BERTRAND, Denis. Caminhos da semiótica literária. Tradução Grupo CASA. Bauru: EDUSC, 2003. BOSI, Alfredo. História concisa da literatura brasileira. São Paulo: Cultrix, 2006. BRANDÃO, Roberto de Oliveira. Poética e vida em Bandeira. In: LOPES, Telê Porto Ancona (Org.). Manuel Bandeira: verso e reverso. São Paulo: T.A. Queiroz, 1987. ______ Poemas sobre a poesia na literatura brasileira. 1992. Tese. (Livre-Docência em Literatura Brasileira) Faculdade de Filosofia, Letras e Ciências Humanas, Universi- dade de São Paulo, São Paulo, 1992. FIORIN, José Luiz. Elementos de análise do discurso. São Paulo: Contexto, 2005. FONTANILLE, Jacques; ZILBERBERG, Claude. Tensão e significação. Tradução Ivã Carlos Lopes; Luiz Tatit; Waldir Beividas. São Paulo: Discurso Editorial/Humanitas, 2001. GREIMAS, Algirdas Julien; COURTÉS, Joseph. Dicionário de semiótica. São Paulo: Cultrix, 1983. HJELMSLEV, Louis. Prolegômenos a uma teoria da linguagem. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1975. “Poética”, de Manuel Bandeira: análise semiótica Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 140-159, 2009 159 JOZEF, Bella. Manuel Bandeira: lirismo e espaço mítico. In: SILVA, Maximiano de Car- valho (Org.). Homenagem a Manuel Bandeira: 1986-1988. Niterói: Sociedade Sousa da Silveira; Rio de Janeiro: Monteiro Aranha/Presença Edições, 1989. JUNQUEIRA, Ivan. Testamento de Pasárgada. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 2003. KOSHIYAMA, Jorge. Vida e poesia: à escuta do outro. In: BOSI, Alfredo (Org.). Leitura de poesia. São Paulo: Ática, 1996. SAUSSURE, Ferdinand de. Curso de linguística geral. São Paulo: Cultrix, 1969. TATIT, Luiz. Análise semiótica através das letras. São Paulo: Ateliê Editorial, 2001. 160 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 PRODUÇÃO ESCRITA EM FRANCÊS COMO SEGUNDA LÍNGUA: UMA EXPERIÊNCIA BASEADA EM GÊNEROS TEXTUAIS Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA1 RESUMO: Este artigo tem por objetivo apresentar uma experiência de ensino de produção escrita para estudantes universitários de Francês como língua segunda baseada em gêneros textuais. Essa experiência foi realizada em um curso de francês para alunos anglófonos do terceiro ano da Universidade de Guelph, Canadá. O programa do curso, assim como sua apli- cação em sala de aula, foram baseados nos pressupostos teóricos do Interacionismo sociodis- cursivo, tal como apresentado por Bronckart (2006, 2007, 2008) e também nos trabalhos que exploram o uso de gêneros textuais para o ensino de língua materna (SCHNEUWLY; DOLZ, 2004) e estrangeira (CRISTÓVÃO, 2002). Os resultados foram bastante positivos, mas apon- taram a necessidade de algumas modificações para o melhor aproveitamento dos alunos. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Gêneros textuais. Arquitetura textual. Capacidades de linguagem. Introdução Este artigo tem por objetivo apresentar uma experiência de ensino de produção escrita para estudantes universitários de Francês como língua se- gunda2 baseada em gêneros textuais. Trata-se, com efeito, de um curso minis- trado por mim e por uma assistente3 para os cursos de francês na Universida- de de Guelph, Canadá, no primeiro semestre de 2008. Como sabido, o Canadá é um país oficialmente bilíngue, tendo o fran- cês e o inglês como línguas oficiais. Porém, exceto a única província em que 1 Departamento de Letras Modernas, Faculdade de Filosofia, Letras e Ciências Humanas, Universidade de São Paulo, São Paulo, São Paulo, Brasil. elousada@usp.br. 2 FLS: francês como língua segunda designa uma língua que tem estatuto particular, quer seja social e/ou político, como no caso do francês nas províncias anglófonas do Canadá. A LS pode ser também a língua da escolarização e, em ambos os sentidos, diferencia-se das outras línguas estrangeiras. 3 Teacher assistant: TA. Em 2007/2008, Laetitia Fabre. Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 161 o francês é a primeira língua, o Québec, nas outras províncias o inglês é a língua mais usada, apesar da existência de inúmeras comunidades francófo- nas em várias partes do país. A aprendizagem do francês é possibilitada, na escola, por meio de vários sistemas, sobretudo o das classes de imersão, em que os alunos têm aulas de francês como parte do currículo. Além disso, exis- tem várias oportunidades para aperfeiçoar o nível de língua, através de cursos de francês diretamente em províncias e/ou regiões francófonas patrocinados pelo governo canadense, com bolsas de estudos. Após o contato menos ou mais bem-sucedido com o francês na escola, os alunos têm a possibilidade de escolher matérias relacionadas ao francês quando entram na faculdade. Sendo assim, no nível da graduação, são oferecidos cursos de francês em vários níveis, desde principiantes até níveis mais avançados, centrados na produção oral ou na produção escrita, passando por vários cursos de literatura francesa e quebequense. Apesar de serem oferecidos cursos para iniciantes, é importante lembrar que, no Canadá, os alunos são raramente verdadeiros principiantes em francês como o são em outras línguas, já que têm vários conhecimentos sobre essa língua aprendidos ao longo da escolaridade. Da mesma forma, os alunos de segundo e/ou terceiro ano têm mais conhecimento do que o esperado nesses níveis em outros contextos. Neste artigo, vamos abordar o caso do curso de francês para produção escrita, oferecido aos alunos de terceiro ano universitário, que têm essa maté- ria como obrigatória. Foi nesse curso que pude fazer uma experiência de ela- boração de um currículo para ensino de gêneros textuais escritos em francês, posto em aplicação no primeiro semestre do ano de 2008. Para apresentar essa experiência, dividimos este artigo em quatro partes: primeiramente a funda- mentação teórica que embasou tanto a elaboração do programa como sua aplicação em sala de aula; em seguida, a apresentação detalhada do contexto de estudo e do programa utilizado, seguida da análise dos resultados obtidos. Finalmente, passaremos à apresentação das considerações finais. Pressupostos teóricos Este estudo, desde a elaboração do programa do curso até sua aplica- ção em sala de aula, está baseado nos pressupostos teóricos do interacionismo sociodiscursivo (BRONCKART, 2006, 2007, 2008), sobretudo no que diz respeito à questão dos gêneros textuais e às características linguístico-discur- Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 162 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 sivas dos textos. Além disso, baseamo-nos também nos trabalhos sobre utili- zação de gêneros textuais para aprendizagem de língua materna (francês) no contexto da Suíça francófona (SCHNEUWLY; DOLZ, 2004) e para o ensino de português como língua materna no Brasil (MACHADO, 2001; MACHADO; ABREU-TARDELLI; LOUSADA, 2004a e b, 2005, 2007). Utilizamos, so- bretudo, as aplicações dessa perspectiva teórica para língua estrangeira, princi- palmente em suas realizações no Brasil (CRISTÓVÃO, 2002; DAMIANOVIC, 2006; LOUSADA, 2002a, 2002b, 2006; ABREU-TARDELLI, 2006). Um dos conceitos teóricos a partir do qual nosso programa de curso foi montado é a noção de gênero como proposta por Bakhtin (1997 [1953]) e retomada por Bronckart (2006, 2007, 2008). Para Bakhtin (1997 [1953]), a cada tipo de atividade humana que implica o uso da linguagem correspon- dem enunciados particulares, os gêneros do discurso. Bronckart retoma essa concepção de gênero, propondo a terminologia gênero de texto e guardando para o termo discurso um outro significado.4 Esse autor salienta, ainda, que a linguagem é constituída de práticas situadas, ou seja, a atualização da linguagem por indivíduos em situações concretas. Essas práticas situadas são chamadas por Bronckart (2008, p. 87) de agir linguageiro, que, por sua vez, se traduz em um texto. Dentro dessa perspectiva teórica, o texto seria visto como toda unidade de produção verbal que veicula uma mensagem organizada e que visa a produzir um efeito de coerência sobre o destinatário, ou, então, como uma unidade comunicativa de nível superior, correspondente a uma determinada unidade de agir linguageiro. (BRONCKART, 2008, p. 87). Para Bronckart (2008, p. 88), os gêneros de textos estão presentes no arquitexto de uma comunidade linguageira, tendo sido construídos pelas ge- rações precedentes e organizados em um repertório de modelos. Assim, o falante de uma língua tem a seu dispor uma série de modelos textuais e vai escolher (“adotar”) o mais apropriado a uma determinada situação que se caracteriza por uma série de parâmetros físicos (emissor, receptor, espaço- tempo do ato de produção) e sociossubjetivos (tipo de interação social em curso, objetivos possíveis nesse quadro, papéis atribuídos aos protagonistas da interação). Dessa forma, o texto produzido terá sempre características 4 Ver Bronckart 2006, 2008. Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 163 genéricas, provenientes da adoção de um modelo do arquitexto, e caracterís- ticas individuais, provenientes de escolhas individuais em função da situação de produção (BRONCKART, 2008, p. 88). Ainda segundo Bronckart (2007), a partir da situação de produção, o falante/enunciador/textualizador vai organizar seu texto segundo os três níveis da arquitetura textual. O primeiro nível diz respeito à infra-estrutura textual, subdividida em dois regimes de organização: a planificação geral do conteúdo temático, ou seja, a ordem dos conteúdos temáticos que aparecem no texto, como um resumo, e os tipos de discurso, referentes à construção de mundos discursivos. Os tipos de discurso podem ser entendidos como perten- centes a dois eixos principais: narrar e expor. O eixo do narrar – disjunção, pode ser implicado ou autônomo, ou seja, pode apresentar ou não implicação em relação ao ato de produção (através de dêiticos espaciais, temporais e de pessoa). O eixo do expor – conjunção, pode também ser implicado ou autô- nomo. Sendo assim, dentro desses dois eixos, há uma outra divisão que dá origem aos tipos de discurso: narrar – disjunto e autônomo (tipo de discurso narração); narrar – disjunto e implicado (tipo de discurso relato interativo) e expor – conjunto e implicado (tipo de discurso interativo) e expor – conjunto e autônomo (tipo de discurso teórico).5 Ainda no nível da infra-estrutura textual, Bronckart (2007) baseia-se em Adam (1996) e propõe uma outra forma de planificação que são as sequ- ências. Diferentemente dos tipos de discurso, essas sequências podem ou não estar presentes, aparecem geralmente combinadas (é difícil encontrar em um texto uma só sequência) e dividem-se em: narrativa, descritiva, argumentati- va, explicativa, injuntiva e dialogal. Além disso, Bronckart (2007) apresenta o grau zero da sequência narrativa, onde não há intriga, tensão, que seria o script e o grau zero das sequências argumentativa e explicativa, a esquemati- zação, onde não há a necessidade de explicar algo de difícil compreensão ou argumentar em favor ou contra algo que pode ser contestável.6 Para esse autor (BRONCKART, 2007), o segundo nível da arquitetura textual é constituído dos mecanismos de textualização, que é caracterizado pela coerência e pela coesão. A primeira diz respeito às relações entre os ní- veis de organização de um texto e é explicitada pelos organizadores textuais. A segunda pode ser divida em coesão nominal e verbal. 5 Para maiores explicações sobre os tipos de discurso, ver Bronckart 2006, 2008. 6 Para maiores explicações sobre as fases das sequências, ver Bronckart 2007. Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 164 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 No terceiro nível da arquitetura textual, encontramos os mecanismos de responsabilidade enunciativa que dão a coerência pragmática do texto (BRONCKART, 2007). Nesse nível, encontramos a questão das modaliza- ções, responsáveis pelas diversas avaliações do falante/enunciador/textuali- zador sobre um ou outro aspecto do conteúdo temático. Encontramos também a questão das vozes que explicitam as instâncias que assumem ou se respon- sabilizam pelo que está sendo dito. Voltando à questão dos gêneros textuais, podemos dizer que, enquan- to os gêneros são relativamente estáveis, os textos que os materializam são extremamente variáveis e maleáveis (BRONCKART, 2006; SCHNEUWLY; DOLZ, 2004), o que torna difícil a sua classificação. Assim, como cada si- tuação de uso da língua se realiza verbalmente através de um gênero, pode- mos concluir que a capacidade de comunicação depende do maior ou menor domínio (DOLZ; SCHNEUWLY, 1996) que se tem do gênero em questão, mesmo quando se trata de língua materna (LM). Evidentemente, enquanto construções sociais e históricas, muitos gêneros podem ser mais ou menos dominados pelos locutores nativos de uma língua. Uma entrevista de em- prego, mesmo em língua materna, pode ser um gênero de difícil realização para muitos falantes adultos, enquanto que uma conversa para comprar algo em uma loja pode ser mais fácil para a maioria dos falantes adultos, em lín- gua materna, já que se trata de um gênero bastante usado no cotidiano. Já em língua estrangeira, é necessário que os alunos aprendam a compreender e produzir textos pertencentes a gêneros mais ou menos conhecidos /mais ou menos parecidos com suas realizações em LM, dado que as sociedades contemporâneas do mundo ocidental apresentam, muitas vezes, textos com características semelhantes. Sendo assim, procuramos, em nosso programa, selecionar gêneros que pudessem ser de algum interesse para os alunos, baseando-nos nos seguintes critérios propostos por Dolz e Schneuwly (1998) e expostos por Cristóvão (2002, p. 97): a) a dimensão psicológica, incluindo as motivações, a afetividade e os inte- resses dos alunos; b) a dimensão cognitiva, refletindo a complexidade do tema e o estatuto do conhecimento dos alunos; c) a dimensão social, envolvendo a densidade social do tema, suas potencia- lidades polêmicas, a relação entre eles e os participantes, os aspectos éticos, Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 165 sua presença real no interior ou no exterior da escola e a possibilidade de, com ela, se desenvolver um projeto de classe; d) a dimensão didática, que demanda que o tema não seja excessivamente cotidiano, mas que possa ser apreensível. Em relação ao item a, procuramos fazer uma escolha de gêneros que pudessem ser motivantes e interessantes para uma classe que tinha alunos com idade média de 19 a 26 anos. Buscamos, dessa forma, selecionar temas de textos que pudessem agradar a essa faixa etária de alunos. Por exemplo, quando o gênero escolhido era um guia turístico, escolhemos uma cidade francófona canadense; para a biografia, foram escolhidos autores francófo- nos, dentre os quais alguns canadenses; para a produção escrita de sinopse e resenha crítica de filme, foram escolhidos filmes atuais. Em relação ao item b, por se tratar de alunos do terceiro ano de francês na faculdade, que tinham um bom nível de língua, em geral, foram escolhidos gêneros mais complexos materializados em textos que envolvem mais conhecimento linguístico. De- vido ao grande interesse dos alunos dessa universidade e dos canadenses, em geral, pelo tema da ética e da ecologia, foram escolhidos textos e gêneros que propiciaram o debate sobre esses temas em sala de aula, criando polêmicas e discussões, atendendo, assim, ao critério c. No que diz respeito ao item d, é necessário salientar que se tratava do ensino de língua segunda e não língua materna. Sendo assim, como o francês é uma língua estrangeira para os alu- nos e não a LM, os gêneros escolhidos podiam até ser cotidianos para eles, porém em inglês e não em francês. A partir desses critérios de escolha dos gêneros a serem trabalhados, poderiam ser propostos agrupamentos de gêneros, em função de suas caracte- rísticas tipológicas dominantes, que são, para Schneuwly e Dolz (2004): nar- rar, relatar, argumentar, expor, descrever ações (sequências injuntivas) e que podem ser compreendidas a partir da infra-estrutura textual (tipos de discurso e sequências) descrita acima. Além do gênero como unidade de ensino a partir da qual o programa seria organizado, adotamos também a noção de gênero como ferramenta que atua no processo de aprendizagem (SCHNEUWLY; DOLZ, 2004, p. 28.). Nessa segunda abordagem, o gênero seria encarado como um verdadeiro megainstrumento mediador entre o sujeito e a situação. O gênero textual, enquanto megainstrumento, contribuiria para o desenvolvimento dos três ti- pos de capacidades de linguagem: as de ação, as discursivas, as linguístico- Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 166 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 discursivas. Segundo Dolz, Pasquier e Bronckart (1993) e Dolz e Schneuwly (1998), ao interagirmos nas diferentes situações sociais por meio dos textos que produzimos, fazemos uso dessas capacidades, que estão diretamente li- gadas aos três níveis da arquitetura textual propostos por Bronckart (2006, 2007) e explicitada acima. As primeiras envolvem a mobilização das repre- sentações do produtor sobre o contexto de produção do texto. As capacida- des discursivas envolvem as operações de organização textual do texto a ser produzido, de escolha de um ou vários tipos de discurso e a escolha do modo de organização sequencial. As últimas, as capacidades linguístico-discursi- vas, envolvem os aspectos linguísticos propriamente ditos, incluindo várias operações de textualização (como, por exemplo, a operação de se assegurar a coesão textual, verbal e/ou nominal) e operações enunciativas (como, por exemplo, o gerenciamento de vozes e a modalização dos enunciados). O trabalho em sala de aula constituiria, então, em compreender e pro- duzir textos, pertencentes a diferentes gêneros, visando a desenvolver nos alunos as capacidades descritas acima. Para tanto, podemos trabalhar a partir de agrupamentos de gêneros e desenvolvimento de uma sequência de ativi- dades que constituem a sequência didática (SD). Embora de maneira sucinta, apresentaremos, a seguir, os gêneros escolhidos e a sequência didática pro- posta para desenvolver essas capacidades. O contexto de desenvolvimento desse estudo Como já mencionado, a experiência que relatamos neste artigo foi con- duzida em uma turma de francês como segunda língua do terceiro ano uni- versitário, em uma província anglófona do Canadá. Tratava-se de uma classe de 49 alunos, de faixa etária entre 19 e 26 anos, em geral. Os alunos tinham níveis bastante heterogêneos de francês, desde alunos praticamente bilíngues (francês e inglês), até alunos que ainda têm alguma dificuldade com a escrita e mesmo a fala em francês. O curso durou 12 semanas, sendo dividido em 3 aulas de 50 minutos por semana. Levando em conta os critérios expostos anteriormente para a escolha dos gêneros textuais a serem trabalhados, foram escolhidos os seguintes gê- neros para desenvolvimento com os alunos: Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 167 Quadro 1: gêneros escolhidos, aspectos tipológicos, sequências e aspectos linguísticos7 Aspectos tipológicos Gêneros textuais Sequências predominantes Aspectos linguísticos  Descrever  Narrar  Relatar  Argumentar  Guia turístico  Biografia  Conto  Sinopse de filme, cartão postal  Resenha crítica de filme  Carta do leitor  Carta de reivindicação, solicitação  Texto publici- tário  Artigo de opi- nião  Manifesto ecoló- gico  Descritiva  Script (grau zero da sequên- cia narrativa)  Narrativa  Script  Argumentativa  Nominalização  Voz passiva  Tempos do passado : passé composé, imparfait, plus-que- parfait, passé simple  Discurso indireto  Comparação  Conectivos: cause, conséquence, opposition et concession, but, condition  Subjuntivo Para o trabalho em sala de aula, foram estabelecidos critérios para uma sequência didática compatíveis com o tipo de curso, número de alunos em sala de aula e número de horas disponíveis para o curso. Dentro das limi- tações de termos muitos alunos e poucas horas de aulas, não foram realizadas produções iniciais, pois optamos por começar diretamente pela análise de um 7 Neste quadro as três primeiras colunas apresentam uma sequência / ordem dos conteúdos e podem ser lidas horizontalmente. A quarta coluna apresenta os aspectos linguísticos sem ordem específica, pois podem corresponder a um ou mais gêneros. Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 168 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 texto pertencente ao modelo de gênero que tínhamos a intenção de trabalhar. Sendo assim, propusemos as seguintes etapas da SD, apresentadas aqui de maneira esquematizada:8 1. Apresentação da situação de produção: as representações dos alunos sobre as várias situações de ação de linguagem que podem dar origem ao texto per- tencente ao gênero em questão. 2. Um primeiro contato com o gênero: análise da situação de ação de lingua- gem que deu origem ao texto escolhido como modelo do gênero e compara- ção com as respostas ao item 1. 3. Análise do texto em relação ao aspecto tipológico dominante, à(s) sequência(s) predominante(s) e aos aspectos linguísticos característicos. 4. Atividades para desenvolver os aspectos tipológicos dominantes, as sequ- ências predominantes e/ou os aspectos linguísticos característicos, segundo as dificuldades dos alunos. 5. Atividades visando a dar o input necessário para a produção final do texto. Por exemplo, no caso da redação de um conto, as atividades foram relacio- nadas à reconstituição dos contos conhecidos dos alunos e de seus elementos mais característicos. No caso da redação da carta de reivindicação e do ma- nifesto ecológico, os alunos assistiram a vídeos on-line abordando questões ecológicas que permitiram melhor conhecer o tema e a situação de ação de linguagem. 6. Produção do texto final, em grupos de dois ou três alunos. 7. Indicação dos erros pelo professor e pela assistente, através de uma legenda disponível para os alunos na plataforma blackboard,9 levando em conta erros relacionados ao gênero e erros relacionados à língua. Nota provisória, até a segunda correção, baseada em critérios de correção descritos mais à frente. 8. Refacção do texto, pelos alunos. 9. Correção pelo professor e pela assistente, com modificação na nota em função das correções. Além das etapas acima descritas, os erros mais frequentes eram anota- dos e, ao término da escrita de um gênero de texto, uma série de 10 a 12 erros 8 Para uma apresentação da sequência didática típica para trabalho com gêneros, ver Schneuwly e Dolz, 2004. 9 Cada curso e cada classe dispõem de um espaço na plataforma blackboard onde estão disponíveis os documentos importantes para o curso. Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 169 mais frequentes era impressa e distribuída aos grupos para correção em sala de aula. Durante essa atividade, os alunos eram levados a refletir sobre o erro, deviam propor sua correção e a explicação da regra subjacente. Resultados da análise das produções Antes de passarmos para a discussão sobre os resultados obtidos, pa- rece-nos importante salientar que, a cada produção escrita final realizada, os resultados obtidos foram analisados, segundo os critérios abaixo:  Adequação ao gênero  Escolha dos conteúdos temáticos  Coesão e coerência  Aspectos sintáticos  Aspectos lexicais Embora a adequação ao gênero apareça formalmente apenas no pri- meiro item, todos os outros itens também foram analisados em relação à ade- quação ao gênero. Em função dos critérios acima, podemos dizer que os textos mais bem escritos e mais adequados ao gênero foram: a biografia, o guia turístico, o conto e o texto publicitário. A carta do leitor, a carta de reivindicação, o cartão postal e o manifesto ecológico podem ser considerados como mais ou menos adequados ao gênero. Em relação ao artigo de opinião, podemos dizer que a adequação ao gênero variou muito de aluno para aluno, assim como o mani- festo ecológico. No caso do artigo de opinião, o maior problema encontrado foi relacionado à questão dos tipos de discurso usados, mais especificamente ao eixo da implicação / autonomia dos parâmetros da interação. Na verdade, nesse gênero textual, não é comum a implicação dos parâmetros da intera- ção ao texto, como fizeram muitos alunos. Em outras palavras, foi usada a primeira pessoa do singular para mostrar a opinião própria, sem levar em conta que se tratava de um artigo de opinião para uma revista ou jornal em que o jornalista não expressa sua opinião em primeira pessoa. Já a sinopse e a resenha crítica de filme ficaram bem aquém do que era esperado dos alunos. Os maiores problemas desses dois gêneros textuais foram: em alguns casos, a menção à situação em que foram ao cinema para assistir ao filme, ou seja, Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 170 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 novamente a implicação dos parâmetros da interação no texto, o que não é uma característica do gênero; a enorme interferência do inglês na maneira de formular os enunciados. Na verdade, foi o gênero de texto em que a língua materna mais interferiu. Para tentar entender a diferença nos resultados das produções textuais, procuramos rever o processo de escrita de cada um dos gêneros e pudemos observar o seguinte:  Os quatro gêneros de textos mais bem escritos foram os gêneros mais bem trabalhados em termos de análise do modelo de gênero. Em out- ras palavras, trata-se dos gêneros que foram desenvolvidos durante mais aulas, com muitos recursos audiovisuais e com os quais os alu- nos mais se envolveram.  Os quatro gêneros que tiveram resultado médio quanto ao nível das produções dos alunos foram gêneros razoavelmente bem trabalhados em sala de aula, em termos de análise do modelo de gênero.  Em relação aos dois gêneros que apresentaram mais disparidades no nível das produções dos alunos, pudemos observar que o artigo de opinião foi razoavelmente bem compreendido pelos alunos que vieram frequente- mente às aulas. Porém, como não havia um único modelo do gênero e, já que vários artigos foram trabalhados na fase final do curso, talvez tenha faltado um modelo mais canônico para muitos alunos, que acabaram ten- do dificuldades em visualizar o que era pedido com o artigo de opinião. Em relação ao manifesto ecológico, tratou-se do último texto escrito em aula. Sendo assim, embora todo o contexto sobre ecologia tenha sido bem explorado, não houve tanto tempo para analisar manifestos ecológicos e os alunos também já estavam um pouco cansados.  Em relação à sinopse e à resenha crítica de filme, os textos em que os alunos tiveram mais dificuldade de produzir um texto adequado ao gênero, pudemos constatar, em primeiro lugar, a falta de tempo (por problemas alheios ao cronograma) para melhor analisar várias sinop- ses e resenhas críticas de filme. Além disso, este pareceu ser um gêne- ro que os alunos dominavam bastante bem em inglês. Dessa forma, talvez pelo fato de conhecerem bem o gênero em inglês e de não terem tido tempo para analisar melhor o gênero em francês, as produções tenham tido tantas características das formulações em inglês. Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 171  Além disso, no que diz respeito aos erros mais frequentes trabalhados com os alunos, podemos dizer que alguns deles foram corrigidos pe- los alunos em suas produções finais, porém muitos deles foram esque- cidos, talvez pela grande quantidade de erros frequentes ressaltados. A partir das observações acima, propomos, em seguida, uma reflexão sobre os resultados obtidos e sobre as mudanças necessárias para o próximo semestre do curso, visando a obter melhores resultados. Considerações finais Em primeiro lugar, é importante mencionar que a atitude dos alunos em relação ao curso foi muito boa. Em geral, os alunos interessaram-se bas- tante pelo curso e fizeram muitos elogios ao tipo de curso e de atividades. Por esta razão e pelos resultados das produções, em sua maioria satisfatórios, podemos dizer que o curso teve sucesso de modo geral. Sendo assim, devem ser mantidos, em nossa opinião: o trabalho baseado em gêneros textuais, al- guns dos gêneros textuais escolhidos, o trabalho sobre os erros frequentes e as correções dos alunos, a reescrita do texto, o recurso a outras atividades, recur- sos audiovisuais, entre outros, visando a dar mais dinamismo ao curso. Esse último item contribuiu também para criar um ambiente de imersão no tema a ser tratado, e mesmo no gênero textual a ser escrito, que motivou bastante os alunos para a escrita e, talvez por isso, resultou em produções melhores. No entanto, a partir das observações apresentadas anteriormente, parece-nos importante salientar também a necessidade de efetuar algu- mas mudanças para assegurar um melhor nível de produções e um me- lhor aproveitamento do semestre em geral. Em primeiro lugar, parece-nos importante elaborar um programa de curso em que haja tempo suficiente para o trabalho com os diferentes gêneros, ainda que menos gêneros se- jam abordados. Nesse sentido, seria necessário mais tempo para analisar o texto usado como modelo do gênero a ser trabalhado, para que os alunos possam aprender as características do gênero e também suas realizações linguísticas em francês. Segundo os resultados obtidos, a análise minucio- sa do modelo de gênero a ser produzido parece-nos ser de vital importân- cia para a verdadeira aprendizagem, sobretudo por se tratar de uma língua outra que a língua materna. Um dos pontos a ressaltar nesse nível é a Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 172 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 importância de trabalhar melhor os tipos de discurso, a criação de mundos discursivos, sobretudo a implicação e autonomia em relação à situação de ação de linguagem (interação), já que a autonomia não foi respeitada nas sinopses, resenhas críticas e artigos de opinião. Além disso, seria neces- sário mais tempo para as correções linguísticas e para a refacção do texto, sem o que a aprendizagem, tanto do gênero textual, quanto dos aspectos linguísticos, não atinge o nível que poderia atingir. De qualquer forma, a escolha de um programa baseado em gêneros textuais visando à aprendizagem da produção escrita em uma segunda língua parece ter sido uma proposta bastante interessante e adequada para esse pú- blico de produção escrita de francês em nível universitário. LOUSADA, Eliane Gouvêa. Written production in french as a second language at the univer- Written production in french as a second language at the univer- sity: an experience based on textual genres. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009. ABSTRACT: This paper aims at presenting an experience of written production based on genres of texts with students of French as a second language at the University of Guelph, Canada. This experiment was carried on in a French course for 3rd year students whose mother tongue is English. The curricula chosen, as well as its application in class, were based on the theoretical framework of the Sociodiscursive Interactionism as presented by Bronckart (2006, 2007, 2008) and on the works of many authors who use genres of texts to teach languages (SCHNEUWLY; DOLZ, 2004; CRISTÓVÃO, 2002). The results were quite interesting, but show the need of some changes in order to increase the learning of the target language. KEYWORDS: Genres of texts. Textual architecture. Language capacities. Referências ABREU-TARDELLI, L. A. Elaboração de sequências didáticas: ensino aprendizagem de gêneros em língua inglesa. In: DAMIANOVIC, M. C. Material Didático: Elaboração e Avaliação. Taubaté: Cabral, 2006. p. 73-85. ADAM, J.-M. L’analyse des récits. Lonrai: Les Éditions du Seuil, 1996. BAKHTIN, M. Estética da criação verbal. 2. ed. São Paulo: Martins Fontes, 1997 [1953]. Produção escrita em francês como segunda língua: uma experiência baseada em gêneros textuais Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 173 BRONCKART, J-P. Atividade de linguagem, discurso e desenvolvimento humano. Campinas: Mercado de letras, 2006. ______. Atividade de linguagem, textos e discursos: por um interacionismo sociodiscursivo. 2. ed. São Paulo: Educ, 2007. ______. O agir nos discursos: das concepções teóricas às concepções dos trabalhadores. Campinas: Mercado de Letras, 2008. CRISTÓVÃO, V. L. O gênero quarta capa no ensino do inglês. In: DIONISIO, A. P.; MACHADO, A. R.; BEZERRA, M. A. Gêneros textuais e ensino. Rio de Janeiro: Lucerna, 2002. p. 95-106. DAMIANOVIC, M. C. Material Didático: Elaboração e Avaliação. Taubaté: Cabral, 2006. DOLZ, J.; PASQUIER, G.; BRONCKART, J.-P. L’acquisition des discours: émergence d’une compétence ou apprentissage de capacités langagières diverses? Etudes de Linguistique appliquée, Paris, v. 89, p. 25-35, 1993. DOLZ, J.; SCHNEUWLY, B. Genres et progression en expression orale et écrite: éléments de réflexions à propos d’une expérience romande. Enjeux, Namur, n. 37/38, p. 49-75, 1996. ______. Pour un enseignement de l’oral: initiation aux genres formels à l’école. Paris: ESF, 1998. LOUSADA, E. La notion de ‘genre’: une contribution à la compréhension et à la production de textes. Synergies Brésil, Florianópolis, v.3, p. 90-97, fevereiro 2002a. ______. Elaboração de material didático para o ensino de francês. In: DIONISIO, A. P.; MACHADO, A. R.; BEZERRA, M. A. Gêneros textuais e ensino. Rio de Janeiro: Lucerna, 2002b. p. 73-86. ______. O texto como produção social. In: DAMIANOVIC, M. C. Material Didático: Elaboração e Avaliação. Taubaté: Cabral, 2006. p. 33-42. MACHADO, A. R. Um instrumento de avaliação de material didático com base nas capacidades de linguagem a serem desenvolvidas no aprendizado de produção textual. Intercâmbio, São Paulo, v. X, p. 137-147, 2001. MACHADO, A. R.; ABREU-TARDELLI, L. A.; LOUSADA, E. G. Resumo. São Paulo: Parábola, 2004a. ______. Resenha. São Paulo: Parábola, 2004b. Eliane Gouvêa LOUSADA 174 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 160-174, 2009 ______. Planejar gêneros acadêmicos. São Paulo: Parábola, 2005. ______. Trabalhos de pesquisa: diários de leitura para a revisão bibliográfica. São Paulo: Parábola, 2007. SCHNEUWLY, B.; DOLZ, J. Gêneros orais e escritos na escola. Campinas: Mercado de Letras, 2004. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 175 O DESAFIO DE ENSINAR INGLÊS: EXPERIÊNCIAS DE CONFLITOS, FRUSTRAÇÕES E INDISCIPLINA Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER1 Laura Stella MICCOLI2 RESUMO: Este artigo relata resultados de uma pesquisa desenvolvida com três professoras de inglês que atuam em escola pública, particular e cursos livres. Com base nos dados ob- tidos, foi possível identificar algumas experiências de conflito vivenciadas: despreparo para ensinar a língua estrangeira, indisciplina dos estudantes, agressão ao profissional e frustração por não conseguir ensinar de forma efetiva. Além disso, as docentes descrevem a importância que a teoria do ensino de línguas desempenha na busca de solução para os obstáculos que surgem na prática. Os resultados indicam uma necessidade de maiores estudos que visem a compreender as experiências vivenciadas por professores e o modo como superam os de- safios, para que possamos conhecer melhor a realidade do ensino de língua estrangeira em diferentes contextos. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Experiências. Indisciplina. Língua inglesa. Introdução A busca de aprimoramento profissional, de aquisição de conhecimentos para, em última instância, contribuir para a melhoria da qualidade da educação levou a primeira autora a realizar uma pesquisa na qual investigou as crenças de professores e estudantes de língua inglesa em escolas públicas. Um resultado inesperado desse trabalho foi o papel que a indisciplina cumpre no processo de ensino e aprendizagem de inglês. Apresentada por professores como uma justi- ficativa para suas opções didáticas e por estudantes, como uma explicação para 1 Programa de Pós-graduação da Faculdade de Letras da UFMG, Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais, Brasil. cidazolnier@yahoo.com.br 2 Departamento de Linguística Aplicada (POSLIN) da Faculdade de Letras da UFMG, Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais, Brasil. miccoli.laurastella@gmail.com Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 176 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 seus diferentes comportamentos em sala da aula, a indisciplina representa um problema merecedor de uma atenção especial, principalmente quando há ado- lescentes em sala de aula. No caso do ensino e aprendizagem de língua inglesa, a indisciplina foi identificada como uma subcategoria dentre as categorias de experiência comuns à sala de aula (MICCOLI, 1997 e 2007a) e, tal como na pesquisa de Zolnier (2007), é um problema que afeta professores e estudantes em outros contextos, além da escola pública. Por ser uma experiência que aflige indistintamente professores (MICCOLI, 2007a) e por serem essas experiências uma das bases para a existência de suas crenças (BARCELOS; BATISTA; ANDRADE, 2004; CONCEIÇÃO, 2005; ZOLNIER, 2007), nos propusemos a investigar (1) os piores conflitos viven- ciados por um grupo de professoras, esperando obter a referência à indisci- plina dos adolescentes como problema e a (2) identificar quais são as crenças que emergem, a partir dessa experiência problemática. Neste artigo, a vivência da indisciplina (ZOLNIER, 2007) se encontra com o construto experiência (MICCOLI, 2007a) para ampliar a discussão sobre indisciplina em sala de aula, como um dos múltiplos conflitos viven- ciados por professores de inglês. Buscamos melhor compreender seu impacto e encontrar respostas viáveis para a superação desse problema. Finalmente, queremos compartilhar a compreensão que desenvolvemos sobre o assunto, tendo como propósito estreitar a relação entre teoria e prática. O Problema Embora a pesquisa produzida pela Linguística Aplicada ao Ensino de Línguas Estrangeiras (LAELE), ao longo dos últimos 40 anos, tenha contribuído para a ampliação do conhecimento e de uma melhor compreensão do processo de aquisição de uma segunda língua, nem sempre suas implicações, pelo menos aquelas diretamente aplicáveis à prática, chegam às escolas. O problema pode estar na restrição do acesso às pesquisas, cujos resultados não chegam aos pro- fessores, nas poucas oportunidades de atualização ou nos próprios professores, mantenedores de uma perspectiva negativa a respeito da pesquisa como desvin- culada ou distante da realidade enfrentada por eles em salas de aula. Dessa forma, se tomarmos por base a literatura sobre o ensino e aprendizagem de língua em salas de aula, observamos que ainda predominam práticas de ensino que, embora superadas, mantêm-se inalteradas, na qual a referência à indisciplina é recorrente. O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 177 Partindo do conceito de experiência apresentado por Miccoli (2007a), este trabalho investiga as experiências de conflito relatadas por três professo- ras de inglês. Pressupomos que a observação da própria prática, como objeto de investigação científica para a construção de teorias, oferece aos profes- sores a oportunidade de perceber que a dicotomia “teoria x prática” pode e deve ser superada, conforme propõe Leffa (2003). Além disso, acreditamos que algumas das frustrações e dos conflitos vivenciados por professores do ensino regular tenham origem no descompasso entre a prática de ensino ain- da vigente, com ênfase em cópias e exercícios gramaticais, e as expectativas dos aprendizes, sintetizadas no desejo de aprender a falar inglês (ZOLNIER, 2007). Por isso, é preciso acreditar que (1) os obstáculos podem ser supera- dos, (2) as necessidades podem ser supridas e (3) a aprendizagem de uma língua estrangeira com eficiência na escola regular é uma possibilidade real. Acreditamos ser competência da LAELE o tratamento das experiências de conflito vividas por professores e estudantes, assumindo com eles as dificul- dades encontradas, enfrentando-as como uma base recorrente de desafios, sobre a qual pesquisadores e professores devem se debruçar para encontrar soluções viáveis, de acordo com o contexto de ensino. Portanto, o presente trabalho bus- ca documentar e compreender as experiências de conflito de professoras que trabalham em diferentes contextos de ensino, bem como avaliar se essas expe- riências corroboram ou extrapolam a categorização existente de experiências de professores de língua inglesa (MICCOLI, 2007a). Primeiramente, nos referi- mos à fundamentação teórica que delimita este estudo. A seguir, apresentamos a metodologia adotada, abrangendo o perfil das professoras entrevistadas, os con- textos nos quais lecionam, os instrumentos e os procedimentos para a coleta de dados. Posteriormente, apresentamos os resultados, discutindo os problemas, as piores experiências relatadas e a importância atribuída por essas professoras às teorias sobre o ensino e a aprendizagem de línguas. Fundamentação Teórica Miccoli (2007a) fez uma revisão de vários trabalhos que se referiam a experiências nas aulas de inglês e constatou que o foco principal dessas investigações recai sobre os estudantes ou os professores em pré-serviço. Se- gundo a autora, a pouca ênfase das pesquisas no trabalho do professor em serviço compromete o entendimento dos processos que ocorrem nas salas Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 178 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 de aula de línguas, uma vez que este se constitui como um espaço coletivo, onde diferentes experiências, inclusive aquelas problemáticas, acontecem. Miccoli (2007b) adverte que o ensino e a aprendizagem de língua estrangeira no Brasil são marcados por uma série de obstáculos. Por isso, a pesquisa de- senvolvida nesse contexto representa um importante ponto de partida para o desenvolvimento de ações efetivas e superação dos desafios. Além disso, Miccoli (2006, p.142) acrescenta que os professores da rede particular de ensino se defrontam com problemas similares aos enfren- tados por profissionais de instituições públicas. Suas pesquisas têm revelado que, além da indisciplina e da dificuldade encontrada para desenvolver as quatro habilidades, outros desafios compartilhados são: “salas com muitos alunos, carga horária reduzida em relação às outras disciplinas, heteroge- neidade e problemas com o currículo”. Os resultados da autora corroboram outros estudos, principalmente no contexto da escola pública, como os de- senvolvidos por Oliveira (2004), Basso (2006), Dutra e Oliveira (2006) e Almeida Filho (2002). De acordo com Miccoli (2006, p.153), há uma “necessidade de tratar as questões que afligem os professores de língua estrangeira na sua prática, a partir de suas experiências”. A autora (2007a) afirma que ainda são incipien- tes os estudos sobre as experiências desses professores, o que revela certa negligência com o que acontece em sala de aula, como base para diminuir a distância que separa teoria e prática. Além desse distanciamento típico da academia, há ainda uma resistência por parte dos professores, com relação aos conhecimentos teóricos, por acreditarem que são produzidos por pesqui- sadores que desconhecem, ou conhecem apenas superficialmente, a realidade vivida pelos profissionais do ensino de línguas. Segundo Miccoli (2007b, p. 269), a pesquisa ainda incipiente sobre ex- periências conflituosas, no ensino e aprendizagem de uma língua estrangeira, representa uma lacuna que merece ser preenchida. Por isso, a autora defende a necessidade de uma agenda de investigação que tenha as seguintes metas: a) documentar as experiências, pois “embora muito seja afirmado, poucos dados documentais sustentam a maioria das afirmações”, b) interpretar os resulta- dos, a partir da teoria; c) preparar professores e estudantes para lidar com as situações problemáticas e, finalmente, d) tornar possível uma interação mais estreita entre a escola e o pesquisador, de forma que as pesquisas possam ofe- recer oportunidades de superação. O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 179 A indisciplina é um assunto comumente tratado por profissionais da área de educação. Há vários trabalhos que buscam elucidar questões afins aos conflitos vivenciados por professores com referência explícita à indiscipli- na (AQUINO, 1998; GUIMARÃES, 1996; PARO, 2000). Com relação aos problemas enfrentados, especificamente por professores de inglês, além de Miccoli (2005, 2006 e 2007a), podemos citar Basso (2006), Coelho (2006), Dutra e Oliveira (2006) e Zolnier (2007). Coelho (2006, p. 137) investigou as crenças de quatro docentes de escolas públicas do interior de Minas Gerais, evidenciando estudantes desmo- tivados e professores frustrados. O desinteresse dos alunos foi diagnosticado como consequência de um ensino pouco desafiador e fácil ao qual “os alunos reagem negativamente, causando conflitos em sala de aula, como por exem- plo, a indisciplina e a indiferença apontadas por todos os professores”. Por outro lado, a frustração do professor surge como resultado do “conflito entre os que eles querem ensinar e o que realmente fazem na prática”. O conflito em sala de aula também se manifesta pela dificuldade de desenvolver um trabalho coerente com aquilo em que se acredita, confor- me apontado por Dutra e Oliveira (2006, p. 181). O trabalho das autoras, desenvolvido com professores de inglês de escolas públicas, revelou que “o contexto da escola regular é o que mais gera tensões, devido a fatores como turmas grandes, alunos desinteressados e choque entre o desejo do professor e a expectativa do aluno” As autoras observam uma estreita ligação entre a desmotivação e a indisciplina: “A desmotivação de alguns alunos gera uma indisciplina que atrapalha o desenvolvimento do grupo” e o professor “passa a não desenvolver atividades comunicativas para não perder o controle da disciplina” (p. 185). Conflitos similares entre as ações do professor e as expectativas dos estudantes foram igualmente identificados por Zolnier (2007). A partir de da- dos coletados em salas de aula de estudantes da 5ª série (atual 6o. ano do Ensino Fundamental) pertencentes a uma escola pública, a autora discute o problema da indisciplina. Os estudantes começam os estudos de língua in- glesa de maneira interessada e participativa, devido a uma compreensão do papel da língua inglesa na sociedade em que vivem. Nesse primeiro momen- to, o professor privilegia o lúdico como uma forma de desenvolver o prazer pela aprendizagem. Entretanto, à medida que os jovens avançam às séries posteriores, mostram-se mais agitados, o que leva a professora a optar pelo Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 180 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 desenvolvimento de atividades de leitura, como uma maneira de controlar a disciplina em sala de aula. Esse caminho encontrado pela professora não atende às expectativas dos estudantes, que desejam desenvolver a habilidade oral, uma vez que acre- ditam que estudam inglês para aprender a falar. A autora defende a importân- cia de o professor buscar formas alternativas de lidar com a indisciplina, sem deixar de satisfazer as expectativas dos aprendizes. Para que esse problema possa ser contornado, Zolnier (2007) sugere algumas estratégias: a) conhecer melhor os estudantes e a fase de seu desenvolvimento (adolescência) de for- ma a conquistar a sua confiança e os incentivar a investir em uma aprendiza- gem eficiente; b) oferecer um ensino motivador e direcionado às expectativas dos alunos; c) elaborar normas de comportamento em conjunto com toda a comunidade escolar. Uma complexa rede de relações conflituosas explica os resultados supracitados, entre as quais encontramos a indisciplina – uma experiência comum que afeta tanto professores quanto estudantes. Por isso, observamos haver a necessidade de maior investimento em pesquisas que tratem desse problema, principalmente no que se refere ao contexto de língua estrangeira. Metodologia Para Miccoli (2007b, p. 270), a narração de uma experiência pode transformar a compreensão do que foi vivido. Para ela, “a experiência é um recorte da existência, pois ela se constitui naquilo que consideramos como elementos que nos perturbam, desencadeando mudanças estruturais”. Assim, ao relatar uma experiência, o narrador não só identifica os aspectos significa- tivos daquilo que vivenciou, como também tem a oportunidade de compreen- der o seu sentido mais profundo e, eventualmente, ter acesso à possibilidade de sua transformação. Por esses motivos, os dados para o desenvolvimento dessa investigação se apoiam nas experiências relatadas pelas professoras que colaboraram conosco, revelando os eventos mais conflituosos por elas viven- ciados. O presente estudo é caracterizado como um estudo de caso, que teve por objetivo compreender as experiências de conflito vivenciadas por profes- sores de inglês em diferentes salas de aulas. O caso ou a unidade de análi- se em questão (JOHNSON, 1992) é a experiência relatada pelo participante, O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 181 conforme Miccoli (1997). A partir dessa metodologia, o levantamento de da- dos foi realizado com o objetivo de responder a quatro perguntas: 1. Quais as piores experiências vivenciadas por professores de inglês em diferentes contextos? 2. Como esses conflitos afetam os professores? 3. Que papel a teoria de ensino desempenha diante desses obs- táculos? 4. O que os professores fazem para superar as dificuldades? Para obter as respostas almejadas, buscamos a colaboração de profes- sores que atendessem a apenas um critério: mais de 10 anos de experiência com o ensino de língua inglesa em diferentes contextos, a saber: na escola pública, na escola particular ou em curso livre. A justificativa para esse cri- tério reside na expectativa de uma capacidade de ação mais segura atribuída ao professor mais experiente. Inicialmente, foi realizado um convite informal a um grupo de professores conhecidos da primeira autora. Dentre os pro- fissionais convidados, três professoras que trabalham em cidades da Zona da Mata de Minas Gerais, voluntariamente, concordaram com a proposta da pesquisa. O procedimento adotado para a coleta dos depoimentos foi agendar entrevistas individuais de acordo com a disponibilidade das participantes e da pesquisadora. Estas aconteceram em 9, 16 e 17 de outubro de 2007. As entrevistas, que seguiram o roteiro das perguntas de pesquisa, foram gravadas e posteriormente transcritas e analisadas à luz do marco teórico que delimita este estudo. Participantes As professoras que aceitaram participar desse trabalho têm idade entre 40 e 50 anos e trabalham em pequenas cidades do interior de Minas Gerais. Para preservar a identidade das informantes, foram escolhidos pseudônimos, a saber: Luiza, Marina e Clara. Luiza é professora de português e inglês do ensino médio em uma escola pública. Possui também experiência de ensino em escola particular (português) e participa de um projeto de educação continuada há quatro anos. Ela revela insegurança para conversar em inglês, mas é uma profissional de- Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 182 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 dicada, investe em seu aprimoramento profissional e se dispõe a correr riscos, ou seja, se esforça para se comunicar com outros interlocutores mais profi- cientes. Marina leciona inglês para três turmas de terceiro ano do ensino mé- dio em uma escola particular, sendo que uma dessas turmas é uma seleção dos melhores estudantes da instituição. Coincidentemente, são os que se mostram mais interessados nas aulas. Eles pagam uma mensalidade mais cara, mas frequentam um número maior de aulas, buscando estar bem preparados para o vestibular. Além da escola particular, ela leciona em um curso livre. Sua ex- periência inclui também uma atuação de dois anos como professora substituta no departamento de Letras de uma universidade federal da região. Clara é professora e coordenadora de um curso livre de inglês. Pos- suía um cargo efetivo no ensino fundamental em uma escola pública, mas pediu exoneração devido aos inúmeros problemas enfrentados com a indisci- plina dos alunos. Assim como Marina, Clara é falante fluente de inglês. Análise dos Dados Após a transcrição das entrevistas, os dados foram analisados em três etapas. Primeiramente, examinamos cada entrevista isoladamente, buscando compreender o posicionamento de cada professor sobre cada uma das per- guntas. A seguir, comparamos as respostas de cada uma das delas, procu- rando identificar similaridades ou diferenças. Ao mesmo tempo, agrupamos as respostas dentro das categorias e subcategorias de experiências, segundo Miccoli (2007c). Posteriormente, selecionamos os dados mais significativos em relação às perguntas de pesquisa e às particularidades do contexto de en- sino. Terminada a análise, procedemos à interpretação dos resultados, tendo, como suporte, a revisão de literatura e procurando responder às perguntas de pesquisa. Discussão dos dados Segundo Miccoli (2007c, p. 28), as experiências podem ser classifica- das em cognitivas, sociais e afetivas. As cognitivas se referem aos processos mentais que dizem respeito à aprendizagem da língua. As sociais envolvem a relação social dentro da sala de aula entre estudantes e entre o(s) estudante(s) O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 183 e o professor. As afetivas referem-se ao papel das emoções e sentimentos suscitados no processo de aprendizagem. No que concerne a essa pesquisa, dentre as várias experiências relatadas, selecionamos as sociais e afetivas que se referem a eventos de conflitos e frustrações vivenciados durante as aulas de inglês. A discussão dos dados está organizada da seguinte maneira: a) tipos de conflitos vivenciados; b) piores experiências; c) reações diante dos obstácu- los; d) interface teoria/prática frente aos conflitos; e) estratégias de superação ou convivência com os conflitos. Tipos de conflitos vivenciados Luiza se classifica como uma professora que gosta de lecionar, mas sente-se frustrada por não falar de forma fluente. Ela gostaria de poder estu- dar em outro país, como os Estados Unidos porque acredita que assim teria mais segurança no desenvolvimento de seu trabalho e poderia exigir mais do aluno. Apesar de afirmar que é possível aprender bem a língua inglesa aqui no Brasil, ela relata que é preciso morar no exterior para adquirir segurança e aprimoramento. Para a docente, essa insegurança é a causa de suas maiores dificuldades: Luiza: Eu me sinto um pouco frustrada. Eu acho que sei pouco inglês e esse problema é pior que a indisciplina. Para eu dar uma aula de por- tuguês, rapidinho eu preparo uma aula. Aula de inglês para mim... eu tenho mais dificuldades porque eu tenho medo de chegar lá e perder a ponta da corda. Se os alunos virem que eu dei mancada, acabou. Eles perderão a confiança em mim. Então, no ensino médio, quando eu chego a dar uma coisa, aquilo já foi visto umas mil vezes. Por outro lado, nas aulas de português, tenho muito mais segurança porque vivo no país que fala aquela língua. Eu tenho muito mais materiais. O professor de português tem muito mais atenção que o professor de inglês. Geralmente tem mais cursos de reciclagem, tem muito mais materiais. Os problemas relatados por Luiza coincidem com os que são apre- sentados por Miccoli (2007b), Almeida Filho (2002) e Conceição (2006) no que se refere à escassez de materiais e despreparo do professor de língua Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 184 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 estrangeira. Luiza se sente mais segura para trabalhar com português por ter um maior conhecimento da língua materna e por ter o suporte de um maior número de materiais didáticos. Sua maior dificuldade, a insegurança, pode ter como origem o despreparo para ensinar inglês, conforme discutido por Du- tra e Mello (2004). Além disso, a crença de que um bom professor de inglês precisa residir no país da língua-alvo, como destacado por Barcelos (1995), parece ser um obstáculo à própria aprendizagem. Outro aspecto que merece destaque é quando afirma: “no ensino médio, quando eu chego a dar uma coisa, aquilo já foi visto umas mil vezes”. Talvez o fato de um conteúdo já ter sido estudado várias vezes, faz com que os alunos se desinteressem pelas aulas. Nesse caso, talvez fosse útil, a professora fazer um levantamento daquilo que os alunos já sabem e trabalhar a partir do que já foi aprendido. Com relação à indisciplina, ela acredita que os alunos se comportam de modo similar nas aulas de inglês e português, apesar de se interessarem mais pelo último. No que se refere às dificuldades comportamentais, enfatiza: Luiza: O pior é o aluno que enfrenta e desrespeita o professor. O apático, a gente conversa, procura saber o que está acontecendo, a gente ainda vê um jeito de controlar a situação. Agora o aluno que não tem ética alguma é mais difícil conviver com ele. Ele perturba mais. Lá tem um menino que fala assim: eu sirvo ao capeta. Eu estou aqui para servir ao capeta. Aí ele cospe nas meninas, bate nos meninos... Segundo a professora, um comportamento de desrespeito ao professor e aos colegas é uma questão de falta de ética, uma vez que prejudica o trabalho de todos e não permite que interações significativas sejam desenvolvidas entre os que desejam aprender. Em síntese, Luiza vivencia experiências conflituosas de natureza afetiva e social. Sua frustração se deve ao sentimento de inseguran- ça para a atuação como professora de inglês. Ao mesmo tempo, considera que parte de seu despreparo deve-se ao descaso das autoridades responsáveis por não oferecerem aos professores a oportunidade de uma constante atualização. Essa experiência externa à sala de aula se reflete na desvalorização da discipli- na na escola e pelos estudantes. Finalmente, a experiência da indisciplina é de natureza social, desafiando-a mais para sua superação do que o manejo daquele estudante desmotivado. A desvalorização da língua estrangeira, sentida por Lu- íza, é compartilhada por Marina, na escola particular: O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 185 Marina: Não tem aula de reforço. Outras matérias até têm, mas inglês não. Então, tem muito preconceito por parte da escola. A escola privile- gia outras matérias e não privilegia aulas de reforço de inglês. Se o aluno não acompanha, ele tem que arrumar aula particular ou recor- rer ao colega. O baixo status das aulas de inglês, a que as duas docentes se referem, é recorrente nos estudos de Basso (2006) e Dutra e Oliveira (2006). Para Ma- rina, as maiores dificuldades na escola particular são as conversas paralelas entre os estudantes. Apesar disso, a participante dessa pesquisa não considera os conflitos de indisciplina como problemas sérios. Durante os cinco anos de atuação profissional na instituição em que trabalha, raramente se viu obrigada a comunicar uma ocorrência de indisciplina aos superiores: Marina: Até hoje, foram umas três ocasiões que eu tive que escrever no livro de relatórios. A maioria das vezes eu tento resolver em sala. A in- disciplina vem da falta de interesse. O problema da indisciplina é o desinteresse, não é agressão verbal. Segundo a professora, o desinteresse dos alunos se refere a uma políti- ca anterior da escola que facultava a presença deles nas aulas de inglês, desde que apresentassem comprovantes de matrícula em cursos livres. Como essa política mudou, no ano em que realizamos a pesquisa, os alunos não enten- dem o porquê de estudarem inglês na escola: Marina: Até no ano passado, isentavam das aulas os alunos que faziam in- glês fora. Este ano, eles vieram com este espírito: o que eu estou fazendo aqui? Desde o início do ano, eu mostrei pra eles a importân- cia de frequentar as aulas porque eles estão sendo preparados para o vestibular. A gente trabalha com textos, com o inglês instrumental. Na turma mais avançada os alunos são mais interessados. No ensino médio regular, ficaram poucos bons. A maioria, cerca de 80%, é bem interessada. Como são provenientes de escolas do interior, reclamam que, no ensino público, o inglês não é muito explorado. Acaba sendo mais deficiente. Então, eles têm muita dificuldade em acompanhar e se desinteressam. A indisciplina vem da falta de interesse. Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 186 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 O que se pode observar, no depoimento de Marina, é que trabalhar com turmas heterogêneas constitui-se em um grande desafio para o desen- volvimento de ações eficazes, pois o desinteresse gera a indisciplina. Esse comportamento tem como origem, por um lado, o fato de os melhores apren- dizes considerarem que não precisam das aulas e, por outro lado, os estudan- tes oriundos do ensino público apresentarem dificuldades para acompanhar o programa. No estudo desenvolvido por Coelho (2006), constatamos que os estudantes se desinteressam pelas aulas, por considerá-las fáceis. No caso de Marina, tanto a dificuldade quanto o conteúdo fácil levam à desmotivação. Dessa forma, os dados confirmam que a indisciplina tem origem em uma ex- periência de natureza pedagógica – a dificuldade em atender às necessidades específicas dos estudantes – sejam eles bem preparados ou não. Diferentemente das participantes anteriores, Clara, professora que abandonou a escola pública pelas dificuldades enfrentadas com a indisciplina, reconta algumas experiências alarmantes de convivência com os estudantes. A docente define a indisciplina como: “é tudo que foge ao padrão estipulado pelas pessoas, pela sociedade, pela nossa cultura, pela educação que a gente recebeu de berço. Muitos jovens hoje não possuem limites”. Segundo Clara, a disciplina pressupõe um respeito aos limites impostos pela sociedade. Essa noção de limite, como algo essencial para a convivência humana, condiz com os pressupostos defendidos por Cardoso (2002) e Tiba (1985). Clara descreve com preocupação a complexidade do contexto no qual lecionava: Clara: A gente tinha problemas com drogas, roubos de computadores da escola, os carros dos professores eram arranhados. Outro dia fiquei sabendo que colocaram o pé para uma professora tropeçar. Ela se machucou, teve que ir para o hospital e depois abandonou a escola. Eu via agressão física, mas o pior era a conversa, a agitação. Tinha muitas conversas paralelas, falta de interesse, alunos apáticos. Você começa a falar do quanto o estudo é importante e, para eles, tanto faz... Uma está passando esmalte, outra está passando batom, um está ouvindo música, outro está mexendo no celular... Era uma in- disciplina muito grande... Na escola pública, Clara afirma ter tido sérios problemas de descaso com o patrimônio público, e os bens alheios. Além disso, a violência e o O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 187 desinteresse pelos estudos eram constantes. Por mais que tentasse motivar e despertar os estudantes para a importância da língua inglesa, ela considerava não atingir resultados satisfatórios. Problemas como a agressão ao profissio- nal, o roubo e a ameaça de dano ao patrimônio do professor fazem parte do cotidiano e são encontrados na literatura sobre a escola (PARO, 2000). Por outro lado, no curso livre, ela afirma não ter dificuldades com questões de indisciplina e considera que o trabalho com o aluno apático é mais complexo: Clara: Os dois são ruins, mas eu prefiro o que bagunça porque tenho como segurá-lo: castigando, conversando, ligando para os pais... Já o alu- no apático, aquele que não tem motivação, eu acho muito difícil. Eu tenho um aluno aqui no curso que até hoje nunca olhou na minha cara. Com esse eu não consegui nada. Agora, o outro, levadíssimo, dei advertência, chamei os pais... Com esse eu estou conseguindo. Com o outro, não. Os meios de que dispõe para lidar com o aluno indisciplinado no curso livre condiz com o que Marina defende – a importância dos limites na educa- ção, principalmente porque nesse contexto ela pode cobrar dos pais e contar com seu apoio. Marina: A gente liga para os pais quando os alunos faltam ou quando tem problema de indisciplina. Os próprios pais aqui no cursinho pro- curam a gente. Quando o filho tem problema sério, eles vêm pra falar com a gente. O contato é bem maior que na escola. Apesar de Clara afirmar que prefere lidar com o aluno indisciplinado, é importante ressaltar que ela abandonou seu cargo na escola pública, devido a problemas de indisciplina. Nesse contexto, a docente atribuiu sua dificulda- de em desenvolver um trabalho eficiente ao grande número de alunos e à falta de interesse. Esse resultado corrobora os apresentados por Miccoli (2006). Além disso, Clara observa, entre os aprendizes, uma ausência de objetivos relacionados ao estudo da língua estrangeira: Clara: Lá eu acho muito difícil por causa do grande número de alunos. Na nossa área, eu acho que eles não têm interesse. Eles não veem a ne- Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 188 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 cessidade de estudo de inglês. Muitos desses alunos extremamente indisciplinados não vão até o fim do curso. Por qualquer motivo eles desistem. Eles acham que não vale a pena estudar. Uns vão trabal- har, outros vão para a marginalidade. Entre esses muito difíceis, a maioria para de estudar. Muitos a escola nem precisa expulsar. Eles se excluem por conta própria. Guimarães (1996) e Paro (2000) classificam a escola pública como sendo essencialmente excludente, ou seja, há uma grande dificuldade para tratar o diferente, principalmente aquele que não se enquadra aos padrões de comportamento da instituição. Paro (2000) apresenta evidências que revelam o quanto os estudantes são avaliados e classificados somente pelo comporta- mento que apresentam. O autor relata ainda a forma como os estudantes repe- tem o discurso de exclusão da escola e, por isso, muitos abandonam a escola antes que ela o expulse. O grande número de alunos como empecilho para o desenvolvi- mento de um processo de ensino e aprendizagem satisfatório, como de- fendido por Clara, não se sustenta porque é possível ser bem-sucedido em condições adversas. Esse é o caso vivenciado por Marina, que leciona numa sala com 56 alunos. Visto que ambas convergem na experiência da indisciplina como um problema, o número de estudantes por sala não pa- rece ser determinante, mas sim o desinteresse dos estudantes e o descaso institucional para com a disciplina, como afirmado pelas duas docentes. Piores experiências Quando foram convidadas a relatar as piores experiências vividas na escola, ao longo de suas carreiras, as professoras revelaram as seguintes: Luiza: Foi quando eu estava grávida e um menino me xingou de nomes terríveis. Eu não suportei aquilo. Então eu juntei as minhas coisas e vim embora para casa. Eu fui ao médico e tirei licença antes da hora. Quando eu voltei, este menino não estava lá. Parece que ele teve problemas com outro professor, tentou bater em outro professor, também bateu na mãe dele na rua... E você fica triste em saber que uma pessoa destas passou por sua vida e você não conseguiu fazer O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 189 nada por ela. E a gente fica triste porque hoje ele é presidiário, usa drogas, atira nos outros, bate na mãe. Inclusive ele está preso agora. Marina: Só tive uma agressão verbal, mas eu consegui contornar. Eu dei uma resposta na hora. Ele abaixou a cabeça. Depois eu conversei com ele. Muitas vezes, a conversa foge do controle. Os adolescentes conversam muito. É a parte mais difícil, geralmente depois de um feriado ou do último horário, quando eles estão cansados... O que me incomoda mais é a conversa, mas é uma característica própria dos jovens, a agitação... Clara: Numa prova, uma aluna falou que iria deixar um bilhete para mim. E esse bilhete era um desenho de um cemitério muito bem desenha- do e cada professor tinha o seu túmulo, com o nome da matéria e do professor. Eu tinha sido a última professora a entrar e eles gostavam um pouco de mim. Mas eu já tinha o meu túmulo lá. O que diferen- ciava o meu túmulo dos outros era que o meu tinha umas florzinhas. Então eu perguntei pra ela: “eu já estou aqui?” E ela: “está, mas você é um pouco mais boazinha”. O desenho tinha o formato da escola. Ela queria todos os professores mortos. Tinha alguns túmulos sem nome na lápide. Quando eu perguntei o porquê, ela disse que era para os professores que viriam. Outro caso que me marcou demais foi um menino que era muito difícil. Eu chamei a mãe. Era uma mãe muito simples, já mais velha. Chorando ela falou pra mim assim: “professora, liga para o 190 e mande prender meu filho. Eu prefiro ver o meu filho preso. Se ele souber que vim aqui, ele vai me espan- car em casa”. Eu chorei junto dessa mãe porque eu não sabia o que falar... Eu não tinha palavras... Meu coração doeu... Como se pode observar no depoimento das três professoras, as expe- riências de conflito vividas por elas são realmente muito mais complexas na escola pública. Ao se deparar com uma situação de agressão verbal, Luiza pre- feriu se ausentar da sala e buscar uma licença médica, o que era seu direito, uma vez que estava prestes a ter uma filha. No entanto, como não lidou diretamente com o problema, ficou aquele sentimento de não ter feito nada pelo estudante, que hoje é presidiário. As situações de agressão ao professor, às quais Luiza Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 190 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 se refere, são citadas por Paro (2000), embora o autor relate que os estudantes também são vítimas de violência física, por parte do professor. O mesmo sentimento de frustração foi mencionado por Clara, diante do desespero da mãe e da gravidade da situação. A única coisa que conseguiu fazer foi abraçá-la e ser solidária ao seu sofrimento. Com relação ao desenho da menina da 6ª série (atual 7o. ano do Ensino Fundamental), Clara o mostrou para a direção e a família foi convidada a comparecer na escola. Depois disso, os pais providenciaram um acompanhamento psicológico para a filha e a pro- fessora também dedicou a ela uma atenção especial, procurando sempre res- saltar suas qualidades e seus pontos positivos. Certo tempo depois, recebeu outro desenho da aluna, contendo rosas. De certa forma, a professora se sente recompensada por tê-la ajudado, ao detectar o problema e contribuir para que pudesse receber apoio médico e familiar. Resultados como esses também são apresentados por Paro (2000). Concluindo, parece que o diferencial para que uma experiência ruim não se constitua como um evento não superado está numa reação imediata e à altura do conflito enfrentado. Um pouco de compreensão é também importan- te, pois, como Marina nos lembra, os adolescentes têm uma agitação natural e sentem a necessidade de conversar. Essa consciência, além de fundamental, é corroborada por Tiba (1985), pois os jovens também fazem da escola um importante espaço de lazer e socialização (PARO, 2000; COSTA, 2002). Reações frente aos conflitos O pedido de uma reflexão sobre o modo como reagem frente aos con- flitos feito às professoras elicitou depoimentos reveladores: Luiza: Eu já tive aluno que no princípio do ano era péssimo, em matéria de disciplina, e quando chegou o final do ano, tinha mudado completa- mente. Ao longo do ano, eu conversei muito com ele, pedia, falava que aquele caminho não era bom, tentava animá-lo, tentava mostrar as qualidades dele, as coisas que ele podia fazer. Então ele conseguiu melhorar, mas não são todos que reagem a esse tipo de estímulo. Tem menino que em um ano é terrível e dá muito trabalho. No ano seguinte ele muda completamente. Acho que também amadurece. Alguns que são levados a vida toda. O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 191 Marina: Fica muito difícil pra mim, mandar os alunos pra fora de sala... Quando há indisciplina, eu peço para eles se retirarem para ir ao ban- heiro. Eu já combino assim, se não estão interessados na aula, eles saem, vão ao banheiro e ficam por lá. Pra evitar essa coisa de mal estar, de eu mandar o fulano sair de sala. Se eu mandar, eles ficam zanzando pela escola, são recolhidos, tem um livro de advertência, mas eu procuro segurar a onda. Isso é muito angustiante para mim e eu procuro ter postura na sala de aula. Procuro me impor dentro do conhecimento, ilustrando que aquilo é muito importante e que vale a pena. Procuro motivá-los. Com o tempo a gente vai aprendendo que os problemas não são tão graves assim. A gente vai aprendendo a contornar. Clara: Nada que eu levava tinha valor. Como professora eu me sentia mui- to diminuída. Quando você estuda, prepara, tem retorno e vê o olho do aluno brilhando, você fica muito feliz. Mas quando você prepara e não consegue... eu não conseguia fazer o que eles mereciam. Eu ficava muito abalada. Eu até tive um sério problema físico que foi comprovado ser de origem emocional. Eu ficava tão cansada, não tinha vontade de sair, não tinha vontade de me arrumar... E minha autoestima só caindo. Foi muito difícil para mim. Eu chorava muito, tive problemas sérios de saúde, hemorragia direto. Eu fazia todos os exames e não dava nada. Quando eu estava prestes a tirar o útero, deixei a escola e o fluxo foi diminuindo até se normalizar. Através de suas falas, podemos observar que cada uma das do- centes procura uma forma de mitigar os conflitos, ou seja, de certa forma procuram uma zona de conforto,definida como um conjunto de comporta- mentos que levam ao estabelecimento de um espaço confortável de ações, no qual a ansiedade e o risco não têm espaço (BARDWICK, 1995). Dessa forma, torna-se possível continuar a trabalhar sem um grande desgaste, tanto para si próprias como professoras, quanto para a relação com seus alunos. Luiza afirma que, depois de muitos anos de trabalho, não sofre tan- to com a indisciplina. Para tentar amenizar o problema, ela procura estar sempre próxima do aluno, conversando com ele, motivando-o e fazendo-o acreditar em suas qualidades e em seu potencial, assim como realçado por Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 192 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 Paro (2000). No entanto, ela enfatiza que os aprendizes reagem de forma diferente aos mesmos estímulos. Às vezes, algo que funciona para um es- tudante não leva ao mesmo resultado com outro. Ela também acredita que a mudança e o amadurecimento fazem parte da trajetória humana, ou seja, em determinadas situações, o professor não precisa tomar qualquer tipo de atitude, pois o tempo se encarrega de resolver as dificuldades, ponto de vista coerente com Tiba (1985). Para Marina, a zona de conforto encontrada estabelece um espaço isento de atritos com os alunos e com a direção da escola, mas não livre de conflitos interiores, uma vez que afirma “é muito angustiante pra mim”. Quando os estudantes conversam demais, ela simplesmente pede que saiam para ir ao banheiro. Parece existir, entre a professora e os estudantes, uma norma implícita de comportamento, ou seja, para evitar atritos, ela não os expõe ao rigor das normas institucionais e eles, por sua vez, aceitam o convite para não incomodarem o desenvolvimento das aulas. Por sua vez, Clara sente que a recompensa do professor está na mo- tivação, no brilho do olhar do estudante. Como ela sempre preparou com atenção suas aulas, via o desinteresse dos alunos como algo que afetava diretamente sua autoestima. E, aos poucos, foi ficando cansada, desesti- mulada, chegando a perder o interesse em cuidar de si própria e ter sérios problemas de saúde. Os sentimentos manifestados por Clara são reconheci- dos também em outros contextos. Basso (2006, p. 74), por exemplo, relata: “fica evidente que a auto-estima do professor de LE encontra-se fortemente abalada”. Coelho (2006, p. 128) também afirma que os professores sentem “frustração e decepção diante da realidade de trabalho que encontram” e Dutra e Oliveira (2006, p.182) confirmam haver uma “tensão entre as in- tenções e ações do professor. Ele acaba não conseguindo colocar em prática as ações a que se propõe. Há um choque entre o desejo do professor e as barreiras impostas pelo contexto”. Interface teoria/prática frente aos conflitos Quanto à importância da teoria no desenvolvimento do trabalho do professor de inglês, as percepções das participantes se deram como apresen- tado a seguir: O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 193 Luiza: Sem teoria não tem jeito de trabalhar. Teoria e prática estão inter- ligadas. Para mim a teoria está diretamente ligada ao ser humano, ao tratar o ser humano. Às vezes você sabe a matéria, mas não sabe passar a matéria, não sabe trabalhar para que os alunos gostem das aulas. A experiência conta? Conta. Mas eu conheço meninos que estão saindo da universidade e que dão aula muito melhor do que eu. Às vezes ele estuda mais e está com o pé atrás. Se não estudar, não valho nada. Quanto mais leio, mas descubro que tenho que ler. Quanto mais estudo, mas descubro que tenho que estudar. É infinito! Não tem como falar: “sou uma boa professora porque tenho 20 anos de serviço”. Mentira! Esses professores novos são melhores. Não adianta também saber muito inglês e não ter consideração com o ser humano. Marina: A teoria desempenha um grande papel em meu trabalho. Para lidar com a indisciplina, eu gosto da psicologia. Eu gosto de lidar com os sentimentos do aluno. Eu procuro ser amiga, ser dura, ser firme. Eu elogio, eu me preocupo, eu não sou dona do conhecimento, aquela coisa de aluno passivo e eu só dando aula expositiva, sem ligar pra nada. Eu converso, de vez em quando paro a aula, dou exemplos da minha vida... Mostro um pouco do meu lado humano também. Se o aluno está desatento, eu procuro chegar perto. Só estar próximo do aluno, não precisa dizer nada... A psicologia me ajudou bastante, apesar de as turmas serem grandes e eu não conseguir guardar o nome de todos. Não dá porque são duas aulas de 50 minutos por semana e muitos alunos por sala, 40, 45, tem uma de 56 alunos... Eu só consigo conhecer aqueles que me procuram, aqueles que têm dúvidas ou dificuldades. Para esses alunos, eu vou à escola à tarde e estudo com eles na biblioteca. Clara: Eu buscava ajuda mais nas pessoas do que nos livros. As pessoas que passam pelos mesmos problemas possuem mais vivência. A teoria é muito importante, mas quando você enfrenta a situação mesmo... O livro tem a teoria... A teoria é muito importante, mas quando você vai e enfrenta... Quando eu conversava com as pessoas, eu achava que me ajudava mais. A experiência de outras pessoas me ajudava mais. Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 194 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 Das três professoras, apenas Clara parece preferir mais as lições da prática, embora todas atribuam um papel importante à teoria. Demonstram também ter noções teóricas sobre a importância da motivação para os estu- dos. No entanto, Luiza e Marina relatam acreditar mais na importância de um trabalho que conjugue os fundamentos teóricos com a prática escolar. Além disso, a psicologia parece ser a ciência que mais serve de suporte para as dú- vidas e frustrações dos professores. Para Luiza, além de ter um bom relacionamento com os estudantes, é preciso ter conhecimentos de didática para que o profissional saiba ensinar bem. Ela destaca que hoje os professores saem mais bem preparados das uni- versidades, além de terem o “pé atrás”, ou seja, como não possuem a segu- rança da prática, têm que se dedicar e se preparar mais. Luiza frequenta um programa de formação continuada para professores de inglês há quatro anos e afirma o quanto se sente mais segura por ter acesso ao conhecimento produ- zido pelas universidades. Marina se mostra familiar com os termos usados na teoria do ensino de línguas, relata que se preocupa muito em desenvolver uma prática coerente com a teoria e acredita no suporte que a psicologia dá ao profissional. Apesar de ter pouco contato com seus estudantes e não conseguir memorizar o nome de todos, ela considera essencial estar próximo deles, principalmente dos que apresentam maiores dificuldades. Para isso, dedica parte de seu tempo livre para esclarecer as dúvidas que eles apresentam. Além disso, ela procura mo- tivar o estudante, partindo de suas próprias experiências, assim como defen- dido por Basso (2006). Clara destaca, na entrevista, uma crença no distanciamento entre te- oria e prática, ao revelar que “muitas coisas são maravilhosas nos livros, mas a realidade é diferente”. Seu posicionamento parece semelhante aos resultados de Oliveira (2004, p. 46) sobre professores de inglês de uma es- cola pública de Goiás que “se sentem desmotivados e desesperançosos ao experienciar a realidade de ensino da língua inglesa nas escolas da rede ofi- cial”. Segundo a autora, esses professores “chegam, inclusive, a qualificar a teoria ministrada na universidade como utópica e não funcional naquela realidade” (p. 54) e destacam ainda que naquele contexto “a teoria está mui- to distante da prática”. O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 195 O que fazer para mitigar os conflitos Como vimos, as professoras lidam com os conflitos que vivenciam da melhor maneira possível. A análise de seus depoimentos nos permite identi- ficar, a partir das experiências relatadas pelas três professoras entrevistadas, que a administração dos conflitos passa por três estratégias principais: valo- rizar a escola, conhecer o estudante e buscar apoio especializado, como será discutido a seguir. a) valorizar a escola e a língua estrangeira Aquino (1998) destaca que, atualmente, a imagem social da escola parece estar ameaçada de forma que ela e seus profissionais enfrentam um grande descrédito, por parte da comunidade e dos próprios alunos. As pala- vras de Luiza ilustram bem essa falta de credibilidade profissional a que o autor se refere: Luiza: Nós temos uma turma de 3º ano de ensino médio que não cala a boca nem um minuto. Eles passeiam o tempo todo. Boa parte dessa turma era alunos de uma escola particular. Como a escola deles fechou, eles tiveram que vir para a nossa. Eles também fazem cursinho pré- vestibular. Eles têm aquele preconceito e acham que a nossa escola não está com nada e não vai fazer nada por eles. Por isso eles fazem aquela bagunça toda. Essa turma nossa era ótima, excelente, mas quando vieram os alunos da escola particular, acabou a turma. Essa cultura de que a nossa escola não vai ajudá-los está impedindo a gente de trabalhar com aqueles que querem. Luiza condena o fato de os alunos que vieram da escola particular não acreditarem na instituição pública e ainda prejudicarem os que lá estavam anteriormente. No que se refere à importância da valorização da escola pela sociedade, Luiza acredita que essa mudança de atitude precisa começar pelo próprio professor. Sua convicção a fez matricular a única filha no mesmo local onde trabalha: Luiza: Você fala mal de um lugar onde você trabalha? A escola presta para você trabalhar, mas não presta para seu filho estudar? Quer dizer Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 196 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 que os filhos dos outros não merecem? Minha filha só vai parar de estudar lá se eu parar de trabalhar lá. Não é porque eu não possa pagar. Dinheiro e tempo são questões de prioridade. Então para mim não é prioridade minha filha estudar numa escola particular. Porque a escola pública pode ser tão boa quanto a particular. Eu acredito na escola pública. Apesar de todas as dificuldades, eu acredito. A gente também pode ajudar a melhorar a escola. Barcelos, Batista e Andrade (2004) discutem o preconceito com re- lação à escola pública que é citado por Luiza. A atitude da professora de acreditar no contexto onde trabalha e, inclusive, matricular a única filha nessa escola é um fator que afeta grandemente o seu trabalho, pois ela se prepara e investe em sua formação continuada. Seu exemplo precisa ser seguido por outros professores que simplesmente criticam e não se envolvem em projetos de mudanças efetivas. Por sua vez, ao lidar com alunos desinteressados, Marina também pro- cura chamar a atenção deles para a importância dos estudos: Marina: Como eles vêm de famílias que exigem porque pagam... E toda hora eu toco na mesma tecla, eu falo, olha, você está pagando caro... Va- mos aproveitar o profissional... A fala de Marina, que procura sempre destacar para o aluno a im- portância dos estudos, uma vez que o ensino é pago, merece também uma reflexão. A partir desse resultado, observamos uma necessidade de despertar nos alunos da escola pública uma consciência da importância dos estudos, uma vez que eles também são pagos, já que nossos impostos são muito altos. Essa falta de consciência dos alunos também é discutida por Paro (2000) e por Paiva (2006, p. 122): “infelizmente eles não tiveram consciência de seus direitos para demandar mais da escola e aceitaram currículos que não aten- diam às suas necessidades”. No entanto, mais preocupante é saber que a falta de consciência dos alunos tem origem no discurso e nas atitudes dos próprios professores, como relata Luiza: Luiza: Eu sou contra todo tipo de preconceitos e adoro colocá-los à prova. Eu acho que a gente tem preconceito quando diz: “esse menino é O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 197 muito pobre”, “esse menino não tem o que comer em casa, não vai aprender”. Muitas vezes, se ele questiona, “credo, que menino cha- to”, “esse menino questiona tudo”. Na verdade, o que se pede hoje é que os alunos sejam questionadores, mas o que eu tenho visto é pro- fessores nada abertos a esses alunos. Eles não são realmente aceitos. Luiza destaca que nem todos os professores encorajam a consciência crítica porque os alunos questionadores “cobram que a gente faça um trabalho bem feito e incomodam”. Após a entrevista, ela exemplifica a atitude de uma aluna que desejava ser aprovada no vestibular e, por isso, cobrava qualidade da escola. No entanto, essa estudante não era bem vista por todos os profes- sores. Segundo Luiza, em uma ocasião, quando ela se preparava para entrar e começar sua aula de inglês, encontra na porta a professora de português que lhe pede que deixe os estudantes terminarem uma redação. Antes que Lui- za respondesse, a aluna protesta: “E inglês, nós não vamos aprender, não?”. Diante dessa “ousadia”, a professora de português se sente indignada e ainda usa apelidos pejorativos para se referir à aluna, posteriormente. Apesar de va- lorizar essa atitude, Luiza reconhece sua raridade, uma vez que a comunidade (escola e família) não valoriza o estudo de inglês: Luiza: Se algum menino tem mais consciência da necessidade, ele me co- bra e eu sou obrigada a dar uma aula do jeito que ele está me cobran- do, mas a maioria não está incentivada para aquela aula. Mesmo que a gente fale que é importante, o povo todo, a família, a própria escola tem aquela cultura, o preconceito de que inglês não é tão necessário. Isso atrapalha o trabalho da gente. Atrapalha mesmo! Infelizmente no Brasil tem este preconceito... De um modo geral, podemos observar que a valorização das au- las de inglês ainda está longe de ser ideal, como apresentado por Basso (2006) e Dutra e Oliveira (2006). A situação parece complexa, uma vez que não há um consenso entre os próprios professores e muitos deles acham que podem utilizar os horários dessa disciplina para o desenvol- vimento de atividades totalmente alheias ao seu programa. A nosso ver, parece que o professor de inglês precisa lutar intensamente, até mesmo com os próprios colegas de escola, para conseguir valorizar seu trabalho Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 198 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 e, com isso, tentar influenciar o modo como a instituição, os estudantes e a família veem o estudo de inglês. b) Conhecer, valorizar e motivar o aluno Todas as professoras relataram que um relacionamento próximo ao estudante pode ajudar a solucionar os conflitos, mas, para isso, torna-se ne- cessário tempo e disponibilidade para conhecê-lo: Luiza: Cada aluno é um. O que eu uso para um aluno não funciona para o outro. Então eu procuro buscar conhecer esse menino e assim vou saber como posso tocá-lo. Se bem que, às vezes, eu consigo con- hecer o menino, mas não consigo tocá-lo. Para dar certo tem que respeitar o aluno. É a lei do retorno. Tudo que você faz para os out- ros volta pra você. Então, a gente tem que respeitar a cultura dos meninos, o jeito de cada um porque cada um tem a sua inteligência, não ficar comparando uns com os outros... Luiza afirma que os esforços não produzem os mesmos resultados para todos os alunos e, por isso, o professor precisa conhecê-los para com- preender o que é significativo para eles. Suas proposições condizem com Miccoli (2007c, p. 37), que defende: “para haver sucesso na aprendizagem, o professor deve conhecer bem os seus alunos. Só assim ele poderá saber o que funciona ou não. [...] Há uma necessidade de uma relação mais estreita e transparente entre professor e aluno”. Marina, por sua vez, também acredita no relacionamento próximo. No entanto, ela destaca: Marina: Não dá tempo. São só duas aulas de 50 minutos por semana. São muitos alunos. Na sala de aula, procuro falar a linguagem dos alu- nos, procuro não ser a dona da sala, procuro interagir. Sempre trago exemplos do dia a dia deles... Sempre pego algo que está aconte- cendo, coloco o nome do aluno no quadro, saio um pouco do livro... Clara: Pra dar certo, tinha que fazer um trabalho mais próximo, junto da família. A família é a base de tudo. O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 199 Todas as três participantes reconhecem a necessidade de reconhecer as diferenças no trato com os estudantes. A percepção das profissionais condiz com alguns princípios da abordagem humanista, a qual, segundo Williams e Burden (1997), orienta o professor a identificar e atender às necessidades in- dividuais do público-alvo. Além disso, os autores acreditam que os professo- res devem procurar conhecer os aprendizes como indivíduos e compreender o modo como eles veem o mundo, sem impor suas próprias convicções. Uma consideração feita pelas três professoras merece nossa atenção: a crença no seu papel como motivadoras. Elas acreditam que devem motivar seus estudantes e procurar meios de despertar o interesse pela aprendizagem da língua estrangeira: Luiza: Para que o aluno goste da matéria, ele tem que gostar da gente primeiro. Daí é um caminho longo a percorrer. Se a gente tem um período longo de convivência, a gente pode até conseguir, mas em um ano só, acho difícil. Como as aulas de inglês são poucas, é mais difícil. Com português é mais fácil porque a gente tem mais contato com o menino. Marina: Procuro preparar aulas bem criativas e, assim, não ficar só naquela aulinha que eles estão acostumados. Eles falam: olha, a sua aula é a mais legal, mais interessante, você é a professora mais legal, coisas assim. Então, o problema não é porque a professora é ruim, não mo- tiva e que é chata... Para motivar eu procuro dar aulas criativas, eu procuro ser amiga. Clara: Eu fiz o meu melhor. Eu levei muitos jogos, eu fiz o que podia, mas foi uma coisa além das minhas forças. Eu não conseguia, de jeito algum, atingir nem 10% do que eu gostaria de atingir. As professoras reconhecem a importância da motivação para que uma aprendizagem efetiva aconteça. Partindo do princípio que diz ser preciso gos- tar do professor, dedicam tempo e esforço para elaborar aulas criativas, o que, segundo elas, nem sempre atinge os resultados esperados. O “gostar do professor”, como destacado por Luiza, condiz com o que Williams e Burden (1997) postulam. Segundo os autores, o professor desempenha um papel im- Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 200 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 portante em todos os estágios do processo motivacional, uma vez que todos os aprendizes são influenciados, de alguma forma, pelos próprios sentimentos relacionados ao professor. Assim, suas percepções do profissional e da inte- ração que ocorre entre eles irão, indubitavelmente, afetar a motivação para aprender. c) Ter com quem contar As professoras destacam a importância de um trabalho coletivo na escola, de modo que o profissional não se sinta sozinho e desamparado frente aos conflitos. Quando se tem com quem contar para superar os problemas, até a saúde do profissional pode melhorar, conforme relata Luiza: Luiza: Quando eu entrei para o projeto de educação continuada, eu tomava 40 mg de Fluoxetina por dia. Depois de 2 anos no projeto, eu reduzi para 10 mg por dia. Tem dia que eu nem preciso tomar. Eu só tomo quando estou muito nervosa ou vou ter que enfrentar uma situação difícil. Essa mudança aconteceu porque eu aprendi como lidar com as pessoas e elaborar melhor minhas aulas. Eu adquiri mais segu- rança. Sem contar que, na hora que preciso de alguma coisa, ligo para uma colega e consigo material. Melhorou também a minha au- toestima porque eu tenho com quem contar, coisa que eu não tinha antes. Clara: A escola podia fazer mais. Onde eu trabalhava não havia amizade entre os professores. O ambiente não era bom. Os professores for- mavam pequenos grupos, uns contra os outros. Faltava união em todos os sentidos. Se tivesse união, se todos trabalhassem juntos, talvez os resultados pudessem ser melhores. Faltava amizade e até respeito entre os colegas. Era uns contra os outros, até com os aju- dantes de cozinha. Faltava respeito, faltava um pouco de Deus ali. Os relatos de Luíza e Marina revelam a importância de um trabalho desenvolvido por uma equipe de profissionais comprometidos com a quali- dade da educação. Luiza encontrou apoio para as dificuldades, fora de seu ambiente de trabalho, em um programa de formação continuada e, por isso, conseguiu superar seus problemas de saúde e, apesar das limitações que acre- O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 201 dita ter, desenvolve um trabalho satisfatório e com dedicação. Esse resultado confirma o que diz Miccoli (2005) num trabalho em que enfatiza a importân- cia do investimento na própria formação profissional. Os projetos de educa- ção continuada podem se tornar espaço privilegiado para o desenvolvimento do professor, tanto na expansão de seu conhecimento da língua estrangeira, quanto na ampliação de sua compreensão das diferentes teorias de ensino. Além disso, servem para constituir uma rede de pessoas ligadas pelo mesmo objetivo, ou seja, um espaço de estudo, ação, avaliação e partilha, como de- fende Miccoli (2005). Por sua vez, Clara, que possui excelente domínio da língua inglesa, se viu obrigada a abandonar a escola pública por não ter conseguido superar os obstáculos, os problemas de saúde e a falta de apoio dos profissionais da escola. Suas afirmações nos levam a acreditar que a desarmonia existente entre os professores e alunos era apenas um reflexo das inúmeras desavenças existentes entre os profissionais daquele contexto. Um ambiente de trabalho ideal, em termos de relações humanas, é descrito por Paro (2000): professores e funcionários se relacionam em relativa harmonia, se apoiam e os atritos são resolvidos de forma saudável. Clara afirma que naquela escola faltava um pouco de Deus, como se ela evidenciasse a inexistência de um amor fraterno, capaz de apoiar o outro na dificuldade e, principalmente, respeitá-lo, como ser humano e profissional. Ao se ver sozinha diante das dificuldades, preferiu deixar a escola e buscar trabalho onde se sentisse mais valorizada e não tivesse tanto desgaste físico. Hoje se dedica exclusivamente ao ensino em cursos de idiomas. Considerações finais O desenvolvimento desse trabalho nos permite apresentar algumas conclusões que consideramos importantes. A primeira delas se remete à es- cassez de trabalhos que investiguem com maior profundidade as experiências de professores, como afirma Miccoli (2007a). Neste trabalho, investigamos a prática do professor quanto às suas experiências com a indisciplina, buscando documentar e aprender com eles sobre como lidar com o problema – o tipo de experiência conflituosa mais reportada por professores de inglês em contexto público e particular (MICCOLI, 2006; ZOLNIER, 2007). Os resultados nos permitiram conhecer como se manifesta essa indisciplina, bem como conhe- Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 202 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 cer a maneira como diferentes professoras lidam com essa experiência. Além disso, identificamos as diferenças entre as professoras, em relação ao trata- mento bem-sucedido da indisciplina e do estudante . Uma segunda conclusão nos permite reconhecer a validade de nossos re- sultados que condizem com os estudos de Basso (2006), Coelho (2006), Dutra e Oliveira (2006) e Miccoli (2006), quanto à coerência entre a maneira como o conflito é concebido e o modo como o professor reage a ele, bem como sua in- fluência na interação com os alunos e no desenvolvimento de um trabalho eficaz. Um resultado que merece destaque é a importância da intervenção, pois vimos como a não resolução ou a decisão pelo não tratamento de um conflito pode mudar o curso de uma vida, para o bem ou para o mal, afetando diretamente a saúde e a autoestima, tanto do estudante quanto do professor. Outro efeito negativo dos conflitos, principalmente com relação à escola pública, diz respeito ao fato de que vários profissionais, com boa competência linguística como Clara, se veem forçados a procurar outros ambientes de trabalho, como os cursos livres, o que reforça a crença de que esse contexto possui os melhores profissionais e a escola pública vi- vencia maiores problemas. Reconhecemos que os professores recém-formados saem das univer- sidades ainda despreparados para lidar com os conflitos inerentes às relações entre professor e estudantes, em sala de aula, simplesmente porque a discus- são sobre a prática é ainda incipiente na graduação. Inovações nos cursos de Letras, como os estudos de casos (PAIVA, 2005; MEC/SESU, 2002), são um primeiro passo para colocar o profissional em contato com a realidade do ensino nas escolas, ao mesmo tempo em que oferecem condições e suporte para examinar os obstáculos à luz da teoria do ensino de línguas. Além disso, quanto mais pesquisas sobre a sala de aula forem desenvolvidas, maiores as chances de o conhecimento produzido chegar aos formadores e aos graduan- dos. Assim, os recém-formados em Letras se sentirão mais bem preparados para enfrentar o que a sala de aula lhes reserva. Uma terceira conclusão remete à compreensão da experiência confli- tuosa na sala de aula. Entendemos que os conflitos só surgem quando há um choque entre diferentes pontos de vista. Costa (2002, p. 141) afirma que “a violência é utilizada para obter respostas mais imediatas. O diálogo, muitas vezes, não tem tão curto alcance como a violência”. Por isso, precisamos estar atentos às insatisfações de nossos alunos. Se os jovens não aprendem a O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 203 dialogar em suas famílias, eles podem começar a aprendê-lo na escola, desde que estejamos dispostos a assumir essa responsabilidade, conscientes de es- tarmos sujeitos a erros e acertos. Os conflitos podem ser positivos se nos levar a refletir e avaliar nossa abordagem de ensinar e nossas ações em sala. Como apontaram os resultados, um relacionamento de respeito, diálogo e confiança pode ser um importante ponto de partida para a superação dos obstáculos. Finalmente, concluímos que os resultados nos contextos pesquisados revelam que não só a escola pública, mas também a particular e os cursos livres apresentam-se como contextos desafiadores para o desenvolvimento de um trabalho significativo e direcionado às expectativas dos estudantes, como discutido por Zolnier (2007). Esperamos que esses dados motivem outros pesquisadores a inves- tirem em pesquisas sobre outras experiências, de modo que a teoria possa se aproximar mais da prática da sala de aula e os professores não se sintam sozinhos, diante da grande tarefa que é o ensino de uma língua estrangeira. ZOLNIER, Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira; MICCOLI, Laura Stella. The challenge of teaching english: teachers’ experiences of conflict, frustration and indiscipline. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009. ABSTRACT: This paper presents results of a research, developed with three English tea- chers who work in public, private and language schools. The subjects reported some con- flicting experiences: feelings of being unprepared to teach the foreign language, students’ indiscipline, aggressive behavior towards the professional and frustration for not achieving good results. Moreover, the teachers describe the importance that the second language the- ory plays in order to overcome the problems they face, in their career. The results indicate a necessity of more studies which aim to deeply understand the teachers’ experiences and the way they deal with the challenges, so that we can be better informed about the reality of the teaching of foreign language in different contexts. KEYWORDS: Experiences. Indiscipline. English language. Referências ALMEIDA FILHO, J.C.P. Dimensões comunicativas no ensino de línguas. Campinas: Pontes Editores, 2002. AQUINO, J.G. A indisciplina e a escola atual. Revista da Faculdade de Educação, v. 24, n. 2, São Paulo, 1998. p. 181-204. Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira ZOLNIER e Laura Stella MICCOLI 204 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 BARCELOS, A.M.F. A cultura de aprender língua estrangeira (inglês) de alunos formandos de letras. 1995. Dissertação (Mestrado em Linguística Aplicada) - UNICAMP, Campinas, 1995. BARCELOS, A.M.F.; BATISTA, F.S.; ANDRADE, J.C. Ser professor de inglês: crenças, expectativas e dificuldades dos alunos de Letras. In: ABRAHÃO, M.H.V. (Org.). Prática de ensino de língua estrangeira: experiências e reflexões. Campinas: Pontes Editores e ArteLíngua, 2004. p. 11-29. BARDWICK, J. Danger in the Comfort Zone: How to Break the Entitlement Habit that’s Killing American Business. New York: American Management Association, 1995. BASSO, E.A. Quando a crença faz a diferença. In: BARCELOS, A. M. F.; ABRAHÃO, M.H.V. (Orgs.). Crenças e ensino de línguas: Foco no professor, no aluno e na formação de professores. Campinas: Pontes Editores, 2006. p. 65-85. CARDOSO, M.O. Megatendências de educação. In: DOTTI, C.M. (Org.). Educação: reflexões, vivências e pesquisa. Caxias do Sul: EDUCS, 2002. p. 63-73. 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Prática reflexiva: Tensões instrucionais vivenciadas pelo professor de língua inglesa. In: BARCELOS, A.M.F.; ABRAHÃO, M.H.V. (Orgs.) Crenças e ensino de línguas: Foco no professor, no aluno e na formação de professores. Campinas: Pontes Editores, 2006. p. 177-188. GUIMARÃES, A. M. A dinâmica da violência escolar: Conflito e ambiguidade. Campinas: Autores Associados, 1996. O desafio de ensinar inglês: experiências de conflitos, frustrações e indisciplina Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 175-206, 2009 205 JOHNSON, D.M. Approaches to research in second language learning. Harlow, Essex: Longman, 1992. LEFFA, V.J. O ensino do inglês no futuro: da dicotomia para convergência. In: STEVENS, C.M.T.; CUNHA, M.J.C. (Orgs.). Caminhos e colheitas: ensino e pesquisa na área de inglês no Brasil. Brasília: Ed. da UnB, 2003. p. 225-250. MEC/SESU. Diretrizes Curriculares Nacionais para a Formação de Professores de Educação Básica. Resolução CNE/CP 1 de 18 de fevereiro de 2002. Disponível em: <http://portal.mec.gov.br/cne/arquivos/pdf/rcp01_02.pdf/.>. Acesso em: 15 de setembro de 2008. MICCOLI, L.S. Learning English as a foreign language in Brazil: a joint investiga- tion of learner’s classroom experiences in a university classroom. 1997. Tese. de (Doutorado em Educação) - Departamento de Educação, Universidade de Toronto, Toronto, 1997. ______. O desafio na prática docente em inglês: o compromisso com a mudança. Conexão Ciência, Formiga, v. 2, n. 2, p. 37-51, 2005. ______. Tapando buracos em um projeto de formação continuada à distância para professores de LE: avanços apesar da dura realidade. Linguagem & Ensino, Pelotas, v. 9, n. 1, p. 129-158, 2006. ______. A experiência na Linguística Aplicada ao ensino de línguas estrangeiras: levantamento, conceituação, referências e implicações para pesquisa. Revista Brasileira de Linguística Aplicada, Belo Horizonte, v. 7, n. 1, p. 208-248, 2007a. ______. 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Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 207 REFLEXÕES SOBRE A TRAJETÓRIA DO ENSINO DE LÍNGUAS ESTRANGEIRAS NO BRASIL Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA1 RESUMO: Apresenta-se um breve histórico da educação brasileira e, ao traçar um panora- ma do desenvolvimento do ensino de línguas estrangeiras modernas, recupera-se uma ‘me- mória’ do ensino de idiomas no período. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Educação Brasileira. Ensino de Línguas Estrangeiras. Línguas Modernas. Para início de conversa Sempre houve no Brasil identificação estreita entre a Educação, a es- trutura humanística e clássica dos currículos e o desenvolvimento do ensino de línguas para o aprendizado de idiomas modernos. Assim, é oportuno notar a observação de Chagas: “a evolução do ensino de línguas no Brasil confun- de-se com a história da própria escola secundária brasileira” sendo que uma contém a outra (1957, p. 83). Para o autor, é somente a partir de 1931 que as disciplinas concernentes à área de estudo começam a ser tratadas mais seria- mente na escola secundária. A preocupação principal do ensino brasileiro no período imperial foi a de proporcionar educação diferenciada a uma elite, sendo pouca a atenção conferida à instrução das massas e relegada a um quase abandono a Escola de Primeiras Letras. Situação que muito se parecia com a de Portugal, já que a política do colonizador interferia em ambos os países de maneira abrangente, aproximados quanto ao índice de analfabetismo, perto de 80% de suas popu- lações até o início do século XX. 1 Professora do Programa de Pós-Graduação em Letras do Centro de Comunicação e Letras da Univer- sidade Presbiteriana Mackenzie (UPM), São Paulo, SP, Brasil. verahanna@mackenzie.com.br Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 208 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Há de se enfatizar que, desde 1808, ao entrar no processo de re-euro- peização, o país tentava sair da condição de marginalizado quanto à cultura, à economia e ao comércio do mundo ocidental, porquanto o que se apresentava era um retrato vivo do resultado da derrocada do monopólio comercial portu- guês. Segundo Gomes (2007, p. 305), as expectativas políticas e econômicas e, consequentemente, as perspectivas de futuro de colonizador e colonizado mostravam-se antagônicas — enquanto Portugal se exauria com as guerras napoleônicas, tornando-se “uma metrópole amorfa, empobrecida e humilha- da pela longa ausência do rei”, o Brasil, já quase uma ex-colônia, “no mesmo período e pela mesma razão, havia mudado, enriquecido, prosperado e agora contemplava o futuro com esperança e otimismo”; as realidades tornavam- se, desse modo, irreconciliáveis. No contexto sócio-político, destaque-se que a partir da ‘invasão lusitana’, os portugueses aqui chegados com a Família Real trouxeram na bagagem os britânicos como fiadores da sobrevivência do Brasil como nação. A Grã-Bretanha, parceira comercial mais importante de Portugal desde o século XVIII, transferiria sua hegemonia nas atividades ban- cárias, de seguros, de navegação, de comércio, para a colônia. O país estaria, portanto, não sob o domínio português, mas sim, como Portugal, sob a esfera político-econômica dos ingleses. Ao exercer seu poder de jovem imperialista, logo nos primeiros contatos comerciais com os luso-brasileiros aqui estabe- lecidos, os bretões forneceriam, no que tangia às influências linguísticas, não só os empréstimos lexicais que vinham naturalmente acompanhando os ob- jetos importados, mas também ideias, padrões de comportamento, hábitos de consumo, gostos artísticos, referências políticas e, com especial ênfase, novas invenções, que acrescentariam traços culturais originais à vida brasileira e à paisagem urbana nas décadas seguintes. A influência britânica sobre o Brasil nos oitocentos tornou-se tão marcante que se dizia que estavam londonizando o país (cf. PALLARES-BURKE, 1997). No final do século XIX, com a proclamação da República começaria, teoricamente, uma nova era. Entretanto, no que se refere à educação, conti- nuou em vigência o sistema dual, ou seja, de um lado, cabiam à União o de- ver e o direito da criação de instituições de ensino superior e secundário nos estados e a promoção deste último no Distrito Federal, então sediado no Rio de Janeiro; de outro, cabiam às unidades federativas a criação e o controle do curso primário e profissional (escolas normais de nível médio para moças e escolas técnicas para rapazes). Característica marcante do início da República Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 209 e do novo século que nascia era o surgimento de uma sociedade urbana, com- posta de ex-escravos, elite aristocrática, uma camada emergente considerada média (composta de intelectuais, padres, militares em franca ascensão), uma pequena burguesia industrial e um grande estrato composto de imigrantes. Com essa nova estrutura, o país já não podia suportar o sistema dual de ensi- no, simplista por excelência; assim, suas bases sofreriam pressões que iriam, aos poucos, comprometer seus alicerces. Muitas Reformas Educacionais já vinham acontecendo a partir da criação do Colégio de D. Pedro II, em 1837, e com elas muitos problemas e entraves; algumas nem chegaram a sair do papel e motivos não faltavam para que isso acontecesse. Um dos principais era a barreira formada pela minoria influente, desejosa de manter o status quo. Juntava-se a isso a pouca atenção que o governo dava à educação das camadas mais carentes. Optou-se por examinar neste artigo questões atinentes ao ensino de línguas, a partir de um corpus referente ao Período Jesuítico (1549-1759), ao Período Pombalino (1760-1808), ao Período Joanino (1808-1821), e ao Perí- odo Imperial (1822-1888). Fazem-se observações que atingem até o início do século XX, ressaltando aspectos que se julgam mais representativos quanto às inúmeras reformas que ocorreram. O Período Jesuítico, 1549-1759 A história da escola brasileira registra as primeiras experiências do en- sino de uma língua estrangeira tão logo o português passa a ser ensinado aos índios com a chegada dos jesuítas ao Brasil. Desde a fundação dos colégios pio- neiros até o primeiro quartel do século XX, houve o predomínio do humanismo clássico na escola do hoje intitulado Ensino Médio, ressalte-se, mesmo após a introdução do ensino das línguas modernas. Esse humanismo apoiava-se no Ratio Atque Institutio Studiorum Societatis Lesu. Plano de estudos oficial para a educação jesuítica, elaborado pela Companhia de Jesus e publicado em 1599, fora pensado para uniformizar a formação dos que ensinassem e estudassem nos colégios da ordem em qualquer parte do mundo. Era composto de trinta conjuntos de regras que, além de apresentar normas de conduta, de responsabilidade e comportamento dos membros da hierarquia educacional jesuítica e administrativa, oferecia instruções sobre organização e administração escolar e um programa com método de ensino e procedimentos pormenorizados. Compreendia as ‘cinco classes’, representadas Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 210 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 pela Retórica, pelas Humanidades e pelas Gramáticas Superior, Média e Infe- rior. O ensino de línguas, por essa cartilha, centrava-se no Latim e no Grego, reputadas como disciplinas dominantes, e, as demais, como o Vernáculo, não possuía estudo autônomo. O Ratio Studiorum obedecia a uma divisão de três períodos, ou cursos, oferecendo os títulos de bacharel, licenciado e mestre em artes, a saber: o nível de Letras Humanas ou Humanidades, com três anos de duração; o nível de Filosofia e Ciências, também denominado curso de Artes, igualmente de três anos (com os níveis de Lógica, Metafísica e Filosofia Moral) e o nível de Teologia ou Ciências Sagradas, de quatro anos.O curso de Letras ou Humanidades (o que equivaleria, hoje, ao Ensino Médio) compreendia o estudo da Gramática, Humanidades e Retórica. Grande ênfase era dada à eloquência, o que justificava o ensino da gramática em três ou quatro anos, fator decisivo na preparação do aluno para o segundo momento, que visava ao aperfeiçoamento da escrita. As regras de oratória, estilo e erudição eram os objetivos primeiros das aulas de Retórica, seguidos de História, Geografia e Cronologia. Após seu término, os alunos estavam preparados para os níveis seguintes de Artes, ou para outras carreiras como Medicina e Direito, que só poderiam ser cursadas na Europa. A grande maioria dos alunos, no entanto, dava por encerrados seus estudos após essa primeira fase. O início da alfabetização acontecia nas Escolas de Ler e Escrever, em que os jesuítas se preocupavam não somente com a língua e a religião da metrópole, mas também com os valores e os modos de vida do coloni- zador, numa tentativa de substituição da cultura nativa. Ainda que os cursos posteriores privilegiassem o princípio da educação por meio do estudo das línguas clássicas, já havia acontecido uma síntese de elementos linguísticos — portugueses e indígenas, seguidos de africanos. Realce-se o movimento inverso na adoção das línguas indígenas pelos jesuítas — tentava-se adotar uma língua franca que, praticada largamente na região do litoral brasileiro do início da colonização até meados do século XVIII, ficaria conhecida como língua geral, de intercurso, fundamentalmente o tupinambá. Os missionários jesuítas estudaram-na, descreveram-na em artes de gramática, não obstante seu aprendizado fosse comumente informal: aprendiam-no com o intuito de alcançar uma melhor interlocução com os nativos e propunham-se a traduzir para ela as orações, as músicas sacras, as peças teatrais. Falar o dialeto dos lo- cais tornava possível o contato social e o trabalho de catequese. A língua geral era utilizada na vida cotidiana da colônia, falada por brancos e consolidada Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 211 pelos bandeirantes, exploradores do território em direção ao interior do país. E o português falado no Brasil começava a diferenciar-se do da metrópole; a base indígena se fazia presente, acompanhada de marcas africanas. À parte a doutrinação dos nativos, a instrução era direcionada primordial- mente à formação da minoria dominante. O ensino de primeiras letras tornara-se uma mera ‘passagem’, como define Chagas, para o Curso de Letras, não havendo, em absoluto, a preocupação com a formação profissional daqueles que não pudes- sem continuar na escola (1957, p. 5). Traço marcante da educação jesuítica, esse distintivo do ensino brasileiro perdurou até pelo menos meados do século XX. Apesar do predomínio do estudo das línguas clássicas — latim e grego —, em vários momentos, o ensino deste último teve de sofrer adaptações quanto ao que prescrevia o Ratio Studiorum. Muitas vezes o ensino do grego foi substituído pelo do tupi para que se viabilizasse a catequese dos gentios. Ao mesmo tempo, aquelas línguas também estavam presentes no aprendizado de outras disciplinas, como a História e a Geografia, estudadas por meio do exercício de tradução dos clássicos. Seguia-se o plano de ensino que confiava na tradição literária e acadêmica do humanismo clássico; assim, os valores e modelos de inspiração greco-romana renascentista seriam mantidos durante os longos 210 anos em que o ensino no Brasil esteve sob a égide dos jesuítas. Uma grande ruptura histórica neste processo de educação aconteceria em 1759, quando Sebastião José de Carvalho, o Marquês de Pombal, ministro de D. José I, decide expulsar todos os jesuítas da metrópole e das colônias, confiscando seus bens, sob a argumentação de que a Companhia de Jesus agia como um poder autônomo dentro do Estado português. Esse procedimento encontrava eco em outros países da Europa, onde religiosos eram vistos como um impedimento à implantação da nova filosofia iluminista que se dissemina- va. A secularização dos empreendimentos missionários, por sua vez, garanti- ria maior equilíbrio da balança comercial do estado português; dessa forma, mais do que combater a religião propriamente dita, diminuíam-se regalias gozadas pelas ordens religiosas nos domínios portugueses. O Período Pombalino (1760-1808) Tendo vivido na Inglaterra, Pombal cultivava um pensamento ligado ao Enciclopedismo (defesa da liberdade individual, comercial, industrial). Ape- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 212 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 sar de ter passado sete anos em Londres (1738- 1743) como enviado especial — Ministro Plenipotenciário —, não escondia sua aversão aos britânicos e aos seus “métodos de dominação econômica” em relação ao comércio português (AVELLAR, 1983, p. 9); acrescente-se, não chegou a aprender o inglês, tam- bém pelo motivo de que unicamente o francês era considerado língua diplo- mática. Mesmo assim, foi marcante a influência da política econômica daquele país em suas ideias, fato que fazia com que sonhasse ver o reino português su- perar a velha estrutura agrária semi-feudal e entrar na era industrial. Presumia, ainda, que, ao expulsar a Companhia de Jesus, tornar-se-ia iminente a adoção de um novo sistema de educação, de responsabilidade da Coroa Portuguesa. Durante o período Pombalino, o Estado assumiria, pela primeira vez, os encargos da educação, a metodologia eclesiástica dos jesuítas seria substi- tuída pelo pensamento pedagógico da escola pública e laica. Após reinado ab- soluto de dois séculos, seguiu-se um período de mais de uma década até que se conseguisse substituir os jesuítas e seus métodos. Pombal não conseguira criar um sistema substituto de ensino adequado nem encontrara professores bem formados, o que acabou resultando numa fragmentação das estruturas administrativas já existentes (ROMANELLI, 1998). Note-se que, apesar de existirem propostas formais, as reformas pombalinas não foram implantadas de fato e este período é divisado como de decadência da educação na colônia, como esclarece Azevedo, Entre a expulsão dos jesuítas em 1759 e a transplantação da corte portuguesa para o Brasil em 1808, abriu-se um parêntese de quase meio século, um largo hiatus que se caracteriza pela desorganização e decadência do ensino colonial. Nenhuma orga- nização institucional veio, de fato, substituir a poderosa homogeneidade do sistema jesuítico, edificado em todo o litoral latifundiário, com ramificações pelas matas e pelo planalto, e cujos colégios e seminários formam, na Colônia, os grandes focos de irradiação da cultura. (1976, p. 61) Houve uma intensa, aguda e sistemática reação antijesuítica ao ser instalada uma comissão chamada de Diretoria de Estudos, ou seja, uma es- pécie de comitê controlador, que proibia o ensino público ou particular sem a sua licença. Assinale-se que as aulas régias não se articulavam entre si, ou seja, cada uma constituía uma unidade de ensino, independente do currícu- lo, ou duração prefixada. Os docentes passaram a ser selecionados através de exames, em concursos, mas em geral era baixo o seu nível em compa- Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 213 ração ao dos jesuítas. Tornavam-se, apesar disso, únicos e ‘proprietários’ vitalícios das cadeiras, ficando facultado ao aluno o direito de matricular-se em quantas disciplinas desejasse. Persistiam as ambiguidades: ao lado dos professores régios, mantinha-se a continuidade do predomínio da Igreja nas instituições de ensino, assim como era evidente que a intenção da escola secundária preparava os alunos para ingressarem ou na Universidade de Coimbra ou em quaisquer outras na Europa. A ideia que predominava era a do interesse da metrópole em ‘modernizar’ a elite brasileira para que esta servisse, mais tarde, não aos interesses da fé, mas aos interesses portugue- ses na Colônia. Apesar das mudanças, o currículo continuava fundamentado nas mes- mas diretrizes do século XVI, ou seja, baseado nos estudos de Gramática e Retórica, muito longe do interesse nas línguas e literaturas modernas. O ensi- no secundário, que era ministrado em forma de curso no tempo dos jesuítas, passou a ser ensinado em aulas régias, ou seja, avulsas, de Filosofia e Retórica. No tocante à instrução e ao uso de línguas, Pombal proibiu, em 1758, o aprendizado e a prática do tupi e instituiu o português como única língua do Brasil, com o in- tuito de desprestigiar o poder da Igreja Católica sobre a Colônia. Nas aldeias indígenas, ao mesmo tempo em que os administradores ocupavam o lugar dos missionários e implantavam duas escolas públicas — uma para meninos e ou- tra para meninas — impeliam os alunos a usar a língua portuguesa. O ensino de línguas estrangeiras prosseguia privilegiando o latim e o grego, mas, como assegura Azevedo (1976), e meio às dualidades dessa estrutura escolar come- çava, lentamente, a se abrir lugar para uma educação mais científica, assim como para o ensino de línguas vivas, como o Inglês, o Francês e as Literaturas Modernas, que passariam a figurar nos currículos, [...] em lugar de um ensino puramente literário, clássico, o desenvolvimento do en- sino científico que começa a fazer lentamente seus progressos ao lado da educação literária, preponderante em todas as escolas; em lugar da exclusividade de ensino de latim e do português, a penetração progressiva das línguas vivas e literaturas modernas (francesa e inglesa2); e, afinal, a ramificação de tendências que, se não chegam a determinar a ruptura de unidade de pensamento, abrem o campo aos primeiros choques entre as ideias antigas, corporificadas no ensino jesuítico, e a nova corrente de pensamento pedagógico, influenciada pelas ideias dos enciclopedistas franceses, vitoriosos, depois de 1789, na obra escolar da Revolução. (1976, p. 56-57) 2 Os grifos nesta citação e em todas que se seguem neste artigo são da pesquisadora. Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 214 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Apesar das ideias dos enciclopedistas, de caráter social e político, estimu- larem aqueles que haviam estudado na Europa (também inspirados pela Indepen- dência dos Estados Unidos ocorrida em 1776), a escola mantinha-se tradicional. Período Joanino (1808-1821) A partir da chegada da Corte Portuguesa ao Rio de Janeiro, o país inicia uma busca, a princípio lenta, mas que se torna frenética no fim do século XIX, para se transformar numa nação desenvolvida, acima de tudo, reconhecida in- ternacionalmente. O processo de modernização do Brasil inicia-se com D. João VI, que traz na bagagem as ideias liberais do empirismo inglês e a influência de enciclopedistas franceses. Mesmo antes de chegar ao Rio de Janeiro, o mo- narca já havia aberto os portos da colônia a outras nações, encerrando séculos do monopólio português. Fica conhecido como ‘o criador de instituições’ e, entre as mais importantes iniciativas, implanta, em 1808, a Biblioteca Pública e a Imprensa Régia, ocorrências que dão início à circulação do primeiro jornal, a Gazeta do Rio, no mesmo ano; na Bahia, em 1812, Variedades ou Ensaios de Literatura, o primeiro periódico de que se tem notícia; em 1813, a primeira revista carioca, O Patriota. Pari passu, são inaugurados os primeiros cursos su- periores não-teológicos no Brasil — Agricultura, Química, Desenho Técnico e Botânica — e introduzidos os estudos profissional, militar, superior e artístico. São criados, ao mesmo tempo, escolas especiais e cursos práticos para suprir a grande demanda imediata de pessoal com formação especializada e preparado para atender ao serviço público. Apesar da importância que se atribui à criação do ensino superior, não se deve deixar de anotar que os demais níveis, como a escola primária e a secundária, continuavam sem merecer atenção, o que acen- tuava uma tradição de educação voltada para uma elite que detinha o poder na Corte. O primário continuava sendo a Escola de Ler e Escrever e o secundário permanecia com o modelo pombalino de aulas régias, em que foram criadas pelo menos vinte cadeiras, dentre as quais as de Gramática Latina, de Mate- mática, de Desenho, de História, de Retórica e de Filosofia, de 1809 a 1821 (ROMANELLI, 1998, p. 38-39). As línguas modernas pareciam estar galgando um lugar de relevo em 1809. Destaca-se a Resolução de consulta da mesa do desembargo do Paço de 14 de julho de 1809 (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 221), que “Crea nesta cidade uma cadeira de Arithmetica, Álgebra e Geometria, uma de Inglez e uma de Francez”. Essa resolução enfatiza a visão pragmática de Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 215 D. João VI, que percebia que a formação de novos funcionários exigia, naquele momento, também, o conhecimento de novos idiomas. O interesse pelo apren- dizado da língua francesa, sinônimo de erudição e cultura, justificava-se, pois a vida intelectual no Brasil, assim como em todo o mundo ocidental, seguia o modelo francês, sobretudo após 1789. O objetivismo prático confirmava que o ensino da língua inglesa, por seu lado, tornava-se igualmente imprescindível, já que facilitaria sobremaneira o contato comercial com a Inglaterra. Leia-se, além disso, naquele documento, que juntamente às disciplinas da área das ci- ências exatas, determinava-se a conveniência da introdução das duas línguas para que se completasse a educação literária na instrução pública, ainda que de modo tradicional, clássico, E sendo outrossim tão geral, e notoriamente conhecida a necessidade, e utilidade das línguas francezas e ingleza, como aquellas que entre as línguas vivas teem o mais distinto logar, é de muito grande utilidade ao Estado, para augmento, e prosperidade da instrução publica, que se crêe nesta capital uma cadeira de língua franceza, e outra de ingleza (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222). Acentuando o caráter prático que justificava o ensino das duas línguas, aconselhava-se que os professores não se esquecessem de ensinar o ‘bem falar e o escrever’, assim como vislumbrava-se a importância do binômio língua-cultura naquele aprendizado: E pelo que toca à matéria do ensino, ditarão [os professores] as suas lições pela Grammática que for mais conceituada, emquanto não formalizem alguma de sua composição; habilitando os discípulos na pronunciação das expressões e das vozes das respectivas línguas, adestrando-os em bem fallar e escrever, servindo-se dos melhores modelos do século de Luís XIV. (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222) Entendia-se, do mesmo modo, naquela resolução, a preocupação em conhecer o lugar e as tradições do povo da língua-alvo, assim como o ‘idio- tismo da língua’ – ou seja, seus traços e construções peculiares, assim como que se considerasse, em suas ‘traducções‘, não o sentido literal mas sim os dos elementos que a constituíam, e fazendo que nas traducções dos lugares conheçam o genio, e idiotismo da língua, e as bellezas e elegancias della, e do estylo e gosto mais apurado e seguido. (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222) Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 216 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Uma concepção clássica de ensino das línguas vivas era condição sine qua non para a introdução das disciplinas no currículo, bem como era ressal- tada a necessidade da comparação com a língua pátria a partir dos usos de literatos quinhentistas: No ensino das duas línguas referidas seguirão os Professores, quanto ao tempo, e ho- ras das lições, e attestações do aproveitamento dos discipulos, o mesmo que se acha estabelecido, e praticado pelos Professores de Grammatica Latina. [...] Na escolha destes livros se preferirão os da mais perfeita e exacta moral; e para a comparação com a língua patria se escolherão os autores clássicos do século de quinhentos, que melhor reputação teem entre os nossos literatos (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222) Quanto à contratação dos docentes, não traz a resolução nenhum por- menor, mas é possível encontrar em Almeida (2000) alguns dados sobre a nomeação dos primeiros professores de Francês e de Inglês. Em 26 de agosto de 1809, em carta assinada pelo próprio rei, para a cadeira de Francês, foi contratado o Pe. René Boiret, que lecionava a mesma matéria no Colégio Real dos Nobres, em Portugal. Em 9 de dezembro do mesmo ano, foi designa- do o padre irlandês Jean Joyce, o primeiro professor de língua inglesa do país. Podia-se ler na nomeação que “era necessário criar nesta capital uma cadeira de língua inglesa, porque, pela sua difusão e riqueza e o número de assuntos escritos nesta língua, a mesma convinha ao incremento e à prosperidade da instrução pública” (2000, p. 42). Ainda de acordo com o mesmo autor, há registro a respeito do interesse pelas línguas modernas demonstrado por D. João VI, como indica aviso de 8 de julho de 1811: Uma escola de Educação, fundada no Rio de Janeiro, por volta de 1808, pelo Pe. Felisberto Antônio de Figueiredo e Moura, na qual se ensinavam o Português, o Latim, o Francês, o Inglês, a Retórica, a Aritmética, o Desenho e a Pintura obteve a proteção do governo e, neste sentido, foi determinado que os alunos deste estabe- lecimento fossem isentos da prisão e do recrutamento. (2000, p. 47) Em termos práticos, no que se refere à exposição da língua inglesa no cotidiano das grandes cidades, observa-se que a imprensa escrita teve um papel preponderante em sua divulgação, através, principalmente, do anúncio de venda de produtos britânicos. Os jornais divulgavam um novo estilo de vida ao apregoar as inovações, não só de caráter tecnológico, mas também ar- quitetônico, de moda, de comportamento social, assim como divulgava obras Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 217 e ideias literárias e políticas. Para que se entendessem melhor as novas ten- dências e o idioma que as acompanhavam, era preciso conhecê-lo. Gilberto Freyre apresenta, em Os Ingleses no Brasil (2000), anúncios de professores ingleses ou de língua inglesa, encontrados nos jornais cariocas desde a pri- meira metade do século XIX, como o de ‘Professora Ingleza’, saído na Ga- zeta do Rio de Janeiro, de 8 de fevereiro de 1809: Na Rua do Ourives nº 27 mora huma Ingleza com casa de educação para meninas que queirão aprender a ler, escrever, contar e falar Inglez e Portuguez, cozer e bordar, etc. (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 266). Outro exemplo, do mesmo jornal, de agosto de 1809, oferece o ensino da língua inglesa com ênfase na gramática: Quem quizer aprender a Lingoa Ingleza grammaticalmente com perfeição em pou- co tempo, há de fallar com Francisco Ignácio da Silva, o qual entrega hum bilhete com o nome ao mestre, natural de Londres. [E na mesma Gazeta anunciava João Loureço Toole]:... professor de Lingoa Ingleza; estabelece Aula da dita Lingoa, a qual ensina grammaticalmente, como também Arithmetica e Escripturação dobrada (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 270). Mais de dez anos mais tarde, o ensino de inglês se destinava a meninos e meninas e não faltaram também colégios que, já nas primeiras décadas do século XIX, incluíram estudos mais práticos em seus currículos, inclusive o ensino de línguas, como se nota no anúncio de um ‘Collegio Inglez’, no Jor- nal do Commercio de 1827: Línguas Latina, Portugueza, Ingleza, Franceza, e Hespanhola, gramaticalmente, Historia e Geographia, Lógica, Rhetorica e elocução Escripta, Arithmetica, e Es- cripturação de livros por partidas dobradas, Álgebra e Geometria, Dezenho e Dança (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 269). À guisa de exemplo, sobre a influência britânica no país, que mais tar- de justificaria o ensino definitivo e obrigatório daquela língua, registre-se que, além do incentivo às disciplinas práticas, os britânicos também incentivaram o início da co-educação e até a mudança do tipo de caligrafia. Com isso, a rigidez perpendicular da antiga letra dos portugueses foi sendo substituída por uma inclinação de trinta e cinco graus, própria da letra à inglesa. Ademais, a hege- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 218 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 monia econômica, curiosamente, impunha que tinta e papel para essa escrita também fossem ingleses: a Real Japan Ink e o papel Bath, o pergaminho usado para registrar documentos importantes (cf. FREYRE, 2000, p. 243). Em 1830, a busca por aulas particulares, segundo reclame no Jornal do Commercio, não parecia, ser muito alentadora, haja vista o aviso para en- contrar professores de língua inglesa nativos, Deseja se saber, se nesta Corte existe alguma aula Ingleza, cujo mestre seja também Inglez; pede-se o favor de annunciar a sua moradia por este Jornal, a fim de se hir tratar do ensino de hum menino que já aprende a hum anno o mesmo idioma (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 270). O curto Período Joanino, compreendido entre 1808 a 1821, marca o início da re-europeização do país. O contato com outros povos e ideias, assim como a necessidade imediata de uma reorganização administrativa, animou o desenvolvimento da vida urbana não só do Rio de Janeiro, mas de Salvador e de Recife. As duas primeiras décadas do século XIX, após a chegada da Corte ao Brasil, são consideradas de grande relevância para a educação bra- sileira, já que o Período Pombalino havia reduzido a educação a uma quase estagnação. O fato de as instituições criadas por D. João VI terem surgido, pela primeira vez, de necessidades do país, ainda que em função de ser sede do reino português, é avaliado como extremamente positivo. Além disso, ao romper com o ensino jesuítico colonial, são as novas instituições que dão origem à estrutura do ensino imperial. O Período Imperial (1822-1888) Ao mesmo tempo em que grandes mudanças ocorriam no Brasil, o povo português estava insatisfeito em relação à demora do retorno da Família Real e o consequente abandono de seu território em mãos inglesas, responsá- veis por vários excessos na expulsão das tropas napoleônicas em 1809. Em razão de tal descontentamento, acrescido da pressão dos políticos portugue- ses no sentido de que fossem fechados os portos brasileiros e restabelecido o monopólio comercial, tem início a Revolução Constitucionalista na cidade do Porto, que faz apressar a volta de D. João VI a Portugal em 1821, precipita a proclamação da independência do Brasil em 1822 e força a outorga de uma Constituição brasileira em 1824, que perduraria por todo o período imperial. Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 219 No que diz respeito à educação, o Art. 179 daquela Lei Magna dizia que estava garantida a “instrução primária e gratuita para todos os cidadãos”, assim como a criação de “Colégios e Universidades, onde serão ensinados os elementos das ciências, belas artes e artes” (RIBEIRO, 1998, p. 43). O docu- mento ainda abolia o privilégio do Estado para oferecer instrução. Outro fato de destaque nesse período é a adoção do Método Lancaster, em 1823, transformado em ‘Método Oficial’, pela Lei de 15 de outubro de 1827. Aquele método já fora experimentado na Europa, levado da Índia para a Inglaterra, e seu uso apoiava-se, especialmente, na tentativa de se suprir a falta de professores. Era conhecido também como ‘Ensino Mútuo’, em que um aluno treinado (decurião) ensinava um grupo de dez alunos (decúria) sob a rígida vigilância de um inspetor. Avalia-se que a aplicação do Método Lan- casteriano não obteve o resultado esperado e apenas serviu para diminuir as despesas da Coroa com a contratação de professores. Em relação ao ensino de línguas modernas, é sabido que o francês já tinha algum destaque desde o início do século XIX. Almeida (2000) informa que, quando foi criada a Academia de Ensino da Marinha, no Rio de Janeiro, em 1808, “exigia-se o conhecimento do Francês para ser admitido” (p. 47). O mesmo acontecia na Academia Militar Real do Rio de Janeiro, fundada em 1810, em que “o curso era de sete anos e todos os livros escolares eram em francês” (p. 47). O inglês, no entanto, passou a fazer parte dos exames de admissão para os cursos de Direito somente em 1831, quando sete disciplinas (Latim, Francês, Inglês, Retórica, Filosofia Racional e Moral e Geometria) foram incorporadas aos Estatutos das Academias de Ciências Jurídicas do Im- pério. Em 1832, o inglês passou a fazer parte, ao lado do francês, de maneira opcional, do exame de admissão para os Cursos de Medicina. É necessário que se considere a instalação da Impressão Régia no Rio de Janeiro como um dos maiores destaques da abertura intelectual do país, pois além de inaugurar um novo momento histórico e cultural, abriu caminho para o surgimento de casas editoriais, tipografias e de um mercado de livros até então inexistente. Em 1812, a Biblioteca Pública é franqueada à cole- tividade e registra-se, como lembra Almeida (2000), além daquela, a exis- tência de numerosas associações literárias e científicas, públicas e privadas, entre as quais, a biblioteca inglesa British Subscription Library, fundada em 1826, portadora de 12.000 volumes à época (p. 21). A procura por aulas de inglês, observada anteriormente, remete à questão da existência de livros de Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 220 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 autores de língua inglesa encontrados no Brasil no período. É oportuno notar que estudos mais recentes, como aqueles efetuados por Vasconcelos (2004), contradizem informações de que apenas literatura francesa era procurada ou, então, de que as obras da língua inglesa eram lidas em versões francesas. A autora revela que havia, na ocasião, uma presença expressiva de romances ingleses, quer no original, quer traduzidos. Entre os escritores mais lidos es- tava Walter Scott, com dezenas de obras no original e traduzidas, sendo que a mais popular era Ivanhoé e suas aventuras, que constavam do catálogo do Gabinete Inglês de Leitura, da Biblioteca Fluminense (fundada em 1847), do Gabinete Português de Leitura Rio de Janeiro, (fundado em 1837) e da British Subscription Library. Em segundo lugar estava Charles Dickens, com ou- tras dezenas de obras, destacando-se David Copperfield, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, em inglês, francês ou em tradução portuguesa, e de Christmas Carols, de 1843, encontrado no Gabinete Português de Leitura. Seguiam-se Daniel Defoe com As Aventuras de Robinson Crusoe, Robert Louis Steven- son, com A Ilha do Tesouro, vários romances de Edgard Allan Poe, das irmãs Bronte, de Jane Austen, de Joseph Rudyard Kipling, para citar apenas alguns. Circulavam, também, textos de pensadores e poetas, como Geoffrey Chaucer, Samuel Coleridge, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, o ensaísta escocês Thomas Carlyle, o filósofo e economista político John Stuart Mill, o filósofo Herbert Spencer. De Jonathan Swift, famoso por Viagens de Gulliver a vários países remotos, foram encontradas traduções portuguesas de 1793, 1836 e 1870 na Biblioteca Fluminense e no Gabinete Português de Leitura. Esses e outros es- critores de língua inglesa e suas obras, lembre-se, são citados inúmeras vezes por Machado de Assis em suas crônicas, direta ou indiretamente. Apesar dessas iniciativas, o ensino brasileiro, até meados do século XIX, ainda padecia da herança recebida da colônia, ou seja, tinha poucas es- colas primárias e médias em mãos de eclesiásticos e alguns seminários epis- copais destinados a uma pequena minoria nobre da corte. Em 1834, com o Ato Adicional da Reforma Constitucional, a educação primária e secundária ficaria a cargo das províncias, restando à administração nacional o ensino su- perior. O objetivo era a descentralização do ensino e um aumento do número de escolas elementares, intuito só atingido por poucas províncias, como a de São Paulo, por exemplo, que passava por um grande avanço político-econô- mico, ao mesmo tempo em que recebia imigrantes europeus que prezavam a educação como forma de ascensão social. Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 221 Mais uma vez, impera o sistema dual de ensino, com superposição dos poderes central e provincial, o que, a longo prazo, definiu a composição da es- trutura e grade curricular da escola secundária. O ensino profissionalizante ou técnico era desprezado e considerado desonroso pelo regime escravista que dava grande ênfase à educação literária e retórica. A descentralização acarre- tou um desenvolvimento das escolas secundárias particulares, principalmente nas capitais e províncias. Criado pelo Governo Federal, em 1837, o Colégio de Pedro II consti- tuiu-se na única instituição de cultura geral fundada durante o Império. Após a criação do Colégio, destinado a servir de padrão de ensino, houve várias tentativas de mudança na educação brasileira, com inúmeras reformas rela- tivas à organização escolar como um todo. A instituição passou por momen- tos considerados de franco progresso, mas inúmeras vezes atravessou fases de estagnação e retrocesso, à mercê das reformas políticas e ministeriais. A predominância dos estudos literários e retóricos do Colégio, de caracterís- tica fortemente europeizante e aristocrática, ainda revelaria uma verdadeira obsessão com os estudos superiores, não havendo, em absoluto, preocupação com a educação do povo. É possível registrar-se um avanço na escola brasi- leira secundária após a criação do Colégio de D. Pedro II, ainda que a essên- cia da orientação quinhentista fosse mantida — o currículo inicial do colégio demonstra forte interesse no latim e grego, por exemplo. A língua inglesa, de acordo com o decreto de 2 de dezembro de 1837, entrou para o currículo das escolas que se dedicavam ao ensino secundário de fato, ocasião em que Ber- nardo de Vasconcelos, regente interino do Colégio, decreta que naquele edu- candário “serão ensinadas as línguas latina, grega, francesa e inglesa, retórica e os princípios elementares de geografia, história, filosofia, zoologia, minera- logia, botânica, química, física, aritmética, álgebra, geometria, e astronomia” (Annuario do Collégio Pedro II, 1914, p. 42). Dedica-se, pela primeira vez, uma maior atenção às línguas modernas. Em 1841, quando o curso completo da instituição passou para sete anos, juntamente com as clássicas, as línguas modernas passaram a fazer parte de quase todas as séries, conforme palavras de Azevedo: [...] as matemáticas e as ciências físicas, químicas e naturais amontoavam-se nos três últimos [anos], enquanto o grego é ensinado em quatro, e o latim, o francês e o inglês se estendem pelos sete anos, apresentando o latim maior número de lições do que o de quaisquer outras disciplinas. Esse plano de estudos consagra no Colégio Pedro II Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 222 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 um ensino secundário de tipo clássico, com predominância dos estudos literários e adaptado menos às condições especiais do meio do que às tradições morais e intelec- tuais do país. (1976, p. 79) Em 1855, o ministério de Couto Ferraz introduz alterações conside- ráveis no ensino, que visavam às exigências culturais e sociais do Brasil de então. O ensino secundário passou a ser ministrado em sete anos, seguindo orientação dos liceus franceses, divididos em dois ciclos: um ciclo de quatro anos, semelhante ao antigo ginásio, chamado de ‘estudos de primeira classe’, e outro de três que lembra o antigo colegial, os ‘estudos de segunda clas- se’. Tal orientação foi mantida até 1900 quando o tempo foi reduzido para seis anos. Obteria o grau de Bacharel em Letras o aluno que terminasse os dois ciclos, interesse esse de quase todos que o frequentavam. Constavam do exame de admissão, de acordo com o Decreto n. 1.601, de 10 de maio de 1855 (GPHELB, 2006), para os cursos superiores, provas de versão de autores clás- sicos latinos, e de renomados escritores em francês e em inglês, assim como trechos de autores nacionais deveriam ser traduzidos para a língua pela qual se optasse para o exame. Tanto o currículo das línguas clássicas como o das modernas sofreram várias alterações após serem inseridas no Ensino Secundário. Como demons- trará o quadro, na conclusão desse artigo, a Reforma Couto Ferraz, ao mesmo tempo em que dedicava dez anos de estudo ao latim e ao grego, destinava, pela primeira vez, nove anos ao francês, ao inglês e ao alemão, mais um, facultativo, ao Italiano — medida que se manteve mais ou menos estável até o fim do regime imperial. Em 1857, acontece a reforma do Marquês de Olinda que, segundo o Annuario do Collégio Pedro II de 1914 (p. 68), dividiu a instituição em dois estabelecimentos, o Internato e o Externato e acrescentou um 5º ano aos estudos de primeira classe. Nessa série foi incluído o inglês, ao lado do francês, alemão, italiano, latim e grego. O número de aulas de língua estran- geira nunca foi consensual, passando por inúmeras modificações num eterno câmbio de horas entre os idiomas, o que ocasionou, com o passar dos anos e a vontade dos ministros, a diminuição do número final de horas semanais para aquelas disciplinas. O auge e a decadência no estudo de línguas estrangeiras, na verdade, seguem o próprio auge e desprestígio por que passou a Escola Se- cundária durante o Império e a Primeira República, numa eterna tentativa de Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 223 adaptar o país e o ensino às mudanças que ocorriam celeremente pelo mundo. Chagas (1957) afirma que o estudo de línguas estrangeiras somente passou a ser levado a sério no ensino secundário oficial a partir de 1931, com a Refor- ma Francisco de Campos, que destinou seis horas por semana ao ensino do latim e dezessete ao estudo de línguas modernas. Para Chagas, essa primeira experiência séria para atualizar o estudo de idiomas modernos permite en- xergar no desenvolvimento da didática do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil “duas fases claramente definidas: ‘antes de 1931’ e ‘depois de 1931’.” Em 1860, o inspetor geral Euzébio de Queiroz explica em relatório que deveria haver o acréscimo de um ano para o estudo do francês — à época dado em três anos enquanto ao inglês eram dedicados quatro, como relata Almeida (2000): [...] é útil consagrar um ano mais ao estudo do francês; ele baseia sua opinião na di- ficuldade gramatical desta língua, maior que a da língua inglesa à qual se dedicam quatro anos e somente três para a língua francesa. (p. 103) A Reforma Paulino de Souza, de 1870, pretendia imprimir aos estudos realizados no Colégio Pedro II um caráter formativo, habilitando os alunos não só para os estudos superiores, mas para a vida e, acima de tudo, pretendia que a instituição fosse capaz de competir com os estabelecimentos particula- res no aliciamento de candidatos às Academias. Apesar de ser “uma fase rica de propostas de reformas de quase todas as instituições existentes”, como as- segura Ribeiro (1998, p. 65), em 1872, o Brasil contava com uma população de 10 milhões de habitantes e apenas 150.000 alunos matriculados em escolas primárias. O índice de analfabetismo é de 66,4% e as reformas, baseadas no liberalismo e cientificismo do século XIX, não surtem o efeito esperado, pois pareciam estar longe da realidade. Segundo o Grupo de Pesquisa História do Ensino de Línguas no Bra- sil (2006), o Decreto n. 4.468, de 1º de fevereiro de 1870, dizia que o ensino de línguas estrangeiras seria comparável ao de Língua Portuguesa e, quan- to às Línguas Vivas, enfatizava, pela primeira vez, a habilidade oral, assim como sugeria um “aperfeiçoamento nas linguas latina, franceza e ingleza” com “prelecções elementares” sobre a índole, formação e progresso de cada uma delas, alternadas com a leitura, tradução e “appreciação litteraria” dos “autores clássicos”. Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 224 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Colégios laicos e as primeiras escolas protestantes destacam-se nessa época por trazer as ideias pedagógicas americanas e propagá-las no Brasil. Em São Paulo, é fundada a Escola Americana, em 1870, que se dedica ao ensino elementar e, dez anos mais tarde, à escola secundária — ambas do Ma- ckenzie College, hoje, Escola Americana e Colégio Presbiteriano Mackenzie, que serviriam de modelo para a escola pública em São Paulo no início da República: [...] na realidade, transplantavam para o Brasil as experiências que os Estados Uni- dos haviam desenvolvido, a partir das inovações que receberam da Europa. O prag- matismo americano ainda não havia encontrado sua expressão filosófica e já a escola americana atendia às exigências das condições sócio-culturais de sua clientela (REIS FILHO, 1974, apud RIBEIRO, 1998, p. 68). No Decreto n. 6.130, de 1º de março de 1876 (GPHELB, 2006), com exceção do grego, houve uma diminuição considerável no número de aulas de línguas estrangeiras — o alemão e o italiano já haviam sido extintos na reforma de 1870; o latim e o francês ficam com apenas metade de suas aulas, respectivamente 3 e 2 anos de estudo, e o inglês passa de 4 para 1 ano, sendo ensinado apenas no 5º ano, assemelhando-se ao programa de francês e ao de línguas clássicas, com a exceção da conversação. Em 1879, o Conselheiro Leôncio de Carvalho realiza uma reforma de ensino que permitiria “a cada um expor livremente suas ideias e ensinar as doutrinas que acredite verdadeiras, pelos métodos que julgue melhores”, pois defendia que os Estados Unidos e países europeus prosperavam em consequência da “adoção do princípio de liberdade de ensino” (RIBEIRO, 1998, p. 67). Ao mesmo tempo, manteve as matrículas avulsas e introduziu a frequência livre e os exames vagos no Externato do Colégio de Pedro II, que continuava com um ensino secundário propedêutico e seletivo. No currículo de línguas estrangeiras houve apenas acréscimo de uma aula a mais na cadeira de inglês, que passou a ser ensinado no terceiro e quarto anos. A Reforma do Ministro Homem de Mello, em 1881, foi a última do período imperial e merece destaque, no Annuario do Collegio Pedro II, de 1914, pelo fato de ter sido dada maior atenção ao ensino de Português, até o 5º ano, feito a partir de então, com desdobramentos nas séries seguintes: Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 225 sendo continuado no 6º pela Retórica, Poética e Literatura Nacional e terminando no 7º pela história da Língua, pelo seu estudo comparativo com as outras línguas românticas [...] e pela análise das diferentes fases da literatura lusitana. (1914, p.84) Quanto às outras línguas, “o Latim seria estudado do 2º ao 5º ano e o Inglês no 4º e 5º ano, o Alemão e o Grego no 6º e 7º ano, o Italiano no 7º” (1914, p. 86-87). É necessário ressaltar que àquela data, embora o currículo das línguas clássicas e modernas tenha sofrido constantes perdas e ganhos no número de horas de estudo, nada é comparável à falta de atenção dedicada ao estudo da língua portuguesa. Comparativamente, como explica Chagas, espantava que, embora fossem ensinadas sete línguas, [...] ‘além de Retórica e Literatura, ‘entre essas línguas’ o Português nem sequer aparecesse no plano de 1876; ou aparecesse com menos de 1% nos de 1841 e 1878; com menos de 10% nos de 1853 e 1857; e com menos de 15% nos de 1862 e 1870; para surgir 27,7% no de 1881; sempre considerando isoladamente a área de Letras (1978, p. 20). Não se pode deixar ainda de comentar que o interesse no idioma na- cional teve lugar na escola secundária apenas pela razão de passar a ser exigi- do como preparatório para os exames de ingresso aos cursos superiores. Ao se estudar a evolução do ensino no país como um todo, conclui-se que o Brasil chegava ao final do século XIX numa situação quase calamitosa. Segundo Morais (1989), no final do século XIX, o país contava com poucas escolas primárias — 250 mil alunos em cursos primários, num total de 14 milhões de habitantes — ou seja, pouco havia sido feito para a educação básica. No que se refere à frequência nos cursos superiores, em 1864, havia 826 alunos estudando Direito (essa preferência aumentaria ainda mais), 294 na Escola de Medicina, 154 em Engenharia e 109 na Escola Militar (p.103). Sabe-se que após 1870, com o fim da Guerra do Paraguai, aumentam as campanhas abolicionistas e republicanas e setores descontentes da igreja e dos quarteis promovem movimentos que levam à queda da Monarquia. A educação refletia as incertezas do período: a instrução pública, em algumas províncias, encontrava-se em grande atraso enquanto em outras havia muita lentidão. Em poucas era sensível o progresso, mas nenhuma apresentava um resultado que pudesse ser considerado satisfatório, quer pelo número e ex- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 226 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 celência de professores e estabelecimentos de ensino, quer pela frequência e aproveitamento dos alunos. Ao cair a Monarquia em 15 de Novembro de 1889, o Governo Pro- visório, em que dispunha de grande influência Benjamin Constant, professor afamado e adepto do Positivismo, reformou profundamente a instrução em todo país. A Reforma de Benjamin Constant, Decreto n.º 1.075, de 22 de novembro de 1890, tinha como princípios orientadores a liberdade e a lai- cidade do ensino, como também a gratuidade da escola primária. As línguas estrangeiras modernas sofrem mais uma vez um corte de aulas no currículo da escola secundária e diminui-se um ano no estudo do latim. Eliminam-se o italiano, a retórica e do estudo das literaturas estrangeiras, substituído pelo da História da Literatura Nacional. O inglês, juntamente com o alemão, passa a ser disciplina optativa nos estudos de primeira classe, oferecido do 3º ao 5º ano. A reforma de Benjamim Constant não foi colocada em prática, ele foi afastado do ministério e faleceu no ano seguinte. As línguas modernas retomaram relativa importância, novamente, com a Reforma Fernando Lobo, Decreto n.º 1.041, de 11 de setembro de 1892, em 1892. O latim, o francês e o alemão passaram a ter o mesmo tempo de estudo que as línguas clássicas – três anos – fazendo parte dos exames nos institutos oficiais de ensino secundário dos estados. Em 1898, a nova Reforma Amaro Cavalcanti, Decreto n.º 2.857, de 30 de março de 1898, institui um novo regulamento para o colégio de D.Pedro II, o “Curso Propedêutico ou Realista”, de seis anos, e o “Curso Clássico ou Humanista”, de sete anos, que dá, mais uma vez, prioridade às disciplinas hu- manísticas — História da Filosofia, Latim e Grego. As línguas vivas, inglês, alemão e francês eram oferecidas em quase todos os anos dos dois cursos, como optativas, versão que perdurou quase que integralmente nas duas décadas se- guintes. Com o ministro Epitácio Pessoa, Decreto n.º 3.890, de 1.º de janeiro de 1901, em 1901, aquelas línguas voltam a ter um aspecto pragmático, perdendo o tratamento literário. Até 1931, quando se verifica uma mudança de paradigma no ensino brasileiro — formação do aluno com vistas aos grandes setores da ativida- de nacional —, verifica-se um movimento pendular entre a visão prática do ensino de línguas estrangeiras e suas respectivas ‘evoluções literárias’, nos variados regulamentos que se seguiram. É naquele ano, com Portaria de 30 de junho de 1931, que se enfatiza, como procedimento de ensino oficial Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 227 das línguas vivas, nas aulas de francês, de inglês e de alemão a utilização do ‘Método Direto Intuitivo’, ou ‘Método Direto’— metodologia monolíngue de ensino de língua estrangeira centrada somente no uso da língua alvo em sala de aula, idealizada no final do século XIX, por François Gouin, com o nome de Series Method, tornando-se mais tarde, o Direct Method. Foi uma das primeiras reações ao excesso de explicações de regras gramaticais e me- morização de listas de vocábulo; em seu lugar, o aluno aprenderia por meio da associação direta de palavras e frases com objetos e ações; o uso da língua materna e a tradução são quase que proibidas nessa percepção. O período da Primeira República (1889-1929) constituiu-se de uma série de reformas no ensino, tão indefinidas quanto as da fase anterior, tornan- do-se apenas um prolongamento do Império. Fica evidente que, conquanto tivesse havido por volta de oito reformas empreendidas durante trinta e cinco anos, elas não serviram para apresentar resultados positivos na educação bra- sileira como um todo, pois a preocupação primeira de preparar jovens para o curso superior continuava incoerentemente a se perpetrar, em detrimento da escola básica. Entrava-se no novo século continuando a buscar inspiração nos modelos europeus que, paulatinamente, ganhavam a concorrência dos padrões americanos, seguindo a tendência marcante do século XX. Inspira- ções à parte, a história demonstra que, embora as pretensões fossem elevadas, correriam outros trinta anos até que as reformas na educação começassem a apresentar algum resultado positivo: isso só aconteceria a partir da Reforma Francisco de Campos, em 1931. Considerações finais Muitos foram os que, em geral, com pouco conhecimento dos proble- mas educacionais, apresentaram projetos de reforma do ensino, as quais, no entanto, não lograram resolver os graves problemas educacionais brasilei- ros. Não somente faltava infraestrutura institucional como também vontade e apoio político das classes mais abastadas, que temiam ideias efetivamente reformadoras. O resultado desastroso a que se chegara em 1890, no Brasil, era o índice de 85% de analfabetos, sendo que a virada do século apresentaria, igualmente, um número nada otimista de 75% de analfabetos que perduraria até 1920, segundo o Anuário Estatístico do Brasil de 1936. Com referência à evolução do ensino de línguas estrangeiras, o quadro abaixo, baseado nos da- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 228 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 dos de Chagas (1957, p. 87), demonstra claramente, como expusemos ao lon- go deste artigo, o desprestígio sofrido por aquelas disciplinas, que acompa- nha, como já se disse, o próprio desprestígio da escola secundária brasileira. Por Períodos de Estudo Data Reformas Línguas Clássicas Línguas Modernas Latim Grego Francês Inglês Alemão Italiano 1855 Couto Ferraz 7 3 3 3 3 1 (Facul- tativo) 1857 Marquês de Olinda 7 2 3 4 2 1 (Facul- tativo) 1862 Sousa Ramos 7 2 3 4 2 2 (Facul- tativo) 1870 Paulino de Souza 6 2 4 4 - - 1876 Cunha Figueiredo 3 2 2 1 2 (Faculta- tivo) - 1878 Leôncio de Carvalho 3 2 2 2 2 - 1881 Homem de Melo 4 2 2 2 2 1 (Facul- tativo) 1890 Benjamin Constant 3 2 3 3 (opcional) - 1892 Fernando Lobo 3 3 3 3 3 - 1900 Epitácio Pes- soa 3 3 3 3 3 - Mais do que a constante redução do tempo dedicado ao ensino de lín- guas estrangeiras e da crescente mudança de currículos, demarcadas no qua- dro, o início do século registra falta de qualidade no ensino, oferecido ainda somente a uma pequena parcela da população, interessada, geralmente, ape- nas na busca de um diploma — fenômeno que ficou conhecido como ‘bacha- relismo’—, segurança e ascensão profissional. O bacharel em Direito tornara- se uma nova constante na vida política brasileira, com carreira valorizada na conjuntura sócio-político-cultural da época. Em resumo, persistia o ensino secundário já considerado de má qualidade no Império. O Brasil adentra o novo século atingido pelo confronto de ideias entre correntes divergentes e Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 229 a existência de novas forças sociais, sobretudo aquelas relacionadas com as modificações na estrutura econômica, que, influenciadas pelos movimentos europeus, reforçam a incerteza do caminho a seguir. Os resultados relativos ao índice de analfabetismo indicam que o Brasil não conseguia tirar o atraso de séculos de colonização portuguesa e alcançar a velocidade do passo dado pela Europa e os Estados Unidos com a Revolução Científico-Tecnológica. Havia um clima de enaltecimento do cosmopolitismo, identificado com a vida e os padrões europeus e valores burgueses. Aqueles que faziam parte das eli- tes pareciam não esconder que almejavam ser menos ‘brasileiros’, enterrar o passado colonial, escravocrata e esconder a vergonha do Brasil de ser pobre e negro. A tentativa da formação do que seria uma identidade brasileira era tam- bém estimulada pelo programa de incentivo à imigração, com o objetivo claro de que os europeus trariam prosperidade econômica e social e europeizariam e ‘embranqueceriam’ a sociedade brasileira. Procurava-se, com a integração dos imigrantes ao trabalho, um ideal de construção de uma nacionalidade (HANNA et al, 2006, p. 66). A Belle Époque, momento em que a cena cultural fervilhava com o cinema e que a arte alcançava novas formas com o Impressionismo e a Art Nouveau, é bruscamente interrompida com a deflagração da Primeira Guerra Mundial. No Brasil, a Belle Époque Tropical abrange aproximadamente o pe- ríodo pós-republica, de 1900 a 1920 — ocasião em que o país, aproveitando o momento de mudança drástica no padrão do comércio mundial, amplia suas exportações para as nações beligerantes, ao mesmo tempo em que cria novas indústrias para substituir parte dos artigos importados. Como se posicionaria a educação no Brasil nesse contexto de mu- danças sócio-econômico drásticas? Como acompanhar as novas ideias pro- pagadas em âmbito internacional, surgidas de grupos de estudiosos europeus e americanos que rompiam com o ensino tradicional e propunham reformas educacionais que transformariam a concepção de educação no mundo oci- dental? Para que se tente entender o difícil período que enfrentaria a educa- ção brasileira até aproximadamente 1930, no que se refere à equiparação do país às potências europeias e americanas, é preciso lembrar que, enquanto o Brasil ainda não conseguira solucionar o índice de aproximadamente 75% de analfabetos, as matrículas nas universidades americanas haviam triplicado durante a década — de 250.000 estudantes em 1920, passaram a 750.000 em 1930 (LANE; O’SULLIVAN, 1999). Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 230 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Faz-se imperativo citar apenas alguns dos nomes mais importantes, responsáveis por mudanças surpreendentes no modo de pensar a educação, como um todo, nas primeiras décadas do século XX e já em prática nos paí- ses de que se originavam. São eles: o educador escocês Alexander Sutherland Neil, que funda em 1921, na Inglaterra, a Escola Summerhill; a educadora italiana Maria Montessori, que edita, no mesmo ano, o Manual da Pedagogia. Em 1923, é a vez de Jean Piaget lançar a obra A linguagem e o pensamento na criança, e, no ano seguinte, O raciocínio e o julgamento na criança. O fi- lósofo, reformador e educador americano John Dewey, um dos fundadores da Escola do Pragmatismo, que já havia lançado em 1887, Psicologia, em 1899, Escola e Sociedade e que, em 1916, editaria uma das obras mais extraordi- nárias na área da Pedagogia Moderna, Democracia e Educação. Mas essa é uma outra história, que fica para uma outra vez. HANNA, Vera Lucia Harabagi. Considerations regarding the course of foreign language teaching in Brasil: XVI - XIX Century. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009. ABSTRACT: The aim of this article is to present a brief history of the Brazilian education. We draw a panorama of the development of the teaching of modern languages and recollect language instruction memory of the period. KEYWORDS: Brazilian Education. Foreing Language Teaching. Modern Languages. Referências ALMEIDA, José Ricardo Pires. História da Instrução Pública no Brasil (1500-1889) História e Legislação. Brasília: INEP/ PUC SP, 2000. AVELLAR, Hélio de Alcântara. História administrativa do Brasil: a administração pombalina. 2. ed. Brasília: FUNCEP/Editora da Universidade de Brasília, 1983. ______. A transmissão da cultura.... São Paulo: Melhoramentos/INL, 1976. (Parte terceira da 5. ed. da obra “A cultura brasileira”) CELANE, Maria Antonieta Alba. O ensino de Língua Estrangeira no Império: O que mudou? In: BRAIT, Beth; BASTOS, Neusa (Orgs.). Imagens do Brasil: 500 anos. São Paulo: EDUC, 2000. p. 216-248. Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 231 CHAGAS, Valnir. Didática Especial de Línguas Modernas. São Paulo: Companhia Editora Nacional, 1957. COLLEGIO PEDRO II. Annuario do Collegio Pedro II, 1º Anno, 1914. Revista dos Tribunaes, Rio de Janeiro, 1914. FREYRE, Gilberto. Ingleses no Brasil. 3. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Topbooks Editora, 2000. GPHELB, Grupo de Pesquisa História do Ensino de Línguas no Brasil, da Universidade Federal de Sergipe. 2006. Disponível em: http://www.ufs.br/gphelb/index.htm. Acesso em: 21 de dezembro de 2008. GOMES, Laurentino. 1808: como uma rainha louca, um príncipe medroso e uma corte corrupta enganaram Napoleão e mudaram a história de Portugal e do Brasil. 9. reimpressão. São Paulo: Editora Planeta do Brasil Ltda., 2007. HANNA, Vera L. Harabagi; BASTOS, Neusa; PIRES, Regina. Gramaticografia Nove- centista: Raízes Maximinianas. In: BASTOS, Neusa; PALMA, Dieli (Orgs.). A constru- ção das Gramáticas e o Ensino de Língua Portuguesa na primeira metade do século XX. Rio de Janeiro: Lucerna, 2006. p. 61-81. INSTITUTO BRASILEIRO DE GEOGRAFIA E ESTATÍSTICA. Anuário Estatístico do Brasil. Rio de Janeiro, 1936. LANE, Jack; O’SULLIVAN, Maurice (Eds.). A Twentieth-Century American Reader Vol. 1 – 1900 -1945. Washington D.C.: United States Information Agency, 1999. MORAIS, Régis de. Cultura Brasileira e Educação. Campinas: Papirus Editora, 1989. PILETTI, Nelson. História da Educação no Brasil. 7. ed. São Paulo: Ática, 1997. ROMANELLI, Otaiza de Oliveira. História da Educação no Brasil. 20. ed. Petrópolis: Editora Vozes, 1998. VASCONCELOS, Sandra Guardini. Romances ingleses em circulação no Brasil du- rante o séc. XIX. 2004. Disponível em http://www.unicamp.br/iel/memoria/Ensaios/ Sandra/sandralev.htm. Acesso em: 17 de setembro de 2008. 232 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 ACORDO ORTOGRÁFICO E A UNIDADE IMAGINÁRIA DA LÍNGUA PORTUGUESA José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO1 RESUMO: O político está presente na linguagem de diversos modos, entre eles, nas práticas institucionais sobre a(s) língua(s), como na produção de gramáticas e dicionários e, no caso que propomos, na decretação de acordos ortográficos. Neste trabalho, realizado na perspec- tiva da História das Ideias Linguísticas, que articulamos com a Semântica da Enunciação e a Análise de Discurso, buscamos compreender as filiações de sentidos do documento que aprovou o Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa (1990), em vias de entrar em vigor unificando a ortografia do Português do Brasil, Portugal, Angola, Cabo Verde, Guiné-Bissau, Moçambique, Timor Leste e São Tomé e Príncipe. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa. Políticas Linguísticas. História das Ideias Linguísticas. Introdução Neste trabalho, analisamos a orientação argumentativa do documento que aprovou o Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa, assinado, em 1990, pelos governos de Angola, Brasil, Cabo Verde, Guiné-Bissau, Moçambique, Portugal, São Tomé e Príncipe e, mais tarde, em 2004, pelo governo do Timor-Leste. Trata-se de uma ação político-jurídica fomentada pela Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa, doravante CPLP, oficialmente constituída em 1996, mas em funcionamento desde 1989, quando ocorreu, na cidade de São Luís, no Maranhão, o primeiro encontro dos Chefes de Estado e de Go- verno dos países de Língua Portuguesa. Essa agremiação de países considera como imperativas a “afirmação e divulgação cada vez maiores da Língua Portuguesa”, como lemos em sua 1 Programa de Pós-Graduação em Linguística do Instituto de Estudos da Linguagem da UNICAMP. Bolsista FAPESP, Campinas, São Paulo, Brasil. jose-simao@uol.com.br Acordo Ortográfico e a unidade imaginária da língua portuguesa Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 233 declaração constitutiva, e tem como objetivos, entre outros, a “promoção e difusão da Língua Portuguesa”, como consta do artigo terceiro de seu estatuto. Essa não foi, contudo, a primeira vez que se buscou a unificação or- tográfica da Língua Portuguesa daqui e d’além mar, como apontam Souza e Mariani (1996). Não faltam, em nossa história das ideias linguísticas, ações político-jurídicas com vistas a unificar e simplificar a ortografia da Língua Portuguesa do Brasil e de Portugal. Destacam-se, nesse sentido, as atuações da Academia Brasileira de Letras e da Academia de Ciências de Lisboa na produção conjunta de vocabulários ortográficos. Essas tentativas anteriores de unificação e simplificação da orto- grafia da Língua Portuguesa se caracterizaram, como assinalam Souza e Mariani, pela busca do “ideal ortográfico” que garantisse “o prestígio e a expansão de um idioma nacional” (1996, p. 91). São acordos e tratados ortográficos firmados ou apenas formulados entre o Brasil e Portugal que sinalizam as contradições constitutivas de nosso processo de gra- matização. Na segunda metade do século XIX, começou, de forma mais regular, o processo brasileiro de descrição e instrumentação da Língua Portuguesa, na base, sobretudo, de duas tecnologias: a gramática e o dicionário. A partir dessa época, o saber sobre a Língua Portuguesa aqui produzido se tornou questão brasileira. A produção de gramáticas e dicionários se articulou com a constituição da língua nacional do Brasil. Apesar disso, produziu-se a necessidade de legitimar a escrita brasilei- ra do Português associando-a à já historicamente legitimada escrita portugue- sa, como vemos nos tantos gestos que buscaram a unificação da ortografia de Portugal e do Brasil. 1. Argumentação e agenciamento político da enunciação A argumentação tem sido objeto de estudo desde a antiguidade. Ela foi inicialmente teorizada pela Retórica. O primeiro tratado metódico sobre a arte da palavra, intitulado Teoria Retórica, foi escrito por Córax e Tísias, na Sicília, por volta do ano 465 antes de nossa era. Depois de se desenvolver amplamente na antiguidade greco-romana como a arte de falar em público de forma persuasiva, a Retórica acabou se José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO 234 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 limitando, por longo período, à classificação das figuras de estilo. Viu-se, assim, diminuído, no século XIX, o interesse pelo estudo da argumentação. No século XX esse interesse aumentou com o surgimento da chamada Nova Retórica. Multiplicaram-se os estudos da argumentação. Plantin (1996) fala, em termos gerais, de três grandes tendências na abordagem da argumen- tatividade hoje em dia. Uma tendência define a argumentação como relativa a uma das ope- rações do espírito. Para essa tendência são três as operações do espírito: a apreensão, o julgamento e o raciocínio. A essas três operações cognitivas cor- respondem, respectivamente, três operações linguísticas: a referência, a pre- dicação e a argumentação, igualmente hierarquizadas. Na primeira operação, o espírito apreende um “conceito”, que, no pla- no linguístico, o ato de referência liga a um “termo”. Na segunda operação, o espírito reúne dois conceitos em uma “proposição”. No plano linguístico, o ato de predicação liga o termo sujeito ao termo predicado, constituindo, assim, um “enunciado”. Na terceira operação, o espírito articula um grupo de proposições em uma “inferência”. No plano linguístico, essa articulação liga os enunciados em uma “argumentação” (PLANTIN, 1996). Depois dos anos 1950, houve, segundo Plantin (1996), uma “pragma- tização” dos estudos da argumentação, que passaram a ser desenvolvidos na perspectiva das lógicas de conteúdo (lógica substancial, lógica não-formal, lógica natural, lógica cognitiva), lógicas que incluem a dimensão do diálogo (natural, formal, etc.) no tratamento da argumentação. Essa tendência concebe a argumentação como uma forma particu- lar de interação, considera que a argumentatividade caracteriza um tipo de interação verbal regida por uma distribuição específica dos papéis dis- cursivos, ideia antiga já formulada, de certa forma, pela Retórica e pela Dialética. A terceira tendência nos estudos da argumentação, segundo Plantin, surgiu a partir do início dos anos 1980, quando se desenvolveram teorias da interação verbal que articularam a análise conversacional à análise da argu- mentação. Nessa perspectiva, a argumentação foi associada, por exemplo, à questão da gestão das faces nas trocas conversacionais. Ao que nos parece, essas tendências se sustentam, cada uma a seu modo, sobre uma mesma concepção de sujeito: o sujeito do cogito, o res cogitans da ciência moderna. Acordo Ortográfico e a unidade imaginária da língua portuguesa Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 235 Isso nos coloca a questão fundamental da configuração do sujeito da ciência na Linguística. Como assinala Henry ([1977] 1992),2 a Linguística, tanto a estruturalista quanto a gerativista, instaurou seu domínio no campo da complementaridade da realidade psicológica e da realidade social. Essa inscrição da Linguística no campo da complementaridade confi- gura o sujeito da ciência, nos seus domínios, “pelo viés da hipótese de uma in- teriorização de um saber no indivíduo” ([1977] 1992, p. 124 – grifo do autor), sendo considerado como secundário o fato de que “esse saber esteja fora do alcance da consciência individual na atividade da linguagem ou na atividade em geral” ([1977] 1992, p. 124). Henry argumenta que essa configuração do sujeito da ciência, “sem- pre acompanhada por uma forma de redução do objeto de conhecimento ao objeto real” ([1977] 1992, p. 124), passa “ao largo da dimensão da história formulada pelo conceito de ‘luta de classes’” ([1977] 1992, p. 122). As tendências nos estudos da argumentação apontadas por Plantin (1996) se inscrevem, pensamos, nessa configuração do sujeito da ciência, produzindo o apagamento da historicidade do sujeito, dos sentidos, dos obje- tos de investigação. Por outro lado, a Semântica da Enunciação que vem sendo desenvolvi- da por Guimarães (1995, 2002, 2007) coloca sobre outras bases os estudos da argumentação. Ela desloca a questão da argumentação do campo do formalis- mo, do funcionalismo, do sociologismo e do psicologismo. Para compreendermos o deslocamento ao qual nos referimos, pre- cisamos lembrar que Guimarães (1989) define a enunciação como o acon- tecimento sócio-histórico da produção do enunciado. Para ele, a enuncia- ção não é um ato individual de utilização da língua, como foi proposto por Benveniste ([1970] 1989), bem como não é uma atividade de linguagem da ordem do irrepetível, como formulado por Anscombre e Ducrot (1976). Pelo contrário, “o repetível está na enunciação porque ela se dá no inte- rior de uma formação discursiva” (GUIMARÃES, 1989, p. 79). Sendo sócio-histórico, o acontecimento enunciativo está exposto tanto ao repetí- vel quanto ao novo. Como se verifica, nessa definição de enunciação, Guimarães se afasta da tendência, nas teorias da enunciação, de reproduzir em termos teóricos a ilusão do sujeito de ser origem do dizer e dos sentidos. Nota-se, por essa defi- 2 A data entre colchetes é a da primeira edição da obra; a outra data é a da edição consultada. José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO 236 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 nição, que o autor não trabalha com a ideia de um sujeito enunciador portador de escolhas e intenções. Nisso, Guimarães se aproxima de Pêcheux, para quem, os processos de enunciação “consistem em uma série de determinações sucessivas pelas quais o enunciado se constitui pouco a pouco e que tem por característica co- locar o ‘dito’ e em consequência rejeitar o ‘não-dito’” (PÊCHEUX; FUCHS, [1975] 1997, p. 175-6). Desse modo, a língua não é posta em funcionamento pelo indivíduo (pessoa que fala esta ou aquela língua), mas pelo interdiscurso dentro de es- paços de enunciação, definidos por Guimarães (2002) como espaços de fun- cionamento de línguas que dividem desigualmente os falantes em relação aos direitos ao dizer e aos modos de dizer. Por essa via, chegamos à noção de “forma material” (ORLANDI, 2001, p. 49), ou seja, ao entendimento de que a língua é posta em funciona- mento pela história. É pela relação da língua com a história que se diz uma coisa e não outra, que se diz de uma forma e não de outra. Há, nos termos de Guimarães (2007), um agenciamento político da enunciação. 2. Orientação argumentativa do acordo: o político na linguagem A argumentação é, como a estamos tomando, uma operação enunciati- va de articulação de enunciados pela qual se produz uma “injunção à interpre- tação” (ORLANDI, 1990, p. 36). Em outros termos, a argumentação é uma operação enunciativa de articulação que, ao operar um recorte do memorável, projeta sentidos para o texto, como veremos no Acordo Ortográfico da Lín- gua Portuguesa (1990): Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa Considerando que o projecto de texto de ortografia unificada de língua por- tuguesa aprovado em Lisboa, em 12 de outubro de 1990, pela Academia das Ciências de Lisboa, Academia Brasileira de Letras e delegações de Angola, Cabo Verde, Guiné-Bissau, Moçambique e São Tomé e Príncipe, com a ade- são da delegação de observadores da Galiza, constitui um passo importante para a defesa da unidade essencial da língua portuguesa e para o seu prestígio internacional. Acordo Ortográfico e a unidade imaginária da língua portuguesa Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 237 Considerando que o texto do acordo que ora se aprova resulta de um apro- fundado debate nos Países signatários, a República Popular de Angola, a República Federativa do Brasil, a República de Cabo Verde, a República da Guiné-Bissau, a República de Moçambique, a República Portuguesa, a República Democrática de São Tomé e Príncipe, acordam no seguinte: Artigo 1 - É aprovado o Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa, que cons- ta como anexo I ao presente instrumento de aprovação [...] [...] Nos dois primeiros parágrafos do texto, estão formulados os três enunciados que integram o texto dando-lhe uma “orientação argumentativa” (GUIMARÃES, [1987] 2007, p. 25), estabelecendo o modo de interpretar o seu futuro. A introdução desses enunciados por meio da expressão linguística “considerando que” produz um efeito de sustentação que silencia o debate sobre o dizer, uma vez que o coloca como já-sabido do leitor: (A) Considerando que [o acordo] constitui um passo importante para a defesa da unidade essencial da língua portuguesa. (B) [Considerando que o acordo] constitui um passo importante para o seu [da língua portuguesa] prestígio internacional. (C) Considerando que [o acordo] resulta de um aprofundado debate nos Países signatários. Esses enunciados constituem uma escala argumentativa (DUCROT, [1973] 1981) que pode ser representada como segue: José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO 238 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 Os enunciados (B) e (C) inscrevem o acordo numa certa discursivida- de sobre a internacionalização da Língua Portuguesa e numa dada concepção de consenso que apaga o político, o litígio, o dissenso, produzindo efeitos de sentidos que inibem subjetivações contrárias a (r). Tendo em vista nosso interesse neste artigo, não examinaremos, po- rém, esses dois enunciados. Limitaremos nosso trabalho à compreensão de (A), enunciado que está na base da escala argumentativa projetando sentidos para (r). Analisaremos esse enunciado empregando a paráfrase como proce- dimento de análise. Buscamos, com esse procedimento, desfazer a ilusão da transparência da linguagem. Expondo o texto sob análise a sua opacidade, queremos dar visibilidade às filiações de sentidos que o constitui. Vamos, então, às paráfrases: (A) Considerando que [o acordo] constitui um passo importante para a defesa da unidade essencial da língua portuguesa. (A’) Há unidade na língua portuguesa e o acordo é um passo importante para a defesa dessa unidade. (A’’) Os países da CPLP falam uma mesma língua e o acordo defenderá essa unidade. (A’’’) Há uma essência na língua portuguesa que lhe confere a unidade que o acordo defenderá. (A) Considerando que [o acordo] constitui um passo importante para a defesa da unidade essencial da língua portuguesa. (B) [Considerando que o acordo] constitui um passo importante para o seu [da língua portuguesa] prestígio internacional. (C) Considerando que [o acordo] resulta de um aprofundado debate nos Países signatários. (r) É aprovado o Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa Acordo Ortográfico e a unidade imaginária da língua portuguesa Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 239 Os parafraseamentos de (A) em (A’) e (A’’) nos permitem observar a filiação do acordo à discursividade segundo a qual a Língua Portuguesa fala- da em Portugal e em suas ex-colônias é uma única e mesma língua. Trata-se de uma discursividade que apaga as descontinuidades na história da língua. A Língua Portuguesa historicizou de formas diferentes em Portugal e nas colônias portuguesas, produzindo diferentes sítios de interpretação (ORLANDI, 1990). Esse desencontro histórico da língua com ela mesma é compreendido, nessa discursividade, como variação linguística ou dialetação. Lima Sobrinho ([1955] 2000), por exemplo, defende que não existe um Português brasileiro. As diferenças entre o Português daqui e o d’além mar são designadas, pelo autor, como “regionalismos”, “dialetos”, “linguaja- res”, “falares”, “provincianismos”, etc. Apesar das diferenças, argumenta ele, falamos a mesma língua de Camões. Para o autor, “há fenômenos de dialetação, mas não existe unidade e generalidade e extensão suficiente nesses fenômenos, para que possam cons- tituir um novo idioma” ([1955] 2000, p. 85). Diante disso, ele defende uma “política de unidade” semelhante a essa que está sendo impetrada por meio do acordo ortográfico de 1990. Esse imaginário de unidade linguística que percebemos funcionando em (A’) e (A’’) inscreve esse acordo na discursividade segundo a qual existe um “mundo português” nos trópicos, existe um “peculiar modo português de estar no mundo”, discursividade que sustentou os projetos coloniais de Portu- gal na primeira metade do século XX, como mostra Thomaz (2007). Essa discursividade apaga o “processo de descolonização linguística” (ORLANDI, 2007), processo iniciado à época da colonização e potencializa- do, no Brasil, a partir da segunda metade do século XIX, quando começou, de forma mais regular, a gramatização brasileira do Português. Trata-se de uma discursividade que, como apreendemos em (A’’’), (se) sustenta (n)uma concepção essencialista da língua. Haveria, na perspectiva assumida pelo acordo, uma essência na Língua Portuguesa que garantiria a “unidade na diversidade e a diversidade na unidade”, “ideia” reiteradamente proclamada em nossa história dos conhecimentos linguísticos e que nos man- têm na posição de colonizados. Produz-se, desse modo, a continuidade na descontinuidade da história da língua. José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO 240 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 3. Considerações finais De fato, como vimos, o acordo ortográfico analisado não pretende uni- ficar a língua, ele toma a Língua Portuguesa como una. Ele (se) sustenta (n)o imaginário segundo o qual haveria uma essência na língua que seria responsá- vel por sua unidade nos vários países onde é falada sob diferentes condições. Nesse imaginário, a língua é descolada de suas condições materiais de produção, ela é tomada fora da história. Somente operando sobre uma tal representação abstrata da língua é que o acordo pode falar em “unidade es- sencial da Língua Portuguesa”. Desse modo, num gesto anacrônico, ele apaga a heterogeneidade da Língua Portuguesa, ou seja, apaga que essa língua se tornou outras ao se reterritorializar aqui e nos países africanos onde é falada. O acordo esquece, no sentido discursivo, que o funcionamento da Língua Portuguesa sob dife- rentes condições de produção engendrou diferentes “sítios de significação” (ORLANDI, 1990), produzindo clivagens em sua história. O fato é que esse desencontro da Língua Portuguesa com ela mesma não nos permite mais, como assinala Orlandi (2007, p. 18), falar em lusofo- nia: “já não cabe falar em lusofonia, mas em refletirmos sobre a situação da diversidade linguística com que se apresentam hoje os países de colonização portuguesa”. Em Moçambique, por exemplo, a Língua Portuguesa é a língua ofi- cial, mas há outras línguas nacionais (Cicopi, Cinyanja, Cinyungwe, Cisen- ga, Cishona, Ciyao, Enchuwabo, Ekoti, Elomwe, Gotonga, Maconde ou Shimakonde, Kimwani, Macua ou Emakhuwa, Memane, Suaíli ou Kiswahili, Suazi ou Swazi, Xichanga, Xironga, Xitswa e Zulu). Em muitos distritos mo- çambicanos, a maioria da população não fala a Língua Portuguesa. Quais serão os efeitos do acordo na divisão de línguas que constitui esse espaço de enunciação? SILVA SOBRINHO, José Simão da. Spelling agreement and the imaginary unity of portuguese language. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009. ABSTRACT: There are several ways in which politics is present in the language, one of them is in the institutional practices about languages, such as the production of grammar books and dictionaries and, in the case we propose, in the decreeing of spelling agreements. In this Acordo Ortográfico e a unidade imaginária da língua portuguesa Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 241 paper, which was written in the perspective of the History of the Linguistic Ideas and is linked to the Semantics of Enunciation and Discourse Analysis, we try to understand the filiations of meanings in the document that approved the Portuguese Language Spelling Agreement (1990). The document that is about to start to rule unifying the spelling of the Portuguese Language spoken in Brazil, Portugal, Angola, Green Cape, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambique, East Timor and St Thomas and Prince. KEYWORDS: Portuguese Language Spelling Agreement. Linguistic Politics. History of Linguistic Ideas. Referências ANSCOMBRE, J-C.; DUCROT, O. L’argumentation dans la langue. Langages, Paris, v. 42, p. 5-27, 1976. BENVENISTE, E. Problemas de Linguística Geral II. Tradução de Maria da Glória Novak e Maria Luísa Neri. Campinas: Pontes, 1989. DUCROT, O. Provar e dizer. Tradução de Maria Aparecida Barbosa et al. São Paulo: Global, 1981. GUIMARÃES, E. Enunciação e História. In: ______ (Org.) História e sentido na linguagem. Campinas: Pontes, 1989. p.71-79. ______. Os limites do sentido. Campinas: Pontes, 1995. ______. Semântica do acontecimento: um estudo enunciativo da designação. Campinas: Pontes, 2002. ______. Texto e argumentação: um estudo de conjunções do português. 4. ed. revista e ampliada. Campinas: Pontes, 2007. HENRY, P. A ferramenta imperfeita: língua, sujeito e discurso. Tradução de Maria Fausta Pereira de Castro. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1992. LIMA SOBRINHO, B. A língua portuguesa e a unidade do Brasil. 2. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 2000. ORLANDI, E. P. Terra à vista. São Paulo: Cortez; Campinas: Editora da UNICAMP, 1990. ______. Interpretação: autoria, leitura e efeitos do trabalho simbólico. 3. ed. Petrópolis, RJ: Vozes, 2001. José Simão da SILVA SOBRINHO 242 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 232-242, 2009 ______. Processo de descolonização linguística e “lusofonia”. Línguas e Instrumentos Linguísticos, Campinas, v. 19, p. 9-19, 2007. PÊCHEUX, M.; FUCHS, C. A propósito da análise automática do discurso: atualiza- ções e perspectivas. In: GADET, F.; HAK, T. (Orgs.) Por uma análise automática do discurso: uma introdução à obra de Michel Pêcheux. 3. ed. Campinas: Editora da UNICAMP, 1997. p.163-252. PLANTIN, C. Le trilogue argumentatif. Langue Française, Paris, v. 112, p. 9-30, 1996. SOUZA, T. C. C.; MARIANI, B. S. C. Reformas ortográficas ou acordos políticos? In: GUIMARÃES, E.; ORLANDI, E. P. (Orgs.) Língua e cidadania: o português no Brasil. Campinas: Pontes, 1996. p. 85-93. THOMAZ, O. R. Tigres de papel: Gilberto Freyre, Portugal e os países africanos de lín- gua oficial portuguesa. In: BASTOS, C.; ALMEIDA, M. V.; FELDMAN-BIANCO, B. (Orgs.) Trânsitos coloniais: diálogos críticos luso-brasileiros. Campinas: Editora da UNI- CAMP, 2007. p. 45-70. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 243-248, 2009 243 TATIT, Luiz; LOPES, Ivã Carlos. Elos de Melodia e Letra – Análise semiótica de seis canções. São Paulo: Ateliê Editorial, 2008. Alexandre Marcelo BUENO1 A teoria semiótica de linha francesa, criada por Algirdas Julien Greimas, em meados da década de 1960, tem a significação como seu objeto de estudo. Durante boa parte de seu desenvolvimento inicial, a semiótica prescindiu, de modo consciente, da análise do plano da expressão para focalizar o modo como o plano do conteúdo se organizava. Para isso, Greimas e colaboradores elaboraram um arcabouço conceitual que correspondeu, por um lado, a uma afamada economia conceitual, e, por outro, a algumas limitações que não se referiam apenas à organização do plano da expressão. Sendo uma das poucas herdeiras declaradas do patrimônio conceitu- al saussuriano e, principalmente, de seu refinamento, promovido por Louis Hjelmslev, a semiótica esbarrou nos limites impostos pelo edifício teórico que ela própria erigiu. Na década de 1980, alguns semioticistas já procuravam ampliar o escopo da teoria, retomando questões centrais anteriormente dei- xadas de lado, como os estados passionais dos sujeitos narrativos e o próprio plano de expressão. Não por acaso, após a morte de seu fundador, a semió- tica passou a conviver com diversas propostas conceituais e analíticas, cuja co-existência nem sempre é pacífica. Dentre essas propostas, a semiótica tensiva, que tem em Claude Zilberberg seu mais destacado proponente, sur- giu como o intuito de integrar a dimensão sensível, colocando assim o plano de expressão no centro dos interesses da teoria. Dessa feita, atualmente, di- versos semioticistas buscam investigar a organização do plano da expressão, enquanto instância produtora de significação; buscam, também, compreender como se define sua relação com o plano do conteúdo. O livro Elos de Melodia e Letra – Análise semiótica de seis canções, lançado em 2008, é o resultado do trabalho dos semioticistas brasileiros Luiz Tatit e Ivã Carlos Lopes, que apresentam recursos teóricos para se compre- 1 Programa de Pós-Graduação em Semiótica e Linguística Geral. Departamento de Linguística da Faculdade de Filosofia, Letras e Ciências Humanas da Universidade de São Paulo (FFLCH-USP), São Paulo, SP, Brasil. alexandrembueno@gmail.com Alexandre Marcelo BUENO 244 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 243-248, 2009 ender melhor a relação entre os planos do conteúdo e da expressão a partir de um objeto privilegiado para isso: a canção. Na introdução do livro, os autores apresen- tam seus objetivos iniciais: não apenas examinar a letra e os elementos melódicos e rítmicos da música como componentes dotados de significação, mas compreen- der o elo que une esses dois planos constitutivos de seu objeto de análise. Os autores partem, assim, do pressuposto de que a melodia, enquanto plano de expressão, também tem sua parte na construção da significação total da canção. Dessa forma, eles delimitam o espaço de pertinência de seu traba- lho em relação a outras áreas, que frequentemente se detém apenas na análise da letra. Ao contrário, na perspectiva teórica adotada pelos autores, a canção é entendida como a junção entre melodia e letra e ganha, assim, contornos de um objeto complexo e rico de significações. Para essa empreitada, os autores utilizam os conceitos da semiótica tensiva, uma das principais linhas teóricas da semiótica, que serve muito bem ao propósito analítico do livro. As análises das canções não se restringem, assim, a apenas elencar o que há de específico em cada canção, como se fosse possível localizar as “reais intenções” dos compositores; elas apresentam os elementos invariantes que caracterizam o objeto canção. Por isso, conceitos como andamento, tonicidade, tempo, concentração, expansão, entre outros, caros à semiótica tensiva, são presenças constantes nas análises. Tatit e Lopes analisam canções de quatro conhecidos compositores/ cantores da MPB (Caetano Veloso, Chico Buarque, Tom Jobim e Vinícius de Moraes). As canções analisadas são: “Terra” e “Fora da Ordem”, de Caetano Veloso; “Olê Olá” e “As Vitrines”, de Chico Buarque; e “Eu Sei que Vou te Amar” e “A Felicidade”, de Tom Jobim e Vinícius de Moraes. Cada análise apresenta seções separadas para a melodia e a letra. Pare- ce-nos que seria mais pertinente, nos epílogos que se seguem a cada final de capítulo, que os autores deixassem mais clara ou reforçassem a relação entre os dois planos, uma vez que esse é o objetivo proposto na introdução. Essa separação pode ocasionar, nos leitores desavisados, o equívoco de que se tra- ta, na teoria semiótica, de se analisar separadamente cada plano, sem que uma efetiva homologação entre ambos ocorra, o que efetivamente não procede. Para que essa falsa impressão não ocorra, os leitores precisam ficar atentos às hipóteses iniciais dos autores em relação aos três modelos propostos de integração entre melodia e letra. Descrevemos, abaixo, muito sucintamente, as características gerais de cada modelo: Elos de Melodia e Letra – Análise semiótica de seis canções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 243-248, 2009 245 1) o primeiro caracteriza-se pela adaptação da melodia aos acentos e recortes silábicos da letra, tal como se faz na fala. A canção que possui essas características constrói, por conseguinte, sua base melódica a partir daquilo que já é conhecido: nossa fala cotidiana. Por isso, nesse tipo de canção, ocorre o que os autores chamam de efeito figurativo de locução, no qual as curvas melódicas ascendentes e descendentes possuem elementos semelhantes aos que ocorrem na fala ordinária sem, exatamente, serem idênticos a ela (2008, p. 17-18). 2) no segundo, a canção apresenta um efeito de repetição melódica que os autores intitulam de tematização melódica. Esse tipo de canção ca- racteriza-se pela concentração e pela aceleração em seu plano da expressão, entre outros elementos. No entanto, segundo os autores, essa concentração e essa aceleração não perduram ao longo da canção, pois estão previstas nesse modelo algumas mudanças melódicas que refreiam a aceleração e desfazem, parcialmente, a concentração. Essas mudanças produtoras da suspensão tam- bém não duram muito tempo: uma vez previstas pelo modelo, sua função é a de preparar a melodia para o retorno ao núcleo melódico e, consequen- temente, à sua aceleração e concentração. Em termos narrativos (do plano do conteúdo), esse é o modelo em que ocorre a identificação do enunciador com os valores presentes nos objetos, que são então celebrados por ele. Por conseguinte, as semelhanças dos temas melódicos produzidos representam a conjunção do sujeito com seu objeto de valor (2008, p. 19-21). 3) o terceiro, chamado de disjunção temática, apresenta características opostas às do segundo modelo: há uma notável presença de saltos interva- lares (verticalização), desaceleração e transposições de registro na tessitura (de um segmento grave passa-se a um outro em que predomina o agudo, por exemplo). O que predomina nesse modelo é o conteúdo passional da canção, produzido pela disjunção, pela perda ou pela distância quase inalcançável de algo ou, mais comumente, de alguém. Por isso, segundo os autores, quanto menor a regularidade melódica, maior a distância do objeto de desejo do su- jeito passional. Portanto, os elementos mais marcantes desse tipo de canção são a desaceleração do andamento, a valorização das durações vocais e a desigualdade temática (2008, p. 21-23). Cada um desses modelos é facilmente identificado em determinados gêneros musicais. Os autores, contudo, mostram que mais de um desses mo- delos de integração entre melodia e fala pode estar presentes em uma única Alexandre Marcelo BUENO 246 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 243-248, 2009 canção, como é possível observar na análise de “Terra”. Nessa análise, no capítulo 1, os autores evidenciam como essa canção começa com elementos mais próximos da fala para passar, em seguida, para um aumento da tensão passional representada pela ascendência melódica, que produz a conjunção, ou ao menos a sua tentativa. Nessa canção, Tatit e Lopes apontam para o fato de haver tensão entre uma conjunção temporal (ou mesmo à distância, como se fosse um elo) entre o sujeito e seu objeto de desejo (no caso, a “Terra”) e sua disjunção efetiva, como se esse objeto fosse algo etéreo e inapreensível, o que o torna responsável pelos percursos passionais presentes nessa canção. Vale destacar, dentre os vários pontos altos das análises, o uso das no- ções de Paul Valery, desenvolvidas semioticamente por Zilberberg, para ex- plicar a concomitância do que é passado e do que parece ser ainda presente na canção “Fora da Ordem”, de Caetano Veloso, no capítulo 02. As proposições de Valery (“O que [já] é, não é [ainda]” como elemento da surpresa e “O que não é [ainda], [já] é” como a espera) servem como ponto de partida para os autores elaborarem “ciclos aspectuais” para duas figuras da letra: a constru- ção e a ruína. Assim, com a chave aspectual e valeryana, os autores explicam a concomitância entre o parecer e o ser em jogo nessa canção e a imbricação progressiva dessas duas instâncias (2008, p. 57-60). Em “Olê, Olá” (capítulo 03), estão presentes valores aspectuais e tem- porais responsáveis pela “dinâmica emocional e intelectiva” da canção. As- sim, pode-se observar o refinamento das análises dos autores quando eles apontam para a relação entre a virtualização e a realização. Os semioticistas demonstram que essa relação é a responsável pelas expectativas e pela ansie- dade presentes no enunciador, já que ele sabe o que o espera, ao final da noite, mas faz o possível para que isso não se concretize, porque não faz parte do horizonte de seus desejos e de seus valores. Ao final da canção, o que preva- lece é justamente isso: é o fim produzido por uma disjunção, isto é, por uma descontinuidade disfórica figurativizada pelo dia que chega e que encerra a noite, tomada como o espaço e o tempo em que predominavam os valores figurativizados do samba e da boemia. Em termos de organização discursiva, algo semelhante ocorre na can- ção “As Vitrines” (no capítulo 04). Nessa análise, os autores mostram como há uma espécie de conjunção à distância e, ao mesmo tempo, uma tentativa de conjunção definitiva, ambas responsáveis pelo percurso passional. Há, junto ao andamento desacelerado, uma tendência à ascendência, que ocorre apenas Elos de Melodia e Letra – Análise semiótica de seis canções Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 243-248, 2009 247 discretamente, como se a paixão tratada pela letra não pudesse se expandir como em uma canção sobre o amor, mesmo porque essa conjunção final, na canção, acaba por não se realizar, ficando apenas no plano da contemplação e do desejo platônico. No penúltimo capítulo, a análise de “Eu sei que vou te amar” mostra uma refinada relação entre a emoção controlada e a ruptura passional produ- zida pela insatisfação do enunciador, que é maximizada pela mudança de re- gistro melódico referente a esse percurso na letra. Os autores mostram como a primeira parte da canção aproxima a emoção cantada da emoção falada, cuja situação é a da espera, ou seja, da disjunção conhecida, mas não admitida, do percurso passional. Assim, a mudança melódica representa a vontade do enunciador de eliminar essa disjunção, inserindo, assim, uma aceleração me- lódica em uma canção caracterizada, justamente, pela desaceleração. Outro ponto alto está na análise da canção “Felicidade” (capítulo 06), também de Vinícius de Moraes e Tom Jobim. Nessa análise, os autores apre- sentam uma sofisticada correlação entre a leveza, característica da felicidade passageira, e o peso, representativo da tristeza perene (2008, p. 155-158). Essa canção é um bom exemplo da organização melódica da canção passio- nal, pois, em seu conjunto, o espectro da tessitura é quase totalmente preen- chido de um extremo a outro. Ainda no plano melódico, os autores mostram como os valores disfóricos da tristeza estão no ponto mais alto da tessitura, ao contrário da felicidade, que permanece quase em sua totalidade no meio ou na parte inferior da tessitura. Sem esquecermos que a canção é objeto de análise de outras áreas ou de outras perspectivas teóricas e que as seis análises apresentadas sob a forma de capítulos foram publicadas ou em periódicos especializados ou em forma- to de capítulo de livro, cabe apontar que alguns problemas — de ordem mais prática do que conceitual e analítica — aparecem nesse livro, tanto para os leitores não iniciados em semiótica quanto para eventuais e diletantes leito- res de trabalhos sobre a música popular brasileira em geral. Entendemos que um desses problemas é a falta de um capítulo introdutório, reservado para a apresentação dos conceitos semióticos mais trabalhados pelos autores, o que facilitaria a compreensão de determinadas passagens das análises. Também seria útil um glossário com termos técnicos da própria semiótica e da mú- sica. Além disso, dentre as poucas referências apresentadas, a indicação da obra de Greimas, mencionada no capítulo 04 (2008, p. 127), está ausente da Alexandre Marcelo BUENO 248 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 243-248, 2009 bibliografia, algo que pode ser facilmente corrigido em uma segunda edição. Consideramos ser um outro problema também o fato de os autores não men- cionarem a filiação teórica do conceito de interdiscursividade, recorrente nas análises das canções. A menção parece importante, de nosso ponto de vista, porque o conceito é utilizado por diferentes teorias do discurso (não apenas as derivadas ou herdeiras das ideias de Bakhtin) e, portanto, há diversas formas de se compreendê-lo nos dias de hoje. Os autores poderiam ainda indicar, em uma referência discográfica a ser feita, os álbuns de onde as canções foram extraídas, para dar oportunidade aos leitores de cotejar as análises com as respectivas canções, tornando a leitura, inclusive, mais prazerosa do que já é. Evidentemente, é desnecessário dizer que essas ressalvas, entendidas como observações e não como críticas, não invalidam, em hipótese alguma, o trabalho dos autores. As análises refinadas, escritas com esmero, fluidez e sem pedantismos, só contribuem para lançar novos olhares, entendimentos e fruições sobre um objeto caracterizado pela riqueza de sentidos e de sensa- ções — trabalho que os autores realizam com elegância. Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 249, 2009 249 ÍndiCe de Assuntos Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa, p. 232 Koinização, p. 125 Análise acústica, p. 9 Língua inglesa, p. 175 Aquisição da linguagem, p. 61 Línguas modernas, p. 207 Arquitetura textual, p. 160 Manuel Bandeira, p. 140 Autotradução, p. 125 Manuel Puig, p. 125 Canção, p. 243 Mudança linguística, p. 61 Capacidades de linguagem, p. 160 Poesia, p. 140 Discurso, p. 104 Políticas linguísticas, p. 232 Educação brasileira, p. 207 Português brasileiro, p. 9, p. 61 Emoções, p. 104 Propriedades semânticas, p. 36 Encontros consonantais heterossilábicos, p. 9 Relativa cortadora, p. 61 Ensino de línguas estrangeiras, p. 207 Relativa resumptiva, p. 61 Espanhol, p. 125 Sangre de amor correspondido, p. 125 Experiências, p. 175 Semiótica, p. 140, p. 243 Filosofia da ciência, p. 85 Sentido, p. 104 Filosofia da linguística, p. 85 Sociolinguística, p. 85 Fonética experimental, p. 9 Teoria gerativa, p. 61 Gêneros textuais, p. 160 Transitividade, p. 36 Greimas, p. 140 Verbos alternantes, p. 36 Indisciplina, p. 175 Vogal epentética, p. 9 História das ideias linguísticas, p. 232 Voseo, p. 125 250 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 250, 2009 SubjeCt index Acoustical analysis, p. 9 Linguistic politics, p. 232 Alternating verbs, p. 36 Manuel Bandeira, p. 140 Brazilian education, p. 207 Manuel Puig, p. 125 Brazilian Portuguese, p. 9, p. 61 Meanings, p. 104 Consonant in different syllables, p. 9 Modern languages, p. 207 Emotions, p. 104 Poetry, p. 140 English language, p. 175 Portuguese language spelling agreement, p. 232 Epentectic vowel, p. 9 PP-chopping relatives, p. 61 Experiences, p. 175 Resumptive relatives, p. 61 Experimental phonetics, p. 9 Semantic properties, p. 36 Foreign language teaching, p. 175 Sangre de amor correspondido, p. 125 Generative theory, p. 61 Selftranslation, p. 125 Genres of texts, p. 160 Semiotics, p. 140, p. 243 Greimas, p. 140 Science philosophy, p. 85 History of linguistic ideas, p. 232 Sociolinguistics, p. 85 Indiscipline, p. 175 Song, p. 243 Koinization, p. 125 Spanish, p. 125 Language acquisition, p. 61 Speech, p. 104 Language capacities, p. 160 Textual architecture, p. 160 Linguistic change, p. 61 Transitivity, p. 36 Linguistic philosophy, p. 85 Voseo, p. 125 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 251, 2009 251 ÍndiCe de autores / Authors index ALMEIDA, Dayane Celestino, p. 140 BARBOSA, Marinalva Vieira, p. 104 BUENO, Alexandre Marcelo, p. 243 CIRÍACO, Larissa, p.36 HANNA, Vera Lucia Harabagi, p. 207 LOUSADA, Eliane Gouvêa, p. 160 MENEZES, Andreia dos Santos, p. 125 MICCOLI, Laura Stella, 175 OLIVEIRA, Adriana Stella C. Lessa de, p. 61 SANTOS, Gredson dos, p. 85 SEARA, Izabel Christine, p. 9 SILVA SOBRINHO, José Simão da, p. 232 SILVEIRA, Francine, p. 9 ZOLNIER, Maria da Conceição Aparecida Pereira, p. 175 
work_ruxicq2jtfcitetbbdypksirwi	----	"The Mighty Spring Tide of Finnish Music": Nationalism and Internationalism in the Music of Leevi Madetoja “THE MIGHTY SPRING TIDE OF FINNISH MUSIC”: NATIONALISM AND INTERNATIONALISM IN THE MUSIC OF LEEVI MADETOJA by Daniel Sakari Mahlberg B.F.A., Simon Fraser University, 1999 M.A., California State University, 2007 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Music) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) October 2018 © Daniel Sakari Mahlberg, 2018 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: “The Mighty Spring Tide of Finnish Music”: Nationalism and Internationalism in the Music of Leevi Madetoja submitted by Daniel Sakari Mahlberg in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Music Examining Committee: Vera Georgia Micznik Co-supervisor David J. Metzer Co-supervisor Alan Dodson Supervisory Committee Member Alexander Fisher University Examiner Herbert Rosengarten University Examiner Daniel M. Grimley External Examiner iii Abstract In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Finnish nationalists struggled to define their country’s national identity while simultaneously navigating two foreign infractions: Swedish rule, which remained influential even after Finland was annexed by Russia in 1809, and Russian colonization, which continued until Finland’s independence in 1917. Inspired by Herder, they justified claims for cultural and political legitimacy by disseminating a written form of the incipient Finnish language, manufacturing a national epic, the Kalevala, and reinforcing the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity rooted in the natural world. Meanwhile, Finnish musicians sought to advance their nation’s international standing by producing works aimed at the elevation of Finland’s artistic canon. Jean Sibelius was only one of several influential artistic figures active in early twentieth-century Finland. Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947), who lived and worked in Sibelius’s shadow, composed a number of weighty, melancholic works, many of which include national associations. For example, Madetoja’s Second Symphony (1918) was inspired by the events of Finland’s civil war, while his first opera Pohjalaisia (1924) explores a narrative of self-determination and freedom from oppression. As there is little information available on Madetoja outside Finland, this project aims to bring an awareness of his life and work to a wider audience. It begins by situating Madetoja in the larger political and artistic nationalist movements of the time. Madetoja’s incorporation of a sense of place in his output, through the integration of folk idioms and iv references to the Finnish landscape, is explored through an assessment of his contemporaneous critical reception. This in turn reveals how Finnish audiences received his work with respect to Finland’s nationalist undertakings. Further, through a detailed analysis of the Second Symphony, this study discusses Madetoja’s style through a demonstration of his twentieth-century adaptation of older formal models and his development of strong organic connnections among themes and motives. This dissertation concludes by investigating the commonly held perspective that Madetoja’s work exhibits to a certain extent a French character, and it situates Madetoja vis-à-vis his colleagues Sibelius and Debussy, aiming at a broader understanding of Madetoja’s international position. v Lay Summary One of the most significant of Jean Sibelius’s small number of students, Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947) graduated from the University of Helsinki in 1910, continuing his training with Vincent d’Indy in Paris and Robert Fuchs in Vienna. Madetoja composed two operas, the first of which received international acclaim and was quickly elevated to the status of Finland’s national opera, a position it held for more than sixty years. He also composed three symphonies, the last of which is widely considered comparable in artistic merit to the symphonies of Sibelius. Many of Madetoja’s works were composed during a time of intense sociopolitical unrest. This dissertation undertakes an examination of the nationalist climate of early twentieth-century Finland, tracking the origins of the country’s journey toward independence. Through an examination of Madetoja’s life and music, it aims at an understanding of how Finnish musicians impacted, and were influenced by, this turbulent milieu. vi Preface This dissertation is an original, unpublished, independent work by the author, Daniel Sakari Mahlberg. vii Table of Contents Abstract ...................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary ............................................................................................................... v Preface ........................................................................................................................ vi Table of Contents ...................................................................................................... vii List of Tables ............................................................................................................... x List of Figures ............................................................................................................. xi List of Musical Examples .......................................................................................... xii Acknowledgements .................................................................................................... xv Dedication .............................................................................................................. xviii Introduction ................................................................................................................. 1 Background .............................................................................................................................. 1 Literature Review ................................................................................................................... 7 Thesis Outline ....................................................................................................................... 12 ..... 16 Background and Introduction .............................................................................................. 16 “Qu’est-ce que une nation?” ................................................................................................. 17 When Is a Nation? ................................................................................................................ 24 Johann Gottfried Herder and the Reconstruction of the Finnish Language ................... 29 Constructing the Ideal Finn ................................................................................................. 37 viii The Kalevala: A Case Study ................................................................................................. 42 From Cultural to Political Nationalism ............................................................................... 52 Conclusion: Does Finland Have a History? ........................................................................ 59 .. 62 Background and Introduction ............................................................................................. 62 Folk Music ............................................................................................................................. 72 Nature and Landscape ......................................................................................................... 84 “Europeanization”: An International Awareness of National Space ................................ 92 Conclusions to This Chapter .............................................................................................. 103 ..................... 109 Ostrobothnia ....................................................................................................................... 109 Juvenilia: Madetoja’s Formative Years ................................................................................ 110 University Life, Folksong Collection, and Studies under Sibelius .................................... 112 First-Period Compositions, Travel Abroad, and Gainful Employment ............................ 116 “A Costly Sacrifice”: The War Period ................................................................................. 124 Madetoja’s Rise and Fall: Late-Period Compositions ........................................................ 131 ........... 137 Introduction ........................................................................................................................ 137 The First Movement ............................................................................................................. 141 Subsequent Movements ..................................................................................................... 193 Critical Response ................................................................................................................. 203 ix Conclusions to This Chapter ............................................................................................. 207 ............................................. 215 Introduction ........................................................................................................................ 215 Sibelius ................................................................................................................................. 216 Debussy ............................................................................................................................... 226 Other French Influences ..................................................................................................... 243 Conclusions to This Chapter ............................................................................................. 266 Conclusion ............................................................................................................... 268 Bibliography ............................................................................................................. 274 Appendix .................................................................................................................. 290 Formal Analysis of Madetoja’s Symphony No. 2 in E-flat Major, First Movement ....... 290 x List of Tables Table 4.1: Authentic cadences in Madetoja’s Symphony No. 2, first movement. ................ 171 xi List of Figures Figure 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, large scale tonal movement. ..... 160 xii List of Musical Examples Example 2.1: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. ............................................................ 78 Example 2.2: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, act 1, measures 18-22. ................................................... 79 Example 2.3: a) Peter Hyttinen’s spiritual melody; b) “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan”; c) Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. ................................................................................. 80 Example 2.4: Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act 3, Scene 4, opening motive. ..................... 81 Example 2.5: Original “Talapakan Nikolai.” ........................................................................... 82 Example 2.6: Madetoja’s “Talapakan Nikolai.” ...................................................................... 83 Example 2.7: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening of act 2. ........................................................... 91 Example 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. .......................... 143 Example 4.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme, measures 2-18. .................................................................................................................................................. 144 Example 4.3: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on subphrase 1a. ... 146 Example 4.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, comparison of subphrase 1a with motive A. .................................................................................................................................. 148 Example 4.5: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on motive A. ........ 149 Example 4.6: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, second thematic idea, oscillating theme, measures 69-76. .......................................................................................................... 150 Example 4.7: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, motive D, measures 77-80. .... 151 Example 4.8: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, ascending octatonic variant of motive A, measures 80-83. ..................................................................................................... 152 Example 4.9: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, accompaniment patterns 4 and 3, measures 103-08. .................................................................................................................. 153 Example 4.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of accomp. 3. ................................................................................................................................ 154 Example 4.11: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, “conjunct melody,” measures 104-120. .................................................................................................... 155 xiii Example 4.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of motive E. .................................................................................................................................. 156 Example 4.13: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, fourth thematic idea, “dance theme,” measures 176-191. ....................................................................................................... 158 Example 4.14: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 89-90. ................... 163 Example 4.15: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 104-106. ................ 164 Example 4.16: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. ........................ 168 Example 4.17: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme. ................... 169 Example 4.18: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 15-19. ..................... 172 Example 4.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 26-28. ................... 175 Example 4.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 35-39. ................... 177 Example 4.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 62-63. ................... 179 Example 4.22: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 68-69. ................... 181 Example 4.23: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, measures 105-120. ..................................................................................................................................... 183 Example 4.24: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, 168-176. ................................. 186 Example 4.25: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, oboe solo, measures 1-5. 194 Example 4.26: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 44-51, theme in first violins. .............................................................................................................................. 196 Example 4.27: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 10-13. ................... 199 Example 4.28: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 34-39, “waltz-like jingle.” ..................................................................................................................................... 200 Example 5.1: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 1-4. ............................. 218 Example 5.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-4. ........................ 220 Example 5.3: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 5-9. ............................ 221 xiv Example 5.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme fragment (above); Debussy, String Quartet No. 1, Op. 10, first movement, principal theme fragment in rhythmic augmentation (below). ..................................................................................... 228 Example 5.5: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 1-4, flute solo (ex. a, above); Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 1-5 (ex. b, below). ...... 230 Example 5.6: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 3-5. ............................ 232 Example 5.7: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 10-15. .......................... 234 Example 5.8: Debussy, Nocturnes, “Fêtes,” measures 1-2. .................................................... 235 Example 5.9: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 73-79. ........................ 236 Example 5.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 16-18, reduction. .. 238 Example 5.11: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, melodic variation of principal theme. ..................................................................................................................................... 239 Example 5.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of subphrase 1a. ............................................................................................................................ 241 Example 5.13: Madetoja, Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7, opening. ............................................ 246 Example 5.14: Madetoja, Kullervo, op. 15, measures 243-44. ............................................... 248 Example 5.15: Sibelius, Pohjolan tytär, op. 49, measures 160-61. ........................................ 249 Example 5.16: Franck, Le Chasseur maudit, opening. ........................................................... 251 Example 5.17: Madetoja, Kullervo, opening. .......................................................................... 251 Example 5.18: Madetoja, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53, third theme. ............................ 256 Example 5.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 44-45. ................. 259 Example 5.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 99-104. .............. 260 Example 5.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, fourth movement, measures 72-79. ................ 261 Example 5.22: Madetoja, Okon Fuoko, Suite 1, “Okon Fuoko, unitaikuri,” measures 1-8. 264 xv Acknowledgements This project would not have succeeded without the guidance and encouragement of my dissertation committee. Vera Micznik was critical in shaping the direction of my research. Her sage counsel, meticulous review, and brilliant suggestions helped me clarify my thoughts and strengthen my voice. David Metzer devoted untold hours to a ruthless reading of this document, lending keen insight, pragmatic advice, and a fresh perspective. Alan Dodson, who offered pivotal support during the earliest stages of my degree, kindly stepped in at the eleventh hour with his assessment of the project. Alexander Fisher, a guiding force throughout my degree, offered a careful reading and welcome feedback. Herbert Rosengarten’s perceptive questions and gracious demeanour helped make the defence experience a pleasant one. Richard Froese served as the examination chair, an important post without which my learning would not have been fulfilled. I am honoured to have my dissertation read by one of the foremost scholars of Scandinavian music, Daniel Grimley, who offered rigorous, insightful commentary as the external examiner. Many other dedicated individuals supported me both personally and professionally over the course of my degree. Margret Andan, William Benjamin, Gregory Butler, Edward Jurkowski, and Michael Tenzer offered vital assistance on numerous occasions. Kevin Madill and the staff of the University of British Columbia library accommodated my increasingly obscure interlibrary loan requests. My cohorts Nick Steinwand and Jennifer Paulson enriched my academic experience by sharing their experiences and offering xvi ongoing advice and reassurance. The late Demi Dunlap, a cherished friend, was pivotal in inspiring me to undertake this project; it was her dream to attend my convocation. My family was a tremendous source of inspiration, sharing in my excitement as my degree took shape and became a reality. Their support, for which I will always be grateful, sustained me through a busy personal and professional period. My paternal grandparents, Annikki and the late Kauko Mahlberg, inspired me to discover and study my cultural heritage; I am proud to trace my roots to Finland and experience firsthand its rich history. My maternal grandmother, the late Ann Coles, was a strong advocate for my studies, and her “tuna surprise” sustained me through many late nights of study. My parents, Kari and the late Sheila Mahlberg, were a source of unconditional love and unfailing encouragement, without which none of this would have been possible. My father guided this journey of cultural exploration, accompanied me to Finland, doubled as my factchecker and proofreader, and motivated me to make this project a reality. My loving mother gave in every possible way, beyond what my words can justly describe; she was with me in spirit throughout the process. Christy Mahlberg and Pradeep Nair generously took time from their own busy lives to help me prepare for my defence, peppering me with razor-sharp questions and goat jokes. Christy provided the ceaseless encouragement and support that only a sibling can offer, while Deep offered every manner of concrete help. Carol Lloyd kindly offered her babysitting skills and endured countless iterations of my defense presentation. Peter and Teresa Kam selflessly welcomed me to their home and their family, offering their support in myriad tangible ways too detailed to enumerate. xvii My beloved wife and best friend, Lida, sustained me through all of this. I could not have reached this point without her unconditional love and care. My darling son, Aiden, was a source of inspiration, joy, and sleepless nights that awakened in me newfound personal strength. I would like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council for providing funding that supported my studies and allowed me to travel to Finland to conduct research. While in Finland, I was fortunate to meet with Dr. Tuire Ranta-Meyer, who shared unparalleled advice, and to receive assistance from the archivists and staff of the National Library of Finland and the Sibelius Academy. The musical examples for Jean Sibelius's Pohjolan tytär, Op. 49 are taken from the 1906 edition (Berlin: Schelsinger) and the examples for Sibelius's Symphony No. 5, Op. 82 are taken from the 1921 edition (Copenhagen: Wilhelm Hansen). My thanks to Susanna Lehtinen and Fennica Gehrman publications for sanctioning the use of Leevi Madetoja's music in this dissertation. xviii Dedication This dissertation is dedicated to my family, for their love and support, and to the memory of the late Sheila Mahlberg. 1 Introduction The average Englishman is not too far wrong when he thinks, rather loosely, of Finland as a land of desolate wastes. The Finns call their country Suomi, sometimes derivated from the word suo, meaning swamp, and indeed, one third of the area consists of peaty marshes similar to the peat bogs of Ireland or the mosses of Lancashire. Moreover, the general bleakness is further emphasised by the fact that two-thirds of the year is bitterly cold and when the Land of the Midnight Sun becomes the Land of the Mid-day Moon, short nights stretch into interminable day.1 Background Denby Richards’s facetious prose, above, hints at an important truth: that Finland’s unique geography is crucial to its development as a nation. Finland’s western border is formed by the Gulf of Bothnia and its southern border by the Gulf of Finland. Its far northern latitude places a full third of the country within the Arctic Circle. This results in a strong sense of isolation from the rest of Europe. In Veikko Helasvuo’s words, “less than a hundred years ago not many people in Europe knew that such a country as Finland even existed.”2 Even today, although Finland has been part of the European Union since 1995, its capital city, Helsinki, “rarely shows up on central European television weather maps.”3 1 Denby Richards, The Music of Finland (London: Hugh Evelyn, 1968), 1. 2 Veikko Helasvuo, Sibelius and the Music of Finland, 3rd ed., trans. R. Milton and Paul Sjöblom (Helsinki: Otava, 1961), 7. 3 Glenda Dawn Goss, Sibelius: A Composer’s Life and the Awakening of Finland (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 9. 2 The idea that geography is destiny—shaping people, polity, and culture—can be traced back at least as far as the French historian Ernest Renan (1823–1892).4 Historically, Finland’s remote location separated its inhabitants from contemporary European developments. Finnish classical music before Sibelius, the celebrated Finnish conductor Robert Kajanus (1856-1933) recounted, was little more than “a feeble offshoot of the German school onto which Finnish folk elements were, shall we say, ethnographically grafted.”5 Likewise, Ferruccio Busoni—during a visit to Helsinki in 1888-89—noted with dismay the utter lack of curriculum at the Conservatory and of a regular opera company (according to him, there was only a pitiable theatre where standards like La Traviata were sung in Swedish). Any and all efforts were praised as “good,” and everyone was “talented,” Busoni lamented, and artists were content with “reproducing or imitating a fragment of that which has been achieved elsewhere.”6 Finland’s cultural Renaissance—which Kimmo Korhonen describes as the “Golden Age of Finnish Art” and “The Mighty Spring Tide of Finnish Music”—did not arrive until the closing decade of the nineteenth century, when Sibelius’s works of the 1890s gave Finland a more profound and original musical voice.7 According to 4 See Ernest Renan, “Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?” in Oeuvres Complètes, vol. 1 (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1947-61), 887-907; repr. as “What is a Nation?” in Becoming National: A Reader, ed. Geoff Eley and Ronald Suny, trans. Martin Thom (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 41-55. 5 Kimmo Korhonen, Inventing Finnish Music, 2nd ed., ed. Aarne Toivonen, trans. Jaakko Mäntyjärvi (Jyväskylä, Gummerus Kirjapaino, 2007), 34. 6 Goss, Sibelius, 78. 7 Korhonen, Inventing, 33. 3 some scholars, his symphonic poem Kullervo (1892) marked the birth of Finnish music as “a sign that [it] had reached, besides a high aesthetic level, a spiritual independence, having found its own tone.”8 By the turn of the century, his music was already making international inroads, most notably through a highly successful concert with the Helsingin kaupungin orkesteri at the Paris World Fair of 1900.9 Sibelius, however, was but one of several talented musicians in early twentieth- century Finland. Perhaps his most significant contemporary was Leevi Madetoja (1887- 1947), whose stylistic refinement and technical polish secured him the nickname of “master of orchestral music.”10 A student of Sibelius, Madetoja is often described in relation to his teacher, even when arguing for his status as an artist in his own right. He has, for example, been characterized as “highest among the Finnish symphonists immediately succeeding Sibelius” and “possibly the most significant of the Finnish post-Sibelian Romantic composers.”11 His three symphonies, the core of his output, have garnered considerable 8 Toivo Haapanen, Suomen säveltaide (Helsinki: n.p., 1940), 362-63; trans. Matti Huttunen, “Nationalistic and Non-Nationalistic Views of Sibelius in the 20th-Century Finnish Music Historiography,” in Music and Nationalism in 20th-Century Great Britain and Finland, ed. Tomi Mäkelä (Hamburg: von Bockel Verlag, 1997), 222. 9 Goss, Sibelius, 273-87; see also Helena Tyrväinen, “Sibelius at the Paris Universal Exposition of 1900,” in Sibelius Forum: Proceedings from the Second International Jean Sibelius Conference, Helsinki, 25-29 November, 1995, ed. Matti Huttunen, Kari Kilpeläinen, and Veijo Murtomäki (Helsinki: Sibelius Academy, 2003), 114-28. 10 Kimmo Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja in Profile,” trans. Susan Sinisalo, Finnish Music Information Centre, accessed 17 December 2013, www.fimic.fi. 11 Glenn Norman Koponen, “A Study of the Symphony in Finland from 1945 to 1975 with an Analysis of Representative Compositions” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1980), 25. 4 praise. Evert Katila asserts that Madetoja’s Second is “the most significant of our artistic achievements after Sibelius’s monumental series,”12 while Salmenhaara argues that the Third is “one of the few items in Finnish literature on par with the works of Sibelius.”13 In certain respects, Madetoja’s achievements have even eclipsed Sibelius’s. Whereas the latter’s only opera Jungfrun i tornet (The Maiden in the Tower, 1896) was hindered by a poor reception, Madetoja’s Pohjalaisia (The Ostrobothnians, 1917-24) received exceptional critical acclaim, securing its status as Finland’s national opera, which it maintained until the arrival of Joonas Kokkonen’s The Last Temptations in 1975. Moreover, it is possible, as Salmenhaara states, to speak of a “Madetoja school” in 1930s Finnish music, but not a “Sibelius school”: whereas Sibelius largely stopped composing after the premiere of Tapiola (1926), Madetoja’s contributions to Finnish music continued through the 1930s with such important works as the ballet-pantomime Okon Fuoko (1925-27) and the opera Juha (1931- 34).14 Yet Madetoja and his music are hardly known outside Finland. This dissertation is 12 “Kaikesta huolimatta ihmeellistä elinvoimaa.” [. . .] “Sinfonian tummalla traagilliselta pohjalta kohoava tunne-piiri vastaa erinomaisesti nykyajan henkeä.” [. . .] “Huomattavin saavutus, mihin säveltaiteemme Sibeliuksen monumentaalisen sarjan jälkeen [on päässyt].” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Erkki Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja (Helsinki: Tammi, 1987), 179. Unless otherwise specified, translations are my own. 13 Erkki Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja: A Composer from Ostrobothnia and Paris,” Fennica Gehrman, accessed 5 July 2018, www.fennicagehrman.fi/composers/madetoja-leevi/. 14 Ibid., 176. The literature is rife with impressive claims to Madetoja’s achievements. About the Third Symphony and the Comedy Overture, Paavo Heininen states: “Their humane, unpretentious classicism and their cultured outlook on the roots of Finnish art make them unique in Finnish music.” Paavo Heininen, liner notes for Leevi Madetoja, Sinfonia III, Finnlevy SFX 20, 1974, LP; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 32. Anterro Karttunen suggests that “Leevi Madetoja was the creator and the discoverer of new modes of expression. For his was an original, national, visionary musical outlook, by virtue of which he was able to make familiar procedures serve the purpose of expressing in music previously uncaptured moods.” Antero Karttunen, liner notes for Leevi Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, Finnish National Opera, conducted by Jorma Panula, Finnlevy SFX 22- 5 devoted to bringing to light Madetoja’s life and musical contributions, especially to audiences outside Finland. Leevi Madetoja is an enigma, and his artistic profile is exceptionally contradictory. The composer Seppo Nummi describes him as “the most Nordic of the northerners,”15 an epithet owing to a childhood in the remote Finnish region of Northern Ostrobothnia. He repeats an established cliché of Madetoja as “the most Finnish of all Finnish artists. Slow- moving, straight, melancholy. Somehow an entirely rustic figure, though cultivated enough in his incomplete quality.”16 The pianist Gustav Djupsjöbacka agrees, observing that Madetoja’s output appears “somehow non-communicative in a peculiarly Finnish way,” and adding that “the melancholy of the vast Ostrobothnian plains which suffuses the music of Madetoja complements the image of a profound Finnish philosopher.”17 Contrarily, Seija Lappalainen and Erkki Salmenhaara describe him as a cosmopolitan artist; “as an operatic 24, 1975, LP. Jarmo Sermilä suggests that “during Sibelius’s lifetime [Madetoja] created a completely individual cycle of three symphonies that clearly diverges from Sibelius’s massive use of the orchestra.” Jarmo Sermilä, Finland’s Composers: Short Historical Outline [sic] (Helsinki: Ulkoasiainministeriö, 1976), 6; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 32. Veikko Helasvuo notes that Sibelius’s three symphonies are equally celebrated and generally held to be the most successful efforts in the genre of Finnish symphonic literature after Sibelius. Helasvuo, Sibelius, 41; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 26. 15 Seppo Nummi, “Tänään oopperassa: Madetojan Pohjalaisia,” Uusi Suomi, 6 Sept 1967; quoted in Kauko Karjalainen, “Nationalism in Leevi Madetoja’s Operatic Works,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 191. 16 Ibid., 191. 17 Gustav Djupsjöbacka, “A Brief Outline of the Finnish Art Song,” Finnish Music Information Centre, accessed 29 March 2012, www.fimic.fi. 6 and orchestral composer,” they argue, “he is worthy of international stature.”18 His French influences are particularly noteworthy. Kimmo Korhonen maintains that Madetoja’s oeuvre contains “an elegance indicative of French music,”19 while Vera Nilova insists that it “is imbued with a French modalism.”20 Madetoja lived and worked through a time of intense sociopolitical unrest associated with the forced Russification of Finnish language and politics. The turmoil deepened through the late 1800s, following the ascent to the throne of Tsars Alexander III (r. 1881-1894) and Nicholas II (r. 1894-1917), who were less sympathetic than their predecessors toward Finland’s autonomous status as a Grand Duchy. Simultaneously, the Hegelian call for the advancement of national culture, incited by European currents and expressed in Finland most notably through the work and legacy of the Finnish philosopher Johan Vilhelm Snellman (1806-1881), reached a new level of intensity. These developments were all-encompassing, impacting upon education, government, language, and the arts. In music, they were expressed most notably through a demand, by Finnish audiences and critics alike, for representative showpieces of national culture that contained not only a 18 Seija Lappalainen and Erkki Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetojan Teokset, trans. William Moore (Jyväskylä: Suomen Säveltäjät ry, 1987), 120. 19 Kimmo Korhonen, “Orchestral Works of Leevi Madetoja,” trans. Susan Sinisalo, Finnish Music Information Centre, accessed 2 February 2010, www.fimic.fi. 20 Vera Nilova, “Un vent parisien souffle sur Helsinki: les influences françaises dans la musique finlandaise au début du XXe siècle,” Revue des études slaves 84, nos. 3-4 (2013): 465. 7 unique, identifiably Finnish character but also a measure of patriotic spirit.21 Certain works in Madetoja’s oeuvre, including the Second Symphony (1916-18) and the opera Pohjalaisia, fit this description. This congruity is problematic in some respects, for, as Karjalainen points out, Madetoja’s music tends to be neglected when nationalist considerations form the primary basis for his assessment.22 Although this study will initially situate Madetoja within a national framework, the intention is to explore how Madetoja navigated this sociopolitical milieu in his compositions. Literature Review Madetoja’s representation in English-language scholarship is negligible at best. Although Madetoja’s contemporaneous reception was second only to Sibelius, and although his output has witnessed a present-day renaissance supported most notably by the release of his works on several major record labels, his music has not, to date, served as the sole subject of an article in a North-American academic journal, let alone an English- language book-length study. Outside Finland, Madetoja scholarship is so scarce that album notes frequently serve as source material, even among academics.23 21 Kauko Karjalainen, Leevi Madetojan oopperat Pohjalaisia ja Juha: Teokset, tekstit ja kontekstit (Helsinki: Helsingin Yliopiston Musiikkitieteen Laitos, 1991), 305. 22 Ibid., 3. 23 See, for example, Koponen, “Symphony,” 27, 31-32. 8 In English, Ruth Esther Hillila’s “The Solo Songs of Toivo Kuula and Leevi Madetoja and their Place in Twentieth Century Finnish Art Song”24 is a pioneering work. While the study avoids discussion of Madetoja’s symphonies and operas in favour of his vocal works, it offers useful biographical information and skillfully situates Madetoja within Finland’s historical, literary, and musical contexts. Another important source is Seija Lappalainen and Erkki Salmenhaara’s Leevi Madetojan teokset [The Works of Leevi Madetoja], which— despite the Finnish title—contains several pages in English translation. Unfortunately, it is not readily accessible outside Finland, and its biography—at six pages in length—is far from comprehensive. Otherwise, English sources are limited primarily to small feature pieces in the journal Finnish Music Quarterly and brief articles affiliated mainly with the Finnish Music Information Centre which, while valuable, serve mainly to whet the reader’s appetite.25 For those with a reading knowledge of Finnish, more material is available. For many years, Kalervo Tuukkanen’s Leevi Madetoja suomalainen säveltäjäpersoonallisuus [Leevi Madetoja: Portrait of a Finnish Composer]26 offered the only widely available information 24 Ruth Esther Hillila, “The Solo Songs of Toivo Kuula and Leevi Madetoja and their Place in Twentieth Century Finnish Art Song” (PhD diss., Boston University, 1964). 25 The most noteworthy include Juoni Kaipainen, “French Colouring in a Bothnian Landscape,” trans. William Moore, Finnish Music Quarterly, nos. 3-4 (1985): 45-55; Korhonen, Inventing; Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja”; Korhonen, “Orchestral Works”; Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia”; and Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians: An Opera About Freedom,” trans. Susan Sinisalo, Finnish Music Quarterly, no. 2 (1986): 18-23. 26 Kalervo Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja: suomalainen säveltäjäpersoonallisuus (Porvoo, WSOY, 1947). 9 on Madetoja’s life and music. Published in 1947, the year of Madetoja’s death, it was hardly a neutral source; nevertheless, it presented the interested reader with a detailed biography written in an approachable manner.27 However, the centenary of Madetoja’s birth in 1987 spawned a f lurry of activity. Most significant is Erkki Salmenhaara’s eponymous biography of Leevi Madetoja, a definitive and extensively cited work. While Salmenhaara’s musical discussions are—perhaps necessarily—limited in scope, his breadth of research is impressive. As one of Finland’s most respected musicologists, Salmenhaara’s other articles on Madetoja likewise present valuable perspectives on various aspects of Madetoja’s style.28 The same year, Matti Rossi oversaw the publication of Leevi Madetoja 100 vuotta [Leevi Madetoja 100 Years],29 which contains not only a collection of articles in celebration of “Madetoja week,” 17-26 [sic!] February 1987, but also programs for a series of concerts held that week in Madetoja’s birthplace, Oulu. Notable chapters include “Leevi Madetojan elämänvaiheet: lyhyt katsaus” [Leevi Madetoja’s Life Stages: A Brief Overview] and “Leevi Madetojan Säveltäjantyö” [Leevi Madetoja’s Compositions] by Erkki Salmenhaara; “Leevi Madetoja Oulun Koulussa” [Leevi Madetoja at School in Oulu], by the archivist and historian Samuli Onnela; “Madetojan Yksinlaulut” [Madetoja’s Solo Songs] by the composer 27 This appears to have been one of Hillila’s primary sources for her biography of Madetoja. 28 See, most importantly, Erkki Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetojan kauneuden filosofiasta (Tampere: Suomen filosofinen yhdistys, 1990); Erkki Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana,” Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 3 (1989–90): 205–11; and Erkki Salmenhaara, “Madetoja oli myös musiikkipoliitikko,” Arsis 1 (1987), 29–34. 29 Matti Rossi et al., Leevi Madetoja 100 vuotta (Oulu: Mainosyhtymä Oulu, 1987). 10 Olavi Pesonen; “Minun Madetojani” [My Madetoja], a set of personal recollections by the choral conductor Ensti Pohjola; and “Pulliainen Kapellimestarin sinfonikko—Leevi Madetoja” [Symphonic Conductor—Leevi Madetoja] by Riitta Pulliainen. Another significant source is Kauko Karjalainen’s 1991 publication, Leevi Madetojan oopperat Pohjalaisia ja Juha: Teokset, tekstit ja kontekstit [Leevi Madetoja’s Operas Pohjalaisia and Juha: The Works, the Texts, and the Contexts]. The work, based on Karjalainen’s doctoral dissertation, offers analyses of Madetoja’s two operas on a scene-by- scene basis. A notable strength is a lengthy discussion of the operas’ national and international critical reception, which prompts important questions regarding nationalism and reception. Meanwhile, an evaluation of European operatic and symphonic models suggests that Madetoja’s output can as easily be compared with such pioneers of early modernism as Mahler and Schoenberg as with those composers commonly associated with late romantic idioms, such as Sibelius and Tchaikovsky.30 Although it is a Finnish-language publication, the reader has recourse to an abstract and summary in English,31 as well as a short English-language companion article in Tomi Mäkelä’s Music and Nationalism in 20th- Century Great Britain and Finland.32 30 Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 310. 31 The abstract is on page 3; the summary, translated by Andrew Bentley, is on pages 302-11. 32 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 191-97. 11 More recently, Madetoja’s name has appeared in European scholarship focusing on links between Finnish and Parisian artists. Helena Tyrväinen and Vera Nilova have questioned the pervasive inf luence of Wagner in Finland by focusing on the manner in which Debussy and composers associated with Vincent d’Indy’s Schola Cantorum made their way into Finland.33 Their work provides valuable insight into Madetoja’s studies at the Schola Cantorum in 1910-1911 and his long and fruitful affiliation with Paris. Madetoja was a lifelong contributor to several newspapers and journals, including Aamu, Aika, Helsingin Sanomat, Karjala, Maailma, Musiikkitieto, Nuori Suomi, Päivä, Säveletär, Suomen Musiikkilehti, Suununtai, Turun Sanomat, Uusi Säveletär, Uusi Suometar, and Vaasa, among others. Although he was notoriously taciturn regarding his thoughts on his own output, he had no shortage of opinions on a variety of other subjects, especially regarding the music of his colleagues both within Finland and abroad. A number of these articles were compiled by Salmenhaara, and some of that material is included in this dissertation.34 33 Nilova, “Un vent parisien,” 457-67; Helena Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden ja Ranskan musiikin vaikutteiden kohtaamisia Toivo Kuulalla, Leevi Madetojalla ja Uuno Klamilla,” Musiikki 3 (1997): 247-301. 34 Leevi Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, ed. Erkki Salmenhaara (Helsinki: Suomen musiikkitieteellinen seura, 1989). 12 Thesis Outline As Madetoja’s output was shaped by the nationalist sentiment of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a meaningful exploration of his contribution to Finnish music must take into account not only his nation’s cultural heritage but also its political circumstances. Accordingly, this dissertation begins by probing the manner in which Finland’s nationalist agenda developed from eighteenth-century cultural endeavours, and, further, how this agenda balanced cultural and political concerns in such a manner that Finnish composers could participate directly in Finland’s struggle for independence. Weighing the tensions surrounding Madetoja’s public image as a nationalist composer and his private motivations and values, this study explores the disparity between Madetoja’s conception of his music and its interpretation by Finnish audiences. Finally, this project aims toward a broader contextual understanding of Madetoja’s life and work. Armed with a detailed analysis of the Second Symphony, it assesses the influence of French style on Madetoja’s work, situating him relative to international models. Chapter 1 offers a definition of nationalism appropriate to Finland’s situation. Because Finland’s cultural and political evolution is heavily linked with constructed or invented traditions, this chapter opens with Benedict Anderson’s and Eric Hobsbawm’s reference to the idea of “imagined communities” and “the invention of tradition.” It situates Finland midway between civic and ethnic nationalism in a type of cultural nationalism explored by Kai Nielsen and John Hutchinson. Refuting the argument that the Russian takeover of Finland in 1809 was the primary instigator of Finnish nationalist sentiment, it 13 broadens the scope to include an analysis of the influence of Lutheranism and, later, of eighteenth-century European nationalist trends. Finally, it addresses the efforts of Finnish nationalists to construct a Finnish identity and the impact of this endeavour upon the heady political situation of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century Finland. In so doing, it lays a theoretical groundwork for a more detailed discussion of musical nationalism in the chapter to follow. Chapter 2 continues this investigation of Finnish nationalism with a look into the ways that Finnish musicians engaged with the prevailing socio-political environment. Although it opens with a look at some of the most pressing expressions of musical nationalism, it acknowledges that such examples were limited in scope and coterminous with the desperate political situation of early twentieth-century Finland. Outside the two Periods of Russification (1899-1905 and 1908-1917), Finnish musicians were far more likely to articulate a concern for the advancement of their country’s culture by engaging the familiar topics of folklore, nature, and landscape. The overriding concern of this chapter is to illustrate how composers employed these topics in navigating and constructing a Finnish cultural identity. Chapter 3 continues this avenue of exploration by way of a brief biography, focusing on the manner in which Madetoja’s life circumstances—including his upbringing in distant Oulu, his folk-music collection endeavours, his painful war years, and his frequent sojourns to Paris—may have influenced his approach to the integration of national and international elements in his music. 14 As an example of his musical stylistic features, Chapter 4 introduces Madetoja’s Symphony no. 2 in E-flat Major, op. 35, which was conceived during the intense period of Russian oppression preceding the 1917 Finnish Declaration of Independence and completed during the short but devastating civil war that followed. As little is known about Madetoja’s music, the chapter seeks an understanding of his symphonic style. First, it demonstrates strong organic connections among the Symphony’s themes, both within and across movements. Second, it describes how Madetoja’s approach to form constitutes a twentieth- century adaptation of older models, like sonata form. Third, it illustrates Madetoja’s approach to tonal relationships, supporting Korhonen’s seemingly offhand—yet insightful—remark that Madetoja’s music contains “a fascinating ambiguity of harmony and rhythm under a smooth surface.”35 A secondary avenue of exploration concerns the assessment of the Symphony as a nationalistic endeavour vis-à-vis a comparison of its national traits and its critical reception. The fundamental goal of Chapter 5 is to situate Madetoja with regard to his national and international contemporaries. As one of the main problems encountered by Madetoja scholars has been the primacy of Madetoja’s national peer, Sibelius, this chapter begins with a comparison of Madetoja’s Second Symphony and Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony. Although this comparison demonstrates that the two composers shared a common concern for certain musical processes or materials, it suggests that at least some of these similarities 35 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 15 could be part of a wider response to early modernism. An appraisal of the link between Madetoja and Debussy follows by way of a discussion of the latter’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, calling attention to similar compositional procedures despite divergent sound worlds. The final portion of this chapter discusses the influence on Madetoja of the French neoclassicism of such composers as Paul Dukas, Vincent d’Indy, Maurice Ravel, and Gabriel Fauré, especially as illustrated through Madetoja’s orchestral works Kullervo (1913), Comedy Overture (1923), Third Symphony (1926), and Okon Fuoko (1927). A brief Conclusion summarizes the dissertation’s most significant findings and posits some possible directions for future research. Madetoja’s multifaceted output precludes a simple interpretation. Although he assimilated a variety of influences over the course of his career, he was not influenced by any single composer or group of composers. Rather, like other great artists, he took musical elements from a wide variety of sources, integrating these influences into his own highly personal, eclectic style. The five chapters of this dissertation work together to present a balanced view of Madetoja’s life and art. It is hoped that, together, they arrive at a picture of Leevi Madetoja as one of Finland’s most important cultural assets, a composer worthy of international stature. 16 Fashioning Finland’s History: An Overview of Finnish Nationalism A nation must have a navel, and if it has not got one, we must start by inventing one.1 Background and Introduction In spring 1910, Madetoja wrote to the Finnish composer Toivo Kuula, who was studying in Paris, to apprise him of Finland’s increasingly tense political climate: Conditions have started to become uncomfortable here. The repressive years have come again, and in a craftier form. But I believe, and I guess you do too, that our nation can no longer be killed; on the contrary, we are now beginning to develop intellectually, and we have much to contribute to the advancement of European culture. I dream that we will again see a flowering in the growth of [Finnish] culture, especially music, that will draw the attention of the whole of Europe, and therefore, the whole world.2 During Madetoja’s formative years in fin-de-siècle Finland, Finnish national consciousness was awakening in a most urgent manner. Although its trajectory has been described on numerous occasions, its ramifications for the music and art of Madetoja’s period—and, more specifically, for Madetoja’s compositional output—remain unclear. This chapter asks several important questions: How is Finland’s case unique, rather than simply part of a 1 Anthony D. Smith, “Memory and Modernity: Reflections on Ernest Gellner’s Theory of Nationalism,” Nations and Nationalism 2, no. 2 (1996), 386-87. 2 “Täällä ovat olot alkaneet käydä tukaliksi. Jälleen tulevat sortovuodet, tosin viekkaammassa muodossa. Mutta minä uskon, ja niin kai sinäkin teet, että meidän kansaa ei enää voida tappaa, vaan että se päinvastoin nyt alkaa henkisesti elää ja että se vielä on tuova paljon uusia aineksia eurooppalaisen kulttuurin kekoon. Uneksinpä vielä sitäkin, että tänne meille on kerran tuleva kulttuuripyrintöjen, varsinkin musiikin, kukoistusaika, joka vetää koko Eurooppaa, siis koko maailman, huomion puoleensa.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 62. 17 larger European phenomenon? How did Finnish intellectuals’ drive to fashion a national history impact its artists? Why did a fascination for nature and landscape elicit such a strong hold over Finnish artists and intellectuals? The aim here is a strong contextual understanding of the forces shaping Finnish national consciousness, which will facilitate, in subsequent chapters, a more detailed exploration of the role of nature, Finnish musical identity, and broader European trends in Madetoja’s musical output. “Qu’est-ce que une nation?” As illustrated by the title of Ernest Renan’s celebrated 1882 Sorbonne lecture, certain core terminology in the nationalism debate—notably the terms nation and nationalism— have been under discussion for some time. One of the most inf luential arguments comes from Benedict Anderson, who famously defines the nation as a socially constructed phenomenon. The nation is, according to Anderson, “an imagined political community— and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign.”3 It is limited because even the largest nation has finite boundaries; sovereign because no dynastic monarchy can claim power over it; and a community because, despite the inequalities that invariably exist among its members, the nation is always perceived as offering a deep sense of kinship. Most importantly, it is imagined because, although a nation’s inhabitants almost invariably feel a deep sense of connection with one another, they never have the chance to know the majority 3 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 6. 18 of their fellow inhabitants.4 This collective process of invention is, Anderson argues, one of the defining features of nationhood: “Communities are to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined.”5 Anderson’s definition has been refuted nearly as often as it has been cited. A first area of critique concerns Anderson’s inclusive approach. Anthony W. Marx, for example, sees the nation in a more multivalent light, the product not only of exclusive racial and ethnic positions but also of conf lict between elites and masses, both of which inform national boundaries also by means of religious differences.6 A second charge relates to the spontaneity of Anderson’s position.7 About the power of imagination, as Alexander J. Motyl argues, “that imagining suffices to make nations of communities seems at best a gross overestimation”8; about Anderson’s implicit claim that nationalism seems simply to emerge as a result of capitalism, he contends that “if capitalism is always the culprit, nations may ‘in 4 The influential French writer Ernest Renan (1823-1892) cleverly alluded to this sense of imagined community with the following statement: “Or l’essence d’une nation est que tous les individus aient beaucoup de choses en commun, et aussi que tous aient oublié bien des choses.” Ernest Renan, “Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?” in Oeuvres Complètes, vol. 1 (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1947-61), 892; quoted in Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 5 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 6 See Anthony W. Marx, Faith in Nation: Exclusionary Origins of Nationalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003): 103-126, especially pages 103-11. 7 For Anderson, nationalism emerged in the final decades of the eighteenth century as the spontaneous intersection of disparate historical forces that, once formed, could be adapted within a wide variety of political and ideological contexts. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 4. 8 Alexander J. Motyl, “Imagined Communities, Rational Choosers, Invented Ethnies,” Comparative Politics 34, no. 2 (2002): 235. 19 the final analysis’ somehow be reducible to capitalism.”9 A third objection involves a lack of sufficient differentiation between nations and smaller sub-national communities. Yael Tamir remarks that “all human associations, even if no larger than families or primordial villages, could, according to [Anderson’s] definition, be considered imaginary communities,”10 while Motyl writes “that nations, unlike other entities such as classes and electorates, are especially susceptible to the imagination seems wrong.”11 Even while such issues potentially undermine the usefulness of Anderson’s position, his work remains an important theory for the study of Finnish nationalism, primarily for the weight he places on the idea of invention; as we shall see, there is a strong correlation between the development of the Finnish nation and the invented traditions developed by scholars, artists, and other elites.12 Even the critiques of Anderson’s arguments are instructive. For example, although religious differences played only a minority role in Finland’s national struggle, Marx’s exclusionary outlook forces a deeper look at the country’s purportedly inclusive nationalism. In fact, there was ongoing conf lict between the Swedish- speaking elite, the agrarian Finnish-speaking majority population, and the nomadic 9 Motyl, “Imagined Communities,” 237. 10 Yael Tamir, “The Enigma of Nationalism,” World Politics 47, no. 3 (1995): 421. 11 Motyl, “Imagined Communities,” 235. 12 See Eric John Hobsbawm and Terence Osborn Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), especially pages 1-15 and 263-308. Hobsbawm argues that many rituals and symbols associated with national tradition—such as flags, anthems, festivals, and folk costumes—are in fact deliberate recent constructions created as tools of national awakening. 20 inhabitants of the far north, who were often considered culturally different and morally inferior13; discord between these disparate communities became a source of disillusionment culminating in the social and political upheavals of 1899 through 1918. Likewise, Motyl’s argument against the power of imagination encourages a more fully qualified rationale for the process of invention. For this, consider Svetlana Boym’s argument that nations fill a void by building upon pre-existing needs and developing in response to feelings of incompleteness. “Invented tradition,” she writes, “does not mean a creation ex nihilo or a pure act of social constructivism; rather, it builds on the sense of loss of community and cohesion and offers a comforting collective script for individual longing.”14 In Finland’s case, this poignant loss of community developed in the years following the Russian takeover of 1809. It is widely accepted that modern nationalism contains essentially two paths: civic and ethnic.15 The former is defined by its political institutions, which are inclusive and democratic; it seeks to build a community of equal citizens irrespective of racial and religious differences. Its transformation from state to nation begins with an already mature, linguistically homogenous culture, and its struggle is mainly political; prominent examples 13 For more on Finland’s indigenous population, see Pasi Saukkonen, “Finns,” in Imagology: The Cultural Construction and Literary Representation of National Characters; A Critical Survey, ed. Manfred Beller and Joep Leerssen (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 151-53. 14 Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001), 42-43. 15 Anthony D. Smith, building on the work of Hans Kohn, was among the first to propose these terms. Krzysztof Jaskułowski, “Western (Civic) Versus Eastern (Ethnic) Nationalism: The Origins and Critique of the Dichotomy,” Polish Sociological Review 171 (2010): 290. 21 are France, Great Britain, and the Netherlands. The latter, ethnic nationalism, is determined by descent, which is inherited rather than chosen. Confronted by the political developments and perceived superiority of other nations, it seeks validation through ethnic or blood consciousness, frequently through the assertion of the language, culture, or religion of its people. Its transformation is more complex, for it lacks, at its outset, state representation, a vernacular culture, and even a complete social structure; its struggle is often initially cultural and social, with political emancipation coming at a later point.16 Although civic and ethnic nationalism are often presented as a dichotomy, their component parts intermingle in most nationalist approaches. For example, civic nationalism cannot be purely political in nature, for—as Kai Nielsen argues—nationality is not determined simply through political belief: “When Spain became fascist the Spaniards did not cease to be Spaniards. And their nationalists did not change when Spain again became a liberal democracy. It remained constant through all the political turmoil and revolution.”17 There is, then, invariably a cultural component to nationalism, and since this cannot be otherwise, it follows that an exclusively civic nationalism is a myth—the latter is 16 For more on this subject, see Liah Greenfeld, “Nationalism in Western and Eastern Europe Compared,” in Can Europe Work? Germany & the Reconstruction of Postcommunist Societies, ed. Stephen E. Hanson and Willfried Spohn (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 20; Miroslav Hroch, “Introduction: National Romanticism,” in Discourses of Collective Identity in Central and Southeast Europe, vol. 2, National Romanticism: The Formation of National Movements, ed. Balázs Trencsényi and Michal Kopaček (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2007), 8-9; Mary Nikolas, “False Opposites in Nationalism: An Examination of the Dichotomy of Civic Nationalism and Ethnic Nationalism in Modern Europe” (MA thesis, Monash University, 1999), 4. 17 Kai Nielsen, “Cultural Nationalism, Neither Ethnic nor Civic,” in Theorizing Nationalism, ed. Ronald Beiner (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999), 125. 22 simply too thin a conception upon which to define nationality or to promote a sense of national identity.18 Even so, Finland’s intermediary position between ethnic and civic nationalism is noteworthy. On one hand, it is possible to consider nineteenth-century Finland’s struggle as representative of ethnic nationalist tendencies. Finland was not yet an independent state, and therefore its concerns were initially cultural and social: the Fennoman attempt to create a national identity, for example, involved the propagation and dissemination of Finnish myths and memories.19 On the other hand, it is also possible to consider its challenges from the perspective of civic nationalism. Finland was, notably, a political unit, the autonomous Grand Duchy of Finland, and its concerns were also political: the Fennoman endeavour to form a literate high culture that encompassed an entire political unit, the total population of Finland, was an inclusive gesture that eliminated the distinction between the “low” culture of the masses and the “high” culture of the political and academic elite.20 Some scholars have pinpointed Finland’s emphasis on a national identity shaped by cultural traditions and by language as a variety of nationalism known as cultural 18 Nielsen, “Cultural Nationalism,” 125. 19 Fennomans, members of Finland’s most important nineteenth-century national movement, contributed to the development of Finnish cultural endeavors and promoted Finnish as a language on parity with Swedish. 20 Outi Laari, “Immigrants in Finland: Finnish-to-be or Foreigners Forever; Conceptions of Nation State in Debate on Immigration Policy,” in A Changing Pattern of Migration in Finland and Its Surroundings, ed. Ismo Söderling (Helsinki: The Population Research Institute, 1998), 30. 23 nationalism, which is, in Kai Nielsen’s words, “neither civic nor ethnic.”21 Although cultural nationalism sometimes takes ethnic forms, it would be a mistake to conf late the two approaches. Ethnic nationalism is cultural, but not all cultural nationalisms are ethnic; whereas ethnic nationalism tends to focus on common ancestry, race, or class, cultural nationalism tends to adopt a liberal, democratic approach, defining membership through willing participation in a common culture that is open to all.22 John Hutchinson describes cultural nationalism by painting it in opposition to political nationalism and positioning it as “a dynamic vision of the nation as a high civilization with a unique place in the development of humanity”23: Unlike the political nationalist, who is fundamentally a rationalist, a cultural nationalist […] affirms a cosmology according to which humanity, like nature, is infused with a creative force which endows all things with individuality. Nations are primordial expressions of this spirit; like families, they are natural solidarities. Nations are then not just political units but organic beings, living personalities, whose individuality must be cherished by their members in all their manifestations.24 Cultural nationalism, then, involves the creation and definition of a nation through historical, geographical, and cultural means so that it might participate as an equal partner within a broader cosmopolitan framework. 21 Nielsen, “Cultural Nationalism,” passim. 22 Ibid., 126. 23 John Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism and Moral Regeneration,” in Nationalism: A Reader, ed. Hutchinson and Anthony D. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 128. 24 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 122. 24 When Is a Nation? Almost as pressing is the question, “when is a nation?,” which has captured the interest of nationalist scholars since Walker Connor broached the subject in 1990.25 Hroch argues that “we can with relative ease demonstrate empirically that national movements, seeking to achieve a new national identity, were making their appearance in a period of serious cultural, social, and political convulsions.”26 Accordingly, many scholars pinpoint the origins of the Finnish nation with the Russian takeover of 1809,27 linking Finland’s separation from Sweden28 and its concomitant autonomous status with the maturation of its national identity.29 As Steven Duncan Huxley states, “Finland as an independent nation has arisen and developed its identity largely through an intricate on-going dialectical process of conf lict and resistance and cooperation and accommodation with Russia,” an 25 Walker Connor, “When Is a Nation?,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 13, no. 1 (1990): 92-103. 26 Hroch, “Introduction,” 7. 27 Interestingly, it was Napoléon Bonaparte (1769-1821) who, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, sealed Finland’s fate. In 1807, Napoleon and Czar Alexander I of Russia (r. 1801-1825) combined forces with Prussia to form an alliance against Britain. The fiercely anti-Napoleonic King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden (r. 1792-1809), who had entered an alliance with Britain, refused all French and Russian overtures; thus Alexander I had no choice but to initiate military operations on Finland’s southeast coast during what would become known as the Finnish War (1808-09). Although the Finns defended themselves against great odds for a year and a half, they received little help from Sweden, who ceded Finland to Russia during the Treaty of Hamina in September 1809. 28 With the permission of Pope Innocent III, Finland was officially granted Swedish protection in 1216. 29 Hroch, “Introduction,” 7. 25 affair that “began in 1808 when ‘Finland’ was conquered by Russia, and, a year later, ‘Finland’ was created by Russia.”30 While convenient, this perspective is inadequate for three reasons. First, it ignores the fact that the Russian takeover was just one of a long series of conf licts between the Swedish Empire and the Czardom of Russia. As Walter Russell Mead notes, “no country in Europe has changed its geographical outline more often than Finland […] and the entire history of its changing eastern frontier has been the product of armed conf lict.”31 During the early years of the Great Northern War (1700-1721), for example, Finland lost most of Karelia32—including its capital city, Viipuri (“Vyborg”)—to the Russians; in ensuing years, Finland was twice occupied during conf licts known as isoviha (“The Greater Wrath,” 1714– 1721) and pikkuviha (“The Lesser Wrath,” 1742–1743). Second, it overlooks the fact that the status of autonomous Grand Duchy benefitted Finland in many tangible ways. Finland’s new ruler, the liberal-minded Alexander I, envisioned the future of the Russian Empire as a 30 Steven Duncan Huxley, Constitutionalist Insurgency in Finland: Finnish ‘Passive Resistance’ Against Russification as a Case of Nonmilitary Struggle in the European Resistance Tradition (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1990), 82; cited in Tina K. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations: Nationalism, Globalization, and the Changing Soundscapes of Finnish Folk Music (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 10. 31 W. R. Mead, “Forward,” in Anssi Paasi, Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness: The Changing Geographies of the Finnish-Russian Border (London: John Wiley, 1996), xi-xii. Mead’s assertion is something of an overstatement, considering the territorial changes of such countries as Hungary and Poland. 32 Karelia is a culturally, geographically, and linguistically ambiguous border territory extending from the coast of the White Sea to the Gulf of Finland. Its borders have remained fluid since the Viking Age. In 1323 the Treaty of Pähkinäsaari established Sweden’s eastern border with Russia, dividing Karelia into two cultural spheres: an eastern half that remained under the influence of the Greek Orthodox Church until 1917, and a western half that remained under the Catholic Church until the Lutheranization of the Nordic countries in the sixteenth century. 26 grouping of semi-autonomous units under the governance of the Czar. He declared that Finland would have its own laws, administration, and currency; that Finnish peasants would remain free and its population exempt from military service; that Finland would retain its own law courts, schools, religious services, and custom-tariffs against Russia; and that Finland be reunited with Karelia. There was little cause for national agitation; rather, it was only gradually that a sense of existential questioning emerged, as evidenced by the following catchphrase, which became commonplace in the years following 1809: “We are no longer Swedish; we will not be Russian; let us therefore be Finnish.”33 Third, as we shall see, this perspective discounts the important matter that nationalist currents beginning long before the takeover had far-reaching impacts after. As I will argue in the following pages, the making of the Finnish nation was a deliberate and protracted process, and the f lowering of national consciousness in the late nineteenth century had much earlier origins. Focusing on the role of religion in nationalism, Adrian Hastings argues that, since the Christian church sanctioned the use of the vernacular and reinforced the view of the nation as sacred and entrusted with a special destiny, early national ideologies and movements could be found in Christian endeavours tracing as far back as eleventh-century Europe.34 Certainly, twelfth-century Finland benefitted from the Catholic Church, which, 33 “Ruotsalaisia emme ole, venäläisiksi emme tule, olkaamme siis suomalaisia.” Although supposedly coined by Adolf Ivar Adwidsson, this phrase was first recorded by the influential Fennoman Johan Vilhelm Snellman in the 1850s. See Goss, Sibelius, 448. 34 Adrian Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), especially pages 1–34. 27 brought to Finland with Swedish rule, aided in the development of certain national traits that would later become important factors in Finland’s nationalistic awakening. When Archbishops Leimar and Humbert of Bremen, who were loyal to the Holy Roman Emperor, attempted to gain a stronghold in northern Europe, Pope Leo IX (r. 1049-1054) kept the northern churches within his own reign of inf luence by encouraging their individual national traits.35 Following his instructions, each of the twenty-five Catholic bishops elected to the archdiocese of Turku on Finland’s west coast between 1156 and 1550 were Finnish-born individuals, each of whom ensured a native Finnish successor.36 Sixteenth-century Finland was impacted by the spread of the Protestant faith when Finnish and Swedish scholars, returning from studies in Germany, promoted Martin Luther’s ideas to the Finnish populace, advocating for proselytization in the native tongue and in turn laying the foundations for a nineteenth-century revivification of the Finnish language. Pietari Särkilahti (d. 1529), for example, was Luther’s first Finnish student and the forerunner of Finland’s Reformation movement; a gifted orator, he was celebrated for his forceful Finnish sermons. Mikael Agricola (c. 1510-1557), inspired by Reformation and Humanist principles, followed in Särkilahti’s footsteps; he studied under Luther in Wittenberg, became ordained in 1531, and returned to Finland to develop a written form of 35 Eino Sormunen, Omalla Pohjalla (Porvoo: WSOY, 1944), 17. As Imma Penn states: “Pope Leo IX also met with Adalbert, Archbishop of Bremen. They discussed the formation of all the Scandinavian countries, including Iceland and Greenland, into a patriarchate, of which the see was to be Bremen. The scheme was never accomplished, but the Pope authorized the consecration by Adalbert of the first native bishop of Iceland.” Imma Penn, Dogma Evolution and Papal Fallacies (Bloomington, IN: AuthorHouse, 2007), 118. 36 Hudson Strode, Finland Forever (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Co., 1941), 163. 28 Finnish and publish the first recorded works in the Finnish language. His output included ABC-kirja (“The ABC Book,” 1543), Rucouskirja (“The Prayer Book,” 1544), and Se Wsi Testamenti (“The New Testament,” 1548).37 Simultaneous with European developments, eighteenth-century Finland experienced a broad awakening of cultural nationalist sentiment. The Bishop of Porvoo, Daniel Juslenius (1676-1752), was an early proponent of Finnish history, folk poetry, and language; among his output was the Suomalaisen Sana-Lugun Coetus (1745), the first extensive Finnish language dictionary with over 16,000 lexical entries.38 One of Juslenius’s most important disciples, Henrik Gabriel Porthan (1739-1804), was a historian and professor at the Royal Academy; in addition to publishing works of folk poetry and Finnish literature, Porthan authored the first detailed account of Finnish poetry, De Poesi Fennica (1778), a pivotal work that laid the foundations for Elias Lönnrot’s compilation of the Kalevala. He also founded the Aurora Society, which was designed to awaken national consciousness among the educated classes and listed among its accomplishments the publication of the first Finnish newspaper, the “Åbo Tidningar,” in 1771.39 37 Finland felt the effects of the Reformation particularly keenly; in fact, Lutheranism’s teachings continue to impact contemporary Finland. Goss, Sibelius, 21-25. 38 In his written work, Juslenius maintained a strong identification with Finland, its people, and its past; he placed Finnish on the same level as Hebrew and Greek, which he taught in his capacity as professor at the Royal Academy of Turku. He cited folk song texts as proof of an ancient Finnish civilization, believing that epic song recounted actual historical events. 39 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 28. 29 Johann Gottfried Herder and the Reconstruction of the Finnish Language Despite increasing interest in Finnish history and folklore, Porthan did not conceive of Finland in national terms. When he died in 1804, Finland was still a province of Sweden, and, as a nation, largely dormant. However, this would change over the course of the nineteenth century, when young patriots, eager for a new form of self-identification, adopted and promoted the influential philosophies of Johann Gottfried Herder (1744-1803), whose work had made its way to Finland in Porthan’s time and initially through Porthan’s personal library.40 Herder claimed that each nation possessed an original national character, the product of a unique environment producing unique cultural characteristics: The elevation or depression of a region, its nature and products, the food and drink men enjoy in it, the mode of life they pursue, the labours in which they are employed, their clothing, even their ordinary attitudes, their arts and pleasure, with a multitude of other circumstances, which considerably influence their lives, all belong to the picture of changeable climate.41 Herder dismissed the Enlightenment view that national and cultural differences should be subjugated to the domination of reason.42 He considered culture, not politics, to be the driving force behind nationalism and argued that to survive, a nation must learn to express 40 Łukasz Sommer, “A Step Away from Herder: Turku Romantics and the Question of National Language,” Slavonic and East European Review 90, no. 1 (2012): 7. 41 Johann Gottfried von Herder, Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind, ed. Frank E. Manuel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 16; quoted in Taisto Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities: Architectural Representation and the Rhetoric of Nationalism in Finland At the Turn of the Century” (PhD diss., University of Princeton, 1991), 69. 42 Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities,” 69-70. 30 this culture. Masterpieces of religion, music, poetry, and art gave history its meaning, while political and military events were of secondary importance.43 Herder also espoused the idea that since each nation was unique, each nation should be in charge of its own destiny. “Every nation,” he maintained, “contains the center of its happiness within itself.”44 For this reason, Herder opposed the coercive imposition of an external idea of happiness onto a reluctant society; however, he did consider the education of a population for the purpose of building a national consciousness a legitimate undertaking.45 Herder argued that the purest expression of a culture lay in its ancestral language, its chief asset, which ensured its cultural identity and continuity while providing resistance to threats of assimilation by other cultures. Because a language was intrinsically linked with the mind, it ref lected its speaker’s experience and way of living; thus it followed that as communities varied in their experiences and habits, so too did their vernaculars, making each language a unique spiritual phenomenon.46 According to Herder, a nation “has nothing more valuable than the language of its fathers. In it lives its entire spiritual treasury of tradition, history, religion, and principles of life, all its heart and soul. To deprive such a 43 Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities,” 70. 44 Johann Gottfried Herder, Sämmtliche Werke (Berlin: Weidmann, 1877-1913), 5:565; quoted in William A. Wilson, “Herder, Folklore and Romantic Nationalism,” The Journal of Popular Culture 6, no. 4 (1973): 821. 45 Alan Patten, “‘The Most Natural State’: Herder and Nationalism,” History of Political Thought 31, no. 4 (2010): 686. 46 Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities,” 71, 73; see also Sommer, “A Step Away,” 2. 31 nation of its language, or to demean it, is to deprive it of its sole immortal possession transmitted from parents to children.”47 The loftiest expression of a nation’s language, Herder maintained, is folk poetry; if a nation’s development is interrupted in any way, the solution is to collect folk poetry surviving from before the time of this interruption and employ it as a means of restoring the nation’s soul.48 Inspired by Herder’s assertion that the language of the folk expressed the nation’s Volksgeist or spirit, Finnish nationalists began the slow process of rebuilding a linguistically centered Finnish heritage. During this time, several associations that had as their focus the promotion of the Finnish language became prominent. The earliest of these was founded at the Royal Academy of Turku, where a group of young academics known as the Turun Romantiikka (“Turku Romantics”) laid the groundwork for Finland’s national agenda. Most active between the years 1818-1822, the Turun Romantiikka—convinced that language was the foundation of national identity—renounced their native Swedish tongue in favour of the still-rudimentary Finnish language. They established a comprehensive archive of Finnish folk music and poetry, undertook lengthy folk poetry collection trips through the woods of Karelia, actively sought the promotion of their work through publication, and formed men’s choirs to express their patriotic and political ideas.49 The most notorious of the Turku 47 Wilson, “Herder,” 827. 48 Ibid., 832. 49 For more information on the Turku Romantics, see David Kirby, A Concise History of Finland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 59-67; Matti Klinge, Let Us Be Finns: Essays on History 32 Romantics—the Finnish political journalist, writer and historian Adolf Ivar Arwidsson (1791-1858)—was driven into exile by his outspoken assertions on freedom of print and Finnish political autonomy. Arwidsson argued that the Finns could only join collectively as a nation as long as their mother tongue survived: When the language of its forefathers is lost, a nation, too, is lost and perishes. All speaking the same tongue naturally form an indivisible whole; they are bound together internally by times of mind and soul, mightier and firmer than every external bond. For language forms the spiritual, and land the material, boundaries of mankind; but the former is the stronger, because the spirit means more than the material.50 The main challenge that these associations faced was that, until the early nineteenth century, the Finnish language barely existed. Finnish, a member of the Finnic group of the Uralic family of languages, survived five centuries of Swedish rule as an oral tongue comprised of a number of mutually intelligible dialects.51 Whereas Swedish was the (Helsinki: Otava, 1990), 66-95; Sommer, “A Step Away”; and John H. Wuorinen, Nationalism in Modern Finland (New York: Columbia University Press, 1931), 47-76. 50 Quoted in Anthony D. Smith, Chosen Peoples: Sacred Sources of National Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 191; also quoted in Euno Jutikalla, A History of Finland (London: Thames and Hudson, 1962), 201. 51 The Finnish language’s closest neighbours are Estonian, Karelian, and Sami; the often-cited link with Hungarian and Magyar is a distant one. By contrast, Swedish, like many other Scandinavian languages, is a Germanic language, and Russian a Slavic language; both are members of the Indo-European family. The dissimilarity of the Finnish language to its neighbours was crucial to the development of a distinct Finnish identity, culturally and geographically positioned between East and West. Early Finnish settlers established several distinct groups. The Suomalaiset lived in the land of Suomi, which may have been in Finland’s southwest. The Hämäläiset, their nearest relatives, lived inland from the coast in the region of Häme, which in its present form extends from Lahti as far westward as Tampere. The Karjalaiset lived in the eastern borderlands of Finland and Russia, representing modern-day Karelia; it is from here that the doctor Elias Lönnrot would, over the course of the nineteenth century, collect the legends of the Kalevala, Finland’s national epic. While these groups spoke mutually intelligible dialects, Finnish remained almost exclusively an oral tongue until its modernization in the nineteenth century. See Kirby, Concise History; Henrik 33 dominant tongue of the Finnish nobility, administration and education, Finnish remained the language of the peasantry, clergy, and local courts in predominantly Finnish-speaking areas. It is one of Europe’s youngest literary languages: the first Finnish-language newspaper (the Turun Wiiko-sanamat) was not published until 1820, and the first Finnish-language novel (Nils Aejmelaeus’s Haaksirikko) did not appear until 1838. It received no institutional support; among official circles—including government, administration, the military, and the educated classes—it was not even a common second language.52 Finnish academics’ attempts to reconstruct various dialects according to a common literary standard served to unify a diverse population and differentiate it from its neighbours.53 Problematically, academics could not agree on the selection of a foundational dialect. In the eighteenth century, the only widely known supradialectal modification was Bishop Erik Rothvius’s 1642 translation of the Bible, which was strongly inf luenced by western coastal dialects and the Swedish tongue. Calls to create a revised literary form of Finnish, excising Swedish linguistic traits in favour of inland Finnish dialects, clashed with conservative pleas for the maintenance of continuity and tradition. Ultimately, written Finnish not only maintained its biblical underpinnings but also absorbed some eastern inf luences. Ironically, in wanting to do justice to the Finnish vernacular, national activists Meinander, A History of Finland, trans. Tom Geddes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); and Fred Singleton, A Short History of Finland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 52 Janne Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén and the Constructed Nation: Art and Nationalism in Young Finland, 1800-1900” (PhD diss., New York University, 2001), 12; see also Sommer, “A Step Away.” 53 John Hutchinson, Nations as Zones of Conflict (London: SAGE, 2004), 55. 34 manufactured a new linguistic identity that moved further away from any of the local dialects actually spoken by Finns.54 In 1830, following the Great Fire of Turku and the relocation of the university to Helsinki, former pupils of the Turku academy, including Elias Lönnrot55 (1802-1884), Johan Ludvig Runeberg56 (1804-1877), and Johan Vilhelm Snellman (1806-81), founded a group known as Lauantaiseura (“The Saturday Society”) for the purpose of continuing the Romantics’ work in the new capital. Its members had a profound impact on Finnish nationalism: Lönnrot wrote the Kalevala; Runeberg penned the lyrics to the national anthem; and Snellman, the leading ideologist of the nineteenth-century Finnish nationalist movement, advocated tirelessly for the development of the Finnish language. As both a scholar and a politician, Johan Vilhelm Snellman was well positioned to become the leading ideologist of the nineteenth-century Finnish nationalist movement.57 Through his research into the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770- 54 Sommer, “A Step Away,” 31. 55 Lönrott is most famous for compiling the Finnish Kalevala epic; his contributions to Finnish nationalism will be discussed in detail shortly. 56 Johan Ludvig Runeberg is widely accepted as Finland’s national poet. Despite writing in the Swedish language, Runeberg was able to rouse the interest of the aristocracy in the Finnish peasant by according the Finnish population a sense of identity. For example, Runeberg’s poem “Bonden Paavo” (1830)— a depiction of the peasant Paavo of Saarijärvi, who confronts and overcomes the harsh realities of agrarian life—described what would become the archetypal Finnish peasant: virtuous, stoic, and persistent. One of his most famous collections of poems, Fänrik Ståls sägner (“Tales of Ensign Stål,” 1848-1860), is a patriotic account of the Finnish War of 1808-09, which he was—remarkably—able to express without offending the Russian authorities. The first of these poems, “Vårt land” (“Our Land”), provided the lyrics for the Finnish national anthem. 57 Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 218. 35 1831), who followed Herder’s conception of the Volk but gave more importance to political frameworks, Snellman took the position that individual nations were the active force in history and that national literature formed the essence of a national culture. Snellman preached two core ideas. First, he argued that Finland was inhabited by a single, Finnish- speaking nation, and he urged Swedish speakers to accept this position and adopt the Finnish language. Second, he claimed that the only way to ensure the survival of the Finnish nation was through an improvement in Finnish-language education. Snellman articulated his views by way of a vicious editorial battle, writing, like many of his supporters, almost exclusively in Swedish and stressing the importance of education in the creation of national culture58: The new, modern national literature should be based on the national cultural heritage, and the new era more responsible for a foundation of patriotic pathos. Folklore is an unconscious and naive art of words, and it is the responsibility of the intelligentsia to elevate it to a new, truly artistic level.59 Nineteenth-century Finland witnessed the gradual but inexorable development of a Finnish-speaking class. Snellman founded the first Finnish speaking school in the country, an elementary school for girls, in 1845. In 1850, the University of Helsinki appointed its first professor of the Finnish language; in 1858, the city of Jyväskylä opened a Finnish-speaking 58 Many of Finnish nationalism’s strongest advocates, including Porthan, Runeberg, and Snellman, lacked fluency in written Finnish and instead used Swedish, the language of the cultured elite, to advance their patriotic ideas. 59 “Uuden, modernin kansalliskirjallisuuden tulee perustua kansallisen kulttuuri perinnön ja uutta aikaa paremmin vastaavan isänmaallisen paatoksen perustalle. Kansanrunous on tiedostamatonta ja naiivia sanataidetta, ja sivistyneistön tulisi kohottaa se uudelle todella taiteelliselle tasolle.” Cited in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 20. 36 secondary school. In 1863—the year that Finnish was proclaimed an official language alongside Swedish—universities began offering lectures in Finnish. On 30 July 1863, Czar Alexander II (r. 1855-1881)—wishing to prevent unrest from the 1863 Polish uprising from spreading to Finland—signed a “language rescript” stating that Finnish be equal in status to Swedish in all matters concerning the Finnish population; that Finnish documents be accepted in Finland’s courts and government bureaus; that official documents be distributed to the population in Finnish no later than 1883; and that the Finnish senate take care of all measures resulting from the execution of the rescript.60 This placed Finland in a more autonomous position than ever before. Education became one of the primary vehicles of Finnish nationalism. To strengthen the Finnish language and culture, it was important to enroll as many children as possible in school. Before 1870, only 7 percent of students were from peasant backgrounds, but by 1880 the number had doubled, and continued to increase in ensuing years. Finland’s small population—just over two million in 1880—did not permit the exclusion of females from the education system, and after 1886, it was possible for women to obtain a university education.61 Literacy rates soared as the century drew to a close: in 1880, little over 12 percent of the population over the age of ten could read and write; by 1900, 40 percent of those over the age of fifteen could do so.62 60 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 13. 61 Gisela Kaplan, “Comparative Europe: Feminism and Nationalism: The European Case,” in Feminist Nationalism, ed. Lois A. West (New York: Routledge, 1997), 29. 62 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 19. 37 Constructing the Ideal Finn There are two ways in which the community can be located and its true state revealed: through poetic spaces and golden ages. The first involves the uses of landscape, the second the uses of history. The one roots the community in its distinctive terrain; the other charts its origins and flowering in the age of heroes. Both together provide a history and metaphysic of the individuality of the community, from which an ethic of regeneration issues to lead it forward.63 —Anthony D. Smith Nations have long justified their claims for cultural and political legitimacy by virtue of their rootedness in nature, and through associated ideas of folk, tradition, and community. These concepts can be traced back to Herder,64 who celebrated a “vision of a folk whose aesthetic creativity sprang from nature,”65 arguing that cultures are, to a large extent, determined by their physical environment: Nature has sketched with the mountain ranges she formed and with the rivers she made flow from them the rough but definite outline of the entire history of man. [. . .] Oceans, mountain chains, and rivers are the most natural boundaries not only of lands, but also of peoples, customs, languages, and empires; and even in the greatest revolutions of human affairs they have been the guiding lines and the limits of world history.66 63 Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Blackwell, 1986), 183. 64 Max Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature: Sibelius, Hamson, Adorno,” in Jean Sibelius and His World, ed. Daniel M. Grimley (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 183. 65 Philip Bohlman, The Study of Folk Music in the Modern World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), xix. 66 Herder, Sämmtliche Werke, 13:37-38; quoted in Wilson, “Herder,” 821. 38 Romantics considered it their duty to recover and sustain folk cultures. The growth of folklore studies during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was virtually synonymous with the development of romantic nationalistic movements throughout Europe; it was viewed as the “handmaiden of a politics of vernacularity”67 and justified through the representation of global civilization as a synthesis of numerous unique national cultures. Nationalists could claim that although their nation was currently underdeveloped, it had once been a leader among nations; for them, borrowing folk elements was simply a way of reclaiming a lost heritage. As part of the rediscovery of their collective selves, nationalists undertook journeys to record the distinctive qualities of their homeland. These journeys extended their sense of belonging spatially, deepening their sense of attachment to the land. In so doing, some remote areas of natural beauty or cultural significance became endowed with a sense of mystery and sacred purpose, inspiring poets, artists, and musicians to disseminate their vision of the land through their art.68 Interest in folk culture was also driven by struggles for national independence and cultural self-determination. For many nationalists, folklore research was synonymous with the pursuit of national power and motivated by patriotic sentiment, playing a significant role in the development of a national identity.69 Nationalists focused on the construction 67 Roger Abrahams, “The Past in the Presence: An Overview of Folkloristics in the Late Twentieth Century,” in Folklore Processed: In Honour of Lauri Honko, ed. Reimund Kvideland (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1992), 36; cited in Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 27. 68 Hutchinson, Nations, 50, 54. 69 Wilson notes that this was largely due to the publication of the Kalevala. William A. Wilson, 39 of the folk as rural people, inhabitants not only of specific landscapes, but also within particular politically determined spaces, employing specific stereotypical characterizations of their country, landscape, and people in the creation of a positive national self-image. Although Finland’s cultural composition draws from a diverse array of ethnicities, as is typical of many border regions, literature that dealt with Finnish cultural history in the years between 1809 and 1917 tended to avoid discussing Finland’s origins in cultural fragmentation and artistic rootlessness; rather, when Finnish nationalists recreated a national language and traditions, they necessarily presented Finland as a unified culture.70 Moreover, they took special efforts to convince the Swedish-speaking elite that the Finnish- speaking majority population was not only agrarian but also honest and upright. For example, Johann Ludvig Runeberg (1804-1877), Finland’s national poet, produced several literary works placing his characters in a romanticized pastoral or war setting; the Finnish author Zachris Topelius (1818-1898), in his Boken om vårt land (1875), endowed the national character Matti with such traits as diligence, obedience, perseverance, and stubbornness in an effort to portray the phlegmatic personality type supposedly common within the Finnish population.71 Folklore and Nationalism in Modern Finland (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), 62-66. 70 For more on this topic, see Tomi Mäkelä, “Poesie in der Luft”: Jean Sibelius; Studien zu Leben und Werk (Breitkopf & Härtel: Weisbaden, 2007). 71 Saukkonen, “Finns,” 151-52. 40 These images were not an accurate depiction of the Finnish character by any means. They were instead idealized creations of the Finnish character by a select group of intellectuals who rejected existing ideas of national self-identification as woefully inadequate. Moreover, in creating what they were supposed to describe, they frequently served as a thinly disguised compendium of prescribed behavior for the common folk. Yet, Finnish audiences took the idea of a homogenous Finnish culture for granted, meeting alternative representations of the Finnish self-image with harsh censure. Aleksis Kivi’s (1834-1872) literary masterpiece Seven Brothers (1870), for example, was reviled for its depiction of the titular characters not only as divergent entities, rather than a single super- individual, but also as ignorant, lazy, and resistant to bourgeois values, which clashed with ideals of national purity.72 In a review in the Finlands Allmäna Tidningen, August Ahlqvist called the book a “ridiculous work and a blot on the name of Finnish literature.”73 These territorial attitudes were a necessary precondition of Finland’s independence and became firmly entrenched—from both a foreign and a domestic perspective—as a given aspect of Finland’s cultural makeup. By the turn of the twentieth century, it became commonplace to allude to the close link Finns have with nature, and, in so doing, reinforce the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity. For example, the painter Akseli 72 Saukkonen, “Finns,” 151-52. 73 Hannes Sivo, “Aleksis Kivi,” trans. Roderick Fletcher, Biografiakeskus, accessed 5 July 2018, www.kansallisbiografia.fi/. 41 Gallen-Kallela, whose output is sometimes compared with Sibelius’s,74 wrote in 1924 that “Anyone who lives and works hard in open nature achieves in the end such a personal relationship to his environment that he may find himself speaking to the trees—like a child speaks to the f lowers in the field. The deep integration in nature is particular to us Finns; this is proven by our folk poetry.”75 Similarly, Sibelius encouraged parallels between his music and a northern landscape, stating from his retreat in Järvenpää that he needed to compose in silence, surrounded by nature and the sounds of the forest. Evocations of nature are found in his works as late as the symphonic poem Tapiola, the score of which features an opening quatrain referencing “the northland’s dusky forests.”76 74 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 159. 75 Erik Tawaststjerna, Jean Sibelius: Åren 1893-1904 (Helsinki: Söderstroms, 1994), 232; quoted in Tomi Mäkelä, “The Nordic Landscape and ‘Extra-Territoriality: Jean Sibelius in the Context of Cultural Geography and Adorno’s Reception,” in Sibelius in the Old and New World: Aspects of His Music, Its Interpretation, and Reception, ed. Timothy L. Jackson et al. (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2010), 364. 76 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 43. Tomi Mäkelä argues that the opening quatrain was likely written by a member of Sibelius’s German publishing house. See Tomi Mäkelä, “The Wings of a Butterfly: Sibelius and the Problems of Musical Modernity,” in Jean Sibelius and His World, ed. Daniel M. Grimley (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 113. 42 The Kalevala: A Case Study I will sing the people’s legends, and the ballads of the nation. 77 —Elias Lönnrot A final important facet of Herder’s philosophy is the idea of historical continuity.78 When such continuity is lost through national decay, Herder argues that a nation’s history and Volksgeist can be revivified by shaping the cultural fragments of its agrarian population—which, as we have seen, lived in harmony with nature and possessed intimate ties with their nation’s geographic setting—into a unified narrative expressive of a nation’s unique spirit. Herder’s prescriptions were realized in various nation-building endeavours through the construction of a history that included tales of national myths, heroes, and adversaries.79 Roused by James Macpherson’s purported discovery of the Ossianic Lays (1762),80 the Germans rekindled their interest in the thirteenth-century Nibelungenlied, the Irish their ancient Celtic Ulster and Fenian cycles, and the Norwegians the Edda (translated 1766-68).81 77 Kalevala, rune 1, lines 5-6; trans. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 24. 78 Wilson, “Herder,” 821. 79 Hroch, “Introduction,” 14. 80 James Macperson’s English-language translation of ancient Scots Gaelic poetry received considerable attention on the continent and was translated into Swedish between 1794-1800, serving as a strong model for the Kalevala. 81 Hutchinson, Nations, 55. 43 In Finland,82 this task was taken up by Elias Lönnrot (1802-1884),83 who—inspired by the German philologist Friedrich August Wolf (1759-1824) and his theory on Homeric epics84—travelled to Karelia85 to collect peasant ballads and tales before ultimately shaping them into a Finnish epic. In February 1834, while editing and comparing his collected materials, Lönnrot wrote: “a desire to organize and unify them awoke in me, to extract from Finnish mythology something corresponding to the Icelandic Edda,” adding that “our descendants will possibly esteem such a collection as highly as the Gothic nations regard 82 In Finland, one of this first to express the need for a national epic was not Lönnrot but rather the folklorist Carl Axel Gottlund (1796-1875). Gottlund published his first collection of Finnish folk poetry in 1818 and founded a Finnish society in Stockholm in 1828; however, he was shunned by Lönnrot and his colleagues, likely because of his long association with Sweden, where he conducted the majority of his research. See Kirby, Concise History, 94. 83 Elias Lönnrot is chiefly known for his role in the collection, editing, and publication of the Kalevala, a book of Finnish verse that has been officially recognized as Finland’s national epic. He developed a passion for folklore while studying at the Royal Academy of Turku, where he enrolled in 1822, and he submitted a Master’s dissertation on the mythical Finnish shaman and musician Väinämöinen in 1827. After graduation he moved to the newly established University of Helsinki, where he wrote about folk medicine while working toward a medical degree. In 1831, with the help of his colleagues in the Saturday Society, he established the Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura (“Finnish Literature Society”) with the intent of collecting, publishing, and studying folklore material; one of the first actions of the SKS was to raise funds to finance Lönnrot’s folk poetry collection trips to the remote regions of Karelia, where he collected material that would later be incorporated into the Kalevala. 84 Friedrich August Wolf, Prolegomena ad Homerum, 1795. According to Wolf, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey could not have been composed in their current form without the aid of writing, and must therefore have originally consisted of loose songs; these songs would thus have been reproduced in oral tradition and collected together in the form of an epic poem only about 500 years after the date of their original composition. 85 Many of the the songs Lönnrot used in the Kalevala survived chiefly along both sides of the present- day Finnish-Russian border in Karelia, possibly owing to the region’s isolation from Western European influences and the Russian Orthodox Church’s more lenient position toward folk poetry. Thus Karelia— especially Russian Karelia, which Finnish intellectuals, ethnologists, and artists identified as the epicenter of Finnish oral poetry and the mythic home of an ancient Finnish civilization—evolved into a highly symbolic space. By the early twentieth century, the idealization of Karelia—which gave rise to a movement known as “Karelianism”—had become integral to Finnish nationalism, and some enthusiasts referred openly to Russian Karelia as an inseparable part of the Finnish nation. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 36. 44 Edda or the Greeks and Romans, if not Homer, at least Hesiod.”86 Lönnrot’s ensuing work, the Kalevala, is one of the most powerful illustrations of the formation and recreation of an ancient collective memory, made all the more compelling by the myriad ways it was justified by generations of Finnish intellectuals. Lönnrot published the first edition of the Kalevala—titled Kalewala taikka wanhoja Karjalan runoja Suomen kansan muinosista ajoista87—in 1835, following a series of folk music collection trips. As Lönnrot considered the ancient Finns to have entered Karelia around the ninth century via the White Sea,88 he used this geographical backdrop in his portrayal of the mythical heroes of Finland’s Iron Age society.89 Aware of disputes 86 Jouko Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research 1828-1918 (Helsinki: Societas Fennica, 1969), 25. 87 “The Kalevala, or Old Karelian Poetry from the Antiquity of the Finnish People.” This version would become known as the “Old Kalevala” after the publication of the revised edition in 1849. It consists of 12,078 lines arranged into thirty-two poems or “cantos.” The text is set in trochaic tetrameter with four poetic feet per line; although this meter has been famously used by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (in The Song of Hiawatha) and Shakespeare (in Midsummer Night’s Dream), it is commonly known in poetic circles as Kalevala meter. 88 Although there has been some debate concerning the actual origin of the Finns, historians now believe that the Finno-Ugric peoples—including Finns, Estonians, and Magyars—originated in the upper regions of the Volga. They began to migrate to their present locations approximately 2,000 years ago, moving into what is now Finland through the Baltic region and eventually displacing a scattered nomadic population known as the Sami (of whom the majority currently inhabit Lapland and other parts of Nordkalotten, the area of Fennoscandia within the Arctic Circle). See Kirby, Concise History; Meinander, History; and Singleton, Short History. 89 The plot revolves around the eternal sage Väinämöinen, the epic’s main protagonist. He seeks a wife from the land of Pohjola, as do the heroic artificer-smith Ilmarinen and the handsome but arrogant Lemminkäinen, both of whom must accomplish heroic tasks to win their brides. The tragic figure of Kullervo—who figures prominently in nationalist depictions of the Kalevala—is born as a slave, sold to Ilmarinen, and exploited by Ilmarinen’s wife; ultimately, he commits suicide. The latter half of the epic concerns a struggle between two lands, Kaleva and Pohjola, over the Sampo, a magical mill that brings its owner unending wealth. 45 concerning the authenticity of Macpherson’s Ossian, Lönnrot vowed not to be pigeonholed in a similar manner. He was open about his working procedures and alterations. He justified them by way of the competence he had gained listening to folk singers and notating their oral performances, and he argued that his editing of source material corresponded to the variations in the folk performances he encountered. To support his position, he included a hundred-page appendix that provided variants to the poems he had chosen to publish.90 Thus, it was widely believed that the form Lönnrot gave to the Kalevala was representative of the epic in its original shape. To be fair, Lönnrot pursued this ideal earnestly. In a printed introduction to the first edition, he discussed how he had arrived at the chosen order of the individual poems, arguing that it was not a subjective or artistic choice, but rather an ethnographically interpretative one: Two things I have taken into consideration in the method of organization: firstly what I have seen the best singers pay attention to in regard to order, and secondly, when this did not help, I consulted the poems themselves as to the basis of the events and put them in order accordingly.91 The Kalevala’s significance for Finland’s developing nationalism was immense. A national epic, which Juslenius had implied, Porthan had refuted,92 and Gottlund had 90 Smith, Chosen Peoples, 192. 91 Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 34; quoted in Pertti Anttonen, “The Kalevala and the Authenticity Debate,” in Manufacturing a Past for the Present: Forgery and Authenticity in Medievalist Texts and Objects in Nineteenth-Century Europe, ed. János Bak, Patrick J. Geary, and Gábor Klaniczay (Boston: Brill, 2015), 59. 92 Porthan rejected the original Finns as uncouth. He thought of the inland Finns as a people of primitive descent, once even comparing Finland to Canada as an endless expanse of forest. Derek Fewster, 46 attempted, had at last come to fruition. It quickly became the de facto symbol of Finland’s ancient national culture for several reasons. First, the Kalevala benefited from a campaign to propel it into public awareness. Proselytism like that of the Finnish ethnographer Matthias Castrén (1813-1852) was typical: “From beyond the night of centuries,” he stated during an 1841 lecture on the Kalevala, “these poems speak to us words of our fathers’ faith, their wisdom and their strength.”93 Lönnrot’s Suomalaisen kirjallisuuden seura (Finnish Literary Society) proclaimed it Finland’s national epic—a designation that has endured, having never been contested94—and the society quickly secured patronage at a time when the authorities were wary of anything that might be construed as disloyal. Within a week of the society’s first meeting, it had secured pledges of protection from both the chancellor of the University of Helsinki and the vice-chairman of the Finnish senate. Anyone who appeared to challenge its authority was ostracized.95 Second, as a national epic, the Kalevala provided a heroic history that distinguished Finns from other peoples, transcended the Visions of Past Glory: Nationalism and the Construction of Early Finnish History (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2006), 59-62, 94. 93 Kirby, Concise History, 94. 94 Goss, Sibelius, 37. 95 Kirby, Concise History, 94; see also Irma Sulkunen, Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura: 1831-1892 (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2004). Despite the Kalevala’s ideological success, its adoption by the public at large was not immediate, nor was its impact on the Finnish arts: the 1835 printing of 500 copies was, in fact, still being sold twenty years later. This could possibly be attributed to the repression of Finnish national activism by Russian authorities, but it was also a matter of language: in part Finland’s low level of literacy, and in part the complex language Lönnrot had documented and employed within the publication, which even enthusiasts had trouble understanding. See Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 222; Goss, Sibelius, 37. 47 periods of Swedish and Russian rule, and established a firm foundation for Finland’s national project. Possessed not only of a national language but also a noble epic, Finland could be considered a legitimate candidate for inclusion into the European concert of nations96; Finns could now say, “I too have a history.”97 Third, the Kalevala was largely considered a historical document, taken as authentic and factually based even by later generations of Finnish nationalists. Though the era it described was earlier than could be corroborated by external evidence, its linguistic mannerisms and its description of tools, weapons, and customs appeared consonant with what was known of pre-Christian iron-age societies.98 In the words of American folklorist Alan Dundes, “the forces of romanticism and nationalism were—and are—so powerful in Finland that what the people believed was—and is—more important than what was true.”99 In 1849, following a further series of folklore collection trips, Lönnrot published a revised and extended edition of the Kalevala. In contrast with his methodical approach to the 1835 edition, Lönnrot took significant liberties with the source material. He created new plots and characters, lengthened narrative episodes, and combined separate songs and their motives. He also changed the orthography, language, and poetic meter in fully 50% of the 96 Smith, Chosen Peoples, 193. 97 Wilson, Folklore, 42. 98 Goss, Sibelius, 37. 99 Alan Dundes, “Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes and the Fabrication of Fakelore: A Reconsideration of Ossian, the Kinder- and Hausmärchen, the Kalevala, and Paul Bunyan,” Journal of Folklore Research 22, no. 1 (1985): 5, 8. 48 lines, composed a further 14% of the lines anew using selected elements from the folk poems, and created 3% of the lines in their entirety, with no equivalent in the sources. Only 33% of the lines in the 1849 Kalevala match with the original folk texts.100 Because of the many changes Lönnrot made to this edition, scholars consider it “more artistic than ethnographic.”101 “One cannot speak of the second edition,” writes Jouko Hautala, “not even of a revised one, but rather of a new epic, built on the basis of the first.”102 Significantly, Lönnrot steered the 1849 Kalevala toward nation-building. He eliminated most of the dialectal and linguistic differences in the materials, thereby not only making the epic comprehensible to all Finnish speakers but also removing traces of local culture. In doing so, he intentionally nationalized the work by having the folk poetry emerge not from a narrow geographic locale between Finland and Karelia but rather from within the broader environment of Finland, meaning any place within the developing conception of the Finnish nation.103 Thanks to changing research premises—from romanticism to evolutionism and positivism—the Kalevala’s status as an authentic representation of ancient Finnish history 100 Väinö Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1979), 72; quoted in Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 65. 101 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 64. 102 Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 34; quoted in Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 65. 103 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 77. 49 gave way to a reading of the epic as a literary anthology of oral folk poetry.104 The Finnish professor Julius Krohn articulated this new attitude in the 1880s: “The printed Kalevala, although it is put together so skillfully, or in fact, for that very reason, is not at all suitable as a basis for scholarly research.”105 Curiously, this new attitude was met with attempts to legitimize the Kalevala. These were not motivated by skepticism toward the epic, but rather by an earnest wish to verify the work to the international community. Axel August Lähteenkorva106, for example, led expeditions to Karelia to find evidence of the Kalevala’s historical authenticity, hoping to disprove allegations that the epic was a hoax like MacPherson’s Ossianic texts.107 Meanwhile, in an effort to make available the Kalevala’s original source material, Krohn launched an ambitious publishing effort that would last more than a century: Kalevalan toisinnot (“The Kalevala’s Variants”) was published in 1888; Kalevalan esityöt I-III (“The Kalevala’s Preliminary Work”) in 1891-95; and the 33-volume set Suomen Kansan Vanhat Runot (“Finnish People’s Ancient Poems”) in 1908-48, with an additional 34th volume released in 1997.108 Karelianism notwithstanding, the preservation of Finnish cultural material from within those same imperial boundaries from which Finnish nationalists sought separation 104 Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 71; quoted in Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 61. 105 Ibid., 61. 106 1849-1931, né Borenius. 107 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 225-26. 108 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 68. 50 was problematic. Over time, Finnish folklorists began to argue for a sense of Finnish identity aligned with the West.109 For example, Lähteenkorva, in an 1873 paper, “Missä Kalevala on syntynyt?” (Where Did the Kalevala Originate?), argued that the Kalevala’s poems did not have their origin in the places in eastern Finland or in Karelia, where they were last sung, stating that “the poetry has come to Russian Karelia from the west, from Finland, and not spread from there in the opposite direction into Finland.”110 As proof, he pointed to Swedish loanwords that had been distorted in the songs since these words were unknown in the ordinary language of the song regions. In a later work, he compared Kalevala’s poetry to equivalents in English, German, Danish, and Norwegian to demonstrate that the Finnish poem cycle was linked to the medieval tradition of Western Europe.111 Similarly, in a study published in 1885, Julius Krohn concluded that by origin the Kalevala’s source material had migrated to Finland from the West as small units or cells, later evolving into poetic cycles. These conclusions were potentially damaging to the view of folk poetry as the spontaneous expression of the Volk. Lönnrot, however, offered a loophole in his account of his working methodology in the periodical Litteraturblad (1849). In constructing the new Kalevala into a unified whole from disparate elements, he explained that he had assumed the role of a singer himself: “I considered that I had the same right that, I am convinced, 109 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 36. 110 Quoted in Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 65. 111 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 36. 51 most singers take upon themselves, namely to organize the poems according to how best they fit together [. . .] in other words I regard myself as being as good a singer as they are.”112 This allowed later academics to position Lönnrot, the son of a tailor in a Finnish-speaking family, as one of the last of the folksingers. According to Krohn: It was not so much the original subject matter as its recreation by the Finns that had imbued the poems with the Finnish spirit. […] In preserving the original character of the poems, it is most advantageous if the final shaping is performed with as sensitive hand as possible; and it is most fortunate if the compiler, in poetic matters, is as close to the folk singers as possible. This our Lönnrot has been.113 The theoretical perspectives outlined above indicate the extent to which folklore scholarship intersected with Finnish nationalism. As sociologist Alberto Melucci notes, identity is not a thing, an object that can be attained, but “a system of relations and representations.”114 Questioning origins of Finnish poems and songs and comparing Finnish folklore material with Swedish and Russian material were ways of defining Finnish identity, an identity constructed in relation to the similarities and differences between Finland and its neighbors.115 112 Quoted in Anneli Asplund and Ulla Lipponen, The Birth of the Kalevala (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1985), 27. 113 Wilson, Folklore, 54-56; cited in Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 35. 114 Alberto Melucci, L’Invenzione del presente: movimenti, identità, bisogni individuali (Bologna: Il mulino, 1982), 68; cited in Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 37. 115 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 37. 52 From Cultural to Political Nationalism It is a well-known fact that we always recognize our homeland when we are about to lose it.116 —Albert Camus In his discussion of cultural nationalism, John Hutchinson identifies a familiar narrative in the process of nation-building where an initial period of cultural awakening begets the drive to political independence. He notes that political nationalism is usually seen as the more progressive form of nationalism, while cultural nationalism—with its focus on nations’ golden ages and the preservation of continuity with previous generations— appears more preliminary, if not downright sentimental: The consensus is that cultural nationalism is a regressive force, a product of intellectuals from backward societies, who, when confronted by more scientifically advanced cultures, compensate for feelings of inferiority by retreating into history to claim descent from a once great civilization. Somehow or other, cultural nationalism, it is argued, is functional for the formation of nations in such backward cultures, but in itself cannot shape their path to socio-political modernization.117 This attitude illustrates a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of cultural nationalism in the formation of a national identity. Even though civic movements are generally more 116 Albert Camus, Lyrical and Critical Essays, ed. Philip Thody, trans. Ellen Conroy Kennedy (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969), 90. 117 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 127. 53 effective in directing large-scale political action,118 cultural efforts regularly affect political change, especially within rigid sociopolitical frameworks: Cultural nationalism has everywhere generated a flowering of the historical sciences and the arts as intellectuals have established cultural forums in which to challenge ossified political and cultural elites and to inspire a rising educated generation to campaign to ‘recreate’ the idea of the nation as a living principle in the lives of people.119 There is, moreover, a dynamic interplay between cultural and political movements, with each becoming the vehicle for political mobilization when the other fails.120 This “contrapuntal relationship”121 becomes more complex during times of crisis, when identity formation and state power acquisition efforts achieve greater social momentum.122 It is readily apparent in late nineteenth-century Finland, where Fennoman activists—roused by increasing conf lict with Swedish and Russian factions—moved from a program defined largely through cultural endeavours to one motivated by the need for political self- determination. Fennoman efforts—as we shall see—were aided by cultural nationalists, who 118 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 89. 119 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 122; quoted in Daniel M. Grimley, Grieg: Music, Landscape and Norwegian Identity (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2006), 53. 120 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 89. 121 Ibid., 89. 122 According to Hroch, “National agitation, the national idea, could only be comprehensible to the masses and acceptable to them if it corresponded to some extent with their everyday experience: in that case, it was the experience of conflict, in particular, which most stimulated each social movement.” Hroch, “Introduction,” 14. 54 advocated for social improvement and renewal as a means of resistance to political and cultural domination. Beginning in the 1860s, Finland saw increasing tension between its Finnish and Swedish partisans. On one side, the Fennoman movement—which was encouraged by Russian authorities as a means of distancing Finland from Sweden123—saw significant cultural and political advances on positions historically held by the Swedish-speaking elite. On the other side, the “Svecoman” movement—which arose largely in opposition to Fennomania—insisted that Finland’s Swedish population constituted an indigenous nationality and could not be forced to renounce its native tongue.124 In support of their position, many Svecoman turned to the inherently racist writings of the Swedish journalist August Sohlman, who argued that Finnish culture was a Swedish import: If the foreign elements were removed [from Finland] and the Finnish nation started to build on its own foundation, and detach itself from contact with Swedish culture, it would cover the distance to barbarity and extinction in as many decades as it took centuries for the Swedish influence to uplift Finns to civilization, self-esteem, and a life of law and social order.125 Such sentiments, while not absolute, remained an underlying component in Svecoman arguments concerning the importance of Swedish culture. 123 Russian authorities perceived the dominant Swedish culture—but not the historically subordinate Finnish culture—as a threat to Russia’s political and territorial interests. 124 The Swedish population comprised roughly 12 percent of Finland’s population in 1860. Gallen- Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 14. 125 August Sohlman, Det Unga Finland (1855); quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 14; also quoted in Jutikkala, History, 207-08. 55 Simultaneously, Finland witnessed fresh tension with Russia. Sparked by the Crimean War (1853-56), the abolition of serfdom (1861) and the Polish Revolt (1863), conservative nationalism spread in Russia through an aggressive propaganda campaign, with such sentiments as that of Russian journalist Mikhail Katkov (1818-1887) becoming commonplace: Russia needs a unified state and a strong sense of Russian nationality. […] Even the worst enemy cannot think of a worse destiny for Russia and the spreading of the Finnish example. To the political feelings of the Russian people there is nothing more contemptuous than federalism, alone the thought of it makes one sick.126 Escalating Russian mistrust of Finnish politics, coupled with changing leadership in the Russian capital127 and heightened international political tensions,128 persuaded Czar Nicholas II to back plans transforming Finland from an autonomous Grand Duchy into an obedient Russian borderland. Most troubling for Finland was the 1898 appointment of a new governor-general, Nikolay Ivanovich Bobrikov (1839-1904), to the Finnish senate. His nomination sparked a period of oppression—and a simultaneous period of cultural and intellectual activity in defense of Finland’s autonomy known as routavuodet (the “ground 126 Moskovskia Vedomosti, 10 September 1863. Quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 527-29. 127 Finland benefitted immensely from the leadership of Czar Alexander I (r. 1801-1825), who had more-or-less guaranteed Finland’s autonomous status under oath on 29 March 1809 at the Diet of Porvoo, and his successor Alexander II, who ruled Finland with such a liberal hand as to earn the sobriquet “the good Czar” (Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 529-30). However, Alexander III (r. 1881-1894) and Nicholas II (r. 1894-1917) had less sympathy for Finland’s autonomous status. 128 The growing threat of a European arms race combined with the 1882 formation of the so-called Triple Alliance between Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy prompted Russia to desire a more active defense of the Baltic-Finnish coast and increased authority within Finland. Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 529-30. 56 frost years”129)—that lasted until the great strike of 1905. One of Bobrikov’s first acts in his new position was to force an imperial edict known as the February Manifesto through the senate in 1899, which not only revoked the special status that Finland had enjoyed for close to one hundred years but also initiated a series of oppressive measures robbing Finland of its authority. The edict gave Russia the ability to rule Finland without the consent of local legislative bodies; it also made Russian stamps and currency the only legal tender, the Russian Orthodox Church the official state church, the press subject to Russian censorship, and the army subject to Russian rules of military service. The Language Manifesto of 1900 further curtailed Finnish freedoms through its declaration of Russian as the legal language of Finnish administration, and a 1901 military service law ordered the assimilation of the Finnish army into the Russian Empire. In spite of a tense political climate, the late nineteenth-century Finnish middle class was reluctant to challenge a government that had hitherto protected its economic and social privileges. In the years preceding the Bobrikov era, even the Fennoman movement developed increasingly conservative tendencies, refusing to compromise on the language question, institute constitutional reform, or relinquish any power to the people they claimed to represent.130 This inertia left the Finnish bourgeoisie largely helpless in the face of the 129 Matti Vainio, “How Modernism Came to Finland? An Exposition of the History of Ideas,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 164. 130 Symptomatic of this attitude is the Fennoman society Raittiuden ystävät (“Friends of Abstinence”). Like the old Fennomans, with whom it had intimate ties, the society was old fashioned, conservative and hierarchical; its main objective was to direct the working classes toward controlled cooperation with the educated elite, thereby circumventing the possibility of independent political demands. Founded in 1884, it 57 February Manifesto: complacent with its own status, divided on the language question, and utterly incapable of tackling the Russian threat.131 However, this void was, in illustration of Hutchinson’s position above, countered by a rise in cultural nationalist forces: namely, the efforts of musicians, writers, poets, and other intellectuals who were not only responsive to this heightening political tension but also accustomed to working on the perimeter of society.132 Initially, this new union of art and politics manifested through an improved caliber of art criticism. Artists and critics increased their focus on the political connotations of art objects, while politicians and members of the Finnish bourgeoisie—in lieu of decisive action—supported the cultural endeavours best characterizing their party’s political ideology.133 Faced with the increased urgency of the Bobrikov era, however, many of these same individuals transcended their political allegiances to emphasize the national importance of a robust Finnish cultural output; accordingly, Finnish art became synonymous with the declaration of a unanimous political will. In the words of Janne Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “whether or not a work was conceived with political intent did not rapidly increased its membership, garnering the support of 10,000 members by 1892 and 40,000 members by 1905. See Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 290-92. 131 See Risto Alapuro, “Nineteenth Century Nationalism in Finland: A Comparative Perspective,” Scandinavian Political Studies 2, no. 1 (1979): 27; Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 290-92, 555. 132 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 555. 133 Ibid., 210-11. 58 matter as long as it originated from a Finnish hand and expressed or depicted something that could be seen as a metaphor of the current situation.”134 One of the most inf luential groups to emerge from this climate was Nouri Suomi (“Young Finland”), with which Madetoja would develop close ties in ensuing decades. Although Nuori Suomi lacked a rigid political agenda, it functioned as a political party between 1894 and the Finnish Civil War of 1917-18, tackling such political affairs as “the abstinence question, the workers’ question, and the women’s question,”135 as the Finnish writer Santeri Ivalo observed in 1910. Nevertheless, in its primary capacity as a multifaceted cultural and political movement, it was a beacon for creative energy. Its members saw the enrichment of Finland’s cultural life as a fundamental means of defense for their status as nation: they promoted Finland’s cultural autonomy, opposed cultural and political conformity, and aimed to define Finland’s identity within a modern European context—all of this accomplished, most prominently, through the Päivälehti, which today bears the name 134 Ibid., 542. 135 Santeri Ivalo, “Kahdenkymmenen vuoden varrelta: huiken ‘Nuoren Suomen’ historiikkia,” Nuori Suomi: Joulualbumi 20 (1910): 67; quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 304. The “women’s question” was, of course, suffrage, toward which Finland’s highly politicized atmosphere allowed women to make huge strides. The first Finnish women’s movement was uniquely situated as an extension of the Finnish nationalist cause: Suomen naisyhdistys (the “Finnish Women’s Association”) was founded in 1884 and grounded its policies within Finnish national events through a focus on political, educational, and social rights. Notably, the author Minna Canth, an active member of Nuori Suomi, served as branch secretary for the first external department of Suomen naisyhdistys, which opened in Kuopio in 1886. Other associations followed: for example, Unioni Naisasialiitto Suomessa (the “League of Finnish Feminists,” founded in 1892) fought for equal pay, the vote, and a voice for women in the first Finnish parliament. In 1906, Finland became the first nation to grant full female suffrage. See Kaplan, “Comparative Europe,” 30. 59 Helsingin Sanomat and enjoys the widest circulation of all Nordic newspapers.136 Such undertakings would prove a significant source of inspiration for Madetoja, who worked tirelessly toward the development of Finland’s cultural milieu through the improvement of public support for young Finnish composers.137 Conclusion: Does Finland Have a History? Nationalism is not the awakening of nations to self-consciousness: it invents nations where they do not exist. 138 —Ernest Gellner Benedict Anderson’s argument that “communities are to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined”139 is particularly germane to Finland’s case. It is shown in the construction of a new linguistic identity that 136 Its members, the crème de la crème of Finnish society, included musicians Willy Burmester, Robert Kajanus, Oskar Merikanto, Alfred Reisenauer, and Jean Sibelius; artists Akseli Gallen-Kallela, Eero Järnefelt, and Emil Wikström; authors Juhani Aho, Minna Canth, Arvid Järnefelt, and Eino and Kasmir Leino; and politicians Eero Erkko and Kaarlo Ståhlberg, the latter of whom would become the first president of Finland. Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 258-59. 137 Madetoja was an active member not only of the Finnish Musician’s Union (Muusikkojen liitto, which he helped found) but also the National Music Council (Musiikkitoimikunta), the Finnish Composers’ Copyright Bureau (Teosto), and the Society of Finnish Composers (Suomen Säveltäjät); Madetoja’s will and testament even dictates the formation of a Madetoja Foundation within the last of these associations, to which Madetoja’s copyright revenue is used even today for the commissioning of new music from Finnish composers and the recording and performing of new Finnish music. Salmenhaara, “Musiikkipoliitikko,” 29– 34. 138 This does not necessarily make such endeavours duplicitous or insincere, Benedict Anderson argues. Ernest Gellner, Thought and Change (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964), 169; quoted in Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 139 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 60 eschewed spoken dialects, the idea of a homogenous Finnish culture, the manufacture of collective memory through the wholesale creation of a national epic, and the mapping of a geographical identity not only in relation to eastern and western neighbours but also a broader European framework. Finnish academics were well aware that Finland’s culture was a recent construction. If Finland’s history could not be discovered, then it would have to be invented. Responding to Lauri Kivekäs’s statement that “We do not have a history, we must invent history,” the Finnish writer Arvid Järnefelt, in a 1900 article in the journal Nuori Suomi titled “Onko Suomella historiaa” (“Does Finland Have a History?”), wrote: Finland’s real history is unwritten. It is the history of passive resistance. Even when normal histories compete amidst themselves over who has the most bellicose emperors, who the most splendid courts, the greatest aristocracies, the Finnish people’s history is a history of a people amidst whom the feeling of equality is so great and so natural that no families among the people have been able to feel greater than others and none have transformed themselves into national emperors. […] The Finnish people who during this intermediary period between an old and a new state of awareness have become conscious of themselves will not need any history of battles and kings—something they have never had—but will from their past seek and discover altogether different events that will give them direction.140 Referring to history as an enduring series of events, Järnefelt argues that Finland’s ongoing historical reconstruction efforts were crucial to the creation of a national identity not only for the elevation of the historical status of the Finnish people but also for the promotion of 140 Arvid Järnefelt, “Onko Suomella historiaa,” Nuori Suomi: päivalehden joulualbumi 10 (1900): 9, 11; quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 551. 61 Finland’s culture as more meaningful than its written history.141 Finland’s cultural nationalists were vital in this regard. Despite their relatively small numbers, and facing the dominant assimilating pressures of Swedish and Russian inf luences, Finnish intellectuals and artists recognized the importance of Finnish national history, broadcast a new collective national identity to a larger populace, and ultimately legitimized their nation’s right to exist by transforming a deep sense of connection into a cultural and historical tradition.142 141 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 551. 142 John Hutchinson, “Ethnicity and Modern Nations,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 23, no. 4 (2000): 655. 62 “Beauty Knows No Racial Boundaries”: Finnish Musical Nationalism Väinämöinen old and steadfast Passed the days of his existence Where lie Väinölä’s sweet meadows. Kaleva’s extended heathlands, There he sang his songs of sweetness, Sang his songs and proved his wisdom.1 Background and Introduction Nationalist musicians, Ben Curtis argues, contribute to the same debates and intellectual activities as nationalists in other fields. They aim to produce truly national works; they intend for music, as part of a national culture, to inspire national citizens; and they hope, in the process, to elevate their nation’s cultural and historical standing. In other words, they engage in intensely political behavior.2 In Finland, especially during the heated 1 Kalevala, rune 3, lines 1-6; trans. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 25. 2 Ben Curtis, “On Nationalism and Music” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2002), 3. See also Celia Applegate, “How German Is It? Nationalism and the Idea of Serious Music in the Early Nineteenth Century,” 19th-Century Music 21 (1998): 274-96; Celia Applegate, “What is German Music? Reflections on the Role of Art in the Creation of the Nation,” German Studies Review (Winter 1992): 21-32; Michael Beckerman, “In Search of Czechness in Music,” 19th-Century Music 10 (1986-87): 61-73; Michael Beckerman, “The Master’s Little Joke: Antonín Dvořák and the Mask of Nation,” in Dvořák and His World, ed. Michael Beckerman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 134-56; Carl Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” in Between Romanticism and Modernism, trans. Mary Whittall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 79-101; Roger Parker, Arpa d’or de fatidici vati: The Verdian Patriotic Chorus in the 1840s (Italy, Instituto Nazionale di Studi Verdiani Parma, 1997); Roger Parker, “Va pensiero and the Insidious Mastery of Songs,” in Leonora’s Last Act: Essays in Verdian Discourse (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 20-41; Leon Plantinga, “Dvořák and the Meaning of Nationalism in Music,” in Rethinking Dvořák: Views from Five Countries, ed. David R. Beveridge (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 117-23; Jim Samson, “Nations and Nationalism,” in The Cambridge History of Nineteenth-Century Music, ed. Jim Samson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 568-600; Richard Taruskin, “Introduction: Nationalism and Music,” Repercussions 5, nos. 1-2 63 political climate of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, composers went to great lengths to promote Finland’s international standing and cement its status as an independent nation. They explored music’s potential as a vehicle of socio-political discourse by incorporating overt political references into their music; and, in recognition of Finland’s embryonic artistic climate, they promoted their nation through the adoption of folk, nature, and landscape references. Yet, as nationalism is a category not only of intention but also reception, it is important to emphasize the reciprocal nature of their nationalist undertakings. Seeking validation for their efforts, they entered into an elaborate dialogue with both national and international audiences, actively encouraging the European glorification of Nordic mythology and responding to a positive international reception through increased engagement with European stereotypes of Finnish music. An important example of these tendencies can be found in Madetoja’s first opera, Pohjalaisia (1924). Rife with folk music and landscape references, it quickly achieved the status of Finland’s national opera and today is strongly linked with the struggle for Finnish independence. Surprisingly, historical documents show that Finnish audiences received the opera’s distinct sense of locale not as stereotypically Finnish but rather as uniquely Ostrobothnian.3 Moreover, critics celebrated the opera almost exclusively for its (1996): 5-20; and Richard Taruskin, “Nationalism,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 3 Ostrobothnia (“Pohjalaisia” in Finnish) is the Finnish province where Madetoja was born; it forms the title for Madetoja’s first opera. 64 contribution to the canon of Finnish national art; international audiences applied patriotic sentiment retroactively, a finding that questions the idea of Madetoja as a national composer. During the 1890s, Finland’s political environment became increasingly heated. Although tensions escalated most dramatically between 1898 and 1904 with the appointment of Governor General Nikolay Bobrikov, a general sense of political anxiety pervaded many aspects of Finnish society. Finnish artists made a conscious attempt to steel the people for the coming struggle for independence; many were ardent nationalists, quick to profess their dedication to Finnish nationalism and language and eager to use their art in the service of Finland. For example, the sculptor Emil Wikström wrote to Akseli Gallen- Kallela asking him to “pave the road for national art,” declaring that he, too, was “ready to live and die for the sake of national art.”4 This encouraged greater intertwinement between Finnish culture and national politics, and, accordingly, a dramatic increase in the volume of politically inspired works. Composers who explored facets of Finnish identity in their music were now perceived as agents of the national cause, quick to profess their dedication to Finnish nationalism and language.5 One of the most celebrated was, naturally, Sibelius, who was not only a symbol 4 1883 letter from Emil Wikström to Akseli Gallen-Kallela; quoted in Markku Valkonen and Olli Valkonen, Suomen taide: Suomalaisuus (Porvoo: WSOY, 1984), 202; quoted and translated in Gallen-Kallela- Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 19. 5 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 540. 65 of Finnish resistance but also a political activist with well-known White sympathies.6 Veijo Murtomäki states: Sibelius was not an innocent composer, who was exploited or misused for patriotic and political purposes. On the contrary, he was an active and conscientious citizen, who was worried about Finland’s fate and tried to influence that fate through his art (about 40 pieces), which was decisively aimed at securing the liberation of Finland. He was aware of his role as a symbol of Finland’s fight, and it was even expected of him to strengthen the morale of his compatriots.7 Arguing for Sibelius’s increasing political activity from the start of the 1890s to 1918, Murtomäki catalogues Sibelius’s efforts within several broad categories: language politics; domestic politics, or the stand regarding the gradual division of the Finnish people into left-wing workers and right-wing middle- and upper-class society; “foreign” politics, or the stand regarding Russia’s oppressive measures and legislative integration with Finland; patriotic politics, or the national movement to gain independence; and imperialistic politics, or the national aspiration to incorporate Karelia and Karelian tribes into Finland.8 Sibelius is purported to have stated: “I cannot influence circumstances in any other way than by composing.”9 Most of his political or patriotic works are works for men’s choir, the most popular musical medium for patriotic sentiment; notable examples include 6 The Finnish Civil War was fought between the “Whites,” supported by Germany, and the Social Democratic “Reds,” supported by Lenin and the Bolsheviks. 7 Veijo Murtomäki, “Sibelius, Composer and Patriot,” in Matti Huttunen, Kari Kilpeläinen, and Veijo Murtomäki, eds., Sibelius Forum II: Proceedings from the Third International Jean Sibelius Conference, Helsinki, 7-10 December 2000 (Helsinki: Sibelius Academy, 2003), 333. 8 Ibid., 333. 9 Ibid., 336. 66 “Atenarnes sång,”10 “Isänmaalle,”11 “Jääkärimarssi,”12 “Skyddskårsmarsch,”13 and “Karjalan osa.”14 There is nothing specifically Finnish in the music; patriotic intent was communicated through the lyrics.15 For example, “Atenarnes sång,” one of the most famous musical responses to Russian oppression, inspired nationalist fervor in concert audiences on account of Viktor Rydberg’s text: Splendid is death, when thou fallest courageous, leading the onslaught, Fallest in war for thy land, dying for birthright and home. Rise with thy strong arm furious, rise to fight for thy country, Hasten to yield up thy life, life for the races to come!16 Other pieces were composed in support of specific nationalist causes; “Skyddskårsmarsch” was written for Finland’s civil guards, and “Karjalan osa” for an organization that was later to become the extreme-right Lapua movement. 10 “Song of the Athenians,” 1899; lyrics by Viktor Rydberg. 11 “To the Fatherland,” 1900; lyrics by Paavo Cajander. 12 “March of the Finnish Jaeger Battalion,” 1917; lyrics by Heikki Nurmio. 13 “Skyddskår’s March,” 1925; lyrics by Nino Runeberg. 14 “Karelia’s Fate,” 1930; lyrics by Aleksi Nurminen. 15 Ilkka Oramo notes that the March of the Jaegers uses a melodic pattern related to a Southern Ostrobothnian folk song, “Tuli se taivutti koivun larvan,” but in such a way that the connection is not immediately recognizable. Oramo, “Beyond Nationalism,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 36. 16 Jean Sibelius, “Atenarnes Sång,” op. 31, no. 3, lyrics by Viktor Rydberg, trans. William Wallace (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf and Härtel, 1904). 67 Madetoja explored a similar direction in “Viipurin Marssi” (op. 33, no. 8),17 which referenced Viipuri, the capital of the contested region of Karelia, and issued a blunt call to war: Finland’s wall has stood since ancient times with Karelia’s aid. Viipuri’s castle is Karelia’s lock; aid us in our fight, God of Thunder! Again we are called to defend the Fatherland, Karelia! Finland is protected. Karelia will not be conquered! Singing, we commence battle!18 Similarly, his “Kymmenen virran maa” (op. 8, no. 8), references battle, bravery, and national pride.19 The same lyrics were used by the composer Oskar Merikanto in a 1906 composition adopted as the provincial anthem of North Ostrobothnia and Lapland: This vigorous land at the border of the North Is an exemplary battlefield; So brave, brisk, and unwavering, It is a wonderful land of memories. This land inspires me, This land of ten streams!20 The militarism of Atenarnes Sång and Viipurin Marssi takes Finnish cultural nationalism in a bold new direction. The lyrics do not romanticize the Finnish landscape 17 “Vyborg’s March,” 1914, for male choir; lyrics by Eero Eerola. 18 “Suomen muurina vanhastansa seistä on saanut Karjalan kansa. Viipurin linna on Karjalan lukko, taistossa auta ein’ meitä, Ukko! Taas meittä katsuvi taattojen mantu, Karjala! Suomen on suojaksi pantu. Karjalan maa, sua sorreta ei! Laulaen tiemme ain’ taistohon vei!” 19 “The Land of Ten Rivers,” 1913, for male choir; text by August V. Koskimies (né Forsman). 20 “Maa ponteva Pohjolan äärillä on, Se on entistaistojen tanner; Niin rohkea, reima ja horjumaton, Se on muistojen mainio manner. Tämä maa minun mieltäni innostaa, Se on Kymmenen, kymmenen virran maa!” 68 or its people; rather, they represent a call to action.21 Madetoja, like Sibelius, was unequivocally involved in the promotion of his country’s patriotic efforts through his artistic output. Given the intense political developments within early twentieth-century Finland, it would have been difficult to avoid a level of participation. However, Finnish musicians were just as likely to advocate for social improvement and renewal as a means of resistance to political and cultural domination. Recognizing that their country’s musical scene was embryonic, they considered the advancement of a unique cultural output as the surest way to gain international standing and secure status as an independent nation. Inspired by the nineteenth-century “Volksgeist” philosophy, which explained nations as manifestations of a collective national spirit, they interpreted Finland’s history as owing to the steady development of national consciousness.22 This framework was, in particular, a logical choice for Finnish music historians, who reinterpreted Finland’s history according to a nationalist model. Beginning in the early 1900s, interest in Finnish music history grew rapidly, and, owing to the political climate, attempts to document this history were strongly nationalistic. 21 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 541. 22 Hegel’s philosophy of self-determination arrived in Finland relatively early, around 1820, via Johan Jakob Tengström, a professor of philosophy at the University of Helsinki, who connected nationalistic thoughts to Hegelian philosophy and disseminated the theories throughout the university. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 218. 69 The first major achievement in Finnish musicology was Martin Wegelius’s Hufvuddragen af den västerländska musikens historia.23 Wegelius—himself a composer— wrote this book for students at the Helsinki Music Institute. His dedication to Wagner and the German music tradition, however, deterred him from surveying Finnish music. “In Finland a music history must first be made before it can be written,” Wegelius famously argued in the closing pages of his book, “and the generation growing now may probably in this respect both experience and be able to produce more excellent things than we.”24 These words seem prophetic, for Sibelius would emerge as a counterpart to the national sentiment of Finland’s inhabitants. Many Finns considered Sibelius an agent of Weltgeist, whose role, in the Hegelian sense, was to birth music that was truly Finnish in character.25 In the words of Toivo Haapanen: In the history of Finland’s music it is possible to see a clear development towards national independence, which can be said to have been reached in the final decades of the last century. Our musical culture, which at the end of the 18th century had already blossomed, turned in the 19th century towards national development, and the fruits were ripe by the end of the century. Jean Sibelius’s works of the 1890’s were, above all, a sign that Finnish music had reached, besides a high aesthetic level, a spiritual independence, having found its own tone.26 23 Main Features of the History of Western Music (1891-93). 24 Hufvuddragen af den västerländska musikens historia från den kristna tidens början till våra dagar 3:584; trans. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 218. 25 Herder conceived of Weltgeist (world-spirit) as the invisible force elevating world history. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 222-23. 26 Haapanen, Suomen säveltaide, 362-63, trans. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 222. 70 Describing Finland’s “own tone,” though, is no easy matter. Intertwined with Finland’s nationalist endeavours is the oft-cited view that its cultural output is somehow connected with its landscape or geography. Robert Simpson relates that the slow movement of Sibelius’s Third Symphony expresses repose and underlying tension “such as may be felt in the vast and mysteriously monotonous forests and lakes of [Sibelius’s] country”27; Leonard Bernstein notes that the use of the Dorian mode in Sibelius’s Sixth Symphony evokes Finland’s “remote, lonely forests.”28 Because of their pervasiveness in the discourse, such observations cannot be easily dismissed. As Tomi Mäkelä states, “this kind of contextualizing observation […] even today seems to be almost an obligatory trope in any other than a strictly analytical reading of Sibelius and his music.”29 The portrayal of the Finnish populace as having close ties with nature was crucial to the development of Finland’s cultural character. As discussed in the previous chapter, Finnish nationalists, in their struggle for cultural and political self-determination, necessarily presented Finland as a collective national identity with a unified language and heritage. Inspired by Herderian views of the folk, they highlighted the morality of the 27 Robert Simpson, Carl Nielsen: Symphonist (London: Kahn and Averill, 1986), 203; quoted in Daniel Grimley, “Landscape and Structural Perspective in Nightride and Sunrise,” in Huutunen, Kilpeläinen, and Murtomäki, Sibelius Forum II, 248. 28 Leonard Bernstein and Jack Gottlieb, Leonard Bernstein: Young People’s Concerts (Cambridge: Amadeus, 2006), 298; quoted in Eero Tarasti, Signs of Music: A Guide to Musical Semiotics (New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2002), 104. 29 Mäkelä, Nordic Landscape, 359. 71 mostly Finnish-speaking agrarian population, drawing attention to their mystical connection with nature and their deep sense of attachment to the Finnish landscape. Finnish musical nationalists engaged with similar concepts, adding two main categories of national musical material to their music: references to Finnish folklore— especially the Kalevala—and folk music, and allusions to nature and landscape, including but not limited to politically charged locales.30 The challenge lies in attempting to define these elements. Musical nationalism is an ideology, and although it may have artistic consequences, it should be regarded not as a technical or stylistic feature but rather as a category of intention and reception.31 As Dahlhaus observes, almost any stylistic feature can be nationalistic: If a composer intended a piece of music to be national in character and the hearers believe it to be so, that is something which the historian must accept as an aesthetic fact, even if stylistic analysis—the attempt to “verify” the aesthetic premise by reference to musical features—fails to produce any evidence.”32 This can be clearly seen in an early Finnish national effort. Although the creation of national symbols was of primary importance, the origin of these symbols was, at least initially, of lesser concern. In 1848, Pacius and Runeberg composed Vårt Land (Our Land).33 30 Anssi Paasi, “Geographical Perspectives on Finnish National Identity,” GeoJournal 43, no. 1 (September 1997): 45. 31 Tomi Mäkelä, “Towards a Theory of Internationalism, Europeanism, Nationalism and ‘Co- Nationalism’ in Twentieth-Century Music,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 10. 32 Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” 86-87. 33 Vårt Land is the original Swedish title; the Finnish title is Maamme. 72 The composer, Pacius, was German, his music was rooted in German Romanticism and Biedermeier (he was a pupil of Spohr), and the melody based on a German folk tune in mazurka style. This was evidently a non-issue: it has served as an important anthem since its creation. Its status was determined by its reception among the populace, not by its origins or substance.34 Folk Music According to Herder, the “folk” preserved an ancient cultural heritage and bore past traditions as timeless as the nation itself.35 Accordingly, various nationalist movements have propagated the view of folk music as an inherent part of a nation’s cultural life with its roots in the distant past.36 As recently as 1955, for example, the International Folk Music Council defined folk music as the orally transmitted traditions of rural communities that have remained impervious to influences from other genres such as popular and art music.37 Such movements posit the claim that folk music, or at least the oldest and purest manifestations of it, was already an archetype of a perfected art. As Bartók suggests: Peasant music, in the strict sense of the word, must be regarded as a natural phenomenon; the forms in which it manifests itself are due to the instinctive transforming power of a community entirely devoid of erudition. It is just as much 34 Oramo, “Beyond Nationalism,” 35. 35 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 3. 36 Ibid., 5. 37 Ibid., 4. 73 a natural phenomenon as, for instance, the various manifestations of Nature in fauna and flora. Correspondingly it has in its individual parts an absolute artistic perfection, a perfection in miniature forms which – one might say – is equal to a musical masterpiece of the largest proportions. It is the classical model of how to express an idea musically in the most concise form, with the greatest simplicity of means, with freshness and life, briefly yet completely and properly proportioned.38 Dahlhaus, however, argues that the nineteenth-century position that folk music invariably embodies or reflects the music of a nation is questionable, since “It is not clear how far the ‘ethnic raw material’ in which nineteenth-century nationalism purported to discover the roots of national musical styles belongs of its original nature in the category of national at all.”39 The distinction between folk and art music is a construction, relying on fixed ideas of what exactly constitutes a universal style. Moreover, folk music is no more a construction than other preconceived notions of nationalist or universal music.40 According to Dahlhaus, the same musical tools and techniques that represent folklore are also used in representations of exoticism: It is no easy matter to see a definite distinction between the combination of a double bourdon, Lydian fourth, and chromatic coloration in the Jumping Dance of Grieg’s purportedly Scandinavian Nordic Dances and Folk Tunes Op. 17 (1870), and the similar stereotype combination used as an orientalism in the dance “L’Almée” from Bizet’s Djamileh. In neither case can the local colour be localised in purely musical terms without a scenic or linguistic tag. Regardless of the milieu being depicted, exoticism and folklorism almost invariably make do with the same technical devices: pentatonicism, the Dorian [raised] sixth and Mixolydian [flatted] seventh, the raised 38 Béla Bartók, “The Relation of Folk Song to the Development of the Art Music of Our Time [1921],” in Béla Bartók Essays, ed. Benjamin Suchoff (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976), 321-22; quoted in Michael John Malone, “Symbols of Transformation: Reconceptualizing the Boundaries of Organicism in the Music of Béla Bartók” (PhD diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2008), 58. 39 Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” 92; quoted in Grimley, Grieg, 20. 40 Grimley, Grieg, 21. 74 second and augmented fourth, non-functional chromatic colouration, and finally bass drones, ostinatos, and pedal points as central axes.41 By no means, however, is Dahlhaus arguing for the dismissal of a nationalist interpretation of folklore as illegitimate: Aesthetically it is perfectly legitimate to call bagpipe drones and sharpened fourths typically Polish when they occur in Chopin and typically Norwegian when they occur in Grieg, even if some historians are irritated by the paradox of something which is common to national music in general and yet is felt to be specifically national in the consciousness of the individual nations.42 The most important aesthetic arbiter is not the original ethnic substance but rather musical context. Folk music signifies otherness by sounding against a universal style, and in so doing, suggesting a sense of archaism that references nationalism. However, as Grimley points out, the cultural output of the dominant nation defines any ostensibly universal style. By extension, any given division between folk and art music is arbitrary, since it relies on the presumption that one musical style is superior to another.43 The first mature composition to draw inspiration from the Kalevala was Sibelius’s Kullervo (1892), a symphonic poem for soloists, chorus, and orchestra with stylistic elements drawn from modal rune singing.44 Its premiere on 28 April 1892 inspired 41 Carl Dahlhaus, Nineteenth Century Music, trans. J. Bradford Robinson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 306. 42 Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” 95; quoted in Grimley, Grieg, 21. 43 Grimley, Grieg, 20. 44 Ilkka Oramo and Ilkka Kolehmainen, “Finland,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 75 nationalistic fervour in Helsinki; composer Oskar Merikanto wrote in Päivalehti that “Sibelius takes us to entirely new territories, to unknown melodies, he brings before our eyes the most beautiful pearls of our national epic, he caresses our ears with Finnish melodies which we know to be our own even if we have not heard them in this form.”45 But Sibelius was just one of many composers to turn to the Kalevala and the Karelian landscape as a source of inspiration. With the advent of the Karelianism movement, folk poetry and rune singing became a powerful source of inspiration for Robert Kajanus, Erkki Melartin, Fredrik Pacius, Filip von Schantz, and Madetoja.46 Although the return of the great Kalevalan hero, Väinämöinen, was of great interest to fin-de-siècle poets, artists, and composers, the Kalevala’s tragic hero, Kullervo, would become the most popular inspiration. Kullervo’s sinister character attracted many fin-de-siècle Finnish artists as the archetype of an idealized national Finnish character: taciturn, but fiercely vehement when roused. Adriaan van der Hoeven argues that Kullervo’s popularity between 1890 and 1910, particularly in the roles of “The cursing Kullervo” and “The Kullervo who goes to war,” had national motivations, for he “symbolized the Finnish will to resist Russian political activities.”47 45 Einari Marvia and Matti Vainio, Helsingin Kaupunginorkesteri 1882-1982 (Porvoo: WSOY, 1993), 214. 46 Vainio, “Modernism,” 165. 47 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 498. 76 Finnish composers were inspired not only by the Kalevala but also by their country’s wealth of folk tunes. Folk music collection and transcription was very much en vogue, and many of Finland’s young composers undertook lengthy folk music collection trips through rural areas. Calls for the integration of these melodies into composers’ works became increasingly common. For example, the Finnish musicologist Dr. Ilmari Krohn ended a talk at the 1900 Paris Universal Exposition with a manifesto for his country’s composers: “The melodies of the Kalevala songs […] must always be the natural basis for our national Finnish music.”48 As a musicology student at the University of Helsinki under Ilmari Krohn, Madetoja simply could not avoid folk music research. Typical of his assignments was a cataloguing of the Helsinki library collections of printed and unprinted folk tunes, which he undertook in 1910.49 The same year, as a degree requirement, Madetoja completed at Krohn’s request a study of Lithuanian folk tunes, which comprised 56 handwritten pages and a comprehensive index of 1605 tunes.50 In spite of Madetoja’s folk music collection efforts, however, the arranging of these tunes played a much less central role in his compositional 48 Helena Tyrväinen, “Ilmari Krohn and the Early French Contacts of Finnish Musicology: Mobility, Networking and Interaction,” Res musica, no. 9 (2017): 55. 49 Unfortunately, the 14-page catalog has not been preserved. Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 205. 50 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana,” 209. 77 output than that of his colleagues, even if he was in some cases inspired by the Kalevala’s lyrical folk poems and various texts by Finnish authors.51 Madetoja’s most celebrated work, the opera Pohjalaisia, had its genesis in the folk music collection trips of the early twentieth century. In 1907, Madetoja’s friend Toivo Kuula undertook a folk music collection trip to the Finnish province of Southern Ostrobothnia (adjacent to the province of Ostrobothnia) with classmate Artturi Järviluoma; they procured 262 folk tunes. Järviluoma subsequently wrote a patriotic folk drama The Ostrobothnians (1913), which included ten folk songs from this collection and two fiddlers’ tunes; it was first performed at the National Theatre on 2 October 1914.52 Madetoja—at the urging of opera singer Vaino Sola—began work on an opera based on the play in December 1917.53 51 Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 282. 52 Pohjalaisia is a verismo opera in three acts. Act 1 introduces the farmer Antti Hanka, who visits his fiancée, Maija Haari, while awaiting trial for stabbing a neighbour. He arrives at the Haari farm singing the folk tune “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan.” The sheriff demands to see Antti’s leave pass. Maija’s brother, Jussi, presents it without removing his hat, a sign of disrespect. The sheriff knocks Jussi’s hat off with his whip, but Jussi grabs the whip and breaks it. Act 2 chronicles the developing relationship between Jussi and the servant girl, Liisa. The romantic mood is broken when Antii reppears, announcing that he has been ordered to prison. Maija pursuades him to flee. A group of thugs arrive at the Haari farm, but withdraw when their leader loses a wrestling match with Jussi. During the fighting, Antti disappears. Act 3 opens with Jussi and Liisa planning their wedding. The sheriff returns to the Harri farm to investigate Antti’s escape. Jussi is wrongly accused, handcuffed, and whipped, but he manages to break his shackles and brandish his knife. Jussi is shot twice by the sheriff, but he still manages to stab the latter to death, describing with his dying breath a vision of freedom for the Ostrobothnian people. 53 Sola originally approached Kuula, but the latter demurred, considering the subject matter overly realistic. Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 78 The folk music material Järviluoma attached to the play offered a natural starting point for Madetoja’s opera. Madetoja integrated the material into his own musical vocabulary in two ways: by setting it in a rich polyphonic texture and innovative harmonic framework, and by using it as a source of inspiration for the opera’s motivic content. Although, as Salmenhaara points out, the use of folk songs in this manner resembles a Leitmotiv technique, Madetoja integrated these melodies in a carefully nuanced fashion that was largely distinct from Wagnerian constructivism.54 Several of the tunes Madetoja featured in the final work would have been familiar to early twentieth-century Finnish audiences, including “Se ilta oli pimiä” (The Evening Was Dark), “Luullahan, jotta on lysti olla” (People Think I Am Happy), and “Tuuli se taivutti koivunlarvan” (The Wind Bent Down the Tops of the Birches).55 The latter melody, “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan,” is a famous Ostrobothnian folk song that Kuula had collected during his travels. In the overture to Pohjalaisia, it is restated almost verbatim; the only changes from the version Kuula collected are those of key (from E minor to C minor) and 54 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 21. 55 Pekka Hako, Finnish Opera, trans. Jaakko Mäntyjärvi (Helsinki: Finnish Music Information Centre, 2002), 63. Example 2.1: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. 79 notated meter (common time in contrast to the original duple meter). It is a central feature of the Overture, in which it is played three times, the last time tutti and fortissimo.56 Even more crucial to the opera is the four-note motive that precedes the first statement of “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan” (ex. 2.1). It is of singular importance to Pohjalaisia and is revisited throughout the opera; Karjalainen calls it the work’s signature motive.57 The opening of the Overture serves as an example of the way in which it is integrated into the opera’s fabric. In measures 1-8, the motive is played four times in succession; later, in measure 20, it is extended through the addition of a rising and falling contour, serving as a prime example of the way Madetoja develops new thematic material from existing substance (ex. 2.2).58 Example 2.3 shows some of the possible sources of inspiration for this important motive. Although the most salient is naturally “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan,” Madetoja has himself suggested an alternate origin. In a 1937 interview, he recalled that his grandfather, the playwright Peter Hyttinen, was a keen singer who was especially fond of 56 Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 46. 57 Ibid., 46. 58 Examples 2.1 through 2.3 are indebted to Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 46-47. Example 2.2: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, act 1, measures 18-22. 80 traditional Osthnobothnian hymns. Madetoja speculated that his childhood exposure to these tunes had a profound impact on his music, and he singled out one melody with a rising melodic contour as especially significant.59 When this melody is transposed into the same key as “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan” and the opening of Pohjalaisia, clear similarities emerge, especially in the alignment of dominant, tonic, and supertonic.60 Although Kai Maasalo notes that these scale degrees are typical of Madetoja’s melodic cells, he also proposes an international model for the motive by linking it with act 3, scene 4 of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, which Madetoja first encountered during his 1911 studies in 59 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 205-06. 60 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 46. Example 2.3: a) Peter Hyttinen’s spiritual melody; b) “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan”; c) Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. 81 Vienna.61 Indeed, the opening measures of the Golaud/Yniold scene do present a possible melodic resemblance, in spite of differences in scoring and voice leading (ex. 2.4). Madetoja seemed to have delved into folklore only in so far as it satisfied his immediate, individual artistic requirements; he was not, by and large, particularly interested in the coordinated pursuit of folksong.62 However, Madetoja was a proponent of the idea that a professional composer should know how to compose a “folk melody.” In 1910, he wrote an article for the Northern Ostrobothnian Students’ Association explaining the qualities of northern styles of folk tunes.63 Such qualities include the avoidance of the leading tone or of overly straightforward dominant-to-tonic progressions; complex 61 Kai Maasalo, Suomalaisia sävellyksiä (Porvoo: Söderström, 1969), 2:123-24, 2:132; see also Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 46. 62 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 208. 63 Leevi Madetoja, “Muuan sana pohjoispohjalaisista kansansävelmistä,” Jouko 1 (1910); cited in Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 208. Example 2.4: Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act 3, Scene 4, opening motive. 82 rhythmic combinations; ambiguous key structures; and the “neutral” third, which Madetoja encountered in the historical Finnish region of Ingria.64 These features are also present in Madetoja’s own melodies. In his oeuvre, there are a number of beautiful and touching melodies that could pass as folk tunes. These include Folk Song for Violin and Piano, op. 14, no. 1; works for mixed choir, including “Ei mitään multa puutu”; many spiritual choral works, including “Tuolla ylhääll’ asunnoissa” (also known as “Tuolla taivaan asunnoissa”) and “Jo lännen mailla ruskot leimuaa”; and the well- known Christmas carol, “Arkihuolesi kaikki heitä.”65 Interestingly, some sections of Pohjalaisia were commonly mistaken for folk tunes, including Liisa and Jussi’s duet in the third act and the choral rendering of the ballad-like “Talapakan Nikolai.” The latter, sung following the pastoral introduction to the second act, was in fact composed by Madetoja, who confirmed this fact in an interview: “I had previously composed Nikolai’s folk song, and it was [subsequently] published as a melody in the folk ensembles of the Folk Education Society, but in my opera I feature the tune with 64 A neutral third is wider than a minor third but narrow than a major third. Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 210. 65 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 208-09. Example 2.5: Original “Talapakan Nikolai.” 83 an orchestral accompaniment.”66 Madetoja’s melody differs in both extent and melodic structure from a similarly titled melody featured in Järviluoma’s play. The original song is a simple E-minor melody with a dominant-to-tonic-style couplet (ex. 2.5). By contrast, Madetoja’s version consists of distinct phrases which feature ascending and descending melodic curves and modal cadences (ex. 2.6). At the end of the second act, the melody undergoes extensive development and is integrated into the orchestra’s polyphonic fabric.67 66 Anna-Liisa Primus-Nyman, Leevi Madetojan radiohaastattelun käsikirjoitukset 1945 ja 1947 (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, n.d.); quoted in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 75. 67 Examples 2.5 and 2.6 are indebted to Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 74. Example 2.6: Madetoja’s “Talapakan Nikolai.” 84 Nature and Landscape People maintain that music is an international language but I am not sure that the evidence bears this out. Take, for example, the misunderstanding of Wagner prevalent in the Latin countries, in spite of the fact that his operas are now fashionable in both France and Italy. But as far as inspiration is concerned, I think that nature and landscape play a greater part than national origins. Let us take the case of Grieg, whose music it is impossible to conceive in any other than a Norwegian landscape.68 —Jean Sibelius Arthur Lovejoy, in his 1948 essay “Nature as Aesthetic Norm,” attempts to list all the ways nature appears in the aesthetics of Western art music. His compilation includes, but is by no means limited to, the following aspects: “Human nature, the cosmic order, imitation of nature, truthfulness, objective beauty, simplicity, symmetry, balance, the primacy of emotion, spontaneity, naïvety, primitivism, irregularity, avoidance of symmetry, expression of the artist’s voice, the fullness of human life, savagery, fecundity, evolution, and so on.”69 Lovejoy’s intention is to illustrate that, in the words of Friedrich Nicolai, “Der Begriff und das Wort ‘Natur’ ist ein wahrer Scherwenzel.”70 Not only are there a multitude of interpretations of nature in music, but many of them are directly contradictory. This is to 68 Sibelius’s answer to a September 1910 interview in which he was asked whether he considered ethnic origin relevant to the understanding of music. Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius: Volume 2, 1904-1914, trans. and ed. Robert Layton (London: Faber, 1986), 145. 69 Tarasti, Signs of Music, 91. 70 “The idea and the word ‘nature’ is a real scoundrel.” Arthur O. Lovejoy, “‘Nature’ as Aesthetic Norm,” Modern Language Notes 42, no. 7 (November 1927): 444. 85 be expected, since music’s power to tell stories or create images in our minds without the assistance of words is limited at best. Even Berlioz, one of the founding fathers of Romantic program music, seriously questioned music’s inherent capacity to transmit images. Berlioz allows for the imitation of songbirds in music because it amounts to a transcription. However, he states that for music to effectively communicate extra-musical images, extra- musical signifiers need to be present to carry the references. As an example, he cites the second act of Die Freischütz, noting that Weber did not actually describe moonlight, nor, in William Tell, did Rossini depict the movement of oars; rather, both composers created sounds that the listener, notified of the context, accepted as credible aural reproductions of moonlight and the movement of oars. It is also, rigorously speaking, necessary, in order for the model of these images to be recognized, for the listener to be made aware, by some indirect means, of the composer’s intention, and for the point of comparison to be plain. Thus people think that Rossini, in William Tell, paints the movement of oars, whereas in fact all he does is to place in his orchestra a regularly accented and equally spaced rinforzando, representing the rhythmic effort of the rowers whose arrival is announced by other characters.71 Eduard Hanslick supports this perspective in his influential 1854 book, Vom Musikalisch- Schönen, where he argues for the view that while we readily associate images with music, 71 Hector Berlioz, Cauchemars et passions, ed. Gérard Condé (Paris: Lattès, 1981), 107; quoted in Peter Dayan, Music Writing Literature: From Sand via Debussy to Derrida (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 48. “Encore faut-il, de toute rigueur, pour que le modèle de ces images soit reconnu, que l’auditeur soit averti par quelque voie indirecte de l’intention du compositeur, et que le point de comparaison soit en évidence. Ainsi, Rossini passe pour avoir peint, dans Guillaume Tell, les mouvements des rames, tandis qu’il n’a fait réellement que placer, dans son orchestre, un rinforzando régulièrement accentué à des intervalles égaux, image de l’effort cadencé des rameurs, dont l’arrivée est annoncée par les autres personnages.” 86 the link between the two is only fixed when united by external circumstances.72 Music can imitate movements and physical sounds, but not images, and that when we think it does so, we can usually point to something extra-musical that has suggested the image to us. Certainly, at the rudimentary onomatopoeic level it is sometimes possible to discern extramusical meanings. Examples in Grieg’s music—which Sibelius describes above as “impossible to conceive in any other than a Norwegian landscape”—include the use of pictorial devices such as wedding marches and distant folk melodies to suggest landscape and provide local colour; the exploration of environmental elements such as bell sounds, mountain echoes, horn calls, birdsong, and herding calls to create a sense of musical depth and distance; and musical folk symbols such as pedal drones and open fifths.73 These are “topics” or semiotic codes, defined by Raymond Monelle as essentially symbols, “[their] iconic or indexical features governed by convention and thus by rule.”74 Even so, as Dahlhaus argues above, they are open to misrepresentation; however, while they may be valuable in engaging the composer or listener, they are not essential to a musical work. In circumstances where a composer may have one clear image in mind and the audience another, the quality of the music is not impacted. In the words of George Sand, “le musicien 72 Eduard Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen: Ein Beitrag zur Revision der Asthetik der Tonkunst (Leipzig: Johann Ambrosins Barth, 1854); quoted in Dayan, Music Writing Literature, 48. 73 Grimley, Grieg, 55-56. 74 Raymond Monelle, The Musical Topic: Hunt, Military, and Pastoral (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 17; quoted in Michael Leslie Klein, Intertextuality in Western Art Music (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), 56. 87 crée pour les autres des effets opposés à ceux qu’il a créés pour lui.”75 Debussy weighed in on this matter too, for he frequently held specific images in his mind when he composed. While he continued to associate these images with given passages in his works, he noted that such passages may evoke different images for his listeners, a fact that for Debussy was quite natural. In Iberia, there is a man selling water-melons and a group of boys whistling; I see them quite clearly . . . And yet, you see how easy it is to deceive oneself, since some people think that passage is a serenade. Anyway, the matter is of no importance at all.76 We may disagree on Debussy’s final point, since for fin-de-siècle Finnish composers, the matter was of great importance. Pristine images of the Finnish landscape— glorified in the writings of Johan Ludvig Runeberg and Zacharias Topelius as the “land of a thousand lakes”77—acted as a tangible vehicle for artists, writers, and musicians, aiding the communication of Finland’s national character and serving as a key component of its cultural nationalist efforts.78 The portrayal of landscape is, however, a complex process. As Edward S. Casey argues, the perception of landscape is possible only through a skilled representation, by musical means or otherwise: 75 “The musician creates for others effects which are opposed to the effects he created for himself.” George Sand, Lettres d’un voyageur (Paris: Michel Lévy frères, 1863), 56; quoted in Dayan, Music Writing Literature, 48. 76 “Il y a un marchand de pastèques et des gamins qui sifflent, que je vois très nettement . . . Et pourtant regardez comme on peut se tromper, puisqu’il y a des gens qui ont pris cela pour une sérénade. Ça n’a d’ailleurs aucune importance.” Claude Debussy, Correspondence 1884-1918, ed. François Lesure (Paris: Hermann, 1993), 264; quoted in Dayan, Music Writing Literature, 49. 77 This phrase has its origins in Runeberg’s “Vårt land”; see Chapter One, footnote 56. 78 Paasi, “Geographical Perspectives,” 45. 88 Places, like the landscapes they collectively compose, are bound up with representation, just as representation in turn calls for places as the bounded particulars of any given landscape domain. The truth is that representation is not a contingent matter, something merely secondary; it is integral to the perception of landscape itself—indeed, part of its being and essential to its manifestation.79 Daniel Grimley argues that the idea of landscape in the Western art tradition is tied to the artificial construction and perception of environments, characters, and perspectives. It is not a natural phenomenon, created by nature without human intervention; rather, it is a form of invention.80 The representation of landscape presumes not only the active participation of a viewer, whose presence provides a sense of perspective, but also fixed boundaries or reference points, within which the viewer can perceive the landscape. However, while these reference points define the landscape’s spatial organization, they ultimately cannot contain it. Therefore, there is within the perception of landscape an inherent tension between the infinite and the enclosed.81 This tension is of particular importance to nineteenth-century Romanticism, and its irresolvable nature accounts for the era’s melancholic depictions of landscape, which are particularly prominent in Finnish music.82 79 Edward S. Casey. Representing Place: Landscape, Painting and Maps (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), xv; in Grimley, Grieg, 56. 80 Grimley, Grieg, 56. On the deceptive “naturalness” of landscape, see Stephen Daniels, “Marxism, Culture, and the Duplicity of Landscape,” in New Models of Geography: The Political-Economy Perspective, ed. Richard Peet and Nigel Thrift (London: Unwin Hyman, 1989), 196-220. 81 Grimley, Grieg, 56. 82 See Charles Rosen, The Romantic Generation (London: Harper Collins, 1996), 131-32. 89 However, as Casey suggests, the musical representation of landscape has not only a spatial dimension, but also a temporal one. Sibelius, and other contemporary Northern composers such as Grieg and Carl Nielsen, express landscapes as static and contemplative objects that are distinct from their musical context.83 This is, according to Julian Johnson, common within late Romantic music: Nature music, in its apparent self-containment and avoidance of linear motion, seems to suspend time. In this it seems to offer an analogy for our experience of spaciousness in which there is little or no movement. Space without perceived directed movement appears timeless. The perception of time, correspondingly, requires boundaries and limits against which things move, which is why mountain landscapes were so often associated with images of the eternal.84 Therefore, there is a contradiction in landscape music between its perception in real time and the way it appears to suspend linear notions of time into an infinite sense of space.85 This view is supported by Dahlhaus, who states that many such musical depictions of nature, particularly in nineteenth-century music, are conventionally defined in opposition to mainstream musical discourse, often through the suspension of regular musical time and the evocation of stillness: A musical depiction of nature is almost always defined negatively, by being excluded from the imperative of organic development which, at least in the mainstream of compositional history, dominated the thematic and motivic structure of nineteenth- century music as well as its harmonic schemes. The Klangfläche (sound sheet) conveys a landscape because it is exempted both from the principle of teleological progression and from the rule of musical texture which nineteenth-century musical 83 Grimley, Grieg, 57. 84 Julian Johnson, Webern and the Transformation of Nature (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999), 232. 85 Grimley, Grieg, 58. 90 theorists referred to, by no means simply metaphorically, as “thematic-motivic manipulation,” taking Beethoven’s development sections as their locus classicus. As Hegel would have it, musical landscapes arise less from direct tone-painting than from “definite negation” of the character of musical form as a process.86 In this way, the musical representation of landscape can play a significant—albeit abstract—role as a means of organizing musical space and time. It is possible, for example, to organize musical events in time to suggest a structural parallel with landscape objects in visual space, so that the listener’s temporal perception becomes analogous to the viewer’s visual perception. Landscape then becomes as much a structural process as a representative one.87 An example of this occurs in the pastoral scene that opens the second act of Pohjalaisia (ex. 2.7). At 18 measures in length, the introduction is brief and its outer limits are clearly defined by the opening of the second act and the ensuing cries of the shepherd girls (“paimentyttöjen huhuilut”) in measure 19. Over a sustained D pedal in the violins (doubled in harmonics), flutes (later bassoons) alternate with horns in imitation of conventional herding calls. The introductory flute/bassoon material sounds a total of three times in open fifths; the second and third statements (beginning in mm. 8 and 16 respectively) feature movement to the Neapolitan while also suggesting Phrygian modal 86 Dahlhaus, Nineteenth Century Music, 307. 87 Grimley, “Landscape,” 248-49. 91 origins for the melodic material. Horns alternate con sordino; in measure 15, the three-note opening motive features an intriguing chromatic shift—suggestive, perhaps, of a more distant echo—that is also reminiscent of the flutes’ movement to the Neapolitan. Madetoja promotes the pastoral quality by largely avoiding development and discouraging a sense of regular meter; while flutes sound a steady pulse, rhythmic spacing between flutes and horns deliberately interrupts any suggestion of metric regularity. Thus, in the opening to Example 2.7: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening of act 2. 92 the second act, Madetoja—commonly typecast as “the composer of the flatlands”88—has composed a representation of landscape. Overall the affect is one of stillness and a deliberate simplicity that sets the introduction apart from the surrounding music. Within its clearly defined borders, conventional musical signifiers such as herding calls and echo effects suggest space and distance. “Europeanization”: An International Awareness of National Space In the 1880s, Finland saw the first serious efforts toward Europeanization. “Windows open to Europe” was a frequently used catchphrase.89 The country not only suffered from an inferiority complex caused by centuries of Swedish rule and cultural domination, but it also lacked a developed institutional framework that could properly support a national artistic output.90 Thus, international approval was needed to substantiate claims of Finnish art as a signifier of collective nationalism.91 This prompted Finns to look to Europe for validation. 88 Einojuhani Rautavaara, Pohjalaisia, program notes (Helsinki: Finnish National Opera, 1973); quoted in Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 194. 89 Vainio, “Modernism,” 163. 90 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 70. 91 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 347. 93 While there had long been a tradition of Finnish intellectuals studying abroad,92 this renewed intellectual migration of ideas set the groundwork for many composers’ travels to mainland Europe.93 Initially, Paris—the European capital of cultural life—was the main destination.94 Finnish music was celebrated there for its representation of mythology, folksong, and nature, partly in response to Finnish artists’ concerted efforts to brand it as such.95 For example, whereas in Finland the painter Akseli Gallen-Kallela exhibited both Finnish and Parisian scenes to market himself as a cosmopolitan painter, in Paris he exhibited paintings of Finnish peasants and hoped to earn recognition for himself as a Finnish painter.96 Over time, Parisian audiences came to demand depictions of folklore, nature, and landscape as de rigueur for Finnish music, as Helena Tyrväinen has shown in a case study of the Helsingin kaupungin orkesteri at the Paris World Fair of 1900.97 In turn, even reluctant members of the Finnish public responded to international expectations by embracing their national culture and identity. French audiences had inadvertently 92 Following its completion in the late thirteenth century, the Bishop’s Court in Turku functioned as an important academic center and inspired many of its students to continue their studies at foreign universities. Strode, Finland Forever, 163. 93 Madetoja’s powerful French influences were inspired by this new cross-pollination of ideas, and he travelled throughout Europe—most frequently to Paris—throughout his life. 94 Vainio, “Modernism,” 163. 95 See Tyrväinen, “Sibelius,” 114-28. 96 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 69-70. 97 Tyrväinen, “Sibelius,” 114-28. See also Goss, Sibelius, 273-87 and Tyrväinen, “Les musiciens finlandais à Paris au tournant des xixe et xxe siècles: dans les remous du cosmopolitisme et du nationalism,” Relations internationales, no. 156 (2013): 3-20. 94 nurtured nationalism in Finnish music, warming Finnish audiences to this new mode of cultural production after critical success abroad.98 During the last quarter of the nineteenth century, Germany replaced Paris as a centre for Scandinavianism. The primary instigator was Richard Wagner, who promoted the concept of the north within Germany through Der Ring des Nibelungen. By virtue of Wagner’s music dramas, Strindberg’s books, Ibsen’s plays, and Munch’s paintings, German audiences developed a wide-ranging admiration for Nordic art and culture. Many considered similarities between the Nibelungenlied and Scandinavian sagas a sign of common cultural heritage. At a lecture at the Berlin Academy of Science in 1845, for example, Grimm even compared the Kalevala to German epic poems and fairytales. Thus, it was only natural that many writers, artists, and musicians would turn to Nordic mythology as a source of inspiration for German national art.99 The same elements that sold Finnish music abroad, however, also threatened to pigeonhole it. Nordic composers incorporating folk melodies were often understood as an alternative to the German symphonic tradition, and their attempts at composing in “international” German style were often dismissed. A review of a 1919 Parisian concert of Norwegian music, for example, asked: “Why do all these composers, who have the good fortune to live in a country in which an abundance of folklore exists, insist on casting their 98 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 347, 351. 99 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 348-49; Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 35. 95 music in the mold of the great symphonic forms (which at least so far do not seem to suit them) when their musical sensibility seems so at ease in works of pure fantasy?”100 It appears that audiences at concerts of Nordic music—accustomed to the music of Grieg— preferred music with folk song, Nordic mythology, and landscape references; anything else was met with disappointment. In February 1902, for example, in front of an audience of 3,300 at the Concerts Colonne, Finnish Soprano Ida Ekman performed the melancholic folk song “Oi äiti parka ja raukka” (“Oh, Poor Mother”) to enthusiastic applause, while Sibelius’s “Flickan kom ifrån sin älsklings möte” (“The Girl Returned from Meeting her Lover”, Op. 37. No. 5—a Lied with a principle tune reminiscent of Tchaikovsky) received only polite acknowledgement.101 The most logical course of action was, correspondingly, to promote Finnish composers as musical emissaries of the Finnish landscape and even “fundamental expression[s] of the Nordic spirit.”102 Tomi Mäkelä has documented how German publisher Robert Lienau aided Sibelius in fashioning one of the most quintessentially Nordic titles in his oeuvre, Pohjolan tytär, op. 49, which could be translated as “Pohjola’s Daughter” or more literally “The Daughter of the North.” Initially, Sibelius wanted to entitle his 1906 tone poem either “Väinämöinen,” reflecting the work’s programmatic basis in the story of 100 Quoted in Helena Tyrväinen, “‘La Nature de primitif affiné qui le caractérise’: Sibelius’s Music in Paris and the Construction of the Nordic ‘Other’,” in Jackson et al., Sibelius in the Old and New World, 406. 101 Djupsjöbacka, “A Brief Outline.” 102 Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature,” 173. 96 Väinämöinen and Pohjola’s daughter, or “L’aventure d’un héros,” a possible reference to Richard Strauss’ Ein Heldenleben (“A Hero’s Life,” 1898). Lienau, however, rejected both ideas, insisting on the Finnish term “Pohjola” (“North”), which he felt would be more attractive to German audiences. In a postcard written on 22 July 1906, he wrote, “The word Wainamoinen [sic] is [. . .] too marked as a title for us Germans. Could we perhaps say “Pohjola’s Daughter” or quite literally “A Finnish Fairy Tale” or something similar?” On 30 August 1906, Lienau insisted: “Your proposed title, ‘L’aventure d’un héros,’ does not please me either. In German, the word ‘héros’ implies the idea of something magnificent, violent, and in this sense your symphony is not really heroic. But why not ‘Pohjola’s Daughter’?”103 Surprisingly, the 25 October 1924 première of Pohjalaisia was not met with an outpouring of national sentiment. Critics made scarce mention of the opera’s patriotic elements, even though the opera’s plot concerned the liberation from oppressive regimes; the independence, integrity, and honour of the Ostrobothnian peasant; faith in victory and justice; and the right of the people of Finland to determine their own affairs.104 Rather, Pohjalaisia was greeted as a long-awaited work of national significance and a sure contribution to the Finnish musical canon. Its favourable reception was virtually guaranteed: its première was coincident with the Finnish Opera’s one thousandth performance, and Finland’s president, ministers, members of parliament, and other 103 Erik Tawaststjerna, Jean Sibelius: Åren 1904-1914 (Helsinki: Söderström, 1991), 58. Quoted in Mäkelä, “Nordic Landscape,” 360. 104 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 221. 97 influential members of Finnish society were in attendance. As a clear indication of Madetoja’s public standing, critics Sulho Ranta (representing the newspaper Ylioppilaslehti), Ilmari Krohn (Uusi Suomi) and Toivo Haapanen (Iltalehti) had prewritten their concert reviews prior to opening night, glorifying the premiere as an unmitigated success. Reviews such as those by pseudonym “P.” were typical: “Madetoja has created the best national opera, and it is very possible that he will usher in a new period in Finnish operatic production.”105 By comparison, Järviluoma’s play had received only a lukewarm critical reception.106 Critics were, nonetheless, quick to point out Pohjalaisia’s geographical bearings. In contrast to later—primarily international—readings of the opera, however, they considered the setting not to be generically Finnish, but rather specifically Ostrobothnian. For example, Lauri Ikonen commended the “excellent atmosphere […] of the ‘Ostrobothnian rhapsody’ parts,”107 while Kosti Könni noted the “historically idealized Ostrobothnianism.”108 Evert Katila described the opera’s “colourful, rich depiction of folk life,”109 noting its wide open character and stating that “Ostrobothnian folk melodies have 105 “Madetoja har skapat den bästa inhemskaoperan, och det är mycket möjligt att hän inleder med denna skapelse en ny period in Finlands operaproduktion.” Quoted in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 175. 106 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 169. 107 “Erinomaisen välittömällä tunnelmatasolla seisovat myös enimmät ‘pohjalaisen rapsodian’ osat.” Ibid., 169. 108 “Aikojen ihannoidun pohjalaisuuden.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 171. 109 “Se on suuri, väririkas kansanelämän kuvaus.” Ibid., 171. 98 hitherto lived only in [Madetoja’s] creative imagination, trying to be heard. And in his first stage work, the composer has released them so as to communicate a truly Ostrobothnian flavour.”110 Madetoja, who was born in Northern Ostrobothnia, was widely considered the ideal composer to realize Järviluoma’s play. Väinö Pesola remarked that, “as a child of the plains, [Madetoja] is able to imbue the opera with a very strong local spirit.”111 Katila, meanwhile, argued that: Leevi Madetoja is among the best of our [Finnish] composers for this assignment. Growing up in the north, he received in his childhood a permanent influence from these conditions, and in his soul, in particular, live the words of the folk tune whose reflections—the music of old chords, melodic twists, and heavy rhythms—have appeared in his output.112 Such observations were not, however, germane exclusively to Pohjalaisia; in fact, critics noted the Ostrobothnian flavour even of Madetoja’s earliest mature works. In his review of Madetoja’s Piano Trio, op. 1 (1909), Bis (the penname of Karl Fredrik Wasenius, the respected critic for the Swedish daily newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet) stated significantly 110 “Mutta pohjalaisen luonnon ja laulun soinnit ovat eläneet ainakin hänen luovan mielikuvituksensa rajamailla, pyrkien kuuluville. Ja ensimmäisessä näyttämöteoksessaan on säveltäjä antanut niille laajan tilan, niin että siitä on tullut oikea pohjalaisuuden.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 171. 111 “Itse lakeuksien maan poikana pystyy hän parhaiten syventymään näytelmän erittäin voimakkaaseen paikallishenkeen.” Ibid., 173. 112 “Leevi Madetojalla on ollut tähän tehtävään parhaat edellytykset säveltäjiemme joukossa. Pohjanmaalla - tosin näytelmän tapahtumapaikkaa pohjoisemmassa kasvaneena on hän lapsuudestaan saanut pysyviä vaikutteita sen oloista ja erityisen syvälle ovat hänen sieluunsa syöpyneet sen kansan sävel- elämän ilmaukset, joihin hän on eläytynyt ja joiden heijastuksia - vanhojen sävellajien sointuja, meloodisia käänteitä ja painokkaita rytmejä - hänen tuotannossaankin on näkynyt.” Ibid., 170. 99 that: “the situation is that Mr. Madetoja […] is Ostrobothnian,” noting “the Ostrobothnian character of his melodies and moods.”113 Critics tempered Pohjalaisia’s Ostrobothnian leanings through favourable comparisons with international models. Ranta, for example, considered Pohjalaisia ”in the best sense, a Finnish opera,” and stylistically he thought it was “in the best sense, a verismo opera.” In his opinion, the closest reference was Eugen d’Albert’s Tiefland (1903).114 Katila, on the other hand, focused on Wagner, whose works were widely known and admired in Finland. He noted that, although Pohjalaisia skillfully employed folk topics, often layering multiple motives simultaneously, “the compositional approach is not a Wagnerian leitmotif technique, because those topics are not a form of indication, as is the case in Wagner’s music dramas.”115 Könni cites Madetoja’s statement that “the knowledge of leitmotives is in no way necessary for an understanding of the work; the topics never appear again in different contexts, but always emerge in a fresh light with each new environment.”116 113 “Saken är den att hr Madetoja i likhet med hr Kuula är österbottning. Det var den österbottniska karaktären i hans melodier och stämningar, som föranledde mig att tro på inflytelse af Kuula.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 19 October 1909; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 54. 114 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 174. 115 “Sävellystekniikka ei kuitenkaan ole Wagnerilainen johtoaihetekniikka, koska mainitut aiheet eivät sille ole muotoa antavina, kuten Wagnerin musiikkidraamoissa on asian laita.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 170. 116 “Ne eivät koskaan esiinny semmoisenaan eri yhteyksissä, vaan ikäänkuin kasvavat uudelleen aina uudesta ympäristöstä uudessa valaistuksessa.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 171. 100 Pohjalaisia quickly achieved international success through performances in Kiel, Stockholm, Gothenburg, Berlin, and Copenhagen. Abroad, Heinrich Chevalley likened Pohjalaisia in content to such revolutionary freedom operas as Cherubini’s Les deux journées (1800), Beethoven’s Fidelio (1805), Giordano’s Andrea Chénier (1896), Puccini’s Tosca, and d’Albert’s Tiefland (1903) and Die Revolutionshochzeit (1919), stating that Madetoja’s originality was most evident in the vernacular scenes depicting Finland’s public life and national struggle.117 Similarly, the critic “G. J-n.” suggested that Pohjalaisia took as its starting point political and patriotic material similar to that of Rossini’s Guillaume Tell (1829) and Natanael Berg’s Engelbrekt (1929); however he added that Pohjalaisia stands out for its lyrical nature.118 Heinrich Herner concluded that Madetoja, while not an innovator, is a composer for whom a modern means of expression is dominant. He considered Madetoja a creative and independent artistic personality who managed to integrate folk music elements while preserving his own unique voice.119 One observable trend pertaining to Pohjalaisia’s international reception is that critics observed a strong sense of place, not the provincial Ostrobothnian locale noted by Finnish audiences but rather a broader setting suggestive of Finnish folk music and nature. Some 117 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 180-81. 118 In terms of international models, Karjalainen has pointed out that the transparent orchestral colours and the use of open tones that begin the second act are reflective of Mahler’s First Symphony and the orchestral interlude to the “Des Sommerwindes wilde Jagd” section of Arnold Schönberg’s Gurrelieder. Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 195; also see Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 70, 189. 119 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 183. 101 were of the opinion that Finland was a kind of idyll whose music originated directly from the scenery.120 Hans Sonderburg, for example, considered Finland a country of moods and noted that, as in a landscape, Finnish song runs through each feature of Pohjalaisia in a contemplative and melancholy manner. Sonderburg seems not to have been entirely sold on this argument, however, for he suggests a counterproposal suggesting that different locations can impact a work’s reception: “When a work of art, an opera, goes beyond the borders of the land, it finds a new environment. National matter, by nature, becomes less dominant, and more universal human material becomes apparent.”121 Critical reception of the first international performances of Pohjalaisia also showed a consistently strong bias toward its patriotic literary content, especially in Germany, where a lively interest prevailed in Finland’s political situation.122 A seventeen-page German- language presentation of Pohjalaisia, likely prepared in advance of the Kiel première, was one of the first articles to connect Pohjalaisia to Finnish politics.123 It interprets Järviluoma’s play and Madetoja’s opera as a Finnish Declaration of Independence, depicting the 120 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 180. 121 “Kun taideteos, ooppera, joutuu kotimaan rajojen yli ulos vieraille maille, se löytää uuden ympäristön. Kansallinen aines, luonteenomainenkin, tulee sitä vähemmän määrääväksi, mitä enemmän yleisinhimillinen aines voi päästä tajuttavaksi.” Ibid., 182. 122 Ibid., 180. 123 The author is named as Evert Katila, music critic for the Finnish newspaper Helsingin Sanomat; it is indeed an almost verbatim translation of Katila’s article, albeit containing a new introduction. Ibid., 178. 102 inhabitants of Ostrobothnia as a people who defend their freedom, if necessary by force.124 Following the 1926 Kiel première, the subtitle of “national opera” was commonly appended to Pohjalaisia. Hans Schramm coined the term in prediction of the opera’s future success: “In this début, the forty-year-old Leevi Madetoja has made a gift to his people, which will become a national opera for the liberation of Finland from the Russian yoke and will make its way through European and not least German theatres.”125 At the same time, Schramm emphasized the opera’s international character by pointing out that national operas did not necessarily relate to nationalistic aspirations.126 In Finland, a patriotic interpretation of Pohjalaisia only surfaced after it was expressed abroad. During the summer of 1930, a performance at the famed Savonlinna Opera Festival saw a clear change in reception associated with a strengthening of the opera’s patriotic context. Evert Katila’s review did not make any attempt to interpret the opera at a universal level; rather, it focused on the drama’s historical background: These days, when such an irresistible longing for freedom has emerged at opera events, spreading over the whole country, it was a happy thought to lead through this purely national melody to those decades ago, when the same regions dreamed of freedom and believed it would soon arrive.127 124 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 178. 125 “Der vierzigjährige Leevi Madetoja hat in diesem Erstlings werke seinem Volkein Geschenkgemacht, das nach Befreiung Finnlands vom russischen Joch zur Nationaloper werden und seinen Weg über die europäischen und nicht zuletzt deutschen Bühnen machen wird.” Ibid., 183. 126 Hans Schramm, “Opern-Auffiihrung in Kiel: ‘Oesterbottner’; Finnische Volksoper von Leevi Madetoja,” Tagliche Rundschau, 9 Nov 1926; quoted in Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 192. 127 “Näinä päivinä, jolloin oopperatapahtumien toimipaikoilla on ilmennyt niin vastustamattoman valtava vapauden kaipuu, leviten yli koko maan, oli onnellinen ajatus johdattaa tämän niin puhtaasti 103 Katila considered the opera’s staging—in the courtyard of Savonlinna’s castle—theatrically ideal, because it gave many of the opera’s scenes—such as the thugs’ arrival, shepherds’ cries, and folk dances—“a much more realistic and credible stamp than on the stage.”128 What is most significant about Katila’s assessment is the use of the concepts “true” and “credible” to describe aspects of the drama, since they were used by critics both at home and abroad in support of the opera’s national context.129 Conclusions to This Chapter Madetoja is often described as just the right person to compose an operatic realization of Järviluoma’s play, since he was born in the same district and was intimately familiar with its people, traditions, and music. This, though, is not entirely accurate; Madetoja was born in Northern Ostrobothnia, which is a separate province from Ostrobothnia with a distinct circle of traditions and spoken dialects. Moreover, while he collected folk songs, his collection trips were far from Ostrobothnia: in Ingria in 1907 and in his home district in 1909. “The situation,” as Karjalainen so wryly states, “might somehow be compared to one in which someone would say that a Welsh composer would be just the kansallisen sävelteoksen kautta mieliin ne vuosikymmenien takaiset ajat, jolloin samoilla seuduilla myös unelmoitiin vapaudesta ja uskottiin sen myös pian koittavan.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 187. 128 “[…] saivat nyt paljon todellisemman ja uskottavamman leiman kuin varsinaisella näyttämöllä.” Ibid., 187. 129 Ibid., 187-88. 104 right person to compose an opera based on Scottish folk music tradition, while at the same time asserting that this is why the composer is a typical national romantic.”130 Similar misconceptions abound. Pohjalaisia could not have had a direct connection to the advancement of Finland’s independence per se, since by the time of its première (1924) Finland had already achieved independence (1917). The fact that Pohjalaisia adopted connotations of patriotism through certain aspects of its presentation and reception can be explained by the broader public’s propensity to maintain its values and ideals even in the face of changing sociopolitical conditions. Thanks to its designation as Finland’s national opera, Pohjalaisia developed a symbolic value that could be easily associated with Finland’s pre-independence circumstances.131 Even though Madetoja on many occasions wrote positively about Finland’s national struggle, he was notoriously taciturn about his own compositional processes and inspirations. He is not recorded as having ever indicated a connection between either of his operas and his country’s struggle for independence. On the other hand, he is also not recorded as having ever protested the patriotic programs described by Katila and other critics, which could be regarded as a “tacit approval” of such declarations.132 The little 130 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 193. 131 Ibid., 19-20. 132 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 179. 105 insight we have into his mindset while composing Pohjalaisia comes from his correspondence with his mother: 10.12.1917. I have been planning an opera too. It remains to be seen whether anything comes of it. If I did manage to produce one that in anyway appealed to the public, I might make a good bit of money. 23.05.1920. I ought to get the opera finished within the year. […] If it’s successful, I might be on to a good thing. 16.01.1921. Just at the moment I am, in addition to some smaller works, composing an opera, which I will try to finish before the year is out. It could even be a good source of income, if only it appeals to public taste or attracts a lot of attention and makes a name for itself abroad. Naturally I am concerned only with the dictates of my own art, but sometimes a composition may have worldly advantages too. 20.12.1921. The opera - I’m trying to get it finished. A laborious task in that I do not know when I’ll get it performed or whether I’ll get paid much for it. I must finish it — I’ve got so far and put so much effort into it. Maybe one day it will be a financial and an artistic success. 28.10.1924. My opera was a complete success […] I got three crowns of laurels. […] Let’s hope it will be put on abroad.133 These statements are, Salmenhaara observes, “something of a cold shower for the aestheticians anticipating artistic theorising on the idealistic strivings of opera to find expression and the act of creation.”134 They reveal a pragmatic attitude toward the composition of opera and, more broadly, an approach motivated on the whole by artistic and financial considerations.135 National concerns, on the other hand, are not mentioned. 133 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19-20. 134 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 20. 135 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 243. 106 Naturally, Madetoja was constrained by the sociocultural framework of his upbringing; it was, as we have seen, all-encompassing. Moreover, some of his output can be regarded as examples of early twentieth-century folklorism, for Madetoja occasionally pursued the practice of collecting folk material and interweaving it within his compositions; this was, after all, an expected component of his professional skills. Yet it was as natural for Madetoja to utilize national tunes as it was for him to borrow suitable stylistic elements from European repertoire. There is no reason to pigeonhole Madetoja’s music within the framework of irredentism or to perceive Madetoja as essentially a national romantic composer.136 Madetoja considered beauty as one of his key artistic values, stressing music’s non- conceptual, independent nature. As he wrote to his soon-to-be wife, Hilja Onerva Lehtinen, in 1912, “My happiness is beauty, and the most intense beauty I can find in my soul encompasses the vastness of space, the imagination of infinite deserts.”137 Music, for Madetoja, was a way of expressing the boundless, infinite sublime. In a Karelian newspaper article written in the spring of 1915, he expressed this philosophy in more detail: The art of music is by nature nonconceptual. It appeals to the listener through its beauty, not its conceptual basis. Its beauty is something mysterious, boundless, shared, that we all, in happy moments, feel at seeing this world’s chaos and the boundless spaces, so to speak unsocially, the visceral spirit that the banality of 136 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 196. 137 “Minun onneni on kauneus ja voimakkaimman kauneuden löydän sieluni liikkeissä rajattomassa avaruudessa, mielikuvituksen äärettömillä aavikoilla.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to L. Onerva, 24 February 1912; quoted in L. Onerva and Leevi Madetoja, Yölauluja: L. Onervan ja Leevi Madetojan kirjeitä 1910-1946, ed. Anna Makkonen and Marja-Leena Tuurna (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2006), 67. 107 everyday life has not yet fully had time to suppress. Understand that it is a starting point for, and a necessary precondition of, all musical creation and understanding.138 Nature also played an important role in Madetoja’s philosophy. In fact, in his writing he names it a source of profound inspiration. His glowing review of Melartin’s Fourth Symphony (1913) provides an example: Above all, this author admires the symphony’s Andante section, which can doubtless be considered among Melartin’s most beautiful and masterly achievements. Rarely have the clear, bright, and sensitive landscapes of summer’s silent piety been described with such sweet and sure brushstrokes. The heartland’s peaceful, mysterious sounds can be heard amidst the dawning of a new day; nature awakes to the flowering of bird-cherry trees and the stinking narcotic effect of mountain ashes; in the wilderness a dreaming maiden; from the woods comes a single cry of secret melancholy, of the heart’s sorrows and desires.139 About the role of nationalism in music, on the other hand, Madetoja was more ambivalent. Writing in 1915, he stated that “Citizenship is a great significance both in art as in all other endeavors of life. But it does not necessarily have to be limited. Beauty knows no racial boundaries, other than in forming its various nuances.”140 Later, in a 1935 article on Sibelius, 138 “Säveltaide on luonteeltaan epäkäsitteellistä. Se vetoaa kuulijan kauneudentajuun sellaisenaan, ilman käsitteellisiä tukikohtia. Sen kauneudessa on jotain salaperäistä, rajatonta, samaa, jota me jokainen onnellisina hetkinämme tunnemme ajatellessamme tätä maailman kaaosta ja sen äärettömiä avaruuksia niin sanoakseni epäyhteiskunnallisesti, sillä vaistomaisella hengenosallamme, jota käytännöllinen elämänkulku ei vielä kokonaan ole ehtinyt tukahduttaa. Siinä on käsittääkseni lähtökohta ja välttämätön edellytys kaiken musiikin luomiselle ja ymmärtämiselle.” Leevi Madetoja, “Musikaalisia mietelmiä I: säveltaiteilijat ja yleisö,” Karjala, 21 March 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 162. 139 “Suurimman ihastuksen on tämän kirjoittajassa herättänyt sinfonian Andante-osa, joka epäilemättä kuuluu Melartinin tuotannon kauneimpiin ja mestarillisimpiin saavutuksiin. Harvoin on suvista luontoa, sen kuulakkaita, herkkiä maisemia, kesäisen hämyn hiljaista hartautta niin suloisin ja varmoin siveltimen vedoin kuvattu. Sydänmaan rauhan salaperäiset äänet kuuluvat sarastavan aamun keskeltä, luonto herää, kukkivat tuomet ja pihlajat lemuavat huumaavasti, salolla unelmoi neito, yksin huhuillen metsän puille salaista kaihomieltään, sydänsurujaan ja toiveitaan.” Leevi Madetoja, Helsinki Sanomat, 20 October 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 160. 140 “Kansallisuudella on suuri merkityksensä niin taiteessa kuin kaikissa muissakin ihmishengen pyrkimyksissä. Mutta sen ei välttämättä tarvitse rajoittaa. Kauneus ei tunne roturajoja, muuten kuin sen eri 108 he lamented that the absolute value of beauty is frequently overshadowed by the foreign critics who focus too strongly on national material—echoing, perhaps, his experiences with Pohjalaisia’s international reception. After all, he argued, Wagner was a national composer, and yet his art is understood in every corner of the world. His final statement on the matter serves as perhaps his clearest expression of his own aesthetics: “For if an artist’s national work has enough vitality to withstand the passage of time, the main attraction is not its special national features, but its purely artistic beauty.”141 vivahduksien muodostajana.” Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen taiteilijauran yleiset piirteet,” Helsingin Sanomat, 8 December 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 82. 141 “Jos jonkun kansan säveltaide osoittaa omaavansa kylliksi elinvoimaa kestämään ajan kulutusta, ei pääansio tässä ole suinkaan kansallisten erikoisominaisuuksien, vaan sen puhtaan musikaalisen kauneuden, joka tämän kansan sävelteoksista pulppuaa.” Leevi Madetoja, “Kansallinen aines Sibeliuksen musiikissa,” Musiikkitieto, December 1935, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 101. 109 “The Stamp of Genius”: Leevi Madetoja’s Life and Times Ostrobothnia The historical Finnish province of Ostrobothnia—not to be confused with the much smaller modern region of Ostrobothnia—comprises some forty percent of Finland’s total area. Its stereotypical attribute is one of bleakness, not only in its geography, but also in the conservative religious faith that took hold of the region during the nineteenth century. The landscape is extremely flat; the most noteworthy features are numerous rivers and exposed, deeply furrowed bedrock that was carved by the advancing ice mass at the end of the glaciation. Northern Ostrobothnia, Madetoja’s home region, covers approximately twenty-eight percent of this historical province. Where Northern Ostrobothnia’s west coast meets the Gulf of Bothnia, in the province of Oulu, at the mouth of the river Oulujoki, lies Madetoja’s place of birth, the city of Oulu. Once an ancient trading site, Oulu has—outside Russia—long been the largest northern city in the world. In 1887, the year Madetoja was born, its population was approximately 10,260.1 1 “Oulu 1870-1900,” City of Oulu, accessed 5 July 2018, www.ouka.fi/oulu/oulu-tietoa/oulu-1870-1900. 110 Juvenilia: Madetoja’s Formative Years Leevi Madetoja, né Lars Levi Madetoja, was born on 17 February 1887 to Anders Antinpoika “Antti” Madetoja and Anna Elisabeth Hyttinen. He had one brother, Yrjö, who was born in 1885.2 The family observed a strict sect of Lutheranism called Laestadianism, which Madetoja chose not to adopt, although he retained through his life a genuine concern for religious matters. Madetoja’s father emigrated to the United States to earn money for the family and was informed of Leevi’s birth only in April 1887. Unfortunately, he died of tuberculosis by the Mississippi river, never having seen his son.3 Madetoja is surely the only significant composer whose primary instrument was the kantele, a traditional plucked string instrument of the dulcimer and zither family.4 While the composer’s first instrument was apparently the harmonica, it was pushed aside with the gift, at nine years old, of a ten-string kantele. A few years later, while in the hospital 2 Anders and Anna’s first child, Hjalmar Andreas, died in 1883 at the age of nine months. Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 12. 3 By far the most comprehensive data on Madetoja can be found in Salmenhaara, Madetoja. Much of the primary source material mentioned elsewhere—including letters and newspaper articles—can also be found in this extensive publication. However, the following publications provide additional information on Madetoja’s life and music: Kaipainen, “French Colouring”; Korhonen, Inventing, 50-51, 70; Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja”; Korhonen, “Orchestral Works”; Maasalo, Suomalaisia; Rossi et al., Leevi Madetoja; Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians”; Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia”; and Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja. 4 The kantele has important ties to Finland’s nationalist movement. According to the Kalevala, Finland’s national epic, the first kantele was fashioned by the god Väinämöinen from the jawbone of a giant pike. The oldest kanteles commonly had five or six horsehair strings and were tuned in a major or minor pentachord. Beginning in the nineteenth century, kanteles were built in larger versions with up to forty strings. Modern kanteles have switch mechanisms to raise or lower pitches chromatically, making the instrument more suited for Western art music. 111 with scarlet fever, he received a thirty-string kantele that he practiced earnestly. Around the age of fourteen, Madetoja supplemented his kantele studies by singing bass in the school choir. He could read fluently at sight, a talent that was certainly useful for his later role as a choral composer. In his teenage years, Madetoja became captivated by early twentieth-century Finland’s revolutionary spirit. A diary entry from 1905 describes Madetoja’s optimism in the aftermath of Saint Petersburg’s Bloody Sunday: “Marvellous events are ahead of us. The revolution’s mighty waves roll in over the whole of Russia all the way to Finland. [. . .] The mighty strike movement in Russia and Finland is everywhere. We, the schoolboys, are also on strike.”5 His letters adopted closing salutations with political references, such as “Long live the Finnish constitution! Long live Finland,” or “Long live Finland and national freedom!”6 Even Madetoja’s earliest musical concert experiences became strongly characterized by patriotic ideals. Madetoja recounted that his first experience with national music was through patriotic songs, such as “Karjala” (Karelia) and “Herää Suomi” (Finland, 5 Lauri Merikallio, “Nuori Madetoja: lyseolaisvuodet Oulussa vv. 1898-1906; kolmas jakso,” Kaltio 8 (1960); quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 27. In addition to inciting widespread revolutionary fervour, these events benefited Finland in concrete ways. In 1905, the onset of the Revolution offered Finland a short respite from Russian oppression; in 1906, the creation of a new legislative body to replace the old Estates brought Finland from a four-estate diet to a unicameral parliament elected through universal suffrage. 6 “Eläkööt Suomen perustuslait! Eläköön Suomi!,” journal of Leevi Madetoja, 7 October 1904, quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 22; “Eläköön Suomi ja sen kansallinen vapaus!,” letter to Yrjö Madetoja, 13 December 1903, quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 18. 112 Awake!) by the Finnish composer Emil Genetz (1852-1930).7 Such sentiments made their way into Madetoja’s early output: one of the composer’s first works, a piece for kantele written on 30 December 1903 at the age of 16, bears the title “Hymni Suomelle” (Hymn to Finland). University Life, Folksong Collection, and Studies under Sibelius In 1906, Madetoja moved to Helsinki to pursue his studies in music, enrolling in two institutions concurrently: the Helsinki Music Institute (now the Sibelius Academy) and the University of Helsinki. At the Helsinki Music Institute, he augmented his musicianship skills through a weekly course load that included two hours of music theory, one hour of ear training, and one hour of piano. In his second year, he was accepted as a composition student under the young composer and music critic Erik Furuhjelm, who was only four years Madetoja’s senior; although he eagerly anticipated these lessons, his hectic workload left him little time to hone his craft. By the spring of 1908, Madetoja had completed his requirements at the Music Institute and could have graduated; however, as he was interested in continuing his composition and piano lessons, he maintained his enrolment at the Institute until the spring of 1910. At the University of Helsinki, Madetoja studied music history and theory. His objective was a major in music degree, which included admittance only through a special 7 Leevi Madetoja, “Suomen Laulun toiminnan merkitys,” Teoksessa Suomen Laulu 1900-1920, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 126. 113 application and held as a prerequisite the careful perusal of some three hundred pages of music theory, six hundred pages of music history, and four German-language textbooks.8 Although Madetoja considered the requirements excessive, he was able to complete them within the first year; in his second year he successfully fulfilled the cum laude requirements by appending to his workload approximately five thousand pages of German language books, mainly composer biographies.9 These studies came at a price. While Madetoja would later be granted a lifetime state composer’s pension in 1918, as an impecunious student he was eager to supplement his meager budget. His first opportunity for earnings came via the Finnish Literature Society, which invited him to apply for a modest 250 markkaa scholarship for the collection of indigenous folk song.10 Endeavours like these had acquired a central role in Finland’s nationalist efforts, thanks to the ongoing issue of language politics, the need to consolidate the young Finnish culture, and the efforts of such intellectuals as Dr. Ilmari Krohn, an ardent collector of folk music who was Madetoja’s history and theory professor at the University of Helsinki. Unfortunately, Madetoja’s first folk music collection trip, to Ingria with classmate Lauri Ikonen during the summer of 1907, was a disappointment; he met with suspicion from villagers and was able to transcribe only approximately thirty folk 8 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 32. 9 Ibid., 37. 10 A detailed account of Madetoja’s engagement with folk music can be found in Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana,” 205–11. 114 tunes—many of which were crudely sung—only by offering a higher than usual premium. However, Madetoja’s second trip, to his home province of North Ostrobothnia in 1909, was highly successful. During this time, the prevailing impression of Ostrobothnian folk music was of bleak religious songs. Madetoja, however, made a concrete contribution to the Finnish national identity not only by collecting approximately one hundred and fifty melodies but also by proving that the region’s culture was more complex than generally thought.11 Nonetheless, Madetoja was not particularly interested in the nationalist pursuit of folksong arrangement. While he continued to include folk music in his output throughout his career, he limited outright arrangements of folk tunes to a handful of works. These are Pohjois-pohjalaisia kansanlauluja viululle tai laululle ja pianolle, op. 18 (Ostrobothnian Folk Songs for Violin or Voice and Piano, comp. 1913); Kolme kansanlaulua sooloäänelle ja sekakuorolle, op. 57 (Three Folk Songs for Voice and Mixed Choir, comp. 1924-27); and Vanhoja kansantansseja, op.64b (Old Folk Dances, comp. 1929) for clarinet and string quintet. On a broader level, however, Madetoja’s compositional output was decisively impacted by his engagement with folk music research and collection. For example, the “Balladi” from Madetoja’s Kaksi kappaletta viululle ja pianolle, op. 3, no. 1 (Two Pieces for Violin and Piano, 1909) contains characteristics that the composer himself associated with Ostrobothnian music. His 1910 article for the Northern Ostrobothnian Students’ 11 Madetoja’s collection of notes is retained in the Helsinki University Library collections. 115 Association highlights certain key features of the region’s folk music, including recurrent emphasis on the leading tone and occasional tonal ambiguity, both of which are in evidence in the Balladi.12 Significantly, the Finnish public could readily identify the Ostrobothnian character in Madetoja’s output. Bis (the penname of Karl Fredrik Wasenius, the respected critic for the Swedish daily newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet) wrote a review of Madetoja’s Piano Trio, op. 1 (1909) that is illuminating not only for its assertion of Ostrobothnian character within Madetoja’s music but also for its affirmation of Madetoja’s distinctive sound: I seek here to repair an injustice done to the composer this spring. I said then that some of [Madetoja’s] subjects are reminiscent of Toivo Kuula’s motives. The situation is that Mr. Madetoja, like Mr. Kuula, is Ostrobothnian. It is the Ostrobothnian character of his melodies and moods that led me to believe the Kuula effect. With joy I relinquish this earlier assumption after becoming convinced of Madetoja’s independence. […] The composer goes his own way. […] As a large and beautiful opus 1, Mr. Madetoja’s Trio is hereby a rarity, the beginning of which bodes well. I congratulate the composer on this piece of chamber music.13 A major turning point in Madetoja’s studies occurred in the fall of 1908, when Jean Sibelius accepted Madetoja as a student of composition. Sibelius was not a born teacher: 12 Leevi Madetoja, “Toimitukselle tulleita sävellyksiä,” Säveletär 2 (1910); quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 52. 13 “Jag ber att här få korrigera en af mig mot komponisten i våras begången orättvisa. Jag sade då att några af hans motiv erinrade om Toivo Kuulas. Saken är den att hr Madetoja i likhet med hr Kuula är österbottning. Det var den österbottniska karaktären i hans melodier och stämningar, som föranledde mig att tro på inflytelse af Kuula. Med glädje annullerar jag denna tidigare supposition för vunnen öfvertygelse om Madetojas själfständighet. […] Komponisten går sin egen väg. […] Ett så stort och vackert opus I, som hr Madetojas Trio, är sålunda en sällsynthet, en början som lofvar godt. Jag lyckönskar komponisten till detta kammarmusikverk, hvaraf jag hade nöjet få del på repetitionen senaste sondag.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 19 October 1909; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 54. 116 he lacked the urge to pass on his learning to others and thought of teaching merely as a hindrance to composition.14 By the turn of the century, he had largely given up teaching, accepting only a few select pupils, including Toivo Kuula and Bengt von Törne. Madetoja reported that when he approached Sibelius for lessons, he was greeted with the words, “I’m a poor teacher,”15 and he described his lessons with Sibelius—held at Sibelius’s home in Järvenpää, a town some thirty-seven kilometers north of Helsinki—as unorthodox: “It wasn’t teaching in the normal sense of the word. Rather short, searching comments. He didn’t waste much time on the fugue that I had taken along with me to show him but talked about more general aesthetic problems. ‘No dead, unnecessary notes. Every note must live.’”16 Over time, Madetoja’s abilities earned Sibelius’s respect; perhaps more importantly, Madetoja’s melancholic, inward-looking temperament and keen feeling for nature struck a chord with Sibelius that cemented a lifetime friendship. First-Period Compositions, Travel Abroad, and Gainful Employment Madetoja’s works can be approached from several directions. On one hand, Madetoja won international recognition as an orchestral composer and symphonist. This output includes Madetoja’s three symphonies, the symphonic poem Kullervo (1913), and the 14 Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius: Volume 1, 1865-1905, trans. and ed. Robert Layton (London: Faber, 1976), 124. 15 Ibid., 124. 16 Ibid., 125-26. 117 orchestral suites Tanssinäky (1911), Pieni sarja orkesterille (1913-16), and Okon Fuoko (1937). On the other, Madetoja achieved tremendous success as an opera composer. His first opera Pohjalaisia (1924) held a position as Finland’s national opera for close to sixty years; his second, Juha (1934), while considerably less successful, is widely considered one of his greatest achievements. A lyricist at heart, some of Madetoja’s finest work is in the realm of vocal music. This extends to small-scale works as well: Madetoja is equally well known in Finland as a composer of choral music, a genre that not only aided the country’s nationalist efforts but also helped pay the bills during difficult financial times. Several of the compositions Madetoja wrote while still a student attracted significant attention. The “Elegy” from Madetoja’s Sinfonian sarja, op. 4 (Symphonic Suite) was one of the most popular miniatures he ever wrote. It was premièred on 10 January 1910 and played at least four times that spring; the complete suite was premièred several months later on 26 September. Critics praised the work unanimously; interestingly, Heikki Klemetti described the work using nature metaphors: “The meditator encounters cool wetland spruce — however, his trail does not end without a trace, but continues toward higher leafy ground.”17 Madetoja also wrote music for two plays by the celebrated Finnish poet Eino Leino: Shakkipeli, op. 5 (Chess) and Alkibiades, op. 6 (Alcibiades). It was during the première of Alkibiades, on 27 April 1910, that Madetoja was introduced to Leino’s erstwhile lover, the poet Hilja Onerva Lehtinen who wrote under the penname L. Onerva. After a 17 “Koleaa vesiperäistä kuusikkoa kulkee mietiskelijä - Vaeltajan polku ei kuitenkaan pääty jalan jäljettömäksi, - - vaan nousee korkeammille lehtevämmille maille.” Quoted in Maasalo, Suomalaisia, 2:127. 118 lengthy courtship, Madetoja and Onerva married in 1918, and remained together until Madetoja’s death, although their marriage was marred by disputes and severe alcoholism.18 Madetoja, however, did not have the opportunity to spend much time with Onerva before leaving for further travels. Under Kuula’s urging, he undertook a period of study in Paris in 1910, arriving at the French capital on 11 October. His travels were made easier through a generous scholarship of 1,000 markkaa. While his plans to study with Vincent d’Indy never came to fruition, Paris’s musical scene was stimulating in other ways. During the first few months of his stay, he is known to have heard Berlioz’s Damnation of Faust; Charpentier’s Louise, Dukas’s Polyeucte overture, and Saint-Saëns’s songs and chamber music, with the composer himself at the piano.19 Madetoja’s increasing familiarity with French music had an immediate impact on his compositional output. His Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7a (Concert Overture), which Madetoja composed during this first trip to Paris, is written in a light, carefree style that suggests a French influence. Although Madetoja returned to Finland in April 1911, he was later to spend several periods in France and felt very much at home there. On 4 October 1911, Madetoja left Helsinki again, this time for Vienna, where he spent the autumn studying with Robert Fuchs, one of Sibelius’s former teachers. He seems to 18 Although Madetoja and Onerva thrice announced their marriage in 1913, Hannu Mäkelä confirms their year of marriage as 1918. See Hannu Mäkelä, Nalle ja Moppe: Eino Leinon ja L. Onervan elämä (Helsinki: Otava, 2003), 399, 413. 19 Leevi Madetoja, “Pariisi ja Ranskan uusi musiikki: Kirje Pariisista,” Säveletär, no. 20-21 (1910), reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 9-11. 119 have made these plans independently of Sibelius. Despite attending a performance of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, a work that greatly impressed him, Madetoja never developed the fondness for Vienna that he had for Paris. Nevertheless, he made good use of his time there, composing Öinen karkelokuva, op. 11 (Night Revels; revised in 1919 as Tanssinäky, Dance Vision). It is one of Madetoja’s most impressionistic compositions; it remains in Finland’s permanent repertoire and the score was later printed by the Danish publisher Wilhelm Hansen. Following his return to Helsinki on 26 August 1912, Madetoja accepted a position as assistant director of the Helsinki Orchestral Society, Scandinavia’s first permanent orchestra, which came with a monthly salary of 500 Finnish markkaa, a significant source of income. Unfortunately, the autumn 1912 concert season was a turbulent one, and Madetoja began his tenure with the Helsinki Orchestral Society in the middle of an orchestra war.20 As the orchestra’s usual source of financial support had been discontinued, director Robert Kajanus had applied for financial assistance from Saint Petersburg.21 This 20 Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, 2:134; see also Phillip Ross Bullock, “Sibelius and the Russian Traditions,” in Grimley, Jean Sibelius, 3-57. 21 Robert Kajanus (1856-1933) was a Finnish conductor and composer of Swedish descent who championed Finnish national music. Winner of the French Légion d’honneur, he served as director of music at the University of Helsinki for almost thirty years and founded the celebrated Nordic Music Festival. As a conductor, Kajanus established the Helsinki Orchestral Society (later the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, Finland’s national orchestra), the first complete symphony orchestra in Finland, which he would lead for fifty years. He was considered an authority on Sibelius’s music and had a decisive impact on the development of Sibelius’s career, commissioning one of Sibelius’ most popular and enduring works, En Saga, and conducting the first performances of Sibelius’s music outside Finland (including an appearance at the Exposition Universelle at the invitation of the French government). Kajanus was also one of the most celebrated Finnish composers prior to Sibelius, and his music drew heavily from Finnish folklore. 120 move was seen as politically dubious, particularly within the conservative Swedish- speaking elite, and the City of Helsinki had petitioned the talented musician Georg Schnéevoigt (1872-1947) to establish a new Helsinki Symphony Orchestra. With a population of 150,000, Helsinki could hardly maintain two orchestras, and concertgoers inevitably took sides: Schnéevoigt, whose new orchestra was comprised primarily of foreign musicians, was defended within Swedish-speaking circles, while Kajanus, whose domestic orchestra was comprised of about equal parts Finnish and foreign musicians, was defended by the Finnish-speaking population. Schnéevoigt was supported by the Swedish newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet, while Kajanus was supported by Uusi Suometar, whose critic Evert Katila reviewed Schnéevoigt’s debut performance by gleefully recounting the Symphony’s “platitudes,” “inaccuracies,” incorrect rhythms, and an “absolutely berserk” rendition of a Haydn symphony.22 Katila’s remarks remind us that in spite of Kajanus’s political gaffe, the conductor and his orchestra garnered fierce loyalty. Although ten members of the Helsinki Orchestral Society defected to the opposition, the majority—especially the Finnish-born musicians—announced their intention to stay, without pay if necessary. Even Sibelius, despite his movement within Swedish-speaking circles, grudgingly volunteered his services for the first of the domestic orchestra’s Celebrity Concerts at the Finnish National Theatre. The Finnish public’s unparalleled support for domestic artists and their products benefitted Madetoja in tangible ways. On 14 October 1913, Madetoja led the Helsinki 22 Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 24 September 1912; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 97. 121 Orchestral Society in a feature concert of his own compositions that included the cantata Merikoski, op. 10; Öinen karkelokuva; the “Valssi,” “Laulelma,” and “Scherzino” from the Pieni sarja orkesterille, op. 12 (Little Suite for Orchestra); an orchestral arrangement of his Pianosävellyksiä, op. 17 (Piano Pieces); and his symphonic poem Kullervo, op. 15. Kullervo— based on the ill-fated character of Finland’s national epic, the Kalevala—was the biggest success. Hufvudstadsbladet’s Bis wrote quite positively about the première, highlighting the work’s national story: In Kullervo Madetoja explores a medium of great power, creating a grandiose rendering that is nothing short of commendable. The work exhibits the key musical ingredients of the saga: Kullervo’s complaint, his bucolic song, the brave revenge of his horse riding trip, his warlike trumpet-blare, his blazing passion, and then his demise, where the rhythm of the work’s fragmentary musical motifs leads to the silence of death.23 It can hardly be coincidental that the public, informed of Madetoja’s loyalty to traditional Finnish culture, rallied to his support. Madetoja’s next public concert on 19 October was sold out, and hundreds of people were turned away at the door. In 1914, Madetoja travelled to Viipuri (Vyborg) in Finnish Karelia where he had been hired to conduct the Viipurin musiikinystäväin orkesteri (Orchestra of the Vyborg Friends of Music). Again, circumstances illustrate the appeal of national music. During the autumn, Madetoja conducted two symphony concerts. The first featured Schumann’s Symphony no. 23 “Kullervorunoelmassa Madetoja on saavuttanut laajemman muodon, suuremman voiman, suorastaan kiitettävän suurisuuntaisuuden hahmotuksessa. - - Teoksen taitteet ilmentävät hyvänä musiikkina tarun tärkeimmät ainekset, Kullervon valituksen, paimenlaulun, koston. urhean ratsastusmatkan, sotaisat torventoitotukset, liekehtivän intohimon ja sitten hänen loppunsa, jossa musiikki katkelmallisin rytmiaihein johtaa kuoleman hiljaisuuteen.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 15 October 1915; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 112. 122 1 in B-flat Major (Spring), Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major, and Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet; however, the concert hall was less than half full despite positive reviews. The second concert presented Madetoja’s Kullervo and Sibelius’s First Symphony; it was sold out. The prevailing attitude was that the public had a duty to support domestic composers; failure to do so was “inconceivable public aloofness.”24 During a period of low concert attendance in Viipuri in 1916, a columnist for the newspaper Karjala called out the public for their insensitivity to Finnish composers; the hall was full during the next concert, a program on 14 April dedicated entirely to national composers. Madetoja conducted a concert two days later that included his Öinen karkelokuva, the “Kehtolaulu” (Cradle Song) and “Menuetto” from his Pieni sarja orkesterille, and his symphonic poem Sammon ryöstö, op. 24 (The Abduction of the Sampo). Listeners were turned away at the door. Salmenhaara suggests that the Viipuri public may have wished to make amends for their recent failure to act by showing that they were capable of valuing Finnish artists and their products.25 During his stay in Viipuri, Madetoja completed his Symphony No. 1 in F Major, op. 29, the sparsest and most restrained of the composer’s three extant symphonies. Madetoja conducted the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra for its première on 10 February 1916. The third movement, a finale that replaced the third and fourth movements in the manner of Sibelius, was completed only just in time for this event; Bis mentioned that this movement 24 “Yleisön käsittämätöntä kylmäkiskoisuutta.” Karjala, 13 April 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 153. 25 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 153. 123 left the impression of haste and had not been sufficiently developed. Nevertheless, reviews were positive. Several critics singled out the slow second movement, subtitled Lento misterioso; Katila notes that it “reflects the composer’s deep idea of the world,” calling it “an outright expression of pure creative spirit—it bears the stamp of genius.”26 Like other slow movements by Madetoja, it is characterized by a tranquil, lyrical atmosphere; Katila suggests that this is representative of a Finnish tone, and, moreover, that it brings to mind the slow movement of Sibelius’s Third Symphony, which likewise contains melodies ending on a descending minor third. Upon his return to Helsinki in the autumn of 1916, Madetoja undertook a search for gainful employment. Within a short period of time, he was teaching music theory and history at the Helsinki Music Institute (1916–39), freelancing for a variety of newspapers and journals, and writing music reviews for the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat (1916–32), which was at that time the mouthpiece for Nuomi Suomi. He also affiliated himself with a number of organizations that would occupy him for the remainder of his career. Most significantly, he helped launch the Finnish Musician’s Union (Suomen Muusikkojen Liitto), a forerunner of the Society of Finnish Composers (Suomen Säveltäjät); he also worked as secretary, and later chair, of the Music Research Council (Musiikkitoimikunta). 26 Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 11 February 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 148. 124 “A Costly Sacrifice”: The War Period Madetoja started to compose his Second Symphony with the ink still drying on the manuscript of his first. While there is little detailed information on the birth of the Second Symphony, comments appearing in Madetoja’s first article for Helsingin Sanomat (13 September 1916) indicate his hopes that the Symphony would be completed in the spring of the following year. In the article, Madetoja documents an apparently chance meeting with the composer and conductor Robert Kajanus (see note 20) and an inquiry into the latter’s plans for the 1916-17 concert season. Kajanus had decided to design a concert program in two halves, the first consisting of older music—Tchaikovsky, Mozart, and Schubert—and the second of Mahler’s First Symphony alongside Finnish composers: Sibelius, Lauri Ikonen (1888-1966), Ernst Mielck (1877-1899), and Madetoja. The piece by Madetoja would be a “new E-flat Major Symphony”27 ostensibly prepared for a spring 1917 première. However, the première was not to happen at the expected date. Many problems seem to have demanded Madetoja’s attention during this period, including financial instability, civil war, and illness. Financial instability was rampant in wartime Finland: the plummeting Finnish economy was impacted by wartime economic disruptions and the country’s forced accommodation of some 100,000 Russian troops. The country endured 27 “Uuden es-duurisinfoniansa.” Leevi Madetoja, Helsingin Sanomat, 13 September 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 158; see especially chapter 6, “Opettajana ja arvostelijana Helsingissä. Toinen sinfonia: 1916-1918,” pages 157-82, which contains a detailed review of Madetoja’s undertakings during the Finnish Civil War. 125 rising unemployment levels, food shortages, and severe inflation that lasted well into the 1920s. Madetoja’s own financial situation was grim. Correspondence between Madetoja’s brother Yrjö and his mother Anna shows that in 1913, Madetoja’s income as Philharmonic Orchestra vice-president was a modest monthly salary of 300 Finnish markkaa. Three years later, Madetoja’s combined monthly income from his work for the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat and his teaching position at the Helsinki Music Institute was also 300 markkaa; however, due to inflation the relative value of his salary was less than half its 1913 amount, and the value of Finnish currency continued to decline in the coming years.28 Because he relied heavily on commissions to supplement his income, Madetoja was often forced to choose financially viable projects over artistically significant ones. Small salon pieces and choral literature often yielded significant revenue, but symphonies—which took time to compose, and could not be easily sold to publishers—were unlikely to turn a profit. Madetoja’s work on the Second Symphony was a labour of love; as he wrote to his mother, “the financial profit of this great work will be naught.”29 Thus it is easy to understand Madetoja’s decision to favour other, more pressing demands over the Second Symphony. His duties for the Helsingin Sanomat were time consuming. He also juggled work on the symphonic poem Aslak Smaukka, the piano suite Pastoraalisarja, and pieces for male choir. “I have been planning an opera too,” he wrote his mother in December 1917, adding: “if I 28 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 157. 29 “Rahallinen tulos tästä suuresta työsta supistuu nollan.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 10 December 1917; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 170. 126 did manage to produce one that in any way appealed to the public, I might make a good bit of money.”30 Matters even more serious than financial difficulties hindered Madetoja’s compositional progress in the coming months. On 27 January 1918, the working-class Red Guards took control of Helsinki, initiating a Finnish Civil War between the Reds and the Whites.31 As democratic socialists, Red Finland allied with Bolshevist Russia, signing a short-lived peace agreement on 1 March 1918. White Finland meanwhile allied itself with the German empire, with the latter offering its assistance as a pretext for further aggression against Russia. With the cooperation of the white Civil Guards, German troops entered Finland in February, undertaking a major offensive against Russia on 18 February (“Operation Faustschlag,” also known as the Eleven-Day War) and attacking the Reds on 12 April in the Battle of Helsinki. In all, some 37,000 Finns—more than one percent of the country’s population—lost their lives during this period. While Madetoja was not among the war’s casualties, he was nevertheless impacted by its atrocities. On April 9, Madetoja’s brother Yrjö was executed 30 Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 10 December 1917; quoted in Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 31 Like many Finns, Madetoja held a complicated position with regard to civil politics. Madetoja stayed in Helsinki throughout much of the occupation by Red Guards; his brother was killed by the Reds and his friend Toivo Kuula by the Whites. His primary allegiance seems to have been to Nuori Suomi, a liberal- minded centre-right group that split into opposing factions prior to Finnish independence. While Madetoja had always been tight-lipped about his political leanings, Onerva—like fellow liberal writers Leino and Juhani Aho—felt compelled after the Civil War to renounce her liberal political position in favour of the more conservative values of the victorious Whites. Tuomas Tepora and Aapo Roselius, The Finnish Civil War 1918: History, Memory, Legacy (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 184. 127 by Red Guards alongside several other officials; his body was never found. Madetoja’s letter to his mother in early May speaks for itself: Dear Mother, in writing this letter I do not know if you are still among the living. Since January I have not received any information from there. However, I hope that you have been spared the worst out there. From Viipuri I received a telegram yesterday that stills the blood in my veins: Yrjö fell on Apr. 13. The information that his young wife sent was heartbreakingly brief. This unsuspected, shocking message fills us with unspeakable sorrow. Death, companion to that cruel war and persecution, did not spare any of us; it was our guest, and plucked one of us as its victim. Oh, when will be the time when the wrath of the world’s powers will disappear and the peace of the good spirit will return to alleviate suffering and the misery of Ischemic wounds!32 The composer Toivo Kuula, Madetoja’s close friend, suffered a similar fate, dying in a Viipuri hospital after suffering a gunshot wound. Madetoja provided a heart-wrenching obituary for the Helsingin Sanomat: Yesterday late evening, a shocking message of grief arrived here from Viipuri: Toivo Kuula is dead! This message fills us with the emotion of sorrow. This composer, in his prime, had behind him the lush production of a long, rich and remarkable life’s work, but an even more beautiful future reflected ahead of him; this artist by the grace of God—a passionate, spiritual poet—is gone. The past time of terror therefore required sacrifice, a costly sacrifice, the value of which is too great to be judged.33 32 “Rakas Äiti, tätä kirjettä kirjoittaessani en tiedä, oletko enää elävien kirjoissa. Sitten tammikuun en ole saanut sieltä mitään tietoa. Toivon kuitenkin, että olet siellä pahimmasta säästynyt. Viipurista (Antreasta) sain eilen sähkösanoman, joka seisahdutti veren suonissani: Yrjö kaatui huhtik. 13p., niin kuului kaameassa lyhyydessään tuo tieto, jonka hänen nuori vaimonsa sieltä lähetti. Tämä aavistamaton, järkyttävä sanoma täyttää meidät sanomattomalla murheella. Kuolema, tuo sodan ja vainon julma seuralainen, ei siis meitäkään säästänyt, se tuli vieraaksemme, tempasi uhrikseen yhden meistä. Oi, milloin tulee se aika, jolloin maailmasta vihan vallat katoavat ja rauhan hyvät hengettäret saavat palata lääkitsemaän kärsimyksien ja kurjuuden iskemiä haavoja!” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 5 May 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 171- 72. 33 “Eilen illalla myöhään saapui tänne Viipurista järkyttävä surunviesti: Toivo Kuula on kuollut! Tämä sanoma täyttää meidät masen tavalla murheentunteella. Säveltäjä, parhaimmissa nuoruusvuosissaan, rehevimmässä tuotantokaudessaan, rikas ja merkittävä elämäntyö takanaan, mutta vielä kauniimpana kangasteleva tulevaisuus edessään, taiteilija jumalan armosta, tulisielu, väkevähenkinen runoilija, on poissa. 128 The personal cost of the civil war was immense, and the post-war mood was bleak. In an autumn 1918 letter to his mother, Madetoja voiced what was doubtless a common sentiment: “the four-year war has achieved nothing other than to run the whole of humanity into distress and misery,”34 Nevertheless, Madetoja continued his creative efforts, mindful of the therapeutic value of continued artistic output in the current climate: “it feels comedic in the midst of the current mess to write symphonies and generally make art, but after all, it is the other side of a beautiful coat, that there are those who manage to break away from that terrible substance: misery, money, and the pressure of poverty.”35 Accordingly, Madetoja devoted considerable time and effort during the summer and autumn of 1918 to the completion of the Second Symphony and to sketches for his opera, Pohjalaisia. On 18 June, he wrote that he could “at least get the Symphony completed, in all probability”36; on 1 July he added that “the second part of the Symphony is in good shape.”37 However, this proved overly optimistic, for later that month he wrote that “the Kulunut kauhun aika on siis taiteeltammekin vaatinut uhrin, kalliin uhrin, jonka arvoa emme liian suureksi voi arvioida.” Leevi Madetoja, Helsingin Sanomat, 19 May 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 172-73. 34 “Nelivuotisella sodalla ei mitään voitettu muuta kuin ajettu koko ihmiskunta hätään ja kurjuuteen.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 6 October 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 173. 35 “Tuntuu koomilliselta kaiken tämän nykyisen sopan keskellä kirjoitella sinfonioja ja yleensä tehdä taidetta, mutta onhan se toiselta puolen kaunistakin, että on niitäkin, jotka jaksavat irtautua tuosta hirvittävästä aineen, kurjuuden, rahan ja köyhyyden painostuksesta.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 25 July 1918; quoted in Onerva, Yölauluja, 266; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 36 “Sinfoniani saan kaiken todennäköisyyden mukaan ainakin valmiiksi.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 18 June 1918; quoted in Onerva, Yölauluja, 251; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 37 “Sinfonian toinen osa on hyvällä tolalla.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 1 July 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 129 Symphony is making slow progress,”38 and in the autumn, Madetoja’s efforts were further hampered by his contraction of the Spanish Influenza. The only allusions to his efforts are a couple of brief letters to his mother. In late October, Madetoja remarked that his Symphony “will only just be ready”39; he later wrote that he was in a hurry as “the Symphony’s première is approaching.”40 In any case, having surmounted economic collapse, civil war, and life-threatening illness, Madetoja completed the Second Symphony just in time for its unveiling on 17 December 1918. In conversation with the Finnish composer Kallervo Tuukkanen, he attributed a large part of his success to “the power of alcohol.”41 In honour of Finland’s independence, Madetoja busied himself with the composition of a number of festive, patriotic works. On 4 December 1918, Madetoja’s Tuhanten rantain partahilla, op. 40, no. 2 (Morning Song, for strings and mixed choir) was premièred during a festival of Finnish song; it was repeated to great fanfare four days later at the University of Turku’s Finnish National Theatre. In February 1919, his Mies Mieheltä, op. 42, no. 5 (Man by Man, for male choir and brass ensemble), was premièred in Oulu to 38 “Sinfonia edistyy hitaasti.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 29 July 1918; quoted in Onerva, Yölauluja, 269; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 39 “Jos vain ehtiä valmiiksi.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to Anna Madetoja, 29 October 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 178. 40 “Sinfonian esitys lähenee.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to Anna Madetoja, 29 November 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 178. 41 “Alkoholin voimalla”; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 178; also quoted in Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja, 76. 130 a superb reception. More than a thousand people—well over capacity—were present at the community hall, and critical reception was uniformly positive. On 15 February 1920, Madetoja returned to the University of Turku to lead the première of an extensive cantata, Elämän päivät, op. 47 (The Days of Life, for soprano, mixed choir, and orchestra); Helsingin Sanomat described it as “a very significant composition.”42 Finally, on 28 February 1920 (Kalevala Day), Madetoja conducted the première of his Väinämöisen kylvö, op. 46 (Väinämöinen Sows the Wilderness), a symphonic poem for soprano or tenor and orchestra with text from the Kalevala. Kalevala Day was celebrated with greater than usual fervour that year owing to the eighty-five-year anniversary of the epic’s publication. The daily newspaper Helsingin Sanomat devoted an issue to the Kalevala, covering the epic’s roots, the relationship between the Kalevala and the Iliad, a representation of the Kalevala through vivid pictures, and a column by Eino Leino on the national epic. Madetoja’s Väinämöisen kylvö formed part of an anniversary celebration held at the National Theatre; in attendance were the Prime Minister, General Mannerheim, and President Ståhlberg. The performance was rewarded with sustained applause, but due to the nature of the event Madetoja did not receive any critical reviews.43 42 Helsingin Sanomat, 13 May 1920; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 194. 43 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 192. 131 Madetoja’s Rise and Fall: Late-Period Compositions The 1920s ushered in Madetoja’s most fertile period. In addition to his work at the Helsinki Music Institute, Madetoja gained a teaching position—and, in 1937, full professorship—at the University of Helsinki. Although the salary was negligible, the position was prestigious, having been previously been held by Fredrik Pacius, Richard Faltin, and Robert Kajanus. He also helped establish the Finnish Composers’ Copyright Society (Säveltäjäin Tekijänoikeustoimisto or TEOSTO), serving as board member from 1928-47 and chair from 1937-47. He furthermore continued his work with the associations Muusikkojen liitto and Musiikkitoimikunta, serving as chair of the former from 1933-36 and of the latter from 1936-47. His involvement with Musiikkitoimikunta (later Suomen Säveltäjät) would become an important part of his legacy; Madetoja’s will and testament dictated the formation of a Madetoja Foundation within the parent company, allowing his copyright revenue to be used for the commissioning of new music from Finnish composers and the recording and performing of new Finnish music.44 In 1924, Madetoja witnessed the première of his first opera, Pohjalaisia (The Ostrobothnians), the significance of which is sometimes overlooked. While there was an established national opera tradition in Europe at the turn of the century, Finland had no such tradition. As a symphonist, Madetoja could draw on the conventions introduced by Sibelius, but as an opera composer, he was practically self-taught. Pohjalaisia was a 44 Salmenhaara, “Musiikkipoliitikko,” 29. 132 pioneering work. It was quickly elevated to the status of Finland’s national opera, and it gained international success through performances in Kiel, Stockholm, Gothenburg, Berlin, and Copenhagen. Madetoja’s Third Symphony is his orchestra masterpiece. It was conceived in France in 1925, and its translucent orchestration and flowing counterpoint show the influence of French music. However, the Symphony also emphasizes the immediate repetition of musical material, a feature sometimes ascribed to the influence of the Finnish Kalevala that is nevertheless more common in the music of Madetoja than that of other Finnish composers.45 The opening is in two parts: the first, Andantino, presents a pastoral melody that recurs throughout the movement; the second, Allegretto, develops a lilting theme that appears in various guises, including in canon with itself. The second movement contrasts the Symphony’s French elegance with a melancholy Finnish Adagio. It introduces a theme reminiscent of folk song, and later features a broad, singing melody in cellos, then violins. The Symphony is both tonally and rhythmically ambiguous, with the most intricate rhythms appearing in the final two movements. The third movement, Allegro (non troppo) scherzo, is—in contrast to the first two movements—notable for its length. Its accompaniment is composed of a continuous ostinato figure, one of Madetoja’s more common techniques. The final movement features a melody that embeds swinging waltz rhythms within the prevailing common time. Although it feints at a majestic conclusion by 45 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 133 way of a tutti, fortissimo climax, an unexpected diminuendo brings the work rapidly to a close. Madetoja composed what is perhaps the most unusual of his orchestral works, incidental music for Poul Knudsen’s pantomime ballet Okon Fuoko, op. 58 (1925-27), at roughly the same time his Third Symphony. In the first movement, “Okon Fuoko: Unitaikuri” (Okon Fuoko: Dream Sorcerer), he sets the tone for the work through the use of bitonal harmony and rich orchestral colours, the latter including the understated use of castanets and celesta. These nuances paint the main character as a secretive, distant figure without resorting to the superficial exoticism broached by the pantomime’s storyline. Neoclassical touches are evident in two movements with strong rhythmic emphasis: the “Miehen tanssi” (Man’s Dance), which is evocative of Prokofiev, and the exotic closing “Danse Grotesque.” Unfortunately, the original pantomime drama, constructed half upon dialogue and half upon mimed expression, was dramatically unsatisfactory and largely underwhelmed Finnish audiences at its première on 12 February 1930. Undeterred, Madetoja made plans to compile the music from Okon Fuoko into three orchestral suites. Only one of these was completed. It was published on 15 December 1937 and enjoyed considerable success abroad. Madetoja’s final great work is Juha (1934), an opera in six tableaux. The plot comes from one of the finest achievements of fìn-de-siècle Finnish literature, the 1911 novel by the famed Finnish author Juhani Aho. The Finnish star soprano, Aino Ackté, adapted the libretto herself, no doubt envisioning the role of female protagonist Marja as a brilliant 134 vehicle for her talents. Madetoja was not Ackté’s first choice for the realization of her libretto; the young Finnish modernist composer Aarre Merikanto (1893-1958) completed his opera on Ackté’s libretto in 1922, but the board of the Finnish Opera deemed it too demanding and too modernist for performance. Madetoja received the libretto after 1929. Despite Juha’s domestic setting, the opera avoids the use of Finnish folk tunes; however, it does quote a Ukrainian folk tune that Madetoja had heard on the radio, which in turn sounds quite similar to an old Finnish tune called the “Kalevala tune.”46 More symphonic, refined, and coherent than Pohjalaisia, Juha achieved great critical success following its première on 17 February 1935; Sibelius, who could not be present due to illness, wrote to Madetoja, “I heard ‘Juha’ on the radio. It made a huge impression on me. Crescendo until the end! And not a dead place!”47 Unfortunately, it never achieved the same popularity as Pohjalaisia. Although decreases in performances of Juha during the 1940s have been blamed on dramaturgical weaknesses, a more likely rationale lies in the changing audience demands of Finland’s heavy post-war period.48 Nevertheless, its poor reception ushered in a period of adversity for Madetoja that would result in his eventual collapse.49 On 26 March 1934, Madetoja was dealt the heavy blow of his mother’s passing. He was devastated by the news, contracting an illness of such severity that he was unable even 46 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 196. 47 Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja, 100. 48 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 309. 49 Korhonen, Inventing, 50-51, 70. 135 to attend the funeral in Oulu. From this point on, his creativity began to wane. Throughout the 1930s, he spent a long time working on a fourth symphony, but his only copy was stolen from a Paris railway station in 1938, and he did not have the strength to rewrite it. His alcoholism steadily increased, and he developed serious health issues. He became unable to manage his huge range of tasks, both professional and as a member of societies and organizations, and he resigned from the University of Helsinki in 1939. Madetoja’s morale was further dampened by the Winter and Continuation Wars, which began on 30 November 1939 with the Soviet invasion of Finland. In the spring of 1941, he was forced to enter Huvitus, a clinic for alcoholics. While Madetoja composed a number of works following his return home, he never fully recovered. Madetoja passed away on 6 October 1947. His funeral was held on 11 October at the Helsinki Old Church, with a venerable who’s who of Helsinki society in attendance. The Northern Ostrobothnian Students’ Association formed a guard of honor at the gangway; the organist Venni Kuosma played an Adagio by Bach; the Finnish opera singer Oiva Soini performed Madetoja’s Ilta, op. 60, no. 3 (Evening); Martti Similä conducted the Helsinki Symphony Orchestra in a performance of Madetoja’s Hautalaulu, op. 23, no. 4 (Song of the Grave); and the celebrated choir Suomen Laulu sung Madetoja’s anthems Ei mitään multa puutu, op. 30a, no. 2 (O Nothing Do I Want For) and Tuolla ylhääll’ asunnoissa, op. 30b, no. 3 (Up There in the Mansions). Meanwhile, wreaths were laid by President of the Republic’s adjutant Colonel Grönvall, the Ministry of Education, the University of Helsinki, the City of Oulu, the Northern Ostrobothnia Students ‘Association, the Sibelius Academy, 136 the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, Vocal Music Artists’ Association, Teosto, and numerous other organizations, associations and individuals. An honor guard led Madetoja’s coffin to the beautiful Hietaniemi cemetery, where, to the strains of the Finnish men’s choir Laulumiehet, Madetoja was buried on Artists’ Hill. 137 “Both Rare and Precious”: Leevi Madetoja’s Second Symphony Introduction I have chosen to investigate Madetoja’s Second Symphony, and not his more universally lauded Third Symphony, in part because the composer wrote the work during a pivotal phase of Finland’s cultural and political history: while composing the piece, Madetoja witnessed both the Finnish Declaration of Independence, on 6 December 1917, and the Civil War the following year. With respect to the date when the Symphony was written, it could be considered Madetoja’s nationalistic reaction to the surrounding historical events. Contemporary Finnish musicologists recognize this link. Kimmo Korhonen asserts that “the focal point of the Symphony is the third movement driven at times to violent outbursts and featuring aggressive military march elements that speak of the tragic Finnish Civil War of 1918.”1 Juoni Kaipainen agrees, stating that the Finnish Civil War and the death of Madetoja’s brother—who was among those killed in the fighting— have a direct impact on the Second Symphony’s sorrowful quality.2 Erkki Salmenhaara adds that the Second Symphony “seems to reflect Madetoja’s tragic personal experiences and contains some of the same melodic motifs as the piano suite The Garden of Death 1 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 8. 2 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 138 (Kuoleman puutarha) composed in memory of his brother killed in the Finnish Civil War of 1918.”3 After the success of Madetoja’s First Symphony, the Finnish public eagerly anticipated the Second, and its premiere—on 17 December 1918, with Robert Kajanus conducting the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra—was a major triumph for Madetoja and a landmark event. Equally dramatic, weighty, and romantic, it was extremely well received, and its success firmly established Madetoja’s status in Finnish music. Kimmo Korhonen writes that the Second Symphony “is the most grandiose and extensive of the three, and a considerable advance over the First Symphony in terms of content and orchestral conception”4; he observes elsewhere that the Second Symphony’s expressive content is likewise broader than the First, ranging “from delicate lyricism to militant drama.”5 Jean Sibelius, who attended the première, was also impressed. He made special mention of the work’s “elegant, pastoral tone,” noting that “it gives one much to think about.”6 Not all critics, however, agree on the merits of Madetoja’s Second Symphony. For example, in his 1985 article Juoni Kaipainen does not hold back in his criticism of the work. About the first movement, he observes that “an extraordinarily long exposition of the main 3 Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia,” par. 9. 4 Korhonen, Inventing, 51. 5 Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja,” par. 5. 6 Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius: Volume 3; 1914-1957, trans. and ed. Robert Layton (London: Faber, 1997), 140. 139 subject provides advance notice that we should not expect too much by way of drama.”7 He concedes that “the Second Symphony is quite original in one or two respects,”8 but for Kaipainen, the word “original” apparently has negative connotations: The proportioning of the separate movements within the work does not conform to the standard practice: the first and second movements are played without a break, and given the relative lack of action in the music the whole so formed puts a strain on all but the most long-suffering of listeners. The third movement is a disjointed combination of scherzo and finale, and the fourth a completely insubstantial slow- tempoed epilogue, rather more a coda linked to the previous movement than a separate unit of its own.9 Kaipainen’s main critique of the Symphony can be distilled to one overarching point, which I will assess—and dispute—throughout the course of this chapter: that the work lacks variation, due to the fact that its thematic materials are overly similar. In terms of its thematic material Madetoja’s Second Symphony falls far short of offering anything very interesting. The stage is held by an accented main subject, energetically circling around the tonal centre, and the majority of the work’s other themes are mere variations on this. Madetoja has, however, left his variation-work incomplete: the different variants bear too great a resemblance to the original starting-point, and as a result the Symphony takes on an annoyingly mono-thematic character.10 In support of his case, Kaipainen calls upon comments made by Kai Maasalo, who writes in 1964 that this “pastoral-elegiac-pathetic” Symphony is stamped “with a certain monotonous 7 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 8 Ibid., 51. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 140 quality.”11 While Maasalo is referring to the first two movements, Kaipainen states that the same could just as easily have been said of the remaining movements; however, he adds, rather magnanimously, that “this does not, of course, actually prevent the Symphony from containing some impressive moments.”12 Whether positive or negative, these prior assessments of Madetoja’s Second Symphony provide only a general overview of the piece, and no analyses of his symphonies have been published, either in Finnish or in any other language. What is needed at this stage is a more detailed consideration of Madetoja’s compositional technique, including the role of innovative procedures characteristic of Central and Northern European symphonic composition at the beginning of the twentieth century.13 To this end, the following reading of the first movement will focus on three main topics. The first is the use of organic connections among the Second Symphony’s themes by virtue of a strong communal relationship between themes as variants of one another, both within and among movements. The second is the manipulation of form, and particularly of sonata form, which follows an early twentieth-century adaptation of older models. The third is the approach to tonal relationships, which reveals an original harmonic conception rooted in an additive 11 Maasalo, “Suomalaisia,” n.p.; quoted in Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 12 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 13 Sibelius, like Mahler and Strauss, is often referred to as a “modern classicist.” In this chapter, I argue for a similar stylistic approach within Madetoja’s symphonic output owing to his use of analagous “sonata- deformation” procedures described in detail below. See James Hepokoski, Sibelius: Symphony No. 5 (New York, Cambridge University Press, 1993), 4-9; and Arnold Whittall, “The Later Symphonies,” in The Cambridge Companion to Sibelius, ed. Daniel M. Grimley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 49‒65. 141 approach. A discussion of these topics reveals that the work’s advanced tonal ambiguities and its strong classification of motives into close variants contribute to the blurring of traditional formal boundaries; therefore, a reading through the lens of fin-de-siècle techniques such as layering and additive processes suits Madetoja’s Second Symphony better than one through traditional forms and harmonic patterns. The First Movement The first topic to be addressed is the first movement’s themes and motives, which bear such a close resemblance to each other as to make their classification difficult. The task in this section is to trace the unfolding of the various melodic components while illustrating their strong similarities and classifying their component parts. In an attempt to highlight the unusual degree of integration between motivic material, this opening analysis will, as far as possible, initially avoid references to harmonic function or large-scale musical syntax. Before proceeding with the analysis, however, a few basic features of the first movement should be noted. Measure 260 features a “double return” of the main theme and the original key, suggestive of a sonata-form recapitulation, and it is prefaced by a return of the introductory accompaniment figure in measure 258. While this moment is followed by a restatement of the movement’s thematic material, albeit with some omissions, it is not preceded by a separate development section. Further, although the material after measure 258 mostly remains in the tonic key, the material prior to this point moves through several 142 non-tonic keys, ultimately reaching the mediant (m. 241, spelled as F-sharp major) before modulating back to the tonic. Together, these features suggest the “type 1” sonata (i.e., exposition and recapitulation) as the overall form of the movement, although, as we shall see, the movement diverges from the familiar, Classical-period conventions of this form in several conspicuous ways.14 Although James Hepokoski is dismissive of interpretations that “[process] the movement primarily on the basis of what we have come to expect from textbook sonata patterns,”15 such an approach is justified here for reasons voiced by Tim Howell with respect to Sibelius. First, Sibelius was aware of, and deliberately superseded, these textbook sonata patterns; thus, even in their repudiation they function as an important design element. Second, many listeners’ expectations are based on the same patterns—in fact, Sibelius’s denial of sonata-form expectations arguably plays an important role in his work’s 14 I offer my thanks to Professor Alan Dodson for his reading of this movement in light of Hepokoski and Darcy’s theory of sonata form, one of several possible approaches that I have not included here but which I will continue to explore in future analyses of this movement. Professor Dodson suggests that the structure of the exposition is informed by the mixolydian cadences in measures 95 (in IV) and 241 (in bIII), and, furthermore, that the textural break at measure 167 functions as a medial caesura in preparation for the contrasting thematic material that follows. Accordingly, he sees the structure of the exposition as consisting of a primary theme in measures 1-97, a transition in measures 97-167 (with elision at 97), a secondary-theme zone in measures 168-243, and a retransition in measures 243-57 (with elision at 243). Noting the tension between G-flat major (mm. 18 and 69) and its enharmonic equivalent F# major (m. 241), it is possible to interpret a long-range tonal plan through the movement from I to bIII through a series of ascending fourths. P moves from E-flat major (m. 1) to A-flat major (m. 89); then S moves from D-flat major (m. 172) to F-sharp major (m. 241). See also James A. Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late Eighteenth-Century Sonata (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 15 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 61. 143 reception.16 As the following analysis will show, the same arguments can reasonably be made of Madetoja. Containing a time signature of six-four and a key signature of three flats, the first movement opens with an accompaniment pattern (henceforth referred to as accomp. 1; see ex. 4.1) that reappears throughout the movement (for a detailed table of the movement’s formal structure, please see the Appendix). Accomp. 1 contains three distinct layers: an extended pedal in tuba and horns on the pitches E-flat and G, respectively; a pizzicato 16 Tim Howell, “Review: Sibelius Studies and Notions of Expertise,” in Music Analysis 14, nos. 2-3 (1995): 322. Example 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. 144 contrabass line that alternates E-flat with G in half notes on each measure’s first and fourth beats; and a flute ostinato in eighth notes on each measure’s second and fifth beats, suggesting a syncopated lilting motion. The principal theme is introduced in the second measure (ex. 4.2). This sixteen- measure asymmetrical theme consists of two phrases of unequal length: the first phrase (mm. 2.10-9.8) is roughly seven measures long; the second phrase (mm. 9.10-18.12) is two measures longer. Each phrase can be further subdivided into the following subphrases as shown in example 2: “subphrase 1a” (mm. 2.10-5.12 and again in mm. 9.10-12.12), “subphrase 1b” (mm. 6.1-9.8), and “subphrase 1c” (mm. 17.1-18.12). Example 4.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme, measures 2-18. 145 Subphrase 1a presents some of the Symphony’s most important building blocks. It moves downward from G5 to G4 by way of two descending perfect fourths a major second apart, and the fourths are bisected by a double-neighbor motive with an interpolated passing note (henceforth referred to as the changing-note figure) that begins in measure 4.4. The changing-note figure is developed in an intervallic capacity through the work. For example, the first four notes of subphrase 1b can be viewed as a modification of the changing-note figure, lacking its interpolated passing note, in which the two final notes are augmented registrally to encompass the interval of a perfect fourth. The changing-note figure is also frequently developed in an additive manner. In subphrase 1c (mm. 17-18), it adds a further note to its ascending trajectory, foreshadowing the birth of motive A, which will be discussed shortly. The changing-note figure can be further subdivided into prime and retrograde inversion statements of “motive X.” A subset of the changing-note figure, motive X evolves in three clearly defined ways independent of the changing-note figure. First, it frequently recurs as a four-note rhythmic motive, as the two iterations beginning in mm. 8.4 and 8.10 illustrate. Second, it sometimes appears as a simple contour composed of two ascending pitches, the registral span of which subsequently contains a single descending pitch. This can be seen in measures 16.10-18.12, where the additive expansion of the changing-note figure nevertheless maintains the integrity of the component statements of motive X. Third, it occasionally omits the passing note to highlight its intervallic components, an ascending minor third followed by a descending minor second. This modality presents an 146 alternate interpretation of subphrase 1b, whereby its opening notes are composed of this kernel motive in retrograde inversion, a descending minor second followed by an ascending minor third (mm. 6.1-7.1). Such examples illustrate the way in which the Symphony develops multiple possibilities for its constituent motives simultaneously. The interval of a perfect 4th is yet another fundamental building block for the symphony’s motivic material. This interval occurs twice in subphrase 1a and three times in Example 4.3: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on subphrase 1a. 147 subphrase 1b; in addition, subphrases 1a1 and 1a1’ (mm. 13-14 and 15-16) transpose subphrase 1a a perfect fourth higher with minor tonal adjustments. In this way the entire first theme grows from a few key ideas presented in the Symphony’s opening phrase: a changing-note figure, its constituent motives, and the interval of a perfect fourth. The influence of subphrase 1a extends further than the first theme; in fact, it recurs in a variety of guises throughout the movement (ex. 4.3). For example, subphrases 1a2 and 1a3 (mm. 19 and 20), which present the changing-note motive in augmentation, appear in canon immediately following the principal theme and again following the return of this theme in measures 278 and 279. Subphrase 1a4 is a more extensive variation, and its cadential harmonies have a coda-like function: both of its iterations (mm. 89 and 235) close their respective thematic areas and prepare for a period of transition and release before the ensuing sections. However, subphrase 1a is important in yet other ways as well; as we shall see, its intervals and motives contain the seeds of ideas that are employed throughout the Symphony and are crucial to the understanding of the work as a whole. The section following the principal theme introduces several new motives, the most important of which is motive A (mm. 27.10-31.12, ex. 4.4). Born of the changing-note figure first introduced in measure 3, and in turn mediated by the additive developments of subphrase 1c, motive A adds an échappée as shown in example 4.4, extending the ascending portion of the figure so that its total span reaches a diminished fourth. This idea of motivic 148 expansion, as the ensuing discussion will attest, becomes increasingly important as the movement progresses. When Kaipainen states that “the stage is held by an accented main subject, energetically circling around the tonal centre,”17 he is surely referring to motive A. However, his assertion that this motive is the movement’s “main subject” is disputable, since, as we have seen, it is a derivative of the principal theme and not its source. Nevertheless, motive A is of no small significance. It is first announced in the woodwinds over a dark, minor harmony and a C-flat pedal; its tutti repetition an octave higher (mm. 32.4-34.12) foreshadows the motive’s importance. In the twenty measures following its introduction, it is featured eight times, four of which occur in sequential passages that contribute to the 17 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. Example 4.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, comparison of subphrase 1a with motive A. 149 raising of tension and lead to a decisive fortissimo statement of the main theme on a subdominant (A-flat) pedal (mm. 53.7-57.12). Motive A appears throughout the Symphony, with many recognizable variants, of which the most noteworthy are shown in example 4.5. Motive A also undergoes more drastic permutations, serving—as we shall see—not only as building block for new themes, but also as an intermediary for previous motives. Example 4.5: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on motive A. 150 Motive C—also referred to as the oscillating theme, for reasons that will shortly be addressed—is introduced in measure 69: here, first violins outline a repetitive motive that begins with a B-flat5 held for an entire measure; in the following measure, this pitch is surrounded by an undulating minor third, A5 to C6 (ex. 4.6). This is heard in counterpoint with motive B, a repetitive ostinato figure sounding in the clarinets. Introduced in measures 62 through 68 in preparation for this section, motive B is loosely related to motive X by virtue of its contour, two ascending intervals followed by a descending minor second. Measures 71 and 72 are an identical repeat of measures 69 and 70; measures 73 through 76 repeat the melodic content of measures 69 through 72 a major third higher, suggesting a sequential pattern but for a ubiquitous B-flat pedal that continues through to measure 77.2. Example 4.6: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, second thematic idea, oscillating theme, measures 69-76. 151 In measure 77.5 these patterns are replaced by a new motive in the bassoon and bass strings (motive D; ex. 4.7) that incorporates melodic fifths into a descending chromatic line that moves from B-flat (m. 77.5) to G (m. 80.1). This motive is not presented alone, however: measure 78.5 initiates a leisurely statement of motive A in cornets that continues above motive D as a second layer. An ostinato accompaniment pattern, rhythmically related to accomp. 1, forms a third layer; this leads smoothly in measures 80.7 through 82.12 and 86.7 through 88.12 with a variant of motive A (ex. 4.8) that is linked through elision with ensuing iterations, each a minor third higher, to form a sweeping melodic figuration that rises an octave primarily via the notes of an octatonic scale (henceforth referred to as motive A’s ascending octatonic variant). Together these superimposed materials contribute to an increasing tension, which is also supported by crescendo dynamics and textural thickening. Measures 98.1 through 107.6 introduce accompaniment pattern 4, an undulating ostinato figure in parallel thirds voiced by divisi clarinets. Accomp. 4 is intricately linked with previous motives; example 4.9 illustrates its genesis in subphrase 1a and its adoption Example 4.7: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, motive D, measures 77- 80. 152 of the principle of motivic expansion. In measure 107, this pattern transitions seamlessly to accomp. 3. Accomp. 3, first seen in measure 42, likewise stems from subphrase 1a. Example 4.10 shows the accompaniment pattern’s derivation from a retrograde statement of the changing-note figure and the expansion of its final interval. It should be noted here that Example 4.8: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, ascending octatonic variant of motive A, measures 80-83. 153 this particular variant of the changing-note figure is crucial to the development of upcoming thematic material. In fact, as will soon become apparent, accomp. 3 and accomp. 4, in conjunction with subphrase 1a, effectively foreshadow the second important thematic idea (henceforth referred to as the conjunct melody) in advance of its arrival, while simultaneously introducing and supporting the unfolding theme. These patterns accomplish this by acting as accompaniments to the third important thematic arrival (mm. 105.3-120.2; ex. 4.11), a sixteen-measure theme consisting of two symmetrical eight-measure phrases (mm. 105.3-112.6 and mm. 113.3-120.2), each of which contains two contrasting Example 4.9: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, accompaniment patterns 4 and 3, measures 103-08. 154 subphrases. The first subphrase (mm. 105.3-109.2; repeated in mm. 113.2-117.2) features a conjunct, lyrical melody that opens and closes on the same pitch, C6. Like other previous themes, the conjunct melody is also strongly related to other materials: it borrows its contour directly from accomp. 4, elongating the first and last notes (both C6) to lend the melody a more languid, expressive quality. Accomp. 4 continues underneath this subphrase, articulating a kind of heterophony between melody and accompaniment. Example 4.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of accomp. 3. 155 The second subphrase (mm. 109.3-112.6 and mm. 117.3-120.2) is highly suggestive of subphrase 1a. It opens and closes with twin retrograde iterations of motive X, which share Example 4.11: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, “conjunct melody,” measures 104-120. 156 not only the original motive’s melodic contour, but also its triplet rhythm. These statements of motive X function as elaborations of subphrase 1a’s original perfect fourth motive; nested between them is the changing-note figure, a further reminder of the movement’s opening subphrase. While the first subphrase is melodically identical in both iterations, the second iteration of the second subphrase contains a noteworthy variation. Here, each statement of motive X (mm. 117.2-117.5 and mm. 118.6-119.1) expands, exploiting a wider intervallic range and bringing the idea of motivic dilation into play once more. The meandering contour and subtle rhythmic modifications of this melody are organic. As with the first subphrase, discussed above, accomp. 3 supports this melody, and its relationship with motive X again suggests a loose heterophonic texture. Measure 120.5 initiates a new section. This section, which lasts until measure 163.12, expands upon the possibilities inherent in the ascending minor third pattern featured in Example 4.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of motive E. 157 the final three notes of the conjunct melody (ex. 4.12). The section begins with four reiterations of the conjunct melody (mm. 120.5-136.2) followed by a statement of motive A (136.5-140.10). The similarity between the conjunct melody and motive A is so readily apparent here that one wonders if it is strictly necessary to differentiate between them. Of course, one important difference between the two subphrases is found in the range of their final notes: in its closing contour, the conjunct melody describes a minor third, while motive A describes perfect fourth. It is interesting to observe how, after lingering here on its characteristic perfect fourth (m. 138.9), motive A expands one note higher in its scalar ascent to describe a diminished fifth (m. 139.1). This idea of expansion—from minor third to perfect fourth and eventually diminished fifth—plays out in a more obvious way a few measures later when, in measure 145, motive E outlines a scale passage on which the following twenty-two measures are based (as well as its recapitulation in mm. 334-66). The similarities of rhythm and intervallic contour of the final five notes of each motive underscore an obvious link between them. The next important thematic arrival (henceforth referred to as the dance theme, mm. 176.1-191.10; ex. 4.13) differs from previous material in that it has a more symmetrical rhythmic and metric structure, and its dotted rhythm in six-eight time suggests a dance topic connection. It is composed of two consecutive but distinct phrases. The first phrase (mm. 176.1-183.12) introduces a rustic peasant gigue in six-eight; presented in clarinets, it begins and ends on the mediant F4/F5, after which cornets offer an imitative countermelody. The second phrase (mm. 184.1-191.10) relinquishes the gigue rhythm in 158 favour of an espressivo string melody that ascends in a conjunct diatonic fashion from F4/F5 to leading note C5/C6 before returning to the original pitch. Both phrases have elements in common with phrase 1a; as example 13 illustrates, the “dance theme” incorporates such elements as prominent perfect fourth intervals, frequent statements of motive X, and sophisticated expansion of the changing-note figure. It is worth noting that much of the material returns in various guises in the movement’s remaining measures, but as this will be discussed in more detail below, it need not be addressed here. The important point is that the principle of thematic variation, a characteristic of many “progressive” compositions from the late nineteenth and early Example 4.13: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, fourth thematic idea, “dance theme,” measures 176-191. 159 twentieth centuries, plays quite a prominent role within the exposition of the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony.18 This similarity of material makes it very difficult to ascertain a formal structure: a detailed discussion of main versus subordinate themes requires a discussion of contrast, for a subordinate theme must contrast the main theme in the same way that the subordinate key contrasts the home key.19 However, as the movement’s material is so motivically connected, its various sections fail to provide the necessary conflict required of sonata form. At the same time, these organic connections have significant unifying value; they also hint at a possible resemblance to Debussy’s techniques, as we shall see in the next chapter. Replacing thematic contrast in this movement is a cyclical process of tight-knit versus loose thematic material that defines the work’s formal structure. An idiosyncratic formal pattern emerges: each new key area begins with a short introductory section followed by a tight-knit theme that eventually gives way to a looser structure and further development, often through sequential processes. With this process in mind, it becomes possible to tease a formal design from the myriad thematic elements presented above. The first movement’s structure is based around four main themes, each of which has been noted above: the principal theme (theme 1, mm. 2.10-18.12); the oscillating theme (theme 2, mm. 69.1-76.12); the conjunct theme (theme 3, 18 See Tim Howell, “‘Sibelius the Progressive,’” in Sibelius Studies, ed. Timothy Jackson and Veijo Murtomäki (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 35-57. The thematic transformations in this movement are admittedly less extreme than in many Romantic-era orchestral works, such as Liszt’s symphonic poems, and this may be why Kaipainen complained that Madetoja “left his variation-work incomplete.” Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 19 Caplin, Classical Form, 97. 160 mm. 105.3-120.2); and the dance theme (theme 4, mm. 176.1-191.10). These themes are supported by a key structure that cycles unconventionally through the circle of fifths as shown in figure 4.1. The first theme moves quickly from the home key of E-flat major to G- flat major; mediant relationships, as we will see, play an important role throughout the movement. A short detour leads to B-flat major, but the second theme returns to G-flat major. From there the tonality ascends a major second to A-flat major for the third theme. The fourth theme is in D-flat major; the music ascends again by a major second to the home key for the recapitulation. Thus, the movement cycles through five adjacent keys in the circle of fifths, but it does so in a non-standard order, combining modulations by second, third, and fifth. This first pass through Madetoja’s Second Symphony has concerned itself primarily with an overview of the first movement’s thematic material. In so doing, it has illustrated Figure 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, large scale tonal movement. 161 the extensive thematic unity offered through the development of a small number of motives, all of which are introduced in the work’s first measures. However, so far little has been said about musical syntax per se. The next section will feature a second pass through the movement with a closer look at the thematic materials’ syntactic roles while highlighting some of the movement’s more salient structural principles. One such principle is the staggered arrival of new material concurrent with the liquidation of old material: in this movement, thematic material is rarely demarcated through a single, clear division; rather, it engages in a process of liquidation and arrival at common boundaries (marked “trans. area” in the Appendix). This process manifests itself most clearly, as we will see, in that each new theme is preceded by an introductory area and followed by a developmental space, in a clear departure from traditional sonata-form principles. The principal theme is a sixteen-measure asymmetrical period. The antecedent phrase contains a basic idea (subphrase 1a) and a contrasting idea (subphrase 1b); it ends with a half cadence on the tonic. The longer consequent phrase—what Caplin terms a “modulating consequent, cadential strength”20—likewise contains a basic and contrasting idea. While the basic idea is similar to its first iteration, the contrasting idea is quite different: it begins with two iterations of subphrase 1a1 in the submediant minor; it ends with subphrase 1c and concludes the first theme in a new harmony—G-flat major, the 20 William Earl Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 53. 162 flatted mediant—on the downbeat of measure 18, bringing a clear dissent from the traditional tonic stability of the first theme area. Several signposts herald the arrival of the second, “oscillating” theme. First, measures 54 through 61 feature a rapid diminuendo, from fortissimo model to piano copy, suggestive of the energy loss that accompanies a medial caesura in anticipation of a lower- intensity secondary theme.21 Second, measure 62 presents an imperfect authentic cadence on the dominant, B-flat major. Third, measures 62 through 68 are characterized by heightened tonal stability in the new key: measure 62 introduces a gentle ostinato pattern played by solo clarinet (motive B) and harmonic motion grinds to a halt with seven measures of pure dominant harmony; measure 64 presents a reflective cornet rendition of motive 1, a plaintive reminder of the transition’s earlier intensity (see Appendix). Although the second theme itself turns back to G-flat major, a lengthy B-flat pedal maintains the integrity of the subsidiary tonal area. The repetitive construction of the second theme suggests a repeated basic idea, the rudimentary presentation phrase of a sixteen-measure sentence. However, after eight measures, the music features a sudden change in texture (m. 77) and renewed harmonic modulation. As it is therefore too short and too repetitive to have syntactical classification, it receives the designation motive C in the Appendix. Nevertheless, by virtue of its tight-knit construction and the contrast it presents from the surrounding texture, it can be considered a theme. 21 Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements, 40. 163 Example 4.14: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 89-90. 164 Elements of the third thematic area begin as early as measure 89 (ex. 4.14). A thirty- one measure A-flat pedal starts at measure 89.1; motive 1a4 (a holdover from the previous thematic area) begins at measure 89.5; the transitional area’s insistent eighth-note pulse terminates at measure 90.1; and accomp. 1 resumes at measure 90.3. Following this, the accompaniment undertakes a gradual process of liquidation: on the downbeat of measure 97, motive 1a4 ends and the accompaniment begins a process of stepwise ascent covering the interval of a perfect fifth; on the downbeat of measure 99, a new accompaniment pattern (accomp. 4; see ex. 4.9 above) begins, and the next five measures see a process of alternation between the two patterns before the second takes over (itself morphing several times within the third thematic area). The arrival of the third theme in measure 105 (ex. 4.15) designates the decisive start of the third thematic area; its arrival is likewise staggered. The bassoon’s sustained A-flat pedal (in six-four time) arrives at measure 104.7, the double bass’s pizzicato on the downbeat of the following measure, and the theme itself (in two- two time, marking the end of the sixteen-measure transitional area) at measure 105.3. Example 4.15: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 104-106. 165 The lyrical third theme is a tight-knit, sixteen-measure symmetrical period. Its time signature is in 2/2 while the rest of the orchestra continues in 6/4; thus the eighth notes in measures 106 and 110 are slower than the surrounding texture, lending the melody a relaxed, languid quality. Unconventional harmonic decisions lend the theme a distinctive character. Although the third theme is firmly in the subdominant, this key avoids receiving authentic cadential confirmation.22 Rather, the tonality is established and the theme introduced through an unorthodox mixolydian cadence (bVII9‒Iadd6) on the downbeat of measure 95, lending the harmony a modal quality that ranks among the more modern-sounding aspects of the movement. Correspondingly, the theme closes with a common-tone half-diminished seventh to tonic progression (m. 118.7) over a tonic pedal. The fourth, “dance” theme is a very tight-knit theme in period form. Its entrance in measure 176 features timpani and double basses beginning a lengthy D-flat pedal on measure 175.7; a syncopated cornet ostinato adds an element of rhythmic ambiguity. As with the third theme, it is introduced through an area of liquidation and staggered arrival. While the theme itself begins in measure 176, the introduction/transition begins as early as measure 151 with a robust move to the dominant, A-flat major, and a four-measure A-flat pedal. Measures 156, 158, and 160 bring strongly accented E-flat major ninth chords, suggesting a dominant preparation and the imminent approach of an A-flat major cadence. However, a lengthy diminuendo follows the fortissimo tutti of measure 160, and measure 22 Caplin considers this cadential requirement a necessary requisite of sonata form, noting that “exceptions to this principle are rare.” Caplin, Classical Form, 97. 166 168 introduces a new texture and melody in A-flat major. Here, pianissimo half-diminished- seventh chords—neighbour to a series of A-flat dominant seventh/major ninth chords— slide in parallel motion over an alternating E-flat/A-flat/D-flat bassline; these lead to a perfect cadence in D-flat major in measure 172. The key of the fourth theme—D-flat major, the subdominant of the subdominant of the home key—is secured through the movement’s first perfect authentic cadence (m. 172). Following the exposition of the fourth theme and the looser formal region that follows, measure 258 initiates a lengthy recapitulation. This section—which we will examine in more detail shortly—recapitulates the first, second, and fourth themes, as well as much of the looser thematic material; curiously, however, there is no recapitulation of the third theme. This exploration of the Second Symphony’s first movement exposes Madetoja’s efforts to engage in dialogue with classical formal structures. While the movement contains a number of elements compatible with sonata form, it contains many others that are not, rendering this formal descriptor inadequate. Rather, it could be classified as a quadripartite extension of sonata form, still recognizing the relevance of sonata form structure to the movement: it contains four thematic areas, each of which contains a relatively new theme preceded by an introduction and ensuing developmental space; these thematic areas— which take the place of the traditional exposition and development—are followed by a recapitulation of the first, second, and fourth areas. However, the structure is difficult to ascertain with absolute certainly as the movement contains a high level of syntactic 167 ambiguity; in fact, this could be considered a modus operandi for the work as a whole. Whereas contemporary large-scale Germanic music typically contains a strong harmonic teleology with climactic emphasis—the dynamic sound of which is created through linear movement, tonal harmonic functionality, and progression toward new tonal areas—the Second Symphony subscribes to a different formal methodology, an additive one. As we have seen, Madetoja subtly varies repeated musical phrases, ameliorating thematic contrast through the reiteration of motivic patterns. At the same time, he combines seemingly autonomous phrases—such as subphrase 1a—into larger units, assimilating individual discontinuity within a larger thematic framework. These working processes are suggestive of an additive approach to content creation, in which music’s constituent parts follow one another according to a non-developmental linear narrative. They maintain, as Robert Morgan writes about Debussy’s additive procedures, “a sort of floating balance among subtly interconnected musical entities, giving rise to wavelike motions characterized by extremely fine gradations of color, pacing, and intensity.”23 Additive processes manifest themselves in the first movement in two important ways: first, through the liberal use of sequential passagework—so that the music simply moves from one section to the next in a non-teleological and non-developmental fashion—and second, through the layering and juxtaposition of simultaneous but independent strata. This additive approach has a profound effect not only on the work’s structure, but also its 23 Robert Morgan, Twentieth-Century Music: A History of Musical Style in Modern Europe and America (New York: Norton, 1991), 48. 168 harmony. Madetoja’s additive approach, as we will see in the next, final pass through the first movement, encourages a high degree of localized harmonic ambiguity, for the superimposition of multiple layers frequently results in the superimposition of multiple tonal possibilities as well. The latter idea is in evidence in the opening measures of the work, where layering engenders an ambiguous tonal underpinning. As discussed above, the opening accompanimental pattern (accomp. 1, mm. 1-5; ex. 4.16), contains a multilayered allusion to two different tonal centres, E-flat major and G minor. The flute ostinato—which alternately suggests these two centres—capitalizes on this ambiguity through the simultaneous use of Example 4.16: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. 169 pitches that are concordant to one centre and discordant to the other: for example, while both E-flat major (mm. 1.3-1.6) and G minor (mm. 1.9-1.12) share the pitches G and B-flat, the D in measures 1.3 through 1.6 is a consonance in G minor and a dissonance in E-flat major; conversely, the E-flat in measures 1.4 and 1.5 is a consonance in E-flat major and a dissonance (an added sixth) in G minor. Over this stratified accompanimental pattern, the principal theme emerges as a separate, independent layer (ex. 4.17). Its distinct rhythmic composition helps differentiate it from the accompaniment: whereas the accompaniment is set in six-four, suggesting a waltz-like pattern (a quarter-note rest followed by four eighth notes), subphrase 1a’s metre suggests twelve-eight; the introduction of the melody in measure 2.9 and the changing- note figure in measure 3.4 highlight the rhythmic incongruity of the theme through metric placement that is incompatible with the movement’s underlying rhythmic pulse. Its Example 4.17: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme. 170 melodic contour likewise distinguishes it, even while adding an additional tonal ambiguity. Although subphrase 1a is situated in triadic G-minor, the third scale degree (B-flat) is noticeably absent; this lends the subphrase a distinctly modal, rustic character. In measure 6.10, subphrase 1b moves to A-natural instead of A-flat, and in measure 9.1, it emphasizes F-natural while completely avoiding the leading note, F-sharp. This suggests the mode of G Aeolian, sounding less like G minor than like the submediant (vi) of B-flat major. The blurring of a clear tonality continues throughout the entire phrase, leading to a varied repeat of the opening E-flat major/G minor sonority (m. 9.10) that is amplified by instrumental thickening of the texture. In combination with bass descent to B-flat in measure 9.7, subphrase 1b suggests V/ E-flat (melodic F5 against bass B-flat); however, other processes—notably the flute ostinato—suggest V7/V (F, A, C, and E-flat). Thus, while Madetoja’s Second Symphony commonly bears the appendage “in E-flat Major,” there is little—apart from the opening chord—that firmly grounds the opening of the piece in this key. The harmonies that open the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony may suggest a variation of Robert Bailey’s concept of the double-tonic complex,24 except that Madetoja’s E-flat major/G minor tonality employs an implied tonic E-flat major with its minor mediant (iii), G minor, as opposed to Wagner’s implied tonic A minor with its major mediant (III), C major. From the accompaniment’s clearly delineated oscillation and the 24 Robert Bailey, “An Analytical Study of the Sketches and Drafts,” in Richard Wagner: Prelude and Transfiguration from Tristan und Isolde, ed. Robert Bailey (New York: Norton, 1985), 121. 171 work’s careful layering, it is apparent that these two keys function not as a decorated triad, but rather as the twin polarities of the double-tonic complex. This is not the only instance: other noteworthy double-tonic moments occur at measure 28 (B major/E-flat minor), measure 54 (A-flat major/C minor), measure 58 (E-flat major/G minor), measure 62 (B-flat major/D minor), measure 83 (D-flat major/F minor), measure 121 (A-flat major/C minor), measure 172 (D-flat major/F minor), measure 235 (D major/F-sharp minor), and many other places, including corresponding recapitulatory sections. Note that all of the above keys pair a major key with its minor mediant. However, this pairing does not seem to have consistent, large-scale organizational consequences of the kind that Bailey observes in the Tristan prelude. Table 4.1: Authentic cadences in Madetoja’s Symphony No. 2, first movement. One consequence of the movement’s pervasive tonal ambiguity is that harmony does not, in and of itself, serve as a reliable indicator of structure. Authentic cadences, for example, are rare in this movement. As table 1 shows, the first movement contains only four authentic cadences, and they sometimes obscure the work’s harmonic goals. The first authentic cadence in tonic E-flat major does not arrive until measure 307, on the reprise of Measure Cadence Type Key Syntactic Event 62 Imperfect authentic B-flat major Theme 2 172 Perfect authentic D-flat major Theme 4 307 Imperfect authentic E-flat major Recapitulation of theme 2 371 Perfect authentic E-flat major Recapitulation of theme 4 172 the second thematic area. Moreover, there is not a single authentic cadence in one of the work’s most important secondary tonal areas, A-flat major, even though the harmony stays firmly rooted here for forty-seven measures beginning in measure 89. Example 4.18: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 15-19. 173 Instead, texture is one of the main parameters of structural definition (and in this respect, Madetoja again resembles Debussy, as we shall see in the next chapter). The boundary between the end of the first theme and the beginning of the transitional section is one example of this phenomenon. The consequent phrase employs a chromatic mediant modulation from E-flat major/G minor to G-flat major in measure 18; however, this is secured through relatively weak (V4/2 to I6) cadential harmonies (ex.4. 18); even this progression is weakened through a passing chord that refers back to the original key of E- flat major. Moreover, the new tonic is undermined by an immediate common-tone modulation to B-flat minor. The entire process is extremely linear: the individual voices slide in a conjunct fashion from one harmony to the next, and cadential bass motion is kept to a minimum; overall, harmonic movement does little to differentiate the section boundaries. A textural analysis, per contra, tells a different story. Measure 17 features increased tension through chromaticism, contrary motion between upper and lower voices, and hemiola rhythms; the following measure features a pulsating eighth-note crescendo, with oscillation between the pitches D-flat and E-double-flat in flutes, oboes, and horns (as this pattern returns later in the work, it will be referred to it as the “oscillating cadential pattern” for ease of reference). While the transition beginning at measure 19 employs the first theme’s motivic material, it evokes a very different atmosphere. The attack density is a third of the previous measure’s; strings appropriate the opening accompanimental pattern; and subphrase 1a sounds in canon, swapping the gallant eighth-notes of its changing-note pattern for rigid dotted-quarter notes. Textural change not only brings 174 closure to the first theme, but also helps define section boundaries throughout the movement: each of the movement’s four themes is marked by noticeable accompanimental changes, and noteworthy textural changes also occur throughout developmental sections, helping to clarify thematic processes and modulatory passages. The transitional section (mm. 19-61) that follows the first theme is characterized by a looser form and by the liquidation of the principal theme’s characteristic motivic material in preparation for the arrival of the subordinate theme. As discussed above, it features less tuneful melodic material than the first theme; it also features greater harmonic modulation, rhythmic continuity, and dynamic intensity. It also expands upon a process that is common in this movement: transition between various thematic and sequential processes that employs a non-developmental sliding toward, and arrival at, the new process, rather than marked textural or tonal distinction. The transitional section opens with twin restatements of the basic idea (subphrase 1a, mm. 19.4-23.12) followed by a restatement of the contrasting idea, subphrase 1b (mm. 24.1-27.8). The introduction of motive A in measure 28 sees modulation to C-flat major/E- flat minor, which is an adjacent key on the circle of fifths, like many of the movement’s modulations. However, despite motive A’s significance, its arrival is elegant and understated, with the music’s various processes transitioning in a sophisticated, stepwise manner (ex. 4.19). Here, the harmony eschews cadential patterns in favour of conjunct bass 175 motion, proceeding from B-flat minor (m. 26) through a passing dominant seventh (V7/D- flat, m. 27) to an expansive C-flat major seventh (m. 28). The melody, like the bassline, Example 4.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 26-28. 176 slides easily from one thematic process to the next: the final notes of the antecedent phrase feature two ascending tetrachords, the second reaching higher than the first; this establishes a melodic trajectory that smoothly ascends a major second to the work’s first statement of motive A (the fact that the melody has already ascended in a similar manner in measure 9 makes the process sound even more natural). The layering is similar to that encountered in the first theme: accomp. 1 plays in six-four while the melody soars above in twelve-eight; there is, once again, a noticeable lack of vertical coincidence between the two layers. The layers highlight the rich harmonies, with the first iconic notes of motive A sounding a major seventh above the C-flat bassline. Note that the layers’ various arrivals are staggered: the melodic arrival is in measure 27.10, whereas the harmonic arrival is in measure 28.1; as we have seen, this is a frequent occurrence in the work’s section boundaries, with various layers completing old processes and beginning new ones at slightly different times. Another important aspect of Madetoja’s additive technique is sequential passagework, which enables movement between sections in a non-developmental linear manner. Most of the time, however, the sequences are only hinted at in one voice, whereas the other voices constantly evolve outside the set pattern. For instance, a sequential pattern is set up in measures 28.4 through 31 with the second part of the principal theme’s modified repeat. The main melodic aspect takes place via a statement of motive A1 in flutes and 177 oboes,25 which is contrapuntally supported by an accompanimental layer in the strings— related to the movement’s opening rhythmic pattern—and a C-flat pedal; all of this suggests a C-flat major/E-flat minor tonality. However, a horn passage in measures 29.7 through 34 affects the identity of the potential sequential pattern, crossing between the end of the model and the beginning of the sequential copy, which starts four measures later, at measure 32, with motive A transposed a major seventh higher to begin on D6. The bass line of the sequential pattern also changes, unfolding a new stepwise motive in measure 31 and developing its own irregular quasi-sequences through to measure 45. 25 This movement’s motive A is discussed on pages 16 through 18, and illustrated in examples 4 and 5, above. Example 4.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 35-39. 178 Meanwhile, new sequences of the melodic A motive start at measures 35, 37, and 39 in the violins—on F, A and C-sharp/F-sharp respectively—and again at measure 41 (ex. 4.20). We may note that the bass accompaniment again suggests a continuous texture by extending past this series of sequences and into the following section; yet the apparent continuity of this pattern changes once again in the midst of this continuity through the intervention of yet another pattern (accomp. 3) superimposed upon the ongoing sequences of motive A and taking over gradually, first in the strings and bassoon in measures 42 through 44, and then in the woodwinds at measures 45 through 47. While measures 39 to 47 offer a period of harmonic stability in F-sharp minor (the enharmonic tonic minor of G-flat major, to which the first theme modulated in measure 18, and to which the music will return in measure 69), its constant quasi-sequential transformations undermine this stability, providing a sense of development aided in particular by increasing dynamics and textural thickening. Sequential activity is at the forefront again beginning in measure 48 with two more iterations of motive A; the model begins with C-sharp (the dominant of F-sharp minor), then drops a semitone to describe fifth motion (C3 to F2) in the bass. The copy is a minor third higher, leading to A-flat major in measure 52. The teleological goal appears to arrive in measure 54 with a statement of motive 1a—a thematic return to the Symphony’s opening motive—and harmonic arrival in A-flat major/C minor. However, this arrival is deceptive; A-flat major is not yet a point of harmonic arrival, but rather one of many events within a catena of sequential movement. This statement of motive 1a turns out to be a sequential model (mm. 54-57) for a piano, 179 dolce copy (mm. 58-61) in the home keys of E-flat major/G minor. A brief glimpse of the secondary dominant (F, m. 61) is followed in measure 62 by the Symphony’s first important cadence: an authentic cadence on the dominant, B-flat major, and a reprise of the previous accompanimental pedal, this time on B-flat instead of the tonic E-flat. Example 4.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 62-63. 180 The cadence to B-flat major marks the introduction to the second theme area, which presents an interesting mix of tonalities. First, as we would expect, B-flat major seems paired with its minor mediant, D minor; this is made evident by a horn solo (subphrase 1a, mm. 64.7-68.12) that is firmly centered in D minor, just as the movement’s inaugural iteration of subphrase 1a (mm. 2.10-5.12) was firmly centered in G minor. However, the clarinet accompaniment that is introduced in measure 62 (ex. 4.21) presents a shifting pattern and ambiguous pitch selection that make it more difficult to determine the tonality. Horizontally the motive outlines an isorhythm with a color based on the first three notes of this subphrase (D5, A4, and G4) and a three-quarter-note talea. In measures 64.7 and 65.1, the emphasis is on the pitches A4 and D5, suggesting the D-minor tonality; however, in measures 62.1 and 62.7, the emphasis is on the pitches D5 and G4 respectively; this, paired with the G5/G6 of the flutes and the B-flat pedal, strongly implies G minor as the subsidiary tonality. Measures 62-68 function formally as an introduction to the next section, strikingly arriving at the second theme in measure 69 through a semitone voice-leading slip from the implied G minor to G-flat major. The clarinet ostinato moves from D5 in measure 68.11 to D-flat5 in measure 69.1; similarly, the horn solo (subphrase 1a) moves from F3 in measure 68.10 to G-flat3 in measure 69.1 (ex. 4.22). These instruments are featured over a B-flat pedal in timpani, cellos, and contrabass that sounds without pause from measure 62,1 through 77.2, enhancing the impression of continuity through the modulation. With the arrival of the second theme in m. 69, B-flat becomes the third of G-flat major, which is mixed with 181 B-flat minor, the minor mediant. Thus the second thematic area presents an interesting modal mix of B-flat major and its subsidiary harmonies G and D minor (mm. 62-68) paired with a modal shift to G-flat major and its subsidiary harmony B-flat minor (mm. 69-76). Over top of this layered texture, first violins and violas sound the oscillating minor-thirds melody, while second violins sound a sinuous, conjunct countermelody. Example 4.22: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 68-69. 182 In measure 77, texture is once again the primary designator of formal boundaries. Here, the sustained harmonies of the previous section recede, bringing tangible contrast. At the same time, the attack density of the accompaniment pattern (accomp. 1) doubles, highlighting both the new section’s sparse texture and the tension that develops between opposing layers. One of these layers introduces motive D (see ex. 7 above) in bassoon and bass strings; its descending chromatic line almost immediately breaks from the dominant, moving from B-flat major in measure 77 to G major-minor seventh harmony in measure 80. The other layer in the horns sounds motive A4 in duple (2/2) time, which highlights the layering effect through its non-coincidental vertical entrance with motive D. The final note of motive A4 is sustained for three full measures, over which an intense, ascending string passage sounds (the “ascending octatonic variant” of motive A; see ex. 8 above). The entire section, from measure 77 to measure 82, is a sequential model; a six-measure copy sounds a minor third higher in the following measure. The sequential copy concludes with an iteration of the oscillating cadential pattern (mm. 89.1-90.2, shown above in example 18) that brings the music to a close in A-flat major/C minor at measure 89. It is interesting that this cadential pattern is used with two different functions: first, to open the development section that follows the first theme, and second, to close the development section of the second theme. Measure 95 brings clear movement to subdominant A-flat major, appearing to signal a new section. Yet new thematic materials do not support the tonal arrival; rather, the processes starting here are limited to passive sustained pedals and lingering motivic 183 fragments. As it turns out, once the ground is prepared this way, a new musical idea centered on subdominant A-flat major does arrive, but only at the beginning of measure 105 (ex. 4.23). This is the third theme, which outlines two larger phrases (mm. 105-112 and mm. 113-120). Like the first theme, it contains elements of harmonic and melodic ambiguity; for example, the antecedent phrase’s contrasting idea (mm. 109-112) hints at other keys, bringing a modal quality: both the melodic contour and the harmony of measures 109 through 110.6 suggest F minor, and in measures 110.7 through 112.6 the melody employs the dominant and tonic of C minor, to which the harmony will turn in measure 120. However, this phrase does not end with a traditional cadence, but rather returns to tonic A-flat major by way of a subdominant major seventh chord (IV7, m. 109.1), a minor supertonic triad (ii, m. 110.1), and a French sixth (x6, m. 110.5), all of which are presented over an A-flat pedal. Example 4.23: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, measures 105-120. 184 The third thematic area is illustrative not only of harmonic and melodic ambiguity, but also of Madetoja’s occasional penchant for elusive section boundaries. In the first movement, each thematic area begins with a symmetrical, tonally stable statement of the new theme; periods of greater tonal instability, motivic expansion, and more diverse thematic material follow. Previous discussion illustrated how the first theme—a tight-knit, periodic theme—claims a different formal space from the ensuing transitional section. The third theme follows a similar agenda, voicing a tight-knit theme before giving way to a transitional passage in measure 120.5, where the materials develop, explore new materials, reach new tonal areas, and gradually increase in tension before eventually concluding in measure 167. However, there is an important difference between the first and third transitional areas. Whereas there is a clear boundary between the first theme (measures 2.10 through 18) and its transitional section (measures 19 through 61), the distinction between the third theme and its transitional section remains vague. Restating an antecedent phrase is a common strategy for launching a transitional section (Hepokoski classifies this process as “the dissolving restatement”26): it implies the start of a hybrid consequent phrase; however, when the music no longer corresponds to the principal theme, the listener understands in retrospect that the return of the antecedent phrase marks the beginning of the transition. Because the third theme’s antecedent and consequent phrase are so similar, it is easy to interpret them as the twin 26 Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements, 101. 185 basic ideas of a sentence-form presentation phrase (albeit large basic ideas, at eight measures each). This interpretation is reinforced with the onset of the third transitional section, which opens with two identical subphrases, both based on the first four measures of the third theme (mm. 105-108): the first runs from measures 120.5 through 124.2 and the second from measures 124.4 through 128.2; their shorter four-measure length and repetitive construction suggests the fragmentation typically associated with the continuation phrase of sentence-form structure. However, this large-scale sentence lacks a cadential idea; rather, measures 128.5 through 136.2 offer two further repetitions of this subphrase, this time with the melodic material transposed a perfect fourth higher. By measure 136.5, with the introduction of motive A over major-minor seventh harmony, it becomes abundantly clear that the motivic material of the previous sixteen measures was merely prolongation and not a continuation of the second theme. Thus the initial period form of measures 105.3 through 120.2 is retroactively reinterpreted as the third theme in its entirety, and the material following measure 120 as the third developmental section. Perhaps the most salient marker of the beginning of this new developmental section is a pronounced shift toward C minor beginning in measure 120. With motive A’s arrival in measure 136.5, the key shifts to encompass the keys on either side of the circle of fifths from A-flat: E-flat major (three flats) over a D-flat pedal (five flats). Here the harmony becomes increasingly vague and transitional; the most recognizable features are a continuation of the D-flat pedal until measure 150.6, and, beginning in measure 156, the dominant ninth of A-flat (E-flat9), the bassline of which alternates E-flat with A-natural, a tritone apart. It is 186 interesting to note that this section does not use sequences at all. Instead, its developmental material is based almost entirely on the expansion and variation of motive E. This suggests that Madetoja may have conceived of the developmental sections as functioning in different ways, with different working processes. Measure 168 brings tonal arrival in D-flat and new textures, but it turns out to have, as in the previous cases of the second and third themes, just an introductory function to Example 4.24: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, 168-176. 187 the real fourth theme which arrives at measure 176. As mentioned before, this theme brings in a different topic—a simple, dance-like character—yet presents a curious tonal blend. The cadence in measure 172 is to D-flat major, and the fourth theme is unified by a D-flat bass pedal that lasts from measures 175.7 through 184.4. Flutes, however, imply the relative minor, B-flat: in measures 168.1 through 171.10, they emphasize the tonic and dominant of this key (ex. 4.24), and this continues throughout the fourth theme’s antecedent phrase in measures 176.1 through 182.12. On the other hand, there is a strong F-centered tonality, conforming to the key relationship (major key with minor mediant) that Madetoja has established for this movement. Note the F-minor cadential pattern in the cornets in measures 171-72, the F-minor-based melodies in the clarinets beginning in measure 176 and in strings in measure 184, and the strong F-minor tonality in measure 192. The fourth post-thematic developmental section (m. 192) opens in B-flat minor; this section features several sequential and quasi-sequential passages as it leads to the movement’s recapitulation. First, measures 192 through 198 introduce a quasi-sequential passage with a model (mm. 192-95) that is based on the dotted-quarter-note motive that begins the fourth theme. The copy (mm. 196-198) is an abbreviated version of the model; it ascends a minor second to F-sharp minor, from which the music modulates in a smooth and unexpected modulation to D major by placing the third of F-sharp minor—A, also the dominant of D—in the bass. Second, measures 200 through 212 present an extended D pedal. Here, trumpets voice subphrase 1a (mm. 200.7-204.9); strings follow with two sinuous repetitions of motive A. Although the melody in the second repetition (mm. 207.7- 188 209.12) sounds a major second higher, the D pedal preludes a sequential passage; Madetoja sometimes employs this particular technique to increase tension (viz. theme two, where mm. 73-76 are a reiteration of mm. 69-72 a major third higher). Third, measures 213 through 218 feature motive A; the model begins on A3 (m. 213.) and the copy a diminished fourth higher on D-flat4 (m. 216). Finally, measures 223 through 234 showcase motives D and A; the model begins on A-flat3 (mm. 223.5) and the copy a minor second higher on B3 (mm. 229.5). This sequence offers a clear parallel to measures 77 through 88; it includes the ascending octatonic variant of motive A (discussed above) that leads to the oscillating cadential pattern also found in measures 18 and 89. However, it is a major second lower higher than its original statement; the cadential pattern that follows suggests D major (m. 235), and this changes quickly to F-sharp minor on the downbeat of the following measure. Thus what is in evidence in this fourth developmental section is an expedited version of the first and second thematic areas: subphrase 1a; intense, sometimes sequential, repetition of motive A; sequential repetition of motive D; and the oscillating cadential pattern. The only thing conspicuously absent here is, of course, the second theme. Unlike the first developmental section, however, motive D sounds in sequence again beginning in measure 245.9, here against accompaniment pattern 1; the sequential harmony brings the music to a B-flat pedal, the dominant of E-flat major, to which the music will resume in the recapitulation. It is interesting to note that the processes used most frequently in the first and second theme areas—the use of sequential models and copies—are also used here, perhaps as representative of the absent second theme. 189 As expected, the recapitulation has much in common with the exposition; thus only a few important differences will be noted here. It begins on the downbeat of measure 258 with the reintroduction of accomp. 1; the first theme is reintroduced in measure 260. Unlike the exposition, the final two bars of the first theme are repeated (mm. 276-77); this allows the key to move a minor third higher, from G-flat major to A major/C-sharp minor, bringing greater intensity. A transitional passage begins in measure 278. Although it is similar to the one beginning in measure 19, it contains two significant modifications. First, whereas measures 19.1 through 27.8 feature a statement of subphrase 1a in canon followed by subphrase 1b, measures 278.1 through 283.9 omit the statement of subphrase 2b. Second, the iterations of motive A that follow are significantly shorter: measure 284—now in B minor—runs roughly parallel with measure 39, omitting more than eleven measures and one sequential passage from the recapitulation. The remainder of the recapitulation of the first thematic area is very similar to its expository equivalent: the sequential passage in measure 293 through 298.6 is parallel to the one in measure 48 through 53.6, bringing the music to D-flat major/F minor; the sequential passage that immediately follows in measure 298.7—parallel to the one in measure 53.7—presents a model in D-flat major/F minor and a copy (m. 303-306) in A-flat major/C minor; finally, measure 307 features an imperfect authentic cadence to E-flat major, beginning the introductory portion of the recapitulation of the second theme. The recapitulation of the second theme itself (mm. 314-21) progresses in a manner similar to the exposition, except that—naturally—the keys have changed; its introduction 190 is now in the home keys of E-flat major/G minor, and the second theme is in C-flat major and its minor mediant. However, the developmental section that follows incorporates several significant changes. First, motive D—which was introduced in measures 77-88 following the exposition of the second theme—is absent here; further recapitulation of this motive is not strictly necessary here, as motive D was featured immediately prior to the recapitulation proper in measures 223 through 234.8 and again in measures 245.9 through 255.2. In place of motive D, subphrase 1a5 returns (the first note of which is sounded in measure 322.7); this is a possible parallel to the iteration of subphrase 1a4 that begins immediately following motive D in the exposition (mm. 89.7-97.1). However, whereas subphrase 1a4 leads into the third theme (mm. 95 through 135), the parallel recapitulatory section omits the third theme altogether. Rather, measures 327 through 332 feature a sequence based on motive 1a6; measures 334 through 375 see a full recapitulation of the extensive motive E. Omitting the third theme, measures 367 through 374 present the introduction to the fourth theme. The fourth theme is recapitulated in the home key in measure 375; however, the consequent phrase is different, showing a marked digression from the exposition. Whereas strings take the melody measure 184, winds take the melody in measure 383 while strings introduce a new oscillating accompaniment pattern (a variation, perhaps, of accomp. 2) that begins in measure 381 and continues with some variation to the end of the movement. This leads to the coda and a series of iterations of subphrase 1a. 191 The movement concludes with a brief coda beginning in measure 391. Its melodic material is based on the gradual liquidation of subphrase 1a—so much so that the coda at times seems like another recapitulation of the first theme. By measure 410.4, only the changing-note figure remains; two last iterations of motive A (mm. 405.5 and 412.3) share the final measures. The harmony here is constructed through layering of no less than three different tonal processes. Violins and violas maintain a tremolo on E-flat and F; the same pattern plays more-or-less continuously from measure 407. This is a variation, perhaps, of the accompaniment pattern introduced in measure 381. Meanwhile, the bass line descends by fifths (D-flat, G-flat, and C-flat), reflecting the movement through the circle of fifths that characterizes the exposition; harmony joins with parallel major-minor seventh chords in a layer formed by clarinets, bassoons, violoncellos, and double basses: D-flat major-minor seventh beginning in measure 407, G-flat major-minor seventh in measure 411, and C-flat major-minor seventh in measure 412. Finally, the last iterations of motive A and the changing-note figure—measures 412.3 to 414.12 and 414.4 through 414.11 respectively—focus primarily on the pitches F, G-flat, and A-flat, suggesting F phrygian. This detailed look at the Second Symphony’s first movement may bring evidence against statements by scholars such as Hannu Ilari Lampila’s about Madetoja’s treatment of harmony and rhythm: “his orchestration was particularly skillful, approaching the clarity and balance of chamber music. In harmony and rhythm his means were more limited.”27 27 Hannu Ilari Lampila, “Leevi Madetoja,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 192 On the contrary, the movement’s harmonic machinations manipulate and undermine traditional formal structures; the movement’s rhythmic ambiguity not only subtly differentiates melody from accompaniment, but also suggests a kind of post-Debussy shimmering quality—an analogy we shall explore in the following chapter—characteristic of some modernist trends during this period. From this investigation, it is instead possible to substantiate Korhonen’s observation about the sophistication of Madetoja’s output: Madetoja’s “works contain a fascinating ambiguity of harmony and rhythm under a smooth surface.”28 Harmony and rhythm are not the only ambiguous aspects of this movement. As we have seen, it also contains significant formal ambiguity: on one hand, it contains strong but ultimately specious intimations of sonata form; on the other, it develops in an additive manner, aided by the liberal use of sequential patterns and extraordinarily smooth transitions between its various processes. Moreover, it contains remarkable organic connections between thematic materials, so that every new theme is extrapolated from previous events while prefiguring ensuing material. 28 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 193 Subsequent Movements The second movement, Andante, demonstrates a contemplative and lyrical manner that is highly characteristic of Madetoja’s music29; as we shall see, it incorporates tangible pastoral elements, such as the use of landscape depictions and the prominent use of folksong. It is composed of three contrasting thematic areas: the folksong-inspired section A runs from measures 1 through 41.5; the lyrical, romantic section B from measures 41.6 through 83, and the more ominous section C from measures 84 through 107. A recapitulatory section runs from measures 108 through 187, and a coda-like statement of the first theme from measures 188 to the end of the movement. Thus, the overall form can be summarized as consisting of an expository section (ABC), a recapitulatory section (A’B’C’) and a coda (A’’). The Andante proceeds without a pause from the first movement, beginning in F minor with an off-stage oboe “in distanza” sounding the tonic “brevis,” “meno brevis,” and finally “lunga,” all to the accompaniment of a unison string drone; this eventually gives way to a pastoral shepherd’s call of cascading fourths (ex. 4.25). Throughout this opening section, the oboe presents no less than four small themes, which are interrupted with responses from cornet (measures 5.7 and 17.7, also offstage “in distanza”), bassoon (measures 10.2 and 40.8), clarinet (measures 12.2 and 22.1), and strings (measures 27.2 and 29 “Pysähtyneessä lyyrisessä mietiskelyssään osa on Madetojalle luonteenomainen.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 181. 194 36.7). The pitch collections are primarily modal, avoiding the dominant; the first oboe call employs minor pentatonic, and the second oboe call (measures 13.1 through 23.4) expands the collection to F Aeolian. The string interruption—particularly the section from measures 29.1 to 33.10—is noteworthy for three reasons. First, it marks a key signature change from A-flat major to D-flat major. Second, it marks a time signature change from duple to triple meter, with the half note of simple time equivalent to the dotted half note of compound duple time; this suggests a faster tempo even though the underlying pulse has not changed. Third, it introduces conjunct, sinuous part-writing that is highly reminiscent of Sibelius; compare this passage with, for example, the opening of Sibelius’s Tuonelan Joutsen (The Swan of Tuonela): both passages employ conjunct, stepwise melodic movement; both passages feature the upper strings and omit cello and bass; and both passages accompany a double-reed instrument (Sibelius uses an English horn instead of Madetoja’s oboe). The link with folk music is clear. In a Hufvudstadsbladet review of the Second Symphony published shortly after its premiere, Bis (Karl Fredrik Wasenius) noted that the “fine, poetic, noble” shepherd song was reminiscent of the pastoral movement of Berlioz’s Example 4.25: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, oboe solo, measures 1-5. 195 Symphonie Fantastique30; other scholars have since made similar observations.31 Madetoja is recorded as having verified the pastoral sentiment while pointing to a different origin, the indigenous shepherd music of Finland’s west coast. As he stated, “The pastoral quality of the second part of the Symphony originated from the regions of Oulunsalo [in Northern Ostrobothnia]. I remember hearing a shepherd girl sing there, which inspired a pastorale’s far-flung scenes.”32 Despite Madetoja’s ability to pinpoint the origins of this movement with some precision, some scholars have pointed to the more universal role of Ostrobothnian music in Madetoja’s work. As Maasalo states, “Madetoja’s melody originates from the mainly melancholic, unsentimental background of Ostrobothnian folk song. This follows Madetoja through his work and gives it its distinctive flavor.”33 Other clear references to Ostrobothnian music are found throughout Madetoja’s output, notably in the in the closing movement of the Second Symphony, which will be discussed in the following pages. Significantly, by including Ostrobothnian folksong in his output, Madetoja made a concrete contribution to its public perception, disproving the common sentiment that it 30 “Denna [herdelåten] framstår så fint poetisk, orkesterbehandlingen är så ädel, att man ovillkorligen kommer att tänka på Berlion som en jälsfrände.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 31 See, for example, Erik Tawaststjerna, Helsingin Sanomat, 10 March 1974; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 29. 32 “Sinfonian toisen osan pastoraalitunnelmat ovat peräisin juuri Oulunsalon seuduilta. Muistanpa siellä kuulleeni erään paimentytön huhuilun, josta kirvoittuivat pastoraalin kaukaa kuuluvat paimensoittelot.” Martti Turunen, “Tuokio Leevi Madetojan parissa,” Musiikkitieto, no. 9-10 (1944): n.p.; quoted in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 69-70. 33 Maasalo, “Suomalaisia,” 1:124; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 30. 196 was bleak and uninteresting, born of strict sectarian religion and a simple way of life, and showing it to be more complex and nuanced than was widely believed.34 Tempo I returns in measure 41, and with it, in measure 41.5, solo oboe offers a short melodic theme based on the bassoon interruption of measures 10 and 11. This heralds the beginning of section B; what sets this section apart from the first is the introduction in measure 43 of solo clarinets, which initiate a lengthy, constantly shifting “ritmo deciso” ostinato pattern. Over top of this pattern strings play a soaring, lyrical melody (ex. 4.26) that begins with a restatement of the oboe theme. As it unfolds, its similarities with the first movement’s first theme (shown above in example 4.2) become increasingly obvious: compare the contour of measures 44.1 through 45.7 with the first movement’s subphrase 1a, measures 48.3 through 50.4 with its 1b, and measures 49.3 through 50.4 with its subphrase 1a1—the last example an exact transposition a major second lower.35 The melody 34 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 35 For examples of inter-movement connections in the music of Sibelius, see Hepokoski, Sibelius, 30. Example 4.26: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 44-51, theme in first violins. 197 becomes increasingly intense, leading to a dynamic (forte) and registral (A6) climax in measure 65. This is followed by a dramatic accompaniment change in measure 67 to a delicate flute triplet pattern. Although this section is texturally driven, a new espressivo melody does appear in strings in measure 77.7. The music grows more insistent in measure 84 with a turn to accented quarter notes and short, periodic phrasing. A new melodic fragment signals the beginning of section C. This follows with a rising cornet figure—perhaps what Kaipainen was referring to when he wrote: “The pastoral atmosphere conjured up by the distant shepherd’s horn changes periodically for something romantic and forest-like in the shape of a French horn.”36 The mood grows more ominous still in measure 98 with a shift to B minor and marcato brass— these “distant threatening omens”37 interrupt the movement’s idyllic pastorale. Measure 98 presents one of the movement’s two dynamic climaxes; the other is in measure 176 at the corresponding recapitulatory moment. Trumpets, now in G major, clearly voice motive A in measure 102. In measure 108, pizzicato strings—first heard in measure 7—and a return to Tempo I herald the beginning of the recapitulatory section; aside from the abridged format (80 measures versus 108), the most notable difference from the expository section is a role reversal beginning in measure 143, where the earlier woodwind ostinato has been relegated 36 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 37 “Etäisiä, uhkaavia enteitä.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 181. 198 to the strings while the winds take the melody. The accompaniment grows more furious in measure 157.6 with the introduction of triplet sixteenths. Measure 188 sees the return of the oboe solo, which this time signals the coda; the close is once again in a different key, G minor. The third movement received an overwhelmingly positive reaction following the Second Symphony’s premiere. Evert Katila called it “a skeptical, ironic, fantastic musical vortex”38 and Erik Furuhjelm described the “fantastic scherzo” as the Symphony’s orchestral climax, a Finnish counterpart to Wagner’s mythological themes.39 There is, however, nothing playful and jovial about this scherzo. It is among the most dramatic works in Madetoja’s oeuvre; Makinen and Nummi state that “[Madetoja] himself said that the chaos of the First World War and his concern for the fate of his own country left their mark on this work,”40 and this movement attests to the plausibility of such a statement. The third movement opens in D-flat major—and an unusual time signature hybrid of three-four and nine-eight—to the sounds of dispute: a dissonant, fortissimo chord and piercing, high-pitched woodwind trills played by full orchestra are followed by an energetic brass statement of the first movement’s motive A. Strings introduce a rising pattern in sixteenths that leads to a repeat of the opening measures. This is followed in measures 9 38 “Epäilyjen ja ironian täyttämän fantastisen sävelpyörteen.” Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 39 Erik Furuhjelm, Dagens Press, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180. 40 Timo Mäkinen and Seppo Nummi, Musica Fennica, trans. Kingsley Hart (Helsinki: Otava, 1965), 51; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 30. 199 through 12 by a dissonant, disjunct motive that cascades from high piccolos to low clarinets and strings (ex. 4.27). Measure 14 features a variation on another overused melodic fragment, subphrase 1a1, and this is answered in measure 18.5 by a close approximation to subphrase 1a3. Measures 25.2 and 27.4 present motive A in diminution. Example 4.27: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 10-13. 200 Although Kaipainen states that the opening of the third movement is “predictable,” and that “this concoction [the third movement] does not really gel into a single whole,”41 the movement has its strong points. Measure 34 presents a new tempo—più mosso—and a 41 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 52. Example 4.28: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 34-39, “waltz- like jingle.” 201 new theme that figures prominently throughout the movement (ex. 4.28). Kaipainen calls it a “strange banal waltz-like jingle,” but while it might be strange, and it certainly is waltz- like, the assessment of banal is unfair, for the layering of its accompaniment and the overall treatment of its thematic development is in fact quite complex. Measure 123 introduces a “laboured, rather static march.”42 The work builds to a close with Molto largamente tremolo strings which play a triple-forte C minor chord against a subject derived from the second movement’s cornet calls. Like the first two movements, the third movement proceeds to the fourth without a pause. The final movement, marked Andantino, is a short epilogue—a mere 70 measures in length. In discussing the meaning of this movement, Madetoja remarked “I have fought the battle, and retire to one side”43; according to Mäkinen and Nummi, the movement is indebted to North Ostrobothnian religious music,44 something that should not be surprising considering that Madetoja often heard the religious music of North Ostrobothnia even as a child in Oulu and readily admitted its influence on his own melodies.45 42 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 52. 43 “Olen taisteluni taistellut ja vetäydyn syrjään.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 19 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180; also quoted in Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja, 141. 44 Mäkinen and Nummi, Musica Fennica, 51; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 30. 45 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 202 The fourth movement proceeds without pause from the third. The main theme (strings, m. 3), marked by an ascending contour and opening syncopation, unfolds in a stately fashion in E Aeolian, showing strong avoidance of the second scale degree. As the movement progresses, its efforts to summarize the work’s material become increasingly apparent. Measure 21 brings a melodic figure that seems to grow naturally from the preceding material. However, in its falling contour, flatted seventh, avoidance of the supertonic, and, most significantly, rise of a minor sixth, it shows strong resemblance to the oboe theme first voiced in measure 41 of the second movement. Similarly, measure 59 presents a melodic fragment in solo bassoon that references other movements’ closing fragments. Its rising and falling contour and flatted fourth scale degree, featured prominantly in soli bassoons, recalls measures 412-14 of the first movement (in con sordino horns), measures 196-201 of the second movement (in soli clarinets), and measures 312-16 of the third movement (in solo oboe). In its liquidation of material, the movement shows an affinity with other sonata- deformation processes described earlier in this chapter. In contrast to more traditional teleologically-oriented Romantic works, which often reserve the only complete statement of a theme for the climax at the end of a section, movement, or multi- movement work, the final movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony is extremely anticlimactic, and its restatement of the work’s material seems more an echo than an apotheosis.46 Following a 46 See Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements, 92; Hepokoski, Sibelius, 26. 203 final fortissimo in measure 48, the Symphony gradually fades to pianissimo as the dotted- eighth accompaniment (introduced in measure 51) and the movement’s themes undergo a liquidation process and the tonic is destabilized. The key hovers between E minor, A minor and C major practically without chromatic alteration, giving the movement a strong modal feel; and, after a long period, the Symphony closes on a pianissimo unison E. Critical Response After the Second Symphony’s premiere on 17 December 1918, with Robert Kajanus conducting the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, Madetoja wrote to his mother to inform her of the work’s great success: “It’s satisfying to receive some recognition for your labours when you have put in the time and effort that the work necessitates.”47 Indeed, newspaper reviews that were published following the Symphony’s premiere bear witness to an excellent reception. The work made an especially good impression on the composer and critic Evert Katila, who was at that time writing for the Fennomen newspaper Uusi Suometar. Katila wrote that that the Symphony: completely met all expectations; the music was expressed in its highest form and was perfect after the first energetic performance. He [Madetoja] has now issued a maturity test to composers of symphonic music—he has done more than that, creating a musical composition whose integrity, in readiness for coherent 47 “Onhan se hauska että saa tunnustusta kun on tehnyt suuren ja paljon aikaa ja voimia kysyvän teoksen.” Leevi Madetoja, letter Anna Madetoja, 19 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 182. 204 development, leaves no room for one’s wishes, where the wonderful addition of beauty unites the deeply contemplative spirit.48 In a review eighteen days later, in the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat, Katila states that Madetoja’s broad aesthetic unity and “nonetheless wonderful vitality” embodied the symphonic tradition, but that, on the other hand, “a dark tragic symphony based on an intense emotional journey corresponds very well with the modern spirit.” He asserts that Madetoja’s Second Symphony is “the most significant of our artistic achievements after Sibelius’s monumental series.”49 In Madetoja’s new work we see a full-fledged symphony composer who plans a large structure with single-minded clarity. [. . .] This intelligent, wise aspect of his work brings a serious balance. [. . .] This lends the Symphony a special aesthetic value. Yet it is not the most striking feature. As such, I would consider it a strong symphonic approach, which dominates the entire work, giving the listener a sense of security and allowing him to indulge in the beauty of a safe world power.50 Katila singles out the second and third movements of the Symphony, stating that: The expansive Pastorale [. . .] is a Finnish composition of huge numbers and it is very interesting in the artistically successful way in which the composer contrasts 48 “Täydellisesti täyttänyt ne odotukset, joita häneen soitin-musiikin korkeimman muodon käyttäjänä ensimmäisen reippaan otteensa jälkeen on kiinnitetty. Sinfonikkona on hän nyt antanut kypsyysnäytteensä—tehnyt enemmänkin kuin sen, luomalla sävelteoksen, joka eheydessä, valmiudessa johdonmukaisessa kehityksessä ei jätä toivomuksille sijaa, jossa ihaniin lisiin kauneuksiin yhtyy syvästi mietiskelevä henki.” Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 49 “Kaikesta huolimatta ihmeellistä elinvoimaa.” [. . .] “Sinfonian tummalla traagilliselta pohjalta kohoava tunne-piiri vastaa erinomaisesti nykyajan henkeä.” [. . .] “Huomattavin saavutus, mihin säveltaiteemme Sibeliuksen monumentaalisen sarjan jälkeen [on päässyt].” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 50 “Madetoja esiintyy uudessa teoksessaan täysiverisenä sinfoniasäveltäjänä, joka päämäärästään tietoisena selvänäköisesti suunnittelee suuren rakenteensa ääriviivat. [. . .] Tämä älyllinen, viisas piirre tuo hänen teoksiinsa vakavan tasapainon. [. . .] Tästä johtuu sinfonian erikoinen esteettinen arvo. Kuitenkaan ei se ole sen huomiota herättävin ominaisuus. Tällaisena pitäisin sitä lujaa sinfonista otetta, joka hallitsee koko teoksen, antaen kuulijalle varmuuden tunteen, mikä sallii hänen turvallisena antautua sen kauneusmaailman valtaan.” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 205 the Muse’s touching song with the strike of a glaring earthly Mephistopheles; with a skeptical, ironic, fantastic musical vortex (part three) which is increasingly defiant; and finally with elegiac, brighter verse. This Symphony, the whole idea of running [. . .] is original, musical, hitherto unknown, and it illustrates a steady hand and tireless inspiration. Leevi Madetoja’s Second Symphony is a great work, a magnum opus of Finnish composition.51 Other writers contributed equally positive reviews. Martin Wegelius writes that “It is the very first complete composition that has not been composed, but rather self-created, so harmonious is the atmosphere from beginning to end.”52 Bis pays obeisance to “the full quality of the artist,” stating that “The composer’s greatness is that he steps into the background and lets the work and its contents, its basic ideas, speak for themselves about the high art of language; there is no defiance, no dead moments to drag us down to earth.”53 He singles out different parts of the work, noting the use of the orchestra and the eye- catching polyrhythmic material, and he links the fine, poetic, noble shepherd song with 51 “Laaja Pastorale [. . .] on suomalaisen säveltaiteen valtavimpia lukuja ja erittäin mielenkiintoinen on se taiteellisesti onnistunut tapa, millä säveltäjä tämän runottarensa liikuttavan laulun vastakohdaksi lyö räikeän mefistofelesmaisen, epäilyjen ja ironian täyttämän fantastisen sävelpyörteen (kolmannen osan) joka uhmaavan nousun jälkeen tyyntyy loppuosan eleegisiin, kirkastuneihin säkeihin. Tämä sinfonian koko ajatuskulku on omintakeinen, musiikissa ennen tuntematon ja se on varmalla kädellä ja väsymättömällä innoituksella pantu täytäntöön. Leevi Madetojan toinen sinfonia on suuri työ, suomalaisen säveltäjäkoulun mainetta kohottavia pääteoksia.” Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 52 “Aivan ensimmäisiin sävelteoksiin, mitä meillä on tehty, se ei suorastaan ole enää tehty, vaan ikäänkuin itsestään syntynyt, niin eheän tunnelman leimaama se alusta loppuun saakka on.” Martin Wegelius, Helsingin Sanomat, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 53 “Det är det stora med komponisten att han själv träder tillbaka och låter verke, med sitt innehåll, sin grundide tala konstens höga språk; ingen bravad ingen död punkt rycker oss ned.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius (Bis), Hufvudstadsbladet, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179-80. 206 Berlioz, noting that this section could be a little shorter still. 54 For a description of the third, “Furioso” movement, Bis prefers “nature’s unrestrained rampage”55; however, he kindly accepts that the composer’s interpretation was possible. Bis also observes that the orchestra paid respect to Madetoja by standing for him when he went to receive applause. Finally, Erik Furuhjelm, writing for Helsinki’s Dagens Press, notes that the second movement and its elegiac natural painting is based directly on a beautiful landscape. He writes that Madetoja is a “minor poet,”56 for few major chords appear in this movement, which portrays a melancholic mood. Furuhjelm also notes that Madetoja takes care of the necessary variation, and that the music is lively and proactive. The first half of the Symphony holds a feeling of loneliness and growing tragedy. The third movement, a fantastic scherzo, contains the Symphony’s orchestral climax, and the author considers it a Finnish counterpart to Wagner’s music dramas on mythological themes. The question is not musical, but rather of connections, because stylistically Madetoja shows kinship with post-romantic composers like Puccini. Furuhjelm concludes with the hypothesis that in this work Madetoja has shown but one facet of his technique, and will soon turn to a new course that explores the shimmering and optimism of major keys—which, in fact, Madetoja does in his Third Symphony. 54 “Denna sats framstår så fint poetisk, orkesterbehandlingen är sa ädel, all man ovillkorligen kommer att tänka pä Berlioz som en själsfrände.” Ibid. 55 “Lössläppta naturmakternas framfart.” Ibid. 56 “Mollin runiolija.” Erik Furuhjelm, Dagens Press, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180. 207 Conclusions to This Chapter The first movement, as this chapter illustrates, demonstrates a highly unusual form and displays a dialogue—melodic, harmonic, and structural—with standard first- movement sonata form. Most of the time new thematic material is dismissed in favor of the organic development of existing material; moreover, both harmonic and melodic material is highly ambiguous, making it extremely difficult to determine the movement’s tonal and thematic structure. The movement’s unusual construction suggests a possible, albeit distant, parallel: the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony (1878) explores octatonic harmonies by moving the primary theme from tonic F minor to G-sharp minor, presenting the secondary theme in B major, and opening the recapitulation in D minor. Such sonata form deviations correspond with Hepokoski’s observations on turn-of- the-century composers who sought to create a personalized but marketable musical style by evoking—but not wholly subscribing to—traditional musical gestures: The 1889-1914 modernists sought to shape the earlier stages of their careers as individualistic seekers after the musically “new,” the bold, the controversial, and the idiosyncratic in structure and colour. But simultaneously, as sharp competitors in a limited marketplace, they were also eager to attract and then perpetuate the constituent parts of the delivery system. With few exceptions (the earlier Debussy may be one) their goal was to effect a relatively comfortable marriage between art and high-technology business. Within the de facto institution one strove to flourish as provocatively or enticingly as possible—to create an identifiable, personalized style that, while unmistakably emanating the aura, traditions, and high seriousness of “art,” also produced readily marketable commodities marked with an appropriately challenging, up-to-the-minute spice, boldness, or “philosophical 208 tone.” In short, one was encouraged to push the system to its socio-aesthetic limits, but not beyond them, as would be the case with the younger radicals.57 One convention these composers sought to reinvent was that of standard formal structures. While engaging in dialogue with the sonata’s formal expectations, their (re-) creations cannot be considered as sonatas in any strict sense. By the turn of the century, a number of “deformation-procedure families”58 were in common use, including various strophic/sonata hybrids, of which the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony is an important example. As discussed earlier in this chapter, this movement contains formal processes that, to a limited extent, correspond with sonata form. However, the essence of these processes is not the contrast of tonal or thematic units but rather the development of motivic material that occurs as the movement progresses. In fact, the transformation of the movement’s thematic material, the majority of which is derived from a handful of core motives, is so rhetorically rich that it eclipses the movement’s harmonic and structural events. Such compositional unity has long been associated with the concept of musical organicism. The poet A. W. Schlegel writes that “even in the fine arts—as in the province of nature, the supreme artist—all genuine forms are organic, that is, determined by the content of the artwork.”59 Implicit in this association is the idea that a work’s entire material 57 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 3. 58 Ibid., 5. 59 “Auch in der schönen Kunst wie im Gebiete der Natur, der höchsten Künstlerin, sind all ächten Formen organisch, d.h. durch den Gehalt des Kunstwerkes bestimmt.” A. W. Schlegel, Über dramatische 209 can be derived from a single motive. Veijo Murtomäki argues that static forms like the sonata can be considered organic when they use cyclic techniques—such as thematic metamorphosis—to connect constituent parts.60 If it is possible to accept such processes as organic, then—according to Max Paddison—music that draws on them can function as an analogy for nature.61 This is, perhaps, false logic. The organic musical processes that inform the first movement cannot be considered program music; they do not arise from any external signifiers. Rather, the movement is built around musical principles that follow their own inner logic. On the other hand, Madetoja does include several musical signifiers suggestive of landscape and folk idioms. For example, the first movement’s fourth theme is a rustic gigue; its liberal use of pedal drones is a widely recognized folk topic. Moreover, the theme is set apart from the surrounding material in several ways: the introduction suspends musical time through a nondevelopmental clarinet ostinato; and the theme itself, in contrast with the surrounding material, is repetitive and minimally varied. The second and fourth movements even contain quotations of folk and/or traditional Finnish material confirmed by Madetoja himself. Kunst und Literatur (Bonn, K. Schroeder, 1923): 2:111-12; quoted in Veijo Murtomäki, Symphonic Unity: The Development of Formal Thinking in the Symphonies of Sibelius (Helsinki: University of Helsinki, 1993), 23. 60 Murtomäki, Symphonic Unity, 22ff. 61 Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature,” 183. 210 Such signifiers as relative calm, slow processes, and open changing perspectives operating at small levels, in combination with the organicism of the Symphony’s thematic material, encourage a reading of the Second Symphony as highly evocative of the Nordic natural world; in so doing, they help promote a sense of national identity. As discussed in Chapters One and Two, claims for the legitimacy of political systems have long been justified by a group’s rootedness in nature, and through associated ideas of folk, tradition, and community. These ideas can be traced back to the beginnings of German nationalism in the early years of the nineteenth century, especially Herder.62 Late nineteenth-century Finnish artists took the idea of a homogenous Finnish culture for granted and themselves reinforced the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity, often by making reference to its citizens’ link with nature. It is possible that similar concepts guided Madetoja’s compositional choices within the Second Symphony. This chapter opened with a review of the nationalistic overtones projected on Madetoja’s Second Symphony by later critics. Korhonen describes the third movement as “featuring aggressive military march elements that speak of the tragic Finnish Civil War of 1918”63; Kaipainen states that impact of the Civil War and Yrjö Madetoja’s death on the Symphony is “quite clear”64; Salmenhaara adds that the Second Symphony “seems to reflect 62 Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature,” 183. 63 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 8. 64 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 52. 211 Madetoja’s tragic personal experiences.”65 In support of these statements is an assertion— ostensibly made by Madetoja himself—that the destruction of the Civil War and a concern for Finland’s fate are reflected in the Symphony.66 While Madetoja’s contemporaries, in reviews of the Second Symphony’s premiere, do not by and large address nationalist overtones, they do highlight the music’s cultural significance. For example, in the newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet, Bis receives Madetoja’s Symphony as an emissary of Finland’s natural world: The sound of the Mixolydian scale, which gives the work its prevalent mood, seems quite natural; it in no way labels the music as Finnish in spirit. The Finnish mood here has a deeper source, and a nobler connectedness with nature. Madetoja’s tonal depiction produces a sound so vivid and so beautiful that we are entranced by the music, and with redoubled love feel drawn to our great Finnish nature through the power of music.67 This quote is noteworthy for the manner in which Bis dismisses Madetoja’s use of modal harmony—which, as we saw previously, Dahlhaus had identified with nature—as being in any way representative of Finland’s natural world. However, Bis—and many of Madetoja’s other colleagues—more prominently emphasize the importance of Madetoja’s achievement in a universal sense, suggesting that the greatest boon to the Finnish 65 Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia,” par. 9. 66 Mäkinen and Nummi, Musica Fennica, 30. 67 “Den mixolydiska tonart, som på sitt klangsätt ger verket den förhärskande stämningen, ter sig alldeles naturlig, på ïntet sätt etiketterande musiken som finsk. Den finska stämningen har här djupare källor, ädlare samhörighet med naturen. Madetojas skildring i toner framstär så levande och så skön, att vi hänförda av musiken med fördubblad kärlek känna oss dragna til denna finska natur genom hands music.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 18 December 1918. 212 nationalist cause can be found in making works of Finnish art accessible in a universal manner. The critic Furuhjelm draws attention to the Symphony’s link with Finnish folklore, likening the Second Symphony to the work of mainstream European composers and stating that “we could call it a kind of Finnish counterpart to Wagner’s mythological themes.”68 The critic Katila hails the work as a “significant [. . .] artistic achievement” with a “strong symphonic approach,” calling it “a magnum opus of Finnish composition.”69 Katila doubtless understood that the development of Finnish culture was directly related to the legitimization and advancement of Finland’s international status. Madetoja ostensibly held the same view. In his writings on Sibelius, he observes that Sibelius has internalized elements of Finnish folksong and folklore, combining them with his own successful symphonic approach to make them accessible in a more universal manner. The most important thing to remember is what was referred to in passing above: namely, that Sibelius integrally links national material with his own unique, innermost artistic essence, producing a musical whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. A promoter from Yale University, when presenting Sibelius with an honorary doctorate in 1914, expressed this idea beautifully: “What Wagner did for the ancient German legends, Doctor Sibelius has in his own magnificent way done for the Finnish myths. [. . .] He has translated the Kalevala into the universal language of music.”70 68 “Vi kunde kalla den ett slags finskt motstycke till Wagners mytologiska fantastik.” Erik Furuhjelm, Dagens Press, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180. 69 “Huomattavin saavutus [. . .] lujaa sinfonista otetta [. . .] suomalaisen säveltäjäkoulun mainetta kohottavia pääteoksia.” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 70 “Mutta näistä asioista puhuttaessa on tärkeintä muistaa se, mihin jo yllä ohimennen viitattiinkin, nimittäin, että Sibeliuksen musiikin kansallinen aines liittyy elimellisesti yhteen hänen oman yksilöllisen, 213 Madetoja suggests that Sibelius’s contribution to Finnish nationalism is twofold: Sibelius not only promoted the Finnish culture abroad, but also influenced the outcome of political events on home soil. At the turn of the century, Europe’s interest was focused upon the small country of Finland and its culture. The question was asked: what do you have to offer in the music industry? Finland stepped up to the plate: we have Sibelius! In this way the master rose as if the whole nation was on his shoulders to represent Finnish music in the universal consciousness. But on the other hand, Finnish nationality and our nation’s natural and historical events were dependent, to a great extent, on this composer’s individuality.71 Madetoja evidently recognized music’s power to rouse national sentiment. He frequently contributed his artistic efforts to the nationalist cause, and wrote eloquently about the way in which music shaped Finland’s political scene. However, in the Second Symphony, Madetoja seems to have aimed for a more international style, recognizing that Finland’s cultural success lay in this direction. Nationalist sentiments exist, to be sure: invocations of nature, landscape, and the folk idiom in the second movement, for example, or the portrayal of the civil war in the third. However, in the Symphony’s immediate sisimmän taiteellisen olemuksensa kanssa. Nämä kaksi tekijää ovat kasvaneet aivan eroittamattomasti yhteen. Kauniilla tavalla tulkitsi tämän ajatuksen amerikkalaisen Yalen yliopiston promoottori, vihkiessään v. 1914 mestarimme korkeakoulunsa kunniatohtoriksi: “Mitä Wagner on tehnyt muinais-saksalaisista taruista, sen on tohtori Sibelius omalla suurisuun-taisella tavallaan tehnyt suomalaisista myyteistä. [. . .] Hän on kääntänyt Kalevalan musiikin kansainväliselle kielelle.” Madetoja, “Kansallinen,” 100. 71 “Europan mielenkiinto kohdistui vuosisadan vaihteessa vilkkaana pieneen Suomen maahan ja sen kulttuuriin. Kysyttiin: mitä teillä on musiikin alalla tarjottavana? Suomi löi valtin pöytään: meillä on Sibelius! Näin pääsee mestari kohoamaan ikäänkuin koko kansan hartioilta, hän tulee edustamaan suomalaista säveltaidetta yleismaailmallisessa tietoisuudessa. Mutta toisaalta taas verrattain yleisesti tänä kyseessäolevana aikana säveltäjän yksilöllinen erikoislaatuisuus asetettiin liian suuressa määrin suomalaisesta kansallisuudesta, maamme luonnosta ja historiallisista vaiheistakin riippuvaksi.” Madetoja, “Kansallinen,” 100. 214 reception, critics seem to have focused—quite rightly—on the work’s larger cultural significance as an important new work from a small country fighting for both independence and international recognition. 215 Major Influences: Sibelius and the French Nothing at all,” said Christophe. “No music. No development. No sequence. No cohesion. Very nice harmony. Quite good orchestral effects, quite good. But it’s nothing—nothing at all. . .” 1 Introduction The previous chapter identified several important musical elements used by Madetoja within the Second Symphony. Some of these elements—including the use of enigmatic formal structures, static harmonies or processes, and a concern for nature and landscape—can also be found in the music of Sibelius, suggesting that the two composers shared a common concern for certain musical processes or materials. Other elements— such as the use of modal harmonies, the superimposition of manifold strata, shimmering accompanimental patterns, and thematic variation—suggest an indebtedness to the music of Debussy. Accordingly, this chapter opens by positioning Madetoja’s Second Symphony in relation to Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony in E-flat major, op. 82 (1915-1919) and Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894). Additionally, it points out other French influences on Madetoja, especially the French neoclassicism of such composers as Vincent d’Indy, Paul Dukas, Maurice Ravel, and Igor Stravinsky as illustrated in Madetoja’s orchestral works Kullervo (1913), Third Symphony (1925-26), and Okon Fuoko (1925-27). It is hoped that this 1 Romain Roland, Jean-Christophe in Paris: The Market-Place, Antoinette, The House, trans. Gilbert Cannan (1911; Project Gutenberg, 2005), www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8149. 216 final chapter will contribute to broadening the understanding of Madetoja’s place with regard to other composers of his time while indicating avenues of future research on his work. Sibelius Sibelius’s impact upon Finland’s small culture was both an inspiration and a deterrent. On one hand, he proved that it was possible for the work of Finnish composers to attract international attention. On the other hand, he encouraged an artistic climate in which no less than two generations of composers were fated to direct comparisons with him. As a result, many Finnish composers chose to focus on genres outside Sibelius’s oeuvre. For example, Armas Launis, Leevi Madetoja, and Aarre Merikanto were drawn to opera, while Selim Palmgren composed five piano concertos. Similarly, composers following Sibelius placed an unusually strong emphasis on small-scale compositions at the expense of more substantial works. Sibelius’s greatest achievements lay in the symphony, a genre that remained conspicuously untouched for many years following the composer’s Seventh Symphony (1924). It was not until Einar Englund (1916-1999) debuted the first of his seven symphonies in the 1940s (The War Symphony, 1946) that Finland saw a symphonic tradition truly independent from Sibelius. Between Sibelius and Englund, only two Finnish composers delved into the symphony: Madetoja and Erkki Melartin (1875- 217 1937).2 Despite the centrality of the symphony to the latter’s output, Madetoja was the one to bear the appellation of “the most important Finnish symphonist since Sibelius.”3 As the previous chapters demonstrate, Madetoja is one of the few Finnish composers who was able to step out of Sibelius’s shadow to compose a truly unique cycle of symphonies. Nevertheless, as Sibelius’s close friend and student, he occasionally employed Sibelian melodic and rhythmic devices. Critics and musicologists have noted this inclination. For example, in a Hufvudstadsbladet review of the premiere of Madetoja’s First Symphony, Karl Fredrik Wasenius observed that that Sibelius’s music serves as a model for Madetoja’s, “not as a slavish imitation on the part of Mr. Madetoja, but rather in pointing out the general direction.”4 Both composers share a willingness to engage with the new sounds and structures of early modernism by experimenting with ambiguous harmonies and formal structures. Moreover, owing to a mutual cultural, artistic, and political background, they share a concern for the portrayal of the Finnish landscape by invoking genres and musical materials 2 For more information on the life and music of Erkki Melartin, see the extensive body of work by Tuire Ranta-Meyer, especially Nähdä hyvää kaikissa: Erkki Melartin opettajana ja musiikkielämän kehittäjänä (Helsinki: Suomen Musiikkikirjastoyhdistys, 2008) and “Nulla dies sine linea: avauksia Erkki Melartinin vaikutteisiin, verkostoihin ja vastaanottoon henkilö- ja reseptiohistoriallisena tutkimuksena” (PhD diss., Jyväskylän yliopisto, 2008). 3 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 49. 4 Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 11 February 1916; quoted in Andrew Barnett, Sibelius (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 259; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja), 148. 218 suggestive of the natural world. In order to more fully explore the musical intersections between the two, I propose a comparison of two roughly contemporaneous works: Madetoja’s Second Symphony (1918) and Sibelius’s Symphony No. 5 in E flat Major, which Example 5.1: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 1-4. 219 was premiered in its original version on 8 December 1915 and in its final version on 24 November 1919.5 The first movement of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony suggests a somewhat enigmatic reading by way of the divergent tonal implications of its opening gesture. It begins with a pastoral horn call on the dominant, B flat; the first horn ascends an octave via two perfect fourths, outlines an E-flat major triad in its descent, and ends on the supertonic (ex. 5.1, mm. 1-2). This contour clearly describes second inversion (6/4) E-flat major (tonic) harmony. Meanwhile, timpani sounds a B-flat (dominant) pedal in measures 1 through 2.9 and an E-flat (tonic) pedal beginning in measure 2.10, and this perfect fourth ascent—a move which might, under other circumstances, suggest harmonic resolution—coincides neatly with the melody’s arrival on the supertonic. Thus, the introductory phrase first superimposes tonic function over a dominant pedal, then superimposes subdominant function over a tonic pedal. This unusual inaugural gesture introduces an important working principle—tension between coloristic upper-neighbor and tonic harmony—that will manifest throughout the Symphony.6 In measure 2.3, these harmonies—represented by supertonic and tonic scale 5 Throughout this paper I refer to the 1919 version of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony. The first version was premiered in 1915; while the score itself does not survive, a reproduction was made from a complete set of parts discovered among the composer’s effects. A second version was completed in 1916 and premiered on 8 December 1916. A definitive, published version was completed in 1919; it uses the same thematic building blocks but differs from the original in many important respects. For more information on the early genesis of this symphony, see Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, 3:15. 6 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 63. 220 degrees respectively—appear in succession, framed between dominant bookends; in measure 2.10, they sound simultaneously, the former in horns, the latter in timpani. Here, the bassoons begin a scalar descent from the supertonic (F4) to the lower mediant (G3) harmonized by upper thirds: emphasis on the pitches F, A-flat, C, and E-flat implies predominant harmony (ii7). The flutes and oboes, meanwhile, state the work’s core motive, a rising second followed by a rising fifth. In measure 4, the bassoons arrive on the mediant, and flutes and clarinets echo the three-note cry over a root-position tonic (I7) chord. This use of ambiguous harmonies and tonal oscillation finds a parallel in Madetoja. As discussed in the preceding chapter, the accompaniment that opens the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony contains a complex, multilayered allusion to two different tonalities, E-flat major and G minor, over top of which the first theme soars ambiguously Example 5.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-4. 221 in G Aeolian (ex. 5.2). The pedals—tonic and mediant7 to Sibelius’s tonic and dominant— are present here, as is the superimposition of tonal centres. However, in contrast to Sibelius, the harmonic oscillation of Madetoja’s reiterative accompaniment—a repeated ostinato pattern with a steady eighth-note rhythm—is clearly subordinate to the first theme. Moreover, whereas Sibelius’s opening harmonies incorporate tonal movement, suggesting teleological drive, Madetoja’s layers become static through repetition, suggesting their fluctuating harmonic possibilities simultaneously. Returning to Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony, the ensuing measures echo the core motive in various ways, enforcing traditional pastoral representations of space (ex. 5.3). In measure 5, the oboes revisit the core motive, albeit transposed a major ninth higher to the supertonic; the clarinets follow with a resolution of the same motive in the tonic, a tone lower. In measure 7, the oboes append an ornamented, sixteenth-note turn figure; in measure 8, the clarinets augment this turn figure by one note. In measure 9, divisi oboes 7 See Chapter Four for a discussion of Robert Bailey’s double-tonic complex and its relevance to the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony. Example 5.3: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 5-9. 222 and flutes join together to announce a more prominent version of the turn figure; as the register climbs, flutes sound the turn figure independently of the core motive. This process illustrates Sibelius’s tendency toward additive motivic development. Like Madetoja, Sibelius develops thematic material through the gradual expansion of small melodic fragments; however, whereas Madetoja exploits contour and interval as building blocks in the construction of interrelated themes, Sibelius encourages a cyclical reading through short, repetitive phrases and gentle oscillation.8 The larger structure of Sibelius’s Fifth is notoriously ambiguous, presenting as much of a challenge to formal analysis as Madetoja’s Second. To cite just one example,9 Robert Layton, Cecil Gray, and Robert Simpson agree that the opening movement evokes sonata form and that the section described above (mm. 1-35) suggests an exposition. However, they disagree in the strongest terms about the ensuing section (mm. 35-68). Layton—analyzing the work in sectional terms—refers to measures 35-68 as the counter-exposition, citing in support “most writers”10; Gray—analyzing the work in thematic terms—refers to it as the 8 One of the first scholars to propose this idea was David Cherniavsky. See “The Use of Germ Motives by Sibelius,” Music & Letters 23, no. 1 (1942): 1-9. 9 This example courtesy of Bethany Lowe, “The Blind Men and the Elephant? Formal Analogy as Metaphor in British Sibelius Studies, 1935–1965,” in Huutunen, Kilpeläinen, and Murtomäki, Sibelius Forum II, 317-18. 10 Robert Layton, Sibelius (London: Dent, 1965), 49. 223 development, which proceeds “in [an] orthodox manner”11; and Simpson—analyzing the work in tonal terms—refers to it as “a complete recapitulation.”12 The Symphony’s main point of formal contention comes at or just after the modulation to B major (m. 106), where a soaring trumpet motive introduces an accelerando that leads to 3/4 time and the indication Allegro moderato (ma poco a poco stretto) (m. 114). This meter change leads some scholars to consider this a division between two separate but related movements. Simpson suggests a compressed sonata followed by a Scherzo movement,13 and Simon Parmet describes a slow introduction followed by an Allegro.14 On the other hand, the continuity between sections encourages other scholars to identify recapitulatory processes in the second half, binding the single movement into an extended sonata-like structure: Gerald Abraham, like Hepokoski and Layton, considers the entire passage as a unified entity, while acknowledging the scherzo as a secondary feature.15 Although both Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony and Madetoja’s Second Symphony emphasize highly enigmatic formal structures, it is possible to form some preliminary 11 Cecil Gray, Sibelius: The Symphonies (London: Oxford University Press, 1935), 48. 12 Robert Simpson, Sibelius and Nielsen: A Centenary Essay (London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1965), 24-27. 13 Simpson, Sibelius, 25-27. 14 Simon Parmet, The Symphonies of Sibelius: A Study in Musical Appreciation, trans. Kingsley A. Hart (London: Cassell, 1959), 71-73. 15 Gerald Abraham, “The Symphonies,” in Sibelius: A Symposium, ed. Gerald Abraham (London: Lindsay Drummond, 1947), 28–30; Hepokoski, Sibelius, 60-70; and Layton, Sibelius, 48–51. 224 conclusions about the composers’ working methodologies, and in so doing, draw tentative parallels between the two works. The first conclusion is that both symphonies reference older formal structures in a retrospective manner, and then override listeners’ expectations for these structures. Hepokoski refers to the resulting structures as “sonata deformations,”16 offering a sub-category entitled “strophic-sonata hybrid” that aptly describes the first movement of each work. The strophic-sonata hybrid refers to music that is articulated into various strophes but nevertheless references what Veijo Murtomäki terms the “referential genre” of sonata form.17 As noted above, music scholars generally classify the opening of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony in sonata form, even if they cannot agree on specifics. Similarly, the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony evokes sonata form by referring to many of the standard elements of that form—including a principal theme in the tonic and a modulation to a new theme in the dominant—but then features elements that complicate a traditional sonata-form structure. The second conclusion is that the various movements of each Symphony are interrelated in a variety of ways. Sibelius expresses this interrelationship of material by fusing movements, as in his Third and Fifth Symphonies, and by suggesting a multimovement form within a single movement, as in his Fifth and Seventh Symphonies. He also explores organic connections across multiple movements by reiterating motives or 16 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 18. 17 Veijo Murtomäki, Symphonic Unity, 152. 225 blocks of material. Madetoja explores this interrelationship of material in similar ways. For example, he links the first two movements and the last two movements of his Second Symphony, proceeding without pause from one movement to the next. Although he doesn’t reach the extreme of Sibelius’s one-movement symphony, his motives are more rigorously interrelated than Sibelius’s. This suggests a powerfully organic approach to thematic material that traverses the Symphony’s movements, showing their derivation from a small number of core motives. It is possible, as Hepokoski suggests, that this exploration of alternative structures was a manifestation of, or response to, early modernism. Sibelius, Madetoja, and other f ìn- de-siècle composers had a genuine urge to push boundaries and explore new musical materials. On the other hand, they were often loath to push beyond these boundaries, lest they alienate their audience. Confronted with modernist developments of the early twentieth century, they heightened their focus on formal exploration in exchange for their preservation of largely triadic harmonies.18 Sibelius’s period of self-reassessment during the years 1909-14, and his subsequent withdrawal from modernism, is well documented;19 moreover, his struggle over the structure of his Fifth Symphony, which happened immediately following this period of ref lection, was greater than with any other 18 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 20. 19 Ibid., 10-18. 226 symphony.20 While Madetoja does not appear to have undertaken a comparable period of deliberation, the formal structures of his movements are—as we have seen—complex, showing a twentieth-century adaptation of older structural models. Debussy Early twentieth-century Finnish music had two basic affinities: Sibelius and German culture. French music, on the other hand, was viewed with suspicion on the assumption that its rich orchestral colours indicated superficiality and a lack of content. This viewpoint was reinforced not only by Heikki Klemetti—who as editor for the journal Säveletär waged a fierce battle against French elements—but also by Sibelius; it is still encountered occasionally in Finnish musical discussions.21 Accordingly, in his youth, Madetoja both encountered and upheld these views of French music. In 1910, for example, he wrote a letter to his friend Toivo Kuula expressing doubts about his upcoming sojourn to Paris: You seem to have a great admiration for new French music. I wonder how I will fare. I still have a preconceived idea that the French are nothing more than dabblers in colour, they don’t speak, they speechify. In other words the ideas contained in their music are overshadowed by the splendid and pictorial use of colour.22 20 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 2. 21 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 47. 22 Letter from Leevi Madetoja to Toivo Kuula, 2 April 1910; trans. Erkki Salmenhaara, “Toivo Kuula: Finland’s Tragic Romantic,” Music Finland: Composer Profiles, accessed 11 March 2013, www.musicfinland.fi; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 62. 227 Evidently Madetoja’s first visit to Paris, which included a semester at the Schola Cantorum, shattered these stereotypes, for Madetoja returned from Paris in 1911 an ardent supporter of new French music. As we shall see, he incorporated a number of tonal and harmonic inf luences into his compositions. He also wrote several complimentary articles on the subject; in fact, his articles for the Finnish publications Säveletär and Uusi Suometar, written following his return to Finland, present the first comprehensive Finnish-language overview of French music.23 The case for Debussy’s inf luence on Madetoja is strong. Madetoja was greatly impressed by Pelléas et Mélisande, which he saw for the first time in Vienna in 1911.24 He wrote eloquently on Debussy’s importance and evinced a keen familiarity with many of his compositions, including La Mer, Nocturnes, the String Quartet, and a number of piano 23 Madetoja’s first article on French music, “Kirje Pariisista” [Letter from Paris], was written in 1910. In 1913, he wrote an important five-part article investigating César Franck and his school, French opera, Camille Saint-Saëns, Gabriel Fauré, and Claude Debussy entitled “Nykyajan ranskalainen säveltaide” [Contemporary French Music]. See “Kirje Pariisista,” Säveletär, no. 20-21 (1910), reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 9-11; “Kirje Pariisista,” Säveletär, no. 3 (1911), reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 137-39; and “Nykyajan ranskalainen säveltaide,” Uusi Suometar, 23 July, 24 July, 6 August, 8 August, and 22 August 1913, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 12-33. 24 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 47; Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 86. 228 pieces. He even referenced Debussy’s plans to compose a one-act, two-scene opera based on a short story by Edgar Allen Poe (this is, of course, Debussy’s unfinished opera, La chute de la maison Usher).25 Moreover, there exists some speculation that Madetoja’s music is indebted to Debussy’s early output. For example, Erik Tawaststjerna compares Madetoja’s Second Symphony with Debussy’s String Quartet in G Minor, arguing that “[Madetoja’s] tonal origins happen to be found in Debussy’s early works,” and that “Madetoja adopted his own sensitivity and Ostrobothnian introverted disposition to Romantic early Impressionism.”26 Tawaststjerna even suggests that the basic idea from the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony bears a certain resemblance to the Quartet’s principal theme through similarities in rhythm, key, and modal colour (ex. 5.4; the opening of Debussy’s quartet is presented in augmentation for the sake of comparison). 25 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 107-08. 26 Erik Tawaststjerna, Review of Madetoja’s Second Symphony, Helsingin Sanomat, 10 March 1974; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 28. Example 5.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme fragment (above); Debussy, String Quartet No. 1, Op. 10, first movement, principal theme fragment in rhythmic augmentation (below). 229 Musicologists frequently describe Madetoja’s works—especially Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7 (Concert Overture, 1911), Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53 (Comedy Overture, 1923), and the Third Symphony (1925-26)— in terms of their “elegance” or “finesse” in an attempt to qualify their indebtedness to French music. For example, Kimmo Korhonen argues that Madetoja’s music is “very French in its elegance and polish,”27 while Kai Maasalo states that “the Gallic finesse of tone and sound is one of the most essential characteristics of Madetoja’s music, and in this respect hardly any other Finn can surpass him.”28 Ultimately, however, these descriptors provide only minimal insight into Madetoja’s oeuvre. As correspondences between Madetoja and Debussy have not been supported analytically, this chapter attempts a more detailed account of the impact of contemporary French idioms, including Debussy’s, on Madetoja’s output. As we shall see, the opening measures of Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune encapsulate several working principles that reveal strong parallels with the music of Madetoja: additive construction, rich accompanimental figures, and ambiguous harmonies, melodies, and section boundaries. Madetoja, who may have heard the work as early as 16 March 1908 in a Helsinki concert conducted by Robert Kajanus,29 would later single out this 27 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 28 Maasalo, Suomalaisia, 1:123; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 27. 29 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 40-41. 230 work as being amongst “the most beautiful things that have been composed in recent years.”30 The Prélude is situated within a key signature of four sharps, suggesting E major or C-sharp minor. Its principal f lute theme opens the work by sounding a sustained C-sharp5, descending an augmented fourth chromatically, lingering on G4, and returning to the opening pitch (ex. 5.5a). This gesture is repeated note-for-note in the following measure before changing character: in measure 3, the melody offers a more disjunct eighth-note motive that ascends to G-sharp5, suggesting C-sharp minor; falling by way of an arpeggiated E major triad; and, after lingering on B, descending a semitone to A-sharp4, the raised fourth (Lydian) scale degree (or the vii/V harmony) of E major. Despite the modal implications and lush chromaticism, however, it is the elusive, freely f loating rhythm—which Austin submits 30 “[. . .] kauneinta, mitä viime vuosien säveltaide on luonut.” Madetoja, “Nykyajan ranskalainen säveltaide,” 31. Example 5.5: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 1-4, flute solo (ex. a, above); Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 1-5 (ex. b, below). 231 as perhaps “Debussy’s greatest, most forward-looking achievement”—31that sets the opening apart. In the first measure, a sustained dotted-eighth gives way to sixteenths, then triplet sixteenths; the notation is precise, but in performance the steady pulse of the work’s 9/8 meter is completely obscured. Madetoja employs a similar rhythmic approach in the second movement of his Second Symphony, which opens with an a piacere oboe solo (ex. 5.5b). Although Finnish folk melodies are the likely source of the minor pentatonic and Aeolian modalities, Kaipainen states that “one could also look to the French inf luence to explain Madetoja’s fondness for freely f loating rhythms.”32 Debussy conceives of his orchestra in stratified layers. As Peter Delone suggests, Debussy, in spite of a professed disdain for traditional contrapuntal devices, incorporates into his works “subtle forms of melodic or motivic combinations, counterlines, and counter textures that involve the play of lines in what may be described as a kind of unobtrusive, idiomatic counterpoint.”33 This is apparent from the first notes of the Prélude in the form of simultaneously stated, contrasting motivic gestures. Oboes and clarinets enter in measure 31 William W. Austin, “Toward an Analytical Appreciation,” in Claude Debussy: Prelude to “The Afternoon of a Faun,” ed. William W. Austin (New York: Norton, 1970), 91. 32 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 49. 33 Peter DeLone, “Claude Debussy, Contrapuntiste malgré lui,” College Music Symposium 17, no. 2 (1977), 48. 232 4.4, while French horns commence a short dialogue in measure 4.5; a muted, pianissimo accompaniment of strings and harp glissandi begins shortly thereafter (ex. 5.6). Even denser textures occur later. As Matthew Brown observes, Debussy tends to reserve his greatest displays of polyphonic writing for significant formal junctures, and in the Prélude, the densest textures occur during the climax beginning in measure 94.34 34 Matthew Brown, “Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à l’apres-midi d’un faune,” Music Theory Spectrum 15, no. 2 (1993): 137. Example 5.6: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 3-5. 233 Madetoja was well acquainted with this technique of stratified orchestral writing. In 1910, he received a letter from his friend and colleague Toivo Kuula who observed that “the [French] orchestra isn’t a single instrument, but rather many, each with a different colour and personality.” The concomitant layers result in “a new strange counterpoint” featuring “twists and motives that are not found in the literature we are accustomed to hearing.”35 Madetoja would later note that “the structure of Debussy’s music is characterized by small sections, most often two or four measures, and he overlaps one with another; upon abandoning the first image, he takes up the next and proceeds with it in the same manner.”36 Like Debussy, Madetoja maintains distinct divisions between layers. As discussed in the previous chapter, in the opening of the first movement of the Second Symphony, he sets the principal theme apart from the accompaniment both rhythmically and tonally. Just as the compound 12/8 meter in the principal theme suggests an underlying incompatibility with the accompaniment’s 6/4 meter (ex. 5.2, above), the absent mediant (B f lat) in the theme’s triadic G minor contour lends it an incongruously modal, rustic character. 35 “Orkesteri ei ole yksi instrumentti vaan, että niitä on monta ja kullakin eri värinsä ja individualiteettinsa. […] Uusia kummallisia kontrapunkti-käänteitä ja -motiiveja, joita ei siinä kirjallisuudessa löydy, jota me olemme tottuneet kuulemaan.” Toivo Kuula, letter to Leevi Madetoja, 18 March 1910; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 60-61. 36 Leevi Madetoja, “Sotavuosina kuolleita kuuluisia säveltäjiä II: Claude Debussy,” Helsingin Sanomat, 31 August 1918, reprinted in Madetoja: Kirjoituksia musiikista, 38. 234 Supporting a reprise of the opening f lute solo, measure 11 of Debussy’s Prélude presents a pianissimo string tremolo performed “sur la touche” (sul tasto) (ex. 5.7). It is possible to draw a parallel between the section’s shimmering background texture and analogous passages in Madetoja’s Second Symphony, notably the iridescent f lute accompaniment that opens the first movement (ex. 5.2, above) or the constantly shifting “ritmo deciso” ostinato pattern of the second movement. Madetoja, according to Kaipainen: rather often constructs a kaleidoscopic accompanying figure, in a constant state of slight movement, with hazy harmony, wavering between two keys, and on the top of this shifting platform he allows individual members of the woodwinds to deliver in leisurely fashion their songs, compiled from several short motifs.37 37 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 48. Example 5.7: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 10-15. 235 In this regard, other works by Debussy present even stronger parallels. For example, Kaipainen suggests that the central movements of La Mer and Nocturnes are clear precursors to Madetoja’s “typical ticking background motifs” (ex. 5.8).38 Such accompaniments function as a textural device, providing a backdrop of tonal and rhythmic stability against which motivic or melodic material can be further developed. This essentially contrapuntal technique was frequently used not only by Debussy and Madetoja but also by Stravinsky.39 38 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 48. 39 DeLone, “Claude Debussy,” 53. Example 5.8: Debussy, Nocturnes, “Fêtes,” measures 1-2. 236 Example 5.9: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 73-79. 237 One of the most cogent examples of Debussy’s penchant for superimposed layers and complex, ambiguous harmonies occurs in the transitional area that precedes the reprise of the Section A in measure 79 (ex. 5.9). Here, the turn motives featured in measures 67 through 78 gradually fade in volume, moving from fortissimo (m. 70) to triple piano (m. 78). Meanwhile, the cadential bass motion to D-f lat in measure 74 is almost entirely obscured by a second-inversion B-f lat minor chord in the horns that suggests B-f lat Aeolian. The clarinets assume the melody in the following measure. The inclusion of C f lats in the melodic line and the syncopation of F5 suggests F Locrian; this is played in counterpoint with a melody in the strings in D-f lat major but an accompaniment in the horns sounding an F half-diminished seventh chord. Measure 77 sees a gradual alignment of modes, with D-f lat Ionian in the horns but D-f lat Mixolydian in the oboe. Clarinets attempt to bridge the differences, acting as an intermediary through a minor third oscillation that touches not only on the C-f lat of the oboe’s Mixolydian—foreshadowing the move to E major—but also the A-f lat of the horns, showing dominant emphasis and a hint of Ab Mixolydian. The solo violin, meanwhile, adds additional tension by way of its emphasis on Bb; in measure 79, it rises a semitone to the dominant of the new key, suggesting more traditional tonal resolution. The other instruments are less definitive: lower horns fall a semitone to the tonic, while the oboe, unusually, ascends an augmented second. Thus, while the new section beginning in measure 79 arrives through changes in key (E major) and timbre (harp and divisi strings), the lack of tonal concordance precludes convincing harmonic demarcation and suggests deliberate obfuscation of the harmonic structure. 238 The above examples find correspondence in the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony, which features stepwise contrary motion in the transition from E-f lat major to G-f lat major at the close of the first theme (mm. 17-18; ex. 5.10). Madetoja employs a strong command of voice leading to ensure a smooth transition to the new tonal area of G-f lat major in measure 18. His melodic gestures are distinct but concurrently stated: counterpoint occurs by way of ascending horns set in contrary motion to descending bassoons and contrabass; the voices are differentiated through registral and timbral contrast. This novel tonal and textural approach is new to Finnish music, and Kaipainen suggests French origins, adding that Madetoja occasionally “runs chords superimposed on each other in the style of Debussy.”40 Most analyses of the Prélude agree on the main formal boundaries. Section A ends in measure 30, and measures 30-37 feature whole-tone variation of the f lute theme; ensuing passagework functions both as transition and further development. Section B begins in 40 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 48. Example 5.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 16-18, reduction. 239 measure 55; and a reprise of A in measure 79 is followed by a brief coda in measures 106-10.41 The Prélude nonetheless contains a high degree of structural ambiguity, not least since its Example 5.11: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, melodic variation of principal theme. 240 thematic material is characterized by a sophisticated network of motivic relationships. For example, the principal theme undergoes an extensive process of variation after its second iteration in measures 11-14. In measure 14, an oboe elides with the f lute, eventually taking on the character of the f lute solo so that by measure 17 it is possible to discern similarities in intervallic contour between the two melodies. The return of the f lute solo in measure 21 doubles the length of the opening pitch before giving way to f lorid variation, a model that repeats in measures 23 and 26. Likewise, the oboe theme, introduced in measure 37, corresponds—like the motives introduced in measures 38 and 52—not only to the f lute solo’s descending/ascending pattern but also to a pentatonic gesture introduced in measure 28; it is featured prominently in augmentation beginning in measure 55 (ex. 5.11).42 Accordingly, motives that initially appear inconsequential may end up playing an important role elsewhere. One of the most significant ways it acquires this formal ambiguity is through the continuation of a motive from a previous section within a new section, thereby superimposing it upon new material. By way of example, consider two of the Prélude’s supporting motives, the “syncopated motive” and the “f lowing motive.”43 The former, which can be traced back to the horn parts in measures 5 and 13, is introduced in measure 39 and combined with the opening f lute theme in measure 47. The latter is 41 Brown, “Tonality and Form,” 131. 42 Example 5.11 is indebted to Austin, “Toward an Analytical Appreciation,” 76-78, which features a detailed analysis of the melodic variations inherent in the Prélude. See also Brown, “Tonality and Form,” 127- 43. 43 These motives are identified in Austin, “Toward an Analytical Appreciation,” 71ff. 241 introduced in measure 28 and incorporated into the oboe theme in measure 37. In Section B, both motives are subsumed by the second theme, and a short codetta in measures 74-78 (ex. 5.9, above) combines the syncopated motive (horns, m. 74) with the second theme (strings, m. 75) and the f lowing motive (clarinets, m. 75 and oboes, m. 77). Similarly, the climax of the Prélude (m. 94-99) integrates the syncopated motive, the f lowing motive, and Example 5.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of subphrase 1a. 242 the f lute theme. This development of similar thematic material traverses formal boundaries, eroding the autonomy of the work’s sections.44 Madetoja’s thematic material undergoes a similar process of thematic variation, as examples from the first movement of the Second Symphony illustrate. In measure 69, the “oscillating” theme presents material against two older patterns: clarinets voice a descending fourth/ascending fifth motive (“motive B”); meanwhile, strings and timpani play a variation on the opening accompaniment pattern (“acc. 1”). In measure 105, both the “conjunct” theme and its accompaniment (“acc. 1”), echo one of the Symphony’s core motives, “subphrase 1a”; in measure 176, the “dance” theme ref lects the perfect fourth intervals, changing-note figure, and motivic character of the opening theme (ex. 5.12 illustrates this motivic development). Such monothematicism, in conjunction with constant variation, is a key facet of Madetoja’s working procedure, although the use of this technique, Salmenhaara notes, is subtler in the Third Symphony.45 44 Brown, “Tonality and Form,” 137. 45 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. 243 Other French Influences Madetoja had a close affiliation with the Schola Cantorum and the music of d’Indy. This affiliation is an important one, since d’Indy championed a distinct trajectory within French music. Like his teacher César Franck, d’Indy was a contrapuntalist at heart. In addition to a solid grounding in counterpoint, his composition courses at the Schola included substantial instruction in sonata form and symphonic structures, both of which “were held to embody eternal humanistic and ethical values, a bulwark against the formal f lux and harmonic sensationalism of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande.”46 D’Indy’s historical bias was derided by Émile Vuillermoz, who, in a 1909 Mercure de France article, rejected the outdated formal and contrapuntal procedures of “horizontalists” like d’Indy in favor of the innovative harmonies and orchestration of “verticalists” like Debussy and Ravel.47 These sentiments—voiced not only by Vuillermoz but also by Louis Laloy, Jean Marnold, and Camille Mauclair—set the music of d’Indy and the Schola Cantorum in stark opposition to that of Debussy and the Paris conservatoire.48 Musicologists tend to group Madetoja with d’Indy, thanks largely to his studies at the Schola Cantorum in 1911. Kimmo Korhonen, for example, writes: “It is the polished finish of 46 Robert Orledge and Andrew Thompson. “Indy, (Paul Marie Théodore) Vincent d’,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 47 Émile Vuillermoz, “La Schola et le Conservatoire,” Mercure de France 81 (1909): 234–43. 48 For more on this topic, see Jann Passler, “Deconstructing d’Indy, or the Problem of a Composer’s Reputation,” 19th-Century Music 30, no. 3 (Spring 2007), 230-56. 244 Madetoja’s music that shows the French inf luence, since he was more interested in the Classical approach of Vincent d’Indy and the Schola Cantorum than in the Impressionism of Debussy et al. Madetoja even aspired to study with d’Indy, but this never happened.”49 Yet, this characterization is hardly categorical. Madetoja does not seem to have been particularly enthusiastic about d’Indy’s music, nor about the prospect of studying with him, despite a recommendation from Sibelius that all but guaranteed a place in d’Indy’s classroom. In a 1910 letter to Heikki Klemetti, Madetoja suggests that his studies at the Schola were, rather, a means to an end: “By the way, an instructor would do nothing for me; I know how to work on my own, and work willingly, but a stipend may not be available without some form of certification.”50 Madetoja evidently hoped that his studies would expedite his request for one of Finland’s generous artist pensions.51 What can be clearly substantiated is that Madetoja’s sojourn to Paris inspired a f lurry of works in French idioms, including Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7a (Concert Overture, 1911), Tanssinäky (Dance Vision; 1911, rev. 1919), Sävellyksiä viululle ja pianolle, op. 14 (Works for Violin and Piano, 1912), and Kullervo (1913). Each of these pieces pursues a different stylistic 49 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 50 “Muuten en minä ohjaajalla mitään tee, osaan kyllä tehdä työtä yksinäni ja kernaiten niin tekisin, mutta stipendiä ei saa ulos jos ei ole jonkinlaisia todistuksia.” Letter from Madetoja to Heikki Klemetti, 20 November 1910, quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 78. 51 Since the beginning of the nineteenth century, Finland has offered generous stipends for artists and musicians. Today the Arts Council of Finland oversees this funding under the supervision of the Ministry of Education and Culture. Funding for artists in 2012 was 34.5 million Euros, or upwards of 45 million Canadian dollars. See “Finland: Support to Artists and Other Creative Workers,” Compendium: Cultural Policies and Trends in Europe, accessed 5 July 2018, www.culturalpolicies.net/web/finland.php?aid=812. 245 approach. In Kullervo, Madetoja describes the spirit of German Romanticism through technical means that are close to those Wagnerian inf luences embraced by César Franck. In Sävellyksiä viululle ja pianolle, on the other hand, Madetoja explores the pure classicism of Gabriel Fauré’s music.52 In the following pages, I will examine those pieces most strongly inf luenced by French styles, propose two contemporaneous lines of style in Madetoja’s French-inspired output, and suggest probable compositional inf luences and musical debts, while pointing the way toward future avenues of study. Dated 14 March 1911, Madetoja’s Konserttialkusoitto (“Concert Overture”), op. 7, is the first major work Madetoja completed during his stay in Paris. Although its fugal opening theme might first come across as overly academic, its “light, easy-going idiom”53 nonetheless lends the work an endearingly personal touch (ex. 5.13).54 As a stylistic parallel, Madetoja is sometimes compared with d’Indy’s student Alberic Magnard (1865-1914). Madetoja first heard of Magnard—who was completely unknown in early-twentieth-century Finland—via an effusive letter from Kuula, who had spent the autumn of 1909 in Paris: 52 Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 263-65. 53 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 3. 54 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 113. 246 Grasp now in your hands Debussy’s First Quartet and look at its contents; please, someone else, take a small vocal work by Chausson and discover what kind of pattern this man makes, or browse the sparkling orchestral technique and strange beautiful melodies of Magnard’s B Minor Symphony. Take a look! Nowhere else can you find anything so polished and mature. But why is this not already known? — It is not known, as in Finland we pursue Germanness. Only here [in Paris] will you realize that the orchestra is not a single instrument, but rather many, each with a different colour and character; only here can you learn how to employ and follow this colour.55 While Madetoja may or may not have complied with Kuula’s suggestion to browse Magnard’s works, the Konserttialkusoitto does have certain stylistic parallels with Magnard’s Fourth 55 “Otappa nyt käsiisi Debussy’n I Kvartetti ja katso sen sisältöä, ota joku muu, ota pieni laulu Chausson’ilta ja katsele minkälaisia kuviota se mies tekee, tahi selaile Magnard’in B moll sinfonian helmeilevää orkesteritekniikkaa ja hänen omituisen kauniita melodiojansa. Ota ja katso! Minkään maailman kirjallisuudesta et niin valmista ja kypsää löydä. Mutta miksei sitä ole ennen tietty? — Ei ole tietty, meillä on Suomessa ollut saksalaisuus tiellä. Wasta [sic] täällä tulee käsittämään, että orkesteri ei ole yksi instrumentti vaan, että niitä on monta ja kullakin eri värinsä ja individualiteettinsa, vasta täällä niitten väriä oppii käyttämään ja seuraamaan.” Letter from Toivo Kuula to Madetoja, 19 January 1910; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 60-61. Example 5.13: Madetoja, Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7, opening. 247 Symphony (1913). Both works share a classical clarity and symmetry, an unconventional, somewhat modal, approach to modulation, and clear, unmixed orchestral colours—all of which, incidentally, are typical of d’Indy’s impact on the Schola.56 Although it was written in Vienna, Öinen karkelokuva (Night Revels, 1911), op. 11 is perhaps Madetoja’s most French-inspired composition. The introduction relies on orchestral colour, presenting short, fragmentary motives in solo woodwinds to the accompaniment of string tremolos. The castanets in the first theme are a clear expression of exoticism; a fragmented transitional section launches a short, waltzlike theme. Solos in the French horn and clarinet bring a momentary pause prior to the work’s recapitulation. Despite its sophisticated, delicate ambience, Salmenhaara finds the work “structurally and stylistically fragmentary, and the thematic material is rather impersonal.”57 On the other hand, Toivo Saarenpää considers it unparalleled, “not only in Finnish musical production, but in modern orchestral literature.”58 Madetoja revised it in 1919, renaming it Tanssinäky (Dance Vision). It was subsequently printed by the Danish publisher Wilhelm Hansen, and it remains in the Finnish orchestral canon.59 56 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 108. 57 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 99-100. 58 “Ei ainoastaan suomalaisessa sävellystuotannossa, vaan yleensä nykyaikaisessa orkesterikirjallisuudessa.” Quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 136. 59 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 99-100. 248 Example 5.14: Madetoja, Kullervo, op. 15, measures 243-44. 249 Example 5.15: Sibelius, Pohjolan tytär, op. 49, measures 160-61. 250 After the light, airy French sound of Konserttialkusoitto, Madetoja’s first symphonic poem Kullervo, op. 15 (1913) presents something of an enigma. In some respects, it suggests a return to Finnish inf luences. There is, of course, the decidedly Finnish subject matter; in the Kalevala, the tragic character of Kullervo is commonly seen as a parallel for Finland’s struggle for independence.60 There are also strong parallels with Sibelius, as Salmenhaara has shown. For example, the tragic stabbing of an E minor dominant-ninth chord over a bass G recalls the culmination of the main theme of the first movement of Sibelius’s First Symphony; both pieces also end with a quiet pizzicato E minor chord.61 Similarly, a repetitive percussive motif in high woodwinds, which alternates with parallel chromatic thirds in trombones and tuba, is redolent of Pohjolan tytär, op. 49 (Pohjola’s Daughter, 1906) (exx. 5.14 and 5.15).62 60 The Kalevala relates that, following the vicious slaughter of his family, Kullervo is enslaved and branded; he escapes by committing murder. He unknowingly seduces his sister, who kills herself in shame. Kullervo violently avenges the death of his family members and returns to the site of incest to commit suicide. His tragic tale inspired Aleksis Kivi to write a five-act drama based on the Kullervo legends in 1859 and a second play in 1864; later in the century, Julius Krohn (1835-1888) and Zachris Topelius (1818-1898) imparted Kullervo with more overtly patriotic connotations. For more, see Glenda Dawn Goss, “A Backdrop for Young Sibelius: The Intellectual Genesis of the ‘Kullervo’ Symphony, 19th-Century Music 27, no. 1 (Summer 2003), 49-50. 61 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 114. 62 Ibid., 114. 251 However, whereas Sibelius’s Kullervo, op. 7 (1892) was hailed as a Finnish paradigm,63 Madetoja’s Kullervo shows the integration of diverse international elements.64 While Salmenhaara notes the influence of Tchaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakov,65 Helena Tyrväinen draws an even more convincing parallel with César Franck’s symphonic poem Le Chasseur maudit (The Accursed Huntsman, 1882).66 Both compositions, for example, open with a horn motif that represents the protagonist. In Kullervo, the instrument can be interpreted as a shepherd’s horn or a war horn, although it does not bring to mind either; 63 Following the première, Oskar Merikanto wrote that “we recognize [the melodies] as our own, even though we had never heard them before.” Päivälehti, 28 April 1892; quoted in Goss, Sibelius, 131. 64 It is important to note that Madetoja would not have known Sibelius’s Kullervo, as Sibelius had withdrawn it following its fourth performance in 1893; nor would he have known the first and third parts of Sibelius’s Lemminkäinen series, op. 22 (1895, r. 1897, 1939) which were crafted in the tradition of the Kalevala. Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 114. 65 Ibid., 114. 66 César Franck (1822-1890) was a teacher of composition at the Paris Conservatoire; Vincent d’Indy was one of his students. Example 5.17: Madetoja, Kullervo, opening. Example 5.16: Franck, Le Chasseur maudit, opening. 252 the programmatic content of Le Chasseur maudit, on the other hand, makes it clear that the instrument refers to hunting. To render the character of Kullervo in a dramatic light, Madetoja opens his work with timpani and string tremolos; the first horn solo sounds above in measure 2 (ex. 5.16). Franck, on the other hand, delays his muted kettledrum-tremolo until measure 12, and his initial horn motif (ex. 5.17) opens the work, sounding alone.67 Tyrväinen identifies several other musical parallels between the two works: the expansion of dotted rhythmic figures contained in their subjects, the articulation of triplet rhythms through pedal points, the derivation of similar legato, chromatic motives from previous material, the splicing of these motives into a prevailing staccato texture, and the use of piercing f lutes and piccolos during dramatic forte sections.68 However, one of Kullervo’s most significant links with contemporary French music is—ironically—its use of Finnish subject matter. Interest in national thought and folk music was particularly strong within the Schola Cantorum, thanks largely to Richard Wagner, who personally encouraged d’Indy to write music drawing on French legendary sources. As Wagner stated in an 1880 interview for the magazine Le Gaulois: “So tap into your legends, which are innumerable, and of infinite richness. So read your poems of the middle ages, your songs of heroic deeds, even your novels of chivalry; they form the purest treasure of your intellectual archives.”69 67 These examples are indebted to Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 261. 68 Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 261-62. 69 “Lisez donc vos poèmes du moyen âge, vos chansons de geste, voire vos romans de chevalerie; ils forment le plus pur trésor de vos archives intellectuelles.” Le Gaulois, 5 January 1880; reprinted in Louis de Fourcaud, “Richard Wagner et l’opéra français,” in Bayreuther Festblätter in Wort und Bild: Gesammelte Beiträge deutscher, französischer, belgischer, schweizerischer, spanischer, englischer, amerikanischer und 253 Accordingly, after 1880, d’Indy incorporated French melodies into many of his works, including Symphonie sur un chant montagnard français (1886), the opera L’etranger (1903), and the symphonic poem Jour d’été à la montagne (1905). He also undertook the compilation of a series of collections of French folk music from his home region of Vivarais, an ongoing effort that would extend for four decades. Thus Madetoja’s decision to exploit the Kalevala as a source of inspiration is unsurprising; in Kullervo, he evidently took as his starting point not only Finnish national interests but also Wagner’s ideal that a composer’s task is to re- establish the relationship between folk and art music.70 Kullervo garnered considerable critical acclaim. At its première on 14 October 1913, it was hailed as a masterpiece. Evert Katila suggested that “Madetoja is a first-class artist, and in his latest creation, his orchestral skills reach new heights. […] The composer treats, develops, and illuminates the subject with iron consistency, and the many rhythmically interesting motives are of particular significance. […] A reference to Sibelius’s Pohjola’s Daughter does not lead the listener astray.”71 This positive reception was doubtless a factor in Madetoja’s later decision to compose a symphonic poem with chorus entitled Sammon italienischer Schriftsteller und Künstler mit Facsimiles aus den Original-Partituren Richard Wagners, ed. Central-Leitung des Allgemeinen Richard Wagner-Vereins (Munich, 1884), 42; quoted in Marie-Hélène Benoit-Otis, “Richard Wagner, Louis de Fourcaud, and a Path for French Opera in the 1880s,” ACT: Zeitschrift für Musik & Performance 3 (2012), 3. 70 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 264; Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 271-72. 71 “Madetoja on ensiluokan väritaiteilija ja tässä uusimmassa luomassaan kohoaa hänen soitinnustaitonsa huippuunsa. […] Rautaisella johdonmukaisuudella käsittelee, kehittää ja valaisee säveltäjä aiheitaan, joista useat rytmillisesti mielenkiintoiset motiivit varsinkin kiinnittävät mieltä. […] Muuan viittaus Sibeliuksen ‘Pohjolan tyttäreen’ ei vie kuulijaa harhateille.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 112. 254 ryöstö, op. 24 (“The Abduction of the Sampo,” 1915), which was likewise inspired by the Kalevala. Although it incorporates some French elements—including soft, cushioned seventh and ninth chords that show the inf luence of contemporary French music—in Sammon ryöstö Madetoja comes closer to what Salmenhaara terms “a ‘Finnish’ tone.”72 Unlike Kullervo, in Sammon ryöstö Madetoja succeeded in treating the Kalevala’s material in a fresh and musically striking way.73 By the time Madetoja started work on his Second Symphony in 1916, his first sojourn in Paris was a distant memory. In the intervening years, he had undertaken studies in Vienna with Robert Fuchs (1911-12), weathered an orchestral war in Helsinki (1912-13), travelled to Karelia, the cultural heart of historical Finland, to conduct the Viipurin musiikinystäväin orkesteri (1914-16), and returned to Helsinki to accept positions with the University of Helsinki and the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat. Throughout this period, Madetoja’s published writing in Finnish journals leans strongly toward Finnish music at the expense of French music.74 It is conceivable that, during these years of personal growth and intense 72 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 134. 73 Ibid., 134. 74 From 1913 to 1918, Madetoja’s focus was on national music. During this period, he wrote a number of important articles on Finnish music, including four important articles on Sibelius; however, his only article on French music was a 1915 homage to Camille Saint Saëns. See Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen uusimmat pianosävellykset,” Uusi Suometar, 28 May 1913, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 68-71; Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen uusin orkesterirunoelma ‘Aallottaret’,” Uusi Suometar, 14 July 1914, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 72-74; Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen taiteilijauran yleiset piirteet,” Helsingin Sanomat, 8 December 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 75-88; Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibelius: pari persoonallista muistelmaa,” Karjala, 8 December 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 89-91; and Leevi Madetoja, “Camille Saint-Saens 80-vuotias,” Otava (1915): 463. 255 sociopolitical turmoil, he considered national efforts more pressing than French inf luences. It is also possible that he was discouraged from strong expressions of French style by the Finnish government’s close political ties with Germany, which only waned following the latter’s defeat in the First World War. The Second Symphony’s similarities with Debussy’s Prélude are therefore of great significance, since Madetoja retained these Gallic aspects in the form of deeply ingrained musical procedures even during a time of relative abandonment of French styles. Following the 1918 Civil War, Madetoja turned even more strongly to French music as a source of inspiration.75 One of his first tasks was the 1919 revision of Tanssinäky; this was followed by some of his finest works, including Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, the Third Symphony, and the ballet-pantomime Okon Fuoko. The first of these, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53 (Comedy Overture, 1923) clearly represents Madetoja’s refined French style. Avoiding an overly weighty demeanour even in fortissimo passagework, it embodies, as Salmenhaara suggests, the core of Madetoja’s art: subtlety, balanced 75 Madetoja’s 1918 return to the subject of French music was marked by an article on Debussy inspired by the latter’s recent passing: “Sotavuosina kuolleita kuuluisia säveltäjiä II: Claude Debussy,” Helsingin Sanomat, 31 August 1918, reprinted in Madetoja: Kirjoituksia musiikista, 34-39. Several articles on French music followed: “Parisin soitannollisesta elämästä,” Helsingin Sanomat, 19 October and 12 November 1920, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 40-42; “Polytonia: eräs uusi suunta nykyajan säveltaiteessa,” Helsingin Sanomat, 1 January 1921, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 43-46; “Parisissa käymässä,” Suomen Musiikkilehti, no. 6 (1924): n.p., reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 47-49; “Parisin musiikkielämästä,” Helsingin Sanomat, 24 March, 5 April, 17 April, and 24 May 1925; “Maurice Ravel: luonnekuva kuuluisasta ranskalaisesta sävelmestarista,” Helsingin Sanomat, 10 May 1925, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 55-60; “Ylimääräinen, kesäinen soitantokausi Parisissa,” Helsingin Sanomat, 18 June 1925, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 50-54; “Parisin katuhuudot,” Suomen Musiikkilehti, no. 4 (1925): n.p., reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 61-63; and “Houilles’in kottarainen ja kukot,” Suomen Musiikkilehti, no. 6 (1926): n.p., reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 64-67. 256 classicism, a modicum of counterpoint, and the ability to say a lot with limited means. Further, it reveals a “fourth dimension” in Madetoja’s orchestral production: “in addition to pastoralism, resignation and tragedy, it shows a gentle, playful sense of humor.”76 All three themes of the work’s free-rondo form are distinctive, maintaining interest through unusually long lines and whimsical rhythmic gestures. A special characteristic of the third theme is its parallel triads, which sound in divisi f lutes (ex. 5.18). Korhonen states that “despite its seeming innocuousness, [Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto] is one of the most coherent and most delightful works Madetoja ever wrote.”77 Remarkably, it was neglected by critics after the première. Evert Katila and Väinö Pesola each spared it one sentence, and Karl Ekman less than that. Leo Funtek found “a certain conventionalism”; Heikki Klemetti could not “get a clear grasp” of its contents and wished for “something a little more resonant, perhaps with a slightly more pronounced melodic line.”78 Madetoja was 76 Madetoja, Salmenhaara, 212. 77 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 10. 78 “Jotakin kaikuvampaa kokoa olisi ehkä kaivannut, ehkä myös hieman selvempää melodista piirrosta jossakin.” Madetoja, Salmenhaara, 211. Example 5.18: Madetoja, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53, third theme. 257 well known on one hand as a contemplative Finnish lyricist, and on the other as a symphonist whose serious and monumental works included Kullervo and the Second Symphony. He appears to have been pigeonholed by these successes, for his deviation from them confused Finnish audiences. This is, perhaps, most evident in Ikonen’s concert review for the Suomen Musiikkilehteen, which states that Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto “contained some sort of artistic feature that, coming from Madetoja, appeared to some extent contrasting and foreign. It could anyway be that it was the finding of a first hearing and that this strange tune is later recognized as a positive development within Madetoja’s f lowing and delicate production.”79 Contra Wagner, who declared in 1849 that “the last symphony has already been written,”80 1920s Paris supported a circle of symphonic composers representing “a little known but important branch of French music of the day which evolved in the shadow of triumphant impressionism and was represented by the likes of an Albert Roussel, an Alberic Magnard or a Paul le Flem,”81 composers who most certainly warrant comparison with Madetoja in future studies. Madetoja’s Third Symphony in A Major, op. 55 was conceived in 79 “tuntui jonkinlainen artisti-nen piirre, joka Madetojasta lähteneenä vaikutti jossain määrin omaksutulta ja vieraalta. Saattaa kumminkin olla, että se toteamus oli kuulijassa vain ensikertalaisuutta, ja että hän myöhemmin huomaa tämän toistaiseksi oudon sävyn myönteiseksi kehitykseksi Madetojan vuolaassa ja herkässä tuotannossa.” Madetoja, Salmenhaara, 211. 80 “Die letzte Symphonie bereits geschrieben sei.” Richard Wagner, Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft (1849; repr., Berlin: Contumax Hofenberg, 2016), 54. 81 Riita Pulliainen, liner notes for Leevi Madetoja, Madetoja Orchestral Works 4: Laurel Wreaths, Oulu Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Arvo Volmer, Alba ABCD 162, 2001, CD, 5. 258 this heady environment in 1925, during a stay in the Parisian suburb of Huilles82; it is the composer’s final symphony and widely considered his “orchestral masterpiece.”83 Unlike such orchestral works as Konserttialkusoitto and Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, it lacks the resignation and melancholy most commonly associated with Madetoja’s oeuvre.84 Instead, it serves as a showcase for French elegance. It is refined and well-proportioned, employing colourful, translucent orchestration and f lowing counterpoint.85 Even by Madetoja’s standards, the work has an exceptionally airy sound.86 Henri-Claude Fantapié describes it as “Gallic in its classicism, in its elegiac character, in its refusal to seek an easy effect, in its effort to be musique pure.”87 The opening is cheerful, illustrating Kaipainen’s assessment as “a gentle counterpoint of unclouded thoughts” infused with a “glowing optimism.”88 The movement is in two parts: it opens with an introductory Andantino with an inviting melody that is treated in a number of different ways over the course of the movement. An Allegretto follows, featuring a lilting, 82 This stay is documented in an entertaining article for the Finnish journal Suomen musiikkilehti entitled “Houilles’in kottarainen ja kukot” [Houilles’s Starlings and Roosters], in which Madetoja transcribes various sounds that interrupted the composition of his Third Symphony. 83 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 11. 84 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 232. 85 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 11. 86 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 87 Pulliainen, Madetoja Orchestral Works, 5. 88 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 259 rhythmically engaging theme that appears in canon with itself. Development is limited, and the movement fades to a close following a simple recapitulation. It perfectly characterizes Madetoja’s French inf luence: the opening theme is lyrical, displays concise melodic material, is developed throughout the Symphony, is elegant and serene, and outlines seventh and ninth harmonies that suggest a possible French origin.89 The Adagio second movement, in D minor, opens with a peaceful, folk-inspired canon that gradually builds in power.90 This is followed by a broad, lyrical melody in the cellos that is imitated in violins, and a powerful restatement of the main theme in the brass that calms down as quickly as it appears.91 The overall atmosphere is contemplative and melancholy, but Madetoja’s well-crafted melodic lines maintain a sense of forward motion.92 The third movement, “Allegro non troppo,” is as long and eventful as the two opening movements are short. The brass open with a staccato chord motif. A theme reminiscent of 89 Koponen, “Symphony,” 27. 90 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. 91 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 92 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. Example 5.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 44-45. 260 the scherzo from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony follows, launching a triplet ostinato texture, which continues throughout the movement; even as one of Madetoja’s more common mannerisms, it is “fresh and stimulating” here.93 Altogether, the movement contains three themes, the second of which is rhythmically and melodically (in inversion) reminiscent of Dukas’s L’apprenti sorcier (ex. 5.19). Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the movement is the strange chromaticism that emerges midway through the movement in tandem with the third theme; Salmenhaara considers it “Madetoja’s most brilliant thematic invention.”94 A rhythmic dimension adds to the interest. The theme lags behind the accompanimental texture by a dotted quarter and, furthermore, is shaped into short triangular phrases, each three dotted-quarters long. Consequently, it shows a lack of congruity within the established quadruple compound (12/8) meter (ex. 5.20).95 93 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 94 “Se on Madetojan nerokkaimpia temaattisia keksintöjä.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. 95 Ibid, 232. Example 5.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 99-104. 261 The finale, “Pesante tempo moderato - Allegretto,” brings back the solemn introductory motifs by way of a pesante unison hymn reminiscent of Schubert’s C major symphony.96 This is, however, a diversionary ploy. The Allegretto brings a galloping rhythm that superimposes triple meter over common-time material; it is reminiscent of Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier (ex. 5.21).97 Although Kaipainen notes an endearing “capriciousness and personal quality,”98 the waltz also contains a darker element in its broad, developmental modulations. The recapitulation presents an expedited repeat of the introductory material.99 The ending is surprising; just when the symphony seems to be readying for an energetic close, it fades to silence.100 The Third Symphony was premiered alongside Aslak Smaukka, Op. 37, a Symphonic Poem for male choir, baritone and orchestra, in Madetoja’s fifth composer concert in 96 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 232. 97 Ibid., 232. 98 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. 99 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 232. 100 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. Example 5.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, fourth movement, measures 72-79. 262 Helsinki on 8 April 1926.101 Leo Funtek, in a Svenska Pressen review, described the audience as “very mediocre”; it “did not know its responsibilities and besides it had little knowledge of music-cultural, patriotic aspects either in or out.”102 Although reviewers praised the Symphony, none of them were able to discern its true meaning. Many expressed their expectations of a sequel to the tragic and monumental Second Symphony, in contrast to which the lightness and consistency of the Third felt somehow less significant. Henri- Claude Fantapié explained the premiere in this way: “The listeners expected the opera [Pohjalaisia] to be followed by a nationalistic anthem and were disappointed to hear something that seemed to them to be hermetic and that, to crown it all, was lacking in pomposity and solemnity … the properties the majority of Finnish music-lovers always expect in a new work.”103 Unfortunately, this reception left a lasting impression, preventing the Symphony from earning an important position in Finland’s canon of symphonic music and prompting Madetoja to focus his efforts on printing the score for the Second Symphony in lieu of the Third. Nevertheless, the Third Symphony is now widely considered Madetoja’s finest, and one of the few Finnish works that can be placed in the orchestral canon alongside 101 The latter was composed in 1917, but due to wartime restrictions it could not be performed at the time. Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 229. 102 Ibid., 229. 103 Pulliainen, Madetoja Orchestral Works, 5. 263 Sibelius. Salmenhaara’s tongue-in-cheek remark is apt: “Madetoja showed in his Third that Sibelius had another full-length symphony.”104 The suite from the pantomime ballet Okon Fuoko, op. 58 (1925-27) is one of Madetoja’s most striking and original works. In fact, according to Salmenhaara, it is “one of the finest scores in Finnish music,” possessing “an unusual clarity, translucence and richness of nuance.”105 The original pantomime drama—written by Danish writer Poul Knudsen, who collaborated with Sibelius on Scaramouche—was constructed around a heterogenous mixture of dialogue and mimed expression that was deemed dramatically unsatisfactory at the February 1930 première. However, Madetoja’s concise orchestral suite, consisting of four movements performed without a break, was highly successful, vividly expressing the symbolic, fairy-tale character of Knudsen’s play and once again illustrating Madetoja’s mastery of orchestral colour.106 The opening number, “Okon Fuoko, unitaikari” (Okon Fuoko, the Dream Wizard), introduces the story’s titular protagonist, a dollmaker (ex. 5.22). Tam tam and castanets evoke a distant, mysterious atmosphere without resorting to the superficial exoticism of the Japanese theme; sparing use of the celesta, although evocative of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, is nonetheless used to novel effect here. Okon Fuoko largely avoids traditional thematic 104 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja, 230. 105 Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia,” par. 12. 106 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. 264 development, and its subjects are short, often consisting of only two or three notes; Salmenhaara goes so far as to suggest that the work’s core motive is a descending semitone, Example 5.22: Madetoja, Okon Fuoko, Suite 1, “Okon Fuoko, unitaikuri,” measures 1-8. 265 an interval that appears for the first time in the horns in measure 7.107 Harmonies are occasionally bitonal; even the opening measures show different tonal implications of the stratified layers. The E-G# dyad in con sordino strings (m. 6), while reminiscent of Dukas’s L’apprenti sorcier, also finds fitting antecedents in “Laideronnette: impératrice des pagodes” from Ravel’s Mother Goose Suite (1910-11) and Dukas’s La Péri (1912); the latter, like Okon Fuoko, contains an opening pianissimo string gesture (m. 8-11) and discreet celesta garnishes (m. 10). The fourth and final movement combines three different scenes: “Miehen tanssi” (Man’s Dance), “Naisen tanssi” (Woman’s Dance), and “Dance Grotesque.” The grotesque character of the finale appears to be based largely on the obstinate repetition of a woodwind phrase and the alternation of 3/4 and 7/8 meter (the latter marked “three and a half over four time” in the score); thus Kaipainen suggests that the model could well be the “Danse générale” finale of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe.108 Other scholars link Okon Fuoko with French Neoclassicism; Kimmo Korhonen, for example, finds Neoclassical overtones reminiscent of Prokofiev in “Miehen tanssi” (Man’s Dance) and the closing “Danse grotesque.”109 Yet another source of inspiration for the tenacious rhythms and dissonant harmonic language could be the music of Diaghilev and the Ballet Russes—particularly Stravinsky’s Firebird 107 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 261. 108 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. 109 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 12. 266 (1910); Stravinsky’s Petrushka (1911), especially the second tableau; and Sibelius’s Scaramouche (1913; premièred 1922).110 Conclusions to This Chapter This chapter illustrates similarities between certain compositional principles inherent in the music of Debussy and Madetoja, including the use of freely f loating rhythms, layering, shifting accompanimental figures, ambiguous harmonies and section boundaries, and near-constant thematic variation. It also explores French elements in other works by Madetoja, suggesting points of comparison with a number of early twentieth- century French composers. Madetoja’s approach was striking in early-twentieth-century Finland, a country that based its compositional attitudes soundly in the German tradition while viewing French music with suspicion. Thus, while Madetoja ushered elements of French music into his compositions rather furtively, he did cultivate an airy, refined style that is emphasized by the almost complete lack of pathos associated with the Germanic style: In particular in the later works Madetoja’s actual thematic and structural work seems often to be taking a back seat at the expense of lyrical elements. To take an example, many of the individual symphony movements are ‘beautiful’ rather than ‘tensioned’, which says little for the impact on Madetoja of the German symphonic tradition.111 110 In a conversation with me on 23 March 2018, Daniel Grimley suggested that Petrushka was a major influence for La Péri, just as Firebird was for Scaramouche. 111 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 49. 267 The later works are now seen as Madetoja’s finest. Referring to the Third Symphony and the Comedy Overture, Heineken concludes that: “today they are often seen as Madetoja’s crowning achievement. Their humane, unpretentious classicism and their cultured outlook on the roots of Finnish art make them unique in Finnish music.”112 112 Heininen, Sinfonia III; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 32. 268 Conclusion Leevi Madetoja represents the consciousness of a composer whose music has immortal value, even though his great works have been infrequently performed. Madetoja’s music, from which harsh self-criticism has eliminated anything of low value, is the music of the future, and it will surely once again be given a place of honour within the world’s musical literature. The Finnish people must be happy to have Jean Sibelius and to have Leevi Madetoja.1 Future research is absolutely necessary if we are to uncover the progressive nature of Madetoja’s music. An investigation of additional works in his oeuvre and of relationships with colleagues and place in musical currents both in Finland and in France would throw more light into his career and music. Each of these endeavors would be aided by further examination of source materials housed in collections across Finland. Madetoja’s correspondence is held in archives in Helsinki at the National Library of Finland and the Finnish Literature Society; his autograph manuscripts at the National Library; and his personal library (approximately 2,900 titles) at the Oulu University Library. Other printed matter is available in public and private archives across Finland. Madetoja’s newspaper and journal articles are available via the National Library; at the time of this writing, many 1 “Leevi Madetoja on ollut kaikkien tietoisuudessa säveltäjänä, jonka musiikilla on kuolemattomuuden arvo, mutta varsinkin hänen suuret teoksensa ovat jääneet suhteellisen vähäisen esityksen varaan. Madetojan musiikki, josta ankara itsekritiik ki on karsinut pois kaiken halpahintaisen, on tulevaisuuden musiikkia, jolle varmasti vielä kerran tunnustetaan kaikkialla kunniasija maailman musiikkikirjal lisuudessa. Suomen kansa saa olla onnellinen siitä, että sillä on Jean Sibelius ja että sillä on Leevi Madetoja.” Tauno Pylkkänen; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 330. 269 articles up to 1929 are freely accessible online, providing a significant amount of readily available sources. A primary avenue of ongoing study should involve Madetoja’s repertoire, notably his symphonies. The First Symphony, despite its echoes of Sibelius and Tchaikovsky, is a mature and restrained work. It features highly original orchestration, full technical control, and intriguing harmonic touches showing the influence of French composers. The Third, one of Madetoja’s finest works, continues in the direction set by the Second with increasingly sophisticated structural and thematic manipulation. A study of the evolution of harmonic and structural elements over the course of Madetoja’s three symphonies would advance the current understanding of Madetoja’s style. The symphonies notwithstanding, Madetoja’s output, consisting of 82 works with opus numbers and numerous unclassified works, contains a wealth of material for further research. One intriguing inquiry would be an analysis of a line in Madetoja’s orchestral output epitomized by Konserttialkusoitto, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, and the Third Symphony, a trajectory that Salmenhaara suggests is connected by its lightness, optimism, and French style and that runs almost unnoticed within Madetoja’s oeuvre.2 There is also significant room for exploration of other important symphonic works, including Tanssinäky, the ballet-pantomime Okon Fuoko, the symphonic poem Kullervo, and the symphonic poems with choir Sammon ryöstö, Aslak Smaukka, and Väinämöisen kylvö. 2 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 282. 270 Madetoja’s extensive output of works for choir, which Lappalainen and Salmenhaara deem “one of the most impressive achievements in the Finnish choral canon,” is also deserving of further review. This body of works includes numerous cantatas, pieces for men’s and mixed choir, and solo works.3 Finally, there are Madetoja’s operas. Salmenhaara states that Madetoja is, in addition to Aarre Merikanto, the only past Finnish opera composer representative of an international standard.4 Although the emphasis in this dissertation has been on Pohjalaisia and its national associations, Helsingin Sanomat critic Tauno Karila wrote that Juha is “to be considered the author’s masterpiece and one of Finland’s greatest operas, even though it has not yet reached the status in operatic literature to which it belongs.”5 Another important area of research involves further analysis of the aesthetic environment supporting Madetoja and his music. While Madetoja naturally felt the influence of Sibelius and of the cultural period in which he developed his craft, scholars have long considered Madetoja’s output as suggestive of a broader Finnish style that encompasses not only Madetoja and Sibelius but also other early twentieth-century Finnish composers. For example, Timo Mäkinen, writing in 1965, suggests that “characteristics, earlier thought of as being exclusively those of Sibelius, have later been accepted as Finnish 3 Lappalainen and Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetojan Teokset,” 120. 4 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 351. 5 Juhaa “on pidettävä tekijänsä pääteoksena ja suomalaisen oopperasävellyksen suursaavutuksena, vaikka se ei vielä ole päässyt siihen asemaan oopperakirjallisuudessa mikä sille kuuluu.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 324. 271 in a wider sense.”6 The idea of a typically Finnish sound, which Madetoja, Sibelius, and others have attempted to describe,7 is problematic, owing in no small part to the diversity of approaches in early twentieth-century Finland. As Madetoja wrote in 1914, “Let us remember the musical output of our own folk. Both Sibelius and Melartin have composed patriotic works. Who would believe that they are men of the same nationality?”8 Nevertheless, such an exploration would provide a solid foundation for a broad comparative study of Madetoja and his contemporaries. A final productive avenue for future research involves Madetoja’s complicated relationship with Paris. It would be worthwhile to catalogue Madetoja’s interactions with French composers through correspondence and personal accounts of the era. It would also prove insightful to build on the work of Jane Ellen Harrison concerning debussysme in early twentieth-century France.9 Harrison not only lists a number of musical processes seen in debussyste compositions but also identifies a wide number of composers whose work would fall under this category, including Raymond Bonheur, André Caplet, Charles Koechlin, Paul Le Flem, Maurice Ravel, Albert Roussel, and Florent Schmitt. As Harrison suggests, 6 Mäkinen and Nummi, Musica Fennica, 50; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 31. 7 See, for example, Jean Sibelius, “Some Viewpoints Concerning Folk Music and Its Influence on the Musical Arts,” trans. Margareta Martin, in Daniel Grimley, Jean Sibelius, 318-25. 8 Leevi Madetoja, “Ajankysymyksiä: Mita on kansallinen musiikki?,” Aika (1914): n.p.; trans. Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 197n. 9 Jane Ellen Harrison, “Fashionable Innovation: Debussysme in Early Twentieth-Century France” (PhD diss., Ohio State University, 2011). 272 debussysme cannot be easily labeled a style or even an idiom, for it encompasses a wide variety of practices; rather, it should be seen a “set of possibilities that [manifest] differently in each composer’s idiom and even in each composition.”10 Pinpointing such possibilities in Madetoja’s music with a greater degree of specificity could be used to support or refine Fantapié’s position, described in Chapter Five, that Madetoja was less concerned with the music of Debussy than that of a small circle of early twentieth-century French symphonists, including Magnard, Roussel, and Le Flem. Madetoja’s efforts support a diverse oeuvre. His output, Karjalainen suggests, comprises “a synthesis of the European styles from the beginning of the 20th century.”11 This eclecticism is not, however, contrary to a unified compositional voice, but rather a natural consequence of a strong musical personality.12 Antero Karttunen supports this perspective by stating that “Leevi Madetoja was the creator and the discoverer of new modes of expression. For his was an original, national, visionary musical outlook, by virtue of which he was able to make familiar procedures serve the purpose of expressing in music previously uncaptured moods.” 13 10 Harrison, “Fashionable Innovation,” 5. 11 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 3. 12 Koponen, “Symphony,” 31. 13 Karttunen, Pohjalaisia; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 31. 273 Despite a lifetime of critical acclaim, Madetoja’s music is today rarely performed outside Finland. While this may, in part, be due to Sibelius’s overwhelming legacy, it is possible that Madetoja’s deviation in the 1920s from contemplative lyricism and momumental seriousness—the two attributes for which his music was most celebrated— confused and alienated Finnish audiences. As Ralf Parland, writing in 1945, states: Because Madetoja never makes any concessions to the listener, his music has not gained the position it deserves in the public’s awareness. People are now beginning to open their ears to it. But that he deserves far greater attention, and that his music is both rare and precious and not simply a poor edition of the music of Sibelius - that is something they have not yet learnt.14 It is hoped that the work presented here will spark greater interest outside Finland in this relatively neglected composer. 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Abbreviation Meaning b. i. basic idea c. i. contrasting idea trans. transitional acc. accompaniment pres. presentation cont. continuation cad. cadential phr. phrase ant. antecedent cons. consequent v. p. varied phrase n. p. new phrase mod. modulatory → modulatory dev. developmental ↑ more tension ↓ less tension 291 Bar numbers 1 3 6 8 10 13 15 17 18 19 20 24 28 32 35 37 39 41 Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear 1a 1a 1a1 1a1’ 1a2 1a3 1b A1 A2 A2’ A2’ A3 • accompanimental Formal structure b. i. b. i. pres. phr. pres. phr. b. i. cont. cad. b. i. Measure grouping 3 2 2 3 2 2 Tonal structure Gb+ Cadences model copy Comments resembles sonata-allegro "transition" Procedures seq. Eb+/G- → Bb- Cb+/Eb- → F#- cont. cad. 2 cont. phr. cont. phr. dev. dev. mod. dev. Sentence Level Sentence Form Sentence Form v. p. n. p. v. p. v. p. c. i. antecedent consequent c. i. Period level Period Form Thematic Area 1 acc.1 acc.1’ acc.2 1b 1c A3 Theme 1 292 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 42 48 51 54 58 62 64 69 71 73 75 77 78 83 84 89 90 99 103 A3 A3 1a 1a B 1a3 C D A4 D A4 acc.2+3 acc.1’ v.p. stable Ab+/C- Eb+/C- IAC model copy model copy copy resembles sonata-allegro "transition" model seq.seq. seq. → Bb+/D-/G- Gb+/Bb- Bb+ Db+/F- Ab+F#- dev. v. p. n.p. n.p. n.p. ↓ n.p. mod., ↑ mod., ↓ ↑ mod., ↑ v. p. Thematic Area 1 Trans. Area acc.1’ acc.1→4 A3 1a4 293 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 105 107 109 113 115 117 121 125 129 133 137 141 145 151 156 158 168 172 176 178 3b 3b' 3a’ 3a’ 3a’’ 3a’’ 3a’’’ A5 4a 4b acc.4 c. i. c. i. v.p. v.p. v.p. n.p. b. i. c.i. ↑ ↑ ↑ ↓ 4 4 4 4 4 4 2 2 PAC HC Ab+/C- Db ped → Db+/F-Ab+ b. i. cont. 4 4 Sentence Form (incomplete) v.p. n.p. pres. phr. cont. phr. (↑) dev., ↑ stable b. i. b. i. ant. antecedent consequent period form Period Form Small Binary Thematic Area 3 Trans. AreaThematic Area 4 acc.5acc.1→4 acc.3’ acc.3’ E →3a 3a Theme 3 Theme 4 294 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 180 182 184 186 188 190 192 194 196 198 200 202 204 207 208 210 211 212 213 4a 4b’ 4c 4d 4c’ 4d’ 4a 4a 4a 4a 4a+1a3 A6 4a 4a+A6 4a 4a 4a 4a A6 b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i. 2 2 2 2 2 2 model inc. copy seq. HC →Db+/F- F- → D ped dev., ↑mod. dev. ↑ ant. cons. n.p. v.p. v.p. cons. period formperiod form Small Binary Thematic Area 4 acc. 2? Theme 4 295 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 216 217 219 223 224 229 230 235 241 245 249 A6 A6’ D 4a+A4 D 4a+A4 D D v.p. ↓ D+/F#- Ab+→Bb ped model copymodel seq.seq. copy HC → Ab+ → B+ → F#+→ n.p. dev., ↑ mod., ↑ ↓ mod., ↓ v.p. n.p. n.p. Thematic Area 4 Trans. Area acc.1’ 1a4 296 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 258 260 263 265 267 270 272 274 276 278 279 284 286 287 293 296 297 1a 1a 1a1 1a1’ 1c 1c’ 1a2 1a3 A3 A3 A3 acc.3 b. i. b. i. pres. phr. pres. phr. b. i. cont. cad. b. i. cad. 3 2 2 3 2 2 2 2 model seq. copy C#- B- → Db+/F-Eb+ → Gb+ → A+ cont. dev. dev. mod., ↑cont. phr. cont. phr. (↑) Sentence Form v.p. n.p. v.p.Sentence Form c. i. c. i. antecedent consequent Period Form Thematic Area 1’ acc.1’acc.1 1b A3 Theme 1 297 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 299 303 307 309 314 316 318 320 322 327 330 333 334 342 348 353 357 359 367 1a 1a 1a3 C 1a5 1a6 1a6 acc.1’ acc.6 n.p. n.p. v.p. v.p. v.p. v.p. v.p. ↑ ↑ ↑ ↓ Ab+/C- IAC model copy modelcopy seq.seq. Db+/F- Eb+ → ↑ stablemod., ↓ stable ↑ n.p. v.p. n.p.n.p. v.p. Trans. AreaThematic Area 1’ acc.1’ acc.2 E → 298 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 371 373 375 377 379 381 383 385 387 389 391 392 393 395 396 397 399 401 403 405 4a 4b 4a 4b’ 4c 4d 4c’ 4d’ 1a 4a E 1a 4a E 1a1 1a1 1a1’ 1a1’ b. i. c.i. b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i. 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 PAC Eb ped Db ped stable ↓ fragmentary n.p. n.p. v.p. cons. period form ant. cons.ant. period form Small Binary Trans. Area Thematic Area 4’ Thematic Area 1’’ acc.5 Theme 4 299 Bar numbers Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimental Formal structure Measure grouping Tonal structure Cadences Comments Procedures Sentence Level Period level 407 410 411 412 414 A7 1a 1a A7 1 Gb pedDb ped Cb ped ↓ n.p. Thematic Area 1’’ 
work_u2lplvhchngwbc5qvk7lpf3ice	----	Microsoft Word - 9. RINALDI - Wake.doc Rivista semestrale online / Biannual online journal http://www.parolerubate.unipr.it Fascicolo n. 9 / Issue no. 9 Giugno 2014 / June 2014 Direttore / Editor Rinaldo Rinaldi (Università di Parma) Comitato scientifico / Research Committee Mariolina Bongiovanni Bertini (Università di Parma) Dominique Budor (Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle – Paris III) Roberto Greci (Università di Parma) Heinz Hofmann (Universität Tübingen) Bert W. Meijer (Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Instituut Firenze / Rijksuniversiteit Utrecht) María de las Nieves Muñiz Muñiz (Universitat de Barcelona) Diego Saglia (Università di Parma) Francesco Spera (Università di Milano) Segreteria di redazione / Editorial Staff Maria Elena Capitani (Università di Parma) Nicola Catelli (Università di Parma) Chiara Rolli (Università di Parma) Esperti esterni (fascicolo n. 9) / External referees (issue no. 9) Sergio Audano (Centro Studi “Emanuele Narducci” – Sestri Levante) Mariella Bonvicini (Università di Parma) Marco Camerani (Università di Bologna) Michele Guerra (Università di Parma) Guido Santato (Università di Padova) Lina Zecchi (Università Ca’ Foscari, Venezia) Teresina Zemella (Università di Parma) Progetto grafico / Graphic design Jelena Radojev (Università di Parma) Direttore responsabile: Rinaldo Rinaldi Autorizzazione Tribunale di Parma n. 14 del 27 maggio 2010 © Copyright 2014 – ISSN: 2039-0114 INDEX / CONTENTS PALINSESTI / PALIMPSESTS Memoria poetica e propaganda augustea. Per un commento di tre luoghi sidoniani sulla battaglia di Azio FRANCESCO MONTONE (Università di Napoli Federico II) 3-25 Il filo di Aracne. Variazioni e riscritture italiane DANIELA CODELUPPI (Università di Parma) 27-49 Discours scientifique et littérature. Approche de la citation chez Martin Winckler FABIENNE GOOSET (Université de Liège) 51-80 “You’re Talking Like the Computer in the Movie”. Allusions in Audiovisual Translation IRENE RANZATO (Università di Roma La Sapienza) 81-107 MATERIALI / MATERIALS “Svolazza” Lucifero come le anime dei morti? (“Inferno”, XXXIV, 46-52) MARCO CHIARIGLIONE (Biblioteca Civica Centrale – Torino) 111-121 “Vous êtes libre”. Une citation de Madame Hanska MARIOLINA BONGIOVANNI BERTINI (Università di Parma) 123-133 Fortuna moderna dell’antico. Echi catulliani in Ionesco, Totò, Monicelli DAVIDE ASTORI (Università di Parma) 135-142 “Follow the white rabbit”. “The Ultimate Display” e “Matrix” MILENA CONTINI (Università di Torino) 143-153 ARCHIVIO / ARCHIVE The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo RINALDO RINALDI (Università di Parma) 157-250 LIBRI DI LIBRI / BOOKS OF BOOKS [recensione/review] Ruth Finnegan, Why Do We Quote? The Culture and History of Quotation, Cambridge, OpenBook Publishers, 2011 GUIDO FURCI 253-257 [recensione/review] Da un genere all'altro. Trasposizioni e riscritture nella letteratura francese, a cura di D. Dalla Valle, L. Rescia, M. Pavesio, Roma, Aracne, 2012 ALBA PESSINI 259-271 Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters http://www.parolerubate.unipr.it Fascicolo n. 9 / Issue no. 9 – Giugno 2014 / June 2014 RINALDO RINALDI THE FILMS AT THE WAKE. PER UN CATALOGO1 “Shut your eyes and see.” J. Joyce, Ulysses “Il n’y a pas de modèle pour la compétence ‘joycienne’, pas d’intériorité et de fermeture possible pour le concept d’une telle compétence. Il n’y a pas de critère absolu pour mesurer la pertinence d’un discours au sujet d’un texte signé ‘Joyce’.” J. Derrida, Ulysse gramophone. L’oui dire de Joyce Fra i materiali manoscritti e a stampa che hanno preparato e preceduto la pubblicazione dell’ultimo romanzo di James Joyce nel 1939, un ruolo importante hanno (come è noto) i numerosi taccuini conservati presso la Lockwood Memorial Library della State University di New York a Buffalo, integralmente pubblicati nel 1978. In uno di essi, databile a 1 I paragrafi 1, 2 e 3 di questo saggio sono stati pubblicati, in prima stesura e col titolo The Films at the Wake. Primi appunti, sulla rivista “Campi Immaginabili”, 46-47, 2012, pp. 234-247. Un vivo ringraziamento a Rita Varriano per il prezioso aiuto in biblioteca. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 158 partire dal 1926, si legge questo appunto: “Gloria Swanson / Leroy! Phoenix”.2 Come accade spesso nei suoi taccuini, fra diario e promemoria, lo scrittore registra qui la visione di un film in una sala parigina e indica certi dettagli utilizzabili (anche se non sempre utilizzati) nella stesura di Finnegans Wake. Egli si riferisce ovviamente all’attrice Gloria Swanson, grande star del cinema muto americano. Il secondo nome è quello di Mervyn LeRoy, che aveva esordito come attore nei primi anni Venti grazie alla sua parentela con Jesse Lasky, influente produttore alla Paramount. Proprio alla Paramount la Swanson era sotto contratto dal 1919 e aveva partecipato da protagonista a sei film di Cecil B. De Mille, continuando poi la serie con Sam Wood e altri dieci film fra il 1921 e il 1923. Fra questi, l’unica pellicola in cui la Swanson recitava insieme al giovane LeRoy (non accreditato però, in un ruolo secondario di giornalista) è Prodigal Daughters diretta da Wood nel 1923.3 Citando esplicitamente LeRoy e aggiungendo un punto esclamativo per indicare quanto apprezzasse il suo lavoro, Joyce si riferisce tuttavia a una diversa occasione. Passato dietro la macchina da presa nel 1927, all’alba del cinema sonoro, LeRoy aveva inaugurato una fortunata carriera per la First National, raggiungendo la fama nel 1930 con Little Caesar. L’unico film in cui il suo nome di regista s’incrocia con quello della Swanson come protagonista è Tonight or Never, sceneggiato da Ernest Vajda sulla base dell’omonima commedia di Lili Hatvany, prodotto da Samuel Goldwyn per United Artists e uscito nelle sale il 17 dicembre 1931: storia della cantante lirica Nella Vago, che non mette anima e cuore nel suo 2 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 251 (VI.B.12 – 50). 3 Si veda G. Swanson, Swanson on Swanson, New York, Random House, 1980, p. 183 e p. 418. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 159 canto finchè non incontra l’amore nella persona di Jim Fletcher (Melvyn Douglas), un impresario americano scambiato per un gigolo. Ambientato inizialmente a Venezia e poi a Budapest, il film si apre con alcune vedute della laguna e dei canali, inquadrando subito dopo il Teatro della Fenice con il pubblico che esce dopo la rappresentazione (Jim e la sua vecchia zia commentano la performance della cantante). Il terzo nome dell’appunto di Joyce, “Phoenix”, si riferisce proprio al famoso teatro veneziano. Che il film potesse interessare lo scrittore, suggerisce non solo il nome del personaggio maschile (Jim) ma anche la rete di piccanti allusioni nei dialoghi, tutti giocati sul tema della sessualità femminile.4 Gloria Swanson, del resto, appare altre volte fra le note joyciane, collegandosi direttamente ai personaggi di Finnegans Wake. Pensiamo a una riga del taccuino già citato, dove le associazioni evocate dal suo nome si uniscono alla sigla5 di H. C. Earwicker, della moglie Anna Livia Plurabelle e della figlia Isabel: “┌┬┐Swan / ∆ L an / O. G.: Swanson / Gloria:├┤”.6 Ma pensiamo anche all’appunto di un altro taccuino databile a partire dal 1926, “Arletta of Falaise ∆”,7 dove alla sigla di Anna Livia corrisponde il cognome dell’attrice che nel 1925 aveva sposato in terze nozze (proprio a Parigi, nel municipio di Passy) il marchese Henri Le Bailly de la Falaise de la Coudray, con ampia risonanza internazionale. Sovrapponendo ai suoi personaggi femminili il fascino della Swanson, con 4 Da questo punto di vista il film è tipico del periodo pre-code, prodotto cioè prima dell’applicazione del codice di autocensura formulato dalle associazioni dei produttori e distributori cinematografici americani a partire dal giugno 1934. 5 Sulle abbreviazioni o sigle adottate da Joyce nei taccuini (e sporadicamente anche nel romanzo) per indicare i suoi personaggi si veda R. McHugh, The Sigla of “Finnegans Wake”, Austin, University of Texas Press, 1979. 6 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 252 (VI.B.12 – 53). 7 Cfr. Id., “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 293 (VI.B.15 – 103). Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 160 le sue mitiche toilettes e l’aureola prestigiosa dell’aristocrazia, James Joyce testimoniava un particolare interesse per il cinema. 1. Joyce e il cinema classico Alla fine del capitolo 7 di Finnegans Wake, in un’apologia pronunciata da “Pain the Shamman” (FW, 192, 23)8 ovvero “Shem the Penman” (FW, 125, 23)9 nei panni di Mercius, Joyce presenta il Leitmotiv delle fasi biologiche, della giovinezza che tramonta e della morte che ci attende, tracciando un bilancio autobiografico e aggiungendo: “thank Movies from the innermost depths of my still attrite heart” (FW 194, 2-3). Questa commossa riconoscenza per le immagini in movimento, tanto diverse dalle immagini fisse della fotografia,10 è la finale testimonianza di una passione nata insieme alla nuova forma d’arte negli anni giovanili e coltivata fedelmente per tutta la vita.11 Ed è proprio il ciclo dell’esistenza, il tema centrale di Finnegans Wake, a essere rappresentato e insieme 8 Per le citazioni adottiamo l’abbreviazione FW, seguita dal numero di pagina e di riga, con riferimento a J. Joyce, Finnegans Wake, London, Faber and Faber, 1975 (queste citazioni sono indicate in colore rosso). Con l’abbreviazione RFW, seguita dal numero di pagina e di riga, sono indicati i riferimenti a J. Joyce, The Restored “Finnegans Wake”, Edited and with a Preface and Afterword by D. Rose and J. O’Hanlon, Note by S. Deane, Appendices by H. W. Gabler and D. Greetham, London, Penguin Books, 2012 (segnalando le varianti rispetto all’edizione originaria). 9 Cfr. RFW, 99, 23-24: “Shem […] the Penman”. 10 L’interesse di Joyce per la fotografia è testimoniato dagli appunti raccolti nei taccuini durante la stesura del romanzo. Cfr. Id., “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 287 (VI.B.15 – 91): “Waterloo = photograph / sees her upside down / H Camera E”; p. 318 (VI.B.15 – 152): “photo = hole in hay”; p. 427 (VI.B.16 – 141): “ – – for camera”. Per un esame del rapporto di Joyce con la fotografia si veda S. Baron, Flaubert, Joyce: Vision, Photography, Cinema, in “Modern Fiction Studies”, 54, Winter 2008, pp. 694-700. 11 È nota, invece, la relativa indifferenza di Joyce nei confronti delle arti figurative. Si veda A. Power, Conversations with James Joyce, edited by C. Hart, London, Millington, 1974, pp. 102-104. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 161 allegorizzato dal cinema: “Zoetrope, wheel of life”,12 annota Joyce nel primo taccuino preparatorio del romanzo, riferendosi a un pionieristico tentativo di creare l’illusione del movimento.13 È nota l’assidua frequentazione joyciana delle sale cinematografiche nei diversi luoghi di residenza (Pola, Roma, Trieste, Parigi),14 famoso è il suo incontro con Sergei Mikhailovich Eisenstein nel 1929 all’insegna di una mutua ammirazione,15 ampiamente studiata è la vicenda del cinema Volta16 che lo scrittore aprì a Dublino nel 1909 come un’impresa commerciale e insieme culturale.17 Ormai fittissima è la bibliografia 12 Cfr. J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, Edited, with notes and an introduction, by Th. E. Connolly, [Evanston (Ill.)], Northwestern University Press, 1961, p. 161. 13 Lo zootropio, inventato nel 1834 dal matematico inglese William-George Horner, disponeva le immagini su una striscia di cartone entro un tamburo circolare, munito di fessure verticali e mobile, appunto, come una ruota. Sulla dinamica propriamente cinematografica del romanzo si veda C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, London, Faber & Faber, 1962, pp. 168-169. 14 Si veda per esempio Id., Letters, edited by R. Ellmann, New York, The Viking Press, 1966, vol. II, p. 75 (lettera da Pola a Stanislaus Joyce del 28 dicembre 1904), p. 203 (lettera da Roma a Stanislaus Joyce del 7 dicembre 1906) e p. 217 (lettera da Roma a Stanislaus Joyce del ? 1° marzo 1907). 15 Si veda S. Eisenstein, Immortal Memories, Translation by H. Marshall, Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1983, pp. 214-215 e G. Werner, James Joyce and Sergej Eisenstein, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 27, Spring 1990, pp. 491-507. Una conferenza di Eisenstein su Joyce si legge in E. Tall, Eisenstein on Joyce: Sergei Eisenstein’s Lecture on James Joyce at the State Institute of Cinematography, November 1, 1934, ivi, 24, Winter 1987, pp. 133-142. 16 Si veda G. Werner, James Joyce, Manager of the First Cinema in Ireland, in Nordic Rejoycings 1982 in Commemoration of the Centenary of the Birth of James Joyce, Edited by J. Hedberg, Norberg, Uno Johanson Tryckeri, 1982, pp. 125-136; K. Rockett, Something Rich and Strange: James Joyce, Beatrice Cenci and the Volta, in “Film and Film Culture”, 3, 2004, pp. 21-34; Ph. Sicker, Evenings at the Volta: Cinematic Afterimages in Joyce, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 42-43, Fall 2004 / Summer 2006, pp. 99-131; L. McKernan, James Joyce and the Volta Programme e Id., Volta Filmography, in Roll Away the Reel World: James Joyce and Cinema, Edited by J. McCourt, Cork, Cork University Press, 2010, pp. 15-27 e pp. 187-204; E. Schneider, Dedalus Among the Film Folk: Joyce and the Cinema Volta, ivi, pp. 28-40. 17 “The earliest in Ireland”, annota orgogliosamente Joyce in margine a una notizia biografica che lo riguarda (cfr. Th. E. Connolly, The Personal Library of James Joyce. A Descriptive Bibliography, Fifth Edition, in James Joyce’s Books, Portraits, Manuscripts, Notebooks, Typescripts, Page Proofs: Together with Critical Essays about Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 162 dedicata all’influenza delle tecniche cinematografiche (soprattutto il montaggio)18 sulla scrittura di Joyce, a partire dalle primissime prove19 fino ai Dubliners,20 dal taccuino del 1914 Giacomo Joyce21 fino a Ulysses. Particolare attenzione è stata riservata ad alcuni capitoli di questo romanzo: Aelous per l’analogia fra i titoli dei diversi frammenti che compongono il testo e le didascalie del cinema muto,22 Nausicaa per le relazioni con il cinema erotico e pornografico delle origini (il mutoscopio),23 Wandering some of his Works, edited by Th. E. Connolly, Lewiston, Edwin Mellen Press, 1997, p. 25). Un ricordo di Lorenzo Novak, il manager del Volta arrivato da Trieste per sostituire Joyce nel 1910, affiora (con un pun conviviale) in J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 159: “Novak collected souvenirs dipsomatic corps”. 18 Sulla questione del montaggio, oltre a Th. W. Sheehan, Montage Joyce: Sergei Eisenstein, Dziga Vertov, and “Ulysses”, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 42-43, Fall 2004 / Summer 2006, pp. 69-86, si vedano le osservazioni di M. Camerani, Joyce e il cinema delle origini: “Circe”, Fiesole, Edizioni Cadmo, 2008, pp. 77-86. 19 Si veda Th. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, New York & London, Routledge, 2001, pp. 1-2. 20 Si veda K. Williams, Shorts Cuts of the Hibernian Metropolis: Cinematic Strategies in “Dubliners”, in A New & Complex Sensation. Essays on Joyce’s “Dubliners”, edited by O. Frawley, Dublin, The Lilliput Press, 2004, pp. 154-167 e G. Leonard, He’s Got Bette Davis Eyes: James Joyce and Melodrama, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, n. s., 2, 2008, pp. 78-104. 21 Sull’ipotesi di un rapporto fra il taccuino e il film di Mario Caserini proiettato all’inaugurazione del Volta, Beatrice Cenci (1909), si veda K. Rockett, Something Rich and Strange: James Joyce, Beatrice Cenci and the Volta, cit., pp. 31-32 e Ph. Sicker, Evenings at the Volta: Cinematic Afterimages in Joyce, cit., pp. 105-110. 22 Si veda S. Bazargan, The Headings in “Aelous”: A Cinematographic View, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 23, Spring 1986, pp. 345-350. 23 Si veda Ph. Sicker, “Alone in the Hiding Twilight”: Bloom’s Cinematic Gaze in “Nausicaa”, ivi, 36, Summer, 1999, pp. 825-850; Th. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, cit., pp. 81-96; K. Mullin, James Joyce, Sexuality and Social Purity, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003, pp. 140-170; Id., Joyce, Early Cinema and the Erotics of Everyday Life, in Roll Away the Reel World: James Joyce and Cinema, cit., pp.43-56; D. Shea, “Do They Snapshot Those Girls or Is It All a Fake?”: Walter Benjamin, Film and “Nausicaa”, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 42-43, Fall 2004 / Summer 2006, pp. 87-98; M. Camerani, Lo sguardo che spia: i voyeurismi di “Nausicaa”, in I cinque sensi (per tacer del sesto), Atti della Scuola Europea di Studi Comparati (Bertinoro 28 agosto – 4 settembre 2005), a cura di F. Ghelli, Firenze, Le Monnier, 2007, pp. 166-175; Id., Joyce and Early Cinema. Peeping Bloom Through the Keyhole, in Joyce in Progress, Proceedings of the 2008 James Joyce Graduate Conference in Rome, Edited by F. Ruggieri, J. McCourt and E. Terrinoni, with an afterword by U. Eco, Newcastle, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009, pp. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 163 Rocks per il calcolato automatismo costruttivo che tiene presenti i primi film di attualità a partire dai Lumières,24 Circe per il reimpiego letterario di alcune tecniche caratteristiche dei film a trucchi, primi fra tutti quelli di Méliès e di Fregoli.25 Rispetto a Ulysses, l’esplorazione di Finnegans Wake in rapporto al cinema è allo stadio preliminare26 e deve ancora prendere l’esatta misura del suo territorio, sia a livello teorico sia a livello di semplice catalogazione dei materiali disponibili (come sempre sotto forma di citazioni).27 Già nei taccuini joyciani, del resto, non mancano “references to the movies and their stars”,28 mentre Joyce sembra contrapporre la velocità e la concretezza delle immagini cinematografiche ai tempi lunghi e 114-128; Cl. Hanaway, ‘See Ourselves as Others See Us’. Cinematic Seeing and Being in “Ulysses”, in Roll Away the Reel World: James Joyce and Cinema, cit., pp. 124-127. 24 Si veda D. Trotter, Cinema and Modernism, Malden (MA) – Oxford – Carlton (Victoria), Blackwell Publishing, 2007, pp. 87-123; C. Marengo Vaglio, Futurist Music Hall, in Roll Away the Reel World: James Joyce and Cinema, cit., pp. 92-102; Cl. Hanaway, ‘See Ourselves as Others See Us’, Cinematic Seeing and Being in “Ulysses”, cit., pp. 130-135. 25 Si veda K. Williams, Ulysses in Toontown: “Vision Animated to Bursting Point” in Joyce’s “Circe”, in Literature and Visual Technologies: Writing after Cinema, edited by J. Murphet and L. Rainford, New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2003, pp. 96-121; M. Camerani, Joyce e il cinema delle origini: “Circe”, cit., passim; Id., “Circe”’s Costume Changes: Bloom, Fregoli and Early Cinema, in Roll Away the Reel World: James Joyce and Cinema, cit., pp. 103-121; Ph. Sicker, Mirages in the Lampglow. Joyce’s “Circe” and Méliès’ Dream Cinema, ivi, pp. 69-85; C. Marengo Vaglio, Futurist Music Hall, cit., pp. 86-92. 26 Si veda Th. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, cit., p. 79. Un accenno alla sovrimpressione (“popular special effect of the movies of Joyce’day”) per definire le molteplici incarnazioni dei sognatori di Finnegans Wake, che come fantasmi si separano dal proprio corpo dormiente, si legge in J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, Dublin, Gill and Macmillan, 1986, p. 108 (con citazione del film Topper, diretto da Norman Zenos McLeod per Hal Roach nel 1937). Ricordiamo che negli Stati Uniti è stato prodotto un film sperimentale in bianco e nero ispirato al romanzo joyciano: Passages from James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake” diretto fra il 1965 e il 1967 da Mary Ellen Bute (all’indirizzo elettronico http://www.ubu.com/film/joyce_wake.html). 27 Sul rapporto fra la lettura del romanzo e la necessità di “some form of cataloguing” cfr. R. Hugh, The Sigla of “Finnegans Wake”, London, Edward Arnold, 1976, p. 1. 28 Cfr. D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, Ithaca and London, Cornell University Press, 1990, p. 159. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 164 agli artifici della scrittura: “Proust –max[imum] text – min[imum] action / Cine [–maximum action–minimum text]”.29 Da questo punto di vista può essere utile, allora, rileggere il breve e denso paragrafo che William York Tindall dedicava al problema introducendo nel lontano 1969 il suo A Reader’s Guide to ‘Finnegans Wake’. In quella pagina, infatti, un rapido ricordo del Volta, un’allusione all’incontro con Eisenstein e un accenno al problema del montaggio si accompagnano all’identificazione di qualche film: The Birth of a Nation di David Wark Griffith (1915), ma anche Mr. Deeds Goes to Town di Frank Capra (1936) e My Man Godfrey di Gregory La Cava (1936).30 La breve lista è significativa poiché la vicenda di Ulysses è datata, come è noto, 1904 e coincide effettivamente con le prime sperimentazioni di quello che si chiama oggi early cinema o cinema delle origini (1896-1914). Ma gli anni della stesura del romanzo (1914-1922) segnano la codificazione visiva del cinema muto (con il grande esempio, appunto, di Griffith) insieme al suo sviluppo su basi industriali. E il lungo lavoro di Joyce nel cantiere di Finnegans Wake, dal 1922 fino al 1939,31 è contemporaneo all’affermazione del sistema integrato delle majors hollywoodiane, con il trionfale passaggio al sonoro nel 1927 e i primi esperimenti di colore, con quello straordinario incremento quantitativo e qualitativo della produzione 29 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 100 (VI.B.10 – 42), con le integrazioni congetturali di D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., p. 159. Ben diverso era il punto di vista dello stesso Marcel Proust, che considerava il “défilé cinématographique des choses” come una “espèce de déchet de l’expérience”, assolutamente insufficiente a cogliere la vera “réalité”. Cfr. M. Proust, Le Temps retrouvé, in in Id., À la recherche du temps perdu, édition publiée sous la direction de J.-Y. Tadié, Paris, Gallimard, vol. IV, 1989, p. 461 e p. 468. 30 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, London, Thames and Hudson, 1969, p. 17. 31 Le numerose allusioni alla radio, all’automobile, all’aereo e al cinema sonoro, sembrano confermare la data ipotizzata per lo svolgimento del romanzo: il 21 e il 22 marzo 1938. Si veda J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., pp. 39-40. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 165 che oggi chiamiamo cinema classico americano.32 Soprattutto per l’ultima opera joyciana dobbiamo dunque allargare il quadro di riferimento finora impiegato dagli studiosi, se vogliamo cogliere le interferenze con la settima arte, mettendo anche a frutto le poche e incomplete testimonianze a disposizione sui film visti dallo scrittore: The Kid di Charlie Chaplin (First National, 1921), Der Blaue Engel di Joseph von Sternberg con Marlene Dietrich (UFA, 1930), Extase di Gustav Machaty con Hedy Lamarr (Elektra-Slavia Film, 1933),33 Island of the Lost Souls di Erle C. Kenton con Charles Laughton (Paramount, 1933), Lily of Killarney di Maurice Elvey con John Garrick e Sara Allgood (Twickenham Studios, 1934), Man of Aran di Robert Flaherty (Gaumont British, 1934), Le greluchon délicat di Jean Choux con Harry Baur (Tobis Filmkunst, 1934), The Last of the Mohicans di George Seitz con Randolph Scott (Edward Small, 1936),34 Wuthering Heights di William Wyler con Merle Oberon e Lawrence Olivier (Samuel Goldwyn, 1939).35 Non è allora un caso (come vedremo) che Finnegans Wake contenga alcuni accenni alla televisione, diffusa in 32 Si veda Th. Schatz, The Genius of the System. Hollywood Filmmaking in the Studio Era, New York, Pantheon Books, 1988, pp. 6-9 e passim. 33 Secondo la testimonianza di Stuart Gilbert, fra il 1934 e il 1935 Joyce entrò in contatto con un regista ungherese non identificato (forse lo stesso Machaty) per un progetto di film su Anna Livia Plurabelle, il capitolo 8 di Finnegans Wake. Si veda P. Hutchins, James Joyce and the cinema, in “Sight and Sound”, 21, 1951, p. 12 e il testo del treatment elaborato da Gilbert sulle prime pagine dell’episodio in S. Gilbert, Sketch of a Scenario of “Anna Livia Plurabelle”, in The James Joyce Yearbook, ed. M. Jolas, Paris, Transition Workshop – Transition Press, 1949, pp. 10-19. 34 A meno che il film tratto dal romanzo di James Fenimore Cooper fosse il precedente serial Mascot di Ford Beebe e B. Reeves Eason del 1932 con Harry Carey, o addirittura il muto prodotto e girato da Maurice Tourneur insieme a Clarence Brown nel 1920 con Wallace Beery. 35 Si vedano (con prudenza) P. Hutchins, James Joyce’s World, London, Methuen, 1957, p. 245; M. and P. Colum, Our Friend James Joyce, Garden City (New York), Doubleday, 1958, p. 229; J. Joyce, Letters, edited by R. Ellmann, New York, The Viking Press, 1966, vol. III, p. 53 (lettera a Valery Larbaud del 6 novembre 1921), p. 373 (lettera a John Sullivan del 28 agosto 1935) e p. 379 (lettera a Giorgio Joyce del 28 ottobre 1935); Portraits of the Artist in Exile: Recollections of James Joyce by Europeans, Edited by W. Potts, New York, Harcourt, 19862, p. 99. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 166 Europa e in America a partire dal 1926: scrivendo in appassionata simbiosi col grande cinema degli anni Venti e Trenta, Joyce annuncia l’avvento dello strumento che ne segnerà, più tardi, la fine.36 2. Il mestiere del cinema Indizi rivelatori della perfetta sintonia fra Finnegans Wake e il cinema classico non sono soltanto gli accenni a Hollywood, che appare almeno una volta sotto un travestimento arboreo e mescolato a una nursery rhyme (“with hedges of ivy and hollywood and bower of mistletoe”) (FW, 265, 16-17);37 o al premio Oscar, ricordato direttamente (“wouldn’t you feel like rattanfowl if you hadn’t the oscar!”) (FW, 66, 35-36)38 e indirettamente con rinvio a un palazzo di Oslo (“in Oscarshal’s winetavern”) (FW, 536, 21),39 spesso contaminato con i nomi di illustri letterati come Oscar Wilde e Rupert Brooke (“Such askors and their ruperts they are putting in for more osghirs is alse false liarnels”) (FW, 241, 31- 36 Marshall McLuhan, descrivendo la televisione nel 1964 ed evocando Finnegans Wake, citava la joyciana “charge of a light barricade” (FW, 349, 10) come una profezia e un’ideale metafora del nuovo medium. Si veda M. McLuhan, Gli strumenti del comunicare, traduzione di E. Capriolo, Milano, il Saggiatore, 1967, p. 333. 37 The Holly and the Ivy è una nursery rhyme citata sovente nel romanzo. Ma Hollywood è anche un villaggio nella contea di Wickow, dove nel 1908 fu scoperto un masso (probabilmente di origine alto-medioevale) con l’incisione di un labirinto: cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 12 (“Holywood Stone”). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, New York, Columbia University Press, 1959, p. 120 e R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, Baltimore and London, The John Hopkins University Press, 1980, p. 265. 38 Cfr. RFW 53, 30-31: “wouldn’t you feel like rattanfowl if you hadn’t the oscar?” 39 Per “Oscarshall” si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 536. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 167 32).40 Più significativi sono i rinvii all’industria cinematografica e alle case produttrici, i grandi studios americani ed europei, a cominciare da quei “Columbian nights entertainments” dei “commercial travellers” (FW, 433, 16-17) che certo si riferiscono all’Irlanda di San Columba ma anche all’America di Colombo e forse ai film della Columbia, fondata da Jack e Harry Cohn nel 1923.41 Allo stesso modo il leone di Finnegans Wake può rappresentare il protagonista Earwicker (“As the lion in our teargarten”) (FW, 75, 1) o riferirsi all’evangelista San Marco (“ex ungue Leonem”) (FW, 162, 29),42 ma in qualche caso (nel primo con allusione all’antropologo francese Lucien Lévy-Bruhl e l’aiuto della lingua tedesca) sembra rimandare al grande studio nato dalla catena di teatri di Marcus Loew, quella Metro Goldwyn Mayer che proprio ad un leone ruggente deve il suo logo famoso: “Professor Loewy-Brueller”, “we had our lewd mayers and our lairdie meiresses” (FW, 150, 15 e 550, 27-28).43 Proprio al famoso merger del 1924 fra Loew’s Incorporated (che aveva già assorbito Metro Pictures), Louis B. Mayer Productions e Goldwyn Pictures, atto di nascita della MGM, si riferiscono queste righe del capitolo 11 di Finnegans Wake 40 “liarnels” evoca il protagonista dell’opera lirica Martha di Friedrich von Flotow (1874). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 116. 41 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.21 – VI.B.24, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 217 (VI.B.22 – 123): “Columbia”. 42 Si veda R. Benjamin, The Second Gospel in “Finnegans Wake”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, n. s., 3, 2009, pp. 224-247. Su Joyce “awfully fond of the lions” si veda R. Ellmann, James Joyce, New and Revised Edition, Oxford – New York – Toronto – Melbourne, Oxford University Press, 1983, p. 743. 43 Probabile errore materiale è invece l’apparizione della MGM in FW, 495, 2 (“wreuter of annoyimgmost letters”), corretto in RFW, 384, 20 (“wreuter of annoyingmost letters”). Sottolineatura nostra. Per l’analoga ma diversa abbreviazione MCM riferita al tenore John McCormack si veda C. Brown – L. Knuth, More Wakean Memories of McCormack: A Centenary Tribute, in “A Wake Newslitter. Occasional Papers”, 4, September, 1984, p. 13 (con rinvii a FW, 205, 16 e 628, 1-2). Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 168 evocando proprio le numerose properties femminili del nuovo studio e la stessa sala cinematografica (con il parcheggio, la cassa, il biglietto e finalmente la visione delle stars sullo schermo): “Dear and lest I forget mergers and bow to you low, marchers! Attemption! What a mazing month of budsome misses they are making, so wingtywish to flit beflore their kin! Attonsure! Ears to hears! The skall of a gall (for every dime he yawpens that momouth you could park your ford in it) who has papertreated him into captivities with his inside man by a hocksheat of starvision for an avragetopeace of parchment, cooking up his lenses to be my apoclogypst, the recreuter of conscraptions, let him be asservent to Kinahaun! […] What for Mucias and Gracias may the duvlin rape the handsomst! And the whole mad knightmayers’ nest!” (FW, 364, 11-19 e 25-26).44 Analogamente la Fox del romanzo è ovviamente e ripetutamente la volpe, ma almeno in un caso è associata alla Warner (siamo nel pub di Earwicker, scende la sera): “arkglow’s seafire siemens lure and wextward warnerforth’s hookercrookers. And now with robby brerfox’s fishy fable lissaned out” (FW, 245, 8-9).45 L’accenno al faro di Arklow realizzato dalla ditta tedesca Siemens-Schuckert,46 ma anche alle lampade ad arco Siemens47 che proiettano luce nella notte, sembra addirittura rinviare al logo famoso della Twentieth Century Fox, fondata sulle ceneri della compagnia di William Fox da Darryl F. Zanuck nel 1935. Per l’Europa Joyce cita innanzitutto due studios inglesi: quello di Elstree,48 presentando il Leitmotiv archetipico dell’albero e della pietra ma 44 Sottolineature nostre. Cfr. RFW, 282, 8-9: “And the whole mad knightmayors’ nest!”. 45 Cfr. RFW, 193, 22-24: “arkglow’s seafire siemens lure and wextward warnerforth’s hookercrookers. And now, with robby brerfox’s fishy fable lissaned out”. Lisa è la volpe in russo (si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 245). 46 Si veda ibidem. 47 L’illuminazione ad arco era spesso impiegata sul set e anche in proiezione, per la sua intensità e il suo largo spettro. 48 Fondata nel 1927, la casa produsse fra il 1928 e il 1930 alcuni titoli di Alfred Hitchcock, fra cui il primo film sonoro inglese Blackmail (1929). Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 169 ricordando anche la strada romana Stane Street fra Londra e Chichester49 e il famoso poemetto di Thomas Hood The Elm Tree (“on the hike from Elmstree to Stene and back”) (FW, 247, 4); quello di Ealing,50 citando la canzone Come back to Erin (“when cherries next come back to Ealing as come they must”) (FW, 446, 21).51 Spicca però un rinvio al grande studio francese Pathé, con la parodia delle sue famose actualités52 e una lista di titoli (anche tipograficamente esibiti) che ricostruisce la serie delle sequenze sullo schermo. Si comincia con l’apparizione di un cavallo (“that corricatore of a harss”) che sembra evocare i primi esperimenti cronofotografici dell’americano Eadweard Muybridge53 e del francese Étienne-Jules Marey,54 continuando con una notizia di cronaca nera del 49 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 247. 50 Fondata nel 1929 e dal 1931 situata nell’omonimo sobborgo di Londra, la casa produsse una sessantina di film negli anni Trenta. 51 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 149 (che rinvia contemporaneamente alla canzone tedesca Wenn die Schwalben heimwärts ziehn). 52 Si veda R. Abel, Le Ciné Goes to Town. French Cinema 1896-1914, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London, University of California Press, 1994, pp.91-91 e passim. 53 Sul rapporto fra gli studi cronofotografici di Muybridge e la percezione visiva nel terzo capitolo di Ulysses si veda L. E. J. Hornby, Visual Clockwork: Photographic Time and the Instant in “Proteus”, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 42-43, Fall 2004 / Summer 2006, pp. 51-52, pp. 61-64 e passim. 54 Al cavallo, ripetutamente fotografato dai due pionieri del cinematografo negli anni Settanta e Ottanta dell’Ottocento, rinvia anche un altro passo squisitamente ‘fotografico’ di Finnegans Wake: “Well, almost any photoist worth his chemicots will tip anyone asking him the teaser that if a negative of a horse happens to melt enough while drying, well, what you do get is, well, a positively grotesquely distorted macromass of all sorts of horsehappy values and masses of meltwhile horse” (FW, 111, 26-30). Cfr. RFW, 88, 35-38: “Well, almost any microphotoist worth his chemicots will tip anyone tossing him the teaser that if a negative of a horse happens to melt enough while drying, well, what you do get is, well, a positively grotesquely distorted macromass of all sorts of horsehappy values and masses of meltwhile horse”. Si veda anche J. Joyce, Ulysses, Edited by H. W. Gabler with W. Steppe and C. Melchior. Afterword by M. Groden, London, The Bodley Head, 1986, p. 153: “Horseness is the whatness of allhorse”. Per il tema del cavallo in Finnegans Wake si veda V. J. Cheng, White Horse, Dark Horse. Joyce’s Allhorse of Another Color, in “Joyce Studies”, Edited by Th. F. Staley, 1991, pp. 101-128. Analogo è il rinvio proustiano al kinetoscopio attraverso le immagini di un cavallo in corsa: “Ces évocation tournoyantes et confuses ne duraient jamais que Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 170 1935 liberamente ricostruita proprio su topiche cinematografiche (l’uccisione del gangster americano Dutch Schultz,55 il ritrovamento del cadavere, la sua ragazza in lacrime). Il finale riferimento all’immagine filmica proiettata sullo schermo, con un accenno alle sezioni coniche della geometria, evoca proprio la tecnica della proiezione: “Saturnights pomps, exhabiting that corricatore of a harss, revealled by Oscur Camerad. The last of Dutch Schulds, perhumps. Pipe in Dream Cluse. Uncovers Pub History. The Outrage, at Length. Affected Moll Follows in Religious Sullivence. Rinvention of vestiges by which they drugged the buddhy. Moviefigure on in scenic section. By Patathicus” (FW, 602, 22-27).56 Un vivo interesse per i principali filoni della produzione cinematografica classica dimostrano anche le allusioni al disegno animato, al western e alla commedia slapstick. Quest’ultima è associata alle esibizioni dei trasformisti da vaudeville (“swapstick quackchancers”) (FW, 342, 31) e alle imprese artistiche di Shem (“But, boy, you did your strong nine furlong mile in slick and slapstick record time and a farfetched deed it was in troth”) (FW, 473, 12-13). Il western è ricordato per il suo mito della frontiera (con allusione agli americani, a Under Western Eyes di Joseph quelques secondes ; souvent, ma brève incertitude du lieu où je me trouvais ne distinguait pas mieux les unes des autres les diverses suppositions dont elle était faite, que nous n’isolons, en voyant un cheval courir, les positions successives que nous montre le kinétoscope” (cfr. M. Proust, Du côté de chez Swann, in Id., À la recherche du temps perdu, cit., vol. I, 1987, p. 7). 55 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London, University of California Press, 1977, p. 257. Preso di mira dai killers della mafia nei servizi di un ristorante, Schultz morì il giorno dopo all’ospedale. 56 Cfr. RFW, 470, 21-26: “Saturnights pomps, exhabiting that corricatore of a harss, revealled by Oscur Camerad. The last of Dutch Schulds, perhumps. Pipe in Dream Cluse. Uncovers Pub History. The Outrage, at Length. Affected Moll Follows in Religious Sullivence. Rinvention of vestiges by which they drugged the buddhy. Moviefigure on in scenic section. By Patethicus”. “Sullivence” è forse allusione a Arthur Sullivan, senza William Schwenk Gilbert: si veda W. D. Jenkins, Gilbert Without Sullivan, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., VI, 1, February 1969, p. 15. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 171 Conrad e a Land’s End in Cornwall): “I will westerneyes those poor sunuppers and outbreighten their land’s eng” (FW, 537, 11-12);57 ma anche per i suoi personaggi di cowboys e sceriffi mescolati alla troupe cinematografica (ma anche a cinesi), mentre Joyce descrive il pubblico presente alla veglia di Finnegan: “There was plumbs and grumes and cheriffs and citherers and raiders and cinemen too” (FW, 6, 17-18).58 E non manca neppure un set vero e proprio, con una città fantasma costruita rapidamente per l’occasione e paragonata a dei terreni lottizzati: “A phantom city, phaked of philim pholk, bowed and sould for a four of hundreds of manhood in their three and threescore fylkers for a price partitional of twenty six and six” (FW, 264, 19-23).59 Anche il cinema d’animazione, strettamente associato al fumetto (“comic strip”) (FW, 537, 33) testimonia la passione joyciana per le varianti comiche dello spettacolo popolare.60 Se nei capitoli 1 e 15 Anna Livia assume il ruolo di Little Orphan Annie, eroina di un famoso fumetto 57 Cfr. RFW, 417, 35-36: “I will westerneyes those poor sunuppers and outbreiten their land’s eng”. Si veda S. B. Bird, Some American Notes to “Finnegans Wake”, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., III, 6, December 1966, p. 123. 58 C’è anche un’allusione al primo verso del ritornello di Miss Hooligan’s Christmas Cake ovvero Miss Fogarty’s Christmas Cake, una canzone popolare irlandese: “There was plums and prunes and cherries, / And citron and raisins and cinnamon too”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 85 e D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., pp. 119-120. Altre allusioni al genere western si leggono nei taccuini: cfr. “ranger (rifles” in J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 32 (VI.B.9 – 60); “Chief Red Tomahawk” in Id., “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 307 (VI.B.15 – 130). 59 The Phantom City è anche il titolo di una poesia compresa nei Lyrical Poems dello scrittore e giornalista irlandese Gerald Griffin (1803-1840). Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 264. 60 Si vedano i suggerimenti (che escludono però il cinema) di M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 40: “one of the most useful aids to reading Finnegans Wake is a grasp of modern popular culture, such as the press, advertisements, radio, low jokes, and most of all songs”; e di C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 31: “[…] catch-phrases, clichés, journalese, popular songs, and the worst kind of gush from girls’ weeklies”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 172 di Harold Gray trasferita al cinema con lo stesso titolo nel 1919, nel 1932 e nel 193861 (“He addle liddle phifie Annie ugged the little craythur”, “Annie Delittle, his daintree diva”) (FW, 4, 28-29 e 492, 8-9); nel medesimo capitolo iniziale del romanzo Mutt e Jute incarnano le figure medioevali dell’Irlandese e dell’invasore Danese, nell’ultimo ricompaiono come Muta e Juva ovvero Trasformazione e Giovinezza,62 ma sempre rinviano a Mutt and Jeff di Bud Fischer e nello stesso tempo all’omonima serie di cartoons diretti dal disegnatore nel 1916-1917: non a caso, evocando la resurrezione di Finnegan, Juva esorterà il compagno a una professione di fede non solo religiosa (“Beleave filmly, beleave!”) (FW, 610, 5).63 Analogamente, nel capitolo 14, l’allusione a “wilfrid’s walk” (FW, 449, 8-9) fa riferimento al famoso comic strip inglese disegnato fra il 1919 e il 1939 da Bertram Lamb e Austin Bowen Payne, Pip, Squeak and Wilfred: storie di una famiglia di animali, un cane, un pinguino e un coniglio (Wilfred) nei ruoli del padre della madre e del bambino;64 ma è probabile che Joyce conoscesse anche la serie di venticinque cartoons prodotti nel 1921 da Lancelot Speed e ispirati a questi personaggi. Allo stesso modo l’eco di Tillie the Toiler, un comic strip inaugurato nel 1919 da Russ Westover e dedicato a una giovane flapper che lavora come stenografa (“Tilly the Tailor’s Tugged a Tar”) (FW, 385, 33),65 non può prescindere dall’omonimo film muto di Hobart Henley per la MGM che nel 1927 metteva in scena lo stesso personaggio 61 Rispettivamente per Pioneer con regia di William Selig, per RKO con regia di John Robertson e per Paramount con regia di Ben Holmes. 62 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 43 e p. 317. 63 Cfr. RFW, 477, 10: “Beleave, beleave filmly!”. Ancora a Mutt e Jeff si riferisce FW, 266, 23-24: “meet […] chaff”. 64 Cfr. l’accenno in J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 184: “Wilfred (rabbit)”. Si veda anche R. F. Motycka, Coney Catching, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XIV, 2, April, 1977, p. 29. 65 Per altre occorrenze si veda B. Benstock, Americana in “Finnegans Wake”, in “Bucknell Review”, 12, 1964, p. 75. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 173 con il volto di Marion Davies (il fumetto usciva sui giornali di William Randolph Hearst). In questo campo lo scrittore non concede molta attenzione ai prodotti disneyani che dalla fine degli anni Venti dominavano ormai il mercato: isolate sembrano le allusioni a Snowwhite and the Seven Dwarfs (FW, 64, 27) e alla coppia Mickey Mouse – Minnie Mouse, questa riferita ai soldati e alle ragazze nel parco e con il solito doppio senso (“Stand up, mickos! Make strake for minnas!”) (FW, 12, 24-25).66 Molto più vistose sono le tracce di Popeye the Sailor,67 personaggio secondario dei comic strips di Elzie Crisler Segar The Thimble Theater poi diventato protagonista a pieno titolo,68 ma anche eroe dei fortunati disegni animati di Dave e Max Fleischer a partire dal 1933. Il nome rinvia innanzitutto a Pop, quella “middle-class persona named Pop” disegnata nei primi appunti per Finnegans Wake nel 1922-1923 e destinata a diventare Earwicker.69 Ma Popeye rinvia anche al Papa, nella descrizione della lotta fra Innocenzo II e il suo avversario Anacleto II come un gioco di bambini (“as innocens with anaclete play popeye antipop”) (FW, 13, 29-30); e ugualmente all’esoftalmo, nelle accuse rivolte a Shem che ha riempito troppe pagine di scrittura rovinando gli occhi alla gente (“even extruding your strabismal 66 Cfr. RFW, 10, 22-23: “Stippup, mickos! Make strake for minnas!”. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 194 e R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 12 per l’allusione alla battuta che circolò a Dublino dopo l’assassinio del leader irlandese Michael Collins (Mick) durante la guerra civile del 1922: “Move over, Mick, make room for Dick”. Il successore designato di Collins era infatti Richard Mulcahy (Dick), che a sua volta avrebbe potuto essere ucciso. Versioni analoghe sono in FW, 99, 19-20 (“Move up. Mumpty! Mike room for Rumpty!”), 101, 9 (“Toemass, mark oom for yor ounckel!”) e 264, L2 (“Move up, Mackinerny! Make room for Muckinurney!”) 67 Si veda A. T. Broes, More People at the Wake (Contd.), in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., IV, 1, February 1967, p. 28. 68 Un’allusione a The Thimble Theater è in FW, 268, 15-16: “And a bodikin a boss in the Thimble Theater”. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 237. 69 Cfr. D. Hayman, Reading Joyce’s Notebooks?! “Finnegans Wake” From Within, in “Finnegans Wake”: Fifty Years, Edited by G. Lernout, Amsterdam – Atlanta, Rodopi, 1990, p. 12 e si veda ivi, pp. 7-22. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 174 apologia, when legibly depressed, upon defenceless paper and thereby adding to the already unhappiness of this our popeyed world, scribblative!”) (FW, 189, 8-10).70 Perfino il motto più famoso di Popeye I Yam What I Yam (così si intitolava il secondo short della serie nel 1933) è ripetuto con piccola variante in Finnegans Wake (“I yam as I yam”) (FW, 604, 23), per rinviare alle parole di Dio in Exodus 3, 14 (“Ego sum qui sum”) citate da Richard Rowan nel terzo atto di Exiles (“I am what I am”)71 ma soprattutto a quelle di Stephen Dedalus nel terzo capitolo di Ulysses: “And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all”.72 Non manca neppure qualche allusione alla compagna di Popeye, Olive Oyl (“Hoily Olives”, “good oil!” “Uliv’s oils”) (FW, 138, 25 e 276, 17 e 550, 18), magari associata al nome dell’attore Ivor Novello (“ivoroiled overalls”, “here your iverol”) (FW, 4, 31 e 619, 36) o alle ragazze che nel parco eccitano i sensi di Earwicker e contemporaneamente a Richard D’Oyly Carte produttore delle operette di William Schwenk Gilbert e Arthur Sullivan fra il 1875 e il 1889 (“How Olive d’Oyly and Winnie Carr, bejupers, they reized the dressing of a salandmon and how a peeper coster and a salt sailor met a 70 Si veda anche “poopive” (FW, 282, 32), che corrisponde al numero 10 nel calcolo digitale riesumato da Joyce nella lezione di aritmetica del capitolo 10 (si veda W. Füger, The Function of the Finger Calculus in “Finnegans Wake”, in Genèse et métamorphose du texte joycien, Textes rassemblés par C. Jacquet, Paris, Publications de la Sorbonne, 1985, pp. 145-157) e “popeyed pansies” in J. Joyce, The Index Manuscript “Finnegans Wake” Holograph Workbook VI, B. 46, Transcribed, annotated and with an introduction by D. Rose, Colchester, A Wake Newslitter Press, 1978, pp. 92-93 (ragazze brutte, nel gergo studentesco americano dell’anteguerra). Altri avatars del personaggio sono in FW, 67, 22 (“appop pie”, come torta di mele), 349, 19-20 (“Popey O’Donoshough”, al tempo stesso generale dei Gesuiti e generale russo a Balaklava), 572, 36 (“Poppea”, come moglie di Nerone). Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 349. 71 Cfr. J. Joyce, Exiles, in Id., “Poems” and “Exiles”, Edited with an introduction and notes by J. C. C. Mays, London, Penguin Books, p. 250. 72 Cfr. Id., Ulysses, cit., p. 41. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 175 mustied poet atwaimen”) (FW, 279, n. 1, 21-23).73 Che Joyce non si riferisca solo al fumetto di Segar ma anche ai disegni animati, lo dimostra forse il rinvio alla canzone There’s Something about a Soldier (“there always something racey about, say, a sailor on a horse”) (FW, 606, 34- 35),74 che è anche il titolo di uno short del 1934 dedicato dai Fleischer al personaggio di Betty Boop, creato appositamente per il cinema nel 1931.75 Oltre a citare alcuni importanti filoni della produzione filmica hollywoodiana, Joyce manifesta anche un interesse più specifico per questa forma di intrattenimento, evocando con precisione i principali procedimenti tecnici adoperati da un “fulmfilming department” (FW, 398, 25-26); qui con significativa allusione al compimento del tempo e alla morte, all’Apocalisse e alla Resurrezione, come se il cinema fosse davvero la quintessenza del tema centrale di Finnegans Wake, un tempo ciclico che 73 Cfr. RFW, 217, n. 10, 17-18: “How Olive d’Oyly and Winnie Carr, bejupers, they reized the dressing of a Salanadmon and how a peeper coster and a salt sailor met a mustied poet atwainem” e già J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 117: “olive oil”. Altre allusioni alla D’Oyly Carte Opera Company sono in FW, 48,13-14 (“a choir of the O’Daley O’Doyles doublesixing the chorus in Fenn Mac Call and the Serven Feeries of Loch Neach”) e 573, 35 – 574, 4 (“This, lay readers and gentilemen, is perhaps the commonest of all cases arising out of umbrella history in connection with the wood industries in our courts of litigation. D’Oyly Owens holds [...] that so long as there is a joint deposit account in the two names a mutual obligation is posited”). Per un commento e altri rinvii alla coppia Gilbert-Sullivan si veda W. D. Jenkins, From Solation to Solution, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., VII, 1, February 1970, pp. 3-11. 74 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 169. 75 Sul ruolo del cinema d’animazione in Ulysses si veda S. Buchan, Graphic and Literary Metamorphosis: Animation Technique and James Joyce’s “Ulysses”, in “Animation Journal”, Fall 1998, pp. 21–34 e K. Williams, Ulysses in Toontown: “Vision Animated to Bursting Point” in Joyce’s “Circe”, cit., pp. 103-111. Per la presenza dell’animazione nel citato treatment di Anna Livia Plurabelle elaborato da Stuart Gilbert, si veda K. Williams, “Sperrits in the Furniture”: Wells, Joyce and Animation, Before and After 1910, in “Literature & History”, Third Series, 22, Spring 2013, pp. 106-107. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 176 ritorna e si rinnova.76 Pensiamo a certi appunti dei taccuini, come “cinegraphist”, “2 reel film / filmgoer / screenstruck”, “Screen chamber”.77 Ma pensiamo anche innanzitutto al montaggio, così importante nella costruzione di Ulysses e qui associato al tema delle ventotto ragazze (Isabel e le sue amiche), anzi sovrapposto alla vischiosità del ciclo mensile della donna e insieme all’immagine fallica di un coltello in un vaso di marmellata e di un bastone piantato nella melma (“the monthage stick in the melmelode jawr”) (FW, 223, 8).78 Ma pensiamo anche alle innovazioni tecniche realizzate durante la lunga stesura del romanzo, che lo spettatore Joyce fedelmente registra, come il passaggio dagli intertitoli o “words of silent power” (FW, 345, 19)79 del cinema muto alla grande novità del cinema sonoro a partire dal famoso The Jazz Singer della Warner per la regia di Alan Crosland nel 1927: “Vouchsafe me more soundpicture!” (FW, 570, 14), “Where flash becomes word and silents selfloud” (FW, 267, 16- 17).80 E non manca neppure il rinvio a un particolare sistema di registrazione ottica del suono, il Movietone della Fox, introdotto nel 1927 su brevetti Western Electric: “if you are looking for the bilder deep your 76 Qualche buon esempio di sensibilità tecnica si legge fra gli appunti del primo taccuino preparatorio del romanzo, come l’accenno alla pratica del rifacimento di scene giudicate difettose: “retake (cine)”; o la descrizione di quello che potremmo chiamare un effetto speciale: “cinema fakes, drown, state of sea, tank: steeplejack, steeple on floor, camera above: jumps 10 feet, 1 foot camera in 6 foot pit”. Cfr. J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 181 e p. 119. Sul secondo appunto si veda Th. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, cit., p. 79. 77 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., 1978, p. 99 (VI.B.10 – 41) e p. 132 (VI.B.10 – 107) e Id., “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.17 – VI.B.20, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 248 (VI.B.19 – 81). 78 Cfr. RFW, 176, 13-14: “the mouthage stick in the melmelode jawr”. 79 Cfr. RFW, 266, 39: “words of silentgoldenpower”. 80 Qui con allusione al suono delle vocali, dal tedesco Selbstlaut. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 267. Si aggiunga l’appunto “phonoscope” in uno dei taccuini: cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 94 (VI.B.10 – 31). Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 177 ear on the movietone!” (FW, 62, 8-9).81 Come si vede, il cinema sonoro è una buona occasione per sfiorare un motivo capitale di Finnegans Wake, quello del rapporto fra suono e immagine ovvero fra vista e udito, che nel finale l’autore trasformerà in una sorta di morale complessiva del romanzo. In questa prospettiva è altrettanto importante il passaggio dal bianco-e-nero al colore (è come vedere il cielo dopo un monotono chiaroscuro), che Joyce collega alla luce bianca scomposta nello spettro dell’iride e di nuovo alle ventotto ragazze impersonate dalle tinte dell’arcobaleno (in ordine alfabetico!), ma anche ai propri occhi difettosi82 e ai molti interventi chirurgici subìti. È la pagina del capitolo 9 in cui Glugg-Shem chiede alla sorella Issy di sollevare la gonna, per fargli vedere il delta dei peli pubici in contrasto con le sue bianche cosce: “Lift the blank ve veered as heil! Split the hvide and aye seize heaven! He knows for he’s seen it in black and white through his eyetrompit trained upon jenny’s and all that sort of thing which is dandymount to a clearobscure. Prettimaid tints may try their taunts: apple, bacchante, custard, dove, eskimo, feldgrau, hematite, isingglass, jet, kipper, lucile, mimosa, nut, oysterette, prune, quasimodo, royal, sago, tango, umber, vanilla, wisteria, xray, yesplease, zaza, philomel, theerose. What are they all by? Shee” (FW, 247, 30-36 – 248, 1-2).83 81 Fox Movietone News era una popolare rubrica di attualità. Patricia Hutchins ricorda l’arrivo di Joyce nel 1937 sul set di Les Perles de la Couronne accompagnato da Stuart Gilbert (che aveva curato i testi recitati in inglese nel film), ipotizzando che lo scrittore avesse visto “a ‘movietone’ machine in the cutting-room” (cfr. P. Hutchins, James Joyce’s World, cit., p. 222 e p. 245). 82 “eyetrompit” ovvero trompe-l’œil si riferisce alla visione ingannevole ovvero alla cecità di Shem ai colori, oltre che ad uno strumento ottico come il telescopio lo spettroscopio. Su quest’ultimo si veda K. Ebury, Beyond the Rainbow: Spectroscopy in “Finnegans Wake” II, 1, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, n. s., 5, 2011, pp. 111-113. Sul rapporto fra il motivo dell’arcobaleno e la sintomatologia del glaucoma si veda J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., passim. 83 Cfr. RFW, 195, 26-33: “Lift the blank, ve veared as hell! Split the hvide and aye seize heaven! He knows for he’s seen it in black and white through his eyetrompit, trained upon jenny’s and all that sort of thing, which is dandymount to a clearobscure. Prettimaid tints may try their taunts: apple, bacchante, custard, dove, eskimo, feldgrau, ginger, hematite, isinglass, jet, kipper, lucile, mimosa, nut, oysterette, prune, quasimodo, royal, sago, tango, umber, vanilla, wisteria, xray, yesplease, zaza, philomel, theerose. What are they all by? Shee”. Si veda D. Rose & J. O’Hanlon, Understanding Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 178 Non solo gli accorgimenti tecnici, del resto, ma anche tutti i più importanti ruoli professionali di un’equipe hollywoodiana attirano l’attenzione dello scrittore, a cominciare dai talent scouts associati al dongiovannesco protagonista e al Cad suo avversario che passeggiano in Phoenix Park (la pagina appartiene all’interrogatorio di Earwicker condotto dai quattro giudici): “So to speak of beauty scouts in elegant pursuit of flowers, searchers for tabernacles and the celluloid art!” (FW, 534, 24- 25).84 Quando Isabel, nel capitolo 10, si presenta orgogliosamente come una star non dimentica di citare le più umili comparse (“always my figurants”) (FW, 279, n. 1, 16).85 E lo stesso H. C. Earwicker con sua moglie Anna Livia Plurabelle, nell’invocazione dedicata alla coppia nel capitolo 16, si trasformano in un producer (da Regius Professor)86 e nella sua star: “Regies Producer with screendoll Vedette, peg of his claim and pride of her heart” (FW, 577, 15-16).87 Non a caso, dunque, i taccuini “Finnegans Wake”. A Guide to the Narrative of James Joyce’s Masterpiece, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1982, p. 141. 84 Con allusione ai nèi o beauty spots. Analogamente in FW, 220, 7 (“Miss Butys Pott”) e 291, n. 7, 34 (“Just one big booty’s pot”). 85 Associato alla sigla di Isabel nei taccuini è l’appunto “Cine / lulu”, che potrebbe accennare a una visione del famoso film girato nel 1928 da Georg Wilhelm Pabst per Nero-Film, Die Büchse der Pandora. Variationen aus das Thema Frank Wedekinds “Lulu”, con Louise Brooks protagonista. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.17 – VI.B.20, cit., p. 345 (VI.B.20 – 41). Il taccuino è databile a partire dal 1926 e il fascino erotico dell’attrice ben corrisponde a quello di Issy. 86 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 577. 87 Cfr. anche le vamps ovvero “vampas” in FW, 611, 4 e “vamp” in J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.21 – VI.B.24, cit., p. 387 (VI.B.24 – 107). In uno dei primi abbozzi del romanzo il personaggio di Tristano, da cui emergeranno i gemelli Shaun e Shem, ha in parte il ruolo di un “androgenous romantic lead from the Hollywood flicks”, secondo il suggerimento di D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., p. 137. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 179 joyciani collegano il personaggio di Shaun, uomo d’ordine e di successo, alla “celluloid” e ne fanno un “film censor”.88 Sul versante degli sceneggiatori possiamo registrare solo i nomi di Anita Loos e Ben Hetch, ma per entrambi i rimandi sono probabilmente legati a motivazioni extra-filmiche.89 Anita Loos (“his sweatful bandanna loose from his pocketcoat”,90 “looswallawer”,91 “growing megalomane of a loose past”) (FW, 30, 22 e 151, 23 e 179, 21)92 firma infatti il famoso romanzo Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1925) che Joyce legge nel 1926;93 Ben Hetch (“Eche bennyache”, con allusione al mal di pancia e a Pomes Penyeach) (FW, 302, 28) è invece responsabile di un giudizio poco lusinghiero su Work in Progress.94 Sono pochi del resto e distribuiti con parsimonia anche i nomi dei registi, tradizionalmente in ombra per il pubblico delle sale rispetto alla popolarità degli attori. L’unico nome citato a piene lettere, senza le abituali deformazioni, è quello del dublinese americanizzato Rex Ingram95 che 88 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 220 (VI.B.14 – 197) e Id., “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.5 – VI.B.8, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 58 (VI.B.5 – 112). 89 I due nomi sono debitamente registrati in A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 44, p. 123, pp. 171-172. 90 L’allusione manca nel passo corrispondente di J. Joyce, A First-Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake”, Edited and Annotated by D. Hayman, London, Faber and Faber, 1963, p. 62 (“a sweatdrenched bandana hanging from his coat pocket”). 91 Qui congiunta con l’attore di teatro William Waller Lewis noto come Lewis Waller. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 300. Per ulteriori allusioni si veda N. Halper, Looswallawer, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XIV, 2, April 1977, p. 34. 92 Sottolineature nostre. 93 Si veda Id., Letters, edited by S. Gilbert, New York, The Viking Press, 19662, vol. I, p. 246 (lettera dell’8 novembre 1926 a Harriet Shaw Weaver). 94 Si veda ivi, vol. III, cit., p. 163 (lettera del 26 luglio 1927 a Harriet Shaw Weaver). 95 È incompleta la scheda di A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 135. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 180 aveva firmato grandi successi per la Metro Pictures (prima della fusione con Loew’s Incorporated e Goldwyn Pictures) come The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921) con Rudolph Valentino, The Prisoner of Zenda (1922) e Scaramouche (1923) con Ramon Novarro: “Siranouche”, propone Joyce in FW, 338, 24, sovrapponendolo al Cyrano de Bergerac di Edmond Rostand.96 Il fatto che Ingram fosse di origine irlandese e la sua straordinaria competenza nei movimenti di folla e nelle spettacolari scenografie (pensiamo anche ai titoli girati nello studio La Victorine di Nice fra il 1925 e il 1933) possono forse spiegare la sua responsabilità di scenografo nell’edificazione del palco-patibolo da cui il resuscitato Earwicker tiene un discorso di ringraziamento: “his scaffold is there set up, as to edify, by Rex Ingram, pageantmaster” (FW, 568, 35-36).97 Altro famoso regista-produttore del muto è Mack Sennett, specialista di slapstick con le sue Keystone Comedies e opportunamente ricordato all’inizio del capitolo 9, dove i giochi dei bambini diventano una vera e propria messa in scena teatrale: en scène o meglio “On. Sennett” (219, 13)98 sembra essere un invito conveniente. Per il cinema sonoro Joyce si limita a ricordare il più famoso regista inglese del tempo nel capitolo 2, quando chiama “‘Ductor’ Hitchcock” (FW, 44, 2)99 il direttore del coro che si accinge ad eseguire la ballata di Earwicker composta da Hosty; e nel capitolo 11, quando allude al protagonista colto sul fatto con le due ragazze nel parco citando 96 Si veda ivi, p. 265 (che si limita a citare Scaramouche come “stock character in Italian farce”). 97 Forse memore di Ingram è anche l’accenno (insieme alla tecnica di pasteurizzazione) a un film Warner di William Keighley e Marc Connelly del 1936: Green Pastures, con un cast di attori di colore e Ingram nel ruolo di “De Lawd”. Cfr. FW, 356, 21-24 (“the paper […] has scarsely been buttered in works of previous publicity wholebeit in keener notcase would I turf aside for pastureuration”) e 587, 15 (“Lawd lengthen him!”). Si veda B. Benstock, Americana in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 66. 98 Si veda E. McLuhan, The Role of Thunder in “Finnegans Wake”, Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1997, p. 138. Cfr. anche FW, 598, 32: “sennight”. 99 Cfr. RFW, 34, 39-40: “’Ductor’ Hitchcock”. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 181 l’espressione proverbiale hatch a cock’s egg100 e al tempo stesso la nursery rhyme settecentesca101 Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross (“Why, hitch a cock eye, he was snapped on the sly upsadaisying coras pearls out of the pie”) (FW, 363, 2-4);102 mentre un’eco possibile di The Manxman diretto da Alfred Hitchcock (British International, 1929) e basato sull’omonimo romanzo di Thomas Henry Hall Caine (1894),103 risuona nella parodia a doppio senso sessuale di una nursery rhyme settecentesca (“Minxy was a Manxmaid when Murry wor a Man”) (FW, 433, 18-20),104 ma anche nel capitolo 15, quando nessuna donna interviene in difesa dell’accusato Earwicker: “There wasn’t an Archimandrite of Dane’s Island and the townlands nor a minx from the Isle of Woman nor a one of the four cantins nor any on the whole wheel of his ecunemical conciliabulum nor nogent ingen meid on allad the hold scurface of the jorth would come next on nigh him, Mr Eelwhipper” (FW, 496, 7-12).105 Vale anche la pena di citare Shem che nel capitolo 14 invita le ragazze a posare nude “before voluble old masters [...] plus the usual 100 Nel senso di compiere un’azione inutile e pericolosa: secondo la leggenda dall’uovo sterile nascerà un serpente capace di uccidere con lo sguardo. Nella variante joyciana c’è un ulteriore rimando allo strabismo, come già per Shem. 101 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 137. 102 Sottolineatura nostra. Cfr. RFW, 280, 38-39: “Why, hitch a cock eye, he was snapped on the sly upsadaisying coraspearls out of the pie”. “Coras pearls” allude alla cortigiana inglese Cora Pearl: si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 228. L’ipotesi di un rinvio a Robert Hitchcock, “prompter at Dublin’s Theatre Royal” è invece ivi, p. 127. 103 Per la presenza di questo scrittore in Finnegans Wake si veda J. S. Atherton, Hall Cain and the Isle of Man, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., II, 4, August 1965, pp. 6- 8. 104 Cfr. RFW, 336, 22: “Minxy was a Manxmaid when Murry wore a Man”. La nursery rhyme è l’anti-gallese Taffy Was a Welshman: si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 147. 105 Cfr. RFW, 385, 15-19: “There wasn’t an archimandrite of Dane’s Island and the townland’s tropics nor a minx from the Isle of Woman nor a one of the four cantins nor any on the whole wheel of his ecunomical counciliabulum nor nogent ingen meid on alled the holed scurface of the jorth would come next on nigh him, Mr Eelwhipper”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 182 bilker’s dozen of dowdycameramen” (FW, 435, 6 e 9), evocando il Decameron106 ma ugualmente bellezze femminili e “giddies nouveautays” (FW, 435, 11-12)107 più vicine a un’esibizione di ballerine che a una seduta di pittura: “the phyllisophies of Bussup Bulkeley” (FW, 435, 10-11), qui ricordate da Joyce, sono allora le dottrine di George Berkeley (così importanti per Finnegans Wake) ma forse anche i balletti di Busby Berkeley, il grande coreografo hollywoodiano degli anni Trenta. 3. Robert Flaherty e Charlie Chaplin Uniche eccezioni, in questo panorama piuttosto incerto, sono due registi citati a più riprese nel romanzo poiché legati a particolari preferenze dell’autore: Robert Flaherty e Charlie Chaplin. Se un altro famoso documentarista del tempo, Walter Ruttman,108 compare appena in Finnegans Wake insieme all’eco di una nursery rhyme (“Rutsch is for rutterman ramping his roe, seed three”) (FW, 314, 12),109 la presenza di Flaherty nel romanzo è vistosa; anche perché l’irlandese è uno dei due registi (l’altro è John Ford) che avrebbero potuto adattare Ulysses per lo schermo, secondo un indiretto suggerimento joyciano del 1935.110 Il 106 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 435. 107 Cfr. RFW, 337, 37: “giddies nouveau tays”. 108 Su Ruttman e Ulysses si veda Th. L. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, cit., pp. 41-47. 109 La nursery rhyme è A was an Archer: si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 126. 110 Si veda J. Kelly, Joyce in Hollywood in the 1930s: A Biographical Essay, in Biographical Joyce, Guest-Edited by Ch. Rossman and A. W. Friedman, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 45, Spring / Summer 2008, p. 531. Per le vicende di questo adattamento si veda anche la lettera di Paul Léon a Ralph Pinker (20 ottobre 1932) e quella dello stesso Joyce al figlio Giorgio (28 ottobre 1935) su possibili interpreti del film (Charles Laughton vs George Arliss), in J. Joyce, Letters, cit., vol. III, pp. 262-263 e pp. 379-380. Sul rapporto Flaherty-Joyce si veda Th. L. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, cit., pp. 37-38 Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 183 nome appare nell’espressione “all paddyflaherty” (FW, 520, 30), con riferimento all’irlandesità di Earwicker;111 ma anche come “Doctor Faherty, the madison man” (FW, 25, 4) che nutrirà di miele lo stesso Earwicker defunto; e innanzitutto come autore del già citato Man of Aran, film del 1934 sulle isole irlandesi nella baia di Galway che era apprezzato dallo scrittore ed è quasi sempre legato al protagonista del romanzo.112 Si pensi a “kings of the arans” (FW, 87, 25) e a “vellumtomes muniment, Arans Duhkha” (FW, 595, 22), con rinvio all’irlandese duca di Wellington soprannominato “Iron Duke”113 e al suo monumento a Dublino;114 ma soprattutto a “the man in the Oran mosque” (FW, 390, 10), dove il film di Flaherty è associato a un altro titolo in maschera mussulmana: The Iron Mask è infatti il film di Allan Dwan con Douglas Fairbanks (United Artists, 1929), che mette in scena una leggenda storica incorporata da Alexandre Dumas nel suo Le Vicomte de Bragelonne (1848-1850) e pubblicata in inglese separatamente (come terza parte del romanzo) col titolo The Man in the Iron Mask (1903).115 Ancora Earwicker come ferreo protagonista è responsabile del rinvio in altra più elaborata occorrenza: “when that man d’airain was big top tom saw tip side bum boss pageantfiller” (FW, 338, 26-27), con allusioni a un mandarino cinese (il seguito è in pidgin english ovvero “pigeony linguish”) (FW, 584, 4), a Mark Twain e alla caduta dell’eroe dalla scala con un piolo debitamente segato. Analogo è il 111 “Paddy” (per “Patrick”) è termine slang per “irlandese”. 112 Cfr. già J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 99: “Athens was, Dub. Is, Aran will be”. 113 Per un passo parallelo si veda D. H. Lawrence, The White Peacock (1a ed. 1911), With an Introduction by R. Aldington, Original Illustrations by R. Honeybourne, Geneva, Heron Books, 1968, p. 45. Lawrence, la cui pessima opinione di Joyce (ricambiata) è nota, non amava il cinema: si veda Id., St. Mawr, in Id., The Tales, London – Toronto, William Heinemann, 1934, pp. 664-665. 114 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., pp. 302-303. 115 James Whale firma nel 1939 per Edward Small un remake del film di Dwan col titolo The Man in the Iron Mask e Louis Hayward come protagonista. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 184 passaggio che nel capitolo 11 chiude la pagina sulla radio donata a H. C. E. per migliorare il suo udito difettoso e risvegliarlo dal sonno, segnando la sua rinascita dopo la morte come gigante e mitico personaggio (Thor e Carlo Magno ma anche Edmund Curll,116 venditore di libri indecenti): “so as to lall the bygone dozed they arborised around, up his corpular fruent and down his reuctionary buckling, hummer, enville and cstorrap (the man of Iren, thore’s Curlymane for you!), lill the lubberendth of his otological life” (FW, 310, 18-21).117 Simile è anche la parodia pseudo-filologica ispirata dall’ardua decifrazione della famosa lettera di Anna Livia Plurabelle in difesa del marito, che occupa gran parte del capitolo 5 (il cappello dell’“Aran man” è proprio quello di Earwicker, con riferimento a un Leitmotiv118 del romanzo): “the curious warning sign before our protoparent’s ipsissima verba [...] which paleographers call a leak in the thatch or the Aranman ingperwhis through the hole of his hat, indicating that the words which follow may be taken in any order desired, hole of Aran man the hat through the whispering his ho” (FW, 121, 8-14). A paragone di quello flahertiano, il profilo di Chaplin offerto da Finnegans Wake è molto più complesso, non ispirato al solo titolo di un film ma al profilo globale dell’artista.119 Che Joyce fosse ben informato anche sulle vicende personali dell’attore, com’erano pubblicizzate dai 116 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 66. 117 “Buckling, hummer, enville and cstorrap” rinvia a una nursery rhyme, il ritornello di A Frog he would a-wooing go: “With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 125 e (per altre allusioni allo stesso testo) M. P. Worthington, Anthony Romeo (152.21), in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., X, 6, December 1973, p. 93. 118 Si veda la nota n. 261. 119 Su Joyce e Chaplin si veda J. H. McKnight, Chaplin and Joyce: A Mutual Understanding of Gesture, in Biographical Joyce, cit., pp. 493-506. Per un articolo su Chaplin scritto da Lucia Joyce nel 1924 si veda J. Joyce, Letters, cit., vol. III, p. 88 (lettera a Valery Larbaud del ? febbraio 1924). Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 185 giornali, dimostra un appunto del primo taccuino preparatorio del romanzo (“C. C. gives Pola Negri the air”),120 riferendosi alla fine della relazione fra Chaplin e la star di Ernst Lubitsch da poco arrivata a Hollywood.121 Già la personalità di Leopold Bloom e certi dettagli di Ulysses sembrano ispirati al famoso personaggio del tramp (tanto da suggerire Chaplin come possibile interprete della versione cinematografica del romanzo),122 ma è in Finnegans Wake che Joyce manifesta apertamente la sua ammirazione per l’attore compilando un sintetico catalogo della sua filmografia: Shangaied per Essanay nel 1915 (“How big was his boost friend and be shanghaied to him?” (FW, 485, 23-24), Shoulder Arms (“for full marks with shouldered arms” (FW, 446, 17) e A Dog’s Life (“Any dog’s life you list”) (FW, 54, 7) per First National nel 1918, The Goldrush per United Artists nel 1925 (“my goldrush gainst her silvernetss”) (FW, 366, 11) e la danza dei panini nota come The Oceana Roll nello stesso film (“Ossian Roll”) (FW, 385, 36),123 Modern Times per United Artists nel 1936 (“This is modeln times”) (FW, 289, F6) e perfino Chase Me Charley cioè un’antologia inglese dei cortometraggi Essanay realizzata da Langford Reed nel 1917124 (“Holy snakes, chase me charley, Eva’s got barley under her fluencies!”) (FW, 494, 15-16),125 con riferimento al Genesi e alla cacciata dal Paradiso. 120 Cfr. Id., Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 159. 121 Per il punto di vista di Chaplin, che è quello condiviso dallo scrittore, si veda Ch. Chaplin, My Autobiography, New York, Simon and Schuster, 1964, pp. 300-302. 122 Si veda J. Kelly, Joyce in Hollywood in the 1930s: A Biographical Essay, cit., pp. 526-527. 123 Qui associata ai canti di Ossian di James Macpherson. Si veda A. K. McGarrity, Chaplin, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., X, 5, October, 1973, p. 75. 124 Si veda G. Mitchell, The Chaplin Encyclopedia, London, B. T. Batsford Ltd, 1997, pp. 50-51. Ma non si può escludere un rinvio concorrente al meno noto Charlie Chase, altro attore comico del cinema muto. 125 Cfr. RFW, 383, 39-40: “Holy snakes! Chase me, Charley, Eva’s got barley! Under her fluencies, all in!”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 186 Il nome di Chaplin o “young chapplie” (FW, 430, 31) ritorna più volte, spesso mascherato in altri panni,126 come quando Shaun-Stanislaus ricorda che Shem-Joyce “was capped out of beurlads scoel for the sin against the past participle and earned the factitation of codding chaplan and being as homely gauche as swift B.A.A.” (FW, 467, 24-27);127 dove le difficoltà teologico-grammaticali con la Berlitz School di Trieste si associano ad un’auto-caricatura dello scrittore James Joyce bachelor of arts. O quando Butt e Taff (alias Shem e Shaun) dialogano sulla guerra e la vita militare, divagando sul Leitmotiv del generale russo a Balaklava e descrivendo i soldati in libera uscita che ascoltano alla radio le ultime canzoni di successo; con Chaplin appaiato questa volta al cappellano inglese Stoddart Kennedy detto Woodbine Willy perché distribuiva sigarette Woodbine ai soldati durante la prima guerra mondiale128 (con allusione ai paparazzi che assediano l’attore e alle venditrici di sigarette nei cinema): “when our woos with the wenches went wined for a song, tsingirillies’ zyngarettes, while Woodbine Willie, so popiular with the poppyrossies, our Chorney 126 Analogamente in un taccuino, contaminato con Sherlock Holmes (“Charlock”). Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., 1978, p. 78 (VI.B.13 – 152). 127 Cfr. RFW, 362, 35-37: “was capped out of beurlads scoel for the sin against the past participle and earned the jactitation for codding chaplan and of being as homely gauche as swift, B.A.A.” 128 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 311 e D. Rose & J. O’Hanlon, Understanding “Finnegans Wake”. A Guide to the Narrative of James Joyce’s Masterpiece, cit. p. 284. Queste sigarette comparivano già in J. Joyce, Stephen Hero, Part of the first draft of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Edited with an Introduction by Th. Spencer, Revised edition with additional material and a Foreword by J. J. Slocum and H. Cahoon, London – Glasgow – Toronto – Sidney – Auckland, Grafton Books, 1977 (1a ed. 1944), p. 125. Per una lista di marche di sigarette fumate dalle truppe inglesi durante la Grande Guerra si veda E. M. Forster, The Scallies (1917), in Id., Our Diversions, in Id., Abinger Harvest, Harmondsworth, Penguin Books, 1967, p. 52: “Woodbines, Black Cats, Flags, Scissors, Half-a-Moes”. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 187 Choplain, blued the air. [...] And we all tuned in to hear the topmast noviality. Up the revels drown the rinks and almistips all round!” (FW, 351, 11-16).129 Il rimando preciso a un cortometraggio Mutual (The Rink del 1916) sarà ripetuto in altro luogo del romanzo per The Floorwalker (Mutual, 1916), con allusione parallela al primo duca di Normandia Rolf Ganger (walker)130 e l’aggiunta di un vero e proprio ritratto del tramp che in parte coincide, probabilmente, con il ritratto di John Joyce131 padre dello scrittore: “I’ll not be complete in fighting lust until I contrive to half kill your Charley you’re my darling for you […] particularly should he turn out to be a man in brown about town, Rollo the Gunger, son of a wants a flurewaltzer to Arnolff’s, picking up ideas, of well over or about fiftysix or so, pithecoid proportions, with perhops five foot eight, the usual X Y Z type, R. C. Toc H, nothing but claret, not in the studbook by a long stortch, with a toothbrush moustache and jawcrockeries, alias grinner through collar, and of course no beard, meat and colmans suit, with tar’s baggy slacks, obviously too roomy for him and springside boots, washing tie, Father Mathew’s bridge 129 Cfr. RFW, 271, 24-29: “when our woos with the wenches went wined for a song, tsingirillies’ zyngarettes, while Woodbine Willie, so popiular with the popprossies, our Chorney Choplain, blued the air. [...] And we all tuned in to hear the topmast noviality. Up the revels drown the rinks and almistips all round!”. “When our woos with the wenches went wined for a song” rinvia al famoso waltzer di Johann Strauss Wein, Weib, und Gesang (1869), per il quale cfr. anche FW, 177, 27-29: “his Ballade Imaginaire which was to be dubbed Wine, Woman and Waterclocks”. “And we all tuned in to hear the topmast noviality. Up the revels drown the rinks and almistips all round!” rimanda alla canzone Phil the Fluter’s Ball del famoso compositore irlandese Percy French: “‘I think it’s nearly time,’ sez he, for passin’ round the hat’. / So Paddy passed the caubeen round, and looking mighty cute, / Sez, ‘Ye’ve got to pay the piper when he toothers on the flute’. /And they all joined in with the utmost joviality”. Ricordiamo infine che “noviality” allude al Novial (Nov Internationale Auxiliary Language), un linguaggio artificiale basato su una modificazione dell’esperanto e proposto da Otto Jespersen in un contributo del 1928. Si veda rispettivamente M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 135 e M. J. C. Hodgart, Artificial Languages, in A Wake Digest, Edited by C. Hart and F. Senn, Sidney, Sidney University Press, 1968, pp. 56-57. Per altre sfumature si vedano Ph. B. Sullivan, Further Suggestions, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n.s., II, 6, December 1965, pp. 16-17 e R. Von Phul, Carmina Woodbiniana, ivi, n.s., IV, 1, February 1967, p. 24. 130 Capo dei Normanni che invasero la Francia. Si veda R. Benjamin, Northmen… Norman… Noman. Conquest and Effacement in “Finnegans Wake”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, n. s., 6, 2012, pp. 246-250. 131 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 443. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 188 pin, sipping some Wheatley’s at Rhoss’s on a barstool, with some pubpal of the Olaf Stout kidney, always trying to poorchase movables by hebdomedaries for to putt in a new house to loot, cigarette in his holder” (FW, 443, 17-32).132 È giusto allora che l’appassionato omaggio di Finnegans Wake contenga anche un preciso ricordo del contatto fra lo spettatore e la persona filmica di Chaplin, nel buio della sala di proiezione. Quando l’autore descrive infatti la moderna “young female”, una “Marge” (FW, 166, 4-5) che è anche il tipo di Isabel figlia di Earwicker, la mostra in alcune situazioni altrettanto tipiche: mentre passeggia al parco vestita all’ultima moda, “sitting on all the free benches avidously reading over ‘it’ but ovidently on the look out for ‘him’” (FW, 166, 10-12)133 o nei panni di una governante col bambino in braccio e qualche problema idraulico, dove l’allusione all’Ars amatoria di Ovidio134 si accompagna a It cioè al sex appeal che nel 1927 dava titolo a un famoso film di Clarence Badger 132 “Charley you’re my darling” è il titolo di una canzone scozzese del 1796 scritta da Carolina Oliphant lady Nairne in onore del pretendente al trono Charles Edward Stuart e attribuita al più famoso Robert Burns. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 148 e p. 177. Cfr. RFW, 344, 8- 20: “I’ll not be complete in fighting lust until I contrive to half kill your Charley you’re my darling for you […] particularly should he turn out to be a man in brown about town, Rollo the Gunger, wants a flurewaltzer to Arnolff’s, picking up ideas, of well over or about fiftysix or so, pithecoid proportions, with perhops five foot eight, the usual X Y Z type, R. C., Toc H, nothing but claret, not in the studbook by a long stretch, with a toothbrush moustache and jaw crockeries, alias grinner through collar, and of course no beard, meat and colmans suit, with tar’s baggy slacks obviously too roomy for him and springside boots, washing tie, Father Mathew’s bridge pin, sipping some Wheatley’s at Rhoss’s on a barstool, with some pubpal of the Olaf Stout kidney, always trying to poorchase movables by hebdomedaries for to putt in a new house to loot, cigarette in his holder”. In altro luogo del romanzo (fitto di allusioni al coito e alla prostituzione) si legge: “While we should like to drag attentions to our Wolkmans Cumsensation Act” (FW, 616, 24-25), con riferimento al Workman Compensation Act del 1906 (si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 616). Ma una versione precedente attesta la variante “to drag attentions to this lot of floorwalkers”, probabilmente modificata per spostare il rinvio chapliniano nel luogo più appropriato. Cfr. J. Joyce, A First-Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 282. 133 Cfr. RFW, 132, 13-14: “sitting on all the free benches avidously reading about ‘it’ but ovidently on the lookout for ‘him’”. 134 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 166. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 189 interpretato da Clara Bow per Famous-Players Lasky;135 ma soprattutto la presenta come spettatrice di uno spettacolo cinematografico, “at the movies swallowing sobs and blowing bixed mixcuits over ‘childe’ chaplain’s ‘latest’” (FW, 166, 13-14).136 E il probabile riferimento al commovente bambino di The Kid, ma anche ad una scena di The Pawnshop (Mutual, 1916),137 si mescola – con effetto irresistibile – alla rievocazione di un’autentica serata al cinema. 4. La proiezione Appassionato di opera lirica e musica vocale, baritono dilettante ed esperto conoscitore di canzoni antiche e moderne (queste ultime hanno un ruolo importante in Ulysses e in Finnegans Wake),138 Joyce era affascinato anche dal cinema come forma d’arte popolare (“Mute art for the Million”) 135 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, London, Thames and Hudson, 1969, p. 125. Ancora più esplicito è il riferimento a It in FW, 268, 2-6: “(ringrang, the chimes of sex appealing as conchitas with sentas stray, rung!), all thinking all of it, the It with an itch in it, the All every inch of it, the pleasure each will preen her for, the business each was bred to breed by”. Cfr. RFW, 210, 3-6: “(ringrang, the chimes of sexappealing as Conchitas with Sentas stray, rung!), all thinking all of it, the It with an itch in it, the All every inch of it, the pleasure each will preen her for, the business each was bred to breed by”. L’intero capitolo 10, per la parte dedicata a Isabel, ruota intorno a “it”: si veda D. Rose & J. O’Hanlon, Understanding “Finnegans Wake”. A Guide to the Narrative of James Joyce’s Masterpiece, cit., p. 148, p. 151 e p. 157. 136 Cfr. RFW, 132, 15-17: “at the movies swallowing sobs and blowing bixed mixcuits over ‘Childe’ chaplain’s ‘latest’”. 137 Per quest’ultimo film si veda J. H. McKnight, Chaplin and Joyce: A Mutual Understanding of Gesture, cit., p. 497. 138 Sui gusti personali di Joyce in materia di musica vocale si veda C. Brown – L. Knuth, The Tenor and the Vehicle: A Study of the John McCormack / James Joyce Connection, Colchester, A Wake Newslitter Press, 1982, pp. 1-4. Per un catalogo delle canzoni nelle opere joyciane è indispensabile M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., passim. In particolare per Ulysses si veda S. D. G. Knowles, That Form Endearing: A Performance of Siren Songs; or, “I was only vamping, man”, in Joyce in the Hibernian Metropolis: Essays, 13th International James Joyce Symposium, held in Dublin, June 1992, Edited by M. Beja and D. Morris, Columbus, Ohio State University Press, 1996, pp. 213-236. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 190 (FW, 496, 7).139 Non a caso il capitolo 3 di Finnegans Wake descrive con esattezza la rete della distribuzione cinematografica internazionale, insistendo proprio sulla natura collettiva del nuovo divertimento di massa e contrapponendolo alla letteratura (il passo precede immediatamente una pagina sulla lettera di Anna Livia Plurabelle, primo importante sviluppo di un motivo centrale nel romanzo): “a snipery of that sort and the amount of all those sort of things which has been going on onceaday in and twiceaday out every other nachtistag among all kinds of promiscious individuals at all ages in private homes and reeboos publikiss and allover all and elsewhere throughout secular sequence the country over and overabroad has been particularly stupendous. To be continued. Federals’ Uniteds’ Transports’ Unions’ for Exultations’ of Triumphants’ Ecstasies” (FW, 66, 2-9).140 L’omaggio al cinema americano (“particularly stupendous”) è qui raddoppiato da una rete di allusioni erotiche e sessuali, come spesso succede nel romanzo,141 ma l’estasi a cui fa riferimento l’acrostico finale in latino (FUTUETE)142 è anche quella del pubblico che assiste a un buon film. Ed è proprio alla fenomenologia della sala cinematografica che Joyce dedica una fitta serie di osservazioni fra le pieghe del suo romanzo, così 139 La settima arte non compare nella ben nota dichiarazione ad Harriet Shaw Weaver del 18 marzo 1930: “I know little about literature, less about music, nothing about painting and less than nothing about sculpture; but I do know something about singing, I think” (cfr. J. Joyce, Letters, edited by S. Gilbert, cit., vol. I, p. 291). Sul rapporto fra lo scrittore e la cultura di massa di veda C. Semmler, Radio and James Joyce, in “B. B. C. Quarterly”, 1949-1950, pp. 92-96. 140 Cfr. RFW, 53, 2-8: “a snipery of that sort and the amount of all those sort of things which has been going on onceaday in and twiceaday out every other nachtistag among all kinds of promiscuous individuals at all ages in private homes and reeboos publikiss and alloverall and elsewhere throughout secular sequence the country over and overabroad has been particularly stupendous. To be continued. Federals’ Uniteds’ Transports’ Unions’ for Exultations’ of Triumphants’ Ecstasies”. 141 Per un’esemplare analisi di un frammento di questo tipo, si veda F. Senn, Every Klitty of a scolderymeid Sexual-Political Analogies, in “A Wake Newslitter”, 3, June 1962, pp. 1-7. 142 Per un altro acrostico nascosto in FW, 124, 21 ss. si veda D. Rose & J. O’Hanlon, Understanding “Finnegans Wake”. A Guide to the Narrative of James Joyce’s Masterpiece, cit., p. 86. Innumerevoli, ovviamente, sono quelli riferiti a HCE. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 191 come registra nei suoi appunti i particolari di un film visto e perfino i commenti di Nora durante lo spettacolo.143 Non a caso, quando nel capitolo 15 di Finnegans Wake (durante il lungo interrogatorio di Yawn alias Shaun) l’autore disegna un ironico autoritratto nel ‘vecchio’ HCE spettatore cinquantaduenne che esce canterellando dal teatro: “Out of Prisky Poppagenua, the palsied old priamite, home from Edwin Hamilton’s Christmas pantaloonade, Oropos Roxy and Pantharhea at the Gaiety, trippudiating round the aria, with his fiftytwo heirs of age! They may reel at his likes but it’s Noeh Bonum’s shin do” (FW, 513, 20-24); cita sì il famoso Gaiety Theatre di Dublino e la prima delle sue tradizionali pantomime natalizie firmata da Edwin Hamilton,144 con un titolo diverso tuttavia, che allude all’eterno ciclo del tempo, all’Ouroboros e al motto di Eraclito; ma contemporaneamente evoca le bobine della pellicola e la più spettacolare sala cinematografica americana: come suggeriva già un taccuino,145 si tratta del Roxy, aperto nel 1926 a New York dall’impresario 143 I taccuini registrano spesso la visione di un film senza altri dettagli (“Cine” o “cinema at 21”), a volte sono più precisi (“‘in the picture’ / gored petticoat”, “chorus girl one / of a pie / 24 blackbirds / drunk / tripot (cine”, pensando probabilente al pub di Earwicker) e in qualche caso registrano anche la voce di Nora (“convicts at cine ‘O!’ Shame!”), come già faceva una lettera di James: “The other evening we went to a bioscope. There were a series of pictures about betrayed Gretchen. In the third last [act] Lothario throws her into the river and rushes off, followed by rabble. Nora said ‘O, policeman, catch him’”. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 127 (VI.B.10 – 97), p. 141 (VI.B.11 – 3) e p. 235 (VI.B.12 – 18); Id., “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 101 (VI.B.13 – 198) e p. 286 (VI.B.15 – 88); Id., Letters, cit., vol. II, p. 75 (lettera da Pola a Stanislaus Joyce del 28 dicembre 1904). 144 Si tratta di Turko the Terrible del 1873, adattata da una precedente pantomima inglese e dedicata alle magiche trasformazioni in una corte di favola. È citata ripetutamente Ulysses, in rapporto alla madre di Stephen, ma anche a Bloom e all’episodio di Circe, a sua volta costruito come una pantomima. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 116 e pp. 291-292; D. Gifford with J. Seidman, “Ulysses” Annotated. Notes for James Joyce’s “Ulysses”, Berkeley, California University Press, 19882, p. 18. 145 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 101 (VI.B.13 – 199): “Roxy (Rothapfel)”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 192 Samuel Rothapfel detto appunto Roxy (famoso per i suoi spettacoli teatrali live che precedevano le proiezioni).146 In Finnegans Wake la magia dell’‘andare al cinema’ è descritta in tutte le sue fasi. Si vorrebbe innanzitutto vedere un certo film, di cui si è sentito parlar bene conversando con gli amici. La sala è il Metropole Cinema di Dublino,147 il film è a colori e il titolo coincide con il famoso dramma di Henry Arthur Jones messo in scena nel 1896 Michael and His Lost Angel (con allusione alla chiesa dublinese di St. Michan,148 a Los Angeles e a Michelangelo). L’osmosi cinema-teatro è in questo caso giustificata dal tema dello spettacolo che è ancora una volta la storia di Finnegan e delle due ragazze nel parco, presentata “as an American movie of the period”149 ma anche come ripetizione parodica della vicenda del reverendo Michael Feversham che commette adulterio con la bella Audrie 146 Si veda N. Gabler, An Empire of Their Own. How the Jews Invented Hollywood, New York, Crown Publishers Inc., 1988, pp. 94-104. Roxy alias Rothapfel non è citato nel repertorio di Adaline Glasheen. Per altro appunto che associa il teatro e il cinema cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 261 (VI.B.15 – 39): “films theatre <tr> outlets”. 147 Costruito al posto del Metropole Hotel e aperto nel 1922. Altra sala è quella di Drumcollogher (o Dromcolliher), un sobborgo di Dublino dove nel 1926 morirono quarantotto spettatori per un incendio. Joyce sostituisce pour cause il toponimo a Napoli, nella parodia di una pubblicità turistica di Dublino: “– Do Drumcollogher whatever you do! – Visitez Drumcollogher-la-Belle! – Be suke and sie so ersed Drumcollogher! – Vedi Drumcollogher e poi Moonis” (FW, 540, 9-12). Cfr. RFW, 420, 5-8: “– Do Drumcollogher whatever you do! – Visitez Drumcollogher-la-Belle! – Be suke and sie so ersed Drumcollogher! – Vedi Drumcollogher e poi Moonis!” E si veda FW, 60, 8 (“Well done, Drumcollakill!”) e 176, 9-10 “There is Oneyone’s House in Dreamcolohour”). C’è anche un rinvio alla canzone di Percy French There’s only one street (o house) in Drumcollogher: si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 540). Su questo toponimo, da un altro punto di vista e senza allusioni cinematografiche, si veda L. O. Mink, Dear Dirty Hazelwood Ridge, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., IX, 6, December 1972, pp. 114-115. 148 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 193. 149 Cfr. J. Campbell, Mythic Worlds, Modern Words: on the Art of James Joyce, Edited by E. L. Epstein, Novato (California), New World Library, 2004 (1a ed. 1993), p. 216. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 193 Lesden, destinata a morire diventando il suo “good angel” (l’allusione apocalittica del titolo150 non era certo sfuggita a Joyce): “what about our trip to Normandy style conversation, with an occasional they say that filmacoulored featured at the Mothrapurl skrene about Michan and his lost angeleens is corkyshows do morvaloos” (FW, 443, 32-36).151 Per entrare si paga ovviamente il biglietto, magari sotto forma di un vasetto di marmellata vuoto come usava nelle prime sale inglesi (anche il Volta?) per l’ingresso dei bambini: “Jampots, rinsed porters, taken in token” (FW, 219, 9).152 E una volta in sala si prega bruscamente lo spettatore seduto davanti a noi di togliere il cappello e fare silenzio: “Now listen, Mr Leer! And stow that sweatyfunnyadams Simper!” (FW, 65, 4- 5).153 La proiezione può cominciare, la pellicola comincia a scorrere e le immagini diventano per qualche attimo la realtà. L’invito ai tre soldati (i testimoni del peccato di Earwicker nel parco) ad abbandonare ogni impresa guerresca e a sprofondare nel mondo effimero del sogno diventa allora un invito alla masturbazione ma soprattutto un invito al cinema, con probabili allusioni a The Three Musketeers (Fred Niblo, United Artists, 1921), Snowwhite and the Seven Dwarfes (Walt Disney, 1937) e al tempo stesso 150 Si veda Apocalypsis, 12, 7 e B. Wallis, “Michael and his Lost Angel”: Archetypal Conflict and Victorian Life, in “The Victorian Newsletter”, 56, Fall, 1979, p. 22. 151 Cfr. RFW, 344, 21-24: “what about our trip to Normandy style of conversation, with an occasional they say that filmacoulored featured at the Mothrapurl skrene about Michan and his lost angeleens is corkyshows do moorvaloos”. 152 “The English tell children they can pay with a jampot” (cfr. R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 219). 153 Cfr. RFW, 52, 14: “Now listen, Mr Leer! And stow that sweatyfunnyadams simper!”. “sweatyfunnyadams” allude all’espressione popolare “Fanny Adams” usata eufemisticamente (come F. A.) per “fuck all” nel senso di “nulla, da nulla”. L’origine è un fatto di cronaca nera del 1867: una bambina di otto anni, “Sweet Fanny Adams”, brutalmente assassinata e smembrata. Cfr. anche FW, 59, 4: “Mrs.F… A… saidaside” e RFW, 47, 27-28: “Mrs F– A– saidaside”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 194 The White Rose (David Wark Griffith, United Artists, 1923)154 e So Red the Rose155 (King Vidor, Paramount, 1935): “Just one moment. A pinch in time of the ideal, musketeers! Alphos, Burkos and Caramis, leave Astrelea for the astrollajerries and for the love of the saunces and for the honour of Keavens pike puddywhackback to Pamintul. And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world! And call all your smokeblushes, Snowwhite and Rosered, if you will have the real cream! Now for a strawberry frolic!” (FW, 64, 22-28).156 La pellicola che stiamo per vedere non riguarda altri che Earwicker, colto in flagrante nel parco con le due ragazze e mostrato come un “tableau vivant” (FW, 65, 6-7), seguendo l’estetica di molti film delle origini. Ma l’esibizionismo sessuale del protagonista e l’accusa dei tre soldati testimoni della scena possono anche assumere la forma più dinamica di vere proprie sequenze o “seequeerscenes” presentate allo spettatore o “Watchman Havelook” (FW, 555, 23-24),157 magari identificate letteralmente con lo 154 Il film era interpretato da Ivor Novello. 155 Qui il rinvio è anche alla Guerra delle Due Rose, come altrove nel testo, ma ugualmente alla fiaba dei fratelli Grimm Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot trasferita nella fiaba tradizionale irlandese di Patrick Kennedy The Twelve Wild Geese, dove la protagonista si chiama appunto Snow-White-and-Rose-Red (il testo è compreso nell’antologia Irish Fairy and Folk Tales pubblicata da William Butler Yeats nel 1888). Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 268 e R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 64. 156 Cfr. RFW, 51, 38-40 – 52, 1-3: “Just one moment. A pinch in time of the ideal, musketeers! Alphos, Burkos and Caramis, leave Astrelea for the astrollajerries and for the love of the saunces and for the honour of keavens pike paddywhackback to Pamintul. And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world! And call all your smokeblushes, Snowwhite and Rosered, if you will have the real cream! Now for a strawberry frolic!” “A pinch in time” richiama il proverbio “A stitch in time saves nine” (si veda ivi, p. 64) e “And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world!” rinvia alla canzone scozzese O Weel May the Keel Row, the Keel Row, the Keel Row (si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93). 157 Cfr. RFW, 433 10-11: “watchman Havelook Seequeerscenes”. “Havelook Seequeerscenes” è qui il nome della guardia notturna Sistersen, avatar di Sackerson il domestico di Earwicker, con allusione al famoso sessuologo Havelock Ellis, al poema duecentesco Lay of Havelok the Dane e all’inno sacro ottocentesco di John Bowring Watchman, Tell Us of the Night. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 195 scorrere dei titoli di testa sullo schermo, mentre si allude alla rivalità fra l’attore principale Earwicker nel ruolo del gobbo usurpatore Richard III e altri più giovani attori destinati a prendere il posto del titolare (Richard Burbage, David Garrick, Spranger Barry): “reeled the titleroll opposite a brace of girdles in Silver on the Screen but was sequenced from the set as Crookback by the even more titulars, Rick, Dave and Barry” (FW, 134, 9- 11).158 Non è allora un caso che la messa in scena teatrale descritta da Joyce all’inizio del capitolo 9 (per introdurre i giochi dei bambini in strada nel tardo pomeriggio)159 si trasformi in poche pagine, diventando uno spettacolo cinematografico prodotto per il grande pubblico e insieme una religiosa cerimonia celebrata dalle buone fate dell’illusione (“Shadows by the film folk, masses by the good people”) (FW, 221, 21);160 a partire dal ricordo di quelle provocatorie serate o battaglie futuriste (“futurist onehorse balletbattle pictures”) (FW, 221, 18) che impiegavano provocatoriamente i numeri più diversi del teatro di varietà.161 Il testo ripete fedelmente la struttura dei titoli di testa di un film, elencando tutte le componenti della produzione con minuzia burlesca (si pensi al famoso pun sull’élan vital Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 120 e M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 163. 158 Cfr. RFW, 106, 18-20: “reeled the titleroll opposite a brace of girdles in Silver on the Screen but was sequenced from the set as Crookback by the even more titulars, Rick, Dave and Barry”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 134 e sulla frase M. L. Troy, Mummeries of Resurrection. The Cycle of Osiris in “Finnegans Wake”, Uppsala – Stockholm, University of Uppsala – Almqvist & Wiksell Internationale, 1976, p. 52. 159 Si veda J. Joyce, Selected Letters, Edited by R. Ellmann, New York, Viking Press, 1975, pp. 355-356 (lettera da Parigi a Harriet Shaw Weaver del 22 novembre 1930). 160 Cfr. RFW, 175, 2: “Shadows by the film folk. Masses by the good people”. “Good people” è il nome irlandese per le fate (si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 221). Cfr. anche J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur- Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 38 (“the film folk”) e p. 172 (“filmdom”). 161 Si veda C. Marengo Vaglio, Futurist Music Hall, cit., pp. 86-102. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 196 bergsoniano), ma anche mescolando termini tecnici, maschere della commedia dell’arte, personaggi storici, titoli di operette, episodi di Finnegans Wake: “Promptings by Elanio Vitale. Longshots, upcloses, outblacks and stagetolets by Hexenschuss, Coachmaker, Incubone and Rocknarrag. Creations tastefully designed by Madame Berthe Delamode. Dances arranged by Harley Quinn and Coollimbeina. Jests, jokes, jigs and jorums for the Wake lent from the properties of the late cemented Mr T. M. Finnegan R.I.C. Lipmasks and hairwigs by Ouida Nooikke. Limes and Floods by Crooker and Toll. Kopay pibe by Kappa Pedersen. Hoed Pine hat with twentyfour ventholes by Morgen. Bosse and stringbag from Heteroditheroe’s and All Ladies’ presents. Tree taken for grafted. Rock rent. Phenecian blends and Sourdanian doofposts by Shauvesourishe and Wohntbedarft. The oakmulberryeke with silktrick twomesh from Shop-Sowry, seedmanchap. Grabstone beg from General Orders Mailed. The crack (that’s Cork!) by a smoker from the gods. The interjection (Buckley!) by the firement in the pit. Accidental music providentially arranged by L’Archet and Laccorde. Melodiotiosities in purefusion by the score” (FW, 221, 22 – 222, 3).162 La proiezione può interrompersi per la rottura della pellicola, che dovrà essere in parte ribobinata, mentre il pubblico chiacchiera e le porte di aprono (“Enterruption. Check or slowback. Dvershen”) (FW, 332, 36).163 E alla fine della proiezione la pellicola uscirà dalla bobina col suo rumore 162 Cfr. RFW, 175, 2-17: “Promptings by Elanio Vitale. Longshots, upcloses, outblacks and stagetolets by Hexenschuss, Coachmaker, Incubone and Rocknarrag. Creations tastefully designed by Madame Berthe Delamode. Dances arranged by Harley Quinn and Coollimbeina. Jests, jokes, jigs and jorums for the Wake lent from the properties of the late cemented Mr T. M. Finnegan R.I.C. Lipmasks and hairwigs by Ouida Nooikke. Limes and Floods by Crooker and Toll. Kopay pibe by Kappa Pedersen. Hoed Pine hat with twentyfour ventholes by Morgen. Bosse and stringbag from Heteroclitheroe’s Endsodds and All Ladies’ presents. Tree taken for grafted. Rock rent. Phenecian blends and Sourdanian doofpoosts by Shauvesourishe and Wohntbedarft. The oakmulberryeke with silktrick twomesh from Shop-Sowy, Seedmanchap. Grabstone beg from General Orders Mailed. The crack (That’s Cork!) by a smoker from the gods. The interjection (Buckley!) by the firemet in the pit. Accidental music providentially arranged by L’Archet and Laccorde. Melodiotiosities in purefusion by the score”. “Jests, jokes, jigs and jorums for the Wake lent from the properties of the late cemented Mr T. M. Finnegan” si riferisce ovviamente a The Ballad of Finnegan’s Wake, che dà titolo al romanzo. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 112. 163 Con rinvio a una Czechozlovak diversion e alla parola ceca (dveře) che indica la porta. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 197 caratteristico (“Finny. Ack, ack, ack”) (FW, 65, 33-34).164 Ci sono poi gli intervalli fra un tempo e l’altro, vistosamente marcati nel capitolo 11 durante la lunga performance di Butt e Taff (ovvero i gemelli Shem e Shaun), che dialogano come due attori di vaudeville o di cinema o due personaggi di comic strip (Mutt e Jeff). Il primo intervallo è rigorosamente pubblicitario e rinvia piuttosto a programmi radiofonici o meglio televisivi, dedicati al concorso ippico di Caerholme165 (“Up to this curkscraw bind an admirable verbivocovisual presentment of the worldrenownced Caerholme Event has been being given by The Irish Race and World. [...] This eeridreme has being effered you by Bett and Tipp”) (FW, 341, 18-20 – 342, 31).166 Il secondo intervallo o Zwischenzeit167 sembra ispirarsi ai cinegiornali di attualità, presentando un panorama internazionale ed elencando i fatti più diversi “during this swishingsight teilweisioned” (FW, 345, 36): ovviamente, trattandosi di Joyce, gli eventi della politica mondiale si trasformano in una sequenza di dettagli irrilevanti e banalmente quotidiani. Il terzo intervallo, invece, esordisce con una dissolvenza incrociata fra Taff e Butt, per esibire poi su uno schermo propriamente televisivo168 The Charge of the Light Brigade, con ovvio riferimento al famoso poemetto di Tennyson ma anche al film Warner di 164 Cfr. RFW, 52, 38-39: “Finny! Ack, ack, ack”. Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 77. Si veda B. Benstock, Americana in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 76. 165 Caerholme è un ippodromo nei pressi di Lincoln dove tradizionalmente si correva fin dall’Ottocento il famoso Lincolnshire Handicap. L’allusione si mescola ad altre su altri concorsi, Grand National Steeplechase e One Thousand Guineas di Liverpool. Si veda D. Rose & J. O’Hanlon, Understanding “Finnegans Wake”. A Guide to the Narrative of James Joyce’s Masterpiece, cit., p. 197. 166 Cfr. RFW, 263, 33-35 – 264, 29-30: “Up to this curkscraw bind an admirable verbivocovisual presentment of the world-renownced Caerholme Event has been being given by The Irish Race and World. [...] This eeridreme has being effered you by Bett and Tipp”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 341. 167 Si veda ibidem. 168 Joyce allude all’inventore della televisione, lo scozzese John Logie Baird (“bairdboard”). Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 349. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 198 Michael Curtiz del 1936, mettendo in scena in entrambi i casi la battaglia di Balaklava nella guerra di Crimea: “In the heliotropical noughttime following a fade of transformed Tuff and, pending its viseversion, a metenergic reglow of beaming Batt, the bairdboard bombardment screen, if tastefully tout guranium satin, tends to teleframe and step up to the charge of a light barricade” (FW, 349, 6-10).169 Ciò che segue è allora una descrizione della battaglia, fino al momento in cui appare il vecchio generale russo che nell’intervallo seguente (e ultimo) sarà ucciso dal giovane soldato Buckley, sviluppando così appieno questo importante Leitmotiv del romanzo (replica del contrasto generazionale fra Earwicker e il Cad). Ma alla descrizione dello scontro militare si sovrappone una fitta serie di termini derivati dalla tecnologia televisiva,170 in tal modo rendendo metalinguisticamente visibile la traduzione in immagini filmiche della carica di cavalleria sotto il fuoco nemico e il fumo degli esplosivi: “Down the photoslope in syncopanc pulses, with the bitts bugtwug their teffs, the missledhropes, glitteraglatteraglut, borne by their carnier walve. Spraygun rakes and splits them from a double focus: grenadite, damnymite, alextronite, nichilite: and the scanning firespot of the sgunners traverses the rutilanced illustred sunksundered lines. 169 Cfr. RFW, 269, 39-40 – 270, 1-2: “In the heliotropical noughttime following a fade of transformed Tuff and, pending its viseversion, a metenergic reglow of beaming Batt, the bairdboard bombardment screen, of tastefully tout guranium satin tends to teleframe and step up to the charge of a light barricade”. Il titolo del poemetto di Tennyson ritorna in FW, 159, 31-32: “in charge of the night brigade”. 170 Per una descrizione delle tecniche televisive in uso verso la fine degli anni Trenta si veda il commento in J. Joyce, The Index Manuscript “Finnegans Wake” Holograph Workbook VI, B. 46, cit., pp. 205-208. Si veda anche W. Füger, TV Troubles, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XIII, 3, June 1976, pp. 54-55; Id., TV Again, ivi, XV, 2, April, 1978, p. 30; D. E. Theall, The Hieroglyphs of Engined Egypsians: Machines, Media, and Modes of Communication in “Finnegans Wake”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, 2, 1991, pp. 148-150; H. Burrell, Chemistry and Physics in “Finnegans Wake”, part II, ivi, 8, 1997, pp. 189-191. Joyce aveva acquistato il primo fascicolo (novembre 1935) della rivista “Television Magazine”: si veda Th. E. Connolly, The Personal Library of James Joyce. A Descriptive Bibliography, cit., p. 87. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 199 Shloss! A gaspel truce leaks out over the caeseine coatings. Amid a fluorescence of spectracular mephiticism there caoculates through the inconoscope stealdily a still, the figure of a fellowchap in the wohly ghast, Popey O’Donoshough, the jesuneral of the russuates” (FW, 349, 11-21).171 Qualcosa di simile avviene anche durante la descrizione della famiglia Earwicker in camera da letto, nel capitolo 16. Come all’inizio del capitolo 9, si comincia come in uno spettacolo teatrale, con allusione allo “stagemanager’s prompt” (FW, 558, 36) e con una lunga didascalia che descrive gli elementi scenici. Quasi subito, però, quelle che sembrano le direttive del regista comunicate alla troupe non rinviano più al teatro ma al cinema, ancora una volta con abbondanza di termini tecnici: “A time. Act: dumbshow. Closeup. Leads. [...] Closeup. Play! Callboy. Cry off. Tabler. Her move. Footage. [...] His move. Blackout” (FW, 559, 17-19 e 29-31 – 560, 2).172 La scena fra Earwicker e sua moglie a letto si trasforma allora nella composizione di un’inquadratura per il cameraman con opportune indicazioni per i movimenti di macchina e per la recitazione degli attori (con metafore scacchistiche): “Man with nightcap, in bed, fore. Woman, with curlpins, hind. Discovered. Side point of view. First position of harmony. Say! Eh? Ha! Check action. Matt. Male partly masking female. Man looking round, beastly expression, fishy eyes, parallelepiped homoplatts, ghazometron pondus, exhibits rage” (FW, 559, 20-24).173 171 Cfr. RFW, 270, 2-9: “Down the photoslope in syncopanc pulses, with the bitts bugtwug their teffs, the missledhropes, glitteraglatteraglut, borne by their carnier walve. A spraygun rakes and splits them from a double focus: grenadite, damnymite, alextronite, nichilite: and the scanning firespot of the sgunners traverses the rutilanced illustred sunksundered lines. Shloss! A gaspel truce leaks out over the caeseine coatings. Amid a fluorescence of spectracular mephiticism there caoculates through the inconoscope stealdily a still, the figure of a fellowchap in the wohly ghast, Popey O’Donoshough, the jesuneral of the russuates”. Sulla valenza ‘televisiva’ della pagina si veda C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 159. 172 Cfr. RFW, 435, 19-21, 30-32, 38: “A time. Act: dumbshow. Closeup. Leads. [...] Closeup. Play! Callboy. Cry, off. Tabler. Her move. Footage. [...] His move. Blackout”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 559. 173 Cfr. RFW, 435, 22-26: “Man, with nightcap, in bed, fore. Woman, with curlpins, hind. Discovered. Side point of view. First position of harmony. Say! Eh? Ha! Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 200 Quando, poco più tardi, la madre Anna Livia si alza dal letto per confortare un bambino che piange, la sua voce si confonde con quella di un ragazzo che cerca di rassicurare la sua ragazza durante la proiezione di un film dell’orrore (forse il muto francese Le Loup-Garou del 1923 o il più noto film del 1935 The Werewolf of London),174 approfittando della sua paura per metterle la mano sul ginocchio nel buio della sala: “Whervolk dorst ttou begin to tremble by our moving pictures at this moment when I am to place my hand of our true friendshapes upon thee knee to mark well what I say? Throu shayest who? In Amsterdam there lived a… But how? You are tremblotting, you retchad, like a verry jerry! Niet? […] To feel, you? Yes, how it trembles, the timid! […] Or doth brainskin flinchgreef?” (FW, 565, 6-13).175 E mentre la voce sembra raccontare ai bambini una favola per calmarli (“In Amsterdam there lived a...”, con opportuna dose di lingua neerlandese),176 il pubblico di sala protesta per la banda sonora troppo Check action. Matt! Male partly masking female.Domicy. Man looking round, beastly expression, fishy eyes, parallelepiped homoplatts, ghazometron pondus, exhibits rage”. 174 Il primo firmato da Pierre Bressol e Jacques Roullet per Pathé, il girato da Stuart Walker per la Universal. I riferimenti al lupo mannaro nel romanzo non mancano (FW, 71, 15 e 32: “Moonface the Murderer, Hoary Hairy Hoax [...] Lycanthrope”) e in qualche caso (FW, 225, 8: “Warewolff! Olff! Toboo!”) rinviano contemporaneamente e polemicamente a Virginia Woolf, come dimostra K. Anspaugh, “When Lovely Wooman Stoops to Conk Him”: Virginia Woolf in “Finnegans Wake”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, 7, 1996, pp. 176-191. Per una lettura canonicamente freudiana si veda A. Armstrong, Shem the Penman as Glugg as the Wolf-Man, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., X, 4, August 1973, pp. 51-59. Una fonte letteraria segnala G. Eckley, The Werewolf Revisited, and Other Ghosts of Gerald Griffin, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XIV, 3, June 1977, pp. 39-43. 175 Cfr. RFW, 439, 38-40 – 440, 1-4: “Whervolk dorst ttou begin to tremble by our moving pictures at this moment when I am to place my hand of our true friendshapes upon thy knee to mark well what I say? Throu shayest who? In Amsterdam there lived a… But how? You are tremblotting, you retchad, like a verry jerry! Niet? […] To feel, you? Yes, how it tremules, the timid! […] Or doth brainskin flinchgreef?” 176 Joyce cita il titolo della canzone popolare In Amsterdam there lived a maid, già presente in The Rape of Lucrece di Thomas Heywood (1608). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 163 e p. 187. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 201 debole (sono rimaste solo le immagini) e per le chiacchiere troppo rumorose di quella coppia di innamorati: “Stemming! What boyazhness! Sole shadow shows. Tis jest jibberweek’s joke. It must have stole. O, keve silence, both! Putshameyu! I have heard her voice somewhere else’s before me in these ears still that now are for mine” (FW, 565, 13- 16).177 La mescolanza di neerlandese e italiano (che boiata!), come la citazione carrolliana (Jabberwocky), sfociano nella splendida frase finale che riconduce la voce del cinema a quella della madre. Con una sorta di acustica dissolvenza incrociata il narratore sembra recuperare proustianamente la sua infanzia lontana, la voce della propria madre: una sorta di joyciano “Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure” che chiude perfettamente questo burlesco omaggio al cinema sonoro. 5. Gli attori Per il grande pubblico degli anni Venti e Trenta, in modo ben più rigido di quanto avvenga oggi, erano gli attori a ‘firmare’ un film, era il prestigio degli attori a orientare i progetti dei produttori cinematografici e quindi le possibilità commerciali di una pellicola, quasi sempre elaborata come vehicle per una star. Come abbiamo detto, Joyce non sfugge a questa ferrea logica dell’industria hollywoodiana e insieme dello spettatore medio, dando largo spazio in Finnegans Wake ai nomi degli interpreti. Si tratta appunto di nomi, com’è la regola per moltissime citazioni nel romanzo che agiscono appunto come nominalistiche interferenze fra una figura e l’altra, 177 Cfr. RFW, 440. 4-7: “Stemming! What boyazhness! Sole shadow shows. ’Tis jest jibberweek’s joke. It must have stole. O, keve silence, both! Putshameyu! I have heard her voice somewhere else’s before me in these ears still that now are for mine”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 202 un evento e l’altro, un luogo e l’altro; poiché tutti, nomi figure eventi e luoghi, si possono scambiare e possono coincidere nel grande tempo ciclico di Finnegans Wake.178 Manca quindi, sul versante degli attori e (come vedremo) su quello dei titoli dei film, la possibilità di un discorso più ampio che coinvolga la natura del medium e la sua funzione nell’universo tematico dello scrittore. Il catalogo documenta certamente la passione di cinéphile dello scrittore e l’ampiezza della sua informazione cinematografica, anche quando quest’ultima si basa su fonti secondarie (come avviene per una gran quantità di citazioni in Finnegans Wake).179 In molti casi, peraltro, l’inventario rimane allo stadio dell’ipotesi e si affida a una speciale collaborazione di lettori infinitamente pazienti, come si augurava lo stesso Joyce. Se infatti ogni pagina di Finnegans Wake sovrappone all’idea strutturale originaria una fitta rete di allusioni multiple incrociate fra loro che danno vita a un “pollylogue” (FW, 470, 9) potenzialmente infinito,180 la ricchezza e la complessità dell’intrico è tale che i rimandi finiscono per andare ben oltre il quadro di volta in volta programmato dall’autore. Dobbiamo insomma tener conto della forza auto- produttiva di un testo che contiene migliaia di nomi e citazioni, e che proprio perciò innesca a ogni passo un gran numero di altri rinvii interni ed 178 Sull’eguale importanza o non-importanza delle fonti joyciane, dai grandi libri ai banali inserti pubblicitari dei quotidiani che alla pari forniscono allo scrittore i frammenti verbali più eterogenei, si veda R.-J. Henkes, On the Verge of the Wake: Joyce’s Reading in Notebook VI.B.10 in “Joyce Studies Annual”, n. s., 5, 2011, p.127 e p. 130. 179 Si pensi alla consultazione di periodici come “Boy’s Cinema”, di cui Joyce possedeva almeno un esemplare (10 agosto 1929): si veda Th. E. Connolly, The Personal Library of James Joyce. A Descriptive Bibliography, cit., p. 86 e R. Ellmann, James Joyce, cit., p. 616. 180 Il termine è presente anche in uno dei taccuini, con rinvio alla molteplicità delle voci nell’episodio ‘televisivo’ di Butt e Taff nel capitolo 11: “polylogue (broadcasters)”. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 97 (VI.B.10 – 37). Si veda D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., pp. 158-159. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 203 esterni, che si moltiplicano durante il corso della lettura grazie alla loro stessa molteplicità. L’infinita apertura dell’opera non garantisce automaticamente la pertinenza dei richiami,181 che è variabile e dipende anche dal buon senso, dalla sensibilità e dalla competenza del lettore. Ed è semmai la tendenza delle allusioni a raggrupparsi in clusters piuttosto che l’apparizione di una singola occorrenza (si pensi ai titoli composti da una sola parola), a garantire la rilevanza del loro significato,182 poiché ogni decifrazione ad ogni istante deve tener d’occhio anche il contesto. Ma il lettore, come ha ben detto Natan Halper: “ […] where everything is interwoven […] never knows when some other body of material is suddenly going to be relevant. Willy-nilly, he will find himself, groping — like the rest of us — in an endless warehouse that is overcrowded with badly-sorted information”.183 Nel repertorio degli attori, innanzitutto, molti personaggi citati da Joyce appartengono al mondo del teatro, secondo un’osmosi fra i due ambiti che è alle origini stesse del cinema e sulla quale ritorneremo. Si pensi a Harry Relph detto Little Tich (agli inizi Little Tichborne), stella del 181 In altri casi le coincidenze sono ovviamente casuali: nulla giustifica, per esempio, un rinvio ad Humphrey Bogart a partire dal nome del protagonista del romanzo, Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 121 e B. O Hehir, The Name of Humphrey, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., III, 5, October 1966, pp. 93-96. 182 Per questo suggerimento di metodo si veda C. Brown – L. Knuth, The Tenor and the Vehicle: A Study of the John McCormack / James Joyce Connection, cit., pp. 9- 10. 183 N. Halper, Being a Sommerfool (2), in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., VIII, 1, February 1971, p. 4. Analoga diagnosi sul coinvolgimento del lettore e sul suo sforzo per controllare il materiale, speculare rispetto a quello dell’autore, si legge in D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., 1990, p. 55. Pagine illuminanti sulla crisi della competence in area joyciana si leggono in J. Derrida, Ulysse gramophone. L’oui dire de Joyce, in D. Ferrer, S. Kim, J.-M. Rabaté, Cl. Jacquet, L. Milesi, B. Brun, J. Derrida, Genèse de Babel. Joyce et la création, Études présentées par Cl. Jacquet, Paris, Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1985, pp. 242-247. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 204 vaudeville inglese del primo Novecento, che come altri colleghi si esibì anche davanti alla macchina da presa184 e che Joyce ricorda con un doppio senso osceno (“You try a little tich to the tissle of his tail”) (FW, 465, 29- 30).185 Ma potremmo citare anche la grande attrice francese Réjane, già ammirata da Marcel Proust e interprete di tre film fra il 1911 e il 1920: “Rejaneyjailey” (FW, 64, 19), con allusione ad Anna Livia Plurabelle come Regina Coeli e insieme all’omonimo carcere di Roma.186 E ugualmente l’americana Blanche Yurka, che al suo repertorio teatrale classico aggiunse qualche film girato per MGM, impersonando nel 1935 Madame De Farge al fianco di Ronald Colman in A Tale of Two Cities di Jack Conway: “Rose Lankester and Blanche Yorke” (FW, 485, 11), con allusione alla Guerra delle Due Rose.187 Non deve essere dimenticata neppure l’irlandese Sara Allgood dell’Irish National Theatre Society, attiva sulle scene ma anche nel cinema britannico fino al suo trasferimento negli Stati Uniti nel 1940 (Blackmail e Juno and the Paycock diretti per British International da Alfred Hitchcock nel 1928 e nel 1930, il già citato Lily of Killarney nel 1934, Lazybones diretto per Real Art da Michael Powell nel 1935 e molti 184 Un numero del clown fu filmato nel 1900 in occasione dell’Esposizione Universale di Parigi col titolo Little Tich et ses Big Boots, mediante il.sistema di cinema sonoro Phono-Cinéma-Théatre. Alla sua popolarità parigina accenna, nel 1928, il partecipe necrologio di J. B. Priestley, Little Tich, in Id., The Balconinny and Other Essays, London, Methuen & Co., 1929, p. 59. 185 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 260 (VI.B.15 – 37): “a little tich of it”. 186 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 76 e A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 244. 187 Si veda W. D. Jenkins, Blanche Yurka, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XIV, 6, December 1977, p. 99. “Lankester” allude probabilmente ad un’altra grande attrice di teatro, Elsa Lanchester, moglie di Charles Laughton e attiva anche nel cinema inglese e americano degli anni Trenta (ricordiamo solo Bride of Frankenstein di James Whale per Universal nel 1935). Il nome rimanda forse anche a sir Edwin Ray Lankester, famoso naturalista e divulgatore dell’evoluzionismo (ricordiamo Science from an Easy Chair del 1910). Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 205 altri film). Joyce la conosceva personalmente e segnala in una lettera l’annuncio di una sua lettura londinese di Anna Livia Plurabelle nel 1932,188 evocandola anche in Finnegans Wake: “she convorted him to the onesure allgood and he became a luderman” (FW, 21, 29-30) e “to Sara’s bridge good hunter and nine to meet her” (FW, 567, 3-4).189 Gli attori del muto sono debitamente registrati, a cominciare dai più celebri: Rodolfo Valentino, citato ovviamente all’interno di una dichiarazione d’amore e confuso con San Valentino (“valentine eyes”, “on the Ides of Valentino’s”, “The valiantine vaux”, “a linehall valentino”) (FW, 20, 34; 289, 27-28; 439, 19; 458, 2);190 Ivor Novello, presente per il suo nome di battesimo (“Forivor”, “Up the rivor”) (FW, 295, 2 e 312, 8-9) e quindi spesso sovrapposto a uno dei primi re norvegesi di Dublino,191 ma presente anche come autore della canzone Keep the Home Fires Burning (“chez where the log foyer’s burning!”, “keeping the home fires burning”) (FW, 244, 12 e 474, 16-17);192 Mary Pickford, citata in un elenco di chiese approfittando del suo nome mariano e ricordando il suo film del 1918 Stella Maris (diretto per Artcraft da Marshall Neilan) ma anche evocando i nickelodeons193 e insieme il suo grande pubblico (“S. Mary Stillamaries with Bride-and-Audeons-behind-Wardborg”) (FW, 569, 10-11);194 le due 188 Si veda J. Joyce, Letters, cit., vol. III, p. 261 (lettera a Frank Budgen del 9 ottobre 1932), 189 Qui con riferimento al Sara Bridge a Dublino. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 567. 190 Cfr. RFW, 223, 32: “On the Ides of Valentine’s”. 191 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., pp. 139-140. 192 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 117 e p. 154 193 Earwicker, nei panni di Adamo che dà i nomi alle cose, “had put his own nickelname on every toad, duck and herring” (FW, 506, 1-2), con allusione a Tom, Dick e Harry. 194 Cfr. RFW, 443, 7-8: “S. Mary Stillamarries with Bride-and-Audeons-behind- Wardborg”. Mary Pickford e Douglas Fairbanks, sposati dal 1920 al 1933 e co- fondatori della United Artists nel 1919 (insieme a Charlie Chaplin e David Wark Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 206 giovanissime sorelle Lillian e Dorothy Gish, protagoniste dei grandi film di David Wark Griffith e qui associate alle fanciulle che circondano Isabel (“And gish! how they gushed away, the pennyfares, a whole school for scamper, with their sashes flying sish behind them, all the little pirlypettes! Issy-la-Chapelle!”) (FW, 80, 33-36);195 Pearl White, famosa star del primo serial americano The Perils of Pauline, girato da Louis Gasnier e Donald McKenzie per Pathé nel 1914 (“perilwhitened passionpanting pugnoplangent intuitions”) (FW, 394, 35-36). Incontriamo poi, in tre luoghi diversi del romanzo, le tre stars del western Noah Beery, Buck Jones e Tom Mix. Il primo è l’unico attore di Finnegans Wake ad avere l’onore di essere citato direttamente, senza deformazioni fonetiche o spostamenti di senso: padre del più noto Wallace e vero tipo di heavy nel western delle origini, si capisce che venga ricordato per il suo... peso (“Noah Beery weighed stone thousand one when Hazel was a hen. Now her fat’s falling fast”) (FW, 64, 33-34).196 Il secondo è compreso nel catalogo dei bambini e dei regali offerti dalla gallina Anna Livia “like Santa Claus” (FW, 209, 23), ma sotto la sua maschera si si nasconde (in questa lista tutta irlandese) Griffith), appaiono in un taccuino del 1925-1926 che cita probabilmente una foto pubblicitaria: “Mary Pickford on / balcony & Doug / legshow, whole / . . black garters / who saw her – / every body”. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.13 – VI.B.16, cit., p. 27 (VI.B.13 – 51). 195 Cfr. RFW, 64, 25-28: “And, gish, how they gushed away, the pennyfares, a whole school for scamper, with their sashes flying sish behind them, all the little pirlypettes! Issy-la-Chapelle!”. Si veda B. Benstock, Americana in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 80 (anche per altre allusioni cinematografiche). 196 “When Hazel was a hen” allude al fagiano della specie Hazel Hen ma anche, probabilmente, ad un’altra attrice: quella Hazel Dawn famosa interprete teatrale di operette fra il 1909 e la Grande Guerra, e ugualmente protagonista di qualche film per Famous Players-Lasky fra il 1914 e il 1916 (nel 1917 la Dawn girò The Lone Wolf per la regia e la produzione di Herbert Brenon, mentre ancora nel 1925 avrebbe partecipato a A Cloudy Romance, un film per William Fox di Lewis Seiler). “Now her fat’s falling fast” cita l’esordio della poesia di Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Excelsior (1841), “The shades of night were falling fast”, più volte parodiata a cominciare dalla versione di Alfred Edward Housman del 1882. L’originale era stato musicato per duetto di tenore e baritono dall’irlandese Michael William Balfe. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 207 l’impresario teatrale di Dublino Frederick E. Buck Jones: “a prodigal heart and fatted calves for Buck Jones, the pride of Clonliffe” (FW, 210, 17- 18).197 Tom Mix compare invece ironicamente in un contesto marinaro evocato dalla canzone di Percy French Has anybody ever been to Mick’s Hotel (“whoever’s gone to mix Hotel by the salt say water there’s nix to nothing we can do for he’s never again to sea”) (FW 50, 34-35),198 ma soprattutto come uno dei tre soldati che spiano Earwicker al parco, sovente e convenzionalmente chiamati Tom, Dick e Harry (“three tommix, soldiers free”) (FW, 58, 24).199 Un’altra probabile allusione a Tom Mix (“tumtim”) evocato insieme a due colleghi del western nel periodo muto (Art Accord e Edward ‘Hoot’ Gibson), si legge in questo passaggio dedicato al potere della fede religiosa contrapposta alla scienza: “For if sciencium (what’s what) can mute uns nought, ’a thought, abought the Great Sommboddy within the Omniboss, perhops an artsaccord (hoot’s hoot) might sing ums tumtim abutt the Little Newbuddies that ring his panch” (FW, 415, 15-19).200 Joyce può anche citare più attori nello stesso frammento testuale, come in queste righe che alludono al Ryehouse Plot,201 il complotto del 1663 per assassinare Charles II e il duca di York: 197 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 147. Buck Jones era proprietario di Clonliffe House. 198 Cfr. RFW, 41, 12-13: “whoever’s gone to Mix Hotel by the salt say water there’s nix to nothing we can do for he’s never again to sea”. La canzone di Percy French si apre con “Has anybody ever been to Mick’s Hotel, / Mick’s Hotel by the salt say water?” e il ritornello che chiude ogni strofa è “Never again for me”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 50. 199 Si veda ivi, p. 197 e p. 286. Qui si aggiunge un’eco della canzone elisabettiana We be soldiers free. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 92. 200 Si veda E. J. Cronin, Science ‘Bites the Dust’. An Analysis of FW: 415. 15-19, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XV, 2, April 1978, pp. 24-27. 201 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 312. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 208 “But old sporty, as endth lord, in ryehouse reigner, he nought feared crimp or cramp of shore sharks, plotsome to getsome. It was whol niet godthaab of errol Loritz off his Cape of Good Howthe and his trippertrice loretta lady, a maomette to his monetone” (FW, 312, 17-21).202 Qui gli indizi marinareschi si adattano bene alla storia del sailor e del tailor che si sta raccontando nel capitolo 11, ma anche all’atletico e piratesco profilo dei primi film di Erroll Flynn (mescolato qui all’irlandese Earl Lawrence di Howth).203 E “reigner” potrebbe alludere a Luise Rainer, l’attrice austriaca rivelata da Max Reinhardt e vincitrice di due oscar a Hollywood nel 1936 (Robert Ziegler Leonard, The Great Ziegfield, MGM) e nel 1937 (Sidney Franklin, The Good Earth, MGM); mentre “Loretta”, che si avvicina al suo virile montone HCE come Maometto alla sua montagna,204 rinvia alle frivole lorettes parigine205 ma anche alla giovane Loretta Young, che negli anni Trenta lavora con Frank Capra, William Wellman, Frank Borzage, Cecil B. De Mille, John Ford, Allan Dwan. E la catena dei rinvii si dovrebbe allungare se catalogassimo tutte le occorrenze di “Lloyd” e di “Flynn” nel romanzo, osservando che il primo nome non si riferisce solo alla famosa compagnia assicurativa ma anche al grande maestro della daredevil comedy negli anni Venti, Harold Lloyd (almeno in un caso associato alla celluloide: “sailalloyd”, FW, 373, 4); e che il secondo non rimanda solo alla canzone Father O’Flynn già citata in 202 Cfr. RFW, 240, 30-33: “But old sporty, as endth lord, in ryehouse reigner, he nought feared crimp or cramp of shore sharks, plotsome to getsome. It was whol niet godthaab of errol Loritz off his Cape of Good Howthe and his trippertrice, loretta lady, a maomette to his monetone”. 203 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 312. 204 Cfr. anche FW, 418, 17: “So saida to Moyhammlet and marhaba to your Mount!”. 205 Come probabilmente in FW, 67, 33 (“Lupita Lorette”) e 359, 13-14 (“fitting tyres onto Danelope boys or fluttering flaus for laurettas”). Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 209 Ulysses206 ma anche al protagonista di tanti film d’azione firmati da Michael Curtiz negli anni Trenta. Altro esempio di cumulo onomastico, meno sicuramente decifrabile, è la pagina in cui Joyce evoca il suo incontro del giugno 1904 con Nora Barnacle che lavorava come cameriera al Finn’s Hotel di Dublino, la fuga dei due amanti nell’ottobre verso Londra, Parigi, Zurigo, Trieste e Pola, la loro vita in comune fino al tardivo matrimonio celebrato nel 1931: “With her banbax hoist from holder, zig for zag through pool and polder, cheap, cheap, cheap and Laughing Jack, all augurs scorenning, see the Bolche your pictures motion and Kitzy Kleinsuessmein eloping for that holm in Finn’s Hotel Fiord, Nova Norening. Where they pulled down the kuddle and they made fray and if thee don’t look homey, well, that Dook can eye Mae. He goat a berth. And she cot a manege. And wohl’s gorse mundom ganna wedst” (FW, 330, 21-29).207 La rievocazione è accompagnata da alcune canzoni208 (quella irlandese di emigrazione Off to Philadelphia in the Morning composta a fine Ottocento da John Patterson,209 la nursery rhyme settecentesca Polly. Put the Kettle on e il negro spiritual intitolato All God’s Chillun Got Wings),210 ma anche da qualche allusione cinematografica: come se 206 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., pp. 212-213 e M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 182. 207 Cfr. RFW, 255, 1-7: “With her banbax hoist from holder, zig for zag through pool and polder, cheap, cheap, cheap and Laughing Jack, all augurs scorenning, see the Bolche your pictures motion and Kitzy Kleinsuessmein eloping for that holm in Finn’s Hotel Fiord, Nova Norening. Where they pulled down the kuddle and they made fray and if thee don’t look homey, well, that Dook can eye Mae”. He goat a berth. And she cot a manege. And whoth’s gorse mundum ganna wedst”. 208 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 130. 209 “With my bundle on my shoulder, / There’s no one could be bolder”. 210 “I got a robe, you got a robe / All o’ God’s chillum got a robe”. Omonimo è il dramma di Eugene O’Neill nel 1924, mentre la canzone All God’s Chillum Got Rhythm Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 210 l’avventura di James e Nora, al pari di quella di HCE e delle ragazze nel parco, diventasse il soggetto di un film in barba allo sdegnoso scetticismo dei borghesi che assistono alla scena (“all augurs scorenning”).211 Ma è l’indicazione dei film che si devono vedere, o meglio l’invito ai Bolscevichi a vedere i loro film (pensiamo all’incontro con Eisenstein), a suggerire qualche enigmatico profilo di attrice. Nascosta nel lessico scandinavo “holm” e “Fiord” come in altro luogo del romanzo (“You going to haulm port haulm, toilermaster”) (FW, 613, 31), c’è forse Brigitte Helm, l’attrice tedesca protagonista di Metropolis di Fritz Lang (UFA, 1926), de L’Argent di Marcel l’Herbier (Cinémondial, 1928), di tre film di Georg Wilhelm Pabst. E nel toponimo “Nova Norening”, che evoca l’artica Nova Zemlia e al tempo stesso Nora (Joyce pensa alle migrazioni dell’anitra selvatica o barnacle goose,212 a Nora Helmer e a Vildanden dell’amato Ibsen),213 traspare forse il nome dell’attrice inglese Nova Pilbeam: interprete hitchcockiana di The Man Who Knew Too Much (Gaumont- British, 1934) e protagonista di Young and Innocent (Gaumont-British, 1938). Più esplicito è il finale del passo, con il telone dello schermo dove l’occhio del pubblico può ammirare Mae West mentre il cognome della famosa attrice si nasconde nell’allusione alla morte (to go west)214 che cita al tempo stesso il titolo di un film: Go West, Young Man, infatti, non è solo uno slogan ottocentesco apocrifamente attribuito al giornalista americano di Walter Jurmann, Gus Kahn e Bronislau Kaper è stata scritta nel 1937 per il film dei Marx Brothers A Day at the Races, diretto da Sam Wood per MGM. 211 L’accenno all’antica pratica divinatoria aggiunge “an ancient Roman dimension to this rejection of a formal marriage ceremony” (cfr. R. J. Schork, Latin and Roman Culture in Joyce, Gainesville, University Press of Florida, 1997, p. 100). 212 Cfr. FW, 399, 10: “barnacle gander”. 213 Cfr. J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 14: “glorious name of Irish goose”. 214 Sul tema, collegato alla mitologia egiziana, si veda M. L. Troy, Mummeries of Resurrection. The Cycle of Osiris in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 37-38. Per l’associazione mortuaria di west e waste si veda J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., p. 20. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 211 Horace Greeley (come in “a noted house of the gonemost west”) (FW, 66, 32), ma anche una pellicola realizzata da Henry Hathaway per Paramount nel 1936 proprio con Mae West come protagonista (insieme a Warren William e Randolph Scott).215 Con questi attori, tuttavia, siamo passati dal periodo muto al periodo sonoro, che è anche quello maggiormente documentato nel romanzo e sempre con spiccata preferenza per il cinema americano.216 Joyce cita altre affascinanti attrici apprezzandole per il loro fisico, come la cantante Dorothy Lamour (arrivata al successo in The Jungle Princess, diretto da William Thiele per Paramount nel 1936): “if that is what lamoor that of gentle breast rathe is intaken” (FW, 292, 1-2).217 La bella Mary Astor, protagonista di una lunga carriera negli anni Venti e Trenta, appare in una battuta polemica del vecchio evangelista Matteo contro i colleghi Luca, Marco e Giovanni, associati come sempre alle contee irlandesi Leinster, Munster e Connaught.218 E qui l’attrice, nota per la sua vita sentimentale piuttosto agitata, prende provocatoriamente il posto delle due province e dei due evangelisti proprio in nome della potenza sessuale femminile (mona e con): “The leinstrel boy to the wall is gone and there’s moreen astoreen for Monn and Conn” (FW, 528, 30-32).219 Uguale strizzata 215 Un film muto omonimo era stato firmato nel 1918 da Harry Beaumont e nel 1925 Buster Keaton aveva firmato Go West per MGM. 216 Non appaiono riferimenti al cinema nel repertorio di S. B. Bird, Some American Notes to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 119-124. 217 Con citazione dall’Inferno di Dante Alighieri (V, 100): “Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s’apprende”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 292. 218 Si veda J. Joyce, Selected Letters, cit., p. 297 (lettera da Parigi a Harriet Shaw Weaver del 12 ottobre 1923). 219 “The leinstrel boy to the wall is gone and there’s moreen” cita l’incipit di una delle Irish Melodies (1807-1835) di Thomas Moore, The Minstrel Boy o The Moreen: “The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 160 e p. 193. Joyce possedeva una raccolta delle Irish Melodies con gli accompagnamenti musicali: si veda Th. E. Connolly, The Personal Library of James Joyce. A Descriptive Bibliography, cit., p. 42. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 212 d’occhio è riservata ancora a Mae West (“Look for me always at my west and I will think to dine”) (FW, 457, 20-21),220 mentre “Maye Faye, she’s la gaye this snaky woman!” (FW, 20, 33) rimanda sì alla biblica Eva ma anche ad Alice Faye,221 ammirata negli stessi anni da Raymond Queneau.222 Qui e altrove (“O I fay!”, “par my fay”) (FW, 18, 35 e 292, 8) l’attrice sembra sovrapporsi a Fay Arthur, vedette del music-hall e ispiratrice di una famosa allusione erotica in Ulysses,223 ma anche alla stessa ALP rappresentata dalla Liffey (“Madama Lifay”) (FW, 224, 29).224 In altri casi ritroviamo proprio Alice Faye insieme ad altro famoso attore della Fox, Tyrone Power, che con lei ha interpretato nel 1938 il musical di Henry King Alexander’s Ragtime Band (“What tyronte power! Buy our fays!”) (FW, 569, 35); e del resto il ritornello della famosa canzone che dà titolo al film,225 composta da Irving Berlin nel 1911, è debitamente citato nel romanzo (“He vows her to be his own honeylamb”) (FW, 65, 7). Il nome e il cognome di Tyrone Power (che ha lavorato molto anche con Loretta Young) offrono troppe possibilità associative per non essere 220 Con riferimento all’incipit della canzone popolare Drink to me only with thine eyes, musicata fra Sette e Ottocento su di una poesia di Ben Jonson (Song to Celia, 1616): “Drink to me only with thine eyes, / And I will pledge with mine”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 151. 221 I fratelli William e Frank Fay furono fra i fondatori dell’Abbey Theater dublinese. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 569. 222 Si veda R. Queneau, Les Temps mêlés, in Id., Romans, èdition publiée sous la direction d’H. Godard, avec, pour ce volume, la collaboration de J.-Ph. Coen, J.-P. Longre, S. Meyer-Bagoly, G. Pestureau, E. Souchier et M. Velguth. Paris, Gallimard, 2002, vol. I (Œuvres complètes, II), pp. 1028-1030; Id., [Alice Faye au Marigny], in Id., Appendices des “Tempes mêlés”, ivi, pp. 1423-1429 e la nota inedita citata nelle Notices, notes et variantes, ivi, p. 1640. 223 Si veda Id., Ulysses, cit., p. 555 e A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., pp. 16-17. 224 Solo a Fay Arthur, legata ovviamente al tema arturiano, rimandano invece FW, 361, 2-3 (“fairs fears stoops at nothing. And till Arthur comes againus […] ”) e 621, 20 (“Fy arthou!”). 225 “That's just the bestest band what am, oh, ma honey lamb / Come on along, come on along, let me take you by the hand”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 213 ampiamente sfruttati da Joyce, pur tenendo presente la parallela onomastica storico-geografica (la contea di Tyrone nell’Irlanda del Nord e l’eroe della guerra anti-inglese a fine Cinquecento, Hugh O’Neill Earl of Tyrone). Incontriamo il nome nel capitolo 3 (“enlisted in Tyron horse, the Irish whites”) (FW, 49, 7), incrociando una compagnia di cavalleria con il famoso film girato nel 1920 per William Fox dall’altro irlandese John Ford, The Iron Horse (ma anche con “horsepower”, ovviamente, come dimostrano le altre occorrenze del termine sempre associato alla virilità).226 Ma lo incontriamo anche nel capitolo 9, quando Joyce presenta la coppia dei gemelli nei panni degli antichi romani Burrus e Caseous, associato al latino tiro come giovane inesperto ma anche al greco τυρός227 ossia formaggio (“This in fact, just to show you, is Caseous, the brutherscutch or puir tyron”) (FW, 163, 8-9) e subito dopo al ferro (“tyrondynamon machine”) (FW, 163, 30). Tyrone è del resto ripetutamente anagrammato nel romanzo: compreso nella lista delle comodità di cui può disporre Shem nel capitolo 7, con rinvio alla canzone My Love and Cottage near Rochelle,228 al personaggio del ladro gentiluomo Raffles inventato da Ernest William Hornung e al grande magazzino londinese Liberty229 (“a roseschelle cottage by the sea for nothing for ever, a ladies tryon hosiery raffle at liberty”) (FW, 179, 32-33);230 nascosto nel primo triumvirato durante le lezioni di storia romana impartite ai figli di Earwicker nel 226 Si veda FW, 8, 36 con rinvio arturiano alla spada Excalibur (“Sexcaliber hrosspower”), 248, 21 con rinvio carrolliano al tricheco (“My bellyswain’s a twalf whulerusspower”), 387, 10-11 con rinvio swiftiano agli Yahoos (“the whole yaghoodurt sweepstakings and all the horsepowers”), 459, 32-33 (“while I become engaged with my first horsepower, masterthief of hearts”), 576, 25-26 (“perils behind swine and horsepower down to hungerford”). 227 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 124. 228 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 108. 229 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 179. 230 Cfr. RFW, 142, 9-10: “a roseschelle cottage by the sea for nothing for ever, a ladies’ tryon hosiery raffle at liberty”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 214 capitolo 10 (“the tryonforit of Oxthievious, Lapidous and Malthouse Anthemy”) (FW, 271, 5-6); insieme alla seconda prova dal sarto, nella storia del sailor e del taylor del capitolo 11 (“So for the second tryon all the meeting of the acarras had it”) (FW, 320, 18); collegato al cappello che Shaun mangia prima di rispondere (con ulteriori associazioni musicali)231 all’undicesima domanda del suo interrogatorio nel capitolo 13 (“taking at the same time, as his hunger got the bitter of him, a hearty bite out of the honeycomb of his Braham and Melosedible hat, tryone, tryon and triune”) (FW, 422, 24-26);232 riferito a Earwicker che come Noé nell’Arca incontra il segno divino dell’arcobaleno, alla fine del capitolo 16 e della terza parte, chiudendo uno dei grandi cicli temporali del romanzo (“That’s his last tryon to march through the grand tryomphal arch”) (FW, 590, 9-10). Non mancano in Finnegans Wake attori drammatici di grande prestigio, come i fratelli John e Lionel Barrymore (“Bower Moore”) (FW, 24, 21),233 non a caso associati ai due gemelli e al tempo stesso al grande David Garrick (“And the twillingsons, ganymede, garrymore, turn in trot and trot”) (FW, 583, 11-12). Lionel, presente per conto suo in un passo già citato (“false liarnels”) (FW, 241, 32), aveva interpretato il film di Kenneth S. Webb Jim the Penman (Whitman Bennett, 1921) ripresa dell’omonimo film del 1915 firmato da Edwin S. Porter per Famous Players: le due pellicole si ispiravano alla famosa commedia poliziesca Jim the Penman che nel 1886 sir Charles Young aveva dedicato al falsario vittoriano James Townsend Saward (specializzato nella falsificazione di firme negli 231 Per il tenore John Braham, legato alla successiva citazione di Nelson, si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 37. 232 Cfr. RFW, 328, 11-13: “taking at the same time, as his hunger got the bitter of him, a hearty bite out of the honeycomb of his Braham and Melo’s edible hat, tryone, tryon and triune”. 233 Si veda A. T. Broes, More People at the Wake, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., III, 6, December 1966, p. 126. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 215 assegni).234 La sorella di Lionel e John, Ethel Barrymore, compare forse235 nella descrizione di una mise femminile: “wearing a very ‘dressy’ affair, known as an ‘ethel’ of instep length and with a real fur” (FW, 166, 6-7);236 e nel ricordo finale di “the Ondt and the Gracehoper” (FW, 414, 20-21),237 la favola di Jean de La Fontaine narrata nel capitolo 13 e qui associata con lessico danese alla coppia nobili-contadini: “Owned or grazeheifer, ethel or bonding” (FW, 613, 36 – 614, 1).238 Più marcata è tuttavia la presenza di attori comici (abbiamo già incontrato Charlie Chase e Harold Lloyd), giustificata dal tono fondamentalmente farsesco di Finnegans Wake.239 Stan Laurel e Oliver 234 Il titolo anticipa ovviamente il personaggio “Shem the Penman” (FW, 125, 23), controfigura di Jim Joyce in Finnegans Wake. Cfr. RFW, 99, 23-24: “Shem […] the Penman”. Si veda, invece, J. S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake. A Study of Literary Allusions in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”, New York, The Viking Press, 1959, p. 152, pp. 245-246 e p. 290. 235 Per l’ipotesi alternativa di un’allusione a Ethel Moorhead, editrice della rivista “This Quarter” che pubblicò nel 1925-1926 frammenti di Work in Progress, si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 200. Cfr. anche FW, 31, 17-18 con rinvio al termine che indica l’erede di una nobile famiglia e un’allusione ai primi coloni inglesi in Irlanda nelle contee di Leix e Offaly a metà Cinquecento (“Michael, etheling lord of Leix and Offaly”), 78, 4 con rinvio al fiume dell’oblìo (“lethelulled between explosion and reexplosion”), 88, 22 con rinvio al nome di un re Sassone (“Ethelwulf”), 186, 29-30 con rinvio all’ebraico beth El che designa un luogo di devozione (“under a hideful between the rival doors of warm bethels of worship”). Cfr. RFW, 62, 18-19: “lethelulled […] between explosion and reexplosion”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 31, p. 88 e p. 186. 236 Cfr. RFW, 132, 9-11: “wearing a very ‘dressy’ affair, known as an ‘ethel’, of instep length and with a real fur”. 237 Cfr. RFW, 322, 4: “The Ondt and the Gracehoper”. 238 Per il rinvio a “ædel” e “bonde” si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 614. 239 Nella raccolta di quattro saggi dedicati al romanzo che avrebbe dovuto seguire Our Exagmination Roud his Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress, uno doveva essere dedicato a “the humour” (cfr. J. Joyce, Letters, cit., vol. I, p. 281 (lettera a Harriet Shaw Weaver del 28 maggio 1929). Si veda anche W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 19-20 e Ph. Kitcher, Collideorscape: “Finnegans Wake” in the Large and in the Small, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, n. s., 3, 2009, p. 194 e p. 208. Per una dichiarazione analoga dell’autore a proposito di Ulysses si veda A. Power, Conversations with James Joyce, cit., p. 89: “Ulysses is Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 216 Hardy compaiono almeno una volta, fra le sfumature di verde a cui si riducono tutti i colori in una variante irlandese della teoria berkeleyana della visione (“laurel leaves” e olive lentil”) (FW, 612, 5 e 10); e probabilmente l’espressione che indica l’ubriaco fradicio dopo una serie di liquori tracannati in diversi pub (“blotto after divers tots of hell fire, red biddy, bull dog, blue ruin and creeping jenny, Eglandine’s choicest herbage”) (FW, 39, 33-35)240 fa riferimento al famoso cortometraggio Blotto, girato dalla coppia nel 1930 per Hal Roach e dedicato appunto al consumo di alcolici in tempo di proibizionismo. “With your dumpsey diddely dumpsey die, fiddeley fa. Diavoloh!” (FW, 466, 26-27) si riferisce invece direttamente a Fra Diavolo di Daniel Auber (1830), non al film omonimo di Laurel e Hardy tratto da quell’operetta nel 1933.241 E in modo analogo le varie allusioni all’opera composta dall’irlandese Michael W. Balfe nel 1843 The Bohemian Girl, “The Bo’ Girl”, “Bohemeand lips”, “the lily of Bohemey”) (FW, 32, 35 e 170, 10 e 246, 18) non sembrano rimandare all’omonimo film che i due comici girano nel 1935.242 Più consistenti sono le tracce dei Marx Brothers. Quando nel museo Wellington del capitolo 1 si allude all’operazione escrementizia dei “three lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living detch” (FW, 8, 21-22), pensiamo infatti al drammatico passaggio della Beresina e al maresciallo Emmanuel fundamentally a humourous work, and when all this present critical confusion about it has died down, people will see it for what it is”. 240 “creeping jenny” è ovviamente un termine botanico ma rinvia anche alla cavalla della canzone popolare Creeping Jane. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 89. 241 Il film è noto anche come The Devil’s Brother, con la regia di Hal Roach (anche produttore) e Charles Rogers. 242 Il film ha la regia di James W. Horne e Charles Rogers per Hal Roach. Per le allusioni alla canzone Then you’ll remember me, nell’opera di Balfe, si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., passim. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 217 de Grouchy;243 ma pensiamo anche ai tre soldati che spiano Earwicker nel parco e ai tre fratelli Marx, in particolare al loro leader Groucho (che ricompare anche in “Grouscious me and scarab my sahul!”) (FW, 415, 25).244 E quando Joyce scrive “marx my word [...] and remarxing in languidoily” (FW, 83, 10 e 15)245 o “with his Marx and their groups” (FW, 365, 20), non rinvia semplicemente all’autore di Das Kapital ma anche al trio di performers; tanto più che “languidoily” allude sì alla langue d’oïl in armonia con una precedente parentesi di parodia linguistica, ma anche ad altra identità nel mondo dello spettacolo: la già citata compagnia di Richard D’Oyly Carte che metteva in scena le operette di Gilbert e Sullivan. E indiscutibile, oltre che provocatoria in una pagina dedicata al timore di rompere il preservativo durante il coito, è l’apparizione di Gracie Fields,246 famosa attrice e cantante del teatro di varietà inglese durante gli anni Venti e Trenta, protagonista di parecchi film di successo girati in Inghilterra fra il 1931 e il 1937: “Goeasyosey, for the grace of the fields, or hooley pooley, cuppy, we’ll both be bye and by caught in the slips for fear he’d tyre and burst his dunlops and waker her bornybarnies making his boobybabies” (FW, 584, 11-14).247 243 Ma anche alla responsabilità di Grouchy nella disfatta di Waterloo. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 111. 244 Con riferimento al gallo cedrone e al sacro scarabeo egiziano (si veda M. L. Troy, Mummeries of Resurrection. The Cycle of Osiris in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 81-82), ma anche al termine sahu che nell’antica teologia egiziana indica il corpo sottile o veicolo dell’anima (si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 415). 245 Cfr. RFW, 66, 21 e 26-27: “marx my word [...] remarxing in languidoily”. 246 I film della Fields erano girati negli studi Ealing, costruiti nel 1929 dalla Associated Talking Pictures del regista teatrale Basil Dean e diretti dallo stesso Dean, da Maurice Elvey, Graham Cutts e Montague Banks (quest’ultimo, attore e regista italo- americano noto come Monty Banks, avrebbe sposato la Fields nel 1940). 247 Cfr. RFW, 455, 2-5: “Goeasyosey, for the grace of the fields, or, hooley pooley, cuppy, we’ll both be bye and by caught in the slips for fear he’d tyre and burst his dunlops and waken her bornybarnies making his boobybabies”. Il passo di FW, 583, 26 – 584, 22 descrive il coito di HCE e ALP come una partita di cricket, con una fitta Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 218 Ci sono infine molti casi incerti, che trasformano la catalogazione (come dicevamo) in un esercizio aperto e in ampia misura ipotetico. Nelle parole “our kingable khan” (FW, 32, 2), per esempio, non si può escludere (ma neanche accertare) un’allusione a Clark Gable, notoriamente soprannominato “The King”. E quando una signora mormora qualcosa, come il suggeritore a teatro, “half in stage of whisper to her confidante glass, while recoopering her cartweel chapot” (FW, 59, 4-6), il rinvio evoca contemporaneamente lo scrittore James Fenimore Cooper (come in FW, 439, 12: “Cooper Funnymore”)248 e l’attore Gary Cooper, a meno che non si voglia pensare a Jackie Cooper. Allo stesso modo è difficile segnalare la presenza dei famosi protagonisti dei musicals RKO degli anni Trenta, Fred Astaire e Ginger Rogers, se si esclude un’occorrenza (“three bedrooms upastairs, of which one with fireplace”) (FW, 362, 33-34) che sembra evocare piuttosto la coppia Fred e Adèle Astaire, già famosa in teatro prima del successo cinematografico del fratello. La parola ginger (e derivati) è una delle più frequenti nel romanzo ma non rinvia direttamente all’attrice,249 al pari del termine roger impiegato quasi sempre trama di termini tecnici e nomi di giocatori famosi fra Otto e Novecento come William Gilbert Grace, Edward Pooley e Charles E. Dunlop. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 80, p. 109 e p. 237. Per una lista completa si veda R. Malings, Cricketers at the Wake, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 4, Summer 1970, pp. 333-349. 248 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.5 – VI.B.8, cit., p. 16 (VI.B.5 – 29): “Mr funnymore Cooper my godfather”, riferito alla sigla di Shaun. 249 Per altre occorrenze (e altre interpretazioni) si veda G. Lernout, Dutch in “Finnegans Wake”, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 23, Fall 1985, p. 46; C. Brown Knuth, Brockendootsch and the Case of Ginger, in “A Finnegans Wake Circular”, 2, 3, Spring 1987, pp. 49-55; G. Leernout, ‘God Bless your Ginger’, ivi, 3, 1, Autumn 1987, pp. 1-6. Cfr. anche J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.21 – VI.B.24, cit., p. 382 (VI.B.24 – 97): “ginger for pluck”. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 219 nell’accezione slang di membro sessuale maschile.250 In un caso, semmai, “jolly roger” ovvero la tradizionale bandiera dei pirati sembra evocare Will Rogers, altro famoso attore di cinema qui incrociato con un personaggio swiftiano,251 col nome di Lawrence Sterne e con la canzone di Percy French252 Are Ye Right There Michael, Are Ye Right? (il passo riguarda precisamente gli incroci linguistici al limite del lapsus): “Will whatever will be written in lappish language with inbursts of Maggyer always seem semposed, black looking white and white guarding black, in that siamixed twoatalk used twixt stern swift and jolly roger? Will it bright upon us, nightle, and we plunging to our plight?” (FW, 66, 18-22).253 E tuttavia la catena dei rinvii onomastici prosegue in altra direzione, anzi in più direzioni contemporaneamente, quando Joyce nel capitolo 3 si sofferma sul tema di Earwicker con le due ragazze a Phoenix Park, l’antico topos del vecchio innamorato con i capelli bianchi: “There are 29 sweet reasons why blossomtime’s the best. Elders fall for green almonds when they’re raised on bruised stone root ginger though it winters on their heads as if auctumned round their waistbands” (FW, 64, 36 – 65, 2).254 250 Per i riferimenti, invece, al gioco infantile “Old Roger” si veda M. P. Worthington, “Old Roger”: Death and Rebirth, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., IV, 6, December 1967, pp. 121-122. 251 Per Jonathan Swift e il suo segretario Roger Cox si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 246. 252 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93. 253 Sottolineature nostre. Cfr. RFW, 53, 16-19: “Will whatever will be written in lappish language with inbursts of maggyer always seem semposed, black looking white and white guarding black, in that siamixed twoatalk used twixt stern swift and jolly roger? Will it bright upon us, nightle, and we plunging to our plight?”. 254 Cfr. RFW, 52, 9-12: “There are twentynine sweet reasons why Blossomtime’s the best. Elders fall for green almonds when they’re raised on bruised stone root ginger though it winters on their heads as if auctumned round their waistbands”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 220 Anche in questo caso il rinvio a Ginger (Rogers) è aleatorio, poiché troppo tarda è la data di un suo film che offre peraltro un parallelo rispetto all’episodio di Earwicker: pensiamo a Fifth Avenue Girl di Gregory La Cava (RKO, 1939), storia di un vecchio milionario deluso dalla famiglia che in primavera (“blossomtime”) va nel parco a guardare i primi germogli come gli consiglia il maggiordomo (“You mean you can actually see the buds bud?”), incontra una giovane disoccupata e l’assume per recitare la parte della sua innamorata di fronte agli scandalizzati familiari. Ma il gioco delle allusioni può ripartire poiché, come nota Tindall, “the movies (including Blossom Time and Way Down East) provide parallel”.255 Questi due film infatti, con opposta simmetria e nel registro melodrammantico, narrano la storia di una donna che passa da un uomo all’altro, come Earwicker (nel registro comico) si divide fra le due ragazze nel parco. Blossom Time,256 girato nel 1934 da Paul L. Stein per la British International Pictures, mette in scena Franz Schubert che rinuncia alla donna amata per cederla a un giovane ufficiale; Way Down East, firmato da David Wark Griffith nel 1920 per United Artists, racconta di Anna Moore abbandonata dall’amante e dopo mille peripezie sposata dal giovane David Bartlett. L’allusione joyciana è arricchita dal rinvio a due popolari canzoni: “He vows her to be his own honeylamb, swears they will be papa pals, by Sam, and share good times way down west in a guaranteed happy lovenest when May moon she shines and they twit twinkle all the night, combing the comet’s tail up right and shooting popguns at the stars” (FW, 65, 7-11).257 255 Cfr. W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 76. 256 Non va però dimenticato il musical di Sigmund Romberg Blossom Time, prodotto a Broadway nel 1921 adattando musiche schubertiane, e neppure la canzone popolare Blossom Time trascritta da Mary Mapes Dodge e pubblicata nella raccolta del 1871 Songs of Home. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93. 257 “when May moon she shines” rinvia alla canzone popolare The Moon Shines Brightly e insieme a The Young May Moon di Thomas Moore (dalle Irish Melodies). “Way down west in a guaranteed happy lovenest” rimanda invece alla canzone scritta Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 221 Queste considerazioni, lo si vede, trasformano ormai il catalogo degli attori in un catalogo di film ed è forse in questo campo che Finnegans Wake offre qualche sorpresa per gli appassionati di cinema. 6. I film Anche in questo campo il grado di certezza nell’identificazione dei materiali citati da Joyce è molto variabile, come dimostrano i titoli dei film suggeriti nei paragrafi precedenti. Una difficoltà aggiuntiva è poi la natura ibrida del cinema, che non parte quasi mai da una sceneggiatura originale ma adatta storie già raccontate dalla letteratura o messe in scena a teatro, quello serio degli scrittori e quello leggero o musicale di Broadway.258 La citazione può dunque riferirsi alle fonti primarie e non al film corrispondente, conosciuto per via diretta o indiretta: come il rinvio a The Prince and the Pauper di Mark Twain (“his prince of the apauper’s pride” (FW, 422, 15) che certo non è collegato all’omonimo film Warner di William Keighley del 1937 con Errol Flynn; o i riferimenti alla guerra di Crimea, fondamentali per l’episodio di Buckley e del generale russo, che alludono ovviamente al classico poemetto di Alfred Tennyson (“the charge of a light barricade”) (FW, 349, 10) e non al film Warner di Michael Curtiz The Charge of the Light Brigade (1938) con lo stesso Erroll Flynn e Olivia de Havilland. Non si può mai escludere, tuttavia, il processo inverso e un nel 1919 da J. Keirn Brennan e Ernest R. Ball Let the Rest of the World Go By (“We’ll build a sweet little nest, somewhere out in the West”). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93.. 258 Fra la vasta letteratura critica sugli adattamenti hollywoodiani si può vedere E. Kyle Dawson, Corporate Fictions: Film Adaptation and Authorship in the Classical Hollywood Era, Ann Arbor (Michigan), ProQuest Information and Learning Company, 2008 e (sul tema più specifico degli adattamenti teatrali) D. Fried, Hollywood Convention and Film Adaptation, in “Theatre Journal”, 39, October 1987, pp. 294-306. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 222 ricordo di Pierre Souvestre (“souwester […] souwest”) (FW, 85, 34 e 447, 21) non impedisce l’ipotesi che Joyce conoscesse Fantomas, lanciato da Souvestre e Marcel Allain nel 1911, anche attraverso la mediazione cinematografica di Louis Feuillade per Gaumont (1913-1914). In molti casi, anzi, il cinema offre una via preferenziale. Nell’ambito del periodo muto per esempio, “birth of an otion” (FW, 309, 12)259 rinvia senza dubbio a The Birth of a Nation di David Wark Griffith (Epoch Producing Corporation, 1915) e parecchie altre sono le allusioni griffithiane nel romanzo260 ma anche nei taccuini.261 “Sylvia Silence, the girl detective” (FW, 61, 1) allude a Valerie Drew, protagonista di un serial d’avventure pubblicato in una rivista inglese per ragazze degli anni Venti e 259 Altre occorrenze, in apparenza analoghe, rinviano invece all’ambito politico: FW, 365, 27 (“No mum has the rod to pud a stub to the lurch of amotion”) allude alla famosa frase di un discorso tenuto da Charles Stewart Parnell nel 1885 (“No man has the right to fix the boundary of the march of a nation”) e nello stesso tempo dichiara che la donna è priva di pene; mentre FW, 426, 20-21 (“the ghost of an ocean’s”) cita The Guest of the Nation, il racconto che dà titolo alla raccolta di Frank O’Connor pubblicata nel 1931. Cfr. RFW, 331, 11: “the ghost of an ocean”. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 365 e p. 426. 260 Il titolo del cortometraggio A Corner in Wheat, girato dallo stesso Griffith per la Biograph nel 1909, è forse nascosto in “the fields of heat and yields of wheat where corngold Ysit?” (FW, 75, 10-11), con ulteriore riferimento a Erich Wolfgang Korngold: il grande compositore di musica per film, attivo alla Warner fra il 1935 e il 1947 (colonne sonore per titoli di Michael Curtiz, Frank Borzage, William Keighley, William Dieterle e altri). Si veda J. Blish, Formal Music at the Wake – Part I, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., VII, 2, April 1970, p. 22. 261 L’appunto “Cinema take your hat away / Volta” si riferisce ai cappelli femminili di grandi dimensioni che ostacolavano la visione dello spettacolo nelle sale del primissimo Novecento (come quelle del Volta a Dublino). Ma è ben probabile che Joyce pensi anche al cortometraggio Those Awful Hats, girato da Griffith per la Biograph nel 1909 e dedicato a ridicolizzare questo fenomeno. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.9 – VI.B.12, cit., p. 270 (VI.B.12 – 89). Il tema del cappello è peraltro un Leitmotiv del romanzo: cfr. FW, 322, 1-8 (“Take off thatch white hat […] Tick off that whilehot […] Tape oaf that saw foull”), 607, 3 (“Teak off that wise head!”), 623,9 (“Remember to take off your white hat”). Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, London, Thames and Hudson, 1969, p. 207, che rimanda a una canzone del music-hall intitolata Take off that white hat. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 223 Trenta262 ma anche a un serial cinematografico girato nel 1915 da James W. Horne per la Kalem Company, The Girl Detective appunto. E l’illustre figura di Ernst Lubitsch è certo presente con il film storico Madame Dubarry (Union-UFA, 1919) che ammicca dietro la famosa marca americana di cosmetici DuBarry,263 quando Isabel si immagina star del cinema264 e cura dunque il suo maquillage ricoprendosi il volto (o il sedere) di Pond’s Vanishing Cream265 (“being turned a star I’ll dubeurry my two fesces under Pouts Vanisha Creme”) (FW, 461, 1-3); ma anche con la commedia egiziana Die Augen der Mumie Ma (Union-UFA, 1918),266 che fa capolino da una delle parodie joyciane della frase di Edgar Quinet sul tempo che travolge gli imperi: “those danceadeils and cancanzanies have come stimmering down for our begayment through the bedeafdom of po’s taeorns, the obcecity of pa’s teapucs, as lithe and limbfree limber as when momie mummed at ma” (FW, 236, 28-32).267 262 Si tratta di “The Schoolgirls’ Weekly”. Joyce possedeva un esemplare (27 luglio 1929) dell’analoga rivista “The Schoolgirls’ Own”, pubblicazione strettamente legata alla precedente. Si veda Th. E. Connolly, The Personal Library of James Joyce. A Descriptive Bibliography, cit., p. 87. 263 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 461. 264 Analogamente, in una versione poi abbandonata del mito di Tristano e Isotta, quando gli amanti appaiono come attori sulla ribalta: “ […] the lamplights of lovers in the Beyond. Up they gazed, skyward to stardom […] ” (cfr. J. Joyce, A First-Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 210). Per l’incrocio di questa pagina con la Salomè di Jules Laforgue, attraverso la probabile mediazione di Ezra Pound, si veda D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., pp. 79-92 e pp. 96-105. 265 Questa crema cosmetica americana era di moda negli anni Dieci e Venti. Cfr. J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., p. 11: “‘Pond’s’ because Issy is at times Narcissus, vanishing in the pond”. 266 Meno probabile ci sembra l’ipotesi di un’allusione al titolo di Song of Momus to Mars, musicata da William Boyce sul testo del Secular Masque di John Dryden: si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 115 e p. 202. 267 Citiamo una versione manoscritta precedente: “those danceadeils and cancanzanies have come stummering down for our begayment through the bedeafdom of po’s greats, the obcecity of pa’s teapuc’s, as lithe and limb free limber as when momie played at ma” (cfr C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 190). L’ambientazione del film ha probabilmente dato lo spunto per i nomi degli Dei pseudo-egiziani nella pagina successiva (si veda FW, 237, 26-31). La frase di Quinet Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 224 È anche probabile che Joyce pensi al melodramma di Frank Borzage Humoresque (Cosmopolitan, 1920), tratto da una novella di Fannie Hurst con la sua storia di un giovane violinista nel quartiere ebraico di New York che parte per la guerra, quando nel capitolo 3 racconta la scomparsa di Hosty, musicista alter ego di Earwicker e autore della ballata a lui dedicata (con allusioni a Niccolò Paganini, a Val Vousden268 e ovviamente alla famosa aria di Antonin Dvorak): “disappeared […] from the sourface of this earth […] so entirely spoorlessly […] as to tickle the speculative to all but opine (since the Levey who might have been Langley may have really been a redivivus of paganinism or a volunteer Vousden) that the hobo (who possessed a large amount of the humoresque) had transtuled his funster’s latitat to its finsterest interrimost” (FW, 50, 8-17). Ed è altrettanto verosimile che Joyce si riferisca al film di Eisenstein Bronenosets Potemkine (Goskino, 1925), non all’uomo politico russo Grigori Aleksandrovitch Potemkin, quando evoca il nome a proposito di Buckley e del generale russo (“The bookley with the rusin’s hat is Patomkin”) (FW, 290, n. 7, 1)269 o altrove (“It is ne not him what foots like proviene dalla Introduction à la philosophie de l'histoire de l'humanité (1825), ma Joyce la legge nel manuale di Léon Metchnikoff La civilisation et les grands fleuves historiques (Paris, Hachette, 1889), trascrivendola una volta letteralmente e ripetutamente parodiandola in altri luoghi del romanzo. Si veda J. S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake. A Study of Literary Allusions in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 34-35; C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 182-200 e I. Landuyt – G. Lernout, Joyce’s Sources: “Les grands fleuves historiques”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, 6, 1995, pp. 99-138. 268 L’allusione è all’attore irlandese dell’Ottocento Valentine Vousden, ma più probabilmente al nome d’arte (Val Vousden) di William Francis Maher MacNevin, altro attore di teatro irlandese coetaneo di Joyce, attivo al principio del secolo. Van Vousden ebbe una parte anche nel film Irish Destiny, il primo film dedicato alla guerra civile irlandese, prodotto da Isaac Eppel a Dublino nel 1926 per la regia di George Dewhurst. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 299. 269 Cfr. RFW, 224, n. 7, 1: “The bookley with the rushin’s hat is Patomkin”. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 225 a glove, shoehandschiner Pad Podomkin”) (FW, 333, 3-4). Così come il generico riferimento burlesco, anglo-italiano, all’Arca di Noè (“Ark!? Noh?!”) (FW, 244, 26)270 è connotato cinematograficamente in una lettera di Isabel a Shaun, dove l’allusione biblica all’imbarcazione (e a Genesi, 1, 2) si accompagna al suggerimento di un film preciso (molto probabilmente il colossal Warner Noah’s Ark, girato da Michael Curtiz nel 1928): “I know you know who sends it, presents that please, mercy, on the face of the waters like that film obote” (FW, 458, 15-16).271 Infine, quando una pagina del romanzo evoca la guerra civile americana insieme a molte altre guerre, citando la popolare canzone scritta nel 1864 da George F. Root per i prigionieri dell’Unione Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are Marching272 (“began to ramp, ramp, ramp, the boys are parching”) (FW, 78, 22-22),273 non si può escludere un’allusione al primo lungometraggio prodotto e interpretato da Harry Langdon (diretto da Harry Edwards con la collaborazione di Frank Capra) Tramp, Tramp, Tramp del 1925.274 Nel repertorio sonoro, oltre ai titoli già ricordati, Finnegans Wake evoca sicuramente il film prodotto e diretto da Cecil B. De Mille per MGM 270 Il tema dell’Arca è legato a quello dell’arcobaleno e insieme a quello fondamentale del rapporto fra il vecchio padre Earwicker e la giovane figlia Isabel. Si veda D. Hayman, The “Wake” in Transit, cit., pp. 109-110. 271 L’allusione è anche all’incipit di As a Beam O’ver the Face of the Waters May Glow, una delle Irish Melodies di Thomas Moore. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 151 e p. 211. Per altre occorrenze si veda FW, 382, 9 (“out of a Noah’s ark”) e 388, 18-19 (“the Frankish floot of Noahsdobahs”). Cfr. RFW, 301, 17: “the Frankish floot of Noahsdovahs”. 272 Si veda B. Benstock, Americana in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 66-68. 273 Altre citazioni sono in FW, 246, 22-23 (“And vamp, vamp, vamp, the girls are merchand”) 343, 4-6 (“camp camp camp to Saint Sepulchre’s march […] with the boys all marshalled”) e 534, 6 (“It’s the damp damp damp”). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 117, p. 133 e p. 161. 274 Aggiungiamo una nota dei taccuini (“Tiger Lily”) riferita al personaggio di Peter Pan di James Matthew Barrie, ma probabilmente ispirata dalla visione della fortunata versione cinematografica di Herbert Brenon (Paramount, 1924), con Anna May Wong nel ruolo di Tiger Lily. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.5 – VI.B.8, cit., p. 56 (VI.B.5 – 108). Il taccuino è datato 1924. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 226 Madame Satan (1930), con riferimento a Earwicker che spia le due ragazze mentre urinano nel parco ed è a sua volta spiato da tre peeping Toms,275 trasformandosi il suo peccato in un affare di famiglia (e un bel palindromo)276 fra Mammy and Daddy: “This liggy piggy wanted to go to the jampot. And this leggy peggy spelt pea. And theese lucky puckers played at pooping tooletom. Ma’s da. Da’s ma. Madas Sadam” (FW, 496, 18-21).277 Allo stesso modo il titolo The Man in Possession (“Letting on she didn’t care, sina feza, me absantee, him man in passession, the proxenete!”) (FW, 198, 16-17) rimanda sì all’originaria commedia di Henry Marsh Harwood (insieme al famoso romanzo The Absentee di Maria Edgeworth, 1812), ma anche all’omonimo film MGM uscito nel 1931 con Robert Montgomery e regia di Sam Wood, tanto più che Joyce provvede a citare (con qualche allusione alla trama) anche il più noto remake MGM girato nel 1937 da Woody Strong Van Dyke II col titolo Personal Property per l’interpretazione di Jean Harlow e Robert Taylor: “I am ever incalpable, where release of prisonal properly is concerned, of unlifting upfallen girls wherein dangered from them in thereopen out of unadulteratous bowery, with those hintering influences from angelsexonism” (FW, 363, 32-35). Se in uno dei taccuini troviamo l’appunto “S carface”,278 con possibile rinvio al famoso film Scarface, Shame of a Nation diretto nel 275 Per una versione relativamente trasparente, sia pure in chiave difensiva, del peccato di Earwicker si veda Id., A First-Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 63. 276 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 263. 277 Cfr. RFW, 385, 24-26: “This liggy piggy wanted to go to the jampot. And this leggy peggy spelt pea. And threese lucky puckers played at pooping tooletom. Ma’s da. Da’s ma. Madas Sadam”. Joyce cita contemporaneamente This little piggy went to market, una nursery rhime settecentesca. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 156. 278 Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.21 – VI.B.24, cit., p. 257 (VI.B.23 – 9). Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 227 1932 da Howard Hawks per Howard Hughes; in Finnegans Wake sono ugualmente chiare le allusioni a Mädchen in Uniform (“Maidykins in Undiform”) (FW, 222, 13), il film del 1931 per Deutsche-Film Gemeinschaft che Leontine Sagan e Carl Froelich hanno tratto dalla contemporanea pièce di Christa Winsloe Gestern und Heute;279 e a Horse Feathers, il film girato da Norman Zenos McLeod per Paramount nel 1932 con i già ricordati Marx Brothers (“Kangaroose feathers”) (FW, 299, 11).280 Se poi l’espressione joyciana “The wonderlost for world hips” (FW, 363, 22) sembra accennare non solo al dramma storico scritto da John Dryden nel 1677 The World Well Lost (più noto come All for Love)281 ma anche al romanzo di Arthur Conan Doyle The Lost World (1912),282 è ben probabile che l’allusione si estenda al famoso film che per la prima volta adattò il romanzo nel 1925, con la regia di Harry O. Hoyt e gli effetti speciali di Willis O’Brien.283 Del resto quell’impresa anticipava, nel cinema muto, il più famoso King Kong di Ernest Schoedsack e Merian Cooper (RKO, 1933) che Joyce non dimentica di evocare all’inizio del capitolo 2, quando descrive Earwicker come sovrano mitico al pari dei re d’Israele e d’Irlanda: 279 Si veda G. Shiff, Maydikins in Undiform, in “A Wake Newslitter”, 12, April 1963, p. 6 (che segnala la contaminazione col romanzo Undine di Friedrich de La Motte-Fouqué, 1811). 280 Notiamo tuttavia che l’espressione horse feathers in american slang significa, già negli anni Venti, sciocchezze, stupidaggini. 281 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 363. 282 Atherton elenca, fra le sue opere presenti nel romanzo joyciano, The Sherlock Holmes Stories, The History of Spiritualism, The History of the Boer War, The Land of Mist (quest’ultimo è il terzo romanzo del ciclo del professor Challenger, inaugurato appunto da The Lost World). Si veda J. S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake. A Study of Literary Allusions in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 247. 283 Gli attori erano Bessie Love e Wallace Beery, per una produzione First National. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 228 “And shall Nohomiah be our place like? Yea, Mulachy our kingable kahn? We shall perhaps not so soon see. Pinck poncks that bail for seeks alicence where cumscepters with scentaurs stay” (FW, 32, 1-4).284 Fedeli sono anche i rimandi ai titoli di due film RKO del 1935, Annie Oakley di George Stevens (“Anny Oakley) (FW, 52, 1) e The Informer285 di John Ford (“Informer”) (FW, 71, 10), quest’ultimo inserito nella lista di insulti lanciati dal Cad a Earwicker nel capitolo 3; mentre la commedia del 1936 My man Godfrey, diretta per Universal dal già ricordato Gregory La Cava, subisce il solito processo di deformazione comica (“Mind mand gunfree”) (FW, 387, 35).286 Joyce mette addirittura in bocca a Shaun che critica Shem come illeggibile scrittore (“he, the pixillated doodler, is on his last with illegible clergimanths boasting always of his ruddy complexious!”) (FW, 421, 33-34)287 due termini minuziosamente analizzati nel dialogo del già citato film Columbia di Frank Capra288 Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, con Gary Cooper e Jean Arthur. Nella sequenza finale del processo, infatti, l’avvocato interroga due vicine di casa del protagonista Longfellow Deeds, per dimostrare che non è compos sui: “– Will you tell the court what everybody at home thinks of Longfellow Deeds? – They think is pixilated. 284 Si veda anche FW, 610, 5: “Fing Fing! King King!” 285 Il cognome del protagonista fordiano, del resto, è Nolan come l’appellativo di Giordano Bruno e come il nome della libreria dublinese Brown and Nolan, veri e propri Leitmotiven del romanzo. 286 Non è forse casuale che un altro film di La Cava per la RKO, la commedia Laugh and Get Rich del 1937 (storia di una famiglia alle prese con le difficoltà economiche della Depressione), sia citato in J. Joyce, Scribbledehobble. The Ur- Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 178: “laugh & get rich”. 287 Cfr. RFW, 327, 27-29: “he, the pixillated doodler, is on his last with illegible clergimanitis, boasting always of his ruddy complexious!”. 288 La citazione di due versi della famosa canzone The Man on the Flying Trapeze in FW, 228, 29-30 (“with the greatest of ease […] dear home”), invece, non rinvia necessariamente alla famosa sequenza dell’autobus in It Happened One Night (Columbia, 1934) dove Capra mette in scena lo stesso motivo. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 243. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 229 – Oh yes. Pixilated. – He’s what? – What was that you said it was? – Pixilated. – That’s rather a strange word to us, miss Jane. Can you tell the court exactly what it means? – Perhaps I can explain, your honour. The word ‘pixilated’ is an early-american expression derived from the word ‘pixies’ meaning ‘elves’. They would say ‘the pixies had got him’ as nowadays say a man is ‘barmy’.” Poi è Deeds che contro-interroga le due testimoni: “– Jane, a little while ago you said I was pixilated. Do you still think so? – Why, you’ve always been pixilated, Longfellow. – Always. – That’s fine. I guess maybe I am. And now, tell me something, Jane, who else in Mandrake Falls is pixilated? – Why, everybody in Mandrake Falls is pixilated, except us.” E poco prima, dimostrando che suonare la tuba (come lui fa abitualmente) non è segno di follia ma una forma di riflessione (“everybody does something silly when they’re thinking”), Deeds aggiungeva: “– For instance, the judge here is an O filler. – A what? – An O filler. You fill in all the spaces in the O’s with your pencil. I was watching you. […] Other people are doodlers. – Doodlers? – Yes. That’s a name we made back home for people who make foolish designs on paper when they’re thinking. It’s called doodling. Almost everybody’s a doodler.” In altri casi, però, le cose non sono così semplici e l’identificazione è costretta ad oscillare fra teatro, letteratura e cinema. Joyce, per esempio, cita più volte il titolo Peg O’ My Heart: “Peck-at-my-Heart” (FW, 143, 2), “peg-of-my-heart of all the tompull” (FW, 290, 3), “the peg in his pantry to hold the heavyache off his heart” (FW, 362, 20-21), “peg of his claim and Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 230 pride of her heart” (FW, 577, 16).289 Ma non è possibile stabilire se la citazione si riferisca alla canzone firmata nel 1913 da Alfred Bryan e Fred Fisher per il musical delle Zigfield Follies,290 alla commedia del 1912 di John Hartley Manners oppure ai due film tratti da quest’opera nel 1923 (di King Vidor per Metro, con Laurette Taylor)291 e nel 1933 (di Robert Ziegler Leonard per MGM, con Marion Davies). Analogamente i rinvii joyciani alla canzone del 1922 Yes, We Have no Bananas di Frank Silver e Irving Cohn, cantata da Eddie Cantor nella rivista di Broadway Make It Snappy (“Yass We’ve Had His Badannas”, “your halve a bannan in two”, “yea, he hath no mananas”) (FW, 71, 11-12 e 145, 35-36 e 170, 20),292 non comprendono necessariamente un’allusione al film Warner del 1930 che ripropone una splendida versione parodica in chiave operistica dello stesso motivo: Mammy di Michael Curtiz, con il famoso Al Jolson. Analoga è la diagnosi per due drammi di Sean O’Casey: Juno and the Paycock (“Junoh and the whalk”, “in paycook’s thronsaale she domineered”) (FW, 245, 12 e 551, 4-5)293 allude al testo teatrale del 1924 o al già citato film di Alfred Hitchcock del 1930? The Plough and the Stars è innanzitutto la bandiera dei ribelli nazionalisti irlandesi294 (“his number in arithmosophy is the stars of the plough” ) (FW, 134, 14-15), ma l’allusione è anche al testo teatrale 289 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 228. 290 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 198. 291 Manners era il secondo marito della grande attrice di Broadway, che recitò anche in altri due film del 1924 tratti da testi del commediografo: Happiness dello stesso Vidor per Metro e One Night in Rome di Clarence Badger per MGM. Laurette Taylor è ovviamente presente nel capitolo 11 di Finnegans Wake, dove si narra la storia del sarto e del capitano norvegese (“Norweeger’s capstan” e “taiyor”) (FW, 312, 2-3). 292 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93, p. 104 e p. 106. 293 “Junoh and the whalk” rinvia anche al titolo della canzone Jonah and the Whale, scritta nel 1894 da Wingate Black e Henry W. Petrie. Si veda ivi, p. 117. 294 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 134. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 231 scritto da O’Casey nel 1926 o al film RKO di John Ford del 1936? Un discorso analogo dobbiamo fare su un titolo ripetutamente citato in Finnegans Wake,295 per la vicinanza del suo tema (Napoleone che divorzia da Josephine per sposare Maria Luigia) all’apoteosi virile di Earwicker, sposato ad Anna Livia ma pronto a corteggiare le due ninfe o ragazze nel parco, sovente associate alla Stella e alla Vanessa di Jonathan Swift: “Sophy-Key-Po for his royal divorsion on the rinnaway jinnies. Gambariste della porca! Dalaveras fimmieras! […] There were no peanats in her famalgia so no wumble she tumbled for his famas roall davors […] My little love apprencisses, my dears, the estelles, van Nessies von Nixies voon der pool, which I had a reyal devouts for yet was marly lowease or just a feel with these which olderman K.K Alwayswelly he is showing ot the fullnights” (FW, 9, 34-36 e 314, 35-36 – 315, 1 e 365, 27-31);296 e puntualmente ammirato dalle giovani commesse: “He possessing from a child of highest valency for our privileged beholdings ever complete hairy of chest, hamps and eyebags in pursuance to salesladies’ affectionate company. His real devotes” (FW, 616, 12-15).297 A Royal Divorce è infatti una pièce attribuita al pittore e scrittore irlandese dell’Ottocento William Gorman Wills, ben nota al pubblico dublinese negli anni intorno alla Grande Guerra, ma da quest’opera derivano anche due film omonimi girati in Inghilterra da Alexander Butler 295 Si veda J. S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake. A Study of Literary Allusions in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 161-162. 296 Cfr. RFW, 283, 1-4: “My little love apprencisses, the estelles, van Nessies von Nixies voon der pool, which I had a reyal devouts for (yet was marly lowease or just a feel with these which olderman K. K Alwayswelly he is showing to the fullnights”. L’allusione finale “which olderman K.K Alwayswelly he is showing ot the fullnights” si riferisce a W. W. Kelly direttore tetrale della Evergreen Touring Company di Liverpool che metteva in scena, appunto, A Royal Divorce. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 154. 297 Per altre occorrenze si veda J. S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake. A Study of Literary Allusions in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 289. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 232 (Napoleon Films, 1926) e da Jack Raymond (Herbert Wilcox, 1938). Non troppo diverso e simile tematicamente è il caso della famosa Beggar’s Opera di John Gay (1728), presente col suo titolo alternativo Threepenny Opera e col nome della protagonista Polly Peachum, incrociato con le “two peaches” (FW, 57, 4)298 ovvero le due ragazze nel parco: “We’ll have our private palypeachum pillarposterns for lovesick letterines […] What about your thruppenny croucher of an old fellow, me boy, through the ages, tell us, eh? […] Fat prize the bonafide peachumpidgeonlover, eh, eh, eh, esquire earwugs” (FW, 235, 21-22 e 485, 17-18 e 20-21).299 Ma l’allusione potrebbe anche essere al film diretto da Georg Wilhelm Pabst per First National e Nero-Film nel 1931 Die Dreigroschenoper o alla sua versione francese L’Opéra de Quat’Sous, tanto più che Finnegans Wake sembra evocare anche l’altro suo film del 1930 per Nero-Film Westfront 1918 quando narra agiograficamente la vita di san Kevin di Glendalough (“at matin chime arose and westfrom went 298 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 227. Per una dettagliata ricostruzione delle scabrose vicende matrimoniali e giudiziarie del magnate americano Edward West “Daddy” Browning e della giovanissima Frances “Peaches” Heenan, che ebbero largo spazio nella stampa sensazionalistica americana degli anni 1925-1927 e formano un essenziale modello per il peccato di Earwicker nel parco, si veda R. M. Polhemus, Dantellising Peaches and Miching Daddy, the Gushy Old Goof: The Browning Case and “Finnegans Wake”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, 5, 1994, pp. 75-103. Lo scandalo ha lasciato anche tracce nel cinema, come dimostra uno scambio di battute nel film First National di Mervyn LeRoy Show Girl in Hollywood (1930), con la giovane flapper Dixie Dugan (Alice White) che ringrazia il maturo regista Frank Buelow per le sue interessate promesse: “ – You’re a peach, Mr. Buelow! – You mustn’t call me Mr Buelow, call me Daddy, it’s better”. 299 Cfr. RFW, 376, 38-39 e 377, 1-2: “What about your thruppenny croucher of an old fellow, me boy through the ages, tell us, eh? […] Fat prize the bonafide peachumpidgeonlover, esquire earwugs”. “private palypeachum” rinvia anche alla canzone Pretty little Polly Perkins from Paddington Green: si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 115. “me boy, through the ages” si riferisce a The Boy through the Ages di Dorothy Margaret Stuart (1926): si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 485. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 233 and came in alb of cloth of gold to our own midmost Glendalough-le-vert”) (FW, 605, 9-11). Il catalogo è altrettanto incerto quando si tratta di narrativa: Wee Willie Winkie (“thanks to you great little, bonny little, portey little, Winny Widger! […] Dubs newstage oldtime turftussle, recalling Winny Willy Widger”) (FW, 39, 10-11 e 610, 35-36)300 è il racconto pubblicato da Rudyard Kipling nel 1895 o il film Fox di John Ford con Shirley Temple del 1937?301 La citazione di The Scarlet Pimpernel a proposito di un livido causato dalle effusioni amorose (“A scarlet pimparnell now mules the mound where anciently first murders were wanted to take root”) (FW, 564, 28-30)302 allude a Charles Stewart Parnell e agli assassinii di Phoenix Park,303 ma il titolo rinvia al romanzo pubblicato dalla baronessa Emmuska Orczy de Orczy nel 1905 (primo di una lunga serie) o al film girato da Harold Young nel 1934 per London Film? All’s Quiet on the Western Front (“All’s quiet on the felled of Gorey”, con allusione agli insanguinati fields of glory ovvero al champ d’honneur) (FW, 246, 3-4)304 è la famosa opera di Erich Maria Remarque (1928), autore che Joyce conosceva 300 Cfr. RFW, 31, 12-13: “thanks to you, great little, bonny little, portey little, Winny Widger!”. Non solo widge (dall’anglosassone wicg) è un cavallo, ma il jockey dilettante John W. Widger era il più noto rappresentante di una famiglia di Waterford legata all’ippica. Si veda N. Halper, Of the Stuttering Hand, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XII, 1, December, 1975, p. 1 e R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 39 e p. 610. 301 La più famosa star della Fox durante gli anni Trenta è forse presente in FW, 244, 6-7: “Timple Temple tells the bells”. 302 Si veda J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., p. 84. 303 L’accoltellamento a Phoenix Park di due alti funzionari del governo inglese in Irlanda, nel 1882, fu organizzato da un gruppo di nazionalisti. Il tema nel romanzo è strettamente legato alla vicende di Charles Stewart Parnell. Si veda E. A. Kopper Jr., Some Elements of the Phoenix Park Murders in “Finnegans Wake”, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., IV, 6, December 1967, pp. 115-119. 304 “All’s quiet on the champs de May” è la variante registrata in J. Joyce, A First-Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 137. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 234 personalmente,305 oppure l’ancor più famoso film Universal di Lewis Milestone uscito nel 1930? Il problema è identico nel caso di una serie cinematografica ispirata al personaggio che uno scrittore ha posto al centro di una serie di romanzi.306 Pensiamo alla battuta di FW, 486, 16 (“Do you see anything, templar?”), che allude certamente a Simon Templar e ai romanzi pubblicati da Leslie Charteris a partire dal 1928, ma forse anche al primo film della serie ispirata al famoso detective soprannominato The Saint: The Saint in New York, diretto nel 1938 da Ben Holmes per RKO. Analogamente, quando Joyce descrive le ragazze pronte ad incoraggiare la generosità del vecchio Earwicker per far acquisti in un grande magazzino e impressionare i coetanei (con accenno al tema erotico dei drawers), egli intreccia ai nomi di personaggi dublinesi come Charley Chance o Alfred H. Hunter307 quello di Charlie Chan ovvero il detective cinese di Honolulu capace di risolvere i casi più difficili, ma non è certo se pensa ai gialli pubblicati da Earl Derr Biggers fra il 1925 e il 1932 o alla fortunata serie di film Fox che al personaggio si ispirano fin dal 1926 (con Werner Oland e dal 1938 Sidney Toler come protagonisti): “She wants her wardrobe to hear from above by return with cash so as she can buy her Peter Robinson trosseau and cut a dash with Arty, Bert or possibly Charley Chance (who knows?) so tolloll Mr Hunker you’re too dada for me to dance (so off she goes!) and that’s how half the gels in town has got their bottom drars while grumpapar he’s trying to hitch his braces on to his trars” (FW, 65, 14-20).308 305 Si veda M. e P. Colum, Our Friend James Joyce, New York, Doubleday, 1958, p. 229. 306 Per una sintetica definizione di film series si veda The Great Movie Series, Editors J. R. Parish, F. Solomon, J. R. Cocchi, T. A. Taylor, R. Traubner, South Brunswick and New York – London, A. S. Barnes and Company – Thomas Yoseloff, 1971, pp. 13-15. 307 Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 54 e p. 133. 308 Cfr. RFW, 52, 22-27: “She wants her wardrobe to hear from above by return with cash so as she can buy her Peter Robinson trosseau and cut a dash with Arty, Bert or possibly Charley Chance (who knows?) so tolloll, Mr Hunker, you’re too dada for Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 235 La situazione non è diversa quando il titolo di un film riprende quello di una canzone alla moda, come avviene spesso per le commedie musicali. Se pensiamo infatti alla notevole importanza che hanno l’opera lirica e la musica popolare nelle opere joyciane, con una vera fascinazione dell’autore per i prodotti più effimeri a a buon mercato, comprendiamo bene che Finnegans Wake possa citare la famosa canzone scritta nel 1917 da Jerome David Kern Till the Clouds Roll By (“when the clouds roll by”) (FW, 7, 36)309 ma forse anche il film United Artists di Victor Fleming con Douglas Fairbanks When the Clouds Roll by (1919); o ricordare con sfumatura scatologica la canzone My Heaven on Earth di Sam Pokrass e Phil Baker con testo di Charles Tobias (“When he woke up in a sweat besidus it was to pardon him, goldylocks, me having an airth”) (FW, 615, 22-24),310 lanciata nel 1938 dal musical Columbia Start Cheering di Albert S. Rogell. Allo stesso modo il film di Clarence Badger No, no, Nanette, prodotto da MGM- First National nel 1930, sembra citato in FW, 117, 16 (“nozzy Nanette”) e anche in altra pagina piena di allusioni sessuali (“meekname mocktitles her Nan Nan Nanetta”) (FW, 567, 14-15), ma il titolo può rinviare alla canzone311 che dà titolo al musical di Broadway scritto da Otto Harbach e me to dance (so off she goes!) and that’s how half the gels in town has got their bottom drars while grumpapar he’s trying to hitch his braces on to his trars”. Si veda B. Benstock, Americana in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 76. “hitch his braces on to his trars” si riferisce alla famosa frase di Ralph Waldo Emerson nel suo saggio Civilization compreso nel volume del 1870 Society and Solitude: “Hitch your wagon to a star”. 309 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 86. Alle parole della canzone avevano collaborato Pelham Grenville Wodehouse e Guy Bolton. 310 “goldilocks” allude alla popolarissima favola The Story of Three Bears originariamente narrata da Robert Southey e versificata da George Nicol (1837), trasformata verso metà Ottocento in Goldilocks and the Three Bears dove il personaggio della vecchia brutta è sostituito da quello della bella fanciulla bionda. Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 615. 311 Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 101 e p. 164. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 236 Frank Mandel nel 1925. E altrettanto ambiguo è il ricordo preciso e più volte replicato della canzone Tea for Two con musica di Vincent Youman e parole di Irving Caesar (“Just tea for two / and two for tea / just me for you / and and you for me alone”), uno dei uno dei grandi successi di quel musical e di quel film, ben adatto al frequente impiego joyciano della cerimonia del tè312 come una metafora erotica: “two by two in his zoo-doo- you-doo, a tofftoff for thee, missymissy for me” (FW, 65, 30-31),313 “Three for two will do for me and he for thee and she for you” (FW, 584, 10-11), “shay for shee and sloo for slee” (FW, 603, 12-13), “He’s for thee what she’s for me” (FW, 620, 33).314 Anche una canzone tipicamente irlandese come Mother Machree315 (“magrathmagreeth”, “the magreedy prince of Roger. Thuthud”, “And smotthermoch Gramm’s laws!”, “window machree!”) (FW, 243, 3 e 373, 14-15 e 378, 27-28 e 456, 35),316 non può evitare la doppia decifrazione: ricordata come pezzo musicale a proposito 312 Si veda F. M. Boldereff, Reading “Finnegans Wake”, Woodward, New York, 1959, pp.182 ss. 313 Cfr. RFW, 52, 36-37: “two by two in his zoo-doo-you-doo, tofftoff for thee, missymissy for me”. 314 Analogamente in FW, 145, 5 (“Tay for thee?”), FW, 246, 34-35 (“Teaseforhim. Toesforhim. Tossforhim.Two”), FW, 260, 2-3 (“Tea tea too too”), FW, 332, 2-3 (“they made three (for fie!)”), FW, 457, 21 (“A tear or two in time is all there’s toot”). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 93, p. 104, p. 117, p. 119, p. 130, p. 151, p. 166, p. 168, p. 17. 315 Pubblicata nel 1910, parole di Rida Johnson Young, musica di Chauncey Olcott e Ernest R. Ball. Chauncey Olcott era un amico di John McCormack e Joyce lo ricorda in FW, 451, 2: “chancey oldcoat”. Si veda C. Brown – L. Knuth, The Tenor and the Vehicle: A Study of the John McCormack / James Joyce Connection, cit., pp. 16-18 e (per altre occorrenze in Finnegans Wake) p. 44 e p. 53. 316 Cfr. RFW, 288, 40: “the magreedy prince of Roger Thuthud”. “Magrathmagreeth” allude contemporaneamente a due canzoni irlandesi dell’Ottocento: la drammatica Mrs. McGrath ispirata alla guerra anti-napoleonica e la popolare ballata Master McGrath, scritta in onore di un famoso greyhound vincitore della Waterloo Cup nel 1869 (si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 117 e A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p.182). Ma non va dimenticato che McGrath è nel romanzo l’immaginario rivale di Earwicker e il possibile seduttore di Anna Livia: si veda R. Hugh, The Sigla of “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 126 ss. e J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., pp. 57-60. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 237 del coro cantato in chiesa dai quattro evangelisti ovvero Mamalujo (“over their community singing (up) the top loft of the voicebox, of Mamalujo like the senior follies at murther magrees”) (FW, 397, 10-12),317 ma in grado di evocare al tempo stesso il film omonimo del 1928 diretto da John Ford per William Fox con Ellen McHugh come protagonista.318 Perfino il tenore John McCormack, emigrato dall’Irlanda negli Stati Uniti e usato da Joyce (con una punta di gelosia) come uno dei modelli di Shaun in Finnegans Wake, non sfugge alla regola: egli era famoso anche per il suo repertorio di canzoni popolari irlandesi (Mother Machree compresa),319 ma è possibile che gli echi curiosamente metallici della sua famosa Song of my Heart (“reloose that thong off his art”, “What though it be for the sow of his heart?”) (FW, 224, 35 e 490, 31) non siano estranei al film omonimo 317 Cfr. RFW, 308, 9-11: “over their community singing (up) the toploft of the voicebox of Mamalujo, like the senior follies at murther magrees”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 142. “senior follies” allude ai quattro evangelisti nei panni del cantante Giovanni Foli (perciò signor) ma anche ironicamente alla vecchia madre della canzone, con “the dear silver” che brilla nei capelli e “the brow that’s all furrowed / and wrinkled with care”. Giovanni Foli era stato lo pseudonimo di McCormack ai suoi esordi in omaggio al nome della moglie Lily Foley, ed è presente anche in FW, 243, 16: “Foli Signur’s tinner roumanschy”. Si veda C. Brown, Will the Real Signor Foli Please Stand Up and Sing “Mother Machree”?, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., XVII, 6; December 1980, pp. 99- 100 e C. Brown – L. Knuth, The Tenor and the Vehicle: A Study of the John McCormack / James Joyce Connection, cit., p. 12 e pp. 61-62. Per un’identificazione col basso irlandese dell’Ottocento Allan James Foley, che si faceva effettivamente chiamare Signor Foli, si veda invece R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 397. 318 Un caso analogo, ma certamente casuale, di sovrapposizione fordiana con marcatura irlandese è quello relativo al trifoglio o shamrock, che nel romanzo è associato a Shem e all’Irlanda e che nella filmografia del regista corrisponde a The Shamrock Handicap diretto per William Fox nel 1926. Si veda B. O Hehir, The Names of Shem and Shaun, Part 2, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., III, 5, October, 1966, pp. 91- 92. 319 La canzone irlandese di McCormack preferita dal collega Enrico Caruso era proprio Mother Machree, e forse non a caso Joyce almeno in un caso l’associa a Napoli: “the maugher machrees and the auntieparthenopes” (FW 542, 20-21). Si veda C. Brown, Will the Real Signor Foli Please Stand Up and Sing “Mother Machree”?, cit., pp. 99- 100. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 238 diretto da Frank Borzage per William Fox nel 1930, che aveva lo stesso McCormack come protagonista.320 Come si vede, il terreno è molto fertile ma al tempo stesso infido, poiché i titoli dei film sono spesso a loro volta delle citazioni e il testo di Joyce può riferirsi di preferenza alla loro fonte. Ciò avviene non solo con le opere letterarie ma anche con molte forme cristallizzate o proverbiali del linguaggio comune, così frequenti in Finnegans Wake: così a girl in every port (“at that meet hour of night […] in his seachest for to renumber all the mallymedears’ long roll and call of sweetheart emmas that every had a port in from Coxenhagen till the brottels on the Nile”) (FW, 328, 20-22)321 non è un rinvio all’omonimo film diretto da Howard Hawks per William Fox nel 1928; e there’s always tomorrow (“Well but remind to think, you where yestoday Ys Morganas war and that it is always tomorrow in toth’s tother’s place”) (FW, 570, 11-13)322 non rimanda all’omonimo film Universal di Edward Sloman del 1934, anche se fra gli interpreti c’è Frank Morgan.323 Inoltre i titoli dei film funzionano quasi sempre in modo autonomo nel gioco joyciano di sistematico oscuramento del linguaggio, ed è raro che il 320 Il tenore, del resto, era vissuto a Hollywood fra il 1930 e il 1938 frequentando i divi del cinema, e nel 1937 era apparso brevemente in un altro film diretto in Inghilterra per Fox da Harold Schuster, Wings of the morning, con Henry Fonda e Annabella. Per allusioni al titolo di questo film (soprattutto nell’ultima pagina del romanzo – FW, 628, 8-10 – associato a due canzoni dello stesso McCormack) si veda C. Brown – L. Knuth, The Tenor and the Vehicle: A Study of the John McCormack / James Joyce Connection, cit., pp. 5-7. 321 “at that meet hour of night […] mallymedears’” allude alla canzone irlandese settecentesca O Molly my dear. “Sweetheart emmas” rimanda invece alla ballata irlandese di fine Ottocento Sweetheart May, ma anche a Lady Hamilton amante dell’ammiraglio Horatio Nelson: la famosa battaglia del Nilo nella baia di Aboukir, era stata vinta da Nelson contro la flotta napoleonica nel 1798. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 129 e R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 328. 322 Cfr. RFW, 443, 38-40: “Well, but remind tu think you where yestoday Ys Morganas war and that it is always tomorrow in toth’s tother’s place”. 323 “Morganas” si riferisce semmai alla fata Morgana, sorella di re Artù. Si veda A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 200. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 239 soggetto di una pellicola entri in osmosi con la pagina di Finnegans Wake dove la citazione è inserita.324 Quando nel capitolo 17 l’autore evoca la folgore divina che caccia Adamo ed Eva dal giardino dell’Eden inserendoli nel tempo umano del mattino e della sera, egli ribadisce ancora una volta la struttura ciclica e vichiana del suo romanzo: “The folgor of the frightfools is olympically optimominous; there is bound to be a lovleg day for mirrages in the open; Murnane and Aveling are undertoken to berry that ortchert: provided that” (FW, 613, 27-31). Nulla di certo permette al lettore cinefilo di collegare uno dei soci di questa ditta, che dovrà seppellire l’ascia di guerra facendo largo al ritmo giornaliero della luce e del buio, al nome di Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau. Tuttavia è proprio di un Sunrise che Joyce sta qui parlando, un’alba allegorica come quella del capolavoro prodotto nel 1927 da William Fox per il grande regista tedesco, che concede alla coppia dei protagonisti (come a Earwicker e sua moglie) una nuova vita e un nuovo ciclico inizio. 7. Il modello del cinema L’interrogatorio che apre il capitolo 3 di Finnegans Wake cerca di chiarire le responsabilità di Earwicker per il suo mitico peccato nel parco, con i tre soldati e le due ragazze. Ma l’inchiesta è difficile, la nebbia limita la visibilità e “it is a slopperish matter, given the wet and low visibility […] to idendifine the individuone” (FW, 51, 3-4 e 6).325 Quando la visuale migliora e un po’ di luce si fa strada nell’oscurità (“wolfbone balefires 324 Cfr. C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 202: “ […] with so many of his sources […] Joyce seems to have made direct use only of the title”. 325 Cfr. RFW, 41, 16-17 e 19: “it is a slipperish matter, given the wet and low visibility […] to idendifine the individuone”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 240 blaze the trailmost […] When they set fire then she’s got to glow”) (FW, 52, 19-21),326 Joyce non esita a impiegare una metafora televisiva, anzi la televisione stessa come emblema di questo sguardo liberato: “Television kills telephony in brothers’ broil. Our eyes demand their turn. Let them be seen!” (FW, 52, 18-19).327 E se Earwicker appare sullo sfondo dell’antica Dublino fra appartenenza cristiana e invasione danese, vestito di tutto punto come un primo attore che recita la sua scena (“he aptly sketched for our soontube second parents (sukand see whybe!) the touching seene”) (FW, 52, 34-36), la ripresa propriamente cinematografica da parte di uno studio pseudo-rumeno non allude solo a The Picture of Dorian Gray dell’irlandese Oscar Wilde ma al gioco filmico fra il ‘silenzio si gira!’ e le parole del dialogo pronunciate per i microfoni, fra muto e sonoro: “The solence of that stilling! Here one might a fin fell. Boomster rombombonant! It scene like a landescape from Wildu Picturescu or some seem on some dimb Arras, dumb as Mum’s mutyness, this mimage of the seventyseventh kusin of kristansen is odable to os across the wineless Ere no œdor nor mere eerie nor liss potent of suggestion than in the tales of the tingmount” (FW, 52, 36 – 53, 1-6).328 326 Con riferimento ai tradizionali falò di primavera e all’antica festa celtica del 1° maggio. Cfr. anche FW, 13, 36: “On Baalfire’s night of this year” (RFW, 11, 23: “On Baalfire’s eve of this year”). Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 52. 327 Cfr. RFW, 42, 21-22: “Television kills telephony in brothers’ broil. Our eyes demand their turn. Let there be seen!”. Sul rapporto dello scrittore con la televisione si veda C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 158-159. 328 Cfr. RFW, 42, 37-40 – 43, 1-2: “The solence of that stilling! Here one might a fin fell. Boomster rombombonant! It scene like a landescape from Wildu Picturescu or some seem om some dimb Arras, dumb as Mum’s mutyness, this mimage of the seventyseventh kusin of Kristansen is odable to os across the wineless Ere no oedor nor mere eerie nor liss potent of suggestion than in the tales of the tingmount”. Per una dettagliata e acuta lettura di questo passaggio, che riprende un luogo preciso di A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, si veda B. Benstock, The Anti-Schematics of “Finnegans Wake”, in “Joyce Studies Annual”, 1, 1990, pp. 112-116. Benstock rimanda anche all’analogo panorama dublinese di FW, 12, 36 – 13, 1-5: “Behove this sound of Irish sense. Really? Here English might be seen. Royally? One sovereign punned to petery pence. Regally? The silence speaks the scene. Fake! So This Is Dyoublong? Hush! Caution! Echoland!”. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 241 La concorrenza fra le tecnologie può comporsi in una nuova collaborazione, come avviene nel romanzo per le dispute fra i gemelli Shem e Shaun. La nuova tecnica sostituisce la vecchia assimilandola ed è precisamente la vista, o meglio la sincronizzazione di immagine e suono, a conquistare il futuro, vincitrice nella grande corsa verso l’innovazione (con rinvio al Veni, vidi, vici di Giulio Cesare, al Paradise Lost di John Milton329 e al concorso ippico inglese Grand National): “Rhythm and Colour at Park Mooting. Peredos Last in the Grand Natural. Velivision victor” (FW, 610, 34-35). Come dirà Shem di sé e del fratello, accennando alla patria del cinema attraverso l’american english ma anche ad una futura televisione dublinese: “We were in one class of age like to two clots of egg. I am most beholding to him, my namesick, as we sayed it in our Amharican, through the Doubly Telewisher” (FW, 489, 19-21).330 La tecnica audiovisiva della TV non è dunque contrapposta al cinema, sembra anzi potenziare al massimo la sua qualità essenziale di spettacolo “televisible […] teilweisioned” (FW, 265, 11 e 345, 36) ovvero di “verbivocovisual presentment” (FW, 341, 18-19). Come tale essa trionfa sulle parole senza immagine del telefono ma anche della letteratura (il poema del cieco Milton)331 e della radio, con allusione al ventriloquo protagonista di un romanzo di Henry Cockton332 (“Mr Televox, Mrs Taubiestimm and invisible friends!”) (FW, 546, 29). Il fatto che Joyce 329 Analogamente in FW, 263, L4: “Hearasay in paradox lust”. 330 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 489. 331 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 318. 332 Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist (1840). Si veda per altre occorrenze J. S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake. A Study of Literary Allusions in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 242 e A. Glasheen, Third Census of “Finnegans Wake”. An Index of the Characters and Their Roles, cit., p. 299. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 242 evochi con “Taubiestimm” i sordomuti (taubstumm)333 ma anche il procedimento tedesco Tobis-Klangfilm, che commercializzava dal 1929 un brevetto di suono ottico tedesco in concorrenza con il Movietone e il Photophone americani, indica precisamente che il futuro della voce è soltanto quello di una banda sonora e che il rapporto fra suono e immagine forma uno dei temi centrali di Finnegans Wake.334 Cinema e televisione corrispondono infatti precisamente alla tecnica compositiva joyciana e al metodo di lettura che essa richiede: una sistematica deformazione del linguaggio, indecifrabile se non si sovrappone ad ogni istante l’immagine della parola scritta al suono della sua pronuncia (“with an earsighted view”) (FW, 143, 9-10), l’una e l’altro mai coincidenti e montati insieme allo scopo di suggerire più significati concomitanti o contraddittori.335 Ma il cinema rappresenta Finnegans Wake non solo dal punto di vista tecnico, è anche la figura più appropriata della sua struttura che si ispira al flusso universale e ciclico del tempo, sul modello dichiarato di Giovan Battista Vico e su quello non dichiarato di David Wark Griffith in Intolerance (Wark Producing Corporation, 1916) che ha per sottotitolo 333 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 546 e, sullo stesso tema, Cl. Jacquet, Deaf Mutes, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n.s., XIII, 1, February 1976, p. 13. 334 Un effetto unicamente acustico legato a nuove tecnologie è quello descritto in FW, 407, 11-22, dove echeggia la voce di Shaun (nei panni del suo alter ego McCormack durante un recital) descritta come una comunicazione transatlantica senza fili, con allusione all’invio di segnali radio fra Irlanda e Canada sperimentato dalla compagnia Marconi nel 1907. Per un commento di queste righe si veda J. Dalton, – – –, in A Wake Digest, cit., pp. 69-70 e L. O. Mink, A “Finnegans Wake” Gazetteer, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1978, p. 263 e p. 427. 335 Sul rapporto fra suono e immagine si veda C. Hart, Structure and Motif in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 36-37. Il tema è strettamente legato alla dimensione orale e gestuale di Finnegans Wake sul filo di un ritrovamento mitico della memoria del mondo che si ispira alle teorie linguistiche di Marcel Jousse. Si veda L. Weir, The Choreography of Gesture. Marcel Jousse and “Finnegans Wake”, in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 14, Spring 1977, pp. 313-325. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 243 Love’s Struggle Throughout the Ages.336 Non a caso, durante lo scontro archetipico fra Earwicker e il Cad, Joyce raffigura il passare del tempo con il movimento di una culla, ripetendo l’immagine degli intermezzi che separano i quattro episodi del film di Griffith: una donna che dondola un neonato, “out of the cradle endlessly rocking”: “The pair […] struggled apairently for some considerable time (the cradle rocking equally to one and oppositely from the other on its law of capture and recapture)” (FW, 81, 33-36 – 82, 1-2).337 Come si è già visto, lo scrittore gioca sovente con la parola reel, la bobina di pellicola che scorre durante la ripresa e durante la proiezione (“reeled the titleroll opposite a brace of girdles in Silver on the Screen”) (FW, 134, 9-10),338 associando il suo movimento (in palindromo) a un riso e uno sguardo provocatorio (“He, he, he! At that do you leer, a setting up? […] But on what do you again leer? I am not leering. I pink you pardons. I am highly sheshe sherious” (FW, 567, 4-5 e 570, 24-25)339 o più spesso (per antifrasi) alla realtà (“And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world!”, “Of course it was downright verry wickred of him, reely 336 Si veda Th. Burkdall, Joycean Frames. Film and the Fiction of James Joyce, cit., pp. 26-27. Potremmo aggiungere anche il già citato Les Perles de la Couronne (Tobis-Imperia Film-Cinéas, 1937), un film co-diretto da Sacha Guitry e Christian- Jacque che proprio allo schema ciclico di Intolerance si ispira: la storia delle sette perle della corona permette infatti al narratore (lo stesso Guitry) di attraversare tutte le epoche storiche, mentre gli attori incarnano diversi personaggi lontani nel tempo. 337 Per un’eventuale allusione alla cattedrale dublinese Christ Church si veda M. P. Worthington, The World as Christ Church, Dublin, in “A Wake Newslitter”, n. s., II, 1, February 1965, p. 5. 338 Cfr. RFW, 106, 18: “reeled the titleroll opposite a brace of girdles in Silver on the Screen”. Il riferimento è all’attrice inglese del primo Settecento, Anne Bracegirdle: si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 134. 339 Cfr. RFW, 441, 21 e 444, 10-11: “He, he, he! At what do you leer, a setting up? […] But on what do you again leer? I am not leering. I pink your pardons. I am highly sheshe sherious” Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 244 meeting me disguised, Bortolo mio”) (FW, 64, 22-23 e 527, 24-26).340 Al cinema la finzione del teatro o dell’opera lirica si trasforma in un’illusione di realtà grazie alle immagini in movimento,341 poichè è proprio il movimento a formare l’essenza dei movies e i film raccontano le loro storie fino al canonico (happy o acid) “essied anding” grazie all’incessante “moving motion” (FW, 484, 6 e 12): “The movibles are scrawling in motions, marching, all of them ago, in pitpat and zingzang for every busy eerie whig’s a bit of a torytale to tell.” (FW, 20, 21-25).342 La bobina che scorre diventa così l’immagine del moto ma anche del tempo che passa e della vita stessa con la sua vicenda sempre uguale (come le nursery rhymes) di comico e tragico, amore e dolore, “a reel of funnish ficts apout the shee”, “funny funereels”, “This nonday diary, this allnights newseryreel” (FW, 288, 8-9 e 414, 35 e 489, 35).343 Televisione e cinema catturano gli eventi e li riproducono più tardi per l’occhio e l’orecchio, unendo alla percezione istantanea al primo quella lineare del secondo, fermando l’istante e permettendo di ripeterlo a volontà quando si è già trasformato in passato, affidandolo alla memoria degli spettatori: “A halt for hearsake. A scene at sight. Or dreamoneire. Which they shall memorise. By her freewritten Hopely for ear that annalykeses if scares for eye that 340 Cfr. RFW, 410, 13-14: “Of course it was downright verry vicked of him, reelly, meeting me disguised, Bortolo mio”. Si allude al personaggio del Barbiere di Siviglia rossiniano. 341 Il tema è svolto magistralmente nel primo e nel quarto capitolo, Thèses sur le mouvement (premier commentaire de Bergson) e L’image-mouvement et ses trois variétés (second commentaire de Bergson), di G. Deleuze, Cinéma 1: L’Image- mouvement, Paris, Les Éditons de Minuit, 1983, pp. 9-22 e pp. 83-103. 342 Cfr. RFW, 16, 24-27: “The movibles are scrawling in motions, marching, all of them ago, in pitpat and zingzang, for every busy eerie whig’s a bit of a torytale to tell”. La narrazione fa riferimento ai Whigs e ai Tories. 343 “Funny funereels” si riferisce anche a “a danced ‘reel’” come parte del processo di morte e resurrezione negli antichi riti egiziani. Cfr. M. L. Troy, Mummeries of Resurrection. The Cycle of Osiris in “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 31 Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 245 sumns” (FW, 279, 9 – 280, 4).344 Essi funzionano insomma come la macchina ciclica che sta alla base del romanzo (“the whool of the whaal in the wheel of the whorl”) (FW, 415, 7-8),345 con la sua cosmica ripetizione del tempo e l’incessante riapparizione dei personaggi in altri panni e altri nomi. Non a caso nel teorema geometrico del capitolo 10 i movimenti circolari degli occhi di Shaun e Shem sono paragonati alle orbite sempre uguali dei pianeti e assimilati al film ovvero alla rotazione di una panoramica, con allusione sessuale al discoprimento del “triagonal delta” (FW, 297, 24) della madre: “or hence shall the vectorious readyeyes of evertwo circumflicksrent serclhers never film in the elipsities of their gyribouts those fickers which are returnally reprodictive of themselves. Which is unpassible” (FW, 298, 14-18).346 Non a caso Joyce, evocando Earwicker come Tolomeo I Soter e il meraviglioso Sardanapalo ma anche i servitori Joe e Kate come figure ricorrenti, ricorda il carattere di ‘mangiarealtà’ che è proprio dello strumento audiovisivo: “Doth it not all come aft to you, puritysnooper, in the way television opes longtimes ofter when Potollomuck Sotyr or Sourdanapplous the Lollapaloosa? The charges are, you will remember, the chances are, you won’t; bit it’sold Joe, the Java Jane, older even than Odam Costollo, and we are recurrently meeting em, par Mahun 344 Cfr. RFW, 216, 27 – 217, 1-2: “A halt for hearsake. A scene at sight. Or dreamoneire. Which they shall memorise. By her freewritten. Hopely for ear that annalykeses if scares for eye that sumns”. 345 Si allude alle riprese progressive nelle strofe della canzone ottocentesca The Wild Man of Borneo: “The wild man of Borneo has just come to town […] The wife of the wild man […] The daughter of the wife […] The dog […] The tail […] The hair […] The flea […] The whiskers […] The wind […] ”. Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 145. 346 Cfr. RFW, 229, 23-26: “or hence shall the vectorious readyeyes of evertwo circumflickrent serclhers never film in the elipsities of their gyribouts those fickers which are returnally reprodictive of themselves. Which is unpassible”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 246 Mesme, in cycloannalism, from space to space, time after time, in various phases of scripture as in various poses of sepulture” (FW, 254, 21-28).347 È tuttavia la natura effimera e insieme illusoria della realtà cinematografica, il suo trascorrere nel nulla per ogni volta ricominciare, che corrisponde al motivo più profondo di Finnegans Wake: quello che le ultime splendide righe del romanzo e le parole di Anna Livia (“I am passing out. O bitter ending!”) (FW, 627, 34-35) fanno risuonare con splendido slancio lirico. Se la letteratura è un film nato dalla penna (“Pens picture”) (FW, 617, 22), anche l’esistenza è infatti un’ombra che passa e rapida svanisce come “the flimsyfilmsies” (FW, 279, n. 1, 14). E vita e scrittura, come il cinematografo, sono un impalpabile gioco di immagini e suoni, che nel suo monologo finale Anna Livia paragona alle fantasie, ai sogni, ai castelli in aria, “dreamoneire”: “And I’ll be your aural eyeness. But we vain. Plain fancies. It’s in the castles air. My currant bread’s full of sillymottocraft” (FW, 623, 18-19).348 La vanitas vanitatum che risuona nel finale di Finnegans Wake ha il suo corrispettivo teorico nelle “phyllisophies of Bussup Bulkeley” (FW, 435, 10-11), note a Joyce grazie alla lettura di An Essay towards a New Theory of Vision (1709). Già nel terzo capitolo di Ulysses il protagonista medita sulla definizione berkeleyana della res extensa come una semplice percezione tattile-locomotoria ben distinta dalla percezione visiva (quest’ultima limitata alla luce e al colore); e si sofferma a più riprese sull’analogia fra impressioni visive e linguaggio verbale che il vescovo di 347 Cfr. RFW, 201, 1-7: “Doth all this two way teleopic come aft to you, puritysnooper, as eft it were longtimes ofter when Potollomuck Sotyr or Sourdanapplous the Lollapaloosa put back Omega with the beths of alpability? The charges are, you will remember; the chances are, you won’t. We are recurrently meeting em, par Mahun Mesme, in cycloannalism, from space to space, time after time, in various phases of scripture as in various poses of sepulture”. 348 Si veda R. McHugh, Annotations to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 623. Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 247 Cloyne aveva posto al centro del suo saggio.349 Berkeley esaminava l’apparenza stabile e naturale del nesso che stringe insieme “the signification of tangible figures by visible figures”,350 e per suggerirne la radicale arbitrarietà (perfettamente parallela a quella che lega ogni parola al suo significato) faceva l’esempio di un inglese che incontri “a foreigner who used the same words with the English, but in a direct contrary signification”.351 L’imbarazzo del native speaker, in questo caso paradossale, corrisponde a quello di chi cerca di prender coscienza dell’arbitrarietà linguistica: “Though he endeavour to disunite the meaning from the sound, it will nevertheless intrude into his thoughts, and he shall find it extreme difficult, if not impossible, to put himself exactly in the posture of a foreigner that never learnt the language, so as to be affected barely with the sounds themselves, and not perceive the signification annexed to them.”352 Come il “foreigner” di Berkeley, come chi tenta di separare “the meaning from the sound”, Joyce realizza in Finnegans Wake un gigantesco straniamento del linguaggio e lo trasforma in un oggetto mobile e indeterminato, in un flusso di suoni e in un “collideorscape” (FW, 143, 28) di significati che non corrispondono mai esattamente. Le parole del romanzo, al pari delle percezioni visive berkeleyane, sono infatti uno spettacolo affascinante ma fallace, capace di evocare l’universo ma sempre sul punto di dissolversi, trasformandosi in altro come le parvenze di un 349 Si veda P. Vitoux, Aristotle, Berkeley and Newman [ma deve essere Newton], in “James Joyce Quarterly”, 18, Winter 1981, pp. 161-169. 350 Cfr. G. Berkeley, An Essay towards a New Theory of Vision, in Id., The Works, collected and edited with prefaces and annotations by A. Campbell Fraser, Oxford, At the Clarendon Press, 1871, vol. I, p. 105. 351 Cfr. ivi, p. 47. 352 Ivi, p. 108. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 248 miraggio, come le immagini e le parole del cinema.353 Non a caso, quando Berkeley appare come “archdruid” irlandese nelle ultime pagine del romanzo a dialogare con il colonizzatore cattolico San Patrizio e la sua francescana “greysfriaryfamily” di “monkafellas” (FW, 611, 9-10),354 egli evoca l’illusorietà della vista riducendola alla pura percezione dei colori del prisma: “Balkelly, archdruid of islish chinchinjoss […] he show along the his mister guest Patholic […] all too many much illusiones through photoprismic velamina of hueful panepiphanal world spectacurum of Lord Joss, the of which zoantholitic furniture, from mineral through vegetal to animal, not appear to full up together fallen man than under but one photoreflection of the several iridals gradationes of solar light, that one which that part of it […] had shown itself […] unable to absorbere, whereas for […] inside true inwardness of reality, the Ding hvad in idself id est, all obiects […] allside showed themselves in trues coloribus resplendent with sextuple gloria of light actually retained, untisintus, inside them” (FW, 611, 5-24).355 353 Uno scambio analogo fra sguardo e cinema, legato a una prospettiva ‘dall’alto’, è suggerito nei taccuini: “Nap[oleon] III + perch = film or eye”. Cfr. J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.1 – VI.B.4, Prefaced & Arranged by D. Hayman, New York & London, Garland Publishing Inc., 1978, p. 233 (VI.B.3 – 106). 354 Il dialogo è un genere molto frequente in Finnegans Wake, come è noto, ma in questo caso non è fuori luogo un rinvio ai Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous, pubblicati da Berkeley nel 1713. 355 Cfr. RFW, 478, 2-18: “Belkelly, archdruid of islish chinchinjoss […] he show along the his mister guest Patholic […] all too many much illusiones through photoprismic velamina of hueful panepiphanal world spectacurum of lord Joss, the of which zoantholitic furniture, from mineral through vegetal to animal, not appear to full up together fallen man than under but one photoreflectione of the several iridals gradationes of solar light, that one which that part of it […] had shown itself […] unable to absorbere, whereas for […] inside true inwardness of reality, tha Ding hvad in idself id ist, all obiects […] allside showed themselves in trues coloribus resplendent with sextuple gloria of light actually retained, untisintus, inside them”. “Chinchinjoss” rinvia a chinchin (pidgin english per conversare educatamente) ma anche alla canzone Chin chin Chinaman nell’operetta inglese del 1896 The Geisha. A Story of a Tea House (libretto di Owen Hall e Harry Greenbank, musica di Sidney Jones, Lionel Monckton e James Phip). Si veda M. J. C. Hodgart – M. P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce, cit., p. 169 e p. 178. Una precedente versione del medesimo passaggio è di più agevole decifrazione: “The archdruid Barkeley […] explained to silent […] Patrick the […] illusiones of the colourful world of joss, its furniture, animal, vegetable and mineral, appearing to fallen men under but one […] reflectionem of the several iridal gradations of solar light, that one which it had been unable to […] absorbere while for the seer beholding reality, the thing as in itself it is, all objects showed themselves in Rinaldo Rinaldi, The Films at the Wake. Per un catalogo 249 San Patrizio coi suoi monaci vestiti in bianco-e-nero (“niggerblonker […] shiroscuro blackinwhitepaddynger”) (FW, 611, 35-36 e 612, 18)356 e Berkeley “in the his heptachromatic sevenhued septicoloured roranyellgreenlindigan mantle” (FW, 611, 5-7)357 evocano insomma il contrasto fra una visione stereotipata cieca ai colori e una visione aperta alla molteplicità cromatica dell’universo,358 ma anche (ancora una volta) lo spettacolo cinematografico. Il mondo stesso, “hueful panepiphanal world”, è lo “spectacurum” che Dio359 offre agli uomini proiettandolo sugli schermi o “velamina” della sensazione;360 e non a caso la pagina joyciana si conclude con un triplice omaggio al Dio del Diluvio e di Giona, signore dell’arcobaleno fenomenico (“Greatest Great Balenoarch”) e unico garante delle immagini e dei suoni che appaiono agli uomini (“sound sense sympol”) (FW, 612, 27-28).361 Anche la letteratura del resto, come i suoni e le immagini del mondo, proietta i suoi segni su uno schermo bianco e Joyce lo indicava già in Proteus,362 evocando proprio il velo fenomenico di Berkeley e la sua teoria dell’invisibilità della distanza: their true […] coloribus, resplendent with sextuple […] gloria of the light actually […] retained within them” (cfr. J. Joyce, A First-Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 279). 356 Si veda W. Y. Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to “Finnegans Wake”, cit., pp. 319- 320. 357 Cfr. RFW, 478, 2-3: “in the his heptachromatic sevenhued septicoloured roranyellgreeblindigan mantle”. 358 Questa lettura, in chiave politica e razziale, suggerisce V. J. Cheng, White Horse, Dark Horse. Joyce’s Allhorse of Another Color, cit., pp. 125-126. 359 Nella coloritura pidgin english delle parole di Berkeley, “Lord Joss” associa il Signore cristiano alla Divinità cinese. 360 Cfr. G. Berkeley, A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge (1a ed. 1710), in Id., The Works, cit., vol. I, p. 172: “The ideas imprinted on the Senses by the Author of nature are called real things”. 361 Su questo passo si veda P. Vitoux, Aristotle, Berkeley and Newman [ma deve essere Newton], cit., pp. 172-174. 362 Forse riecheggiando l’Indovinello Veronese del secolo VIII: “Se pareba boves, alba pratalia araba et albo versorio teneba et negro semen seminaba”. Parole Rubate / Purloined Letters 250 “Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls do you not think?”363 La realtà e la scrittura prendono vita e prospettiva unicamente sullo schermo del pensiero, nella sala oscura della coscienza, non solo perché esse est percipi ma anche perchè quello cinematografico (il “click” del proiettore, l’effimero flusso dei fantasmi)364 è uno dei principali modelli dell’espressione joyciana. Se lo scrittore già dichiarava in una lettera del 1924: “whenever I am obliged to lie with my eyes closed I see a cinematograph going on and on and it brings back to my memory things I had almost forgotten”;365 Anna Livia può concludere: “I’ll close me eyes. So not to see” (FW, 621, 29). Ricordiamo che in uno dei taccuini Joyce trascrive il placito capuano del secolo X, primo documento della lingua italiana. Si veda J. Joyce, “Finnegans Wake”. A Facsimile of Buffalo Notebooks VI.B.21 – VI.B.24, cit., p. 316 (VI.B.23 – 126). 363 Id., Ulysses, cit., p. 40. 364 Per una lettura in chiave fotografica di questa pagina si veda L. E. J. Hornby, Visual Clockwork: Photographic Time and the Instant in “Proteus”, cit., pp. 58-60. 365 Cfr. J. Joyce, Letters, cit., vol. I, p. 216 (lettera a Harriet Shaw Weaver del 27 giugno 1924). Il tema della cecità, non solo per ragioni autobiografiche, è uno dei più importanti in Finnegans Wake (si veda J. Gordon, “Finnegans Wake”: a Plot Summary, cit., p. 85 e pp. 270-271) ed è già presente in Id., Scribbledehobble. The Ur-Workbook for “Finnegans Wake”, cit., p. 101: “W [scil. Woman] drawn to a blind man, to see behind closed eyes (Bluebeard), to give helping hand (woman’s), to pity him who cannot see”. Lo spunto di partenza è la meditazione di Bloom sul giovane cieco incontrato per la strada (si veda Id., Ulysses, cit., pp. 148-149), ma l’allusione a “Blubeard” sembra rinviare alla pièce simbolista di Maurice Maeterlinck Ariane et Barbe-bleu (1899, musicata da Paul Dukas nel 1907): “je vois, les yeux fermés”, esclama Ariane nel secondo atto, quando rompe la finestra della prigione ed è accecata dalla luce (cfr. M. Maeterlinck, Œuvres, édition établie et présentée par P. Gorceix, Bruxelles, Éditions Complexe, 1999, vol. III, p. 28). F9-9_rinaldi_wake.pdf Indice_Fascicolo_9 F9-9_rinaldi_wake Template Copyright breve 
work_u5tmhm6nt5d3dm2cw6in36lx4u	----	University of Alberta LETTING GO: HOW NEWLY-GRADUATED REGISTERED NURSES IN WESTERN CANADA DECIDE TO EXIT THE NURSING PROFESSION by Kathryn Michelle Chachula A thesis submitted to the Faculty of Graduate Studies and Research in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Nursing Faculty of Nursing © Kathryn Michelle Chachula Spring 2014 Edmonton, Alberta Permission is hereby granted to the University of Alberta Libraries to reproduce single copies of this thesis and to lend or sell such copies for private, scholarly or scientific research purposes only. Where the thesis is converted to, or otherwise made available in digital form, the University of Alberta will advise potential users of the thesis of these terms. The author reserves all other publication and other rights in association with the copyright in the thesis and, except as herein before provided, neither the thesis nor any substantial portion thereof may be printed or otherwise reproduced in any material form whatsoever without the author’s prior written permission. DEDICATION For nurses everywhere, never cease to persevere & To new graduates entering the nursing profession who could not find their way, this work is for you You can be the change you wish to see in the world Mahatma Gandhi ABSTRACT The Canadian Nurses Association predicts the nursing shortage will rise to an estimated 60,000 Registered Nurses (RNs) by the year 2022. Further compounding this issue is the approximate 14-61% of nursing graduates who will change nursing roles or exit the profession within two years of practice. Using the Glaserian grounded theory method, the purpose of this study was to examine the basic psychosocial process labelled Letting Go involved in how newly-graduated RNs in western Canada arrive at the decision to exit the nursing profession within five years of entry into the workforce through semi-structured interviews. The study findings revealed the following themes: Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace; Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies, and Troublesome Behaviours; Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges; and Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions. This study adds to a growing body of knowledge to understand new RN attrition from the profession. ACKNOWLEDGEMENT I would like to acknowledge numerous individuals who guided and supported me throughout my Master’s studies at the University of Alberta. Firstly, I offer my sincerest gratitude to my thesis supervisor, Dr. Florence Myrick, who continuously pushed the boundaries of my thinking and writing. Also, your enthusiasm for teaching, mentoring, and scholarship is infectious and invigorating. I feel privileged having worked with you and to have received your guidance during my studies. I would also like to extend my gratitude to my thesis committee members Dr. Olive Yonge and Dr. Randolph Wimmer, without you, this study would not be possible. Thank you sincerely for your warm and thoughtful direction. For my classmates, mentors and professors, I will not forget our discussions, both inside and out of the classroom, as well as in the corridors and hallways of the Edmonton Clinic Health Academy. You made my experiences remarkable at the University of Alberta. I acknowledge the financial support received throughout my Master’s studies: The Foundation for Registered Nurses of Manitoba, University Hospital Foundation - Ruth A. Van Dusen Nursing Scholarship, Olive Yonge Teaching and Learning Scholarship, Queen Elizabeth II Graduate Scholarship, Dr. Rene McElroy Day Scholarship in Nursing, The University of Alberta Faculty of Nursing, Alberta Enterprise and Advanced Education, UAH Class of September 1959, and the Mu Sigma Chapter of Sigma Theta Tau International. A special thank you is in order for my family who cheered me on in many different ways. Matt, your unwavering support, encouragement, and technological prowess significantly contributed to my success while studying afar in Alberta. To my parents, Terry and Brenda, you instilled in me an appreciation for education and nursing work, to which both pose a lifetime of limitless opportunity. Table of Contents CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION AND BACKGROUND ................................................ 1 Problem and Significance ............................................................................................... 3 Motivation ....................................................................................................................... 5 Research Objective ......................................................................................................... 7 Guiding Research Questions ........................................................................................... 7 Thesis Structure .............................................................................................................. 7 CHAPTER 2: CURRENT STATE OF KNOWLEDGE ..................................................... 8 Level of Job Satisfaction ................................................................................................. 9 Exhaustion and Burnout .................................................................................................. 9 Quality of Practice Environment ................................................................................... 12 CHAPTER 3: STUDY DESIGN ...................................................................................... 15 Historical Foundations of Grounded Theory ................................................................ 15 Symbolic Interactionism ............................................................................................... 16 Purpose of Study ........................................................................................................... 17 Guiding Research Questions ......................................................................................... 17 Sample Selection ........................................................................................................... 18 Recruitment of Participants ........................................................................................... 18 Demographic Description of Participants ..................................................................... 19 Concurrent Data Collection and Analysis ..................................................................... 21 Substantive Coding ................................................................................................... 22 Open coding. ......................................................................................................... 22 Selective coding. ................................................................................................... 23 Theoretical coding................................................................................................. 24 Memoing ................................................................................................................... 24 Journaling .................................................................................................................. 26 Mechanisms to Ensure for Rigour ................................................................................ 27 Ethical Considerations .................................................................................................. 28 Limitations .................................................................................................................... 30 Dissemination Strategies ............................................................................................... 30 CHAPTER 4: FINDINGS AND DISCUSSION: LETTING GO ..................................... 32 Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours .............. 55 Abiding Student-Teacher Relationships ................................................................... 57 Dampening the spirit. ............................................................................................ 57 Fanning the flame.................................................................................................. 60 Being Confronted with Paternalism .......................................................................... 61 Dampening the spirit. ............................................................................................ 61 Fanning the flame.................................................................................................. 64 Encountering Hierarchal and Horizontal Violence ................................................... 65 Dampening the spirit. ............................................................................................ 65 Feeling unwelcome and undervalued. ............................................................... 65 Yielding to humiliation and hostility. ................................................................ 71 Fanning the flame.................................................................................................. 76 Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges ......................................................................... 78 Persevering ................................................................................................................ 79 Dampening the spirit. ............................................................................................ 79 Not feeling prepared. ........................................................................................ 81 Context Based Learning (CBL). ................................................................... 82 Disconnecting between classroom and clinical. ............................................ 83 Predisposing personality characteristics. ...................................................... 85 Fanning the flame.................................................................................................. 87 Dealing with Fears and Anxieties ............................................................................. 87 Dampening the spirit. ............................................................................................ 87 Practicing newly-learned skills. ........................................................................ 87 Fear of making errors. ...................................................................................... 89 Feeling traumatized. ......................................................................................... 90 Dealing with emotional pressures. .................................................................... 93 Fanning the flame.................................................................................................. 95 Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions ............................................................. 100 Wearing Out ............................................................................................................ 102 Losing the joy of nursing. ................................................................................... 105 Realizing it will not get better. ............................................................................ 106 Deciding to Leave ................................................................................................... 107 No regret. ............................................................................................................ 108 Final Participant Reflection ........................................................................................ 108 CHAPTER 5: IMPLICATIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS .................................. 110 REFERENCES ............................................................................................................... 115 APPENDIX A: SEARCH METHODS ........................................................................... 130 APPENDIX B: QUALITY APPRAISAL OF STUDIES ............................................... 131 APPENDIX C: SYNTHESES OF ARTICLES .............................................................. 132 APPENDIX D: DEMOGRAPHIC FORM ..................................................................... 138 APPENDIX E: SAMPLE POSTER ................................................................................ 139 APPENDIX F: INTERVIEW GUIDE ............................................................................ 140 APPENDIX G: NOTIFICATION OF ETHICAL APPROVAL .................................... 141 APPENDIX H: INFORMATION LETTER ................................................................... 142 APPENDIX I: CONSENT FORM .................................................................................. 144 List of Tables Table 1. Participant Characteristics......................................................................20 List of Figures Figure 1. Florence Nightingale as the Lady with the Lamp....................................1 Figure 2. The Fading Flame: Letting Go...............................................................33 Figure 3. Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions......................................102 1 CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION AND BACKGROUND The image of the nurse has long been associated with Florence Nightingale, the Lady with a Lamp (Butterworth, 1839-1854). Please refer to Figure 1. Florence Nightingale as the Lady with the Lamp below. Butterworth’s illustration immortalized her image in an oil canvas painting whilst Nightingale used an oil lamp to complete her night rounds. Figure 1. Florence Nightingale as the Lady with the Lamp In addition, the poem, Santa Filomena written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1857) describes the presence of Florence Nightingale who carried her lamp through dark, dreary, and often gloomy hospitals to visit and provide care for Permission to use image granted from Wellcome Library, London England – 21/Oct/2013 2 wounded soldiers during the Crimean war, thus uplifting their spirits. With the looming Registered Nurse (RN) shortage in Canada and world-wide, coupled with the exit of newly-graduated nurses from the workforce, we must consider the strength of Nightingale’s flame to illuminate the future of the nursing profession. Engaging in a study to examine the process of newly-graduated RNs who have left the nursing profession is timely and relevant. It is my hope that engaging in this study will provide insights for nurse preparation, curricular reform, and knowledge regarding the current clinical culture to address new RN attrition upon entry-to-practice. The reasons why a newly-graduated RN exits the nursing profession within the current health care climate are unclear. In 1974, Marlene Kramer first posed the question, ‘why do nurses leave nursing?’ Surprisingly, few Canadian studies have been conducted on this topic since that time. There have been many changes in health care delivery and in the education of RNs since Kramer’s theory was first disseminated. Men have entered nursing and nursing education has transformed by moving from hospital-based training to baccalaureate and graduate level education (Canadian Institute for Health Information [CIHI], 2010). Hospitals have adopted business models replacing the head nurse role, resulting in what some researchers describe as the fragmentation of health care (Coburn, 1999; Coleman, 2003; King & O’Toole-Gerard, 2013). Patient acuity has also increased resulting in greater workplace demands, paperwork, turnover, overtime, and burnout (Reineck & Furino, 2005). Also, for the first time in history, four different generations which include the Silents, Baby Boomers, 3 Generation Xs, and Millennials comprise the workforce (Foley, Myrick, & Yonge, 2012). There have been significant changes in health care delivery models since Kramer’s work was first published. Nearly four decades have passed and nurses continue to exit the nursing profession although the reasons for this phenomenon in the 21 st century are not clearly established. Boychuk-Duchscher (2012a) has extended the work of Kramer in her theory of Transition Shock. This theory emphasizes the transition experience of newly-graduated nurses upon entry into clinical practice with a focus on new RNs who stay within the nursing profession. However, neither Kramer nor Boychuk- Duchscher have explored the experience of new RNs who exit the profession of nursing in today’s current health care climate. Problem and Significance Despite efforts to address the RN shortage in Canada, the Canadian Nurses Association predicts that this shortage will continue to rise to approximately 60,000 RNs by the year 2022 (Canadian Nurses Association [CNA], 2009). It is unclear how many newly-graduated nurses are deciding to leave the profession in Canada due to a lack of data collection and reporting on this occurrence. Canadian data collected between 2005 and 2008 estimate the exit rate of RNs under the age of 30 varied between 11.58-14.51% with an estimated mean of 13% exiting the nursing profession (Canadian Institute for Health Information [CIHI], 2010). It is important to note that this data does not differentiate between nurses who have exited permanently, temporarily, or who have moved between jurisdictional boundaries or countries. Also, with the introduction of university 4 level after-degree programs in Canadian universities, many new registrants are over the age of 30 and do not fall into the less than age 30 exit category. Various countries have commenced collating data specific to new nurses who exit the nursing profession. In the United States, 33-61% of new nursing graduates will change employment roles or exit the profession of nursing within two to three years of practice as a nurse (American Association of Colleges of Nursing [AACN], 2010); Boychuk-Duchscher, 2012b). New Zealand estimates approximately 30% of new graduates leave the nursing profession (New Zealand Nurses Organisation, 2011). An Australian report indicates 20% of new graduates leave after 12 months of employment (Armstrong, 2004). In a large European study entitled Nurses’ Early Exit Study (NEXT) funded by the European Union, researchers found 9.3% of new nurses left the profession with as few as 4.5% exiting in Italy and as many as 14.6% leaving nursing in Germany (Hasselhorn, Müller, Tackenberg, 2005). These findings reveal a significant global issue concerning new RN attrition from the profession. New graduate exit from the profession places further constraints with regard to a global climate of fiscal deficits, financial pressures, increasing patient acuity, and aging populations in Canada and internationally. An increased severity in the nursing shortage results in reduced patient care and poor health outcomes (Twigg, Duffield, Thompson, & Rapley, 2010). For these reasons, further examination of the factors associated with new RN exit from the profession of nursing is warranted in Canada. 5 Motivation In my tenure as a nurse, I have considered leaving nursing twice. The first instance occurred during my second year of study as a baccalaureate nursing student. I was challenged by my instructors to embody a traditional image of the nurse, an image that was in opposition to my personal appearance. The decision to leave weighed on my conscience as to whether or not I should continue within a profession that rests its professionalism so heavily on appearances alone. With great hesitation, I conformed to the requisite image, and subsequently was successful in my studies as a student nurse. All the while, I never forgot the power that my instructors held over me with their ideals of nursing professionalism and the pressure to conform to my classmates. The second instance occurred within one year of entering the workforce. I found that I was employed in an acute setting that I would now consider an inappropriate placement for a new nursing graduate. I was distressed at witnessing great disrespect between nurses, a situation which challenged my perception of nurses being caring and compassionate for others. Dissatisfaction with the work environment, an ‘every man for himself’ mentality, and an exodus of senior staff to other hospital areas resulted in a lack of mentorship for newly- graduated RNs that included me. Day after day I questioned, is this how it is supposed to be? And, if this oppressive climate is going to continue, do I really want to remain part of this profession? Subsequently, I took a three-month leave of absence to consider my options. In the end, I decided to stay, but I never forgot 6 my experience as I pursued work in other areas of nursing, throughout my graduate studies, and as a nurse educator. As I move forward exploring this topic as a nurse educator, it is clear to me that nursing students require not only support, but encouragement to succeed in the nursing profession. This study allowed me to understand first-hand what was needed to help the newly-graduated RNs who left the nursing profession to thrive as novice practitioners. Throughout this study I have made many reflections: The seed is planted; At times the seed is nourished, and despite the elements, thrives. Other times the seed is left to starve and struggles to survive. The stalk unsupported, the flower cannot bloom; Or the leaves become shorn, frayed by gloom. Without the hope of seizing the changing elements, A loss of control – the blossom slowly fades. Returning to the earth, the seed rests assured. What was once deterred, will thrive, be determined, And will rise once more. (K. Chachula) As part of utilizing Glaser’s grounded theory method, it was important to explore my own assumptions regarding the reasons why newly-graduated RNs might choose to leave the nursing profession. Is it possible that my experience as a new RN continues within the incoming Millennial Generation nurses? Perhaps new RNs are leaving related to workplace injuries? Or, being a female-dominated profession, are new RNs leaving to have children and start families? If so, it is possible that these nurses might return to the workforce after a period of time that is associated with their children starting elementary school. A review of the 7 literature revealed a paucity of knowledge concerned with the reasons why new nurses leave the nursing profession. Research Objective Throughout this study, I seek to explore the factors and basic psychosocial process involved in the decision of newly-graduated RNs who permanently exit the nursing profession. Guiding Research Questions 1) What is the basic social process involved in the decision of newly- graduated RNs to permanently exit the nursing profession? 2) What contributory factors (internal and external) influence the newly- graduated RN to permanently exit practice? 3) What are the precursors to permanent exit from the nursing profession? Thesis Structure I have organized this thesis into five chapters. In the first chapter, I provide an introduction, background, and overview of goals regarding my thesis research. In the second chapter, I present the current state of knowledge through the conduction of a literature review concerning new nurse exit from the profession. In chapter three, I discuss the study design which employs the Glaserian grounded theory method. The research findings and accompanying discussion are revealed in Chapter four. In Chapter five, implications and recommendations are summarized regarding the study findings, which are followed by the study’s appendices. 8 CHAPTER 2: CURRENT STATE OF KNOWLEDGE A literature search was conducted to identify published studies that examined new RN exit from the profession. Searched databases included Medical Literature Analysis and Retrieval System Online (MEDLINE), Cumulative Index to Nursing and Allied Health Literature (CINAHL), and Health Policy Reference Centre. Search terms included newly graduated nurse, new nurse, novice nurse and retention, intention to quit, intent to leave, and attrition. A total of 422 articles were identified after duplicates were removed. Please refer to Appendix A to view the Search Methods which include the search string, inclusion and exclusion criteria, as well as other search details. The majority of studies identified in the literature search examined the lateral movement of newly-graduated nurses but neglected to adequately address new RN exit from the profession. Therefore, the findings from the six studies included for review required careful interpretation to distinguish data which measured lateral movement or position changes of RNs, as opposed to findings relating to an RN’s intentions to leave the profession. Please refer to Appendix B to view the Quality Appraisal of the five studies and Appendix C to view a synthesis of the studies included for review. Three key themes were identified in the literature relating to new RN exit from the profession. These included level of job satisfaction, exhaustion and burnout, and the quality of the practice environment. Educational preparation specific to new RN exit from the nursing profession was limited within the literature. 9 Level of Job Satisfaction Newly graduated nurses who experience dissatisfaction within the workplace are likely to seek alternative employment (Parry, 2008). Conversely, high workplace satisfaction is correlated with intentions to stay in a current position (Suzuki, Tagaya, Ota, Nagasawa, Matsuura, & Sato, 2010). Low levels of organizational commitment and affective commitment to the profession “are antecedents of intention to change professions ... interestingly, the relationship between job satisfaction and intention to change professions are not direct” (Parry, 2008, p. 163). The relationship between job satisfaction and intention to leave the profession remains unclear in the nursing literature. Without conducting a specific study or series of studies central to the newly-graduated RN who exits the nursing profession, these factors and their associated relationships will remain unclear. Exhaustion and Burnout Exhaustion and burnout are common themes documented throughout nursing literature. They are often attributed to a nurse’s intentions to change job roles; however these themes are seldom related to novice nurses entering the clinical practice environment. A study conducted by Suzuki et al. (2010) provided an extensive review of factors effecting turnover in newly-graduated Japanese nurses using a repeated-measures design. The study included detailed reporting of study participants, data collection points, and findings resulting in a score of 17/18 on the Methodological Index for Non-Randomized Studies (MINORS) scale. See Appendix B: Quality Appraisal of Studies for details. 10 Suzuki et al. (2010) found that Maslach Burnout Inventory scores were statistically significantly higher in newly-graduated Japanese nurses in those who quit their jobs when compared to new graduates who stayed within their current position. Increasing levels of burnout, physical exhaustion, and mental exhaustion throughout the first year of practice were statistically significant contributors for job turnover. New graduates who entered practice environments feeling burnout were more likely to leave their position after a period of approximately 10 to 15 months after practice-entry. Nine point seven percent of participants indicated they wished to leave the profession (Suzuki et al., 2010). In a Swedish longitudinal study, Rudman and Gustavsson (2011) found that “during the first three years of practice, every fifth nurse is at some point ‘burned out’, and for the majority of novice nurses, the second year of practice seems especially stressful” (p. 293). Furthermore, the researchers reported that approximately 47% of graduates experienced a significant increase in burnout during their second year of entry into the workforce. Rudman and Gustavsson (2011) reported a significant relationship between study participants with high and increasing levels of burnout reported with intention to leave the profession. Considering these findings, there remains a gap in the literature that fully explores the experience that motivates a newly-graduated nurse from intention to leave the profession to actual exit from nursing. Mackusick and Minick (2010) also identified fatigue and exhaustion as a key theme in their phenomenological study. This study was appraised using the Critical Appraisal Skills Program (CASP) Qualitative Research Tool resulting in a 11 mixed final score. Of the ten questions on the appraisal tool, only five were adequately reported. While Mackusick and Minick’s study has a clear purpose with appropriate methodology and research design, it is somewhat misleading. The researchers describe clinical nursing as “providing direct patient care in the hospital setting” (Mackusick & Minick, 2010, p. 335). It is widely known that nursing work takes place in a variety of settings that involves direct patient care outside of the hospital environment including outpatient clinics, hospices, primary care networks, client homes, and long term care facilities (Buhler-Wilkerson, 2012; Every, 2007; Munn, 2012). The definition provided by the researchers limits the scope to examine ‘why nurses leave’ if only hospital environments are considered. The outcome of the study participants is also not totally clear in the study conducted by Mackusick and Minick (2010). Specifically, the study reveals that only three out of the 10 participants actually left the nursing profession. Interestingly, all three were new nursing graduates who exited the profession after one to two years upon entry-to-practice. Two study participants reported having to find alternative work as a result of their experiences. The reader is left to wonder what happened to the five remaining participants. Taking that into account, the researchers clearly presented exhaustion and burnout as a central theme. The participants in the Mackusick and Minick (2010) study who described exhaustion referred to experiencing its effects for six months before quitting their positions. Importantly, self-described exhausted participants did not exit the 12 nursing profession in the study; instead, nurses moved laterally into alternative positions. These findings suggest the potential for newly-graduated RNs to exit the nursing profession in the presence of exhaustion and burnout. Further study of this phenomenon is needed to fully understand the relationship between exhaustion and burnout on exit from the profession as opposed to turnover intentions in new RNs. Quality of Practice Environment The quality of the practice environment is a significant indicator of a nurse’s intentions to stay or leave a position and contributes to an RN’s decision to exit the nursing profession. In a study conducted by Lavoie-Tremblay, Paquet, and Marchionni (2011) in Quebec, Canada, the researchers employed a descriptive correlational design to examine “the intent to quit among new nurses from Generation Y” (p. 39). The study was appraised using the MINORS tool and received a score of 15/18. The authors conducted and reported their study with a high level of clarity. The aim was clearly stated following the literature review which adequately captured concepts by prevalent researchers defining Generations X and Y (Boychuk-Duchscher & Cowin, 2004). The authors reported a 30% survey response rate where they clearly established that the nursing work environment is a factor related to nurse turnover and retention. Specifically, Lavoie-Tremblay et al. (2011) found that nurses who provided low scores on ability to participate in hospital affairs, ability to provide quality care, and engage in poor nurse-physician relationships were more likely to leave their jobs in the province of Quebec, Canada. Those with severely low 13 scores indicated their intent to leave the profession. Parry (2008) asserts that intention to change employer is significantly related to the intention to leave the profession in an Australian study which examined newly-graduated RNs. These studies, however, do not reveal the process or the factors of what occurs between the times a newly graduated nurse has intentions to leave the profession to actively exiting from practice. Newly-graduated RNs frequently face horizontal or lateral violence from their co-workers and hierarchical bullying from managers and physicians (Vessey, DeMarco & DiFazio, 2011). The presence of horizontal and hierarchal violence is a serious determinant of a newly-graduated RN’s decision to exit practice. For example, in MacKusick and Minick’s study (2010), the three newly graduated nurses who permanently exited the nursing profession reported experiencing verbal, physical, and sexual abuse. While negative practice environments influence an RN’s decision to leave their position, it may not necessarily lead all newly-graduated RNs to exit from the profession. It is important to make a clear distinction between intent to change position and intent to change profession. The outcome for each concept results in a different pathway wherein the nurse who changes roles, continues to practice nursing as opposed to those who exit practice permanently. There are many studies in which job turnover is examined (De Gieter, Hofmans, & Pepermans, 2011) whereas few have examined nurses who have chosen to leave the nursing profession other than for retirement purposes or disciplinary action (Nooney, Unruh, & Yore, 2010). We cannot safely assume that the reasons newly- 14 graduated RNs are leaving the nursing profession are the same as those who decide to change positions without a specific study to examine this phenomenon. Therefore, conducting a grounded theory study which examines the basic social psychological process involved in determining how newly-graduated RNs arrive at the decision to exit the nursing profession within five years of entry into the workforce is warranted. 15 CHAPTER 3: STUDY DESIGN This study was conducted using classic, Glaserian grounded theory. Grounded theory is a qualitative research method that examines a basic psychosocial process (Loiselle, Profetto-McGrath, Polit, & Beck, 2011). The historical foundations of grounded theory are described as well as symbolic interactionism, the philosophical underpinning of grounded theory. The purpose of the study and the guiding research questions are re-iterated, and the sampling and recruitment strategies are described. Methods for data collection and analysis are outlined, followed by the study’s mechanisms to ensure for rigour. Historical Foundations of Grounded Theory Grounded theory was developed by the sociologists Barney Glaser and Anslem Strauss in the mid-1960s (Streubert & Carpenter, 2011). Glaser and Strauss published this new method in their book entitled The Discovery of Grounded Theory (1967) wherein the researchers explored hospitalized, dying patients. The purpose of grounded theory is to develop a middle-range theory that delineates a basic social problem or process (Glaser, 1992). The basic psychosocial process is characterized by at least two stages which occur and change over time. Furthermore, the process may or may not be perceived by the person experiencing the phenomenon, but can be perceived by others (Glaser, 1992). Streubert and Carpenter state that basic psychosocial processes “transcend time and place without regard to culture, race or place” (2011, p. 125). Grounded theory utilizes an inductive approach to theory development that is ‘grounded’ in the research data or evidence from which the theory is generated (Streubert & 16 Carpenter, 2011). Importantly, the grounded theory method is widely used and accepted within nursing research (Artinian, Giske & Cone, 2009; Streubert & Carpenter, 2011). Grounded theory was later modified by Strauss in collaboration with his graduate student, Juliet Corbin. This modified approach was published in their book entitled Basics of Qualitative Research (Strauss & Corbin, 1990). Glaser strongly opposed the book’s publication which resulted in a divide between the classic, Glaserian grounded theory and Straussian grounded theory methods (Glaser, 1992). Proponents of Straussian grounded theory aim to describe concepts and their relationships, whereas Glaserian grounded theory seeks to discover an emerging theory (Glaser, 1992). Straussian grounded theory advocates for a thorough literature review, whereas Glaserian grounded theory is opposed (Streubert & Carpenter, 2011). Another difference between each method lie within how data is coded. Glaser utilizes substantive coding (open and selective) and theoretical coding, whereas Strauss uses open, axial, and selective coding (Loiselle et al., 2011). Straussian grounded theory also requires an explicit research question as opposed to Glaserian grounded theory where a specific research question is not needed. Symbolic Interactionism As a philosophical underpinning, grounded theory is rooted in symbolic interactionism which seeks to understand how behaviour and meaning are associated with particular social symbols or a social process (Aldiabat & Le Navenec, 2011). From this philosophical standpoint, the ‘self’’, ‘me’, and ‘I’ are 17 socially constructed by others (Mead, 1934). In elaboration of these concepts, Mead (1934) asserts that the ‘self’ is comprised of ‘I’ and ‘me’. The notion of ‘I’ interprets the inner self, whereas the notion of ‘me’ is defined and reflected by the external ‘other’. Cooley (1902) originally referred to this notion as the ‘looking- glass self’’ wherein the perception of oneself is dependent upon the thoughts and actions of others through social interaction. Merton’s Social Theory and Social Structure (1949) further elaborate on these sociological constructs adding the dimension of socialization. Merton (1949) illustrates that individuals internalize their roles within a social system resulting in acceptance or conformity of the society or institution’s goals. Conversely, dysfunction, maladjustment, or rebellion could also result from socialization. Theories that draw upon symbolic interactionism are inductively generated and rooted in sociological philosophy, hence the basis for the strong relationship between grounded theory and symbolic interactionism (Aldiabat & Le Navenec, 2011). Purpose of Study The purpose of this study was to explore the basic psychosocial process involved in the decision of newly-graduated RNs to permanently exit the nursing profession. Glaserian grounded theory is an appropriate method to determine how factors influence a newly-graduated nurse to permanently exit nursing practice. Guiding Research Questions 1) What is the basic psychosocial process involved in the decision of newly-graduated RNs to permanently exit the nursing profession? 18 2) What contributory factors (internal and external) influence the newly- graduated RN to permanently exit practice? 3) What are the precursors to permanent exit from the nursing profession? Sample Selection Purposive, convenience, and theoretical sampling were used for recruitment into the study. Participant inclusion criteria consisted of newly- graduated RNs who chose to exit the nursing profession within five years of entry-to-practice. Participants are graduates from a Canadian university institution living in western Canada and were taking steps to leave the nursing profession. Individuals were excluded who left the nursing profession after more than five years of entry-to-practice, as well as those who exited related to retirement purposes, or due to disciplinary action. Midwives, diploma-educated RNs, Licensed Practical Nurses (LPNs), and college-level graduates were also excluded as the Canadian Nurses Association has advocated for nation-wide baccalaureate entry-to-practice (CNA, 2004). Please refer to Appendix D to view the Demographic Form. Recruitment of Participants After ethics approval was obtained, participants were recruited by means of a poster, email, and Facebook campaign calling for participants. Posters were placed within various buildings and departments throughout two academic institutions in western Canada. Posters were also placed in public areas within eight hospitals and health care facilities in a large western Canadian city. Refer to Appendix E to view the Sample Poster. An email calling for participants was 19 posted on four faculty listserves throughout a large academic institution in western Canada with the intention of capturing nursing alumni who returned to study in alternate career paths. Emails were also sent to nursing alumni who graduated between the years 2008-2012 through one academic institution. A request to email nursing alumni at a separate academic institution in western Canada was unsuccessful due to a lack of space in an online alumni newsletter. Participants were not recruited through provincial RN regulating bodies due to fiscal constraints. The total number of participants was determined by achieving data saturation. Demographic Description of Participants Eight individuals ranging in ages 26 to 34 years participated in the study. Seven participants were female and one was male. Only one participant self- identified as being part of a visible minority. No participants had children or independents. Half of study participants were married or were partnered with a significant other. While the majority of participants worked within one or two practice areas, one participant was employed in four different specialized areas before deciding to exit the nursing profession. Seven participants decided to exit the nursing profession or are pursuing studies that will result in a different career path that does not include nursing work. Participant characteristics are summarized below in Table 1. Participant Characteristics. 20 Table 1. Participant Characteristics Variable n % Age (years) Range = 26 - 34 8 100 Mean = 27.9 Standard Deviation = 2.6 Sex Male 1 12.5 Female 7 87.5 Married or Significant Other Yes 4 50.0 No 4 50.0 Children or Independents Yes 0 0 No 8 100 Self-Identify as Visible Minority Yes 1 12.5 No 7 87.5 Areas of Practice upon Workforce Entry Mental Health 1 12.5 Labour & Delivery 1 12.5 Critical Care/Specialized Area 4 a,b 50 Community Health 2 25 Full Time Status Yes 7 c 87.5 No 1 12.5 Years of Practice as RN Range = 1 - 5 8 100 Mean = 2.4 Standard Deviation = 1.4 New Career Path Education 2 25 Law 1 12.5 Midwifery 1 12.5 Research 1 12.5 Global Health 1 12.5 Undetermined 2 25 Notes: a Specialized areas consisted of Emergency Department, Intensive Care Unit, and Oncology. b Most participants held employment in one area of nursing. However, one participant worked in four different specialized areas. c One participant’s work hours were reduced unexpectedly to part time after gaining full time employment. For theoretical sampling purposes, one participant who decided to maintain her nursing license was recruited into the study. However, it should be clarified that this individual is not required to maintain a nursing license in her current job, she 21 does not provide direct nursing care, and has no intentions of returning to bedside practice. Therefore she qualified as an appropriate participant for this study. All participants originated from western Canada and practiced as RNs in the provinces of British Columbia, Alberta, and Manitoba. Concurrent Data Collection and Analysis Data were collected through semi-structured interviews that were audio recorded and transcribed per verbatim for data analysis. Transcriptions were ‘cleaned’ by me, the primary researcher, removing any identifying information. The initial interview allowed participants to freely describe their experiences related to exit from the nursing profession. An interview guide was developed to prompt participants if there was difficulty explaining or recalling their perspectives. Please refer to Appendix F to view the sample interview guide. Subsequent interviews utilized theoretical sampling and semi-structured questions that related to emerging categories within the data to generate a model. Approval was gained to interview each participant up to three times. Participants were interviewed twice, for approximately one hour at a location of the participant’s choosing. The shortest interview was only 12 minutes while the longest interviewed spanned three hours in length. A total of 15 interviews were conducted. All but one participant responded to a request for a second interview to review the preliminary findings. Data collection and analysis occurred simultaneously wherein interview data were analyzed systematically, line-by-line, using Glaser’s constant comparative approach (Glaser, 1978). Data were ‘fractured’ through two types of 22 coding: substantive codes and theoretical codes to discover the core variable (Glaser, 1978; Glaser, 1992) that highlighted the experience of the newly- graduated RNs who were in the process of permanently exiting practice labelled Letting Go. According to Glaser (1992), drawing upon substantive and theoretical codes result in a theory that fits the data. Substantive Coding “Substantive codes are the conceptual meanings given by generating categories and their properties, which conceptually sum up the patterns found in the substantive incidents in the field” (Glaser, 1992, p. 27). Substantive coding consists of two types of coding; open and selective. Substantive codes in this study comprised: (a) Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace; (b) Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours; (c) Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges; and (d) Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions. Open coding. Open coding is the initial stage of constant comparison analysis. During this initial phase, data were broken down into incidents, and compared for similarities and differences, allowing concepts, categories of concepts, and the properties of each concept to emerge until saturation was achieved. Glaser (1978) encourages the researcher to open code in the margin of the transcript or field note, next to the indicator. This was completed on all transcribed interviews throughout the study. Glaser (1978) identifies several rules for open coding that were followed in the conduction of this study. Glaser (1978) advises the researcher to begin by asking themselves a series of questions such as: 23 What is this data a study of? What category does this incident indicate? What is actually happening in the data? What is the basic psychosocial process or problem faced by the participant? In this level of coding, the researcher (a) analyzes the data line-by-line; (b) does their own coding; (c) always interrupts coding to memo which involves theorizing and writing an idea about codes and their relationships; (d) stays within the confines of the substantive area and field of study, therefore, this study was focused within the nursing profession; and (e) should not assume the analytic relevance of any demographic variable until it emerges as being relevant in the data. This advice was drawn upon throughout all study activities. Glaser (1978) identifies two levels of open coding. The first level includes in vivo coding which adopts language used by the participant to identify codes and their relevant categories. One such in-vivo code generated in the study emerged as Realizing it will not get better. The second level of coding includes sociological constructs which are identified by the researcher to broaden in vivo codes into categories. Identification of the core category, Letting Go, signified the end of open coding and shifted to selective coding to generate the substantive theory or model (Glaser, 1978; Glaser, 1992; Loiselle et al., 2011). Selective coding. Selective coding limits data analysis to one core variable, which is often the basic psychosocial process. Throughout the concurrent data collection and analysis process, both open and selective coding were utilized simultaneously to shape and structure the emerging core variable, Letting Go. In accordance with Glaser’s (1978) eleven criteria regarding the core 24 category, Letting Go was therefore: (a) central; (b) recurred frequently in the data; (c) took more time to saturate than other categories; (d) related and easily connected with other categories; (e) it was clear with grabbing implications; (f) it had carry-through and relevance; (g) it was variable and readily modifiable; (h) it was a dimension of the problem; (i) the core category fit the data; (j) had explanatory power; and lastly, (k) it evolved from theoretical coding. A combination of substantive and theoretical coding was employed. Theoretical coding. “Theoretical codes are the conceptual models of relationship that are discovered to relate the substantive codes to each theoretically” (Glaser, 1992, p. 27). Theoretical codes connected the identified concepts and explicated the relationships between identified substantive categories to generate the theory or model. Theoretical codes wove the fractured codes back together, providing integrative scope and new perspectives (Glaser, 1978). An example of a theoretical code that emerged was Wearing Out. This theoretical code emerged from theoretical constructs within the Maslach Burnout Inventory (Maslach, Jackson, Leiter, & Schaufeli, 1996), thoroughly discussed in Chapter Four (Findings) of the thesis. Memoing Extensive memos were noted and sorted regarding important concepts that were discovered through the data. A memo is a sentence, paragraph, or a few pages which function to conceptualize and construct the emerging theory that is central to the core category and the basic social process (Glaser, 1978). Memoing forces the researcher to re-think and re-work global categories to become more 25 specific to the emerging theory (Glaser, 1978). Glaser (1978) identifies four goals of memo writing: (a) to develop ideas that raise data to a conceptual level, identify properties of each category, hypothesize connections between categories and their properties, integrate connections with clusters of other categories to generate theory, and locate the emerging theory with other theories; (b) to write with complete freedom to release the memo without concern for grammar; (c) to create a memo fund or listing of analytical ideas to generate a rich and dense theory; and (d) to create memos that are highly sortable wherein the central category or property of the memo is highlighted or underlined, allowing the memos to be copied or sorted without losing the original idea. Furthermore, Glaser (1978) advises not to memo in the margins of field notes, as this reduces the memo’s sortability, therefore memos were completed on coloured pages that were kept separately from the interview data. The use of model-building whilst memoing was the most successful strategy to delineate the emerging model throughout data collection and analysis. Glaser (1978) identifies twelve rules for writing memos that were adhered to during the conduction of this study. These rules include: (a) keep memos and data separate; (b) always interrupt data coding or recording to write a memo; (c) the researcher can force a memo by starting to write on a code; (d) do not be afraid to modify memos as growth and realizations occur; (e) keep a list of the emergent codes readily available; (f) if too many memos on different codes are similar, compare codes for differences that are being missed between the two codes; (g) problematic digressions should be followed through on a conceptual, 26 not logical elaboration basis, for the purpose of theoretical sampling or for indicating an area for future research; (h) run the memos open as long as resources allow to develop the rich diversity; (i) write conceptually about the substantive codes as they are theoretically coded without referring to the original participant; (j) if the researcher has two burning ideas, write the ideas up one at a time; (k) indicate in memos “saturation” when the category is saturated; and (l) no matter how well memoing is working, be flexible with memoing techniques. Throughout the memoing process, many codes and categories were shifted, reviewed, discussed, journalled, integrated and/or collapsed into larger categories, re-iterated, and redrawn to develop the emerging model in accordance with Glaser’s grounded theory method. Journaling Importantly, Glaser (1992) advises researchers to enter the field with an open mind and to learn from the participants as opposed to drawing on what is already known about the phenomenon. Both memoing and journaling serve to keep the researcher open to ideas and possibilities related to the substantive and conceptual areas (Glaser, 1978). This basic tenet served as a foundation during the data collection and analysis process. Being that the literature is crowded with themes that include burnout, bullying, and horizontal violence, a journal was kept by the researcher throughout all research activities to limit any preconceived ideas regarding the area of study (Glaser, 1978). This activity kept my mind open and true to the data as opposed to referring to my own experience or published knowledge in nursing literature. 27 Mechanisms to Ensure for Rigour The resulting model met four criteria outlined by Glaser (1978; 1992). The four criteria include: (a) the theory will fit the experiences and data collected from the participants; (b) the theory will work in explaining the social process and behaviour of the participants; (c) the theory will have relevance if the theory both fits and works regarding the identified categories, as well as explain, predict and interpret what was and what will happen in the area of substantive inquiry; and (d) the theory will accommodate concepts and properties as new data emerges, referred to as modifiability. In achieving the above named criteria, the theory had both parsimony and scope which are “two prime criteria of good scientific inducted theory” (Glaser, 1992, p. 18). In addition, mechanisms to ensure for rigour in qualitative research include dependability, credibility, confirmability, and transferability or fittingness (Lincoln & Guba, 1985). Techniques to ensure rigour included investigator triangulation, member checks, as well as audit and decision trails. Investigator triangulation is known as the use of more than one researcher to collect, analyze, or interpret a set of data adding to the dependability of the research (Loiselle et al., 2011). Hence, my supervisor reviewed the cleaned, coded interviews to add to the study’s rigour. Lincoln and Guba (1985) refer to ‘member checks’ as a fundamental technique for establishing credibility of qualitative data which was achieved during secondary interviews with participants. Furthermore, data were analyzed concurrently with the data collection process not only to align with the Glaserian grounded theory method, but to 28 clarify and confirm emerging categories with participants to add rigour to the study. Numerous participant quotations are included in the fourth thesis chapter as findings. This adds to the confirmability of the study findings (Lincoln & Guba,1985). An audit and decision trail was also constructed. Loiselle et al. (2011) define an audit trail as a “systematic collection of documentation that allows an independent auditor to arrive at similar conclusions about the data” (p. 269) thus adding to the trustworthiness and confirmability of the data. Likewise, a decision trail “articulates the researchers’ decision rules for categorizing data and making inferences in the analysis” (Loiselle et al., 2011, p. 270). Additionally, adhering to Glaser’s four criteria of fit, work, relevance, and modifiability (Glaser, 1978; Glaser, 1992) has added to the study’s transferability or fittingness to outside contexts. Ethical Considerations Ethical approval was sought and granted from the University Ethics Committee (see Appendix G to view the Approval Letter). An Information Letter and Consent Form was provided to each participant prior to data collection (please refer to Appendices H and I). I answered any questions about the study and obtained written consent from those interested in participating in the study. Participants were made aware that taking part in this study would not affect the participant’s job, current standing as a Registered Nurse, current professional status, or have any effect upon academic courses in which the participant was currently enrolled or may choose to partake in future studies. 29 Participants were free to withdraw any and all data at any time during the data collection phase of the study. Within one week of the interview, the participant received a copy of their transcript to review the data for errors, clarify statements, or retract data from the interview transcript. At the completion of the data collection phase, all participants were notified that the data collection phase was closing. This provided participants a final opportunity to review their transcripts regarding any data they wanted removed from the study. Transcripts were anonymized by the researcher, did not contain any identifying information, and any electronic data were password protected and/or encrypted. Only the researcher and research supervisor responsible for the oversight of coding had access to the ‘cleaned’ interview transcripts. Pseudonyms were assigned to participants to ensure for confidentiality and to protect their identity. Transcripts will be kept in a locked, secure location for a minimum of five years on completion of the study as the data may be used for future research upon ethical approval of a secondary analysis. Owing to the sensitive nature of the topic, the participants’ mental health was considered throughout the interview/data collection process. The only exception to the promise of safeguarding the participants’ identity was that the researcher was legally obligated to report any intentions of harm to oneself or others. This was stated clearly on the Information Letter prior to the initial interview. Although some participants were emotional and verbalized difficulty sharing their perspectives and reflections at times during data collection, no interventions were required. 30 Limitations Potential limitations of this study include the sampling and recruitment strategy. Convenience and purposive sampling may exclude participants who fit the inclusion criteria but are not aware of the opportunity to participate and share their experience with the researcher. It was not feasible to recruit potential participants through the provincial regulatory nursing body by placing a call for participants. Furthermore, to place advertisements in nursing journals and local newspapers was beyond the fiscal capabilities of the primary researcher and research supervisor as this study received no funding. Therefore, the researcher was limited to localized potential participants and those with email access to listserves through a large western academic institution due to fiscal restrictions. The scope of this study was limited to the nursing profession. The researcher recognizes that the educational practices and experiential learning components within the nursing profession are reflective of the educational practices of many other professions that include but are not limited to physicians, social work, dental hygiene, physiotherapy, occupational therapy, teachers, speech language pathologists, and pharmacists, among others. This study focused on the nursing profession; however, the implications of the study may have relevance for other practice-based professions. Dissemination Strategies There is a diversity of options available to disseminate the findings of this research study which include journal publications, conferences, and non- traditional methods. This thesis will become accessible through the University of 31 Alberta and the online database, ProQuest Theses and Dissertations. Publication within a nursing journal will be a primary mechanism for dissemination. Journals that will be considered for publication include the Canadian Nurse, the International Journal for Nursing Education Scholarship, the Journal of Nursing Education, Nurse Education Today, and the Journal for Nurses in Staff Development, among others. Research findings will be disseminated at conferences locally, nationally and internationally. Specifically, I presented at the International Institute for Qualitative Methodology: Qualitative Health Conference in Halifax, Nova Scotia in October, 2013. I also presented the findings of this research at the Margaret Scott Wright Research Day, a conference supported by the University of Alberta’s Faculty of Nursing in November, 2013. The attendees of this conference consist primarily of nursing faculty and students, to whom this research is highly applicable. Conferences hosted by the Western and Northern Region Canadian Association of Schools of Nursing (WNRCASN), Canadian Association of Schools of Nursing (CASN), Canadian Nurses Association (CNA), International Council of Nurses (ICN), and Sigma Theta Tau International (STTI) will also be regarded. Non-traditional methods for dissemination will be considered which include web-blogs, You Tube videos, and Twitter. 32 CHAPTER 4: FINDINGS AND DISCUSSION: LETTING GO Through the use of Glaser’s grounded theory method, a basic psychosocial process described as Letting Go was generated which captured the dynamic involved in the decision of newly-graduated nurses to exit professional nursing practice. Letting Go is illustrated as a fading flame depicted below in Figure 2. The fading flame: Letting Go. The image of the fading flame echoes the image of Florence Nightingale, the Lady with a Lamp, (Longfellow, 1857; Butterworth, 1855), and symbolizes the fading internal light of nursing within those who have decided to exit the nursing profession. The process of Letting Go for participants was a journey fraught not only with challenges, but also insights, rewards, and perceptions into nursing education and subsequently with becoming a nurse. Letting Go can be likened to Kübler- Ross’ (1969) theory on grief as a five-stage process wherein an individual feels a sense of denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, and depression, followed by acceptance at which point an individual comes to terms with loss. These stages of loss were outwardly present in two participants in which the process to exit nursing was akin to “grieving.” A sense of loss was perceived by participants who questioned the decision whether to stay or leave nursing practice as they persevered in spite of many challenges. As one participant stated, leaving nursing will be “less of a struggle” (Blaize) now that she is pursuing an alternate career pathway. One participant stated it was a “cathartic experience” (Kindle) to discuss what prompted her decision to leave nursing. 33 Figure 2. The Fading Flame: Letting Go Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System & Workplace Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies & Troublesome Behaviours Facing Fears, Traumas & Challenges Weighing Competing Rewards & Tensions (Not) adjusting to workload (Not) adapting to shiftwork Contending with reactivity of the healthcare system Manoeuvring within the healthcare system Abiding student-teacher relationships Being confronted with paternalism Encountering hierarchal & horizontal violence: Feeling unwelcome & undervalued Yielding to humiliation & hostility Persevering Not feeling prepared: Difficulties with Context Based Learning Disconnecting between classroom & clinical Personality characteristics Dealing with fears & anxieties Feeling traumatized Wearing out: Losing the joy of nursing Realizing it will not get better Deciding to leave: No regret Reasonable patient- nurse ratios Fatigue mitigation in the workplace Opportunities for life- long learning Meaningful orientation Interprofessional teamwork Emancipation Being welcomed, valued, respected & accepted Emotional support & debriefing Caring & friendly atmosphere Constructive feedback Emotional Intelligence Transformational & authentic leadership Substantive Category: Dampening the Spirit: Fanning the Flame: Le tt in g G o Letting Go Letting Go Le ttin g G o 34 For others, Letting Go provided a sense of self-actualization knowing that they “made the right choice [to leave] nursing behind” (Aura) and to move on from nursing work. Self-actualization is an individual’s process toward self- fulfilment (Maslow, 1943). Through engaging in self-actualization, participants gave themselves “permission to let go” of nursing (Ember) without the fear of “becom[ing] trapped because they are afraid to let go” (Ashley). Arriving at the decision to exit nursing practice allowed participants to rest-assured with the accompanying “freedom” (Ember) and sense of “relief” (Aura) in their choice to exit the nursing profession. Integral to the core variable were four substantive categories that emerged from the basic psychosocial process, Letting Go. Owing to the sensitive nature of qualitative research, the content of the substantive categories naturally overlap (Foley, 2011). This overlapping relates to the interconnectedness with regard to how a single experience has implications for other substantive categories in the process of newly-graduated nurses who decide to exit the nursing profession. These categories include: (a) Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace; (b) Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours; (c) Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges; and (d) Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions. The final substantive category, Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions involves active engagement in evaluating conflicting contextual elements encountered in nursing practice. This evaluation is comprised of weighing tensions, described as Dampening the Spirit, and positive rewards 35 garnished from nursing practice, referred to as Fanning the Flame in the previous three substantive categories in deciding whether or not to stay in the nursing profession. To further explain, Dampening the Spirit emotes the dampened spirit and sense of loss each participant endured throughout the basic psychosocial process of Letting Go. This process involved the loss of identity as described by Burke and Stets (2009) in their theory of identity formation. More specifically, participants increasingly dissociated from establishing a role identity as a nurse in relation to the absence of support, de-validation, and lack of legitimization in securing a nursing identity. This process is attributed to the lack of intrinsic and extrinsic rewards specific to the nursing identity in conflict. Dampening the Spirit comprises oppressive tensions specific to each substantive category as participants exited practice. Conversely, Fanning the Flame is characterized by positive, reassuring rewards that mitigate wanting to exit the nursing profession. Strategies and recommendations to circumvent exit from the profession are discussed, as well as comments from participants in the study. A summary of recommendations to mitigate exit from the profession is provided following discussion of the major substantive categories. As a result of this process, participants ultimately decided to leave nursing practice. We will first explore Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace. Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace 36 Today, we live in a market-driven, globalized society, reflected by neo- liberalist and capitalist business venture. The market has permeated government functions, education, the health care system, and many others throughout North America and globally (Hedges, 2010). In this multi-layered substantive category identified as Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace, participants experienced a variety of constraints upon entering the health care system and workplace. Boychuk-Duchscher (2012a) argues newly-graduated nurses must learn to navigate the health care environment through high workloads and increasing patient acuity to successfully transition from student nurse to novice practitioner. Navigating within the system and workplace was influenced by many factors. Participants described working in a health care system that is “backed up everywhere,” “strained,” “rigid,” and “non-responsive” (Ember). Participants discovered a learning curve to operate within the “bureaucracy” and feeling “stifled” in their practice as a nurse (Ashley). Kindle and others described poor “working conditions,” “high patient loads,” and a climate of “cutbacks.” Researchers acknowledge the health care system is a rigidly structured entity that does not permit system changes easily (Hendy & Barlow, 2012). Reflected in Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace, many difficulties arose relating to (not) adjusting to workload, (not) adapting to shiftwork, grappling with the reactivity of the healthcare system, and manoeuvring within the healthcare system and workplace. (Not) Adjusting to Workload 37 Dampening the spirit. Nurses and other health care providers have not been impervious to the marketization of health care and the changes within the health care system that have resulted. As an effect of capitalist business models, some authors argue that health care delivery has been transformed into a fragmented model of care (Coburn, 1999; Coleman, 2003) and a ‘do more with less’ mentality. This notion was reflected by Blaize regarding her role as a nurse in which she commented: For the most part, I really like my job. I like nursing. My reason to leave nursing isn’t because I’m a nurse; I think it’s a frustrating climate to work in. I think it’s a frustrating industry to work in, I think it’s frustrating for patients, I think it’s frustrating families, and it’s frustrating for staff. Because we are expected to do more with less. Kindle said, “I felt like when you were on the unit, you had to go go go constantly, and if you were late with something, it was like all hell was breaking loose. It was like the worst thing in the world.” In most work environments, participants described ‘doing more with less’ manifested as having increased patient-nurse ratios in hospital environments and the number of clients nurses are responsible for in community settings. Aura stated: The patient-nurse ratio. That’s my biggest pet peeve about the health care system is the patient-nurse ratios. Even in [critical care], it’s supposed to be one-to-one. But a lot of time it’s two-to-one. And I don’t think that if a patient is sick enough to be in the ICU they should have one nurse to two patients. Dawn was unequivocal when she stated “I found the workload difficult to manage” she also found it “physically challenging because of the workload.” The expectations for nurses to provide holistic care while being responsible for acutely ill patients and increased patient-loads have contributed to dissatisfaction, absenteeism, burnout, and poor psychological well-being within the nursing 38 workforce (Burke, 2003). According to Kelly (2007), “hospitals are now built to ‘cure’ diseases rather than to ‘care’...” (p. 29). Cole iterated that it was difficult to look “at a person as a whole rather than the task.” Aura expressed a similar sentiment while working as a nursing student: You get taught that you should spend time with your patient, and that you shouldn’t walk away, and you should take the time to get to know them, and all that stuff. But when you go out there ... in the medicine and surgery areas, you have an obscene amount of patients. And you are just running your entire shift. Another participant further elaborated how the workload affected her ability to provide the high-level of care expected of her during nursing school and subsequently as a nurse. She stated: Nurses are overworked; they have so much to do in so little time ... I think the vast majority of people go into nursing thinking that they are going to be doing compassionate care. And they do want to improve the health of people and do what they can to provide comfort and empathy to their clients. But when you have a slate of five clients and they all need quite a lot of attention, it’s really hard to build up that therapeutic relationship. And in nursing school, they always talk about building that rapport, build that relationship, active empathy, active compassion. But in reality, when you’re that overworked, it’s actually really hard to do those kinds of things ... because our health care system is the way it is, and we are understaffed for Registered Nurses. It’s just, you really can’t nurse in the Florence Nightingale model of nursing. (Ashley) Boychuk-Duchscher warns newly-graduated nurses are “are at risk of buckling under the strain of workload expectations” (2012b, New Graduate Transition Context section, para. 5) as they transition into the workforce which is reflective of the experiences of participants in this study. This was represented by Ember’s comment. She stated: You are the first person that work gets put upon if there are cut-backs, or layoffs, or someone gets sick, or anything. You’re just a mule in the healthcare system and you carry the weight ... It’s very depressing because 39 you don’t have the time to do it, you don’t have the energy, and what becomes important when you have a huge string of patients that you have to look after is, it changes very quickly from what you would like to do ideally, versus what it is you’re actually capable of doing without burning yourself out in a matter of a few years. Banks and Bailey (2010) report “high level of stress related to responsibility and high workloads paired with minimum pay compound the effects of reality shock of nurses new to the field” (p. 1491). A national survey jointly conducted by the CNA and the Registered Nurses’ Association of Ontario (RNAO) issued a statement warning of the rising incidence of nurse fatigue. More specifically, they state “fatigue is largely due to the relentless heavy workloads of nurses with ever-increasing cognitive, psychosocial and physical work demands” (CNA & RNAO, 2010, p. 1). Furthermore, “many [nurses] tend to pay more attention to the needs of their patients and colleagues rather than to their own needs” (CNA & RNAO, 2010, p. 1). These statements are reflective of the experiences of the participants in this study who often provided nursing care with little resources and expectations to work overtime hours. As Ember emoted “the way I wanted to do it [carry out nursing work] was not sustainable for me. But it was never the actual patient care that pushed me over, it was the system. It’s working in the system.” Cole stated “when an emergency happens right at the end of a double shift ... you don’t have the time or energy, or love, really, to give to what you’re doing.” These participants’ comments highlight the consequences of high workloads with little to no resources resulting in the push to exit the nursing profession. 40 Fanning the flame. Due to the efforts made by provincial nursing regulatory bodies and the CNA, there is an increasing awareness being disseminated regarding the negative effects of workload on nurses and the health care system. These organizations have developed solutions to mitigate and to prevent the exodus of nurses from the profession. These strategies include securing adequate funding to prevent staff shortages and an increased workload, developing policy standards to mitigate fatigue, advocating for healthy work environments that includes fatigue management strategies in nursing education programmes, and encouraging nurses to self-monitor for fatigue in the work environment by declining work assignments with regard to fitness to practice and safety (CNA & RNAO, 2010). Although many of the newly-graduated nurses I interviewed had difficulty managing the workload, Rae described feeling prepared for the realities of the workload a nurse carries. She stated: My mom is a nurse. Since I was a kid, I’ve always known the job is busy and stressful, and you’re running around, and I’ve always known those things. I kind of knew going into it was I was getting into. Rae added “I was very fortunate to be on a unit that was well staffed, and they were quite firm about how many patients we could have.” Likewise, Cole’s mother was also a nurse. However, he described his experience with regard to the workload as being surprising as if he was “going in blind;” despite knowing what his mother did as a nurse. In Western Australia and in the American state of California, hospitals have been mandated to set limits on the nurse-patient ratio leading to increased satisfaction in workload amongst licensed nursing staff 41 (Donaldson, Bolton, Aydin, Brown, Elashoff, & Sandhu, 2005; Twigg & Duffield, 2009). These participants raised other issues that they encountered in the workforce relating to having to adapt to shiftwork. (Not) Adapting to Shiftwork Dampening the spirit. In order to adapt to the disruption caused by shiftwork, new graduates must learn to develop a reasonable level of tolerance to accommodate a rotating schedule (West, Ahern, Byrnes, & Kwanten, 2007). According to Clare and van Loon (2003) many new graduates underestimate the impact of full time work upon entry into the workforce. Participants described their personal, social sacrifices they made to accommodate a rotating schedule. This was reflected in many of the comments made by participants in the study. Blaize stated, “I see my work family more often than I see my real family.” Aura reflected her perspective: I worked days and nights, and it was killing me. The switching, the nights, ugh it was just awful ... I had a hard time with shiftwork. I prefer to have either days or nights but not both. But I didn’t want to work only days because it’s 12 hour shifts, and that would be hard. I’m not exactly a morning person [chuckles]. I didn’t want to work only nights because again, it’s 12 hour shifts and you feel like you just live [at work], and then you sleep all day, and you’re kind of like a vampire. You never see your friends. She continued: I think I’m a really social person and I need that social aspect of my life. And I think that’s probably the biggest thing that drives me in terms of career choices. I need to be able to have that social aspect. (Aura) West et al. (2007) suggest that new graduates have a lower level of tolerance to disruptions in social life caused by shiftwork and rotating schedules. The impact 42 of shiftwork was also described by another participant who reported not being able to keep a regular schedule. I found shiftwork very taxing. And I found it really hard to stay connected to the rest of the world, when I don’t even know what day of the week it is. And I can’t go to a regularly scheduled yoga class because I don’t have a Monday to Friday schedule. (Kindle) Another participant reflected: I don’t really know if I have the personality to cope with a really rotating schedule. I would like to get something with permanent days, or permanent nights. Those kinds of jobs are few and far between in nursing. (Cole) Ashley stated the lifestyle of nurses is “very unhealthy – all the shiftwork, not getting to spend a lot of time with your family. I think that’s the case for many nurses – definitely not all, but a few. And yeah, I don’t enjoy the shiftwork.” Rae reflected a stronger aversion when adapting to shiftwork while still attending nursing school stating that “clinicals were brutal. Getting up at five in the morning and going to clinical ... getting into scrubs, and I hated nursing so much ... I just remember driving there, and [thinking to self], oh my God. I hate this.” These participants understood that nursing work often occurs within rotating shifts; however engaging in shiftwork was another matter. Ryle (1945) suggested the difference between ‘knowing how and knowing that.’ To elaborate, the practice of engaging in shiftwork, or ‘knowing how’ was a challenging prospect for new graduates as opposed to simply ‘knowing that’ nurses work in rotating schedules. Cole reflected “I didn’t know I couldn’t deal with shiftwork until I had got into nursing, really.” Interestingly, he further added that “we are Millennials, so we’re hyper-educated and kind of entitled ... maybe I’m a little 43 entitled thinking I don’t have to work shiftwork, and I don’t have to put up with all the things I have to.” The Millennial generation, also referred to as Generation Y, are perceived and stereotyped in the public purview as being needy, entitled, and disloyal (Thomspon & Gregory, 2012). The Pew Research Centre (2010) argues that the search for work-life balance that began in Generation X has been accentuated in the subsequent Millennial Generation. Thompson and Gregory (2012) state “the same generation that is criticizing Millennials is responsible for shaping who they are today” (p. 242). Further adding to the Millennial debacle is the frequency in which Millennials are known to change employment roles. According to an American study conducted by the Pew Research Centre (2010), approximately 66% of employed Millennials report that it is ‘very’ or ‘somewhat likely’ they will change careers sometime in their working life. While “nearly six-in-ten employed Millennials say they already have switched careers at least once” (Pew Research Centre, 2010, p. 46). It is likely that the nursing profession is not immune to the movement of Millennials into and out of the profession. However, despite the job and career movement characteristics of the Millennial Generation, those within the nursing profession are encountering additional pressures and physical challenges that are intrinsic to the adjustment to shiftwork, thus adding to the push to leave the profession. Dawn described the physical challenges she encountered adjusting to night shifts upon entry into the workforce. She stated “a lot of nurses get the opportunity to combine their breaks and sleep on nights. That wasn’t possible 44 where I worked, it never happened. It felt physically horrible to work, and unsafe to work all night.” She added: I just felt exhausted having to be up all night. Working your whole shift, by 4 am you feel like you want to die ... I used to sleep all day after my night shifts and it didn’t matter [chuckles]. I was still tired. I definitely preferred day shifts because I felt bad on night shifts. And I felt like I was very tired, and I knew for sure that I was slower, that my reactions were slower ... I would notice that I would make a lot of mistakes that I wouldn’t even see. The exhaustion Dawn encountered was not an issue of feeling entitled, rather one of fatigue. The definition of fatigue proposed by the CNA and RNAO is described as a state in which the nurse’s physical and cognitive ability becomes impaired involving physical and psychological features such as emotional exhaustion, compassion fatigue and sleepiness that persist, despite obtaining periods of rest (CNA & RNAO, 2010). In a small survey conducted by the New Zealand Nurses Organisation (2011), approximately 30% of young nurses reported wanting to leave the nursing profession related to poor rostering and a dislike for shiftwork. Fanning the flame. One participant was able to adapt to shiftwork by avoiding it altogether. After graduating from nursing school, Rae secured a nursing position that was a straight evening shift without having to rotate between days and nights. Rae stated “I don’t think I’d want to do that for my life, I don’t think I’d want to do shiftwork. It just worked out well that I did the evening shift when I was working [as a nurse].” This raises a key question when recruiting new graduates into workforce positions. Perhaps employers should consider a schedule for new graduates that limit a rotating schedule in the first year of 45 practice as an RN. West et al. (2007) propose numerous strategies to mitigate the effects of shiftwork including learning how to manage an effective sleep and work schedule. This process involves new graduate self-scheduling, and “socializing rather than supporting” new graduates into shiftwork (p. 29). West et al. (2007) also suggest new graduates ought to learn how to negotiate with management if a particular shift is not suitable for the social requirements of the new graduate. Thompson and Gregory (2012) propose a different strategy, one that involves encouraging managers to engage Millennials at least once per month to provide them with feedback in their practice. The authors purport that “Millennials have learned to expect feedback” and that managers should see this want as “a willingness to learn and do a better job” (Thompson & Gregory, 2012, p. 241). Meeting with the Millennial would provide an avenue to strengthen the relationship of the new graduate with the workplace. This approach would allow the manager to support the new graduate confronted with any difficulties that arise with regard to adjusting to the workplace, shiftwork, and the health care system itself. Grappling with the Reactivity of the Health Care System Dampening the spirit. Participants described how the health care system is based too heavily on a medical model of care and ought to be proactive rather than reactive. According to CNA (2005b), current primary care methods are overwhelmed and unsustainable within a medical model of health care delivery. In the current health care system, physicians often operate within a medical model of curing. Nurses are not educated to cure, rather to promote and optimize health 46 as per the principles of Primary Health Care (PHC) in Canada. Nurses teach and engage individuals, families, and communities to live well with disease, as well as to prevent injury and illness. Nursing activities are supposed to occur under the auspice of the PHC model of delivery; however that has not been the case with many participants in this study. PHC includes five interrelated tenets: accessibility, public participation, health promotion and illness prevention, appropriate technology, intersectoral and interdisciplinary communication (College and Association of Registered Nurses of Alberta [CARNA], 2005). Nursing was conceptualized at the centre of this model (Reutter & Ogilvie, 2011). However, there is incongruence between what nursing students are taught and the way the health care system operates. As Ember described, “My nursing education did not prepare me for practice very well at all. I think there’s such a huge gap between what you are taught, what you should do, and what actually happens in the hospital setting.” One participant expressed disappointment in how the health care system functions when she stated, “We are really good at looking at the medical side of things ... but we are less good at understanding those cultural, sociological, and anthropological influences that are intrinsic to the way that health works” (Ashley). She further elaborated: I’m a huge proponent of proactive rather than reactionary medicine and healthcare. Our current political system doesn’t put enough emphasis on that ... because we are quite lacking in preventative care ... We need to stop using healthcare as a band-aid solution and we need to start focusing on why people are getting sick, who’s getting sick, the disparities in healthcare ... To me, that is at the core of what nursing should be, working with a vulnerable population to identify what their risks are in a harm reduction framework. That is the real essence of what healthcare is. It’s looking at 47 coping mechanisms, and it’s looking at harmful health practices, and trying to navigate between the two. (Ashley) Another participant confirmed the medical model-based nature of the health care system in her comment: If what we are actually striving for is better health, we are actually causing worse health, in the big picture. But it’s like we don’t look at the big picture. We do everything on a reactive basis not on a proactive basis. And I found that frustrating. (Kindle) Interestingly, Laschinger, Finegan, and Wilk (2009) report that new graduates experience more fulfilling and empowering workplaces that draw upon a nursing foundation of care as opposed to one that draws upon a medical model of care. As Ember stated: We focus so much more on giving medications, skills, and physical assessments. I found that patients physically feel better when you just talk to them, and learn a little bit about them, and how they feel ... Do they understand the healthcare team? Stuff like that. And those so-called soft skills are really not encouraged, promoted, or valued very much at all. And my experience has been that they are very valuable. And that’s something that I’m not willing to give up. These newly-graduated nurses are educated to uphold the principles of PHC, yet encounter a health care system that does not reflect PHC’s core principles of health promotion and illness prevention. When attempting to engage in nursing practice that is not in alignment with PHC principles and are medical-focused, Ember reflected “healthcare is such a huge monstrous machine that it’s almost prohibitive to change. And we would all somehow collectively rather keep working in a broken system than try to get over the task of changing it.” In the 1980s and 1990s, many nurses lost their jobs in the wake of health care reform and budget cuts (Burke, 2003; Dingel-Stewart & LaCoste, 2004). It is unfortunate that this trend continues. The current economic climate, ripe with 48 fiscal deficits, has pressured managers in the health care system to cut costs thus adding to the reactive nature of the healthcare system. In the province of Alberta, 12 Registered Nurses were ‘cut’ in March of 2013 with the intention to replace these individuals with lesser-skilled staff in effort to save costs (Mertz, 2013) resulting in untoward consequences between health professionals. Blaize remarked: They make it seem like we cost so much money and the reason why the health care system is being buried into the ground is because of nursing and only nursing. And that is the attitude that many nurses feel... it pits Registered Nurses, against Licensed Practical Nurses, against health care aides ... It creates animosity within the hospital, and within health care disciplines. So it’s a frustrating industry to work in [whispering voice]. Blaize’s frustration with regard to the replacement of RNs with less skilled staff was highly “insulting” to her. The reactionary effects of health care cuts have serious implications for newly-graduated nurses seeking to establish themselves within the nursing profession. Blaize urged for “a better working relationship with our superiors, whether it be your managers, your management team, or [the provincial health board] themselves” to decrease the “animosity” felt between stakeholders of the health care system. Without improved communication between managers, provincial health boards, nurses, and the public, Canada risks losing more newly-graduated nurses from the profession. Fanning the flame. To date, the CNA has lobbied governments, developed partnerships with physicians (CNA, 2005a), and encourages collaborative practice between all health professional groups within Canada’s public health care system (Walker, Olson, & Tytler, 2013). The CNA’s National Expert Commission delineates key priorities for change as the nursing profession 49 moves forward in promoting health and wellness within Canada’s health care system. Chief among these priorities is shifting health care delivery to perceive an individual as a whole rather than the sum of their parts and contextual health issues (CNA, 2012). Furthermore, the commission emphasizes educating health professionals as competent practitioners and capable leaders who can navigate patients and their families through the health care system. In keeping with the principles of PHC, the commission advocates for transferring health care delivery outside the realm of hospitals to encourage individuals to live well at home and in the community (CNA, 2012). As a means to shift power back to new graduates striving to navigate the health care system, it would behoove employers and nursing unions to provide new graduates with committee membership opportunities thus promoting their active involvement in decision making. The inclusion of the new graduate would thus provide the novice practitioner with an authentic voice through opportunities for involvement into workplace affairs as a means for retention (Lavoie-Tremblay et al., 2011) and occupational commitment (Parry, 2008). As well, nursing unions can also play a role in engaging newly-graduated nurses in resolving workplace issues and utilizing effective communication strategies with employers and managers to mitigate exit from the profession. Manoeuvring within the Health Care System Dampening the spirit. Many participants were confronted with various difficulties in learning how to maneuver within the rules of the workplace and union with regard to scheduling, requesting leave of absences (LOAs), seniority, 50 taking vacation, and having adequate orientation. Ember felt discouraged by “all the nitty-gritty rules [of the union] that affect everybody” with particular regard to the perceived mobility available within the nursing profession. Ember elaborated: One of the things that I think is really promoted in nursing, and in nursing school as well, is that you have a lot of mobility ... If you end up in a place that you don’t like, you can always move around. And I found that once I started working, that’s actually not true because of the way that most nursing positions are unionized. Hiring is based on seniority. And so, it’s very [sigh] difficult to move from one area to another. Because if you don’t have any experience in a particular area, chances are actually quite low that you will get in. These participants relay a sense of powerlessness akin to Foucault’s notion of power relations (Foucault, 1982) with regard to demanding obedience to institutionalized rules while operating within the health care system. Upon an attempt at manoeuvring within the system, these graduates were met with resistance from those who held power and dominion over them thus “clos[ing] the door on all possibilities” (Foucault, 1982, p. 789). The rules regarding seniority affected one participant’s ability to maneuver within the health care system to secure a nursing position. Kindle stated: There was a nursing freeze on. So for a while, all of the positions available were only open to employees who already had jobs within the system ... I knew that when I graduated, I decided that I couldn’t work in a hospital. I just felt that that environment was very stressful and it wasn’t something that I was really passionate about. I wanted to be in health promotion, or health education, or public health. And I had applied for some public health positions but no one would look at me seriously because I didn’t have enough hospital nursing experience yet ... so I just kind of felt that I didn’t have any other options in nursing left, really. Given the current economic climate, Ritter (2011) reports the misconception that there is no longer a nursing shortage which has resulted in fewer new graduates finding employment. The idea that “the world is your oyster, you can do anything 51 and everything” (Aura) may no longer be applicable to newly-graduated nurses with respect to the hiring processes currently taking place within the health care system and current economic climate. Issues relating to seniority were also identified by participants in relation to taking vacation time. As part of the Millennial Generation, these newly- graduated nurses are seeking flexibility to manage a work-life-balance and gain educational opportunities (Boychuk-Duchscher & Cowin, 2004). The following statements capture this perspective: I don’t like to exist on other people’s timelines. I really enjoy doing work when I can do it at my own pace. I like freedom and flexibility ... I wanted to have a bit more flexibility with my hours. I also had a hard time asking for vacation. Because I was so new to [the area] and there were so many senior nurses there, I never got my vacation time approved. Also, not even because of seniority but because of staff shortages, I never got my vacation time approved. For example I would submit for five days, like a stretch of five days. And they would approve the first day and the third day. So it’s like, well what’s the point of that? ... It’s just, I don’t know, it’s not for me. (Aura) Similarly, another participant reported: The culture was such that unpaid leaves [of absences] were never approved. As a full-time employee, I was often switched off of days of statutory holidays where I was scheduled to work because they just wanted to have the bare minimum staff ... Some things would’ve made me stay longer [in nursing] or been more conflicted about leaving, was if my management at the hospital I worked at was very supportive of the things like leaves [of absences] and didn’t do the kinds of things they did around scheduling. (Dawn) Hutchinson, Vickers, Jackson, and Wilkes (2006) propose that those in authority use existing institutional structures to engage in hierarchal and horizontal violence. For example, a charge nurse might use the nurse assignment schedule to routinely assign a targeted nurse to heavy-care patients with the intent to deplete 52 the nurse physically and psychologically until they leave their position. Notably, Brewer, Kovner, Yingrengreung, and Djukic (2012) report that a lack of flexibility in scheduling adds to the new graduate’s intention to leave a current position. In a similar vein, Kindle became disheartened from nursing when trying to take educational LOAs within her position in order to carry out her nursing role safely and effectively. She explained to her manager, “I need some continuing education to learn.” Unfortunately with budget cutbacks, she was met with resistance from her manager who was not able to accommodate her request that would have supported her in the workplace. Kindle further explained to her manager: I’m not going to be able to continue my work because I can’t do it in these conditions. And she told me, ‘Well, we don’t have the funding for this. We can’t change this. That’s how it’s going to be.’ So I told her, well, I guess I can’t continue. According to Clare and van Loon (2003), the provision of continuing education opportunities assist the new graduate in their transition from student to novice nurse in the workplace. Education and life-long learning are core values within the Millennial Generation (Boychuk-Duchscher & Cowin, 2004). It is unfortunate that these newly-graduated nurses did not feel supported in their roles as RNs to take LOAs or vacation time to allow a sufficient break from the workplace setting. Being unable to maneuver within the system or gain the support she needed, Kindle left the nursing profession. According to a Canadian Federation of Nurses Unions (CFNU) study, allocation of vacation by seniority was not always a fair process (Wortsman & Crupi, 2009). Similar findings were noted in this study that is in alignment with 53 Foucault’s assertions on power (1982). One participant voiced frustrations with scheduling and LOAs: Our contract says they [managers] may not unreasonably deny vacation or an education request. They can’t unreasonably deny you. So if you apply for an education day six months out and they deny you the next week, how is that not unreasonably denied, have you not tried to fill that spot with a casual staff or part-time staff member? ... They do that with everybody ... [Also] if I want an ad hoc vacation, I cannot have it. There’s not a single day from now [July] until May [next year] that I can ask for off, because the [staffing] numbers aren’t good enough ... You don’t get holidays in the summer for the first 20 years, so don’t even bother. (Blaize) The CFNU issued a report stating “[Millennials] are not interested in the concept of ‘paying your dues’: rather they want to be valued for their contribution and their potential ... they just want and expect to be included in decision-making, team development and life-long learning” (Wortsman & Crupi, 2009, p. 23). It is, therefore, important for managers and senior staff within the health care system to better understand the values that the incoming generation of nurses hold for themselves and of their co-workers upon entry into the workforce, and vice-versa. Fanning the flame. Clare and Van Loon (2003) emphasize providing new graduates with support, assistance, and a quality orientation while they adjust and adapt within their role as a nurse. Dawn described how “crucial” it was to be properly oriented to her nursing role and the workplace as a new graduate. A direct outcome of her orientation provided her with a sense of feeling “confident to work.” She added, “If you want a new grad to be successful in her job you have to support her. And it means that she probably needs a lot of training coming out of nursing school.” To accomplish this, newly-graduated nurses require a good, working relationship with their manager in which the new 54 graduate feels supported in their role as a nurse and orientation to the workplace which is meaningful. As Kindle stated: You hear complaints from managers everywhere that they don’t like to invest their time and energy in orientation and training when new nurses just leave within a year anyway. And that’s true, and I understand that perspective. But any job I’ve had as a nurse, I’ve never had any great orientation [chuckles]. That’s never ever happened. You just fly by the seat of your pants. To mitigate the impetus to exit the profession, new graduates who left the nursing profession indicated their need to have an adequate orientation, opportunities for learning, and a manageable workload where they had resources at their disposal to carry out their roles safely and effectively. Wong and Cummings (2009) found that “supportive leader behavior and trust in management are necessary for staff to be willing to voice concerns and offer suggestions to improve the workplace and patient care” (p. 6). Managerial support can subsequently mitigate the stressors experienced within nursing related to patient acuity, workplace demands, paperwork, turnover, overtime, and burnout (Reineck & Furino, 2005). Rae stated having a supportive charge nurse and nurse educator “makes a huge difference.” She elaborated: They were busy sometimes and couldn’t help, but if they had extra time they would love to just take you and teach you things, or help you with a question. It was nice to have that. Conversely, Rae continued: Sometimes you were working on a shift with people who were less eager to help, but you just kind of knew as to who was good, would give you good instruction, and who was not so good. 55 This comment brings us to the next major substantive category in the study which explores Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies, and Troublesome Behaviours. Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours In this study, the difficulties of newly-graduated nurses with regard to Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace coupled with negative social relationships, hierarchal social frameworks, and troublesome behaviours within the nursing profession, were found to heavily influence participants’ decision to exit the nursing profession. Clare and van Loon (2003) report “when tiredness, exhaustion, and isolation were compounded with negative feedback and bullying, the balance tipped and almost all graduates began to contemplate leaving nursing (96%)” (p. 28). To contend with the reality of such an environment, often identified as oppressive, newly-graduated nurses are instead choosing to leave their positions (De Gieter, Hofmans, & Pepermans, 2011; Lavoie-Tremblay et al., 2011). According to Freire (1970), an oppressive experience becomes internalized within those who encounter its detrimental effects. This process ultimately results in the oppressed becoming the oppressors (Freire, 1970) which would account for the spill-over of repression and oppressive modes of thinking and behaviour that are present in the nursing workplace that comprise ‘troublesome behaviours’. Diekelmann (1990) reflects that “it seems ironic that we work hard to create caring environments for our patients but not for ourselves as clinicians, teachers, and students” (p. 301). Manifestation of oppressive 56 behaviour is troublesome within the nursing profession, as its consequences can be far-reaching. Oppressed group behaviour in nursing was originally delineated by Susan Roberts in 1983. Roberts attributes such behaviour to oppressive societal forces. Building on Freire’s assertions (1970), Roberts (1983) suggests that a subordinated group develops an increasing sense of self-hatred, diminished self- esteem, and decreased assertiveness as the oppressed internalizes the behavioral impact of the oppressor. Because the oppressed individual cannot retaliate against their oppressor, hostility against other members of the oppressed group ensues. Perpetuation of oppression ultimately precipitates a vicious cycle. Subsequently, bullying and incivility indicative of oppressed group behaviour manifest in hierarchal and horizontal violence within the nursing workforce. Newly-graduated and experienced nurses are routinely encountering horizontal or lateral violence from their co-workers and hierarchical bullying from physicians and managers (Vessey, DeMarco & DiFazio, 2011). Horizontal and hierarchal violence is comprised of behaviours with the intent to hurt that include sabotage, intimidation, manipulation, alienation, as well as verbal, emotional, physical and sexual abuse (Craig & Kupperschmidt, 2008;Thomas, 2010; Thomas & Burk, 2009). The Workplace Bullying Institute (2013) defines bullying as ‘repeated, health-harming mistreatment’ that includes verbal abuse, verbal and non-verbal behaviours that are humiliating, threatening, or intimidating, as well as work interference that includes sabotage. Bullying is characterized by negative behaviours that accumulate over time (Hutchinson, Vickers, Jackson, & Wilkes, 57 2006). It is estimated that as many as 75-85% of nurses have experienced bullying behaviours during their careers (Ditmer, 2010; Hutchinson, Wilkes, Jackson, & Vickers, 2010; Lewis, 2006). Experiences with hierarchal and horizontal violence were evident throughout all participants’ experiences spanning from their years as student nurses and subsequently as new RNs. Study participants recounted biding their time within oppressive student-teacher relationships, being confronted with paternalism, and encountering horizontal and hierarchal violence amongst nurses which resulted in feeling unwelcome and undervalued, as well as having to yield to humiliation and hostility in the workplace. Abiding Student-Teacher Relationships Dampening the spirit. The Oxford Dictionary (2013) defines ‘to abide’ as to accept or act in accordance with a rule. Inherent in the student-teacher relationship are hierarchal rules governing interactions. In referring to their nursing school experience, participants made several comments with regard to the presence of a hierarchal relationship between themselves and their professors or instructors. Hence, students would ‘bide their time’ until this hierarchal relationship was terminated at the conclusion of their educational program. The hierarchal relationship between participants and their instructors was evident in the following statements: I found that my clinical instructors were often very hard on the students or on me anyways. And I think I wasn’t really prepared for that coming out of high school ... they always sort of held it [success] out of your reach. You never really got that real positive feedback when you had done something really well. It was always sort of tempered like, ‘Well, you need 58 to work on this’, and that kind of thing. So I think I kind of got discouraged. (Kindle) Coming from the social sciences and the arts where you have really small classes, you go out for coffee with your instructors. On Friday afternoons, your professor would come with you to the campus bar for beer... I never felt like that in nursing. I never felt like I could have anything that was even less than formal, I could never really get there... I felt that there was a real a gap between professors and students. (Ashley) The gap Ashley speaks of relates to the hierarchy and power structure between students and teachers. In opposition to this power structure, Myrick and Tamlyn (2007) advocate for an emancipatory approach to pedagogy, one that is free from oppression. However, adding to the presence of a perceived hierarchy between participants and teachers, many participants reported their professors’ and instructors’ lack of respect for them as students. A lack of respect was evident in the following statements by Dawn: The tone of instruction from the instructors and the faculty was challenging ... speaking to students in lecturing formats in a condescending way, there was a lot of threats if you didn’t attend lectures ... We were threatened in more than one lecture that we wouldn’t pass ... I had an instructor address the class and state that he hoped he never got sick because he wouldn’t want any of us to be his nurse... I reported that to the Dean and I don’t think anything ever came of it. Dawn continued: The person who was leading our program at the time, her way of communicating with the group was very much akin to someone teaching a junior high class. And it just did not work. And it’s kind of hard to explain what that was, but it was like a basic lack of respect. And not really seeing us as adults and future nurses, but rather as like these women’s children. Similarly, two participants reported: It’s a disastrous program. When students gave feedback, and we’re not talking about a group of students who are just out of high school, but a group of mature students – I mean the average age of the student was probably 25. Students who are married, who have families, who all have 59 previous work experience, and they are questioning – as they have a right to, and to be threatened, and told that we’re just troublemakers. And that we’ll never get our RN if we put down any more negative comments on the course evaluation. That’s not right. I would have never believed that people in a position of power in a caring profession would treat students who are vulnerable in that way. Unless I had been there that day and heard it with my own ears, I would never have believed that that could have happened. But it did. (Ember) There wasn’t a lot of respect for the fact that we were all adults. You know, a lot of us had families, spouses, children, etc, were still working in other jobs, had transferred careers. They [professors] neglected that aspect of our personalities, as students. I was a little upset by that, a little let down by that. (Ashley) The above examples depict a far departure from student-centred education models adopted in nursing curricula since the launch of the curriculum revolution in the 1990s that centres upon student empowerment (Bevis, 1993). The teacher- centred examples provided above portray a behaviourist learning paradigm that empowers the teacher and affords the student little latitude for compromise. The primary focus of behaviourism is mastery of skills and ‘training’ frequently to exclusion of critical thinking (Lisko & O’Dell, 2010) and praxis (Bevis, 1993). Behaviourist learning theory was originally developed by Johann Friedrich Herbart (1891) in the late 19th century. Of course, behaviorism as we know it in modern times was not drawn upon in nursing education until the early 1950s by Ralph Winfred Tyler (Bevis, 1989; Finder, 2004). Tyler developed an educational model in which learning is organized into operationalized, specific, measurable, and observable behavioural objectives to guide education and evaluate learner performance (Shane & Shane, 1974). More specifically, “if behavior has not changed, learning has not taken place” (Bevis, 1989, p. 24). The behaviourist paradigm for curriculum development and education has become 60 deeply entrenched within nursing education (Bevis, 1989; Sellers, 1991). Overall, a behaviourist approach can result in a fragmented, authoritarian, and oppressive learning atmosphere evident in participants’ remarks that does not contribute to a safe and trusting learning environment. Fanning the flame. Behaviourist, teacher-centred learning models have given way to emancipatory, humanist, and student-centred approaches that include constructivism (Mezirow, 1994). Constructivism stems from the work of such philosophers as Kant, Nietzsche, and as recently as Donald Schön (Candy, 1989; Peters 2000; Schön, 1983). Constructivism is based upon the philosophy that knowledge and learning are co-constructed rather than acquired (Mezirow, 1994). Furthermore, it is the construction of meaning and knowledge regarding an experience that is individually or co-created (Appleton & King, 2002; Mezirow, 1994), and draws upon reflection (Schön, 1983; Williams, 2001) in order for learning to occur. Concepts within this philosophical viewpoint include collaboration, constructive feedback, scaffolding, and coaching that occurs between the student and teacher, as well as between peers (Bean, 2011). As one participant stated, “I really liked my [clinical instructors], they were all really knowledgeable and really supportive. Really had our interests at heart ... they were very conscious of the fact that they wanted to guide us rather than show us, or tell us” (Ashley). Kindle advised: A lot of learning happens when you are able to talk about what you’ve done, and be able to ask questions ... I think that’s so critical because it’s how people feel about expressing themselves. If you create an environment where people feel safe to express themselves, then they will. But if you make people feel guilty, or like they haven’t done enough, or they’re not smart enough, or they didn’t perform well enough, then people 61 just shut up and they stop expressing themselves. And they feel scared. And I think that that happens too much in nursing. Similarly, Dawn stated the best instructors “were kind and approachable and created an environment where you felt safe to ask questions ... [they wouldn’t make you] feel like you weren’t very smart or that you should already know this.” The permeation of emancipatory, humanist, and constructivist models of education bolster confidence within students and new graduates thereby creating a welcoming relationship between students and their teachers. Clinical practice areas also require saturation of these principles and philosophies of emancipation to counter the effects of oppression and paternalism. Being Confronted with Paternalism Dampening the spirit. It is well known that for over a century the nursing profession has evolved from under hierarchal and suppressive forces. Nursing has endured not only health care reform under managerialist business models and capitalist forces, but also paternalistic relationships; specifically, the traditional, hierarchal relationships between male physicians and female nurses. The doctor’s handmaiden is a description of the nurse that has been difficult to shed given the evolution of nursing practice out of hospital-based institutions and into university settings (CIHI, 2010). It is unfortunate that this stereotype continues to be perpetuated within the nursing profession. As one participant stated: I remember particularly being taught by someone in nursing school who was like, ‘The role of the nurse is like being a wife in that you have to anticipate the needs of the doctors, just like you would your husband. And make him think that it was his own idea.’ And I remember people were laughing at that and I was just sitting there going oh my God, I do not want to be anticipating the needs of someone who is superior to me. (Dawn) 62 Dawn further reflected: I remember discounting nursing because I did not want to be in such a subordinate position where I would take orders from people ... I think I always wanted to work in something where I could be the person making decisions about people’s [care] in conjunction with clients, and planning for their care in a more full way. As a result of Dawn’s experiential process, she left the nursing profession to pursue a pathway that would provide “more autonomy, more responsibility, better remuneration, and more variety.” Another participant commented: The interaction between the nurses and the doctors, that’s something that we never ever learned as students. We were told many times that nursing is not just being the doctor’s helper. And the nursing profession is one that stands on its own and we all need to be dedicated to elevating it ... A lot of doctors are not easy to work with. And it’s very difficult when you want to do more, you want to work to your highest capabilities, you want to increase your knowledge, and you want to become an expert in your field. (Ember) Many described being “yelled at” (Aura), criticized, and “intimidated” (Dawn) by physicians. Kindle described her relationship with her female manager who was also a physician. She stated: There were often nurses who felt like physicians didn’t treat them well. I can actually attest to that in my own experience... my manager was a doctor. I would probably say that was the reason why left that particular job. And in doing so I left the profession... I felt that I was constantly blamed for things that happened that weren’t necessarily my fault. And I didn’t really feel like I was never given any positive feedback, or any recognition, or support for anything. But just always sort of like – almost belittled, really. I felt like it was a real abuse of power in the position that she was in. And kind of treating me like she could just walk all over me. Kindle continued: I felt really intimidated by her, like actually scared. I would go into meetings with her and my heart would just start pounding, and I would just feel like, I just didn’t know how to cope with talking with her, that kind of thing. So I decided that I would put in writing my concerns for her, 63 because when I confronted her, she just yelled at me. And I would just kind of back down. Through held back tears, Kindle further reflected that “you kind of try to block these things from your memory so that you can move on.” The power physicians hold over nurses continues to exert itself upon the nursing profession as identified by participants in this study. In one place of employment during Blaize’s tenure as a nurse, she commented regarding the lack of “peer-to-peer” between nurses and physicians, only the presence of a hierarchy. She stated: There was a hierarchy. So it was physicians, and then about 25 steps down the ladder there was nurses. There was no peer-to-peer ... There’s not as much job satisfaction I don’t think. Because they [nurses] are not treated as an equal. (Blaize) Findings from Lavoie-Tremblay et al. (2011) reveal a statistically significant relationship in nurses who had poor relations with physicians in the workplace with the intention to quit the nursing profession. This finding is evident arising from the recollections of the participants in this study. Ember shared: I’ve had a couple of experiences where I was put-down by a physician in front of a patient. And being humiliated that way, and belittled, I know some nurses say it happens to everybody and that’s just the way it is, but again, over time, I’ve just developed less and less tolerance for that. I don’t accept that, it doesn’t have to be that way. Why are people not being held accountable for that behavior? It’s totally uncalled for. And that’s in every setting; it doesn’t matter whether it’s healthcare or anything. There’s mature, responsible ways to deal with things, and there’s other ways. And just because you are a physician doesn’t mean you can treat people that way, and in front of the patient? That’s inexcusable. Cole questioned the very essence of advocating on behalf of a psychiatric patient with regard to a medication change when “the psychiatrist looked at me and he said please do your job and let me do mine.” Cole remarked that “we care more 64 about the doctors and we value them more highly than we do ourselves and that would not happen in another profession.” Fanning the flame. Nursing students and subsequently, newly-graduated nurses ought to understand that nursing practice can be highly autonomous, yet occurs within integrated inter-professional teams to deliver high quality care in many different practice environments beyond the hospital setting. Nursing practice has transformed and is no longer limited to the hospital environment, nor is nursing practice only for women. Furthermore, nursing practice occurs in partnership with physicians and certainly not in their servitude. Current inter- professional curricula reflect this evolution of practice (Accreditation of Interprofessional Health Education [AIPHE], 2011). As one participant reflected: I have had very positive relationships with physicians, specifically at [an inner-city clinic]. Extremely attentive, very empathetic, [the physicians] really understand the importance of an interdisciplinary-collaborative team... I’ve had very positive experiences personally, and I know that I’m probably the exception to the rule. (Ashley) Likewise, Rae commented, “The relationships between the physicians and nurses were phenomenal [in the specialized area] ... They [the physicians] worked so much with the nurses that it was such a good cohesive relationship.” These participants’ reflections highlight that having positive and respectful work relationships with physicians is possible. Thomas (2010) recommends health care providers better understand gender differences as more men enter nursing practice and more women become physicians. For many, however, hierarchal and horizontal violence still appears to maintain its grasp within the nursing profession (Vessey et al., 2011). 65 Encountering Hierarchal and Horizontal Violence Dampening the spirit. The nursing literature is replete with examples that describe horizontal or lateral violence, and hierarchal violence within the nursing workforce (Ditmer, 2010; Hutchinson, Wilkes, Jackson, & Vickers, 2010; Lewis, 2006). Horizontal violence is characterized by demeaning actions that are overt or covert in nature that occur between nurses at the same hierarchal level within an organization; whereas, hierarchal violence within nursing occurs between nurses at differing levels within the hierarchal structure of an organization (Thomas & Burk, 2009). Author, Phyllis Chesler (2003), recounts in her work that women are guilty perpetrators of incivility towards other women. Chesler (2003) purports that this incivility amongst women occurs within a complex dynamic, rooted not only in oppressed behaviours, but also in learned behaviours from childhood. This dynamic generates patriarchal thinking within the female perpetrator and manifests in actions committed against other women that take the form of gossip, slander, exclusion, humiliation, and hostility. These behaviours were evident within this study and are well documented within nursing research, perhaps because nursing is a female-dominated profession (Hutchinson et al., 2006). The process of encountering these behaviours resulted in participants feeling unwelcome and undervalued. Participants also described yielding to humiliation and hostility. Feeling unwelcome and undervalued. Being the recipient of and witnessing horizontal and hierarchal violence amongst nurses included incidents 66 of gossip, withholding skills, and other exclusionary behaviours that made participants feel unwelcome and undervalued in the clinical areas. Aura reported, “That’s the problem with the nursing profession, is that it’s full of women ... I think they get really catty, gossipy. They just stop being considerate of each other’s feelings.” Ember stated, “It was a climate of gossiping and back stabbing.” One participant described how gossip was used in the workplace as a source of power over others when someone was not well-liked by the group: People were like, ‘Did you see what she did? Did you see that it was terrible! And oh my gosh, we could have had a huge problem with this! And oh, it could have been so unsafe!’ There was a bit of that if someone was targeted as not being liked. (Rae) Ashley also reported witnessing gossip in the workplace: On two units that I was on, I did notice that there was a fair amount of gossip. A fair amount of talk behind another nurse’s back. You know, it’s very unprofessional and it’s very inappropriate in the workplace ... I was really disappointed. Because I think that nursing has a bit of a reputation for that. And I was really hoping that those myths would be dispelled. And so to see that there was basis for those stereotypes was really disappointing to me. And especially because I didn’t want to associate myself with the field if that was the true case. Ember summarized the consequences of horizontal and hierarchal violence in the following way: I never had the experience before, of being in a group of only women. And seeing them exhibit all of those stereotypical qualities or characteristics... Different dominant personalities started to come to the top of the group and control other people, you did see them kind of feeding off of each other. The power came from the gossiping and putting other people down. And just doing anything you could to make sure that you didn’t get thrown under the bus. Because it could happen from anywhere. From one of your instructors, one of the nurses on the floor, from one of the people in your carpool group. That after a while you felt like you just couldn’t trust anybody. 67 The occurrence of gossip in the work environment conveys a highly unwelcoming atmosphere to students and newly-graduated nurses. Chesler (2003) accounts for behaviours that include gossip as emanating from women who have low self- esteem, poor efficacy, and a lack of optimism that correlate with the conclusions made by Roberts (1983). Furthermore, she describes that women will often surround themselves with “members” to increase their foundations of power (Chesler, 2003, p. 397). This behaviour is exemplified by the following incident described by one participant: [Critical care] nurses tend to do the whole wolfpack thing to the nurses who come from other areas ... There’s always one person that gets picked on basically, and there’s always a group of nurses that pick on that one person... [It’s like] being the little goat in the middle, basically. (Aura) The troublesome behaviours described above within the nursing profession have detrimental effects upon the incoming generation of nurses. Specifically, upon encountering horizontal violence in the workplace, Ashley felt the need to distance herself from the nursing profession, thus adding to the push to exit the profession. These behaviours not only erode the professional image of the nurse, degrade patient outcomes and impact trust amongst the health care team (Cowles, 2008), but also diminishes confidence, self-esteem, and creates oppression in the newly-graduated nurse (McKenna, Naumai, Poole, & Coverdale, 2003; Myrick, Phelan, Barlow, Sawa, Rogers, & Hurlock, 2006). Participants also reported exclusionary behaviours that impacted a welcoming atmosphere. Rae found that some of the nurses with whom she was paired as a student were not nurturing and had no patience for students. She stated some nurses “did not share their thoughts with you.” They would “just 68 expect you to figure it out and tag along ... as for not welcoming, it’s not talking with you, not being communicative with you that makes a difference.” Kindle described unwelcoming behaviour in nurses as: Not really smiling, often not saying hi in the morning, and just a lot of negative language – sighing ... Negative comments, pessimistic attitudes I would find towards the work environment in general ... I started my first clinical when I was only 19 years old. I think you are not expecting that when you were that age either, it’s your first contact with the real work environment kind of thing. So it’s kind of hard to adjust to that and to kind of stay positive yourself. Ashley encountered nurses who “were really rude to [students] or delegated them to do the really low-level skilled tasks.” She further stated, “Even in our third, fourth, fifth semester of nursing, they [students] would still be changing bedpans and making beds, rather than actually doing clinical skills.” Similarly, Ember reported: [Nurses] would deliberately send us students on the worst possible tasks. And keep the more complicated skills away from us that we actually needed to learn. So if we knew a patient had something coming up like an IV start, or tubing change, or a complicated dressing change, or a drain removal, or something like that, we would say, okay I’m ready, I want to do this.’ ‘No, so-and-so in room five needs to be taken off the toilet.’ And then they would force us to do that so that we wouldn’t get the experience that we needed. Ember further reported, “They [nurses] would do really passive aggressive things. For example, if we would go in the day before to do our research, they would deliberately hoard the patient’s chart so that we can’t access them.” The above examples highlight the power differential between student and novice nurses to well-established nurses in the workplace, thus adding to perceived ‘tensions’ within the work environment. Blaize attributed her understanding of power differentials and tension as follows: 69 I see nurses getting frustrated with students whether they be students [on their final practicum] or new grads ... They just become unwilling to teach ... they become less helpful ... their demeanor changes ... you’ll see them roll their eyes, or maybe you’ll see them get exasperated like – sighs, when explaining [something] for the 17 th time ... you can feel the tension. Cole also reported feeling “tension between nurses and nurses” while working as a newly-graduated nurse. According to Horowitz (1996), individuals reciprocate behaviours. More specifically, if a person emits a hostile dominant behavior thereby evoking a returned hostile submissive behavior in the other, hostile behaviours are potentiated adding to a perceived tension between individuals. This tension may be eased if a hostile dominant behavior is reciprocated by a friendly submissive behavior, in this case, submissive behaviours demonstrated by a student or newly-graduated nurse. Many participants referred to the hierarchal structure present within clinical practice environments. Ember reported being able to sense the “hierarchy of nurses that went by either seniority or the most dominant personalities. And it really was like a pecking order. And I came in at the bottom” when in the clinical practice environment. Likewise, Ashley noted being at the “bottom rung of the ladder.” She stated: You are a student nurse, you are on their territory, they’ve taken you in, they have consented to having you there and you are meant to be learning. You really are the bottom rung of the ladder. And so it’s just, if you were to say anything, or if you were to butt heads with a superior, with your buddy nurse or another nurse, then it could be seen as just really disrespectful. They have the ability to make your experience on the unit really unsatisfying or really difficult if they wanted to ... We just had to focus on the work that we were actually doing and try to block out the rest of it. 70 In order to belong, Levett-Jones and Lathlean (2008) report student learners use silence, compliance, and conformity rather than advocating for their own needs rather than risk alienation and rejection. As strategies to fit in, Levett-Jones and Lathlean (2008) report learners will “keep a low profile” and “not ask too many questions” to fit in (p. 344). This tactic was used by Blaize who stated her desire to “fly under the radar” in her practice as a nurse. Some participants attributed exclusionary behaviour in nurses as stemming from having to prove themselves as a valuable member of the team before being accepted into the group. Blaize explained: Nobody trusted the fact that I had five years of experience working in that area ... Like it didn’t matter that I’d spent five years and I had all the same skills that they had, it didn’t matter because I was new [to that hospital]. So I mean, it took me a while to kind of break into the ‘friends’ group. But once I was there everyone was super nice, but I guess it just takes a while. And I guess you have to prove yourself. Ember recounted: There is this idea in nursing that you have to suffer to prove that you are worthy of being there. Or that you have to endure a certain amount of hardship. And that’s just considered to be a rite of passage. And to some extent that’s true in every new job because it’s hard when you are learning, people don’t know you, they don’t necessarily trust you, and you do kind of have to prove that you’re worthwhile. And I understand that. But, it goes way too far in nursing, way too far. How can you expect people to look after others when you treat them that way? And I remember distinctly, many times, going into a patient’s room and being almost in tears myself and thinking, I had to pull it together to look after this person. Thomas (2010) reports it is unfortunate that horizontal and hierarchal violence are seen as a ‘rite of passage’ within the nursing workforce. These behaviours negate the caring and compassionate values held at the centre of nursing practice. Ember reflected it would be “nice having a team that welcomes somebody new instead of 71 feeling like you are a burden that people didn’t want to deal with.” She continued, “Or that people have a bit more patience if you are just learning, rather than just getting frustrated and yelling at you.” One participant described seeing a different form of exclusionary behaviour in the workplace. She explained: There were some bedside nurses who brought up something not being done on shift by a certain nurse ... And then the other nurses in the same [area] had decided not to do it for this nurse when she was on break. And they had specifically – the line they had used specifically was, ‘Let her drown’ ... Why would you want to go to work if you think your coworkers are out to sabotage you? (Aura) Contrary to the above examples, Clare and van Loon (2003) emphasize that being welcomed, valued, accepted and supported are essential elements for positive transition from student nurse to new RN. The lack of professionalism and trust stemming from negative behaviours has severe consequences for newly-graduated nurses gaining entry into the profession. For example, McKenna et al. (2003) found that one-in-three newly-graduated nurses considered leaving nursing because of humiliating incidents. Yielding to humiliation and hostility. Increasingly detrimental to newly- graduated nurses in the workplace are incidents regarding humiliation and hostility perpetrated by other nurses that include criticizing and accusatory verbal and non-verbal language. Participants reflected being “criticized” (Cole), “blamed” (Ember), demeaned, humiliated, and “laughed at” (Ember) in the clinical practice environment. Dawn reflected that troublesome and criticizing behaviours “always” stemmed from “nurses who were in a position of authority over me and other people.” She explained, “I had an incident with her [a charge nurse] where she asked me to do something I thought was unsafe, and I said no. 72 And she just tore strip off me in front of the patient. I got really upset.” Another participant felt chastised by nurses and her clinical instructors. Kindle stated: I was always made to feel like I wasn’t good enough. Like it was my fault if I didn’t know something, you know? It was never like, ‘Did somebody show you how to do this yet? Okay, then I’ll show you how to do it.’ It was always, ‘You don’t know how to do this?! Why did you come to clinical unprepared?! Why didn’t you do your research?!’ Or, you know, ‘You don’t know what this adapter is?!’ And I just felt like you couldn’t win no matter how much time you invested, no matter how much research you did, there was always going to be something you didn’t know. And as soon as you didn’t know it, somebody was going to chastise you for not knowing. Being blamed, chastised, and criticized is degrading and erodes confidence (Craig & Kupperschmidt, 2008) in students and newly-graduated nurses. Rae recounted: I remember having one awful little nurse that I was buddied with. I had done my assessment, and missed that this person had a yeast infection. I had never seen a yeast infection. I had no idea what it looked like. And she yelled me. She said, ‘Why didn’t you see this? You didn’t give the medication, it was prn for that!’ And I cried. It was awful ... I remember being so traumatized by that day... But that day [thinking to self], oh, I hate this! I just want to go home. Similarly, Dawn described feeling criticized and targeted by the charge nurse on her unit. She stated: The challenging part of my work was the unit dynamics with the other nurses. Particularly with the nurse who was almost always in charge who was part of my team on my rotation. I did feel like she picked on the more junior nurses of which I was one ... This nurse would criticize you if you were too slow with a task ... She would complain about other nurses at the desk to other nurses. If you resisted your assignment at all ... she would make your life miserable. Dawn further reflected that “She [the charge nurse] was so, so unpleasant that I really wanted to leave.” Dawn ultimately left her position, and in doing so, left the nursing profession to pursue another career pathway. The increasing nursing shortage requires changes be made in nursing management styles and in the work 73 environment to make conditions more favourable toward achieving nurse satisfaction and nurses’ intent to stay within the profession. Quality practice environments in which teamwork, communication, and trust are valued, have been found to foster nurses’ job satisfaction and commitment to the organization in which they are employed (Bobbio, Bellan, & Manganelli, 2012; Laschinger & Finegan, 2005). In another vein, Ember felt like a scapegoat for other nurses throughout nursing school and subsequently as a nurse. She commented: As a student, you would always feel that you would be blamed no matter what went on ... It was very black-and-white that it was your fault and that was the end of it. And as a student, because you are vulnerable and you don’t [exhales], you just don’t stand up for yourself as much as you could or maybe you should. And then working as an RN, it’s a very similar culture. If you don’t have a relationship of trust with your coworkers or with your manager, there is still that fear that if something goes wrong I’m going to be blamed. These comments highlight the disparity in power and vulnerability of student nurses and newly-graduated nurses in the practice environment. These vulnerable individuals “often remain silent out of fear and embarrassment” (Thomas, 2010, p. 302) and retaliation (Ditmer, 2010). According to Hutchinson et al. (2006), humiliation and belittling contribute to dissatisfaction and poor psychological health, evident in participants who have left the nursing profession. Another participant explained her perspective of being humiliated after making a drug error as an undergraduate student employee. Aura stated: There was an error made and I felt awful ... At the time the nurse educator, instead of pulling me aside and being like, okay you made this error. Here is what we’re going to do to deal with it, here’s how we do error reporting on this unit. It was like, ‘How come you don’t know this [voice stern]?! This could have been so much worse! You have to go tell the patient!’... 74 So I’m standing there in the middle of this unit and crying hysterically until she finally pulled me into her office where this conversation continued. And then my buddy nurse had come in there and said ‘Well, she is supposed to know that by now. You know, she’s gone through this many years of school and besides, it’s 3 o’clock so it’s time for me to go home.’ So then, she left. Aura continued: The next morning I was pulled aside by a different nurse who had told me that the patient’s family was worried about me. They kept asking about me, instead of their loved one. Because they had seen this whole thing go down in the hallway, and they were so worried about me because they felt so awful that this had happened. And that I was treated that way. She went on to say: The hierarchy and how things can work in this type of environment, and how other nurses can make you feel really bad when you are kind of in a vulnerable position, where you still lack knowledge because you haven’t completed your education yet. I feel like that experience could’ve been handled so differently by the educator. Because I think that I was freaking out enough, for everyone on that unit, there didn’t need to be a freak out from her. The process occurring here is not only distressing for the victim, but extends to witnesses of the event, specifically, the patient and their family. Ditmer (2010) reports that quality patient care and safety are compromised in a negative practice environment exemplified in the above participant comments. Another participant exclaimed, “Patients can tell if they are being taken care of by a team doesn’t get along, if there’s lots of stress. They hear nurses gossiping, of course they do” (Ember). As we can see from the findings of this study, the consequences of allowing horizontal and hierarchal violence to continue in the workplace can be far reaching. Ashley, another participant, reported that these troublesome 75 behaviours are “disenfranchising” and “disappointing” for nursing students and newly-graduated nurses. She stated: I think people go into nursing because there is that feeling that you want to help people, you want to make a difference. And to have that marred and muddied by these very petty-type things, like the gossip and eye rolling, is really disenfranchising. You enter the professional workforce with the intention that I’m going to treat others with respect and I’m going to in turn get respect from others. And so to have those behaviors play out, is I think [sigh], it really makes the nurses who are really astounding, and doing excellent work, and being immensely professional, it reflects poorly upon them as well. And that to me, was really disappointing. I couldn’t really trust the other nurses. I couldn’t really navigate who was quote- unquote a good nurse, or who was not a good nurse. Because you just feel that it’s disenfranchising and it’s also scary that you are not working in a climate of trust, which you would expect in a professional environment. The findings presented in this study are in keeping with other international studies that explore horizontal and hierarchal violence in the nursing literature. More specifically, with regard to themes of feeling vulnerable, powerless, not valued, and experiencing both a lack of respect and humiliation in both Australia (Curtis, Bowen, & Reid, 2007) and the United Kingdom (Randle, 2003). It is important to note that horizontal violence is not only present within the nursing workforce but other helping professions that include social work, education, and medicine (Myrick et al., 2006). However, Craig and Kupperschmidt (2008) report horizontal violence is highest in the health care workforce, namely, within the nursing profession. The comments made by participants in this study offer us many ‘lessons to be learned.’ Firstly, we are reminded that students and newly-graduated nurses are a vulnerable group who require a supportive atmosphere. All health care professions are responsible for creating a friendly atmosphere comprised of 76 teamwork, respect, and inclusivity, as well as one that is free of verbal and non- verbal behaviours that comprise hierarchal and horizontal violence. Secondly, these behaviours have no place in professional health care environments and in learning environments that include university settings. Thirdly, education and clinical settings require strategies and measures to not only stop these behaviours from occurring, but prevent their occurrence altogether. Fanning the flame. As a means to prevent hierarchal and horizontal violence, “nurses need to develop a positive identity as a critical step in breaking out of the cycle of oppression, towards systematic change in the power structures that create oppression” (Hutchinson et al., 2006, p. 123). Newly-graduated nurses will look to experienced nurses for support and direction in their practice (McKinney, 2011). Bandura’s Social Cognitive Theory (1977) delineates that human behaviour is learned by observation. If the behaviour being role modeled is one of incivility, horizontal, and hierarchal violence, it is detrimental to the incoming generation of nurses. If nurses are not engaging in respectful, collegial collaboration within and outside the nursing profession, we risk perpetuating the cycle of horizontal violence in the nursing student and newly-graduated nurse who enters in our stead. Newly-graduated nurses are the future of the profession. Providing this group with tools and strategies while in nursing school will provide a foundation to effectively combat horizontal and hierarchal violence in all practice environments (Curtis et al., 2007). Nursing curricula can be modified to provide students with opportunities and strategies to confront unethical behaviour, 77 horizontal, and hierarchal violence in the workplace. This can be achieved through classes and workshops that utilize positive communication and role play to engage in respectful confrontation to resolve conflict prior to workplace entry. Griffin (2004) concludes that the use of cognitive-behavioural techniques in nursing education is effective to confront abusive behaviour in the practice environment. Other suggestions in the literature include assertiveness and confidence training for new graduates (Daiski, 2004). Thomas (2010) proposes numerous strategies to combat hierarchal and horizontal violence in the workplace. Change can begin with a shift in attitude toward student nurses and new graduates entering the workforce toward one of inclusivity and respect. Collaboration between schools of nursing and employers in the workforce is also needed to convey realistic expectations of students and new nurses entering clinical practice environments. Thomas (2010) encourages the use of communication tools such as SBAR: Situation, Background, Assessment, and Response to facilitate communication between health professionals and prevent errors from occurring in the workplace. Other strategies include transition programming and nurse residency placements to assist newly-graduated nurses (Boychuk-Duchscher, 2012a) in navigating the healthcare system and to more easily negotiate social relationships in the workplace. Adopting policies and procedures for reporting and dealing with troublesome behaviours in the workplace are also needed (Longo, 2007). We must consider the negative effects of workload, overtime, inappropriate staffing mixes, and limited resources when establishing positive work 78 environments for all health professionals in clinical practice environments (Bobbio, et al., 2012; Laschinger & Finegan, 2005; Ritter, 2011). “Organizational leaders need to be responsive to abusive behavior in the workplace in order to foster a positive workplace environment” (Kisamore, Jawahar, Liguori, Mharapara, & Stone, 2010, p. 594). Managers and health care leaders in clinical practice environments require practical knowledge on how to de-escalate and resolve conflict within the work environment that can be obtained from seminars specializing in conflict resolution and management. The nursing profession will continue to witness new graduate exit from the profession if negative behaviours contributing to negative practice environments are not addressed with appropriate leadership skills to resolve conflict. Left unchecked, the financial and social cost of these behaviours is immeasurable. The average cost of nurse turnover in Canada is estimated at $10,100.52 (O'Brien- Pallas, Griffin, Shamian, Buchan, Duffield, Hughes, Laschinger, North, & Stone, 2006). One participant stated that being privy to and enduring these behaviours “set me up for a lot of psychological stress and moral stress” (Ember). More consideration must be paid to the challenges students and newly-graduated nurses face as they enter the workforce. This process will be explored more fully in the next substantive category Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges. Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges Participants were found to face and endure many challenges on their journey as nursing students and subsequently as new RNs as they entered the workforce arena. Some challenges have already been explored in the previous 79 substantive categories, Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace and Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours. Participants reflected on the process with regard to persevering through nursing school which included not feeling prepared and dealing with fears, anxieties, and emotional pressures. Combating traumas and critical incidents also emerged as themes from participant interviews. Persevering Dampening the spirit. All participants conveyed a sense of perseverance through challenges they encountered, specifically, with regard to completing nursing school. They stated that they “forged ahead” (Ember), their goal was to “just get through” (Rae), “stick it out” (Aura) and, as one participant reported, “I wanted to do well. I wanted to succeed” (Blaize). Interestingly, many verbalized their dislike for the nursing profession as nursing students, yet chose to continue with the nursing degree. Aura stated: I didn’t enjoy them [clinicals] too much... this is the point where I started realizing that I don’t know what I’m doing here... I started thinking to myself, I’m not sure if I should be in this profession. But at the time I kept telling myself, well, this is just a phase. You know, you just have to get used to it. Rae admitted: As a nursing student I was just trying to get by and do the best I could. I didn’t love what I was doing ... I just needed to get through, and do the best I could, I just didn’t enjoy it ... I had been an A and B student all my life, and then I got C’s in nursing school. But that was because I didn’t really care that much, which was really too bad. So really, I was just trying to get through and get by. Rae further reflected: 80 I’ve never not finished, or failed at anything in my life. I’m one of those people that just has to do it right ... If I would have failed something [in nursing school], I would have been mortified ... If I had failed a practicum there’s no way that I would have ever come back ... That would have definitely dissuaded me from finishing. In a similar vein, Dawn stated: I had been a fairly average nursing student when I had had excellent grades in my Bachelor of Arts. I was on the honor roll and then coming into nursing, I got like 75% on everything no matter how much work I put into my assignments. So, it felt a bit demoralizing that I hadn’t achieved academically what I thought I should. This notion of getting through relates to the strong sense of internal motivation reflected in study participants. Aura stated, “I didn’t want to drop out in the middle [of nursing school] ... It’s going to look good on a resume whether or not I actually work as a bedside nurse ... It says you can make a four-year commitment to something.” Similarly, Ember described: It was cold outside and I was crying, and I just thought to myself, I would do anything if I could just quit right now. I hate this. I just hate it. How can something that started out being so positive turn out like this? It just doesn’t seem right ... I guess I learned the value of pride. Because it was such a small class, and such a small hospital, I didn’t want to give them [the instructors] the satisfaction of me quitting. So I still showed up every day. Likewise, Rae recounted: I was a strong internal motivation type person, and I wanted to get to the end... There was no doubt in my mind I was not going to get through it. I was always going to get through it, just how to be happy and survive. From the above comment, it is evident that despite being motivated to complete nursing school, it ‘took a toll’ on participants’ mental health to complete their degree. The presence of dislike for nursing work while enrolled in nursing school could possibly be a precursor to nurse exit from the profession. 81 All participants reported the challenging nature of their undergraduate nursing programs. One participant summarized “nursing is so intense for those four years... [because] you have to know what you are doing... if you don’t, you are going to get to clinical and you are going to be floundering” (Rae). Other participants reported difficulty with the “demanding pace of the program” (Ember) and described the program as “rigourous” (Kindle) with “a heavy course load” (Ashley). Kindle further elaborated upon her nursing program. She stated: It was a very challenging program academically. And also challenging because you are taking classes at the same time that you are taking clinicals. So you are juggling homework, and studying, and being prepared for your classes at the same time as being in that work environment and negotiating your relationships there and what not, and waking up early to go to clinicals because they started at 7 am. Participants with previous degrees were asked to compare nursing with other educational programs. One responded that nursing school was “the most challenging years of my life... my peers certainly said that nursing was way more difficult than all of their previous degrees put together” (Cole). Likewise, Rae stated: Education is way easier. I don’t want to say that to an education teacher who goes straight into education, but comparing the two, nursing was harder for sure ... Education, it still takes a lot of time, but it wasn’t as much as a rigorous program as nursing was. One participant reported, “Being a nursing student is hell. It was just, it was absolutely the worst time in my life” (Ember). Not feeling prepared. The challenges in which the participants of this study engaged while attending nursing school and subsequently as newly- graduated nurses were found to be attributed primarily to three factors: (a) the 82 process of engaging in a Context Based Learning (CBL) curriculum; (b) the perceived disconnection between the classroom and the clinical environment; and (c) the participants’ self-described personality characteristics. Context Based Learning (CBL). One challenge of note participants reported was being educated in a CBL classroom, also referred to as Problem Based Learning (PBL). The PBL model was developed at McMaster University (Barrows & Tamblyn, 1980). PBL approaches have become increasingly prevalent within nursing education curricula as the ‘new frontier’ for the preparation of nurses (Chikotas, 2008; Peters, 2000). This particular educational model is thought to allow increased creativity, critical thinking, and acquisition of knowledge through the act of group problem solving (Barrows & Tamblyn, 1980; Eugene, 2010), as opposed to lecture and teacher-centred behaviourist models. Arguably, the co-operative approach utilized in PBL resembles the clinical practice environment wherein interprofessional teamwork occurs (Eugene, 2010). While two participants “saw value in CBL” (Ashley & Blaize), many preferred lecture-style. As one participant reported: I like lecture style, I like to be able to take my own notes, approach the instructors, so-on-and-so-forth, as opposed to relying on fellow students to teach me things. That made me really paranoid as to the quality of my education and what I’d be paying for exactly. (Aura) Similarly, Rae stated, “I like lecture. I like having information that is concrete and then going to practice it after.” Another participant remarked that CBL did not teach her “how to think through decisions, and how to prioritize ... But then again, we didn’t have any guidance on how to do it. And that was the idea [behind CBL], you figured it out on your own” (Kindle). One participant 83 indicated, “It was like the blind leading the blind for problem-based learning” (Dawn). Ember reflected: Thank God I knew how to [teach myself]. Because we had no teaching, we had no actual passing on of knowledge. It was all self-taught because ... that was the style of learning that was CBL. I know that there’s lots of research that says CBL works, and I suspect it does work if you do it properly. But CBL doesn’t mean you leave a group of students to figure out a problem and you just walk away, and say if you have any questions email me. That’s not CBL, that is being totally irresponsible. And I remember so many of us saying why are we even paying for this? Who is getting paid? This is a joke! This is an absolute joke! Other participants also verbalized the lack of guidance from professors in the CBL classroom. When asked to describe CBL, one participant went so far as to report “I hated CBL” (Rae). While the CBL educational style may be constructivist in nature and reflective of the clinical practice environment, for many participants, it was not a favourable method to learn about nursing practice. Owing to the premise that knowledge is co-constructed in CBL, the teacher must be able to facilitate discussion and foster an inclusive learning environment (Mezirow, 1994). One participant reported that “for people that are quiet or just aren’t confident ... [CBL] may not be the ideal learning environment” (Blaize). Without proper facilitation from instructors, coupled with the “palpable lack of respect from educators within the program” discussed previously in the study by Dawn, a positive learning environment was not achieved and appeared to pose various challenges for study participants. Disconnecting between classroom and clinical. The second factor associated with not feeling prepared relates to the perceived disconnection participants described between the university and the clinical practice setting. 84 Ember stated, “My nursing education did not prepare me for practice very well at all. I think there’s such a huge gap between what you are taught and what you should do, and what actually happens in the hospital setting.” Nurse researchers and educators have indicated the idealistic nature of nursing education which contradicts the reality of the clinical practice environment (Allen, 2004; Clare, 1993a; Clare, 1993b; Eggertson, 2013). This sentiment was reflected in the following comments made by participants with regard to learning nursing skills. Cole stated: The tutors thought that they were brought in to teach us how to do these [nursing] skills. And once we had these skills, the rest would sort of take care of itself. And I think that’s where everything fell short for me because the rest didn’t take care of itself. You know, I didn’t feel prepared. Similarly, Kindle reported: I found I wasn’t really that prepared going into clinical, because we would have a lab going simultaneously with the clinical. But often you would get there and you would have to perform skills that you hadn’t yet learned to do in your lab. Ashley stated: We would have one lab a week to learn all the skills. And then we would get to the unit and we still didn’t really know what we were doing. I think that’s just the nature of the beast. Aside from technological advances, and having a standardized patient, or one of the mannequin patients in every room, it’s really hard to practice inserting an IV on not a real hand. Ashley further reflected: Nursing education, it is what it is. It’s just to get you through, and get you into the field. And it really felt like that. It really felt like they [professors] were just giving us the information that we needed to know and sending us along on our way. Dawn reported: 85 The program I was in was fairly theoretically heavy and not as heavy on skills. I think it would have been more useful to have more specific instruction on nursing skills ... and focusing on specific decision-making patterns ... I think as a new nurse it’s really useful to use those kinds of flow patterns of thinking to make decisions about care. One participant stated, “I was on a very specialized unit, nursing school could never have prepared me for the unit that I was on” (Rae). To counter this occurrence, some Canadian nursing schools, for example, are offering certificates in specializations such as oncology to better prepare new graduates for entry into the workforce (Eggertson, 2013). Predisposing personality characteristics. The third factor associated with challenges experienced throughout the basic psychosocial process of Letting Go refers to participants’ self-described personality type of ‘being sensitive’. ‘Being sensitive’ derives from the Latin word sentire which means ‘to feel’ (Sayers & de Vries, 2008). According to Aron (1996) approximately 15-20% of the population have a sensitive personality type which pre-disposes the individual to become ‘easily overwhelmed’ in highly stimulating environments. Aron (1996) posits that sensitive personality types want to be noticed for their hard work, are affected by others’ mood, and prefer work environments that are quiet and calm. Interestingly, when participants were asked to describe their personality, several participants self-described as ‘being sensitive.’ Note that participants did not complete a personality-sorter questionnaire to objectively determine their personality type. However, the following quotations strongly depict ‘being sensitive’ (Aron, 1996). Ember described being introverted and its inherent challenges as a member of the nursing profession. She stated: 86 One of the things I’ve learned throughout nursing school and practicing as an RN is that, we all have different strengths. And one thing in nursing that’s really unpopular, that I never would have guessed, is being introverted. And I don’t know why people tend to equate being introverted with being weak, or being not very smart, or having nothing to contribute, or anything like that. Because that’s not true. Ember further described being influenced by a negative practice environment and others’ mood. She reflected: Those things take a toll. It’s like you’re walking into a sponge and all day you’re saturated in negativity, anger, anxiety, and fear. Not necessarily that you feel that, but when it’s all around you, it’s very hard not to pick it up in your mentality ... After a while, it starts creeping into your mind. Ember concluded that being exposed to a negative practice environment while in the workforce “often brought out the worst in me ... it’s not right if you see yourself changing.” This comment reinforces how those with sensitive personality types can be affected by the work environment. Dawn also described herself as a “quiet person.” She further elaborated: I’m a quiet person. People tend not to notice me. I was kind of invisible throughout most of my placements and throughout most of the program ... I didn’t feel like people, the physicians, or clients saw me very much, or really noticed the work I was doing. I didn’t receive a lot of thanks for my work directly from management, or my charge nurse, or the physician, or the patient. This comment emphasizes the need for those with sensitive personality types to be recognized for their contribution in the work environment. Similarly, Kindle also described herself as “a hard worker” who further stated: I’m a sensitive person. But I think I also have enough inner strength that I can handle criticism, and it’s not that I wanted the [nursing] program to be easy or that I wanted people to just tell me how great I was all the time. I wanted to know how I could get better, and I wanted to feel like it was actually obtainable. 87 Fanning the flame. Constructive feedback from faculty, managers, and nurse educators can mitigate these challenges identified by those of a ‘sensitive’ personality type. Constructive feedback reinforces appropriate behaviour, contributes to professional development, and can assist learners and new nurses to reach their goals (Kabotoff, 2006). One participant not only described himself as being sensitive and a “global learner” but additionally stated, “I was an anxious nursing student” (Cole). Therefore, further adding to the above challenges inherent in being sensitive, is dealing with fears and anxieties encountered in the clinical setting. Dealing with Fears and Anxieties Dampening the spirit. Nursing students and experienced nurses alike must cope with stressful and anxiety-producing events in their practice. For students and newly-graduated nurses, this process can comprise of practicing newly-learned skills in clinical practice environments, fear of making errors, feeling traumatized and dealing with emotional pressures. Practicing newly-learned skills. Participants verbalized feeling “nervous” (Rae), “scared” (Cole), and “overwhelmed” (Ashley) when performing skills in the clinical environment for the first time. Rae stated: It’s a scary thing having to do all of these things when you were 19 and 20 years old. Going in, trying to do your assessments and dressing changes, and all that stuff you are doing for the first time. I remember the first ostomy. It’s really scary. You think you are going to mess up and it’s just one of those stressful things that all you want to do is get through the shift, do the best you can, and go go go and feel that stress for so many hours. Then go home exhausted and go do more patient research, and I don’t know, it was brutal. Ashley reflected: 88 The nurses that you are buddied with don’t want to give you more than you can handle ... Sometimes you get lost between feeling overwhelmed and feeling useless ... I just thought of the actual clinical experiences as a means to an end. You know, I’ll just grin and bear it for now, do my clinical pre-work, do my best when I’m on the floor, and just wait for the experiences to come to a close. Cole reflected on the first time he carried out a male catheterization. He stated: I wasn’t expecting it to be a particularly painful sort of procedure. I wasn’t really prepared for that aspect of it... I passed out as soon as I saw blood. And the nurse was sort of critical of it. She said, ‘Didn’t you know he was going to be in pain? Didn’t you know there was going to be blood?’ And I hadn’t been prepared for all of those little minute realities. I felt embarrassed, I felt scared, and I was frustrated. Overtly critical feedback toward novice practitioners can result in resignation from the workplace (Anders, 2001). The Dreyfus model of mentorship (Benner, 1984) delineates five levels of proficiency as a learner acquires and develops skills which move from novice, to advanced beginner, to competent and proficient, toward expert mentee. Assisting novices to become proficient, coaching and mentorship play a key role to enhance confidence through appropriate communication techniques that include empathy for the learner (Redmond & Sorrell, 1996; Reilly, 2007). The presence of a welcoming and warm relationship between mentor and mentee, or a teacher and student allows for learning and identity development to occur. One participant advocated for a different approach. Rae advised: ‘Fake it till you make it’... Look like you know what you are doing. Even if it’s your first IM [intra-muscular] injection, you put on that confidence, you go for it. I remember that really helped me ... It’s kind of how I deal with my fears. Just give it a try, do the best you can, and pretend you know what you are doing when you have to do something new. 89 Fear of making errors. Fear of making errors was also found to be evident in study participants. According to Kim (2003), the most anxiety provoking situations learners encounter include communication with physicians, a fear of making errors, being observed by instructors, and responding to initial experiences which include practicing newly-learned skills. Cole stated: I dreaded clinical shifts every single time every single time I went ... There was fear that I was going to make a mistake, and I was afraid of that because I didn’t want to fail. And there was a thought that I would fail if I had made a mistake ... I’m worried about poor patient outcomes and if I kill this patient by making a medication error, you know? I hadn’t yet developed coping skills ... What I needed in nursing school was somebody to say calm down. It’s going to be fine. Nobody ever told me it was okay to make a mistake. Cole further advised, “The way mistakes are handled in nursing school might be the key to keeping some of us in the profession. Because I think mistakes are inevitable, we need to learn how to deal with those.” Similarly, Kindle stated: I’ve discovered that making mistakes in the education profession is something that is viewed as critical to learning ... It’s something the nursing profession can certainly learn from. I mean, we have to find a way to do things safely in nursing, but that fear that I felt of making a mistake, I know I was not the only one who felt that. Kindle further reflected: There’s not a lot of room to grow in nursing. It feels like you have to be good at it when you graduate. You can’t just develop over time ... Whether you have no years of experience or 25 years of experience, the bar is at the same level for you. You don’t have the luxury of having a time period in which you can develop ... In nursing I often felt that no matter how much work I put in, it didn’t matter, I just wasn’t good enough for it. The unrealistic expectation for new graduates to “hit the ground running” remains within the workforce given that nursing education curricula prepares graduates for entry-level practice (Cowin & Hengstberger-Sims, 2006, p. 61; Greenwood, 2000, 90 p. 17). The above participant comments emphasize the need for supportive feedback and mentorship for students and novice nurses to advance toward competent and proficient practice (Benner, 1984) within a nurturing atmosphere. Myrick, Yonge, and Billay (2010) encourage nurses in practice settings to nurture growth and potential within learners entering workforce settings. Feeling traumatized. Without proper access to support structures for nurses, research studies indicate nurses are at risk of developing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) relating to increasing complexities, demands of the workplace, and exposure to traumatic incidents that include working in critical care, emergency nursing, and in pediatric areas (Adriaenssens, de Gucht, Maes, 2012; Czaja, Moss, & Mealer, 2012; Mealer, M., Burnham, E.L., Goode, C.J., Rothbaum, B., & Moss, M., 2009). Note that many study participants worked in these specialized areas. Participants described incidents of providing nursing care while being exposed to potentially traumatizing events. Blaize reflected: Did I realize that probably a reason a lot of nurses leave critical care, is from PTSD? No ... On my 22 nd birthday, I bagged and tagged a 22 year old girl. That’s what I did on my 22 nd birthday... I think that’s why people have PTSD. Because you spend the entire day trying to resuscitate someone exactly the same age as you, born three days before you, and you fail. And you don’t necessarily fail because you couldn’t do it, but you fail because they’re sick. Like, there’s nothing you can do. Dawn stated that on one of her worst days working as a nurse, “I had a baby that died after birth... I mean that’s not a good day. It’s not something you anticipate and it’s profoundly sad and scary.” She continued, “On average I worked with one family a month that was having a stillbirth or having a late-term abortion 91 which is always sad.” Similarly, Aura also described a potentially traumatizing event when responding to a code. She stated: My first real big code happened ... it was very traumatizing for me... This particular case was a younger patient ... she had been responsive and posturing on one side a little bit... it looked like something from the exorcist. Those were the sounds that were coming out of her ... Check her pulse, nothing. Jump on her, start doing CPR. Teenage daughter was in the room. I’m like almost crying at this point. Because it was such, [inhales sharply], like such a fast thing... We tried to resuscitate her for about 3 ½ hours. She coded twice. We were not successful. Aura further reflected on the code and decided: I just didn’t want to ever go through that again. It’s not for me. I will remember that for the rest of my life. I don’t want to have it become a part of my normal way, part of my work. Another participant warned, “[When] I go home, I never want to have the weight of someone’s coffin resting on my shoulders ... Because if you go home and you have doubts, that’s when it eats at you” (Blaize). One participant verbalized her difficulty with being able to cope working as a nurse. She stated: I really coped on a day-to-day basis. I saw that it was too overwhelming to look too far ahead into the future and see all of the things that needed to be done. And that feeling of anxiety of what if this happens, or what if that happens? So I really just lived one day at a time. (Ember) According to the DSM-V, four components are associated with the diagnosis of PTSD. They include (a) Re-experiencing the event which involves prolonged psychological distress; (b) Heightened arousal including sleep disturbances and hyper-vigilance; (c) Avoidance which includes distressing memories, thoughts, feelings or reminders of the event; and (d) Negative thoughts, mood, or feelings (American Psychiatric Association [APA], 2013). 92 Components of the DSM-V definition of PTSD are evident within participants’ comments in this study. As Ember reported in the last substantive category, she experienced “psychological” and “moral stress” related to hierarchal and horizontal violence present in the workplace that is reflective of part (a) of the DSM-V definition. Part (b) of the DSM-V PTSD definition refers to sleep disturbances and hyper-vigilance; these anxiety-indicators were noted in the following participant comments: In my fourth year of nursing, I really struggled with the approaching completion of my degree ... I had experienced this real fear of graduating and not knowing what I was going to do after I graduated. And then I had real insomnia. Like real insomnia for what felt like weeks that I didn’t sleep at all ... Because I wasn’t sure about how I was going to deal with it, and I didn’t feel ready to be a nurse ... It was very very challenging. (Kindle) There were a couple of errors [by classmates] that were made in clinical classes ... That was always a very dramatic moment, nursing students would be leaving the clinical unit crying their eyes out ... That affected the milieu of our class as well, because if this can happen to one of your classmates, it could happen to one of us too. You become very hypervigilant about not making those mistakes. (Cole) Note the severe insomnia reported by Kindle related to intrusive thought patterns and the hyper-vigilance felt by Cole in their comments that could be attributed to PTSD symptomology. Furthermore, part (c) of the DSM-V definition is characterized by avoidance and reminders of the event are evident in the following quotations. Participants stated they would “try to block out” negative events (Ashley) and “you kind of try to block these things from your memory so that you can move on” (Kindle). Rae was reminded of her challenges every time she dressed in her nursing uniform. She stated, “Getting into scrubs, I hated nursing so much. Scrubs represented to me this horrible nursing school.” 93 Negative thoughts, mood, or feelings in part (d) of the PTSD classification were evident in the following comments made by Ember. She stated, “When I went to nursing school, I lost my self-esteem, I lost my confidence, I didn’t believe in what I was doing. I lost the idea that I had of what it was to be a nurse.” While the findings of this study portray a particular relevance to PTSD, the actual presence of PTSD in the participants can only be speculated without specific measures to investigate and diagnose PTSD in newly-graduated nurses who have left or plan to leave the nursing profession. Dealing with emotional pressures. Together with ‘feeling traumatized,’ participants also described having to deal with emotional pressures. Cole reported that when emotionally drained “you don’t have the time or energy or love, really, to give to what you’re doing ... you feel ineffective in the sense that you need to remain professional for your patients. You’re not supposed to be the one that’s in crisis, they are.” Kindle noted: It’s an emotional profession. You see a lot of things. You experience a lot of things that other people in society never have to deal with, right? Like most people never go to a morgue, or have to bag a dead body, like these are big things to deal with ... You often bring the emotional side of things [home] with you. Blaize also commented on seeing dead bodies. She stated, “I can’t even begin to count the number of people I’ve seen die, or dead bodies I’ve seen, or families I’ve – you know it I mean? And I guess that’s not a normal thing, I guess.” Participants also commented on the emotional pressures and challenges present within practice environments. Kindle reflected: I find education, it certainly has challenges and you still deal with people and families that have tough things going on, but it’s not life and death, 94 it’s not as serious as nursing is. And I think that is probably just a better fit for me. Blaize also described her challenge moving between patients in a critical care environment. She stated: You go from telling the family ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, to literally walking around the corner and admitting your next patient and telling them that hopefully everything’s going to be okay. You have to turnaround from two most extreme emotions possible: the family losing a loved one to the family having a loved one being admitted into intensive care. It’s like you are expected to go from one to the other and not miss a beat. Similarly, Dawn recounted: I found it very emotionally taxing to care for people every day, all day... To always be empathetic and patient ... It takes a lot out of you to do that every day. Particularly when there are so many other stressors playing into that and your work isn’t always very valued. The above comments are indicative of not only primary exposure of traumatic stress, but secondary traumatic stress, also known as vicarious trauma (Stamm, 2013). Secondary traumatic stress derives from providing care to individuals who have been directly affected by trauma or injury, hence its prevalence within the helping professions (Figley, 1995). As one self-described “sensitive” participant noted: I’m a person who’s very affected by my environment and by the people that I’m surrounded with. And I found that in nursing, I got sad a lot because you are always working with people that are sick, or dying, or going through something very traumatic. I had a hard time letting go of that, and not over empathizing with people. (Kindle) Note that secondary traumatic stress occurs in various helping professions that include child welfare workers (Sprang, Craig, & Clark, 2011), educators, psychologists, firefighters, police officers, social workers, and lawyers (Papovic, 2009). Secondary traumatic stress also occurs in diverse nursing practice settings 95 that include pediatrics, mental health, critical care, oncology, and hospice areas (Beck, 2011; Beck & Gable, 2012). Fanning the flame. Nursing faculty as well as nurse educators and leaders within clinical practice environments can assist newly-graduated nurses and student nurses to cope with stress, traumatic events, and the occurrence of errors in a safe environment through debriefing, effective communication techniques, Emotional Intelligence (EI), and transformational leadership. A brief dyadic, early intervention can prevent onset of PTSD and trauma (des Groseilliers, Marchand, Cordova, Ruzek, & Brunet, 2013). The authors note that negative support contributes more greatly to PTSD symptoms than the lack of support (des Groseilliers et al., 2013), thus the importance of debriefing after critical incidents (Killian, 2008) which can include making errors. Rudolph, Simon, Rivard, Dufresne, and Raemar (2007) advocate that “mistakes are puzzles to be learned from rather than crimes to be covered up” (p. 358). Errors can provide opportunities for learning in a safe environment free of ridicule. Furthermore, discussing mistakes openly and objectively role models professional behaviour and can ensure patient safety (Rudolph et al., 2007). Note that engaging in effective debriefing requires delivery of effective feedback and communication techniques. Effective feedback comprises ongoing, timely, specific, simple, purposeful, private, valuable, and most importantly, supportive characteristics (Myrick & Yonge, 2005; Myrick & Yonge, 2011). Engaging in effective feedback contributes to learner or novice confidence, motivation, self-esteem, and 96 proficient clinical practice (Clynes & Raftery, 2008). Similarly, Rudolph, Simon, Dufresne, and Raemer (2006) advocate for a debriefing and communication approach that does not ‘shame and blame’ which has ramifications resulting in humiliation and dampened motivation but rather, an approach that is non- judgmental. Furthermore, nursing faculty can facilitate and shape student learning in clinical practice environments through EI and genuine concern for student well-being (Allen, Ploeg, & Kaasalainen, 2012). The conceptual theory of EI was first developed by John Mayer and Peter Salovey in 1990 in which they describe EI as “the ability to monitor one's own and others' emotions, to discriminate among them, and to use the information to guide one's thinking and actions” (Mayer & Salovey, 1993, p. 433). In 1995, Daniel Goleman revised Mayer and Salovey’s theory of EI, adapting the theory to predict personal effectiveness at work and in leadership (Goleman, 1998). Goleman concludes that leaders require EI competencies that comprise emotional self-control, empathy, conflict management, and emotional self-awareness alongside the ability to energize others, network, build partnerships, and have fluent interpersonal skills (Boyatzis & Goleman, 2007; Goleman, 1998). EI not only impacts novice learning, but positively influences patient outcomes and employee retention in the nursing workforce (Smith, Profetto-McGrath, & Cummings, 2009). In this study, participants described clinical instructors and nurse educators who adopted approaches that showed genuine concern. For example, 97 one participant’s outlook improved after receiving support from a clinical instructor. Ember stated: I had one clinical instructor who was very good. And the reason she was good was that she was totally honest when I told her how I felt. And she didn’t tell me that it wasn’t her fault, or that she couldn’t do anything, or it was beyond her control, she just said to me, I know exactly what you mean... And at least then I didn’t feel so alone. I didn’t feel like it was hopeless. That nobody understood or cared at all. Ashley reflected on the anxiety she experienced the first time she performed venipuncture on a patient. However, with support, guidance, and encouragement from her tutor, she was successful. She explained: Word had kind of gotten around to the students on the unit that our tutor was looking for someone to put in an IV on a patient. And I was making myself scarce... I would peek my head into the hallway and if she wasn’t there I would go into the next patient’s room and hide for a while. And so I was definitely hesitant ... but our tutor was there completely, telling me exactly what to do. And it wasn’t as scary as you anticipated it to be. It ended up being totally fine. Fears and anxieties can be diminished within a supportive and non-judgmental atmosphere (Rudolph et al., 2006). Not only is EI important for faculty, management, and leaders in the health care system, nursing students with emotional competence engage in more effective coping strategies (Por, Barriball, Fitzpatrick, & Roberts, 2011). The authors also found that EI was greater in students with higher levels of education and age (Por et al., 2011). Interestingly, one participant commented, “I started nursing school when I was 22 or 23. And I felt really glad that I wasn’t 18 and doing that” (Dawn). This comment suggests that entering nursing with previous life experience and maturity can decrease the amount of stress perceived by students entering the nursing profession. Por et al. (2011) purport that teaching 98 nursing students principles of EI can diminish the overwhelming effects of stress and anxiety. A similar finding was noted by Smith et al. (2009), who found that students require emotional competence to develop effective coping practices within complex and chaotic nursing practice environments. Being that stress and anxiety emanate from the clinical environment and not just internal personality characteristics, leadership styles of managers, nurse educators, and nursing faculty can also diminish challenges faced by newly- graduated nurses and nursing students. Faculty and managerial adoption of transformational and/or authentic leadership styles can promote a positive work environment for newly graduated nurses as they enter the workforce. Transformational practice environments ease transition of newly- graduated nurses into the workforce as evidenced by positive outcomes at Magnet TM hospitals in the United States that employ transformational leadership (ANCC, 2008; Gardner, 2010; Kramer, Maguire, & Brewer, 2011). Without the tenets of fostering collaboration, building teamwork, trust, respect, and innovation emphasized in both the ANCC’s framework for Magnet TM hospitals, the nursing profession risks a continuance of hostile practice environments resulting in compromised patient care, nurse distress (Ditmer, 2010), and new graduate exit from the nursing profession. Weberg (2010) found there is overwhelming evidence that transformational leadership decreases burnout, diminishes exhaustion, increases nurse well-being, and improves job satisfaction. Transformational leadership was first described by Burns (1978) as “transcending leadership that is dynamic leadership in the sense that leaders throw 99 themselves into a relationship with followers who feel elevated by it and become more active themselves” (p. 20). Bass (1990) redefined transformational leadership as “a leadership process that is systematic, consisting of purposeful and organized search for changes, systematic analysis, and the capacity to move resources from areas of lesser to greater productivity to bring about a strategic transformation” (p. 34). Wong (2008) defined and differentiated authentic and transformational leadership styles stating, “authentic leaders influence via their strong sense of who they are and where they stand on issues, values, and beliefs; whereas transformational leaders influence though a powerful and positive vision” (p. 82). Authentic and transformational leadership characteristics include “positive role modeling of honesty, integrity, and high ethical standards in the development of leader-follower relationships” (Wong & Cummings, 2009, p. 6). Adoption of authentic and transformation leadership styles can be accomplished within the nursing profession. Literature that includes The Leadership Challenge (Kouzes & Posner, 2007) provides the reader with a working model on how to adopt an authentic and transformative leadership style. Adopting EI skills identified by Goleman (1998) with the leadership skills outlined by Kouzes and Posner (2007) could generate a highly adaptive and transformative nursing practice environments. Adoption of authentic and transformational leadership styles has the potential to sustain and meet the needs of the nursing profession, as well as potentially transform negative practice environments into positive work environments that can serve to mitigate nurse turnover and RN exit from the profession. 100 Kouzes and Posner state “more than ever there is a need for leaders to inspire us to dream, to participate, and to persevere” (2012, para.1). This statement holds significant weight for the nursing profession. Moreover, the nursing profession ought to develop and foster resilience through positive and supportive working relationships (Jackson, Firtko, & Edenborough, 2007), thereby ensuring a nursing profession that is more attractive, gratifying, and sustainable for the future. Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions Throughout the emergent process, invariably, participants were found to be weighing the positive rewards while engaging in nursing practice, with competing negative tensions. These tensions influenced their ultimate decision to exit the nursing profession and were found to have been a culmination of their encounters while nursing students and subsequently as newly-graduated nurses. In this substantive category, two subsuming categories emerged: wearing out and deciding to leave. Wearing out resulted from losing the joy of nursing, thinking it will get better, and the accumulating effects of the previous three substantive categories that included: (a) Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace; (b) Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours; (c) Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges. Ultimately, participants made the decision to leave the profession and dissociate from establishing a nursing identity, thus completing the basic psychosocial process, Letting Go. Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions was characterized as both a ‘tug-of-war’ and a balance in determining the decision whether to stay in the nursing profession or leave altogether. See Figure 3. Weighing Competing 101 Rewards and Tensions below. As one participant stated, “I don’t think I’m getting the reward from the direct patient care that I require in order to keep going...it’s sort of a push and pull...if they were to balance, I would still consider wanting to be a nurse” (Cole). Ember stated, “If I could find a team that I felt I belonged in, then I feel like I could just take off, and be very happy. I don’t know how to find it. And I feel so tired.” One participant weighed positives (rewards) and negatives (tensions) in her work environment and described what she would have needed to remain in nursing. Kindle stated: I didn’t have any support, and I would say that [my] work environment was actually a toxic work environment ... It was very negative ... If I would have had more support, if I had been in a place where I felt like I could be given the resources that I needed to grow, I probably would have stayed. Figure 3. Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions According to Identity Theory (Burke & Stets, 2009), it is suggested that support and feedback, as well as gaining internal and external rewards are essential toward establishing identity. Without this “feedback loop” (Burke & Stets, 2009, p. 50), Weighing Competing Rewards & Tensions Wearing Out Deciding to Leave Having Support & Satisfaction Making Nursing Work N a v ig a ti n g N e g o ti a ti n g F a ci n g F e a rs 102 an individual risks disruption in identity formation through disturbances within the feedback loop. These disturbances comprise the tensions identified in the three previous substantive categories under Dampening the Spirit. Wearing Out As participants accumulated both positive rewards prompting them to stay in the nursing profession, with opposing antecedent experiences prompting them to leave, it is clear that many of them were wearing out. Participants made various comments stating that they felt “ground down” (Rae), “drained” (Cole), felt “dragged under” (Ember) and referred to “deteriorating” (Ember & Kindle). Aura commented, “I felt like if I was going at the pace I was going, that probably in a few years’ time, I would not be able to work as a nurse at all.” Cole questioned: How much longer can I do this? ... I’m anticipating that if I were to do this indefinitely, I don’t know if there would be a breakdown, or I would become physically unhealthy, or what would happen ... I’m so close to the brink. Ember also questioned: Why do I have to keep doing this? Who says that I have to keep doing this? ... I just said to myself, you are the one who is making yourself do this. I mean, there’s a lot of circumstances that are outside of my control, and that’s true, but at the very end of all these arguments, the fact is, I am the only one who is forcing myself to go every day, and put myself through all these stresses. And so, it gave me more of a sense of empowerment. And I think as a nursing student, I had virtually all of my powers stripped. I felt so powerless. And so to have gone through all of that, and then just say to myself, you know what? I am in charge of my life. And if I say I don’t want to do this anymore, then I don’t need anyone’s permission other than my own. And I gave myself that permission. And I’ve definitely felt a lot better. Wearing out was further evident in the following participant statements: 103 I got to a point where it was just so stressful, and things were just deteriorating more and more with my manager ... I got to a point where I felt like I just had to get out of it [nursing]. And I just didn’t feel like I could keep going on with it any longer because I had been holding on for so long. (Kindle) It [nursing] was like running a marathon. You know you can’t do it forever, but you just need to get to the end kind of thing... I couldn’t have kept going forever because, oh my gosh, it’s tiring. It’s like when you don’t like something, it’s really hard to get yourself going and keep yourself motivated. (Rae) Similarly, Ember stated: I distinctly remember having this feeling that I couldn’t bounce back anymore ... At that time, it was a really fundamental shift that for the first time I felt in my physical body, there is no energy. There’s nothing to run on anymore. It’s just not there. And I realized I had [been] depleted ... that there’s nothing left ... I just needed every spare moment just to collect myself to get up the next day and do it again. And at that point I realized that this can’t be worth it. And I don’t want to be a nurse to the exclusion of everything else in my life, unless I compromise my own standards. While research indicates that as many as 66% of new graduates experience severe burnout associated with negative practice environments (Cho, Lashinger, & Wong, 2006), it is not clear if burnout was experienced by all participants in this study. The concept of burnout is defined as “a state of exhaustion in which one is cynical about the value of one's occupation and doubtful of one's ability to perform” (Maslach et al., 1996, p. 20). The Maslach Burnout Inventory (MBI) is comprised of three components that include Exhaustion, Cynicism, and Professional Efficacy (Maslach et al., 1996). While participants in this study displayed and described characteristics of emotional exhaustion and decreased amounts of personal efficacy, two key measures of MBI, participants did not display or describe elements of cynicism. On completion of member checks with 104 participants, members agreed with the subsuming category wearing out, however, not all members agreed with the MBI definition of burnout. As Rae explained: I was never exhausted when I was a nurse ... I’m more exhausted as a teacher than I ever was as a nurse ... I think I never hit the exhaustion point because I knew that I would find an out. I always saw education as a way to get home [return to home community] – it was my light, it was my carrot ahead of me ... So I didn’t ever feel exhausted. I knew I would find a way to get home no matter what it was. So I ended up changing fields. Furthermore, participants described ‘getting out’ of nursing before they were too depleted of energy to pursue another career pathway. Ember stated: How long can I keep going? And being depleted on one hand by a system that doesn’t give me what I need, versus the rewards of the patient care. And how long do I wait before I decide? I don’t want to wait until I’m so depleted that I feel like I don’t have the strength to find another job or, I don’t have the mental resources anymore to start being more creative in terms of thinking about things I can do that I would find rewarding. The process of participant experiences and descriptions are more in alignment with the theory of Compassion Fatigue outlined in the Professional Quality of Life Scale (ProQOL) (Stamm, 2009). According to Stamm (2009) Compassion Fatigue comprises of secondary trauma (discussed under the substantive category Facing Fears, Traumas, and Challenges) coupled with a revised definition of burnout that includes the presence of exhaustion, frustration, anger, and depression. Note that cynicism is not included in this definition of burnout. Opposing Compassion Fatigue is Compassion Satisfaction, gaining positive rewards through the action of helping others. Participants of this study were not assessed using ProQOL, however, the conceptualization of the major substantive category, Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions draws similar parallels. If an individual in the nursing profession reaps a satisfactory amount of reward to sustain helping others, it is 105 likely the individual will remain in the nursing profession. Conversely, if fatigue perpetuates, Compassion Fatigue may be a valuable measure in the exit of newly- graduated nurses from the profession. Losing the joy of nursing. Participants described the lack of rewards and a diminishing level of enjoyment in nursing as determinants of wearing out and wanting to exit the profession. Some participants came to the realization that performing nursing work provided them with little enjoyment. As Rae stated, “I don’t have interest in giving medications, doing assessments... I don’t think I was ever really interested in the whole nursing process. It just never really appealed to me ... it’s just not something I wanted to do my whole life.” Cole also arrived at the conclusion that “the work that nurses are doing now is very technical, and no, I don’t like that stuff. No, I don’t like nursing work.” Similarly, Aura stated, “I didn’t like doing the morning routines, gathering the meds, getting people out of bed.” She further reflected, “I don’t think I can do this.” Ashley questioned: I’m doing all this work, and I’m putting in so much energy and effort in, and just, you know, studying all the time, doing so much work, and all for what? Because I’m not going to do this in the future. Two participants garnered some enjoyment from the work environment and the tasks embedded in nursing practice; however they hoped the challenging aspects inherent in the three previous substantive categories would resolve. As Blaize explained, “I think what I do is rewarding. Some days you win some, you lose some. You often lose more than you win them in my unit.” She continued: I’m not leaving because I don’t like being a nurse. I’m leaving because I don’t like what nursing means to the public ... and to our managers. That we are expendable, that we are dispensable, that we are replaceable. That is not how you get good employee morale, and that is not how you create 106 job satisfaction. And the only way that I can change that behavior is if I further my education so that’s what I’m going to do. This comment highlights that although Blaize was able to garner rewards from direct patient care, the challenges surrounding management and working within the health care system were to outweigh the benefits of staying within the nursing profession. Realizing it will not get better. For many participants, the challenges encountered in nursing school and subsequently within professional nursing practice, did not improve. Participants explained how they hoped ‘things would get better’, however, without supports and rewards to ‘fan the flame,’ the push to exit the nursing profession further escalated. Ember reflected: My priority was to graduate and become a nurse. And I always hoped that things would get better ... But again, as things just got worse and worse, I just wanted to graduate and get out, and never look back ... And you wonder how on earth am I ever going to do this for a living if this is how I’m handling it [the challenges] as a student. But you always think that things will get better. Cole reflected on conversations between himself and his classmates. He stated: Things are going to be different once we graduate. They really aren’t that different ... in many ways for me it got worse. It wasn’t any better, certainly, the things we were doing were the same, but the patient load just increased and the support that we had decreased ... There was that myth that things were going to get better once you graduated. Participants expressed disappointment with regard to the lack of social and emotional support in the work environment. Laschinger et al. (2009) emphasize the importance of decreasing emotional exhaustion in new graduates through civil working relationships, supportive environments, and a sense of empowerment to decrease nurse turnover and exit from the profession. 107 Deciding to Leave As participants worked through Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions, deciding to leave nursing was concluded. Although participants described losing the joy in nursing as students, two participants endeavoured to work as nurses before deciding to leave. Rae described her decision as follows: I needed to know for sure that it was just nursing school I didn’t like, and not the job that I didn’t like... I didn’t love the nursing aspect... I really just did not want to do that. I had hated it during nursing school; adult care just dragged me down. And I just felt that nursing was not for me. So, I decided I would go back to school, and take [a fast-tracked education] program ... and then I let my RN license lapse when I got my teaching job. Similarly, Aura also described trying nursing after graduating: It [nursing] is not the job for me... having gone through all of that schooling, I don’t want to be a bedside nurse. But upon graduation, I thought I might as well try it... I didn’t really like the people that I worked with ... at that point I had already kind of made up my mind and moved on, and thought I don’t want to be at the bedside. When participants were asked to describe their emotional state regarding their decision to exit, their reflections were positive. As Ember explained: It’s a very special thing when you have that rapport with the patient and they open up to you. And you feel so privileged to be involved in their care. And that’s what I’ll really miss the most [tearful]...There is a very great sense of freedom that I can choose what I want to do that’s best for me. And maybe nursing is just a chapter in my life that’s going to end soon. And if that is the way it goes, then I’m okay with that. Similarly, Rae reported: I had worked so hard for four years of my life. But on the other side, I was able to look at it, like that was life experience. And that now I’m moving on to something else... it’s okay to let it go... it was kind of like this feeling like you’re on the edge of the cliff. And I’m like, I’m going to let this go. 108 And here it is! This is it! I’m going to let it go... it was kind of like, one chapter closes and another opens. And it’s okay. So it was good. No regret. As participants reflected on their choice to leave nursing, many expressed no regret in their pursuit to become nurses and their subsequent decision to leave. Dawn stated, “I don’t really have any regrets about leaving.” Another participant noted, “I’m glad I went into the nursing program ... I learned so much, and I got so many experiences ... I miss the people and the patients I had. I don’t miss the nursing itself” (Rae). Ashley stated: I don’t regret the decision to go into nursing. I don’t regret finishing the degree. I don’t regret the job that I had as a nurse. But it’s just that metamorphosis... this is the chapter I’m leaving now, and I’m going on to something different – for better or for worse. Final Participant Reflection The data generated in the substantive category Weighing Competing Rewards and Tensions revealed an invested amount of emotion and reflection as participants chose to exit the nursing profession. The knowledge generated in this study reveals a disheartening process that could have been mitigated by the presence of adequate support structures in educational institutions, workplace settings, and policy that reinforces healthy work environments (Ritter, 2011). To summarize the process of Letting Go, please reflect on the following comments described by Kindle as she reflected on her decision to leave the nursing profession: I am starting to be able to let go of nursing ... I still feel a combination of guilt about not continuing to practice. And I don’t know what it is exactly, maybe shame or just discontent with the fact that I’m not somehow using my nursing. And so, it is still a challenge in that way for me. I always felt with nursing, it is a really beautiful profession. And what nurses do is so critical, because we need nurses so much. 109 She continued: I wish I could have found myself in nursing, enough to keep going with it. But as we discussed before, I just personally, I found the stress probably more than anything, just so much, that I was concerned that it would just eat me up entirely and I would become so anxious or unable to function that it just wouldn’t be worth it in that way... I’m happy now because I’m also in a profession where I feel like I can make a meaningful contribution that reflects my skills and personality a little better. But it’s still something that I would probably say that I grieve a little bit. The loss of that. And the fact that I didn’t feel that I had the support that I needed to make it through that time as a beginning nurse, and to really feel like I could find a meaningful career in nursing. 110 CHAPTER 5: IMPLICATIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS Numerous strategies and recommendations to mitigate newly-graduated nurses from exiting the profession have been discussed in this study under Fanning the Flame. The strategies to circumvent the exit of nurses from the profession are reflected in the nursing literature, and in this study, also emerged from participants. These strategies were related to each substantive category: Navigating Constraints of the Healthcare System and Workplace, Negotiating Social Relationships, Hierarchies and Troublesome Behaviours, and Facing Fears, Traumas and Challenges. The basic psychosocial process of Letting Go that emerged from the data in this study has implications for educational institutions, workplace settings, and policy that reinforce healthy work environments (Ritter, 2011). In becoming aware of the factors associated with the basic psychosocial process of Letting Go, this process can be interrupted to prevent the further exodus of nurses from the profession. Upon being asked to consider what advice participants in this study might have for nursing students entering the profession, participants offered their own recommendations. Rae stated: Sticking it out makes you a tougher person ... The best advice is that no matter how frustrated or hard it is, just get through it. And then work for a little bit just to have the experience ... I needed to know for sure that it was just nursing school I didn’t like, and not the job that I didn’t like. And I would say just get through, anyone can get through if you can just work hard enough, and put in the time and lack of sleep, and do the best you can. And I think you should try before you should decide not to do it. Aura cautioned, “I think everything that you get taught in school is like some sort of crazy ideal. And that nothing happens like that in the real world.” Cole 111 recommended “find a way to spend time with nurses before starting nursing school.” Blaize advised to be aware of the ‘trade-offs’ being a nurse. She stated: You think as a student that making $90,000 is good money, but what you trade off physically, mentally, and emotionally, is half the compensation right there. You miss birthdays, you work every other Christmas, if your husband is a teacher, he gets the whole summer off, you don’t. Getting time off in the summer is not going to happen. And that nursing overall, you get out of it what you put into it ... pick an area that you like. Other advice for nursing students from participants included pursuing your passion. As Kindle described: I would tell them [nursing students] to try and figure out early on in their degree what area of nursing it is that they are passionate about. Because I think that it’s important, it’s such a big field, and there’s so many different areas you can work in, it’s important to know what it is that interests you so that you can set up your final practicum in that area ... And be able to find employment there later on. Ember recommended students who are considering nursing to “get feedback from graduates [of the program you are considering], don’t go by what they say on their website, don’t even go by what the professors tell you, get feedback from people who’ve actually lived through the experience.” Another participant stated: It’s [nursing is] a huge amount of work, it’s really difficult. And it’s not something to be taken lightly ... When you are a Registered Nurse working on the unit you are, in charge of people’s lives. And you do need to have a high level of education and a high level of skill. So expect the program to be challenging. And another piece of advice would be that when you get to clinical, you won’t be prepared ... Go into clinical on the first day and say, I don’t know how to do every skill, and that’s okay. (Ashley) One participant also offered advice for nursing faculty. Kindle advised faculty to allow their students to pursue their passion: I felt like throughout my degree, I was sort of told that I had to work in medicine when I graduated. And when I graduated, that was the only way to build my career at all as a nurse... It’s better for the nursing faculty to 112 take advantage of the abilities of the students, and the interest that they bring, so they can harvest those, and do something useful with them. Nursing education is the first point-of-entry into the profession for many nursing students. Achieving greater professional satisfaction and increasing nurses’ intent to stay can be attained through caring teacher-student relationships that reflect the caring and compassionate values fostered within the nursing profession. This includes nurturing novice learners through emancipatory pedagogy, role modeling, providing constructive feedback and engaging in positive communication techniques to ensure successful development of newly- graduated nurses (Benner, 1984; Bevis, 1989; Myrick et al., 2006; Myrick & Tamlyn, 2007). Nursing educational curricula ought to embed valuable learning experiences that connect education in university settings to the clinical practice environment (Eggertson, 2013; Myrick & Yonge, 2005). This goal can be accomplished through the adoption of simulation (Jarzemsky, McCarthy, Ellis, 2010) as a source of learning for students that reflect the clinical practice environment within the confines of university settings. Other strategies include transition programming, preceptorship, and mentorship programs (Olson-Sitki, Wendler, & Forbes, 2012) to prepare and foster positive socialization for new graduates entering the workforce. This must include adequate supports that comprise individual assistance through feedback and positive communication techniques, as well as a supportive workplace environment for the novice to develop confidence, proficiency, and competency (Johnstone, Kanitsaki, & Currie, 2008). 113 To mitigate new nurses from exiting the profession, those in clinical practice environments ought to adopt transformative leadership practices. Transformative leadership offers an emancipatory approach within the workplace which acts as a powerful strategy to circumvent the stressors within nursing related to patient acuity, workplace demands, paperwork, turnover, overtime, and burnout described by Reineck and Furino (2005). These changes can also serve to diminish hierarchal tenets that have given rise to oppressed group behaviour as well as hierarchal and horizontal violence within the nursing workforce. Conditions in the work environment ought to be made more favourable through the adoption of policy and health care models that permit nurses to practice to their full scope of skills and abilities (CNA, 2012). Furthermore, with increasing patient acuity and complexity, staffing mixes and appropriate nurse- patient ratios must also be considered to permit a safe workload for newly- graduated nurses entering the workforce (Duffield, Roche, Diers, Catling-Paull, & Blay, 2010). Adequate senior staffing ought to be made available to assist the novice practitioner should the need arise (Johnstone et al., 2008). It is in nursing’s best interest to acknowledge our professional history and clarify misconceptions that demote current nursing practice. Nursing has outgrown paternalism of the medical model as the public sees increasing value in primary health care, empowering the public through illness prevention to achieve healthy outcomes (CNA, 2012). 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Bellingham, WA: Author. Retrieved from http://www.workplacebullying.org/individuals/ problem/definition/ Wortsman, A., & Crupi, A. (2009). Addressing issues of intergenerational diversity in the nursing workplace. Ottawa, ON: Canadian Federation of Nurses Unions. Retrieved from http://www.nursesunions.ca/sites/ default/files/Intergen.Inside.en_.pdf http://www.workplacebullying.org/individuals/%20problem/definition/ http://www.nursesunions.ca/sites/%20default/files/Intergen.Inside.en_.pdf http://www.nursesunions.ca/sites/%20default/files/Intergen.Inside.en_.pdf 130 APPENDIX A: SEARCH METHODS 777 Records were identified through the databases: MEDLINE, Health Policy Reference Centre, and CINAHL. All searches were conducted using the following search string developed in partnership with the faculty librarian: (retention OR retain OR turnover OR "intention to stay" OR "intention to quit" OR "intention to leave" or attrition or terminat* or "job satisfaction" or stress*) AND (("new* grad*" or "new* registered") and nurs* or "new nurse*" or "novice nurse*") Records after duplicates removed 422 422 Records screened Records excluded: 392 30 Full-text articles assessed for eligibility Full-text articles excluded: 24 Studies included in the literature review: 6 Inclusion Criteria: All peer reviewed qualitative and quantitative studies from 1975 to October 2013 that examined RN exit from the profession within 5 years of entry-to-practice. Exclusion Criteria: Studies that examine RN turnover, retirement, midwife and senior RN exit from profession. Studies that used previously unvalidated tools to measure outcome variables. 131 APPENDIX B: QUALITY APPRAISAL OF STUDIES MINORS Tool Reference: Questions: Total Lavoie- Tremblay et al. (2011). Turnover intention... 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 2 2 1 2 N/A 2 0 N/A 2 N/A 2 2 15/18 Nooney et al. (2010). Should I stay... 2 1 0 1 N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A 2 6/10 Parry (2008). Intention to leave the profession... 2 1 2 2 N/A 2 0 N/A 2 N/A 2 2 15/18 Suzuki et al. (2010). Factors affecting turnover of Japanese nurses... 2 2 2 2 N/A 2 1 N/A 2 N/A 2 2 17/18 Items scored 0 (not reported), 1 (reported but inadequate), 2 (reported and adequate), or N/A (not applicable). CASP: Qualitative Research Tool Reference: Questions: Total Mackusick & Minick. (2010). Why are nurses leaving? 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Y Y Y P Y N P Y P P 5-Ys 1-N 4-Partial Cleary et al. (2013). Recent graduate nurse views... Y Y N Y Y N P P Y P 5-Ys 2-Ns 3-Ps Items scored ‘Y’ (adequately reported), ‘N’ (inadequately reported), or ‘P’ (Partial) did not meet all criteria). 132 APPENDIX C: SYNTHESES OF ARTICLES Author(s) Citation Design Sample Size Sample Characteristics Findings Cleary, M., Horsfall, J., Jackson, D., Muthulaks- hmi, P., & Hunt, G.E. (2013). Recent graduate nurse views of nursing, work and leadership. Journal of Clinical Nursing, 22, 2904-2911. Qualitative thematic analysis via qualitative interviews 17 ▪Unclear if all participants originated from Singapore. ▪All participants university educated at baccalaureate level in a Singapore university 4 themes emerged: ▪Skills and qualities required for positive nursing achievements (emotional, intellectual, interpersonal, and psychosocial qualities). ▪Being supported after graduation (only 7 participants reported ‘good’ transitional support in the workplace, heavy workload, prevalence of patriarchy). ▪Role models/leadership in clinical setting (majority of participants reported lack of ‘constructive leadership’). ▪Retention of nurses (need for ‘non-blaming culture,’ more autonomy, freedom to pursue postgraduate studies). ▪1 participant resigned from nursing workforce – not clear how long individual worked as nurse. ▪2 participants intended to quit current position. 133 Author(s) Citation Design Sample Size Sample Characteristics Findings Lavoie- Tremblay, M., Paquet, M., & Marchionni, C. (2011). Turnover intention among new nurses. Journal for Nurses in Staff Development, 27(1), 39-45. Correlational- Descriptive ▪Surveys prior to entry into workforce; repeated at 8 months into first placement using the Practice Environment Scale of the Nursing Work Index (PES- NWI). 145 ▪All participants from Quebec, Canada. ▪85.5% were female. ▪58.3% were 24 years old or younger (Gen Y). ▪40.7% were between ages 25-44 (Gen X). ▪64.8% attended a college- level nursing program. ▪34.5% graduated from a university nursing program. ▪0.7% (1 person) with master’s degree. ▪22.4% worked FT, 35.7% worked PT, 42% worked PT-Casual. ▪55.3% worked rotating shifts. ▪49% worked in a teaching hospital, 43.4% worked in a health or social services centre, 11.7% worked in a university hospital. ▪49% intended to quit current position. ▪9.7% intended to quit profession. ▪Significant correlations found in those intending to quit the profession and in all 5 domains of PES-NWI: (Nurse participation, Quality care, Nurse manager ability, Leadership and support, Collegial nurse-physician relationships). ▪There were no significant differences between new nurses in the age groups (Gen Y and Gen X) on the intention to quit categories. 134 Author(s) Citation Design Sample Size Sample Characteristics Findings Mackusick, C.I., & Minick, P. (2010). Why are nurses leaving? Findings from an initial qualitative study on nursing attrition. MEDSURG Nursing, 19(6), 335- 340. Interpretive Hermeneutic Phenomenology ▪Semi- structured interviews ▪Purposive and snowball sampling. 10 ▪1 participant under age 30; 1 between 30-39 years; 8 between 40-59 years. ▪80% female. ▪70% Caucasian. ▪5 practiced in Medical- Surgical areas; 3 in Critical Care; 1 in a psychiatric setting; and 1 in labour and delivery. ▪Years of practice ranged from 1-18 years. ▪5 were baccalaureate prepared; 5 with an associate degree. ▪3 participants held a bachelor degree in another field. ▪1 held an MBA. 3 themes emerged: ▪Unfriendly Workplace (lack of support, sexual harassment, verbal and physical abuse occurring from managers, co-workers, and physicians). ▪Emotional Distress (conflict between the wishes of patients and their families) ▪Fatigue and Exhaustion (physical and emotional). ▪3 participants left nursing after 1-2 years of practice. ▪Many participants cried during the interviews. ▪“Horizontal Hostility” and bullying occurred in those participants who left nursing 135 Author(s) Citation Design Sample Size Sample Characteristics Findings Nooney, J.G., Unruh, L., & Yore, M.M. (2010). Should I stay or go? Career change and labor force separation among registered nurses in the U.S. Social Science & Medicine, 70, 1874-1881. Cross-Sectional, Retrospective Analysis ▪Data was drawn from the 2004 National Sample Survey of Registered Nurses in the United States of America. 29,472 ▪Survey included nurses still practicing (did not include those who left the profession). ▪Majority of participants were white (90%) and female (94%). ▪73% were married. ▪38% had children in the home. ▪Attrition commences 5 years after entry to practice with 80% of nurses remaining in the workforce until age 51. ▪The rate of nurse attrition increases between age 51 and 61, and increases substantially between age 60 and 70 corresponding with retirement. ▪Nurses with higher incomes were significantly more likely to make a career change. ▪Those with an Advanced Practice or Master’s education were less likely to make a career change. ▪Nurses with children at home were 2.5 times more likely to make a career change. ▪Married nurses were 2 times more likely to leave the labour force. ▪Women are much less likely to leave nursing than men. ▪Nurses’ satisfaction with work environment not measured. 136 Author(s) Citation Design Sample Size Sample Characteristics Findings Parry, J. (2008). Intention to leave the profession: Antecedents and role in nurse turnover. Journal of Advanced Nursing, 64(2), 157- 167. Repeated measures ▪Surveyed prior to (or soon after) entry into the workplace and again after 6-8 months using: the Blau occupation measure, job satisfaction, organizational commitment, and turnover intentions scale. ▪Path analysis utilized to test a theoretical model of relationships affecting intention to change employer and profession. 131 ▪Participants were entering the RN profession during the year 2005 from Queensland, Australia. ▪All participants were baccalaureate prepared. ▪Higher levels of affective professional commitment are related to higher levels of job satisfaction and organizational commitment. ▪Lower levels of affective professional commitment are related to lower job satisfaction and organizational commitment. ▪The relationship between job satisfaction and intention to change professions is not direct. ▪Organizational commitment and affective professional commitment after a period of work are antecedents of intention to change professions (they are statistically significantly and negatively related to intention to change professions). ▪Job satisfaction and organizational commitment are statistically significantly and negatively related to organizational turnover intention. ▪Intention to change professions is statistically significantly and positively related to intention to change employer. 137 Author(s) Citation Design Sample Size Sample Characteristics Findings Suzuki, E., Tagaya, A., Ota, K., Nagasawa, Y., Matsuura, R., & Sato, C. (2010). Factors affecting turnover of Japanese novice nurses in university hospitals in early and later years of employment. Journal of Nursing Management, 18, 194-204. Repeated measures ▪Novice nurses surveyed at 3-9 months & at 10 th -15 th month of employment regarding: Assertiveness, Stressful life events, Reality shock, Ward assignment, Wish for transfer, Wish for leaving nursing, Workplace satisfaction, Workload, Social support and Coping profiles. ▪Logistic regression between 2 groups (those who quit their jobs and those who did not quit). 762 ▪All participants Japanese. ▪96% female. ▪53.3% graduated from a diploma program, 25% with an associate degree, and 19% with baccalaureate preparation. ▪Workplaces ranged from surgical areas (27.6%), medicine (21.1%), critical care (10.4%), operating room (7.3%), pediatrics (6.2%), and others (5.6%). ▪The majority of participants lived alone (73.8%). ▪37.8% of new grads worked in Tokyo, 62.2% practiced in other sites. ▪4% of new nurses quit jobs during first 3-9 months of employment compared to 4.6% during the 10 th - 15 th months of entry-to-practice. ▪The total Maslach Burnout Inventory score was significantly higher in ‘quitters’ than ‘non- quitters’ (no differences in scores for assertiveness and personal accomplishment). ▪9.7% indicated they wished to leave profession. ▪18.9% wished to change workplace. ▪Significant associations for turnover in those with diploma education, working on an undesired ward, and lack of peer support during the first 3-9months. ▪Factors affecting at 10-15months included increased workplace dissatisfaction, working at a Tokyo hospital, and high levels of physical and emotional exhaustion. ▪Novice nurses that depended on alcohol and medicine (measured as part of Coping Profile) tended to burnout more easily. ▪Burnout (physical and emotional exhaustion) at baseline affected turnover at 10-15 months more so than during 3-9 months. 138 APPENDIX D: DEMOGRAPHIC FORM Data Indicator Code/Pseudonym Sex Male/Female Birth Year Month-Year Graduation Date Must have graduated between April 2008- November 2012 Month-Year Graduated with Baccalaureate Degree from Canadian Institution Yes/No Entry-To-Practice Date Month-Year Last Date Worked as RN Cannot have worked within 6 months (November 2012) Month-Year Type of Workplace ie] Medicine/Post-Surgical Unit/Pediatrics/ER/ICU/Community Full-Time Status Yes/No How did you hear about this study: __________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________ Do you self-identify as a visible minority:________________________________ Contact Information: Email ________________ Phone/Cell___________________ Skype __________ Other_____________________________________________________________ Additional Notes: __________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________ 139 APPENDIX E: SAMPLE POSTER Seeking Participants Are you, or is someone you know, a Registered Nurse who has decided to leave the profession? I would like to hear about your experience as a Registered Nurse and how you decided to leave nursing practice. If you have graduated from a Canadian university with a baccalaureate degree within the last five years and have not practiced as a nurse within the last six months, please consider participating in this study. Contact Kathryn Chachula: 780-492-8913 chachula@ualberta.ca http://www.facebook.com/RNExit K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a K a th ry n 7 8 0 -4 9 2 -8 9 1 3 c h a c h u la @ u a lb e rt a .c a 140 APPENDIX F: INTERVIEW GUIDE In the initial interview, the following questions may be used to guide the researcher in exploring the process involved in the participant’s decision to leave the nursing profession: 1) How did you arrive at your decision to leave the nursing profession? 2) What would you say contributed to your decision to leave? 3) How do you perceive nursing education and its preparation for nursing practice? 4) In retrospect, how would you describe yourself as a nursing student? 5) Is there anything that you wish other nursing students knew about working as a nurse that you did not know? 6) How would you describe working as a nurse? The subsequent interview(s) will be conducted to confirm or extend the interpretations drawn from the research data generated from the initial interviews. I will begin by presenting participants with an overview of the study themes: 1) Thinking back to our first conversation, is there anything that comes to mind that you would like to discuss or elaborate upon? Do you have any additional comments as to why you decided to leave the nursing profession? 2) What are your thoughts regarding the themes I have identified? Do these accurately capture your perspective? 3) Can we review the themes together and discuss our interpretations? 141 APPENDIX G: NOTIFICATION OF ETHICAL APPROVAL Date: May 23, 2013 Study ID: Pro00039073 Principal Investigator: Kathryn Chachula Study Supervisor: A Myrick Study Title: Exploring Newly-Graduated Registered Nurses' Decision to Exit the Profession Approval Expiry Date: May 22, 2014 Approved Consent Form: Approval Date Approved Document 23/05/2013 Participant Consent Form.docx 23/05/2013 Participant InformationLetter Thank you for submitting the above study to the Research Ethics Board 1 . Your application has been reviewed and approved on behalf of the committee. A renewal report must be submitted next year prior to the expiry of this approval if your study still requires ethics approval. If you do not renew on or before the renewal expiry date, you will have to re-submit an ethics application. Approval by the Research Ethics Board does not encompass authorization to access the staff, students, facilities or resources of local institutions for the purposes of the research. Sincerely, Dr. William Dunn Chair, Research Ethics Board 1 Note: This correspondence includes an electronic signature (validation and approval via an online system). https://remo.ualberta.ca/REMO/Personalization/MyProfile?Person=com.webridge.account.Person%5BOID%5B3E95031112F3CC4AAA69AE1490A7B259%5D%5D https://remo.ualberta.ca/REMO/Personalization/MyProfile?Person=com.webridge.account.Person%5BOID%5B97B7832BFE91854D94CEC8CB5295A3A5%5D%5D https://remo.ualberta.ca/REMO/Doc/0/AB48G03LAIJKLCHPQGE5IPHQA1/Participant%20Consent%20Form.%20May%2022.docx https://remo.ualberta.ca/REMO/Doc/0/0NS09PDOUHJKL6PCQ9GFB00U37/Participant%20Information%20Letter.%20May%2023.docx 142 APPENDIX H: INFORMATION LETTER Exploring Newly Graduated Registered Nurses’ Decision to Exit the Profession Research Investigator: Research Supervisor: Kathryn Chachula RN BN Florence Myrick RN BN MScN PhD 4-288A 11405 – 87 Avenue 4-238 11405 – 87 Avenue Edmonton Clinic Health Academy Edmonton Clinic Health Academy University of Alberta University of Alberta Edmonton, AB, T6G 1C9 Edmonton, AB, T6G 1C9 chachula@ualberta.ca flo.myrick@ualberta.ca 780-492-8913 780-492-0251 Background You have been asked to participate in this study because you are a Registered Nurse who has graduated from a Canadian university institution within the last five years who has chosen to exit the nursing profession. You may have been nominated to participate by a friend, family member, or colleague related to a poster, email, or advertisement campaign calling for participants. Purpose Few studies have investigated Registered Nurse exit from the profession that are not related to retirement or disciplinary action. This study aims to understand the circumstances that led to your decision to exit the nursing profession. Your participation may help nurse educators better prepare newly-graduated nurses through curricular reform, and provide both insights and knowledge into the current clinical culture to address new RN attrition upon entry-to-practice. The results of this study will be used in support of Kathryn Chachula’s Master of Nursing thesis. Study Procedures Your participation is your choice. You may choose to withdraw at any time during the data collection phase of the study. Should you choose to no longer participate; any data collected from your interview(s) will be destroyed. Participation involves being interviewed to describe how you arrived at your decision to exit nursing to the research investigator for one hour up to three times at a location of your choice. Each interview will be audio-recorded. The final interview may be used to verify data collected by the researcher. 143 Your identity will be anonymized and protected as it will not be linked to the research data or any subsequent reports. Any electronic data will be password protected and/or encrypted. Taking part in this study will not affect your job, your current standing as a Registered Nurse, your current professional status, or have any effect upon academic courses you are currently enrolled in or choose to partake in the future. Data will be kept in a locked, secure location for a minimum of five years and may be used for future research upon ethical approval. Possible Benefits and Risks Participating in this study may have no direct benefits to you. However, the researcher hopes that through your participation, future nursing students may be better prepared for entry into the workplace. The researcher is aware that this topic may be sensitive in nature and respects your choice to participate. The only exception to the promise of safeguarding your identity is that the research investigator is legally obligated to report any intentions of harm to yourself or others. For crisis intervention or emotional distress, contact: Health Services Crisis Line: 1-877-303-2642 Adult Mental Health Crisis Response Team: 780-342-7777 Further Information If you have any further questions regarding this study, please do not hesitate to contact the Research Investigator, Kathryn Chachula, or the Research Supervisor, Dr. Florence Myrick. For questions regarding participant rights and ethical conduct of research, contact the Health Ethics Research Office at 780-492-2615 or the Faculty of Nursing Research Office at 780-492-3769. 144 APPENDIX I: CONSENT FORM Exploring Newly Graduated Registered Nurses’ Decision to Exit the Profession Research Investigator: Research Supervisor: Kathryn Chachula RN BN Florence Myrick RN BN MScN PhD 4-288A 11405 – 87 Avenue 4-238 11405 – 87 Avenue Edmonton Clinic Health Academy Edmonton Clinic Health Academy University of Alberta University of Alberta Edmonton, AB, T6G 1C9 Edmonton, AB, T6G 1C9 chachula@ualberta.ca flo.myrick@ualberta.ca 780-492-8913 780-492-0251 To be filled out and signed by the participant Please check Do you understand that you have been asked to participate in a research study? Yes No Have you received a copy of the information letter? Yes No Have you had the opportunity to ask questions and discuss the study? Yes No Do you understand that you are free to refuse to participate or withdraw without giving a reason during the data collection phase of this study? Yes No Has the issue of anonymity, confidentiality, and use of pseudonyms been explained to you? Yes No Do you consent to being interviewed? Yes No Do you consent to having the interview audio-taped? Yes No Do you consent to have your data reviewed at a later date? Yes No Do you understand who will have access to your information and interview data? Yes No This study was explained to me by: Date: I agree to participate in this study. Signature of participant Printed name Date As the Research Investigator, I believe that the person signing this form understands what is involved in the study and has freely chosen to participate. Signature of investigator Printed name Date * A copy of this consent form must be given to participants. 
work_ufpvtos5nre2tagmd2ekx6atz4	----	MASTERARBEIT / MASTER’S THESIS Titel der Masterarbeit / Title of the Master‘s Thesis „The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism Of Philip Roth“ verfasst von / submitted by Stefanie Kemminger BA angestrebter akademischer Grad / in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts (MA) Wien, 2019 / Vienna 2019 Studienkennzahl lt. Studienblatt / degree programme code as it appears on the student record sheet: A 066 844 Studienrichtung lt. Studienblatt / degree programme as it appears on the student record sheet: Anglophone Literatures and Cultures Betreut von / Supervisor: Univ.-Prof. Mag. Dr. Alexandra Ganser-Blumenau The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 1 Table of Contents 1 Introduction ........................................................................................ 2 2 Theoretical Background ..................................................................... 4 2.1 Historical and Literary Context ...................................................................... 4 2.1.1 American Literary Realism ...................................................................... 4 2.1.2 Neo-Realism ........................................................................................... 9 2.2 Feeling of Body ........................................................................................... 14 3 When She Was Good ...................................................................... 20 3.1 Part One ...................................................................................................... 22 3.2 Part Two ...................................................................................................... 28 3.3 Part Three ................................................................................................... 36 4 Portnoy’s Complaint ........................................................................ 42 4.1 “The Most Unforgettable Character I’ve Met” .............................................. 45 4.2 “Whacking Off” ............................................................................................ 47 4.3 “Jewish Blues” ............................................................................................. 49 4.4 “Cunt Crazy” ................................................................................................ 51 4.5 “The Most Prevalent Form of Degradation in Erotic Life” ............................. 58 4.6 “In Exile” ...................................................................................................... 59 5 Everyman ........................................................................................ 62 6 Conclusion ....................................................................................... 78 7 Bibliography ..................................................................................... 80 8 Appendix ......................................................................................... 82 8.1 Abstract English .......................................................................................... 82 8.2 Abstract German ......................................................................................... 82 The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 2 1 Introduction Philip Roth was born in 1933 in Newark, New Jersey; his career spanned over sixty years and more than 30 books, when he passed away in 2018, at the age of eighty- five. His work excels in diversity of form and content and, nevertheless, all his novels have one thing in common: Roth’s unique voice. It is “irreverent yet earnest, question- ing yet authoritative, subtle and nuanced yet powerful and passionate; above all, ob- sessive, compulsive, driven” (Brauner 2), and so, it seems, has been his career. From the very beginning of his career, Roth has frequently been compared with Ber- nard Malamud and Saul Bellow as the three writers have a similar background: they are second or third generation Jewish-Americans. Since Roth has repeatedly pointed out that he is first and foremost an American writer who happens to be Jewish, this paper will do like McDaniel (1974), Rodgers (1978) and others, and focus on his work as a realist writer in terms of style, humor and reader response rather than the context of Jewishness or religion. Of course, for a novel like Portnoy’s Complaint (1972), the religious aspect cannot be left out, but it will not constitute the center of my analysis. However, I agree with McDaniel, who argues that “we can best assess Roth’s artistry by viewing him, rather broadly, as a writer whose artistic intentions are ‘moral’, whose method is realistic, and whose subject is the self in society’” (McDaniel 202). In the second chapter of this thesis I provide an introduction to the origins of American literary realism, which flourished between 1865, the end of the Civil War, and 1914, the beginning of World War I. It was “a call for men and women to attend to the actu- alities of life as it is lived, not as it is dreamed or feared” (Quirk viii). This could also be seen by the fact, that many writers worked in fiction as well as in journalism, e.g. Mark Twain, Stephen Crane and Theodore Dreiser. This was further encouraged by William Dean Howells, Realist writer himself, and editor of some of the most influential maga- zines at the time (Singley 334). Roth can be considered a neo-realist writer; neo-realism developed in the post war era of the 1960s due to great social changes all over America which called for a new way of writing. “Within the contours of an ordinary world the author has to implant something extraordinary, avoiding thinness of texture. In (neo-)realism sophistication is mani- fested in simplicity. Or better, simplicity is but the mask for underlying sophistication” The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 3 (Versluys 8). Nevertheless, it was considerably overshadowed by the emergence of postmodernism which, ever since, has been an all-time favorite in the academic circles, according to Shechner (30): “Who pays attention these days when we are being mod- est, careful, subtle, and discriminating, speaking earnestly about the morality of daily conduct or simply about the cares and routines of common life?” Philip Roth and his readers most certainly do, but this also caused him a barrage of surprisingly emotional criticism, notably in the first decade of his career. In his non-fiction book Reading My- self And Others, Roth comments that “fiction frees us from the circumscriptions that society places upon feeling” and “allows both the writer and the reader to respond to experience in ways not always available in day-to-day conduct” (qtd. in Halio 7). In my thesis, I am analyzing narrative techniques and will attempt to answer the ques- tion what it is about Roth’s style and choice of language that makes for a highly emo- tional reader response. To demonstrate his great diversity in style and setting, I look at three novels that are inherently different in structure, voice, and story–two of his early novels, When She Was Good (1967) and Portnoy’s Complaint (1972), and one of his more recent short novels, Everyman (2006). As a background for my analysis, I examine the history and stylistic features of Amer- ican literary neo-realism, with a strong focus on Kristiaan Versluy’s collection of essays Neo-Realism in Contemporary American Fiction. Having this as a theoretical back- ground, I would like to tap into a fairly new research field, which is concerned with the conveying of emotions in works of fiction–what Patrick Colm Hogan (2011) calls Affec- tive Narratology. For this purpose, I will also consult the book The Art of Sympathy in Fiction by Howard Sklar (2013), who has also published important work in this field. One goal is to show that neo-realism offers many possibilities to apply affective narra- tology and to analyze Roth’s work according to various stylistic features in order to explain what it is in particular, that makes for a highly emotional, often uncomfortable reader response. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 4 2 Theoretical Background 2.1 Historical and Literary Context 2.1.1 American Literary Realism As with most literary eras, there is no set date at which realism came to see the light; It gradually worked its way into the novels and short stories of its time. Nonetheless, there are two historic events which are popularly used by scholars, such as Quirk, to bracket its glory days: realism started to thrive around 1865, the year in which the American Civil War came to an end at a farmhouse in Virginia, with general Lee signing the peace treaty. It allegedly ended around 1919, the year in which the Treaty of Ver- sailles was signed in a castle near Paris, France which is considered to manifest the end of World War I. Quirk (vii) pointed out that the locations of those two events are just as different and far apart as “the distance (cultural, political, and other) that Amer- ica had traveled in so brief a time”. The labels for this period were as plentiful as the changes it brought. Mark Twain called it the “Gilded Age”, literary historian Vernon Parrington referred to it as the “Great Bar- becue”. Some considered it a “mauve decade” while other thought of it as “a time in ‘ferment’” (Quirk vii). No matter what one may call it, four years of Civil War have left their marks on the people of America and they found themselves in an exceptional situation and a time of great change. The defeat of the South and the abolition of slav- ery under president Lincoln was one of the most important events in the history of America and changed its way forever. Recuperating from the repercussions of war, dealing with substantial changes of the social order and adapting to drastically new technologies was a difficult task for many and there was a need for American culture to adapt accordingly (Quirk vii). American literary realism represents those changes in America and reminded people to “attend to the actualities of life as it is lived, not as it is dreamed or feared” (Quirk viii). One of the pioneers of realism, William Dean Howells, suggested that “novelists might do a real service to the moral life […] ‘if they painted life as it is, and human feelings in their true proportion and relation’” (Quirk viii). This, of course, was in strong contrast to the American Renaissance or the Romantic Period which flourished in the country before the Civil War; afterwards it seemed rather out of place. New social The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 5 questions and the political situation called for a new way of writing which was provided by the Realists and Naturalists of the time. Nevertheless, what became apparent quite quickly was that the new complexity of life could not be discussed in merely one book, or, as William Dean Howells phrased it: “the attempt to capture American life in a single work was much like trying to put ‘a bushel measure in a pint cup’” (qtd. in Quirk xv). This gave rise to a great variety of realist writers, their different approaches and most of all very localized styles. It was also the age of naturalism which shares some characteristics with realism as they both focus on empirics and refuse sentiments. They differ significantly because Realists will not grant science to have the final say about the human condition and are generally critical towards scientists whereas naturalists strongly rely on them. A devel- opment towards rationality also took place amongst the philosophers of the time. For example, Herbert Spencer and Ernst Haeckel believed that “the law of matter were the highest laws, and chief among them for Spencer was the law of evolution–the passage of matter from an ‘indefinite, incoherent, homogeneity to a definite, coherent, hetero- geneity’” (Quirk x). This newfound complexity of life was quite challenging for people to adapt to and later also led to Van Wyck Brooks’ dichotomies in his book America’s Coming of Age where he distinguishes between Highbrows who he describes as “prin- cipled and virtuous, but inept and condescending” and Lowbrows who are said to be “likeable but coarse and vulgar” (Quirk xi). Brooks went on to thoroughly investigate American culture and came to the result that especially American literature at the time suffered from a lack of vitality and authenticity and ought to find a middle ground to cater to the average American, which was found in realism. The Romantic period spawned many masterpieces, but often in the extent of 800 pages epics such as Her- man Melville’s Moby Dick. In contrast to that, realist writers usually embraced brevity as well as simple language and relatable topics (Quirk xi). This is also a continuous pattern in the works of Philip Roth whose novels are around 300 to 400 pages long and based around everyday life of lower- or middle-class people. However, there are exceptions, such as Dreiser, who’s realistic novels are quite lengthy. Some popular themes for literature that emerged during this period were “unmasking the falsehood of conventionally understood and rather fixed ideas about the separate roles of the sexes, the nature of heroism, the sanctioned privileges of class, and so forth” as stated by Quirk (xii). Quite often this was achieved using irony as, for example, The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 6 in William Dean Howell’s story Editha, which can also be considered an early piece of Realist writing which coined its period. The character George Gearson surrendered to his spouse and involuntarily went to war where he eventually and by chance becomes a war hero, while in truth, it was his cowardice to speak up to Editha which got him there. This is very reminiscent of Roth’s style of writing and the themes are to a certain degree still relevant many decades after the emergence of traditional realism. In a later chapter, I will discuss how Roth draws attention to and questions some social stand- ards and prejudice as well as the roles of the sexes. Apart from using irony, Realist writers were also quite fond of using other techniques or genres “to render the truths of experience or to disclose to the reader the falseness of certain piously held notions. Fables, parables, burlesque, parodies, ghost stories, satires, utopian novels, fantasy, science fiction, and other fictive forms might participate in the realist cultural agenda by awakening readers to the truths of life as they knew it” (Quirk xiii). Since many soldiers have travelled long distances to other counties during the war there was a newfound curiosity in learning about those places. This was the case not only for the soldiers themselves but also for their families who wanted to learn about the places their beloved had fought in. In addition to that, there was also a strong in- crease of immigration to the United States which led to great cultural diversity but also nervousness of the unknown or xenophobia. This opened the door for regionalist writ- ing which was mainly concerned with the ordinary, focused on character rather than plot, and often used local dialects, which were all also characteristics of literary realism. In addition, relatable characters were often used in a humorous manner which allowed for “a mockery of the social superiority of the sophisticated characters and language of the romantic tradition, puncturing the inflated concerns of transcendental philoso- phy” (Nagel xxii). Those features can also be found in Philip Roth’s novels, which, to a great extent, are set in New Jersey, where Roth was born and raised. For example, the protagonist of Everyman is from Elizabeth, which is only a few kilometers away from Roth’s hometown Newark. Arguably even more relatable is the location of When She Was Good, which is in the heartland of America and described so generically that it could apply to myriad small towns. This tendency toward “the local-color tradition of regional stories” (Nagel xxii) led to a significant increase in the popularity, and consequently, the number of magazines and newspapers and editors filled them with realistic short stories. This interconnectedness The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 7 of cultural, social and political factors also encouraged many writers “such as Twain, Crane and Dreiser” to work “as reporters as well as novelists (Singley 333). William Dean Howells played a significant role in the interworking of Realist writers and jour- nalism because he was the editor of several important magazines, such as Harper’s Monthly and Cosmopolitan. Thus, he was able to further the writings of many of his fellow friends and colleagues, Henry James and Mark Twain, amongst others. His mindset for the everyday life and common people shaped realism and allowed Howells to spread his belief that “moral was essential to good art” (Singley 334). Both, Howells and Twain, wrote a character into a moral predicament where they had to make a fundamental decision. In William Dean Howells’ case, it is the protagonist of The Rise of Silas Lapham, who must decide on his principles or money. Whereas Huck in Ad- ventures of Huckleberry Finn must choose between human decency and setting free a slave and the legal system which would require him to relinquish his companion. Arguably, at the time of publication around 1840 this was “the most dramatic decision in American literature, one illustrative of the kinds of issues that served as conflicts in realistic fiction” (Nagel xxv). Moral is also a continuous topic in Roth’s novels and par- ticularly in Portnoy’s Complaint it is ever-present since the novel evolves around Alex- ander’s self-deprecating struggle with his compulsive masturbation. Roth’s short-novel Everyman is not only named after the fifteenth century morality play, but also con- cerned with the protagonist reminiscing about what would have been the right thing to do. Another advocate of realism was Hamlin Garland, who criticized authors who wrote about locations they have never been to themselves and thus he promoted the ten- dency for regionalism. He was joined by Theodore Dreiser, who also believed that every facet of life must be recognized and appreciated, even the grotesque and un- pleasant ones, which many of his characters had to face in his novels, such as Sister Carrie and The Financier (Singley 334). Nevertheless, its authenticity and closeness to life was perceived as pessimism by some readers, who found it questionable. I would suggest, that this is also the case with the work of Philip Roth, because he does not shy away from addressing uncomfortable or taboo topics such as domestic violence, masturbation, infidelity or the fear of old age and death. The term Realism itself originated in France where it was used to describe a new style of painting around 1850. However, the term was soon also applied to describe literature The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 8 and within a decade, it has made its way to America (Nagel xxiv). Not only the term has its origins in Europe but also some of the subjects and characteristics. Immigrants from Scandinavia have already been exposed to the works of Henry Ibsen for many years, in France Gustave Flaubert published Madame Bovary, which is 200 years later still sometimes considered as the best novel ever written, and Tolstoy wrote the Se- vastopol Sketches about social class and justice in Russia. Exposed to the work of such great minds it is no surprise that European settlers brought some of the culture with them and thus helped influence the new era in America. Fundamentally, the underlying assumption of the Realists was not that their fiction constituted ‘reality’ itself but rather that reality could be understood and made the basis of art by capturing the ‘common vision’. The physical world was sufficiently stable and available to empirical scrutiny to depict in literature, the concept of ‘mi- metic representation’. This thinking led to a variety of approaches, one of them being slice-of-life fiction, a mode close to journalism, in which the story rendered a moment of experience for a character. More often, however, the central character was placed in a position of ethical crisis. Since reality was physical, stable, and comprehensible, the conflicts focused on the responsibility of characters for choices they were free to make, giving protagonists ‘agency’ to act in accord with their own moral values. (Nagel xxv) In her article, Singley suggests that realism is “the result of viewing the world neither with the rose-tinted spectacles of romanticism not with the dark shades of naturalism, but with the clear lenses of scientific objectivity and photographic accuracy” and works with a “single pointed perspective that produces the illusion of neutrality” (Singley 331). As has been established above, it is much rather naturalists who draw their approaches from science than realists do. Furthermore, I would argue that “a single coordinated system or single-point perspective” as Singley (331) is paraphrasing Paul Schellinger does not lead to photographic accuracy. Instead, it gives the reader a highly personal and thus subjective insight into a social context. It is presented as neutral or true but is emotionally biased to some degree as in the nature of personal renderings. Nevertheless, Singley does point out that realism was an important vehicle for social change. Literature was used to depict “the pressure of everyday reality”, as a “vehicle for social reform and social awareness” and “to investigate the workings of society” (Singley 333). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 9 2.1.2 Neo-Realism For my own experience as a consumer of books I can agree with Versluys (7), who points out that, as readers, we have learned to constantly anticipate the extraordinary, unimaginable plot twists, beginnings being ambiguous and endings erratic. Those ex- pectations could not be any more remote from our real-life experiences, where some- times communication even fails when we do say what we mean. Certainly, escaping reality and diving into another world is one of the appeals of literature for many readers and they have a large range of authors to choose from, who will provide them with postmodernism, science-fiction, fantasy literature or anything their heart desires. “Nonetheless, we all know, in those moments we stop being intellectuals and return to life as ordinary human beings, that the real IS real and that, if one kicks a stone, it hurts” (Versluys 7) and it lies in the tradition of neo-realist fiction to capture those mo- ments and feelings and “assume a meaningful connection between the individual and the common phenomenal world” (Lodge 16). One of the authors who has excelled in the “reality-effect” (Versluys 8) for over five decades is Philip Roth. To obtain the so-called ‘reality-effect’ one has to construct a fictional universe in which all the structures of the experiential world apply. Within the contours of an ordinary world the author has to implant something extraordinary, avoiding thin- ness of texture. Or better, simplicity is but the mask of underlying sophistication. (Versluys 8) By doing so, the author is enabled to question social and political concepts and possi- bly also the metanarrative density of postmodernism as well as the lengthy sentimen- tality of romanticism. The author is much rather focused on reaching the reader through captivating dialogue about everyday life. The simplicity of the topic makes it highly relatable, but its broadness ensures a great variety of subjects because the experi- ences and perspectives of the human condition are infinite. Neo-realism developed in the post-war period of the 1950’s alongside postmodernism, which is an all-time favorite amongst scholars and has caused the former to not always receive the attention it would have deserved. It did have many advocates who were in favor of traditional writers such as Twain, James and Dickens and promoted the “nar- rative strategies in which the implicit contract between writer and reader is not broken on purpose and in which social reality is probed rather than that again and again ques- tions are raised about the ‘meaning of meaning’ and related philosophical conundrums” (Versluys 10). Nevertheless, neo-realism appeared to have lived in the shadows of The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 10 postmodernism and Mark Shechner (27) summarized the problem with an example from his private life: he once went to the movies to see My Left Foot with a colleague, who is a scholar, and his wife, who is not. The film moved his wife to tears and she enjoyed it very much, whereas his colleague did acknowledge, that it was overall a well-executed movie but that it lacked “the problematics of a great film” and “didn’t raise any interesting issues”. Shechner saw the validity of both reactions, but, in the end, he had to conclude that his wife’s response was heartfelt and genuine, whereas his col- league, even in her spare time, analyzed the movie by the standards of academic fash- ion and rather detached from her own emotions. He argues that the danger of living in such a scholarly bubble is that eventually one loses touch with mainstream culture and possibly one’s own emotions. This long-standing neglect of emotions in academia is also going to be an important issue in the following chapter, where I discuss the fairly new approach of affective narratology. After dominating academic circles for many decades now, Shechner predicts that postmodernism is past its prime and that, when looking for extraordinary, contemporary writers, we find many of them writing in the tradition of realism. Among the authors that he mentions are Tom Wolfe, John Casey, Robert Stone. John Updike, Saul Bellow and Philip Roth, on the other hand, had al- ready been around for many decades and can be considered as staples of neo-realist writing. He argues that the traditions of realism have passed the test of time because what has worked for Mark Twain, Henry James or F. Scott Fitzgerald can seamlessly be continued by contemporary writers with merely slight adjustments and it still creates “a new awareness of voice and of language as the echo chamber of history and tradi- tion, a consciousness of region and place, a revived ethnic and regional sensitivity, a new awareness of traditional folk narrative, a distinct political animus” (Shechner 31). Its applicability is a crucial aspect of neo-realism because it enabled many marginal- ized social groups to voice their point of view in a very effective manner. Similar to how there used to be a great interest in regionalism when realism first emerged, there now was the possibility for “Chinese-American writers, Native-American writers, and Black or Afro-American writers” (Shechner 32) as well as Jewish-Americans and female writ- ers to tell their stories and be heard. Philip Roth has always shared the pedestal of great Jewish-American writers with Bernard Malamud and Saul Bellow although Roth has repeatedly pointed out that, first and foremost he is an American writer, who hap- pens to be Jewish: “I am not a Jewish writer; I am a writer who is a Jew. The biggest The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 11 concern and passion in my life is to write fiction, not to be a Jew” (qtd. in Rodgers, Jr. Preface) Nevertheless, it is writing like his that filled the cultural void left by master narratives and helped created consciousness of ethnic communities (Shechner 32). In his essay, Shechner continues by posing the question what marginality implies within a society and, reminiscent of Philip Roth’s stance, he considers all those writers with different ethnical background to really constitute the new voice of America, representing the awareness for regionalism and diversity: Theirs is a fiction of man alone, who is a figure of minimal interest, to him or herself as well as to us. It is to the second and third-generations ethnics [sic]– Afro-Americans, Native-Americans (500th generation though they may be), Chi- nese-Americans, and Jewish-Americans–that we turn for that full range of hu- man meanings and possibilities that only culture can produce. The writers who have not wholly assimilated to America are the ones to whom we look for a literature of life-in-culture. (Shechner 50) He later seizes the opportunity to point out that postmodernism, on the other hand, is still largely based on European culture and even in America mainly situated in New York City. He appears to be suggesting that it may be a less American art form. Looking at the market of fiction, it is important to note, that after its high point of com- mercialization, postmodernism soon retreated to mainly flourish in the academy. To a certain degree, universities affect literary taste insofar as they cater their students with a certain canon that is considered standard literature. Beyond that, Shechner (34) points out, that they also have the function “to ordain and protect forms of expression that cannot meet the test of the market. It is and ought to be a refuge. But in being one it also relieves art of the need to meet the tests of entertainment and popular approval”. Thus, it was distinctly different to realism, which actually and successfully met the pop- ular demand of America’s readership outside of the academy. Having a large audience, highly relatable content about everyday America and strong dialogues, neo-realist writing also makes for great film adaptations which, economically speaking, is an important factor. On one hand, the nature of neo-realism presents a good foundation for a screenplay adaption which, nowadays, is amongst the best fi- nancial opportunities for a writer. One the other hand, I would argue that a commercial success like that also affects the genre as a whole, because fans of a novel are likely to have an appetite for more literature that is akin. Of course, this is also the case for The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 12 several other genres and especially fantasy and science-fiction adaptions, such as Game of Thrones or Blade Runner, have proven to draw an incredible fanbase in the last decades. There are also the rather seldom cases of a postmodern work being adapted into a movie, as it was the case with Julian Barnes’s The Sense of an Ending. Nevertheless, ten of his novels were adapted into movies or TV-shows. To name only a few examples, in 2003 The Human Stain was filmed starring Anthony Hopkins and Nicole Kidman, 2008 the movie Elegy was based on Roth’s The Dying Animal and starred Ben Kingsley and Penélope Cruz, 2014 The Humbling was filmed with Al Pa- cino and in 2016 Ewan McGregor directed and starred in American Pastoral, alongside Dakota Fanning. In another essay from Versluys book, Winfried Fluck largely agrees with Shechner’s criticism of the glorification of postmodernism and the discrepancy between the litera- ture that is discussed in classrooms and literature that is read for recreational pur- poses. Fluck (65) states some possible reason for what helped the popularity of real- ism. On the one hand, it was the excessive exhaustion of everything that made post- modernism appealing in the beginning, to a degree that its playfulness turned into pre- dictability. On the other hand, there was Tom Wolfe, a well-respected person of public interest as well as one of the pioneers of new journalism, who took a stance for the new social novel and promoted it. Apart from this, Fluck contemplates what has influ- enced neo-realism and, interestingly, states postmodernism as a point of reference alongside traditional nineteenth century realism. He sees the nature of (neo-)realism to be constantly evolving based on the reality in which it exists and uses Roland Barthes’ terminology of the ‘reality effect’ to describe to describe the common denom- inator: In this sense, realism is no more (and no less) than a system of rhetorical strat- egies in order to claim special authority for one’s own interpretation of reality. It does not simply reflect or mirror reality, but offers a version of it, based on certain assumptions about the nature of the real and the best way of gaining knowledge about it. (Fluck 67) He praises postmodernism for its variety of modes and playfulness with meanings and suggests differentiating the two styles of writing on an aesthetic level. In this case, it will not come as a surprise, that what we find in the semantics of realism oftentimes appears rather simple or monotonous, especially in comparison to postmodernism, because it focuses strongly on common people and dialogue, as we have heard in the The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 13 previous chapter. It may even appear anticlimactic or surprisingly sobering when “crisis and catastrophes are not heroic moments valued for their potential to reveal an exis- tential truth but accidental occurrences in a dehierarchized sequence of daily events” (73). For example, the part in Philip Roth’s Everyman when Millicent Kramer confesses her enormous suffering from physical pain to the protagonist, is not the beginning of a romance, nor the protagonist’s chance to be a hero. Instead, it is the last conversation they have before she commits suicide. Like many neo-realists, Roth’s novels are usually set in a simple environment and it is the emotions and reactions of his characters that are thrilling and unusual but at the same time seem very familiar. The characters are no heroes and easily triggered by minor instances. Sometimes, the reader will get clues as to why a certain situation was so intense and possibly even be provided with different points of view. At other times, bizarre overreactions of a character may serve as hints to his or her narrative reliability, as I would argue, is the case with When She Was Good. Lucy has been frustrated with her father for many years and it is suggested that he also abuses her mother. Never- theless, the scene which is told from several different points of view, where the father tips over the mother’s footbath which in turn causes Lucy to burst out in aggression and call the police on her father, against the advice of everybody else, appears out of place. Such behavior, I would argue, makes it so relatable because it is in the nature of human beings to sometimes act in incomprehensible ways. In this novel, this scene can also be an indication of Lucy’s pathological need to control other people but, once again, it does not serve as an epiphany or moral. In his essay, Fluck discusses the work of another Realist, Raymond Carver, but his analysis is also applicable to Philip Roth. He describes this mode of representation as follows: “What is lost in context, is gained in intensity and aesthetic effect. It is an effect generated by a realistic surface that promises to represent and thus to be come mean- ingful, yet fails to do so, but which is, at the same time, nevertheless constantly re- charged with the suggestion of meaning […]” (Fluck 73). The reader is trained to expect such intense scenes to eventually end with a dramatic relief and I would argue that the sobering realization that there is none leads to heightened emotions. This is further discussed in the following chapters with in-depth examples of Philip Roth’s work as well as the insights of affective narratology (Hogan 1) and the concept of “Feeling of Body” (Gallese, Wojciehowski 3). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 14 2.2 Feeling of Body In recent years, there has been an increased interest in emotions in the academy, which, amongst others, correlates with some new technologies, such as the MRI, that provide us with new ways to study the (human) brain and how it reacts in specific situations. This has led neuroscience to merge over into many other disciplines such as psychology, sociology, philosophy, linguistics and also literary studies–Gallese and Wojciehowski call this neurohumanism (3). For the purpose of this thesis, I will focus on the emergence of cognitive literary studies and some of its findings, which have been particularly relevant for the reader response theory. While reader responses to texts are by nature subjective, the way in which we meet fictional characters is, to a certain degree, navigated by the information provided by the author. Thus, he or she controls to a certain extent whether a character will be perceived as likeable or not. Just as in real life, first impressions are not always accu- rate and sometimes we will have to admit that we have misjudged a character based on preliminary information that the author has carefully shaped for this purpose. Roth’s novels provide a broad range of examples for this emotional development, as I would argue, rather of the reader than of the fictional character itself. For example, in When She Was Good, the protagonist Lucy seems very sympathetic in the beginning. When turbulences start to occur, one thus tends to blame her husband first but towards the end, it is Lucy who spirals out of control and becomes absolutely grotesque. Alexander, the protagonist of Portnoy’s Complaint, is a rather grotesque character throughout the novel, but once we learn more about his constant inner struggle and his intense mother, we tend to feel more sympathetic towards his actions. In the short novel Eve- ryman, the unnamed protagonist is presented as an unsympathetic character, but I would argue that through Roth’s narrative techniques, such as the narrative frame, the reader tends to feel empathy for him. For now, I would like to further investigate the nature of emotional responses to fiction. Generally, we can distinguish between the ethical aspects (Sklar 2) which are dis- cussed in Howard Sklar’s book The Art of Sympathy in Fiction by looking at the nature of feelings; and the cognitive aspect, which is the topic of the article “How Stories Make Us Feel: Toward an Embodied Narratology” by Gallese and Wojciehowski and look at the brain activities stimulated by emotions. Both works are based on the research of The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 15 Patrick Colm Hogan and his book Affective Narratology, the basis for the concept of “Feeling of Body” developed by Gallese and Wojciehowski. In his book, Sklar ultimately suggests that empathy and sympathy caused in a person by reading a novel has a positive impact on the persons’ moral development, which is sometimes referred to as the empathy-altruism theory. While this is an interesting idea, and there are indeed studies that show those people who read are more likely “to per- form volunteer and charity work, to visit art museums, and to attend and participate in performing art and sports events” (Keen xvii), I agree with Keen’s understanding that novels do not necessarily produce good citizens. She raised the essential question: “do empathetic people make good readers, or do good readers become empathetic people?”, and her answer is: “Both may be true without guaranteeing that novels rou- tinely do more than entertain, inform, soothe, or excite their readers” (Keen xv). Nev- ertheless, Sklar’s discussion of the believability of fiction and how this affects the emo- tional response of the readers is very interesting and useful for this thesis. His hypoth- esis is the following: “I believe that characters that are rendered realistically can be considered similar to people we might encounter in life–indeed, life-like–and that read- ers frequently regard them and respond to them as such” (Sklar 10). While he does point out that there are important distinctions between the two realms of emotions, they do share interesting properties. According to Sklar, the problem lies in what he calls, the “real-fictional-dichotomy”. This is described as the notion that fictional characters have unreal properties and real-life human beings have real properties. At first sight, this seems hard to challenge but Sklar’s arguments are intriguing and give a new perspective on fiction. In particular, it is the way in which the reader learns about a character, or becomes acquainted with him or her, that is quite similar to how we encounter people in real life. The reader typically receives particularly personal and fragmented information about a character over a short time span and this is one of the reasons why fictional characters are intuitively perceived as being different. It is argued that, on the contrary, this is actually a parallel. Sklar explains that, apart from our family and friends, we get to know people fragmentarily and are so used to it that our brain has learned to fill in missing information with our experience, very similar to when we are reading fiction. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 16 That which allows us to form a mental image of a ‘complete’ human being out of fictional fragments that are provided is precisely our own prior experience with people. We fill in largely with information provided by our experience in ‘real life’. In this respect, we respond to characters that are primarily ‘real’ in their essences, however much the object of our reflection has been ‘made up’ by an author. (Sklar 11) He further supports his argument with the idea of gestalt (Iser 121), which suggests a similar concept of how readers manifest linguistic signs and several theories of reading were based on it. In this manner, the reader connects the fragments he or she is pro- vided with, with experience from the real world. Thus, characters will seem and feel life-like. This theory is not limited to certain genres and applies to e.g. fantastic or uto- pian novels as well as to non-fiction (Sklar 12). I would like to suggest, that Philip Roth’s writing, due to its nature as neo-realism which has been discussed in the previous chapter, is particularly prone to this reality-effect. That would be in unison with Sklar’s theory because one of the examples he analyzes in a later chapter is the short-story “Eli, the Fanatic” by Roth. The most important factor in this equation is nevertheless the attitude of the reader towards fiction and what Sklar calls the “generation of temporary belief”: On the one hand, a reader approaches a fictional work as – in other words, with the intention of inducing an (aesthetic) experience. On the other hand, a reader who engages deeply with a work of fiction–who becomes absorbed, for in- stance, on an emotional level–may simultaneously disengage his awareness of the work’s fictionality. He may have the fictionality at the back of his mind, but the front of his mind, so to speak, is occupied with the sensation of realism, that the work produces. (Sklar 14) In other words, the more the reader becomes absorbed in a novel, the stronger they are going to feel about the fictional characters. However, if reader constantly remind themselves of the fictionality of what they are reading, it will not affect them as much, or on another level. This is slightly reminiscent of the question put by Keen, whether empathic people make good readers or whether reading makes empathic people. I do not attempt to distinguish between a “right” or “wrong” way of reading, but for the pur- pose of my thesis I assume that, typically, temporary belief is generated while reading works of fiction. Furthermore, I work with the stance that emotions felt while reading are to be consid- ered real emotions and are of the same value as emotions felt in real-life. There are The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 17 some theories that suggest that what we feel while reading are “quasi-emotions” and are of a simulated nature. Kendall Walton (38), for example, compared them to children playing make-believe and suggests that reading novels is the equivalent to children pretending to be cops and robbers. While this comparison holds true to a certain de- gree, because the reader is using his imagination, it does become problematic when applied to emotions. That is to say, the reader does not imagine feeling sad, angry, happy, surprised, disgusted or scared. (Sklar 17) Over the last two decades, there has been a considerable new interest in the study of the human mind due to new technology such as the MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imag- ing). The new ways in which scientists are now able to study the human brain was also of large interest to other disciplines such as cultural studies, psychology, social sci- ences and literary studies. The new field of cognitive literary studies has enabled schol- ars to find new approaches to narratology and reader responses. In their article “How Stories Make Us Feel: Toward an Embodied Narratology”, Gallese and Wojciehowski elaborate on this topic and ultimately propose their own concept, called Feeling of Body (FoB). It is based on a discovery made in the 1990s, when scientists found mirror neurons in the brain of macaque monkeys. They were able to observe that the motor neurons were not only active when the monkey executed an activity but also when the monkey watched someone else performing the same activity. Or, in other words “observing an action causes in the observer the automatic activation of the same neural mechanism that is triggered by executing that action oneself” (Gallese, Wojciehowski 13). This has further led to extensive research and the discov- ery of the phenomenon known as mirror mechanism in the human brain. It is similar to what has been observed in the monkey’s brain but it is also involved in processing action-related words and sentences, suggesting that mirror neurons, together with other parts of the sensory-motor system, could play a relevant role in the semantics of language. […] This perspective, if complemented with the recent discoveries of neuroscience on the relationship between body and language, corroborate the potentialities of applying the Feel- ing of Body to narrative theory. (Gallese, Wojciehowski 14) It is suggested that to some extent the mirror mechanism also takes place with our emotions, which makes it highly interesting for narratology and the study of reader responses, and thus for my thesis: The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 18 Our capacity to empathize with others […] is most likely mediated by the em- bodied simulation mechanism […]–that is, by the activation of the same neural circuits underpinning our own actions, emotional and sensory experiences. Our interpersonal relations–both in daily life as well as with fictional characters–are marked by our bodily involvement (the FoB) with the actions, emotions and sen- sations acted and expressed by others. (Gallese, Wojciehowski 15) Following this argumentation, the Feeling of Body is of great interest for how we per- ceive novels because of the mirroring mechanisms that are at work while reading a narrative. Those mechanisms might even be heightened while consuming art, such as literature, because we are free from the distractions of our daily life, are typically in a comfortable and quiet place and can experience what we read to a full extent. We are able to contemplate our emotions fully and to indulge in our feelings toward the fictional characters. Among the emotions that receive most attention to readers’ response theories are em- pathy and sympathy-in her book Empathy and the Novel, Suzanne Keen is exploring the triangle-relationship between author, reader and text in terms of empathy in every facet. As has been mentioned above, she does not believe in the empathy-altruism theory and also approaches the problematic aspects of empathy in fiction. Keen touches upon the aspects of the mirror mechanism, the influence of the MRI, as well as the problematic discrepancy of status between popular fiction and “great liter- ature” (Keen ix), which I have already elaborated on above. Ultimately, she takes all of this into consideration and presents a practical proposal of aspects that are likely to influence the reader’s empathy. It is suggested that one of the main factors that has an influence on the readers’ em- pathy could be a certain degree of character identification: […] [It] often invites empathy, even when the fictional character and reader differ from each other in all sorts of practical and obvious ways, but empathy for fic- tional characters appears to require only minimal elements of identity, situation, and feeling, not necessarily complex or realistic characterization. […] Not all feeling states of characters evoke empathy; indeed, empathetic responses to fictional characters and situations occur more readily for negative emotions, whether or not a match in details of experience exists. (Keen xii) These are going to be essential points for my analysis for the novels of Philip Roth because most of them, and certainly the three works I chose for this thesis, address highly uncomfortable topics. I will argue that this, possibly, leads to a more intense The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 19 emotional relation between reader and fiction, even if they may not be able to fully identify with the actions of Lucy, Alexander, and the unnamed protagonist of Every- man. Keen (xii) further argues that the “timing and context” will influence the feeling of em- pathy and depends on chance to some degree. On the one hand, for example, some Millennial-readers may not enjoy Jane Eyre and Oliver Twist very much because they might not be able to relate to the novels or the plot of the mistreated child. On the other hand, an author could write and publish a novel, which, coincidentally, predicts “partic- ular historical, economic, cultural, or social circumstances” (Keen xii) and therefore may become tremendously relevant years or decades after the first publication. Even though some of Philip Roth’s novels have been published over fifty years ago and therefore lived through many social changes, I would argue that this factor does only partly apply to his work but is interesting in general. He is known for his controversial work and has received a good share of criticism for his novels, especially in the 60s when he published When She Was Good and later Portnoy’s Complaint. The former was criticized for being misogynistic and would probably be perceived as even more problematic in the light of today’s feminism. The latter was tremendously criticized for being anti-Jewish because of the compromising portrayal of Portnoy and seemed to have lost its shock value by today. Roth himself commented on the decrease of criti- cism he received from the Jewish community by suggesting that, maybe, the genera- tion of people who cared so much has passed away by now. This leads us to another factor, which is very applicable to the work of Roth: “Authors’ empathy can be devoted to socially undesirable ends that may be rejected by a disap- proving reader. Indeed, empathic distress at feeling with a character whose actions are at odds with a readers’ moral code may be a result of successfully exercised au- thorial empathy” (Keen xiii). I concur with this suggestion and discuss this phenomenon in detail in the following chapters of my thesis. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 20 3 When She Was Good Published in 1967, When She Was Good (WSWG) was Roth’s second full-length novel and, with a break of five years after Letting Go, it was the longest it ever took him to finish a book in the entirety of his sixty years as a writer. At the time, the novel was often considered “the book without Jews” (Rodgers 60) because his work was notori- ously analyzed in terms of Jewishness. It has long lived in the shadows of its succes- sor, Portnoy’s Complaint, which is concerned with the peculiar sexual practices of Al- exander Portnoy, who is Jewish, which was not perceived too at the time of publication, in the late 60s. Generally, it is considered the novel by Philip Roth and will be discussed in the next chapter. WSWG, however, differs to his other works in terms of its setting, which is Liberty Center in the heartland of America. The majority of his other novels are set in or around New Jersey, Roth’s home state. It could be argued that the time he spent at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop between 1960 and 1962 could have had an influence on WSWG. Furthermore, it appears that in the novel he implemented some of his contemplations of what the wanted to achieve with his writing: “[…] through fic- tion, a writer can touch the moral consciousness of his reader–can cause him to ask questions he might not otherwise ask or might not be willing to ask aloud–can alter his perception of the world around him and heighten his awareness of everyday reality” (Roth qtd. in Rodgers 61). This is reminiscent of Keen’s approach–Roth did not believe that fiction would have any “direct social or political consequences” (qtd. in Rodgers 61) but he did see the possibility to broaden horizons and enjoyed experimenting with literary techniques in doing so. In his book on Philip Roth’s work, Bernhard F. Rodgers, Jr. notes that WSWG is cer- tainly not a stereotypical melodrama, even though Roth is borrowing some stylistic features of the genre. They are, however, used to mirror Lucy’s perception of life, where everything and everyone must do morally good, according to her ideas. Beyond that, melodramatic narratives are known to cater to popular taste; thus, they can be used as a device to reach a larger audience than with a typical socio-critical work. At the same time, it is increasing the sobering effect by breaking with readers’ expecta- tions “to alter their perceptions and challenge their predispositions” (Rodgers 63). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 21 According to his drafts, Roth considered several titles for the novel but ultimately de- cided to name it after a line from a poem from the nineteenth century–“There was a little Girl” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid. The simple language, the sweet and innocent description of the girl and the unex- pected break of rhyme and content in the last line perfectly mirror the protagonist and the suddenness and intensity of her final and fatal breakdown. The novel takes place in the 50s, approximately the same time as when it was written and published. It is a multigenerational narrative that touches on the history of five generations of a lower-class American family. Even though the narrative perspective changes throughout the novel, a great majority of the novel is presented through Lucy’s eyes (Rodgers 68). This technique ultimately increases the antipathy towards her, since the reader witnesses many of her horrific thoughts and reasonings first-hand. Hence, the narrative appears more convincing, i.e. more shocking than through a sec- ond-hand account. This argument is supported by Keen, who pointed out that “[i]ndeed, sometimes the potential for character identification and readers’ empathy decreases with sustained exposure to a particular figure’s thoughts or voice” (Keen 96). In order to make his characters feel authentic, and also following the tradition of (neo)realism, Roth is using simple language to tell the tale of Lucy Nelson. This choice, however, should by no means imply that the language would be of lesser importance in this novel. Frank Kermode, for example, argues, that there “was a peculiar thinness of characterization in the book” (qtd. in Raban 160); Raban already points out that this was a stylistic choice to portray the simplicity of minds. This “restricted perspective” (Rodgers 66) also continues in the narrative itself which only takes up around 40 pages and afterwards the same events are repeated from various points of view over 260 pages. Raban compares the tone of WSWG to the plays of Albee and absurd theatre, whereas Husband (25) points out that it may appear dull to fans of Roth’s previous work because of its simplicity in dialogue and language. The most obvious comparison, mentioned by the author himself as well as many scholars, is to Madame Bovary by The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 22 Gustave Flaubert. Husband (35) provides evidence: “Both are tales of women striving for an ill-defined, dimly senses ‘something more.’ Both project their ambitions onto well- meaning but weak husbands who fail to satisfy them. Both lack the self-consciousness to understand the injustice of their demands and seem inevitably to meet tragic ends”. However, Flaubert’s protagonist Emma is mainly focused on her status and wealth, whereas Lucy is described by Husband (35) as “a problematic feminist, a stereotypical man-hater.” I would like to mention at this point, that Roth has received a myriad of criticism for this novel and the character Lucy Nelson. The main argument therefore is that, allegedly, Lucy is based on his ex-wife Margaret Williams and that Roth is a mi- sogynist (Peeler 31). I find an excessive comparison to the personal life of an author somewhat problematic and would further argue that Lucy is an extreme character, or even “more caricature than character” (Husband 40), by no means meant to represent a general image of women. Nevertheless, since this discussion exceeds the scope of my thesis, I will not further investigate this issue here. Instead, I would like to follow the path of Peeler, who also distanced herself from attempting yet another autobiograph- ical reading of WSWG. She analyses the novel in terms of the concept of “ressenti- ment” developed by Friedrich Nietzsche and suggested that: […] it is a novel about goodness–about what being ‘good’ really means and how individuals conceive of and perform ‘goodness’. In the same vein as Dostoev- sky’s Notes from the Underground (1864), it satirically plays with the genre of the ‘good life’, searching for what underpins people’s ideas about goodness and finding unexpected ulterior motives. In other words, When She Was Good is a text that deliberately draws upon and reconfigures certain classical philosophi- cal tropes about what sort of life should be lived to live well. (Peeler 33-34) Such analysis is also supported by the first sentence of the novel which is: “Not to be rich, not to be famous, not to be mighty, not even to be happy, but to be civilized–that was the dream of his life” (WSWG 3)–the motto of Willard Carroll, Lucy Nelson’s grand- father, and the focal point of the first part of the novel. 3.1 Part One The novel “begins in an omniscient, third-person voice, gradually shades into the voice of Willard Carroll” (Rodgers 71) by telling the reader about Willard’s upbringing in a town called Iron City around the 1900s which has led him to this motto. Swiftly the reader is informed about Willard’s cold-hearted father and the tragic story of his sister The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 23 Ginny, who remained mentally challenged after suffering from scarlet fever at the age of one. She was dismissed by their father and taken care of by Willard and his young family in his new home of Liberty Center. Such a dense supply of information of hard- ship surely alludes to the reader’s emotions and establishes a certain degree of sym- pathy for Willard. If not the rescue of his disabled sister, it should be the confession of his progressing feebleness due to old age and his everlasting urge to provide comfort and be civil that is pleading for the readers’ empathy: Indeed, to this very day, when his famous agility, or jumpiness, has all but dis- appeared; when several times in an afternoon he finds himself in a chair which he cannot remember having settled into, awakening from a sleep he cannot remember needing; when at night to undo his laces produces a groan he does not even hear; when in his bed he tries for minutes on end to roll his fingers into a fist, and sometimes must go off to sleep having failed in the attempt; when at the end of each month he looks at the fresh new calendar page and understands that there on the pantry door is the month and the year in which he will most assuredly die, that one of those big black numerals over which his eye is slowly moving is the date upon which he is to disappear forever from the world – he nevertheless continues to attend as quickly as he is able to a weak porch rail, or the dripping of a spigot in the bathroom, or a tack come loose from the runner in the hall–and all this to maintain not only comfort of those who live with him yet, but the dignity of all too, such as it is. (WSWG 7) The instances mentioned here are situations that most people will be able to imagine. Even a young reader might think of unknown struggles their parents or grandparents might have experienced. According to Keen’s research, it has been established “that a character’s negative affective states, such as those provoked by undergoing perse- cution, suffering, grieving, and experiencing painful obstacles, make a reader’s empa- thizing more likely” and she added the following hypothesis: “Empathetic responses to fictional characters and situations occur more readily for negative feeling states, whether or not a match in details of experience exists” (Keen 71-72). This is the first of numerous such instances throughout the novel; the intensity of which increases rapidly in the second half of the book. Roth’s choice of location is quite interesting; firstly, as has been mentioned above, his novels are typically set in and around New Jersey, whereas WSWG takes place in the middle of America. Secondly, the names he created are so generic that they appear almost comical: they live in Liberty Center, Willard is from Iron City and Roy grew up in Boys Town. Using a generic location is a popular technique to increase the relata- bility. Nowadays this might be most commonly known from the TV-show The The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 24 Simpsons. They live in a town called Springfield (there are about thirty-six townships with that name in the U.S.) and the exact location has remained up to speculation for three decades. Raban arrives at a similar conclusion and states that “[…] Liberty Cen- ter is deliberately inexplicit; it has the inclusive vagueness of a semi-allegorical land- scape” (161). The narrative’s chronology is disrupted quite a bit which becomes apparent by going from early childhood to approaching death in less than 10 pages, which Raban (157) described as the memory of “the patchwork of decline”. Roth created a third-person narrator which can give the reader the illusion of objectivity. However, the reader is following the memories of seventy-year-old Willard, who is contemplating his life choices by Ginny’s and Lucy’s gravestone. Nevertheless, the narrative situation changes several times, sometimes seamlessly, sometimes abruptly and Roth provides an “authorial narration that moves omnisciently inside many characters’ minds […]” which allows the reader an insight that could increase “the chance of character identi- fication” and thus empathy (Keen 96). In terms of creating readerly empathy, I would like to emphasize Roth’s technique to introduce the protagonist herself. Firstly, the reader learns about her through the eyes of her grandfather, who is enamored and describes her as rather angelic, as “the tiny, spirited, golden-haired child that Lucy had been–how lively and bright and sweet” (WSWG 10). Secondly, she is portrayed as the confidante of her mentally challenged grand aunt Ginny, which makes her appear gentle and congenial. Thirdly, introducing a likeable protagonist while simultaneously foretelling his or her death appeals strongly to the readers’ empathy. A remotely similar instance can be found in Everyman, which will be discussed in a later chapter. My reasoning goes along the lines of the saying “don’t speak ill of the dead” and how, typically, many problematic issues of a person are forgiven or forgotten after their passing. Roth hints at this phenomenon in WSWG, when Willard’s father dies and Willard attempts to justify his cold-hearted nature: “At the small funeral he arranged for his father up in Iron City, Willard found himself at the graveside suddenly and inexplicably stricken with that sense of things that can de- scend upon the tender-hearted, even at the death of an enemy–that surely the spirit had been deeper, the life more tragic, than he had ever imagined” (WSWG 13). By placing Willard at Lucy’s grave, Roth sets out the novel by creating suspense as to what could have possibly happened to his dear granddaughter. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 25 It is the return of Whitey, his son-in-law, to Liberty Center, respectively his daughter Myra, respectively his house, which has led to Willard’s contemplation by the graveside in the first place. When the narration is in the present, the reader also hears him re- member a dialogue he had with his wife, Berta, who was dreading Whitey’s return: “Only for a while” was the guarantee he had made to Berta; because she was right, this just could not be a repetition of 1934, with someone in need coming for a short stay and managing somehow to stretch it out to sixteen years of living off the fat of another fellow’s land, which wasn’t so fat either. But of course, said Willard, that other fellow did happen to be the father of the man’s wife–And just what does that mean, Berta asked, that is going to be sixteen years again this time too? (WSWG 9) It is the first, or chronologically speaking, the last, of several instances in which Willard fails to apply drastic measures, or any measures at all. Whereas at first the reader might have sympathy for Willard’s generosity, it becomes upsetting rather quickly. Over five pages Roth has the reader follow the old man’s memories from when Whitey stole medals from his personal cabinet, pawning them to get drunk. His attempted reason- ing, Whitey blatantly lying to him and Willard ultimately not acting at all create a frus- trating sense of injustice for the reader. The chronology is disrupted, and this memory is quickly followed by the even more detailed recollection of the footbath instance, which could be considered the climatic scene in the novel and the first time Lucy is actively involved. The mother, Myra, was taking a footbath in the living room when Whitey came home drunk and was harassing her because she did not “at least pull the shades down so that everybody who walked by didn’t have to see what a suffering martyr she was” and subsequently he “picked up the dishpan full of warm water and Epsom salts, and for no rational reason in the world, poured it out on the rug” (WSWG 21). I would argue that it is actions and reasonings like this, so utterly incomprehensible but simultaneously so conceivable for the reader, that create the Feeling of Body. It is further enhanced by Myra, who maintains to defend Whitey even if it appears that she has given up hope about his empty promises herself. It is here that Roth briefly takes the focus off Whitey and makes a transition to the fifteen-year-old Lucy. She was the one who called the police on her father, against her mother’s will, which is perceived as a misdeed by her family and leads to this discussion between her and Willard: The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 26 “But what you did think of, young lady–look at me!” “I wanted him to stop!” “But calling the jail, Lucy–“ “I called for somebody to make him stop!” “But why didn’t you call me? I want you to answer that question.” “Because.” “Because why?” “Because you can’t.” “I what?” “Well,” she said, backing away, “you don’t…” (WSWG 23) This emphasizes Willard’s inability to take appropriate actions against Whitey. Further- more, this passage implies that this was the pinnacle of events and that Lucy has al- ready suffered from her father’s behavior for a long time. This scene will be referenced several times throughout the novel; and Peeler suggests: Calling the police becomes for Lucy, the defining act of her childhood. In her own imagination, and in the imagination of many of the worn, she has become the girl who had her own father arrested. As if to justify this act to herself and to her community, Lucy becomes increasingly obsessed with her own virtue. She sees herself as morally superior to the rest of Liberty Center, a sense of superi- ority that is vague but indomitable. (Peeler 35-36) However, Roth only reveals this side of Lucy at a much later point in the novel. Jump to Lucy’s first semester in college. She returns to Liberty Center to inform her family that she is engaged to Roy Bassart. After only two lines, no more word is spoken about the exciting news. Instead, the reader is told how great Whitey had been doing lately and how “there could no longer by any doubt that at long last something had happened to penetrate his heart” (WSWG 29). The narration through Williard is listing numerous excuses for Whitey’s failure, among them the Depression (“as it turns out, Whitey took the Great Depression very personally” and his rejection by the Army (“But instead he had to walk the street of Liberty Center all those years while other men were risking their lives […]” (WSWG 30-31). This tone of absurdity leads to another instance of domestic violence. Myra passed on an offer, whether he would be interested to take over an electrical company from an acquaintance who was retiring: Here Whitey swung at her with his trousers and nearly took her eye out with the buckle of his belt. But he hadn’t meant to–he was only warning her not to tease him again about something that wasn’t his fault! Why did she go shooting her mouth off about plans that weren’t finalized? Didn’t she know what business world was all about? (WSWG 34) The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 27 Only then, after sixteen years, Willard, still hesitantly and only temporarily, expels his son-in-law from his house, while Myra is blaming herself. Only a few days later, it co- incided with eighteen-year-old Lucy’s visit to announce her pregnancy, when Whitey attempts to return, is locked out by his daughter and only returns after her death. I find it noteworthy that during part one, Lucy’s age is the only point of reference as to how many years have passed because the other characters as well as their living sit- uation remains bizarrely unchanged over several decades. Raban describes this as Willard’s “Peter Pan quality” which “confirms the absolute stasis of Liberty Center, where people grow old, the houses undergo alteration and improvement, the popula- tion swells around the focal town of Winnisaw, but where the idea of a new life is an empty joke, sapped of its force by the blight of circumstances” (Raben 158). As Raban (156) describes it, “When She Was Good is Roth’s attempt to embody the deterioration and disappointment inherent in American civil life: it sustains the tragic atrophy of Liberty Center at both rhetorical and structural levels”. It is the American Nightmare–while Willard is busy trying to make his family appear civil–first by taking in Ginny, which almost results in Lucy’s expulsion from school (because Ginny “would follow Lucy all the way [to school], and then stand outside the first floor […] and call for the child” (WSWG 11)), and later by bending to Myra’s wish to stay with the abusive Whitey. They seemingly forget about the actual child in the family. However, his ob- session with civility is something that he shares with his granddaughter to some extent: “This belief that the good deeds of good people are rewarded with a good life is really a form of self-preservation rather than genuine altruism. But Lucy, Willard’s grand- daughter, represents a far more extreme moral vision of life, one that is purely reactive and revels in its will to power” (Peeler 34). Peeler elaborates that: Like Willard, [Lucy] lives a life according to pre-established generic rules and conventions but, unlike Willard, her only rule is to work against Liberty Center and her family. Furthermore, When She Was Good implicates goodness as be- ing an ideological home for violence. To Lucy, being ‘good’ means having the right, the responsibility even, to impose herself on others. (Peeler 39) Further evidence for Lucy’s and Willard’s parallel construction can be found when part one comes to an end and Whitey’s return is imminent. Willard contemplates to pretend senility in order to resolve the situation but concludes: “’But why? Why should I be senile? Why be off my head when that is not the case!’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Why be The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 28 getting pneumonia and worrying myself sick–when all I did was good!’” (WSWG 41). This is the first of many scenes that demonstrate eerie similarities between him and Lucy. However, most often Lucy is interpreted as having strong parallels to Ginny, her grand aunt. One argument against this view is when Willard’s wording changes from civil to good, which is often mentioned by Lucy in the later parts of the novel and is in the book’s title. Though, particularly striking is the graveyard scene where he fled to and is stalling to return home, despite the cold weather and snow. This is eerily like Lucy’s death at Passion Paradise, where she was found frozen to death. In addition to that, Willard’s inability to intervene despite his plans to take action are strongly remi- niscent of Lucy planning to leave Roy early on but never finding a convenient time she marries him. Ginny, on the other hand, rather shows parallels to Whitey Nelson: they both are nominal adults who, however, require the full attention of the family and it appears as if Whitey is missing the conscience of his actions just like the mentally challenged Ginny does. This suggestion is further supported by a thought from Willard after Whitey hit Myra: “There is nothing the man can do. He is afflicted with himself. Like Ginny” (WSWG 34). Part one ends with Willard repressing his wrath towards Whitey and welcoming him back into his house, which perfectly highlights his passivity: “’You dumb cluck! You scheming, lying, thieving ignoramus! You weak, washed-out lushhead, sucking the life’s blood from every human heart there is! You no-good low- life weakling! So what if you can’t help it! So what if you don’t mean it– ‘ ‘–Duane,’ said Willard, stepping forward, ‘How you doing, [Whitey]?’” (WSWG 43) By juxtaposing Willard’s thoughts and action so closely, Roth emphasizes the character’s failure to take much needed measures against his son-in-law. 3.2 Part Two Part two of the novel is divided into three chapters. Chapter one is narrated through Roy Bassart’s perspective. It begins with his return from the army, his contemplations about his future and the wish to possibly become a professional artist: “He realized it was no easy row to hoe, but maybe the time had come in life for him to tackle some- thing hard instead of settling for the easiest thing at hand” (WSWG 48). It is a decision most parents will stereotypically argue against, and so do Llyod and Alice Bassart. Roy’s naivety is suggested by the narrator’s statement that “you would have thought he was a kid returning home from Camp Gitche Cumne instead of the Aleutian Islands” The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 29 as well as his sense of maturity and independence: “Roy had matured, and plenty, too. But it wasn’t discipline that had done it; it was, to put it bluntly, being away from them” (WSWG 49). It is the turning point of an adolescent, the rebellious ways against his parents and the great ambitions of an aspiring artist that are discussed in great length and seem rather anticlimactic after the poignant events of part one. The implied narra- tor records his thought when considering different paths for his future, highlighting that “his taste was adventure, something to test himself against, some way to discover just how much of an individual he really was” (WSWG 51) and possibly leaving the country. Roy complains about his parents urging him to secure an apprenticeship instead of applying for Art School until he concludes that “after his discharges, Roy made it his business to first catch up on his sleep, and second to catch up on his food” (WSWG 55). This change of pace is part of the characterization and further highlights his na- ivety as well as quiet manner–“Moderation in all things, that was his motto” (WSWG 73); and it happens to also be the motto of Benjamin Franklin .After listing several common struggles of a twenty-year-old man, he becomes sidetracked rather quickly by indulging in his mother’s opulent breakfasts, reminiscing about high school and where to get a good “grilled cheese and bacon and tomato” (WSWG 57). By this di- gression, it is suggested that Roy may not follow up on his ambitions and rests on his oars from having been in the Army, since he is mainly interested in food and girls. The reader is informed about a failed attempt to have sex with a girl before he went to the Army and the questionable advice he receives from another soldier to “Tell them you love them and tell them to trust you” (WSGW 68) in order to be successful in the future. Over all, Roy is characterized as a likable, simple man, whose tribulations are as mod- erate as his ambitions–a striking contrast to the narrative of Willard. Jay L. Halio pointed out the “overt humor” that is brought to the novel with Roy Bassart and his family: “he becomes entangled in a number of broadly comic situations that to him appear to be serious predicaments but to the reader can only be regarded as funny” (Halio 59). It is a lightheartedness that further increases sympathy for Roy’s character and his unwieldiness. The chapter is as uneventful as Roy’s life and ends with the highlight of him buying a “two-tone, second-hand 1946 Hudson” after his Uncle Julian ensured him to “[…] live it up a little, have a good time, get off your own back” (WSWG 76). Now he only needed to find a woman “with a little maturity in her attitudes” (WSWG 66) for his fulfillment. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 30 “Enter Lucy Nelson–and eventually, problems of much larger magnitude than Roy could ever imagine” (Halio 59). She is only properly introduced in the second chapter of part two, hitherto, the reader has received only partial information about the novel’s protagonist. This is an important strategy to delay her introduction for almost eighty pages; the reader will have created some sort of idea about her character, which will most likely be somewhat sympathetic. In part one, Roth elaborated on her abusive, alcoholic father who seemingly required and received more attention and parenting than Lucy herself, which will appeal to the readers’ empathy. Until then, she has been mostly characterized, if sparingly, by her loving grandfather Willard, who presented her from a positively biased point of view. Most importantly, assuming a first-time-reader of the novel, one will be compelled to have at the back of the head the knowledge of Lucy’s untimely death. As has been mentioned above, I suggest that this increases the sympathy as well as empathy for a character drastically and may bias the readers’ expectations as to how the novel unfolds. For example, when I read WSWG for the first time, I anticipated one of the male characters to have caused Lucy’s death; even if that was not the case directly, one could argue that it was the repercussions of their (Willard, Whitey, Roy) combined actions which have led to her demise. Lucy is introduced while observing Roy working on his car at the Sowerby’s. It is the house of his Uncle Julian and Lucy is friends with his daughter, Ellie Sowerby, until she disappeared from her life as unexpectedly as she had come into it, and the person responsible was Irene Sowerby, Lucy was sure. Because of what she knew about Lucy’s family, or because of whatever she had heard about Lucy herself, Mrs. Sowerby had decided that she was not the kind of girl she wanted Ellie bringing home in the afternoons. (WSGW 78) It is the first of numerous instances in which Lucy’s inferences seem highly biased and display paranoia about her family history. This becomes even more apparent when “a new girl named Mary Beckley […] began to giggle at the story, and Lucy knew that somebody had already cornered Mary Beckley and told her Lucy’s secrets. This so angered Lucy that tears came popping out of her eyes […]” (WSWG 81). Even though Roth continues in an overall simple style, it has turned surprisingly aggressive and particularly angry with Lucy’s point of view, especially considering her being a teenage girl. The reader might nevertheless be inclined to overlook these signs of paranoia and general unpleasantness due to his or her previously conceived positive notion. After Ellie, she befriends Kitty, who introduced her to Catholicism and Saint Teresa. It The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 31 appears as if Lucy gains a sense of superiority because Kitty’s family “was the most wretched und unhappy family Lucy had ever seen, heard of, or imagined; if possible, it was worse even than her own” which becomes more apparent when Lucy notices Kitty’s reading problem “who suddenly seemed to her so hopelessly, so disgustingly, ignorant” (WSWG 85). Just when an inevitable notion of antipathy may arise, the reader is reminded of her hardship with the climactic scene of the footbath: “After call- ing upon Saint Teresa of Lisieux and Our Lord–and getting no reply–she called the police” (WSWG 86). Again, I would argue that one might be inclined to side with her due to her abusive father. Even when she states, what could be interpreted as her motto; “And they are not going to ruin it for me! I will not let them! I am their superior in every single way! People can call me all the names they want–I don’t care! I have nothing to confess, because I am right and they are wrong and I will not be destroyed!” (WSWG 90), one may argue that she reacts in a defensive manner because she is traumatized. Lucy then enrolls in Mr. Valerio’s music appreciation class, which she enjoys tremen- dously and considers to be her second family until she decides that the other girls participating were “freaks” because one had a wall-eye, one a stammer and the other one was overweight (WSWG 95). It is here where her sense of morality becomes ut- terly questionable since she chooses to disappoint Mr. Valerio and refrain from what she enjoyed because “they were freaks. And she wasn’t! And nobody was going to say she was either” (WSWG 95). She displays a condescending manner which by itself is appalling in its severity. In addition, one may realize her hypocrisy since she has not tolerated condescension herself as she later even utters verbatim: “but one thing that was unforgiveable was being condescended to” (WSWG 100). Thus, it is astounding that she starts to fancy Roy Bassart, despite Ellie’s ridicule of his idleness and warning that he is fixated on having sex. As a reader, one can already be suspenseful of the impending doom this “comical union between an ordinary, easy- going young man and a woman extraordinarily convinced of her essential superiority to everyone around her” (Halio 60) will bring. In terms of superiority, Peeler made an interesting observation in her Nietzschiean reading of WSWG: “Crucially, this claim to superior morality also allows ‘the man or woman of ressentiment’ to malign his or her enemies as corrupt, evil and dishonest. The implication here is that this ‘lease of virtue’ can become a lease of violence.” She further specifies that Lucy, interpreted as a The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 32 woman of “ressentiment”, therefore is doomed to bring unhappiness unto others as well as herself (Peeler 33). It is interesting to observe that the emerging romance with Roy appears to soothe her temper momentarily as, in the beginning, she behaves comparatively modestly in his company. For the remainder of the chapter, Roth turns to a strongly dialogue driven narrative which surfaces the developing dynamics of their relationship. For example, he carefully records the lengthy dialogue of their intermezzo at Passion Paradise. Halio remarks that “the banality of the situation–Lucy’s resistance, Roy’s persistence” (Halio 61) cre- ate a comic effect. Indeed, the dialogue is so redundant and bizarre that it has striking resemblance to the theatre of the absurd and plays such as Waiting for Godot by Sam- uel Beckett or Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee, as can been seen in the following example: “Roy, I want to leave now. Really.” “Why?” “I want to go home, please.” “I sort of love you, you know that.” “Don’t say that. You don’t.” “Angel,’ he said, touching her face.” “Stop. You almost put your finger in my eye.” […] “Roy, I’m not going to do anything. So let’s go now.” “I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m only asking you to trust me. Just trust me,” he said, trying once again to put his fingers between the buttons of her uniform. “Roy, you’re going to tear something.” “I’m not. Not if you don’t fight. Just trust me.” “I don’t know what that means. You say that, and when I do, then you only start going further. I don’t want that, Roy.” But he was singing into her ear. (WSWG 108-9) Halio (61) suggests that “the banality of language and situation both camouflage the comedy and contribute to it”. Lucy appears to remain relatively calm, which defuses the impression of the situation and may allow for some comic effect to surface. Never- theless, Roy is uncomfortably pressing her to have intercourse by all available means and that should not be taken too lightheartedly. It is a grey area that Roth depicts here, which is most likely uncomfortably relatable to many readers and highlights the thin line between persuasion and force. This is an instance in which the chance of invoking empathy has changed its meaning over the decades (Keen 74) as it may have been perceived less problematic when the novel was first published in 1967. However, the The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 33 comedy then surfaces fully justifiable when Lucy discovers soon afterwards that “truth- fully, there were a lot of important ways in which she was discovering that she didn’t like Roy that much” (WSWG 122), followed by the final decision to end the relationship: From that afternoon on she knew for sure that Roy wasn’t for her. That very night she would not drive up with him to Passion Paradise. When instantly he grew sulky and morose, and seemed about ready to break into tears again, she told him it was because she was not well. It happened to be the truth, but then at home with a thick black crayon she would make it altogether clear their ro- mance was over […]. (WSWG 126) Despite developing a strong antipathy towards Roy and losing faith in his potential, she is considerate of their previous engagements and is trying to schedule a convenient time for the separation by marking it in the calendar. She postpones the date continu- ously. It is especially this aspect of her personality that connects her strongly to her grandfather Willard, who displayed a very similar strategy of postponing (i.e. avoiding) necessary action, for which Lucy has persistently blamed him. Lucy’s postponing has a similarly catastrophic outcome as Willard’s (e.g. Whitey’s physical abuse of Myra): she is now expecting Roy’s child. Ironically, before she finds out, she suspects Ellie to be pregnant and describes it as “the worst trouble there could possibly be for a girl” (WSWG 136). Lucy appears to have an odd fascination with the hardship of others. For example, when Ellie confesses to her that the source of her troubles was her father Julian being unfaithful to her mother Irene, she firstly “[…] had to work out in her head the significance of all that Ellie had just said–that is, the significance to herself” (139) and suddenly sympathizing with Irene Sowerby: “To understand that Mrs. Sowerby suffered was somehow to un- derstand that she existed, had a life, had motives and reasons having nothing to do with frustrating and opposing Lucy Nelson” (WSWG 145). It is a brief and seldom mo- ment of reflection for Lucy, which only emerged from her immense pity for Mrs. Sow- erby. Additionally, she is greatly indulging in her friend’s predicament and the sense of superiority it provides for herself. The chapter closes with the girls leaving Liberty Cen- ter to attend college. Lucy is greatly disappointed that Ellie chose not to expose her father, against her explicit recommendation. The last chapter of part two fully reveals Lucy’s constitution and may cause the reader some discomfort of Feeling of Body to witness. Despite missing her periods, the pos- sibility of a pregnancy does not occur to her and she further insists that “Only, this was The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 34 what happened to farm girls, to girls who didn’t study, who quit school, who ran away from home. To Babs Egan, but not to her. Hadn’t enough happened to her already?” (WSWG 152). Roth records the full dialogue between her and a rather suspicious Doc- tor who ultimately refuses her plea for an abortion. It is important to note here that the novel was written and set in the 1950/60s, a time in which abortion was illegal in the U.S. Thus, people had various methods to attempt an abortion or miscarriage them- selves, which could have fatal consequences. However, some people illegally provided “safe” abortions. This was the best option available but could be difficult to obtain, as can be seen in the example of Lucy. She tries to convince him that she deserves an abortion and ensures “’But I’m not bad!’ She couldn’t help herself, it was the truth: ‘I’m good!’” (WSWG 154). After briefly inquiring about her living situation, the doctor, how- ever, seems to find her capable of becoming a mother and rejects her wish to abort the pregnancy. For a doctor to be able to decide over a woman’s body in such manner might be shocking on its own for a 21st century-reader. Lucy loses her temper and refrains from visiting other doctors due to her fear of being “humiliated, ignored and abused” (WSWG 157). Soon afterwards her arbitrary behavior unfolds to its full extent. The young couple decides to marry due to the circumstances and Lucy is pressing Roy to inform his family about the wedding, but not the pregnancy. First, she herself notifies her family about the marriage and becomes utterly upset about them respecting her decision: “‘They don’t even know,’ she said aloud, ‘and still they’re letting me do it!’ If only they’d say no. NO, LUCY, YOU CANNOT. NO, LUCY, WE FORBID IT. But it seemed that none of them had the conviction any longer, or the endurance, to go against a choice of hers” (WSWG 164). Furious about her family, she surprises Roy in his dorm to interrogate him about his family visit. Once again, Roth records the whole dialogue of her badgering him about informing his parents. This is the pinnacle of ab- surdity and the point when Roy emotionally surrenders to her caprice. “Shhhhh!” He shot up on the bed. “We’re getting married!” he whispered hoarsely. “So shut up.” She was suddenly and completely baffled. She was getting married. “When?” “Christmas! Okay? Now will you stop?” “And your family?” “Well, what about them?” “You have to tell them.” “I will, I will. Bust just lay off for a while.” “Roy … it has to be now.” “Now?” “Yes!” The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 35 “But my mother is in bed […]” “But you must make this official. You just can’t keep me living this way. It’s a nightmare!” […] “But I am pregnant with a human baby!” she cried. “I’m going to have your baby, Roy! And you won’t even do your duty!” “I will! I am!” “When?” “Now! Okay? Now! But don’t scream, Lucy, don’t throw a stupid fit!” […] In a few minutes he returned, paler than she had ever seen him. Where the hair was clipped short at his neck, she could see his white skin. “I did it,” he said. (WSWG 175-176) After this extortion-like engagement, Roy appears to have changed significantly and sounds astonishingly like Lucy when complaining about his family. Once again, she is fighting with her family because her mother told her father about the pregnancy. Lucy impulsively confesses to them that she despises Roy which causes them to have serious concerns about her future. This appears to be Whitey’s first attempt at being a father: “But my concern is with you, Lucy, and what is uppermost to you. Do you understand that? My concern is your going to college, which has always been your dream, right? Now, the question is this, do you still want your dream, or don’t you?” (WSWG 192) He is approaching her in a surprisingly mindful manner and ulti- mately suggests that he could help her if she would like an abortion, which is followed by another episode of Lucy’s paranoia: “But is he clean?” she asked. “A hundred percent,” her father said. “Spotless, Lucy. Like a hospital.” “And how old?” she asked. “How old is he?” “Oh,” her father said, “middle-aged, I’d say.” A moment passed. Then, “That’s the catch, isn’t it?” “What kind of catch?” “He’s too old.” “Now what do you mean ‘too old’? If anything, he’s real experienced.” “But is this all he does?” “Lucy, he’s a regular doctor … who does this as a special favor, that’s all.” “But he charges, you said.” “Well, sure he charges.” “Then it’s not a special favor. He does it for money.” “Well, everybody has got bills to meet. Everybody has got to be paid for what they do.” But she saw herself dead. The doctor would be no good and she would die. “How do you know about him?” (WSWG 197) The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 36 While previously merely being suspicious about the offer but seemingly still considering the abortion, things take a dramatic turn when her mother confesses that she had an abortion when Lucy was younger. She interprets this as another torment Whitey im- posed on Myra and hence an abortion for Lucy herself is beyond debate. For the reader, this could be rather frustrating to witness: On one hand, Lucy has desperately tried to receive an abortion beforehand, with the same reasoning as her fathers’ and “as the only means by which she can escape her small town and her family” (Husband 37). On the other hand, her final point is that she refuses to live her mother’s life again, which is arbitrary, since it appears that is exactly what she will do by declining the abortion. It seems as if Lucy’s actions are not motivated by her moral convictions about right and wrong, but rather by a need to argue and disagree with everyone, without exception. Furthermore, it was noted by Julie Husband that this is a crucial point for the readers’ perception of Lucy: “Up until this point in the novel, Lucy appeared as much victim as victimizer” (37). Her self-righteous actions are starting to quickly over- shadow any previously established compassion and empathy. 3.3 Part Three Her contentiousness continuous in the third part of the novel, when Lucy momentarily appears like a different person due to her lack of protest: “And she did not argue. Could it be she had actually argued her last? She had fought and fought to get him to do his duty, but in the end he had done it. So what more was there to fight about? She simply could not find the strength to raise her voice” (WSWG 210). This passage appears to show Lucy in a moment of exhaustion, physically and mentally, during her pregnancy. Briefly, she can reflect on her self-assertion towards Roy and that he actually did eve- rything she asked of him. Rodgers (65) has also remarked that: “at first she tries to be a submissive and attentive wife, to act out the role she has been taught to assume by her society.” However, this is soon forgotten after the birth of their son Edward, when Lucy steadily regains the strength to argue, or at least to say no: Would she go up to Liberty Center? No. Just for the month of August? No. “Lucy, but we’re arguing because of living in this one room in all this hot weather, while up in Liberty Center that whole upstairs is just sitting there going to waste.” No. (WSWG 216-17) The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 37 Even if the dialogue here is not as fully sketched out as it was previously the case, the reader can imagine the excessive resistance to Roy’s efforts. Throughout the chapter she continues to diminish every action and idea brought up by her husband, who tried to provide for his family. It was noted by Peeler that “within the intimacy of marriage, her inability to compromise, her steely determination to tell ‘the truth,’ and her refusal to see her own flaws become increasingly destructive” (Peeler 36). After finding out that Julian recommended the couple’s separation, Lucy finds confirmation of her sus- picion and further elaborates her conspiracy about how the Sowerbys, as everyone else, are sabotaging her life. After a few years passed Lucy allows Roy to visit his family, she immediately regrets her decision: “The war was never over with people you could not trust or depend upon. Why, why had she relaxed her vigilance?” (WSWG 261). Previously, Lucy imagines that having another child would be the solution to all their problems after her husband romanticized about the idea of having a daughter. She reasons with herself that: “it would be different this time; there would be no one they would have to plead with, or argue with, nor would they have to argue with each other” (WSWG 251); “Oh she could love him, at last: she had made him a good man.” (WSWG 270); “This time she would be pregnant as a woman is supposed to be” (WSWG 271); “The sensation she began to have was that the awful past had finally fallen away, and that she was living suddenly in her own future” (WSWG 233). Roth seems to record the train of thought which leads her to this belief, as well as her secret decision that “it was no longer necessary to continue to use protection (WSWG 251) which leaves the reader flabbergasted by her delusional thinking. Halio (64) de- scribes it as “the crux of Lucy’s predicament, and Roth’s wit conveys the deep irony of her illusion, that she will be condemned to live forever in the world she had made and never have the chance ‘not just to be right, but to be happy.’” Her decision to have another child illustrates that she, technically, has good intentions (i.e. saving her mar- riage) but executes them catastrophically (without consulting with her husband). There- fore, I agree with Halio’s statement about her predicament lying within herself, to a certain degree. Back at Willard’s house, Myra receives a proposal from a man she has been dating for some time and is stalling to give an answer. To her own surprise, Lucy appears The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 38 indifferent to “the prospect of her mother’s marital happiness” (Halio 64) which displays the arbitrariness of her behavior. If she was concerned with the well-being of her mother, she would most likely be supportive of this possibility. The events unfold, and Myra declines the proposal because of Whitey: she confesses that she remained in sporadic contact with her husband via a post-office box and recently informed him that “after serious consideration she had decided to divorce him and marry Blanshard Mul- ler” (WSWG 277). As Willard tells the story, this led Whitey to fall into old patterns: he robbed his employer on impulse and was sentenced to eighteen months in prison. This causes Myra great despair and subsequently to cancel the engagement to Muller. In- stantaneously Lucy is interested in her mother’s well-being and lectured her while she was crying on the sofa: “Why? To throw twenty more years away? To be humiliated again? Abused again? To be deprived? Mother, what do you think you are doing? Who do you think you are saving? Mother, what does it possibly do or mean to tell Mr. Muller to go, when that idiot, that moron, that useless, hopeless–“ (WSWG 280). This is an- other indication, that Lucy is mainly interested in people when they are suffering, and she can lecture them as to what misdeeds they have done, since she was impartial to the engagement until it was cancelled. She continues her spree when her husband Roy picks her up. Unbeknownst of the cancelled engagement, Roy is screamed at and lectured by Lucy, while he is trying to comfort her: “Lucy, what did I do wrong now?” “You Idiot! You dolt! All you can show him [Edward] is the carburetor in the car– and probably you get that wrong too! […] “You worm! Don’t you have any guts at all? Can’t you stand on your own feet, ever? You sponge! You leech! You weak, hopeless, spineless, coward! You’ll never change–you don’t even want to change! You don’t even know what I mean by change! You stand there with your dumb mouth open! Because you have no backbone! […] “Oh,” she said, breathing hard, “how I despise you, Roy. Every word you speak, everything you do, or try to do, it’s awful. You’re nothing, and I will never forgive you–“ He put his hands over his eyes and wept. (WSWG 284-285) As has been established throughout the narrative, Roy is a caring, if not perfect, hus- band who loves and thinks highly of his wife. Until then, Roth has created a good amount of discomfort by recording Lucy’s patronizing thoughts about her husband. Her rage towards Roy reaches its peak here, when she, without rhyme or reason, The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 39 annihilates him verbally in front of their son, while she is possibly carrying his child again. Peeler suggested, that “in Lucy’s mind, the figures of her husband and father become confused, and she punishes Roy in Whitey’s stead” (37). While this is an in- teresting reading, I rather had the impression that the fight merely unleashed her anger which caused her to tell Roy her honest, unfiltered opinion about him. Subsequently (and understandably), Roy leaves the house with Edward which only increases Lucy’s fury. When he calls to inform her about their whereabouts, “she made clear to him what he was to do, and instantly” (WSWG 287) but he refuses to remain submissive to her commands. He insisted not to return his three-and-a-half-year-old son to a home inhabited by a person with a mental constitution such as Lucy’s: “NO, Lucy, because of you! Because of your screaming, hateful, bossy, hateful, heartless guts! Because he [Edward] never wants to see your ugly, heartless face again, and neither do I! Never!” (WSWG 288). Husband remarks that “by this point, Lucy is de- picted as such a monster of selfishness and Roy such a model of compassion that it becomes difficult to have any sympathy for Lucy’s plight” (38). In the remainder of the novel, i.e. the second chapter of part three, Roth sketches out Lucy’s train of thought while taking the bus to Liberty Center to reclaim her husband and son–in the middle of the night. Interestingly, many of the accusations she makes while planning her operation much rather seem fitting to Roy’s situation, which, once again, highlights her frustrating inability for self-reflection. This is most noticeable when she wonders: “[…] for who but a monster could have said on the phone those terrible things he had said to her?” (WSWG 291) Whereas it was Lucy who annihilated Roy personally and in front of their son, which led to their unpleasant phone call. Once she arrived at the Sowerby’s house, she is greatly surprised to be granted entry without resistance and suspects Julian to have taken her side because “Roy had now been revealed in such a way that even the most hard-hearted and unthinking of his support- ers had lost all sympathy” (WSWG 293). This could be interpreted as a comic meta- element because it reflects Lucy’s character development throughout the novel. There is no more reader’s empathy to spare, even while the question of her cause of death is still pending. Julian, “the only character in the novel who is able to stand up to Lucy’s onslaughts” (Peeler 38), did not take her side, but attempts to reason with her and de- escalate the situation. Subsequently, Lucy unsuccessfully threatens him until everyone has gathered from their bedrooms–Julian, Irene, Ellie and Roy. She then proceeds to The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 40 insult and threaten everyone, reveals Julian’s affairs (to her surprise and contempt, Irene was aware of them already), who later must physically hold her back from storm- ing upstairs to take Edward. Since Roy refuses to leave with her, she then makes a revelation to them: “I’ll tell you why it so happens you can’t take your uncle’s advice, Roy–and I’ll tell your uncle too. It so happens, Roy, and Julian, and Eleanor, and Irene, it so happens that I am pregnant” (WSWG 304). This leaves the family completely stunned and, in another attempt to take Edward, Lucy punches Roy in the face. Shortly after she is picked up by her grandfather Willard. This is followed by a detailed recol- lection, possibly a dream, of her time as a Catholic and how it ended abruptly with the footbath instance. Once she regained energy, she repeatedly called Roy’s father Lloyd at three-thirty in the morning. It is a familiar sequence of events: everyone is trying to reason with her calmly, whereas she aggressively proceeds to threaten and insult eve- ryone and concludes: “Oh, how absurd this all was! How unnecessary! Why must they force her always to the extreme? Why must they bring this down upon themselves when the simple and honorable solution was always and forever at hand? If only they did their duty!” (WSWG 320). It clearly displays what has been stated In Peeler’s read- ing–that her superior morality is doomed to become “an ideological home for violence” because she thinks, she has the responsibility to “impose herself on others” (Peeler 39). She then decided to run away to retrieve her son herself. On her way out, she finds a letter in Myra’s room which she takes, and her grandparents chase her through the house, trying to prevent events from escalating even more. On her rescue mission, she found shelter in Blanshad Muller’s garage, which gave her an opportunity to read the letter. The last thoughts the reader hears from her, embrace her motto of self- righteousness one last time “Fearlessly, Lucy! Against all odds, but fearlessly none- theless! For they are wrong, and there is no choice: the good must triumph in the end! The good and the just and the true must–“ (WSWG 330). In the letter, Whitey covertly asked her mother to become his sponsor to be released from prison and attached a Valentine’s poem he wrote. Lucy was found three nights after her disappearance, frozen to death in Passion Paradise, with the letter frozen to her cheek. There were no signs of abuse, rape, or violence–she died from exposure. Overall, it can be said, that Roth is strongly appealing to the readers’ emotions in WSWG. Keen listed several stylistic choices which could increase readers’ empathy– all of which can be found in the novel: “control of timing (pace), order (anachronies), The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 41 the use of nested levels of narrative subsidiary (supplementary, satellite) plot events, repetition, and gaps (Keen 94). The distorted chronology and the delayed introduction of the protagonist fool the reader into sympathizing with Lucy but “ultimately be forced to disassociate himself from her most hysterical excesses and recognize them as just that excesses” (Rodgers 68). Whereas one most likely felt empathetic with Lucy for the first half of the novel, ultimately “the narrator leads the reader to feel relief in the humil- iating and improbable demise of Roth’s rebellious heroine” (Husband 26). Apart from the ending, I find the reading experience of WSWG to resemble a car accident: it is painful to observe, but impossible to look away. “[…] there lies the syndrome of Amer- ican failure. The dream has turned to ashes […]” (Raban 156). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 42 4 Portnoy’s Complaint Two years after When She Was Good, Philip Roth published the novel which “earned him a new notoriety” (Brauner 43): Portnoy’s Complaint. It is strikingly different in style and tone, but what the novel does have in common with its predecessor, is its particular narrative technique which can be attributed to its process of formation as well as Roth’s urge to create “something freewheeling and funny” (Reading Myself and Others 22) after the demise of Lucy Nelson. Quickly, Alexander Portnoy made its way into the realm of “permanent characters of American popular lore” and found his place amongst Huckleberry Finn and Holden Caulifield being “one of the decades milestones as well” (Rodgers 80). Finding Alexander’s unique voice was a long and tedious process for Roth, as he aimed to find “a voice and a treatment which would allow him the imagina- tive freedom to combine realistic detail and comic fantasy […] in an effort to capture the tenor of contemporary American life in a way that his first two, strictly controlled, novels could not” (Rodgers 81). Since the novel caused such upheaval with its idio- syncratic style, form and subject, Philip Roth published an essay called “In Response to Those Correspondents, Students and Interviewers Who Have Asked me: ‘How Did You Come to Write That Book Anyway?’” in which he describes how the novel was created. Roth reveals that Portnoy’s Complaint was shaped by merging four formerly abandoned projects, in all of which he was not utterly satisfied with the voice and could not create what he intended to its full extent. The process began with “a humorous manuscript of about two hundred pages titled The Jewboy” (Rodgers 83) which he wrote parallel to When She Was Good. It had “the graphic starkness” and “the jokey comedy and dialogues” which he aspired, but he found it to lack depth. This was fol- lowed by the play The Nice Jewish Boy, which “lacked precisely the kind of inventive flair and emotional exuberance that had given The Jewboy whatever quality it had” (Reading Myself and Others 35). The third project was written after the publication of When She Was Good, a time when Roth had a strong urge to write something funny. It manifested in form of a “lecture accompanied by a slideshow” and was concerned with “adolescent masturbation” (Rodgers 85). Roth was able to come closer to the rawness that he aspired and explains that […] it had required all the wildness and roughhousing–the merriment, which is how I experienced it–for me to even get to the subject. Knowing what I was writing about … was simply unpublishable–a writer’s hijinks that might just as The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 43 well not see the light of day–is precisely what allowed me to relax my guard and go on at some length about the solitary activity that is so difficult to talk about and yet so near at hand. (Reading Myself and Other 36-37) The final project was called Portrait of the Artist and “this manuscript of several hundred pages was a strongly autobiographical piece based on the experiences of his own Newark boyhood” (Rodgers 85). However, this fact is not to confirm several autobio- graphical readings of Portnoy’s Complaint; what ultimately inspired him were not the main characters of Portrait of the Artist (based on his family) but their neighbors, “a family named Portnoy–a composite portrait, Roth tells us, loosely based on the families in his neighborhood” (Rodgers 85). Realizing that the Portnoy’s were his final missing puzzle piece, he dismissed this project as well “but dialogue, scenes and characters from all four of these projects became a part of Portnoy’s Complaint” (Rodgers 86). Combined with the setting of the psychoanalytical monologue, Roth created a new, unique voice which enabled him to explore Alexander’s neurosis to the fullest and rawest extent possible–to make the reader empathize with him. Rodgers summarizes the advantages of this narrative situation: The psychoanalytic setting provides a realistic justification for Portnoy’s vehe- ment soul-baring and finger-pointing, for his use of words and images which would be unacceptable in a more public context, and also for his emphasis on sexual memories. It also provides him with an audience, essential since Portnoy is both analysand and performer, character and author in his own serio-comic tale. The dramatic monologue which this setting provokes has the effect of lock- ing us into Portnoy’s vision of the world; and his viewpoint is unqualified by any other (until the punch line), reveals as no other could his interpretation of the burden of his reality. Through the monologue we learn what reality feels like to him and, in the process, we are forced (as he is) constantly to question where the line between objective reality and his pathological fantasies lies. We are, in other words, forced to consider the interpretation of reality and fantasy in a life, and are, by extension, made conscious of the same interpretation in our lives. (Rodgers 87-88) Furthermore, “first-person self-narration” (Keen 96) is known to highly influence the reader’s empathy towards the character; even more so if the narration is inwardly. Alt- hough Portnoy does narrate to his psychoanalyst, the setting of the therapy leads to an almost unfiltered narration, coming close to inside views, which “is thought to invite an especially close relationship between reader and narrative voice.” (Keen 97). Wayne Booth points out that “If an author wants intense sympathy for characters, who The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 44 do not have strong virtues to recommend them, then the psychic vividness of prolonged inside views will help him” (qtd. in Keen 96). In this chapter, I will show how the narrative techniques used in Portnoy’s Complaint, in addition to the narrative situation, are creating a strong Feeling of Body in the reader, particularly of discomfort and empathy, and how the narration is forcing us to experi- ence Alexander’s suffering vicariously. The novel consists of six chapters in which Alex Portnoy is talking to his psychoanalyst Dr. Spielvogel, who remains silent until the “PUNCH LINE” in the very end “So [said the doctor]. Now vee may perhaps to begin. Yes?” (PC 253), suggesting that not even the surfaces of his problems had been addressed with his elaborate observations over two-hundred and fifty pages. In addition to this unusual setting as well as the theatrical form of its end, Roth also provides an epigraph which is worth investigating. Reminis- cent of a dictionary entry, he defines Portnoy’s Complaint as a disorder in which strongly-felt ethical and altruistic impulses are perpetually warring with extreme sexual longings, often of a perverse nature. Spielvogel says: “Acts of exhibitionism, voyeurism, fetishism, auto-eroticism and oral coitus are plentiful; as a consequence of the patient’s ‘morality,’ however, neither fantasy nor act issues in genuine gratification, but rather in overriding feelings of shame and the dread of retribution, particularly in the form of castration.” […] It is believed by Spielvogel that many of the symptoms can be traced to the bonds obtaining in the mother-child relationship. (PC Epigraph) Thereby Roth is setting the tone for the narrative and draws attention to the emphasis on morality. Often, and for obvious reasons, the novel has been analyzed in terms of psychoanalysis whereas I would suggest that Roth or, respectively, Portnoy openly provide the answer to many questions themselves. On the one hand, the character appears to have a great knowledge of Freudian theories and thereby assigns meaning to his fantasies himself. On the other hand, Roth created a textbook patient for psy- choanalysis, who wears his id on his sleeve and does not leave much space for imag- ination. In addition, “one of the chapters of the novel takes its title from one of Freud’s essays (‘The Most Prevalent Form of Degradation in Erotic Life’)” (Brauner 46). There- fore, I will refrain from a further Freudian analysis unless explicitly suggested in the text. Instead, I focus on the prevailing theme–Portnoy’s inherent struggle with morality which cannot be satisfied by any means, as is mentioned in the epigraph. In this re- spect, despite its great differences in form and content, the novel shows underlying The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 45 similarities with When She Was Good. Both protagonists are obsessively striving to be good which leads to Lucy Nelson’s demise and Alexander Portnoy’s ultimate primal scream when fantasizing about illegally removing the tag of his mattress: Blaze, you bastard cop, what do I give a shit? I tore the tag off my mattress– […]–But at least while I lived, I lived big! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!! (PC 253) 4.1 “The Most Unforgettable Character I’ve Met” Alexander’s obsession with his mother, which has already been mentioned in the epi- graph, further manifests in the first of six chapters, titled “The Most Unforgettable Char- acter I’ve Met”. The protagonist starts his monologue by stating “She was so deeply imbedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seem to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise” (PC 1) and thereby Roth imme- diately establishes the unhealthy relationship between mother and son. A tone of hi- larity is set quickly, when Alex talks about his father’s drinking; “not whiskey like a goy, but mineral oil and milk of magnesia”, his suffering “–from constipation” and how he “awaits the miracle” (PC 2) of release in the bathroom. This exaggeration creates a comic effect but also conveys a notion of how Alexander perceives life. This passage allows him to clarify that “among his other misfortunes, I was his wife’s favorite” (PC 3). By finding himself competing for the love of his mother, not with his sibling Hannah but with his father, Roth ensures that the theme of the Oedipus complex will remain at the back of the reader’s mind. Nevertheless, when talking about his father’s hard work and vulnerability, the tone becomes more serious and a sense of empathy is estab- lished before switching his focus to his mother: “It was my mother who could accom- plish anything, who herself had to admit that it might even be that she was actually too good” (PC 8). It is the form of the monologue, which “permits digression, exaggera- tions, repetitions, descriptions, and oversimplifications which, while vital to our under- standing of Portnoy’s character and psychology, would be less acceptable in another narrative context” (Rodgers 88). Thus, one cannot help but smirk when Alexander raves about his mother: What a radar on that woman! And this is before radar! The energy on her! The thoroughness! For mistakes she checked my sums; for holes, my socks; for dirt, my nails, my neck, every seam and crease of my body. […] The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 46 She lights candles for the dead–other invariably forget, she religiously remem- bers, and without even the aid of a notation on the calendar. Devotion is just in her blood. (PC 9) Whereas initially, his admiration for his mother seems intense but appears lighthearted and comical, the narration takes a more serious tone when Alexander talks about his punishments. Roth’s timing here is of great importance, because he has characterized his protagonist as an empathetic, loving mother’s boy which emphasizes his suffering in the following tales: When I am bad I am locked out of the apartment. […] But what is it I have done? […] But what could it possibly be? […] Ma, I am the smartest and neatest little boy in the history of my school! Teachers (as you know, as they have told you) go home happy to their husbands because of me. So what is it I have done? Will someone with the answer to that questions please stand up! I am so awful she will not have me in her house a minute longer. When I once called my sister a cocky-doody, my mouth was immediately washed with a cake of brown laun- dry soap; this I understand. But banishment? What can I possibly have done! […] I drop to the doormat to beg for forgiveness for my sin (which is what again?) and promise her nothing but perfection for the rest of our lives, which at that time I believe will be endless. (PC 11-12) By telling the story through the eyes of Alexander, Roth can perfectly capture the ab- surd world view that he so internalized: e.g. he finds it adequate punishment that his mother washes his mouth with soap when he uses an undesirable word. Thereby, and despite the overt humor in the narration, Portnoy’s suffering becomes apparent, which could lead to the reader feeling sympathetic for the protagonist. The chapter closes with one of the key scenes, which is referenced several times throughout the novel: at the age of seven, his mother threatens him with a knife because he is not hungry and does not finish his dinner. In this instance even Portnoy does realize the absurdity of her action and still suffers from it twenty-five years later: “Doctor, why, why oh why oh why oh why does a mother pull a knife on her own son? I am six, seven years old, how do I know she really wouldn’t use it? […] And why doesn’t my father stop her? (PC 13- 14). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 47 4.2 “Whacking Off” The pace of the novel picks up drastically in the following chapter, titled “Whacking Off”, and thereby the feeling of uneasiness and awkwardness increases in the reader: Between elaborate accounts of his masturbation techniques and fantasies, his guilt surfaces quickly: “It was at the end of my freshman year of high school–and freshman year of masturbation–that I discovered on the underside of my penis, just where the shaft meets the head, a little discolored dot that has since been diagnosed as a freckle. Cancer. I had given myself cancer” (PC 16). He is so utterly embarrassed about pleas- uring himself that to him it is the logic conclusion that it must have caused him cancer. The feeling of uneasiness increases first when he gives a detailed account about mas- turbating to his sister’s brassiere. It becomes hard to bear when his mother becomes part of his sexual fantasy while shaking on the door and reaches its pinnacle when his sexual fantasy and his mother’s question merge until he climaxes. In addition to the juxtaposition of sexual pleasure and the interaction with family members, his mother also insists on inspecting his feces. Ironically, she does not suspect her son to indulge in adolescent experimentation but rather ascribes his frequent bathroom breaks to him eating junk food: “Alex, answer me something. You’re so smart, you know all the answers now, answer me this: how do you think Melvin Weiner gave himself colitis? Why has that child spent half his life in hospitals?” “Because he eats chazerai.” “Don’t you dare make fun of me!” “All right,” I scream, “how did he get colitis?” “Because he eats chazerai! But it’s not a joke! […]” “Is it just French fries, darling, or is it more? … Tell me, please, what other kind of garbage you’re putting into your mouth so we can get to the bottom of this diarrhea! I want a straight answer from you, Alex. Are you eating hamburgers out? Answer me, please, is that why you flushed the toilet–was there hamburger in it?” (PC 20-21) Roth is creating a comic effect by merging the seemingly innocent act of eating French fries, with an interrogation so serious, it much rather appears to be about a drug ad- diction. Simultaneously, the reader might be left wondering, how his mother would re- act, if she would find out that her son considers himself “the Raskolnikov of jerking off” (PC 17). The form of the psychoanalytical monologue heightens the emotions as well as the comedy in this type of recorded dialogue because it creates a reality effect. When fully committing to the fictionality, one will realize, that Portnoy is in a serious The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 48 setting (therapy session) in which he will most likely not attempt to be humorous but merely recalls his experiences. Therefore, his recollections may appear more authentic than, for example, the dialogue in an Edward Albee play, despite the fact, that both instances are equally artificial. In other words, the “reality effect” is increased by the narrative situation chosen by Roth. Keen also pointed out that “the use of first-person narration and their interior representation of characters’ consciousness and emotional states” are going to contribute “to empathetic experiences.” (Keen x) In addition, these dialogues perfectly capture how his mother is planting the seeds of guilt in his mind which will haunt him throughout the novel in various situations. His therapy session could be an attempt to escape; Rodgers (90) states that “Alexander Portnoy wants most of all to be free–from his past and its burden, of the weight of a culturally formed conscience and consciousness”. He describes it as “the American hero’s worst night- mare–conditioning. And he can find no escape from it except obscenity and the psy- chiatrist’s couch–and even there he is not really free” (Rodgers 91). His mental repres- sion is emphasized when Portnoy returns to the topic of French fries shortly after, when his mother concludes: “With a sensitive stomach like yours, do you know how it finally ends? Wearing a plastic bag to do your business in!” (PC 28). After another lecture about the dangers of junk food and hamburgers which “she says bitterly, just as she might say Hitler” (PC 29), Alex surrenders and retreats to the bathroom: “I tear off my pants, furiously I grab that battered battering ram to freedom, my adolescent cock, even as my mother begins to call from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘Now this time don’t flush. Do you hear me, Alex? I have to see what’s in that bowl!’” (PC 29). In the monologue, he is perfectly able to reflect on the repercussions and is even sur- prised that he is only in therapy and not in a mental institution: “Look, am I exaggerating to think it’s practically miraculous that I’m ambulatory? The hysteria and the supersti- tion! The watch-its and the be-carefuls! You mustn’t do this, you can’t do that–hold it! don’t! you’re breaking an important law! What law? Whose law?” (PC 30). Neverthe- less, quite often he does lack the ability to reflect that „he is more his parents‘ son than even he realizes. Considering his antipathies, the ultimate irony of his monologue is how often he sounds and acts exactly like the mother he attacks with such verbal gusto” (Rodgers 92). Even though he considers himself to be an atheist, it will later surface that his parents’ religious values are greatly ingrained in his psyche. In certain aspects, Portnoy shares similar traits with Lucy Nelson, insofar that both protagonists blame their suffering on their parents; at the same time, they are unable to escape from The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 49 their past: “Doctor Spievogel, this is my life, my only life, and I’m living in the middle of a Jewish joke! I am the son in the Jewish joke–only it ain’t no joke!” (PC 32) Although, when crying for help to his doctor, Alexander sounds remarkably similar to his over- protective, hypochondriac mother when inquiring: “Doctor, what do you call this sick- ness I have? Is this the Jewish suffering I used to hear so much about?” (PC 33), whereas otherwise he does provide a great amount of answers to his questions him- self. 4.3 “Jewish Blues” The third chapter, “The Jewish Blues”, is concerned with Alex’s ambivalent relationship to his father. Roth provides the reader with a textbook Oedipus complex by describing the son’s strong wish to murder his own father and his disrespect for him due to the imagined lack of defense. Interestingly, this bloodlust is not merely based on the com- petition for the mother. The awkwardness is taken to the next level, when Alex reveals his envy for his father’s genitals: “he was constructed like a man of consequence, two big healthy balls such as a king would be proud to put on display, and a shlong of magisterial length and girth. And they were his: yes, of this I am absolutely certain, they hung down off of, they were connected on to, they could not be taken away from, him!” (PC 37). In many aspects, Alex displays strong signs of fragile masculinity, which he unsuccessfully attempts to cure with having intercourse, preferably with “shiskes” (non-Jewish women) (PC 49). While this may not be the most likeable trait in a man, Roth turns the table of sympathy again: first Alex recalls an instance in which his mother sent her eleven-year-old son to the store in order to buy tampons for her. From a woman’s perspective, I do not find this to be the most traumatizing exploit, neverthe- less, Alex’s point of view is comprehensible, and it appears to have been quite trau- matizing for him: “Where was my sister, for Christ’s sake? Where was her own emer- gency supply? Why was this woman so grossly insensitive to the vulnerability of her own little boy–on one hand so insensitive to my shame, and yet on the other, so attuned to my deepest desires?” (PC 39). Thus, the reader is quickly distracted from his es- sential penis envy and bloodlust towards his father and drawn back into other rather disturbing aspects of his upbringing. They may invoke more sympathy in the reader, since a child is at the mercy of its parents’ actions, as Keen suggests according to her survey’s findings: “Many readers report that novels which child characters are The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 50 subjected to cruel or unfair treatment evoke empathy” (Keen 69). One of Alex’ “deepest desires” since he was four years old, appears to be observing his mother while “rolling on her stockings and singing a song of love. Who is going to stay with Mommy forever and ever? Me. Who is it who does with Mommy wherever in the whole world Mommy goes? Why me, of course. What a silly question–but don’t get me wrong, I’ll play the game!” (PC 41), followed by his mother holding “my stiff fingers against the swell of her hips” and Alex declaring that they “aren’t bad” (PC 41). Throughout the novel, Roth provides the reader with detailed accounts of Alex’ exposure to inappropriate parental conduct from an earlier age. This is a technique to challenge the reader’s sympathy towards Alex, especially in later parts of the novel, when he treats women condescend- ingly. By providing the deepest abysses of his thoughts, the reader can evaluate the full range of his emotions and motives as opposed to just witnessing the outcome– which, arguably, could be perceived as misogyny. In this chapter, Roth further establishes Alexander’s strong sense of Jewishness which appears to be his only trait he is unable to reflect upon himself. Whereas he is perfectly capable to reflect upon disturbing occurrences in his childhood as well as his highly developed sense of guilt and shame, it does not strike him as peculiar when he re- counts a high school football game in such manner: So what if we had lost? It turned out we had other things to be proud of. We ate no ham. We kept matzohs in our lockers. Not really, of course, but if we wanted to we could, and we weren’t ashamed to say that we actually did! We were Jews–and we weren’t ashamed to say it! We were Jews–and not only were we not inferior to the goyim who beat us at football, but the chances were that be- cause we could not commit our hearts to victory in such a thuggish game, we were superior! We were Jews–and we were superior! (PC 51) Despite his usual disposition to criticize his parents, he even goes so far as to admit the following: “The outrage, the disgust inspired in my parents by the gentiles, was beginning to make some sense: the goyim pretended to be something special, while we were actually their moral superiors. And what made us superior was precisely the hatred and the disrespect they lavished so willingly upon us!” (PC 51) This strong sense of Jewish pride is particularly interesting, considering the fact, that only three pages afterwards he states, “I don’t have a religion” (PC 54) when refusing his father’s wish to attend the synagogue on a Jewish holiday, as well as shortly after he wonders “But I am something more, or so they tell me. A Jew. No! No! An atheist, I cry. I am a The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 51 nothing where religion is concerned, and will not pretend to be anything that I am not!” (PC 66). One may argue that his statement in regards of the sports event was an anomaly due to certain circumstance; since examples like that appear throughout the novel, it is evidence for his inherent sense of Jewishness as well as his unawareness of it. Further evidence can be found in his moral discourse about his mother’s belittling attitude towards the cleaning lady, in which he strongly complains about a symptom he shows himself: We all haven’t been lucky enough to have been born Jews, you know. So a little rachmones on the less fortunate, okay? Because I am sick and tired of goyische this and goyische that! If it’s bad it’s the goyim, if it’s good it’s the Jews! Can’t you see, my dear parents, from whose loins I somehow leaped, that such think- ing is a trifle barbaric? That all you are expressing is your fear? The very first distinction I learned from you, I’m sure, was not night and day, or hot and cold, but goyische and Jewish.” (PC 69) In an attempt to put his teenage rage against his religion into perspective and telling him “You are a Jewish boy, more than you know, and all you’re doing is making yourself miserable, all you’re doing is hollering into the wind…” his sister may be on the right path, but misses the mark when she continues her argument “Do you know, she asks me, where you would be now if you had been born in Europe instead of America? […] Dead, she says.” (PC 70) By drawing this comparison she steps into their mother’s footsteps and fuels Alexander’s contempt for the “saga of the suffering Jews”: “Do me a favor, my people, and stick your suffering heritage up your suffering ass–I happen also to be a human being!” (PC 70) 4.4 “Cunt Crazy” Due to its title “Cunt Crazy” the reader may be surprised to find that the following chap- ter is still very much concerned Alex’s relationship to his parents. He continues to de- scribe several humorous instances of his mother fostering his sense of guilt, to which he concludes: “And as for the hollering, the cowering, the crying, even that had vivid- ness and excitement to recommend it; moreover, that nothing was ever simply nothing but always SOMETHING, that the most ordinary kind of occurrence could explode without warning into A TERRIBLE CRISIS, this was to me the way life is” (PC 88). Halio points out that the intensity of Portnoy’s monologue increases drastically “as his plea continues” and “suggests the way in which excess is a dominant theme in the novel The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 52 and controls much of its form. Roth here takes everything to extremes–deliberately” (Halio 67). Since this tone has been thoroughly established in the novel after ninety pages, it barely comes as a surprise, that Alex recalls her mother asking him “Well, how’s my lover?” (PC 89) in front of her husband. As previously pointed out, Roth made Alex not only into a text book patient for psychoanalysis, but also quick to analyze himself. Thus, he is able to reflect upon the incident: “No, you don’t have to go digging where these people are concerned–they wear the old unconscious on their sleeves!” (PC 89) Nevertheless, it is outrageousness like this, which Halio refers to when stating “[it] can be and often is funny. It shocks us out of the ordinary complacency or easy acquiescence in accepted norms of behavior, and the surprise can be salutary” (Halio 68). Thereby, Roth takes the reader out of his comfort zone, time and time again, by confronting him or her with most disturbing subjects such as the sexualization of the mother-son relationship, explicit descriptions of masturbation, as well as his ongoing inner conflict, which continuously cause a Feeling of Body in the reader. In contrast to When She Was Good, “Portnoy’s Complaint does not deal with life-and-death prob- lems; however serious and threatening they may appear to Alexander Portnoy […]” (Halio 68). The reader is able to follow his life of suffering because of Roth’s choice to “depart from a conventional lineal development and interweave incidents from various points in his subject’s life” (Halio 68). Periodically, Roth provides comic relief from Alexander’s complaints which presents certain similarities to stand-up comedy. This may partly be due to the monologue-form of the novel but is further highlighted by the devices of exaggeration and especially non-sequitur which are staples in stand-up comedy. In the following example, Alexan- der’s mother is rambling about the success of one of his former schoolmates. The excerpt shows how Roth is heightening the comic effect by taking exaggerations to an extreme, adding random information concerning his Jewishness and finishes with the non-sequitur ending of making Alexander feel guilty for not being this fantastical crea- ture: ‘Well, I met his mother on the street today, and she told me that Seymour is now the biggest brain surgeon in the entire Western Hemisphere. He owns six dif- ferent split-level ranch-type house made all of fieldstone in Livingston, and be- longs to the boards of eleven synagogues, all brand-new and designed by Marc Kugel, and last year with his wife and his two little daughters, who are so beau- tiful that they are already under contract to Metro, and so brilliant that they should be in college–he took them all to Europe for an eighty-million-dollar tour The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 53 of seven thousand countries, some of them you never even heard of, that they made them just to honor Seymour, and on top of that, he’s so important, Seymour, that in every single city in Eu- rope that they visited he was asked by the mayor himself to stop and do an impossible operation on a brain in hospitals that they also built for him right on the spot, and–listen to this–where they pumped into the operating room during the operation the theme song from Exodus so everybody should know what religion he is–and that’s how big your friend Seymour is today! And how happy he makes his parents!’ (PC 91-92) In this aspect, the tone of Portnoy’s Complaint is strikingly different from When She Was Good as well as Everyman, which are concerned with topics of a greater magni- tude and do seldomly grant a comic relief. As he feels pressured by his mother to step into marriage, he ponders about the ne- cessity to determinate his current, promiscuous lifestyle for the sake of a wife: But why must I explain myself! Excuse myself! Why must I justify with my Hon- esty and Compassion my desires! So I have desires–only they’re endless. End- less! And that, that may not be such a blessing, taking for the moment a psy- choanalytic point of view… But then all the unconscious can do anyway, so Freud tells us, is want. And want! And WANT! Oh, Freud, do I know! (PC 95) Even if he strives against the notion of marrying “to please a father and mother” or “to conform to the norm” (PC 94) once again, Alexander has answered part of his question himself by mentioning, that his current lifestyle of indulging in his desires “may not be such a blessing” (PC 95). It appears as if he actually suffers from his compulsive sexual behavior. “The making of a ‘respectable’ person is what Alex has in mind to do–not the ‘perfect little gentleman’ that Sophie Portnoy wants, nor the sexually aggressive man that he apparently is–but an integrated human being for whom the id is within the yid”, as Cohen (162) has stated. This discrepancy could be interpreted as one of the sources for Portnoy’s consultation of a therapist and his ongoing struggle with relation- ships and women. In his Foucauldian reading of the novel, Dan Colson attempts to explain Alex’s seeming misogyny accordingly: Alex has been justifiably accused of being a misogynist, but as Foucault notes, ‘Power comes from below […] there is no binary and all-encompassing opposi- tion between rulers and ruled at the root of power relations’ (qtd in Colson 136). Therefore, one cannot simply claim that Alex uses, abuses, and dominates women. He is also controlled by them. They both form the emotional core of the novel (the angst and impotence that drives Alex to Dr. Spielvogel’s office) and serve as the clearest indicator in the novel of the effect of a continued deploy- ment of sexuality on Alex and others during the 1960s. (Colson 136) The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 54 This cannot be considered as a justification for said behavior but merely as speculation about its origins. By drawing attention to this duality, Roth is challenging the reader’s sympathy. Through “the associative movement of memory” (Brauner 45), the reader is introduced to the depths of Alexander’s mind, as well as a myriad of empathic (and disturbing) instances, before Roth reveals many of his more off-putting actions. One may argue that Portnoy’s partners, such as The Monkey, have had their share of issues themselves, and therefore only partly justify his behavior and sudden determination of long-term relationships. However, there is clear evidence that “he treats women in his life like objects”: he “goes so far as to deprive them of their names and refer to them as The Pilgrim, The Pumpkin, The Monkey, and The Jewish Pumpkin” (Rodgers 93). This is further supported by Brauner’s detailed and sound commentary on the frequent criticism of misogyny in Portnoy’s Complaint: The sexual aggression (sex as aggression, one might say) here is characteristic of Portnoy’s relationship with women throughout the novel, and, like Roth’s rep- resentation of Jews, his representation of women in the novel has been the subject of heated debate. On the face of it, there is much evidence in Portnoy’s Complaint to support the view that Roth is at best a sexist, at worst a misogynist. Certainly, Portnoy’s objectification of his girlfriends, as manifested most clearly in the nicknames he gives each one […] is patronizing and demeaning. Portnoy’s callous treatment of Mary Jane […], attempted rape of Naomi, and rejection of Kay and Sarah when they fail to sustain his sexual interest only seem to confirm this charge. Yet to condemn the novel in these terms is rather parochial, and possibly tendentious. First of all, Portnoy’s contempt for women is arguably no greater than his contempt for men (and indeed perhaps milder than his contempt for himself). If Portnoy is a misogynist, then it might be argued that his misogyny is simply part of a larger misanthropy. (Brauner 51) Whether this misanthropy is caused by his sense of “the futility of his attempts at re- bellion” (Rodgers 93) or his “need for liberation”–“his obscenity is both a product and a symptom of his awareness of his condition” (Rodgers 93). Thus, Alexander appears to be stuck in a vicious circle that happens to be his life. Over the course of the chapter “Cunt Crazy” it remains apparent, that most of his oppression stems from his family since he returns to them as a topic consistently, even in a chapter with said title. During the recollection of various of his excesses, Alexander also confesses, what he consid- ers “the worst thing I have ever done” (PC 123) and interestingly, the victim of this deed was his family and not a girlfriend. This self-assessment is a further indicator, that his family is at the center of the novel. While defending himself from deserting The Monkey The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 55 in Greece, Alexander argues that this was not “the most heinous crime of my career” (PC 123) but instead masturbating into a piece of animal liver, on two occasions: I believe that I have already confessed to the piece of liver that I bought in a butcher shop and banged behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson. […] My first piece I had in the privacy of my own home, rolled round my cock in the bathroom at three-thirty–and then had again on the end of a fork, at five- thirty, along with the other members of that poor innocent family of mine. […] I fucked my own family’s dinner. (PC 123) Once again, Roth is juxtaposing sexuality, family and disgust and creates an event, which is going to take the reader far out of his comfort zones and thus generating a Feeling of Body. Towards the end of the chapter, Alexander ultimately manages to focus on his sexual escapades without shifting to his family constantly. It appears, that, apart from his mother, his second biggest obsession are catholic girls, or shikses. Beginning in his teenage days, when he chases after them on the ice rank. At first, he contemplates to change his name to “Al Parson” or “Porte-Noir” in order to seem less Jewish, until he comes to realize “[…] I can lie about my name, I can lie about my school, but how am I going to lie about this fucking nose?” (PC 137) and “Porte-Noir and Parsons my ass, kid, you have got J-E-W written right across the middle of that face […]” (PC 138), which could be interpreted as a futile attempt to escape or deny his Jewishness. However, Alexander eventually comes to terms with his type : “[…] what we have be- fore us, ladies and gentlemen, direct from a long record breaking engagement with his own family, is a Jewish boy just dying in his every cell to be Good, Responsible, & Dutiful to a family of his own […] If you liked Arthur Miller as a savior of shikses, you’ll just love Alex!” (PC 141). This self-assessment is proof that Alexander is not fully en- joying his promiscuity and unsuccessfully is wishing for a life of moderation, but he is stuck in a vicious circle of excesses. This behavior is strongly surfacing in his sexual relations with The Monkey; arguably the most noteworthy woman in the novel. She caters to both of his fantasies: his perversion and his restrained wish to settle down. A detailed account of many of their sexual adventures is provided and the protagonist even realizes that she is all that he has prayed for: The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 56 Who like The Monkey had ever happened to me before–or will again? Not that I had not prayed, of course. No, you pray and you pray and you pray, you lift your impassioned prayers to God on the altar of the toilet seat, throughout your adolescence you deliver up to Him the living sacrifice of your spermatozoa by the gallon–and then one night, around midnight, on the corner of Lexington and Fifty-second, when you have come really to the point of losing faith in the exist- ence of such a creature as you have been imagining for yourself even unto your thirty-second year, there she is, wearing a tan pants suit, and trying to hail a cab […]. (PC 144-45) She fulfills all his sexual fantasies and more, and that is the exact reason why he finds her character to be dubious and wonders “Who and what can this person be!” (PC 146) which is a further example of Alexander’s perpetual plight. This specific case is inter- estingly one of the seldom instances in the monologue, in which Alexander does not seem to have exaggerated tremendously when wondering “what catastrophe would follow” (PC 147), but it truly appears, according to his recollections, that The Monkey is “a little erratic psychologically” (PC 147). This is established quite early when the reader is informed about her suicide-threat in Greece: “Then in Athens she threatens to jump from the balcony unless I marry her. So I leave” (PC 131). A similarly odd dichotomy can be found in his opinion of shikses, whom he is chasing after on the ice rank, and continuously through his adulthood, but simultaneously points out: “My con- tempt for what they believe in is more than neutralized by my adoration for what they look, the way they move and laugh and speak […]” (PC 133). Another example for his contradicting behavior is his relationship with The Pumpkin, which will be discussed later in this chapter. Roth continues to increase the arbitrariness of Portnoy’s behavior and thought process in the vivid recollection of his encounter with Bubbles Girardi and two friends during High School. His classmate Smolka met Bubbles at “the swimming pool at Olympic Park” (PC 152) and lost his virginity to her. Portnoy makes clear, “I wouldn’t go near that pool if you paid me–it is a breeding ground for polio and spinal meningitis, not to mention diseases of then skin, the scalp, and the asshole […]” (PC 152), by which he sounds strikingly like his mother. Nevertheless, “That is the place to find the kinds of shikses Who Will Do Anything!” (PC 152) and he is intrigued, when Smolka suggests to help him have sex with Bubbles as well. That is, despite the fact, that he is afraid that the girl could have syphilis and he hypothesizes about a scenario in which his penis would fall off in the kitchen in front of his mother and he would have to example The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 57 himself: “I caught the syph from an eighteen-year-old Italian girl in Hillside, and now, now, I have no more p-p-p-penis!” (PC 154). This is reminiscent of his relationship to The Monkey insofar that he has concerns about the involvement with the woman and speaks condescending about her. However, this does not keep him from receiving sexual pleasure from them. This moral ambiguity is challenging the reader’s sympathy towards Alexander, since he is starting to shed his role as a victim (of his mother) and begins to appear as the victimizer (of other women) due to his disdaining opinions about them. His disdainfulness is especially interesting in the light of his work as a Commissioner for Human Opportunity in New York for which he declares: “I swear that I will dedicate my life to the righting of wrongs, to the elevation of the downtrodden and the under- privileged, to the liberation of the unjustly imprisoned” (PC 157). Whereas it appears that he is successful in his job, a twisted sense of justice can be found in the character of Portnoy. Roth fully surfaces this, when his protagonist, as an adult, encounters his old classmate Mandel on the street, and briefly catches up with him. He is in utter disbelieve when he is informed about the lives of his old friends: “Mandel, who drank ‘six-packs’ of beer” is married with children and a “salesman for his wife’s father, who has a surgical supply house on Market Street in Newark” (PC 160). Smolka, who “swam in the pool at Olympic Park” (PC 162), to his horror, has become a professor at Princeton. It appears, that Alexander can only fathom the fate of Bubbles Girardi, who got murdered in a bar: Why, they’re supposed to be in jail–or the gutter. They didn’t do their homework, damn it! Smolka used to cheat off me in Spanish, and Mandel didn’t even give enough of a shit to bother to do that, and as for washing their hands before eating … Don’t you understand, these two boys are supposed to be dead! Like Bubbles. Now there at least is a career that makes some sense. There’s a case of cause and effect that confirms my ideas about human consequence! Bad enough, rotten enough, and you get your cock-sucking head blown off by boo- gies. Now that’s the way the world’s supposed to be run! (PC 162) Due to his extreme and motiveless disdain of wishing death upon acquaintances be- cause they have not behaved as properly as he did, this could be considered an ulti- mate turning point for the reader’s sympathy. While previously Alexander emphasized his urge to be good, and occasionally even went so far as to portray himself as a savior, one will now be forced to question the sincerity of his moral and what his idea of “right- ing of wrongs” implies; if apparently, he feels that Bubbles’ murder was the appropriate The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 58 consequence for her performing oral sex on occasion in her youth. In addition, the absurdity of his reasoning is, once again, reminiscent of his mother’s lectures. 4.5 “The Most Prevalent Form of Degradation in Erotic Life” The fifth chapter is titled after an essay by Freud, “The Most Prevalent Form of Degra- dation in Erotic Life”, which Alexander references while further elaborating and reflect- ing on his relationship with The Monkey. As he has done frequently throughout the novel, he attempts to find answers for his calamity and finds it in this essay: “for a fully normal attitude in love, says he, it is necessary that two currents of feeling be united: the tender, affectionate feelings, and the sensuous feelings. And in many instances this just doesn’t happen, say to say. ‘Where such men love they have no desire, and where they desire they cannot love’” (PC 171). This appears to be a sound analysis of Portnoy, even though in his case, he is not only unable to love women he desires sexually but displays “something close to contempt” (PC 170) towards them; He is barely able see them as humans: “What screwing I am getting! What a deal! And yet it turns out that she is also a human being–yes, she gives every indication that this may be so! A human being!” (PC 179). As in a previous instance with Bubbles, the reader will find it difficult to empathize with Portnoy in the last third of the novel, due to his bizarre sense of superiority and pretentious behavior towards his sexual partners, es- pecially The Monkey: So go ahead, love her! Be brave! Here is fantasy begging you to make it real! […] Ah, but there is (let us bow our heads), there is ‘my dignity’ to consider, my good name. What will people think. What I will think. (PC 183) What else is wrong with her, while we’re at it? (PC 191) Being with such a person is for me all wrong! Meaning-less! A waste of every- body’s energy and character and time! (PC 194) ‘Why continue with this person? This brutalized woman! This coarse, tormented, self-loathing, bewildered, lost, identityless–‘ and so on. (PC 197) This relationship is in strong contrast to his college girlfriend Kay Campbell, also known as The Pumpkin. She was “a thoroughly commendable and worthy human being”, but, nonetheless, “didn’t satisfy, either” (PC 198). During this recollection, Roth returns to a more comical tone after the rather depressing passages about The Monkey, which is especially notable in Alexander’s account of Thanksgiving with her family. As he The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 59 appears to feel utterly alienated but also infatuated by her wholesome, Christian family, he recounts that “during my first twenty-four hours in Iowa, I answer ‘Thank you.’ Even to inanimate objects. I walk into a chair, promptly I say to it, ‘Excuse me, thank you.’” (PC 203) Alexander then proceeds to be fascinated when he discovers the meaning of “Good morning” and humorously analyzes it: “He wants the hours between eight and twelve to be good, which is to say, enjoyable, pleasurable, beneficial! We are all of us wishing each other four hours of pleasure and accomplishment” (PC 204) and ends with his epiphany: “My God! The English language is a form of communication! Con- versation isn’t just crossfire where you shoot and get shot at! Where you’ve got to duck for you life and aim to kill! Words aren’t only bombs and bullets–no, they’re little gifts, containing meanings!” (PC 205). Hereby Roth draws attention to the ways in which Alexander was shaped by his family. He is portrayed as being utterly clueless of how to use the simplest courtesies such as “Thank you” and “Good morning”, which magnify the cultural differences in humorous way. In the context of this novel, the Kay’s family seems surprisingly wholesome, particularly when Alexander mentions a possible preg- nancy: “[…] Kay missed a period, and so we began, and with a certain eager delight– and wholly without panic, interestingly–to make plans to be married” (PC 212). None- theless, as if the protagonist was self-sabotaging himself, he did ultimately find a rea- son to break up with her, when, in jest, he asked her whether she would convert to Judaism. Her utterly reasonable response was “Why would I want to do a thing like that?” (PC 213), since neither of them care much for religion on principle. Regardless, he points out that “it would seem that I never forgave her […]”. In Contrast to The Monkey, the tone of this narration presents itself a lot more romanticizing as well as less remorseful, but he is quick to regain his focus to “the dream of the women to come” and “wondering how I could ever have been so captivated by someone so ordinary and so fat” (PC 214). 4.6 “In Exile” In the sixth and final chapter “In Exile” Portnoy reports about his spontaneous trip to Israel after his breakup with The Monkey in Europe. Driven by “the impulse that had me sent running aboard the El Al flight” (PC 232) it appears as if he is ultimately on the run, not only from his girlfriend but also from his family. In this respect, his choice of destination seems odd, although the character proofed his talent for unfortunate The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 60 decisions and tendency for self-sabotage throughout the novel. In Israel, he meets a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant; her name is Naomi who has resemblance with his mother: “in physical type she is, of course, my mother. Coloring, size, even tempera- ment, it turned out–a real fault-finder, a professional critic of me.” (PC 239) Once again, Portnoy’s repressed urge for stability surfaces when he is quickly infatuated with her and says “I don’t want movie stars and mannequins and whores, or any combination thereof. I don’t want a sexual extravaganza for a life, or a continuation of this maso- chistic extravaganza I’ve been living, either. No, I want simplicity, I want health, I want her!” (PC 239) Due to her strong resemblance to his mother, his infatuation is based on his hope for the fulfillment of his Oedipal phantasies. To his despair, he loses his erection when they undress (PC 237). Upon their second meeting, Naomi criticizes Portnoy’s job as well the system which she describes as “inherently exploitive and unjust, inherently cruel and inhumane, heedless of human values, and your job is to make such a system appear legitimate and moral […]” (PC 242). His reply to this, “Naomi, I love you” (PC 242), appears out of place and when he continues his persua- sion, the woman askes him to leave. Instead, he attempts to rape her; “But what a battle she gave me, this big farm cunt! This ex-G.I.! This mother-substitute! […] This then is the culmination of the Oedipal drama, Doctor? More farce, my friend!” (PC 246) It remains unclear whether she was physically superior to him, however what Portnoy states as the reason for his “defeat” was that “he can’t get a hard-on in this place” (PC 248). Whereas the act of attempted rape is not to be taken lightly, Portnoy appears very pathetic in this passage, where he is so uncontrollably trying to fulfill his Oedipus complex. This is mirrored in Naomi’s stark statements: “You are the most unhappy person I have ever known. You are like a baby.” (PC 244), and “Mr. Portnoy […] you are nothing but a self-hating Jew.” (PC 245) In the remainder of the chapter, Portnoy fully gives in to his neurosis and hypothesizes that his impotence must have been “The Monkey’s Revenge. Of course.” (PC 251). He continues to emphasize his good moral- ity in comparison to other people, complains about “the ridiculous disproportion of the guilt” (PC 252). The novel concludes with Portnoy’s primal scream when he imagines being sentenced to death for removing the tag on a mattress. In conclusion, one can say that by merging features of four different projects, Roth was able to create the distinct voice of Alexander Portnoy. By telling the story through a first-person narrator in the setting of a therapy session, he achieves a high degree of The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 61 authenticity and it enables the author to address delicate topics such as explicit sexu- ality or incestuous thoughts. Thereby the reader’s sympathy is challenged; on the one hand the reader will be able to empathize with the protagonist because he is presented as vulnerable and likeable; on the other hand, the reader will find him or herself con- fronted with actions that may object to their sense of morality and thus take them out of their comfort zone. Reminiscent of the theme in WSWG, Portnoy is torn between his sense of moral, which was greatly coined by his parents, and his urges, which devel- oped as a mechanism to escape these restrictions. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 62 5 Everyman Published in 2006, almost 40 years after When She Was Good and Portnoy’s Com- plaint, Everyman may not have caused as much commotion as some of Roth’s other publications. This, and it being a relatively new publication, are the reason, why there was considerably less secondary literature available than for the previous two chap- ters. Nevertheless, the novel should not be underestimated, and it was Roth’s third novel to be awarded the PEN/Faulkner price. Despite his long-standing career and numerous publications over six decades, I found it interesting that, on closer inspec- tion, the protagonist shared some similarities in his motives with Portnoy and some of Roth’s previous characters. This has also been pointed out by Rodgers; the protagonist “will be familiar to readers of Philip Roth: he has the Newark-area boyhood; […] he has the good boy background of many of Roth’s other characters; he struggles between sex and morality throughout his life […]” (Rodgers 4). Furthermore, there are parallels to narrative techniques which were employed in When She Was Good in terms of reader’s empathy and sympathy for the protagonist which I will discuss in the course of my analysis. Following the example of Schermbrucker and Aarons the unnamed protagonist will be referred to as “Everyman” in this thesis. One of the first questions that will inevitably arise with this publication, is its relation to the Medieval morality play Everyman. This question has also been raised in the round- table discussion between five experts on Roth: Debra Shostak, Mark Shechner, David Brauner, Derek Parker Royal, and Bernhard Rodgers. Whereas one may not find a striking correlation in these two literary works on first sight, David Brauner did provide an interesting approach to this question: The trajectory that the Medieval play follows is that, one by one, the Everyman figure is abandoned by all his worldly allies and friends. I think that Roth does translate that very effectively into a secular framework where that abandonment is not about being left alone to face your spiritual day or reckoning. He takes that allegorical narrative and translates it into a realistic framework whereby in old age people do find themselves increasingly isolated because their friends start to die, their parents have died, and often, as in this case, their family is estranged or divorced, not close either geographically or emotionally (Rodgers 23). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 63 It is compelling that Roth has chosen a title, which would raise such a comparison in the first place, especially, when even in a detailed inspection, the parallels are not overwhelming. In addition, after one third of the novel, it is revealed, that his father’s business was not called by his name “but rather Everyman’s Jewelry Store, which was how it was known throughout Union City to the swarms of ordinary people who were his faithful costumers […]” (Everyman 56-57). This points towards the use of “Every- man” in terms of the meaning “ordinary human being” and not so much to a connection to the Medieval play. Nevertheless, Brauner’s analysis does point to one of the major themes of the novel, which is Roth’s sobering account of death. This tone is already set in the epigraph that was chosen: Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow… –John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale” (Everyman Epigraph) It has been suggested by Schermbrucker that “there is something unsatisfactory and one-dimensional in the bird’s complete joy, and that, by implication, it is our capacity to suffer and fatefully reflect upon our morality that ennobles our consciousness” (41). I would argue that by choosing a particularly dark excerpt, Roth is subtly preparing the reader for his counterpart to “the myth of the Shakespearian figure” (Schermbrucker 45), in which “there is no humanizing of death, no attempt to turn it into an integral part of life, […]: death is simply the bitter, unjust end” (Schermbrucker 41-42). In this man- ner, Roth is conquering yet another uncomfortable topic: similar to the theme of do- mestic violence in When She Was Good and sexual compulsion in Portnoy’s Com- plaint, “it is not simply the case that youth is favored, rather, images of old age are willfully hidden” (Hobbs 7) and “dying is a taboo subject” (Rodgers 14). The author himself has referred to the novel as “a medical autobiography” (qtd. in Rodgers 5) and pointed out that “the moments when he’s well and healthy, I pass over in a paragraph. I think I say, twenty-two years passed and he felt great. And I’m not interested in that” (qtd. in Hobbs 11). Thereby Roth is magnifying the negative aspects of old age in his protagonist, such as “health problems, body changes, depression, loss of friends and family, and care-giving issues” (Hobbs 11), instead of granting him revelations or se- renity. Over the course of my analysis, I will demonstrate this in detail and point towards The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 64 several techniques that are employed to affect the reader’s emotions and empathy towards the protagonist. The novel starts at the funeral of the unnamed protagonist (in this thesis: “Everyman”) and afterwards present the medical as well as personal history leading up to this meek ceremony. By establishing this narrative situation, there is a great similarity to When She Was Good, in which Roth also introduced the protagonist at her graveside. I would argue that this technique highly influences the reader’s sympathy for the protagonist by appealing to his or her emotions. For the sake of completion, I would like to repeat the argument made in chapter two, pointing out that the decease of a person will often lead to a repression of their negative traits or even to a glorification of character. By introducing the protagonist at his or her funeral, the reader will instantaneously and continuously be more sympathetic towards Everyman than otherwise. Keen formulated a similar approach in a more general theory: “if the very start of a narrative can evoke empathy at the mere gesture of naming and quick situation, then readers may be primed by the story-receiving circumstance to get ready to empathize” (Keen 69). The effect is further increased by narrating his shattered family relations in this manner, for example when the reader is informed about “his two sons, Randy and Lonny, mid- dle-aged men from his turbulent first marriage, very much their mother’s children, who as a consequence know little of him that was praiseworthy and much that was beastly and who were present out of duty and nothing more” (Everyman 1), as well as that “they’d been irreconcilably alienated from the dead father” (Everyman 13). The emo- tions are especially heightened in this outset because of the high degree of relatability: Firstly, this effect is created by leaving the character unnamed and thus having many scholars, as well as myself, refer to him as Everyman, which is commonly an expres- sion for an ordinary human being. Secondly, Roth “has taken as a protagonist a person that is not all that interesting” which has been pointed out by Shostak in the round- table discussion of the book (Rodgers 13). Thirdly, Everyman’s exact age is only re- vealed later in the novel–nevertheless, the reader can guess from his family relations (e.g. age of children, three marriages) that he was an older man, which, arguably, makes the setting less shocking than in When She Was Good, where the deceased person was a young woman. By creating such an unspectacular character, Roth ena- bles a high degree of relatability and thus allows us as readers to project our emotions The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 65 into him” (Rodgers 14). This argumentation is supported by Keen’s analysis of reader’s empathy, she explains that Merely naming a character may set readers’ empathy in motion; indeed infor- mation leading to precise placement of a character in terms of species, race, age, gender and other aspects of status often appears after an emotional hook has connected reader and character. Thus I propose that empathy for fictional characters only require minimal elements of identity, situation, and feeling, not necessarily complex or realistic characterization. (Keen 69) In their discussion, Rodgers comments, that this was “the only Roth novel that has ever made me cry. It is a personal response: I had a heart attack recently, so reading this thing really hit home” (Rodgers 14). Whereas, the majority of the readership will not have suffered from a heart attack themselves, most people will have witnessed old age and/or illnesses in their parents, grandparents, or elsewhere and are therefore being able to relate to the suffering of Everyman. Another interesting effect of this fram- ing is that it leaves the reader in anticipation throughout the novel, which of his opera- tions and/or illnesses will be the fatal one, i.e. will be anticipating his death towards the last pages. Over the course of the ceremony, the reader also hears a lengthy speech given by his older brother Howie, which is crucial for two reasons: On the one hand, Roth is indi- cating a problem, which is going to unfold and gain momentum throughout the novel by stating that his brother “never had been hospitalized for anything and, though a sibling bred of the same stock, had remained triumphantly healthy all his life” (Every- man 5) and that “near the end of his life he cut himself off from me for reasons that were never clear” (Everyman 6). Thereby one may foresee, that the protagonist envies his brother’s health and that this may have been the reason for their alienation. On the other hand, Howie’s speech is providing meticulous details about their childhood with a focus on Everyman’s love for watches, i.e. his father’s business, i.e. his father. Over almost ten pages the reader receives detailed childhood memories about the brothers who used to be close, ending with their father’s passing and the inheritance of his watch. Howie recalls that “when my brother said he’d like to own it, I couldn’t be hap- pier” (Everyman 11). In addition to the already highly emotional recollection of a for- merly happy family, the watch is assigned further significance by connecting it to his death: “my brother wore it day and night. He took it off for good only forty-eight hours ago he handed it to the nurse to lock away for safekeeping while he was having the The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 66 surgery that killed him” (Everyman 12). Aarons suggests that his “childhood fascination with the watches in his father’s jewelry store […] frame his phobic response to the passing of time and his desire to control time; the watch is his to wind every morning (11)” (Aarons 122). In consideration of this reading, Howie’s closing of the speech ap- pears even more touching when he points out that it is now Everyman’s daughter Nancy “who’s wearing the Hamilton to tell time by” (Everyman 13) and thus metaphor- ically carrying on the family legacy. However, after the sentimental narration of the ceremony the reader is suddenly taken back into the sobering Rothian reality: That was the end. No special point had been made. Did they all say what they had to say? No, they didn’t, and of course they did. Up and down the state that day, there’d been five hundred funerals like his, routine, ordinary, and except for the thirty wayward seconds furnished by the sons–and Howie’s resurrecting with such painstaking precision the world as it innocently existed before the invention of death, life perpetual in their father-created Eden, a paradise just fifteen feet wide by forty feet deep disguised as an old-style jewelry store–no more or less interesting than any of the others. But then it’s the commonness that’s most wrenching, the registering once more of the fact of death that overwhelms eve- rything. In a matter of minutes, everybody had walked away–wearily and tearfully walked away from our species’ least favorite activity–and he was left behind.” (Every- man 14-15) Thereby Roth is establishing a juxtaposition of narration which can be found throughout the novel and has also been noted by Shostak. On the one hand “[…] you have this interesting interweaving of the present narrative, which is about bodily decay” (Shostak qtd. in Rodgers 17), or in this ultimate instance, about the body unromantically being “left behind” (15). On the other hand, you have the “narrative where he is still alive, where all the memories are taking him back to the times when there is some sort of vitality, or connection or something that is not happening in the present” (Shostak qtd. in Rodgers 17), or in this instance, the sentimental memories provided by his daughter and brother. With this setting, Roth is “working backwards from the grave” (Aarons 119) and takes the reader from Everyman’s funeral back to when he was nine years old and had his first operation (hernia). Hereby he provides one of the fewer comic instances in an otherwise earnest novel, when the young boy is anxious about his operation and “in that moment of terror when they lowered the ether mask over his face as though to The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 67 smother him, he could have sworn that the surgeon, whoever he was, had whispered, ‘Now I’m going to turn you into a girl’” (Everyman 29). At this point, the fear of miscon- duct by a doctor appears lighthearted and humorous, whereas in later parts his ac- counts “show the lack of care afforded the elderly; on separate occasions, he finds EKG pads and IV needles still affixed after his release from the hospital (74) (Hobbs 12) which emphasizes a certain “helplessness and disregard” (Hobbs 12) towards the patient who is already suffering. The novel then proceeds by telling the story of his appendix operation, interweaved with the divorce from his first wife, Cecilia, and his new relationship with Phoebe, his second wife. Thereby Roth skips two decades in which Everyman was supposedly healthy and thus are not relevant to this “medical autobiography” (qtd. in Rodgers 5). This passage reveals three important aspects about the character: Firstly, the reader is confronted with Everyman’s omnipresent fear of death and “thoughts of dying” (Eve- ryman 30) when on vacation with Phoebe, at an age of only thirty-four. Secondly, while arguing that there is no apparent reason for his fear due to his moderate life, it is high- lighted that “he never thought of himself as anything more than an average human being” (Everyman 31) and that “he was reasonable and kindly, an amicable, moderate, industrious man, as everyone who knew him well would probably agree” (Everyman 30). Roth is affirming the ordinariness of his character, which, as I have argued before, is essential for his relatability. Simultaneously, and actually in the same sentence, the reader is provided with the answer as to why he is estranged from his two sons, when the narration continuous “except, of course, for the wife and two boys whose household he’d left and who, understandably, could not equate reasonableness and kindliness with his finally giving up on a failed marriage and looking elsewhere for the intimacy with a woman that he craved” (Everyman 30-31). This is an interesting sequence in which the reader is presented with the information, that Everyman has left his wife and two children for another woman. Typically, this would cause some degree of discontent towards the regarding character, whereas in this case it is presented in a moment of vulnerability and thus one may rather be able to empathize with the situation. This is further achieved in the following passage: He never thought of himself as anything more than an average human being, and one who would have given anything for his marriage to have lasted a lifetime. He had married with just that expectation. But instead marriage became his prison cell, and so, after much tortuous thinking that preoccupied him while he worked and The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 68 when he should have been sleeping, he began fitfully, agonizingly, to tunnel his way out. Isn’t that what an average human being would do? Isn’t that what average human beings do every day? Contrary to what his wife told everyone, he hadn’t hungered after the wanton freedom to do anything and everything. Far from it. He hungered for something stable all the while he detested what he had (Everyman 31-32). Roth provides an interesting perspective for the reader, by giving a voice to the person, who is made out to be the scapegoat by his first wife. By showing his struggles and his side of the story, one may be able to empathize with his actions, despite his status as an adulterer. Keen provides support for this argument: The phenomenon of empathy for unattractive characters strengthens the case for the idea of minimal requirements for identification: a name (or pronoun), a situation, and an implicit feeling might be all that is required to spark empathy. The characters need not be admirable. The characterization may indeed be quite sketchy” (Keen 76). In this context, I would like to highlight certain parallels to Portnoy’s Complaint, in which Roth also narrates the story of a character who may not be the most appealing figure on first or second sight. Nevertheless, due to the narrative techniques employed by Roth, the reader will probably find him- or herself sympathizing for their situation to a certain extent. This could arguably lead to a feeling of uneasiness, because one may object to some of their actions, but one still feels empathy towards them, which is also addressed by Keen: “Author’s empathy can be devoted to socially undesirable ends that may be rejected by a disapproving reader. Indeed, empathic distress at feeling with a character whose actions are at odds with a reader’s moral code may be a result of successfully exercised authorial empathy” (Keen xiii). Furthermore, one will notice similarities in the characters’ contradicting urges: it be- comes apparent in the passage above that Everyman is striving for stability, yet his marriage feels like a “prison cell” to him (Everyman 31). This is reminiscent of Portnoy’s wish for a sexually adventurous girlfriend, but he thinks condescendingly of The Mon- key, because of her/their sexual adventures. Just like Portnoy, Everyman’s behavior forms to become a pattern because “even when married to his devoted and resourceful second wife Phoebe, he is uneasy, as if his comfort is a sign of failure […]” (Aarons 120) even though “he was never more determined to keep anyone” (Everyman 41). In addition to the parallels in motive, the novels have a similar pace, which Aarons points out: “the narrative seems to begin with a sharp intake of breath that keeps going The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 69 until the air is expelled at the novel’s close, reinforcing the overlap of character and author through a generic self-allusion” (Aarons 19). I also agree with Aarons’ analysis of his sexual behavior. She states that “Without any real ambition, all his life he has given in to fleeting yet uncontrollably seductive sexual temptation without much thought to the consequence” (Aarons 120). This is most apparent on his first encounter with his third wife, Merete, a young Danish model whom he works with: “Only moments after the car took off his thumb was in her mouth, and without him knowing it, his mar- riage had come under assault” (Everyman 111); and while already being unfaithful with her: “This was the wildest venture of his life, the one, as he was only faintly beginning to understand, that could wipe out everything” (Everyman 113). Returning to the sobering reality of Everyman’s appendectomy, the reader is informed that “he was in the hospital for thirty days” (Everyman 40) and when complaining as to when he will finally be released because he is “missing the fall of 1967”, the surgeon said “Don’t you get it yet? You almost missed everything” (Everyman 41). Thus, his previously expressed fear of death becomes shockingly tangible and it is a reminder, that even a thirty-four-year-old person with a moderate lifestyle is not safe from dying. This moment of fear is contrasted by the following paragraph which is an example of what Roth referred to when stating that “[…] the moments in which he’s well I pass over in a paragraph” (qtd in Schermbrucker 42): Twenty-two years passed. Twenty-two years of excellent health and the bound- less self-assurance that flows from being fit–twenty-two years spared the adver- sary that is illness and the calamity that waits in the wings. As head assured himself while walking under the stars on the Vineyard with Phoebe, he would worry about oblivion when he was seventy-five (Everyman 41). The novel continues twenty-two years later, when Everyman, at an age of fifty-six, is taking care of his dying father and meanwhile his own “EKG showed radical changes that indicated severe occlusion of his major coronary arteries” (Everyman 42) and his doctors “determined that surgery was essential” (Everyman 43). In this context, his third wife is introduced “when she followed beside the gurney weeping and wringing her hands and finally uncontrollably, cried out ‘What about me?’” (Everyman 44). She is further described as “nothing short of a hazard in an emergency” (Everyman 43) to a point that “he could not be released from the hospital if his home care was to be provided by his wife” (Everyman 45) which puts her in great contrast to his second wife Phoebe, whom he left for the young model. Nevertheless, her character provides a The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 70 comic relief to the tragic situation when Everyman tries to soothe her by saying: “First let me die. Then I’ll come help you bear up” (Everyman 44). In addition to this hazard, which Everyman has chosen himself, this sequence also reinforces the differences between him and his older brother Howie, who’s “father was dying in a hospital in New Jersey and his brother recovering from open-heart surgery in a hospital in New York– and though he spent the week traveling from the one bedside to the other–Howie’s vigor never lapsed, nor did his capacity to inspire confidence” (Everyman 46). The tragedy of Everyman’s case is at least twofold: On the one hand, his brother, despite his thriving career and residence in California, has devoted himself to caring for his father and brother on the East Coast. However, the reader has already been informed at the beginning of the novel that the brothers part ways in later years, arguably due to Everyman’s envy of Howie’s health and therefore sacrificing his last remaining rela- tionship. On the other hand, Everyman is kept from the opportunity to take care of his dying father because he himself is confined to bed and almost as helpless as his par- ent, who must be around twenty years his senior. Yet he barely escapes death for the second time already: “It turned out that they’d caught him just in time: when he was admitted to the hospital, his coronary arteries were anywhere from ninety to ninety-five percent occluded and he’d been on the verge of a massive and probably fatal heart attack” (Everyman 48). The feeling of uneasiness for Everyman is further heightened by a continuously in- creased use of medical terms, as can be seen in quotes above, as well as several descriptions of his physical pain: On the nights when he was too uncomfortable to sleep […] (Everyman 47). The postsurgical exhaustion was so severe that merely shaving–and not even shaving standing up but while in a chair, tired him out […] (Everyman 48). After dinner he had to go back to bed for the evening simply from the effort of eating sitting up in a chair, and in the morning he had to remain seated on a plastic stool to wash himself in the shower (Everyman 49). Merely standing there absorbing the blow that is the death of a father proved to be a surprising challenge to his physical strength–it was a good thing Howie was beside him on the left, one arm holding him firmly around his waist, to prevent anything untoward from happening (Everyman 54-55). The last quote is in reference to his father’s funeral, where the protagonist is barely able to stand without his brother’s help which further highlights his physical as well as The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 71 emotional suffering. The narration continues with memories of the father, but mostly about “Everyman’s Jewelry Store” (Everyman 56). Noteworthy here is the elaboration on the romance and prestige of owning a diamond: The wife can wear it for the beauty and she can wear it for the status. And when she does, this guy is not just a plumber–he’s a man with a wife with a diamond. His wife owns something that is imperishable. Because beyond the beauty and the status and the value, the diamond is imperishable. A piece of the earth that is imperishable, and a mere mortal is wearing it on her hand! (Everyman 57). Whereas Roth or neo-realism are not necessarily known for deep, meaningful meta- phors, in the context of a novel about ageing and death, the imperishable diamond could be interpreted as a contrast to life, which is everchanging and ultimately ends in the grave. However, this awareness as well as “Everyman’s proximity to death does not result in any inwardness or subjective thought” (Schermbrucker 42). In other words, neither his appendectomy, nor his heart surgery, nor the death of his father is a reason for him to make amends (e.g. fully appreciate his loving wife Phoebe; overcome his envy towards his brother; or approach his estranged sons). Thus, he is unable to take his father’s advice who pleaded: “Look back and atone for what you can atone for, and make the best of what you have left” (Everyman 171), which has also been stated by Aarons (125). This resistance further highlights “Roth’s skepticism towards the idea that life resembles a Bildungsroman, in which old age can be compared to a serene pinnacle from which the self can calmly survey its life with the wisdom of experience and hindsight” as has been pointed out by Schermbrucker (46). After another nine years in which “his health remained stable” (Everyman 62), at the age of sixty-five, he receives “a stent that was transported on a catheter maneuvered up through a puncture in the femoral artery and through the aorta to the occlusion” (Everyman 62). I argue that the increasing use of medical terms signifies the charac- ters’ increasing familiarity with his heart problems as well as the hospital environment in general. He then “moved from Manhattan to the Starfish Beach retirement village at the Jersey Shore” (Everyman 63), after the attacks of 9/11, which shows vulnerability and fear in the character and further adds to the reader’s empathy. His vulnerability is further supported by his statement to his daughter Nancy: “I’ve got a deep-rooted fond- ness for survival. I’m getting out of here” (Everyman 66). In addition, his rather early retreat to a retirement home could be interpreted as another indicator for his moderate, almost cautious lifestyle, which has been established throughout the novel. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 72 Nevertheless, one year later he needs another surgery “for another major obstruction, this one in his left carotid artery, one of the two main arteries that stretch from the aorta to the base of the skull and supply blood to the brain and that if left obstructed could cause a disabling stroke or even sudden death” (Everyman 67). In this context, the reader is provided with an example of the patient’s helplessness in terms of his medical care, when, only in the waiting room before the surgery, he is asked whether he would prefer “a general or a local anesthetic the way a waiter might have asked if he preferred red or white wine” (Everyman 70). Provided with insufficient information by the doctor, he chose local anesthesia, thinking that it would be safer, causing him excruciating discomfort during the surgery: It was a mistake, a barely endurable mistake, because the operation lasted two hours and his head was claustrophobically draped with a cloth and the cutting scarping took place so close to his ear, he could hear every move their instru- ments made as though he were inside an echo chamber. But there was nothing to be done. No fight to put up. You take it and endure it. Just give yourself over to if for as long as it lasts (Everyman 70). This pointed description of his sensations will cause a Feeling of Body in most readers and will thus heighten the empathy for this situation. Furthermore, it emphasizes the helplessness of the patient even more; in this case, by literally being exposed to his ordeal on the operating-table. In this context, I would like to mention the results of a student survey which was conducted by Keen, who reports: “the students were at lib- erty to mention any text that came to mind, but they did not choose upbeat novels and short stories with joyful or comical characters. [Thus] empathetic responses to fictional characters and situations occur more readily for negative feeling states, whether or not a match in details of experience exists” (Keen 72). Therefore, one could say that the intense description of Everyman’s suffering on the operating table is quite likely to gen- erate an emotional response due to its negative connotation, even if the readers may not have experienced surgery themselves. Shortly afterwards, it is narrated that “he was briefly knocked out on an operating table while a defibrillator was permanently inserted as a safeguard against […] a fatal car- diac arrhythmia” (Everyman 74). Considering the apparent severity of this procedure, the wording appears disarming, and the narration of barely one page rather swift, which may also suggest an increasing familiarity and a desensitization with hospital visits. Roth ceases the opportunity to focus on Everyman’s relationship with his daughter The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 73 Nancy, who is taking care of her father but “had to turn away” from the sight of “visible bulge that was the embedded defibrillator” (Everyman 75). This reaction could be as- signed to the pain of seeing her parent age. This is a highly relatable situation, as most readers will have some sort of parental figure and thus will be able to emphasize with the pain of seeing him or her age and becoming increasingly dependent. This feeling is heightened by the narrator’s elaboration on Everyman’s love and admiration for his daughter: “Sometimes it seemed that everything was a mistake except Nancy. So he worried about her, and he still never passed a women’s clothing shop without thinking of her and going in to find something she’d like, and he thought, I’m very lucky […]” (Everyman 76-77). In this sobering novel, or in Everyman’s “life, ultimately, of regret” (Aarons 120), this is a sole example of a healthy relationship, notwithstanding that he has left her mother Phoebe, when Nancy was a teenager. It almost serves as a relief between all the suffering and questionable decisions, that he still has his daughter. In order to battle the everyday loneliness of his new residence on the Jersey Shore, he decides to pursue his long-standing passion for painting, “by organizing two weekly painting classes for the village residents” (Everyman 79). Whereas this proofs to be a successful way to help his loneliness, it also magnifies his fear of the invariable bodily decay: the conversations between the residents quickly turn to “swapping medical data” and “their personal biographies having by this time become identical with their medical biographies” (Everyman 80). However, his favorite student, Millicent Kramer, “reminded him of Phoebe” (Everyman 81). When she takes a break in his bedroom, due to severe backpain, it does not lead to sex, as one may expect (Brauner qtd. in Rodgers 9) but to a highly emotional revelation by Millicent. She meticulously describes the manifold struggles of an elderly person, such as losing her husband Gerald and her backpain, over ten pages and comes to a meek conclusion: “The sound of that voice that’s disappeared. The sound of the exceptional man I loved. I think I could take all this if he were here. But I can’t without him. I never saw him weaken once in his life– then came cancer and it crushed him” (Everyman 89). Furthermore, she is asserting that “mentality cannot bifurcate from the pain of the body” and that “the pain of her body is all that she temporarily is” (Schermbrucker (44-45), when saying that “Either you’re in charge or it’s in charge–the choice is yours! I repeat this to myself a million times a day, as though I’m Gerald speaking, and then suddenly it’s so awful I have to lie down on the floor in the middle of the supermarket and all the words are The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 74 meaningless. Oh, I’m sorry, truly. I abhor tears” (Everyman 89). I find this to be one of the most emotional passages in the book; it gives a voice to someone, who is not typically heard by society and demonstrates serious and touching issues that may not occur to anyone under sixty. Nevertheless, it easily stirs up emotions, because most readers will have or had an elder person in their lives (e.g. grandparents) to which those issues could apply. Furthermore, Keen’s research findings can be applied here, which show that “a character’s negative state, such as those provoked by undergoing persecution, suffering, grieving, and experiencing painful obstacles, make a reader’s empathizing more likely” (Keen 71). As a reader, one may hope that Everyman and Millicent become great friends, or part- ners and help each other happily ever after; however, one is immediately taken back into the sobering reality of Roth’s novel, in which she commits suicide: “Ten days later she killed herself with an overdose of sleeping pills” (Everyman 92). This is the last mention of her until the closing of the novel and thus, the new character, with whom one empathized over ten pages, is removed again immediately in a shockingly sudden manner. The suicide retrospectively increases her pain that was previously described because it amplifies her hopelessness. Towards the end of the novel, one finds a moral discourse about his estrangement with his two sons from his first marriage and how “suffering his wrongdoing was all he could ever do to please them, to pay his bill, to indulge like the best of dads their maddening opposition” (Everyman 97). This underpins his resignation towards the topic but also appears as if he wants to justify as to why he resigned. He concludes, what seems like the last thoughts he is able to invest in this gridlocked situation: “But this is what I did! I am seventy-one. This is the man I have made. This is what I did to get here, and there’s nothing more to be said” (Everyman 98). Whereas this issue appears to be finalized, the discourse continues with his relation- ship to Howie. An idea that was planted in the beginning of the novel, is confirmed when he admits: “Now, though, when they spoke, an unwarranted coldness came over him, and to his brother’s joviality his response was silence. The reason was ridiculous. He hated Howie because of his robust good health. He hated Howie because he’d never in his life been a patient in a hospital, because disease was unknown to him […]” (Everyman 99). The protagonist can reflect on how ridiculous this reasoning is, The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 75 nevertheless, he is not able to changes his feelings. Thus, he is unable to obtain the relationship to his brother, who has always greatly cared for him. This could be ana- lyzed as a manifestation of Everyman’s self-destructing tendency, which led him to leave his second wife. As suggested by Aarons, “the real adversary here is not death but the protagonist himself” (Aarons 117). This behavior does become more apparent towards the end of the novel, when his affair with Merete is narrated in more detail. One may be baffled by his oblivion towards possible consequences and that “only in passing did it occur to him that it might be somewhat delusional at the age of fifty to think that he could find a hole that would substitute for everything else” (Everyman 113). Whereas his first divorce may have generated some sympathy in the reader, his second divorce does quite the contrary, especially when Phoebe confronted him after a trip to Paris with his Merete. Apparently taken by surprise, Everyman denied everything and thus lost everything, including the reader’s sympathy, because Phoebe’s stance is that You can weather anything […] even if the trust is violated, if it’s owned up to. Then you become life partners in a different way, but it’s still possible to remain partners. But lying–lying is cheap, contemptible control over the other person. It’s watching the other person acting on incomplete information–in other words humiliating herself (Everyman 121). Despite his constant affairs, it was ultimately his futile lies that proof of an utter disre- gard for his loving wife, who even would have condoned his unfaithfulness if he had not lied again. Whereas this may already leave the reader feeling uneasy, Roth pro- ceeds to worsen this effect when the protagonist had the idea that “Since he had bro- ken everything up because of this person half his age, it seemed only logical to go ahead and tidy everything up again by making her his third wife” (Everyman 124), only to quickly realize that “He had replaced the most helpful wife imaginable with a wife who went to pieces under the slightest pressure” (Everyman 124). However, those decisions have a broader importance than merely in terms of sympathy: “Of course, this means more than the obvious fact that old people, like young people, can be sexual buffoons. Above all else, desire’s incursion means that age alone does not protect the self from emotional disarray and consequent regression in maturity” (Schermbrucker 48). When viewed from this perspective, it could possibly even induce compassion in the reader because his actions appear rather paltry and inept. This analysis underpins The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 76 the unromanized depiction of ageing in Everyman and could lightheartedly be de- scribed with the German saying “Alter schützt vor Torheit nicht”. Towards the last twenty pages of the novel, one will be able to foresee the protagonist’s death approaching, because the book started out with his funeral. In addition to the narrative frame, Roth is also strongly supporting this premonition with the tone becom- ing drastically more nostalgic. When preparing for yet another surgery “he tried so hard to convince himself from the experience of the first carotid surgery that there was noth- ing to worry about, he did not bother to tell Nancy about the pending operation, espe- cially while she still had her mother to tend to” (Everyman 156). Because the death of the protagonist is already certain, Roth is in a unique position to build up a highly sen- timental tone over twenty pages. In other words, everything narrated in the closing part of the novel appears drastically more wistful and sad, because the reader can antici- pate the protagonist’s death. It is only in this last passage that Everyman fully acknowledges his most regrettable decisions, such as loosing contact to his brother “He’d made a mess of all his mar- riages, but throughout their adult lives he and his brother had been truly constant. Howie never had to be asked for anything. And now he’d lost him, and in the same way he’d lost Phoebe–by doing it to himself” (Everyman 157). This sudden epiphany appears to be out of character for Everyman because he always justified his stoic be- havior, but it certainly adds to the sentimentality of the closing; especially when “he picked up the phone and dialed Howie” (Everyman 159) for the first time in many years. However, his brother is on vacation in Tibet and unavailable; Everyman does not leave a message. In addition to him not informing his daughter, this is the second of three events, which are used by Roth to dramatically build up to his passing. The third event is when he intends to visit his daughter and ex-wife in New York, but, already en route, decides to go to the cemetery in New Jersey instead, to visit his parents’ graves (Eve- ryman 165). With the novel quickly running out of pages, these three events are strong indicators, that he will die alone, without anyone knowing he needed another surgery, unable to make amends with his brother, and unable to see his daughter one last time– which is what happens: “He went under feeling far from felled, anything but doomed, eager yet again to be fulfilled but nonetheless, he never woke up. Cardiac arrest. He was no more, freed from being, entering into nowhere without even knowing it. Just as he’d feared from the start” (Everyman 182). The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 77 In conclusion, one can say that the narrative frame of the novel will automatically prime the reader to empathize with the protagonist (Keen 69), even if one may object to some of his character traits that are revealed throughout the narration. In this manner, Eve- ryman combines narrative techniques that Roth has previously employed: on the one hand it shares similarities with WSWG insofar that the protagonists are introduced at their funeral which could influence the reader’s perception and expectations of the characters. One the other hand, the reader is led to follow the thought process of a protagonist, who’s actions may be conflicting with social norms. This could lead to an uncomfortable reading experience through a Feeling of Body in the reader, which is also the case in Portnoy’s Complaint. Everyman, however, stands out, with its protag- onist who is remarkably unremarkable which Roth highlights throughout the novel. By creating an ordinary character, the author increases the degree of relatability and fur- ther shows the universality of his struggle. The novel exemplifies the German saying “Alter schützt vor Torheit nicht” when the protagonist still makes unfavorable decisions in his forties (i.e. betraying Phoebe) and awkwardly attempts to flirt with a twenty-year old at the age of seventy. Simultaneously, the life of Everyman demonstrates what the mental repercussions that physical pain may cause. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 78 6 Conclusion In the three novels analyzed in this thesis (When She Was Good, Portnoy’s Complaint and Everyman) one can see what multitude of new layers were opened to literary the- ory with the emergence of Affective Narratology. Thanks to the invention of MRI (mag- netic resonance imaging), scientists were able to proof that while reading the same areas as from real-life-experiences were activated. Thus, emotional reader response became more tangible for scholars since they were able to provide scientific evidence for their hypotheses. By providing the theoretical background of realism as well as neo- realism, one will notice that many of their characteristics are prone to appeal to the reader’s empathy and sympathy and thereby makes it and ideal genre to pay closer attention to in terms of emotional responses. One can say that Roth combined several different narrative techniques in order to achieve an emotional reader response in When She Was Good. Starting with borrow- ing elements from the melodramatic genre he broadens the range of readership, whereas simultaneously increasing the shock-value when the narrative unfolds into the American nightmare as opposed to the American dream, which one may expect due to the soap-opera like style. By introducing his protagonist through the eyes of her grandfather Willard, and by her graveside, Roth ensures that the reader will empathize with the character of Lucy Nelson. Hereby, a sympathy is established in part one, which will then be challenged for the remainder of the novel. In addition, the foretelling of the protagonist’s death creates suspense as to what could have happened to this young woman. The novel is greatly concerned with standards of morality and “pre-established generic rules” (Peeler 39) and may alert the reader to the dangers of them, since, in WSWG, they are the “ideological home for violence” (Peeler 39) and ultimately Lucy’s demise. In addition, Lucy’s fate could also be interpreted as the repercussions of the patriarchy on women in the 50s and 60s. In Portnoy’s Complaint, Roth decided on the narrative situation of the psychoanalytical monologue in order to achieve an effect that is reminiscent of inner thoughts. Thereby he was able to narrate the inscrutable thoughts of his protagonist authentically (e.g. incestuous wishes, condescension towards women, double-standards). By showing Alexander’s problematic family situation and his suffering of it, the reader will be primed The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 79 to empathize with the character. Similar to the situation of WSWG, a conflict of sym- pathy may occur, once the morally ambiguous behavior of the protagonist unfolds throughout the novel, and the empathy may decrease drastically. Typical of Roth’s work, Alexander is not granted relief from his struggles and rather suggests that his inner conflict worsened when he seemingly looses his temper while contemplation the consequences of illegally removing a tag of a mattress. When his psychoanalyst Doc- tor Spielvogel finally has the floor, it is the last sentence of the book and he suggests “Now vee may perhaps begin” (PC 253). It implies that, after complaining over 250 pages, not even the surface of his issues has been touched. In general, the novel could be interpreted as a comical approach towards excessive mothering, or the immense consequences of parenting. Everyman combines some of the elements of PC and WSWG; it is reminiscent of the narrative technique employed in the latter, insofar, that the protagonist is introduced at his funeral. In addition, Roth increased the degree of relatability in these novels by using generalizations, such as generic city names and an unspecific location in WSWG or leaving Everyman’s protagonist unnamed. Furthermore, the ordinariness of the character is emphasized throughout the novel. Since the reader is aware of the pro- tagonist’s impending death, they may be rather primed to empathize with him because the passing of a person tends to trigger sentimentalities. Similarities to Portnoy’s Com- plaint can be found in the questionable choices and moral as well as the incapacity of the characters to change for the better. In conclusion, what all three protagonists seem to have in common is an unsatisfied urge for change, whereas it appears to be their own inner conflict that they are fighting. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 80 7 Bibliography Aarons, Victoria. “’There’s no remaking reality’: Philip Roth’s Everyman and the Ironies of Body and Spirit.” Xavier Review 27.1 (Spring 2007): 116-127. Brauner, David. “’Getting in your Retaliation first’: Narrative Strategies in Portnoy’s Complaint.” Philip Roth: New perspectives on an American author. Ed. Derek Parker Royal. Connecticut: Praeger, 2005. ---.Contemporary American and Canadian Novelists: Philip Roth. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007. Brooks, Van Wyck. America’s Coming-of-Age. New York: B.W. Huebsch, 1915. Cohen, Eileen Z. „Alex in Wonderland, or ‘Portnoy’s Complaint.’” Twentieth Century Literature 17.3 (1971): 161-168. Colson, Dan. “Impotence and the Futility of Liberation in Portnoy’s Complaint.” Philip Roth Studies 3.2 (Fall 2007): 131-143). Flaubert, Gustave. Madame Bovary. Paris: Michel Lévy Frères, 1857. Gallese, Vittorio, and Hannah Wojciehowski. “How Stories Makes Us Feel: Toward An Embodied Narratology.” California Italian Studies 2.1 (2011): 1-36. Halio, Jay L. Philip Roth Revisited. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1992. Hobbs, Alex. “A Gendered Approach to Ageing in Contemporary American Fiction: A Portrait of the Old Man in Philip Roth’s Everyman.” Writing America into the Twenty-First century: Essays on the American Novel. Ed. Elizabeth Boyle, Anne- Marie Evans. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Affective Narratology: The Emotional Structure of Stories. Lincoln: UNP – Nebraska, 2011. Howells, William Dean. The Rise of Silas Lapham. Boston: Ticknor and Company, 1884. Husband, Julie. “Female Hysteria and Sisterhood in Letting Go and When She Was Good.” Philip Roth: New perspectives on an American author. Ed. Derek Parker Royal. Connecticut: Praeger, 2005. Iser, Wolfgang. The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978. Keen, Suzanne. Empathy and the Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Lodge, David. The Novelist at the Crossroads. New York: Cornell University Press, 1971. McDaniel, John M. The Fiction of Philip Roth. New York: Haddonfield House, 1974. Peeler, Nicole. “The Woman of Ressentiment in When She Was Good.” Philip Roth Studies 6.1 (Spring 2010): 31-45. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 81 Raban, Jonathan. When She Was Good, by Philip Roth. NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction 2.2 (Winter 1969): 153-163. Rodgers, Bernhard F Jr. Philip Roth. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1978. Roth, Philip. Everyman. 2006. London: Vintage, 2016. ---. Portnoy’s Complaint. 1969. London: Vintage, 2016. ---. Reading Myself and Others. 1974. London: Jonathan Cape, 1975. ---. When She Was Good. 1967. London: Vintage, 2016. Schermbrucker, Ben. “’There’s No Remaking Reality’: Roth and the Embodied Human Condition in Everyman.” Philip Roth Studies 11.2 (Fall 2015): 39-53. Shechner, Mark. “American Realisms, American Realities.” Neo-Realism in Contemporary American Fiction. Ed. Kristiaan Versluys. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992. Singley, Carol J. “American literary Realism.” The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism. Ed. M.A.R. Habib. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Sklar, Howard. The Art of Sympathy in Fiction: Forms of Ethical and Emotional Persuasion. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2013. Twain, Mark. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. New York: Charles L. Webster and Co., 1884. Versluys, Kristiaan. “Introduction.” Neo-Realism in Contemporary American Fiction. Ed. Kristiaan Versluys. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992. Walton, Kendall. “Spelunking, Simulation, and Slime.” Emotions and the Arts. Ed. Mette Hjort and Sue Laver. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. The Uncomfortable American Neo-Realism of Philip Roth 82 8 Appendix 8.1 Abstract English This thesis starts by exploring the historical background and development of neo-real- ism. By looking at its origins in the nineteenth century, one will see how traditional realism has survived the test of time and evolved into neo-realism. Due to the charac- teristics of the genre and the intended reality-effect, it presents ideal material to apply the rather new approach of Affective Narratology (coined by Patrick Colm Hogan) and the Feeling of Body (developed by Gallese and Wojciehowski); therefore, an introduc- tion to these concepts will be provided. Subsequently, three of Roth’s novels are ana- lyzed–When She Was Good (1967), Portnoy’s Complaint (1969) and Everyman (2006)–accordingly and it is shown which narrative techniques were used by the author in order to create a, sometimes, uncomfortable reading experience. This effect is en- hanced through narrative situations, infringing social conventions and may even create a conflict of moral as a reader’s response. 8.2 Abstract German Diese Diplomarbeit beginnt mit einer Einführung in die geschichtliche Entwicklung des Neo-Realismus. Unter Einbezug der Wurzeln des Genres im neunzehnten Jahrhundert wird veranschaulicht, dass der traditionelle Realismus sich bewährt und im Laufe des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts zum Neo-Realismus hin weiterentwickelt hat. Literatur die- ser Kategorie eignet sich durch ihre Eigenschaften sowie dem angestrebten „Reality- Effect“ besonders gut zur Analyse von „Affective Narratology“ (Patrick Colm Hogan) und dem „Feeling of Body“ (Gallese und Wojciehowski), weshalb sich eine Zusam- menfassung dieser Konzepte im Kapitel 2 findet. Anschließend werden drei Romane von Philip Roth im Detail betrachtet: When She Was Good (1967), Portnoy’s Complaint (1969) und Everyman (2006). Die Arbeit zeigt auf welche Techniken der Erzähltheorie der Autor verwendet hat, um eine zu Weilen ungemütliche Leseerfahrung zu provozie- ren. Verstärkt wird dieser Effekt durch die Form der Erzählung, der den Leser mit dem Übertreten von sozialen Normen oder sogar moralischen Konflikten konfrontiert. 
work_ujxajmjsn5a3renkjqeusdod5y	----	Playing the Changes on the Jazz Metaphor Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Playing the Changes on the Jazz Metaphor Morris B. Holbrook Graduate School of Business Columbia University New York, NY 10027 USA mbh3@columbia.edu Boston – Delft Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Foundations and Trends R© in Marketing Published, sold and distributed by: now Publishers Inc. PO Box 1024 Hanover, MA 02339 USA Tel. +1-781-985-4510 www.nowpublishers.com sales@nowpublishers.com Outside North America: now Publishers Inc. PO Box 179 2600 AD Delft The Netherlands Tel. +31-6-51115274 The preferred citation for this publication is M. B. Holbrook, Playing the Changes on the Jazz Metaphor: An Expanded Conceptualization of Music-, Management-, and Marketing-Related Themes, Foundation and Trends R© in Marketing, vol 2, nos 3–4, pp 185–442, 2007 ISBN: 978-1-60198-172-1 c© 2008 M. B. Holbrook All rights reserved. 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ISSN paper version 1555-0753. ISSN online version 1555-0761. Also available as a com- bined paper and online subscription. Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Foundations and Trends R© in Marketing Vol. 2, Nos. 3–4 (2007) 185–442 c© 2008 M. B. Holbrook DOI: 10.1561/1700000007 Playing the Changes on the Jazz Metaphor: An Expanded Conceptualization of Music-, Management-, and Marketing-Related Themes Morris B. Holbrook W. T. Dillard Professor of Marketing, Graduate School of Business, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027, USA, mbh3@columbia.edu Abstract A metaphor based on the nature of jazz as a musical genre in general and on the sociopsychological process of jazz improvisation in partic- ular has frequently surfaced in recent accounts of product innovation, brand positioning, team coordination, and organizational leadership from various areas of research on management and marketing strategy. As typically applied, this “jazz metaphor” appears unnecessarily lim- ited in its scope. In this light, the author suggests a need for refining, extending, and enlarging the jazz metaphor to cover a broader range of music-, management-, and marketing-related themes. Toward this end, the author “plays the changes” on this perspective by develop- ing a typology of jazz musicians based on different kinds of musical offerings and by elaborating this typology to propose a classification of management and marketing styles based on parallels with the jazz metaphor. Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Author Biography Morris B. Holbrook is the W. T. Dillard Professor of Marketing in the Graduate School of Business at Columbia University, New York, NY, 10027 (212-873-7324; mbh3@columbia.edu). Holbrook graduated from Harvard College with a BA degree in English (1965) and received his MBA (1967) and PhD (1975) degrees in Marketing from Columbia University. Since 1975, he has taught courses at the Columbia Busi- ness School in areas such as Marketing Strategy, Sales Management, Research Methods, Consumer Behavior, and Commercial Communica- tion in the Culture of Consumption. His research has covered a wide variety of topics in marketing, consumer behavior, and related fields — with a special focus on issues related to communication in general and to aesthetics, semiotics, hermeneutics, art, entertainment, music, jazz, motion pictures, nostalgia, and stereography in particular. Recent books include Daytime Television Game Shows and the Celebration of Merchandise: The Price Is Right (Bowling Green University Popu- lar Press, 1993); The Semiotics of Consumption: Interpreting Symbolic Consumer Behavior in Popular Culture and Works of Art (with Eliz- abeth C. Hirschman, Mouton de Gruyter, 1993); Consumer Research: Introspective Essays on the Study of Consumption (Sage, 1995); and ix Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Consumer Value: A Framework for Analysis and Research (edited, Routledge, 1999). Holbrook pursues such hobbies as playing the piano and vibraphone, attending jazz and classical concerts, going to movies and the theater, collecting musical recordings, taking stereographic photos, and being kind to animals, especially cats. Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Dizzy Gillespie (Drawing by Morris B. Holbrook) Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Epigraphs Epigraph One Jazz improvisation is not merely a process by which musi- cians create a record album or an evening’s performance. It is a particular artistic way of going through life. . . . In fact, when musicians speak of jazz as a way of life, they refer pri- marily to the unrelenting artistic demands of a jazz career and to a particular orientation to the world of musical imagi- nation characteristic of jazz community members. They refer to the total immersion in the music’s language that its rig- ors demand if players are to attain fluency as improvisers and enjoy continuous artistic growth . . . . When performers speak of jazz as a way of life, they refer to the performer’s constant preoccupation with musical ideas and notions of creativity (Berliner, 1994, p. 486). Epigraph Two You have to master a style, be able to speak the language as it’s spoken, and then find your own voice in it (Andy Statman, clarinetist, quoted by Panken (2007, p. 24)). xiii Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Epigraph Three Oh yeah. I’m an improviser at heart. Writing’s a slightly different process . . . it’s a slower process . . . the intellect gets involved with it more. When you’re playing, it’s going so fast, you’re not thinking. Advanced improvisation goes beyond your thinking (David S. Ware, tenor saxophonist, quoted by Brady (2007, p. 16)). Epigraph Four Music is the universal language of mankind (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, quoted by Crook (1999, p. 91)). Epigraph Five Low overhead and a sense of improvisation make for a good life (Weiland, 2007, p. 13). Epigraph Six January 14, 2007. The second set in the Sunday Morn- ing Brunch at Iridium on Broadway between 50th and 51st Streets has begun. A quartet led by Barry Levitt on piano with David Schnitter on tenor saxophone has just romped through an up-tempo original. Now Levitt leans into the microphone and announces that the time has come to intro- duce the first singer of the day — a woman named Evita Cobo from Southern Vermont. Ms Cobo — an imposingly tall fig- ure who has driven down from New England that morning — mounts the stage and hands Levitt a lead sheet to a tune that turns out to be “Autumn Leaves.” These musicians have never met before — much less played together — but Levitt immediately swings into an 8-bar medium-tempo introduc- tion. The bass and drums quickly join him in time for Cobo to enter flawlessly with the tune’s opening lyrics. After a per- fectly coordinated opening chorus, Levitt takes a 32-bar solo Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 on piano, followed by Schnitter on tenor, playing his most relaxed and coherent improvisation of the day — probably because this piece has acquired a singular level of ingrained familiarity through many years of countless repetitions in all manner of contrasting settings with every sort of musi- cal group. Beyond finding out in what key the singer wants to perform this piece and maybe checking the tempo mark- ings, he scarcely needs to look at the lead sheet. He knows the melody and chord progressions cold (probably in every key, but certainly in A minor, C minor, D minor, E minor, F minor, and G minor) — as do all the other members of the group, who have also performed this piece innumerable times in various contexts. Cobo reenters with a half-chorus of imag- inative scat singing, buoyed by the strong harmonic support of the rhythm section behind her. Then, at the bridge, she returns to subtle variations of the melody before ending with the final phrase of the song repeated three times, the last of which is out of tempo according to an ad lib phrasing that she conveys to the quartet members by means of a few inconspic- uous hand signals. This refreshingly spontaneous but flaw- lessly coordinated performance wins thunderous applause from the surprisingly large number of Sunday-morning disci- ples who have gathered for the Iridium brunch. Cobo shakes hands with the members of the quartet, while Levitt makes a gracious announcement that — though he has never met or played with her before — he hopes to enjoy the experience soon again. Meanwhile, what we have just witnessed serves as a pellucid demonstration of entrepreneurship, teamwork, and leadership in action — a perfect metaphor for management and marketing success. Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Zoot Sims, New York City, 1978 (Photograph by Morris B. Holbrook) Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Contents 1 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy 1 1.1 Background 1 1.2 Note on Notation 5 1.3 Limitations of the Jazz Metaphor 7 1.4 Moving Beyond the Jazz Metaphor 10 1.5 Preview 15 2 The First-Level Jazz Metaphor: Organizing for Improvisation 19 2.1 Thinking in Jazz 19 2.2 The Essence of Improvisation: Practice Makes Perfect . . . Or Not 20 2.3 Improvisation Versus Composition 23 2.4 Soloist 26 2.5 Chord Progressions and Notations 31 2.6 Ensembles, Small and Large 34 2.7 Collaboration Amidst Complexity 39 3 The Second-Level Linguistic Metaphor: Jazz as a Language 49 3.1 Music and Linguistics: Chomsky, Come Home 49 3.2 Licks, Tricks, and Clichés 54 3.3 Rules for Harmonic Extensions and Alterations 57 xvii Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 3.4 Rules for Harmonic Substitutions 61 3.5 Harmonic Structure 65 3.6 Melodic Structure 67 3.7 Jazz, Speech, and the Combination of Smaller Elements 69 3.8 Licks or Principles? Cases or Concepts? 70 3.9 Conventional Wisdom and the Language Metaphor 72 3.10 The Jazz Contrafact 75 4 The Theory and Psychology of Improvisation 81 4.1 The Psychology of Jazz Improvisation: Models and Simulations 81 4.2 The Producer as Consumer 82 4.3 Listening To Oneself 93 4.4 The Question of Rhythm 95 4.5 Harmony and the Melodic Line 104 4.6 Vertical Versus Horizontal Playing — The Fallacy of “One Size Fits All” 105 4.7 The Jazz Conversation: Telling a Story 112 4.8 The Jazz Collaboration: Collective Conversation 113 5 Toward a New Typology of Jazz Musicians 117 5.1 Dimension One: Musical Context 117 5.2 Dimension Two: Composition 120 5.3 Dimension Three: Improvisation 121 5.4 A New Typology of Jazz Musicians 122 6 Management and Marketing Styles 133 6.1 Dimension One: Organizational Context 133 6.2 Dimension Two: Formal Planning 133 6.3 Dimension Three: Organizational Innovation 134 6.4 Typology of Management and Marketing Styles 134 7 Duke Ellington: If it SOUNDS Good, it IS Good 159 Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 8 Dizzy Gillespie: Beyond Royalty, The Ultimate Jazz Icon 173 8.1 Innovativeness and Planning 177 8.2 Openness to External Influences 183 8.3 Cheerfulness and Optimism 186 8.4 Knowledge 190 8.5 Humanity 198 8.6 Recapitulation and Reflections on Durability 220 9 Finale 225 9.1 Creativity and Reconciliation 225 9.2 Linguistic Models 232 9.3 Playing in the Zone 234 10 Coda 239 Acknowledgments 241 References 243 Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy 1.1 Background In recent years — encouraged and reinforced by a symposium at the Academy of Management’s National Conference that gave birth to a special issue of Organization Science (Meyer et al., 1998) devoted to insights and inspirations related to jazz (Barrett, 1998a; Berniker, 1998; Crossan, 1998; Hatch, 1998; Mirvis, 1998; Pasmore, 1998; Weick, 1998) — writers concerned with the strategic aspects of management and marketing have relied increasingly on a metaphor drawn from the field of jazz as a musical genre in general and from the sociopsy- chological process of jazz improvisation as a form of creative activ- ity in particular (Holbrook, 1984; Bastien and Hostager, 1988; Akin and Schultheiss, 1990; Neilson, 1992; Holbrook, 1995; Eisenhardt, 1997; Hatch, 1999; Kamoche and Cunha, 2001; Dennis and Macaulay, 2003; Holbrook, 2003; Pavlovich, 2003; Waltzer and Salcher, 2003; Jennings, 2004; Newton, 2004; Gilbert, 2005; Gold and Hirshfeld, 2005; Cornelis- sen, 2006; John et al., 2006; Dennis and Macaulay, 2007). These applications and elaborations of the jazz metaphor have touched on a large and growing range of business and organizational 1 Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 2 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy issues. For example, some have suggested that the project of achiev- ing a strategic match between a firm’s strengths or weaknesses and the threats or opportunities arising from its environment resembles the challenge faced by a jazz soloist (Tirro, 1974; Mehegan, 1985; Longo, 1992) when flexibly designing melodic variations to fit the chord changes in a pre-established harmonic structure (Strunk, 1985; Bastien and Hostager, 1988; Neilson, 1992; Barrett, 1998a,b; Bar- rett and Peplowski, 1998; Berniker, 1998; Crossan, 1998; Hatch, 1998; Mirvis, 1998; Moorman and Miner, 1998a,b; Pasmore, 1998; Pressing, 1998; Weick, 1998; Cunha et al., 1999; Dennis and Macaulay, 2003; Hol- brook, 2003). Thus, after discarding metaphors based on jigsaw puzzles and dancing pairs of figure skaters, one writer pursues the logic of cus- tomer orientation by characterizing strategic fit as comparable to a free-form jazz band that has shaped its repertoire in a direction that “people would appreciate” according to “what the audience wanted” (Neilson, 1992, p. 24). Similarly, developing the jazz analogy, recent thinkers have viewed organizational improvisation — that is, respond- ing quickly, flexibly, and self-reflexively to the changing needs and wants of consumers and clients — as a key element in appealing to target customers (Jennings, 2004); as a model for building strong emotional bonds in one-on-one marketing (Gilbert, 2005); as a route toward the achievement of satisfyingly customized service experiences (John et al. 2006); as a way of empowering employees to respond flexibly in pur- suing maximum customer service and satisfaction (Leybourne, 2006); and as the foundation for an effective market orientation (Dennis and Macaulay, 2007). Beyond this obvious parallel between jazz and marketing strategy, various management gurus have linked the nature of jazz improvisa- tion as an unfolding theme-with-variations to the essence of creativity (Holbrook, 1984; Weisberg, 1993; Holbrook, 1995; Kao, 1996; Hol- brook, 1997, 2003; Weisberg et al., 2004). From this perspective, some authorities have compared the ordered-but-flexible aspects of jazz to the exigencies of business leadership (DePree, 1989, 1992; Newton, 2004). Others have drawn parallels between jazz and the phenomenon of emergence as studied by chaos or complexity theory (Weick, 1998; Crossan, 1998; Cunha et al., 1999; Papadopoulos and Wiggins, 1999; Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.1 Background 3 Chelariu et al., 2002; Holbrook, 2003). Still others have viewed impro- visation as a key aspect of teamwork aimed at achieving effective inno- vation (Waltzer and Salcher, 2003) by encouraging the fulfillment of multiple roles in response to audience suggestions or customer demands (Crossan, 1998); by organizing collaborative effort under unpredictable conditions (Gold and Hirshfeld, 2005); and by managing organizational change (Leybourne, 2006). Such thinkers have argued that “organizational members . . . can improve the effectiveness of their improvisational process through train- ing that addresses the elements needed to improvise well . . . and the creation of a context that supports improvisation” (Vera and Crossan, 2005, p. 209): “In a world in which yesterday’s responses become inap- propriate maps for today’s challenges, managers must improvise and would do well to pay attention to what jazz musicians are doing” (Bar- rett, 1998b, p. 286). Thus, workgroup facilitators have exploited the jazz metaphor to build a shared consciousness of how “listening to one another” builds team strengths in “collective improvisation” (Akin and Schultheiss, 1990, p. 15). Training consultants involved in executive education have drawn on improvisatory skills typical of a jazz ensemble to design corporate seminars based on team-oriented approaches like Michael Gold’s APRIL acronym: Autonomy, Passion, Risk, Innovation, and Listening (www.jazz-impact.com; Gold and Hirshfeld, 2005). And management trainers have developed exercises based on improvisatory theater to build the capacity for spontaneous role playing in the service of innovation (Crossan, 1998). Meanwhile, management scholars and marketing academics have viewed effective organization aimed at achieving objectives such as innovation or entrepreneurship as a parallel to the dynamic skills needed to integrate the disparate forces at work in a jazz band (Bastien and Hostager, 1988; Eisenberg, 1990; Weick, 1998; Dennis and Macaulay, 2003). Thus, academic writers have taken jazz impro- visation as a versatile analytic lens through which to view organiza- tional or strategic aspects of management and marketing (Eisenhardt, 1997; Barrett, 1998a,b; Berniker, 1998; Crossan, 1998; Hatch, 1998, 1999; Mirvis, 1998; Moorman and Miner, 1998a; Weick, 1998; Cunha et al., 1999; Chelariu et al., 2002; Pavlovich, 2003; John et al., 2006; Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 4 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy Dennis and Macaulay, 2007; Newton, 2004; see also the compilation by Kamoche et al., 2002). A favorite illustration arises in the case of new product development (Kamoche and Cunha, 2001; Moorman and Miner, 1998b). For example, Weick (1998) views jazz improvisa- tion and organizational innovation as analogous dialectical processes in which “order and control are breached extemporaneously . . . and a new order created” (p. 543) to achieve “construction that sounds logical in an unexpected way” (p. 547) or, in short, “an emerging structure” (p. 547): My bet is that improvising is close to the root process in organizing and that organizing itself consists largely of the embellishment of small structures. . . . Improvi- sation may be part of the infrastructure present in all organizing (p. 553). In this spirit, Barrett (1998a) suggests that the jazz metaphor par- allels those aspects that characterize the organization as “a complex adaptive system that is constantly evolving” (p. 619). Similarly, Hol- brook (2003) emphasizes the connection between jazz and a view of the organization as a “Dynamic Open Complex Adaptive System.” Along comparable lines, Newton (2004) views improvisation as “a set of skills that allows the improviser to adjust to changing circumstances and contexts” so as to account for “the improviser’s and leader’s abil- ity to adapt in the face of uncertainty” (p. 98). Similarly, Chelariu et al. (2002) emphasize that “improvisation holds hither-to-fore unex- plored possibilities for managers trying to cope with uncertain, rapidly changing and/or complex environments [where] detailed planning may be . . . a waste of time and resources” (p. 146). In this light, improvi- sation emerges as a key to the management of organizational change (Leybourne, 2006). Pursuing an important qualification, Pavlovich (2003) clarifies that such improvisation is only “seemingly unplanned” — in the sense that “the metaphor of jazz . . . demonstrates how . . . networks are organised through a process of improvisation” (p. 441): “The network, then, is the overall framework within which the components function; and . . . for the network to function cohesively, each component needs to collaboratively Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.2 Note on Notation 5 interact with the other components for the larger structure to be pro- ductive” (p. 442). As explained by Hatch (1998) when describing the organization as a dynamic open complex adaptive system: If you look at the list of characteristics that are associated with the 21st century organization, you find concepts like flexible, adaptable, responsive to the envi- ronment, loose boundaries, minimal hierarchy. When you look at the list for a second, if you’re interested in jazz, you recognize that all of those ideas could as easily be associated with a jazz band as a 21st century organization. And so the idea of comparing these two worlds seems like a sensible one (p. 557). Thus, Hatch (1999) redescribes organizational structure — including such aspects as adaptability and flexibility — as a performative demon- stration of the jazz metaphor. We find a similar focus on blurred boundaries, the avoidance of premature closure, and the maintenance of flexibility in the best writing on jazz theory — especially in the way that, in describing contrapuntal chord voicings, Gillespie (2000) advocates the delayed gratification of postponed resolutions: Contrapuntal movement . . . gives the progression a sense of anticipation and forward motion, and delays the final resolution. . . . Continuing the mov- ing voices . . . also disguises the whole progression and keeps each chord from becoming too strong or too “closed”. . . an open, suspended or “blurred boundary” effect is created from one chord to the next. . . . Instead of simply playing and hearing vertical harmony, indi- vidual voices and melodies are heard horizontally and take on a life of their own (p. 73). 1.2 Note on Notation Please note that, in this survey, the term chord voicing refers to “the position of notes contained within [a] chord from the lowest note to the Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 6 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy highest note” (Amadie, 1980, p. vii). In each case, we shall “spell” the relevant chord voicing from the lowest to the highest note. For example, in a root-position closed voicing, C7 = C-E − G-Bb. In an open voicing, C7 = C-G − E-Bb. With one possible addition, extension, alteration, or embellishment (the augmented ninth), C7#9 = C-G − E-Bb-D#′. And so forth. Typically, in the examples just given, the two lowest (remaining highest) notes of the chord would be played in the left (right) hand when performing on the piano. This division of labor between the two hands is indicated by a break before-and-after the relevant dash (e.g., between G and E in the example of an open voicing just given — namely, C7#9 = C-G − E-Bb-D#′). In this survey, middle C and the notes directly above middle C are indicated by upper-case letters with no other markings (C, D, E, F, G, A, B). Notes in the octave above that are indicated by a prime (C′, D′, E′, F′, G′, A′, B′). Where relevant, notes in the next octave above that are indicated by a double prime (C′′, D′′, E′′, F′′, G′′, A′′, B′′). Meanwhile, notes in the octave below middle C are underlined (C, D, E, F, G, A, B). Notes one or two octaves lower than that are underlined and marked by single or double primes (C′, D′, E′, F′, G′, A′, B′ or C′′, D′′, E′′, F′′, G′′, A′′, B′′). Readers interested in hearing the various musical examples men- tioned in this survey are invited to play them on a piano keyboard, following the notational system just described. Those who are unfa- miliar with the notes on a piano might wish to label a keyboard with the relevant designations by using the sticky parts of Post-It Notes cut to the appropriate size, as shown in Photo 1.1 of the author’s digital piano thus labeled. Warning: Please do not use anything stickier than Post-It Notes for this purpose. For example, do not use mailing labels because these may be difficult to remove at a later date (as the author has learned to his sorrow and to the enrichment of the Magic America Corpora- tion, which manufactures Goo Gone). And, of course, do not write on the piano keys themselves for fear of permanently defacing the instrument. Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.3 Limitations of the Jazz Metaphor 7 Photo 1.1 The Post-It Piano: A keyboard with notes appropriately labeled. Photo 1.2 An open voicing for C7#9 on the Post-It Piano. Notice that each of the black keys carries two names as both a sharp and a flat, depending on the context (C# = Db, D# = Eb, F# = Gb, G# = Ab, A# = Bb). These are labeled accordingly in the example just pictured. Using this method, the appropriate notes should be easy to identify with the help of what we shall call the Post-It Piano. The interested reader can thereby play each illustration so as to hear the relevant chord voicing or melody. For example, the voicing for an open C7#9 chord mentioned earlier would involve playing the keys indicated by arrows in Photo 1.2 (C7#9 = C-G – E-Bb-D#′). 1.3 Limitations of the Jazz Metaphor All the aforementioned contributions to our thinking about manage- ment styles and marketing practices have poked, probed, and pushed Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 8 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy the jazz metaphor in various ways useful in the development of valuable inspiration, ideas, and insights. But they have all suffered from limi- tations that have restricted their breadth of relevance to the world of business. Specifically, each writer who has pursued the jazz metaphor has tended to focus on just one type of jazz — for example, just one style of performance (such as a solo on a 12-bar blues within the con- text of a jazz quartet) or just one type of musical organization (such as a working band that plays together on a regular basis). This tendency toward emphasizing an inherently narrow range of illustrative concerns has given most applications of the jazz metaphor a rather parochial flavor and has confined their respective spheres of relevance in a man- ner comparable to that found in the old parable about the seven blind men investigating the nature of an elephant — where various observers think that the elephant resembles a long tube (the trunk), a snake (the tail), a creviced wall (the side), or a tree (one of the legs). As one illustration based on the jazz metaphor, the influential piece by Bastien and Hostager (1988) presents their beautifully detailed case study of a group performance by four musicians committed to a style of playing that reached its zenith roughly 70 years ago and that repre- sents only a tiny fraction of the overall jazz spectrum. More generally, the vast majority of those who have written about the jazz metaphor from the management- or marketing-related perspective have taken the viewpoint of a musical soloist playing a performance of a standard tune in a mainstream jazz group. Typically — according to common practice (Hodeir, 1962, pp. 82–83; Mehegan, 1965, p. 235; Tirro, 1967, p. 317; Berliner, 1994, p. 63; Owens, 1995, p. 18; Hatch, 1999; Pavlovich, 2003; Newton, 2004) — the tune follows a “head” arrangement based on a melody set to certain standard chord changes (“I Got Rhythm,” “What Is This Thing Called Love?,” “All the Things You Are,” a twelve-bar blues, or whatever). The performance begins with a short introduction (perhaps a “vamp” based on a repeated I-VI7-IIm7-V7 chord pattern), followed by a statement of the main theme (maybe by two or more horns playing in unison, harmony, or simple counterpoint). This leads to a series of solos by each instrumentalist — say, trumpet, tenor, piano, bass, drums (in a typical jazz quintet). After this, the soloists might trade “eights” or “fours” or “twos” (8-, 4-, or 2-bar phrases within the Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.3 Limitations of the Jazz Metaphor 9 32- or 12-bar structure of the tune). Then, the ensemble recapitulates the head and ends with some sort of “coda” (analogous to the vamp with which the performance began). In such a context, the main task of each musical soloist involves the invention of new melodic patterns to play over the recurrent chord changes that underlie the main theme. Such a description accurately portrays the standard operating proce- dure (SOP) for about 95% of the mainstream jazz performed between 1910 and 2010. Of course, departures have appeared — including the brave experi- ments of many performers who have courageously explored the bound- aries of avant-garde or free jazz (Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, Cecil Taylor, Sun Ra, Eric Dolphy, John Coltrane, and so forth). But even the most ardent disciples of freedom have generally followed some sort of coherent pattern in shaping the typical jazz performance — the listener’s challenge being to discern the (often elusive) under- lying structure, to anticipate appropriately, and to respond accord- ingly. Put differently, musical surprises and the musical meanings that result are impossible without the pre-existence of anticipatory musi- cal expectations (Meyer, 1956, 1967). Indeed, the ubiquity of such predictable patterns — as the basis for well-defined expectations — has encouraged the telling and retelling of the following whimsi- cal jazz-related joke (paraphrased from the version that appears at www.wesleydick.com/Jokes.html). A jazz critic has decided to take a break from writ- ing scathing reviews for his local newspaper and has embarked upon a safari in Africa. As his guide leads him deeper and deeper into the jungle, he begins to hear the tumultuous, furiously pounding sound of drums in the distance. The guide explains that these cacophonous noises emanate from the ritual celebrations of a local tribe, situated a few miles away. As the safari contin- ues, the drums grow louder. Fifteen minutes elapse. The critic asks, “When will the drums stop?” The guide answers, “The drums must not stop because terrible things happen when the drums stop.” So the drums Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 10 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy continue — growing louder and louder as the safari advances. After another hour, the critic again asks, “When will the drums stop?” And the guide again replies, “The drums must not stop because terrible things happen when the drums stop.” So the critic endures for another two hours — growing increasingly impatient, restless, and enervated. He grows dizzy. His head begins to throb. Once more, he asks, “When will those incessantly pounding drums stop?” And, once more, the guide responds, “The drums must not stop because terrible things happen when the drums stop.” Three more hours pass. By now, the sound of the drums has escalated to ear-shattering proportions. The critic has grown numb with pain — almost deaf from the throbbing agony of his horrific headache. Able to endure no longer, he frantically inquires, “But what terrible things will happen if the drums stop?” The guide looks at him with an all-knowing glance; smiles scornfully; and says, “Then we will have the bass solo!” (Note that this joke would be even funnier if it did in fact correspond to the typical order of events in a conventional jazz performance, in which the bass solo almost always precedes the incalculably louder drum solo.) In sum, then, applications of the jazz metaphor to management or marketing strategy typically reflect various limitations due to their restriction to particular jazz styles that embody high degrees of pre- dictability in their adherence to certain well-established canons of ordi- nary performance practice — for example, a standard tune based on familiar chord changes followed by performers who pursue the afore- mentioned intro-head-solos-fours-head-coda structure. 1.4 Moving Beyond the Jazz Metaphor Responding to such limitations of vision and scope in music-based anal- yses of management and marketing, Kamoche et al. (2003) advocate moving “Beyond the Jazz Metaphor” to consider alternative mod- els such as those drawn from Indian music, music therapy, and/or Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.4 Moving Beyond the Jazz Metaphor 11 music-relevant role theory: “It is important not to be mesmerized by the jazz metaphor to the point of ignoring the potential contributions of alternative metaphors and other avenues of theory-development in organizational improvisation” (p. 2024). In a similar spirit, Dennis and Macaulay (2007) suggest the need to transcend mere metaphor by exploring the more substantive aspects of jazz improvisation as actually practiced. Along these lines, Zack (2000) complains about confining theories of organizational improvising to a model based only on the aforemen- tioned mainstream genres of jazz and urges the importance of recogniz- ing different degrees of improvisation (Moorman and Miner, 1998a,b) from minimal (classical music viewed as rigid interpretation) . . . to constrained (swing viewed as flexible embellishment) . . . to extensive (bebop viewed as organic variation) . . . to maximal (postbop and free, avant-garde, or action jazz viewed as chaotic improvisation). As already noted by Hodeir (1956) in a similar spirit, further grada- tions exist so that “Between the extreme attitudes represented by the strict rendition of a given melody and its total disappearance, a number of compromises are possible” (p. 161). These gradations include what Hodeir calls the exposition-paraphrase (minor liberties with the tune’s melody); the paraphrase-chorus (amplifying the theme rather than stat- ing it directly); and the free variation (complete departure from the original tune) (p. 167). This recognition of degrees anticipates distinc- tions among levels of intensity proposed by the great saxophonist Lee Konitz — namely, interpretation (“minor liberties” with the melody); embellishment (“rephras[ing]” the melody); variation (“transfiguring the melody more substantially”); and full improvisation (“transform- ing the melody into patterns bearing little resemblance to the origi- nal model”) (Berliner, 1994, pp. 67–71, 221–222; Crook, 1999, p. 87). Similarly, Martin (1996) describes a continuum of liberties with the melody — where (in increasing degrees of departure) paraphrase impro- visation (simple embellishment of the head) < thematic improvisation (abstruse relationship to the head) < harmonic improvisation (no clear motivic relationship with the head) (pp. 38, 39). For example, Mar- tin describes saxophonist Charlie Parker’s solo on “Embraceable You” as featuring “relational ingenuity of the highest order” via “thematic Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 12 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy improvisations, not paraphrases” in which “the original material inge- niously and subtly directs the overall shape of the solo, but does not restrict or limit its melodic content” (p. 82). More generally, according to Martin (1996), “Parker’s thematic procedures seem consistent”: “Hence, whether Parker is playing the blues, jazz heads, or popular songs, thematic connection to the orig- inal melody will often unify the performances” (p. 109) so that “the outstanding, perhaps the defining, quality of Parker’s treatment of the- matic relationships is his balance of melodic formulas, especially in uptempo playing, with larger-scale voice leading and control that art- fully evoke the original material” (p. 111). In this view, “what keeps Parker’s formulas . . . from sounding mechanical or stale is his ability to integrate them into a coherent whole characterized by voice-leading fluency and subtle thematic interconnection, both internally and with the original melody” (p. 118). For a similar Schenkerian analysis that stresses the role of voice leading in the work of pianist Bill Evans, see Larson (1998). Further — in an analysis reminiscent of Meyer (1956, 1967) — Hatch (1999) demonstrates that the aforementioned degrees of improvisation are more intelligibly viewed as successive stages in the evolution of implicit expectations-evoking structures: To put this historical view in processual terms, as each use of structure is challenged by playing outside or between the anticipated notes, harmonies and beats of an existing form, new forms of jazz are created which redefine expectations and thus present new opportuni- ties (new empty spaces) for thwarting them. Thus, the practices of jazz (e.g., soloing, comping, trading fours, listening and responding, finding the groove, playing the head, improvising) fill the empty spaces in the struc- ture of jazz as it is currently constituted, and as this happens, the structure of jazz itself is transformed. Put another way, the improvisational practices of jazz con- stitute the conditions of its own structural transforma- tion, even as the structures of jazz provide the starting Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.4 Moving Beyond the Jazz Metaphor 13 point for improvisation. In this way, playing what is not explicated by one structure permits the creation of another, not unrelated to the first, but rather displaying both continuity and discontinuity with it (p. 84). As described by Mehegan (1962a), “Like any art form, jazz displays an inevitable dialectic toward more comprehensive modes of expression”: “The obvious extension and refinement of skills and techniques must be thought of as representative of a comparable progressive extension of feeling and thinking on the part of the successive generation[s] of people who listened to this music” (p. 15). In the business-oriented literature, by their own admission, Kamoche et al. (2003) continue to employ a rather narrow concept of the jazz metaphor — one based on standard procedures in the trad, swing, bop, and postbop styles (p. 2047). In other words — like most authors — Kamoche et al. (2003) retain a rather circumscribed view of jazz as a fairly homogeneous genre; they then propose the need to look beyond that to other types of music and to other types of phenomena. An alternative approach — favored by the present author — might have broadened the conception of jazz itself in ways that would have covered an enlarged or elaborated perspective. Similarly, even while also calling for a move beyond the jazz metaphor, Dennis and Macaulay (2007) retain a focus on the traditional procedures of a typical mainstream jazz group — in which, as already noted, an (optional) introductory vamp → the head arrangement → various solo choruses → (often) trading 8-, 4-, or 2-bar phrases → a recapitulation of the head arrangement → (perhaps) a coda (Mehegan, 1965, p. 235; Tirro, 1967, p. 317; Berliner, 1994, p. 63; Owens, 1995, p. 18). Indeed, Newton (2004) constructs his entire essay to reflect this inherently stereotypical structure, while Pavlovich (2003) echoes Hatch (1999) in following essentially the same implicit design. Notice how strongly this familiar scenario resembles that described by Hodeir (1962) almost 50 years ago: There they are, four or five musicians in short- sleeves . . . . let’s say there are drums, bass, piano, tenor sax and trumpet. . . . Before the first down-beat, there Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 14 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy must be a short conference to decide, first the theme on which to improvise, and then the key and tempo. . . . When all are agreed at last, they attack the first bar. The trumpet will begin by stating the theme . . . the sax- ophone may weave a countermelody. . . . Soon the thirty- two bar statement is over and it is time to get down to business. A brief exchange of glances has shown that the saxophonist is more willing — or anxious — to play than his partner, so the trumpet player gives him the go-ahead, reserving the right to play, later on, as many choruses as his partner is about to play now. . . . Later, after the trumpet solo, the pianist will have a few choruses to himself, the bass player may follow suit; then the “horns” will probably invite the drummer to share a chorus or two with them, in four bar sequences, before they return to a final statement of the theme (pp. 82, 83). For the most part, the present analysis will retain the common focus on jazz that adheres to an harmonic structure represented by a stan- dard set of chord changes — as typified by a 12-bar blues; by the traditional 32-bar tune from the Great American Songbook (consisting of show tunes and popular songs from days of yore); or by an origi- nal composition (often of unique or unconventional harmonic structure but still with recognizable chord changes) written by one or another jazz master (Tirro, 1974). However — as anticipated by Hodeir (1962) in his distinctions between “the improviser . . . the tune writer . . . the arranger . . . and the composer” (p. 90) — the present author believes that it is time to abandon the excessively monolithic view of jazz as an undifferentiated commodity and to recognize the subtle complexi- ties of differences among various kinds of jazz artists, what they have accomplished, and how these differences suggest complications in our perspectives on management practice and marketing strategy. In short, let us pursue an expanded view — not of jazz per se — but rather of those who perform this music and of the ways in which they enact these performances. Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 1.5 Preview 15 In this connection, Kamoche et al. (2003) characterize the “orthodox view” of the jazz metaphor as implying that “jazz . . . improvisation is something best done by highly skilled and self-directed individuals who have absolute discretion over task, materials and tools” (pp. 2037, 2038). This quote accurately summarizes the typical focus on jazz as a soloistic art form practiced by gifted improvisational artists. However, it neglects the important complicating qualifications (1) that some jazz musicians perform primarily as supporting members of well-integrated groups or even as leaders of big bands; (2) that some jazz musicians display advanced skills not so much as improvisers but rather as gifted composers, arrangers, or orchestrators (Coker, 1975, p. 73); and, indeed, (3) that some jazz musicians — not gifted in the art of impro- visation — rely on leadership skills or possibly on no special mastery of any kind. Put differently, in moving “Beyond the Jazz Metaphor,” Kamoche et al. (2003) call attention to the fact that — beyond conventional mainstream jazz — other kinds of improvisation deserve consideration. These “other kinds” would include music from different cultures (Asian, African, Indian, Latino) as well as unstructured aspects of free-form or avant-garde jazz. Such expansions of our past preoccupations will doubtless make a valuable contribution. By contrast, however, we must also recognize that — within mainstream jazz — hitherto neglected dif- ferences, subtleties, and nuances also demand recognition. The latter phenomena shape the central concerns of the present analysis. 1.5 Preview This survey addresses the concerns just raised by proposing an expanded view of the jazz metaphor — namely, a broadened perspective that embraces a wide range of possibilities in the relevant organization-, business-, management-, or marketing-related analogy at work. In this, the author will attempt to achieve the sort of extension or elaboration that Cornelissen (2006) — elucidating the work by Weick (1989) on Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 16 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy “disciplined imagination” — recommends as a way of exploiting the theory-enriching meanings of metaphor where “(metaphorical) imagi- nation leads to simulated images which . . . can . . . be elaborated on to form more full-scale representations of a subject or problem” (p. 1582): According to Weick, conceptual advances come about when instead of scouting out old ground for neglected gems, we cover new ground by examining empirical con- texts previously overlooked but potentially illuminating of large-scale organizations . . . and by conceptually asso- ciating ideas that were not previously related, let alone associated with one another (p. 1583). Thus, the present author will propose a new Typology of Jazz Musi- cians based on different kinds of artistic offerings. This typology will combine three key distinctions or dimensions to construct a twelve- fold classification that — when extended to the sphere of organiza- tional behavior and business strategy as a Typology of Management and Marketing Styles — will shed light on different ways in which the jazz metaphor relates to organizational design, business practice, man- agement skills, and marketing opportunities. Before describing these typologies, however, we must first consider some important aspects of a first-level jazz metaphor as it relates to organizational issues involved in shaping the jazz improvisation into a form of collective collaboration, followed by attention to a second-level linguistic metaphor based on viewing jazz as a kind of language at the foundation for a collaborative conversation. 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Full text available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.1561/1700000007 Introduction: Jazz and Organizational Strategy Background Note on Notation Limitations of the Jazz Metaphor Moving Beyond the Jazz Metaphor Preview The First-Level Jazz Metaphor: Organizing for Improvisation Thinking in Jazz The Essence of Improvisation: Practice Makes Perfect…Or Not Improvisation Versus Composition Soloist Chord Progressions and Notations Ensembles, Small and Large Collaboration Amidst Complexity The Second-Level Linguistic Metaphor: Jazz as a Language Music and Linguistics: Chomsky, Come Home Licks, Tricks, and Clichés Rules for Harmonic Extensions and Alterations Rules for Harmonic Substitutions Harmonic Structure Melodic Structure Jazz, Speech, and the Combination of Smaller Elements Licks or Principles? Cases or Concepts? Conventional Wisdom and the Language Metaphor The Jazz Contrafact The Theory and Psychology of Improvisation The Psychology of Jazz Improvisation: Models and Simulations The Producer as Consumer Listening To Oneself The Question of Rhythm Harmony and the Melodic Line Vertical Versus Horizontal Playing --- The Fallacy of ``One Size Fits All'' The Jazz Conversation: Telling a Story The Jazz Collaboration: Collective Conversation Toward a New Typology of Jazz Musicians Dimension One: Musical Context Dimension Two: Composition Dimension Three: Improvisation A New Typology of Jazz Musicians Management and Marketing Styles Dimension One: Organizational Context Dimension Two: Formal Planning Dimension Three: Organizational Innovation Typology of Management and Marketing Styles Duke Ellington: If it SOUNDS Good, it IS Good Dizzy Gillespie: Beyond Royalty, The Ultimate Jazz Icon Innovativeness and Planning Openness to External Influences Cheerfulness and Optimism Knowledge Humanity Recapitulation and Reflections on Durability Finale Creativity and Reconciliation Linguistic Models Playing in the Zone Coda Acknowledgments References 
work_upyuil3cuvgm3hbfazl3247eg4	----	BULLETIN OF THE AMERICAN MATHEMATICAL SOCIETY Volume 81, Number 1, January 1975 JOSEPH L. WALSH IN MEMORIAM BY MORRIS MARDEN Threescore years and ten is the biblical measure of a man's normal life span. Yet in modern times his surpassing of this bound is not unusual. However, it becomes noteworthy when he is blessed with undiminished physical and mental vigor. This was true of Joe Walsh. "His spirit was marvelous until the end, and he spoke with gratitude for his many pro- ductive years."1 Joseph Leonard Walsh died on December 10, 1973 at the age of seventy eight years in his home at University Park, Maryland. This site is not far from where he was born on September 21, 1895, as son of Reverend and Mrs. John Leonard Walsh. Most of his academic life as student, teacher and scholar was spent at Harvard University. In 1916 Harvard awarded him the S.B. degree, summa cum laude, and at the same time a Sheldon Traveling Fellowship for study at the Universities of Chicago and Wis- consin. On his return to Harvard in 1917, Walsh began some studies under Maxime Bôcher, but their progress was interrupted by World War I and his enlistment as an ensign in the U.S. Navy. In 1920 Harvard granted him a Ph.D. and also a second Sheldon Traveling Fellowship, this time for study in Paris under Paul Montel. Back from Europe in 1921 he joined the Harvard faculty, but in 1925 took a leave-of-absence for a year's research at Munich under Carathéodory. Returning again to Harvard, he was promoted through the ranks to a full professorship in 1935 and served as department chairman from 1937 to 1942. In the latter year he was recalled to active duty in the U.S. Navy as a lieutenant commander. When he returned to Harvard in 1946, he was appointed to the pres- tigous Perkins Professorship, which he held until his retirement in 1966. A semester earlier he began a research professorship at the University of Maryland, in which position he remained fully active, working with Ph.D. and post doctoral students, until a few months before his death. During Walsh's lifetime he received many academic and nonacademic honors. Among them was his election in 1936 to the National Academy of Science, and in 1937 to the vice-presidency of the American Mathemati- cal Society. He was elected for a two-year term as president of the Society in 1949. This was a crucial period for the Society when it was experiencing 1 Letter from Mrs. Joseph L. Walsh. Copyright © American Mathematical Society 1975 45 License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 46 MORRIS MARDEN [January JOSEPH L. WALSH (1895-1973) License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 1975] J. L. WALSH 47 growing pains due to a rapid increase in membership and in research publications. It was the period in which the Society created the post of Executive Director and moved its headquarters to Providence. Also during this period Walsh served as chairman of the organizing committee for the International Mathematical Congress, held in Cambridge during August 1950, the first since World War II. At about this time Walsh was recipient of a nonmathematical honor—promotion to the rank of captain in the U.S. Naval Reserve. In his later years Walsh was twice honored by the dedication of volumes of mathematical journals: SIAM J. (2) 3 (1966) on his seventieth birthday in 1965, and J. Approximation Theory 5 (1972) on his seventy-fifth birthday in 1970. These mathematical honors were well deserved in view of the quantity and quality of his original research. Starting with his first publication in 1916, while still an undergraduate, he wrote, singly or jointly with students and others, a total of 279 research, expository, and book review articles as well as seven books. Though these papers covered a wide range of topics, they were, broadly speaking, concerned with four general areas: (I) The relative location of the zeros of pairs of rational functions such as a polynomial and its derivative. (II) Zeros and topology of extremal polynomials. (III) The critical points and level lines of Green's function and other harmonic functions. (IV) Interpolation and approximation of continuous, analytic, or harmonic functions. Regarding the general area (I), this was Walsh's first main research interest. His doctoral thesis was entitled On the roots of the jacobian, of two binary forms. It was written under the guidance of Maxime Bôcher who had proved that if F and G are binary forms of the same degree and if all the zeros aó of F lie in a circular region A and all the zeros bi of G lie in a circular region B with BnA = 0, then all the zeros ck of the jacobian J(F, G) lie in A UB. Like Bôcher, Walsh used geometric and physical methods, interpreting the ck as equilibrium points in the field due to positive masses at the points aj and negative masses at the points b$ with an inverse distance force law. Walsh's results are generalizations of the Lucas theorem that the convex hull of the zeros of a polynomial ƒ contains all the critical points of/. These results are described in Walsh's papers and in M. Marden, Geometry of polynomials, 2nd éd., Math Surveys, no. 3, Amer. Math. Soc, Providence, R.I., 1966, MR 37 #1562. The most striking of these results are the following three: (1) If an «th degree polynomial ƒ has nx zeros in a disk \z—c1\^.r1 and the remaining n2=n—n1 zeros in the disk \z—c2|^r2, then any critical License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 48 MORRIS MARDEN [January point of/ not in one of these disks lies in a third, "average" disk (2) If Cl9 C2 and C3 are disjoint circular regions and if a rational function ƒ has in the extended plane all its zeros in CxuC2 and all its poles in C3, then any critical point off not in C ^ U Q u C , lies in a circular region C4. The boundary 9C4 of C4 is the locus of the point z4 defined by the cross ratio (zl9 z2, z3, z4)=const when zl9 z2, z3 vary independently on the circles dCl9 dC2, dC3 respectively. (3) Let the form 0(zl 5 z2, • • • , zw) be of degree one in each zi9 and of total degree n and symmetric in the set zl9 z2, • • • , zn. Let C be a circular region containing the n points z,=zi0, y = l , 2, • • • , w. Then in C there exists at least one point £ such that <!>(£, £, • • • , Ç)=$(z10, z20, • • • , zn0). Regarding the general area (II), the methods and results were suggested in part by those in area (I). Given a closed bounded set E containing at least n+\ points and the class Pn of all polynomials z n+a1z n~1+- • -+an9 an infrapolynomial p on E means a polynomial p ePn with the property max \p(z)\ = min max \q(z)\. zeE «ePn zeE The zeros of p play a role vis-à-vis set E similar to that of the critical points of a polynomial ƒ vis-à-vis the zeros of ƒ. For instance, Fejér proved that the zeros ofp lie in the convex hull of E9 and Fekete showed that p satisfies a form involving the points of E that is similar to the form for the logarithmic derivative of ƒ in terms of the zeros of p. Walsh ex- plored the subject of infrapolynomials intensively in papers which he published singly or jointly with Fekete, Motzkin, Shisha and Zedek. Likewise the general area (III) was partly an offshoot of area (I). For example, Walsh proved that if G is the Green's function (with pole at infinity) for an unbounded region R with bounded boundary B9 then all the critical points of G in R lie in the convex hull of B. Thus, the critical points of G play a role similar to the critical points of a polynomial whose zeros lie on B. In this connection Walsh also examined in detail the cur- vature and other characteristics of the level lines of Green's function. These theorems together with their generalizations to harmonic measures and other harmonic functions are developed in Walsh's papers and de- scribed in his book, Critical points of analytical and harmonic functions. As for general area (IV), the subjects of interpolation and approximation encompass about half of Walsh's published articles as well as his now classical treatise entitled Interpolation and approximation. Among his many original results in this area, probably the most important are the License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 1975] J. L. WALSH 49 following two : (1) Every function continuous on a bounded Jordan arc J can be ap- proximated on J uniformly by a polynomial in z. (2) Every function ƒ analytic in a Jordan region B and continuous on its closure B can be uniformly approximated on B by a polynomial in z. The first is a generalization of Weierstrass' theorem, which requires arc J to be a closed interval of the real axis. The second is a generalization of Runge's theorem, which requires ƒ to be analytic in B. To prove this second theorem, Walsh approximated to B by a sequence of Jordan regions Bn with 5<= Bn+1<^Bn for all n, and then applied Runge's theorem in B to the function Fn(z)=f(xn(z))9 where w=Xn( z) maps Bn one-to-one conformally onto B. Walsh later extended this second theorem to sets B which are the union of a finite number of disjoint Jordan regions. Thus he paved the way for the more comprehensive theorem proved later by Mergelyan: i f / i s a function continuous on any closed bounded set S and analytic at all interior points of S9 then it can be approximated on S uniformly by a polynomial in z. Walsh maintained an active interest in interpolation, approximation and related topics over a period of about fifty years. Most recently he helped develop some of the fundamental theorems concerning spline interpolation and approximation both on the real line and in the complex plane. His contributions may be found in his published papers as well as in the monograph The theory of splines and their applications, which he wrote jointly with J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson. In the related area of orthogonal expansions, special mention should be made of the so-called Walsh functions <p(nXx). These are defined on the interval O ^ x ^ l by the relations (p0(x)=l ; <p?\x) = l, 0 ^ x < i ; ^(1 1,(x) = - l , * < J C ^ 1 ; çCr 1 ^*) = 9>SS(*) = <Pn\2x), 0^x<i; tâï^ix) = - fâfa) - ( - 1)*-Vnfc)(2* - 1), i < x <, 1 ; A: = 1,2,3,---,2 W - 1 ; « = 1, 2, 3, • • • . These functions, having some similarity to the Haar functions, were in- vented by Walsh in 1923 (see his paper 1923b). Now among the most widely used complete orthonormal systems, these functions serve as a valuable mathematical tool in communications engineering and other applied sciences.2 They are treated in Harmuth's book on Transmission of information by orthogonal functions, 2nd éd., Springer-Verlag, New York, 1972; in a survey article by Balashov and Rubinshtein, Series with 2 Letter from T. J. Rivlin. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 50 MORRIS MARDEN [January respect to Walsh system and their generalization, J. Soviet Math. 1 (1973), 727-763 which lists 140 references; in an article by N. J. Fine, Encyclo- paedic Dictionary of Physics, suppl. vol. 4, Pergamon, New York, 1971; and in Proc. Sympos. on Applications of Walsh Functions, 1970, 1971, 1972 and 1973. A fifth such symposium was held March 18-20, 1974 at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C. Not only did Walsh himself contribute to the above described areas of research, but also he introduced many of his students to these areas. This is evident from the titles of the doctoral theses written under his direc- tion. Walsh had altogether thirty-one Ph.D. students. The present writer succeeded in contacting nearly all of them to ask for their recollections of him as a research advisor, teacher and friend. In what follows are recorded some of this memorabilia. Nearly all his former students agreed that, as a thesis advisor, Walsh was patient, generous and considerate, and freely gave help and encourage- ment. This was true, not only during the developmental stages of each thesis, but even during the years afterwards. It must have given him a great deal of satisfaction that over the years so many of his students con- tinued to contribute to mathematical literature, and that they wrote special papers in his honor on the occasion of his seventieth and seventy-fifth birthdays. Their remembrance of Walsh as a teacher almost always includes certain rituals accompanying each of his lectures. The opening ritual was to fling the classroom windows wide open regardless of outside tempera- tures and to deliver his lecture pacing back and forth on the platform while the students might be freezing in their seats. The closing ritual seemed to have been to toss his chalk into the waste basket from whatever position he ended the lecture. Besides, during the run of a lecture he was occasion- ally known to have used an inattentive student as a target for the chalk. Elementary calculus and introductory complex function theory were his favorite courses, but whatever the subject he prepared his lectures with meticulous care and presented them in a deep, musical voice. Nearly all his former students were impressed by his love of walking. Regardless of the weather he would hike the mile and a half (or so) from his home near Fresh Pond to Widener Library or Seaver Hall. When he accepted the appointment to the University of Maryland, his first prerequisite for a new home was that it be within walking distance of the University. Some of his former students recollect his sense of humor and his en- joyment of practical jokes. For example, at the 1948 summer meetings of the Society in New Haven, a group photograph was being taken with the License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 1975] J. L. WALSH 51 mathematicians seated on wide circular bleachers. As the camera rotated, Walsh got his companion to run with him from one end of the bleachers to the other and thus they appeared twice in the same composite photo- graph.3 As another instance, a former student who felt himself a novice in teaching sought pedagogic advice from Walsh, to which the latter gave the terse reply: "Always start writing in the upper left-hand corner of the blackboard".4-5 In summary, Walsh may be characterized as having had a strong sense of duty to religion, country and chosen work, as well as a love of art and music and a Thoreau-like love of nature.6 Above all, he was a resolute, hard worker, known to have spent long hours daily in his Widener study. He explored his problems thoroughly along all possible paths and by- ways, usually reporting his discoveries in a succession of papers. Often years later he revisited the same problems, searching for nuggets that he may have missed on his earlier explorations. When asked on one occasion how he managed to keep up the terrific pace of publication, Walsh pointed to the self-portrait of an artist showing Death standing nearby and the artist working to complete as much as possible in the little time that remained.3 The verdict of history will surely be that Walsh did win this race against time. He did leave a permanent imprint upon the mathe- matics of this century and especially upon the men and women whose mathematical careers he helped to launch. In the words of the poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, [Charles Sumner, stanza 9] "So when a great man dies For years beyond our ken The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men." PAPERS BY JOSEPH L. WALSH 1916 Note on Cauchy's integral formula, Ann. of Math. 18, 79-80. 1918 On the location of the roots of the Jacobian of two binary forms and of the deriva- tive of a rational function, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 19, 291-298. 1920 a. On the proof of Cauchy's integral formula by means of Green's formula, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 26, 155-157. 3 Letter from E. N. Nilson. 4 Letter from T. J. Rivlin. 5 Other anecdotes may be found in the two articles: D. V. Widder, Joseph Leonard Walsh, J. SIAM Numer. Anal. 3 (1966), 171-172; M. Marden, Homage to Walsh, J. Approximation Theory 5 (1972), ix-xiii. 6 Letter from Maurice Heins. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 52 MORRIS MARDEN [January b. On the solution of linear equations in infinitely many variables by successive approximations, Amer. J. Math. 42, 91-96. c. On the location of the roots of the derivative of a polynomial, Ann. of Math. 22, 128-144. 1921 a. On the location of the roots of the derivative of a polynomial, Comptes Rendus du Congrès International des Mathématiciens (Strasbourg, 1920), Publiés par Henri Villat, Toulouse, Edouard Privât, pp. 339-342. b. On the location of the roots of the Jacobian of two binary forms and of the deriva- tive of a rational function, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 22, 101-116. c. A generalization of the Fourier cosine series, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 22, 230-239. d. On the transformation of convex point sets, Ann. of Math. 22, 262-266. e. Sur la position des racines des dérivées d'un polynôme, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 172, 662-664. f. Solution to proposed problem by Nathan Altschillercourt, "Find the surfaces all the plane sections of which are circles", Amer. Math. Monthly 28, 480. g. (With N. Wiener), The equivalence of expansions in terms of orthogonal functions, J. Math. Phys. 1, 103-122 h. A theorem on cross-ratios in the geometry of inversion, Ann. of Math. 23, 45-51. 1922 a. A theorem on loci connected with cross-ratios, Rend. Circ. Mat. Palermo 46, 236-248. b. On the location of the roots of the derivative of a polynomial, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 8, 139-141. c. A certain two-dimensional locus, Amer. Math. Monthly 29, 112-114. d. Some two-dimensional loci connected with cross ratios, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 23, 67-88. e. A generalization of normal congruences of circles, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 28, 456-462. f. On the convergence of the Sturm-Liouville series, Ann. of Math. 24, 109-120. g. On the location of the roots of certain types of polynomials, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 24, 163-180. h. On the location of the roots of the Jacobian of two binary forms and of the deriva- tive of a rational function, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 24, 31-69. 1923 a. Sur un théorème d'algèbre, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 176, 1361-1364. b. A closed set of normal orthogonal functions, Amer. J. Math. 45, 5-24. c. A property of Haar's system of orthogonal functions, Math. Ann. 90, 38-45. 1924 a. Sur la détermination d'une analytique par ses valeurs sur un contour, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 178, 58-60. b. On the location of the roots of polynomials, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 30, 51-62. c. Some two-dimensional loci, Quart. J. Pure Math. 1, 154-165. d. On the expansion of analytic functions in series of polynomials, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 26, 155-170. e. On the location of the roots of Lamé's polynomials, Tôhoku Math. J. 23, 312-317. f. A generalization of evolutes, Rend. Circ. Mat. Palermo 48, 23-27. g. (Book Review), The Strasbourg Congress, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 30, 461-464. h. An inequality for the roots of an algebraic equation, Ann. of Math. 25, 285-286. i. On Pellet's theorem concerning the roots of a polynomial, Ann. of Math. 26, 59-64. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 1975] J. L. WALSH 53 1925 a. Sur la position des racines des fonctions entières de genre zero et un, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 180,2009-2011. 1926 a. Note on the location of the roots of a polynomial, Math. Z. 24, 733-742. b. Über die Entwicklung einer analytischen Funktion nach Polynomen, Math. Ann. 96, 430-436. c. Über die Entwicklung einer Funktion einer komplexen Verânderlichen nach Polynomen, Math. Ann. 96, 437-450. d. Über den Gr ad der Approximation einer analytischen Funktion, Sitzungs- berichte Baverischen Akad. Wiss., 223-229. 1927 a. A paradox resulting from integeration by parts, Amer. Math. Monthly 34, 88. b. On the expansion of harmonie functions in terms of harmonie polynomials, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 13, 175-180. c. On the degree of approximation to a harmonic function, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 33, 591-598. 1928 a. On the expansion of analytic functions in series of polynomials and in series of other analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 30, 307-332. b. (Book Review), The logarithmic potential, By G. C. Evans, Amer. Math. Monthly 35, 254-257. c. On approximation to an arbitrary function of a complex variable by polynomials, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 30, 472-482. d. Über die Entwicklung einer harmonischen Funktion nach harmonischen Poly- nomen, J. Reine Angew. Math. 159, 197-209. e. On the degree of approximation to an analytic function by means of rational functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 30, 838-847. 1929 a. Note on the expansion of analytic functions in series of polynomials and in series of other analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 31, 53-57. b. The approximation of harmonic functions by harmonic polynomials and by harmonic rational functions, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 35, 499-544. c. On approximation by rational functions to an arbitrary function of a complex variable, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 31, 477-502. d. Boundary values of an analytic function and the Tchebycheff method of approxi- mation, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 15, 799-802. 1930 a. On the overconvergence of sequences of polynomials of best approximation, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 16, 297. b. Boundary values of an analytic f unction and the Tchebycheff method of approxi- mation, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 32, 335-390. c. On the overconvergence of sequences of polynomials of best approximation, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 32, 794-816. 1931 a. Note on the overconvergence of sequences of polynomials of best approximation, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 33, 370-388. b. The existence of rational functions of best approximation, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 33, 668-689. c. On the overconvergence of certain sequences of rational functions of best approxi- mation, Acta Math. 57, 411-435. 1932 a. On interpolation and approximation by rational functions with preassigned poles, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 34, 22-74. b. An expansion of meromorphic functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 18, 165-171. c. On polynomial interpolation to analytic functions with singularities, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 38, 289-294. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 54 MORRIS MARDEN [January d. On the overconvergence of sequences of rational functions, Amer. J. Math. 54, 559-570. e. On interpolation to harmonic functions by harmonic polynomials, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 18, 514-517. f. Interpolation and functions analytic interior to the unit circle, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 34, 523-556. 1933 a. Bateman on mathematical physics, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 39, 178-180. (Review). b. Interpolation and an analogue of the Laurent development, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 19, 203-207. c. The Cauchy-Goursat theorem for rectifiable Jordan curves, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 19, 540-541. d. An extremal problem in analytic functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 19, 900-902. e. Note on polynomial interpolation to analytic functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 19, 959-963. f. Note on the location of the critical points of Green* s function, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 39, 775-782. g. A duality in interpolation to analytic functions by rational functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 19, 1049-1053. h. On series of interpolation and the degree of convergence of sequences of analytic functions, Tôhoku Math. J. 38, 375-389. i. Note on the location of the roots of the derivative of a polynomial, Mathematica (Cluj) 8, 185-190. 1934 a. (With Helen G. Russell), On the convergence and overconvergence of sequences of polynomials of best simultaneous approximation to several functions analytic in distinct regions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 36, 13-28. b. On approximation to an analytic function by rational functions of best approxi- mation, Math. Z. 38, 163-176. c. Note on the orthogonality of Tchebycheff polynomials on confocal ellipses, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 40, 84-88. d. Some interpolation series, Amer. Math. Monthly 41, 300-308. e. Sur Vinterpolation par fonctions rationnelles, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 198, 1377- 1378. f. Note on the location of the critical points of harmonic functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 20, 551-554. 1935 a. Lemniscates and equipotential curves of Green's function, Amer. Math. Monthly 42, 1-17. 1936 a. A necessary condition for approximation by rational functions, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 42, 219-221. b. The divergence of sequences of polynomials interpolating in roots of unity, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 42, 715-719. c. Note on the behavior of a polynomial at infinity, Amer. Math. Monthly 43, 461-464. d. A mean-value theorem for polynomials and harmonic polynomials, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 42, 923-930. 1937 a. Note on the curvature of level curves of Green's function, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 23, 84-89. b. (With W. E. Sewell), Note on degree of approximation to an integral by Riemann sums, Amer. Math. Monthly 44, 155-160. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 1975] J. L. WALSH 55 c. Note on the curvature of orthogonal trajectories of level curves of Green's function Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 23, 166-169. d. On the shape of level curves of Green's function, Amer. Math. Monthly 44, 202-213. e. Maximal convergence of sequences of harmonic polynomials, Ann. of Math. 38, 321-354. f. (With G. M. Merriman), Note on the simultaneous orthogonality of harmonic polynomials on several curves, Duke Math. J. 3, 279-288. g. (With W. E. Sewell), Note on the relation between continuity and degree of polynomial approximation in the complex domain, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 43, 557-563. 1938 a. Note on the curvature of orthogonal trajectories of level curves of Green's functions, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 44, 520-523. b. (With W. Seidel), On the derivatives of functions analytic in the unit circle, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 24, 337-340. c. On interpolation and approximation by functions analytic and bounded in a given region, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 24, 477-486. d. (With W. E. Sewell), Note on degree of trigonometric and polynomial approxi- mation to an analytic function, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 44, 865-873. 1939 a. (Book Review), Convergence, by W. L. Ferrar, Science 89, 59-60. b. Note on the location of zeros of the derivative of a rational function whose zeros and poles are symmetric in a circle, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 45, 462- 470. c. On interpolation by functions analytic and bounded in agiven region, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 46, 46-65. MR 1, 10. d. On the circles of curvature of the images of circles under a conformai map, Amer. Math. Monthly 46, 472-485. MR 1, 111. 1940 a. Note on the curvature of orthogonal trajectories of level curves of Green's function. Ill, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 46, 101-108. MR 1, 210. b. On the degree of convergence of sequences of rational f unctions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 47, 254-292. MR 1, 309. c. Note on the degree of convergence of sequences of analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 47, 293-304. MR 1, 310. d. (With W. E. Sewell), Note on degree of trigonometric and polynomial approxi- mation to an analytic function, in the sense of least pth powers, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 46, 312-319. MR 1, 309. e. (With W. E. Sewell), Sufficient conditions for various degrees of approximation by polynomials, Duke Math. J. 6, 658-705. MR 2, 80. 1941 a. (Book Review), Sur les valeurs exceptionelles des fonctions méromorphes et de leurs dérivées, By Georges Valiron, Actualités Sci. Indust., no. 570, Hermann, Paris, 1937; Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 47, 7-8. b. (With W. E. Sewell), On the degree of polynomial approximation to analytic functions: problem P, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 49, 229-257. MR 2, 276. c. (With W. Seidel), On approximation by euclidean and non-euclidean trans- lations of an analytic function, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 47, 916-920. MR 4, 10. 1942 a. Note on the coefficients of over convergent power series, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 48, 163-166. MR 3, 201. b. (With W. Seidel), On the derivatives of functions analytic in the unit circle and their radii ofunivalence and of p-valence, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 52,128-216. MR 4, 215. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 56 MORRIS MARDEN [January 1943 a. Local civil time and date from time diagram, Proc. U.S. Naval Institute 69 (Whole No. 479), 23-24. b. A new diagram for a universal small-area plotting sheet, Proc. U.S. Naval Institute 69 (Whole No. 487), 1221-1222. 1944 a. (With E. N. Nilson), Interpolation and approximation by functions analytic and bounded in a given region, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 55,53-67. MR 5,115. 1946 a. The running fix as used at sea (Some navigational wrinkles on "Pilot Chart of the North Atlantic Ocean," No. 1400), Hydrographie Office, Washington, D.C. b. Note on the location of the critical points of harmonic functions, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 52, 346-347. MR 7, 382. c. Overconvergence, degree of convergence, and zeros of sequences of analytic func- tions, Duke Math. J. 13, 195-234. MR 8, 201. d. On degree of approximation on a Jordan curve to a function analytic interior to the curve by functions not necessarily analytic interior to the curve, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 52, 449-453. MR 7, 514. e. Taylor's series and approximation to analytic f unctions, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 52, 572-579. MR 8, 144. f. (Book Review), Table of arc sin x and Tables of associated Legendre functions, by Lyman J. Briggs, et al., Science 104, 41. g. Note on the location of the zeros of the derivative o f a rational function having prescribed symmetry, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 32, 235-237. MR 8, 144. 1947 a. A rigorous treatment of the first maximum problem in the calculus, Amer. Math. Monthly 54, 35-36. b. On the location of the critical points of harmonic measure, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 33, 18-20. MR 8, 461. c. (With E. N. 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Amer. Math. Soc. 2, 671-681. MR 13, 335. b. Note on the location of the critical points of a real rational function, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 2, 682-685. MR 13, 451. c. Note on approximation by bounded analytic functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 37, 821-826. MR 13, 545. 1952 a. On Rouché's theorem and the integral-square measure of approximation, Proc. Internat. Congress Math., vol. 1, Amer. Math. Soc., Providence, R.I., pp. 405- 406. b. (With E. N. Nilson), Note on overconvergence in sequences of analytic functions, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 3, 442-443. MR 13, 927. c. Polynomial expansions of functions defined by Cauchfs integral, J. Math. Pures Appl. (9) 31, 221-244. MR 14, 547. d. Note on the location of zeros of extremal polynomials in the non-euclidean plane, Acad. Serbe Sci. Publ. Inst. Math. 4, 157-160. MR 14, 164. e. (With Philip Davis), Interpolation and orthonormal systems, J. Analyse Math. 2, 1-28. MR 16, 580. f. 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(With David Young), On the accuracy of the numerical solution of the Dirichlet problem by finite differences, J. Res. Nat. Bur. Standards 51, 343-363. MR 15, 562. 1954 a. An interpolation problem for harmonic functions, Amer. J. Math. 76, 259-272. MR 16, 588. b. (With David Young), On the degree of convergence of solutions of difference equations to the solution of the Dirichlet problem, J. Math. Phys. 33, 80-93. MR 15, 746. c. (With Philip Davis), On representations and extensions of bounded linear functionals defined on classes of analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 76, 190-206. MR 15, 803. d. (With J. P. Evans), Note on the distribution of zeros of extremal polynomials, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 40, 332-337. MR 15, 954. e. (With J. P. Evans), On approximation by bounded analytic functions, Arch. Math. 5, 191-196. MR 15, 947. f. Sur Vapproximation par fonctions analytiques bornées, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 239, 1339-1341. MR 16, 811. g. Sur la représentation conforme des aires multiplement connexes, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 239, 1572-1574. MR 16, 581. h. Sur la représentation conforme des aires multiplement connexes, C. R. Acad. Sci. Paris 239, 1756-1758. MR 16, 811. i. (With M. Fekete), On the asymptotic behavior of polynomials with extremal properties, and of their zeros, J. Analyse Math. 4, 49-87. MR 17, 354. j . Détermination d'une fonction analytique par ses valeurs données dans une in- finité dénombrable de points, Bull. Soc. Math. Belg., 52-70. MR 17, 601. 1955 a. (With D. Gaier), Zur Methode der variablen Gebiete bei der Randverzerrung, Arch. Math. 6, 77-86. MR 16, 348. b. (With T. S. Motzkin), Least pth power polynomials on a real finite point set, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 78, 67-81. MR 16, 585. c. A generalization of Jensen's theorem on the zeros of the derivative of a polynomial, Amer. Math. Monthly 62, 91-93. MR 16, 818. d. (With J. P. 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Evans), On the location of the zeros of certain orthogonal functions, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 7, 1085-1090. MR 18, 725. g. Note on degree of approximation to analytic functions by rational functions with preassignedpoles, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 42, 927-930. MR 18, 569. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 19751 J. L. WALSH 59 h. "Birkhoff, George Davidv, article in Encyclopedia Britannica, i. (With M. Fekete), On restricted infrapolynomials, J. Analyse Math. 5, 47-76. MR 19, 263. 1957 a. (With T. S. Motzkin), Underpolynomials and infrapolynomials, Illinois J. Math. 1, 406-426. MR 19, 643. b. (With T. S. Motzkin), Polynomials of best approximation on a real finite point set, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 43, 845-846. MR 19, 852. c. (With M. Fekete), Asymptotic behavior of restricted extremal polynomials and of their zeros, Pacific J. Math. 7, 1037-1064. MR 19, 1045. d. (With David Young), Lipschitz conditions for harmonic and discrete harmonic functions, J. Math. Phys. 36, 138-150. MR 20, #2532. 1958 a. On approximation by bounded analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 87, 467-484. MR 20 #3298. b. A generalization of Faber's polynomials, Math. Ann. 136, 23-33. MR 21 #725. c. Complex numbers and complex variables, Laplace's differential equation, and Conformai mapping, three articles in the McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Science and Technology. d. Approximation by bounded analytic f unctions, Seminars on Analytic Functions, vol. II, pp. 73-87, published by U.S. Air Force, Office of Scientific Research, Washington, T>.C. e. On infrapolynomials with prescribed constant term, J. Math. Pures Appl. (9) 37, 295-316. MR 20 #7098. 1959 a. On extremal approximations, On Numerical Approximation, Univ. of Wiscon- sin Press, Madison, Wis., pp. 209-216. MR 21 #421. b. (With T. S. Motzkin), Location of zeros of infrapolynomials, Compositio Math. 14, 50-70. MR 21 #3539. c. Approximation on a line segment by bounded analytic functions: Problem (i, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 10, 270-272. MR 21 #6443a. d. Note on least-square approximation to an analytic function by polynomials, as measured by a surface integral, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 10, 273-279. MR 23 #A1047. e. Approximation by bounded analytic functions: General configurations, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 10, 280-285. MR 21 #6443b. f. (With T. S. Motzkin), Polynomials of best approximation on a real finite point set. I, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 91, 231-245. MR 21 #7388. g. (With H. G. Russell), Integrated continuity conditions and degree of approxima- tion by polynomials or by bounded analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 92, 355-370. MR 21 #7311. h. Note on approximation by bounded analytic functions {Problem a), Math. Z. 72, 47-52. MR 22 #776. i. (With T. S. Motzkin), Polynomials of best approximation on an interval, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 45, 1523-1528. MR 22 #9773. j . Note on invariance of degree of polynomial and trigonometric approximation under change of independent variable, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 45, 1528— 1533. MR23#A1191. k. (With H. J. Landau), On canonical conformai maps of multiply connected regions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 93, 81-96. MR 28 #4093. 1. The analogue for maximally convergent polynomials of JentzscKs theorem, Duke Math. J. 26, 605-616. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 60 MORRIS MARDEN [January 1960 a. Solution of the Dirichlet problem for the ellipse by interpolating harmonic polynomials, J. Math. Mech. 9, 193-196. MR 22 #4891. b. On the asymptotic properties of extremal polynomials with prescribed constant term, Math. Z. 73, 339-345. MR 22 #2715. c. Note on polynomial approximation on a Jordan arc, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 46, 981-983. MR 22 #12338. d. On degree of approximation by bounded harmonic functions, J. Math. Pures Appl. 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A new generalization of Jensen's theorem on the zeros of the derivative of a poly- nomial, Amer. Math. Monthly 68, 978-983. MR 24 #A2009. 1962 a. Degree of polynomial approximation to an analytic function as measured by a surface integral, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 48, 26-32. MR 24 #A2176. b. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Best approximation properties of the spline fit, J. Math. Mech. 11, 225-234. MR 25 #738. c. Asymptotic properties of polynomials with auxiliary conditions of interpolation, Ann. Polon. Math. 12, 17-24. MR 27 #1605. d. (With T. S. Motzkin), Polynomials of best approximation on an interval. II, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 48, 1533-1537. MR 26 #2788. e. On the convexity of the ovals of lemniscates, Studies in Mathematical Analysis and Related Topics, Stanford University Press, Stanford, Calif., pp. 419-423. MR 27 #1606. f. Approximation par les fonctions holomorphes bornées. Problème $', J. Math. Pures Appl. (9) 41, 213-232. MR 27 #5914. 1963 a. (With T. S. Motzkin), Zeros of the error function for Tchebycheff approximation in a small region, Proc. London Math. Soc. (3) 13, 90-98. MR 26 #1667. b. Restricted infrapolynomials and trigonometric infrapolynomials, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 49, 302-304. MR 27 #2613. c. A generalization of Fejér's principle concerning the zeros of extremal polynomials, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 14, 44-51. MR 27 #271. d. A sequence of rational functions with application to approximation by bounded analytic functions, Duke Math. J. 30,177-189. MR 30 #2155. e. (With O. Shisha), The zeros of infrapolynomials with prescribed values at given points, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 14, 839-844. MR 27 #3785. f. Note on the convergence of approximating rational functions of prescribed type, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 50, 791-794. MR 28 #400; 28 #1247. g. (Book Review), Analytic function theory, by E. Hille, SIAM Rev. 5, 377-378. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 19751 J. L. WALSH 61 1964 a. Padé approximants as limits of rational functions of best approximation, J. Math. Mech. 13, 305-312. MR 28 #4283. b. (With O. Shisha), On the location of the zeros of some infrapolynomials with prescribed coefficients, Pacific J. Math. 14, 1103-1109. MR 30 #232. c. (With O. Shisha), Extremal polynomials and the zeros of the derivative of a rational function, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 15, 753-758. MR 29 #4876. d. The convergence of sequences of rational functions of best approximation, Math. Ann. 155, 252-264. MR 29 #1484. e. A theorem of Grace on the zeros of polynomials, revisited, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 15, 354-360. MR 28 #4092. f. (With Z. Rubinstein), On the location of the zeros of a polynomial whose center of gravity is given, J. Analyse Math. 12, 129-142. MR 29 #4877. g. (With A. Sharma), Least squares and interpolation in roots of unity, Pacific J. Math. 14, 727-730. MR 28 #5278. h. Surplus free poles of approximating rational functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 52, 896-901. MR 30 #3983. i. (With Maynard Thompson), Approximation with auxiliary conditions, J. Math. Mech. 13, 1015-1019. MR 30 #1253. j . The location of the zeros of the derivative of a rational function, revisited, J. Math Pures Appl. (9) 43, 353-370. MR 31 #3582. 1965 a. Geometry of the zeros of the sums of linear fractions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 114, 30-39. MR 31 #3579. b. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Fundamental properties of generalized splines, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 52, 1412-1419. MR 36 #6846. c. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Best approximation and convergence properties of higher-order spline approximations, J. Math. Mech. 14, 231-243. MR 35 #5823. d. (With A. Sinclair), On the degree of convergence of extremal polynomials and other extremal functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 115, 145-160. MR 33 #7564. e. The convergence of sequences of rational functions of best approximation. II, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 116, 227-237. MR 32 #6120. f. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Extremal, orthogonality, and conver- gence properties of multidimensional splines, J. Math. Anal. Appl. 12, 27-48. MR 37 #661. g. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Convergence properties of generalized splines, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 54, 344-350. MR 36 #6847. h. Hyperbolic capacity and interpolating rational functions, Duke Math. J. 32, 369-379. MR 31 #6081. i. The convergence of sequences of rational functions of best approximation with some free poles, Approximation of Functions (Proc. Sympos. General Motors Res. Lab., 1964), Henry L. Garabedian, Ed., Elsevier, Amsterdam, 1965, pp. 1-16. MR 32 #4441. 1966 a. (With T. S. Motzkin), Mean approximation on an interval for an exponent less than one, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 122, 443-460. MR 34 #1769. b. Approximation by polynomials: Uniform convergence as implied by mean con- vergence, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 55, 20-25. MR 32 #5891. c. Approximation by polynomials: Uniform convergence as implied by mean con- vergence, II. Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 55, 1405-1407. MR 35 #4443. d. (With H. G. Russell), Hyperbolic capacity and interpolating rational functions. II, Duke Math. J. 33, 275-279. MR 33 #1624. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 62 MORRIS MARDEN [January e. The convergence of approximating rational functions of prescribed type, Con- temporary Problems in the Theory of Analytic Functions (M. A. Lavrent'ev, Ed.), Proc. Internat. Conference on the Theory of Analytic Functions (Erevan, 1965), "Nauka", Moscow, 1966, pp. 304-308. (Russian). MR 35 #3069. f. Approximation by polynomials: Uniform convergence as implied by mean convergence. I l l , Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 56, 1406-1408. MR 35 #4444. 1967 a. Best approximation by rational functions and by meromorphic functions with some free poles, J. Analyse Math. 18, 359-375. MR 36 #1673. b. On the convergence of sequences of rational functions, SIAM J. Numer. Anal. 4, 211-221. MR 36 #1675. c. An extension of the generalized Bernstein lemma, Colloq. Math. 16, 91-92. MR 35 #6844. d. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Complex cubic splines, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 129, 391-413. MR 36 #573. 1968 a. Degree of approximation by rational functions and polynomials, Michigan Math. J. 15, 109-110. MR 36 #6845. b. Note on classes of functions defined by integrated Lipschitz conditions, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 74, 344-346. MR 36 #2807. c. (With T. S. Motzkin), A persistent local maximum of the pth power deviation on an interval,p<\, Pacific J. Math. 24, 133-142. MR 38 #4868. d. The convergence of sequences of rational functions of best approximation. Ill, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 130, 167-183. MR 36 #1674. e. Approximation by bounded analytic functions: Uniform convergence as implied by mean convergence, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 130, 406-413. MR 36 #3997. f. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Cubic splines on the real line, J. Approxi- mation Theory 1, no. 1, 5-10. MR 37 #6650. 1969 a. (With E. B. Saff), Extensions of D. Jackson's theorem on best complex poly- nomial mean approximation, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 138, 61-69. MR 39 #3001. b. Inequalities expressing degree of convergence of rational functions, J. Approxi- mation Theory 2, 160-166. MR 39 #7115. c. (With J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Properties of analytic splines. I. Com- plex poly nominal splines, J. Math. Anal. Appl. 27, 262-278. MR 42 #8136. d. Note on approximation by bounded analytic functions, Problem a: General configurations, Aequationes Math. 3, 160-164. MR 41 #5632. e. 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License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 19751 J. L. WALSH 63 c. Mean approximation by polynomials on a Jordan curve, J. Approximation Theory 4, 263-268. MR 45 #3726. 1972 a. (With Dov Aharonov), On the convergence of rational functions of best approxi- mation to a meromorphic function, J. Math. Anal. Appl. 40, 418-426. MR 47 #5263. b. (With Myron Goldstein), Approximation by rational functions on Riemann surfaces, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 36, 464-466. MR 47 #2072. c. Note on the convergence of sequences of rational functions, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 69, 2963-2964. MR 46 #7522. 1973 a. (With T. S. Motzkin), Equilibrium of inverse distance forces in three dimensions, Pacific J. Math. 44, 241-250. MR 47 #5234. b. (With E. B. Saflf), On the convergence of rational functions which interpolate in the roots of unity, Pacific J. Math. 45, 639-641. c. History of the Riemann mapping theorem, Amer. Math. Monthly 80, 270-276. 1974 a. The role of the pole in rational approximation, Rocky Mountain Math. J. (to appear), b. (With P. M. Gauthier and Alice Roth), Uniform approximation in the spherical metric (in preparation). BOOKS BY JOSEPH L. WALSH 1. Approximation by Polynomials in the Complex Domain, Mémorial des Sciences Mathématiques, Gauthier-Villars, Paris, 1935, ii+72 pp. 2. Interpolation and Approximation by Rational Functions in the Complex Domain, Colloquium Publications, Vol. 20, American Mathematical Society, Providence, R.I., 1935, ix-f382pp.; 2nd edition, 1952; 3rd edition, 1960; 4th rev. edition, 1965; 5th edition, 1969; Russian translation, IL, Moscow, 1961. MR 36 #1671; 1672b, c. 3. A Bibliography on Orthogonal Polynomials (with J. A. Shohat and Einar Hille), National Research Council, Bulletin No. 103, Washington, D.C., 1940, ix+204 pp. 4. The Location of Critical Points of Analytic and Harmonic Functions, Colloquium Publications, Vol. 34, American Mathematical Society, Providence, R.I., 1950, viii+384pp. MR 12, 249. 5. Approximation by Bounded Analytic Functions, Mémorial des Sciences Mathé- matiques, Fase. 144, Gauthier-Villars, Paris, 1960, 66 pp. MR 22 #9770. 6. A Rigorous Treatment of Maximum-Minimum Problems in the Calculus, D. C. Heath, Boston, Mass., 1962, 22 pp. 7. The Theory of Splines and Their Applications, (with J. H. Ahlberg and E. N. Nilson), Academic Press, New York and London, 1967, xi+284 pp. MR 39 #684. WALSH'S P H . D . STUDENTS (With journal reference to some or all their thesis results) 1928 MORRIS MARDEN, On the location of the roots of the jacobian of two binary forms and of the derivative of a rational function, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 32 (1930), 81-109. 1930 ORIN J. FARRELL, On the expansion of harmonic f unctions in series of harmonic polynomials belonging to a simply connected region, Amer. J. Math. 57 (1935). 1931 CECIL T. HOLMES, Approximation of harmonic functions in 3 dimensions by harmonic polynomials (not published). License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 64 MORRIS MARDEN [January 1932 JOSEPH L. DOOB, Boundary values of analytic functions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 34 (1932), 153-170; ibid 35 (1933), 418-451; On a theorem of Gross and Iversen, Ann. of Math. 33 (1932), 753-757. 1932 HELEN G. RUSSELL, On the convergence and overconvergence of sequences of polynomials of best simultaneous approximation to several functions analytic in distinct regions, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 36 (1934), 13-28. 1935 JOHN H. CURTISS, Interpolation in regularly distributed points, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 38 (1935), 458-473; On the Jacobi series, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 49 (1941), 467-501. MR 2, 355. 1935 YU-CHENG SHEN, On interpolation and approximation by rational functions with preassignedpoles, J. Chinese Math. Soc. 1 (1936), 154-173. 1936 WALTER E. SEWELL, Generalized derivatives and approximation by polynom- ials, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 41 (1937), 84-120. 1937 ZEHMAN I. MOSESSON, Maximal sequences of polynomials (not published). 1938 FLOYD E. ULRICH, Problem of type for a certain class of Riemann surfaces, Duke Math. J. 5 (1939), 567-589. MR 1, 8. 1940 MAURICE H. HEINS, Extremal problems for functions analytic and single- valued in a doubly-connected region, Amer. J. Math. 62 (1940), 91-106. MR 1, 114; On the iteration of functions which are analytic and single-valued in a given multiply-connected region, Amer. J. Math. 63 (1941), 461-480. MR 2, 275. 1940 ABRAHAM SPITZBART, Approximation in the sense of least pth powers with a single auxiliary condition of interpolation, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 52 (1946), 338-346. MR 7, 425. 1941 EDWIN N. NILSON, Interpolation and approximation of analytic functions by functions analytic and bounded in a given region-, Interpolation and approximation by functions analytic and bounded in a given region', (published with J. L. Walsh), Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 55 (1944), 53-67; MR 5, 115; ibid. 65 (1949), 239- 258. MR 10, 524. 1942 LYNN H. LOOMIS, The radius and modulus of n-valence for analytic functions where first n—\ derivatives vanish at a point, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc. 46 (1940), 496-501. MR 1, 308; On an inequality of Seidel and Walsh, 48 (1942), 908-911. MR 5, 37. 1947 IVAN R. HERSHNER, Jr., Radii ofunivalence andp-valence of functions analytic in the unit circle (not published). 1948 H. MARGARET ELLIOTT, On the degree of approximation to harmonic func- tions by harmonic polynomials, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 67 (1949), 381-420. 1949 HELLEN KELSALL NICKERSON, Studies in overconvergence, Bull. Amer. Math. Soc, 55 (1949), 1061. 1952 ALAN F. KAY, Distribution of zeros of sequences of polynomials of unbounded degree, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 6 (1955), 571-582. MR 17, 247. 1952 ISAAC E. BLOCK, Kernel functions and class L2, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 4 (1953), 110-117. MR 14, 989; Duke Math. J. 19 (1952), 367-378. MR 14, 153. 1953 THEODORE J. RIVLIN, On sufficient conditions for overconvergence, Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 6 (1955), 597-602. MR 17, 138. 1953 LAWRENCE ROSENFELD, On the boundary of a conformai map, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 81 (1956), 49-73. 1953 JACQUELINE P. EVANS, On approximation and interpolation by functions ana- lytic in a given region and an application to orthonormal systems, Arch. Math. 5 (1954), 191-196; Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 40 (1954), 332-337; Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 79 (1955), 158-172; Proc. Amer. Math. Soc. 7 (1956), 1085-1090. License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 19751 J. L. WALSH 65 1954 RICHARD S. VARGA, Semi-infinite and infinite strips of zeros, Univ. e Poli- tccnio Torino, Rend. Sem. Math. 11 (1951/52), 289-296. MR 14 #546. 1956 MISHAEL ZEDEK, On generalized Tchebycheff polynomials, Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 42 (1956), 99-104. 1957 HENRY J. LANDAU, On canonical conformai maps of multiply connected domains, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 99 (1961), 1-20. MR 22 #12212. 1961 VINCENT C. WILLIAMS, On conformai maps of regions of infinite connectivity, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 155 (1971), 427-453. 1962 DOROTHY B. SHAFFER, Shape of level loci of Green's function and other harmonic functions, J. Analyse Math. 17 (1966), 59-70; J. Math. Mech. 19 (1969), 41-48. 1963 VICTOR M. MANJARREZ, Polynomial bases for compact sets in the plane, Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 132 (1968), 541-551. 1964 JERRY L. FIELDS, Rational approximations to hypergeometric functions, Math. Comp. 19 (1965), 606-624. 1968 EDWARD B. SAFF, Interpolation and functions of class H(k, a, 2), J. Approxi- mation Theory 1 (1968), 488-492. MR 39 #2992; Trans. Amer. Math. Soc. 138 (1969), 61-69; ibid 141 (1969), 79-92. MR 39 #4406. 1973 MARVIN E. ORTEL, Approximation by bounded analytic functions. Current address: Department of Mathematics, University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53201 License or copyright restrictions may apply to redistribution; see https://www.ams.org/journal-terms-of-use 
work_vj2vf6do3fgpxhnrdwicynmzwe	----	to the requi ed andard AN ANALYSIS OF RHYME IN POETRY FOR CHILDREN by AVIS VALERIE HARLEY B.Ed., The University of British Columbia, 1965 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES Department of Language Education We accept this thesis as conforming THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA April 1992 © Avis Valerie Harley, 1992 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. (Signature) Department of Language Education The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date March 31st, 1992 DE-6 (2/88) ii ABSTRACT This thesis attempts to provide an insight into how rhyming devices and rhyme forms have been used in poetry written specifically for children. It looks at words that have been selected by children's poets for their acoustical effect as well as their literary meaning and explores how the placement of each rhyming word affects the poem. In order to illustrate the context from which children's poetry has evolved, an overview of what is known in general about the historical roots of rhyme in the English language is reviewed through the works of the following scholars: Saintsbury, Lanz, Reeves, Fraser, Woods, Hollander, Wimsatt, and Pendlebury. Such widely differing poets as Isaac Watts (1674- 1748), William Blake (1757-1827), Edward Lear (1812-1888), Lewis Carroll (1831-1898), Christina Rossetti (1830-1898), Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894), Walter de la Mare (1873- 1956), A.A. Milne (1882-1956), David McCord (1897- ), John Ciardi (1916-1986), Eve Merriam (1916- ), and Valerie Worth (1933- ) have contributed significantly to the development and shaping of children's poetry. This paper examines how rhyme has been used by these twelve poets. 164 poems have been analyzed, totalling 2671 lines. iii Although basically a descriptive, historical study, some quantitative data are included in the second chapter to illustrate the following: --frequency of rhyme patterns (couplet, triplet, quatrain, etc.) --preferred stanzaic forms --percentage of stressed or unstressed line- endings. The analysis offers statistical proof that wide experimentation with all forms of children's poetry, especially free verse, has occurred in the twentieth century. Use of near-rhyme appears to have increased in the last few decades. Poets' preferences for rhyme patterns have altered over the past three hundred years, but traditional forms such as the couplet and quatrain continue to be popular choices of contemporary poets. The main purpose of this thesis is to illustrate the flexibility of rhyme by emphasizing the variety of devices and forms in which rhyme has been successfully employed in children's poetry. TABLE OF CONTENTS Page Abstract ^ ii Acknowledgements ^ v Introduction: The History of Rhyme ^ 1 Analysis of Rhyme Patterns and Line Endings ^ 19 Rhyme Forms ^ 33 The Rhyming Device ^ 51 A Study of Poems by: William Blake ^ 70 Edward Lear ^ 82 Christina Rossetti ^ 93 Eve Merriam ^ 104 Conclusions ^ 114 Bibliography ^ 122 Appendix: Children's Poets ^ 127 iv V ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank Dr. Wendy Sutton for her guidance, encouragement, and invaluable assistance throughout the preparation of this thesis. My sincere gratitude also goes to Dr. Lee Johnson for giving generously of his time. His comments and suggestions were greatly appreciated. For a detailed critique of this paper in its final stage, I am indebted to Dr. Carl Leggo. A special thank you also goes to my husband Frank for his support and extraordinary patience. INTRODUCTION--THE HISTORY OF RHYME Initially, rhyme in poetry appears to be the most obvious of features involving sound identity. There are, however, other aspects of rhyme less obvious than the regular chime of identical word endings. John Hollander views rhyme as having the power to: ...compel notice, to attune and even orchestrate, as it were, the attention of the scanning and listening reader as it moves over the totality of the text, sometimes displaying its inner linguistic workings on its surface, sometimes submerging them, echoing in the memory, or lighting up expectation and hope. 1 Henry Lanz describes rhyme as: ...one of those irrational satellites that revolve around reason...it belongs to the form, to the external appearance--poets call it the 'dress'--of a poem which is at the same time the inherent substance of poetry. 2 Wimsatt states: The words of a rhyme, with their curious harmony of sound and distinction of sense, are an amalgam of the sensory and the logical, or an arrest and precipitation of the logical in sensory form; they are the icon in which the idea is caught. 3 This paper attempts to describe rhyme and how poets have used this poetic device in verse written specifically for children. The introductory chapter gives a review of the history of rhyme and includes a summary of the influential debate 1 over rhyme which took place in the late sixteenth century. The second chapter presents a statistical analysis of a selection of poems by twelve major children's poets. The third and fourth chapters contain definitions of rhyme forms and rhyming devices respectively, illustrated through a series of selected passages by children's poets from the fourteenth century to the present. The fifth chapter closely examines four poets who have influenced the development of children's poetry: Blake, Lear, Rossetti, and Merriam. The final chapter provides a summary with comments on the findings in this thesis. It also looks at research that has been conducted on children's reactions to poetry: Kyte (1947), Avegno (1956), Norvell (1958), Nelson (1966), Terry (1972), Fisher/Natarella (1979), and Anderson (1990). These studies consistently revealed that children identified rhyme as being the most preferred poetic device. There is a need for educators to have a deeper understanding of this dynamic in poetry that arouses such a positive response in children. Judith Saltman states: A knowledge of the techniques poets choose, of the connotations and denotations of words, of the naming of parts--these add another dimension for those who already delight in poetry." Before examining rhyme in children's poetry, it is necessary to look at its historical roots in the English language and thus be able to consider the context from which children's poetry has evolved. Poetry written for the young shares many characteristics of adult poetry. 2 Rhyme comes from the Latin word rithmus and the Greek word rhythmos meaning "measured motion." 5 Rithmus later referred to end-word identity. In English, this word merged with the Saxon rime, meaning "a number" or "counting." Rhyme was established as distinct from rhythm during the English Renaissance period. The modern spelling of rhyme was first introduced in the seventeenth century, and now this spelling is used more frequently than rime. The main definition of rhyme in The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics is: "a metrical rhetorical device based on the sound-identities of words." Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) in his OpgrA,_Rbetorlc_IU, provided the first mention of what today is considered to be true rhyme. Rhyme is discussed under the name "homoeoteleuton." The term "homoeoteleuton" is of Greek derivation, and means "the similarity of endings," referring to the same case-endings in proximity.' Rhyme is used more frequently in Latin than in Greek because Latin is heavier in case-endings. Aristotle described rhyme as: ...making the extreme words of both members of a period like each other. This must happen either at the beginning or at the end of each member. If at the beginning, the resemblance must always be between whole words; if at the end, between final syllables or inflections of the same word or the same word repeated.° Aristotle was the first to acknowledge the power of word beginnings and endings that contained identical sounds, and he recognized the artistic effect of "two contrasting ideas 3 under the control of one sound." 9 He recognized rhyme as a way of helping "devise lively and taking sayings," thus presenting the idea of rhyme as a mnemonic device. 3- ° This idea has been considered by many to be one of rhyme's fundamental functions. Quintilian (35 -100 A.D.) in his IRPtintlktA9 Q4Wt.Q.11.3.7. Book IX, described different "forms of play upon verbal resemblances...words selected will be of equal length and will have similar terminations...when clauses conclude alike, the same syllables being placed at the end of each; this correspondence in the ending of two or more sentences is called homoeoteleuton."-- Words with similar case- endings, tense indicators, etc. employ homoeoteleuton. Neither Aristotle or Quintilian includes personal opinions regarding the effectiveness of this rhetorical device. Evidence as to when and how rhyme entered the English language is inconclusive, but according to Henry Webb, English rhyming can be divided into four periods: Old English, Middle English, Early Modern English, and Late Modern English. 12 Old English was spoken in the latter part of the first millennium and is barely recognizable as the language we know today. End rhyming was somewhat difficult in this inflectional system, and alliteration was the favoured device. Alliteration was also a strongly developed element in the Welsh language. Intricate rhyming patterns containing end rhyme and initial rhyme were found in Ireland 4 as early as 433 A.D. Early in the fifth century, a Scottish bishop, Coelius Sedulius, was writing Latin hymns in rhyme. In 1838, Guest published A History of_English_Rhythms, where he indicated end rhyme could be traced to the Old Celtic. In the History of English Poetry, Courthope suggests that rhyme probably came from Arabic sources. Saintsbury states in his Short History of English Literature that no one knows exactly how rhyme first appeared in English literature. However, many scholars such as Arthur M. Clark and Henry W. Wells are of the opinion that Ireland seems to have been the centre where full rhyme first appeared in Western Europe. Early hymns and poems being written in both Latin and Greek contained initial inflection as well as end stress. Twenty-eight examples of initial rhyme combined with end rhyme have been discovered by Friedrich Klaeber in the Old English epic of Beowulf. 13 Rhymed verse occurred in Middle English in the latter part of the twelfth century and is found in a work entitled Owl 4.0 the Nightinga1g. Early lyrics sung by troubadours probably were influenced by the rhymes of travelling scholars. The inflectional system of Old English gradually changed, and the alliterative line fell out of favour. French disyllabic and polysyllabic words were introduced into Middle English verse, and the stress placed on the final syllable(s) allowed for easy accessibility to end rhyme. The language called Middle English was spoken from 5 around 1100 to 1500. End rhyme replaced alliteration as the most popular poetic device during this period. The French influence is strongly felt in Chaucer's poetry. Although Chaucer complained about the "scarcitee of rym" in England, he composed some 16,000 lines using the heroic couplet form (especially open couplets, where the idea is carried over from the sound-rhyme into the succeeding line). He also displayed prodigious talent in the use of the English Rime Royal (a seven-line stanza of iambic pentameter and rhyming a-b-a-b-b-c-c). Chaucer (c 1343-1400) did not write poetry specifically for children, but the Manciple's passage from CADtQr_WIKY Tales contained advice intended for the young, and emphasized the virtues of children controlling their tongues: My son, thy tongue shouldst thou restrain At all time, but when thou dost thy pain To speak of God, in honour and prayer. The first virtue, son, if thou wilt lere, Is to restrain and keep well thy tongue; Thus learn children when that they been young.- 4 This excerpt was written in one of the most important English meters--the heroic couplet. The English form of the heroic couplet "is often thought to have developed with Chaucer under the influence from the Old French decasyllable rhymed in couplets."- 5 John Lydgate (1370?-1450) published a popular description in verse form on how a boy should behave when 6 serving at table. This was widely circulated in the sixteenth century: My dear child, first thyself enable With all thine heart to virtuous discipline; Afore thy sovereign, standing at the table, Dispose thou thee after my doctrine To all nurture thy courage to incline. First, when thou speakest be not reckless, Keep feet and fingers still in peace... 3-6 Lydgate composed it using the seven-line Rhyme Royal stanza form: a-b-a-b-b-c-c. Peter Idley (d. 1473?) published a treatise entitled "Instructions to his Son." It was also composed in Rhyme Royal and was 7,500 lines in length. It "stands as a pleasing monument to a father's concern for his child's welfare at the close of the Middle Ages."'-' According to Harvey Darton, there were no books ostensibly written to give children pleasure during this period. Moral, didactic schoolbooks were plentiful, as were treatises on good conduct (called courtesy books). Old courtesy books were usually written in rhyme to assist the child in memorizing. In situations where children would not have been able to possess their own copy of a book, rhyme as a mnemonic device was particularly helpful. A surprising and refreshing diversion from the instructional publications on manners and morals appeared in 1563. Thomas Newbery (who was most likely related to the famous Newbery publishing family) wrote the "Hooke in 7 Englyssh Metre of the great marchaunt man called Dyves Pragmaticus, very pretye for chyldren to rede." Although not written for pleasure or entertainment, it was meant to help children "rede and write Wares and Implements in this worlde contayned." This seventy-four verse poem was composed in the most popular of English lyric forms--the quatrain--with a rhyme scheme of a-a-a-b: I have here to sell fine Needells and Thimbels, Nayle pearsers, smalle podde Chyselles and Wimbels, Blades, and for weavers fine Shuttells and Brembils, What do you lacke, friend? come hether to me. 3- 8 Shortly after Newbery's publication, the famous controversy over rhyme erupted in England. This took place during the Early Modern English period, which had begun approximately 1500 A.D. This period was strongly influenced by The Great Vowel Shift, which facilitated rhyming through the shifting of the seven long, or tense, vowels. Susanne Woods stated that the controversy over rhyme "is the first debate to enunciate certain assumptions about verse generally and English verse particularly...admiration of the classics and an attempt to 'overgo' foreign models, on the one hand, and patriotism on the other." 3-9 This debate was sparked by a publication by Roger Ascham (1515-1568) who was a Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, and a tutor to Princess Elizabeth. His book, The. Scholemaster, was published in 1570, two years after his death. In it, he denounced the use of rhyme and introduced England to the idea that rhyme was "brought first into Italy 8 by Goths and Huns, when all good learning too was destroyed by them, and after carried into France and Germany, and at last received in England by men of excellent wit indeed, but of small learning and less judgement in that behalf.... 120 In Ascham's opinion, anything that stemmed from such a "barbarous" origin could not possibly contain any artistic merit. He believed that rhymeless quantitative verse based on classical culture was far superior to the popular rhyming system of English poetry. Ascham's comments sparked the long and influential literary controversy over rhymeless verse (using the classics as models) versus rhymed poetry (English versemaking, using popular, contemporary, continental models). William Webbe, also a member of St. John's College, Cambridge, published in 1586 his pisurpe_pf_English Poetrift. He was an important participant in the debate between the advocates and the non-advocates of rhyme. According to Lanz, Webbe was the first English prosodist who theoretically proclaimed "the union between rime and sense" and recommended in his rules for successful rhyming "not to make violence to grammatical order for the sake of rime./ 21 He endorsed the regular forms found in classical metres and, like Ascham, denounced rhyme as a "rude kinde of verse" and "brutish poetry" that had been introduced by the barbarians. Webbe viewed rhyme as being of a rhythmical nature. He defined rhyme as "the falling out of verses together in one 9 like sound," advocating Aristotle's theory that stressed the acoustics rather than the printed image. George Puttenham published The Art of English Poesie in 1589. He maintained that: We make in th' ends of our verses a certaine tunable sound: which anon after with another verse reasonably distant we accord together in the last fall or cadence: the eare taking pleasure to heare the like tune reported, and to feele his returne. And for this purpose serve the monosillables of our English Saxons excellently well.... 22 Puttenham expressed a distaste for classical versing. He recognized the power of the rhyme scheme and how rhyme could manipulate emotional effects. Stephen Gosson dedicated his Puritanical diatribe against poetry in Theaghoql_gf_Ab.ut (1579) to Sir Philip Sidney (without his permission), and this work probably prompted Sir Philip Sidney to begin composing his Defence poesje. This treatise was published in 1595, seven years after Sidney's death. Sidney was also aware of the power of rhyme and linked it with memory: "Now that verse far exceedeth Prose, in the knitting up of the memorie, the reason is manifest, the words...being so set as one cannot be lost, but the whole woorke failes: which accusing it selfe, calleth the remembrance back to it selfe, and so most strongly confirmeth it....It must be in jest that any man can speak against it." 23 Thomas Campion (1567-1620), in his Observations in the 1 0 11 Art of English^Poesie (1602), strongly objected to rhyme, labelling it a "childish titilation" and denouncing the "Fatness of Rhyme." 24 He noted that it interfered with the reader's attention to the internal aspects of a line of poetry. However, Campion's theories on quantitative verse and his expressed distaste of rhyme do not override the fact that he was a fine writer of rhymed verse. Samuel Daniel (1562-1619) responded to Campion with the publication in 1603 of his Defence^Rhyme: "We could well have allowed of [Campion] his numbers had he not disgraced our Ryme: Which bothe Custome and Nature doth most powerfully defend...." 25 Daniel argued strongly in favour of the virtues of the rhyming device: "Ryme...is likewise number and harmonie of words, consisting of an agreeing sound in the last silables of severall verses, giving both to the Eare an Eccho of a delightful report & to the Memorie a deeper impression of what is delivered therein."' However, Daniel objected to the use of couplets, preferring instead stanzas of alternate rhyme. Ben Jonson (1572-1637) responded to this treatise with A Fit of R̂hyme Against Rhyme and denounced both Campion and Daniel, especially the latter, as Daniel had condemned Jonson's beloved couplet. Jonson enthusiastically described couplets as being "the bravest sort of verses" and spoke against "cross-rhymes and stanzas." 27 In the concluding section of A Fit of Rhyme Against Rhyme, he inserted a sense of humour into this literary battle when he addressed rhyme's inventor: He that first invented thee May his joints tormented be, Cramped forever; Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never! May his sense when it would meet The cold tumor of his feet Grow unsounder; And his title be long Fool, That in rearing such a School Was the founder." Milton (1608-1674) referred to rhyme in "The Verse," his opening advertisement to Paradise_Lost, as the "invention of a barbarous age to set off wretched matter and lame metre" and "a troublesome and modern bondage."" He felt that rhyme imposed literary chains on the writer. In a sense, Milton rescued blank verse from the poetic turmoil that was raging at the time. Dryden (1630-1700), in his Essay op Dramatic Poesy (1668), reiterated Jonson's viewpoints on the use of the couplet, and established the heroic couplet as the most important metre in English poetry. Dryden was a major defender of rhyme, and attempted to justify it by suggesting that rhyme controlled the poet's imagination. In the Dedication to Tbe_RiVal.L4Oles, he stated that blank verse allowed the poet too much freedom; therefore: ...he is tempted to say many things which might better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer words; but when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where the poet commonly confines 12 his sense to the couplet...rhyme cuts off all unnecessary expenses...and is like to bring forth the richest and clearest thoughts. 3 ° Edward Bysshe published The Art of Poetry in 1702. Although he did not fully deal with rhyme in this book, Bysshe claimed that stanzas of "intermixed rhyme...are now wholly laid aside" and that Shakespeare used blank verse to avoid "the tiresome constraint of rhyme." Although Bysshe appears to have been an obscure person, his viewpoints are considered to be representative of the eighteenth-century mind. 32- However, Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) was devoted to the rhyming couplet and disapproved of blank verse, preferring lines and rhymes to be regularly patterned. While this controversy over rhyme was raging, verse was being written for children in the traditional iambic trimeter or tetrameter, and invariably contained predictable end rhymes (in couplets or alternating unrhymed and rhymed lines). A verse by Abraham Chear appeared in 1672 in his publication A Looking-Glass for Children, in which he used the common meter (4/3/4/3 metric arrangement) with a rhyming pattern of a-b-a-b: When by spectators I am told What beauty doth adorn me, Or in a glass when I behold How sweetly God did form me-- Hath God such comeliness bestowed And on me made to dwell. What pity such a pretty maid As I should go to He111 32 13 This verse reflected the Puritan outlook on children: "young souls to be saved, or, more probably, damned." 33 Poetry written for children before the 1700's always stressed civilized conduct and good morals. However, in 1686, John Bunyan (1628-1688) published a Book for Boys and Girls: or„ Country_Rhimes for Children where he wrote about homely objects and familiar activities in a child's life. He used either couplets or the alternating rhyme scheme throughout this book. Dr. Isaac Watts (1674-1748), according to John Rowe Townsend, can be identified as "the first children's poet." His book of Divine Songs Attempted ^in EasyLanguage for the Use of Children was enormously popular in England and America, where six to seven hundred editions were produced between 1715 and 1915. Copies of his poems were to be found in every 'proper' eighteenth and nineteenth-century nursery. In his preface to the Diyine_Songs, Watts emphasized the usefulness of learning through rhyme: There is a greater Delight in the very Learning of Truths and Duties this way. There is something so amusing and entertaining in Rhymes and metre, that will incline Children to make this part of their Business a Diversion....What is learnt in verse is longer retain'd in Memory, and soon recollected. The like Sounds and the like number of Syllables exceedingly assist the remembrance. 34 Isaac Watts, like Milton, claimed to be sensitive to the monotony of the rhyming couplet (although frequently employed it in his poetry for children). Watts is an 14 important figure in the history of children's poetry. Up until his time, most verse for the young was exhortation, but Watts recommended that: ...authors should write for children, and that their verses should be 'flowing with cheerfulness, and without the solemnities of religion, or the sacred names of God and holy things; that children might find delight and profit together.' 35 Blake, who referred to rhyme as "modern bondage" and "Poetry Fetter'd Fetters the Human Race," would certainly have been familiar with the poems of Isaac Watts. 36 The lyrical joy heard in Blake's Songs of Innocence is not only for children but for the innocence in all humanity. The death of Blake in 1827 coincided with the approximate beginning of The Late Modern English period. A new sense of freedom entered children's poetry, perhaps as a reaction to the severity of Puritanical restrictions. Lear and Carroll introduced nonsense verse to the Victorian world. Rossetti and Stevenson were strong lyrical voices in the nineteenth century, as were de la Mare, Milne, and McCord for the early twentieth century. Saitman states that "De la Mare's roots go back to Blake's intense lyricism, and a profound identification with children illuminates his work." 37 An explosion of creative talent has appeared in the last forty years, and names such as Ciardi, Merriam, and Worth leap forward. These innovative contemporary poets display enormous flexibility in their writing. 15 An historical viewpoint and a clear understanding of the thought behind such ideas as the development of initial inflection in a word, the concept of accented line endings, the introduction of end rhyme, the increasing frequency of structural full rhyme, and the growing popularity of free verse help to explain the poetic experimentation in the twentieth century that has allowed readers to become accustomed to the sound of rhymes which do not follow traditional measures. The sound of rhymes will be analyzed in the following chapter through a close examination of a selection of poems by twelve of the children's writers mentioned in this overview. NOTES 3- John Hollander, Vision a d Resonance (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1985) 134. 2 Henry Lanz, Physical Basis of Rime (California: Stanford Univ. Press, 1931) 293. 3 W.K. Wimsatt, The Verbal Icon (Kentucky: Univ. Press of Kentucky, 1954) 165. 4 Judith Saltman, The Riverside Anthology of Children's Literature (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985) 89. 16 5 Joseph Shipley, In Praise of English (New York: Times Books, 1977) 200. 6 Arthur Melville Clark in The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry_. and Poeticq, ed. Alex Preminger (New Jersey: Princeton Univ. Press, 1990) 705. ' Preminger 353. 6 Aristotle in Henry Lanz's The Physical Basis of Rime (California: Stanford Univ. Press, 1931) 152. 9 Lanz 152. 1 ° Lanz 152. Quintilian, The Institutio Oratoria, trans. H.E. Butler (London: William Heinemann, 1921) III, ix, 491. 2 Henry Webb in Preminger, 709. 19 Alexander M. Witherspoon, ed. The College Survey of English Literature (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1951) 14. 14 Geoffrey Chaucer, "Controlling the Tongue," The Oxford Book of Children's Verse, ed. Iona and Peter Opie (London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1975) 3. Preminger 345. Opie 4. 17 Opie 368. le Thomas Newbery in John Rowe Townsend's Written for Children (Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Kestrel Books, 1974) 132. 19 Susanne Woods, Natural Emphasis (San Marino: The Huntington Library, 1984) 124. 17 20 Ascham in Lanz, 308. Zi Webbe in Lanz, 167. 22 George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (1589; Menston, England: Scolar Press, 1968) 63. 23 Sir Philip Sidney, The Defence of Poesie (1595; Menston, England: Scolar Press Ltd., 1968) 38-39. 24 Campion in Lanz, 309-10. 25 Samuel Daniel, A Defence of Ryme, ed. Arthur Colby Sprague (1603; Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1930) 131. 26 Daniel 132. 27 Ben Jonson in George Saintsbury's Historical Manual of English Prosody (London: MacMillan and Co., 1910) 239. 28 Jonson in Lanz, 310. 29 Milton in Witherspoon, 394. 30 Dryden in Lanz, 182-83. 32" Saintsbury 245. 32 Chear in Townsend, 20-21. 33 Townsend 20. 34 Townsend 132. 35 Opie 386. 36 Blake in Hollander, 208. 37 Saltman 91. 18 ANALYSIS OF RHYME PATTERNS AND LINE ENDINGS This chapter is devoted to the analysis of rhyme in children's poetry from the eighteenth century to the present. In this study, an effort has been made to adapt James Bailey's investigative techniques of ten English poets' use of iambic tetrameter to an examination of twelve children's poets' use of rhyme. 1 The verse of the twelve selected poets offers a random sampling of rhyme forms used in children's poetry over a span of three centuries. 164 poems were considered in this study, totalling 2671 lines. An average of 223 lines per poet was examined. Poems were taken in the chronological order in which they appeared in single-author collections or anthologies. Only a few poems of each of the twelve children's poets were analyzed, thus presenting only a sampling of the writings of an individual. There may be other uses of rhyme which an examination of the complete works of one poet would reveal. Since all the poems of one writer are not being examined, there is a chance that some uses of rhyme will not be identified. The final conclusions are based on only the poems being considered in this study. The poems have been identified by numbers. The following aspects of rhyme will be considered: --frequency of rhyme patterns (couplet, triplet, quatrain, etc.) 19 --the preferred stanzaic forms --frequency of each type of line ending (stressed or unstressed) The following poets have been selected because of the strong influence they have had on the development of children's poetry and the effect they have had on single authors (Watts on Blake, Blake on de la Mare, Lear on Ciardi, Stevenson on McCord): The Eighteenth Century Isaac Watts (1674-1748) William Blake (1757-1827) The Nineteenth Century (nonsense verse) Edward Lear (1812-1888) Lewis Carroll (1831-1898) The Nineteenth Century (lyric poetry) Christina Rossetti (1830-1898) Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) Early Twentieth Century Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) A.A. Milne (1882-1956) David McCord (1897- ) Last Forty Years John Ciardi (1916-1986) Eve Merriam (1916- ) Valerie Worth (1933- ) 20 SUMMARY OF RHYME PATTERNS USED BY: Couplet Triplet Quatrain Quintet Sixain Other Watts 35.7 64.3 -- -- Blake 52.1 36.9 11.0 Lear 27.8 10.9 24.8 36.5 Carroll 28.2 25.6 46.2 Rossetti 22.3 54.8 5.1 6.1 11.7 Stevenson 70.7 20.2 9.1 De la Mare 9.8 76.5 13.7 Milne 15.8 1.5 39.4 17.2 26.1 McCord 37.3 6.9 21.0 34.8 Ciardi 12.2 80.8 2.3 4.7 Merriam 10.2 2.4 15.7 13.8 7.1 50.8 Worth 6.9 16.2 13.8 3.9 4.6 54.6 The quatrain is the major scheme employed by Ciardi (81%), de la Mare (77%), Rossetti (55%), Watts (64%), and Milne (40%). The couplet is the favoured form for the following poets: Stevenson (71%), Blake (52%), and McCord (37%). Except for Ciardi (5%), free verse shows a significantly steady increase in popularity, beginning with Rossetti (12%) through Worth (55%). Free verse was not employed by Watts, Blake, Lear, and Carroll. Rossetti was the first to experiment with this form. Rossetti also experimented widely with other verse forms, as did Milne. Free verse is the dominant rhyme pattern for Merriam (51%) and Worth (55%). However, their work reflects an interesting distribution throughout all forms, suggesting a desire to experiment with many different patterns. The random sampling of Worth's poems (19 in total), taken to ascertain her stanzaic preferences, was compared to a close examination of her complete works (99 poems) in 21 order to make a comparison between the random sampling of one poet's work and the complete writings of that individual. It revealed the following comparisons: MOST COMMON RHYME FORMS IN THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WORTH Couplet Triplet Quatrain Quintet Sixain Other 19 poems^6.9^16.2^13.8^3.9^4.6^54.6 99 poems^5.0^15.2^18.2^12.1^5.0^44.5 A strong similarity appeared in the two samplings. Free verse was the dominant pattern in both, although it occurred slightly less frequently in the analysis of her complete works. The five-line scheme appeared infrequently in the random sampling of Worth's poems (4%). All twelve poets in this study used the couplet and quatrain. The most preferred verse form among these poets was the quatrain (976 lines out of a total of 2671; or 37%), followed by the couplet (27%), followed by the category defined as "other" (18%). "Other" is predominantly free verse, but does include a few isolated examples of the septet (Milne-20), the octet (Rossetti-18, de la Mare-3), and the decima (de la Mare-12). STANZAIC FORMS IN ORDER OF OCCURRENCE Quatrain 36.6% Couplet^26.8 Other^18.3 Quintet^7.2 Sixain^7.2 Triplet^3.8 22 The quintet score (7%) was inflated by Lear's prolific use of the limerick form. LINE ENDINGS Line endings have been divided into two general categories according to the position of the final stress: a stressed ending has the stress on the last (or single) syllable and an unstressed ending has the final stress on the penultimate (or the antepenultimate) syllable. Different degrees of stress are sometimes discriminated: strong, secondary, tertiary, and weak. Only the terms stressed (strong) and unstressed (weak) are used here. PERCENTAGE OF EACH TYPE OF LINE ENDING Stressed Unstressed Watts^78.6 21.4 Blake^84.8 15.2 Lear^89.1 10.9 Carroll^91.0 9.0 Rossetti^79.7 20.3 Stevenson^88.1 11.9 De la Mare^74.5 25.5 Milne^69.5 30.5 McCord^89.8 10.2 Ciardi^87.7 12.3 Merriam^78.7 21.3 Worth^81.2 18.8 Stressed endings are more common (70 to 91%) than unstressed endings.^A significant number of unstressed endings are used by Milne^(31%), de la Mare (26%), Merriam (21%), Watts (21%), and Rossetti (20%). There are three pairs of rhymes occurring at the ends of lines which have an uncertain number of syllables: 23 24 Watts^ 2 "flower" : "hour" n ^ 5 "brier" : "higher" Blake^ 10 "flower" : "bower" It is unclear whether Watts and Blake intended these words to be elided. Poetic contractions occurred most often in verse written between the Restoration period and the end of the eighteenth century. Contractions were ...observed by the reader even if the word was printed in full, for the aesthetic of eighteenth century poetry assumes that each line will be syllabically regular....The contemporary reader of eighteenth century poetry derived much of his aesthetic delight from his deliberate and conscious 'regularizing,' through contraction, of normally irregular phonetic materials. 2 Therefore, if the contractions were considered even when the word appeared in full, "flower" : "hour" would be monosyllabic. All other end rhymes in this poem are clearly of one syllable, and the iambic rhyme is used throughout. It is not evident that "brier" : "higher" would be elided, although this pair of words is contained in a poem (Watts-5) of anapestic tetrameter, which would indicate a monosyllabic ending. However, in this same poem Watts included three other instances of the hypermetrical line (where an extra syllable has been added to the end of a line): Watts^5 "slumber" : "number" If ^5 "drinking" : "thinking" II ^5 "breeding" : "reading" Blake was explicit in indicating the number of syllables in the poem containing "flower" : "bower" (#10). In the final verse, he elided "wash'd" and "o'er," suggesting words without a marked contraction were to be read as disyllabic. Most rhymes have a heavily stressed vowel related to the final ictus, but unstressed rhyme also occurs. In this study, there are many examples of the pairing of one unstressed rhyme with another unstressed rhyme. EXAMELES.A)F.UNSTRESSED:-UNSTRES.SED_RHYME: Within this category, there were a number of cases in which only the final unstressed syllables created rhyme: 25 Blake^5 ^ 2 10 10 10 10 Rossetti----12 Stevenson---14 De la Mare--10 Merriam^ 2 ^4 10 17 18 "blossom" : "bosom" "weary" : "merry" "blessing" : "ceasing" "dreadful" : "heedful" " meekness " : "sickness" "spirit" : "inherit" "wither" : "together" "river" : "ever" "whistling" : "knocking" "moonday" : "whensday" : "freeday" "living" : "dying" "standing" : "spouting" "hedges" : "plunges" "gently" : "happily"Worth Merriam used one stressed -unstressed-unstressed pair (the only example in this study): Merriam 13 "quote-throated" : "footnoted" Near rhymes appeared in the following instances: 2 "weary" : "merry"Blake 26 Blake^5 "robin" : "sobbing" Rossetti----14 "violet" : "twilight" Milne^1 "nurse's" : "Percy's" Nonsense rhyme also was used: Lear^2 "Churtsey" : "curtsy" ^6 "Etna" : "Gretna" ^12 "sniffle-snuffle" : "ruffle" Milne^4 "dormouse" : "e-nor-mous" Ciardi^10 "Yuma" : "puma" ^11 "jingle-jangle" : "a-dangle" Merriam^2 "moonday" : "whensday" : "freeday" The placement of function words created rhymes with unstressed-unstressed endings: Lear^12 "bonnet" : "on it" ^12 "fashion" : "sash on" Carroll^1 "suet" : "do it" Rossetti----17 "looked at" : "crooked a t" ----19 "lambkin" : "shelter him" Ciardi^4 "popper" : "stop her" McCord^2 "out of" : "doubt pt" EXAKPLES.OF_STRESSED7UNSTRESUP RHYBE: There were a number of cases of stressed endings rhyming with unstressed endings with 43% of these instances occurring in poetry by Merriam: Lear^12 "went" : "monument" ^5 "size" : "sympathize" ^ Stevenson^4 "man" : "caravan" 7 "star" : "Malabar" ---10 "set" : "minaret" ---10 "Nile" : "crocodile" De la Mare--17 "say" : "caraway" Merriam^10 "create" : "annihilate" ^3 "sea" : "memory" ^4 "tree" : "seriously" ^7 "telephone" : "alone" ^9 "go" : "radio" ^14 "me" : "hesitancy" 27 Worth^12 "tree" : "heavy" Within this category of stressed-unstressed rhymes, the second part of a compound word makes up the unstressed syllable: Blake^ 7 Stevenson^1 If^---16 McCord^5 Merriam^1 "away" : "noonday" "night" : "candlelight" "plain" : "counterpane" "wing" : "wellearing" "sing" : "everything" gtressed=unetressed rhymes appeared in nonsense words: Carroll 4 "catch" : "Bandersnatch" and a few near rhymes also occurred: Stevenson----10 "walla," : "festivals" Milne^10 "gpn." : "Amazon" Worth^2 "stone : "hipbones". This chapter has attempted to gain an insight into how rhyme forms and line endings have been used by twelve children's poets. It seems possible to conclude that the preferences of twentieth century children's poets differ from those of the eighteenth century in the following respects: --wider experimentation with all forms of poetry --significant increase in free verse (0% to 57%) --greater usage of line endings containing near rhymes, as opposed to full rhymes --an increase in the use of polysyllabic "nonsense" words --fewer colloquial contractions. However, two similarities appeared throughout: --stable preference for stressed line endings (Watts-78.6%; Rossetti-79.7%; Merriam-78.7%) --use of the couplet and quatrain by all poets. Although free verse has increased in popularity in the last few decades, the couplet and quatrain continue to be well used by poets. The quatrain was the most common rhyme pattern for Ciardi (81%). Only a few poets and a limited number of lines have been examined in this study but the analysis offers quantitative evidence leading to the conclusion that poets' uses of rhyme forms have altered appreciably over the past three centuries. NOTES 1 James Bailey, T0WAXd a $_tatig_tical...Artaly4ig...at (Lisse, Netherlands: The Peter de Ridder Press, 1975) 66-70. 2 Alex Preminger, ed., The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (New Jersy: Princeton Univ. Press, 1990) 628. 28 pOEMS.U S ED_IN_THE_STUDy Isaac Watts, The Oxford Book of Children's Verse, Iona and Peter Opie, ed. (London: Oxford University Press, 1975): (1) "Against Quarrelling and Fighting", (2) "Against Idleness and Mischief", (3) "For the Lord's Day Evening", (4) "Our Saviour's Golden Rule", (5) "The Sluggard", (6) "Cradle Hymn". William Blake, Songs of Innocence (London: Faber & Faber, 1958): (1) "Introduction", (2) "The Echoing Green", (3) "Infant Joy", (4) "The Shepherd", (5) "The Blossom", (6) "The Lamb", (7) "The Little Black Boy", (8) "Laughing Song", (9) "Spring", (10) "Night". Edward Lear, The_gxford pook_of_gbildre_pLs_VeIsq: (1) "There was an Old Man with a beard", (2) "There was an Old Lady of Chertsey", (3) "There was an Old Man in a tree", (4) "There was an Old Man who said, 'How...", (5) "There was an Old Man who said, 'Hush!...", (6) "There was an Old Person of Gretna", (7) "There is a Young Lady, whose nose",(8) "There was an Old Man of Dumbree", (9) "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat", (10) "The Duck and the Kangaroo", (11) "The Jumblies", (12) "Mr. and Mrs. Spikky Sparrow". Lewis Carroll, Oxford Book of Children's Verse: (1) "You are old, Father William", (2) "The Lobster Quadrille", (3) "The 29 Lobster", (4) "Jabberwocky", (5) "The Walrus and the Carpenter", (6) "Humpty Dumpty's Song". Christina Rossetti, Oxfprd Book of Children's Verse: (1) "A Crown of Windflowers", (2) "Comparisons", (3) "Ferry me across the Water", (4) "Flint", (5) "Lady Moon", (6) "The Wind", (7) What are Heavy?", (8) "The Rainbow", (9) "What does the Bee do?", (10) "A Riddle", (11) "Caterpillar", (12) "Hope and Joy", (13) "Last Rites", (14) "What is Pink?", Doves and , Pomegranates, David Powell, ed. (London: The Bodley Head, 1969): (15) "Lambs at Play", (16) "The Frog and the Toad", (17) "The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse", (18) "A Motherless Soft Lambkin", (19) "Horses", (20) "Hurt No Living Thing", (21) "The Sound of the Wind", (22) "Coral", (23) "The Moon". Robert Louis Stevenson, A Child's Garden of Verses (London: Victor Gollancz Ltd, 1985): (1) "Bed in Summer", (2) "A Thought", (3) "At the Seaside", (4) "Young Night Thought", (5) "Whole Duty of Children", (6) "Rain", (7) "Pirate Story", (8) "Foreign Lands", (9) "Windy Nights", (10) "Travel", (11) "Singing", (12) "Looking Forward", (13) "A Good Play", (14) "Where Go the Boats?", (15) "Auntie's Skirts", (16) "The Land of Counterpane". Walter de la Mare, Peacock Pie (London: Faber and Faber, 1989):^(1) "The Horseman", (2) "Alas, Alacki", (3) "Tired 30 Tim", (4) "Mima", (5) "The Huntsmen", (6) "The Bandog", (7) "I Can't Abear", (8) "The Dunce", (9) "Chicken", (10) "Some One", (11) "Bread and Cherries", (12) "Old Shellover", (13) "Hapless", (14) "The Little Bird", (15) "Mr Alacadacca", (16) "Not II", (17) "Cake and Sack", (18) "Groat nor Tester". A.A. Milne, The_World of_ChrlAtoRber Robin (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1955): (1) "Corner-of-the-Street", (2) "Buckingham Palace", (3) "Happiness", (4) "The Christening", (5) "Puppy and I", (6) "Twinkletoes", (7) "The Four Friends", (8) "Brownie", (9) "Independence", (10) "Nursery Chairs", (11) "Lines and Squares". John Ciardi, Mummy_Took Cooking_Lessons (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1990): (1) "Mummy Took Cooking Lessons and...", (2) "In Copenhagen by the Sea", (3) "Hi", (4) "Betty Bopper", (5) "The Milkman Comes at Four in the Morning", (6) "Lemonade for Sale", (7) "Who?", (8) "The Boy Who Knew He Was Good", (9) "Do You Suppose?", (10) "Dirty Dan Ploof", (11) "Jerry", (12) "Mike (or Joe)", (13) "The Flier", (14) "Ode", (15) "The Man with Nothing to Say". David McCord, One at a Time (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1980): (1) "Joe", (2) "Five Little Bats", (3) "Five Chants", (4) "The Rainbow", (5) "The Star in the Pail", (6) "At the Garden Gate", (7) "The Fisherman", (8) "Something Better", 31 (9) "The Newt", (10) "Tim", (11) "Father and I in the Woods". Eve Merriam, Finding a_poem (New York: Atheneum, 1970): (1) "The Wholly Family", (2) "Calendar", (3) "Sandwriting", (4) "Interview", (5) "Umbilical", (6) "Some Little Poems Without the Word Love", (7) "Neuteronomy", (8) "Alarm Clock", (9) "Witness", (10) The Measure of Man", (11) "Fantasia", (12) "Cult", (13) "Word Bird", (14) "Markings: The Period", (15) "Markings: The Exclamation", (16) "Markings: The Comma", (17) "Markings: The Semicolon". Valerie Worth, ll_the small_ppems. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1987): (1) "porches", (2) "cow", (3) "zinnias", (4) "chairs", (5) "sun", (6) "coins", (7) "aquarium", (8) "pig", (9) "jewels", (10) "tractor", (11) "grass", (12) "dog", (13) "raw carrots", (14) "marbles", (15) "clock", (16) "duck", (17) "daisies", (18) "pie", (19), "frog". 32 RHYME FORMS This chapter explains what the rhyme form is, what it can do, and how it has been used in children's poetry. The form is not what the poem is about, but the way in which it is written. It is the structure of the poem and has a variety of patterns. These patterns are derived from many different literary periods and cultures: "...Greek and Latin, early English, French, Italian, German, and other modern European languages, and from Japanese."- Throughout this study, rhyme form is presumed to include the acrostic, ballad, ballade, blank verse, cinquain, clerihew, couplet, free verse, haiku, limerick, octet, quatrain, quintet, rhyme royal, sixain, septet, sonnet, triolet, triplet, and villanelle. ACROSTIC Acrostic comes from the Greek word "akros" (at the end) and "stichos" (line or verse). The initial, middle, and/or final letters of each line are arranged in vertical order to comprise a word, phrase, or successive letters of the alphabet. Ancient Greek and Latin writers frequently used this form, and it probably served as a mnemonic device. The initial letters are used in most acrostics. A "telestich" is when the final letters are used, and a "mesostich" is when the middle letters appear vertically in the center of the poem. 33 Acrostics belonging to the alphabetical type are called abecedarians. Abecedarians (alphabet verse) date back to antiquity. This form has been used frequently in children's alphabet books. The letters of the alphabet are arranged in their correct order and form the initial letters of each line (and in the case of the following anonymous seventeenth century example, also the medial letters). A was an Archer, and shot at a frog, B was a Blindman, and led by a dog. C was a Cutpurse, and lived in disgrace, D was a Drunkard, and had a red face. E was an Eater, a glutton was he, F was a Fighter, and fought with a flea. G was a Giant, and pulled down a house, H was a Hunter, and hunted a mouse. I was an Ill man, and hated by all, K was a Knave, and he robbed great and small. L was a Liar, and told many lies, M was a Madman, and beat out his eyes. N was a Nobleman, nobly born, O was an Ostler, and stole horses' corn. P was a Pedlar, and sold many pins, Q was a Quarreller, and broke both his shins. R was a Rogue, and ran about town, S was a Sailor, a man of renown. T was a Tailor, and knavishly bent, U was a Usurer, took ten per cent. W was a Writer, and money he earned, X was one Xenophon, prudent and learn'd. Y was a Yoeman, and worked for his bread, Z was one Zeno the Great, but he's dead. 2 This verse is the most well-known of children's rhyming alphabets and is written in the traditional couplet form. The letters "I" and "V" are not included, reflecting the early English tradition of using "I"--"J" and "U"--"V" as single letters. 34 13.ALLAl2 Documented evidence of the origin of the ballad has been in dispute for a long time, but most sources claim that its origins lie in the folk song. Ballads were initially passed down orally through traditions that existed hundreds of years ago. Ballads focus on a single dramatic event. The narrator's point of view is impersonal, whereas the folk song expresses the author's/composer's emotions. According to Ethel Eikel Harvey "...the true ballad stanza is a quatrain, a four-line verse. The rhyme scheme is a-b-c-b. The first and third lines are tetrameter--four feet; the second and fourth lines are trimeter--three feet. There are no definite restrictions for the number of quatrains needed for any ballad. For this reason we have ballads of varying lengths." 3 Parallelism and repetition allow important facts to be clearly understood by the listener. Assonance is frequently employed, as is demonstrated in the opening verse of the traditional ballad "Sir Patrick Spens": The king sits in Dumferling town, Drinking the blood-red wine: "0 where will I get a good sailor, To sail this ship of mine?" 4 BALLADE The ballade has a rigid rhyme scheme and is a complicated and exacting form of poetry. It is composed of three eight-line stanzas with a rhyming scheme of a-b-a-b-b- c-b-C, finishing with a four-line envoy (b-c-b-C). David 35 McCord explains and illustrates this form in "Ballade: An Easy One": Of course I find it fun to write Ballades. Some people don't, alas! The best ones gallop swift and light On anapestic feet. In class You'll learn that, like wind over grass, An anapest goes ta, ta, tee; Or you can say it: trout, trout, bass. It doesn't matter much to me. In this ballade the line is tight And short and glitters some, like brass: Iambic--four feet. Let me bite It out / for you. / As clear / as glass, We're not deep down in some morass Of verse; we're sailing smooth and free. If our next rhyme is sassafras, It doesn't matter much to me. And yet it should because, in spite Of all your skill, you must amass A lot of rhyme words--sprite, might, kite-- And juicy ones like this--crevasse; And you can feel now, as I pass From class to grass to bass, I see The end in sight. But I am crass: It doesn't matter much to me. Envoy Prince, am I finished? Lad or lass, Ballades may run you up a tree. If my balloon is filled with gas, It doesn't matter much to me.' BLANK VERSE Blank verse (blank implying that the end of the line is bare of rhyme) appeared in English poetry as early as the sixteenth century. Louis Untermeyer stated: Although to most English readers the term has become synonymous with Shakespeare's plays, blank verse is by no means confined to the long unrhymed line of ten syllables and five accents. Any verse which is without end-rhyme and which usually is not divided into stanzas might be called blank 36 verse--no matter how short the lines or how long the poem itself may be....The themes generally thought to be appropriate for the form are meditative and dramatic movements.° However, the most common definition of blank verse is by Jaye Giammarino: "Blank verse is a very specific meter: iambic pentameter, unrhymed...with the caesure always appearing within the line...least often of all, at the end of the line."' Next to free verse, blank verse most resembles the English speech stresses. It is not considered to be a popular form with contemporary poets, and is seldom used in poetry for children. But Ralph Waldo Emerson, in his poem on "Snow," employed it most effectively: Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.° CINQUAIN The cinquain is a stanza composed of five lines, its origin probably dating back to medieval times. The precise, modern form of the cinquain was invented by an American, Adelaide Crapsey, in the early part of the twentieth century. "It is a product of the Imagist movement whose roots are found in classical Greek poetry, Japanese haiku and 'vers libre' of French Symbolists." 9 37 This form is made up of five unrhymed lines and twenty- two syllables, with the following pattern of syllables per line: 2-4-6-8-2. David McCord's cinquain illustrates this pattern: Who sees The redwoods for The first time won't forget Their tallness^ageless look^saying Always 3-° CLERIHEW The Oxford Dictionary describes a clerihew as a "short, witty, comic, or nonsensical verse, usually in four lines of varying length." It was named after its inventor, Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) who wrote his first clerihew at age sixteen. The clerihew is made up of two couplets of unequal length with outrageous rhymes. It usually contains biographical notes about a famous personality, and the person's name should appear in the first line. "The humour consists in concentrating on the trivial, the fantastic, or the ridiculous and presenting it with dead-pan solemnity as the characteristic, the significant, or the essential." - - When a rooster crows Everybody knows The dawn made him do it. That's all there is to it.- 2 COUPLETS Over the centuries, the rhymed couplet has been a basic form in poetry, one from which many other forms have been 38 generated. It is two linked lines of verse, usually with the same rhythm and rhyme, although not all couplets employ regular line length. The classical (heroic) form uses iambic pentameter. The line used most frequently in light and/or romantic verse is iambic tetrameter, as in Harry Behn's "Adventure": It's not very far to the edge of town Where trees look up and hills look down, We go there almost every day To climb and swing and paddle and play. It's not very far to the edge of town, Just up one little hill and down, And through one gate, and over two stiles-- But coming home it's miles and miles.- 3 FREE_ VERSE Free verse has developed over the last hundred years to such an extent as to be thought of as the characteristic poetry form of the twentieth century. Poets searched for ways to avoid rigid organization and regular rhythms. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) felt that rhyme was an inadequate vehicle for expressing logical and intellectual themes. In fact, he felt that it would be somewhat cynical and improper to use rhyme to attempt to "comprehend the size of the whole people...the modern, the busy nineteenth century...with steamships, railroads, factories, electric telegraphs, cylinder press...."'- 4 Whitman's attack on rhyme is taken from The Notes-- Complete Works: 39 If rhyme and those measurements continue to furnish the medium for inferior writers and themes (as there seems...something inevitably comic in rhyme), the truest and greatest poetry...can never again, in the English language, be expressed in arbitrary and rhyming meter...m 5 Free verse has no mechanical syllable count, but uses a unit called "the variable foot." Its rhythm relies on cadence. Jean R. Jenkins states that "Free verse is not lacking in form and discipline...free verse is really only freed verse." 16 It treats the rhyming device and metrical patterning with a sense of freedom and irregularity, as seen in Valerie Worth's poem "Magnet": This small Flat horseshoe Is sold for A toy: we are Told that it Will pick up pins And it does, time After time; later It lies about, Getting chipped, being Offered pins less Often, until at Last we leave it Alone: then It leads its own Life, trading Secrets with The North Pole, Reading Invisible messages From the sun. 17 HAIKU Haiku is a poem of Japanese ancestry that in the Japanese language consists of three lines with a total of seventeen syllables. The syllables are divided into a 5-7-5 40 pattern although translations from Japanese to English frequently do not retain this syllable pattern. The content of haiku is very closely linked to nature. It is delicate, tranquil, and perceptive poetry that describes the miracles of the natural world. Always written in the present tense, haiku does not have to be grammatically perfect, nor does it rhyme. It is untitled, as a title is felt to impose the poet's interpretation upon the reader: Wind ripples the grass, Waves rock the boat, but clouds have To drag their shadows.- 8 LIMERICK No one is certain where or how the limerick began, but there are many theories as to its origin. A few examples are: -the war veterans in 1700 brought it back to Ireland from France -it was popular with Mother Goose's Melodies for Children, published in 1719 -it began with an old Irish habit of pub-crawling and shouting out lines in turn. After four lines were finished, everyone would yell, "Will you all come up to Limerick!" The limerick is a nonsense poem. It contains five anapestic lines with a rhyme scheme of a-a-b-b-a. The first, second, and fifth lines have three stresses, and the third and fourth have two. Edward Lear's BookpfNpnsense 41 was published in 1846 and contained many limericks-- including the following--although he was anxious not to be known as the originator of this form: There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is Just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard!" 1 " OCTET The octet is an eight-line grouping of words. It can be a complete stanza, or a portion of a longer scheme, such as a sonnet. It appears as a complete stanza in Rossetti's poem "A Motherless Soft Lambkin": A motherless soft lambkin Alone upon a hill; No mother's fleece to shelter him And wrap him from the cold:-- I'll run to him and comfort him, I'll fetch him, that I will; I'll care for him and feed him Until he's strong and bold. 2 ° QUATRAIN The quatrain is thought to be the oldest (and still the most widely used) form of verse in the English language. There are four lines in each stanza. The metric foot is the poet's choice but, once chosen, is usually strictly followed and consistent throughout. Quatrains may stand on their own, or they may be put together to create a longer poem. A variety of rhyming patterns may be used: 1. a-b-c-b (the most popular pattern, and used by Rossetti in her poem "Flint"): 42 An emerald is as green as grass, A ruby red as blood; A sapphire shines as blue as heaven; A flint lies in the mud. A diamond is a brilliant stone, To catch the world's desire; An opal holds a fiery spark; But a flint holds fire. 22- 2. a-b-a-b (used by Blake in his introductory poem to Aongs_oLInnoseace.): Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me... 22 3. a-a-a-b (used by Newbery in "The Great Merchant, Dives Pragmaticus, Cries his Wares"): I have ornaments, implements, fit for the church, Fine rods for children, of willow and birch; If I have not quick sale, I shall have a lurch, What do you lack, sir? Come hither to me. 23 QUINTET A quintet is composed of five lines. Poets may devise any rhyme scheme (a-b-a-b-b is the most common pattern) or have no rhyme scheme at all. The meter and line length are not fixed. Poets often combine short and long lines to create the desired effect. Valerie Worth employed this form in "toad": When the flowers Turned clever, and Earned wide Tender red petals For themselves, 43 When the birds Learned about feathers, Spread green tails, Grew cockades On their heads, The toad said: Someone has got To remember The mud, and I'm not proud. 24 RHYME ROYAL Rhyme Royal is a seven-line stanza of iambic pentameter. Its rhyme scheme is a-b-a-b-b-c-c. Chaucer used Rhyme Royal extensively and this form continued to flourish in the century after his death. John Lydgate (1370-1450) used two stanzas of Rhyme Royal in his poem "The Boy Serving at Table": My dear child, first thyself enable With all thine heart to virtuous discipline; Afore thy sovereign, standing at the table, Dispose thou thee after my doctrine To all nurture thy courage to incline. First, when thou speakest be not reckless, Keep feet and finger still in peace. Be simple of cheer, cast not thine eye aside, Gaze not about, turning thy sight over all. Against the post let not thy back abide, Neither make thy mirror of the wall. Pick not thy nose, and, most especial, Be well ware, and set hereon thy thought, Before thy sovereign scratch nor rub thee nought. 25 SEPTET The septet is a stanza composed of seven lines. Its meter and rhyme pattern may vary. It was used in A.A. Milne's poem "Independence": 44 I never did, I never did, I never did like "Now take care, dear!" I never did, I never did, I never did want "Hold-my-hand"; I never did, I never did, I never did think much of "Not up there, dear!" It's no good saying it. They don't understand." SInIN The six-line stanza is called a sixain, or sestet, although sestet usually refers to the final six lines of certain sonnet forms. Blake's poem "Infant Joy" is composed of two sixains: "I have no name: I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while, Sweet joy befall thee! 27 SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET A Shakespearean sonnet has three quatrains and a couplet, or one octave and a sestet. Its rhyme scheme is: a-b-a-b^c-d-c-d^e-f-e-f^g-g It is written in iambic pentameter. Slight variations are permitted: -near rhyme ("come" : "home") -opening a line with a trochee and balancing it with an iamb 45 -using a run-on line if needed -using unaccented syllables as end rhymes ("garden" : "harden"). TRIQ4BT A triolet is a popular French form that has been adopted by the English. It has eight lines and can be written in dimeter, trimeter, tetrameter, or pentameter. It is founded on a very strict rhyme scheme: -lines 1, 4, 7--identical^(but a slight variation in words may occur) -lines 2 and 8--identical -lines -line 6 3 and 5--must rhyme with 1,^4, and 7 must rhyme with 2 and 8. Phyllis McGinley used this form in "Triolet Against Sisters": Sisters are always drying their hair. Locked into rooms, alone, They pose at the mirror, shoulders bare, Trying this way and that with their hair, Or fly importunate down the stair To answer a telephone. Sisters are always drying their hair, Locked into rooms, alone. 28 TFI_pLET The triplet developed as an extension and a variation of the couplet. It is composed of three successive lines, usually containing rhyme, and nearly always has the same rhythm throughout. Langston Hughes's "Winter Moon" illustrates the triplet: 46 How thin and sharp is the moon tonight! How thin and sharp and ghostly white Is the slim curved crook of the moon tonight! 29 VILLANELLE: A villanelle is a French verse form consisting of five tercets with a rhyming a-b-a pattern, rounded off by a quatrain (rhyming a-b-a-a). "The first line of the initial tercet serves as the last line of the second and fourth tercets and the third line of the initial tercet serves as the last line of the third and fifth tercets, these two refrain-lines follow each other to constitute the last two lines of the closing quatrain." 9 ° David McCord demonstrates the villanelle form in "Turtle": This turtle moved his house across the street. I met him here about an hour ago. It is so hot, I guess he feels the heat. Outside, at least, his house looks very neat; But what goes on inside I do not know. This turtle moved his house across the street. No windows, just the four doors for his feet, Two more for head and tail. Now they don't show. It is so hot, I guess he feels the heat. He must be tired. I don't know what he'll eat. Does he grow big? Or does his house just grow? This turtle moved his house across the street. I'll put him near the pond. The grass is sweet. The dragonflies are fast, but he is slow. It is so hot! I guess he feels the heat. It's nice to have a house like that, complete To walk in, float in, sink in mud below. This turtle moved his house across the street. It is so hot! I guess he feels the heat. 91 47 The examples included in this chapter show that poetic form is the manner in which the poem is written. Any writer may create an original stanzaic form. Form is the way a poem is composed as distinct from the poetic devices used within a poem. Rhyming devices and how they have been employed in poetry for children are examined closely in the following chapter. NOTES 1 Frances Stillman, The Poet's. Mapugl_And_Rhyming Dictionary (London: Thames and Hudson, 1966) 41. 2 Anonymous, "A Was an Archer," Tbe.QN.fgrd_PQ9k_of Children's Verse, ed. Iona and Peter Opie (London: Oxford University Press, 1975) 43-44. 3 Wauneta Hackleman, ed., The Study. and Writing. of Poetry: American Women Poets Discuss Their Craft (New York: Whitson Pub. Co., 1983) 9. 4 Anonymous, "Sir Patrick Spens," Time for Poetry, ed. May Hill Arbuthnot and Shelton L Root, Jr. (Illinois: Scott, Foresman and Co., 1968) 19. 5 David McCord, "Ballade: An Easy One," One At A Time (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1980) 472-73. 48 6 Louis Untermeyer, The Forms_of.Poetry (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1926) 50. 7 Hackleman 19. Arbuthnot 191. 5 Hackleman 31. 2-° McCord 480. 11 Alex Preminger, ed., Theyrinceton_EncyclopedAa_of poetry. and_Poetics. (New Jersy: Princeton Univ. Press, 1990) 141. 12 McCord 476. 19 Arbuthnot 95 14 Whitman in Henry Lanz's The_PilYSilqa.1_11a41s.Qt_RJPIP (California: Stanford Univ. Press, 1931) 321-22. 15 Whitman in Lanz 322. 16 Hackleman 73. 17 Valerie Worth, "magnet," all the smalj.poems (U.S.A.: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1987) 54-55. 3-8 McCord 484. 19 Edward Lear, The Nonsense Verse of Edward Lear (New York: Harmony Books, 1984) 27. 25 Christina Rossetti, Doves and Pomegranates (London: Bodley Head, 1969) 30. 21 Opie 277. 22 William Blake, "Introduction," Blakes!s. Innocence and Experience, ed. Joseph H. Wicksteed (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1928) 82-83. 23 Opie 15. 49 " Worth 78. 25 Opie 4. 26 A.A. Milne, The World of Christopher Robin (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1958) 20. 27 Blake 122-23. 28 Phyllis McGinley, "Triolet Against Sisters," The Oxford Book of Children's Verse in America, ed. Donald Hall (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985) 255. 25 Langston Hughes, "Winter Moon," Knock at a Star, ed. X.J. Kennedy (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1982) 47. 30 Preminger 893. 91 McCord 469. 50 THE RHYMING DEVICE The rhyming device, illustrated in this section through a series of selected passages by children's poets from the fourteenth century to the present, includes the following terms: alliteration (initial-consonantal, initial-vocalic, medial, final, parallel, suspended, submerged), anaphora, ascending rhyme, assonance, consonance, descending rhyme, end rhyme, eye rhyme, full rhyme, homoeoteleuton, internal rhyme, identical rhyme, medial rhyme, mosaic rhyme, near rhyme, ploce, and tame rhyme. ALL Achieving a musical effect through alliteration is an ancient and persuasive technique. Alliteration is the repetition of the same letters or sounds in two or more words. There are many different forms, the most common being initial-consonantal. It was used very persuasively by John Lydgate, a friend of Geoffrey Chaucer's son. Lydgate's "Stans Puer ad Mensam" was published by Caxton and was widely read in the fifteenth century. An example of initial-consonantal alliteration is found in his poem "The Boy Serving at Table," containing advice for a young boy on how to conduct himself appropriately: Neither make thy mirror of the wall, Pick not thy nose, and, most especial, Be well ware, and set hereon thy thought, Before thy sovereign scratch nor rub thee nought.'- 51 The following table indicates how frequently these initial-consonantal sounds were repeated within the four lines: LINE: "b" 1 1 tiro 2 1 "n" 1 2 2 fist, 1 2 "th" 2 1 2 2 1 2 Alliteration using single consonants, consonantal blends, and consonants with succeeding vowel repetition have all been included in the final three lines of Valerie Worth's "Fireworks": Breaks and billows into bloom, Spilling down clear green sparks, gold apears, Silent sliding silver waterfalls and stars. 2 Twelve of the eighteen words in this excerpt contain alliterative initial consonants, seven involving the fricative "s" and three involving the plosive "b." These are carefully chosen consonants that combine to evoke the sounds made by a rocket hissing and exploding in a fireworks display, just as the air in the mouth "explodes" when the "b" sound is released. Effective use of the plosive "d" occurs in the opening lines of Worth's poem "Dinosaurs": Dinosaurs Do not count, Because They are all Dead. 3 52 The "d" is also echoed in the last sound of "dead," giving a heavy finality to the whole verse. A less common type of alliteration is initial-vocalic. Hilaire Belloc combined it with initial-consonantal in the closing couplet of "Jim, Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a lion": And always keep a-hold of Nurse For fear of finding something worse. 4 The acoustical effect is somewhat different with initial vowels, and this form is used less frequently. Lewis Carroll employed it in "You are old, Father William": "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I. feared it might injure the brain..." Initial alliteration has coursed through innumerable children's alphabet books to the extent of being almost a vice, although some alphabet books have survived and endured, two well-known examples being Edward Lear's AR Alphabet (1871) and Kate Greenaway's A-Apple Pie (1886). Alliteration may occur in an internal position and is then referred to as medial-alliteration, as seen in Christina Rossetti's "Comparisons": Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth.a and also in Thomas Newbery's "The Great Merchant, Dives Pragmaticus, Cries His Wares": 53 I have fine gowns, cloaks, jackets and coats Fine jerkins, doublets, and hose without motes.' The following example of final alliteration is from a poem by Isaac Watts entitled "The Sluggard": As the door on its, hinges, so he on his bed Turns his sides and his shoulder and his heavy head° Alliteration in the medial and final position is also a form of consonance. Consonant rhyme is especially effective in disyllabic end-rhyming, as found in Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz": The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not ga.sy. 9 Parallel or crossed alliteration is produced when alliterative sounds are intricately arranged throughout either a section or a whole poem creating a sound pattern. In the following example, Geoffrey Chaucer created a delicate interplay between the voiced nasal consonants m and in the first two lines, then formed a new design in the third line by alternating the y and t: My son, from a fiend men may them bless. My son, God of his endless goodness Walled a tongue with teeth and lips eke... 1 ° An unusual form of alliteration called suspended alliteration is where the consonant and the succeeding vowel are placed in reverse order, as in Lewis Carroll's "The White Queen's Riddle": 54 For it holds it like glue-- Holds the lid to the dish, while it lies in the middle: Which is easiest to do, Un-dish-cover the fish, or dishcover the riddle?'-1==:: Alliteration is not necessarily restricted to the stressed syllables. When it appears on the unstressed syllables, it is referred to as submerged alliteration. A.A. Milne used it in "Us Two": "I'm never afraid with you." So wherever I am, there's always Pooh... 3- 2 ANAPHORA When successive sentences or sentence parts begin with the same word or words, it is called anaphora. "Demetrius and virtually all post classical authorities treat anaphora as its exact synonym."- 3 John Ciardi's poem "Wouldn't You?" contains an example of anaphora in the repetition of the "w" glide, where no obstruction of the airstream is produced and thus a "wind" effect is created: If I Could go As high And low As the wind As the wind As the wind Can blow-- I'd go! 14 ASCENDING RHYME Ciardi's "Wouldn't You?" is said to be written in ascending rhyme, which occurs when the lines are composed 55 predominantly in iambic (unstressed/stressed) or anapestic (unstressed/unstressed/stressed). Ascending rhyme is not thought to have any uplifting, symbolic meaning suggesting happiness, hope, or levity. Consider the exquisite sadness of "Poem" by Langston Hughes, also written in ascending rhyme: I loved my friend, He went away from me. There's nothing more to say. The poem ends, Soft as it began-- I loved my friend. -5 Ascending rhyme also appears in the iambic rhythm of R.L. Stevenson's "My Shadow": I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.l." and in the anapestic rhythm of "The Sluggard" by Isaac Watts: 'Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."- 7 ASSONANCE Assonance is also referred to as vowel or vocalic rhyme. It is usually echoed in the same line, but can appear in a different section of a poem. It occurs when vowels (usually stressed syllables) are repeated in words 56 whose consonants are not the same, as in "The Lamb" by William Blake: Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead. 18 or, in a lighter vein, where Eve Merriam plays with the spelling of the first word in the English dictionary in her poem "AA Couple of Doublles": If the aardvark haad as caar aand went out aafter daark, he might find it haard to paark.." Edward Lear created parallel assonance when he wove an intricate "e" and "i" pattern throughout the opening lines of "The Jumblies": They went to sea, in a Sieve, they did, a Sieve they went to sga; 2 ° Internal assonance occurs when the echoing vowels appear in the opening and the final words of a line, or are placed in close proximity. The long "o" is repeated in the last three lines of Valerie Worth's "hose", and this sound also reflects back on the poem's title: A silk Rainbow Halo Over soft fog. 21- Worth created a pleasing double assonance in the "Rainbow" : "Halo" combination, with both words suggesting 57 curved, circular shapes. The final short "o" repetition enhances the quiet mood of the closing lines. Another type of assonance serves as a link between lines or line parts. It is found at the end of lines (either successive of alternating) that do not contain a pure rhyme. This form sometimes acts in place of rhyme. Three verses in Valerie Worth's poem "duck" end in words that are not pure rhymes, yet "feet" : "beak" : "keep" are linked together through the "ee" sound: When the neat white Duck walks like a toy Out of the water On yellow rubber-skinned feet, And speaks wet sounds, Hardly opening His round-tipped wooden Yellow-painted beak, • • • Then we would like To pick him up, take Him home with us, put him Away, on a shelf, to keep. 22 The opening line of each verse also contains this "ee" sound. "Neat" : "speaks" : "we" creates an effective acoustical connection with the last word of each verse. Another interesting link is found between "neat" : "feet" and "speaks" : "beak," as each rhyming vowel-pair has an identical succeeding consonant. CONSONANCE Consonance or pararhyme is the similarity of partial or total consonants in syllables or words whose stressed vowels 58 are not the same. An example of this form is found in "Mother to Son," a poem written by Langston Hughes: I's been. a-climbip' on, And reachin' landin's And turnip' corners And sometimes goin' the dark. 25 Rich consonance is total consonantal sound repetition between words where the corresponding vowels are different. Thomas Newbery used it in "The Great Merchant": I have ladles, skimmers, and irons and spits, Dripping pans, pot hooks, old gatg and kttg. 24 William Blake also used rich consonance in "Piping Down the Valleys Wild": Slag thy gongs of happy cheer So I sung the same again... 25 Sometimes consonance takes the place of end rhyme, creating an impure rhyme, as in Walter de la Mare's "Some One": Some one came knocking At my wee, small door.; Some one came knocking, I'm sure - sure - sure." DES.CENDING.RHYNK Descending rhyme, like ascending rhyme, carries no symbolic meaning. It is referred to as the falling rhyme when the trochaic and dactylic rhythms are used: (Trochaic--stressed/unstressed) 59 Garden darkened, daisy shut, Child in bed, they slumber-- Glow-worm in the highway rut, Mice among the lumber. 27 (R.L. Stevenson) (Dactylic--stressed/unstressed/unstressed) What are you able to build with your blocks? Castles and palaces, temples and docks. Rain may keep raining, and others go roam, but I can be happy and building at home. 28 (R.L. Stevenson) END RHYME End rhyme is the most common position of rhymed words: Ages and ages have fallen on me.-- On the wood and the pool and the elder tre.e. 28 (Walter de la Mare) End rhyme that matches with a word in the middle of the next line (or vice versa) is called cross rhyme, an example being found in David McCord's "How to Draw a Monkey": To draw a monkey, don't begin With him, but what he's on or in, He's in a tree, he's on a Umb... 2 ° EYE RHYME Eye rhyme, also referred to as visual or sight rhyme, depends on spelling rather than pronunciation. The words look alike but are pronounced differently: "A little too well done? Oh well, I'll have to start all over." That time what landed on my plate Looked like a manhole cgver. 23- 60 This excerpt was taken from John Ciardi's "Mommy Slept Late and Daddy Cooked Breakfast," the poem rated as most popular by students in Ann Terry's National Survey of Children's Poetry Preferences. 32 Many of today's eye rhymes are classed as historical rhymes. Alterations in the pronunciation of vowels resulted in pairs of words that once rhymed perfectly in the eighteenth century appearing as near rhymes, as found in "For the Lord's Day Evening" by Isaac Watts: 0 write upon my memory, Lpid, The text and doctrines of thy WArd. 33 FULL_REUME Full rhyme is the same as perfect, exact, or true rhyme. It is the correspondence of vowel sounds in the accented syllables, which are followed by similar consonant sounds. The consonant sounds preceding the vowel are different. Eve Merriam employed full rhyme in "Portmanteaux": ...so coin new words and spend and lend as syllables wander, waft and wend and blend and bend and never end. 34 Full rhyme can be monosyllabic (single), disyllabic (double), or trisyllabic (triple). When the rhyming syllables are monosyllabic, it is called single, male, or masculine rhyme. David McCord used it in "Frog in a Bog": 61 Give him a hot bright sun-- A June one, an August one, Or any of July's. Flies, are his prize.: Any kind, any size. He is all eyes, for flles. 35 When the rhyming sound-identities are disyllabic and the stress is not on the last syllable, it is referred to as double, unstressed, female, or feminine rhyme. The disyllabic rhyme has been used imaginatively in A.A. Milne's "Sneezles": They said, "If you teazle A sneezle Or wheezje, A measle, May easily grow. But humour or pleazle. The wheezlg or sneezle, The measle Will certainly go." 36 Trisyllabic rhyming involves three syllables and is called triple, treble, or sdrucciolo rhyme with the accented syllable followed by two unaccented syllables. An excellent example of this type of rhyming is David McCord's "Mr. Bidery's Spidery Garden" where this feeling of three is enhanced by having the poem written in triplets and having each line end in a trisyllabic rhyme: With cabbages so odory, Snapdragon soon explodery, At twilight all is toadary. 37 62 Rhymes involving four syllables are extremely uncommon in English and have not been given special names. They mostly appear in nonsense verse. HOMOEOTELEUTON Homoeoteleuton first appeared in Aristotle's Rhetoric-- Book 3.9.9. It means "similarity of endings" and usually involves suffix repetition, where the same or similar case- endings are close together, as in Geoffrey Chaucer's "Controlling the Tongue": Wost thou whereof a rakel tongue serveth? Right as a sword forcutteth and forcarveth." IDENTUAL RHYME Identical rhyme, also called right rhyme, appears when two words have the same sound but are spelled differently: "Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanished from my sight, And I plucked a hollow Kee0. 4 ° (William Blake) INTERNAL_RHYME Rhyme is not restricted to just the final word of a line or half-line of poetry. A word echoing another anywhere in close proximity is called internal or inner rhyme. Eve Merriam created internal rhyme in her poem "Serendipity": Or if you are Adam adamantly out to do your duty, and along your macadam route you encounter a beauty... 3 ' 63 MEDIAL RHYME Medial or middle rhyme occurs when the word preceding the caesura rhymes with the end word. This device is called leonine rhyme when used in a pentameter or hexameter line. Middle-and-end rhyme indicates the two halves of a line of poetry: A simple chime, that served to ttme., The rhythm of our rowing... 41 (Lewis Carroll) MOSAIC RHYME When two or more words in the rhyming pair are used, it is referred to as mosaic rhyme. Both of the lines may contain the mosaic rhyme, or only one, as in Edward Lear's "Eclogue": What boots it that we orange trees or lemons see, If we must suffer from such vile inclempAgy7 42 NEAR RHYME Near rhyme is a form of consonance. It is also called partial, half, off, oblique, slant, or imperfect rhyme. The final consonant-sound is repeated without a similar correspondence between preceding vowels or consonants. Stephen L. Mooney describes near rhyme: Once considered an oddity in the work of such poets as Emerson and Emily Dickinson, near rhyme is now accepted and used by nearly all 20th century poets, not to supplant perfect rhyme but to supplement it, so as to provide a greater range and freedom for the poet. 43 64 In the poem entitled "bell," Valerie Worth has used the phonetic properties of the voiced nasal "ng" to recreate the sound of a bell ringing, and this near rhyme has echoed three times in each verse. By flat tink Of tin, or thin Copper tong, Brass clang, Bronze bong, The bell gives Metal a tongue-- To sing In one sound Its whole song. 44 PLOCE Most postclassical authorities apply the term anadiplosis to "only the word repetition that serves to link two units of discourse such as consecutive stanzas or sentences." 45 Ploce or anadiplosis is verbatim word repetition that links sections of poetry together: The Dong!--The Dong! The Wandering Dong through the forest goes! The Dong! the Dong! The Dong with a luminous Nose!" (Edward Lear) TAME RHYME Tame rhyme uses similar parts of speech in corresponding functions: "Well, dogtooth violet, and how's that toot?" "It aches a bit, to tell the truth." Now you heard that: he says it aches, Let's ask wake-robin when robin wakes. 47 65 In this poem "Spring Talk" by David McCord, the same parts of speech appear in the end rhymes: "tooth" : "truth" are both singular nouns and "aches" : "wakes" are both verbs (third person singular) in the present tense. The examples above reveal the complex variety of rhyming devices found in children's poetry. It is important to understand the technical resources of the poet's art. These linkages of rhyme help to "form a positive structure for the poetic act." 48 NOTES_ 1 John Lydgate, "The Boy Serving at Table," ThP_Pxfusi Book.__ of.Children's Verse, ed. Iona and Peter Opie (London: Oxford University Press, 1975) 4. 2 Valerie Worth, all the small poems (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 3 Worth 4 Opie 5 Opie 6 Opie Opie Opie 1987) 83. 312. 239. 176. 15. 51. 63. 66 9 Theodore Roethke, The Riverside AntholgAY, of Children'sjdterature, ed. Saltman (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985) 124. 1 ° Opie 3. 11 Lewis Carroll, "The White Queen's Riddle," Jabberwockyand Other Poems (London: Macmillan, 1980) 45. 12 A.A. Milne, "Us Two," Thg_WOrld_Qt_ghX.iPtQpher Robin: Now We Are Six (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1958) 140. 13 Harold Bloom, "Anaphora," The_ghgycloppOlg.o.f_ppgtry and Poetic, ed. Alex Preminger (New Jersy: Princeton Univ. Press, 1990) 37. 14 John Ciardi, "Wouldn't You?" You read to me, I'll read to you (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1962) 14. 15 Saltman 151. 16 R.L. Stevenson, "My Shadow," A Child's Garden of Verses (London: Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1985) 34. 3- 7 Opie 51. 19 William Blake, "The Lamb," Blake'A_SpAgs_ot Innocence and Experience, ed. Joseph H. Wicksteed (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1928) 90. 19 Eve Merriam, "AA Couple of Doublles," Chortles (New York: Morrow Junior Books, 1989) 5. 2 ° Edward Lear, "The Jumblies," The Nonsense Verse of Edward Lear (New York: Harmony Books, 1984) 100. 21 Worth 67. 22 Worth 27. 23 Langston Hughes, "Mother to Son," The_Oxford_Boojcof 67 Children's Verse in America, ed. Donald Hall (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985) 247. 24 Opie 15. 25 Blake 82-83. 26 Walter de la Mare, "Some One," peacock_ple . (London: Faber and Faber, 1989) 17. 27 Stevenson 93. 28 Stevenson 81. 29 de la Mare 106. 3 ° David McCord, "How to Draw a Monkey," One at_a Time (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1980) 393. 31 Ciardi 18. 32 Ann Terry, Children's Poetry Preferences (Illinois: NCTE, 1972). " Opie 50. 34 Merriam 53. 35 McCord 275. 36 Milne 15. 37 McCord 381. 38 Opie 3. 39 Merriam 23. 40 Blake 82-83. 41 Carroll 26. 42 Lear 126. 43 Mooney in Preminger, 556. 44 Worth 95. 45 Preminger 33. 68 46 Lear 12. 47 McCord 247. 48 John Hollander, Vision and Resonance (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1985) 118. 69 A STUDY OF POEMS BY BLAKE, LEAR, ROSSETTI, AND MERRIAM In the Introduction to How Does a Poem Mean? John Ciardi states that "To look technically at a poem, they [appreciators] argue, is like picking the wings off a butterfly. But what poem ever ceased to be good because someone had analyzed This chapter analyzes how four poets managed a particular aspect of their art--specifically, how Blake, Lear, Rossetti, and Merriam managed the technique of rhyme. The available wealth of children's poets made it somewhat difficult to narrow the selection down to only Blake, Lear, Rossetti, and Merriam. However, in the numerous anthologies and scholarly criticisms reviewed (Opie, Darton, Hall, Sutherland, Saltman, and Huck) these four poets consistently appeared as writers who have made, or are making, significant contributions to the world of children's poetry. The eighteenth century's emerging awareness of humanity appears in the work of Blake; the early nineteenth century's reaction to didactic poetry surfaces in Lear's nonsense verse; the Victorian's sensitivity to the day-to-day interests of the child influences the lyrical poetry of Rossetti; and the late twentieth century's desire to experiment with language emerges in the innovative poetry of Merriam. 70 WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) Very little imaginative poetry was written for children between the time of Isaac Watts's Qivine_gongs.Attemptgd.in Easy Language for the Use of Children (1715) and William Blake's Songs of Innocence (1789). Blake, the great imaginative writer and solitary genius, had "...broken into this narrow library that others were toiling so laboriously to fill for children." 2 Blake was well acquainted with the world of juvenile literature and lived in an environment which took this genre seriously. He did not agree with the theories upon which most of the children's books of his time were based, and so he produced his own "epoch-making" children's book: The deceptively simple and reassuring rhythms of nursery rhyme, folk-song, jingle, lullaby, ballad, and hymn, when combined with an equally child-like pictorial style (the primitiveness of which may have appealed to Blake for other reasons as well), would lull the reader into expecting conventional themes--laziness, for instance, or disobedience-- to be conventionally treated. When expectations were then subtly undermined, the larger implications of the themes and conventions of traditional children's books would be thrown into relief. 3 Blake built his poetry on vision: The Songs of Innocence describe Blake's vision of what is naturally good, and the Songs of Experience show how this innocence can be destroyed. Blake was concerned over the loss of the "child- like vision of existence...which may still exist in maturity." 4 71 The symbols in Innocence offer a special meaning and represent a state of security found in the watched-over lamb and child. The link between the Innocence and ExperAenge portions of the book is the need for humans to be tested in order to reach another necessary state of development. The image of children (imagination) allowed to run free, unfettered by conventional restrictions, reveals Blake's passion for the "highest state of the active imagination which he calls Eden." 5 This passion is most evident in the poem "Nurses's Song": When the voices of children are heard on the green And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast And everything else is still Then come home my children, the sun is gone down And the dews of night arise Come come leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies No no let us play, for it is yet day And we cannot go to sleep Besides in the sky, the little birds fly And the hills are all coverd with sheep Well well go & play till the light fades away And then go home to bed The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh'd And all the hills ecchoed [This punctuation has been copied from Blake's 1794 engraved edition, and it differs from most editions produced today.] Blake's original Manuscript version used the word "tongues" instead of "voices" in the first stanza. 6 The plate for "Nurses's Song" reveals seven children dancing in a circle. They are moving in a clockwise motion, 72 "always significant for Blake of the passage through life- experience to beautitude." 7 Groupings of seven appear elsewhere in aongs_of_Innocence. Seven cherubs (five winged, two without) are depicted in "The Blossom", and Wicksteed referred to these as the seven angels on the title-page of the "Job." 8 Wicksteed also suggested that in the poem immediately preceding "The Blossom" ("Infant Joy"), the mother holds in her lap the second of the seven cherubs and that the seven spirits trace "the current of creation...the six days culminating in the Sabbath or seventh day would then be represented by the cherubs." Many of Blake's principal symbols of Innocence, according to F.W. Bateson, appear in the "Nurse's Song": children (lines 1, 5, 15) sheep (line 12) wild birds (line 11) green fields (line 1) dew (line 6) hills (line 2, 12, 16) Blake omitted any jarring voices throughout 5ongs_of Innocence, but the "Nurse's Song" in Experience offers a counterpart: When the voices of children, are heard on the green, And whisperings are in the dale: The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, My face turns green and pale. Then come home my children, the sun is gone down And the dews of night arise Your spring & your day, are wasted in play And your winter and night in disguise. 73 This is in contrast to the symbols introduced in the first "Nurses's Song." Here, "laughing" becomes "whispering" (suggesting secrecy and deceit); "hill" becomes "dale" (suggesting shadow and darkness); " morning" becomes "winter and night" (suggesting oppression and loss of innocence). Thus, experience darkens the second "Nurse's Song", and a contrasting situation is presented. Anger and bitter resentment have entered the speaker, who now warns the children of the folly of play and the dangers of night. The vocabulary in these poems is purposely simple. Blake's "childlikeness was partly self-imposed," resulting in poetry of childlike innocence. 3-° 86% of the words used in these two poems are monosyllabic. "Ed" endings would have been sounded in Blake's time unless they were elided. Thus, "laugh'd" has been counted as monosyllabic, "leaped" and "shouted" as disyllabic, and "ecchoed" as trisyllabic-- (all examples of homoeoteleuton). The consonantal rhymes found in "bed" : "laugh'd" : "ecchoed" altered the rhyme scheme from a-b-c-b to a-b-b-b in the final stanza. "Ecchoed" is an historical rhyme and provides a full rhyme for "bed." The three syllables of this word have a strange effect on the poem and suggest that the joyful sounds of the children will recede. Echoes fade and die out as will the laughter and voices heard on the hill. These sounds echo in the Nurse's thoughts, reminding her of her own lost youth and innocence. "Ecchoed" hints at the voices 74 to be heard in the later "Nurse's Song" where the tone of the poem has altered completely. Blake frequently used ploce in his poems. Words are repeated throughout the "Nurse's Song" and provide links between the lines and the stanzas: 75 stanza 1 2 VI /V 3 4 I f 2 4 I f 1 If 4 hear.4 on the green heard, on the hill Then come coP.Me leave off play let us 21AY go and alay come homg go home and laughing and laugh'd This repetition highlights the fact that these images are closely related. These four In4Pge.hcg and two Experience stanzas are written in quatrain form. The rhyme scheme is a-b-c-b (with one previously mentioned exception), and includes an end rhyme linking consecutive stanzas: the first two with "green" : "down" and the last two with "day" : "away." In five out of the six stanzas, medial rhyme occurs in the third line : rest: breast (full rhyme) play: away (full) sky: fly (full) leaped: laugh'd (consonantal) day: play (full). The exception is found in the opening stanza (3rd line) of Experience: The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind. This lack of an anticipated rhyme startles the ear and warns the reader that the tone has shifted and darkened and the nurses's voice is no longer that of a loving guardian, but of a bitter and jealous person. The use of anaphora in the opening word ("And") on the alternate lines (but one) gives the poem the regulated movement of a time-piece. Each image passes by anew and yet swings back to connect with the poem as a whole. Although the tone in the "Nurse's Song" is different from the tone in "Spring," the former contains a reference to birds ("Besides in the sky, the little birds fly") similar to references in the following poem "Spring": Sound the Flute! Now it's mute. Birds delight Day and Night. Nightingale In the_dale LariLin_Sky Merrily Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year Little Boy Full of joy. Little Girl Sweet and small. Cock does crow So do you. Merry voice Infant noise Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year Little Lamb 76 Here I am, Come and lick My white neck. Let me pull Your soft Wool. Let me kiss Your soft face. Merrily Merrily we welcome in the Year These references act as links between the poems. Other frequently recurring images in the Songs of Innocence are the child and lamb. The poems revolve around the initial stage of innocent love found in the lines from "Spring": Little Lamb Here I am... "Spring" is the most high-spirited of all the poems. A lyrical quality echoes throughout, and many critics feel that Blake especially intended this poem to be sung. The authentic child-like ring to the lines is partly a result of the unusual rhymes Blake used. Blake shared Milton's views on rhyme as "a modern bondage." He was a verbal experimenter who broke away from the restrictions of the traditional rhymes of the purist. There are many examples of near rhyme in his poetry, especially in the poem "Spring." Two examples occur when an accented monosyllabic word is rhymed with an unaccented syllable of a trisyllabic word. It is not unusual to find a final consonant blend rhyming with a different consonant blend (or a single consonant). An analysis of the variety of end rhymes in these three verses reveals that a number of the rhymes are barely shadows of their original sound ("sky" : "merrily"; 77 "kiss" : "face"; "crow" : "you") and yet a song-like quality still echoes throughout the poem: (monosyllabic--FULL) Flute: mute Boy: joy Lamb: am pull: Wool (disyllabic: monosyllabic--FULL) delight: Night (trisyllabic: monosyllabic--FULL) Nightingale: dale (monosyllabic: trisyllabic--NEAR; VOCALIC) Sky: Merrily (monosyllabic--NEAR; CONSONANTAL) Girl: small lick: neck kiss: face Blake often used auxiliaries such as "do" when they were not needed grammatically ("Cock does crow"), and he also omitted articles ("Lark in Sky"). However, most readers "...will feel that he has a nearly infallible ear for the music of his verse." 1 - His punctuation, especially the insertion of capitals, is unusual and indicates a desired emphasis. According to Wicksteed, the fully written "and," if it appears in the middle of a line, suggests a slight pause on the preceding word: day and Night Sweet and small Come and lick Blake altered his texts many times before he approved of each final version. He completely omitted a fifth verse 78 to "A Cradle Song" in Songs_of_..Innocence . , thus eliminating all suggestions that this state of innocence could be tainted or marred in any way: Sweet dreams, form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head; Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams. Sweet sleep, with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown. Sweet sleep, Angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child. Sweet smiles, in the night Hover over my delight; Sweet smiles, Mother's smiles, All the livelong night beguiles. Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, Chase not slumber from thy eyes. Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, All the dovelike moans beguiles. (0, the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep. When thy little heart does wake, Then the dreadful lightnings break.) There is a passion beyond analysis in the Songs_gf Innocence and Experience, and, although Blake was an obscure writer in his lifetime, he was also a visionary artist who knew that "poetry alone could make others share his central experience." 12 His poetry reflected the emerging concern in the eighteenth century for the condition of the child. Songs is a unique creation--written, illustrated, engraved, and hand-coloured by Blake. In this poetry Blake turned to the metres and rhymes of traditional hymns to give him the form needed for song. His words were deliberately simple and yet exquisitely lyrical. Despite the intense 79 emotion underlying the poems, particularly in Experience, Blake kept this form melodious. His influence on the shaping of children's poetry should not be underestimated. Blake's voice is the precursor of lyrical poets such as Rossetti, Stevenson, de la Mare and Worth. NOTE S 2. John Ciardi, How Does a Poem Mean? (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1975) xx. 2 F.J. Harvey Darton, Children's Books in England (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1982) 179. 3 Zachary Leader, Readins..Blake!..s.Songs (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd., 1981) 33. 4 C.M. Bowra in Bottrall, William Blake: Songs of Inucencg_and Experience—a Casebook (London: MacMillan, 1970) 140. " Bowra in Bottrall, 146. 6 Joseph H. Wicksteed, Blake's Innocence and Experience (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1928) 208. • Wicksteed 127. • Wicksteed 127. • Wicksteed 124. 80 3-° Wicksteed 63. Wicksteed 66. 12 Bowra in Bottrall, 158. 81 EDWARD LEAR (1812-1888) Walter de la Mare referred to nonsense verse as "this laughing heartsease." 2- Nonsense verse emerged as an antidote to the predominantly didactic (and often morbid) poetry that had been written for children up until the 1800's. Children delighted in the absurdities and lively rhymes found in nonsense poetry. "Mischief...smashes the 'great folk' and the 'big folk' who are always sure of their responsibilities." 2 Edward Lear was a true nonsense writer. He excelled in the invention of nonsense words. "This is no mean achievement, for the word must appear, to both the ear and the eye, to come of a long and legitimate lineage; it must seem authentic." Lear began his professional career as an artist, not a writer, and, like William Blake, illustrated books for other people. He earned the patronage of the Derby family, and it was to the Derby grandchildren, nieces and nephews, his first Book of Nonsense was dedicated. Logical absurdity coursed through his writing. He produced word-inversions (later labelled spoonerisms) such as "Mary Squeen of Cots"; portmanteau words-- "splendidoph- oropherostiphongious"; the joining of one letter with another word--"a noppertunity"; phonetic spellings-- "pollygise" (apologize); puns--a reference to the city of Nice: "Nice is so wonderfully dry....Dryden is the only book 82 read"; regional accent mispronunciations--"chimbly" (chimney); and nonsense spelling--"I gnoo how bizzy u were." 4 Lear laced his lines with alliteration, and the neologisms contained in his poetry created worlds where anything might happen, as in "The Scroobious Pip": The Scroobious Pip can sit under a tree By the silent shores of Jellybolee or in "Mr. and Mrs. Spikky Sparrow," where Mrs. Sparrow will be made to feel "gallgobique when Mr. Sparrow buys her a " satin sash of Cloxam blue." "Mr. and Mrs. Spikky Sparrow" is the only one of Lear's longer poems where he created a loving domestic scene with father, mother, and children all living happily together (a situation unfamiliar to Lear). Critics have mixed views on this poem with its variations on the "ikky" refrain: Twikky wikky wikky wee, Wikky bikky twikky tee, Spikky bikky bee! Thomas Byrom stated that it is "a bright, flinty poem, made of tough, trochaic, tetrameter couplets." Ina Rae Hark noted that it is the only "Lear poem that is cloying in the same way as much inferior Victorian children's literature... The tetrameter couplets are technically uninspired." 6 Myra Cohn Livingston referred to the "marvellous choruses sung by Mr. and Mrs. Spikky Sparrow."' 83 This poem touches on a favourite topic of Lear's--a disapproval of what "they" consider to be socially proper. Mr. and Mrs. Spikky Sparrow must buy new clothes, not just to keep out the cold, but to dress according to fashion's conforming rules. Their children are ecstatic over the change in their parents when they return "completely drest" (quite unlike Lear's flamboyant characters found in other poems). Said they, "We trust that cold or pain We shall never feel again! While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple, We now shall look like other people." There is an interesting shift in emphasis on the three "we" words so that each one will conform to the tetrameter. An effective vocalic echo sounds through these lines. Lear made wonderful use of mosaic rhyme in the fourth and fifth stanzas of this poem: There they bought a hat and bonnet, And a gown with spots upon_it. Which, completely in the fashion, You shall tie a sky-blue saph_pn. "Bonnet" : "upon it" is an example of rich-consonance, where there is consonantal repetition but the corresponding vowels are not the same. His use of the plosives "b" and "p" are an added bonus to the "bonnet" : "upon it" pair. "Tie" : "sky-blue" creates an internal rhyme. The "sh" blend is repeated three times in this couplet. 84 The type of nonsense bird-talk Lear utilized in the chorus of "Mr. and Mrs. Spikky Sparrow" also appeared in an alphabet poem. Lear played with sound and meaning, thus creating imaginative rhymes. He used rhyming adjectives (adding the suffix-y to the chosen item) then completed each verse with a rhyming two-word phrase and a final apostrophe. This alphabet poem used chiming patterns common to nursery rhymes: A was once an apple-pie, Pidy Widy Tidy Pidy Nice insidy Apple-Pie. Like most nonsense writers, Lear coined new words and employed the full potential of alliteration, as seen in his poem "The Pelican Chorus": Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican fill! We think so then, and we thought so still! Lear's interest in the limerick began when he discovered a volume entitled Anecdotes and Adventures of Fifteen Gentlemen (published in the early 1820's) which, among others, contained the following verse: As a little fat man of Bombay Was smoking one very hot day, A bird called a snipe flew away with his pipe, Which vexed the fat man of Bombay. 85 The exact origins of this verse form are unclear but it came to be known as the limerick. Lear described this verse as having "a form lending itself to limitless variety for Rhymes and Pictures." 8 Over his lifetime, Lear produced hundreds of limericks and was the first poet to earn fame in the limerick field. A criticism of Lear's limericks is that they "are thought by some to be feeble, on the grounds that the rhyming word in the last line repeats the rhyme in the first or second line." Only a few of his limericks (5 out of a total of 236 in the book Nonsense V̂erse of Edward Lear) used a different rhyme in the final word. It is quite unusual for the a-a-b-b-a rhyme pattern to contain three different rhyming "a" words, as in the following: There was an Old Man who made bold, To affirm that the weather was So he ran up and down, in his grandmother's gown Which was woollen, and not very old. "The inevitability of Lear's final rhymes fittingly complements the whole tendency of his versification in these poems."'-° This characteristic of word repetition may have been due to the fact that Lear wrote the limerick with the intention that children would join in with a final rhyming word that was familiar to them. "The echoing effect of Lear's repeated rhyme-words often maintains and enhances the feeling of non-sense, leaving the limerick subjects in a perpetual state of suspended animation."" 86 Lear apparently wrote many of his limericks in two or three lines, although published editions usually present these verses in stanzas of four lines (thus creating a medial rhyme in the third line). Predictable forms are part of Lear's limerick world. The nonsense element is contained in a tight rhyme pattern which seems to highlight the fantasy or comic absurdities of the verses. However, in spite of Lear's brilliant success and acquired fame as the author of the "fantastic collection of rhymes-without-reason," he was seen as a wandering eccentric and considered by many to be a lonely man. 3- 2 He suffered from frequent depressions which he termed "the Morbids" or "knownothingatallaboutwhatoneisgoingtodo-ness." 3- 3 This melancholy side of his personality appeared in his longer poems along with two recurrent themes--"wandering" and "loss." The underlying symbolism in "The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo" reveals this sense of personal isolation: 'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 'I am tired of living singly,-- On this coast so wild and shingly,-- I'm a-weary of my life: If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!'-- Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Lady Jingly's refusal leaves the jilted author to wander, ever in search of his Jumbly girl: 87 Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- 'Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! I would be your wife most gladly!' (Here she twirled her fingers madly) 'But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!' The name of her mate, "Handel Jones," is an alliterative pun on the possessions owned by Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, namely his "old jug without a handle." The eleven lines in each of the ten verses of this poem are written in descending rhyme and follow an identical rhyme pattern (a b c b a a c c c b b) with three exceptions: in the sixth verse, Lear used the abbreviation "Co." to create an eye rhyme for "Bo," in the seventh verse he divided the trisyllabic word "modify" to create the disyllabic "modi-" to rhyme with "body" and "Doddy" (moving the last syllable ahead to the next line), and in the final verse he used a consonantal blend to create a near rhyme in "mourns-moans.": From the Coast of Coromandel, Did that Lady never go; On the heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On that little heap of stones. To her Dorkling Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 88 "Mourns" is a significant example of near rhyme, as it is the only rhyme in the 110-line poem that is not a full one, and it is this word "mourns" that carries the mood of the poem. It is a word set apart from the others, just as the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo is set apart from his beloved Lady Jingly. There is also another aspect to be considered over Lear's use of the near rhyme "mourns." Near rhymes are sometimes associated with themes of sadness and mystery. Susan Miles believes near rhymes to be a way of suggesting "defeat, incongruity, suspense, failure, struggle, frustration, disillusion, thwarting, disruption, or escape." 14 Henry Wells stated (in reference to Emily Dickinson's use of near rhyme) that "full rhyme may be compared to the musician's major mode, half rhyme to the minor mode. The latter connotes indecision, pensiveness, quiet grief, or spiritual numbness." 15 Although these statements can be readily disproved by poems containing near rhyme that express feelings of elevation or aspiration, the concept of major and minor modes is nevertheless an intriguing one, and is perhaps applicable to Lear's single, lonely "mourns." To Lear, moonlight "may suggest magic or melancholy." 3- 5 It seems to suggest the former in "The Owl and the Pussy- cat." This poem appears to be free of trouble and sadness. The owl and the pussy-cat go on a magical journey, find a turkey to marry them and a pig to supply the ring: 89 "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I wi.11." As the underlined examples illustrate, assonance and consonance are frequently employed. Nine instances of medial rhyme occur in this three-verse narrative: honey: money owl: fowl married: tarried away: day (2) wood: stood willing: shilling mince: quince hand: sand "Since the sharing of food always cements loving relationships in Lear..." 17 They dined on mince, and slices of quince Which they ate with a runcible spoon. ("Runcible" is one of Lear's most famous neologisms.) Much has been published on the subject of the underlying meanings in the limericks and narrative poems of this English "Laureate of Nonsense," but quite apart from the interpretive aspects of his writing, Lear's poetry continues to serve as an example of true nonsense. His Book of Nonsense was "one of the few children's books to start a tradition rather than follow one. Like a towering old oak tree in a grove of saplings, it remains a most impressive landmark. 118 90 NOTES 1 Walter de la Mare, Lewis Carroll (London: Faber and Faber, 1932) 8. 2 Myra Cohn Livingston, Climb Into the Bell Tower (Boston: Harper and Row, 1990) 50. 3 Judith Saltman, ed., The Riverside Anthology of Children's Literature (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985) 66. 4 Holbrook Jackson, The Complete Nonsense of Edward Lear (New York: Dover Pub., 1951) xxv-xxvi. 5 Thomas Byrom, Nonsense and Wonder: The Poems and Cartoons of Edward_Lear (New York: Dutton, 1977) 194. 6 Ina Rae Hark, Edward Lear (Boston: Twayne Pub., 1982) 69. 7 Livingston 52. • John Vernon Lord, The Nonsense Verse of Edward Lear (New York: Harmony Books, 1984) xii. ' Lord xv. 1 ° Hark 29. 11 Lord xvi. 12 Jackson ix. 13 Lord xii. 14 Susan Miles in Judy Jo Small's Full as Opera: Emily Dickinson's Rhyme (University of N. Carolina, 1986) 3. 15 Henry M. Wells, Introduction to Emily Dickinson (Chicago: Packard, 1947) 267. 16 Hark 57. 91 17 Hark 56. 18 Mark I. West in Touchstones: Reflections on the Best in Children's Literature, ed. Perry Nodelman (West Lafayette: Children's Literature Assoc., 1986) 156. 92 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1898) Comparisons have been made between William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Christina Rossetti's .lag..7Qag: Rossetti, in the Blake tradition, shows her love and veneration for innocence-- children, lambs, birds, dogs, cats, rabbits, caterpillars, flowers, and sea beasts. 3- When Christina Rossetti's Sing:Songi_A Nursery_Rhyme Book was published in 1872, it was received favourably by critics and reviewers, although most felt the poems were intended for children above nursery age. Sing:Song is considered to be historically significant. It reflected the new approach to children's poetry, as it included many nondidactic poems as well as the traditional, instructive verses. Among the instructional rhymes aimed at teaching children such things as measurement, seasons, and colours, the poem "What is Pink?" stands out: What is pink? A rose is pink By the fountain's brink. What is red? A poppy's red In its barley bed. What is blue? The sky is blue Where the clouds float through. What is white? A swan is white Sailing in the light. What is yellow? Pears are yellow, Rich and ripe and mellow. What is green? The grass is green, With small flowers between. What is violet? Clouds are violet In the summer twilight. What is orange? Why, an orange, Just an orange! 93 A certain cohesiveness is achieved in this poem by Rossetti's use of anaphora. Every other line begins with the question "What is...?" and this repetition effectively imitates the endless flow of questions a curious child might ask. Rossetti is noted for her simple diction and brief statements, as seen in the above poem where 81% of the words are monosyllabic. One-syllable rhyming couplets are used throughout, with the exception of "yellow" : "mellow," "violet" : "twilight," and "orange." "Violet" : "twilight" is a rhyme that matches a trisyllabic with a disyllabic ending. It is also an example of rich-consonance, where the consonantal repetition between words has different corresponding vowels ("violet" : "twilight"). Perhaps this unusual rhyming couplet was placed near the end of the poem to prepare the ear for the musical irregularity of the final "Just an orange!" Orange is a word that cannot be rhymed at all in the English language, and the sudden insertion of this exclamatory couplet breaks the predicted rhythm and surprises the reader. Though poets vary greatly in the number and kinds of easements they discover from rhyming rigor, they all "allow themselves more merely approximate rhymes than is generally realized." 2 In contrast to "What is Pink?" the poem "Lullaby, oh lullaby!" does not have such a high proportion of clipped, one-syllable words. Soft consonants and long, soothing 94 vowels slow down the pace of the poem. The lines move easily with smooth, liquid "1" sounds: Lullaby, oh lullaby! Flowers are closed and lambs are sleeping; Lullaby, oh lullaby! Stars are up, the moon is peeping; Lullaby, oh lullaby! While the birds are silence keeping, (Lullaby, oh lullaby!) Sleep, my baby, fall a-sleeping, Lullaby, oh lullaby! Excluding the refrain, each line closes with an unstressed ending, which flows into the accented syllable of the following line. It is a carefully regulated tempo, composed to compliment the internal echoes within the poem and to create a soporific feeling. Specific themes continued to capture Rossetti's attention: "a preoccupation with death, a yearning for rest, a regret for the transience of beauty, and a sometimes consoling hope of salvation." 3 These themes are exquisitely woven into the five short lines of her poem "Last Rites": Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush, Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush-- Weave him a coffin of rush, Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow, Raise him a tombstone of snow. All but five words in the above poem are monosyllabic. Arthur Symons wrote in the London Quarterly Review (1887) that Christina Rossetti's "most haunting rhyme-effects are in words of one syllable." 4 E.K. Charles notes in Chri.stina Rossetti=Critical_perspectiyes_1,862711982 that "the more 95 serious she is, the less she decorates her verse, the fewer and more traditional her images, the more unpretentious her words." 5 Perhaps she was filled with her own sense of vulnerability and mortality when she penned "Last Rites." The year before this poem was published in Skng7Sono, Rossetti suffered a severe attack of Graves' disease. The illness left her health permanently impaired, and it was undoubtedly a difficult time in her life. Rossetti's sensitivity to the finality of the "d" sound in line 1 with the initial and final consonants in "dead" is effectively repeated in line 2. The intensity of the poem is heightened by this repetition. Rossetti played with the sounds of the language. Of special note is her abundant use of initial, medial, and final alliteration in this five-line poem: Initial consonance^song-singing dead Medial alliteration snowherry hush coffin of him a tombstone Final consonance^song-singing thrush, bush, rush. Assonance^dig him soft-mosses Assonance with suspended alliteration (where the alliterating consonant and the succeeding vowel are reversed) is also used: 96 soft-mosses tombstone of snow These internal vocalic echoes give the poem a deep feeling of sadness. The functions of the last two rhymes "grow" : "snow" are not the same grammatically and are also different in the context of the poem. The hint of life and renewal in the verb "grow" is killed by the cold image in the noun "snow." Living, vibrant images appear in the last words of the first four lines: song-sing thrush snowberry bush rush soft mosses grow and change suddenly to the cold silence of "a tombstone of snow" in the final line. Although this poem is written in falling, dactylic rhyme, each line ends on an accented syllable. Rossetti jolts the reader in the third line with her skilful use of rhyme counterpoint. The first two lines have been written in tetrameter and the reader is expecting a similar length in line 3. But this line is written in trimeter and is not the anticipated pattern. There is a parallelism in the first two lines: Dead in the cold... Dead at the foot... 97 and also in the last three lines: Weave him... Dig him... Raise him... reflecting perhaps on the burial rites of Rossetti's own religious persuasions, and the Christian "risen from the dead" belief. "Thrush" and "rush" are full rhymes, and the insertion of the near rhyme "bush" comes as an acoustical surprise. It brings out a feeling of tension in the poem. It is unclear whether "bush" is an eye rhyme or an historical rhyme. Many of today's consonantal rhymes were once considered to be full rhymes, but the vowel pronunciation has altered, and they now appear as near rhymes. Shifting pronunciation is a very complex issue, especially in the matter of vowel analysis. Consonant sounds have remained relatively stable over time, but such has not been the case with vowel sounds. Henry Lanz stated that "in the history of languages consonants reveal considerably more constancy than vowels; they form the solid skeleton of words which identically persists throughout the ages of evolution, while the vowels change from generation to generation, from one dialect to another." It is difficult to ascertain how the word "bush" would have been pronounced in Rossetti's London area in 1872. This word also occurred in the following poems by Rossetti ("Spring Quiet"); Blake ("The Echoing Green"); and Lear ("There was an Old Man who said, 'Hush!'"). In each of 98 these examples it would appear that "bush" was intended as a full rhyme: Where in the white-thorn Singeth a thrush And a robin sings In the holly-blksh. (Rossetti) The skylark and thrush. The birds of the latish Sing louder around To the bells' cheerful sound. (Blake) There was an Old Man who said, "Hush! I perceive a young bird in the bush!" When they said, "Is it small?" He replied, "Not at all! It is four times as big as the bush!" (Lear) Rossetti pushed back poetical boundaries. John Ruskin commented in 1861 that her poems were full of "quaintness and offences...irregular measure is the calamity of modern poetry." He suggested that she should "exercise herself in the severest commonplace of metre until she can write as the public like. Then if she puts in her observation and passion all will become precious. But she must have the Form first."' The poem "A Crown of Windflowers" parallels her own situation where "she continued to grieve over the emptiness in her life....There is always the melancholy note that cannot be suppressed of the unlikelihood of ever truly loving." 8 99 "Twist me a crown of windflowers That I may fly away To hear the singers at their song, And players at their play." "Put on your crown of windflowers; But whither would you go?" "Beyond the surging sea And the storms that blow." "Alas! your crown of windflowers Can never make you fly; I twist them in a crown today, And tonight they die." The sadness in the poem is heightened by her skilful use of ploce in the repetition of the phrase "a crown of windflowers." The windflower (lily-of-the-field) flourishes in shady areas, and its colourful bloom is very short-lived. This brief-bloom idea is subtly hinted at in her choice of the word "whither." "Fly" : "die" are tame rhymes in that they both use similar parts of speech in corresponding functions. Critics over the past century have not always agreed on their responses to Rossetti's use of rhyme. Green-Armytage remarked in Maids_of_Honour (1906) that the reader will often find "'rhymes which can only be regarded as impossible--poetic freedom in the use of word-sounds which exceeds...poetic licence.' Rossetti's lines he says, are not only 'imperfect,' but beyond all bounds of 'allowable- ness,' actually 'unscannable.'" 9 In the regulated verse structure so predominant in the poetry of that period, perhaps Rossetti's "Caterpillar" would have seemed 'unscannable' to Green-Armytage: 100 Brown and furry Caterpillar in a hurry, Take your walk To the shady leaf, or stalk, Or what not, Which may be the chosen spot. No toad spy you, Hovering bird of prey pass by you; Spin and die, To live again a butterfly. A variety of end rhyme appears in these five couplets: furry : hurry (disyllabic) walk : stalk (monosyllabic) not : spot (monosyllabic) spy you : by you (mosaic) die : butterfly (monosyllabic--trisyllabic) This poem also contains a variety of rhythmic feet: line 1--trochee (strong-weak) line 2--trochee line 3--amphimacer (strong-weak-strong) line 4--trochee line 5--amphibrach (weak-strong-weak) line 6--trochee line 7--spondee (strong-strong) line 8--trochee (although it opens with a dactyl [strong-weak-weak] if "hovering" is not elided) line 9--amphimacer line 10-iamb (weak-strong) There is a clever, subtle switch in rhythm in the last line. This is the only line written in iambic (or ascending) rhythm, and it leaves the reader with the final image of a butterfly--delicately rising and breaking free. There are deeper connotations within this poem. The final two lines perhaps also reflect Rossetti's religious belief that the soul rises to live again in heaven. C.M. Bowra's description of her poetic use of words and phrases seems especially applicable to this poem: "But each 101 word expresses exactly what she feels, and her sense of rhythm is so subtle that even in her darkest moments she can break into pure song." 1 ° Rossetti's name is secure in the historical survey of children's poetry. Sing7Song was an extremely important contribution, for it looked back to traditional styles and ahead to progressive ones. Her moralistic verse that was so attractive to nineteenth century readers is not appealing to modern tastes, but her experimental poems (where she moved away from the didactic) are "a link with the artistic masterpieces in Songs of Innocence by William Blake and of those by Walter de la Mare and other modern authors whose poetry displays childlike gualities." 13- NOTES. Fredegond Shove in E.K. Charles's Cbristina • Rossetti: Critical Perspectives 1862-1982 (London: Associated Univ. Press, 1985) 103. 2 Arthur Melville Clark in The . ^Encyclue.dia of Poetry and Poetics, ed. Alex Preminger (New Jersy: Princeton Univ. Press, 1990) 707. 3 Ralph A. Bellas, Christina_Rossetti (Boston: Twayne Pub., 1977) 25. 102 4 Arthur Symons in Charles, 56. 5 Charles 154. 6 Henry Lanz, Tie phisical_Basf_Rime (California: Stanford Univ. Press, 1931) 197. Ruskin in Bellas, 32. Bellas 68. 9 A.J. Green-Armytage in Charles, 92. 1 ° C.M. Bowra, The Romantic Imagination (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1961) 264. 11 Bellas 118. 103 EVE MERRIAM (1916- ) Poems by contemporary writers such as Eve Merriam explode with rich varieties of rhyme and form. She is one of the "practitioners of stylistic change whose work involves spontaneous improvisation of forms...she recognizes that children are not bound rigidly to neat, regular meter and rhyme...."'- The concept of shaped verse is demonstrated in her poem "The Serpent's Hiss" where the curves of a snake are recreated: slidtng over stones a silent spill sleek as silk iridescent appearing and disappearing slipping soundless out of sunlight to seek dark-wooded sanctuary sequestered surreptitious slithering round underground secretive roots Narcissus spun in upon its sinuous self ancient synonym for sibylltne mystery Merriam's use of onomatopoeia is obvious. The "s" sound appears thirty-five times. Less noticeable is her use 104 of the "i" vowel. It subtly works its way through the lines, creating an internal echo within the poem. Although end rhymes do not occur, there are internal rhymes: sliding: appearing: disappearing: slipping sound: round: underground sleek: seek in: sinuous: synonym Parallel alliteration creates a sound pattern by the intricate weaving of the "s" with "1," "e," or "i" sliding: stones: silent: sleek: silk: iridescent: disappearing: slipping: soundless: seek: sequestered: slithering: secretive: narcissus: sinuous: self: sibylline Merriam also uses suspended alliteration, reversing the consonant and vowel: sliding: silent: silk: slipping spun: upon synonym sequestered Submerged alliteration occurs in "silent" :"iridescent" where the unaccented syllables rhyme. Consonance also is used: spun in upon sleek as silk dark-wooded: sequestered: round In much of her poetry, Merriam makes frequent use of word repetition, but "The Serpent's Hiss" is unusual in that each word (even the articles and prepositions) appears only once. 105 However, in the following poem, anaphora is employed throughout, as most lines begin with either "from" or "to." This verse demonstrates Merriam's skill in using the stanzaic form to describe itself: DESCENT come down from the moon from mountains from towers from treetops from crags from cliffs from slopes from hillocks from hummocks from mesas from knolls from plateaus from cobbles from rises from ridges from bushes from hedges to plains to valleys to trenches to ditches to marshes to swamps to fens to ponds to seaweed to plankton to coral to sponge exuding breathing breathing out bubbles round as the moon The closing line echoes the opening line: come down from the moon... round as the moon Only one full rhyme occurs: "hillocks" : "hummocks," but a few near rhymes appear: 106 treetops: slopes cobbles: knolls ridges: hedges trenches: ditches Merriam again uses anaphora in her poem "The Wholly Family": Baby's got a plastic bottle, plastic pacifier to chew; plastic pillows on the sofa, plastic curtains frame the view; plastic curlers do up Mama, Mama's hairdo plastic, too. Junior plays with plastic modules, Sister pins on plastic bows; plastic wallet made for Papa, plastic credit cards in rows; plastic ivy in the planter greener than the real thing grows. Plastic pumpkin for Thanksgiving, plastic beach ball by the sea; plastic snow at Christmastime, plastic manger, star and tree; plastic used so totally keeps us germproof and dirt-free. Praise of plastic thus we sing, plastic over everything keeps us cool and safe and dry; it may not pain us much to die. The word "plastic" appears eighteen times in this poem (twelve of the twenty-two lines begin with it), and this repetition hammers home the fact that the readers themselves are almost "wholly" buried in plastic. In contrast to her free verse, Merriam wrote this poem within a deliberately controlled stanzaic pattern. "The Wholly Family" is a tight, rigid form that reflects the tight, plastic forms surrounding the subjects in their daily 107 lives. Each line is regulated by the tetrameter, and each verse is contained in six lines--until the last one. The poem abruptly stops with the thought of death and the consistent rhyme scheme changes from alternating-rhyme to couplets. Merriam employs anaphora for a different reason in the following poem. She repeats the phrase "Is it..." to suggest the endless flow of questions an imaginative child might ask: Is it robin o'clock? Is it five after wing? Is it quarter to leaf? Is it nearly time for spring? Is it grass to eleven? Is it flower to eight? Is it half-past snowflake? Do we still have to wait? Along with the basically anapestic rhythm, the echoing of the initial alliterative vowels creates a hurried, breathless effect throughout the poem. She also uses anaphora in the poem "Windshield Wiper," this time to demonstrate the actual rhythm of the wiper: 108 fog smog tissue paper clear the blear fog more splat splat rubber scraper overshoes bumbershoot slosh through drying up fog smog tissue paper clear the smear fog more downpour rubber scraper macintosh muddle on slosh through drying up 109 ^ sky lighter^sky lighter ^ nearly clear^nearly clear clearing clearing veer clear here clear Although she has varied her choice of rhythmic foot from trochee (strong--weak; "fog more^fog more") to dactyl (strong--weak--weak; "overshoes^macintosh") to paean (strong--weak--weak--weak; "tissue paper tissue paper"), each phrase retains a built-in beat that matches the sound of a wiper. The stanzaic form itself illustrates the shape of the subject. Merriam plays with words and symbols in her poetry. She shares with children "delight in the playful visual, aural, and intellectual concepts of shaped verse, concrete poetry, found poetry, and a host of collage and typographical verse forms." 2 "Showers, Clearing Later in the Day" is composed entirely of exclamation marks and asterisks. In the following verse entitled "Markings: The Question" Merriam matches up the shape of an object with the shape of a symbol: A scythe flailing away at the wandering field of why. Who can cut down the mysterious grain that rises high again with secrets unrevealed? The physical appearance of a scythe resembles the question mark, and acoustically it contains an internal rhyme for the word "why." The lines are subtly linked together by Merriam's full use of assonance, alliteration, and homoeoteleuton: Initial vocalic alliteration A scythe flailing away at the wandering field Consonantal alliteration can cut wandering: why mysterious: rises: secrets Assonance scythe: why flailing away rises high grain: again (full rhyme) fiejd: unreve.aled (full rhyme) Homoeoteleuton flailing.: wandering As a child, Merriam stated that she was "captivated by their [words] musicality, and by the fact that you could have alliteration...that you could hear a whole orchestra in your voice." 3 Like Edward Lear, Merriam excels in the invention of nonsense words. She created nonsense words, through a combination of alliteration and assonance, to simulate the sounds heard in a ping-pong game: PING -PONG Chitchat wigwag 110 rickrack zigzag knickknack gewgaw riffraff seesaw crisscross flip-flop ding-dong tiptop singsong mishmash King Kong bong. "Landscape" is one of Merriam's best known poems: What will you find at the edge of the world? A footprint, a feather, desert sand swirled? A tree of ice, a rain of stars, or a junkyard of cars? What will there be at the rim of the earth? A mollusc, a mammal, a new creature's birth? Eternal sunrise, immortal sleep, or cars piled up in a rusty heap? This is a particularly interesting poem to study because Merriam has documented her writing process. When she began composing it, she stated: "I felt I wanted a rhyme, a formal pattern to enclose the thought." Later, she sensed some of the words were strained and were only there "for the rhyme's sake." Her mind worked with "images and rhymes simultaneously." She had difficulty with "world" (trying "twirled, swirled, skirled") and even resorted to using the 111 identical rhyme "whirled." 4 She eventually chose "swirled" and discarded the lines: a crater a canyon a new creature's birth as being too alliterative--replacing them with: a mollusc a mammal a new creature's birth. In the conclusion of her article she stated that she was "still not altogether pleased; as 'desert sand swirled' is a little too sibilant to read aloud easily." Eve Merriam's concerns about today's issues are reflected in her themes and subjects. "A keen observer of contemporary life, she brings to her poetry a fresh outlook on all phases of the modern world, its delights as well as absurdities." 5 She is extremely versatile and uses an astounding variety of rhymes and verse forms. Merriam, like Blake, Lear, and Rossetti, is a creative experimenter who has "managed the technique of rhyme." The question of how children respond to rhyme will be addressed in the following chapter. 112 NOTES 3- Judith Saltman, ed., The_RIverside_Apthology of Children's Literature (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985) 93. 2 Saltman 93. 3 Eve Merriam in Tbe...9.1.4cg.....NY_Rgxd.U_P_TAPPAITts_Eckx: Wh4t_Poe:tg....q.4.Y_Allt.4n.d_Thro_gab_Their.Wut., ed. Paul B. Janeczko (New York: Bradbury Press, 1990) 65. 4 Eve Merriam, Find a Poem (New York: Atheneum, 1970) 59-67. 5 Myra Cohn Livingston, cltmb_Tpto_the_aell_Tower: Essays on Poetry (New York: Harper and Row, 1990) 89. 113 CONCLUSIONS What are children's reasons for liking a poem? How do children react to rhyme? Judith Saltman states that "A child's response to poetry is immediate; young children take delight in repetition, rhythm, and rhyme, and they seemingly respond with their very nerves, in confirmation of the widely held belief that poetry is the natural language of childhood."- The poet, John Ciardi, commented that "The school system annually receives into its beginning classes an audience that overflows with the joy and immediacy of poetry. The same system annually graduates from its high schools a horde of adolescents who, with rare exceptions, are either wary of poetry or hostile to it." 2 David Booth supported this observation with the comment "For certain, something happens to many children, and the love of poetry as part of their life experience begins to wane. In adulthood, very, very, few people choose to read poems." Earle Birney made the statement that "Virtually all human beings are born with the abilities needed to delight in and to make poetry, but unimaginative concepts of education can muffle and destroy these abilities."" Children's "ability to delight in poetry" is reflected in their response to rhyme. Key studies in poetry preferences indicate that rhyme has been, and continues to be, identified by children as the most popular poetic 114 device. However, rhyme is a topic given relatively little attention in most critical studies on prosody. It is rarely discussed in any detail in the context of children's literature. Sylvia Avegno conducted a study in 1956 with intermediate students and concluded that rhyme was a major factor for children liking a poem.' Her research also indicated there was only a slight difference in favour of modern poems. Louise Hofer researched the preferences of Sixth Graders, also in 1956, and discovered that her pupils preferred humorous, rhyming poems that contained a beat. 6 An extensive study was undertaken by George Norvell and covered a span of twenty-five years. His findings were published in 1958, and indicated, among other points, that nonsense poems and limericks were extremely popular with children in grades four to six.' Ann Terry's 1972 survey entitled Childrep:s_Ppetxy preferences_ indicated that the three poetic elements most preferred by children were rhyme, rhythm, and sound. An interesting conclusion from this study was that the students showed an overwhelming preference for contemporary poetry, rather than traditional poetry." This finding perhaps reflected the increased variety in poems available since Avegno's 1956 study. Carol J. Fisher and Margaret A. Natarella conducted a study in 1979 where children indicated a strong preference for rhymed, metered poetry.' 115 Michael P. Ford published a study in 1987 that revealed most young children had a very limited knowledge of poetry concepts. The most common concept identified was that poetry had to have some degree of rhyming. 1 ° A recent study was published by Philip M. Anderson in 1990. He examined the poetic conventions of diction, meter, and rhyme to find out if there were any discernible differences in students' responses to these conventions. Response levels at all grades (5, 7, 9, 11) showed a dislike for poetry that was lacking in rhyme or regular meter." Anderson's research supports a pervasive finding in the studies of Avegno, Norvell, Terry, Fisher/Natarella, and Ford. These studies indicate that certain conventions of poetry such as rhyme and meter appear to positively influence preferences, and that these preferences have remained relatively unaltered over the years. The choice of poem is a crucial factor in determining children's appreciation in poetry and, therefore, it is vital that their initial experiences with poetry be enjoyable. This is not to suggest that children should be introduced to verse containing only traditional rhyme. It is important to increase their repertoire of well-liked poetry and to extend their tastes. Children need to have as rich and wide an experience as possible. Robert MacNeil notes that "Unless we hear the language [of poetry] we will have no ear for it...a habit of listening to words has to be cultivated and it is best cultivated young." 12 Children's 116 ability to respond to good poetry, rhymed or unrhymed, should not be underestimated. A poem is a shared event involving imagination, intellect, emotion, and memory. 3- 3 "I," says the poem matter-of-factly, "I am a cloud, I am a tree. I am a city, I am the sea, I am a golden Mystery." But, adds the poem silently, I cannot speak until you come. Reader, come, come with me.'- 4 Poetry occurs when the child and the words connect, as this poem by Eve Merriam suggests. But the poem cannot " speak" without the child's willingness to participate. It is important for those involved in the selection and sharing of children's poetry to be aware of the delight children have in the taste and sound of words. Poetry offers the reader new insights that may illuminate an everyday event and initiate intense response. Ciardi states that children's sense of life is deepened by the experience of poetry--they become surer of their own emotions and wiser than they would have been without the experience. He also mentions that "No one need assume that technique defines a poem. Something in every good work of art defies definition. Yet close, specific discussion of the artist's technique is useful." 3- 5 117 This thesis, through "close, specific discussion of the artist's technique," makes evident the extraordinary flexibility and diversity of rhyme in children's poetry. The study also illustrates how observant and scrupulous a good poet is when successfully employing the rhyming device. A detailed analysis of the words selected by these writers reveals that each word has been chosen purposefully for its acoustical effect as well as for its meaning. Analysis of the rhyme patterns of selected poems for children used in this research demonstrates that a number of changes have taken place over the past three centuries. Poetic boundaries have expanded considerably since "the first children's poet," Isaac Watts, wrote his piyine_pongs Attempted_in Easy Language for the Use of Children in 1715. Free verse and experimentation with all forms of poetry have gained in popularity with poets during the latter part of this century. Yet, in spite of the growth of free verse, the couplet and quatrain continue to be popular choices. Although the preferences for stressed line endings over unstressed line endings have remained remarkably consistent through the centuries, greater use of endings containing near rhymes has increased appreciably over endings with full rhymes. The poets mentioned in this study have been important figures in the evolution of children's poetry. A close examination of their use of rhyme reveals the strong influence individual poets have had on subsequent writers. 118 Lear's profound impact on the world of nonsense verse influenced many poets, from Carroll to Merriam. Writers such as Blake and Rossetti have been prophetic voices in the development of children's poetry. Their experimentations with rhyme and meter helped shape the changes that have taken place in the twentieth century. Contemporary writers such as Merriam and Worth have produced poems that are as lyrical and full of music as any of the past. Creative experimentation in poetry that has taken place in the twentieth century has indeed "unfetter'd" rhyme. Present- day readers are accustomed to the sound of innovative rhymes. Children's poetry offers variety, richness, and experimentation. This wealth of diversity deserves to be explored. Today's educator has the opportunity to select and share the finest from contemporary and traditional poetry. Ciardi encourages those involved with children and poetry to develop a deeper understanding of how poets manage this art. He states that "The purpose of analysis is not to destroy beauty but to identify its sources...if one cares about the nature of the beautiful object...study necessarily demands a look at the artists' management of their art." 2- 6 Rhyme is a dynamic in poetry that has great attraction for the child and is an integral part of poetry's appeal and pleasure. Fine shadings or dramatic turns in sound are clearer when the reader listens closely to the music of rhyme. Such reverberations can echo through a lifetime. 119 NOTES. .1 Judith Saltman, ed., The Riverside Anthology of Children's Literature (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985) 15. 2 John Ciardi, Ciardk_Hipself (Fayetteville: The University of Arkansas Press, 1989) 125. 3 David Booth and Bill Moore, Poems Pleasel (Ontario: Pembroke Pub. Ltd., 1988) 23. 4 Earle Birney, Tbe_CowAumped_Oyer_the_Mppn:.the Writing and Reading_of Poetry (Minneapolis: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1971) 3. 5 Sylvia T. Avegno, "Intermediate-Grade Choices of Poetry," Elementary English Nov. 1956: XXXIII, 428-32. 6 Louise B. Hofer, "What Do Sixth Graders Really Like in Poetry?" Elementary English Nov. 1956: XXXIII, 433-38. George W. Norvell, What Boys and Girls Like to Read (New York: Silver Burdett Co., 1958) 65. 9 Ann Terry, Children's Poetry Preferences: A National Survey of Upper Elementary Grades (Illinois: University of Nebraska, 1972) 48, 51. 9 Carol J. Fisher and Margaret A. Natarella, Poetry Preferences_of Primary Graders (Georgia: University of Georgia, 1979) 6. 1 ° Michael P. Ford, Young_Children!s Concepts and Attitudes About Poetry (Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin, 1987) 37. 120 3- 1 Philip M. Anderson, Evaluative Response to Poetic Convention at Four Grade Levels (New York: Queens College of the City University, 1990) 16. 12 Robert MacNeil, Wordstr_uck (New York: Viking Penguin, 1989) 187. 13 John Ciardi, How Does a Poem Mean? (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1975) 6. 14 Eve Merriam in Children's Literature in the Elemen±ary_School, ed. Charlotte Huck (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1987) 394. 15 Ciardi xx. 3- 6 Ciardi xx. 121 BIBLIOGRAPHY Anderson, Philip M. EVakuative_Re.UQns.e.to_Poetic Convention at Four Grade Levels. Diss. New York: Queens College of the City University, 1990. Avegno, T. Sylvia. "Intermediate-Grade Choices of Poetry." Elementary English XXXIII (Nov. 1956): 428-32. Bailey, James. Toward a_Statistical. Analysis_of English Verse. Lisse, Netherlands: The Peter de Ridder Press, 1975. Bellas, Ralph A. Christina Rossetti. Boston: Twayne Pub., 1977. Birney, Earle. The_goW_JI4APP.51 OMer_tbe.Mo_on:_the.Writin and Reading of Poetry. Minneapolis: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1971. Booth, David and Bill Moore. Poems Please! Ontario: Pembroke Pub. Ltd., 1988. Bottrall, Margaret, ed. William Blake: Songs of Innocence and Experience--a Casebook. London: MacMillan, 1970. Bowra, C.M. The_Romantic_Imaqination. New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1961. Byrom, Thomas. Nonsense and Wonder: The Poems and Cartoons of_Edward.Lear. New York: Dutton, 1977. Carroll Lewis. The Annotated Alice. Ed. Martin Gardner. New York: Bramhall House, 1960. Charles, E.K. Christina_Rossetti:_Critical_Pers_pectimes, 1862-1982. London: Associated Univ. Press, 1985. Ciardi, John. Ciardijilmself. Fayetteville: The University of Arkansas Press, 1989. Ciardi, John. How Does a Poem Mean? Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1975. Daniel, Samuel. A Defe_nce_Pf_Ryme. Ed. Arthur Colby Sprague. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1930. Darton, F.J. Harvey. Children's_Books in England. Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1982. De la Mare, Walter.^is Carroll. London: Faber and Faber, 1932. 122 Fisher, Carol J. and Margaret A. Natarella. poetry Preferences_ of Primary_ Graders. Diss. Georgia: University of Georgia, May, 1979. Ford, Michael P. Young_Children's_Concepts_and Attttudes About Poetry. Diss. Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin, May, 1987. Fraser, G.S. itetreRhyme_and.Free_Verss. London: Methuen and Co. Ltd., 1970. Fraser, G.S. A Short History of English Poetry. Somerset: Open Books Ltd., 1981. Hackleman, Wauneta, ed. Tilg_S_tUdY...andWritifig_of.11.9etry: American Women Poets Discuss Their Craft. New York: Whitson Pub. Co., 1983. Hall, Donald. TheOxford„ Book_ot_Childrenls_Merse Amertqq. New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985. Hark, Ina Rae. Edward Lear. Boston: Twayne Pub., 1982. Hollander, John. Vision and Resonance. New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1985. Huck, Charlotte, et al., eds. Chilaren!.s_Litsraturejn_the Elementary_School. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc., 1987. Jackson, Holbrook. The Complete Nonsense of Edward Lear. New York: Dover Pub., 1951. Janeczko, Paul B. The mplace_My Words Are_LookingEpr:__What Poets Say About Their Work. New York: Bradbury Press, 1990. Keynes, Geoffrey. Blake_Studies. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971. Lanz, Henry. The Physical Basis of Rime. California: Stanford Univ. Press, 1931. Larrick, Nancy, ed. SomebodY_Turned_on a_TAR_in These_K_ids. New York: Delacorte Press, 1971. Leader, Zachary. Reading Blake's^Poems. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd., 1981. Livingston, Myra Cohn. ClimD_Into_the.Be_11Tower. Boston: Harper and Row, 1990. MacNeil, Robert. Wordstruck. New York: Viking Penguin, 1989. 123 Nodelman, Perry, ed. Touchstones: Reflections on the Best III_Cbildrqn_Litat.P.X.P.. West Lafayette: ChLA Pub., 1986. Opie, Iona and Peter. The Oxford Book of Children's Verse. London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1975. Pendlebury, B.J.The_Art_of_the Rhyme. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1971. Pickering, Samuel. John Locke and Children's Books in Eighteenth Century England. Knoxville: Univ. of Tennessee Press, 1981. Preminger, Alex, ed. The_Prjricetom Eng...Y.P.1gpedja_of_PPY and Poetics. New Jersy: Princeton Univ. Press, 1990. Puttenham, George. The Arte of English Poesie--1589. Menston, England: Scolar Press Ltd., 1968. Quintilian. T11. 1.4qtitgIjoOratoria. Trans. H.E. Butler. London: William Heinemann, 1921. Vol. III. Reeves, James. grderstanding_poetry. London: Heinemann, 1965. Rosenfeld, Alvin, ed. William Blake. Providence: Brown Univ. Press, 1969. Saintsbury, George. gisIorjcal_Manual_gf_EDallail.F.X.0.s.gdY. London: MacMillan and Co., 1910. Saintsbury, George. Short_History.of_English_Li&er.ature. London: Macmillan and Co., 1913. Saltman, Judith, ed. The Riverside Anthology of Children2s Uterature. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985. Shipley, Joseph. In Prajse of English. New York: Times Books, 1977. Sidney, Sir Philip. Tkg_10fPrage ot_Pgesle=1595. Menston, England: Scolar Press Ltd., 1968. Small, Judy Jo. Full as Opera: Emily_Dickinson's_Rhyme. North Carolina: Univ. of North Carolina, 1986. Smith, Lilian H. The Unreluctant Years. Chicago: American Library Association, 1953. Stillman, Frances. The Poet's Manual and Rhyming Djctionary. London: Thames and Hudson, 1966. 124 Sutherland, Zena, et al., eds. Children and Books. Illinois: Scott, Foresman and Co., 1981. Terry, Ann. Childrenlp_PoQtr.L.P.KefPXeng@s_. Illinois: National Council of Teachers of English, 1974. Townsend, John Rowe. Written_for_Children. Middlesex: Kestrel Books, 1974. Untermeyer, Louis. The Forms of_poetry. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1926. Wells, Henry M. Introduction to Emily. Dickinson. Chicago: Packard, 1947. Wicksteed, Joseph H. Blake's Innocence and Experience. New York: E.P. Dutton, 1928. Wimsatt, W.K. The Verbal Icon. Kentucky: Kentucky Univ. Press, 1954. Witherspoon, Alexander M., ed. The College Survey of Friglish_bitftTature. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1951. Woods, Susanne. Nat21K41.EMOsasi4. San Marino: The Hungington Library, 1984. POETRY BOOKS: Arbuthnot, May Hill, ed. Time for_Poetry. Illinois: Scott, Foresman and Co., 1968. Blake, William. Spngs_of Innoce.pqg arid.Experi.ence. Norwood Editions, 1977. Blake, William. Songs of Innocence. London: Faber and Faber Ltd., 1958. Carroll, Lewis. Jabberwocky and Other Poems. London: Macmillan, 1980. Ciardi, John. Mummy_Took Cooking Lessons. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1990. Ciardi, John. You read to me, I'll read to you. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1962. De la Mare, Walter. Peacock Pie. London: Faber and Faber, 1989. 125 Kennedy, X.J., ed. Knocjc. at a_Star. Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1982. Lear, Edward. Complete Nonsense of Edward Lear. Ed. Holbrook Jackson. New York: Dover Pub., 1951. Lear, Edward. The Nonsense Verse of Edward Lear. Ed. John Vernon Lord. New York: Harmony Books, 1984. McCord, David. One at a Time. Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1980. Merriam, Eve. Blackbery_Ink. New York: William Morrow and Co., 1985. Merriam, Eve. Chortles.. New York: Morrow Junior Books, 1989. Merriam, Eve. Find_ Poem. New York: Atheneum, 1970. Merriam, Eve. Fresh Paint. New York: Macmillan Pub. Co., 1986. Merriam, Eve. Out_Loud. New York: Atheneum, 1973. Merriam, Eve. A_PQ.Pm.fAr_.4PICkle_. New York: Morrow Junior Books, 1989. Milne, A.A. The_World_ot_ghTiqt(Vher.Robint_NoY.Wq_AT.P....§14.. New York: E.P. Dutton, 1958. Rossetti, Christina. Doyes_and_Pomegranate.s. London: Bodley Head, 1969. Stevenson, Robert Louis. A Child's Garden of Verses. London: Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1985. Stevenson, Robert Louis. Collegted_ppems. London: Rupert Hart-Davis, 1971. Worth, Valerie. all the small poems. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1987. 126 APPENDIX: CHILDREN'S POETS Arnold Adoff (1935- ) Make a Circle, Keep Us In: Poems for a Good Day Big Sister Tells Me That I'm Black OUTside INside Poems All the Colors of the Race Eats: Poems I Am the Running Girl Black Is Brown Is Tan Tornado! Under the Early Morning Trees Friend Dog Birds The Cabbages Are Chasing Rabbits Sports Pages Flamboyan Greens Conrad Aiken (1889-1973) Tom, Sue, and the Clock A Little Who's Zoo of Mild Animals Cats and Bats and Things with Wings Joan Aiken (1924- ) The Skin Spinners: Poems Lucy Aiken (1781-1864) Poetry for Children: Consisting of Short Pieces to be Committed to Memory Dorothy Aldis (1896-1966) All Together: A Child's Treasury of Verse Quick as a Wink Hello Day Is Anybody Hungry? Richard Armour (1906-1989) All Sizes and Shapes of Monkeys and Apes A Dozen Dinosaurs Odd Old Mammals: Animals After the Dinosaurs Harry Behn (1898-1973) The Golden Hive The Little Hill All Kinds of Time Windy Morning Crickets and Bullfrogs and Whispers of Thunder The Wizard in the Well What a Beautiful Noise The House Beyond the Meadows Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953) 127 The Bad Child's Book of Beasts More Beasts for Worse Children Cautionary Tales for Children New Cautionary Tales A Moral Alphabet Cautionary Verses Selected Cautionary Verses Rosemary Carr Benet (1898-1962) and Stephen Vincent Benet (1898-1943) A Book of Americans William Blake (1757-1827) Songs of Innocence N.M. Bodecker (1922-1988) Let's Marry Said the Cherry and Other Nonsense Poems Hurry, Hurry, Mary Dear! and Other Nonsense Poems Snowman Sniffles, and Other Verse A Person from Britain and Other Limericks Pigeon Cubes and Other Verse Leslie L. Brooke (1862-1940) Crow's Garden Johnny Crow's New Garden Johnny Crow's Party Ring o' Roses Gwendolyn Brooks (1917- ) Bronzeville Boys and Girls Margaret Wise Brown (1910-1952) Big Dog, Little Dog The Little Island Wait till the Moon Is Full Nibble Nibble The Dark Wood of the Golden Birds A Child's Good Morning Where Have You Been? Robert Browning (1812-1889) Pied Piper of Hamelin John Bunyan (1628-1688) A Book for Boys and Girls: or, Country Rhimes for Children Lewis Carroll (1832-1898) Poems from: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland Through the Looking Glass Charles Causley (1917- ) Figgie Hobbin Hill of the Fairy Calf 128 The Tail of the Trinosaur Bring in the Holly Early in the Morning: A Collection of New Poems Here We Go Round the Round House Jack the Treacle Eater and Other Poems As I Went Down Zig Zag Abraham Chear (died 1668) A Looking-Glass for Children John Ciardi (1916-1986) The Man Who Sang the Sillies You Read to Me, I'll Read to You Fast and Slow I Met a Man The Reason for the Pelican Monster Den or Look What Happened at My House and to It Scrappy the Pup Doodle Soup The Hopeful Trout and Other Limericks John J. Plenty and The Fiddler Dan You Know Who The King Who Saved Himself From Being Saved Mommy Took Cooking Lessons Lucille Clifton (1936- ) The Black BC's Some of the Days of Everett Anderson Good, Says Jerome Everett Anderson's Year Everett Anderson's Goodbye Everett Anderson's Friend Elizabeth Coatsworth (1893-1986) The Sparrow Bush Down Half the World Night and the Cat Mouse Chorus The Peaceable Kingdom and Other Poems The Children Come Running Sara Coleridge (1802-1852) Pretty Lessons in Verse for Good Children Nathaniel Cotton (1705-1788) Visions in Verse, for the Entertainment and Instruction of Younger Minds Roald Dahl (1916-1990) Revolting Rhymes Dirty Beasts Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) Songs of Childhood 129 Peacock Pie Come Hither Rhymes and Verses A Child's Day Stuff and Nonsense and So On Down-Adown-Derry Bells and Grass Poems for Children This Year, Next Year The Voice Beatrice Schenk de Regniers (1914- ) A Bunch of Poems and Verses May I Bring a Friend? Something Special So Many Cats! Circus Was It a Good Trade? Cats Cats Cats Cats Cats It Does Not Say Meow, and Other Animal Riddle Rhymes A Week in the Life of Best Friends The Way I Feel, Sometimes Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) Letter to the World Poems Poems for Youth Catherine Ann Dorset (1750-1817) The Peacock 'At Home' Barbara Juster Esbensen (1925- ) Words With Wrinkled Knees Cold Stars and Fireflies: Poems of the Four Seasons Norma Farber (1909-1984) Small Wonders Never Say Ugh to a Bug As I Was Crossing Boston Common How Does It Feel to be Old? Did You Know It Was the Narwhale? Where's Gomer? A Ship in a Storm on the Way to Tarshish How to Ride a Tiger Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)--numerous publications, including: Nursery Rhymes of London Town Tunes of a Penny Piper The New Books of Days Cherrystones Then There Were Three The Mulberry Bush The Starry Floor 130 The Children's Bells Kings and Queens Poems for Children Heroes and Heroines Over the Garden Wall Mrs. Malone Silver-Sand and Snow Morning Has Broken Invitation to a Mouse Something I Remember Eugene Field (1850-1895) Wynken, Blynken and Nod, and Other Child Verses Rachel Field (1894-1942) Poems The Pointed People Taxis and Toadstools An Alphabet for Boys and Girls Poems for Children A Little Book of Days A Circus Garland Aileen Fisher (1906- ) Feathered Ones and Furry Out in the Dark and Daylight Cricket in a Thicket I Like Weather In One Door and Out the Other In the Middle of the Night In the Woods, in the Meadow, in the Sky Like Nothing at All Listen, Rabbit Where Does Everyone Go? Do Bears Have Mothers, Too? Up the Windy Hill We Went Looking The Coffee-Pot Face Sing Little Mouse The House of a Mouse Best Little House Anybody Home? Rabbits, Rabbits In Summer Paul Fleishman (1952- ) I Am Phoenix: Poems for Two Voices Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices Siv Cedering Fox (1939- ) Blue Horse and Other Night Poems Robert Froman (1917- ) Seeing Things: A Book of Poems 131 Street Poems Robert Frost (1874-1963) Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening You Come Too Complete Poems In the Clearing A Swinger of Birches Rose Amy Fyleman (1877-1957) Fairies and Chimneys The Fairy Green The Fairy Flute The Sunny Book Joy Street Poems Runabout Rhymes Rhyme Book for Adam Nikki Giovanni (1943- ) Spin a Soft Black Song: Poems for Children Ego-Tripping and Other Poems for Young People Vacation Time: Poems for Children Robert Graves (1895-1985) The Penny Fiddle: Poems for Children Ann at Highwood Hall: Poems for Children Kate Greenaway (1846-1901) Marigold Garden Under the Window Eloise Greenfield (1929- ) Honey, I Love and Other Love Poems Under the Honey Tree Robert Heidbreder (1947- ) Don't Eat Spiders Margaret Hillert (1920- ) Farther Than Far I Like to Live in the City Who Comes to Your House? The Sleeptime Book What Is It? I'm Special...So Are You! Doing Things Fun Days Rabbits and Rainbows Russel Hoban (1925- ) Goodnight The Pedaling Man, and Other Poems Egg Thoughts and Other Frances Songs 132 Mary Ann Hoberman (1930- ) Bugs A House Is a House for Me Yellow Butter Purple Jelly Red Jam Black Bread Hello and Good-By Not Enough Beds for the Babies All My Shoes Come in Two's Heinrich Hoffman (1809-1894) The English Struwwelpeter Felice Holman (1919- ) At the Top of My Voice: and Other Poems I Hear You Smiling and Other Poems The Song in My Head and Other Poems Lee Bennett Hopkins (1938- ) The Street's for Me Faces and Places: Poems for You When I Am All Alone: A Book of Poems Charlie's World: A Book of Poems Kim's Place and Other Poems Mary Howitt (1799-1888) Sketches of Natural History Patricia Hubbell (1928- ) Catch Me a Wind Langston Hughes (1902-1967) Don't You Turn Back Black Misery Fields of Wonder Selected Poems of Langston Hughes Ted Hughes (1930- ) Season Songs Moon-Bells and Other Poems Under the North Star Moon-Whales and Other Moon Poems Meet My Folks! Nessie, the Mannerless Monster What Is Truth?: A Farmyard Fable for the Young Peter Idley (died 1473?) Peter Idley's Instructions to his Son Randall Jarrell (1914-1965) The Bat Poet Bobbi Katz (1933- ) Bedtime Bear's Book of Bedtime Poems Birthday Bear's Book of Birthday Poems 133 X.J. Kennedy (1929- ) One Winter Night in August and Other Nonsense Jingles The Forgetful Wishing Well: Poems for Young People The Phanton Ice Cream Man Brats Did Adam Name the Vinegarroon? Ghastlies, Goops, and Pincushions: Nonsense Verse Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) Rewards and Fairies Kipling Stories and Poems Every Child Should Know Rudyard Kipling's Verse: Definitive Edition Karla Kuskin (1932- ) Dogs & Dragons Trees & Dreams: A Collection of Poems Near the Window Tree: Poems and Notes Alexander Soames, His Poems Any Me I Want to Be In the Middle of the Trees The Rose on My Cake Something Sleeping in the Hall The Bear Who Saw the Spring Night Again Herbert Hated Being Small Roar and More James and the Rain Square as a House All Sizes of Noises How Do You Get From Here to There? Sand and Snow In the Flaky Frosty Morning A Boy Had a Mother Who Bought Him a Hat Mary (1764-1847) and Charles (1775-1834) Lamb Poetry for Children, entirely original Edward Lear (1812-1888) Book of Nonsense More Nonsense Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany, and Alphabets Laughable Lyrics Dennis Lee (1939- ) Alligator Pie Nicholas Knock and Other People: Poems Garbage Delight Jelly Belly Wiggle to the Laundromat Lizzy's Lion Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931) Johnny Appleseed, and Other Poems Going-to-the-Stars Collected Poems 134 Jean Little (1932- ) It's a Wonderful World (printed privately, 1947) When the Pie Was Opened Hey World, Here I Am! Myra Cohn Livingston (1926- ) Whispers and Other Poems Wide Awake and Other Poems I'm Hiding Happy Birthday! The Moon and a Star and Other Poems Celebrations A Circle of Seasons 4-Way Stop and Other Poems Lollygag of Limericks The Malibu and Other Poems Monkey Puzzle and Other Poems A Sliver of Liver A Song I Sang to You: A Selection of Poems Sky Songs The Way Things Are and Other Poems A Crazy Flight and Other Poems See What I Found I'm Not Me I'm Waiting! Worlds I Know and Other Poems Earth Songs Sea Songs Poems for Mother Space Songs Up in the Air There Was a Place and Other Poems Remembering and Other Poems My Head Is Red and Other Riddle Rhymes Arnold Lobel (1933-1987) The Book of Pigericks: Pig Limericks Martha, the Movie Mouse The Ice-Cream Cone Coot and Other Rare Birds The Man Who Took the Indoors Out The Rose in My Garden Whiskers and Rhymes The Turnaround Wind Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) Hiawatha Evangeline Paul Revere's Ride John Lydgate (1370-1450) Stans Puer ad Mensam John Marchant (fl. 1751) 135 Puerilia; or, Amusements for the Young Lusus Juveniles; or, Youth's Recreation David McCord (1897- ) Far and Few, Rhymes of Never Was and Always Is Take Sky All Day Long Every Time I Climb a Tree For Me to Say Pen, Paper, and Poem Mr. Bidery's Spidery Garden Away and Ago The Star in the Pail One at a Time Eve Merriam (1916- ) It Doesn't Always Have to Rhyme There Is No Rhyme for Silver Catch a Little Rhyme Out Loud Rainbow Writing A Word or Two with You Blackberry Ink Finding a Poem Fresh Paint I Am a Man: Ode to Martin Luther King, Jr. Independent Voices Jamboree: Rhymes for All Times A Poem for a Pickle Funny Town If Only I Could Tell You Don't Think About a White Bear A Sky Full of Poems A Book of Wishes for You Chortles: New and Selected Wordplay Poems Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) Collected Poems Thomas Miller (1807-1874) Original Poems for My Children Alan Alexander Milne (1882-1956) When We Were Very Young Now We Are Six Clarke Clement Moore (1779-1863) A Visit from St. Nicholas (The Night Before Christmas) Lilian Moore (1909- ) See My Lovely Poison Ivy I Feel the Same Way I Thought I Heard the City Sam's Place: Poems from the Country 136 Go With the Poem Something New Begins Lillian Morrison (1917- ) Sprints and Distances The Sidewalk Racer and Other Poems of Sports and Motion Who Would Marry a Mineral? Overheard in a Bubble Chamber The Break Dance Kids Rhythm Road: An Anthology of Poems to Move To Ogden Nash (1902-1971) The New Nutcracker Suite and Other Innocent Verses Custard & Company Thomas Newbery (fl. 1563) A Booke in Englysh metre, of the great Marchaunt man called Dives Pragmataicus, very preaty for children Alfred Noyes (1880-1958) The Highwayman Sean O'Huigin (1942- ) Atmosfear The Ghost Horse of the Mounties Scary Poems for Rotten Kids Poe-Tree: A Simple Introduction to Experimental Poetry Pickles, Street Dog of Windsor Pickles and the Dog Napper Mary O'Neill (1908-1990) Hailstones and Halibut Bones: Adventures in Color What Is That Sound! Take a Number Fingers Are Always Bringing Me News Words Words Words Jack Prelutsky (1940- ) The Queen of Eeene Nightmares: Poems to Trouble Your Sleep The Baby Uggs Are Hatching The Headless Horseman Rides Tonight It's Halloween It's Snowing! It's Snowing! The New Kid on the Block Rainy, Rainy Saturday The Snopp on the Sidewalk and Other Poems What I Did Last Summer The Sheriff of Rottenshot A Gopher in the Garden: And Other Animal Poems Ride a Purple Pelican Tyrannosaurus Was a Beast The Mean Old Mean Hyena Rolling Harvey Down the Hill 137 My Parents Think I'm Sleeping James Reeves (1909-1978) The Blackbird in the Lilac: Verses The Wandering Moon The Story of Jackie Thimble Complete Poems for Children Prefabulous Animiles More Prefabulous Animiles Ragged Robin Laura Richards (1850-1943) Tirra Lirra: Rhymes Old and New Jolly Jingles Sketches and Scraps Tell-Tale from Hill and Dale In My Nursery Sundown Songs The Hurdy-Gurdy The Piccolo I Have a Song to Sing to You Merry-Go-Round: New Rhymes and Old James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916) Joyful Poems for Children Selected Poems The Best Loved Poems of James Whitcomb Riley The Complete Poetical Works of James Whitcomb Riley Elizabeth Madox Roberts (1886-1941) Under the Tree Theodore Roethke (1908-1963) I Am! Says the Lamb Dirty Dinky and Other Creatures: Poems for Children The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke William Roscoe (1753-1831) The Butterfly's Ball Michael Rosen (1946- ) You Can't Catch Me! Quick, Let's Get Out of Here Mind Your Own Business Wouldn't You Like to Know You Tell Me We're Going on a Bear Hunt A Spider Bought a Bicycle and Other Poems The Hypnotiser Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894) Sing-Song: A Nursery Rhyme Book Susan Russo (1947- ) 138 The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky: Night Poems Cynthia Rylant (1954- ) Waiting to Waltz: A Childhood Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) Wind Song Early Moon The Sandburg Treasury Rainbows Are Made The People, Yes Dr. Seuss (Theodore Seuss Geisel) (1904-1991)--numerous publications illustrated by the author, including: And To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street The Cat in the Hat Yertle the Turtle Green Eggs and Ham If I Ran the Zoo Fox in Socks The Sneetches and Other Stories Frank Dempster Sherman (1860-1916) Little-Folk Lyrics Shel Silverstein (1932- ) Where the Sidewalk Ends A Light in the Attic Uncle Shelby's Zoo: Don't Bump the Glump! Uncle Shelby's A Giraffe and a Half Lois Simmie (1932- ) Auntie's Knitting a Baby An Armadillo Is Not a Pillow What Holds Up the Moon? Charlotte Smith (1749-1806) Conversations Introducing Poetry, for the Use of Children William Jay Smith (1918- ) Mr. Smith and Other Nonsense Laughing Time: Nonsense Poems Ho For a Hat! If I Had a Boat Boy Blue's Book of Beasts Puptents and Pebbles: A Nonsense ABC Typewriter Town What Did I See? Around My Room and Other Poems Kaye Starbird (1916- ) A Snail's a Failure Socially and Other Poems Speaking of Cows and Other Poems 139 Don't Ever Cross a Crocodile The Pheasant on Route Seven The Covered Bridge House Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) A Child's Garden of Verses George Swede (1940- ) Tick Bird Holes in my Cage May Swenson (1927- ) Poems to Solve More Poems to Solve New and Selected Things Taking Place Ann Taylor (1782-1866) and Jane Taylor (1783-1824) Original Poems for Infant Minds Rhymes for the Nursery Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) Stars To-Night: Verses New and Old for Boys and Girls Collected Poems Celia Thaxter (1835-1894) Poems Poems for Children Ernest Lawrence Thayer (1863-1940) Casey at the Bat Judith Thurman (1946- ) Flashlight and Other Poems Putting My Coat On Elizabeth Turner (17757-1846) The Daisy; or, Cautionary Stories in Verse The Cowslip The Pink The Blue-Bell The Crocus John Updike (1932- ) A Child's Calendar Judith Viorst (1931- ) If I Were in Charge of the World and Other Worries Isaac Watts (1674-1748) Divine Songs Attempted in Easy Language for the Use of Children Charles Wesley (1707-1788) Hymns for Children 140 Walt Whitman (1819-1892) Leaves of Grass Valerie Worth (1933- ) Small Poems More Small Poems Still More Small Poems Small Poems Again all the small poems Jane Yolen (1939- ) Dinosaur Dance Bird Watch Best Witches All in the Woodland Early: An ABC Book How Beastly! A Menagerie of Nonsense Poems Dragon Night and Other Lullabies Ring of Earth: A Child's Book of Seasons See This Little Line? It All Depends An Invitation to the Butterfly Ball: A Counting Rhyme Charlotte Zolotow (1915- ) All That Sunlight Some Things Go Together River Winding Wake Up and Goodnight Everything Glistens and Everything Sings 141 Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84 Page 85 Page 86 Page 87 Page 88 Page 89 Page 90 Page 91 Page 92 Page 93 Page 94 Page 95 Page 96 Page 97 Page 98 Page 99 Page 100 Page 101 Page 102 Page 103 Page 104 Page 105 Page 106 Page 107 Page 108 Page 109 Page 110 Page 111 Page 112 Page 113 Page 114 Page 115 Page 116 Page 117 Page 118 Page 119 Page 120 Page 121 Page 122 Page 123 Page 124 Page 125 Page 126 Page 127 Page 128 Page 129 Page 130 Page 131 Page 132 Page 133 Page 134 Page 135 Page 136 Page 137 Page 138 Page 139 Page 140 Page 141 Page 142 Page 143 Page 144 Page 145 Page 146 Page 147 
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work_w6a7yvzmlnfl3n3ulhuaofq2va	----	Science Journals — AAAS RESEARCH ARTICLE SUMMARY ◥ PSYCHOLOGY OF MUSIC Universality and diversity in human song Samuel A. Mehr*, Manvir Singh*, Dean Knox, Daniel M. Ketter, Daniel Pickens-Jones, S. Atwood, Christopher Lucas, Nori Jacoby, Alena A. Egner, Erin J. Hopkins, Rhea M. Howard, Joshua K. Hartshorne, Mariela V. Jennings, Jan Simson, Constance M. Bainbridge, Steven Pinker, Timothy J. O’Donnell, Max M. Krasnow, Luke Glowacki* INTRODUCTION: Music is often assumed to be a human universal, emerging from an evolu- tionary adaptation specific to music and/or a by-product of adaptations for affect, language, motor control, and auditory perception. But universality has never actually been system- atically demonstrated, and it is challenged by the vast diversity of music across cultures. Hypotheses of the evolutionary function of music are also untestable without compre- hensive and representative data on its forms and behavioral contexts across societies. RATIONALE: We conducted a natural history of song: a systematic analysis of the features of vocal music found worldwide. It consists of a corpus of ethnographic text on musical be- havior from a representative sample of mostly small-scale societies, and a discography of audio recordings of the music itself. We then applied tools of computational social science, which minimize the influence of sampling error and other biases, to answer six questions. Does music appear universally? What kinds of behavior are associated with song, and how do they vary among societies? Are the musical features of a song indicative of its behavioral context (e.g., infant care)? Do the melodic and rhythmic patterns of songs vary systemat- ically, like those patterns found in language? And how prevalent is tonality across musical idioms? RESULTS: Analysis of the ethnography corpus shows that music appears in every society observed; that variation in song events is well characterized by three dimensions (formality, arousal, religiosity); that musical behavior varies more within societies than across them on these dimensions; and that music is reg- ularly associated with behavioral contexts such as infant care, healing, dance, and love. Anal- ysis of the discography corpus shows that identifiable acoustic features of songs (accent, tempo, pitch range, etc.) predict their primary behavioral context (love, healing, etc.); that musical forms vary along two dimensions (melodic and rhythmic complexity); that me- lodic and rhythmic bigrams fall into power-law distributions; and that tonality is widespread, perhaps universal. CONCLUSION: Music is in fact universal: It exists in every society (both with and without words), varies more within than between societies, regularly supports certain types of behav- ior, and has acoustic features that are system- atically related to the goals and responses of singers and listeners. But music is not a fixed biological response with a single prototypical adaptive function: It is produced worldwide in diverse behavioral contexts that vary in for- mality, arousal, and religiosity. Music does appear to be tied to specific perceptual, cog- nitive, and affective faculties, including lan- guage (all societies put words to their songs), motor control (people in all societies dance), audi- tory analysis (all musical systems have signatures of tonality), and aesthet- ics (their melodies and rhythms are balanced be- tween monotony and chaos). These analyses show how applying the tools of computational social science to rich bodies of humanistic data can reveal both universal features and patterns of variability in culture, addressing long-standing debates about each.▪ RESEARCH Mehr et al., Science 366, 970 (2019) 22 November 2019 1 of 1 The list of author affiliations is available in the full article online. *Corresponding author. Email: sam@wjh.harvard.edu (S.A.M.); manvirsingh@fas.harvard.edu (M.S.); glowacki@ psu.edu (L.G.) Cite this article as S. A. Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019). DOI: 10.1126/science.aax0868 Studying world music systematically. We used primary ethnographic text and field recordings of song performances to build two richly annotated cross-cultural datasets: NHS Ethnography and NHS Discography. The original material in each dataset was annotated by humans (both amateur and expert) and by automated algorithms. Accompanying instruments Singer age Number of listeners NHS Ethnography is a corpus of ethnographic text from 60 societies with associated annotations. Each text excerpt describes a song performance, summarizes the use of song in a society, or both. Note density Pitch class variety Modal interval size Ornamentation Tonality Macrometer Pleasantness Arousal Valence Brightness Roughness Key clarity NHS Discography is a corpus of audio recordings from 86 societies with associated annotations. Each recording documents a dance song, healing song, love song, or lullaby. ON OUR WEBSITE ◥ Read the full article at http://dx.doi. org/10.1126/ science.aax0868 .................................................. o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ RESEARCH ARTICLE ◥ PSYCHOLOGY OF MUSIC Universality and diversity in human song Samuel A. Mehr1,2,3*, Manvir Singh4*, Dean Knox5, Daniel M. Ketter6,7, Daniel Pickens-Jones8, S. Atwood2, Christopher Lucas9, Nori Jacoby10, Alena A. Egner2, Erin J. Hopkins2, Rhea M. Howard2, Joshua K. Hartshorne11, Mariela V. Jennings11, Jan Simson2,12, Constance M. Bainbridge2, Steven Pinker2, Timothy J. O’Donnell13, Max M. Krasnow2, Luke Glowacki14* What is universal about music, and what varies? We built a corpus of ethnographic text on musical behavior from a representative sample of the world’s societies, as well as a discography of audio recordings. The ethnographic corpus reveals that music (including songs with words) appears in every society observed; that music varies along three dimensions (formality, arousal, religiosity), more within societies than across them; and that music is associated with certain behavioral contexts such as infant care, healing, dance, and love. The discography—analyzed through machine summaries, amateur and expert listener ratings, and manual transcriptions—reveals that acoustic features of songs predict their primary behavioral context; that tonality is widespread, perhaps universal; that music varies in rhythmic and melodic complexity; and that elements of melodies and rhythms found worldwide follow power laws. A t least since Henry Wadsworth Long- fellow declared in 1835 that “music is the universal language of mankind” (1), the conventional wisdom among many authors, scholars, and scientists is that music is a human universal, with profound similarities across societies (2). On this un- derstanding, musicality is embedded in the biology of Homo sapiens (3), whether as one or more evolutionary adaptations for music (4, 5), the by-products of adaptations for au- ditory perception, motor control, language, and affect (6–9), or some amalgam of these. Music certainly is widespread (10–12), an- cient (13), and appealing to almost everyone (14). Yet claims that it is universal or has uni- versal features are commonly made without citation [e.g., (15–17)], and those with the greatest expertise on the topic are skeptical. With a few exceptions (18), most music scholars suggest that few if any universals exist in music (19–23). They point to variability in the inter- pretations of a given piece of music (24–26), the importance of natural and social environments in shaping music (27–29), the diverse forms of music that can share similar behavioral func- tions (30), and the methodological difficulty of comparing the music of different societies (12, 31, 32). Given these criticisms, along with a history of some scholars using comparative work to advance erroneous claims of cultural or racial superiority (33), the common view among music scholars today (34, 35) is sum- marized by the ethnomusicologist George List: “The only universal aspect of music seems to be that most people make it. … I could provide pages of examples of the non-universality of music. This is hardly worth the trouble” (36). Are there, in fact, meaningful universals in music? No one doubts that music varies across cultures, but diversity in behavior can shroud regularities emerging from common underly- ing psychological mechanisms. Beginning with Chomsky’shypothesis thattheworld’slanguages conform to an abstract Universal Grammar (37, 38), many anthropologists, psychologists, and cognitive scientists have shown that be- havioral patterns once considered arbitrary cultural products may exhibit deeper, abstract similarities across societies emerging from universal features of human nature. These include religion (39–41), mate preferences (42), kinship systems (43), social relation- ships (44, 45), morality (46, 47), violence and warfare (48–50), and political and economic beliefs (51, 52). Music may be another example, although it is perennially difficult to study. A recent anal- ysis of the Garland Encyclopedia of World Music revealed that certain features—such as the use of words, chest voice, and an isoch- ronous beat—appear in a majority of songs recorded within each of nine world regions (53). But the corpus was sampled opportunis- tically, which made generalizations to all of humanity impossible; the musical features were ambiguous, leading to poor interrater reliability; and the analysis studied only the forms of the societies’ music, not the behavioral contexts in which it is performed, leaving open key questions about functions of music and their connection to its forms. Music perception experiments have begun to address some of these issues. In one, in- ternet users reliably discriminated dance songs, healing songs, and lullabies sampled from 86 mostly small-scale societies (54); in another, listeners from the Mafa of Cameroon rated “happy,” “sad,” and “fearful” examples of West- ern music somewhat similarly to Canadian listeners, despite having had limited exposure to Western music (55); in a third, Americans and Kreung listeners from a rural Cambodian village were asked to create music that sounded “angry,” “happy,” “peaceful,” “sad,” or “scared” and generated similar melodies to one another within these categories (56). These studies suggest that the form of music is systemat- ically related to its affective and behavioral effects in similar ways across cultures. But they can only provide provisional clues about which aspects of music, if any, are universal, because the societies, genres, contexts, and judges are highly limited, and because they too contain little information about music’s behavioral contexts across cultures. A proper evaluation of claims of universal- ity and variation requires a natural history of music: a systematic analysis of the features of musical behavior and musical forms across cultures, using scientific standards of objec- tivity, representativeness, quantification of variability, and controls for data integrity. We take up this challenge here. We focus on vocal music (hereafter, song) rather than in- strumental music [see (57)] because it does not depend on technology, has well-defined phys- ical correlates [i.e., pitched vocalizations (19)], and has been the primary focus of biological explanations for music (4, 5). Leveraging more than a century of research from anthropology and ethnomusicology, we built two corpora, which collectively we call the Natural History of Song (NHS). The NHS Ethnography is a corpus of descriptions of song performances, including their context, lyrics, people present, and other details, sys- tematically assembled from the ethnographic record to representatively sample diversity across societies. The NHS Discography is a corpus of field recordings of performances of four kinds of song—dance, healing, love, and lullaby—from an approximately repre- sentative sample of human societies, mostly small-scale. RESEARCH Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 1 of 17 1Data Science Initiative, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 02138, USA. 2Department of Psychology, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 02138, USA. 3School of Psychology, Victoria University of Wellington, Wellington, New Zealand. 4Department of Human Evolutionary Biology, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 02138, USA. 5Department of Politics, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ 08544, USA. 6Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester, Rochester, NY 14604, USA. 7Department of Music, Missouri State University, Springfield, MO 65897, USA. 8Unaffiliated scholar, Portland, OR 97212, USA. 9Department of Political Science, Washington University, St. Louis, MO 63130, USA. 10Computational Auditory Perception Group, Max Planck Institute for Empirical Aesthetics, 60322 Frankfurt am Main, Germany. 11Department of Psychology, Boston College, Chestnut Hill, MA 02467, USA. 12Department of Psychology, University of Konstanz, 78464 Konstanz, Germany. 13Department of Linguistics, McGill University, Montreal, QC H3A 1A7, Canada. 14Department of Anthropology, Pennsylvania State University, State College, PA 16802, USA. *Corresponding author. Email: sam@wjh.harvard.edu (S.A.M.); manvirsingh@fas.harvard.edu (M.S.); glowacki@psu.edu (L.G.) o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ We used the corpora to test five sets of hy- potheses about universality and variability in musical behavior and musical forms: 1) We tested whether music is universal by examining the ethnographies of 315 societies, and then a geographically stratified pseudo- random sample of them. 2) We assessed how the behaviors associated with song differ among societies. We reduced the high-dimensional NHS Ethnography anno- tations to a small number of dimensions of variation while addressing challenges in the analysis of ethnographic data, such as selec- tive nonreporting. This allowed us to assess how the variation in musical behavior across societies compares with the variation within a single society. 3) We tested which behaviors are universally or commonly associated with song. We cata- loged 20commonbutuntested hypothesesabout these associations, such as religious activity, dance, and infant care (4, 5, 40, 54, 58–60), and tested them after adjusting for sampling error and ethnographer bias, problems that have bedeviled prior tests. 4) We analyzed the musical features of songs themselves, as documented in the NHS Dis- cography. We derived four representations of each song, including blind human ratings and machine summaries. We then applied machine classifiers to these representations to test whether the musical features of a song predict its association with particular behavioral contexts. 5) In exploratory analyses, we assessed the prevalence of tonality in the world’s songs, found that variation in their annotations falls along a small number of dimensions, and plotted the statistical distributions of melodic and rhythmic patterns in them. All data and materials are publicly availa- ble at http://osf.io/jmv3q. We also encourage readers to view and listen to the corpora in- teractively via the plots available at http:// themusiclab.org/nhsplots. Music appears in all measured human societies Is music universal? We first addressed this question by examining the eHRAF World Cul- tures database (61, 62), developed and main- tained by the Human Relations Area Files organization. It includes high-quality ethno- graphic documents from 315 societies, subject- indexed by paragraph. We searched for text that was tagged as including music (instru- mental or vocal) or that contained at least one keyword identifying vocal music (e.g., “singers”). Music was widespread: The eHRAF ethno- graphies describe music in 309 of the 315 soci- eties. Moreover, the remaining six (the Turkmen, Dominican, Hazara, Pamir, Tajik, and Ghorbat peoples) do in fact have music, according to primary ethnographic documents available outside the database (63–68). Thus, music is present in 100% of a large sample of societies, consistent with the claims of writers and schol- ars since Longfellow (1, 4, 5, 10, 12, 53, 54, 58–60, 69–73). Given these data, and assuming that the sample of human societies is represent- ative, the Bayesian 95% posterior credible in- terval for the population proportion of human societies that have music, with a uniform prior, is [0.994, 1]. To examine what about music is universal and how music varies worldwide, we built the NHS Ethnography (Fig. 1 and Text S1.1), a corpus of 4709 descriptions of song perform- ances drawn from the Probability Sample File (74–76). This is a ~45-million-word subset of the 315-society database, comprising 60 trad- itionally living societies that were drawn pseu- dorandomly from each of Murdock’s 60 cultural clusters (62), covering 30 distinct geographical Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 2 of 17 Compiled into database A Books & journal articles Annotations Accompanying instruments Singer age Number of listeners Keyword search NHS Ethnography B Fig. 1. Design of the NHS Ethnography. The illustration depicts the sequence from acts of singing to the ethnography corpus. (A) People produce songs in conjunction with other behavior, which scholars observe and describe in text. These ethnographies are published in books, reports, and journal articles and then compiled, translated, cataloged, and digitized by the Human Relations Area Files organization. (B) We conduct searches of the online eHRAF corpus for all descriptions of songs in the 60 societies of the Probability Sample File and annotate them with a variety of behavioral features. The raw text, annotations, and metadata together form the NHS Ethnography. Codebooks listing all available data are in tables S1 to S6; a listing of societies and locations from which texts were gathered is in table S12. RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://osf.io/jmv3q http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://science.sciencemag.org/ regions and selected to be historically mostly independent of one another. Because the corpus representatively samples from the world’s soci- eties, it has been used to test cross-cultural reg- ularities in many domains (46, 77–83), and these regularities may be generalized (with ap- propriate caution) to all societies. The NHS Ethnography, it turns out, includes examples of songs in all 60 societies. Moreover, each society has songs with words, as opposed to just humming or nonsense syllables (which are reported in 22 societies). Because the soci- eties were sampled independently of whether their people were known to produce music, in contrast to prior cross-cultural studies (10, 53, 54), the presence of music in each one—as recognized by the anthropologists who embedded themselves in the society and wrote their authoritative ethnographies— constitutes the clearest evidence supporting the claim that song is a human universal. Readers interested in the nature of the ethno- graphers’ reports, which bear on what con- stitutes “music” in each society [see (27)], are encouraged to consult the interactive NHS Ethnography Explorer at http://themusiclab. org/nhsplots. Musical behavior worldwide varies along three dimensions How do we reconcile the discovery that song is universalwiththeresearch fromethnomusicology showing radical variability? We propose that the music of a society is not a fixed inventory of cultural behaviors, but rather the product of underlying psychological faculties that make certain kinds of sound feel appropriate to cer- tain social and emotional circumstances. These include entraining the body to acoustic and motoric rhythms, analyzing harmonically com- plex sounds, segregating and grouping sounds into perceptual streams (6, 7), parsing the pros- ody of speech, responding to emotional calls, and detecting ecologically salient sounds (8, 9). These faculties may interact with others that specifically evolved for music (4, 5). Musical idioms differ with respect to which acoustic features they use and which emotions they engage, but they all draw from a common suite of psychological responses to sound. If so, what should be universal about music is not specific melodies or rhythms but clusters of correlated behaviors, such as slow soothing lullabies sung by a mother to a child or lively rhythmic songs sung in public by a group of dancers. We thus asked how musical behav- ior varies worldwide and how the variation within societies compares to the variation be- tween them. Reducing the dimensionality of variation in musical behavior To determine whether the wide variation in the annotations of the behavioral context of songs in the database (Text S1.1) falls along a smaller number of dimensions capturing the principal ways that musical behavior varies worldwide, we used an extension of Bayesian principal com- ponents analysis (84), which, in addition to reducing dimensionality, handles missing data in a principled way and provides a credible in- terval for each observation’s coordinates in the resulting space. Each observation is a “song event,” namely, a description in the NHS Eth- nography of a song performance, a character- ization of how a society uses songs, or both. We found that three latent dimensions is the optimum number, explaining 26.6% of variabil- ity in NHS Ethnography annotations. Figure 2 depicts the space and highlights examples from excerpts in the corpus; an interactive version is available at http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots. (See Text S2.1 for details of the model, includ- ing the dimension selection procedure, model diagnostics, a test of robustness, and tests of the potential influence of ethnographer character- istics on model results.) To interpret the space, we examined annotations that load highly on each dimension; to validate this interpretation, we searched for examples at extreme locations and examined their content. Loadings are pres- ented in tables S13 to S15; a selection of ex- treme examples is given in table S16. The first dimension (accounting for 15.5% of the variance, including error noise) captures variability in the Formality of a song: Excerpts high along this dimension describe ceremo- nial events involving adults, large audiences, and instruments; excerpts low on it describe informal events with small audiences and chil- dren. The second dimension (accounting for 6.2%) captures variability in Arousal: Excerpts high along this dimension describe lively events with many singers, large audiences, and dancing; excerpts low on it describe calmer events in- volving fewer people and less overt affect, such as people singing to themselves. The third di- mension (4.9%) distinguishes Religious events from secular ones: Passages high along this dimension describe shamanic ceremonies, possession, and funerary songs; passages low on it describe communal events without spir- itual content, such as community celebrations. To validate whether this dimensional space capturedbehaviorallyrelevantdifferencesamong songs, we tested whether we could reliably re- cover clusters for four distinctive, easily iden- tifiable, and regularly occurring song types: dance, lullaby, healing, and love (54). We searched the NHS Ethnography for keywords and human annotations that matched at least one of the four types (table S17). Although each song type can appear throughout the space, clear structure is ob- servable (Fig. 2): The excerpts falling into each type cluster together. On average, dance songs (1089 excerpts) occupy the high-Formality, high-Arousal, low-Religiosity region. Healing songs(289excerpts)clusterinthehigh-Formality, high-Arousal, high-Religiosityregion.Love songs (354 excerpts) cluster in the low-Formality, low- Arousal, low-Religiosity region. Lullabies (156 excerpts) are the sparsest category (although this was likely due to high missingness in vari- ables associated with lullabies, such as one in- dicating the presence of infant-directed song; see Text S2.1.5) and are located mostly in the low-Formality and low-Arousal regions. An additional 2821 excerpts matched either more than one category or none of the four. To specify the coherence of these clusters formally rather than just visually, we asked what proportion of song events are closer to the centroid of their own type’s location than to any other type (Text S2.1.6). Overall, 64.7% of the songs were located closest to the cen- troid of their own type; under a null hypoth- esis that song type is unrelated to location, simulated by randomly shuffling the song labels, only 23.2% would do so (P < 0.001 according to a permutation test). This result was statistically significant for three of the four song types (dance, 66.2%; healing, 74.0%; love, 63.6%; Ps < 0.001) although not for lullabies (39.7%, P = 0.92). The matrix show- ing how many songs of each type were near each centroid is in table S18. Note that these analyses eliminated variables with high mis- singness; a validation model that analyzed the entire corpus yielded similar dimensional structure and clustering (figs. S1 and S2 and Text S2.1.5). The range of musical behavior is similar across societies We next examined whether this pattern of variation applies within all societies. Do all societies take advantage of the full spectrum of possibilities made available by the neural, cognitive, and cultural systems that underlie music? Alternatively, is there only a single, prototypical song type that is found in all societies, perhaps reflecting the evolutionary origin of music (love songs, say, if music evolved as a courtship display; or lullabies, if it evolved as an adaptation to infant care), with the other types haphazardly distributed or absent altogether, depending on whether the society extended the prototype through cultural evolution? As a third alternative, do societies fall into discrete typologies, such as a Dance Culture or a Lullaby Culture? As still another alternative, do they occupy sectors of the space, so that there are societies with only arousing songs or only religious songs, or societies whose songs are equally formal and vary only by arousal, or vice versa? The data in Fig. 2, which pool song events across societies, cannot answer such questions. We estimated the variance of each society’s scores on each dimension, aggregated across all ethnographies from that society. This revealed Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 3 of 17 RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://science.sciencemag.org/ that the distributions of each society’s observed musical behaviors are remarkably similar (Fig. 3), such that a song with “average formality,” “average arousal,” or “average religiosity” could appear in any society we studied. This finding is supported by comparing the global aver- age along each dimension to each society’s mean and standard deviation, which summa- rizes how unusual the average song event would appear to members of that society. We found that in every society, a song event at the global mean would not appear out of place: The global mean always falls within the 95% confi- dence interval of every society’s distribution (fig. S3). These results do not appear to be driven by any bias stemming from ethnogra- pher characteristics such as sex or academic field (fig. S4 and Text S2.1.7), nor are they ar- tifacts of a society being related to other societies in the sample by region, subregion, language family, subsistence type, or location in the Old versus New World (fig. S5 and Text S2.1.8). We also applied a comparison that is com- mon in studies of genetic diversity (85) and that has been performed in a recent cultural- phylogenetic study of music (86). It revealed that typical within-society variation is approx- imately six times the between-society variation. Specifically, the ratios of within- to between- society variances were 5.58 for Formality [95% Bayesian credible interval, (4.11, 6.95)]; 6.39 (4.72, 8.34) for Arousal; and 6.21 (4.47, 7.94) for Religiosity. Moreover, none of the 180 mean values for the 60 societies over the three di- mensions deviated from the global mean by more than 1.96 times the standard deviation of the principal components scores within that society (fig. S3 and Text S2.1.9). These findings demonstrate global regular- ities in musical behavior, but they also reveal that behaviors vary quantitatively across soci- eties, consistent with the long-standing conclu- sions of ethnomusicologists. For instance, the Kanuri’s musical behaviors are estimated to be less formal than those of any other society, whereas those of the Akan are estimated to be the most religious (in both cases, significantly different from the global mean on average). Some ethnomusicologists have attempted to explain such diversity, noting, for example, that more formal song performances tend to be found in more socially rigid societies (10). Despite this variation, a song event of av- erage formality would appear unremarkable in the Kanuri’s distribution of songs, as would a song event of average religiosity in the Akan. Overall, we find that for each dimension, ap- proximately one-third of all societies’ means significantly differed from the global mean, and approximately half differed from the global mean on at least one dimension (Fig. 3). But despite variability in the societies’ means on each dimension, their distributions overlap substantially with one another and with the global mean. Moreover, even the outliers in Fig. 3 appear to represent not genuine idio- syncrasy in some cultures but sampling error: The societies that differ more from the glob- al mean on some dimension are those with sparser documentation in the ethnographic record (fig. S6 and Text S2.1.10). To ensure that these results are not artifacts of the Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 4 of 17 Fig. 2. Patterns of variation in the NHS Ethnography. (A to E) Projection of a subset of the NHS Ethnography onto three principal components. Each point represents the posterior mean location of an excerpt, with points colored by which of four types (identified by a broad search for matching keywords and annotations) it falls into: dance (blue), lullaby (green), healing (red), or love (yellow). The geometric centroids of each song type are represented by the diamonds. Excerpts that do not match any single search are not plotted but can be viewed in the interactive version of this figure at http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots, along with all text and metadata. Selected examples of each song type are presented here [highlighted circles and (B) to (E)]. (F to H) Density plots show the differences between song types on each dimension. Criteria for classifying song types from the raw text and annotations are shown in table S17. RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ statistical techniques used, we applied them to a structurally analogous dataset whose latent dimensions are expected to vary across coun- tries, namely climate features (for instance, temperature is related to elevation, which certainly is not universal); the results were entirely different from what we found when analyzing the NHS Ethnography (figs. S7 and S8 and Text S2.1.11). The results suggest that societies’ musical behaviors are largely similar to one another, such that the variability within a society ex- ceeds the variability between them (all soci- eties have more soothing songs, such as lullabies; more rousing songs, such as dance tunes; more stirring songs, such as prayers; and other recognizable kinds of musical per- formance), and that the appearance of unique- ness in the ethnographic record may reflect underreporting. Associations between song and behavior, corrected for bias Ethnographic descriptions of behavior are sub- ject to several forms of selective nonreporting: Ethnographers may omit certain kinds of in- formation because of their academic interests (e.g., the author focuses on farming and not shamanism), implicit or explicit biases (e.g., the author reports less information about the elderly), lack of knowledge (e.g., the author is unaware of food taboos), or inaccessibility (e.g., the author wants to report on infant care but is not granted access to infants). We cannot distinguish among these causes, but we can discern patterns of omission in the NHS Ethnography. For example, we found that when the singer’s age is reported, the singerislikely to beyoung, but whenthesinger’s age is not reported, cues that the singer is old are statistically present (such as the fact that a song is ceremonial). Such correlations—between the absence of certain values of one variable and the reporting of particular values of others— were aggregated into a model of missingness (Text S2.1.12) that forms part of the Bayesian principal components analysis reported above. This allowed us to assess variation in musical behavior worldwide, while accounting for re- porting biases. Next, to test hypotheses about the contexts with which music is strongly associated world- wide, in a similarly robust fashion, we com- pared the frequency with which a particular behavior appears in text describing song with the estimated frequency with which it appears across the board, in all the text written by that ethnographer about that society, which can be treated as the null distribution for that be- havior. If a behavior is systematically associated with song, then its frequency in ethnographic descriptions of songs should exceed its fre- quency in that null distribution, which we esti- mated by randomly drawing the same number of passages from the same documents [see Text S2.2 for full model details]. We generated a list of 20 hypotheses about universal or widespread contexts for music (Table 1) from published work in anthropol- ogy, ethnomusicology, and cognitive science (4, 5, 40, 54, 58–60), together with a survey of nearly 1000 scholars that solicited opinions about which behaviors might be universally linked to music (Text S1.4.1). We then de- signed two sets of criteria for determining whether a given passage of ethnography re- presented a given behavior in this list. The first used human-annotated identifiers, cap- italizing on the fact that every paragraph in the Probability Sample File comes tagged with one of more than 750 identifiers from the Outline of Cultural Materials (OCM), Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 5 of 17 Fig. 3. Society-wise variation in musical behavior. Density plots for each society show the distributions of musical performances on each of the three principal components (Formality, Arousal, Religiosity). Distributions are based on posterior samples aggregated from corresponding ethnographic observations. Societies are ordered by the number of available documents in the NHS Ethnography (the number of documents per society is displayed in parentheses). Distributions are color-coded according to their mean distance from the global mean (in z-scores; redder distributions are farther from 0). Although some societies’ means differ significantly from the global mean, the mean of each society’s distribution is within 1.96 standard deviations of the global mean of 0. One society (Tzeltal) is not plotted because it has insufficient observations for a density plot. Asterisks denote society-level mean differences from the global mean. *P < 0.05, **P < 0.01, ***P < 0.001. RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ such as MOURNING, INFANT CARE, or WARFARE. The second set of criteria was needed be- cause some hypotheses corresponded only loosely to the OCM identifiers (e.g., “love songs” is only a partial fit to ARRANGING A MARRIAGE and not an exact fit to any other identifier), and still others fit no identifier at all [e.g., “music perceived as art or as a cre- ation” (59)]. So we designed a method that ex- amined the text directly. Starting with a small set of seed words associated with each hypoth- esis (e.g., “religious,” “spiritual,” and “ritual” for the hypothesis that music is associated with religious activity), we used the WordNet lexical database (87) to automatically gener- ate lists of conceptually related terms (e.g., “rite” and “sacred”). We manually filtered the Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 6 of 17 Table 1. Cross-cultural associations between song and other behaviors. We tested 20 hypothesized associations between song and other behaviors by comparing the frequency of a behavior in song-related passages to that in comparably-sized samples of text from the same sources that are not about song. Behavior was identified with two methods: topic annotations from the Outline of Cultural Materials (“OCM identifiers”) and automatic detection of related keywords (“WordNet seed words”; see table S19). Significance tests compared the frequencies in the passages in the full Probability Sample File containing song-related keywords (“Song freq.”) with the frequencies in a simulated null distribution of passages randomly selected from the same documents (“Null freq.”). ***P < 0.001, **P < 0.01, *P < 0.05, using adjusted P values (88); 95% intervals for the null distribution are in parentheses. Hypothesis OCM identifier(s) Song freq. Null freq. WordNet seed word(s) Song freq. Null freq. Dance DANCE 1499*** 431 (397, 467) dance 11,145*** 3283 (3105, 3468) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Infancy INFANT CARE 63* 44 (33, 57) infant, baby, cradle, lullaby 688** 561 (491, 631) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Healing MAGICAL AND MENTAL THERAPY; SHAMANS AND PSYCHOTHERAPISTS; MEDICAL THERAPY; MEDICAL CARE 1651*** 1063 (1004, 1123) heal, shaman, sick, cure 3983*** 2466 (2317, 2619) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Religious activity SHAMANS AND PSYCHOTHERAPISTS; RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE; PRAYERS AND SACRIFICES; PURIFICATION AND ATONEMENT; ECSTATIC RELIGIOUS PRACTICES; REVELATION AND DIVINATION; RITUAL 3209*** 2212 (2130, 2295) religious, spiritual, ritual 8644*** 5521 (5307, 5741) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Play GAMES; CHILDHOOD ACTIVITIES 377*** 277 (250, 304) play, game, child, toy 4130*** 2732 (2577, 2890) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Procession SPECTACLES; NUPTIALS 371*** 213 (188, 240) wedding, parade, march, procession, funeral, coronation 2648*** 1495 (1409, 1583) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Mourning BURIAL PRACTICES AND FUNERALS; MOURNING; SPECIAL BURIAL PRACTICES AND FUNERALS 924*** 517 (476, 557) mourn, death, funeral 3784*** 2511 (2373, 2655) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Ritual RITUAL 187*** 99 (81, 117) ritual, ceremony 8520** 5138 (4941, 5343) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Entertainment SPECTACLES 44*** 20 (12, 29) entertain, spectacle 744*** 290 (256, 327) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Children CHILDHOOD ACTIVITIES 178*** 108 (90, 126) child 4351*** 3471 (3304, 3647) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Mood/emotions DRIVES AND EMOTIONS 219*** 138 (118, 159) mood, emotion, emotive 796*** 669 (607, 731) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Work LABOR AND LEISURE 137*** 60 (47, 75) work, labor 3500** 3223 (3071, 3378) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Storytelling VERBAL ARTS; LITERATURE 736*** 537 (506, 567) story, history, myth 2792*** 2115 (1994, 2239) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Greeting visitors VISITING AND HOSPITALITY 360*** 172 (148, 196) visit, greet, welcome 1611*** 1084 (1008, 1162) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... War WARFARE 264 283 (253, 311) war, battle, raid 3154*** 2254 (2122, 2389) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Praise STATUS, ROLE, AND PRESTIGE 385 355 (322, 388) praise, admire, acclaim 481*** 302 (267, 339) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Love ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 158 140 (119, 162) love, courtship 1625*** 804 (734, 876) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Group bonding SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS AND GROUPS 141 163 (141, 187) bond, cohesion 1582*** 1424 (1344, 1508) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Marriage/weddings NUPTIALS 327*** 193 (169, 218) marriage, wedding 2011 2256 (2108, 2410) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Art/creation N/A n/a n/a art, creation 905*** 694 (630, 757) ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ lists to remove irrelevant words and homo- nyms and add relevant keywords that may have been missed, then conducted word stem- ming to fill out plurals and other grammatical variants (full lists are in table S19). Each meth- od has limitations: Automated dictionary meth- ods can erroneously flag a passage containing a word that is ambiguous, whereas the human- coded OCM identifiers may miss a relevant passage, misinterpret the original ethnogra- phy, or paint with too broad a brush, applying a tag to a whole paragraph or to several pages of text. Where the two methods converge, sup- port for a hypothesis is particularly convincing. After controlling for ethnographer bias via the method described above, and adjusting the P values for multiple hypotheses (88), we found support from both methods for 14 of the 20 hypothesized associations between music and a behavioral context, and support from one method for the remaining six (Table 1). To verify that these analyses specifically con- firmed the hypotheses, as opposed to being an artifact of some other nonrandom pattern- ing in this dataset, we reran them on a set of additional OCM identifiers matched in fre- quency to the ones used above [see Text S2.2.2 for a description of the selection procedure]. They covered a broad swath of topics, includ- ing DOMESTICATED ANIMALS, POLYGAMY, and LEGAL NORMS that were not hypothe- sized to be related to song (the full list is in table S20). We find that only one appeared more frequently in song-related paragraphs than in the simulated null distribution (CEREAL AGRICULTURE; see table S20 for full results). This contrasts sharply with the associations reported in Table 1, suggesting that they rep- resent bona fide regularities in the behavioral contexts of music. Universality of musical forms We now turn to the NHS Discography to ex- amine the musical content of songs in four behavioral contexts (dance, lullaby, healing, and love; Fig. 4A), selected because each ap- pears in the NHS Ethnography, is widespread in traditional cultures (59), and exhibits shared features across societies (54). Using predeter- mined criteria based on liner notes and sup- porting ethnographic text (table S21), and seeking recordings of each type from each of the 30 geographic regions, we found 118 songs of the 120 possibilities (4 contexts × 30 re- gions) from 86 societies (Fig. 4B). This cov- erage underscores the universality of these four types; indeed, in the two possibilities we failed to find (healing songs from Scandinavia and from the British Isles), documentary evi- dence shows that both existed (89, 90) despite our failure to find audio recordings of the practice. The recordings may be unavailable because healing songs were rare by the early 1900s, roughly when portable field record- ing became feasible. The data describing each song comprised (i) machine summaries of the raw audio using automatic music information retrieval tech- niques, particularly the audio’s spectral fea- tures (e.g., mean brightness and roughness, variability of spectral entropy) (Text S1.2.1); (ii) general impressions of musical features (e.g., whether its emotional valence was happy or sad) by untrained listeners recruited online from the United States and India (Text S1.2.2); (iii) ratings of additional music-theoretic fea- tures such as high-level rhythmic grouping structure [similar in concept to previous rating- scale approaches to analyzing world music (10, 53)] from a group of 30 expert musicians including Ph.D. ethnomusicologists and music theorists (Text S1.2.3); and (iv) detailed manual Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 7 of 17 Pitch class variety Modal interval size Ornamentation Tonality Macrometer Expert listener annotations Transcription B A Naive listener annotations Pleasantness Arousal Valence Music information retrieval Brightness Roughness Key clarity Audio recordings Note density NHS Discography Fig. 4. Design of the NHS Discography. (A) Illustration depicting the sequence from acts of singing to the audio discography. People produce songs, which scholars record. We aggregate and analyze the recordings via four methods: automatic music information retrieval, annotations from expert listeners, annotations from naïve listeners, and staff notation transcriptions (from which annotations are automatically generated). The raw audio, four types of annotations, transcriptions, and metadata together form the NHS Discography. (B) Plot of the locations of the 86 societies represented, with points colored by the song type in each recording (blue, dance; red, healing; yellow, love; green, lullaby). Codebooks listing all available data are in tables S1 and S7 to S11; a listing of societies and locations from which recordings were gathered is in table S22. RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ transcriptions, also by expert musicians, of musical features (e.g., note density of sung pitches) (Text S1.2.4). To ensure that clas- sifications were driven only by the content of the music, we excluded any variables that carried explicit or implicit information about the context (54), such as the number of singers audible on a recording and a coding of poly- phony (which indicates the same thing implic- itly). This exclusion could be complete only in the manual transcriptions, which are restricted to data on vocalizations; the music information retrieval and naïve listener data are practically inseparable from contextual information, and the expert listener ratings contain at least a small amount, because despite being told to ignore the context, the experts could still hear some of it, such as accompanying instruments. [See Text S2.3.1 for details about variable exclusion.] Listeners accurately identify the behavioral contexts of songs In a previous study, people listened to record- ings from the NHS Discography and rated their confidence in each of six possible behavioral contexts (e.g., “used to soothe a baby”). On average, the listeners successfully inferred a song’s behavioral context from its musical forms: The songs that were actually used to soothe a baby (i.e., lullabies) were rated highest as “used to soothe a baby”; dance songs were rated highly as “used for dancing,” and so on (54). We ran a massive conceptual replication (Text S1.4.2) where 29,357 visitors to the citizen- science website http://themusiclab.org listened to songs drawn at random from the NHS Discography and were asked to guess what kind of song they were listening to from among four alternatives (yielding 185,832 ratings, i.e., 118 songs rated about 1500 times each). Par- ticipants also reported their musical skill level and degree of familiarity with world music. Listeners guessed the behavioral contexts with a level of accuracy (42.4%) that is well above chance (25%), showing that the acoustic prop- erties of a song performance reflect its be- havioral context in ways that span human cultures. The confusion matrix (Fig. 5A) shows that listeners identified dance songs most accu- rately (54.4%), followed by lullabies (45.6%), healing songs (43.3%), and love songs (26.2%), all significantly above chance (Ps < 0.001). Dance songs and lullabies were the least likely to be confused with each other, pre- sumably because of their many contrasting features, such as tempo (a possibility we ex- amine below; see Table 2). The column mar- ginals suggest that the raters were biased toward identifying recordings as healing songs (32.6%, above their actual proportion of 23.7%) and away from identifying them as love songs (17.9%), possibly because healing songs are less familiar to Westernized listeners and they were overcompensating in identifying examples. As in previous research (54), love songs were least reliably identified, despite their ubiquity in Western popular music, possibly because they span a wide range of styles (for example, the vastly different Elvis Presley hit singles “Love Me Tender” and “Burning Love”). Nonethe- less, d-prime scores (Fig. 5A), which capture the sensitivity to a signal independently of response bias, show that all behavioral con- texts were identified at a rate higher than chance (d′ = 0). Are accurate identifications of the contexts of culturally unfamiliar songs restricted to listeners with musical training or exposure to world music? In a regression analysis, we found that participants’ categorization ac- curacy was statistically related to their self- reported musical skill [F(4,16245) = 2.57, P = 0.036] and their familiarity with world music [F(3,16167) = 36.9, P < 0.001; statistics from linear probability models], but with small effect sizes: The largest difference was a 4.7– percentage point advantage for participants Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 8 of 17 Fig. 5. Form and function in song. (A) In a massive online experiment (N = 29,357), listeners categorized dance songs, lullabies, healing songs, and love songs at rates higher than chance level of 25%, but their responses to love songs were by far the most ambiguous (the heat map shows average percent correct, color-coded from lowest magnitude, in blue, to highest magnitude, in red). Note that the marginals (below the heat map) are not evenly distributed across behavioral contexts: Listeners guessed “healing” most often and “love” least often despite the equal number of each in the materials. The d-prime scores estimate listeners’ sensitivity to the song-type signal independent of this response bias. (B) Categorical classification of the behavioral contexts of songs, using each of the four representations in the NHS Discography, is substantially above the chance performance level of 25% (dotted red line) and is indistinguishable from the performance of human listeners, 42.4% (dotted blue line). The classifier that combines expert annotations with transcription features (the two representations that best ignore background sounds and other context) performs at 50.8% correct, above the level of human listeners. (C) Binary classifiers that use the expert annotation + transcription feature representations to distinguish pairs of behavioral contexts [e.g., dance from love songs, as opposed to the four-way classification in (B)] perform above the chance level of 50% (dotted red line). Error bars represent 95% confidence intervals from corrected resampled t tests (94). RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://themusiclab.org http://science.sciencemag.org/ Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 9 of 17 Table 2. Features of songs that distinguish between behavioral contexts. The table reports the predictive influence of musical features in the NHS Discography in distinguishing song types across cultures, ordered by their overall influence across all behavioral contexts. The classifiers used the average rating for each feature across 30 annotators. The coefficients are from a penalized logistic regression with standardized features and are selected for inclusion using a LASSO for variable selection. For brevity, we only present the subset of features with notable influence on a pairwise comparison (coefficients greater than 0.1). Changes in the values of the coefficients produce changes in the predicted log-odds ratio, so the values in the table can be interpreted as in a logistic regression. Coefficient (pairwise comparison) Musical feature Definition Dance (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Dance (–) vs. Love (+) Healing (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Love (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Dance (–) vs. Healing (+) Healing (–) vs. Love (+) Accent The differentiation of musical pulses, usually by volume or emphasis of articulation. A fluid, gentle song will have few accents and a correspondingly low value. –0.64 –0.24 –0.85 –0.41 . –0.34 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Tempo The rate of salient rhythmic pulses, measured in beats per minute; the perceived speed of the music. A fast song will have a high value. –0.65 –0.51 . . –0.76 . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Quality of pitch collection Major versus minor key. In Western music, a key usually has a “minor” quality if its third note is three semitones from the tonic. This variable was derived from annotators’ qualitative categorization of the pitch collection, which we then dichotomized into Major (0) or Minor (1). . 0.26 0.44 . –0.37 0.35 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Consistency of macrometer Meter refers to salient repetitive patterns of accent within a stream of pulses. A micrometer refers to the low-level pattern of accents; a macrometer refers to repetitive patterns of micrometer groups. This variable refers to the consistency of the macrometer, in an ordinal scale, from “No macrometer” (1) to “Totally clear macrometer” (6). A song with a highly variable macrometer will have a low value. –0.44 –0.49 . . –0.46 . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Number of common intervals Variability in interval sizes, measured by the number of different melodic interval sizes that constitute more than 9% of the song’s intervals. A song with a large number of different melodic interval sizes will have a high value. . 0.58 . . . 0.62 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Pitch range The musical distance between the extremes of pitch in a melody, measured in semitones. A song that includes very high and very low pitches will have a high value. . . . –0.49 . . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ continued on next page RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 10 of 17 Coefficient (pairwise comparison) ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Musical feature Definition Dance (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Dance (–) vs. Love (+) Healing (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Love (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Dance (–) vs. Healing (+) Healing (–) vs. Love (+) ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Stepwise motion Stepwise motion refers to melodic strings of consecutive notes (1 or 2 semitones apart), without skips or leaps. This variable consists of the fraction of all intervals in a song that are 1 or 2 semitones in size. A song with many melodic leaps will have a low value. . . . . 0.61 –0.20 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Tension/release The degree to which the passage is perceived to build and release tension via changes in melodic contour, harmonic progression, rhythm, motivic development, accent, or instrumentation. If so, the song is annotated with a value of 1. . 0.27 . . . 0.27 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Average melodic interval size The average of all interval sizes between successive melodic pitches, measured in semitones on a 12-tone equal temperament scale, rather than in absolute frequencies. A melody with many wide leaps between pitches will have a high value. . –0.46 . . . . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Average note duration The mean of all note durations; a song predominated by short notes will have a low value. . . . . . –0.49 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Triple micrometer A low-level pattern of accents that groups together pulses in threes. . . . . –0.23 . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Predominance of most common pitch class Variety versus monotony of the melody, measured by the ratio of the proportion of occurrences of the second most common pitch (collapsing across octaves) to the proportion of occurrences of the most common pitch; monotonous melodies will have low values. . . . . –0.48 . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Rhythmic variation Variety versus monotony of the rhythm, judged subjectively and dichotomously. Repetitive songs have a low value. . . . . 0.42 . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Tempo variation Changes in tempo: A song that is perceived to speed up or slow down is annotated with a value of 1. . . . . . –0.27 ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Ornamentation Complex melodic variation or “decoration” of a perceived underlying musical structure. A song perceived as having ornamentation is annotated with a value of 1. . 0.25 . . . . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ continued on next page RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ who reported that they were “somewhat fa- miliar with traditional music” relative to those who reported that they had never heard it, and a 1.3–percentage point advantage for partic- ipants who reported that they have “a lot of skill” relative to “no skill at all.” Moreover, when limiting the dataset to listeners with “no skill at all” or listeners who had “never heard traditional music,” mean accuracy was almost identical to the overall cohort. These findings suggest that although musical ex- perience enhances the ability to detect the behavioral contexts of songs from unfamiliar cultures, it is not necessary. Quantitative representations of musical forms accurately predict behavioral contexts of song If listeners can accurately identify the behavioral contexts of songs from unfamiliar cultures, there must be acoustic features that universally tend to be associated with these contexts. To identify them, we evaluated the relationship between a song’s musical forms [measured in four ways; see Text S1.2.5 and (12, 31, 32, 91–93) for discussion of how difficult it is to re- present music quantitatively] and its behav- ioral context. We used a cross-validation procedure that determined whether the pat- tern of correlation between musical forms and context computed from a subset of the Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 11 of 17 Fig. 6. Signatures of tonality in the NHS Discography. (A) Histograms representing 30 expert listeners' ratings of tonal centers in all 118 songs, each song corresponding to a different color, show two main findings: (i) Most songs’ distributions are unimodal, such that most listeners agreed on a single tonal center (represented by the value 0). (ii) When listeners disagree, they are multimodal, with the most popular second mode (in absolute distance) five semitones away from the overall mode, a perfect fourth. The music notation is provided as a hypothetical example only, with C as a reference tonal center; note that the ratings of tonal centers could be at any pitch level. (B) The scatterplot shows the correspondence between modal ratings of expert listeners with the first-rank predictions from the Krumhansl-Schmuckler key-finding algorithm. Points are jittered to avoid overlap. Note that pitch classes are circular (i.e., C is one semitone away from C# and from B) but the plot is not; distances on the axes of (B) should be interpreted accordingly. Coefficient (pairwise comparison) ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Musical feature Definition Dance (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Dance (–) vs. Love (+) Healing (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Love (–) vs. Lullaby (+) Dance (–) vs. Healing (+) Healing (–) vs. Love (+) ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Pitch class variation A pitch class is the group of pitches that sound equivalent at different octaves, such as all the Cs, not just middle C. This variable, another indicator of melodic variety, counts the number of pitch classes that appear at least once in the song. . . –0.25 . . . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Triple macrometer If a melody arranges micrometer groups into larger phrases of three, like a waltz, it is annotated with a value of 1. . . 0.14 . . . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Predominance of most common interval Variability among pitch intervals, measured as the fraction of all intervals that are the most common interval size. A song with little variability in interval sizes will have a high value. . . . . 0.12 . ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ regions could be generalized to predict a song’s context in the other regions (as opposed to being overfitted to arbitrary correlations within that subsample). Specifically, we trained a least absolute shrinkage and selection oper- ator (LASSO) multinomial logistic classifier (94) on the behavioral context of all the songs in 29 of the 30 regions in the NHS Discogra- phy, and used it to predict the context of the unseen songs in the 30th. We ran this proce- dure 30 times, omitting a different region each time (table S23 and Text S2.3.2). We com- pared the accuracy of these predictions to two baselines: pure chance (25%) and the accuracy of listeners in the massive online experiment (see above) when guessing the behavioral context from among four alter- natives (42.4%). We found that with each of the four rep- resentations, the musical forms of a song can predict its behavioral context (Fig. 5B) at high rates, comparable to those of the human lis- teners in the online experiment. This finding was not attributable to information in the rec- ordings other than the singing, which could be problematic if, for example, the presence of a musical instrument on a recording indicated that it was likelier to be a dance song than a lullaby (54), artificially improving classifica- tion. Representations with the least extraneous influence—the expert annotators and the sum- mary features extracted from transcriptions— had no lower classification accuracy than the other representations. And a classifier run on combined expert + transcription data had the best performance of all, 50.8% [95% CI (40.4%, 61.3%), computed by corrected re- sampled t test (95)]. To ensure that this accuracy did not merely consist of patterns in one society predicting patterns in historically or geographically rel- ated ones, we repeated the analyses, cross- validating across groupings of societies, in- cluding superordinate world region (e.g., “Asia”), subsistence type (e.g., “hunter-gatherers”), and Old versus New World. In many cases, the classifier performed comparably to the main model (table S24), although low power in some cases (i.e., training on less than half the corpus) substantially reduced precision. In sum, the acoustic form of vocal music predicts its behavioral contexts worldwide (54), at least in the contexts of dance, lullaby, healing, and love: All classifiers performed above chance and within 1.96 standard errors of the performance of human listeners. Musical features that characterize the behavioral contexts of songs across societies Showing that the musical features of songs predict their behavioral context provides no information about which musical features those are. To help identify them, we determined how well the combined expert + transcription data distinguished between specific pairs of behavioral contexts rather than among all four, using a simplified form of the classifiers described above, which not only distinguished the contexts but also identified the most reli- able predictors of each contrast, without over- fitting (96). This can reveal whether tempo, for example, helps distinguish dance songs from lullabies while failing to distinguish lullabies from love songs. Performance once again significantly ex- ceeded chance (in this case, 50%) for all six comparisons (Ps < 0.05; Fig. 5C). Table 2 lays out the musical features that drive these suc- cessful predictions and thereby characterize the four song types across cultures. Some are consistent with common sense; for instance, dance songs differ from lullabies in tempo, accent, and the consistency of their macro- meter (i.e., the superordinate grouping of rhythmic notes). Other distinguishers are Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 12 of 17 Fig. 7. Dimensions of musical variation in the NHS Discography. (A) A Bayesian principal components analysis reduction of expert annotations and transcription features (the representations least contaminated by contextual features) shows that these measurements fall along two dimensions that may be interpreted as rhythmic complexity and melodic complexity. (B and C) Histograms for each dimension show the differences— or lack thereof—between behavioral contexts. (D to G) Excerpts of tran- scriptions from songs at extremes from each of the four quadrants, to validate the dimension reduction visually. The two songs at the high–rhythmic complexity quadrants are dance songs (in blue); the two songs at the low– rhythmic complexity quadrants are lullabies (in green). Healing songs are depicted in red and love songs in yellow. Readers can listen to excerpts from all songs in the corpus at http://osf.io/jmv3q; an interactive version of this plot is available at http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots. RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://osf.io/jmv3q http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://science.sciencemag.org/ subtler: The most common interval of a song occurs a smaller proportion of the time in a dance song than in a healing song, which suggests that dance songs are more melod- ically variable than healing songs (for explan- ations of musical terminology, see Table 2). Similarly, it is unsurprising that lullabies and love songs are more difficult to distinguish than lullabies and dance songs (97); nonetheless, they may be distinguished by two features: the strength of metrical accents and the size of the pitch range (both larger in love songs). In sum, four common song categories, dis- tinguished by their contexts and goals, tend to have distinctive musical qualities worldwide. These results suggest that universal features of human psychology bias people to produce and enjoy songs with certain kinds of rhythmic or melodic patterning that naturally go with cer- tain moods, desires, and themes. These patterns do not consist of concrete acoustic features, such as a specific melody or rhythm, but rather of relational properties such as accent, meter, and interval structure. Of course, classification accuracy that is twice the level of chance still falls well short of perfect prediction; hence, many aspects of music cannot be manifestations of universal psychological reactions. Although musical fea- tures can predict differences between songs from these four behavioral contexts, a given song may be sung in a particular context for other reasons, including its lyrics, its history, the style and instrumentation of its perform- ance, its association with mythical or religious themes, and constraints of the culture’s musi- cal idiom. And although we have shown that Western listeners, who have been exposed to a vast range of musical styles and idioms, can distinguish the behavioral contexts of songs from non-Western societies, we do not know whether non-Western listeners can do the same. To reinforce the hypothesis of universal associations between musical form and con- text, similar methods should be tested with non-Western listeners. Explorations of the structure of musical forms The NHS Discography can be used to explore world music in many other ways. We present three exploratory analyses here, mindful of the limitation that they may apply only to the four genres the corpus includes. Signatures of tonality appear in all societies studied A basic feature of many styles of music is tonality, in which a melody is composed of a fixed set of discrete tones [perceived pitches as opposed to actual pitches, a distinction dating to Aristoxenus’s Elementa Harmonica (98)], and some tones are psychologically de- pendent on others, with one tone felt to be central or stable (99–101). This tone (more accurately, perceived pitch class, embracing all the tones one or more octaves apart) is called the tonal center or tonic, and listeners characterize it as a reference point, point of stability, basis tone, “home,” or tone that the melody “is built around” and where it “should end.” For example, the tonal center of “Row Your Boat” is found in each of the “row”s, the last “merrily,” and the song’s last note, “dream.” Although tonality has been studied in a few non-Western societies (102, 103), its cross- cultural distribution is unknown. Indeed, the ethnomusicologists who responded to our survey (Text S1.4.1) were split over whether the music of all societies should be expected to have a tonal center: 48% responded “prob- ably not universal” or “definitely not univer- sal.” The issue is important because a tonal system is a likely prerequisite for analyzing music, in all its diversity, as the product of an abstract musical grammar (73). Tonality also motivates the hypothesis that melody is rooted in the brain’s analysis of harmonically complex tones (104). In this theory, a melody can be considered a set of “serialized over- tones,” the harmonically related frequencies ordinarily superimposed in the rich tone pro- duced by an elongated resonator such as the human vocal tract. In tonal melodies, the tonic corresponds to the fundamental frequency of the disassembled complex tone, and listeners tend to favor tones in the same pitch class as harmonics of the fundamental (105). To explore tonality in the NHS Discography, we analyzed the expert listener annotations and the transcriptions (Text S2.4.1). Each of the 30 expert listeners was asked, for each song, whether or not they heard at least one tonal center, defined subjectively as above. The results were unambiguous: 97.8% of ratings were in the affirmative. More than two-thirds of songs were rated as “tonal” by all 30 expert listeners, and 113 of the 118 were rated as tonal by more than 90% of them. The song with the most ambiguous tonality (the Kwakwaka’wakw healing song) still had a majority of raters re- spond in the affirmative (60%). If listeners heard a tonal center, they were asked to name its pitch class. Here too, lis- teners were highly consistent: Either there Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 13 of 17 Fig. 8. The distributions of melodic and rhythmic patterns in the NHS Discography follow power laws. (A and B) We computed relative melodic (A) and rhythmic (B) bigrams and examined their distributions in the corpus. Both distributions followed a power law; the parameter estimates in the inset correspond to those from the generalized Zipf-Mandelbrot law, where s refers to the exponent of the power law and b refers to the Mandelbrot offset. Note that in both plots, the axes are on logarithmic scales. The full lists of bigrams are in tables S28 and S29. RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/ was widespread agreement on a single tonal center or the responses fell into two or three tonal centers (Fig. 6A; the distributions of tonality ratings for all 118 songs are in fig. S10). We used Hartigan’s dip test (106) to measure the multimodality of the ratings. In the 73 songs that the test classified as unimodal, 85.3% of ratings were in agreement with the modal pitch class. In the remaining 45 songs, 81.7% of ratings were in agreement with the two most popular pitch classes, and 90.4% were in agreement with the three most popular. The expert listeners included six Ph.D. ethnomusi- cologists and six Ph.D. music theorists; when restricting the ratings to this group alone, the levels of consistency were comparable. In songs where the ratings were multi- modally distributed, the modal tones were often hierarchically related; for instance, ratings for the Ojibwa healing song were evenly split between B (pitch class 11) and E (pitch class 4), which are a perfect fourth (five semitones) apart. The most common intervals between the two modal tones were the perfect fourth (in 15 songs), a half-step (one semitone, in nine songs), a whole step (two semitones, in eight songs), a major third (four semitones, in seven songs), and a minor third (three semitones, in six songs). We cannot know which features of a given recording our listeners were responding to in attributing a tonal center to it, nor whether their attributions depended on expertise that ordinary listeners lack. We thus sought con- verging, objective evidence for the prevalence of tonality in the world’s music by submit- ting NHS Discography transcriptions to the Krumhansl-Schmuckler key-finding algorithm (107). This algorithm sums the durations of the tones in a piece of music and correlates this vector with each of a family of candidate vectors, one for each key, consisting of the relative centralities of those pitch classes in that key. The algorithm’s first guess (i.e., the key corresponding to the most highly cor- related vector) matched the expert listeners’ ratings of the tonal center 85.6% of the time (measured via a weighted average of its hit rate for the most common expert rating when the ratings were unimodal and either of the two most common ratings when they were multimodal). When we relaxed the criterion for a match to the algorithm’s first- and second- ranked guesses, it matched the listeners’ ratings on 94.1% of songs; adding its third-ranked estimate resulted in matches 97.5% of the time, and adding the fourth resulted in matches with 98.3% [all Ps < 0.0001 above the chance level of 9.1%, using a permutation test (Text S2.4.1)]. These results provide convergent evidence for the presence of tonality in the NHS Discogra- phy songs (Fig. 6B). These conclusions are limited in several ways. First, they are based on songs from only four behavioral contexts, omitting others such as mourning, storytelling, play, war, and cel- ebration. Second, the transcriptions were cre- ated manually and could have been influenced by the musical ears and knowledge of the expert transcribers. (Current music informa- tion retrieval algorithms are not robust enough to transcribe melodies accurately, especially from noisy field recordings, but improved ones could address this issue.) The same limitation may apply to the ratings of our expert listeners. Finally, the findings do not show how the people from the societies in which NHS Discography songs were recorded hear the tonality in their own music. To test the universality of tonality perception, one would need to conduct field experiments in diverse populations. Music varies along two dimensions of complexity To examine patterns of variation among the songs in the NHS Discography, we applied the same kind of Bayesian principal components analysis used for the NHS Ethnography to the combination of expert annotations and tran- scription features (i.e., the representations that focus most on the singing, excluding context). The results yielded two dimensions, which to- gether explain 23.9% of the variability in mu- sical features. The first, which we call Melodic Complexity, accounts for 13.1% of the variance (including error noise); heavily loading varia- bles included the number of common intervals, pitch range, and ornamentation (all positively) and the predominance of the most common pitch class, the predominance of the most com- mon interval, and the distance between the most common intervals (all negatively; see table S25). The second, which we call Rhyth- mic Complexity, accounts for 10.8% of the variance; heavily loading variables included tempo, note density, syncopation, accent, and consistency of macrometer (all positively) and the average note duration and duration of me- lodic arcs (all negatively; see table S26). The inter- pretation of the dimensions is further supported in Fig. 7, which shows excerpts of transcriptions at the extremes of each dimension; an interactive version is at http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots. In contrast to the NHS Ethnography, the principal components space for the NHS Dis- cography does not distinguish the four be- havioral contexts of songs in the corpus. We found that only 39.8% of songs matched their nearest centroid (overall P = 0.063 from a permutation test; dance: 56.7%, P = 0.12; heal- ing: 7.14%, P > 0.99; love: 43.3%, P = 0.62; lul- laby: 50.0%, P = 0.37; a confusion matrix is in table S27). Similarly, k-means clustering on the principal components space, asserting k = 4 (because there are four known clusters), failed to reliably capture any of the behavioral con- texts. Finally, given the lack of predictive accu- racy of songs’ location in the two-dimensional space, we explored each dimension’s predictive accuracy individually, using t tests of each con- text against the other three, adjusted for multi- ple comparisons (88). Melodic complexity did not predict context (dance, P = 0.79; healing, P = 0.96; love, P = 0.13; lullaby, P = 0.35). How- ever, rhythmic complexity did distinguish dance songs (which were more rhythmically complex, P = 0.01) and lullabies (which were less rhyth- mically complex, P = 0.03) from other songs; it did not distinguish healing or love songs (Ps > 0.99). When we adjusted these analyses to ac- count for across-region variability, the results were comparable (Text S2.4.2). Thus, although musical content systematically varies in two ways across cultures, this variation is mostly unrelated to the behavioral contexts of the songs, perhaps because complexity captures distinc- tions that are salient to music analysts but not strongly evocative of particular moods or themes among the singers and listeners themselves. Melodic and rhythmic bigrams are distributed according to power laws Many phenomena in the social and biological sciences are characterized by Zipf’s law (108), in which the probability of an event is in- versely proportional to its rank in frequency, an example of a power-law distribution (in the Zipfian case, the exponent is 1). Power-law dis- tributions (as opposed to, say, the geometric distribution) have two key properties: A small number of highly frequent events account for the majority of observations, and there are a large number of individually improbable events whose probability falls off slowly in a thick tail (109). In language, for example, a few words ap- pear with very high frequency, such as pro- nouns, while a great many are rare, such as the names of species of trees, but any sample will nonetheless tend to contain several rare words (110). A similar pattern is found in the distri- bution of colors among paintings in a given period of art history (111). In music, Zipf’s law has been observed in the melodic intervals of Bach, Chopin, Debussy, Mendelssohn, Mozart, and Schoenberg (112–116); in the loudness and pitch fluctuations in Scott Joplin piano rags (117); in the harmonies (118–120) and rhythms of classical music (121); and, as Zipf himself noted, in melodies composed by Mozart, Chopin, Irving Berlin, and Jerome Kern (108). We tested whether the presence of power- law distributions is a property of music world- wide by tallying relative melodic bigrams (the number of semitones separating each pair of successive notes) and relative rhythmic bigrams (the ratio of the durations of each pair of suc- cessive notes) for all NHS Discography tran- scriptions (Text S2.4.3). The bigrams overlapped, with the second note of one bigram also serving as the first note of the next. We found that both the melodic and rhyth- mic bigram distributions followed power laws Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 14 of 17 RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://themusiclab.org/nhsplots http://science.sciencemag.org/ (Fig. 8), and this finding held worldwide: The fit between the observed bigrams and the best- fitting power function was high within each region (melodic bigrams: median R2 = 0.97, range 0.92 to 0.99; rhythmic bigrams: median R2 = 0.98, range 0.88 to 0.99). The most pre- valent bigrams were the simplest. Among the melodic bigrams (Fig. 8A), three small inter- vals (unison, major second, and minor third) accounted for 73% of the bigrams; the tritone (six semitones) was the rarest, accounting for only 0.2%. The prevalence of these bigrams is significant: Using only unisons, major seconds, and minor thirds, one can construct any mel- ody in a pentatonic scale, a scale found in many cultures (122). Among the rhythmic bigrams (Fig. 8B), three patterns with simple integer ratios (1:1, 2:1, and 3:1) accounted for 86% of observed bigrams, whereas a large and eclectic group of ratios (e.g., 7:3, 11:2) accounted for fewer than 1%. The distribution is thus con- sistent with earlier findings that rhythmic patterns with simple integer ratios appear to be universal (123). The full lists of bigrams, with their cumulative frequencies, are in tables S28 and S29. These results suggest that power-law dis- tributions in music are a human universal (at least in the four genres studied here), with songs dominated by small melodic intervals and simple rhythmic ratios and enriched with many rare but larger and more complex ones. Because the specification of a power law is sensitive to sampling error in the tail of the distribution (124), and because many gener- ative processes can give rise to a power-law distribution (125), we cannot identify a single explanation. Among the possibilities are that control of the vocal tract is biased toward small jumps in pitch that minimize effort, that auditory analysis is biased toward tracking sim- ilar sounds that are likely to be emitted by a single sound-maker, that composers tend to add notes to a melody that are similar to ones already contained in it, and that human aes- thetic reactions are engaged by stimuli that are power law–distributed, which makes them neither too monotonous nor too chaotic (116, 126, 127)—“inevitable and yet surprising,” as the music of Bach has been described (128). A new science of music The challenge in understanding music has always been to reconcile its universality with its diversity. Even Longfellow, who declared music to be humanity’s universal language, celebrated the many forms it could take: “The peasant of the North … sings the traditionary ballad to his children … the muleteer of Spain carols with the early lark … The vintager of Sicily has his evening hymn; the fisherman of Naples his boat-song; the gondolier of Venice his midnight serenade” (1). Conversely, even an ethnomusicologist skeptical of universals in music conceded that “most people make it” (36). Music is universal but clearly takes on different forms in different cultures. To go beyond these unexceptionable observations and understand exactly what is universal about music, while circumventing the biases inherent in opportunistic observations, we assembled databases that combine the empirical rich- ness of the ethnographic and musicological record with the tools of computational social science. The findings allow the following conclu- sions: Music exists in every society, varies more within than between societies, and has acoustic features that are systematically (albeit probabilistically) related to the behaviors of singers and listeners. At the same time, music is not a fixed biological response with a single, prototypical adaptive function such as mating, group bonding, or infant care: It varies sub- stantially in melodic and rhythmic complex- ity and is produced worldwide in at least 14 behavioral contexts that vary in formality, arousal, and religiosity. But music does ap- pear to be tied to identifiable perceptual, cognitive, and affective faculties, including language (all societies put words to their songs), motor control (people in all societies dance), auditory analysis (all musical systems have some signatures of tonality), and aesthet- ics (their melodies and rhythms are balanced between monotony and chaos). Methods summary To build the NHS Ethnography, we extracted descriptions of singing from the Probability Sample File by searching the database for text that was tagged with the topic MUSIC and that included at least one of 10 keywords that singled out vocal music (e.g., “singers,” “song,” “lullaby”) (Text S1.1). This search yielded 4709 descriptions of singing (490,615 words) drawn from 493 documents (median 49 descriptions per society). We manually annotated each description with 66 variables to comprehen- sively capture the behaviors reported by eth- nographers (e.g., age of the singer, duration of the song). We also attached metadata about each paragraph (e.g., document publication data; tagged nonmusical topics) using a match- ing algorithm that located the source para- graphs from which the description of the song was extracted. See Text S1.1 for full details on corpus construction, tables S1 to S6 for an- notation types, and table S12 for a list of socie- ties and locations. Song events from all the societies were ag- gregated into a single dataset, without indica- tors of the society they came from. The range of possible missing values was filled in using a Markov chain Monte Carlo procedure that as- sumes that their absence reflects conditionally random omission with probabilities related to the features that the ethnographer did record, such as the age and sex of the singer or the size of the audience (Text S2.1). For the dimension- ality reduction, we used an optimal singular value thresholding criterion (129) to determine the number of dimensions to analyze, which we then interpreted by three techniques: exam- ining annotations that load highly on each dimension; searching for examples at extreme locations in the space and examining their con- tent; and testing whether known song types formed distinct clusters in the latent space (e.g., dance songs versus healing songs; see Fig. 2). To build the NHS Discography, and to en- sure that the sample of recordings from each genre is representative of human societies, we located field recordings of dance songs, lullabies, healing songs, and love songs using a geo- graphic stratification approach similar to that of the NHS Ethnography—namely, by drawing one recording representing each behavioral context from each of 30 regions. We chose songs according to predetermined criteria (table S21), studying recordings’ liner notes and the supporting ethnographic text with- out listening to the recordings. When more than one suitable recording was available, we selected one at random. See Text S1.1 for details on corpus construction, tables S1 and S7 to S11 for annotation types, and table S22 for a list of societies and locations. 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Dinetan, K. Emery, D. Fratina, E. Galm, S. Gomez, Y.-H. Hung, C. Jones, S. Joseph, J. Kangatharan, A. Keomurjian, H. J. Kim, S. Lakin, M. Laroussini, T. Lee, H. Lee-Rubin, C. Leff, K. Lopez, K. Luk, E. Lustig, V. Malawey, C. McMann, M. Montagnese, P. Moro, N. Okwelogu, T. Ozawa, C. Palfy, J. Palmer, A. Paz, L. Poeppel, A. Ratajska, E. Regan, A. Reid, R. Sagar, P. Savage, G. Shank, S. Sharp, E. Sierra, D. Tamaroff, I. Tan, C. Tripoli, K. Tutrone, A. Wang, M. Weigel, J. Weiner, R. Weissman, A. Xiao, F. Xing, K. Yong, H. York, and J. Youngers. We also thank C. Ember and M. Fischer for providing additional data from the Human Relations Area Files, and for their assistance using those data; S. Adams, P. Laurence, P. O’Brien, A. Wilson, the staff at the Archive of World Music at Loeb Music Library (Harvard University), and M. Graf and the staff at the Archives of Traditional Music (Indiana University) for assistance with locating and digitizing audio recordings; B. Hillers for assistance with information concerning traditional Gaelic music; D. Niles, S. Wadley, and H. Wild for contributing recordings from their personal collections; S. Collins for producing the NHS Ethnography validity annotations; M. Walter for assistance with digital processing of transcriptions; J. Hulbert and R. Clarida for assistance with copyright issues and materials sharing; V. Kuchinov for developing the interactive visualizations; S. Deviche for contributing illustrations; and the Dana Foundation, whose program “Arts and Cognition” led in part to the development of this research. Last, we thank A. Rehding, G. Bryant, E. Hagen, H. Gardner, E. Spelke, M. Tenzer, G. King, J. Nemirow, J. Kagan, and A. Martin for their feedback, ideas, and intellectual support of this work. Funding: Supported by the Harvard Data Science Initiative (S.A.M.); the National Institutes of Health Director’s Early Independence Award DP5OD024566 (S.A.M.); the Harvard Graduate School of Education/Harvard University Presidential Scholarship (S.A.M.); the Harvard University Department of Psychology (S.A.M. and M.M.K.); a Harvard University Mind/Brain/ Behavior Interfaculty Initiative Graduate Student Award (S.A.M. and M.S.); the National Science Foundation Graduate Research Fellowship Program (M.S.); the Microsoft Research postdoctoral fellowship program (D.K.); the Washington University Faculty of Arts and Sciences Dean’s Office (C.L.); the Columbia University Center for Science and Society (N.J.); the Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council of Canada (T.J.O.); Fonds de Recherche du Québec Société et Culture (T.J.O.); and ANR Labex IAST (L.G.). Author contributions: S.A.M., M.S., and L.G. created and direct the Natural History of Song project; they oversaw all aspects of this work, including the design and development of the corpora. S.P., M.M.K., and T.J.O. contributed to the conceptual foundation. D.K. designed and implemented all analyses, with support from S.A.M. and C.L. S.A.M., D.K., and M.S. designed the static figures and S.A.M. and D.K. created them. C.L. and S.A.M. designed the interactive figures and supervised their development. S.A.M. recruited and managed all staff, who collected, annotated, processed, and corrected data and metadata. S.A.M., D.M.K., and D.P.-J. transcribed the NHS Discography into music notation. S.A., A.A.E., E.J.H., and R.M.H. provided key support by contributing to annotations, background research, and project management. S.A.M., J.K.H., M.V.J., J.S., and C.M.B. designed and implemented the online experiment at http://themusiclab.org. N.J. assisted with web scraping, music information retrieval, and initial analyses. S.A.M., M.S., and L.G. designed the overall structure of the manuscript; S.A.M., M.S., and S.P. led the writing; and all authors edited it collaboratively. Competing interests: The authors declare no competing interests. Data and materials availability: All Natural History of Song data and materials are publicly archived at http://osf.io/jmv3q, with the exception of the full audio recordings in the NHS Discography, which are available via the Harvard Dataverse at https://doi.org/10.7910/DVN/SESAO1. All analysis scripts are available at http://github.com/themusiclab/nhs. Human Relations Area Files data and the eHRAF World Cultures database are available via licensing agreement at http://ehrafworldcultures.yale.edu; the document- and paragraph-wise word histograms from the Probability Sample File were provided by the Human Relations Area Files under a Data Use Agreement. The Global Summary of the Year corpus is maintained by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, U.S. Department of Commerce, and is publicly available at www.ncei.noaa.gov/data/gsoy/. SUPPLEMENTARY MATERIALS science.sciencemag.org/content/366/6468/eaax0868/suppl/DC1 Supplementary Text Figs. S1 to S15 Tables S1 to S37 References (130–147) 1 March 2019; accepted 24 October 2019 10.1126/science.aax0868 Mehr et al., Science 366, eaax0868 (2019) 22 November 2019 17 of 17 RESEARCH | RESEARCH ARTICLE o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://dx.doi.org/10.1023/A:1024068626366 http://dx.doi.org/10.1023/A:1024068626366 http://dx.doi.org/10.1111/j.2517-6161.1996.tb02080.x http://dx.doi.org/10.1111/j.2517-6161.1996.tb02080.x http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/0163-6383(93)80017-3 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0929821042000317831 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0929821042000317831 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.conb.2008.09.005 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/18824100 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cognition.2005.11.005 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/16384553 http://dx.doi.org/10.1037/0096-3445.113.3.394 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/6237169 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/S0010-0277(00)00068-8 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/S0010-0277(00)00068-8 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10822042 http://dx.doi.org/10.1214/aos/1176346577 http://dx.doi.org/10.3758/s13423-014-0585-6 http://dx.doi.org/10.3758/s13423-014-0585-6 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/24664880 http://dx.doi.org/10.1073/pnas.87.3.938 http://dx.doi.org/10.1073/pnas.87.3.938 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11607061 http://dx.doi.org/10.1073/pnas.87.3.938 http://dx.doi.org/10.1073/pnas.87.3.938 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11607061 http://dx.doi.org/10.1177/102986490601000101 http://dx.doi.org/10.1177/102986490601000101 http://dx.doi.org/10.1142/S0218348X09004521 http://dx.doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0058710 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/23544047 http://dx.doi.org/10.1162/comj.2005.29.1.55 http://dx.doi.org/10.1162/comj.2005.29.1.55 http://dx.doi.org/10.1038/258317a0 http://dx.doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0217242 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/31170188 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.physa.2008.05.031 http://dx.doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1113828109 http://dx.doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1113828109 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/22355125 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cub.2016.12.031 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cub.2016.12.031 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/28065607 http://dx.doi.org/10.1137/070710111 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15427951.2004.10129088 http://dx.doi.org/10.1214/14-AOS1257 http://themusiclab.org http://osf.io/jmv3q https://doi.org/10.7910/DVN/SESAO1 http://github.com/themusiclab/nhs http://ehrafworldcultures.yale.edu http://www.ncei.noaa.gov/data/gsoy/ http://science.sciencemag.org/content/366/6468/eaax0868/suppl/DC1 http://science.sciencemag.org/ Universality and diversity in human song Constance M. Bainbridge, Steven Pinker, Timothy J. O'Donnell, Max M. Krasnow and Luke Glowacki Jacoby, Alena A. Egner, Erin J. Hopkins, Rhea M. Howard, Joshua K. Hartshorne, Mariela V. Jennings, Jan Simson, Samuel A. Mehr, Manvir Singh, Dean Knox, Daniel M. Ketter, Daniel Pickens-Jones, S. Atwood, Christopher Lucas, Nori DOI: 10.1126/science.aax0868 (6468), eaax0868.366Science , this issue p. eaax0868; see also p. 944Science variability across cultures. from average for any given dimension, and half of all societies differ from average on at least one dimension, indicating similar levels of within-society variation in musical behavior. At the same time, one-third of societies significantly differ and religiosity. There is more variation in musical behavior within societies than between societies, and societies show three dimensions characterize more than 25% of the performances studied: formality of the performance, arousal level, data and observed music in every society sampled (see the Perspective by Fitch and Popescu). For songs specifically, examined ethnographicet al.It is unclear whether there are universal patterns to music across cultures. Mehr Cross-cultural analysis of song ARTICLE TOOLS http://science.sciencemag.org/content/366/6468/eaax0868 MATERIALS SUPPLEMENTARY http://science.sciencemag.org/content/suppl/2019/11/20/366.6468.eaax0868.DC1 CONTENT RELATED file:/content http://science.sciencemag.org/content/sci/366/6468/944.full REFERENCES http://science.sciencemag.org/content/366/6468/eaax0868#BIBL This article cites 114 articles, 7 of which you can access for free PERMISSIONS http://www.sciencemag.org/help/reprints-and-permissions Terms of ServiceUse of this article is subject to the is a registered trademark of AAAS.ScienceScience, 1200 New York Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20005. The title (print ISSN 0036-8075; online ISSN 1095-9203) is published by the American Association for the Advancement ofScience Copyright © 2019, American Association for the Advancement of Science o n A p ril 5 , 2 0 2 1 h ttp ://scie n ce .scie n ce m a g .o rg / D o w n lo a d e d fro m http://science.sciencemag.org/content/366/6468/eaax0868 http://science.sciencemag.org/content/suppl/2019/11/20/366.6468.eaax0868.DC1 http://science.sciencemag.org/content/sci/366/6468/944.full http://science.sciencemag.org/content/366/6468/eaax0868#BIBL http://www.sciencemag.org/help/reprints-and-permissions http://www.sciencemag.org/about/terms-service http://science.sciencemag.org/ 
work_xejwwtrbhbhn5h2mdqde2socfm	----	Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks and the making of literary authority Vol.:(0123456789) American Journal of Cultural Sociology https://doi.org/10.1057/s41290-020-00107-w O R I G I N A L PA P E R Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks and the making of literary authority Günter Leypoldt1 © The Author(s) 2020 Abstract This essay uses Charles Taylor’s theory of evaluative frameworks to solve a problem that has challenged literary theory and historiography for some time: how do we square the tension between the private uses and the public authority of reading? Tay- lor’s notion of strong value brings out literature’s often-overlooked similarities with religious-moral or civil-sacred domains, while his concept of weak value helps us to understand more mundane moods of purpose-rational reading. Combining the con- cept of evaluative frameworks with a socio-institutional account of literary author- ity, this essay sketches an alternative history of reading, with a focus on the shifting authority of “spatial reading” (defined as attention to formal and intertextual depth). Looking at developments from the 1780s to the present, I will show how the dis- tinction between spatial and flat reading emerges in the eighteenth century, is trans- formed by the modernist institutionalization of high- and middlebrow notions of spatial form, and continues to provoke tensions between the civil sphere and the lit- erary-artistic field (as the recent scandal around Peter Handke’s Nobel Prize attests). Keywords Reading · Evaluative frameworks · Literary authority · Civil sphere · History of literary institutions Introduction As readers we participate in two value systems at the same time, one rooted in the everyday, the other in a sort of moral economy. In the everyday, readers are consum- ers, free to choose whatever suits their purpose, impatient with normative opinions about literary quality or schoolroom canonicity. In a moral economy, the pleasure of reading can feel like a higher pleasure when what we read has the authority of “seri- ous” or “great” art. “Authority” in this case rests on public “economies of prestige” * Günter Leypoldt Leypoldt@as.uni-heidelberg.de 1 Heidelberg Center for American Studies, American Literature, University of Heidelberg, Heidelberg, Germany http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1057/s41290-020-00107-w&domain=pdf G. Leypoldt (English 2005) that orient our sense of how a novel is placed in the more or less con- secrated regions of cultural space. Of course, it is possible to consume James Joyce’s Ulysses (a highly canonical museum object) for mindless pleasure, or to admire Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code (a blockbuster with no critical acclaim) as a serious thing of beauty. But such uses depend on personal sensibilities and biographies of reading (one needs to be a bit bookish to find Ulysses entertaining, and disconnected from authorized taste to admire Brown’s literary form). By contrast, our sense of how an artifact is placed in the culture—the feeling that Ulysses or the Nobel Prize look down at us as if from a higher position, while The Da Vinci Code or Fifty Shades of Grey look up from a supermarket of entertainment commodities—rests on public hierarchies that transcend our individual situation. This tension between the private uses and the public authority of reading is a chal- lenge for a literary scholarship that wants to frame literary value with a single logic. In  the next three sections, I respectively (i)  outline the problems of single-logic approaches in literary theory and criticism today (my aim is to propose an alternative model that draws from Charles Taylor’s phenomenology of evaluative frameworks); (ii)  argue that  Taylor’s distinction between strong and weak frameworks helps us to gain a more coherent picture of readerly judgment; and (iii) flesh out my argument with a socio-institutional account of literary authority, suggesting that strong-valued read- ing can recall the experience of moral or religious “higher goods” (Taylor) or a “civil sacred” (Alexander). In the remainder of this essay, I  put weak and strong evaluative frameworks in historical perspective, complicating the familiar rise-and-fall narratives of literary history. This alternative history of reading will focus on the shifting authority of “spatial reading” (for formal and intertextual depth), from the 1780s to the present. Single‑logic concepts of value: literary events vs. readerly uses The quest for single-logic concepts of value has divided literary criticism into two theoretical camps: one grounds authority in singular literary events (“the work in context”), the other in popular uses of texts. Event-centered literary criticism tends toward a normative outlook that locates literary value in a text-context structure, often with a scientistic sense that a literary artifact’s worth is distinct from its “social lives” (Appadurai 1986). The emphasis on structure is obvious in formalist debates about what can count as aesthetic bril- liance or stylistic innovation, but it also shapes the now more common “anti-formalist” enterprise of ideology critique that frames literary value in terms of political-moral progressiveness. While formalist accounts revolve around the “inner logic” of liter- ary-aesthetic compositions, ideology critique often treats texts as symptoms of social structure—aesthetic manifestations of a “political unconscious,” in Fredric Jameson’s (1981) influential terms.1 In both approaches, audiences and consecrating institutions play only secondary roles: A work like Ulysses seems to grow out of the “field” of 1 The emphasis on form – or textual structure – reaches from Kantian philosophies of art to the new criticism (“practical criticism” in England, “explication de texte” in France, “textimmanente Literaturkri- tik” in Germany) and the highly theoretical schools of Russian Formalism, structuralism, and Derridean “deconstruction,” all of which can be described as “textualist” (Rorty 1982, chap. 8). An emphasis on Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks culture and society, like a strange plant to be categorized and diagnosed by the observ- ing scholar-botanist. While formalists seek to describe the function of a textual whole, anti-formalist ideology-critics look for the artifact’s “cultural work,” treating the text as an expressive source that—if put on the couch and probed for its suppressed depths—reveals “the way a culture thinks about itself” (Tompkins 1985, p. xi). To the degree that a work’s value is linked to morally and politically prestigious issues (social justice, race relations, gender inequality, neoliberalism, animal rights, climate catastro- phe), the ethnography of reading seems less important, to be relegated to mere “aux- iliary sciences” (Hilfswissenschaften) such as reception history or literary sociology. The other side of the literary-theory landscape focuses on literature as a popu- lar practice and hopes to ground literary excellence in the demos rather than in the textual or ideological structure. The emphasis on popular practice produced a widespread “rise of modern literature” narrative that portrays literary history since 1700 as a process of increasing commodification and democratic liberation. After the sharp eighteenth-century increase in leisure reading, the story goes, “the centre of gravity of the reading public” shifted away from the learned elites, toward less educated readers, who preferred “an easier form of literary entertainment” (Watt [1957] 2000, p. 48). The idea of a global swerve toward popular audiences produced well-known visions of doom (“culture industry”), but also notions of a “fortunate fall” that frame the marketplace as a healthy corrective to self-indulgent elitism. The latter view first emerged in the 1830s and 1840s, when a growing class of free- lance journalist-novelists (like Charles Dickens or W.M. Thackeray) mapped entre- preneurial concepts of literary authorship to a Whig history of political liberation.2 With reference to only a handful of exceptional authors who managed to combine critical success with significant sales (Scott, Dickens, or Zola), the literary market- place was rebranded as a democratic institution that emancipated readers from a cor- rupt aristocracy and an interfering church and state.3 2 On Whig history, see Collini (2019, chap. 1). 3 Whereas the standard eighteenth-century phrase “author by profession” had been more or less a slur (referring to Grub Street hackery or pamphleteer journalism [Griffin 2014, pp. 143–4]), the nineteenth- century liberation narrative made commercial success a sign of real authority, distinguishing serious pro- fessionals from posturing gentleman-amateurs, and legitimating popular taste against elitist gatekeeping. As Émile Zola claimed in 1880, the expanding marketplace took the authority to “judge and award suc- cess” away from the “little coteries” of salons and academies and returned it to “the great mass of read- ers” ([1879] 1893, pp. 191, 193). Victorian Whig historians refer to Dr. Johnson’s 1755 letter to Chester- ton as an iconic moment for authorial emancipation. Thomas B. Macaulay’s 1830 review of John Wilson Croker’s edition of James Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson for the Edinburgh Review is a good example of this. structure also shapes some schools of recent narratology and text-analytical data-mining. By contrast, Jameson’s emphasis on literature’s “political unconscious” recalls an intellectual history of Hegelian, Marxist, and Freudian “critique” that shifts the focus of interpretation from the structure of the text to the structure of determining contexts of which the text is thought to be an aesthetic manifestation. Best and Marcus (2009, pp. 3–6) speak of “symptomatic” criticism. See Felski (2015) on the routinization and Aubry (2018) on the displaced formalism in symptomatic criticism. For an account of “critical sociol- ogy” as reducing the arts to determining causes, see Hennion (2015). Footnote 1 (continued) G. Leypoldt The Whig narrative ignores the increasing relevance of market-sheltered insti- tutions (as I will argue in greater detail in the section on  “Strong value as public feeling”). Here I want to stress that the discourse of reader emancipation resonated well with twentieth-century cultural studies movements, encouraging programmatic appraisals of popular culture that reject literary canons as pseudo-sacred ersatz religions. Janice Radway, for example, positioned her reappraisal of “middlebrow” readers against an academic obsession with “a few sacralized books as objects to be revered or fetishized” (1997, p. 360). In an autobiographical reminiscence about her graduate school experience, Radway framed her own professional coming of age as an ordeal of cultural self-colonialization: an ivory-towered elite compelled her “to keep my voracious taste for bestsellers, mysteries, cookbooks and popular nature books a secret” from “everyone, including the more cultured and educated self I was trying to become” (2). Radway’s anecdote shows how well the democratic concept of literary authority, which compares readers to voters in representative democra- cies, aligns with “expressive identity” models that regard literary works as speech acts by which cultural identities represent themselves. Identitarian expressivism allows us to redescribe hierarchical scales of value (X is better than Y) in terms of difference in equality (X and Y are both great, on their own terms). Accordingly, Radway suggests that the choice between difficult modernist novels and light mid- dlebrow genre fiction represents different but equally dignified “reading cultures” rather than higher and lower levels of excellence. If we view texts as expressions of cultural identities, to be sure, canon-build- ing becomes as absurd as the ranking of cultures in nineteenth-century armchair anthropology (“Few would dispute,” Edward Tylor said in Primitive Culture, “that the following races are arranged rightly in order of culture:—Australian, Tahitian, Aztec, Chinese, Italian” [(1871) 1903, vol. 1, p. 27]). In the spirit of the Herde- rian relativism in early-twentieth-century cultural anthropology (Kuper 1999, p. 66) and cultural pluralism (Sollors 1986, p. 97), the literary canon debates of the 1970s and 1980s on American campuses drew from an ethic of “high-cultural pluralism” (McGurl 2009) that legitimizes ethno-racial writers as representatives of subnational identities. In this context, critics justified the “canon wars” of the 1970s and 1980s as a “politics of recognition” on behalf of excluded identities. The identitarian ethic of equal dignity cultivates a hostility to non-representative consecrating institutions that gels well with the delivery-of-satisfaction model of reading. If readers view themselves as shoppers free to suit their personal needs, why should their consump- tion habits be micromanaged by the normative claims of experts in elitist gatekeep- ing institutions? Beyond a single logic: Taylor’s theory of strong and weak frameworks Both the equal-recognition and the consumer-satisfaction model of reading underestimate the degree to which literary experience can have an investment in a “higher good,” similar to the experience of religion and morality. In Charles Taylor’s broad definition of moral experience (one that cuts across moral-aes- thetic and religious-secular divides), people orient themselves toward notions of Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks higher good with the help of identity-defining “frameworks” of “strong evalu- ation” (1989, pp. 19–20). Strong frameworks “involve discriminations of right or wrong, better or worse, higher or lower” whose validity does not follow from “our own desires, inclinations, or choices, but rather stand independent of these and offer standards by which these can be judged” (p. 4). Thus: “To think, feel, judge within a framework is to function with the sense that some action, or mode of life, or mode of feeling is incomparably higher than the others which are more readily available to us” (p. 19). Taylor uses the spatial qualifier in generic terms that can be expressed with a range of different distinctions. “One form of life may be seen as fuller, another way of feeling and acting as purer, a mode of feeling or living as deeper, a style of life more admirable, a given demand as making an absolute claim against merely relative ones, and so on” (p. 20). Historically, distinguishing absolute from relative claims can be traced to the Axial Age, the period around the middle of the first millennium BC in which the rise of scholarly clerical elites coincided with a new opposition between the transcendent and the mundane (Eisenstadt 1982; Bellah and Joas 2012). “Transcendent” in this con- text can have a traditional religious sense—“a going beyond the human world and the cosmos”—but it can also apply to secular investments in a “standpoint from which the existing order in the cosmos or the society can be criticized or denounced” (Taylor 2011, p. 367). In theory, we habitually stress the decon- structability and hence normative irrelevance of absolute standpoints. In lived practice, however, standpoints are performative, that is, their relevance hinges on the affective intensity with which we feel “placed” in relation to a perceived “higher good.” Taylor’s point is that in the performative sense all cultures have strong-valued frameworks, even though these can be hard to recognize, as they are often located at the “background” (1989, p. 21) of our actions, as tacit knowl- edge or a practical sense rather than a fully articulated account. While modern social imaginaries always pose a plurality of frameworks—we can be “moved” by many higher goods, and torn between incommensurable ones—they tend to come to us “ranked” (p. 62) in an order of importance. At the top of our hierar- chical order of strong-value frameworks lies the sphere of “hypergoods,” that is, “higher-order goods” that not only strike us as “incomparably more important” than other goods of strong value but also as providing “the standpoint from which these must be weighed, judged, decided about” (p. 63). Not every evaluative activity, to be sure, is of identity-defining intensity. There is a large domain of practice—the domain of “weak valuation” (Taylor 1985, p. 16)—in which the ranking of frameworks seems less urgent. People can be pas- sionate about their favorite ice-cream flavor, but they would hardly start a cul- ture war about such issues. Weak valuation makes hierarchical scales feel less imperative, allowing us to be more tolerant of disagreement [“I like strawberry and you vanilla,” no use arguing about taste (Taylor 2011, p. 297)]. The more we move toward hypergood-related issues—fair trade, abortion, Brexit, human rights violations, or the like—the harder it becomes to adopt a relativist tolerance of dissent. Strong values are “sacralized” (Joas 2013) in the sense that we experi- ence them with an intensity that immunizes us against the skeptical questions of rational or scientific argument. In the flow of experience, of course, weak and G. Leypoldt strong values tend to be bundled together, as when your favorite food, say, seems all the more enjoyable if it also embodies the moral authority of “fair trade.” The analytical distinction remains significant, however. Whereas weak frameworks concern our everyday desires, strong ones are linked to the hierarchical imagi- naries with which we classify our desires into higher or lower kinds—“more and less fulfilling, more and less refined, profound and superficial, noble and base” (Taylor 1985, p. 16; Joas 2000, pp. 129–31). Whereas weak values emerge in the situated rationalities of our personal lifeworld, strong ones seem to transcend our subjective aims. We experience them as appealing to us from the outside of our habitual selves and purposive routines [as in Max Weber’s “Außeralltäglichkeit,” something “outside (Außen)” “everdayness (Alltäglichkeit)” (1972, p. 140)]. Taylor’s account complicates the single-logic concepts of value that dominate lit- erary scholarship. Literary experience, too, involves these two essentially different intensities of judgment. The most obvious case of weak valuation is light literary entertainment. Reading for no better reason than pleasurable distraction can turn any literary text into something like a pleasant meal or a warm bath, to be consumed, enjoyed and afterwards perhaps forgotten. As weak evaluators, we subordinate our reading to everyday needs and thus (in Richard Rorty’s apt phrase) “beat the text into a shape which will serve [our] own purpose” (1982, p. 151). If we have a “poli- tics” or “ethics” of reading at all, it mostly concerns the weighing of pragmatic out- comes (did we enjoy the experience, have we chosen well among conflicting goods, or has our consumption practice prevented other perhaps more desirable activities?). In the mode of strong valuation, by contrast, the reading experience implies identity- defining contact with an absolute standpoint against which the “excellence” of liter- ary options is to be judged. Strong-valued works have a way of looking down upon us as from a height. “You have to change your life,” Rilke hears a Greek sculpture give out to him in the Paris Louvre, suggesting he should make a greater effort to lift himself up to a more elevated region within the cultural landscape ([1908] 1995, p. 67). This sense of “being spoken to from above” (Sloterdijk 2013, pp. 22–23) can make us feel, in Paul Valéry’s phrase, “that we are in some profound sense trans- forming ourselves” to “become the person whose sensibility is capable” of hearing and comprehending the higher call ([1937] 2016, p. 965; see Rosa 2019, p. 284). Single-logic theories of literary value fail to grasp the potential simultaneity of these essentially different evaluative repertoires, as readers shift between weaker and stronger frameworks without necessarily subordinating one to the other. Formalist approaches treat weak-valued consumption as an embarrassment: “bad reading” for “paraliterary” ends, in Merve Emre’s (2017) paraphrase. Cultural studies sensibili- ties, by contrast, tend to drop the idea of bad reading altogether because the repre- sentative democracy and delivery-of-satisfaction frames bristle in the face of prac- tice-transcendent notions of higher good. Both approaches collapse the distinction between weak and strong frameworks. Ideology critics claim that since “everything is political,” the most innocent pleasures will reveal strong-valued investments (“you think you like vampire fiction for its entertainment value, but let me tell you why you really find such stories appealing”). Cultural studies defenses of popular taste often explain away weak valuation by universalizing strong-valued uses of leisure (such as individual self-realization, subcultural emancipation, or the transfiguration Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks of the ordinary, etc.). And many linguistic-turn-inspired post-1960s literary-theory programs propose the relativity of all literary-artistic value in a way that universal- izes weak-valued reading.4 Taylor’s theory of literary value, by contrast, requires us to be more attentive to the phenomenological range of readerly uses. It is possible to binge-read texts with the same purpose-rational forgetfulness with which we consume a slice of toast. In this mood, we can perfectly ignore “deeper” textual ideologies or the pull of authorized canonicity, and leave any engagements with “higher goods” to profes- sional “virtuosi” or aspirational schoolroom readers. But it is also possible—in a different mood—to become susceptible to the “calling” of strong value, just as we can suddenly feel the moral attraction of farmers markets while shopping for food. Whether or not we are susceptible to the pull of hypergoods seems to be a question of “attunement” (Highmore 2017; Felski 2020). If we approach the system of liter- ary prizes as weak evaluators (consumers seeking to satisfy personal needs), we are likely to treat literary awards like popular “rankings” or “rating systems” (see Spo- erhase 2018)—Lucien Karpik speaks of “trust devices [dispositifs de confiance]” or “judgment devices [dispositifs de jugement]” (2010, p. 44) that help us to reduce the opacity of the marketplace (Leypoldt 2017, pp 57–58). In the mode of weak valua- tion, the most prestigious literary prize can have a similarly mundane function as the now ubiquitous “people-who-bought-this-also-looked-at-that” algorithms: Whether we prefer to consult the Booker, the Nebula, or the Nobel then hinges on our cal- culative trust in concrete outcomes. This everyday use fuels economistic views of the prize system as complicit with commercial book markets (see Brouillette 2015). But once we attune ourselves to identity-defining hypergoods, prizes begin to resem- ble peer review systems that transcend everyday rationalities by inspiring relational (rather than calculative) trust in higher goods. For strong evaluators, the prize sys- tem no longer merely designates desirable content but also points toward higher and lower regions within a more hierarchical cultural landscape. In this case, the system of prizes acquires a vertical tension: some prizes (the Nobel, the Booker, the Gon- court) strike us as closer to the higher moral life of the culture than others (e.g., the Nebula). Strong value as public feeling: consecration, canonization The “higher moral life of the culture” can sound odd in our pluralist age, and science fiction fans routinely insist that—for them—the Nebula Award is infinitely more valuable than the Nobel or any other consecrating affordances propped up by “the so-called authorities.” In theory, of course, every reader could attune themselves to strictly personal hypergoods. This would make the perception of a literary-artistic sacred as subjective as the perception of the religious sacred in the individualist religion Robert Bellah ([1985] 2007) described as “Sheilaism” (drawn from “Sheila Larson,” an interviewee who said she was religious but only according to a “faith” 4 See, for example, Herrnstein-Smith’s (1988) pragmatist relativism, and Guillory’s (1993) critique. G. Leypoldt based on “[j]ust my own little voice”). Bellah was troubled by Sheilaism because he thought it suggested “the logical possibility of over 220 million American religions, one for each of us” (p. 221). His worry rested on the fact that a religious framework based on the beliefs of a single person can no longer supply an identity-defining moral hypergood: The presence of 220 million religions in the US would downgrade their differences to the level of ice-cream flavors. But Larson’s seeker-spirituality (Wuthnow 1998) combines an individualist theology with widely shared non-the- istic strong values. Her sense of “something beyond” her mundane self (Ammer- man 2013, p. 269) draws its force from a “civil sacred” produced in the civil sphere (Alexander 2019, p. 108) rather than a clerical-religious field.5 The civil sacred revolves around democratic ideals of tolerance and solidarity (in Larson’s words, “I think [God] would want us to take care of each other” [Bellah et al. (1985) 2007, p. 221]), but this does not make it any less hierarchical. What counts as a higher good in civil sphere discourse, according to Alexander (2006, pp. 57–59), emerges with the help of strong frameworks that distinguish “civil” from “uncivil” lifeforms along the lines of higher or lower human decency, moral integrity, social justice, solidar- ity, and so on. Alexander’s account of the civil sacred shows, I think, that since strong frame- works emerge in response to public structures of feeling, the idea of an individu- alized hypergood is a contradiction in terms. Disagreements about what counts as human decency or social justice tend to affect the public square, and often evolve into “hot-button issues” that can drive culture wars (Hartman 2015). Functioning liberal democracies thus require a shared canon of strong-valued assumptions about what counts as civil behavior. I want to argue that literary-artistic canons invoke a similar public connection with higher goods to the canons of the civil sacred. While the consecrated objects of the civil sacred (the Lincoln Memorial, say, or Notre Dame Cathedral) and the literary-artistic canon (from Shakespeare’s Hamlet to prize-winning fiction) require different strong frameworks, they produce similar kinds of “vertical resonance” (Rosa 2019, p. 284).6 The family resemblances between civil-sacred and literary-artistic canons can be obscured by a reductionist “rise of modern literature” narrative that tells the story of literary professionalization in “low-professional” terms, as a historical shift from 6 Common objections draw from the longstanding division of intellectual spheres (as in Kant’s three “Critiques”) that ties “aesthetic autonomy” to the formal-artistic registers of genre (universalizing micro- level differences between symbolic and conceptual formal logics). Within the flow of readerly practice, I would argue, the question of a work’s genre (whether it leans toward conceptual argument, fictional nar- rative, or poetic symbolism and the like) becomes secondary to whether it suits our everyday purposes or brings us toward a higher good. It seems more helpful to define aesthetic autonomy in socio-institu- tional terms, as hinging not on formal logics but the performative authority of “peer-oriented” consecrat- ing institutions in defining which formal logics constitute a higher good (on institutional autonomy, see Sapiro 2016 and 2019b). 5 As Woodhead and Heelas point out, “in reality, people like Sheila are institutionalized in that they share much the same spiritual culture or ‘church’ (sustained by books, films, like-minded friends, and so on)” (2000, p. 354). Viewing Sheilaism as a sign of religious decline owes much to the “de-intensificia- tion theory” of secularization (Partridge 2006, p. 8), which has not aged well in the sociology of religion (see Taylor 2007, Connolly 2000, Berger 2014). Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks patronage-based amateurs to commercial “authors by trade,” in which weak-valued reading largely wins the day. More recently this has encouraged reports that serious reading is becoming a “residual” practice (Brouillette 2019a, p. 453)—“an object of cultural consumption for dwindling and aging publics” (Franssen and Kuipers 2015, p. 292; see Brouillette 2019b, p. 18). The trouble with such declension stories, how- ever, is the misconception that weak and strong values compete on the same turf. In fact, since the mid-1700s the literary field saw two shifts of gravity: The “reading revolution” that between 1750 and 1850 displaced difficult epic poetry with a binge- readable “easier form of literary entertainment” (Watt [1957] 2000, p. 48) did of course happen, but it mostly concerned weak-valued leisure habits, when “extensive reading” for entertainment or leisure replaced other traditional middleclass ways of killing time. A second shift, however, regarding strong frameworks, tipped the bal- ance in the opposite direction: the extending artistic-intellectual networks between 1800 and 1950 strengthened literature’s peer-oriented consecrating institutions. The challenge, for a cultural sociology of literary value, is to recognize the complex rela- tion between statistical numbers and public authority (Leypoldt 2016). With the rise of large-scale leisure reading, peer-oriented taste became a minority position that carried disproportionate weight in shaping the public sphere. While weak-valued leisure reading defined the rules of rapidly commercializing markets, peer-oriented consecration consolidated a region within cultural space I want to call (following Richard Helgerson [1983]) the “laureate position” in the literary- artistic system.7 The defining trait of laureate writers—from Spenser to contemporary prize-winners—is a “high-professional” ethos that distinguishes serious authors from both literary amateurs and commercial writers. The high-professional ethos evolved in the early-modern “liberal” or “learned professions” (the ministry, law, medicine), stip- ulating that private gain be subordinated to a sense of “higher calling,” obligation to a public good, and authorization by independent peer review. This means that financial transactions must correspond to people’s sense of a “good match” in Viviana Zelizer’s sense, a form of exchange that sustains the moral-cultural attachments between profes- sionals and the social whole, at the same time as it “gets the economic work of the relationship done” (2011, p. 153). According to the high-professional sense of a “good match,” professionals deserve a great deal of money for their services, but excessive attention to the market value of their skills turns physicians into quacks, lawyers into confidence men, soldiers into mercenaries, and writers into hacks. Thus the low-pro- fessional emphasis simply on how much money markets will “pay” for “professional writers” (Brouillette 2019a, p. 454) conflates weak- and strong-valued literary labor. Writers of high ambition have always found the relationship between literary authority 7 As Helgerson points out, in Anglophone literature the laurate position emerged with Edmund Spenser, the first author who publicly embodied the social identity of a poet as a serious career for intellectuals who wished to serve a higher good through literature rather than in the church, the state, or the military. Helgerson’s point is that when Spenser graduated from Cambridge in 1576, all poets were of gentle birth, with a humanist education that encouraged them to write verse in their youth, but in adulthood they were expected to move on to more virtuous civic action (like Sir Philip Sidney, who thought of himself as a career diplomat merely dabbling in poetry, and never published his now famous work during his life- time). G. Leypoldt and economic success rather tense, even in the nineteenth century, the period often identified with literature’s financial independence.8 This remains true for today’s liter- ary culture (Sapiro 2019a), when the most prestigious writers survive on a mixture of academic or cultural patronage and the secondary proceeds that follow critical suc- cess. It is not yet clear how the measurable decline of leisure reading in recent years (which leaves some literary pastimes with “aging publics”) will affect the shape and authority of laureate-oriented literary production. Understanding these socio-institutional complexities requires a historical per- spective. In what follows, I want to flesh out the shifting binaries of good and bad reading with a sketch of relevant historical developments, focalized through a phe- nomenology of weak- and strong-valued reading. With the eighteenth-century rise of leisure reading, I argue, bad reading came to be viewed as a neglect of “reflec- tive” or “spatial” form. First, I will provide a working definition of “spatial read- ing,” then discuss how it emerged in late-eighteenth-century debates about “read- ing addiction,” how it changed when the modernist avant-gardization of the literary field produced different kinds of elite readers, and changed again with the massive decrease of leisure reading after the 1950s. The final section (“Spatial reading in the civil sphere”) shows how different regimes of spatial reading have shaped the competing authority claims of civil and literary-artistic spheres, from the nineteenth century to Handke’s Nobel controversy. Spatial reading Professional literary critics can be ambivalent about literary entertainment because their reading pleasures revolve around habits of “scholarly reading” as both a source of delight and serious work. John Guillory suggests that scholarly reading is more “vigi- lant” than lay reading because it partakes in a shared activity oriented toward peer review-based notions of higher good. Whereas lay readers are allowed to binge their texts as superficially as they wish, and then forget everything, scholarly reading cannot “begin and end in the pleasure of consumption” but must give rise to “sustained reflec- tion” (2000, p. 31). Reflectiveness involves what I want to call (following Joseph Frank) spatial read- ing, a mode of attention that treats a text like a multidimensional structure, a space rather than a temporal narrative. Spatial reading, in my definition, requires rereading 8 With the exception of Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the most consecrated nineteenth-century novelists and poets in Anglophone literature were only able to “live by their pen” by filling long gaps between peer-recognized literary successes with more remunerative semi- literary work (“writing for lucre,” as Henry James called his periodical reviews, travel literature, political journalism, and translations). Surviving on the literary marketplace, in other words, meant for writers of high literary ambition splitting their portfolios so as to separate their laureate-oriented projects from the literary equivalent of “sawing wood” (as Herman Melville described writing White Jacket and Redburn with an eye to commercial success [(1849) 1993, p. 138]). Henry Murger’s Scenes de la vie de bohème (1851) speaks of the successful bohemian’s ability to live a “double life” that keeps their creative and money-making selves apart – one life for “the poet who always dreams,” another for “the man who works for a living and knows how to provide daily bread” ([1851] 1988, p. 36). Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks and intertextual connection. The practice of rereading is rooted in philological con- ceptions of the text as a structured whole that amounts to more than just the sum of its parts. Where leisure readers can treat a novel as a narrative sequence told in linear time (a story with a beginning, middle, and end), spatial readers want to slow down the reading pace to perceive the “architecture” of the whole, moving back and forth across the textual structure to grasp its formal simultaneities. Construct- ing simultaneities can be as simple as interpreting poems in terms of their stylistic arrangements (the “music” of its form) or connecting literal propositions to allegori- cal meanings (“the fox and scorpion are really about X”). It can also involve com- plex scholarly exegesis, the sort of interpretive “science” that decodes the fourfold meaning of Scripture in Biblical hermeneutics or the enigma of Kafka’s The Castle in twentieth-century literary criticism. The second element of spatial reading I want to emphasize is an attentiveness to intertextual connection generic to a historically minded philology. In contrast to the presentist immediacy that can shape the pleasures of immersive lay read- ing, philological hermeneutics holds that fully understanding the architecture of a text requires reconstructing its significant intertextual background, that is, the foil of preceding social and artistic conversations against which significant meanings and formal distinctiveness emerge. Spatial reading in this sense converts an appar- ently finite textual edifice (the published book in our hands) into a potentially infi- nite hypertext (the history of previous textual edifices). As book historians like to point out (Cavallo and Chartier 1999, p. 25), today’s computer-accessed hypertexts were anticipated by a culture of manuscript collation epitomized in the early-modern “book wheel,” a wooden contraption that could hold open a large number of vol- umes and spin them around to allow Renaissance humanist scholars to compare and cross-reference encyclopedic quantities of printed “sources.” In more recent liter- ary theory, this aspect of spatiality motivated normative theories of “intertextuality,” inspired by late-1960s’ structuralists (Julia Kristeva, Roland Barthes) who sought to shift the center of interpretation from authors or ideologies to a putative “universe of signs.” More important, however, is the invention of authorized intertextual “tradi- tions” that define a “state of the art” and to which each new literary event needs to relate itself (think of the once dominant invented tradition of “postmodernism” [e.g., Barth 1984, p. 202], which singled out a specific historical trajectory—the novel from Flaubert to Joyce, science from Newton to Einstein, philosophy from Hegel to Derrida—to claim that the realist novel had become impossible, unhistorical, false). In contrast to event-based approaches, which treat spatial form as an objective structure that good readers must be able to reconstruct, I view spatiality in performa- tive terms. The difference between spatial and flat reading, I argue, depends on a practical sense of relevant architectural and intertextual form. This practical sense varies not only with historical regimes of reading, but also with modes of readerly use (e.g., weak/strong, lay/professional, immersive/conceptualizing, identificatory/ distanced reading, etc.).9 9 In the last two decades, literary scholarship has debated a variety of different reading regimes— “paranoid” vs. “reparative reading” (Sedgwick 2003), “surface” vs. “symptomatic reading” (Best and Marcus, 2009), “suspicious” vs. “postcritical” reading (Latour 2004, Felski 2015), and “close” vs. G. Leypoldt Addictive reading: an eighteenth‑century debate The question of how one should read first emerged with the rapid mid-eighteenth- century rise of popular leisure reading. In the early 1700s, when literacy rates were still relatively low, the intellectual elites commended literary entertainment to the growing trade and manufacturing bourgeoisie, as a wholesome alternative to tradi- tional weak-valued pastimes (gambling, drinking, and other vices). Joseph Addison wrote in 1712 that, unlike the “more sensual Delights” (which make us “sink” into “Negligence and Remissness”), the “Pleasures of the Imagination” could “awaken” the mental “Faculties” from “Sloth and Idleness,” by “gentle Exercise” ([1712] 1988, p. 370). For Addison’s generation, spatial reading seemed almost too normal to deserve further theorization. The “Pleasures of the Imagination” were thought to come naturally with politeness and literacy.10 By the 1780s, however, when with rising literacy rates and the increase of middleclass leisure, reading for pleasure had become a more widespread practice, intellectuals noticed a new way of consuming literary texts that they interpreted as a large-scale “reading addiction” (Woodmansee 1994; Erlin 2007). The discourse of addictive reading in late-eighteenth-century Europe suggested that leisure readers (in conjunction with mercenary hacks) had fostered a corrupt literary culture that replaced spatial depth with titillating surfaces. William Words- worth claimed, in his Preface to Lyrical Ballads (1800), that modernity diminished people’s “discriminating powers” by seducing them with easily consumable sensa- tionalist content (“frantic novels, sickly and stupid German tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse”). Like other laureate-oriented poets, Words- worth thought sensationalist surfaces were addictive because they offered readers “gross and violent stimulants” that in turn caused a “degrading thirst after outra- geous stimulation” while deepening an “almost savage torpor” of mind ([1800] 2014, pp. 80–1). The German romantics at Weimar provided an anthropological account of the problem: Friedrich Schiller’s Letters on Aesthetic Education (1793) argued that “raw taste” drives primitive readers to consume indiscriminately “what is new and surprising, colorful, adventurous and bizarre, violent and savage” (1992, vol. 8, p. 671). Over at Jena, the idealist philosopher Johann Gottlieb Fichte com- plained in 1804 that an increasing number of readers were now misusing literature as a “narcotic” that puts them in a “pleasant condition betwixt sleeping and waking,” “lulls them into sweet self-forgetfulness,” and undermines their incentive for active “exertion.” Locked into passive consumption, Fichte said, people turned into “pure Footnote 9 (continued) “distant reading” (Moretti 2000)—furthering our awareness of the variability of reading practice. This debate, however, mainly focuses on how literary scholars ought to read, and concerns anxieties of aca- demic generational succession as well as more longstanding disagreements on the role of literary criti- cism with regard to political activism on the one hand and scholarly knowledge production on the other (see Williams 2015; Graff 2007). My analytical distinction between spatial and non-spatial reading, by contrast, intends to explore empirical shifts in the history of reading, and the way spatiality becomes rel- evant to authorized distinctions between good and bad readers. 10 When we take a good look at an artwork, Addison thought, its formal features “paint themselves on the Fancy, with very little Attention of Thought or Application of Mind,” and we cannot but be “struck by the Symmetry” and “the Beauty of an Object” (p. 369). Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks reader[s]” (“rein[e] Leser”): they read for the sake of immersion without connecting their reading experience to relevant intertextual knowledge or the collective project of “advancing” taste (1847, p. 89; [1804/05] 1806, p. 191). The concept of media addiction, which connects this eighteenth-century debate with more recent media critiques, can imply weaker or stronger evaluative frames. Since the modern notion of leisure (Borsay 2006) allows us to legitimize the “uses of idleness” in purpose-rational terms—“recreation,” the recharging of batteries after work—the addiction metaphor often expresses weak-valued worries about bod- ily and mental harm (too much trash will “blunt” our faculties) or unraveling daily routines (wasting another afternoon with cat videos, we neglect other duties). Seen in a strong frame, by contrast, leisure becomes “quality time” enabling us to find our “best selves,” while media addiction corrupts our contact to hypergood-related sources of the self. In this vein, medieval theology thought destructive idleness (the sin of acedia or sloth) undermined religious connection, and Frankfurt School theo- rems warned that the narcotic culture industry turns reasonable citizens into sleep- walkers willingly submitting to indoctrination and exploitation. The strong-valued object of concern behind the addiction metaphor is that passive media consumption (more recently, gaming and internet addiction) may “infect” or “corrupt” the strong- valued domains of our lives. In the literary field, the fear of “infection” first arose when eighteenth-century leisure reading reached a critical mass and forced intellectuals to rethink what they mean by the “pleasure of reading.” Romantic-period writers typically distinguished their work from bone-dry scholarship and defended the more freewheeling pleasures of artistic beauty against a scholastic emphasis on conceptual propositions.11 But the rise of literary entertainment forced laureate-oriented writers and readers to separate higher from lower pleasures of reading. Wordsworth, for example, contrasts the sen- sualist pleasures of popular fiction (“gross and violent stimulants”) from the more liberating, fulfilling, or elevating pleasures he thought his own poetry derived from “the beauty of the universe” and the “dignity of man” (2014, p. 87).12 Multiple spatialities: scholar‑connoisseurs vs. generalist middlebrows The eighteenth-century discourse of addiction produced a sharp distinction between spatial and flat reading. From the perspective of high-cultural intellectuals, one could either be a normal reader, accessing the text as a living whole by penetrating 11 Susan Sontag’s complaint about the “philistinism of interpretation” (1966, p. 7) – when aesthetically unmusical critics reduce modern art to hermeneutic content (What can Jackson Pollock mean?)—reflects a longstanding institutional separation between literary and scholarly legitimation that began with the mid-seventeenth-century Académie française (see Viala 1985). 12 The content of “higher pleasure” is always contested and continually revised in the generational suc- cession. Yet even writers who reject “the pleasures of beauty” tout court to celebrate, say, the more authentic pleasures of ordinary life, tend merely to switch terms. The Rousseauist claim that the smell of the earth is more extraordinary than the artificial beauty of manmade art leaves the hierarchy of higher and lower pleasure firmly in place. G. Leypoldt its architectural and intertextual depth; or a deficient reader who stays on the textual surface-level and sees not the living whole but its addictive sensual parts. This oppo- sition obscures the relational nature of spatial form, the fact that the line between surface and depth shifts according to personal regimes of aesthetic training, includ- ing a practice-dependent gestalt-psychological sense of what counts as “sensational- ist,” or when exactly a form becomes titillating as opposed to, say, elevating.13 But the binary of normal vs. deficient readers, which reflects laureate-oriented strong- valued experience, came to define the most authorized economy of prestige. When the mid-nineteenth-century industrialization of print ushered in the age of mass reading, further extending the sphere of literary entertainment, this also strength- ened (by indirect subsidy) a market-sheltered establishment of peer-oriented tas- temakers. These mapped the binary of normal and deficient reading to a rigid social divide between “highbrow” and “lowbrow” sensibilities (Levine 1990). The relationality of spatial reading became more visible when around 1900 the tastemaking elites themselves diversified into two formations, “highbrows” and “middlebrows.” This new division was internal to the literary elites. It reflected an increasing dissociation between specialized avant-gardists and cultivated generalists. Avant-gardist cultural production tends to be focused on tight literary networks that produce high levels of specialization and reflexivity, resulting in works that require unprecedented efforts of spatial reading. A tendency toward avant-gardism already shaped the laureate position of the romantic period, where financially independent “sages” wrote for small literary coteries (before the 1820s, Wordsworth’s work was recognized only by a small group of his peers while a broad literary establishment rejected him as too difficult and esoteric). But in the early 1900s the influence of avant-gardes within the reigning economy of prestige reached a critical mass, domi- nating the literary establishment and widening the gap between generalist and spe- cialist concepts of fine writing. By the 1920s, the horizon of laureate practice was refocused in terms of high-modernist artifacts (Joyce, Proust, Woolf, Faulkner) for which spatial form was a more radical principle of aesthetic composition. Joyce’s Ulysses (1918–20), for example, almost completely replaces the narrative sequencing and delivery of relevant information by a loose arrangement of scattered images and references that readers need to pull together into spatial totality. To say with Joseph Frank that “Joyce cannot be read—he can only be re-read” is to point out that his spatial aesthetics forces us “to read Ulysses in exactly the same man- ner” as we would treat modernist poetry, “continually fitting fragments together and 13 Many of our short-hand literary-historical categories—“sensationalist fiction,” the “sentimen- tal novel,” “melodrama,” “kitsch”—imply that the distinction between affective overkill and subtlety or between active use and passive consumption depends on text-context structures. In actual fact these terms tend to represent the laureate view, codified in twentieth-century scholarship that naturalizes the experience of scholar-connoisseurs. As Radway’s work has shown, it might not occur to readers of genre fiction romances that they are passive consumers of addictive “easy pleasures” at all (“the Smithton women made it absolutely clear that they understood themselves to be reading particular and individual authors, whose special marks of style they could recount in detail, rather than identical, factory-produced commodities” [1991, p. 11]). See also Gomart and Hennion’s (1999) comparison of art and drug addicts, which stresses the active preparatory work and discipline involved in getting high on opera or chemical substances. Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks keeping allusions in mind” until we can link them “by reflexive reference […] to their complements” (1945, pp. 234–5). Joyce also radicalized the novel’s require- ments for intertextual connection. Ulysses wants a reader who is able to cope with a palimpsest of historical and mythical allusions (to Homer’s Odyssey, to the history of English letters, etc.) that—as Joyce famously quipped—“will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant” (Ellmann 1982, p. 521). The most programmatic modernist embodiment of hyperspatiality is T.S. Eliot’s paradigm- shaping epic poem The Waste Land (1932): Almost all of its lines are citations of previous canonical literary works, framed with deep historical references to Grail mythology and ancient fertility myths to which Eliot provides scholarly footnotes. Eliot’s canonical work as a “poet-critic” helped institutionalize a particular kind of academic spatial reader—call them scholar-connoisseurs—that came to dominate twentieth-century English Departments (Kindley 2017). Crucial to this new sensi- bility was a concept of “tradition” with which Eliot distinguished literary practice from both entertainment and scholarly philology. Unlike entertainment reading, lit- erary connoisseurship requires access to the “historical sense” that compels the best authors within a single generation to write with a Western Canon in their “bones” (as Eliot put it in “Tradition and the Individual Talent”). In Eliot’s spatial image, “the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer” has “a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order” with which present writers need to engage if they want to create something new and worthwhile (1932, p. 4). At the same time (and in contrast to scholarly philology), Eliot thought that true engagement with tradition requires the connoisseur’s powers of strong-valued discrimination. Unlike historical scholarship (the literary historians and historical linguists who dominated Anglophone literature departments until the 1930s [Graff 2007]), “criticism” in the scholar-connoisseur sense required the ability to carve out a “living tradition” from the historical past—something like “the best that has been thought and known in the world” ([1869] 1993, p. 79), in Matthew Arnold’s famous phrase. Victorians like Arnold thought that a living tradition could be accessed by well- educated gentlemen who learned how to practice “a free play of thought” (Arnold [1869] 1993, p. 151). Charles Eliot’s edition of “Harvard Classics” (1909–1917), a fifty-volume collection of world literature, was predicated upon the assumption that Arnoldian self-cultivation could be gained with a daily regime of 15  min reading from a “five-foot shelf” of literary classics (Kirsch 2001). The institutionalization of academic scholar-connoisseurs increased the required amount of labor, however. Readers who wished to cultivate their minds on their own time could no longer keep up with professionalized levels of spatial depth. Generalist complaints about hyper- specialized avant-gardes already abounded in the late 1700s, but in the 1920s such complaints united a growing segment within the literary elites that became cultur- ally visible as “middlebrow.” The Book-of-the-Month-Club, the foundational US middlebrow institution, emerged in 1926 to help strong-valued amateur readers to keep in touch with the higher life of the literary nation. As the vast literature on this topic shows (Rubin 1992; Radway 1997; Driscoll 2014; Carter 2016), discussions of “middlebrow culture” can sound more than a little defensive. Critics bristle when the language of the brows invokes denigrating markers of class, coded as human deficiency. Indeed, we can gather from Harper’s G. Leypoldt semi-ironic charting of high, middle, and lowbrow cultures (Lynes 1949) that the social placement of taste was already well established as a popular parlor game when Bourdieu (1965) connected “l’art moyen” to a lower-middle-class habitus in France (see Carter 2016, p. 358). While the ethnographic connections between taste formation and social position are evident enough, it seems more useful to view the middlebrow as a position in literary-institutional space. This position of institu- tional middlebrow gained public relevance when laureate-oriented lay readers in the Arnoldian mold separated from (or were left behind by) the new formation of lau- reate-oriented scholar-connoisseurs who dominated modernism’s economy of pres- tige. The defining difference between middlebrow and highbrow readers therefore concerns not social rank but institutional authority. Readers and writers have mid- dlebrowness thrust upon them in proportion to their distance from the literary field’s “Greenwich meridian” (Casanova [1999] 2004; Leypoldt 2015), the consecrating networks with the greatest weight in the debates about what counts as strong-valued reading. The gap between professional connoisseurs and generalist lay readers increased when the postwar expansion of higher education pushed further the avant-gardiza- tion of the literary establishment that begun around 1900. At the level of readerly sensibilities, the extension of third-level education between 1960 and 1975 produced larger college-educated audiences, extending the market of serious fiction by what Loren Glass has called a “quality paperback generation” (2013, p. 28), more willing to invest time and labor in off-mainstream (specialized, experimental, “difficult”) kinds of writing. At the level of authorship, the rise of the “program era” improved the situation of experimental writers by complementing the limited support net- works of the modernist period with a financially more stable and prestigious aca- demic space that made literary avant-gardism a more viable and respectable career path (McGurl 2009, p. 24). While modernist literary avant-gardes relied on a small pool of superrich patrons (like the industrial heiress Harriet Shaw Weaver, who financed Joyce’s career after 1916), the rise of creative writing programs after WWII produced more substantial systems of literary patronage. Non-commercial writ- ers profited from university-embedded social-professional networks that connected creative writing programs and English departments with editors and publishers in a transatlantic print market. And at a level of cultural authority, the education revolu- tion shifted literature’s consecrating institutions from the relatively unregulated pub- lic sphere toward an academically housed “art world” with higher degrees of gate- keeping. The most prestigious literary prizes (the Nobel, the Booker, the National Book Award) have large middlebrow audiences, but they are authorized by a peer- oriented “culture of the school” (Guillory 1993, p. 38), an international network of academic scholars, credentialed writers, and publishing professionals. As literature’s consecrating institutions moved closer to the postwar university, Joycean modern- ism entered the “museum” of canonical works, and academic scholar-connoisseurs adopted a more theory-informed and “anti-formalist” tone (epitomized by such now classic graduate school paradigms as Fredric Jameson’s Neo-Marxism, Stephen Greenblatt’s New Historicism, or Edward Said’s Foucauldian Postcolonialism). The relative decline of literary leisure reading since the 1950s, when film and television ended the age of mass reading that had begun in the 1850s (Griswold Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks et al. 2005, p. 138; Knulst and Kraaykamp 1998), furthered, I think, the program-era academicization of strong literary value, which helped to shore up modernist spatial reading in third-level education. In today’s system of prizes, institutional authority matters more than ever, but due to an increasing “gentrification” of the book, higher and lower readerly brows now indicate a diminishing social difference. This is evi- dent in GQ magazine’s 2011 update of Harper’s 1949 chart (Friedman 2011): here, the social sphere of highbrow taste lists a preference simply for “books” (in contrast to the middlebrow fondness for “Coen brothers films” and the lowbrow predilec- tion for the Spider Man franchise). Viewed from the heights of literary Greenwich, indulging in light genre fiction can still be a “guilty pleasure,” but while before the 1950s the “genre fiction ghetto” embodied lower-middle-class social worlds, today it addresses roughly the same social sphere as Nobel-Prize-winning poetry. Wendy Griswold has theorized this sphere as the domain of the “reading class,” the “highly educated, affluent, metropolitan” social elites (2008, p. 65) that still consume fic- tion on a regular basis and comprise about 15% of the general population in today’s developed countries (Griswold et  al. 2011, p. 23). Thus whereas older sociologies of literature could still attribute the difference between immersive and spatial read- ing to inequalities of class-based cultural capital, today these are more likely to correspond to different moods within a cultural elite—“whenever I finish writing a paper,” the philosopher Martha Nussbaum confesses, “I read” genre fiction novels for “numbing distraction, distraction so complete that it simply blots out all stress and worry” (1990, p. 240). Ironically (and contra to the “rise of modern literature” narrative), the laureate position’s high-cultural location has not changed that much since the eighteenth-century print market revolution. While large-scale leisure read- ing has come and gone (or moved from literary fiction to mixed digital media litera- cies), literature’s consecrating institutions seem stronger than ever. Spatial reading in the civil sphere: from the Byron controversy to Handke’s nobel prize We can gauge the cultural authority of the “literary-artistic field” with its strong- valued economy of prestige (Bourdieu 1996; English 2005; McGurl 2009; Sapiro 2016) from its continuing tension with the “civil sphere” in Alexander’s sense. Both socio-institutional domains overlap and interpenetrate one another, yet lean toward different, often competing strong frameworks, with different notions of adequate spatiality. If the civil sacred defines what counts as good democratic behavior (or “moral decency”), the literary-artistic field connects literary excellence (or “higher form of entertainment”) to high-cultural regimes of spatial reading.14 In nineteenth-century literary culture, when the peer-oriented literary-artistic field produced lower levels of institutional gatekeeping, a writer’s literary authority hinged to a larger degree on his or her perceived “good character” (Ryan 2016, p. 5). 14 See Kuipers et al. (2019) on the longstanding sociological debate on the relationship of artistic excel- lence and morality. G. Leypoldt Inhabiting the laureate position, in other words, required a moral authority that was established through a number of proxies (credibility, gentility, respectability, admi- rableness, decency, or its negative foils: immorality, sensuality, atheism, profligacy, egotism, etc.) that could make or break a writer’s career. By the same logic, Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852) could be consecrated as a “Great Amer- ican Novel” due to its emotionally powerful stances on democracy, abolitionism, and moral decency. Stowe’s writing emerged from a bestselling new literary trend that the laureate position rejected as crude entertainment. Yet even George Eliot, as one of the most esteemed mid-century “author’s authors,” placed Stowe in the “highest rank of novelists” (as she put it in a review in 1856 [p. 572]) because she thought Stowe’s ability to produce emotional empathy between the races was more important than questions of craft. Toward the end of the century, as the peer-oriented literary-artistic field gained in institutional weight, such verdicts came under pres- sure. By 1900, Uncle Tom’s Cabin was reclassified as an aesthetically inferior senti- mental novel, and Stowe became “the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war.” Twentieth-century literary culture made it almost impossible for a writer to inhabit the laureate position with large-scale commercial entertainment. Toni Morrison’s role as a public intellectual associated with black civil rights could only emerge once her work had succeeded in a literary-artistic field that rejected the comparatively thin spatiality of simple realist political “protest novels.” Characteris- tically for the postwar literary-artistic field, Morrison succeeded in the literary prize system with Faulkner-inspired spatial prose accessible only to a small readership. The civil sphere discourse continues to unsettle literary-artistic consecration, as we can see in the recent “societalization” of the film industry in the wake of the Weinstein effect (Alexander 2019, chap. 7). Kevin Spacey’s artistic prestige was so tarnished by reports of uncivil behavior that he was cut out of a finished film and dropped from a prize-winning “quality TV” series. But then the world of film and television have lower levels of gatekeeping, comparable, I think, to the nineteenth- century literary-artistic field.15 The Victorian “Byron controversy” might provide a useful point of comparison here. This scandal erupted in 1869, with Harriet Beecher Stowe’s essay on “The True Story of Lady Byron’s Life.” Stowe claimed that the late Lady Byron had revealed to her in private shortly before her death that her husband had had a “secret adulterous intrigue with a blood relation,” his half-sister Augusta Leigh (Ryan 2016, p. 137). Ostensibly, Stowe went public with this to defend Lady Byron against the charge (reiterated in an 1868 biography by Byron’s Italian mis- tress, Teresa Guiccioli) that their separation was due to her “heartlessness.” But Stowe made the larger point that Byron’s sexual transgression rendered his poetry toxic, and she aimed to remove him from his pedestal to prevent his moral depravity 15 Since the movie industry’s Oscar-mediated process of consecration is more closely tied to a market rationality than the system of literary prizes, it is more open to the financial common sense that moti- vated Spacey’s “cancellation” as an executive act of brand repair. Moreover, mainstream film and quality TV is middlebrow in the institutional sense: it is accessible to generalist audiences who (like nineteenth- century Arnoldians) seek “a higher kind of entertainment” that (unlike avant-garde film) does not require scholar-connoisseur skills of spatial reading. The “artworld” that produces film and TV celebrities, in other words, leaves the judgment of civility more or less to the court of opinion of the general public. Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks from infecting less experienced, younger readers. As it happened, Stowe’s attack on Byron backfired, leaving her own reputation in tatters. But the idea of “moral infec- tion” seemed reasonable to a nineteenth-century public that believed literary works reveal the “real selves” of their authors [it is impossible, Putnam’s Magazine wrote in 1853, that Dickens could have produced such memorable characters “without being himself kindred in soul to the characters he describes” (Ryan 2016, p. 111)]. With the avant-gardization of the literary establishment, debates about moral decency did not disappear, but the relevant courts of appeal now required expert skills in spatial reading. Unlike the Byron controversy, the case against Flaubert’s Madame Bovary in 1857 Paris was dismissed with the help of specialists, demon- strating that the State Prosecutor had failed to grasp the novel’s then unusual spatial form [unable to cope with Flaubert’s virtuoso use of irony and style indirect libre, he mistook the protagonist’s morality for that of the author (LaCapra 1982)]. Flaubert stands at the beginning of the modernist radicalization of textual spatiality that tends to insulate literary-artistic authority from public courts of appeal. The iconic mod- ernisms of Richard Wagner’s Ring Cycle, Martin Heidegger’s philosophical sys- tem, T.S. Eliot’s poetic works, or Emil Nolde’s expressionist art provide instructive examples. In each of these cases, the “work” is embedded in complex figurations of consecrated form and curated spatialized “tradition” that jointly distance it from the perceived moral incivility of its biographical maker (for example, Wagner’s antisem- itism, Heidegger’s and Nolde’s collaborations with the Nazi regime, Eliot’s fascist sympathies before the war). The most recent example of the tug between literary-artistic and civil-sacred frameworks is the debate about Peter Handke’s literary Nobel Prize in 2019. The controversy reveals how the disconnect between generalist and scholar-connoisseur perceptions of spatial form continues to polarize the public sphere. Unlike more generalist prizes (like the Booker or the Pulitzer, for example, whose laureates are expected to be both artistically innovative and “fast reads”), the Nobel, with its his- torically grown prestige, tolerates a higher degree of autonomy from mainstream lei- sure reading. Like many previous laureates, Handke’s career has mostly depended on high-cultural peer recognition (which the German literary field rewards with access to a state-subsidized scene of high-cultural radio, television, and theater pro- ductions). He is a “difficult” author, even in the academic classroom, as his writ- ing eludes textbook-friendly categories and does not offer representative works that could exemplify a signature style. Instead his spatial depth emerged successively over five decades, as each new work added formal and thematic registers (some avant-gardist, others essayistic or autobiographical, across a variety of genres and media), accumulating a complex literary whole. To appreciate the whole rather than some individual parts requires professional levels of bookishness rare among audi- ences reading on their own time. The public sphere gave Handke a more tangible image, however, when his stances on the Yugoslavian Civil War were widely reported as justification of Ser- bian aggression, if not an outright denial of war crimes. These accusations hark back to an essay on behalf of Serbia for the Süddeutsche Zeitung in 1996, motivated by his critique of media reductionism. The fast-paced Western news cycles, Handke felt, were producing one-sided reports of the civil war with sensationalist images of G. Leypoldt “victims” and “villains.” Half-Slovenian by birth, and dismayed by the breakup of Yugoslavia, Handke expressed a desire to look “behind the mirror” of medial echo chambers that he thought were biased by interests and standpoints external to Serbia (1998, p. 39). Despite its provocative headline—“Justice for Serbia [Gerechtigkeit für Serbien]”—the essay caused no civil sphere scandal at the time (on the more local intellectual debate, see Deichmann 1996; Zülch 1996; Rieff 1997), and Handke might have left it at that. Instead he engaged in a series of public appearances that even well-meaning commentators describe as self-defeating and irresponsible (Bro- koff 2014). His most “toxic” move was to speak at the funeral of Slobodan Milošević in March 2006. His short oration did not exculpate the Serbian leader or justify Ser- bian war atrocities (as Le Nouvel Observateur had falsely claimed [Valentini 2006] and later retracted with an apology and Handke’s clarification [Editorial 2006]). But the symbolic power of Handke’s presence at the funeral gave such charges undisput- able performative reality in the public eye.16 With the Nobel award, the controversy gained new resonance in an international news cycle whose practical strictures allowed little patience for Handke’s sense of spatial form. His writings on Yugoslavia provide no neat phrases one can reason- ably pitch as “denial of Serbian atrocities,” unless one quotes him out of context. This is because Handke’s “justice for Serbia” frame is so embedded in qualifying reflections and mitigating turns of argument—hyper-reflexive spatial form requir- ing sustained hermeneutic interrogation—that generic 500-word newspaper write- ups of the Nobel controversy between October and December 2019 could not even pretend to represent Handke’s position without serious distortion. Even those who do isolate incriminating phrases still have to provide complex contexts to make their case coherent, which restricts the quibbling about Handke’s texts to specialist intel- lectual debate. In the absence of pithily quotable material, serious media venues had to cover the scandal with indirect accounts that combined the briefest of summaries of Handke’s reported offense with iconic photographs [Handke next to Milošević’ funeral bust, footage of mass graves (Vulliamy 2019), etc.]. This practice furthered a significant narrative slippage, from reported speech [“Peter Handke, who has been accused of (…) downplaying (…) ethnic cleansing” (Mackinnon 2019)]—to reported fact [“Peter Handke—who has denied the massacre of thousands of Bos- nians” (Anyuru 2019, editor’s note); “a writer who denies the existence of concen- tration camps” (Vulliamy 2019)]. The economy of fast-readable news reporting flattened out the nuances of the affair, creating a rigid binary that left Handke in the company of convicted Holocaust deniers—even Turkey’s political leader could 16 Since funeral orations conventionally imply a degree of reverence, Handke’s characteristic meta-level qualifications (he said he did not go there for Milošević but for Yugoslavia, and to “feel,” “see,” and “remember” rather than pretend to know “the truth,” etc.) did not prevent a hostile response. One month after it, in April 2006, the Paris Comédie-Française canceled a production of Handke’s latest play, and in May, Düsseldorf’s city governance blocked the jury decision to award him the city’s prestigious Hein- rich Heine Prize. During the standoff between politicians and independent jury members in Düsseldorf, Handke declined the award (in 2007 a Berlin initiative offered him an alternative Heinrich Heine Prize to protest the “political meddling” in the arts, but Handke declined this as well). Given this history of scan- dal, the Nobel committee surely knew what it was getting into. Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks join the boycott of the Stockholm ceremony in the name of defending human rights (Flood 2019a). Media with more time to delve into the intertextual background of the affair and to include a larger range of literary experts presented a more complex picture [see for example Marshall and Schuetze (2019) for the NY Times book section]. Among those more familiar with Handke (Brokoff 2014; Herwig 2010), the denial- of-atrocities theory has no purchase. Here, the debate instead turns on the question of whether Handke was ethically or politically irresponsible, insensitive, naive, or at least pig-headed [“runner-up for ‘International moron of the year’,” according to Salman Rushdie (Cain 2019)]. But this question, too, depends on context. To the degree that the affair is removed from its literary-artistic background, and meas- ured against a public sense of what counts as appropriate empathy and civility in the face of human suffering, newsreaders lack the context to distinguish some of Handke’s speech acts from the more sinister political stances in the Balkan crisis. Political experts, similarly, accuse Handke of lacking appropriate expert knowledge [Rieff (1997) dismissed him as a “prisoner of the folkloric cliches about the place”]. Yet Handke’s mixture of provocative and poetic language, and his brash treatment of inquiring journalists, owe a great deal to his literary-artistic habitus, shaped by 1960s countercultural avant-gardes that like to express their intellectual integrity with a proud disdain for public opinion and polite discourse (the Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard, and the French novelist Michel Houellebecq cultivated a simi- larly aggressive image). Handke’s habitus resonates better with some parts of the culture of the school than others.17 But at a more fundamental level, the controversy reflects a struggle over what counts as adequate attention to the spatiality of dis- course, that is, how to establish the relevant context and depth of Handke’s stance. The Nobel committee, at any rate, took the scholar-connoisseur side, reiterating their trust in the political integrity of Handke’s work. Conclusion As we have seen, Taylor’s phenomenology of value teaches us that when we speak of “literature” as a singular category, we lump together two relatively distinct expe- riential fields, one oriented around (more or less) individualized everyday purposes, the other around practice-transcendent higher goods that compete for public author- ity. Looking at the different evaluative logics and socio-institutional histories of lit- erature’s weaker and stronger frameworks allows us to complicate unified-field-the- ory approaches that explore the “state of reading today” with single-logic inquiries 17 “When we give the award to Handke,” one member of the Nobel jury, said, “we argue that the task of literature is other than to confirm and reproduce what society’s central view believes is morally right” (Flood 2019b). But sensibilities about what sort of language and positions are appropriate for this dif- fer generationally (see Sexl 2013, and Struck 2012 vs. Brokoff 2014, and Stanišić 2019) and geographi- cally. There was near unanimous pushback against Handke’s Nobel award in the US culture of the school (represented by Jennifer Egan’s dismayed response for Pen America [2019]), and greater willingness to accept the media consensus. G. Leypoldt (Is literary value as such objective or relative? Is Capital-L-Literature a commodity or an autonomous singularity? Are canons and prizes elitist or democratic, impor- tant or irrelevant? Will literary reading disappear or see a “renaissance”? Etc.). The fundamental difference between weak and strong evaluative repertoires, I believe, requires scholarship to find more flexible, more practice-specific and experience- based categories of reading. From the viewpoint of subjective attunement, the same text we appreciate as “fulfilling” in the everyday might, in our strong-valued moods, strike us as too formulaic, sentimental, too irrelevant, a “guilty pleasure.” And what we perceive as mindless leisure at one moment can, in another, feel like contact with something larger (as in Schiller’s “Man is never so authentically himself than when at play”). Both moods can overlap, reinforce one another, or get in each other’s way; but simply to assume “homology,” or “interdependency,” without detailed eth- nography of reading seems reductive. A similar problem, as I have tried to show, applies to single-logic narratives about the history and possible futures of reading. Since weak- and strong-valued practices tend to inhabit different experiential and socio-institutional spheres, we should beware of global rise-and-fall narratives that continue to dominate period-based literary historiography (“shift of gravity” [Watt (1957) 2000], “loss of aura” [Benjamin (1935) 1968], “return of the real” [Foster 1996], “postirony” [Konstantinou 2016], “death of the novel,” [Sukenick 1969], the “fate of the literary” [Brouillette 2019b]). What I call spatial reading is therefore not an objective benchmark for best practice, or a global category of “reader-orien- tation” in the Constance School sense, but a framework of strong evaluation whose relevance (since its emergence in the late 1700s) depends on time and place. Accord- ingly, norms of spatial form do not regulate reading as such (there are large domains of weak-valued consumption where flat, immersive reading reigns supreme); but they arguably shape literature’s public authorization. Like the “civil sacred,” the most authorized concepts of spatial reading inscribe themselves into the materiality of the public sphere and its cultural institutions, where debates between middlebrow and scholar-connoisseur notions of good reading can be as relentless as debates about abortion. But the civil and literary-artistic sacred differ in their degree of insti- tutional gatekeeping. If the field of cultural production functioned like a representa- tive democracy, middlebrow audiences would outvote the experts, or feel entitled to demand equal representation (i.e., a prize system that reflects the will of “the people”). But the laureate position evolved institutional structures similar to the lib- eral professions, which by default restrict the right to define what counts as a higher good to credentialed forms of peer review. Indeed, peer review, almost by definition, spatializes singular events by linking them to a “state of the art”—like the imagined tradition that allows the culture of the school and its most authorized tastemakers to define the “state of the novel today” (see, for example, Zadie Smith’s influen- tial 2008 piece “Two Paths for the Novel”). Professional gatekeeping seems uncon- troversial in most domains of moral and practical knowledge production (except in populist moments, people do not commonly denounce medical or scientific peer review as undemocratic). In the literary-artistic field, however, the “state-of-the-art” logic of higher good that drives the prize system and the curation of canons is at odds, not only with weak-valued experiences, but also with literature’s longstanding association with freedom, emancipation, and expressive representation, notions that Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks resonate well with the civil sphere. As the Handke controversy shows, the tension between these competing frameworks is not likely go away anytime soon. Acknowledgements Open Access funding provided by Projekt DEAL. My sincere thanks to the special- issue editor and the three reviewers for their generous comments on earlier versions of this essay. Thanks also to Corinna Norrick-Rühl and the participants of our “Cultures of Reading” class at Heidelberg in the Fall 2019. Open Access This article is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Com- mons licence, and indicate if changes were made. The images or other third party material in this article are included in the article’s Creative Commons licence, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. 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Vulliamy, E. 2019. Peter Handke’s Nobel Prize Dishonours the Victims of Genocide. The Guardian, Oct 12, https ://www.thegu ardia n.com/comme ntisf ree/2019/oct/12/a-nobel -prize -that-disho nours -the- victi ms-of-genoc ide-peter -handk e. Accessed April 10, 2020. Watt, I. 1957. (2000) The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. London: Pimlico. Weber, M. 1972. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Williams, J. 2015. The New Modesty in Literary Criticism. Chronicle of Higher Education, January 5, https ://www.chron icle.com/artic le/The-New-Modes ty-in-Liter ary/15099 3. Accessed April 3, 2020. Woodhead, L., and P. Heelas. 2000. Religion in Modern Times. London: Blackwell. Woodmansee, M. 1994. The Author, Art, and the Market: Rereading the History of Aesthetics. New York: Columbia University Press. Wordsworth, W. 2014. Wordsworth’s Poetry and Prose. Ed. Nicholas Halmi. New York: Norton. Wuthnow, R. 1950s. After Heaven: Spirituality in America Since the 1950s. Berkeley: University of Cali- fornia Press. Zelizer, V. 2011. Economic Lives: How Culture Shapes the Economy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zola, È. 1879 (1893). The Influence of Money in Literature [1880] In: The Experimental Novel and Other Essays. New York: Cassell, pp. 161–206. Zülch, T. (ed.). 1996. Die Angst des Dichters vor der Wirklichkeit: 16 Antworten auf Peter Handkes Win- terreise nach Serbien. Göttingen: Steidl. Publisher’s Note Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Günter Leypoldt is a Professor of American Literature and Culture at the University of Heidelberg, the author of Cultural Authority in the Age of Whitman: A Transatlantic Perspective (2009), and editor of Intellectual Authority and Literary Culture in the US, 1790–1900 (2013) and Reading Practices (2015). His current research centers on the nexus of authority and trust and the history of literary institutions. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2019/oct/12/a-nobel-prize-that-dishonours-the-victims-of-genocide-peter-handke https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2019/oct/12/a-nobel-prize-that-dishonours-the-victims-of-genocide-peter-handke https://www.chronicle.com/article/The-New-Modesty-in-Literary/150993 Spatial reading: evaluative frameworks and the making of literary authority Abstract Introduction Single-logic concepts of value: literary events vs. readerly uses Beyond a single logic: Taylor’s theory of strong and weak frameworks Strong value as public feeling: consecration, canonization Spatial reading Addictive reading: an eighteenth-century debate Multiple spatialities: scholar-connoisseurs vs. generalist middlebrows Spatial reading in the civil sphere: from the Byron controversy to Handke’s nobel prize Conclusion Acknowledgements References 
work_y35ssi2f5fgojeunjitcjslgo4	----	Modern Language Association of Amer i ca New York 2020 Approaches to Teaching Dante’s Divine Comedy Second Edition Edited by Christopher Kleinhenz and Kristina Olson 320-81809_ch00_6P.indd 3 12/13/19 12:31 PM © 2020 by The Modern Language Association of Amer i ca All rights reserved Printed in the United States of Amer i ca MLA and the MODERN LANGUAGE ASSOCIATION are trademarks owned by the Modern Language Association of Amer i ca. For information about obtaining permission to reprint material from MLA book publications, send your request by mail (see address below) or e- mail (permissions@mla . org). Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data Names: Kleinhenz, Christopher, editor. | Olson, Kristina, editor. Title: Approaches to teaching Dante’s divine comedy / edited by Christopher Kleinhenz and Kristina Olson. Description: Second edition. | New York : Modern Language Association of Amer i ca, 2020. | Series: Approaches to teaching world lit er a ture, 1059–1133 ; 163 | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: LCCN 2019039483 (print) | LCCN 2019039484 (ebook) ISBN 9781603294690 (cloth) | ISBN 9781603294270 (paperback) ISBN 9781603294287 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781603294294 (Kindle) Subjects: LCSH: Dante Alighieri, 1265–1321. Divina commedia. | Dante Alighieri, 1265–1321— Study and teaching. | Epic poetry, Italian— Study and teaching. Classification: LCC PQ4371 .A6 2020 (print) | LCC PQ4371 (ebook) | DDC 851/.1— dc23 LC rec ord available at https:// lccn . loc . gov / 2019039483 LC ebook rec ord available at https:// lccn . loc . gov / 2019039484 Approaches to Teaching World Lit er a ture 163 ISSN 1059-1133 Cover illustration: Joseph Anton Koch, L’Enfer (Divine Comedie) de Dante: Detail representant l’ecrivain. Casino Massimo, Rome, fresco. Photo © S. Bianchetti / Bridgeman Images. Published by The Modern Language Association of Amer i ca 85 Broad Street, suite 500, New York, New York 10004-2434 www . mla . org 320-81809_ch00_6P.indd 4 12/13/19 12:31 PM CONTENTS Preface xi PART ONE: MATERIALS Overview 3 Italian Editions of the Comedy 3 En glish Translations of the Comedy and the Minor Works 4 The Instructor’s Library 5 PART TWO: APPROACHES Introduction: Dante’s Comedy in the Classroom 21 Christopher Kleinhenz and Kristina Olson Textual Traditions, Language, and Authority Dante, Teacher of His Reader 36 Teodolinda Barolini Teaching the Divine Comedy from Its Manuscripts 45 H. Wayne Storey and Isabella Magni Duels of Interpretation: The Bible between Dante and the Church 59 Ronald L. Martinez Following Virgil’s Lantern: Teaching Dante in the Light of Antiquity 67 Elsa Filosa Dante Casts Shadows over the Legacy of the Classical Past 73 Brenda Deen Schildgen Teaching Dante, Beatrice, and Courtly Love in the Divine Comedy 80 F. Regina Psaki Dante and the Spectrum of Medieval Vernacular Poetry; or, How Giacomo and Joyce, Brunetto and Eliot, and Bertran and Pound Rhyme 88 Martin Eisner Transnational Dantes 96 Nick Havely Society and Ethics Sodomite, Homosexual, Queer: Teaching Dante LGBTQ 103 Gary Cestaro Conceptions of Women and Gender in the Comedy 110 Kristina Olson 320-81809_ch00_6P.indd 7 12/13/19 12:31 PM viii Contents Teaching Dante’s Divine Comedy in a History Course 120 Joanna Drell Dante and the Papacy 126 George Dameron The Quest for Ethical Self- Reflection 134 Sherry Roush Teaching the Theological Dimension of Dante’s Comedy 140 Paul J. Contino Dante, Poet of Loss 148 Peter S. Hawkins The Reception of the Comedy Teaching Dante and the Visual Arts 154 Aida Audeh Reading Dante’s Comedy with Giotto 164 Heather Webb Rewritings and Relevance: Teaching Gloria Naylor’s Linden Hills alongside Dante’s Inferno 170 Suzanne Manizza Roszak Teaching Dante through Music 175 Francesco Ciabattoni Dante’s Afterlife in Popu lar Culture 185 Elizabeth Coggeshall From Poem to PlayStation 3: Teaching Dante with Video Games 192 Brandon K. Essary Instructional Contexts and Pedagogical Strategies On Selecting the “Best” Translation of Dante 200 Madison U. Sowell Damned Rhe toric: Teaching Dante’s Inferno in Translation to Undergraduates 210 Suzanne Hagedorn Dante’s Comedy as First- Year Seminar: From Early Engagement to Self- Reliance 216 Simone Marchesi Writing like Dante: Understanding the Inferno through Creative Writing 223 Nicolino Applauso Scaffolding Scholarly Research for a Senior- Level Course on Dante in Translation 231 Katherine V. Haynes 320-81809_ch00_6P.indd 8 12/13/19 12:31 PM Contents ix “Cliques in Hell”: Teaching Dante to Nontraditional Students 238 Susan Gorman Teaching Dante to High School Se niors 245 Jessica Levenstein Teaching Dante in Prison 252 Ronald Herzman Beatrice in the Tag Cloud 257 Carol Chiodo Notes on Contributors 263 Survey Respondents 269 Works Cited 271 320-81809_ch00_6P.indd 9 12/13/19 12:31 PM Part One MATERIALS 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 1 12/13/19 12:31 PM Overview In the past thirty- five years we have witnessed the publication of numerous book- length critical studies and hundreds of insightful essays that represent the findings of recent research on Dante and his poem. Some of these are espe- cially recommended to instructors looking for sound and innovative resources that will enhance their understanding of a wide range of issues as they prepare their courses. Others provide more up- to- date information about Dante’s life and works, and still others open win dows on new ways of interpreting the Com- edy for the twenty- first- century classroom. In these three and a half de cades some impor tant Italian editions of the Comedy have appeared, as well as a plethora of mostly annotated En glish translations of either the entire poem or one or more canticles, a situation that has led to an embarrassment of riches for instructors. In his essay in this volume Madison Sowell addresses the consider- ations that instructors should make when choosing a translation for their courses. With few exceptions we have limited the publications presented in the following pages to those published after 1982 in En glish, when the first Ap- proaches volume on the Comedy appeared. The “Instructor’s Library” section relies in part on the observations and suggestions made by survey respondents. Italian Editions of the Comedy Most Italian and bilingual En glish editions of the Comedy pre sent Giorgio Pet- rocchi’s Italian text, but the editions by Federico Sanguineti and Antonio Lanza are worthwhile to consult in more specialized, philologically oriented courses where comparative analyses of dif fer ent manuscript readings are de rigueur. For those courses on the Comedy taught in Italian, instructors would be well served to adopt one of several annotated Italian editions published in recent years. In par tic u lar, we recommend the editions by Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi; Um- berto Bosco and Giovanni Reggio; and Nicola Fosca, all of which have extensive commentary, as well as the older but still ser viceable texts edited by Natalino Sapegno; and Emilio Pasquini and Antonio Enzo Quaglio. As part of the instruc- tor’s arsenal of ancillary materials, we note the digital edition, available on DVD, that Prue Shaw has produced, Dante Alighieri, Commedia: A Digital Edition, containing full transcripts of seven manuscripts (six with images), together with Petrocchi’s and F. Sanguineti’s editions. Depending on the level of the course and the students’ knowledge of Italian, we suggest that instructors may adopt one of several texts designed for the secondary schools of Italy, for they often feature questions and exercises aimed at promoting a better understanding of the text and, at times, offer a modern Italian paraphrase of the poem.1 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 3 12/13/19 12:31 PM 4 Translations En glish Translations of the Comedy and the Minor Works For those numerous courses taught in En glish we highly recommend dual- language editions for the fa cil i ty they offer those instructors who wish to note certain aspects of the Italian text. In par tic u lar, we would note the translations with commentary by Allen Mandelbaum; Robert Hollander and Jean Hol- lander; and Robert Durling and Ronald L. Martinez; as well as those by Robin Kirkpatrick and Stanley Lombardo for their readability, valuable notes, and sometimes extended commentary on points of interest. We recognize the ap- peal that some earlier versions have for many instructors (e.g., those by Mark Musa, John  D. Sinclair, Charles  S. Singleton, John Ciardi, and Henry Wad- sworth Longfellow). We also would note that, among the many recent transla- tions, those by Robert Pinsky, Anthony Esolen, Clive James, and Mary Jo Bang have been used to good effect by instructors. Madison Sowell’s essay on evalu- ating En glish versions of the Comedy discusses the vari ous ele ments involved in choosing translations for a course on Dante. Readings from Dante’s minor works are also used profitably in many courses. At times, the entire Vita nuova is assigned and relevant sections of the Monar- chia, the Letter to Can Grande, Convivio, and De vulgari eloquentia are incor- porated to provide background material for the study of the Comedy or to highlight their intrinsic importance in the more general medieval context. John Took provides a fine overview of these writings in Dante: Lyric Poet and Phi los- o pher. Therefore, in addition to the editions and versions of the Comedy noted above, we call attention to several recent En glish translations of Dante’s minor works that are impor tant additions to class syllabi. The most frequently used text in classes is the Vita nuova, often read in its entirety, and instructors should note the debate concerning its division and pre- sen ta tion, even though these considerations do not affect its meaning vis- à- vis the Comedy.2 Generally, earlier En glish translations of the Vita Nuova— those of Musa and Barbara Reynolds— still enjoy great popularity, although the more recent versions by Anthony Robert Mortimer and by Andrew Frisardi have re- ceived favorable comments. Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s nineteenth- century ver- sion is also available in a 2002 edition. Small but representative se lections from the other minor works often find their way into course syllabi and can be impor tant additions. For investigations of Dante’s views on language and lyric poetry, readings from De vulgari elo- quentia are very impor tant, and two translations have recently appeared by Marianne Shapiro and Steven Botterill, respectively. Similarly, for Dante’s ideas about the proper relationship between church and state, the Monarchia is the crucial document, and some recent translations include those by Richard Kay and by Shaw, although for classroom purposes the latter is more manageable. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 4 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 5 The Convivio is impor tant for the light it shines on the evolution of Dante’s thoughts on many issues, and three translations have been produced over the past thirty- five years: those of Christopher Ryan; Richard Lansing; and Fri- sardi, which is the most thoroughly annotated and includes the Italian text en face. There is also great benefit in assigning readings from Dante’s Rime to provide students with insight on his other poetic adventures, and his early lyr ics have recently been edited with a commentary by Teodolinda Barolini and translated by Lansing. The Letter to Can Grande, long the object of contro- versy over its authenticity, is the subject of a book- length study by Robert Hol- lander (Dante’s Epistle), and the text and translation by Paget Toynbee of all the epistles may be found on the Prince ton Dante Proj ect Web site.3 The Instructor’s Library Recommended Readings for Undergraduates As noted above, the extensive critical lit er a ture on Dante produced over the past thirty- five years provides evidence of the abiding interest in the Florentine poet and his works. In some cases, it has served as a salutary corrective to previ- ous scholarship and has opened up new areas of investigation. As in many areas of teaching and research, older works pertaining to Dante still provide valid and valuable insights and materials for the twenty- first- century classroom. Among these we recommend Singleton for contributions to our understanding of Dante’s allegory: Essay on the Vita nuova, Dante Studies 1, Dante Studies 2; Erich Auerbach for the concept of figuralism: Dante, Poet of the Secular World, “Farinata and Cavalcante” (an essay on Inferno 10  in Mimesis 174–202), and “Figura”; Karl Vossler for a synthetic view of Dante’s place in the Middle Ages in Mediaeval Culture: An Introduction to Dante and His Times; Joseph An- thony Mazzeo for studies on Dante’s reception of vari ous traditions: Medieval Cultural Tradition in Dante’s Comedy, Structure and Thought in the Paradiso; Francis Fergusson for his power ful reading of Purgatorio in Dante’s Drama of the Mind; John Freccero for his emphasis on Dante’s Augustinian heritage in Dante: The Poetics of Conversion; and many others.4 In the following pages we pre sent and provide brief comments on those works published over the past three and a half de cades that we view as especially impor tant and helpful for teachers of the Comedy (this list is not intended to be exhaustive). Reference and Background Works For breadth and depth of coverage the monumental Enciclopedia Dantesca still stands as the ultimate resource (though now dated bibliographically) for 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 5 12/13/19 12:31 PM 6 Instructor’s Library questions on virtually every word in Dante’s works. For the English- speaking world Lansing’s The Dante Encyclopedia, reflecting more recent critical trends and providing more up- to- date bibliographical references, brings together a wealth of information on a wide variety of topics.5 Similarly, Jay Ruud’s Critical Companion to Dante provides an overview of Dante’s works with an extended section on persons, places, and things. Zygmunt G. Barański and Lino Pertile’s collaborative volume, Dante in Context, pre sents insightful essays on impor- tant topics for the study of Dante, arranged in five sections with an extensive bibliography: Politics and Society; Intellectual Traditions; Linguistics and Lit- erary Cultures; Visual and Performative Culture; Dante: Life, Works, and Re- ception. Michael Caesar has compiled a rich se lection of excerpts from the many commentaries on Dante spanning the years from 1314 to 1870 in Dante: The Critical Heritage. In addition to the large array of bibliographical resources in the first edition, we note Enzo Esposito’s magisterial four- volume Bibliografia analitica degli scritti su Dante, 1950–1970 and Luciana Giovannetti’s Dante in Amer i ca: Bib- liografia 1965–1980. The annual “American Dante Bibliography” published in Dante Studies since 1953 is now available in a searchable electronic format on the Dante Society of Amer i ca Web site (www . dantesociety . org). In 2017, the Dante Society and the Società Dantesca Italiana began collaborating on a new, bilingual version of the International Dante Bibliography with enhanced search capabilities (dantesca.ntc.it/dnt- fo- catalog/pages/material- search.jsf). Other publications furnish materials on a host of topics pertinent to the study of Dante— Christopher Kleinhenz’s Medieval Italy: An Encyclopedia and the collection of primary readings relating to the age of Dante, Medieval Italy: Texts in Translation, edited by Katherine Jansen, Joanna Drell, and Frances Andrews. Collections of texts in En glish translation and critical studies on pre- Dantean visions of the afterlife include those by Eileen Gardiner, Visions of Heaven and Hell before Dante, and Alison Morgan, Dante and the Medieval Other World. Historically oriented studies on the nature and concepts of purgatory and paradise include Jacques Le Goff, The Birth of Purgatory; Jef- frey Burton Russell, A History of Heaven: The Singing Silence; and Alastair J. Minnis, From Eden to Eternity: Creations of Paradise in the Later Middle Ages. Studies on the history of medieval Italy— and Florence in particular— are not scarce, but these contributions are especially noteworthy: George Holmes, Florence, Rome and the Origins of the Re nais sance; Gene A. Brucker, Florence: The Golden Age, 1138–1737; George  W. Dameron, Florence and Its Church in the Age of Dante; and John M. Najemy, A History of Florence, 1200–1575. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 6 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 7 Dante’s Life and Works In addition to Giuseppe Mazzotta’s accounts of Dante’s life appearing in The Dante Encyclopedia, in Rachel Jacoff ’s The Cambridge Companion to Dante, and in Gaetana Marrone’s Encyclopedia of Italian Literary Studies,6 several book- length studies on Dante’s life and works have recently appeared: Ricardo Quinones’s updated Dante Alighieri; Stephen Bemrose, A New Life of Dante; Robert Hollander, Dante: A Life in Works; R.  W.  B. Lewis, Dante; Peter  S. Hawkins, Dante: A Brief History; Nick Havely, Dante; and Marco Santagata, Dante: The Story of His Life. These provide insights on vari ous aspects of Dante’s works and their Fortleben. Some early lives of Dante and commentaries on the Comedy have appeared in En glish: Giovanni Boccaccio’s The Life of Dante (Trattatello in Laude di Dante), translated by Vincenzo Zin Bollettino, and Michael Papio’s fine version of Boccaccio’s Expositions on Dante’s Comedy. Critical Studies Given the large number of book- length studies on Dante and the Comedy that have appeared over the past three and a half de cades, we direct our attention primarily to those contributions in En glish that are impor tant and useful for instructors in the preparation of their courses. Instructors may find it helpful to have some volumes on library reserve for student use, along with a se lection of reference works. John Scott’s Understanding Dante provides a thorough and insightful overview of the poet and his works— not just the Comedy— and in- cludes mini- essays that focus on specific matters crucial to their interpretation. In Reading Dante (Open Yale Courses) Mazzotta re creates the classroom atmo- sphere, presenting his lectures on all one hundred cantos of the Comedy with many critical insights and associations. Similarly, Kirkpatrick, first in Dante’s Inferno: Difficulty and Dead Poetry and more recently in Dante: The Divine Comedy, pre sents a reading of the poem with numerous critical aperçus. In much the same way, in Reading Dante Shaw summarizes the poet’s life and the entire poem in chapters titled “Friendship,” “Power,” “Life,” “Love,” “Time,” “Numbers,” and “Words,” as does, much less extensively, Marguerite Mills Chi- arenza in The Divine Comedy: Tracing God’s Art. In the late 1980s the Dante Society of Amer i ca launched a major but short- lived proj ect of book- length readings of all one hundred cantos of the Comedy, of which only three were published: Inferno I by Anthony K. Cassell; Inferno II by Jacoff and William A. Stephany; and Inferno III by Maria Picchio Simonelli. In Dante’s Poets Barolini pre sents the ancient and medieval poetic context in which Dante sought to insert himself, and in The Undivine Comedy she argues for a reading of the poem that privileges its narrative merits and extraordinary mimesis while not diminishing its theological message. John Kleiner, in Mismap- ping the Underworld, studies three examples of error in the Comedy as it 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 7 12/13/19 12:31 PM 8 Instructor’s Library relates to the concept of mimetic realism in the poem. In Dante and the Making of a Modern Author Albert Russell Ascoli provides a well- documented intellectual biography of the poet and the evolution of his thought over the course of his life and works. Two works— Marc Cogan, The Design in Wax, and Christian Moevs, Metaphysics of Dante’s Comedy— provide excellent pre sen ta tions of the philo- sophical and theological structure of the Comedy. In The Po liti cal Vision of the Divine Comedy, Joan Ferrante provides a meticulous account of the many man- ifestations of po liti cal concerns in the poem, as does Scott in his more restricted Dante’s Po liti cal Purgatory. In Dante as Dramatist Franco Masciandaro studies Dante’s staging of vari ous episodes in the poem. Two studies— Hawkins, Dante’s Testaments, and V. Stanley Benfell, The Biblical Dante— investigate the many ways Dante employs the Bible and biblical references in the Comedy. Dante and the Fathers and Doctors of the Church, as well as the religious orders in general, have been the subject of several impor tant books, such as those by Simone Mar- chesi, Dante and Augustine; Botterill, Dante and the Mystical Tradition; Havely, Dante and the Franciscans: Poverty and the Papacy in the Commedia; and Santa Casciani, editor, Dante and the Franciscans. The topic of women in the Middle Ages and in Dante’s Comedy includes Ferrante’s general treatment of Women as Image in Medieval Lit er a ture from the Twelfth Century to Dante and studies focused on Beatrice and Dante’s women in general, such as Jaroslav Pelikan, Eternal Feminines; Robert Pogue Harrison, The Body of Beatrice; Ol- ivia Holmes, Dante’s Two Beloveds; Vincent Moleta’s edited collection “La Glo- riosa Donna de la Mente”: A Commentary on the Vita nuova; and the special issue of Texas Studies in Language and Lit er a ture, edited by David Wallace, titled Beatrice Dolce Memoria, 1290–1990. Peter Armour’s two highly focused studies on impor tant aspects of Purgatory deserve attention, The Door of Pur- gatory and Dante’s Griffin and the History of the World, as do Patrick Boyde’s studies on the poem as a whole, Perception and Passion in Dante’s Comedy and Human Vices and Human Worth in Dante’s Comedy. Some studies dealing with Paradiso pre sent general overviews, including John Saly, Dante’s Paradiso: The Flowering of the Self, and James Torrens, SJ, Presenting Paradise. Other works shine light on specific topics: for astral influence on human activity, see Richard Kay, Dante’s Christian Astrology, and Alison Cornish, Reading Dante’s Stars; on the nature of angels, see Bemrose, Dante’s Angelic Intelligences, and Susanna Barsella, In the Light of Angels; for the importance of medieval nu- merology, see John J. Guzzardo, Dante: Numerological Studies; on the role of hermeneutics in the poem, see William Franke, Dante’s Interpretive Journey; for questions regarding theology, see Vittorio Montemaggi, Reading Dante’s Commedia as Theology, and Christine O’Connell Baur, Dante’s Hermeneutics of Salvation; for discussions of the union of incarnational theology and dialectical thought, see Guy P. Raffa, Divine Dialectic: Dante’s Incarnational Poetry; for the ways of knowledge and the interaction of the liberal arts, ethics, politics, and theology in the Middle Ages, see Mazzotta, Dante’s Vision and the Circle of Knowledge. Other contributions include Dino S. Cervigni’s study Dante’s Poetry 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 8 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 9 of Dreams, an examination of the poet’s understanding and use of dreams; Pe- ter Dronke’s Dante and Medieval Latin Traditions, which addresses Dante’s in- debtedness to earlier Latin authors; Jeffrey T. Schnapp’s The Transfiguration of History at the Center of Dante’s Paradise, which explores the subject of Dante’s “Christianization” of classical epic themes. Claire  E. Honess discusses Dante’s concept of citizenship in From Florence to the Heavenly City, and Filippa Modesto explores that of friendship in Dante’s Idea of Friendship; Gary Ces- taro considers Dante’s concern for language in Dante and the Grammar of the Nursing Body, and Warren Ginsberg examines the interest in aesthetics in Dante’s Aesthetics of Being. Other scholars address Dante’s preoccupations with notions of body and soul: Manuele Gragnolati, Experiencing the Afterlife: Soul and Body in Dante and Medieval Culture, and Shapiro, Dante and the Knot of Body and Soul; ideas of the other: Brenda Deen Schildgen, Dante and the Orient; Florence and the nature of cities: Catherine Keen, Dante and the City; and medieval law: Justin Steinberg, Dante and the Limits of the Law. Two recent contributions focus on Dante and Islam: Gregory B. Stone, Dante’s Plu- ralism and the Islamic Philosophy of Religion, and Jan M. Ziolkowski’s edited volume, Dante and Islam. Articles and Journals There are far too many fine essays to list here, but instructors should be aware of the major journals in Dante studies and consult them frequently to find ex- amples of the latest research. The oldest periodical is Dante Studies, published annually by the Dante Society of Amer i ca and containing ( until 2016) an anno- tated bibliography of North American criticism on the Florentine poet. An off- shoot is the Electronic Bulletin, renamed Dante Notes  as of 2016, which has three categories: scholarship, pedagogy, and student essays. For these online publications and for the searchable bibliography, please consult the society’s Web site (www . dantesociety . org). For eleven years (1987–98) Lectura Dantis Virginiana was a twice- yearly journal, and its editor, Tibor Wlassics, also pub- lished three well- received volumes of essays on individual cantos of each canti- cle: Dante’s Divine Comedy: Introductory Readings. These are the first— and only— complete readings of the Comedy produced in North Amer i ca, unlike the many Lecturae Dantis series in Italy. A new journal has recently begun publication: Bibliotheca Dantesca (Scholarly Commons, University of Pennsyl- vania Libraries). A number of periodicals in Eu rope are dedicated either solely or in large part to Dante: Studi danteschi (Società Dantesca Italiana, Florence), L’Alighieri (Longo, Ravenna), Letture classensi (Biblioteca Classense, Ravenna), Dante (Fabrizio Serra, Pisa), Le tre corone: Rivista internazionale di studi su Dante, Petrarca, Boccaccio (Fabrizio Serra, Pisa), Rivista di studi danteschi (Centro Pio Rajna, Rome), Deutsches Dante- Jahrbuch (Deutsches Dante- Gesellschaft, Munich), Rivista internazionale di ricerche dantesche (Fabrizio 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 9 12/13/19 12:31 PM 10 Instructor’s Library Serra, Pisa), and Tenzone (Asociación Complutense de Dantología, Madrid). Many articles and book reviews appear in other North American journals de- voted to literary criticism and historical research, such as the Italian issue of MLN (January, Johns Hopkins University Press), Speculum (Medieval Acad emy of Amer i ca), Italica (American Association of Teachers of Italian), and so on. Collections of Essays One major benefit of collections of scholarly essays is that they often assem ble in one place original contributions focused on a par tic u lar topic (sometimes the proceedings of a major conference) or reprint essays that may be difficult to find or that represent classic treatments of a wide range of subjects. One especially valuable publication is Lansing’s eight- volume set of reprinted essays, Dante: The Critical Complex, which comprises the following volumes: Dante and Bea- trice: The Poet’s Life and the Invention of Poetry; Dante and Classical Antiq- uity: The Epic Tradition; Dante and Philosophy: Nature, the Cosmos, and the Ethical Imperative; Dante and Theology: The Biblical Tradition and Christian Allegory; Dante and History: From Florence and Rome to Heavenly Jerusalem; Dante and Critical Theory; Dante and Interpretation; and Dante’s Afterlife: The Influence and Reception of the Commedia. The essays in these volumes provide a vast and valuable resource for instructors. The original essays in the revised edition of Jacoff ’s The Cambridge Companion to Dante provide a fine overview of the poet’s life and works as seen vis- à- vis their literary pre de ces sors and their position in the con temporary intellectual, cultural, and historical milieu. This book could serve as a supplemental text for students. Besides the three volumes of canto- by- canto readings in the Lectura Dantis Virginiana (noted above), two collections of essays edited by Allen Mandelbaum, Anthony Oldcorn, and Charles Ross, Lectura Dantis: Inferno and Lectura Dantis: Purgatorio, provide insightful readings of individual cantos in the first two canticles. The recent initiative at the University of Cambridge focusing on innovative ways of reading the poem has resulted in three published volumes, one per canticle: Vertical Readings in Dante’s Comedy, edited by George Corbett and Heather Webb. Several essay collections represent the proceedings of major conferences, such as Dante for the New Millennium, edited by Barolini and H. Wayne Storey; Dante Now: Current Trends in Dante Studies, edited by Theodore J. Cachey, Jr.; and the five volumes produced as part of the Seminario dantesco internazio- nale, founded by Robert Hollander in 1994.7 Other conferences have produced proceedings volumes, such as The Divine Comedy and the Encyclopedia of Arts and Sciences, edited by Giuseppe Di Scipio and Aldo Scaglione; Dante: Summa Medievalis, edited by Charles Franco and Leslie Morgan; and Dante and the Christian Imagination, edited by Domenico Pietropaolo. Some lecture series have also resulted in essay collections, such as the one sponsored by the Newberry Library in Chicago: Lectura Dantis Newberryana, edited by Paolo Cherchi and Antonio C. Mastrobuono. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 10 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 11 Other collections have a specific focus, such as the relationship between Dante and poets of antiquity in The Poetry of Allusion: Virgil and Ovid in Dante’s Commedia, edited by Jacoff and Schnapp; Dante and Ovid: Essays in Intertex- tuality, edited by Madison U. Sowell; Dante and the Greeks, edited by Ziolkowski; and Dante e la “ bella scola” della poesia, edited by Amilcare A. Iannucci. Two volumes treat questions about Dante and unorthodox views: Dante and Hetero- doxy, edited by Maria Luisa Ardizzone and Barolini, and Dante and the Un- orthodox, edited by James Miller, whereas the theological aspects of the Comedy are explored in Dante’s Commedia: Theology as Poetry, edited by Montemaggi and Matthew Treherne. On the subject of the commentators on the poem, see Interpreting Dante: Essays on the Traditions of Dante Commentary, edited by Paola Nasti and Claudia Rossignoli; for the nature of the relationship between Petrarch and Dante, see Petrarch and Dante: Anti- Dantism, Metaphysics, Tra- dition, edited by Barański and Cachey; on the place of politics, theology, and po- etry in Dante’s works, see “Se mai continga . . . ”: Exile, Politics and Theology in Dante, edited by Honess and Treherne, and Dante and Governance, edited by John Wood house; on the subject of the nature of desire, see Desire in Dante and the Middle Ages, edited by Gragnolati, Tristan Kay, Elena Lombardi, and Franc- esca Southerden. Studi americani su Dante, edited by Gian Carlo Alessio and Robert Hollander, with an introduction to American criticism on Dante by Dante Della Terza, pre sents essays by American scholars in Italian translation. At times, journals dedicate special issues or supplements to a par tic u lar topic in Dante, as did The Italianist on the subject of Dante and the poetic genres of comedy, tragedy, satire, and lyric in“Libri Poetarum in Quattuor Species Divid- untur”: Essays on Dante and Genre, edited by Barański. Others contain essays on wide- ranging topics, such as Cervigni’s Dante and Modern American Criti- cism and Iannucci’s Dante Today, which includes both essays and book reviews. Some essay collections follow the same open- ended criteria, including Dante: Con temporary Perspectives, edited by Iannucci; in contrast, others reprint classic essays, such as Critical Essays on Dante, edited by Mazzotta, which pre- sents portions from medieval and Re nais sance commentators and several twentieth- century essays; and Harold Bloom’s four edited volumes: Dante, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri (2003), and Dante Alighieri (2004), a con ve nient source for a number of well- known essays published from the 1950s to the 1990s. Some Festschriften pay tribute to dantisti and often include a number of es- says on the Florentine poet. For example, two of these volumes honor Charles S. Singleton: Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, edited by Aldo  S. Bernardo and An- thony  L. Pellegrini, and In ricordo di Charles  S. Singleton, a special issue of Filologia e critica. Similar volumes recognize the contributions to Dante schol- arship of John  A. Scott, “Legato con Amore in un Volume,” edited by John  J. Kinder and Diana Glenn; Robert Hollander, Le culture di Dante, edited by Michelangelo Picone et al.; John Freccero, Sparks and Seeds, edited by Dana E. Stewart and Cornish; Giuseppe Mazzotta, Tra Amici, edited by Walter Stephens; and Christopher Kleinhenz, “Accessus ad Auctores,” edited by Fabian Alfie and 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 11 12/13/19 12:31 PM 12 Instructor’s Library Andrea Dini. Moreover, there are volumes that feature the collected essays on the Florentine poet by Dante specialists, such as Freccero, Dante: The Poetics of Conversion, edited by Jacoff, and In Dante’s Wake, edited by Danielle Cal- legari and Melissa Swain; Barolini’s Dante and the Origins of Italian Literary Culture; the late Michelangelo Picone, Scritti danteschi, edited by Lanza; Kleinhenz’s Dante intertestuale e interdisciplinare: Saggi sulla Commedia; Winthrop Wetherbee’s The Ancient Flame: Dante and the Poets; and Richard Kay’s Dante’s Enigmas: Medieval Scholasticism and Beyond. A recent volume commemorates the scholarship of the late Amilcare A. Iannucci: Dantean Dia- logues: Engaging with the Legacy of Amilcare Iannucci, edited by Maggie Kilgour and Elena Lombardi. Pedagogical Materials After the publication of Carole Slade’s Approaches to Teaching Dante’s Divine Comedy, relatively few books—or even articles— dedicated to teaching Dante’s Comedy have appeared. Those few have generally been very useful, however, in charting the pedagogical course. Raffa’s The Complete Danteworlds must be seen as the printed counterpart to his Web site Danteworlds (danteworlds . laits . utexas . edu / ), which he developed at the University of Texas, Austin. It provides instructors and students with excellent overviews and finely detailed analyses of the entire poem, complete with study questions and a host of other materials. Two special “clusters” of essays on teaching Dante have appeared in the journal Peda- gogy.8 One is titled “Cluster on Multidisciplinary Approaches to Teaching Dante’s Commedia,” edited by Kirilka Stavreva, and contains ten essays that examine ways of teaching the poem from a variety of disciplinary perspectives and for a wide range of student audiences. The other is called “Cluster on Teaching Dante’s Divine Comedy Vertically,” edited by Schildgen, and pre sents an introduction and six essays that offer examples of the benefits of reading the poem “vertically,” that is, by examining parallel cantos in each canticle prospectively and retrospectively.9 Dante and the Visual Arts, Tele vi sion, Cinema, Lit er a ture, and Music Over the past few de cades we have witnessed a great flowering of interest in Dante’s appropriation of artistic imagery in his poem and in the myriad artistic images his poem has spawned, ranging from manuscript illuminations and Re- nais sance woodcuts to nineteenth- and twentieth- century illustrations. In addi- tion, the variegated presence of Dante’s poem in the media and as the subject of cinematographic repre sen ta tion is a relatively new area of interest, research, and teaching. Four edited volumes treat recent interpretations of Dante’s poem in vari ous media: Gragnolati, Fabio Camilletti, and Fabian Lampart, Metamorphosing 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 12 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 13 Dante: Appropriations, Manipulations, and Rewritings in the Twentieth and Twenty- First Centuries; Antonella Braida and Luisa Calè, Dante on View: The Reception of Dante in the Visual and Performing Arts; Iannucci, Dante, Cin- ema, and Tele vi sion; and Massimo Ciavolella and Gianluca Rizzo, Like Doves Summoned by Desire: Dante’s New Life in Twentieth- Century Lit er a ture and Cinema. The essays in these collections analyze a range of interpretations, translations, and adaptations of the Comedy into static and moving images, as well as per for mance art, from the nineteenth to the twenty- first centuries, in- cluding analyses of works that range from the Pre- Raphaelite artists to Salvador Dalí and Peter Greenaway, as well as the African American director Spencer Williams, and many more. Two recent monographs on the appropriation of Dante in a variety of media, from lit er a ture to film and the visual arts, are In- ferno Revealed: From Dante to Dan Brown by Deborah Parker and Mark Parker and Palinsesti danteschi: Riscrivere la Commedia, da Garibaldi all’era del digitale by Antonio Rossini. Far more numerous are the studies of Dante’s reception in a single artistic medium: painting, sculpture, lit er a ture, and film. In addition to the earlier landmark volumes (e.g., Ludwig Volkmann, Iconografia Dantesca: The Picto- rial Repre sen ta tions to Dante’s Divine Comedy; Peter Brieger, Millard Meiss, and Singleton, Illuminated Manuscripts of the Divine Comedy; and Giovanni Fallani, Dante e la cultura figurativa medievale), some more recent studies treat the influence of the visual arts on Dante and the afterlife of the poem in paintings, such as Cassell, Dante’s Fearful Art of Justice; Eugene Paul Nassar, Illustrations to Dante’s Inferno; Charles H. Taylor and Patricia Finley, Images of the Journey in Dante’s Divine Comedy; Laura Pasquini, Iconografie dante- sche: Dalla luce del mosaico all’ immagine profetica; and C. Jean Campbell, The Commonwealth of Nature: Art and Poetic Community in the Age of Dante. In addition to the essays by Aida Audeh and by Heather Webb in this volume, studies that strictly treat the early visual interpretations of the poem include John Pope- Hennessy, Paradiso: The Illuminations to Dante’s Divine Comedy by Giovanni di Paolo; and Hein- Th. Schulze Altcappenberg, Sandro Botticelli: The Drawings for Dante’s Divine Comedy. Numerous other titles attend to the modern artistic interpretation of Dante during and after the eigh teenth century, analyzing works by William Blake, John Flaxman, Auguste Rodin, and Gustave Doré; these include The Doré Illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy; Milton Klonsky, Blake’s Dante: The Complete Illustrations to the Divine Comedy; An- toinette Le Normand- Romain, Rodin: The Gates of Hell; Flaxman’s The Illus- trations for Dante’s Divine Comedy, edited by Francesca Salvadori; David Bindman, Stephen Hebron, and Michael O’Neill, Dante Rediscovered: From Blake to Rodin; and Eric Pyle, William Blake’s Illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy. A comprehensive treatment of modern artists interpreting Dante, from Renato Guttuso to Salvador Dalí, can be found in Jean- Pierre Barricelli, Dante’s Vision and the Artist: Four Modern Illustrators of the Commedia. Two recent interpretations of Dante include the British artist Tom Phillips’s Dante’s 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 13 12/13/19 12:31 PM 14 Instructor’s Library Inferno and the American artist Sandow Birk’s three- volume set, Dante’s Inferno, Dante’s Purgatorio, Dante’s Paradiso. Phillips also collaborated with Peter Greenaway for A TV Dante on British tele vi sion. The literary afterlife of Dante’s poem in Anglophone lit er a ture has been extensively examined by Havely in his monograph Dante’s British Public: Read- ers and Texts, from the Fourteenth Century to the Pre sent and several edited volumes: Dante’s Modern Afterlife: Reception and Response from Blake to Heaney; Dante in the Nineteenth Century: Reception, Canonicity, Populariza- tion; and, with Aida Audeh, Dante in the Long Nineteenth Century: Nationality, Identity, and Appropriation. Two other studies on the reception of Dante in the nineteenth century are those by Braida, Dante and the Romantics, and Ali- son Milbank, Dante and the Victorians. Those interested in the figure of Bea- trice during this period should consult A Victorian Muse: The After life of Dante’s Beatrice in Nineteenth- Century Lit er a ture by Julia Straub. Most re- cently, Dennis Looney has published a groundbreaking study of the African American reception of Dante in Freedom Readers: The African American Re- ception of Dante Alighieri and the Divine Comedy. Fi nally, the interpretation of Dante in music has been addressed by Maria Ann Roglieri in Dante and Music: Musical Adaptations of the Commedia from the Sixteenth Century to the Pre- sent and by Francesco Ciabattoni in his volume Dante’s Journey to Polyphony. Digital Humanities Proj ects and Resources Among the numerous Web sites dedicated to Dante, the following are espe- cially recommended for their wealth of materials and for their ease of use. Digital Dante (Columbia University; digitaldante . columbia . edu / ) features the Comedy in the Petrocchi edition along with the En glish translations of Mandelbaum and Longfellow. Each canto is accompanied by illustrations from an image gallery, readings, original commentary (the “Commento Baroliniano” by Barolini), and videos of class lectures. Additionally, it features an “Intertex- tual Dante” page with a focus on the relationship between Dante and other authors (such as Ovid), a wide range of images (Sandow Birk’s works and images from Columbia’s Rare Book and Manuscript Library), readings of the poem and of vari ous sestinas, historical commentary, and vari ous other works by Dante with En glish translations. Dante Lab Reader (Dartmouth College; dantelab . dartmouth . edu / ) is an elaboration on the earlier but ongoing Dartmouth Dante Proj ect (see below) and offers a customizable digital work space for the student of Dante. The user can compare many combinations of the poem, translations, and commentaries, and up to four individual searches si mul ta neously on one screen. Drawing on numerous texts from seven hundred years of the commentary tradition, the Dante Lab Reader filters over 300,000 lines of text from the poem, the com- mentary, and vari ous English- language translations. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 14 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 15 Dartmouth Dante Proj ect (Dartmouth College; dante . dartmouth . edu / ) is an excellent resource of over seventy commentaries (in Italian, Latin, and En glish) to the Comedy, from Jacopo Alighieri (1322) to Fosca (2015), allows for rapid consultation of this rich and varied tradition and could easily be adapted to classroom exercises at vari ous levels, depending on the language abilities of the students. Prince ton Dante Proj ect (Prince ton University; etcweb . princeton . edu / dante / index . html) features a traditional approach to the digital study of Dante’s Com- edy by featuring the poem at the center of its Web site while allowing the user to consult and search the Petrocchi text of the poem, new translations into En- glish, the texts of all of Dante’s minor works (in original Italian or Latin and in En glish translation), readings of the poem in the original, historical, and inter- pretative commentaries, and links to other Dante digital proj ects. The World of Dante (University of Virginia; www . worldofdante . org / index . html), developed by Deborah Parker, offers multimedia resources to enhance one’s reading of the Comedy. It features an encoded Italian text that allows for structured searches and analyses ( People, Places, Creatures, Deities, Struc- tures, Images, Music), Mandelbaum’s En glish translation, interactive maps (of the poem’s locations and Dante’s Italy), diagrams, music (with recordings by Zephyrus, an early music vocal ensemble), a database, a time line, and a gallery of illustrations from a variety of artists. Danteworlds (University of Texas, Austin; danteworlds . laits . utexas . edu / ), de- veloped by Guy Raffa, contains an abridged version of the commentaries on each canto from The Complete Danteworlds: A Reader’s Guide to the Divine Comedy; a gallery of images by Vellutello, John Flaxman, Gustave Doré, and Suloni Robertson; and audio recordings of key verses in the original Italian, which are structured around the locations in Dante’s afterlife vision. Dante Today: Citings and Sightings of Dante’s Works in Con temporary Cul- ture (Bowdoin College and Stanford University; research . bowdoin . edu / dante - today / ), founded by Arielle Saiber and edited by Saiber and Elizabeth Cogge- shall, is a crowd-sourced repository for appearances of Dante in popu lar culture. Anyone can submit a “citing” of Dante in popu lar culture (categorized on the Web site as “Consumer Goods,” “Dining and Leisure,” “ Music,” “Performing Arts,” “Places,” “Visual Art and Architecture,” “Written Word”), which are then selected by the editors for posting. The site provides a digital archive for these references that can serve as data for students and scholars of Dante’s works and their afterlife. Dante Society of Amer i ca (www . dantesociety . org / about - society) has many useful features, including Dante Notes and the American Dante Bibliography. Dante Notes features current and engaging research and pedagogy proj ects related to Dante. Now featured on this site, the annual American Dante Bibli- ography includes all publications relating to Dante (books, articles, translations, reviews) written by North American writers or published in North Amer i ca for the calendar year, as well as reviews of books from elsewhere published in the 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 15 12/13/19 12:31 PM 16 Instructor’s Library United States and Canada. In 2017 the Dante Society of Amer i ca and the Soci- età Dantesca Italiana (SDI) signed a partnership agreement to collaborate on the production of a new, bilingual version of the Bibliografia Dantesca Inter- nazionale (BDI; International Dante Bibliography), with enhanced search capabilities. This power ful bibliographical instrument also integrates the mate- rials published in the annual American Dante Bibliography. Società Dantesca Italiana (dantesca . org / cms / ) features links to the Bibliografia Dantesca Internazionale (International Dante Bibliography), which it main- tains. The BDI now includes more citations for Dante criticism published in North Amer i ca. The SDI sponsors the Web site Dante Online (www . danteonline . it / english / home _ ita . asp), which includes an ample se lection of Dante’s works in the original and in translation, a bibliography, and an index of manuscripts. Divine Comedy Image Archive (Cornell University; divinecomedy . library . cornell . edu / index . html) is a repository of scanned images from illustrated edi- tions of Dante’s poem found in the Fiske Dante Collection, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library. These images derive from editions of the Divine Comedy published from the incunabula period (ending in 1500) through the early twentieth century, and the digital collection aims to include approximately two thousand images from illustrated editions of the Comedy from 1487 to 1921, which are mostly engravings (woodcut, copper, or steel). These resources have had a great and positive influence on the content and conduct of undergraduate courses on Dante in both Italian and En glish, for gen- eralist and specialist audiences alike, particularly insofar as they offer images, audio recordings, commentary, online texts and databases, and complex search engines, in addition to teaching materials. NOTES 1 Some survey respondents indicated their profitable use of other Italian editions. Celestina Beneforti provides annotated editions of selected cantos (with parallel text in modern Italian) from all three canticles, and Cristina Savettieri and Raffaele Donna- rumma pre sent an edition of and commentary on selected cantos with a supplemental CD- ROM (Divina commedia: Testi letterari). Stefano Jacomuzzi pre sents all one hun- dred cantos, accompanied by a modern Italian paraphrase and a rich se lection of icono graphical images in color. In their edition intended for Italian secondary schools, Robert Hollander and Simone Marchesi provide the entire text of the poem with an Italian paraphrase and extensive commentary on eleven cantos in each canticle as well as introductory material and sets of exercises. Giovanni Fallani, Nicola Maggi, and Silvio Zennaro include complete annotated editions of all Dante’s works. 2 On this issue the principal critics are Michele Barbi, whose 1907 edition (and divi- sion into forty- two chapters) was considered the standard text until fairly recently; Dino S. Cervigni and Edward Vasta, who presented the text without chapter or para- graph divisions; and Guglielmo Gorni, who divides the work into thirty- one chapters. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 16 12/13/19 12:31 PM Instructor’s Library 17 3 All Dante’s works, in Italian or Latin and in En glish translation, are available at Prince ton Dante Proj ect (etcweb . princeton . edu / dante / pdp / ). 4 For a broad se lection of earlier works on Dante, see Carole Slade’s listings in the 1982 Approaches volume (3–31). 5 Singleton’s revised edition (1968) of Toynbee’s Dante Dictionary (1898) is still a good resource. 6 Mazzotta’s main entry on Dante’s life is followed by shorter pieces on “Comedia,” “Commentaries,” “Convivio,” “De vulgari eloquentia,” “Monarchia,” and “Vita nuova.” 7 The volumes published are International Dante Seminar, edited by Zygmunt  G. Barański; Dante: Mito e poesia, edited by Michelangelo Picone and Tatiana Crivelli; Dante: Da Firenze all’aldilà, edited by Picone; Le culture di Dante: Studi in onore di Robert Hollander, edited by Picone, Theodore J. Cachey, Jr., and Margherita Mesirca; and Dante the Lyric and Ethical Poet, edited by Barański and Martin L. McLaughlin. 8 Both these groups of essays had their origin in a seminar or institute funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities. 9 Instructors are no doubt aware that other, perhaps less nuanced, teaching aids exist, such as Angelo A. De Gennaro’s The Reader’s Companion to Dante’s Divine Comedy and Joseph Gallagher’s To Hell and Back with Dante. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 17 12/13/19 12:31 PM WORKS CITED Works by Dante The Banquet. Translated by Christopher Ryan, Anma Libri, 1989. Comedia. Edited by Federico Sanguineti, Sismel Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2001. The Comedy of Dante Alighieri the Florentine: I: Hell; II: Purgatory. Translated with an introduction by Dorothy L. Sayers, Penguin Books, 1971. The Comedy of Dante Alighieri the Florentine: Cantica III: Paradise. Translated by Dorothy L. Sayers and Barbara Reynolds, Penguin Books, 1962. La commedia. Edited by Robert Hollander and Simone Marchesi, Loescher, 2016. Commedia: A Digital Edition. Edited by Prue Shaw, Scholarly Digital Editions / Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2010. Commedia: Inferno. Edited by Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi, Arnoldo Mondadori, 1991. Commedia: Inferno. Edited by Emilio Pasquini and Antonio Enzo Quaglio, Garzanti, 1988. Commedia: Nuovo testo critico secondo i più antichi manoscritti fiorentini. Edited by Antonio Lanza, De Rubeis, 1995. Commedia: Paradiso. Edited by Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi, Arnoldo Mondadori, 1997. Commedia: Paradiso. Edited by Emilio Pasquini and Antonio Enzo Quaglio, Garzanti, 1988. Commedia: Purgatorio. Edited by Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi, Arnoldo Monda- dori, 1994. Commedia: Purgatorio. Edited by Emilio Pasquini and Antonio Enzo Quaglio, Garzanti, 1988. La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata. Edited by Giorgio Petrocchi, Mondadori, 1966–67. 4 vols. Convivio. Edited by Cesare Vasoli, Opere Minori, vol. 1, pt. 2, Ricciardi, 1979, pp. 3–885. Convivio. Translated by Andrew Frisardi, Cambridge UP, 2018. The Convivio of Dante. Translated by Richard Lansing. 1990. Digital Dante, Columbia University Libraries, digitaldante . columbia . edu / library / dantes - works / the - convivio / . Il Convivio (The Banquet). Translated by Richard Lansing, Garland, 1990. Dante Alighieri: Four Po liti cal Letters. Translated by Claire Honess, Modern Humani- ties Research Association, 2007. Dante’s Inferno. Adapted by Sandow Birk and Marcus Sanders, illustrated by Birk, Chronicle Books, 2004. Dante’s Inferno: The First Part of The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Translated and illustrated by Tom Phillips, Thames and Hudson, 1985. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 271 12/13/19 12:31 PM 272 Works Cited Dante’s Lyric Poetry. Translated by Kenelm Foster and Patrick Boyde. Oxford UP, 1967. 2 vols. Dante’s Lyric Poetry: Poems of Youth and of the Vita Nuova (1283–1292). Edited by Teodolinda Barolini, translated by Richard Lansing, U of Toronto P, 2014.   Dante’s Monarchia. Translated by Richard Kay, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1998. Dante’s Paradise. Translated by Mark Musa, Indiana UP, 1984. Dante’s Paradiso. Adapted by Sandow Birk and Marcus Sanders, illustrated by Birk, Chronicle Books, 2005. Dante’s Purgatorio. Adapted by Sandow Birk and Marcus Sanders, illustrated by Birk, Chronicle Books, 2005. Dante’s Vita Nuova. Translated by Mark Musa, Indiana UP, 1973. Dantis Alagherii Epistolae: The Letters of Dante. Translated by Paget Toynbee, 2nd ed., Oxford UP, 1966. De vulgari eloquentia. Edited and translated by Steven Botterill, Cambridge UP, 1996. De Vulgari Eloquentia: Dante’s Book of Exile. Translated by Marianne Shapiro, U of Nebraska P, 1990. La divina commedia. Edited by Umberto Bosco and Giovanni Reggio, Le Monnier, 1979. 3 vols. La divina commedia. Edited by Nicola Fosca, Aracne, 2018. La divina commedia. Edited by Stefano Jacomuzzi, Società Editrice Internazionale, 2008. La divina commedia. Edited by Natalino Sapegno, La Nuova Italia, 1985. 3 vols. Divina commedia: Testi letterari, strumenti didattici, percorsi interdisciplinari, prospettive multiculturali. Edited by Cristina Savettieri and Raffaele Donna- rumma, Palumbo, 2007. The Divine Comedy. Translated by Laurence Binyon. 1943. The Portable Dante, edited by Paolo Milano, Viking Press, 1947, pp. 1–544. The Divine Comedy. Translated by Clive James, Picador, 2012. The Divine Comedy. Translated with commentary by Charles S. Singleton, Prince ton UP, 1970–75. 3 vols. in 6 parts. Includes the Italian text edited by Giorgio Petrocchi. The Divine Comedy: Inferno. Translated by Robert M. Durling, edited by Durling and Ronald L. Martinez, Oxford UP, 1996. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Boston, Ticknor and Fields, 1867. 3 vols. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Translated by John D. Sinclair. 1939. Oxford UP, 1978. 3 vols. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: Inferno. Translated by Allen Mandelbaum, Bantam, 1982. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: Paradiso. Translated by Allen Mandelbaum, Bantam, 1984. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: Purgatorio. Translated by Allen Mandelbaum, Bantam, 1984. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 272 12/13/19 12:31 PM Works Cited 273 The Divine Comedy: Paradiso. Translated by Robert M. Durling, edited by Durling and Ronald L. Martinez, Oxford UP, 2011. The Divine Comedy: Purgatorio. Translated by Robert M. Durling, edited by Durling and Ronald L. Martinez, Oxford UP, 2003. The Divine Comedy: Inferno. Translated by Mark Musa, Penguin Books, 1971. The Inferno. Edited and translated by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, introduc- tion and notes by R. Hollander, Doubleday, 2000. The Inferno. Translated by John Ciardi. 1965. Signet Classic, 2001. Inferno. Translated by Anthony Esolen, Modern Library, 2002. Inferno. Translated by Robin Kirkpatrick, Penguin Books, 2006. Inferno. Translated by Stanley Lombardo, introduction by Steven Botterill, notes by Anthony Oldcorn, Hackett, 2009. Inferno. Translated by Mark Musa, Penguin Books, 1984. Inferno. Translated with an introduction and notes by Mary Jo Bang, illustrated by Henrik Drescher, Graywolf Press, 2012. The Inferno: A Verse Rendering for the Modern Reader. Translated by John Ciardi, New American Library, 1954. Inferno: Canti scelti. Edited by Celestina Beneforti, Bonacci, 1996. The Inferno of Dante: A New Verse Translation. Translated by Robert Pinsky, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994. Monarchy. Translated by Prue Shaw, Cambridge UP, 1995. The New Life. Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, New York Review of Books, 2002. Paradise. Translated by Anthony Esolen, Modern Library, 2004. Paradiso. Edited and translated by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, introduction and notes by R. Hollander, Doubleday, 2007. Paradiso. Translated by Robin Kirkpatrick, Penguin Books, 2007. Paradiso. Translated by Stanley Lombardo, introduction and notes by Alison Cornish, Hackett, 2017. The Paradiso: A Verse Rendering for the Modern Reader. Translated by John Ciardi, New American Library, 1970. Paradiso: Canti scelti. Edited by Celestina Beneforti, Bonacci, 1996. The Portable Dante. Translated by Mark Musa, Penguin Books, 1995. Purgatorio. Edited and translated by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, introduc- tion and notes by R. Hollander, Doubleday, 2003. Purgatorio. Translated by Robin Kirkpatrick, Penguin Books, 2007. Purgatorio. Translated by Stanley Lombardo, introduction by Claire E. Honess and Matthew Treherne, notes by Ruth Chester, Hackett, 2016. The Purgatorio: A Verse Rendering for the Modern Reader. Translated by John Ciardi, New American Library, 1961. Purgatorio: Canti scelti. Edited by Celestina Beneforti, Bonacci, 1996. Purgatory. Translated by Anthony Esolen, Modern Library, 2003. Tutte le opere. Edited by Giovanni Fallani et al., Newton Compton, 2011. 320-81809_ch01_6P.indd 273 12/13/19 12:31 PM 274 Works Cited Vita Nova. Translated by Andrew Frisardi, Northwestern UP, 2012. Vita nova. Edited by Guglielmo Gorni, Einaudi, 1996. La vita nuova. Edited by Michele Barbi, Hoepli, 1907. Vita nuova. Edited and translated by Dino S. Cervigni and Edward Vasta, U of Notre Dame P, 1995. Vita Nuova. Translated by Anthony Robert Mortimer, Oneworld Classics, 2011. Vita Nuova. Translated by Mark Musa, Indiana UP, 1973. Vita Nuova. Translated with an introduction and notes by Mark Musa, Oxford UP, 2008. La Vita Nuova. Translated by David R. Slavitt, Harvard UP, 2010. 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work_ychvndz2urdcbblqjwe3zq63r4	----	Teaching Dante in the History of Christian Theology religions Article Teaching Dante in the History of Christian Theology Bryan J. Whitfield Department of Religion, Mercer University, 1501 Mercer University Drive, Macon, GA 31201, USA; whitfield_bj@mercer.edu Received: 20 March 2019; Accepted: 5 June 2019; Published: 7 June 2019 ���������� ������� Abstract: Outside of core curriculum programs or Great Books classes, few undergraduates who are not literature majors read and discuss Dante’s Divine Comedy. This paper describes the redesign of a course in the history of Christian theology as a model for integrating the study of Dante into additional contexts within general education. Reading Dante not only as poet but also as theologian can enhance students’ learning and their engagement with medieval theology. A focused reading of Paradiso provides a novel and exciting way for a survey course in historical theology to balance general education’s needs for both breadth and depth. At the same time, reading Dante also helps students to experience the significant intersections of culture and theology in the medieval period. Keywords: Dante; pedagogy; history of theology; core and general education curricula; interdisciplinarity; medieval theology; literary studies 1. Introduction With respect to Dante, I was one of the lucky ones. As a college sophomore, I stumbled into an introductory literature course where the Inferno was the climax of the treatment of the hero’s journey traced through Homer and Virgil to Dante. That class led me to become a comparative literature major and to enroll in an upper-level course on medieval narrative where I read the Paradiso. But most undergraduates in the early twenty-first century are not so blessed. Few have multiple opportunities to read and discuss the Commedia. My current teaching context is a case in point. The college has two general education tracks. In the Great Books track, students read the Commedia in its entirety during the spring of their sophomore year. But in the more traditional distributional track that comprises nearly ninety percent of the student population, there are no general education courses where students read Dante. What is more surprising is that the Commedia appears on only one other reading list for a course in the college. If my context is representative, it suggests that those of us who value Dante’s central contribution to the Christian and Western intellectual traditions must be intentional about creating space for students to read the Commedia. This paper sketches my initial attempt to teach Dante within the context of a distributional general education program. I offer it as a model for integrating Dante into a discipline-specific course, reflecting on my institutional context, weighing Dante’s role as a theologian, and outlining elements of course design and objectives before suggesting some strategies for teaching Dante across the curriculum. 2. Finding Spaces in an Institutional Context Within our college’s distributional track, students take one course from several options in the area of Western Heritage. These courses span several departments, including history, philosophy, English, classics, and religion. Religion 270, History of Christian Theology, is one course among these options. The catalogue describes this course as a “study of the ways Christian theology both Religions 2019, 10, 372; doi:10.3390/rel10060372 www.mdpi.com/journal/religions http://www.mdpi.com/journal/religions http://www.mdpi.com https://orcid.org/0000-0001-8318-1297 http://www.mdpi.com/2077-1444/10/6/372?type=check_update&version=1 http://dx.doi.org/10.3390/rel10060372 http://www.mdpi.com/journal/religions Religions 2019, 10, 372 2 of 5 shapes and is shaped by developments in Western culture from the rise of Christianity through the contemporary era.” Any instructor offering this undergraduate “History of Christian Theology” faces significant challenges. Primary among these is the course’s span: “the rise of Christianity through the contemporary era.” That long arc poses an inevitable tension between breadth and depth. Given this description, the typical course offering focuses on medieval theology for three to four weeks. Students normally read chapters from a secondary text on the history of Christian thought as well as primary texts. In recent years, instructors have used as secondary texts Alister McGrath’s Historical Theology or Justo Gonzalez’s A History of Christian Thought: In One Volume, along with primary readings from either McGrath’s accompanying reader or Hugh Kerr’s Readings in Christian Thought (McGrath 2013; Gonzalez 2014; McGrath 2016; Kerr 1990). These primary text selections may include readings from Anselm, Abelard, Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter Lombard, Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, William Ockham, Catherine of Siena, Julian of Norwich, and Thomas à Kempis. Given this welter of names and related theological topics, the instructor’s challenge is to find ways to help students to understand both the larger picture of medieval theology and the development of theology across time. A second challenge arising from the stated goal is that the course will explore the ways theology and Western culture interact. This exploration is particularly significant for the medieval period. Christian theology distinctively shapes the medieval world of Christendom. As such, it provides the paradigmatic example of the interaction of theology and culture in the West. Any effective study of the medieval period requires students to integrate insights from several disciplines, so successful students of the period must bring together theological and philosophical reading with insights from the arts, agriculture, politics, and economic life. Given these challenges, I argue that Dante deserves consideration as a medieval theologian. Redesigning this course so that students read Dante’s Paradiso for a month as their common primary reading provides a novel and exciting response to both challenges, as it balances breadth and depth while addressing the interaction of culture and theology. A guided reading of the Paradiso as theology provides an innovative and creative design for teaching the history of medieval theology that can enhance students’ learning and engagement. 3. Considering Dante as Theologian Some faculty and students may object at the outset to such a project, arguing that Dante belongs in a literature course but not a course in theology. Before exploring course design in detail, therefore, I offer a brief rationale for Dante’s inclusion in this course with a consideration of Dante as theologian. Specialists continue to debate whether the Commedia is “theology”. Zygmunt Baranski, for example, concludes that in terms of philology, it is inaccurate to label Dante as a theologian or his work as theology (Baranski 2013a, 2013b). Yet, as Vittorio Montemaggi argues, even Baranski’s own work shows both that Dante intended for his poem to effect spiritual change in his readers’ lives and that he was in line with prevailing theological currents (Montemaggi 2016, p. 62). Dante does not align himself with a particular theological school, since he is aware the divine mystery tempers all human conceptualization of God. Yet Montemaggi argues for the Commedia as theology because it “can help us deepen, enrich, and refine our understanding of what theology is or could be. From our contemporary perspective it makes sense—it can, indeed, be fruitful—to refer to the Commedia as theology, as discourse and inquiry about God wishing to aid us in our comprehension of our relationship with, and in our journeying into the divine” (Montemaggi 2016, p. 63). 4. Outlining the Course Design Over the course of the five-week unit on medieval theology, students meet twice weekly for a total of ten seventy-five-minute class sessions. Individual students are responsible for leading discussion on primary texts throughout the semester. They prepare a brief biographical overview of the author as well as discussion questions and small group activities for the class in consultation with Religions 2019, 10, 372 3 of 5 me. That pattern continues during our work with Dante and the other medieval theologians. At the end of the unit, students produce a close reading of one canto in Paradiso that interacts with one or two of the theologians we have studied. Given that framework, the ten sessions move through a reading of Paradiso, often paired with readings from medieval theologians. As much as possible, I use readings in the assigned collection of primary texts, but I also provide supplemental readings as needed. The following discussion provides a sketch of those pairings for some of the class sessions. Before our initial meeting, for example, students read the first three cantos alongside selections from Augustine’s Confessions, including the opening paragraphs and selections on time and eternity, as well as from Pseudo-Dionysius’s The Mystical Theology (Kerr 1990, pp. 52–60, 64–65; Baxter 2018, pp. 123–33, 139–44; Pseudo-Dionysius 1987, pp. 133–41). These readings lead them to a deeper understanding of the ineffability of God and Dante’s inability to describe his heavenly vision fully (Par. 1.1–36). For the second meeting, students read selections from Augustine on free will and predestination to engage those themes in Paradiso 4 and 5 as Beatrice answers Dante’s questions about the broken vows of Piccarda and Constance (Kerr 1990, pp. 61–62). The third meeting features readings from Anselm and Abelard on atonement that pair with Beatrice’s explanation of the way of redemption in Paradiso 7—a composite of the positions of Anselm and Thomas Aquinas (Kerr 1990, pp. 82–95; Hawkins 2006, p. 109). This canto also frames a broader discussion of divine love in Dante. As Peter Hawkins argues, this material provides a clear example of Dante’s work as a theological teacher, as he presents the tradition through the words of Beatrice, offers a survey of possible understandings, and selects one theological position among others (Hawkins 2006, p. 109). In the fourth meeting, readings from Thomas Aquinas and Francis of Assisi pair with Paradiso 10–12, where Dante the pilgrim hears the story of St. Francis from the Dominican St. Thomas and that of St. Dominic from the Franciscan St. Bonaventure (Kerr 1990, pp. 101–19). This pairing provides students with the opportunity to grasp differences between these two founders of competing religious orders but also to see how Dante’s use of metaphor underscores their commonalities, creating two encircling wreaths of souls that even include Aquinas’s archenemy, Siger of Brabant. Dante’s heaven, as Jason Baxter observes, is a vibrant unity of song and dance that nonetheless contains “an uncompromising diversity and plurality” (Baxter 2018, p. 160). Many of the later class meetings focus almost exclusively on Paradiso, and students work collaboratively in class to understand what their reading of Dante is teaching them about theology. Dante’s theological examination in Paradiso 24, 25, and 26, for example, provides an occasion for reflection on the theological virtues. But the last class meeting returns to the pattern of pairing Paradiso with readings from other theologians: the final cantos of Paradiso lend themselves to the comparison of Dante’s account with other mystical visions, like those of Dante’s final guide, Bernard of Clairvaux, as well as those of Catherine of Siena and Julian of Norwich (Kerr 1990, pp. 96–98, 125–30). Instructors who have less time allotted for the unit on medieval theology can easily adapt this approach, since their students can still read some cantos of Paradiso alongside their study of particular theologians or topics. Pairing Paradiso 1 with a discussion of ineffability or Paradiso 7 with medieval discussions of atonement, for example, works well without the rest of the framework sketched above. 5. Meeting Course Objectives This five-week unit on the Paradiso preserves the breadth of theological voices and significant doctrinal discussions that students would encounter reading select primary texts alongside a secondary history of Christian thought. The process helps students to gain an appreciation for the broad consensus of medieval theology that Dante often presents, but it also enables them to grasp a range of theological positions. On the pages of Paradiso, they can begin to approach theology as a conversation. They can begin to see that theology is a living tradition, so that in the words of Alistair McIntyre, it is “an historically extended, socially embodied argument” (McIntyre 1984, p. 222). Dante often brings Religions 2019, 10, 372 4 of 5 different positions together on one page, modeling the work of the theologian in presenting alternatives and taking positions on various questions. Dante thus teaches students not only the ideas of theology but also something of the process of reflection and engagement with the theological tradition, providing a depth to the study of medieval theology other texts do not as easily convey. Reading Dante in the history of theology also provides students with at least three ways to understand the interaction of theology and Western culture in a profound way through their encounter with Dante’s “sacred poem” (Par. 25.1). First, any reader of the poem encounters Dante’s capacious vision that reaches beyond theology to embrace all parts of life, from politics to erotic love to astronomy, all presented alongside the theological concepts with which Dante interacts. Theology is not a discipline removed from other spheres of life but integral to them—and reading Dante makes that clearer than other approaches to teaching the history of the tradition. Secondly, Dante’s writing provides a crucial demonstration of the ways the Christian tradition shapes the West and is at the same time shaped by the culture, as he both receives and transforms the theological tradition he inherits. He affirms his beliefs in central theological tenets while at the same time putting his own stamp on them. As Peter Hawkins puts it, “he gave us a new account of everything old” (Hawkins 2006, p. 130). Finally, Dante provides an opportunity to examine the influence of theology on Western culture through an examination of what Hawkins has called “his afterlife”. Hawkins traces Dante’s influence on the subsequent literary tradition, including Geoffrey Chaucer, John Milton, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Seamus Heaney, among others. Dante’s influence on the tradition of visual arts is equally extensive, ranging from William Blake to Joshua Reynolds to Dante Gabriel Rossetti (Hawkins, p. 137–50). Similarly, Joan Acocella underscores the influence of Dante on composers—Franz Liszt’s Dante Symphony and Pyotr Illich Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da Rimini: Symphonic Fantasy after Dante, Op. 32 (Acocella 2013). For some class sessions, I have students listen to parts of these compositions or read short extracts of poems where Dante’s influence appears. Dante’s afterlife continues even in more contemporary cultural expressions. Hawkins also notes Dante’s influence on the New Yorker cartoons of Robert Mankoff and Edward Frascino and the comics of Gary Panter, as well as a variety of films and television shows (Hawkins 2006, pp. 131–37, 150–53, 159–63). Other authors like Rod Dreher make the case that reading Dante provides wisdom for shaping contemporary lives (Dreher 2015). These examples, along with others, indicate that students who read Paradiso find themselves better equipped to meet the course goal of understanding the interaction of theology and Western culture. 6. Teaching Dante across the Curriculum This course redesign suggests a possible model for introducing students to Dante in the context of general education. The first step is for instructors to brainstorm about places where Dante might find a foothold in their institution’s current general education curriculum, even in places where connections are not immediately apparent. Instructors might consider reading Dante in a survey course in Western civilization, or in medieval history or literature. Instructors might develop a literature course where students could trace his influence in literature and the arts. Courses that examine the themes of community or exiles and refugees—in the humanities or in political science—might find room for Dante as well. Once instructors identify possible courses, they will need to consider ways Dante satisfies and enriches the goals that a specific course description sets out, preparing to make the case for Dante’s inclusion as needed with departments or college curriculum committees and students. Beyond that, they will begin to develop specific plans for integrating Dante into their course, developing reading lists, planning activities, and crafting assignments. In taking up this task, instructors will enable students to stumble across the Commedia in expected and unexpected places. In so doing, they may help them to discover that this poem is, as one of my students put it, a living text. In reading and discussing Dante, they—both instructors and students—may find themselves as well among the lucky ones, among the blessed. Religions 2019, 10, 372 5 of 5 Funding: This research received no external funding. Conflicts of Interest: The author declares no conflict of interest. References Acocella, Joan. 2013. What the Hell: Dante in Translation and Dan Brown’s New Novel. The New Yorker, May 27. Baranski, Zygmunt G. 2013a. (Un)orthodox Dante. In Reviewing Dante’s Theology. Edited by Claire E. Honess and Matthew Treherne. Bern: Peter Lang, vol. 2, pp. 253–330. Baranski, Zygmunt G. 2013b. Dante and Doctrine (and Theology). In Reviewing Dante’s Theology. Edited by Claire E. Honess and Matthew Treherne. Bern: Peter Lang, vol. 1, pp. 9–63. Baxter, Jason M. 2018. A Beginner’s Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. Dreher, Rod. 2015. How Dante Can Save Your Live: The Life-Changing Wisdom of History’s Greatest Poem. New York: Regan Arts. Gonzalez, Justo L. 2014. A History of Christian Thought: In One Volume. Nashville: Abingdon. Hawkins, Peter S. 2006. Dante: A Brief History. Malden: Blackwell. Kerr, Hugh T. 1990. Readings in Christian Thought, 2nd ed. Nashville: Abingdon. McGrath, Alister E. 2013. Historical Theology: An Introduction to the History of Christian Thought, 2nd ed. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. McGrath, Alister E. 2016. The Christian Theology Reader, 5nd ed. Hoboken: Wiley. McIntyre, Alasdair. 1984. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 2nd ed. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Montemaggi, Vittorio. 2016. Reading Dante’s Commedia as Theology: Divinity Realized in Human Encounter. New York: Oxford University Press. Pseudo-Dionysius. 1987. Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works. Translated by Colm Luibheid. New York: Paulist. © 2019 by the author. Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland. This article is an open access article distributed under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). http://creativecommons.org/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/. Introduction Finding Spaces in an Institutional Context Considering Dante as Theologian Outlining the Course Design Meeting Course Objectives Teaching Dante across the Curriculum References 
work_ymjzqniytnhi7lxmb36dy5cyiy	----	jhe746-pg640-664 Christine A. Ogren The author thanks D. J. Chandler, Clif Conrad, Linda Eisenmann, Yvonna Lincoln, Ernie Pascarella, and John Thelin for encouragement and comments on earlier versions of this essay. The National Academy of Education and the NAE Spencer Postdoctoral Fellowship Program supported the research for this article. Christine A. Ogren is Assistant Professor, Division of Educational Policy and Leader- ship Studies, University of Iowa. The Journal of Higher Education, Vol. 74, No. 6 (November/December 2003) Copyright © 2003 by The Ohio State University Since the mid-twentieth century, a host of political, economic and societal changes have contributed to the diversification of students in American institutions of higher education. Developments such as the Allied victory in World War II, the decrease in blue-collar jobs, and changing gender attitudes, have encouraged members of mi- nority racial groups, young people with low social-class standing, and women to attend college (Bean & Metzner, 1985). Beginning in the 1960s, governmental and institutional financial-aid and affirmative-ac- tion policies explicitly promoted racial, class, and gender diversity for the first time. Not surprisingly, researchers have recently begun to assess the impact of these programs and the implications of an increasingly di- verse student body (see Levine & Associates, 1989; Levine & Nidiffer, 1996; London, 1992; Pascarella & Terenzini, 1998; Westbrook & Sed- lacek, 1991), using the term “nontraditional” to describe students who are older than typical college students, work because of financial neces- sity, belong to the first generation in their family to attend college, do not live on campus, attend part-time, or are members of minority racial groups. Bean and Metzner (1985) add, “Nontraditional students are dis- tinguished by the lessened intensity and duration of their interaction Rethinking the “Nontraditional” Student from a Historical Perspective State Normal Schools in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries with the primary agents of socialization (faculty, peers) at the institu- tions they attend” (p. 488). The term “nontraditional” implies that these atypical students are new to higher education and that colleges and universities traditionally have not served people like them. While the intention of research on nontradi- tional students is to better meet their needs, it may also have the unin- tended consequence of reinforcing the notion that these students are out of place, indirectly discouraging them from interacting with others on campus. One way to soften the effect of this research would be to em- phasize atypical students’ rich history in higher education. Indeed, his- torical research indicates that, even without the encouragement of explicit governmental and institutional policies, students from unsophis- ticated, lower-social-class backgrounds have a long tradition of attend- ing American colleges and universities (see, for example, Allmendinger, 1975; Nidiffer, 1999). While generations of nontraditional students have attended virtually every type of higher education institution, they were especially prominent at the precursors of many state colleges and re- gional universities. S. Y. Gillan, who graduated in 1879 from one of these institutions, Illinois State Normal University, reflected that it “was a school of the people existing for and representing the masses and not the classes.”1 This article focuses on state normal schools, which resulted from nineteenth-century education reformers’ efforts to adapt the German teacher seminary and the French ecole normale to train teachers for the growing system of American common schools. Massachusetts estab- lished the first state normal schools in 1839, and Connecticut and New York soon followed. By 1870, 39 state normal schools were located in New England, the mid-Atlantic states, the Midwest, and California. During the following decades, southern states established segregated normal schools, and the institutions spread throughout the country and its territories; by 1920, there were more than 180. State normals, which provided elementary-level teacher certification and offered various de- grees in pedagogy, were low-status institutions of higher education dur- ing a time when the lines between “higher” and “lower” education were blurred (Clifford, 1995, pp. 3 –6). By the end of the nineteenth century, many states began to look to the normals to prepare teachers for burgeoning positions on high-school fac- ulties, which the normals saw as an opportunity to gain prestige. During the 1890s, the schools in Albany, New York, and Ypsilanti, Michigan adopted the name, “normal college.” As other normals began to offer four years of college work and grant bachelor’s degrees, they usually re- placed the title “normal school” with “teachers college.” The majority of Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 641 state normal schools became teachers colleges during the 1920s and 1930s. In the 1940s, the flood of World-War II veterans seeking all-pur- pose higher education fueled the normals’ quest for status, and they began to drop teacher education as their organizing purpose. As a result, the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s witnessed another flurry of name changes as the former normals added more prestigious programs and became state colleges. By the end of the century, continuing “mission creep” (Selingo, 2000) allowed many to become state universities; institutions that began as normal schools formed the nucleus of state systems from New York to California, and former normals make up the majority of re- gional universities from Northern Michigan to Southwest Texas. Although institutions whose roots are nineteenth-century normal schools play a central role in mass higher education at the turn of the twenty-first century, their story is not well known. In their quest for higher status, former normals have tended to bury their history as “an impoverished past thankfully left behind” (Goodlad, 1990, p. 73). Meanwhile, historians of higher education have concentrated on more elite institutions, and historians of teacher education have focused on the normal schools’ leaders and official policies. These historiographical ap- proaches virtually ignore normal-school students. (For the few excep- tions to this rule, see Burke, 1982; Herbst, 1980; Herbst, 1989; Clifford, 1983; Clifford, 1995; Ogren, 1995; and Schwager, 1987.) Focusing ex- plicitly on the normalites, I conducted extensive historical investigations of more than half of the state institutions that began as normals through- out the United States. I did archival research at seven campuses—in Castleton, Vermont; Geneseo, New York; Florence, Alabama; Pine Bluff, Arkansas; San Marcos, Texas; Oshkosh, Wisconsin; and San Jose, California—and reviewed various sources on close to one hundred other former normal schools. These sources include institutional histories, which I used selectively; like Frederick Rudolph, I “carefully culled episodes and illustrations” (Thelin, 1990, p. xviii) to use as primary ma- terial for my own analysis. This article presents a socio-historical analysis of the students who at- tended state normal schools and their experiences in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I profile “normalites” relative to the por- trayal of nontraditional students in current literature. Then, I discuss the ways in which the state normal schools provided a meaningful higher education experience. While their official mission was preparing teach- ers, the characteristics of their student bodies forced the normals to ex- pand their unofficial mission to include welcoming unsophisticated stu- dents into an engaging intellectual and public life. Indeed, “it was the normal schools . . . that really brought higher education to the people” 642 The Journal of Higher Education (Herbst, 1989, p. 142; see also Herbst, 1980). Although the normal schools’ specific approaches to serving these students were more appro- priate for their time than the present, it is important for current re- searchers to understand that these institutions did serve atypical students effectively. As student bodies continue to diversify in the twenty-first century, it is helpful to take a look through the lens of history at earlier nontraditional students. Nontraditional Students My in-depth examination of state normal schools reveals that their students had much in common with today’s nontraditional students. Race (Westbrook & Sedlacek, 1991) and socioeconomic status (Lace, 1986) are prominent issues in literature on nontraditional students. Bean and Metzner (1985) acknowledge that these characteristics, along with gender, “might have differentiated traditional and nontraditional stu- dents a century ago” (p. 488). A look at the normalites convincingly con- firms this hunch. At a time when women were an unwelcome minority on many coeducational campuses, they were a visible majority at state normal schools. A small number of normals, mainly in the South, re- stricted their enrollment to women only. But most normal schools were coeducational, with enrollments made up increasingly of women with each passing decade. Before the turn of the twentieth century, the enroll- ments at coeducational normals nationwide were between 25 and 90% female. At coeducational southern normals, only one-quarter to one-half of the students were women. Typical of normals outside the South, the institutions in Cedar Falls, Iowa, and Greeley, Colorado enrolled 70% women. After the turn of the century, throughout the country the per- centage of students who were women was consistently well over 50, and occasionally higher than 90%.2 The large numbers of female normalites are consistent with the schools’ official mission of preparing students for the female-dominated profession of teaching. In addition to women, state normal schools made higher education available to a significant number of students from minority racial and ethnic groups. Like Arkansas, which established the Branch Normal Col- lege at Pine Bluff euphemistically “for the poorer classes,” most south- ern states established segregated normal schools for African-American students. Oklahoma and North Carolina also established segregated nor- mal schools for Native American students.3 In addition, evidence sug- gests that several northern, majority-white normals served at least a lim- ited number of minority students. In New York, Albany matriculated twenty-six Native American students in the late nineteenth century and Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 643 many South-European, Polish, and Jewish immigrants in the early twen- tieth century, and Oswego graduates of the 1890s remembered “an ami- able American Indian girl,” “popular young men from the Hawaiin Islands,” “a shy, quiet Negro girl,” and a “much respected” African American man. African American students, many of whom were from the South, had begun appearing at state normals from Westfield, Worces- ter, and Framingham, Massachusetts, to Normal, Illinois, soon after the Civil War. The normal schools in Pennsylvania welcomed several stu- dents from Puerto Rico and South America beginning in the 1890s, and Cecil E. Evans, who began his presidency at Southwest Texas State Nor- mal School in San Marcos in 1911, once noted, “Very few Mexican stu- dents ever get high enough in the grades to reach us,” implying that at least a few Mexican students did “reach” the institution.4 Regardless of their race or gender, most normalites shared rather low socioeconomic status; they were, for the most part, the daughters and sons of working people, many of whom were struggling financially. Throughout the late nineteenth century, skilled, semiskilled, unskilled, and agricultural workers headed the homes of two-thirds of normalites in Massachusetts. The normal in Worcester reflected the growing indus- trial city, drawing primarily the children of skilled workers and laborers. During the first decade of the twentieth century, Southwest Texas kept very detailed records of the occupations of its students’ parents. Only 6% engaged in the professions of medicine and law; physicians, lawyers, teachers, ministers, druggists, engineers, editors, “newspaper- men,” and architects amounted to only 14%. The parents of San-Marcos students were more likely to work in agriculture than any other trade: 47% were farmers, and ranchers, fruit growers, stockmen and dairymen were another 10%. In fact, farming, which was in economic crisis throughout most of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the United States, shaped the lives of a majority of normalites. During the late nineteenth century, nearly two-thirds of students at Cedar Falls, Iowa, were from farming families. Likewise, in 1889, the parents of 428 of the 639 students at Emporia Kansas, were farmers. Students at Pine Bluff often had to arrive at school late in the fall and leave early in the spring, in order to help their families with harvests and plantings.5 The families of many normal-school students could not afford tradi- tional higher education. For example, George Martin graduated as vale- dictorian of his Massachusetts high-school class in 1855 and was unable to fulfill his plan to attend Amherst College because of a lack of funds. Martin then worked for seven years and was finally able to enter Bridge- water Normal in 1862. Some normalites were from such impoverished backgrounds that the schools gained a reputation for serving the poor. A 644 The Journal of Higher Education Vermont newspaper described the normal in Castleton as catering to the “calico-attired country girl of limited means,” and in Westfield, Massa- chusetts, where the normal school enrolled an especially high number of children of small farmers, “normal” was a disparaging name for a poor person. Similarly, some residents of Oswego, New York, referred to nor- malites there as “state paupers.” Pine-Bluff students made light of their reputation in the following lines from a late-1920s school cheer: “State School, State School, yes we are the state school / Nothing new or for- mal, no Sir! / Our hair is shaggy and our clothes are baggy / But they’ll soon be raggy, Yea!” Throughout the country, many normal-school stu- dents could have yelled along.6 In addition to being female, minorities, or of low socioeconomic standing, today’s nontraditional students often are older than the typical eighteen to twenty-two years (Bean & Metzner, 1985; Bendixen-Noe, 1998; Lace, 1986; Metzner & Bean, 1987; Pascarella & Terenzini, 1998; Zwerling, 1992). Although Bean and Metzner do not acknowledge it, this is another factor that also differentiated traditional and nontradi- tional students in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Many normalites—as well as some students at colleges and universities—were mature in age. Throughout the country, most normal-school students were older than the minimum state-stipulated fifteen or sixteen years. Michael Dignam, who graduated in 1882 from Westfield, Massachu- setts, remembered, “The pupils were all mature, no one under 20; the ages ranged as high as 26 or 28.” A member of the class of 1888 at Oshkosh, Wisconsin lyrically explained: “In age the class varies all the way from the blushing maiden in her teens, filled with anticipation of the future, and the aspiring youth yearning for independence, to the ret- rospective and reflective minds of maturer years.” From Oneonta, New York to Greeley, Colorado, normal schools in the late 1880s and early 1890s reported that on average their entering students were more than 20 years old. In 1886, the first class at Tempe averaged 19.4 years in age; at 26 and 30 years old, respectively, Julia A. McDonald and James M. Pat- terson were among the oldest students. When the all-female state normal in Greensboro, North Carolina opened in 1892, the average age of enter- ing students was close to 20 years. Throughout the 1890s and 1900s, women students at Oneonta continued to enter at an average age of over 20 years, while their male classmates were closer to 22. In 1903, the first class at San Marcos signed in at 20.1 years, with one student who was 38 years old. The normal school in Plattsburgh, New York, had at least a couple of mature students during the 1910s—there were two mother- daughter pairs on campus.7 The literature on nontraditional students further characterizes them as Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 645 part-time attenders and commuters (Bean & Metzner, 1985; Gilley & Hawkes, 1989; Lace, 1986; Metzner & Bean, 1987; Pascarella & Teren- zini, 1998). At West Virginia’s normal in West Liberty, some students commuted to campus in an effort to save money. Similarly, many nor- malites at the Territorial Normal School in Tempe, Arizona, during the decade or so after it opened in 1886, commuted. One male student later explained, “I rode horseback from Mesa to Tempe and returned each day, milked six cows morning and evening, and each morning had to run my horses down before I could go to Tempe. It took nearly 45 minutes to make the distance.”8 Aside from a few scattered examples, however, commuting from home was rare among normalites whose families didn’t happen to live within walking distance of campus; after all, trans- portation was limited. There is no evidence that any students in atten- dance at a normal school attended part-time. Looking at the normalites serves as a reminder, though, that attending part-time and commuting are not intrinsic personal characteristics in the way that age, race, class, and gender are. Present-day students attend part-time and commute be- cause they cannot afford to attend full-time or live on campus and/or their family or life commitments prohibit them from devoting them- selves exclusively to the pursuit of higher education. Normalites clearly shared the personal traits that create the special conditions of attendance for today’s nontraditional students, but they lived under different histor- ical conditions. Thus, although most were not commuters, many nor- malites, like today’s nontraditional students, arrived with significant work experience and found it necessary to work while attending normal school. Many state normal-school students had work experience, usually as teachers, prior to matriculation. As early as the 1840s and early 1850s at Bridgewater, “nearly all” of the students had themselves taught school. Of the 2,500 students who enrolled at Oswego between its opening in the mid-1860s and 1880, more than 1,000 had teaching experience, with an average of three years in the classroom. During the late 1880s, more than half of the students at Farmington, Maine arrived with teaching ex- perience. Outside the Northeast, it was also very common for normalites to have work experience as teachers. At Oshkosh in 1879 as well as in 1884, half of the students had taught, and among them the average time spent in front of a class was 2.6 years. Between 1892 and 1908, the col- lective student body at Oshkosh averaged one year of experience. In their class histories, students conveyed the same idea a bit more cre- atively: The class of 1895 taught “more than a thousand months,” and the brains of members of the class of 1896 bore “unsightly marks . . . caused by patient efforts to impress the American youth in our rural dis- 646 The Journal of Higher Education tricts with the precept, knowledge is power.” Nearly half of the nor- malites at Emporia, Kansas, in the late 1880s taught before entering the normal, many for five or more years. Tempe’s Julia McDonald and James Patterson were former teachers, as were more than 34% of the students at Florence, Alabama, around the turn of the century.9 Many normalites worked while enrolled, and self-supporting students were not unusual at the state normals. In 1882, President Edwin Hewett of Illinois State Normal University reported, “Many of our students . . . are dependent upon their own exertions for means”; and a decade or so later Principal John Mahelm Berry Sill of the State Normal School in Ypsilanti, Michigan, said, “Our students are working young men and women who earn their little money by the hardest toil.” Just after the turn of the twentieth century, one-third of the students at Florence “earned their own money to pay expenses,” while Oregon’s State Super- intendent of Public Instruction expressed concern about the large num- bers of “self-supporting” normalites, urging, “Greater precaution must be exercised to prevent the ambitious from overworking than to rouse the sluggards.” Gender often determined the term-time jobs normalites were able to find: in New York, female students at Oneonta worked as babysitters or maids, while male students at Oswego shoveled snow, sold various products, or worked as janitors.10 Throughout the country, it was common for normalites to take leaves of absence to earn the neces- sary money to continue their education, an earlier approach to being a part-time student. Most often, they taught in rural schools for one or more terms before returning to normal school. For example, a student at Nebraska’s Peru State Normal School in 1873 soon found himself short of money. He later remembered: My graduation looked far off to me and my limited means made it necessary to quit school for a while and return to the farm. But Dr. Curry, then princi- pal, learning my predicament found me a country school in Otoe county that enabled me to return again after I had finished my school. This I continued to do, alternating between teaching and going to school until I finally graduated in the spring of 1879.11 Like today’s nontraditional students, normalites found ways to over- come their financial limitations. Although work experience as well as age must have fostered a certain level of maturity among normal-school students, they were hardly worldly-wise. In fact, socio-historical examination of normalites reveals that many were quite provincial, or lacked sophistication. This signifi- cant characteristic is curiously absent from the literature on nontradi- tional students, but it is unmistakable in accounts of the normal schools. A chronicler of Bridgewater State Normal School observed, “It is hard Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 647 for us to conceive how provincial these students were. Most of them had never been far from their own towns. . . .” Sarah A. Dixon, who gradu- ated from Bridgewater in 1885, called herself “a sip of a girl from an isolated shore home.” Throughout the country, normalites were predom- inantly from very small, often very rural, towns and villages. At Arkansas’ Branch Normal College for black students, the vast majority of students were from the rural areas surrounding Pine Bluff. Between the 1880s and the 1900s, 23 to 30% of all Oshkosh, Wisconsin, students hailed from Oshkosh, which was a booming lumber town. Another 8% or fewer of the students came from other lumber towns in the area, and only a few hailed from the bigger cities of Milwaukee, Madison, and, occasionally, Chicago. More than half of the students were from much smaller, rural towns. The 1890s football cheer for the normal in Gene- seo, New York, included a line that would also have suited most other normals: “We came to the gridiron fresh from verdant farms.” Mean- while, many of the students at California’s state normal in Chico were from very remote mountain settlements in the northern part of the state. When they arrived at the normal, Chico was the largest town they had ever seen.12 It is hardly surprising that students from such remote areas tended to be unpolished. For many years after the 1868 establishment of the state normal in Peru, the many students there who had lived “isolated lives” tended to be “ignorant of the social ways incident to more thickly settled portions of the country; hence, they sometimes appeared reserved and awkward.” A student at Peru in the late nineteenth century remembered, “Girls with brown faces and plain clothing” and “boys with calloused hands.” Early in the twentieth century, the principal at Willimantic, Con- necticut, complained, “Many of our students are crude. Their manner of talking, their table manners, their actions often show a decided lack of culture.”13 Sensitive to the implied class prejudice, present-day adminis- trators and researchers would hesitate to make observations such as these. Nontraditional students likely have similar rough edges, however, and a non-pejorative understanding of their provincialism might be an important step toward serving them more effectively. While the nor- malites’ lack of sophistication frustrated Willimantic’s principal, it also made them hungry for inspiration. For example, an Oshkosh student declared: When one for the first time beholds an imposing structure, whether reared by man’s stalwart arm or nature’s majestic art, impressions are made upon the delicate parchment of the mind which age can not dim nor time obliterate. Such is the character of my first impressions on beholding the Oshkosh Nor- mal. Its architectural symmetry symbolizes the noble educational system in 648 The Journal of Higher Education which it forms an important factor; . . . its spacious assembly room and its commodious recitation rooms silently insinuate to the pupil the possibilities of mental expansion, while each high ceiling proclaims the aphorism, “There is always room at the top.”14 Attendance at state normal schools was a significant departure in the theretofore unsophisticated lives of many students. As the next section explains, the state normals not only accepted students from nontradi- tional backgrounds, but they also engaged their sense of awe to create an atmosphere that embraced them. Embracing Nontraditional Students This examination of state normal-school students has suggested that the types of students now considered to be nontraditional were promi- nent in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries on state normal- school campuses. A century later, researchers have reported on—and forecasted further—demographic changes in higher education. To meet this challenge, Arthur Levine has called for “better serving the under- served” (Levine & Associates, 1989, p. 172), and much of the literature on nontraditional students is concerned with how to do this (see, for ex- ample, Astin, 1993; Gilley & Hawkes, 1989; Lace, 1986; Richardson & Skinner, 1992). It might also be useful for current administrators, as well as researchers, simply to understand that they are not pioneers in their efforts to welcome atypical students to college campuses. State normal schools hardly “underserved” these students, but instead enabled them to take advantage of an engaging intellectual life and to become in- volved in public life, which encouraged them to move far beyond their humble backgrounds. Normal-school administrators and faculty mem- bers’ first step, more than a half-century before government programs designed to bring underprivileged students into institutions of higher ed- ucation, was to ensure that the normals were accessible and affordable for all students. Admission requirements at state normal schools were fairly loose and somewhat flexible. They did not require matriculants to be high-school graduates until education at that level was attainable by most residents of their states, which generally was not until the early twentieth century. Before they required high-school graduation, normal schools adminis- tered admission examinations, but prospective students could present teaching credentials or diplomas instead of sitting for them. Previous years’ exams were often published in normal-school catalogues, making them available to students preparing for future admission. In the late 1870s, San Jose, California published questions in arithmetic, grammar, Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 649 geography, and spelling for admission to the junior class and additional questions for admission to the “middle” and senior classes. Applicants to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, during the 1880s had to score 70% or better in reading and spelling, arithmetic, grammar, geography, and U.S. history. In Vermont, Castleton’s admission exam in the early 1890s covered spelling, arithmetic, physiology, grammar, geography, Vermont history, U.S. history, and civics.15 In addition to academic qualifications, other admission requirements were fairly easy to acquire. Applicants had to be 15 or 16 (or 14, at Pine Bluff, Arkansas) years in age, and usually of good “moral character” and health, presumably as prerequisites for being good teachers in the future.16 In addition to setting fairly easy standards for admission, many state normal schools assured accessibility by providing detailed directions to campus and individual assistance with settling in. Many normal schools did everything short of printing train schedules in their catalogs. For ex- ample, an Oshkosh catalog described the “numerous lines of railroad and river steamers entering the city, as well as its favorable location.” Similarly, a bulletin for the normal in Florence, Alabama, explained that the “main line of the Southern Railway from Chattanooga passes through Sheffield, and all passenger trains are met there by electric cars which deliver passengers in Florence in about twenty minutes.”17 After careful instructions helped many students reach campus, the administra- tion—which often consisted solely of the president or principal—liter- ally reached out to individual new students. During the 1870s, 1880s, and 1890s, Oshkosh’s Principal George Albee helped each new student get situated and plan a course schedule. The 1907–1908 Geneseo, New York, catalog declared, “Students both old and new are urged to consult the Principal freely regarding their work and their plans for the future.” Clark Davis, who attended Ypsilanti State Normal School in Michigan, remembered that upon arrival in Ypsilanti, “I made my first call upon the man whom I had been writing—namely, President Jones. He treated me cordially and courteously, received me at his home, took me to his of- fice, and walked over some of the city streets to show me rooming houses and boarding houses.”18 While attainable admission requirements and approachable principals eased many students’ adjustment to normal school, probably the most important factor in accessibility was affordability. Most state normal schools charged a modest tuition, which they waived for students who signed a pledge to teach in the state after graduation, usually for no more than a few years. The 1879 catalog for Bridgewater, Massachusetts, ex- plained: “Tuition is free to all who comply with the condition of teach- ing in the schools of Massachusetts.” Such contracts were in the states’ 650 The Journal of Higher Education interest because they increased the teacher supply, but tuition waivers also made a normal-school education affordable for many students. Those who signed pledges to teach had only to buy or rent books, and pay for supplies, transportation, room, board, and perhaps activities fees or music lessons. And at many institutions, financial help from the state was also available for these expenses. The Bridgewater catalog also ex- plained: “The State makes an annual appropriation . . . which is distrib- uted at the close of each term among pupils from Massachusetts who merit and need the aid, in sums varying according to the distance of their residences from Bridgewater.”19 Similarly, during the 1880s the state of Kansas began to reimburse Emporia students three cents per mile for travel beyond one hundred miles; and until 1897, Geneseo students who signed the declaration to teach received reimbursement for travel costs. Ypsilanti’s Principal Sill persuaded the state legislature to provide free textbooks, arguing that “the cost of books is often ‘the last straw that breaks the camel’s back.’ ” In other states, government officials were di- rectly involved in granting subsidies. Beginning in 1897, each member of the Alabama legislature was able to nominate a student for a two-year normal-school scholarship, which covered tuition and incidental fees; those students appointed by senators also received a grant for boarding costs. Between 1903 and 1909, normalites in Texas could also earn “scholarship appointments,” which covered boarding costs, through ap- pointments by their senators, congressmen, or even the governor.20 Increasing numbers of campus scholarships and loan funds helped normal students pay expenses that the state did not cover. As early as 1878, Pine Bluff, Arkansas, had an “honorary scholars” program, which provided scholarships for students who passed an exam. For many years beginning in 1882, the Nashville-based Peabody Fund provided for six- teen annual scholarships at Florence, and additional scholarships at other southern normals. Fairly widespread by the early twentieth cen- tury, institution-based scholarships were usually funded by and named for former faculty members or graduating classes.21 If all else failed, the personal efforts of principals and faculty members occasionally enabled individual students to overcome remaining financial obstacles. Long- serving principals, such as Edward Sheldon at Oswego, New York (1861–1897), Percy Bugbee at Oneonta, New York (1898 –1933), Cecil Evans at San Marcos, Texas (1911–1942), E. E. Smith at Fayetteville, North Carolina (1883 –1933), and many others lent their own money to students in distress. Smith and Pine Bluff’s Joseph Corbin (1875 –1902), both principals of all-black normal schools, were purposely lax in col- lecting tuition and fees from students they knew to be struggling; Smith also accepted farm products in lieu of currency.22 These individual ef- Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 651 forts, which filled some of the cracks between state-sponsored tuition waivers and subsidies, as well as campus scholarships and loan funds, helped to make normal schools affordable—so affordable that, during the early 1910s, Geneseo catalogs included the assurance that “no wor- thy student ever leaves Geneseo because of lack of funds with which to complete the course.”23 Beyond assuring that students from atypical backgrounds enjoyed easy access, state normal schools offered an atmosphere in which these students thrived. The literature on today’s nontraditional students stresses “academic integration” (Metzner & Bean, 1987, p. 30), or “in- corporation or support of the students’ needs” in “a new, stronger acade- mic community” (Gilley & Hawkes, 1989, p. 34; see also Astin, 1993). Another important issue is scale: the smaller the scale of the institution as a whole or designated programs within it, the higher the comfort level of nontraditional students (Richardson & Skinner, 1992). Most normal schools were small in scale, but size was only one factor in an atmos- phere that embraced students from “underserved” backgrounds. Their needs subtly yet ubiquitously shaped these institutions in such a way that serving them was simply intrinsic to the normals’ strong academic community. Without special services or programs aimed at nontradi- tional students, normal schools offered them a comfortable and inclusive intellectual life and numerous opportunities for leadership and involve- ment in public life. Indeed, state normal schools played a “total adult so- cializing” (Bean & Metzner, 1985, p. 488) role in the lives of their stu- dents, suggesting an alternative to the notion that nontraditional students are “not greatly influenced by the social environment” (Bean & Met- zner, 1985, p. 489) in institutions of higher education. State normal schools created a lively and challenging intellectual life for all students. The bedrock of a strong academic community, the for- mal curriculum constructively recognized students’ limited background and helped them reach further. The normal principals and faculties found that many of their students, especially before the turn of the twen- tieth century, arrived with little more than an elementary-level educa- tion. Because they sought to prepare well-rounded teachers, the normals began from where the students’ prior education left off, offering basic and more advanced studies in academic disciplines as well as teaching methods. All students focused on a core of academic studies in mathe- matics, the sciences, history and civics, and English and language arts. The normals’ approach to teaching these subjects allowed students com- fortably to gain a certain amount of high-status knowledge. Western culture wove its way through the required curriculum. Begin- ning with Greece and Rome, historical studies covered the highlights of 652 The Journal of Higher Education Western civilization. In 1894, for example, the catalog for Westfield Normal School in Massachusetts explained that the “General History” course included “Europe from the beginning of the Middle Ages to the present time.” Bridgewater imported from London “casts, models, and flat copies” of great art works. The aspect of Western culture that occu- pied the largest part of the required curriculum was what the normal in Willimantic, Connecticut, called, “The best literary works.” There, ac- cording to the 1890 catalog, the English literature course covered “Dick- ens to Burns” during the second term, “Burns to Bacon” during the third term, and “Bacon to Chaucer” during the fourth term. Shakespeare was ever-present on normal-school reading lists; at Westfield, students read The Merchant of Venice, Julius Caesar, Hamlet or Macbeth, as well as a comedy. In addition to English literature, students at Bridgewater stud- ied American poets and writers such as Longfellow, Whittier, and Hawthorne. Modern and ancient languages were generally optional studies, but institutions as diverse as Castleton, Pine Bluff, and the Ter- ritorial Normal School in Tempe, Arizona, required Latin.24 Through both required and elective subjects, normal-school students also immersed themselves in another passion of the middle and upper classes in the late nineteenth century: the natural sciences. Between the 1870s and the 1900s, virtually all normal students took short courses in physiology, geography, botany, and natural philosophy (called nature study after the turn of the century), as well as at least a few of the fol- lowing subjects: geology, mineralogy, chemistry, zoology, physics, and astronomy. Together, they performed physical and chemical experiments with rudimentary apparatus, dissected animals, and undertook field ex- peditions to study local land forms and flora. In keeping with the late- nineteenth-century zeal for scientific collecting, many normal schools amassed sizable collections of mineralogical, geological, physiological, zoological, and even entomological “specimens.” For example, begin- ning in the 1860s, the state normal in Winona, Minnesota, had a growing collection of fossils and minerals from quarries and railway cuts. In 1875 the school purchased a collection of “minerals, fossils, casts, corals, sponges, and shells,” which also contained “the partial remains of a Mastodon skeleton.” By the 1880s, the normal’s museum of natural history also had a bird collection. Science instruction and collections not only enabled students to study fossils, minerals, and animals, but also invited them to share the passion for science.25 While the normal schools’ formal curriculum established a comfort- able academic community, activities outside the classroom strengthened it, intensifying students’ intellectual socialization. By the 1870s and in- creasingly each year thereafter, normal students founded and partici- Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 653 pated in countless societies, clubs, and publications. These organiza- tions contributed to the vibrant campus intellectual life, which enabled students to grow immensely through intense interaction with one an- other, their professors, and campus visitors. Academic clubs focused on a variety of topics, primarily in the sciences and foreign languages, and tended to be fairly short-lived. Other student organizations, as well as visiting speakers and performers, exposed students to areas of high cul- ture that were generally outside the formal curriculum, especially classi- cal music and art history. But it was the literary societies, by far the most long-lived, popular, and far-reaching student organizations, that most facilitated the involve- ment of these nontraditional students in the life of the mind. Societies met weekly or biweekly, usually on Friday or Saturday afternoon or evening, to execute well-planned programs of orations, debates, moder- ated discussions, skits, and musical entertainment. In San Jose, the State Normal School’s 1900 catalog reported, “The purpose of these societies is to acquaint their members with the customs and practices of delibera- tive bodies, to give an impetus to literary investigation, and to develop a talent for literary pursuits, public speaking, and extemporaneous discus- sions.” Meetings were occasionally open to the public, and “joint meet- ings” between two societies were quite common; one at San Jose in 1887 drew over 400 spectators. At the state normal in Greeley, Colorado, the two literary societies were great rivals, and competed each spring in oratory, essays, and debate in the town’s Opera House before a large au- dience. In the South and the East, where social mores were generally tra- ditional, literary societies were usually single-sex. In a unique arrange- ment, New York’s normal schools housed branches of statewide societies. Those for women included Clionian, Arethusa, Alpha Delta, and Agonian; and those for men included Delphic and Philalethean. Gender segregation was less rigid in the Midwest and West. The Lyceum, Literati, and Belles-Lettres societies at Emporia were all coed- ucational, as were the Roosevelt, Sophoclean, and Emersonian societies at New Mexico Normal University in Las Vegas. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the majority of normalites be- longed to literary societies. Beginning in the late 1880s, some normals, such as those in Tempe, Arizona, and Cedar Falls, Iowa, had the added incentive of earning credit for society work. A few normals, such as Illi- nois Normal University, and Oklahoma’s Southwestern State Normal School, required membership.26 Literary societies enabled students to further pursue some of the top- ics covered in the curriculum. The main focus, of course, was literature; societies regularly studied a variety of British and American authors. 654 The Journal of Higher Education The Browning clubs at Florence and Oshkosh were named for Elizabeth Barrett Browning, a favorite among their members, just as the Shake- speare(n) societies at Cedar Falls, San Jose, and San Marcos were named for the great playwright. Other popular British authors included Charles Dickens, Jane Austin, and Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Studies of the poetry and prose of John Greenleaf Whittier, Henry Wadsworth Longfel- low, Washington Irving, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Mark Twain, deep- ened students’ familiarity with American literary culture. San Marcos’ Every Day Society declared Irving its “patron saint,” and imitated him in the 1909 yearbook, presenting a supposed “unpublished tale” in which a lost hunter dreamt of “the girls of the land where the sweet peas grow,” who were suspiciously similar to Every-Day members. In many literary societies, students also explored great literature by performing it. At Oneonta, for example, various societies staged Tennyson’s The Princess in 1892, Shakespeare’s As You Like It and The Merchant of Venice in 1901, and Dickens’ Tom Pinch in 1905.27 Perhaps the most clear illustration of how the normals’ academic community allowed students comfortably to broaden their horizons is the societies’ vicarious travels throughout the United States and the world. In 1876, members of the Normal School Philologian Society at Westfield enjoyed “an illustrated lecture. . . . An Account of his (Mr. Diller’s) Geological Vacation . . . up the Valley in the State of New York.” In 1899, “Miss Dopp favored” Oshkosh’s Phoenix “society with some of her experiences among the Mormons in Salt Lake City.” A decade or so later, a program entitled “Travels in the West” took Flo- rence’s Dixie society, figuratively, to Salt Lake City and Yellowstone National Park. Students’ vicarious travels also took them to Europe and more foreign locales. In 1880 –1881, one literary society at Oshkosh studied Spain and Germany, and in other years both San Marcos’ Comenian and Oshkosh’s Phoenix studied China. The normal students’ world shrank as they acquainted themselves with many distant regions. Together, the literary societies and the formal curriculum created an at- mosphere that welcomed normalites into a new intellectual world. Burtt N. Timbie, Bridgewater ‘96, remembered, “These were years of mind and soul awakening. We came to love learning for learning’s sake.”28 Normalites’ socialization was not limited to academic areas; as com- plete socializing institutions, state normal schools also enabled students to refine the way they carried and presented themselves. The formal cur- riculum required all students to polish their style of written and oral ex- pression. Rhetoric, composition, and declamation were curricular sta- ples. Through these and other classes, the normals sought to provide “practical training in the correct and effective use of our mother tongue” Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 655 and “cultivate the individual student’s powers of expression in both oral and written language.” Students honed their powers of expression through numerous writing assignments, as well as public speaking re- quirements. Most normal schools required each student to present some sort of schoolwide public declamation at least once, but often on a weekly or monthly basis. For example, “Friday Afternoon Exercises” began at Geneseo in 1877; for the next few decades, classes took turns presenting programs of essays, readings, and recitations. At most normal schools, commencement addresses by all or some of the graduating stu- dents, depending on the size of the class, were the culmination of terms of work.29 Literary societies also focused on refining their members’ styles of expression and composition. Students wrote and delivered orations and essays on different subjects from week to week. Several of the all-male groups, such as The Normal Congress at Bridgewater and The Standard Society at Buffalo, focused on parliamentary procedure. A debate was usually the focal point of the literary society meeting; debating fostered poise, precision, and accuracy in oral communication. In the Midwest, statewide and even interstate normal-school debate and oratorical con- tests were common and attracted large crowds. After Oshkosh’s Eliza- beth Shepard won the Wisconsin state contest with her speech on Ulysses S. Grant, her classmates reported, “For Grant when she spoke in electrical tones . . . She made the cold shivers run down our backbones.” Buoyed by the normals’ vibrant academic community, women com- monly orated and debated in public in the Midwest and West, and occa- sionally in the East. When they did so, they ironically gained cultural polish while violating the gender conventions of high society. Society members also refined their writing skills by producing serial newspapers or magazines; many normal-school student publications began in the so- cieties. Typical titles were: Normal Thought, published by the Standard Society at Buffalo; Normal Ray, published by the Baconian Literary So- ciety at the State Normal School of Troy, Alabama; and The Students’ Offering, which was a coordinated effort by all of the literary societies at Cedar Falls.30 Not only did the literary societies increase students’ comfort with public speaking and writing, but they, along with class organizations and organized athletics, also fostered normalites’ self-confidence as leaders and participants in public life. Students took advantage of multiple lead- ership opportunities. The societies, as well as organizations ranging from academic clubs to YW- and YMCAs all had student officers. By the 1880s, classes elected officers and, beginning in the 1890s, student gov- ernment associations began to appear. Men served as presidents of coed- 656 The Journal of Higher Education ucational organizations in numbers disproportionately greater than their representation on campus, but women did occasionally serve as presi- dent and often occupied other class offices. The constitution of the cam- puswide self-government association formed at Oshkosh in 1896 stipu- lated that each class would be represented by one woman and one man. When San Jose’s Student Body in 1898 elected Harriet Quilty its first president, The Normal Pennant remarked, “Miss Quilty needs no further introduction to our students, her great abilities as a leader are known from Juniors to Seniors.” Quilty and other normalites seized the unusual opportunity to serve in a leadership role.31 On the athletic fields and basketball courts, normalites gained further experience as public actors in a strong community. Physical activity was a long-standing part of normal life, and by the mid 1890s, athletic com- petitions were quite prominent. Illinois Normal held its first annual field day in 1895, including running races, shot-put, discus and hammer throws, tennis, and bicycle races. In team sports, men participated in football as well as baseball and basketball, but the relatively small num- bers of male students meant a relatively low profile for these intramural and occasional intercollegiate teams. Basketball was really the territory of female normalites, and it soon became wildly popular. Illinois Nor- mal inaugurated intramural competition among women’s teams in 1895, as did Ellensburg, Washington, where a local newspaper reported, “The ladies are getting to be splendid players.” In 1902 Ellensburg’s women players began interscholastic competition. Beginning at the turn of the century, women and men diversified their athletic endeavors to include sports such as tennis and hockey, but women’s basketball continued to draw the most spectators. At Oshkosh, the men reported, “They did make plays and no mistake / Those girls in blue and yellow; / And to spur on the lusty crowd / We cheered them to a fellow.” Along with im- proving their level of fitness, these athletes undoubtedly gained poise as they performed in a public setting.32 Finally, the broader social atmosphere of the normals was remarkably vibrant, prompting one observer to write that San Jose exuded “enthusi- asm and mutual confidence.” At the most formal level, students attended all sorts of anniversary celebrations and building dedications, which brought a sense of history and grandeur to campus. Usually spanning several days, graduation ceremonies generally included a baccalaureate sermon by a local minister, academic speeches by all graduates or stu- dent representatives of the senior class, and speeches by the principal or perhaps a visiting dignitary, as well as the ceremonial conferring of de- grees. In addition, students created their own tradition of more- and less- formal events. In end-of-the-year “class day” celebrations, they took the Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 657 stage to read the class history and prophesy and make other speeches. At Castleton in the late 1890s, celebrations included addresses to the ju- niors that offered advice as well as gentle gibes. From week to week, campus life was alive with other student-initiated events; all sorts of re- ceptions and socials provided normalites with opportunities to grow more comfortable as public actors. At one such reception, sponsored by the YWCA at San Jose, a leader announced at regular intervals new con- versation topics including “the last book I read,” the weather, and even “women’s sphere.” This gathering, like countless others on normal cam- puses, was virtually a seminar on the mores of polite society. With so many opportunities to involve oneself in a robust and inclusive academic community, it is hardly surprising that the “sip of a girl from an isolated shore home” in Massachusetts described attending normal school as, “not unlike birth into another world.”33 Conclusion State normal schools in the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen- turies not only welcomed women, members of minority groups, and stu- dents with other nontypical characteristics, but also included them in a rich intellectual and social community and encouraged them to reach be- yond their unprivileged backgrounds. While the official mission of the normal schools was simply teacher preparation, the unofficial mission of serving nontraditional students was integral to these institutions. Re- flecting on the later transformation of former normal schools into uni- versities, E. Alden Dunham (1969) observed, “One of the ironies of this movement is that a first-class teachers college may become a third-class university as it grows and changes its function” (p. 1). Thus, in the search for status, the former normals gave up their distinctive identity, including the behind-the-scenes yet ground-breaking mission of serving nontraditional students. More than three decades ago, Dunham (1969) saw the “question of model, of institutional purpose” as “the greatest single problem” facing state colleges and regional universities, because they lost “institutional coherence, warmth, and friendliness” as “the at- mosphere” changed “from soft to hard” (pp. 155 –156). The new “hard” environment marginalized the needs of nontraditional students. Rethink- ing the notion of “nontraditional” from the historical perspective of state normal schools is an important reminder not only of atypical students’ rich history in higher education, but also of what higher education insti- tutions and society stand to lose in turning away from the mission— whether official or unofficial— of serving these students. 658 The Journal of Higher Education Notes 1Gillan quoted in Semi-centennial history of the Illinois State Normal University, 1857–1907. Normal, IL: Illinois State Normal University, 1907, p. 202. 2David Sands Wright, Fifty years at the Teachers College: Historical and personal reminiscences. Cedar Falls: Iowa State Teachers College, 1926, p. 130; William Freder- ick Hartman, The history of Colorado State College of Education: The normal school pe- riod, 1890–1911. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Colorado State College of Educa- tion, 1951, p. 153; United States Commissioner/Bureau of Education, Reports and Bulletins. Washington: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1868 –1945. 3Most black normal schools later became agricultural and mechanical colleges, then universities. North Carolina established a normal school for Native American students in Pembroke, and Oklahoma established one in Tahlequah. 4William Marshall French & Florence Smith French, College of the Empire State: A Centennial history of The New York State College for Teachers at Albany. Albany, 1944, pp. 95, 258; Oswego students quoted in Dorothy Rogers, Fountainhead of teacher edu- cation: A century in the Sheldon Tradition. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1961, p. 59; Robert T. Brown, The rise and fall of the people’s colleges: The Westfield Normal School, 1839–1914. Westfield, MA: Institute for Massachusetts Studies, Westfield State College, 1988, pp. 61–62; Robert McGraw, A Century of Service. In Herb Taylor (Ed.), The first 100 years: Worcester State College. Worcester, MA: Worcester State College, Office of Community Services, 1974, Section 4 (no page nos.); Louie G. Ramsdell, First hundred years of the first state normal school in America: The State Teachers College at Framingham, Massachusetts—1839 –1939. In First state normal school in America: The State Teachers College at Framingham, Massachusetts. Framingham, MA: The Alumnae Association of the State Teachers College at Framingham, Massachusetts, 1959, p. 11; Helen E. Marshall, Grandest of enterprises: Illinois State Normal University, 1857–1957. Normal, IL: Illinois State Normal University, 1956, p. 133; Elizabeth Tyler Bugaighis, Blackboard diplomacy: The role of American normal schools in exporting education to Latin America, 1891–1924. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Educational Research Association, New Orleans, April 2000; Tom W. Nichols, Rugged summit. San Marcos, TX, 1970, p. 94. 5David A. Gould, Policy and pedagogues: School reform and teacher professionaliza- tion in Massachusetts, 1840–1920. Unpublished doctoral dissertaion, Brandeis Univer- sity, 1977, p. 87; Brown, The rise and fall of the people’s colleges, p. 79; Percentages of Southwest Texas parents calculated from data in Announcement of the Southwest Texas State Normal School for the annual session 1904–1905, 1905–1906, 1906–1907, 1907–1908, 1908–1909, 1909–1910, 1910–1911. Austin: State Printers, 1903 –1910; Irving H. Hart, The first 75 Years. Cedar Falls, IA: Iowa State Teachers College, 1951. p. 116; A history of the State Normal School of Kansas for the first twenty-five years. Emporia, KS, 1889, p. 45; Elizabeth L. Wheeler. Isaac Fisher: The frustrations of a Negro educator at Branch Normal College, 1902–1911. The Arkansas Historical Quar- terly, 41 (Spring 1982), 5. 6Arthur Clarke Boyden, Albert Gardner Boyden and the Bridgewater State Normal School: A memorial volume. Bridgewater, MA: Arthur H. Willis, 1919, p. 30; newspaper quoted in Irene Goldgraben, And the glory of the latter house shall be greater than that of the former. In And the glory of the latter house shall be greater than that of the former: An informal history of Castleton State College. Castleton, VT, 1968, p. 19; Brown, The rise and fall of the people’s colleges, p. 89; Rogers, Oswego: Fountainhead, p. 58; cheer quoted in The Arkansasyer. Pine Bluff, AR: Faculty of Arkansas Agricultural, Mechani- cal and Normal College, 1 (1928), p. 1. In Keepers of the spirit: The L. A. Davis, Sr. His- torical Collection, Exhibit, Isaac S. Hathaway-John M. Howard Fine Arts Center, Uni- versity of Arkansas at Pine Bluff, Pine Bluff, AR, May 1995. 7Dignam quoted in Work Projects Administration in the State of Massachusetts, The Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 659 State Teachers College at Westfield. Boston: State Department of Education, 1941, p. 53; Class day program, 1888, University of Wisconsin—Oshkosh Archives, Area Research Center, Polk Library, Oshkosh, WI, p. 18; Carey W. Brush, In honor and good faith: A history of the State University College at Oneonta, New York. Oneonta, NY: The Faculty- Student Association of State University Teachers College at Oneonta, 1965, pp. 45, 46, 114; Hartman, The history of Colorado State College of Education, p. 154; Ernest J. Hopkins & Alfred Thomas, Jr., The Arizona State University story. Phoenix: Southwest Publishing Co., 1960, pp. 85 –86; Elisabeth Ann Bowles, A good beginning: The first four decades of the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Chapel Hill: The Uni- versity of North Carolina Press, 1967, pp. 15 –16; ages of San-Marcos students calcu- lated from data in Student Registers, 1903 –1910, box 70, series 3, Southwest Texas State University Archives, Special Collections, Alkek Library, San Marcos, TX; Douglas R. Skopp, Bright with promise: From the normal and training school to SUNY Platts- burg, 1889–1989. Norfolk, VA: The Donning Company, 1989, pp. 62–63. 8Frank T. Reuter, West Liberty State College: The first 125 years. West Liberty, WV: West Liberty State College, 1963, p. 121; L. B. Johnson (not Lyndon Baines) quoted in Hopkins and Thomas, The Arizona State University story p. 93. 9George H. Martin, The Bridgewater Spirit. In Seventy-fifth anniversary of the state normal school, Bridgewater, Massachusetts, June 19, 1915. Bridgewater, MA: Arthur H. Willis, 1915, p. 13; Rogers, Oswego: Fountainhead, p. 59; Farmington statistics based on information in George C. Purington, History of the state normal school, Farmington, Maine. Farmington, ME: Knowlton, McLeary & Co., 1889, pp. 141–174; Oshkosh statis- tics calculated from Annual catalogue of the state normal school at Oshkosh, Wis., for the school year 1879– 80, 1884– 85, 1889–90, 1891–92, 1893–94, 1895–96, 1897–98, 1899–1900, 1901–1902. Oshkosh, WI, 1880 –1902, and Oshkosh State Normal School Bulletin (Oshkosh, WI), 1 (June 1904); 3 (June 1906); 5 (June 1908); quotations from Class day programs (Oshkosh), 1895, p. 18; 1896, p. 16; A history of the State Normal School of Kansas, p. 43; Hopkins & Thomas, The Arizona State University story, 85 –86; Florence data calculated using statistics in State Superintendent of Education (Alabama), Reports, 1899 and 1900. Montgomery, AL, pp. 31–32; 1901–1902, p. 117. 10Hewett quoted in Sandra D. Harmon, The voice, pen and influence of our women are abroad in the land: Women and the Illinois State Normal University, 1857–1899. In Catherine Hobbs (Ed.), Nineteenth-century women learn to write. Charlottesville: Uni- versity of Virginia Press, 1995, p. 95; Egbert R. Isbell, A history of Eastern Michigan University, 1849–1965. Ypsilanti, MI: Eastern Michigan University Press, 1971, p. 138; State Superintendent of Education (Alabama), Report, 1901–1902, p. 117; Ellis A. Steb- bins, The OCE story. Monmouth, OR: Oregon College of Education, 1973, p. 46; Brush, In honor and good faith, p. 114; Rogers, Oswego: Fountainhead, p. 122. 11J. M. McKenzie, History of Peru State Normal. Auburn, NE: The Nemaha County Republican, 1911, p. 98. 12Martin, The Bridgewater spirit, p. 14; Dixon quoted in Boyden, Albert Gardner Boyden and the Bridgewater State Normal School, p. 143; State Superintendent of Pub- lic Instruction (AR), Biennial Report, 1905–1906, p. 70; Annual Catalogue of the State Normal School at Oshkosh, Wis., for the school year 1879– 80, 1884– 85, 1889–90, 1894–95, 1899–1900; Oshkosh State Normal School Bulletin 2 (June 1905); 7 (June 1910); Rosalind R. Fisher, “. . . the stone strength of the past . . .”: Centennial history of State University College of Arts and Science at Geneseo, New York. Geneseo, NY, 1971, p. 146; Maxine Ollie Merlino, A history of the California State Normal Schools—Their origin, growth, and transformation into teachers colleges. Unpublished doctoral disser- taion, University of Southern California, 1962, pp. 94–95. 13McKenzie, History of the Peru State Normal, pp. 22–23, 96; Principal’s annual re- port, 1910 –1911, quoted in Arthur Charles Forst, Jr., From normal school to state col- lege: The growth and development of Eastern Connecticut State College from 1889 to 1959. Unpublished doctoral dissertaion, University of Connecticut, 1980, p. 101. 660 The Journal of Higher Education 14Class day program (Oshkosh), 1888, pp. 17–18. 15Catalogue and circular of the California State Normal School, San Jose, 1879. Sacramento, 1879, pp. 47–51; State Normal School, Castleton, Vermont, Flier, 1891, Castleton State College Archives, Vermont Room, Coolidge Library, Castleton, VT; Al- bert Salisbury, The normal schools of Wisconsin: A souvenir of the meeting of the Na- tional Educational Association held at Milwaukee, Wis., July 6–9, 1897 (1897), p. 17. 16For admission requirements, see catalogues and bulletins of individual normal schools. See also Fisher, “. . . the stone strength of the past . . . ,” p. 60; Susan Vaughn, The history of State Teachers College, Florence, Alabama. Bulletin of the State Teachers College, Florence, Alabama, 18 [1930s?], pp. 15, 25; Fredrick Chambers, Historical study of Arkansas Agricultural, Mechanical and Normal College, 1873–1943. Unpub- lished EdD dissertation, Ball State University, 1970, p. 68; Estelle Greathead, The story of an inspiring past: Historical sketch of San Jose State Teachers College from 1862 to 1928. San Jose, CA: San Jose State Teachers College, 1928, p. 15; William Herald Her- rmann, The rise of the public normal school system in Wisconsin. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1953, pp. 412– 413, 495; John Marvin Smith, The history and growth of Southwest Texas State Teachers College. Unpublished MA thesis, University of Texas–Austin, 1930, p. 53. 17Annual catalogue of the State Normal School at Oshkosh, Wis., for the school year 1898–99. Oshkosh, WI, 1899, p. 111; Bulletin of the State Normal College, Florence, Alabama, 1 (1912), 9. 18The first half century of the Oshkosh Normal School. Oshkosh, WI: The Faculty of State Normal School, 1921, p. 17; State Normal School, Geneseo, NY, 1907–1908, p. 19; Isbell, A history of Eastern Michigan University, p. 166. 19Catalog quoted in As we were . . . As we are: Bridgewater State College, 1840–1876. Bridgewater, MA: Alumni Association, Bridgewater State College, 1876, p. 79. 20A history of the State Normal School of Kansas, p. 29; Clayton C. Mau, Brief his- tory of the State University Teachers College, Geneseo, New York. Geneseo, NY, 1956, p. 6; Isbell, A history of Eastern Michigan University, p. 138; Catalogue of the California State Normal School, San Jose, 1895. Sacramento: State Printing Office, 1895, p. 9; 1900 (1900), p. 11; Michael Francis Bannon, A history of State Teachers College, Troy, Alabama. Unpublished EdD dissertation, George Peabody College for Teachers, 1954, p. 47; Announcement of the Southwest Texas State Normal School for the annual session 1908–1909, p. 44. 21Chambers, Historical study of Arkansas Agricultural, Mechanical and Normal Col- lege, p. 80; Vaughn, The history of State Teachers College, Florence, p. 38; on scholar- ships, see catalogues and bulletins of individual normal schools. 22Rogers, Oswego: Fountainhead, p. 71; Brush, In honor and good faith, pp. 32, 102–103; Nichols, Rugged summit, pp. 92–93; E. Louise Murphy, Origin and develop- ment of Fayetteville State Teachers College, 1867–1959—A chapter in the history of the education of negroes in North Carolina. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, 1960, p. 167; Thomas Rothrock, Joseph Carter Corbin and negro education in the University of Arkansas. The Arkansas Historical Quarterly, 30 (Winter 1971), 289. 23State Normal School, Geneseo, NY, 1911–1912, p. 28; 1912–1913, p. 25. 24Excerpt from Westfield catalog reprinted in Brown, The rise and fall of the people’s colleges, 134 –140; Arthur C. Boyden, The history of Bridgewater Normal School. Bridgewater, MA: Bridgewater Normal Alumni Association, 1933, pp. 54, 41– 42; Forst, From normal school to state college: The growth and development of Eastern Connecti- cut State College, pp. 68, 70 –71; Paul Stoler, Castleton Normal School in the nineteenth century. In Holman D. Jordan (Ed.), And the glory of the latter house shall be greater than that of the former: An informal history of Castleton State College. Castleton, VT: Castleton State College, 1968, p. 52; Chambers, Historical study of Arkansas Agricul- Rethinking the Nontraditional Student 661 tural, Mechanical and Normal College, 1873 –1943, pp. 66 –68, 143, 188, 218; Hopkins & Thomas, The Arizona State University story, p. 89 25School catalogs, bulletins and histories (various); C. O. Ruggles, Historical sketch and notes: Winona State Normal School, 1860–1910. Winona, MN: Jones & Kroeger Co., 1910, pp. 143 –145. 26School catalogs, bulletins and histories (various); Catalogue of the California State Normal School, San Jose, 1900. Sacramento: State Printing Office, 1900, p. 8; The Nor- mal Index. San Jose, CA: Students of State Normal School, 3 (Nov. 1887), 32; Hartman, The history of Colorado State College of Education, p. 159; Mau, Brief history of the State University Teachers College, Geneseo, p. 17; W. Wayne Dedman, Cherishing this heritage: The centennial history of the State University College at Brockport, New York. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1969, p. 124; A history of the State Normal School of Kansas, pp. 62–73; Deward Homan Reed, The history of teachers colleges in New Mexico. Nashville: George Peabody College for Teachers, 1948, p. 136; Hopkins & Thomas, The Arizona State University Story, pp. 111–112; Wright, Fifty Years at the teachers college, p. 116; Melvin Frank Fiegel, A history of Southwestern State College, 1903–1953. Unpublished EdD dissertation, Oklahoma State University, 1968, p. 27. 27School catalogs, bulletins, and histories (various); Vaughn, The history of State Teachers College, Florence, p. 31; Oshkosh State Teachers College: The first seventy-five years. Oshkosh, WI: Oshkosh State Teachers College, 1946, p. 68; Wright, Fifty years at the teachers college, p. 74; The Normal Pennant. San Jose, CA: Students of State Nor- mal School, 4 (June 1901), 18; The pedagogue. San Marcos, TX: Students of Southwest Texas State Normal School, 1905, p. 61; Brush, In honor and good faith, p. 288. 28Work Projects Administration, The State Teachers College at Westfield, p. 72; The normal advance. Oshkosh, WI: Students of State Normal School 6 (Oct. 1899), 33; Dixie Club, Roll and minutes of meetings, Oct. 25, 1912, in Organizations, Files, Uni- versity Collection, Collier Library Archives, University of North Alabama, Florence, AL (no page nos.); Ladies’ Literary Society, Minutes, Oct. 8, 1880 and Feb. 4, 1881, in Uni- versity of Wisconsin-Oshkosh Archives, Area Research Center, Polk Library, Oshkosh, WI, pp. 127, 136; The Normal Star (San Marcos, TX: Students of Southwest Texas State Normal School) 2(Feb. 23, 1912), 1; The Normal Advance, 18 (Jan. 1912), 128; Boyden, Albert Gardner Boyden and the Bridgewater State Normal School, p. 146. 29School catalogs, bulletins, and histories (various); Catalogue and Circular of the California State Normal School, San Jose, 1890 (Sacramento, 1890), p. 31; Vermont State Normal Schools, 1909–1910 (Catalog, no publication information provided), p. 11; Fisher, “. . . the stone strength of the past . . . ,” pp. 86 –87. 30Boyden, Albert Gardner Boyden and the Bridgewater State Normal School, pp. 116 –117; New York State Teachers College at Buffalo: A History, 1871–1946. Buffalo: New York State Teachers College at Buffalo, 1946, pp. 143, 129; The Normal Advance, 5 (March 1899), 120 –123; Bannon, A history of State Teachers College, Troy, Alabama, 1954, p. 41; Hart, The first 75 years, p. 148. 31School catalogs, bulletins, and histories (various); Class day programs (Oshkosh), 1888; The first half century of the Oshkosh Normal School, p. 25; The Normal Pennant, 4 (May 1898), 4 32School catalogs, bulletins, and histories (various); Marshall, Grandest of enter- prises, pp. 199 –200; Samuel R. Mohler, The first seventy-five years: A history of Central Washington State College. Ellensburg, WA: Central Washington State College, 1967, p. 97; The Normal Advance, 3 (March-April 1897), 78. 33S. E. Rothery, Some educational institutions: Pilgrimages about San Jose. The Overland Monthly, 30 (July 1897), 75; School catalogs, bulletins, and histories (vari- ous); Commencement Programs, Castleton State Normal School, 1874–1940, Castleton State College Archives, Vermont Room, Coolidge Library, Castleton, VT; The Normal Index, 6 (March 25, 1891), 73; Boyden, Albert Gardner Boyden and the Bridgewater State Normal School, p. 143. 662 The Journal of Higher Education References Allmendinger, D. F. (1975). Paupers and scholars: The transformation of student life in nineteenth-century New England. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Astin, A. W. (1993). What matters in college? Four critical years revisited. San Fran- cisco: Jossey-Bass. Bean, J. P., & Metzner, B. S. (1985). A conceptual model of nontraditional undergradu- ate student attrition. Review of Educational Research, 55, 485 –540. Bendixen-Noe, M. K. (1998). Nontraditional students in higher education: Meeting their needs as learners. Mid-Western Educational Researcher, 11(2), 27–31. Burke, C. B. 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Contentwise, the post-print version is identical to the final published version, but there may be differences in typography and layout. How to cite this publication Please cite the final published version: Scarpaci, J.L., Sovacool, B.K. & Ballantyne, R. J Consum Policy (2016) 39: 119. doi:10.1007/s10603-016- 9315-y Publication metadata Title: A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising: a Transformative Consumer Research Perspective Author(s): Joseph L. Scarpaci & Benjamin K. Sovacool & Ronnie Ballantyne Journal: Journal of Consumer Policy DOI/Link: 10.1007/s10603-016-9315-y Publication date: 24 February 2016 Document version: Accepted manuscript (post-print) 1 23 Journal of Consumer Policy Consumer Issues in Law, Economics and Behavioural Sciences ISSN 0168-7034 Volume 39 Number 2 J Consum Policy (2016) 39:119-140 DOI 10.1007/s10603-016-9315-y A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising: a Transformative Consumer Research Perspective Joseph L. Scarpaci, Benjamin K. Sovacool & Ronnie Ballantyne 1 23 Your article is protected by copyright and all rights are held exclusively by Springer Science +Business Media New York. This e-offprint is for personal use only and shall not be self- archived in electronic repositories. If you wish to self-archive your article, please use the accepted manuscript version for posting on your own website. You may further deposit the accepted manuscript version in any repository, provided it is only made publicly available 12 months after official publication or later and provided acknowledgement is given to the original source of publication and a link is inserted to the published article on Springer's website. The link must be accompanied by the following text: "The final publication is available at link.springer.com”. A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising: a Transformative Consumer Research Perspective Joseph L. Scarpaci1 & Benjamin K. Sovacool2,3,4 & Ronnie Ballantyne5,6 Received: 22 September 2015 /Accepted: 2 February 2016 / Published online: 24 February 2016 # Springer Science+Business Media New York 2016 Abstract This critical literature review incorporates a transformative consumer research (TCR) perspective in highlighting selected transgressions in corporate social responsibility that touch on (1) wealth consolidation, (2) environmental degradation, (3) commodification, (4) semiotic contamination, and (5) an erosion of accountability. It argues for a participatory approach among stakeholders in sustaining marketing research and assessing consumer policy that is both ethical and critical for academic marketers and practitioners alike. Transformative consumer researchers work to ensure that advertisements, messaging, and integrated marketing communications play a key role in promoting honesty and transparency. At the same time, transformative consumer research recognizes that advertising often masks the underlying costs incurred by society in general, and consumers in particular. TCR practices presently exist, and examples are presented to highlight these practices in consumer policy. Keywords Advertising . Integrated marketing communications . Transformative consumer research . Corporate social responsibility. Ethics J Consum Policy (2016) 39:119–140 DOI 10.1007/s10603-016-9315-y * Joseph L. Scarpaci joescarpaci@gmail.com 1 Center for the Study of Cuban Culture + Economy, Blacksburg, VA, USA 2 School of Business, Management, and Economics, University of Sussex, Brighton, UK 3 Center for Energy Technologies, Aarhus University, Herning, Denmark 4 Business and Social Sciences, Department of Business Development and Technology, Aarhus University, Herning, Denmark 5 Department of Business Management, Glasgow School for Business and Society, Glasgow Caledonian University, Glasglow, Scotland 6 Institut d’Administration des Enterprises, IAE, University of Nice, Nice, France Author's personal copy http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1007/s10603-016-9315-y&domain=pdf In 2015, venerable German automobile brands Audi and Volkswagen lose brand equity for falsifying reports about diesel fuel emissions. The missive will costs the manufacturers billions of dollars and forces a recall of some 900,000 vehicles (Hotten 2015). Coca-Cola partners with a nonprofit organization to shift the obesity claim and prescribe that Diet Coke and exercise are compatible. The company fails, however, to disclose that it sponsored the nutrition research (O’Connor 2015). A furniture company publishes magazine advertisements featuring soft- focus photographs of deer in virgin forests to underscore their commitment to the natural environment even as they pressure regulators for more clear-cutting of timber and exemptions from environmental legislation. Mobil Oil runs a television ad where Native Americans look over a littered meadow being cleaned up by school children using plastic bags manufactured by the company claimed to be biodegradable, when they are, in fact, not. A forest-product firm runs glossy television ads promoting their paper under the names of environmental stewards Henry David Thoreau and Aldo Leopold and promotes itself as Bone of the oldest, continuously operating forest product companies in the Pacific Northwest.^ However, its factories discharge toxic effluents into the air and water, poisoning surfers in California (Simpson 2014). In each of these cases, the advertisements, messaging, and public relations—which constitute a company’s integrated marketing communications (IMCs)—portray these actors practicing corporate social responsibility and environmental stewardship to explicitly mask their capriciousness and environmental irresponsibility (Ford 2008). Bige Saatcioglu and Julie L. Ozanne’s (2013) insightful critique that markets certainly include groups but, often unintentionally, exclude other segments in the process, is warranted in these cases (Ozanne et al. 2009). Researchers who organize themselves to rectify social problems in the marketplace form part of participatory action research or transformative consumer research (TCR). These approaches assume that the community is a neglected yet viable unit of analysis in consumer policy and consumer behavior research (Ozanne and Ozanne 2011). We recognize that the critical review of advertising that follows can be traced back to well before the 1950s (Advertising Age 1957), and to the works of American economist and sociologist Thorsten Veblen (1899, 1904) and the more lyrical arguments of William Blake (2007) and Ralph W. Emerson (1879), and the transcendentalism and self reliance of Henry David Thoreau (1910, 2015) and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1851). Their analyses about human alienation and environmental disruption caused by the Industrial Revolution still resonate today. However, our contribution extends these nineteenth cen- tury arguments by anchoring them in a critical review of the advertising and TCR literatures. By Bcritical,^ the article does not fully weigh the costs and benefits of each but instead identifies only key challenges or drawbacks. By Breview,^ the authors rely exclusively on secondary data from communication studies, mass media, and economics journals as well as literature from the disciplines of consumption studies, sociology, public policy, natural resource management, and law, a small sample of which is referenced here. These sources were collected mainly from English- and Spanish-language academic databases such as Scopus, JSTOR, and Science Direct, where the authors searched for articles based on their title or abstract from 1970 to 2015. Our keywords include advertising, consumer policy, transformative consumer research, consumption, product life-cycle, regulatory control, and sustainability. We read the abstracts of over 800 articles and book summaries, before culling the list down further for a deeper examination. About half (53%) of the literature we ultimately cite draws on advertising, communication 120 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy studies, and cultural studies; about a third (29%) derives from the marketing, consumer behavior, and transformative consumer research research; and the balance comes from the fields of environmental studies and regulatory control (Table 1). Based on an extensive and interdisciplinary marketing-literature review, the transformative consumer research in this paper identifies five questionable marketing practices: advertising transfers wealth to advertisers and corporations, promotes materialism and cynicism that contribute to waste and environmental degradation, dehumanizes human beings by promoting selfishness and anxiety, degrades the quality of language and symbols, and erodes account- ability. We argue for sustaining a transformative consumer research perspective that leads to personal and collective well being (Mick 2006; Mick et al. 2012), which is both an ethical and philosophical claim promoted by the American Marketing Association. Accordingly, mar- keters should (1) do no harm, (2) foster trust in the marketing system, and (3) embrace ethical Table 1 Costs of advertising literature review Advertising, communication studies, and cultural studies (90 references, 53%) Advertising Age 1957; American Advertising Federation (AAF) 2015; Altstiel and Grow 2010; Arens 2004; Bahary and Adamo 2012; Barrage et al. 2014; Bator and Cialdini 2000; Berman 1981; Blake 2007; Boorstin 1962; Bovee and Arens 1992; Carreira 2000; Christakis et al. 2004; Deery 2009; Dachevych 2014; David et al. 2012; Davies 2014; Diamond 1975; Drumwright and Murphy 2004; Emarketer 2014; Emerson 1879; Evans and Hall 1999; Ewen 2003; Fernández 2011; Fischer 2010; Fiske 1987; Fowles 1982; Fox 1985; Fromm 1955, 1976; Gómez Capuz 2001; Grigg 1997; Groden 2015; Guzmán González 2002; Hall 1980; Hayakawa 1964; Herman and Chomsky 2002; Hirschmann and Thompson 1997; Hovland et al. 2007; Hunt and Chonko 1987; Hyman et al. 1994; Iser 1978; James et al. 1994; Johar and Sirgy 1991; Kachru 2006; Kaser 2013; Kensicki 2004; Killoran 2014; Lasch 1979; Layard 2005; Leiss 1976; Letizia 2010; Leymore 1975; Longfellow 1851; López 1998; MacBride 1980; Mackay 2000; MacNeil 1983; Marchand 1985; Mangold and Faulds 2009; McLuhan 1951, 1953, 1964; McLuhan and Fiore 1967; Moon and Frank 2000; Moores 1993; National Science Foundation (NSF) 1978; Patterson 2004; Postman 1986; Presbrey 1929; Pollay 1985, 1986; Potter 1954; Putnam 1995, 2000; Radway 1994; Real 1977; Renner and Fernández- Domínguez 2015; Rotzoll and Christians 1980; Skomia 1965; Snell-Homby 2000; Stelter 2009a; Taflinger 1996; Teschner 1974; Thoreau 1910, 2015; Tichi 1991; Traube 1992; Turner 1992; Turngate 2007; Veblen 1899, 1904; Williamson 1994; Weir 1963; Yeshin 2006 Transformative consumer research (TCR), consumer policy, and marketing and consumer behavior (49 references, 29%) Aaker 1997; American Marketing Association (AMA) 2015; Ballantyne et al. 2006; Bossy 2013; Brower and Warren 2006; Burroughs and Rindfleisch 2012; Crockett et al. 2013; Fetherstonhaugh 2009; Galli and DegliEsposti 2012; Gleick 1999; Harris et al. 2011; Hettche and Scarpaci 2009; Hinduja and Patchin 2010; Honoré 2004; Hunt et al. 1989; Kasser and Ryan 1993; Kotler 1967; Lair et al. 2005; Leonard et al. 2008; Levy and Grewal 2014; Mick 2006; Mick et al. 2012; Morales and Scarpaci 2012; Moutinho et al. 2011; O’Connor 2015; Ozanne and Anderson 2010; Ozanne and Murray 1995; Ozanne and Saatcioglu 2008; Ozanne et al. 2009; Ozanne and Fischer 2012; Ozanne and Ozanne 2011; Pierce et al. 1992; Quart 2003; Rindfleisch et al. 1997; Safdar 2013; Saad 2011; Saatcioglu and Ozanne 2013; Scarpaci 2014, 2015; Schiller 1973; Schau and Muniz 2002; Schor 1999; Scott 1992, 1993; Sheldon and Kasser 1998; Solomon 2015; Sprott et al. 2009; Sunstein 2015; Sunstein and Thaler 2008; The Havana Consulting Group (THCG) 2014; Van Bommel and Spicer 2011; Wolburg et al. 2007 Environmental studies and regulatory policy (31 references, 18%) Barnet and Cavanagh 1994; Barnouw 1978; British Petroleum (BP) 2003; Brown and Sovacool 2010; de Sola Pool 1983; Durning 1992; Fishbein et al. 2002; Florida 2007; Ford 2008; Friedrichs 2007; Galbraith 1967; Guimaraes and Liska 1995; Hamilton 2003; Hardwood Group 1995; Harris 2007; Hawken 1993; Heilbroner 1981; Held 2010; Kuratko and Goldsby 2004; Lane 2001; Lovins et al. 1999; Mishan 1967; Orr 1994; Radmacher 2008; Rose 1974; Sachs 2006; Simpson 2014; Sovacool 2010, 2011; Stelter 2009a, b; Tetlock 2005; Wyatt and Lipton 2014. Some references encompass multiple literature subsets. However, their inclusion here reflects the perspective derived from the authors’ reading of the work and consensus about their classification A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 121 Author's personal copy values (honesty, responsibility, fairness, respect, transparency, and citizenship) (AMA 2015). Transformative consumer research challenges the status quo to create new models of business and new forms of consumption that question, among other variables, the underlying mecha- nisms (advertising, IMC) that drive certain marketing practices (Crockett et al. 2013). The value of such a literature exploration is threefold. We go beyond the observation by Alfred Lasker about the backbone of advertising in the early twentieth century: Bsalesmanship in print, driven by a reason why^ (Arens 2004, 7). Advertising has become so pervasive and powerful that is now Borchestrating everyday consciousness^ (Ewen 2003; Kensicki 2004). That is why we believe that marketers and mid-level managers have an ethical obligation to constantly re-examine the far reach of their craft (Kuratko and Goldsby 2004; Ozanne and Ozanne 2011). Corporate IMCs constitute a growing portion of our overall social environment. As McLuhan and Fiore (1967) observed almost 50 years ago, Benvironments are invisible; their ground rules, pervasive structure, and overall patterns elude easy perception.^ Corporate messaging keeps audiences in a perpetual Binattentive state of distraction^ (Marchand 1985) that requires an interdisciplinary perspective to understand (Moores 1993). Our study is thus an attempt to make the impacts of these aspects of marketing visible to strengthen the study of consumer policy. Following Ozanne and Fischer (2012, p. 104), B[t]ransformative consumer researchers need to be eclectic in their use of methods by developing a broad range of tools to deal with diverse social problems.^ Second is the article’s holistic approach to the literature. Similar to Pollay (1985, 1986), the authors reviewed reputable studies and articles from fields as diverse as marketing, psychol- ogy, sociology, anthropology, education, environmental studies, business ethics, and commu- nication studies. Included are psychological studies that view IMC and corporate messaging as sources of conditioning with consumer research implications; sociological investigations that assess role modeling and aspiration, which can influence collective behavior; anthropological research looking at rituals, symbols, and the way humans give meanings to objects and each other; educational research studying child development and the learning process; and com- munication articles that assess the role of mass media, propaganda, and information dissem- ination (Ozanne and Saatcioglu 2008). Third is that although the study takes a critical view of IMC, it rejects overly deterministic and knee-jerk accounts supposing that marketing and advertising images inject certain ideas and attitudes directly into the minds of targeted consumers (Schiller 1973) or the Bhypodermic needle^ theory noted by Marchand (1985). As a sample of such thinking, luminaries such as Jean Baudrillard, Umberto Eco, and Roland Barthes have argued that recipients of advertising are essentially passive, held captive by the Bcommunications apparatus of the capitalist interests^ and Bprisoners of false consciousness^ (Tichi 1991, p. 9). Fromm (1976, p. 110) notes that marketing practices driving consumption can Bsmother and kill the critical capacities of the customer like an opiate or outright hypnosis.^ These are overly simplistic assessments (Barnouw 1978; Boorstin 1962; McLuhan 1951, 1953, 1964; Real 1977). Wolburg et al. (2007, p. 335), for example, argue that alcoholics can talk back to their beer commercials by recognizing that these TV ads appeal to emotions, celebratory occasions, and high skill levels that are the very experiences and qualities most elusive to beer (over)consumption. This paper takes a softer and more nuanced view. It conceptualizes integrated marketing communication strategies and society as mutually interactive, each influencing the other. Though it is not solely the determining factor, IMC does condition consumer choices, much like the air blown into a balloon gives it its shape. Promoting consumer goods and services is not the sole causal factor in the consequences depicted below, but it is associative and therefore 122 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy relevant to consumer policy and marketing research. This is why Turner (1992) calls the sphere of consumption and its attendant strategies a Brecombinant culture,^ implying that IMC creates a shared reality only with the participation of consumers. Consumers are not merely the result of passive firms’ efforts to change attitudes and to persuade, but are active producers of perceived meaning (Hall 1980; Iser 1978; Scott 1992, 1993). That Philip Kotler’s (1967) seminal characterization that marketing is all about the 4Ps (price, product, promotion, and place), is now being substituted for the 4Es (from price to exchange; from product to experience; from promotion to evangelism; and place to everyplace), testifies to the changing nature of IMC specifically, and marketing in general (Fetherstonhaugh 2009). Corporate Promotion in Form and Function Marketing strategies rely not only on text and speech but also images and motion pictures. Advertising predominately relies on the human senses of sound and sight. Sound, whether on the radio, in a movie, or on micro-sound chips in magazines, enables words to be presented to the Btheater of the mind.^ It can also conjure images and actions that do not necessarily exist, such as the noise of a breeze rustling leaves to imply a soft spring day or the sound of waves to make listeners think of a sunny beach (Turngate 2007). Sight, perhaps Bthe most useful of the communication channels available to the advertiser,^ blends words and images effectively and economically to enhance persuasive appeal (Taflinger 1996). Evans and Hall (1999, p. 2), for example, call images the Btechnical unit of the modern mass media^ for their ability to combine logical and emotional claims together. It may be axiomatic that business promotions are also sponsored; the information it presents is paid for, highly selective, and therefore incomplete. It does not discuss everything there is to know about a particular product so that consumers can make an informed decision. It is not neutral or unbiased or necessarily even based on fact (Radway 1994). However, consumer policy analysts and consumers recognize that these promotions provide only fragmented and selective information designed for Bconsumption^ rather than Bthinking^ (Diamond 1975; Ozanne and Murray 1995). Nonprofit advertising is not exempted from these prescriptions as all advertising aims to alter consumer (B2C) or business (B2B) behaviors in some fashion. Significantly, this behavior does not always lead to purchase a product or service. Rather, its goals can be to raise awareness about a brand, product, or service; remind a customer that although the product is well established, sending a gentle reminder that says Bhey, we’re still here,^ may be necessary; or simply using humor or celebrity endorsement to distinguish itself in a highly congested field of advertising (Levy and Grewal 2014). IMCs should be accurate, informative, and persuasive in the sense that they are focused on identifying and differentiating products and services so that consumers will buy them, or that public perception will be altered. The central purpose of IMCs is not just to move merchandise, but to enable strategy, develop brands, and secure market share, among other goals (Aaker 1997). Appearing in many modes and media enhances its persuasiveness. Particular delivery mechanisms include billboards, printed flyers, radio, cinema, television, the Internet, maga- zines, newspapers, stickers, and Bcreative^ practices such as skywriting, ads on automobiles and buses, and product placement in television and movies (Traube 1992; Skomia 1965). The television commercial is considered the Bmost effective^ format, reflected both by its high prices and ubiquity (Hirschmann and Thompson 1997). Common advertising techniques include repetition, appeals to authority and popularity, statements on corporate websites and A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 123 Author's personal copy in regional media, testimonials from experts and ordinary people, emotional appeals, artistic expressions, slogans, and buzzwords. Fowles (1982) surveyed thousands of advertisements and found a common set of 15 general suggestive themes including the need for sex, the need to achieve, and the need to satisfy curiosity. To be fair, these examples of corporate promotion do blur the line between its content and the media that distributes it. IMC involves Bhardware^ comprised of websites, servers, computers, television stations, satellites, printing presses, and studios, but it also encompasses Bsoftware^ and human elements such as advertising firms, financiers, lobbyists, and politi- cians. Lest we forget, soap operas, game shows, situational comedies, and even motion pictures are sponsored and intimately tied to advertising interests, with plot lines often written in conjunction with advertising agencies (Fox 1985). The boundaries between IMC and mass media, in other words, overlap. Nor has corporate messaging and brand positioning remained static. As noted above, the basic Bmarketing mix^ shift from the 4Ps to the 4Es captures that dynamic (Mangold and Faulds 2009). Social media and an organization’s ability to have consumers interact with the company in ways that do not lead to sales drive this shift in marketing. The rise of so-called advergaming (online games coupled with interactive advertisements to target particular con- sumer segments), blogs, Facebook, Pinterest, LinkedIn, and a variety of emerging venues intentionally promotes information about topics that help a (potential) client by adding value (Solomon 2015, pp. 96–97). Normatively, then, customers trust the messages sent out through these various channels, which, in turn, builds brand equity and value (Presbrey 1929). A potential customer who can identify a firm or brand in a particular product or service category, whether through assisted or unassisted recall, is an asset to a firm and aligns with a company’s integrated marketing communication strategy (Altstiel and Grow 2010; Sprott et al. 2009). One thread in the behavioral regulation literature is that nudges actually enhance both human agency and consumer education (Sunstein 2015; Sunstein and Thaler 2008) even if consumers do Bembrace irrelevant information^ at times (Leonard et al. 2008, p. 358). Promotion or Evangelism? Either Way, There Are Social Costs To be sure, advertising and IMC can change behavior in positive ways. Social marketing (smoking cessation, anti-litter campaigns, anti-drunk driving, drug prevention, safe sex cam- paigns, among others) aims to change behavior in non-commodified ways. In the USA, however, television and radio PSAs (public service announcements) are mandated at a minimum by the Federal Communication Commission and are largely aired in the wee hours of the night when paid advertisers are less forthcoming (Bovee and Arens 1992). While estimates vary, it has been repeatedly cited that the average person is exposed to about 3000 for- and non-profit messages a day. Global media expenditures in 2015 were $505 billion and are expected to reach $662 billion by 2018 (Emarketer 2014). Children, moreover, see at least 50,000 television commercials a year (Barnet and Cavanagh 1994: p. 171; Brower and Warren 2006; Durning 1992; Hawken 1993; National Science Foundation 1978), and seeing Viagra ads would seem to be the least of their problems (Thomaselli 2009). Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, people spent about 110 h Bconsuming^ traditional advertisements a year, or about 126 min per week (Gleick 1999, p. 127; Honoré 2004, p. 167; MacKay 2000). Americans’ time in front of a screen (television, computer, smartphone) now stands at 8 h with 61 min of 124 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy advertisements and promotions consumed per day (Stelter 2009a). Quite simply, we spend more time consuming corporate messaging than we do engaging in sex,1 and all of that exposure brings a suite of negative impacts, including choice fatigue (Ballantyne et al. 2006; Moutinho et al. 2011). The sections that follow detail five costs of advertising that a transformative consumer research framework might raise: advertising transfers wealth to advertisers and corporations, promotes materialism and cynicism that contribute to waste and environmental degradation, dehumanizes human beings by promoting selfishness and anxiety, degrades the quality of language and symbols, and erodes accountability (Table 2). We sidestep the impact of PSAs and other forms of social marketing because there is considerable evidence that those forms of advertising rarely change behaviors and, in good measure, largely Bpreach to the choir^ of viewers who already know the purported benefits of these spots in pro-environmental (Bator and Cialdini 2000; Guimaraes and Liska 1995), anti-drug (Fishbein et al. 2002; Hettche and Scarpaci 2009), and anti-smoking (Pierce et al. 1992) campaigns. Wealth Consolidation One direct effect of promoting consumption is to consolidate wealth among already wealthy corporations, despite the rise of much publicized initial public offerings (IPOs) among the plethora of new technology companies. For example, when Facebook went public, well- established companies purchased the majority of their shares (Safdar 2013). Simply put, advertising is designed to shift money from consumers and viewers—convincing them to buy things—and transfer it to manufacturers and producers. The 100 largest US corporations, for example, pay for 75% of all global advertising. Even public programming in most countries is now funded half or more by corporations. The much-ballyhooed Super Bowl football ads in 2014 ran an average of $4 million for a 30-s spot (Killoran 2014), and 2016 ads will fetch $5 million (2015). Recent structural changes within the mass media, such as deregulation and centralization, have made television stations and newspapers even more dependent on advertisers for funding. The largest media corporations—Disney, Comcast, Time Warner, Viacom, News Corporation—simultaneously own television networks, printing presses, studios, and news shows. The interests of the news media therefore become intertwined with those of powerful corporations. With the decline of federal support of public broadcasting in the USA (CPB 2013), the boundary between editorial and advertising departments has weakened, transforming newsrooms into transnational corporate empires and public relations spokesper- sons. The controversy surrounding the possible merger of Time Warner and Comcast in 2014 underscores this consolidation and potential lack of competition (Wyatt and Lipton 2014). Consider, too, the impact that Rupert Murdoch’s corporation had on politics in the UK after his company’s journalists were tapping into politicians’ cell phone messages and e-mail. Advertising prices soared as titillating news from illegal wiretaps at Buckingham Palace, and the nation’s parliament boosted Murdoch’s media empire of television, print, and other media. Moreover, corporate advertising in Murdoch’s news empire has not changed (Davies 2014). Put another way, advertising serves and propagandizes on behalf of powerful corporate interests (Fiske 1987; Herman and Chomsky 2002). 1 According to these sources, the average American spends 30 min each week engaging in sexual intercourse. A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 125 Author's personal copy Table 2 Summary of the social costs of promoting consumption through IMC and advertising Consequence Explanation TCR policy recommendations Consolidation of wealth For profit messaging is designed to convince consumers to spend money on products that in essence transfer wealth from individuals to corporations; they aim to conflate consumer needs with wants. Corporations and individuals own stocks that generate wealth and should reside with those actors. However, jargon-free caveats for consumers (financial disclaimers, safety information, product information) and cor- porate social responsibility actions that are well aligned with a firm’s core competencies (e.g., free or subsidized drugs in phar- maceutical companies; gift programs to vulnerable groups by consumer durable manufacturers) would mark a step in the TCR direction. Extant divisions of consumer protection (in US states and Canadian provinces) frequently highlight corporate altruism. Social media also culls these best practices among for-profit firms, as do non-profit “watch- dogs” such as Charity Navigator, which as- sess the ratio between services delivered and administrative overhead. Environmental degradation IMCs directly use depletable natural resources and indirectly shape norms and attitudes associated with waste and consumption. Third-party assessment of environmental practices provides consumers with information about product components, harvesting practices, water consumption, farm and aquaculture certifications, and product origin. Examples include ISO 14001, MCERTS, Forest Stewardship Council, Carbon Trust Standard, Seafood Watch, fair trade certificates, and childfree labor certificates, among others. Commodification Advertising commodifies human relationships and interaction, using stereotypes that strengthen insecurity, dehumanization, fear, and anxiety. Consequently, commodification can erode human communication skills at the expense of face-to-face interaction. Advertising organizations such as the American Association of Advertising Agencies and marketing organizations and their regional chapters (e.g., American Marketing Associations) embrace codes of conduct. The latter and related trade industries finance public service announcements (PSAs) in electronic and print format but often at late hours when viewership/readership is low. Promotional spots by the American Association of Re- tired Persons as well as Methodist, Roman Catholic, and other faiths also indirectly promote the value of face-to-face interac- tions and voluntarism in local communities. Semiotic contamination Brand promotion or evangelism can distort the symbolic environment and degrade language. The Hollywood films guide (G, PG, R, etc.) ratings as well as the promotion of adult entertainment in (late) evenings already keep some adult-content material away from minors. Still, terms like erectile dysfunction (ED) are frequently used during prime-time news broadcasts and are viewed by children of all ages. National film efforts to curtail the rise of Anglicisms in non-English productions. 126 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy All of these marketing strategies, moreover, influence preferences, suggesting that con- sumers do not always act in their own interest, nor can they serve their interests by acting collectively (Fiske 1989). Corporate messaging often does not distinguish between needs and wants, or even between disease and treatment. An axiom in most marketing campaigns is that consumers need to be convinced that their wants should be presented as needs, so that the purchase of a product or service actually solves a problem. It operates on the belief that what individuals prefer is always and everywhere good for them; although somewhat extreme, Hamilton (2003) argues that such satisfaction is akin to measuring the well-being of an alcoholic or an addict by the number of drinks or drugs they consume. An interesting view is that people are not materialistic enough and fail to appreciate the functional attributes of products and services as much as they should. Thus, a washing machine is not really judged about whether it gets our clothes clean, but whether we have acquired a piece of furniture that makes a statement about our taste in color or brand preference (Williamson 1994). The gap between what people have and what they want determines how contented they are, or what the late economist Mishan (1967) called the Bmargin of discontent.^ Mishan argues that it can be closed by increasing one’s possessions while keeping wants constant, or by maintaining one’s level of possessions and reducing desires. Yet, attempting to shift consumer behavior prevents wants and desires from ever remaining constant. It Bworks^ only by ensuring that preferences are subject to control and manipulation. The behavior of consumers comes to reflect not their own interests, but the preferences of other organizations and institutions. Or as Mishan (1967, p. 65) concluded: Bit is perverse to characterize the market as a want-satisfying mechanisms when we are exposed every day to attempts by the market to influence what we want.^ In response, the American Association of Advertising Agencies in 1986 countered that ads produce artificial needs with spots that state, BDespite what some people think, advertising can’t make you buy something you don’t need^ (glaad 2015). The AAAA’s tag line, BAdvertising: Freedom of Choice,^ rings true here. Or, as consumer behaviorist Michael Solomon (2015, p. 135) argues: BAdvertisers simply do not know enough about people to manipulate them.^ Lastly, conventional promotional strategies (i.e., mass communication print and electronic media) require resources (MacBride 1980). Far from a new argument, a large portion of the creative energy of wealthy nations is channeled into IMCs, resulting in less enrichment of Table 2 (continued) Consequence Explanation TCR policy recommendations Erosion of accountability IMCs leave little space for public deliberation and refutation, and advertisers and their sponsors are held responsible for false and dangerous claims only after lengthy and arduous regulatory channels. Solutions include revoking limited liability for advertising forms and/or suggesting that advertising companies start looking at other more accountable business models, e.g., community interest companies, B corporations, and low-profit limited liability companies (L3Cs). While voluntary product recall exists across industries and services, public regulatory agencies remain the ultimate arbiter (e.g., public health, agricultural inspection, consumer safety, environmental oversight). Independent testing by third-party sources drove the exposure of the Volkswagen/Audi and GM’s ignition-switch problems. A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 127 Author's personal copy culture than would be possible if this energy were redirected to other efforts (Potter 1954). The sophistication and subtlety, complex and clever symbolism, needed to convince a consumer that a tub of vegetable fat can give us something special, is a truly difficult task. Hundreds of thousands of individuals must devote their lives to helping corporations manipulate people into buying more margarine or a pair of sneakers at the expense of another corporation selling a practically identical item. Hawken (1993) argued that this is not only waste of talent but also it is a net Bdisvalue^ to society; the removal of value by transferring money that should go to more productive uses. As a crude comparison, consider what more than a half billion dollars spent each year on advertising could accomplish. As Held (2010) has calculated, humanity could have used 1 year global advertising revenue to completely eliminate hunger and malnutrition, provided reproductive health care for all women, distributed clean drinking water to all people, achieved universal literacy, doubled the budget of the United Nations, and immunized every child—twelve times over (Fig. 1). Recent US Supreme Court rulings under the helm of Chief Justice Roberts eliminate the maximum amount of political contributions that companies and individuals can give to political parties and candidates and drive this message home forcefully. The stakes of transformative consumer research have never been greater. Environmental Degradation Advertisements damage the natural environment in two ways: by directly using resources (paper, ink, electricity) in their production and distribution and indirectly by selling products with high turnover rates and shaping social attitudes about waste. Though advertisements take 620 19 12 10 5 3.8 1.3 Global/ Advertising/ Industry Elimination/of/ Hunger/and/ Malnutrition Reproductive/ Health/Care/for/ All/Women Clean/Drinking/ Water/for/All Universal/ literacy United/Nations/ Budget Immunizing/ Every/Child Fig. 1 Comparison of annual expenditure on advertising compared to estimated funding needed to meet selected basic needs (billions of $USD). Data source: Held (2010) 128 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy many forms, examples of two are most revealing: television commercials and printed junk mail inserts. About one quarter (24.8%) of US television programming, for instance, is now advertisements (Bahary and Adamo 2012). Advertising is responsible for the many natural resources used to maintain and power television sets and other telecommunication devices. Televisions, although they bring us news and entertainment (Deery 2009), use roughly 1 to 2% of global residential electricity, meaning they are responsible for millions of tons of carbon dioxide emissions and all of the negative externalities—acid rain, climate change, pollution— associated with the electricity sector. Televisions rapidly become obsolete, with state-of-the-art models becoming exchanged an average of every 3 to 6 years for newer models (e.g., cathode ray tubes, circuit boards, LED screens, HD television). Yet, at a post-consumer stage, televisions leech heavy metals and other hazardous materials into landfills and also release carcinogens upon incineration. Each television contains lead, chromium, cadmium, hexavalent chromium, brominated flame retardants, beryllium, copper, and plastics. Lead is the most common solder material, and the older cathode ray tubes in televisions contained between 4 and 8 lb of lead as a radiation shield. Other than pesticides and paints, electronics such as the television are the most hazardous products discarded by households in the developed world. In 2006, for example, more than 160,000 televisions and monitors were discarded each day into landfills, creating 3500 tons of waste (Sachs 2006). The post-Cold War era has ushered in a new wave of advertising and new consumers. In Cuba, the demise of USSR support has shifted consumer preferences there from Bolder^ Soviet-made (cathode ray tube) televisions to more expensive flat-screen Asian imports, despite decades of state preaching about what constitutes appropriate consumption (Morales and Scarpaci 2012). Cuban youth increasingly look towards local rap or reggaeton singers (Scarpaci 2014) and the exile community in South Florida (Scarpaci 2015a) for signals about brands and quality goods on an island where the government’s leadership used to identify what was essential and non-essential consumer behavior, products, and services. Recent survey data indicate that the average Cuban-American traveling to the island carries $3200 in cash with them, and that almost every recipient (98%) uses some of the money for cell phones, whereas less than half spend it on food (THCG 2014). In Chile, a recent survey of over 300 consumers in a top-of-the-mind listing of all Chilean brands positioned the Swiss company Nestlé as a leading Chilean brand; a few focus group participants in the same study even thought the dove and nest logo of Nestlé was reminiscent of the nation’s bucolic countryside (Scarpaci 2015b). Print advertisements also involve notable levels of pollution. Junk mail in the USA—meant here to mean advertisements mailed in bulk—is responsible for more than 51 million metric tons of annual carbon dioxide equivalent emissions. When put into context, that is as much greenhouse gas pollution each year as 9 million cars, or 2.4 million cars idling 24 h a day, 7 days a week, or nearly 85,000 international flights on a Boeing 747-400 (Ford 2008). Consumers in the USA alone receive 100 billion pieces of junk mail each year, or 848 pieces per household. The environmental footprint of printed advertising extends beyond deforesta- tion and the transport of timber and paper to printing, distribution, and waste disposal (Ford 2008). A transformative consumer research perspective supports some level of reduce, reuse, and recycling into is messaging. Indirectly, advertising shapes norms about consumption. In its most banal function, its intent is to preoccupy consumers with material concerns that frame commercially available goods or services as the path to happiness and the solution to social problems (Rindfleisch et al. 1997). Seen alternatively, it aims to ease consumers’ decision-making about products and services that can add value and utility to one’s life and solve problems. A transformative A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 129 Author's personal copy consumer research perspective suggests that the accumulation of objects, what is Bnew^ and Bdesirable,^ becomes an end in itself. Heilbroner (1981, p. 40) even called advertising the Bdeadliest subversive force within capitalism.^ As the late economist John Kenneth Galbraith (1967, p. 219) elaborated: Advertising and its related arts thus help develop the kind of man the goals of the industrial system require—one that reliably spends his income and works reliably because he is always in need of more. In the absence of the massive and artful persuasion that accompanies the management of demand, increasing abundance might well have reduced the interest of people in acquiring more goods. Galbraith implies that the propensity to over-consume is an elemental part of the current industrial system. The result can lead to overconsumption of food, cars, pornography, clothes, hair products, and houses—virtually every product and service on the market (Patterson 2004). Saad (2011) postulates that girls reared in media-saturated environments, and who hail from unstable families, are more likely to use cosmetics, wear provocative attire, and put on high heels. In turn, the consumer segment drives up the demand for certain products that sexualize them— than girls whose exposure to media is less and whose families are more stable. The general population commonly replaces items not when they wear out, but when styles, images, and fashions change. Many manufacturers build obsolesce into their products so that they can sell more goods, and both producers and users Bthrow away^ many components and items as waste. But blame cannot be placed solely on manufacturers and advertising. On the one hand, Cooper (2012) has found that consumers in advanced industrial economies frequently dispose of products that are fully functional. On the other hand, Rodriguez et al. (2015) report that most iPhone users cite product obsolesce as the main reason for disposing their devices; this from a company whose Bpassion for the environment^ has launched them on a Bcontinuing mission to leave the world better than we found it^ (Apple 2015). In aligning with TCR actions, consumers in industrialized countries have entered a post-industrial age of Bconsumption communities^ where they make themselves known and enhance their identity and status through the products they purchase (Brown and Sovacool 2010). Such overconsumption produces refuse, garbage, trash, and waste. In 2012, Americans generated 338 million tons of municipal solid waste and recyclable trash (U.S. Energy Information Administration 2014)—working out to more than 1 ton per person each year. It is estimated that less than 1% of all materials mobilized to serve the market are actually made into products still in use 6 months after sale (Lovins et al. 1999). Consumers Bact like huge vacuum cleaners, sucking in resources and then blowing out huge volumes of wastes that must be buried, dumped into the oceans, or vented into the atmosphere^ (Hamilton 2003, p. 184). David Rose’s (1974, p. 359) more jaded observation four decades ago was that we have created a system where Bincreasingly large amounts of energy have been used to turn resources into junk.^ Commodification For-profit promotion not only transfers wealth and damages the environment but also erodes relationships between individuals. Although it is never framed this way in business adminis- tration courses, at its core, advertising creates a perpetual state of displeasure, where consumers must always question their appearance, lifestyle, and possessions. Many of the techniques 130 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy mentioned in the section above—appeals to sexuality or domination—dehumanize interper- sonal relationships, encourage simplistic social explanations, and aggravate sexism, racism, and homophobia. By romanticizing goods rather than people, advertising erodes spirituality and a sense of community. Consumers are increasingly turning to reference groups (esteemed individuals such as family, friends and co-workers)—to validate their consumption choices. Parents, for example, are reduced to intermediaries (e.g., surrogate marketing targets) between children and the market; colleagues and friends become things to envy, compete with, or emulate; sexual urges become reduced to stimuli to push products (Fromm 1955; Hirschmann and Thompson 1997; Leiss 1976; Pollay 1986; Williamson 1994). Parents become reduced, as Christopher Lasch (1979, p. 180) has written, to Bcreate new anxieties instead of allaying old ones^ and to make people Bacutely unhappy.^ All dimensions of human psychology—fears, sources of shame, sexuality, spiritual desires—become nothing more than a Btreasure house to be plundered in the search for a commercial edge^ (Hamilton 2003, p. 83). The surge in pre- teen and adolescent suicides that is attributed to online (e.g., cyber-) bullying has even been linked to the victim’s inability to assume appropriate or socially conscribed levels of con- sumption (Hinduja and Patchin 2010; Hovland et al. 2007). Quart (2003) argues that persistent marketing to pre-teens and adolescents leads to poor self-esteem that can last a lifetime. By contrast, one transformative marketing research approach among children and the general population is to set up sharing libraries of toys, books, bicycles, and other products and services (Ozanne and Fischer 2012; Ozanne and Ozanne 2011). These practices both reduce carbon footprints and community engagement in non-commodified ways. TCR policies and practices do not have to be complicated. Recent evidence seems to confirm that advertising has replicated feelings of dissatisfaction and unhappiness on a wide societal scale. Despite fourfold increases in consumption in the past four decades, human beings in advanced market economies report being less happy than before, and many countries are plagued by growing rates of depression, interpersonal and institutional distrust, and weakened companionship. Lane (2001) has documented a strange contradictory pattern in the USA of rising real income but a falling index of subjective well- being, or people consistently reporting themselves as being Bless happy.^ National surveys have also shown that Americans believe that the value system dominating their society is wrong, with too much emphasis on materialism, greed, and selfishness, and not enough focus on family, responsibility, and community (Schor 1999; Hardwood Group 1995). Layard (2005) has shown that after a certain level of income, consumers are happy no matter how much they consume; a pattern of the past few decades that is consistent over time and space (David et al. 2012; Hamilton 2003; Kasser and Ryan 1993; Rindfleisch et al. 1997; Sheldon and Kasser 1998). It becomes an emotional habit in which the consumer is repeatedly trying to restore self-identity, which ironically creates the very conditions that deteriorate social cohe- sion (Hamilton 2003). Semiotic Contamination The fourth impact, perhaps the hardest to quantify, is the degradation of language and symbols. Advertising decisively and irreversibly changes the character and composition of our textual and visual environment. The advertising industry pours forth thousands of images any given day, and the average length of exposure per advertisement is 3.5 s. Thanks to Bmental shortcuts^ or heuristics, advertisements increasingly require minimal skills to comprehend and are largely aimed at instant gratification (Kaser 2013). Advertising and its symbols A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 131 Author's personal copy substitute images for claims, and they typically make emotional appeals (Johar and Sirgy 1991) and not logical statements. Commercials cultivate the idea that complexity must be avoided, nuances are dispensable, qualifications impede the simple message, and visual stimulation is an efficacious substitute for thought (Christakis et al. 2004; MacNeil 1983; Postman 1986). Language controversies created by advertising also entail the spread of English words into Indo-European and other linguistic families. Technological innovations and globalization have spawned this encroachment not just in tourism (Moutinho et al. 2011), and it remains a concern outside English-speaking countries (Kachru 2006). Witness, for instance, the deliber- ation by French and Spanish linguistic academies, which each year reviews which English words or Anglicisms are acceptable when comparable native terms are lacking or less concise (Gómez Capuz 2001; Grigg 1997; López 1998). Reluctantly, Anglicisms are increasingly accepted in foreign cultures even though many of the concepts inherent in them run counter to local culture, offend national interests, and lead to cultural homogenization (Fischer 2010; Snell-Homby 2000). Spanish verbs used in the USA and elsewhere in the America (rentar (to rent); parquear (to park); cliquear (to click)) as well as nouns (zafacón, safety can or waste basket; marketa (market)) indicate this semiotic staining (Carreira 2000; Fernández 2011; Guzmán González 2002; Renner and Fernández-Domínguez 2015; Teschner 1974). Erosion of Accountability A final consequence of advertising is an erosion of accountability. Advertisements are in essence controlled speech with little room for public deliberation, and both advertisers and their sponsors have considerable leeway when false or dangerous claims are made (Berman 1981). In one sense, advertisements are a form of discourse controlled only by those paying for the ad and/or owning the system that distributes it. The principle of common carriage, or public access, is not possible; access is given only to those with studios and the wealth to afford the advertisement. BFull and robust^ citizen participation is not possible with advertising, which only serves the interests of the client (de Sola Pool 1983). Consumption, alas, can lead to isolation, chips away at social intercourse, and reduces civic engagement (Putnam 1995, 2000). What does TCR promote? The use of social media to push back against false promises of corporate abuse, corruption, and neglect (Mick et al. 2012). Advertisements, therefore, enable corporations to control the images of their products and services, and they often abuse this trust. Consider the following examples: & Walker Machinery, which manufactures heavy equipment for coal mines, places billboards along interstates in the USA claiming that Bcoal^ is Bcarbon neutral^ even though it is the single largest source of national carbon dioxide emissions (Radmacher 2008). & Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines proclaims that it is committed to environmentally safe products while they openly dump toxic wastes into the sea (Friedrichs 2007, p. 61). & Chevron runs advertisements that they are a green company populated with environmen- talists seeking to protect the natural world while they actively lobby against strengthening the Clean Air Act and Clean Water Act, spend $43 million to defeat renewable energy legislation in California, and clear the Amazonian rainforest (Stelter 2009b). & British Petroleum (2003) is able to say that they Bsupport the belief that human rights are universal,^ that the Bprotection of human rights is a legitimate concern of business,^ and that Bwe will demonstrate respect for human dignity and the rights of individuals,^ and 132 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy then violate labor codes and human rights statutes in Central Asia to maximize profits (Sovacool 2010, 2011). & Kentucky Fried Chicken showed a reunion under a chestnut tree where a family devours buckets of delicious chicken, but not the mile-long conveyor belt where chickens are pumped full of artificial chemicals before they are stunned, killed, de-feathered, decapitated, bled, and dismembered at the rate of almost 100 per minute (Hawken 1993, pp. 100–103). & Automobile dealerships in Europe claim that the Audi A5 was Euro NCAP safety tested. Researchers working undercover actually documented that nine out of 10 Audi dealerships untruthfully promoted the vehicle’s rigorous safety testing and even boasted that the vehicles had received a 5-star safety rating when they had not (Dachevych 2014). & Mining corporations fund billboards throughout West Virginia highways that warn trav- elers they are entering President Obama’s no-coal jobs zone when, in fact, the same state’s own independent research bureau concludes that coal mining jobs have declined while gas and oil jobs—driven by fracking production—have increased (West Virginia Economic Outlook 2015, 7). Have the lines between puffery and false advertising become so blurred? These examples show that corporations strive to dominate public thought and discourse with few suitable checks and balances beyond retracting a false claim or paying relatively small fines. Indeed, the system functions because consumers do not see many of the true consequences of manufacturing and production. As David Orr (1994, p. 125) once joked, Bif the end of the world arrives anytime soon, news of it will be brought to us by all of the major networks, each competing for the highest Nielson ratings; the sponsors will include many of the corporations whose various activities made the event possible.^ Just as the American Marketing Association incorporates a strong ethical framework in its bylaws, so too does The American Advertising Federation and their Principles and Practices for Advertising Ethics. The document recognizes that the public’s growing distrust in government and certain industries has created a Bhostile environment^ to which the advertising industry must respond. They have drafted eight principles premised on the belief that Ball forms of communications, including advertising, should always do what is right for consumers which, in turn, is right for business as well. For while we are in an age of unparalleled change, this overriding truth never changes^ (AAF 2015, p. 2; emphasis original). The principles address protocols about advertising to children, transparency and honesty, educating advertising professionals, and related issues. A much-maligned industry, their very ethics statement shows data that about one in five Americans always or sometimes believes advertisers (AAF 2015, p. 4). Like most ethical statements, ethical comportment may ultimately rest on the moral character of individuals who must serve as a backstop to possible transgres- sions. As Kuratko and Goldsby (2004) have noted, it is challenging to tease out the difference between corporations and Brogue^ middle managers (Harris et al. 2011, p. 11). Interestingly, when confronted with the possible costs of advertising, many firms take a detached view. One study conducted in-depth interviews with senior corporate executives and found that they were plagued by Bmoral myopia,^ a distortion of moral vision preventing ethical issues from coming into focus, and Bmoral muteness,^ an inability to talk about ethical issues (Drumwright and Murphy 2004). The study noted that business administrators were more concerned with competitors stealing their ideas than accurate descriptions of products or the social good. It noted that media and publicity departments were obsessed with pushing the edge, being over the top, and being Bmore offensive,^ meaning some actually viewed ethics as Bbad for business^ and claimed that imposing a code of conduct on these activities would A Critical Review of the Costs of Advertising 133 Author's personal copy violate tenants of free speech. When it came to ethical and moral issues, the authors concluded, advertisers were like an Bostrich with its head in the sand,^ or in the word of one participant of their study, Bignorance is bliss.^ Such ethical myopia has been confirmed by a variety of other studies including Moon and Frank (2000); James et al. (1994); Hyman et al. (1994); Hunt et al. (1989); Hunt and Chonko (1987); and Rotzoll and Christians (1980), and recently popularized by the AMC network’s drama, Mad Men (Letizia 2010), which ran for seven seasons and lifted the small cable network to new status within the industry (Safo 2015). Conclusions A critical assessment of integrated marketing communications and their attendant advertising costs involves many stakeholders in consumer policy. Most modern IMC strategies aim to position corporate images and brands but also consolidate wealth among corporations, which carries externalities. IMCs can achieve strategic goals, enhance brand loyalty, and secure market share without resorting to questionable practices. We argue that a transformative consumer research perspective is a useful approach to re-examine corporate messaging because advertising aims to rearrange reality, create envy and a sense of inadequacy that creates false needs, and induce purchases that are often inappropriate, unnecessary, and wasteful. Furthermore, marketing practices like these extend and fuel consumption into our lives. What some consider a box of flashing lights of words and images on a page is really a sophisticated system of ensuring that consumers think about the next upgrade or modification. Transformative consumer research recognizes that products, slogans, and brands can never give real meanings to human lives, so some modern consumers may fall into a permanent state of unfulfilled desire. In direct contravention to the idea in economics that independent consumers go in search of products that will satisfy their needs, humans have become extensions of the products and brands that they consume (Ballantyne et al. 2006; Hamilton 2003, p. 88). Witness, for instance, the labor market culture that emphasizes why the creative class should Bbrand themselves^ in the growing global competition for new talent (Florida 2007); Bpersonal branding^ has become an extension of advertising’s pervasiveness and differentiation, as well as a Bstartlingly overt invitation to self-commodification^ (Lair et al. 2005, p. 307). Although the forces creating creative capital are a boon for the new information economy, there are limits to what a 21-year-old college graduate can actually claim despite self-promotion on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and tattoos (Schau and Muniz 2002). Though the official narrative is that advertising helps discerning consumers make informed choices, transformative consumer research recognizes that it can also be a primary agent of massive deception. Transformative consumer researchers realize that the status quo in mar- keting can isolate individuals, degrade the sanctity of language, images, and symbols, and enable corporations to control public discourse with little responsibility and accountability (Hayakawa 1964). The pervasiveness of advertising in our social fabric explains to a large degree why its shortcomings can result in so much damage, and it also identifies how the system can be changed. We as a society can, for example, impose more restrictions on the quantity and nature of advertising and marketing messages. Transformative consumer research can demand legislation requiring more truthful advertising and require that advertisements fully disclose the pros and cons to their products, or mandate that they present their claims in testable or falsifiable forms (Hamilton 2003; Hawken 1993; Mick et al. 2012; Saatcioglu and Ozanne 2013; Tetlock 2005; Weir 1963; Yeshin 2006). 134 J.L. Scarpaci et al. Author's personal copy TCR practices are already among us even though they may not be identified as such. Consider the slow-food movement gaining hold in more than 150 nations. It is a consumer movement that promotes commitment to community family and friends and the local envi- ronment by celebrating the value of preparing and sharing meals at home and drawing on local food producers whenever possible (Bossy 2013; Galli and DegliEsposti 2012; Van Bommel and Spicer 2011). A transformative consumer research perspective is not a liberty-denying mechanism; choice will always remain. 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work_yy4sjaqh6jes7b7tsd6tjhz5xe	----	mah002.fm © The English Association PAGE 1 OF 36 DOI: 10.1093/ywes/mah002 II Old English STACY S. KLEIN AND MARY SWAN This chapter has ten sections: 1. Bibliography; 2. Manuscript Studies, Palaeography, and Facsimiles; 3. Social, Cultural, and Intellectual Background; 4. Literature: General; 5. The Exeter Book; 6. The Poems of the Vercelli Book; 7. The Junius Manuscript; 8. The Beowulf Manuscript; 9. Other Poems; 10. Prose. Sections 1, 2, and 3 are by Mary Swan; section 4 is by Mary Swan and Stacy Klein; sections 5 to 9 are by Stacy Klein; section 10 is by Mary Swan with additional material by Stacy Klein. 1. Bibliography The Old English Newsletter 33:ii[2000] was published in 2002, and contains the Year’s Work in Old English Studies [1998]. Volume 35:iii[Spring 2002] includes news of conferences and publications. The seventeenth progress report of the Fontes Anglo-Saxonici project (OENews 35:iii[2002] 8–9) is contributed by Peter Jackson, and the third annual report on the Anglo-Saxon Plant Name Survey by C.P. Biggam (OENews 35:iii[2002] 10–11). This volume also contains Abstracts of Papers in Anglo-Saxon Studies. Volume 35:iv[Summer 2002] contains the Old English Bibliography for 2001 and the Research in Progress listings. Volume 36:i[Fall 2002] includes notes on forthcoming conferences, news of publications, and reports on the Dictionary of Old English and the Friends of the DOE fundraising campaign. Martin K. Foys contributes his annual article on digital resources: ‘Circolwyrde 2002: New Electronic Resources for Anglo-Saxon Studies’ (OENews 36:i[2002] 11–16), Malcolm Godden and Rohini Jayatilaka report on ‘The Fontes Anglo-Saxonici Database: The Stand-Alone Version’ (OENews 36:i[2002] 17–23), and Matthew Z. Heintzelman describes ‘English Resources at the Hill Monastic Library’ (OENews 36:i[2002] 24–31). ASE 31[2001] 275–368 contains the bibliography for 2001. 2 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 2 OF 36 2. Manuscript Studies, Palaeography, and Facsimiles Two major additions to the range of facsimiles of illuminated manuscripts from Anglo-Saxon England are published. The second volume of Richard Gameson’s magnificently produced The Codex Aureus: An Eighth-Century Gospel Book is published this year [2002]. This is the last volume to be published in the Early English Manuscripts in Facsimile series, which has played a vital part in enabling and encouraging Anglo-Saxonists to pay attention to the physical detail of manuscripts. In this second volume of the Codex Aureus facsimile, Gameson supplies notes on details of the physical fabric of the manuscript, and follows these with the facsimile of the gospels of Mark, Luke, and John. Andrew Prescott provides a concise and useful introduction to The Benedictional of St Æthelwold: A Masterpiece of Anglo-Saxon Art. A Facsimile, which serves to set in context the very high-quality, full-colour and actual-size facsimile of the whole manuscript. The seventh volume in the Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts in Microfiche Facsimile series, Anglo-Saxon Bibles and the ‘Book of Cerne’, is published this year, with descriptions by A.N. Doane. It includes the following manuscripts and manuscript fragments: Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 557; Cambridge, University Library L1.1.10; Lawrence, Kansas, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, Pryce C2:1, C2:2, P2A:1; London, British Library Cotton, Claudius B.iv; Cotton Vespasian D.xxi; Harley 3376; Royal 1 B.vii; Royal 1 D.ix; Oxford, Bodleian Library Auct. D.2.14 (2698); Auct. D.5.3 (277688); Lat. Misc. a.3, fo. 49; and Laud Misc. 509 (1042). The accompanying booklet includes full codicological descriptions of all the manuscripts, and notes on their history and contents. The fiches in this volume include supplemental fiches to volume 6 (Christine Franzen, Worcester Manuscripts [1998]: YWES 81[2002] 133). Richards, ed., Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts: Basic Readings, first published in 1994, was issued in paperback in 2001. Mary Richards’s introduction, ‘Basic Readings in Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts’, surveys the essays in the volume, all but three of which (those by Rumble and Pfaff, and Kiernan’s ‘Old Manuscripts/New Technologies’) were originally published in a variety of journals, collections of essays, and other studies. The volume’s contents are: ‘Using Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts’ by Alexander R. Rumble, ‘Self-Contained Units in Composite Manuscripts of the Anglo-Saxon Period’ by P.R. Robinson; ‘Old Manuscripts/New Technologies’ by Kevin S. Kiernan; ‘N.R. Ker and the Study of English Medieval Manuscripts’ by Richard W. Pfaff; ‘Further Addenda and Corrigenda to N.R. Ker’s Catalogue’ by Mary Blockley; ‘Surviving Booklists from Anglo-Saxon England’ by Michael Lapidge; ‘English Libraries Before 1066: Use and Abuse of the Manuscript Evidence’ by David N. Dumville; ‘Orality and the Developing Text of Cædmon’s Hymn’ by Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe; ‘The Construction of Oxford, Bodleian Library, Junius 11’ by Barbara Raw; ‘The Eleventh-Century Origin of Beowulf and the Beowulf Manuscript’ by Kevin S. Kiernan; ‘The Structure of the Exeter Book Codex (Exeter, Cathedral Library, MS.3501)’ by Patrick W. Conner; ‘The Compilation of the Vercelli Book’ by D.G. Scragg; ‘History of the Manuscript’, ‘Punctuation’ (both on Ælfric’s First Series of Catholic Homilies in London, British Library, Royal 7.C.xii fols. 4–218), and ‘The Production of an Illustrated Version’ (on The Old English Illustrated Hexateuch), all by Peter Clemoes; and ‘The Publication of Alfred’s Pastoral Care’ by Kenneth Sisam. OLD ENGLISH 3 PAGE 3 OF 36 Michelle P. Brown’s 2000 Jarrow Lecture, ‘In the beginning was the Word’: Books and Faith in the Age of Bede, is published this year, and presents some of her very important new findings on the production and preparation of the Lindisfarne Gospels. Brown situates the Gospels as an element of the cult of Cuthbert, and also considers the practical prerequisites for the production of this book, and of the Cuthbert Gospel, the early Lives of Cuthbert, and the Ceolfrith bibles. On the subject of the making of the Lindisfarne Gospels, Brown describes, and provides illustrations of, the drypoint sketches and layout markings which reveal the ongoing process of invention and innovation in the manuscript. She stresses signs of the influence of Wearmouth/Jarrow on the Gospels’ imagery and text, and argues that the three houses are ‘working together to establish a new identity for Northumbria, and thereby for England’ (p. 25). Richard Gameson offers new studies of two manuscripts. He considers ‘The colophon of the Eadwig Gospels’ (ASE 31[2002] 201–22)—manuscript Hanover, Kestner-Museum, WM XXIa, 36—by surveying what is known of Eadwig’s career, and comparing this manuscript with other examples of his work. He concludes that the Eadwig Gospels might have been commissioned and written for export. In ‘The Insular Gospel Book at Hereford Cathedral’ (Scriptorium 56[2002] 48–79), Gameson examines Hereford Cathedral Library manuscript P.1.2 in terms of its fabric, text, script, decoration, and Anglo-Saxon additions of a record of an eleventh-century lawsuit, and provides a translation of the two added Old English documents. Peter S. Baker explains ‘How to Cheat at Editing: The Domitian Bilingual Chronicle, Anno 679’ (ANQ 15:ii[2002] 8–13). This is London, British Library, Cotton Domitian A.viii, fos. 30–70—the bilingual Latin and Old English F-version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Baker uses it to demonstrate editorial strategies for dealing with text which not only does not make sense when transcribed, but which is also not aligned with an annal number in the manuscript. E.G. Stanley ventures into ‘Palaeographical and Textual Deep Waters: <a> for <u> and <u> for <a>, <d> for <ð> and <ð> for <d> in Old English’ (ANQ 15:ii[2002] 64–72) by examining examples of these letter forms in Beowulf. He considers the implications of these examples for the dating of Beowulf, and decides that sure conclusions are not yet reached. Michelle Brown studies ‘Female Book-Ownership and Production in Anglo- Saxon England: The Evidence of the Ninth-Century Prayerbooks’ (in Kay and Sylvester, eds., Lexis and Texts in Early English: Studies Presented to Jane Roberts, pp. 45–67), with reference to literary, hagiographical, and historical evidence for female literacy. Examples examined include the works of Boniface and his correspondents Leoba and Eadburh; the writings of Bede, Aldhelm, and Asser; and archaeological evidence from Whitby and Barking. Particular attention is paid to three early ninth-century Mercian prayerbooks, manuscripts London, British Library Harley 7653 and 2965, and Royal 2.A.xx. Brown presents important indirect evidence for female ownership of all three of these books. Cassidy and Wright, eds., Studies in the Illustration of the Psalter, includes three essays of relevance to Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. In ‘The Book of Kells and the Corbie Psalter (with a Note on Harley 2788)’ (pp. 12–23), a slightly altered version of the original, published in Bernard, Ó Cróinín, and Simms, eds., A Miracle of Learning: Studies in Manuscripts and Irish Learning (London [1998], pp. 29–39), 4 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 4 OF 36 Bernard Meehan draws on a comparison of the first two manuscripts to propose new readings of some scenes depicted in the Book of Kells illustrations. Peter Kidd offers ‘A Re-examination of the Date of an Eleventh-Century Psalter from Winchester (British Library, MS Arundel 60)’ (pp. 42–54). Basing his argument on a red cross inscribed against the year 1073 in the Easter table of this manuscript, Meehan highlights the danger of ‘the assumption that “Anglo-Saxon” decoration and the use of Old English indicates a pre-Conquest date and that Norman- influenced decoration in England dates from after the Conquest’ (p. 44), and puts forward two possible contexts for the production of the psalter: the commemoration of the death of Walkelin, bishop of Winchester, in 1098, and Riwallon’s appointment as abbot of New Minster in 1072. A report on ‘A Handlist of Anglo- Saxon Manuscripts’ was given by Helmut Gneuss (in Herren, McDonough, and Arthur, eds., Latin Culture in the Eleventh Century, pp. 345–52) before the publication of his Handlist in book form in 2001 (YWES 82[2003] 116]. 3. Social, Cultural, and Intellectual Background Janet L. Nelson’s 1991 Royal Historical Society presidential address, ‘England and the Continent in the Ninth Century: I, Ends and Beginnings’ (TRHS 12[2002] 1–21) opens with an overview of the ways in which the historiography of the earlier Middle Ages has been shaped by ‘periodisation, History’s handy organiser, but also its bane’ (p. 3). Nelson shows how recent work on the ninth century has provided a more complex picture, and offers a detailed reading of the pontificate of Leo III as a moment when ‘England and the Continent meet, figuratively speaking, in Rome’ (p. 1). Ann Williams’s R. Allen Brown Memorial Lecture, ‘Thegnly Piety and Ecclesiastical Patronage in the Late Old English Kingdom’, is published this year (Anglo-Norman Studies 24[2002] 1–24). Williams summarizes the documentary evidence for bequests to churches by Anglo-Saxon thegns, much of which only survives in later copies. She then focuses on the relationship between eleventh- century wealthy thegns and the churches which stand on land owned by them, and notes that all surviving guild statutes from the tenth and eleventh centuries are for guilds associated with churches. Pauline Stafford identifies some important ‘Political Ideas in Late Tenth-Century England: Charters as Evidence’ (in Stafford, Nelson, and Martindale, eds., Law, Laity and Solidarities: Essays in Honour of Susan Reynolds, pp. 68–82). The charters in question date from the 990s, are in the name of Æthelred II, and restore lands and liberties to churches. Stafford’s careful analysis of these texts demonstrates how valuable charters can be as indicators of mentalities: she shows that all of these Æthelred charters promote an image of the king’s youth as a time of ignorance and mistakes, which he now wishes to reverse, and that they thus seek to rewrite the later 980s and revise the king’s reputation. Hans Sauer discusses Anglo- Saxon evidence for the language used by—and on behalf of—the rulers of England, in ‘The English Kings and Queens and the English Language’ (in Lenz and Möhlig, eds., Of Dyuersitie & Chaunge of Langage: Essays Presented to Manfred Görlach on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, pp. 180–98). In ‘Where Did All the Charters Go? Anglo-Saxon Charters and the New Politics of the Eleventh Century’ (Anglo- Norman Studies 24[2002] 109–27), Charles Insley contemplates the question of why OLD ENGLISH 5 PAGE 5 OF 36 the solemn diploma ceases to be used after the mid- to late eleventh century, and also the ideological and practical functions of charters. Almost the whole of the period, and all of Britain, are encompassed in Edward James’s Britain in the First Millennium. After chapters dealing with the period of Roman occupation, James turns to the Migration Period, the post-Roman kingdoms, the missionary Church, the eighth century, Viking attack and settlement, and, in the Epilogue, includes some remarks on the Norman Conquest. James’s incorporation of all of Britain into his survey is valuable because it sets out an understanding of Anglo-Saxon England in its immediate geographical and cultural contexts. Another wide-ranging study with plenty of relevance to the contexts and connections of Anglo-Saxon textual culture is Lineham and Nelson, eds., The Medieval World, and in particular ‘Powerful Women in the Early Middle Ages: Queens and Abbesses’, by Pauline Stafford (pp. 398–415). Lisa M. Bitel’s Women in Early Medieval Europe, 400–1100 aims to provide ‘not just a history of women, but a history of the early European Middle Ages through the eyes of women’ (p. 12). Many Anglo-Saxon women, and much Anglo-Saxon evidence, are included in Bitel’s study, which is organized thematically, and covers landscape, invasion, migration, barbarian queens, religion, kinship, marriage, motherhood, mobility, and fame. Religious developments are the subject of a good number of new pieces of work this year. Penance is particularly popular, and Philip G. Rusche’s focus is on ‘St. Augustine’s Abbey and the Tradition of Penance in Early Tenth-Century England’ (Anglia 20[2002] 159–83). Rusche notes evidence for the use of penitential manuals in England in the period between the ninth-century Viking invasions and the Benedictine Reform, in the form of entries from a glossed copy of The Penitential of Halitgar and from the Penitential of Theodore, which are preserved in two texts copied by a single scribe in St Augustine’s Abbey, Canterbury, in the 930s and 940s. Brad Bedingfield analyses the evidence for ‘Public Penance in Anglo-Saxon England’ (ASE 31[2002] 223–55) in a range of mostly slightly later texts, including works by Wulfstan and Ælfric, an anonymous homily for Ash Wednesday in Cambridge, Corpus Christi College MS 190, the Penitentials of Theodore and Pseudo-Egbert, the Rule of Chrodegang, the Regularis Concordia, Pontificals, and the text of the liturgy. He concludes that this rite was ‘a powerful and malleable penitential option’ in Anglo-Saxon England (p. 255). ‘Saint Basil in Anglo-Saxon Exeter’ is the subject of Gabriella Corona’s article (N&Q 49[2002] 316–20). Corona notes the inclusion of a relic of Basil in the Æthelstan relic list, and the fragment of a Latin Life of Basil in the tenth-century Exeter manuscript Exeter Cathedral Library FMS/3. She proposes that this text might have reached England through Æthelstan’s importing of relics and books from northern France, and might very soon have been copied there, and interprets its copying in Exeter as a sign of close links with Continental Europe. The Æthelstan relic list also features in Mary Swan’s ‘Remembering Veronica in Anglo-Saxon England’ (in Treharne, ed., Writing Gender and Genre in Medieval Literature: Approaches to Old and Middle English Texts, pp. 19–39). Swan tracks evidence for narratives about Veronica in pre-Conquest England, and suggests that the two surviving Old English texts which incorporate parts of this story, and other evidence, including charms and recipes and a relic list entry, indicate that the story of Veronica’s miraculous cloth might have been known in Exeter by the late Anglo- Saxon period. 6 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 6 OF 36 Francesca Tinti tracks the trajectory ‘From Episcopal Conception to Monastic Compilation: Hemming’s Cartulary in Context’ (EMedE 11[2002] 233–61). She analyses the composition of this text—a late eleventh-century cartulary from Worcester—in the context of the Worcester monastic community at this date, and especially the relationship of the monastic community to the bishop of Worcester. Tinti argues that the Cartulary shows that this relationship had changed between Wulfstan’s initial suggestion that the Cartulary be composed and the succession of Samson in 1096, and that in late eleventh-century Worcester ‘the monastic community started to emerge as a distinctive institutional body’ (p. 257). Julie Coleman continues her work on Old English as a key to social categorizations, and specifically to concepts related to women, with ‘Lexicology and Medieval Prostitution’ (in Kay and Sylvester, eds., pp. 69–87). She notes that the extensive lexis of terms for prostitution in Old English is mostly recorded in a restricted range of text glosses, glossaries, translations, and ‘non-native contexts’ (p. 69), and speculates that the Danelaw might have provided the social conditions for an identifiable culture of prostitution, and that this might account for Scandinavian- associated terms such as horcwene and portcwene. New work on material culture continues to enrich our understanding of the context of Anglo-Saxon literature. The sixth volume of the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, Northern Yorkshire, edited by James Lang, was published in 2001. Like the other volumes in the series, it provides the invaluable service of setting out photographs of every surviving piece of sculpture in the area so that scholars can note the range of styles and the potential functions of the items. The photographs form the final section of the volume, which opens with chapters which summarize earlier research, outline the historical background, regional geology, Anglian and Anglo-Scandinavian period forms and ornament, the schools of sculpture identified, and the inscriptions on the sculpture. These chapters are followed by the catalogue of items, which gives detailed measurements, descriptions, and notes on probable date and function. A now lost piece of Anglo-Saxon architectural sculpture, described in the Liber Eliensis, is discussed in Virginia Blanton-Whetsell’s ‘Tota integra, tota incorrupta: The Shrine of St. Æthelthryth as Symbol of Monastic Autonomy’ (JMEMS 32[2002] 227–67). Blanton-Whetsell explores the situating of Æthelthryth’s corpse as a symbol in the Liber Eliensis, and argues that, in this collection of texts, the monks of Ely exploit the meanings of female bodies and female space in order to ‘deliberately rewrite their situation, illustrating their community as a physical part of the saint’s corporate body in order to appear to be the victims of aggression during the Norman invasion’ (p. 222). Christopher Pickles’s Texts and Monuments: A Study of Ten Anglo-Saxon Churches of the Pre-Viking Period draws together in its analysis documentary, archaeological, and architectural evidence for the churches in question: St Mary’s Abbey, Abingdon; Beverley Minster; Canterbury Cathedral; Canterbury Abbey of SS Peter and Paul; Glastonbury Abbey; Hexham Abbey; Monkwearmouth; Jarrow; York Minster; York Alma Sophia monastic church; and York St Michael. Comparative evidence from mainland European churches is presented, and the texts of almost all the English documentary evidence are provided, along with modern English translations. In ‘The Bayeux “Tapestry”: Invisible Seams and Visible Boundaries’ (ASE 31[2002] 257–73), Gale R. Owen-Crocker’s focus is on the range of edges in the OLD ENGLISH 7 PAGE 7 OF 36 Tapestry: the increasingly carefully worked seams which join the panels, the borders which mark its top and bottom edges, and its now lost end. She shows that ‘the manufacture of the hanging was a learning process’ (p. 258), and stresses the integrity of the design of the whole. Owen-Crocker also published ‘Anglo-Saxon Women: The Art of Concealment’ (LeedsSE 33[2002] 31–51), in which she studies a variety of Anglo-Saxon objects inscribed with individual names, including the Cuthbert embroideries, the Alfred Jewel, finger rings, a brooch, seals, knives, the Coppergate helmet, the Brussels Cross, grave slabs, and stone sculpture. She finds that inscriptions of women’s names are often on the back of the object in question, and interprets this as ‘a power and self-recognition in these women, which is otherwise hidden from history’ (p. 43). Places and identities are of central concern in a number of new pieces of work on the social context of Anglo-Saxon England. Greta Austin’s ‘Marvelous Peoples or Marvelous Races? Race and the Anglo-Saxon Wonders of the East’ (in Jones and Sprunger, eds., Marvels, Monsters and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, pp. 25–51) focuses on the version of the Wonders of the East in MS London, British Library Cotton Tiberius B.v. Austin shows how ‘the Wonders can be seen to take the theological position that the marvelous peoples were human and could, therefore, be saved’ (p. 50), and argues that modern definitions of race do not fit the categories used in this version of the text, and that ‘race’ is not an accurate translation of either of the two related terms used in the text: ‘genus’ and ‘cyn’. In ‘Beverly, Inderauuda and St John: A Neglected Reference’ (NH 28[2001] 315–16), John Blair’s starting-point is the different versions given by Bede and the Old English text on the resting places of the saints of the burial place of Bishop John of Hexham. He offers evidence from a liturgical calendar written in the mid- or late ninth century in support of the argument advanced by Richard Morris and David Palliser for Inderauuda being Beverly. N.J. Higham examines ‘Britons in Northern England in the Early Middle Ages: Through a Thick Glass Darkly’ (NH 28[2001] 5– 25). In opening, he notes how the surviving textual evidence for this region and period is so limited that it is very difficult to historicize Britons or non-Christians. He then uses the surviving sources of relevant information to argue that ‘British cultural identity may have been far more durable, and far more widespread, in early Northumbria than we imagine’ (p. 24). Andrew C. Breeze makes a number of new observations about the geography and territorial politics of early Anglo-Saxon England. In ‘Seventh-Century Northumbria and a Poem to Cadwallon’ (NH 28[2001] 145–52), he draws attention to a Welsh source of information on Northumbria. Breeze provides a modern English translation of the poem, argues that it is indeed of seventh-century origin, and stresses its importance to historians of Northumbria. In ‘The Battle of Alutthèlia in 844 and Bishop Auckland’ (NH 29[2002] 124–5), Breeze examines the evidence for the whereabouts of this battle of Rædwulf with a pagan army, and argues for Bishop Auckland as the most likely solution. In ‘The Celtic Names of Blencow and Blenkinsopp’ (NH 29[2002] 291–2), he proposes translations of ‘hollow of (the) summit’ and ‘ridge-top valley’, respectively. In ‘The Kingdom and Name of Elmet’ (NH 29[2002] 157–71), Breeze surveys the standard historical sources for Elmet and scholarship on them. He then uses Celtic philology to examine the possible meaning of ‘Elmet’, and translates two Welsh poems, probably sixth-century, on Gwallog and Madgog, lords of Elmet. In 8 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 8 OF 36 ‘The Early Medieval Shires of Yeavering, Breamish and Bamburgh’ (Archaeologia Aeliana 30[2002] 53–73), Colm O’Brien demonstrates how post-Conquest records of tenure and taxation can shed light on early medieval shire organization, and in particular on the now lost shires of Bamburgh, Bromic and Gefrin. Alexander R. Rumble’s Property and Piety in Early Medieval Winchester: Documents Relating to the Topography of the Anglo-Saxon and Norman City and its Minsters provides scholars with a wealth of documents in edited and translated form, and also with a context in which to read them in the form of the introductory discussions of manuscript sources, authenticity, and the evidence in the documents for historical topography and the history of the city. The volume also includes a useful set of Latin and Old English word-lists, and indexes of biblical references, personal and place names, and references to Anglo-Saxon charters. The defining and redefining of Englishness continues to be a popular topic for new work. Nicholas Brooks looks to ‘Canterbury, Rome and the Construction of English Identity’ (in Smith, ed., Early Medieval Rome and the Christian West, pp. 221–45) and argues that ‘Canterbury’s prolonged campaign of imitatio Romae was an essential element in the process of English ethnogenesis, that is in a programme of constructing a single gens Anglorum … from a mixed British and Anglo-Saxon population’ (p. 222). Alan Thacker goes ‘In Search of Saints: The English Church and the Cult of Roman Apostles and Martyrs in the Seventh and Eighth Centuries’ (in Smith, ed., pp. 247–77), in order to investigate how the cult of saints developed in this period. He argues that Roman saints and cult forms were introduced into England by Roman missionaries, and that these influenced the beginnings of the development of saints’ cults in Anglo-Saxon England, which were only later influenced by Gallic models. D.M. Hadley’s ‘Viking and Native: Re-thinking Identity in the Danelaw’ (EMedE 11[2000] 45–70) surveys the use of ethnic and linguistic labels in the literature of Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Scandinavian England, and examines the evidence of place names, personal names, and material culture. Hadley argues that ethnic identity seems to have become relevant at particular times, and that research should focus on new ruling elites rather than on the scale of Scandinavian settlement. David N. Dumville examines ‘Images of the Viking in Eleventh-Century Latin Literature’ (in Herren, McDonough, and Arthur, eds., pp. 250–63), with particular reference to Æthelweard’s Chronicon and Abbo of Fleury’s Passio Sancti Eadmundi. Matthew Townend’s Language and History in Viking Age England: Linguistic Relations between Speakers of Old Norse and Old English offers a wealth of material relevant to the understanding of how English and Anglo-Scandinavian identities are interrelated. Townend surveys the evidence for language contact and the evolution of Viking Age Norse and English, and provides detailed analyses of Scandinavianized Old English place names, and evidence for and descriptions of Anglo-Norse contact in literary texts. In conclusion, he makes a case for ‘a situation of adequate mutual intelligibility between speakers of Old Norse and Old English, rather than one involving widespread bilingualism or the use of interpreters’ (p. 210). Archaeology and settlement studies are combined in Geake and Kenney, eds., Early Deira: Archaeological Studies of the East Riding in the Fourth to Ninth Centuries, to shed new light on this part of Anglo-Saxon England. The volume contains a preface by Martin Carver; ‘Anglo-Saxon Yorkshire: Current Research OLD ENGLISH 9 PAGE 9 OF 36 Problems’ by Philip Rahtz; ‘Early Medieval Burials in East Yorkshire: Reconsidering the Evidence’ by S.J. Lucy; ‘West Heslerton Settlement Mobility: A Case of Static Development’ by Dominic Powlesland; ‘Anglo-Saxon Settlements and Archaeological Visibility in the Yorkshire Wolds’ by Julian D. Richards; ‘King Edwin of the Deiri: Rhetoric and the Reality of Power in Early England’ by N.J. Higham; ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Metalwork from South Newbald and the “Productive Site” Phenomenon in Yorkshire’ by Kevin Leahy; ‘Northumbrian Coinage and the Productive Site at South Newbald (“Sancton”)’ by James Booth; ‘The Case for Archaeological Research at Whitby’ by Jennie Spofford; ‘Monuments from Yorkshire in the Age of Alcuin’ by Jim Lang; ‘Where are Yorkshire’s “Terps”? Wetland Exploitation in the Early Medieval Period’ by Robert Van de Noort, and ‘The Bioarchaeology of Anglo-Saxon Yorkshire: Present and Future Perspectives’ by Keith Dobney, Allan Hall, and Harry Kenward. Sam Lucy tracks the movement ‘From Pots to People: Two Hundred Years of Anglo-Saxon Archaeology’ (in Hough and Lowe, eds., ‘Lastworda Best’: Essays in Memory of Christine E. Fell with her Unpublished Writings, pp. 144–69). In particular, she deals with the debates about the study of fifth- and sixth-century landscape, settlement, cemeteries, and artefacts, and with the implications of the interdependence of historical and archaeological investigation. Crabtree, ed., Medieval Archaeology: An Encyclopedia, includes many entries of relevance to Anglo-Saxonists. Those relating to Anglo-Saxon England are easily found via the index of site entries by country, and the subject guide, both of which form part of the introduction to the volume, and also in the very useful overall index to the volume. More work on Anglo-Saxon texts and traditions in the post-Conquest period is published this year. Jennifer Ramsay offers ‘A Possible “Tremulous Hand” Addition to The Grave in MS Bodley 343’ (N&Q 49[2002] 177–80). The writing in question is three verses which are added to The Grave. The development of Anglo- Saxon saints’ cults after the Conquest is the subject of David Cox’s ‘St Oswald of Worcester at Evesham Abbey: Cult and Concealment’ (JEH 53[2002] 269–85). Cox shows that the altering of the Evesham chronicle, the Gesta abbatum, in the twelfth or thirteenth century, in order to remove references to the tenth-century reform of the abbey by Oswald, may indicate a desire by the monks of Evesham to dissociate their house from Worcester, and thus to protect their case for exemption from the authority of the bishops of Worcester. He contrasts this political distancing from Oswald with the continuing veneration of the saint’s relic at Evesham. A translation of the second version of William of Malmesbury’s The Deeds of the Bishops of England (Gesta Pontificum Anglorum) is produced this year by David Preest. This, and David Rollason’s edition and translation of Symeon of Durham’s Libellus de Exordio atque Procursu istius hoc est Dunhelmensis Ecclesie: Tract on the Origins and Progress of this the Church of Durham, should serve to bring to wider attention these works, which are of great interest for their account of Anglo-Saxon ecclesiastical politics. Timothy Graham considers ‘William L’Isle’s Letters to Sir Robert Cotton’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., Early Medieval English Texts and Interpretations: Studies Presented to Donald G. Scragg, pp. 353–80), which show L’Isle’s interest in Old English, and also reveal how Cotton developed his library, and ways in which it was used. Graham edits seven letters from L’Isle to Cotton, and provides a commentary on each of them. 10 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 10 OF 36 4. Literature: General A milestone in Anglo-Saxon literary studies is reached with the publication of Biggs, Hill, Szarmach, and Whatley, eds., Sources of Anglo-Saxon Literary Culture, volume 1: Abbo of Fleury, Abbo of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Acta Sanctorum. This volume sets the tone for the rest of the eagerly awaited SASLC series, with scrupulously detailed, clear, concise, and well-organized entries on texts which were available to Anglo-Saxon authors. It will act as an impetus to important new work on the transmission of narrative, ideas, and traditions. ANQ 15:ii[Spring 2002] is devoted to articles on Old English topics, which are reviewed in the appropriate sections of this chapter. J.R. Hall provides an overview of them all in ‘Nota Bene: Preface to a Collection of Notes by Various Hands on Various Old English Texts’ (ANQ 15:ii[2002] 3–7). The influence of Latin textual and linguistic traditions on Anglo-Saxon literature is the topic of a number of new articles this year. The place of ‘Persius’s Satires in Anglo-Saxon England’ is investigated by Phillip Pulsiano (Journal of Medieval Latin 11[2001] 142–55). Pulsiano assesses the relationship of the commentary on the Satires in manuscripts from Anglo-Saxon England with other versions, and concludes that the Satires were known in England at least from the seventh century, were probably introduced through Theodore and Hadrian’s Canterbury school, and were well used by prominent Anglo-Saxon authors, including Aldhelm and Alcuin. David Howlett discusses ‘“Tres Linguae Sacrae” and Threefold Play in Insular Latin’ (Peritia 16[2002] 94–115) from the fifth to the twelfth centuries, making reference to a range of texts by Anglo-Saxon authors, including Aldhelm and Aedeluald, and the inscriptions on the Franks Casket and the Ruthwell monument. Martha Bayless encourages scholars to pay attention to ‘Alcuin’s Disputatio Pippini and the Early Medieval Riddle Tradition’ (in Halsall, ed., Humour, History and Politics in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, pp. 157–78) by highlighting its relationship to wisdom dialogues, curiosity dialogues, and riddle collections, its varied contents and lively style, and by providing the text of the riddles in the Disputatio, along with a translation into modern English, and a commentary. Michael Lapidge and Jill Mann’s ‘Reconstructing the Anglo-Latin Aesop: The Literary Tradition of the “Hexametrical Romulus”’ (in Herren, McDonough, and Arthur, eds., pp. 1–33) sets out the evidence for ‘Aesop’ being studied in Anglo- Saxon England. They cite a reference to Aesop in Bede’s De Tabernaculo, an entry in Patrick Young’s seventeenth-century catalogue of Worcester Cathedral Library to a manuscript containing two Old English homilies and a text of ‘Aesop’, and an Old English translation of an Aesop moral in a composite homily on the Harrowing of Hell in MS Junius 121, written at Worcester in the third quarter of the eleventh century, and argue that the Hexametrical Romulus, which is preserved in a late eleventh-century English manuscript, was composed in Anglo-Saxon England, and that it also provides evidence to support the existence of an Anglo-Latin prose version of this text. E.G. Stanley sets out to define ‘Linguistic Self-Awareness at Various Times in the History of English from Old English Onwards’ (in Kay and Sylvester, eds., pp. 237–53), and explores the significance of language in concepts of nationhood and ethnicity, and the ways in which linguistic sensitivity is place- and time-specific. OLD ENGLISH 11 PAGE 11 OF 36 Robert Stanton’s The Culture of Translation in Anglo-Saxon England is a major contribution to our understanding of Anglo-Saxon textual practices, and in particular of the ways in which vernacular literature was shaped by its contact with Latin. As he notes in his introduction, ‘Translation is a productive cultural practice in that it defines an attitude to received authority and sets the terms under which authority can be reproduced and shifted from one social group to another’ (p. 1). This construction and transmission of authority is then analysed in detail in the central chapters of his study, which deal in turn with ‘Interpretation, Pedagogy, and Anglo-Saxon Glosses’, ‘King Alfred and Early English Translation’, ‘Bible Translation and the Anxiety of Authority’, and ‘Ælfric and the Rhetoric of Translation’. Eight unpublished writings by Christine E. Fell are included in Hough and Lowe, eds., ‘Lastworda Betst’. They are: ‘Words and Women in Anglo-Saxon England’, ‘Old English bearmteag’, ‘Mild and Bitter: A Problem of Semantics’, ‘Some Questions of Layout and Legal Manuscripts’, ‘Crook-Neb’d Corslets and Other Impedimentia’, ‘Wax Tablets of Stone’, ‘Runes and Riddles in Anglo-Saxon England’, and ‘Introduction to Anglo-Saxon Letters and Letter-Writers’, which includes sample translations from the draft of this book, on which Fell was working at the time of her death. Other essays in this collection are reviewed in the appropriate parts of this chapter. This year has seen the publication of several new anthologies and reference guides that are well suited for teaching purposes. Treharne and Wu, eds., Old and Middle English Poetry, is a short anthology of medieval poetry, approximately half of which is devoted to Old English texts placed alongside modern English translations. The anthology opens with an introduction by Treharne, which offers valuable historical and literary background, as well as brief remarks on manuscript culture and poetic form. Kevin Crossley-Holland’s The Anglo-Saxon World, which has long served as a useful edition of modern English translations of Old English poetry and prose, has appeared in a new edition. The new anthology contains the same texts as the 1982 edition but features an updated introduction and eight colour illustrations. Michael Swanton’s English Poetry Before Chaucer offers close readings of English poems produced between the seventh and thirteenth centuries. The book is a revised and expanded version of Swanton’s English Literature Before Chaucer [1987]. Individual chapters offer literary analysis and historical context for Widsith, Deor, Waldere, The Fight at Finnsburh, Beowulf, Cædmon’s Hymn, Genesis A, Exodus, The Dream of the Rood, The Wanderer, The Seafarer, The Ruin, The Phoenix, Guthlac A, Judith, and The Battle of Maldon. Chapters 1–5 deal with Old English texts, the appendix deals with early English prosody, and the endmatter contains brief discussions of various writers, texts, and sources. This is a useful book for scholars looking for a quick and accessible guide to the major critical issues and problems raised by individual Old English texts. Lambdin and Lambdin, eds., A Companion to Old and Middle English Literature, is a reference guide to medieval literature organized by genre. Each chapter offers a critical history of the particular genre in question and a bibliography. Individual chapters that discuss Anglo-Saxon texts include ‘Old English and Anglo-Norman Literature’ by Robert Thomas Lambdin and Laura Cooner Lambdin; ‘Religious and Allegorical Verse’ by Gwendolyn Morgan; ‘Alliterative Poetry in Old and Middle English’ by Scott Lightsey; ‘The Beast Fable’ by Brian Gastle; ‘Chronicle’ by 12 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 12 OF 36 Emma B. Hawkins; ‘Epic and Heroic Poetry’ by John Michael Crafton; ‘The Epic Genres and Medieval Epics’ by Richard McDonald; ‘Hagiographic, Homiletic, and Didactic Literature’ by John H. Brinegar; ‘Lyric Poetry’ by Sigrid King; ‘Riddles’ by Michelle Igareshi; and ‘Visions of the Afterlife’ by Ed Eleazar. Antonina Harbus has produced two important monographs this year. Helena of Britain in Medieval Legend offers rich material for scholars interested in the numerous Anglo-Saxon discussions of St Helena. Moving from late antiquity to the twentieth century, Harbus traces the origins, development, political exploitation, and decline of the legend regarding Helena’s British origins, and argues that the legend contributed to the promotion of her cult as a saint and to her continuing appeal over time. Anglo-Saxonists will be particularly interested in chapter 1, which offers a detailed discussion of late Roman historical sources that consider Helena’s life, and also chapter 2, which analyses Helena’s appearance in Anglo-Saxon and Frankish writings. Although Anglo-Saxon texts never explicitly refer to Helena’s British origins, they nevertheless frequently claim that Constantine was born in Britain, a belief that may have arisen on account of Old English translators’ misconstrual of the Latin creatus (imperator) ‘raised up (as emperor)’ as accened ‘born’. Harbus maintains that ‘[t]he imperfect grasp of Latin by writers of Old English adaptations may very well supply the key to the origin of the British Helena legend’ (p. 43), and suggests that the legend probably originated in Anglo-Saxon England rather than in late antiquity. Harbus’s The Life of the Mind in Old English Poetry seeks ‘to investigate the emphasis on the mind in the poetic traditions of Anglo-Saxon England, and to outline the model of the mind on which this poetic discourse was structured’ (p. 13). Beginning with a detailed discussion of the vocabulary used to refer to the mind and its functions in Old English, Harbus proceeds to examine the mind as depicted in wisdom poetry, poetic saints’ lives, elegies, and Beowulf. She counters common understandings of Old English poetry as presenting only types rather than unique subjectivities, and shows that particular viewpoints were encapsulated through a poetic emphasis on the mental arena. Harbus argues further that Anglo-Saxon literary culture privileges the universality of mental experience by envisaging mental life as perceptible to both the self and to others, and she shows that the Anglo-Saxons viewed poetry as an important means of self-expression. R.M. Liuzza, ed., Old English Literature, brings together twenty-one essays that have long been recognized as some of the best work in Anglo-Saxon studies. They include ‘The Cultural Construction of Reading in Anglo-Saxon England’ by Nicholas Howe; ‘Anglo-Saxon Lay Society and the Written Word’ by Susan Kelly; ‘The Making of Angelcynn: English Identity before the Norman Conquest’ by Sarah Foot; ‘Orality and the Developing Text of Cædmon’s Hymn’ by Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe; ‘Reading Cædmon’s “Hymn” with Someone Else’s Glosses’ by Kevin S. Kiernan; ‘Birthing Bishops and Fathering Poets: Bede, Hild, and the Relations of Cultural Production’ by Clare A. Lees and Gillian R. Overing; ‘Kinship and Lordship in Early Medieval England: The Story of Sigeberht, Cynewulf, and Cyneheard’ by Stephen D. White; ‘The Thematic Structure of the Sermo Lupi’ by Stephanie Hollis; ‘Social Idealism in Ælfric’s Colloquy’ by Earl R. Anderson; ‘The Hero in Christian Reception: Ælfric and Heroic Poetry’ by Jocelyn Wogan-Browne; ‘Didacticism and the Christian Community: The Teachers and the Taught’ by Clare A. Lees; ‘The Editing of Old English Poetic Texts: Questions of Style’ by Roy F. OLD ENGLISH 13 PAGE 13 OF 36 Leslie; ‘Anglo-Saxons on the Mind’ by M.R. Godden; ‘Sundor æt Rune: The Voluntary Exile of The Wanderer’ by Robert E. Bjork; ‘From Plaint to Praise: Language as Cure in “The Wanderer”’ by Margrét Gunnarsdóttir Champion; ‘The Form and Structure of The Seafarer’ by Peter Orton; ‘En/closed Subjects: The Wife’s Lament and the Culture of Early Medieval Female Monasticism’ by Shari Horner; ‘The Devotional Context of the Cross before A.D. 1000’ by Sandra McEntire; ‘Stylistic Disjunctions in The Dream of the Rood’ by Carol Braun Pasternack; ‘God, Death, and Loyalty in The Battle of Maldon’ by Fred C. Robinson; and ‘Maldon and Mythopoesis’ by John D. Niles. This diverse collection opens with an introduction by Liuzza that contextualizes the various essays and offers insight into the problems and pleasures of studying Anglo-Saxon literature. Claire A. Lees and Gillian R. Overing, ‘The Clerics and the Critics: Misogyny and the Social Symbolic in Anglo-Saxon England’ (in Fenster and Lees, eds., Gender in Debate from the Early Middle Ages to the Renaissance, pp. 19–39), explores evidence for debates about gender in Anglo-Saxon textual culture. Beginning from the premise that Anglo-Saxon writers do not routinely use the genre of debate as a vehicle for exploring and enforcing gender norms, Lees and Overing consider how Anglo-Saxon culture may contribute to our understanding of debates about women in the later Middle Ages. Several works from this year discuss Old English verse form, linguistics, and relations between linguistics and metrics. In a ‘A Bard’s-Eye View of the Germanic Syllable’ (JEGP 101[2002] 305–28), Geoffrey Russom engages the long-standing problem of why rules of alliterative metre have proven so difficult to identify, and proposes that recent developments in phonological theory can help to solve problems. He focuses on problems with Sievers’s two-stress hypothesis, in the hope of ‘using new kinds of metrical evidence to obtain a simpler and more consistent account of the Germanic syllable’ (p. 306). Rachel Mines offers ‘An Examination of Kuhn’s Second Law and its Validity as a Metrical-Syntactical Rule’ (SP 99[2002] 337–55). Focusing on a sample set of eighteen Old English poems, Mines shows that Kuhn’s second law—that a clause upbeat must contain at least one clause-particle and may not consist solely of phrase-particles—is violated in between 1 and 5 per cent of main clauses. She argues that Kuhn’s second law ‘is neither a metrical rule nor a special rule of poetic syntax’, and proposes that ‘[t]he fact that phrase-particles tend not to occur alone in Old English clause upbeats can be alternatively explained in terms of the Old English lexicon and syntactical rules that occur also in the prose’ (p. 355). Göran Kjellmer studies ‘GÅata LÅod: On the Partitive Genitive in Old English Poetry’ (Anglia 119[2001] 596–605), and questions why the partitive genitive is more commonly found in Old English poetry than in prose. Considering a sample set of Old English poetic and prose texts, Kjellmer finds that the very late Old English poem The Battle of Maldon contains fewer partitive genitives than earlier poems, and argues that chronology (that is, the fact that most Old English poetry was likely to have been composed earlier than the prose) plays an important part in underlining the distinction between the styles of prose and verse texts. Minkova and Stockwell, eds., Studies in the History of the English Language: A Millennial Perspective, contains several essays on historical linguistics that are relevant to Anglo-Saxon studies: Thomas Cable, ‘Issues for a New History of English Prosody’ (pp. 125–51); Geoffrey Russom, ‘Dating Criteria for Old English Poems’ (pp. 244–65); Ans van Kemenade, ‘Word Order in Old English Prose and 14 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 14 OF 36 Poetry: The Position of Finite Verbs and Adverbs’ (pp. 355–71); and Jeong-Hoon Lee, ‘The “Have” Perfect in Old English: How Close was it to the Modern English Perfect?’ (pp. 373–97). Several important items from last year escaped notice. Mary Blockley’s Aspects of Old English Poetic Syntax: Where Clauses Begin investigates the ways in which Old English poetry and prose signal the beginning and ending of clauses. Focusing on four of the most common and most syntactically important words in Old English (ond, þa, ac, and þæt), as well as such aspects of clauses as verb-initial order, negative contraction, and unexpressed but understood subjects, Blockley elucidates how these words and structures mark the relationships between phrases and clauses. She draws on a range of poetic and prose writings to shed fresh light on the rules that govern syntactic relationships and to show how understandings of clause boundaries crucially affect our interpretation of Old English texts. Clare A. Lees and Gillian R. Overing’s Double Agents: Women and Clerical Culture in Anglo-Saxon England offers a substantial contribution to our understanding of women’s relationship to culture in Anglo-Saxon England. Departing from former studies that seek to examine women as they are depicted in historical and literary texts, this book investigates how textual forms and literary representations are themselves partly responsible for the absence and presence of women in the historical record. Drawing on both contemporary critical theory and a host of Anglo-Saxon texts, Lees and Overing raise questions about the place of Anglo-Saxon literature in cultural studies at large, and show how Anglo-Saxonists might productively engage with larger critical conversations about culture, subjectivity, and identity without sacrificing historical particularity. Individual chapters deal with Bede and patristic understandings of maternity, women’s relationship to orality and literacy, gendered sanctity, and the female body as a site for patristic metaphor. Anglo-Saxonists will be especially interested in the discussion of Wisdom in Pseudo-Bede’s Collectanea, a recently edited text that has heretofore received little attention. Nicole Guenther Discenza examines ‘Wealth and Wisdom: Symbolic Capital and the Ruler in the Translational Program of Alfred the Great’ (Exemplaria 13[2001] 433–67). Focusing mainly on the prologues of the Alfredian translations, especially the preface to the Pastoral Care, Discenza argues that these texts ‘constantly slip … back and forth between the idea of wisdom as wealth and the idea that wisdom supplants wealth’ (p. 466). The Alfredian translations and prefaces thus ‘attempted to revalue wisdom and wealth, making “wisdom” a commodity whose worth the Anglo-Saxons could recognize as easily as they recognized the value of gold’ (p. 467). The year 2001 also saw the issuing of a sixth edition of Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson’s A Guide to Old English. The sixth edition adds two texts, Wulf and Eadwacer and Judith, as well as a paragraph on Judith 186b–95a in the section on punctuation. It also contains minor variations and additions to keep the book up-to- date. Otherwise, most of the book remains unchanged. The study of Anglo-Saxon literature features in all of the essays in Treharne, ed., Vital Signs: English in Medieval Studies in Twenty-First Century Higher Education. Treharne’s own contribution, ‘Introduction: The Current State of Medieval Studies’ (pp. 1–5), surveys the political climate for the teaching of Old English in universities in Britain and Northern Ireland, and counters the view that the study of medieval OLD ENGLISH 15 PAGE 15 OF 36 English is in decline. Wendy Scase, in ‘Medieval Studies and the Future of English’ (pp. 7–15), addresses the ways in which the study of early English is contributing to the development of the discipline of English ‘as the discipline responds to and engages with intellectual, cultural and social change’ (p. 15). Richard K. Emerson assesses ‘Medieval Studies at the Beginning of the New Millennium’ (pp. 17–27) in terms of the engagement of scholars of medieval English with critical theories, new technologies, and pedagogy, and urges further scholarly engagement with popular medievalism. Robert E. Bjork sets out ‘The Portfolio for Medieval Studies’ (pp. 29– 34), identifies three ‘health indicators’ (p. 29)—organizations, publications, and electronic resources—and concludes that diversification and flexibility are important, and that signs for the future are good. 5. The Exeter Book Several essays have appeared on The Wanderer. Andy Orchard argues for ‘Re- Reading The Wanderer: The Value of Cross-References’ (in Hall, ed., Via Crucis, pp. 1–26). He examines intertextual links between The Wanderer and such texts as The Dream of the Rood, Deor, Homiletic Fragment 2 (from the Exeter Book), Vercelli Homily 10, and the Lord’s Prayer, and argues that these cross-references are the deliberate work of a highly skilled poet who sought to create a ‘heroic homily’ (p. 26) that would blend imagery, themes, thoughts, and structuring techniques from both secular poetic and homiletic prose traditions. Recognition of these intertextual echoes is invited through intratextual echo and repetition. Rosemary Greentree, ‘The Wanderer’s Horizon: A Note on ofer waþema gebind’ (Neophil 86[2002] 307–9), reconsiders the idea of frozen waves that is commonly associated with the phrase ofer waþema gebind. She argues that a consideration of seafaring conditions, namely, the restricted field of vision available to people rowing on the sea, offers another plausible explanation for the idea of being bound by waves. The female-voiced elegies in The Exeter Book continue to generate exciting new work. Pat Belanoff’s ‘Ides … geomrode giddum: The Old English Female Lament’ (in Klinck and Rasmussen, eds., Medieval Woman’s Song: Cross-Cultural Approaches, pp. 29–46) offers an important contribution to our understanding of the gendered nature of lament in Old English poetry. Placing Wulf and Eadwacer and The Wife’s Lament alongside such male-voiced laments as The Wanderer and The Seafarer, Belanoff argues that the female-voiced laments contain various features which distinguish them from male-voiced laments: an intense focus on the present, a sense of the impossibility of consolation, and a strict adherence to the individual rather than the generalized voice. However, Belanoff also identifies striking differences between the two female-voiced laments, and she argues that, while the speaker of The Wife’s Lament has been immobilized by sorrow, the woman in Wulf and Eadwacer has been mobilized by her sorrow to look forward to violent action. Such differences between the two poems render the language and thematics of The Wife’s Lament closer to the elegiac tradition, and Wulf and Eadwacer closer to the heroic. Alaric Hall considers ‘The Images and Structure of The Wife’s Lament’ (LeedsSE 33[2002] 1–29). Focusing on the poem’s punctuation, structure, and analogues, Hall argues that ‘[t]he situations of the speaker and her freond are, then, 16 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 16 OF 36 neither merely gloomy landscapes, nor purely pathetic fallacy: they involve distinct motifs, possibly including “women’s/lovers’ lament” figures, describing environments with images not only of misery, but also, it seems, inversions of the paradisical—images of the hellish’ (p. 22). Thomas D. Hill reconsiders possible meanings for the phrase ‘“Leger weardiað”: The Wife’s Lament 34b’ (ANQ 15[2002] 34–7). Pointing to the fact that leger is cognate with Old Norse-Icelandic legr and that leir is well attested in Middle English in the sense of ‘bed’, Hill argues that the phrase leger weardiað refers to the sharing of a bed rather than a grave or sickbed. In another article, ‘The Old English Dough Riddle and the Power of Women’s Magic: The Traditional Context of Exeter Book Riddle 45’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 50–60), Thomas D. Hill explores literary and folkloric analogues to Riddle 45. Hill reminds us that, while some of the Exeter Book riddles derive from the Latin riddle tradition, Riddle 45 more closely parallels accounts of women and dough found in later English folk tradition and in early medieval accounts of ritual magic. Although these analogues exhibit a wide range of attitudes towards women’s use of dough, they nevertheless display a shared sense of dough as a rich symbol of female power within the home. Dieter Bitterli’s ‘Exeter Book Riddle 15: Some Points for the Porcupine’ (Anglia 120[2002] 461–87) re-examines solutions commonly proposed to Riddle 15 (badger, fox), arguing that, while the porcupine is not indigenous to England, it nevertheless appears in numerous Latin texts that inform the Anglo-Saxon riddling tradition and is the most likely solution to Riddle 15. In ‘A Reconsideration of the Structure of Guthlac A: The Extremes of Saintliness’ (JEGP 101[2002] 185–200), Manish Sharma argues that ‘each of the three critical episodes of Guthlac A depicts an approach to a threshold’ (p. 200), and that the poem should thus be read as ‘essentially tripartite in structure’ (p. 186). Focusing on ‘the binding motif of physical and spiritual “ascension” that runs throughout the poem’ (p. 200), Sharma maintains that the structure of Guthlac A renders Guthlac ‘inextricably associated with limits, and [emphasizes] his status as a figure upon the extreme boundaries of the human’ (p. 200). The poet’s use of scenes dealing with liminality and boundary-crossing thus ‘sharpens the presentation of the struggle between the demonic and the saintly’ and highlights the sense of the saint as distinct from the rest of mankind (p. 200). Bruce Mitchell’s ‘Phoenix 71–84 and 424–42: Two Syntactical Cruces Involving Punctuation’ (ANQ 15[2002] 38–46) sheds new light on the punctuating of two difficult passages in The Phoenix. Reviewing previous editorial attempts to punctuate these passages, Mitchell repunctuates them, and offers detailed discussion of his rationale for doing so. Sachi Shimomura’s ‘Visualizing Judgment: Illumination in the Old English Christ III’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 27–49) considers the allegorization of light and brightness in Christ III. By contextualizing the poet’s use of light imagery within biblical, patristic, and secular Anglo-Saxon discussions of light and brightness, Sachimura shows that Christ III contains a ‘rhetorical transformation that literalizes Christ as the illuminator of the Last Judgment’ (p. 48). It is thus the light of the Son which reveals the deeds of the blessed, and the light of the sun which reveals those of the damned. For Sachimura, light imagery functions as a crucial means of identifying the Christ III poet’s theologies of vision and judgement. OLD ENGLISH 17 PAGE 17 OF 36 6. The Poems of the Vercelli Book Charles D. Wright finds ‘More Old English Poetry in Vercelli Homily XXI’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 245–62). He begins by showing how the rigid scholarly demarcation between poetry and prose has hindered the recognition and study of the full extent of surviving Old English poetry. The passage in Vercelli Homily XXI which Wright identifies and edits here runs from lines 128 to 141 of the homily as edited by Scragg. Its topic is the rebel angels, and Wright defines its rhetoric and form as ‘self-consciously “poetical”’ (p. 261), and suggests that it offers evidence for a now lost, separate, Old English poem. 7. The Junius Manuscript Much work has appeared this year on the Junius manuscript. Liuzza, ed., The Poems of MS Junius 11: Basic Readings, brings together fourteen important essays on Junius 11: ‘Confronting Germania Latina: Changing Responses to Old English Biblical Verse’ by Joyce Hill; ‘The Old English Epic of Redemption: The Theological Unity of MS Junius 11’ by J.R. Hall; ‘“The Old English Epic of Redemption”: Twenty-Five-Year Retrospective’ by J.R. Hall; ‘Some Uses of Paronomasia in Old English Scriptural Verse’ by Roberta Frank; ‘Tempter as Rhetoric Teacher: The Fall of Language in Old English Genesis B’ by Eric Jager; ‘Conspicuous Heroism: Abraham, Prudentius, and the Old English Verse Genesis’ by Andrew Orchard; ‘Christian Tradition in the Old English Exodus’ by James W. Earl; ‘The Patriarchal Digression in the Old English Exodus, Lines 362–446’ by Stanley R. Hauer; ‘The Lion Standard in Exodus: Jewish Legend, Germanic Tradition, and Christian Typology’ by Charles D. Wright; ‘The Structure of the Old English Daniel’ by Robert T. Farrell; ‘Style and Theme in the Old English Daniel’ by Earl R. Anderson; ‘Nebuchadnezzar’s Dreams in the Old English Daniel’ by Antonina Harbus; ‘The Power of Knowledge and the Location of the Reader in Christ and Satan’ by Ruth Wehlau; and ‘The Wisdom Poem at the End of MS Junius 11’ by Janet Schrunk Ericksen. All of these essays have previously been published, except for J.R. Hall’s retrospective and Janet Schrunk Ericksen’s contribution, which was commissioned for this volume. Liuzza provides a lucid introduction that summarizes the contributions of the individual essays, as well as the ways in which they engage with one another. Leslie Lockett offers ‘An Integrated Re-examination of the Dating of Oxford, Bodleian Library, Junius 11’ (ASE 31[2002] 141–73). Reminding us that efforts to date Junius 11 through individual features have produced discrepant results, Lockett offers an integrated analysis of the manuscript that brings together evidence provided by each datable feature of the codex: codicological evidence, line drawings, use of colour, palaeographical features, and punctuation. She concludes that Junius 11 ought to be redated to the period c.960– c.990, and reminds us that integrated and spectrum-based methods of dating may shed new light on other Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. Paul G. Remley writes on ‘Daniel, the Three Youths Fragment and the Transmission of Old English Verse’ (ASE 31[2002] 81–140). Reminding us that scholars have often looked to the rare, parallel passages in Daniel (ll. 279–439) and The Canticles of the Three Youths (long known as Azarius) as evidence for Anglo- 18 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 18 OF 36 Saxon scribal practice and literate transmission, Remley seeks to ‘improve our understanding of the Daniel–Three Youths variants by identifying some discernible points of scribal intervention in the parallel texts, as well as some thoroughly revised passages of verse’ (p. 84). He concludes that the transmitted texts of Daniel and The Three Youths go back to a common antecedent text produced before the period of vigorous Benedictine reforms, and he suggests numerous transmissional stages after the emergence of this text, involving physical damage to the exemplar, comprehensive textual restoration, and several additional types of textual alteration. Damian Love’s ‘The Old English Exodus: A Verse Translation’ (Neophil 86[2002] 621–39) offers a verse translation of Exodus that ‘adopts the stress metre and alliterative scheme of the original’ (p. 620). Love also provides notes that discuss relevant themes and historical events, and a brief bibliography. Thomas D. Hill writes on ‘Pilate’s Visionary Wife and the Innocence of Eve: An Old Saxon Source for the Old English Genesis B’ (JEGP 101[2002] 170–84). Pointing to parallels between the vision of Eve in Genesis B and that of Procla (Pilate’s wife) in The Heliand, Hill suggests that the Genesis B-poet may have regarded the Procla narrative as an appropriate model for his account of Eve’s temptation, and as an attractive means of explaining how Eve could have assumed the role of tempter without any malice or ill-will. Carole Hough re-examines ‘Christ and Satan line 406b’ (N&Q 49[2002] 6–8) and proposes that the manuscript reading 7 ne moste Efe þa gyt ‘but Eve was not yet allowed …’ ought to be restored. Pointing out that both the Tironian note 7 and the written conjunction and/ond frequently carry an adversative sense, Hough argues that we need not read the Tironian note 7 in this line as a contraction for ac. 8. The Beowulf Manuscript The Beowulf manuscript continues to inspire rigorous scholarship, with much of this year’s work centred on translations. Beowulf: A Prose Translation offers a new critical edition by Nicholas Howe of E. Talbot Donaldson’s classic prose translation. In addition to useful explanatory notes, Howe also provides annotations for technical terms and historical figures, and has added new material to the ‘Contexts’ section. The edition includes a new final section, ‘Criticism’, which brings together seven important essays on Beowulf. The selection is limited to essays published after 1980 ‘so that readers can be exposed to the current conversation in the field about Beowulf’ (p. ix). Essays include ‘Appositive Style and the Theme of Beowulf’ by Fred C. Robinson; ‘The Beowulf Poet’s Sense of History’ by Roberta Frank; ‘Reconceiving Beowulf: Poetry as Social Praxis’ by John D. Niles; ‘Beowulf and the Psychology of Terror’ by Michael Lapidge; ‘“Þæt wæs geomuru ides!” A Female Stereotype Examined’ by Joyce Hill; ‘The Female Mourner at Beowulf’s Funeral: Filling in the Blanks/Hearing the Spaces’ by Helen Bennett; and ‘The Uses of Uncertainty: On the Dating of Beowulf’ by Nicholas Howe. The edition concludes with a short bibliography that directs readers to earlier Beowulf criticism. Beowulf: A Verse Translation offers a new critical edition by Daniel Donoghue of Seamus Heaney’s poetic translation. Heaney’s translation is accompanied by a translator’s introduction and a final essay by Donoghue, both of which address the process of translation and situate Heaney’s Beowulf in the context of his life and OLD ENGLISH 19 PAGE 19 OF 36 work. The edition also provides a ‘Contexts’ section designed to introduce students to the cultural and historical milieu of Beowulf, thirty-six illustrations, and eight critical essays. Essays include ‘Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics’ by J.R.R. Tolkien; ‘The Interlace Structure of Beowulf’ by John Leyerle; ‘The Structural Unity of Beowulf: The Problem of Grendel’s Mother’ by Jane Chance; ‘The Beowulf Poet’s Sense of History’ by Roberta Frank; ‘The Tomb of Beowulf’ by Fred C. Robinson; ‘The Christian Language and Theme of Beowulf’ by Thomas D. Hill; ‘Archaeology and Beowulf’ by Leslie Webster; and ‘The Philologer Poet: Seamus Heaney and the Translation of Beowulf’ by Daniel Donoghue. Louis J. Rodrigues’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburh: A Modern English Verse Rendering offers a new verse translation of Beowulf in parallel-text format. The translation is ‘intended for a non-academic audience’ (p. vi), and offers accessible commentary, glossaries, genealogies, and name-indices, as well as a number of black and white drawings. R.M. Liuzza’s ‘Lost in Translation: Some Versions of Beowulf in the Nineteenth Century’ (ES 83[2002] 281–95) begins with a brief review of the textual history of Beowulf and subsequently considers the poem’s reception and translation in the nineteenth century. Focusing on the work of John Josiah Conybeare, J.M. Kemble, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William Morris, and others, Liuzza charts how nineteenth-century translations of Beowulf were conditioned by contemporary social and political developments. These local analyses enable Liuzza to argue that all translations are acts of recovery driven by the dual urges to recapture the spirit of a vanished and irrecoverable original and to respond to the literary demands of one’s own time. As Liuzza writes, ‘A translation is successful or not, not by virtue of its accuracy or fidelity to its indecipherable cause, but by how well it makes the poem seem like a living thing rather than a dead one’ (p. 295). Several articles this year focus on the natural and supernatural worlds. Margaret Gelling investigates ‘The Landscape of Beowulf’ (ASE 31[2002] 7–11), with particular attention to the poet’s use of such landscape terms as hlið, hop, and gelad. Although rarely attested in other literary sources, these terms are well evidenced in place names, and Gelling argues that attending to place-name usage may help us to better understand how landscape terms are used in Beowulf. Michael Swisher’s ‘Beyond the Hoar Stone’ (Neophil 86[2002] 133–6) considers the formulaic phrase se harne stan ‘the hoar stone’ as a ‘boundary marker separating the known natural world from the dangerous supernatural one’ (p. 133). He focuses mainly on the phrase as used in Beowulf, with some attention to its appearance in Blickling Homily 17 and Andreas. Roberta Frank gives us some ‘North-Sea Soundings in Andreas’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 1–11), by drawing on skaldic poetry to offer clarification of the Old English poem’s imagery. A striking number of this year’s essays focus on monsters and animal imagery. Frederick M. Biggs examines ‘Beowulf’s Fight with the Nine Nicors’ (RES 53[2002] 311–28) and the implications of the nine sea-beasts, who comprise the major discrepancy between Beowulf’s and Unferth’s accounts of the competition with Breca. Biggs argues that the poet’s early account of sea-beasts offers a paradigm for understanding how monsters function throughout the poem as literary constructs that offer commentary on human actions. In ‘From “Whale-Road” to “Gannet’s Bath”: Images of Foreign Relations and Exchange in Beowulf’ (RMSt 28[2002] 59–86), Robert L. Schichler considers the three sea-kennings with animal elements found in Beowulf. Highlighting the idea of the sea as a path with the 20 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 20 OF 36 capacity to either facilitate or hinder foreign relations and social exchange, Schichler argues that the Beowulf-poet employs a succession of sea-kennings to construct a distinct shift in foreign relations as we move from Scyld’s to Hrothgar’s reigns: ‘from one marked by intimidation and forced tribute, to one rooted in friendship and free exchange’ (p. 60). John Tanke’s ‘Beowulf, Gold-Luck, and God’s Will’ (SP 99[2002] 356–79) focuses on the dragon’s treasure and the curse laid upon it. Tanke investigates possible meanings for the hapax legomenon goldhwæte (l. 3074a), and argues that ‘the poet has conceived of the curse in a thoroughly plausible, pagan-Germanic context as a protective spell laid upon a sacrificial treasure, and that death and not damnation is the fate assigned to its victim’ (p. 358). Gale R. Owen-Crocker continues her work on death and burial in Beowulf with ‘Horror in Beowulf: Mutilation, Decapitation and Unburied Dead’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 81–100). Focusing on deaths in the poem which are presented as being so unnatural that the body cannot be buried with the proper funeral rites, Owen-Crocker highlights evidence for Anglo-Saxon sensitivities, and the poem’s exploitation of them to produce horror in its audience. The poem’s many feuds continue to generate interest. Michael Pantazakos’s ‘From Epic to Romance: The Literary Transformation of Private Blood Feud into Societal Ressentiment’ (Comitatus 3[2002] 37–57) offers a ‘comparative literary critique of … the Chanson de Roland and Beowulf’ (p. 37) to argue for a connection between literary and social changes in the late eleventh century. Pointing to this period as one that witnessed the transformation of epic into romance as well as increased anti-Semitism, Pantazakos suggests that the movement towards romance was enacted and expressed as a new form of anti-Semitism that resulted from changing world-values, namely, an increasing tendency to reject private blood feud in favour of a kind of social ressentiment, or revenge directed against an innocent other rather than against the true source of one’s wrath. Lidan Lin writes on ‘The Narrative Strategy of Double Voicing in Beowulf’ (NDQ 69[2002] 40–9), with particular attention to the poem’s digressions on feuds. Lin argues that feud digressions, such as the Finnsburh episode, create a ‘unified counter-heroic narrative constantly competing for authority with the heroic narrative’ (p. 40). As usual, there is a substantial amount of new work on poetic form, style, and metrics. In The Indeterminacy of Beowulf, Johann Köberl takes a fresh look at some of the indeterminacies, ambiguities, and ambivalences that have engaged Beowulf scholars for many years. Focusing on syntactic, lexical, and thematic contradictions within the text, Köberl suggests that readers ought to embrace these ambiguities as part of its aesthetic appeal rather than looking for resolution, and that we ‘might want to see structures—such as ambiguity, a high-lighting of transitionality, or an open-ended questioning of values—that permit a continual discourse on, and therefore a continual recreation of, Beowulf, thus deferring ad infinitum any final resolutions’ (p. 178). John Harkness offers some ‘Observations on Appositions in Beowulf’ (JIEP 43[2002] 79–88), with particular attention to where appositions fall in the poetic half-line. Defining apposition as ‘coreferent, parallel, unconjoined lexical noun phrases in the same clause’ (p. 79), Harkness shows that the majority of such appositions begin in the second half-line, with the second element of apposition in the following first half-line, and he offers several possible explanations for this OLD ENGLISH 21 PAGE 21 OF 36 phenomenon. John D. Sundquist discusses ‘Relative Clause Variation and the Unity of Beowulf’ (JGL 14[2002] 243–69). He argues that aspects of various relative clause types in Beowulf are unique in the Old English poetic and prose corpus and consistent throughout all three proposed parts of the poem. Sundquist thus concludes that quantitative data on relative clause variation provides additional evidence that Beowulf is a unified poem and that it is not the work of multiple authors. Michael Getty studies The Metre of Beowulf: A Constraint-Based Approach. Getty’s goal is ‘to present a theory of the metrical system behind the Old English alliterative poem Beowulf’ (p. 1), and he writes for an audience of both generative linguists and traditional metrists willing to consider an alternative to Sievers, Kuhn, and Bliss. This book offers detailed analyses of Old English stress phonology and metrical structure at the level of the foot, the half-line, and the line. Getty argues that Old English poetry does not constitute a language of its own, but merely a kind of tidying-up of the prose language, which occurs ‘according to a set of conditions on form which, by and large, can be justified quite independently of any need to understand the metre’ (p. 5). The numerous analogues to Beowulf continue to intrigue scholars. Alexander M. Bruce’s Scyld and Scef: Expanding the Analogues examines the identity and textual functions of Scyld and Scef, two figures who are most well known from the opening of Beowulf. The book begins with a foreword by Paul Szarmach, and then proceeds to part I, an analysis of Scyld and Scef in Anglo-Saxon poetry, early English genealogies, English records from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries, Icelandic sources, and Danish texts. In part II, Bruce presents primary texts and translations of the forty-three extant references to Scyld and Scef. Dean Swinford studies ‘Form and Representation in Beowulf and Grettis Saga’ (Neophil 86[2002] 613–20). While previous studies have identified plot similarities between Beowulf’s battle with Grendel and Grettir’s battle with Glámr, Swinford focuses on generic distinctions between the two battles to show that ‘the dimensions of psychological horror conveyed by Grendel are clearly lacking from the saga’s depiction of Glámr’ (p. 619). He argues that such distinctions point to different conceptions of heroic action and to varying cultural expectations of Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse audiences. As in past years, Alfred Bammesberger offers helpful textual notes on difficult lines. In ‘The Syntactic Analysis of Beowulf, Lines 750–754’ (Neophil 86[2002] 303–6), he re-examines the syntax of lines 750–4 and argues that they are correctly translated: ‘At once the keeper of crimes realized that he had never met a greater grip in another man of the corners of the earth, of the world. He became terrified in spirit. Yet he was not able to get away any sooner’ (p. 305). In ‘An Unnecessary Emendation (Beowulf, line 1763a)’ (N&Q 49[2002] 174–5), he suggests that the phrase adl oððe ecg ‘illness or the sword’ ought not to be emended to adl oððe ece ‘illness or pain’. In ‘OE Ænegum in Beowulf’ (N&Q 49[2002] 312–14), he suggests that the phrase ænegum men actually represents (normalized) Ángan menn, that the phrase ought to be translated as ‘to one man alone’ and that the emphasis thus lies on Beowulf fighting alone. In ‘Beowulf’s Death’ (N&Q 49[2002] 314–15), he argues that the manuscript reading hwæðre in line 2819b makes good sense and ought not to be emended to hræðre. In ‘Grendel’s Death (Beowulf 850–852)’ (Neophil 86[2002] 467–9), he suggests that him in line 852b (þær him hel onfeng) does not refer to Grendel but to either his ‘life’ (singular) or to his ‘life and soul’ (plural). In ‘Old English Ealuscerwen in Beowulf 769a’ (RES 53[2002] 469–74), he 22 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 22 OF 36 contends that ealuscerwan ought to be translated as ‘a dispensation of good luck’ and that the noun -ealu ought not to be identified as the noun for ‘ale’. Bammesberger also revisits the question of ‘Where Did Hrothgar Deliver his Speech?’ (ES 83[2002] 1–5). Drawing on an earlier suggestion made by Leslie Webster, Bammesberger argues that the phrase on stapole (l. 926a) ought to be translated ‘at the pillar’ and that Hrothgar’s speech took place outside Heorot, at a large pillar-like structural support to the building which may have also had ceremonial functions. Other brief analyses of difficult lines and phrases have also appeared. Sarah M. Elder offers ‘A Note on the Meaning of Beowulf, Lines 1288–1295’ (N&Q 49[2002] 315–16). Elder argues that se broga (l. 1291b) refers to Grendel’s mother, and that the half-line is thus correctly translated as ‘when that monstrous thing perceived him’, rather than ‘when the terror seized him’. Carl T. Berkhout writes on ‘Beowulf 2200–08: Mind the Gap’ (ANQ 15[2002] 51–8). He briefly reviews debates on the textually mutilated condition of fol. 179, and considers ‘why both sides of 179, along with the first three lines on the verso of 180, might have been erased or partially erased in the first place’ (p. 52). In ‘An Aspirin for Beowulf: Against Aches and Pains—ece and wærc’ (ANQ 15[2002] 58–63), Roberta Frank considers recent calls for emendation of ecg ‘sword’ (l. 1763a) and weorc ‘work’ (ll. 1418b, 1638b, and 1721b) to ece ‘ache’ and wærc ‘pain’. Frank offers a detailed discussion of the various Anglo-Saxon uses and contexts for these words, and concludes that the drive towards such emendations is inadvisable and may simply result from a modern sensibility in which language is seen as a harmonious mathematical system. E.L. Risden, ‘Teaching Anglo-Saxon Humor, or Yes, Virginia, There Is Humor in Beowulf’ (SMRT 9[2002] 21–38), suggests that focusing on humour in Old English poetry may help to increase interest in medieval poetry. Risden argues that Anglo- Saxon humour ought to be understood as ‘a sudden pleasing mental catharsis experienced in safety’ (p. 29), and identifies examples of humour in Beowulf, the Riddles, and Juliana. Drout, ed., Beowulf and the Critics, is a critical edition of the two earlier and heretofore unpublished versions of Tolkien’s landmark essay ‘Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics’. Labelling the two versions ‘A’ and ‘B’, Drout shows how they differ from the final, far shorter version delivered to the British Academy in 1936, and he suggests that Tolkien wrote the longer texts in the early 1930s and may have delivered them as a series of lectures at Oxford. Drout provides a description of the manuscript containing the two longer works, complete textual and explanatory notes, and an introduction that discusses the place of Tolkien’s scholarship in literary studies and in Beowulf scholarship. Interest in gender issues keeps Judith at the centre of scholarly investigation. In ‘Five Textual Notes on the Old English Judith’ (ANQ 15[2002] 47–51), Fred C. Robinson offers fresh insight into five problematic aspects of the poem: the Old English poet’s omission of Judith’s dressing herself in fine clothes, Holofernes’ fleohnet, Judith’s prayers, the responses of the retainers to Holofernes’ confinement, and their efforts to rouse him. Hugh Magennis explores ‘Gender and Heroism in the Old English Judith’ (in Treharne, ed., Writing Gender and Genre, pp. 5–18). Magennis considers the ways in which Judith departs from gender roles typically ascribed to women in heroic poetry, while nevertheless retaining a recognizable femininity which renders her naturally unsuited to the task of defending Bethulia. OLD ENGLISH 23 PAGE 23 OF 36 Magennis argues that the poet maintains a sense of Judith as female, thereby heightening the sense of difficulty in her achievement and the profound faith that enables it. An item from last year that escaped notice was Lori Ann Garner’s ‘The Art of Translation in the Old English Judith’ (SN 73[2001] 171–83). Focusing on the battle scenes, Holofernes’ feast and descent into hell, and Judith’s relationship with her maid, Garner sheds new light on the poet’s manipulation of his Latin sources and on how these scenes would have registered in Anglo-Saxon culture. For work on the Passion of Saint Christopher, see Section 10 below. 9. Other Poems The Battle of Maldon continues to intrigue scholars. Michael Matto’s ‘A War of Containment: The Heroic Image in The Battle of Maldon’ (SN 74[2002] 60–75) investigates images of containment and bounded spaces as recurring motifs in Maldon. Matto argues that the poet uses containment imagery to schematize the conflicts between two different heroic ideals: an ideal that views social order as a product of ‘containment and the attendant processes of restraint, intake, and metered release’ (p. 69) and an ethos ‘that is based not in containment but in individual action, loyalty, and vengeance’ (p. 63). In ‘Wistan’s Parentage’ (N&Q 49[2002] 175–6), Carole Hough offers fresh insight into lines 297b–300 of Maldon. Hough reminds us that the Anglo-Saxons frequently formed names for both men and women by combining elements of the mother’s and father’s names. Since Wistan is a reduction of Wigstan, Wistan’s mother may have been Wigelines and his father Þurstan, and lines 300a and 298a ought to be recognized as containing these names. Jonathan Watson’s ‘The Finnsburh Skald: Kennings and Cruces in the Anglo- Saxon Fragment’ (JEGP 101[2002] 497–519) focuses on the phrases Celæs borð (l. 29a) and Hwearflacra hrær (l. 34a), both of which appear in the Finnsburh fragment. Watson rejects the usual explanation of these unintelligible phrases as a product of the unsure hand of George Hickes, and proposes, instead, that they ‘point toward a shared Scandinavian identity … [and] are mythological kennings consistent with those found in Old Norse verse’ (p. 498). Watson suggests further that the Finnsburh fragment ‘probably reflects a Viking-Age rendering of the Danish ancestral past’ (p. 519). Paul E. Szarmach’s ‘Meter 20: Context Bereft’ (ANQ 15[2002] 28–34) shows how the valuation of Bodley 180 over the fire-damaged Cotton Otho A.vi may obscure our understanding of Meter 20 in the Old English Boethius. Alfred Bammesberger claims that there has been ‘A Doubtful Reconstruction in the Old English Ruthwell Crucifixion Poem’ (SN 74[2002] 143–5). Challenging two readings in David Howlett’s 1976 reconstruction of the poem, Bammesberger argues that gastæ must be replaced by gast, and sendæ by onsendæ or possibly ondsende. ‘Crook-Neb’d Corslets and Barefaced Cheek’ (in Hough and Lowe, eds., pp. 189–97) are the subject of Tania Styles’s development of the reading proposed by Christine Fell (published in the same volume, and reviewed in Section 4 above) for geapneb, a hapax legomenon in Waldere. Styles discusses the historical semantics of neb, including in her examination its use in Old English homilies, and proposes a new sense for this term and its derivatives: imprudence 24 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 24 OF 36 Paul Cavill examines the relationship between ‘Bede and Cædmon’s Hymn’ (in Hough and Lowe, eds., pp. 1–17), by assessing the evidence for the opposing views that the Old English Hymn is a back-formation from Bede’s Latin version, and that Bede constructed his Latin version as a paraphrase of an earlier Old English one. His conclusion is that the latter is the more likely of the two possibilities. D.R. Howlett offers a study of ‘The Verse of Æthelweard’s Chronicle’ (Bulletin du Cange 58[2000] 219–24) which proposes some changes to the last lines of the relevant section in Campbell’s edition, gives a new translation of the section, and shows the influence of the ‘Insular tradition of metrical experiment’ (p. 224) on Æthelweard’s poetry. 10. Prose Bede and his works continue to attract new analysis. In ‘Discovering the Calendar (annalis libellus) Attached to Bede’s Own Copy of De temporum ratione’ (AnBol 120[2002] 5–64), Paul Meyvaert re-examines the manuscripts of De temporum ratione, and concludes that ‘DTR stands apart in Bede’s works as the product of his classroom teaching’ (p. 42), and that Bede copied entries from the Codex cosmographiorum into his calendar. Daniel Paul O’Donnell assesses ‘The Accuracy of the “St Petersburg Bede”’ (N&Q 49[2002] 4–6), and finds that, despite the presence of many more errors than previous scholars have acknowledged, this version of the Historia ecclesiastica is indeed early and accurate. Scott DeGregorio’s ‘“Nostrorum socordiam temporum”: The Reforming Impulse of Bede’s Later Exegesis’ (EMedE 11[2002] 107–22) examines examples of Bede’s commentaries from different periods of his career in their social and political context. DeGregorio draws attention to how intertextual and socially involved Bede’s later writings are. In ‘A Northumbrian Phrase in the Formation of the Hieronymian Martyrology: The Evidence of the Martyrology of Tallaght’ (AnBol 120[2002] 311–63), Pádraig Ó Riain argues that the Echternach version of the Martyrology of Tallaght, and also the three versions produced at St-Wandrille or St Servatius, St-Avold, and Sens, all use a Northumbrian/English exemplar. Two of the essays in Treharne and Rosser, eds., Early Medieval English Texts, deal with Alfredian texts. In ‘Editions of Alfred: The Wages of Un-influence’ (pp. 135–49), Paul E. Szarmach evaluates ‘the lamentable state of the texts that comprise the Alfredian corpus’ (p. 135), and names as contributory factors to this lack of sustained scholarly interest modern disciplinary divides between history and literature, failure to recognize Alfred as a poet, failure to credit ninth-century Anglo- Saxon authors with philosophical interests, a lack of clarity in Anglo-Saxon studies about what should constitute an edition, and the declining value attributed to the work of editing. ‘Book Divisions and Chapter Headings in the Translations of the Alfredian Period’ are the subject of Janet Bately’s analysis (pp. 151–66). Through an examination of manuscripts of a range of Alfredian translations, Bately shows the extent to which editors of the texts have imposed their own divisions, that Anglo- Saxon scribes of the texts are much less interested in dividing them up, and that where contents lists, titling, and numbering do exist in manuscript, there is no sign of a uniform approach. Alfred P. Smyth publishes The Medieval Life of King Alfred OLD ENGLISH 25 PAGE 25 OF 36 the Great: A Translation and Commentary on the Text Attributed to Asser. The commentary in the volume engages further with the arguments about the reliability of the Life, the identity of Asser as its author, the style of the text, and its use of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, and Smyth advances a case for the Life being written at Ramsey in c. a.d. 1000. O’Neill, ed., King Alfred’s Old English Prose Translations of the First Fifty Psalms, offers a welcome new edition of the prose psalms contained in the Paris Psalter. O’Neill includes discussions of the manuscript, sources, translation and style, language, and authorship. The text of the psalms is supplemented by extensive commentary, a glossary, and a select bibliography. [SK] Studies on Ælfric and his work continue to multiply this year. Hugh Magennis examines ‘Warrior Saints, Warfare, and the Hagiography of Ælfric of Eynsham’ (Traditio 56[2001] 27–51). Magennis addresses the potential conflict between secular heroism and sanctity, and focuses on Ælfric’s Lives of Martin, Oswald, Edmund, Sebastian, and the Forty Soldiers to argue that, in content and style, they represent ‘a kind of managed popularization of the cult of saints’ (p. 50). In ‘Ælfric on the Creation and Fall of the Angels’ (ASE 31[2002] 175–200), Michael Fox notes Ælfric’s numerous treatments of this subject, and how his interpretation of it differs from his main authorities, and traces Ælfric’s increasing ‘need for scriptural authority’ (p. 200) on this matter. Several of the contributors to Hall, ed., Via Crucis, write on Ælfric’s hagiography. Dabney Anderson Bankert’s ‘Reconciling Family and Faith: Ælfric’s Lives of Saints and Domestic Dramas of Conversion’ (pp. 138–57) focuses on two Lives which have conversion as a central theme—those of Agnes and Gallicanus—and shows how Ælfric uses the pairing of these stories to construct models which will appeal in particular to lay members of his audience. E. Gordon Whatley also considers Ælfric’s interaction with lay readers in ‘Pearls before Swine: Ælfric, Vernacular Hagiography, and the Lay Reader’ (pp. 158–84). After surveying Ælfric’s expressed views and anxieties about lay access to vernacular translations of Latin texts, and his manipulation of his own sources in the Catholic Homilies so that what he considers to be problematic elements are counterbalanced, Whatley turns to the Lives of Saints, and shows how these too are refashioned from their sources into narratives acceptable in Ælfric’s mind for reading by his lay patrons. Six of the essays in Treharne and Rosser, eds., Early Medieval English Texts, also focus on Ælfric. Malcolm Godden considers ‘Ælfric as Grammarian: The Evidence of his Catholic Homilies’ (pp. 13–29). He considers the evidence for changes made by Ælfric to the text of the Catholic Homilies, notes the lack of signs that these changes were consistent, or part of a systematic revision of the whole work, and concludes that ‘Ælfric was primarily a stylist rather than a grammarian or even a pedagogue’ (p. 29). Mechthild Gretsch compares ‘Ælfric’s Sanctorale and the Benedictional of Æthelwold’ (pp. 31–50) in order to discern something of the rationale behind Ælfric’s selection of saints for his hagiographical writings. Gretsch surveys the evidence for ‘political and ethical motivation’ (p. 34) on Ælfric’s part, and for influence being brought to bear on him by the patrons and commissioners of his work, and then goes on to examine the compare the saints in the Benedictional of Æthelwold and the subjects of Ælfric’s hagiography, to characterize the Benedictional as a book which ‘furnishes much of the ideological background of Edgar’s rule and coronation, and hence may have always been intended for public 26 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 26 OF 36 display in the church on certain occasions’ (p. 50), and to propose that it may have influenced Ælfric’s choice of subjects. Joyce Hill furthers her work on ‘Ælfric’s Authorities’ (pp. 51–65) with a study of homilies VII, X, and XVII in Pope’s edited collection of Supplementary Homilies, which aims to show ‘the problems to be faced and the predispositions to be overcome in negotiating the intertextual minefield’ (p. 59), and which confirms the importance of Carolingian compilers as sources of Ælfric’s exegetical writings. Mary Clayton offers ‘An Edition of Ælfric’s Letter to Brother Edward’ (pp. 263–83). Clayton’s edition is accompanied by a modern English translation, and is preceded by a discussion of the text in which she argues convincingly for Ælfric’s authorship of it, and presents it as offering ‘a fascinating insight into the views of an English person around the last millennium, reacting to the spread of Danish ways in England’ (pp. 263–4). Jonathan Wilcox’s ‘The Transmission of Ælfric’s Letter to Sigefyrth and the Mutilation of London, British Library, Cotton Vespasian D. xiv’ (pp. 285–300) traces Ælfric’s composition of this text, his reworking of it into a homily, the popularity of the text as a treatise on virginity, the survival of part of the preface to the Letter to Sigefyrth in Vespasian D.xiv, and the impact on that manuscript of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century readers, including Robert Cotton, whom Wilcox shows to have been most probably responsible for the excision of the rest of the Letter. Michael Lapidge examines the evidence for ‘Ælfric’s Schooldays’ (pp. 301–9) by scrutinizing the Latin preface to his Grammar, in which reference is made to the pronunciation of brittonice. Lapidge compares this assertion to the description in Latin poems composed at Æthelwold’s school at Winchester of a Welsh schoolmaster named Iorwerth, and argues that Ælfric’s Preface supports the case for Iorwerth being at Winchester in the time of Æthelwold, and thus being an influence on Ælfric’s education. A post-Conquest copy of one of Ælfric’s probable sources is examined by Joana Proud in ‘The Cotton-Corpus Legendary into the Twelfth Century: Notes on Salisbury Cathedral Library MSS 221 and 222’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 341–52). Proud analyses this late eleventh-century manuscript for information on ‘the ways that scribes responded to the demand for Latin hagiography in the period 1060–1200’ (p. 342), and argues that the adaptation of the collection to include more English saints was a gradual process begun by Ælfric in his adaptation of parts of it into English, but then not resumed until the augmentation of the Latin collection with the addition of English saints’ lives in twelfth-century copies. Kathy Lavezzo offers interesting insights into ‘Another Country: Ælfric and the Production of English Identity’ (NML 3[for 1999; published 2002] 67–93). Focusing on Ælfric’s narration of the encounter with the English slave-boys in his homily on Gregory, Lavezzo shows how Ælfric ‘presents a fantasy of English-Christian belonging’ (p. 70). Ælfric’s language is also scrutinized this year. Alfred Bammesberger surveys the use of ‘OE bysegan in Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies, ii.440.20’ (N&Q 49[2002] 9–10), and suggests a translation of ‘chores’. In ‘Speaking Brittonice: Vowel Quantities and Musical Length in Ælfric’s Grammar’ (Peritia 16[2002] 26–39), Melinda J. Menzer studies Ælfric’s statement on the pronunciation of short vowels. She argues that he is drawing on the systems of musica and grammatica, and notes that his attribution of short pronunciation to the Welsh might indicate differences between Latin pronunciation in different parts of Britain. OLD ENGLISH 27 PAGE 27 OF 36 Wulfstan is also the subject of new studies, including two essays in a collection on the year a.d. 1000. Mary P. Richards writes on ‘Wulfstan and the Millennium’ (in Frassetto, ed. The Year 1000: Religious and Social Response to the Turning of the First Millennium, pp. 41–8). Richards focuses on those of Wulfstan’s eschatological sermons which reveal his millenarian concerns, contrasts them with the eschatological writings of Ælfric, and emphasizes how Wulfstan’s ‘criticisms and warnings become ever sharper as he seeks to end the current crisis’ (p. 46). Nancy E. Atkinson and Dan E. Burton’s examination of ‘Harrowing the Houses of the Holy: Images of Violation in Wulfstan’s Homilies’ (in Frassetto, ed., pp. 49–62) shows how Wulfstan’s eschatological homilies respond to the conflict between the English and the Danes, promote the idea of the violation of the English clergy by Vikings, and thus position the English clergy as potential national saviours. Andy Orchard comments ‘On Editing Wulfstan’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 311–40), using Bethurum XXI as an example of the problems generated by earlier editorial treatments of the different versions of this text, which typifies the tendency of Wulfstan and other Anglo-Saxon writers to adapt and recycle his prose. Orchard emphasizes the value of a manuscript-centred approach to editing Wulfstan’s works, and in the appendix to his article provides an edition and literal modern English translation of Bethurum XXI from manuscript London, British Library Cotton Nero A.i. The balance of ‘Germanic Tradition and Latin Learning in Wulfstan’s Echoic Compounds’ is assessed by Don W. Chapman (JEGP 101[2002] 1–18). Chapman concedes that these compounds seem at first sight to be drawn from native, Germanic style, but argues that they also echo learned, Latinate style, that Wulfstan would have been aware of both of these connections, and that he is ‘enhancing native idiom from an awareness derived from Latin learning’ (p. 18). In ‘The Division of the Ten Commandments in Anglo-Saxon England’ (NM 103[2002] 227–40), Aaron J. Kleist opens by noting differences of opinion over the numbering of the Commandments, and then turns to an analysis of five Anglo- Saxon texts which order them: Solomon and Saturn I, Wulfstan’s De christianitate, and three texts by Ælfric: the Second Old English Letter for Wulfstan, Decalogus Moysi, and Dominica in media quadragesime. He shows that Wulfstan’s De christianitate draws on Ælfric, and that all five texts represent a single tradition of the Decalogue, under the influence of Ælfric. New studies of the anonymous prose homiletic corpus appear this year. Don Chapman’s analysis of ‘Poetic Compounding in the Vercelli, Blickling, and Wulfstan Homilies’ (NM 103[2002] 409–21) builds on studies of compounding in poetic texts, contrasts it with the use of the technique in prose, and finds that the homiletic tradition shows ‘an independent creativity with the resources of the language’ (p. 419). The relationship between ‘Vercelli Homily 6 and the Apocryphal Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew’ is assessed by Frederick M. Biggs (N&Q 49[2002] 176–8), in the light of the possibility that the whole of this apocryphal gospel might have circulated in Anglo-Saxon England. Charles D. Wright publishes three more important studies of the Vercelli Homilies. He assesses ‘Vercelli Homilies XI–XIII and the Anglo-Saxon Benedictine Reform: Tailored Sources and Implied Audiences’ (in Muessig, ed., Preacher, Sermon and Audience in the Middle Ages, pp. 203–27). Through a combined attention to codicology, internal references, and treatment of sources, Wright is able to construct a convincing hypothesis of an intended audience of secular clerics. In ‘The Old English “Macarius” Homily, 28 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 28 OF 36 Vercelli Homily IV, and Ephrem Latinus, De paenitentia’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 210–34), Wright explores the relationship between these two Old English homilies, and identifies the Latin source of their shared introductory section. Wright’s ‘More Old English Poetry in Vercelli Homily XXI’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 245–62) is reviewed in Section 6 above. Jane Roberts offers ‘Two Readings in the Guthlac Homily’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 201–10)—Vercelli Homily XXIII—by examining emendations made in D.G. Scragg’s 1992 edition of the text. She concludes that in the first case, ‘big fer[c]ede’ (ll. 81–2), Scragg is correct, and that in the second, ‘[h]recetunge’ (l. 126), it is possible that the reading ‘ræscetunge’ might be the correct one. Paul E. Szarmach edits and analyses the adaptations of Alcuin’s Liber de virtutibus et vitiis in ‘Pembroke College 25, Arts. 93–95’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 295–325), a manuscript which contains an intermediate source linking Alcuin’s Liber and Vercelli Homily XX. Patrizia Lendinara’s ‘frater non redimit, redimet homo … : A Homiletic Motif and its Variants in Old English’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 67–80) examines the use of this motif—which emphasizes that no one will be able to receive help from relatives or friends on Judgement Day—in a number of anonymous Old English homilies. Lendinara finds parallels for the motif in lines 97–102 of The Seafarer, in the Old High German poem Muspilli, and in Otfried’s Evangelienbuch, explores a range of possible sources for it, and shows how it is reshaped in Old English texts to fit an Anglo-Saxon cultural context. Frederick M. Biggs offers ‘Comments on the Codicology of Two Paris Manuscripts (BN Lat. 13,408 and 5574)’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 326–30), both of which are in Latin, and the latter of which is of particular interest to Anglo-Saxonists because its script and contents, including some saints’ lives, suggest English production. Two editions of anonymous Old English hagiographic texts by Phillip Pulsiano are published this year. In ‘The Passion of Saint Christopher’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 167–210) Pulsiano discusses this text, found in MS London, British Library, Cotton Vitellius A.xv and also once in MS Cotton Otho B.x, and edits it from Vitellius A.xv with notes and a glossary. ‘The Old English Life of Saint Pantaleon’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 61–103), in MS London, British Library, Cotton Vitellius D.xvii, is edited by Pulsiano along with the Anglo-Latin version of the narrative which is closest to the probable source of the Old English. The edition is preceded by a discussion of the development of the tradition of the narrative about St Pantaleon. Hugh Magennis produces a very welcome addition to the corpus of edited Old English saints’ lives in The Old English Life of St Mary of Egypt. The edition, which is based on the text in London, British Library, MS Cotton Julius E.vii, is preceded by a clear introduction to the narrative of the legend, its transmission, the Old English versions and the relationship between them, the question of sources, and the language, style, and register of the Old English version. The edition is made particularly useful for undergraduate students by the inclusion of facing-page translation into modern English, and for scholars at all levels by the provision of the surviving Latin text closest to the probable source, which is also accompanied by a modern English translation. Thomas N. Hall edits ‘The Earliest Anglo-Latin Text of the Trinubium Annae (BHL 505zl)’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 104–37) from MS Cambridge, St John’s College 35, written in the late eleventh or early twelfth century at Bury St Edmunds, and also the OLD ENGLISH 29 PAGE 29 OF 36 Old English version of the Trinubium from MS London, British Library Cotton Vespasian D.xiv, produced in Canterbury or Rochester in the second quarter of the twelfth century. Hall also traces the development of narratives about St Anne and her family, and in particular her three marriages; reconstructs the context for the production of the Bury text as part of a well-developed Marian cult; and proposes that a copy closely related to the Bury text was the immediate source of the Old English version. Ted Johnson South edits Historia de Sancto Cuthberto: A History of Saint Cuthbert and a Record of his Patrimony from a text produced in the late Anglo- Saxon or early Anglo-Norman period. The introduction to the edition deals with the context for the composition of the text, sources available to its author, surviving manuscripts and their interrelationships, the date of composition, and previous scholarship on the text. The edition is accompanied by a facing-page translation into modern English, and the appendices supply editions of related texts, discuss estate structure in the Historia, and provide a catalogue of place names in the text. Hagiography and its context of production are the subject of Pauline Head’s ‘Who Is the Nun from Hildeheim? A Study of Hugeburc’s Vita Willibaldi’ (MÆ 71[2002] 29–46). This saint’s life was written between 776 and 786 in Heidenheim, by an Anglo-Saxon nun called Hugeburc, traces of whose identity are, Head argues, woven into the narrative. Head shows Hugeburc to have constructed a parallel between the life of her subject and her own life as a pilgrim and missionary, and thus responded to the ongoing redefinition of ‘the boundaries of gender and vocation’ (p. 41). Jane Roberts studies ‘The Case of the Miraculous Hand in the Old English Prose Life of Guthlac’ (ANQ 15:ii[2002] 17–22) by comparing it to Felix’s Vita sancti Guthlaci. Roberts notes that the Old English Life, in MS London, British Library, Cotton Vespasian D.xxi, shares one particularly striking difference from Felix’s Life with an eleventh-century office for Guthlac from Worcester, and speculates that the Vespasian redactor might have been influenced by a liturgical text in making this change. ‘Job and Jacob in the Old English Life of Malchus’, a text surviving in a mid-eleventh-century Worcester manuscript, is the subject of Michael S. Armstrong’s investigation (N&Q 49[2002] 10–12). Armstrong accounts for the apparent confusion of Job and Jacob in the text by tracing a hypothetical error in the Latin exemplar, and the Old English translator’s response to this. John Edward Damon considers the possibility of ‘Sanctifying Anglo-Saxon Ealdormen: Lay Sainthood and the Rise of the Crusading Ideal’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 185–209), by focusing on five ealdormen from the late tenth and early eleventh centuries— Byrhtnoth, Æthelwine of East Anglia, Æthelweard of Wessex, Leofric of Mercia, and Waltheof of Northumbria—whose lives were represented in literature. He concludes that the representation of all these men’s lives was influenced by hagiographical conventions, and that Waltheof came closest to being treated as a saint. New editions of liturgical texts continue to appear. Nicholas Orchard describes The Leofric Missal as ‘[f]or the most part … not really a missal at all’, but rather a ‘combined sacramentary, pontifical and ritual’ (p. 1) in MS Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodley 579. In the first volume of his edition, Orchard discusses the manuscript and its history, untangles the layers of annotation and augmentation added to it between the early tenth and late eleventh centuries, and provides a number of useful collation tables and indexes. The second volume contains the 30 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 30 OF 36 edited text. Phillip Pulsiano’s posthumously published edition of Old English Glossed Psalters: Psalms 1–50 gives an introductory survey of the relevant manuscripts, explains the presentation and arrangement of material in the edition, and sets out notes on the scribal hands and their representation in the edition which follows. The volume’s appendices contain the Blickling Psalter red ink glosses and folio references for the psalm verses. Lisi Oliver provides welcome new editions and modern English translations of the laws of Æthelberht, Hloþhere and Eadric, and Wihtred in The Beginnings of English Law. The volume opens with a useful introduction to the historical context of the laws, the twelfth-century manuscript in which they survive (Rochester, Cathedral Library A.3.5), the language of the texts, and their chronology. Each of the main chapters of the volume contains the edition and translation of one of the three laws, supplementing these with detailed commentary. The volume’s appendices include diplomatic transcriptions of the laws. C.P. Biggam explains the relationship between ‘Ualdenegi and the Concept of Strange Eyes’ (in Kay and Sylvester, eds., pp. 31–43), with reference to an entry in the Third Erfurt Glossary: the Latin lemma cessius (caseius), the Latin interpretation glaucus, and the Old English interpretation ualdenegi. Pettit, ed., Anglo-Saxon Remedies, Charms, and Prayers: From British Library MS Harley 585: The Lacnunga, provides an important contribution to the study of Anglo-Saxon medicine and folklore in his two-volume edition and translation of the Lacnunga. Volume 1 includes a detailed discussion of BL MS Harley 585 and the sources, analogues, cultural context, and language of the Lacnunga. The text is accompanied by facing-page translations, as well as a full glossary of Old English and Old Irish words. Volume 2 is devoted to extensive commentary and a bibliography. [SK] Concepts of the past, and of its relevance to Anglo-Saxon identity, are the subject of three articles this year. Daniel Anlezark surveys references to ‘Sceaf, Japheth and the Origins of the Anglo-Saxons’ (ASE 31[2002] 13–46) in Anglo-Saxon texts including Exodus, the Old English Consolation of Philosophy, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Æthelweard’s Chronicon, Ælfric’s homilies De initio creaturae, Dominica XXI post Pentecosten, and Dominica II post Aepiphania Domini, and his Old English version of Alcuin’s Interrogationes Sigeuulfi in Genesin, and notes the contrast between those texts which uphold the idea that the kings of Wessex are descended from Noah’s ark-born son, and Ælfric’s writings, which reject the existence of this son. Malcolm Godden examines ‘The Anglo-Saxons and the Goths: Rewriting the Sack of Rome’ (ASE 31[2002] 47–68), tracing accounts of this event from the fifth to the tenth centuries through the works of Augustine, Orosius, Bede, Gildas, Alcuin, the Old English Consolation of Philosophy, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, and Æthelweard’s Chronicon. He shows how the significance of the sack of Rome developed for the Anglo-Saxons, and in particular how ‘in the Alfredian circle at least Goths could be an honourable ancestry’ (p. 68). Alice Sheppard’s ‘Noble Counsel, No Counsel: Advising Ethelred the Unready’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 393– 422) presents a carefully worked-out argument for a single chronicler composing all of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Æthelred annals as a single narrative, either at the end of Æthelred’s or the beginning of Cnut’s reign. She compares these Chronicle entries with works for Cnut written by Wulfstan, and shows how the chronicler ‘builds a unifying identity for Cnut’s nobles and the conquered Anglo-Saxons’ (p. OLD ENGLISH 31 PAGE 31 OF 36 397). Nicole Guenther Discenza approaches Anglo-Saxon identity from a slightly different angle to Godden and Lavezzo. In ‘The Old English Bede and the Construction of Anglo-Saxon Authority’ (ASE 31[2002] 69–80), she investigates the ways in which ‘the Old English Bede authorizes itself not through any overt claims in an original preface but through strategic translations of the Latin preface and of the text itself’ (p. 69), and also how, unlike other Alfredian translations, the text does not announce itself as the work of a translator, but instead ‘Bede speaks to the reader directly in Old English’ (p. 79). M. Bradford Bedingfield’s The Dramatic Liturgy of Anglo-Saxon England has at its core an analysis of the Regularis Concordia, the liturgical manuscripts of the late tenth and eleventh centuries, and Old English preaching texts of the same period. Acknowledging the longstanding scholarly tendency to claim that the tenth-century English Church is the point of origin of liturgical drama, Bedingfield highlights evidence for liturgical innovation in this period, but is careful not to equate this with drama. He finds, instead, that the Regularis Concordia and the other texts he studies represent ‘something of a turning point in the stability and vigour of liturgical and devotional experience in Anglo-Saxon England’ (p. 2). Joyce Hill also continues to produce new insights into the Regularis Concordia. In two articles, her focus is on the version of the text in the early eleventh-century manuscript Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 201. ‘Lexical Choices for Holy Week: Studies in Old English Ecclesiastical Vocabulary’ (in Kay and Sylvester, eds., pp. 117–27) deals with the unusual lexical choices made by the Old English translator. The lexical choices are compared with those made by the Old English gloss-translator of the Regularis Concordia in London, British Library, Cotton Tiberius A.iii, a mid-eleventh-century Canterbury manuscript. Hill also evaluates the use of the words of ‘Provost and prior in the Regularis Concordia’ (ANQ 15:ii[2002] 13–17). She shows that the rank of ‘provost’ is not clear in the Old English version, and that ‘prior’ is not consistently recognized here as a title of office, and thus reminds us that ‘we have to keep an open mind about what might be signified by apparently familiar terms’ (p. 17). R.M. Liuzza’s ‘The Devil and his Father: A Case of Editorial Irresponsibility in the Old English Gospels’ (ANQ 15:ii[2002] 22–8) draws on his work editing the texts of the Old English Gospels, in the course of which he identified many ‘bad translations’, some of which he thinks might be evidence for the existence of ‘unorthodox nontraditional readings and understandings of the Gospels’ (p. 22). The specific example Liuzza discusses in this essay is from the Old English version of John 8:44, and he notes that there exists a tradition, referred to in writings including those of Augustine and Origen, and Juliana, of reading this line in the way the Old English translation reads it. Mary Garrison studies ‘The Bible and Alcuin’s Interpretation of Current Events’ (Peritia 16[2002] 68–84) and identifies ‘a turning- point in his outlook’ (p. 68) in 796, at which point—after learning of a number of events which he found shocking, including the murder of Æthelred of Northumbria—he begins to assign a clear providential meaning to the Viking attack on Lindisfarne. Three new articles on Gildas, with Anglo-Saxon import, are published this year. David Howlett’s ‘The Prophecy of Saxon Occupation in Gildas, De Excidio Britanniae’ (Peritia 16[2002] 156–60) notes that this passage preserves the earliest written word of Old English, and also suggests that it might have influenced the 32 OLD ENGLISH PAGE 32 OF 36 composer of Æthelberht’s law-code. Alex Woolf draws attention to the same passage in ‘An Interpolation in the Text of Gildas’s De Excidio Britanniae’ (Peritia 16[2002] 161–7), and argues that it might have been interpolated, possibly in Canterbury. Alf Siewers’s ‘Gildas and Glastonbury: Revisiting the Origins of Glastonbury Abbey’ (in Hall, ed., pp. 423–32) surveys interpretations of the archaeological evidence for early British Christianity in general, and at Glastonbury in particular, and argues that these reinforce Gildas’s account of Christianity coming to Britain by a.d. 37, and that the ‘Glastonbury legend as myth may reflect an historically plausible memory of contact between Irish-Welsh migrants and a remnant of earlier Romano-British Christianity’ (p. 432). Anglo-Saxon teaching texts continue to attract attention. David W. Porter edits ‘Excerptiones de Prisciano’: The Source for Ælfric’s Latin–Old English Grammar. The introduction to the edition includes discussion of the manuscripts, their relationships and provenance, the content and organization of the Excerptiones de Prisciano, and the history of the study of Priscian. The edited text is supplemented with a facing-page modern English translation, and is followed by a commentary. In ‘Anima quae pars: A Tenth-Century Parsing Grammar’ (Journal of Medieval Latin 12[2002] 181–204), Don Chapman provides an edition and discussion of a text from MS Worcester Cathedral Library Q.5, probably written at Christ Church, Canterbury. Post-Conquest transmission of Old English generates more new scholarship. Loredana Teresi’s ‘Be Heofonwarum 7 be Helwarum: A Complete Edition’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 211–44) presents an edition and glossary of this homily, which is preserved in MSS Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 302 (first half of the twelfth century) and London, British Library, Cotton Faustina A.ix (late eleventh to early twelfth century), along with a discussion of the two manuscripts and their relationship, the homily’s theme, and the sort of milieu in which it could have been composed, which she speculates might be ‘Irish-influenced … sometime before the end of the eleventh century, possibly in Anglia or in a scriptorium where WS was not powerfully influential’. Alexander R. Rumble’s ‘Interpretationes in latinum: Some Twelfth-Century Translations of Anglo-Saxon Charters’ (in Treharne and Rosser, eds., pp. 101–17) examines ‘the tension in the relationship between English and Latin’ (p. 103) after 1066, as witnessed in Latin translations of Old English charters. Rumble sorts the charters in question into three categories, describes the examples of each, comments on the translation of Old English technical terms, on the influence of a glossary circulating in the twelfth century which contained Old English technical terms, on the case of Winchester Cathedral Priory, and on the palaeographical response in the twelfth century to Anglo-Saxon scripts. Books Reviewed Alexander, Michael. A History of Old English Literature. Broadview. [2002] pp. xviii + 299. pb £12.99 ($22.95) ISBN 1 5511 1322 8. Bedingfield, M. Bradford. The Dramatic Liturgy of Anglo-Saxon England. Boydell. [2002] pp. ix + 246. £45 ($75) ISBN 0 8511 5873 0. OLD ENGLISH 33 PAGE 33 OF 36 Biggs, Frederick M., Thomas D. Hill, Paul E. Szarmach, and E. Gordon Whatley, eds. Sources of Anglo-Saxon Literary Culture, vol. 1: Abbo of Fleury, Abbo of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Acta Sanctorum. MIP. [2001] pp. xlvi + 548. $40 ISBN 1 5804 4073 8. Bitel, Lisa M. 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work_za4seufexnayrnfq3gzxlzxlgu	----	Poetry in Utopian Prose Imaginaries of the Future 02: Politics, Poetics, Place How to Cite: Vesela, P 2017 Poetry in Utopian Prose. Open Library of Humanities, 3(2): 16, pp. 1–27, DOI: https://doi.org/10.16995/olh.115 Published: 08 December 2017 Peer Review: This article has been peer reviewed through the double-blind process of Open Library of Humanities, which is a journal published by the Open Library of Humanities. Copyright: © 2017 The Author(s). This is an open-access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC-BY 4.0), which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited. See http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/. Open Access: Open Library of Humanities is a peer-reviewed open access journal. Digital Preservation: The Open Library of Humanities and all its journals are digitally preserved in the CLOCKSS scholarly archive service. https://doi.org/10.16995/olh.115 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ Pavla Vesela, ‘Poetry in Utopian Prose’ (2017) 3(2): 16 Open Library of Humanities, DOI: https://doi.org/10.16995/olh.115 IMAGINARIES OF THE FUTURE 02: POLITICS, POETICS, PLACE Poetry in Utopian Prose Pavla Vesela Charles University in Prague, CZ pavla.vesela@ff.cuni.cz In ‘Politics and Passions: The Stakes of Democracy’, Chantal Mouffe has argued that passions, rather than merely reason and interests, motivate people to act in politics and the only way to confront the mobilization of passions towards non-democratic ends by the Right is to mobilize passions towards democratic visions. Although poetry does not hold central stage in contemporary cultural production, it continues to mobilize various passions. Therefore it comes as no surprise that in the world of real politics, poems (or strategically selected poetic fragments) serve to mobilize negative as well as positive passions, towards democratic as well as non-democratic ends. But what passions does poetry animate in imaginary utopian societies? And why is it featured there at all? These and other questions are probed in the pages below; and I conclude that poetry in utopian prose may open up spaces of negativity that contradict positive utopian designs. https://doi.org/10.16995/olh.115 mailto:pavla.vesela@ff.cuni.cz Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose2 Article Although in contemporary Western society poetry may appear outdated compared to television programs, films and music, it continues to appear in various contexts, evoking negative as well as positive passions, towards democratic as well as non- democratic ends. But what about poetry in imaginary utopian societies? What passions does it animate and why is it featured there at all? After a brief discussion of poetry in the real world, the following article examines poetry’s position in selected Anglophone utopian prose, ranging from nineteenth- and early twentieth-century works, such as ‘Three Hundred Years Hence’ (1836) by Mary Griffith, A Modern Utopia (1905) by H. G. Wells and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland (1915), to later utopias such as Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed (1974) and Samuel R. Delany’s Triton (1976). I argue that poetry may open utopian works to a critical negativity that is in tension with the positive designs embedded within the prose. Thus, I conclude, when considering the politics and ethics of utopian writing we need also to bear in mind its poetics. Politics As Passion, Politics As Poetry In ‘Politics and Passions: The Stakes of Democracy’, Chantal Mouffe has argued that passions, rather than merely reason and interests, motivate people to act in politics and thus the only way to confront the mobilization of passions towards non- democratic ends by the Right is to mobilize passions towards democratic visions. ‘The prime task of democratic politics’, Mouffe writes, ‘is neither to eliminate passions nor to relegate them to the private sphere in order to establish a rational consensus in the public sphere; it is, rather, to “tame” these passions by mobilizing them for democratic ends and by creating collective forms of identification around democratic objectives’ (Mouffe, 2000: 149). In other words, as Lynn Worsham and Gary A. Olson summarized Mouffe’s approach, ‘[w]hereas other political theorists maintain that people act in politics to maximize their interests, or act according to reason and rationality, Mouffe suggests that political passions—for example, outrage, anger, empathy, and sympathy—are a basis for constructing a collective form of identification’ (Worsham and Olson, 1999: 166). Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 3 There is little to dispute in Mouffe’s argument besides her vocabulary of reason vs. passion—vocabulary that reflects a dualism which has persisted in Western cultures for centuries but which could be deconstructed. In contemporary Western society, just about the worst passions get executed in the name of reason. As Herbert Marcuse wrote in Negations (1969), although a society in which ‘basic institutions and relations, its structure, are such that they do not permit the use of the available material and intellectual resources for the optimal development and satisfaction of individual needs’ (Marcuse, 1969: 251) may call itself healthy, it is sick. Viewed from Marcuse’s perspective, contemporary Western society is governed by concealed passions such as greed, revenge and desire to dominate, and the aggression of its supposedly ‘reasonable’ citizens is mobilized for the sake of unjust, allegedly ‘reasonable’ wars, for example. So not only is there a place for passions in politics, as Mouffe argues, but passions drive politics. The question is to recognize what passions drive politics. Passions in contemporary Western society are animated through various cultural forms, the least significant of which might seem to be poetry. Its position in the cultural fabric has undeniably changed. As Terry Eagleton observed in Marxism and Literary Criticism (2007), throughout antiquity, when poetry was a sub-branch of rhetoric, it held a central position among other cultural forms as it was openly intertwined with political and religious institutions (Eagleton, 2007: 10). The situation changed in the Middle Ages, when rhetoric turned into a scholastic enterprise, and then again with the advent of the Enlightenment and its emphasis on verbal lucidity. During Romanticism poetry once again assumed a political role, but it aimed to ‘speak a language altogether different from commerce, science and politics’ (Eagleton, 2007: 12). Poetry, it was believed at that time: could conjure up enthralling new possibilities of social existence; or it could insist upon the contrast between its own sublime energies and a drably mechanistic social order. Poetry could model a type of human creativity, along with “organic” rather than instrumental relationships, which were less and less to be found in industrial society as a whole. (Eagleton, 2007: 14) Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose4 Shelley’s well-known conclusion of his essay ‘A Defense of Poetry’ (1840) is exemplary in this respect (although Shelley’s definition of poetry was broader than it is generally understood nowadays): Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration, the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present, the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire: the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the World. (Shelley, 1890: 46) Returning to Eagleton’s argument above, and Shelley’s assertion of the importance of poets notwithstanding, poetry largely lost this position in the Victorian era as the novel took its place. While the novel came to be seen as a weighty form ‘dealing in ideas and institutions, […] poetry had become the preserve of personal feeling’ (Eagleton, 2007: 14). At the same time, there have remained poets and critics in the twentieth century who believed in poetry’s potentials and sought to maximize them, for both democratic and non-democratic ends. A poem, Muriel Rukeyser wrote: … invites you to feel. More than that: it invites you to respond. And better than that: a poem invites a total response. This response is total, but it is reached through the emotions. A fine poem will seize your imagination intellectually—that is, when you reach it, you will reach it intellectually too— but the way is through emotion, through what we call feeling. (Rukeyser, 1996: 11) The Marxist critic Christopher Caudwell in Illusion and Reality (1937) characterized poetry as a ‘directed feeling’ (Caudwell, 1937: n. pag., original emphasis). In poetry, Caudwell wrote, ‘feeling is fashioned into a social form by being made to live in the common world of perceptual reality. Poetry externalises emotion. The self is expressed – forcibly squeezed out. Emotion is minted – made current coin. Feelings are given social value. Work is done’ (Caudwell, 1937: n. pag., original emphasis). Although as Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 5 Eagleton pointed out, one can see the closeness of this functionalist view of art to that advanced during the Soviet Writers’ Congress in 1934, where Andrei Zhdanov embraced Joseph Stalin’s now infamous proclamation that writers are the ‘engineers of human souls’ (Eagleton, 1976: 54), the political role of poetry does not need to be understood merely as channeling the passions towards the crop production (which was Caudwell’s example). Marcuse emphasized the oppositional role of love poetry; as Malcolm Miles has highlighted: in conditions of extreme oppression freedom may be located ‘in a literature of intimacy, not in political literature or propaganda’ (Miles, 2011: 4) because, to use the words of Douglas Kellner, only a literature of intimacy such as love poetry may ‘produce an alternative reality completely at odds with an oppressive reality [… and] this difference can help reveal the horror of the totalitarian life and the need to make a break with it’ (Kellner, 1998: 29). Meanwhile, concrete examples of poetry in modern politics could range from poems written on the walls of the Chinese detention barracks on Angel Island and poems written to advance black rights during the Harlem Renaissance, to poetry that responded to events such as 9/11 (with both democratic and non-democratic objectives) and poetry that mobilized those who participated in Occupy Wall Street (see, for example: Lai, Lim and Yung [1980]; Boyer, Marinovich and the People of OWS [2011]; and Honey [2006]). In the real world, therefore, poetry may not play as powerful a role as other cultural forms, yet it has not vanished. So what about its role within the utopian societies imagined by speculative literature? Poetry and Utopia Before addressing this question, a few clarifications are required to establish the boundaries of my analysis. First, I have not yet considered the question of defining poetry; however, this will not be necessary here because with the exception of radically formally experimental works, poetry in utopian prose is clearly identifiable. Second, despite the well-known banishment of the poets from Plato’s ideal state, many subsequent utopian visions have taken the form of poetry – however, these utopian poetical works will not be my concern in this article, either. Rather, I will Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose6 focus on prosaic works that cite poetry. Third, I use the term ‘utopian prose’ because the works addressed in this article are not merely fiction. I do not mean that they would not be—to remember two most well-known definitions of utopia—‘non- existent societ[ies] described in considerable detail and normally located in time and space that the author intended a contemporaneous reader to view as considerably better than the society in which that reader lived’ (Sargent, 2010: 6) and ‘verbal construction[s] of a particular quasi-human community where sociopolitical institutions, norms and individual relationships are organized according to a more perfect principle than in the author’s community, th[ese] construction[s] being based on estrangement arising out of an alternative historical hypothesis’ (Suvin, 1973: 132). Rather, I mean that the utopias discussed below are discursive constructions that contain strong elements of realizability and ‘their vision of a good society located in the future may act as an agent of change’ (Levitas, 1993: 257). In other words, they offer a mixture of unrealizable fantasy with realistic analysis of modern disciplines such as political and social theory, history and philosophy. Thus I have chosen to use the term ‘utopian prose’, rather than ‘utopian fiction’. Finally, over the course of history, imaginary worlds that are, as Suvin reminds us ‘more perfect’ (Suvin, 1988: 36) have appeared in various cultural forms, including painting, architecture, music, film and writing. In this article, however, my focus will be on written texts, particularly the novel, and the fragments of poetry that are often cited within utopian prose. The literary form of the novel, as Ian Watt and others have shown, is a modern invention, but poetry has appeared in utopian prose even before the rise of the novel. Even in Thomas More’s foundational text, Utopia (1516), we can find several poems and his Utopians are supposedly voracious readers of poetry: ‘Of the poets they have Aristophanes, Homer, Euripides, and a copy of Sophocles in Aldus’s pocket-book format’ (More, 1999: 126). Several early-modern texts merely refer to poetry in passing. In the imaginary world depicted in Francis Bacon’s The New Atlantis (1626), readers are informed of the utopian society’s ‘excellent poesy’ and its poetry performances, as, for instance, after dinner in Solomon’s house when ‘there is a hymn sung, varied according to the invention of him that composeth it’ (Bacon, Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 7 1980: 62). Other texts of this period begin with a poem dedicated to the utopian work itself, as exemplified in Margaret Cavendish’s The Description of a New World, Called the Blazing World (1666), which opens with verses authored by Cavendish’s husband, William Newcastle. Meanwhile, numerous prosaic texts cite poems merely as epigraphs, e.g. Ebenezer Howard’s Garden Cities of Tomorrow (1898), where an extract from William Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ is quoted. Nevertheless, many utopias in prose include fragments of poems or even entire pieces within the text itself. This happens in a number of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Anglophone utopias discussed below, namely: Mary Griffith’s ‘Three Hundred Years Hence’, Mary E. Bradley Lane’s Mizora: A World of Women (1880), The Altrurian Romances (1894, 1907) by William Dean Howells, A Modern Utopia by H. G. Wells and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland. Poetry is featured also in later twentieth-century works, of which I will mention Dorothy Bryant’s The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You (1971), Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed and Samuel R. Delany’s Triton (also referred to by its full title, Trouble on Triton: An Ambiguous Heterotopia). My choice of these works is idiosyncratic: I have tried to choose several of the most frequently discussed modern Anglophone utopias. Other works, from Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward 2000–1887 (1888) and William Morris’s News from Nowhere: Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance (1890) to Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time (1976) and Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars, Green Mars and Blue Mars trilogy (1993–9), could have been discussed as well, and some of these I address in my research elsewhere. In the works discussed below, poetry is sometimes cited disapprovingly; at other times, an attempt is made to incorporate it into the utopian world. Many texts feature original poetry. Almost always, however, poetry here creates spaces of critical negativity. That is to say, spaces in which a range of seemingly ‘non-utopian’ passions are animated, including anger, bitterness, despair, fear and sadness, often in the face of death. At best, utopian prose includes poetry of encouragement and agitation, and mystical poetry that celebrates (or rather accepts) the uncontrollable course of nature and the universe constructed within these utopian texts. Poetry thus remains largely at odds with the dominant positive utopian design of the prose works under discussion—questioning it or adding a new, often contradictory, dimension. Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose8 Returning now to Mouffe’s appeal to mobilize the passions towards democratic ends, we could argue that whilst the prose of these utopian novels mobilizes positive passions such as empathy and sympathy, their poetry allows a critical textual space for articulating passions such as anger, sadness and fear. As such, the inclusion of poetic works enables utopian prose to contain its own self-reflexive critique via the channeling of strong passions that are no longer mobilized in these works for destructive ends (as they often are in the real world) but which nevertheless do not simply disappear. Authors, as well as readers, of poetry in utopian prose may thus experience, acknowledge and move through a whole range of negative passions without these passions ultimately negating the overall utopian design imagined in these texts. Poetry as the Past Nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Anglophone utopias often featured poetry authored by a range of white male writers from the literary past and, less commonly, the present: William Blake, William Shakespeare, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Wordsworth, Gordon Byron, Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Tennyson, and others. Their poetry was sometimes cited as a deterrent sample of outdated art. In Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland, three male characters—Van, Jeff and Terry—travel to an all- female society. In the course of the novel, each is enhanced by a reference to a poem, through which they attempt to understand Herlandian realities. But the poetry that Gilman’s male characters bring along with them from their originary world provides them with a distorted picture of the utopian world, animating archaic passions that the Herlanders have rendered obsolete. First, Van describes the three men’s attempt to escape Herland in the following way: There wasn’t much talking done. At night we had our Marathon-obstacle race; we “stayed not for brake and we stopped not for stone”, and swam whatever water was too deep to wade and could not be got around; but that was only necessary twice. (Gilman, 1999: 40–1) The line cited by Van above comes from Walter Scott’s ‘Lochinvar’, in which the knight Lochinvar kidnaps his beloved from the wedding that her family had arranged for her. Scott’s versification of a popular ballad tells a romantic story of male bravery and Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 9 female passivity, which is at odds with the reality of Van, Jeff and Terry in Gilman’s text, as they try to escape Herland and come to learn of their male impotence in a world of strong and capable women. Jeff, just like Van, tries to understand the utopian realities of Herland through a poem: ‘Damelus’ Song to His Diaphenia’ by the sixteenth-century English poet Henry Constable, known among other things for his sonnets and courtly love poetry. Jeff quotes the following lines in order to explain to himself and to Terry that women know how to cooperate: ‘As the birds do love the Spring/or the bees their careful king’ (Gilman, 1999: 68). These lines are ridiculous on their own, given that the bee hive is presided over by a queen rather than a king, but the message of Constable’s poem is, above all, the poet’s idolization of a woman called Diaphenia, whose submission he desires. As we can see from the poem’s last stanza: Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expressed, Deare Joy, how I doo love thee! As the Birds doo love the spring, Or the Bees their carefull King: Then in requite, sweet Virgin, love me. (Constable, 1897: 9) ‘Damelus’ Song to His Diaphenia’ thus clearly fails to speak to the Herlandian realities of women’s cooperation that Jeff, Van and Terry encounter—rather, Jeff’s citation of the poem functions to emphasize the Herlanders’ progress beyond the language of patriarchal passion and domination, echoing affects that are no longer desirable in this utopian world. Finally, poetry incites passions that are outdated in Gilman’s novel also when the third male visitor of Herland, Terry, cites a fragment of Rudyard Kipling’s ‘The Ladies’, ironically the most contemporary of the poems: I’ve taken my fun where I found it. I’ve rogued and I’ve ranged in my time, and The things that I learned from the yellow and black, They ’ave helped me a ’eap with the white. (Gilman, 1999: 129) Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose10 Although Kipling’s misogynist and Orientalist poem ends with a bitter reference to women’s resistance, once again it animates passions that no longer have any place in an all-female utopia. Terry, instructed by Kipling’s poem, misunderstands Herlandian realities and attempts to rape Alima, as a consequence of which he is expelled. In Gilman’s novel, poems by Scott, Constable and Kipling represent outdated male poetic tradition. They mobilize a desire for domination of women and outright misogyny. Brief fragments of these poems are reproduced and clearly Gilman opposed the feelings they inspired. Interestingly, however, not only did Gilman evoke these passions but she did not include any poetry that would animate democratic passions in her utopia, although she was an outspoken feminist poet herself. All poetry in Herland is at odds with her vision of an all-female cooperative society. Moreover, in the sequel, With Her in Ourland (1916), there is no poetry and Gilman’s earlier utopia, Moving the Mountain (1911), cites two lines from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s ‘To a Skylark’ although supposedly the society has ‘good music, good architecture, good sculpture, good painting, good drama, good dancing, [and] good literature’ (Gilman, 1911: 228). Another example of utopian prose that uses poetry in this manner could be The Altrurian Romances. The series in which William Dean Howells contrasts the utopian society on the island Altruria with the United States is richly intertextual: there are allusions that range from the Bible, Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667) and Shakespeare’s plays (Twelfth Night, Hamlet, The Merchant of Venice, and Macbeth, among others) to utopian works such as Tommaso Campanella’s The City of the Sun and William Morris’s News from Nowhere. On several occasions, poetry enhances vain and unsympathetic American characters, such as when the narrator of A Traveler from Altruria invites the Altrurian visitor Mr. Homos to dinner with the following words from Coleridge’s ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’: ‘The feast is set, the guests are met, / Mayst hear the merry din’ (Howells, 1968: 28). Or, another character asserts that ‘poverty is the highest incentive that a man can have’ because ‘[i]f it were not for that and all the other hardships that literary men undergo—Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail—his novels probably wouldn’t be worth reading’ (Howells, 1968: 50). The Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 11 line ‘toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail’ comes from Samuel Johnson’s ‘The Vanity of Human Wishes’. Although this will be a gross generalization about poems that come from different contexts, both Coleridge and Johnson present skeptical views of worldly affairs and realities, contrasting the corruption and powerlessness of humans with the power of God. Moreover, when the narrator quotes from ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, he casts Homos into the role of the sailor who in Coleridge’s poem returns from his sea voyage with a horrifying account of the destruction of his ship, thus subverting the role of Homos as a utopian messenger. With one exception to which I return below, poetry cited in Howell’s novels enforces dreary realities of the United States; no Altrurian poetry is included. An example of a more contemporary novel where poetry represents outdated art is Delany’s Triton. Set in 2112, the novel focuses on the inability of the protagonist Bron to fit into the utopian society on Triton. Being from the 1970s, the text is more formally dense and experimental than the older works of Gilman and Howells— besides citing extracts from Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophische Grammatik [Philosophical Grammar] (1969), Karl Popper’s Objective Knowledge (1972) and G. Spencer Brown’s The Laws of Form (1969), it includes a mathematical formula, for example. But there is no Tritonian poetry. Instead, once again, there is ‘old’ poetry. At the site of archaeological diggings in Mongolia, Bron encounters his fellow Tritonians performing a very ‘highbrow’ and ‘classical’ (Delany, 1990: 172) program for the Earthlings: Jackson Mac Low’s Asymmetries. ‘Really’, Bron is told by one of the performers, Mindy, ‘this planet must have the most conservative audience in the system’ (Delany, 1990: 172). Here is an extract of the poetry that the Earthlings are animated by: Hear the city’s singin’ like a siren choir. Some fool’s tried to set the sun on fire. TV preacher screamin’, “Come on Along!” I feel like Fay Wray face-to-face with King Kong. But Momma just wants to barrelhouse all night long... Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose12 […] Sometimes I wonder what I am. Feels like I’m living in a hologram. It doesn’t seem to matter what’s right or wrong. Everybody’s grabbin’ and comin’ on strong. But Momma just wants to barrelhouse all night long. (Delany, 1990: 171, 173) Jackson Mac Low was an avant-garde poet and performance artist, active at the time when Delany wrote the novel. He was known for his experimental compositional methods and an exploration of indeterminacy and randomness. The fact that Delany chose Mac Low to represent outdated poetry playfully implies that the avant-garde of the present is not the avant-garde of the future as its poetry animates passions unfitting for utopian futures, such as resignation, bitterness and a self-centered sense of confusion. But what is Tritonian poetry like? This question is not answered. Once again, only old-world poetry, evoking supposedly outdated passions, is present. Poetry of the Past as Poetry of the Future Notwithstanding, utopian prose does not feature poetry merely as a voice of the past; works such as the aforementioned Altrurian Romances, H. G. Wells’s A Modern Utopia and Mary Griffith’s ‘Three Hundred Years Hence’ cite existing poetry as a sample of utopian art. However, even here, poetry creates spaces of negativity. In The Altrurian Romances, Mrs. Strange—a sympathetic character who eventually leaves for Altruria— reads from ‘The Challenge’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Although the first five stanzas of ‘The Challenge’ are left out, the fragment is the longest in the trilogy: There is a greater army, That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army, At all the gates of life. Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 13 The poverty-stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread, And impeach us all as traitors, Both the living and the dead. And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music I can hear that fearful cry. And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall. For within there is light and plenty, And odors fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair. And there in the camp of famine, In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army, Lies dead upon the plain! (Howells, 1968: 325) Robert L. Gale has argued that ‘The Challenge’ is ‘possibly a rare instance in which Longfellow protests against selfish materialism and advocates social democracy’ (Gale, 2003: 24) and that Howells was moved by the poem, considering it a proof that ‘the poet’s heart was open to all the homelessness of the world’ (Gale, 2003: 113). However, the first five stanzas Howells that omitted would change the meaning of the poem substantially. They concern an old Spanish legend according to which the ‘brave King Sanchez’ and his ‘great besieging army’ are defeated, in response to Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose14 which one of Sanchez’s kinsmen calls for popular resistance of the poor. The uprising thus takes place in the context of Sanchez’s effort to conquer Zamora, which Howells left out, focusing instead on stanzas that dramatize injustice, insurrection and defeat. Even so, what remains of ‘The Challenge’ is at odds with the utopian vision of The Altrurian Romances as it is a poem of mobilization and protest with no promise of success. While ‘The Challenge’ is cited in reference to the realities of the United States, which offers itself as an explanation of the poem’s anger and emphasis on protest, in H. G. Wells’s A Modern Utopia, poetry is featured in the utopian society itself. While discussing the literature of ‘modern utopia’, the narrator’s double mentions William Ernest Henley, who was supposedly ‘on the Committee that revised [the utopian] Canon’ (Wells, 1967: 284). The following fragment of Henley’s poem is reproduced: Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever Gods may be, For my unconquerable soul. (Wells, 1967: 284) The stanza comes from Henley’s untitled poem addressed to R. T. H. B. that was posthumously called ‘Invictus’. The rest runs as follows: In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Out of the night that covers me, Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 15 It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. (Henley, 1893: 56) It is interesting that Wells considered ‘Invictus’ an instance of utopian art as it is permeated with images of darkness, menace, horror, suffering and perseverance in conditions of powerlessness. Moreover, Henley (just like Longfellow) may seem like a strange choice for a poet canonized in Wells’s utopia as he was politically rather errant (at one time he edited the conservative Scots Observer). More interestingly, Henley was disabled from early youth and his entire life he struggled with various illnesses. In fact, he composed ‘Invictus’ while in hospital, after losing one of his legs as a result of tubercular arthritis. Yet, the inhabitants of Wells’s utopia unfortunately conform to rather classical standards of beauty and health, as the following quote illustrates: The general effect of a Utopian population is vigour. Everyone one meets seems to be not only in good health but in training; one rarely meets fat people, bald people, or bent or grey. People who would be obese or bent and obviously aged on earth are here in good repair, and as a consequence the whole effect of a crowd is livelier and more invigorating than on earth. (Wells, 1967: 226) Why then did Wells choose, as a sample of utopian art, a dark poem of stoic suffering; moreover, authored by a man who theoretically does not belong in his utopian construct? Yet, ultimately, this is not surprising. Henley’s poem stands in tension with the prose of A Modern Utopia, vocalizing issues suppressed otherwise. Through it, Wells attempted to redeem the otherness he cast out in the prose and the poem disturbs rather than enforces his utopian design.1 1 The fact that in the twentieth century, as David McCooey pointed out, ‘Invictus’ was mobilized by disparate personalities ranging from Nelson Mandela and Barack Obama to the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, who left a hand-written copy as a final statement before his execution, perhaps adds to this poem’s discomforting ineffability (McCooey, 2012). Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose16 Finally, the inhabitants of the utopian society depicted in Mary Griffith’s ‘Three Hundred Years Hence’ care about the arts, although in their idiosyncratic ways: they attempt to ‘purify’ literature of colloquialisms and vernacular language to such an extent that they ‘expunge [...] all the low and indelicate passages’ (Griffith, 1836: 79) from Shakespeare’s plays and Scott’s novels. The poem that Griffith reproduces conforms to these formal standards—yet it concerns an issue that disturbs the utopian future, namely the mistreatment of Native Americans. When the protagonist of ‘Three Hundred Years Hence’ asks what became of Native Americans, his guide answers: I am sorry you ask that question,—for it is one on which I do not like to converse—but The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground, And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound. Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell? Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell! (Griffith, 1836: 90) The guide then changes the subject to the fate of the blacks: ‘When our own minds were sufficiently enlightened, when our hearts were sufficiently inspired by the human principle of the Christian religion, we emancipated the blacks. What demon has closed up the springs of tender mercy when Indian rights were in question I know not?—but I must not speak of it!’ (Griffith, 1863: 90) The fragment comes from ‘Sachem’s Hill’, a ten-stanza poem by an early nineteenth-century abolitionist Eliza Lee Cabot Follen. It indeed confronts the history of the Native Americans. The poem is evasive it its depiction of colonization, which is described in the following way: ‘the white man came with power; like brethen they met; / But the Indian powers went out, and the Indian sun has set’ (ll. 7–8). Other stereotypes abound as well; for example, the author supposes that if Native Americans, Christianized in ‘the land of spirits’, returned to the Earth, they would appreciate the ‘stately domes’ and ‘happy homes’ in their former homeland. However, as they are supposedly exterminated, the conclusion is that ‘all the treasures of their Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 17 souls, shall be with us forever’ (l. 40). Despite such ideological limitations, Follen’s poem draws attention to the suffering of the Native Americans, with whom the author tries to be sympathetic, and the fact that it is remembered in ‘Three Hundred Years Hence’ suggests that Griffith could not imagine a seamless future in which the story of the Native Americans would not burn. Once again, poetry created space for evoking this critical sadness. Poetry of the Future So far we have seen that when poetry of the past spoke in the future, it evoked negativity that contradicted positive constructs of the prose. Could this be explained by the fact that existing poetry was utilized? Let me finally glance at another nineteenth-century text, Mary E. Bradley Lane’s Mizora, as well as two recent utopias, Dorothy Bryant’s The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You and Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, which include original poetry. Although most utopias published around the turn of the twentieth century included existing poetry, Mizora is possibly one exception.2 Its protagonist, Vera, learns that in Mizora, poetry is recited on various occasions and that it is ‘just as common an occurrence for a poem to be read and commented on by its author, as to hear it done by another’ (Bradley Lane, 1999: 27). There are two Mizoran poems cited in the text and they both concern nature. ‘But have you no building devoted to divine worship; no temple that belongs specially to your Deity; to the Being that created you, and to whom you owe eternal gratitude and homage?’ (Bradley Lane, 1999: 120), Vera asks and her utopian guide, Wauna, answers with ‘a majestic wave of her hand’ (Bradley Lane, 1999: 120): This vast cathedral, boundless as our wonder; Whose shining lamps yon brilliant mists supply; Its choir the winds, and waves; its organ thunder; Its dome the sky. (Bradley Lane, 1999: 120) 2 I say ‘possibly’ because perhaps poetry in Mizora is not original even though I have not found any evidence to the contrary. This applies to the poetry in Bryant’s and Le Guin’s novels as well. Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose18 The second poem is reproduced during a funeral, when Mizoran women gather around the grave of a young dead companion and chant a dirge cited below. ‘The melody’, we learn from Vera, ‘sounded like a chorus of birds chanting, in perfect unison, a weird requiem over some dead companion’ (Bradley Lane, 1999: 126): She came like the Spring in its gladness. We received her with joy—we rejoiced in her promise. Sweet was her song as the bird’s; Her smile was as dew to the thirsty rose. But the end came ere morning awakened; While Dawn yet blushed in its bridal veil, The leafy music of the woods was hushed in snowy shrouds. Spring withered with the perfume in her hands; A winter sleet has fallen upon the buds of June; The ice-winds blow where yesterday zephyrs disported: Life is not consummated. The rose has not blossomed, the fruit has perished in the flower, The bird lies frozen under its mother’s breast. Youth sleeps in round loveliness when age should lie withered and weary, and full of honor. Then the grave would be welcome, and our tears would fall not. The grave is not for the roses of youth; We mourn the early departed. Youth sleeps without dreams— Without an awakening. (Bradley Lane, 1999: 126–7) Wauna explains that in Mizora, death is accepted stoically because ‘whatever sorrow we feel, […] we deeply realize how useless it is to repine. We place implicit faith in the revelations of Nature, and in no circumstances does she bid us expect a life beyond that of the body’ (Bradley Lane, 1999: 128). To Vera, this is shocking. ‘How much more consoling is the belief of my people’, she replies and continues: ‘Their belief in a future reunion would sustain them through the sorrow of parting in this. […] Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 19 The belief that we have in a future life has often furnished a theme for the poets of my own and other countries. And sometimes a quaint and pretty sentiment is introduced into poetry to express it’ (Bradley Lane, 1999: 129). When Wauna asks Vera to recite such a poem, Vera consents: That face and form, have long since gone Beyond where the day was lifted; But the beckoning song still lingers on, An angel’s earthward drifted. And when death’s waters, around me roar And cares, like the birds, are winging; If I steer my bark to Heaven’s shore ‘Twill be by an angel’s singing. (Bradley Lane, 1999: 130) Although from a present-day perspective Mizoran society is problematic in many respects, its poetry is close in its form and content to original poetry in later utopian novels (such as Bryant’s and Le Guin’s utopias discussed below). The contrast is between ornamental, rhymed, sentimental religious poetry of the old world and utopian free verse, which both celebrates nature and accepts its course. Once again, however, particularly in the second Mizoran poem, negativity emerges as the text is permeated with imagery of darkness, death and mourning: flowers wither, birds freeze, snow covers everything. And even the first poem mentions mists, winds, waves and thunder—albeit rhymed with boundless wonder. In other words, nature in Mizoran poetry is more than sun, light and blossoming trees. A later utopian novel, Dorothy Bryant’s The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You, includes the following ‘survival song’: Already far from Home Far from the source of life We have strayed further To the deepest dark. Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose20 Now turn, turn, turn We now turn back Turn, turn, turn Back to the light of life. Rejoice in the darkest night Dark night brings deep dreams The farther we go The closer to our Home. So turn, turn, turn We now turn back Turn, Turn, Turn Back to the light of life. (Bryant, 1971: 126) Similarly, the theme of poetry cited in Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed is the struggle with nature and death: Gimar sings while working in a settlement camp, surrounded with dust: ‘She brings the green leaf from the stone, / From heart of rock clear water running’ (Le Guin, 1994: 47); on Odo’s tomb, ‘in the great old willows, looking at the plain’, there is an inscription: ‘To be whole is to be part/true voyage is return’ (Le Guin, 1994: 84). In addition, the following longer verses are cited: O child Anarchia, infinite promise infinite carefulness I listen, listen in the night by the cradle deep as the night is it well with the child (Le Guin, 1994: 96) And: O eastern light, awaken Those who have slept! The darkness will be broken, The promise kept. (Le Guin, 1994: 299) Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 21 The first fragment is remembered in the context of Odonian fears of centralization; the second is sung during an insurrection on Anarres. (Neither is supposedly good as ‘Odonians’ first efforts to make their new language, their new world, into poetry, were stiff, ungainly, moving’ (Le Guin [1994: 96]), but no other utopian poetry appears in The Dispossessed.) In both the poems, there is a sense of hope conveyed through references to the child, the promise and eastern light, but there is also mystery (the evocation of infinity and eternity) and passivity: in the first poem, the speaker listens; in the second one, s/he wishes for the light to awaken the sleepers. The background of both these poems is darkness in which hope originates—conveyed best, perhaps, through the image of ‘the cradle deep as the night’. Conclusion As Adrienne Rich has noted, poetry does not require anything but language and it is, in principle, a democratic form. Although in real life, it no longer holds central stage in animating passions (whether for democratic or undemocratic ends), it has not entirely vanished. Nor has it vanished from utopian prose. It has been commonly argued that utopias—both in the sense of literary texts and imaginary societies—use poetry merely as propaganda. In one unfavorable response to Bellamy’s Looking Backward 2000–1887, for example, we can read that ‘[t]he doors of poetry and art were barred against everything beautiful, magnificent, sublime, and elevated, while they tenderly fostered the ugly, loathsome, and detestable’ (Wilbrandt, 1891: 75). Or, in the society depicted in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), which has stood in the twentieth century as a symbol of thwarted utopias, rhymed ‘Solidarity Hymns’ are used for emotional engineering and propaganda. In the utopian prose I have looked at, however, there is no such poetry. Clearly, I have considered only a few, primarily classic works. As has been mentioned already, others could have been discussed, including the aforementioned novel by Bellamy as well as the sequel Equality (1897), Ignatius Donnelly’s Caesar’s Column (1890) and Jack London’s The Iron Heel (1908). More recent texts that cite poetry are Aldous Huxley’s Island (1962), Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia: The Notebooks and Reports of William Weston (1975) and its prequel, Ecotopia Emerging (1981), alongside more formally experimental works such as Joanna Russ’s The Female Man (1975), Le Guin’s Always Coming Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose22 Home (1985), and the utopias of Octavia Butler and Kim Stanley Robinson. Even so, poems and fragments of poems cited in the above works by Griffith, Bradley Lane, Wells, Howells, Gilman, Bryant, Delany and Le Guin illustrate that poetry has had an important role in utopian prose: if the latter drew consoling pictures of happier futures, the former revealed blind spots in these designs. Translated into Chantal Mouffe’s language of political passions, it may be argued that these utopian novels mobilize sympathy, love and desire for justice without canceling out negative passions such as anger, resignation, bitterness, sadness and fear. While the latter passions are not exactly directed here towards democratic ends (could they ever be?), they nevertheless generate moments of negativity that both authors and readers of these utopian narratives must experience and move through. And poetry—in a utopian echo of the much quoted words of W. H. Auden—‘makes this happen’. Competing Interests The author has no competing interests to declare. References Bacon, F 1980 The Great Instauration and New Atlantis. Arlington Heights, IL: Harlan Davidson, Inc. Boyer, S, Marinovich, F and the People of OWS 2011 Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology. Occupy Wall Street Library. Available at: https://peopleslibrary.files. wordpress.com/2011/11/occupypoems1.pdf (Last accessed 17 October 2017). 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Available at: https://archive.org/details/DefenseOfPoetry (Last accessed 11 June 2016). Suvin, D 1973 Defining the Literary Genre of Utopia: Some Historical Semantics, Some Genealogy, A Proposal and a Plea. Studies in the Literary Imagination, 6(2): 121–45. Suvin, D 1988 Positions and Presuppositions in Science Fiction. Kent, OH: The Kent State University Press. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-349-08179-0 Wells, H G 1967 A Modern Utopia. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Wilbrandt, C 1891 Mr. East’s Experiences in Mr. Bellamy’s World: Records of the Years 2001 and 2002. New York: Harper and Brothers. Available at: https://archive. org/details/mreastsexperien00wilbgoog (Last accessed 11 June 2016). Worsham, L and Olson, G A 1999 Rethinking Political Community: Chantal Mouffe’s Liberal Socialism. JAC, 19(2): 163–99. Available at: http://www.jaconlinejournal. com/archives/vol19.2/worsham-rethinking.pdf (Last accessed 11 June 2016). http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1365/pg1365.txt http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1365/pg1365.txt https://doi.org/10.1353/crt.2012.0033 https://doi.org/10.2143/EP.7.2.503800 https://doi.org/10.1093/actrade/9780199573400.001.0001 https://archive.org/details/DefenseOfPoetry https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-349-08179-0 https://archive.org/details/mreastsexperien00wilbgoog https://archive.org/details/mreastsexperien00wilbgoog http://www.jaconlinejournal.com/archives/vol19.2/worsham-rethinking.pdf http://www.jaconlinejournal.com/archives/vol19.2/worsham-rethinking.pdf Vesela: Poetry in Utopian Prose 25 How to cite this article: Vesela, P 2017 Poetry in Utopian Prose. Open Library of Humanities, 3(2): 16, pp. 1–25, DOI: https://doi.org/10.16995/olh.115 Published: 11 December 2017 Copyright: © 2017 The Author(s). This is an open-access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC-BY 4.0), which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited. See http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/. OPEN ACCESS Open Library of Humanities is a peer-reviewed open access journal published by Open Library of Humanities. https://doi.org/10.16995/olh.115 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ Article Politics As Passion, Politics As Poetry Poetry and Utopia Poetry as the Past Poetry of the Past as Poetry of the Future Poetry of the Future Conclusion Competing Interests References 
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work_zfo5kno6wbayxjr5mflq7xes5u	----	Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 175 Valerio Massimo De Angelis* “FOR THE BRIGHT SIDE OF THE PAINTING I HAD A LIMITED SYMPATHY”: EMANCIPATION AND COUNTER-EMANCIPATION IN EDGAR ALLAN POE’S THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM1 Some years before Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville published two masterpieces, The Scarlet Letter and Moby-Dick, that wove their plots around the two most famous chromatic symbols of American literature, a red cloth and a white whale, Edgar Allan Poe had already extensively experimented with the language of colors in his only long romance, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym (1838). What this sort of obsession of some the most prominent 19th-century American male (and white) authors for the symbolic and narrative function of colors might mean has been of course the center of much critical attention, and the most obvious answer to the question has been that there is nothing extraordinary in a literature mirroring in its own configuration the unheard-of importance of color differences in the history of its country – white, red and black being not simply hues, in American culture, but marks of identification for the dominant, the dispossessed, and the brutally exploited. If Poe’s Narrative somehow anticipates Hawthorne and Melville’s stylistic techniques and moral preoccupations (from a very different perspective, needless to say), the extremely ambiguous interplay between the issues of freedom and imprisonment, and of the chromatic extremes of white and black (plus some stroke of red), that dominates his book 2 will also find, a quarter of a century later, a curious echo in a passage of one of Hawthorne’s last works, the equally ambiguous “Chiefly About War Matters,” published in 1862 – and when I say “ambiguous,” referring to Hawthorne’s attitude towards slavery and the predicament of African Americans, I am of course making an understatement. The passage is the famous reflection on the ominous historical circumstance of the Mayflower being the ship that brought to the coasts of North America both the Pilgrim Fathers and some years later one of the first “ship loads” of African slaves (the very first being that of a Dutch cargo, in 1619): * Valerio Massimo De Angelis (valerio.deangelis@unimc.it) is Associate Professor of American Literature and coordinator of the Center for Italian American Studies at the University of Macerata. He is the author of two books on Nathaniel Hawthorne and co-editor of two collection of bio-critical essays on contemporary American literature, of the proceedings of an international conference on Philip K. Dick, and of the proceedings of the 19th International Conference of the Italian Association for North-American Studies. He has written on historical fiction, romance, abolitionism, feminism, modernism, postmodernism, comics, and on various other authors, such as Walt Whitman, Ambrose Bierce, Stephen Crane, Henry James, Langston Hughes, Thomas Wolfe, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Henry Roth, Leslie Fiedler, E.L. Doctorow, Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, and Rudy Wiebe. 1 This essay is based on a paper originally presented at the 22nd Biennial Conference of AISNA (Associazione Italiana di Studi Nord-Americani), Discourses of Emancipation and the Boundaries of Freedom, held at the University of Trieste on September 19-21, 2013. 2 The inherent contradictions of the ideological dimension of the Narrative is refracted onto its narrative structure, described by Gianfranca Balestra as “un collage di generi popolari: la relazione di viaggio, il diario, il manoscritto ritrovato, la parodia e la satira” (“a collage of popular genres: travel narrative, diary, retrieved manuscript, parody and satire;” 1990, 42). Scott Peeples states more or less the same: “At once a mock nonfictional exploration narrative, adventure saga, bildungsroman, hoax, largely plagiarized travelogue, and spiritual allegory, Pym stands as one of the most elusive major texts of American literature” (1998, 55). The multilayered architecture of the story has been examined by Eco in his Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. On the complex textuality of Poe’s romance, and on its blatant mistakes, see Rubeo 2000 and 2011. The faulty construction of the plot should in itself make the reader suspect that the Narrative is traversed by opposite ideological tensions never fully resolved, since Poe is famous for how he carefully builds up his stories – while on the level of pure literary style he has been the target of severe remarks by eminent colleagues like Margaret Fuller, Henry James and T.S. Eliot, or critics like Yvor Winters and Allen Tate (who nonetheless stressed that there are passages precisely in The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym showing “the lucidity and intensity of Swift;” 1966, 241). See Zimmerman for a thorough investigation (and defense) of Poe’s style, and Harvey for a history of the critical response to The Narrative. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 176 There is an historical circumstance, known to few, that connects the children of the Puritans with these Africans of Virginia in a very singular way. They are our brethren, as being lineal descendants from the Mayflower, the fated womb of which, in her first voyage, sent forth a brood of Pilgrims on Plymouth Rock, and, in a subsequent one, spawned slaves upon the Southern soil, – a monstrous birth, but with which we have an instinctive sense of kindred, and so are stirred by an irresistible impulse to attempt their rescue, even at the cost of blood and ruin. The character of our sacred ship, I fear, may suffer a little by this revelation; but we must let her white progeny offset her dark one, – and two such portents never sprang from an identical source before. (1862, 50) The Mayflower had actually slaves even on her first voyage, but they were white – indentured servants, a category Hawthorne uses hither and thither in his fiction to suggest that the original myth of American freedom is not so pure as in the dominant ideology he nonetheless endorses, at least partially. Even if Hawthorne may be here historically wrong – the Pilgrim Fathers’ Mayflower was probably dismantled in 1624, in England, and the ship the writer alludes to should be one of a number of others with the same name – he is, as almost always, culturally right in envisioning the birth of American civilization as a ship loaded with freedom and slavery at the same time, and in stressing the bonds linking the historical predicaments of white and black Americans: “they are our brethren,” and we (the whites) must have “an instinctive sense of kindred” with them (the African Americans) – we could also call it a “sympathy” for our “darkest” side. These words might and should resonate when one reads an equally famous passage in The Narrative Arthur Gordon Pym, where the narrator-protagonist declares his fascination with his friend’s stories about sea adventures, and above all misfortunes. The almost miraculous rescue of Arthur and Augustus after the sinking of their boat in their first sea expedition does not trigger in them a safe repulsion for sea travelling, but quite the contrary, and the narrator’s explanation for this “strange” attitude, as regards himself, makes a consistent use of a chromatic imagery that surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) sets him on the “dark” side of the juxtaposition: It might be supposed that a catastrophe such as I have just related would have effectually cooled my incipient passion for the sea. On the contrary, I never experienced a more ardent longing for the wild adventures incident to the life of a navigator than within a week after our miraculous deliverance. This short period proved amply long enough to erase from my memory the shadows, and bring out in vivid light all the pleasurably exciting points of color, all the picturesqueness, of the late perilous accident. My conversations with Augustus grew daily more frequent and more intensely full of interest. He had a manner of relating his stories of the ocean (more than one half of which I now suspect to have been sheer fabrications) well adapted to have weight with one of my enthusiastic temperament and somewhat gloomy although glowing imagination. It is strange, too, that he most strongly enlisted my feelings in behalf of the life of a seaman, when he depicted his more terrible moments of suffering and despair. For the bright side of the painting I had a limited sympathy. My visions were of shipwreck and famine; of death or captivity among barbarian hordes; of a lifetime dragged out in sorrow and tears, upon some gray and desolate rock, in an ocean unapproachable and unknown. Such visions or desires – for they amounted to desires – are common, I have since been assured, to the whole numerous race of the melancholy among men – at the time of which I speak I regarded them only as prophetic glimpses of a destiny which I felt myself in a measure bound to fulfil. (Poe 1975 [1838], 58) Almost no sympathy “for the bright side of the painting,” and this because Arthur enlists himself in the ranks of the “melancholy among men” – that is, of the men with a black humour, according to the etymology of the word “melancholy.” Add to this that Arthur foresees and even desires such a destiny (a correct prophecy, since he will experience the shipwreck of the Grampus and the burning of the Jane Guy, both due to the active role of black people), and the whole structure of a romance blatantly devised in order to build up a Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 177 fantasy of the supremacy of white rational thinking over black malignant irrationality seriously risks to collapse upon itself. As everyone knows, Poe wrote The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym under the influence of the bizarre geographical theories about the mythical Terra Cava (“Hollow Earth”), widespread in the 1830s, and first made popular in 1818 by John Cleves Symmes, a former army officer who lectured for more than a decade and repeatedly petitioned the Congress asking for naval expeditions to the North Pole. Already in 1820, some “Adam Seaborn” fictionalized Symmes’s theories in Symzonia: A Voyage of Discovery, imagining a land of perfect whiteness inside a hole at the South Pole, and what the book especially stressed was “the strange rationality of Symzonians” (1820, 156). In January, 1837, Poe enthusiastically reviewed a pamphlet by the most important of Symmes’s followers, Jeremiah N. Reynolds, the “Address, on the Subject of a Surveying and Exploring Expedition to the Pacific Ocean and South Seas” (1836). And the legend says that Poe’s last words before dying were “Reynolds, Reynolds!” (by the way, Reynolds’s efforts resulted in the organization of a seriously scientific expedition under the command of a competent explorer, Charles Wilkes: Reynolds was refused participation as chronicler of the expedition, and so was a reluctant Nathaniel Hawthorne). Anyway, what Poe had in mind when setting to write The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym was the dream of a utopian white land where science and rationality rule – a dream that might have been on the verge of being made true. But what we have in the romance is exactly the opposite: a nightmarish descent into a black hell. The fact that all the three vessels in the romance are eventually destroyed, besides, casts a lurid light on one the political symbols of the American nation that were current at the time, that of the “ship of state” – a metaphor forged by Plato in the 6th book of the Republic, first exported to America by Roger Williams in his “Letter to the Town of Providence” (1656), and later given literary expression by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in his hymn “O Ship of State” (1850). In Plato’s myth, the ship is a microcosm where direct democracy may allow demagogues to gain the popular favor, and only the philosopher-navigator, with his acquired experiences and his superior wisdom, must be given the authority of rationally steering the wheel. This authority is what throughout the romance Arthur seems to be looking for, and also somehow managing to acquire when he convinces the captain of the Jane Guy to go further south in search of new lands. Douglas Anderson points out that the second half of Pym’s narrative rapidly becomes saturated with navigational terms and technicalities,3 with the correction of erroneous charts and the probing for possible routes through the southern ice pack. Though only a rescued castaway, Pym plays a strangely influential role in these activities, commenting in great detail on the information contained in the logs of earlier explorers and encouraging the Jane Guy’s commander, Captain Guy, to sail as far to the south as he can, even to the point of ridiculing the captain’s fears when he briefly expresses a desire to turn back. (2009, 120) Arthur’s quest for his own autonomous individual identity and authority over the others – another instance of that “air of self-generation” that, according to Geoffrey Sanborn (2002, 163), pervades all of Poe’s fiction – is therefore linked to his desire to become as much a “Southerner” as one can be, in the attempt to severe all the ties connecting him to his family, the best one could hope for at the time, since Arthur has before him a perfectly prepared path toward affluence and social prominence, son and grandson of well-to-do northern merchants and bankers as he is: My father was a respectable trader in sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in every thing, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly called. By these and other means he had managed to lay by a tolerable sum of money. He was more attached to myself, I believe, than to any other person in the world, and I expected to inherit the most of his property at his death. (47) 3 On Poe’s literally plagiarizing technical texts in order to construct an effet du rationnel, rather than réel, see Cagliero 1993, lv. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 178 But in the cold paratactic sentence structure Pym uses in describing his relationships with father and grandfather,4 linked to him only by a “bare seriality” (Halliburton 1973, 57), we can detect a symptom of his “limited sympathy” for the brighter sides of pictures, especially for those placing him in a landscape where everything is already safely set, and no dynamic and individual assertion of will is allowed. Terence Whalen has argued that, far “from being the wild offspring of an autonomous or diseased mind, Poe’s tales were […] the rational products of social labor, imagined and executed in the workshop of American capitalism” (1999, 9). Arthur Gordon Pym wants instead to break free from this workshop, at all costs: to the Northerners’ dream of a quiet bourgeois existence, he prefers the allures of the adventurous life of a Southerner knight- errant, roaming not the wilderness but the ocean and doomed to a solitary death, a sort of “icon of cultural dissolution: the white boy who will not accept his patrimony, who represents the end of the familial and national line” (Sanborn 2002, 165). On the other hand, here Poe projects onto Pym his ambitions for a “deviant” literary career only apparently at odds with the rules of a dominant (Northern) ideology, whose tenets were those of the most logical common sense. As Sandra M. Tomc has remarked, Poe’s “personal peculiarities, far from being incidental or antithetical to his career, played dynamically with a literary industry that embraced and cultivated dysfunction as a condition of authorial productivity and repute […] Poe achieved his early reputation […] by proffering his dispossession and alienation as features of his public self” (2002, 22-29). And Pym clearly replicates this attitude. With a further paradox, in order to conquer that kind of emancipation from the constraints (but also privileges) of the social and familiar conditioning, this son of the North (like Poe himself, born as he was in Boston and then adopted by a Richmond family) embarks in a sort of initiation journey which closely mirrors the middle passage of the slave trade. First he hides as a stowaway in the Grampus hold, hidden in the dark among wares, apparently abandoned by his friend and left without water and food – an experience shared by so many Africans in their journey towards not the higher personal identity of the classic initiation pattern, but the irredeemable social death of slavery. Then in Tsalal he barely escapes death and is forced to run away from his pursuers, a perversely reversed version of the slaves’ flights from white patrollers summarizing the widespread hysteria generated in the Southern states by Nat Turner’s 1831 insurrection, seen as the first harbinger of a more general upheaval that could turn upside down racial hierarchies. In the middle, he “rationally” justifies an act commonly associated with the most irrationally primitive “dark” cultures, cannibalism: adrift with Augustus and Dirk Peters (more about him in a little while) on the wreck of the Grampus, he participates in the killing and eating of Parker, the fourth castaway, a choice by all means unnecessary, if only Arthur had remembered in time how to reach the provisions still locked in the storeroom, as he does a few days later. At the end of the romance, we might be induced to think that Arthur has reached the authority he was looking for, since he has eventually become an “author,” and has been officially recognized by the literary world as such thanks to Edgar Allan Poe’s “editorship.” The only problem is that the book he has written is not the passport for his further cultural successes as an individual able to forge his own destiny, but a sort of tombstone epitaph, because the final “Note” informs us of “the late sudden and distressing death of Mr. Pym” (240) – and an incomplete one. Besides, in many situations in which his freedom or safety are at risk, it is not thanks to his own supposed growing maturity that Arthur manages to come out more or less unharmed: he must be saved instead by the omnipresent Dirk Peters, who brings food to Augustus (and therefore to his friend) during the mutiny aboard the Grampus, leads the counter-mutiny, rescues Arthur when he is 3 One should also notice, here as elsewhere, the almost total absence of women. Only indirectly Pym’s mother is alluded to, and the other notable exception is the description of Tsalal’s female inhabitants: “There were a great many women and children, the former not altogether wanting in what might be termed personal beauty. They were straight, tall, and well formed, with a grace and freedom of carriage not to be found in civilized society. Their lips, however, like those of the men, were thick and clumsy, so that, even when laughing, the teeth were never disclosed. Their hair was of a finer texture than that of the males” (Poe, 197). This is easily explicable with Poe’s intention of emancipating both his protagonist and himself from another milieu he felt as extremely constraining, that of a literary and especially poetic marketplace that to him seemed heavily colonized by such women poets as Frances Sargent Osgood, Sarah Helen Whitman, and Elizabeth Oakes Smith, who were members of his “circle” (on Poe’s relationships with these writers, see Richards). By writing an adventure prose romance, and locating its action in the ocean, Poe tried to free himself from this (for him, but Hawthorne shared the feeling) suffocating cultural context. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 179 drowning in the wreck of the Grampus, stops him from a dive into the abyss in Tsalal. And at the end of the book we are left with one single man standing: not Arthur Gordon Pym, but Dirk Peters, the only person who has total knowledge of what happened after the final encounter with the mysterious white figure – he is now in Illinois, at a fairly safe distance from the ocean, and “cannot be met with at the present” (240).5 Dirk Peters, cited by Pym himself in the preface as the only but not quite reliable (being a “half-breed Indian”) source that could attest the authenticity of the events told in the Narrative, is in this perspective the real protagonist of the process of self-emancipation the book is devised to illustrate. From a less-than-human, beast- or devil-looking savage prone to heavy drinking, he becomes the most active and rational character in the plot. So the last survivor of this doomed expedition towards the perfect whiteness of the South is a white- Indian mixed-blood who also looks as an African,6 genetically and symbolically conflating into himself the three main ethnic identities of mid-19th century United States, and their colors: white, red, and black. Besides, in the last two paragraphs of the romance Pym’s identity seems indistinctly to blend with Peters’: we do not have anymore “I” and “me,” but only “we” and “us,” in a sort of total communion that might confirm Marie Bonaparte’s original contention that Poe’s actually dinking himself out of relationships with women who loved him, and fictionally killing beautiful women in order to reach a sublime effect, denounced his latent and unrecognized homosexuality. Bonaparte also suggests that Poe was obsessed by the memory of his dead mother, probably alluded to, as Richard Kopley stresses, in the final cries “Tekeli-li” by the “gigantic and pallidly white birds” before the “mysterious shrouded figure” (239) waiting to embrace the two survivors on their routes towards a disastrous plunge into a cataract, and which in its turn might be a ghostly image of Elizabeth Arnold herself, who in 1812 played a role in the melodrama Tekeli as “an incomparable vision, resplendent in bridal white” – Kopley adds that the final day of the Narrative’s journal matches that of the first scheduled performance by Poe’s mother (1982, 43-44). The absurdly ambiguous and self-contradictory ending on the main plot of the romance is really something of a mystery in itself. It leaves us on the verge of an abyss, without telling us what happens afterwards, but is framed by a(n even more convoluted) narrative of how the text has been constructed that should have as its logical consequence some sense of closure, since the protagonist / narrator / “author” has of course survived together with Peters, and thus there is no reason to create a suspended finale – we know they made it. If Pym’s journey is ultimately motivated by the inner urge to free himself from the “slavery” of an already set destiny, and to create and perform some sort of autonomous, authorative / authorial agency, its (non-) conclusion seems to refract that endless play of desire that according to Jacques Lacan always differs its satisfaction. But this also raises another question, because if Pym’s desire mirrors Poe’s, and thus Poe’s fantasy is actually a fantasy about himself, does all this imply that Poe’s desire too (that of becoming an “authority” by embracing his own “Southern” and racist identity and getting free of the original “Northern,” liberal one granted him by his ancestry) is (unconsciously) considered by the author himself as doomed to be endlessly left unsatisfied? Of course, we could accept Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s definition of the 5 It goes without saying that Peters’s final absence from the scene, and thence his impossibility to tell his own story, could well be a way to deprive him of any authority he may have gained during the journey (see Nelson 1992, 105-107). 6 Here is the first detailed description of Peters: “This man was the son of an Indian squaw of the tribe of Upsarokas, who live among the fastnesses of the Black Hills, near the source of the Missouri […] Peters himself was one of the most ferocious-looking men I ever beheld. He was short in stature, not more than four feet eight inches high, but his limbs were of Herculean mould. His hands, especially, were so enormously thick and broad as hardly to retain a human shape. His arms, as well as legs, were bowed in the most singular manner, and appeared to possess no flexibility whatever. His head was equally deformed, being of immense size, with an indentation on the crown (like that on the head of most negroes), and entirely bald. To conceal this latter deficiency, which did not proceed from old age, he usually wore a wig formed of any hair– like material which presented itself – occasionally the skin of a Spanish dog or American grizzly bear. At the time spoken of, he had on a portion of one of these bearskins; and it added no little to the natural ferocity of his countenance, which betook of the Upsaroka character. The mouth extended nearly from ear to ear, the lips were thin, and seemed, like some other portions of his frame, to be devoid of natural pliancy, so that the ruling expression never varied under the influence of any emotion whatever […] To ass this man with a casual glance, one might imagine him to be convulsed with laughter, but a second look would induce a shuddering acknowledgment, that if such an expression were indicative of merriment, the merriment must be that of a demon” (84-85). Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 180 unconscious as something that “poses no problem of meaning, solely problems of use. The question posed by desire is not ‘What does it mean?’ but rather ‘How does it work?’” (1977, 109). In this perspective, the political unconscious of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym works by not working, by creating a disruption and a void in the fabric of the meaning the plot should construct and bring to a closure with its ending. And we could also recall that, according to Slavoj Žižek, there is “no connection whatsoever between the (phantasmic) real of the subject and his symbolic identity,” because Fantasy “creates a multitude of subject positions among which the (observing, fantasizing) subject is free to float, to shift his identification from one to another. Here, talk about ‘multiple, dispersed subject positions’ is justified, with the proviso that these subject positions are to be strictly distinguished from the void that is the subject” (2008, 7 n. 6). Actually, not only does the romance end into a “void,” but so does even the final note, where we have three notable absences that could fill the gaps – Pym’s, Peters’, but also Poe’s, or better that of the character in the complex web of narrative frames who is the author of the two numbers of the “fictionalized” and serialized edition of Pym’s narrative, and who “might be supposed able to fill the vacuum,” but “has declined the task” (240). And we could also take Žižek’s identification of the subject with the void literally, and see in the final chasm where Pym plunges together with his double Peters the “real” self of the protagonist – a nothingness he longs for from the very beginning, as if his “white,” rational, authoritative identity were only a ghost, and the “darker side of the picture” his true destiny, like also that of the American nation as a whole, if Pym is to be considered as its imperialist and racist representative. Pym’s fantasy is a fantasy of Otherness, of becoming an Other / an Author, but like all other fantasies is based on and implies the impossibility of its satisfaction (and thus makes equally impossible the satisfaction of the political fantasy of a world totally “white”): the “void of the possible Otherness is what sustains hysterical desire (that is to say, desire tout court)7 – this non-acceptance of the ultimate closure, this vain hope that the Other Thing is waiting for us just around the corner” (Žižek, 39) – or beyond the pale. The conflict between these two contrasting fantasies – the “rational” edenic myth of white supremacy through self-emancipation vs. the “irrational” masochistic dream of self-annihilation through the descent into darkness – seems therefore finally to be solved in favor of the latter, as is once again confirmed by Pym’s absence both in the (equally absent) conclusion of the plot and in the closing of the narrative frame, substituted as he is by Poe himself, since according to Lacan’s formalization of the phantasmic narrative structure one of its most important features is, as Žižek stresses, the “impossible gaze, the gaze by means of which the subject is already present at the act of his / her own conception” (21). In The Narrative of Arthur Pym, this gaze that should witness the subject’s rebirth into his new identity (as the hero of a heroic journey towards a new independent identity, and as the author of a book that should make him culturally powerful) is visibly absent (the narrator does not tell, hence does not “see,” Pym’s salvation, neither he sees his own authorizing the Narrative): his gaze is doubly blind, as it is to the meaning of the strange signs in the Tsalal chasms. That the future of America is more than likely not designed to be white (like it should be in Pym / Poe’s colonial and racist fantasy), is as a matter of fact confirmed by the final note, where Poe (or better an anonymous narrator, because in this play of mirrors no easy identification is available to the reader) analyzes the Tsalal cryptic hieroglyphic engravings, already deciphered by Peters, while on the other hand, as Ugo Rubeo stresses,8 Pym plainly misinterprets origins and meanings of the “indentures” – so much for the cultural authority he is supposed to have conquered: 7 Lacan defines hysteria as the “desire to desire” (1973, 16). Pym’s often “hysterical” answers to the various dangers he must face could in this perspective be seen as perverted instances of desire per se, that wants to break free from the norms of dominant (Northern) liberal ideology, according to which you do not even have to desire because the American Dream has already provided for whatever you may need. 8 “Pym fa sfoggio di tutta la sua razionalità per destituire di fondamento l’ipotesi che i segni rinvenuti dall’amico sulla parete della grotta possano essere i caratteri di un qualche sconosciuto alfabeto, sostenendo che in realtà d’altro non si tratta se non di semplici tracce della naturale erosione del calcare;” ma “la ‘Nota’ conclusiva interverrà a smentire la sua ipotesi, ribaltando definitivamente la situazione” (“Pym shows all his rationality to deprive of any foundation the hypothesis that the signs found by his friend on the walls of the cave might be the types of some unknown alphabet, claiming instead that they are nothing else but mere traces of the natural erosion of limestone;” Rubeo 2000, 15). On the problem of the undecidability of the meaning of these signs, and more generally of language, in Poe see also Cagliero 1988 and Rubeo 2004. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 181 Conclusions such as these open a wide field for speculation and exciting conjecture. They should be regarded, perhaps, in connexion with some of the most faintly-detailed incidents of the narrative; although in no visible manner is this chain of connexion complete. Tekeli-li! was the cry of the affrighted natives of Tsalal upon discovering the carcass of the white animal picked up at sea. This also was the shuddering exclamation of the captive Tsalalian upon encountering the white materials in possession of Mr. Pym. This also was the shriek of the swift- flying, white, and gigantic birds which issued from the vapoury white curtain of the South. Nothing white was to be found at Tsalal, and nothing otherwise in the subsequent voyage to the region beyond. It is not impossible that “Tsalal,” the appellation of the island of the chasms, may be found, upon minute philological scrutiny, to betray either some alliance with the chasms themselves, or some reference to the Ethiopian characters so mysteriously written in their windings. (242) The narrator also remarks that nothing white could be found beyond Tsalal – that is, beyond the vapory white cataract and the white figure that, we could even surmise, might be a sort of ghost of a whiteness by now lost forever. And the very last words of the book are: “I have graven it within the hills, and my vengeance upon the dust within the rock” (242). When in the same sentence the words “hill” and “rock” appear at short distance, something must ring in the reader’s mind, because, even if it is true that the most direct reference is to the passage in the Bible where Job gives voice to his despair (but there we find only a rock, no hills), these are two of the foundational symbols of Puritan America, and of America as a whole with its myths of emancipation: the references might then be to Plymouth Rock, where the Pilgrim Fathers have been said to have finally put their feet on the American soil in 1620 after having unsuccessfully attempted to land at Cape Cod (this is a fiction too, of course, because there is no record of Plymouth Rock before the 1740s); and to the “City Upon a Hill,” the perfect New Jerusalem to be founded in the New World, as prophesied by John Winthrop on the Arbella in 1630. We are therefore left with the image of a vengeance to be exacted on these two mythical sites, a writing on the wall in a Black language that announces the dissolution into dust of every dream of a “pure,” white America. Pym may well be a (more or less covertly) pro-slavery white supremacist, and Poe is well known for sharing this kind of attitude,9 but the rift that opens up between Poe’s awareness of the (possible) hidden meaning of the sibylline signs (once again, we must anyway stress how it is not “Poe” the narrator in the Note, but someone we do not know anything about) and Pym’s conceited dismissal of them confirms James W. Gargano’s contention that “the assumption that Poe and his narrators are identical literary twins and that he must be held responsible for all their wild or perfervid utterances” is “untenable and often unanalyzed,” since “Poe understands them [his narrators] far better than they can possibly understand themselves” (1967, 165). This does not mean that Poe stages an unreliable narrator and an even more unreliable narrative to consciously reveal as a hoax the very foundations of the ideology he openly endorses. This happens (here as elsewhere in his work) against Poe’s best intentions, that clearly emerge in all the occasions Pym manages to have the upper hand against all odds thank to his own “white” ingenuity. But the political unconscious of the romance is a sort of hidden trap where all of Poe’s rational hopes eventually collapse, as Pym will always be on the verge of doing at the very end of his Narrative at every reading of the book. According to Fredric Jameson, the literary work or cultural object, as though for the first time, brings into being that very situation to which it is also, at one and the same time, a reaction. It articulates its own situation 9 Roberto Cagliero summarizes the critics’ opinions on Poe’s (more than supposed) racism by dividing them into three main groups: “Alcuni ravvisano in lui un razzista, altri un autore dilaniato da un conflitto morale, mentre un terzo gruppo, sottolineando l’attrazione di Poe per personaggi di razze diverse dalla sua, ha ricercato nella sua opera un elemento sovversivo di redenzione” (“Some see in him a racist, others an author torn by a moral conflict, while a third group, stressing Poe’s attraction towards characters of races other than his own, has searched his work for a subversive element of redemption;” 2000, 69). Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 182 and textualizes it, thereby encouraging and perpetuating the illusion that the situation itself did not exist before it, that there is nothing but a text, that there never was any extra- or con-textual reality before the text itself generated it in the form of a mirage. (1981, 67) The social and political reality Poe’s text “brings into being” is precisely what he desperately tries to exorcise by projecting it onto the farthest shores he could think of, but even there, in an imaginary land totally of his own creation, he cannot get rid of his anxieties about a future America soon to come. Pym’s dream (nightmare?) of self-emancipation is a reverse fantasy in reaction to the real African Americans’ quest in the pre-Civil War era, and in its ultimate failing we can see the reflection both of the (contextual, historical, “real”) fate of the American South and of Poe’s ominous prophecies about what he fears will be his cultural authority in the future. In his failure as the prophet of his own fall into oblivion (suggested by the author’s ironical distancing from Pym and his fall anyway) probably lies Poe’s greatest success. Works Cited Anderson, Douglas. Pictures of Ascent in the Fiction of Edgar Allan Poe. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Balestra, Gianfranca. Geografie visionarie: Composizione e decomposizione in Edgar Allan Poe. Milano: Unicopli, 1990. Bonaparte, Marie. Edgar Poe: Sa vie, son œuvre. Étude psychanalytique. Paris: Denoël, 1933. Cagliero, Roberto. “La questione dell’origine in Gordon Pym di Edgar Allan Poe.” Quaderni di Lingue e Letterature dell’Università di Verona 13 (1988): 29-47. ---. “Premessa del traduttore.” In Edgar Allan Poe, Il racconto di Arthur Gordon Pym. Milano: Garzanti, 1993. liv-lviii. ---. “Edgar Allan Poe e la difesa dello schiavismo.” Ácoma 23 (primavera 2000): 68-69. Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. The Anti-Oedipus. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem and Helen R. Lane. New York: Viking, 1977. Eco, Umberto. Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994. Gargano, James W. “The Question of Poe’s Narrators.” Poe: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Robert Regan. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice, 1967. 164-71. Halliburton, David. Edgar Allan Poe: A Phenomenological View. Princeton (NJ): Princeton University Press, 1973. Harvey, Ronald C. The Critical History of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. London: Routledge, 2015. Hawthorne, Nathaniel. “Chiefly About War Matters.” Atlantic Monthly 10.57 (July 1862): 43-61. Hayes, Kevin J., ed. The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Jameson, Fredric. The Political Unconscious; Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981. Kopley, Richard. “The Hidden Journey of Arthur Gordon Pym.” Studies in the American Renaissance 1982. 29-51. Lacan, Jacques. Le Séminaire. Livre XI: Les Quatre concepts fondamentaux de la psychanalyse. Paris: Seuil, 1973. Nelson, Dana D. The World in Black and White: Reading “Race” in American Literature. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Peeples, Scott. Edgar Alan Poe Revisited. New York: Twayne, 1998. Poe, Edgar Allan. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. 1838. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975. Richards, Eliza. Gender and the Poetics of Reception in Poe’s Circle. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Rubeo, Ugo. Agghiaccianti simmetrie: Dinamiche testuali in The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym di Edgar Allan Poe. Roma: Lozzi & Rossi, 2000. Iperstoria – Testi Letterature Linguaggi www.iperstoria.it Rivista semestrale ISSN 2281-4582 Saggi/Essays Issue 9 – Spring 2017 183 ---. “Una lunga catena di miracoli: Il gioco delle metamorfosi in Gordon Pym.” Fantastico Poe. Ed. Roberto Cagliero. Verona: Ombre Corte, 2004. ---. “‘Hoaxing the Novel’: Parodia dei generi in The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym.” Il ritorno di Edgar Allan Poe & Co.: 1809-2009. Eds. Annalisa Goldoni, Andrea Mariani and Carlo Martinez. Napoli: Liguori, 2011. 3-14. Sanborn, Geoffrey. “A Confused Beginning: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In Hayes 2002. 163-77. Seaborn, Adam. Symzonia: A Voyage of Discovery. New York: Seymour, 1820. Tate, Allen. “The Angelic Imagination.” The Recognition of Edgar Allan Poe: Selected Criticism Since 1829. Ed. Eric W. Carlson. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1966. 236-54. Tomc, Sandra M.: “Poe and His Circle.” In Hayes 2002. 21-41. Whalen, Terence. Edgar Allan Poe and the Masses: The Political Economy of Literature in Antebellum America. Princeton (NJ): Princeton University Press, 1999. Zimmerman, Brett. Edgar Allan Poe: Rhetoric and Style. Montreal & Kingston: McGill’s-Queens University Press: 2004. Žižek, Slavoj. The Plague of Fantasies. London & New York: Verso, 2008. 
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work_zicls2p36naarbocmm64c5ybpa	----	Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 207 Reflexões Sobre A Trajetória Do Ensino De Línguas Estrangeiras No Brasil Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA1 RESUMO: Apresenta-se um breve histórico da educação brasileira e, ao traçar um panora- ma do desenvolvimento do ensino de línguas estrangeiras modernas, recupera-se uma ‘me- mória’ do ensino de idiomas no período. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Educação Brasileira. Ensino de Línguas Estrangeiras. Línguas Modernas. Para início de conversa Sempre houve no Brasil identificação estreita entre a Educação, a es- trutura humanística e clássica dos currículos e o desenvolvimento do ensino de línguas para o aprendizado de idiomas modernos. Assim, é oportuno notar a observação de Chagas: “a evolução do ensino de línguas no Brasil confun- de-se com a história da própria escola secundária brasileira” sendo que uma contém a outra (1957, p. 83). Para o autor, é somente a partir de 1931 que as disciplinas concernentes à área de estudo começam a ser tratadas mais seria- mente na escola secundária. A preocupação principal do ensino brasileiro no período imperial foi a de proporcionar educação diferenciada a uma elite, sendo pouca a atenção conferida à instrução das massas e relegada a um quase abandono a Escola de Primeiras Letras. Situação que muito se parecia com a de Portugal, já que a política do colonizador interferia em ambos os países de maneira abrangente, aproximados quanto ao índice de analfabetismo, perto de 80% de suas popu- lações até o início do século XX. 1 Professora do Programa de Pós-Graduação em Letras do Centro de Comunicação e Letras da Univer- sidade Presbiteriana Mackenzie (UPM), São Paulo, SP, Brasil. verahanna@mackenzie.com.br Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 208 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Há de se enfatizar que, desde 1808, ao entrar no processo de re-euro- peização, o país tentava sair da condição de marginalizado quanto à cultura, à economia e ao comércio do mundo ocidental, porquanto o que se apresentava era um retrato vivo do resultado da derrocada do monopólio comercial portu- guês. Segundo Gomes (2007, p. 305), as expectativas políticas e econômicas e, consequentemente, as perspectivas de futuro de colonizador e colonizado mostravam-se antagônicas — enquanto Portugal se exauria com as guerras napoleônicas, tornando-se “uma metrópole amorfa, empobrecida e humilha- da pela longa ausência do rei”, o Brasil, já quase uma ex-colônia, “no mesmo período e pela mesma razão, havia mudado, enriquecido, prosperado e agora contemplava o futuro com esperança e otimismo”; as realidades tornavam- se, desse modo, irreconciliáveis. No contexto sócio-político, destaque-se que a partir da ‘invasão lusitana’, os portugueses aqui chegados com a Família Real trouxeram na bagagem os britânicos como fiadores da sobrevivência do Brasil como nação. A Grã-Bretanha, parceira comercial mais importante de Portugal desde o século XVIII, transferiria sua hegemonia nas atividades ban- cárias, de seguros, de navegação, de comércio, para a colônia. O país estaria, portanto, não sob o domínio português, mas sim, como Portugal, sob a esfera político-econômica dos ingleses. Ao exercer seu poder de jovem imperialista, logo nos primeiros contatos comerciais com os luso-brasileiros aqui estabe- lecidos, os bretões forneceriam, no que tangia às influências linguísticas, não só os empréstimos lexicais que vinham naturalmente acompanhando os ob- jetos importados, mas também ideias, padrões de comportamento, hábitos de consumo, gostos artísticos, referências políticas e, com especial ênfase, novas invenções, que acrescentariam traços culturais originais à vida brasileira e à paisagem urbana nas décadas seguintes. A influência britânica sobre o Brasil nos oitocentos tornou-se tão marcante que se dizia que estavam londonizando o país (cf. PALLARES-BURKE, 1997). No final do século XIX, com a proclamação da República começaria, teoricamente, uma nova era. Entretanto, no que se refere à educação, conti- nuou em vigência o sistema dual, ou seja, de um lado, cabiam à União o de- ver e o direito da criação de instituições de ensino superior e secundário nos estados e a promoção deste último no Distrito Federal, então sediado no Rio de Janeiro; de outro, cabiam às unidades federativas a criação e o controle do curso primário e profissional (escolas normais de nível médio para moças e escolas técnicas para rapazes). Característica marcante do início da República Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 209 e do novo século que nascia era o surgimento de uma sociedade urbana, com- posta de ex-escravos, elite aristocrática, uma camada emergente considerada média (composta de intelectuais, padres, militares em franca ascensão), uma pequena burguesia industrial e um grande estrato composto de imigrantes. Com essa nova estrutura, o país já não podia suportar o sistema dual de ensi- no, simplista por excelência; assim, suas bases sofreriam pressões que iriam, aos poucos, comprometer seus alicerces. Muitas Reformas Educacionais já vinham acontecendo a partir da criação do Colégio de D. Pedro II, em 1837, e com elas muitos problemas e entraves; algumas nem chegaram a sair do papel e motivos não faltavam para que isso acontecesse. Um dos principais era a barreira formada pela minoria influente, desejosa de manter o status quo. Juntava-se a isso a pouca atenção que o governo dava à educação das camadas mais carentes. Optou-se por examinar neste artigo questões atinentes ao ensino de línguas, a partir de um corpus referente ao Período Jesuítico (1549-1759), ao Período Pombalino (1760-1808), ao Período Joanino (1808-1821), e ao Perí- odo Imperial (1822-1888). Fazem-se observações que atingem até o início do século XX, ressaltando aspectos que se julgam mais representativos quanto às inúmeras reformas que ocorreram. O Período Jesuítico, 1549-1759 A história da escola brasileira registra as primeiras experiências do en- sino de uma língua estrangeira tão logo o português passa a ser ensinado aos índios com a chegada dos jesuítas ao Brasil. Desde a fundação dos colégios pio- neiros até o primeiro quartel do século XX, houve o predomínio do humanismo clássico na escola do hoje intitulado Ensino Médio, ressalte-se, mesmo após a introdução do ensino das línguas modernas. Esse humanismo apoiava-se no Ratio Atque Institutio Studiorum Societatis Lesu. Plano de estudos oficial para a educação jesuítica, elaborado pela Companhia de Jesus e publicado em 1599, fora pensado para uniformizar a formação dos que ensinassem e estudassem nos colégios da ordem em qualquer parte do mundo. Era composto de trinta conjuntos de regras que, além de apresentar normas de conduta, de responsabilidade e comportamento dos membros da hierarquia educacional jesuítica e administrativa, oferecia instruções sobre organização e administração escolar e um programa com método de ensino e procedimentos pormenorizados. Compreendia as ‘cinco classes’, representadas Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 210 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 pela Retórica, pelas Humanidades e pelas Gramáticas Superior, Média e Infe- rior. O ensino de línguas, por essa cartilha, centrava-se no Latim e no Grego, reputadas como disciplinas dominantes, e, as demais, como o Vernáculo, não possuía estudo autônomo. O Ratio Studiorum obedecia a uma divisão de três períodos, ou cursos, oferecendo os títulos de bacharel, licenciado e mestre em artes, a saber: o nível de Letras Humanas ou Humanidades, com três anos de duração; o nível de Filosofia e Ciências, também denominado curso de Artes, igualmente de três anos (com os níveis de Lógica, Metafísica e Filosofia Moral) e o nível de Teologia ou Ciências Sagradas, de quatro anos.O curso de Letras ou Humanidades (o que equivaleria, hoje, ao Ensino Médio) compreendia o estudo da Gramática, Humanidades e Retórica. Grande ênfase era dada à eloquência, o que justificava o ensino da gramática em três ou quatro anos, fator decisivo na preparação do aluno para o segundo momento, que visava ao aperfeiçoamento da escrita. As regras de oratória, estilo e erudição eram os objetivos primeiros das aulas de Retórica, seguidos de História, Geografia e Cronologia. Após seu término, os alunos estavam preparados para os níveis seguintes de Artes, ou para outras carreiras como Medicina e Direito, que só poderiam ser cursadas na Europa. A grande maioria dos alunos, no entanto, dava por encerrados seus estudos após essa primeira fase. O início da alfabetização acontecia nas Escolas de Ler e Escrever, em que os jesuítas se preocupavam não somente com a língua e a religião da metrópole, mas também com os valores e os modos de vida do coloni- zador, numa tentativa de substituição da cultura nativa. Ainda que os cursos posteriores privilegiassem o princípio da educação por meio do estudo das línguas clássicas, já havia acontecido uma síntese de elementos linguísticos — portugueses e indígenas, seguidos de africanos. Realce-se o movimento inverso na adoção das línguas indígenas pelos jesuítas — tentava-se adotar uma língua franca que, praticada largamente na região do litoral brasileiro do início da colonização até meados do século XVIII, ficaria conhecida como língua geral, de intercurso, fundamentalmente o tupinambá. Os missionários jesuítas estudaram-na, descreveram-na em artes de gramática, não obstante seu aprendizado fosse comumente informal: aprendiam-no com o intuito de alcançar uma melhor interlocução com os nativos e propunham-se a traduzir para ela as orações, as músicas sacras, as peças teatrais. Falar o dialeto dos lo- cais tornava possível o contato social e o trabalho de catequese. A língua geral era utilizada na vida cotidiana da colônia, falada por brancos e consolidada Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 211 pelos bandeirantes, exploradores do território em direção ao interior do país. E o português falado no Brasil começava a diferenciar-se do da metrópole; a base indígena se fazia presente, acompanhada de marcas africanas. À parte a doutrinação dos nativos, a instrução era direcionada primordial- mente à formação da minoria dominante. O ensino de primeiras letras tornara-se uma mera ‘passagem’, como define Chagas, para o Curso de Letras, não havendo, em absoluto, a preocupação com a formação profissional daqueles que não pudes- sem continuar na escola (1957, p. 5). Traço marcante da educação jesuítica, esse distintivo do ensino brasileiro perdurou até pelo menos meados do século XX. Apesar do predomínio do estudo das línguas clássicas — latim e grego —, em vários momentos, o ensino deste último teve de sofrer adaptações quanto ao que prescrevia o Ratio Studiorum. Muitas vezes o ensino do grego foi substituído pelo do tupi para que se viabilizasse a catequese dos gentios. Ao mesmo tempo, aquelas línguas também estavam presentes no aprendizado de outras disciplinas, como a História e a Geografia, estudadas por meio do exercício de tradução dos clássicos. Seguia-se o plano de ensino que confiava na tradição literária e acadêmica do humanismo clássico; assim, os valores e modelos de inspiração greco-romana renascentista seriam mantidos durante os longos 210 anos em que o ensino no Brasil esteve sob a égide dos jesuítas. Uma grande ruptura histórica neste processo de educação aconteceria em 1759, quando Sebastião José de Carvalho, o Marquês de Pombal, ministro de D. José I, decide expulsar todos os jesuítas da metrópole e das colônias, confiscando seus bens, sob a argumentação de que a Companhia de Jesus agia como um poder autônomo dentro do Estado português. Esse procedimento encontrava eco em outros países da Europa, onde religiosos eram vistos como um impedimento à implantação da nova filosofia iluminista que se dissemina- va. A secularização dos empreendimentos missionários, por sua vez, garanti- ria maior equilíbrio da balança comercial do estado português; dessa forma, mais do que combater a religião propriamente dita, diminuíam-se regalias gozadas pelas ordens religiosas nos domínios portugueses. O Período Pombalino (1760-1808) Tendo vivido na Inglaterra, Pombal cultivava um pensamento ligado ao Enciclopedismo (defesa da liberdade individual, comercial, industrial). Ape- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 212 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 sar de ter passado sete anos em Londres (1738- 1743) como enviado especial — Ministro Plenipotenciário —, não escondia sua aversão aos britânicos e aos seus “métodos de dominação econômica” em relação ao comércio português (AVELLAR, 1983, p. 9); acrescente-se, não chegou a aprender o inglês, tam- bém pelo motivo de que unicamente o francês era considerado língua diplo- mática. Mesmo assim, foi marcante a influência da política econômica daquele país em suas ideias, fato que fazia com que sonhasse ver o reino português su- perar a velha estrutura agrária semi-feudal e entrar na era industrial. Presumia, ainda, que, ao expulsar a Companhia de Jesus, tornar-se-ia iminente a adoção de um novo sistema de educação, de responsabilidade da Coroa Portuguesa. Durante o período Pombalino, o Estado assumiria, pela primeira vez, os encargos da educação, a metodologia eclesiástica dos jesuítas seria substi- tuída pelo pensamento pedagógico da escola pública e laica. Após reinado ab- soluto de dois séculos, seguiu-se um período de mais de uma década até que se conseguisse substituir os jesuítas e seus métodos. Pombal não conseguira criar um sistema substituto de ensino adequado nem encontrara professores bem formados, o que acabou resultando numa fragmentação das estruturas administrativas já existentes (ROMANELLI, 1998). Note-se que, apesar de existirem propostas formais, as reformas pombalinas não foram implantadas de fato e este período é divisado como de decadência da educação na colônia, como esclarece Azevedo, Entre a expulsão dos jesuítas em 1759 e a transplantação da corte portuguesa para o Brasil em 1808, abriu-se um parêntese de quase meio século, um largo hiatus que se caracteriza pela desorganização e decadência do ensino colonial. Nenhuma orga- nização institucional veio, de fato, substituir a poderosa homogeneidade do sistema jesuítico, edificado em todo o litoral latifundiário, com ramificações pelas matas e pelo planalto, e cujos colégios e seminários formam, na Colônia, os grandes focos de irradiação da cultura. (1976, p. 61) Houve uma intensa, aguda e sistemática reação antijesuítica ao ser instalada uma comissão chamada de Diretoria de Estudos, ou seja, uma es- pécie de comitê controlador, que proibia o ensino público ou particular sem a sua licença. Assinale-se que as aulas régias não se articulavam entre si, ou seja, cada uma constituía uma unidade de ensino, independente do currícu- lo, ou duração prefixada. Os docentes passaram a ser selecionados através de exames, em concursos, mas em geral era baixo o seu nível em compa- Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 213 ração ao dos jesuítas. Tornavam-se, apesar disso, únicos e ‘proprietários’ vitalícios das cadeiras, ficando facultado ao aluno o direito de matricular-se em quantas disciplinas desejasse. Persistiam as ambiguidades: ao lado dos professores régios, mantinha-se a continuidade do predomínio da Igreja nas instituições de ensino, assim como era evidente que a intenção da escola secundária preparava os alunos para ingressarem ou na Universidade de Coimbra ou em quaisquer outras na Europa. A ideia que predominava era a do interesse da metrópole em ‘modernizar’ a elite brasileira para que esta servisse, mais tarde, não aos interesses da fé, mas aos interesses portugue- ses na Colônia. Apesar das mudanças, o currículo continuava fundamentado nas mes- mas diretrizes do século XVI, ou seja, baseado nos estudos de Gramática e Retórica, muito longe do interesse nas línguas e literaturas modernas. O ensi- no secundário, que era ministrado em forma de curso no tempo dos jesuítas, passou a ser ensinado em aulas régias, ou seja, avulsas, de Filosofia e Retórica. No tocante à instrução e ao uso de línguas, Pombal proibiu, em 1758, o aprendizado e a prática do tupi e instituiu o português como única língua do Brasil, com o in- tuito de desprestigiar o poder da Igreja Católica sobre a Colônia. Nas aldeias indígenas, ao mesmo tempo em que os administradores ocupavam o lugar dos missionários e implantavam duas escolas públicas — uma para meninos e ou- tra para meninas — impeliam os alunos a usar a língua portuguesa. O ensino de línguas estrangeiras prosseguia privilegiando o latim e o grego, mas, como assegura Azevedo (1976), e meio às dualidades dessa estrutura escolar come- çava, lentamente, a se abrir lugar para uma educação mais científica, assim como para o ensino de línguas vivas, como o Inglês, o Francês e as Literaturas Modernas, que passariam a figurar nos currículos, [...] em lugar de um ensino puramente literário, clássico, o desenvolvimento do en- sino científico que começa a fazer lentamente seus progressos ao lado da educação literária, preponderante em todas as escolas; em lugar da exclusividade de ensino de latim e do português, a penetração progressiva das línguas vivas e literaturas modernas (francesa e inglesa2); e, afinal, a ramificação de tendências que, se não chegam a determinar a ruptura de unidade de pensamento, abrem o campo aos primeiros choques entre as ideias antigas, corporificadas no ensino jesuítico, e a nova corrente de pensamento pedagógico, influenciada pelas ideias dos enciclopedistas franceses, vitoriosos, depois de 1789, na obra escolar da Revolução. (1976, p. 56-57) 2 Os grifos nesta citação e em todas que se seguem neste artigo são da pesquisadora. Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 214 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Apesar das ideias dos enciclopedistas, de caráter social e político, estimu- larem aqueles que haviam estudado na Europa (também inspirados pela Indepen- dência dos Estados Unidos ocorrida em 1776), a escola mantinha-se tradicional. Período Joanino (1808-1821) A partir da chegada da Corte Portuguesa ao Rio de Janeiro, o país inicia uma busca, a princípio lenta, mas que se torna frenética no fim do século XIX, para se transformar numa nação desenvolvida, acima de tudo, reconhecida in- ternacionalmente. O processo de modernização do Brasil inicia-se com D. João VI, que traz na bagagem as ideias liberais do empirismo inglês e a influência de enciclopedistas franceses. Mesmo antes de chegar ao Rio de Janeiro, o mo- narca já havia aberto os portos da colônia a outras nações, encerrando séculos do monopólio português. Fica conhecido como ‘o criador de instituições’ e, entre as mais importantes iniciativas, implanta, em 1808, a Biblioteca Pública e a Imprensa Régia, ocorrências que dão início à circulação do primeiro jornal, a Gazeta do Rio, no mesmo ano; na Bahia, em 1812, Variedades ou Ensaios de Literatura, o primeiro periódico de que se tem notícia; em 1813, a primeira revista carioca, O Patriota. Pari passu, são inaugurados os primeiros cursos su- periores não-teológicos no Brasil — Agricultura, Química, Desenho Técnico e Botânica — e introduzidos os estudos profissional, militar, superior e artístico. São criados, ao mesmo tempo, escolas especiais e cursos práticos para suprir a grande demanda imediata de pessoal com formação especializada e preparado para atender ao serviço público. Apesar da importância que se atribui à criação do ensino superior, não se deve deixar de anotar que os demais níveis, como a escola primária e a secundária, continuavam sem merecer atenção, o que acen- tuava uma tradição de educação voltada para uma elite que detinha o poder na Corte. O primário continuava sendo a Escola de Ler e Escrever e o secundário permanecia com o modelo pombalino de aulas régias, em que foram criadas pelo menos vinte cadeiras, dentre as quais as de Gramática Latina, de Mate- mática, de Desenho, de História, de Retórica e de Filosofia, de 1809 a 1821 (ROMANELLI, 1998, p. 38-39). As línguas modernas pareciam estar galgando um lugar de relevo em 1809. Destaca-se a Resolução de consulta da mesa do desembargo do Paço de 14 de julho de 1809 (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 221), que “Crea nesta cidade uma cadeira de Arithmetica, Álgebra e Geometria, uma de Inglez e uma de Francez”. Essa resolução enfatiza a visão pragmática de Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 215 D. João VI, que percebia que a formação de novos funcionários exigia, naquele momento, também, o conhecimento de novos idiomas. O interesse pelo apren- dizado da língua francesa, sinônimo de erudição e cultura, justificava-se, pois a vida intelectual no Brasil, assim como em todo o mundo ocidental, seguia o modelo francês, sobretudo após 1789. O objetivismo prático confirmava que o ensino da língua inglesa, por seu lado, tornava-se igualmente imprescindível, já que facilitaria sobremaneira o contato comercial com a Inglaterra. Leia-se, além disso, naquele documento, que juntamente às disciplinas da área das ci- ências exatas, determinava-se a conveniência da introdução das duas línguas para que se completasse a educação literária na instrução pública, ainda que de modo tradicional, clássico, E sendo outrossim tão geral, e notoriamente conhecida a necessidade, e utilidade das línguas francezas e ingleza, como aquellas que entre as línguas vivas teem o mais distinto logar, é de muito grande utilidade ao Estado, para augmento, e prosperidade da instrução publica, que se crêe nesta capital uma cadeira de língua franceza, e outra de ingleza (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222). Acentuando o caráter prático que justificava o ensino das duas línguas, aconselhava-se que os professores não se esquecessem de ensinar o ‘bem falar e o escrever’, assim como vislumbrava-se a importância do binômio língua-cultura naquele aprendizado: E pelo que toca à matéria do ensino, ditarão [os professores] as suas lições pela Grammática que for mais conceituada, emquanto não formalizem alguma de sua composição; habilitando os discípulos na pronunciação das expressões e das vozes das respectivas línguas, adestrando-os em bem fallar e escrever, servindo-se dos melhores modelos do século de Luís XIV. (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222) Entendia-se, do mesmo modo, naquela resolução, a preocupação em conhecer o lugar e as tradições do povo da língua-alvo, assim como o ‘idio- tismo da língua’ – ou seja, seus traços e construções peculiares, assim como que se considerasse, em suas ‘traducções‘, não o sentido literal mas sim os dos elementos que a constituíam, e fazendo que nas traducções dos lugares conheçam o genio, e idiotismo da língua, e as bellezas e elegancias della, e do estylo e gosto mais apurado e seguido. (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222) Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 216 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Uma concepção clássica de ensino das línguas vivas era condição sine qua non para a introdução das disciplinas no currículo, bem como era ressal- tada a necessidade da comparação com a língua pátria a partir dos usos de literatos quinhentistas: No ensino das duas línguas referidas seguirão os Professores, quanto ao tempo, e ho- ras das lições, e attestações do aproveitamento dos discipulos, o mesmo que se acha estabelecido, e praticado pelos Professores de Grammatica Latina. [...] Na escolha destes livros se preferirão os da mais perfeita e exacta moral; e para a comparação com a língua patria se escolherão os autores clássicos do século de quinhentos, que melhor reputação teem entre os nossos literatos (apud CELANE, 2000, p. 222) Quanto à contratação dos docentes, não traz a resolução nenhum por- menor, mas é possível encontrar em Almeida (2000) alguns dados sobre a nomeação dos primeiros professores de Francês e de Inglês. Em 26 de agosto de 1809, em carta assinada pelo próprio rei, para a cadeira de Francês, foi contratado o Pe. René Boiret, que lecionava a mesma matéria no Colégio Real dos Nobres, em Portugal. Em 9 de dezembro do mesmo ano, foi designa- do o padre irlandês Jean Joyce, o primeiro professor de língua inglesa do país. Podia-se ler na nomeação que “era necessário criar nesta capital uma cadeira de língua inglesa, porque, pela sua difusão e riqueza e o número de assuntos escritos nesta língua, a mesma convinha ao incremento e à prosperidade da instrução pública” (2000, p. 42). Ainda de acordo com o mesmo autor, há registro a respeito do interesse pelas línguas modernas demonstrado por D. João VI, como indica aviso de 8 de julho de 1811: Uma escola de Educação, fundada no Rio de Janeiro, por volta de 1808, pelo Pe. Felisberto Antônio de Figueiredo e Moura, na qual se ensinavam o Português, o Latim, o Francês, o Inglês, a Retórica, a Aritmética, o Desenho e a Pintura obteve a proteção do governo e, neste sentido, foi determinado que os alunos deste estabe- lecimento fossem isentos da prisão e do recrutamento. (2000, p. 47) Em termos práticos, no que se refere à exposição da língua inglesa no cotidiano das grandes cidades, observa-se que a imprensa escrita teve um papel preponderante em sua divulgação, através, principalmente, do anúncio de venda de produtos britânicos. Os jornais divulgavam um novo estilo de vida ao apregoar as inovações, não só de caráter tecnológico, mas também ar- quitetônico, de moda, de comportamento social, assim como divulgava obras Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 217 e ideias literárias e políticas. Para que se entendessem melhor as novas ten- dências e o idioma que as acompanhavam, era preciso conhecê-lo. Gilberto Freyre apresenta, em Os Ingleses no Brasil (2000), anúncios de professores ingleses ou de língua inglesa, encontrados nos jornais cariocas desde a pri- meira metade do século XIX, como o de ‘Professora Ingleza’, saído na Ga- zeta do Rio de Janeiro, de 8 de fevereiro de 1809: Na Rua do Ourives nº 27 mora huma Ingleza com casa de educação para meninas que queirão aprender a ler, escrever, contar e falar Inglez e Portuguez, cozer e bordar, etc. (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 266). Outro exemplo, do mesmo jornal, de agosto de 1809, oferece o ensino da língua inglesa com ênfase na gramática: Quem quizer aprender a Lingoa Ingleza grammaticalmente com perfeição em pou- co tempo, há de fallar com Francisco Ignácio da Silva, o qual entrega hum bilhete com o nome ao mestre, natural de Londres. [E na mesma Gazeta anunciava João Loureço Toole]:... professor de Lingoa Ingleza; estabelece Aula da dita Lingoa, a qual ensina grammaticalmente, como também Arithmetica e Escripturação dobrada (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 270). Mais de dez anos mais tarde, o ensino de inglês se destinava a meninos e meninas e não faltaram também colégios que, já nas primeiras décadas do século XIX, incluíram estudos mais práticos em seus currículos, inclusive o ensino de línguas, como se nota no anúncio de um ‘Collegio Inglez’, no Jor- nal do Commercio de 1827: Línguas Latina, Portugueza, Ingleza, Franceza, e Hespanhola, gramaticalmente, Historia e Geographia, Lógica, Rhetorica e elocução Escripta, Arithmetica, e Es- cripturação de livros por partidas dobradas, Álgebra e Geometria, Dezenho e Dança (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 269). À guisa de exemplo, sobre a influência britânica no país, que mais tar- de justificaria o ensino definitivo e obrigatório daquela língua, registre-se que, além do incentivo às disciplinas práticas, os britânicos também incentivaram o início da co-educação e até a mudança do tipo de caligrafia. Com isso, a rigidez perpendicular da antiga letra dos portugueses foi sendo substituída por uma inclinação de trinta e cinco graus, própria da letra à inglesa. Ademais, a hege- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 218 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 monia econômica, curiosamente, impunha que tinta e papel para essa escrita também fossem ingleses: a Real Japan Ink e o papel Bath, o pergaminho usado para registrar documentos importantes (cf. FREYRE, 2000, p. 243). Em 1830, a busca por aulas particulares, segundo reclame no Jornal do Commercio, não parecia, ser muito alentadora, haja vista o aviso para en- contrar professores de língua inglesa nativos, Deseja se saber, se nesta Corte existe alguma aula Ingleza, cujo mestre seja também Inglez; pede-se o favor de annunciar a sua moradia por este Jornal, a fim de se hir tratar do ensino de hum menino que já aprende a hum anno o mesmo idioma (apud FREYRE, 2000, p. 270). O curto Período Joanino, compreendido entre 1808 a 1821, marca o início da re-europeização do país. O contato com outros povos e ideias, assim como a necessidade imediata de uma reorganização administrativa, animou o desenvolvimento da vida urbana não só do Rio de Janeiro, mas de Salvador e de Recife. As duas primeiras décadas do século XIX, após a chegada da Corte ao Brasil, são consideradas de grande relevância para a educação bra- sileira, já que o Período Pombalino havia reduzido a educação a uma quase estagnação. O fato de as instituições criadas por D. João VI terem surgido, pela primeira vez, de necessidades do país, ainda que em função de ser sede do reino português, é avaliado como extremamente positivo. Além disso, ao romper com o ensino jesuítico colonial, são as novas instituições que dão origem à estrutura do ensino imperial. O Período Imperial (1822-1888) Ao mesmo tempo em que grandes mudanças ocorriam no Brasil, o povo português estava insatisfeito em relação à demora do retorno da Família Real e o consequente abandono de seu território em mãos inglesas, responsá- veis por vários excessos na expulsão das tropas napoleônicas em 1809. Em razão de tal descontentamento, acrescido da pressão dos políticos portugue- ses no sentido de que fossem fechados os portos brasileiros e restabelecido o monopólio comercial, tem início a Revolução Constitucionalista na cidade do Porto, que faz apressar a volta de D. João VI a Portugal em 1821, precipita a proclamação da independência do Brasil em 1822 e força a outorga de uma Constituição brasileira em 1824, que perduraria por todo o período imperial. Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 219 No que diz respeito à educação, o Art. 179 daquela Lei Magna dizia que estava garantida a “instrução primária e gratuita para todos os cidadãos”, assim como a criação de “Colégios e Universidades, onde serão ensinados os elementos das ciências, belas artes e artes” (RIBEIRO, 1998, p. 43). O docu- mento ainda abolia o privilégio do Estado para oferecer instrução. Outro fato de destaque nesse período é a adoção do Método Lancaster, em 1823, transformado em ‘Método Oficial’, pela Lei de 15 de outubro de 1827. Aquele método já fora experimentado na Europa, levado da Índia para a Inglaterra, e seu uso apoiava-se, especialmente, na tentativa de se suprir a falta de professores. Era conhecido também como ‘Ensino Mútuo’, em que um aluno treinado (decurião) ensinava um grupo de dez alunos (decúria) sob a rígida vigilância de um inspetor. Avalia-se que a aplicação do Método Lan- casteriano não obteve o resultado esperado e apenas serviu para diminuir as despesas da Coroa com a contratação de professores. Em relação ao ensino de línguas modernas, é sabido que o francês já tinha algum destaque desde o início do século XIX. Almeida (2000) informa que, quando foi criada a Academia de Ensino da Marinha, no Rio de Janeiro, em 1808, “exigia-se o conhecimento do Francês para ser admitido” (p. 47). O mesmo acontecia na Academia Militar Real do Rio de Janeiro, fundada em 1810, em que “o curso era de sete anos e todos os livros escolares eram em francês” (p. 47). O inglês, no entanto, passou a fazer parte dos exames de admissão para os cursos de Direito somente em 1831, quando sete disciplinas (Latim, Francês, Inglês, Retórica, Filosofia Racional e Moral e Geometria) foram incorporadas aos Estatutos das Academias de Ciências Jurídicas do Im- pério. Em 1832, o inglês passou a fazer parte, ao lado do francês, de maneira opcional, do exame de admissão para os Cursos de Medicina. É necessário que se considere a instalação da Impressão Régia no Rio de Janeiro como um dos maiores destaques da abertura intelectual do país, pois além de inaugurar um novo momento histórico e cultural, abriu caminho para o surgimento de casas editoriais, tipografias e de um mercado de livros até então inexistente. Em 1812, a Biblioteca Pública é franqueada à cole- tividade e registra-se, como lembra Almeida (2000), além daquela, a exis- tência de numerosas associações literárias e científicas, públicas e privadas, entre as quais, a biblioteca inglesa British Subscription Library, fundada em 1826, portadora de 12.000 volumes à época (p. 21). A procura por aulas de inglês, observada anteriormente, remete à questão da existência de livros de Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 220 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 autores de língua inglesa encontrados no Brasil no período. É oportuno notar que estudos mais recentes, como aqueles efetuados por Vasconcelos (2004), contradizem informações de que apenas literatura francesa era procurada ou, então, de que as obras da língua inglesa eram lidas em versões francesas. A autora revela que havia, na ocasião, uma presença expressiva de romances ingleses, quer no original, quer traduzidos. Entre os escritores mais lidos es- tava Walter Scott, com dezenas de obras no original e traduzidas, sendo que a mais popular era Ivanhoé e suas aventuras, que constavam do catálogo do Gabinete Inglês de Leitura, da Biblioteca Fluminense (fundada em 1847), do Gabinete Português de Leitura Rio de Janeiro, (fundado em 1837) e da British Subscription Library. Em segundo lugar estava Charles Dickens, com ou- tras dezenas de obras, destacando-se David Copperfield, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, em inglês, francês ou em tradução portuguesa, e de Christmas Carols, de 1843, encontrado no Gabinete Português de Leitura. Seguiam-se Daniel Defoe com As Aventuras de Robinson Crusoe, Robert Louis Steven- son, com A Ilha do Tesouro, vários romances de Edgard Allan Poe, das irmãs Bronte, de Jane Austen, de Joseph Rudyard Kipling, para citar apenas alguns. Circulavam, também, textos de pensadores e poetas, como Geoffrey Chaucer, Samuel Coleridge, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, o ensaísta escocês Thomas Carlyle, o filósofo e economista político John Stuart Mill, o filósofo Herbert Spencer. De Jonathan Swift, famoso por Viagens de Gulliver a vários países remotos, foram encontradas traduções portuguesas de 1793, 1836 e 1870 na Biblioteca Fluminense e no Gabinete Português de Leitura. Esses e outros es- critores de língua inglesa e suas obras, lembre-se, são citados inúmeras vezes por Machado de Assis em suas crônicas, direta ou indiretamente. Apesar dessas iniciativas, o ensino brasileiro, até meados do século XIX, ainda padecia da herança recebida da colônia, ou seja, tinha poucas es- colas primárias e médias em mãos de eclesiásticos e alguns seminários epis- copais destinados a uma pequena minoria nobre da corte. Em 1834, com o Ato Adicional da Reforma Constitucional, a educação primária e secundária ficaria a cargo das províncias, restando à administração nacional o ensino su- perior. O objetivo era a descentralização do ensino e um aumento do número de escolas elementares, intuito só atingido por poucas províncias, como a de São Paulo, por exemplo, que passava por um grande avanço político-econô- mico, ao mesmo tempo em que recebia imigrantes europeus que prezavam a educação como forma de ascensão social. Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 221 Mais uma vez, impera o sistema dual de ensino, com superposição dos poderes central e provincial, o que, a longo prazo, definiu a composição da es- trutura e grade curricular da escola secundária. O ensino profissionalizante ou técnico era desprezado e considerado desonroso pelo regime escravista que dava grande ênfase à educação literária e retórica. A descentralização acarre- tou um desenvolvimento das escolas secundárias particulares, principalmente nas capitais e províncias. Criado pelo Governo Federal, em 1837, o Colégio de Pedro II consti- tuiu-se na única instituição de cultura geral fundada durante o Império. Após a criação do Colégio, destinado a servir de padrão de ensino, houve várias tentativas de mudança na educação brasileira, com inúmeras reformas rela- tivas à organização escolar como um todo. A instituição passou por momen- tos considerados de franco progresso, mas inúmeras vezes atravessou fases de estagnação e retrocesso, à mercê das reformas políticas e ministeriais. A predominância dos estudos literários e retóricos do Colégio, de caracterís- tica fortemente europeizante e aristocrática, ainda revelaria uma verdadeira obsessão com os estudos superiores, não havendo, em absoluto, preocupação com a educação do povo. É possível registrar-se um avanço na escola brasi- leira secundária após a criação do Colégio de D. Pedro II, ainda que a essên- cia da orientação quinhentista fosse mantida — o currículo inicial do colégio demonstra forte interesse no latim e grego, por exemplo. A língua inglesa, de acordo com o decreto de 2 de dezembro de 1837, entrou para o currículo das escolas que se dedicavam ao ensino secundário de fato, ocasião em que Ber- nardo de Vasconcelos, regente interino do Colégio, decreta que naquele edu- candário “serão ensinadas as línguas latina, grega, francesa e inglesa, retórica e os princípios elementares de geografia, história, filosofia, zoologia, minera- logia, botânica, química, física, aritmética, álgebra, geometria, e astronomia” (Annuario do Collégio Pedro II, 1914, p. 42). Dedica-se, pela primeira vez, uma maior atenção às línguas modernas. Em 1841, quando o curso completo da instituição passou para sete anos, juntamente com as clássicas, as línguas modernas passaram a fazer parte de quase todas as séries, conforme palavras de Azevedo: [...] as matemáticas e as ciências físicas, químicas e naturais amontoavam-se nos três últimos [anos], enquanto o grego é ensinado em quatro, e o latim, o francês e o inglês se estendem pelos sete anos, apresentando o latim maior número de lições do que o de quaisquer outras disciplinas. Esse plano de estudos consagra no Colégio Pedro II Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 222 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 um ensino secundário de tipo clássico, com predominância dos estudos literários e adaptado menos às condições especiais do meio do que às tradições morais e intelec- tuais do país. (1976, p. 79) Em 1855, o ministério de Couto Ferraz introduz alterações conside- ráveis no ensino, que visavam às exigências culturais e sociais do Brasil de então. O ensino secundário passou a ser ministrado em sete anos, seguindo orientação dos liceus franceses, divididos em dois ciclos: um ciclo de quatro anos, semelhante ao antigo ginásio, chamado de ‘estudos de primeira classe’, e outro de três que lembra o antigo colegial, os ‘estudos de segunda clas- se’. Tal orientação foi mantida até 1900 quando o tempo foi reduzido para seis anos. Obteria o grau de Bacharel em Letras o aluno que terminasse os dois ciclos, interesse esse de quase todos que o frequentavam. Constavam do exame de admissão, de acordo com o Decreto n. 1.601, de 10 de maio de 1855 (GPHELB, 2006), para os cursos superiores, provas de versão de autores clás- sicos latinos, e de renomados escritores em francês e em inglês, assim como trechos de autores nacionais deveriam ser traduzidos para a língua pela qual se optasse para o exame. Tanto o currículo das línguas clássicas como o das modernas sofreram várias alterações após serem inseridas no Ensino Secundário. Como demons- trará o quadro, na conclusão desse artigo, a Reforma Couto Ferraz, ao mesmo tempo em que dedicava dez anos de estudo ao latim e ao grego, destinava, pela primeira vez, nove anos ao francês, ao inglês e ao alemão, mais um, facultativo, ao Italiano — medida que se manteve mais ou menos estável até o fim do regime imperial. Em 1857, acontece a reforma do Marquês de Olinda que, segundo o Annuario do Collégio Pedro II de 1914 (p. 68), dividiu a instituição em dois estabelecimentos, o Internato e o Externato e acrescentou um 5º ano aos estudos de primeira classe. Nessa série foi incluído o inglês, ao lado do francês, alemão, italiano, latim e grego. O número de aulas de língua estran- geira nunca foi consensual, passando por inúmeras modificações num eterno câmbio de horas entre os idiomas, o que ocasionou, com o passar dos anos e a vontade dos ministros, a diminuição do número final de horas semanais para aquelas disciplinas. O auge e a decadência no estudo de línguas estrangeiras, na verdade, seguem o próprio auge e desprestígio por que passou a Escola Se- cundária durante o Império e a Primeira República, numa eterna tentativa de Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 223 adaptar o país e o ensino às mudanças que ocorriam celeremente pelo mundo. Chagas (1957) afirma que o estudo de línguas estrangeiras somente passou a ser levado a sério no ensino secundário oficial a partir de 1931, com a Refor- ma Francisco de Campos, que destinou seis horas por semana ao ensino do latim e dezessete ao estudo de línguas modernas. Para Chagas, essa primeira experiência séria para atualizar o estudo de idiomas modernos permite en- xergar no desenvolvimento da didática do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil “duas fases claramente definidas: ‘antes de 1931’ e ‘depois de 1931’.” Em 1860, o inspetor geral Euzébio de Queiroz explica em relatório que deveria haver o acréscimo de um ano para o estudo do francês — à época dado em três anos enquanto ao inglês eram dedicados quatro, como relata Almeida (2000): [...] é útil consagrar um ano mais ao estudo do francês; ele baseia sua opinião na di- ficuldade gramatical desta língua, maior que a da língua inglesa à qual se dedicam quatro anos e somente três para a língua francesa. (p. 103) A Reforma Paulino de Souza, de 1870, pretendia imprimir aos estudos realizados no Colégio Pedro II um caráter formativo, habilitando os alunos não só para os estudos superiores, mas para a vida e, acima de tudo, pretendia que a instituição fosse capaz de competir com os estabelecimentos particula- res no aliciamento de candidatos às Academias. Apesar de ser “uma fase rica de propostas de reformas de quase todas as instituições existentes”, como as- segura Ribeiro (1998, p. 65), em 1872, o Brasil contava com uma população de 10 milhões de habitantes e apenas 150.000 alunos matriculados em escolas primárias. O índice de analfabetismo é de 66,4% e as reformas, baseadas no liberalismo e cientificismo do século XIX, não surtem o efeito esperado, pois pareciam estar longe da realidade. Segundo o Grupo de Pesquisa História do Ensino de Línguas no Bra- sil (2006), o Decreto n. 4.468, de 1º de fevereiro de 1870, dizia que o ensino de línguas estrangeiras seria comparável ao de Língua Portuguesa e, quan- to às Línguas Vivas, enfatizava, pela primeira vez, a habilidade oral, assim como sugeria um “aperfeiçoamento nas linguas latina, franceza e ingleza” com “prelecções elementares” sobre a índole, formação e progresso de cada uma delas, alternadas com a leitura, tradução e “appreciação litteraria” dos “autores clássicos”. Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 224 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Colégios laicos e as primeiras escolas protestantes destacam-se nessa época por trazer as ideias pedagógicas americanas e propagá-las no Brasil. Em São Paulo, é fundada a Escola Americana, em 1870, que se dedica ao ensino elementar e, dez anos mais tarde, à escola secundária — ambas do Ma- ckenzie College, hoje, Escola Americana e Colégio Presbiteriano Mackenzie, que serviriam de modelo para a escola pública em São Paulo no início da República: [...] na realidade, transplantavam para o Brasil as experiências que os Estados Uni- dos haviam desenvolvido, a partir das inovações que receberam da Europa. O prag- matismo americano ainda não havia encontrado sua expressão filosófica e já a escola americana atendia às exigências das condições sócio-culturais de sua clientela (REIS FILHO, 1974, apud RIBEIRO, 1998, p. 68). No Decreto n. 6.130, de 1º de março de 1876 (GPHELB, 2006), com exceção do grego, houve uma diminuição considerável no número de aulas de línguas estrangeiras — o alemão e o italiano já haviam sido extintos na reforma de 1870; o latim e o francês ficam com apenas metade de suas aulas, respectivamente 3 e 2 anos de estudo, e o inglês passa de 4 para 1 ano, sendo ensinado apenas no 5º ano, assemelhando-se ao programa de francês e ao de línguas clássicas, com a exceção da conversação. Em 1879, o Conselheiro Leôncio de Carvalho realiza uma reforma de ensino que permitiria “a cada um expor livremente suas ideias e ensinar as doutrinas que acredite verdadeiras, pelos métodos que julgue melhores”, pois defendia que os Estados Unidos e países europeus prosperavam em consequência da “adoção do princípio de liberdade de ensino” (RIBEIRO, 1998, p. 67). Ao mesmo tempo, manteve as matrículas avulsas e introduziu a frequência livre e os exames vagos no Externato do Colégio de Pedro II, que continuava com um ensino secundário propedêutico e seletivo. No currículo de línguas estrangeiras houve apenas acréscimo de uma aula a mais na cadeira de inglês, que passou a ser ensinado no terceiro e quarto anos. A Reforma do Ministro Homem de Mello, em 1881, foi a última do período imperial e merece destaque, no Annuario do Collegio Pedro II, de 1914, pelo fato de ter sido dada maior atenção ao ensino de Português, até o 5º ano, feito a partir de então, com desdobramentos nas séries seguintes: Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 225 sendo continuado no 6º pela Retórica, Poética e Literatura Nacional e terminando no 7º pela história da Língua, pelo seu estudo comparativo com as outras línguas românticas [...] e pela análise das diferentes fases da literatura lusitana. (1914, p.84) Quanto às outras línguas, “o Latim seria estudado do 2º ao 5º ano e o Inglês no 4º e 5º ano, o Alemão e o Grego no 6º e 7º ano, o Italiano no 7º” (1914, p. 86-87). É necessário ressaltar que àquela data, embora o currículo das línguas clássicas e modernas tenha sofrido constantes perdas e ganhos no número de horas de estudo, nada é comparável à falta de atenção dedicada ao estudo da língua portuguesa. Comparativamente, como explica Chagas, espantava que, embora fossem ensinadas sete línguas, [...] ‘além de Retórica e Literatura, ‘entre essas línguas’ o Português nem sequer aparecesse no plano de 1876; ou aparecesse com menos de 1% nos de 1841 e 1878; com menos de 10% nos de 1853 e 1857; e com menos de 15% nos de 1862 e 1870; para surgir 27,7% no de 1881; sempre considerando isoladamente a área de Letras (1978, p. 20). Não se pode deixar ainda de comentar que o interesse no idioma na- cional teve lugar na escola secundária apenas pela razão de passar a ser exigi- do como preparatório para os exames de ingresso aos cursos superiores. Ao se estudar a evolução do ensino no país como um todo, conclui-se que o Brasil chegava ao final do século XIX numa situação quase calamitosa. Segundo Morais (1989), no final do século XIX, o país contava com poucas escolas primárias — 250 mil alunos em cursos primários, num total de 14 milhões de habitantes — ou seja, pouco havia sido feito para a educação básica. No que se refere à frequência nos cursos superiores, em 1864, havia 826 alunos estudando Direito (essa preferência aumentaria ainda mais), 294 na Escola de Medicina, 154 em Engenharia e 109 na Escola Militar (p.103). Sabe-se que após 1870, com o fim da Guerra do Paraguai, aumentam as campanhas abolicionistas e republicanas e setores descontentes da igreja e dos quarteis promovem movimentos que levam à queda da Monarquia. A educação refletia as incertezas do período: a instrução pública, em algumas províncias, encontrava-se em grande atraso enquanto em outras havia muita lentidão. Em poucas era sensível o progresso, mas nenhuma apresentava um resultado que pudesse ser considerado satisfatório, quer pelo número e ex- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 226 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 celência de professores e estabelecimentos de ensino, quer pela frequência e aproveitamento dos alunos. Ao cair a Monarquia em 15 de Novembro de 1889, o Governo Pro- visório, em que dispunha de grande influência Benjamin Constant, professor afamado e adepto do Positivismo, reformou profundamente a instrução em todo país. A Reforma de Benjamin Constant, Decreto n.º 1.075, de 22 de novembro de 1890, tinha como princípios orientadores a liberdade e a lai- cidade do ensino, como também a gratuidade da escola primária. As línguas estrangeiras modernas sofrem mais uma vez um corte de aulas no currículo da escola secundária e diminui-se um ano no estudo do latim. Eliminam-se o italiano, a retórica e do estudo das literaturas estrangeiras, substituído pelo da História da Literatura Nacional. O inglês, juntamente com o alemão, passa a ser disciplina optativa nos estudos de primeira classe, oferecido do 3º ao 5º ano. A reforma de Benjamim Constant não foi colocada em prática, ele foi afastado do ministério e faleceu no ano seguinte. As línguas modernas retomaram relativa importância, novamente, com a Reforma Fernando Lobo, Decreto n.º 1.041, de 11 de setembro de 1892, em 1892. O latim, o francês e o alemão passaram a ter o mesmo tempo de estudo que as línguas clássicas – três anos – fazendo parte dos exames nos institutos oficiais de ensino secundário dos estados. Em 1898, a nova Reforma Amaro Cavalcanti, Decreto n.º 2.857, de 30 de março de 1898, institui um novo regulamento para o colégio de D.Pedro II, o “Curso Propedêutico ou Realista”, de seis anos, e o “Curso Clássico ou Humanista”, de sete anos, que dá, mais uma vez, prioridade às disciplinas hu- manísticas — História da Filosofia, Latim e Grego. As línguas vivas, inglês, alemão e francês eram oferecidas em quase todos os anos dos dois cursos, como optativas, versão que perdurou quase que integralmente nas duas décadas se- guintes. Com o ministro Epitácio Pessoa, Decreto n.º 3.890, de 1.º de janeiro de 1901, em 1901, aquelas línguas voltam a ter um aspecto pragmático, perdendo o tratamento literário. Até 1931, quando se verifica uma mudança de paradigma no ensino brasileiro — formação do aluno com vistas aos grandes setores da ativida- de nacional —, verifica-se um movimento pendular entre a visão prática do ensino de línguas estrangeiras e suas respectivas ‘evoluções literárias’, nos variados regulamentos que se seguiram. É naquele ano, com Portaria de 30 de junho de 1931, que se enfatiza, como procedimento de ensino oficial Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 227 das línguas vivas, nas aulas de francês, de inglês e de alemão a utilização do ‘Método Direto Intuitivo’, ou ‘Método Direto’— metodologia monolíngue de ensino de língua estrangeira centrada somente no uso da língua alvo em sala de aula, idealizada no final do século XIX, por François Gouin, com o nome de Series Method, tornando-se mais tarde, o Direct Method. Foi uma das primeiras reações ao excesso de explicações de regras gramaticais e me- morização de listas de vocábulo; em seu lugar, o aluno aprenderia por meio da associação direta de palavras e frases com objetos e ações; o uso da língua materna e a tradução são quase que proibidas nessa percepção. O período da Primeira República (1889-1929) constituiu-se de uma série de reformas no ensino, tão indefinidas quanto as da fase anterior, tornan- do-se apenas um prolongamento do Império. Fica evidente que, conquanto tivesse havido por volta de oito reformas empreendidas durante trinta e cinco anos, elas não serviram para apresentar resultados positivos na educação bra- sileira como um todo, pois a preocupação primeira de preparar jovens para o curso superior continuava incoerentemente a se perpetrar, em detrimento da escola básica. Entrava-se no novo século continuando a buscar inspiração nos modelos europeus que, paulatinamente, ganhavam a concorrência dos padrões americanos, seguindo a tendência marcante do século XX. Inspira- ções à parte, a história demonstra que, embora as pretensões fossem elevadas, correriam outros trinta anos até que as reformas na educação começassem a apresentar algum resultado positivo: isso só aconteceria a partir da Reforma Francisco de Campos, em 1931. Considerações finais Muitos foram os que, em geral, com pouco conhecimento dos proble- mas educacionais, apresentaram projetos de reforma do ensino, as quais, no entanto, não lograram resolver os graves problemas educacionais brasilei- ros. Não somente faltava infraestrutura institucional como também vontade e apoio político das classes mais abastadas, que temiam ideias efetivamente reformadoras. O resultado desastroso a que se chegara em 1890, no Brasil, era o índice de 85% de analfabetos, sendo que a virada do século apresentaria, igualmente, um número nada otimista de 75% de analfabetos que perduraria até 1920, segundo o Anuário Estatístico do Brasil de 1936. Com referência à evolução do ensino de línguas estrangeiras, o quadro abaixo, baseado nos da- Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 228 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 dos de Chagas (1957, p. 87), demonstra claramente, como expusemos ao lon- go deste artigo, o desprestígio sofrido por aquelas disciplinas, que acompa- nha, como já se disse, o próprio desprestígio da escola secundária brasileira. Por Períodos de Estudo Data Reformas Línguas Clássicas Línguas Modernas Latim Grego Francês Inglês Alemão Italiano 1855 Couto Ferraz 7 3 3 3 3 1 (Facul- tativo) 1857 Marquês de Olinda 7 2 3 4 2 1 (Facul- tativo) 1862 Sousa Ramos 7 2 3 4 2 2 (Facul- tativo) 1870 Paulino de Souza 6 2 4 4 - - 1876 Cunha Figueiredo 3 2 2 1 2 (Faculta- tivo) - 1878 Leôncio de Carvalho 3 2 2 2 2 - 1881 Homem de Melo 4 2 2 2 2 1 (Facul- tativo) 1890 Benjamin Constant 3 2 3 3 (opcional) - 1892 Fernando Lobo 3 3 3 3 3 - 1900 Epitácio Pes- soa 3 3 3 3 3 - Mais do que a constante redução do tempo dedicado ao ensino de lín- guas estrangeiras e da crescente mudança de currículos, demarcadas no qua- dro, o início do século registra falta de qualidade no ensino, oferecido ainda somente a uma pequena parcela da população, interessada, geralmente, ape- nas na busca de um diploma — fenômeno que ficou conhecido como ‘bacha- relismo’—, segurança e ascensão profissional. O bacharel em Direito tornara- se uma nova constante na vida política brasileira, com carreira valorizada na conjuntura sócio-político-cultural da época. Em resumo, persistia o ensino secundário já considerado de má qualidade no Império. O Brasil adentra o novo século atingido pelo confronto de ideias entre correntes divergentes e Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 229 a existência de novas forças sociais, sobretudo aquelas relacionadas com as modificações na estrutura econômica, que, influenciadas pelos movimentos europeus, reforçam a incerteza do caminho a seguir. Os resultados relativos ao índice de analfabetismo indicam que o Brasil não conseguia tirar o atraso de séculos de colonização portuguesa e alcançar a velocidade do passo dado pela Europa e os Estados Unidos com a Revolução Científico-Tecnológica. Havia um clima de enaltecimento do cosmopolitismo, identificado com a vida e os padrões europeus e valores burgueses. Aqueles que faziam parte das eli- tes pareciam não esconder que almejavam ser menos ‘brasileiros’, enterrar o passado colonial, escravocrata e esconder a vergonha do Brasil de ser pobre e negro. A tentativa da formação do que seria uma identidade brasileira era tam- bém estimulada pelo programa de incentivo à imigração, com o objetivo claro de que os europeus trariam prosperidade econômica e social e europeizariam e ‘embranqueceriam’ a sociedade brasileira. Procurava-se, com a integração dos imigrantes ao trabalho, um ideal de construção de uma nacionalidade (HANNA et al, 2006, p. 66). A Belle Époque, momento em que a cena cultural fervilhava com o cinema e que a arte alcançava novas formas com o Impressionismo e a Art Nouveau, é bruscamente interrompida com a deflagração da Primeira Guerra Mundial. No Brasil, a Belle Époque Tropical abrange aproximadamente o pe- ríodo pós-republica, de 1900 a 1920 — ocasião em que o país, aproveitando o momento de mudança drástica no padrão do comércio mundial, amplia suas exportações para as nações beligerantes, ao mesmo tempo em que cria novas indústrias para substituir parte dos artigos importados. Como se posicionaria a educação no Brasil nesse contexto de mu- danças sócio-econômico drásticas? Como acompanhar as novas ideias pro- pagadas em âmbito internacional, surgidas de grupos de estudiosos europeus e americanos que rompiam com o ensino tradicional e propunham reformas educacionais que transformariam a concepção de educação no mundo oci- dental? Para que se tente entender o difícil período que enfrentaria a educa- ção brasileira até aproximadamente 1930, no que se refere à equiparação do país às potências europeias e americanas, é preciso lembrar que, enquanto o Brasil ainda não conseguira solucionar o índice de aproximadamente 75% de analfabetos, as matrículas nas universidades americanas haviam triplicado durante a década — de 250.000 estudantes em 1920, passaram a 750.000 em 1930 (LANE; O’SULLIVAN, 1999). Vera Lucia Harabagi HANNA 230 Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 Faz-se imperativo citar apenas alguns dos nomes mais importantes, responsáveis por mudanças surpreendentes no modo de pensar a educação, como um todo, nas primeiras décadas do século XX e já em prática nos paí- ses de que se originavam. São eles: o educador escocês Alexander Sutherland Neil, que funda em 1921, na Inglaterra, a Escola Summerhill; a educadora italiana Maria Montessori, que edita, no mesmo ano, o Manual da Pedagogia. Em 1923, é a vez de Jean Piaget lançar a obra A linguagem e o pensamento na criança, e, no ano seguinte, O raciocínio e o julgamento na criança. O fi- lósofo, reformador e educador americano John Dewey, um dos fundadores da Escola do Pragmatismo, que já havia lançado em 1887, Psicologia, em 1899, Escola e Sociedade e que, em 1916, editaria uma das obras mais extraordi- nárias na área da Pedagogia Moderna, Democracia e Educação. Mas essa é uma outra história, que fica para uma outra vez. HANNA, Vera Lucia Harabagi. Considerations regarding the course of foreign language teaching in Brasil: XVI - XIX Century. Revista do Gel. São Paulo, v. 6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009. ABSTRACT: The aim of this article is to present a brief history of the Brazilian education. We draw a panorama of the development of the teaching of modern languages and recollect language instruction memory of the period. KEYWORDS: Brazilian Education. Foreing Language Teaching. Modern Languages. Referências ALMEIDA, José Ricardo Pires. História da Instrução Pública no Brasil (1500-1889) História e Legislação. Brasília: INEP/ PUC SP, 2000. AVELLAR, Hélio de Alcântara. História administrativa do Brasil: a administração pombalina. 2. ed. Brasília: FUNCEP/Editora da Universidade de Brasília, 1983. ______. A transmissão da cultura.... São Paulo: Melhoramentos/INL, 1976. (Parte terceira da 5. ed. da obra “A cultura brasileira”) CELANE, Maria Antonieta Alba. O ensino de Língua Estrangeira no Império: O que mudou? In: BRAIT, Beth; BASTOS, Neusa (Orgs.). Imagens do Brasil: 500 anos. São Paulo: EDUC, 2000. p. 216-248. Reflexões sobre a trajetória do ensino de línguas estrangeiras no Brasil Revista do GEL, São Paulo, v.6, n. 2, p. 207-231, 2009 231 CHAGAS, Valnir. Didática Especial de Línguas Modernas. São Paulo: Companhia Editora Nacional, 1957. COLLEGIO PEDRO II. Annuario do Collegio Pedro II, 1º Anno, 1914. Revista dos Tribunaes, Rio de Janeiro, 1914. FREYRE, Gilberto. Ingleses no Brasil. 3. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Topbooks Editora, 2000. GPHELB, Grupo de Pesquisa História do Ensino de Línguas no Brasil, da Universidade Federal de Sergipe. 2006. Disponível em: http://www.ufs.br/gphelb/index.htm. Acesso em: 21 de dezembro de 2008. GOMES, Laurentino. 1808: como uma rainha louca, um príncipe medroso e uma corte corrupta enganaram Napoleão e mudaram a história de Portugal e do Brasil. 9. reimpressão. São Paulo: Editora Planeta do Brasil Ltda., 2007. HANNA, Vera L. Harabagi; BASTOS, Neusa; PIRES, Regina. Gramaticografia Nove- centista: Raízes Maximinianas. In: BASTOS, Neusa; PALMA, Dieli (Orgs.). A constru- ção das Gramáticas e o Ensino de Língua Portuguesa na primeira metade do século XX. Rio de Janeiro: Lucerna, 2006. p. 61-81. INSTITUTO BRASILEIRO DE GEOGRAFIA E ESTATÍSTICA. Anuário Estatístico do Brasil. Rio de Janeiro, 1936. LANE, Jack; O’SULLIVAN, Maurice (Eds.). A Twentieth-Century American Reader Vol. 1 – 1900 -1945. Washington D.C.: United States Information Agency, 1999. MORAIS, Régis de. Cultura Brasileira e Educação. Campinas: Papirus Editora, 1989. PILETTI, Nelson. História da Educação no Brasil. 7. ed. São Paulo: Ática, 1997. ROMANELLI, Otaiza de Oliveira. História da Educação no Brasil. 20. ed. Petrópolis: Editora Vozes, 1998. VASCONCELOS, Sandra Guardini. Romances ingleses em circulação no Brasil du- rante o séc. XIX. 2004. Disponível em http://www.unicamp.br/iel/memoria/Ensaios/ Sandra/sandralev.htm. Acesso em: 17 de setembro de 2008. 
work_vryq3khz3vdw3iuah2s3cm7xlq	----	This thesis has been submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for a postgraduate degree (e.g. PhD, MPhil, DClinPsychol) at the University of Edinburgh. Please note the following terms and conditions of use: This work is protected by copyright and other intellectual property rights, which are retained by the thesis author, unless otherwise stated. A copy can be downloaded for personal non-commercial research or study, without prior permission or charge. This thesis cannot be reproduced or quoted extensively from without first obtaining permission in writing from the author. The content must not be changed in any way or sold commercially in any format or medium without the formal permission of the author. When referring to this work, full bibliographic details including the author, title, awarding institution and date of the thesis must be given. Socialist Realist Theatre in the Soviet Union in the 1930s: Forming a Social Identity Sofia Polychronidou This thesis is submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy to the School of Literatures, Languages and Cultures The University of Edinburgh 2019 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 2 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 3 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 4 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 5 Abstract The aim of this thesis is to use the socialist realist theatre example to examine the theatre’s ability to form social identities. This is a difficult task because, for a start, the theory has failed – thus far – to give socialist realism a single definition. Very often, socialist realism was solely related to its political connotations and judged as such, a fact that often compromised research findings and underestimated the complexity of the phenomenon. This thesis addresses this shortcoming and follows more recent research, which indicates that early post-revolution socialist realism constituted a distinct artistic movement with its distinguishable traits. From this perspective, the present thesis reports on whether the critical analysis received by socialist realist theatre during the first decades after the Revolution constitutes evidence of the formative power of theatre. In other words, the thesis investigates to what extent the debate on the aesthetics of the new socialist theatre – during the 1920s and 1930s – shaped the social characteristics of the public. The thesis aims to enable theatre practitioners and theorists today to understand the relationship between the social needs of people and theatre’s ability to function as the vehicle for achieving them. Using two leading theatres (the Meyerhold Theatre, and the Moscow Art Theatre) of the time (1928-1939) as case studies, this thesis demonstrates that – in both cases – the theatre directors were both implementers and interpreters of their understanding of this new socialist world, and examines the role of the reviews received in light of this interpretation. Finally, the significance of this study is that it expands our theoretical understanding of how theatre operates as the driving force in the formation of the social identity of any given audience, at any given historical time. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 6 Lay Summary This thesis examines the correlation between society and theatre. It tries to determine the extent to which theatre is capable of forming specific social characteristics to its audience, in relation with its contemporary economic and social changes. Thus, from a more general viewpoint, it attempts to understand how economic and social changes affect the way we see theatre and our expectations from it. The thesis uses the cases of the Meyerhold Theatre and the Moscow Art Theatre to understand how the critical reviews of socialist realism and the aspirations of its theorists managed to shape the social traits of the public. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 7 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 8 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 9 Table of Contents CHAPTER 1 Introduction and literature review ..................................................... 17 Introduction ........................................................................................................................................ 17 Literature review ................................................................................................................................ 20 a. Socialist realist theatre .................................................................................................. 21 b. Socialist realist art and aesthetics ............................................................................... 25 b.1. Socialist realism as ‘totalitarian’ art: the impossible theory .............................................26 b.2. The origins of socialist realism in the theory and practice of nineteenth-century Russian aesthetics ........................................................................................................................30 b.3. Socialist realism: its traces in the Russian Avant-Garde and the transition of the artist ........................................................................................................................................................36 b.4. Identifying the canon ..........................................................................................................43 Socialist realism and Theatre Studies ............................................................................................ 50 Objectives, methods, and future plans ........................................................................................ 54 CHAPTER 2 The social framework and theoretical background of the socialist realist theatre ............................................................................................................. 57 Introduction ........................................................................................................................................ 57 Origins and new challenges ........................................................................................................... 58 The artistic field in the 1920s and the role of the party ............................................................. 60 The aesthetic theory of Anatoly Lunacharsky............................................................................. 68 The aesthetic theory of Maxim Gorky ........................................................................................... 76 Conclusion .......................................................................................................................................... 82 CHAPTER 3 The Meyerhold Theatre and the formation of socialist realism ..... 85 Introduction ........................................................................................................................................ 85 On repertoire ...................................................................................................................................... 88 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 10 On individualism .............................................................................................................................. 107 On estrangement and formalism ................................................................................................ 116 Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................ 128 CHAPTER 4 The Moscow Art Theatre: Conservativism & ................................. 131 Introduction ...................................................................................................................................... 131 Contemporary repertoire .............................................................................................................. 133 a. The cultural background ........................................................................................... 136 b. The case of The Days of the Turbins .......................................................................... 137 c. The story of the bans .................................................................................................. 146 d. RAPP and MAT ............................................................................................................ 149 Classic repertoire............................................................................................................................. 151 a. Gorky and Lunacharsky on the classics .................................................................... 152 b. Ostrovsky in MAT ......................................................................................................... 155 c. From aesthetic reassessment to ideological incompatibility .................................. 160 d. Identifying the social necessity: Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy ....................................... 162 e. The case of Anna Karenina ....................................................................................... 167 f. From realism as essence to classicism as form ......................................................... 173 Stanislavsky and dialectical materialism .................................................................................... 176 a. Science versus ‘psychologism’ in Stanislavsky’s system of acting .......................... 178 b. The change in the psychological background ....................................................... 181 c. Stanislavsky’s quest in dialectical materialism.......................................................... 183 Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................ 184 CHAPTER 5 General conclusions and discussion ............................................. 187 Introduction ...................................................................................................................................... 187 Recapitulation of purpose and findings..................................................................................... 187 Relationship with previous research ............................................................................................ 194 Limitations and issues facing the study....................................................................................... 196 a. Methodological limitations ........................................................................................ 196 b. Limitations of the researcher ..................................................................................... 199 Future directions .............................................................................................................................. 201 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 11 Contribution to research ............................................................................................................... 202 Bibliography ............................................................................................................. 205 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 12 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 13 List of Illustrations 3.1. The General Inspector, Final Scene 92 3.2. Meyerhold rehearsing with Raikh in List of Assets 99 3.3. Prisypkin being unfrozen in the second part of Bedbug 101 3.4. The final scene of Bathhouse 101 3.5. The Lady with the Camellias, set sketch 104 4.1. Scene from The Days of the Turbins 145 4.2. Scene from An Ardent Heart 159 4.3. Scene from The Forest 159 4.4. Scene from The Resurrection 166 4.5. Anna Karenina on Izvestiya’s front page 168 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 14 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 15 Note on transliteration The transliteration system used throughout the main text is ISO 9:1995. This does not, however, apply to the well-known names where there is an existing accepted English form. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 16 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 17 CHAPTER 1 Introduction and literature review Introduction Over the years, the issue of socialist realism has received considerable critical attention and has led to innumerable definitions, often highly contradictory to each other. The literature review that follows shows that scholars still do not conform to one commonly accepted description of socialist realism. From terms such as ‘method’, ‘doctrine’, ‘dogma’, ‘movement’, to different theories on how it has been formulated or what its connection is with the great Russian cultural past, different wordings created contradictions that often hindered its investigation. As Gary Saul Morson observes: ‘for understandable reasons, most discussions on socialist realism resemble elegies more than analyses. […] There is, or should be, room for the sort of analysis that would treat socialist realism as a literary fact, not simply an unfortunate political consequence, without being accused of apologizing for it’1. In addition, in more recent years, and from a socio-political perspective, the dissipation of the Cold War atmosphere, which had polarized every aspect of social life and seemed like a permanent fixture in global politics (Service, 2015), along with the overthrowing of the socialist system in the former U.S.S.R., have encouraged new approaches to socialist realism and stimulated new efforts in systematizing this highly complicated and composite phenomenon. 1 Morson, p. 121. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 18 Apart from political and historical constrictions, however, the theatre of socialist realism, in particular, has been even more understudied. For diverse reasons, its research has been in and of itself highly challenging. ‘As distinct from painting, architecture, sculpture, poetry, prose or music’ says Konstantin Rudnitsky in the preface of one of the most essential works on the Russian and Soviet theatre Russian & Soviet Theatre: Tradition & Avant-Garde, ‘the art of the theatre is always, by its very nature, contemporary and cannot live a full-blooded existence outside its own time’2. Except from its contemporaneity, other practical reasons, such as the lack (until recently) of scientific tools in examining performances, along with the controversial and much disputed subject of socialist realism itself, added up to this challenge. However, models of analysis of a theatre performance that have been inserted in the academic field in the last few decades, such as Patrice Pavis’ Analyzing Performance: Theater, Dance, and Film (2003) and Erica Fisher Lichte’s The Semiotics of Theater (1992), have provided scholars with new methodological tools that improved the examination both of the final production of a mise- en-scene but also of its roots of elaboration. Peripheral components and supplementary documents such as theatre programmes, production books, press releases, photographs, videos have been set forward as integral parts of the examination of a theatre performance. In addition, the development of theatre studies not only systematized the study of each part of the theatrical phenomenon but, more significantly, showed the importance of studying them as a whole. It enriched the reception of the final product with more aspects, such as the building of the theatre, the space of the stage, the actors’ bodies, movements, and expressions, and the dramatic structure and form as a whole. It also examined the performance as part of its historical moment and as a social event. Finally, it turned the gaze of researchers from the stage to the auditorium, paying detailed attention to audience perception of the performance, identifying its presence as the ultimate trait of any performance. Above all, it established the significance of studying all these aspects in an interdisciplinary way, as this is exactly what theatre is. In the Cambridge Introduction to Theatre Studies, Christopher Balme notes that: This change in nomenclature reflected a shift in focus towards the theatrical performance as the central object of study, from both contemporary and historical perspectives. The name change [theatre studies] also signalled a break away from literary studies, of which drama was seen as a part. This did not mean that dramatic 2 Rudnitsky, p. 7. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 19 texts were no longer studied (on the contrary), but it did indicate that they were just one—and perhaps not even the most important—part of a more complex cultural phenomenon.3 The present research combines these developments and attempts to form a new approach to socialist realist theatre viewing it as ‘a complex cultural phenomenon’. By combining interdisciplinary theoretical approaches, such as theatre studies, Literature, Russian History, and Marxist Philosophy, this research intends to illuminate how theatre can and does affect the formation of the social characteristics in any given society. With this approach, it is argued that theatre played such an important role in the formation of socialist identity that it became vital to understand how it did so, generating, in its turn, an investigation into contemporary Audience Theories4 too. In a broader context, this type of approach can enhance with significant knowledge the theoretical examination of how economic and social systems influence theatre and vice versa. Chronologically, the research covers the years between the implementation of the First Five Year Plan by Stalin in 1928 until just before the start of World War II. During these years, the Soviet Union had undergone an outstanding economic and industrial growth that triggered major cultural changes5. This thesis focuses on two distinguished theatres (Meyerhold’s and Moscow Art Theatre - MAT) and their leading figures: Vsevolod Meyerhold, Konstantin Stanislavsky and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko. It is divided into five chapters. The rest of Chapter 1 reviews the academic research on socialist realism published to date and introduces the readers to those theatre studies theories that may help them understand why theatre played such a significant role in the formation of the new socialist identity. Specifically, the literature review illuminates the gap in research on socialist realist theatre as an independent6 phenomenon (meaning as a movement with its own characteristics) and uses literary theories on socialist realism to portray the different concepts that it has been given by scholars. Chapter 2 portrays the social and artistic circumstances under which this new aesthetic current emerged and how its two main theoretical figures (Anatoly Lunacharsky and Maxim Gorky), in both their pre- and post-revolutionary work, shaped what 3 Balme, p. 11. 4 e.g., (i) Auslander, (ii) Bennett 1997, (iii) Bennett 2012, (iv) Boenisch. 5 This is manifested in works such as: (i) Lynn Mally 1996, and (ii) Bohlinger. 6 The term ‘independent’ refers to socialist realism as a movement with its own discernible characteristics. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 20 was thereafter known as ‘socialist realism’. Chapters 3 and 4 follow the productions of Meyerhold’s Theatre and Moscow Art Theatre - respectively, the critical commentaries and observations to which they were subjected, and what they both did to improve their practice accordingly. The final chapter summarizes the findings and shapes our understanding of the significant role theatre plays in the formation of a social identity. By recognizing the reciprocal influence between the state, as the official exponent of ideology, and the theatre, as a ‘complex cultural phenomenon’, the present study detects their dynamic relationship and their mutual cultural and ideological exchanges. Such an approach seems vital if we are to advance our knowledge of the various factors that affect and shape theatre, whether socialist or not, whether under socialism or not. It is also important in order to comprehend the very function of theatre in creating and cultivating consciousness, in educating, in entertaining, in evoking political thought. The study of socialist realism aims to provide an understanding of what political theatre means7, how are its goals defined, and how it could become more effective in achieving them. The investigation of socialist realism in the USSR, in particular, is essential because it was the place where it was initially perceived as an independent phenomenon. It is of such great interest mostly because it was, from the very beginning, meant to support and nurture the socialist system, whilst outside the Soviet Union (and in non-socialist countries), it was a theatre in the hands of those who fought against the current (i.e., capitalist) system. The principal theme— class struggle—is common in both cases but it is clearly expressed differently when the class in power is the proletariat and when it is not. By establishing what socialist realism meant under socialism, it could be further developed into an investigation of the differences between socialist realism when being created under socialism and under capitalism. Literature review To date, the studies that have investigated socialist realism have focused on examining by large other kinds of art. For instance, a considerable amount of literature has been published on the Soviet socialist realist novel (Clark 1981; Gutkin 1999). Other studies have focused on socialist 7 The term ‘political’ is being used as that kind of theatre that addresses current social issues and calls –either directly or indirectly– for action. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 21 realist music, architecture, and fine arts, especially painting (Bek 2004; Paperny 2002; Rusnock 2010). So far, whilst extensive research has been carried out on the Soviet theatre (Rybakov 1967; Rudnitsky 1988) or drama (Roberts 1965; Kearns 1988), very little attention has been paid to the socialist realist theatre as an independent phenomenon. For the aforementioned reasons, the following review focuses more on literary theories than theatre, in an effort to portray the dialogue on how scholars have seen socialist realism so far; a dialogue, interestingly enough, which is still ongoing. In addition, this review largely constitutes a study of English language material. Regarding its time-scope, the literature was examined by taking into consideration when it was written, in order to assess the potential tone or even bias of the writer. In terms of structure, the review is divided into two main sections. The first section examines the limited literature dedicated specifically to socialist realist theatre. The second surveys the more general scholarship on socialist realism. By comparing, contrasting, and evaluating the major theories, this section seeks to illuminate the four different definitions with which scholars have related socialist realism. These definitions, as identified by the research that follows, are: (a) Socialist realism as a totalitarian art; (b) Socialist realism as the natural evolution of the nineteenth century artistic investigations; (c) Socialist realism as the Avant-Garde descendant and/or problem-solver; and (d) Socialist realism as a canon transcending time and place. a. Socialist realist theatre Starting this review from theatre, research on the existing literature revealed that a systematic understanding of how theatre contributed to socialist realism and vice versa is still lacking. Nonetheless, a seminal study in this area is Lynn Mally’s 1993 article ‘Autonomous Theater and the Origins of Socialist Realism: The 1932 Olympiad of Autonomous Art’, which identified how socialist realism altered the Soviet theatre scene8. In this article, she examined an event formally called ‘The Olympiad of Autonomous Art’ that took place in Moscow in August of 1932. She noted that this Olympiad was the result of an ongoing discussion on the role of the autonomous theatre in the new Soviet society and, more importantly, that this ‘Olympiad’ initiated a debate on what that the role of theatre should be under the new banner of socialist realism. The latter was not to be officially presented until two years later, but it was already being inserted into the cultural debate. Mally suggested that the emerging and 8 Mally 1993, pp. 198-212. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 22 enormously rich phenomenon of the autonomous theatre was in line with the need that occurred after the successful end of the first Five-Year Plan, for ‘centralization and professionalization’9. From this perspective, the autonomous theatre, which had won the reputation of being superior to professional theatre because of its innovative approach to current events and its absolute disengagement from the previous regime, was at the same time seen as inferior to the professional theatre because of its ‘poor preparation, miserable scripts and outright hackwork (khal'tura)’ [sic] 10. These autonomous theatre groups were deliberately avoiding old plays, accusing them of being inappropriate for the new Soviet age. On the other hand, new plays were in short supply, hence the need to improvise and to create their own scripts11. But these scripts were poor, shallow in political commentary and annoyingly similar to each other12. A way out of this amateurism was not commonly accepted. Some officials, among them Anatoly Lunacharsky, the commissariat of Enlightenment, proposed that the solution was to go ‘Βack to Ostrovsky’13 and to seek inspiration from the classics14. Similarly, it was also suggested that if these amateur groups were working in close relationship with the professional ones, they could just “borrow” good scripts to work with15. Those who supported the belief that autonomous theatre was a different form and had to maintain its autonomy suggested that these theatres should turn to “small” theatrical forms—satire, the grotesque, mime, circus, and vaudeville16. After the Decree of April 1932, which replaced all artistic organizations with official equivalents, the debate over the autonomous theatre ended in a suggestion that these theatres, in order to overcome the poor quality of their productions, should focus on new playwrights and classical plays and that they should consider approaching the political themes more artistically17. Mally insightfully concluded that this decision had two sides. On the one hand, it substantially supported these small groups in their advancement towards professionalism, which would, in turn, help ‘to educate proletarian audience[s] to the 9 Ibid., p. 198. 10 Ibid., p. 200. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 A campaign, launched in 1923 by Lunacharsky, that provoked the best directors of the period to make new creations of Ostrovsky's plays. 14 Mally 1993, p. 200. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid., p. 201. 17 Ibid., p. 210. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 23 classics’18. However, some of its authentic and experimental expression might have been lost forever19. Interestingly, this article is amongst the very few which is exclusively dedicated to examining the relationship between theatre and socialist realism. Whenever socialist realist theatre has been examined previously, it was usually in the form of a brief presentation within a general study on Soviet theatre or, at best, it was a full chapter within a wider research agenda. Significant examples of this kind of approach are portrayed below and further prove the need for a research with a specific focus on the complexity of factors that created the socialist realist theatre. The case of Marc Slonim is indicative, whose main focus was on the pre-revolution theatre, and who dedicated one chapter to the investigation of the socialist realist theatre (Slonim, 1963). Although the title of that chapter refers to “theatre” in general, the main proof Slonim used to link theatre and socialist realism was the plays, namely, the written scripts. He did refer to the performances as such too, but only in passing, eliminating again the study of theatre to only one of its aspects, i.e., the plays. What is interesting, however, about his extended commentary on the staged plays, is the illumination that this permutation of socialist realism brought to the repertoire of the academic theatres. Slonim used the plays to illustrate how socialist realism found its way into the theatre, meaning that socialist realism was firstly a theoretical investigation which was integrated into the plays first and then, by the act of staging those plays, into the theatre as a whole. Although limited to a single theatrical feature (the text), Slonim’s work is very well-informed. There is even evidence of this difficulty of defining socialist realism in the first place. However, Slonim’s book is also indicative of a commonly biased approach towards socialist realism. It seems rather easy to suggest, as Slonim does, that the censorship and the Party’s intervention was responsible for all the deficiencies in the Soviet theatre while the good plays were the ones evading this policy. Going even further, other scholars employed extra-theatrical, almost irrelevant, tools to tackle the issue. For example, Inna Solovyova focused on convincing her readers that the interference of the Communist Party with the actual theatrical production led to the minimization of free 18 Ibid., p. 212. 19 Mally also gives a much more extended look into the work of the amateur and autonomous theatrical scene in her book, Revolutionary Acts: Amateur Theater and the Soviet State, 1917-1938 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000). Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 24 creation20. Besides missing the argument (examining the socialist realist theatre and its performances), she also weakens the proof of her own thesis (the elimination of free creation), as the facts and analyses of the performances she offers are inadequate. She states, for example, that free creation was impossible because one of the major tactics the socialist state employed to control the production was to set it under state financial control and, therefore, have the power to promote only what it found convenient21. This claim manifests, on the one hand, ignorance towards how a socialist state works. There was never any doubt that theatre would not have come under the state’s financial control. On the other hand, it suggests that, it is only under Socialism that art falls under the state’s financial control. However, the Soviet government was no less famous for its censorship than the Tsarist government was before it or even today’s western governments when there is an openly pro-Communist play to be staged. The main disadvantage of studies as biased as Solovyova’s is that it is often very hard to distinguish the reliable information from personal opinions. Finally, Macleod, in examining the new Soviet theatre, researched theatre productions of his time, both big and small, quite extensively in an effort to describe and define what socialist realism in theatre is or is not. To establish a major difference between the theatre of socialist realism and any other ‘middle-class’ theatre, Macleod asserted that ‘socialist realism in the theatre [was] only possible with a socialist audience’22. He advanced this argument as a proof that realism in socialist realism is different only because the audience is different. Only a socialist audience can turn the on-stage drama into socialist realism. Although he insightfully inserted the audience’s perception in his investigation of socialist realism, a closer look at the subsequent literature shows that his main point—i.e., that the socialist audience determines socialist realism—is in fact hard to prove. In its context, however (the early 1940s), this misconception should not devalue the importance of his research on the Soviet theatre of socialist realism at that early stage. The scholars that have investigated in the Soviet theatrical scene of the era in question and without specializing in socialist realism include Laurence Senelick’s The Soviet Theater: A Documentary History and Stanislavsky: A Life in Letters (both in 2014), Spencer Golub’s The Recurrence of Fate-Theatre and Memory in Twentieth-Century Russia (1994), Nikolai 20 Solovyova, pp. 325-357. 21 Ibid., p. 327. 22 Macleod, p. 21. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 25 Gorchakov’s The Theater in Soviet Russia (1957), and Andre Van Gyseghem’s Theatre in Soviet Russia (1943). Robert Russell’s Russian Theatre in the Age of Modernism (1990), and Robert Leach’s Revolutionary Theatre (1994) studies focus only on the theatre of the first years after the Revolution. The Soviet and socialist realist drama from a literary point of view have been covered by—among others—Harold Segel, in his Twentieth-century Russian Drama: From Gorky to the Present (1993), and Robert Russell, in Russian Drama of the Revolutionary Period (1988). Especially focused on satire, two studies have been published by Karen Hayes (1996, 2009). Finally, a work that does not focus on socialist realism but should be included, as it serves as an extremely valuable reference material on drama until 1938, is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Dana’s Handbook on Soviet Drama which, as its subtitle indicates, consists of Lists of Theatres, Plays, Operas, Ballets, Films and Books and Articles about Them (1938). b. Socialist realist art and aesthetics More extensive research has been carried out on socialist realist aesthetics in general. Socialist realism as an artistic, literary, musical and intellectual movement is characterised by its emphasis on several ideas that were in a significant extent common in all kind of art forms, such as the relation with the cultural past, the portrayal of the new Soviet man, the promotion of Soviet ideals and other23. This section uses theories from art forms other than theatre to establish these similarities and investigate, in the chapters that follow, how they apply to theatre. The section particularly focuses on novel theories due to its connection with the laws of drama. Finally, the review of those theories is divided in four categories depending on the four major descriptions, as seen before, that socialist realism has been given by scholars: (a) Socialist realism as a totalitarian art; (b) Socialist realism as the natural evolution of the nineteenth century’s artistic investigations; (c) Socialist realism as the Avant-Garde’s descendant and/or problem-solver; and (d) Socialist realism as a canon transcending time and place. 23 Nelson, p. 5. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 26 b.1. Socialist realism as ‘totalitarian’ art: the impossible theory Unfortunately, a significant number of the academics has been self-limited by focusing on socialist realism’s alleged totalitarian nature rather than trying to examine it in its entire social, cultural, and ideological context. In the pages that follow, it will be demonstrated that those theories which easily assume that socialist realism was a ‘totalitarian’ art, turn any deep understanding of the phenomenon into an impossible task. Besides, in almost all cases, such an assumption has led scholars to unsolvable contradictions and frivolous conclusions that did not always correspond to artistic reality. Among the first extended treatments of socialist realism in the West was Kenneth Harper’s. Harper was among those who disapproved of socialist realism mostly for its political affiliations. However, he was also among the very few who enriched this field of research with a substantial presentation of what ‘dialectical materialism’ is and its application in art24. This perspective is invaluable, given that this is after all what socialist realism attempts to express. But Harper particularly insisted that, in the Soviet Union, Marxism, as the only acceptable guiding principle, was turned into a dogma. If there was any controversy among the artists, he would argue that this was not over Marxism itself, against which no one could disagree, but over the interpretation of the Marxist thought25. Everyone was, of course, free to express their opinion, but, ultimately, they had to toe the Party line. Harper, then, went on allowing this political theory (i.e., the dogmatic influence of Marxism on socialist art) to drive his literary theory, particularly his analysis of socialist realism. Inevitably, he ended up accusing the Soviets of lacking independence of mind, of writing and speaking as puppets, reflecting the will of their commissars, never being permitted to forget Socialist-Marxist theory26. But again, this statement is an over-simplification that lead to deductions such as that all the Marxist and socialist realist artists were forced to act like puppets. Of course, the fact that this is a very early research not only is not being neglected but it is, on the contrary, it is being illuminated 24 Examining socialist realism as a Soviet phenomenon rather than as a Marxist one was very common in the early literature. Harper’s attempt to examine socialist realism as the application of Marxist aesthetics is unusual. Seen as the manifestation of Marxist and not Soviet aesthetics is a proof that a socialist state is not a prerequisite for socialist realism to be created. 25 Harper, p. 3. 26 Ibid., p. 9. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 27 in order to expose how approaches on socialist realism have been changed throughout the years. Yet, even more recent studies have adopted this nihilistic approach towards socialist realism. Jeffrey Brooks, in his 1994 article, ‘Socialist Realism in Pravda: Read All about It!’, asserted that socialist realism was not even a thing. What it was, according to him, was, in fact, a mass media production, a weapon in the hands of the ‘Stalinist system’, which had nothing to do with the actual artistic creation of the time but rather was imposed on the artists27: The phrase had one set of meanings as it was articulated in the newspapers, another at the congress and a third in the world of the arts, where it was gradually enriched with various practices and experiences28. He went on saying that, although it might have had some ‘aesthetic conventions’ particular to socialist realism, they became conventions only by force of habit. Thus, socialist realism could not be considered as art—and thus not examined as such—given that what it mainly was ‘was a powerful mechanism by which the leaders and supporters of the Stalinist system enlarged the domain of their moral and intellectual claims’29. Brooks’ conclusion was that it is impossible to describe what socialist realism is, because it never really existed outside the press. Another seminal, and yet deeply sceptical theory, on socialist realism is the work of Boris Groys. Groys’ main argument was that modernism did not end when the State announced the dissolution of the artistic groups and the officialising of socialist realism, in the early 1930s. According to him, it survived through the ‘Total Art’ of the age of Stalin, adopting new forms (Sots-Art) and evolving in all kinds of unofficial and semi-official Soviet art. While taking for granted that socialist realism was an imposed scheme, he turns his gaze into other artistic movements of the time in an effort to examine what else was taking place at the same time, apart from the dogma of socialist realism. Groys traced the beginning of the Russian art paradox in Russia’s continuous struggle during the 19th century to set itself apart from the western European culture. This chase had a side effect in the evolution of the Russian Avant- Garde movement which, from the moment of its establishment and empowerment, immediately set as its goal to halt any relation with the West (and therefore also the Russian past). Groys, 27 Brooks, p. 978. 28 Ibid., p. 975. 29 Ibid., p. 991. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 28 in one of his later works, also claimed that this violent disconnection from the Western culture, had as a result a difficulty in the dispassionate examination of either side’s art (Groys, 2010). The parallel examination of the art of the West and that of the Soviet Union became even more problematic under Socialism, because the very notion of ‘art’ had changed. The very concept of art was different in the West were artworks were considered commodities that can be bought by individuals and in the Soviet Union where ‘the only collector was the state’ 30. In addition, the artist in the West was a freelance professional while in the Soviet Union was ‘a partner of the state’, member of the Union of Soviet Artists, [who] acted like a large cooperation delivering its products to the state authorities’31. Lastly, the very aesthetics were different. In the West, artists express themselves in freedom portraying an inner interpretation of the world, while in the Soviet Union, they create a collective aesthetic that should serve the goals of the higher hierarchy. However, Groys’ theory did not go on examining socialist realism per se, to show its particularities. Instead, he rejected it as a whole and focused on the kinds of art that managed to flourish ‘around it’ in a semi-official way. Again, this thesis believes that rejecting the entire socialist realist movement as the ‘Total Art’ of Stalinism is highly simplistic. Nonetheless, Groys’ theory gives an important insight that will be useful in our later examination of the evolution of the socialist realist theatre: he suggests that it was this rejection of the past, proclaimed by the Avant-Garde, that enabled the socialist realist to look back at it again. As the Avant-Garde was ‘theoretically based on the method of “making strange” or “laying bare the device”, techniques that were supposed to reveal the mechanisms by which the work achieved its effects’32, the socialist realists could look back and be inspired by the old bourgeois art. Other scholars focused on the comparison of socialist realism with Fascist art33. Hans Günter, in his essay, ‘Education and Conversion: The Road to the New Man in the Totalitarian Bildungsroman’34, compared Karl Aloys Schenzinger’s novel Der Hitlerjunge Quex (1932) and Nikolai Ostrovsky’s How the Steel Was Tempered (1932–1936), under the rubric of totalitarian literature, drawing parallels between a national socialist work and the socialist 30 Groys 2010, p. 13. 31 Ibid. 32 Groys 1992, p. 43. 33 e.g., Lehmann-Haupt, Art under a Dictatorship (New York: Octagon Books, 1971) and Igor Golomshtok, Totalitarian Art: In the Soviet Union, the Third Reich, Fascist Italy and the People’s Republic of China (New York, London: Overlook Duckworth, 2011). 34 Hans Günther, The Culture of the Stalin Period (London: Macmillan in association with the School of Slavonic and East European Studies, University of London, 1990), pp. 193-209. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 29 realism of the Stalinist period. Günter claimed that these two novels are similar in that they constitute analogous forms; in other words, they look alike. However, it would not be difficult to show that the form of the novel How the Steel Was Tempered is similar to that of hundreds of other novels by merely reframing the field of the investigation. To no one’s surprise, Günter found similarities, not only in the form of these two novels, but in their content too, precisely because he examined the form and the content independently of each other, making it easy to prove almost any connection. He observed, for example, that both novels use common symbols (e.g., a flag) and central themes (e.g., martyrdom). However, the way this comparison is set is problematic because no general conclusions can be extracted. That is especially because no mention is made of fundamentally different ideological and social systems that these two novels defend (socialism and fascism), in which the intellectual activity is being made. To cover this profound gap, he added that any differences in ideology can be attributed to the more superficial elements such as ‘the modes of narration’ or ‘the contrast between [the] openly biased judgment and [the] ideological didacticism of socialist realist world’35. What he claimed, in other words, was that any artistic difference implies differences in ideology. Above all, the question that a theory of socialist realism as a totalitarian, authoritarian, entirely propagandistic art raises this: ‘then why the effort?’. If it is a strictly dictatorial kind of art, used only for reasons of propaganda, then every aspect of it would be merely the result of an imposed official decision. All the great theatre artists of the socialist realist era such as Maxim Gorky, Fyodor Gladkov, Nikolai Ostrovsky, Mikhail Sholokhov, Konstantin Stanislavsky, Nikolay Okhlopkov, Alexey Popov—they would all seem like merely carrying out orders from above. If not, however, then perhaps a new frame is needed; one that can explain how it could be both socialist realist but at the same time possess artistic freedom. Accepting as a sine qua non that socialist realism was imposed from above, eliminates severely the research. It oversimplifies the great diversity of both the individual and the social creation that flourished during the first decades of Socialism in the USSR. As Slavoj Zizek observed, ‘the notion of “totalitarianism, far from being an effective theoretical concept, is a kind of stopgap; instead of enabling us to think, forcing us to acquire a new insight into the historical reality it describes, it relieves us of the duty to think, or even actively prevent us from thinking’36; this is more than evident in the research and the understanding of socialist realism. 35 Günther, p. 197. 36 Žižek, p.3. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 30 Instead, more recent approaches, although very diverse from each other, have shown that, firstly, there is a clear connection between the literary conventions of the nineteenth century in Russia and the socialist realist art of the 1930s. Secondly, there is also a clear evolutionary progress between the intense theoretical discourse of the Avant-Garde and its equivalent in socialist realism. Lastly, socialist realism is not a Russian nor a Soviet phenomenon. It did not happen only in the Soviet Union. It did not happen only during Stalin’s time. And although it originated there, it has been adopted by numerous artists and countries around the world. Thus, there is probably no single literary or cultural canon that could easily cover all socialist realism’s manifestations. Three categories (as evolution from the Classical Realist past of Russian culture, as evolution from the Russian Avant-Garde, and as an open canon), constitute the next three definitions that socialist realism has been given (apart from a ‘totalitarian art’) and they are going to be examined in the next parts based on the different scholars that have focused on each of them. It should be clear by now that it would be impossible to examine any of these assumptions (let alone to conclude with any of them) by taking as granted that socialist realism was the result of the imposition of the state’s will on the individual artist. To the contrary, as the present study will examine socialist realism in a socialist state, it seems more reasonable to try to determine how individuals were influencing the officials and vice versa rather than to obstinately persist in hypothesising an one-way relationship. The next three sections examine the evolution of research on socialist realism according to the three categories mentioned above. b.2. The origins of socialist realism in the theory and practice of nineteenth- century Russian aesthetics Nowadays, labelling socialist realism as ‘totalitarian’ or ‘manufactured by the Soviet state’ verges on being anachronistic. That is because, in recent years, numerous studies have demonstrated that the Soviet aesthetics of the 1930s and its sharp political tensions originate, in fact, in the Russian culture of the nineteenth century. Katerina Clark (Clark 1981), for instance, ascertained that the socialist realist novel was formed by the same laws that governed the Russian mode of myth making even before the Revolution (i.e., motifs such as ‘the martyr’, ‘the family’, ‘the mentor and the disciple’, ‘the graveside oath’, etc.). Without underestimating the importance of the state’s intervention in forming Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 31 socialist realism, she confidently rejected the oversimplification that socialist realism was nothing more than a canon constructed by the Communist Party and then summarily imposed on the artists37. Instead, she argued that such an interpretation was mostly used by the West in an effort to apply political pressure on their enemies38. In Soviet Russia, however, socialist realism was more of a natural development, a form that survived in a ritualistic way in an effort to ‘personalize abstract cultural meanings and turn them into a comprehensible narrative’ 39. Besides, in Andrey Sinyavsky’s words, there is no necessary connection between restrictive and normative controls40, meaning that, although there was indeed official control over art, this could not and did not prevent in any way the evolution of art; a remark that could definitely be applied, for example, in the case of the Moscow Art Theatre and the relation between the officials and the artistic team (see in detail Chapter 4). However, if it was not the restrictive measures that structured the socialist realist norm, then there must have been something else that did so, because, somehow, it did become a norm. According to Clark, when the exemplary novels were chosen and set by the officials in 1934, the writers started imitating their characteristics without fully understanding what it was about them that made them ‘socialist realist’. Consequently, as the new writers started copying the exemplars only externally and by replicating the form, more and more similar novels were being produced. Soon, the canonization of the features of the typical novel was simply a fact41. This raises, then, the question of how were the exemplars chosen in the first place. What were the criteria for choosing these specific novels? In answering that, Clark suggested that, if one seeks to understand how socialist realism was formed, it is crucial not to underestimate the power of the ferocity of the literary scene of the 1920s and the very complex alliances and antagonisms in a scene which was already ‘reasonably fluid’42. The aesthetics chosen were the aesthetics of the winners. Moreover, the (often unreasonably) extreme choices and directions of the Avant-Garde artistic groups, their utopian goals, and their struggle for dominance over Soviet art created a situation in which socialist realism came more as a solution than as a directive that would end the debate. Clark emphasized that there is no way that the features that were then declared as ‘socialist realist’ (such as, for instance, the positive hero, the glorious 37 Ibid., p. 7. 38 Clark 1981, p. 45. 39 Ibid., p. 9. 40 Terts, Milosz, Hayward, and Dennis, p. 214. 41 Clark 1981, p. 4. 42 Ibid., p. 31. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 32 military history, or the theme of the ‘Great Family’) could have been manufactured by the state, as they already existed in the art of both the 1920s and the nineteenth century. The only thing that the Soviet state in 1932 did was the naming of the movement, which eventually allowed socialist realism to be considered as an autonomous phenomenon43 . From this perspective, Maxim Gorky’s Mother can, indeed, be considered socialist realist independently of the fact that it was published almost 30 years before socialist realism was even conceived. Clark’s study explains this by adding that: ‘the procrustean bed of socialist realism can accommodate strange bedfellows, but only if viewed ex post facto’. This is not only possible but also fundamental, given that ‘the process by which the many and disparate became the one is important for understanding not only the evolution of socialist realism but its very nature’44. With Clark’s study, our conception of socialist realism has moved forward to a new perception of it, as something genuinely inherent to Russian culture, from the pre-socialist past to the socialist state. This evolution of Russian culture and its linear continuity from the late nineteenth century to the 1930s and beyond is even more pronounced in Irina Gutkin’s research on the cultural origins of socialist realist aesthetics. Gutkin examined the connection between socialist realism and what preceded it. She did this in an effort to describe socialist realism in the particular Russian social setting in which it arose. To do so, she first identified a link between the vocabulary of the artistic Avant-Garde of the 1920s and the political avant-garde, both of whom used Marxist ideology to visualize and build the new Soviet society—the ‘new world’—they hoped to create45. She asserted that the confusing and frequently schizophrenic nature of socialist realism originated in the parallel and fierce fight between these two philosophical avant-gardes and their expectation of simultaneously achieving two opposing goals: ‘maintain the status quo’ while marching ahead towards ‘the projected character of the revolutionary mentality [that] has not been entirely fulfilled’46. Then, in her ‘broad and relatively longue-duree culturological approach to the question of the genesis of socialist realist ideology’47, she investigated an assortment of political and aesthetic writings dating from 1890 to 1935. By comparing the work of Symbolist, Futurist, and Marxist theoreticians from approximately the same time, Gutkin detected a common revolutionary outlook that linked all of them under the same kind of aesthetical research, despite the differences in their approaches, 43 Clark 1981, p. 29. 44 Ibid., p. 29. 45 Gutkin, p. 11. 46 Ibid., p. 36. 47 Ibid., p. 4. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 33 goals, and results48. Divided in two sections, Gutkin's analysis uncovered this association between the political and artistic vanguards in the first two chapters, while the last three explore the three main tropes of socialist realism: (i) the depiction of the new everyday life (‘byt’), (ii) the formation of the new Soviet man, and (iii) the representation of the new woman as a result of the investigation of the new plot that will then establish the new love story49. In a diachronic examination of the rise of the socialist realist philosophy, Gutkin demonstrated that socialist realism and its ultimate formulation emerged from the tensions between the political and the artistic avant-garde and from the utopian theories of a perfect society, which did indeed pre- exist and were not uncommon in the Russian tradition50. In short, what she discovered was a rough, yet linear connection between the nineteenth century and the 1930s, through the avant- garde explorations of the 1920s, based on how the political and social surroundings of each era were affecting the formation of the contemporary aesthetic philosophy. In that sense, socialist realism is the continuation of what preceded it; but it could happen only in the USSR of the 1930s. Along with these two pioneering studies, several other scholars have succeeded in proving this literary continuity. Andrei Rogachevskii, in the late 1990s, pointed out that ‘many topoi of socialist realism were originally produced in the literature of the 1860s’51. He expanded the chronological background almost 30 years further back than either Clark or Gutkin and he proved that traces of the major themes of socialist realism can actually be found in 1865 (in Vasilii Sleptsov’s Trudnoe vremia) and in 1863 (in Nikolai Chernyshevskii’s Chto delat’?) as well as in the ideological controversies between the nihilists and the anti-nihilists that dominated the artistic field throughout the 1860s. He did, however, point out the differences between these theories and socialist realism: Some nuances, though, separate quite firmly the recent period of the victorious reign of socialist realism from the past: there is no trace of the concept of socialist competition (emulation) in 1860s literature; bona fide socialist realism relies not on the vague 48 Ibid., p. 5. 49 All three remarks can be seen in theatre as well. The productions mentioned below will be examined in the following chapters but they are also referred here in support of Gutkin’s findings: (i) for the interpretation of the changes in everyday life, see for example Meyerhold’s production of Erdman’s Mandate (1925), (ii) for the new Soviet man, see Meyerhold’s production of Selvinsky’s Commander of the Second Army (1929), (iii) for the depiction of the new woman, see Nemirovich- Danchenko’s adaptation of Anna Karenina (1937). 50 Gutkin, pp. 4-5. 51 Rogachevskii, p. 36. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 34 ‘fourth class’ but on the concrete class of the proletariat-hegemon; it hails not the limited national liberation movement but limitless proletarian internationalism; it praises not the association of individual revolutionaries, but the Communist Party, united by iron discipline.52 The above constitute additional proof that socialist realism did indeed evolve from the aesthetical debates of the nineteenth century. But it also proves the significant influence that Marxism had on the theory of art in general. Thus, Rogachevskii’s statement that there is ‘no trace of the concept of socialist competition (emulation) in 1860s literature’ comes as no surprise. The Communist Manifesto was translated into Russian by 1862 and yet it could not have become popular (as it was censored) before at least the 1880s53. However, Rogachevskii’s conclusion that ‘the main departure […] seems to consist in the emergence of a new balance between the truth of life and the truth of art, as reflected in the writer’s consciousness’ 54 is surprising. This assertion sees the writer as the only one responsible for finding this new balance and the truth of art as independent from the truth of life, which are not Marxist and thus not socialist. In a similar vein, Victor Dmitriev would argue that although socialist realism’s connection to the theoretical research of the nineteenth century is profound, it was the Revolution that changed everything. In an essay written in 1983, he examined the past, the present, and the presumed future of socialist realism. In linking these three time frames, he explained that one of the main issues of almost any artefact of the late nineteenth century was the unlikely reconciliation between dream and reality55. In literary terms, this means that every hero suffers from the longing to become a hero in a country that does not need them to be one. This theme, although retained, changed radically after the Revolution. Socialism gave art new themes, such as the concern with the life of the working class and the peasants, new heroes with a new morality, and an optimistic new meaning to life56. It then asked the artist to create new heroes (both fictional and real) in accordance with these new values 57. In other words, Dmitriev’s 52 Rogachevskii, p. 60. 53 Marx 1985, p. 55. 54 Ibid., p. 60. 55 Dmitriev, p. 96. 56 Ibid., pp. 96-97. 57 Ibid., p. 96. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 35 study proved that the formation of the positive hero comes from this adaptation of the hero of the past to the new conditions. Several historians have utilized the positive hero to establish this connection with the nineteenth century. Rufus W. Mathewson, Jr. found that this kind of hero originated far earlier, in Russian antiquity. However, it was in the 19th century that this kind of figure started adopting the features we now recognize58. Defining who is a hero and following his example, says Mathewson, was a problem to be solved for centuries. But until the eighteenth century, the hero was merely an ‘uncomplicated representative of [a] specific point of view’59. In nineteenth- century literature, this hero received much more ‘life-size dimensions’60, while his tragic and fatal element became exaggerated. Although in Russian literature, the hero has always been an important figure of the literary discussion, in the nineteenth century it became the ultimate centre of it. The novel of character turned into an almost absolutely hero-centred investigation. And then, from Tolstoy to Furmanov, from Dostoyevsky to Fadeev, from Chernyshevksy to Plekhanov, from critical to socialist realism, Mathewson marshalled a vast assemblage of theorists and writers to prove that, although hard theoretical battles had indeed taken place between the radical critics and their socialist realist challengers, one can easily identify striking similarities in the way they defined and emulated the perfect hero. This, in turn, supports the case for continuity. Chernyshevsky’s Chto delat’? is often used as proof of the origins of socialist realism in the 1890s. Almost all of the aforementioned scholars have examined it or at least mentioned it. But it was G. Zekulin, who, by focusing on this novel, which he called ‘a forerunner of socialist realism’, identified six features that define socialist realism and originate in this novel: First, direct realistic form of representation; secondly, selection for representation of the phenomena of present-day reality, which affects the choice of themes; thirdly, affirmative (utverzhda-yushchiy) and critical character of the work of art, which provides for the introduction of the positive hero; fourth, evaluation of the phenomena that are accepted and used as relevant to the present day, on the criteria of 'partyness' (partyinost'), optimism and socialist humanism (gumanizm); without typification these criteria cannot be satisfied; fifth, reproduction of reality in its revolutionary 58 Mathewson, p. 506. 59 Ibid., p. 507. 60 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 36 development as the determining factor of typification; and sixth, revolutionary romance (romantika) as a component part of typification and of socialist realism as a whole.61 Apparently, these features are valuable not only for proving the continuity of socialist realism, which was Zekulin’s initial goal, but also for investigating socialist realism in its entirety. b.3. Socialist realism: its traces in the Russian Avant-Garde and the transition of the artist In view of all that has been mentioned so far, one may safely conclude that there is no solid basis for the argument that sees socialist realism as having been manufactured by officials under Stalin’s dictate, as it pre-existed his regime. However, as the literature further shows, even the arguments -such as Groys’- that socialist realism violently ended the Avant-Garde’s experimentation is invalid. Firstly, let us recall that Gutkin has already observed that the ideological and aesthetical debates of the 1920s greatly influenced the final need and formation of socialist realism. Moreover, as Evgeny Dobrenko points out, the struggle was much fiercer because what happened was not just an exchange of readings, citations, or even manipulated pre-formed manifestoes62. It was actually a debate grounded in the very social and economic changes that occurred in the newly formed Soviet Union and were reflected in every aspect of life, including art. The question, ‘what is the new art for the new man?’ was in fact a question of ‘what is new in this new society and how can art help it flourish?’. Dobrenko’s main assertion was that it was exactly this theoretical exploration that eliminated, in terms of creativity, the art of the Avant-Garde. Artists, while turning into pure theorists, got alienated from their own creative work. Dobrenko also maintained that scholars had overlooked the specific context within which socialist realism was born. In assessing how scholars have been approaching the issue of socialist realism, he detected four problems. First, it is almost impossible to find any impartial research. Second, by ignoring the ideological links between the theories, scholars fail to notice the existing system, making every theory look as if it is coming out a literary void. Third, the 61 Zekulin, p. 468. 62 Dobrenko 2005, p. xvi. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 37 typical Western condemnation of socialist realism makes any attempt to understand its inner logic almost impossible. Fourth, researchers fail to recognize the inseparable relationship between politics and art, making politicians and artists alike look like puppets in the context of socialist realism63. All the above factors have created a distorted image of socialist realism, especially given that, according to Dobrenko, scholars had mainly focused on taking sides in the debates, instead of trying to comprehend the issues. Thus, Dobrenko suggested that, instead of examining the theories themselves in order to understand how literary criticism worked in the Soviet 1920s, one should ‘discern the real social origins of these theories and ideas’ 64 . However, although Dobrenko did conduct a synthetic examination of these texts, he did not unfortunately expose the social conditions that led groups such as Prolekult, the Russian Association of Proletarian Writers (RAPP), the Left Front of the Arts (LEF), and Pereval to compose their manifestos. Instead, his study constituted more of a traditional literary criticism of the period. A hint of how the new social conditions might have affected the formation of socialist realism is clearer in one of his earlier studies (Dobrenko 1995), where he tried to determine who invented socialist realism. There he asserted that this relationship between ‘what is’ and ‘what ought to be’, dominant in socialist realist art, was in fact the result of a ‘single creator’65. This ‘single creator’ was the combination of the will of both the state and the masses66. This claim gives a much more precise insight into how artists make art. According to this approach, artists—mainly writers—were basing their work on the popular response to art. This response was accessible due to the empirical and reception-related questionnaires that people—mainly workers and peasants—had to answer after they had read a novel. Analyzing these responses, Dobrenko asserted that this ‘single creator’ was capable of reconciling, to an extent, the super elite and extremely experimental avant-garde choices with mass taste67. It is important, though, that this reconciliation must not be considered neither an artistic resignation to popular taste nor a forced mutation between the Avant-Garde and the mass aesthetics. The socialist realist 63 Dobrenko 2005, pp. xiv-xv. 64 Ibid., p. xvi. 65 Dobrenko 1995, p. 135. 66 Ibid. 67 Ibid., p. 158. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 38 aesthetics were not, according to Dobrenko, ‘between those two positions, but in their synthesis’68. Among those who held that socialist realism was not a directive but emerged from the turbulent discourses of the 1920s was also Herman Ermoalev. In his study of the ideological discourses between 1917 and 1934, he focused only on those that were (or were considered to be) Marxists—or at least not anti-Marxists—given that, as Ermoalev said, socialist realism serves the goals of the Communist Party and the Communist Party’s ideology is based on Marxism69. In this way, he proved that the Jacobin debates that took place in Prolekult, RAPP, LEF, Pereval, and other venues were what eventually produced the goals of socialist realism. However, once socialist realism was announced and gradually crystallized, it became, according to Ermolaev, a method consisting of ‘theories [that] were created primarily by politicians, not writers, and were dictatorially imposed by the Party’70. One interesting point that Ermolaev makes here is that, if socialist realism was problematic, this was because it was not the right people who defined and expressed it, i.e., the politicians, and not the writers. Vladimir Paperny’s approach towards the same issue made a clear difference. Although he referred specifically to architecture, his theory can be more broadly sensed as social and cultural. In contrast to Ermolaev who set the officials as opposites to the artists, Paperny regarded politicians, theorists, and artists as being, in fact, the same people. The approach adopted in this work presumes that the political forces themselves were manifestations of some other forces, more general in nature—namely, cultural forces. It is true that the Central Committee of the Communist Party on many occasion[s] ordered architects to turn to specific architectural styles or to specific planning solutions; but analysis of documents shows that these orders very often were drafted by the same architects who were supposed to carry them out. It would be idle to try to find out ‘who forced whom’. Instead, it may be more productive to concentrate on the general patterns of changes.71 This multi-functionality of artists, theorists, and officials, was also proposed by Mikhail Iampolski who further suggested that it is too narrow to consider the censors as the ‘bad guys’ 68 Dobrenko 1995, p. 160. 69 Ermoalev, p. 1. 70 Ibid., p. 206. 71 Paperny, p. xxv. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 39 and the artists the ‘cool guys’. In fact, their relationship, being far more complex than that, ended up becoming much more creative than how it is usually described (i.e., the enforcement of one’s will upon the other). Without trying to prettify or overgeneralize the situation, Iampolski noted that the major concern of a ‘well-meaning censor’ was to establish the ‘balance of good and evil’72 rather than to simply forbid things—something which they were already fully aware could attract much more attention than outright rejection73. But to return to Paperny’s theory, the key issue is not whether censorship existed. If there is a difference between the Avant-Garde and socialist realism, it is not in terms of how much freedom they each had or the extent to which the state interfered in each case. Rather, the difference was in the ‘cultural pattern’ 74 that determined them both and that made this transformation almost unavoidable. To prove that, Paperny set as one of his main aims to counter with the ‘pseudo-significant tone’, as he names it, that many Western and Soviet scholars of the 1960s employed when referring to the transition that occurred in Soviet art between the 1920s and the 1930s. According to him, in a common attempt to characterize the art of the time as dictated, Western commentators openly accused the Communist Party (or Stalin himself) of oppression and manipulation, whereas Soviet scholars only implied this. Yet, Paperny’s question remained: ‘if the natural inclinations in the aesthetic process were disrupted by political interference, why did the majority of architects greet this change with such enthusiasm?’75. He concluded that: It was not the work of individual architects, critics, bureaucrats, and leaders who, through their efforts, made a radical turn in the direction of architecture (literature, cinema), but on the contrary, this movement existed prior to the efforts of certain individuals, that there is something that causes such movements, […]. We shall call this ‘something’ culture.76 To support his point, he explained that neither a synchronic view of the evolution of socialist realism nor a social one can sufficiently explain the advance from the Russian Avant-Garde to socialist realism77. The first case, which contends that the rise of socialist realism coincided 72 Iampolski, p. 176. 73 Ibid., p. 165. 74 Paperny, p. xxiv. 75 Ibid., p. xviii. 76 Paperny, p. xvii. 77 Ibid., pp. xix-xxi. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 40 with the growth of Nazi art, cannot support a theory of totalitarian synchronicity. In fact, as Paperny illustrated, Modernist movements were much more totalitarian than socialist realism. After all, it was not the socialist realists but the Communist-Futurists who called for ‘rejection of all democratic illusions’78. On the other hand, the socialist approach is, according to Paperny, equally inappropriate in the examination of the two movements. To support his argument, Paperny gave the example of Adolf Max Vogt’s approach on radical political changes. Vogt argued that changes such as this inevitably cause radical changes in art too. Only when stability gets re-established, politics and art get more moderate. Vogt rested his case on the similarities between the art of the French Revolution and that of the Soviet Union. Being an opponent of this view, Paperny argued that, although true, it could not be applied to all cases79. Paperny did not ignore the similarities of these two examples. On the contrary, he followed Vogt’s way of thinking in the transition from radical to moderate, and in the way these changes affected art. But he held that, instead of making arbitrary over-generalizations, the important issue was to explore how these common cultural elements were used by individual effort and how they were then transformed into local ideology. To do so, Paperny detected a cyclical process in the evolution of culture, a process that advances from a horizontal, egalitarian, individual, improvisational form, to a more vertical one, more hierarchical, collective, and rational. He, then, identified that the horizontal form characterizes the Soviet 1920s, while the second portrays the 1930s. He named these two periods Culture One and Culture Two, respectively, and focused on understanding the predominance of Culture Two over Culture One. Nevertheless, his Structuralist, Phenomenological analysis, although proving that it was not Stalin that influenced art but possibly the other way round, juxtaposes the ‘two cultures’ in a way that creates clear-cut lines between them, which perhaps does not correspond to the actual complexity of history. This ‘cyclic character’ of the alteration between the cultures, which ‘requires a great deal of further research’, described by Paperny, would have perhaps been more accurate if it were based on the spiral evolutionary pattern explained by Marx and Engel’s ‘negation of the negation’ (Marx, and Engels 1975), meaning that each culture can borrow elements from its past and simultaneously move forward by rejecting them80. It is more of a 78 Ibid., p. xix. 79 Ibid., p. xx. 80 ‘Each new advance of civilisation is at the same time a new advance of inequality. All institutions set up by the society which has arisen with civilisation change into the opposite of their original purpose. […] And so inequality once more changes into equality; not, however, into the former naïve equality of speechless primitive men, but into higher equality of the social contract. The oppressors are oppressed. It is the negation of the negation.’, (Marx, and Engels 1975). Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 41 give-and-take relationship between the past and the future than a constant repetition of two identical patterns. Except from the scholars mentioned thus far in this section, the theory of an even continuity from the Avant-Garde to socialist realism has also been demonstrated by Régine Robin’s work, Socialist Realism: An Impossible Aesthetic, which adduced historical material to prove that socialist realism was the result of both the various aesthetical discourses that took place during the 1920s and the ‘obsession with realism’81 that occurred in the artistic debates of the 1890s. According to Robin, what in essence differentiated the artistic research of the 1920s from that of the 1930s was ‘the substitution of the primacy of the political for the primacy of the content’82. However, this argument, besides contrasting seemingly incomparable elements (political/non-political; form/content), is only partially true. The importance of ‘the political’ was never overshadowed by other priorities. It merely became stabilized, in the sense that from a certain moment (late 1920s) onwards, Marxism-Leninism was not under question anymore and the artists’ focus was free to find ways in which to better serve it. Essentially, the primacy of the political had already been established in general in society before the primacy of the content occurred in art. Thus, the changes in art came about almost naturally. Robin had already supported this view in an earlier article of hers83, in which she had claimed that a decade of devastating civil war, famines, ferocious political battles, a general resurgence of interest in realism that appeared in Europe between the wars84, and the particularities of the Soviet culture were more than enough to naturally (and yet not accidentally) lead to socialist realism. It would be interesting, though, to examine what are these particularities of the Soviet culture that Robin referred to. The first particularity is linked to the relationship that Russian culture has with realism in general. Robin showed that this connection between the nineteenth century and Soviet art, examined in the previous section of the current review, is more important for Russian culture than it might seem. She argued that, for the Russians, realism was ‘l’air même que l’on respire’85 and thus it would be impossible for Modernism to flourish in Russia, at least in the way it did in the West 86. The second particularity is related to the fight 81 Robin 1992, p. 77. 82 Ibid., p. 211. 83 Robin 1987, pp. 87-110. 84 Ibid., p. 110. 85 ‘the very air that we breathe’ (Robin 1987, p. 92). 86 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 42 against illiteracy that characterized the first years after the Revolution. Although this effort was so enormous that it eradicated the number of the illiterate population in a very short time, combatting also ‘artistic illiteracy’ had to take into consideration the actual cultural level of its audience, even if that meant lowering its standards. This was another way to support the fight against illiteracy, given that art served as a means of mass education87. Thirdly, for various reasons, related to the new organization of society during the late 1920s, a lot of artistic groups had already turned their interest towards more folkloric aspects of life, which afterwards were included among the main themes of socialist realism from the 1930s onwards88. This new folklore, in the late 1920s, was the one that created heroes who were simultaneously everyday men and extraordinary humans; like Stalin89. Stalin, during the 1930s, became ‘le symbole à la fois d’un surmoi régressif mais aussi de tout ce qui lute contre l’ancien monde et les anciennes valeurs’90, serving as the example of the man who overcomes all his flaws and moves victoriously towards Communism. Stalin became the symbol of the new values91. Finally, this exaltation of Stalin, along with the need for stabilization, led the art of the 1930s to a more nationalist, chauvinist thematic. But to fulfil this thematic, neither naturalism, which presents reality just as it is92, nor modernism, which pays too much attention to form93, were useful. Realism, as a form, was the only way to convey this semi-real, semi-romantic, typical, and yet extraordinary image of Russian life94. All things considered, it is perhaps more obvious now, as Robin noted, that if the Avant-Garde eventually failed, this was because it addressed an audience that did not actually exist. The Avant-Garde was an elitist art from artists who, even when devoted to the communist cause, had been educated in a different system and were addressing an elite audience that had lost its previous status and eventually were absorbed by Socialism95. The new audience, more familiar to an old type of realism, illiterate to a great extent, and adapting to a very new socialist organisation of life, needed something different from the -often- farfetched experimentations that the Avant-Garde proposed. And this is what it was given to it. 87 Ibid., p. 93. 88 Ibid., p. 95-96. 89 Ibid., p. 96. 90 ‘the symbol of both a regressive superego but also of everything that fights against the old world and old values’ (Ibid., p. 98). 91 Ibid., p. 99. 92 Ibid., p. 105. 93 Ibid. 94 Ibid., pp. 104-105. 95 Robin 1987, p. 107. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 43 Before concluding this section, it is worth mentioning that, in recent years, two scholars have demonstrated that this natural transition from the Avant-Garde to socialist realism, which all the aforementioned scholars in this section have proven in their own way, not only happened theoretically but it did in fact come to pass in reality (or, more precisely, in practice). Christina Kiaer and Syrago Tsiara evidenced that the painter Aleksandr Deineka and the sculptor Vera Mukhina were among hundreds of artists who transformed their art from the private, abstract, form-centre art of the modernist 1920s to a new kind of art that ‘would serve the broad population’s needs for survival and improve their living conditions’96. Tsiara asserted that Mukhina ‘transitioned easily into the next phase of socialist realism’s domination’97, following the example of Lenin, who had claimed that the new art should be (among other things) monumental and highly symbolic in order to help the illiterate population understand the basic principle of dialectical materialism98. Kiaer, in demonstrating how socialist realism influenced the work of Deineka and vice versa, concluded that ‘to understand the work of Deineka and others such as him in the 1930s only as forced labour is to strip the artists of their subjective will—to deprive them of their subjectivity through art history, just as we accuse Stalinism of having done in history’99. b.4. Identifying the canon The studies presented thus far provide evidence that significant progress has been made in the study of socialist realism. However, we should note two key missteps. In order to narrow the limitations of their study, making it possible to access a phenomenon as vast as socialist realism, the majority of scholars accepted—to varying degrees—an equation of socialist realism and Soviet art, almost making them synonymous100. In addition, a great number of them have taken for granted that, because in the cases they studied socialist realism was indeed realist in form, it could not have been anything else. Inevitably, these two deductions have 96 Tsiara, p .200. 97 Ibid., p. 196. 98 Ibid., p. 198. 99 Kiaer, p. 345. 100 The definition of socialist realism according to the Oxford’s dictionary of Critical Theory is that it is ‘the official, mandated style for all art and literature in the Soviet Union from 1934 until its collapse in 1991’, Buchanan. According to Britannica: Socialist realism is the officially sanctioned theory and method of literary composition prevalent in the Soviet Union from 1932 to the mid-1980s. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 44 often led to false definitions of what socialist realism is, presenting it as de facto Soviet and de facto realist (in the old classicist sense). The following section demonstrates that, more recent studies, however, have proven that socialist realism is not necessarily a Soviet phenomenon, as it occurred outside the USSR too. It is not a 1930s or 1940s singularity either, as it came into being long after the war too. In fact, it could even be happening right now. Finally, they have proven that not only did it not have to be realist but, it was never, as a matter of fact, meant to be considered exclusively realist. Jérôme Bazin, associate professor in History of Art and History at the University of Paris-Est, presented this development of socialist realism around the world in a very illustrative way. His article on socialist realism and its international models uncovered the way in which different peripheral models created a more general perception of what socialist realism actually is. For Bazin, the nationalist turn that socialist realism took in the Soviet Union during the late 1930s was completely contrary to the internationalist aspect that it was supposed to serve. Noticed and rejected by Communist artists around the world (Italy, France, GDR, and Mexico), a different form of socialist realism occurred outside the USSR, reasserting that internationalism101. From Bazin’s article one can extract four main points. Firstly, socialist realism was not an exclusively Soviet phenomenon (much less a 1930s Soviet phenomenon). Secondly, the nationalist aspects that characterized the Soviet socialist realism were not de facto elements of socialist realism in general. The third point is related to the political identity of the artist. In his investigation, Bazin referred only to communist artists because, according to him, this constituted a prerequisite of creating socialist realism, especially in non-socialist countries102. Furthermore, Bazin argued that, if one is to investigate socialist realism outside the Soviet Union, they must look ‘uniquement [aux] artistes qui se déclaraient communistes’103. To examine socialist realism inside the USSR is more difficult, he claimed, because in the Soviet Union art had become the product of directives104 and, thus, it made little difference whether the artists were communists or not. Moisei Kagan would argue on the contrary that, in fact, it is only under Socialism that: 101 Bazin, p. 75. 102 Ibid., p. 73. 103 ‘only [to] artists who declared themselves communists’, Ibid., p. 73. 104 Ibid., p. 73. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 45 Socialist realism begins to win a dominant position in the artistic development of the country. This is guaranteed not by any outside factors, such as the support of the government or ruling party, but chiefly by the operation of the objective law of correspondence of social consciousness to the character of social being. In a social system in which the working-class rules, its dominance in spiritual life is inevitable.105 Thus, if under socialism artists do not have to be communists to express the objective reality of socialism, Kagan observed, that is because they are already surrounded by and the live in a socialist world undergoing the transformation towards communism. Therefore, all the stimuli and inspiration socialist realism needs would be naturally extracted from this environment. It is worth mentioning, though, that, in Kagan’s view, artists might be able to create socialist realism without being communists even under capitalism, precisely because they can express the revolutionary struggle of the working class and artistically understand ‘the basic social conflict of the epoch—the collision between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat’, as Gorky states106. Lastly, the fourth important point of Bazin’s study is that he suggested that artists inside and outside the USSR worked differently because only the Soviets were so attached to realism, a realism he called ‘stalinien’107. But, again, although socialist realism in Russia ended up being merely realist in form, this does not mean that it was intended to be so. From its first official introduction in 1934, socialist realism requested many a thing from the artists but never a specific form108. Thus, it is difficult to agree with Bazin’s opinion that non-Soviet artists rejected Soviet realism109. 105 Kagan, p. 169. 106 Ibid., p. 164. 107 Ibid., p. 79. 108 Zhdanov’s call was ‘to depict reality in its revolutionary development’, for ‘truthfulness and historical concreteness’ and ‘ideological remoulding and education of the toiling people in the spirit of socialism’. (Scott, and Gorky, p. 21.) Stalin asked for a culture to be ‘national in form, socialist in content’. (Lahusen, and Dobrenko 1995, p. 91.) Even Boris Veimarn’s explanation of national in form as ‘a realistic reflection of socialist reality’ prove that realism was never directly asked as the form of socialist realism. (Cullerne) 109‘It soon becomes clear that the vast majority of artists in the GDR did not take up the Soviet model. Defiance toward this form of art following Stalin’s death can be found in the archives, with artists giving voice to their hostility. When in 1956, the Communist Party in Dresden surveyed artist opinion on Soviet painters, it concluded that the Soviet model was almost unanimously rejected, with the exception of the atypical interwar Realists Deineka and Petrov-Vodkin.’, (Bazin, p. 74.) Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 46 Bazin’s claim that artists from the German Democratic Republic (GDR) disliked and were opposed to realism110 is not corroborated by the artists’ personal opinions, which were presented in 1976, during the Ninth Congress of the Central Committee of the Association of Visual Artists in Berlin. The key speeches of the Congress reveal that the artists’ relationship with realism was much more creative than it might seem to us today. Among the various topics that were discussed, the principal was indeed realism: what it is and how it can be (re)approached—definitely not in terms of rejecting it, though (Blower). Quite to the contrary, the artists’ approach was one of understanding and applying it in the (for them) new temporal and national frame. ‘New phenomena, achievements, and experiments within our art scene’, said Ullrich Kuhirt, ‘have recently been provoking questions regarding the nature, the internal dialectics, the appearance, and the perspectives of realism’111. This view certainly does not allow us to believe that East German artists had rejected realism. Instead, what they did was try to define it ‘in its revolutionary development’, as Lunacharsky had proclaimed112. From this perspective, it is difficult to define realism without risking to transform it into a dogma, exactly because it keeps changing. As Kuhirt observed, ‘the nature of realism lies in the fact that this concept is always an open concept’113; More importantly ‘realist art always includes the element of reception. Simply, it must be capable of being grasped, experienced, understood, and received’114. In other words, an artist is a realist artist simply when he tries to understand reality and simultaneously expresses it in such a way that will help his audience understand it too. Particularly for the role of the artist, Kuhirt claimed that he must not only mirror reality, but moreover reflect it, meaning not only show both problems and contradictions (a true reflection will do that anyway)115 but also evaluate what is important enough to be reflected116. This approach to realism is definitely closer to the Marxist perception of art and thus can be more helpful in the examination of Soviet socialist realism, which is intended after all to be the application of Marxism-Leninism in art. Finally, this ‘open concept’ idea was meant to be the key that would initiate a more unbiased investigation of socialist realism and that would influence a lot of later theorists in their approach. 110 Bazin, p. 75. 111 Blower, p. 128. 112 Lunacharsky’s theory is extensively described in Chapter 2. 113 Blower, p. 129. 114 Ibid., p. 132. 115 Ibid., p. 133. 116 Ibid., p. 130. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 47 Among the latest concepts relative to socialist realism is the ‘open form’. In this regard, a very insightful approach is that of Tanel Pern, who in 2010 suggested that, as no existing canon can be applied to socialist realism, it can be described as ‘an anti-canonical art’. Pern’s review of the most significant theoretical works on socialist realism (Clark, Gutkin, Dobrenko, Groys, Paperny, etc.) assisted him in making the critical conclusion that there is neither a literary nor a cultural canon that could describe socialist realism: Finding and completely describing a ‘mature’ canon of socialist realism proves to be quite difficult, if not impossible, as the demands keep shifting. For instance, different ideological postulates were activated at different times, sometimes contradicting each other (for instance, ‘class-mindedness’ with ‘Soviet patriotism’)117. According to Pern, all previous studies that tried to prove the existence of a particular socialist realist canon not only failed to do so but, instead, succeeded in proving the exact opposite. What they showed, Pern argued, was that socialist realism is in fact an ‘empty signifier’118. But make no mistake: ‘empty signifier’ does not mean a mere name119. It is not that it does not mean anything, but rather that it includes what essentially gives it its meaning: ‘Socialist realism only gained its existence through the act of naming’120, he claimed, and went on to say that: The unity of an object is created through antagonistic exclusion. […] [Socialist realism’s] canonicity is in fact anti-canonicity, as it needs to actively antagonize other canons in order to prove its own coherence. […] Anti-canonicity in this sense does not allow one “correct” mode of writing or style to dominate. 121 He narrowed his view to the potential forms that socialist realism could receive under different literary or cultural canons, concluding that, open as it is, it could be expressed in any form. Although Pern’s approach is significantly insightful, it would be difficult to entirely agree with this view. Yuri Andreev’s opinion on this is indicative of why. Andreev’s views are presented in Lahusen’s essay ‘Socialist Realism in Search of its Shores: Some Historical Remarks on the “Historically Open Aesthetic System of the Truthful Representation of Life”’. In a theoretical 117 Pern, p. 535. 118 Ibid., p. 540. 119 Ibid. 120 Ibid. 121 Ibid., p. 541. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 48 conflict with Markov on the same issue, Andreev accused Markov of being formalist because he later asserted, just like Pern, that socialist realism is open because it can be of any form. Given that socialist realism can be so diverse in terms of forms and styles122, Markov claimed that as long as it is ‘truthful’, there are no limits to its ‘openness’. It could be realist, but it could be modernist too. In fact, it could be anything. Andreev’s counter-argument was that, although socialist realism might indeed be of any form, to prove its openness by means of this argument is a completely thought process. Firstly, it contradicts the fact that even non-realist literary styles need some kind of canon (e.g., ‘image, impression, renewal of device, individual subjective opinions and dreams’123). Thus, they are not as open as Markov or Pern would think. But more importantly, Andreev emphasized that if the realist literature is open, it is because it is the only literature fully liberated from any kind of canon, the only one that ‘is tending only toward the cognition of objective reality’124 and ‘changes with every change of focus’125. That’s why socialist realism is open, he concluded, and not because it could be expressed in any style. Thus, returning to Pern, it should be noted that what he tried to prove was similar to Markov’s thesis. He even risked going to the opposite extreme, suggesting that because it is difficult to define what socialist realism is, it does not mean anything. Kuhirt himself, despite being the one who introduced the notion of an ‘open system’, would have disagreed too: Our conception of realism, and thus also of socialist realism, has to be open to possible change, enrichment, development and deepening. But flexible does not mean unprincipled. The concept of realism is the theoretical generalization for a complex conglomeration of living factors, or, as contemporary aesthetics has it, the functions of artistic creation. Hence it is a generalization for a certain system of functions which, when taken together as a unit, make up a specific nature of the process of artistic creation.126 Because socialist realism is tied to Marxism, it would seem to be possible after all to identify a canon, but one that is neither literary nor cultural; it is an ideological canon. Besides, as has been noted so far, it is much easier to link what primarily makes socialist realism to its function. According to Marxism-Leninism, the three functions of art (as presented by Kuhirt) are the 122 Lahusen, p. 7. 123 Ibid., p. 8. 124 Ibid., p. 8. 125 Ibid. 126 Pern, p. 130. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 49 cognitive (‘people produce art in order to make themselves aware of their standing, their place, their possibilities in life in order […] to appropriate reality’127), the evaluative (‘the incidental is put aside, that which seems important to the artists is emphasized128) and the communicative (‘artistic ideas need to materialize in order to become art. Only then do they become communicable’129). He also added the functions of enjoyment130 and the reification of creativity131. Therefore, to approach socialist realism from the point of view of its function might seem a more fruitful procedure. However, what Kuhirt described was not how it functions but rather how it is being created. Regarding socialist realism functional approach, more indicative is, perhaps, Gary Saul Morson’s theory. By trying to explain the dual nature of socialist realism as being both diverse and united, Morson concluded that: If we approach this problem in terms of functions rather than features, we can identify the unity of socialist realist art in different socialist countries as a common understanding of the proper interaction of the literary (or artistic) system with other social systems rather than, let us say, a common understanding of the doctrine of the “positive hero”. To the extent that the literatures of two socialist countries were similar in features, that similarity could be seen to derive from their common definition of literature. The difference in their literature could be seen to derive from the fact that the other social systems with which literature interacts in those countries differ for a variety of reasons, including, of course, the differing histories of the countries.132 Thus, what Morson suggested was that the functional approach can help us understand how socialist realist art can differ so much in different places and countries and still be socialist realist. It can also help us overcome the time-specific creation and thus realize that it can change and evolve throughout time and yet remain socialist realist. In western analyses of Soviet socialist realism, for instance, it is usual to consider high Stalinist fictions as the socialist realism and to see literature of the twenties, fifties, and sixties as transitional forms between socialist realism and Literature. The result is often to attribute all features that resemble Stalinist fiction to unnatural government pressure, 127 Ibid. 128 Ibid. 129 Ibid. 130 Ibid., p. 131. 131 Ibid. 132 Morson, p. 125. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 50 and to regard features that seem familiar to readers of Western literature as the real work.133 But what exactly is socialist realism’s function? Morson argued that its predominant function is the political one134. We could expand this by adding Kagan’s view, according to which socialist realism’s function consists of simultaneously helping people obtain knowledge about reality, providing culture and education, establishing a common line of understating between people and offering pleasure135. Thus, it is definitely more than strictly political. And yet, of course, functions and functionalistic systems, no matter how accurate, cannot describe the whole process of creating socialist realism. As Marx would say, in emphasizing the importance of the human in the production: ‘The life-process of society, which is based on the process of material production, does not strip off its mystical veil until it is treated as production by freely associated men, and is consciously related by them in accordance with a settled plan.’ 136In this case, it could mean that, beyond canons and functions, one should never underestimate the human factor, the personal and subjective perception of what socialist realism is, and especially the ability to associate with others in order to achieve a common goal. Socialist realism and Theatre Studies The present thesis emphasizes on this ‘human factor’. In subsequent chapters, socialist realist theatre will be studied, incorporating the above theories. But if there is a clear reason why this will be done by focusing on theatre, it is precisely because we seek to examine and illuminate this ‘human factor’, namely, the artist, the critic, the official, and, most importantly, the spectator, in their active role of shaping society. As Balme notes, ‘while theatre studies have until recently focused their attention on dramatic texts and their productions (both past and present), this isolation of one aspect or genre of the theatrical medium is increasingly coming under scrutiny and criticism’137. It is true that, as we will see in the following chapters, the reviews of the time, focus majorly on the use of the theatrical text. Yet, despite of the way the Soviet reviewers scrutinised the theatre performances, above everything else, they showed an 133 Ibid. 134 Ibid., p. 127. 135 Kagan, pp. 176-177. 136 Marx 1906, p. 92. 137 Balme, p. 4. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 51 unprecedented focus on the public. In fact, the Soviet discussion of the problem of the theatre audience defined to a great extent subsequent theories of the audience’s perception. In Russian Theatre in the Age of Modernism, Andrew Barratt and Robert Russell note that: First, it has a general significance as an early attempt to define the object and methods of scientific audience research. In fact, those Soviet theatre specialists who participated in the debate identified and formulated problems (albeit without solving them) which theatre scholars of the West have only recently touched upon.138 It is true that the study of the audience’s experience remains even to this day largely elusive and there are several reasons for this. As Susan Bennett argues in her pivotal book, Theatre Audiences: A Theory of Production and Reception, spectator research remained side-lined, firstly due to the semiotics that dominated theatre theory and analysis during the 1970s and 1980s. Another reason for this difficulty, according to Bennett, was that: To study the spectator individually or collectively implies a shift from interpreting an aesthetic object to studying the cognitive and emotional responses of actual human beings. This is the field of empirical psychology and sociology, and most theatre scholars do not possess this kind of scholarly background and training139. And yet, as Bennett explains, current trends in the sociological approach to theatre suggest that not even the audience’s experience should be studied in isolation. The performance itself is only a limited part of how the whole experience of theatre gets transmitted to and translated by the audience and eventually transformed into a social event as a whole. If anything, it demonstrates the difficulty that Soviet scholars and officials of the 1930s had in combining the sociological norms of Marxism and the potential reformative power of theatre, without having expertise simultaneously in both fields140, a difficulty that remains unsolved to this day in non- interdisciplinary research. In addition, the main contradiction that still troubles scholars of both the history and theory of theatre is that, although it is much easier to insist on the importance of theatre spectators than to actually investigate their contribution to a performance in a given historical or contemporary case, it is exactly this historical framework that justifies the need for new approaches to the audience. 138 Russell, and Barratt, p. 174. 139 Bennett 1997, p. 150. 140 See e.g., Lunacharsky 1965, ‘Theses on the Problems of Marxist Criticism’. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 52 The Soviets were aware of this correlation between theatre and social environment. From its very beginning, when Prolekult was using its proletarian audience as an ideological power station for the working class, it was clear that the audience’s class consciousness was immediately related to the analogous on-stage stimuli. Thus, the first step for the Soviet intelligentsia was to determine a Marxist philosophy of theatre. The general idea, despite the many ideological disagreements, was that theatre as part of the super-structure of society is the result of certain material-economic forces141. Since all artistic results derive from the culture and the society the artists live in, if the artists are faithful to what they see and live, they will successfully describe socialism142. This was among the first proclamations of Lunacharsky, who in his early writings observed that what made great writers of the past so exceptional was the truthful depiction of life and their ability to portray the social laws at work in society. It was also what Gorky meant with the ‘revolutionary attitude towards reality’ in his speech in 1934’s Congress of Soviet Writers, a speech upon which the norm of what socialist realism was supposed to be was based (Scott, and Gorky 1977). However, given that art, and especially theatre, do not have a vertical relationship with the economy, there are many phases in the artistic creation during which the initial plan of interrelating these two could meet potential constraints. Additionally, when it comes to the performance’s effect on the public, things get even more inconsistent, since there are other factors at work too; among them, the state itself. From the administrative model of the state and private theatres, to financial and material support, the performances that would try to follow the official line would have from the beginning an advantage over all others. This implies that it was not always discernible whether a performance was good because it was aesthetically superior or merely because it was easier to get staged. Bennett recognizes this issue as a major concern when the audience’s reception is analysed. She notes that ‘while state support might make cultural products available to more people, the range available for 141 Prolekult, Kuznitsa, October and their gradual transition into RAPP, LEF, Pereval and the Methodological School of Pereverzev were the main theoretical groups that influenced the literary theories of the art of the new socialist era. Pereverzev, in particular, although starting from a sociological point and using basic Marxist terminology, tried to explain any given work of literature as ‘the result of the imprinting of social experience’ based on the Marxist axiom that existence determines consciousness. ‘The task of the Marxist scholar was to ascertain the socio-economic process by “reading-out” the economic basis directly from a superstructure, in this case from literature, since every superstructure, is a specific embodiment of its economic basis’. Quoted from: Ermolaev, p. 93. 142 See for example, Gorky’s and Lunacharsky’s theories in Chapter 2 of this thesis. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 53 consumption will be limited by the state’s conception of what constitutes (suitable) art’143; a comment that pictures the state support as a form of control. At the same time, as Bennett points out, to try to gauge the will of ‘the theatre audience’ in general by examining the same audience that was attending particular performances is again of limited value. Such examination can only ‘establish the particular cultural construction of mainstream audiences’144, which is already discernible from the official support of particular performances. In other words, we cannot assess the audience’s preferences in general because the only audience we have access to is the one that actually attended the performance. The present thesis deals with this paradox in a different way. The main ‘spectator’ that it has access to is the reviewer. Of course, the reviewer is not merely any spectator. However, the reviewer’s opinion receives extra importance in the Soviet system, as it stands between the official and the public opinion. The reviewer has the power, without always acknowledging it, to actually form the public opinion. Bennett, in her survey, also refers to the Coppieters Project, based on two performances of The People Show, to illuminate that, among Coppieter’s conclusions about the audience’s perception was the fact that ‘one’s attitude toward/perception of/relationship with the rest of the public is an important factor in one’s theatrical experience’145. Thus, in the case of the Soviet theatre, instead of telling people what is right and what is wrong, it was important to create a miniature social environment that would provoke discussion. The wide variety of important political, social, national and other issues that needed to be addressed to a public of varying (usually low) educational background found in theatre not only a means of expression but also, from within it, to its greater extension: the society. Independently of people’s opinion, the topic was already set. Even more important is Coppieters’ second conclusion, that ‘perceptual processes in the theatre are, among other things, a form of social interaction’146. Fifty years before Coppieters’ findings, the Soviets were using theatre as a form of establishing the new socialist way of life by re-defining social interaction under socialism. ‘Many of the audience’s receptive processes’, says Coppieters ‘are pre-activated by their anticipation of a particular kind of event’. But this is a reciprocal relationship. The audience is activated by but also activates social processes. Even if any particular night’s performance belongs solely to the ones who witnessed it, the production does 143 Bennett, p. 150. 144 Ibid., p. 151. 145 Coppieters, p. 37. 146 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 54 not. The production becomes a popular topic of discussion even among people who have not seen the performance, aiding in the creation of new forms of communication. Theatrical performances are, according to Turner, deliberately structured experiences, ‘which probe a community’s weaknesses, call its leaders to account, desacralize its most cherished values and beliefs, portray its characteristic conflicts and suggest remedies for them, and generally take stock of its current situations in the known “world”’147. In the new socialist realist world, where everything needs to be re-defined, the passionate preoccupation with theatre is an indication of an ardent struggle for identity. As Pamela Decker states in her dissertation on the Theatrical Spectatorship in the United States and Soviet Union, 1921-1936, ‘comedy is uniquely suited to reveal a specific culture’s values and identities; we understand who we are by what and whom we laugh at’148. The present thesis claims that the same goes for theatre in general. What we are is formed by what we watch, and what we watch and how we reflect upon it shapes society. By employing this theory, this thesis will try to portray how Meyerhold’s and Stanislavsky’s theatre helped in forming the theatre of the new socialist era even further than they might have anticipated, by activating public discussions on the difficult topics of the time such as new economic policies, new attitude towards everyday life, industrialisation, collectivism, war and, communism. Objectives, methods, and future plans Following the more general aims that were set forth in the first part of this chapter, and enriched by the critical review of the existing literature, the present research intends to use the study of the socialist realist theatre in order to discover: i. The connection between the theoretical (Marxist) paradigm and the Soviet approach towards realism; ii. How theatre practitioners (more precisely the directors Vsevolod Meyerhold, Konstantin Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko) responded to the call for socialist realism, given that, unlike the novel, no single performance could be held up as exemplar; 147 Turner, p. 11. 148 Decker, p. ii. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 55 iii. How the same practitioners contributed to the evolution of the theory and vice versa; how the theory, including the complex role of the censorship, assisted the practice in achieving the aims of socialist realism; and iv. The transition to socialist realism throughout the years on the part of specific directors and theatres (e.g., Meyerhold and MAT). Taking into consideration that socialist realism constitutes but a part of Soviet art, that it is at the same time a much wider phenomenon in terms of time and place, and that it relies entirely on the socialist ideology and dialectical-materialist understanding of reality, the present research focuses particularly on those productions, directors, and theatres that, despite faults, flaws, and misconceptions, were in open dialogue with socialist realism. It might be true that in some cases different theatrical aspects were the predominant socialist realist ones. There are, for example, productions that were considered socialist realist because the director was a member of the Communist Party and others that were so considered because they staged a play that was known for its socialist realist theme. However, given that, as Patrice Pavis affirms, there is ‘very little to be gained by producing an “atomization” of a performance into minimal units’149, this study intends to examine the theatrical phenomenon in the totality of its systems. By employing ‘analysis as reconstruction’150, all information and evidence available are used in an attempt to shape the sociocultural context under which socialist realism was created and determine the process by which it was perceived, experienced, and delivered. More specifically, the present research examines and compare all productions by Meyerhold and MAT (focusing on the productions directed by Stanislavsky, Nemirovich-Danchenko, and Sudakov) from the abolishment of New Economic Policy (NEP) until World War II (1928- 1939). The thesis presents them side by side with their reviews, official statements, and directorial alterations, firstly in order to portray the sharpness with which criticism was being made, then, to identify this sharpness as an inevitable trait of a means of expression as influential to the public as theatre. This thesis particularly focuses on the directors, given that the official call for the professionalization of the theatre created a new kind of director, who had to use all theatrical means to produce meaning no longer by chance but by method, system, and skill. More than 149 Pavis, p. 21. 150 Ibid., p. 10. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 56 that, the new director had to transform acting into a structured training and create and/or adopt an educational scheme that would help actors improve themselves and become able to evaluate their improvement. Finally, especially in the case of big academic theatres like MAT, the directors were additionally charged with the task of finding ways that would help the audience change its attitude towards the new Soviet man. The investigation takes the form of a case-study, with the case-studies being the theatres of Meyerhold and Moscow Art Theatre, during the aforementioned period of time. The criterion for selecting these particular productions was the establishment of both a representative sample and a useful variation of theatrical practices, within the frame of socialist realism. The analysis of this small number of performances (relative to the width of the theatrical phenomenon of the time) intends to assist in an understanding of the larger class of similar performances and establish common ground regarding socialist realism. At the same time, the number of the productions is reasonably large to facilitate the collection of data and produce a clearer image of the phenomenon. I have decided to engage mostly with western sources because both Soviet theatre studies and socialist realism studies in general have received a more balanced treatment than Soviet theatre studies over several decades. The reassessment of socialist realism has begun in Russia in the 1990s but no significant studies in Russian, that offer a reassessment of early Soviet theatre, have been produced so far. However, primary and secondary sources are employed to collect data from archival records and documentation reviews, such as public written documents, letters, internet-based materials (such as official declarations of the Communist Party, the Commissariats of Culture and Education, speeches at congresses, studies on socialist realism, etc.). Tools from theatre studies are particularly beneficial too. Production tools (programmes, set and costume designs etc.) and reception tools (performance notes, theatre reviews, photographs, etc.) are used to give a detailed presentation of the productions. Finally, each chapter provides an overview of the main currents of the theoretical discourses on socialist realism of each period, in an attempt to initiate a synchronic assessment of the evolution of the theory and practice of socialist realism. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 57 CHAPTER 2 The social framework and theoretical background of the socialist realist theatre Introduction In the history of art, the socio-economic background in which any movement was created has always played a significant role in its development. In the case of socialist realism, the social framework is even more important because socialism, as a socio-economic system, was being applied for the very first time. For this reason, this chapter examines the aesthetic theories that prevailed during the 1920s in the Soviet Union and preceded the discussion on socialist realism. Regarding theatre, in particular, the strong theoretical and ideological conflicts that took place during the same period make analysing Meyerhold’s and Stanislavsky’s theatre even more important. This is because understanding why the directors made the stylistic choices they did, and whether these choices have been affected by critique, can provide new insights into the relationship between society and theatre. In the following chapters, this research examines the reviews that the aforementioned directors and their theatres received, to identify what triggered their critical responses. However, it is first necessary to describe the aesthetic, political, and cultural setting upon which the two theatres and their critics flourished. Apart from politics, the current chapter provides an overall survey of the theories that influenced the formation of socialist realism. The question of the history of socialist realism in Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 58 the theories of realism of the past is raised in this chapter, in the context of understanding the evolution of this particular form of art within a new social frame. In addition, the forms of realism in the past had to withstand radical changes, not only in terms of which part of society was being addressed but also with respect to the very question of the limits of the notion of realism. According to theories we surveyed in the first chapter (see, for example, Dobrenko 1995; Paperny 2002), and as is seen in the current one, after confronting the revolutionary approaches of the Avant-Garde, it became much more complex to identify a piece of art as realistic. Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s productions are a clear manifestation of this struggle to identify which artists -if any- could define socialist realism and serve as its advocates. On the one hand, MAT, owing to its long-standing dedication to realism, could easily be seen as the vanguard of socialist realism, as it was easier for an existing realist theatre to adapt to new content. On the other hand, Meyerhold was the one fighting through his theatre for the cause of socialism. Central to the entire theory of socialist realism, therefore, is the very notion of realism. Hence, this chapter commences by examining the origins of the debate on realism and its connection with Russian reality. It then investigates its development through its confrontation with the Avant-Garde and the futurists. Next, it presents the official viewpoint conveyed by Anatoly Lunacharsky, the Commissariat of Enlightenment, and Maxim Gorky, one of the most prominent literary figures of the time and chairman of the Soviet Writer’s Congress of 1934. With the purview of these theories, it is aimed to unravel some of the mysteries surrounding the relationship between the significant evolution of theatre until 1939 and the (perhaps) disproportionate critical attack on it. By describing the circumstances under which socialist realism was proclaimed and built, it will, perhaps, become easier to understand how and why Meyerhold and Stanislavsky played such a significant role in its formation. Origins and new challenges One of the distinguishing features of socialist realism, as it was introduced and developed in Soviet Russia, was the long history of literature under the rubric of realism. From social realism to Revolutionary Romanticism, the Russian intelligentsia had long been engaged in a quest for social utility and verisimilitude. Almost all the aesthetic theories of the late 19th century were issued from the philosophical investigation of these two notions. In Socialist Realism: An Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 59 Impossible Aesthetic, Regine Robin schematised the differences among the main theorists (Vissarion Belinsky, Nikolay Chernyshevski, Nikolay Dobroliubov, and Dmitry Pisarev), delineating their different perspectives151. For Belinsky, the artistic quality of a work is most important. Truthful depiction and social utility are necessary, but above all, a work of art needs to be beautiful. Chernyshevski, on the other hand, prioritised the concept of the real. He defined ‘real’ as realist in function and social in utility. Thus, it is clear that what is ‘real’ and ‘realist’ is not self-evident. Dobroliubov also prized truthful representation above all, but he asked for balanced attention to artistic quality and social utility. Pisarev was the only one among them that set social utility as the ultimate priority. He declared that literature is important only if it is realistic and based on science. With the entrance of Marxism as a scientific method at the end of the nineteenth century, several theorists attempted to expand these theories. Among them, probably most prominent was Georgi Plekhanov, who declared ‘a predominance of social interests over literary’152. In fact, according to Plekhanov, it is exactly this utilitarian aspect of art that raises awareness of what is beautiful and what is not: ‘only that which is useful…can be seen beautiful to social man’153. Inevitably, this utilitarian view of art was subject to dispute. Later theorists, from Bogdanov and Lunacharsky to Lelevich, Averbakh, and Chuzhak, disagreed bitterly over what exactly social utility is, and the extent to which that utility should enjoy indisputable primacy over all other aspects of art. With the socialist revolution and the seizure of power by the working class, another aspect of art came to the fore: mass appeal. Arnold Hauser’s sociological approach to art justifies this. In his Philosophy of Art History, he observed that any socially oriented art would have both of these characteristics (social utility and mass appeal). However, he also asserted that, precisely because it does, it will always have limitations. Social utility will always have to dispel arguments over the non-assessment of the quality of art. In other words, it needs to be useful, but not necessarily good. Similarly, mass appeal will always incite a debate between artistic quality and popularity. 151 Robin, pp. 91-101. 152 Plekhanov 1923-1927, p. 13. 153 Plekhanov, Fox, Hartley, and Rothstein, p. 164. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 60 Furthermore, to establish the relationship between the classical theorists of Russian literary past and the Soviet demand for examples from the past, Hauser observed that – between the predecessors and the later artists – there were always interventions of social influences154. In this case, the social conditions had been changing so drastically that all previous theories of the public’s perception of art had to be reformed. The audience itself was completely reinvented as a new audience. Despite the overall industrialization that made mass culture possible, theatre under socialism ceased to belong to the privileged few and became accessible to the masses, which were craving it155. The people’s thirst for theatre revealed that, for the first time in history, mass appeal had to be handled not as a theoretical ideal but as an actual aim to be achieved as soon as possible, if for no other reason than as a weapon in the fight for Lenin’s ‘cultural revolution’. At the same time, as the public was being re-educated and re-formed, theatre itself had to quickly and continually adapt to meet constantly changing needs. This interdependence between people’s needs, preferences, and expectations made the creation of theatre even more complicated. The artistic field in the 1920s and the role of the party This interdependence makes Dobrenko’s concept of socialist realism – seen in the first chapter – as an invention of both the masses and the authorities as a ‘single-creator’, more evident156. However, it seems that if this were the case, there was nothing left to the artist’s intuition. In uniting two realms, artists were left more and more helpless amid a radical reverse that had changed (if not cancelled out) all previous knowledge of how art is made. Moreover, they had an additional problem to solve; while the entire society was becoming highly organised, artists were not. A central organ in the quest for ‘proletarian art’ was sorely needed. Of course, a lot of theorists had recognised this need in the early years after the revolution. However, as it started taking form, it was transformed more and more into a ‘front’ that would impose its hegemony upon all other artistic groups, rather than a union with a unanimously accepted theoretical foundation. 154 Hauser, p. 84. 155 Stites, p. 112. 156 Dobrenko 1995, p. 135. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 61 The main literary groups that formed the theoretical basis upon which all later assertions regarding the new socialist art were made were Proletkult, Kuznitsa, and October. Prolekult was formed under the leadership of Aleksandr Bogdanov and Anatoly Lunacharsky, a few months before the October Revolution. For its members, art was considered to be the highest and more complex form of labour. According to their leader, Bogdanov, artists should learn all the creative means and methods the proletariat use in their everyday life and apply them to art, with maximum technical and technological efficiency. Proletkult agreed with the official statement that the working class had to find its way towards socialism along three principal paths: the political, the economic, and the cultural. However, although the group recognised that great progress had been made in the first two areas, it claimed that a huge gap remained in the proletariat’s cultural advancement. Feeling the responsibility upon their shoulders, Proletkult declared that it was absolutely imperative that they, as the only rightful art representatives of the proletariat, formed its thoughts and emotions based upon the socialist way of life157. In February 1920, a part of Prolekult left and formed a new group called ‘Kuznitsa’. According to this new group, Prolekult had failed in creating true proletarian art and in organising proletarian writers on a large scale. Kuznitsa’s strong attack on Prolekult was quite unexpected, considering that they had more traits in common than opposing ones158. First of all, they both believed in the very existence of proletarian art and the necessity for developing it. Additionally, in an effort to illuminate the superiority of the working class and the real miracle of creating a communist society by themselves, they both idealised the proletariat. Their solidarity with the international working class was often combined with the Trotskyist ideology regarding a swift universal triumph of the proletariat. Finally, they both accepted that Marxism is the principal theoretical canon, but should not be applied to art. Proletarian art – as imagined by Kuznitsa – was meant to be one of a grand and monumental style, something that remained as a trait in socialist realism. However, perhaps the most significant contribution of Kuznitsa was the organization of the Moscow Union of Proletarian Writers in Moscow in 1920, which soon led to the first All-Russian Congress of Proletarian Writers (in October 1920), where the All-Russian Union of the Proletarian Writer was founded. This union served as the foundation of the All-Russian Association of Proletarian Writers (VAPP), which was endorsed by the 157 Ermolaev, pp. 9-10. 158 Ibid., p. 22. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 62 Commissariat of Enlightenment159. It was the first organisation of proletarian writers on a large scale, and it was going to play a significant role in the theoretical and practical debate on proletarian art. After all, their dream to organise writers was close to fruition. Finally, the OnGuardists or Octobrists (names originating in the journals of the group NaPostu and Oktyabr, respectively; often referred to as ‘October’) were a group formed in 1922 with the aim ‘to strengthen the Communist line in proletarian literature and organisationally strengthen the All-Russian and Moscow Associations of Proletarian Writers’160. The majority of the group were young writers, poets, and critics in their 20s – all of them members of the Communist party or Youth wings. October was the first group that tried to back up their ideas on proletarian art through Marxism161. They were also the first to quote from high Communist authorities, although they repeatedly declared that they wanted no party control. They railed against – at any given chance – apoliticalness and formalism as much as the romantic idealization of the metal and the machine, which was very popular at the time. The OnGuardists were clearly militant and confident about their work, although this confidence was based more on their political and ideological background than their actual artistic productions. In March 1923, the OnGuardists organised a conference in Moscow without actually being the ones in charge for such a call, given that a Writers’ Association had already been founded three years before by Kuznitsa. However, this conference introduced the Moscow Association of Proletarian Writers (MAPP), which was a platform under complete October control. This meant a total loss for Kuznitsa and the consequential decay of VAPP, which was now about to get reorganised by MAPP. Thus, the October group gained control of the VAPP as well162. Two years later, in January 1925, the first All-Union Conference of Proletarian Writers was held. This conference came up with a resolution that included VAPP’s primary theoretical aspects. According to the resolution, art in a class-based society cannot be neutral; it serves a certain class. Moreover, VAPP made it clear that proletarian culture and literature can indeed exist in that stage of socialist development (profoundly attacking Trotsky’s and Voronsky’s opinions). In fact, it was not enough to recognise the ‘existence’ of proletarian culture, but also 159 Ermolaev, p. 27. 160 Ibid. 161 Ibid., p. 33. 162 Ibid., p. 35. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 63 its ‘hegemony’ over bourgeois and petit-bourgeois literature163. Proletarian literature in the Soviet Union had to have but one aim: to serve the cause of world proletarian victory and fight all the enemies of the Revolution ruthlessly. In 1928, VAPP changed its name to RAPP (Russian Association of Proletarian Writers), and a new era of persecution of anti- or non-proletarian writers began. For all the causes that they fought for, RAPP claimed that the Communist Party should assist them in establishing the dominance of proletarian literature in the Soviet Union. However, their opposition, the LEF (Left Front of Arts)164, had always considered itself to be the only representative of revolutionary art. Further, most of its members were former radical futurists, who had always been loyal to the Bolsheviks; and this, for them, was enough to prove their ‘proletarian identity’. Nonetheless, LEF had a rather utilitarian idea of art. With the stated goal of rationalising the production of art forms that would serve the Revolution, and to promote the discovery and utilisation of avant-garde methods, they pronounced literature to be merely a craft and the writer a mere craftsman. In addition, the activity of this writer–craftsman was to be determined by the demands of his client (i.e., the leaders of the proletarian state) and had nothing to do with reflecting the author's psyche. Particular emphasis was placed on ‘literature of fact’ or ‘factography’, rejecting any level of imaginative literature165: Since the new society was preoccupied with the building of a new life, it was interested in the precise knowledge of reality, in facts obtained by the intellect, and not in figments of the imagination or intuition166. Literature of facts versus imaginative literature -and the very existence of the writer’s psyche in a work of art- were at the core of the debate between LEF and RAPP. Alexander Fadeev, writer and theorist, prominent member of RAPP, and part of the 1934 Congress, asserted that LEF represented the rational trend in literary theory, which, along with the irrational 163 Struve, p. 79. 164 The group of the former Avant-Garde Constructivists and Futurists considered itself as the only representative of revolutionary art. In 1923, they founded the journal LEF (Left Front of the Arts), which was published until 1925. In 1927, it was succeeded by Novyi LEF (New LEF) and published until 1928. Despite its short run of only 33 issues, LEF inspired entire movements and artists not only in Russia, but throughout the world. As a group, they were named after the journal, thus the name without italics. 165 Ermolaev, p. 74. 166 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 64 (represented, for instance, by Voronsky and Vsevolod Ivanov), was disrupting the dialectical unity of the conscious and the subconscious, rendering them incapable of creating proletarian art167. From RAPP’s point of view, imaginative literature had roots in Lenin’s concept of ‘cultural revolution’. According to them: The Leninist cultural revolution should affect both the social psyche and social ideology. The social psyche belongs to the realm of subconscious reactions, to the realm of immediate perceptions and intuitive reactions to the outside world. Social ideology is the form of the social psyche which is ‘assimilated’, ‘organized’ and ‘systemized’ by conscious effort. Nevertheless, elements of social ideology, when highly developed, can invade the realm of the subconscious and thus become components of the social psyche.168 However, in essence, RAPP had set its goal to re-educate the entire Soviet society with a culture that would affect both the psyche and ideology, to ultimately create socialist emotions, behaviour, and psychology169. Writers should focus on the portrayal of the individual as a part of the whole and on the depiction of that individual as a product of their social environment. They supported their arguments by referring to Plekhanov’s axiom that ‘the psychology of every single literary personage reflects the psychology of his entire class’170. The form that would best suit this goal was, according to RAPP, psychological realism, which examines all emotions, behaviour, and psychology through an objective, ‘scientific’ picture of reality. Realism was set forth as the most suitable literary method for expressing the essence of dialectical materialism, which considers man a part of the objectively existing material world and affirms the primacy of existence over consciousness.171 In addition, this transformation of the human psyche was a goal not only for the reader but also for the writer. RAPP’s attitude toward the fellow travellers illuminates this. Despite their troubling relationship – resulting from many internal disputes – RAPP came to believe that 167 Ermolaev, p. 72. 168 Ibid., p. 61. 169 Ibid. 170 Ibid., p. 63. 171 Ibid., p. 64. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 65 fellow travellers must be ‘either with us or against us’. Eventually, they succumbed to the idea that it is indeed possible for an artist of a ‘hostile’ class to take the friendly side, as a result of personal interests and the social environment’s influence upon them. LEF’s standpoint on fellow travellers was indeed friendlier because, in essence, LEF mostly comprised fellow travellers. The disagreement between LEF and RAPP covered almost all aspects of artistic creation. As a risky generalisation, it could be claimed that LEF represented the ultra-left concept of art and RAPP the ultra-conservative. Evgeny Dobrenko described their differences as follows: The factographic utopia of LEF (the replacement of literature by the newspaper) was no less radical than RAPP’s aesthetic revanchism: while the LEF members proposed to accomplish the “leap forward” over fiction, the RAPP critics imagined the development of literature as if literature had not passed through the age of modernism, as if there had been neither a Silver Age nor an Avant-Garde.172 From MAPP (Moscow Association of Proletarian Writers) to VAPP (All-Russian Association of Proletarian Writers), and then RAPP (Russian Association of Proletarian Writers), along with all the organizations of artists that they spawned, there was a profound tendency to create a strong structure that would attract the endorsement of the party, performing – if possible – as its legal artistic advocate173. Artists, theorists, and other groups with Marxist backgrounds were constantly appealing to the party in an effort to establish their own theory as the official one and to suppress others174. For example, in 1923, the 12th Congress of the party demanded dramas on contemporary themes, ‘using the episodes of the heroic struggle led by the working class’175. Several of the plays in the new Soviet repertory seemed to have responded to this call. For instance, plays by Nikolai Erdman (Mandate) or Vsevolod Ivanov (Armored Train 14–69), which were staged by Meyerhold and MAT, respectively, followed this new demand176. VAPP and RAPP, however, continued being provocative by declaring that plays 172 Dobrenko, and Tihanov, p. 50. 173 Ermolaev. 174 Ibid., p. 35. 175 Slonim, p. 303. 176 The following chapters include detailed description on the types of the new plays that got inserted to both theatres’ repertories. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 66 loyal to the regime were outweighed by those hostile to it, or by neutral ones. Therefore, they sustained their fierce charge against the academism of MAT177 and the formalism of Meyerhold178. On the other hand, Prolekult, ‘Theatrical October’, and LEF, faced great difficulty in forming one cohesive group that could challenge RAPP and also have a major impact. Several factors worked against them and finally caused their collapse, along with that of all other artistic organizations. The random resolutions on art issued by the party until then were rarely helpful. Under these circumstances, the Central Committee of the Communist Party came up with its most efficient resolution (April 23, 1932), which announced the suppression of RAPP and all other proletarian or non-proletarian artistic organizations, and their replacement by a single Union of Soviet Writers. An analogous scheme was established in every other area of the arts, including theatre. After a decade of intense conflict over the purpose of art, a common aim was agreed upon at the First Soviet Writers Congress (1934): to create a central artistic organ that will study realism as a means of portraying contemporary socialist life and its further development. Andrei Zhdanov, Secretary of the Central Committee of the C.P.S.U (Communist Party of the Soviet Union), made it clear in his opening speech that ‘the key to the success of Soviet literature is to be sought for in the success of socialist construction. Its growth is an expression of the successes and achievements of our social system’179. However, the need for centralisation, along with a clarification of what ‘realism’ means, were not simply aesthetic requests. It is a reflection of deeper theoretical issues that the newly born socialist state had to solve. Further, there were disagreements even within the party, both regarding how one succeeds at socialism, but also regarding socialism itself. On the one hand, there was the need to defend Marxist–Leninist theory and methodology from the effects of the bourgeois political economy and, on the other, the necessity to assimilate Marxist ideology into the new historical conditions that the socialist Revolution had created. However, in reality, the controversy stemmed from the mixed and contradictory internal structure of socialism itself, as a system that simultaneously sows the seeds of the new type of social development and the relations of 177 See Chapter 5, p. 152. 178 See Chapter 4, p. 117. 179 Zhdanov, and Scott, p. 17. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 67 production inherited from the previous stages of development. This mixed character led to distinct ideological controversies within the party, on issues such as the substance of the transitional period (e.g., NEP, ‘state capitalism’, etc.), on who should be the regulator of the popular economy, on what should be the form of socialist property, etc. On the ideological front, this conflict manifested two main camps that contested the official ideology, one championed by Nikolai Bukharin, and the other by Leon Trotsky. Bukharin supported the position that ‘only with the passing away of the market we can get socialism’ and that ‘the market will be removed by the development itself’ 180, an idea that actually weakened the importance of class struggle and essentially encouraged the preservation of NEP. Trotsky forced the Communist Party and the Soviets into a fierce confrontation over the role of the unions in Soviet society, as they sought to transform them into state organizations, questioning, in essence, the leading role of the party in what was supposed to be a dictatorship of the proletariat. To support their ideas, Bukharin and Trotsky formed factional groups, which were separate at the beginning but later combined, causing a major crisis within the Communist Party. At the end of the 1920s, the struggle within the party climaxed. In 1927, in view of the first Five-Year Plan, Trotsky, Kamenev, and Zinoviev established the ‘United Opposition’, an open factional movement within the party. A few years later, Bukharin, Rykov, and Tomsky, reacting strongly to the policy of ‘attack on capitalist elements’ – which was promoted by a majority of the Communist party leadership – and to the collectivisation movement, set up a platform, characterised as ‘right deviation’, in the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. This intra-party ideological discourse was, of course, reflected in theatre. The passionate conflicts among the different groups constitute a clear manifestation of this. However, the same goes for the intense and deliberate effort by both the artists and the party to resolve these issues. After the 15th Party Congress (December 1927), however, things began to change. The eradication of ideological deviations, with the expulsion of the left opposition at the beginning and the right deviation later, along with rapid industrialisation, accompanied by a general improvement in the socio-economic status of working men181, created a more stable socio-economic environment. 180 Bukharin, pp. 31-34. 181 Tucker, p. 66, and, DaVanzo, Farnsworth, pp. 115-121. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 68 Socialist realism’s introduction coincided with this end of the strong intra-party discourses and the neutralisation of factions. The overall environment became more level, facilitating the development of a more complete aesthetic theory. Hence, the transition from the chaotic artistic field of the 1920s, to artists trying to organise under a central organ on their own, cannot coincide with the formation of RAPP (1928), the liquidation of all artistic groups (1932), and the introduction of socialist realism (1934), each of which – in turn – cannot but be linked to the changes in the economy and their reflection within the party (NEP, 1st Five-Year Plan, and 2nd Five-Year Plan). Furthermore, the fact that LEF, RAPP, and even the Commissariat of Enlightenment had common goals but different strategies might now be seen as a projection of the ideological discourses of the entire society on sectors much more vital to the socialist construct, such as the economy. Their contradictions are more understandable through this prism. The aesthetic theory of Anatoly Lunacharsky Standing among all these camps, the Commissariat of Enlightenment, the official arbiter on issues of ideology and aesthetics, had a complex role to play. Serving as its head, Anatoly Lunacharsky had to simultaneously define and implement the government’s policies, while taking the controversies between groups into consideration, along with controversies within the party and their consequences within the state organs, and even controversies within his own office. Further, in view of its formation, RAPP was not just another group, it was the result of Kuznitsa’s claim that Prolekult had failed to create true proletarian art and organise proletarian writers on a large scale, which had led to the formation of VAPP (endorsed by the Commissariat of Enlightenment). The VAPP came under the control of October, which organised a conference that led to the very formation of RAPP. In essence, RAPP had two precious assets: it had unofficial but strong support from the party and it was an organ as naturally centralised as possible. On the other hand, LEF and the futurists were already ensconced in governmental posts because, after the revolution, they had been considered ‘the most appropriate to fill the leading positions’182, a result of the flight of many intellectuals and of the support the futurists had shown to the Bolsheviks. Throughout the 1920s, though, the 182 Struve, p. 20. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 69 theatre policies of the Commissariat of Enlightenment had been repeatedly severely degraded by both these groups. Taking advantage of the influence they had among artists, they flagrantly disobeyed the government’s resolutions and – from the governmental posts that they had been assigned to – tried to implement policies often contrary to official directions.183 However, Lunacharsky, being both reformative and analytical, could not have remained only on the defensive. A Marxist theorist himself, he wrote hundreds of articles on arts, politics, aesthetics, and ideology, establishing the ground upon which Marxist aesthetics of the 1930s were built. Still, the most important reason why his work is significant is the fact that he was a playwright himself and had written a great number of reviews and theoretical analyses of performances. Lunacharsky argued both with RAPP for repressing any form they did not accept and with LEF for giving workers art that they did not understand (and which probably even the most sophisticated futurist would not184). ‘Do not give us transcripts,’ he said, ‘but give us an artistic synthesis’185. It was not the form they chose that he was reacting to; it was their attitude towards art. That attitude was artificial: ‘not to draw, but to photograph; not to create, but to transcribe’186. However, even under these circumstances, he could not reject them all at once. He supported the efforts of fellow travellers, replacing the Manichean ‘with us or against us’ with ‘whoever is against capitalism is with us’187. His comment on Mayakovsky, for example, is indicative of how he envisioned the ‘transformation’ of fellow travellers: Mayakovsky, too, is not taking exactly the right course, although he understands to some extent that the road being taken by futurism may move farther and farther away from ‘anti-psychologism’. [Only in that way] is it possible to arrive at comprehensiveness. And it is more than likely, [comrades from LEF], that in the new phase of your concentration you will arrive not at photography, not at the transcript— 183 Fitzpatrick 1970, pp. 150-151. 184 Kuznetsova, p. 70. 185 Ibid., p. 75. 186 Ibid., p. 70. 187 Caute, p. 9. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 70 it goes without saying that salvation is not to be found in that direction—but will produce a genuine work of art, [realistically representing] creative existence.188 He also disagreed with LEF’s total disregard of the ‘old-bourgeois art’. Instead, Lunacharsky deeply believed in the need for preserving what is good from the old bourgeois culture, precisely because he believed in its evolution: The proletariat is a class that grew organically from the capitalist epoch, and it cannot be seen as an anarchic rolling stone torn from the soil. Proletarian culture is founded on the achievements of bourgeois, scientific, industrial, and agrarian culture. In the realm of art, we are also unable simply to disregard the enormous experience of humanity.189 For Lunacharsky, theatre should deal with ideas in a way that will engage common people. In a 1908 essay, Socialism in Theatre, he states that bourgeois theatre is ‘coarse, base and vulgar’ without rejecting its masterpieces outright. Lunacharsky’s 1908 essay does not call for the renunciation of the classics. Instead, they must be recaptured from the bourgeoisie ‘in order to link great art with the great lords of the future—the people’190. After the revolution, the emphasis of the Soviet state on the education system and extra-mural education coexisted with the shift of focus on art. ‘The socialist revolution’, says Lunacharsky in his article ‘What is Education?’ (1919), wherein he projects the importance of a wide-ranging education system, ‘is a revolution in education, both in and out of school’191. He goes on to say that ‘extra-mural education is the whole of life’192, and maintains that, as life is constantly moving forward, people should do the same with their education. More importantly, this is what the socialist state should help them do. Theatre is also expected to meet this goal. This link between education (as cultivation) and theatre is important to establish the difference that Lunacharsky sees (almost as self-evident) between didactic and educative art. He himself would also be opposed to sterile propagandistic theatre, but he could not gainsay the in-depth educational and cultivating influence that theatre has on both its public and the artists themselves. 188 Kuznetsova, p. 75. 189 Lunacharsky 1965, p. 22. 190 Carlson, p. 354. 191 Lunacharsky 1981, p. 50. 192 Ibid., p. 52. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 71 This educative-illuminative aspect of theatre is included among the qualities of a good work of art in his 1928 article, ‘Theses on the Problems of Marxist Criticism’, wherein he describes all the good qualities that a critic should look for in a good work of art (especially in literature). In terms of content, he states that ‘everything that aids the development and the victory of the proletariat is good; everything that harms it is evil’193. However, it is not enough to only contain a ‘fundamental social trend’, he goes on to say, but it is also necessary to clearly point out which trend that is and where it is heading. In other words, early Marxist theories should be moved forwards both socially and dynamically. To explain this, he uses an example: artists, he says, might choose to deal with contemporary issues or not; but this by itself does not prove anything: Without denying the special importance of current problems, it is completely impossible to ignore the tremendous significance of issues, which at first sight appear too general and remote but which, in fact, on closer inspection, do exert an influence on social life.194 In fact, what Lunacharsky suggests here is that it is not enough to expose a problem (contemporary or not). It is also the responsibility of the insightful artist to identify the general social and/or historical laws that caused the problem by applying scientific methodology. However, unlike science, Lunacharsky is cautious when artists try to also find solutions to the problem they are dealing with. This is because, even if they identify causality, the historical criteria that would verify its applicability might still be missing. Further, it is not primarily the solution that an artist should be concerned with, but rather ‘with posing the problems and analysing them’195. In fact, all of society might lack these criteria for identifying ‘whether a writer is right, whether he has correctly combined the truth and the basic aspirations of communism’196. Furthermore, if there is a way out of such a problem, it is by way of a judgement worked out ‘in the clash of the opinions between critics and readers’197. Furthermore, what might be even more relevant in examining the critical stance of reviewers and officials towards MAT is Lunacharsky’s next point. Dealing with problems already solved 193 Lunacharsky 1965, p. 13. 194 Ibid., p. 14. 195 Ibid. 196 Ibid. 197 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 72 in any given historical context is also a weakness, he claims. The artist should choose topics that will facilitate an understanding of an unknown or little-known phenomenon, idea, or concept. From this perspective, elements hostile to the Soviet state are not self-evidently bad qualities (see, for example, in Chapter 4, how the reviewers reacted to Bulgakov’s The Days of the Turbins because it showed the victory of the Red Army through the eyes of the defeated). In this case, Lunacharsky suggests that it is important to take the writer’s background into consideration and examine whether his way of thinking has evolved or not, and judge based on that. Further, an in-depth examination of how the world is reflected in the consciousness of elements alien to the system might yield useful conclusions on life’s phenomena in general. Of course, in theatre, this becomes even more complicated because the writer is not the only one whose background and intentions should be taken into consideration. Lunacharsky then goes on to identify the good form of a virtuous piece of art. For Marxist criticism, form and content constitute a dialectic pair that work as a whole. However, as it is the content that embodies the social essence, Lunacharsky says, it is the content that will ultimately define the form: ‘the content strives of itself towards a definite form’198. A writer is able – to a greater or lesser extent – to find for the thoughts, events and feelings of concern to him, those modes of expression which reveal them with the greatest clarity and which make the strongest impression on the readers for whom the work is intended.199 Thus, the artist first becomes aware of the thoughts, events, and feelings of concern and then tries to create the best form that would most accurately express them. That said, Lunacharsky does not focus only on the importance of good content. He also pays attention to the form. A good work of art should present a clear idea in the most accurate way: The form must correspond to the content as closely as possible, giving it maximum expressiveness and assuring the strongest possible impact on the readers for whom the work is intended.200 198 Ibid., p. 11. 199 Ibid. 200 Ibid., p. 15. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 73 Meyerhold’s theatre contributed significantly to this aspect. As we will see, he not only inserted new topics but also exploited futuristic and Avant-Garde forms to help him elaborate on his content. According to Lunacharsky’s aesthetics, Meyerhold’s works should have been even more appreciated for the originality of their form. In other words, given that a good work of art should always deal with something new (content-wise), and that it is the content that defines the form, the form should be new as well – a form that will support and correspond to the new content. The problem with Meyerhold’s work was perhaps what Lunacharsky calls ‘too original’, meaning originality just for the sake of it. In general, a lack of originality (stereotyped forms and forms that are weak owing to the artist’s weaknesses) is as bad as ‘over-originality’ of form, where the emptiness of content is camouflaged by formal inventions and ornamentation201. Interestingly enough, both aspects were commonly found in the reviews that Meyerhold received202. On the other hand, how form was perceived by Stalin is perhaps more indicative of how socialist realism ended up being shaped. His famous statement ‘national in form, socialist in content’ might not make a lot of sense out of context. However, his original thought that ‘the development of cultures national in form and socialist in content is necessary for the purpose of their ultimate fusion into one General Culture, socialist as to form and content, and expressed in one general language’203 demonstrates the Marxist unity of form and content that Lunacharsky tries to explain and achieve. Moreover, Lunacharsky’s own play, Vasilissa the Wise, written in a pseudo-folk style, introduces us to his own meaning of ‘folk’. Folk, for Lunacharsky, was a fundamental element of theatre because it strips it of any bizarreness and leads to ‘universality’. A good work of art does not appeal only to the few, he observes. It does not tend to reticence and isolation; it concerns the masses. However, it simultaneously avoids the trap of lowering its level in a struggle to address illiterate or sub-literate people. In fact, this was an accusation against both RAPP, which aimed to establish an art form for the proletariat only, and LEF, which, by isolating themselves in the quest for form, were left with no audience. However, it is not that LEF was not concerned about mass appeal. They just assumed that they could train their audience to see reality the way they did. From a different point of view, so did RAPP. 201 Ibid., p. 17. 202 See next chapter. 203 Quoted in: Frolova-Walker, p. 331. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 74 Nevertheless, in his 1928 writings (but also from his personal experience) Lunacharsky also found it difficult to explain how this balance can be achieved. What he suggested instead was that it is the artist who, by choosing the right topic and expressing it in the right form, has to find this golden ratio. ‘In all’, as John J. Von Szeliski stated, ‘Lunacharsky wrote fourteen plays, praising change and revolution for humanistic rather than narrowly doctrinaire reasons’204. It could be argued now that the liquidation of all artistic groups in 1928 helped Lunacharsky overcome this dead-end. The supremacy of form over content, the rationalization of art, the priority of facts over imagination and of craft over psyche, the role of the individual, the role of fellow travellers, and the approach to reality are all issues that diverged from all theories produced thus far. However, all theories, along with their differentiations, were formed to fulfil Hauser’s model of artistic creation: social utility and mass appeal. LEF called this pair ‘social necessity of our movement and captivating the workers’ audience’205, while RAPP called it ‘literature written for members of the working class and made accessible to working-class readers’. Further, Lunacharsky called it ‘the building of the new life & new man’206, ‘approached by the whole vast variety of the worker and peasant masses’207. However, in essence, these two elements were present in all three theoretical approaches, constituting the core of all debates. The end of superficial quarrels regarding the establishment of a hegemony among the groups and their replacement by disagreements on the essence of the art of socialism had visible results. Regarding the essence of realism, Lunacharsky observed that all progressive forces have a propensity towards realism because they are attempting to understand reality in order to reshape it. ‘The task of literature has always been to organize the class for which it speaks’, he declared. The young bourgeoisie supported realism for the same reason: ‘the bourgeois satirists made fun of the upper classes, defended the bourgeois “virtues” and presented the bourgeois ideology in ringing and vivid forms, attempting to make it the ideology of the oppressed mass following in its wake’208. However, as it started losing its dominant power and progressive 204 Szeliski, p. 415. 205 Lawton, and Eagle, p. 193. 206 Ermolaev, p. 75. 207 Lunacharsky 1965, p. 200. 208 Lunacharsky 1981, p. 55. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 75 influence, it fled into pseudo-romanticism and ‘art for art’s sake’. Mutatis mutandis, the new proletariat, which tries to establish its own power, is also leaning towards realism for the same reason. The revolution and the building of socialism is an ongoing process that needs a proper understanding of society’s capabilities and the forces inimical to them to establish its power. The former kind of realism, the bourgeois one, says Lunacharsky, involved sketches of reality which embraced the forces that were moving society forwards or backwards without necessarily knowing it: ‘they could not distinguish clearly where their real enemy lay and even were not quite certain in whose name they were in fact writing’209. However, this kind of realism served the proletariat because, technically speaking, it supplied them with their arsenal. Further, naturalism appeared at the time when bourgeois art began loathing reality because reality was not suited to the bourgeois anymore. The ‘photographic writing’ of naturalism was an indignant way of describing a society that had started to rot. For Lunacharsky and Soviet theorists, this is the part of bourgeois realism is reactionary, precisely because it does no more than portray reality as it is, ignoring the forces that are fighting against its decay. Finally, if socialist realism differs from any previous form of realism, Lunacharsky states, this is because it is active: ‘it not only gets to know the world but strives to reshape it’210. In contrast, ‘it is for the sake of this reshaping that it gets to know the world’. Lunacharsky identifies a unique element of socialist realism in its ability to study and describe reality both from the outside and the inside; not only what it looks like but also how it works – its inner logic. This double purposefulness is what he calls dialectical realism. The subjective element that the artist’s viewpoint adds to the portrayal of everyday life not only is not a flaw but, on the contrary, is absolutely necessary. An objective description of reality requires this subjective element, says Lunacharsky; it is part of socialist realism. It is ‘realism plus enthusiasm, realism plus a militant mood,’ and it is what makes revolutionary romanticism different from former bourgeois romanticism, which had arisen from dissatisfaction with life and the total absence of hope. In addition, as socialist realism is a result of observing reality, the playwright does not actually need to verbalise Marxist laws or socialist doctrines for the play to become socialist realist. As Szelinsky observed in his article, ‘The Rescue of the Soviet Theatre’, following Lunacharsky’s thinking: 209 Ibid., p. 56. 210 Ibid., p. 57. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 76 A right socialism was inherent in a right observance of realism […] because even if one did not have great knowledge of Marxism a good approximation of socialist realism was still possible by writing conscientiously about reality in terms of what the real society was trying to do with its doctrines. Thus, a good play would reflect the source of what goodness was in the society, leading one back to an appreciation of Marxism or, perhaps, only socialism.211 In the following chapters, how non-Communist artists, such as Stanislavsky, Nemirovich- Danchenko, and the ‘fellow-travellers’212 responded to their socialist environment is examined. In this way, the reflection of society in the artists’ consciousness can be verified, and with it the ability to follow Lunacharsky’s model of good socialist art, independent of their own political leanings. The aesthetic theory of Maxim Gorky Ultimately, Maxim Gorky’s thinking did not differ significantly from that of Lunacharsky. It could be said that Gorky was bringing a more practical perspective to his aesthetics than Lunacharsky’s academic observations. Further, Gorky must be included in this chapter because all the theories mentioned above fail to highlight the contradiction between the need for socialist realism to move forward and its actual postponement by those who use methods of the past. Ultimately, Gorky influenced, more than any of his peers, both the official Soviet guidelines on theatre and the later discussion on realism (in particular, that of Lukasz)213. By examining the traits in Gorky’s aesthetics that impressed the Soviet officials, it will become easier to understand what the actual characteristics that the officials were looking for in the new socialist era. Gorky’s theory of what is virtuous art and how it can be achieved manifests a clear linear causality in his way of thinking. Like Lunacharsky, Gorky believed that good art is art that identifies and illuminates notions of universal significance. There are feelings, ideas, and situations that – although they might be expressed differently in different parts of the world 211 Szeliski, p. 419. 212 The plays of whom they were staging. 213 Gorchakov, and Lehrman, p. 326. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 77 owing to national, racial, religious, and state differentiation – refer to ideals common to all people: ‘all literary creation, in prose and poetry, is saturated with a unity of feelings, thoughts, and ideals shared by all men’214. This universal unification of feelings and ideas constitutes a virtue to be accomplished and is not any literature’s inherent trait. It is the artist’s responsibility to choose those ‘impressions picked out of the chaos with universal significance’215. Expressing the universal becomes possible with the creation of types. Types are built characters and/or themes that incarnate all the characteristics of their particular group: If a writer is able to extract from twenty or fifty or a hundred shopkeepers, officials or workmen the characteristic traits, habits, tastes, gestures, beliefs, mannerisms typical of them as a class and if he can bring these traits to life in a single shopkeeper, official or workman, he will have created a type and his work will be a work of art.216 Distinctive examples of this are the adaptations of Among People and Egor Bulychov and the Others, staged at MAT in 1933 and 1934, respectively. These plays, the first two of Gorky’s plays at MAT since 1905, included typical characters of everyday craftsmanship. His language, full of provincial idioms, attracted the attention of critics. Gorky claimed that only folklore art has this element of universal significance. In one of his key pre-revolution articles, ‘The Destruction of Personality’ (1909), he proved that folklore art lost its generic meaning at the time when specific economic laws replaced the collective spirit of growth and evolution with individualism217. For Gorky, restoring folklore art is of pivotal importance as it equates to the struggle between the old and new social values that socialism tries to establish. The value of folklore is also unnegotiable for Gorky owing to its socially educative significance, given that ‘it contributes […] to our knowledge of life and of our fellow men’218. Firstly, it helps people realise that the struggle is common to all people. The ‘tragedy of life,’ as Gorky calls it, is created by the same natural or social forces that surround us all. Folklore in art can assist people in understanding that they are not alone. People everywhere face the same problems; therefore, they should fight together: 214 Gorky 1920, p. 748. 215 Gorky 1946, p. 132. 216 Ibid., p. 43. 217 Ibid., pp. 113-116. 218 Ibid., p. 43. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 78 This anguish that arises from the dim sense of the precariousness and tragedy of life is common to great and small, to everyone who has the courage to look at life with open eyes. And if the time is to come when men will have overcome this anguish and stifled in themselves the consciousness of tragedy and loneliness, they will achieve that victory only by the way of spiritual creation, only by the combined efforts of literature and science.219 Secondly, by illustrating the objective laws of cause and effect that lead to all social and personal problems, it educates men to adopt a scientific approach, by demonstrating and proving the causes of and the solutions to these problems: The artist, like the scientist, needs both imagination and intuition. Imagination and intuition bridge the gaps left in the chain of facts by its – as yet – undiscovered links and permit scientist to create hypotheses [that direct the mind in the] study of the forces and phenomena of nature, gradually subjecting then to human will […].’220 For Gorky, as it was for Lunacharsky, art must be as precise as science. Nothing should be left to chance. Thus, the artist should develop a scientific methodology in his approach to the phenomena he chooses to talk about and to his art itself. This methodology can be developed by studying, observing, and cultivating the ability to distinguish similarities and differences. Good art is made by developing all these facets: The fabulous achievements and rapid growth of science are due precisely to the fact that scientists know the history of their own speciality. Science and literature have much in common; in both, observation, comparison and study are of fundamental importance.221 In addition to universality, Gorky tirelessly insisted on the importance of knowledge. He continually advised artists to learn as much as possible, especially about people, their history, and their thoughts. If possible, Gorky suggested that they should learn everything about their society. He advised them to study proverbs, as they constitute good examples of concentrated 219 Gorky 1920, p. 748. 220 Gorky1946, p. 43. 221 Ibid., p. 43. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 79 collective knowledge, and to learn to think in aphorisms, as this will help them identify the core of the collective knowledge or experience222. Moreover, he suggested that they should improve their powers of observation, in order to distinguish similarities and differences, and even to be able to choose what is typical about them and what is not. Finally, studying and appreciating the habitual is also important, as – according to Gorky – the habitual is what survives as vital and necessary in each community223. In contrast, focusing on human errors is of less importance, as the goal is to eventually destroy them; much more useful would be to expose the ‘cruel contradictions of life that arouse the enmity and hatred of nations, classes, individuals and lead to these errors’224. By developing a scientific methodology, artists gain additional skills, such as learning to foresee and, along with this, the realization that things can change. Good art should transmit this realization of the possibility of changing the world by not only showing how things are, but also that they can change, and how to accomplish this225. However, he did not claim knowledge just for the sake of knowledge. Artists should be both objective and subjective. For Gorky, there is an unambiguous relationship between being objective and being subjective. To show how the artist can accomplish this seemingly contradictory goal, Gorky goes back to describing the importance of knowledge. The work of a writer is determined not merely by the impact of immediate observation and experience, but also by the fact that the living material on which he works possesses the faculty of resisting the writer’s own arbitrary class sympathies and class antipathies. It is precisely this power of resistance, inherent in living material, against the personal approach of the author that can explain why it is that writer living in the conditions of bourgeois society appear, with ever- greater frequency, as impartial historians of their own class, relentlessly describing its vices, its baseness, its greed and cruelty, the whole process of its decline and fall.226 An objective description is not enough, though. Gorky wants artists to be both objective and subjective. They must bring to light the laws that govern the world: 222 Ibid., p. 53. 223 Gorky 1920, p. 781. 224 Ibid. 225 Gorky 1946, p. 98. 226 Ibid, p. 99. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 80 Reality demands and merits colouring when it is an unswerving continuation of the struggle carried on by its main hero, the common man, for freedom from physical and moral enslavement—never when it is directly or indirectly a justification of the enslavement of man227. Thus, art is not only about identifying and portraying the typical, Gorky avers but effectively presenting how and why this might change. If an artist colours reality successfully, he says, this is not suppression, rather the potentiality of terminating it. To this argument of Gorky, illuminating is also a letter that he sent to Nemirovich-Danchenko in 1914, when MAT decided to stage Dostoyevsky’s Devils. Dostoyevsky’s satirical tome against the revolutionary forces forced Gorky to protest against the production of the play. Nemirovich-Danchenko replied by saying that art is non-political and therefore this argument was not enough; however, Gorky explained that the play already had a clear political tone228. After the Revolution, Gorky’s plays constituted a great part of MAT’s repertory, which abandoned its ‘non-political ways’229. All of the above justify Gorky’s opinion on realism and romanticism. He rejected both the empiricism of naturalism and the decadence of passive romanticism. He identified in romanticism an active current, that ‘attempts to strengthen man’s will to live, to rouse him to rebellion against reality with all its tyranny’230, in contrast to passive romanticism, which ‘attempts to reconcile people with reality by colouring it’ or even ‘divert people from reality’ 231. What he essentially wanted instead, from literature and theatre, is a revolutionary romanticism: […] which advocates a creative attitude to reality, which glorifies labour and the will-to- live and advocates the building-up of new forms of life and which also preaches hatred of the old world, the evil heritage of which we are now overcoming with such difficulty at the cost of so much suffering.232 227 Ibid., p. 102. 228 Gyseghem, p. 53. 229 Gorchakov, p. 326. 230 Gorky 1946, p. 44. 231 Ibid., p. 44. 232 Ibid., p. 46. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 81 In his later works, he emphasized the importance of the good use of language, along with the necessity of knowing the past (history) and social phenomena to portray that society before socialism has been very cruel to humankind. He stated that the young authors of the Soviet Union must counteract the poisonous effect of capitalism upon the working class with strong animosity. He also stated that they should ‘evoke a proud and happy enthusiasm […] based only on socialist experience’233. The former form of realism is useful only to shed light upon the past. The newer times called for a new kind realism – a realism ‘of the facts of socialist creativity provided by practical experience’234 . In fact, this ‘new kind of realism’ is a pivotal notion in understanding the evolution of Gorky’s theory. The overall aesthetics that Gorky was trying to establish during the first years of the Revolution are those of the melodrama. Gerould’s article on Gorky’s early Soviet theories on melodrama astonishingly portrays that, in fact, melodrama was very progressive for its time. Living under tremendously difficult conditions, facing famine, freezing-cold temperatures, typhus, and an extremely difficult civil war, Gorky ‘argued for the heroic art of romantic melodrama as befitting the new revolutionary ethos’. 235 Psychological primitivism and the simplification of feelings would enable drama to inculcate an audience – living under extremely difficult and often inhumane conditions – with a sense of moral responsibility. Gorky believed that melodrama, which was monumental and popular in style, was also the only genre capable of criticizing the old psychological realism. However, to return to this ‘new kind of realism’ (stated above), Gerould is being unfair when stating that Gorky, with the introduction of socialist realism, ended up defending what he had been rejecting: Concerned with presenting Gorky as the founder of socialist realism, the critics overlooked his earlier advocacy of melodrama and stressed Gorky’s opposition to Avant-Garde experimentation rather than his criticism of psychological realism. Gorky himself had apparently forgotten the melodrama episode.236 233 Ibid., p. 39. 234 Ibid., p. 42. 235 Gerould, p. 35. 236 Ibid., p. 42. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 82 Gorky may have neglected the importance he had attributed to melodrama. However, he did not return to the old forms of realism, but moved forward, merging his vision of a dramatic genre bright and colourful, that ‘idealises the individual’ and ‘shows man as a hero, chivalrously selfless and passionate in his devotion to the cause in which he believes’237, with socialist realism. Plays such as Yegor Bulychov and Others (1932) or Dostigayev and Others (1933), staged multiple times by MAT, are a good example of this transformation. Gorky was a key figure in formulating socialist realism, precisely on account of his early Soviet writings on melodrama. Gorky’s statement that ‘we supplement the image, we obtain that romanticism which is at the basis of myth and is highly beneficial in that it tends to provoke a revolutionary attitude to reality, an attitude that changes the world in a practical way’ 238 goes back to his speech at the 1934 Soviet Writers’ Congress, and not to 1918. Ultimately, as Cynthia Marsh points out, ‘in many ways, this notion had always underlain Gorky’s aesthetic. Many of the plays exhibit a streak of this romanticism designed to bring about practical change’.239 Conclusion Although this chapter did not focus on theatre per se, an examination of the difficult circumstances upon which theatre was based can be of significance. The differences and the arguments within the party and other artistic groups that will be seen in the next chapter – being reflected in theatrical criticism, stemming from the need for identification of what the art of the new socialist era should be – are the same as those identified in the current chapter. This is linked to the various economic developments of the period and the ideological differences that they caused. It was manifested in this chapter that this ideological contradiction existed both in the artistic and the political field, meaning that socialist realism was not forced, as some contemporary scholars portray it, but rather an ongoing development. The principal finding of this chapter, however, stems from the intensity with which Lunacharsky and Gorky composed 237 Ibid., p.38. 238 Scott, and Gorky, p. 44. 239 Marsh, p. 293. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 83 their theories. This is further proof of the substantial importance that the Soviets attributed to the role of art in shaping the characteristics of the new proletariat, which is now in power and needs to act accordingly. For reasons that we will see in the following chapters, the role of theatre in this process of shaping the new socialist consciousness was of paramount importance. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 84 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 85 CHAPTER 3 The Meyerhold Theatre and the formation of socialist realism Introduction By the spring of 1925, the New Economic Policy (NEP) had restored the Soviet economy and the time had come to abandon any alliance with the private sector. NEP came to an end by 1928, marking the beginning of a five-year plan for the industrialisation of the country. Given all these changes in society, it was under very harsh circumstances that the Meyerhold Theatre attempted to forge its new socialist identity, nearly ten years after the Revolution. During these years, the theatre of Meyerhold received several indignant reviews. Unlike the way in which this attack has been described by several scholars, this kind of criticism very rarely took the form of personal attacks. The focus was on what Meyerhold’s Theatre should aim for and how to achieve it, turning this new theatre into an excuse for a broader aesthetical debate. As Bennett explains, it is true that reviews – although an important source of evidence – are often over-estimated and overly relied upon. Reviews not only constitute just a small part of the theatrical experience but, most importantly, they usually come from experts, adding information about the performance that might have never actually been noticed by the audience Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 86 in the first place240. Still, as we saw in Chapter 2, a detailed unfolding of the events that accompany a review is undoubtedly proof of the emotional and cognitive impact that the theatre had on any given audience. ‘The social frames we call performances are the fictional ways in which society is represented by means of writing and the stage’ 241, says Patrice Pavis, recommending that any analysis of theatre needs to understand a performance according to what its social function was prescribed to be by society242. In the case of the first few decades of Soviet theatrical criticism, though, the lack of any consistent or widely accepted method of approaching it often led to unsubstantiated general conclusions based – from time-to-time on mere details of a particular production. This biased and often incoherent evaluation, that did not take the entire range of the artistic and political factors of any given performance into consideration, often resorted to extremes that could hardly help the artist understand what he was asked to do. Nevertheless, this excessive over- generalization or focus on the political function of a project, which often disregarded the artistic process, had an unexpected benefit as the by-product. It led to a significant shift from the obsessive search for good forms, which typified the previous period, to the gradual need for identification of the so-called ‘right topics’. Both artistically and politically, these reviews triggered debates that manifested a unanimous effort to identify the ‘socialist theatre’. In other words, as it was not enough to claim whether a performance was good or not anymore (as there was no commonly accepted model), it gradually changed the focus of the discussion from ‘good or not’ to a more substantial debate on ‘what it actually is’. In this context, it is of additional interest to identify any shift in critical writing itself after 1934, i.e., after the official definition of socialist realism. Of course, beyond criticism, the most important contribution to forming Soviet Theatre and its aesthetics was that of the artists and their work. In the case of Meyerhold’s Theatre, it may even be argued that it was the hostile reviews that more profoundly unravelled the theoretical landscape upon which the aesthetical debate was taking place, regardless of whether they were fair. To prove this, it suffices to compare the priorities set by the 1934 Congress for the 240 Bennett 2012, p. 8. 241 Pavis, p. 261. 242 Ibid., p. 263. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 87 formation of socialist realism with the content of the harshest critics of Meyerhold’s productions, which are examined later in this chapter. The Congress insisted on the right choice of repertoire243. According to its resolutions, theatres should look for the right choice of plays; that is, those that would help the rising working class to understand the laws of socialism by popularizing Marxist ideas. Addressing Soviet writers, Gorky explained that: We [the writers] must grasp the fact that it is the toil of the masses which forms the fundamental organiser of culture and the creator of all ideas, both those which in the course of centuries have minimized the decisive significance of labour—the source of our knowledge—and those ideas of Marx, Lenin and Stalin which in our time are fostering a revolutionary sense of justice among the proletarians of all countries, and in our country are lifting labour to the level of a power which serves as the foundation for the creative activity of science and art.244 The Congress also focused on the importance of the struggle against individualism245. As an alternative, it proposed a new social and team model of artistic production. It also insisted on the fight against ‘estrangement’, as a reactionary element of formalism246; on the focus on social issues; and on the creative approach to classical works in such a manner as to render them up-to-date. These issues were formalised in 1934 but had existed long before in both the aesthetic preoccupations of the theatre of Meyerhold and in the critical analyses of its productions. Further, in 1928, Lunacharsky was already claiming – vis-a-vis the content of the new form of art – that ‘everything that aids the development and the victory of the proletariat is good; everything that harms it is evil’247. This chapter investigates and describes the correlation between the theoretical work – as expressed by the critics before and after the Congress – and the artistic choices of the Meyerhold Theatre. In light of this discussion, it focuses on the repertoire, the discussion of 243 Scott, and Gorky, p. 21. 244 Ibid., p. 53. 245 Ibid., pp. 55-63. 246 Ibid., p. 109. 247 Lunacharsky 1965, p. 13. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 88 ‘individualism’, and the misconceptions about formalism that survive to this day, primarily because these issues attracted far more interest, as can be seen through my research, than the rest of the arguments. Collectively, both as topics and as argumentation, these three themes outline the acknowledgement of theatre as a significant force in the formation of the new socialist identity. On repertoire In general, the choice of plays in Meyerhold’s Theatre did not differ significantly from what was expected of an academic theatre such as his. Between 1925 and 1939, he staged 15 productions (excluding repetitions), whose themes followed the general tendency of the time. According to Harold B. Segel, the themes raised in the new Soviet drama during this period can be divided into three categories. From 1925 to 1928, artists continued to draw inspiration primarily from the Revolution and the Civil War, the NEP, and the drastic changes in daily life brought about by the transformation to socialism. The years between 1928 and 1932 were characterised by individual efforts towards adjustment, the implementation of industrialism, and the new Soviet political mythology. Finally, during the 1930s, theatre additionally focused on the preparedness for war. Although the repertoire of Meyerhold’s Theatre fell into all three of these categories, it over- emphasized the ‘NEP era’. In fact, Segel notes the following about the preservation of NEP’s thematic after its abolishment, ‘later, however, with the end of NEP, it was used as a means of exposing what was regarded as still “unassimilated” elements in the Soviet society’248, and Meyerhold continued this convention. A series of productions from 1925 to 1939 dealt with this topic. Along with Erdman’s Mandate (1925), Meyerhold’s adaptations of Gogol’s The General Inspector (1926), Chekhov’s 33 Fainting Fits (1935), Griboedov’s Woe to Wit (1928), Mayakovsky’s Bedbug (1929) and Bathhouse (1930), and Sukhovo-Kobylin’s Marriage of Krechinsky (1933), Meyerhold presented both the personal and social deficiencies of the heroes. 248 Segel, p.148. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 89 Faiko’s Bubus the Teacher (1925) was a performance about the German Revolutions, Ehrenburg’s D.S.E. (1930) about the Russian Revolution, and Selvinsky’s Commander of the Second Army (1929) about the Russian Civil War. These three performances belonged to the very first category. Three more can be claimed to deal with the effort of individual adjustment that preoccupied the art of the late 1920s: Olesha’s List of Assets (1931), German’s Introduction (1933) (a play about ‘spetsy’, German specialists engineers who came to the USSR to give their expertise), and the adaptation of Dumas Fils’s Lady with the Camellias (1934). In contrast, the 1931 production of Vishnevskiy’s Last Decisive Battle is perhaps the Meyerhold Theatre’s only war-related performance. None of the productions, however, dealt with the advent of industrialisation or the new approach to Soviet politics (either positively or negatively). Nevertheless, whether this repertoire was ‘aiding the development and the victory of the proletariat’, as Lunacharsky had asked for249, was still under question. Furthermore, it did not even seem enough for a performance to merely not be harmful, and questions such as how a play, a performance, and consequently a whole repertoire could help the proletariat, remained unanswered. It is obvious that one should first be able to answer these questions before being in a position to evaluate Meyerhold’s Theatre. Unfortunately, before 1934, there was no general theoretical direction that could help critics answer those questions, irrespective of whether they had found a specific performance to be ‘good’. In other words, in a lot of cases, critics and theorists were trying to find the correct arguments to convince their readers whether a particular performance was ‘good for the proletariat’ or not, without having agreed on what it is that ‘good for the proletariat’ means – echoing, in a way, the larger ideological issues of the time. Meyerhold himself had boldly proclaimed his support for the Revolution, openly choosing sides. Regarding the stance of artists when the Revolution occurred, he stated: If you like, I’ll tell you what sharply divided artists when the Revolution arrived. It’s naïve and superficial to think that all writers, musicians, and artists who emigrated were thinking only for their lost bank accounts or their confiscated dachas. In fact, the majority of them didn’t have these things. Chaliapin loved money. Everyone knows 249 This concept is thoroughly explained in the previous chapter. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 90 this, but even for him, it wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was what Gorky, Mayakovsky, Bryusov, and many others including myself understood at once: that the Revolution was not only destruction, but creation as well. Those who thought the Revolution was only destruction absolutely rejected it. Mayakovsky and I belong to different generations, but for both of us the Revolution was a second birth.250 Furthermore, in a letter to Ilya Ehrenburg in 1924, he accused the writer of not writing plays useful to the Revolution, stating that his plays were suitable to be staged only in a city of the Entente. On the other hand, regarding Meyerhold’s theatre, which is and will remain at the service of the Revolution, he stated ‘we need tendentious plays, plays that have only one purpose: to serve the needs of the Revolution’251. However, although he had obviously chosen sides in favour of the Revolution, his productions, according to the critics, did not always ‘serve its needs’. One of the reasons for this was that, despite his intentions, his choice of plays did not always help him. A number of reviews reveal that selecting plays with a rather ambiguous end (e.g., Mayakovsky’s Bedbug or Olesha’s List of Assets) or with seemingly irrelevant themes (e.g., Dumas Fils’s The Lady with the Camellias) raised a lot of issues regarding their appropriateness for the Soviet audience252. Concurrently, they also revealed a huge ideological gap between the supporters and the rivals of Meyerhold’s productions. From 1925 to 1939, there were several performances that functioned as a casus belli for the critics. A very telling example of this is the case of Gogol’s The General Inspector. It is beyond doubt that The General Inspector initiated a long debate that led to several articles being printed in magazines and newspapers dedicated to its aesthetics. It also revealed, in a rather bold way, the main ideological issues upon which almost all critical discussions were based until then, such as the fight against apoliticalness and mysticism. Perhaps, Meyerhold’s alterations to The General Inspector, despite creating one of his masterpieces, were provocative on many different levels. First, he took the setting of the play out of its initial provincial surroundings and based it on Petersburg-like nobility, advancing minor government workers to high-positioned authorities of Tsarist officialdom. While placing the genre closer to tragedy, Meyerhold also massively limited stage space. Wishing – as he clarified it – ‘to show 250 Gladkov, and Law, p. 93. 251 Meyerhold, and Schmidt, p. 68. 252 All these reviews are thoroughly examined later in this chapter. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 91 “swinishness” in the effective and beautiful, to find “brutishness” in the elegant form of a Briullov model’253, the director conducted almost all of his grandiose production on small sliding platforms. Inside these impediments, in an intentionally disturbing closeness, Meyerhold created an intricate, beautiful arrangement, imitating the impressive characteristics of the Russian Empire. Meyerhold also divided the play into a sequence of fifteen titled episodes that primarily followed the chronological sequence of Gogol’s plot. He inserted pantomime and visual tricks, often with props, to bring out both the true quality of the action and the actor’s understanding of it. Experimenting with different types of montages, he used lines from The Gamblers, Marriage, Vladimir of the Third Degree, and St. Petersburg Stories. Regarding the most ‘mystical’ character, Khlestakov, Leonid Grossman describes his first entrance: He appears on stage, a character from some tale by Hoffmann: slender, clad in black. With a stiff, mannered gait, strange spectacles, a sinister old-fashioned tall hat, a rug and a cane, apparently tormented by some private vision. He is a flaneur from the Nevsky Project, a native of Gogol’s own Petersburg.254 Considered no less ‘mystical’, though, was his double, the ‘Officer in Transit’, who was seen – on the one hand – as ‘a mystical representation of everything which took place behind the scenes of Khlestakov’s soul’255 and – on the other – as ‘an animated piece of furniture’256. Although he was criticised for almost all the changes he made, these experimentations with the classical text helped him further determine his style. According to Nikolai Gorchakov, ‘this production was his “Song of Songs” as a director. If a description of this masterpiece alone of all his presentations were preserved, it would be quite enough to permit one to understand his creative personality’257. 253 Korenev, p. 79. 254 Leonid Grossman, “Tragedia-buff” in Gogol i Meyerhold, quoted in Braun, 2016, p. 213. 255 Talnikov, p. 52. 256 Lunacharsky 1958, p. 402. 257 Gorchakov, and H. Lehrman, p. 212. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 92 Figure 3.1. The General Inspector, Final Scene. Source: A. V. Lunacharsky, Alexander Sumerkin, ‘Gogol-Meyerhold’s “The General Inspector”’, p. 69. The way Bennett draws our attention in this ‘change of style’ is indicative of how change- sensitive the critics had become. Bennett mentions that ‘as the artist works within the technical means available and within the scope of aesthetic convention, audiences read according to the scope and means culturally and aesthetically constituted interpretive processes.’258 The way Meyerhold had evolved, and along with him his audience, piqued critics’ curiosity in establishing the ground for further discussion on ‘appropriate’ Soviet aesthetics. Meyerhold’s decision to highlight the comicality of the play by eliminating the superficial element of farce concerned numerous critics, as it was linked with the discussion of whether The General Inspector is a comedy or not and, ultimately, with redefining all notions. The remarks regarding the comic genre of the play were once again controversial. For one thing, Meyerhold was interested in illuminating the tragic character of the play and comedy was used to further illuminate this aspect. The theatre critic Alexander R. Kugel supported the director’s decision, claiming that it revealed the tragic element that already existed in Gogol’s 258 Bennett 1997, p. 156. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 93 writings259. At the same time, the American art historian Jere Abbott, who attended one of The General Inspector’s performances, mentioned ‘the extraordinarily humorous effect’ in his diary260. However, other critics – including Mikhail Zagorskiy, Soviet playwright, theatre historian, and critic – considered the fact that not a single person laughed ‘at the world’s funniest comedy’ outrageous and sad261. Demyan Bedny, Soviet poet and satirist, who was also among the speakers of the First Soviet Writers’ Congress and the author of Pravda, Izvestiya, and Komsomolskaya Pravda, indignantly addressing Meyerhold, told him that he had murdered Gogol’s laughter262. This deviation would not seem so unreasonable if one took into account the fact that there was already a debate taking place regarding Gogol’s dramatic style. Meyerhold himself claimed that ‘Gogol was fond of saying that funny things often become sad if you look long enough at them. This transformation of mirth into sadness is the conjuring trick of Gogol’s dramatic style’263. However, once again, Meyerhold stood between two opposing camps. Gogol was claimed by both the realists (who saw him as a clear example of traditional comedy and linked him with Ostrovsky and Chekhov) and the Symbolists (who pointed to and emphasized the mystical element of Gogol’s last period)264. Thus, the question of whether the play is a comedy goes deeper into the idea of defining genres. In any case, Meyerhold’s decision to turn it into a farcical tragedy, or rather a tragic farce, was definitely not an easy one. His struggle is evident in a speech he gave to his actors in March of 1926: The question of the nature of Gogol’s comedy, which I would venture to describe as not so much ‘comedy of the absurd’, but rather ‘comedy of the absurd situation’. One needs to be as tentative as this because of the further question: Is it comic at all? I suspect that it is not. When Gogol read the first chapters of Dead Souls to Pushkin – Pushkin, who, after all, loved a good laugh, ‘gradually became more and more gloomy, and finally was absolutely miserable’. When Gogol finished reading, Pushkin said in a grief-stricken voice: ‘My God, how sad our Russia is!’ Gogol had achieved the desired effect: although the treatment was comic, Pushkin understood at once that the intention was something more than comic.265 259 Kugel’, p. 4. 260 Abbott, p. 148. 261 Zagorskiy 1926, p. 8. 262 Rudnitsky, and Milne, p. 192. 263 Braun 2016, p. 263. 264 Symons, p. 153. 265 Braun 2016, p. 220. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 94 However, philological support of such a choice could not have been enough to convince critics regarding his personal struggle. Further, their judgements stemmed from what they had seen and not from the director’s intentions. Undoubtedly, the production had generated a torrent of reactions, with the opponents being visibly more aggressive. A swarm of indignant reviews charged Meyerhold with greedily changing the Gogolian character of the play and promoting apoliticalness, mysticism, and formalism on the Soviet stage. Μ. Zagorskiy’s review viciously attacked the director for his alterations, which the critic found ‘unreasonable, unnecessary and terribly tasteless’ (Zagorskiy 1926). No different were the comments from the literary theorist of formalism, Viktor Shklovskiy, who condemned the performance, arguing that ‘the play was just an excuse [for Meyerhold] to make his own associations’ and severely criticised the ‘bad text’. Particularly caustic was a review by drama and music critic V. Blyum, who called Meyerhold a ‘bad captain’ because the show had ‘no logic or system’; he ‘cursed’ the performance as being ‘leftist sauce with eccentric acrobatics’266, and he entitled it ‘decadent bourgeois West theatre […] such as the 2nd MAT Studio’267. The final blow, though, was yet to come. The two most serious accusations were that it was apolitical and mystical (‘political indifference, mysticism, and formalism merged in Meyerhold’s The General Inspector in this dissonant, confused and disorganised rumble’268). It is no coincidence that ‘mysticism’ was mentioned in almost every critical survey of The General Inspector. In order to decry it, though, they first had to agree on whether it existed or not. Strangely enough, this was not always easy, especially because mysticism itself was not easy to define. For Erast Garin, the actor who played Khlestakov, the accusation of mysticism was outrageous: In the interpretation of the director there was hyperbole but no mysticism… the mystical interpretation of Meyerhold’s Khlestakov by a section of the critics was a product of their own biographies; they were over-conscientious in the application of their literary education.269 266 Blyum, p. 4. 267 Ibid. 268 Ibid. 269 Garin, p. 28. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 95 However, perhaps even more indicative of this was a comment by Lunacharsky, one of Meyerhold’s unexpected supporters: Some people found mysticism in the production. […] How could Meyerhold, an inveterate enemy of mysticism of any kind (not long ago he rejected even psychology!) make a Hoffmannian-Dostoevskyan-St.-Petersburg-White-Nights show with doubles? Of course, there was nothing of the kind in the production.270 Further, he goes on to analyse the seventh scene according to Meyerhold’s division, the ‘With a Plump Bottle’, to examine what it is that causes this scene to be accused of mysticism: Khlestakov is drunk, so drunk that reality looks fabulous to him. Not only does he keep telling lies, but he enjoys his lies to the full, and even his smallest wishes seem to come true in no time. When he wants to, he hears magic music play, he sees the delicacies he has dreamt about appear in front of him, etc. So, this scene is not to be understood as true reality but as reality filtered through the haze of a half-drunken mind. Is it mysticism? But how could it suddenly turn into mysticism? If a novelist has the right to tell us how a drunken man sees the world, why indeed can the theatre not show it? […] Meyerhold has gone much farther: not scientific hallucinations, but reality distorted by alcoholic excitement.271 Those who claimed that there was a ‘mystical’ element to this performance were, however, not convinced by Lunacharsky’s analysis, and they were also furious regarding his unexpected support of Meyerhold. Blyum argued that Lunacharsky’s analysis could have affected all arts and turned this into a norm because the outrageous performance now had the support of high officials. For Blyum, ‘the problem is not the meaning that Meyerhold chooses to see from Gogol but that looking back he only sees the ‘thinker’ of the last years, [whose thought was based on ideas] mystical, feudal and reactionary’. The result of such an approach to Gogol was then ‘a poor mystical staging of his General Inspector’. 270 Lunacharsky, and Sumerkin, p. 64. 271 Ibid., p. 66. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 96 Regarding the apoliticalness of the performance, a clear answer was once again difficult to come by, given that the two different camps seemed to define ‘political’ differently. The adversaries disagreed on whether interpreting reality from a social point of view is already political or, in order to be political, it has to have straightforward messages. On the one hand, Pavel Markov, theatre critic and head of the Literary Section of the Moscow Art Theatre (MAT), claimed that criticising the distorted image of love, the intellectual dead ends, and the internal destruction, which were themes proposed by Gogol himself, is already political (Markov 1927). Lunacharsky’s opinion was also similar, for whom ‘the bourgeois love is subjected to ruthless criticism’272, something that disturbs the attentive spectator. However, for Blyum, these arguments were not enough. He wrote that Meyerhold’s production ‘neutralizes your socio-political enthusiasm and switches your emotional “readiness” through theatrical trick while it consists [of] the most apolitical performance of the nine years of the revolution’273. Another interesting comment was made by Zagorskiy, who found that the problem with the performance was not only that Meyerhold radically changed the play, but also that he did so with no intention of ‘sovietisation’ (without, however, giving any more details on what that entails), a practice that could have shed light on the director’s political construction on the themes that he dealt with. Among these vague and equivocal accusations of The General Inspector’s apoliticalness, though, perhaps the most accurate explanation was that of the critic Boris Alpers, who established apoliticalness as the main weakness of the production and defined it as disengagement from the historical process: The conflict disappears from the stage of the Meyerhold theatre. Scenic action is circumscribed by the boundaries of decaying social milieu… in The General Inspector and the Trouble from Reason [premiere, March 1928] the director’s field of vision embraces only the dark and hopeless aspects of the historical epoch which is taken up by these works.274 It is important to understand that the reactions to Meyerhold’s production assisted in the quest of defining what makes a performance adequate to serve the needs of the Revolution. Following Gorky’s statement, writers should grasp the fact that it is the toiling masses who 272 Lunacharsky, and Sumerkin, p. 68. 273 Blyum, p. 4. 274 Alpers, pp. 56-57. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 97 create culture. Thus, if they learn to become good observers, they will be able to depict the new reality that these toiling masses have created under socialism. Was Meyerhold then concerned with the everyday reality of the working people? Again, according to the critics, in most cases not. Still, it is questionable whether this was enough to claim that his productions were irrelevant to the needs of the Revolution. Indisputably, his theatre was an opponent of both capitalism (e.g., German’s Introduction) and its remnants in socialism (e.g., Mayakovsky’s Bathhouse), which, as seen in Chapter 2, was common ground among all theoretical factions, Lunacharsky and Gorky included. However, rejecting capitalism is only one aspect of what was expected. His theatre was accused of never having fully succeeded in illuminating any alternative. As several critics had suggested, to merely criticise a bad phenomenon, no matter how severely, was not enough. His repertoire should have been chosen in such a way as to not only condemn capitalism as an exploitative system but to also analyse the themes that could inspire the working class to find solutions and overcome the weaknesses and difficulties of building a socialist system. In other words, his repertoire should not only have condemned capitalism and the surviving petite bourgeoisie – something that might have been of great importance during the first years of the Revolution or the NEP – but also to portray socialism, along with both its resolved and unresolved issues. Once again, following Meyerhold’s productions and the reactions to them can illustrate the essence of the above argument very well. In Olesha’s List of Assets (1931), a famous Soviet actress – Yelena Goncharova, who was born and raised in Imperial Russia – found it difficult to adapt to the new post-Revolution conditions. Therefore, she migrates to Paris, only to realise the decay of the artistic movement there. Before leaving Russia, though, disappointed by the new conditions that do not offer artistic freedom and personal fulfilment, Goncharova wrote a list in her diary of all the disadvantages of being an actress in the Soviet Union. After going to Paris, where, through a series of events, she grasps the disintegration of bourgeois art, she is ready to return to the Soviet Union. However, having lost her list – which she wanted to correct – she decides to write a new one, this time about the benefits of living in a socialist system. Unfortunately, before she manages to find her way home, she dies. Finding herself in the middle of a strike, she gets shot attempting to protect a French communist with her body, who would have been killed by an undercover policeman. Although fulfilling her duty to the communist cause, Olesha’s final stage direction makes things more complicated: ‘the unemployed march. Yelena’s body remains lying in the street uncovered. There are heard Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 98 strains of a march’275. Although this profound polarisation was well-received by critics, the ambivalent ending raised a lot of discussion concerning the obligation of art to not only show ‘bad deeds’, but also what can reverse them. As Professor Edward Braun notices, ‘it would have been simple enough for Meyerhold to cover her and to play “The Internationale”, but in this occasion, there was to be no optimistic tragedy, no stirring call to arms, no affirmation of solidarity. This time the audience was allowed to remain seated, alone with their contradictory thoughts’276. But were they? Kruti, in his review, wrote: ‘We got the play, carrying a lot of fundamentally new skills for Meyerhold, but it still does not meet the social and political demands, which we have the right today to bring his revolutionary theatre’277. According to Kruti, positive features of the productions, such as the lack of extreme experimentation and clear, linear progress, made it easy to recognise Goncharova as the symbol of the crisis of consciousness that part of the Soviet intelligentsia was facing. Meyerhold’s production emphasized Goncharova’s uncertainty and indecisiveness, arguing that this kind of instability can be very harmful to the revolution. Interestingly enough, however, the performance showed the same indecisiveness. To merely deny the West is not enough, as the playwright Aleksandr Shteyn commented: ‘Olesha, in the scene with Ulyalyum, protests against the profanation of art in the West, but he cannot reveal the true roots of Western culture’s marasmus’278. Similarly, Uriel’ claimed that Olesha described Western European art through impressive and vivid images, and if he had done the same with Soviet art, it would have been clear why the intelligentsia should choose to support it279; however, he did not. Olesha admitted the reasons why he found it difficult to give his play a happy ending: She is ready to commit treason. But, well on the road to treachery, she begins to understand that outside those conditions that yesterday seemed unnatural and unbearable, she cannot exist. Here, as it were, the other half—the mind—becomes important, here the heroine steps outside for the second time and dreams, panic- stricken: to return! return! But there is no way to return, because the shadow of treason already lies on her. And the heroine seeks a means of rehabilitation and finds it.280 275 Sited in: Braun 1979, p. 247. 276 Ibid., pp. 265-266. 277 Kruti, p. 3. 278 Shteyn, p. 3. 279 Uriel', p. 4. 280 Olesha, p. 6. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 99 In an altruistic gesture, Olesha, not being able to excuse his heroine, decides to kill her. However, as critics noted, the contradictions of the play were so acute, that killing Goncharova did not make it any easier for the audience to draw conclusions regarding the superiority or inferiority of the socialist system. Kruti, Uriel’, and Shteyn all agreed that this play was a step forward for Meyerhold in overcoming his mechanistic treatment of the human condition on stage. However, they also agreed that it was also a step backwards for both Meyerhold and Olesha, as they failed in revealing the reasons why the socialist environment is any better for the intelligentsia than capitalism was. This is the way they defended their affirmation that the performance did not ‘meet the social and political demands’, something that is ultimately so important for a performance to accomplish because of its power to ‘implant’ these notions into its audience’s minds. Figure 3.2. Meyerhold rehearsing with Raikh in List of Assets. Source: Marjorie L. Hoover, Meyerhold: The Art of Conscious Theatre, p. 209. Portraying the socialist environment and the productive role of the working class in building it was not only a way of approaching the socialist reality but also of depicting its evolution. Furthermore, for Lunacharsky, it was not enough for art to merely establish the ‘fundamental social trend’, it was far more important to clearly indicate what that was and where it was Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 100 heading. In other words, art should be not only social but also dynamic281. This discussion of socialist art portraying not only today’s reality but also its route towards the future was further grasped during the congress. As expressed by Zhdanov: ‘In the first place, it means knowing life so as to be able to depict it truthfully in works of art, not to depict it in a dead, scholastic way, not simply as “objective reality”, but to depict reality in its revolutionary development’282. Retrospectively, during the 1920s, to criticise the petite bourgeoisie was not only a common theme, but was also very useful. For as long as the NEP was implemented, plays dealing with the machinations of swindlers and speculators associated with the NEP were very popular. In fact, they were also officially supported, primarily because they raised concern against this new form of petite bourgeoisie that stemmed from NEP. The concept of NEP allowed the writers and directors of the Revolution to express all their animosity against the old and new bourgeoisie. Under the influence of the New Economic Policy, Moscow life had changed radically. In the evenings, people danced the Charleston, the foxtrot and tango in restaurants. Moscow women, imitating the Western fashion, cut their hair in short bobs, wore little round hats pulled down low to their eyebrows and skirts with hemlines above the knee. Cinema posters displayed the names of Conrad Veidt, Harry Piel and Lya de Putti. A kind of front line emerged in the sphere of everyday life. On one side were lads in Russian blouses and shirts with turn-down collars and girls in red kerchiefs, and on the other, young men wearing ties and girls wearing hats.283 This description by Rudnitsky portrays the impossible link between capitalism and socialism, and the huge contradictions that it raised among the working class and the few defenders (even among the working class) of the old bourgeoisie. The inevitable step of introducing laws related to capitalism in a socialist economy had its effects on culture, too (but somehow not on writers, according to Rudnitsky). Yet, once NEP was abolished in 1928, attacking the bourgeoisie gradually fell out of favour or, at least, became the least of the problems. The theorists, almost unanimously, were asking now for themes influenced by the working class’s everyday life. 281 Lunacharsky 1946, p. 13. 282 Scott, and Gorky, p. 21. 283 Rudnitsky, p. 103. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 101 Lunacharsky defined the new themes as those that would revise all relationships through the new prism of socialism; revise the understanding of the human condition; the notion of cooperation; the notion of universal and eternal situations, such as love and death; and illuminate the tendency to bring harmony to conflicting forces284. However, in contrast, almost all of the productions of Meyerhold’s Theatre during this period did not even include the working class as a theme. Instead, they aimed at confronting bureaucracy or at the critical evaluation of the actions of the intelligentsia or the former petite bourgeoisie, in a way that could potentially help them choose sides (with perhaps one exception, that of Selvinsky’s Commander of the Second Army in 1929, Meyerhold’s only civil war-related production). Not all critics were content with this strategy. While some of them praised Meyerhold’s courage and innovative proposals, a great number of others accused him 284 Lunacharsky 1946, pp. 11-28. Figure 3.3 Prisypkin being unfrozen in the second part of Bedbug. Source: Konstantin Rudnitsky, Russian and Soviet Theatre: Tradition and the Avant-Garde, p. 258. Figure 3.4. The final scene of Bathhouse. Source: Konstantin Rudnitsky, Russian and Soviet Theatre: Tradition and the Avant- Garde, p. 260. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 102 of hiding himself behind condemning the petite bourgeoisie without trying to help the working class approach its new reality. ‘The working class’, argued Gorky, ‘do not yet grasp the fact that they are working only for themselves’285, and it is theatre’s responsibility to help them do so, echoing once again its power of shaping social identities. In fact, one year after Lunacharsky’s call for ‘revised relationships under the prism of socialism’, Meyerhold staged Mayakovsky’s Bedbug, and in 1930, Bathhouse. In Bedbug, Mayakovsky satirised the type of philistine that emerged from NEP in the Soviet Union and, in Bathhouse, the absurdity of bureaucracy. For these two productions, ‘Mayakovsky and Meyerhold were accused of the “artificial magnification” of the phenomena they portrayed and of unjustified intent to portray the individual case as something typical’, as Rudnitsky explained, after having mentioned that ‘many critics thought that in The Bedbug Mayakovsky and Meyerhold were mistakenly “inflating” the danger of the petit-bourgeoisie.’286 Furthermore, Meyerhold himself had claimed that: The main purpose is to castigate the vices of the present day. In projecting us forward to 1979, Mayakovsky is forcing us to examine not a world transformed, but the very same sickness that is afflicting society today… Mayakovsky’s aim is to show us that illness[es] have deeply rooted causes, and take [a] great deal of time and a vast amount of energy to overcome.287 However, focusing on the negatives did not seem to agree with the critics’ point of view. Theorists and officials wanted theatre to help the working class ‘develop [its] revolutionary self-consciousness’, as Gorky would express it four years later at the Congress288. However according to the critic Stefan Mokul’skiy, with Bedbug, Meyerhold emphasized an already weak political comment of Mayakovsky. In addition, he claimed that the writer chose ‘the path of least resistance’289. The performance not only deviated far from workers’ everyday lives but also portrayed the Soviet citizen of the future as completely unstable, in danger of becoming infected with philistinism through even minimal contact with it. Ultimately, it was accused of 285 Scott, and Gorky, p. 23. 286 Rudnitsky, p. 207. 287 Meyerhold 1969, p. 88. 288 Scott, and Gorky, p. 52. 289 Mokul’skiy, p. 4. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 103 anti-Sovietism290. As Edward Braun observes, ‘the critics were confused: some saw it as an inspired vision of advanced technology, some found it a lifeless abstraction, whilst some even reached the dangerous conclusion that it was a parody of the achievements of socialism’.291 The reviews were certainly harsh, especially given that they criticised Meyerhold for something that he did not even intend to do. The stance of these critics can be linked to the Association of the Proletarian Writers (RAPP)’s recent stance against satire as inappropriate for helping the proletariat. Thus, it was once again more of an ideological debate on whether the new socialist theatre should depict the worker’s everyday life or satirise their enemies’ flaws. It took many years for this question to be answered and, in doing so, it presupposed a lot of political changes that took place in the meanwhile. However, by 1934, Zhdanov was in a position to declare that ‘in addition to this, the truthfulness and historical concreteness of the artistic portrayal should be combined with the ideological remoulding and education of the toiling people in the spirit of socialism’292. This need to focus on the working class became much more obvious at the Congress. The importance of theatre in this ‘ideological’ remoulding is even more evident in the fact that, beyond the criticism of the plays themselves, even staging plays of crucial social and contemporary themes was not enough per se. The critics wanted the performances to analyse the topics dealt with to such an extent that the causes of the themes could become visible and therefore accessible for deeper investigation. Unfortunately, according to Alpers, Meyerhold’s productions were political only in the broad sense of the term293. Further, despite being a member of the Communist Party, Meyerhold’s interests were more existential than Marxist. This can be proved by his statement made in 1927 (and, interestingly enough, not during his pre-revolution symbolist experimentation) that ‘if I were asked, what is the artistic challenge of the regisseur, I would say, “He has to comprehend the uncomprehended”’ [sic] 294. Thus, the question is not whether his productions presented the social causes behind the problem or not, but whether he was in a position (or willing) to do it. In the case of The Lady with the Camellias, staged in 1934 – a few months before the Congress – the debate on the necessity of 290 Ibid. 291 Braun 1998, p. 251. 292 Scott, and Gorky, p. 21. 293 Sited in: Symons, p. 161. 294 Ibid., p. 160. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 104 examining social causes reached its peak. One significant wing of critics agreed that the production overturned all expectations for a boldly social and artistic alteration of The Lady with the Camellias 295; all bourgeois moralism had remained. The few ‘social phrases’ and the disappearance of several religious comments could not have provided a scientific analysis of the social causes of Marguerite’s world. For example, it portrayed Marguerite’s tender love story, ignoring ‘the actual historical reality of the evil of prostitution, the post-war frenzy, the fight against female slavery, etc.’296. The supporters of The Lady with the Camellias, on the other hand, claimed that the performance revealed the real status of women in bourgeois society. Gvozdev mentioned that the text was already progressive when it was first published because it dealt with the theme of love seen through the pessimistic perspective of the literature of the eighteenth century, which functions as proof of the bourgeoisie’s decadence. In addition, according to Gvozdev, this kind of depiction of love forces the audience to think deeply. Undoubtedly, there was fierce debate regarding this; however, on the positive side, it revealed that – independently of whether Meyerhold’s production depicted the social causes or not – it constituted from all sides a sine qua non for the new Soviet theatre, something that would become more evident a few months later, during the Congress. Figure 3.5. The Lady with the Camellias, set sketch by I. Leistikov. Source: Beatrice Picon-Vallin, Meyerhold, p. 376. 295 See for example, Vishnevskiy, p. 3. 296 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 105 In contrast, this was not the case with the debate on whether to give priority to the classics or to modern drama in educating the proletariat. This is perhaps what justifies the contradictory reviews in the case of Erdman’s Mandate. Although Meyerhold is praised for his effort in injecting new Soviet drama into his theatre, he is simultaneously accused of various other issues, such as the fact that supporting a new drama is necessary but not enough. Further, he was lauded by a different wing of critics for his continuously innovative approach to the classics despite ideological insufficiencies. This, of course, in itself constitutes indisputable evidence of the ideological struggle that was taking place in the artistic field. Furthermore, it is worth remembering that Meyerhold came from the left of Proletkult, which was a group that rejected any old bourgeois art. Ilya Ehrenburg, for example, had asserted that ‘the classics depict firmly settled forms of life and heroes, while we portray life in its motion’297. Thus, it was a small victory for the supporters of the critical approach to the classics to watch classic Russian or European dramas on Meyerhold’s theatre stage. Yet, it was clear that neither classics nor modern theatre was enough. Meyerhold’s radical proposal baffled the critics, who did not always know how to respond. As seen previously, the debates on both The General Inspector and Bathhouse were indicative of this. This is why, regardless of what he was staging, there was always room for dispute. When, in 1925, he staged Erdman’s Mandate, one wing of critics applauded him for his choice of supporting newer dramas and merging this new content with his advanced techniques298. However, at the same time, other critics accused him of focusing on the pseudo-scientific while losing the artistic aspect of the production. The reactions were similar to plays such as the Bedbug, Commander of the Second Army, Bathhouse, and Visnievsky’s Last Decisive Battle. In addition, Meyerhold’s choice of repertoire could have satisfied those supporting the classics as well. Sukhovo-Kobylin’s Marriage of Krechinsky (1933) was hailed as proof that a ‘classic can be lively and modern’; The Lady with the Camellias was seen as a much needed ‘expansion of classical repertoire’; and even The General Inspector, despite the huge reaction against it, drew positive reviews, implying that it was a much-needed new approach to the classics. 297 Robin 1992, p. 17. 298 See for example, Gvozdev, and Markov 1925. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 106 The critics could not reach a consensus on whether staging modern or classic pieces was the most efficient way of enlightening the proletariat. However, they once again agreed on the fact that this was the aim. For Griboyedov’s 1823 classic Woe to Wit, staged in 1928, critics praised the fact that, while it was an old play, it was profoundly linked to its own social movement. To keep this revolutionary enthusiasm alive, Meyerhold had to change it and readjust it, which he did; to some critics successfully, to others not. He finally focused on the love story to portray the social element of the play. Of 1929’s Commander of the Second Army, they claimed that it enriched theatre with new themes, such as the role of the masses and the fight against extreme individualism. In 1934, Gorky would sum up the discussion on the classics by asserting that the goal is not to merely reproach the past, as ‘there is no sense in reproaching it; it should be studied’299. This is also what he suggested artists should do with new art. They should study reality and become good observers of it so that they do not simply portray it but also analyse the social politics behind it, something that bourgeois art sorely lacked300. Ultimately, with both the classics or with contemporary playwrights, art’s object should be the ‘cultural education of the masses’ and ‘the development of the revolutionary self-consciousness of the proletariat, to foster its love for the home it has created’301. Of course, this terminology has always been slightly ambiguous, especially in identifying what the ‘revolutionary self-consciousness’ is and how artists can aid and abet its development. Again, if one follows the themes repeatedly found in the reviews of Meyerhold’s productions and then compares them with how they were approached at the Congress and afterwards, several important things can be understood. After examining the literature of the time, the current researcher identified two very common topics of discussion, frequently repeated based on and triggered by Meyerhold’s performances. ‘Revolutionary self-consciousness’ has been linked with the fight against individualism and formalism. 299 Scott, and Gorky, p. 40. 300 Ibid., p. 44. 301 Ibid., p. 52. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 107 On individualism A considerable number of reviews criticised the notion of ‘individualism’ in Meyerhold’s theatre. The discussion on ‘individualism’ (as with that on ‘formalism’, which we will see in the next section) was very important, precisely because theatre could trigger discussions and provide new insights on these complicated philosophical issues in a way that is approachable to a wide audience. Initially, this notion meant two things. It was related to individualistic creation, on the one hand, and to the promotion of individualism through artistic work, on the other. In the beginning, individualism and individuality were both used as opposites to the collective, which was, in turn, a notion primarily linked with Marxist ideology. Following the discussion on Meyerhold’s productions, this part of the thesis portrays that it was only during the late 1920s that the individual as part of the collective gained prominent attention. For Soviet officials, the social essence and the distinction between ‘individualism’ and ‘individuality’ concerned their aesthetics from the very beginning. The reviews of Meyerhold’s performances not only evidence that, but they also manifest that – throughout the years – the arguments against the former became more intense. The general sense was that Meyerhold’s productions, despite proclamations, were not trying to fight individualism. For the 1930’s production of Bathhouse, V. M. Blyumenfel’d claimed that ‘especially today, [theatre] has to stubbornly struggle against the individualistic foundations of traditional psychological drama [under the new] pace of socialist propaganda and construction tasks’302. One year later, Olesha’s List of Assets was found to have many ideological contradictions. Therein, the individual, struggling to support one system or the other, found herself in the middle of a personal crisis, unable to see why the socialist system was any better. However, if the play was unable to find the key to the problem of the intelligentsia, it was because the question was not put forward in the right way. In other words, it isolated the protagonist from her social surroundings. Individualism was seen as the separation of the person from society and the isolated examination of any exceptional case. The critical approaches, however, were not always focused on the actual individual and were not always that explicit. An additional reason why Meyerhold was accused of individualism in his productions was that he did not portray how society influences the lifestyle and, consequently, the choices of certain theatre heroes. For example, the idea that a performance (if not the play in the first place) should focus on the 302 Blyumenfel’d, p. 3. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 108 social background of the heroes and not only on their actions, was profound in 1925’s Erdman’s Mandate, where the individualistic elements of the heroes were not seen as the result of the old bourgeois (or NEP) society of consumerism, but as inherent traits of certain people. Lunacharsky’s doubts regarding this particular performance are related to this, and had to do with the ‘missing of a positive hero and a truthful reflection of the Soviet life’303. Erdman’s Mandate, being an overall critique of all kinds of opportunists, did not leave any space for any positive aspect of this society, making it not only un-truthful but also overly focused on exceptions. The same aspect was criticised by P. Markov, whose response was that the importance of fighting on the third front304 needs a more well-rounded and critical approach, rather than the uncritical presentation of ‘bad examples’: At one time, we were talking about the approval of the new theatre ‘generalities’, in both ideological and aesthetic terms, which were easy and convenient to combine with the image of modernity. [But] they coincide with opportunism, if they are not linked to an attitude of investigation. The idea is to shut out not only the aesthetic formalism of the deceased [system], but also the ideological formalism; the dead slogans. We are talking about the revelation of their validity, rather than an irresponsible recitation. It is a gathering of what has already been awakened in the theatre that lives like the undercurrent of our theatre and that erupts in some productions.305 The only time the fight against individualism was present in Meyerhold Theatre’s productions was in 1935’s 33 Fainting Fits, an adaptation by Meyerhold of three short stories by Anton Chekhov. There, the ‘evil of individualism’ was linked with the idleness, laziness and irresponsibility of Chekhov’s contemporary intelligentsia, who did nothing more than philosophise. In this case, Meyerhold was praised for highlighting this aspect (Yuzovskiy). Thus, it seems that Meyerhold did not share the passion that the Soviet theorists had for eliminating individualism; at least not to the same extent. In Meyerhold at Work, Paul Schmidt asserted that ‘Meyerhold’s conception of acting totally denies the idea of “character”, with its nineteenth-century overtones of bourgeois individualism – of private morality and personal 303 Erdman, Hoover, Genereux, and Valkor, p. 8. 304 Referring to Lenin’s reformation of the Soviet education and culture, known as the ‘third front’ of revolutionary activity. 305 Markov 1925, 291. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 109 motivation’306. However, Meyerhold had never actually expressed his struggle against individualism in the same terms. Initially, what Meyerhold did was intensely attack the notion of ‘psychologism’ that was widely used in Russian theatre, inherited from its symbolist and realist past. Back in 1913, Meyerhold was already stating that: A theatre which presents plays saturated in ‘psychologism’, with the motivation of every single event underlined, or which forces the spectator to rack his brains over the solution of all manner of social and philosophical problems – such a theatre destroys its own theatricality.307 Almost ten years later, he would still be fighting against psychologism – the insistence on understanding and explaining all on-stage actions based on motives stemming from inner psychological issues. In addition, he would form an entire method based on scientific reasoning to fight exactly that. In his lecture on Biomechanics, titled ‘The Actor of the Future and Biomechanics’, delivered on 12 June 1922 in the Conservatoire of Moscow, he claimed that: There is a whole range of questions to which psychology is incapable of supplying the answers. A theatre built on psychological foundations is as certain to collapse as a house built on sand. On the other hand, a theatre which relies on physical elements is, at the very least, assured of clarity.308 Meyerhold was fighting against psychologism because he wanted clarity in the transmission of his message to the audience. Although clarity for what or of what might not be all that clear, and he later stated that: All psychological states are determined by specific physiological processes. By correctly resolving the nature of his state physically, the actor reaches the point where he experiences the excitation which communicates itself to the spectator and induces him to share in the actor’s performance: what we used to call ‘gripping’ the spectator.309 306 Meyerhold, and Schmidt, p. x. 307 Braun 1998, p. 158. 308 Ibid., p. 199. 309 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 110 If Meyerhold wanted to ‘grip’ the spectator, the actor must have created those perfect physical actions that would enable him to communicate with the audience. Therefore, the individualistic psychologism that explains why a character does what he does is no longer required. Instead, it is replaced by the manifestation of the very action in its flawless execution. ‘Why’ is replaced by ‘how’. The idea goes beyond the acting to the whole production, which works like a perfectly synchronised orchestra. Further, it was not only the human factor that was added to the total; it was the set as well. The constructivist sets of the first post-revolution production were as much a part of the entirety as the actors themselves. In fact, actors were mechanised to such an extent that they constituted nothing more than cogs in a well-oiled machine. In other words, in this dynamic and scientifically organised construction that Meyerhold proposed against psychologism, individuality had no place – let alone individualism. Consequently, they both tended toward extinction. This was a very common view of the Soviet perception of Meyerhold’s theatre. If everything was made by Meyerhold so as to portray the efficiency of the collective work and the creation in it of the ‘new man who is capable of any form of labour’310, how did he get to the point of Pravda accusing him of ‘an anti-social atmosphere, subservience, restricted self-criticism, narcissism’311? In other words, how did he reach the opposite end of what he was aiming for? Platon Kerzhentsev explained this paradox by claiming that: Generally speaking, [the] rebellious personality, in criticizing the life of its society, seldom and barely realized its own responsibility for society’s odious practices. And still more seldom was the prime motive for its criticism of the existing order a deep and correct understanding of the significance of social and economic causes; more often, criticism was provoked either by a sense of the hopelessness of one’s life in the narrow iron cage of capitalism, or by a desire to avenge the failure of one’s life and its humiliations. And it can be said that when personality turned to the working mass, it did not do so in the interests of the mass, but in the hope that the working class, by destroying bourgeois society, would ensure freedom of thought and liberty of action.312 310 Ibid., p. 200. 311 Kerzhentsev, p. 4. 312 Scott, and Gorky, p. 55. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 111 This is also one of Gorky’s assertions about how personality can work against the collective whole, if not seen as a projection of this very same society. He declared this during the Congress of 1934 and, although he was referring not to Meyerhold but to the European and Russian literature of the nineteenth century, his words somehow referred to him; it is fruitless to criticise a society and its bad deeds, he affirmed, if one does not realise his ‘own responsibility for society’s odious practices’. At the same time, Gorky argued that the fundamental theme of pre-revolutionary literature was the individualistic ‘tragedy of a person’. A person who, although he perceives the bad deeds of the ruling class of his time and the misery and despair under which he lives, if he rebels, it is only to establish a better position and way of life for himself. By doing so, he commits two crimes against society: firstly, he tries to save himself individualistically, independently from the rest of the society; and secondly, he does so without even trying to identify that the root cause of his misery and despair lie in the way society and its economy work, which therefore should be changed. Indeed, Meyerhold tried to replace this ‘tragedy of the person’ by creating types of people and behaviours that would criticise the negative aspects of society better than the psychological justification of any given character could. Nevertheless, to criticise without honest self-criticism was merely another kind of individualism, Soviet critics went on to argue. On 17 December 1937, Pravda published Platon Kerzhentsev’s famous attack on Meyerhold and his theatre, under the title ‘An Alien Theatre’. The article, which claimed that Meyerhold’s Theatre had been turned into a complete political failure, closed by accusing it of ‘an anti- social atmosphere, subservience, restricted self-criticism, narcissism’. Several contemporary scholars seem to agree with this view. This over-arching role of the director in Meyerhold’s Theatre led to an authoritative approach to theatrical creation that left almost no space for an actor’s initiative. Jacqueline Robin Ladouceur, in her dissertation on Meyerhold’s training methodology, observes that: Authoritarian tendencies in his directing, tendencies evolved simultaneously with his theories of the mise en scene and his later development of Biomechanics. Starting in the period of WWI when he ran a studio on Borodinskaia street, his method of training and working with performers became less democratic. Ultimately, the very structure of the biomechanical exercises, used to train Meyerhold’s actors from 1922 onward, Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 112 facilitated Meyerhold’s control of the mise en scene and thus, the development of authoritarian tendencies.313 Ladouceur claims that Meyerhold’s technique of training actors was, in fact, a collection of pre-defined movements that the actor had to learn to execute in maximum precision. The actor was at no point responsible for the final result, as even the sequence of these movements was pre-defined by someone else: the director. Therefore, the biomechanical actors were left with no creative initiative314. In addition, the fact that the entire method was supposed to be based on a scientific approach to acting left no space for controversy. Its influences from Taylorism and the idea of standardisation and the economy of labour had turned the method into an inviolable directive315. Furthermore, its reliance on pseudo-science was criticised from the beginning. However, it was not only this that worried the critics. It was the over-centralisation of power to one person. ‘Leaderism’ over ‘leadership’, as Gorky would have said. Schmidt describes this turn in Meyerhold’s approach to directing as follows: Meyerhold was the first director to insist on the primacy of the director’s role, indeed the first to conceive it as a role, something to be played out, performed—but a creative force as well, equal to the role of the playwright in shaping the theatrical experience, an experience considered different from the playtext, and not achieved merely by actors. Without the director as demiurge, henceforth, nothing theatrical would obtain. The role of the director is here perceived as an extension of the Romantic notion of the Interpreter, shifted away from the actor and the idea character, from the mimetic impulse merely, to more complicated impulses.316 Going back to Ladouceur, with Biomechanics, the theatrical production was achieved ‘not merely by actors’; there was almost no influence of actors on the final product. Actors became similar to musical symbols in Meyerhold’s score, along with the set, the music, and the space. This is further testified to by Gromov. Viktor Gromov, the actor who played the father in The Proposal, described Meyerhold’s ‘creative force’ slightly differently: 313 Ladouceur, p. 1. 314 Ibid., p. 194. 315 Ibid., p. 185. 316 Meyerhold, and Schmidt, p. xiv. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 113 The director stopped the actor literally at every word and gesture, even when the acting was good, to add suggestions which the actor was to synthesize with his own interpretation of the part. If Meyerhold approved the synthesis, as subsequently verified in a run-though, the painstaking analysis was not repeated.317 It is, perhaps, not a coincidence that one of the major disagreements between Meyerhold and Kerzhentsev, during their early theoretical writings, was on collective creation318. It had become clear that, although Meyerhold might be truly fighting against individualism, he suppressed collectivism too. For it is impossible, according to Kerzhentsev, to combine collective creativity with directorial authority319. The issues that this approach could create in forming the new social identity of the masses explains, perhaps, the intensity of the debate over his performances. Nevertheless, it was Biomechanics that trained actors in self-control, governability, responsiveness, and obedience320 – traits that, as Ladouceur observes, were invaluable for the collective work. Further, in accordance with the demands of the new age of the machine, which began with industrialisation made by the socialist system, the actor was additionally trained in economy, efficiency, and efficacy. The machine and the speed of production had raised expectations enormously, and the deification of the future and the machine were connected to the liberation of man from any kind of physical coercion, giving him the strength to dominate not only the terrestrial sphere but also in the entire universe. This affected a lot of aspects of society, including art. Accordingly, Meyerhold, by developing his technique of Biomechanics, was creating the different moving parts of the single machine that altogether comprised the Meyerhold Theatre. Creating individualistically was one way of upholding individualism. The other way was producing art that did not promote the collective spirit, while simultaneously endorsing an individualistic approach to life. All of the above generated concerns regarding Meyerhold’s Theatre. As seen in Chapter 2, Maxim Gorky, in Destruction of Personality (1909), studied the function of folklore art and 317 Hoover, p. 228. 318 Aquilina, pp. 29-48. 319 Ibid., p. 44. 320 Ladouceur, p. 204. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 114 identified – as a problem – the fact that art lost its generic meaning at the historical moment when specific economic laws replaced the collective spirit with individualism as means of growth and evolution321. All things considered, Gorky proposed that re-establishing folklore in art was of crucial importance in the struggle between the old and new societal values that socialism attempted to establish. According to him, this restoration of the collective spirit and the fight against individualism (the destruction of personality) are synonymous with socialism. Through this, he established some characteristics that the artist should have to excel in his work under the aegis of socialism. The sequence of duties that the good artist should fulfil and the very discussion of subjectivism are significant because they prove an ideological difference between Gorky and Meyerhold. However, this difference in method did not make Meyerhold any less sensitive to socialist needs. Meyerhold, knowing – or at least understanding – the impact that his work would have on its audience, would not leave this fight on a theoretical level. Not only did he not support subjectivism, but he also tried to extinguish it because he linked it to individualism: You need not think that my thesis about ‘associations’ leads to some kind of subjectivism in the perception of art. Someday, physiologists, psychologists, and philosophers will show that the realm of associations is connected with certain general (and even social—after all, in the final analysis, everything is social) phenomena for the majority of people. The sound of a factory whistle means one thing to me and something else for those who, their entire life, have gotten out of bed at the sound of that whistle. Sounding in the background of a scene, it will say one thing to one person, and something else to another. That isn’t subjectivism, but is in the realm of social associations.322 The concept of associations does indeed win over psychologism and the inner development of the character, as it considers both the actors and the audience as a collective whole, who are of different backgrounds are independently extract meanings from given associations. In fact, for Meyerhold, this procedure is part of the collective creativity. As Schmidt says: 321 Gorky 1946, pp. 113-116. 322 Law, and Gordon, pp. 164-65. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 115 Meyerhold structured gesture to present a possibility, a virtuality, an idea. This is a social act. It involves two gestures – the primary one is the gesture of presentation: the act which indicates and defines the gesture as gesture, and which demands from the spectator the gesture of response.323 In that sense, Meyerhold thought he was fighting against subjectivism. Yet, not only was he not doing so, but ultimately subjectivism was not even the problem. Meyerhold might have linked objectivism with the collective spirit and experience, but he missed the point that subjectivism exists irrespective of this. Thus, the aim should not be to suppress it or ignore it but to identify its function. In 1934, under the influence of socialism and Marxist philosophy, in addition to the major economic changes in society (further industrialisation and collectivisation), Gorky advanced his theory on ‘individualism’. Individualism must be purged, he said; collective spirit must be supported; but now, by doing so, artists should develop, first in themselves and then in their audience, the spirit of what Gorky calls ‘socialist individuality’. To do this, they ought to change the way they work. Artists should work collectively, and this is the main reason why unions must be created and organised. In other words, not only to unite workers in a single body for practical purposes but mainly to help them understand their corporate power. ‘The idea, of course, is not to restrict individual creation but to furnish it with the widest means of continued powerful development’, he stated324. One might think that this kind of assertion applies only to individual arts, like literature or painting, but the case of Meyerhold proves that working together did not always mean working collectively. Meyerhold was the absolute creator of his productions, responsible for every single detail. This led to him being considered as working against the cultivation of his own ‘socialist individuality’, while simultaneously leaving minimal space for the actors to develop theirs. To explain the concept of ‘socialist individuality’, Gorky went back to assessing the critical realism of the nineteenth century to illustrate that even the best and most revolutionary voices among them would only criticise everything without suggesting alternatives or improvements, reverting often to what it had itself repudiated. In contrast, a sequence of events needs to occur 323 Meyerhold, and Schmidt, p. xv. 324 Scott, and Gorky, p. 65. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 116 simultaneously for the new socialist art to arise. As seen previously, art needs to be both objective and subjective. In order for the former to be possible, artists must develop their observation skills and be educated to the highest level. To achieve the latter, they need to be active members of the collective body. Being an active member of the collective body in the socialist society with its new advanced needs and expectations meant to exist in ‘socialist individuality’, which is, in turn, impossible if it occurs outside the collective body. This is the frame within which Meyerhold was being accused of individualism and philistinism. Ultimately, Meyerhold’s biomechanical obedience and lack of creativity were turned against not only individualism but the individual itself. Indeed, ‘the concept of individuality was abandoned in favour of the dynamic, mechanized, and collective entity’, explains Ladouceur325. Yet, this was exactly what Meyerhold was accused of. By focusing on exceptions, he lost sight of the big (social) picture. By focusing on the biological elements of the formation of an actor, he lost the social ones. Both of those elements were beginning to gain pivotal roles in Marxist society, which, according to Engels, was that ‘the human essence is no abstraction inherent in each individual. In its reality, it is the ensemble of the social relations’.326 Meyerhold, in an effort to denounce individualism, removed the individual as well. He did so at a time when it was being made clear that individualism should come under double attack. It had to be distinguished not only from its previous form but also from the positive notion of individuality, which was now connected with personal initiative and responsibility. The extent of the attack on Meyerhold is indicative of theatre’s influence on the masses. On estrangement and formalism The struggle against individualism is not very different from the struggle against formalism. What might be different is the effect that they have on the audience because they are not perceived equally. The discussion of formalism and its effect on people is, perhaps, more ideological and philosophical. It is a debate where Meyerhold’s Theatre is considered among the most influential, because, even if it was MAT that had full houses, it was Meyerhold that was raising the difficult questions. As we have seen in the first chapter, Mally noticed that 325 Ladouceur, p. 8. 326 Marx, and Engels 1969, p. 14. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 117 much more attention was paid to classical performances than experimental ones (Mally 1996). Although this is true, it is not accurate regarding the theoretical discussions that experimental performances were raising. Nicolas Rzhevsky, author of one of the histories of the Russian theatre (Rzhevksy 2009), asserts that: In speaking of Soviet cultural history, Western critics have usually placed heavy emphasis on the political attacks directed at ‘formalism’. But the exaltation of form, of technique and literary device, carries in itself a type of ideological commitment, or in any case, this is how the Kremlin views the matter. Therefore, the denial of formalism by the Soviet leadership was not simply a denial of stylistic innovations in art, but a denial of those artists who held that an intellectual commitment to art was possible outside of the party line.327 If the Kremlin, as Rzhevsky claims, identified formalism as ‘a type of ideological commitment’, then – independently of which the other ideology was – it was already proven that the fight against formalism was an ideological one. Further, as has already been said, the fight for socialist realism was – above all – an ideological fight regarding what the aesthetics of the new socialist theatre should be. Given the fact that Meyerhold was continuously accused of formalism, it worth investigating his work to identify why formalism was so evil and unacceptable for the Soviets. If formalism is linked with ideologies alien to socialist realism, then establishing it in Meyerhold’s Theatre could further the identification of socialist realism’s ideological background. When Meyerhold’s Theatre was closed down in 1938, the Teatr and Pravda newspapers published the ‘Resolution on the Liquidation of the Vsevolod Meyerhold Theatre’. Among the reasons for this decision, it was asserted that: The Meyerhold Theater, over the course of its entire existence, could not free itself from positions alien to Soviet art, thoroughly bourgeois and formalistic. As a result, to suit ultraleft craftiness and formalistic mannerisms, even classical works of Russian drama were presented by the theatre in distorted, anti-artistic guise, with a 327 Rzhevsky 1969, p. 420. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 118 misinterpretation of their ideological substance (The General Inspector, Woe to Wit, Tarelkin’s Death, etc.). 328 This was not so unexpected after Kerzhentsev’s article on Meyerhold’s ‘alien theatre’, and the long string of negative reviews beginning in the 1920s, which only reached their peak during the 1930s, most of which have been included in this part of the thesis. Notably, for Erdman’s Mandate (1925), Vasily Sakhnovskiy wrote that Meyerhold’s approach was pseudo-scientific, stimulating only the opinion of the vulgar spectator. ‘He gives a terrible picture of Russian reality’, adding on that ‘authors, actors and spectators are delighted only by the vulgarity in which they are bathed’329. Even more obvious was the attack on Gogol’s The General Inspector (1928). Blyum, who was – at the time – the critic and head of the Theatre and Music section of the Central Committee of Repertoire (Glavrepertkom), launched a fierce attack against it, claiming that ‘political indifference, mysticism, formalism, merged in Meyerhold[’s] The General Inspector in this dissonant, confused and disorganized hum’330. In 1935, the repetition of Griboedov’s Woe to Wit was seen by Em. Beskin as ‘a tribute to formalism and expressionism, which was actually wearing the stamp of the pre-revolutionary period works of Meyerhold, following his inclination on aesthete-theatre’331. Formalism was also linked with the ‘decadent art’ (either of the West or otherwise). The List of Assets was accused by I. Kruti of being ‘decadent erotic art’, and Uriel’ drew attention to its ‘decadent music’. Meyerhold had several chances to theoretically justify his work. This is to say that, although Meyerhold’s productions were accused of being formalistic, he also had the chance to defend them in congresses, conferences, meetings, and personal correspondence by explaining why they were not formalistic or, if they were, why his insistence on creating them this way. However, his defence was weak, as is evident in two of his speeches made in 1936 and 1939. The first one was his speech in Leningrad and Moscow against ‘meyerholditis’, where he either blamed other artists for imitating him in a negative light or critiqued himself based on his previous works only, dispelling any relation to society in general. In his 1939 speech, he seemed to show some regret for his ‘mistakes’: 328 ‘O likvidatsii teatraim. Vs. Meyyerkhol’da’, p. 2. 329 Sakhnovskiy, p. 2. 330 Blyum, p. 4. 331 Beskin, p. 4. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 119 Hard as it is for me subjectively to lose my theatre, I must consider the decision to close it made by the party and our government to be correct (applause). I think, comrades, that it is a lesson—a good lesson for all those today who would like to smuggle in an insidious formalism, and I can say with certainty that not everyone is yet cured of this disease. I can reel off a whole list of names of directors, a whole list of productions in which insidious formalism is still being smuggled. […] Comrade Stalin’s remark that we must learn to live like Lenin is especially necessary to us the workers in the realm of theatre. […] So, comrades, when we talk about socialist realism in our creative work, let us bear in mind that this is possible only on the certain condition that our worldview has a firm foundation, for if our worldview does not, then there can be no such work. Hence a grasp of the bases of Marxism– Leninism seems to be utterly indispensable. […]332 However, at least for the officials, both speeches proved to be insufficient. The chairman of the Committee on Artistic Affairs, Mikhail Khrapchenko, responded in Mir Iskusstv: Comrade Meyerhold […] referred to his errors, but his admission of them was to some extent formal. The party teaches us that it is not enough merely to confess our errors; we need to demonstrate their nature and their essence so that others may learn from them, above all young people. We need to show them where such errors lead, how they arise, and where their true nature lies, why such errors are harmful and how they can be overcome. He said nothing about the nature of his errors, whereas he should have disclosed the errors that led his theatre to become a theatre inimical to the Soviet people, a theatre that was closed by order of the party.333 Later theorists commented on whether this accusation against Meyerhold for formalism was accurate or not. Those who do, usually use the words Formalism (with the F capitalised, as Erlich suggested in his 1973 article on Russian Formalism) and formalism (with lowercase ‘f’) in equal measure. For example, Marjorie Hoover suggested that ‘for several reasons, the word “formalism” should be abandoned by Meyerhold’s accusers. It has pejorative overtones in most 332 Senelick, and Ostrovsky, p. 461. 333 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 120 West European languages, as well as in Russian’334. Others, notably Robert Leach, identified why Meyerhold’s Theatre was not only formalistic but also a good representation of what formalistic theatre means335: Meyerhold thus aligns himself with Russian Formalism, which arose contemporaneously, and which investigated problems such as what was ‘artistic’ about art. The Formalists, several of whom knew Meyerhold well, could point to the way his work defamiliarized not just its apparent subject matter, but conventions themselves, in order to show that theatre is theatre, and thus throw the responsibility for the creation of meaning to the spectator.336 These two statements already manifest the misunderstandings that the use of these terms created. However, it is important to clarify the difference between the two ideas, because the reasons why the attack against both of them was so necessary are – once again – ideological. Hoover, in her article, claims that the accusation that Meyerhold’s was a formalist was wrong, and she justifies this by saying that, at that time, the word ‘formalism’ in Russia was linked to the linguistic circles of Shklovsky and Tynyanov; this is only partly true. There is indeed a differentiation (although not always clear) between Formalism and formalism, as Erlich observes. The capitalised ‘Formalism’ was a movement of literary historians and philologists that flourished in Russia from the 1910s to the 1930s – a school of thought not yet unified. There were several different factions within it, with its two main centres being the Moscow Linguistic Circle and the OPOYAZ (Obshchestvo Izucheniia Poeticheskogo Yazyka, Society for the Study of Poetic Language) in St. Petersburg. Although it was not a homogeneous movement, the Formalists had a clear ground of agreement, which was the autonomous nature of poetic language and the necessity that it be studied as such. Their principal aim was to identify a series of traits exclusively linked with poetic language. They tried to establish what it is that constitutes artfulness and to consequently create a method that would enable them to analyse it in a scientific way. These early Formalist theorists rejected the academic eclecticism of Russian literary history, the insistence on socially meaningful critiques, and the metaphysical preconception of the Symbolist movement that preceded them. 334 Hoover, p. 236. 335 Leach, p. 27. 336 Leach, p. 98. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 121 Despite differences, common to all the theorists of the different schools (including Boris Eichenbaum, Viktor Shklovsky, and Yuri Tinyanov), was the fact that they were examining the evolution of literary forms in isolation from any social and historical context337. In addition, given that the term ‘formalism’ was first used by the opponents of the movement and was explicitly rejected by the Formalists themselves (Erlich), to be a formalist meant not only to focus excessively on formal experimentation, but also to do so independently of the effects on the creation and perception of art, and independently of social conditions. Moreover, Formalism and Futurism were not two unrelated movements. Mayakovsky, the leading defender and theorist of futurism, editor of both Lef and Novyi Lef (two futurist journals), was engaged in both the Moscow Linguistic Circle and OPOYAZ. Thus, there was an active and direct exchange of ideas between the two movements338. Further, the two movements both developed around the decline of Symbolism and its metaphysical approach to reality. Although Russian Formalists were primarily concerned with establishing a scientific method of approaching literature, both linguistically and critically, their transformation of literary theory had more far-reaching results, establishing a clear connection with the Avant- Garde movement in art, as well as with all aspects of Soviet life of the 1920s339. Meyerhold’s pre-revolution theatrical experiments were thematically and formally equivalent to the current futurist trends and gained scholarly support through the discourse of Formalism, which aimed to stimulate the consciousness of the beholder through the device of ostranenie (defamiliarization or estrangement)340. Contemporary scholars have proved that there is a connection between the theoretical works of the Russian Avant-Garde and Formalism. Sylvia Jestrovic suggests that this connection is based on the notions of conventionality and theatricality341. The link between the two movements lies in the concept of ‘zaum’ or ‘trans-sense language’, which refers to a poetic syntactical device. Zaum could be found in a series of theatrical experimentations, other than 337 Murphy, p. 95. 338 Bennett 2003, p. 25. 339 Droznin, p. 1. 340 Haran, p. 61. 341 Jestrovic, p. 33. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 122 the obvious use of ‘zaum’ language by Russian futurist poets such as Velimir Khlebnikov and Aleksei Kruchenykh. It is comparable to Tzara’s dada or Artaud’s theatrical hieroglyphics, being an exceptional stage language used as a self-referential sign rather than for an extra-referential purpose. ‘In ordinary speech’, Jestrovic claims, ‘the message is intended to refer to the object; in zaum, the message is the object’ 342. It is this non-verbal or anti-verbal use of the language that influenced Meyerhold’s theatrical strategies, motivating him to change ‘the emphasis from dramatic text to the actor’s body by using masks, clowning, and improvisation’343. Jestrovic maintains that this kind of innovation, which she calls ‘transtheatrical inscriptions’, employs mechanisms from various different aspects of theatre, combining them to create one new theatrical language. She also suggests that Meyerhold’s use of ‘ostranenie’ is illustrative of ‘mixing “highbrow” and “lowbrow” art, marginalised conventions with popular ones, and the Occidental theatrical tradition with the devices of Oriental performance’344. It is no surprise that ‘ostranenie’ appears in Meyerhold’s technique. ‘Ostranenie’ was first defined by Shklovsky in his 1917 essay, ‘Art as Technique’, as the conscious separation of established habits of reception. In everyday life, we are used to seeing things in a particular way, which prevents us from actually perceiving what we see. To become able to actually see things again, we must overcome this habitual perception. By making things strange again, we are able to re-discover them. In art, the use of unusual verbal imagery constitutes an exemplary strategy for breaking the illusion of realism. This process of making things appear strange is, according to Shklovsky, the essential task of any kind of art345. Futurists were impressed by the technique. Linking it with Pavlov’s theory of association, Meyerhold too became very enthusiastic about the results that defamiliarisation might have: I have come to regard the mise en scene not as something which works directly on the spectator but rather as a series of ‘passes’, each intended to evoke some association or other in the spectator (some premeditated, others outside my control). Your imagination is activated, your fantasy stimulated, and a whole chorus of associations is set off. A 342 Ibid., p. 48. 343 Ibid., p. 62. 344 Ibid., p. 69. 345 Spiegel, p. 369. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 123 multitude of accumulated associations gives birth to the new worlds—whole films which have never got beyond the cutting-room. You can no longer distinguish between what the director is responsible for and what is inspired by the associations which have invaded your imagination. A new world is created, quite separate from the fragments of life from which the film is composed.346 In addition, defamiliarisation in Meyerhold’s Theatre was expressed in another way. Robert Leach observes that: Characterization in Meyerhold’s theatre, therefore, was a vehicle for (in Formalist terms) ‘deformation’ and ‘estrangement’, which often revealed social rather than personal meanings. Thus, Tarelkin, the minor bureaucrat, become ‘estranged’ when seen as a jester–acrobat, flying across the stage on a trapeze to escape the police.347 Defamiliarisation in Meyerhold’s Theatre, moreover, manifests itself in the difference between the character and the actor, the exaggeration of body language and make-up, the display of the theatre’s means of production, and so on. According to Jestrovic, it is used to ‘emphasize indirectly the presence of the author and the artificiality of the stage world, impeding the suspension of spectators’ disbelief’, echoing Formalist concepts. ‘Meyerhold used the style of the grotesque as a principle of distancing in theatre, where evoking “something hideous and strange” counteracts the automatization of perception’348. From the perspective of defamiliarisation, Viktor Shklovsky opposed the concept of habitualisation, which for him is related to naturalism, and proposed a means to destroy habitual patterns and initiate an intensified restoration of conscious experience, according to the idea that ‘poetic imagery is a means of creating the strongest possible impression’349 – and, as such, found a lot of supporters among Russian Avant-Garde artists. Meyerhold himself tried to combine this notion of estrangement with the needs of the Revolution. From the Marxist point of view, however, it seems that it was the opposite that they were 346 Braun 2016, pp. 318-19. 347 Leach, p. 74. 348 Jestrovic, p. 34. 349 Erlich, p. 629. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 124 looking for. It was not the exceptional and the unfamiliar that they were interested in. Through discourse on, it became clear that the key concept was the identification of the ‘typical’ and not the exceptional. Indicative of this is Georgii Malenkov’s report at the agenda-setting Nineteenth Party Congress (1952): As our artists, writers, and performers create their artistic images, they must constantly bear in mind that the typical is not that which is encountered the most often, but that which most persuasively expresses the essence of a given social force. From the Marxist–Leninist standpoint, the typical does not signify some sort of statistical mean. The typical is the vital sphere in which is manifested the party spirit of realistic art. The question of the typical is always a political question.350 It is important to note that the conflict had begun much earlier. In general, as Tony Bennett notes in his work Formalism and Marxism, the futurists aimed ‘to revolutionize literature not by revolutionizing its content but by revolutionizing the techniques of literary production’351. They sought to use literature to promote neither a substitute for scientific knowledge, not revolutionary sentiment, although, in the case of Meyerhold, one could suggest that he wanted these too. They mainly aimed at the very shock effect of awareness, inducing an innovative way of perceiving reality by modifying the systems through which it is ordinarily perceived. From this perspective, the revolutionary content was – in most cases – merely an excuse for further formal experimentation, as there is no end to the possible alterations of form. On the opposite camp, there were those who supported the value of traditional realism and the role of the ‘fellow travellers’ – notable among them being Maxim Gorky. Bennett commented the following on this group: Arguing that literature had a cognitive function, offering a knowledge of historical development through an anthropomorphic and poetically concrete depiction of the socially typical, … argued that revolutionary literature should aim to reflect historical contradictions and not to conjure them away through an excess of revolutionary 350 Sited in: Groys 1992, pp. 50-51. 351 Bennett 2003, p. 30. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 125 optimism.352 Apparently, this interpretation was closer to the party’s call for the aforementioned ‘ideological remoulding and education of the toiling people in the spirit of socialism using the truthfulness and historical concreteness of the artistic portrayal’353, as expressed by the Commissariat of Enlightenment, Andrei Zdhanov, at the 1934 Congress. To identify how this ‘truthfulness and historical concreteness of the artistic portrayal’ can be produced, one needs to go back to Gorky’s theory on ‘types’ and the ‘habitual’. As seen previously, the ‘socially typical’ plays a principal role in Gorky’s aesthetic writings. Once again, according to him, to portray the ‘habitual’ is not to merely illuminate a positive example. Further, the ‘habitual’ might not be something important to imitate, rather something that needs to be changed. In any case, the ‘habitual’ is what managed to survive during and through various social changes and conflicts, and it is this very process that proves its necessity to any given society. Where formalists chose ‘defamiliarisation’ as a means to reinvent perception and evaluation, Gorky chose ‘observation’. In contrast to the ‘grotesque’, he places the ‘typical’. Gorky believed that good art is art that identifies and illuminates the notions of universal significance. There are feelings, ideas, and situations that – although they might be expressed differently in different places in the world owing to national, racial, religious, state, or cultural differences – refer to ideals common to all people: ‘all literary creation, in prose and poetry, is saturated with the unity of feelings, thoughts, and ideals shared by all men’354. This universal unification of feelings and ideas is evident in the greatest masterpieces of world literature. Above all, it constitutes a virtue to be accomplished and not an inherent trait of literature. It is the artist’s responsibility to choose those ‘impressions picked out of the chaos with universal significance’355. Expressing the universal becomes possible with the creation of types. Types are built characters and/or themes that embody all the characteristics of a particular group. As Gorky points out, If a writer is able to extract from twenty or fifty or a hundred shopkeepers, officials or workmen the characteristic traits, habits, tastes, gestures, beliefs, mannerisms typical of 352 Bennett 2003, p. 24. 353 Scott, and Gorky, p. 18. 354 Gorky 1920, p. 748. 355 Gorky 1946, p. 132. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 126 them as a class, and if he can bring these traits to life in a single shopkeeper, official or workman, he will have created a type and his work will be a work of art.356 How can one make good art, that is, art that identifies and illuminates the notions of universal significance? Amazingly enough, it was not only the futurists who insisted on the importance of science. For Gorky, too, art has to be as precise as science. Nothing should be left to chance. Thus, the artist should develop a scientific methodology in his approach to the phenomena he chooses to talk about and to his art itself. This methodology is developed by studying, living, observing, and cultivating the ability to distinguish similarities and differences. Good art is made by developing all these facets. The fabulous achievements and rapid growth of science are due precisely to the fact that scientists know the history of their own speciality. Science and literature have much in common; in both, observation, comparison and study are of fundamental importance.357 Gorky started developing his theory many years before the Revolution. However, in 1934, he was still tirelessly supporting the importance of portraying the ‘habitual’. His speech at the Congress proves that his whole investigation of folklore and nineteenth-century art had – as a common result – the concept that the greatest heroes in the history of literature were the ones who represented types. To create such types, the artist needs to ‘directly participate in the work of creating realities, in the struggle for the renovation of life given that such an outcome arises when reason and intuition, thought and feeling have been harmoniously blended’358. Zdhanov and Gorky were not the only ones who denounced defamiliarisation. A.I. Stetsky, manager of the Culture and Leninist Propaganda Section of the Central Committee of the Communist Party also showed his passionate support for the need to portray the ‘habitual’. In his speech at the Congress, he added that this need for ‘typical characters in typical circumstances’ was primarily requested by Engels himself. Above all, Stetsky claimed that artists should not forget that the new socialist state belongs to the ‘workers and collective 356 Gorky, p. 43. 357 Ibid. 358 Scott, and Gorky, p. 35. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 127 farmers’, and that it is them who must be able to understand the artistic creation. For Stetsky, ‘to understand’ was already a decisive win over formalism, which is art without content, alien to the working people. What ‘genuine artists’ should do is get rid of the depiction of the decay of the petit bourgeoisie, and have ‘content, inspire, challenge and lead onward’359. Therefore, from the Marxist point of view, it was clear that formalist art could not be combined with the art of socialism, primarily because it originated in ideologies alien to socialism itself. When Lunacharsky assigned Meyerhold to lead the Theatrical Department of the Commissariat of Education in Leningrad (TEO), the futurists were supporting Revolution and Soviet power with concrete creative art, as they did from the very first day of the Revolution (for reasons that are more complex than merely ‘being revolutionaries’). When the Revolution erupted in 1917, the Formalist/Futurist nexus of the theatrical Avant-Garde served to drive communism. Meyerhold joined the Bolshevik Party in August 1918, and that year produced Vladimir Mayakovsky’s Mystery Bouffe, deemed the ‘first Soviet play’360. However, this does not negate the fact that futurists, influenced by the aesthetic theories of Plekhanov (see Chapter 3) and positivism, became unable to portray the ‘social reality’ along with the objective laws that surround it. With this theoretical background, it perhaps becomes easier to explain Kerzhentsev’s emphatic tone in attacking Meyerhold’s Theatre. Comments such as ‘a-political’ or ‘a-social’ theatre can refer to Meyerhold only under the aegis of dialectical materialism. His theatre was political, but this was not enough. ‘Marxism’, says Bennett, ‘has always claimed to be a revolutionary science. This does not merely mean that it is a science placed in the service of social and political revolution but also that it is, as a science, revolutionary in its approach to defining problems’361. This is exactly what Meyerhold and the rest of the futurists were accused of. They did not see the objective laws operating outside this ‘social reality’ and therefore, they excluded historical and dialectical materialism from their way of thinking. They also excluded any kind of art that was not directly useful or practical. This ‘empiriocritical’ approach to art was first rigorously criticised many years before the revolution. In ‘Materialism and Empiriocriticism’ (1908), Lenin critiqued the subjective–idealist philosophy of empiriocriticism and showed that dialectical and historical materialism is opposed to it. Ultimately, Meyerhold’s ‘fault’ was not the use of defamiliarisation. The problem was – and it 359 Scott, and Gorky, p. 109. 360 Haran, p. 61. 361 Bennett 2003, p. 99. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 128 was common for the formalists of the time – that, although he managed to alienate his audience from the objects of their perception, the very object used was not one that would help them build socialism. The problem was not the technique per se, but the lack of any content deriving from the socialist reality analysed under the principles of dialectical materialism. Consequently, being accused of formalism in the Soviet Union was a severe accusation for an artist and meant much more than experimenting with an artistic form. It was directly related to ideological deviations from Marxism, and thus it was considered crucial for Marxist theorists and officials that it be discovered, shed light on, and then eliminated, irrespective of the performance’s popularity or the director’s good intentions. Conclusion This chapter has argued that no discussion on theatre was ever solely about theatre as an art; they were, above all, about politics. For the first time in history, a society was built by and for workers, wherein every notion needs to be re-examined – if not redefined – as to what it means under these new socialist conditions. This was the politics that required discussion. However, even among those who agreed with the new status quo, there was no consensus as to what exactly was the best way to make theatre both creative (for the artists) and useful (for the people). It is during the period that this thesis examines, though, that this consensus was being created; it was being created with the same harshness and cruelty that defines class war. The evidence in this study suggests that three of the characteristics that were later commonly accepted as socialist realist were officially introduced in the 1934 Congress, but were also current in the debate on theatre before that: an appropriate repertoire, the fight against individualism, and the problems of formalism. In fact, it was exactly this critical debate that changed the tradition of simply commenting on them to an official necessity of fighting against them. Regarding his repertoire, the themes that Meyerhold chose were generally accepted as suitable. The Revolution, the Civil War, NEP, and later the implementation of industrialisation and the new arrangement of the collective life – even the efforts of the individual to adjust to new Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 129 conditions of society – seemed appropriate and did not provoke widespread conflict. Further, according to the Marxists, artistic work is a reflection of the reality in the consciousness of the artist362, and therefore, it was expected of artists to be preoccupied with these themes. From this perspective, Meyerhold was dealing with topics that concerned his contemporary audience. However, the controversy over the way this reality is to be depicted was not resolved. This was because, according to Marxist aesthetics, the artist expresses – through his work – a particular vision of reality and a cognitive, moral, and aesthetic valuation of it, which the recipient, in turn, decodes based on his own knowledge and ideology363. Ultimately, the artist exploits the educative power of theatre (a term coined by Gorky) independently of his intentions. Therefore, it was not only the theme that would turn the play into a ‘socially valuable’ performance; it was primarily the artist’s approach to it and the way he would choose to confront it. Seen from this viewpoint, there were plays written by Soviet writers that could not have been turned into ‘socialist performances’ while, on the other hand, plays or even non-theatrical texts of writers of any social background could portray reality in a way (i.e., ‘truthfully’) that could help the audience draw conclusions on how reality works. Further, the fight against individualism had been waged from the very beginning, precisely because it was linked to bourgeois mentality. In Marxist terms, individualism was the result of commodity fetishism or alienation. In broader terms, individualism was related to the capitalist right to private property, with its strong economic references to the egocentric development of the individual. Although the new socialist construct was meant to destroy this individualistic notion of personal development and replace it with the collective formation of society, it was extremely difficult to go against what most people had known until then as ‘natural’. Approximately ten years after the Revolution, with the further building of socialism under the Marxist–Leninist model and the advancement of industrialisation and collectivisation, individualism had come to be seen as an opportunist current that prevented the evolution from the ‘individual construction of the society’ to the ‘collective’. In theatre, this was expressed in two ways: (1) the artist, as an individualist who works and creates only for his own benefit, neglecting the creative power of the collective and the work of art – in this case, the performance – which does not portray the collective way of life (thus being ‘untrue’ to the depiction of the socialist reality); or (2) even worse, depicting individual solutions to 362 Johnson, p. 174. 363 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 130 collective issues. This chapter has shown that critics and theorists interpreted Meyerhold’s approach to art in both ways. Therefore, it also testifies that, independent of what exactly it would be or look like, should openly fight individualism in both its message to the audience and in its very process of creation. However, if the first post-revolution years over-emphasized the importance of the collective, by 1934, the equal importance of the individual as part of the collective (e.g., the Stakhanovite movement) had become obvious too. This was a seeming contradiction that Meyerhold’s approach could not have sold, because, although he emphasized the collective result, he did so by diminishing the individual’s creative initiative. Finally, formalism was ultimately rejected because it prevented theatre from portraying a truthful depiction of reality, irrespective of whether this was indeed the intention of the artist or not. Formalist theatre had adopted a mechanistic approach to reality that, although it over- emphasized the social role of art (at a time when this quality was very much needed), it did so by neglecting the objective social laws that defined the movement of this reality. This chapter suggests that Meyerhold’s use of formalism and estrangement – although intended to precisely identify what is wrong with the society – could not actually succeed in doing so because it highlighted the problem without identifying its causes, and therefore without offering any solution. In addition, in the case of Meyerhold, a director who had openly supported the Revolution, it can be claimed that the formalist approach was more of an ideological limitation to a person who had welcomed the benefits of a socialist revolution for the masses, but without adequately understanding its communist ideology. Overall, the intensity of the discussion over theatre proves its power in forming the identity of its audience. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 131 CHAPTER 4 The Moscow Art Theatre: Conservativism & Introduction As seen in the previous chapter, undoubtedly, Meyerhold and his theatre received critical reviews disproportionally stricter than his pioneer work might actually deserve. This is why the examination of both theatres must be put into perspective with their historical time. We often resort to analogies to talk about the past. In this spirit, the Russian revolution has been portrayed as earthquake, as a sudden shift, which in turn have created cracks in the shell of the social universe. And although it is convenient to resort to the shape of the earthquake, as it correctly emphasizes the rupture in the historical development and the dividing lines within social formations, it is not completely accurate. The study of the revolutionary moment of 1917 indicates a fluid, chaotic picture of great unrest, a long period of turbulence and instability. Something between a tidal wave and a tornado, which through its own course reconstitutes its environment. It is under these prism that this thesis looks on every action made by both theatres during their course to the more stable 1930s. As with the Meyerhold Theatre, for the Moscow Art Theatre (MAT) the first decades after the Revolution constituted a period of reassessing old practices. All the theatrical accomplishments that had made it distinguishable in the past needed to be re-examined under the new prism of socialism and of the Soviet practices inside and outside the theatre. Despite its long-standing legacy, MAT was deeply influenced by the socio-economics of the October Revolution. In Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 132 contrast to Meyerhold’s Theatre perhaps, MAT was not affected from the start by the theatre debate initiated by the New Economic Policy (NEP) or its abolition. This was primarily because, as a theatre with no profound communist roots, it was not extensively inspired by ideological conflicts within its plays, in contrast to theatres and artists that bloomed around the October Revolution. Nevertheless, NEP was not the only economic policy that affected theatre. In this chapter, the post-revolutionary plays dealing with the first Five-Year Plan and the ‘socialist construction’ through industrialisation and collectivism are proved to be a more fertile ground for MAT. As for the second Five-Year Plan (1933-1938), this influenced not only the repertory of the theatre but also the entire discussion of what is, within and without MAT. At the same time, the threat of war – which had already initiated a patriotic approach to both contemporary and classic plays in 1933, the intra-party instability commencing with Kirov’s murder in 1934 and even the turn of Commintern towards popular fronts with the ‘The Commintern’s Popular Front Policy’ between 1934 and 1939 – shifted art towards a more conservative approach than that taken in the past; an approach that was not (and probably could not have been) inspected by the Communist Party, especially vis-a-vis its Marxist analysis. In this social framework, investigating MAT is very important – primarily owing to its popularity and potential influence on people’s perceptions regarding these issues. Thus, like the Meyerhold Theatre, the MAT, while eschewing the fires of formalism, was no less affected by the strong criticism of various aspects of its artistic creation; this was neither strange nor unprecedented. MAT represented the crown of all theatrical activity in Russia. It embodied the combination of the glorious past and the promising future and influenced hundreds of people attending its performances. It was no wonder, then, that it attracted so much attention from theorists, critics, officials, and members of MAT themselves. In this context, the current chapter follows through the changes that occurred in MAT from 1925 to the end of the 1930s. It is interesting that if one monitors the alterations in the repertoire, as this chapter does, it can be seen that, after 1925, a flood of new plays by contemporary writers were introduced, and that the 1925 repertoire does not look very different from that in 1935. Nevertheless, this chapter identifies a swift change in the critical perception of MAT between 1925 – when the critics were very strict towards its choice of plays – and 1935, when MAT was established as exemplary socialist theatre. What changed between these years, that caused this swift, is one of the main points of investigation in this chapter. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 133 Both new and classic plays are explored through the lens of contemporary critics. In this way, the evolution of the criticism is investigated too, linking it with changes that occurred during the same period, especially within the artistic field, and how one forced the other forwards. Regarding productions of classical plays or novel adaptations, and given MAT’s glorious past in productions of the same kind, this chapter also investigates whether an adaptation of the classics was indeed possible. What was considered as a successful adaptation, according to the principles of, opens a dialogue on the expectations that had to fulfil. Finally, based on Iampolskii’s theory of the mutual correlation between critics and practitioners364, this chapter surveys the reciprocal relations between the overall criticism of Stanislavsky’s method and the director’s own renewed approach to it. This method will give the reader additional insight into the relation between Marxist philosophy and its several theoretical issues, along with the practical solutions required of artists under. Contemporary repertoire As seen in the previous chapter, both the individual plays and the overall repertoire of the theatres were of critical concern to Soviet officials, who were attempting to help the proletariat grasp the laws of socialism. After 1925, MAT, too, served in this quest for new plays with great enthusiasm. Without undermining the difficulties associated with them, the sheer number of plays is indicative of the efforts of the theatre itself to search for plays that could ‘aid the development and the victory of the proletariat’365, as Lunacharsky had requested. Between 1925 and 1938, among the 40 new performances that were staged at MAT, a majority were written by contemporary writers, such as Konstantin Trenëv, Mikhail Bulgakov, Vsevolod Ivanov, Yuriy Olesha, and Valentin Katayev. However, numbers can also be misleading. Although new plays – or adaptations of old ones – were staged every year, the number of repetitions of performances showed a profound preference for the classics (apart from Maxim Gorky). It is only natural that Russian classic plays had always been predominant in the theatre’s selections. By 1958, the theatre’s repertoire had the most plays by Anton 364 See Chapter 1 and my critical approach to Iampolskii. 365 See Chapter 3. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 134 Chekhov, with 2,757 performances; followed by Maxim Gorky, with 2,342. Then followed Ostrovsky (2,220), L. Tolstoy (1,985), and Gogol (803). Among the contemporary playwrights, the most successful was M. Bulgakov, whose The Days of the Turbins was performed 987 times, followed by V. Katayev, A, Korneichuk, and N. Pogodin.366 The first Soviet play performed at MAT that moved towards the theatre’s repertoire towards the new socialist ideology was staged in 1925. It was The Pugachev Rebellion by Konstantin Trenëv, directed by Nemirovich-Danchenko. The play was based on a historical revolt that took place in the eighteenth century, led by the Cossack Emelian Pugachev, against Catherine the Great. The performance was generally well-received, being the first one featuring the new, desirable content367, although critics complained that the ‘people’s hero’ was depicted as ruthless368. The socialist perspective was conveyed by using a historical example to bring out the heroism and the decisiveness of the Russian people ‘then’ and ‘now’. This historical projection of contemporary problems was to become popular. By projecting into the past issues to the present, writers of historical novels and dramas managed to deal with critical issues more freely and were able to portray the differences among them. Works such as Trenëv’s The Pugachev Rebellion, Alexei Chapygin’s Stepan Razin (1926), or Alexei Tolstoy’s Peter the Great (1929) associated current Soviet policies with the honourable and radical ones in Russia's past, and suggested that the present-day enemies of the Soviet regime are the direct descendants of the villains and oppressors of the past. After Pugachev, this shift in content was maintained, introducing at least one new play per year. Following Harold B. Segel’s categorisation of the themes of Russian drama during the period under examination, it can be seen that they were not particularly different from those treated in Meyerhold’s Theatre. Plays that presented a corrupt pre-Revolutionary society in contrast to the new, more noble ethics comprised a major category; Pugachev being one of them. Another main category comprised Revolution- and Civil War-related plays. Bulgakov’s The Days of the Turbins belongs to this category and is an ‘old-fashioned’ realistic-style performance staged in 1926 by Stanislavsky and Ilya Sudakov. Ivanov’s Armored Train 14-69 (1927) also deals with the revolutionary period, adding an eastern element by setting the action 366 Moscow Art Theatre: A Symposium and Appendices on the Soviet Theatre, p. 33. 367 Benedetti 1999, p. 299. 368 Senelick 2015, p. 476. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 135 of the play in Siberia. His Blockade, staged in 1929 by Nemirovich-Danchenko and Sudakov, has the same theme, dealing with the Kronstadt Rebellion. However, the turbulent times of the Revolution and the Civil War were not the only preoccupation of Russian drama of the 1920s and early 1930s. As seen in the case of Meyerhold, the many problems of social readjustment were equally precious as a thematic source, simultaneously creating fertile ground for the renewal of comedy. Several of MAT’s successful performances belong to this category. In 1928, Stanislavsky and Vasily Sakhnovsky put on Leonid Leonov’s Untilovsk, an acerbic and angry satire that exposes the pettiness of petit-bourgeois mentality. Kataev’s ‘engaging’ (as he called it) of vaudeville in The Squaring of the Circle, staged by Nikolai Gorchakov at MAT in 1928, was for a long time the most popular social comedy in the Soviet repertoire369. It portrays the effect of the housing shortage, a common subject of the early Soviet drama, on two married couples who share the same room. A stage adaptation of Kataev’s story the Embezzlers was produced by Ilya Sudakov in 1928. Embezzlers is closer to NEP-related plays, dealing with the corruption of government officials in search of a good life during the early days of NEP. In terms of subject matter, the early ‘30s were different from the previous decade, according to Segel, and were associated primarily with three major issues: the program of ‘socialist construction’, the implementation of industrialisation, and the Five-Year Plan, in addition to the consolidation of Soviet authority. Kirshon’s Bread was staged at MAT in 1931, directed by Ilya Sudakov. It is set in the countryside on the eve of collectivisation and deals with the impact of the first Five-Year Plan on rural Russia. The play is based on the contrast between two types of managers – one a romantic idealist, the other a down-to-earth rationalist – and their efforts to abruptly transition from the previous style of peasant life to the new, modernised, socialist one. Afinogenov’s Fear, staged at the end of the same year, debated the question of how far intellectuals trained in a tsarist era could be trusted. It examines the development of social consciousness in an intelligentsia whose habits and values were shaped by the former system, and are now being asked to serve socialism. 369 Ibid., p. 182. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 136 The executive figure remained Maxim Gorky, whose plays – between 1925 and 1939 – were the most frequently staged. With four plays – In the World (1933), Egor Bulyuchev (1934), Enemies (1935), and Dostigaev and Others (1938) – he prevailed over even Ostrovsky, although all of them were staged after 1933. Overall, in terms of repertoire, MAT made a great effort to explore the possibilities for the new form of theatre that were required by the new social conditions. However, this was not always appreciated, particularly owing to the ambiguous and often hostile aesthetic environment that was unleashed and advocated for by artistic forces with strong political opinions. a. The cultural background MAT’s repertoire was not particularly affected by the abolition of NEP, as it had never been influenced by the ‘NEP-man’ phenomenon and the socio-economics of it. However, it was affected by the fact that the abolition of NEP was accompanied by the predominance of those artistic forces that were able and willing to initiate a further attack on ‘fellow travellers’ and non-political art. Art was being more and more controlled by the ferocious attacks of the members of RAPP, which was not just any literary organization; besides having the official support of the party, they also held positions in administrative theatrical bodies and in various governmental agencies, both related to culture and not. In 1923, when the 12th Congress of the party asked for dramas on themes drawn from ‘the episodes of the heroic struggle led by the working class’, a significant number of playwrights responded to this appeal. However, RAPP estimated that plays loyal to the regime were far less numerous than those hostile to it (neutrals included), and they proclaimed themselves as the only true supporters of the proletariat. Fortunately, RAPP was not the only voice within the party. When the members of RAPP proposed to introduce the method of ‘dialectical materialism’ as the foundation of ‘proletarian’ theatre, Lunacharsky forcefully opposed them. Referring to fellow travellers and non- proletarian artists (such as Stanislavsky himself), he emphasized that ‘it is incorrect to believe that is only accessible to those possessing full knowledge of the philosophy of dialectical materialism’370. Similarly, Gorky, upon his return to the Soviet Union in 1928, immediately conducted a vigorous campaign against RAPP. 370 Dobrenko, and Tihanov, p. 101. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 137 Officially, the first party resolution on literature came in 1925 and, although it recognised the importance of ‘communist criticism’ and the difference between ‘fellow travellers’ and ‘socialist writers’, it declared neutrality between the opposing parties: While it has infallible criteria of judgment regarding the class content of literary tendencies, the party as a whole must not bind itself to any one tendency in the field of literary form. Giving general leadership to literature, the party cannot support any one faction in literature (classifying these factions according to their different views on form and style), just as it cannot by resolutions settle questions of the form of the family, though in general it does and should lead in the development of new ways of life. Everything indicates that a style proper to the epoch will be created, but it will be created by different methods, and the solution of this problem has not yet been begun. In the present phase of cultural development, any attempt to bind the party in this direction must be repulsed.371 However, the influence of RAPP and the power of proletarian culture grew considerably during this period. Thus, mistakes that are frequently attributed to the policies of the Communist Party or Soviet officials were very often the result of RAPP’s intervention. However, in turn, RAPP’s excessive freedom to intervene was an oversight on the part of the party. This vicious cycle is easily discernible in the case of Bulgakov’s The Days of the Turbins. The reviews (included below) portray the ideological disagreement suggested by this thesis. The bans on its performance manifest an additional dysfunction of the artistic organizational scene until 1932. Both the bans and the reviews shed light on the willingness to control theatre as means of exerting greater influence over the public. b. The case of The Days of the Turbins On October 5, 1926, Mikhail Bulgakov’s play The Days of the Turbins premiered at MAT. Its topic would be a bone of contention for many years to come, in both political and ideological disputes. Its opening scene takes place in December 1918, a week before Christmas. The death 371 Brown, pp. 235-40. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 138 of the mother of the Turbin family a few months prior, along with the return of Alexei – the oldest son, 28 years old, and a doctor – from military service have created a tense domestic environment. It was expected that this family reunion would bring back a sense of normalcy; however, history had different plans. Caught in the middle of events greater than themselves, The Days of the Turbins follows the fortunes of the family during the harsh winter of 1918– 1919 in Bulgakov’s native city, Kiev. After having occupied Ukraine and established a puppet government under the Hetman Pavlo Skoropadsky, the Germans abandon Ukraine because of the civil war that had begun in their own country. With them, the Hetman flees too. The Russian officers, supporters of the former tsarist regime that was recently overthrown by the Revolution, and all those who had volunteered in the establishment of the Hetman’s regime are left at the mercy of the nationalist and co-founder of the Ukrainian Social-Democratic Party, Simon Petlyura, and the Cossacks who were his followers. When the play opened on October 5, 1926, it was an immediate box-office success. However, there was a wide gap between the critics’ and the public’s opinion of the performance. Although most critics were impressed by the dynamism, the performance, and the technique of the new generation of MAT’s actors, and they generally recognised the successful use of Ulyanov’s designs and sets372, they were also very judgemental of the play’s direction by Sudakov and – above all – were against the play itself. For a play besieged by harsh comments for being everything from apolitical to counter-revolutionary (both equally evil), the young director was charged with not being able to dramatically depict social issues in the faces of the White Guard’s officers. There is no doubt that the worst polemics were against the play itself and its writer. The focus on the lives of a family of White Guard officers, on the consequences of their mistakes, on their psychology, and on the social instability of their class was enough for The Days of the Turbins to be accused of psychologism, a petit-bourgeois mentality, and a positive approach to the enemy – all of which was what Alexander Orlinskiy called ‘Bulgakovism’373. Until then, the Whites Guards had been presented solely as the ‘evil’ oppressors. Bulgakov, with his work, offered another viewpoint, which depicted them as decent, honest people in all their military and high-class, majestic glory. However, this indirect and perhaps even unintentional attempt 372 Stroyeva, p. 154. 373 Orlinskiy, p. 6. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 139 at rebuilding the image of the Whites was not the only thing that Bulgakov was accused of. The play was considered reactionary not because the Whites were the protagonists but because they were not portrayed as definitive enemies. Instead, they were presented as ‘common’ people (‘common’ in terms of class origin), with the same feelings and experiences as everyone in the auditorium. This in itself was a casus belli. However, there were also other aspects that could not evade the harsh remarks of the critics: the gentle figure of the intellectual (the Russian intelligentsia was portrayed as the carriers of all noble customs and humanism), a profound chauvinism (by portraying the Ukrainian Petliura’s men in darker colours, the Russian officers seemed superior), and an over-academicism (which, even if it was trying to contrast the over- modernist exaggerations of its time, was unacceptable). All the above struck fear among the officials, precisely because such portrayals could sow the seeds of a potential counter- revolutionary wave. Orlinskiy wrote one of the most hostile reviews in Pravda on October 8, 1926, titled ‘Civil War in MAT’. Regarding the ideological approach of the play, he insistently repeated that the Whites were presented as the betrayed heroes while the real heroes were mentioned only in passing. Besides this being an outrageous distortion of historical reality, Orlinskiy claimed that it ‘creates a conciliatory and romantic aura around the professional White officer class, which was so severely and deservedly punished by history and the revolutionary proletariat’ 374. The play forces the audience to feel pity for the Whites and, ultimately, make peace with them. He praised the young actors for their ‘outstanding quality of acting’375, but scrutinised Sudakov’s constraint, expecting a more daring approach. […] large sin lies on young capable director Sudakov, who, with his talent, should have approached more sharply and more daringly the interpretation of Bulgakov’s creation in the spirit of authentic historical realism, without stopping before reconstructing the whole of the play.376 In this way, Orlinskiy declared, even if the original play is reactionary, the director not only can but must improve it. Attacking Sudakov was a common practice among many reviewers. 374 Ibid. 375 Ibid. 376 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 140 The theatre critic and historian Emmanuil Beskin claimed that there were several points where the weaknesses were the fault of his directing and not necessarily of the play. For example, in the storyline, Alexei Turbin dies heroically after realizing that his death is inevitable and all that he had been fighting for was in vain. Instead, In another directorial interpretation of this same scene, a completely different impression could have been given—the impression of ideological collapse (for which there is an appropriate word) rather than that of pure heroism and high pathos, as it sounded in the theater.377 Similar were the comments of Zagorskiy378, who blamed the director for not portraying the characters correctly. Referring to Alexei, he too emphasized that instead of making him an apologist for ‘White Russia’, he was presented as the underprivileged child of history. This critic also asserted that, owing to bad dramatisation, the play is full of irrelevant and inappropriate psychologism. Consequently, all great historical events of the time are being seen through the narrow viewpoint of the Turbin family’s domestic issues. Both Beskin and Zagorskiy disapproved of the performance because of its appraisal of the old petit-bourgeois ideology. The play, said Beskin, glorifies these Philistines. However, life is written ‘from the other side of the window’ 379. ‘Is this made clear in the play?’, he asked. There were some hints regarding this, but it was – in general – missing. It was the theatre’s responsibility to fill this gap, but it failed to do so. In contrast, Beskin asserted that the production dwelt on a naturalistic description of the period without even indicating the class differences. However, almost all critics agreed on the excellence of the actors. Adrian Piotrovksiy, one of the few reviewers who wrote an exclusively positive review in Krasnaya Gazeta, stated – regarding the acting – that the young generation ‘showed excellent talent and a great, purely MAT, and at the same time fresh, strong and vital style’380. He also focused on the totally Soviet origin of the topic, in which he found social and artistic value. 377 Beskin 1926, p. 3. 378 Zagorskiy, p. 4. 379 Beskin, ibid. 380 Piotrovskiy, p. 3. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 141 In contrast, a critic under the nickname Starik (‘Old Man’) commented on the play’s superficially Soviet topic and its lack of historical understanding. By using examples from the play, he portrayed how bad directing and a lack of political knowledge lead to chauvinism and other severe historical misinterpretations: It is unnatural and therefore false, this excessive happiness of the people on the occasion of the arrival of the Bolsheviks, who hold hot iron to clear out the country form landowners, capitalists, monarchists, etc., etc. This happiness in people, which in the second picture sing ‘God Save the Tsar’ and latter— ‘Hurrah, hurrah, to the Council of People’s Commissars’, is false. The same happened with the strong, chauvinistic moods and thoughts, by which the family lives. It is not sufficiently revealed when and how they grow such a hatred for Petliura and for everything Ukrainian.381 The only positive aspect that Starik acknowledged in the performance was the outstanding structure and function of mass scenes. Numbers left no room for doubt. Among the 304 critiques and references, the exclusively positive ones were fewer than 10. Irrespective of the reasons for this unanimity against Bulgakov though, it is important to note that they did not derive from shared reasoning. This is because, first of all, many of the newspaper and journal critics (both ‘leftists’ and ‘rightists’), adversaries of any ‘non-revolutionary’ art, would harshly attack anyone and anything that did not match with their own view of proletarian art. Their targets included Stanislavsky and the entire Moscow Art Theatre. MAT was considered a fortress of the old bourgeoisie because of its classical approach to theatre and its respect for tradition, but also because its aesthetic principles included portraying the psychological side of their heroes. Under these circumstances, The Days of the Turbins was – for the press and the critics – just another occasion to stir up conflict. Secondly, the fact that the Glavrepertkom wavered for a long time before deciding whether the play was suitable for public viewing or not, was proof that 381 Starik, p. 2. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 142 elucidating which ideological background was progressive and which was not, irrespective of the play’s main topic, was a procedure much more complicated than it might appear to the contemporary theorist. It also is a sign of internal struggle. Finally, how serious the issue was for the Soviets is further evident from the fact that a public debate was organised specifically to discuss the ideological and political aspects of The Days of the Turbins (along with Treniov’s Liubov Yarovaya) at the Meyerhold Theatre on February 7, 1927. Among the speakers were Bulgakov382, Markov, Stanislavsky, Nemirovich-Danchenko, Lunacharsky, and even Mayakovsky383. Through this debate, it became clear that it was much more than a personal attack on Bulgakov. The main issue discussed was to what extent the effort to implement new policies for theatre was productive. One month later, Lunacharsky published an article in Zaria Vastoka (March 6, 1926) analysing the social success triggered by the two aforementioned performances. Referring to Turbins, he stated that the play’s success was not in its box-office statistics, but rather in its renewing and refreshing theme that facilitates the re-organisation of life. Although he admitted that this particular play was – to a great extent – based on ‘the love of petit-bourgeois cosiness’384, he also asserted that its main value was this transition towards a new contemporary thematic. It is true, Lunacharsky stated, that Turbins did not constitute the most progressive example of what they were looking for. However, this was not a problem: For us, for those who want Theatre to be an organizing reflection of life, and who do not renounce the elements of struggle included in our community, and on the stage [portraying] the public interest in the most acute way, the excitement over The Days of the Turbins was a gratifying phenomenon.385 382 Bulgakov attacked Orlinskiy in particular for leveling groundless accusations against him. ‘Whenever he says or writes something about my plays, he says something that isn’t true’, he said and he went on giving specific examples. ‘I have nothing against the play being criticized as much as you please, but I would like information about it to be accurate. And I would maintain that the critic Orlinsky has absolutely no knowledge of the 1918 period described in my novel and my play.’ Curtis, pp. 84-85. 383 Senelick 2014, p. 272. 384 Lunacharsky, ‘Dva spektaklya’, in Moskovskiy Khudozhestvennyy teatr v russkoy teatral’noy kritike: 1919 – 1943 < http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919- 1930/#Text_5> [accessed 2 July 2016]. 385 Ibid. http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Text_5 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Text_5 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 143 It was a ‘gratifying phenomenon’ because it already was a step forward. Undoubtedly, though, the conflict might not have become that deep if the play had not been such a huge box-office success. The play continued to be performed for decades and it was undeniably one of the greatest post-revolutionary works. Of course, unanimity was missing even among the public. There were people who fainted from excitement because, in the faces of the Turbins, they recognised members of their own family who fought in the Civil War, even against the Bolsheviks. Further, there were also people who, outraged by the profound betrayal, stamped their feet and whistled, creating a completely awkward atmosphere at MAT, which had never faced such a reaction before386. Regarding the audience, Lunacharsky observed, in the aforementioned article, that the fact that the auditorium was always full was proof that society craved good theatre. However, it was also true, he claimed, that people were intrigued by ‘the forbidden fruit’. Needless to say, there is a number of people who would run to see a counterrevolutionary play. We do not claim that we have burned all of the existing weeds or that we managed to regenerate into real citizens the significant number of malevolent commoners. To the latter, we should add those who since the beginning of time live off their fascination with the forbidden fruit. So great was the hype of censorship around The Days of the Turbins, that it attracted the attention of laymen. By that, the inquisitive foreign journalist meant that the great Moscow audience could not possibly be interested in a revolutionary play. There is, in his view, no contact between the great Moscow audience and that, which is shown in theatres under government orders. Naturally, this is laughable, and we can provide evidence of the complete absurdity of all parts of the above formulation. The best proof would still be Lyubov’ Yarovaya. We know well the social composition of the audience that attends premiers. Of course, it is far from being working class, and far from being communist. Workers and communists do attend premiers, but, of course, in small numbers.387,388 386 Stroyeva, p. 147. 387 Lunacharsky, ‘Dva spektaklya’. 388 Walter Benjamin noted, in his diary when he visited Moscow and saw Turbins, that ‘the audience was noticeably different from the ones I had seen in the other two theatres. It was as if there were not Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 144 What Lunacharsky was claiming, in essence, was that fainting from thrill or whistling in fury were both expected and normal because both social classes had access to theatre. It was not only the communists attending the performance but also an entire society full of opposition still unresolved. However, a few months later, from May 9 to May 13, 1927, the All-Union Congress of Theater took place in Moscow. This Congress served as another chance to evaluate Turbins and to continue a debate that would last for decades. The core of the discussion was the extent to which officials should intervene in the artistic creation in order to – on the one hand – assist artists with political content, while – on the other – not interrupt the creative process itself. There were two main standpoints. ‘The actor’, Blyum said, ‘needs to be politically educated’389. Simultaneously, Novyi Zritel asked for a ‘theatre party line’390. Stanislavsky, on the other hand, totally disagreed with this statement. He argued that it is impossible for an artist to seize the phenomenon of a revolution, in terms of both magnitude and tragedy. Concurrently, by requiring that the artist capture the political significance of historical facts, he is put in danger of losing the ‘soul’ of his work, according to Stanislavsky. They tried to put a new tendency into the existing plays, they took out from the plays their soul and packed a new one, but, as you see, from this nothing came out, and the work died, as soon as they took out from it the soul that it had produced, and that’s what always happens.391 The critics disagreed with this. They did not ignore the risk alleged by Stanislavsky, but they insisted that this was the only process that would lead to the formation of the new theatre. Instead, they that Stanislavsky and MAT to ‘either change their own traditions or learn from a single Communist present, not a black or blue tunic in sight’. (quoted in Senelick, 2014, 272). We do not know whether Lunacharsky was referring to this comment. The truth is, however, that a lot of American articles and comments focused on the fact that several spectators identified themselves with the tragedy of the Turbin’s family. See, for example, The New York Times’s critique on November 7, 1926. Its subtitle is Young Communist in Audience Who Sneers at Outset Is Moved to Tears by Bulgakov’s Play. 389 Programmy gosudarstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, 1926, No. 57 < http://teatr- lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016]. 390 Novyi zritel’, 1927, No. 7 < http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919- 1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016]. 391 Zhizn’ iskusstva, 19 (1927) < http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919- 1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016]. http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 145 their own means in order to continue their services to progress and advance the forces of our time’392. Figure 4.1. Scene from The Days of the Turbins. Source: Konstantin Rudnitsky, Russian and Soviet Theatre: Tradition and Avant-Garde, p. 214. Overall, what The Days of the Turbins managed to do was to reveal an already existing division not only between popular response and critics’ reactions but also between certain popular strata and the proletariat itself. In contrast to one-sided theories, Mikhail Iampolskii’s approach to how censorship worked in the USSR is indicative of the importance given to theatre. Undertaking to reflect life in art, the artist encounters in the first stages of his work certain rules and norms which hold him back. Then, he heroically wages war against these norms, overcoming them with the help of an almost mystical union with the vital forces of life in all its diversity. Censorship thus emerged as a defender of those vital forces, itself a heroic warrior battling the withering oppression of artistic norms393. 392 Programmy gosudarstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, 1927, No. 65 – 66 < http://teatr- lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016]. 393 Iampolski, p. 167. http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 146 The role of the censor – even when extreme declarations were made or when a forbidden play created more of a stir than one of the ‘right ones’ – was a significant part of the re-formative power of theatre. From this point of view, the extent of the division that The Days of the Turbins caused, made clear in the following chronicle of the bans on the performances, clearly depicts Soviet acknowledgement of the influential power of theatre. c. The story of the bans What makes the story of the bans particularly interesting is that it was never quite clear who banned what and why. If it was the state or the party unanimously making such a decision, that would be simpler and easier to explain. However, this is definitely not the case. Lunacharsky394 and the People’ Commissariat of Enlightenment (Narkompros) supported The Days of the Turbins. The Glavrepertkom asked for further changes but, in general, approved it. The Politburo favoured it. So did the Central Committee of the Party and Stalin himself. If it was neither the state nor the party who kept banning it, who did? Some of the events surrounding this play have already been covered previously. On June 24, 1926, the Glavrepertkom postponed the premiere of Turbins until ‘certain changes were made’. On September 17, 1926, the Glavrepertkom visited the theatre and the play was rejected once again. On September 23, a closed performance was held for the press, a limited audience, and a board consisting of members of the Narkompros, the Glavrepertkom, and the State Political Directorate (GPU). Finally, on Saturday, September 24, the performance received approval from both the Narkompros and the Glavrepertkom, but not from the GPU. This was Lunacharsky’s response to the GPU’s prohibition: At a meeting of the Narkompros board, with the participation of Repertkom, and including the GPU, it was decided to permit Bulgakov’s play just for the Art Theater and just for this season. At Glavrepertkom’s insistence, the board allowed it to make a few cuts. On Saturday evening, the GPU informed Narkompros that it was banning the play. This matter must be considered at the highest level, or else the Narkompros 394 He distinguished ‘stupidly dull scenes of middle-class philistinism of no interest to anyone but still he found nothing inadmissible in it from political point of view’, (Benedetti 1995, pp. 326-327). Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 147 board’s decision, which is already known, must be confirmed. Rescission of Narkompros’s decision by the GPU is highly undesirable and even scandalous.395 The letter was sent on September 27 to Rykov, Chairman of the Council of the People’s Commissars of the Soviet Union (head of the government) and, three days later, the Politburo once again repealed the ban. One year later, on September 15, 1927, the resolution of the previous year’s board was confirmed. This resulted in the renewal of Turbins only for MAT and only for the season running 1927-1928. To that, the TsK VKP(b) Orgburo (Central Committee of the CP, organisational bureau) responded with a memorandum to TsK VKP(b) Politburo (Central Committee of the CP, political bureau) on October 8, 1927, asking for a rescission of the ban because ‘experience has shown that (1) this is one of the few theatrical productions providing an opportunity for young artistic forces to develop; (2) the piece is artistically restrained and useful. Talk of any counterrevolutionary themes it might contain is absolutely wrong’396. Two days later, the Politburo cancelled the ban once again. What was being made clear was that the entire range of intra-party conflicts was being reflected at the level of artistic life, too. On December 29, 1928, the Proletarian Theatre Association (RAPP’s theatre department) sent a letter to Stalin criticising MAT and Bulgakov very harshly. They were asking Stalin to intervene and ban The Days of the Turbins once and for all, commenting the following: Instead of pushing such a major artistic force as MAT toward revolutionary themes, or at least revolutionary interpretation of the classics, [they] do everything possible to make it easier for this theatre to slip to the right, to disorganize intellectually that part of young MAT that already can and want to work with us […].397 Having chosen MAT as its vessel for proletarian theatre398, RAPP could not tolerate this ‘right- wing danger’, which, from the field of politics was ‘seeping into various ideological productions, in particular, literature and theatre’399. What made things even more complicated 395 Clark, Dobrenko, Artizov, and Naumov, p. 91. 396 Clark 1981, p. 92. 397 Ibid., p. 53. 398 Clark 1992, p. 30. 399 Clark 1981, p. 53. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 148 was that groups like RAPP had the party’s official endorsement for being instruments of proletarian art400. Thus, they could not be easily rejected or dismissed, and they were seen to be forcing the party into additional debate. A few months later, on February 7, 1929, Agitprop’s head, Platon Kerzhentsev, published an article in Pravda titled ‘Toward the Arrival of the Ukrainian Writers’, claiming that by allowing The Days of the Turbins to be presented on MAT’s main stage, Narkompros was promoting chauvinism and right-wing bias. This caused a furious reaction from Lunacharsky, asking Stalin to intervene and clarify to Agitprop that the Narkompros was merely implementing the Politburo’s resolution of the matter. Therefore, what Agitprop was doing, according to the Commissar of Enlightenment, was ‘indirectly, but consciously, disavowing the Politburo’s instruction’401. Narkompros, claimed Lunacharsky, was very often under attack from various journalists for its support of this particular play. However, what they could not accept was to be attacked by the party’s central organ (i.e., Pravda) for merely implementing the party line. From 1929 to 1932, this tension was mitigated through a series of diplomatic steps made by the Central Committee and Stalin himself. Firstly, regarding the aforementioned RAPP attack on MAT and The Days of the Turbins (composed by Bill-Belotserkovsky), Stalin responded with a separate letter to its composer (who in the meanwhile had left RAPP) and another to the rest of the group. In the first letter, he began by explaining that left- and right-wing political danger is an intraparty danger and cannot be applied to literature, where more complicated norms apply and broader scales of evaluation are necessary. Instead, ‘it would be most correct to operate in literature with concepts of a class nature, specifically, the concepts “Soviet”, “anti- Soviet”, “revolutionary”, “anti-revolutionary”, etc.’402. Referring to Turbins, Stalin claimed that the reasons why Bulgakov’s play is so often produced are ‘probably because we don’t have enough of our own plays good enough for staging. In a land without fish, even The Days of the Turbins is a fish. It is easy to “criticize” and demand a ban on nonproletarian literature. But easiest is not always best’403. This illustrates that, despite everything, ‘The Days of the Turbins is a demonstration of the crushing force of Bolshevism’404. 400 Fitzpatrick 1971, p. 236. 401 Clark 1981, p. 93. 402 Ibid., p. 56. 403 Ibid., p. 57. 404 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 149 Stalin’s response to RAPP on February 28, 1929, is undeniably a masterpiece of diplomacy. He scrutinised everything he had to, including RAPP’s unfair and cruel attack on fellow travellers (including Bulgakov), while maintaining friendly relations with RAPP, supporting the defector, Bill-Belotserkovsky, and protecting Kerzhentsev. However, one of the most important documents in defence of Bulgakov and Turbins by Stalin is perhaps his speech given at a meeting with Ukrainian writers on February 12, 1929. There, other than repeating the irrelevancy of the right-wing danger in literature and the exhibition in Turbins of ‘the all- crushing force of Bolshevism’405, he nullified all arguments on the basis of chauvinism by stating that: The disgraceful portrayal of Ukrainians [in The Days of the Turbins] has its scandalous side, but there is also another side to it… there are minuses and pluses there. I think that there are more pluses on the whole. From a broader perspective and from the standpoint of other ways of approaching literature, the play The Days of the Turbins has played a big role. Workers want to see this play and say: ‘Aha! No power can overtake Bolshevism!’406 In 1929, The Days of the Turbins was officially accepted as part of MAT’s repertoire. This acceptance another small victory against the artistic extremes, both left and right, that were taking shape during the 1920s. However, there were undoubtedly many more conflicts to be mitigated. d. RAPP and MAT By 1930, the intolerant radicals of RAPP were not allowing any room for non-proletarian – or even neutral – art. They had openly declared for a ‘dictatorship over literature’ and other arts. According to them, every work of art had to portray the ‘socialist perspective’ of reality and, if not, it was considered either formalistic or counter-revolutionary. In 1931, RAPP organised 405 Clark 1981, p. 65. 406 Popovich, p. 52. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 150 a conference (25 January-6 February) on theatre, at which it was confirmed that the dramatic art must be considered as a weapon of the proletariat in the struggle to establish its power. The conference was followed by several articles in magazines and newspapers declaring resentment against psychologism, petit-bourgeois mentality, and over-academism. Afinogenov, head of the theatrical sector of RAPP, declared that ‘MAT and the Stanislavsky system were hostile to proletarian theatre’407. Interestingly enough, by the end of the same year, MAT staged one of Afinogenov’s best plays, Fear. Fear is the story of Professor Borodin who expresses the idea – a result of his research – that Soviet reality is based entirely on fear. Borodin presents this theory in a paper that he reads at a scientific symposium, but Klara, and old Bolshevik, denounces him and ‘shows’ him the faults in his thinking, after which he is arrested by the secret police. Once he sees the error in his thought, Borodin submits to the new order and starts anew as a scientist ‘devoted to the party and government’. The performance was an immediate success. The irony of this was enormous, given that the play refers to a scientist (of the old intelligentsia), shaped by the former system, who managed to adapt and become useful to the proletariat. Critics admired how well the ‘idealistic’ MAT system, which was seemingly in conflict with ‘Afinogenov’s class play’, allowed the theatre to reach ‘another political level’ (Litovskiy). Others believed that ‘the conservatism of the artistic and creative methods of MAT blunts the author's intention, softens the smoothed ideological clarity of the game’408. However, there were also those who believed that ‘the well-known theories of the first experience here were applied in a natural way, without compelling the new revolutionary conditions’409. Despite Fear’s success, however, it was becoming more and more obvious that the party had to take action. They could not ignore the fact that the so-called fellow travellers, overall, supported the new socialist state and genuinely tried to imprint the diversity of contemporary life on their works. In theatre, it was mainly they, the fellow travellers, that had rejuvenated the repertory and, despite their disagreements and difficulties, posed no opposition to the basic principles of the communist revolution. The party had to intervene to protect one group and eliminate the RAPP’s blatant interventionism. Furthermore, the main problem with RAPP was not its theoretical framework but the methods they used to impose it. RAPP was suppressing 407 Sovetskiy teatr, p. 7. 408 Room, p. 2. 409 Kogan, p. 2. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 151 nonproletarian writers and fellow travellers to an extent that provoked strong discontent both among the artists and within the party. These circumstances led to the Decree of the Central Committee of the Communist Party (April 23, 1932) ‘On the Reconstruction of Literary and Artistic Organizations’. Two years later, the First Congress of the Writer’s Union took place. Both events, the results of ongoing theoretical and ideological struggle, affected the ultimate resolution of the literary issues. It is not difficult to ascertain their impact on the dramatic repertory. The combination of the contemporary reality, topical themes, and a positive hero, proclaimed by both Zhdanov and Gorky at the Congress, soon became the norm. An instructive example is Alexander Korneychuk’s Platon Krechet, which was staged at MAT in 1935 by Sudakov. It was considered a good example of dramaturgy owing to its portrayal of the young Soviet intelligentsia, a new and attractive subject, in accordance with the new directives. Platon Krechet, a man completely dedicated to service to the people, is a surgeon of proletarian origin and a former stoker, who fights against physicians still dwelling in the past and paves the way to bold and vital scientific experimentation. In 1939, MAT included Orchards of Polovchansk in its repertory, a lyrical and philosophical drama written by Leonov in 1936 and revised in 1938. Orchards of Polovchansk dramatises the intrusion of hostile, alien elements into a tranquil and happy family atmosphere, and is generally follows the theme of preparedness for war, which turned out to be the main focus of literature after the mid-1930s. Revisions were never an easy task, even among contemporary plays. Between 1936 and 1939, Leonov had to make several alterations to minimise his individualism and smooth over any ideological complexities. Eventually, it was accepted as another modern masterpiece. However, to revise the classics was a whole different story. Classic repertoire MAT’s repertoire between 1925 and 1934 proved that this new content, which would describe the new socialist reality, did not necessarily have to have a prescribed artistic form. However, Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 152 it also proved that any means available would be used to draw the public into the new reality. Trenëv, Ivanov, Kataev, Leonov, and Bulgakov had found their own way to address the great victories of the Revolution, the socialist state, and the working class; the directors had found their way to stage those victories, even if not always with the greatest of results. However, The Days of the Turbins and Armoured Train 14-69 – in particular – constituted pointed examples of what Lunacharsky identified as a repertoire that aids ‘the development and the victory of the proletariat while revising relationships under the new prism of socialism’410. Now it was time to see what MAT could offer – in regard to the classics – in this new paradigm. MAT was undeniably the official descendant of Russia’s realist past. However, by examining what re- adjustments were made in order to adapt to the new Marxist approach, one can understand what the classics actually meant for Soviet theorists of the time. a. Gorky and Lunacharsky on the classics The Congress of Writers paid particular attention to the potential assimilation of the bourgeois literature of the past into the new paradigm. Similar attention was given to its distribution among the new Soviet audience. Although not everything was in a condition to be solved, both Gorky and Karl Radek made a significant effort to examine this kind of art and identify a way of approaching it. Generally, the idea was one that had been previously proclaimed by the officials; in other words, the art of the past – especially its masterpieces – should become accessible to the masses. It is important to note that, until then, theatre was accessible only to the upper classes, and literature (not to say education in general) was a product of luxury411. Therefore, the best works of bourgeois literature should not be rejected, as Proletkult and leftist artists had insisted but should be studied instead. From this perspective, Gorky examined the literature of the nineteenth century to prove that every era has its progressive writers and that Soviet artists should not be afraid of working with them. According to Gorky, the bourgeois literature of the nineteenth century could be divided into two distinct groups of writers (although it might not always be easy to distinguish who belongs in which). The first group includes bourgeois writers who, being ‘not that talented’, managed to attract their readers’ attention through their technical virtuosity. The second group, 410 See Chapter 3, and Lunacharsky 1965. 411 Kenez, p. 73. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 153 which was far smaller, consisted of writers who shaped ‘critical realism and revolutionary romanticism’. This second group was formed by what Gorky named ‘apostates of their class’, referring to writers who saw the decay of the bourgeoisie and its effect on the entire society, and decided to take a critical stance against it. According to Gorky, these people not only introduced liberal and humanitarian ideas into the literature of their time, but they also did so in a masterful way. Given how important ‘observation’ is in Gorky’s theory if it were possible for a member of the bourgeois class or any higher strata to speak about reality as it is, this is precisely because they were good and honest observers. Furthermore, in one of his earlier works, Gorky had praised Balzac because: The scope of his observation, the wealth of experience of life, often endow a writer with the power to transcend his personal subjective attitude to facts. Subjectively, Balzac was an adherent of the bourgeois order but, in his novels, he exposed the pettiness and baseness of the bourgeoisie with overwhelming and relentless clarity.412 Regarding the way this division was expressed in Russian literature, Gorky included writers such as Griboyedov, Gogol, and Chekhov in the ‘progressive’ group, without hesitating to pinpoint those whom he considered purely middle-class. However, this does not make bourgeois art any more closely related to the proletariat as a class. ‘The literature of the bourgeois art has always been bourgeois literature; it has always served the aims of the bourgeoisie’413, said Radek at the Congress. Indeed, the bourgeoisie itself had occasionally revolted against feudalism, a fact that justifies that bourgeois forces can be revolutionary, progressive, and inspire the portrayal of class struggle. However, by the end of the nineteenth century, the bourgeoisie not only was not a new class in Western Europe, but it had already begun showing signs of decay. At a time when art was considered to transcend class barriers and social politics414, critical realism served as ‘a necessary defence both against the big bourgeoisie and against the ever more powerful onslaught of the proletariat’415. It is this quality, Gorky claimed, that the big bourgeois classics contain and should not be lost. 412 Gorky 1946, p. 43. 413 Scott, and Gorky, p. 122. 414 Ibid., p. 40. 415 Ibid., p. 42. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 154 The 1934 discussion on how the new system should deal with art of the past was nothing new. A very targeted campaign, promoting the realists of Russian past, had occurred in the first years of the Soviet Union. In 1923, the Commissar of Enlightenment, Anatoly Lunacharsky, proclaimed ‘Back to Ostrovsky!’, preserving the past became more than a discussion on art. Exceeding the confines of art itself, it was turned into an effort to define the artistic ‘common ground’, at a time when all sorts of extreme ideas were becoming popular among left-wing artists. The already known and beloved classics would function as fertile ground upon which the proletariat would be seeded with new ideas. Ostrovsky himself became a symbol of how realism managed to ‘fight the system from within’. In fact, this symbolisation did not occur at that time; it was merely re-inserted. The admiration of Ostrovsky had already begun in the nineteenth century through one of the ideological ancestors of Soviet aesthetics, Nikolay Dobroliubov. William Gunn, in his thesis on the influence of the slogan ‘Back to Ostrovsky!’ on the artistic creation of the Soviets, notices that ‘Dobroliubov’s appropriation of Ostrovsky as a critic of Russian society and capitalist greed created the foundation for his interpretation by Soviet scholars, as early as back in 1859’416. He also notes that Lenin himself, in 1918, when asked about the selection of texts for a new collection of Russian classics, added only one thing – ‘don’t forget Ostrovsky’. In contrast, for Lunacharsky, reaching the point of creating such a slogan was a rather long theoretical journey. Lunacharsky himself was not only a member but a co-founder of Proletkult. When the Revolution began in Russia, the future Commissariat was among those who considered bourgeois art ‘as mere entertainment without society-improving ideas as intellectual stimuli’. According to his previous theories, ‘this theatre would collapse because it was the toy of a now doomed bourgeoisie’417. The co-founder of the pre-revolution Proletkult, however, very soon diverged ideologically. For reasons that combine Lunacharsky’s deep belief in theatre’s relation with reality and the importance of the fellow travellers in the formation of the new art, the Commissar of Enlightenment pushed for a drama based on the ‘correct’ interpretation of classic literature. With two articles in Izvestiya, on April 11 and 12, 1923, Lunacharsky sought to prompt theatre 416 Gunn 2012, p. 4. 417 Szeliski, p. 414. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 155 experts to reassess Ostrovsky – not to merely imitate him or his technique, but to learn from him. ‘Our time’, said Lunacharsky, ‘may require special techniques […] but the bottom line should be the same here. That is why we can learn a lot from Moliere, Goldoni, Ostrovsky […]. We go back to Ostrovsky, not only in order to assess the correctness of the main bases of his theatre, but more to learn from him some aspects of skill’418. Ostrovsky was seen as an example of great dramaturgy. New theatre practitioners were encouraged to reevaluate and reframe Russian literary classics within the new socio-political context, just as he did. As Gunn observes: Lunacharsky’s ‘Back to Ostrovsky!’ campaign inspired the greatest directors of the era to create new productions of Ostrovsky’s plays, resulting in an onstage debate concerning theatrical aesthetics; perhaps even more significantly within the cultural context of the 1920s, these productions can be viewed as a microcosm of the larger discussion regarding the future of Soviet art.419 b. Ostrovsky in MAT MAT actively participated in this discussion while trying to define its role under the new social circumstances. The slogan and the article ‘Back to Ostrovsky!’ coincided with Ostrovsky’s jubilee, and a lot of directors experimented with approaching the classics – including Meyerhold with The Forest (1923) and Tairov with The Storm (1924). Undoubtedly, all eyes were trained on MAT. Expectations were high owing to the respect that MAT was already showing towards the classics. However, even for MAT, it was a great challenge to claim the Ostrovsky tradition for itself and distinguish itself from the experimental productions of Meyerhold or Eisenstein. MAT staged three performances based on Ostrovsky’s adaptations between 1923 and 1939: An Ardent Heart (1926) and Talents and Admirers (1933), both directed by Stanislavsky, and The Storm (1934) directed by Nemirovich-Danchenko. An Ardent Heart was Stanislavsky’s first bold step towards socialist plays. Written in 1858, An Ardent Heart is a satirical play about the old Russian society. According to Sudakov, who was in charge for the majority of the rehearsals, through this play, Ostrovsky gave the opportunity 418 Lunacharsky 1923, p. 2. 419 Gunn 2014, p. 56. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 156 for the actors to support ‘the craft of acting’ and the directors to reveal that Avant-Garde experimentations were working against this craft. In a manuscript from the MAT archive recorded in December 1925, and cited in William Gunn’s “Back to Ostrovsky!” and forward to, Sudakov describes the process of the production in a way that illustrates the aforementioned approach: During the production process, there was a revival in the art of acting, which was beginning to die out and was being replaced by superficial directing tricks, which were perhaps effective, but ultimately unsuccessful (Kamern[y], Meyerhold). The main purpose of the production is not to allow the models of the true craft of acting to die, which are based in the realistic school and created in the spirit of scenic truth.420 ‘Truth’ and its depiction would become a major issue in the effort to define. In trying to approach it, An Ardent Heart took both a positive and a negative track. The positive track was that it included three types of ‘samodurs’ (domestic tyrants), typical archetypes in Ostrovsky’s writing. These ‘samodurs’ not only represented recognizable archetypes of the old Russian society that made the play more ‘truthful’, but also highlighted social contrasts. Both elements were to be proclaimed crucial in the formation of. On the other hand, however, its satirical aspect was on the verge of the grotesque and might have had several implications on the ‘truthfulness’ of the representation. The limits of ‘truth’, according to the acting and directing techniques, make the dialogue between Meyerhold’s and MAT’s directorial approaches more intense. MAT’s position was that depicting ‘truth’ was possible even in the kinds of plays that belonged to the past. The production of An Ardent Heart was, in fact, proof of this argument. As Gunn distinguishes that: Eisenstein and Meyerhold justified their radical production choices by making claims about Ostrovsky’s connections to popular theatre genres of the past—most notably, Italian commedia dell’ arte and the Spanish Golden Age cape and sword dramas while MAT focused on connecting Ostrovsky to major trends in theatre history, and looked 420 ‘Goriachee serdtse, Materialy po postanovke, Beseda s I. Ia. Sudakovym’ Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 157 to the realities of provincial life in the nineteenth-century Russia as their inspiration for An Ardent Heart421. Further, the play itself, in its original form, constitutes fertile ground for discussion of the social conditions of the time when it was written, without having to turn to Meyerhold’s exaggerations. Stanislavsky’s production of An Ardent Heart functioned as a political and social satire through the exaggerated comedic characterizations of Gradoboev, Kuroslepov, and Khlynov’422, the three ‘samodurs’. The abovementioned debate was evident even in the reviews of the time. Of course, different critics held different positions; however, in general, other than Zagorskiy, most critics supported the production. Zagorskiy’s review in Nasha Gazeta on January 26, 1926, accused the performance of moving away from realism, especially in comparison to MAT’s former productions of Ostrovsky’s plays: In contrast to those productions, the current version of An Ardent Heart is a striking example of a broken, contradictory and teeter-tottering play, which fluctuates from everyday life (byt’) to eccentricity, from psychological analysis to buffoonery, and from simplicity to pretentiousness and the grotesque.423 However, this retreat from psychological realism was the least of Zagorskiy’s concerns. As Meyerhold’s literary manager between 1925 and 1935, Zagorskiy was more preoccupied with the fact that Stanislavsky did not have a unified concept in his approach and that he was imitating Meyerhold’s restructuring method in an incompetent way. Above all, as Gunn points out, Zagorskiy considered Stanislavsky incapable of expressing any contemporary class struggle, which was his main drawback. Echoing all the aesthetic issues that have been presented thus far in this thesis, Zagorskiy’s review seems closer to all LEF arguments on who should be permitted to make proletarian art, rather than an actual critique of Stanislavsky’s work. 421 Gunn 2014, p. 61. 422 Ibid., p. 59. 423 Zagorskiy 1926, p. 3. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 158 Interestingly enough, three days after the publication of Zagorskiy’s review, Nikolai Volkov applauded the performance for the exact same reasons that Zagorskiy had panned it. According to Volkov, An Ardent Heart is not a play that could have been approached realistically. Thus, he praises Stanislavsky’s ‘exceptional intuition’ to deal with it in a more fantastical way. In fact, his only disappointment was that Stanislavsky did not develop this element further. In effect, each side of the argument had its supporters. However, perhaps the most detached approach was that of Pavel Markov (MAT’s artistic director), who claimed that it was not the style that made MAT’s production important. Rather, it was the emphasis placed on the different ‘samodurs’. In addition, he stated that only Stanislavsky’s directing technique could create such clear archetypes. In contrast, Meyerhold’s and Eisenstein’s archetypes would seem like frivolous mannequins. This, he maintained, was why MAT’s approach was superior. After An Ardent Heart, MAT became Ostrovsky’s new home. Before 1923, MAT had staged only two productions of Ostrovsky’s plays. As Gunn notes, ‘during the next quarter-century as Stalin led the Soviet Union, that rate more than tripled, with seven total productions’424. Both Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko staged plays by Ostrovsky. Stanislavsky’s 1933 production of Artists and Admirers would run for over 400 performances, while Nemirovich- Danchenko’s production of The Storm, in 1943, ran for 145425. 424 Gunn 2014, p. 62. 425 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 159 Figure 4.2. Ostrovsky, reimagined by Stanislavsky; scene from An Ardent Heart (1926). Source: Konstantin Rudnitsky, Russian and Soviet Theatre: Tradition and Avant-Garde, p. 151. Figure 4.3. Ostrovsky, reimagined by Meyerhold; scene from The Forest (1923). Source: Beatrice Picon-Vallin, Meyerhold, p. 185. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 160 c. From aesthetic reassessment to ideological incompatibility The staging of Ostrovsky’s plays was only the beginning. The entire narrative of revisiting the classics with a critical view, one that would enable the audience to adopt a critical stance towards old and new social phenomena, became standardised. It also attempted to include all the masterpieces of Russia’s literary past. Any name of the bourgeois past was acceptable as long as a trace to their social concerns and interests was discernible. Officially, the entire effort was additionally reinforced by organised jubilees aimed at celebrating these writers by creating new works of art influenced by them. In 1929, the Soviet Union celebrated the jubilee of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the death of Anton Chekhov and, in 1937, the centenary of Alexander Pushkin's death. There were several voices expressing discontent regarding these jubilees and the move to promote writers of the bourgeois past. Adrian Piotrovskiy, one of the founders of Workers’ Youth Theatre (TRAM) and a Proletkult theorist, in an article published in Zhizn’ iskusstva in 1929, explained why Anton Chekhov and Stanislavsky represented the same system and why they were both regressive and should not be cited as good examples. For one thing, Piotrovskiy did not doubt either Chekhov’s or Stanislavsky’s excellence. He claimed that Chekhov’s works found their best expression through Stanislavsky’s technique and that Stanislavsky improved his technique exactly because Chekhov’s plays were masterpieces. However, this is exactly why they belonged together in the past, he argued. He re-introduced a depiction of the world that should have been the least of their concerns: the world of the bourgeois intelligentsia. In contrast to Ostrovsky and Sukhovo-Kobylin, Piotrovskiy stated: By deliberately weakening the fable of the traditional dramaturgy of the 19th century, Chekhov put in its place the principle of ready-made psychological situations, unfolding from within the drama, opening the act after the act, with almost no forward movement of the plot.426 According to Piotrovskiy, a prime example of this is The Cherry Orchard, where everything that could have gone wrong for the family occurred before the raising of the curtain: the family is bankrupt, the orchard must be sold, and all that is left for the audience is to follow the 426 Ibid., p. 6. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 161 psychological downfall of the characters. The main problem with this approach, according to Piotrovskiy, is this worldview of inevitable misfortune. On the one hand, this worldview is a perfect expression of the end of the nineteenth century and the greedy nature of the bourgeoisie. On the other hand, the play does not show ‘characters’ or ‘types’ and it restricts itself to the demonstration of a holistic mental image, shaped by the complex conflicts between the conscious and the unconscious – ‘a curious theatrical incarnation’, said Piotrovskiy, ‘of an idealistic, metaphysical psychology’427. Starting from this idealistic, subjective basis of psychology, it was anticipated that Chekhov would end up in total accordance with Stanislavsky’s ‘truth of the subconscious’. Piotrovskiy continued by claiming that this kind of approach had also affected the way the dialogue was made and developed. The dialogue between the characters was no more a conscious interchange of information based on experience. Instead, it became an expression of their subconscious psychology. In essence, this is why Chekhov’s characters think too much, do not always mean what they say, are unsure of what they say, or – even more to the point – why they pause. This way of reacting, based on feelings, matched Stanislavsky’s ‘emotional memory’. From this point of view, it is not a coincidence that the stage is full of theatrical tricks (lights, sounds, etc.). These are introduced so that the actors would be intrigued by and subconsciously react in a way that would enable them to revive the right feeling required for each scene. However, this fundamentally problematic orientation, argued Piotrovskiy, could not work for the themes and issues of the revolutionary times that they were all living in. In addition, it was completely incomprehensible to him why writers, especially those supporting socialism, would want to look for inspiration to these kinds of writers, given that these ‘holistic mental images’ presuppose a different class to express them. Theatrical modernity, he concluded, must turn its back towards ‘Chekhov’, precisely because he ‘brings with him the gap between the dramatic form and the political scene of the show, the reduction of the political ambitions, and the distortion of the revolutionary direction’428. Similarly, Emmanuel Beskin, theatre critic and historian, editor of Rabis’ and fierce opponent of MAT, expressed a very similar view, although in a much more aggressive way. In his 1929 article in Sovremennyy teatr, under the title ‘Chekhov Segodnya’, he sarcastically attacked those questioning the backwardness of Chekhov. He stated that Chekhov had lost people’s 427 Ibid. 428 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 162 confidence because he did no more than portray a ‘fatigue, frustration, boredom and a passive consciousness which [proclaims that] “it is impossible to go on like this”,’ but without suggesting anything else. This straddling of two boats simultaneously was, in essence, why Chekhov was accused of philistine ideology. In addition, the growth of the industrial and urban cities during the 1890s, according to Beskin, carried so many conflicts and contradictions that it would now be impossible for someone to declare themselves to be neither ‘liberal nor conservative, but a free man’, as Chekhov did. Was Chekhov not a philistine for holding back from any ideology under times of such turmoil? Was it not philistinism to ask someone to be mild and humble and passively wait for something to come as uncle Vanya did? Or was it not philistinism to talk about the sale of the Cherry Orchard and not about the disgrace of serfdom?429 This kind of Cherry Orchard is dead, Beskin summed up, and it is not even a pity. Because it cannot be a pity to remove from the stage a writer that promotes narrow-minded scepticism and passivity to the audience, especially given that the theatre of today should be able to energise this audience; Chekhov was not able to do that. d. Identifying the social necessity: Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy Despite some amount of dissatisfaction, Lunacharsky’s call to embrace the classics was generally accepted with enthusiasm. The chief remaining question was ‘how’, a question linked to the extent of acceptable artistic intervention in the original. Further, there was a lot of ground to cover regarding what exactly ‘critical approach’ meant. Nemirovich-Danchenko, for instance, tried to use the most judgemental critics of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy to expose their social background. The difficulties he faced are indicative of the ambiguity of the entire project. Nemirovich-Danchenko’s approach, as well as the reviews that he received, prove that – even among artists who supported putting emphasis on the classics – it was unclear what was expected of them. Particularly unclear was the notion of turning the texts into ‘socially useful’ performances, especially because what was ‘socially useful’ was still ‘under clarification’. Nemirovich-Danchenko was among the first to attempt to apply this new use of literature to 429 Beskin 1929, p. 4. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 163 his work. A series of productions, featuring Dostoyevsky’s Uncle’s Dream in 1929, Tolstoy’s Resurrection in 1930, and ultimately Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina in 1937, manifest this new method of dealing with the classics – through the new lenses of social critique. At first, when Nemirovich-Danchenko staged Uncle’s Dream in 1929, Dostoyevsky’s work acquired a slightly different social character. It became imbued with a political aspect that it did not originally have. This phenomenon was not new. As Marc Slonim observed in his 1951 article, ‘Dostoyevsky Under the Soviets’, the way the Soviets approached Dostoyevsky throughout the years was quite indicative of the general ideological conflicts over the role of art. In fact, this was the case with Dostoyevsky even before the Revolution. Around 1875, radical and socialist intellectuals were quarrelling on whether they should accept his political and religious views or not. When Dostoyevsky died in 1881, things only worsened, as he was hailed as a proponent of orthodoxy and autocracy by the conservatives and reactionaries430. Thus, when MAT staged the Possessed in 1913, Dostoyevsky’s ‘greatest onslaught on Nihilism’ (as Hingley Ronald pointed out)431, Gorky’s ferocious reaction was not at all lacking a solid foundation. Firstly, Gorky did not agree with theorists who held that Dostoyevsky was a rebel against society and its misdeeds. In contrast, he accused the writer of being ambiguous and hypocritical, ‘playing the hand of governmental reaction’432. Furthermore, he could not accept this – according to him – erroneous division, as his contemporary theorists did, by separating the man as an artist from his worldview as a person. If a man is reactionary, so is his writing, and, for the Soviets, this is a lesson to be learned. For Gorky, Dostoyevsky’s worldview was obnoxious, dangerous, and unwholesome433, and thus completely alien and opposed to the socialist cause. By 1934, Gorky’s opinion of Dostoyevsky had not changed at all. In his speech at the Congress, in which he delivered a lengthy analysis on European and Russian literature, in addition to a particularly long section on Dostoyevsky alone, he declared that: The influence of Dostoyevsky has been and remains an especially strong one. This influence was admitted by Nietzsche, whose ideas form the basis of the fanatical creed 430 Slonim 1951, p. 119. 431 Hingley, p. 55. 432 Slonim 1951, p. 119. 433 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 164 and practice of fascism. To Dostoyevsky belongs the credit of having painted with the most vivid perfection of word portraiture a type of egocentrist, a type of social degenerate in the person of the hero of his Memoirs from Underground. With the grim triumph of one who is insatiably taking vengeance for his personal misfortunes and sufferings, for his youthful enthusiasms, Dostoyevsky, in the figure of his hero, has shown the depths of whining despair that are reached by the individualist from among the young men of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries who are cut off from real life.434 In addition, to those claiming that Dostoyevsky was a seeker of the truth, Gorky replied that, even if he was, he searched for the truth only to justify the ‘brute and animal instincts of man’. As Slonim remarked, ‘most Communist critics after 1917 adopted the same line; they emphasized that Dostoevsky’s ideology was hostile to Communism. Had he been a minor writer, it would have been easy to dismiss’435 – but he was not. Critics had to find a way to endorse him, given that expelling him would be too difficult. Initially, those who did support him argued that the fact that Dostoyevsky was a reactionary figure does not need to be emphasized. Instead, critics and artists should focus on his great talent and learn from that. Obviously, this approach could not have lasted long. Furthermore, at a time when the emphasis was on the ‘critical approach’ rather than on ‘classics for the sake of it’, the ideological relation needed to be clearer. From this perspective, Nemirovich-Danchenko’s production of Uncle’s Dream becomes particularly interesting. In essence, Uncle’s Dream is a story of love, hate, deceit, greed, and a critical comment on small-town manners and morals. The elderly Prince K. comes to visit the town of Mordasoff, ruled by the authoritative Maria Alexandrovna Moskaleva. Standing reluctantly at Maria Alexandrovna’s side is her daughter, Zina, who has few friends of her own. However, Prince K. does not arrive alone. His companion and distant relative, Paul Mosgliakoff, would later become a suitor to Zina. 434 Scott, and Groky, p. 23. 435 Slonim 1951, p. 124. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 165 Nemirovich-Danchenko’s performance was a success and ran for more than five hundred showings436. Olga Knipper-Chekhov, as Maria Alexandrovna, displayed magnificent dynamism and authority; Maria Knebel was to be remembered for her satirical tone as a gossipmonger; and the Prince himself, played by Nikolay Khmelev, was magnificently ‘played as a mechanical doll made up of uncoordinated body parts’437, an object lesson of the aristocracy’s demise as a class. In addition, regarding the social necessity of the performance, Yuri Sobolev’s review, praising the performance, focused on the issue of the individual in a political and economic structure that undermines his life; the terrifying portrayal of society is a proof of its very sickness438. The truth is, however, that the forced social tones of the adaptation prevailed to such an extent that it distorted the original text’s meaning, especially its initial focus on the psychological complexities between Maria Alexandrovna and her daughter439. Thus, the question not only remained but became more complex: to what extent should or can a director alter a text in order to draw out its social connotations? Recalling Meyerhold’s adaptation of Gogol’s The General Inspector (1926) and the fierce attacks he received for his alterations to the original, one might think that the obsession with the classics left no space for experimentation. However, if this were the case, how could the directors test their limits and identify the social spirit of a play when the social spirit itself was not the main concern of the artist? It seems that things worked somehow differently. As was proven in the previous chapter, during the 1920s, defending the classics was an issue, eluding its artistic nature, expanding to the core of the ideological field. Thus, the problem was not that Meyerhold changed the play but why he did it. Further, he received a lot of positive reviews on his brave attitude towards the classics. The above approach is further validated by Nemirovich-Danchenko’s production of Tolstoy’s Resurrection in 1930. If we examine this production closely, we can observe that Nemirovich- Danchenko emphasized the resurrection of the fallen woman, Katiusha Maslova, and de- emphasized her seducer, Nekhliudov, shifting the emphasis from the remorseful aristocrat’s story to the social causality of prostitution. F. Raskolnikov’s adaptation further added a character who was not in the original text – a narrator, played by Kachalov – who wandered in 436 Rzhevsky 2009, p. 85. 437 Ibid., p. 86. 438 Sobolev, p. 2. 439 Rzhevsky 2009, p. 85. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 166 the midst of the action and commented at length, addressing the audience and providing interpretations of the on-stage action. ‘Kachalov’s role became a benchmark of performance talent in’440, states Rzhevsky. Further, Anatoly Lunacharsky, in his review of the performance in Krasnaya Gazeta, affirmed that the narrator, although being a bit exaggerated (mainly due to the unnatural nature of a monologue by a person invisible to the characters), was a smart solution and excellently performed by Kachalov441. O. Litovskiy wrote, in Pravda, that Raskolnikov’s adaptation did not idealise Tolstoy’s problematic philosophy but simultaneously managed to illuminate all the social issues that the writer dealt with. Litovskiy praised the performance’s innovation and competence, along with its care for masterpieces of the past. However, he insisted that theatre must not resign from the struggle to create new Soviet plays442. Figure 4.4. Scene from The Resurrection with Kachalov as ‘the author’ (the top-left corner), standing among the audience. Source: Konstantin Rudnitsky, Russian and Soviet Theatre: Tradition and Avant-Garde, p. 299. Changing, re-structuring, re-shaping, and altering the original text in any way was not a problem in all cases. Of course, Nemirovich-Danchenko’s approach was not as radical as Meyerhold’s; however, what becomes clear is that even if this obsession with the classics 440 Rzhevsky 2009, p. 89. 441 Lunacharsky 1930, p. 3. 442 Litovskiy, p. 5. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 167 reveals an inherent conservativism, focusing on the classics in itself in no way affected the range of experimentation that was expected of the directors, especially those in academic theatres. Nonetheless, the fact that they were expected to find ways to approach the classics, even if that meant that they had to change the original text, still did not answer the question of how they should look at them to identify the social issues that they raised. During the 1934 Congress, the notion of ‘critical approach’ was still ambiguous. This ambiguity turned legitimate admiration of the classics into a ‘creational trap’. On the one hand, there was a consensus on the need to re-evaluate the past. On the other, the very passion for the classics was the result of two factors: first, the great pride that they felt for an undoubtedly impressive and precious heritage (which, as such, is difficult to alter), and, second, the need to eliminate the exaggerations of Proletkult that proclaimed the destruction of any previous achievement. Thus, the passion was based on two incorrect motives. Although the theoretical framework had correctly identified the need for a critical approach to the classics, the artistic environment did not help artists to take full advantage of all the potential that such a critical approach could offer. The extent of this drawback is evident in the case of a 1936 production of Anna Karenina. e. The case of Anna Karenina The plot of this famous novel is well-known. In 1874, in Imperial Russia, it follows the aristocrat Anna Karenina, who flees Saint Petersburg for Moscow to defend the marriage of her sibling Prince Oblonsky, who had an affair with his housemaid. Anna herself endures a cold marriage with Count Alexei Karenin, with whom she has a child. When Anna meets cavalry officer Count Vronsky, they begin an affair that violates all commonly accepted norms. Vronsky promises to marry her if she will agree to leave her husband, Karenin. However, Anna feels very vulnerable to the pressures of Russian societal norms, the moral laws of the Russian Orthodox Church, her own insecurities, and Karenin's indecision. Anna and Vronsky go to Italy, where they can be together, but are unable to adjust to life there and soon return to Russia. Anna becomes more isolated and anxious, while Vronsky resumes his social life. Despite Vronsky’s reassurances, she grows increasingly possessive and paranoid about his imagined infidelity, leading her to her tragic end. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 168 Figure 4.5. On the day of its premiere, Anna Karenina was featured on the front page of Izvestiya, a fact that illuminates the importance that was attached to theatre. Articles and reviews of the play dominated the press for a long time. Source: Izvestiya, No. 96, April 22, 1937. The performance, directed by Nemirovich-Danchenko, premiered on April 22, 1937, after a long period of extended publicity. The result was an immediate success and the play would remain in MAT’s repertoire for many years. However, the final text of the play was quite different from what Tolstoy had imagined, especially in terms of perspective. The significant focus on the aristocratic way of life led to a long occupation of the stage by the former class of rulers, which had to somehow be justified. Staying true to the classic masterpiece while adapting it to the new social context led to the creation of a bizarre hybrid. This altered version, written by Nikolai Volkov and designed by Dmitriev, consisted of twenty-three scenes, switching between large social gatherings and intimate private dialogues. This new portrayal of Anna elevated the heroine from an oppressed Russian woman to an archetype. Anna was not considered a mere member of high society anymore. She represented something beyond that; she was the symbol of a new woman who Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 169 does not accept being enslaved by rules of propriety and refuses to dilute her moral standards. This new picture of Anna became a representation of all the old, negative morals that socialism had left behind. As Juzovskiy wrote in Pravda: Anna, Karenin, Vronskij –they all belong to the powers that be, they are the masters of the situation, and they are crushed by the very proprietary foundations of life that they had erected and propounded themselves. [...] The old world deformed, mutilated, and smeared these [human] relationships – friendship, love, motherhood – regardless of all the merits of the Vronskijs [sic] or all the flaws of the Karenins443. Despite the significant changes to the novel, the reviews were remarkably supportive. M. Tverskoy claimed – in Sovetskoe iskusstvo on April 23, 1937 – that ‘the production of Anna Karenina is a major event in the cultural life of the land of socialism not only because our best theatre has brought onstage a brilliant work by a great artist and enriched our knowledge of the past.’444 In addition, according to TASS (the Soviet news agency), this adaptation of Anna Karenina provided the Soviet audience with a new, revised look at womanhood through the socialist prism: Looking at Karenina-Tarasova, the viewers saw with the utmost clarity, and empathized with, the tragedy of a Russian woman crushed by the unbearable burden of the proprietary social order. Chmelev’s performance raised hatred for Karenin, who is depicted in Tolstoy’s great creation as an epitome of the utter vileness of reactionary bureaucratic Russia and the hypocrisy of church morality.445 Regarding the moral aspect of the performance, however, most revealing is what Nemirovich- Danchenko himself remarked: The theatre wanted to portray Tolstoy’s remarkable characters so that they would be alive today, as our contemporaries: so that they would stir us, evoke a response, feelings and thoughts within us, … so that they would raise problems that could not have been 443 Sited in: Muza, p. 481. 444 Tverskoy, p. 220. 445 Muza, p. 472. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 170 solved either by Tolstoy or by his heroes, but which we are solving. This play is, in the best sense of the word, deeply moral. It helps to create new morals and, in this respect, it is a Soviet play.446 However, contemporary scholars do not always accept this reception as genuine. Anna Muza, in her extended analysis and reconstruction of the performance, offers an insightful examination of the peculiarity of the specific performance that came to be regarded by the Soviet theorists as a typical socialist realist performance. Muza focuses on the effect of the mediated publication and the influence of the presence of the upper hierarchy at the premiere of the performance on the acceptance of the play. She admits that a significant part of the success of the play was related to the attendance of Stalin, Molotov, Vorošilov, and Ždanov. According to her, the prejudicial attitude against the old ethics of the play became more emphatic owing to the presence of the very people who were the official leaders of the fight against those ethics: ‘encased in this mirror-like structure, the first-night audience felt elated yet also belittled and threatened by the symbolic body of the Soviet state, whose duty to discipline and punish informed the production’s concept and staging’.447 However, this is only partially true because this was not the only performance attended by the upper hierarchy. Almost every premiere of a major performance, especially at MAT, was attended by the upper hierarchy. Secondly, the immense success of the performance was evident in a number of different ways, not merely by virtue of its acceptance by officialdom. Not only had it become a permanent fixture of the repertoire of MAT, but it was also adapted for a radio version; seventeen theatres put on an adaptation of it in 1937 alone, and in 1938, nineteen additional theatres did so. Twelve years later, after the war, twenty-two theatres continued to incorporate the play in their repertoire. Further, as Muza notes, in 1939 Eyzenshteyn already regretted that ‘as a spectator, [he] did not experience that force that would clasp [his] throat, make [him] breathe unevenly, gasp for air’448. However, if Muza was right, and the success of the performance was related to the fact that ‘that controlling, dominating surveillance, overpowering both the stage and the audience, seems to have been necessary for the participants to reach an emotional climax’, Eyzenshteyn’s comment proves that – in 1939 – this element was absent. Thus, even if the initial success was linked to extra-theatrical 446 Nemirovich-Danchenko 1936-1937, pp. 7-9. 447 Ibid., p. 497. 448 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 171 elements, it seems absurd to think that the performance endured for so long after its premiere for these reasons alone. Her closing comment, based on Alla Tarasova’s remark of 1960, is also contradictory, where the once-celebrated protagonist of Anna Karenina declared that ‘it used to be a good show. And now it’s so wretched. Mass scenes have become so pathetic. All is covered by dust’449. For Muza, this statement constitutes proof that ‘the dusty Stalinist spectacle of terror stirred pity in the heart of its former star’450. However, in contrast, it proves that not only was it not a ‘Stalinist spectacle of terror’ but rather that, for some reason, it was genuinely a massive success. Thus, the peculiarity of this performance does not lie in the relationship between its success and its mediated publication, but on the very notion of what was considered successful. Both Muza and Rzhevsky, in his own assessment of the performance in Modern Russian Theatre seem to overlook the fact that, although indeed not socialist, Anna Karenina takes a clear stance on the feudal system that existed in Russia at the time. Politics – not only in the Russian government but also at the level of individual characters and families – religion, morality, gender, and social class were being examined and criticised on stage. All of these suited the Soviet system of the time very well, but not solely for the reasons that Muza and Rzhevsky provide. Muza notes that the historical context did affect the artistic result. ‘Thus, rhetorically and visually’, she claims, ‘Anna Karenina was associated with major victories in socialist construction and situated at the very core of Soviet political life’451, relating the success of the performance to its social significance and political momentum. Rzhevsky is more disapproving, linking the ‘panicked search for safe stereotypes and the noncontroversial self- flagellation’ with the trials of 1936-1938 and the successive arrests of the two administrative directors of MAT (Mikhail Arkadiev and Yakov Boyarsky)452. They both conclude that because of the unstable and insecure situation, officials asked for and received a deliberately supportive performance, which – owing to this support – was massively publicised. The problem, however, was not that a particular performance was being promoted for political purposes (this was and is happening anyway), but that these political views affected the performance by misrepresenting the very aesthetics of its artistic creators (rather than by physically influencing its result). 449 Nemirovich-Danchenko 1936-1937, p. 497. 450 Ibid. 451 Ibid., p. 468. 452 Rzhevsky, p. 89. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 172 To further examine what was wrong – or at least strange – with performances, such as the ‘new’ Anna Karenina, the social context should not be eliminated in the light of the political actions of the trials and the arrests. The socialist state, and the Communist Party itself, had devoted a lot of effort to improving the social status of women. Women, immediately after the revolution, began to be treated more equally. Divorce, over the years, became more restricted but was much easier to obtain than before. The fate of children was a serious legal issue too. In general, the socialist state had managed, in a very short time, to cover a great distance in the equality of working women, along with their social equality. On the one hand, Anna Karenina and her profound example as a strong, independent woman with equally strong ethical standards supported the social values that the socialist state tried to establish. Soviet reviews of the play deliberately pointed to this very fact. Tverskoy, for instance, in his review, observed that: The performance raises problems of new human relationships. We become fully aware of new relationships of men and women, husbands and wives. Love, as Engels brilliantly foresaw, will become genuine love only in a socialist society. We are constructing new bases for morality through our experience, we often pay with our suffering. A structure of relationships is already being created immeasurably superior to anything that existed before, because the falsehood that lay at the base of marriage, the family, love in the old society, the falsehood that inevitably flows from the exploitative character of that society, has been extirpated. But the vestiges of capitalism in people’s consciousness have remained, they are alive and hard to eliminate.453 Vsevolod Ivanov similarly commented that: Righteousness, sincerity, honour, inner spiritual beauty – that’s what we demand from people, that’s what the spectator demands in the theatre. And the outstanding Soviet actress Alla Konstantinovna Tarasova has known how, through her flair as an artist, to capture this inner thirst, this longing of the Soviet spectator, and she has satisfied his 453 Tverskoy, p. 5. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 173 expectations by her performance of the role of Anna Karenina. […] Therefore, Anna Karenina is a national performance on the stage of the Russian national theatre.454 Thus, it could be claimed that the critical over-appraisal served not only political purposes but also social purposes. MAT took advantage of this critical element and magnified it to illuminate contemporary issues that were indeed of great concern. Thus, the problem was not that political insecurity required safe stereotypes, as Rzhevsky would claim; instead, the problem was that by comparing the socialist system with the old bourgeois one, it was claimed that all contradictions have been resolved. Therefore, if on the one hand, Anna was a good example, on the other, she was also the one-eyed king in the land of the blind. The fact that the treatment of women had improved, relationships had changed, and society was being built on completely new standards, the very fact that the quality of life of the working class was considerably better than before cannot be enough to claim that all challenges had been resolved and that the socialist state was living in times of bliss, having exterminated class struggle. In fact, this is essentially the heart of the grave dialectical error that lies behind this peculiarity of artistic creations of the time. If the Communist Party, defined as the avant-garde of the working class, supported the idea of the end of class struggle, then it could be very difficult for artists to perceive this on their own. For this reason, drawbacks should not be looked for in any tangible restrictions on artistic creation, nor even in the climate of political terror, as Rzhevsky suggests, but in the retreat from Marxist ideology. f. From realism as essence to classicism as form Anna Karenina was indeed considered a great success. Alla Tarasova, as Anna, was awarded a Stalin State Prize and made a deputy of the Supreme Soviet. MAT was awarded the Order of Lenin.455 Undeniably, the entire performance received great publicity and support. However, 454 Ivanov, pp. 269. 455 However, Muza’s description of the story is not one hundred percent accurate. Rather than MAT being rewarded for Anna Karenina with the Order of Lenin to support the specific kind of theatre, Arkadiev personally contacted Stalin to ask him to award the theatre, as according to him ‘the theatre dreams of going to the Paris Exposition under the title – Order of Lenin Theatre. It seems to me that these are worthy sentiments and good dreams. I don’t think I would being overly subjective if I said that the theatre has earned this award’. Stalin replied to Molotov stating that the request was legitimate. Further, in any case, the Order of Lenin was a more generic award for the overall contribution of theatre. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 174 all things considered, within this frame of artistic creation – one that advocates for the classic past, that defends itself from political deviations expressed in art, that espouses the educational character of theatre regarding all goals that the state promotes, and that congratulates the critical stance of artists, even if expressed in the ideologically simple approach of adherents such as Nemirovich-Danchenko – it still made sense for Anna Karenina to have the full support of the officials. Yet, making sense does not necessarily mean being dialectically consistent. If the purpose of was a truthful and all-round reflection of social reality through artistic means, then Anna Karenina was problematic in many ways. First of all, when comparing Anna with her own social environment, it makes no sense, in a Marxist way of speaking, for her to be able to draw such progressive conclusions for the role of woman, especially in non-proletarian surroundings; Anna may be progressive, but bourgeois nonetheless. Soviet critics, however, somehow overlooked this fact. Izgoev wrote in, Vechernjaja Moskva, that, watching Tarasova’s brilliant, heartfelt acting, one forgets that Anna is one of the highly-placed ladies in the court circle456. He also stated that Karenina’s tragedy is by no means a tragedy of a high-society woman’457. The fact that Anna went against her social standards only to be crushed by the rules of propriety can indeed be considered a progressive critical approach on behalf of Tolstoy. However, this does not make Anna any more revolutionary than she was at the beginning of the novel. It barely manages to prove the destructive power of the rules of propriety. Thus, Anna was not the revolutionary example that the critics tried to portray. Secondly, looking at Anna in the context of contemporary Soviet social conditions, it was still very difficult for the proletarian audience to draw the conclusion that artists and officials very ambitiously aimed for. Even if Anna is indeed a revolutionary figure, she is still an aristocrat. Therefore, should the audience admire her or despise her? And if what Anna did was right, does this mean that the aristocrats were also admirable? This goes against the whole spirit of the Soviet ethos, which aimed at criticising the old system and, via this critique, portraying the superiority of the new one. 456 Izgoev, p. 3. 457 Ibid. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 175 Thirdly, and most importantly, the most crucial inconsistency of the play was that it portrayed the new social reality as much more superior than it actually was. It ignored the ongoing class struggle and the fact that there were still many steps to be taken towards realising socialism; it drew a picture of life that had no challenges. Marxistically, it depicted a society in which all dialectical contradictions had been resolved. However, this was not the case. William Gunn, in his essay on the use of the slogan “Back to Ostrovsky!”, he claimed that, especially in the thirties, the return to the classics was linked with the officials’ drive for consistency and predictability. In his dissertation for the University of Southern California, he stated that ‘in 1932, the concept for a predictable and consistent artistic platform was put forth by the Party’s Central Committee, and at the first Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934 the doctrine of socialist realism was presented as the only acceptable artistic theory in the Soviet Union’458. A few years later he added that ‘because the art of socialist realism aimed for consistency and predictability […] the state made an increasingly forceful and calculated attempt to portray the Moscow Art Theatre and Stanislavsky as the ultimate arbiters of theatrical truth in the Soviet Union’459. It would be very difficult to demonstrate that this doctrine was put forth as early as 1934. As seen in previous chapters, the Congress displayed great openness in terms of artistic creation. This was proclaimed not only by the artists but also by high officials like Zdhanov himself. However, Gunn’s comment is very insightful in describing the artistic field of 1937 as reinforcing the ‘consistent’ and the ‘predictable’. At some point, the combination of classics with socially useful performances ceased to work. This was perhaps because social necessity was misunderstood by the officials. If art in 1937 reflected a scheme of ‘consistency and predictability’, then society had been convinced of that, irrespective of whether this was true or not. In other words, if art depicted a society without any problems, then the society truly believed this. This does not seem to be a problem exclusive to the arts, but rather of the Communist Party’s direction. 458 Gunn 2012, p. 1. 459 Gunn 2014, p. 63. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 176 Stanislavsky and dialectical materialism For reasons that go beyond theatre itself, and thus the scope of this thesis, the official party line may have deviated from the Marxist direction in the manner of art that was necessary to build socialism. It lost the universal spirit proclaimed by the Congress and turned towards simple, superficial nationalism. However, this did not prevent Stanislavsky from further developing his method, given that he relied on previous theories and their evolution, as well as on the more favourable climate created by contemporary developments. The aesthetic analyses of critics and theorists of the previous period, along with the solutions to prior bureaucratic setbacks (that is, before the emergence of ideological issues), led to distinct results in art, even at the end of the 1930s. Stanislavsky’s change towards a more contemporary scientific method demonstrates an effort to understand how the goal that was set for theatre in 1934, meaning to take advantage of the cultivating power of theatre and set it under the scope of socialism. One of the things that made this change possible was that RAPP no longer existed. By 1932, with the liquidation of all creative organizations, RAPP had lost its power. Several of its members were absorbed by the Union of Writers, but by not being a separate faction, they were unable to launch attacks as fiercely as before. This made a great difference, given that RAPP’s targets were not limited to the performances themselves, but extended to the actual process of theatre-making. Stanislavsky’s system had been: […] declared to be idealistic and inimical to proletarian art. It was accused of being ‘an-historical’, dealing with ‘abstract timelessness’ of reducing ‘multiform social qualities into a few basic laws of the biological behaviour of man in general’ and of translating ‘socio-political problems into the language of ethico-moral concepts’ and transforming the ‘complex processes of the actor’s perception of reality into primitive, childlike credulity, naiveté and the ‘creative if’.460 The attack on the system itself meant that, according to RAPP, it was impossible for Stanislavsky to stage any valuable performances, precisely because the problem was his own mentality and approach to art. 460 Benedetti 1999, p. 335. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 177 Secondly, after the foundation of the Union of Writers and the Union of Theatre Workers, criticism was levelled in a more organised way; its main goal was to create a model of socialist art under the aegis of socialist realism, rather than having artists hurling condemnations at each other. Maxim Gorky, first leader of the Writers’ Union of the U.S.S.R., welcomed the foundation of the Union, declaring that ‘the Party and the Government are also taking away from us the right to order one another what to do, offering us in return the right to teach one another. To teach, meaning to share with one another our experience. That is all. That is all, nothing more’461. Further, regarding ‘non-party’ artists, the foundation of the Union was the only way to create an environment open to tolerance, a statement that introduced and officially embraced the ‘fellow travellers’, not only within the Union but also within socialist artistic creation in general. Gorky remarked that ‘those who were considered non-party men, who were “wavering”, have recognised—with a complete sincerity I cannot doubt—that Bolshevism is the single most active idea guiding their work and, in a word, their art’462. This stance towards ‘non-party men’, although not new, clearly established an attitude of recognition and acceptance towards fellow travellers. Not only were artists such as Stanislavsky or Nemirovich-Danchenko welcome to continue their work463, but this new form of organisation of the artists created an environment where opposition was expressed among the artists themselves, in a way that would allow discussion and the drawing of conclusions, rather than permitting personal attacks from outsiders who were self-proclaimed protectors of proletarian art. Thus, while there was perhaps a better system and climate for artistic criticism, its goal had changed. The fact that the general direction of the field was turned towards a more nationally focused art did not obviate the fact that MAT, and particularly Stanislavsky, were accused of psychologism, petit-bourgeois mentality, a positive approach to the enemy (Bulgakovism), reactionary talk of counter-revolution (e.g., RAPP), the distant figure of the intellectual, right- wing bias, over-academicism, and a conservative approach to the classics, both during the 1920s and the 1930s. Hence, to an extent, RAPP might have been largely correct; Stanislavsky’s system, at least in the beginning, was indeed alien to proletarian art. Unfortunately, although almost all critics understood the formative power of theatre, not all of 461 Garrard, p. 41. 462 Ibid. 463 Further, neither RAPP nor any other artistic organization ever actually seized a play. Only officials had the power to do that. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 178 them were able to explain precisely why Stanislavsky’s theatre stood in the way of identifying and accepting the new socialist identity. Further, it is perhaps no coincidence that Stanislavsky changed his method during the 1930s and not earlier. Thirty years prior, perhaps nobody would have accused him of ‘psychologism’. This is because, during the late nineteenth century, ‘psychologism’ was not perceived as a negative attribute for a work of art; in contrast, it was considered rather progressive, given that it was a time when psychology was being accepted as a science for the first time. However, during the first 40 years of the twentieth century, enormous changes occurred in scientific thought, changes that now need to be examined in order to understand how thinking had changed during those years, especially in terms of psychology, and why ‘psychologism’ was regarded as such a negative quality. Ultimately, it was the ideas that had changed; another piece of evidence that theatre, in this case through the experimentation and the personal research of Stanislavsky, was moving theory forwards. a. Science versus ‘psychologism’ in Stanislavsky’s system of acting From The Days of the Turbins to An Ardent Heart, and from Fear to Uncle’s Dream, and Anna Karenina, almost all of the performances staged by MAT, irrespectively of their director, were accused of ‘psychologism’. In fact, ‘psychologism’ for Stanislavsky was quite often the equivalent of Meyerhold’s ‘formalism’, meaning that not all critics or officials were actually aware of what ‘psychologism’ in theatre actually was before levelling an accusation. Even these unjust accusations, however, do not invalidate the argument of ‘psychologism’. Stanislavsky’s first brush with psychology appeared the moment he decided to bring science into the preparation for a dramatic role. From the very start, he was particularly interested in identifying a scientific method of triggering actors’ inspiration and to make them perform every day without becoming mechanical464. To achieve this, he relied on the recently established science of psychology to discover specific sources of inspiration. Rose Whyman, in her book The Stanislavsky System of Acting, tracks the influences of contemporary scientific thought on Stanislavsky. According to her, he was inspired by associationist psychology (e.g., that of Edouard von Hartmann) and several pre-Freudian scientists and philosophers who focused on the function of the ‘psyche’ and the relation between the unconscious and its expression through feelings. All of these were based on Hegel’s perception of consciousness as the foundation of reality, which became very influential in Russia when it was first introduced at 464 Whyman, p. 1. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 179 the beginning of the nineteenth century. Friedrich Wilhelm Schelling, in his Nature- Philosophy, studied nature in relation to its underlying spiritual laws. Friedrich Nietzsche spoke about the hidden realities within human beings. All these theories, says Whyman, along with the emergence of the symbolist movement, in which Stanislavsky became involved, undoubtedly influenced the director, who defined the process of his system as ‘the subconscious creativity of nature itself—through the artist’s conscious psycho-technique’465. Stanislavsky’s desire to introduce science into theatre was not always discernible. In some cases, his own writings make it a challenge to prove this scientific appeal. In 1925, he declared that: Can there exist a system for the creative process? Has it really got laws that have been established for all time? In certain parts of the system, like the physiological and psychological, laws exist for all, forever, and in all creative processes. They are indubitable, completely conscious, tried by science and found true.466 However, in 1938, in the preface of his An Actor’s Work on Himself, he would go on to say: ‘Do not look for any scholarly or scientific derivations. We in the theatre have our own lexicon, our actors’ jargon which has been wrought out of life’467. According to Jonathan Pitches, this inconsistency could be explained in one of two ways. Either Stanislavsky simply changed his mind or, as Sharon Carnicke puts it in Stanislavsky in Focus, like any artist, Stanislavsky incorporates science only when it inspires his imagination468. Irrespective of whether he admits it or not, Stanislavsky uses conventional associations of science such as rigour, clarity, objectivity, and experimentation to validate his findings on how inspiration is generated: In the expectation of these new triumphs of science, I have felt there was nothing for me to do except to devote my labours and energy almost exclusively to the study of Creative Nature—not to learn to create in her stead, but to seek oblique, roundabout ways to approach her, not to study inspiration as such but only to find some paths 465 Whyman, p. 4. 466 Pitches, p. 1. 467 Ibid. 468 Ibid., p. 2. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 180 leading to it469. By studying human behaviour for over 40 years, by observing himself while acting, and by experimenting with directing, Stanislavsky developed a theory to identify a commonly accepted method of acting and combine it with the process of approaching a character. The more he learnt, the more he wanted to know: I absolutely agree, we need specialists. The curious thing is, I am talking about very difficult psychological problems, about the creative mind, and haven’t read more than a couple of books on psychology. It amuses me and bewilders me at the same time.470 This scientific approach to acting was itself a revolutionary methodology. The difficulty with Stanislavsky’s method was that it was based on pre-revolutionary science, leading him to focus too much on the unconscious and on the confidence that human nature responds linearly – notions incompatible with the new ideological status quo of the Soviets. Thus, if a specific memory was evoked, it would invariably provoke a certain feeling. This idea was related to the prevailing belief of positivism at the time, the belief that scientists were rapidly discovering the laws of nature’s single unified system, that all we can know is our sensations, and that knowledge should be confined to pure experience. This theory had already been forcefully attacked and rejected by Lenin in his key text Materialism and Empiriocriticism, where, on dialectical materialist grounds, he argued that human perceptions correctly and accurately reflect the objective external world and not the other way around. Stanislavsky, however, inspired by the Newtonian school of determinism and influenced by empirio-critical philosophy, established a system wherein, if one follows the constituent elements of the psycho-technique, a set of predictable conditions will occur that will stimulate unconscious creativity. It is only in this way, he claimed, that the actor’s behaviour on stage will appear natural, spontaneous, and real. However, when Stanislavsky failed to produce this natural effect, he did not question the theory. He simply focused on improving his execution. 469 Pitches, p. 10. 470 Benedetti, p. 338. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 181 From the Marxist point of view, this reliance on the unconscious was not the only drawback to Stanislavsky’s approach. Stanislavsky recognised feelings as the subject matter of art471. His main goal became to identify how they are created and conveyed, by proclaiming their ascendancy over everything else. Seeing ‘feeling’ as natural, it became his goal to find the way for this ‘natural’ truth to be expressed on stage. Focused on the logic and consistency of feelings, he argued that – in so far as they were little researched by science – they could never be scientifically translated into practical instructions and/or training for actors, or even provide a foundation upon which to build dramatic roles. All things considered, it was through this prism that his earlier teaching experiments (which led to the first ‘period’ of the Stanislavsky method, known as ‘emotional memory’) should be viewed. Inspired by this conscious effort at emotional recollection, which supposedly helped the actor relive an experience and eventually evoked the desired feeling in him, Stanislavsky created a model that had exemplary results in pre-revolution theatre. Marxism, on the other hand, had an entirely different idea of how reality works. In 1917, when the theoretical background of Marxism became reality, the philosophical scheme also became the principal philosophical method. In addition, given that in the core of his system’s theory was – until then – a philosophy completely alien to Marxism, which accepted the dominance of consciousness over matter, it was almost impossible for Stanislavsky to understand where the problem lay. A series of remarkable changes in scientific thought, however, along with a personal change of status – and of course the overall societal changes – made Marxist theory conceivable and applicable to Stanislavsky’s theatre. b. The change in the psychological background Over the span of 20 years, from 1917 to 1937, science moved on from these theories very quickly. Stanislavsky’s theory had to compete and survive in a rapidly progressing scientific field. Particularly from the perspective of Marxism, science was given a new and different quality. The materialistic perception of history had now – as its starting point – the argument that production and the exchange of its products formed the basis of social status. Historically, in every society, the distribution of products, and with it the division of society into classes or castes, is regulated according to what is produced and by which method, along with how the 471 Whyman, p. 14. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 182 products are exchanged. Thus, the ultimate cause of all social changes and political upheavals must be sought not in the heads of men, not in a growing understanding of eternal truth and justice, but in the changes in production and exchange. They must be sought not in philosophy, but in the economy of that era. This perception dramatically changed the way science was perceived, and the science of psychology was no exception. When, in 1859 Darwin’s, Origin of Species was first published, it initiated the start of an immense shift in science because, for the first time, the evolution of humankind became detached from widespread religious reasoning, an assertion that radicalised thinking in many domains, particularly natural science. One of the main contributions of this new theory was that the scientific laws of nature could be discovered and studied. Darwin’s impact made it believable that scientific law was discoverable, separating it from the personal perceptions of the observer. By moving one step forward, this new approach to science and the study of animal behaviour encouraged materialistic analyses of mental events and gave new impetus to Stanislavsky’s investigation. Darwin influenced innumerable scientists after him. Among them was Ivan Petrovich Pavlov, whose scientific work was based on Darwin’s theory that information about human beings can be derived from the study of animals. Pavlov maintained that the theory of conditioned reflexes could help interpret psychological behaviour. To summarise his theory, classical conditioning includes learning to relate an unconditioned stimulus that causes a particular response (i.e., a reflex) with a new (conditioned) stimulus, such that the new stimulus causes the same response. With this theory, the human mind could be studied in an objective and demonstrable way that not only would explain how it works but could also predict how it would react to given conditions472; this theory was very useful for Stanislavsky’s investigations. Eventually, the combination of a Marxist methodology of science and the development of psychology came about with Lev Vygotsky. Vygotsky saw human psychological development as the result of interpersonal connections and interactions with the social environment. Although Vygotsky admitted that some basic cognitive processes are common to both humans and higher animal species, he expressly and deliberately focused his own theory on those 472 Pitches, p. 88. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 183 cognitive processes that are unique to humans. In his pivotal work, Thinking and Speech (1934) – through an examination of the critical contradiction between theories of psychology of form and behaviourism – he developed a Marxist interpretation of consciousness, showing the historical nature of its formation and its co-existence with social action. c. Stanislavsky’s quest in dialectical materialism This rapid progress of science meant that, during the 1930s, the early psychological approach upon which Stanislavsky had based his theory was obsolete; a fact that Stanislavsky did not accept easily. He initially believed that the problem lay in the terminology he was using473. He first turned his ‘magic if’ into a ‘creative if’ to avoid the mysticism implied by the word ‘magic’. Then, he unhesitatingly asked Afinogenov, his main adversary, to propose terminology that he would consider appropriate474. Afinogenov, of course, could not revert with better terms because Stanislavsky was wrong; the problem was not in the terminology but in a deeper understanding of his method. A further step towards a more materialistic method was taken when, in 1929, Stanislavsky was asked to team up with Lunacharsky and the magazine Iskusstvo to determine how to advance Marxist aesthetics. Stanislavsky’s contribution would have been his insight into the past and his significant background in realism. His disposal to help advance Marxist theory, although not a proof of agreement or understanding, manifested nonetheless a willingness to declare, for the first time, ignorance in the face of this new theory that he might not be ready or capable of grasping. As a confirmation of Vygotsky’s theory that man’s consciousness is shaped by his social environment (without necessarily having been consciously motivated), Stanislavsky found that the former technique could not find its footing in the new theatrical roles and that his prior internal approach to a character could not always be conveyed to the audience. However, the problem was not the method itself. As Piotrovskiy said, the method perfectly matched Chekhov’s psychological pre-revolutionary works (Piotrovskiy 1929); in the meanwhile, however, history had moved forward. The new social conditions had created new plays and 473 Benedetti, p. 337. 474 Ibid., p. 342. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 184 new heroes that could not be approached using the old techniques. This was where the context of what the critics identified as ‘psychologism’ was hidden. During the 1930s, Stanislavsky modified his method. Elements that always concerned him were set in the proscenium, under the prism of recent scientific developments. He turned his attention to the importance of physical action and continued experimenting in that vein. He finally developed the concept of ‘active analysis’ in 1934, when working on Three Sisters at the Opera Studio (Whyman). With this new, evolved technique, he would no longer examine a play via round-the-table analysis, which had characterised rehearsals in an earlier period, but set the actors ‘on their feet’ and encouraged them to find actions that would match their character. These were the first steps towards what was later named the method of ‘physical actions’ – a technique where the performer builds up a succession of activities on his part to accomplish tasks required by the given conditions of the play. The idea is that, with such ‘active’ analysis, the emotional life of the character could be stirred and translated into the performance more proficiently than through emotional memory. The changes in Stanislavsky’s later work demonstrate how he evolved throughout the span of his life, from his perception of acting as expressing something vague and imprecise, to very specific tasks and actions. The emotion of a scene is not to be sought by directly accessing the actor’s feelings, but is a by-product of the actor’s experience, which is, in turn, composed of the sequence of logical physical actions that the actor has chosen. As Andre Van Gyseghem put it, ‘he had now to be able to realize, in shape and motion, the psychology of a man’475. Ultimately, theatre worked as the driving force in the formation of even Stanislavsky’s personal socialist identity. Conclusion Although MAT had several problems with many officers that were assigned as artistic–political advisors by the Soviets, there is no sign of an overall rejection of socialism, not even during the difficult first years after the Revolution. On the contrary, both Stanislavsky and 475 Gyseghem, p. 49. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 185 Nemirovich-Danchenko supported socialism to the very end. Indicative of this, perhaps, is Stanislavsky’s letter to Stalin in 1935, wherein, in order to achieve ‘genuinely creative theatre’, he asserted that: We need an experienced, cultivated communist director, who would assist V. I. Nemirovich-Danchenko and myself to repair our relationship for the sake of the creative management of the theatre […]. In addition, we need to strengthen the party organization of the theatre with a cultivated and qualified manager […].476 He did not even reject the possibility that his method might be in need of renewal. Further, from Chekhov’s nineteenth century to socialist realism, even without such rapid economic– political developments, theatre would have inevitably changed. Stanislavsky was broad- minded and receptive enough to understand this. Nemirovich-Danchenko had realised, too, that a new society had emerged in Russia and that theatre itself had to adjust to the new conditions. Like Stanislavsky, he backed up his beliefs with public statements about the help received from the party and the importance of socialist realism477. At the same time, MAT was, in general and for reasons stated in this chapter, the beloved child of the Soviet state. Eventually, the Soviets took advantage of the theatrical ground to set new, complex social ideas in an already familiar theatrical frame: the classics. Further, MAT had willingly followed in the field in which it felt most at ease. At the Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934, Gorky conducted an extended analysis of the importance of the classics. Lunacharsky held up Ostrovsky as the example that artists should follow in the quest of ‘truthiness’ and ‘critical stance’. Further, MAT made a genuine effort to relate the social phenomena of the time in which the novels or plays had been written to their contemporary equivalents. However, in general, the classics were approached with ‘pride and prejudice’, by officials, by critics, by artists in general, and also by the public itself. This chapter has identified the roots of this underlying conservatism in the emphasis that was put on preserving the classics by forcibly extracting a social necessity that would potentially help the proletariat understand the laws of socialism, and not necessarily on understanding and portraying the complexity of the new social reality. This conclusion is further supported by the 476 Benedetti 1995, p. 354. 477 Slonim 1963, p. 316. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 186 fact that the new Soviet drama, as in the example of The Days of the Turbins, was received with stronger theoretical conflict among critics and officials on the very issue of its aim, while the adaptations of classic novels or plays were regarded in terms of their success as adaptations and in terms of bringing the performance closer to the contemporary reality (as we have seen in the case of Anna Karenina). In other words, while the first case (the new Soviet drama) was focusing on the theoretical aspects of socialist art, the second (the adaptations of the classics) aimed at the practical issues of form, undermining the importance of content. In other words, by employing the classic literature of the past to avoid the formalism of the extremist present, art was guided to a different kind of formalism. However, irrespectively of whether the official aesthetics were in a position of identifying this contradiction, society – and theatre as part of it – kept working according to its own rules. The fact that society affected the way Stanislavsky was perceiving the process of approaching a role, along with the more stable theoretical and critical system that was launched with the foundation of the Union of Writers, suggest that it was indeed possible for this conservatism to be overcome – an example of Marx’s dictum that ‘it is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but their social existence that determines their consciousness’478. From a Marxist point of view, were it not for the war and the preparations for it, which changed the priorities of the economic base, the ‘social existence’ would have identified the mistake, and ‘men’s consciousness’ would have worked towards a solution. Nevertheless, history had different plans about how socialist realism would evolve in Soviet Russia during and after the war. 478 Marx 1977, <https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1859/critique-pol- economy/preface.htm>, [assessed in March 14, 2018]. https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1859/critique-pol-economy/preface.htm https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1859/critique-pol-economy/preface.htm Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 187 CHAPTER 5 General conclusions and discussion Introduction This chapter will summarise the findings, set the position of the current thesis among research already published in the field, state its limitations, and identify possible future directions for research. Recapitulation of purpose and findings This thesis began by attempting to illuminate theatre as the driving force in the formation of socialist realism. This was made possible by setting theatre at the centre of the investigation of a broader topic –in this case, socialist realism. This premise was based on a series of traits attributed to theatre available to us owing to the flourishing of the field of theatre studies in recent decades. On the one hand, with the rise of theatre studies as an independent discipline in the 1960s and 1970s, the focus of research shifted from the actor to the director, illuminating the fact that staging itself is a complex work of art that cannot be studied adequately using currently available means of analysis and classification. On the other hand, far from being a purely historical discipline, theatre studies began to redefine itself as the discipline that would understand theatre in accordance with its contemporary artistic practice and social surroundings. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 188 Accordingly, early research on socialist realist theatre had been mostly restricted to text-based analysis of the first decades of its existence, leading to genre isolation that prioritised drama in its more classical form over other combinations or expressions of the performing arts, such as circuses or dancing, and to a simplification of the laws of Marxism relative to theatre under socialism, interpreting it as having a linear relationship to the economy. These restrictions downplayed the importance of theatre and its integral role in the shaping of the characteristics of socialist realism. ‘The theatre’s potential to be educative and empowering, to enable critical and ethical engagement, to awaken a sense of social responsibility, or to raise an audience’s sense of its own political agency’479 was undermined. This thesis, in contrast, is based on the proposition that the ability of theatre to connect with the audience in an immediate and direct way played a very significant role in the integration of the theoretical and philosophical aspects of socialism during the first few years post-revolution into a form of artistic expression with specific traits. Further, and perhaps more importantly, theatre, more than any other language- based kind of art, has the ability to adapt and change daily, responding immediately to audience and public reaction. From this perspective, theatre greatly helped in forming the image of socialist realism as an artistic movement. As this thesis proved, theatre was also of great significance in the formation of the socialist identity itself. As seen in the previous chapters, from a Marxist point of view, the cultural materialist approach to theatre identifies economic material factors as the determining forces shaping society – and therefore, theatre production and reception as well. At its simplest (and most reductive), a Marxist perspective on theatre would propose a straight, vertically conceived relationship between the economic structure (base) and theatre (superstructure). Yet, even in its most reductive presentation, it is still difficult to pinpoint how the economy affects theatre without using over-generalisations or oversimplifications. In other words, it is difficult to identify, using the laws of economics, the link between socialist realist theatre, early-twentieth-century capitalism, and the path to its eventual overthrowing by socialism. This thesis investigated this relationship by exploring how critical reception of a performance influenced its production. By doing so, it proved that what made theatre so capable of forming socialist realism was its ability to form the new socialist identity through its close relationship with the audience. Theatre was seen as the vehicle that would teach the 479 Freshwater, p. 55. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 189 working class what socialism is. In this way, it also revealed, to a significant extent, the relationship between the economy and theatre. We have gone to great lengths to identify what exactly this ‘socialist identity’ was that socialist realism was trying to form (i.e., what its identifying traits were). Reviews of the time reveal that there was a simultaneous effort to identify and come to a consensus regarding what these traits were, and which theatrical style would best suit their delivery to the audience. This overlapping of goals made things even more complicated. Katerina Clark, discussing Gladkov’s Soviet novel Cement, describes this contradiction very clearly. Commenting on how Pravda’s rhetoric and themes had intervened in the conception of that novel, she observed that ‘Cement provides the most striking example of the complex evolution of socialist realism and the dialectic of the literary and extra-literary forces that accompanied it’ 480. By extension, it can be said that this dialectic was even more complex in theatre. The contemporary reviews and general perception of Meyerhold’s Theatre had three main elements in common: the choice of the repertoire, the fight against individualism, and the (mainly scholarly) debate on formalism. All three of these elements were closely connected to the various ongoing ideological discussions on socialism and the need to educate the new proletariat about it. Theatre was regarded as an exceptionally efficient means of educating the masses and it became the chosen mode for disseminating the knowledge that the proletariat had to acquire. Other than the people commissioned by the State within the theatres to supervise the various phases of theatre production, the press played a significant role too. The reviews of the performances virtually document this ongoing theoretical struggle. Indicative of this were the criticisms of Meyerhold’s productions of The General Inspector for its ‘apolitical stance’481, as well as of Bedbug and Bathhouse, which were accused of a bureaucratic absurdity that, in Gorky’s words, could not help the proletariat ‘develop [its] revolutionary self- consciousness’482. However, the struggle to meet these social and political demands was even more obvious in Olesha’s List of Assets, wherein the altruistic gestures of the heroine were not sufficient to portray the man of the new age – the new socialist man. These statements are 480 Clark 1981, p. 70. 481 See, Chapter 4. 482 Scott, and Gorky, p. 52. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 190 indeed in accordance with Clark’s remark that the ‘revolutionary martyr [of the pre-revolution times] was replaced by a dynamic man of action’483. The same intensity was seen for the notion of individualism (or rather the lack of it), which, again, was considered part of the new socialist identity. Accused of authoritarian tendencies in his directing and of over-focusing on the exceptions of the past rather than on the mainstream socialist future, Meyerhold was renowned as a theatrical genius who was creating an anti-social atmosphere and engaging in restricted self-criticism and narcissism. All of these accusations were amplified to an extent that clearly elucidates the theatre’s power to influence. Even the discussion on formalism was more proletariat-centred than it might seem. From this perspective, formalism was rejected and fiercely attacked based on the assertion that it kept performances from presenting honest and truthful portrayals of the real world. The formalist theatre had embraced a mechanical and emotionless way of dealing with reality, one that could not efficiently explain the laws of reality (in a socialist reality, this means the laws of socialism) to its audience, turning theatre into something useless or even hostile to the proletariat. Lacking knowledge regarding the laws of socialism makes it impossible to build. In the case of the Moscow Art Theatre, it is, of course, no surprise that it attracted a similar amount of attention. Even without its glorious past and prestige, MAT would still be indispensable for the new socialist state because of its significant popularity. In MAT, the Soviet state had inherited an already established and well-accepted theatre that people were eager to defend as their own. The only thing the officials needed to add was an ideological ‘movement forward’. Indisputably, this combination of emotion, admiration, and social service ended up in a bizarre blend, whose massive success would amaze today’s spectator. At the same time, however, it was a success that proved the Soviets wrong. According to the Soviets, MAT’s repertoire was closer to their expectations than Meyerhold’s. Of course, in this general estimation numerous disputes over other plays that never became part of the repertoire are included too. In general, MAT’s realistic past helped it maintain content closer to the official guidelines. These guidelines were formulated officially by the 483 Clark 1981, p. 68. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 191 First Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934, but they existed even before that. MAT was indeed very familiar with this aesthetic. By adding ‘episodes of the heroic struggle led by the working class’, it reached the point that the officials would have imagined of socialist realism, combining the classics with contemporary social phenomena. Ultimately, MAT achieved the greatly desired element of social education by introducing newly written plays and re- interpreting classics and novels of the past. Nevertheless, the forced infusion of social necessity and socialist meanings into plays written far before socialism existed led to mistakes that were unfortunately soon considered as norms by the Soviets. In combination, these results suggest that there is a relationship between the directing choices of these two theatres and the message that the Soviet officials wanted to communicate to the audience. However, it is important to remember that this was not 1917 anymore and the revolutionary times were long gone. In 1931, Lunacharsky said the following about Gorky: ‘Perhaps the great majority of outstanding literary phenomena and significant writers appear as a result of major social changes, of social catastrophes’484. The 1930s were not the years of great social change. This was a time when the changes of the recent past were on their way to becoming normalized. It was a time of economic stability and growth. and throughout human history, a stabilizing era is usually associated with conservatism485. Further, it is not possible to separate conservatism from its economic nature (defence of private property). Since socialism is against the concept of private property, socialist realism must be linked to a different kind of conservatism. It takes the form of ‘socialist conservatism’, a type of conservatism that defends the interests of the working class because it closely follows the socialist construction and its revolutionary characteristics (a new type of communist party, democratic centralisation, etc.). Nevertheless, it was a Soviet form of socialist conservatism in which the revolutionary Theatre of Meyerhold could not fit. However, from this perspective, it was unclear to what extent MAT was socialist realist. In the modern view of socialism, the conservatism that theatre displayed during the 1930s would be unacceptable. Thus, the conservatism that this thesis identified in MAT (in Chapter 4) indicates that this kind of theatre should have never been considered socialist realist. Contemporary views of socialist realist theatre suggest that it must have something of Brecht’s revolutionary form or at least the 484 Lunacharsky 1965, p. 214. 485 Dagger, Ball, and others, ‘Conservatism’, Encyclopædia Britannica (2018) <https://www.britannica.com/topic/conservatism> [Accessed March 13, 2019]. http://www.britannica.com/topic/conservatism%3E Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 192 philosophical framework of Marxism (Bullitt 1976). Thus, the question that needs to be answered regarding socialist realism is not whether MAT’s productions were socialist realist or not, because this answer would not help define what exactly socialist realism is. In contrast, by identifying this inclination towards traditionalism, it would be much more beneficial to establish whether this conservatism of Soviet theatre of the 1930s was inevitable or not. Unfortunately, this thesis cannot answer this question. That is because the answer would require simultaneous sociological research into the causes of the development of this conservatism, and that exceeds the scope of this thesis. However, even if a general answer regarding the conservatism of Soviet socialist realist theatre is still difficult to give, examining – in detail – the characteristics developed by both theatres can offer some very useful conclusions. Within the frame of socialist realism, theatre turns to a very important issue primarily because it helps in the understanding of concepts integral to socialism. The main differences between the two theatres examined in this research illustrate the criteria that Soviets gave to theatre of good quality, which soon after became synonymous with socialist realism. Firstly, Chapter 4 provided significant evidence that all three main directors of MAT (Stanislavsky, Nemirovich-Danchenko, and Sudakov) demonstrated a creative response to criticism. Letters by all three of them prove that, even when they disagreed with popular or official opinions, their reaction was one of self-criticism oriented towards the requirements of official proclamations (Benedetti 1995; Clark, Dobrenko, Artizov, and Naumov 2007; Nemirovich-Danchenko 1968). Meyerhold seemed to be less ‘adaptive’, who – as seen in Chapter 3 – made it easier for his official adversaries to continue the ideological attacks against him by holding strong opinions486. At the same time, MAT’s old-style realism somehow seemed more relevant to contemporary Soviet critics than Meyerhold’s internal class struggle. Interestingly enough, although Meyerhold was definitely closer to Marxist ideology than Stanislavsky had ever been, it was the latter who managed to evolve his directing technique to meet the requirements of socialist realism487. As a result, from the psychological external world of Andreyevna as an individual, 486 See, Senelick, and Ostrovsky, p. 461. 487 Benedetti 1999, p. 356. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 193 he managed to create the large, crowded scenes of Armored Train, making the actors function both as a crowd and as a set of individuals, getting closer and closer to the final monumental style that socialist realism became synonymous with. Finally, there is a whole different philosophy on how they formed – and then transformed – their well-known techniques and methods. On the one hand, Meyerhold condemned the naturalistic actor for excessive ‘liveness’ on stage and created Biomechanics, as a more structured and formal method of acting. Biomechanics was Meyerhold’s call for external expression and elimination of emotion, a technique that would become popular in the decades to come. In contrast, for Stanislavsky, the actors are there to create a real, emotional, and truthful imitation of the character they are playing, and to be so life-like that they seem to become their character. However, inspired by the development of science, Stanislavsky changed and evolved his technique, changing this internal procedure of creating a role with a more external one, the so-called ‘method of physical action’. From a different starting point, Stanislavsky reached the kind of external expression that Meyerhold was looking for, without the latter’s formalistic approach. This technique proved to be more appropriate for the socialist realism of the time. Overall, contrary to contemporary expectations that present socialist realism in the context of glorified communist values supported by the super-human proletariat488 – a picture that seems perhaps closer to the early futurist depiction of socialism – it seems that the Soviets of the 1930s considered MAT a better representation of socialist realist theatre than that of Meyerhold. The Congress, critics, and officials all wanted socialist realism to educate the proletariat – MAT fulfilled this expectation. Despite the struggle to identify what the people should be educated with, the debate on the role of the theatre in this was proven to be irreplaceable in the very formation of socialist realism. By trying to establish the new socialist identity, theatre – through various means – established socialist realism itself. In other words, the very debate that was described in preceding chapters was the driving force that defined the kind of theatre that was required to fulfil the needs of the society. 488 Korin 1971, p. 95. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 194 Relationship with previous research These findings build on the work of the researchers reviewed in Chapter 1. Although extensive research has been carried out on socialist realism, researchers have not treated theatre on an equal footing to other kinds of art. Research on theatre – as such – has been mostly been restricted to examining the texts rather than the performances as independent phenomena with their own rules and means of mediation. Most studies have focused on other artistic forms, predominantly literature, fine arts, music, and architecture. Whenever socialist realist theatre has been studied independently, it was done primarily by focusing on its textual form – the drama. More contemporary PhD theses (such as Decker’s 2013; and Gunn’s 2012), including the present one, have begun focusing on – from various perspectives – dramatic performances as independent phenomena. This thesis has studied theatre from the perspective of its reception, focusing on the critical dialogue that each performance initiated, in order to explore the dimensionality and importance of theatre in the new socialist state. The findings of this thesis make important contributions to the general discussion on socialist realism. Among the primary aims of this research was to investigate why it seems so difficult to define socialist realism. For example, as seen in the first chapter, there are scholars who maintain that socialist realism was a totalitarian art imposed by high-ranking Soviet officials (including Stalin); at the same time, other scholars claim that it was but the natural evolution of a long-standing realist tradition in Russia, only manifesting in this form under the new social conditions. This is only one among the many contradictions that follow this artistic movement. Undoubtedly, it is a complex and diverse phenomenon. However, the extent of the debates during the 1930s, found in newspapers and in the theoretical works of officials and scholars, prove that, above all, socialist realism was definitely not imposed from above. What can be claimed is that there were elements requested of the artists, and found in the theoretical debates of the 1920s, that became eventually were incorporated in what became known as socialist realism. It is clear that this is not an entirely new approach. Gutkin, in 1999, had already identified the ideological ancestry of the socialist realism of the 1930s in the aesthetic debates of the 1920s. Dobrenko has also noticed that, although socialist realism was the result of the Avant-Garde’s Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 195 degradation, it was also the natural response of the arts to the ongoing social and economic changes. Other scholars have also proven this correlation between the emergence of socialist realism and the ongoing struggle, with the several aesthetic theories put forward by groups such as Proletkult, Pereval, LEF, and the Association of the Proletarian Writers (Ermolaev; Robin 1977; et al.). Socialist realism was the gradual crystallisation of common ground among the aesthetics of the various groups and the societal needs of the new socialist state. The additional importance of this study is that it has managed to prove the link between socialist realism and the wider society in a more straightforward way, precisely because theatre has an immediate effect upon its audiences, a trait unavailable to other art forms studied hitherto (such as novels or the fine arts). Each individual spectator is able to interact – in regard to their reception of the play – with the rest of the audience as well as with the theatre artists (whether on stage or not), turning the experience of a single performance into a very concentrated dialogue, irrespective of whether the audience participates physically in the performance or not. Thus, every single performance during both the 1920s and the 1930s was perceived by the state as an intense ideological debate; an extension of the one going on outside the theatre. Regarding the link of socialist realist theatre with its long-standing realist past, Gutkin made a significant comment about the Soviet novel that can also be applied to theatre. She noted the dead-end of socialist realism’s efforts to maintain the status quo of the great past while moving forward to the revolutionary future489. Lunacharsky’s declaration of “Back to Ostrovsky!”, Gorky’s admiration of the great realists of the past and adaptations such as Nemirovich- Danchenko’s Resurrection and Anna Karenina illustrated the Soviet theatre’s impotence regarding ‘synthesis’ (in the Marxist sense of the term), promoting instead only a mere sterile imitation with a lack of genuine creativity. However, more contemporary approaches to socialist realism, such as those proposed by Paperny (2002), Pern (2010), Bazin (2011), and Blower (2013), by defining realism in a more open-ended manner – precisely as the First Congress of Soviet Writers did in 1934 – have re-initiated a dialogue on the ‘realism’ of socialist realism. This thesis adds to this dialogue by supporting the form-openness of socialist realism, making realism into art that attempts to provide a true and all-round reflection of social reality through artistic means, independent of its representation in terms of form. If contemporary scholars do not limit their understanding of realism to the tight confines of a 489 Gutkin, p. 4. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 196 sterile reproduction and imitation of life, but rather understand it as Kuhirt envisioned it in 1974 – as ‘a provocation regarding the nature, the internal dialectics, the appearance and the perspectives of realism’490 – then, within the limits of socialist realism, we can envision not only performances such as Stanislavsky’s The Days of the Turbins and Sudakov’s Embezzlers, but also (if not primarily) Meyerhold’s The General Inspector, Mandate, and The Last Decisive Battle. Limitations and issues facing the study Unfortunately, owing to practical constraints, this thesis cannot provide a complete review of the literature on socialist realist theatre of the Soviet 1930s. This is due to both methodological and personal limitations. The lack of available data and extensive prior research, the initial lack of precise research questions, the limited sample size and access to sources, and personal boundaries are among the most important restrictions on the current research. a. Methodological limitations 1. Lack of available data This study was unable to investigate the entire phenomenon of socialist realist theatre, primarily because the phenomenon of theatre is impossible to be studied in its entirety; investigating the performances in any given period is beyond the skills of any one person. This is because the diversity and the complexity of associated phenomena are so great that even the given methods of analysis and historical approaches of theatre prove insufficient to incorporate the various perspectives and elements of any given performance (not to mention the entire theatrical phenomenon). Every component of the stage (e.g., actors, voice, movement, costumes, sets, music, rhythm, space, time, action, text, etc.), behind-the-scenes elements perceived by the spectator only indirectly (e.g., directing, articulation of non-verbal communication, the effect of the theatre-space, etc.), and even extra-theatrical aspects (e.g., historical time, political and social issues, economic factors, etc.) contribute to the final result 490 Blower, p. 129. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 197 of the performance to such an extent that one cannot rightly say that theatre has been examined if all of these factors have not been taken into consideration. One reason why this thesis could not assess all these factors was the lack of time and space. Another is the obvious fact that a great amount of information is lost the moment a performance is over. 2. Lack of prior research studies The limited prior research dedicated to the study of socialist realist theatre is also among the reasons why the current thesis could not reach definitive conclusions. Although perhaps not among the most important research questions, it was the researcher’s intention to come up with a more precise definition of socialist realism by studying its theatre. Unfortunately, as mentioned previously in this thesis, the restricted perception of socialist realist theatre as an independent phenomenon by scholars put an additional limitation on the current research, which thus became a more exploratory than explanatory project. As a result, instead of focusing on what socialist realist theatre looked like, this thesis attempted to determine whether it actually existed as an independent movement. Ultimately, even if the thesis did not conclusively define socialist realist theatre, it offered valuable background information and addressed issues that can now be refined for more systematic investigation and formulation of new research questions. 3. Longitudinal effects and sample size The lack of prior research, along with the current research’s limitations, is also among the reasons this study was not restricted – from the very beginning – with respect to the period under investigation. Initially, this study intended to present and compare four different periods in Russian’s post-revolutionary cultural history, in terms of a theoretical and practical exploration of socialist realist theatre. These four periods were: (a) the origins of socialist realist theory in the nineteenth century and the first decade after the Revolution (1870-1927); (b) from the end of the New Economic Policy era (1921-1928) until the outbreak of World War II (1928-1939); (c) the Great Patriotic War (1939-1945); and (d) the final years of Stalin’s leadership (1945-1953). Eventually, the project changed both in terms of the period covered Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 198 but also, and more importantly, in terms of focus. Not only did it become limited to a much shorter period (1928-1939), but it also changed its emphasis from the general (and over- ambitious) portrayal of Soviet theatre to the examination of the performances of two specific theatres, namely, the Meyerhold Theatre and the Moscow Art Theatre. The new boundaries set to the thesis altered the research question itself. By focusing on the performances, it was much easier to identify the important role that theatre played in the formation of the new socialist reality. Thus, instead of trying to determine how theatre changed throughout the years, taking on its shape and meaning in socialist realism, the thesis aimed at understanding why theatre proved to be so valuable to the new socialist state. Although this new question turned out to be much more illuminating for an understanding of socialist realist theatre, it created an inconsistency in the way the information was gathered. While, in the beginning, the aim was to base the argumentation on the theoretical work of scholars of the time, examining what they believed socialist realism to be, the reviews turned out to be much more enlightening because the scholars of the time did not focus on theatre per se. Therefore, although a significant number of contemporaneous critical reviews are included in the current research, it is the writer’s view that the data gathered could have been more extensive. Longer extracts and more general reviews of the two theatres might have given a better impression of society’s reaction to the efforts and experimentation of the two theatres. In addition, given that the reviews of specific performances provide insights into how the methods of the leading directors (Meyerhold and Stanislavsky) were received, a longer sample of reviews might have given a better insight into how these new aspects of socialist identity were combined with the actual practice of theatre- making. 4. Access to data This study required data and/or documents not always easily accessible. Several reviews were attained as secondary sources from previous studies and theoretical works that included parts of the reviews as quotes. The two main issues with these kinds of reviews were that they always needed to be double-checked in terms of translation and that they were, quite often, presented only in part. Thus, even in the case of easy-to-find reviews, it was not always easy to accept them as fully reliable. The procedure of evaluating the sources was also not always easy because access to the primary source was not always granted. The University of Edinburgh Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 199 provided the researcher with a series of online databases that made the assessment of several of them possible. Reviews published in newspapers and magazines such as Pravda, Izvestiya, and Literaturnaya Gazeta were made available through the University’s online databases and digital copies of the newspapers. It was more difficult was to gain access to original copies of newspapers such as Zhizn’ Iskusstva, Krasnaya Gazeta, and Komsomol’skaya Pravda (to name a few). It should be stressed, though, that this limited access did not prevent the researcher from following through on the study. The collection of outdated reviews from newspapers of the time, on sites such as teatr-lib.ru (a theatre database built by the theatre-historian Anton Sergeev) or the Moscow Art Theatre Archive, made the cross-checking and retrieval of invaluable information possible. b. Limitations of the researcher 1. Cultural and political bias Although complete objectivity is never fully achievable, socialist realism has inspired, throughout the years, several biased studies. Its relationship with a different economic and political system has led a lot of scholars to make assumptions based more on political disagreements than rational arguments. This kind of approach was, of course, much more common during the Cold War. However, as seen in the first chapter, even more recent studies have been influenced by cultural and political bias leading to a negative outlook towards socialism and everything related to it. These approaches often made it difficult for the present study to extract information on texts that were more focused on their political disagreements with socialist realism than conducting an objective study. To avoid similar inconsistencies, it is this researcher’s belief that judging another political system solely by the values and standards of one’s own experiences in a different system does not and cannot lead to a fair and objective examination. Therefore, in the present thesis, a deliberate effort was made to examine socialist realism from the perspective of socialism. In my opinion, this is not a limitation. However, it is included in this section because, in the broader view of relevant studies, it might seem so. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 200 2. Methods and issues during data collection This entire study is based on qualitative research on the phenomenon of socialist realist theatre. The particular case-studies (Meyerhold Theatre and the Moscow Art Theatre) were selected for being ‘information-rich’ and illuminating. The fact that several studies have been conducted on these two theatres gave the researcher access to many secondary sources that led to primary ones. By focusing on socialist realist theatre, rather than examining the specific theatres independently, the research question quickly changed from a general exploration of the phenomenon of socialist realism to the question of how exactly this movement aided in the formation of the characteristics of the new society, introducing theories and methods of theatre studies. The reviews revealed an intense – although largely unintentional and unplanned – exploration of theatre’s ability to shape social identity and educate the people accordingly. This change of focus may have rendered the initial research design inadequate because the way data were being collected may have affected the quality of the findings. Fortunately, the flexibility of qualitative research, relative to unpredictable and emergent findings and the exploratory nature of approaching the reviews, not only did not limit the results but, in contrast, revealed a completely new aspect of the use of theatre – one much more linked to the social framework on which this research was trying to shed light. Regarding the collection and analysis of data derived from carefully extracted information and the review of extensive archival material, significant analysis was conducted into the details and specifics of the data to discover important patterns, themes, and relationships. The research began with an extensive period of exploration and continued by confirming and recording the findings, based primarily on analytical principles rather than rules. In order to attain a more holistic perspective, the entire phenomenon under study was handled as a complex system that is more than simply the sum of its parts. This is why, in both cases, a significant effort was made to incorporate the way both theatres built their methods of teaching and directing (Meyerhold’s Biomechanics and Stanislavsky’s two phases of his method). Because the focus from the beginning was on the various complex interdependencies and system dynamics that cannot be reduced – in any meaningful way – to linear, cause-and-effect relationships, and/or a few discrete variables, a deliberate effort was made to remain context-sensitive at all times. All results and findings were placed in their social, historical, and temporal contexts. This is why the theoretical work of the time (mainly by Lunacharsky and Gorky), the relationships Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 201 between theatre and the literary controversies of various groups, as well as the important political changes and the ideological struggle over them were included. The researcher was always careful regarding the possibility of generalisations over time and space. Further, it is in the researchers best interest to emphasize the possibility of transferability and adaptation of the same movement in different settings, and therefore each specific historical period should be studied according to its own temporal and spatial characteristics. Future directions When combined, the aforementioned results suggest that the contemporary tools of theatre studies can offer a lot, not only in terms of the historical research of a specific theatrical phenomenon but also on its historical relationship with its society. It was beyond the scope of this thesis to conduct in-depth analysis of the relation between the party, the intra-party struggle, the economic and political choices according to the laws of socialism, and the way in which all these affected the society, shaped social opinion, and therefore influenced the way the reviewers perceived a performance and the theatre artists perceived their role in the depiction of these political changes. However, contemporary research questions regarding the audience’s reception of a performance491 can shed light on significant aspects of past societal conceptions. They can also reveal whether this overwhelming struggle between theatre practitioners, reviewers, and government officials actually had the same impact upon the audience that they expected it to have. Another possible area of future research would be to investigate the emphasis on different kinds of performing arts, such as opera, dance, or circus, in regard to the expectations of socialist realism. The same could be explored regarding professional and non-professional theatre, following Mally’s research on the same topic. Examining the different forms of socialist realist theatre in different cities and provinces could offer additional information on the various forms of socialist realist theatre in the USSR. William David Gunn’s thesis concludes by stating that: In the hands of Eisenstein, Meyerhold and Stanislavsky, the dramatic works of Alexander Ostrovsky became part of a larger discourse about the future of Soviet art 491 Such as Peter Eversmann triptych of ‘1) Who goes to the theatre? 2) Why do they go there? And 3) how do they evaluate their visit?’ (Eversmann 2004, p. 134). Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 202 and theatre. The monumentalists ultimately won their battle with the iconoclasts, and the Moscow Art Theatre became the model Soviet theatre and the ultimate authority on the art of acting. 492 Although true for the most part, it would be still very interesting to examine whether this ‘monumentalism’ is an inseparable part of socialist realist theatre. Particularly fruitful could be the examination of the Soviet socialist realist theatre after the death of Stalin or that outside the USSR, to confront the totalitarian narrative attributed to the particular movement. The fascinating debate that took place during the 1930s was not always the case. Zdhanov applied socialist realism in a different way than Lunacharsky did, and this is worth being examined, particularly given that this was mainly the kind of socialist realism that was exported to other socialist countries493. Finally, the evidence from this study suggests that future studies may reveal further valuable information on how this multi-disciplinary approach to theatre and its critique (from theatre practitioners to scholars, politicians, engineers, and workers) contributed to the formation of modern perception theories. Contribution to research In addition to the provision of some directions for future research, this study has made three major contributions to the literature on socialist realism. First, the use of theatre-studies tools and the examination of socialist realism from the perspective of theatre revealed that there are numerous theatrical phenomena of the specific period in question that are either incorrectly categorised as ‘socialist realist’ or incorrectly categorised not so. As a result, formulating a definition of socialist realism has proven to be extremely difficult. This study may not have been able to come up with an adequate definition; however, by illuminating the extra-theatrical and extra-artistic aspects of the phenomenon of socialist realism throughout the years, we now see that an overall reconsideration of what exactly comprises socialist realism is needed. In this way, theories regarding the contemporaneity of socialist realism faced in the first chapter (see, e.g., Pern 2010) might be more easily approached and understood. 492 Gunn 2012, p. 174. 493 See, for example, the very interesting article of Viviana Iacob, where she describes how the utilitarian aspect of socialist realism became the necessary and sufficient condition for creating theatre in Romania after 1945. Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 203 Secondly, in the same vein, the re-evaluation of the well-studied theatres of Meyerhold and MAT under the aegis of socialist realism offered new insights into what socialist realism is. Accordingly, it should not be off-limits to reconsider various important theatrical figures and identify them as socialist realist, whether they be directors, playwrights, or actors – and whether they agreed with the status quo or not. Finally, the study further revealed that theatre-studies tools can be used to investigate not only theatre per se, but also social phenomena. Of course, this combination of theatre and social sciences is not new. It does, however, elevate the study of theatre to a primary role in the study of society, owing to its ability to be a driving force in the formation and transmission of receptive codes. 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Pierre Bouillaguet and Charles Jose, Modern Drama 25.1 (March), 127-139 Tverskoy, M., ‘Anna Karenina’ Sovetskoe iskusstvo (23 April 1937) Uriel’, ‘Spisok blagodeyaniy’, Komsomol’skaya pravda (16 June 1931) Vishnevskiy, Vsevolod, ‘Posle spektaklya “Dama s kameliyami” v Teatre Vs. Meyerhol’da’, Literaturnaya gazeta (6 April 1934) Whyman, Rose, The Stanislavsky System of Acting: Legacy and Influence in Modern Performance (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008) Yuzovskiy, Yu., ‘Tridtsat’ tri obmoroka’, Literaturnyy kritik, 5 (1935) Zagorskiy, Mikhail, ‘Neudachnaya instsenirovka’, Novyy zritel', 42 (1926) Zagorskiy, Mikhail, ‘“Revizor” v Teatre im. Vs. Meyyerkhol’da’, Programmy gosudarstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, 64 (1926) Zagorskiy, Mikhail, ‘Teatr-Muzyka-Kino, Goriachee serdtse, (MKhT Pervyi)’, Nasha Gazeta (26 January 1926) Zekulin, G., ‘Forerunner of Socialist Realism: The Novel “What to Do?” by N. G. Chernyshevsky’, The Slavonic and East European Review, 41 (1963), 467-483 Zhdanov, Andrei, and H. G. Scott, Problems of Soviet Literature: Reports and Speeches at the First Soviet Writers’ Congress (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1979) Zhizn’ iskusstva, 19 (1927) < http://teatr- lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016] Žižek, Slavoj, Did somebody say totalitarianism?: five interventions in the (mis)use of a notion (London: Verso, 2002) http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 213 Sofia Polychronidou – The University of Edinburgh 214 CHAPTER 1 Introduction and literature review Introduction Literature review a. Socialist realist theatre b. Socialist realist art and aesthetics b.1. Socialist realism as ‘totalitarian’ art: the impossible theory b.2. The origins of socialist realism in the theory and practice of nineteenth-century Russian aesthetics b.3. Socialist realism: its traces in the Russian Avant-Garde and the transition of the artist b.4. Identifying the canon Socialist realism and Theatre Studies Objectives, methods, and future plans CHAPTER 2 The social framework and theoretical background of the socialist realist theatre Introduction Origins and new challenges The artistic field in the 1920s and the role of the party The aesthetic theory of Anatoly Lunacharsky The aesthetic theory of Maxim Gorky Conclusion CHAPTER 3 The Meyerhold Theatre and the formation of socialist realism Introduction On repertoire On individualism On estrangement and formalism Conclusion CHAPTER 4 The Moscow Art Theatre: Conservativism & Introduction Contemporary repertoire a. The cultural background b. The case of The Days of the Turbins c. The story of the bans d. RAPP and MAT These circumstances led to the Decree of the Central Committee of the Communist Party (April 23, 1932) ‘On the Reconstruction of Literary and Artistic Organizations’. Two years later, the First Congress of the Writer’s Union took place. Both events, t... Classic repertoire a. Gorky and Lunacharsky on the classics b. Ostrovsky in MAT c. From aesthetic reassessment to ideological incompatibility d. Identifying the social necessity: Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy e. The case of Anna Karenina f. From realism as essence to classicism as form Stanislavsky and dialectical materialism a. Science versus ‘psychologism’ in Stanislavsky’s system of acting b. The change in the psychological background c. Stanislavsky’s quest in dialectical materialism Conclusion CHAPTER 5 General conclusions and discussion Introduction Recapitulation of purpose and findings Relationship with previous research Limitations and issues facing the study a. Methodological limitations b. Limitations of the researcher Future directions Contribution to research Bibliography Kogan, P. S., ‘Strakh’, Vechernyaya Moskva (16 January 1932) Korin, Pavel, ‘Thoughts on Art’, in Socialist Realism in Literature and Art (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1971) Kruti, Isaak, ‘Spisok blagodeyaniy’ Sovetskoye iskusstvo (8 June 1931) Kugel’, Alexander, ‘V zashchitu’ Zhizn’ iskusstva, 3 (1927) Kuznetsova, I., ‘A. V. Lunacharsky and Lef’, Soviet Studies in Literature, 12 (1976), 63-76 Ladouceur, Jacqueline Robin, ‘Constructing the “Revolutionary” Performer: Democracy and Dictatorship in the Theatre of V.E. Meyerhold, 1898-1922’, (doctoral thesis, Yale University, 2004) Litovskiy, O. ‘“Strakh” v MKHATE’, Sovetskoye iskusstvo (30 December 1931) Lunacharsky, Anatoly, ‘Ob Aleksandre Nikolayeviche Ostrovskom i po povodu’ yego’, Izvestiya (12 October 1923) Picon-Vallin, Béatrince, Meyerhold (Paris: CNRS, 2004) Piotrovskiy, Adrian, ‘Molodoy khudozhestvennyy teatr’, Krasnaya gazeta, 238 (1926) Piotrovskiy, Adrian, ‘Teatral’naya molodezh’ — na shturm konservatizma!’ Zhizn’ iskusstva, 43 (1929) Pitches, Jonathan, Science and the Stanislavsky Tradition of Acting (London: Routledge, 2006) Plekhanov, Georgy, Sochineniia, 24 vols, X (Moskva: Gosizdat, 1923-1927) Plekhanov, Georgy, Eleanor Fox, Eric Hartley, and Andrew Rothstein, Art and Social Life (London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1953) Popovich, Maria, ‘The Days of the Turbins by Mikhail Bulgakov in the light of the Russian-Ukrainian literary discussion’ in Bulgakov: Novelist Playwright, ed. by Lesley Milne, (Netherlands: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1995) Programmy gosudarstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, 1926, No. 57 < http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016] Programmy gosudarstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, 1927, No. 65-66 < http://teatr-lib.ru/Library/MAT_v_kritike/MAT_v_kritike_1919-1930/#Rome_Text_296> [assessed July 2, 2016] Roberts, Spencer E., Soviet Historical Drama: Its Role in the Development of a National Mythology (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1965) Robin, Régine, ‘L’ Anti Avant-Garde ou Quelques Réflexions sur l'Onfluence du Réalisme Socialiste’, Etudes Littéraires, 20 (1987), 87-110 Room, A., ‘Strakh’, Vechernyaya Moskva (16 January 1932) Rudnitsky, Konstantin, and Lesley Milne, Russian & Soviet Theatre: Tradition & Avant-Garde (London: Thames and Hudson, 1988) Sovetskiy teatr, 2-3 (1931) Spiegel, Simon, ‘Things Made Strange: On the Concept of “Estrangement” in Science Fiction Theory’, Science Fiction Studies, 35 (2008), 369-385 Starik (nickname, real name unknown), ‘Dni Turbinykh’, Komsomol’skaya pravda, 283 (1926) Stites, Richard, Russian Popular Culture: Entertainment and Society since 1900 (Cambridge: University Press, 1992) Stroyeva, M. N., Rezhisserskiye iskaniya Stanislavskogo: 1917-1938 (Moscow: Nauka, 1977) Struve, Gleb, Russian Literature under Lenin and Stalin, 1917-1953 (London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1972) Symons, James M., Meyerhold’s Theatre of the Grotesque: The Post-Revolutionary Productions, 1920-1932 (Coral Gables, Florida: University of Miami Press, 1971) Szeliski, John J. Von, ‘Lunacharsky and the Rescue of Soviet Theatre’, Educational Theatre Journal, 18 (1966), 412-420 Talnikov, Dmitry, Novaya revizia Revizora (Moscow-Leningrad, 1927) Tverskoy, M., ‘Anna Karenina’ Sovetskoe iskusstvo (23 April 1937) Uriel’, ‘Spisok blagodeyaniy’, Komsomol’skaya pravda (16 June 1931) Vishnevskiy, Vsevolod, ‘Posle spektaklya “Dama s kameliyami” v Teatre Vs. Meyerhol’da’, Literaturnaya gazeta (6 April 1934) Whyman, Rose, The Stanislavsky System of Acting: Legacy and Influence in Modern Performance (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008) Yuzovskiy, Yu., ‘Tridtsat’ tri obmoroka’, Literaturnyy kritik, 5 (1935) Zagorskiy, Mikhail, ‘Neudachnaya instsenirovka’, Novyy zritel', 42 (1926) Zagorskiy, Mikhail, ‘“Revizor” v Teatre im. Vs. Meyyerkhol’da’, Programmy gosudarstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, 64 (1926) Zagorskiy, Mikhail, ‘Teatr-Muzyka-Kino, Goriachee serdtse, (MKhT Pervyi)’, Nasha Gazeta (26 January 1926) Zekulin, G., ‘Forerunner of Socialist Realism: The Novel “What to Do?” by N. G. Chernyshevsky’, The Slavonic and East European Review, 41 (1963), 467-483 
work_zpgiqs2ynnd73anmsatgnx77cy	----	View PDF Reading L.M. Montgomery: What Adult Swedish and Canadian Readers Told Us DOI https://doi.org/10.32393/jlmms/2020.0004 Published on Wed, 05/13/2020 - 13:24 This article provides an international comparison of the role of reading L.M Montgomery in the lives of adult leisure readers in Sweden and Canada. Our analysis of open-ended qualitative interviews with Canadian readers and written accounts submitted by Swedish readers focuses on ten themes, all linked by the powerful current of emotion evoked in avid Montgomery readers. Back to top Introduction https://doi.org/10.32393/jlmms/2020.0004 When one of us, Catherine Ross, gave a talk at the 2018 L.M. Montgomery and Reading conference, she discussed nine themes on reading Montgomery that emerged from her open-ended, qualitative interviews with 307 avid recreational readers in Canada. At the end of the presentation, during questions from the audience, the other of us, Åsa Warnqvist, noted that in her own research on reading Montgomery she had collected 303 reader statements from Montgomery readers in Sweden. These readers had responded to Warnqvist’s request, posted in libraries in Sweden and in the four major Swedish newspapers, for accounts of readers’ experiences reading Montgomery. The concordance of our findings was striking. At the end of the talk, the two of us converged to marvel at the remarkable similarity in the responses between Swedish and Canadian readers. On the spot, we decided to compare the experiences of Swedish and Canadian readers of Montgomery, teasing out similarities and possible differences. L.M. Montgomery 2018 conference promotional material. 2018. L.M. Montgomery Institute collection.   This article represents a step in an international comparison in which we examine the role reading Montgomery plays in the lives of everyday readers, a topic that hitherto has not attracted much research. Apart from our own studies,1 published research related to the self-reported experience of larger samples of readers reading Montgomery in specific cultural contexts includes Yoshiko Akamatsu’s “Japanese Readings of Anne of Green Gables”2 and two studies based on Finnish responses to Montgomery. The first Finnish study is a transcribed interview conducted with Suvi Ahola and Satu Koskimies during the 2006 Montgomery conference, Storm and Dissonance;3 in 2005, Ahola and Koskimies had edited an anthology containing a selection of Finnish readers’ responses to Finnish translations of Montgomery’s novels.4 The second is a perceptive analysis by Vappu Kannas of the anthologized set of Finnish readers’ responses in which she emphasizes the affective dimension of reading.5 Pleasure reading, or leisure reading, is generally defined as voluntary reading that readers engage in for their own enjoyment, as opposed to assigned reading or reading undertaken for purposes of work.6 Reading for pleasure—especially reading fiction—has until quite recently been regarded with suspicion similar to the view held by Valancy’s mother in The Blue Castle (1926), who believed that “a book that was enjoyable was dangerous,” although she admitted it might be somewhat permissible to read improving non-fiction.7 A small but growing body of work focuses on the experience of reading fiction for pleasure and on the importance of such reading in the lives of readers. Recent decades have turned cultural theory toward recognizing the affective dimension in the reception process. One of the strongest advocates of this turn is Rita Felski, who, in her influential study Uses of Literature (2009), champions a positive and embracing aesthetics, in contrast with what she considers the aesthetic narrowness that occurs when critics focus exclusively on critical reading and are blind to the heterogeneous ways in which readers engage with a literary text. Felski argues the motives for reading are manifold, and they all deserve recognition, whether they stem from a desire for knowledge or for a longing to escape.8 The work of reader-response theorists such as Felski as well as groundbreaking empirical studies with everyday readers, such as Janice Radway’s Reading the Romance (1984), are changing the way pleasure reading is looked upon in scholarly research in a number of disciplines including literary studies, library and information science, histoire du livre, and psychology.9 Through a range of disciplinary lenses, reading researchers have examined the various roles that leisure reading serves in the lives of readers: from enhancing self-understanding to gaining cognitive insights to fostering empathy with others. For example, work on leisure reading and empathy by the research group led by Toronto cognitive psychologists Keith Oatley and Raymond Mar supports claims commonly expressed by readers who say that they become the characters they read about.10 Our study joins the body of interdisciplinary work that examines pleasure reading in everyday readers’ lives. Unlike reception and reader-response theorists such as Jonathan Culler, Stanley Fish, Wolfgang Iser, Hans Robert Jauss, and others, we are interested in living, breathing readers and their reported reading experiences, not in implied readers as inferred from a critic’s close examination of the text. For researchers studying such actual readers, Louise Rosenblatt’s classic text Literature as Exploration (1938) offers a useful theoretical framework of reading as a transaction between an active reader and a text. As Rosenblatt puts it, the reader “brings to the work personality traits, memories of past events, present needs and preoccupations, a particular mood of the moment, and a particular physical condition. These and many other elements, in a never-to-be duplicated combination, determine his response to the peculiar contribution of the text.”11 To understand reading experience, situated as it is in the lives of readers, we needed to collect stories of reading that are rich in details and contextualized, as much as possible, in the reader’s life. We used qualitative research methods to elicit these accounts—open-ended interviews with the Canadian readers and open-ended written statements from the Swedish readers. We did not ask them to respond to researcher-generated questions, standardized across all readers. Instead, we gave our readers an invitation to talk about or write about whatever aspect of reading Montgomery was important and salient to them. Our Canadian and Swedish readers generously told us stories about their Montgomery reading. In presenting and analyzing these accounts from readers, our intention is to give a starring role to the voices of readers. Accordingly, in the analysis that follows, we quote freely from these voices in order to provide a grounded discussion of the range of ways in which Montgomery fans from two countries respond to and remember her novels. Back to top Two Nations Reading Montgomery, Two Methods of Data Collection Empirical studies of pleasure readers can be sorted according to the methods used to collect the data. The largest body of such research uses researcher-generated, standardized survey questions administered to large national samples of readers, randomly chosen. These demographic studies typically define a “reader” as someone who has in the past six months voluntarily read a book, in whole or in part, that was not required for work or study. Once readers are sorted from non-book readers, researchers can correlate participation in reading with age, gender, race, level of education, income, library use, book purchasing, and other variables. Because of their large sample size and random selection, these associations can be generalized to the larger population from which the sample was drawn. Such studies are useful in providing the big picture on voluntary reading because they can be used to make statistically significant generalizations about who reads what kinds of materials for how many minutes a day in what part of the world.12 But for a more fine-grained exploration of reading experience, researchers typically use qualitative interviews or open-ended reader accounts, which are then analyzed for patterns of significance that emerge from the data. In some studies, researchers ask readers to respond in a laboratory setting to the same assigned text, a research strategy that facilitates comparisons of subjects’ responses but sacrifices the element of reader choice, which is at the heart of genuine pleasure reading. Rarer are studies that focus on the experience of reading materials chosen by readers themselves and read in a natural setting. Groundbreaking, book-length examples of this latter kind of research include Donald Fry’s Children Talk About Books (1985), which reports case studies of individual children’s reading; Janice Radway’s already mentioned Reading the Romance, which uses a combination of individual and group interviews and questionnaires to understand readers’ experience of romantic fiction; Elizabeth Long’s Book Clubs (2003), an ethnographic study of seventy-seven contemporary women’s reading groups in Houston, Texas; Ian Collinson’s Everyday Readers (2009), which uses semi-structured interviews with twenty-one readers in order to explore everyday book-reading culture; and Margaret Mackey’s One Child Reading (2016), an ethnographic exploration of the making of an avid reader that examines one child’s engagement with a variety of texts in the context of a particular time and place. The studies reported here of Swedish and Canadian Montgomery readers belong in this small group of qualitative, empirical reading studies, in which the material is chosen by the reader and is read for pleasure, not assigned by the researcher. Comparable studies of readers in different countries who have voluntarily read the same material are especially rare. But because so many readers across generations and nations have found Montgomery books deeply meaningful in their lives, we have been able to elicit the responses of many, many readers in Sweden and Canada who have read the same materials—the Anne books (1908–1939), the Emily  books (1923–1927), The Blue Castle, and others. The comparison benefits from the fortunate circumstance that books by Montgomery have been available in the two countries for an almost equal amount of time. For example, Anne of Green Gables  was translated into Swedish and published in Sweden as early as 1909, the year after the original US publication, making the Swedish translation the very first. The novel and its sequels have also had a lasting appeal to the readers of the two countries and have been reprinted continuously up until the present day. Back to top The Swedish Study In 2008, Åsa Warnqvist placed a call in Swedish libraries and the four major newspapers in Sweden asking Montgomery readers to provide an account of their experience reading Anne of Green Gables and other works by Montgomery. The study was inspired by the Finnish Literature Society’s similar project. In 2003 this group had posted a call in Finnish newspapers, on email lists, and online that began, “What have the Anne and Emily books meant for you?” Of the 222 letters received, fifty-seven were selected, all but one from women, for inclusion in an anthology edited by Suvi Ahola and Satu Koskimies.13 In Warnqvist’s comparable call to Swedish readers, she asked: Have you read Anne of Green Gables? ... Write about what Anne of Green Gables or any other work by Montgomery has meant to you. When did you read the book? How old were you? What did you think of it? Was there anything in particular about Anne’s personality that caught you? What has this reading experience given you?  The reason the call focused on Anne of Green Gables was that it is the most well- known of Montgomery’s books in Sweden, but the wording did not deter respondents from mentioning other Montgomery books, and they did, particularly the other Anne books and the Emily books. Left: Emily by L.M. Montgomery, cover illustration by Eva Laurell. Gleerups, 1955.  Right: Anne på Grönkulla by L.M. Montgomery, cover illustration by unknown. C.W.K. Gleerups, 1909.   Warnqvist got 303 responses from readers, mostly from girls and women, with the majority born in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. As was to be expected with a book that has been in print for a hundred years, the responses came from readers of different ages. The youngest among them was twelve years old, only recently introduced to Anne, whereas the oldest would soon turn ninety-three. A few of the letters were written by men, and many women and girls who responded included descriptions of brothers, fathers, sons, and other men in their lives who also read and enjoyed Anne of Green Gables. The responses, received both in letter and electronic format, ranged from a few paragraphs to richly detailed accounts as long as ten pages. The responses often mixed childhood memories with adult readers’ reflections on the significance of reading and rereading Montgomery over a lifetime. Because the Swedish readers had more time to consider their responses than is usually the case in a face-to-face interview, some chose to enrich their narratives with various graphic supplements: scans or photographs of their own copies of the books, hand-drawn illustrations of scenes in the books, and various other photographs, linked in one way or another to the readers’ experience of reading Anne or Emily. Submitted photographs included one of a large tree growing in a reader’s backyard (her Snow Queen), a picture of a reader reading Anne of Green Gables as a child in 1959, and various snapshots taken on readers’ trips to Prince Edward Island. Sixty-five of the 303 responses were published in an anthology, Besläktade själar: Läsupplevelser av Anne på Grönkulla (Kindred Spirits: Reading Experiences of Anne of Green Gables), in conjunction with the one-hundredth anniversary of the Swedish translation of Anne of Green Gables in 2009. The quotations chosen here are English translations taken from the reading responses published in this anthology.14 The readers are therefore not anonymous and their full names appear adjacent to their quotations. Back to top The Canadian Study To investigate the experience of reading for pleasure among Canadian readers, Catherine Ross used open-ended, qualitative interviews conducted with adults who are avid readers and who read for pleasure. In successive offerings over three decades of her course on reading in the Master of Library and Information Science program at Western, Ross and her graduate students have conducted 302 interviews with avid readers. The purpose of these interviews was to find out how readers themselves experience reading for pleasure. Interviewers were asked to pick the most committed pleasure readers they knew who were willing to be interviewed and to conduct with their chosen interviewee an open-ended, exploratory, and conversational interview. As a framework, interviewers were given a list of questions but were encouraged to listen closely to what readers said, to follow up on themes introduced by the interviewees themselves, and to focus generally on aspects of the reading experience that were relevant to the particular reader. The first question was, “What’s the first thing that you can remember about your reading, either that you read yourself or that was read to you?” Then interviewers moved forward chronologically to the present, using open-ended probes such as, “What did you read next?,” “What do you remember about it?,” and “Why did that book make such an impact?” Interviewers asked, among other questions, the following: Was there anything in your childhood experience that you would say fostered reading? Discouraged reading? What do you remember reading next? Next? After that? Are there types of books that you do not enjoy and would not choose? If you could get an author to write for you the “Perfect Book,” what would it be like? What elements would it include? How do you feel about rereading? Has there ever been a book that has made a big difference in your life? [What kind of difference? How did it help?] What would it be like for you if for one reason or another you couldn’t read? What would you say is the role of reading in your life? None of these 302 readers was asked specifically about reading L.M. Montgomery or any other specific author, unless the interviewee introduced the author into the conversation. However, when encouraged to talk about reading that was important to them, almost one fifth of the female readers spontaneously mentioned one or more works by Montgomery. As was the case with Warnqvist’s readers, the Canadian readers typically first encountered Montgomery when they were growing up, and a great many reported reading and rereading favourite Montgomery books throughout adulthood. In addition to these general interviews with avid readers, Ross conducted more focused, open-ended interviews with five self-reported Montgomery fans specifically in order to collect data for her L.M. Montgomery and Reading conference talk. These five interviewees were chosen because they had read (and reread) Montgomery. They were asked the following questions, together with follow-up probes: How would you describe yourself as a reader? What was your introduction to LMM books? What did you read first, next, next, etc? [Probes: Books as gifts; shared reading] If you could take only two or three LMM books to a desert island, what would they be? [Probes: What was special about that book?] Do you reread LMM? [Probes: Under what conditions would you choose to reread? Which books? What is the value of the rereading experience for you?] Has reading LMM made a difference in your life? How? Anonymity was promised to all the interviewees in both sets of interviews, and, therefore, code names are used in quoted excerpts from the transcribed interviews. Back to top Something About the Readers With few exceptions, the readers in both the Canadian and the Swedish study who self-identified as Montgomery readers were girls and women and well educated, many having graduate degrees in fields associated with reading and writing. Most had read their first Montgomery book in their youth, usually between ages nine and fourteen, although some had first encountered Montgomery as an adult. Many reported reading and rereading Montgomery books over a lifetime, sometimes returning to a favourite book during the same season every year or during a critical life event, such as when writing exams, undergoing stressful medical treatment, or right after a child was born. Most readers fell within the age range of thirty-five to seventy-five at the time they submitted reading accounts or the interviews were conducted, with a somewhat wider age range in the Swedish study than in the Canadian study. (See above.) The participants in our two studies were definitely not a random, representative sample of the population at large. When large national surveys in Canada and the US ask, “Have you read a book for pleasure, in part or in whole, during the past six months?” typically only fifty to sixty per cent answer “Yes,” with some fifteen to twenty per cent of the population falling into the category of “frequent readers.”15  In Sweden, about seventy per cent of the population claim to have read books during an average month, thirty-six per cent on an average day.16 The readers in our study, by contrast, were all people for whom reading played an important role in their lives—that is why they self-selected to answer a solicitation for readers of Montgomery or were chosen to be interviewed. In a nutshell, the readers who participated in our two studies were at the high end of reading engagement. These readers are important because they disproportionately buy books, borrow books, give books as gifts, read books, collect books, talk about books, join book clubs, and keep friends and family members within the community of readers. Because of the way we chose the participants of our two studies, we cannot make claims about Canadian and Swedish readers in general. Instead, we have analyzed the many stories, voluntarily told to us by Montgomery readers, and we share some common patterns and themes that emerge. The different collection methods for the Canadian and Swedish accounts have produced some differences in the types of inferences that we have been able to draw from each data set. The subset of the 302 Canadian interviewees who described Montgomery reading as important discussed that reading in the context of their larger engagement with pleasure reading. Therefore, from the Canadian data, we have been able to tease out ways in which the Montgomery readers resemble each other and differ from other pleasure readers, and we describe some of this variation below. By contrast, because all of the Swedish readers responding to the solicitation were asked to discuss their Montgomery reading, the Swedish material allows for a close and intense examination of patterns of reading Montgomery but does not situate that reading within the context of readers’ reading as a whole. In the overview of our readers that follows, we start with a big- picture look at Montgomery reading within the context of pleasure reading in general. Then, we narrow the focus and describe patterns of engagement of Montgomery readers, with an introduction to some key themes found in the Swedish data related to reading Montgomery. Back to top Some Dimensions of Variation Among Canadian Pleasure Readers What did Ross find out from the 302 avid Canadian readers about pleasure reading in general? In short, pleasure readers vary greatly along a number of dimensions:17 Some readers look for “safe” books. Many readers said there are times they want a book that can be counted on not to give them any nasty surprises. On the other hand, horror fans seek out books that provide the intense effects of fear and menace—the more unsafe the better. Avid readers of horror describe a successful book as “one that can scare me,” although they acknowledge that hardly any are scary enough. Some reread books, whereas others say that there are so many new, unread books out there that they cannot afford the time to reread. Some are voracious readers who have many books on the go at the same time. They describe themselves as omnivores who read everything at all levels of literary prestige and difficulty, from genre books to classics and demanding literary fiction, sometimes simultaneously. Others, by contrast, are very selective readers who read only “important books.” These discriminating readers may dedicate themselves for an entire summer to reading, say, nothing but Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 or David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. They are apt to say that the real question is not whether challenging books are worth the time spent but whether unchallenging books are worth the time wasted reading them.18 Some read mostly fiction for pleasure, while others say they never read fiction because they want to read only about “real things.” Some want to read about characters in circumstances that are recognizable and resemble their own. Others want to read about lives they have never lived and experiences that are quite unlike their own. Perhaps not surprisingly, the Montgomery readers in the Canadian study turned out to have much in common with each other—and at the same time to differ from clusters of non-Montgomery readers, who described very different patterns of choosing and experiencing books for leisure reading. First, on the five dimensions just described, Montgomery readers say they deliberately seek out “safe books,” especially during stressful times in their lives. Second, they definitely reread—some say that they have read The Blue Castle ten times or that they read the entire Anne  series from beginning to end and then start over. Third and fourth, Montgomery readers tend to be voracious omnivores, who read everything but especially value fiction for the way it can convey embodied truths. These readers reject as snobbish and hierarchical the idea that people should limit themselves to classics and canonical books and say that they themselves read “anything and everything,” but only books they love. To those who say life is too short to read “unimportant books,” omnivores retort that life is too short to read books you are not enjoying.19 And, fifth, Montgomery readers enjoy the way the worlds of Anne and Emily are recognizable, but also magicked to be more intense and special than the readers’ everyday world. Most importantly, Montgomery fans tend not to like books that try to distance them from the central characters. What they enjoy is the sense that the stories about Anne or Emily and the rest are really “secretly about me.” Book cover of The Blue Castle. 1926. KindredSpaces.ca, 849 BC-HSYJ.   Back to top Patterns of Montgomery Reading: The Swedish Readers As noted, the Swedish readers were invited to focus on their experience with Anne of Green Gables and with Montgomery generally, not to comment upon their leisure reading as a whole. In this section, we provide an overview of some overarching patterns and themes related to reading Montgomery in Sweden. Despite differences in emphasis in the readers’ accounts, certain themes turned up again and again in the Swedish written submissions (and also, as it turned out, in the Canadian interview material). The Swedish readers wrote about how the Montgomery books had touched and influenced them—how meeting Anne Shirley and her world was an experience out of the ordinary. In the book series, the long span of Anne’s life from childhood, education, development as a teacher, marriage, and motherhood has allowed a diversity of readers—young and old, men and women—to connect episodes in the book series with significant elements in their own lives. When Anne of Green Gables  was first published in the US in 1908, it was not specifically marketed to a young audience. Prime ministers and renowned writers as well as young girls and boys all read and enjoyed it.20 By contrast, when Anne of Green Gables was published in Sweden for the first time in 1909, the book was marketed as a novel aimed at young adults. Ever since, it has repeatedly been described on book covers and in reviews as a young adult novel or girls’ story.21 But, although it is true that most Swedish readers first meet Anne at a young age, the book continues to be popular among readers of all ages. The Kevin Sullivan TV adaptation in the mid-1980s served to introduce Anne to a wider audience. Broadcast on Swedish television on several occasions, the TV series expanded the book’s popularity and recruited new fans of Anne in Sweden as it did in Canada. Not surprisingly, given the initial Swedish call for submissions, many readers described Anne of Green Gables as their favourite book and Montgomery as their favourite author. Many readers had a clear memory of the first time they read Anne of Green Gables. Meeting Anne was a profound experience, vividly remembered decades later. As often happens when it comes to important occasions in life, the readers could recall when and where they were at the time and what they felt and experienced—even such everyday sensations as the feeling of a floor draft. In these Swedish accounts, readers noticed and drew attention to different aspects both of Anne herself and of the stories as narrative. For example, one reader would emphasize the humour, another the story of courtship and marriage, a third the vivid depictions of nature, and a fourth Anne’s ambitions. Readers praised Montgomery’s depictions of the natural landscape, admired her spot-on character portrayals, and recalled memorable expressions they had adopted for their own conversational use, such as being “in the depths of despair” or finding a “kindred spirit.” Many described rereading Montgomery’s novels, some every year and some as many as twenty or thirty times over a lifetime. Readers reported they notice new things every time they reread the books, identifying with different characters depending on their own age at the time of reading. Readers commented in particular on the deep impression made by Anne herself. A picture emerges of Anne as a character who invites readers to make intensely felt connections between the fictional world of Anne and their own everyday lives. Readers reported strong emotions inspired by each rereading. Emphasizing how vividly Anne is portrayed, readers described how they were able to immerse themselves emotionally in the stories, thanks to the universality of Anne’s experiences. They valued Montgomery’s refusal to shy away from difficult topics, including death itself. For instance, when Anne’s baby, Joy, dies at birth in Anne’s House of Dreams, readers who had undergone a similar loss described what a comfort it was to read about it. Readers considered Anne to be a friend, but they also said that reading Montgomery had brought them closer to their own real-life friends. Book cover of Drömslottet: Anne i eget hem. 1918. Swedish translation. KindredSpaces.ca, 840 AHO-Swedish.   Anne was a role model, readers said, when they were making life-changing decisions, such as the choice of profession. Particularly for readers born from the 1940s to the 1960s, Anne’s example showed that the road to higher education could be open to everyone, irrespective of gender.22 The letters from Swedish readers also included many examples of readers who had been so touched by Montgomery’s work that they had named their daughters Anne or Emily. Some had themselves been named Anne or Emily by their own mothers.23 The material even includes a Gilbert. The Swedish readers also reported experiences with Montgomery books that extended beyond the literary work itself. In particular, readers described the importance of the books themselves as physical objects, with Anne books passing from generation to generation and eventually becoming family treasures. Copies were kept despite burn marks and threadbare spines. Bookbinders were commissioned to rebind older family members’ tattered copies. In short, the work meant so much to many families that the utmost was done to keep the copies as intact as possible, ready to be cherished by new generations. In this way, Anne of Green Gables, thanks to its long publishing history, became a bridge between generations and a link between daughters, mothers, and grandmothers.24 Back to top Emergent Themes on Reading Montgomery We examined the statements provided by Canadian and Swedish readers, and, after a back-and-forth process of comparison, winnowing out, addition, and refinement, we ended up with a set of ten key themes. In the sections below, we illustrate each theme with quoted statements from Canadian or Swedish readers or both. For any particular theme, many examples occur in our data sets, ranging from very brief statements to elaborated narratives. In choosing our illustrative quotations, we have picked those cases that provide the most detailed and contextualized versions of the theme, irrespective of whether the reader was Canadian or Swedish. We found a strong similarity in the responses between the two groups of readers, even in their expressions of very personal insights. This finding is strengthened by the triangulation, or convergence, in our data provided by the two different methods of data collection used to elicit reader statements in the two studies. This convergence is apparent, despite the different marketing targets (readers of all ages in North America, young adults in Sweden) and changes and abridgements done to the translation to accommodate a younger audience.25 One general observation is that Swedish readers typically mention fewer titles than the Canadian readers, as only fourteen of Montgomery’s books have been translated into Swedish: the Anne books (translated in 1909 to 1985), the Emily books (translated in 1955 to 1985), Kilmeny of the Orchard (published in English in 1910, translated in 1932), Jane of Lantern Hill  (published in English in 1937, translated in 1984–1985), and Chronicles of Avonlea  (published in English in 1912, translated in 1968). In the following sections, for each of the ten central themes that emerged from our analysis, we provide quoted statements from our readers as the basis for drawing out implications for understanding the reading experience of committed Montgomery readers: 1. The inaugural book 2. The series effect 3. Rereading 4. Link between generations 5. Being shaped by childhood reading 6. “I wanted to be Anne” 7. “L.M. Montgomery brought us up”: The Anne effect 8. “L.M. Montgomery trained me in romance” 9.  A sense of place 10.  Nature with a capital N Notably, several quotations used in the analysis support more than one theme, but we use each passage only once, where we consider it most apt, with cross references provided linking the passage to other relevant themes. 1) The Inaugural Book Avid Montgomery readers in both the Canadian and Swedish studies typically have stories to tell about their introduction to L.M. Montgomery: which title they read first (usually Anne of Green Gables); whether their first experience was with a book or a filmed adaptation; who introduced them to the inaugural book (for example, grandparent, parent, other family member, friend, teacher, librarian); what made the book special enough to be remembered so many years later; and often the impact that reading Montgomery’s novels had on their life. Here is Gillian, a Canadian reader who described Anne of Green Gables as “a landmark in my childhood reading.” As Gillian told the story, she was nine years old and a Brownie (the junior level in the Girl Guide movement). To win her Brownie reader’s badge, she had to read a book chosen from a “pretty long list of books” provided by Brown Owl, the Brownie leader. Gillian picked Anne of Green Gables  because it was the first book on the list—it started with A. When I got it—I borrowed it from the library—I discovered that it was a thick book. And furthermore it had small print and not much white space and many, many chapters. So at first I was really, really intimidated by that book because: how on earth was I going to read this? Maybe I would never get my reader’s badge, even though I loved reading. I kept thinking about how hard it was going to be to read this book. But it became less hard, because Anne is such a wonderful child. And it was an orphan story, and orphan stories were a particular favorite of mine. I got caught up in the life. … It was the story itself that took me along. You get to live  with Anne. You get to live inside her head. … And the materiality of the book at the time, I see now as an adult, was also really important to me. It was substantial. I remember thinking: “Well, I did it! I did it! I finished this book! And I got my reader’s badge!” … The book was so big and thick that by the end I actually had had a lot of practice with that level of writing. It was part of that sense of accomplishment. (Professor of Library and Information Science, age 64)26 Similarly, a Swedish reader, Linda, highlighted her own sense of pride and accomplishment in describing her first encounter with Montgomery. She was in third grade when her teacher, Miss Gunbritt, noticed she was bored by the class texts and called her into the staff room during recess: “Have you heard of Anne of Green Gables?” she asked, picking up a thick book. Of course I hadn’t. ... Miss Gunbritt wanted me to give that heavy book a try. She said she was sure I would enjoy it. The book was her own copy and I was bursting with pride, I felt selected. ... Imagine the teacher had so much faith in me! At home I started reading straight after dinner. And I read and read and read. And not just read: the book devoured me in a way the books about girls like Katitzi, Miranda, Nancy Drew, and Kulla-Gulla never had. [All but Nancy Drew are famous Swedish children’s book protagonists.] It had a completely different approach and it literally flung me all the way to Prince Edward Island. I, as a small gap-toothed girl with red hair, had always dreamed of long, curly, blonde princess hair. Freckles were hardly a desirable attribute for a princess, and though I found Pippi Longstocking crazy and funny, she was hardly a realistic role model for a tiny carrot like myself. Anne, “Anne with an E,” was a different matter. She became my very first role model. Not just because of the hair, it was more of a common denominator reminding me that we were kindred spirits of the same disposition. No, I remember suddenly being prouder than ever of the fact that I read so much. Because so did my heroine. (Linda Karlsson Eldh, born in 1980, translator/freelance writer) Another Swedish reader, Karin, was in the fourth or fifth grade in a small village school in northern Sweden in the early 1950s when she first met Anne. As with Gillian and Linda, the introduction came about not through a family member but through a teacher. While the boys were being taught woodworking, the girls were given weekly lessons in needlework, “crocheting pot-holders, cross-stitching or knitting socks.” Their sewing practice sometimes was enlivened when the needlework teacher read them a story: One day she had brought a rather thick book with a girl with red hair on the cover, and she began to read to her very attentive audience about Anne, Matthew, and Marilla in the village Avonlea—pronounced with a Swedish accent, of course. What an experience! I sat there as though struck by lightning, forgetting all about my pot-holder, completely immersed in the story of Anne. ... That year I wished for—and got—the book Anne of Green Gables for Christmas and later I got all the other books about Anne, too. I read—and re-read—the stories about Anne, even as an adult. I believe it was the books about Anne that sparked my interest in reading. I never made much progress with either crocheting or knitting—but I will never forget my needlework teacher who, through Anne, opened the door to literature for me! (Karin Silverhult, born in 1943, retired teacher in English and German) Many readers say that in childhood a particular landmark book marked the transition from one kind of reading to another. “That was the first chapter book I read on my own,” they might say, or “This was the first book that made me understand that through reading I could be transported to other amazing worlds.” It is notable that these three readers described their landmark book, Anne of Green Gables, in strikingly similar terms as “big and thick ... with small print,” as a “thick book,” a “heavy book,” “a rather thick book”—in short, a challenge to novice readers. All three of these quoted readers recognized in Anne of Green Gables  something qualitatively different from any other book they had ever experienced. Gillian sensed that it was “a much more serious book” than other books, such as the Enid Blyton adventure stories. Linda recalled that the Anne book “devoured” her in manner unmatched by other books she had read with young female protagonists. For these readers, the experience of encountering this landmark book was described as a combination of elements that together explained its impact: the challenge posed by the “thick book”; the sense of pride and achievement in reading this substantial book; the breakthrough in one’s identity as a reader as one moves to a new level of reading and accepts the invitation to go through “the door to literature”; the association of the desire to “read and read and read” with the compellingly immersive nature of story; the recognition that reading Anne was a rite of passage into becoming a reader; and the sense that this identity as a reader was reinforced by the book’s representation of Anne herself as an avid reader. Gillian makes some of these links explicit: “So it was such a significant book, first because it was a major accomplishment to get through it but then there was the growing understanding that this was a really good story.” By the end, Gillian’s identity as a real reader was confirmed—with a reader’s badge and with her own strong response to the compelling power of story. She had joined the club of people who know themselves to be readers. Similarly, in characterizing Anne as her “very first role model,” Linda was “suddenly ... prouder than ever of the fact that I read so much” because, she said, “so did my heroine.” These readers’ first encounters with Anne are particularly good examples of the use of literature for its immersive qualities. What Felski calls enchantment is found explicitly expressed in the quotations from Gillian, Linda, and Karin.27 Gillian describes how she got “caught up” as the story itself “took” her. Linda uses the bodily metaphors of being “devoured” and “flung ... all the way to Prince Edward Island” to characterize the dramatic effect on her of reading Anne, contrasting this reading with the more humdrum reading of other books. Karin describes feeling “struck by lightning, forgetting all about [her] pot-holder, completely immersed in the story of Anne.” 2) The Series Effect An unmistakable theme repeated by both Canadian and Swedish readers is the drive to read all the books in the Anne series, or all the Emily books, or all Montgomery books translated into Swedish.28 A commonly stated element in both sets of data was the readers’ sense of excited anticipation when they discovered there were more books. Here is a Canadian reader, Renée, who was in grade three when she first read Anne of Green Gables. She said that that book “sort of started [me] off.” Renée described how she would ask for, and get, books as Christmas gifts. She said, “I used to get 9 or 10 books for Christmas, so I used to spend all Christmas day sitting in this corner reading all these books ... I read all the Anne books, Emily of New Moon, Pat of Silver Bush, and all the individual ones. It was just about two years ago I finally found A Tangled Web.” R:      Have you ever read A Tangled Web?29 I:       No, I haven’t, but I have it. R:      And you haven’t read it?! Oh my God! I looked for that book for twenty years, literally—and you had it and you haven’t read it! Well the sad thing is I looked for it, you know, because it’s always listed on the back [of Montgomery’s other books]. I looked for it for years and years and years. And one time, I was in a restaurant when I was in university, on a date. And, Holy God, there was A Tangled Web! So I grabbed the thing down and I just sat there reading as much as I could. Really I should have got up and offered to buy it from them. It took me another ten years before I found one. But yes, I’ve read just about all of them—My favorite one was The Blue Castle. Have you ever read that most fabulous one? It’s just been my favorite book my whole life. (Physician, age 32) Book cover of A Tangled Web. 1982. KindredSpaces.ca, 019 TW-AR.   For readers, and especially beginning readers, it can be hard to pick out an enjoyable book, but struggling through an inappropriate choice has the unfortunate effect of discouraging pleasure reading in general. Series books solve the problem of choice, reducing the risk involved. The series effect is important and often commented on by both Canadian and Swedish readers. Karin and Gillian (introduced in theme one) are two of these readers. When Karin wished for and received all the Anne books, they “opened the door to literature” for her. Gillian said that the discovery there were more stories “set me up for some satisfying and substantial reading for the next three or four years, until I was 12 or 13.” Reading another book in a familiar series reduces the cost of getting into a new book: the reader is already familiar with the central characters and with the fictional world of the book.30 That is why the long list of Montgomery books included in each book reassures readers that they can experience that pleasure again—they can re-enter the Montgomery world, by reading the next book. In Renée’s case, there was also the drive to completion: to track down and read every last book. This is a common trait in the reader responses, irrespective of nationality. Many readers become collectors, commenting on the joy of receiving Montgomery books as gifts or finding them in second-hand bookstores. Warnqvist has analyzed the emotional relevance of rereading and collecting Montgomery books through the lens of productive memory. She concludes that it functions as a way of productively bringing memory forward in order to engage in reinvention and gain new and deeper understandings of ourselves.31 3) Rereading For both children and adults, the knowledge that the experience can be repeated is a big part of the pleasure of reading Montgomery. Among the interviewed Canadian readers, about sixty per cent of them said that as children they repeatedly read and reread series books, such as Nancy Drew or The Babysitters Club or Fear Street . They gobbled up five or ten or fifteen books in the series until suddenly they stopped, having discovered that the books were “all the same.” As readers, they had moved on. But many Montgomery fans continue to read Montgomery books throughout their lives. They do not leave Anne, Emily, or the others behind. Why? Readers say they reread Montgomery because the books remain unchanged—“old friends” or “old reliables” that you can count on. And, paradoxically, the books are also described as different—every time you reread them, you see something different that you had not noticed before. The books have the winning mix of the familiar and the new that keeps readers rereading. Here is an explanation from Evelyn, whose reading is featured in theme four on reading Montgomery as a link between generations: To read a book from the perspective of a child is one thing, but to read it as an adult can be something quite different and it inevitably is. When I reread Anne as an adult in my late 20s, I was so much more sympathetic to Marilla. Who isn’t? The book was almost as much about her, I realize now—about her change and the awakening in her life—as it was about Anne. You have a much more compassionate perspective on the older characters in those books now than when you were 10 or 11, when you would only see from the perspective of a child. (Retired professor of English, age 64) Montgomery books have layers and depths that support rereading. So many characters of differing ages are depicted, including Anne and Emily themselves presented at different ages, and so many milestones of life are represented, that readers find it easy to read themselves into the text. A reread book, our informants say, is a different book because different characters and situations move to the foreground to resonate with the reader’s own life experiences.32 They read their lives into Montgomery’s stories, and they read the stories back into their own lives. Swedish reader Maj described how the books changed for her, following her own progression, as she read over a lifetime the editions published in 1920 that had originally belonged to her mother: Anne has followed me through life, from the age of ten. My mother, born in 1912, had the books and these editions were published in 1920. Now they’re on my bookshelf, tattered and kept in plastic bags so as to not fall to pieces entirely. Last time, but surely not the last time, I read them all was in 2006. I’m about to turn 71 and I have kept rereading them, maybe every seventh or eighth year. During my time as a child, teenager, adult, and now an elderly person the books have followed my progression, and they have seemed new to me every time. I’m not a very sentimental person, but, Good God, the tears I’ve cried while reading these books over the years! When Anne lost her little daughter I was a teenager, but when the same thing happened to me at the age of 22 it was a few years before I could re-read it. (Maj Larsson, born in 1937, retired) Canadian reader Scarlett explained that when she rereads Montgomery, it is not just the book at two different times of reading—that is, two different versions of the book—but two different versions of herself doing the reading. R:      When I was 12 or 13, I read The Blue Castle six times in a row. I’d get to the back of the book and go right to the front again. I just read it constantly. I was growing up in a really evangelical Christian family. Valancy’s struggle with her family speaks to a coming-of-age—breaking free of the parents and finding your own independence. Actually my parents’ marriage was ending that year, which is an interesting light to think about it in. So that might have fed into it a bit too. ... I:      Typically when might you decide to reread an LMM book? R:      When I’m trying to connect the narrative of my life and make sense of my present—putting on those shoes—because I can feel again like I felt when I was young. And then you can connect with that inner child or teenage version of yourself or different periods in your life when you were reading the books. There’s a self-searching part of it. ... It’s not just seeing the book as you saw it as a child versus how you see it as an adult. It’s seeing yourself as a child and yourself as an adult. And that contrast. It has a therapeutic function, really. (Bookstore owner, age 41) These statements from readers demonstrate that, in addition to offering guaranteed pleasure, rereading Montgomery can have a therapeutic function for readers wanting a safe framework within which to make sense of an intense personal experience. In her study of reading, Felski identifies and analyzes four modes of textual engagement: recognition, enchantment, knowledge, and shock.33 Of these, recognition is the form of engagement most often mentioned by our Canadian and Swedish readers. In Felski’s analysis, readers’ engagement with a text offers opportunities for cognitive insights into the self, a self-understanding that comes about from recognizing oneself in a book, seeing something new in oneself and thereby understanding oneself in new and different ways.34 Consider the many readers below who describe how Anne provided a model for identity that helped them make important decisions. (See also themes five and six, below.) As Scarlett puts it, “There’s a self-searching part of it.” And in addition to self-discovery, readers also find “solace and escape,” as Montgomery herself did through her writing, returning to her everyday life with “renewed courage and ‘grit.’”35 From the reported reading experiences, we can infer that Montgomery’s books perform these functions so well because Montgomery was able to create characters who feel things with great intensity—joy, despair, a sense of injustice, exhilaration, fear, resentment, love, rebellion, jealousy, friendship. Moreover, her books depict commonly occurring situations, such as the unwanted or unappreciated child, the lost or absent father, the death of a baby, the loss of a beloved family house, and the repressed, put-upon spinster—situations that resonate, in one way or another, with significant events in the lives of readers. In her discussion of Finnish Montgomery readers, Kannas comes to a similar conclusion about reading and rereading Montgomery, during which books become “identities, memories and parts of the self.”36 4) Link Among Generations When books such as Anne of Green Gables are beloved by readers for over a hundred years, they become a bridge across generations. Reading Montgomery can be a family affair, in which the parent or grandparent, aunt or uncle explicitly initiates the child into Montgomery reading, sometimes by giving a new gift book and sometimes by passing on an old tattered copy that belonged to a mother or grandmother. Warnqvist has noted that in the accounts from Swedish readers many emphasize that two, three, or even four generations of women in the same family have read the Anne series.37 Mothers and grandmothers share the ways in which Montgomery’s novels have been important to them and also express a wish to introduce the novels to their daughters and granddaughters. Swedish and Canadian readers equally report on collections of Montgomery books, carefully preserved and lovingly handed on to a younger generation of readers. In Evelyn’s case, reading Montgomery was definitely a family affair. When she was four-and-a-half, her sister, who is three years older, taught her to read, after which Evelyn became a voracious and omnivorous reader. She described herself as a “constant reader” of Montgomery. Evelyn’s mother and her aunt had read Montgomery as the books were being published. When Evelyn’s aunt was ten years old, she wrote to Montgomery to say how much she enjoyed the books. Evelyn reported that Montgomery “wrote back this gracious little response, saying how pleased she was to have heard from her, how she wished her the very best.” Evelyn’s mother made sure that her own two daughters had all the Montgomery books, and she read these books to them aloud as bedtime stories, well beyond the years when they began to be able to read for themselves. Evelyn and her sister, between them, received the full suite of Montgomery books as gifts to mark special events such as passing to the next grade in school. Then when Evelyn was eleven, she and her sister were taken to Cavendish as part of a family visit to Prince Edward Island. As adults, Evelyn and her sister split the family Montgomery collection between them. To fill in the gaps in the divided collection, her mother, described as “an inveterate searcher-out of second-hand books,” sent Evelyn a lot of replacement copies, including a second-hand copy of Rainbow Valley and Kilmeny of the Orchard. Summing all this up, Ross said in the interview: “So there’s a family connection. And it’s not just reading. It’s visiting the sites, preserving the letter, and keeping all the books from childhood.” And Evelyn agreed, “It’s the full fan experience. The Graceland-type experience.” Here’s how Evelyn describes her childhood reading of Montgomery: I read all the Anne books by myself. However my mother loved to read aloud to my sister and me. She would read to us every night, right up until I was 10 or 11 and my sister was 13 or 14. I got caught out, inadvertently revealing that I had read ahead of the book, which was Pat of Silver Bush. My mother said, “You read ahead!” [Laughter.] I must have read Anne of Green Gables by now perhaps hundreds of times. I reread everything. We had all the Montgomery books. My mother had been a fan, obviously, and so was my aunt, who famously wrote to L.M. Montgomery. So we always had them all. The only one we didn’t have was The Blue Castle. That was because my mother thought it not suitable—I think she read the book flap and the not-quite-lurid book jacket. I asked for it when I went from grade 5 into 6 and my mother said, “Are you sure?” I said yes; that otherwise I would have to get it from the library. She bought it for me. I still have that copy too. So we had them all prior to my age 11. So my sister and I between us managed to cover the entire LMM canon—literally. (Retired professor of English, age 64) As became evident in so many stories told to us by readers, leisure reading is not a solitary, isolated activity but is connected by many strands to other people in the reader’s life from teachers and librarians to friends and family members. In Evelyn’s case and that of so many other Canadian and Swedish Montgomery readers, these social connections include shared bedtime story-reading; giving and receiving gift books to celebrate milestones in life; creating book collections; and participating in fan behaviour such as writing a fan letter or going on a literary pilgrimage to Cavendish. These and other activities create a bond among readers of several generations in the same family, making them part of a female reading tradition.38 5) Being Shaped by Childhood Reading There is a back-and-forth movement between the reader’s everyday world and the world of the book. Readers bring to their reading understandings and preoccupations from their own lives. But then they take things from their reading which shape their view of the world and of human relationships. Often readers said that reading the right book at the right time gave them an insight into their own life and helped them make a decision or resolve a problem or take a course of action. (See also theme three, above.)39   Left: Book cover of Anne of Green Gables. 1989. KindredSpaces.ca, 247 AGGGODINE. Right: Book cover of Emily of New Moon.1982. KindredSpaces.ca, 013 ENMAR.   Accounts from both Swedish and Canadian readers include many varied ways in which reading Montgomery shaped their lives: for example, choosing teaching as a career as Anne did; deciding to be a writer like Emily; play-acting the friendship of Anne and Diana with their own friends; self-consciously paying attention to natural beauty in their own environment and making explicit connections with the Lake of Shining Waters or the Snow Queen or the Wind Woman (see theme ten); seeking out “kindred spirits”; and so on. One Swedish reader reported finding “orphaned, brave, and creative girls and young women of girls’ fiction irresistible,” and that, of all the creators of spunky female heroines, Montgomery was her favourite: “There is so much more to say, but the most important aspect of my relationship with Montgomery is that her books sparked my love for literature” (Tiina Rosenberg, born in 1958, professor of gender studies). Yoshiko Akamatsu describes how Japanese readers read Anne as a “guidebook for life” and are inspired by Anne’s “imagination, [her] love for nature, and [her] desire for study.”40 Suvi Ahola and Satu Koskimies found similar patterns and concluded that the books’ influence on Finnish readers was likewise profound and “much deeper than [they] ever expected.”41 A Canadian reader, Scarlett (see theme three), was very explicit about the way in which modelling herself on Anne gave her the courage to stand up for herself and chart her own direction in life: I:      What difference did encountering L.M. Montgomery make to your life? I know that’s hard. R:      No, it’s not hard at all. It completely crafted my personality. I was playing  Anne. I wanted to be Anne. My best friend since I was 9 explained this to me. She said, “Scarlett, you always jump over the line. There’s a line; you jump over it— every time.” That comes from Anne. I’ve been in many situations in my life where someone told me I wasn’t good enough or I couldn’t do it. And I just went and did it. That comes from Anne, because I had that modeled for me. My model for feminism, intelligence, strength, outspokenness—that all comes from Anne. Absolutely directly. ... If I hadn’t encountered Anne, I would be a totally different person. ... Yeah, Montgomery is absolutely a seminal part of my life. (Bookstore owner, age 41) Swedish readers made similar statements. Eva addressed Anne directly in her reading statement when she said, “I don’t think I would have been the person I am today, if it weren’t for you” (Eva Lindsten Nilsson, born in 1949, Ph.D. student in psychology). Another Swedish reader, Maria, who first encountered Anne when she was thirteen, used the metaphor of “literature as a compass” to explain Anne’s role in her life: I know she taught me to use literature as a compass in life. I also know she is very much responsible for my choosing to become a teacher. ... Many years later I watched the TV series. Normally I’m not a particularly emotional person, but I cried and I cried. What touched me and moved me to tears must have been what I had as good as forgotten—that Anne of Green Gables influenced my choice of profession, but also the emancipatory power of the books: if orphan Anne could do it, so could I. So I became the first university student in my family despite my mother’s protests, while my father with his encouragement and pride became the equivalent of Marilla and Matthew. (Maria Gunnarsson Contassot, born in 1944, project manager in teacher education at a Swedish university) Like other avid pleasure-readers,42 Montgomery readers often say that a particular book or character in a book provided a model for identity, helped them make an important decision, or strengthened their resolve. The key feature of the formative book is that it tells a story that readers connect with their own lives, often in ways that are not predictable in advance or apparent on the surface to outsiders. In describing the “emancipatory power” of books, Maria speaks for many readers, both Swedish and Canadian, who said that a literary role model gave them the courage to make a decision opposed by a family member or the strength to bear a blow in their everyday life (“if orphan Anne could do it, so could I.”) This power found in the fictional character’s ability to cope with a situation and survive gives readers courage and hope.43 There are additional examples in the next section of readers finding strength and resilience through their sense of connection to Anne or to other Montgomery heroines. 6) “I Wanted to Be Anne” Now we come to the very heart of the matter: the intimacy of the connection readers feel to a Montgomery character. Both Canadian and Swedish readers reported various efforts to become that character, to be as close to her as possible. Not every Montgomery reader wanted to be Anne, of course. Some preferred Emily or, in the case of the Canadian readers, Jane or Valancy. For example, Swedish reader Anna Remmets (born in 1985, student) said that, for the ten-year-old girl she was then “who spent all her time telling stories,” Emily was preferred because “she wasn’t as happy and bubbly as Anne. Her quiet, introverted, and sometimes sulkily proud character suited my temperament much better.” For Malin Nauwerck, encountering the Emily books at age thirteen was transformational and provided what she called “my first literary revelation, the ‘flash’ the Emily books stirred in me”: [I]t suddenly dawned on me that you could devote your life to literature. There are books whose cobweb can cast a spell over your own life. It makes you rename the jasmine outside your window The White Fairy, think of yourself as “the moonbeam of a blue summer night,” or skip class to spend the day describing scents and plants at Bergius Botanic Garden. It makes you rebellious, and proud, and prone to describe other people by writing “portraits” in your notebook ... [Emily] slipped inside me, became my shadow, my companion, and my very own secret. For a long time, I thought I was the only person to have become one with a literary character. At one point I changed the spelling of my middle name from Emelie to Emily (keep in mind that Emily herself at one point changes the spelling of her name to make it sound more French ...). Emily provides the reader with tools for survival. (Malin Nauwerck, born in 1985, student and later Ph.D. in literature) Anne was the character Canadian and Swedish readers most often singled out as special—as their “other self” and sometimes as their friend. Here’s Eleonora Johansson, who described a secondary-school class activity in which students were asked what object they would save in case of fire. Classmates answered “my photo album,” “a necklace my grandma gave me,” or “my video game,” but Eleonora said “a book, Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery,” to the surprise of her teacher: What [the teacher] failed to understand was that the moment I was introduced to Anne, many years earlier, I fell head over heels for her. I embraced her and her story as my best friend, and she has followed me through life ever since. The book, a joint edition of Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea, is still sitting on my bookshelf, as an eternal link to one of the best reading experiences of my life. ... In hindsight, as an adult, I can see that as a girl, I partly identified with Anne. In a world that wasn’t always safe, I could relate to her longing to have a home and to belong somewhere. I was relieved she wasn’t pretty in a standard sense; it made her more realistic. I admired her courage to march to the beat of her own drum, never letting those around her limit her wishes and dreams. I was enchanted by the beautiful landscape, entertained by her shenanigans, and amazed by her courage to stand up for herself in different situations, even if it took hitting the most popular boy in the class over the head with a slate. I felt the need to get as close to Anne as possible, and read the stories over and over. I bought hair dye at the store to make my hair as red as possible ... and I sewed clothes for my dolls using Anne’s clothes as my inspiration. I saw similarities between myself and Anne, and it made me feel hopeful: things had turned out well for Anne, so I would probably be fine, too. In a way, she became my Mållgan [a make-believe friend in a famous Swedish children’s book], my make-believe friend whom no one else knew about and who let me be myself. In hindsight, I can see that Anne and the stories about her inspired me to find my own path in life, and gave me the strength to keep on following it. (Eleonora Johansson, born in 1979, prosecutor) Another Swedish reader, Margareta Swerre, reported that when she was a twelve- year-old on holiday with her family in the small Swedish town Osby, her mother said that she could pick out a book to buy. In the bookshop, she was looking at the Jill  series books when her mother saw Anne of Green Gables and said, “We’ll take it.” Upset that she hadn’t been allowed to pick out a book herself, Margareta started reading somewhat reluctantly at first. But then: I think it was the first time I “devoured” a book. I met someone who was like me! I found a language that didn’t exist in my family, but in me. I found someone who had a raging sea of emotions within, just like me, and who managed to get into all sorts of trouble, just like me. Suddenly there was a world I could understand and participate in with all my being. I think it gave me a key to my own, inner world during the challenges of preadolescence. It gave me a dream world to visit that mirrored reality with love, even in terms of hardship and failure. In Anne of Green Gables, there is room for every emotion a person could go through and relate to. It also conveys a sense of faith in that things will be fine in the end, even if it doesn’t always seem that way at first. ... Now, at the time of writing, I realize what a great influence the Anne books have been in my life. I made a similar choice of profession to Anne’s when I trained to be a preschool teacher. And for the past 17 years, my family and I have provided a foster home for children and adolescents from broken families. Perhaps, in my work with children, I have been unconsciously inspired by how Anne, feeling unloved, came to a home where she was accepted and loved, and how it changed her circumstances and whole life. (Margareta Swerre, born in 1951, employment officer) And finally, there’s Inga Mörkberg, who said she is “absolutely convinced that a certain book can be crucial, heartening at a particular stage in a person’s life.” So it was for her, “sitting with her back against the tile stove reading Anne of Green Gables ” during a Swedish winter in the 1940s when she was twelve. She would sometimes read it “three times in a row” and “knew the chapter titles by heart.” Like Anne, I am a foster child, and perhaps not the foster child the parents had hoped for. Maybe Marilla Cuthbert’s disappointment in Anne for not being a boy is as great as Aunt I’s disappointment in me for not being the girl she expects me to be. The tile stove is warm against my back, the draft from the floor is freezing cold against my thigh and leg. In that moment, I am Anne, and Anne is me. She has red hair and green eyes, I have black hair and brown eyes. Why get hung up on such details? When Aunt I scolds me for daydreaming, for being clumsy when it comes to anything practical, for reading too much, she is Marilla, and I am Anne. ... My best friend is Diana Barry. And so, they became one—my world and Anne’s. (Inga Mörkberg, born in 1932, retired special education teacher) Female readers of Montgomery are apt to say that these books are “secretly about me.” One Canadian reader said, “I felt that L.M. Montgomery had written those books precisely for me. That she had me in mind.” The theme, “I wanted to be Anne” (or Emily or Jane or Valancy), is at the centre of what makes a Montgomery book so popular with its fans. Being Anne also means living in Anne’s world, which was described by many as a place better than our everyday world. (See theme eight.) Left: Book cover of Jane of Lantern Hill. 1980. KindredSpaces.ca, 022 JLH- AR. Right: Book cover of Jane Victoria. 1984. Swedish translation. KindredSpaces.ca, 329A JLH-Swedish.   As the quotations from readers demonstrate, this theme of identifying with Anne is closely linked to other themes discussed in this article: rereading; the book as a gift from older female relatives; preserving the physical book as a link to a vivid reading experience in the past; making life choices and pursuing activities that are modelled on those of Montgomery characters; reading Montgomery for its therapeutic effect; and so on. Notably the readers quoted in this section use similar images and metaphors to capture the sense of intimacy they yearn for: “slipped inside me, became my shadow, my companion, and my very own secret”; “become one with a literary character”; “the need to get as close to Anne as possible”; “someone who was like me ... just like me”; “a key to my own, inner world”; “gave me a dream world to visit that mirrored reality with love”; “they became one—my world and Anne’s.” Going well beyond the claim that a particular character became a role model for making a choice or a decision, these readers seek identity and oneness. They report wanting to be like Anne because they admire her spunk, her imagination, her loving nature, and her goodness. (See theme seven.) But there is another aspect to this desire for closeness. Because there is “a little bit of orphan in each of us,” as Joseph Gold remarks in Read for Your Life,44 reading Anne offers hope that, by being Anne, the readers may share in her happy ending. Eleonora said, “In a world that wasn’t always safe, I could relate to her longing to have a home and to belong somewhere. ... [I]t made me feel hopeful: things had turned out well for Anne, so I would probably be fine, too.” Margareta, who has provided a foster home for children of broken families, said she may have been “inspired by how Anne, feeling unloved, came to a home where she was accepted and loved.” And Inga, a foster child herself, demonstrated how a book may be “crucial, heartening at a particular stage in a person’s life” when she described how her world and Anne’s world “became one.” 7) “L.M. Montgomery Brought Us Up”: The Anne Effect The decision to interview Eunice was clinched when she remarked, “My sister and I always say that L.M. Montgomery brought us up.” During the interview, Eunice explained that, for her and for her sister, who is younger by two years, “the Anne books were a sentimental and moral education,” which she defined as an expansion in “one’s sensibility; what you notice, what you feel about people; one’s capacity for empathy.” Eunice described herself as the oldest daughter in a family with “a very unhappy mother, too many kids [six, one of whom died at birth], and a father who was the kindest person possible but who was feckless and who couldn’t handle money.” She said, “So [Avonlea] was a different world from the world of our household—a different sensibility.” Here’s what Eunice said in answer to the question, “What difference has reading LMM made to your life?” R:      I would say it was a sentimental and moral education. ... I think what surprised me was how you are hit—I was hit—sentimentally and morally by Anne herself, by her effect on other people. Because she always had a good effect on people. She helped people be better. She always brought about transformations in people. Here she is just gaily tripping and skipping and having peccadilloes and wreaking havoc on small levels and yet doing people good, all the way through. And I just thought, “Wow, to be that good!” I:      You thought that when you were 11 or you thought that later? R:      I think it was happening when I first read her and that’s what I liked about her. But I probably didn’t formulate that. I didn’t say, “I’m going to read this book because it’s going to make me sentimentally more empathetic and morally more wanting to be good.” But I did grow up with that sense that I should be doing good. ... So Anne was lovable and she was loving. It was just this—and maybe you attribute it to romance as a genre—but it was the world. I longed for that world. From the moment I read it, I wanted to live in Prince Edward Island. ... I loved the world, the innocent world; the good world; the quieter and slower world. ... I wanted to have people in my life who had the Anne effect on me—people who were really good. ... I wanted to be a good person and found it very hard, with my temperament, to be good and to be kind. But I always found really good people who were like Anne—they were Annes in my life. It began with that—it was loving someone who was so good and so lovable and so loving and always made a difference to people. Anne always did them good. And also [the Anne books] were great stories, great fun stories, that you went away into. You went away into a new world and a different world that you loved to be in and with a person you loved to be with. (Retired human resources manager, age 64) Historically children’s literature has quite often been written to make children “good”—to be obedient, to be pious, to carry out their duties diligently, to be neat, and so on. But when Eunice says that Montgomery brought her up, along with her sister, and gave them both a “sentimental and moral education,” she meant something different. Anne provided a moral education and training in empathy not because she was a model of decorum, but because she wasn’t. Instead “Anne was lovable and she was loving,” and she inspires readers in general to want to be more loving and more kind. As Eunice puts it, despite “having peccadilloes and wreaking havoc on small levels,” Anne helps people be their best selves: “She always brought about transformations in people.” Eunice explicitly links Anne’s being both good and loving to the existence of an innocent world of romance, which is described in the next theme. 8) “L.M. Montgomery Trained Me in Romance” The impact of reading and rereading a beloved author may go beyond the localized influences to shape a reader’s entire world view. Evelyn—the reader whose aunt wrote a fan letter to Montgomery (see theme four on the link among generations)—said that being a constant reader of Montgomery “shaped the way I use language, the way I see literature.” She described the L.M. Montgomery stories as the “shaping narrative of my life,” introducing her to the patterns and conventions of romance about which she wrote in her master’s and Ph.D. theses. She said, “I realize that it was my reading of L.M. Montgomery that trained me in romance. I realized later that it was L.M. Montgomery’s books—all that reading and rereading. I knew all the conventions, although I wouldn’t have called them that when I was a kid. I knew that narrative like the back of my hand, because I’d read it hundreds of times.” I:      So in a nutshell, what is that narrative? R:      The narrative is the creation of a world which is similar to our own, but better. And the characters are recognizable going all the way back to fairy tales and all the way forward into popular movies. ... It’s that world in which things are just slightly magicked from one’s own real humdrum existence in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. PEI just seemed like this magical place. You could see the beauty through Anne’s eyes. This is where we all identified with Anne. We were sure that we had that magic sight. ... I believe that this is the Canadian narrative, the Canadian story. It is fundamentally to imagine a better world than the one in which we are currently dwelling. (Retired professor of English, age 64) Different readers are attracted to stories with very specific and particular appeals, shaped and patterned in particular ways to produce particular effects in their readers. Horror fans, as noted earlier, seek out books that scare them. By contrast, Montgomery fans choose to read and reread her books because they want to live for a while in a chosen fictional world that is happier, more gracious, more loving, and more interesting than their own everyday world. When Evelyn talked about romance patterns and the creation of a fictional world better than our own, she was thinking of Northrop Frye’s formulation of the world of romance in his influential book, The Secular Scripture (1976). In Frye’s use of the term, romance refers to a pastoral, idealized world close to the heart’s desire, where goodness is possible, nature is tamed and benevolent, and conflicts find resolution in the discovery of identity and the celebration of community. Canadian and Swedish Montgomery readers typically don’t use the word “romance” to gesture toward what they enjoy about Montgomery’s fictional world. But when they describe what they like about the books, they touch upon the key elements of romance as highlighted by Frye: the centrality of the figure of the child; the presentation of a humanized landscape, often in the form of a garden in springtime; the representation of the built environment as a house, a farm, or a rural community; and a narrative arc in which everything works out, conflicts are resolved, and lovers are united.45 Romances typically start off in a lower world of alienation, separation, and anxiety (think of orphan Anne’s prospects as a drudge in the household of Mrs. Peter Blewett) and move to an idyllic upper world that is closer to the heart’s desire than is our everyday world. When readers choose to read or reread Montgomery, they get to live for a while in this “magical place,” whose beauty is seen through the eyes of an imaginative child. (See theme ten on nature.) 9) A Sense of Place Some books stamp in our memories an indelible sense of place.46 Long after they have forgotten the ins and outs of the plot, readers of the Montgomery books recall the red clay roads, rolling green fields, blossoming apple trees in springtime, and blue waters of Prince Edward Island. The place that Elizabeth Waterston has called the “magic island” resonates strongly with readers, often in different ways.47 For some Canadian children, especially those who first encountered Montgomery decades ago when the children’s books they read were mostly written and set elsewhere, Montgomery’s books were special because they depicted a world that was specifically Canadian and offered readers the opportunity to see themselves mirrored in fiction. And for some Canadian readers with literary ambitions, the existence of the Anne or Emily books was proof that writers could live in Canada and write stories based on their own experience, set in a recognizably Canadian setting. Canadian author Jane Urquhart ends her biography of Montgomery with the chapter “Her Reader,” in which Urquhart’s grandmother puts Anne into the hands of Urquhart’s eleven-year-old mother, who lives in rural Ontario.48 This young reader feels “a shock of recognition” that she is reading about her own world and borrows a typewriter, declaring, “I am going to write a novel.” Here’s Elizabeth, who grew up in Bathurst, New Brunswick, across the Northumberland Strait from Prince Edward Island, describing her own shock of recognition: All the children’s books I read as a child described an environment quite unlike my own, one in which children were always scurrying off onto the fells or learning to sail boats. Or, in the case of Little Women, they were going out to nurse the poor in hovels. Just everything was quite different. I never, ever assumed that the surroundings of the children in books would be anything like the surroundings that I had myself. ... The books that I read as a child that were nearest to my own experience were certainly L.M. Montgomery’s, who after all was writing about a small community in the Maritimes, and about the experiences of children there. The children seemed to be recognizable as me and my classmates, and the experiences were recognizable as those which my grandparents would have had as children. So there was a kind of special immediacy about those books. (Ph.D. candidate in English, age 35) Interestingly, Swedish readers also frequently mentioned feeling a sense of familiarity and recognition when they read the descriptions of the Prince Edward Island scenery in the books. Many of them felt as though the Anne books described their own backyard. Several also wrote that they were surprised when they found out that the books did not take place in Sweden. As Cornelia Rémi has pointed out, Sweden and Canada share the same kind of flora and changes of season. Moreover, the Swedish translator Karin Jensen made adaptations and supplements to adapt the novels to the contemporary socio-cultural context of the young Swedish audience.49 Some Swedish readers, however, noted the strange personal names and place names which were difficult to pronounce, and some of them—although not all—sensed or understood the geographical distance. Rémi concludes that both the exotic and the familiar are present in the books, which makes them suit both readers who want to experience the exotic and readers who seek the familiar.50 Irrespective of the level of recognition, Swedish readers found as good a story in the Anne  books as did the Canadian readers. The reading responses support Rémi’s argument and show that Montgomery’s novels attract both readers who want the characters, situations, and geographical settings they read about to be familiar and those who want to experience in their reading a world perceived as foreign and quite unlike the one they know. 10) Nature with a Capital N Reading Montgomery has taught generations of readers how to engage with the world in a creative and imaginative way. The Swedish responses in particular often included comments on Montgomery’s descriptions of the beautiful Prince Edward Island scenery, the changes of the seasons, and the protagonist Anne Shirley’s sense of wonder in relation to flowers and trees. Anne has shown readers how to look upon nature with the eye of the imagination. Unimaginative people may see only the Avenue or Barry’s Pond, but for Anne, as well as for the readers, it is the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters. Here are some Swedish examples of the power of Montgomery books to heighten readers’ responses to the natural world: I loved all the wonderful names Anne came up with for the places she liked. It inspired me to do the same. I never told anyone about my fantasies, but I was always on the lookout for tiny hills, groves, babbling brooks, and trees to name. (Ingrid Håkansson, born in 1941, retired special education teacher) Anne, I have stepped over the threshold into your world innumerable times. I have watched you run across the fields, your red hair flying in the wind. I have watched your grey-green eyes shine. I have loved your east gable room, run through the Haunted Woods, felt the taste of crab-apple preserve, and kissed tiny flower buds (I still do sometimes). (Eva Lindsten Nilsson, born in 1949, Ph.D. student in psychology) Someone once taught me this: to see the wonders around me and the art of rejoicing in being able to name it. That’s right, it was Anne of Green Gables! I know with absolute certainty that I got these gifts from her. ... Anne became my best friend, and greatest role model. ... I had the pleasure of walking by myself to school through a little forest, where I could enjoy a sense of wonder, and let my imagination run wild every day, inspired by Anne’s inventiveness. (ÅsaLisa Linnman, born in 1949, illustrator and conservationist) Reflections on Montgomery’s nature descriptions seemed especially salient for Swedish readers, appearing in the Canadian responses less often and less effusively, and usually in the form of brief references to the Haunted Woods, Wind Woman, or Snow Queen or in descriptions of the way in which reading Anne gave them new eyes for looking upon nature. Of the 303 Swedish reading accounts, about one quarter explicitly comment on Montgomery’s depictions of nature, and plenty more refer in general terms to the landscapes, environments, and place names of Prince Edward Island. When ÅsaLisa rejoices in being able to name “the wonders” around her, one could argue that the central issue is not so much nature itself as it is Anne’s creative use of language. In many passages quoted above, the readers’ appreciation of Montgomery’s description of nature is closely linked to Anne’s practice of imaginative renaming. In her introduction to the character of Anne during the carriage ride to Green Gables, Montgomery represents Anne as an Adam figure, naming the world, using words such as White Way of Delight that allow others to see the natural world in a new way. For two outstanding writers, one Canadian and one Swedish, this awakened appreciation of nature was certainly linked to language. In Alice Munro’s story “Lying Under the Apple Tree” in The View from Castle Rock (2006), the narrator recounts how, at the age of thirteen, she rode her bike into the countryside so that she could lie under an apple tree and look up at an “upside-down sea of blossom.” The narrator says that she did this “because I was secretly devoted to Nature. The feeling came from books, at first. It came from the girls’ stories by the writer L.M. Montgomery, who often inserted some sentences describing a snowy field in moonlight or a pine forest or a still pond mirroring the evening sky.”51 Warnqvist has shown that Swedish children’s book writer Astrid Lindgren, author of Pippi Longstocking (1945), also was inspired by Montgomery’s blossoming trees and made references to these in her stories.52 One example is the short story “Under körsbärsträdet” (“Under the Cherry Tree”) in Kajsa Kavat och andra barn (1950, “Brenda Brave and Other Children”), where “Ann is sitting under the cherry tree on a summer night, watching the swallows fly. The white, white blossoming cherry tree. It’s so beautiful.”53 Sitting under the cherry tree and letting the beautiful spring setting send her imagination reeling, Lindgren’s Ann comes across as a projection of Montgomery’s Anne. Not only do they share the same name (apart from the missing -e); Lindgren’s Ann is also fanciful, chatty, romantic, and preoccupied with the idea of being an orphan. Montgomery’s own reading of William Wordsworth, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Ralph Waldo Emerson may have intensified her response to nature, but since then countless young readers—and writers—worldwide have learned from Anne and Emily and Valancy how to thrill to the sight of apple blossoms or forest ferns or spires of firs. Montgomery’s heroines see the humanized natural landscape of Prince Edward Island through the eye of the imagination. Montgomery’s readers are taught to see it that way too and name what they see wherever they are. It is a way of looking at the world portable beyond Avonlea. Back to top In Conclusion: Reading and the Emotional World of L.M. Montgomery This study of Montgomery readers has been made possible by the very phenomenon that we seek to understand in this article: her enduring popularity with readers that has lasted for over a century. A list prepared by the Utica Public Library in 2012 of “The 50 All-Time Best Selling Works of Fiction” starts off with Don Quixote  (1605) and descends through the list from A Tale of Two Cities (1859), The Count of Monte Cristo (1814), The Lord of the Rings (1954), through six Harry Potter novels and some other titles to, at spot twenty: Anne of Green Gables. What explains the staying power of the Montgomery books when so many other bestsellers have fallen into oblivion? For the answer, we turn our attention to the two elements in the reading transaction—the Montgomery readers and the books—and to the bond that connects them. Book cover of Anne of Green Gables. 1979. KindredSpaces.ca, 001 AGG- AR.   What now can we say about the readers? As noted earlier, the subset of Montgomery readers in the Canadian avid-reader study strongly resembled each other and differed significantly from non-Montgomery readers, who described quite different ways of engaging with books. By and large, Montgomery fans are omnivorous readers who say they “devour” books, reading voraciously a great variety of different kinds of books at different levels of difficulty and demandingness. At those times when they choose to read or reread Montgomery, they are looking for a particular satisfaction associated with comfort, safety, and hope, and they may choose to do so at particularly stressful periods of their lives. The accounts of Canadian readers of Montgomery were almost indistinguishable from those of the Swedish readers, apart from the clues provided by national place names, people’s names, references to schooling practices, and the like. Both sets of readers described in similar ways the first memorable encounter with Montgomery, expressed enthusiasm over what we have called the “series effect,” described multiple rereadings of their favourite Montgomery books, and pointed to a strong female reading tradition and a female reading context.54 Both sets of readers emphasized how they had been shaped in numerous ways by their reading of Montgomery’s novels. They said that they wanted to get as close as possible to Anne or Emily and that they tried in their own lives to emulate the courage, goodness, kindness, love of nature, vivid imagination, and ambition to write that they saw represented by Montgomery characters. In short, the concordance between the responses of the Swedish and Canadian readers is striking. The similarities are undeniable, despite the different marketing strategies used in the two countries to recruit readers (initially the target audiences for Montgomery books were readers of all ages in North America and young adults in Sweden) and despite the two different methods we used in our study to solicit the reading experiences from readers. Although we have discussed the ten emergent themes separately and one at a time, it is inescapably the case that, in the readers’ experience, these themes are inextricably linked. In one way or another, all ten themes are connected by a powerful current of emotion, the quoted examples illustrating reading experiences remembered for their emotional impact. We know that different kinds of readers do variously seek out books with strong emotional effects—books that arouse anger over the world’s corruption and inequity, books that cause readers’ hearts to race in suspense, books that fill readers with a menacing sense of dread, and so on. Montgomery readers, by contrast—at least at the times in their lives when they seek out Montgomery books—are drawn to the books because they offer what Felski calls recognition and enchantment.55 These readers are looking for comfort and reassurance and a reading experience that gives them hope and a sense of empowerment. They find this desired emotional experience through stories of the redemptive power of love in which, for example, Anne, through her goodness and loving nature, transforms the world around her, reawakens frozen Marilla to new life and joy, and finds for Anne herself an education, a new family, and a home. When readers say that they want to live in Montgomery’s fictional world, they mean that, for a time, they want to take up residence in a world where such changes are possible—for the characters and for themselves. The emotional impact of a Montgomery book on readers is salient during all three phases of reading: pre-reading, which are the factors that come before reading, such as how the reader learned about and got access to the book (a gift perhaps? a recommendation randomly chosen from a Girl Guide leader’s list?) and the elements in the reader’s life situation that prompted the reader to read the book; the time of reading itself, when the reader is engaged in reading or rereading and the focus is on the reading experience itself; and post-reading, when the reader keeps the book alive in memory, reflects on the book, may be influenced or changed by reading the book, and may recommend the book to others.56 It is because Montgomery readers find her books so powerfully affecting that they so clearly remember their first encounter with Anne; that they want to read and reread all the books and pass them along to later generations; and that they want to be or be like Anne or Emily. The emotional impact of Montgomery’s characters echoes through defining moments of their lives and informs important life choices. Warnqvist has, for example, explored the empowering potential in Montgomery’s books from a gender perspective and pointed to the emancipatory potential of these books when read by girls at a young age. Readers affirm this potential in the many statements quoted above concerning how Anne and Emily were essential in their making important life decisions, such as the choice of education or profession or both.57 The same study by Warnqvist shows that the physical books often become a repository for memory and for emotional connection.58 Kannas comes to similar conclusions in her analysis of the responses of Finnish readers to Montgomery.59 She makes the case that there is “something deeply emotion-driven in Montgomery’s books that permeates the [readers’] accounts of reading them” and gives the readers “such a close relationship with them that reading becomes an emotional experience.” She summarizes that “it is not the content of the text but the long relationship the readers have with the books and the characters that matter the most in establishing the emotional effect.”60 To illustrate this “long relationship,” we give the last word to a Swedish reader, Solveig Thun Johansson (born in 1936, retired), who in her reading experience gave perhaps the best example of the depth of the emotional connection that a reader can feel to a Montgomery book. It is not her own story she tells, but a story told to her by a family friend about a woman who turned to Montgomery during a terminal illness. Knowing that she was dying, this woman chose to spend her last days listening to her husband reading the Anne books: The wife had been ill for a long time, and eventually she was too weak to read. Her husband would read her magazines and books. But towards the end, all she wanted him to read to her were the Anne books, and he read them to her many times, and listening to these well-known stories from her childhood and adolescence made her calm and relaxed. Returning to those settings made her feel safe.     About the Authors: Catherine Sheldrick Ross Catherine Sheldrick Ross, FRSC, is Professor Emerita and former Dean of the Faculty of Information and Media Studies (FIMS) at Western. Interested in texts, authorship, readers, and the reading experience, she has published numerous articles on Canadian literature, librarianship, readers’ advisory, and leisure reading as well as interviews that she conducted with Canadian writers, including Margaret Atwood, Clark Blaise, Dennis Lee, Jean Little, Alice Munro, and James Reaney. A long- standing research focus has been the study of the pleasure-reading experience, based on open-ended, qualitative interviews of avid readers. Her recent books on leisure reading are The Pleasures of Reading: A Booklover's Alphabet (2014) and the co-authored Reading Still Matters: What the Research Reveals About Reading, Libraries, and Community (2018). In 2013, she received the Margaret E. Munroe Award given by the American Library Association for “significant contributions to library adult services.” Åsa Warnqvist Åsa Warnqvist, Ph.D., is the Research Manager and Director of the Swedish Institute for Children’s Books and affiliated with Linneaus University. Her research has primarily been focused on Canadian writer L.M. Montgomery, the Swedish children’s book market, gender studies, and normativity studies. Warnqvist’s research project “L.M. Montgomery in Sweden” focuses on Montgomery’s success in Sweden and combined studies of the books’ publishing history with reader response. It has been largely funded by the Swedish Research Council. Several articles in Swedish and English has been published within the project and more are to come. Warnqvist is the editor of Barnboken: Journal of Children’s Literature Research, the only Swedish academic journal on children’s literature. She is also a member of the IRSCL executive board, congress convenor of the IRSCL Congress 2019, and vice-president of IRSCL. Warnqvist coordinated the international conference “L.M. Montgomery — Writer of the World” (Uppsala, Sweden) in 2009 together with Dr. Gabriella Åhmansson. During 2011–2013 she was the Visiting Scholar at the L.M. Montgomery Institute, UPEI. Banner image derived from: Canadian and Swedish Flags, 2020. 1 Ross, “Readers Reading”; Warnqvist, “Anne”; Warnqvist, “Flickan”; Warnqvist, “I Experienced”; Warnqvist, “‘Under körsbärsträdet’”; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 2 Akamatsu, “Japanese Readings.” 3 Ahola and Koskimies, “Love and Controversy.” 4 Ahola and Koskimies, Uuden Kuun. 5 Kannas, “‘Emily Equals Childhood.’” 6 Ross, The Pleasures 153. 7 Montgomery, BC 38. 8 Felski, Uses of Literature 22. 9 Ross, McKechnie, and Rothbauer, Reading Still Matters 25–37. 10 Ross, McKechnie, and Rothbauer, Reading Still Matters 25–37. 11 Rosenblatt, Literature as Exploration 30–31. 12 Ross, McKechnie, and Rothbauer 137–46. 13 Ahola and Koskimies, Uuden Kuun. 14 The translations were made by Hanna Liljeqvist. 15 Ross, McKechnie, and Rothbauer 138–139. 16 De första resultaten 11. 17 Ross, The Pleasures 165–171. 18 Ross, The Pleasures 86. 19 Ross, The Pleasures 83–91. 20 McKenzie, “Patterns, Power, and Paradox” 132. 21 Warnqvist, “I Experienced” 229–234. 22 See Ahola and Koskimies, “Love and Controversy” 239; Warnqvist, “Flickan”; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 23 See Ahola and Koskimies, “Love and Controversy” 239. 24 See Kannas 118; Ross, The Pleasures 29; Warnqvist, “I Experienced” 235; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 25 For a thorough discussion on this, see Warnqvist, “Flickan” 29–32; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 26 Demographic information about the readers was collected at the time of the interview or submission of the written account. 27 Felski chapter 2. 28 As also noted by Kannas 125. 29 In excerpts from interviews, I is the interviewer and R is the respondent. 30 See Reimer et al., “Introduction.” 31 See Warnqvist, “Flickan” 36; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 32 Ross, “Finding without Seeking.” 33 Felski. 34 Felski chapter 1. 35 Montgomery, SJ3: 168 (9 March 1924). 36 Kannas 130. 37 Warnqvist, “Flickan som läsare” 34; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 38 See Warnqvist, “Flickan” 34; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 39 Ross, “Finding Without Seeking”; see also Felski, chapter 1. 40 Akamatsu 209. 41 Ahola and Koskimies, “Love and Controversy” 239. 42 Ross, “Finding Without Seeking.” 43 See Ross, “Finding Without Seeking”; Ahola and Koskimies, “Love and Controversy” 239; Warnqvist “Flickan”; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 44 Gold, Read for Your Life 110. 45 Frye, The Secular Scripture. 46 See Kessler, “L.M. Montgomery.” 47 Waterston, Magic Island. 48 Urquhart, L.M. Montgomery 143, 150. 49 Rémi, “From Green Gables.” 50 See Warnqvist, “I Experienced” 232–233. 51 Munro, The View 198. 52 Warnqvist, “‘Under körsbärsträdet.’” 53 Lindgren, Kajsa Kavat 104. 54 See Warnqvist, “Flickan” 34; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 55 Felski. 56 Ross, The Pleasures 16–22. 57 Warnqvist, “Flickan”; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 58 See Warnqvist, “Flickan” 36; Warnqvist, forthcoming. 59 Kannas. 60 Kannas 124. Back to top Article Info  Copyright: Catherine Sheldrick Ross and Åsa Warnqvist, 2020. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (Creative Commons BY 4.0), which allows the user to share, copy and redistribute the material in any medium or format and adapt, remix, transform and build upon the material for any purpose, even commercially, PROVIDED the Licensor is given attribution in accordance with the terms and conditions of the CC BY 4.0. Peer reviewed Yes Works Cited Ahola, Suvi, and Satu Koskimies, editors. Uuden Kuun ja Vihervaaran tytöt: Lucy M. Montgomeryn Runotyttö- ja Anna-kirjat suomalaisten naislukijoiden suosikkeina [The Girls of New Moon and Green Gables: L.M. Montgomery’s Emily and Anne Books as Favourites Among Finnish Female Readers]. Tammi, 2005. ---. “Love and Controversy for Over Eighty Years: Anne, Emily, and Finnish Women: An Interview.” Storm and Dissonance: L.M. Montgomery and Conflict, edited by Jean Mitchell, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008, pp. 238–244. Akamatsu, Yoshiko. “Japanese Readings of Anne of Green Gables.” L.M. Montgomery and Canadian Culture, edited by Irene Gammel and Elizabeth Epperly, U of Toronto P, 1999, pp. 201–212. Collinson, Ian. Everyday Readers: Reading and Popular Culture. Equinox Publishing, 2009. De första resultaten från Nordicom-Sveriges Mediebarometer 2017: Mars 2018 [The First Results from Nordicom-Sweden’s Media Barometer 2017: March 2018]. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ Nordicom, Gothenburg U, 2018, http://www.nordicom.gu.se/sites/default/files/mediefakta- dokument/Mediebarometern/Mbar_Tema_ra/mediebarometern_2017_de_forsta_resultaten.pdf . Felski, Rita. Uses of Literature. Blackwell Publishing, 2008. “The 50 All-Time Best Selling Works of Fiction.” Utica Public Library, 2012, https://www.uticapubliclibrary.org/resources/literature-and-film-guides/50-all-time- best-selling-works-of-fiction/. Fry, Donald. Children Talk About Books: Seeing Themselves as Readers. Open UP, 1985. Frye, Northrop. The Secular Scripture: A Study of the Structure of Romance. Harvard UP, 1976. Gold, Joseph. Read for Your Life: Literature as a Life Support System. Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 1990. Kannas, Vappu. “‘Emily Equals Childhood and Youth and First Love’: Finnish Readers and L.M. Montgomery’s Anne and Emily books.” Reading Today, edited by Heta Pyrhönen and Janna Kantola. UCL P, 2018, pp. 118–131, http://discovery.ucl.ac.uk/10041155/1/Reading-Today.pdf. Kessler, Deirdre. “L.M. Montgomery and the Creation of Prince Edward Island.” L.M. Montgomery and Canadian Culture, edited by Irene Gammel and Elizabeth Epperly, U of Toronto P, 1999, pp. 229–212. Lindgren, Astrid. Kajsa Kavat och andra barn [Brenda Brave and Other Children]. Rabén & Sjögren, 1950. Long, Elizabeth. Book Clubs: Women and the Uses of Reading in Everyday Life. U of Chicago P, 2003. Mackey, Margaret. One Child Reading: My Auto-Bibliography. U of Alberta P, 2016. McKenzie, Andrea. “Patterns, Power, and Paradox: International Book Covers of Anne of Green Gables across a Century.” Textual Transformations in Children’s Literature: Adaptations, Translations, Reconsiderations, edited by Benjamin http://www.nordicom.gu.se/sites/default/files/mediefakta-dokument/Mediebarometern/Mbar_Tema_rap/mediebarometern_2017_de_forsta_resultaten.pdf http://www.nordicom.gu.se/sites/default/files/mediefakta-dokument/Mediebarometern/Mbar_Tema_rap/mediebarometern_2017_de_forsta_resultaten.pdf https://www.uticapubliclibrary.org/resources/literature-and-film-guides/50-all-time-best-selling-works-of-fiction/ https://www.uticapubliclibrary.org/resources/literature-and-film-guides/50-all-time-best-selling-works-of-fiction/ http://discovery.ucl.ac.uk/10041155/1/Reading-Today.pdf Lefebvre, Routledge, 2013, pp. 127–153. Montgomery, L.M. 1926. The Blue Castle. Dundurn P, 2006. ---. The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery. Edited by Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, Oxford UP, 1985–2004. 5 vols. Munro, Alice. The View from Castle Rock. McClelland and Stewart, 2006. Radway, Janice. Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy and Popular Literature. U of North Carolina P, 1984. Reimer, Mavis, Nyala Ali, Deanna England, and Melanie Dennis Unrau. “Introduction: The Compulsion to Repeat.” Seriality and Texts for Young People: The Compulsion to Repeat, edited by Mavis Reimer et al., Palgrave Macmillan, 2014, pp. 1–33. Rémi, Cornelia. “From Green Gables to Grönkulla: The Metamorphoses of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables in Its Various Swedish Translations.”  Barnboken: Journal of Children’s Literature Research, vol. 42, 2019, pp. 1–36, http://dx.doi.org/10.14811/clr.v42i0.447. Rosenblatt, Louise. 1938. Literature as Exploration. 5th ed., Modern Language Association, 1995. Ross, Catherine Sheldrick. “Finding Without Seeking: The Information Encounter in the Context of Reading for Pleasure.” Information Processing and Management, vol. 35, 1999, pp. 783–799. ---. The Pleasures of Reading: A Booklover’s Alphabet. Libraries Unlimited, 2014. ---. “Readers Reading L.M. Montgomery.” Harvesting Thistles: The Textual Garden of L.M. Montgomery, Essays on Her Novels and Journals, edited by Mary Henley Rubio, Canadian Children’s P, 1994, pp. 23–35. Ross, Catherine Sheldrick, Lynne (E.F.) McKechnie, and Paulette M. Rothbauer. Reading Still Matters: What the Research Reveals About Reading, Libraries, and Community. Libraries Unlimited/ABC-CLIO, 2018. Urquhart, Jane. L.M. Montgomery. Penguin Canada, 2009. Warnqvist, Åsa. “Anne på Grönkulla—‘en af de nöjsammaste bekantskaper man kan http://dx.doi.org/10.14811/clr.v42i0.447 göra’: Utgivning och mottagande av L.M. Montgomerys verk i Sverige” [“Anne of Green Gables—‘One of the Most Delightful Acquaintances One Could Make’”: Publication and Reception of L.M. Montgomery’s Work in Sweden”]. I litteraturens underland: Festskrift till Boel Westin, edited by Maria Andersson, Elina Druker, and Kristin Hallberg, Makadam, 2011, pp. 212–229. ---, editor. Besläktade själar: Läsupplevelser av Anne på Grönkulla [Kindred Spirits: Reading Experiences of Anne of Green Gables.]. BTJ förlag, 2009. ---. “Flickan som läsare: Exemplet Anne på Grönkulla” [“The Girl as Reader: The Case of Anne of Green Gables”]. Flicktion: Perspektiv på flickan i fiktionen, edited by Eva Söderberg, Maria Österlund, and Bodil Formark, Universus Academic P, 2013, pp. 29–41. ---. “‘I Experienced a Light That Became a Part of Me’: Reading Anne of Green Gables in Sweden.” Anne Around the World: L.M. Montgomery and Her Classic, edited by Jane Ledwell and Jean Mitchell. McGill-Queen’s UP, 2013, pp. 228–242. ---. “‘Under körsbärsträdet sitter Ann’: Dialogen med L.M. Montgomery i Astrid Lindgrens verk” [“‘Under the Cherry Tree Sits Ann’: The Dialogue with L.M. Montgomery in the Works of Astrid Lindgren”]. Nya läsningar av Astrid Lindgren, edited by Helene Ehriander and Martin Hellström, Liber, 2015, pp. 103–121. ---. Under review. “Anne of Green Gables and the Girl Reader: The Subversive and Emancipatory Potentials of Productive and Future-Oriented Girlhood Reading.” L.M. Montgomery and Gender, edited by Holly Pike and Laura Robinson, McGill- Queen’s UP. Waterston, Elizabeth. Magic Island: The Fictions of L.M. Montgomery. Oxford UP, 2008.   
work_zpx4kthzobbs7mcvlmmxul5zee	----	005-023(024)--01-......(....)+.hwp ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 A Study on To Kill a Mockingbird As ‘One Book’ 윤 정 옥 (Cheong-Ok Yoon)* 목 차 1. 머리말 1.1 연구의 배경 목 1.2 연구의 방법 2. 선행연구 3. 앵무새 죽이기 의 분석 3.1 앵무새 죽이기 의 연도별 선정 추이 3.2 앵무새 죽이기 의 평가 3.3 앵무새 죽이기 의 ‘한 책’ 선정 이유 4. 앵무새 죽이기 선정 도시의 사례 4.1 Irving의 TBR 4.2 Staten Island의 TBR 5. 맺음말 록 이 연구의 목 은 미국의 ‘한 책, 한 도시’ 독서운동 National Endowment for the Arts의 ‘The Big Read(TBR)’에서 Harper Lee의 앵무새 죽이기 가 보여주는 ‘한 권의 책(One Book)’으로서의 가치, 이 책을 선정한 지역사회들의 지향 과 다양성 등을 이해하는 것이다. 이 책은 2001년-2014년 사이 86개 ‘한 책, 한 도시’ 로그램 2007년-2015년 사이 138개 TBR 지역사회에서 선정되었다. 많은 지역사회가 용기, 용, 정의 등 주제로 표 된 인간 존엄성에 한 공감을 시도하 고, 독서토론, 다양한 로그램 행사로 이 가치를 표 하 다. ABSTRACT The purpose of this study is to understand the value of the book, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee as the most favored ‘One Book’ and the goals of the ‘One Book, One City’ programs which selected this particular book. A total of 86 ‘One Book’ programs from 2001 through 2014 and 138 The Big Read programs from 2007 through 2015 selected To Kill a Mockingbird as ‘One Book’ to read. With this book, many communities discussed the sympathy toward the dignity of human being with such subjects as courage, justice, and integrity, and presented its value through book discussions, various programs and events. 키워드: ‘한 책, 한 도시’ 독서운동; 미국독서운동; 빅 리드; 앵무새 죽이기 ; 원 북, 원 시카고 ‘One Book, One City’ Reading Campaign; Reading Campaigns in the U.S.A.; The Big Read; To Kill a Mockingbird; One Book, One Chicago * 청주 학교 인문 학 문헌정보학과 교수(jade@cju.ac.kr) 논문 수일자: 2014년 10월 22일 최 심사일자: 2014년 11월 3일 게재확정일자: 2014년 11월 13일 한국문헌정보학회지, 48(4): 115-133, 2014. [http://dx.doi.org/10.4275/KSLIS.2014.48.4.115] 116 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 1. 머리말 1.1 연구의 배경 목 ‘한 책, 한 도시(One Book, One Community)’ 독서운동(이하 ‘한 책’ 독서운동이라 부름)은 지 난 1998년 미국 Washington 주 Seattle에서 처 음 시작된 이래 미국 역의 수많은 지역사회에 서 꾸 히 진행되어 왔다. ‘한 책’ 독서운동을 진행하는 지역사회들은 자신들의 로그램과 선정 책을 Library of Congress Center for the Books에 자발 으로 등록한다. 이 센터 웹사이트 의 “‘One Book’ Reading Promotion Projects” 내 ‘주별(州別) 로젝트 리스트’(Library of Congress 2013a) 선정 책들의 ‘작가별 리스 트’(Library of Congress 2013b)에 따르면, 미 국 역 로그램에서 가장 많이 선정된 책은 Harper Lee의 To Kill a Mockingbird(이하 앵 무새 죽이기 라 부름)이다. 이 책은 2014년 4월 재 모두 86개 ‘한 책’ 로그램에서 선정되어 가장 선호되는 책으로서 부동의 치를 차지하고 있다. 한 National Endowment for the Arts가 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 모형을 채택하여 시작한 국 문학독서 이니셔티 인 The Big Read(이 하 TBR이라 부름)에서도 2006년 시범사업 이 후 2007년부터 2014-2015년 사이 138개 지역사 회가 이 책을 선정하 고, 지 까지 가장 많이 선정된 책들 하나이다. 이 연구는 그동안 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 시작부 터 성장과 변화를 추 하고, ‘한 책’으로 선정된 주요한 책들의 특성 등을 계량 으로 분석하 던 이 연구(윤정옥 2014)에 이어지는 것이다. 이 연구는 지난 십여 년 동안 ‘한 책’으로 선정 된 책들이 보여주는 지역사회 독서운동의 가치 와 목표 등 집합 특성의 분석에 주목하 다. 이 연구는 가장 많은 ‘한 책’ 로그램에서 선정 된 앵무새 죽이기 가 갖는 ‘한 권의 책(One Book)’으로서 가치, 이 책을 선정한 지역사회들 의 지향 , 한 권의 책을 바탕으로 표 될 수 있 는 다양성 등을 이해하는 것을 연구의 목표로 하 다. 1.2 연구의 방법 이 연구에서는 2014년 4월 재 Library of Congress Center for the Book 웹사이트에 등 록된 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 로젝트들의 주별 리스 트 선정 책들의 작가별 리스트에서 앵무새 죽이기 를 선정한 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들과 련된 문헌 웹 자원 조사를 수행하 다. 특히 이 책 을 선정한 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들 몇 개를 임의로 선정하여 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 목표, 책 선정의 기 과 이유, 이 책과 련하여 진행한 행사와 로그램 성격 등을 분석하 다. 한 National Endowment for the Arts의 TBR 참가 지역사 회와 선정 도서 자료를 분석하 다. 한편 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 체 인 동향을 서 술하기 해서 이 연구에서 2013년 6월 당시 수집하여 정리한 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 로젝트들 의 주별 리스트 선정 책들의 작가별 리스트 를 주로 참조하 고, 2014년 4월 재 ‘한 책’ 로그램 총수나 체 선정 책의 종수 등 새로 운 통계를 제시하지는 않았다. 왜냐면 이미 가 장 많은 로그램에서 선정된 ‘한 책’으로서 앵무새 죽이기 가 갖는 상에는 변동이 없고, ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 117 이 연구의 목표가 체 로그램이나 책 선정의 추이 분석이 아니라, ‘한 책’ 자체로서의 특성과 의미, 가치 등을 분석하는 데 을 맞추고 있 기 때문이다. 2. 선행연구 최근 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 련 문헌을 검토한 결과, 기에는 미국을 심으로 개별 ‘한 책’ 로젝트의 사례를 단순히 소개하는 문헌들이 많았던 것에 비하여, 차 이들의 된 경험 을 서술하고 평가하는 문헌이 늘어나고 있다. Dempsey(2009)는 1998년 ‘Seattle Reads( 기엔 If All of Seattle Reads the Same Book)’ 의 시작, 2001년 ‘One Book, One Chicago’의 성공, 이어지는 ‘One Book’ 로젝트의 확산, ‘The Big Read’의 출범 등 주요한 ‘한 책’ 로젝 트들의 발 을 검토하 다. Dempsey는 ‘Seattle Reads’의 산 격인 Nancy Pearl을 인용하며, ‘한 책’ 독서운동이 하나의 ‘ 상’으로 자리 잡은 것에는 사서가 사서답게 가장 잘 할 수 있는 일, 즉 책을 고르고, 로그램을 편성하고, 책과 주 제에 련된 정보를 찾아내는 것 같은 상이한 기술들을 한데 모을 수 있기 때문이라고 강조한 다. 한 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 인기에 기여하는 요 인들 하나는 사서들이 직원 지역사회 규 모에 따라 이것을 확장하거나 축소할 수 있는 능력이라고 지 하며, 몇몇 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들 의 목표 설정, 책의 선정, 지역사회 참여 유인 등을 논하고 있다. Luther와 Woods(2013)는 Maryland 주의 ‘One Maryland One Book Program(OMOB)’ 을 분석하 다. 2008년부터 진행된 OMOB는 고등학생과 성인 독자들이 한 권의 책을 읽으면 서 “ 요한 문제에 한 정보에 근거한 화와 시민 참여를 자극하고 진하기 해 인문학을 이용”하려는 목표를 가진다고 하 다. 이들은 를 들어 뇌수종을 가진 작가의 Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian(Alexie 2007)을 선정하여 읽음으로써 신체장애와 미국원주민으 로서 겪는 문화 차이 같은 다양성의 여러 측 면을 다룬 경험을 서술하 다. OMOB의 로 그램들을 통해서 학생들 사회경제 약자 같 이 다양한 사회 구성원들의 요구와 심 등을 학교와 지역사회에서 다룰 수 있는 기회가 됨을 강조하고 있다. ‘한 책’ 독서운동이 “ 신 로그램”(Fialkoff 2001)임은 일 부터 인정된 바이지만, Schwartz (2014)는 어떤 도서 은 한 권의 책을 스스로 만들어서 함께 읽는 신으로 한 걸음 더 나아간 사례를 소개하고 있다. California 주 Sacramento Public Library(SPL)는 Edgar Allan Poe를 주제로 한 ‘One Book’ 로젝트를 해 도서 그래픽 디자이 가 디자인하고, 지역 시인인 교수가 텍스트를 편집하여 Poe의 작품 모음집 The Slender Poe를 직 펴냈다. SPL은 원래 가지고 있던 자가 출 서비스인 I Street Press 를 통해 책을 출 하고 720권을 인쇄하여 125 권은 도서 장서에 편입시키고, 60권은 북클 럽이 사용하며, 일부는 유료로 매했다. 한 Sacramento Film & Music Festival과 연계하 여 Poe 로젝트 화를 상 하고, 지역 맥주회 사와 트 쉽으로 ‘One Book’ 로그램을 해 ‘Edgar Allan Porter’라는 랜드의 맥주를 생산하게 하는 등 다양한 활동을 이끌어, 앙 118 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 도서 과 29개 분 에서 1,000여 명이 참가하 고, Poe Project 필름은 온라인 상 20,000여 회 람의 성과를 거두었다. 이처럼 도서 들이 새 로운 아이디어를 목시키는 것은 비교 표 , 안정 인 ‘한 책’ 독서운동이 개별 도서 의 특성에 따라 창의 으로 변화하고 성장할 가능 성을 시사한다. 그밖에 McSwain(2008)은 South Australia 에서 “독서를 장려하고 찬양하기 한 리터러 시 증진 로그램 ‘Salisbury Reads’ 일환이며, Salisbury Writers Festival의 부분으로 진행되 는 ‘One Book One Salisbury’를 간략히 소개 했다. 이것은 남부 호주에서 최 로 시작된 ‘한 책’ 로젝트 이니셔티 로서 매년 청소년을 한 책과 어른을 한 책을 각각 한 권씩 선정하 여 읽으며, 특히 지역에 거주하는 작가의 책을 요시함”을 강조하고 있다. 한편 국내에서 윤정옥은 최근 연구(2014)에 서 미국의 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 선정 책들의 계량 특성을 분석하고자 시도하 다. 1998년부터 2013년까지 미국의회도서 도서센터 웹사이트 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 주별 작가별 리스트에 등 록된 2,220개 로그램 선정 책 1,037종을 심 으로 연도별 선정 분포와 변동 추이를 살펴보았 다. 선정 책들의 연도별 로그램 분포, 선호된 책의 연도별 추이, ‘Seattle Reads’와 One Book, One Chicago 같은 선도 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들 이 책 선정에 미친 향 등을 살펴보았다. 조찬 식(2013)은 국내의 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 사례로서 ‘2012 독서의 해’ 로그램으로 시행된 서울시 성북구의 ‘원 북, 성북' 독서운동을 검토하 다. 그는 독서운동의 이론 배경 우리나라 ‘한 책, 한 도시’ 독서운동의 황을 살펴보고, ‘원 북, 성북’ 독서운동의 내용과 활동에 향을 미친 구체 인 요소들을 분석하고자 시도하 다. ‘한 책’의 선정과 행사, 독서토론, 독서토론 아카데미, 마을로 찾아가는 작가와의 만남, 북 스타트 등 다양한 로그램을 검토하고 참가자 의 반응을 분석하 다. 그밖에는 ‘한 책’ 독서운 동과 련하여 새로운 연구는 에 띄지 않는다. 이처럼 부분 국내외 ‘한 책’ 련 연구들은 특정한 ‘한 책’ 로젝트의 사례 혹은 된 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 경험에 을 맞추었다. 본 연 구는 그러한 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 심에 있는 책 들이 각각 ‘한 책’으로서 갖는 의미를 개별 으 로 다룬 연구는 아직 에 띄지 않는다는 에 주목하여 첫 분석을 시도하기로 하 다. 3. 앵무새 죽이기 의 분석 3.1 앵무새 죽이기 의 연도별 선정 추이 미국의 ‘한 책’ 독서운동에서 지난 1998년부 터 2013년 6월 당시까지 선정된 책들은 모두 1,561종이다. 이들 한 개 이상 로그램에서 선정된 책들의 복을 제거한 고유한 책은 1,037종이며, 이들을 선정한 ‘한 책’ 로그램의 수는 모두 2,220개에 이른다. 실제로 이 시 까 지 시행된 ‘한 책’ 로그램은 모두 2,102개 지 만, 여기에서는 일부 로그램에서 한 번에 어 린이, 청소년, 성인용 등을 구분하여 한 권 이상 의 책을 읽은 경우도 있어서, 이를 별도의 로 그램으로 간주하고 2,220개로 보았다. 이 연 구에 따르면 이 로그램들에서 선정된 1,037종 의 책들 가운데 가장 많은 로그램에서 선정된 ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 119 것은 Harper Lee의 앵무새 죽이기 로서 모두 84개 로그램에서 선정되었다(윤정옥 2014). 2014년 4월 이를 다시 확인한 결과, 지난 1년 사이 2개 로그램이 추가로 등록되어 모두 86 개 로그램이 이 책을 선정하 으며, 여 히 부동의 1 다. 그동안 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 연구에서 ‘ 로젝 트’는 특정한 지역사회의 개별 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 자체를, ‘ 로그램’은 개별 ‘한 책’ 로젝트에서 한 번의 시행 사례를 각각 의미하도록 용어 일 성을 유지하 고, 여기에서도 그 게 하 다. 앞서 언 한 Library of Congress Center for the Book의 ‘한 책’ 독서운동 자별 리스 트 주별 리스트에 따르면 앵무새 죽이기 는 2013년 6월에는 84개 로그램에서 선정된 것 으로 등록되어 있었고, 2014년 4월 재에는 86 개 로그램에서 선정된 것으로 확인되었다. 2013년 리스트에서 2006년 11개 로그램이 이 책을 선정하 고, 2012년에는 선정한 로그램 이 없다고 등록되었던 것이, 2014년 리스트에 는 2006년 12개 로그램, 2012년에는 1개 로 그램이 각각 등록되어, 2개 증가한 것으로 나타 났다. 2006년 이 책을 선정한 것으로 뒤늦게 등록 이 확인된 ‘한 책’ 로그램은 Sioux City, Iowa and South Sioux City, Nebraska(*Regional program)이고, 2012년 새로 등록된 로그램 은 Massachusetts 주 Milton의 ‘Milton Reads’ 이다. ‘Milton Reads’는 Milton Public Library 가 주 하는 ‘한 책’ 로젝트로서 2012년 처음 시작하면서 이 책을 선정하 다. 이 ‘한 책’ 로 젝트는 몇 개 되지 않은 2010년 이후 출범한 후 발주자들 가운데 하나이다. 1998년부터 2013년까지 매년 가장 많은 로 그램에서 선정된 책을 보여주고 있는데, 앵무 새 죽이기 가 2002년에는 17개 로그램, 2007 년에는 19개 로그램에서 선정되어 두 차례 가 장 많이 선정된 책이 되었다. <그림 1>은 앵무새 죽이기 의 연도별 선정 추이를 보여 다. 왼쪽 도표는 앵무새 죽이기 가 ‘One Book, One Chicago’에서 처음 선정된 2001년부터 2013년까지 미국 역의 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들의 선정 추이를 보여 다. 오른쪽 도표 는 National Endowment for the Arts의 TBR 의 2007년 정식 출범부터 최근 지역사회 선정을 마친 2014년-2015년까지 추이를 보여 다. <그림 1> 연도별 앵무새 죽이기 선정 로그램: ‘한 책’ 로그램, 2001-2013(왼쪽 도표) ; TBR, 2006-2015(오른쪽 도표) 120 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 <그림 1>의 왼쪽 도표에 따르면 2003년과 2004년에 각각 8개 ‘한 책’ 로그램, 2005년에 9개 로그램, 2006년에 12개 로그램이 이 책 을 선정했고, 2007년에는 19개 로그램, 2008년 에는 4개 로그램이 이 책을 선정하 음을 확 인할 수 있다. 이후 2009년부터 2011년까지는 매년 2개 로그램, 2012년과 2013년에는 각각 1개씩의 ‘한 책’ 로그램이 이 책을 선정한 것 으로 나타났다. 한편 <그림 1>의 오른쪽 도표에 따르면 상반기와 하반기로 나 어서 지역사회 를 공모했던 TBR 공식 사업 첫 해인 2007년 1월-2007년 6월에는 19개, 2007년 9월-2007년 12월에는 28개 지역사회가 이 책을 선정하 고, 2008년 1월-2008년 6월에는 24개, 2008년 9월- 2009년 6월에는 32개 지역사회가 이 책을 선정 하 다. 2007년과 2008년에 각각 47개와 56개 지역사회가 이 책을 읽은 것이다. 일 년 단 로 공모를 시작한 2009년 9월-2010년 6월에는 24개, 2011년 9월-2012년 6월에 4개, 2012년 9월-2013 년 6월에 2개, 2013년 9월-2014년 6월에 1개, 그 리고 2014년 9월-2015년 6월에는 4개 지역사회 가 각각 이 책을 선정하 다. 유일하게 2010년 9월-2011년 6월 사업에는 아무도 이 책을 선정 하지 않았다. 2007년부터 2015년까지 공식 사업 기간 동안 모두 138개 지역사회가 앵무새 죽이 기 를 선정하 다. 앵무새 죽이기 의 선정과 련하여 ‘한 책’ 로젝트와 TBR 사이 직 상 계는 다소 모호하다. 윤정옥(2014)에 따르면 2007년 한 해 동안 TBR에 참여한 46개 지역사회가 앵무 새 죽이기 를 읽었으나, 그 해 Center for the Books 웹사이트에 등록된 17개 ‘한 책’ 로젝 트들 단지 3개 지역사회만 ‘TBR’임을 명기 하 다. 나머지 14개 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들은 TBR 과는 상 없이 자발 으로 선정하여 읽었다는 것이다. 그럼에도 불구하고 ‘한 책’ 로젝트에 서 2002년을 정 으로 앵무새 죽이기 선정 지 역사회가 어들었다가 다시 2006년과 2007년 에 크게 늘어난 것은 TBR에 이 책이 권장도서 로 포함되어, 가시성이 더욱 커졌기 때문일 가능 성은 배제할 수 없다. 3.2 앵무새 죽이기 의 평가 이처럼 많이 ‘한 책’으로 선정된 앵무새 죽이 기 는 어떤 책인가? 이 책에 한 평가는 Library of Congress가 “Celebration of the Book”의 다년 로젝트를 진행하면서 편성한 “Books That Shaped America” 목록에서 일별할 수 있다. 모두 100권의 책이 수록된 이 목록에 하여 Library of Congress 장 James H. Billington은 이것이 “가장 훌륭한 미국 책들의 명단은 아니며, 그보다는 미국인의 삶에 향을 미쳤던 책에 하여 국 화를 발하려는 목 을 가진다”고 강조하 다. 이 목록 소개문 에 따르면 1960년 퓰리처상 수상작인 앵무새 죽이기 는 발간 즉시 “작가에게 엄청난 비평 경제 성공을 가져왔으며, 재까지 3천만 카피 이상이 인쇄되었다. 하퍼 리는 부당하게 기소된 흑인을 변호하는 소도시 변호사인 애티 커스 핀치라는 미국 문학사상 가장 속 인 웅 인물을 창조해냈다.” 한 목록은 이 책의 요성에 하여 1961년 Washington Post의 서평을 다음과 같이 인용하고 있다: “ 용에 한 백 운드의 설교, 혹은 용의 결핍을 개탄 하는 같은 분량의 독설도 계몽이라는 울에서 ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 121 는 앵무새 죽이기 라는 제목을 가진 단 18온 스짜리 새로운 소설에는 한참 못 미칠 것이다” (Library of Congress 2014). 한편 앵무새 죽이기 는 미국 내 많은 도서 들에 소장되어 있는 인 책이다. 2014년 9월 18일 재 OCLC의 종합목록 WorldCat에 포함된 To Kill a Mockingbird(Philadelphia: Lippincott, ©1960)의 서지 코드는 미국 내에 서만 485개 (edition)이 4,913개 도서 도 서 시스템에 소장되어 있음을 표시하고 있다. 를 들어 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들에서 앵무새 죽이 기 다음으로 많이 읽힌 Fahrenheit 451(New York: Simon and Schuster, [1967?])은 400개 이 4,297개 도서 에 소장되어 있고, The Kite Runner(New York: Riverhead Books, 2003) 는 162개 이 4,024개 도서 에, The Great Gatsby(New York, NY: Scribner, [1996]) 는 938개 이 4,567개 도서 에 각각 소장되어 있다고 한 것과 비교하면, 이 책이 얼마나 많은 도서 에 소장되어 있는지 알 수 있다. 물론 각 서지 코드에 나타난 소장 도서 수가 미국 내 체 도서 소장의 완 한 통계를 반 하 지는 않지만, 체 인 동향을 보여 다고 할 수 있다. 앵무새 죽이기 는 한 많이 읽히기도 하는 책이다. 미국의 고등학교 학생들이 책 한 권 을 읽은 다음 퀴즈를 풀어서 독서수 과 이력을 추 할 수 있게 하는 Accelerated Reader(AR) 로그램 데이터베이스에서 그 증거를 찾을 수 있다. 이 로그램에 2012-2013년 학사연도 동 안 미국 역의 31,195개 학교에서 980여만 학 생의 독서기록이 등록되었고, 이들이 이 기간 동안 읽은 체 3억 1천 8백만 권 가운데 가장 많이 읽은 책들의 목록이 ‘Top 20 books read overall and by gender, grades 1-12’로 발표되 었다. 여기에서 학년별로 여학생, 남학생, 그리 고 체의 20 목록에서 앵무새 죽이기 는 690,959명의 8학년 독자들 여학생 16 , 체 20 , 182,729명의 9학년 독자들 남학생 4 , 여학생 3 , 체 3 , 134,767명의 10학년 에서 남학생 6 , 여학생 5 , 체 5 , 그리고 107,301명의 11학년에서 남학생 11 , 체 12 의 순 에 올랐다. 앵무새 죽이기 는 ATOS 도 서수 1)은 5.6, 흥미수 은 UG(Upper Grade. 9-12 학년)으로 평가된다. 각 학년별 20 까지 책들의 ATOS 도서수 체 평균치가 8학년은 5.2, 9학년은 5.6, 10학년과 11학년은 각각 5.7인 것을 보면 앵무새 죽이기 는 평균치를 넘어서 는 독서 흥미수 의 책이다(Rennaissance Learning 2014, 13-16). 이 책은 한 학년별 로 달성해야 할 본문난이도 수 을 나타내는 ‘Common Core State Standards: 9-10 band’ 의 ‘Stories’ 목록에 오른 12권 가운데 9학년과 10학년 학생들의 5.54%가 읽어 가장 많이 읽은 책이었다. 그 다음으로 많이 읽은 책인 Franz Kafka의 The Metamorphosis는 1.62%, 다른 로 4 인 Ray Bradbury의 Fahrenheit 451은 1.28%, 가장 게 읽은 Michael Shaara의 The Killer Angel은 0.04%의 학생들이 읽었다. 이 처럼 다른 책들이 1% 안 의 독서율을 보인 데 비해 앵무새 죽이기 는 히 많은 학생들이 읽었음을 알 수 있다. 참고로 다른 연령 의 1) Rennaissance Learning, Inc.가 개발한 본문난이도 측정 수 으로서 평균 문장 길이, 평균 단어 길이, 단어 난이도 등을 사용한다. 122 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 ‘Common Core State Standards: 6-8 band’의 ‘Stories’ 목록에서는 가장 많이 읽힌 Mildred D. Taylor의 Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cary 는 2.27%, ‘Common Core State Standards: 11-CCR(College and Career Readiness) band’ 에서 The Great Gatsby는 6.82%가 읽었다 (Rennaissance Learning 2014, 49-51). 일반 독자들의 자율 인 평가에서도 앵무새 죽이기 는 에 띄게 높은 호감도를 보여주고 있다. 독자들이 자유롭게 서평을 올리며, 이 서 평들이 OCLC WorldCat에 이용자 서평으로서 링크되는 GoodReads.Com(2014)에서는 “Best Books of the 20th Century”를 선정하 다. 20 세기, 즉 1901년 1월 1일부터 2000년 12월 31일 사이에 간행된 책들 가장 훌륭한 책을 투표 하도록 한 데서 이 책은 1 를 차지하 다. 2014 년 5월 21일 재 이 리스트에 37,199명의 독 자가 투표하 고 모두 5,531권의 책이 올라와 있다. 이들 가운데 앵무새 죽이기 는 5개의 별 에 평균 4.23개 별 으로 평가 고, 총 은 1,007,189 , 가장 훌륭한 책이라고 투표한 사람 은 10,183명이었다. 이 리스트에서 2 를 차지 한 George Orwell의 1984가 평균 4.09개의 별 , 총 628,041 , 투표자 6,400명, 3 를 차지 한 J.R.R. Tolkien의 The Lord of the Rings (#1-3)가 평균 4.43개의 별 , 총 567,899 , 투표자 5,774명이었던 것에 비하면 앵무새 죽이 기 에 한 독자들의 높은 평가는 두드러진다. 하지만 읽을거리로서의 앵무새 죽이기 는 종종 반론이나 이견이 많은 논쟁 상이 되기 도 하 다. American Library Association의 Office for Intellectual Freedom은 매년 개인이 나 단체들이 국의 학교나 도서 에서 제거하 도록 요구하는 책들의 명단을 공개하고 있는데, 여기서 앵무새 죽이기 는 자주 언 되고 있다. 이들은 “ 지 혹은 도 되는(banned or chal- lenged)” 책들로 이 책은 The Great Gatsby, J. D. Salinger의 The Catcher in the Rye, John Steinbeck의 The Grapes of Wrath 등과 더불 어 가장 자주 도 받는 책들 하나로 이름을 올리고 있다(ALA 2014a). 앵무새 죽이기 가 도 받는 이유는 매우 다 양하 다. 를 들어, 욕설로 여겨지는 “damn”과 “whore lady”와 같은 용어의 사용(Eden Valley, MN, 1977), 흑인 비하 인종차별 용어인 “nigger”와 같은 표 사용(Waukegan, Illinois School District, 1984; Kansas City, Missouri junior high schools, 1985), 작품 자체가 “상스 러운, 쓰 기 같은 소설”이라는 평가(Vernon Verona Sherill, New York School District, 1980), 작품이 “ 정 인 인종 통합 과정에 심 리 인 손상을 가한다”, “훌륭한 문학작품이라 는 미명 아래 제도화된 인종차별주의를 드러낸 다”(Warren, IN Township Schools, 1981), “지 역사회의 가치 과 충돌한다”(Lindale, Texas, 1995) 등 매우 다양한 이유가 언 되었다. 특히 작품 속에 묘사된 흑인에 한 인종 욕 설이나 차별, 백인 인종주의자들의 행동이 흑인 어린이 독자들에 미칠 부정 향에 한 비 과 우려는 흑인 학생들과 학부모들뿐만이 아니 라(Glynn County, Georgia, 2001; Muskogee, Oklahoma High School, 2001), 많은 지역사회 의 구성원들이 지속 으로 지 해 왔다(Normal, Illinois, Community High School, 2003; Stanford Middle School, Durham, North Carolina, 2004; Brentwood, Tennessee, Middle School, 2006; ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 123 Cherry Hill, NJ Board of Education, 2007). 많은 경우 그러한 일부의 도 이나 비 에도 불 구하고 이 책은 학교도서 이나 공공도서 장 서로 잔류되었지만, 결국 학교 교육과정의 독 서 목록에서 제거되기도 한 사례(St. Edmund Campion Secondary School, Brampton, Ontario, Canada, 2009)(ALA 2014b)도 없진 않다. 3.3 앵무새 죽이기 의 ‘한 책’ 선정 이유 앞 에서 언 한 것처럼 앵무새 죽이기 의 문학 , 문화 , 혹은 사회 평가는 만장일치 는 아니다. 하지만 어도 ‘한 책’ 독서운동과 련해서는 많은 사람들 혹은 지역사회가 함께 읽 고 싶어한 책인 것은 명백한 사실이다. 특정한 지역사회가 어떤 책을 함께 읽고 토론하면서 달 성하고자 하는 목표는 다양할 것이다. 한 같 은 책을 읽어도 지역사회마다 지향 이 다를 수 도 있다. 따라서 많은 ‘한 책’ 로젝트가 앵무 새 죽이기 를 함께 읽고 토론할 한 권의 책으로 선택했을 때, 그 선정의 이유 혹은 가치는 과연 무엇인지 살펴볼 필요가 있다. American Library Association은 ‘한 책’ 독 서운동에 합한 책은 “토론을 진하기 해 강한 흥미를 불러일으키는 쟁 , 인물 주제” 를 가져야 한다고 지 한 바 있다. 그리고 책 선 정의 지침은 무엇보다도 ‘한 책’ 독서운동이라 는 이니셔티 에서 명시한 목표에 기반해야 함을 강조했다(ALA 2003, 15-16). Seattle Public Library 사서로서 1998년 ‘If All of Seattle Read the Same Book’의 출범을 이끌었던 Pearl (2013)은 최근 독서그룹에서 토론하기 좋은 소 설책의 네 가지 조건을 다음과 같이 언 하 다: 첫째, “모호한 결말”을 가진다, 둘째, 책의 주인공이 자기 여생에 향을 미치는 결정을 내 려야 한다, 셋째, 작가가 소설의 내러티 구조 에 “평범하지 않은 무엇”을 한다. 넷째, 화자를 “신뢰할 수 없다.” 앵무새 죽이기 는 어느 정 도 이런 속성을 담고 있다. Dempsey(2009)는 ‘한 책’으로서 가장 성공 인 책들에는 뭔가 공통 인 특성이 있다고 하면서, Pearl이 “토론할 수 있는 … 토론하지 않고는 못 배기는(discussable … compulsibly discussable)” 책이어야 한다고 주장한 바를 인 용하 고, 독자들이 진지하게 받아들일 수 있는 책이어야 한다는 도 지 하 다. 이 한 앵 무새 죽이기 의 내용에서 볼 수 있는 특성이다. 한편 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 요한 특징 가운데 하나는 다양한 행사와 로그램을 통해 독서를 진하는 것이다. 이러한 책과 로그램의 연계 는 처음 Seattle에서부터 강조되었고, American Library Association(2003)도 요시 하 으 며, TBR에서 매뉴얼화 되었다고도 할 수 있다. TBR은 아 지역사회가 기 신청 단계에서부 터 지역의 책을 읽지 않는 사람들에게도 이 로젝트를 잘 알릴 수 있고, 참여를 독려할 수 있 는 다양한 행사와 로그램을 반드시 포함시키 도록 하며, 다음과 같은 요소들을 포함하여 구 성하도록 권장하 다. - 개막행사: 지역에서 로젝트 시작을 알린다. - 선정된 책이나 시에 하여 어도 한 번 의 기조행사: 를 들어 표 기 작가 의 강의, 패 토론, 혹은 자 낭독회 등. - 다른 종류의 로그램을 포함하는 최소한 두세 번의 특별행사: 를 들어 책을 각색 124 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 한 화, 선정 작가에 한 화, 혹은 극 화 낭독 등. - 다양한 장소에서 책이나 작가에 한 최소 한 10-50회의 토론: 를 들어 도서 , 서 , 박물 과 같이 다양한 청 이 모일 수 있는 곳을 포함한다(National Endowment for the Arts 2009b). 앵무새 죽이기 는 어쩌면 상기한 조건들을 잘 반 하는 책이라고 할 수 있다. 두 가지 측면 에서 이 책의 선정 이유를 살펴보았다. 3.3.1 주제와 이야깃거리 첫째, 앵무새 죽이기 는 강력한 주제와 메시 지를 담고 토론할 이야깃거리를 많이 갖고 있다. National Endowment for the Arts(2009a)는 일 이 TBR 선정도서 31권의 주제를 성장, 용 기, 범죄와 정의, 정체성, 용, 상실, 사랑이라 는 7개 범주로 나 어 소개한 바 있다. 앵무새 죽이기 는 그 가운데 상실을 제외한 6개 주제를 모두 담고 있는 것으로 나타났다. TBR 선정도 서 그 다음으로 많은 주제를 담은 The Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Things They Carried가 5개 주제를 다루었다고 한 것 에 비하면 이 책의 주제 다양성이 돋보인다. 주 제 다양성은 산발된 주제의 분산을 의미하는 것 이 아니라, 다양한 이 하나의 큰 주제로 통 합되어 이른바 ‘시 지’ 효과를 가져 온다고 할 수 있다. 2001년 최 의 ‘One Book, One Chicago’는 앵무새 죽이기 를 선정할 때, 이 책이 인간의 편견과 이해, 용서, 인종, 성별 갈등을 포함하여 ‘인종주의와 용’이라는 시카고뿐만 아니라 오 늘날 세계에 련된 보편 주제를 다루고 있다 고 강조하 다. 한 ‘도발 인 토론’을 불붙일 수 있어야 한다는 조건에 하게 부합한다고 하 다(Chicago Public Library 2003a). 최근 새로 시작된 몇 안 되는 ‘한 책’ 로젝 트들 하나인 Massachusettes 주 Dedham의 ‘Dedham Reads Together’도 2011년 출범 첫 해 이 책을 선정하 다. Dedham Public Library 가 주 하는 ‘Dedham Reads Together’의 목 표는 “주민들이 동시에 같은 책을 읽고, 공통된 주제로 화에 불을 붙이며, 일련의 즐거운 행 사를 즐기면서 지역사회를 한데 모으는 것”이 라고 하 다. 이들은 특별히 책의 선정기 을 명 시하지는 않았으나, ‘Dedham Reads Together 2011’에서는 앵무새 죽이기 가 발간 50주년이 라는 을 강조하면서, “ 원한 고 ”으로 최 의 Dedham 범 지역사회 독서 로그램에 완벽 한 선택이라고 하 다. 이들은 “정의와 공감이 라는 범한 주제로부터, 이 책으로 하여 생 명력을 갖게 하는 사람, 언어, 식물, 음식 등의 상세사항들까지, 토론하고 즐길 거리가 참 많 다”고 하 다(Dedham Public Library 2014). 말하자면 내용과 주제의 이야깃거리가 많다는 것이었다. 이야깃거리가 많다는 것은 독서토론만으로 도 다룰 내용이 많다는 의미도 된다. Missouri 주 Columbia의 Daniel Boone Regional Library (DBRL)가 주 하는 ‘One Read’는 2002년 ‘One Book, One Chicago’를 모델로 삼아 시작되었 다. 그 목표는 여가독서를 권장하고, DBRL 지 역에서 지역사회 력을 장려하고, 독서토론 다른 로그램으로 다양한 참여방법을 제공하 며, 독서토론 그룹에 자원을 제공한다는 것이다 ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 125 (DBRL 2014a). 이들은 주민 추천으로 10권의 책을 선정하고, 지역사회 구성원의 독서 패 이 2-3권으로 압축한 후 이를 다시 주민 투표에 부 쳐 최종 책을 선정한다. 2003년 ‘One Read’는 앵무새 죽이기 를 선정하 고, 당시 행사와 로그램의 진행 기록은 남아있지 않지만, NoveList Book Discussion Guides(EBSCO Publishing 2001)를 갖고 독서토론을 진행했음을 보고하 다(DBRL 2014b). 이들이 시작단계에서 주민 추천으로, 최종단계에서 주민 투표로 이 책을 선정한 것은 같이 읽고 이야기할 책으로서의 가 치를 지역사회 구성원들이 공감하고 인정했음 을 의미한다. 다양한 주제 혹은 이야깃거리 가운데 특별히 어떤 을 강조하는가는 개별 지역사회의 선택 일 것이다. 를 들어, 2009년 4월 Wiscosin 주 Milton은 TBR로 ‘Milton Reads’를 진행하며 이 책을 읽었다. City of Milton과 Milton Public Library가 주 하는 ‘Milton Reads’의 목표는 우리 환경, 계 자신에 하여 생각해보도 록 도발하는 한 문학을 함께 읽음으로써 ‘시 체의 화’를 증진시키는 것이라고 하며, 이 책의 주제가 “인종차별과 순수성의 괴” 라는 을 강조하 다(Milton Public Library 2014). 역시 이 책을 읽은 2014년 Minnesota 주 St. Cloud에서 Great River Educational Arts Theatre가 주 한 TBR에서는 행사와 로그 램 소개에서 거듭 ‘진정한 용기’를 강조하 고, ‘순수함, 용, 가족 믿는 바 로 살아가는 용기’에 한 책으로서 가치를 지역에서 살려 내고자 하 다(National Endowment for the Arts 2014a). 3.3.2 행사와 로그램의 연결 둘째, 앵무새 죽이기 는 ‘한 책’ 독서운동에 서 요하게 여겨지는 행사와 로그램에 연결 하기 좋다. ‘One Book, One Chicago’도 책의 선정기 에 성인 독서토론 그룹, 작가의 방문, 연극, 화, 자도서 등 로그램에 연결하기 쉬워야 한다는 을 포함시켰다. 당연히 최 의 책인 앵무새 죽이기 는 그 조건에 부합한 것으 로 여겨졌다. ‘One Book, One Chicago’에서 진행되었던 로그램 아이디어는 이후 많은 ‘한 책’ 로젝 트에서 채택되었다. 를 들어 Chicago에서 상 된 1962년 제작 화 앵무새 죽이기 는 이 후 많은 ‘한 책’ 로젝트들에서도 상 되었고, 이 책의 부분이나 체를 연극으로 공연하거나, 소설의 핵심 내용인 탐 로빈스의 재 장면을 지역 법률가들이 모의재 으로 재 한 것 같은 로그램(Chicago Public Library 2003b)도 다양한 방식으로 복제되었다. 물론 계속해서 새로운 아이디어를 담은 로 그램들도 등장하 다. 를 들어 ‘Dedham Reads Together 2011’은 독서토론 외 많은 로그램 을 진행하진 않았지만, 남부 스타일의 사교 티 티, 어린이를 한 테디베어 티 티 등을 열 었고, 폐막행사로서 Norfolk 법원에서 배우들이 직 법정장면을 재 하는 공연을 했다. 앞서 ‘One Book, One Chicago’에서는 이를 실제 법 조인들이 재 했던 것과 달리 여기서는 지역의 배우들이 연기하면서, 책의 가장 요한 장면을 되살리고자 했다(Dedham Public Library 2014). 2009년 TBR에 참여하여 이 책을 읽었던 Wisconsin 주 Milton의 ‘Milton Reads’는 ‘Milton Reads Kick-off!’ 출범행사에서 책의 짧은 극화 126 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 낭독, 책 나눠주기, In Search of Mockingbird 자 Loretta Ellsworth의 낭독과 토론, 독서토 론, 화상 디 트 뷔페 등을 진행했다. 그 밖에는 책을 다 읽은 사람은 종이 ‘앵무새’에 자 기 이름을 써서 도서 곳곳에 붙여놓게 하는 ‘Autograph a bird at the library’를 진행했다 (Milton Public Library 2014). 아직 행사를 진행하진 않았지만, 2014년-2015 년 TBR에 참여하는 Florida 주 Fort Lauderdale 도 별로 많은 로그램을 계획하지 않고 있다. Florida Center for the Book at Broward County Library가 주 하는 이 TBR은 첫 행사로 2015 년 1월 15일 Fort Lauderdale Public Library 에서 “‘앵무새 죽이기’ Reader's Theatre”를 진 행하며, 지역극단 The Playgroup, LLC가 앵무 새 죽이기 를 공연하고, 희곡작가와 문답 다 과시간을 갖는다. Fort Lauderdale Film Festival의 술 화 극장인 Cinema Paradiso 에서는 화 상 과 토론을 한다(National Endowment for the Arts 2014c). Michigan 주 Holland의 Hope College가 주 하는 TBR 한 단 두 가지 로그램만으로 진행된다. 11월 11일 Knickerbocker Theatre에 서 ‘To Kill a Mockingbird: Free Film Event’ 를 연다. 이 화를 보고 어째서 “앵무새를 죽이 는 것은 죄”인지 생각해보자고 한다. Holland Museum에서 지역 고등학교 학생들과 창작한 동 술 로젝트를 시하며 리셉션을 열고, 이것으로 앵무새 죽이기 축하를 마무리한다. 이 TBR 주 기 인 Hope College는 지역의 도서 , 박물 5개의 지역 학교들과 함께 11월 한 달 동안 독서그룹을 구성하고 독서토론 을 진행한다(Hope College 2014). 4. 앵무새 죽이기 선정 도시의 사례 모두 224개에 이르는 앵무새 죽이기 를 선 정한 ‘한 책’ 로그램이나 TBR에서 이 책을 토 론함과 더불어 나름 로 고유한 활동을 했을 것 으로 기 된다. 하지만 거의 부분 활동의 세 부사항을 알기 어렵다. 왜냐면 ‘One Book, One Chicago’처럼 공식 웹사이트를 구축하고 그동 안 읽었던 모든 책과 행사 등 자료를 공개하는 경우(One Book, One Chicago 2014)는 많지 않기 때문이다. 특히 이 책을 읽은 ‘한 책’ 로 그램들이 부분 2007년 이 에 몰려있고 당시 자료를 지 까지 공개하는 경우는 거의 없다. 따라서 여기에서는 TBR을 통해 최근 앵무새 죽이기 를 읽는 두 개 도시의 사례를 살펴보도 록 한다. 4.1 Irving의 TBR 2014년 9월부터 2015년 6월 사이 진행되는 2015 TBR에는 모두 77개 지역사회가 참여하고, 4개 지역사회가 앵무새 죽이기 를 읽기로 하 다. 이들 Texas 주 Irving의 Irving Public Library가 주 하는 TBR은 모두 37개 로그 램을 진행한다(National Endowment for the Arts 2014b). 이들은 출범행사로 2014년 9월 27일 ‘Harper's Bazaar-The Big Read Kickoff 2014’를 지역 센터에서 열면서 1930년 생활의 일면을 경험 해보라고 한다. 참가자들은 마치 당시의 작은 타운 박람회에 간 것처럼 음식, 페이스페인 , 동물, 장사꾼, 게임과 스토리텔링 등을 포함하 며, 합창단과 밴드 등의 음악공연도 볼 수 있다. ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 127 출범행사 이 에 9월 한 달 동안 모든 도서 들에서 열리는 ‘Boo's Cards Teen Art Contest’ 는 6학년부터 12학년 학생들이 책에서 감을 받은 트 이딩카드 크기 술작품을 만든다. 한 아이들은 도서 에서 나무로 새집 짓기 공작 을 한다. 이 Irving의 TBR은 다른 책으로 확장된 다. 등학생들은 Christopher Paul Curtis의 The Watsons Go To Birmingham-1963을 토 론하고, 작가와 만남의 시간을 갖는다. 이 소설은 1960년 흑인인권운동이 매우 격렬하게 진행되 었던 당시 1963년 9월 Alabama 주 Birmingham 의 흑인교회 폭 사건을 배경으로 하며, 앵무 새 죽이기 와 많은 것을 공유하는 작품이다. 그보다 더 어린 아이들을 한 로그램들도 다양하다. 여러 도서 에서 열리는 ‘Meet the Sneetches’에서는 Dr. Seuss의 인종 용에 한 스토리 인물인 스니치와의 티에 아이들 을 한다. 새를 주제로 한 유치원생 가족 스토리타임, 앵무새를 주제로 한 유아 스토리 타임과 인형극을 공연하며, 같은 제목으로 18개 월부터 2살까지 아이들을 한 스토리타임, 가 족을 한 이개국어 스토리타임, 3살부터 5살 아이들을 한 스토리타임 등으로 진행한다. 한 Central Irving Library에서 ‘Walking with the Power of One’이라는 유아, 유치원생 보호자를 한 스토리타임 스토리 워크를 두 차 례 진행한다. 이 로그램은 “한 사람의 힘(Power of One)”을 주제로 하며 “아무도 일어서지 않 을 때, 모든 것은 걷잡을 수 없게 된다. 한 사람 이 함께 해 때까지…”를 강조한다. 무엇보다도 Central Irving Library의 미스 터리 북클럽 ‘Midweek Mysteries’ 등 여러 도 서 분 을 비롯하여 노인센터 같은 지역사회 곳곳에서 많은 독서토론과 패 토론이 진행된 다. East Branch Library에서는 가족들이 모여 책을 토론하고, 통 인 남부스타일 디 트를 즐기는 시간을 갖는다. Central Irving Library 에서 ‘The Based on Reality’ 북클럽이 Marja Mills의 Lee 기 The Mockingbird Next Door 독서토론을 하며, Central Irving Library에서 는 ‘Mockingbirds, Justice and Race: A Conversation’이라는 패 토론회를 갖는다. 여러 차례 화 상 로그램이 진행된다. 청소년과 가족을 한 앵무새 죽이기 화 로그램이 도서 들에서 4차례 진행되고, 2013년 제작된 ‘The Watsons Go to Birmingham’ 화도 4차례 상 된다. 한 오 10시부터 오후 10시까지 하루 종일 법정 드라마 화들을 시청 하는 ‘Courtroom Drama Movie Marathon’도 진행된다. 그밖에도 다양한 음악과 공연 로그램이 있 다. Central Irving Library에서 ‘슬픔의 노래’라 고도 불리는 흑인 가를 공연한다. ‘The “Hey Boo" Haunted House’는 참가자들이 의상을 입 고 사탕, 게임, 페이스페인 등으로 핼러 티 를 진행하는 로그램이 있고, National Scouting Museum에서는 ‘The Mockingbird on Trial’으 로 소설의 법정장면을 모의재 으로 공연한다. Irving의 TBR은 이처럼 9월과 10월 두 달 동 안 어른, 청소년, 어린이, 유아까지 다양한 연 령층이 각각 혹은 함께 참여할 수 있는 로그 램들을 진행한다. 아울러 The Watson's Go to Birmingham-1963, The Mockingbird Next Door 등 책을 함께 읽으면서 앵무새 죽이기 를 확장하는 효과를 기 할 수도 있다. 128 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 4.2 Staten Island의 TBR New York 주 Staten Island의 Staten Island OutLOUD 주 TBR은 2014년 9월 12일 New Dorp Branch Library의 독서토론을 필두로 하 여, 4차례 독서토론을 하고, 모두 30개 로그램 을 진행한다. Staten Island Museum의 연례 쇼, 지역사회 행사인 아 리카 자부심 퍼 이드, 웨스터리 크 축제, 지역 NAACP 기념행사에서 책 나눠 주기가 진행된다. 지역 리치몬드 옛동네 제삼법정에서는 ‘A Con- versation on Atticus Finch, Defense Attorney’ 라는 로그램으로 Staten Island OutLOUD 와 Staten Island Women's Bar Association 이 책 속의 변호사 Finch라는 인물을 토론하고, Tom Robinson 재 략을 검토하며, 명한 변호사, 사, 검사 등의 조언과 함께 작품의 법 정장면을 재 한다. 한편 St George Library Center에서 어른을 한 창작 워크 ‘Mockingbird Memoirs’을 진행한다. 이 로그램에서는 10월 워크 세 션에서 소설 회고록으로서 책을 탐구하고, 주 인공 Scout가 2년간의 기억을 돌아보는 것처럼, 참가자들이 어린 시 요한 순간의 기억에 바 탕을 둔 을 쓰고 읽기를 한다. 지역의 카페에서는 ‘Music & Words of the American Civil Rights Movement’를 진행하 며, 앵무새 죽이기 출 당시 발생했던 사건 을 배경으로 하는 미국 인권운동의 음악을 연주 한다. 이 소설의 구체화에 도움을 주었던 미국 인권운동에서 몇 가지 발화 에 련된 본문과 함께, 소설의 록을 읽고 토론한다. 를 들어 50주년이 된 1964년 ‘인권법’ 통과에 한 신간 도서 2권을 다룬다. 한 미국 법원의 역사 인 학교 통합 결정과 미시시피 주에서 살해된 14세 흑인 소년 Emmett Till 사망 60주년 등도 다루며, 책의 법정장면에 부분 으로 감을 Scottsboro Boys 련 도 찾아본다. 지역의 교회에서 열리는 ‘In Search of the Mockingbird’는 책에 감을 받은 음악과 춤을 공연하고, 연기자, 손님 참가자들이 토론 한다. 리치몬드 옛동네에서는 ‘The Mockingbird At Home’을 진행하며 큐 이터가 책 배경인 1930년 컬 션의 물건들을 보여주며, 작품 속 메이콤이라는 가상 마을에서 주인공과 이웃 들이 사용한 것들과 유사한 옷, 사진, 살림살이 등을 탐구하며, 책을 읽고 토론한다. 지역 갤러리에서는 어떻게 소설을 화 본 형식으로 변환했는지에 한 토론과 화 시간 을 갖는다. Staten Island Academy에서는 학 생들이 책에서 감을 받은 창작 술작품 시 회를 열고, 학교 강당에서 시민 공개 독서토론 도 연다. 지역 교회에서 앵무새 죽이기 Staten Island Chapter of the NAACP 창설을 주제로 ‘Building Bridges to Understanding-NAACP on Staten Island’를 연다. 흑인 인권단체의 지 역 활동과 이 책의 의미를 연결한 행사이다. Richmondtown Branch Library의 ‘A Civil Rights Oral History’에서는 책을 읽고 토론하 며, 앨라배마에서 은 목사로서 일했던 지역 출 신 Rev. George McClain의 직 경험을 들어 본다. 그는 Freedom Riders와 같이 일했고, 유 권자 등록운동 조직을 도왔던 사람이다. St George Library에서는 1962년 제작 화 ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 129 를 상 하고, Noble Maritime Collection의 ‘Harper Lee & Truman Capote’에서는 Lee의 어린 시 친구이며 등장인물 Dill의 모델이었던 작가 Truman Capote를 함께 다룬다. Capote 의 인생과 작품을 다룬 Pink Triangle 공 자인 지역작가 겸 출 가 Danforth Prince를 청연 사로 하여 등장인물들에 하여 읽고 화를 나 다. 자연과 함께 하는 독서토론도 있다. 지역 Greenbelt Nature Center의 ‘Mockingbird In the Greenbelt’, Clay Pit Ponds State Park의 ‘Mockingbird at Clay Pit Ponds’에서 책을 토 론하고 숲길을 걷는다. ‘The “Mockingbird” Community & Tottenville’에서는 책, 메이콤 과 토튼빌 지역사회, 역사와 사람들을 비교한다. 지역 창작 사진가 조합에서 열리는 ‘Let Us Now Praise Famous Men’은 이 책과 공황 당시 앨 라배마의 생활을 탐구한 사진 에세이인 James Agee와 Walker Evans의 Let Us Now Praise Famous Men을 지역 사진가 Gail Middleton 인도로 토론한다. 그리고 ‘The Christmas that Changed Her Life’라는 지역사회 토론에서는 책과 Lee의 회고록 기사인 ‘Christmas To Me’ 를 읽고 토론한다. 이처럼 다채로운 행사와 로그램의 면모를 보면 앵무새 죽이기 라는 책 자체의 내용에서 역사, 사회, 사회, 술의 여러 측면으로 연결되 는 풍요한 생각의 실마리를 찾아내고 있음을 알 수 있다. 특히 흑인 인권이라는 주제와 련된 활동에 집 하면서, 한 권의 책이 사회 상을 그리지만, 아울러 사회의 변화를 가져오는 도구 가 될 수 있다는 에 해서도 깊이 생각할 수 있게 한다. 5. 맺음말 이 연구에서는 지 까지 가장 많은 ‘한 책’ 로그램 TBR에서 선정된 앵무새 죽이기 를 읽은 지역사회들이 이 책을 선택하며 무엇을 생 각하 는지, 실제로 책을 읽으면서 무엇을 했는 지 살펴보고자 하 다. 그동안 모두 86개 ‘한 책’ 로그램과 138개 TBR이 이 책을 읽었지만 체를 살펴보기 어려워, 몇몇 지역사회 사례를 검토했다. 그 결과 같은 책을 읽으면서도 지역 마다 주제의 상이한 측면에 을 맞추었고, 책 한 권을 매개로 하여, 책 자체 책에서 다 룬 내용을 바탕으로 하여 다양한 활동과 로그 램의 무궁무진한 변주가 가능했음을 찰할 수 있었다. 어디에서든 용기, 정의, 용, 가족과 같은 주 제들이 강조되었고, 내용 속 세부사항들이 하나 하나 이야깃거리로 다루어졌다. 를 들어 지역 으로 남부나 작은 마을 생활양식, 시 으로 1930년 나 1960년 생활상 같은 구체 상 이 담론의 주제가 되며, 심지어 좁게는 앵무새 부터 넓게는 새의 의미, 10월의 핼러 행사 등 까지 독립 주제이자 이야깃거리가 되었다. 한 이 책에서 다룬 미국 사회가 자행한 흑 백차별이라는 역사 문제, 그것을 극복하기 한 개인 , 사회 노력 인권운동, 실제 체험 자 등으로 주제는 꼬리에 꼬리를 물고 확 되었 다. 이들은 다양한 방식의 독서토론에서 직 다루어졌을 뿐만 아니라 문학, 화, 연극, 음악, 미술 등 여러 형태의 로그램으로 표 되었다. 더욱이 Lee나 Capote 등 자 등장인물 에 련된 책과 작가, 같은 주제를 다루는 The Watson's Go to Birmingham-1963, The Mock- 130 한국문헌정보학회지 제48권 제4호 2014 ingbird Next Door 등 다른 책들로도 확장되는 것을 볼 수 있었다. 앵무새 죽이기 가 가진 ‘한 권의 책’으로서 의 가치는 한 마디로 요약하긴 어렵다. 하지만 수많은 지역사회가 이 책을 선택한 것은 Scout 라는 한 어린 아이의 에서 시작되어 자아, 가족, 이웃, 지역사회로 나아가고, 궁극 으로 1960년 미국이라는 특정 시 의 특정 국가만 이 아니라 작 의 우리 모두가 돌아보아야 할 인간의 존엄성이라는 본질로까지 확장되어가는 주제에 한 공감 때문일 수 있다. 앵무새 죽이 기 의 다양한 소주제들을 단서로 한 모든 독서 토론, 행사와 로그램들은 이러한 공감을 표 하고 확 하는 방법이라 할 수 있다. 향후 과제는 다른 책을 선택한 ‘한 책’ 로그 램들이 그 책을 왜 선택하 는지, 그것을 통해 무엇을 얻고자 하 는지 하나하나 살펴보는 것 이다. 앵무새 죽이기 에서 암시된 공감이라는 의미가 다른 책들을 통해 어떻게 나타나고 있는 지, 그런 결과로 ‘한 책’ 독서운동의 의미가 어떻 게 되고 있는지 이해해 보고자 한다. 참 고 문 헌 [1] 윤정옥. 2014. 미국의 ‘한 책, 한 도시’ 독서운동 선정 책의 황 분석. 한국문헌정보학회지 , 48(1): 171-194. 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[38] Van Dyke, Debby. 2005. “Building A Community of Readers": A One Book Program.” Library Media Connection, 23(5): 20-22. ‘한 권의 책’으로서 ꡔ앵무새 죽이기 에 한 연구 133 • 국문 참고자료의 영어 표기 (English translation / romanization of references originally written in Korean) [1] Yoon, Cheong-Ok. 2014 “An Analytical Study on the Books Selected in ‘One Book, One City' Reading Campaigns in the U.S.A.” Journal of the Korean Society for Library and Information Science, 48(1): 171-194. [2] Cho, Chan-sik. 2013. “A Study on the Public Reading Campaign: The Case of ‘One Book, SeongBuk' Campaign in Seongbuk-Gu, Seoul.” Journal of the Korean Society for Library and Information Science, 47(2): 201-221. 
work_zmdyx3mrdnd2zh6pihcwmh4mdu	----	Untitled University of the Arts London Transforming structured descriptions to visual representations. An automated visualization of historical bookbinding structures Alberto Campagnolo Thesis for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Volume 1 May 2015 About this document This document has been generated with RenderX XEP. Visit http://www.renderx.com/ to learn more about RenderX family of software solutions for digital typography. Abstract In cultural heritage, the documentation of artefacts can be both iconographic and textual, i.e. both pictures and drawings on the one hand, and text and words on the other are used for documentation purposes. This research project aims to produce a methodology to transform automatically verbal descriptions of material objects, with a focus on bookbinding structures, into standardized and scholarly-sound visual representations. In the last few decades, the recording and management of documentation data about material objects, including bookbindings, has switched from paper-based archives to databases, but sketches and diagrams are a form of documentation still carried out mostly by hand. Diagrams hold some unique information, but often, also redundant information already secured through verbal means within the databases. This project proposes a methodology to harness verbal information stored within a database and automatically generate visual representations. A number of projects within the cultural heritage sector have applied semantic modelling to generate graphic outputs from verbal inputs. None of these has considered bookbindings and none of these relies on information already recorded within databases. Instead they develop an extra layer of modelling and typically gather more data, specifically for the purpose of generating a pictorial output. In these projects qualitative data (verbal input) is often mixed with quantitative data (measurements, scans, or other direct acquisition methods) to solve the problems of indeterminateness found in verbal descriptions. Also, none of these projects has attempted to develop a general methodology to ascertain the minimum amount ii of information that is required for successful verbal-to-visual transformations for material objects in other fields. This research has addressed these issues. The novel contributions of this research include: (i) a series of methodological recommendations for successful automated verbal-to-visual intersemiotic transla- tions for material objects — and bookbinding structures in particular — which are possible when whole/part relationships, spatial configurations, the object’s logical form, and its prototypical shapes are communicated; (ii) the production of intersemiotic transformations for the domain of bookbinding structures; (iii) design recommendations for the generation of standardized automated prototyp- ical drawings of bookbinding structures; (iv) the application — never considered before — of uncertainty visualization to the field of the archaeology of the book. This research also proposes the use of automatically generated diagrams as data verification tools to help identify meaningless or wrong data, thus increasing data accuracy within databases. iii Table of contents Volume 1 Abstract...................................................................................................................ii Table of contents....................................................................................................iv Table of figures.......................................................................................................x Table of tables......................................................................................................xiv Table of listings.....................................................................................................xv Acknowledgements.............................................................................................xvii Chapter 1. Introduction..........................................................................................1 1.1. The cognitive importance of diagrams...........................................................4 1.1.1. Diagrams as visual proofs.............................................................................5 1.2. Problems with the adoption of diagrams........................................................6 1.3. Verbal to visual: intermediation & intersemiotic translations........................7 1.3.1. The essential elements of the communication cycle....................................8 1.4. Bookbinding descriptions and the generation of diagrams...........................8 1.5. Terminological issues.....................................................................................11 1.6. Aims and objectives.......................................................................................12 1.7. Chapter overview............................................................................................13 Chapter 2. Modelling & related work..................................................................16 2.1. Modelling.......................................................................................................16 2.1.1. Modelling of and modelling for..................................................................18 2.2. From verbal to visual: related projects and approaches...............................19 2.2.1. Hardware description languages................................................................19 2.2.2. Natural language processing......................................................................20 2.2.3. Cultural heritage modelling........................................................................22 2.3. From verbal to visual through models of......................................................25 Summary...............................................................................................................28 iv Chapter 3. Signs & material objects.....................................................................30 3.1. Signs, signification, and communication......................................................31 3.1.1. Signs............................................................................................................32 3.1.2. Reading and remembering iconic signs.....................................................34 3.1.2.1. Reading modalities of icons.....................................................................34 3.1.2.2. Formalization of hypoicons.....................................................................36 3.1.3. Visual texts..................................................................................................38 3.2. Multimodal communication..........................................................................40 3.2.1. Dual-coding representation........................................................................41 3.2.2. Verbal recoding of ambiguous visual stimuli.............................................42 3.3. Categorization and prototypification.............................................................43 3.3.1. Prototypes...................................................................................................43 3.3.2. Basic level of abstraction............................................................................45 3.4. Objects: their form and their shape..............................................................50 3.4.1. The form of objects....................................................................................50 3.4.1.1. Material components and form...............................................................51 3.4.1.2. Logical form and expression...................................................................51 3.4.2. The shape of objects...................................................................................53 3.4.2.1. The nature of shape.................................................................................54 3.4.2.2. Regularities for the prototypification of shape.......................................55 3.4.2.3. Line drawings..........................................................................................56 3.4.2.4. Perceptual biases.....................................................................................58 Summary...............................................................................................................59 Chapter 4. Bookbinding descriptions...................................................................61 4.1. Books as artefacts...........................................................................................61 4.1.1. Binding structures and decoration.............................................................62 4.1.1.1. The evolution of bookbinding studies....................................................63 4.1.2. Terminology................................................................................................67 4.2. Verbal and visual descriptions of bindings...................................................69 4.2.1. A description of Coptic bindings................................................................70 4.2.2. A particular sewing pattern........................................................................71 4.2.3. A controlled vocabulary description..........................................................75 4.2.4. Structured and controlled vocabulary descriptions..................................77 4.3. Prototypical visualization of bookbinding elements....................................81 4.3.1. Gathering assembly diagrams....................................................................82 4.3.1.1. Naturalistic representations of gatherings..............................................83 4.3.1.2. Schematic representations of gatherings.................................................84 4.4. A categorization of bookbinding illustrations..............................................87 4.4.1. Archaeological-style drawings....................................................................87 4.4.2. Naturalistic drawings..................................................................................88 4.4.3. Line drawings.............................................................................................90 4.4.4. Generic-shape drawings.............................................................................92 v 4.4.5. Scenes..........................................................................................................93 4.5. Clarity of information in bookbinding line drawings...................................95 4.5.1. Sketchiness and detail views.......................................................................97 Summary.............................................................................................................101 Chapter 5. Communicating & translating objects..............................................103 5.1. Communicating material objects through verbal means.............................104 5.1.1. Communicating through controlled vocabularies....................................105 5.1.1.1. Names and prototypical material components.....................................107 5.1.1.2. Sewing structure controlled vocabulary...............................................108 5.1.2. Communicating through structured descriptions....................................109 5.1.3. Diagrams as support for natural language descriptions..........................111 5.2. Automated intersemiotic translations.........................................................112 5.2.1. Translating material components, their form, and shape........................112 5.2.2. Translating material objects’ shapes.........................................................113 5.2.3. Translating an object’s form.....................................................................114 5.2.4. The reference to the logical form.............................................................114 5.3. Communicating material objects through visual means.............................115 5.3.1. Marks on a background............................................................................116 5.3.2. Continuity of the plane.............................................................................117 5.3.3. Visualization conventions.........................................................................117 5.3.3.1. Fixing meaning through a reference system.........................................118 5.3.3.1.1. Titling and verbal labelling.................................................................119 5.3.3.1.2. Graphic reference elements...............................................................119 5.3.3.2. Separation of information.....................................................................119 5.3.3.3. Use of colour..........................................................................................120 5.3.3.4. Two-dimensional vs. three-dimensional visualizations.........................121 5.3.4. Structured visualizations as output..........................................................121 5.4. The uncertainty of reality............................................................................122 5.4.1. Uncertainty in structured descriptions....................................................125 5.4.2. Uncertainty in visualizations....................................................................126 5.4.2.1. Archaeological visualizations................................................................126 5.4.2.1.1. An example from archaeology of the book.......................................127 5.4.2.1.2. Uncertainty clues in archaeological visualizations.............................128 5.4.2.2. Irregularities in visual propositions.......................................................129 5.4.2.2.1. Visual cues for uncertainty visualization............................................129 5.4.2.3. Imprecision as uncertainty....................................................................132 5.4.2.4. Uncertainty inherent in the visualization process.................................132 5.4.3. Human error in the data...........................................................................133 Summary.............................................................................................................135 Chapter 6. Transformation framework...............................................................138 vi 6.1. The technology and the description schema..............................................139 6.1.1. Extensible Markup Language..................................................................139 6.1.2. Extensible Stylesheet Language Transformations...................................140 6.1.3. Scalable Vector Graphics.........................................................................141 6.1.4. The description schema and the dataset..................................................141 6.1.4.1. The Ligatus schema for the description of bookbinding structures....142 6.1.4.1.1. The manuscript collection survey......................................................142 6.1.4.1.2. The printed book collection survey...................................................143 6.1.4.1.3. Free-hand drawings............................................................................145 6.1.4.2. The project dataset................................................................................146 6.2. The transformations....................................................................................147 6.2.1. Knowledge graph schemas.......................................................................147 6.2.1.1. Graphic conventions for knowledge graph schemas...........................149 6.2.1.2. Reading the visual description graphs..................................................151 6.2.2. Number of possible visualizations...........................................................152 6.2.2.1. Board marker visualizations..................................................................153 6.2.2.2. Endleaf structure visualizations............................................................154 6.2.3. Visualizations............................................................................................157 6.2.3.1. Level of abstraction and semantic entry point.....................................158 6.2.3.2. Diagram elements..................................................................................161 6.2.3.3. Spatial arrangement...............................................................................163 6.2.3.4. Thread paths..........................................................................................165 6.2.3.5. Uncertainty............................................................................................166 6.2.3.6. Accuracy and imprecision of measurements........................................172 6.2.3.7. Place-holders for uncertainty inherent in the visualization process....174 Summary.............................................................................................................176 Chapter 7. Transformations & analysis...............................................................177 7.1. A complete visualization example: endleaves.............................................178 7.1.1. Visual description framework..................................................................178 7.1.2. Shapes: standard endleaf components.....................................................179 7.1.2.1. Reference elements................................................................................181 7.1.2.2. Endleaf components..............................................................................182 7.1.2.2.1. Pastedowns in use visualizations........................................................182 7.1.2.3. Attachment modalities...........................................................................184 7.1.2.3.1. Sewn....................................................................................................184 7.1.2.3.2. Glued..................................................................................................185 7.1.2.4. Component material...............................................................................185 7.1.2.5. Spatial arrangement...............................................................................186 7.1.3. Shapes: different types of endleaves........................................................186 7.1.3.1. Integral endleaves..................................................................................186 7.1.3.2. Separate endleaves.................................................................................187 7.1.3.2.1. Single leaf............................................................................................187 7.1.3.2.2. Fold.....................................................................................................188 vii 7.1.3.2.3. Hooks..................................................................................................188 7.1.3.2.3.1. Endleaf hook....................................................................................188 7.1.3.2.3.2. Text hook.........................................................................................189 7.1.3.2.4. Outside hook......................................................................................189 7.1.3.2.5. Guard..................................................................................................190 7.1.4. Visualization problems.............................................................................190 7.1.4.1. Schema limitations.................................................................................191 7.1.4.2. Schema misinterpretations....................................................................196 7.2. The set of transformations...........................................................................202 7.2.1. Markers: page markers, board markers, bookmarks...............................202 7.2.2. Sewing.......................................................................................................208 7.2.3. Boards.......................................................................................................213 7.2.4. Spine shape and lining..............................................................................216 7.2.5. Endbands..................................................................................................223 7.2.6. Coverings...................................................................................................224 7.2.7. Furniture...................................................................................................236 7.3. Dealing with erroneous data.......................................................................237 7.3.1. Error examples.........................................................................................239 7.3.2. The feedback loop....................................................................................242 Summary.............................................................................................................244 Chapter 8. Recommendations.............................................................................245 8.1. Intersemiotic translations: methodological recommendations..................245 8.1.1. Intersemiotic translation elements...........................................................246 8.1.2. Functional verbal descriptions.................................................................246 8.1.3. The nature of sememes in diagrams.........................................................248 8.1.4. Prototypicality of information..................................................................249 8.1.5. Graphic prototypes..................................................................................251 8.1.6. Fixing the meaning of visual sememes.....................................................252 8.1.7. Uncertainty...............................................................................................252 8.2. Recommendations for the communication of bookbinding structures.....252 Summary.............................................................................................................254 Chapter 9. Conclusions........................................................................................255 9.1. Successful automated intersemiotic translations........................................256 9.1.1. Summary of the recommendations..........................................................257 9.2. Visualizations from models of.....................................................................258 9.3. Standardized automated drawings of bookbinding structures..................259 9.3.1. Summary of design principles..................................................................262 9.4. Uncertainty visualization in bookbinding studies......................................263 9.4.1. Summary of uncertainty visualization application...................................264 9.5. Added value & benefits of visualization automation.................................265 viii Chapter 10. Future work.....................................................................................268 10.1. Integration of automated transformations within the data gathering framework...........................................................................................................268 10.2. Verbal to visual and reverse: a mixed approach.......................................269 10.3. Related work: Manuscript Collation Project.............................................271 10.4. Final remarks.............................................................................................274 Bibliography........................................................................................................275 Illustration credits...............................................................................................314 Volume 2 Appendix A. Human memory system...............................................................318 Appendix B. Shape library.................................................................................321 B.1. Page markers...............................................................................................322 B.2. Board markers.............................................................................................235 B.3. Bookmarks...................................................................................................328 B.4. Endleaves.....................................................................................................335 B.5. Sewing..........................................................................................................340 B.6. Boards..........................................................................................................347 B.7. Spine shape..................................................................................................355 B.8. Spine lining..................................................................................................359 B.9. Endbands....................................................................................................368 B.10. Coverings....................................................................................................383 B.11. Furniture - fastenings................................................................................408 Appendix C. Coding example: endleaves...........................................................413 C.1. Endleaf XSLT..............................................................................................414 C.2. Endleaf master SVG....................................................................................473 C.3. Endleaf CSS..................................................................................................476 ix Table of figures Figure 1. Exograms.................................................................................................5 Figure 2. Communication cycle..............................................................................9 Figure 3. Example of Text-to-Picture transformation.........................................21 Figure 4. Example of classical architecture column parts...................................26 Figure 5. Basic structure of signs.........................................................................33 Figure 6. Mexican on a bicycle............................................................................35 Figure 7. Mexican on a bicycle — as seen from above.......................................37 Figure 8. Units in visual language are context dependent..................................39 Figure 9. An angle growing from 0° to 180°........................................................46 Figure 10. Dimensions of a category systems......................................................47 Figure 11. Stirrup ring shape and its prototypified diagram..............................57 Figure 12. A sewing pattern for a Coptic binding...............................................72 Figure 13. Knot-tack sewing................................................................................73 Figure 14. Knot-tack sewing: alternative solution...............................................74 Figure 15. Unsupported sewing sample..............................................................75 Figure 16. Sewing photograph and drawing example.........................................78 Figure 17. Archaeological drawings.....................................................................83 Figure 18. Naturalistic and three-dimensional representations of gatherings....84 Figure 19. Schematic representations of gatherings............................................85 Figure 20. Categorical dimensions of drawings...................................................88 Figure 21. Archaeological-style drawings............................................................89 Figure 22. Naturalistic drawings..........................................................................91 Figure 23. Line drawings, the graphic basic level of abstraction........................93 Figure 24. Generic-shape drawings.....................................................................94 Figure 25. Bookshop scene..................................................................................96 Figure 26. Well-shaped and free-hand thread paths...........................................98 Figure 27. Drawing of an endband sewn at the frame........................................98 Figure 28. Sketch-like illustrations on how to work a Greek-style endband.....99 Figure 29. Step 11.................................................................................................99 Figure 30. Line drawings of different styles of endbands.................................100 Figure 31. Diagram of the construction of the Nag Hammadi codices............127 Figure 32. Dashed lines indicating both invisible parts and folds....................131 Figure 33. Paper survey form.............................................................................144 Figure 34. Drawing survey paper form..............................................................146 x Figure 35. Visualization of the Ligatus schema.................................................148 Figure 36. Example graph schema showing the graphical conventions...........152 Figure 37. Board-marker graph schema............................................................154 Figure 38. Endleaf graph schema.......................................................................155 Figure 39. Board visualization example.............................................................159 Figure 40. Example of mechanical drawing with three projected views..........160 Figure 41. Fastening visualization example.......................................................160 Figure 42. Visualization of the Ligatus schema.................................................162 Figure 43. Gothic binding bosses......................................................................163 Figure 44. Schematic endleaf drawings.............................................................164 Figure 45. Example of a complex endleaf structure.........................................165 Figure 46. Examples of cross-section visualizations for endbands I................167 Figure 47. Examples of cross-section visualizations for endbands II...............168 Figure 48. Conjoined double hook detail...........................................................170 Figure 49. Cross-section of endband with no-front-bead sewing.......................171 Figure 50. Fading off of board groove towards the spine.................................171 Figure 51. Front view of a double-core greek-style endband...........................173 Figure 52. Cross-section and front views of a stuck-on endband......................174 Figure 53. Above view of a roller-round-bar catchplate...................................175 Figure 54. Sketchy lines and blurring to indicate uncertainties........................176 Figure 55. Example of endleaf diagram.............................................................179 Figure 56. Complete set of endleaf diagram......................................................179 Figure 57. Graph schema for endleaf diagrams................................................180 Figure 58. Example of integral endleaves..........................................................182 Figure 59. The five basic components of separate endleaves...........................182 Figure 60. Examples of schematic endleaf diagrams.........................................183 Figure 61. Example of endleaf diagram with sewing thread convention.........184 Figure 62. Example of glued component..........................................................185 Figure 63. Example of glued components.........................................................185 Figure 64. Endleaf structure with internal parchment guard...........................186 Figure 65. Example of a complex endleaf structure.........................................186 Figure 66. Example of integral endleaves..........................................................187 Figure 67. Example of single leaf unit...............................................................187 Figure 68. Example of separate pastedown.......................................................187 Figure 69. Example of fold components...........................................................188 Figure 70. Example of endleaf-hook components............................................189 Figure 71. Example of text-hook component...................................................189 Figure 72. Example of outside-hook component with text hooks...................190 Figure 73. Example of guard..............................................................................190 Figure 74. Hand drawing for the right endleaves.............................................191 Figure 75. Example of endleaf diagram.............................................................192 Figure 76. Endleaf hand drawing example........................................................192 Figure 77. Example of automated endleaf diagram..........................................193 Figure 78. Example of endleaf drawing.............................................................193 Figure 79. Example of endleaf diagram.............................................................194 xi Figure 80. Detail of endleaf diagram.................................................................194 Figure 81. Example of endleaf hand drawing...................................................195 Figure 82. Example of wrong endleaf diagram.................................................195 Figure 83. Example of endleaf diagram.............................................................195 Figure 84. Example of wrong endleaf diagram.................................................195 Figure 85. Example of endleaf hand drawing...................................................196 Figure 86. Example of wrong endleaf diagram.................................................196 Figure 87. Example of endleaf hand drawing...................................................197 Figure 88. Example of endleaf diagram.............................................................197 Figure 89. Example of endleaf diagram.............................................................198 Figure 90. Endleaf diagram generated from corrected XML...........................198 Figure 91. Example of endleaf hand drawing...................................................199 Figure 92. Example of visual output of an incorrect description.....................199 Figure 93. Endleaf diagram generated from corrected XML...........................199 Figure 94. Example of pagemarker diagram.....................................................203 Figure 95. Example of boardmarker diagram...................................................203 Figure 96. Graph schema for pagemarker diagrams.........................................204 Figure 97. Graph schema for boardmarker diagrams.......................................205 Figure 98. Example of bookmarker diagram....................................................206 Figure 99. Graph schema for bookmark diagrams...........................................207 Figure 100. Examples of sewing diagrams.........................................................209 Figure 101. Example of sewing measurement diagram.....................................210 Figure 102. Graph schema for sewing measurement diagrams........................211 Figure 103. Examples of change-over stations..................................................213 Figure 104. Example of sewing measurement diagram.....................................214 Figure 105. Graph schema for sewing measurement diagrams........................215 Figure 106. Example of board diagram.............................................................217 Figure 107. Graph schema for board diagram..................................................218 Figure 108. Graph schema for board diagram..................................................219 Figure 109. Graph schema for spine shape diagrams.......................................219 Figure 110. Example of spine lining diagram....................................................220 Figure 111. Graph schema for spine lining diagrams.......................................221 Figure 112. Example of sewn endband diagram...............................................224 Figure 113. Graph schema for sewn endband diagrams...................................225 Figure 114. Example of stuck-on endband diagram.........................................226 Figure 115. Graph schema for sewn endband diagrams...................................227 Figure 116. Example of guard covering diagram..............................................229 Figure 117. Graph schema for guard or drawn-on covering diagrams............229 Figure 118. Example of over-in-board covering diagram.................................230 Figure 119. Graph schema for over-in-board covering diagrams.....................231 Figure 120. Example of case covering diagram.................................................232 Figure 121. Graph schema for case covering diagrams....................................233 Figure 122. Example of furniture diagram........................................................234 Figure 123. Graph schema for furniture diagrams............................................235 Figure 124. Example of fastening photographs................................................237 xii Figure 125. Example of spine shape hand drawing..........................................238 Figure 126. Example of spine shape diagram....................................................238 Figure 127. Error due to schema convention misinterpretation.......................240 Figure 128. Error due to description convention misinterpretation................240 Figure 129. Error due to inaccurate encoding..................................................240 Figure 130. Slip error during encoding.............................................................240 Figure 131. Project communication cycle..........................................................243 Figure 132. Errors in the hierarchical arrangement of elements......................249 Figure 133. Small multiples................................................................................270 Figure 134. Screenshot from the Manuscript Collation Project webpage........273 Figure 135. A model of the human memory system..........................................319 xiii Table of tables Table 1. Samples of ambiguous visual stimuli.....................................................42 Table 2. Table showing the cause for error examples........................................242 xiv Table of listings Listings 1. Snippet of XML description of a sewing station...............................79 Listings 2. Snippet of endleaf XML description...............................................200 Listings 3. Corrected endleaf XML snippet description...................................201 xv Acknowledgements Qual è ‘l geomètra che tutto s'affige / per misurar lo cerchio, e non ritrova, / pensando, quel principio ond’ elli indige, // tal era io a quella vista nova: / veder voleva come si convenne / l’imago al cer- chio e come vi s’indova As the geometrician, who endeavours / To square the circle, and discovers not, / By taking thought, the principle he wants, // Even such was I at that new apparition; / I wished to see how the image to the circle / Conformed itself, and how it there finds place* Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy: Paradise, XXXIII, 133-138. *Henry Wadsworth Longfellow translation (1867) I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Dr Athanasios Velios and Professor Nicholas Pickwoad, my research supervisors, for their guidance, and enthusiastic encour- agement throughout this research work. My grateful thanks are also extended to the Arts and Humanities Research Council for funding this research and for giving me the oppor- tunity to pursue it. My most heartfelt thanks also go to Dr Elena Pierazzo, Dr Peter A. Stokes, Dr John Bradley, and Dr Raffaele Viglianti at the Department of Digital Humanities, King’s College London for their support and for allowing me to attend, as auditor, their courses in ‘Advanced Text Technologies: XML, TEI, XSLT’ and ‘Python Programming’. I am also indebted to Syd Bauman and Martin Holmes for their helpful course (and subsequent pointers) in XSLT programming ‘Introduction to XSLT for Digital Humanities’ at the Digital Humanities Summer Institute 2011, University of Victoria, BC, Canada. I would also like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Association of Computers and the Humanities for granting me a scholarship and xvii travel bursary to attend the workshop at the Digital Humanities Summer Institute 2011. My thanks also go to the Alliance of Digital Humanities Organizations for granting me a bursary to attend and present my paper at the Digital Humanities Conference 2013, University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I would like to express my very great appreciation to Dr Alejandro Giacometti for his valuable suggestions on the management of my digital data and my research in general, and for his help in the development of an SVG filter for the rendition of sketchy lines. I would also like to extend my thanks to Dot Porter and Doug Emery at the University of Pennsylvania for allowing me to collaborate with them in their Manuscript Collation Project, and thus to test the methodology developed for this project on a different dataset. My gratitude also goes to Dr Arianna Ciula, my dissertation supervisor for the Master of Arts in Digital Culture and Technology at the Department of Digital Humanities (formerly Centre for Computing in the Humanities), King’s College London for her interest, support, and stimulating questions and discussions during the course of this research. I am grateful for the interest shown in my research by Professor Carlo Federici, Melania Zanetti, Director of the Associazione Italiana dei Conservatori e Restauratori degli Archivi e delle Biblioteche (Italian Association of Archive and Library Conservator-restorers), and Andrea Galeazzi, Director of Kermes — La rivista del restauro (Kermes — The Magazine of Conservation). I am deeply thankful to Hilary Canavan for her language support and to her partner James Scott for accommodating me in their house. I am also grateful to Dr Caroline De Stefani for her support and for offering me a place to stay during my visits to London this last year. Finally I would like to thank all my friends and colleagues at the Vatican Library. In particular I would like to thank Msgr. Cesare Pasini, Prefect of the Vatican Library, Dr Ambrogio M. Piazzoni, Vice Prefect of the Vatican Library, and Ángela Nuñez Gaitán, Head of the Conservation Workshop at the Vatican Library for allowing me to work flexibly and to take the necessary time off to finish this research. Special thanks also go to Elena Antonazzo, Sister Gabriella Pettirossi, Maria Rosaria Castelletti, Marta Grimaccia, Maruska Di Remigio, Pierre Sentagne, Silvia Foschetti, and Simona De Crescenzo for their support and patience. I would also like to thank Dr Luca Milasi for his support and for offering me a laptop on which to work in times of need. Finally, I wish to thank my friends and family for their support and encouragement throughout my studies. xviii Quidquid agis, prudenter agas, et respice finem Whatever you do, do it carefully, and with an eye to the end (Unsere Probleme sind nicht abstrakt, sondern vielleicht die konkretesten, die es gibt.) (Our problems are not abstract, but perhaps the most concrete that there are.)* Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus logico-philosophhicus, 1922. *translation by Pears & McGuinnes (1961) xix Chapter 1. Introduction [La pittura] col suo principio, cioè il disegno, [...] insegna ai prospettivi ed astrologhi ed ai macchinatori ed ingegneri. [Painting] with its principle, i.e. drawing, [...] teaches to per- spectivists and astrologists and machiners and engineers.* Leonardo da Vinci, Libro di pittura, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana MS Urb.lat.1270, [ca. 1540], 12v. *Author’s transla- tion In the cultural heritage field, the documentation of artefacts is both iconographic and textual, i.e. both pictures and drawings on the one hand, and text and words on the other are used for documentation purposes.1 This research project aims to advance a methodology to transform automatically verbal descriptions of material objects, such as bookbinding structures, into standardized and scholarly-sound visual representations. Graphic-representation methods range from drawings, sketches and watercol- ours, to direct acquisition methods such as photographs, 3D scans, etc., and are an intrinsic part the surveying process.2 During the last few decades, the recording and management of documentation data has switched from paper-based archives to databases and digital management systems.3 Similarly, documentation entities that used to be analogue-based have increasingly been replaced by digital coun- 1. Szczepanowska 2013. 2. Drap et al. 2012; Kioussi et al. 2012. 3. Ravenberg 2012. 1 terparts. For example, photographs on glass-plate-negatives and slides have been replaced by digital photography, or surveying maps drawn over layers of translu- cent paper have been replaced by vector-based maps and geographic information system (GIS) technologies. Most surveying activities, in fact, have been influenced or replaced in one way or the other by digital technologies. Drawings are an im- portant part of the survey process as their execution helps in understanding the object.4 Computer-Aided Design (CAD) modelling or similar technologies are not a substitute for quick sketching, as these take time and effort, and cannot be quickly generated while surveying an artefact. For example, in archaeological surveys, drawing is the last form of documentation still carried out by hand, even if some projects have implemented the use of tablet computer technologies to substitute paper as a medium.5 When not executed on a digital medium, the drawings are scanned and linked as images within the databases. There are also projects that have implemented retrospective conversion digitisation, which uses digital drawing software to capture lines from the scanned drawings and transforms these into vector graphics to allow for easy rescaling. 6 The drawing process is then an important surveying tool which has remained virtually unchanged by the introduction of digital technologies. It is in essence an interpretative process that is visually encoded, through which the essence of an artefact, or its parts, is conveyed. These sketches are in general essentially diagram- matic line drawings. Diagrams, and images in general, are important cognitive and representational tools for the human mind as they can be used not just for representation, but also as reasoning and cognitive tools. Our brain, in fact, devotes more than half of its processing power to vision.7 We have limited information processing capabilities, but we are extremely adept at recognizing and analysing patterns, and visual pat- terns in particular.8 When presented with visual information, this is immediately 4. Pickwoad 2004. 5. Warwick et al. 2009; Wright 2011. 6. Wright 2011. Vector images represent graphics by storing a series of mathematical equations describing a graphic object; these can be modified through parameters, retaining a high level of quality when transformed and scaled. 7. Lu & Dosher 2013. 8. Pizlo 2008; Terras 2008; Shin et al. 2013. 2 and integrally available to us, allowing us to perceive patterns and to compare features between different percepts quickly.9 Diagrammatic representations can be defined as two-dimensional entities composed of representing parts in mutual spatial and graphic relationships, which are directly interpreted as relationships in the entity described.10 In other words, diagrams are composed of elements that refer to real-world entities. These elements are in relationship one with the other, and this network of elements mirrors the structure of the real-world entities that are being represented. Hand-drawn dia- grams hold a great deal of information for interpreting and categorizing the structures there described, but they cannot be used as they are by a computer.11 Some of this information is unique, but, coupled with the information recorded verbally, one finds a certain degree of information redundancy between the two modes of communication. The same kind of information about an artefact is, in fact, recorded within databases through verbal means as these guide the user to careful and conscientious attention to the evidence. Verbal information stored within databases has the added value of allowing for efficient and flexible retrieval of the information.12 If the same essential information about an artefact is contained in both visual and verbal representations, it might be possible to use computing technologies to harness verbal information stored within a database and automat- ically generate visual representations. By linking the two representations it would be possible to present the information in graphic form to the user directly during the survey, and diagrams could be generated on the fly whenever needed. In this way, the information recorded verbally would also be available in graphic form. This would provide a standardized visual access to the verbal information and eliminate the need for redundant verbal and visual information, thus shortening the description process but still providing the added values of ‘visual intuition’,13 and quick retrieval of verbal information. 9. Ware 2013. 10. Stenning & Lemon 1999. 11. Velios & Pickwoad 2005a. 12. Eiteljorg 2004; Ramsay 2004. 13. Greaves 2002; Sandywell 2012. 3 This thesis outlines a methodology to transform verbal descriptions of material objects into visual representations automatically. In particular, the methodology will be applied to the field of bookbinding studies. Bookbinding structures are an ideal case study, as they range from simple to extremely complex and are, therefore, a good testing ground for the proposed methodology. Moreover, the archaeology of the book, the discipline devoted to the study of bookbinding structures (amongst other aspects of the materiality of books), is rather young, lacking in standards and rigorous methodologies, and it thus poses interesting additional issues and challenges. 1.1. The cognitive importance of diagrams Diagrams are important cognitive devices. Donald14 describes their importance as memory storage devices, which he calls exograms as they reside outside our minds. Their power resides in the fact that, by grouping information in a coherent way, they allow the human mind to exceed its limited working memory capabilit- ies.15 Working memory plays an essential role in our cognition, as it is in there that we maintain all relevant information during the performance of a cognitive task.16 Data is naturally synchronous and simultaneous within diagrams, and this allows them to present information already arranged and grouped, which makes it effort- less to ‘chunk up’17 and to be given verbal labels that are easy to recall.18 Thanks to their ability to present information synchronously, diagrammatic representations have been used as heuristic problem-solving tools for a long time in domains that span from mathematics and geometry to architecture and engin- eering, to mention but a few.19 Diagrams, in fact, exhibit expressive advantages over sequential representations, as they can show effortlessly spatial and whole- 14. Donald 1991; Donald 2001. 15. Miller 1956; Cowan 2001; Saaty & Ozdemir 2003; Gobet & Clarkson 2004; Ericsson & Moxley 2012. See also Appendix A. 16. Baddeley & Hitch 1974. 17. Baddeley 2013. 18. Brandimonte et al. 1992a; Brandimonte et al. 1992b; Brandimonte & Gerbino 1996; Mc- Collough & Vogel 2007. 19. Shin et al. 2013. 4 Figure 1. Diagram of the interplay between working memory and the external memory field embodied in exograms. The conscious mind sits in the middle of the two systems of representation, one inside and one outside (after Donald 2001, fig. 8.3, p. 311). part relationships.20 For example, maps are more helpful than verbal descriptions of a landscape when it comes to navigation,21 or construction plans are the only efficacious way of showing workers all the information needed to construct an object designed by engineers.22 1.1.1. Diagrams as visual proofs Diagrams have also exhibited uses as verification tools and visual proofs. Geo- metry is but one example of a domain that historically has made ample use of visual languages as proofs and verification systems; these are deductive techniques that exploit the topological and spatial features of diagrams and human spatial intuition. Intuition here means a non-deductive method by which we can infer 20. Allwein & Barwise 1996; Barker-Plummer 2002; Shin et al. 2013. 21. However, there are kinds of geographical information that can be encoded in texts, but which are impossible to express faithfully in maps (Eide 2012a). 22. Ferguson 1992. 5 classes of truths about the world.23 Diagrammatic proofs, in fact, are linked to our ability to manipulate intuitively and interpret spatial relationships in diagrams, and in associating these with truths about the world.24 Chapter 7 shows a possible use of the diagrams generated for this projects as data verification tools, linking the diagrams that have been automatically generated with the object represented. 1.2. Problems with the adoption of diagrams Notwithstanding their undisputed usefulness, diagrams create a series of problems. One criticism that is often brought forward is that diagrams are cum- bersome to reproduce or communicate.25 As mentioned above, hand-drawings are also not directly usable by a computer, and they have to be interpreted and provided with relevant metadata during data inputting by a human user.26 Also, they often hold redundant information, already secured through verbal means within the databases. Redundancy of information is not a problem in itself, as it is delivered through different means of communication; however, this does impact on surveying time as the same information has to be recorded twice during data input: once verbally and once graphically. The proposed methodology aims to solve the problems of the generation, digit- ization, and reproduction of diagrams of bookbinding structures. This will allow automated diagrams to be promptly available during the surveying process, and for them to be effortlessly adopted as heuristic and communication tools, exploiting their intuitive spatiality and immediacy. 23. Greaves 2002. 24. Greaves 2002; Shin et al. 2013. 25. Hammer 1995; Greaves 2002. 26. Velios & Pickwoad 2005a; Rains et al. 2014. 6 1.3. Verbal to visual: intermediation & intersemiotic translations Going from verbal descriptions to visual graphic depictions involves two rather different information media. The relationship between information from different media is referred to as intermediality.27 The passage of meaning between media is only one of the many aspects of intermediality, as this also express different experiences and narrations — i.e. how we experience, read, and interact with each medium.28 This project is however focussed on the possibility of the passage of information from verbal descriptions to graphic representations, and it will only touch on the considerations of the different experiences that the two different media bring with them for the end-user. The main concern here is the way in which a medium whose ‘semantic modal- ity’29 is characterized by symbolism — i.e. relying mostly on arbitrary signs — can be transformed into another medium whose ‘semantic modality’ is instead ex- pressed mostly via iconism — i.e. relying on sign that resemble their object in some respect.30 This is a problem of sign interpretation, or more accurately, a translation problem. Jakobson31 distinguishes between three ways of interpreting a verbal sign: (i) intralingual translation or rewording, (ii) interlingual translation or translation proper, and (iii) intersemiotic translation or transmutation. The first case takes place when a verbal sign is translated into other signs of the same language; the second, when the verbal sign is translated into another verbal sign belonging to a different language; the last case refers to the verbal sign being translated into another sign belonging to a non-verbal system of symbols. Intersemiotic translations deal with two different semiotic codes, turning meaning from one expression code into an entirely different one and present, therefore, complex issues. The automated transformations proposed by this re- search are a clear case of intersemiotic translations. This research will concentrate 27. Elleström 2010. 28. Elleström 2010; Ryan 2014. 29. Elleström 2010. 30. See chapter 3. 31. Jakobson 1959. 7 on the mechanics and procedures of intersemiotic translations of verbal descrip- tions of bookbinding structures into graphic representations. 1.3.1. The essential elements of the communication cycle Looking at the project at hand it is possible to delineate a cycle which the rel- evant information should follow for a transformation from verbal to visual to be successful. In analysing the communication cycle32 in more detail it can be seen how the project deals with a series of entities, processes, and agents. Specifically, there are three entities at play: the object being described — i.e. the source of the cycle — the words that are use to describe it in a verbal description, and the image used to represent it — i.e. the different message channels of the cycle. There are also two main processes: the perception and the encoding and communication of the relevant information. In addition, looking specifically at this project, there is a third process that needs to be taken into account: that of the transformation of information from a verbal encoding into its visual counterpart. Finally, there are two types of agent: a human agent that is both perceiving and communicating the information, on the one hand, and on the other receiving and interpreting the perceived information; and, looking specifically at this project, a computer agent set to transform a verbally encoded message into a diagrammatic representation. Figure 2[a] shows the diagram of a generic cycle going from verbal to visual, and Figure 2[b], the cycle specific to this project. 1.4. Bookbinding descriptions and the generation of diagrams As it will be seen in chapter 4, bookbinding studies lack a systematic vocabulary, terminological clarity, and a precise recording system; in a similar way, they also lack graphic representation standards. Description of bookbinding structures are 32. Rothwell 2012. 8 Figure 2. Communication cycle from the object being described — the source — to the human receiver/interpreter showing the three entities (object, words, images), the three processes (perception, communication, transformation), and the two types of agents in- volved (human being, computer). (a) A cycle comprising of a verbal description and/or a visual depiction as message channels. The line from the verbal description to the perception process leading to the human receiver/interpreter has been dotted because, although strictly speaking there is still perception involved in the recognition and processing of written code (Dehaene 2009), its impact on the decoding and understanding of the message is limited by the highly symbolic nature of the medium. (b) The particular communication cycle of a process whereby a verbal description is transformed by a computer into a visual description, which has then to be interpreted and understood as a proper description of the original object by a human receiver. Note the feedback loop checking for the effectiveness of the description of the source material. 9 therefore often ambiguous, and this hinders comparison, sharing of information, and, inevitably, progress in the field. Diagrams and sketches are often used as cognitive devices when describing bookbinding structures because of their innate capacity of showing effortlessly spatial and whole-part relationships. They facilitate communication, to the point that purely verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures are often completely inadequate as communication devices.33 However, to this author knowledge, bookbinding diagrams have never adopted methods of uncertainty visualization, leading to the impossibility of scholarly transparency in graphic representation of bookbinding structures. As in the case of the documentation of artefacts in other fields within the cul- tural heritage sector, also databases devised to describe bookbinding structures often contain both iconographic and textual information, following the usual practice of accompanying words with visual representations for easier communic- ation, thus creating a redundancy or overlapping of information. This project will aim at exploiting that redundancy, investigating the possibility of automatically generating bookbinding structure diagrams from verbal descrip- tion within databases. As it will be seen, it is possible to generate such diagrams, and these, being standardized, allow easier comparison amongst similar structures in different books. The fact that these are automated diagrams, also permits their use as visual proofs, thus leading to better data being recorded within databases. In addition, thinking in terms of intersemiotic translations, permits to identify efficient description modalities that can inform any bookbinding description methodology, whether automated diagrams are included or not. The contributions of this research to the field of bookbinding studies offer a way to improve communicability of information and scholarly transparency, thus fostering the progress of the discipline. 33. See §4.2.1-2. 10 1.5. Terminological issues It is important to clarify three similar, but separate concepts: shape, form, and structure. Shape refers to ‘those geometrical characteristics of a specific three-di- mensional object that makes it possible to perceive the object veridically from many different viewing directions, that is, to perceive it as it actually is in the world out there.’34Form refers to the structural organization of material objects, i.e. the configuration or arrangement of the components of a material object; in chapter 3, a further specification of form will also be introduced, referred to as logical form. Both these terms are clearly synonyms of structure, however, the term structure is used only in reference to bookbinding structures — e.g. a particular kind of endband, a sewing pattern, etc. — to thus avoid having to speak of ‘the structure of a binding structure’ creating unnecessary confusion; such a concept will thus be expressed as ‘the form of a binding structure.’ In this project, the terms diagram, diagrammatic drawing, or diagrammatic rep- resentation will be taken to signify an outline drawing of a bookbinding structure showing parts and their relationships. Finally, the terms verbal and visual are intended throughout this thesis as cog- nitive psychological coding modalities. The former refers to any word-based communication or cognition process, often in contrast to things, realities, visual information, or to the fact that some information pertains to, or is manifested in words. The latter, instead, is related to sight and vision, what can be obtained through vision, what is carried out by vision, or what is produced or occurs as a picture in the mind.35 34. Pizlo 2008, p. 1. 35. Neisser 1967/2014; Paivio 1971; Paivio 1986; Oxford English Dictionary 2015a; Oxford English Dictionary 2015b. 11 1.6. Aims and objectives The overall aim of the project is the generation of an automated diagrammatic visualization of bookbinding structures based upon structured verbal descriptions contained in a database. Because these transformations are based on a model of the structures, some of the problems encountered by the examples in the last section will need to be considered in relation to the fact that, as it will be seen, bookbinding descriptions do not hold spatial data or detailed measurements. Amongst these problems are the placements of the components in space, and the specificity of the objects (measurements and shape). In order to generalize a verbal-to-visual approach for material objects, one needs to be able to: identify the minimum amount of information that is needed for a visualization of bookbinding structures, or other material objects. A successful visualization is one that is able to convey the minimum information required for the object represented to be recognizable. assert whether a model of bookbinding structures can indeed lead to successful visualizations. In addition to these, as noted in chapter 1, diagrams are often used as visual proofs. Considering that the visualization approach proposed in this project gathers data directly from a database and is therefore stricly connencted with the data recorded there, one can: assess whether automated diagrams of bookbinding structures can be used as data verification tools. It also useful to set a series of practical objectives for the generation of successful automated visualizations of bookbinding structures: 12 Selection of bookbinding structures to be visualized from the information available within the Ligatus schema. Selection of the characteristics of the appearance of the visualizations, taking into consideration perception, cognitive psychology, communication theories, and graphic conventions. Identification of shapes for each transformation, their visual and formal characteristics. Identification and selection of the most useful and appropriate technologies for the generation of the automated visualizations. Identification of suitable strategies to visually communicate the various degrees and typologies of uncertainty and, where necessary, imprecision inevitably contained in the data to be visualized. Compilation of coding to transform the verbal information on bookbinding structures contained in the XML data into visuospatial information integrated with befitting verbal labels. 1.7. Chapter overview This introduction has introduced the fundamental concepts behind the starting point of this project. Diagrams are an important source of information. They can convey spatial and parthood36 information better, and in more immediate ways than sequential communication systems. Also, during surveys, some information is collected redundantly both verbally and visually, but it is more easily absorbed through visual communication systems. It is, therefore, valuable to investigate the possibility of automatically transforming verbal information into graphic repres- entations automatically, saving time and augmenting its possible uses. This kind of automated intersemiotic translation system requires the understanding of both modes of communication, their perception, and the mechanics of the transfer of 36. In philosophy, the relational quality of being a part. (Varzi 2014). 13 meaning from one sign-language to the other. This work will look at the entities and communication forms involved, the translation process, and the application of automated intersemiotic translations to the field of the study of bookbinding structures. Chapter 2 considers the process of modelling reality, including material objects, and also considers previous projects that aimed at transforming information automatically from verbal to visual. It then sets a series of primary objectives for this investigation. Chapter 3 looks into the nature of the various languages and entities involved in the project — words/verbal and images/visual — and their nature as signs bearing meaning. It also covers the fundamental processes of perception and prototypification,37 while considering what is the minimum amount of essential information for the communication of a material object. Chapter 4 provides an overview of the various kinds of verbal and graphic de- pictions of bookbinding structures found in the literature. These are categorized and analysed in reference to their efficacy in delivering their message. Chapter 5 discusses verbal and visual representations of material objects, and the translation between languages. It also investigates the nature of visual commu- nication devices and the expression of the uncertainty of information. Chapter 6 introduces the technological aspects of the automated transformations, including the database description schema, and the dataset to which the transform- ations have been applied. Visualizations issues and considerations are explored in relation to the automated diagrammatic representations of bookbinding struc- tures. Chapter 7 examines in detail the transformation of endleaf structures and intro- duce generally all other transformations of bookbinding structures. It then con- siders the human factor in the data input process and the errors in the dataset. 37. In cognitive psychology, prototypification is a general feature of conceptualization, a process through which conceptual and perceptual prototypes are formed and elaborated in our mind. (Rosch 1978; Leyton 1987; Bossche et al. 1992). 14 Chapter 8 presents a set of recommendations for the practical task of tranforming information from a verbally encoded dataset to series of meaningful and scholarly sound diagrams. Chapter 9 draws conclusions from the project and declares what contributions were made in the course of this research, whilst Chapter 10, explores related and future work. The Appendices cover an overview of the human memory system, a detailed examination of all the shapes and elements developed in the course of the project for the generation of the automated diagrams of bookbinding structures, and an example of the coding involved in one transformation. 15 Chapter 2. Modelling & related work Each language speaks the world in its own ways. Each edifies worlds and counter-worlds in its own mode. George Steiner, Real presences. Is there anything in what we say?, 1989/2010, p. 63. When we want to study a material object we initiate an abstraction, categoriza- tion, and modelling process.38 This process allows us to select only a restricted set of its characteristics, and to work with these models of reality. Reality, in fact, varies from instance to instance and has an unwieldy amount of detail. When we want to communicate a description of such an object, we use a similar strategy: we can use representations or models of reality that convey a restricted set of characteristics of the object for which they stand.39 These models of reality can take various forms, each of which can be used for different purposes. This chapter looks at the different kinds of modelling and communication sys- tems that are involved in this project. It also defines where this project stands in relation to other projects and methodologies that go from verbal to visual. 2.1. Modelling In order to study and communicate research results, a common and essential academic activity is that of modelling the reality that needs to be described. 38. Cohen & Lefebvre 2005. 39. Sebeok 1994. 16 Through a process of abstraction, the researcher, considering which research questions need answering, determines what aspects of the real world need to be included, and the granularity and level of detail the final model will need to have. Conceptual modelling requires decisions and assumptions in regard to the scope of the model, its level of detail, the nature of the reality to be described, and the simplifications to be made.40 The modelling activities take different forms. Amongst these forms McCarty41 lists analogy, representation, diagrams, and maps. Maps are defined here as any schematic spatial representation.42 Each of these forms can be either analogical or digital, and their boundaries can be blurry, one model being possibly associated with more than one form. When dealing with material objects, the modelling activities can take any of the forms listed. (i) Analogies and representations, as there needs to be a relationship between the model and the artefact, so that by studying the former one can infer facts about the latter. (ii) Diagrams and maps, for the fact that models represent the structure, spatiality, and relationships between the essential parts of the arte- facts. Typically, analogy and representation models of material objects take the form of descriptive or database schemas. Databases are often used to record information on bookbindings, especially in the field of conservation. 43 Also, in archaeology, classics, and libraries, databases have been used for data management since the 1970s.44 Diagrams and maps are used to represent material objects. Because of the im- mediate way of conveying spatial and complex structural information, diagrams are considered as an integral part of record keeping.45 40. Kotiadis & Robinson 2008. 41. McCarty 2005. 42. McCarty 2005. 43. Ravenberg 2012. 44. Eiteljorg 2004; Terras 2008. 45. Eiteljorg 2004. 17 2.1.1. Modelling of and modelling for As mentioned above, a model is the result of decisions and assumptions in re- gards to its scope.46 Considering the final scope of the modelling process, scholars47 distinguish between two different activities: the modelling of reality, and the modelling for something. McCarty48 defines the former as ‘a representation of something for the purposes of study’, and the latter as ‘a design for realizing something new’. In the first case, the model, denotative and descriptive in nature, renders reality and its physical relationships apprehensible and serves the scope of developing a theory of such a reality; it tends towards the general. One can think of models of as a sort of recipe that describes how an object can be composed — e.g. a table composed of a surface and a set of legs. Different instances of tables may have different number of legs, but by referring to the same model/recipe, one can compare each instance with the rest. In the second case, the theory behind the modelling process is exemplary in nature and guides the manipulation and organization of entities and their relationships for the creation of something new; it tends towards the particular.49 By nature, both kinds are simplified representa- tions. Modelling of is in reference to an idealized reality and helps to describe and understand it. Modelling for, instead, aims at the creation of new entities as heuristic and pragmatic instruments of investigation (often through manipulation).50 The two types of modelling activities can then be regarded as distinct, each with specific conceptual characteristics. This, however, does not mean that one cannot turn into the other, often in a cyclic system, that aims at gaining better and more detailed knowledge of the reality being modelled.51 Database design is a typical example of a modelling of process. Diagrams and maps can be either models of or models for. An architectural plan, for example, is a diagram/map that is used to generate something new, and is, therefore, an example of modelling for. However, if the same plan was, in fact, the result of the 46. Kotiadis & Robinson 2008. 47. Goodman 1976; Geertz 1973; McCarty 2005. 48. McCarty 2005, p. 24. 49. Goodman 1976; Geertz 1973; McCarty 2005. 50. McCarty 2005. 51. Geertz 1973; McCarty 2005. 18 conceptual reconstruction of the layout of a historical building, based on archae- ological evidence, then that plan, in the first instance, would be a model of. The project at hand, as it will be seen, deals with models of. 2.2. From verbal to visual: related projects and approaches This project aims to transform automatically verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures to visual representations. Also, as there is not a highly structured and symbolical way to represent bookbinding structures in diagrams, the visual rep- resentations necessarily need to resemble the object that they represent. Therefore, this research needs to consider the transformation of information from verbal to visual, the implications of its automatism, and the iconicity of its output. In the literature, one encounters a range of projects, standards and established practices of modelling and design based on verbal input to generate parametrically visualizations of objects by algorithmic means; although none of these projects considers bookbinding structures. 2.2.1. Hardware description languages One example is that of the Hardware Description Languages (HDL) used to describe the structure of Circuit Boards (CB) to then automatically program their design and function. HDLs are textual modelling languages based on standard high-level text-based computer-interpretable expressions that describe the structure of an electronic circuit board. This modelling is both physical, as it relate the various components in space, and functional, as it can mimic the interactions between the components and the final functions of the circuit. The circuit is then virtually tested and eventually physically printed.52 Before the design is programmed through HDLs, the engineer has worked a higher-level model of the circuit, and it is this model that is then translated into the CB. This makes the HDL modelling 52. Mermet 1993; Ullman 2010. 19 stage clearly a modelling for activity, whose purpose is not that of study of the principles of circuits in general, but the manufacturing of a specific functional circuit. Also, in this example, the placement of items on the plane is guided by logic: the aim is to put in the desired circuit components using the least amount of space and in the most efficient way. The reference model is the idea of the circuit devised by the engineer, not an object. 2.2.2. Natural language processing Since the late 1980s, a number of Artificial Intelligence (AI) studies have focused on the interpretation of verbal descriptions in natural language for the generation of visual scenes. In 1984, Adorni and colleagues53 developed a strategy for depicting a static scene described by means of a sequence of predefined phrase-forms. Bijl54 advances a methodology that looks at integrating AI studies with Computer-Aided Design (CAD) for the structuring of information and recovery of construction semantics from natural language. A concept then revisited by Coyne and col- leagues55 and extended in order to express the importance of functional knowledge in design from natural language. Coyne and Sproat56 presented a system to convert text to representative scenes automatically. Their system was aimed at the general public to allow scene mod- elling without having to deal with programming languages. Their software is re- stricted to its own database for semantics and objects. Johansson and colleagues57 advanced a method to convert (Swedish) narratives describing road accidents into graphic scenes. Texts are analysed by a natural language processor and converted into a symbolic representation of the scene that highlights nodes (objects), relationships, quantities, events, and the environment. Symbolic representation works in such a way that on the one hand it captures 53. Adorni et al. 1984. 54. Bijl 1986. 55. Coyne et al. 1990. 56. Coyne & Sproat 2001. 57. Johansson et al. 2004; Johansson et al. 2005. 20 enough information for visual modelling and, on the other hand, it is close to the way in which a human would read and describe a scene. Environmental informa- tion aids spatial framing of the objects and their movements. Zhu and colleagues58modelled natural language processing in a similar way to text-to-speech synthesis to convey the gist of texts. Their system basically recog- nizes words denoting objects and actions, then looks for pictures that can offer the desired meaning. The images are then presented in a loose structure to the viewer (see Figure 3 for an example). Figure 3. Example of Text-to-Picture transformation (from Zhu et al. 2007, p. 1590). More recently, Claude-Lachenaud and colleagues59 have presented an algorithm designed to visualize the movement of objects expressed in text sequences through verbs. By means of natural language processing, action words are detected, and movement identified in verb-to-motion tables. Trajectories that could be defined as random towards a general direction — e.g. to walk: onward generic direction; to climb: random vertical motion — were interpreted correctly by the system. A common problem for all of these projects is the ambiguity of spatial inform- ation encoded within natural language. Motion verbs may only indicate general direction unless some kind of reference frame is provided as in the case of car 58. Zhu et al. 2007. 59. Claude-Lachenaud et al. 2014. 21 accident descriptions.60 Spatial prepositions are often ambiguous too, as each can convey a series of different meanings.61 Consider, for example, the different spatial meaning of the preposition on in the following sentences: (i) the book is on the table; (ii) the painting is on the wall. In both cases, the preposition indicates contact with some surface, but the surface is horizontal in (i) and vertical in (ii). Similar problems are highlighted in a recent project that has investigated the passage of information from verbal description of landscapes to maps. Eide62 considers what kind of information can be transformed and classifies textual spatial expressions in ‘fully specified’, and ‘underspecified’ ones. A fully specified text is one from which only one map can be drawn: every entity is fully specified geometrically. Examples of these are texts in formal languages, such as GML. On the other hand, more than one map can be drawn from an underspecified text, and some of these maps can be significantly different. The under-specification derives from the fact that natural language does not indicate direction and spati- ality in absolute terms. For example, East of some place does not mean at 90° from the point of observation, but rather a range of possible locations roughly in an eastern direction. These projects make use of models for the generation of their visual output, but in the first step, they generally model the reality they are dealing with as models of in order to be able to extract relevant information from texts. Examples of these model of are the semantic modelling at the basis of Eide’s investigation, or the symbolic scene representation found in Johansson and colleagues. 2.2.3. Cultural heritage modelling There have been applications of semantic modelling — i.e. verbal-based mod- elling — applied to the cultural heritage field. The aim of these projects is to allow for modelling without the designer having to learn how to use complicated mod- 60. Johansson et al. 2004; Johansson et al. 2005. 61. Boggess 1978; Boggess 1979; Herskovits 1980; Adorni et al. 1984; Ferrier 1996; Garrod et al. 1999; Tyler & Evans 2003; Lockwood et al. 2006. 62. Eide 2012a; Eide 2012b; Eide 2013; Eide 2014. 22 elling suits suck as Computer-Aided Design (CAD), three-dimensional (3D) modelling software, or similar. Stilla and Michaelsen63 resort to knowledge representation through associative networks64 to allow experts to model man-made objects found in aerial photo- graphs. Complex shapes are described as a series of primitive elements combined together through logical operations. The modelling activity is focussed on the production of two-dimensional (2D) shape renderings of the buildings found on the photographs. De Luca and colleagues65 describe a methodological approach to the modelling of classical buildings based on verbal inputs and the mapping of photographs and 3D scanning data onto the semantically produced model. A similar project, fo- cussed on the semantic modelling of vernacular buildings of South-east China, is presented by Yong Liu and colleagues.66 These projects aim to decrease the com- plexity and workload of the modelling task for the designers, by utilizing67 or de- veloping68 a formalized description language. Formal language allows one to in- crease the modelling level from the usual basic graphic units (points, lines, triangles, curves, etc.) to a higher level of semantic elements (walls, windows, roofs, houses, streets, etc.) which are intelligible by humans, and interpretable by a computer. It is interesting to note the fact that De Luca and colleagues base their semantic interface on the highly formalized language of classical architecture: in particular the works by Palladio and Vitruvius.69 The technical language of classical architec- ture is well equipped to describe components and their spatiality.70 In chapter 5, this will be analysed in more detail. During modelling, the user inputs data verbally into the system that in turn transforms it immediately into a visual representation. Thus, the parameters defined through verbal input are modified until the desired output has been 63. Stilla & Michaelsen 1997. 64. Findler 1979. 65. De Luca et al. 2005; De Luca 2013. 66. Yong et al. 2006. 67. De Luca et al. 2005; De Luca 2013. 68. Yong et al. 2006. 69. De Luca et al. 2005; De Luca 2013. 70. Goulette 1999; Borillo & Goulette 2006. 23 produced. Measurements are provided by direct input in Yong and colleagues, whereas in De Luca and colleagues the model is adjusted and registered to fit the data from the 3D scans and the digital images of the building. The modelling activities in these projects are for the generation of specific models. Another approach to produce large scale visualization efforts utilized in the cultural heritage sector is that of procedural or parametric modelling. This ap- proach allows for rapid prototyping, i.e. the generation of series of models all as- sembled at random on the basis of specific prototypical models and parametric ranges of values. Müller and colleagues,71 expanding on the procedural shape grammar advanced by Stiny,72 have developed a system to build large architectural models with significant geometric detail. Dylla and colleagues,73 have applied procedural modelling to rebuild virtually ancient Rome at the height of its urban development in 320 AD. The placement of the buildings is derived from Geo- graphic Information System (GIS) data. Saldana74 investigates the value of the modelling process behind the outcomes of the subsequent rapid prototyping as an important scholarly activity and as an information-rich source for each randomly designed model. This modelling process is prototypical in nature as it describes types of buildings rather than specific buildings, and it is implemented for the generation of a visualization. In all these examples, the models on which the automated transformation from verbal to visual are based are models for the generation of the desired graphic representation. These models represent an extra layer of modelling, separated from survey database data, that has been conceptualized specifically for the sole scope of generating those graphic outputs from verbal or high-level inputs, and they have done so successfully. 71. Müller et al. 2006. 72. Stiny & Gips 1972; Stiny 1980; Stiny 2006. 73. Dylla et al. 2010. 74. Saldana 2014. 24 2.3. From verbal to visual through models of The novelty of this project does not lie strictly in the fact that it advances a methodology for going algorithmically from verbal to visual - although this does lead to implications and considerations that are specific to this methodology - but rather in the fact that, unlike other cultural heritage projects, it uses a model of and not a model for as its starting point. In other words, instead of relying on ad- ditional information specifically introduced, according to a model for, for the generation of the graphic output, this research project will take the information directly from a survey database. The approach is not just technically, but also epistemologically different: it relates to the selection and processing of information, and to the nature of the outcome. As will be seen, in fact, the diagrams generated through this methodology are necessarily prototypical in nature; this renders them also graphic models of the object depicted, thus facilitating comparison, analysis, classification based on visual clues, and, to an extent, memorization. In addition to this, no other project has tried to produce automatically drawings of bookbind- ing structures. A typical problem of words-to-image transformations is that of the spatial rela- tionships between the various components. In the cultural heritage examples ex- posed above, the focus of the modeller is the production of two- or three-dimen- sional models utilizing semantic parameters and descriptions in order to visualize a specific object. The typical visualization problems of the placement of elements in space and of their dimensions are solved by turning to additional quantitative data (GIS data, 3D scan data). Another problem is that of the shape of the objects to be represented and their specificity. In the Rome 2.0 project,75 specific parts that are known because they still exist are manually designed using parameters such as exact measurements and texturing with photographs, whilst the unknown parts of the buildings are reconstructed according to a generic model of that type of building, using the existing parts as a frame of reference for placement, measurements, and shape. 75. Dylla et al. 2010. 25 De Luca and colleagues,76 as mentioned, guide the shapes of each architectural component model on the basis of its definition. They can do so because the technical vocabulary developed for classical architecture is a highly structured and granular verbal way of representing atomic visual features. For example, column outlines are subdivided into the smallest unit necessary to reproduce them: torus,77 listel,78 scotia,79 etc. (see Figure 4). The generic model thus obtained is subsequently adjusted and registered by the modeller to fit the quantitative data gathered through direct acquisition methods (3D scanning, photography). Figure 4. Example of classical architecture column parts (from De Luca et al. 2005, p. 3). Bookbinding studies lack a highly formalized technical terminology that aims at describing each atomic visual feature of a structure.80 Models of describe proto- typical instances of structures, and are, therefore, not concerned with specific measurements of an item. Similarly, spatial positioning of components is only 76. De Luca et al. 2005; De Luca 2013. 77. Torus: convex, semi-circular moulding often at the base of columns (Encyclopædia Britan- nica 1911). 78. Listel: A small list or fillet (Oxford English Dictionary 2014b). 79. Scotia: concave moulding with a lower edge projecting beyond the top and so used at the base of columns as a transition between two torus mouldings with different diameters (Lewis & Darley 1986). 80. See chapter 4. 26 suggested by the explication of the relationships between items — e.g. A is part of B. All of these problems, it would seem, impede the successful generation of diagrammatic visualization of bookbinding structures, or other material objects given the same procedural constraints, when compared with the formal application of semantic modelling in the examples given above. Notwithstanding this, models of are specifically developed to describe reality as an object of study, and by generalizing and categorizing it allow to compare examples. If this information can be harnessed and transformed into diagrams, these too can be used as visual models of. There is a lot of experience that can be gathered from the examples above, even if the means are different. All of the above-mentioned projects have been successful in their endeavours. However, none has analysed what it is exactly that makes the project a success, what are the minimum requirements for a successful intersemi- otic translation from verbal to visual of a material object. This project aims to generate diagrammatic visualizations, directly from the data included in databases, and not through a second layer of modelling that guides a modeller in the production of diagrams. Also, for bookbindings, there is not a highly structured and granular terminology that can be used in the same way as classical architecture vocabulary. Because of all of these reasons, the exper- ience accrued in the semantic modelling project presented above, would need to be adapted and generalized. In addition to this, the visualizations for this project are not based on an extra layer of modelling with information specifically selected for the generation of the graphic outputs, and this means that there is a direct link between the data recor- ded verbally in databases, and the automated diagrams. This way, the diagrams are associated with the object that they represent indirectly and through the de- scription of it in the database. As mentioned in chapter 1, visualizations have been used in a number of fields as verification tools. It is, therefore, interesting to in- vestigate whether this relationship between data and visualizations can be harnessed and the automated diagrams used as data verification tools. In order to be able to adapt and apply a similar transformation from verbal to visual to another field, such as bookbinding studies, one needs to understand 27 what kind of information is essential. To generalize and understand the issues linked with an intersemiotic translation from a verbal model of a material object such as a binding structure, into a diagrammatic representation, one needs to consider the nature of the two languages involved and of the items to be repres- ented, and also issues linked with human perception and cognition, since the in- tended user of the diagrams are human beings. Through this kind of analysis, one can advance a general methodology applicable to any material object. Summary Two main categories of modelling activities can be distinguished: modelling of and modelling for. The former is focussed on discerning the essence of a material object, whilst the latter aims at the generation of a particular entity. The former looks at the general, the latter at the particular. Verbal to visual automated transformations in the cultural heritage field have generally been based on modelling for methods, making use of information on the spatial configuration of the components, their measurements, and their shape. None of these has considered bookbindings and none of these relies on information already recorded within databases. Instead, they develop an extra layer of model- ling, and typically gather more data, specifically for the purpose of generating a graphic output. In these projects, qualitative data (verbal input) is often mixed with quantitative data (measurements, scans, or other direct acquisition methods) to solve the problems of indeterminateness found in verbal descriptions. Also, none of these projects has attempted to developed a general methodology to as- certain the minimum amount of information that is required for successful verbal- to-visual transformations for material objects in other fields. It has not been ad- dressed whether it is possible to generate successful transformations based on less specific, but more prototypical information contained in a model of, using data already gathered whithin databases, and whether these visualization could be used as data verification tools. 28 Transformations based on models of need to address the problems of the spatial configuration of the components and their specificity in different ways. To under- stand how this is possible, the next chapters will investigate the nature of the various entities and processes involved in the project, then to apply these trans- formations to the field of the study of bookbinding structures. 29 Chapter 3. Signs & material objects We should, however, recall that our mind can be stimulated by many things other than images — by signs and words, for ex- ample, which in no way resemble the things they signify. [...] It is enough that the image resembles its object in a few respects. Indeed the perfection of an image often depends on its not resem- bling its object as much as it might. You can see this in the case of engravings: consisting simply of a little ink placed here and there on a piece of paper, they represent to us forests, towns, people, and even battles and storms; and although they make us think of countless different qualities in these objects, it is only in respect of shape that there is any real resemblance. And even this resemblance is very imperfect, since engravings represent to us bodies of varying relief and depth on a surface which is entirely flat. Moreover, in accordance with the rules of perspective they often represent circles by ovals better than by other circles, squares by rhombuses better than by other squares, and similarly for other shapes. Thus it often happens that in order to be more perfect as an image and to represent an object better, an engrav- ing ought not to resemble it. René Descartes, Discourse IV of The Dioptrics, 1637. At the end of the introductory chapter, reference to the communication cycle for the project was made, highlighting the various entities and processes that come into play. Communication can be defined as the exchange of any kind of message 30 and of the system of signs of which it is made.81 Signs then are the basic units of communication. To understand what a sign is, one can begin from a general definition: anything that stands for something else in certain respects.82 It is through the process of standing for that meaning is created. This chapter looks at the communication process through signs, and how meaning is conceptualized in the human brain. It also investigates the nature of material objects and what is the mininum amount of information needed to communicate their essence. 3.1. Signs, signification, and communication Semiotics, the science of signs, studies signs in processes such as communication, cognition, and linguistics.83 There are two main traditions of semiotics. One, started by the linguist Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913), proposes a dyadic notion of signs, whereby every sign consists of two parts: the signifier, a sound, word, or image, and the signified, the mental concept to which the signifier is re- lated. Whilst Saussure admits that signs can be other than words, his theories are mostly concerned with how meaning is created through words and conventions, arbitrary signs. Another tradition, coming from the investigations of the logician Charles Sanders Peirce (1839–1914), proposes instead a triadic theory of sign, with each sign consisting of three parts: a sign-vehicle, an object, and an interpretant. Sausurre’s tradition, usually followed by linguistic studies, has been criticized by scholars interested in a wider notion of sign — asides written or oral language — for offering a rather static notion of signs and focussing only on systems of ar- bitrary signs.84 Therefore, many semiologists, while acknowledging the fundamental understanding of the structure of signs in Saussure’s theories, prefer to turn to Peirce’s richer typology of signs, thus allowing for different modes of signification, 81. Sebeok 1991. 82. Hoopes 1991. 83. Moriarty 1994. 84. Iversen 1986; Bryson 1991; Alpers et al. 1996. 31 not just arbitrary signs.85 Given the issues of the project at hand, the theories set by Peirce are of interest. However, Saussure’s dyadic (signified-signifier) relation- ships are included in Peirce’s categories. 3.1.1. Signs Let us consider briefly the basic concepts of Peirce’s triadic theory of signs. A sign consists of three interrelated parts: a sign-vehicle, an object, and an inter- pretant.86 Figure 5 shows the relation between the three elements, as customarily schematized as a triangle. The sign-vehicle is the signifying element, or signifier, e.g. a word; the object indicates what is being signified, e.g. the object to which a word attaches; the interpretant, the most significant and distinctive feature of Peirce’s theory, is best described as the understanding that one has of the sign/object relation, thus, since the signification is not simply a dyadic sign-object relationship, a sign has a signification only for the fact that is being interpreted: the meaning of a sign is made manifest through the interpretation that it generates in the sign users. Further, a sign is determined by the object it signifies, as the object imposes certain parameters that the sign must follow in order to represent that object, but not every characteristic possessed by an object is relevant to signi- fication and the process of sign determination.87 In other words, the object determines the sign by imposing some constraints that the sign ought to meet in order to signify it, and the sign signifies the object only by virtue of certain features possessed by the object; that is to say that the nature of the object itself limits its sign’s nature in terms of what is required for successful signification in a selective abstraction88 process. The sign also determines 85. Rose 2012. 86. Peirce, and many scholars after him, call the three components of a sign: sign, object, and interpretant. This particular nomenclature has the potential of creating confusion for the fact that it appears to be that of the three elements of a sign, one is the sign itself (leading to the misconcep- tion that a whole is in fact a part of itself). For this reason, Atkin (Atkin 2010) refers to that element of the sign responsible for signification as the sign-vehicle; the same convention is followed here. Other terms used by Peirce for the signifying element are: representamen, representation, and ground. 87. Short 2007; Atkin 2010; Burch 2010. 88. Greenlee 1973. 32 Sign-vehicle Object Interpretant Three Types of Signs Icon Index Symbol Figure 5. The basic structure of signs and its trichotomous nature according to Peirce. Note that a sign may display a combination of iconic, indexical, and symbolic character- istics. the interpretant by focusing the attention on some features of the sign/object re- lationship.89 According to Peirce, the object then determines its sign by dictating some constraints for a successful signification. The nature of the requirements of these constraints determines the typology of the sign, and this allows a distinction to be made between three types of sign. When the sign is required to reflect, exhibit, or exemplify qualitative features of the object, i.e. to resemble the object in some respect, Peirce calls this sign an icon, e.g. a diagram. If some kind of connection between the sign and the object, be this connection physical or existential, is re- quired, then the sign is an index e.g. a footprint, or a rubbing. Finally, if it is re- quired that the sign is connected to its object by means of conventions, or social rules, the sign is a symbol, e.g. a word. It should be noted that the three typologies of signs are not and need not be clear-cut and mutually exclusive categories, but rather any sign may display a combination of iconic, indexical, and symbolic characteristics.90 In addition to these three basic types, semioticians have distin- 89. Burks 1949; Short 2007; Atkin 2010; Burch 2010. 90. Short 2007; Atkin 2010; Burch 2010. 33 guished between other kinds of signs. Sebeok91 lists the species of signs that are found most frequently in the literature; amongst these are zero signs, icons, indexes, symbols, and names (or verbal labels). Sebeok92 also signals how the receiver of a message inevitably interprets both signs and their context to interpret it. Context, as it will be seen, is of particular importance for iconic signs. There are two kinds of signs involved in the project at hand: symbols, or even better names, as verbal descriptions use words, names to convey their meaning, and diagrams, which fall under the category of iconic signs. To be more precise, the project’s visual sign should be referred to as hypoicons, since there are a number of conventional rules in use in drawings of bookbinding structures.93 Peirce, in fact, defines hypoicons as a particular case of iconic signs in which the likeness to the object is ‘aided by conventional rules’.94 3.1.2. Reading and remembering iconic signs Iconic signs have sparked a lot of discussion in the field because of the problems that they pose as entities bearing meaning: to read an icon, in fact, unlike written language with letters and words, is not a simple matter of knowing its components.95 This has significant implications for this project, as the automated transformations will need to generate diagrams, whose meaning is definite and unambiguous. 3.1.2.1. Reading modalities of icons Eco96 has identified two reading modalities97 of icons — i.e. two different ways in which icons can be read. The border between the two is for the most part fuzzy. 91. Sebeok 1994. 92. Sebeok 1994. 93. See chapter 4. 94. Peirce 1931-1935/1958: CP 2.276; Peirce 1931-1935/1958: CP 2.279; Peirce 1992-1998: EP 2:273, 1903. 95. See Eco 1997 for a summary of the debate on iconicity. 96. Eco 1997. 97. Eco 1997, p. 336. 34 Figure 6. Mexican on a bicycle. Except for a few specific cases, they are not clear-cut modalities, but rather the reading modality can gradually switch from one to the other in the course of an interpretation. The selection of the appropriate reading modality is linked both to the nature of the sign and to its context. First there is an alpha modality.98 Some signs are characterized by the immediacy of perception. They are interpreted and given some meaning strictly on the basis of their perception. When one can approach a sign and interpret it solely through immediate perception there is an alpha reading modality. For example, in Figure 6, by simple perception and based on our knowledge, one can easily interpret the image as showing a man on a bicycle, and in doing so one reads the image through the alpha modality. Then there is the beta modality.99 According to this modality one has to assume that what is being perceived is in fact a sign whose function was intentionally that of the communication of a specific meaning: one sees that there is a sign and that such a sign stands for something else. Returning to the man on a bicycle one could notice that the man is wearing a specific hat. The hat could be recognized as being a sombrero, a typical Mexican hat. One could then infer that the image is showing a Mexican on a bicycle. If one then realizes that the image is on the webpage100 of 98. Eco 1997, p. 336. 99. Eco 1997, p. 336. 100. http://www.amigos.co.uk/Our-Philosophy.aspx (accessed April 2015). 35 a chain of Mexican food specialized in home delivery, one could happily conclude that the interpretation was indeed correct. The same image can then be read according to two modalities in order to get to its intended meaning. However, in the case of the Mexican on a bicycle the beta modality was weak and the reading process oscillated between the two reading modalities. In a scale that goes from strong alpha modality to strong beta modality there are signs that maintaining a high level of detail definition, and are mostly read according to the alpha modality. Then there are other signs, which are highly abstract and whose interpretation is necessarily linked to a beta reading modality. In fact, while still visual signs, their interpretation through the alpha modality would not go much beyond the basic shape information that the percep- tion provides. Let us consider the image in Figure 7. Through simple perceptive interpretation and alpha modality the droodle101 would have very little meaning. The title provides the reading key: ‘A Mexican on a bicycle’. Only when one has given or has guessed the correct interpretative key can one decide that what the figure is showing is a certain object or scene, thus adapting what one is perceiving with what is known. In generating diagrammatic visualizations for bookbinding descriptions, one needs to be aware of these reading modalities, and efforts should be made in order to provide the necessary information to infer from an icon the desired meaning. 3.1.2.2. Formalization of hypoicons One aspect of the difference between symbolic signs and iconic signs is that of the reproducibility. One could recreate an exact copy of a sign — e.g. every letter within this text is an exact copy of itself, every letter ‘a’ belonging to the same font is an exact replica of itself — but, for the most part, in everyday life, one deals with replicas — e.g. a letter ‘a’ within one font is understood as signifying the same letter type a as any other font, for example this ‘a’, even though they 101. Droodles are nonsensical pictures containing a few abstract pictorial elements that are very difficult to understand without being given a caption or thematic clue (Nishimoto et al. 2010). Roger Price, a famous author of droodle books, defines a droodle as ‘borkley looking sort of drawing that does not make any sense until you know the correct title’ (Price 1976, p. 2). 36 Figure 7. Mexican on a bicycle — as seen from above (after Eco 1997, p.344). are not exact copies of each other — whereby only the essential characteristics are preserved, the a-ness of the letter type a, disregarding every other characteristic not perceived as fundamental for the message to be conveyed.102 Within signs, one can identify a type/token ratio between a particular occurrence of a sign and the class of all occurrences of the sign, between the ‘a’ of a particular font, and the class of the letter a in whichever form.103 Eco104 further distinguishes between two kinds of these ratios: a ratio facilis and a ratio difficilis. In a ratio fa- cilis each occurrence of a type of information is generated and presents itself in accordance to the code of an expression system that has formalized its appearance, and it is thus easily remembered and reproducible. This is the case of words and highly stylized — or symbolic — graphics, like any letter a. In the case of a ratio difficilis, instead, each occurrence is generated and presents itself in accordance with its own content, either because a pre-formed type does not exist that is available as a code, or because the expressive type (the sign) and the content type (the information to be communicated) coincide. These signs, because of the lack of graphic conventions, are more difficult to reproduce while maintaining them their true meaning. These are typically iconic signs. There can be two cases of ratio difficilis: on the one hand the sign is a precise unit that corresponds to a precise content, it is not too difficult to reproduce and in the long run can be seen as being ruled both by ratio facilis and by ratio difficilis. On the other hand the sign presents itself as a whole composed of undefined portions of imprecise content. 102. Eco 1975/2008. 103. Sebeok 1994. 104. Eco 1975/2008. 37 What this means is that, even in absence of an established convention, some iconic signs, with time, can become recognisable as discrete units of precise meaning. In chapter 6 it will be shown how endband cross-section diagrams can be read in this manner. 3.1.3. Visual texts There is a fundamental issue that has troubled semioticians: while in language one can identify discrete units at every level of investigation — i.e. phonemes,105 morphemes,106 textual chains — in visual expressions instead there are units that are dramatically mutable and undefined, with an infinite number of acceptable variants. Even when iconic signs present themselves as discreet units — e.g. two circles can signify a pair of eyes (see Figure 8) — these depend on context, often provided by a set of shapes in a specific range of spatial relations, or by some verbal anchors, like a title for an image. If taken away from their context they lose their meaning: they are forced to be read only through the alpha modality and all that can be inferred is their shape.107 Images then, it would seem, need to be regarded as macroscopic blocks of in- formation, within which it is possible to identify pertinent units, but these units are not independent. One can see, understand, and label the legs in the drawing of a table, thus perceiving them as separable discreet units, but if these are indeed separated and presented on their own they would lose their meaning of ‘legs of table’ and would instead be perceived as ‘parallelograms’, a label still correct, but too general to convey the meaning they possessed in context. These units do not possess a fixed distinct value that opposes itself to that of the other units within the system, but rather, their oppositional value and meaning depends on the context.108 105. In linguistics, units of sound in a language that cannot be analysed into smaller linear units and that can distinguish one word from another. (Oxford English Dictionary 2014e). 106. In linguistics, minimal and indivisible morphological units that cannot be analysed into smaller units. (Oxford English Dictionary 2014c). 107. Eco 1975/2008; Barthes 1978; Polidoro 2008. 108. Eco 1975/2008. 38 [a] [b] Figure 8. Units in visual language are context dependent: the same elements that are perceived as parts of a smiley face in [a] are not recognized as eyes and mouth in [b]. Saint-Martin109 introduces the idea of special kind of visual sememe110 that she calls coloreme to indicate the non-discreet semantic units within icons. These en- tities are ‘continuous and spatialized topological entities, endowed with somewhat fuzzy boundaries’.111 The continuous and spatialized nature of visual sememes has important consequences for their generation, as it will be seen in chapter 5. In verbal communication, there are discreet sign units that can be decomposed into smaller pertinent and discreet units taken from within a pre-determinable and finite set dependent on a specific code. In visual communication instead, the sign units are not further analysable into discreet and separable sememes. Images can then be seen as visual or iconic texts that, instead of depending on a predeter- mined code, institute themselves an inferential code.112 Texts are in fact not defined by the presence of linguistic elements, they can rather be defined as portions of reality composed by a number of elements that are combined to produce a coherent meaning.113 Images need to be analysed and read as texts, whose meaning, while depending on the information conveyed by the units that compose them, becomes evident only when they are considered as wholes. Unlike word-based texts though, the receiver does not scan the text in a sequential manner, but rather engages in an active search activity, rapidly scanning the entire sign in a synchronic manner, jumping from part to part, looking to recognize some of these parts, thus finally 109. Saint-Martin 1990. 110. In linguistics, a sememe is the smallest unit of meaning. (Oxford English Dictionary 2014g). 111. Saint-Martin 1990 pp. 5-7. 112. Eco 1975/2008; Polidoro 2008. 113. McKenzie 1999. 39 obtaining a global understanding of the whole sign. Each new part is understood in relation to the others until the whole sense — or indeed a whole sense — can be inferred. Thus, meaning can be extracted through a process of active vision and interpretation of what is being perceived from major or minor details.114 This synchronicity of the information read in visual texts allows to gather in one scan a picture of the whole without having to first understand all of its con- stituent parts. Diagrams are a more immediate form of information delivery systems than sequential verbal information as they facilitate to grasp in a short time a picture of the whole. In the literature, in fact, images are often described as whole, integrated entities, whose elements are perceived in a simultaneous and synchron- ous way.115 As it will be seen in chapter 7, a consequence of the synchronicity and of the immediacy of visual texts is that problems and errors in the data can be immediately perceived. The interdependence of the signs within visual texts is also an important factor that needs to be kept in mind in the generation of auto- mated diagrams, as the appearance of one bookbinding component will depend on that of the other components that come together in a specific diagram. 3.2. Multimodal communication As seen above, visual information may need to be anchored through verbal labels in order to initiate a reading in beta modality. Therefore, introducing verbal in- formation within bookbinding diagrams might be beneficial. 114. Saint-Martin 1990; Findlay & Gilchrist 2003; Ware 2013. 115. Ivins 1953/1969; McLuhan 1964/2001; Goodman 1976; Arnheim 1969; Dondis 1973; Ivins 1973; Mitchell 1980; Snyder 1980; Mitchell 1986; Eco 1993. 40 3.2.1. Dual-coding representation Experiments by cognitive psychologists have investigated the effects of verbal- visual mixed communication. Paivio116 has brought forward a dual-coding theory according to which the human mind stores information in the brain through two modes of representation: verbally, through what he refers to as logogens, and non- verbally, through imagens. Imagens denote mental representations of visual in- formation. Logogens denote mental representation of language information. Learning and behaviour are thus mediated by two independent and interconnected systems: a verbal system that is more logical and abstract that through logogens stores information about language (but not of the sounds of the words), and a visual one that through imagens stores information on objects, grouping, whole- parts relationships, and spatial information and arrangement. The two systems are said to be independent, as they can work in isolation, and interconnected, as information can be transferred from one system to the other and they can influence each other. Pavio117 also predicted that dual-coding might facilitate performance. Experimental evidence suggests the correctness of his assumptions: subjects recall twice as much when they are presented information both visually and verbally, than just visually and even more drastically than just verbally.118 Interestingly, re- search on memory for complex visual material also demonstrated better recalling for visual input that is immediately followed by verbal descriptions; however, this beneficial effect has only been demonstrated for cases in which the verbal inform- ation integrates visual information or when it makes data more salient and distinct- ive by simplifying and fixating it.119 Information presented duo-modally facilitates cognition, but only when the equilibrium between the two modes is maintained. Verbal labels can be used to facilitate memorization of the information conveyed through diagrams, and this in turn facilitates comparison between different exemplars. 116. Paivio 1971; Paivio 1975; Paivio 1986; Paivio 1991; Paivio 2007. Also Brandimonte & Gerbino 1996; Ware 2013. 117. Paivio 1975; Paivio 1986; Paivio 1991. 118. Paivio & Csapo 1973; Paivio 1991; Paivio 2007. 119. Klatzky et al. 1982; Wiseman et al. 1985; Paivio 2007; Brandimonte & Gerbino 1996; Gauthier et al. 2003; Brown et al. 2010. 41 3.2.2. Verbal recoding of ambiguous visual stimuli A famous experiment by Carmichael, Hogan, and Walter120 adds an important aspect to this discussion. As we have seen, according to the dual-coding theory, the two systems are interconnected and they can influence each other. This can have a profound effect for ambiguous visual percepts. In their experiments, in fact, they showed how a verbal label associated with an ambiguous visual stimulus determined how the stimulus was interpreted and subsequently remembered. The label affects drastically the perceptual interpretation. Table 1 shows three of the visual stimuli used by Carmichael and colleagues in their experiment (visual stimulus), the verbal labels (label 1 and 2), and the sub- sequent interpretation (reproduced image 1 and 2). The subjects were presented an ambiguous stimulus, for example two circles connected by a line, and they were told that the stimulus represented one or another object (label 1 and 2), for example eyeglasses or a dumbbell. Subsequently, the interpretation and recall of the information were completely different, depending on and strongly influenced by the different verbal label provided at time of perception (reproduced image 1 or 2). Language can affect and anchor the interpretation of a visual stimulus. The same effect can also be seen when ambiguous visual stimuli are not given in isola- tion but in context: as in Figure 8, the two circles, when in the right context are read as eyes, otherwise are simply read as circles, but if a label ‘face’ were provided with the picture, with a little effort one could see the circles as the eyes of a somewhat deformed upside-down face. Rep. image 2Label 2Visual stimulusLabel 1Rep. image 1 dumbbelleyeglasses sunship’s wheel tablehour glass Table 1. Samples of ambiguous visual stimuli and their subsequent interpretation as re- ported by Carmichael et al. 1932 (after Cornoldi & Logie 1996, fig. 1.3, p. 15). 120. Carmichael et al. 1932. 42 To summarize, there is a beneficial effect in the combination of visual and verbal information. This affects both interpretation, memorization, and subsequent re- calling of the information. The ambiguity of visual stimuli can be anchored through verbal labels and/or visuo-spatial context, thus allowing for beta reading modality and subsequent correct interpretation and recalling of the information. As it will be shown, in the diagrams generated for this project, verbal labels are provided as titles and schematic description texts — i.e. label: value, e.g. attach- ment: sewn. 3.3. Categorization and prototypification At one time it was commonly thought that the grouping of entities into categories was the effect of arbitrary, cultural-based conventions. However, researchers in linguistic, philosophy, and psychology121 have exposed the existence of symmetries in classification models across different cultures and languages, linking the phe- nomenon of categorization to common structures in the perception of the world. This model of common structures is also appropriate for the categorization of material objects and their verbal labels. It is on the basis of this mental model that we can understand the world around us and to communicate. For material objects, this model is linked to their logical form. The next few sections will expose the formulation of this model. 3.3.1. Prototypes Rosch122 argues that categories are not simply logical entities whose members are equally defined by possession of a simple set of features. Rather, many natural categories are structured towards best examples — i.e. prototypes — with non- prototypical members ranging from better to poorer examples. Therefore not all 121. Rosch 1973; Rosch & Mervis 1975; Rosch et al. 1976; Hampton 1981; Lakoff 1987. 122. Rosch 1973; Rosch 1975. 43 members of a category are equivalent, and the best examples can serve as reference points in relation to which the other members of the same category are evaluated. In other words, these best example entities serve as prototypes of the category. The more attributes a member of a category has in common with other members of the same category — and conversely, the less attributes a member of a category has in common with members of another category — the more prototypical this member appears to be. The concept of the prototype functions as a sort of con- ceptual referential schema against which percepts123 are compared, and in turn classified.124 Psychological studies on human perception have often argued that we define arbitrary forms in terms of a restricted vocabulary of more regular shapes or shape concepts referred to as prototypes. These are represented by clear-cut entities forming a referential base. These perceptual punctuations of a phenomenon are usually associated with linguistic labels. Any shape that perceptually falls between two good examples is seen as deviating or approaching a clear-cut label.125For example, Rausch126 analysed the perception and categorization of an angle growing from 0° to 180°. In his experiments he found that the continuous perception of the growing angle was punctuated by a series of clear-cut percepts to which all other percepts tended. He categorized these as (i) straight line, (ii) arrow, (iii) acute angle tending towards a typical obliqueness of 45°, (iv) right angle, (v) obtuse angle tending towards a typical obliqueness, (vi) bent straight line, no longer perceived as an angle. All other angles are seen as tending towards these clear-cut exemplar percepts, with the range of possible angles tending to the same percept varying: very few will be seen as tending towards the arrow or the bent line, some deviations from the normal will be perceived as almost or bad right angles,127 with the great majority of angles tending towards the idea of typical obliqueness. 123. In philosophy and psychology, a percept is an object of perception, or the mental product or result of perceiving something. Oxford English Dictionary 2014d 124. Eco 1997. 125. Mach 1897/1959; Rausch 1966. 126. Rausch 1966. 127. Arnheim 1969 44 This highlights the tendency of the human mind to classify shape percepts as instances within a categorical system in which some features are perceptually fundamental while others are secondary and do not need to be perceptually realized for the percept to be recognized and labelled according to a clear-cut entity refer- ence framework. Because of this tendency, verbal descriptions lack the ability to deliver the specificity, the precise appearance and shape, of objects. However, it is thanks to this labelling system that we can communicate successfully general information about the visual aspects of reality. In practical terms, therefore, when generating diagrammatic visualizations of bookbinding structures from verbal descriptions, the final output will only represent generic information about the appearance of the bookbinding components, but this does not impede the com- munication of the essence of the elements represented. 3.3.2. Basic level of abstraction Rosch128 describes category systems as having both a vertical and a horizontal dimension. Along the vertical dimension one would find the level of abstraction (or inclusiveness) of the category — the greater the inclusiveness of a category within a category system (e.g. a taxonomy) is, the higher the level of abstraction — while the horizontal dimension concerns the segmentation of categories at the same level of abstraction. For example, the entities kitchen table, table, furniture, thing vary along the vertical dimension, while the horizontal dimension would include the variations between entities like table and chair, or car and bus. Rosch and colleagues129 have pointed out that along the vertical dimension not all levels are equally useful, but there is a particular level of abstraction – the basic level – at which people tend to use a concept. This level is the most appropriate for using, thinking about or naming an object in most situations in which the object occurs. It is also the level at which people tend to functionally interact with an object, as the focus is on the functionality of the category. This level usually happens to be 128. Rosch & Mervis 1975; Rosch 1978; Garner 1974. 129. Rosch et al. 1976. 45 Figure 9. An angle growing from 0° to 180° is seen as (i) a straight line, (ii) an arrow, (iii) an acute angle tending towards a typical obliqueness of 45°, (iv) a right angle, (v) an obtuse angle tending towards a typical obliqueness, and (vi) a bent straight line, no longer per- ceived as an angle (after Rausch 1966). 46 Vertical and Horizontal dimensions of a category system L ev el of ab st ra ct io n Segmentation of category thing furniture vehicle... table chair... kitchen table coffee table... wooden kitchen table Figure 10. Dimensions of a category systems (after Rosch et al. 1976; Rosch 1978; Bobick 1987). In bold the basic level of abstraction. the middle level of abstraction. The basic level is that of table, car, hammer, as opposed to furniture, vehicle, tool. It is at this level that material objects are most naturally divided into categories. Consider for example the series furniture>table>kitchen table furniture being the superordinate level, table being the basic level, and kitchen table being the subordinate level. If one ponders which would be the most useful term in the great majority of situations, the answer would have to be table, i.e. the middle level of abstraction. Rosch’s experiments also suggested that for objects at the basic level it is possible to form a mental image that will resemble the ap- pearance of members of the class as a whole.130 Psychological studies on mental imagery131 have highlighted how mental repres- entations of visual information are seen as possessing structural and spatial char- acteristics. Every part of an object and its spatial relations are encoded in the mental representation in such a way that they are readily available for thought processing. In addition, most importantly, such spatial and structural information 130. Rosch 1978. 131. Pylyshyn 1976; Kosslyn 1980; Jolicoeur et al. 1984; Cave & Kosslyn 1993; Biederman 1995; Cornoldi & Logie 1996; Kosslyn & Ganis 2010; Pylyshyn 2011; Pitt 2012; Thomas 2013. 47 gathered through visual perception is not available to language-base thinking.132 Interestingly, research in neuroscience133 has confirmed that when we perform tasks that involve mental imaging, the same neural pathways that are activated during perception become active: both actions of seeing a table, and picturing it mentally activate, for the most part, the same visual processing centres in the brain. In turn, the same neural pathways are activated by surrogate stimuli in drawings leading to the possibility of the generation of graphic prototypes.134 Jolicoeur and colleagues135 have introduced notion of an entry point level for atypical objects. Very distinctive and atypical exemplars have a semantic entry point into the category at the subordinate level. The entry point is therefore an attribute of specific objects rather than, like the basic level of abstraction, of the category as a whole. It can be argued that the notion of the entry point is applicable also to specific uses of objects and their category. Prototypification at the basic level of a category is typically too inclusive to be useful in the classification of particular kinds of objects, or their structures. Thinking of bookbinding structures for example, a description at the basic level of abstraction would refer to an end- band, a sewing structure, a corner, but would not allow further specification. For the purpose of this project, a more useful level of abstraction and entry point would necessarily be represented by a more subordinate category, thus allowing for a more specific identification, and in turn, as it will be seen, a more useful visualization. If one were to describe the ‘table’ items of a furniture shop, the term table would be as generic as furniture in usual circumstances, while the terms kitchen table or coffee table would provide the necessary level of abstraction to allow for successful communication. In the same way, the basic level of abstraction for this project would necessarily need to be less inclusive than usual, as it is at that level that communication on binding structures can be valuable. For simplicity, the basic level of abstraction and the entry point level can be considered as equi- valent. 132. Ware 2013. 133. Kosslyn & Thompson 2003. 134. Kosslyn et al. 1993; Kosslyn & Thompson 2003. 135. Jolicoeur et al. 1984. 48 Tversky and Hemenway136 point out that parts and their configuration are a predominant feature at the basic level. A chair includes a seat, a back, and legs; a knife is seen in terms of a handle and a blade. These parts, and their names, refer both to perceptually identifiable segments of an object, and to specialized func- tions. The prevalence of parthood could be what grants its special status to the basic level. Specifically, knowledge about parts could explain the superior inform- ativeness of entities at the basic level. In addition, different objects at the basic level seem to differ in respect to their parts, while sharing other attributes; whereas different objects belonging to subordinate levels of the same basic level category share parts, but differ in respect to other attributes. Entities at the basic level are the most general and they have similar and recog- nizable shapes. They are also the most abstract entities for which a single image can be formed for such a category. The basic level of abstraction is the highest level for which a generalized outline can be identified and which best reflects the redundancies of the category. Thus, a single line drawing can be used to represent the entire category, if it represents the objects at the correct level of abstraction.137 Prototypical entities represent their category and convey information on the whole/part relationship and structural configuration of objects. When information about material objects is not presented at the correct level of abstraction, the communication process fails to convey the necessary information. In particular, using descriptive terms at a superordinate level created indeterminateness. This will be explored in more detail in the course of this thesis as it highlights a funda- mental issue that needs to be taken into careful consideration when selecting de- scriptive terms. 136. Tversky & Hemenway 1984. 137. Rosch & Mervis 1975; Rosch et al. 1976; Tversky & Hemenway 1984. 49 3.4. Objects: their form and their shape Signs signify their object in some respect, and iconic signs resemble their object in some respect. Of all the characteristics that material objects possess, some are more important than others for their identification and signification. In order to be able to produce successful diagrams of bookbinding structures, there are two features of material objects that need particular attention and that should be communicated: form and shape. These are in fact, as it will be seen in the following sections, amongst the most important and fundamental characteristics that define an object both perceptually and conceptually. 3.4.1. The form of objects Material objects are spatial entities that occupy a single specific region of space- time as autonomous forms of organization which can consist of multiple parts.138 Each one of these parts is in spatial relation to the others and to the whole object. What needs to be ascertained is whether a system of communication claiming to inform about the specificity of an object should deliver information regarding this structural organization, or whether, the collection of the parts is in fact enough to describe the whole. Mereology (from the Greek μέρος, ‘part’) is a branch of philosophy and mathematical logic dedicated to the study of the relations between parts and the wholes they form. Its root as a field of investigation can be traced back to the early days of philosophy (the Presocratics, and then Plato, Aristotle, Boethius), then to Leibniz, Kant, Husserl, and the modern ontologists and metaphysicians.139 Increas- ingly, mereological studies have been gaining interest in the fields of knowledge representation and database construction.140 138. Saint-Martin 1990; Koslicki 2008. 139. Varzi 2014. 140. Doerr et al. 2001. 50 3.4.1.1. Material components and form In the typical mereological analysis of parts and wholes that came to dominate the scholarship in the field during the 20th century, a well-structured whole and a simple heap of its parts arranged in no particular order is the same: under-estim- ating the role of wholes and concentrating on the parts, an object is simply the sum of its material parts, arranged in any way. This came to be for a number of historical reasons and to answer a number of metaphysical problems,141 nonetheless, as pointed out by Koslicki,142 there must be a way to distinguish between a motor- cycle in running condition and the sum of its disassembled parts. Some contem- porary philosophers143 propose to re-accept in the discourse on parthood and wholes, the Aristotelian notion of form, and argue that material objects can be regarded as structured wholes, to which identity is fundamental, not only that all parts are accounted for, but also that these parts exhibit a certain configuration, or arrangement. Therefore, enumerating the parts a complex object is not enough to describe its essence. Any communication about material objects should be able to communicate both the range and type of their material components as well as their configuration. In the next chapter, examples of descriptions of bookbinding structures as mater- ial objects will be presented, and it will be seen how not being able to communicate the form of objects poses important problems. 3.4.1.2. Logical form and expression In addition to form, in order to describe an object, one also needs to be able to refer to its essence. In other words, to communicate an object table, in such a way that the concept is applicable to any table, there needs to be a way to define an idea of table-ness capable of prescribing what components could come together to make a table, and in which spatial arrangements, i.e. a conceptual categorization of the prototypical instance of table. This abstract idea of the objects would 141. Simons 1987; Albertazzi 1999. 142. Koslicki 2008. 143. Fine 1999; Harte 2002; Johnson 1994; Koslicki 2007; Koslicki 2008. 51 function like a model of it, by prescribing which components are necessary or possible for a given object, and in which relationships these can stand. In philo- sophical terms, this abstract entity is referred to as logical form.144 Material objects, therefore, posses an abstract form that determines all possible configurations, a sort of recipe for how to build objects of a particular kind K; while their material components can be thought of as the ingredients that are called for in the recipe. Each kind K has associated with it a set of requirements (the recipe) specifying the range, configuration — and sometimes the number — of material components eligible to compose an object of that particular kind K. The logical form makes available positions for the material components to occupy, provided that the occupants satisfy the type restrictions imposed on the positions in question. As a consequence, objects exhibit a particular configuration imposed on them by the logical form. The logical form contributes to two sorts of constraints on its content: (i) constraints concerning the types of components; (ii) constraints concerning the topological or geometrical configuration.145 To communicate descriptions of different instances of the same kind of mater- ial object — e.g. different endleaf structures — one must account for the various material components and for the different ways in which these can stand in rela- tions to one another. Also, in order to be able to describe any instance of the same reality and still make sense, the descriptions must all have something in common, something that corresponds to the logical form of the kind of material objects. Wittgenstein146 calls expression what they have in common and defines all propos- itions147 having the same expression in common as belonging to the same class of propositions: this expression is what is constant within the class of propositions, 144. Pietroski 2014. Of particular interest is the reference to the logical form by Wittgenstein in his his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (Wittgenstein 1922/2012). In accordance with a more recent reading of Wittgenstein’s work that replaces the traditional logistic interpretation with one more metaphysical, or physicalist, (Nordmann 2002) and considering the engineering background of the philosopher,(Hamilton 2001b; Hamilton 2002; Hamilton 2012) Wittgenstein’s investigations on the relationship between language and the world can be scaled down from the general to the practical issues of the verbal communication of material objects. 145. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 2.0232; T: 2.0233; T: 2.02331; T: 2.024; T: 2.025; Koslicki 2008; Pietroski 2014. 146. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 3.31; T: 3.311; T: 3.312; T: 3.313. 147. Proposition: in logic, statement which is capable of truth or falsity (Oxford English Dic- tionary 2014f). 52 whilst everything else can vary. The expression acts as a recipe of the material object through which all different propositions can be generated. These important concepts will be discussed more in detail in chapter 5. Both the logical form and the expression then act as a general prescriptive schema for the material object. Logical form is inherent in the conception of ma- terial objects, or in the model of the object in our mind. The expression instead is the reference to the logical form that can be found in the descriptions. For ex- ample, the expression is embodied in the descriptive schema of databases as it prescribes what variables are possible for a certain object. In other words, the expression is the model of the class of objects that need to be described, and the logical form is that essence of the object that the model of strives to capture. As it will be covered in the following chapters, the lack of a reference to the logical form has critical consequences for the efficacy of a bookbinding description. 3.4.2. The shape of objects Another concept and percept that is essential for the specificity of material objects, and thus for their communication, for the fact that it allows us to distin- guish between different instances, is their shape. If compared with other charac- teristics of objects — e.g. depth, motion, speed, colour, etc. — shape is exceptional. Many objects can share the same colour, or measurements, whereas, the shape of an object is only shared by objects belonging to the same category: an apple can be red, yellow, or green, or any other colour one can think of, just as much as a car can be characterized by the same colours; no two apples are exactly identical, and there are many different kinds of cars, but still the human brain has no trouble identifying an apple as an apple and a car as a car. The only constant, the only perceptual property sufficiently complex and unique to allow for an object to be identified unambiguously, seems to be the general shape of the object, and in particular its prototypical nature.148 148. Pizlo 2008. 53 3.4.2.1. The nature of shape Defining what shape is can be difficult. Pizlo149 proposes a working defintion: Those geometrical characteristics of a specific three-dimensional object that makes it possible to perceive the object veridically from many different viewing directions, that is, to perceive it as it actually is in the world ‘out there’. Shape is both structured and complex, and this prevents shape ambiguity and having to rely on the context of the percept for its recognition.150 This last point does not contradict what exposed on page 38 when it was stated that the percep- tion of the two circles as a pair of eyes depends on the context. In that case what depends on the context is the perception of what the two circles symbolize, not the perception of their shape. In fact, in Figure 8[b] the two circles are still clearly perceived as two dots or circles, what changes and depends on the context is the label of the meaning attached to them. In other words, the right context is what allows to read the image in beta modality, but it is not necessary for it to be read in alpha modality. Shape is structured in the sense that there can be some invariants and a priori constraints, such as symmetry, planarity, compactness, that when applied to the two dimensional projection on the retina help in reconstructing the three-dimen- sional shape of an object: shape recognition does not depend solely on the phys- ical perception as much as, for example, colour perception does. Shape is complex because it can be described along a large number of dimensions, and its complexity is almost never eliminated by the perspective projection onto the retina. To change one shape into another an infinite number of points would have to be moved.151 The general shape of an object is an essential component for its identification, and therefore any communication of a material object should convey shape inform- ation, at least in its prototypical form. 149. Pizlo 2008, p. 1. 150. Pizlo 2008. 151. Pizlo 2008. 54 3.4.2.2. Regularities for the prototypification of shape Research in Gestalt psychology152 has shown that arbitrary shapes are seen in terms of more symmetrical versions of themselves. Some forms are visually per- ceived as tending towards other more regular shapes to which they are seen as similar or equivalent. Some features were found to be more important for the general impression than others as even slight changes of these result in noticeable effects on similarity, while others can be substantially changed without affecting the general impression. This special characteristic is usually referred to with the German words Prägnanz — i.e. singularity, or meaningfulness, pithiness — and these particular features are called prägnant — i.e. a singular, meaningful, special value of a trait or parameter.153 Goldmeier154 reports on the perceived similarity amongst shapes. Amongst the many various values that a geometrical variable — e.g. parameters, measurements, relationships — can assume in a figure, the few prägnant ones are psychologically singled out and phenomenally realized. For non-prägnant characteristics instead, particular values are not realized as such, and ranges of different values will result in the same phenomenal experience.155 From the results of his experiments Goldmeier delineates the general principle that the basis of similarity is the con- servation of prägnant values of geometrical parameters, the conservation of sym- metry being of particular importance. Symmetry is counted amongst the a priori constraints for shape recognition by Pizlo.156 In addition, symmetry and other regularities in a perceived object may allow to reduce the amount of information that needs to be collected and stored about that perception. Regularities, allowing for simplification, in fact, are capable of representing more of an image than arbitrary or irregular features.157 152. Koffka 1935. 153. Palmer 1999; Sternberg & Mio 2009. 154. Goldmeier 1972. 155. Arnheim 1969. 156. Pizlo 2008. 157. Attneave 1954; Barlow & Reeves 1979; Feldman 1997; Feldman 2000. 55 Symmetry allows a figure to be perceived and coded abstractly and economically. Simplification by regularization, and in particular symmetrization, is at the core of shape perception and conception. The diagrams for this project require that the shape drawn be recognizable, but also prototypical as they derive from verbal labels. This calls for highly sym- metrical shapes. Let us consider for example the diagram of a stirrup ring, a Greek- Byzantine clasp in the form of an ornate ring with a flat slot below it to take the strap,158 in Figure 11. The diagram does not exhibit any of the irregularities of the example in the photograph, but it is still recognizable as belonging to the same class of objects. 3.4.2.3. Line drawings Prototypical shapes can be generated using two processes: (i) one of regulariz- ation that preserves all prägnant features; and (ii) one of simplification that only keeps the essential shape features, without affecting their perception. Gestalt psychologists159 have studied the perceptual phenomenon by which an object is distinguishable from the background and refer to the dominant shape as figure and to the background as ground; the phenomenon is referred to as figure- ground organization. The figure is seen as having a closed contour and a shape, while the ground seems shapeless and as extending behind the figure. Figure- ground organization is an essential step in our perception of surfaces, shapes and objects.160 Figure-ground organization and the perception of shapes based on their contour against a background is rooted into the human perception system and we perceive, reproduce, and communicate percepts solely based on their contour. Lines, in line drawings, act as surrogate stimuli for the visual contours of the depicted ob- jects. There is strong evidence161 suggesting that the identification of lines with 158. Ligatus 2013. 159. Rubin 1915. 160. Pizlo 2008. 161. Dehaene 2009; Pinker 1990; Sayim & Cavanagh 2011; Pettitt & Pike 2007; Cook 2013; Halverson 1992; McKie 2012; Sayim & Cavanagh 2011; Cook 2013; Walther et al. 2011; Hochberg & Brooks 1962; Kennedy 1974; Kennedy & Ross 1975; Kennedy 1977; Halverson 1992. 56 Figure 11. Comparison between a stirrup ring shape and its prototypified diagram. The diagram is generated as part of this project; the photograph is taken from the images collected during the survey of the printed books in the Library of the Monastery of St Catherine on Mount Sinai, Vol. 4077.2841α (see §4.2.4, §6.1.4). objects’ contours is an innate function of normal human vision, not linked to any social or representational convention, that occurs both cross-culturally and irre- spectively of the level of development of the subjects. Line drawings seem to harvest a particular feature of visual perception that is hard-wired into the human perceptual system and can be therefore exploited as an international feature of visual communication. To depict something strictly by its outline is to simplify, reduce its visual inform- ation to the bare necessities: complex optical arrays are transformed to simple lines, and the linear depiction is limited to just the salient features that make the object recognizable. The figure is reduced and simplified, stripped of all non- strictly essential information, through an abstraction process that selects only those features deemed as distinguishing. Outline drawings can be considered as prototypical instances of the classes that they represent.162 Biederman and Ju163 have demonstrated that an object depicted as a simple line drawing can be recognized as quickly and accurately as high-resolution photo- graphs that preserve the object’s details, surface texture, and colour. This phe- nomenon has been more recently researched by psychologists and computer sci- entists at Stanford University, Ohio State University and the University of Illinois 162. Halverson 1992. 163. Biederman & Ju 1988. 57 at Urbana–Champaign.164 The researchers concluded that the features preserved in line drawings are sufficient for the categorization of natural scenes, and the same features are most likely used in categorizing both line drawings and photo- graphs. Line drawings exhibit, therefore, the minimum amount of information necessary for shape recognition, and are useful communication tools. In the next chapter, it will be seen how line drawings of bookbinding structures can successfully communicate information by visual means. 3.4.2.4. Perceptual biases Shape prototypification by process of simplification, regularization, symmetriz- ation, and preservation of other prägnant features is sufficient for the generation of functional graphical prototypes. However, one should also make sure that such graphic prototypes preserve and communicate in a psychologically sound manner the composition of the object represented along with its form, and the spatial re- lations amongst its material components. For this one might need to rely on exag- geration of some features and accurate but imprecise spatial relations for immediacy sake. There is psychological evidence of systematic differences between perceptual displays and their mental representations.165 Locations and precise measurements are not remembered absolutely by humans as there is not a coordinate system hard-wired in our eyes or brain; rather they are indexed schematically and approx- imately. Memory for locations and spatial relations is relative. Relative to other elements at the same level of analysis, or to a frame of reference on a higher level of analysis.166 For these reasons, Tversky167 suggests that the design of effective graphic representations should ensure that (i) content and form of the visualization correspond to those of the desired mental representation and (ii) are readily and 164. Walther et al. 2011; Shen & Walther 2012. 165. Tversky 1991; Schiano & Tversky 1992; Tversky 1997; Tversky 2006; Tversky 2007. 166. Tversky 1997; Tversky 2005a. 167. Tversky 2006. 58 correctly perceived and understood, complying with what she refers to as the (i) principles of congruity and (ii) apprehension. Naturalism in the diagrams might then actually not be advisable for a successful communication. Summary This project deals with three different entities — objects, words, and images. Information about objects has to be able to be communicated to a human receiver through three processes: perception, communication, and automated transforma- tion. In particular, information has to be able to reach its final destination, while undergoing the transformation process from a verbal communication system to a visual one. Verbal and visual communication systems are quite different, but can work in tandem, complementing each other. Diagrammatic visualizations can undergo a process of simplification and ab- straction from reality, being reduced to the essential shape and form, and still be read and recognized by a human mind as the object that they represent. In fact, it is through the regularities and generalities of shape that an object’s appearance is understood and conceptualized, and thus not seen merely as a particular and specific entity. A way to ensure memory, reproducibility, and usability of graphic prototypes, is to reduce the amount of information to the minimum essential for shape com- munication, while guaranteeing redundancy of information, so that it can be ‘compressed’ in our brain’s memory, and in turn easily ‘decompressed’ at will. Line drawings are sufficiently simple and, at the same time, complex enough to preserve shape constancy and object identification, to be successfully used in the generation of graphic prototypes. Entities at the basic level of abstraction have a recognizable generalized outline shape that best reflects the redundancies of the category they come to represent. Further, object recognition from outlines is universal and innate amongst humans. Therefore, simplified line drawings are 59 sufficient for the communication of material objects, bookbinding structures in- cluded. Vision is not a mechanical and passive system, but rather percepts are psycho- logically realized and referentially utilized in different degrees of accuracy, with some features being strongly more psychologically salient than others. Verbal labels can anchor the ambiguity of visual information, and can serve as referential punctuations in the fluidity of visual percepts, thus providing a clear- cut structure to an otherwise essentially analogical system. This chapter has considered a number of considerations on the nature of the entities and processes involved in this project and has outlined a theoretical framework onto which a method could develop. The next chapter will review the ways in which bookbinding structures have been described, both verbally and visually. Different kinds of verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures will be covered, and these will be then analysed to see which kind could be best used for appropriate communication and even more so for a successful intersemiotic translation. 60 Chapter 4. Bookbinding descriptions Like men, books have a soul and body. With the soul, or literary portion, we have nothing to do at present; the body, which is the outer frame or covering, and without which the inner would be unusable, is the special work of the binder. He, so to speak, begets it; he determines its form and adornment, he doctors it in disease and decay, and, not unseldom, dissects it after death. William Blades, The enemies of books, 1902, p. 96. Traditionally, books are not considered as susceptible to archaeological treat- ment as most are still living tools kept in libraries to be used, and they are not se- cluded objects kept in museum collections as examples of earlier times. It is true that some books are indeed treated as museum objects, but the prime function of the great majority of them is their service as tools, as useful objects.168 4.1. Books as artefacts The book, studied as an object, holds a wealth of information beyond its textual content. Bindings are a prominent part of the artefact book. Books were often bound in accordance to the choices made by their owner, and bookbindings can therefore reflect financial status or the intended use of a book. From the study of bookbindings it is often possible to deduce information about where and when 168. Adams & Barker 1993. 61 a book was first used, even when such information is not offered by the content itself.169 One of the main problems faced by scholars of the history of bookbinding is that the discipline is young, lacking a well-established vocabulary and a stable description system. This is especially true for research on historical bookbinding structures.170 In 1945, Goldschmidt referred to the discipline as a ‘humble auxiliary [one], rather childish to some, attractive to others, not entirely useless and un- doubtedly innocuous.’171 Despite such disparagement, a great number of fine and valuable scholarly studies were pursued in the 20th century, spanning the mainly aesthetic interests of the Arts and Crafts Movement towards the more scholarly- approach of bibliography.172 4.1.1. Binding structures and decoration The first role of a binding was — and still is — that of protecting the text, but because of the primacy of its impact on the eye, it soon was instilled with and re- flected an additional function, that of indicator of social status through decoration and preciousness of covering materials. For the historian of bookbindings there are two levels of research, one more internal to the object, looking at the structure and the materials used to construct a binding, and another focused on externally visible elements such as the cover and overall appearance of the book, i.e. the material employed in covering the book and its decoration. The study of structure and decoration can uncover the reception, and function of books, as well as help establishing the date, provenance and status of a book.173 Interesting is, for example, the identification of the Turbutt Shakespeare as the original Bodleian copy of the First Folio solely by its (rather plain) binding,174 or, more recently, the use of the 169. Pickwoad 2012; Velios & Pickwoad 2012. 170. Szirmai 1999. 171. Goldschmidt 1945, p. 175. 172. Foot 2004. 173. Adams & Barker 1993; Pickwoad 2011a. 174. Madan et al. 1905. 62 evidence from the bookbinding of the New York copy of Galileo’s Sidereus Nuncius (SNML) to confirm its forgery.175 Bookbinding structures and decoration should therefore not concern exclusively the bookbinding historian, but also his- torians involved in the history of the book, who should take a holistic approach to the object of their research.176 Goldschmidt,177 in 1928, referred to the considerable amount of literature on bookbinding already in existence by that time, and to the fact that the state of knowledge on bookbinding, in spite of the great amount of literature, was still so imperfect, that it seemed impossible to give a coherent history of the binding of books. He pointed out that ‘far fewer people [could] give a reasoned opinion on the country of origin and the approximate date of an old bookbinding, than a piece of pottery or furniture.’ More than eighty years later, the situation has not changed much. With time, the discipline has evolved and accrued knowledge on bookbinding decoration and historical bookbinding structures. 4.1.1.1. The evolution of bookbinding studies There are two levels of research for books as artefacts: one more internal to the object, looking at the structure and the materials used to construct a binding, and another focused on externally visible elements such as the cover and overall ap- pearance of the book, i.e. the material employed in covering the book and its decoration. As well noted by Adams and Barker178 ‘structure and decoration are basic factors in understanding reception, function, influence and survival of books’.179 When scholars first became interested in the bindings of books and started studying them as artefacts, they addressed their interests towards an art history approach, focussing their attention on exterior, aesthetic elements, such as binding decoration, and the idea of ‘styles’, to the extent that for the first half of the 20th 175. Pickwoad 2014b. 176. McKitterick 2007. 177. Goldschmidt 1928, p. 112. 178. Adams & Barker 1993, p.21. 179. See alsoMcKitterick 2007. 63 century, the history of bookbinding was virtually synonymous with the history of bookbinding decoration.180 Decorative elements, and the specific tools used to create them, have been analysed, compared, and identified to hypothesize the links between specific tools and specific workshops, and subsequently, of distinct, individual binders. The consideration of decorating tools from a purely utilitarian point of view as clues to reconstruct parts of the history of an artefact, have proved fruitful and have been central to the work of the majority of scholars interested in the field. Just in the same way as the study of art history can either be based upon the notion of styles, or that of historical sequence and continuous change over time, sporadically in the early twentieth century and, more frequently during the last thirty to forty years, a new interest in a holistic study of the whole bound book flourished, encompassing the materials employed and its structural features, extending the research beyond the study of decoration.181 The artefact book is a complex object constituted of multiple components (e.g. gatherings, textblock, binding structure, covering, decoration, metal furniture, and so forth) that, when considered in its totality, proves of invaluable historical interest. If subdivided into individual elements, the study of the book loses much of its meaning. So, while the study of decoration is useful, it should not be con- sidered merely on its own.182 Furthermore, the great majority of books have little or no decoration and their study has to be based upon that of their structures. It has been estimated that the extensively expensive bindings that are often the sole objects of study of book- binding history constitute only a very small minority — perhaps no more than one per cent — of the entire corpus of bookbindings ever produced.183 The artefacts are of course the principal objects of the above-mentioned studies, but especially for the very early periods of the history of the codex there are but a scarce number of exemplars. It has been estimated that for Coptic, Anglo-Saxon, and early medieval bindings we are left with no more than 0.01% of the probably 180. Foot 1993. 181. Pollard 1956; Pollard & Potter 1984; Foot 1993; Foot 2004. 182. Clarkson 1978. 183. Pickwoad 2011b. 64 total number of items produced, having lost any evidence for the rest.184 For this reason, scholars have to integrate into their research evidence other than what can be directly observed today. For instance, there are a small number of written accounts put together by binders and other observers, varying from simple sets of instructions and aides-mémoires, to accurate trade literature in the form of bookbinding manuals describing the processes involved. Although occasionally rather accurate and explicit, these written accounts more often than not are lacking in details and sometimes almost incomprehensible, as for the most describe the techniques just by means of words; nevertheless, they are noteworthy and useful to the historian. Pollard and Potter185 have traced written evidence of bookbinding as a craft back to the sixth-century CE186 and the first known detailed description of a bookbinding process comes from a text written in the tenth century by an Islamic binder.187 In the West, apart from the drawings contained in the frontispiece of a twelfth-century manuscript (Bamberg, Staatsbibliothek, Msc. Patr. 5) showing some bookbinding operations, there are not records of detailed bookbinding in- structions earlier than the beginning of the seventeenth century. Although these are comparatively recent, they still provide insight into the techniques adopted by earlier bookbinders as, like all trades, bookbinding is conservative, and binding techniques did not change much up to the nineteenth century.188 184. Pollard & Potter 1984; Szirmai 1999; Foot 2004. 185. Pickwoad 2011b. 186. His etiam addidimus in codicibus cooperiendis doctos artifices, ut litterarum sacrarum pulchritudinem facies desuper decora vestiret, exemplum illud Dominicae figurationis ex aliqua parte forsitan imitantes, qui eos quos ad cenam aestimat imitandos in gloria caelestis convivii stolis nup- tialibus operuit. quibus multiplices species facturarum in uno codice depictas, ni fallor, decenter ex- pressimus, ut qualem maluerit studiosus tegumenti formam ipse sibi possit elegere. ‘Further, we have added to the scribes skilful craftsmen, so that a beautiful external form may cover the beauty of the Sacred Scriptures, somehow following maybe the famous example of the Lord’s parable, who covered with nuptial gowns those who he wanted to invite to the banquet in the glory of the heavens. For the bookbinders, if I’m not mistaken, we have conveniently exhibited in one book many styles of binding descriptions, so that one can choose for himself the sort of binding he prefers.’ In Cassiodorus Senator, De institutione divinarum litterarum, Liber I, XXX, 3, (c.550 CE). Author’s translation. (Cassiodorus 1961). 187. Abū Ja‘far al-Nahhās’s treatise Craft of the Scribes providing a number of instructions for bookbinders was included in the eleventh-century work by Tamin ibn Al Mu‘izz ibn Bādīs, Book of the Staff of the Scribes and Implements of the Discerning with description of the line, the pens, soot inks, l q, gall inks, dyeing, and details of bookbinding, which describes in its final chapter, On the art of binding books in leather and the use of all its tools until it is finished by the bookbinder, tools and techniques. (Levey 1962; Bosch et al. 1981; Pollard & Potter 1984; Breslauer 1986; Foot 1993). 188. Pollard & Potter 1984; Breslauer 1986. 65 Quite a few references have been discovered both in manuscripts and in printed books, but it should be noted that workshop manuals – perhaps the most useful of the written information on bookbinding one could hope to find – only survive by accident, as they are generally used until they literally fall to pieces and are then thrown away. Important information can luckily, sometimes be gathered from written accounts as information is transmitted from master to apprentice. As with any other craft, bookbinding is normally learned and passed on from master to apprentice by means of trials and practical demonstrations rather than from books or other documents. In fact, a careful examination of the literature on bookbinding gathered throughout the centuries shows how only about ten per cent of it actually covers binding techniques and structures in enough detail to be regarded as truly useful to the bookbinding historian.189 Other significant sources of information on bookbindings – on their appearance, internal structure or the way they function - can be derived from artistic sources found in paintings and sculptures, when these are examined with a critical and proficient eye that discerns reality from artistic interpretation. There are examples of artists who would merge characteristics of different structures in one item, thus inventing fictitious books. In most cases, however, one has to turn to extant books.190 As noted above, the study and description of the structures and of the materials employed is a new approach to the study of the history of the book that has ap- peared consistently only during the last few decades. Scholars have begun to focus their attention on the materials that constitute a binding, and the techniques em- ployed to create it, observing the elements that make up a binding structure, or lacking the original binding, the traces that remain. Roger Powell (1896-1990) and Sydney Cockerell (1906-1987) deserve special consideration. Drawing from the experience of their master, Douglas Bennett Cockerell (1870-1945), they created a new approach to book conservation that they then passed on to their apprentices, thus not only fundamentally influencing the evolution of the modern discipline of book conservation, but also subsequently that of the archaeology of the book. 189. Pollard & Potter 1984; Breslauer 1986; Schmidt-Künsemüller 1987; Szirmai 1999. 190. Pickwoad 2008. 66 Their legacy came to be commonly known as the Powell-Cockerell School.191 Their interest in the techniques and workmanship of binders of the past, the materials used, the morphological and decorative characteristics of books, the circumstances in which they were commissioned, and the uses of these books, were all passed on to new generations of apprentices and book conservators.192 As a result, considering books not just as supports for text, but rather as complex objects, whose study can contribute to research efforts in cultural history, a new approach was established. They developed a prototype for a descriptive method- ology of binding structures that is now shared by those currently interested in the archaeology of the book; this involves careful description of materials, techniques and structures, recording of the physical characteristics of the artefacts examined and statistical analyses of such information as well as illustrations, diagrams and photographs. In analysing the various structures that have been employed in bookbindings over time, it becomes clear that, although there is indeed a limited number of basic structures, the variations of the details of the different components seem endless. There are three main reasons accountable for this variety: firstly, the fact that the processes evolved and were adjusted over time; secondly, different solu- tions were devised for similar problems and different materials were employed in different geographic locations; thirdly, various workshops had their own special techniques taught as trade secrets.193 From these, in turn, one can deduce, for ex- ample, information about where and when a book was first used, its financial status, or its intended use.194 4.1.2. Terminology With the ever growing interest in a holistic approach to the study of the books as artefacts, scholars have focused their attention on the description of binding 191. Petherbridge 1987, p. 5. 192. Sharpe 1996. 193. Pickwoad 1995; Foot 2004. 194. Pickwoad 2011a; Pickwoad 2012. 67 structures, materials and techniques. But given the young age of the discipline, and the complexity of some structures, an agreed and generally understood vocabulary is lacking. Despite the publication of a number of technical glossaries,195 bookbinding has suffered historically from a lack of explicit and widely accepted and understood terminology for materials and structures. Many terms have been used to describe similar, though nevertheless significantly varied structures of different provenance and age. The existing terms are usually derived from trade terminology and dealers in antiquarian books or bibliographers. In addition, many scholars have developed their own specific lexicon of terms to describe bindings.196 There are terms that are too vague and open to different interpretations, with terms referring to multiple structures, or multiple entities being referred to by the same name. In addition, binding traditions in different countries have developed many different practices, to the point that often there is not an equivalent or precise term for certain structural details across different languages. Also, many binding components have never been verbally labelled at all. Another problem is that many structures need to be described at the component level, as one structure that could be generally labelled with one term — e.g. ‘integ- rated hook endpapers’ — can indeed present a great number of different possible configurations. For this reason, one needs a precise terminology that could label each component, and a way to communicate the specific form of the structure. Usually the latter is attained through ad hoc graphic representations. The lack of a uniform and established terminology in English — or in any other language for that matter — renders descriptions imprecise and liable to misinter- pretation.197 To complicate matters further, there is not as yet a standard method for describ- ing bindings and offering guidelines on what to observe, which elements should be recorded, to what degree of detail, and in what way. Different projects would need different levels of detail, but such guidelines, if flexible enough, could pro- mote best practice, and contribute towards developing a standard of description, 195. Cloonan 1984; Tanselle 2002. 196. Cloonan 1984; Ravenberg 2012. 197. Szirmai 1999. 68 in a similar manner to what the Text Encoding Initiative (TEI)198 has done for the description of texts and their supports. Incidentally, it should be noted that the TEI P5 Guidelines for the physical description of manuscripts do provide an element for the description of bindings; however, in line with the traditional de- scription of bindings that can be found in catalogues of manuscripts,199 this element is far from adequate for the purposes of a bookbinding historian, as the unstruc- tured information there recorded tends to be generalized, superficial, and incon- sistent.200 The Ligatus Research Centre of the University of the Arts London201 has been developing a descriptive schema for bookbinding structures utilizing eXtensible Markup Language (XML) technologies, which, to tackle the terminology problem, has fed into the development of a comprehensive thesaurus of bookbinding terms202 that goes down to the component level of complex structures.203 An earlier version of the schema was used for the survey of the printed books of the library of St Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai, Egypt in 2007. 4.2. Verbal and visual descriptions of bindings In the literature, one can find different types of descriptions of bookbinding structures. There are some that only make use of natural language without any visual integration, whilst others accompany text with photographs or drawings. More recent examples make use of controlled vocabularies and structure the in- formation within databases. The next few sections cover examples from the main description methodologies found in the literature. These are pure textual descriptions without any graphic 198. Sperberg-McQueen & Burnard 2005. 199. See for example Jemolo & Morelli 1990, or Petrucci 2001. 200. Pickwoad 2012. 201. Ligatus from now onward. http://www.ligatus.org.uk/ 202. http://www.ligatus.org.uk/glossary/ 203. Pickwoad 2004; Pickwoad & Gullick 2004; Velios & Pickwoad 2004; Velios & Pickwoad 2005a; Velios & Pickwoad 2005b; Velios & Pickwoad 2008; Velios & Pickwoad 2009. 69 representation, textual descriptions with photographs, textual descriptions with diagrams, controlled vocabularies, and structured descriptions. 4.2.1. A description of Coptic bindings A first example is taken from Henri Hyvernat’s files in the Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium in the Catholic University of America in Washington, DC, and transcribed by Theodore C. Petersen. This is a handwritten account in Italian from the librarian Enrico Castellani on the binding of Coptic Codices written in Rome in 1920. Since the text is rather short and unpublished, the whole page is given here (the translation from the original Italian is made by this author):204 Coptic BindingLa Legatura dei Codici Copti On the spine of the quires (ternions, qua- ternions, quinions, etc.), regularly placed one on top of the others, make four sewing stations. Each sewing is executed with two threads of the length of 60 cm each. On top of the sewn quires, thus already forming a bookblock, place the external boards, in such Sul dorso dei fascicoli (ternioni, quaderni, quinterni, etc.) sovrapposti regolarmente gli uni sugli altri, si fanno quattro cuciture. Ogni cucitura è fatta con due spaghi della lunghezza di 60 Cent. l’uno. Sui fascicoli cuciti e formanti già un volume, si accomodano i cartoni esterni, avvertendo che a way that on the three free sides, less the spine edge, these project by about 1 cm. On the board, at about four centimetres from the spine edge, make four holes with an awl at questi abbiano ai tre lati liberi, meno il lato del dorso, una sporgenza uguale di un centimetro scarso. Sul piano del cartone, a circa quattro centimetri dal dorso, si praticano in corrispondenza delle the four sewing stations; [i.β] tie then the two quattro cuciture, altrettanti fori, con un threads of each sewing station together in an punteruolo, [i.α] si prendono poi i due spaghi open circular knot; pass then the end of the di ciascuna cucitura, e se ne fa un nodo aperto bottom thread through the hole in a downward a forma di anello, si prende poi il capo dello motion; join then the two threads together at the spine. Once the two threads are thus joined together, pass them through the open circular knot, and spago di sotto, si fa passare attraverso il foro, e si fa riuscire al di sotto; si riuniscono quindi i due spaghi al dorso. I due spaghi così riuniti si fanno poi passare corrispondentemente nell’anello, e si stringe il tighten the knot at the spine. The sewing pat- tern that joins the other four on top of the board is simpler. Take a thread length 60 cm long, and, with two needles, following the same sewing pattern as nodo sul dorso. La cucitura poi che deve unire le altre quattro sul piano del cartone, è più semplice. Si prende un pezzo di spago lunga [sic] 60 Cent.; s’infilano due aghi grossi ai rispettivi capi, e col before, that is crossing the needles, pass them through all the holes; having once reached the last hole, form a knot on the spine. Rome, 3rd February 1920 / (received 4th Febru- ary from Enrico Castellani) / Henri Hyvernat. medesimo sistema della prima cucitura, ossia incrociando gli aghi, si passano da un foro 204. Copied from the papers in Henri Hyvernat files: MC VIII.A.3. 70 all’altro per giungere fino all’ultimo dove si formerà il nodo di chiusura. Roma, 3 febbraio 1920 / (remis le 4 fevrier par Enrico Castellani) / H[enri].H[yvernat]. Let us consider one passage as example: (i.β) Tie the two threads of each sewing station together in an open circular knot; pass then the end of the bottom thread through the hole in a downward motion; join then the two threads together at the spine. What follows is an almost verbatim translation that retains as much as possible the flow of the original Italian description: (i.γ) The two threads of each sewing station are taken and an open knot is formed with them in the shape of a ring, the end of the thread below is then passed through the hole, and is driven out below; the two threads are then re-joined together on the spine. What this exactly means is not really clear, in either translation, as well as in the original Italian text. There are not real points of reference and the motion of the thread, as it develops from the bookblock sewing onto the board lacing, however detailed the description might have seemed at the time of writing, is rather confusing. A possible explanation of this particular kind of sewing might be found in the drawings of Theodore C. Petersen of the Coptic bindings at the Morgan Library in New York. See for example Figure 12. This example shows how difficult it is to follow and understand structure from a purely textual description. 4.2.2. A particular sewing pattern Let us take a look at another verbal description. This time the original text is in German and describes a particular sewing pattern on double or split bands with the creation of a small knot between the two parts of the sewing support. 71 Figure 12. A sewing pattern for a Coptic binding at the Morgan Library, New York. (Petersen 1948). Klee first described this sewing in 1978.205 In the paper, Klee described the pattern by verbal means, and accompanied her description by a photograph of the spine of an actual book sewn in this manner. In 1989, Klee’s article was translated and republished in English by Dorsey in the pages of the Binders’ Guild Newsletter.206 Dorsey had the original article translated into English, and he published both (ii.γ) a verbatim translation of the sewing pattern description and (ii.β) the same text translated in a more fluent manner. All three texts are reported here: (ii.α) the original German description of the sewing pattern, and (ii.β; ii.γ) the two translations published by Dorsey. (ii.α) Der Faden führt von der Lagenmitte durch den Doppelbund nach vorn, die erste Bundhälfte wird umschlungen, dabei der Faden hinter dem Bund zur zweiten Bundhälfte geführt, und ehe der Heftfaden wieder zurück zur Bundmitte gestochen wird, wird die erste Bundumschlingung noch einmal erfaßt und der Faden gestrafft, wodurch der Knoten entsteht. (ii.β) The thread goes from the inside of the signature through the center of the split band, from back to front. It then goes tightly around the center of the split band, from back to front. It then goes tightly around one half-band and behind both half-bands. Before the thread goes back between the half-bands into the signature as is usually done, it first goes around the first half- band again, then forward (from back to front) through the slit, and back over itself, then into the signature. When tightened, a knot is formed. 205. Klee 1978. 206. Dorsey 1989. 72 [a] [b] Figure 13. Two interpretations of Klee’s description of the so-called knot-tack sewing. ([a] Dorsey 1989, p. 12; [b] Wurfel 1989, p. 14). (ii.γ) The thread guides from the signature middle through the double band forward from back to front, the first band half will become tight around while the thread behind the band to the second half is guided, and before the thread is stitched back to the band middle, the first band tight around is grabbed again a the thread will be tightened, resulting in making the knot. Dorsey then adds a graphic representation of the sewing pattern to make clearer his interpretation and to test the verbal description (see Figure 13[a]). However, either Klee’s interpretation of the historical sewing pattern was flawed, or the description did not deliver the message. In fact, Dorsey’s explanation, fol- lowing the German text, is, by his own admission, not producing the same pattern depicted in the photographs in Klee’s article. 73 A month later Wurfel,207 in answer to Dorsey’s article, proposed yet another interpretation of Klee’s text based on Dorsey’s translation (see figure 13[b]). In 2012, Benvestito208 proposed a new explanation of the sewing technique after the discovery and examination of two volumes presenting the characteristic knot in the sewing at the centre of the split band in the collections of the Marciana National Library, in Venice, Italy. Through direct examination of the volumes and ignoring the verbal descriptions that had accumulated over the years, she reached a different conclusion (iii), but one that would seem consistent with the photographs in the original article by Klee. (iii.α) La cucitura knot-tack [...] viene eseguita in due tempi: l’ago esce dal fascicolo, al centro del nervo tagliato, avvolge la porzione destra del supporto e, passando dietro al doppio nervo, compare sulla sinistra per dirigersi di nuovo verso il centro; qui aggancia dall’alto verso il basso il filo già presente, lo serra e, portandosi verso l’alto, rientra nel fascicolo [...] è evidente che nella cucitura knot-tack non fosse prevista la com- pensazione. (iii.β) The knot-tack sewing is executed in two phases: the needle exits the gathering in the middle of the split band, it wraps the right section of the sewing support and, passing behind the double band, it appears on the left and then goes back to the centre. Here it locks with a downward motion the thread already present, and it then re-enters in the gathering. [...] Evidence shows that this was not a packed-sewing.209 Figure 14. Knot-tack sewing alternative solution (Benvestito 2012, p. 297). These examples show how photographs alone are not able to convey enough information about complex structures, and confirm the inadequacy of strict verbal descriptions in communicating spatial information. The diagrammatic visualizations 207. Wurfel 1989. 208. Benvestito 2012. 209. Author’s translation. 74 that accompany the last three examples are however capable of integrating the texts, communicating structure more successfully. 4.2.3. A controlled vocabulary description The authors of the two verbal descriptions in the examples above made use of natural language and described the binding and sewing techniques in a logical but free manner. In the next example instead, Spitzmueller and Frost210 have de- veloped a controlled vocabulary for the description of sewing patterns through the fold of the gatherings. The result is a precise description of the path of the thread with a rather ‘mechanical’ feeling to it. Examples (i), (ii), and (iii) are easy to read, but, as seen, can be difficult to interpret, whereas, example (iv), with its cumbersome asyndetic list of actions, is not easy to read, but, with some effort, it can be precisely interpreted. Figure 15 shows a graphic representation of the sewing described in example (iv). Figure 15. Unsupported sewing sample (Spitzmueller 1982, 46). (iv) Unsupported structure: chainpattern across spine; in-line, periodicfold pattern. There are 4 sewing stations — A is at the head and D is at the tail. 2 needles are used, each sewing between 2 stations — A & B or C & D. They sew independ- ently but identically. Enter at A, continue-on to B, exit, dropto- the-outside, link, climb, enter at B, reverse, exit at A, dropto- the-outside, link, climb, change-over and enter at A of section 2. Natural language and controlled vocabulary are mixed in the description. In the text, the terms prescribed by the proposed vocabulary have been underlined. The terminology develops on three levels: (1) from the general sewing structure, 210. Spitzmueller & Frost 1982; Spitzmueller 1982. 75 (2) to the resulting sewing pattern, as seen both from inside the fold of the gath- ering and from the spine, and finally (3) the sewing stitch. This third level describes in detail the motion and path of the thread from a sewing station exit to its entry in the next sewing station for books in codex-form sewn through the fold. Many of the terms are traditional bookbinding terms, but where traditional terminology lacked precision, the authors selected new terms or phrases to pinpoint verbally the detail in focus. The sewing structure is described here as being unsupported (unsupported structure), as it has only the sewing thread as a way to secure the sections to each other. On the spine the sewing pattern takes the form of a chain sewing (chain patterns across spine), while inside the fold it presents a periodic pattern (periodic fold pattern), with intervals within some stations. All sections have exactly the same internal pattern and the thread lengths appear between the same stations (in-line). The thread path is described as entering at the sewing station more towards the head of the bookblock (A), it then enters a station (B) in the same gathering (continue-on), it exits on to the spine, it moves downward (drop) towards the tail of the bookblock (to-the-outside), it passes under another thread (link), it moves upward (climb) and re-enters at the station B, it continues in the opposite direction of progression (reverse), it exits at station A, it moves downward (drop) towards the head of the bookblock (to-the-outside), it passes under another thread (link), it moves upward (climb) and enters station A in a gathering that is different from the one exited (change-over). While this verbal description does take some effort to read, it is nonetheless able to convey more precisely than the previous examples the motion of the thread. This is achieved through the use of the proposed controlled vocabulary, and it is achievable because the nature of the structure described is essentially sequential in nature. Following the motion of the thread step by step, in fact describing how the sewing was carried out, this description dictates a series of actions to be taken in order to reproduce the sewing. This methodology and controlled vocabulary has been extended by Palmer Elbridge,211 and used by Szirmai,212 integrating it with the descriptive approaches 211. Palmer Elbridge 1993; Palmer Elbridge & Prior 2008. 212. Szirmai 1999. 76 taken from the Dutch systematic vocabulary introduced by Gnirrep and col- leagues,213 to describe a link-stitch process.214 This approach resembles the use by De Luca and colleagues215 of classical archi- tecture structured and granular technical vocabulary included amongst the cultural heritage visualization examples in chapter 2. Where one terminology uses actions, the other uses precise figural concepts, but in both cases, the descriptions can proceed strictly in a sequential manner. 4.2.4. Structured and controlled vocabulary descriptions Other scholars have developed a more rigorous approach to the recording of bindings and their structures. Abandoning the idea of natural language descriptions altogether, they have turned to record the necessary information within databases thus allowing for the implementation of a systematic method of examining a book. This way, every book is described in the same manner, and this usually means following how the object was constructed, from the inside out, from the formation of the gatherings, through the codex assembly structure, to the covers and their decoration.216 The normative nature of these descriptions guides both the compiler and the reader through a commonly understood hierarchy of information, thus solving, up to a point, some of the problems found in prose-based descriptions. An example of this methodology of description is the XML schema developed by Ligatus. This is a good example of the use of a hierarchical database for storing data on bookbinding structures and their state of conservation.217 The hierarchical structure, running from the more general to the more specific, allows book com- 213. Gnirrep et al. 1992. 214. ‘The thread, proceeding in the centrefold, exits through a sewing hole at a given sewing station where it drops in order to make a link under the sewing thread of the previous quire [...] it then climbs and re-enters through the same hole and makes a long stitch to the next sewing station’ (Szirmai 1999, p. 16). Underlined words are from the Spitzmueller and Frost (1982; 1982) controlled vocabulary, italic words are from Gnirrep and colleagues (1992). 215. De Luca et al. 2005; De Luca 2013. 216. Federici & Houlis 1988; Federici et al. 1988; Houlis & Pescalicchio 1988; British Census Project 1990; Federici & Pascalicchio 1993; Grosdidier de Matons et al. 1993; Sharpe 2000; Pickwoad 2004. 217. Ravenberg 2012. 77 ponents and their characteristics to be arranged in groups, and then an unlimited number of groups within these groups, down to the desired level of detail.218 The records are combined with photographs of the volumes and freehand drawings of the binding structures. Listing 1 and Figure 16 show an example of an XML description for a sewing station of a printed book volume from St Catherine’s Library along with detail of the photograph of the spine showing an exposed sewing support and drawing of the sewing type: Figure 16. Photograph and drawing of sewing for Vol. 126.60β, St Catherine’s Library. 218. Ravenberg 2012. 78 <sewing> <numberOfStations>7</numberOfStations> <status> <firstSewing/> </status> <type> <allAlong/> </type> <stations> <station> ... </station> <station> <measurement>36</measurement> <group> <current/> </group> <preparation> <NK/> </preparation> <numberOfHoles>1</numberOfHoles> <type> <supported> <type> <double> <route> <drawingDone> <no>1</no> </drawingDone> </route> <linking> <linked/> </linking> </double> </type> ... </supported> </type> </station> ... </stations> ... </sewing> Listing 1. Snippet of XML description of a sewing station from codex 126.60β, St Cath- erine’s Library. 79 The XML schema functions as a grammar for the description of the binding, it is a model of the binding of books. Elements described by verbal means within the hierarchical structure of the XML records are readily available for machine searching, making it easy for specific pieces of information to be found and com- pared. In these descriptions, information is organized into hierarchies, and within these hierarchies, tokens of information that together serve to describe a particular feature or part are grouped and presented conjointly. This allows significant bits of information to be brought forward that carry with them all the semantic inform- ation contained in the structure.219 By grouping the information in this manner, it is possible to provide elementary details of the configuration of the material components being presented within the description. This will be further analysed in chapter 7 which presents the empirical data for the transformation of structured descriptions of bookbinding structures into diagrammatic visualizations. The fragmentation of the information within the fields of the XML-based database description is an obstacle for a human reader attempting to analyse and compare the data. A reader would have to muster in his mind — and more precisely in his working memory buffer — a number of fragmented pieces of information; the more components come together in a given structure, the more pieces of in- formation would have to be kept in mind, analysed, and subsequently joined into a coherent entity. As noted in the introduction, our working memory can hold only a very limited amount of information220 — some scholars221 mention three to five chunks of information, others222 up to seven or nine — and the fragmented information contained in databases can consequently be difficult to reintegrate into a mental conceptualization and visualization utilizing the structured verbal description alone. The working memory buffer can be freed by recurring to ex- ternal memory devices, or exograms,223 thus allowing memory space for analysis 219. Brachman & Levesque 2004; Gnoli 2008. 220. Baddeley & Hitch 1974; Baddeley 1992; Baddeley 2004; Alloway & Alloway 2012; Bor 2012; Baddeley 2013. 221. Cowan 2001; Gobet & Clarkson 2004. 222. Miller 1956; Saaty & Ozdemir 2003. 223. Donald 1991; Donald 2001; Alloway & Alloway 2012. 80 and comparison. A system to gather the fragmented data and present it in a coher- ent unified manner to the reader could easily work as a suitable exogram.224 From these examples it is clear that natural language alone is not capable of communicating specific and detailed descriptions to allow a reader to derive one and only one possible interpretation of what was described. Also, there is another crucial problem with natural language descriptions: that of the translation into other idioms, e.g. English to Italian. As each language has its own grammatical rules and terminologies, the passage of information can create indeterminateness. The problem of the translation and verbal imprecision is lessened by the use of controlled vocabularies and multilingual thesauri as they fix the concept and not the labels for it. 4.3. Prototypical visualization of bookbinding elements In 1928, Goldschmidt225 pointed out that the literature on bookbinding can be divided into three main kinds: (i) books of plates, (ii) bookbinding manuals and handbooks, (iii) and highly focussed articles in a number of journals that need a good corpus of reliable published material for reference and comparison. The current situation is still virtually the same. Books of plates are plentiful, though for the most part concentrated on decorated bindings and the reproduction of just the exterior of bindings. Manuals and many articles make often ample use of schematic drawings as well as photographs to help interpret and categorize bookbinding structures. Not all drawings, however, are informative enough and suitable for communication, and different styles are useful for delivering different kinds of information. The lack of a standard way of depicting bookbinding structures can be linked to the fact that the bookbinding trade is based on craftsmanship. Artisans, unlike engineers for example, do not need to show a vision of a structure for others to then construct it, but rather they 224. Kirsh 2002. 225. Goldschmidt 1928. 81 visualize it in the their mind and then will construct it themselves. Therefore, there was never the need to develop a graphic language to communicate book- binding structures efficiently to others.226 In addition to this, unlike archaeology, the young age of the discipline has not allowed for any standardized drawing methodologies to be established. There is, therefore, no standard practice to illustrate bookbindings and their structures, and different authors employ different styles and conventions; in fact it is not uncommon to find different conventions used by the same author within one publication. Authors of conservation and bookbinding manuals have made use of professional illustrators for their publications,227 but otherwise, for the most part, the scholars are responsible for both the text and the illustrations. As men- tioned, archaeology has developed standardized graphic conventions (see Figure 17 for examples of archaeological drawings), but these are seldom applied to bookbinding studies. 4.3.1. Gathering assembly diagrams One simple structure that is common to any book in codex form, and that often needs to be graphically represented by scholars dealing with the range of subjects that have the book as their object of study — e.g. codicology, palaeography, bib- liography, or bookbinding — is the gathering or section assembly. Different conventions are used by different scholars to represent the pages of a book within a gathering. Different uses and kinds of information do call for different conventions and spatial layout, however, it can be argued that there is scope for a more standardized approach to the representations of such basic book structures, one that takes into account perception and prototypification of shape on the one hand, while allowing for special cases, if needed, being general and prototypical enough on the other. 226. Ferguson 1992. 227. Cockerell 1953: with drawings by Noel Rooke and other illustrations; Cockerell 1958: with illustrations by Joan Rix Tebbutt. 82 Figure 17. Archaeological drawings. [a] Examples of standard practice to illustrate pottery with elevation and surface details on the right-hand side and a regularized section in solid black on the left. Examples of texture rendering: [b] plain and patterned bronze piece; [c] cone of dark glass with stipple and dot technique to show texture and shading together. Surface texture is used to enhance appearance and value of a drawing, but care is taken not to confuse structural lines and texturing. The drawings here reproduced are not in scale ([a] Webster 1964, fig.1, p.35; [b] and [c] Brodribb 1970, fig.24–25, pp.42- 43). Figure 18 and Figure 19 show some graphic representations of gatherings taken from various books and articles published by scholars ranging from bibliographers and codicologists, to conservators and bookbinding historians. In the first group, the author of each drawing has decided to use a naturalistic three-dimensional approach to represent a gathering, while in the second group a more symbolical approach has been taken. 4.3.1.1. Naturalistic representations of gatherings There is no doubt that a naturalistic and three-dimensional representation is more impressive and, maybe even pleasing to the eye when well-executed. How- ever, the scope of such representations, it can be argued, is not that of showing 83 Figure 18. Naturalistic and three-dimensional representations of gatherings. ([a] Gaskell 1972, fig. 45, p.83; [b] Federici & Houlis 1988, fig. 11, p.22; [c.1-2] Sheppard 1995, p. 193; [d] Clarkson 1996, fig.4, p.218; [e] Regemorter 1992, p. 141). how a gathering might look like in general, rather, the aim is to present the reader with some information regarding the specific gathering represented, and to make it comparable with other gatherings. 4.3.1.2. Schematic representations of gatherings The collection of drawings in Figure 19 shows a series of schematic represent- ations of gatherings. In these drawings though, the balance between the iconic nature of such representations and their inherent symbolism generally leans greatly towards symbolism, often disregarding almost completely the natural shape of the object represented. Thus the pages of a gathering are represented by V-like signs on the one hand (Figure 19[a]), and square or rounded horizontal U-like signs on the other (Figure 19[a-d]). The problem with the V-like representation is that, although easy to draw, the overall shape of the gathering tends to either fan out (like in Figure 19[a]) or to distort the shape of the inner pages (that become 84 Figure 19. Schematic representations of gatherings. ([a] Muzerelle 1985, fig. 56; [b] Noel 1995, fig. 11, p. 8; [c] Szirmai 1999, fig. 9.2[s], p. 179; [d] Szirmai 1999, fig. 8.4[e], p. 147). smaller and smaller), or else these are unnaturally projected forward as each sheet representation maintains the same sharp V-shaped fold and size. Either way, apart from being particularly inelegant and cumbersome, these representations, unnat- ural as they are, make it particularly difficult to compare representations of differ- ent gatherings and do not take into consideration the objects they are trying to represent. This is because, even if a single sheet of paper, when folded, does create a V-shaped fold, when multiple sheets are folded together, the thickness of the other sheets forces the V-shaped fold to round up creating a more gentle U-shape. Another solution often used is that of foregoing altogether with any naturalistic representation and using square open boxes to symbolize each sheet. This can be seen in Figure 19[b] and [c]. In this case the length of each sheet is directly pro- portional to that of the sheet represented, but the shape of the fold is completely unnatural. Although there is nothing wrong in deciding to use a totally symbolic shape, the choice does not have to compromise the possibility of representing particular cases and it should not be possible to confuse such elements with others 85 of the same structure. It is indeed easier to draw straight lines and square angles, rather than nicely shaped curved lines, but, such a shape should not be confused with anything else. See for example the diagram in Figure 19[c]. This drawing comes with a very useful legend explaining how to read and interpret each element, however, on a closer look, because of the choice of drawing the gatherings with a square spine, the legend and the drawing result in being confusing: if the symbol for the board is an open box with square corners, one might read the drawing as describing a strange book made up of a series of boards. Obviously this is not the case, but the square gathering spines create a possible problem in the interpretation of the drawing. See how this is not the case in Figure 19[d], where the pages of the book are represented by nicely rounded shapes. As in many structures that form a codex, there is a great number of possible permutations of how a gathering structure can present itself, depending on the number of sheets and their configurations. Bibliographers and manuscript scholars have developed precise and highly condensed collation formulas to communicate this information,228 however it is often necessary to also visualize these for easier communication and understanding of more complex structures. Because of this, and since drawing appropriate shapes by hand can be difficult, it would seem that a system that allowed an automated generation of such shapes and diagrams would be welcome. Better shapes could be drawn this way, and the process would not be as time-consuming as drawing them by hand. Recently, the issue has been raised in a few occasions in the community. 229 To conclude, an ideal shape should be able to accommodate particular cases, and maintain consistency at all times. For elements of an object’s structure — as in the case of bookbindings — keeping a good balance between the iconic and the symbolic nature of the representation, and preserving the prototypical shape of its object, would allow to generate a standardized approach that takes into consideration perception and prototypification of shape, and is symbolic enough to allow straightforward comparison between distinct representations. For the 228. Bowers 1949/1994; Gaskell 1972; Gruijs 1974; Muzerelle 1985; Zappella 1996. 229. See for example Wragg 2012; Porter 2013. 86 particular case at hand, to represent a gathering, a better choice would be a cross section view that preserves the natural roundness of the sheets at the fold, like the example in Figure 19[d]. 4.4. A categorization of bookbinding illustrations In the literature on bookbinding, different styles of drawings are used for dif- ferent reasons and to deliver a diverse range of information. Each style is appro- priate for a specific set of uses, and it should be chosen according to the kind of information that one needs to deliver. Each different style can be regarded as a step in a categorical scale, going from very specific and exclusive, to general and inclusive, just as words and concepts within a categorical system, as presented in the previous chapter. A representation of the categorical scale is reported in Figure 20. As mentioned in chapter 3, line drawings represent a basic level of graphic abstraction, as they preserve the min- imum amount of information that is necessary to precisely represent the category of an item. 4.4.1. Archaeological-style drawings Some bindings are so particular and unique that it is necessary and good practice to present the information gathered on them by both photographic means and detailed drawing. This is common practice for archaeological finds and it is not surprising that drawings executed for these purposes make use of the same set of graphic rules usually implemented by archaeologists to depict their finds for publication.230 For this reason these drawings will be referred to as archaeological- style drawings. Some examples of this kind of illustrations are presented in Figure 21. As it can be seen, the unique peculiarities, and the history, the signs left by 230. Brodribb 1970; see also Figure 17 for examples of archaeological drawings. 87 Categorical dimensions of drawings L ev el of ab st ra ct io n Segmentation of category scene generic shape complex naturalistic drawings archaeological-style drawings line drawings schematic line drawings Figure 20. Categorical dimensions of drawings. The basic level of abstraction, in bold, is represented by line drawings; these can be complex or schematic. time on the items depicted, are preserved and faithfully reproduced in the illustra- tions, and no attempt is made to generalize shapes and characteristics. As noted earlier, there are no standards and guidelines in the literature on how to draw bookbindings and their structures. Sharpe231 sets some general guidelines on how to approach and execute archaeological-style drawings, with direct refer- ences to drawing manuals for archaeologists and scientific illustrators. Drawings of this style represent a specific object. As seen in the previous chapter, verbal descriptions are not capable of conveying the specificity of an object. It is thus not possible to generate automatically archaeological-style drawings from verbal descriptions. 4.4.2. Naturalistic drawings Sometimes it is appropriate to describe graphically a specific item of a specific category with very detailed and naturalistic drawings, either because of its uniqueness, or as a first step in drawing general conclusions on the category being 231. Sharpe 2000. 88 [a] [b] [c] [d] [e] [f] [g.1] [g.2] [g.3] [g.4] Figure 21. Archaeological-style drawings. The history and the peculiarities of the item depicted are preserved and faithfully reproduced. ([a] Szirmai 1988, fig. 3, p. 24; [b] Clarkson 1993, fig. 1, p. 184; [c] Szirmai 1988, fig. 8[a], p. 30; [d] Szirmai 1988, fig. 8[c], 89 p. 30; [e] Adler 2010, fig. 3–02, p. 61; [f] Adler 2010, fig. 3–07, p. 62; [g.1-4] Szirmai 1988, fig. 9[a–d]). represented by the item. These will be referred to as naturalistic drawings. Ex- amples of illustrations of this kind are presented in Figure 22. These illustrations tend to be a kind of graphic reconstruction of specific items, that, while preserving a high level of detail and surface texture, come closer to a generalization of shape, purposely removing signs of time — e.g. asymmetries are mostly removed and converted into symmetries — and showing an idealized graphic description. The drawing approach of these drawing resembles that of highly detailed scientific il- lustrations.232 Also in this case, these drawings tend towards the specificity of an obejct, and it is therefore not possible to generate them automatically from verbal descriptions without additional information. 4.4.3. Line drawings The next step up the graphic categorical scale is represented by line drawings. As mentioned above, these are able to convey shape information precisely and for the most part effortlessly. They also represent a graphic equivalent to the basic level of abstraction of verbal categories. Line drawings, in fact, are capable of delivering the minimum amount of information that is necessary to represent graphically the category of an item.233 They are inclusive enough to be successfully used to communicate shape, and exclusive enough not to represent too wide a group of instances of their category. Figure 23 shows examples of line drawings. These drawings, all highly selective in the amount of information delivered, can further be subdivided into two groups: on the one hand, one can distinguish multi- layered and three-dimensional drawings ([a], [b], [c], and [d.2]); on the other hand, there are schematic and strictly bi-dimensional drawings ([d.1], [d.2], and [e]). The two kinds of line drawings can be seen as two variations of the same 232. Wood & McDonnell 1994. 233. Rosch & Mervis 1975; Rosch et al. 1976; Tversky & Hemenway 1984. 90 [a] [b] [c] [d] [e] Figure 22. Naturalistic drawings. The general shape of the item is reconstructed and faithfully reproduced with abundance of details and surface textures. ([a] Petersen 1954, fig. 8, p. 46; [b] Clarkson 1993, fig. 5, p. 196; [c] Petersen 1954, fig. 22, p. 55; [d] Clarkson 1993, fig. 12, p. 190; [e] Boudalis 2007, fig. 58, p. 44). 91 basic level of abstraction within a graphic categorical system, developing its hori- zontal dimension. The former group will be referred to as complex line drawings, whilst the latter as schematic line drawings. Both groups are generated by a process of generalization of shapes that aims at describing graphically a prototypical in- stance of a category. If an object is described verbally at the basic level of abstraction, the terms are capable of delivering enough information for the generation of schematic line drawings conveying information on the parts of an object and its prototypical shape. 4.4.4. Generic-shape drawings A line drawing can also only portray the very generic shape of an item, foregoing, once again, any naturalistic detail, on the one hand, but also limiting the amount of information on shape to the bare minimum with very little attention to details, on the other. These shapes are too general to communicate the necessary inform- ation to distinguish between specific items, as they fail to preserve the parts-form relationship of its object and its functions — with the exception of the very basic elements — and are the graphic equivalent of generic verbal concepts like furniture as opposed to table. This particular kind of line drawing will be referred to as generic-shape drawing. Figure 24 displays some examples of such illustrations. Note for example the books in the timeline [a]: the drawing depicts the evolution of the book in codex form from the 2nd century CE to the 20th century, but the shapes are so generic that very little information is given on the actual differences between the different binding styles. Drawings of this style could be generated from generic verbal labels, but, as it will be seen in chapter 6, the shapes thus generated would be too inclusive to be useful and carry more information than the verbal label alone. 92 [a] [b] [c] [d.1] [d.2] [d.3] [e] Figure 23. Line drawings, the graphic basic level of abstraction. These drawings can be multi-layered and three-dimensional — but still highly selective in the amount of inform- ation delivered — or more schematic and strictly bi-dimensional. ([a] Clarkson 2005, p. 22; [b] Clarkson 2005, fig. 4, p. 8; [c] Pickwoad 2000, fig. 27, p. 158; [d.1-3] Szirmai 1999, fig. 9.22[a–c], p. 207; [e] Szirmai 1999, fig. 7.16[a], p. 116). 93 [a] [b] [c] Figure 24. Generic-shape drawings. The shape of the drawn items is so generic that it does not show much more information than identifying the object for what it is — e.g. a book in codex form. Note for example the books in the timeline [a]: the drawing depicts the codex from the 2nd century CE to the 20th century, but very little information is given on the actual differences between the various binding styles. ([a] Greenfield 1998, p. 79; [b] Greenfield 1990, p. 78; [c] Greenfield 1990, p. 79). 94 4.4.5. Scenes Sometimes bookbindings are depicted within pictorial scenes, like the small watercolours found in Dirk de Bray bookbinding manual.234 The depiction of books in these scenes can be very useful to analyse how historical bindings were bound, or how these bindings worked and behaved, but often, the shapes used to depict them are generic, deformed by perspective representation, and frequently misshapen or partially hidden to accommodate other elements in the scene. For these reasons, they can be put at the very top of the categorical scale of bookbind- ing drawings. It should be noted, however, that not every pictorial depiction of books within scenes is so generic, and they need to be evaluated case by case. These depictions will be referred to as scenes. Drawings of this style are part of the narrative of a scene and are inherently visual in their nature. It is doubtful how useful it would be to try to generate them from verbal inputs. The different kinds of graphic descriptions of bindings found in the literature can then be classified according to a categorical scale, going from very specific and exclusive drawings, to general and inclusive ones, within the vertical and ho- rizontal dimensions of a categorical system. The various steps within such a scale have been clearly separated here and examples have been presented for each level of shape abstraction. Of these, schematic line drawings represent an ideal level of abstraction for the generation of diagrams from verbal input. 4.5. Clarity of information in bookbinding line drawings So far, this chapter has analysed and categorized the kinds of bookbinding il- lustrations found in the literature. Each type can be successfully used to deliver information for different purposes. Obviously, there are degrees of success in the use of drawings to illustrate bookbindings, but the primary purpose of graphic 234. Bray 1607-1658; Bray 1658/1977. 95 Figure 25. Bookshop scene: ‘Mensen en twee honden in een boekenwinkel’ (People and two dogs in a book shop), pen and brown ink, brush in grey on paper, Dirk de Bray, 1607-1658. (Bray 1607-1658). material — just as writing — should be to convey the right amount of information, with as much clarity and intelligibility as possible. There are some general rules that can be learned from illustration in general, and archaeological drawings in particular:235 (i) edges of boxes and geometrical shapes should be kept neat and tidy; (ii) the mixing of many different styles togeth- er should be avoided; (iii) labels should be non-intrusive, clearly legible, and properly differentiated from the other elements of the illustration; (iv) proportion and scale should be handled intelligently; (v) important information should be 235. Brodribb 1970; Ford 1993; Tufte 1990; Agrawala et al. 2011; Bertin 1983/2011. 96 emphasized, while irrelevant details should be de-emphasized or eliminated alto- gether; (vi) whole sets of information and different elements should be kept clearly distinct and differentiated, and (vii) the visualization should consider the viewer’s perception and cognition of the information that is meant to convey. The next couple of sections will consider a few examples from bookbinding illustrations and analyse whether these practical rules have been followed. Chapter 5 will cover more in details the set of general rules for an effective visual commu- nication. 4.5.1. Sketchiness and detail views The use of sketches in published material could be considered an editorial choice. Nevertheless, a well-executed and regularly shaped illustration, not only looks more professional, but has also the ability of transmitting information more efficiently. Look for example at Figure 26 and Figure 27. Within the same public- ation, Szirmai236 makes use of both well-executed and well-shaped drawings and sketchy free-hand ones. Note how clearer the sewing thread paths appear in ex- amples [a] and [b] in Figure 26 as opposed to those in examples [c-h]. This situ- ation becomes even more evident in the example in Figure 27 from Carvin’s book.237 Here the drawing appears as if it were executed directly on a drawing software with a mouse or similar device resulting in rather approximate shapes. On top of this, the author mixes schematic and more naturalistic elements in a confusing manner. For example, the gatherings are drawn as V-shaped with a single thin line representing the folds (as it was the case in Muzerelle’s drawing in Figure 19[a]), thus leaving no space for the thickness of the gathering and of the thread. Because of all these problems, the drawing as a whole is rather difficult to interpret. The use of sketches is clearly visible in the examples in Figure 28. Here the author238 makes use of untidy line drawings, but she has also decided to use a scale 236. Szirmai 1999. 237. Carvin 1988. 238. Greenfield 1990. 97 [a] [b] [c] [d] [e] [f] [g] [h] Figure 26. Well-shaped and free-hand thread paths. ([a-b] Szirmai 1999, fig. 9.8[c-d], p. 188; [c-h] Szirmai 1999, fig. 9.9[a-f], p. 189). Figure 27. Drawing of an endband sewn at the frame executed directly on a computer in 1988. (Carvin 1988, p. 50). 98 i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xi xii Figure 28. Sketch-like illustrations of the steps required to work a Greek-style endband. Note the untidy nature of the geometrical shapes, the choice of using a scale that portrays the whole binding for the majority of the steps, and the difficulty in distinguishing the different elements of the endband (compare with Figure 30). For this endband the author has decided not to make use of cross-section schematic illustrations to show the route of the thread around the cores, although such schematizations have been used for other endbands in the same book (see Figure 29). (Greenfield 1990, pp. 51-56). Figure 29. ‘Step 11: go up around B and down behind cores B and C, coming back under- neath them.’ Here a step in the description of an Armenian-style endband sewing is illus- trated by use of both a complex line drawing and a schematic line drawing. (Greenfield 1990, p. 61). 99 Figure 30. Line drawings of different styles of endbands. Note the use of regular and tidy shapes, the choice of using an appropriate scale that shows only a well-selected portion of the binding, and the ease of distinguishing the different elements of the endband. (Bibliothèque Nationale (France) 1989, pp. 59, 63, 87). that portrays the whole binding for the majority of the steps illustrated for the working of a Greek-style endband. Because of this choice, the actual shapes that should illustrate the process are too small and confused to be followed by the reader. The reader of a manual on the sewing of endbands, it can be argued, would know where on a binding the endband should be sewn and therefore there is no reason to show the whole book. Figure 30 shows another example of the sewing of a Greek-style endband taken from a different manual.239 Here the authors have decided to employ regularly shaped line drawings using an appropriate scale that shows only a well selected portion of the binding. Note the ease of distinguishing the different elements of the endband. 239. Bibliothèque Nationale (France) 1989. 100 In the literature, therefore, one can see different styles of drawings, and these are sometimes not carefully executed or designed. Considering the importance of visual information for bookbinding structures, and the problems linked with natural language descriptions, this can lead to unclear and indeterminateness even with a multimodal approach that joins verbal and visual depictions. The shapes to be generated for this project will aim at showing the minimum amount of information at a useful level of abstraction, just as verbal information should be provided at the correct semantic entry point to convey a useful level of information. Line drawings have been identified as the basic graphic level of ab- straction. The aim is to be able to provide information visually in such a way that it can be easily compared between instances of structures belonging to the same category. Considering how three-dimensional representations tend to distort some details and shapes, making it less immediate to recognize similar patterns,240 the drawings of choice will be simple line drawings. These will depict items through the most useful views, be this a general, or a detailed view, a cross-section, etc., or, in fact, a combination of views. Summary Information on the elements and form of objects is best disseminated and analysed by means of a multimodal approach that capitalizes on the human ability to categorize information and to process visual information. Drawing is an import- ant part of the surveying, recording, and description of bookbinding structures. Bookbinding structures have been described in different ways in the literature. Of these, natural language appears to be unable to convey information that can be interpreted in only one way, creating interpretation problems unless associated with some kind of visual information that can aid in interpreting the spatial con- 240. Ferguson 1992; Ware 2013. 101 figuration of the components. Controlled vocabularies and structured descriptions instead seem to be able to provide spatial information in a more reliable manner. Of the various kinds of illustrations found in the literature on bookbinding, line drawings, and in particular the schematic kind, appear to be a good choice as they are able to convey the necessary amount of information, while being simple enough to be readily interpreted, understood, and remembered. These diagrams abstract the essential and hold a great deal of information for interpreting and categorizing bookbinding structures, and, at the same time, are easily referenced to and compared with other examples. These diagrams show the elements that make up a certain object, the number of such elements, and their spatial arrangement, thus easily conveying also the object’s form. Being schematic, they are straightforwardly enriched with symbols to deliver other kinds of information, like the material of certain elements, or functional information (by the addition of arrows). The next chapter looks more in detail into the descriptions of material objects, and discerns which verbal descriptions are more suitable for an automated interse- miotic translation. It then considers the peculiarities of the visual language, and the relationship between a representation and the reality it refers to. 102 Chapter 5. Communicating & translating objects La structure [...] est terrible. On ne peut la supplier, lui dire: «Voyez comme je suis mieux que H...» Inexorable, elle répond: «vous êtes à la même place; donc vous êtes H…» Nul ne peut plaider contre la structure. The structure [...] is terrible. It can not be implored, saying: ‘Look how I am better than H...’ Inexorable, the structure replies: ‘You are in the same place; therefore you are H...’ No one can argue against the structure.* Roland Barthes, Fragments d’un discours amoureux: Identifica- tions, 1977, pp. 154-155. *Author’s translation This chapter looks into the languages involved in the project, and considers what kind of verbal description best conveys the relevant information so that it can be transformed into a diagrammatic visualization. The term language refers to any system of representation and communication,241 and in this project the languages involved are both verbal and visual means of communication. The first part analyses the examples of bookbinding structures described in the previous chapter and advances the reasoning for the selection of a structured de- scription as the most useful model of the structures for this project. The second part looks at the implications of the transformation of information into a visual 241. Stenning & Lemon 1999. 103 language. The last part covers the issue of uncertainty in the data and in the visu- alizations. 5.1. Communicating material objects through verbal means In chapter 3 we have seen how in order to be able to describe a material object, one has to be able to communicate its material components, its form, and its lo- gical form. In order to be able to do so, one needs to understand the object com- pletely,242 i.e. to understand and predict all possible ways in which its components could be in relationship with one another.243 This leads to important considerations in regard to the description of material objects. In the previous chapter, three different kinds of verbal descriptions of book- binding structures were analysed: (i) natural language descriptions, (ii) controlled vocabulary descriptions, and (iii) structured descriptions with controlled vocabu- lary. The first is not capable of successfully conveying the form of the binding structure. Eide244 describes a similar case for textual maps. He refers to this kind of description as under-specified, as based on such natural language descriptions, more than one map can be drawn, and often, these maps can be significantly dif- ferent. In a similar way, Peirce245 referred to the same concept of under-specifica- tion as the development of a sign: the meaning of a sign can be translated into some other sign in which is it more fully (or indeed, less fully) developed. In fact, for Peirce, an iconic sign does not necessarily have to be an image, but a verbal text can indeed have iconic characteristics, ‘but the icon is not clearly apprehen- ded’,246 as the passage of information from visual to verbal is less fully developed than in proper iconic signs. Natural language descriptions are thus under-specified and under-developed, leading to the generation of more than one possible inter- pretation. 242. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 2.01231. 243. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 2.0124. 244. Eide 2012a. 245. Peirce 1931-1935/1958: CP 5.594; Dewey 1946. 246. Peirce 1931-1935/1958: CP 7.467. 104 The second kind seemed to be a successful mode of communication, though only for linear structures whose sequential spatiality was mirrored in the sequential nature of the text. Structured descriptions with a controlled vocabulary, instead, with their inherent hierarchical structure and grouping of information might have the ability to describe binding structures successfully, and also for complex non- linear structures. Controlled vocabulary descriptions, both alone, and within structured descrip- tions, try to rationalize what material components are found within a binding structure. By prescribing what kinds of components can be found within a certain binding structure through the selection of a precise set of terms, controlled vocabularies provide both the person describing such a structure, and the reader of the description, with all of the components that come together to form it. Also, by precisely defining each term, they try to provide all properties (or better those properties deemed important and/or essential) for each component. Therefore, by defining the elements of a material object and its properties, controlled vocabularies have the potential capacity to describe an object effectively, even for cases that are not yet encountered. ‘If I know an object I also know all its occur- rences in states of affairs. (Every one of these possibilities must be part of the nature of the object.) A new possibility cannot be discovered later’.247 5.1.1. Communicating through controlled vocabularies Verbal communication is renowned for its difficulty in conveying spatial inform- ation. Words, because of their sequential nature, are not efficient in communicating non-linear spatiality.248 Spatiality can be defined as the characteristic of reality to occupy space as an autonomous form of organization in which multiple distin- guishable elements can coexist.249 Spatiality and the structural interrelations of 247. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 2.0123. 248. Stenning & Lemon 1999. 249. Saint-Martin 1990. 105 elements within an entity are difficult to pin down through linear and sequential verbal communication. Words, by working within a categorical labelling system are generally not well- suited to capture the specificity of an object.250 As seen in the analysis of related works in chapter 2, spatiality and specificity posed problems for most projects, when such information could not be gathered through means other than verbal communication. Of the cultural heritage projects, the one presented by De Luca and colleagues251 seemed particularly interesting, as it was able to convey, through the use of the formal terminology of classical architecture, both information relating to the material components of the objects represented and their form. The reason for the success of this project is surely to be found precisely in the fact that it was able to use as verbal input a very particular form of technical vocabulary. Goulette and Borillo252 have researched architectural composition and the semantics of spatial expressions within the vocabulary of classical archi- tecture. They have found that this technical vocabulary is able to convey spatial and structural information in the form of whole/part relationships, cognitive spatial relationships sustained by the functional information about the parts and the various objects, and on regular models of compositions. Together, this inform- ation can assist a model of spatial reasoning that is able to represent architectural information conveyed through verbal means. According to this model, the con- ceptualization of the spatiality of the elements is not limited to geometric aspects, but it is rather guided by considerations on the functional organization of each element and the relative disposition of its borders. The fundamental relationships of this model are: the relation of parthood (x is part of y), and the relation of ‘border of’253 (x is the border of y). Through the expression of these relationships, the understanding of the elements and their function, and of the rules of compos- ition that are part of the architectural grammar controlling the relative positions 250. Stenning & Lemon 1999; Saint-Martin 1990. 251. De Luca et al. 2005; De Luca 2013. 252. Goulette 1999; Borillo & Goulette 2006. 253. Borillo & Goulette 2006, p.51. 106 of each class of elements, a verbal description is capable of conveying relative but adequate spatial and structural information. Goulette254 has also identified three types of entities in the vocabulary of classical architecture: the architectural elements, their spatial references and functions, and their geometric representation. Each term within this vocabulary is capable of conveying all of this information, as was seen in the case of the elements of the column profiles presented in chapter 2. It would then seem that the use of a fully-developed controlled vocabulary can communicate enough information about a material object: its material components, its structural organization, its logical form, and its shape. The material components would be defined as terms, and the definitions would also be providing information on its function and, therefore, spatial references, and on its geometric representa- tion; the rules of composition would function as a reference to its logical form. Bookbinding terminology is not as well-developed, and it generally does not convey precise geometric representational information; nonetheless, controlled vocabularies have the potential to be powerful communication devices. 5.1.1.1. Names and prototypical material components Verbal communication of material objects and their components is based on names, and names are a type of sign.255 These names can be defined, and when so, they are necessarily generalized concepts and therefore prototypical signs. As a consequence, these signs exhibit a certain degree of indeterminateness.256Proto- types, in fact, as seen in chapter 3, usually coincide with the basic level of abstrac- tion within a category257 and are, therefore, inclusive and general. It is from their inclusiveness that the indeterminateness arises in regard of their specificity, e.g. the specific shape of a material component. In addition, prototypical signs can only offer a selection of the properties of the object to which they refer. 254. Goulette 1999. 255. Sebeok 1994. 256. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 3.24; T: 5.522. 257. Rosch 1978. 107 The very essence of a controlled vocabulary is the definition of its terms. Therefore, a controlled vocabulary should aim at defining the simplest elements possible, so to reduce the indeterminateness to a minimum. 5.1.1.2. Sewing structure controlled vocabulary Let us look again at the earlier controlled vocabulary example: Unsupported structure: chainpattern across spine: in-line, periodicfold pattern. There are 4 sewing stations — A is at the head and D is at the tail. 2 needles are used, each sewing between 2 stations — A & B or C & D. They sew independ- ently but identically. Enter at A, continue-on to B, exit, dropto- the-outside, link, climb, enter at B, reverse, exit at A, dropto- the-outside, link, climb, change-over and enter at A of section 2.258 As already stated, although this description uses a controlled vocabulary in an almost natural language setting, it is nonetheless capable of describing the motion of the thread required for a particular sewing structure. Its controlled vocabulary is used in an intelligent way. In fact, by developing the terminology in three levels, it gives an overall structure to the description. (i) It first defines the typology of sewing, (ii) then the general resulting sewing patterns, and (iii) finally the sewing layer. It provides spatial coordinates, and it names a series of actions to produce the sewing being described. More general terms are used to describe the complex object that is the overall sewing structure (levels i and ii), then other terms name simpler objects and place them in space within the structure. Of particular interest is the series of named actions: these in essence subdivide the complex object that is the sewing thread into a sequential series of sewing thread fragments in specific spatial configurations. The relations between objects are expressed through the relation of concatenation259 within the sequential language of the description. What at first glance looked similar to a natural language sentence with heavy use of special terms, with closer analysis begins to look different. The very use of those special terms creates, in fact, a specific framework giving the description a semi- 258. Spitzmueller & Frost 1982; Spitzmueller 1982. 259. Stenning & Lemon 1999, p. 48. 108 structured character. The logical form of the sewing structure is mirrored in the precise use of the terms and in the natural sequentiality of the information being recorded, thus making it a useful mode of communication. In practice, however, what these descriptions lack is the querying capabilities inherent in the information recorded within databases. 5.1.2. Communicating through structured descriptions In order to describe a binding structure in any of its possible configurations, and to make this description fully communicable, one would not only need to convey information relative to its material components, but also be able to make direct reference to the logical form it possesses.260 The canon of the rules of com- position in classical architecture offer such a reference. There is no such canon for the composition of the elements of bookbinding structures. The reference to the logical form of the binding structure, the expression, is what is lacking in non-structured descriptions, besides the fact that in non-struc- tured descriptions spatiality beyond linearity is not easily conveyed. Two non- structured descriptions of the same reality do not have the same expression in common and do not form a class as they do not have a way to refer to exactly the same logical form. In fact, as seen in the natural language examples in the previous chapter, even two non-structured descriptions of the same state of affairs do not necessarily possess the same expression. Because of this, their sense can be, and usually is, lost, unless the verbal description is coupled with a graphic description, whose elements correspond to the objects of the state of affairs being described: it is the graphic description that preserves a reference to the logical form, and can function as a medium between the logical form of the state of affairs and the form of the verbal description. Controlled vocabularies instead are able to contain the building blocks of a complete description of a material object. Structured descriptions differ from simple controlled vocabularies. It is this difference that provides the description 260. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 3.34; T: 3.341; T: 4.0141. 109 with a more complete representation of the logical form and its inherent possibility to indicate any form. Structured descriptions, although still relying on controlled vocabularies for the communication of objects, present information in an orderly and prescribed manner. The schema, the grammar of the information, ruling structured descriptions within databases is a manifestation of the expression and, when properly developed, mirrors the logical form of the material object it de- scribes. Within structured descriptions, information is organized into hierarchies that follow the logical structure of what is being described; within these hierarchies, information is organized into groups that bind relevant data together, and that form boundaries between entities.261 The hierarchical organization expresses the association between parts262 and this preserves a reference to the logical form of the state of affairs, and the configuration of objects within states of affairs. The inclusion of controlled vocabularies within structured descriptions strengthens their communication capabilities. Whole/part relationships and functional/structural information can be encoded within the structure of the de- scriptions themselves, and the schema behind them maintains a reference to the logical form of the object just as much as classical architecture’s rules of compos- ition. Controlled vocabularies and structured descriptions offer a well-developed mode of communication, in relation to the building blocks of material objects. These descriptions, if based on a model for, are also potentially fully-specified 263 as they can provide precise measurements and spatial relationships, just as a fully- specified description of a map would provide precise coordinates for every element to be drawn. This is not the case when they are based on models of. As seen, these models describe the idea of an object in reality and they strive to capture its logical form, and only relative information on the positioning of elements and their measurements are preserved (the logical form of a class of objects is applicable to all examples of that class and precise measurements are exclusive not inclusive). 261. Salthe 1985; Brachman & Levesque 2004; Gnoli 2008. 262. Pazzi 1999; Doerr et al. 2001. 263. Eide 2012a. 110 This leads to under-specification, but, as seen in the case of the vocabulary of classical architecture, not to the level that conflicting drawings would be generated. The outcome would be under-specified in the sense that as it is based on prototyp- ical information, it would be inclusive and able to represent all items of its category, and not only one specific case. This is a different level of specificity that was not encountered by Eide,264 since a prototypical map would be a useless map. As mentioned in the previous chapter, a good example of a structured descrip- tion and controlled vocabulary for bookbinding structures published to date is the description schema developed by Ligatus for the survey of the printed books in the library of the monastery of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai. The schema will be presented in more detail in the following chapter. This model of binding structures, being hierarchical and based on a controlled vocabulary, should be able to communicate the minimum amount of information necessary to commu- nicate information on bookbinding structures. In turn, this information should be able to be transformed into diagrammatic visualizations of the structures. 5.1.3. Diagrams as support for natural language descriptions In diagrammatic representations of material objects, each element stands in relation to other elements, and this configuration mirrors that of the material components of the object that is being represented. These relationships are em- bedded within the two-dimensional structure of the diagram, without the need for complex syntax.265 In written and spoken language, because of their innate sequentiality, the expression of such relationships can prove challenging as they would need to be based on a complex syntax to compensate for their limited se- quential nature.266 The relationships are in fact not nameable elements, but manifest themselves in the configuration of the elements. 264. Eide 2012a. 265. Stenning & Lemon 1999. 266. Shin et al. 2013. 111 This explains why verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures accompanied by diagrams are capable of expressing spatiality: even when these are unstructured and make strict use of natural language, their accompanying graphic descriptions act as medium between the logical form of the state of affairs and the verbal de- scription, preserving the reference to the logical form of the state of affairs. 5.2. Automated intersemiotic translations This project is a clear case of intersemiotic translation:267 from verbal to visual language. In order to translate a proposition A in one language into a proposition B in another, one needs to establish rules of definition and correlation between the two expressions.268 As seen in the communication of material objects, one needs to convey inform- ation regarding the material components and their form, and to maintain a refer- ence to their logical form. In addition, for visualization purposes, one also needs to be able to generate a prototypical shape for the objects and their components. In a translation process the same information needs to be conveyed and trans- formed into the target language. For this project, the transformations also have to be programmable in advance through transformation algorithms capable of capturing the necessary information and then transforming it into visual repres- entations. 5.2.1. Translating material components, their form, and shape Material components are translated by transforming the components of the proposition A into the components of proposition B in such a way that the signs that represent a component in language A possess a meaning that is common to 267. Jakobson 1959. See also chapter 1. 268. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 3.343; T: 4.0141. 112 all signs that can be substituted to them in a proposition B belonging to any other language.269 In practice, therefore, an algorithm can be programmed in such a way to estab- lish a one-to-one relationship between the components of the verbal descriptions and those of the visual representations. For each descriptive element in proposition A, something needs to be drawn in proposition B. However, this is not as straightforward as it might seem. As covered in chapter 3, in visual texts, sememes are interdependent, and by simply establishing a one-to-one text-to-picture rela- tionship without considering the nature of the visual language, one risks generating nonsensical and unstructured agglomerates of visual signs, like those proposed by Zhu and colleagues.270 5.2.2. Translating material objects’ shapes In a similar way, for each component in A, one should establish a shape that its sign will take in proposition B. Through a one-to-one relationship between the components, an algorithm could be designed to generate a prototypical shape for each material component. This is possible because, as seen, verbal prototypes at the basic level of abstraction are associated with a mental image that resembles the appearance of members of the class as a whole.271 It is therefore feasible to prescribe a shape that is derived from the mental image for each component. However, once again, the very nature of visual signs imposes that careful consid- eration is given to the generation of the shapes, as these are likely to depend on those of the other signs within the visual text. To accommodate this, shape gener- ation should be parametrized, i.e. it should use the relationships between compon- ents as shape forming parameters.272 269. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 4.025; T: 3.344. 270. Zhu et al. 2007. 271. Rosch 1978. 272. Monedero 2000. See also Davis 2013, chapter 2, pp. 14-48. 113 5.2.3. Translating an object’s form Information on an object’s form, as seen, can be conveyed through the use of controlled vocabularies. The mental images triggered by verbal prototypes possess structural and spatial characteristics273 that can be rendered graphically to depict the form of the object. In addition, the hierarchical nature of the information within structured descriptions is also capable of conveying spatial information. This will be seen in more detail with practical examples in chapter 7. In practical terms, the hierarchical organization of the information can be inter- preted by the algorithm as spatial relationships between components, just as rel- ative positioning derived from the definition of the controlled vocabulary entities. This information resembles that highlighted by Goulette and Borillo274 for archi- tectural vocabulary. Basic information is the relation of parthood (x is contained in y), the relation of concatenation (x follows y), and the relation of border (x is a border of y). Combined, these relationships can express the relative spatiality of the parts. The orientation is derived from the general rules of composition of the domain.275 5.2.4. The reference to the logical form A reference to the logical form of the object is an important part of the commu- nication process about material objects. Without it problems can occur. In auto- mated intersemiotic translation of the kind described in this project, this reference, embodied in the schema, is a necessary component of the process. The schema informs the coding of the transformation algorithms, as it prescribes which com- ponents are parts of the object described, and in which spatial configurations these can occur. Without this, the problem would essentially turn into natural language parsing, attended by all the complexities described in chapter 2. 273. Thomas 2013. 274. Goulette 1999; Borillo & Goulette 2006. 275. Goulette 1999. 114 For this reason, structured descriptions are an ideal verbal description modality. The following chapters will analyse and assess this intersemiotic translation process from structured verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures to diagrammatic visualizations. The following part of the chapter delineates those general considerations that are necessary for a visual language attempting to represent material objects. 5.3. Communicating material objects through visual means As already discussed in chapter 3, diagrammatic representations, unlike most sentence-based representation systems, i.e. sequential languages,276 function within systems of representation that are specific to a target domain, i.e. that which is to be represented.277 That is to say that the signs to be used depend on what is to be represented, and this is even more so the case in highly iconic representations. This does not mean that general, meta-domain considerations cannot be drawn. In fact, despite the arbitrariness of the signs specific to a language, a particular mode of signifying something is unimportant. What is important is that it is a possible mode of signification that is able to convey the essential.278 It is, in fact, possible to draw a set of general guidelines or design principles that, by understanding how perception and cognition of visual information affect comprehension of the information presented to the viewer, prescribe how to communicate information effectively through visual means.279 The following sections will cover the most important considerations for an ef- fective visual language. The following chapters and Appendix B will cover the domain-specific visual language developed for this project. 276. Stenning & Lemon 1999. 277. Stenning & Lemon 1999. 278. Wittgenstein 1922/2012 T: 3.342; T: 3.3421. 279. Ford 1993; Tufte 1990; Tufte 1997; Tufte 2001; Tufte 2006; Agrawala et al. 2011; Bertin 1983/2011; Ware 2013. 115 5.3.1. Marks on a background Chapter 3 shows how line drawings are sufficient to understand a shape, and that these are prototypical enough to be used as graphical prototypes. Also, for these reasons, line drawings present the maximum amount of data with the least amount of ink, thus following Tufte’s280 data-ink ratio maximization principle for graphic excellence. Line drawings, in essence, are arrangements of linear marks on a white or neutral background. These marks are the elements of a proposition, and, as such, they can be sensed281 and sensed specifically through vision. Visual perception of line drawings and diagrams allows for a total of three di- mensions that can be used to encode information: (i & ii) the two dimensions of the plane, and (iii) the possible variation of the marks.282 Bertin283 identifies eight possible variables in total. Bertin differentiates between spatial and retinal variables. Spatial variables are the two dimensions of the plane identifying the spatial position of a mark. Bertin refers to the possible variations of the marks as retinal variables because they are perceptually salient features that do not require eye movement to be identified, and they must, therefore, be realized in the retina. Neuropsycho- logy studies have identified that these features are linked to the firing of specific neurons within the visual areas 1 (V1) and 2 (V2) of the cortex after preliminary processing in the retina.284 Bertin distinguishes between six retinal variables: size, texture, grey value (or lightness), colour (or hue), orientation, and shape. Psycho- physics, the study of human responses to physically defined stimuli, have identified more visual features that make items stand out and easy to find.285 For static bi- dimensional percepts, Ware286 lists: line length and width, curvature, spatial grouping and numerosity, sharpness/blur, and the addition of marks or halo. 280. Tufte 2001, pp. 123-138. 281. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 3.1. 282. Bertin 1983/2011. 283. Bertin 1983/2011. 284. Ware 2008; Ware 2013. 285. Findlay & Gilchrist 2005; Ware 2008; Ware 2013. 286. Ware 2008; Ware 2013. 116 5.3.2. Continuity of the plane Bertin287 describes the plane on which visualizations are drawn as the richest of the variables, as any mark has to fall on it. One can distinguish between signi- fying and non-signifying parts of the plane: the former are intended to convey meaning, and they exclude the latter, which are formed by the space lying outside of graphic boundaries — e.g. a geographical border or the frame of a drawing — and are, therefore, not meant to carry any information. It is possible to have nested (or layered)288 signifying planes, but the nesting has to implement the Gestalt principles289 of proximity, closure, and common region carefully to allow for the correct regions to be regarded as non-signifying. The signifying plane is continuous as it can be infinitely subdivided by marks applied on it. As such, it does not admit gaps, informational lacunae, as the absence of signs, or zero signs,290 is read as absence of phenomena, and not as missing data: it is difficult to disregard part of the signifying plane.291 Therefore, in visualizations, it is important not to leave gaps in the signifying parts of the plane, or the risk is to alter the meaning of the visualization, or to render it meaningless. This also applies to the way in which boxes and edges are used and designed: the balance between the signifying and the non-signifying parts of the plane always has to be kept in mind. 5.3.3. Visualization conventions Graphic languages utilize all of the above-mentioned variables to communicate information. In the literature, general studies on graphic languages tend to focus on the visualization of quantitative or geographical data (i.e. cartography), histor- 287. Bertin 1983/2011. 288. Ware 2008; Ware 2013. 289. Koffka 1935. 290. Sebeok 1994. 291. Bertin 1983/2011. 117 ical data, and Geographical Information Systems (GIS) data.292 Bertin293 and Moretti294 distinguish between three main categories of graphics: diagrams or graphs for quantitative data, networks or trees for qualitative data that can be ar- bitrarily arranged on the plane, and maps for geographic or cartographic visualiz- ations. To these categories, Bertin295 adds symbolic visualizations (i.e. symbols) that can be used within all of the above categories. The diagrammatic visualizations needed for this project do not fall precisely within any of these categories. They are, however, closely related to strictly geo- graphic and qualitative maps (less so with quantitative cartographic visualizations). In qualitative geographic maps, the position on the plane and the visual features of the representations are imposed by the nature of the data to be recorded: a city has to be placed at the right point on the plane that corresponds with its geograph- ical coordinates, and a river has to follow the same path on the plane followed by its counterpart in the real world. In the same way, the position of a sewing support has to be relative to that of the other elements represented with it — e.g. the fold of the gathering — and the appearance of the sewing thread path should represent the path of the sewing structure being visualized. For this reason, it is possible to draw general concepts of visualizations from these partially pertinent studies. However, the restrictions imposed by the iconic nature of the visualizations always have to be kept in mind. 5.3.3.1. Fixing meaning through a reference system Chapter 3 highlights how visual information needs to be fixed by a referencing system for its meaning to become apparent. This can be accomplished by presenting it with a dual modality that combines word labels with the graphics. Also, the meaning of the elements of visual texts depend on their context. For these reasons, it is always important to present visual information within a well- 292. For example: Bertin 1983/2011; Tufte 1990; Tufte 1997; Tufte 2001; Tufte 2006; MacEa- chren 1992. 293. Bertin 1983/2011. 294. Moretti 2005. 295. Bertin 1983/2011. 118 developed referencing system that allows for the identification of the correct meaning of the overall graphic and of its elements. 5.3.3.1.1. Titling and verbal labelling Titles and other verbal labels allow fixing the meaning of a visualization. They permit the reader to identify, the general category of what is being represented — e.g. an endleaf structure — and to identify, in the drawing, those elements that can vary from example to example within the same category — e.g. from one endleaf structure to another.296 5.3.3.1.2. Graphic reference elements Previously, it was concluded that there has to be a one-to-one relationship between the components of verbal propositions and those of their visual transla- tion. However, considering the need for contextualization of visual elements, it is appropriate to add reference elements within a visualization to help put each element of the structure in context visually, thus facilitating the signification of all other elements. For this reason, certain elements taken for granted or simply not mentioned in a description need to be made explicit within the visual repres- entation of what is being described. These can be made less visually prominent to differentiate them from important information. For example, endband cross- section diagrams, as it will be seen in the following chapter, include the bookblock on which the endband is attached as a visual reference element. 5.3.3.2. Separation of information The basic rule for the generation of graphics with a high degree of legibility is to separate information into discernible visual groups. This is attained by balancing graphic density by avoiding too many marks per unit area and by keeping mean- 296. Bertin 1983/2011. 119 ingful marks visually separate.297 The same considerations are valid for different views, sections, and boxes within a visualization.298 A consequence of the separation of information might be that the naturalism of the representation needs to be reconsidered. Effective graphic representations should always strive for best legibility, and correct signification, even at the expense of naturalism, by allowing that content and form of the visualization correspond to those of the desired mental representation (principles of congruity299) and that visualizations are readily and correctly perceived and understood (principle of apprehension300).301 5.3.3.3. Use of colour Colour is an excellent selective variable that is able to make information imme- diately distinguishable. However, it does have two main drawbacks: (i) anomalies in chromatic perception (e.g. colour blindness) are more frequent than it is gener- ally believed,302 and (ii) inaacurate colour reproduction. From a neuropsychological point of view, colour perception as it is analysed in the V1 area, can be subdivided into three information channels: the red-green channel, the yellow-blue channel, and the black-white (or luminance) channel. Luminance differences are calculated simultaneously between all adjacent areas of the retina, and not from the output of a selection of specific cones as is the case with the other channels. This justifies the greater capacity of the luminance channel to convey detailed information as opposed to the other channels. Also, colour blindness does not impede the perception of grey-scale values (and colours that differ in the yellow-blue direction).303 297. Bertin 1983/2011. 298. Ford 1993. 299. Tversky 2005b, p. 29. 300. Tversky 2005b, p. 29. 301. See Chapter 3. Tversky 2005b; Tversky 2006. 302. About 8% of males and 1% of females are colour blind (Ware 2008). 303. Ware 2013. 120 There are also significant problems involved with colour reproduction from one medium to another, and the more information depends on a hue-specific colour coding, the more expensive the reproduction will be.304 Hue variations as carriers of specific meanings should only be used when indis- pensable. The diagrams generated for this project will therefore make use of black and white or grey-scale graphic elements. 5.3.3.4. Two-dimensional vs. three-dimensional visualizations The problem with three-dimensional representations is that they make it harder to compare the features and forms of similar items. Human pattern perception is for the most part devoted to planar information as opposed to depth.305 Also, whilst three-dimensional views seem to deliver information in a more direct way, in reality, all shapes are in fact distorted — e.g. circles are ellipses, rectangles show no right angle and no equal sides — and this can lead to ambiguity.306 Two-dimen- sional views are better suited to facilitate the comparison of features between different examples.307 5.3.4. Structured visualizations as output The final output of this project is a series of automatically generated drawings. Each drawing is the result of a direct translation of the description of a material object. As mentioned above, in order for the translation to be appropriate, there has to be a one-to-one relationship between the components of the propositions in the two languages. This is self-evident, when the two languages have similar kinds of expressions, as in the case of intralingual and interlingual translations.308 When dealing with intersemiotic translations, however, this might not be evident. 304. Bertin 1983/2011; Ware 2013. 305. Tversky 2001; Tufte 2001; Ware 2008; Ware 2013. 306. Ferguson 1992. 307. Ferguson 1992; Ware 2013. 308. Jakobson 1959. 121 Let us consider again the nature of information shown in images. Images feature on a plane, which is continuous in nature and capable of infinite subdivisions.309 Images are continuous entities that can be subdivided in smaller elements within their plane, but these are not always clearly discernible from one another. Images can then be seen as macroscopic blocks of information, within which it is possible to identify pertinent units.310 These units are the visual sememes of the visual message encoded in the image. These units are also the elements of the visual proposition corresponding to the elements of the object being depicted. They stand in the same one-to-one relationship with reality as the elements of verbal descriptions, and this is also the basis for the one-to-one relationship between the two propositions in the two different languages. Unlike verbal propositions, however, the units of images are seldom discreet with clear boundaries. They can thus be generated in accordance to the one-to- one relationship with the elements of the verbal description — i.e. for each element, something can be drawn — but their final shape will generally depend on that of the adjacent units, and this parametrization of the shapes will need to be taken into account by the intersemiotic translation algorithm. This way, in a combinat- orial way, the whole image text can be constructed element by element within a structured visualization system. Structured as the resulting drawing, while appearing as one (or sets of macro-groups, e.g. different views of the same item), has a clear internal organization and arrangement of its parts.311 The next chapter will cover this in more detail when looking at the practical application of these principles. 5.4. The uncertainty of reality In reading or seeing a verbal or visual representation of an object and when comparing it to the real object, one can ascertain whether the representation is 309. Bertin 1983/2011. 310. Eco 1975/2008; Saint-Martin 1990. 311. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 5.5423. 122 true or false, and the feedback to reality is actually the only way to be certain of the truthfulness or falsehood of a proposition.312 Certainty is what makes it possible to distinguish between truthfulness and falsehood, and its essence is in the action of seeing that something is (or is not) the case. That is to say that a proposition is only true or false in respect of what it represents. Certainty is an act of judgement of what a proposition shows about reality, and propositions should make our judging explicit. A judgement is correct only if the proposition judged is true.313 Reality is usually not so clear-cut: there are degrees of certainty about its truth, because uncertainty pervades the world in which we live.314 In particular, when dealing with material objects such as historical bookbinding structures and their visualization, one has to accept that a degree of uncertainty is inevitable.315 There are many and various definitions of uncertainty,316 but in general, all definitions imply imperfection of the knowledge about the dataset, or in the representation of knowledge.317 Brodlie and colleagues,318 distinguish between two problems related to uncer- tainty in visualization: (i) that of the visualization of uncertainty,319 and (ii) the problem of the uncertainty of visualization.320 In answer to the former problem, one has to deal with how to depict the uncertainty specified within the data to be visualised. The latter problem instead rests in the inaccuracy that occurs in the process of turning the data into a picture. Therefore, a system that attempts to describe and represent reality has to ad- dress, on the one hand, the problem of propositions that are neither completely true nor completely false321 — i.e. to address the problem of the uncertainty within the data — and, on the other hand, has to consider that the very process 312. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 2.21; T: 2.222; T: 2.223; T: 2.224. 313. Wittgenstein 1969; Stoutland 1998. 314. Gabbay & Smets 1998; Zuk 2008. 315. Campagnolo & Velios 2013. 316. Thomson et al. 2005. 317. Thomson et al. 2005. 318. Brodlie et al. 2012. 319. Brodlie et al. 2012, p. 82. 320. Brodlie et al. 2012, p. 82. 321. Gabbay & Smets 1998. 123 of translating data into a visual representation can produce problems with accur- acy.322 The inclusion of uncertainty in a system, however, is not an easy task.323 Uncer- tainty is a complex phenomenon. Thomson and colleagues324 have proposed a ty- pology about uncertainty of geospatial information subdivided into nine categories (accuracy/error, precision, completeness, consistency, currency/timing, credibility, subjectiveness, interrelatedness, lineage), which has been further analysed and generalized by Zuk and Carpendale.325 Of these categories, the most important ones for the project at hand are: (i) accuracy — the difference between the obser- vation and reality, (ii) precision — the exactness of measurement, and (iii) com- pleteness — the extent to which the information is comprehensive.326 Uncertainty is propagated when we operate with uncertain data. And uncertainty in the data also needs to be propagated as uncertainty in the graphic output. As the original data is transformed into a visualization, uncertainty follows, and a reference to the uncertain data must be maintained. Also, uncertainty adds a visual dimension to the visualization, and this dimension needs not to have already been used.327 Most visualization techniques traditionally have been developed, and used, with the assumption that the visualized data is certain. Also, most people have a tendency to treat visualized data as facts, and are much less prone to question visualizations than written words.328 This, in turn, can lead to problems in the reading of visualized data, as ‘one can draw inferences from a false proposition.’329 Tufte330 brings forward examples of how improper visualizations historically have misled the interpretation of the original data. For all these reasons, both uncertainty in the data and the uncertainty inherent in the visualization medium need to be taken into account and signalled. 322. Brodlie et al. 2012. 323. Brodlie et al. 2012. 324. Thomson et al. 2005. 325. Zuk & Carpendale 2007. 326. Thomson et al. 2005; Zuk & Carpendale 2007. 327. Brodlie et al. 2012. 328. MacEachren 1992; MacEachren et al. 2005; Brodlie et al. 2012. 329. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 4.023. 330. Tufte 1997. 124 5.4.1. Uncertainty in structured descriptions In the first instance, the data to be visualized has to be able to convey informa- tion in respect of its certainty. In a description, a particular object can be present or not, or it can correspond to a certain prescribed type or not. This seems simple enough, however, there are many reasons why the reality of material objects cannot be easily and completely described by yes or no answers: yes there is such and such object, no there is not; yes this is such and such object, no this is not. As in the case of quantitative and geographical data visualizations,331 factors of uncertainty can be found in inherent problems with the definition of the object of study — e.g. the limitations of current knowledge regarding bookbinding structures and their description — or the sources of information and their inter- pretation — e.g. the books being described and the interpretation of their binding structures. Moreover, it might not be possible to completely describe a material object — e.g. a book is sometimes too damaged to show clear evidence of its ori- ginal structure, or else, elements of the binding might not be physically visible — e.g. spine linings — and, therefore, describable.332 A description system has to be able to accommodate such cases. Structured descriptions can allow for three- or multi-valued logic to be embedded within their schema, thus allowing for more than just yes or no answers. Multi-valued logic differs from the more commonly known bivalent logic — e.g. classical or Boolean logic — as it does not restrict the number of truth values to only two: true or not-true (false). The simplest version of this kind of logic, three-valued logic, provides for three possible answers to the truthfulness of a proposition: true, unknown, false.333 The simple addition of the unknown truth value can be used to express uncertainty, and this is easily implemented within structured de- scriptions. For example, in describing a bookbinding, for the aforementioned reasons, one might not be certain whether the book has a certain type of spine lining: saying that yes it has a certain type of spine lining would introduce poten- 331. Wilkinson 2005; Wainer 2009; Gethin Powell 2012. 332. Campagnolo & Velios 2013. 333. Gottwald & Anat 2014. 125 tially erroneous data into the dataset, but so would the opposite. By offering the possibility of saying that the type of spine lining is unknown permits one to express the uncertainty of the information: yes, there is a spine lining, but one cannot say for certain which type of spine lining was used on that particular binding. 5.4.2. Uncertainty in visualizations In the literature, there have been many and various attempts to include uncer- tainty within visualizations in a diverse range of fields: from astrophysics to met- eorology, geography, and archaeology, to mention but a few.334 The importance of uncertainty was historically first realized by the geovisualization community,335 followed by the scientific visualization community.336 General reviews on the problem can be found in the contributions by Wilkinson,337 Griethe and Schu- mann,338 Zuk and Carpendale,339 Zuk,340 and Brodlie and colleagues.341 5.4.2.1. Archaeological visualizations Of the various fields that use visualization as research output or tool, and communication, archaeology appears to be the closest to that of this project: both archaeology and the archaeology of the book deal with material objects as their data, be this a temple or a book. 334. Brodlie et al. 2012. 335. MacEachren 1992; Goodchild et al. 1994; Pang 2001; MacEachren et al. 2005; Brodlie et al. 2012. 336. Pang et al. 1997; Thomson et al. 2005; Wilkinson 2005; Brodlie et al. 2012. 337. Wilkinson 2005. 338. Griethe & Schumann 2006. 339. Zuk & Carpendale 2006; Zuk & Carpendale 2007. 340. Zuk 2008. 341. Brodlie et al. 2012. 126 Figure 31. Diagram of the construction of the Nag Hammadi codices (Szirmai 1999, fig. 1.2, p. 8). 5.4.2.1.1. An example from archaeology of the book Archaeological datasets are often incomplete and ambiguous.342 Notwithstanding this, visualizations of archaeological sites or objects more often than not tend to- wards single holistic photorealistic images.343 The same idea of one fixed and certain visualization of how a bookbinding looked can be found in studies of the archaeology of the book. An example is the case of the notorious Nag Hammadi Codices. These are a series of thirteen papyrus codices, dating from the third-fourth century AD, and amongst the earliest ex- amples of surviving structures of books in the codex form. They were found still in their original leather bindings in 1945, buried in a jar near the Nag Hammadi village in Egypt. The discovery was announced in 1949344 and in the same year a short article with a few general photographs of the manuscripts was published,345 but, because of their problematic content — Gnostic texts, amongst which the 342. Zuk 2008. 343. Harrison et al. 2012. 344. Doresse 1949. 345. Doresse & Mina 1949. 127 only complete example of the non-canonical Gospel of Thomas — they were not made available to scholars for years.346 In 1961, Doresse347 presented a first brief study of the bindings with some sketches. However, from the description of the bindings by Robinson done in the 1970s,348 it is sadly clear that the bindings had already been dismounted without careful documentation, with some parts already lost and not in their original state, leaving aspects of the original binding structure unclear and not recoverable from the evidence remaining.349 Even with this in mind, Szirmai’s reconstructions, reproduced in Figure 31, do not offer any indic- ation of what is certain and what is conjectural about the binding structure of the Nag Hammadi codices. This is a clear example of the norm within the field of the archaeology of the book: in the literature, to this author’s knowledge, there are no examples of visualizations that include the idea of any kind of uncertainty. 5.4.2.1.2. Uncertainty clues in archaeological visualizations Despite the many photorealistic archaeological visualizations that do not offer a way to distinguish between speculation and hard data, the issue of uncertainty in archaeological visualization has been raised by many scholars in the past two decades.350 Different approaches have been proposed to tackle the uncertainty problem. For the most part, these try to add some visual clues to photorealistic visualizations, like the use of colour, fog, and transparency.351 Some studies352 have opted to use non-photorealistic methods instead, and show how sketch-like renditions coupled with the use of other visual dimensions — e.g. transparency — are fully capable of conveying speculative data as opposed to hard data in archaeological recon- structions. However, more and more the appeal of photorealistic reconstructions 346. Robinson 1984; Szirmai 1999. 347. Doresse 1961. 348. Robinson 1972-1977. 349. Szirmai 1999. 350. Miller & Richards 1995; Ryan 1996; Zuk et al. 2005; Bentkowska-Kafel et al. 2012; Harrison et al. 2012. 351. Pang et al. 1997; Zuk 2008. 352. Strothotte et al. 1994; Strothotte et al. 1999; Strothotte et al. 1999; Freudenberg et al. 2001; Strothotte & Schlechtweg 2002; Roussou & Drettakis 2003. 128 that can be seen as photographs of a possible past, with its communicative power, has won notwithstanding the resulting false certainty.353 5.4.2.2. Irregularities in visual propositions Even though the archaeological visualizations mentioned in the previous sections refer to three-dimensional reconstructions — whether photorealistic or not — it is interesting to note how they include visual cues to the figure, and these visual cues can be applied to a single artefact, or an entire group or scene.354 By doing so, they manage to convey the uncertainty of certain parts of the reconstruction, without altering the perception of the object as a whole. It is, in fact, possible to add irregularities to a certain figure, without distorting the overall meaning of visual propositions, for even the ‘irregularities depict what they are intended to express’.355However, attention should be paid to avoid trig- gering unwanted Gestalt laws because of the interplay of particular uncertainty encodings — e.g. changing the figure/ground balance — thus shifting attention.356 5.4.2.2.1. Visual cues for uncertainty visualization In the literature across different domains, the list of possible visual cues for visualizing uncertainty is limited to a range of seven categories: (i) size, (ii) position, (iii) texture, (iv) shape, (v) colour/saturation, (vi) transparency/fading, (vii) blur.357 Interestingly, these correspond, for the most part, to the retinal variable outlined by Bertin,358 with the exception of orientation, that is never used to depict uncer- tainty, and value that is not used in isolation, but it is rather used together with 353. Harrison et al. 2012. 354. Zuk 2008. 355. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 4.013. 356. Zuk 2008. 357. For reviews of different uncertainty visualization strategies see: MacEachren 1992; Good- child et al. 1994; Strothotte et al. 1994; Pang et al. 1997; Strothotte et al. 1999; Strothotte et al. 1999; Pang 2001; MacEachren et al. 2005; Thomson et al. 2005; Wilkinson 2005; Griethe & Schumann 2006; Zuk & Carpendale 2006; Zuk & Carpendale 2007; Zuk 2008; Boukhelifa et al. 2012; Brodlie et al. 2012. 358. Bertin 1983/2011. 129 colour or in transparency and fading. To Bertin’s variables, MacEachren359 adds blurring and the aforementioned transparency variable. Size and position only apply to quantitative data visualization within diagrams,360 as in iconic texts both the size of an element and its position have to be relative to those of the other elements for their signification. Texture, defined by Bertin361 as the number of separable marks within a unit (point, line, area), work by altering the appearance of the unit by making it look as if formed by a series of successive marks, which are read as pertaining to the same semantic unit due to the Gestalt principles of continuity and grouping.362 Dashing or dotting is an example of texture applied to lines. In bookbinding line drawings, the norm is to use a dotted or dashed line to represent elements or parts of elements, that in reality would be partially or completely hidden and thus not visible. Sometimes, the same convention of dashing lines is used for other reasons, such as to indicate folds (see Figure 32). This means that the texture dimension has already been assigned various values, and it should not be used with yet an- other meaning. For material object visualizations, the general shape of an item cannot be changed arbitrarily. However, the shape of the lines making up the drawings can be modified to carry some special meaning, in the same way as texture can change the appearance of a line without altering its overall shape. Sketchy or wiggly lines fall within this category. The research group of Boukhelifa, Wood, and col- leagues,363 inspired by the work on non-photorealistic rendering reported above, have explored the capability of sketchiness to convey visual imprecision that may be associated with uncertainty. Their results show that whilst some users associated sketchiness with unprofessional rendering, it is nonetheless a viable additional choice. Hue variations, as we have seen in §5.3.3.3, should be avoided if at all possible. For black and white line drawings on a neutral background, the variables of grey 359. MacEachren 1992. 360. Wilkinson 2005. 361. Bertin 1983/2011. 362. Koffka 1935. 363. Boukhelifa et al. 2012; Wood et al. 2012. 130 Figure 32. Drawings showing the use of dashed lines to indicate both invisible parts and folds (Clarkson 2005, fig. 7 and 8, p. 9). scale saturation, transparency, and fading fall within the same category and are not separable. These variations provide redundant encoding as they use more than one variable and channel of vision area 1 (V1)364 at a time. As a consequence, they are easily perceivable and good candidates for carrying extra information,365 e.g. darker lines, being visually more prominent, suggest more certainty than lighter lines.366 The same is valid for blurring,367 which can be defined as the removal of spatial detail from the information.368 This variable too is redundant and acts on the variables of grey scale saturation, transparency, and fading. But in addition, it also banks on the V1 feature of sharpness/blurriness detection,369 which makes it an even more redundant and distinguishable variable. Blurring has been widely used to indicate uncertainty and ambiguity in the data across fields.370 Of the various visual cues that have been used in the literature to express un- certainty, the methods that are applicable to line primitives can be grouped into three main categories: (i) colour-based techniques manipulating the saturation, or brightness dimensions; (ii) geometry-based techniques that modify the appear- ance of line marks; and, (iii) focus-based techniques that work by modifying 364. Ware 2013. 365. Zuk & Carpendale 2006. 366. Boukhelifa et al. 2012. 367. Zuk & Carpendale 2006. 368. Boukhelifa et al. 2012. 369. Ware 2013. 370. MacEachren 1992; Pang et al. 1997; Wilkinson 2005; Zuk & Carpendale 2006; Zuk 2008; Boukhelifa et al. 2012. 131 contour crispness, and transparency.371 To summarize, grey scale saturation and transparency/fading, used on their own or in conjunction with blurring, and sketchiness of lines appear to be optimum variables for this project. All of these are also applicable selectively on specific single elements: an ideal feature for structured visualizations. 5.4.2.3. Imprecision as uncertainty Uncertainty in the data, that in turn should be mapped and rendered as such in the final visualization, falls within the categories of accuracy and completeness of recorded information, and of the precision of measurements. The sections above have covered the problems that may lead to uncertainty in the data for a structured description of material objects such as bookbinding structures, covering the accuracy and completeness categories. In regard to measurements, it should be stated again here that their precision is not essential to the prototypification of shape, as measurements do not constitute a prägnant feature.372 Measurement values can, in fact, be changed without psycho- logically affecting the overall impression for the observer as long as the proportions are left unaltered.373 Nevertheless, when the measurement of certain elements can be compared from object to object, it is important to be able to highlight uncer- tainty in regard to the extension of a particular line: the length or scale of an ele- ment may, in fact, be critical to understanding certain features of the material object described and visualized.374 5.4.2.4. Uncertainty inherent in the visualization process Finally, as seen, in the passage from verbal descriptions to visual, some features of the specificity of an object may be lost due to the prototypicality of verbal in- 371. Boukhelifa et al. 2012. 372. As seen in §3.4.2.2, a singular, meaningful, special value of a trait or parameter. (Palmer 1999; Sternberg & Mio 2009). 373. Goldmeier 1972. 374. Campagnolo & Velios 2013. 132 formation, the generalization inherent in defined signs, and the semantic entry level used in the description. This does not mean that an object cannot be visual- ized at all, but that in some cases, the prototypified shape would be too generalized to resemble reality closely. If indeed its category was presented in the description at the right level of abstraction, thus highlighting its parts and their arrangement, its essence would be present;375 however, its overall shape might be overly simplified and symmetrical. This poses a problem of uncertainty that becomes apparent only in the visual- ization of the data, and it is an accuracy problem. It might be linked to complex contours of certain elements, e.g. due to highly decorative patterns, or shapes with random and irregular outlines. In these cases, highly prototypical shapes can be used as place-holders. These can then be highlighted as uncertain for formal integrity. 5.4.3. Human error in the data When inaccuracy is objectively determinable, it can be expressed as error.376 Errors are indicated by the fact that a planned sequence of activities fails to achieve the intended outcome, without intervention of external factors.377 In electronic databases, the encoding schema at the base of their structure allows for immediate monitoring of data correctness and completeness during input.378 Missing and inadmissible data is highlighted right away by the computer, prompting the user to add or correct it. Data validation yields to a reduction in errors and acts as quality control. However, not all mistakes can be avoided through careful database design, and those errors that do occur are not easy to identify through automated means.379 375. Tversky & Hemenway 1984. 376. MacEachren et al. 2005. 377. Reason 1990. 378. Mocean 2007. 379. Campagnolo 2014a. 133 Data validation is the process of ensuring that a dataset is complete, correct and meaningful. Validation rules check for correctness or meaningfulness of data that are input by the user.380 Just as in language, a dataset can be considered valid, when it satisfies the validation rules put in place in the system, but this does not necessarily mean that it is also meaningful. In fact, one should not confuse the notion of ‘grammatically correct’ — or ‘valid according to the validation routines’ — with ‘meaningful’.381 Consider the following sentences: (i) colourless sewing passing through four sta- tions; (ii) stations through passing four sewing colourless. Both are nonsensical, but (i) would be recognised as grammatically correct by any English speaker. One can, in fact, distinguish between two senses of meaningfulness or validity. A pro- position that is ‘valid in the first sense’ is meaningful in as much as it follows the rules of the language in which it is expressed — e.g. it follows the rules of sentence formation set by English grammar. A proposition that is ‘valid in the second sense’ is meaningful in as much as it makes sense in the context in which it is used.382 That is to say that a statement can be ‘meaningful in the first sense’ — i.e. it makes grammatically sense — but ‘meaningless in the second sense’ — i.e. in the context in which it has been used. Example (i) above is ‘valid in the first sense’, but not in the second sense, i.e. there does not seem to be a context in which such a sen- tence would make sense, and it is not meaningful as a bookbinding sewing descrip- tion. In the same way, data within a database can be valid — grammatically correct — but nonetheless meaningless. Data that is not ‘valid in the first sense’ can be avoided through validation routines. Ambiguities due to human error that cause ‘invalidity in the second sense’ are, instead, not avoidable through data validation. In the case of visualizations, data that is grammatically valid — i.e. ‘valid in the first sense’ — but meaningless — i.e. not ‘valid in the second sense’ — would translate into drawings, whose elements are all possible within the state of affairs being described, but represent something that might not be in reality, or does not 380. Mocean 2007. 381. Chomsky 1957. 382. Wittgenstein 1969; Stoutland 1998. 134 reflect what the reality actually is. To check if a visualization is correct or incorrect, one has to check that proposition against reality.383 Of all the possible configura- tions of the elements of a material object, one and only one corresponds to reality, and from a proposition it is not always possible to see that it is, in fact, false.384 A proposition can be understood without knowing if it is true or false as it is under- stood by virtue of understanding its constituent parts.385 Meaninglessness ‘in the first sense’ can be avoided through data validation. Ambiguities due to human error that make propositions not ‘valid in the second sense’ instead are not avoidable through data validation, and are, therefore, not avoidable in visualizations either. Some mistakes, might be immediately recognised as false propositions, because they are meaningless ‘in the first sense’, but in ac- cordance with the rules of reality — as they do not show a configuration that would be possible in real life — and not of the schema, i.e. the elements that compose them are all possible according to the schema, but their coming together in the visualization is meaningless. Other propositions instead, might not be re- cognized as meaningless until they are indeed checked against reality, as their being meaningless is related to ‘validity in the second sense’, and their being meaningful is then context-dependent and the only way to understand how the object really looked like is to check the proposition against reality. In chapter 7, these cases are discussed with practical examples taken from the dataset. Summary Signs and reality are in relationship with one another. Objects and their arrange- ment in reality are mirrored in communication as the object determines the sign by imposing the constraints that the sign ought to meet to signify it. Controlled vocabularies and structured descriptions have, in potency, the capacity to describe material objects in such a way that the correspondences to reality, its objects, and 383. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 4.05; T: 4.06; T: 4.1. 384. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 2.223; T: 2.224. 385. Wittgenstein 1922/2012T: 4.024. 135 its logical form are maintained. At the same time, diagrammatic visualizations are capable of preserving and communicating the form of the reality that they repres- ent. It is thus possible to foresee an intersemiotic translation of propositions from verbal structured descriptions to diagrams, with a one-to-one relationship between the basic elements of each. Visual signs are specific to a certain domain. It is, however, possible to draw general considerations on the nature of visual signs and to establish general con- ventions for the production of a successful visual communication system. In par- ticular, it is important to fix the meaning of each sign and of the diagram in its totality, and to avoid altering such meaning with graphical and perception/psy- chological artefacts, such as the inclusion of information gaps within the visualiz- ation plane, or grouping meaningful marks that should be kept visually separate for optimum legibility. Visualizations within scholarly research projects should convey uncertainty where needed. Depicting uncertainty has been the object of study of many scholars, however, its application to diagrams whose shapes are dictated by those of the objects being represented, as in the case of material objects, poses particular issues and constraints. Various variables have been used to depict uncertainty, of these, blurring, grey scale variation, transparency, fading, and sketchy lines seem to be better suited to be applied to material object visualizations. Noteworthy is the fact that, in the literature, uncertainty has not been considered yet for visualizations pertaining to the field of the archaeology of the book. This project has endeavoured to amend this and brings forward a methodology to in- clude uncertainty in a consistent manner in the visualization of historical book- binding structures. This constitutes an important contribution of this work to the field of the archaeology of the book. Human errors in the data can be limited with the implementation of data valid- ation techniques. These, however, will not eliminate the possibility of erroneous data being input. False visualizations caused by these errors are readable, and sometimes even identifiable as erroneous, but their validity has to be checked against reality. 136 The following chapters will show the visual language developed for this project and the practical application of the considerations covered so far. 137 Chapter 6. Transformation framework The concept, element, can be understood in two different ways: as an external, and, as an inner concept. Externally, each indi- vidual graphic or pictorial form is an element. Inwardly, it is not this form itself but, rather, the tension within it, which consti- tutes the element. Wassily Kandisky, Point and line to plane, 1947, p. 33. This chapter introduces the technologies that have been used in this project, the dataset, and the schema developed by Ligatus in more detail. The next chapter gives a complete example of a transformation and introduces other bookbinding structure transformations. A complete account of each transformation can be found in Appendix B. 138 6.1. The technology and the description schema 6.1.1. Extensible Markup Language This project makes extensive use of the eXtensible Markup Language (XML)386 and associated technologies. XML was developed in 1996 by an XML Working Group formed under the auspices of the World Wide Web Consortium (W3C)387 to meet the challenges of large-scale electronic publishing. With time, XML has also been playing an in- creasingly important role in the exchange of data on the Web and elsewhere.388 XML 1.0 (fifth edition) is a W3C Recommendation and is the most recent version of the full specification.389 XML technologies are widely used to structure, store, exchange, and process data in a system-independent way. XML, as a markup language, is designed to process and define information in the form of text. Hy- perText Markup Language (HTML) is an example of widely known and used markup language for web pages. XML is a metalanguage, a language used to de- scribe other markup languages (including XHTML, eXtensible HyperText Markup Language, a version of HTML). In essence, XML is a grammar that specifies how to distinguish markup from other information, and which markup is allowed and required. XML does not specify the meaning of the markup. In XML, markup instructions are intermixed with data in the same document. Markup instructions, referred to as elements, are kept distinct by enclosing them in angular brackets like this <element>. Elements are the basic unit of XML documents. Each type of element is identi- fied by a name — i.e. the word within the angular brackets — but XML does not prescribe the way to express the semantic meaning linked to a particular type of element. All XML does is express an element’s relationship to other elements. Given an element called <foo>, all one can say about it, thanks to the XML 386. Bray et al. 2008. 387. http://www.w3.org/ (accessed April 2015). 388. Bray et al. 2008; W3C 2015. 389. Bray et al. 2008. 139 grammar ruling an XML document, is that it may (or may not) occur within ele- ments of the type called <bar>, and that it may (or may not) contain elements called <baz>. XML documents are in fact innately hierarchical and form a tree structure that starts at the root and branches to the leaves. The XML grammars describing and prescribing these kinds of relationships and the elements types (with their names) are referred to as schemas. An XML document is created according to a specific schema and validated against it. Every schema has to follow the general rules set by the XML specification by the World Wide Web Consortium that created it. XML languages are being used to structure various other types of information besides text, e.g. vector graphics, procedural information, and so forth. 6.1.2. Extensible Stylesheet Language Transformations XML documents have no set function. Once a document is structured according to a specific schema, the information is semantically highlighted and therefore searchable, but nothing else happens. Once encoded, however, it can be transpor- ted, exchanged, and transformed into other forms. EXtensible Stylesheet Language Transformations (XSLT),390 part of the eXtens- ible Stylesheet Language (XSL), a style sheet language for XML documents, is an XML technology developed to transform XML documents — or parts of them — into other XML documents or other formats. XSLT is a standard of the World Wide Web Consortium. Although referred to as stylesheet, XSLT is essentially a fully-developed programming language that is well-suited to extrapolate information from XML documents and transform it into whichever format is desired, be that a web page, a PDF file, or a diagram. It is therefore an ideal language for intersemiotic translations of information encoded within XML documents. 390. Clark 1999. 140 6.1.3. Scalable Vector Graphics This project aims to extrapolate information from XML documents describing bookbinding structures and transform it into diagrammatic visualizations. The project’s dataset was already in XML and one can use an XML-based language to transform it; it therefore makes sense to use an XML technology to visualize the output. Scalable Vector Graphics (SVG)391 is a language for describing two-dimensional vector graphics in XML. Originating from the requirements for scalable graphics for the web by Chris Lilley,392 the SVG specification is an open standard developed by the World Wide Web Consortium (W3C) since 1999. SVG 1.1 (second edition) is a W3C Recommendation and is the most recent version of the full specification.393 SVG uses elements to describe in text form how its vectorial shapes should be rendered and visualized. It is scalable because it defines the shape of each graphic element but in a scale independent way, i.e. each element can be scaled up or down without affecting the quality of the image.394 SVG is recommended by the World Wide Web Consortium and, as such, integ- rates with other W3C standards, e.g. XSL. Being XML-based, SVG is a good choice for the visual representations automatically generated for this project. 6.1.4. The description schema and the dataset In analysing the different kinds of bookbinding structure descriptions in the literature in chapter 4, the schema developed by Ligatus was briefly introduced. This is an example of a structured description that makes use of a purposely de- veloped controlled vocabulary. As such, it is capable of conveying the minimum information needed for a transformation of the information into visual represent- ations. Through its hierarchical structure and the use of a strict controlled 391. Dahlström et al. 2011. 392. Lilley 1996. 393. Dahlström et al. 2011. 394. Terras 2008. 141 vocabulary it can portray information on the material components and form of the object. The schema can also convey the prototypical shapes of the components through the prototypical nature of the vocabulary used, if the terms are set at the most useful level of abstraction. The schema also embodies the expression of the description, and this provides a direct link with the logical form of the object being described. The schema is the basis of the project’s dataset. The following sections offer a detailed introduction to its history and structure, and look at the data generated through it. 6.1.4.1. The Ligatus schema for the description of bookbinding structures In the introduction of The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding Szirmai395 points out that ‘terminological clarity is a prerequisite for precise recording of observation in binding structures [and] the lack of an established and uniform English terminology [prevents] from achieving the [desired] precision.’ Ligatus has tried to tackle the terminology problem, whilst also advancing a methodology for the description of bookbinding structures. The terminology and description methodology were first applied during the condition survey of the library of Saint Catherine Monastery on Mount Sinai, carried out by team of conservators396 from 2001 to 2007. 6.1.4.1.1. The manuscript collection survey The terminology and methodology proposed by Ligatus was then developed and applied in the condition survey of the library of Saint Catherine Monastery on Mount Sinai. The survey project was run by the Saint Catherine Foundation397 and Ligatus. The library’s holdings are codicologically very important, especially because of the variety of early bookbinding structures that have survived. The main scope of the project was the preservation of the library. However, to establish 395. Szirmai 1999, p. xii. 396. A list of the visiting conservators can be found at http://www.ligatus.org.uk/people (ac- cessed April 2015). This author was not part of the project for the duration of the survey. 397. http://www.saintcatherinefoundation.org/en/ (accessed March 2014). 142 a conservation plan for the library, a detailed survey of all the volumes was pro- posed to assess the whole of the collection and produce a comprehensive record of the material.398 The survey of the manuscript collection was run from 2001 to 2006, and it in- cluded a record of the condition and the structure of the bindings in as much detail as possible given the time constraints. Each volume was allocated about one hour for its description. The work was done in teams of two people to avoid as many possible errors in the data recording.399 The data collected was noted on paper forms (see Figure 33), kept aside as a physical backup, and then automatically uploaded into a database developed for the project. About 3,300 books have been examined. At first the data was organized into a relational database. But given the hierarchical nature of the recorded data, the relational model was abandoned in favour of XML records.400 6.1.4.1.2. The printed book collection survey The way in which information was collected during the survey followed the well-established method of following the way in which the book was put together originally,401 starting with general observations, then progressing to the finer detail: this is a highly hierarchical methodology that is best expressed through another hierarchical descriptive methodology. A second development of the survey methodology made use of XML’s inherent hierarchical nature.402 Ligatus developed an XML schema to describe bookbinding structures. A new description schema was developed as no existing solution could describe binding structures in such detail. This schema, based on the experience accrued during the first phase of the survey, was devised to encompass the kind of structures likely to be found in the collections to be surveyed, but it was not comprehensive. 398. Pickwoad 2004. 399. Pickwoad 2004. 400. Pickwoad 2004; Velios & Pickwoad 2004; Velios & Pickwoad 2005a; Velios & Pickwoad 2005b; Velios & Pickwoad 2008. 401. Sharpe 2000. 402. Velios & Pickwoad 2005a; Velios 2008; Velios & Pickwoad 2008; Velios & Pickwoad 2009. 143 Figure 33. Typical page of the paper form used in the survey of the manuscripts at the Library of St. Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai (Velios & Pickwoad 2004, p. 658). 144 In 2007, teams of conservators visited St. Catherine’s Monastery to survey the library’s printed book collection. This time, the paper forms were substituted with electronic forms to be filled in directly on a computer screen or tablet. The electronic form utilized the newly-developed XML schema. Unlike the former paper forms, the XML structured descriptions of bindings allowed for immediate data validation during the survey, resulting in fewer errors compared to the paper- based survey of the manuscripts. This way, 814 bookbindings from the printed book collection were described, and the data was stored in XML files generated from the electronic forms.403 6.1.4.1.3. Free-hand drawings For both phases of the survey, drawing was considered an important part of the process, as drawing demands observational accuracy, helping to focus on the important details of the item being examined. Information was recorded in outline and diagrammatic drawings which were fast to execute, accurate, and language independent. The drawings, never intended to be realistic, but rather schematic informative documentation, functioned also as a kind of supplementary detailed record of some of the structures, adding visual information to the photographs that were taken for each book.404 Drawings were integrated within the paper-forms for the manuscript survey as seen on Figure 33. Whereas, a specially developed new paper form for drawings was devised for the printed book survey: an A3 landscape form with various sec- tions covering the required or possible drawings (see Figure 34). Paper forms were preferred to direct digital input, as people prefer drawing on paper rather than a computer screen.405 403. Velios & Pickwoad 2005a; Velios 2008; Velios & Pickwoad 2008; Velios & Pickwoad 2009. 404. Pickwoad 2004; Velios & Pickwoad 2004; Velios & Pickwoad 2005a; Velios & Pickwoad 2005b; Velios & Pickwoad 2008. 405. Velios & Pickwoad 2005a. 145 Figure 34. Example of the drawing paper form used during the survey of the printed books at the Library of St. Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai developed by Ligatus. 6.1.4.2. The project dataset The transformation algorithms for this project have been based on the kind and amount of data prescribed by the XML schema developed by Ligatus for the printed book survey. The 814 XML records collected during the survey represent the validation dataset for the algorithms. These records were used to test and validate that the transformation algorithms could meet acceptable levels of accuracy and performance. Effective data validation is typically difficult to create from scratch; thus transformations for structures theoretically covered by the schema, but for which no examples were found in the dataset, would be problematic to test or develop properly. The printed book collection, however, offered a wide range of binding styles to account for most structures. Simple structures, such as board markers, page markers, and tacketed structures, not found in the dataset were developed nonetheless for reasons of completeness. 146 6.2. The transformations It is now time to examine which of the structures and structural elements ac- counted for within the Ligatus schema are described in sufficient detail for the information to be automatically transformed into meaningful diagrams. Figure 35, shows a graphic representation of the hierarchical structure of the Ligatus XML schema down to the first level of branching. The root element is obviously the ‘book’ element. Then the elements can be grouped as follows: a first group gathers general information on the item, like bibliographical information, overall dimensions, and opening characteristics. A second group focuses on ma- terial that can be added to the volume, like inserted material, and markers. The last group instead, starting from the textblock, the covering and furniture, analyses the formation of the binding component by component. The analysis of the text leaves does not cover gathering formation and collation. The schema describes the material components, and, to an extent, the form of: markers (page markers, board markers, and bookmarks), endleaves, sewing, boards, spine profile and joints, spine lining, endbands, covering, and furniture. All of these structures are potentially described in sufficient detail to allow for the information to be algorithmically analysed and transformed into diagrammatic representations. Chapter 7 will present the information contained in the schema component by component. The following sections in this chapter introduce a few general con- ventions and considerations to help the reader better understand the data presented and the diagrams automatically generated for this project. 6.2.1. Knowledge graph schemas Each transformation will be accompanied by a graph showing the complete set of information made available by the schema to describe a binding structure, and the complete set of elements that can be drawn to represent that structure. In turn, these graphs also show what information is available to the viewer for the 147 Figure 35. Visualization of the Ligatus schema: the root and the first level branches. These can be subdivided into three groups: group I contains the general information on the book; group II contains the material that can be added to the volume; and group III covers the components of the binding. 148 interpretation of the generated bookbinding structure diagrams. The diagrams are presented as a way to visualize the information behind each transformation. Graph schemas have been devised by this author as a means to show all the in- formation needed for a description/transformation in a single page (or a series of related pages for very complex structures); they visualize both the schema behind each description and the path followed by each algorithmic transformation to generate the diagrams for this project. They can be complicated to follow, but they can also show in one glance the complexity of a transformation, as opposed to having to trail through the XML schema and the XSLT transformation code. These kind of graphs resemble Findler’s406 associative networks, and Pinker’s407 visual description graph schemas.408 These graphs schemas are helpful for repres- enting the knowledge domain for each transformation. The graphs are formed of nodes and links between nodes. Nodes represent variables identified as concepts, and links represent relations between concepts. They serve also as a way to describe how a reader of a diagram comprehends the bookbinding diagrams. Pinker,409 in fact, considers them as memory representations embodying knowledge in some domain, each containing slots or parameters for the information. Each graph can both specify what information must be true for the representation of some object of a given class, and what information varies from one exemplar of a class to an- other. 6.2.1.1. Graphic conventions for knowledge graph schemas The graphs show a complete visual description for each bookbinding structure diagram. Nodes are represented by small circles, with textual notations as predic- ates, and links by arrows linking two entities. Each node that could take different values is represented by a small triangle branching into a series of entities, showing the possible choices, and what information varies from record to record. Paramet- rized predicates — i.e., here, elements that are defined by precise parameters, 406. Findler 1979. 407. Pinker 1990. 408. Pinker 1990, p. 94. 409. Pinker 1990. 149 which, in these instances, is taken to mean numbers and measurements — are indicated by small squares linked to the entity that they define. As in Pinker,410 a star (*) inside a node indicates that the node could be repeated more than once. A question mark (?) inside a node indicates that the node can be repeated zero or more times. A dagger symbol (†) indicates nodes whose visual representation is not possible with the present level of information available in the schema. The typical choice values of not checked (NC), not known (NK), and other are indicated, as shorthand notation, by three small blurred filled circles placed under the relevant choice triangle; these are blurred to indicate that the information they provide is uncertain. Similarly, three blurred daggers are placed under a triangle where the lack of sufficient information or the level of uncertainty renders impossible any meaningful and not misleading visual representation. A dashed and dotted line under a triangle, with a circle inscribed in it, is a further shorthand notation for the customary series of choices: yes, no, NC, NK, other. The circle inscribed in the triangle indicates that something is to be drawn. In the interest of brevity, and if at all possible without rendering the graph too complex, the same set of nodes is not repeated more than once. Looking at the graphs it becomes clear that the linking lines initiate a logical path of relations along which some information is gathered at each node. Finely dashed lines indicate that some options are only available for a certain path along the schema. These at first identify the beginning of the alternative path, followed by a series of nodes in common to all paths indicated by the usual simple lines up to the point at which the paths divert; what follows is only relevant to the path/s indicated by the first dashed line/s. There are cases of alternative visualizations. These are generated by the same set of nodes, but arranged spatially in a different fashion. These alternative visual- izations are the result of the same algorithm, but the final layout is slightly different — e.g. diagrams for left and right endleaves are mirrored, but still composed of the same kinds of elements. For these, one visualization is fully developed, whilst the others are indicated with a dashed line that fades: from that point onward the 410. Pinker 1990. 150 path to be followed would be the same as the fully developed visualization, but the final diagram would have a different spatial layout. Similarly, some structures are particularly complex; for these a set of correlated graph schemas are presented. The groups are identifiable by the arrow at the end of the alternative visualization dashed line pointing to the alternative graph schema (see Figure 36). 6.2.1.2. Reading the visual description graphs Each circle in the graphs represents an entity of the visual description. In practical terms, this is taken to mean that for each node something is graphically drawn in the bookbinding diagrams, either as a simple shape, or as a complex series of lines whose final appearance will depend on the exact series of nodes that accompany it. For this reason, the very first element in each graph is a node, indicating the diagram as a whole, of which all the other elements are essentially parts that contribute to its appearance. Images, as explored in chapter 3, are to be seen and read as iconic texts. In practice, visual description graph schemas parse these texts and clearly distinguish the units that compose them. Each unit is understood in relation to the others for the whole meaning to be inferred. Each node can therefore be understood as a graphic notation corresponding to a visual sememe. Interestingly, as predicted by Saint-Martin,411 these sememes are continuous and spatialized topological entities. They are in fact only rarely defined by clear boundaries, and their meaning in effect depends on their spatial arrangement and spatial relations with other sememes. Their spatial location becomes essential to their meaning.412 Sememes also vary greatly in size, according to the amount and level of inform- ation sought. The largest entity being the whole diagram, a sememe comprising the whole iconic text, which can be read by a reader presented with the diagram in Figure 41 for example as: ‘This is the diagram of an endleaf structure.’ More information is gathered by delving deeply into the diagram with sememes becoming 411. Saint-Martin 1990. 412. Kubovy 1981; Pinker 1990; Van Valkenburg & Kubovy 2003. 151 Figure 36. Example graph schema showing the graphical conventions. smaller and more numerous the more information is read and infered from the diagram. 6.2.2. Number of possible visualizations Looking at the visual description graph schemas, it is clear that the number of possible nodes is limited. One could argue that, at least for the simplest structures, it would be possible to exhaust all the possibilities and resort to drawing all of these without any transformation. Maybe for such cases going through the effort 152 of writing an algorithm to generate these diagrams is redundant. But, this is not the case, it can be argued, for at least one good reason: even for a limited number of options, the number of possible visualizations quickly escalates to large numbers. Let us consider two examples: board markers, and endleaf structures. 6.2.2.1. Board marker visualizations At first, one of the simplest components in the schema will be considered: board markers, i.e. lengths of animal skin adhered to the inside of a board, projecting from the edge. There are two views for each diagram: cross-sections and views from above; they differ slightly in the information they can provide in regards to the attachment method: for this they will be considered separately. There are two sets of visualizations: (i) location and (ii) position. There are two possible options for location (fore-edge left, fore-edge right), and another two for position (over or under turnin). Finally, (iii) there are two different methods of attachment (glued, nailed), but only the cross-section view can show them both. Having considered all this one can calculate the number of permutations413 for each view: (i) n! (n-r)! = 120 + 60 = 180 =[ (Cross-section view + Front view) = + n! (n-r)!]= 6! (6-3)! =[ + 5!(5-3)!]= In principle, it would be possible to hand-draw all 180 different diagrams; it would take some time, but it is feasible. However, should any new characteristic of board markers need to be highlighted, they would all need to be redrawn once more. By considering more complex structures, it can be seen how the number of permutations quickly escalates to unmanageable numbers. 413. In mathematics, a permutation can informally be defined as each of several possible ways in which a set or number of things can be ordered or arranged, where the order is important. (Weisstein [s.d.]). 153 Figure 37. Board-marker graph schema (see §6.2.1). 6.2.2.2. Endleaf structure visualizations Endleaves are defined as the leaves of a variety of sheet materials found at the front and back of a bookblock. There are two main types: separate and integral endleaves. The former are added by the binder before the book is sewn and can be described as being composed of units and components; the latter are blank 154 Figure 38. Endleaf graph schema (see §6.2.1). 155 leaves at the front and/or the back of the textblock, which are used as endleaves. Separate endleaves and integral endleaves can be combined. Assuming 1 integral endleaf, 1 unit, and 1 component for separate endleaves, one can calculate the number of possible permutations taking into consideration: different visualizations for (i) left and right endleaves, and (ii) for structure and use; (iii) three graphical options for the outermost gathering; (iv) the two basic types of endleaves, integral and separate. For integral endleaves there are the op- tions of (v) the number of leaves, and (vi) the choice of pastedowns (for use visu- alizations). Separate endleaves are described in (vii) units and (viii) components, both of which can vary in number. For each component there are (ix) the choice of pastedowns (for use visualizations), (x) the material, and the visualizations dis- tinguish between paper and parchment by modifying the line thickness, (xi) the modality of attachment (glued, sewn, NC, NK, other), and (xii) the type. Hook types can be (xiii) doubled, and (xiv) can be further divided into endleaf hooks and text hooks. As in most cases, when the information is marked as not checked (NC), not known (NK), and other, the resulting visualization is dealt with according to the standard uncertainty visualization principles, but these are not generally differentiated amongst themselves. Having considered all this one can calculate the number of permutations for each view: (ii) n! (n-r)! × # basic units = = 27! (27-9)! × # basic units = = 1.700755056 × 1012 × # basic units 1,700,755,056,000 of possible different output diagrams is too large a number for hand-drawing to be a feasible option. An automated visualization instead can generate any of such possible diagrams when and if needed, based on one and only one transformation algorithm. 156 6.2.3. Visualizations Each visualization takes a title with information on the shelfmark of the volume being described and the specific visualization, e.g. ‘left endleaves (use)’. A verbal summary description is also provided giving details on the types of components found in the structure. These textual elements act as verbal labels. As seen in chapter 3, there are benefits in combining visual and verbal information. The labels can fix the otherwise ambiguous meaning of visual stimuli allowing for beta reading modality.414 Furthermore, they aid subsequent correct interpretations and recall of the information. Diagrams make general use of a set of conventional shapes. These shapes have been selected and devised in such a way that what they represent should be imme- diately clear to a viewer familiar with bookbinding structures and diagrams. The choice of shapes is meant to be consistent and prototypical enough to be repres- entative of any real-life shape, but they often also follow conventions found in the literature. Conventions are both followed for the particular views that are usually utilized to visually describe a binding structure and the shape of its components, but not blindly: they are modified and integrated when incapable of conveying all the information needed. In chapter 4, looking at the different types of drawings found in the literature, it was concluded that schematic line drawings are the most versatile and at the appropriate visual level of abstraction to be used as visualizations of bookbinding structures. The black and white schematic line drawings are set against a white background and only in a few instances some surfaces are filled in with grey to represent a reference element as background, e.g. the board for furniture. Most visualizations make use of different views of the same structure to com- municate all the information recorded in the schema (see Figure 39). These re- semble projected views found in mechanical drawings (see an example in Figure 40). However, the diagrams do not follow the strict rules and conventions of technical drawings, because the emphasis is not on the exact representation of one object, but rather of its prototype, and also because they are generated from 414. Eco 1997. 157 a very limited number of measurements. The series of conventional lines and symbols found in technical drawings — e.g. centrelines for circles, dimension lines, projection lines, etc.415 — would require a reader aware of the complex set of symbols, and they would clutter the drawings with information that, considering the project’s scope, would be superfluous. However, following the commonly used drafting convention for invisible edges, those structures (or part of structures) that would be invisible from the selected view point are drawn with dashed lines (see Figure 41). For certain elements, the representation of their precise length does not add much information, considering the prototypical nature of the diagrams, and would also impede the immediate comparison between structures of different volumes. In such cases, only the extremities of the element are drawn with a faded area in the middle to hint at continuity of the parts. This exploits the Gestalt principle of continuity, compelling the eye to move through one object and continue to the other416 (see Figure 41). 6.2.3.1. Level of abstraction and semantic entry point In the schema, there are instances of descriptions that do not convey enough information to be usefully or successfully visualized. These are signalled in the visual description graph schemas by a dagger symbol (†). What happens in these cases is that the description does not lead to the correct semantic entry point for the concept being introduced.417 A useful example to consider is the list of possible kinds of furniture: (i) articulated metal spines, (ii) bosses, (iii) corners, (iv) full covers, (v) plates, (vi) ties, (vii) catchplates, (viii) clasps, (ix) pins, (x) straps, (xi) strap collars, (xii) strap plates. Types i to vi can not be usefully drawn, whilst vii to xii can (see Figure 41). By comparing the information that is available for the first group (see Figure 42) with the information for the second group (at least vii to x) one would notice that these are further subdivided into more specific typo- 415. Willard 2009. 416. Koffka 1935. 417. Jolicoeur et al. 1984, see chapter 3. 158 Figure 39. Complete visualization of the left board for Vol. 18.3ig. Note the series of dif- ferent views: head, inner and outer surface, tail, fore-edge, spine, horizontal and vertical cross-section. 159 Figure 40. Example of mechanical drawing with three projected views (Willard 2009, fig. 58, p. 63). Figure 41. Complete visualization of the fastenings for Vol. 19.ιδ. Note the faded area in the strap visualization and the dashed lines for invisible edges. 160 logies. Each subcategory type comes with a specific definition that provides details about its functional components. Another solution would have been to describe each main typology according to a set of components, but because the number was limited, a specific term carries in itself enough information to allow for a diagram to be distinguishable from others, and specific enough to resemble the original in its formal and functional components. Type xi and xii, are a particular case because, whilst not further subcategorized, they form in fact a category on their own — that of a metal fixture at the end of a strap — of which each of them is in essence a subcategory, and the definition of their descriptive naming term carries information on their spatial and formal characteristics. The same is not true for articulated metal spines, bosses, corners, full covers, plates, and ties. Whilst these do hold some additional information in the schema, this does not concern their material components or their form, but rather their making. There is information about the material they are made of and how this was worked, and, as for other furniture, whether they go through the pastedown or not. In addition, bosses’ profiles are further described by means of hand drawings, and not as XML data, and, therefore, they are not usable for this project (see Figure 43 for some examples of bosses constructions). The terms describing these furniture types are indeed the basic level of abstraction for their category — i.e. bookbinding furniture — but, as predicted, this is not usually a good se- mantic entry point for a visual representation, which needs to be a step down to- wards the particular. Arguably, i to vi could have been rendered with general shapes, but this would have added little useful information: all books with bosses would have had the same drawing, adding nothing to a simple search of the database for the word ‘bosses’. For this automated visualization methodology to be usefully applicable, more information about their material components and form would be needed. 6.2.3.2. Diagram elements For each visualization, there are two main kinds of elements: the proper diagram elements that, when read by the reader, can signify the binding structure described 161 Figure 42. Visualization of the Ligatus schema: available information for furniture deemed not drawable or not worth visualizing. 162 Figure 43. Examples of bosses found in Gothic bindings (Szirmai 1999, fig. 9.55[1-5], p. 264). Note how more complex the description of bosses could be and how their pecu- liarities are not simply linked to the overall shape of the dome. in the database, and a set of reference elements. The latter are not mentioned in the descriptions, but help to put each element of the structure visually in context, thus facilitating their signification and allowing for beta reading modality418 of the diagram elements. Reference elements are also designed to be visually less prom- inent, by greying them out or thinning their lines. 6.2.3.3. Spatial arrangement In the diagrams, each component is clearly kept distinct from the others by keeping them all spatially separated by a standard distance. This causes complex structures to extend outward from the centre of each unit and from the reference elements (see Figure 45). This convention makes it easier to identify similar structures, and to understand the role of each component. Consider for instance the examples [g] and [h] in Figure 44 and note how the various components are drawn very close to each other at the fold. In example [h] this is a consequence of the naturalistic nature of the drawing. In example [g], whilst the drawing at- tempts to be symbolic, the distance between the components is still kept to a minimum to try to attain a more naturalistic appearance. Inevitably, the author is forced to fan out the structure to be able to convey the whole structure more clearly. However, the closeness of the lines of different components causes them to be perceived in close relationship. This is due to the Gestalt principle of prox- imity: objects near each other tend to be grouped together whether in relationship or not.419 418. Eco 1997 p. 336. 419. Koffka 1935. 163 [g] [h] legend: board first gathering [d] [e] [f] [a] [b] [c] Figure 44. Examples of schematic endleaf diagrams in the literature ([a-c] Szirmai 1999, fig. 8.4[a,c,g], p. 147; [d-f] Carvin 1988, p. 34[0A,0B,1A] — the legend has been translated from the original French; [g] Middleton 1996, fig. 26, p. 43; [h] Cockerell 1953, fig. 19[v], p. 81, this example tends more towards naturalism). 164 Moving each component and unit outward avoids the risk of perceiving stronger relationships where a weaker one would be needed to understand the structure. This happens at the expense of naturalism, but it offers more clarity and commu- nicability, which is a worthy trade off (see Figure 45). Figure 45. Example of a complex endleaf structure with both integral (one leaf) and separate (two units) endleaves (Vol. 4725.3162). Note how the units and components are moved outward, away from the reference gathering. 6.2.3.4. Thread paths Thread paths move and link elements in three dimensions. Diagrams always show two-dimensional views. Whilst this is not generally a problem for sewing diagrams, endband cross-section views present some issues. Cross-sections of endbands are used to show the relation of cores and the bookblock, but also to show the path of the thread around the cores and inside the quires. In these visualizations, the third dimension (along the length of the endband) is not shown and therefore it is impossible to depict how it moves along the endband core (see Figures 46 and 47). In Figure 46[e1] this convention is not followed, but the result is rather cumbersome. Manuals of how to work endbands make scarce use of these cross-sections,420 or do not use them at all,421 whilst they are common in articles and monographs on the history of bookbinding. The established convention of drawing the endband in two dimensions is followed here, as these diagrams are not meant to instruct how to work endbands. The diagrams act as a way to visualize with as few lines as possible the essence of the thread path and the endband sewing. Complex 420. Greenfield 1990. 421. Bibliothèque Nationale (France) 1989. 165 structures become difficult to follow in these diagrams (e.g. Figure 47 [f] and [g]), however, the diagrams as a whole can act as a symbol for the structure. In fact, once encountered, given the distinct appearance of each path and the limited number of options visualized,422 these are easily memorized and recognized as a whole, without having to discern the path of the thread. Like all diagrams produced in this project they are ruled by ratio difficilis,423 as the organization of the expres- sion is determined by the organization of the content — i.e. they are visually similar to what they represent — however, as representations of types, they also constitute preformed expressions — i.e. one these types of endband thread path diagram will always be represented in the same general manner — and can thus also be considered as ruled by ratio facilis.424 6.2.3.5. Uncertainty As outlined in the previous chapter, when dealing with data on historical bookbinding structures, one has to accept that a degree of incompleteness, uncer- tainty, and imprecision is inevitable. Given the particular nature of the automat- ically generated diagrams for this project, this has to be generated parametrically and applied without modifications to the overall design. Ideally, one would not want to draw components which are not accurate, but this is not possible because leaving out the inaccurate part of the diagram leads to misunderstanding, and potentially it could make the whole diagram meaningless. This is because the operation would leave gaps in the plane of the diagrams, and zero signs would still be read as absence of phenomena, and not as missing data.425 For example, let us consider the case of double hooks (see Figure 48). As it will be seen in detail in the next chapter, this type of hook is always drawn as being formed out of a conjoined bifolium. However, since the information provided is not sufficient to rule out the case of it being made out of two separate sheets, the 422. The schema distinguishes between seven different types: warps only, no bead, front bead, no front bead, reversing twist, Greek single core, and Greek double core. 423. Eco 1975/2008; See chapter 3. 424. Eco 1975/2008. 425. Bertin 1983/2011. 166 Figure 46. Examples of cross-section visualizations for endbands found in the literature. ([a] Jäckel 1975, fig. 3, p. 210; [b] Greenfield 1990, p. 59; [c] Szirmai 1999, fig. 6.10[c], p. 77; [d] Clarkson 2005, fig. 17, p. 16; [e1-2] Conn & Verheyen 2003b, p. 1). 167 [a] [b] [c] [d] [e] [f] [g] Figure 47. Examples of cross-section visualizations for endbands: [a] warps only (Vol. 219); [b] no bead (Vol. 3793.2703); [c] front bead (Vol. 4820.3212); [d] no front bead (Vol. 221.105α); [e] reversing twist (Vol. 2938.2149); [f] Greek single core (Vol. 2525/1814); [g] Greek double core (Vol. 2329.1633). 168 conjoined portion is drawn as uncertain. If one were to leave out the uncertain portion of the diagram, the diagrams would always show a hook made of two separate sheets, which might be true in some cases, but certainly not always. Let us consider now the case of an endband cross-section diagram for which some information is uncertain (see Figure 49). The sewing structure for this par- ticular endband is described as no-front-bead to indicate that no front bead was present, but also that it was not possible to check for the presence of the back bead. Also, the schema does not have information (in XML format) in regard of the preparation of the gatherings for the endband and the shape of the endband core cross-section: the gatherings are always drawn as not cut at head or tail to accommodate the endband and give cores as circular cross-section shapes, but these are indicated as uncertain. If, as in Figure 49 [b], one were to remove all uncertain information, the diagram might only show true and certain information, but it has no meaning and becomes useless. As a general rule, for this project, there are two main ways of showing that some data is uncertain: blurring, and fading. In the examples so far, blurring was used as the means of dealing with uncertainty. Eco426 and Saint-Martin427 both point out how images are macroscopic blocks of information whose meaning is identifiable with pertinent units, but these are not independent and are essentially continuous as they cannot usually be considered in isolation. For these reasons, the application of uncertainty needs to always take into consideration how each unit relates to the others in their block of information. We have seen how simply deleting them is not an option, and blurring becomes a feasible way of showing both the shape to be read to keep the overall meaning and highlight uncertainty at the same time. There are cases when deleting uncertain information does not necessarily result in the loss of the meaning of the whole information block. For example, sometimes, it is possible to identify precise boundaries for a unit. If the uncertain information happens to coincide with the extremities of this information block with clear boundaries, deleting the uncertain information does not result in a nonsensical 426. Eco 1975/2008. 427. Saint-Martin 1990. 169 Figure 48. Detail of right endleaves of Vol. 2177.1482 (see Figure 72 for the whole dia- gram) with uncertainty regarding the conjoined leaves of the double hook. drawing. In these cases, one can avoid drawing something that might not be completely or always true by fading the diagram where the information is uncertain (see Figure 50). The schema does not define the typology of the shape found at the end of board grooves towards the spine, nor the measurement of the groove. One could draw the simplest type, a straight cut, and blur it for uncertainty. However, since the end of the groove lies at the extremity of its information block, one could fade it, thus indicating that it is not known how that part is to be drawn, and at which point along the board edge. This way one could avoid drawing something that might be correct only in some cases. The lines are also faded at different lengths to avoid creating visual groups that might be read as coherent and possibly misinterpreted (e.g. a gradually shallower groove). Interestingly, units that are completely isolated and defined by clear boundaries need to be blurred and not faded off — or in fact deleted as fading off acts by deleting those uncertain parts of a continuous unit — as other units might depend on it for their meaning, and the complete absence of information cannot be flagged as uncertain. In practice, if the uncertain part to be drawn is connected at both ends with other units, or is a completely discreet unit, this project resorts to blurring to flag uncertainty. When the uncertain part is only connected at one end with other units, that part can be faded off without compromising the overall meaning of the diagram. Both can be easily applied to any shape within SVG, thus allowing for uncertainty to be added to a certain component parametrically when needed. Blurring is the result of a Gaussian blur filter applied to a specific element. The 170 Figure 49. Cross-section of endband with no-front-bead sewing description for Vol. 221.105α. In [a] the diagram is complete with the uncertain information, whilst in [b] all uncertain information has been removed, leaving a meaningless diagram. Figure 50. Head view of the left board of Vol. 8.3γ. Note the fading off of the groove towards the spine. fading effect is given by a gradient fill going from black to white in the appropriate direction. 171 It should be noted that fading is also used to signal continuing lines when the representation view only requires a portion of the structure or element to be visualized (see for example the boards in the cross-section view in Figure 41). In both cases, fading indicates that the information beyond what is drawn is present but not visualized, either because unimportant, or because uncertain. However, the former is applied to elements that are fixed and always present in all examples of the visualization, whereas the latter is applied to parts that vary from instance to instance. Therefore, confusing the two should not be an issue. 6.2.3.6. Accuracy and imprecision of measurements The Ligatus schema requires that only few measurements are taken from the books: the dimensions of the book, the board thickness, the position of each sewing station, and the measurement of the height of the page at the fold. However, in the diagrams, each line has to be given a certain length. Therefore, an educated guess has to be made for sections that had no direct measurement recorded during the survey. For example, the thickness of the bookblock is given by subtracting the thickness of the boards from the overall thickness of the book, and so forth. In other cases the aim was to keep the proportions between the components correct and meaningful, like the thickness of sewing supports and endband cores. In ad- dition, because of the principle exposed above of moving various components outward to keep them perceptually distinct, but at the same time grouped, some measurements are exaggerated, such as the gaps between endleaves or the board and the endband in greek-style bindings (see Figure 51). 172 Figure 51. Front view of the double-core greek-style endband of Vol. 2329.1633. Note the gap between the board and the endband, and the smaller one between the two sections of the endband. In the previous chapters we have seen that not all physical variables are psycho- logically perceived in the same way, and that small differences between values of physical variables that are not prägnant features are not usually noticed. Further- more, quantities are usually represented continuously in our minds as ratio values as opposed to absolute values. All this considered, and given the prototypical nature of this project’s diagrams, precise and accurate measurement representation is not necessary. In fact, high- lighting which measurements are not precise, would result in most lines being flagged as imprecise, making the diagrams cumbersome whilst adding information of little value to their power to communicate. The only cases in which imprecision is flagged is when measurements are sometimes given and other times not. This happens for the coverage of panels by part of stuck-on endbands. The schema here calls not for precise measurements, but for ratios of coverage in percentage values. It was decided to draw a diagram 173 even when the data provided was incomplete, by assuming, in such cases, a per- centage value of 100%. In order to distinguish between diagrams of books in which the percentage value was given and the others, imprecise stuck-on endband lengths are flagged by creating a halo around the lines in question (see Figure 52). Figure 52. Cross-section and front views of the stuck-on endband of Vol. 2215/1519. In the description the surveyor gave a NK value for the percentage of the coverage of the panel by part of the endband. A halo is a ‘perceptual distinction’ feature428 that does not change the shape onto which it is added, and that can be universally applied to graphics through an ad hoc series of SVG filters. The reduced contrast with the background makes the feature perceptually less salient, whilst the shape contour is left unaltered. Halo differs from blurring as the line onto which it is applied remains crisp. 6.2.3.7. Place-holders for uncertainty inherent in the visualization process One last category of uncertain visualization, as discussed in the previous chapter, is that of components that can be characterized by convoluted contours not con- stituting any particular function above that of decoration, or components with random and irregular outlines. These are examples of uncertainty that result from the visualization process: these components have been positively identified during the survey, but their translation into a visual language leads to uncertainty. These components are substituted in the diagrams by abstract symbolic shapes, acting 428. Ware 2013. 174 as place-holders for the component, but may not resemble what was described, apart from functional parts. Sketchy lines are used to flag this kind of highly abstract visualization. The skecthy lines are attained by applying a complex series of effects and filters to the SVG shape path.429 Figure 53, compares the diagram of a catchplate to a photograph of the same element found on the volume: all the functional elements are present, but the decorative outline of the metalwork is simplified in the diagram. Figure 53. Above view of the roller-round-bar catchplate for Vol. 183.97 (left). The shape of the catchplate could involve complex shapes and is therefore rendered with sketchy lines. Compare with an actual photograph (right) of the volume’s catchplate. One common feature of all of the visual effects discussed in the last few sections is that, purposefully, all follow a modular approach. Each act on a different V1 channel and is cumulative with the others. It would be in fact possible to have, for example, both a component drawn with sketchy lines because of the innate nature of its complex outline and blurred because of uncertainty. For example, patch spine linings are characterized by random and irregular outlines and are therefore drawn with sketchy lines. When a spine lining is described as being only on a selected number of panels, the lining has to be blurred as the schema does not indicate exactly on which panels it has been pasted (see Figure 54). This modular approach allows the system to be flexible and to always use the same set of visual cues for the same kind of message. 429. Thanks go to Dr Alejandro Giacometti for his help in the development of this SVG filter. 175 Figure 54. Example of a diagram that combines sketchy lines and blurring to indicate different kinds of uncertainty. Summary The Ligatus schema, at the basis of the dataset, exploits XML’s hierarchical nature to create a formalized hierarchical structure for the description of book- bindings. In turn, this project makes use of XML’s transferability of data to select and present information in graphic form through other XML technologies, namely XSLT and SVG. Structures described at the right level of abstraction and semantic entry point are capable of being translated into diagrams. This is true for most structures de- scribed within the Ligatus schema; the few exceptions will be highlighted in the following chapter. Data is presented in graphic form — accompanied by verbal labels — following, where possible, the typical conventions of shapes and views found in the literature. New graphic conventions are introduced to ensure correct communication of both material components and form, and to highlight uncertainty and imprecision. The next chapter will examine in detail the transformation of endleaf structures and introduce more generally all other transformations. A knowledge graph schema will be provided for each transformation. 176 Chapter 7. Transformations & analysis Yet this little body of thought, that lies before me in the shape of a book, has existed thousands of years [...] To a shape like this, so small yet so comprehensive, so slight yet so lasting, so insignificant yet so venerable, turns the mighty activity of Homer. Leigh Hunt, Among my books, 1823, p. 22. This chapter discusses the transformations based on the St. Catherine’s descrip- tion of bookbinding structures. In the previous chapter, the conventions used in all transformations were outlined. As an example, the transformation of endleaf structures is covered here followed by the knowledge graph schema430 and a gen- eral introduction for the rest of the binding structure transformations. Endleaves can be rather complex structures, but are also quite compact in their visualization, making this transformation an ideal example. Appendix C shows the complete set of coding for this transformation. The last part of the chapter considers the types of human error that exist in the dataset. Empirically, it seems that these errors could be easily identifiable once the erroneous encoding has been visualized. Implementing transformations as outlined in this dissertation can improve data accuracy. 430. See §6.2.1. 177 7.1. A complete visualization example: endleaves As seen in the previous chapter, endleaves are found at the front and back of a bookblock. There are two main types of endleaves — separate and integral — and these types can be combined. There are normally two sets of endleaves and the endleaf structures at either end of the bookblock are not necessarily identical. Any part or parts of the endleaf components can be pasted to the inside of a cover or to the boards after the book is covered. These are referred to as pastedowns. The fact that part of an endleaf is used as a pastedown does not alter its identification within an endleaf format, it is simply an additional function added to that binding component.431 From one description, one can then distinguish between a structure visualization that shows the endleaf format regardless of which parts were used as pastedowns and a use visualization showing how the particular endleaf format was used in the binding. 7.1.1. Visual description framework Each endleaf visualization is drawn as a cross-section comprising two main parts: the two outermost gatherings as reference elements, and the actual endleaves developing from or on top of the outermost gathering. Figure 57 reproduces the knowledge graph schema for the endleaf diagrams.432 Note that the only differences between the structure and use visualizations are the special case of pastedowns. The descripion path reaches the pastedown level only in use visualizations. 431. Ligatus 2013. 432. As covered in §6.2.1, graph schemas are a graphical representation of the information in- volved in each bookbinding structure description and transformation. At a glance the reader can appreciate the complexity of a description/transformation, and graph schemas can also be followed, step by step, each node adding a new piece of information, each choice branching in parallel in- formation paths. Graph schemas, in fact, present all the information needed for a description/trans- formation in one page (or series of related pages for very complex structures). 178 Figure 55. Example of endleaf diagram for Vol. 2200.1504: left endleaves, use visualization Left (use) Left (structure) Right (use) Right (structure) Figure 56. Complete set of endleaf diagrams for Vol. 2200.1504. 179 Figure 57. Graph schema for endleaf diagrams (see §6.2.1 for an explanation on how to read graph schemas and their meaning). 180 7.1.2. Shapes: standard endleaf components Endleaf structures are drawn diagrammatically in cross-section and in relation to the outermost gatherings.433 Endleaf diagrams are composed of three main sets of elements: (i) the reference elements (i.e. two outermost gatherings), (ii) the endleaves, and (iii) their attach- ment modality. 7.1.2.1. Reference elements A single outermost gathering as reference element would suffice for the great majority of endleaf structures. However, for consistency sake, and to accommodate for the rare case of two gatherings sewn through the fold inside a single text-hook endleaf,434 two reference elements are drawn for all visualizations. Since these are reference elements, they are, as per convention, drawn as greyed out so to be visually less prominent. However, in the case of integral endleaves, the last gathering is not greyed out. In the case of separate endleaves of the text- hook type, the gathering is shortened to accommodate for the extra leaves around it. However, the shape is not fully parametrical, i.e. it does not become shorter and shorter depending on the number of text-hook components, as it is the case for the endleaf components. This is to keep the element graphically distinct in its appearance and its spatial relationships with the other endleaf components: the gathering is shortened to accommodate for text-hook components, which are set outwards from it, as they usually do in respect to any reference element. Their shape is closed at the fore-edge to keep them graphically distinct from the endleaves, which are instead open at the fore-edge. This graphic convention helps to distinguish textblock gatherings from the endleaves. In the case of integral endleaves, they are drawn as emerging from the outermost gathering, and kept separate at the fore-edge (see Figure 58). 433. This projects follow here and is indebted to the convention established by Pickwoad for the survey of the volumes of the library of St. Catherine’s Monastery (Pickwoad & Gullick 2004). 434. Ligatus 2013. 181 Figure 58. Example of integral endleaves (Vol. 235.114). 7.1.2.2. Endleaf components The graphic representation of all endleaf structures can be thought of as being composed of a very limited set of standard components. For separate endleaves, five basic components can be identified: (i) a fold; (ii) a hook — be this separate from or wrapped around the outermost gathering/s; (iii) an outside hook; (iv) a guard; (v) a single leaf. Hooks can be doubled, i.e. they can be formed by a bifo- lium folded around to form the hook. Integral endleaves (see Figure 58) are obvi- ously limited to one basic shape: a leaf emerging from the outermost gathering.435 fold hook outside hook guard single leaf Figure 59. The five basic components of separate endleaves (after Pickwoad & Gullick 2004). 7.1.2.2.1. Pastedowns in use visualizations Each of the basic components could be pasted to the cover or boards as pastedowns. In these cases, in the use visualizations, they are drawn open as if the 435. Pickwoad & Gullick 2004. 182 Figure 60. Examples of schematic endleaf diagrams in the literature ([a-c] Szirmai 1999, fig. 8.4[a,c,g], p. 147; [d-f] Carvin 1988, p. 34[0A,0B,1A] — the legend has been translated from the original French). cover or board onto which they are pasted were open at 180°,436 also, a patterned area is added under the pastedown symbolizing the adhesive (see Figures 55 and 56). This convention makes the need to draw the board redundant, leading to less cluttered diagrams; also, opening the endleaves at 180° makes the diagrams more easily comparable and separates more clearly pastedowns from flyleaves (i.e. endleaves that have not been pasted down). Let us compare, for example, this convention with those followed by other authors in the literature (Figure 60). Both Szirmai437 and Carvin438 make use of the board as reference element in their drawings and depict the structure as open at 45° or 90°. In particular, Carvin (Figure 60[d-f]) draws the board as flat, the outermost gathering — or the first gathering as he refers to it — straight up forming a 90° angle with the board, the flyleaves open roughly at a 45° angle, and the pastedowns obviously flat and ad- hered to the board. Szirmai (Figure 60[a-c]) instead draws the board open at 45°, 436. Pickwoad & Gullick 2004. 437. Szirmai 1999. 438. Carvin 1988. 183 the pastedown adhering to the board, the gathering flat, and the flyleaves either flat or at an acute angle with the gathering. The convention chosen for this project allows producing less cluttered visualiz- ations. These visualizations are also more flexible as the convention permits to draw complex structures without affecting the overall appearance of the diagram. If one were to visualize complex structures following Szirmai’s or Carvin’s diagrams, one would have to squeeze these between the outemost gathering and the board that is fixed at 45° or 90°. Whereas, not having a fixed element apart from the outermost gatherings, allows expanding without limit the visualization, and to accommodate multiple endleaf units without having to compress these in a fixed space. See for example Figure 65. 7.1.2.3. Attachment modalities In separate endleaves, each component is attached to the bookblock by means of an attachment modality: glued or sewn. 7.1.2.3.1. Sewn Figure 61. Example of endleaf diagram with sewing thread convention (Middleton 1996, fig. 26, p. 43). When a component is described as sewn, a short line is drawn from the centre of the unit towards the spine. This symbolizes the thread piercing the endleaves and going out towards the spine through the fold.439 The same convention can be observed in Middleton’s example in Figure 61. Note the different convention 439. Pickwoad & Gullick 2004. 184 followed by Szirmai in Figure 60).[a-c] instead, where a single dot at the centre of the fold is drawn to symbolize the presence of the sewing thread. This is taken as representing a cross-section of the thread. However, the convention of drawing the line through the fold represents both the presence of the sewing thread and the action of the thread that keeps the components together — both physically and here visually — by crossing them all at the fold. 7.1.2.3.2. Glued When components are described as glued, a patterned area is drawn towards the outermost gathering symbolizing the adhesive (see Figures 62 and 63). A similar convention is followed by Middleton in Figure 61). Figure 62. Example of glued component (Vol. 195). Figure 63. Example of glued components (Vol. 1332.781). 7.1.2.4. Component material In the dataset, each component can be made of either paper or parchment. These two materials are differentiated in the diagrams by use of a thicker line for parchment components, to help identify and recognize similar structures (see Figure 64). 185 Figure 64. Example of endleaf structure with internal parchment guard (Vol. 1644/1080). 7.1.2.5. Spatial arrangement As customary, the elements in the diagrams are kept distinct and spatially sep- arated. This convention was discussed in more detail in the previous chapter (§6.2.3.3). 7.1.3. Shapes: different types of endleaves Figure 65. Example of a complex endleaf structure with both integral (one leaf) and separate (two units) endleaves (Vol. 4725.3162). 7.1.3.1. Integral endleaves Integral endleaves are characterized by the number of leaves that are left blank and used as endleaves. The only additional piece of information is whether a blank sheet is used as pastedown or not. Material and attachment modalities do not need to be specified, as they would obviously be the same as those of the gathering to which they belong. Examples of integral endleaves can be seen in Figures 58, 65, and 66. 186 Figure 66. Example of integral four endleaves with one pastedown (Vol. 26.4β). 7.1.3.2. Separate endleaves Separate endleaf components are differentiated into six different types: single leaf, fold, endleaf hook, text hook, outside hook, and guard. All components, apart from single leaves, are parametrically drawn to accommodate for any other component they wrap around to form a unit. 7.1.3.2.1. Single leaf Figure 67. Example of single leaf unit (Vol. 2355.1658). Figure 68. Example of separate pastedown (Vol. 1651.1083). A single leaf component is, as the name suggests, a single sheet pasted to the bookblock (tipped leaf) or to the inside of a board or cover (separate pastedown), which is not conjugate with any component in the adjacent endleaf unit. When this constitutes a separate pastedown, it leaves an open joint, i.e. a gap between the pastedown and the bookblock.440 440. Ligatus 2013. 187 The graphic representation of single leaves is always limited to its standard shape (see Figure 59). The only parametrical element to their graphic representa- tion within the diagrams is their spatial positioning. 7.1.3.2.2. Fold A fold component is characterized by a bifolium (two complete leaves). Fold components can be used singly (Figure 56) or in multiples (Figure 69). Each path is split in two halves to allow more granularity with drawing uncertainty. For ex- ample, uncertainty regarding pastedowns makes only the upper half blurred. Figure 69. Example of fold components (Vol. 227.107). 7.1.3.2.3. Hooks Hooks are formed by a single leaf or bifolium of sheet material (double hooks) folded along the spine edge to create a stub on the side of the leaf towards the textblock. Hooks may be used in combination with other endleaf components (endleaf hook) or folded around the outermost text gathering at either end of a texblock (text hook).441 7.1.3.2.3.1. Endleaf hook Endleaf hooks are used alone, in multiples, or as a component within an endleaf unit, but are not folded around the adjacent outermost text gathering.442 441. Ligatus 2013. 442. Ligatus 2013. 188 Figure 70. Example of endleaf-hook components (Vol. 2751.1991). 7.1.3.2.3.2. Text hook Text hooks are similar to endleaf-hooks but they are folded around the outer- most gathering/s at either end of a bookblock. Very occasionally, two gatherings may be sewn through the fold of a single text-hook endleaf.443 Figure 71. Example of text-hook component (Vol. 103). 7.1.3.2.4. Outside hook Outside hooks are formed in the same way as the other hooks, but the stub they create lies on the outside of the leaf, away from the textblock. Outside hooks can be found used on their own, in multiples or as one of several components within a single endleaf unit.444 443. Ligatus 2013. 444. Ligatus 2013. 189 Figure 72. Example of outside-hook component in conjunction with text hooks (Vol. 2177.1482). Note the blurring of the conjoined portion of the double hook. Also, note the blurring of the outside-hook full leaf (see page 194). 7.1.3.2.5. Guard Guards are narrow strips of sheet material folded lengthways to create two stubs (usually of unequal width, with the wider stub to the outside of the bookblock) and sewn through the fold.445 See Figures 64 and 73. Figure 73. Example of guard (Vol. 3893.2742β). 7.1.4. Visualization problems The endleaf transformation poses, two main kinds of problems. First, the schema used for the dataset is not always able to convey all the information that would be needed for an accurate visualization: either it lacks some descriptive properties, or it cannot fully deliver the form of the structure, the relationships amongst the elements and their spatial arrangement. Second, comparing the descriptions in 445. Ligatus 2013. 190 the database with the hand drawings of the endleaf structures in the survey forms, one can notice a somewhat poor understanding of the description conventions set by the schema — or their inconsistent application — by part of the surveyors. These problems are investigated in the fellowing sections. 7.1.4.1. Schema limitations There are two main kinds of limitations in the schema: some are due to the prescribed structure of the description, whilst others are linked to it not encom- passing all organizational possibilities. A first problem is found in the way in which integral endleaves are described. The schema requires the number of integral endleaves in the gathering and whether they have been used as pastedowns. The surveyor can thus only state that at least one of the leaves had been pasted down. In the automated drawings, the algorithm always interprets that only the outermost leaf is used as a pastedown, which is arguably the most probable case. However, the hand drawing done for Vol. 5577.3706a/3706a1 (Figure 74) shows that both leaves had been pasted down, but the survey form did not allow for this. The schema should instead allow the indication of exactly which leaves are pastedowns. Figure 74. Hand drawing for the right endleaves of Vol. 5577.3706a/3706a1 made during the survey in 2007. 191 Figure 75. Generated drawing for the right endleaves of Vol. 5577.3706a/3706a1. Attachment modalities are mutually exclusive — either sewn or glued — which arguably covers the great majority of cases. However, there are examples in the dataset where a component is both glued and sewn. The surveyor had to choose one or the other modality, or add a composite modality for both sewn and glued. There are 38 examples of the latter option.446 These can be identified through a simple search within the database. However, to accommodate for inconsistencies in the use of the form one has to visually inspect the hand drawings in the survey forms. Compare for example the drawing in Figure 73 and its hand-drawn version in Figure 76. Figure 76. Hand drawing for the left endleaves of Vol. 3893.2742β: note how the guard is drawn as both sewn and glued. 446. 2172.1477: ‘sewn and glued’, 2172.1477: ‘sewn and glued’, 2273/1582α: ‘sewn and tipped’, 2360/1663: ‘glued and possibly also sewn’, 2360/1663: ‘glued and possibly also sewn’, 2388/1691: ‘sewn and glued’, 2388/1691: ‘sewn and glued’, 2424/1725: ‘sewn and glued’, 2424/1725: ‘sewn and glued’, 2424/1725: ‘sewn and glued’, 2424/1725: ‘sewn and glued’, 2515/1805α: ‘sewn and glued’, 2530.1819: ‘glued and sewn’, 2542/1830: ‘sewn and tipped’, 2542/1830: ‘sewn and tipped’, 2567.1853: ‘sewn and glued’, 2598.1879: ‘glued and sewn’, 2878/2096: ‘sewn and tipped to text quire’, 2938.2149: ‘sewn and glued’, 2938.2149: ‘sewn and glued’, 30: ‘sewn and tipped to text block’, 30: ‘sewn and tipped to text block’, 3881.2736: ‘sewn and glued’, 3892.2742α: ‘glued and sewn’, 3892.2742α: ‘glued and sewn’, 4051.2825: ‘sewn and glued’, 4051.2825: ‘sewn and glued’, 4596.3071c: ‘sewn and glued’, 4596.3071c: ‘sewn and glued’, 4598: ‘sewn and glued’, 5227.3471a: ‘sewn and glued’, 5227.3471a: ‘sewn and glued’, 527.268β: ‘sewn and glued’, 53.13ζ, 14ζ: ‘sewn and glued’, 53.13ζ, 14ζ: ‘sewn and glued’, 550.278α: ‘sewn and glued’, 64.31: ‘it is glued to text leaves, then sewn as part of the last quire’, 64.31: ‘it is glued to text leaves, then sewn as part of the last quire’. 192 Figure 77. Automated drawing of Vol. 3893.2742β with guard component set as glued. When a component is described as being glued, the schema lacks the ability to indicate exactly to what the component is pasted. The assumption made in the algorithm is that it is so to the following component or to the outermost gathering. However, looking at the hand drawing in Figure 76, had the guard been described as glued, still the automated drawing would have failed to accurately represent the described structure, as the guard was actually pasted to both leaves of the preceding component (see Figure 77). This leads to another common problem: when single leaf components are also pastedowns, the surveyors have often indic- ated the component as being glued. Looking at the hand drawings it is clear that they meant ‘adhered to the board as pastedown’. Because a single leaf would not extend to the bookblock across the joint, the attachment glued option is essentially ignored for separate pastedowns. However, in case of unclear structures, where a component is described as not known, not checked, or other, and its visual rep- resentation is a separate pastedown that is faded off towards the fold, the glued pattern is blurred and drawn towards the following component or the text gath- ering. Compare Figure 79 and its corresponding hand drawing (Figure 78). Figure 78. Hand drawing for the left endleaves of Vol. 1648.1082β. 193 Figure 79. Diagram for left endleaves of Vol. 1648.1082β with uncertain structure and ‘glued’ attachment modality. Double hooks can be made either from two separate pieces of paper or a single piece folded twice to create a folded stub out of a conjoined bifolium, but no in- formation is given in the schema in this regard. In the diagrams the conjoined portion of the path is always drawn and made uncertain (see Figures 72 and 80). Figure 80. Detail of right endleaves of Vol. 2177.1482 (see Figure 72 for the whole dia- gram) with uncertainty regarding the conjoined leaves of the double hook. Whilst outside hooks, like the other hooks, and guards can be doubled, the schema does not allow this option. In theory then, these should always be drawn as uncertain, but this would overshadow any other uncertainty, and these were felt as more important than an inaccuracy caused by a schema limitation. Another problem with outside hooks and guards is that the schema only gives the usual option to indicate that a component was used as a pastedown. Following the usual interpretation, the outer part of the component is drawn as a pastedown. However, there are frequent cases of Dutch endleaves whereby the full leaf has been pasted down, leaving the sewing inside the pastedown.447 To allow for this, the full leaf is then drawn as uncertain when the hook constitutes a unit on its own (see Figure 72). 447. Pickwoad & McKitterick 2013. 194 There are also cases in the dataset of guards in which both stabs have been pasted down, leaving the sewing inside. To allow for this, the lower stab is drawn as uncertain. Compare Figure 82 and its corresponding hand drawing (Figure 81). A similar problem can be observed for endleaf hooks entirely used as pastedowns (see Figure 84 and its corresponding hand drawing in Figure 83). Figure 81. Hand drawing for the left endleaves of Vol. 1628.1067. Figure 82. Wrong diagram of left endleaves of Vol. 1628.1067. Note the blurring of the bottom half of the guard and the rogue ‘glued’ pattern for the uncertain unit. Figure 83. Hand drawing for the left endleaves of Vol. 5400. 3570. Figure 84. Wrong diagram of left endleaves of Vol. 5400. 3570. Compare with hand drawing in Figure 83. 195 The schema does not distinguish between endleaf guards and text guards (see Figures 85 and 86). Therefore, they are always drawn as endleaf guards, the most common option. Once again, in theory, guards should then always be drawn as uncertain, at the cost of overshadowing any other uncertainty. As in the case of double outside hooks and guards, it was felt that allowing for the visualization of other uncertainties would be more important than an inaccuracies caused by the current schema’s limitations. Figure 85. Hand drawing for the left endleaves of Vol. 2529.1818. Figure 86. Wrong diagram of left endleaves of Vol. 2529.1818. Compare with hand drawing in Figure 85: the lack of a text guard option makes it impossible for this kind of structure to be automatically generated. 7.1.4.2. Schema misinterpretations If the endleaf structure being described was formed by more than one unit and component, the surveyor was instructed to describe and number them counting from the outside towards the textblock at each end. This was the usual convention that had also been used in the paper forms for the manuscript survey. However, this convention was not consistently followed. In some cases, the surveyor opted to describe the structure starting from the textblock outward.448 See for example the order of the component numbering in Figure 87. 448. Pickwoad & Gullick 2004. 196 Figure 87. Hand drawings for the endleaves of Vol. 5365.3471d. Note the order of the component numbering. The elements of the structures being described are all there, but the inconsist- encies in their order, can create problems in the interpretation of their spatial ar- rangement. Whilst a wrong order of components does not usually create problems because of the symmetry of the components’ shape, a wrong unit order leads to nonsensical diagrams. See for example the transformations for volume 5365.3471d in Figures 88 and 89, and compare them with the hand drawings in Figure 87. See also how a source XML file in which the order was corrected to be consistent with the schema numbering convention generates a diagram resembling the inten- ded endleaf structure (Figure 90). Figure 88. Diagram of left endleaves of Vol. 5365.3471d. Compare with the hand drawing in Figure 87: whilst the order of the components in the description was technically wrong, the symmetry of the components’ shape makes the order irrelevant. 197 Figure 89. Diagram of right endleaves of Vol. 5365.3471d. Compare with the hand drawing in Figure 87: the wrong order of the various units in the description leads inev- itably to a nonsensical diagram with a pastedown in the innermost unit and a series of other units that technically would have had to be sewn through the pastedown. Figure 90. Diagram of right endleaves of Vol. 5365.3471d, automatically generated after the order of the units in the source XML file was corrected to be consistent with the schema numbering convention. Compare again with the hand drawing in Figure 87 and how the diagram now resembles the intended endleaf structure. Sometimes, the surveyor did not encode the structures properly. According to the schema, an endleaf structure can be of two types — integral or separate — but then, different groupings of separate endleaves should constitute a series of units encoded within the same type of endleaves. Listing 2 shows an XML record that did not follow the prescribed pattern of description: here the endleaf structure has been described as being composed of three types of endleaves, two of which are separate and composed of one unit each. Listing 3 shows what the correct encoding should have been; note also the corrected order of the units. Figure 91 shows the hand drawing for these endleaves, and Figure 65 shows the diagram 198 generated by the correct XML file. Admittedly, this kind of problem can be avoided through data validation. Figure 91. Hand drawings for the right endleaves of Vol. 4725.3162. Figure 92. Visual output of incorrect description for the right endleaves of Vol. 4725.3162. Figure 93. Correct diagram for the right endleaves of Vol. 4725.3162. 199 <endleaves> ... <right> <yes> ... <type> <integral> <numberOfLeaves>1</numberOfLeaves> ... </integral> </type> <type> <separate> <units> <unit> <number>1</number> <components> <component> <number>1</number> ... </component> <component> <number>2</number> ... </component> </components> ... </unit> </units> </separate> </type> <type> <separate> <units> <unit> <number>1</number> <components> <component> <number>1</number> ... </component> </components> ... </unit> </units> </separate> </type> ... </yes> </right> </endleaves> Listing 2. Snippet of XML description for the right endleaves of Vol. 4725.3162. Note the third instance of the type element. Three dots indicate elision in the code. 200 <endleaves> ... <right> <yes> ... <type> <integral> ... </integral> </type> <type> <separate> <units> <unit> <number>1</number> <components> <component> <number>1</number> ... </component> </components> ... </unit> <unit> <number>1</number> <components> <component> <number>1</number> ... </component> <component> <number>2</number> ... </component> </components> ... </unit> </units> </separate> </type> ... </yes> </right> </endleaves> Listing 3. Corrected XML snippet description for the right endleaves of Vol. 4725.3162. Three dots indicate elision in the code. The third instance of type element has been re- moved, and the data has been reintegrated within the separate endleaf type, encoding it correctly as a second unit. 201 7.2. The set of transformations Following the detailed description of the endleaves transformation, this section briefly describes the transformations of other parts of the schema. The complete set of shapes are shown in Appendix B. Each part of the binding structure has a separate intersemiotic translation, and each transformation is independent from the others. This is important, because, in a future practical application of this work, it would be desirable to run the transformation algorithms during the surveying process, as each part of the structure is being described. There are some cases where information present in the description of some other part of the binding is necessary for an accurate visualization. In the knowledge graph schemas reported here below, these nodes are clearly identifiable as ‘additional information’ and are greyed out. In a future application, this information might be called in as extra parameters to input for the visualization process if not already described elsewhere. 7.2.1. Markers: page markers, board markers, bookmarks The schema allows describing three kinds of markers: page markers, board markers, and bookmarks. Page markers are those tabs attached to the edges of leaves in a book to indicate important places in the text. Board markers, as anti- cipated in the previous chapter, are lengths of animal skin pasted to the inside of the board, projecting from the edge and most probably used as bookmarks. A bookmark is a device used to mark temporarily particular leaves or passages of a book; its formation can range from simple lengths of thread or textile ribbon to multiple elements attached to bars or disks fixed to an endband.449 These are rather simple visualizations, as there is only a limited number of parameters to be taken into account. The elements to be drawn are discrete and, for the most part, can be drawn once, called when needed, and then spatially ar- ranged on the plane according to the different visualizations needs. It is helpful 449. Ligatus 2013. 202 Figure 94. Example of pagemarker diagram for Vol. 26.4β. Figure 95. Example of boardmarker diagram. No examples of boardmarkers were recorded in the dataset. 203 Figure 96. Graph schema for pagemarker diagrams. 204 Figure 97. Graph schema for boardmarker diagrams. 205 Figure 98. Example of bookmarker diagram for Vol. 232.112. 206 Figure 99. Graph schema for bookmark diagrams. 207 to note how this approach follows to the letter the need for a one-to-one relation- ship between verbal labels and graphics. This approach works sufficiently well, when the element being described is only one, and the description only adds details on its position in relation to a fixed series of accompanying or reference elements. This was the case for page markers (see Figure 94) and board markers (see Figure 95). However, when it comes to more complex structures, as are bookmarks (see Figure 95), the maintenance of the code becomes problematic. Because in this approach, the only parameters are the coordinates of each component, changing the graphic output of one component means also having to re-arrange spatially all of the possible components that can be drawn with it. Whereas, by drawing the components algorithmically, these problems can be avoided. It is indeed simpler to write algorithms that work by calling a pre-drawn component, however, due to the difficulties encountered in the maintenance of the code, this approach was for the most part abandoned for the rest of the visualizations. 7.2.2. Sewing Sewing indicates the process through which the sections or leaves of a book are secured by means of thread, thus forming a consecutive and permanent unit.450 The basic description element of each sewing is the sewing station, i.e. the indi- vidual structural point on the spine-fold used in the creation of the book struc- ture.451 Each sewing structure is described as a series of sewing stations with a set of specific characteristics. As the sewing develops from station to station, so does the visualization. Books can be sewn and re-sewn various times, and usually this means that multiple sets of sewing stations can be observed. For each sewing station described, the surveyor is asked to specify whether the station is used by the current sewing, or whether is was used in a previous or earlier sewing structure. Typically, only stations of the current sewing can be described in detail, whilst for stations 450. Roberts & Etherington 1982/1994. 451. Ligatus 2013. 208 Figure 100. Examples of sewing diagrams in the literature ([a] Szirmai 1999, fig. 3.2, p. 34; [b] Szirmai 1999, fig. 2.3[d], p. 21 — note the visualization of the distribution of the sewing thread lengths within the gatherings; [c] Szirmai 1996, fig. 1[c], p. 147; [d] Szirmai 1999, fig. 9.8[c], p. 188). 209 Figure 101. Example of sewing measurement diagram for Vol. 1671/1083β. Note the visualization of both current and previous sewing stations. 210 Figure 102. Graph schema for sewing measurement diagrams. belonging to the two other groups (previous and earlier sewings) one can generally only mention the position on the fold and the kind of holes observed. In the literature there are three main kinds of sewing structure visualizations: (i) simple diagrams only showing the position of the sewing stations, usually with their measurement (see Figure 100[a] and [b]); (ii) detailed diagrams showing the development of the sewing thread along the gatherings, around the sewing supports (when present), and from gathering to gathering (see Figure 100[c]); (iii) cross-section diagrams showing the path of the thread for a single gathering (see Figure 100[d]). Each kind of visualization has its purpose and is useful for different reasons. Simple diagrams like (i) for example can show the distribution of sewing stations along the spine of books and make it easier to compare similar distributions among different volumes, more than merely through numeric values of the measurements, as their relative position is more useful to identify patterns than absolute values. Examples (ii) and (iii) instead, are able to present the path of the thread, thus allowing for easier analysis and comparison between different sewing structures. As seen in Figure 100[a] and [b], the simpler diagrams with just the position of the sewing stations and their measurements can either show the sewing station distribution along one ideal gathering or on the full thickness of the volume. The two visualizations are similar in their scope, however, showing 211 the full thickness of the volume adds extra information on the appearance of the sewing pattern for the whole book. The diagrams here reflect these visualization conventions. There are two differ- ent kinds of diagrams: one only takes the measurements of the sewing stations and plots them on the diagrams of the spine of the book and fold of a gathering (see Figure 101); the other visualizes the path of the sewing thread as it develops across a gathering and through the spine (see Figure 104). Simpler diagrams showing the position of the sewing stations set against the full thickness of the volume indicate the distribution of the sewing thread lengths within the gatherings (see Figure 100[b]), and this is a rather important feature to visualize bypass sewing structures for example. However, the information contained in the schema at the time of the survey did not allow for such detailed visualizations, and bypass sewing structures are thus not visualizable. For similar reasons, the sketchy information regarding stitched and longstitch sewing structures leads to too many assumptions for a visualization to be possible at this stage of development of the schema. In the latter kind of diagrams, for those cases in which it is possible to visualize the sewing thread, sewing direction arrows denote the conventional sewing direc- tion depicted in the diagram. The direction of sewing — from the first to the last gathering, or the reverse — provides important clues on the spatio-temporal origin of the book. The sewing direction can be determined examining the sequence of chainstitches or kettlestitches, when these are clearly visible. However this inform- ation is not recorded in the St. Catherine’s schema. In the diagrams the sewing is drawn as going from the bottom gathering to the top (or meeting in the middle) as a standard option, which represents the common sewing direction from the first gathering to the last, with the head of the volume placed towards the left. Change-over station groups instead symbolically represent the passage of the thread from one gathering to the other. These are blurred areas connecting the thread paths in each gathering at the change-over station and take a verbal label to explain their meaning. The verbal label is necessary because of the arbitrarity and novelty of the convention. There are no similar conventions in the literature, but this was deemed necessary to avoid drawing an otherwise naturalistic but 212 Figure 103. Examples of change-over stations ([a] Szirmai 1999, fig. 7.16[b], p. 116; [b- c] Szirmai 1999, fig.2.1[e-f], p. 17). random shape. This decision was twofold: firstly it is usually very difficult to be able to determine the exact nature of the type of thread-link connecting the gatherings together without taking the sewing apart (Figure 103 shows different kinds of kettlestitch or change-over thread passages); secondly, in the Ligatus schema, because of the difficulty just mentioned, there is no information on the kind of link at the change-over station (apart from the fact that it is unsupported or that it is a kettlestitch). 7.2.3. Boards The wood, pasted paper, single- or multiple-ply sheets, or other material, used for the covers of bound books to protect the leaves. Boards are usually used in pairs and they never extend around the spine of the book.452 For an accurate visualization, the algorithm requires additional information, such as the shape of the joints in the spine, and checks whether the endband’s core attachment was described as sewn and recessed, indicating that a board with squares is cut down to the height of the bookblock to form an endband slip recess to sew the endband to the boards. This information is found in the descriptions of other parts of the binding, but are essential for an accurate visualization of the board. Each board is visualized in eight different views (head, tail, fore-edge, spine, inner surface, outer surface, and horizontal and vertical cross-sections) and its 452. Roberts & Etherington 1982/1994; Ligatus 2013. 213 Figure 104. Example of sewing measurement diagram for Vol. 452.221α. 214 Figure 105. Graph schema for sewing measurement diagrams. 215 shape is formed by a series of continuous lines, each defined by six different parameters (edge treatment type, bevel type, fore-edge and spine corner type, joint shape, and endband recess). These parameters dictate the shape of a specific part of the board. The line drawing for each of these board features depends on the shape of those contiguous to it. The one-to-one relationship between descrip- tion and graphic nodes is preserved, but the overall visual effect is that of one continuous shape onto which specific graphic sememes can be read in different areas of diverse magnitude. Back-cornering,453 for example, is indicated in the spine view as a single line across the thickness of the board, whereas, bevels can extend across the whole height of the board in fore-edge views. This is where, as mentioned in the literature and as described in the previous chapters, verbal and visual languages differ substantially. This is also one of the facts that make auto- mated intersemiotic translations a challenging process that may be automated, but that is not simply a matter of mechanically matching verbal labels with graphics and placing them on the plane. 7.2.4. Spine shape and lining The schema describes the shape of the spine of the bookblock in an approximate and categorized manner distinguishing between its degree of roundness (flat, slight round, round, heavy round) or the shape of its joints (flat, slight, quadrant, angled, square, acute). This allows inputting a record of the shape of the spine in the database, and to then be able, for example, to search for different values of roundness for bookblock spines.454 The spine lining is composed of one or a series of pieces of sheet material placed on the spine of the assembled bookblock as reinforcement, and either adhered to it or held in place without adhesive.455 There can be more than one lining, and 453. Back-cornering: the process of cutting away a small piece of the spine edge of a board at head and tail to relieve the strain on the joints of the book when the covers are opened (Roberts & Etherington 1982/1994). 454. Ligatus 2013. 455. Roberts & Etherington 1982/1994; Ligatus 2013. 216 Figure 106. Example of board diagram for Vol. 4689.3137 (left board). 217 Figure 107. Graph schema for board diagrams. 218 Figure 108. Example of spine shape diagram for Vol. 10.3ε. Figure 109. Graph schema for spine shape diagrams. 219 Figure 110. Example of spine lining diagram for Vol. 184.97α. 220 Figure 111. Graph schema for spine lining diagrams. 221 these can be of different types. A common example is that of the combination of transverse and panel linings: these would be described as two different linings at selected location in the schema. However, the location description is only indicative (the choices are all or selected) without a precise indication of which panels456 are covered by which lining. In this case the form of the structure is not preserved in the description as the schema fails to capture in its structure the logical form of the specific lining arrangement. As a result a visualization based of this schema will inevitably be inaccurate when different types of lining are combined. Usually, in the schema structure, a series of successive elements indicates and is interpreted as a spatial succession of those elements — i.e. different layers of spine lining, in this case. However, in such combined linings, the described elements happen to be at the same level, but in different positions, thus forming together one sole composed layer. This problem would not have occurred, if the location of the lining had been described in more absolute terms — i.e. panels 1 and 5 — or, less ideally, if a complex type transverse & panel had been introduced, defined for example as spine linings composed of transverse linings at head and tail and panel lining for the rest of the panels (a common feature). As it stands, there is no practical or immediate solution to this problem, apart from highlighting uncer- tainty or opting for one separate visualization for each spine lining, while still highlighting uncertainty. Because this combined transverse and panel lining was only recorded once in the dataset (Vol. 2609/1886) and because the problem was due to a schema limitation, the former solution was chosen, but further work would need to be done on both the algorithm and the description schema for a future application. Like in the case of board diagrams, both spine shape and spine lining diagrams (especially in cross-section view) are formed by a series of continuous lines defined by a number of parameters. The formation of each portion of the line is informed by a parameter, but depends in its final shape on the overall shape of the complete line. In these visualizations, the parametric line generation algorithm is rendered 456. The term panel indicates the area between two sewing supports or between the head of the spine and the top and bottom supports (Ligatus 2013). 222 more complicated by the presence of curved lines that need to be modified case by case preserving their integrity. 7.2.5. Endbands Endbands are cores sewn or pasted across the head and tail of a bookblock spine. When sewn (see Figure 112), these are attached to the bookblock by a primary sewing through the fold of the gatherings which loops around the core. When pasted (stuck-on endbands, see Figure 114), these are essentially transverse spine lining attached to the head and tail panels.457 Endbands are rather complex structures, but they can be described in their essence through a series of typological parameters. The schema describes sewn endbands according to the number and type of cores involved, the core attachment type, the sewing type, and the class of number of tiedowns (in every gathering, frequent, or infrequent). The drawback of this description-by-categories approach is that it does not allow the description of unusual endbands. On the other hand, the use of categorical descriptions permits to implement a highly symbolic visual- ization system. Chapter 6 discusses the symbolic nature of endband cross-section drawings. The same considerations can be extended to the rest of the views and elements for these visualization. For example, the schema does not indicate the exact number of gatherings in the bookblock,458 nor does it indicate which gath- erings are used for the primary endband sewing. As a consequence, in the diagrams, tiedowns are spaced evenly across the spine, in a variety of densities (every, fre- quent, infrequent). This symbolism communicates the sewing pattern, without necessarily indicating the exact positioning of the tiedowns. 457. Ligatus 2013. 458. As mentioned, it lacks any kind of collation formula or similar bookblock formation de- scription. 223 Figure 112. Example of sewn endband diagram for Vol. 4282.2966. 224 Figure 113. Graph schema for sewn endband diagrams. 225 Figure 114. Example of stuck-on endband diagram for Vol. 2236.1539. 226 Figure 115. Graph schema for sewn endband diagrams. 227 7.2.6. Coverings The term covering indicates those materials put over a book, with the effect of protecting it. The schema distinguishes between four main kinds of coverings (guard, drawn-on, case, and over-in-boards) indicating rather different constructions. The two more simple types, guard (see Figure 116) and drawn-on, are not further specified by other parameters. Case and over-in-boards covers (see Figures 118 and 120), instead, are further specified by means of a range of typologies and parameters. Because of the diversity in features and the wide range of options, the graph schema is presented here as divided in three related schemas: guard and drawn-on together, over-in-board, and case covering respectively (see Figures 117, 119, and 121). Amongst laced case structures, the schema proposes laced and tacketed bindings as a subtype. These are not further described by additional parameters and are defined as follows: ‘case-covers can be attached to a bookblock by both tackets and sewing support slips and/or endband slips.’459 The definition is generic and does not provide information on an exact typology of structure, describing parts and form. The term used is not at the basic level of abstraction, and, therefore, allows too much indeterminate information. Other structures are only described with a single term and no additional parameters — e.g. cover lining laced cases460 — but these terms describe an entity at the correct semantic level, thus allowing for it to be visualized. Once again, these transformations depend on additional information found in the description of other parts of the binding. In particular, the shape of the spine 459. Ligatus 2007. 460. ‘Cover lining: a laced-case cover with a cover lining consists of two pieces of sheet material, one inside the other, which originally were attached to a bookblock one after the other and not at the same time. The cover lining was the first to be attached, and was a piece of sheet material such as cartonnage or laminated sheets of paper cut to the height of the bookblock and endbands, folded around a bookblock and secured to it by lacing the sewing support slips through it. The second part of the cover, usually of parchment was folded round the cover lining, turned-in around its edges and secured by lacing the endband core slips through both parts of the cover at the head and tail of each joint. The result is a binding in which only the endband core slips and not the sewing support slips are visible on the outside of the cover, a fact which can make them externally resemble contemporary Italian limp laced-case bindings in which also only the endband core slips and not the sewing support slips are visible on the outside of the book. The cover lining is distin- guished from boards in that both sides are part a single continuous piece of material wrapped around the spine, as opposed to boards which must always be separate entities.’ (Ligatus 2007). 228 Figure 116. Example of guard covering diagram. No examples of guard or drawn-on coverings were recorded in the dataset. Figure 117. Graph schema for guard or drawn-on covering diagrams. 229 Figure 118. Example of over-in-board covering diagram for Vol. 3148.2285. 230 Figure 119. Graph schema for over-in-board covering diagrams. 231 Figure 120. Example of case covering diagram for Vol. 2269.1579. 232 Figure 121. Graph schema for case covering diagrams. 233 Figure 122. Example of furniture diagram for Vol. 3706.2677. 234 Figure 123. Graph schema for furniture diagrams. 235 for cross-section views, and the presence of protruding endbands. Also, the final visualization of each of the covering part depends on the shape of adjacent visual sememes. Note in Figure 118 the use of sketchy lines to signal uncertainty in the visualization of turn-in and cap turn-in shapes. 7.2.7. Furniture Furniture is the set of hardware that can be attached to a binding, usually with a protective, but also often decorative, function; this includes fastenings used to hold a book shut when not in use.461 As pointed out in the previous chapter, fur- niture include: (i) articulated metal spine, (ii) bosses, (iii) corners, (iv) full covers, (v) plates, (vi) ties, (vii) catchplates, (viii) clasps, (ix) pins, (x) straps, (xi) strap collars, (xii) and strap plates. Items vii to xii can be grouped as fastening parts. These are described in sufficient detail in the schema and their descriptions can be turned into useful visualizations. Items i to vi, instead, are only named by their generic name — e.g. boss or tie — leaving too much indeterminateness for the generation of meaningful visualizations. Note in Figure 122 the use of sketchy lines to signal uncertainty in the visualization of catchplate, clasp, and strap plate decorative shapes, preserving only their functional shape (compare with Figure 124). 461. Ligatus 2013. 236 Figure 124. Fastening photographs of Vol. 3706.2677 taken during the survey in 2007. 7.3. Dealing with erroneous data The resiliency of any system has to take into consideration human reliability and the effects of the human factor on the desired outcome and its accuracy.462 When inaccuracy is objectively determinable, it can be expressed as error.463 Errors are indicated by the fact that a planned sequence of activities fails to achieve the intended outcome, without intervention of external factors. Human errors can be broadly classified into three main categories: (i) skill-based errors or lapses linked to attention or selection failures; (ii) ruled-based mistakes, linked to the misapplication of rules; (iii) knowledge-based mistakes, linked to inaccurate or incomplete mental models.464 In electronic databases, the encoding schema at the base of their structure allows for immediate monitoring of data correctness and completeness during input.465 Data validation yields to a reduction in errors and acts as quality control. However, 462. Rouse & Rouse 1983. 463. MacEachren et al. 2005. 464. Reason 1990. 465. Mocean 2007. 237 not all mistakes can be impeded through careful database design, and those errors that do occur are not easy to identify through automated means. A schema can be highly prescriptive and as close to perfection as possible, but when implemented in a project and used by different people problems do occur. As shown through a selection of examples above, many mistakes in the dataset for this project are due to misinterpretations of the schema rules, for example problems in item numbering conventions for endleaf structures. In other cases, typologies were not understood and were used inconsistently. See for example the diagram of the spine shape for Vol. 5.2β in Figure 126. In the database its joints are described as slight, which leads to an odd looking diagram (see Figure 126[a]) However, by looking at the hand drawing for the spine shape (Figure 125), it becomes apparent that the surveyor did not describe the joints correctly, and that in fact, what it was meant was that the volume had quadrant joints. By changing the joint typology and regenerating the diagram the shape coincides with the hand drawing (Figure 126[b]). Figure 125. Spine shape hand drawing for Vol. 5.2β. or Figure 126. Spine shape diagram for Vol. 5.2β. [a] with slight joints; [b] with quadrant joints. 238 It became apparent, during the course of this project, that these types of errors that are difficult to detect automatically could, however, be identified and avoided, if the automated visualisations were to be implemented directly during the survey. As seen, data can be valid but meaningless. One could foresee the surveyor or a subsequent reader/editor going through the data in the database to check for its correctness, one element at the time, diachronically and in sequence. However, the information describing each binding structure is divided into a series of ele- ments and parameters, which can span multiple description levels. The amount of information needed to be kept in mind to visualise the data and analyse it syn- chronically is unmanageable as it exceeds the limited capacity of the human working memory.466 Mistakes, thus, easily slip through the control net and remain unchecked. During the development of the visualisation algorithms, at times, diagrams would show structures that are not possible in real life. Some of these problems were obviously coding problems in the algorithms that needed to be modified. However, others were the result of something rather different: the coding algorithm was functioning properly showing exactly what had been encoded in the XML binding descriptions, but the dataset contained errors, and these errors were translated into odd looking diagrams. 7.3.1. Error examples Let us consider some examples of errors found in the dataset. These can be divided into three main groups. As pointed out earlier, (i) there are cases in which the surveyor misinterpreted the description rules and conventions set by the schema, or else, (ii) typologies were not understood and were used inconsistently. In addition to these, (iii) there are obvious slips in which one option in a list was mistakenly chosen instead of the right one. Four examples of errors are reported below; for each example are provided the incorrect and the correct diagram and the hand drawing for the structure carried out during the survey. 466. Baddeley 2013. 239 Figure 127. Example 1. Error due to schema convention misinterpretation. Right endleaves for volume 4725.3162. Figure 128. Example 2. Error due to description convention misinterpretation. Right endleaves for volume 5365.3471d. Figure 129. Example 3. Error due to inaccurate encoding, possibly because of typology misinterpretation. Spine shape and spine lining for volume 5.2β. Figure 130. Example 4. Slip error during encoding. Right endleaves for volume 236.115. 240 In example 1 (Figure 127), as mentioned above, the surveyor did not encode the structure correctly. The correct diagram was generated by encoding the description appropriately – i.e. one integral endleaf and one group of separate endleaves constituted by two units. This kind of problem can be avoided through data val- idation by rendering the repetition of the same endleaf type within one structure invalid. In example 2 (Figure 128), the surveyor did not follow the component number- ing convention. A wrong unit order leads to nonsensical diagrams. Tweaking the data to follow the numbering convention generates a correct diagram. Examples 3 (Figure 129), shows a spine lining diagram for which the spine shape joint typology were inaccurately selected. This is possibly due to a misun- derstanding of the joint categories set by the description schema. In the dataset the joints are described as slight, which leads to an odd looking diagram. However, the hand drawing shows that the surveyor picked the wrong joint type. The dis- tinction between the various abstract joint types can be difficult to appreciate. The volume had, in fact, quadrant joints. By changing the joint typology and re- generating the diagram, the shape coincides with what had been drawn, and this eliminates the gap between the bookblock and the lining at the joints. Example 4 (Figure 130), shows an obvious slip in the selection of the endleaf component type. The XML description indicates the endleaf as a guard . However, the hand drawing clearly shows a fold type. Table 2 categorises the examples according to their cause and states whether they could have been avoided with effective data validation. Only example 1 was avoidable through validation routines. As discussed in chapter 5, data that is not ‘valid in the first sense’ — i.e. determined by the rules of its language — can be avoided through validation routines. Ambiguities due to human error that cause ‘invalidity in the second sense’ — i.e. determined by context — are, instead, not avoidable through data validation, and can only be checked against reality. For each example, the table shows whether it is not ‘valid in the first sense’ or ‘the second’. Examples 1, 2 and 3 are not ‘valid in the first sense’. Their invalidity is ruled (and identifiable) by the grammar of the schema (example 1, which makes it possible to validate this error through automated routines), and by the fact that 241 Validity sense ruled byValidity sense (I or II) Avoidable through data validation Error causeExample # schema & object formIYesschema convention misinterpretation 1 object formINodescr. convention misinterpretation 2 object formINoinaccurate encoding3 object contextIINoslip during encoding4 Table 2. Table showing the cause for each error example, whether it would be avoidable through effective data validation, whether it is invalid in the first or second sense and the language or context ruling its invalidity. the diagrams do not show a configuration that would be possible in real life. Ex- ample 4, instead, is not ‘valid in the second sense’ and its validity is therefore context related: what the diagram shows is possible, but not true. This thesis proposes the use of visual means to solve these validation problems. Diagrams, as visual communication systems, naturally offer information in a syn- chronic manner and could immediately highlight errors.467 The next section intro- duces how this could be possible. 7.3.2. The feedback loop In order to explain the value of diagrams as validation tools, it is important to discuss the communication cycle diagram introduced in chapter 1 (reproduced here in Figure 131). One could notice a feedback loop that connected the human observer back to the object that started the communication cycle. The concept of a communication feedback is a common feature in communication theories.468 467. Campagnolo 2014a. 468. Rothwell 2012. 242 Figure 131. Communication cycle for the project, highlighting the feedback loop between the human observer at the end of the cycle and the object being described and visualized at its beginning. In this project, there is an extra step between the coding of the information and its delivery, as this is re-coded by the computer into a visual message. The feedback loop in this particular communication cycle can then take on a different role and meaning. The feedback could in theory be connecting not a different person to which information about the object is being communicated, but the person who encoded the information in the first place. This was obviously not the case for the St. Catherine’s survey. However, it is possible to foresee a system that integrates the kind of automated transformations described in this research directly within the surveying process. In such a case, the feedback loop would be linking the observer with the object being described, and the observer would be receiving the same information that was input into the system, but in a different form. A form that being visual is more immediate and synchronic. Although it has not been possible to test the feedback loop exploitation in a large scale. All of the errors listed above — and many more — have been identified thanks to the automated diagrams. It would be, however, interesting to test the efficacy of such a system in a project and check whether the reliability of the human surveyor does indeed increase and how much does this affect the speed of the surveying process. It is likely that, had this system been in place for the 2007 survey, some of the mistakes registered in the dataset would not have occurred. The feedback loop would have acted as a proof of truthfulness against reality for the descriptions. 243 Let us say that p is the structure to be recorded and that, for any reason, non-p is instead input in the database. If non-p is allowed by the schema, the incorrect in- formation will not be captured by data validation and remain in the dataset. If, through an extra step, non-p is presented again to the encoder, it is probable that non-p would be corrected into p and the mistake would be amended. This system would not circumvent all kinds of errors. If an error is a knowledge- based mistake in the interpretation of the evidence the feedback to reality would probably still afford the same incorrect interpretation. However, based on the empirical experience accrued during this work, it would seem probable that most of the skill-based lapses and ruled-based mistakes presented here would be avoidable with the application of this system to the surveying process. Summary This chapter presented a detailed analysis of the transformation for endleaf structures. The rest of the other transformations have also been introduced. Some noteworthy mistakes and problems in the schema and the dataset have also been highlighted. Any system has to take into consideration the human factor, and the errors that are likely to make their way in the dataset because of it. Empirically, it seems that the implementation of a system like the one presented in this research that is able to take the data that has been recorded, and present it again to the surveyor in a different form, might lead to less erroneous data in the dataset. The following chapter draws from the thesis a series of methodological consid- erations for automated intersemiotic translations. 244 Chapter 8. Recommendations Und so verhält es sich in der Philosophie überhaupt: Das Einzel- ne erweist sich immer wieder als unwichtig, aber die Möglichkeit jedes Ein-zelnen gibt uns einen Aufschluss über das Wesen der Welt. And that is generally so in philosophy: again and again the indi- vidual case turns out to be unimportant, but the possibility of each individual case discloses something about the essence of the world.* Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus logico-philosophhicus, 1922. *translation by Pears & McGuinnes (1961). Before drawing the final conclusions of the thesis, this chapter discusses the transformation process, and considers the methodology for successful automated intersemiotic translations based on models of material objects. 8.1. Intersemiotic translations: methodological recommendations At the beginning of the project it was argued whether it would be possible to gather enough information for successful automated visualizations from a model of a material object, as opposed to produce a drawing interface for end-users based on semantic models for. From the analysis of the issues and considerations mentioned throughout this dissertation, it is now possible to advance a series of methodological recommend- 245 ations that should be followed in the design of systems for the automated interse- miotic translation and diagrammatic visualization of material objects based on models of. 8.1.1. Intersemiotic translation elements In intersemiotic transformations, there has to be a one-to-one relationship between the components of the verbal propositions and those of the visual pro- positions. Translation from one language into any another language is attained by trans- lating all components of the proposition a in language A into the components of a proposition b in language B. Each component in proposition a is represented by a sign, whose meaning is common to the sign that substitutes it in the propos- ition b. In this project, a proposition a is encoded verbally and is translated into a proposition b encoded graphically. It follows that each component in proposition a finds its counterpart in proposition b, i.e. for any element described verbally, something should be drawn. 8.1.2. Functional verbal descriptions For an automated intersemiotic translation system to be functional, the verbal information has to be structured. Structured descriptions can convey information on material components of material objects, and their form, maintaining a refer- ence to the logical form. This is achieved through: controlled vocabularies, the hierarchical organization of information, and the schema of the description. Amongst the different kinds of verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures, controlled vocabularies and structured descriptions have been found to be the strategies most successful at conveying the minimum information. 246 The selection of precise terms and definitions, even if not referring to atomic elements, makes them capable of conveying information on both the material components and the form of the element being described. However, the term should refer to the basic level of abstraction of the category that it describes, or else indeterminateness would render its use as reference point unsuitable for visualization purposes. In the St. Catherine’s schema there are examples of con- trolled vocabulary terms that fail to define their category at the basic level of ab- straction. Examples that have already been highlighted in the previous chapters are those used for furniture items other than fastenings — e.g. bosses and ties — or laced and tacketed case covers, as opposed to strap plates or strap collars and cover lining case covers. The elements defined within controlled vocabularies are prototypical examples of their categories, and, if used at the right semantic entry point level, they maintain a reference to the logical form of the elements described. The definitions convey information about their form and parts, and also, some- times, about their relative position in relation to other elements. Think, for ex- ample, of the definition of an endband’s crowing core: ‘a subsidiary core which sits on top of the main core’.469 Here, the definition provides relative spatial in- formation. This information is obviously domain specific. The technical vocabulary of classical architecture is extremely well developed in these respects.470 For a useful description, these defined elements, even if non-atomic, should still refer to smaller parts of the whole being described, or else, if not further described through other smaller elements of which they are composed, they risk being too general and indeterminate. In structured descriptions, each element is in hierarchical relationships with the others, and its position within the hierarchy can carry information in regards to its position in space in relation to the others. For example, the arrangement of various endleaf components can be placed spatially based on the hierarchical de- scription of the structure. Let us consider again the example in the previous chapter and reported here in Figure 132. In this case the item numbering conven- tion (from outside to the inside) was not followed. It was the incorrect hierarchy 469. Ligatus 2013. 470. Goulette 1999; Borillo & Goulette 2006. 247 caused by the erroneous encoding that produced an impossible diagram, and not the incorrect use of some components. In other words, in the description, the object’s components were all correct and present, but the way they had been en- coded — i.e. their place in the description hierarchy — resulted in an impossible diagram. Correcting the hierarchy yields a correct diagram. Behind the hierarchical structure of the descriptions lies the model of the in- formation to be gathered, and this model is encoded within a schema. The schema, acting like a recipe for a particular binding component, is the expression of the logical form of that component. Provided that the model behind the schema is well developed, complying with the schema, a structured description is capable of portraying any instance of the binding component. The schema guides the human user in describing an object in accordance with its model of. Following the schema, it is possible to algorithmically extract the relevant information from the descriptions, and transform this into a graphic representation. The transformation algorithms act as models for the generation of the diagrams. The algorithms can be compiled successfully in virtue of the schema — i.e. the model of the material object — acting as a reference to the lo- gical form of the object. Without this, as it was the case of natural language pro- cessing projects outlined in chapter 2, any sure link to the logical form of the object is lost, leading to indeterminateness, especially for spatial information. 8.1.3. The nature of sememes in diagrams In diagrams, the shape of each element depends on that of the adjacent units, sememes are interdependent, and gaps have to be avoided, as informational la- cunae are read as absence of phenomena, and not as missing data. Unlike verbal propositions, the units of images are seldom discreet and with clear boundaries. They can be generated in accordance to the one-to-one relation- ship with the elements of the verbal description, but their final shape will generally depend on that of the adjacent units. Working in a combinatorial way, element by element, the whole image text can be parametrically constructed. 248 Figure 132. Errors in the hierarchical arrangement of the elements result in wrong spatial relationships. Right endleaves for volume 5365.3471d. Diagrams, by a semiotic point view, are visual texts, whose sememes are woven together and are interdependent in relation to their meaning. This has important consequences for the generation of automated intersemiotic translations, as the generation of each visual sememe necessarily has to depend on the other sememes present in the current diagram, and on the overall visual text. In visualizations, one should not leave or form gaps of graphic information, or the risk is to alter the meaning, or to render the whole visualization meaningless. The plane on which visualizations develop is continuous as it can be infinitely subdivided. One can distinguish between signifying and non-signifying parts of the plane. It is difficult to disregard a part of the signifying plane, as zero signs are read as absence of phenomena, not as missing data. Since in visual texts, sememes are interdependent in their meaning, the absence of one part can alter the meaning of the other parts and of the whole proposition. 8.1.4. Prototypicality of information Words convey prototypical information. Visualizations derived from verbal de- scriptions are necessarily prototypical in nature. Visual percepts are recognized and labelled according to a clear-cut entity reference framework tending towards best (regular) examples. Prototypical representations do not convey the specificity 249 of an object. The prototypicality of visualizations is however not a shortcoming as this facilitates priming and memorization. Material objects are recognized as part of their category through reference to best example prototypes. Typically, these prototypical instances represent a par- ticular level of abstraction. It is at this level that one mostly interacts with objects, gives them labels and names. In addition, it is at this level that the parts which constitute objects are also identifiable through simple verbal labels. Thanks to this, at this level of abstraction it is possible to form a mental image that will re- semble the appearance of all the members of their category. Any automated translation of information conveyed through verbal labels will necessarily be prototypical. Prototypes are inclusive in nature, and specific only in regards to some funda- mental features of the category they represent. This leads to a certain level of in- determinateness as the specificity of an object cannot be portrayed through pro- totypical information alone. The human mind classifies shape percepts as instances within a categorical system in which only some features are perceptually funda- mental. Percepts are recognized and labelled according to a clear-cut entity refer- ence framework. Verbal descriptions, making use of these clear-cut verbal labels, lack therefore the ability to deliver the specificity, the precise appearance and shape of objects. When dealing with visual perceptions, perceived shapes are matched up with the prototypical mental images of their category. Prototypical visualizations, offer- ing surrogate stimuli, can be used as instruments of abstract visual reasoning. Mental representations of visual information possess structural and spatial char- acteristics. Every part of an object and its spatial relations are encoded in mental representations, and this information, which is not usually available to language- base thinking, is, however, readily available for thought processing. The prototypicality of visualizations is not a shortcoming as their standardized and essential appearance augments their immediacy and facilitates the comparison with other exemplars. In fact, it induces visual priming,471 as similar patterns 471. Priming: an implicit memory effect in which exposure to one stimulus influences a response to another stimulus (Ware 2013). See Appendix A. 250 between different visualizations remain similar, whilst only patterns that signal different information change. Priming allows comparing, identify differences, and remember similar images even if the information is not consciously perceived. 8.1.5. Graphic prototypes Diagrammatic representations can be generated from verbal descriptions, if the minimum information is conveyed through the process. Graphic prototypes do not need to be naturalistic drawings, but can be stripped down to their essence and schematized. This is true also if they are communicated through iconic signs. When presented as two-dimensional, patter recognition and comparison is facil- itated. In a communication process, information is conveyed through the cycle, from the sender/encoder of the message, to the receiver/decoder. In the specific case, one starts with the encoding of information regarding bookbinding structures by part of a human interpreter within a verbal description. Then, the information is parsed by an algorithm, which can transform it into a series of diagrams. At each stage of the chain, the minimum information has to be preserved for the automated diagram generation to be possible. Minimum information is information on the material components of the object described, its form, and a reference to its logical form. This reference to the logical form can in turn be used to inform the trans- formation algorithm design. A sign signifies its object only in virtue of certain features possessed by it (or its perception) as the result of a process of selective abstraction. A sign — even an iconic sign — can be generated through an abstraction and generalization process. Three-dimensional representations can make it harder to compare features between similar items as human pattern perception resources are for the most part devoted to planar information as opposed to depth, and shapes are distorted when presented in three dimensions on the plane. 251 8.1.6. Fixing the meaning of visual sememes In visual texts, the meaning of sememes can be fixed with the use of additional information in the form of reference elements and verbal labels. The natural tendency to polisemy of visual signs can be fixed through the integ- ration of verbal labels, visual information within the same diagram, and the pres- ence of graphic reference elements. These elements allow for correct reading of the information in beta modality, i.e. to access information other than just the immediate visual appearance of the signs. 8.1.7. Uncertainty For scholarly research, both uncertain data and uncertainty that is the result of the visualization process need to be flagged. Not highlighting what is uncertain within a visualization is to express complete conviction and absence of doubt. This would not be regarded as good practice in any scholarly research, and yet, often uncertain information is not appropriately flagged within visualizations. Within scholarly research projects visual information should convey uncertainty where needed. The visualization process should allow the recognition of what data is uncertain, and which parts are uncertain as the result of the visualization process itself. 8.2. Recommendations for the communication of bookbinding structures All of the considerations presented in this chapter are applicable to any mater- ial object and are not specific to bookbinding structures. However, considering that this project dealt with the application of these principles to the field of bookbinding studies, and considering the peculiarities of the field as presented 252 in chapter 4 — its lack of standards in particular — it is useful to draw some general conclusions here. As seen in chapters 4 and 5, unstructured verbal descriptions of bookbinding structures, which are unaccompanied by graphic representations, lack the ability to convey enough information for a reader to derive one and only one possible interpretation of what was described, i.e. they are under-specified and under-de- veloped, as these are not capable of successfully conveying the form of binding structures. Whilst the precise canon of rules of composition of classical architecture leads to the efficacy of its controlled vocabulary as a means of conveying also spatial information, there is no such canon for the composition on the elements of bookbinding structures. Structured descriptions coupled with a precise control vocabulary allow to overcome this problem, as, by offering information in an or- derly and prescribed manner, they provide a more complete representation of the logical form and its inherent possibility to indicate any form. Therefore, structured descriptions of bookbinding structures are capable of conveying the core pieces of information for their successful communication, and, in turn, the production of successful intersemiotic translations. In a similar manner, the lack of standards in the graphic representation of bookbinding structures can hinder communicability and comparative analysis between similar structures in different books recorded by different scholars. This problem can be overcome with the generation of graphic prototypes, i.e. exemplars which select only the minimum amount of information needed for successful communication of bookbinding structures. In addition to this, standardized graphic conventions allow the integration of uncertainty visualization within bookbinding diagrams, thus fostering scholarly transparency also within graphic representations, and not just within textual communication. The recommendations outlined throughout this thesis, and summarized in this chapter, allow better communicability and shareability of information on book- binding structures, both through verbal structured descriptions, and through standardized graphic representations. Even if the main purpose of this project was the evaluation of the possibility of automatically generating bookbinding structure diagrams from verbally encoded descriptions, the analysis of the descrip- 253 tion problems encountered in the course of the project is a useful example to follow to describe bookbinding structures in general, as successful intersemiotic translations need, in the first place, successful descriptive models. Szirmai472 correctly identifies the lack of a systematic vocabulary, terminological clarity, and a precise recording system as the main problems encountered when scholars attempt to describe bookbinding structures, and this inevitably hinders progress in the field. This research, on the one hand, provides a reference frame- work to develop efficient vocabulary and description systems applicable to bookbinding structures, and on the other offers guidelines for the standardization of graphic representations of bookbinding structures, with the inclusion of uncer- tainty in the data and in the visualizations. Summary Drawing from what exposed in the course of this thesis it has been possible to put together a series of methodological recommendations to take into consideration for a system attempting to perform intersemiotic translations of the kind described in this project. These consider the main steps of the visualization and communic- ation process. They consider which verbal description is best suited to convey the minimum information for successful visualization, the prototypicality of verbal and graphic information, the nature of the meaning bearing parts of visual lan- guages, the relationships between the elements in the two languages involved in the intersemiotic translation process, and the presence of uncertainty in the data and in the visualizations. The next chapter draws the final conclusion for the thesis and states the contri- butions that this project has made. 472. Szirmai 1999. 254 Chapter 9. Conclusions The pattern of the thing precedes the thing. Vladimir Nabokov, The Art of Fiction No. 40, The Paris Review #41, 1967. The novel contributions of this study include: • methodology recommendations for successful automated intersemiotic translations, • the production of transformations for the domain of bookbinding studies, • design recommendations for the generation of standardized automated prototypical drawings of bookbinding structures, • the application of uncertainty visualization to the field of the archaeology of the book. This project investigated the transformation of verbal information, which de- scribed material objects such as bookbinding structures, into visual representations as part of an automated process. Intersemiotic translations pose a number of issues, and practical considerations that have been described in the course of this thesis. The following sections will summarize the principal points covered and state what contributions were made during this project. 255 9.1. Successful automated intersemiotic translations This research posed a question about the kind of information needed for a successful visualization of bookbinding structures, or other material objects. The literature review did not highlight any previous work on the matter. It is now possible to identify this core information. A project that attempts a passage of information about material objects from verbal descriptions to graphic represent- ations should consider at first if these core pieces of information are available. This is a primary contribution of this research project. [C1.0] Transforming verbal descriptions to visual representations automatically is possible, if the following core pieces of information are available: 1 whole/part relationships: the verbal description conveys information about the material components of the object.473 2 spatial configuration of parts: the verbal description conveys information on the form of the object.474 3 rules of composition of the object: the verbal description maintains a refer- ence to the logical form of the object being described, and this information can inform the transformation algorithm design.475 4 prototypical shape: it is possible to generate a prototypical shape from verbal descriptions.476 Chapter 4 presented different types of description of historical bookbinding structures. All of these were able to enumerate and name all the relevant material components of the object being described, but most were not capable of commu- nicating its form successfully through strictly verbal means, i.e. the spatiality of the elements. This creates problems in subsequent readings and analysis. The re- 473. §3.4.1, §3.4.1.1, §4.2.1-4, §5.1, §5.1.1, §5.1.1.1-2, §5.1.2, §5.1.4, §6.2, §6.2.3.1, §7.2.6, §8.1.2, §8.1.5. The numbers indicate the sections within the text where these points have been described and argued. 474. §3.4.1, §3.4.1.1, §4.2.1-4, §5.1, §5.1.1, §5.1.1.1, §5.1.1.2, §5.1.2, §5.1.4, §6.2, §6.2.3.1, §7.1.4, §7.2.4, §7.2.6, §8.1.2, §8.1.5. 475. §3.4.1.2, §4.2.3-4, §5.1, §5.1.1, §5.1.1.1-2, §5.1.2-4, §7.2.4, §8.1.2, §8.1.5. 476. §3.3.1-2, §3.4.2, §3.4.2.1-4, §4.3, §4.3.1.2, §4.4.3, §5.1.1, §8.1.4. 256 lationship between a whole and its parts, and the configuration of the parts are all essential elements for the communication of the essence of an object. Structured descriptions coupled with controlled vocabularies are capable of overcoming these limitations of verbal communication. For a successful automated translation from verbal to visual descriptions of material objects, the capacity of conveying the form of objects is not in itself suf- ficient. One needs to be able to refer to the ‘recipe’ of that particular object, i.e. its logical form. Through this reference to the logical form, both kinds of propos- itions, verbal and graphic, adhere to the same model of the material object being described, and the automated intersemiotic translation can take place. Percepts are recognized and labelled as tending towards clear-cut entities. Verbal descriptions lack the ability to deliver the specificity, the precise appearance and shape, of objects. However, this labelling system allows the successful com- munication of general information about the visual aspects of reality. Labels at the basic level of abstraction allow a mental image to be formed that resembles the appearance of members of the class as a whole. When provided with labels at the correct level of abstraction it is possible to establish and draw a prototypical shape for objects and their components. Based on the analysis of the issues and considerations mentioned throughout this thesis, this work has advanced a series of methodological recommendations, laid out in chapter 8, that should be followed in the design of systems for the automated intersemiotic translation and diagrammatic visualization of material objects, and of historical bookbinding structures in particular. These methodolo- gical recommendations constitute another important contribution of this project. 9.1.1. Summary of the recommendations Automated intersemiotic translations require that information on both the material components of material objects, and their form may be verbally encoded. It is also necessary that a reference to the logical form of the material object is 257 maintained and that this is available for the compilation of the transformation al- gorithms. Structured descriptions and their schemas are capable of satisfying these requirements and can therefore be recommended as good and feasible examples of verbal descriptions. In designing the transformation algorithms, one should keep a one-to-one rela- tionship between verbal and graphic elements. It should also be noted that the shape of the elements to be drawn is likely to depend on that of the adjacent and concurrent elements within the visual text being generated. Care should be taken not to leave or form gaps of graphic information in the diagrams. The diagrams generated are necessarily prototypical in their design and shapes. This permits the standardization of the output diagrams, and subsequent ease of comparison between different exemplars. Prototypical shapes can be generated from verbal labels through a regularization and generalization process. The meaning of diagrams and their sememes can be fixed with the use of graphic reference elements and verbal labels. Uncertainties in the data and in the visualization have to be flagged through visual cues. These cues need to be applic- able without disturbing the perception and identification of the diagram shapes, and their connection with uncertainty should be easily interpreted. 9.2. Visualizations from models of [C2.0] It is possible to draw the minimum information for successful automated visualizations from models of a material object.477 In chapter 2, the possibility was advanced of being able to transform automat- ically information contained in models of an object into graphic representations. In the cultural heritage field, it has been customary to implement semantic mod- elling interfaces that are based on models specifically designed for the task. Also, often, these interfaces integrate direct acquisition data into the modelling process. 477. §2.1, §2.1.1, §2.2.3, §2.3, §8.1, §8.1.4. 258 These allow an artefact to be modelled without having to deal directly with geo- metric primitives such as lines and planes. From the experience accrued during this research project it is possible to con- clude that models of are suitable for the generation of prototypical diagrammatic visualizations. A model of approach cannot be regarded as a substitute for the customary models for if the desired outcome has to reflect in detail the specificity of an artefact. However, prototypical graphic representations, which can be gen- erated from models of, offer advantages when the desired outcome is to be com- pared between many instances of a class of artefacts: their prototypicality offer standardized and essential appearance, augments their immediacy, and facilitates the comparison with other exemplars by inducing visual priming. 9.3. Standardized automated drawings of bookbinding structures As seen in chapter 4, there is no standardized way of depicting bookbinding structures in drawings. This project has brought together a series of schematic depictions of bookbinding structures that, following common design principles, and being automated, are by nature uniform in their appearance. These design considerations are applicable to other material objects, but considering the lack of any standard in drawings within the field of the archaeology of the book, these are a particularly important contribution to this research area, and not just for automated drawings and their particular formation constraints. Following these guidelines, illustrations of bookbinding structures depict a selection of attributes that are of academic interest to the scholar or the conservator, while many details not considered relevant to the research are omitted, and they can facilitate com- parative analyses with other studies and structures, thus fostering communicability of information regarding bookbinding structures. 259 [C3.0] Bookbinding structures are efficiently represented by prototypical line drawings.478 Amongst the various types of drawings of bookbinding structures found in the literature, line drawings are able to convey the minimum required amount of in- formation, but are simple enough to be readily interpreted, understood, and re- membered. Also, as iconic signs, they do not need to be naturalistic. [C3.0.1] Two dimensional line drawings are sufficient for shape recognition as they are capable of capturing the essential shape and form of an object without the need for colour information. They can be used as iconic signs resulting from the abstraction of shape perception information 479 There are many perceptual characteristics possessed by objects, e.g. colour, texture, shading, etc. Amongst the various visual properties, shape is the most prominent for unambiguous identification. Figure-ground organization is achievable even if only the outline of the objects is preserved, and the visual in- formation is simplified and reduced to the bare minimum. Black and white planar line drawings are therefore sufficient for shape and pattern recognition and can be used as iconic signs resulting from the abstraction of shape perception inform- ation. As human pattern perception resources are for the most part devoted to planar information as opposed to depth, for easy of feature comparison two-di- mensional representations are to be preferred. [C3.1] Graphic prototypes of bookbinding structures can be generated as the result of the abstraction by simplification, regularization, symmetrization, and preservation of other prägnant features.480 Shapes are perceived visually as tending towards more regular shapes to which they are seen as similar or equivalent, and these more regular shapes, as seen in C4.1, are labelled for categorical organization. Shape prototypification is a process 478. §4.4.3, §6.2.3, §8.1.5. 479. §3.4.2.3, §5.2.3.4, §8.1.5. 480. §3.4.2.2-4, §8.1.5. 260 of simplification, regularization, symmetrization, and preservation of other prägnant features that are essential for the recognition and labelling of percepts. [C3.2] Graphic prototypes of bookbinding structures have to preserve and communicate their objects in a psychologically sound manner, taking into con- sideration the mental representation capacity of the end users.481 Psychologically, there are systematic differences between perceptual displays and their mental representations. Effective graphic representations should ensure that the content and form of the visualization correspond to those of the desired mental representation and that these are readily and correctly perceived and un- derstood. For this, to preserve and communicate in a psychologically sound manner the composition of the object represented along with its form, and the spatial relations amongst its material components, one may need to rely on exag- geration of some features and accurate but imprecise spatial relations, separating information into discernible visual groups. [C3.3] Graphic prototypes of bookbinding structures are mostly ruled by ratio difficilis: their generation needs both to follow those few conventions established in the literature, and to balance naturalism of shapes and symbolism. The shapes selected need to be consistent and need to avoid creating confusion with other shapes.482 Drawings of bookbinding structures have never been formalized, and their appearance tends more towards iconism than symbolism. For these reasons, these drawings are mostly ruled by ratio difficilis. As a consequence, one needs to follow what few conventions can be seen as established in the literature — if indeed these comply with the general design principles proposed here — as these, allowing some degree of ratio facilis, render the diagrams easier to remember and reproduce for the initiated. For diagrams, or parts of diagrams, that instead lack conventions, the shapes need to tend towards iconism, i.e. generated and presenting themselves 481. §3.4.2.4, §4.5, §5.2.3.2, §6.2.3.3, §8.1.5. 482. §3.1.2.2, §4.3.1.1-2, §6.2.3, §6.2.3.2. 261 in accordance with their own content. In any case, within the whole visualization system, shapes should be consistent, and care should be taken not to create con- fusion mixing symbolic and iconic shapes that end up looking similar but with substantial different meaning, e.g. symbolic square outlines for gathering pages and iconic square outlines (see Figure 19[c]). [C3.4] Each drawing needs to show only the minimum amount of information, at the most useful level of detail.483 Visualizations need to draw the part of the bookbinding structure that they represent showing only what is needed, thus not overwhelming the eye with irrel- evant information. For example, endband views do not need to show the whole book, but only the head or tail sections. 9.3.1. Summary of design principles Prototypical information on bookbinding structures can be successfully com- municated graphically through monochrome and bi-dimensional line drawings. Being prototypical, the shapes can be generated through a prototypification process that preserves those prägnant features that are essential for the recognition and labelling of the objects. Information should be presented in a psychologically sound manner: some features can therefore be exaggerated and kept separate, and each drawing should show the most significant level of detail. Whilst the lack of standardized symbolism means that drawings need to tend towards iconism, any appropriate convention should be followed, but the resulting shapes should be consistent and clearly identifiable. 483. §4.4.4, §4.5.1, §6.2.3. 262 9.4. Uncertainty visualization in bookbinding studies [C4.0] Uncertain data need to be flagged within visualizations of historical bookbinding structures for scholarly research.484 As noted, the field of the archaeology of the book is young, and still developing. Certain information is scarce, and often the interpretation of bookbinding struc- tures leaves significant space for educated guesswork and uncertainty. Nonetheless, nowhere in the literature, one finds cases of visualizations that show what inform- ation is certain, and what is instead a guess or completely uncertain. The problem of the visualization of uncertainty within drawings of historical bookbinding structures has never been addressed in a scholarly way, and this poses serious problems of interpretation when reviewing literature sources. The generation of the diagrams for this project posed many issues with uncertain data, and for the first time, uncertainty has been flagged within visualizations of historical bookbinding structures. The integration of a systematic way to show what information is uncertain within bookbinding structure diagrams constitutes another contribution to the field made by this project; a contribution that alone, if followed in future scholarly work, could represent a significant improvement and advancement for the discipline. [C4.1] Both uncertain data, and data that acquires uncertainty in its transform- ation to the visual need to be flagged within visualizations for scholarly research.485 Visualizations within scholarly research projects should convey uncertainty where needed. The visualization process should allow recognition of what data is uncertain, and which parts are uncertain as the result of the visualization process itself. [C4.2] Visual cues which are used to flag uncertainties within diagrams of ma- terial objects need:486 484. §5.3, §6.2.3.5-7, §8.1.7. 485. §5.3, §6.2.3.5-7, §8.1.7. 486. §5.3.2.2, §5.3.2.2.1, §6.2.3.5-7, §8.1.7. 263 • to be applicable without changing the overall shape of the object, • to avoid visual dimensions that have already been assigned other values — e.g. dotted lines, • to avoid triggering unwanted Gestalt laws because of the interplay of particular uncertainty encodings — e.g. changing the figure/ground balance — and shifting attention. Depicting uncertainty in diagrams whose shapes are dictated by those of the objects being represented, as in the case of material objects, poses particular issues and constraints. Visual cues need to be carefully selected to avoid adding extra coding to visual dimensions that are traditionally already used with different meanings, or that have already been assigned other values within the same visual- ization. The integrity of the overall perception of the shapes need not be precluded. [C4.3] Feasible visual cues for visualizating automatically uncertainty of material objects are: blurring, grey scale variation, transparency, fading, sketchy lines, and halos.487 Various variables have been used to depict uncertainty; of these, blurring, grey scale variation, transparency, fading, sketchy lines, and the addition of a halo are those better suited to be applied to material object visualizations. 9.4.1. Summary of uncertainty visualization application In bookbinding studies, despite the fact that uncertainty is often inherent in the data collected from the artefacts, drawings and visualizations have never highlighted which information is uncertain. The visualization process should in- stead allow to recognize the parts that are uncertain. Uncertainty should be flagged without altering the overall meaning of the visualization. 487. §5.3.2.2.1, §6.2.3.5-7. 264 9.5. Added value & benefits of visualization automation The generation of automated visualizations offers a series of benefits of signific- ant added value. Each of these points shows how the implementation of a system capable of automatically visualizing information contained within structured de- scriptions can be beneficial. Therefore, the recommendations outlined in this project are in themselves a contribution, as, if followed for the successful generation of automated visualizations, they can advance and ameliorate similar data-gathering projects on material objects. [C5.0] Automated visualizations, if integrated with the description process, can work as a visual accuracy control system helping to identify meaningless or wrong data immediately, thus increasing accuracy of data within a database.488 Data accuracy is an essential element for any database, but automated data validation systems cannot avoid all kinds of errors. If one were to integrate the generation of automated visualizations with the description process, the diagrams thus generated can help to immediately identify meaningless or incorrect data. They can function as a visual control of the accuracy of the data within a database, and this can eventually lead to better data being stored within the dataset. [C6.0] The automated nature of the visualizations, combined with the parametric and combinatorial character of their constitutive elements, renders the high number of possible permutations irrelevant.489 The structured description schema leads the surveyor down description paths through choices and selections, and even for a limited number of options, this leads to a large number of possible visualizations. The drawing algorithm, following the same description paths, can generate suitable visualizations choosing, selecting, and parametrically generating the necessary elements, thus rendering the number of permutations irrelevant. 488. §5.3.3, §7.3. 489. §6.2.2. 265 [C7.0] Information within structured descriptions is fragmented and dispersed within the database. The synchronic nature of visualizations reintegrates the in- formation and helps in its analysis, by grouping it and freeing working memory.490 Structured descriptions by nature fragment and disperse information within databases, or to present information in a highly condensed manner, as in the case of collation formulas discussed below. Human working memory limitations make it difficult to reintegrate or to reinterpret large amounts of information within the mind. If this information is instead presented within diagrams, the synchronic nature of visualizations naturally reintegrates or expands scattered or condensed information. In this manner, the diagrams, acting as exograms, are capable of helping with the grouping of the information and of freeing working memory, thus allowing easier analysis. [C8.0] Automated diagram generation can free survey time, increasing productiv- ity.491 During the St Catherine’s Library printed book survey, as well as in other sur- veys, the surveyors both recorded verbal information within the database and sketched some structures on the survey form. The majority of these drawings are prototypical and schematic in nature. It follows that providing the surveyor with a system capable of generating prototypical schematic drawings automatically would increase production speed and be beneficial even just in this respect. [C9.0] Thinking about automated intersemiotic translations can inform schema design. The fact that the schema behind the dataset for this project was essentially a work in progress did not preclude the usefulness of this exercise. The schema’s limitations, in fact, fed into the practical considerations along with all other problems met in the course of the XSLT code writing and the SVG generation. Furthermore, whilst the focus of the recommendations outlined in this research 490. §1.2.2, §4.2.4, §7.3. 491. §1.2.4, §1.3, §6.1.4.1.2-3. 266 was on the generation of the automated visualizations, the analysis of the descrip- tion problems encountered in the course of the project — e.g. too general semantic entry point for binding elements, such as ties and other furniture elements (§6.2.3.1) — can prove helpful in the designing of new schemas to describe ma- terial objects, even if the generation of automated visualization is not part of the project. In fact, to be able to accomplish a successful intersemiotic translation, as stressed in the thesis, in the first place, one needs to be able to describe something properly and in a complete way. The considerations outlined here are of interest to anyone attempting to describe, to model, any material object in a useful way. 267 Chapter 10. Future work It takes a good deal of maturity to see that every field of know- ledge is the centre of all knowledge, and that it doesn’t matter so much what you learn when you learn it in a structure that can expand into other structures. Northrop Frye, On education, 1988. This project focussed on the generation of automated diagrams from descriptions of bookbinding structures: what kind of information is necessary, what descriptions can convey it, what are the implications of the transformation of the information into a graphic representation. Such a project could be extended to cover its practical application to the field and to other objects. 10.1. Integration of automated transformations within the data gathering framework In the near future, it is hoped to be able to offer the bookbinding description schema through a web interface that would allow anyone interested to describe their own bookbindings, ideally generating content for a central database of bookbinding structures. During the development phase of this research project, it has become empirically clear that the automated visualizations can serve as data accuracy and error controls for the database. Their development also helped a great deal this author in better 268 understanding the subtleties of the description schema. It would therefore seem that integrating the generation of automated visualizations with the description process could positively affect the data entry process, both helping the non-initiated and the learner to better understand the description schema, and serving as visual proof of the data being entered, thus increasing accuracy. It was not possible during this research to test and measure the psychological and cognitive effects of the automated visualizations on users and learners of the description schema during the data entry process. Such a study would however be highly desirable, as it could lead to even more efficient visualizations, and it could provide a measure of the efficacy of the diagrams as data accuracy and schema learning tools, beyond the mentioned empirical experience of these effects. 10.2. Verbal to visual and reverse: a mixed approach This project focussed on the process of taking information from models of a binding structure and transforming it into graphic form. Some bookbinding components require a long series of elements in order to be described properly. The more detail that is required, the more elements that need to be described, the more time that is necessary for the description. Drawings are capable of providing complex information in a synchronic manner. It might be that complex structures could be presented to the user directly in graphic form for the desired one to be chosen, and to subsequently feed the rel- evant information into the database through a reverse visual-to-verbal transform- ation. There are problems with this approach, as one would have to foresee all possible alternative visualizations, generate them a priori, and present them to the user. In turn, the user would have to go through the numerous graphic alternatives and, through a spot-the-difference game, select the desired visualization. This might also influence negatively the accuracy of the information recorded, as the user, not guided by the schema through the option selection process, might not understand in sufficient detail the model of the description. 269 A solution which would be helpful to investigate is a mixed approach. One could describe a binding component down to a certain level of detail and have the system generate a series of possible alternatives. If the description level is ap- propriate, the number of alternative visualizations would be manageable. The in- formation could be presented as a series of ‘small multiples’,492 small illustrations provided with verbal labels which are positioned within the eyespan, so that the viewer is able to make comparisons at a glance. This way, the user would not be overwhelmed by the information and the differences between the visualizations would be evident. By selecting the desired option, the information could be transformed into verbal form for its inclusion in the database. Once again, there would need to be a one-to-one relationship between visual and verbal descriptions. Material components could take their verbal label, and spatial information could be translated into the structured arrangement of the information. In the same way, this mixed approach could be used to solve uncertainty caused by insufficient schema development. The schema, for example, does not prescribe the path of the thread around double sewing supports. The most probable path is drawn, but then, on clicking on the uncertain path, the viewer could be presented with alternative paths, for the desired one to be selected and recorded in the database (see Figure 133).493 Figure 133. Small multiples to solve uncertainty due to schema limitations. 492. Tufte 1990, p. 67. 493. Campagnolo & Velios 2013. 270 10.3. Related work: Manuscript Collation Project This project worked on XML structured descriptions of bookbinding structures. The schema used did not cover gathering assembly structure information. Chapter 4 highlighted the fact that in recent times, people have enquired whether anyone is working on a visualization of bookbinding structures. This project has brought forward the idea that structured descriptions are capable of providing the right information in a correct sign-language, i.e. one of the basic conditions for successful intersemiotic translations. The structured descriptions presented here have been encoded in an XML schema, and in fact all technologies involved have been strictly XML based. This does not have to be taken to signify that only highly structured and hierarchical XML schemas are capable of defining good structured descrip- tions. During the work on this research, the author has been involved in a related but separate project on the visualization of manuscript collation formulas with col- leagues at the Schoenberg Institute for Manuscript Studies, University of Pennsylvania: Dot Porter and Doug Emery. In the summer of 2013, Porter494 posted on the TEI (Text Encoding Initiative)495 distlist, asking whether anyone was visualizing with SVG collation formulas within TEI msdescription modules.496 While data on the gathering formation was not available in the St. Catherine’s schema, the transformation principles could definitely be adapted to new data and a different schema, so the collaboration began. The information collected within collation formulas is highly condensed, but it follows a strict ruling schema. Collation formulas are thus a kind of structured description. Depending of the efficacy of the schema being implemented, collation formulas can communicate both the material elements — i.e. the leaves, the quires — and the form of gathering structures, and they also maintain a reference to the logical form of quire assemblies. Therefore, even if not encoded in XML, collation 494. Porter 2013. 495. Text Encoding Initiative Consortium 2014b. 496. Text Encoding Initiative Consortium 2014a. 271 formulas meet the basic conditions for the implementation of intersemiotic translations. A first dataset was constituted by the Digital Walters collection.497 This digital collection offered TEI P5498 descriptions of manuscripts with an ad hoc developed collation formula schema.499 Whilst simplistic, this formula was still able to convey the very basic information in regards to the gathering structure of those manu- scripts. The formula within the TEI file was then parsed and the information was transformed into an XML file written in accordance with a new schema. Then from the XML, an XSLT transformation could take the information and transform the formula into a series of SVG diagrams, one for each gathering. These trans- formations are part of a larger Manuscript Collation Project,500 and integrated within its webpages. The aim of the project is to provide the users with a view of a manuscript based not on facing pages, as it is customary with online presenta- tions, but on the physical structure of quires, thus showing conjoined and not fa- cing pages together. The diagrams help keeping track of which pages are being shown and their relationship with the others within the quire. At the time of writing, the project is still at the development stage. This project shows how the methodology developed for this research is applic- able successfully also to other structured descriptions and datasets. In practical terms, the methodology outlined throughout this thesis is applicable to the visual- ization of collation formulas for a number of reasons. First of all, collation formulas as a form of very dense structured descriptions that posses in their formation rules a reference to the logical form of the object that they describe. Secondly, collation formulas highlight whole/parts relationships (gatherings, bifolia, singletons) and their spatial arrangement (which element is contained by which other elements). Lastly, as mentioned in chapter 4, a prototypical shape for a folded bifolium can be expressed through rounded horizontal U-like signs. 497. Walters Art Museum 2014b. 498. Sperberg-McQueen & Burnard 2005. 499. Walters Art Museum 2014a. 500. Porter et al. 2014; Emery et al. 2014. 272 Figure 134. Screenshot from the Manuscript Collation Project webpage. Reconstruction of Quire 1 of the dismembered Galen Syriac palimpsest showing the proposed structure of the first quire of the original Galen manuscript (Toth et al. 2010; Toth et al. 2013; Bhayro et al. 2013). The pages shown come from the main corpus of the palimpsest and from the Vat.sir.647 manuscript, held at the Vatican Library. On the left are visible the diagrams generated from the collation formula. Collation diagrams are not a novelty,501 however, the diagrams for the Manuscript Collation project are a useful improvement. Being automated, in fact, they can act as a way of ensuring that data collected within collation formulas — or other collation description system — is correct, and they can also function as a simple visual aid to understand the structure of gatherings within books as they are gen- erated — in a consistent manner — when needed. 501. See for example: Dennison 1990, Noel 1995, or Pickwoad 2014a. 273 10.4. Final remarks This dissertation has addressed the problem of whether and how it could be possible to transform a detailed description of a material object, such as a book- binding structure, into a visual diagram automatically. This was essentially an intersemiotic translation problem. In order to investigate the issues related to such a complex problem, the research developed in two phases. First, it focussed on working from a theoretical perspective, attempting to extrapolate and apply existing theories from multiple disciplines, from semiotics, to cognitive psychology, perception, philosophy, and information visualization. This was inevitable, since one needs broad perspectives for an investigation into as general a problem as intersemiotic translations from verbally encoded inform- ation to a visual output. Second, the project took a more practical approach, by delving into the application of the theoretical framework researched in the first part of the project to a specific domain, i.e. bookbinding structures, and producing automated intersemiotic translations for such a domain. Although exposed here in sequence, the two phases of this research happened in tandem and in a cyclical way, each informing the other of the problems that needed considerations and of the possible solutions; theoretical consideration found their application in the visualizations, and visualization problems found their solutions in the theoretical framework. This research showed that verbal-to-visual transformations based on models of are possible and that they can successfully convey the wanted information, if certain criteria are met. This project has advanced a series of methodology recommenda- tions for successful automated intersemiotic translations, and design recommend- ations for the generation of standardized automated prototypical drawings of bookbinding structures. For the first time, uncertainty has been systematically flagged within visualization in the field of the archaeology of the book. 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Campagnolo 2015, after Eco 1997........................................................37 Figure 8. Campagnolo 2015..................................................................................39 Figure 9. Campagnolo 2015..................................................................................46 Figure 10. Campagnolo 2015................................................................................47 Figure 11. Campagnolo 2015; Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007.....57 Figure 12. Petersen 1948......................................................................................72 Figure 13. Dorsey 1989; Wurfel 1989..................................................................73 Figure 14. Benvestito 2012...................................................................................74 Figure 15. Spitzmueller 1982...............................................................................75 Figure 16. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007....................................78 Figure 17. Webster 1964; Brodribb 1970............................................................83 Figure 18. Gaskell 1972; Federici & Houlis 1988; Sheppard 1995; Clarkson 1996; Regemorter 1992...................................................................................................84 Figure 19. Muzerelle 1985; Noel 1995; Szirmai 1999.........................................85 Figure 20. Campagnolo 2015................................................................................88 Figure 21. Szirmai 1988; Clarkson 1993; Adler 2010..........................................89 Figure 22. Petersen 1954; Clarkson 1993; Boudalis 2007....................................91 Figure 23. Clarkson 2005; Pickwoad 2000; Szirmai 1999...................................93 Figure 24. Greenfield 1998..................................................................................94 Figure 25. Bray 1607-1658, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam.......................................96 Figure 26. Szirmai 1999........................................................................................98 Figure 27. Carvin 1988..........................................................................................98 Figure 28. Greenfield 1990..................................................................................99 Figure 29. Greenfield 1990..................................................................................99 Figure 30. Bibliothèque Nationale (France) 1989.............................................100 Figure 31. Szirmai 1999......................................................................................127 Figure 32. Clarkson 2005....................................................................................131 Figure 33. Velios & Pickwoad 2004...................................................................144 Figure 34. Ligatus 2007......................................................................................146 Figure 35. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................148 Figure 36. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................152 Figure 37. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................154 Figure 38. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................155 Figure 39. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................159 Figure 40. Willard 2009......................................................................................160 Figure 41. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................160 Figure 42. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................162 314 Figure 43. Szirmai 1999......................................................................................163 Figure 44. Szirmai 1999; Carvin 1988; Middleton 1996; Cockerell 1953..........164 Figure 45. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................165 Figure 46. Jäckel 1975; Greenfield 1990; Szirmai 1999; Clarkson 2005; Conn & Verheyen 2003b..................................................................................................167 Figure 47. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................168 Figure 48. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................170 Figure 49. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................171 Figure 50. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................171 Figure 51. 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Szirmai 1999; Carvin 1988................................................................183 Figure 61. Middleton 1996.................................................................................184 Figure 62. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................185 Figure 63. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................185 Figure 64. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................186 Figure 65. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................186 Figure 66. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................187 Figure 67. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................187 Figure 68. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................187 Figure 69. 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Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..................................193 Figure 79. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................194 Figure 80. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................194 Figure 81. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..................................195 Figure 82. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................195 Figure 83. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..................................195 Figure 84. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................195 Figure 85. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..................................196 Figure 86. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................196 315 Figure 87. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..................................197 Figure 88. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................197 Figure 89. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................198 Figure 90. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................198 Figure 91. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..................................199 Figure 92. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................199 Figure 93. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................199 Figure 94. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................203 Figure 95. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................203 Figure 96. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................204 Figure 97. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................205 Figure 98. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................206 Figure 99. Campagnolo 2015..............................................................................207 Figure 100. Szirmai 1999; Szirmai 1996............................................................209 Figure 101. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................210 Figure 102. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................211 Figure 103. Szirmai 1999....................................................................................213 Figure 104. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................214 Figure 105. 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Campagnolo 2015............................................................................235 Figure 124. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007................................237 Figure 125. Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007................................238 Figure 126. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................238 Figure 127. Campagnolo 2015; Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..240 Figure 128. Campagnolo 2015; Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..240 Figure 129. Campagnolo 2015; Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..240 Figure 130. Campagnolo 2015; Saint Catherine monastery, Sinai, Egypt 2007..240 Figure 131. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................243 316 Figure 132. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................249 Figure 133. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................270 Figure 134. Schoenberg Institute for Manuscript Studies, Manuscript Collation Project 2015........................................................................................................273 Figure 135. Campagnolo 2015............................................................................319 317 Title page Abstract Table of contents Table of figures Table of tables Table of listings Acknowledgements Chapter 1. Introduction 1.1. The cognitive importance of diagrams 1.1.1. Diagrams as visual proofs 1.2. Problems with the adoption of diagrams 1.3. Verbal to visual: intermediation & intersemiotic translations 1.3.1. The essential elements of the communication cycle 1.4. Bookbinding descriptions and the generation of diagrams 1.5. Terminological issues 1.6. Aims and objectives 1.7. Chapter overview Chapter 2. Modelling & related work 2.1. Modelling 2.1.1. Modelling of and modelling for 2.2. From verbal to visual: related projects and approaches 2.2.1. Hardware description languages 2.2.2. Natural language processing 2.2.3. Cultural heritage modelling 2.3. From verbal to visual through models of Summary Chapter 3. Signs & material objects 3.1. Signs, signification, and communication 3.1.1. Signs 3.1.2. Reading and remembering iconic signs 3.1.2.1. Reading modalities of icons 3.1.2.2. Formalization of hypoicons 3.1.3. Visual texts 3.2. Multimodal communication 3.2.1. Dual-coding representation 3.2.2. Verbal recoding of ambiguous visual stimuli 3.3. Categorization and prototypification 3.3.1. Prototypes 3.3.2. Basic level of abstraction 3.4. Objects: their form and their shape 3.4.1. The form of objects 3.4.1.1. Material components and form 3.4.1.2. Logical form and expression 3.4.2. The shape of objects 3.4.2.1. The nature of shape 3.4.2.2. Regularities for the prototypification of shape 3.4.2.3. Line drawings 3.4.2.4. Perceptual biases Summary Chapter 4. Bookbinding descriptions 4.1. Books as artefacts 4.1.1. Binding structures and decoration 4.1.1.1. The evolution of bookbinding studies 4.1.2. Terminology 4.2. Verbal and visual descriptions of bindings 4.2.1. A description of Coptic bindings 4.2.2. A particular sewing pattern 4.2.3. A controlled vocabulary description 4.2.4. Structured and controlled vocabulary descriptions 4.3. Prototypical visualization of bookbinding elements 4.3.1. Gathering assembly diagrams 4.3.1.1. Naturalistic representations of gatherings 4.3.1.2. Schematic representations of gatherings 4.4. A categorization of bookbinding illustrations 4.4.1. Archaeological-style drawings 4.4.2. Naturalistic drawings 4.4.3. Line drawings 4.4.4. Generic-shape drawings 4.4.5. Scenes 4.5. Clarity of information in bookbinding line drawings 4.5.1. Sketchiness and detail views Summary Chapter 5. Communicating & translating objects 5.1. Communicating material objects through verbal means 5.1.1. Communicating through controlled vocabularies 5.1.1.1. Names and prototypical material components 5.1.1.2. Sewing structure controlled vocabulary 5.1.2. Communicating through structured descriptions 5.1.3. Diagrams as support for natural language descriptions 5.2. Automated intersemiotic translations 5.2.1. Translating material components, their form, and shape 5.2.2. Translating material objects’ shapes 5.2.3. Translating an object’s form 5.2.4. The reference to the logical form 5.3. Communicating material objects through visual means 5.3.1. Marks on a background 5.3.2. Continuity of the plane 5.3.3. Visualization conventions 5.3.3.1. Fixing meaning through a reference system 5.3.3.1.1. Titling and verbal labelling 5.3.3.1.2. Graphic reference elements 5.3.3.2. Separation of information 5.3.3.3. Use of colour 5.3.3.4. Two-dimensional vs. three-dimensional visualizations 5.3.4. Structured visualizations as output 5.4. The uncertainty of reality 5.4.1. Uncertainty in structured descriptions 5.4.2. Uncertainty in visualizations 5.4.2.1. Archaeological visualizations 5.4.2.1.1. An example from archaeology of the book 5.4.2.1.2. Uncertainty clues in archaeological visualizations 5.4.2.2. Irregularities in visual propositions 5.4.2.2.1. Visual cues for uncertainty visualization 5.4.2.3. Imprecision as uncertainty 5.4.2.4. Uncertainty inherent in the visualization process 5.4.3. Human error in the data Summary Chapter 6. Transformation framework 6.1. The technology and the description schema 6.1.1. Extensible Markup Language 6.1.2. Extensible Stylesheet Language Transformations 6.1.3. Scalable Vector Graphics 6.1.4. The description schema and the dataset 6.1.4.1. The Ligatus schema for the description of bookbinding structures 6.1.4.1.1. The manuscript collection survey 6.1.4.1.2. The printed book collection survey 6.1.4.1.3. Free-hand drawings 6.1.4.2. The project dataset 6.2. The transformations 6.2.1. Knowledge graph schemas 6.2.1.1. Graphic conventions for knowledge graph schemas 6.2.1.2. Reading the visual description graphs 6.2.2. Number of possible visualizations 6.2.2.1. Board marker visualizations 6.2.2.2. Endleaf structure visualizations 6.2.3. Visualizations 6.2.3.1. Level of abstraction and semantic entry point 6.2.3.2. Diagram elements 6.2.3.3. Spatial arrangement 6.2.3.4. Thread paths 6.2.3.5. Uncertainty 6.2.3.6. Accuracy and imprecision of measurements 6.2.3.7. Place-holders for uncertainty inherent in the visualization process Summary Chapter 7. Transformations & analysis 7.1. A complete visualization example: endleaves 7.1.1. Visual description framework 7.1.2. Shapes: standard endleaf components 7.1.2.1. Reference elements 7.1.2.2. Endleaf components 7.1.2.2.1. Pastedowns in use visualizations 7.1.2.3. Attachment modalities 7.1.2.3.1. Sewn 7.1.2.3.2. Glued 7.1.2.4. Component material 7.1.2.5. Spatial arrangement 7.1.3. Shapes: different types of endleaves 7.1.3.1. Integral endleaves 7.1.3.2. Separate endleaves 7.1.3.2.1. Single leaf 7.1.3.2.2. Fold 7.1.3.2.3. Hooks 7.1.3.2.3.1. Endleaf hook 7.1.3.2.3.2. Text hook 7.1.3.2.4. Outside hook 7.1.3.2.5. Guard 7.1.4. Visualization problems 7.1.4.1. Schema limitations 7.1.4.2. Schema misinterpretations 7.2. The set of transformations 7.2.1. Markers: page markers, board markers, bookmarks 7.2.2. Sewing 7.2.3. Boards 7.2.4. Spine shape and lining 7.2.5. Endbands 7.2.6. Coverings 7.2.7. Furniture 7.3. Dealing with erroneous data 7.3.1. Error examples 7.3.2. The feedback loop Summary Chapter 8. Recommendations 8.1. Intersemiotic translations: methodological recommendations 8.1.1. Intersemiotic translation elements 8.1.2. Functional verbal descriptions 8.1.3. The nature of sememes in diagrams 8.1.4. Prototypicality of information 8.1.5. Graphic prototypes 8.1.6. Fixing the meaning of visual sememes 8.1.7. Uncertainty 8.2. Recommendations for the communication of bookbinding structures Summary Chapter 9. Conclusions 9.1. Successful automated intersemiotic translations 9.1.1. Summary of the recommendations 9.2. Visualizations from models of 9.3. Standardized automated drawings of bookbinding structures 9.3.1. Summary of design principles 9.4. Uncertainty visualization in bookbinding studies 9.4.1. Summary of uncertainty visualization application 9.5. Added value & benefits of visualization automation Chapter 10. Future work 10.1. Integration of automated transformations within the data gathering framework 10.2. Verbal to visual and reverse: a mixed approach 10.3. Related work: Manuscript Collation Project 10.4. Final remarks Bibliography Illustration credits 
work_z2avkpthdrfzrefwtutdo7bpdq	----	Microsoft Word - HUDGINS MANUSCRIPT PIONEERING THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION: LITERARY LANDSCAPES OF THE AMERICAN WEST, 1872-1968 ________________________________________________________________________ A Dissertation Submitted to the Temple University Graduate Board ________________________________________________________________________ In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY ________________________________________________________________________ by Caitlin Hudgins December 2016 Examining Committee Members: Miles Orvell, Advisory Chair, English and American Studies James Salazar, English Sue-Im Lee, English Andrew Isenberg, External Member, History, Temple University ii © Copyright 2016 by Caitlin Hudgins All Rights Reserved iii ABSTRACT This dissertation investigates why literary dreams of the West have been categorically dismissed as mythical. Western critics and authors, ranging from Thomas Jefferson to Owen Wister to Patricia Nelson Limerick, have sought to override dreams of the West by representing the western genre as, in Jane Tompkins’ words, a “craving for material reality.” This focus on authenticity betrays an antipathy to the imagination, which is often assumed to be fantastical, escapist, or utopian – groundless, and therefore useless. Such a prejudice, however, has blinded scholars to the value of the dreams of western literary characters. My project argues that the western imagination, far from constituting a withdrawal from reality, is worthy of critical attention because it is grounded in the land itself: the state of the land is directly correlated to a character’s ability to formulate a reliable vision of his setting, and this image can enable or disable agency in that space. By investigating changes in western land practices such as gold- mining, homesteading, and transportation, I show that the ways characters imagine western landscapes not only model historical interpretations of the West but also allow for literary explorations of potential responses to the land’s real social, political, and economic conditions. This act of imagining, premised on Louis Althusser’s explanation of ideology, follows Arjun Appadurai’s conception of the imagination as “social practice.” Ultimately, my dissertation explores geographical visions in western novels across the 20th century in order to demonstrate the imagination’s vital historical function in the creation of the West. iv For Panda v ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Writing a dissertation is no feat for a Lone Ranger. In completing this project, I have depended on the enthusiastic cheerleading and patient support of more friends, family members, advisors, mentors, and programs than I could have imagined. First and foremost, I could not have gotten to this point without my dissertation advisory committee’s guidance. James Salazar helped me to flesh out my options for the project in its beginning stages and offered insightful, challenging comments on chapter drafts. Sue- Im Lee gave me excellent ideas for tightening my key concepts and overall framework, and reminded me to celebrate my progress along the way. And Miles Orvell, my chair, provided much-needed advice on organizing individual chapters, inspiration for tracing the project’s larger trajectory, and West-themed encouragement to pioneer onward without letting my writing trail off into the dust. In addition to my committee, I am grateful to Peter Logan, Petra Goode, and all the student and faculty fellows at the Center for Humanities at Temple for providing me with a teaching-free semester, an office with a window, and an intellectual community in which to hone my fourth chapter and begin my fifth. I am also thankful to Temple’s College of Liberal Arts for the Dissertation Completion Grant that allowed me to focus on wrapping up my project during this final spring semester. Finally, I am indebted to my students, who were not shy about telling me how bored they were by Frederick Jackson Turner, who challenged me to step up my teaching game, and who turned me on to new ways of thinking about the West. Unofficial, semi-institutional thanks are also in order. The weekly e-mail shout- outs and check-ins from Jackie Partyka, Beth Seltzer, Sara Curnow Wilson, Leslie Allison, Nicole Priest-Cesare, Tiffany Derewal, and Ted Howell were amazingly vi motivating and comforting. Writing a dissertation is hard, and these fascinating, funny, lively scholar-friends gave me the assurance that I was not alone in my struggles, the practical tips for navigating the bureaucracy surrounding the process, and the encouragement to keep pushing through every word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter. This group was especially important during my potentially isolating fellowship and grant semesters, and I am particularly thankful for all the South Philly Work Crew days at various coffee shops and rowhomes that provided both the happiness of human contact and the satisfaction of completing many more pomodoros than I possibly would have on my own. And without Colbert Root – who read every draft as if it were the most important thing on his plate, who was perpetually available to Gchat about ideology, who taught me to argue, who made profound statements about democracy over PBR, and who probably knows my project better than I do – I would without a doubt have lost the West. Finally, I want to thank those beyond Temple for helping me gain perspective on the otherwise all-encompassing bubble of my dissertation. Brittany Root and Juliana Rausch were invaluable in giving me space to let off steam about work and life, usually over margaritas. These ladies have been my rocks. Meanwhile, my undergrad friends Ali Migdal, Megan Pallay, and Tejal Patel have all been amazing at cheering on my progress from afar, long after they all became “real” doctors. From Austin, Stephanie Malak showed me how to be a tough cookie on the path to the PhD. And from Las Vegas, Rita Smith has been the most steadfast BFF I could ask for, and deserves a prize for buying an airplane ticket to Philly immediately after I announced my defense date. To my parents, I owe a lot to your literary blood. I’m grateful to my dad, Chris Hudgins, for taking a job at UNLV in 1976, and for providing the foundation for this dissertation vii by falling in love with the West and raising me to do the same. I can’t imagine getting through grad school without my mom, Marsha Tarte, who has always provided a shoulder to cry on, whose snail mail brings me joy, and who believes in me across the sky. To my step-parents: Bob Tarte, I didn’t accept it as a kid, but you were right: 6am really is the best time to get work done. Pam Egan, Montana is very much on our short list, should we have a choice. And last but not least, I am beyond grateful to my husband, Dave Errigo, who took me on just as I had begun studying for my comprehensive exams. He has borne the brunt of my PhD journey, and I’m thrilled to finally be able to ride off into the sunset with him by my side. viii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ABSTRACT…………………………………………………………………………...…iii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS………………………………………………………………...v CHAPTER INTRODUCTION: ENVISIONING SPACE AND MOVEMENT IN THE WEST…….ix 1. THE VAGABOND IMAGINATION IN MARK TWAIN’S ROUGHING IT: “QUEER VICISSITUDES” OF ROMANCE AND REALISM IN THE NEVADA TERRITORY…………………………………………………………………………...1 2. THE SETTLER’S IMAGINATION IN WILLA CATHER’S O PIONEERS!: INVESTIGATION AND SYMPATHY IN AN UNFURNISHED WEST………….55 3. THE OUTSIDER’S IMAGINATION IN AMÉRICO PAREDES’ GEORGE WASHINGTON GÓMEZ: STAGING VICTORY AND FLEEING THE SCENE IN THE BORDERLANDS....………………………………………………………...89 4. THE CIRCULAR IMAGINATION IN NATHANAEL WEST’S THE DAY OF THE LOCUST: SEARCHING FOR ORDER IN HOLLYWOODLAND…..……...134 5. THE DELIBERATIVE IMAGINATION IN JOHN STEINBECK’S EAST OF EDEN: THE MENTALITY OF FREE WILL IN THE SALINAS VALLEY……...181 6. THE POSTURING IMAGINATION IN N. SCOTT MOMADAY’S HOUSE MADE OF DAWN: VISIONS OF U.S. INDIAN POLICY………………………....218 CONCLUSION…………………………………………………………………………271 REFERENCES CITED…………………………………………………………………278 ix INTRODUCTION ENVISIONING SPACE AND MOVEMENT IN THE WEST On January 10, 2016, Disneyland’s American West-themed Frontierland began to be dismantled. Set for the chopping block were Big Thunder Ranch and its outposts, including its “authentic” log cabin,1 its petting zoo, and its barbecue joint (Ybarra). The closure of Frontierland makes way for an expansion of Tomorrowland, namely a 14-acre Star Wars-themed park inspired by the 2015 film The Force Awakens (H. Martin). By replacing the mock-up of the historical West with representations of a galaxy far, far away, the most magical place on earth is abandoning a rehashed past in favor of an exciting future. Stories of the West, after all, are attached (however loosely) to actual historical events, putting restrictions on the imaginative leeway available to both the park and its visitors. Indeed, Americans are so schooled in the myths of sand and sagebrush, cowboys and Indians, and saloons and gun duels that these once thrilling western adventures have become so familiar as to be dull. By replacing these worn-out symbols with those of a new “frontier” – fantasies of untold technology, mysterious black holes, and extraterrestrial life – Disney positions its “imagineers” and their audience in a realm in which not even the sky is the limit. In many ways, however, Disneyland is late to the party in shutting down its ode to the American West as a space that inspires imagination. In fact, explorers, politicians, and academics have been aiming to “conquer” the western imagination for centuries, beginning with Thomas Jefferson’s impetus to “demystify” the 1 According to Bob Ybarra, a building designer who helped to plan the cabin, it was important to Disney’s “imagineers” that any modern elements – bolts and other “structural hardware” – be concealed to maintain a historically accurate aesthetic. The cabin’s logs were real, provided by the Montana-based company Rocky Mountain Log Homes. x western territory of the Louisiana Purchase through scientific exploration (Goetzmann and Goetzmann 434). Disney’s closure of Frontierland, then, falls in a long line of expressions of skepticism about and obituaries for the western imagination. This widespread cultural and critical belief in the decline of the western imagination, however, is not so linear – or so final – as it first appears. Rather, I argue, the western imagination has ebbed and flowed over time, in response to shifts in land use and policy, changes in ethnic communities and economic markets, and developments in our understandings of psychology, morality, and history. This dissertation traces the arc of the imagination of the West across a century of western literature to show that the ride is not yet over. Instead, the West follows a rising and falling pattern in which it continues to awaken in its onlookers and its inhabitants visions of a landscape that offers grounds for agency. In short, I show the ongoing social work of the western imagination. According to the New Encyclopedia of the American West, the western novel can be divided into two distinct genres: the romantic “frontier novel,” which treats adventurers’ first explorations of “wilderness perils,” and the realistic “pioneer novel,” which focuses on settlers who engage with the “minutiae of daily life” after frontiersmen “tamed” the land (Folsom). In other words, those on the “frontier” were the idealistic leaders who reached for the possibility of progress they imagined in the open western spaces around them, while the “pioneers” who followed were technically freed from such responsibilities of imagination, since “progress” had already been accomplished. If we apply this logic to actual western literature, however, these definitions thwart our attempts to apply them. Why, after the close of the frontier in 1890 – after the need for xi imagination had supposedly been met in the West – do the characters of western literature continue to not only use, but explicitly cite the need for, the imagination? My dissertation questions the contradiction between western critics’ relegation of the imagination to the period prior to the frontier’s “closure,” and western authors’ extension of the imagination beyond that prescribed era. The study of the West has progressed through three stages of scholarship – Old, New, and Post Western theory – none of which have adequately addressed this conflict. Old Western scholars of the 1950s and 60s argued that the West is significant due to its mythical status, predicated on the “winning” of the West.2 New Western critics of the 1980s and 90s responded to this scholarship by uncovering the individual “realities” behind the national myths.3 This viewpoint attends to the “defeats” suffered by gendered, ethnic, and religious “others” that made Old Western victories possible. Finally, Post Western scholars of the 21st century have combined the Old and New to claim the existence of “many Wests,” including victories and defeats, majority and minority outlooks, and national and transnational perspectives.4 Although the Post Western school has begun to recognize the interlocking quality of “real” and imagined perspectives on the West, none of its practitioners have conducted a sustained interrogation of the dreams that interrupt western literature’s supposedly “authentic” prerogative. In attending to the imagination in western literature, I am departing from the trends of western scholarship, history, and politics, which have generally taken a 2 See especially Henry Nash Smith’s Virgin Land (1950) and Edwin Fussell’s Frontier (1965). 3 See Patricia Limerick’s The Legacy of Conquest (1987), Richard White’s “It’s Your Misfortune and None of My Own” (1993), William Cronon’s Uncommon Ground (1996), and Donald Worster’s An Unsettled Country (1994). 4 See Blake Allmendinger’s Ten Most Wanted (1998), Daniel Moos’s Outside America (2005), and Neil Campbell’s The Rhizomatic West (2008). xii quantitative approach to the West in an effort to counter both its mystifying spaces and its mythical aspects. The enumerative approach to the West has been geographically and temporally widespread. For instance, after the Revolutionary War, unsettled land outside the original 13 colonies was measured by “stepping off” plots from geographical landmarks. Such inaccurate systems of property measurement were eventually replaced by the Land Ordinance of 1785, which implemented a standardized system of Federal land surveys that divided territory into six-mile square townships, which were further divided into 36 sections, each measuring 1 square mile, or 640 acres (Potter and Schamel). Following Jefferson in his desire to “demystify” the West, Andrew Jackson in the 1830s called for gridded mappings of the Territories – mappings which Neil Campbell calls a metaphor for “imaginative reduction” (66). Both Edwin Fussell and David Wyatt trace the “fall” of the western imagination in the face of reality – even as they locate that fall at opposite ends of the 20th century. Richard Slotkin teases out the “real” socioeconomic conflicts hidden behind the frontier “myth” of the West. And most bluntly, Jane Tompkins defines the “western” genre as representing a “craving for material reality” (4). The Imagination in the West The main focus of this project, then, is how literary characters mark and remark on the landscape of the West through the faculty of the imagination. When I refer to scenes of “imagination,” I am interested in the relationship between the faculty’s metaphysical and physical strains. The first kind of imagination I am concerned with is metaphysical, related to dreams or fantasies. This type of imagination is exhibited when an author describes a character who goes to sleep and has a nightmare, for example, or xiii who lets her mind wander into the realm of make-believe during a quiet moment. The dreams that result from the imagination are intimately tied to “myth,” which Hayden White defines as “an example of thought working at the extremities of human possibility, a projection of human fulfillment and of the obstacles that stand in the way of that fulfillment” (175). The second type of imagination I explore is physical, related to vision or perception in the literal sense. How does the author portray his character’s sight of the fictional landscape? Are the images he perceives fuzzy or crystal clear? Is he noticing details or taking in a panorama? Are his eyes darting or steady, tearful or swollen? In his Biografia Literaria, Samuel Taylor Coleridge makes a distinction between fancy and imagination that loosely corresponds to the distinction I’m making between the physical and metaphysical imagination. For Coleridge, “fancy” is concerned, in a passive, mechanical way, with the “fixities and definites” of the data of reality, while the “imagination” exerts a “mysterious power” to find the “hidden ideas and meaning” from that data (305). The physical and metaphysical varieties of imagination overlap in that both are based on reality but also constructed in alignment with the particular identity, experiences, and setting of the beholder. According to Edgar Anderson, these two versions of envisioning a landscape generally take place simultaneously. “When we consider a landscape,” he says, “We are contemplating what is before us. The eye is seeing and the mind is perceiving. What we think, what we ask, what we investigate will depend upon how rich is the experience brought to bear on that contemplation. It is not only what we see, it is also what we see in it” (13, italics original). Louis Althusser houses this concurrent phenomena of sight and perception under the concept of ideology, xiv in which “men represent their real conditions of existence to themselves in an imaginary form” (110). Although a “world outlook” may “constitute an illusion” that does “not correspond” directly “to reality,” Althusser contends that the imagination does “make allusion to reality.” Thus, dreams “need only [be] ‘interpret[ed]’… to discover the reality of the world beneath the surface of their imaginary representation of that world.” It is this link between physical vision and psychological interpretation that encompasses this dissertation’s definition of “imagination.” In contrast to western scholarship’s predilection for facts, other fields are becoming increasingly open to investigating dreams as meaningful rather than escapist or inherently unrealistic. According to Frederic Jameson, contemporary theorists no longer regard “narrative, image, [and] fantasy… [as] mere subjective epiphenomena, but objective components of our social world, invested with all the ontological dignity of those hitherto ‘objective’ social materials presented by economics, politics, and historiography.” In fact, Jameson continues, the imagination is “now increasingly seen as having epistemological and even practical functions.” As such, “[f]antasy is no longer felt to be a private and compensatory reaction against public situations, but rather a way of reading those situations, of thinking and mapping them, of intervening in them…” (171). Cultural anthropologist Arjun Appadurai follows Jameson’s appraisal of the imagination as a pragmatic response to reality, particularly the difficulties of that reality. He contends that the imagination is a “social fact,” which he argues “plays a newly significant role” due to the “epistemological crises” impelled by modernity, particularly electronic mediation and mass migration (5). Similarly, postcolonial literary scholar John J. Su suggests that dreams in contemporary Anglophone novels allow authors to xv “explor[e] possible forms of response to prevailing political, economic, and social conditions” (ix). But the act of imagining is not exclusive to contemporary culture – it is not a special response to specifically “modern” issues. As Jameson reminds us, even ancient fairy tales were created in response to “distress.” More than simply a “repository of peasant utopian wishes,” he argues, the fairy tale works to “preserve the most characteristic collective experiences of danger or menace, along with age-old solutions devised to ward them off” (165). If cultural criticism isn’t convincing enough in its appraisal of the imagination as a tool for negotiating real dilemmas, we can also turn to advances in the science of dreaming to justify this dissertation’s practical approach to fantasy. For Arnold H. Modell, it is precisely the inflexible “algorithmic certainty” of most brain science that compells him to explore how the imagination functions in what he calls “the meaningful brain” (xii). Such “computations,” he says, “cannot be applied to the brain’s construction of meaning,” and therefore “cannot account for thinking in images or fantasy, for error and novelty…” Indeed, says David Gelernter, a computer scientist at Yale, the “full expression of the human mind” relies on two kinds of thoughts: those that are “on purpose” and those that go “wandering off” on their own (King and Drehle). Whether through the conscious pursuit of “a logical argument” or by “inventing stories – as we do when we dream,” we are “putting fragments in proper relationship and guessing where the whole sequence leads and how it gets there.” Despite current cultural assumptions that “up-spectrum” logic would be positioned hierarchically above “down-spectrum” imagination, Gelernter believes that “progress” depends as much on dreams as it does on reason. As neuroscientist Rodolfo Llinás puts it, the brain is essentially a “reality xvi emulator,” such that “we are basically dreaming machines that construct virtual models of the real world” (94). In sum, whether from a literary, philosophical, anthropological, or neuroscientific perspective, scholars have begun to validate the practical use of the imagination in ways that simply were not acceptable before. Approaching Western Dreams My project begins, then, with the observation that dreams, fantasies, and visions are prominent and persistent in the literature of the American West, and assumes that they are worthy of critical attention. Each chapter is concerned with identifying and fleshing out a particular novel’s rendering of the western imagination. The questions driving my research have to do with the content, origins, effects, and significance of the imagination as it is presented in each text. I begin by selecting representative landscape- based visions and dreams for close analytical reading. First, I look for the historical or cultural origin of these imaginative episodes. Where do these characters’ dreams come from? What can they tell us about the novel’s contemporary culture, including its economic, political, environmental, or ethnic structures? Generally, I argue that literary dreams respond to contemporary cultural phenomena, including changes in federal land policy, settlement patterns, or financial crises. In accounting for a dream’s origins, I also look to relevant details of the author’s biography, such as his childhood views of nature, his perspectives on the politics of the day, or his aesthetic theories. Second, I explore the effects of the dream in question. How do scenes of imagination fit into the larger scheme of each novel? Are dreams in these books isolated? What happens after the character snaps out of his reverie? What is the relationship between imagination and plot? How do authors connect their characters’ dreams with their behaviors and actions? How do xvii dreams impact movements and agency? In short, how does the character’s imagination affect the individual’s course and the novel’s plot? Third, I’m interested in the author’s larger literary purpose in portraying his characters’ dreams. Why do authors write dreams or visions into their works – to convey what message? What is the significance of dreaming in the work as a whole, and how does that work contribute to its period’s take on the imagination? Beyond the analysis of individual texts, I look on a broader, comparative scale at patterns in imagination across these novels. Despite the fact that scholars of western culture and literature have generally confined the notion of the imagination to particular genres or historical periods, I have found that the prescribed boxes for western dreams fail to accommodate an imagination that waxes and wanes both within and between categorical structures. I thus became interested in discerning patterns in the presence or absence of dreams, as well as patterns in how authors conceive of those dreams, in the literatures of the West. The primary framework I use to trace this trajectory is a historical one. Were any of the critics justified in drawing lines around particular eras? If not, which dates, if any, might be more apt? In order to gain a relatively broad view of the historical course of the western imagination, I look at roughly a century of literature, focusing on five key periods. The first two periods, the Frontier and Pioneer eras, placed roughly on opposite sides of the turn of the century, are particular to the West and western literature, and have traditionally represented the main critical division between a West full of dreams and one devoid of them. The last three periods – the Great Depression, the Post-War period, and the Civil Rights era – can be oriented more generally to America as a whole, but are manifested in slightly different ways in the xviii West. By investigating how authors during each of these periods have represented their characters’ imaginations, I conclude that the scholarship has generally been shortsighted in its dismissal of the western imagination. A second comparative framework of race, ethnicity, or culture was also an option for discerning the course of the western imagination, but this option ultimately proves somewhat unsatisfactory. When I first approached this project, I was interested in examining how authors might be representing the western dreams of characters from minority cultures differently than those from cultures in power, and if so, how. I also wanted to investigate how the “settlement” of the West affected how authors portrayed their characters as seeing that space. In short, I hoped to consider how the cultural traditions and social positionalities of the two major minority groups in the West, Native Americans and Hispanic Americans,5 may or may not play a role in the literary valuation of dreaming. From the late 19th century onward, these groups have been considered “marginal” or “marginalized,” whether we are talking about western culture at large, or about the western literary canon in particular. The multi-ethnic bent of this project is interesting in terms of how we corral the demographics of the imagination. On the one hand, the “American Dream” in general, and the myth of the West specifically, is promoted as accessible to all of the “tired, poor, huddled masses,” no matter their race or culture. On the other hand, however, it is precisely such “minority” figures who have most often been excluded from dreams of social mobility, which have, in practice, been limited largely to whites. In this sense, we might expect the cadre of dreamers included in this study to be restricted to those of European extraction. In a slight variation, we 5 I do not include Asian Americans, such as the Chinese immigrants who worked on the western railroads, because, for the purposes of limiting the scope of my project, I chose to focus on groups native to the territories that would come to be incorporated into the American West. xix might also expect that, if the representatives of oppressed ethnic groups were to engage in imagining their landscapes, those visions would never come to fruition. My research has revealed that none of these assumptions is valid. Instead, I show, first, that social marginalization is not a damper on the subject’s imagination, but rather a catalyst for it. As Oskar Negt and Alexander Kluge point out, “fantasy may merely serve as an expression of alienation” in “response to unbearable real situations.” In fact, they continue, “precisely because fantasy cannot be easily circumscribed or repressed, it can also be the site for an ‘unconscious practical critique of alienation’” (32–33). Second, my survey of a century of western literature demonstrates that frustrated dreams tend to have less to do with race or ethnicity than with historical fluctuations such as developments in land policy or economic downturns. The visionaries I study here, then, reside on a “frontier” in which their marginal position is, ironically, the basis for an instability that compels them to imagine anew the landscapes they do not quite fit into comfortably. Rather than isolate minority representatives, then, I integrate them into the larger trajectory of the project in order to show that, while their engagement with the imagination is certainly informed by their particular cultures, they are ultimately part and parcel of broader historical trends in the West. Landscapes of the West Defining “the West” could be a project in and of itself, but the two factors I want to focus on as definitive are the region’s basis in land and its status as subject to myth, dreams, or imagination. William Least Heat Moon suggests that the West is distinctive simply due to its “space,” which he qualifies as “great, pervasive, influential, and awesome” (qtd. in Stegner 26). If only because of weather patterns, Wallace Stegner xx explains, westerners are more engaged with the outdoors than most, and the land therefore impacts its residents’ needs, tastes, attitudes, and skills (81). Not even geographers can come to an agreement about something so basic as the size of the West’s land mass, and this controversy points to just how crucial the concept of space is to the region’s meaning (W. L. Fox 10). I use the simplest map of the area, which is based on aridity, and which encompasses the area between the Pacific Ocean and the 98th meridian,6 where rainfall averages less than 30 inches per year.7 This map can be broken down in various ways. In addition to defining the West in terms of sub-regional divisions,8 physiographical or topographical characteristics,9 and changing use values,10 recent scholars have also mapped the West according to international perspectives.11 6 This vertical line runs from roughly the bottom-most tip of Texas up through the middle of Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakotas. 7 A more extreme starting point for “the West” is the 100th meridian, where annual rainfall amounts to 20 inches (Reavis 70). As Wallace Stegner points out, the West’s aridity has broad effects on the region, influencing everything from the flora and fauna to the presence of the federal government (8-9). For a fascinating in-depth study of how federal water policies have shaped the West, see David Cassuto’s Dripping Dry. 8 For example, the Census of 1900 divided the West into Basin, Plateau, Pacific, and Rocky Mountain regions, but today includes only Pacific and Mountain divisions. Another potential regional subsection is the “interior West,” which consists of the eight states with the highest elevation, thereby excluding Washington, Oregon, and California. Meanwhile, the “Southwest” is technically made up only of New Mexico and Arizona, but might also incorporate California, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado. The Great Plains – all of North and South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma; parts of Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and Texas – might be counted as part of the West, or they might not. And in some cases, the West can even be extended to Alaska and Hawaii. 9 Topographical designations show that the West spans both the low desert of the basin and the high desert of the mountain ranges (Veregge 375). 10 According to Henry Nash Smith, the West has been seen as a space for trading French furs or Asian spices, as a locale for heroic adventure or civilized refinement, and as a Great American Desert or a utopian garden. 11 The boundaries of the West are relative to the beholder’s time and place. In the mid-19th century, for instance, Mark Twain’s Missouri was counted as western, an unthinkable designation by today’s standards. And if all things are relative, the West is really the North to Mexicans, the South to Canadians, and the East to Asians. Or, zooming out even further, we could refer to “the Western world,” as in the nations and cultures associated with Christianity, the Enlightenment, and imperialism. xxi High Country News has even collected maps of the West with boundaries drawn according to culture, watersheds, or population (J. Peterson). Or, in a kind of turning of the tables, we can define the West not in terms of its land at all, but rather in terms of the loss of that land, as settlements increasingly populated its area (T. T. Williams 7). We can also divide western space in terms of its status as private or public. As Stegner points out, the prevalence of public land in the West causes contradictory attitudes of “impassioned protectiveness” and “fatal destructiveness,” since the territory is both everybody’s and nobody’s responsibility (81). In many ways, the West is unique because the federal government controls 47% of the land (Bui and Sanger-Katz). Much of this land was purchased, won, or seized from foreign governments or native inhabitants, but the U.S. government has had difficulty unloading its acquisitions due to the complications of geography, including the mountains that made it difficult to reach and the aridity that made it difficult to farm. Unlike Cliven Bundy, this dissertation is not concerned so much with the legalities of the land as with the significance with which those legalities have imbued its general atmosphere. While none of the novels I investigate explicitly engage issues of federal land ownership, all of them take for granted such issues in their backgrounds. For instance, when Mark Twain’s alter-ego looks out over a western vista, he does not ask himself whether the property is federally owned or not, but he is nonetheless struck frequently by feelings of opportunity and openness that were fostered by the government’s purchases of and policies about that land. Similarly, N. Scott Momaday’s protagonist, Abel, never directly critiques the historical treaties or contemporary institutions that have manipulated his tribe’s territories, but we nevertheless see clearly the effects they have had on his life. In the chapters that follow, xxii then, I do not necessarily look at public and private land differently, but rather point to any relevant histories that inform characters’ imagination of or engagement with that land. One final division of western land that is important to acknowledge for this project occurs between the rural and the urban. Frederick Jackson Turner, of course, is well known for drawing a firm line between “wilderness” and “civilization,” but my work proceeds from an understanding of this dichotomy as problematic in and of itself. Indeed, it is difficult to establish a clear boundary between the two. As William R. Travis observes, the “footprint” of the human development of nature extends well beyond the city proper: the land affected by the city is 10-20 times the size of the actual built-up area (5). From the opposite perspective, as Nina Veregge points out, even in the built environment of a town, the architectural details of buildings and the atmosphere of city districts still rests on the land, in what she calls a “nested hierarchy” (377). The literary settings I examine in this project span city and country in the West, along with spaces in between. According to all of these potential definitions of “the West,” to what extent do the texts in this dissertation qualify as “western”? What I am not talking about when I refer to a “western” is the stereotypical version of the genre – the Disneyland version, if you will. The books I examine do not necessarily eschew western stereotypes like cowboys and Indians, but neither do these clichéd images serve as focal points. Instead, I am more interested in works that are engaged in or intrigued by the land of their western environments. I take the western genre, rather loosely, to mean that the book must be set primarily in the West (according to the 98th meridian definition), and must be written by xxiii an author intimately familiar with the western landscape. Some of the authors in this study were born and raised in the West, while others were transplanted there for substantial periods of time. By the most rigid standards, only N. Scott Momaday and Américo Paredes are “true” westerners: Américo Paredes was a life-long Texan, and N. Scott Momaday rotated among Oklahoma, New Mexico, and California. The other authors in this dissertation are more complicated. For example, Mark Twain was born in Missouri, to the west of the original 13 colonies, and spent nearly a decade in the Far West of California, Nevada, and Hawaii. Willa Cather was born in Virginia but moved to Nebraska at age 11, stayed there through college, and later traveled extensively in the Southwest. Nathanael West stayed in the New York area until his 30s, but only became a literary success during the last decade of his life, after he had moved to Hollywood. John Steinbeck was born in California and spent time in Oklahoma, but ended up serving as a reporter in Vietnam and moving to New York. All of the authors contained by this project, however, have been drawn to the landscapes of the West, and have demonstrated a commitment to using its particular qualities as a foundation for their characters’ visions of and movements across its spaces. Imagining Western Landscapes “We have, more or less, conquered our physical ignorance of the region,” William L. Fox says, “but we’re still having trouble coping with it in our imaginations” (13). Due to the wide-ranging understandings of western land – what Veregge calls a “collage of images” – the space often inspires “cognitive dissonance” (Stegner 80, Veregge 374, Fox 11). As Fox puts it, latching onto the vastness of the West is problematic, since the region is “a place where our eyes have trouble getting a grip” (11). This is, after all, the xxiv “frontier,” which can be defined not only as “the fringe of civilization that adjoins undeveloped territory;” but also as a “new thought or learning, an indicator of investigations still taking place” (Campbell 254). This symbolic notion of the West as perpetually unfinished, forever full of potential, tends to lead in one of two directions. The first option is that the complexities of the West can result in even the most academic of scholars to express a kind of mystical awe about the place. As Bernard DeVoto murmurs, “…westward we shall find the hole in the earth through which the soul may plunge to peace” (qtd. in Nugent 22). Or, as Shril Henke of the Western Writers Association admits, the West “will never be defined absolutely” because it is “a dream” (qtd. in Nugent 23). The second option can be seen as a kind of overcompensation for the first: it is often precisely the slipperiness of the West that prompts critics to double down in their efforts to “settle” the region according to facts and figures, according to, as Jane Tompkins puts it, “material reality.” My dissertation questions this division between physical and metaphysical conceptions of the West. Scholars like Audrey Goodman have separated the West’s “physical parameters” from its social, cultural and symbolic meanings (xvi). But I am interested in how these overlap: how those symbolic meanings are mapped onto the land through both physical vision and metaphysical imagination. As such, the most important distinction I make in this dissertation is the one between “land” and “landscape.” I follow William L. Fox’s explanation: “Land is a state of matter, landscape a state of mind” (ix). A similar distinction can be made between space – characterized as empty, untouched, untamed – and place – a space that has been seen, inhabited, or transformed by humans. When speaking of the environment as depicted in literature, as I am in this xxv project, I take it for granted that I am talking about landscape and place rather than land and space. Indeed, it is difficult to speak of habitat without inhabitants. This dissertation is fundamentally an exploration of the land of the West – how literary characters see that land, how they move across it, and what that tells us about history and culture. Always, then, the land is populated by both people and meaning. The West, therefore, constitutes a landscape. When I refer to the physical environment of the novels I investigate, I am interested in how that environment serves as “a mirror which makes ‘culture’ visible” (Veregge 453). As W.J.T. Mitchell has warned, “‘landscape’ tends to become a congealed repository of cultural interpretation and power deceptively visited back in upon the observer as frozen, fixed, and ‘independent of human intentions,’” but it is actually difficult to separate the land from the perceptions and fantasies of those who inhabit it (qtd. in Abrams 5). Similarly, Henri Lefebvre says, “space is not a pre-existing void, endowed with formal properties alone” (170). Indeed, even the term “geography” literally means “earth writing,” suggesting that it is humans who mark the land with its characteristics. That land in the West often appears to be limitless, and therefore tends to represent freedom to its onlookers,” results in a “tendency to see the West in its mythic enlargement rather than as it is” (Stegner 81, 68). The connection between nature and the mind has been and continues to be exacerbated in the West. For example, as Barbara A. Campbell shows, the “frontier” has proved especially amenable to ‘New Age’ spirituality, nontraditional sects, and ‘mind’ religion (254-55). This is due to the fact that meaning is “interactive,” says Hillary Putnam: it “depends not just on what is in our heads but also on what is in our environment” (qtd. in Modell 4). xxvi A key question for this project, however, is the hierarchy in the relationship between geographical landscape and human imagination. Does mind or matter take priority? In other words, does the land act as the subject, affecting the way people perceive or move through it? Or is land primarily the object, used and acted upon by humans, whether mentally or physically? Although he does not put it in terms of subject and object, Fox is useful in parsing these questions. On the one hand, he notes, the deserts of the West have no small degree of power over their inhabitants, due simply to their large scale (11). And with little to no contrast in the land in terms of color or shade, along with a general absence of verticals, humans are left with little recourse for “relating to and measuring the land” (12). In this sense, our perceptions and misperceptions of the West originate in its very subjecthood – its ability to overcome our senses, and us. Ironically, it is precisely this cognitive dissonance that prompts us to make the land into our object. Fox identifies three options for dealing with the overpowering nature of the western landscape: we can leave it behind us, break it down into pieces small enough to analyze, or assign it symbolic value (13). Here, suddenly, the human mind finds mechanisms with which to regain its control over space. We put the land-as-subject back in the position of an object by processing it and perceiving it for our own purposes. The scholarship on cultural geographies, and on western spaces in particular, generally assumes the position of land-as-object, rather than land-as-subject. For example, in her study of mid-19th century landscape paintings, Angela Miller premises her argument on the idea that “nature” is the “object” of paintings that actually reveal more about the “social subject” doing the painting (11). In many versions of this view of the land passive, its objecthood originates in an assumption that the land is empty or xxvii blank. In A Sand County Almanac, for instance, Aldo Leopold identifies “a blank place on the map” as “the most valuable part” for those not “devoid of imagination” (294). Similarly, Fox makes empty land the prerequisite for the potentials associated with imagining: “Only in the void, a disorienting space we conceive of as being vacant and thus a landscape of open possibilities, can we imagine ourselves to step outside the boundaries of what we know and receive intelligence from some other place, somewhere alien to the egocentric pivot of our bodies” (4). What we, the subject, fill the empty spatial object with is up for debate. For Fox, the first step is to overlay the land with orienting mechanisms: “We map the void with a grid of intersecting lines and travel along them, erecting signs to guide us” (ix). Many critics understand the land as a foundation not just for cartographical maps, but also for the more human maps of dreams and stories. For instance, Franco Moretti argues that “a certain kind of space” is a necessary basis for “a certain kind of story” (100). Likewise, Terry Tempest Williams acknowledges that “…the stories we tell about ourselves in relationship to place shape our perceptions of place” (4). As with stories, Dorothee E. Kocks contends, dreams also require a passive backdrop against which to play out. “[D]reamers often use the earth and all it stands for as a visualizing aid,” she suggests (xii). But despite the general critical perspective on the land as a passive object to be acted upon, many of these same scholars simultaneously express a belief in the possibility that land can also occupy the subject position. For example, Moretti’s Atlas of the Novel asserts that “geography is not an inert container, is not a box where cultural history ‘happens,’ but an active force, that pervades the literary field and shapes it in depth” xxviii (Moretti 3). Likewise, Miller explains that, at least in the mid-19th century, human mind, imagination, and character were all seen as “imprinted with the sensory data of particular environments,” thereby positioning humans as passive objects and landscapes as the active subjects that mold society (9). More recent perspectives also recognize the potential for space to occupy a subject position. For instance, in New Geographies of the American West, William R. Travis traces how developments in western space in the 1990s and 2000s have effectively changed the mentality of westerners (6). How, exactly, does the land-as-subject affect its human objects, in this case? Patrick L. Hamilton suggests that, when the land occupies a subject position, humans can feel an “inability to mentally map their physical surroundings,” indicating “their feelings of disconnection, confusion, and even alienation” (14). This situation is essentially Althusserian, and ultimately brings us full circle back to my initial definitions of imagination. To wit: First, feelings of alienation from the land lead humans to feel the “need” to “represent to themselves” “their real conditions of existence,” through “imaginary transposition.” Their dreams constitute their effort to re-establish, at the least, their understanding of, and at the most, their control over, the land that had overwhelmed them. However, should they find those fantasies troubling, incoherent, or nightmarish, they find themselves stuck in their position of powerlessness. The struggle to construct visions of western landscapes that will allow for progress or forward movement, my research shows, points to larger social problems. The Social Work of the Western Imagination What is the significance of the western imagination of the landscape? What is the social work that this act of imagining performs? For most scholars, the purpose of using xxix the landscape as an object on which to impose maps, stories, or dreams is to envision a way forward, a way to change reality, a way to progress through the world – for an individual, the larger society, or both. In short, the goal is to “contaminate reality with dream,” as Jorge Luis Borges identifies his characters as doing. In this way, argues Robert M. Nelson, the physical landscape acts as a “dependable constant” around which the postmodern, alienated “self” can be “recentered” (4–6). Although Rudolfo Anaya almost grants the land subjecthood in acknowledging its “power” and “energy,” he nonetheless identifies the cause of his characters’ “transformation” in their ability to “define” their own “relationship” to place according to their individual “world view” (qtd. in Gish 139). Anaya’s characters, ultimately, “live off” the earth’s energy, thereby establishing the land as object for the use of the subject. Meanwhile, Dorothee Kocks sees the land as the backdrop onto which the “dreams of a good society” can be “projected” (242). The notion that dreaming can produce action, or at least a sense of potential action, is not new, of course. In fact, as Jim Cullen defines it, the “bedrock premise” of the American Dream is a “sense of agency,” or “the idea that individuals have control over their lives” (The American Dream 10). More particularly, the act of imagining the landscape, according to the philosophy of Immanuel Kant, “can give us a feeling of the reality of the freedom of the will.” It is “the natural existence of beauty,” he says, that contributes to the notion “that nature is hospitable to achievement” (311). In the same way, imaginative representations of the land can also function to foment progress. As Angela Miller explains, mid-19th-century landscape paintings “served as an arena of symbolic action, a quasi-utopian endeavor that helped to order culturally a space xxx inherently open-ended and unstable” (12). Terry Tempest Williams speaks similarly of art, which she says can trick the mind into “believing it is possible to read or paint the world differently” (191). The lands of the West, in particular, prove amenable to dreams that set a basis for motion. The theme of movement appears again and again in both the literature of and scholarship on the West. For example, Gertrude Stein, though known primarily as a French expat, was raised in California, and perceived America primarily as “a space that is filled with moving” (95). Wallace Stegner qualifies the West of the 19th century as a “civilization in motion, driven by dreams” (21). Offering the material “proof” of this observation in prevalent western phenomena such as the motel, the automotive roadside, and seasonal tourism, Stegner finds in the West a “thirst for the new and an aspiration toward freedom and personal fulfillment” (22). Any movement, according to Nina Veregge, “is guided by an image of the structure of the whole” environment (377–78). Without such vision, motion might be confused, or precluded altogether. Clear sight of a space is a perquisite for any movement through that space. If we can perceive – through physical or metaphysical vision – that “we have open space,” remarks Terry Tempest Williams, then we feel that “we have open time to breathe, to dream, to dare, to play, to pray to move freely…” (146). This is why, for N. Scott Momaday, the issue of importance is not so much simply a sense of place as the sense of direction the imagination of that place provides The standard Jemez greeting is representative of the belief in the importance of motion. Members of this tribe approach each other not with the American standard “How are xxxi you,” which focuses on the present moment, but rather a land-based, progress-oriented question: “Where are you going?” (“The Morality of Indian Hating” 74). And what is the point of this going? I’m certainly not suggesting that the literature in the chapters that follow is advocating movement for movement’s sake. The movements I locate in the novels in this study can be as simple as the “leap” of “joy” Williams feels inclined to make as she sits “on the edge of a cliff,” “feet dangling” in a space that makes her feel at once “very, very small and very, very large” (186). Alternatively, characters who dream their landscapes might also find in those visions inspiration for larger, more meaningful motion. If we look again at Cullen’s vision of the American Dream, we can see that the imagination, if held to a “rigorous standard,” can serve as a “powerful instrument of national reform and revitalization” (189). Although Cullen positions such “reform” as laudable on a wide social scale, it is also possible for the action of forward movement to be seen as “transgressive.” Indeed, according to Tim Cresswell, certain movements and behaviors might very well disrupt “normative geographies,” where “everything is in place” (9). By questioning, through the very act of dreaming, the ideologies and histories already mapped onto place, the characters I study in this project occupy what Michel Foucault calls “heterotopias,” or “countersites that challenge hegemonic spatial representation” (LeMenager 4; Foucault xviii). The other option, of course, is that no movement happens at all. Chapters 3 and 4 illustrate this kind of stasis, which originates in a fraught imagination. Whether ultimately effective in producing movement or not, visions of the landscape in these novels function as spaces in which characters can sketch out motions that might move them through their worlds in new ways. xxxii The Arc of the Western Imagination This dissertation examines six novels across the arc of the 20th century in order to elucidate how the social function of the western imagination has developed alongside the landscapes it envisions. The first two chapters examine two quintessential works representative of the “frontier” and “pioneer” periods, Mark Twain’s 1872 travelogue Roughing It and Willa Cather’s 1913 “novel of the soil” O Pioneers!. In Roughing It, Twain formulates a vagabond’s imagination to document a West full of movement – of migrants’ homes, of artistic practices to capture western terrains, and of the land itself, literally spurred into motion by timbering and mining. Here, the narrator’s vacillations between dreams of the land’s value and nightmares of its worthlessness reflect both the instability and possibility of a West yet to be defined by the Americans settling its territories. Chapter 2 looks at O Pioneers!, in which Cather channels Twain’s experimental vagabond’s imagination into an investigative settler’s imagination. Although the land in Cather’s work maintains much of the mystery we saw in Twain’s travelogue, the protagonist’s admiration for imaginative “wonder” is both tempered by and serves as a corrective to the scientific quantification that characterized Industrialization. Thus, while Cather’s protagonist is careful to acknowledge the “great fact” of the land, she simultaneously recognizes the limits of such facts by insisting that, “A pioneer should have imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of things more than the things themselves” (48). Chapters 3 and 4 find that the same American expansion that allowed Cather’s settlers to bring their imaginations to bear on the “great fact” of the land, also works to contain the geographical visions of ethnic and economic “others” as the century xxxiii progresses. In Américo Paredes’ George Washington Gómez (written 1936-40; published 1990), I identify an immobilized imagination produced by the same land features and practices – a topographically isolated chaparral and a self-governing patriarchal culture – that once preserved the independence of the Rio Grande Valley. If as a child the eponymous protagonist envisioned the landscape of his home as an “enchanted fairyland,” and as a teenager saw his backyard banana grove as nothing more than a “sea of mud,” as a grown man he views the entire region as a “filthy Delta.” Without the geographical spaces on which to ground fantasies for his own future or his people’s, George at the conclusion of this bildungsroman is bound to enemy territory by his own lack of vision, which I show was literally and symbolically circumscribed by American surveillance techniques during and after the Mexican Revolution. Chapter 4 turns to Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust (1939), which exhibits a dislocated imagination that trips through a landscape fragmented by the speeds of the Progressive Era, facilitated by Los Angeles highways and Hollywood big screens. Here, characters literally cannot see straight. Their faulty vision impairs their ability to “get [their] bearings,” making it difficult for them to traverse their setting without falling over. More importantly, their troubled focus confounds their capacity to accurately judge the viability of dreams – their own or their nation’s. In Chapters 5 and 6, I trace a rebounding of the immobilized, dislocated imaginations of Paredes and West. Chapter 5 examines John Steinbeck’s East of Eden (1952), which emerges from the Depression to re-locate the imagination through the idea of a free will which envisions that which “mayest” occur on the land. I suggest that Steinbeck’s intimate psychological depiction of the choices his characters make marks xxxiv the first step in a revaluation of the imagination that begins following WWII. By exploring the inner workings of the imagination and its role in perceiving both the self and the spaces in which that self acts, East of Eden shows how self-consciousness enables decisions that allow humans to intuit, imagine, and take advantage of the potentials of an imperfect world, and more particularly, of an imperfect West. Chapter 6 focuses on N.Scott Momaday’s The House Made of Dawn (1968), which expands such geographical possibility by positing a spell-bound imagination that correlates the sight of the land to an understanding of and belief in its history. In particular, this chapter demonstrates how the protagonist’s ability to see and move through his world is correlated with the federal Indian Policies that regulate his environment. The land-based visions in in each of these novels interpret a terrain embedded with culture, all attempting, but not all succeeding, to draft promising responses to the present conditions of their western worlds. Rather than demonstrating a general decline in the use and value of the imagination as the 20th century progresses, as western scholarship has indicated, these texts exhibit how the form of the imagination has adapted to negotiate the lands it encounters, forming an upside-down arc across the course of 100 years that embraces, dismisses, and then rediscovers the power of imagination. In contending that such acts of geographical imagination serve a social function, this project opens up a field of western literary studies that has long been overtly focused on authenticity as the only portal for accurately understanding the West. I believe that using theories of social imagination, ideological construction, and land practice provides a productive new lens for western texts, highlighting that the dreams featured in the region’s literature illuminate, negotiate, and even critique larger American cultural xxxv concerns. Ultimately, my project argues that a critical focus on characters’ visions of the western spaces around them reveals that the 20th century literature of the American West pioneers a powerful social imagination, in which geographical dreams record interpretations of not only the history that occurred on that land, but also the prospects that western spaces offer for the future. 1 CHAPTER 1 THE VAGABOND IMAGINATION IN MARK TWAIN’S ROUGHING IT: “QUEER VICISSITUDES” OF ROMANCE AND REALISM IN THE NEVADA TERRITORY Just after the turn of the century, Arthur Rickett looked back at 19th century authors and declared that writers like Henry Thoreau, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Walt Whitman had had a “salutary” effect on the course of literature due to their status as “vagabonds.” Defining the “vagabond temperament” as characterized primarily by a wandering restlessness which may manifest itself physically, intellectually, or both, Rickett links his subjects through their opposition to “the routine and conventions of ordinary life” (vii). Although we might initially be turned off by the “peculiarities and extravagances” of these authors, Rickett insists that they have contributed to the “sanity and sweetness” of “life and thought.” He concludes that they “have indeed scattered ‘a new roughness and gladness’ among men and women, for they have spoken to us of the simple magic of the Earth” (16). Mark Twain was not included in Rickett’s study of the literary vagabond,1 but his 1872 travelogue Roughing It, which loosely documents Samuel Clemens’ 1860s western sojourn, aligns well with Rickett’s claims. Dated as its rhetoric sounds to modern readers, Rickett’s advocacy for the vagabond is useful for understanding the value of Twain’s travelogue not in spite of its “scattered” “peculiarities and extravagances,” but because of them. While both past and present 1 This is not particularly surprising, since humor writing was still considered literature of a “low order,” as Clemens himself recognized. On Oct. 19 and 20 of 1865, he wrote to Orion and Mollie Clemens to announce his “‘call’ to literature, of a low order—i.e. humorous.” After this self-deprecation, Clemens resigns himself to “excite the laughter of God’s creatures” and thereby strive for an “unworthy & evanescent” fame (Clemens, “SLC to Orion and Mary E. (Mollie) Clemens, 19 and 20 Oct 1865”). 2 critics have judged Roughing It as lacking in form and function – William Dean Howells called it “kaleidoscopic” and Ron Powers describes Twain’s general style as a “serendipitous” “grab-bag” of “sprawling pastiche” (184) – I see such apparent “roughness” as not merely “antic.” Instead, Twain’s seemingly disparate visions of western land are the result of what I call the “vagabond imagination,” showing us how the late-19th century West acted as a “land of invitation,” a space that solicited multiple interpretations in response to a still unsettled American experiment. Rickett’s argument for the value the vagabond and Twain’s occupation of that role is controversial in part because the label can be taken as either compliment or censure. In general, the vagabond is someone who “roams” or “wanders,” a person characterized by his own migrations (“Vagabond”). However, cultural acceptance of such wandering depends on its rationale. On the one hand, the term has been applied to nomads, mountaineers, sailors, and soldiers. These career-oriented vagabonds are deemed admirable because their geographical instability serves to accomplish their vocational goals. This kind of mobility was fostered in the late 19th century by the rise of industry, the advent of new forms of transportation,2 and the settlement of the American West. However, the growing ease of movement was accompanied by a growing unease about its effects, perhaps best represented by Ralph Waldo Emerson’s warning that “travelling is a fool’s paradise.”3 Mobility was considered acceptable, then, only if it was professionally productive and took place within the social and geographical lines of 2 The transcontinental railroad was completed at Promontory Point, Utah by joining the Union Pacific and Central Pacific rail lines with a golden spike on May 10, 1869. 3 Emerson was concerned in 1841 with the dangers of “the circumnavigation of the globe” for the ideal of self-reliance. “[W]hat is imitation,” Emerson wrote, “but the travelling of the mind?” (149–150). 3 established norms. When applied to beggars, loafers, tramps, and vagrants, the vagabond label becomes a term of reproof denoting disreputability, impropriety, worthlessness, or even paganism. Deemed lazy at best and diseased at worst,4 such figures were viewed in the mid- to late-19th century as necessitating reform. The threat of the vagabond, then, appears as soon as he is understood as “not subject to control or restraint” – as unreformable. Though a vagabond can be simply a “rascal” whose “bad” qualities do not necessarily have any “serious implications,” it is the concept of contingency out of bounds that presents “serious” concern. Which kind of vagabond was Mark Twain? His contemporary critics were not entirely sure. Though Twain has, of course, been widely accepted today as a progenitor of American literature, his mid-19th century readers were often skeptical of the “wild doings” represented in his work.5 Even today, Twain’s critics generally agree that unstable dualisms characterize the author and his work, but are divided about the purpose and outcome of his “rough” qualities.6 One category of this criticism dwells on the dualities inherent in Twain’s style: the serious and the silly, the fact and the fiction, the 4 According to an 1876 case study of Dr. Headlam Greenhow, “Vagabond’s Discoloration” is prevalent in scavengers, whose “dirty habits” include hard drinking and frequent contact with “vermin.” Perhaps not coincidentally, the patient under observation is notable for his “naturally dark complexion” (Greenhow). 5 For example, while Americans were elated at the comic relief, following the Civil War, of “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calveras County” (1865), Twain’s publisher sent advance copies of Roughing It only to carefully selected reviewers in order to avoid anticipated scorn (though this turned out to be a misjudgment), and Huckleberry Finn (1884) was criticized for its potential to corrupt the youth with its depiction of juvenile delinquency (Powers 155, 321, Messent 12). 6 The concentration on duality begins, of course, with the author’s name(s), with scholars working to distinguish the man from the mask. Justin Kaplan, Hamlin Hill, Andrew Hoffman, and Ron Powers have investigated the split between “Samuel Clemens” and “Mark Twain” along moral, familial, sexual, and economic lines. The outliers here are Peter Messent, who identifies at least five distinct identities in Twain, and Fred Kaplan, whose book The Singular Mark Twain (2003) was roundly admonished for its attempt to suppress the general tendency to look at Twain in terms of a “double” theme. Other critics, including Louis J. Budd, Emerson Everett, and Joe B. Fulton, focus not so much on the divisions within Twain as on his reflection of the complex culture surrounding him, a culture Karen Haltunnen characterizes in terms of its flux, its mobility, and even its hypocrisy. These cultural instabilities are discussed in the third section of this chapter. 4 traditional and the experimental, and the romance and the realism.7 In this last grouping, Jeffrey Alan Melton recognizes a split in Roughing It in which the narrator cycles through romantic illusion and realistic disillusion, “participat[ing] in a mythic West while demonstrating its limitations and deceptions” (98). Melton sees the narrator’s touristic failure to learn any lessons about the Territory from these cycles as counteracting the supposed victories of Manifest Destiny8 and therefore enacts a “losing of the West” (98). Leo Marx has identified a similar divide in the way Twain’s Mississippi books9 portray nature, either from the aesthetic view of the passenger or the analytical view of the pilot. Marx, however, does not count this split as a loss. Instead, he sees Roughing It as a starting point essential to allowing Twain to eventually render, in Huckleberry Finn, “the lovely possibilities of life in America without neglecting its terrors” (143). Marx refers to Roughing It only in passing, however, treating the travelogue as a stepping stone. I argue that Twain’s seemingly chaotic territorial experimentation acts not only as a stepping stone toward a particularly American aesthetic, but also as the cornerstone of a particularly western American imagination. Thus, Twain’s combination of realistic and romantic views of the land in Roughing It constitutes neither a win nor a loss, but rather a quest for a way to mentally grasp the significance of a region that had yet to be defined coherently by white Americans.10 7 See Shelley Fisher Fishkin, Maria Ornella Marotti, and Alan Gribben. 8 Proclaimed most vociferously by Theodore Roosevelt’s The Winning of the West (1889-96) 9 Twain’s “Mississippi books” are Life on the Mississippi, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. 10 Critics within the “new western” school of thought have rightly sought to overturn the notion, promulgated by “old western” critics, that the West was a blank canvas without a past or a void without a populace by voicing the stories of the pre-existing environment and the ethnic “others” whose manipulation and oppression rendered them invisible to those who would “win” the West. Nevertheless, we must 5 These conflicting perspectives, and the narrator’s wandering between them, constitute Roughing It’s “vagabond imagination.” The travelogue’s romantic perspectives often occur either from a high point above the land or from the inner bowels of the earth, portraying ethereal or utopian views, accompanied by an elated, awed tone.11 By contrast, the book’s realistic visions are generally launched from ground level, quantifying unappealing details, and conveying disappointment or dejection. In Roughing It, we can see how Twain uses both realistic and romantic approaches to exploring three primary aspects of the land: its material resources, aesthetic properties, and cultural values. As a vagabond in the early 1860s, Twain’s shifting visions of the western landscape are in keeping with the uncertain nature of the frontier itself. Twain presents his exploration of the West as unstable for reasons of personal choice, but, behind the scenes, historical necessity and cultural anxiety also contribute to Roughing It’s divergent style. In the Prefatory, Twain’s narrator – who I will also refer to as his “alter-ego” or “persona,” distinct from the author himself – both insists on the entertainment value of his work and apologizes for the information it includes, resulting in a book that can be qualified both as something that will “help the resting reader while acknowledge just how empty, unsettled, and uncertain the frontier must have looked to those, like Clemens, who were accustomed to cultural presumptions of white superiority, norms of imperial paternalism, and beliefs in the “disappearing Indian.” As Audrey Goodman demonstrates in Translating Southwestern Landscape, the region serves as a “battleground” of competing perspectives, with Anglo viewpoints often taking precedence. 11 Whereas Twain’s later texts have garnered much attention for their “fantastic” nature, little attention has been paid to the imaginative in his early work. [For more detailed accounts of this later work, see Maria Ornella Marotti’s The Duplicating Imagination: Twain and the Twain Papers (1990) and Henry Nash Smith’s How True Are Dreams?: The Theme of Fantasy in Mark Twain’s Later Work (1989).] In particular, Twain’s simultaneous skepticism about religion and belief in the paranormal suggest that any scenes depicting acts of dreaming, envisioning, or imagining are worthy of attention. Clemens, of course, is today widely considered to have been, if not an atheist, at least a staunch critic of religion – as especially indicated in later works like The Diary of Adam and Eve – despite his “conversion” upon marrying Olivia Langdon. Nevertheless, this skepticism did not prevent Clemens from subscribing to a belief in the fantastic, including concepts like “dream pre-cognition” and mental telegraphy (Myers). 6 away an idle hour” and as a “philosophical dissertation” that “leak[s] wisdom.” Historically, however, the chaotic atmosphere of the Civil War also prevented Twain from pinning down a clear picture of his adventures. “Out West,” Twain wrote in “The Private History of a Campaign that Failed,” “there was a good deal of confusion in men’s minds during the first months of the great trouble – a good deal of unsettledness, of leaning first this way, then that, then the other way. It was hard for us to get our bearings” (Mark Twain 863). As Patrick L. Hamilton recognizes, a subject’s “inability to mentally map their physical surroundings” indicates “their feelings of disconnection, confusion, and even alienation” (14). It is in part because of this broad sense of war-time instability that Twain necessarily feels unsure of his place, leading him to document haphazard “variegations” of the West. Finally, the “vagabondizing” the author records in his travelogue represents a larger cultural concern about “settling.” For Twain, to settle on something – whether it be a plot of land or a narrative plot – is dangerous in that it may portend not so much progress or expansion as stagnation and control. The prospect of such immobilization was daunting. The romantic and realistic imaginative endeavors of Twain’s narrator are crucial to navigating the physical spaces of the territory as well the mental conception of the West’s role in the nation’s identity. The geographical and stylistic movements contained in Twain’s Roughing It are neither haphazard nor stylistically detrimental, then. Instead, I argue, Twain’s vagabond imagination draws on the land of the West in two different senses – both acquiring information and inspiration from the territory and penciling new images onto that space – to reflect, shape, and even celebrate the instability of the American Civil War period generally and the Nevada Territory specifically, in all its 7 material, aesthetic, and cultural fluctuation. For Twain, the vagabond is an ideal strategic figure with which to parse, process, and present the West, allowing for experimentation and movement – but this figure is threatened by the increasing solidification of the Territory as the turn of the century approaches. The Material Value of Western Land: Mining a Landscape in Motion This section investigates how Roughing It’s narrator looks at the material resources of the West’s land from a romantic, and then, briefly, a realistic, perspective. I argue that these perspectives are aligned with the history of the Comstock Lode, which was discovered in 1859, just two years before Clemens’ arrival in Nevada. The discovery qualified not only as the “dominating event” in the state’s history, 12 but also one of the most important mining discoveries in American history (Edwards).13 Its beginnings, however, were characterized primarily by uncertainty and unpredictability, not only in the land itself, but also in the methods used to extract its resources and the infrastructures and institutions created to manage them. Initially, Twain’s alter-ego uses such instability to launch into romanticized fantasy, but he is forced by increasingly rigid systems of resource removal and regulation to consider more practical, realistic responses to the landscape. Much of the fluctuation in mining materials and methods exhibited in Roughing It can be explained by the travelogue’s setting between two important mining periods: the end of the Gold Rush and the beginning of the Comstock Lode. When the narrator of Roughing It arrives in Nevada, he curses his “sad fate” at being labeled an “emigrant” 12 The Comstock Lode, and the populace it attracted, was crucial to Nevada’s bid for statehood in 1864. Its ore, 57% silver, also inspired the state’s nickname, the Silver State (Edwards). 13 The Comstock Lode produced nearly $306 million worth of iron ore between 1859 and 1882 (Marschall; Morris 129). 8 rather than “that proudest and blessedest creature that exists on all the earth, a ‘FORTY- NINER’” (114). Unlike Huck Finn, Clemens did not “light out for Territory ahead of the rest” – he was twenty years too late (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 268). Following the Gold Rushers who had struck it rich on the western side of the Sierra Nevada mountains, emigrants like Clemens were relegated their eastern slopes, where flakes of gold flecked the widespread, shifting sands known as “placers” (James 1–2). In Twain’s tale, this is the type of gold the narrator’s partner, Calvin Higbie, collects from a mine claimed14 by the Wide West company: it is “not hard rock, but black, decomposed stuff which could be crumbled in the hand like a baked potato, and when spread out on paper exhibited a thick sprinkling of gold and particles of ‘native’ silver” (210). Higbie is at first so “puzzled” by the rock’s mysterious character that he uses a glass to “inspect… it in different lights and from different points of view.” His magnification technique15 is exemplary of the rudimentary tools used to locate the land’s riches in the late 1850s and early 1860s, including simple gravity and rare mercury.16 Nonetheless, 14 The methods for “claiming” property were not entirely clear at this point. In part, regulations in Nevada were slow to develop because they had not been necessary in California, where gold was scattered across broad swaths of land rather than concentrated in any particular area. The forty-niners who arrived to mine the Comstock Lode 10 years later, then, were not accustomed to staking claims with any precision. Instead, the miners of Clemens’ era often used ill-defined landmarks like “a rock on the easterly side of Virginia City” or the edge of a neighbor’s holdings, which might also be bounded by temporary points of reference (James 60-61). 15Twain tells us that, “although to the inexperienced stranger all the quartz of a particular ‘district’ looks about alike, an old resident of the camp can take a glance at a mixed pile of rock, separate the fragments, and tell you which mine each come from, as easily as a confectioner can separate and classify the various kinds and qualities of candy in a mixed heap of the article” (209). Higbie is just such an expert prospector. 16 When working with placer sands, miners relied on the simple device of gravity to separate the valuable from the worthless materials, washing the sand in rockers which allowed the heavier gold to settle while the lighter dirt flowed away. In the desert, however, water was often scarce; a shortage would render the rocker method moot. Miners could also use mercury to attract gold, but mercury was also rare, and therefore expensive (James 46).The contraptions developed to excavate mining tunnels were equally unstable. Once prospectors moved beyond the strategy of digging open pits to carving out tunnels, they haphazardly wedged individual timbers between the roof and the ceiling or from wall to wall wherever support appeared necessary. The nature of the ground itself, however, made this jury-rigged system 9 Higbie’s method allows him to determine that his specimen “is not Wide West rock!” (210). To prove his theory, Higbie sneaks into the mine shaft, where he finds that a separate “blind lead held its independent way through the Wide West vein, cutting it diagonally… enclosed in its own well-defined casing-rocks and clay” (211-212). This separate vein would have been public property according to what was known as the multiple ledges theory. According to this theory, if a mineral vein descends in “dips, spurs, and angles” across multiple properties, the owner of the initial claim, which might encompass only a portion of the vein, should not be able to claim its extensions. In the early 1860s, the common man – like Higbie – was heavily invested in this theory, which made it easy for him to strike it rich without worrying about whether his discovery might be threatened by its geological connection to an earlier claim. During the night of Higbie’s discovery, the narrator’s belief that he has instantaneously become a millionaire leads him “only to lie broad awake and think, dream, scheme” (212). His dream transforms the space around him: his “tumble-down cabin” turns into a palace, the “ragged gray blankets” into silks, and the rustic furniture into “rosewood and mahogany.” Such idealizing visions are dependent not on a pre- fabricated, stable definition of the land he mines, but rather on its uncertain potential. By relating the mining logistics depicted in Roughing It to their historical corollaries, I want to highlight the dynamism that generally characterized the mining industry in the second half of the 19th century. By extension, I want to suggest that such a fluctuating environment provides Twain with a platform from which to ignite the romantic unreliable. King observed the dangers of expanding clay “forcing itself through the interstices of rocks, bending and breaking the most carefully laid timbers and filling mine openings with extraordinary rapidity" (King 50, 61). As the size of tunnels grew, efforts to support the shifting earth only became more challenging (James 54). 10 imagination of his narrator. It is the unexplored, unsettled character of the landscape that makes it an ideal backdrop for dreams (212). More specifically, it is the “blind” nature of the mineral “lead” that represents Twain’s persona’s perception of the land as open to interpretation, ready to be imposed upon with any vision he can come up with. The spatial transformations the narrator imagines, however, do not come to fruition in reality. Although Higbie and the narrator put up a notice and record their claim according to the “laws of the district,” they fail to “do a fair and reasonable amount of work on their new property within ten days after the date of the location” in order to avoid property forfeiture (214). Instead, their plans are foiled by their own obstinate romanticism. Both are distracted from their practical duties by their dreams: Higbie goes off to satisfy his “fascination” with another “mysterious mining excitement,” while the narrator becomes preoccupied with planning the details of his millionaire’s mansion, including “the propriety of having the billiard-room in the attic” and whether he should have “green [or] blue for the upholstery of the drawing-room” (218, 215). When the mining team appears at their site ten days after they discovered it, they find a notice proclaiming new ownership (219). Sidetracked by their own visions of wealth, Twain and Higbie fail to claim their mine according to real regulations, thereby rendering moot their imagined success. The “failure” of their dreams to play out in reality can be attributed in part to the fact that the realities of mining were quickly changing. While the narrator and his partner were busy constructing romantic visions, the Territory about which they fantasized was being pinned down according to more rigid frameworks. If the late 1850s and early 1860s were characterized by unstable land, sketchy mining tools, and undeveloped 11 institutional structures, Clemens’ time in Nevada coincided with the beginnings of solidification in all three arenas. The shifting placer sands on the Sierras’ surface and the malleable clays close beneath had been picked clean, leaving prospectors no option but to dig deeper, where they hit hard rock. Meanwhile, the tools and infrastructure to manage the land’s resources were also solidifying, with the introduction of the square-set timbering system, mechanized mineral mills, and new roads on which to haul the treasure.17 Such solidification, I argue, serves as an obstacle to the romantic imagination of Twain’s alter-ego. Without a flexible setting through which to fantasize, in other words, the idealized visions of Roughing It’s narrator are stifled. In order to better understand the vexed relationship between the narrator’s proclivity toward romance and his avoidance of an increasingly imposing reality, it is helpful to look at passages in which the concepts collide, often awkwardly. For example, when the narrator is first “smitten” by silver fever, he carefully justifies the romantic extremes of his apparent malady as innocuous, average, and based in reality. By succumbing to the fever, he reasons, he renders himself not an outcast, but rather a patently normal member of his community: “I would have been more or less than human if I had not gone mad like the rest,” he explains (152). He continues to give grounds for his fever by calling upon scientific and economic evidence. In order that “the reader may 17 In 1860, a young German engineer named Philipp Deidesheimer developed the square-set timbering system, which supported wider, deeper tunnels with stable, stackable, mass-producible wooden cubes. In order to extract the valuable minerals from the hard-rock mines, the old Mexican arrastra process of animal-driven pulverization was no longer sustainable (James 46). In 1860, Almarin B. Paul gathered investors to build the first mechanized mill in the region, with 24 stamps (47). Dozens followed Paul’s lead, and by 1861, the year of Clemens’ arrival in Nevada, the Comstock region boasted 76 mills with 1200 stamps, actually exceeding demand (51). In order to haul the one ton of ore that each of these stamps produced every day – as well as the material needed to build new mines – new roads were constructed. One of the most significant of these was the Greiger Grade, which connected the Comstock with what would eventually become the city of Reno and with California (through the same pass in which the Donner Party had perished). Eventually, the Greiger Grade would serve as the route for the transcontinental railroad, completed in 1869 (53). 12 see what moved [him], and what would as surely have moved [the reader] had he been there,” the narrator inserts, verbatim, a Daily Territorial Enterprise letter discussing the Territory’s mining potential. Written in a “calm hand,” expressing a “candid” and “honest opinion,” and based on a “thorough examination,” the letter offers financial statistics to argue that “Humboldt county is the richest mineral region upon God's footstool” (153). Ironically, however, the narrator’s attempts to present his fever as reasonable only serve to underline its “undue elevation” by describing the land’s resources as “profuse,” “immense,” and “incalculable” (153). Even when he’s trying his best to convince his readers that his dreams are realistic, the unquantifiables of romantic rhetoric slip in. Is the tenacity of romance, despite its apparent mismatch with the increasingly sturdy atmosphere of the Nevada Territory, necessarily detrimental? It is certainly possible that Twain trots out his fantasizing silver miner as a practical warning against romanticizing the West. Don’t go dreaming; you’ll miss out on real opportunities, the moral would go. The author might also be cautioning his readers against the mob mentality that leads to participating in such myth making; after all, Twain is well known for lampooning the destructive nature of mass psychologies,18 and the contagion of silver fever in Roughing It is not exempt from satire. However, I would argue that Twain goes beyond reprimanding the dreamer – whether individual or conformist – by critiquing the way dreaming is moralized in the first place. He does this by having his narrator qualify the act of dreaming not as an avoidance of work but rather as “diligent…labor” (219). We often judge dreaming as passive, and this judgment allows critics to assume that the 18 Twain’s critique of mob mentality is perhaps most apparent in “The United States of Lyncherdom,” written in 1901 but not published until 13 years after the author’s death. 13 narrator’s one-time acknowledgment that “all that glitters is not gold” (162) points to the travelogue’s essentially “anti-romantic” moral. As Richard Slotkin puts it, “Twain's persona perceives that the essential nature of the illusion offered by the Frontier myth is its substitution of easy wealth for the necessity of labor” (518). However, this reading does not engage the narrator’s rejection of his own aphorism, when he insists that he will “go on underrating men of gold and glorifying men of mica” (163). The continual willingness of Twain’s alter-ego to be goaded by new illusions throughout the travelogue, despite recurring recognitions of reality, suggests something more complex than simple “anti-romanticism.” Indeed, Twain makes it a point to show how the romantic imagination, in envisioning the dynamism of the land, sets not just the mind, but also the body in motion. For example, when the narrator’s silver fever leads him to imagine that “the very world reeled under” him, his visions “burst out” so powerfully that they “whirled” him “bodily over in bed” and “jerked [him] to a sitting posture” with the force of an “electric battery.” No idle dreams, the visions of riches here are, quite literally, moving. But this physical movement is not for its own sake. The mining theory of multiple ledges demonstrates that such movement has social and political potential. More than just an institutional regulation, the theory had the power to affect individual social mobility, as well as cultural attitudes about that possibility (James 63). After all, Twain’s Hartford mansion eventually did contain all the things he had dreamed of – including the billiard room. Despite the fact that his miner’s dream had been based on a flimsy understanding of the realities of land regulation, his later accommodations of reality to that dream did ultimately land the author in a higher class. The interconnected issues of mining regulation and social mobility even became wrapped up in the prospect 14 of statehood, which came to be associated with the increasing consolidation of claims under wealthy, well-connected corporations. On Jan. 19, 1864, the electorate overwhelmingly defeated the proposal to make Nevada a state, by four to one (James 64). The vote to maintain Nevada’s territorial status was a vote to maintain the free-wheeling nature of its land and laws, along with the ways such flexibility allowed its populace to move through – or, hopefully, up in – that world. The political sentiments of Nevada’s populace, however, would soon change. Once the easy-access placer sands had disappeared, common men like Clemens began to recognize just how small their chances at striking it rich were. It would take corporate money to purchase the equipment and develop the infrastructure necessary to extract value from deeper mines and harder rocks (James 65-66).19 As the earlier bonanza subsided in 1864 into what miners termed borrasca, small mine owners were hardest hit, and could no longer afford to employ their workers. The general populace began to see the corporations less as enemies and more as saviors – only their capital could make the Comstock prosperous again. Support for corporate intervention was followed by support for federal oversight, and on September 7, 1864, less than eight months after making the opposite decision, the residents of the Nevada Territory voted for statehood. By the end of October, President Abraham Lincoln had signed the 36th state into the Union. This is not to say that statehood – or the solidification of land, tools, and structures – completely eradicated romance. Corporations could use romance, too, but for much different ends than Twain would have preferred. In contrast to the narrator’s 19 For example, the 64-stamp mill built in 1861 by the Washoe Gold and Silver Mining Company No. 1 cost $150,000, or around $4 million in today’s dollars (James 48). When the Ophir Mining Company built a 16-mile road through a pass in the Virginia Range to its mill on Washoe Lake, it cost $600,000, or almost $16 million today. 15 generally unsuccessful efforts to temper his tenacious romanticism with realism, others tried to bolster their claims to the real with superficial applications of the ideal. For instance, built in 1863, the Gould and Curry Mine – a 60-acre complex of offices, shops, stables, and laborers’ cottages – could easily have been mistaken for “the mansion of some wealthy land-owner rather than a mill built in a barren district to crush silver ore” (Lord 124–128). According Eliot Lord’s 1883 Comstock Mining and Miners, such architectural extravagance and financial indulgence – including a 50-foot fountain complete with water-nymphs and swans – were the products of imagination run amok. That “the economy was not a popular study” with the mines’ managers is “in no way surprising,” he writes, since “[m]en walked the streets of Virginia City as if pacing the roof of a fathomless treasure house, and their heads were constantly in the clouds.” Because “the fancy of the imaginative ran wild,” Lord concludes, “all prudent considerations were laughed to scorn” (125). The irony in this case is that if the romantic imagination enabled the construction of the ornate mine, it simultaneously shut down any acceptance of future flexibility. Instead, James asserts, the elaborate mill shows that mine owners wanted not only “to control the entire process of mining and milling” but also that, in the hope of attracting investors, they “wished to project an image of permanent prosperity” (51). The projection of permanence – even if it originated in idealized visions – onto the landscape through such architectural feats as the Gould and Curry complex represents a larger pattern of stabilization, corporatization, and regulation within the mining industry. It is just such permanence that Twain’s narrator – and a nation anxious about the end of the frontier – seeks to avoid. If dreaming counts as labor, and if the flexibility of 16 the landscape inspires such work, the corporatization of the Territory would preclude the functioning of the romantic imagination, along with its social work of inspiring change and progress. As such, Twain’s persona, having seen the writing on the wall, responds by habitually abandoning those fields that shut down his imagination’s work. Following the loss of his neglected claim, the narrator works in a quartz mill, and then promptly quits. In a letter to his brother, Clemens justified this decision by claiming that “It is a confining business, and I will not be confined, for love nor money” (Morris 92). By challenging such structured approaches to the West, Twain’s alter-ego provides his reader with a vagabond model for reading the West – one that navigates between ideal and real perspectives, ultimately affirming the power of the romantic imagination to foment social movement. Twain’s narrator fails to be moved by any subject which is not itself in motion. Invigorated by the very unsteadiness of the land beneath his feet, Twain’s alter- ego freely project fantasies onto the mining territory. These fantasies physically move the narrator by heightening his view of his own potential social position on that land. After all, even though the narrator recognizes that mines are essentially “holes in the ground over imaginary mines,” he also knows that represent real, “salable” stock. The value of the geographical fantasy in the late 19th century West, then, is in its physical and social flexibility. Thus, while Twain certainly is, as Alan Gribben and Jeffrey Melton characterize him, a “man en route out of his comfortable element” (xix), I suggest that Twain actually does find comfort in the supposedly uncomfortable openness of the West, precisely because such openness does not foreclose on social possibility. While Twain’s Prefatory claims that Roughing It narrates the “curious episode” of silver mining in Nevada, discussed above, it turns out that this stereotypically western 17 pursuit of mineral riches occupies only seven of the travelogue’s 79 chapters. The relegation of Twain’s silver career to such a small portion of his travelogue is in keeping with the Territory’s mining trends. By 1870, two years before Roughing It was finally published,20 only 42% of Virginia City’s male workforce was still employed in the mining industry, down from 71.4% ten years earlier (James 92). The short-lived nature of the narrator’s work as a miner is also, however, in keeping with the value he places on movement, whether geographical, imaginative, or social. As such, the disillusion Twain and Higbie suffer after their blind lead is claimed by another company is but momentary. Embracing the notion that he can always say that he “was absolutely and unquestionably worth a million dollars, once, for ten days,” the narrator quickly moves on from his quashed visions of carriages, brownstones, and trips to Europe, simply by asking himself, “What to do next?” (220). After failing to succeed in his initial get-rich-quick scheme, the narrator’s question looks like a straightforward symptom of any number of maladies: a lack of concentration, an absence of desire to work, a general sense of restlessness, or a need for constant stimulation and adventure. After all, the Rev. Dr. Henry Bellows’ conclusion that “Sensation is the lifeblood” of Comstock miners might lead us to believe that Twain’s alter-ego is simply looking for a new occupation with a “feverish nature” 20 Twain’s travels had extended to the Sandwich Islands (what we now know as Hawaii) and Europe after he departed from the West in 1866. The former trip was included in Roughing It; the latter provided fodder for The Innocents Abroad (1869). It was only after the success of Innocents that Clemens signed a contract for a second book, which would be Roughing It, with Elisha Bliss. It had been so long since his western adventures, however, that Clemens wrote to his brother Orion, "Have you a memorandum of the route we took… Do you remember any of the scenes, names, incidents, or adventures of the coach trip? … [F]or I remember next to nothing about the matter. Jot down a foolscap page of items for me … I suppose I am to get the biggest copyright, this time, ever paid on a subscription book in this country" (Clemens, “SLC to Orion Clemens, 15 July 1870”). 18 (Stille 209).21 But after reviewing Twain’s reframing of the romantic imagination as constituting socially progressive labor, we can now see that asking “What next?” amounts to a strategic search for new arenas that will accommodate that work. Twain’s mining failures inevitably give way to other opportunities for striking it rich. All the endeavors he takes on – silver mining, the claims business, the quartz mill – fail once they are physically and imaginatively solidified, but each “failure” is ultimately celebrated as productive for a new start. In fact, it is the failure of the Marion Rangers, the rag-tag team of confederate soldiers Clemens joined and fictionalized in “The Private History of a Campaign that Failed” (1885) that allows for Twain to go West in the first place.22 Upon his arrival in the Nevada Territory, Twain’s narrator places his bets not on silver, but on another, decidedly less flashy earthly resource: timber.23 Along with a partner, Twain claims some three hundred acres of timberland on Lake Tahoe, with plans to start a wood ranch. Those plans promptly end when Twain accidentally sets fire to the forest that was supposed to make him rich. As he watches his dream of wealth go up in flames, though, our narrator renounces his prior concern with the landscape’s material value by turning his attention to its aesthetic worth. Observing the fire, Twain notes that “Every feature of the spectacle was repeated in the glowing mirror of the lake! Both 21 Bellows, president of the Sanitary Commission and a Unitarian minister in San Francisco, used the “fever” metaphor to characterize Nevdans’ mob-like support of the Sanitary Fund. See note 26 for an explanation of Twain’s involvement with the Sanitary Commission. 22 John Bird rightly surmises that the pervasive confusion about geographical direction in “Private History” points to a much larger confusion about both war itself and the genre of war writing, ultimately suggesting that the campaign’s “failure” is actually a success in its denial of any “great cause” as a rationale for war’s inhumanities (7). 23 That Twain pursues timber before silver does well in placing him in the chronology of the Comstock Lode, as it was not until Nevada mining operations had advanced from the open-pit to the square-set timbering method that timber became a particularly lucrative resource. Indeed, the new system “sounded the death knell for thousands of acres of Sierra forest” (James 55). 19 pictures were sublime, both were beautiful; but that in the lake had a bewildering richness about it that enchanted the eye and held it with the stronger fascination” (140).24 In this moment, Twain has transitioned from one realm of prospecting – mining the landscape for its material value – to another – beholding the “fine view” offered by the landscape’s aesthetics. J.H. Beadle, in his 1873 The Undeveloped West chides his “romantic readers” for defining “prospect” in terms of a beautiful panorama, insisting that they re-orient their conception of the word in a westerly direction to mean a camp of miners (330). Twain, having already been down that shaft, suggests an opposing move. Easily dismissing his economic loss for an aesthetic gain, the narrator pivots from envisioning the land’s rich objective resources to envisioning its rich subjective beauty. Through his fascination with the reflection of the fire more than the fire itself, Twain reiterates his belief in flexible notions of re-presentation that allow for movement and change. If Twain’s silver fever produced idealized visions of the material value of the western landscape, his visions of that landscape’s aesthetic resources result in equally romantic fantasies about its aesthetic value. Just as the narrator’s below-ground mining adventures produce high- flown visions of the territory’s riches that are repeatedly stifled by the solidifications of the mining industry, his mountaintop perspectives of the land’s aesthetic wealth are inevitably brought down to earth with a disillusioning zoom in on the realities to be found at ground-level. The Aesthetic Value of Western Land: Picture, Portrait, and Perspective In a seemingly chaotic pattern, Roughing It includes both heightened, dream-like pictures of the undeveloped western landscape’s beauty and close-up portraits of that 24 Additionally, Twain’s appreciation of the burning image of the forest reflects others’ recognition of lumber’s aesthetic properties in other realms, as later visitors to the Comstock mines commented that the underground structures resembled buried cathedrals (James 56). 20 same land that uncover its actual imperfections. In contrast to the narrator’s earlier critique of the increasing rigidity of western mining practices for disabling the romantic imagination, Twain’s alter-ego censures romantic western aesthetic representations for neglecting reality. Ultimately, I suggest, the narrator’s aesthetic ambiguity, in which he moves between mountaintop romance and ground-level realism serves informative, entertainment, and social purposes. The narrator of Roughing It introduces his reader to the beauty of the West from on high, as he looks down on the region from various perches above the sprawling land. In these elevated scenes, like those that take place in the depths of mines, Twain offers a distanced view that enables his imagination free reign to romanticize the land. For example, from the “airy situation” of Virginia City, located in the Sierra Nevada mountain range, the narrator notes that one could look over a vast, far-reaching panorama of mountain ranges and deserts; and whether the day was bright or overcast, whether the sun was rising or setting, or flaming in the zenith, or whether night and the moon held sway, the spectacle was always impressive and beautiful…Look from your window where you would, there was fascination in the picture. At rare intervals – but very rare – there were clouds in our skies, and then the setting sun would gild and flush and glorify this mighty expanse of scenery with a bewildering pomp of color that held the eye like a spell and moved the spirit like music. (229-230) No matter the circumstance, according to the idealized picture of Twain’s alter-ego, the West is “fascinating,” “bewildering,” and “spell”-binding. As in the depictions of the material value of the blind lead, those of the aesthetic value of the land contain little in the way of objective “information” to “regret”: we are not offered any measurements of this apparently unquantifiable “mighty expanse,” nor does Twain’s persona attempt to scientifically limit his description to a single, precise moment in time, weather condition, 21 light exposure, or even window choice. Instead, his view is both literally and figuratively “airy,” relying solely on the romantic imagination of the beautiful western “spectacle” far below him. The narrator’s “fascination” with this “picture,” then, succeeds in avoiding the “metaphysics” of reality he believes the reader would find distasteful, and fulfills his promise to “help the resting reader while away an idle hour” with dreamy views of “our” West. This idealized perspective, however, would not necessarily be qualified as “romantic,” according to William Dean Howells, perhaps the nation’s most staunch advocate of realism. Quoting Spanish realist Armando Palacio Valdes, Howells insists in his Criticism and Fiction (1891) that, even if “romantic, symbolic, or classic poets” appear to have “modified nature,” “they are as much realists as ourselves” as long as “they have expressed her [as] they felt her” (Ch. XIII). Moreover, Howells points out, such supposedly heightened expression is a truthful response to “this new world of ours.” For Howells, a stubbornly optimistic view like that of Twain’s persona – in which even the clouds add to the sublimity of the scene – is an authentic portrayal of “the more smiling aspects of life,” which he explicitly defines as “the more American.” Claiming not to “boast,” Howells explains that the relative absence of “sin and suffering and shame” in American literature can be explained simply by “our well-to-do actualities” (Ch. XXI). In this view, then, the unfailing beauty of the Virginia City vista is not only grounded in reality, but in a particularly American reality that is always already perfect. Other critics, of course, would protest Howells’ realist reading of this clearly idealized scene as deluded, including Mark Twain himself. For instance, as a fledgling reporter for the Alta California, Twain critiqued as decidedly unrealistic an artistic 22 rendering of a panorama very similar to his own in Roughing It. The painting was probably Albert Bierstadt’s 1864 “The Valley of Yosemite,” which depicts a dream-like landscape of dramatic cliffs, a placid lake, and a glowing horizon. Noting that “the outlines of Mr. Bierstadt’s mountains are soft and rounded and velvety,” suggesting a “great improvement on nature,” Twain labels the painting a fictional “picture” rather than an “accurate” “portrait” (Mark Twain’s Travels with Mr. Brown 250–251).25 Likewise, Twain mocks impressionism, which had begun in France in the 1860s and spread to America in the 1880s, for its “portrayal of a fancy only” (“Instructions in Art” 127). In a 1903 issue of Metropolitan Magazine, Twain’s “Instructions in Art” provides his own laughably childish drawings in order, supposedly, to help his readers cultivate their own art critical skills. Carefully explaining these drawings, Twain confirms that a picture that looks vaguely like a woman dancing with a tambourine “has no actual and active existence” that we could perceive with our “fleshy vision.” Despite all “the tools of distance and perspective” that aim to convince us otherwise, he says, we can tell that the picture is not “from real life.” In the realm of literature, too, Twain reveals himself as an antagonist to romantic visions of nature – especially those created by James Fenimore Cooper, who had originated the genre of the historical frontier romance. In “Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses” (1895), Twain expresses a general disdain for the author’s propensity for the “improbability” of “miracles,” demonstrating special concern for Cooper’s misunderstanding of the land. “If Cooper had any real knowledge of Nature's ways of doing things,” Twain quips, “he had a most delicate art in concealing the fact.” 25 Twain was consistent in his dislike of Bierstadt, denigrating his work in his 1872 English Journals as unnatural “nightmares,” especially in contrast to the “intense reality” of works by Gustave Doré (Mark Twain’s Letters, Volume 5 617). Recent scholars like William H. and William N. Goetzmann have likewise analyzed Bierstadt as a “sightseer in quest of the picturesque” whose “idealized canvases” depicted America’s expanding western empire as a “wonderland” (204, 201). 23 For example, a “broken twig” in Cooper’s works becomes an ever-present “stage property” that always seems to function as a battle cry, while a stream suddenly and inexplicably narrows from fifty to twenty feet. Twain, who had long ago developed his own exceptional observational skills as a riverboat pilot, is offended by Cooper’s “inadequacy as [an] observer.” According to Twain, the romantic Cooper’s apparent inability to abide by “the eternal laws of Nature” is due to the fact that he lacks the vision to see reality, perceiving “nearly all things as through a glass eye, darkly.” Twain’s sporadic interjections of aesthetically realistic perceptions into his narrator’s often illusory views of his landscape are essentially an extension of his critiques of Bierstadt and Cooper’s idealization of frontier spaces. Many chapters after the narrator’s initial picturesque rendering of the vista above, we see him begin to sweep the glitter from his eyes by interrogating the tools of his own imagination. In California, for instance, Twain’s alter-ego explains that the mountains “are imposing in their sublimity and their majesty of form and altitude, from any point of view.” As with his vantage on Virginia City, any perspective affords a beautiful spectacle. Here, however, the narrator qualifies his vision: to get the most “charm” out of this panorama, he comments, “requires distance” (304, italics original). The removed stance, he recognizes, serves to “soften” the terrain’s “ruggedness” and “encrich” its “tintings.” Another example of this recognition occurs just a few pages later. As the narrator approaches San Francisco through a mountain pass, he acknowledges the impact of altitude on the picture he sees before him, explicitly connecting the aesthetics of the landscape to his geographical vantage point: As he “looked down as the birds do,” he admits that the scene – “a dreamy, exquisite glimpse of fairyland” – is “all infinitely softened and 24 spiritualized by distance” (308). By equating his outlook on the Valley to a bird’s-eye view, Twain’s persona identifies his own rose-colored glasses. Any vision, he indicates, would be blurred into a “fairyland” from such a remote perspective. Once Twain’s alter-ego has come down to earth, we can begin to see the West from a more realistic perspective. Such views are “little graced with the picturesque” (265). Objectively speaking, the conflict is easily explained by considering the narrator’s geographical perspective. Whereas his “fairyland” pictures are generally viewed from mountaintops that allow the viewer to see a “mighty expanse,” his fact-based portraits are normally launched from the ground, where vision is more circumscribed. From this angle, the “expanse” is not “mighty,” but rather “unpretending.” This western “reality,” according to the Twain’s persona, is primarily characterized by lack: a lack of variety, a lack of beauty, and a lack of life. Unlike a heightened view that features various landscapes – “mountains and plains and valleys” – a limited “near view” reveals only a “ceaseless” “sameness.” For instance, “close at hand,” the narrator notes a “sad poverty of variety in species” of trees (304). In addition to its monotony, Roughing It’s close-ups reveal the territory’s ugliness. Twain’s alter-ego notes, for example, that “a grassy plain in California…is best contemplated at a distance, because although its grass blades are tall, they stand up vindictively straight and self-sufficient, and are unsociably wide apart, with uncomely spots of barren sand between.” Finally, a ground-based perspective uncovers the fact that the landscape is full of death. Unlike the liveliness of the land according to the narrator’s romantic perceptions, his realistic takes are lifeless: a California forest is carpeted “dead spines of… foliage,” an alkali desert in Utah contains a “lifeless silence,” and “dust-coated” skeletons dot paths throughout the travelogue (304, 25 143).. This realistic combination of uniformity, unseemliness, and morbidity imbues the western spaces of Roughing It with an air of “melancholy” and “solemnity,” such that, like Twain’s alter-ego himself, even the “foliage” seems to “complain” (265, 304). Twain’s narrator explicitly comments on the mismatch between the depressing facts he finds at ground level and the uplifting fantasies he sees from afar. For example, when he gets to Utah’s Great Salt Lake, he laments, “…we had dreamed about it and thought about it, and talked about it, and yearned to see it, all the first part of our trip; but now when it was only arm's length away it had suddenly lost nearly every bit of its interest” (112). Later, Twain’s persona philosophizes, “The poetry was all in the anticipation – there is none in the reality” (143). Just as Twain’s frustration with the realities of the increasingly managed mining industry pointed to not only to a superficial desire for change and adventure but also to more serious concerns about social mobility, his contrasting denunciation of the romanticization of the West – whether Bierstadt’s velvety “picture” or Cooper’s “miraculous” literature – was not just a stylistic preference, but also a social message. His conflicting views of the aesthetics of the West – stunningly gorgeous from afar and despairingly uninviting up close – serve three purposes. First, the combination of fantasy and fact works to render an informative understanding of the West that is authentic in its reflection of the constantly changing nature of both landscapes (in their elevation, geology, flora and fauna, development, etc.) and humans’ reactions to them. By imagining this space as a place that accommodates both the ideal and the real, Twain’s changing perspectives produce a comprehensive 26 conception of the frontier, so that readers can begin to gain a more holistic understanding of the West’s ups and downs. Second, the narrator’s alternating real and romantic perspectives offer the excitement of movement necessary to a dynamic, entertaining character and plot. Twain’s persona, in parallel to the author’s reader, is easily bored. As the narrator puts it, “…the idea of coming to a stand-still and settling down to a humdrum existence in a village was not agreeable, but on the contrary depressing…” (157). Twain’s alter-ego, in fact, becomes physically unstable exactly where his footing should technically be the most secure, on the sturdy forest floor. At ground-level, he “feels like a wandering spirit bereft of a footfall,” without substance or direction (304). As with the world-shaking visions induced by his alter-ego’s mineshaft silver-fever, Twain’s narrator appears to be most satisfied when he is enveloped in the dynamism that accompanies his romantic imagination of the land, which he most often finds at geographical extremes. Twain’s persona, then, appears to be in it for the adventure: even looking back, he tells the reader, “it thrills me through and through to think of the life, the gladness and the wild sense of freedom that used to make the blood dance in my veins on those fine overland mornings!” (48). In opposition to his critique of Bierstadt, then, Twain’s narrator repeatedly returns to the extreme spaces that afford a romantic picture of the Territory. The views of the western landscape from such vantage points enable the “spirit” not to “wander” aimlessly as a disreputable vagabond might, but rather to “move” like “music,” with the purpose of an unpredictable yet productive migrant (230). The comparison of the spirit’s movement to music – a lyrical, impassioned, subjective art form – appears to fit neatly into Twain’s imaginative, airy reverie. However, while music is often 27 categorized as art, it also, of course, relies on scientific forms that give it both structure and purpose. It is no coincidence, then, that it is not the sturdy notion of the scientific close-up of the western landscape that produces spiritual movement for the narrator. As the Prefatory warned us, such “information” would only serve to “afflict” the reader. Instead, Twain uses the metaphor of music to imply that “metaphysics” can – and should – be incorporated into forms typically thought of as entertaining rather than educational. The picturesque scene on which Twain’s persona gazes, then, is certainly “moving” emotionally. But if this visionary guise allows the reader to believe the author is fulfilling his promise to help us maintain our state of “rest,” it also enables Twain to “move” the reader away from his ingrained habits of reading the West in only its mythical, romanticized sense and toward a new, more purposeful reading of the West that begins to question those myths even as it invokes them. In this way, Twain has slyly inserted the “facts” he would regret – complaining foliage, mining regulations – into a more fantastic narrative – peerless sunsets, golden riches – in order to prompt his readers to appreciate an authentic land and landscape that is “moving” precisely in its incoherence. Finally, Twain’s aesthetic movements between fact and fantasy serve a social function, pointing to Twain’s recognition that the way in which the frontier was represented had the potential to have real effects on real people. Twain felt this potential on a personal level on at least one occasion. Having depicted the Nevada Territory with glowing terms in letters to his sister Pamela Moffett, Twain was surprised when she responded with an announcement of her “inclination” to come West herself to see such an 28 awesome space. Desperate to convince her that his depictions of the Territory in his letters to her had been heavily romanticized, he scolds her: Don’t you know that people who always feel jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them—who have the organ of Hope preposterously developed—who are endowed with an uncongealable sanguine temperament—who never feel concerned about the price of corn—and who cannot, by any possibility, discover any but the bright side of a picture— are very apt to go to extremes, and exaggerate, with 40-horse microscopic power? (Clemens, “SLC to Jane Lampton Clemens and Pamela A. Moffett”) Twain’s own tendencies toward the romantic, it turns out, often depend on the author’s assumption that his readers will exercise realistic skepticism in regarding his idealized pictures, and is appalled when his sister fails to recognize his satire. Indeed, while he acknowledges that his audience is human in its desire to romanticize western landscapes – and, by extension, their own potentials on those landscapes – he simultaneously demands that they recognize the realities on the ground. Ultimately, Twain’s mocking of his narrator’s dreamy panorama, then, hints at a more profound cultural critique of the correlation between romanticism and distance. When Albert Bierstadt painted “The Valley of the Yosemite” in 1864, he did so in his New York studio, one year after his trip to the West. He had written to a friend that Yosemite constituted a Garden of Eden, and used such divine inspiration not only to give the painting the “freshness of studies executed in the field” but also to cultivate a market in the East for pictures of the West (Davis 80). Bierstadt’s “The Valley of the Yosemite” sold for $1600 at the Metropolitan Sanitary Fair,26 the highest price paid for a painting at 26 Coincidentally, Twain had also been famously involved in the Sanitary Commission, the forerunner of the American Red Cross that received its national charter in 1861. Whereas metropolitan areas like New York organized elaborate fairs and auctions to solicit funds in support of Union troops during the Civil War, rural territories like Nevada arranged the selling of a flour sack to raise money. When the town of Dayton outbid Carson for the sack, Twain wrote an “explanatory” article alleging that the Ladies of Carson 29 that sale.27 The view from afar – whether it be the top of a peak or the other side of the country – was a lucrative one, offering increases in both emotional and economic capital. Of course, Twain himself was not immune to such opportunism. Capitalizing on the success of The Innocents Abroad, he wrote Roughing It nearly four years after his departure from the Territory, 2,500 miles away, in Buffalo, New York. Although Twain’s inclusion of his narrator’s romantic perspectives in Roughing It can easily be equated with Bierstadt’s as exploitative, his travelogue’s addition of realistic views of the West indicates that the author aims to prompt his readers’ to analyze more intimately the western fantasies being hawked at the time. If the narrator’s gilded description of the landscape reflects the version of a region the American psyche had claimed and idealized, from afar, in order to soothe its own anxieties about the nation’s postbellum future,28 his unadorned visions of that same land charge his readers with recognizing its realities, including the possibility not only that the West is not always pretty but also that it might not solve all America’s problems. The alternative to a romanticism based on distance, for Twain, is a realism based on experience. Unlike the ethereal perspective of many 19th century landscape artists that remove the reader’s duty to more closely inspect the facts at ground-level, Twain, despite his promise to the audience of Roughing It that the book will enable him to “while away an idle hour,” does diverted the funds to the Miscegenation Society. Joe B. Fulton explains the complicated personal and political motivations surrounding the situation, which concluded with Twain fleeing Nevada at the prospect of several duels (72–81). 27 By 1865, Bierstadt had sold a much larger, even more grandiose work, “The Rocky Mountains, Leader’s Peak,” for $25,000. The sale set a record price for an American painting. 28 Richard Slotkin has famously argued that the “myth of the frontier” replaces concerns about economic and social issues with myths surrounding the discovery of new land and the dispossession of Indians. In this way, Americans were able to "avoid recognition of the perilous consequences of capitalistic development in the New World" (47). 30 in fact force his readers to accommodate the travelogue’s pesky inclusion of “information.” Following the author’s satire, in “Instructions in Art,” of the idea that his “students” can “learn all that is valuable about Art without knowing how it happened, and without any sense of strain or effort” (126), Twain insists that some work is indeed necessary – that we must acknowledge reality, even if that reality is disheartening. Better yet, the author pushes his reader to face facts precisely because such acknowledgments can serve to spur the labor of the romantic imagination, which might work to envision change. For Twain, the point of dreaming was to eventually bring poetry to reality, through optimistic dreams that use elements of reality to compose romantic visions. Whereas the author criticized Cooper’s romanticism for failing to provide a “thrill” due to its miraculous character, Twain wants to “thrill” his readers with a balanced style that is believable in its realistic details yet still exciting in its capacity to imagine the potentials of those facts. In the next section, I investigate more closely how Twain moves from the collection of western worth – material and aesthetic – to the creation of western value, by combining both information and imagination in his own unique brand of American writing. The Cultural Value of Western Land: Information, Imagination, and Influence The national anxiety around the turn of the century about the status – or even existence – of “American” literature makes it difficult to place Twain, especially in a western work like Roughing It, securely in that context. By his 70th birthday party in 1905, attended by everyone from Charles Chesnutt to Willa Cather, it was clear that Twain had joined the ranks of the literary: the New York Times commented in its leading 31 story the day after the celebration that “never before in the annals of this country had such a representative gathering of literary men and women been seen under one roof” (“Celebrate Mark Twain’s Seventieth Birthday”). But the heads of those ranks often doubted the talents of their own membership. For example, although William Dean Howells, as a young assistant to the editor of the Atlantic, gave The Innocents Abroad a favorable review upon its publication in 1869, Ron Powers points out that Howell’s choice to praise such an “impious” book was a “daring” one, since Innocents “lampooned much of what the magazine stood for” (3). The danger of the review from the future “Dean of American Letters” lay in the fact that it was heralding a change – the death of the Victorian novel and the rise of realism – that not everyone was ready for. While F.O. Matthiessen would later proclaim an American Renaissance initiated by many of Twain’s contemporaries,29 Howells regarded many of those authors as threatening to rather than promising for American literary culture. In “Literary Boston as I Knew It,” Howells dismissed their work as “marred by the intense ethicism that pervaded the New England mind for two hundred years and that still characterizes it.” As a result, he announced, “New England yet lacks her novelist, because it was her instinct and her conscience in fiction to be true to an ideal of life rather than to life itself” (117). And if New England was without a literature, America at large was out of luck. In many ways, Mark Twain appears to have been well positioned to insert himself into the perceived absence of an adequately unique American literature that embraced Howells’ advocacy for replacing the “ideal grasshopper” with the “real” one. To begin with, the author’s home state of Missouri – added to the United States through the 29 Matthiessen includes Walt Whitman, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Herman Melville, and Nathaniel Hawthorne in his American Renaissance (1941). 32 Louisiana Purchase only about 30 years prior to Clemens’ birth – placed him at a physical remove from the staid ideals and ethics Howells found so damaging to New England writers. By extension, such a “western” starting point gave Twain literary license to tackle all “that was new and strange,” both in terms of content and style (Roughing It 30). When Twain went even further West, to find the adventures of “life itself,” then, he was “lighting out” for a region that had not been cultured by the eastern aristocratic mores that many regarded as a legacy of Europe. In avoiding the old, “proper” literary authorities, Twain foreshadowed his own Huck Finn, who would escape the similarly “sivilizing” influence of Aunt Sally (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 268). Twain’s western journey thus reflects his condemnation of artists like James Fenimore Cooper and Albert Bierstadt for their outdated romanticism – a critique Sydney Krause calls “a plea for readers to accept the verdict of history that old-style romanticism…was a literary dead letter in post-Civil War America” (134). Rather than looking back, Shelly Fisher Fishkin explains, Twain attended to the details of the nation’s present realities: from his use of dialect,30 to his engagement with racial politics, to his technological inventiveness, “Twain zeroed in on many of the key challenges… that would face his country and the world for the next hundred years.” In the end, Twain’s investment in such issues would earn him pronouncements from the likes of Ernest Hemingway that “All American writing” originates with Twain.31 30 As Ralph Ellison wrote in “Going to the Territory,” Twain “transformed elements of regional vernacular speech into a medium of uniquely American literary expression and thus taught us how to capture that which is essentially American in our folkways and manners. For indeed the vernacular process is a way of establishing and discovering our national identity” (Ellison 138). 31 The quote comes from Green Hills of Africa (1935), and refers specifically to Huckleberry Finn (22). Hemingway was no alone in citing Twain as the progenitor of the first distinctly “American” literature. For example, in 1996, authors ranging from Toni Morrison to Arthur Miller to Kurt Vonnegut wrote laudatory introductions to the works collected in the newly published 29 volumes of the Oxford Mark 33 Characteristically, Twain had no doubt about his own national cultural importance, even if his contemporaries did: in response to the question, “Are you American?,” he scribbled in a notebook: “No, I am not an American. I am the American” (qtd. in Fishkin, Lighting out for the Territory 8). As much as Twain took on the mantle of the American realism, however, he was not prepared to leave behind the European romantic “cult of sensibility.” While Twain became famous for his mockery of European “masterpieces” in The Innocents Abroad, that travelogue contained just as many lampoonings of American culture as it did European, and, ultimately, his trip was spurred by no small amount of curiosity about and respect for the Old World. We can see this respect clearly in Twain’s reverence for Oxford, where he traveled in 1907 to receive an honorary doctorate, despite his own vow that he was through with transoceanic travel. “I never expected to cross the water again,” he said, “but I would be willing to journey to Mars for that Oxford degree” (Paine 1379). He would wear his Oxford gown to his daughter’s wedding. Twain’s appreciation for the European is also clear from his choice of domestic furnishings, including his renowned walnut bed, complete with angel-topped columns, which he bought in Venice in 1878. That Twain admired European intellectual institutions and talents in carpentry, of course, suggests a broader appreciation for its culture, including the literary tradition of the romance. Despite Twain’s own frequent insistence on attending to the facts on the ground, he often apologized for realism’s abundance of “information,” and opted for the fantasies associated with romance instead. Twain. In 2010, media outlets like NPR celebrated the 100th anniversary of Clemens’ death with re- affirmations of the author’s continuing importance. 34 Twain’s simultaneous engagement in seeking out new American literary traditions and acknowledging his indebtedness to European ones makes evident what Karen Halttunen identifies as the cultural flux of the mid- to late-19th century (20). Twain’s dual investment also follows in the footsteps of Nathaniel Hawthorne, who write in “The Custom House,” the introduction to The Scarlet Letter (1850), that romantic fiction should fall “somewhere between the real world and fairy land, where the Actual and the Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other” (Hawthorne 43). In exploring the relatively broad “somewhere” of this middle ground, Twain opposes the conception of culture as “high art” that Matthew Arnold promoted as “sweetness and light” in his Culture and Anarchy, published just six years before Roughing It (xvii). Rather than placing culture on a fixed pedestal as “a study of perfection” (xvi), Twain understands culture as a perpetually developing experiment. This fluctuating combination of fact and fantasy aligns with Raymond Williams’ definition of “culture” itself. Rooted in the Latin colere, “culture” in all its early uses was significant as “a noun of process: the tending of something” (87, italics mine).32 As we have seen in the rotations of the narrator’s informed and imagined views of the land’s wealth and beauty in the previous two sections, Roughing It demonstrates this process of cultural creation. The romantic and realistic experiences of Twain’s persona with mineshaft gold and mountaintop panorama enact the vagabondizing that is cultural change. Twain’s narrator is not entirely on board with the pre-fabricated, “civilized” 32 The tensions surrounding how humans developed culture became clear during the Romantic movement. During this period, Williams explains, “culture” was initially used, Huck-like, “as an alternative to the orthodox and dominant ‘civilization,’” and later used “to attack what was seen as the mechanical character of the new civilization emerging” in the Industrial age. In other words, at this point, “culture” was used “to distinguish between ‘human’ and ‘material’ development” (89). Either way, though, culture is not static or fixed, but rather a dynamic, active, development always in process. 35 romantic literature dragged across the Atlantic Ocean to New England, and then across the Mississippi to the West. But neither is he yet able to formulate an entirely new, entirely realistic American style. Instead, Twain’s narrator sets out in Roughing It to form his own “cult of experience” based on “life itself,” even if that life consisted of both the real and the ideal (30). As such, Twain presents his alter-ego as searching both high and low for that which will move his imagination. While we can see the author’s inchoate ideas about the negotiation of information through imagination in Roughing It, their full development is more explicitly displayed in Following the Equator (1897), published closer to the height of the realism movement. Here, Twain deftly combines the two movements, praising “Truth” precisely for its ability to move beyond the merely “possible” to which he had insisted Cooper stick. Although Twain depicts his narrator making an effort to locate meaning in both the landscape’s material and aesthetic resources, his ultimate discovery of national identity originates not in the collection of culture, but rather in the creation of it, through the dynamic process of the medium of writing itself. Although he famously mocked the aristocratic European pretensions of the King and the Duke in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Twain was not above mimicking the strategies of certain Old World writers. He chose those authors carefully, however – he was not so interested in carrying on the style of gentried authors like Jane Austen as in following in the footsteps of populist and satirical writers. For example, while working for his brother Orion’s Daily Post in Keokuk, Iowa in 1856, Clemens carried with him a volume of Charles Dickens (Paine 106). From later letters, we know that the young Clemens was also dazzled by the Irish satirist Johnathan Swift. Twain was particularly 36 attracted to their whimsical, imaginative styles, which he used in his attempts to process the dynamic western landscape in Roughing It. In turn, this imaginative management of the land enabled a subtle commentary upon the cultures – or lack thereof – forming on that land. In combination with the American influence of realism, Twain’s use of European influences like Swift allow him to draw on the material and aesthetic resources of the West’s land, while drawing his own cultural visions of those resources back onto that space. We can most clearly see Swift’s influence on Twain in Chapter III of Roughing It, where the narrator inserts a romantic reverie into a prodigious leakage of realistic information about the western novelty of the “sage brush.” Twain’s persona begins with a general description: the sage-brush is “a gnarled and venerable live oak tree reduced to a little shrub two feet high.” This overview is followed by a veritable catalogue of the sage brush’s data points. The narrator methodically describes the plant’s appearance (“grayish green”), its smell (“like our domestic sage”), and its taste (“like the sage tea which all boys are so well acquainted with”) (39). He goes on to detail its hardiness, its topographical tendencies, its measurements, its, and its nutritional value. This epic list of realistic quantifications, however, is sparked by an opposing romantic qualification. Twain’s initial reaction to the sagebrush, in fact, is not to dutifully inform his reader about its dimensions, but rather to share the “lazy” daydream it inspires: Often…I have lain on the ground with my face under a sage-brush, and entertained myself with fancying that the gnats among its foliage were liliputian birds, and that the ants marching and countermarching about its base were liliputian flocks and herds, and myself some vast loafer from Brobdingnag waiting to catch a little citizen and eat him. (38) 37 Twain borrows the diminutive Lilliputian and enormous Brobdignagian figures from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726) to compose this imaginative episode. The vision, however, serves only as a prelude to the sea of vegetative data noted above. Twain uses this data to lull the reader into a semi-vegetative state, allowing the Swiftian fantasy to get lost amongst facts and figures. The sheer volume of “information” aligns clearly with Twain’s Prefatory warning about the author’s inability to “retain [his] facts” despite his stated wish to amuse rather than educate his reader. However, it is precisely in these supposedly amusing segments, hidden within mountains of meaningless scientific figures, that Twain reveals the concerns of his era. As in the narrator’s visions of the region’s material and aesthetic worth, it is the juxtaposition of this information and imagination that tells us the most about the anxieties of the West of the late 19th century. While Twain’s alter-ego might encourage the reader to look at his wandering mind under the sagebrush as evidence of the unproductive laziness inherent in his “variegated vagabondizing” in a lawless frontier that would allow for such indolence, Twain the author uses this daydream to make two more significant points, one about the land itself and the other about the status of American literature and culture in the mid- 19th century. First, the sagebrush vision underlines the massive scope of the land Twain’s narrator encounters, and his psychological reaction to its size. The dream occurs in Nebraska, long before the Clemens brothers have completed their stagecoach journey, when they are in the beginning stages of their awe of the giant empty spaces that continue to unroll before them. In The Void, the Grid, and the Sign, William L. Fox explains that both newcomers to and residents of the Great Basin are inclined to misperceive the void of the desert due to its enormous scale as well as its lack of contrast and verticals, all of 38 which leave us without a means to calibrate the space (The Void, The Grid & The Sign 11–12). One response to such disorientation is to break down the space into small enough pieces to analyze (13). That Twain places himself under the sagebrush suggests a desire to shrink the context in which he resides, compartmentalizing the overwhelming openness of the desert to the more manageable space enclosed by the plant. Such enclosure, Fox points out, can ironically create the illusion of limitlessness, which makes the human body feel larger than it really is. Twain’s narrator expresses this cognitive sensation by picturing himself as a Brobdingnagian giant. Finally, Fox notes the sagebrush as a common frame of reference which allows us to “obtain comfort from the small sliver of the spectrum it delivers to our color-starved eyes.” But if Twain’s persona is pacified by the sagebrush’s wash of color, he is also soothed by the comforting European literary tradition it enables him to call forth. Indeed, a second response to the enormity of western land, according to Fox, is to assign it a symbolic value that allows us to ignore it (13). Ironically, however, when Twain reaches for a symbol to attach to the American West, he lands on a European one. Twain’s comforting daydream, then, also carries a profound sense of discomfort, in that it points to not only a need for orientation at the level of the land, but also to a need for orientation at the level of culture. Imposing an Irish allusion on an American object creates a disjointed picture that illustrates the paucity of American literature that could support Twain’s description of the sagebrush. By re-purposing the Lilliputian and Brobdignagian figures from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels to characterize a particularly western element of the frontier landscape, Twain transports European cultural metaphors to describe American phenomena. As in the narrator’s vision of himself as a European dandy after 39 his discovery of the blind lead, the movements of the imagination betray both enthusiasm for and disappointment in the resources of western space and culture. Anna Farrar Hyde argues in An American Vision that Americans were slow to move away from “powerful European ideals” even as they geographically moved farther away from Europe after the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. But between 1820 and 1920, American explorers, travelers, and tourists gradually developed a new vocabulary to accommodate the “strange, but undeniably spectacular sights” of the Far West (Hyde 9). In doing so, they forged particularly American aesthetic standards (7).33 Ultimately, Hyde contends, it is this “fusion of eastern visions with western realities” that resulted in a “truly national culture in the United States” (11). While Hyde focuses on railroad resort descriptions as evidence for western rhetorical development, the written landscapes in Twain’s Roughing It provide a literary illustration of a similar development. Twain’s work simultaneously celebrates the West as providing a setting distinct from Europe and, contradictorily, uses European standards to qualify that setting. Swift was a particularly appealing candidate for Twain to use as a model due to the Irish satirist’s use of the imagination for more serious reasons than “whiling away an hour.” And these reasons were fresh in the mind of Clemens, who had re-read Gulliver’s Travels in 1869, the year before he began to work seriously on compiling materials into what would become Roughing It. Writing to his wife Livy in March of that year, he noted that he was “much more charmed with it than I was when I read it last, in boyhood—for now I can see what a scathing satire it is upon the English 33 Hyde divides this rhetorical development into three stages. In the early 19th century, the western landscape provided the “history and culture” in which Americans felt lacking in contrast to the Old World. In the middle of the century, still missing any solid New World rhetoric, writers relied on European models to describe the Far West. By the end of the century, Americans were developing new linguistic strategies in close alignment with the western landscape. 40 government; whereas, before, I only gloated over its prodigies & its marvels” (Fischer, Frank, and Armon 132). Like Swift, Twain uses a highly imaginative form that, on the surface, looks like something simply to “marvel” at. According to Robert Hunting, the book’s success34 was partly based on Swift’s contemporaries’ initial view of the book as nothing more than a humorous adventure (96). More recent critics, however, have challenged the idea that Swift’s readers were so naïve.35 Unlike Twain, whose persona often encourages a light-hearted approach to his work as entertainment, Swift bluntly announced that the aim of Gulliver’s Travels was “to vex the world rather than divert it” (Hunting 96). Technically, Twain’s readers were prepared for satire, as many were familiar, by the time Roughing It was published in 1872, with the tone and style established in “Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog” in 1865 and The Innocents Abroad in 1869. However, as with speculations about Swift’s work, those readers were often so distracted by the humor of Twain’s writing that they missed the more serious point. Joe Fulton has been especially critical of scholars who have seen nothing of significance in Twain’s jokes.36 Dennis Todd, in his analysis of Swift, is similarly adamant about the need to acknowledge the power of supposed amusements to divert the reader from the important 34 With marketing help from Alexander Pope, Gulliver’s Travels sold out its first printing in 1726 in just one week. 35 Shef Rogers, for instance, tells us that despite the fact that Swift joked in his letters about his readers’ misinterpretations, the book was recognized as satire in both published and unpublished responses (135). 36 Fulton argues that critics’ failure to acknowledge the significance behind Twain’s superficially humorous jokes has led them to skip over the “traumatic” process of Twain’s transition from “confederate bushwhacker” to the “Lincoln of our literature” (xi). 41 underlying issues.37 Likewise, Twain’s mining of data and seemingly entertaining depiction of dreams and visions like those under the sagebrush work to simultaneously distract the reader from the real satire and goad him to pay closer attention to the truths lying within or behind those only superficially amusing episodes. If Twain was inspired by Swift’s imaginative rendering of European cultural criticism, he was quick to market his own American work as offering diversion rather than vexation, and imagination rather than information. But in doing so, Twain got the best of both worlds: he used his vagabond writing style to charm his readers and critics while using those same tactics to both mimic and mark the material and aesthetic instabilities of the western American landscape. Unlike Cooper’s miraculously inhuman yet improbably coherent romance, Twain’s combination of dreams and details, serious and silly approaches to the land, European and American styles stays true to the ongoing, uncertain process of culture taking place on the land of the Frontier. On the overland stagecoach journey from St. Joseph, Missouri to Carson City, Nevada, Sam and Orion Clemens were permitted to bring along 25 pounds of baggage each, six of which they allotted to an unabridged dictionary (Roughing It 31). Given the tumultuous nature of the trek, the dictionary frequently “assaulted” the passengers, clobbering their bodies as it flew around the careening stagecoach (42). Not just slapstick humor, the dictionary inflicts more than physical damage. A literal representation of the serious “information” for which Twain apologizes in his Prefatory, the tome proves not only bodily injurious and logistically unnecessary38 but also 37 Todd suggests that Swift’s cataloguing of human and animal curiosities in Guillver’s Travels “dramatizes the shifts and scams we go through to avoid becoming conscious of the uncomfortable truths monsters have to tell us” (161). 42 culturally inadequate. The dictionary is rendered moot as soon as the travelers are joined by a western woman who baffles them with her “dislocated grammar and decomposed pronunciation” (34). In order to understand not only the Territory’s speech patterns, but also its larger, similarly “dislocated” culture, the prescribed rules of “civilization” symbolized by the dictionary simply will not suffice. As with the conventions of the dictionary, those of American literary genres, movements, and regions prove at once necessary and inadequate for Twain’s project in Roughing It. Although Twain writes in language intelligible to his mainly eastern audience, he frequently lobs critiques at the dictionary’s failure to accommodate the materials and aesthetics of western land. Although he follows the generic trends of the travelogue – established by authors like Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Powers 203) – he pokes fun at authors who write about faraway locales without leaving home,39 and questions the validity and worth of the “information” the genre was expected to impart. Although Twain often uses the style of the leaders of what would come to be known the American Renaissance, he wrote in an 1866 letter that he regarded all things East as “so far away” as to not “make any difference” (Branch, Frank, and Sanderson 328). And although he was part and parcel of the attempt to conjure up a specifically western American literary mode, he was eager to tear down unsatisfactory efforts by others to do so.40 In sum, it is Twain’s 38 The “poor innocents” learn later that such texts could easily be shipped from San Francisco. 39 In his Prefatory, Twain takes obvious pride in his intimate travel experience by informing his readers that “no books have been written by persons who were on the ground in person and saw the happenings of the time [of silver-mining fever] with their own eyes.” 40 In fact, Bret Harte’s anthology of California poetry, Outcroppings, published in 1866, was so roundly dismissed as “hogwash” that he and Clemens planned to write a burlesque of it (Fulton 109; Branch, Frank, and Sanderson 329). Clemens predicted that such a burlesque would make the “poetical asses here tear 43 experimentation within and pressing against the boundaries of various literary standards that allows him to negotiate information with imagination in a way that attracts and challenges the reader, parallels the vacillations of the West, and, ultimately, produces a new kind of American literary culture. With little other than the informative travelogue, puritanical eastern romanticism, or “slop bucket” western poetry to build upon, Roughing It makes uneasy use of American literary culture while searching for its own Territorial content, style, and form. If Twain deigns to reference an American author, then, he does so with a fair amount of ambiguity. For instance, when Twain’s alter-ego is both fascinated and aggravated by having to “look up at our scenery” after having climbed ten thousand feet up Maui’s Haleakala volcano at the end of the book, he compares the situation to one Edgar Allan Poe described in an 1844 New York Sun article (408). Under the headline “Astounding News by Express, via Norfolk! The Atlantic Crossed in Three Days! – Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying-Machine!!!” the article appears to realistically narrate a transatlantic balloon voyage using authentic, precise details, including an illustrated diagram of the craft and the names of familiar contemporary figures like real-life balloonist Monck Mason. The panorama Poe illustrates from the balloon’s basket, however, is more romantic than realistic: Poe notes that viewing the horizon from a great height produced the illusion of concavity (Edemariam). In Roughing It, Twain characterizes the illusion Poe described as a “singular fraud perpetrated upon the eye by isolated great altitudes” (408). When Twain’s persona first read Poe’s description, he “had looked upon the matter as an invention of his own fancy.” But when the narrator around worse than a pack of wildcats,” but it was pre-empted by Outcroppings, No. 2 (January or February 1866), an advertising stunt by a San Francisco shirt manufacturer, S.W.H. Ward and Son (Branch, Frank, and Sanderson 331). 44 experiences this “fraud” for himself in the West, he overturns his original opinion, and comes to believe in the truth of Poe’s seemingly imagined description. As it turns out, Poe’s truth was imagined. Two days after his article was published with the excitement and detail of real “news,” the Sun’s editors retracted it as “erroneous intelligence,” at which point it came to be known as “The Balloon Hoax” (O’Brien 149–153). This revelation underlines the complexity of the project Twain undertakes in his travelogue. Twain pays Poe a compliment by presenting as real that which was revealed as fictional after it was initially offered as real. Indeed, Bernard Shaw listed Twain and Poe as the only two geniuses America had ever produced (Paine CCLIX), and we know that, at least in his early life, Twain would have agreed with this appraisal of Poe. Along with Dickens and Swift, the young Clemens also carted around the tales of Poe (Paine 106). Forty years later, Twain pinpointed “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” as the only detective story that an “author needn’t be ashamed of” (Gribben 361). Even later, Twain was offended by John A. Joyce’s biography of Poe, which he labeled as “an affront” in its efforts to “disinter Poe’s remains and paw them over” (Ibid.). On the other hand, Twain also wrote plenty of diatribes against Poe, condemning his poetry as “weird, wild, and incomprehensible,” and labeling his prose “unreadable” (Anderson, Frank, and Sanderson 250–51).41 Alan Gribben argues that it is the immature age at which the young Clemens first read Poe’s works that eventually led him to dismiss his literary predecessor. “Because Clemens associated Poe with his own early reading in romances,” Gribben reasons, “he conceivably reacted against Poe, along with other 41 Twain also rebuked Poe on a personal level, denigrating his tendencies to “get booming drunk & sleep in the gutter” (Smith and Gibson 841). 45 romantic authors, as representing a stage of indebtedness he consciously wished to outgrow” (18). Despite his conflicting assessments of Poe, Twain’s use of the author in supporting his vision of the western landscape in the early 1860s is evidence of his continuing, if inconsistent, reliance on a kind of nascent American realism which often showed its romantic roots. In a reversal of Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, which used imaginative fiction to launch an informative cultural critique, Poe’s “Balloon Hoax” used the trappings of informational realism to create what turned out to be an imaginative tale. Poe’s notion, published in the The Opal (1845), that “Some of the most profound knowledge…has originated from a highly stimulated imagination” encapsulates the relationship between romance and realism that he, Swift, and Twain all attempt to grasp (586). When we consider the apology for “information” contained in the Preface of Roughing It, which suggests a similar belief in the necessity of the imagination to produce deeper understandings of reality in the first place, Twain’s later discountings of Poe ring somewhat hollow. That Poe is one of the only American authors the travelogue alludes to indicates that Twain was generally unsatisfied with the repertoire of American influences available to him, and must therefore create his own vagabond style in alignment with the western territories he both informs his readers about and imagines alongside them. As discussed in the chapter’s first two sections, Twain the miner and Twain the aesthete engage in linked but opposing projects: whereas the miner laments the realities that burst his idealized dreams of riches, the aesthete often insists that such realities must play a part in bringing down to earth illusions of the West’s beauty. In this third section, 46 so far, I have outlined the author’s conflicted use of both a Swift-influenced romantic imagination and a Poe-influenced realistic imagination. In experimenting with styles of romance and realism, Europe and America, and fantasy and fact in his efforts to describe the material and aesthetic spaces of the West, Twain’s narrator enacts the process of cultural creation. His shifting visions of the land are accompanied by shifting understandings of himself – as a seeker of the Territory’s wealth, an explorer of its beauty, and a collector, and, finally, creator of its culture – and of his nation. It is only after years of exploring Nevada’s mines and mountaintops from various perspectives that Twain’s persona finally discovers the object of his adventures: he receives a letter offering him the position of city editor for the Virginia Territorial Enterprise. Shouting “Eureka!” (222), the narrator suggests that he has found what he has been missing all along – that the real treasure, both literal and metaphorical, is not to be found in the material or aesthetic resources of the West, but in how recording those sites and sights through innovative, moving authorship, marrying the informative with the imaginative, creates a new type of literature. In short, Twain’s stylistic experimentation in both exploring and representing the West lends to both vocational discovery and cultural creation. By persuading the Alta California newspaper in San Francisco to pay for his passage on the Europe-bound Quaker City, Twain essentially announced his intent to assert himself as a distinctly American author with a distinctly American, distinctly vagabond culture to share with the world. Of course, Clemens had worked for newspapers, including the Hannibal Journal, the Keokuk Post, and the New Orleans Crescent, before he moved West. Shelley Fisher Fishkin categorizes this work as Clemens’ first phase of journalism, when his style 47 ranged from parody to skit to anecdote. During this period, Fishkin argues, Twain “would extract great humor…from a common human failing that would become a central concern in his fiction: literalness, or the tendency to accept without question the surface meaning of a text” (From Fact to Fiction 58–59). His second journalistic period carries that concern into the West, where Twain began to use burlesque in service of larger political and social causes, largely by providing “object lessons” for his reader in “how to approach a text suspiciously” (63). What Fishkin’s analysis of this western period does not take into account, however, is the effect of the land itself on the author’s growth. As Twain’s narrator shows, the fluctuations in the mining industry’s materials and management, as well as the instabilities of the nation’s aesthetic depictions of western territory, force a particularly unsteady accounting of the region’s space. The resources and representations of the West’s geography, I have been suggesting, provided no small degree of inspiration for his writing. After all, it was in the West (San Francisco) that Twain acknowledged his “call” to literature, and in the West (“on the Pacific Coast”) that he says he “started a peculiar and picturesque fashion of lying to myself,” and, of course, in the West (Carson City) that he began using the nom de plume of “Mark Twain” (Branch, Frank, and Sanderson 322; Twain, “License of the Press” 48).42 As such, I see 42 In the most recent issue of the Mark Twain Journal, Kevin Mac Donnell revealed his discovery of the “real” origins of Samuel Clemens’ pen name, Mark Twain, which the author adopted in 1863. The literary news went viral – a rare thing for literary news to do – and was picked up not only by academic outlets like the Los Angeles Review of Books and The Chronicle of Higher Education, but also by publications attracting wider audiences, including Salon, The New Yorker, the Huffington Post, the Atlantic, and, of course, Wikipedia. While previous scholars either have suggested that Clemens took his nom de plume from the bar lingo he developed in Virginia City, Nevada – short for “put two more drinks on my tab” – or have taken Clemens at his word – that he “laid violent hands upon” the nickname of Mississippi riverboat captain Isaiah Sellers after his death – Mac Donnell has found, instead, that Clemens lifted the name “Mark Twain” from a character in a burlesque published in 1861 by the self-styled “Phunny Phellows” of Vanity Fair, a frontier-era humor journal. Mac Donnell argues that Clemens concocted the Sellers story both to build his own branded persona for his growing readership and to avoid associations with the increasingly unpopular humor of Vanity Fair. According to MacDonnell, Clemens’ pen name – and its false attribution – effectively built the Twain brand by “affirming its dual meanings, evoking the storied romance of the 48 the style readers have become familiar with as both particularly Twain-ian and particularly American as dependent on the unique vicissitudes of western land. The beginning of the journalistic career of Twain’s narrator toward the end of Roughing It serves to test the reader on how well we have learned from the travelogue’s previous lessons, which taught us, first, to hold tight to romance in the face of an increasingly rigid reality, and second, to scour fantastical images for the ugly facts they paper over. Twain’s journalist figure presents himself as interested in uncovering “truth” from the outset, but the real moral of his story is that such a truth must balance the real and the ideal, and that finding this balance involves work. The narrator begins his test of the reader with the now-familiar conflict between illusion and disillusion. Although he exclaims that “These were ‘flush times’ indeed!,” he immediately undercuts his own enthusiasm by admitting that, although he “thought they were going to last,” he “somehow…never was much of a prophet” (233). The close proximity of the build up and let down here is funny, of course, but it also acknowledges the value of integrating dreams with realities, and validates the labor that doing so requires. Twain shows us just how easy it is to engage in fantasies wholly detached from facts – and tempts us to do so. For example, when his narrator provides an exhaustive breakdown of information about western resources, including the financial information behind the mining industry, he apologizes, just as he did in his Prefatory, for his facts both explicitly and implicitly, both preceding and during their narration (282). Twain’s alter-ego even warns the reader in advance that this section will be “instructive,” giving him leave to “skip, if he chooses” steam-boating career that was wrested from him by war, and ascribing his debt instead to the timeless mighty Mississippi, which was flowing, after all, at the vital core of Clemens's own life and was the well- spring that nourished the central narrative of Mark Twain's most inspired truths” (38). 49 (281). The author provides yet another excuse for neglecting “information” by relegating his fiscal analysis to a footnote. If we take the extra step of actually reading that footnote, we learn exactly how the mining industry calculates its profits: bullion is accounted for by quarters and years before being aggregated, averaged, and prognosticated “to a spot.” If we put in even more work by continuing to read this apparently secondary information, however, we see that these numbers come not from an infallible document, but rather to the “excellent memory” of a Wells Fargo agent. Finally, the footnote ends with a bracketed note from “M.T.” stating that the figures might be a “considerable overestimate” (283). If Roughing It’s Prefatory makes a point to apologize for any knowledge it might impart that would diminish its readers’ leisure, it would make perfect sense to relegate such potentially educational facts to a footnote. But by also relegating to the footnote the jab at that information, Twain makes another point: that the responsible reader of both the travelogue and of western land will not only take the time to seek out the facts, but also take into consideration the questionable nature of “facts” that are presented as inviolable. It is not easy for “one’s vision [to] pierce through the thick fog of alkali dust” that hovers in the streets of Virginia City (281). That same dust, not coincidentally, collects on the supposedly airtight scales that weigh the miners’ bounty, thereby “impair[ing]” their “delicate” accuracy – “somehow.” By explicitly combining this apparently natural fog with the human-made deception also impairing the “truth,” Twain makes clear the purpose of the odd combination of fantasy and fact we find throughout Roughing It. While the travelogue obviously trades in satire, it also provides serious lessons in how to 50 navigate a western territory that requires an optimistic romance tempered by a more practical realism. Ultimately, the medium of western journalism allows Twain to bring in close proximity the shifting extremes of his prior visions of the landscape’s material and aesthetic values. Albert D. Richardson’s 1867 book Beyond the Mississippi, published five years before Roughing It, categorizes miners into two classes: the “new-comers,” who were “sanguine and cheery, climbing with elastic step, and beguiling the way with song and laughter,” and the “stampeders turning homeward,” who were “convinced that gold digging was hard and unrenumerative, left their packs and shovels behind, and trudged mechanically with downcast woe-begone faces” (201). Published the same year, Two Thousand Miles on Horseback pinpoints exactly zero classes of miners, at least in Colorado. Writing that “Nothing more is left of the gulch miner” in that now- Midwestern state, James F. Meline locates him “eighty or a hundred miles further west, close behind the trapper, whose quiet haunts he invaded” (63). Sixteen years later, Frederick Jackson Turner would remark on a similar procession of pioneers, including fisherman, fur-traders, miners, cattle-raisers, farmers, and, finally, capitalists. In the end, it is this process of not only people and professions on the landscape, but also of how they mentally process that landscape, through information and imagination, that both reflects and creates the West. It is precisely this rough “palimpsest,” in the continual fluctuations of its “living body” of western land, that moves Twain. Both Richardson and Meline, perhaps, were better prophets than Twain, whose vagabond visionary tendencies purposefully and productively continue to fill up any spaces of disillusion with new illusions. Simultaneously, though, Twain's narrator 51 recognizes the realities behind his illusions about the resources held both beneath and above the western landscape. If Twain’s occasional episodes of disillusion reflect the fact that bullion production in some areas was slipping, mining stocks were down, and holdings were defaulting by 1864, the illusions that rise up to take their place are in keeping with the more general fact that the Comstock Lode nevertheless produced nearly $306 million worth of iron ore between 1859 and 1882 – and that America did indeed achieve its Manifest Destiny, for better or worse (Marschall). Like Turner, who condemns as a “rash prophet” anyone who might “assert that the expansive character of American life has now entirely ceased” with the end of the frontier (24), the perpetual determination of Twain’s imagination serves to critique those who would equate disillusion with conclusive failure. Because the “dominant fact” of American life had been “movement,” Turner predicts, “the American energy will continually demand a wider field for its exercise” despite the fact that the “gifts of free land” are no longer available (Ibid.). In a similar vein, Twain asks his readers to consider the possibilities ahead, which arise not necessarily out of disappointments or disillusions, but rather out of an energetic interest in and movement through the “wider field.” By continually moving his visionary scope, looking at western resources from on high, from down low, and from everywhere in between, Twain forges not only a vagabond imagination that both reflects and reinscribes the variegations taking place in the West itself, but also a fresh brand of American authorship that both is informed by and challenges the literary culture in which it participates. 52 Conclusion: The Value of the Vagabond When Twain attempts to describe his relief after crossing 23 miles of alkali desert near the beginning of Roughing It, he admits that “we were glad, for the first time, that the dictionary was along, because we never could have found language to tell how glad we were in any sort of dictionary but an unabridged one with pictures in it (117). When he tries to find the words to describe his mules’ exhaustion, though, he admits that “there could not have been found in a whole library of dictionaries language sufficient to tell” of their thirst. “To try to give the reader an idea of how thirsty they were,” he says, “would be to ‘gild refined gold or paint the lily.’” The phrase, he acknowledges “does not seem to fit,” but he “let[s] it stay, anyhow.” He recognizes that such phrases are scattered throughout his travelogue, making his “narrative seem broken and disjointed, in places” (117). Again, though, the author deems it best to “leave it in…since this will afford at least a temporary respite from the wear and tear of trying to ‘lead up’ to this really apt and beautiful quotation” (117). It would be easy to dismiss Twain’s self-deprecating avoidance of the “wear and tear” of good writing either as lazy or as an attempt at humor, but this chapter’s discussion of Twain’s vagabond vision of the material, aesthetic, and cultural aspects of the West suggests that Rouging It’s “disjointed” quality is necessarily so. Twain’s varied style, I have tried to prove, represents a strategic and productive attempt to describe an unsettled territory, whose land and landscape, along with its residents, institutions, and practices, were still in flux, if well on their way to solidification. When Twain left Nevada in 1866 for San Francisco, then for the Sandwich Islands and Europe, followed, finally, by a return to the American East coast, the West 53 was becoming both more populated, more fixed in its ways, and more consistently represented. Such impositions of stability would be challenging for the vagabond, whose transitions between idleness and activity, mine and mountaintop, and realism and romance necessitated a certain degree of space, both geographical and cultural. Indeed, after his departure yet further west, Roughing It’s narrator looks into the crater of the volcano of Kileuea – “ten miles in circumference!” – and breathes a sigh of exhilarated relief: “Here was room for the imagination to work!” (397-8). As in his dreams at the beginning of his journey to a West he had not yet seen, and as in his visions of the kind of life the riches from the “blind lead” could buy him, it is the idea that “you could not compass it” that proves most moving for Twain. His persona, resistant to being fixed in place, fits precisely into such an unencompassable space. Cast out43 from a mining territory becoming daily more defined in its landscape, institutions, and representations, Twain lives according to his belief in the living, moving body of culture by setting his sights on new spaces that will allow for the productive yet continually processing work of the imagination. While serving as editor at The Atlantic Monthly, William Dean Howells reviewed Roughing It upon its publication as “kaleidoscopic” in its coverage of Twain’s western adventures (“Review of Roughing It”). He recognizes in the work, as many after him would, a duality that threatens its coherence and “literary virtues.” Nonetheless, Howells judges that its combination of “humor” and “tragedy,” relevant and irrelevant anecdotes, 43 Literally. As Joe B. Fulton brilliantly explains (in much more detail than space permits here) in The Reconstruction of Mark Twain (2010), Twain’s 1864 story “How Is It? – How It Is” alleged that the Ladies of Carson City diverted funds raised for the Sanitary Commission (a sort of latter day Red Cross supporting Union soldiers during the Civil War) to – horrors! – the Miscegenation Society ( 74). Said Ladies were, of course, dramatically offended. More threatening, however, were their husbands, as well as Virginia Daily Union publisher James L. Laird and venerated Union war hero J.W. Wilmington (80). Although Clemens privately apologized to the ladies and publicly issued a semi-retraction, the possibility that he faced duels with the offended parties led him to flee the Nevada Territory in “dishonor and disrepute” (81). 54 and “far-fetched” and “near at hand” events form a “‘harmony of colors’ which is not less than triumphant.” Indeed, such “excursions and digressions” serve as “the very woof” of the travelogue, and it is this variation that makes the book “the work of a human being.” All the while, Howells notes, Twain’s wanderings, supposedly recorded for no more than their entertainment value, allowed him to “surreptitiously acquir[e] a better idea of the flush times in Nevada, and of the adventurous life generally of the recent West, than he could possibly have gotten elsewhere.” The West of the late 19th century, in other words, precisely because the nation had yet to form a “better idea” of what constituted it, was conducive to the imagination of the vagabond. 55 CHAPTER 2 THE SETTLER’S IMAGINATION IN WILLA CATHER’S O PIONEERS!: INVESTIGATION AND SYMPATHY IN AN UNFURNISHED WEST In her 1890 high school valedictory speech, “Superstition v. Investigation,”1 a sixteen-year-old Willa Cather traced the importance of “investigation” to progress throughout human history, holding up in particular “scientific investigation” as “the hope of our age” (“Superstition vs. Investigation”). As the speech neared its end, however, Cather softened her mandate for pure scientific investigation, denouncing as “unreasonable” those “[i]nvestigators [who] have styled fanatics those who seek to probe into the mysteries of the unknowable.” Instead, the valedictorian insisted, such “fanatics” should be praised for recognizing that, while “[m]icroscopic eyes have followed matter to the molecule and fallen blinded,” it is “[i]magination” that “has gone a step farther and grasped the atom.” Joshua Dolezal rightly points out that, if the rhetoric of the graduate’s speech at first “seems to privilege science over art,” such a clear hierarchy is misleading, as Cather associated investigation not exclusively with the cold objectivity of science, but rather with the “dramatic plot” of “heroic human inquiry” as a “touchstone for art” (231). While Dolezal uses the young Cather’s aesthetic appreciation for discovery as a starting point from which to explore her much later Shadows on the Rock (1932), the speech’s careful negotiation of investigation and superstition also proves helpful as an analytical lens for her earlier novel O Pioneers! (1913), which features an analogous gap in the ways its characters treat its landscape: on the one hand, as a tangible, material entity to be 1 The speech was praised by a reporter from the Red Cloud Chief as a “great surprise” for its logic, given its female composer. 56 scientifically examined and governmentally enumerated; on the other, as an ethereal phenomenon to be spiritually and imaginatively revered. Scholars like David Porter, Hermione Lee, and Marilee Lindemann have recognized Cather’s works as balancing “radically disjunctive” regions, styles, and concepts – Europe and America, South and North, and East and West, the Victorian and the modern, artistic vision and material success, permanence and transition, danger and possibility (Lindemann 8; D. Porter xx; Lee 16). In particular, Lindemann conceives of these balancing acts as grounded in the author’s inherently “liminal” understanding of place. However, critics have generally neglected to address how Cather’s places serve as a meeting ground for the topics she addressed at age 16: superstition and investigation. By examining the uneasy intersections in O Pioneers! between the “great fact” of the land and the novel’s explicit call to “imagine” that land, and then analyzing those intersections according to the author’s aesthetic treatise “The Novel Demueble,” I argue that Willa Cather refines Mark Twain’s vagabond imagination to cultivate what I call a “settler’s imagination” of the West, which sees the landscape as a space not for exploration that bounces between romantic illusion and realistic disillusion, but rather for a more focused investigation that strategically combines the practical with the mystical. Ultimately, Cather’s novel formulates a method of interpreting the western landscape that tempers a growing cultural and federal reliance on scientific empiricism with a radical insistence on human sympathy. The trajectory of Cather’s work demonstrates a life-long project of examining human perspectives on and relationships to the land. Indeed, her characters’ growing connections to their homes parallel both Cather’s western travels and her developing 57 authorial style. For instance, it was only after, having moved to Pittsburgh in 1895, she vacationed in the Nebraska of her childhood in 1903, that Cather wrote the short story collection The Troll Garden (1905), which set soulful artist characters against an unfeeling prairie. And it was only after a long visit with her brother in Arizona that Cather moved from the style of Alexander’s Bridge (1912), critiqued as imitative of Edith Wharton and Henry James’ novels of the drawing room, to that of O Pioneers!, a “novel of the soil” which was lauded as presenting a new American voice. Similarly, it was a trip to Mesa Verde that influenced Cather’s The Professor’s House (1925). By the time of My Antonia (1918), Cather’s characters were so intimate with the land that the eponymous protagonist is widely regarded as an “earth mother.” And while Cather’s later works, beginning with A Lost Lady (1923), retreat to the past in the face of growing commercialism and materialism, the author continued to explore ways in which the land might be understood in light of such threats. In Death Comes for the Archbishop (1927), for example, Jean Marie Latour is introduced as wandering on horseback through a “geometrical nightmare” of a desert “somewhere in central New Mexico,” but has learned by the end of the novel to read his initially disorienting landscape. O Pioneers! fits into the middle of this trajectory by depicting the land of Nebraska in the 1880s as caught in its characters’ minds somewhere between dream and nightmare, with each conception triggering alternate modes of engagement. The novel opens with a view of the town of Hanover – a stand-in for Cather’s childhood home of Red Cloud – “trying not to be blown away” (9). Hanover sits on “the Divide,” the point in south central Nebraska at which two watersheds meet: water to the south flows in one 58 direction, while water to the north heads the opposite way.2 As the book progresses, this hydrological division comes to symbolize a mental division in the way its residents regard the land, either as a space to be tamed through the quantification of investigation, or one to be spiritually revered through the human faculty of the imagination. Cather explores these various approaches through characters who do not always fit securely on one side of the line or the other. After introducing the Bergson family, its patriarch dies, leaving the reins of the family farm, surprisingly, in the hands of John Bergson’s young daughter, Alexandra. Alexandra proceeds to manage and be managed by the land using a unique combination of pragmatism and mysticism, inspiring both admiration and admonishment from her brothers, neighbors, and love interests. After a series of expansions, both in property and in farming techniques, she finds herself head of “one of the richest farms on the Divide” (49). Alexandra’s economic and philosophical stability is shaken, however, when the space of “progress” she has created suddenly transforms into a space of violence, when her younger brother and her best friend, secret lovers, are murdered. This chapter aims to deconstruct the novel’s divided geographical points of view in order to show how Cather’s evaluation of investigation and superstition works to construct a turn-of-the-century western space that demands a simultaneously scientific and sympathetic approach from not only its author and characters, but also its readers. The “Great Fact” of the Land: Pragmatism, Conservatism, and Conformity in Frontier (Mis)Management Cather portrays the initial stance of her pioneers toward the land as one of fearful miscomprehension and contempt. When John Bergson, the novel’s patriarch, arrives in 2 It should be noted that this “Divide” is distinct from the larger Great Continental Divide, which runs through Colorado and Wyoming, just to the west of Cather territory. 59 Hanover, Cather’s fictional version of her childhood home of Red Cloud, he “had the Old-World belief that land, in itself, is desirable” (18). But in contrast to the familiar, well-trodden territory of his homeland of Sweden, we learn, “this land was an enigma” (18). Mrs. Bergson goes further in her disdain for her new home, regarding Nebraska as “the end of the earth,” characterized by “vast hardness,” “fierce strength,” and a “peculiar, savage kind of beauty” (22). Depending on the particular region, the land might allow the growth of wildflowers or might accommodate only “a few of the very toughest and hardiest” varieties of vegetation (25). Even the “prince’s feather by the door” of the Bergson house refers to the Polygonum orientale, a flower bearing crimson spikes that “often escaped cultivation and grew wild” (Lindemann 177). From the beginning, then, the land of O Pioneers! resists human efforts to settle it, and its residents are disdainful of its failure to accommodate them. Cather’s characters often approach this overwhelming “great fact” of the land, logically, by attempting to manage or subdue it with their own facts, through the cold, hard science of quantification. John Bergson, for example, becomes obsessed, on his death bed, with the numbers that might prove the worth of his land – and his life: “He lies and counts on his fingers all day,” Alexandra tells Carl, her friend and neighbor. “I think he is trying to count up what he is leaving for us" (15). In enumerating his property, Bergson both relies on and encourages his daughter’s empirical mind, “her resourcefulness and good judgment,” which she has developed by “read[ing] the papers and follow[ing] the markets” (19). Such practicality endures throughout her life, with Cather frequently depicting Alexandra as concerned with figures even when others are out having fun. For instance, “While Emil and Carl were amusing themselves at the fair, 60 Alexandra was at home, busy with her account-books…” (89). In fact, her head is portrayed as a ledger existing precisely for the purpose of recording information about land management: “Her mind was a white book, with clear writing about weather and beasts and growing things” (112). Alexandra’s brothers, Lou and Oscar, are also prone to view the land in terms of conventional “facts,” but their fixation on this perspective is much more rigid than Alexandra’s. The brothers, who are “very happy” with “nothing to think about,” are almost more machine than man: Oscar, in particular, is described as having such a “powerful body and unusual endurance” that “you could attach [him] to a corn-sheller as you would an engine” (35). Their mechanized approach to the farm forgoes the qualifications of sentiment or philosophical depth in favor of simple quantification. These empirical methods for overseeing the landscape of Nebraska can be attributed to both Cather’s biography and the historical and literary milieu of the early- 20th century period in which the novel was published. Remembering her family’s 1883 move from Virginia to Nebraska in 1883, Cather wrote of her shock at being “jerked away” from “woods and hills and meadows” only to confront, at “the end of everything,” “a country as bare as a piece of sheet iron” (Peck 10). Such a stark environment, she felt, had the power to invoke an “erasure of personality.” As her father told her, this bleak landscape necessitated that she “show grit.” In her early career, she would do just that, becoming known as a “meat-ax critic” in her theater reviews for the Nebraska State Journal and the Pittsburg Leader. She also served as the managing editor for the women’s magazine Home Monthly. Like Twain, Cather’s later writing was markedly 61 influenced by that training in journalistic fact-finding and incisive, straightforward criticism.3 If the forthright character of Cather’s early landscape and career helped her to become more “gritty,” so too did the scientific developments that were occurring in the approach of the 20th century. These called for practical methodologies in the face of the mysterious and the overwhelming, whether it be a news story or an empty prairie. Cather, born in 1873, was part of a culture exploding with scientific discovery, from Dmitri Mendeleev’s 1869 construction of the periodic table, to Josiah Willard Gibbs’ 1876 founding of the field of chemical thermodynamics, to Marie Curie’s 1898 discovery of radioactivity. As Cather saw it, these discoveries owed a debt to the Enlightenment’s commitment to reason. In her valedictory, she cited Novum Organum, written in 1620 by Frances Bacon, generally acknowledged as the father of the scientific method. The work marks the point, according to the young Cather, at which we “ceased theorizing and began experimenting.” By the end of the 19th century, the theory of “cultural evolution” held sway (Schedler 109), confirming, as Cather put it in her speech, that “human history” serves as “a record of an emigration, an exodus from barbarism to civilization.” In order to proceed along this linear path, cultural evolutionists believed, a continued allegiance the logic of science was necessary. Or, as Cather declared, “scientific investigation” is the “hope of our age.” Federal authorities overlooking the nation’s geographical growth in the late 19th century were prone to follow this scientific mandate. Tabulations of land became particularly prevalent as the Civil War approached, as political debates about slavery 3 For a detailed look at Cather’s journalistic period, see Janice Stout’s “Willa Cather and the Performing Arts.” 62 upped the ante for the quantified value of western territories. The period leading up to the Homestead Act was of 1862 – Cather herself was a homesteader – was characterized primarily by enumeration. Although it was defeated on three separate occasions (1852, 1854, and 1859) by the Senate and later vetoed by President James Buchanan in 1860, the law allotted 160 acres to any U.S. citizen (so long as they had never borne arms against the U.S. Government) who vowed to live on the land for five years, grow crops – and build a 12x14 dwelling (Potter and Schamel).4 The government would also grant land titles to those who lived on the land for only six months, but paid $1.25 per acre. Four- hundred-seventeen homesteaders filed land claims on Jan. 1, 1863. By 1934, over 1.6 million homestead applications were processed and more than 270 million acres—10 percent of all U.S. lands—were given to pioneers like Cather’s fictional patriarch, John Bergson, who, upon his death, owns 640 acres (18). When we next see those acres, 16 years later in the novel’s timeline, they are part of a “vast checkerboard, marked off in square of wheat and corn,” all overhung by “[t]elephone wires” that “hum along the white roads, which always run at right angles” (45). In addition to Cather’s childhood “grit,” her early adulthood search for journalistic truth, a growing turn-of-the-century reliance on scientific reason, and enumerative federal land policies, both current cultural critics and those contemporary with Cather see the frontier period of O Pioneers! as more pragmatic than romantic. Western historian Frederick Jackson Turner, in his famous 1893 essay “The Significance of the Frontier in American History,” described the pioneers as “practical,” with a “masterful grasp of material things,” and therefore “lacking in the artistic.” Present-day 4 Land speculators sometimes exploited this requirement by taking advantage of legislators’ failure to specify whether the dwelling was to be built in feet or inches. 63 literary categories tend to agree. According to the New Encyclopedia of the American West, the period about which Cather writes – the 1880s – fits squarely under the purview of the “pioneer novel,” which centers on homesteaders who are left to handle the quotidian details of settlement following the frontiersmen’s “taming” of the land (Folsom). These pioneers thus had little use for the imagination, the logic goes, because the foundation for “progress” had already been set up – they could simply ride on the coattails of the idealists, filling in pre-existing structures with the simple, straightforward, practical labor. Despite attempts to manage the land through the apparently tried and true work of geometric figuring and numerical quantifying, however, the majority of O Pioneers! characters are trounced by their environment, which maintains its resistance to human cultivation. In the novel, Cather frequently presents this unwelcoming space as an independent entity, determined to maintain the “binding” of its mysteries by resisting even the most scientific penetrations by its residents. The author’s labeling of the “land itself” as “the great fact” of the novel suggests the self-containment, seemingly self- explanatory nature, and superior hierarchical position of the Nebraska prairie in relation to its new settlers. Cather’s characters thus find the land to be bewildering, “depressing” and “disheartening.” Underlining man’s own “weak” nature, the territory appears to absorb any attempts to establish civilization in its wilderness: “The houses on the Divide were small and were usually tucked away in low places; you did not see them until you came directly upon them.” The prairie’s desire “to be let alone” is reflected in an “absence of human landmarks” that indicates its pre-emption of any effort to pierce its surface (19). Even after more than a decade of work, the narrator tells us, “the record of 64 the plow was insignificant, like the feeble scratches on stone left by prehistoric races, so indeterminate that they may, after all, be only the markings of glaciers, and not a record of human strivings” (17). At the end of “eleven long years,” then, “John Bergson had made but little impression upon the wild land he had come to tame” (20). Like the “microscopic eyes” of the cold scientist that are doomed to “fall blinded” in Cather’s valedictory, the settlers of O Pioneers! fail to “create” anything, the author suggests, due to the rigid empiricism with which they approach the land. In “seem[ing] to overwhelm the little beginnings of human society that struggled in its sombre wastes,” the “wild land” in O Pioneers! often incites what Cather described, in her valedictory, as a wonder based on fear. Even at the end of his life, Bergson continues to be frightened of his own farm, regarding it as “a wild thing that had its ugly moods” (20). Far from understanding it, he sees his property as ruled by unintelligible “mischance,” such that “no one knew when… or why” it behaves as it does. In the end, Bergson excuses his own sense of failure as a farmer by dismissing the land as “unfriendly to man" (20). This fearful view of the frontier as enemy prevents many of the novel’s characters from fully comprehending it, and therefore from managing it effectively. More specifically, this fear manifests as conservatism, through a distrust of newness and an anxiety about difference. Alexandra’s brothers, for example, “hated experiments.” Rather than “break[ing] trails in a new country,” Cather writes, they “were meant to follow in paths already marked out for them” (31). In fact, Oscar’s “love of routine amounted to a vice,” in that “[h]e worked like an insect, always doing the same thing over in the same way, regardless of whether it was best or no" (35). Ultimately, the fear of newness is tied to a dread of sticking out from the crowd: even the relatively 65 “elastic” Lou “disliked to do anything different from their neighbors" (30). Besides Alexandra, one other character in the novel, Marie Shabata, acknowledges ineffectiveness of tradition, as well as the boredom it incites. However, Marie’s lack of power, as a woman in an oppressive marriage, prevents her from enacting change. Despite Marie’s weary “yearning” to move beyond “the same patient fields, the patient little trees, the patient lives,” her conservative culture weakens and ultimately kills her “instinct to live” a life that is not stagnant (137). The novel’s resident outcast, Ivar, confirms the prairie’s impetus to static conformity: “The way here is for all to do alike….here, if a man is different in his feet or in his head, they put him in the asylum” (53). Conventional perspectives on the land as enemy, and therefore as deserving of taming through rigid quantification, then, are underlined again and again, as when “Oscar reinforced his brother” in accusing Alexandra of the “foolishness” of stepping outside the well-trodden lines of agricultural and social expectation (91). No matter how hard they try to quantify it or how much labor they put into it, however, the land does not yield to such past-bound, disengaged approaches. Despite the “industrious” nature of the Bergson men, it is their failure to “use their heads about their work” in an imaginative way that leaves John Bergson on his death bed, desperately counting out his legacy (19). In the end, such a fear-based wonder – characterized by resistance to change, suspicion of new ideas, and reliance on the certainty of “facts” – places the Bergson family, and their farm, in a rut. “A Pioneer Should Have Imagination”: Cultivating a Mystical Landscape The success of a cultural evolution toward civilization, the young Cather suggests in her valedictory, depends on an investigation of the mysterious, and the prerequisite for this 66 investigation is a sense of “wonder.” Such wonder, according to the graduate, should ideally result from “admiration” rather than “fear.” In her 1890 speech, Cather locates the catalyst for such admiration precisely in the physical world, symbolized as a mysterious book to be investigated. The “chapters of creation [written] upon the pages of the universe,” she explains, are “bound by mystery,” and it is the “most sacred right of man” to investigate such mysterious creation. In O Pioneers!, the admiring wonderer is represented by Alexandra Bergson, who looks forward to the future where others look back to the past, exhibits faith where they rely on certainty, and defines dreams as labor rather than in opposition to it. Whereas the novel’s fearful pioneers are bewildered by the land and attempt to tame it using conservative, and ultimately paralyzing – for both themselves and the land – facts, the admiring Alexandra finds the land’s mystery to invite inspiration and reverence. As in My Antonia, in which the land serves only as the “material out of which countries are made” (7), the “great fact of the land” in O Pioneers! must be holistically perceived by its residents, whom the author credits with collaborating in its “progress.” As such, Cather’s protagonist insists that “A pioneer should have imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of things more than the things themselves” (31). In order to cultivate such an imagination, first, Alexandra looks forward to the new rather than back to the old. The origins of this orientation are evident in Cather’s valedictory, which alluded to Bacon’s Novum Oragnum. This inclusion marks Cather as being committed, from a young age, to pursuing the new, not only in terms of future time, but also broader space. As the title page of Novum Organum shows, the book’s goal was to crush the ancient superstitions of the Old World by pursuing unexplored territories, 67 ideas, and understandings of the New World. Depicting a galleon passing between the mythical Pillars of Hercules that stand on either side of the Strait of Gibraltar, the illustration represents a departure from the familiar waters of the Mediterranean into the uncharted Atlantic, ripe for investigation. Like Bacon’s New World explorers, Cather’s ideal pioneer is dedicated to examining the “uncharted” western American frontier. While such unfamiliarity could send the fearful back to cling to that which they already knew, homesteaders could also acclimate themselves to the new through adaptation, flexibility, and innovation. Although Frederick Jackson Turner qualified such a pioneers as inherently practical, as mentioned in the previous section, he also described them as “inventive” and “buoyant” (37). Using the resources available to them in new and creative ways, they built windmills to harness the power of prairie gusts and replaced scarce wood with abundant cow manure for fuel. In doing so, they allowed for waves upon waves of settlers to push the frontier continually westward. In seeking out new strategies to accommodate new spaces, Turner’s “inquisitive” western settlers align neatly with Cather’s imaginative investigator. Following both Bacon’s galleons and Turner’s settlers, Alexandra of O Pioneers! looks both temporally forward and spatially outward in wondering admiration at the Nebraska Divide. Her approach is directly contrasted with that of the rest of the novel’s cast, who generally see the “great fact” of the land as overwhelming and frightening, inducing a reliance on the comfort of the tried and true ways of the past and the insularity of spatial familiarities. For example, when Alexandra’s father is dying, he is focused on his past mistakes: “Bergson went over in his mind the things that had held him back” (17). Bergson recognizes this perspective as detrimental, however, and makes the bold 68 choice to hand his farm down to his daughter rather than his sons precisely because he knows he can entrust to Alexandra the “future of his families” since she can recognize the “possibilities of his hard-won land” (19). The girl’s forward-looking stance is also contrasted with that of Carl, her neighbor, friend, and future husband. As they head back to their farms from town one evening, their “two sad young faces” react quite differently to the sunset into which they ride: “the eyes of the girl…seemed to be looking with such anguished perplexity into the future,” while “the sombre eyes of the boy…seemed already to be looking into the past" (14). During Alexandra’s childhood, we are told again and again, her glance is directed toward whatever is coming down the road. For instance, when she thinks of her father’s impending death, “[s]he looked fixedly up the bleak street as if she were gathering her strength to face something, as if she were trying with all her might to grasp a situation which, no matter how painful, must be met and dealt with somehow” (12). More metaphorically, Alexandra’s lantern, “held firmly between her feet,” illuminates the otherwise gloomy path ahead, making “a moving point of light along the highway,” piercing “deeper and deeper into the dark country” (16). By the end of the first section of the novel, Alexandra “felt the future stirring” (42). The girl’s ability to confront the future develops exponentially in her adulthood, expanding outward from a personal to a global realm by taking on a historical mandate to lengthen lines of sight and, therefore, move civilization forward: “Our people were better people than these in the old country,” she tells her brothers. “We ought to do more than they do, and see further ahead” (41). Cather is careful to qualify this project of investigating newness. Too miscroscopic a perspective, she suggests, is just as limiting as one that is too broadly superstitious. “If the world were no wider than my cornfields, 69 if there were not something beside this,” Alexandra ponders, “I wouldn't feel that it was much worth while to work” (69). Like her formerly suicidal neighbor Carrie Jensen, who returns to prairie “perfectly cheerful” after exploring the exotic state of Iowa, “contented to live and work in a world that's so big and interesting,” Alexandra believes that “it's what goes on in the world that reconciles me” (69). Ironically, given her protagonist’s future-oriented perspective, Cather is commonly criticized as nostalgic. Looking to the past, some scholars contend, stems from a desire to imaginatively escape the jarring social and economic developments that were enveloping the East around the turn of the century (Slotkin 47). This judgment, however, has recently encountered resistance. For example, Joseph Urgo has cast Cather’s work as forward-looking, recognizing her as a writer of the road drawn to and defined by themes of mobility and transition. Guy J. Reynolds, meanwhile, reads Cather's supposed nostalgia not as a “retreat from modernity” but as a radical reformist critique of the growing homogeneity and corruption that characterized the onset of modern industrial capitalism (11, 21). And Richard H. Millington argues against the idea that Cather was disconnected from her own era, categorizing the author instead as a true American modernist whose “anti-novelistic” texts reflect contemporary currents, such as cultural anthropology and revisionary modernism, both in their content and form (52, 62). Clearly, Alexandra’s insistence on the pioneer imagination does not necessarily point to pure nostalgia. If Cather is nostalgic in any sense, O Pioneers! does not show any fondness for the outlook of the majority of the characters she chooses to represent the frontier period. Rather than glorifying the past, Cather’s historical novel seeks to rewrite 70 it by showing how a single protagonist proves the value of an admiration-based wonder at the land that defies a larger cultural tendency to use “old ways” as a crutch. Second, in order to use the imagination to appreciate the possibilities of the new and different, Alexandra must have faith in a landscape whose resistance to humanity more often pushes its residents to value certainty. As Alexandra tells her younger brother Emil when they explore potential properties to purchase to expand their farm, “Down there they have a little certainty, but up with us there is a big chance. We must have faith in the high land, Emil” (39). In presenting the novel’s territory as worthy of belief, according to Laura Winters, “Cather transforms secular space into sacred places” (3) . By “us[ing] the landscape to suggest possibility,” she contends, “She truly gives land a voice” (100). Winters concentrates primarily on Cather’s post-war novels, but the theme of spiritual, or even mystical, landscape is already present in her works prior to what Cather identified as the moment the “world broke in two.” While many of Cather’s pioneers read the religious power of the prairie as analogous to the wrath of a vengeful God, Alexandra perceives the “Genius of the Divide” as benevolent. Just as in novels like The Professor’s House and Death Comes for the Archbishop, the landscape of O Pioneers! provides a spiritual “home” for the exile, in this case the individual outcast for her “different” valuation of newness, her “different” ability to confront the unknowns of the future through techniques “different” than those of her forebears (94). Just because the Nebraska frontier calls to Alexandra through a spiritual “voice,” however, does not mean that voice is particularly easy to hear or understand. For example, when Carl attempts to explain how he knew something would happen to Marie 71 (she is shot by her own husband in a fit of jealous rage at the end of the novel), he hesitates: My dear, it was something one felt in the air, as you feel the spring coming, or a storm in summer. I didn’t see anything. Simply, when I was with those two young things, I felt my blood go quicker, I felt – how shall I say it? – an acceleration of life. After I got away, it was all too delicate, too intangible, to write about. (168) Using ethereal metaphors of the land and its seasons, Carl identifies the foundation of faith: that it cannot be quantified, accurately pinned down, or even clearly seen, much less communicated. Like the land, the humans who live on it are ultimately not creatures of rigid habit, but rather variable, contingent, prone to change and surprise. Such variability and uncertainty, however, does not warrant fear, as Lou and Oscar assume. Despite the incertitude of spiritual faith, human thought, and geographical mood, Alexandra insists that solutions to cohabitating with the land are available, even if those solutions do not fit snugly into the empirical mindset of the era. For instance, when she visits her brother’s grave during a storm, she comments that the rain “seems to bring back feelings you had when you were a baby. It carries you back into the dark, before you were born; you can’t see things, but they come to you, somehow, and you know them and aren’t afraid of them” (156). In other words, there is no scientific explanation for “things” that “come to you,” that “you can’t see.” In examining this imaginative kind of sixth sense, it is helpful to look at Manuel Brancano’s concept of the “magical grotesque,” which he argues is “the only viable representational mode for coping with the complex reality of the American Southwest” (126). Brancano, in his study of Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop and Rudolfo Anaya’s Bless Me, Ultima, contends that both authors “question the viability of Christian 72 orthodoxy in the New World, while projecting the profound religious feelings of the population” (127). By extending Brancano’s argument to Cather’s valedictory, we can see that the notion of bringing to bear a “magical perspective on reality” allows O Pioneers! to simultaneously engage investigation, which relies on the facts and figures of accounting and certainty, and imagination, which wonders at mystery and the things “you know” even if “you can’t see” them. Indeed, Cather’s own experience of religion clearly influenced her protagonist’s both/and approach to the land. Cather was a member of the Protestant Episcopal church, and Winters argues that her later works, especially, view the West in terms of a Catholic sensibility (24). At the same time, clearly, Cather was devoted to science as “the hope of our age.” The conflict is clear, Winters points out: Cather was simultaneously “religious” and “fatalistic.” Cather herself was aware of the dangers of combining religion and science, particularly as they appeared in the figure of Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of Christian Science.5 Cather had ghostwritten “The History of Christian Science” for McClure’s magazine from 1907-1908,6 and David Porter argues that Eddy served as a primary alter-ego in Cather’s works (70–83). Nevertheless, Cather’s Alexandra demonstrates that having “faith” in the land is crucial to her project of western “progress,” even if it must act in careful balance with her culture’s growing scientific mindset. Finally, in addition to demonstrating an openness to the new and a faith in the possible, Alexandra views dreams as labor, rather than as escapist leisure. In moving 5 Mark Twain was also aware of such dangers. Although Clemens was interested in the “mind cures” of Christian Science that comforted his daughter Susy before her death, his later writing on Mary Baker Eddy was so harsh that Harper’s refused to publish it (Powers 614). 6 The articles were later published as The Life of Mary Baker G. Eddy and the History of Christian Science in 1909. 73 beyond a fear-based wonder of the land, Cather’s protagonist establishes herself as the novel’s resident dreamer – one whose wonder is based on admiration. At first glance, such wonder can look passive, even static. For instance, when explaining the landscape’s incredible development to Carl, who left to work in various cities but returns years later, Alexandra denies playing any active role in its transformation, instead giving full credit to the “work” of the land itself: We had n’t much to do with it... The land did it. It had its little joke. It pretended to be poor because nobody knew how to work it right; and then, all at once, it worked itself. It woke up out of its sleep and stretched itself, and it was so big, so rich, that we suddenly found we were rich, just from sitting still.” (65) Many scenes in the novel lend credence to the notion that this is precisely what Alexandra has been doing throughout: nothing. Indeed, the protagonist of O Pioneers! is perpetually depicted as physically at ease while she lets her thoughts wander. After a visit to Ivar, who most deem crazy, we see Alexandra back on her own farm, where she “watched the shimmering pool dreamily” (30). Shortly afterward, she is “standing lost in thought, leaning upon her pitchfork…" (31). Even with the tools of the trade in hand, Alexandra is rarely depicted as actually exerting physical effort on the land. Instead, her figure is generally at rest while her mind is actively engaged. After a fight with her brothers about their wish to move to another farm, for example, she sits in a rocking chair, where “[h]er body was in an attitude of perfect repose, such as it was apt to take when she was thinking earnestly” (37). In each of these cases, her brothers argue, Alexandra is not doing actual labor. Though they recognize that Alexandra is “pretty smart,” and even that “there’s no woman anywhere around that knows as much about business” as her, it is obvious to them they have done all the “real work” while she 74 “always took it pretty easy.” “Good advice, is all right,” Lou mansplains, “but it don’t get the weeds out of the corn” (91). Alexandra, of course, is insistent that her mental capacities – whether “good advice,” business acumen, or imagination – do qualify as labor. Even if she does not physically bounce around the mountaintops and mineshafts of the West, as Mark Twain’s alter-ego did, her intellectual moves have proved productive. As she tells Lou, her “management” has often “put in the crop” or even bought the fields for that crop “to grow in” (91). Though she acknowledges that “[s]he had not the least spark of cleverness,” she knows that “[h]er mind was slow, truthful, steadfast” (37). In fact, it is because of her intellect – including her ability to see what is not yet there through her imagination – that her father forbids her from traditional modes of labor. When he gives out his deathbed wishes, one is that “Alexandra must not work in the fields anymore” (21). Instead, John Bergson understands, Alexandra, even when she is “…looking thoughtfully away at the point where the upland road disappeared over the rim of the prairie,” is thinking purposefully, even if such behavior does not appear to be physically tasking. “[E]ventually,” we come to learn, Alexandra’s “eyes” always end up focusing on some fresh and practical plan, whether it be a “new pig corral,” a new property purchase, or a new farming technique (30). Ultimately, then, the settler’s imagination, more than the comparatively haphazard vagabond’s exploratory vision we saw in the previous chapter, is practical and directed. Despite her father’s confidence in the labor of her imagination, Alexandra herself is sensitive to and aware of both the limitations and implications of dreaming. First, Cather suggests, her protagonist is, if anything, too practical in imagining the future. It is 75 for this reason that, even while Alexandra can envision future material developments on her property, she fails to foresee personal ones. This is her “blind side”: Because “[h]er training had all been toward the end of making her proficient in what she had undertaken to do,” her “personal life, her own realization of herself, was almost a subconscious existence” (111). In fact, the personal side of Alexandra’s imagination has been so wholly overtaken by the practical side that the former is described in terms of the latter, as “an underground river that came to the surface only here and there, at intervals months apart, and then sank again to flow on under her own fields" (111). Always focused more on land than love – for both herself and those around her – Alexandra never guesses that her younger brother, Emil, might be having an affair with her married friend, Marie. Indeed, the narrator reflects, “[i]f Alexandra had had much imagination she might have guessed what was going on” before it was too late, and both the lovers ended up murdered by Marie’s jealous husband, Frank. But because Alexandra’s “life had not been of the kind to sharpen her vision” of personal emotions, she misses the cues that her keen eye would easily pick up on the land. This is not the only case in which Alexandra refrains from using her personal imagination in favor of a more practical vision. Twice in the novel, we see that Alexandra does indeed have the capacity for romantic fantasy, but views such “sentimental reveries” as “indulgences” to be avoided. One particular “fancy” began in her girlhood, and consists of “an illusion of being lifted up bodily and carried lightly by some one very strong” (112). As with her lack of personal imagination about Emil and Marie’s relationship, represented as an underground stream, this daydream is also overlaid by the land: she sees the man of her imagination as “yellow like the sunlight” 76 and senses that the whole scene has “the smell of ripe corn-fields…” But whenever she finds herself in the middle of this dream, “she would rise hastily, angry with herself, and go down to the bathhouse,” where she would “prosecute her bath with vigor.” If dreams cannot produce tangible and positive results on the land, Alexandra seems to believe, they are not worth having. According to this logic, being “lost in thought” is a pleasure deserving of guilt unless one finds practical, actionable direction in such thoughts. If Alexandra is suspicious of certain brands of imagination, her brothers, obviously, are more so. But while Lou and Oscar can neither execute nor appreciate an investigative imagination, even after Alexandra’s has reaped enormous dividends for their family, Carl, her childhood friend and adulthood lover, sees the value of Alexandra’s vision even if he is unable to cultivate such vision himself. Upon returning to the Divide after spending years in the city, he gazes at “the wide, map-like prospect of field and hedge and pasture,” commenting, “'I would never have believed it could be done. I'm disappointed in my own eye, in my own imagination'" (61). Like Alexandra, though, Carl distinguishes between various kinds of imagination, and this is what enables him to admire Alexandra’s vision. Carl’s own imagination is particularly artistic. As a boy, for instance, he is pictured poring over “chromo studies,” offers to bring a “magic lantern” to Alexandra’s house to entertain the ill John Bergson, and is seen “dreaming over an illustrated paper” in his kitchen (11, 15, 23). When he grows up, he becomes an engraver, and makes amateur watercolors for Alexandra’s walls (61). And as the narrator tells us, Carl’s “soft, lustrous black eyes” and “whimsical smile” qualify him as a representative of the “dreamers on the frontier” (166). Nonetheless, Carl’s creative brand of dreaming does not prepare him for the “map-like prospect” that Alexandra’s land- 77 based investigative imagination has produced. Because she is unafraid to confront the new, exhibits a strong sense of faith in the land, and recognizes the labor value of the imagination, Alexandra views the landscape’s independence and permanence as comforting and promising rather than threatening, and her own relative lack of power over it as relatively unimportant. As she tells Carl, “The land belongs to the future…We come and go, but the land is always here” (169). She indicates that the “great fact” of the land should not be feared, but rather recognized and respected for its self-sufficiency and stability. Even so, the power of the land remains a mystery. Alexandra indicates that this western landscape should be wondered at not in spite of, but rather because of the mysterious nature of its creation. It is this sort of admiring wonder, the young valedictorian suggested, that properly compels investigation. The Novel Démueblé and the Interpretive Imagination As the two sections above have shown, Cather depicts Alexandra’s success in settling the frontier as dependent on her unique method of perceiving the land, from a perspective that is simultaneously factual and spiritual. This combination sets Alexandra up as neither entirely “superstitious” nor entirely scientific, but rather as what I am calling an “imaginative investigator,” who tempers rigid pragmatism with more flexible dreams. This still leaves us with a question, however: What justifies Cather in enabling her protagonist of O Pioneers! to admire and imaginatively investigate the Nebraska prairie while her contemporaries generally fear it? The answer, like the land itself, remains somewhat mysterious. As Cather cryptically tells us in the novel, “nobody knew why,” of “two ears that had grown side by side,” only “the grains of one shot up joyfully into the light, projecting themselves into the future,” while “the grains from the other lay 78 still in the earth and rotted" (88). I suggest, however, that we can flesh out an explanation for Cather’s imaginative investigator by looking to the author’s most well- known declaration of aesthetic principles, “The Novel Démueblé.” This treatise can help us to understand the point of the above discussion of superstition versus investigation in regarding the western frontier, and the roles the author, character, and reader play in determining and acting on their relative values. Published in The New Republic in 1922, “The Novel Démueblé” takes to task the “overfurnished” style of writers such as Honoré de Balzac and D.H. Lawrence. According to Cather, “To reproduce on paper the actual city of Paris,” as Balzac does, is “a stupendous ambition—but, after all, unworthy of an artist.” Instead, she favors the “unfurnished” aesthetic of authors like Nathaniel Hawthorne and Leo Tolstoy, both of whom present “the actual surroundings of the people” such that “they seem to exist, not so much in the author's mind, as in the emotional penumbra of the characters themselves.” Cather thus praises contemporary young writers who are similarly trying “to present their scene by suggestion rather than by enumeration,” by “interpret[ing] imaginatively the material and social investiture of their characters” (6). The notion of “imaginative interpretation” here is analogous to Cather’s earlier understanding of scientific investigation as dependent not so much on material objectivity as on an admiring wonder that sparks the imagination to contemplate mystery. And again, she is concerned with the concept of “creation” – artistic creation, here, rather than the “creation” of the earth – as the object inspiring such wonder. “Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there,” she explains in her treatise, “that, it seems to me, is created.” 79 Ultimately, Cather suggests that a failure of imagination originates not simply in a failure to wonder, to admire, and to investigate, but that those failures all originate in a failure of “sympathy.” In “The Novel Demueble,” Cather defines realism as “an attitude of mind on the part of the writer toward his material, a vague definition of the sympathy and candor with which he accepts, rather than chooses, his theme” (6). If an artist does not demonstrate the capacity for an intimate understanding of and relationship with her subject, meaningful investigation is precluded. Cather was particularly well-positioned to sympathize with her material, since her works can be categorized as semi- autobiographical fiction. By following the advice of Sarah Orne Jewett to write of her own region, about “[t]he thing that teases the mind over and over for years,” Cather prepared herself to intimately depict her setting (“Miss Jewett” 76). While Cather only officially used the theory put forth in “The Novel Demueble” for the first time in A Lost Lady (1923), we can easily see how O Pioneers! is already developing a disdain for “mere verisimilitude”: in writing a “novel of the soil,” Cather quite literally moved away from the furniture crowding the “novel of the drawing room.” Although David Stouk has defined Cather’s “deep sympathy for the figures of her personal past” – including, in my reading, the “figure” of the land – as resulting from a “sentimental perspective,” I see her sympathy as doing more than simply “bath[ing] the humble subjects of the book and the simple facts of their lives with an enduring warmth and affection” (29). Instead, Cather’s rapport with the residence and residents of her novel serves to make a case for the role humans play in history, or, more specifically, the role the human imagination plays in investigating the landscapes that will become the settings for history. This is why, when TIME reviewed Cather’s later Shadows on the 80 Rock, the reviewer predicted that “…when you have finished her unspectacular narrative you may be somewhat surprised to realize that you have been living” not just history, but “human history” (“Amen, Sinner” 3, italics mine). As her life-long partner Edith Lewis put it, Cather “…saw the country, not as pure landscape, but filled with a human significance, lightened or darkened by the play of human feeling” (Lewis 23). By viewing the landscape about which she writes as something mysterious yet accessible, something into which she could incorporate herself rather than a hard piece of furniture to be catalogued, Cather challenges as insufficient the material enumerations of supposedly “realist” writers, the “reason” of practical science, and the empiricism of federal land policy. Although quantifying one’s tangible surroundings is not an evil act in and of itself, such a “mass of brick and mortar” – or, in this case, sand and sage – defeats the end of artistic imagination unless “the literalness ceases to be literalness” by becoming “part of the experience” (“The Novel Démeublé” 6). Cather’s unfurnished style in O Pioneers! creates a space in which she asks of her own characters that which she asks of herself as an author: sympathy. In other words, her spare style serves to underline her belief that the mysteries that accompany a lack of “furniture” issue a call for imaginative investigation, the prerequisite of which is an interest in and personal connection to that which might be only subtly suggested by the land. As we have seen, however, not all of Cather’s personages follow her mandate. John Bergson, for example, dismisses the mysterious “Genius of the Divide” as “unfriendly to man,” indicating that he cannot imagine constructing an intimate understanding, much less a close relationship, with his own property. Similarly, Alexandra’s friend Marie is unable to recognize any link between herself and the natural 81 world she inhabits: as she walks, “her face [is] lifted toward the remote, inaccessible evening star” (137). In direct contrast to Marie’s helpless view of the heavens as removed and unreachable, Alexandra’s perspective on those same stars is motivating precisely because she feels personally tied to their pattern. “She always loved to watch them,” the narrator says, “to think of their vastness and distance, and of their ordered march. It fortified her to reflect upon the great operations of nature, and when she thought of the law that lay behind them, she felt a sense of personal security” (42). Alexandra’s sympathetic ability to see the space around her as incorporative rather than inaccessible enables the imaginative investigation that Cather proposed as ideal in her valedictory. The protagonist’s “new consciousness of the country” is constituted by a “new relation to it” that is admiring rather than fearful (42). Alexandra has secured a personal connection to the land in which the line between investigator and investigated is no longer distinct. Her “new relation” to the terrain is born of a vision of “her heart… hiding down there, somewhere, with the quail and the plover and all the little wild things that crooned or buzzed in the sun” (42). When Alexandra looks upon the Divide with sympathy, she recognizes that “the history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman” (65). As a result of her close bond with the land – in which her body metaphorically bonds with the “wild things” others might view as unapproachable or even threatening – Alexandra’s character becomes fused with her property, such that “A stranger, approaching [her land], could not help noticing [that] … [t]here was something individual about the great farm, a most unusual trimness and care for detail” (49). It is this sympathetic relationship between resident and residence, which, according to Cather’s aesthetic principles, “perfectly synthesizes” not only the artist’s 82 mind and her artistic material, but also her protagonist’s mind and her geographical material. This synthesis, in turn, allows imaginative investigation to be enacted, for when Alexandra sets her face toward the land with “love and yearning,” it responds by bending “lower than it ever bent to a human will before,” allowing her not only to analyze it closely, but to use that analysis in her further development of the territory (17, 39). Much of Alexandra’s ability to sympathetically relate to her “actual surroundings” involves her physical sense of sight. For example, Demaree Peck has argued convincingly that Alexandra’s incorporation of nature’s beauty into her own personhood is analogous to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “transparent eyeball,” which “can integrate all the parts” (7). Her incorporative perspective contrasts starkly, as we have seen, with the secondary characters in O Pioneers! As Peck points out, her brothers have a “materialistic desire to parcel out nature into its economic units,” which serves “merely divide its integrity” (7). Peck does not extend his analysis here back to its sight-based origins, however. As I see it, Lou and Oscar’s impetus to quantify the landscape is born of an extremely narrow scope of vision, as when the narrator observes Oscar’s “mind fixed on the one point he could see” (91). An even more marked contrast in the capacity for sight can be found in Frank Shabata, who, though he is normally “wont to see himself in dramatic situations,” at one particularly low point “did not see himself at all” (146). Because Cather’s Alexandra is the only all-seeing “poet-landlord” of the novel, only she “deserves to claim the Nebraska Divide.” Whereas Peck argues that Alexandra’s sight of, sympathy for, and subsequent claim of the land results in a transcendental imposition of self over space, I maintain that Cather’s character takes a more balanced approach. When Alexandra’s eyes “dr[i]nk in 83 the breadth of [the land], until tears blinded her,” her emotional state does not indicate, as Peck claims, that she can only see the territory from a subjective point of view, with her own tears reflecting herself onto the land before her. This reading invokes precisely the type of biased, fearful “superstition” against which Cather reacted in her valedictory. Rather, I suggest, Alexandra’s blurred sight is only an external symptom of her internal capacity for admiring, sympathetic wonder at creation; her temporary loss of literal vision only highlights her durable capacity for imaginative vision. Unlike the overly scientific blinded “microscopic eyes” of the cold investigator Cather renounced in her graduation speech, on the one hand, or the overly romantic, “velvety” outlines Mark Twain denigrated in Albert Bierstadt’s landscape paintings, on the other, Alexandra’s eyes enact neither a domineering, unfeeling analysis nor on a wholly subjective, sentimental rendering of the landscape. Both Kelly Clasen and Laura Winters have recognized this perspective in terms of how it carefully weighs self against space. For Winters, the land in Cather’s works simultaneously serves to “allow people to understand their authentic selves” and acts as “a reminder of the presence…of something larger than the self” (9, 3). Similarly, Clasen sees Alexandra as blending a harmonious land ethic that prioritizes a communal environment with an imperial view of the land as something to be conquered.7 Cather’s concern with recognizing the value of both science and sentiment, then, manifests in a parallel investment in negotiating between the environmental prerogatives of the land with the human impulse to develop it. Cather’s “unfurnished” aesthetic principles have implications not only for the writer, who must “suggest” rather than “enumerate,” and her characters, who represent 7 Clasen argues that this combination of the communal and the imperial prefigures Aldo Leopold’s Sand County Almanac (1949). 84 those opposing methods of interpretation, but also for the reader, who must evaluate, alongside the novel’s cast, the landscape of 1880s Nebraska. As Marilee Lindemann indicates, Cather “creates a vital and challenging role for the reader, who is called upon to feel deeply, to listen carefully, to be alert to moods, auras, divinations” (15). In other words, Cather’s readers, like Alexandra, must be investigators not always of hard evidence, but of the subtle mysteries of “creation” that lurk behind the unnamed, “beyond or perhaps beneath words.” In this sense, Cather calls on the reader to cultivate an interpretive imagination. She issues this call by creating suggestive (rather than enumerative) scenes, and urges her reader to answer it by providing us with examples of what various styles of geographical interpretation look like. The reader is thus forced to actively engage with both the style and content of Cather’s novel in order to make sense of its setting and message. In the end, O Pioneers! provides what artist L. Kent Walgamott, in his 2015 exhibition on My Antonía, calls “Instructions for Seeing.” Wolgamott’s exhibition, installed in Lincoln, Nebraska, is an effort at “‘mapping’ the novel,” a project that involves colored discs and intertwined ropes criss-crossing the venue floor, and an “orientation board” that acts as the map’s legend. The map pushes the “reader” to physically experience the novel, to see it from a new perspective, and, finally, to sympathize in a more engaged way with the book’s prairie setting and how its characters interact with that space, by physically moving alongside them, allowing the exhibit’s participants to experience and experiment with their points of view on the places they inhabit. “Instructions for Seeing” makes tangible the process of the imaginative investigator of Cather’s valedictory, who “seeks to probe into the mysteries of the 85 unknowable.” By sketching the outlines that approximate Cather’s unfurnished western setting, Wolgamott assists the reader in investigating the space of the novel both quantitatively and qualitatively. Through inhabiting the footsteps and sight lines of Cather’s characters, we identify with them and the ways in which they identify with their landscape. And if, as Cather advised, sympathy is a prerequisite for imaginative investigation, this way of seeing will help the reader to move beyond mere enumeration to a more admiring, wondrous understanding that will unlock the mysteries of creation – to “grasp… the atom.” Conclusion Cather’s focused view of the relationship between the western landscape and its inhabitants clearly builds on Mark Twain’s vagabondizing, which haphazardly explored, rather than carefully examined, the ways that quantitative and qualitative perspectives might weaken or strengthen the connection between self and space. As in both “Superstition vs. Investigation” and “The Novel Demuéblé,” Cather’s O Pioneers! carefully navigates the fine line between fact and fantasy, simultaneously validating the empirical as important and necessary while qualifying that validation by insisting that such a purely investigative approach must be overlaid with the imagination, which enables us to go the “step farther.” Nevertheless, Cather’s formulation of the admiring, sympathetic, imaginative investigator does not provide a foolproof path to unrivaled “success,” “civilization,” or “progress” for her characters. As Alexandra explains the land to Carl, it is only “the people who love it and understand it who own it.” But even that precise combination of reverent compassion and scientific comprehension does not produce a long-term contract between resident and residence, since such ownership is 86 bound to last only “for a little while” (169). Like Frederick Jackson Turner’s confident yet vague conclusion that the combination of pragmatism and creativity guarantees that “the expansive character of American life” will not cease with the 1890 closure of the frontier, Cather’s celebration of the settler’s investigative imagination falls short of providing all the answers to the continuing mystery of the Divide (37). While it would be easy to dismiss this somewhat unsettled settler’s imagination as a kind of wishy-washy failure to tie up the loose ends of a western literary tradition that was supposedly turning to a stricter version of realism, Cather’s conception of her own artistic limitations helps to reconsider such assumptions. In “A Chance Meeting,” Cather’s 1933 essay about her serendipitous encounter with Gustave Flaubert’s niece, Caroline, she realizes “that an artist's limitations are quite as important as his powers; that they are a definite asset, not a deficiency, and that both go to form his flavor, his personality...” (24). In his discussion of the essay, art critic Jed Perl writes, No point is more important. Great artists are limited, at least nearly all of them are. But their limitations, so Cather is suggesting, are a part of their power, perhaps the key to their power. Art is the intensification of limitations, the shaping of limitations, the transformation of limitations into qualities of form and feeling. (65–66). In all three of the works I have been considering in this chapter – the valedictory speech, the aesthetic treatise, and the novel – Cather is, finally, supremely aware of the boundaries of any one approach to any one space, by any one individual. Neither imagination nor enumeration is fully functional on its own, just as neither pure experience or pure verisimilitude is able to approximate life in fiction, and just as neither the fantasizing dreamer nor the rigid scientist is always capable of fully comprehending her world. 87 Alexandra Bergson admits these limits at the end of O Pioneers!, telling Carl that, though she “had a dream…It will never come true, now, in the way I thought it might' (308). The protagonist’s clear contentment at the novel’s conclusion, however, indicates that the dream’s failure to come to full fruition is not a deal breaker. Indeed, as Cather warned in her valedictory, it is the “confounding of the literal and the figurative” that is apt to produce dangerous “fanatics,” but those who carefully weigh dreams against realities will acknowledge that both are contingent on each other, and adjust accordingly. The goal is not perfection, nor is the perfect alignment between the empirical and the imaginative really possible. Instead, Alexandra’s considered flexibility suggests, Cather’s valedictory confirms, and the author’s “Chance” essay concludes, it is an acceptance of possibility, a faith in the uncertain, and a recognition of limitations – rather than a grip on tradition, a skepticism of the new, or a hubristic conservatism – that enables humanity to “progress” toward a productive relationship with the land. As she put it in “Superstition vs. Investigation”: “For over six thousand years we have shaken fact and fancy in the dice box together and breathlessly awaited the result. But the dice of God are always loaded, and there are two sides which never fall upward, the alpha and omega. Perhaps when we make our final cast with dark old death we may shape them better.” To what extent, then, does such a simultaneously idealistic and fatalistic philosophy actually succeed in “grasping the atom”? For the western literary critics who have constructed the genre’s boundaries, any reliance on the imagination, even one based on an appreciation of scientific investigation, was bound to outgrow the space of the frontier once it was “settled.” Although I contend that Cather’s O Pioneers! proves that 88 western dreams persist longer than most critics admit, the novel does represent the beginning of a submission to the “great fact” of the land. Even Cather herself would become more disillusioned8 as the West was increasingly “won,” not only by white imperialists (including her own beloved Swedish immigrants), but also by those imperialists’ quantifying tendencies. In the end, the novel’s Oscar is prescient in his invocation of William Jennings Bryan’s campaign mandate that "The West is going to make itself heard,” although not in the way he would have liked (63). Bryan, a prairie populist who had represented Nebraska in Congress, ran for president in 1896, 1900, and 1908 on an anti-gold standard, anti-Wall Street platform that advocated for the relief of debt-ridden farmers through the unlimited coinage of silver. His defeat in 1896 “symbolically marked the consolidation of wealth and political power in capitalist class” (Lindemann 178). Ironically, the rise of capitalism was both a cause and an effect of Oscar’s reliance on facts, certainty, and tradition; it is his fear-based submission to and emulation of the government’s enumeration of the West that brings about the immanently practical but ultimately unsympathetic policies that would drive the admiring imaginations of investigators like Alexandra to a halt. In other words, despite Cather’s careful balance of investigation and imagination in her writing style, her characters’ approaches to the land, and her challenge to her readers’ own modes of perception, she is working against more powerful economic and cultural forces that will come to dominate the land in the approaching decades in the West, as we will see in Chapters 3 and 4. 8 Like Twain, Cather burned much of her early writing, including letters and manuscripts. 89 CHAPTER 3 THE OUTSIDER’S IMAGINATION IN AMÉRICO PAREDES’ GEORGE WASHINGTON GÓMEZ: STAGING VICTORY AND FLEEING THE SCENE IN THE BORDERLANDS In 1938, in the middle of the period in which Américo Paredes was writing what would become George Washington Gómez, the struggling young journalist recorded his frustration at the inchoate ideas he felt would never come to fruition: In my pockets, in my books, in the corners of my dust-covered desk are piles of little, folded scraps of paper with a few lines scribbled on each. They were to have been masterpieces, each and every one. Instead they lie like pieces of rusting machinery of a project that was begun but never finished… (qtd. in Medrano 28) Paredes’ scraps are reminiscent of the “thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts” that Doctor Reefy carries in his pockets in Sherwood Anderson’s short story “Paper Pills,” from his 1919 collection Winesburg, Ohio.1 While Doctor Reefy treats his “paper pills” with levity – he dumps them onto the ground when his pockets get full, throws them at his friend “to confound” him, and laughs after reading them aloud to his new wife – Paredes sees tragedy in his scraps. Despite the divergent views of each figure 1 I have found no evidence of Paredes’ familiarity with Anderson. The Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas at Austin, which houses Paredes’ papers, provides on online overview of the author’s correspondence, manuscripts, notes, etc. Based on this list, there is no indication that Paredes dealt with Anderson in any way during the course of his personal life or academic career. If he had, I would imagine that it would have been after this journal entry was written, during Paredes’ undergraduate or graduate classes in English at UT Austin. Although I could not access (if they exist) the syllabi of the courses Paredes took, a list of the seminar papers he composed covers mostly medieval and early modern British literature and poetry (Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Donne, Herbert). Paredes wrote about Americans only twice – Theodore Dreiser and, interestingly enough, Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! His later seminar papers, when he was clearly finding his niche, focus on Spanish and Latin-American drama, literature, philosophy, and folklore – Unamuno, Lope de Vega, Cervantes, and various ballad writers (Paredes, “Term and Class Papers, 1949-1954”). 90 on his incipient masterpieces, Paredes’ identification with one of Anderson’s “grotesques” suggests, at the very least, that he sees himself as an outsider. Ralph Ciancio has defined the grotesque as “…a metaphor of the natural condition of man, of his being at cross-purposes with himself, of his compulsive hearkening to the infinite call of transcendence which his finitude makes impossible from the start” (1001). Paredes felt this impossibility keenly, through his perception of himself and his world, as well as his view of his own movement through that environment. His marginalized position, he wrote in his journal, is the result of his own self-division, “bifurcated by two languages and two cultures,” such that he finds himself operating on “so many fields of battle” that he is “unable to advance.” Paredes’ feeling that he is “standing still” while “the world” is “rushing past,” leads him to envision himself bound by a “close and enveloping” “harness” that ties him “down more firmly to the place where, Gulliver-like, I sprawl.” In his allusion to Gulliver, Paredes refers to Book 1 of Jonathan Swift’s 1726 adventure- satire, in which the shipwrecked hero wakes to discover that he has been tied down by the tiny people who inhabit the land of Lilliput. In this scene, Gulliver is unable to eat, drink, or relieve himself, and must act in a reserved, non-threatening manner in the hopes of securing eventual freedom. Paredes thus chooses to picture himself in Gulliver’s shoes precisely where Gulliver’s sense of self is challenged, or, more literally, bound in a place that offers no outlet for authentic movement. In short, the two allusions Paredes makes in his journal – to Dr. Reefy and to Gulliver – encapsulate his imagination of the borderland between Mexico and the United States as a fundamentally divided, restricting space, and it is this image that forms the foundation for his novel George Washington Gómez. 91 Paredes’ vision of the West offers a stark contrast to those of Mark Twain’s Roughing It and Willa Cather’s O Pioneers!, discussed in Chapters 1 and 2. Roughing It, recall, also cites Gulliver, but in a very different way. In Twain’s travelogue, when the narrator lies down under the shade of a sagebrush, he does not picture himself as a hungry, bound, stifled Gulliver, but rather takes the authorial liberty to combine two of Gulliver’s worlds by having his alter-ego imagine himself as a hungry Brobdignagian free to assert his will over a dominion of Liliputians. He sees himself as a “vast loafer from Brobdignag…waiting to catch a little citizen” – he pictures the sagebrush’s gnats as “liliputian birds” and its ants as “liliputian flocks and herds” – “and eat him” (Roughing It 33). Far from feeling constricted by the space of the West, Twain sees the Nevada Territory as available for his own consumption. Coming from the viewpoint of a white American male in the heyday of Manifest Destiny,2 Twain depicts his alter-ego as free to explore and imagine the landscape of the West, as well as his place in it, as he sees fit, with little consequence for his future. Indeed, Twain’s vagabondizing adventures3 in western space not only fail to diminish his career as a writer, but secure and propel its success. Unlike Paredes, whose attempts to publish the Mexican perspective of the borderlands and their history led the powers that be to attempt to stifle that viewpoint, Twain’s perspective on the West was considered valuable by the likes of William Dean Howells, the “Dean of American Letters.” Willa Cather does not name check Swift or Gulliver, but her view of the Nebraska Divide continues in the vein of Twain’s generally self-righteous vision of Nevada. Although she takes a more balanced approach to the 2 At the time of Roughing It, Twain had not yet come to a consciousness of the evils of imperialism, as he would in his later career. 3 At the extreme, these adventures included playing a joke on a fellow reporter which provoked a duel from which he had to flee. 92 land by simultaneously acknowledging its “Genius” and overlaying the environment with her own human sympathy and will, her farmland, far from holding her down, offers immense and inspiring imaginative potential. In this chapter, I argue that Paredes marks the beginning of a changing tide in the western American imagination in the early- to mid-20th century, in which the imagination mvoes from a subject position, acting upon and intervening in the land, to an object position, acted upon by that same space. While the first two chapters showed the positive correlation between the “open” landscape of the West and the imaginations of those (white) Americans who would explore and settle there, this third chapter will exhibit a profound shift in the perception of landscape through the eyes of a minority from whom the West was “won.” Whereas writers like Twain and Cather, positioned on either side of the turn of the century, could imagine their western terrains at least in part according to their own prerogatives, the nation’s expanding borders led to the incorporation of grotesques like Paredes, whose split identities and “cross-purposes” produced more deeply divided views of the spaces that previous authors had succeeded in imaginatively coalescing into spaces that provided for possible progress. Specifically, this chapter examines Américo Paredes’ George Washington Gómez (written between 1936 and 1940 but not published until 1990), a bildungsroman that follows the eponymous protagonist from boyhood to adulthood in the fictional Jonesville, Texas, just north of the border with Mexico. The novel opens at the onset of WWI, on the day of George Washington Gómez’s birth. When his mother says she wants her son “to have a great man’s name,” his father, Gumersindo, suggests that they name him after “the great North American, he who was a general and fought the soldiers of the king” 93 (16). The confusion that ensues – Gumersindo believes that Washington not only “crossed a river while it was freezing,” but also “freed the slaves,” while other family members can only pronounce the name as “Wachinton” or, roughly, “Guálinto” – foreshadows the cultural clashes that will slowly shape the child’s life. Soon after Guálinto’s birth, his father is murdered by Texas Rangers for his presumed involvement in a seditionist movement, and the child is taken in by his uncle Feliciano. As a young boy, Guálinto is routinely humiliated by both the students and teachers in his linguistically prejudiced school system, and as a teenager, he encounters discrimination in everything from securing a job to keeping a girlfriend to getting into a nightclub. By the end of the novel, Guálinto officially goes by George, is married to a white woman, and works for the U.S. government in border security. Far from becoming a “leader of his people” as his mother wished, he ends up serving a country that excludes “the Mexicans living in it” (302). Much of the scholarship on Américo Paredes focuses on the development of a fractured identity in George Washington Gómez. For example, both Hector Perez and Frederick Whiting have investigated how the genre of the Bildungsroman accommodates or obstructs such an identity. Others have investigated how the dynamics of space play into character development, but this relationship has not been explored in George Washington Gómez. For instance, Ramón Saldívar qualifies Paredes's work as “always concerned with …the sense of place, and most important, with the hope of freedom associated with the structures of feeling tied to place” (9). As such, Paredes’ texts serve “to remind us of the hold of places and times on our social selves” (8). Saldívar exemplifies this relationship by pointing to Paredes’ poem “The Rio Grande,” composed 94 in 1934, just two years before he began writing George Washington Gómez. Here, Paredes “seizes… an instant of historical memory as it flashes in a moment of danger, the danger of cultural eradication, and makes it concrete by grounding it on the reality of regional local space” of the riverbank (Ibid.). Although Saldívar dedicates an illuminating chapter to explaining how George Washington Gómez’s “checkerboard of consciousness” enables a fraught “personal emergence into history,” he does not ground that consciousness in the local space of the Rio Grande Valley in the same way he does in the poem above. I am interested in filling this gap by investigating how the geographical spaces of George Washington Gómez interact with the protagonist’s imagination as he grows up. In looking at specific locales in the novel, I am particularly concerned with how Guálinto views the spaces around him, what those spaces enable him to envision, and why. By examining the geographical features of these spaces and their effects on Mexican cultural, economic, and political history, and comparing those features to the ones in which Guálinto comes of age, we can see how Paredes illustrates the difficulty of escaping a vision of space as binding and limiting. Indeed, such an imaginative project proves impossible for his protagonist. In parallel to physical growth of the boy, then, his vision of his landscape changes, a shift that results from his increasing understanding of his position as an “outsider” and his steady indoctrination into the opposing idea, espoused by one of his teachers, that “we are all Americans now.” Although his initial view of his childhood landscape, based on its historical isolation and its return to ownership by “the people” following the Mexican Revolution, as a “stage” for role- playing fosters a heroic imagination, his experiences of racial and ethnic bias during the 95 Great Depression lead him to see that same territory as a “filthy Delta” from whose geography and culture he must escape. Like the scraps of paper in Paredes’ pockets that he feels cannot come to fruition given his vision of his environment as divided, the increasingly constricted geographical imagination in George Washington Gómez prevents the protagonist from becoming a “leader of his people.” His conception of a split world that prohibits “advance” invites a consideration of how social politics – divisions of the self amongst ideas, responsibilities, languages, and cultures – are tied to geographical histories. In George Washington Gómez, the development of the eponymous protagonist relies on his developing experiences in and understanding of the spaces in which he lives. Through what I am calling the “outsider’s imagination,” which envisions the borderlands as limiting rather than freeing, George Washington Gómez finds himself bound to enemy territory by his failure to live up to the dreams his childhood landscape once enabled. El Seno Mexicano: Isolation, Invaded Américo Paredes was born in 1915 in Brownsville, Texas, located on the banks of the Rio Grande River, about 25 miles from where it empties out into the Gulf of Mexico. His family had deep roots in the region; his ancestors were members of a 1580 Sephardic Jewish colony that had fled Spain to escape religious persecution. By Paredes’ time, this religious persecution had morphed into ethnic persecution, which was primarily carried out through the forcible seizing of property. Paredes’ father, Justo, was a rancher – and a rebel in the Garza Revolution4 – but, seeing others’ land stolen, transferred his farm title to a younger brother and moved his family to Brownsville, where he became a dry goods store owner and a political boss (Medrano 7-8). Américo was one of nine children, most 4 The 1891 northern uprising against Porfirio Díaz, led by journalist Catarino Garza, is considered a precursor to the Mexican Revolution. 96 of whom attended the city’s only grammar school, which, despite the fact that the majority of its student body was of Mexican origin, inculcated its students with Anglo- centric values (Medrano 8). By the time he reached high school, most of his Mexican classmates had dropped out, leaving the young Paredes nearly alone to represent the “other” side of history and language in the classroom. It was at this point that Paredes became interested in folktales and folk ballads, many of which he learned from his Uncle Vicente, whose Matamoros ranch, across the border from Brownsville, he visited with two of his brothers every summer (Medrano 11). Paredes’ experiences with traditional Mexican culture on his uncle’s ranch profoundly influenced the boy, who during his teenage years began writing and translating poetry. He joined his high school yearbook staff, and began composing his first novel, George Washington Gómez (Medrano 16). Unable to afford college, Paredes completed two years at Brownsville Junior College – with his tuition paid for by a student assistantship position – where at least one teacher recognized his “facility with words” (20). Again, however, his financial status prevented him from continuing his education or concentrating fully on his writing. Paredes worked as a delivery truck driver before starting a job at the local newspaper (18). In 1936, he published his first book of poetry, Cantos de Adolescencia,5 which introduced many of the themes Paredes would circle around throughout his career, including the biased education system, ethnic discrimination, the importance of storytelling, and the natural beauty of the borderlands (24). Paredes’ writing continued during WWII. Despite his exemption from the draft,6 he chose to enlist, working as a reporter for the Stars and Stripes army newspaper in 5 Songs of Adolescence. Paredes was later embarrassed by the work, and he and some friends took all the copies they could find to the mouth of the Rio Grande River, to burn them. 6 The exemption was afforded by Paredes’ work with Pan American Airlines (Medrano 34). 97 Tokyo as then an administrator for the International American Red Cross (36-38). The decision, he later said, served as “the cutting of the rope that kept me riding at anchor in prejudice, smugness, and general littleness of mind” (34). Upon returning to Texas following the war, he enrolled at the University of Texas at Austin, where he earned, in quick succession, his BA in English and Spanish in 1951, his MA in 1953, and his PhD in 1956. He was the first Mexican American to earn a PhD in English from the school. He would go on to create and direct both the Folklore Center and the Mexican-American Studies program at UT Austin. A Guggenheim Fellow (1962), National Endowment for the Humanities prize winner (1989), and editor of one of the earliest Chicano anthologies (1972), Paredes by the end of his distinguished career was acknowledged with the respectful honorific “Don Américo.” He died in 1999. If Paredes’ scholarly community regarded his work as highly laudable at the end of his career, however, those surrounding him at the beginning of his foray into the academy were skeptical. Paredes’ dissertation, entitled “With His Pistol in His Hand”: A Border Ballad and Its Hero, qualified as a first. It was “strange,” as Paredes himself put it, that a dissertation written about a Mexican hero, analyzing a Spanish-language ballad, and researched mostly through documents in Spanish, was conducted in an English department – “yet, they accepted it” (qtd. in Medrano 53). The difficulties of this “strange” text continued when Paredes attempted to publish his manuscript with his alma mater press. “With His Pistol in His Hand” had been endorsed by Stith Thompson, the head of the folklore department at Indiana University, whom Paredes recognized as being so “supreme” that he deserved the title “Mr. Folklore.” Despite having such a scholarly superstar on his side, the director of the UT Press, Frank W. Wardlaw, asked Paredes to 98 substantially revise his dissertation for publication. Specifically, Wardlaw advised Paredes to soften his indicting refutations of “official” Texas history as espoused by scholars like J. Frank Dobie and Walter Prescott Webb – both of whom praised Texas Rangers as legitimate agents of justice while dismissing Mexicans as mixed-blood degenerates.7 However, back-pedaling on his critique of Dobie and Webb would eliminate the entire point Paredes was making: that Mexican history must be reclaimed from Texan-authored mythologies that justified what Paredes called the “ethnic cleansing” of the Mexican Revolution (Medrano 7). As Paredes noted later, carrying out Wardlaw’s suggestions would reduce his research to nothing more than “a pretty story” (qtd. in Medrano 56). Wanting to avoid this, Paredes told Wardlaw that he was not willing to make the changes. “Why don’t you just send me the manuscript back,” the author remembers saying, “and I think I’ll try somewhere else” (qtd. in Saldívar 113). Paredes speculates that Wardlaw, hearing this, envisioned the book being published by a press like Indiana, which could then bolster its own reputation for bold scholarship in publishing “the manuscript that the University of Texas Press would not touch.” Needless to say, Wardlaw “backed down.” If Paredes won the battle to have his book published in-tact by UT, however, there were some caveats. “With His Pistol in His Hand” was published in 1958, but with none of the fanfare normally put on for new publication, at least partly due to Paredes’ refusal to make his work “pretty.” Unpublicized, its main buyer was the Texas Folklore Society (Medrano 57). 7 The Anglo-Texan legend to which both Dobie and Webb subscribe asserts, specifically, that Mexicans are cruel, cowardly, treacherous, and thieving due to the mixing of inferior races in their blood: the Spaniard (a “second-rate type of European”) and the Mexican Indian (“not to be confused with the noble savages of North America”). By contrast, the Texan is superior in all ways, and the Texas Ranger represents the culmination of this superiority. According to Anglo-Texan myth, the Mexican acknowledges the validity of this hierarchy (Paredes, “With His Pistol” 16). 99 Nonetheless, “With His Pistol in His Hand” – one of the first books written about Mexicans by a Mexican in the English language – is today commonly considered a precursor to both the literary and political branches of El Movimiento, or the Chicano Movement, which coincided with the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. The book would not have been capable of serving as a foundation for El Movimiento had Paredes given in to Wardlaw’s hesitations about calling into question the justice of the Texas Rangers. But Paredes’ main goal was not just to paint that group in a negative light; he also wanted to teach the American public to see its “victims” in a positive light, as a valuable culture with a powerful past. “With His Pistol” thus emphasizes the historical strength of the Mexico-Texan and his community. Using what a “historic geographic” methodology similar to Stith Thompson’s approach, Paredes locates the origin of this communal strength in the particular geography of the Rio Grande Valley. This border community of the Rio Grande would act as the fulcrum for Paredes’ personal and academic interests for the rest of his life, serving as the resource for his ethnographic research, the setting for his short stories and novel, and the motivation for his politics. Given his dedication to this specific region, it is not surprising to learn of its historically cohesive nature. The solidarity of the Lower Rio Grande Valley originates, to begin with, in its geographical isolation, which allowed it to be bypassed for a relatively long period of time by Spanish explorers. Santa Fe and Taos, in what is now the state of New Mexico, had been conquered in 1609 and 1615, respectively. Parts of Texas had also been incorporated into the empire of New Spain in the early 17th century. But as late as the early 18th century, the Lower Rio Grande Valley was still known as the Seno Mexicano, or the Mexican Hollow or Recess – because it served as a refuge for 100 Indians looking to avoid submitting to Spanish rule (Paredes, "With His Pistol in His Hand" 7). The “independent spirit” of this region might have been challenged in the middle of the 18th century, when the Spanish viceroyalty realized its lines of communication between Texas and Mexico City were too weak (8). However, when José de Escandón was tasked in 1749 with colonizing the Lower Rio Grande Valley to better connect the north and south sides of the river, he convinced settled Spanish families from nearby regions to relocate not only by giving them free land, but also by assuring them of minimal interference from absentee Spanish officials. Escandón kept his promise: by 1775, fewer than 150 soldiers patrolled a population of almost 9,000 settlers in the province of Nuevo Santender. A thick brush covering the grounds of the chaparral around the area added yet another layer of insulation from external authority. Paredes tells us that, in the 1870s, it was easy to hide herds of stolen cows or horses just a few miles from town. A lack of transportation continued the trend of seclusion: The Valley was not served by a railroad until 1904, and did not get a highway until 1940 (10). The colony of Nuevo Santender, then, remained, in many ways, as isolated well into the 20th century as it had been under the name Seno Mexicano in the early 18th. The idea that the land is important not only in and of itself but also in its impact on the development of the people in a particular area is prominent in the first lines of many of Paredes’ works. We already saw how one of his early poems plays into this idea by imaging the currents and eddies of the Rio Grande in parallel to those of the narrator’s identity. Similarly, in The Shadow, for which Paredes won the D.A. Frank Novel Award in 1955, the silent isolation of the chaparral provides a backdrop for the action that will occur later. The novella’s introductory lines read: 101 The noon was a glaring quietness. There was no breeze, no movement. People were indoors, waiting for the fury of the sun to pass; outside, dogs and chickens panted in the shade-speckled dust. In the chaparral, life was also still. It had sought the cool, dark places and lay hidden from sight. There was a heavy loneliness in the hour, as if the whole world were dead. (1) George Washington Gómez also opens with a picture of the land before placing any characters on it: It was a morning late in June. The flat, salty llano8 spread as far as the eye could see ahead to the right. To the left it was bordered by the chaparral,9 which encroached upon the flats in an irregular, wavering line. Along the edge of the chaparral wound the road, and down the road four Texas Rangers were riding. Their horses’ hooves stirred the flour-fine dust, and it rose and covered their beards, penetrated down their shirt collars despite the blue bandanas around their necks, lay in a thin film on their rifle- stocks and the big handles of their revolvers. (9) In both openings, the land holds a certain degree of power over those who would live, work, or ride upon it. In The Shadow, the heat of the chaparral seems to freeze any would-be plot: without an accommodating environment in which to act, characters are rendered immobile. The hostility of the hot space stops the movement of time, to the extent that the world itself seems “dead.” In George Washington Gómez, the landscape is again presented as a threat, this time not only to humans, but to their accoutrements, as well. The chaparral holds precedence here – it encroaches on the flats; it is central while the man-made road is peripheral. The Rangers are placed at yet another remove from the chaparral – they are merely accessories to the road, which is itself peripheral to the chaparral. For presuming to act upon this space, they are reminded of their inferior position, as the land literally covers, penetrates and films both their bodies and their guns. 8 “an open grassy plain in Spanish America or the southwestern United States” (“Llano”) 9 “an area of dry land especially in southern California that is covered with bushes and short trees” (“Chaparral”) 102 As in the period of Spanish colonization, when the isolation of the region delayed the infringement of foreign rule, the topography of the Lower Rio Grande Valley proves here, again, its dominion over those who would conquer it. The Valley’s prominence and independence, fostered by its geographical isolation, Paredes notes, was both underlined by and reflected in the types of communities populating its space. A “horse culture,” in which little social difference existed between the land owner who worked his land and his cowhand, who also worked on his land, allowed for a self-sufficient economy, a communal sense of equality, and a possibility for class mobility (10-11). Meanwhile, a traditional patriarchal system both highlighted the community as “clan” and enabled the town to govern itself, further minimizing the need for external intervention (13). Both work and play were communal. So intimate were the community’s relations that, in addition to “Gringos” from the North, those from the South – Mexico’s interior – were labeled fuereños: literally, “outsiders.” In the lifetime of the fictional George Washington Gómez, this geographical, communal sense of belonging and individual opportunity for social mobility was beginning to be threatened. To start with, the town itself, Jonesville, is named after one Captain Jimmy Jones, an American soldier whose head, according to the narrator, was “carried off” by a Mexican cannonball in 1846, at the beginning of the Mexican- American War (35). The fort he was defending was thereafter called Fort Jones, and the adjacent barrios, Jonesville. This fictional tale is a loosely veiled version of actual history, in which Captain Jacob Brown, under orders from General Zachary Taylor, defended Fort Texas “to the last man,” despite the fact that he was outnumbered by General Pedro Ampudia’s troops by several thousand men. Though the win cost him his 103 life, his name lived on: Fort Texas was renamed Fort Brown, and the nearby town followed, as Brownsville (Cutrer). If, as N. Scott Momaday, the subject of my final chapter, says, “we know who we are…only with reference…to the places and points among which we are born, grow old, and die,” and if the names of those places and their “being” are “indivisible,” then the imposition of an American soldier’s name on a Mexican town has a profound effect both on the barrio itself and on the identities of those who live there. Indeed, in the novel, the name is so alien to the residents that it is unpronounceable, rendered “Hon-esbil” (36). After the introduction of the railroad and a Chamber of Commerce advertising campaign hawking Jonesville as “a paradise on earth,” the original Mexican residents are pushed from the space both geographically and professionally, moving to the new “Mexican section” of town to work in manual labor, rather than cattle raising, as their ancestors did. Growing up in a town that always already privileges white American language, commerce, and military prowess over Mexican history, Guálinto grows up in an imperialized space whose very label denies his existence. Although Paredes admits that Jonesville “remained a Mexican town, though officially part of the United States,” for more than fifty years, he proceeds to chronicle the quick demise of that sense of local ownership thereafter. For example, the town’s horse culture democracy is replaced by white party politics of “reds” and “blues,” and a clear social hierarchy is demarcated onto the land through districts divided by wealth and race. This enumeration of neighborhoods parallels the quantification of land during the period of the Homestead Act, which Willa Cather’s Alexandra was able to manage only through an investigative imagination. While Alexandra finds success in such an 104 empirical space by adding her own sympathetic wonder to the equation, the same cannot be said for Guálinto, who not only abides by, but also ends up being defined by, the borders set up for him by white American officials. Even in preschool, he recognizes where he belongs amongst these divisions: he is most comfortable in his own neighborhood, “the Dos Veintidós,” or twenty-second district. Despite having a reputation for being a “rowdy” neighborhood – a reputation for which the boys at church make fun of Guálinto – “he felt better” after turning from the largely white Fourteenth Street back into his own territory (63). For the adults in the story, too, certain spaces offer comfort and refuge. While Feliciano, George’s uncle, feels guilty about his work for Judge Norris, a white political boss, the family’s porch after supper provides “restful…darkness for people to whom the day was a constant battle” (82). This is where neighbors gather to tell stories about traditional Mexican figures of myth such as La Llorona. Like the Seno Mexicano of the early 18th century, this private space provides safety from “outsiders,” allowing insiders to engage in and re-imagine their own communities and traditions. Without such safe spaces, Paredes suggests, the Mexicotexan and his culture, which were nurtured in isolation on the Seno Mexicano for centuries, cannot survive. Ironically, though, Paredes implicates his characters in their own doom: It was the lot of the Mexicotexan that the Anglosaxon should use him as a tool for the Mexican's undoing. The chaparral had been the Mexicotexan's guarantee of freedom. While it existed, it served as a refuge to the ranchero fleeing from an alien law…But the American had begun to ‘develop’ the land….And it was the Mexicotexan's brown muscular arms that felled the trees. (42) While Ramón Saldívar presents Guálinto’s life as representative of a range of options, and as full of choices that may change, given what he interprets as the “open question” of 105 the novel’s conclusion, I see Paredes’ novel as a much darker warning about the limitations placed on those deemed to be “outsiders” to mainstream American society (188). Thus, whereas Saldívar reads Paredes’ view of the nation as “allowing individuals to imagine broadly a spectrum of possibilities for subjective self-verification” (187), I argue that the realities of George Washington Gómez’s landscape prove, to the contrary, to crush his imagination, along with the social work it might do to maintain “the Mexicotexan’s guarantee of freedom.” By examining the chronological development of the protagonist in conjunction with the geographical spaces in which he grows up, I contend, we can see Paredes’ demonstration of the Mexicotexan’s undoing through the undoing of his geographical imagination. The Actor on the Stage: The Mexican Revolution, Agrarian Reform, and the Heroic Imagination In Paredes’ bildungsroman, Guálinto initially views his homeland on the chaparral of the Lower Rio Grande Valley as an “enchanted place” or a “fairyland” (50, 52). The geographical anchor of this fairyland is the banana grove in Guálinto’s backyard. Near the beginning of the text, Guálinto is “fascinated” by “the vast jungle of banana trees,” which he says “looked like forest giants to him” (51). These plants are friendly giants, though, as the banana grove serves as the boy’s “best friend, playground, and playmate” (67). Like the Mexican Seno, the banana grove serves as a literal refuge from authority figures – Guálinto hides from his mother here whenever he does something wrong. More importantly, the sense of isolation and security the grove offers acts as a catalyst for the young boy to dream up and act out roles for himself. For the boy, then, the banana grove also serves as a symbolic refuge in which, perhaps paradoxically, 106 the very enclosure of the space against a more financially and culturally powerful Anglo world allows for an opening of the individual Mexicotexan imagination. Just as Mark Twain’s protagonist rested under the shelter of a sagebrush to enact an imagined superiority over its critters through an invocation of his literary forebears, Guálinto, at least in the beginning of the novel, enacts a similar superiority over the grove’s bananas by calling on mythological, genealogical, and cultural predecessors. Indeed, before entering the grove, Guálinto often “paused at its edge as an actor pauses before coming on stage” (67). It is here that the little boy can creatively experiment with various roles for himself and safely and freely develop his understanding of the larger world outside its bounds and how he might fit into it. In his make-believe play, Guálinto hunts tigers and engages pirates. In addition to imaginatively embarking on these stereotypical adventures of boyhood, he also develops his aesthetic and emotional sensibilities in the banana grove, where he “was first startled by the beauty in the brilliant red of a cardinal bird against the wet-green leaves” and where he was “saddened by the cool, gentle whisperings of the evening breeze” (51). Guálinto’s childhood perception of his banana grove as a space almost magically exempt from outside intervention is shaped by two historical events: efforts at agrarian reform during the Mexican Revolution and failed attempts at banana republics around the same time. Although Guálinto’s family resides on the U.S. side of the border, the fact there was an “‘absence of an authentic concept of a boundary between the two nations’” at the time suggests that they were well aware of the happenings taking place just across that ambiguous line. In fact, “[w]hile diplomacy and military activity had gone a long way toward defining the boundary, much of the border area constituted a geographical, 107 cultural, and economic unit” (Hall and Coerver 8). In effect, this meant that it was difficult to “keep the revolution from spilling over the border,” especially since “much of the revolutionary activity centered in northern Mexico near the international boundary” (Coerver 36). Thus, when new policies were implemented or other social changes took place in Mexico, those living on the other side of the Rio Grande, like Guálinto, felt the reverberations. First, the way in which Guálinto views his childhood hideout as a space for imagination and individuality signals a hazy awareness of the Mexican Revolution, during which the nation’s peasantry exhibited a determination to follow its own cultural and social visions. At the outset of the Revolution, in 1910, half of Mexico’s rural population lived on plantations, where they were tied to the soil “by a system of debts” which Frank Tannenbaum argues “made them slave in fact, if not in law” (240). Although the other half lived in “nominally free villages,” all the residents of rural regions were either “dependent upon” or “subject to” the authority of the plantation. Because plantation owners were generally foreigners – from Spain, France, England, or the United States – they were essentially, “under species of law,” “depriving the mass of the rural population living in villages of its heritage in the land” (241). With the Revolution, however, “...the underlying population... achieved a greater degree of cohesion, self-reliance, and self-consciousness than it …ever had in the history of Mexico” (242). Whereas the nation had previously “always been defeated and frustrated in its demands” for land, the Revolution marked the nation’s discovery that “it can fight” in order “to satiate its hunger for land.” The success of this fight resulted in what is known as ejido10 legislation, a 1915 decree that was later incorporated into the 10 “common land” 108 Constitution of 1917, which redistributed land to “privately-owned small farms located within a four mile radius of a village” (Lissner 448). According to Tannenbaum, the Mexican Revolution “freed about one half of the rural population from a bondage which for practical purposes was equivalent to slavery. For the first time, at least in hundreds of years, the rural population is free in our sense of the word. It can move about, and does so” (243). This physical freedom manifested in a rural populace newly self-confident in its abilities to fend off outsiders to maintain ancestral property. As Mexican economist, historian, and diplomat Daniel Cosío Villegas explains, “Mexico came out of the Revolution a new country: hard-fisted, dynamic, aggressive, with a nationalistic tone that it had lost in the vain and lengthy process of Europeanization during the Díaz regime” (39). Second, more specifically, the novel’s presentation of Guálinto’s backyard bananas as an exceptional crop able to protect their cultivators from apparently more powerful agents is aligned with the history of the banana industry in Mexico at the time of Guálinto’s childhood. As an 1899 LA Times article put it, Latin America was “Uncle Sam’s New Fruit Garden,” ripe for exploitation (Koeppel 64). The United Fruit Company (UFCO, a predecessor to Chiquita), founded that same year, succeeded in creating “banana republics” throughout the Central America by taking advantage of the fact that bananas, given their short shelf life and the distance between their producers and their consumers, require complex, efficient organizational infrastructures – systems which could only be funded by capital from the North, even if the fruit could only grow in the more tropical climates of the South. “Therefore,” James Wiley explains, “control over the industry historically resided in the consuming regions rather than in the 109 producing regions” (5). This dynamic has led to a more general definition of “banana republic”: “a country in which foreign enterprises push the government around” (“Where Did Banana Republics Get Their Name?”). Mexico, however, was the exception to this rule for several reasons (Wiley 32). First, the Mexican Revolution had fostered a system of land distribution that privileged the peasantry over large corporations. Second, the Mexican economy was diverse, with bananas representing only 2% of its exports. And finally, unlike in the Caribbean and elsewhere, Mexico already had access to overland trade routes, making it difficult for United Fruit to control the transportation of its product. Nevertheless, UFCO made a concerted effort to establish a banana republic in Mexico, buying up several banana export companies and taking over the Cuyamel Fruit Company, another American corporation, in 1929. However, when local banana farmers joined to from a rural cooperative in 1928, UFCO found itself at an impasse, as the corporation was unable to offer terms as appealing as those of the co-op. In the end, United Fruit abandoned Mexico, selling its subsidiaries in the country to Standard Fruit, which we now know as Dole (Wiley 33). In the end, then, the histories of both the Mexican Revolution’s successful agrarian reform and the United States’ failed banana republic bolster Guálinto’s childhood understanding of Mexico as a “fairyland,” and, more particularly, of his backyard banana grove as a stage for imaginative personal heroism. “Our Eyes Are on Them:” Surveillance, Difference, and Agency in the War “Theater” and the Education System Despite Guálinto’s confident, independent start to constructing himself in the context of his landscape, however, the calm yet powerful presence of a cohesive 110 environment is inevitably interrupted, directly or indirectly, by fuereños – outsiders. As Guálinto grows up, his vision of the landscape as protective, and thereby as enabling of imaginative explorations of identity, is countered by a much more chaotic vision that has the opposite effect. Indeed, though Guálinto only “half-understood” the “household word” of “Revolution,” it calls to the boy’s mind a “confused picture” of “a tremendous tumult rolling along like a hurricane” (102). If the stage of the banana grove during the boy’s early childhood years reflected the optimism fostered by the ideals of agrarian reform and the defeat of exploitative banana republics, thereby providing a space conducive to the ripening of Guálinto’s imagination and identity, the spaces he inhabits in the later years of his childhood, which coincide with both U.S. interventions in the Mexican Revolution and the failure of revolutionary agrarian reforms, do not always offer room for experimentation or growth, instead foreclosing on his ability to imagine his future in the context of his own culture. Although his Uncle Feliciano’s relative success allows him to shelter Guálinto from many of the social and economic obstacles in the borderlands during the first half of the Revolution, it becomes increasingly difficult for him to do so as the war continues, leaving the boy to question his world, his visions of it, and the possibilities of his motion through it. First, the constricted spaces that appear toward the middle of the novel, along with the narrowed dreams that accompany them, reflect the United States’ eventual decision to intervene in the Mexican Revolution. Although “the United States shifted its backing several times during the course of the Revolution, depending upon which faction appeared best to protect its interests in Mexico,” scholars tend to identify 1915 as a turning point that marks the “emergence of Anglo-American dominance” on the border 111 (C. F. Fox 71; Limón 190). This was the year in which several revolts scared the United States into intervening in a war from which they had mostly kept their distance, including the south Texas insurrectionist uprising in which Guálinto’s uncle participates and the averted anti-Anglo Plan de San Diego. (Pancho Villa would raid Columbus, New Mexico, killing seventeen U.S. citizens, the next year.) Second, Guálinto’s changing visions of his landscape align with the ultimate failure of the agrarian reform that had seemed so promising when the ejido legislation was passed in 1915. According to Tannenbaum, “the area taken from foreigners under the state legislation” amounted to “an infinitesimal item.” Because the law stipulated that “the right to land is limited to those who live in villages,” and, of those, “only certain specific individuals are entitled to land,” only “some four per cent of the total rural population” “has been definitely benefited” by the law (244-5). “If we were to pass judgment upon the agrarian revolution in Mexico solely from the point of view of the actual land taken and distributed,” Tannenbaum concludes, “we should get a very poor showing for the amount of internal disturbance which the program has involved” (244). Together, these developments – U.S. intervention and the eventual failure of agrarian reform – affect how the space of the borderlands was understood as divided, who had the privilege of perspective on that land, and who was granted the individual agency to act on it. Whereas, at the beginning of the Revolution, during Guálinto’s early childhood, the border line between Mexico and the U.S. was still relatively indistinct, by the mid- point of the Revolution, those on the U.S. side had become eager to draw the line more clearly (Fox 72). There are two reasons for this, one internal and one external. First, the revolts and uprisings of Mexican Americans within the U.S. in 1915 “rekindled” 112 American “fears” about the “loyalty” of that population, especially its “rural poor” members. Second, the external threat of Pancho Villa, who had “suddenly became the villain,” pushed U.S. media producers “toward manufacturing differences in a region” which was previously viewed as unified (Fox 70). According to Claire F. Fox, “The cultural and spatial contiguity of the Mexican and Mexican American populations on either side of the border was instead replaced by the archetypal confrontation between Anglo and Mexican” (72). Such confrontations were exacerbated, if not outright invented, by various ascendant forms of media at the time, including photographs, movies, and postcards. These media portrayed the “binary oppositions” of Mexico and the United States through depictions of both the border itself and those who lived on either side of it. For example, despite the fact that, often, “the actual borderline was not demarcated by a fence," one photographer shot his picture through the barbed wire of a refugee camp in order to suggest a physical international boundary that did simply did not exist at that location (74). Other photographers used “bodies, props, or captions” in order to “assert difference in the foreground” even though the background “appears to be contiguous” (78). Even the way space was apportioned in a photograph could denote the uneven relationship between its sides, with the U.S. side generally taking up the majority of a photo’s surface (79). That “photographers and correspondents felt obliged to impose the border by lines and labels,” of course, simply highlights the actual “indistinguishable” appearance of its north and south sides. “National differentiation,” Fox asserts, was thus merely “a process of training spectators by a means of symbolic codes” (78). These efforts at differentiating Mexican from American spaces along the border is played out most clearly in George Washington Gómez through the education system, 113 which clearly trains both teachers and students to view “American” and “Mexican- American” territories and characteristics as separate. Whereas the U.S. media tended to superimpose inequality on objectively equal spaces, the particular school system in the novel’s Joneseville advertises its highly unequal classrooms as spaces of egalitarianism. While some school systems, Paredes writes, were blatant about their segregation – going so far as to designate structures “built especially” for Mexican children to learn “the rudiments” with the diminutive escuelitas, or “little schools” (116) – in Jonesville, the gloss of integration is key to upholding the town’s largely white political system. During election season, politicians stump about the “fully integrated” schools, all the while knowing full well that the first and second grades of the grammar school are divided into “high” and “low” sections that conveniently correspond with the two races of its student body. Increasing the separate-but-unequal theme, the “low” sections of first and second are taught together, “in the manner of the little red school houses of yore” (117). Though Guálinto is initially thrilled to start his education, the system’s racist underpinnings quickly teach him to view school and its surroundings as a threatening space, in stark contrast to the protection of the banana grove. Despite its veneer of opportunity, the landscape of the school itself hints to Guálinto that he will be considered an outsider within its walls. For example, on the way to his first day of school, his older sister stops along the way “to look for wild flowers that were not there” (111). Even before they reach the school, then, the space has already proven inimical to the family’s familiar landscape, conducive to natural growth that the urban space does not support. Once they arrive at their destination, the need for protection from the threats of this environment becomes even more clear through the particular place the boy chooses to 114 inhabit, at the top of a set of walled-in stairs. The space has a “fortress-like air,” where “the top step was a turret” and “the wide walls became two parallel arms stretching from the top step outward” (112). Unlike the banana grove, which provided Guálinto with a secure and comfortable space in which to formulate his identity, the school’s cold, hard exterior does not appear to welcome play or exploration, much less inspire confidence. The best that can be said about the school’s exterior is that Guálinto no longer feels like a “captive” there, as he does in the classroom (127).11 Guálinto sees the space of his school as uninviting because, during this period, it was the viewpoint of the United States that reigned supreme, while minority views were deemed unimportant or irrelevant. The U.S. proved particularly adept at asserting its power by disseminating both people and images that would establish the nation’s own superior position and perspective. After all, by June of 1916, President Woodrow Wilson had stationed 200,000 soldiers along the border in response to raids by Pancho Villa. But even if the physical boots on the ground that made up General Pershing’s Punitive Expedition to capture Villa failed, the U.S. maintained its privileged perspective on the region in subtler ways. For one, Fox reminds us, the Expedition is famous for “the debut of aerial reconnaissance,” which offered a bird’s eye view of the landscape, and therefore a strategic advantage over the less well financed and less technologically advanced Mexicans, whose scope of vision was literally limited by their earth-bound position (Fox 74). The theme of dominant or superior vision was also represented in political cartoons of the era, including one published in the Chicago Tribune in 1913 that depicts a giant pair of eyes peering out of binoculars atop a massive tank, surveilling Mexico, across the 11 Guálinto’s difficulty in transferring his visionary play from the banana grove to his town’s educational center aligns with Paredes’ contention that adapting rural lore to the urban scene often proves unsuccessful (Paredes and Stekert 17). 115 border (M. C. Anderson 140). “Our eyes are on them,” reads the caption. This kind of surveillance is precisely the opposite of what Guálinto would expect, based on his earlier childhood experiences in which his protected landscape supported his free-range dreams. Indeed, when he registers for school, he imagines that he will be watched, but that the eyes that watch him will do so because of his importance, his intelligence, his charm: “His mind was already forming scenes in the unknown setting of Miss Cornelia’s classroom, scenes where Guálinto was the central figure while Miss Cornelia looked on approvingly” (111). Instead, the teacher keeps her eye on the boy in order to pounce on his aberrant, ethnic perspective. For example, when Guálinto gives the correct answer to a math problem, Miss Cornelia derides him for his pronunciation of “equals” as “eckles” (125). When he writes his name according to Spanish tradition, with both his father’s and mother’s last names, as Guálinto Gómez García, the instructor tells the class that he “had married a gentleman named García and that now he was Mrs. Guálinto G. García” (126). More officially, the school’s tests require Guálinto to adopt a point of view that is not his own: “if he expects to pass the course, he must put down in writing what he violently misbelieves” (149). Later, even his much more “democratic” high school teacher, Miss Barton, must maintain a classroom atmosphere that privileges the “American” stance on history. Although she acknowledges that “there are two sides to every question,” the class textbook indicates otherwise, amounting to a “story book” that paints the United States as the conquering hero in all international conflicts (159). While Guálinto is encouraged to express his point of view, the fact that the large majority of his class is Anglo – with hyperbolically patriotic beliefs that “we have always been juster and more truthful than any other country” (160) – organizes the space of the 116 classroom against the perspective of the “other.” With his own viewpoint denied or quashed, it is no surprise that Guálinto’s role at his high school’s fund-raising carnival is that of “the blind beggar” (163). The cultural understanding of the borderlands as physically and visually dominated by the United States ultimately renders a parallel understanding of both Mexicans and Mexican-Americans as lacking in individuality and agency. Instead, those “outsiders” occupying the liminal space of the Rio Grande Valley were often presented as impersonal objects to be watched for the amusement of white Americans. The surveillance of the U.S.-Mexican border by U.S. powers was not just a political or military exercise, but also a profoundly social one. As Fox demonstrates, watching the Mexican Revolution served as a form of entertainment for middle- and upper-class Americans (81). Despite the reality of stray bullets,12 hundreds, including ladies in long white dresses holding fancy parasols, swarmed to watch the battles of the war “theater,” “behaving as though they were watching a play or a movie.” That they paid for such entertainment – soldiers “charged twenty-five cents for the opportunity to view the impending battle” – only underlines their economically superior position as consumers of products from which they viewed themselves as “geographically removed” (82-3). In short, as Fox puts it, “from the U.S. point of view, the Revolution was a drama, and its soldiers were actors” (83). This dynamic of Mexican performance at the pleasure of an Anglo audience appears in George Washington Gómez when the protagonist takes the stage for his elementary school’s Armistice Day PTA show. When his class is assigned a speech about Guálinto’s namesake, and told that the first to memorize it will recite it at the big 12 For instance, four Revolution watchers were killed and nine wounded during the 1911 battle of Juárez. 117 show, Guálinto’s “ears tingled.” Rushing to copy the recitation into his notebook as fast as his teacher can write it on the blackboard, the boy repeats the words to himself, quickly committing them to memory. Although Miss Cornelia yells at him to “stop daydreaming” – a demand based on the stereotype of the lazy Mexican – what looks to her like escapism, as Twain reminded us in Chapter 1, is actually work. Overcoming the media’s imposition of the physical and social divides between America and Mexico, along with their presentation of the generalized Mexican who lacks individuality, Guálinto sees the speech as “so personal,” to the point “that he just could not fail.” His recitation goes “exceptionally well” according to Miss Huff, who quickly amends her assessment with a qualifier: “for a little Latin boy” (133). Clearly, the majority of U.S. spectators preferred that their Mexican actors not possess too much individuality, much less any agency. The postcards of the period point to this objectification of the vague personhood of the Mexican. Geared toward U.S. audiences, postcards featuring American soldiers fighting in the Mexican Revolution often captured specific subjects complete with “details of rank, unit, and location…recorded in their uniforms or in the caption,” but the “emphasis on individuality generally did not carry over into U.S. postcards’ portrayal of Mexicans” (77). The generalization of the Mexican extended beyond postcards, of course. In the 1920s, according to Abraham Hoffman, “Mexican immigrants found that whatever their background was, Anglo Americans almost invariably made little effort to distinguish between Mexicans of different socioeconomic status, education, or ability” (15). When sociologists studied “the Mexican,” however, they tended to make the lower, laboring class the representative of the entire race (Ibid.). In George Washington Gómez, the title 118 character is denied his individual Mexican-American identity again and again. This denial is most prominently symbolized by Anglos who find the very essence of that identity, his name, to be improbable or incomprehensible. When Guálinto registers for school, the office assistant struggles with what she labels a “strange name,” such that Feliciano must falsely explain that “It’s an Indian name” (110). The way in which Guálinto expresses that identity, through language, is also constantly questioned. When he first writes his alphabet at school, his teacher tells him that his additions of CH, LL, and Ñ “do not belong in the American Alphabet,” thereby denying him a voice and rendering him “passive,” just as postcards endeavored to do (Paredes 123, Fox 79). Even a relatively liberal teacher in Guálinto’s high school emphasizes this hierarchy of agency, assuring Guálinto that the United States was “acting as a big brother to a weaker nation” during the Franco-Mexican War (161). In an even less subtle example of constricted voice, vision, or motion, many of the Mexicans featured on U.S. postcards were “maimed or dead,” pictured during “burials, lynchings, and executions.” As Fox writes, “one can assume that the dynamic of looking set up by U.S. media effectively ensured that a Mexican ‘point of view’ remained unrepresented” (85). In the novel, Guálinto’s performance of his George Washington speech reenacts the dynamics of seeing established by the U.S. postcard industry when he is told that he “can’t be seen” (135); Mr. Baggley, the principal, must lift the boy into the audience’s line of sight by placing him atop a chair. Obviously, Guálinto is a child with a short stature, but Paredes’ suggestion of his inherent invisibility in front of an Anglo audience is unmistakable, while Baggley’s action, if well-intentioned, reeks of paternalism – especially given Miss Barton’s political positioning of the United States as “big brother” 119 (161). If Guálinto aces his speech, it is to the surprise of some of the school’s authority figures, such as Miss Huff, who makes sure to use a “didactic tone” when she praises Guálinto, at the expense of his mother, María, whom the teacher addresses with the assumption that the woman is illiterate and ignorant. María’s social position is underlined, of course, by her physical position within the auditorium, not as a main member of the audience, but as one of “the women in the back of the room” (136). In short, Guálinto’s experiences in the Jonesville school system during the second half of the Mexican Revolution provide an education in the power dynamics taking place on the borderlands, spaces which, both culturally and politically, are steadily being overtaken – and often overseen – by an increasingly powerful white America and its corresponding media systems. Guálinto’s newly complicated sense of the personal, geographical, and cultural hierarchies in which he is enmeshed ultimately leads him to question his own identity, thus challenging the roles he and his family had dreamed up for him during his banana-grove years. When several politically-motivated murders are committed near the boy’s neighborhood, Guálinto (despite his mother’s efforts to offer the protection of traditional Catholic credos) has an existential crisis. If he was, as his mother tells him, “in Heaven with the little angels” before he was born, why does he not remember this? “Was it me?” he asks, “With wings? How can Mama know? If nobody can remember. Maybe it wasn’t me at all. Maybe it was somebody else. Maybe I’m somebody else!” he finally exclaims (51). Guálinto’s uncertainty profoundly affects his view of the space around him. As “a cold emptiness settled into his stomach,” he notes that “Familiar objects suddenly looked strange to him, as though he were out of his body and looking at himself and all other things from a distance.” At this point, the novel has 120 fully switched gears. If the optimism of increasing political independence at the beginning of the Mexican Revolution encouraged Guálinto to see his space as protected, therefore enabling a heroic imagination that could work to explore identities and actions within the context of specific communal histories, the intervention of the United States in borderland battles, along with the disappointments of agrarian reform and increasingly powerful and divisive media lenses, prevent him from seeing or connecting clearly either to himself or to the spaces in which he exists, thereby challenging his imaginative powers and the concomitant work they previously did in proposing next steps for the individual and the culture. Like Twain’s view from a California mountaintop, Guálinto acknowledges the power of distance to simultaneously blur and sharpen his picture of reality. Unlike Twain, however, the boy’s racially, socially, and geographically marginalized position often prevents him from wresting his vision for his own benefit. This position only becomes further entrenched in the next section of the book, with the onset of the Great Depression. Ties That Bind: The Great Depression and the Constricted Imagination If Guálinto began to question himself and the spaces of his borderland home in elementary and high school at the conclusion of the Mexican Revolution, those questions are exacerbated in the following years. Guálinto, as a child, saw the banana grove as a stage on which to enact victories for himself against tigers and pirates, but that stage has been coopted by Anglo audiences and perspectives as he grows up. By the time Guálinto hits puberty, then, he views the banana grove not as an “enchanted” “fairyland,” but rather as a “sea of mud.” This new description of the space conveniently justifies the teenager’s self-conscious confirmation of his own maturity: “He didn't play there 121 anymore; he was too old for that sort of thing” (151). The imaginative transformation of the banana grove from a landscape enchanted by fairies to one engulfed by mud, however, is not caused merely by a heavy rain (as Guálinto himself explains it) or by pubescent hormones. Instead, I suggest, his increasingly messy vision of the space, as well as the devolution of the dreams once enabled by his understanding of that space, result from his continuing growth in comprehending the world in which he lives, including its colonial history, its racial politics, and its economic inequalities, all of which are brought into relief by the Great Depression period of Guálinto’s later teenage years. Rather than envisioning himself doling out justice in faraway spaces like the jungle or the ocean as he did during his childhood, Guálinto’s later fantasies respond to problems closer to home. And unlike the fun and satisfaction he derived from the dreams he acted out in the banana grove as a boy, Guálinto’s adolescent visions prove ineffectual. In parallel to the churning “sea of mud” the banana grove has become from Guálinto’s teenage perspective, both his literal eyesight and his fantastical dreams during the middle portions of the novel are unclear, confusing, and violent. As he negotiates through the unstable, often unjust world he is just beginning to discern, his imagination contracts. No longer able to do the social work of identity formation or cultural maintenance, as it had during his boyhood, Guálinto’s adolescent imagination views the space of the Lower Rio Grande Valley as disjointed, thereby preventing coherent movement through its cultural mazes. Unlike the isolated, cohesive terrain of the Seno Mexicano on which his forebears lived, or even the protected space of the banana grove in which he could picture himself a pure hero, the ground on which Guálinto comes of age does not offer a stable foundation 122 for such visions. According to the Council on Foreign Relations, the upheavals of the Mexican Revolution prompted a huge wave of immigrants to flee to the United States (Moran, Sherlick, and Hanson). Although the Emergency Quota Act of 1921 stemmed the tide of Southern and Eastern Europeans, with the Immigration Act of 1924 adding East and South Asians to the restricted groups, Mexicans immigrants were not subject to quotas, thanks to the lobbying of agricultural interests. Between 1910 and 1920, nearly 900,000 Mexicans entered the United States. But they were not necessarily welcomed with open arms. Mexicans were required to pass through border stations – set up by the recently established U.S. Border Patrol – to pay a visa fee and head tax. Following the stock market crash of 1929, racial bias against sebos13 grew as Americans found the Mexican community within their borders to be a “convenient scapegoat” for their own “economic disorientation” (Balderrama and Rodriguez 1). Clinging to the belief that “getting rid of the Mexicans” would “alleviate the unemployment situation,” and thereby “automatically end the depression,” federal, state, and local governments passed laws “depriving Mexicans of jobs in the public and private sectors” (Ibid.). In fact, “the actual end of many anti-alien laws was the denial of employment on public works projects and participation in relief programs” (Hoffman 18). The effect of such political and economic obstacles, according to Hoffman, was that Mexicans “lived their lives in the United States in a shadow of uncertainty” (19). Such shadows, whether political, social, or financial, preclude the functioning of the imagination. As Feliciano succinctly puts it, “dreams are more likely to come true if one has money” (155). When the Depression reaches Jonesville in George Washington Gómez, the 13 “Greasers.” For a detailed discussion of the origins, meanings, and extensions of this term, see David Roediger’s Working Toward Whiteness (40–41). 123 implementation of these Depression-era attitudes and policies toward Mexican- Americans is apparent in both the social and economic spaces of the town. Just as Guálinto’s elementary school had been divided according to race and language during his childhood, the places he goes to socialize as a teenager are similarly segregated. For instance, when his class visits a local restaurant to celebrate their graduation, the Mexican students are barred from entering. To add insult to injury, the establishment is called La Casa Mexicana, and “was as Mexican as it could be without having any Mexicans around” (173). In addition to relegating Mexicans to certain social spaces, so too are they cordoned into specific economic spaces. We hear snippets of conversation from an employment office that confirm the construction of the economy along these racial lines: “Did you hear McCrory’s is firing all their Mexican salesgirls?” and “…They say a department head at the airport was called down for having too many Mexicans in his sections.” When the employment officer rationalizes that these “damn greasers” don’t deserve jobs because they are “[t]aking the bread out of white people’s mouths,” another white man confirms the dangers of changing the established social hierarchy: “…they start getting’ ideas they’re as good as white people” (196-7). When Mexican-Americans do get jobs in the novel, they are given worse opportunities, lower pay, and less flexible schedules than their fellow workers who happen to be white, or even “Spanish.” Some, ironically, are sent back to work as laborers on the same land that was taken from their ancestors. Even then, Guálinto overhears, if they pick cotton, “old man Kelly gives the best rows to those Gringos” (198). Similarly, if Mexicotexans work in town, they make less than half the wages of the whites doing the same job (200). And if they hand out circulars, as Guálinto eventually does, they must skip school on Fridays, thus further 124 entrenching the class system. Mexicotexans during the Great Depression were to be grateful for any employment at all, even if it was clearly discriminatory, because other residents of Brownsville, those who had crossed the border illegally, were subject to “mass deportation roundups and repatriation drives” (Balderrama and Rodriguez 1). Technically, the federal government aimed to drive out aliens in general. According to Hoffman, however, Mexicans who had immigrated illegally “were to find themselves prime targets” for deportation (37). In the novel, authorities present themselves as simply following the rules, despite their obvious personal bias when called upon to justify sending immigrants back to Mexico: “We enforce the law. We don’t mix up in your family affairs” (197). The landscape of the Mexicotexan barrio during the Depression, with its “rows of vacant store buildings,” reflects this disintegration of the local community and economy. Even the once-thriving shop of Guálinto’s Uncle Feliciano “went broke” (202). With its “empty windows looking like eye-glasses on rows of skulls,” the downtown district symbolizes the loss of vision its residents suffer as the result of the harsh racial and financial obstacles introduced by the Depression (197). In contrast to the vision of the novel’s self-made white “historian” K. Hank Harvey, who views Texas as “his dreamland,” Guálinto has come to think of the Rio Grande Valley, full of economic and social injustices, as constituting a “nightmare” that has become “real” (270, 238). For Guálinto, such a nightmare is qualified by a distorted perspective, in which “everything looked unreal and somehow bigger than usual.” This vision resembles “a drawing made by a small child,” such that “[t]he world seemed all disjointed and fallen into parts…” (225). The narrator qualifies the distinct spatial visions of Harvey and Guálinto 125 according to an allegory in which the phenomenon of the elephant is researched by two different groups in two different times. “Long ago,” the elephant is examined by “blind men in Hindustan who were exceedingly wise,” resulting in a “picture of an incredible monstrosity.” In modern times, the narrator posits that such research would be conducted in a scientific or journalistic fashion by “someone interested in researching elephants.” The “result” here would be “somewhat grotesque, perhaps,” but “much more convincing since it was done by an experienced and self-assured specialist.” The point Paredes is making is that while information compiled by “outsiders” (like K. Hank Harvey) might appear authoritative, it is often distanced from the subject and obtained for the self- aggrandizement of the “expert.” By contrast, the studies of the blind men of Hindustan produce a more accurate picture of the elephant precisely because it is “close to them.” Guálinto’s view of the land as “nightmare,” according to this framework, is more trustworthy and valuable than Harvey’s vision of the same space as “dreamland” because he is intimately familiar with it on personal, social, historical, and geographical levels. Audrey Goodman identifies a similar divide in how different people see the same landscape in conflicting ways in Translating Southwestern Landscape. Arguing that the landscape itself was caught among “competing…translation practices,” Goodman suggests that the region served as a “battleground” between “dreams of self- transformation and fears of irreversible assimilation” (xiv). Where Goodman contends that the regional literature of the Anglo Southwest aims to “mediate” these conflicts, Paredes’ novel is straightforward in its honest, if not resentful, positioning of the outsider’s self-aggrandizing perspective as consuming, rather than mediating, the insider’s cultural awareness. 126 Each vision of the landscape of the Lower Rio Grade Valley at this point in the novel – Harvey’s conception of it as “dreamland” and Guálinto’s imagination of it as “nightmare” – has profound stakes for its viewers in how they move through their worlds. Whereas Harvey steadily and assuredly climbs the ranks – his “fame grew too big even for vast Texas,” making him “a national and then an international figure” – Guálinto and the other Mexicotexans at the bottom of the American food chain now find their world to be “stifling,” such that they are left stumbling or even motionless in a space that now amounts to a “sea of mud.” This sense of forestalled agency first appears in a nightmare Guálinto has after being prohibited from entering La Casa Mexicana with his classmates. In it, he dreams that “he was running, running through the chaparral, bleeding and with his clothes torn to tatters.” When he “emerged into a moonlit plain,” he “kept running, running, pursued by a mob of people…howling, ‘Alamo! Alamo! Alamo!’” (175). With its linkages between physical and cultural impairment, Guálinto’s nightmare suggests that the Rio Grande Valley’s gradual takeover by the Anglo presence and perspective hobbles the agency of its Mexicotexan residents. Indeed, it is the white perspective on Mexicans as inferior that leads the noble “Spanish” boy who impregnates Gualinto’s sister, Maruca, to refuse to marry into the lower-class “Mexican” Gómez clan, causing all chaos to break loose in the family. In attempting to accommodate themselves to this unprotected, insecure terrain in which they are granted little control over their affairs, the normally upstanding Feliciano gets drunk, Guálinto’s mother curses, and Guálinto himself can do nothing more than “stumble… along in hazy numbness” (238). Others are unable to move at all: Guálinto’s mother refuses to even try to tread such volatile ground, and “she did not go out, even to the backyard or her garden.” A similar “stupor” hangs over the 127 entire town throughout the Depression, with “groups of dark-skinned men, waiting, waiting. For nothing” (200, 197). Moreover, time itself seems stifled at this point in the novel, adding to the overall atmosphere of stasis: “The afternoon dragged itself along, smearing itself on the ground in shimmering waves of torpid heat. The world had stopped” (225). Given Guálinto’s vision of his world as paralyzed, his mother’s prediction, declared at his birth, that he will become a “leader of his people” just like his namesake, begins to look like an absurd joke. Predictably, Guálinto lashes out against violently against this living nightmare, in which his vision is stifled, his steps are stumbling, and his childhood dreams are immobilized. His immediate response is to take out his anger on the first person who appears to offend him. When Chucho Vazquez, a rough “hanger-on of the barrio” insults his illegitimately pregnant sister, Guálinto strikes back – and surprises himself by winning. Perversely reminded of the hero he imagined himself to be as a boy, he returns to the space that initially enabled such vision: the banana grove. The fantasies spurred by his “childhood refuge,” however, no longer align with the realities he now presumes to understand as an adult. Although he “practice[s] thrusts with the knife and defensive footwork,” and imagines piling up victories against neighborhood bullies, these dreams prove impractical (249). As his friend El Colorado reasons, fighting will only result in Guálinto’s “getting sent to the pen,” where his movements would be entirely disabled, a situation which “won’t help [his] family at all.” Guálinto quickly puts his knife away, admitting that his imagination at this point qualifies him not as a visionary or a potential hero, but as “a damn fool.” Clearly, envisioning small-scale retributions against men like Chucho does not help Guálinto to negotiate the larger injustices taking place on the “sea 128 of mud” he sees the Lower Rio Grande Valley as having become. If Guálinto fails to imagine ways to envision or move through his adolescent landscape in constructing trifling local comebacks, neither do grand attempts at rewriting that landscape succeed. When Guálinto’s uncle and father-figure Feliciano finally spills the secret of his father’s death – that he was indiscriminately killed by a Texas Ranger – Guálinto believes he has discovered the key to imagining the future for himself: in re- imagining the past for Mexico. In a recurring dream, Guálinto “… would imagine he was living in his great-grandfather's time, when the Americans first began to encroach on the northern provinces of the new Republic of Mexico…He would reconquer all the territory west of the Mississippi River and recover Florida as well” (282). This heroic vision brings to life – and then some – the Zimmerman Telegram, through which Germany made an appeal for an alliance with Mexico during WWI by proposing to supply arms to Mexico in order to re-conquer Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. Like Mexican President Venustiano Carranza, who rejected the proposal as unfeasible in 1917, Guálinto ultimately rejects as “Goddam ridiculous” his own fantasy of Mexicans as 19th century colonial victors. This revision of the course of history proves no more fulfilling than his earlier dream of reversing the course of neighborhood bullying. Upon waking up from his imagined Mexican conquest, Guálinto experiences only a “feeling of emptiness, of futility. Somehow, he was not comfortable with the way things ended. There was something missing that made any kind of ending fail to satisfy” (282). The final straw in Guálinto’s recognition of his own setting as stifling occurs after an insult from his one-time girlfriend, the high-class Maria Elena, sets his world “pin- wheeling” through memories of the various traumatic experiences of his life. In this 129 world, he thinks, “movement no longer was concentric but shifting, restless, confused” (219). This confusion, as with his earlier confrontations with local bullies, leads Guálinto back to the space where he first developed his capacity for imagination. This time, though, he takes a longer view, realizing “how far he had traveled and how little he had moved since the days when he had been a child playing in the banana grove.” As with Guálinto’s earlier submission to Anglo perspectives of the Mexican as amusing, passive, or aberrant, here he adopts white views of his race as lazy. As displayed in a 1913 San Francisco Examiner political cartoon of a Mexican running on a treadmill with “Progress” always out of reach just over the horizon, the white population of the U.S. generally viewed those on the borderland as “expend[ing] lots of energy” without making any “discernible forward progress” (M. C. Anderson 128). Although Guálinto once simultaneously “lov[ed] the Mexican with a blind fierceness” and “almost despise[ed] him for his slow progress in the world,” the latter attitude has clearly overtaken the former by the novel’s conclusion (150). In his submission to this perspective of Mexicans and Mexico as regressive, the protagonist further curtails the power of his imagination to project viable options for the future of his culture and himself. Near the end of the bildungsroman, however, Guálinto momentarily forms a vision of himself in the image of his forebears. His Uncle Feliciano has returned to the land as a farmer, and when Guálinto begins working there, he finally comes to understand his uncle’s heroism against the Texas Rangers. He acknowledges the value and difficulty of working the land. He even, according to his uncle, begins to walk like his father, with confidence (279). However, following in the footsteps of his father and uncle, ironically, is what leads him to accept his uncle’s advice to go to college, a path that ultimately 130 sends him away from his family, culture, and values. As in Paredes’ observation that it was the Mexicotexan himself who “developed” the land according to the Gringos’ exploitative plans, encouraging his nephew’s Anglo education only enables Guálinto’s rebellion against his own people. Whereas Guálinto once believed that young Mexicans could succeed by “clawing their way to the top,” his experiences of blindness and paralysis during the Mexican Revolution and the Great Depression lead him to believe that the only way to do so is to adopt the perspective of the victor (117). In short, Guálinto decides, “there’s nothing to do but take it” (132). Although Guálinto had certainly questioned his worldview previously, it is his move away from the space of the Lower Rio Grande Valley that cements this new perspective in our protagonist. By the time he returns home, he has adopted the Americanized name of “George” and has a blonde wife in tow. Ultimately, these relatively superficial changes indicate a larger ideological transformation: Guálinto has left behind the imaginative capacities he had attempted to develop as a child and teenager, beginning in the banana grove, appropriating instead the Anglos’ constricted view of Mexico as a shifty backwater and its inhabitants as lazy peasants. Fleeing the Scene: Escaping Vision, Envisioning Escape In abandoning his mother’s vision of himself as a “leader of his people” as well as his own vision of himself as a potential hero, Guálinto has also abandoned his vision for his home, both its landscape and its people. When he comes back to the farm, it is Feliciano who first recognizes Guálinto’s loss of vision when he bluntly responds to his nephew’s negativity by saying, “Then you see no future for us” (300). Unable to project potentially beneficial roles, behaviors, or identities for himself or others, George has 131 given up on his imagination. If as a child he envisioned the landscape of the Lower Rio Grande Valley as an “enchanted fairyland,” and as a teenager saw the banana grove as nothing more than a “sea of mud,” the grown man George now views the entire region as “this filthy Delta.” Such a dirty space is unsuitable to progress, he reasons, and only those Mexicans who get “as far away as they can” will be able to “get rid of their Mexican greaser attitudes” in order to “make something of themselves.” George believes that his new role as a counterintelligence agent for the United States has made him something. What he does not realize is that this “something” has come at the cost not only of his familial bonds and cultural heritage, but also his capacity for imagination, and therefore his capacity for critique. Without the geographical space of the chaparral or the banana grove on which to ground fantasies for his own future or his people’s, George’s concluding position is decidedly “Gulliver-like,” sprawled, bound by his own lack of vision to what he once considered enemy territory. Guálinto’s switching of sides is a product of the instabilities in his environment, which discourage clear vision, in turn preventing coherent movement. Neither side of the border has ever been an entirely comfortable fit for him. As a child, the same boys who taunt Guálinto for living on the wrong side of the tracks also tease him about his light skin and hair, marking him as an outsider in his own district. As a teenager, the question of what would constitute a “successful” self, and where that could occur, comes into question after Guálinto is awarded a medal for heroism, by his high school principal, for killing a man who turns out to be his mother’s brother (258-262, 273). It is this lack of coherence in defining success, this confused sense of geography, and this arbitrary social hierarchy that leads the character to experience feelings of “emptiness” and “futility” 132 even when he has dreams that would seem to place him in a victorious position. In George Washington Gómez, Paredes shows Guálinto collecting dreams for himself over the course of his life which never coalesce into a clear narrative, precisely because that narrative finds no stable image of a setting on which to occur. Having grown up in a space that has morphed from a self-sufficient and culturally cohesive “fairyland” that encouraged a heroic imagination to one controlled by “outsiders” who impose their own visions onto that space, leaving little room for localized individual dreams, Guálinto is, by the end of the novel, understandably doubtful of the stability of the ground beneath his feet. Although he is able to imagine himself playing various roles on the stage of the Rio Grande Valley – a tiger hunter, pirate chaser, bully killer, and colonial victor – none of those roles prove commensurate to the changing environment in which he lives. The glaring disconnect between the coherent, communal isolation of the banana grove and the chapparal, on the one hand, and the social, economic, and the political dynamics which have invaded that space, on the other, interrupts and renders impractical the protagonist’s once heroic imagination. Guálinto’s continued participation in the same imaginative behaviors he exhibited as a child no longer offer a route through the complicated landscape he now knows he faces. As a young neighbor once taunted him upon seeing the boy playing with an imagined enemy in the banana grove, Guálinto is ultimately “fighting himself” (70). Wrestling with the expectations of the family who raised him and the fuereños who at once threaten cultural tradition and dangle prospects for traitorous heroism, Guálinto is unable to produce any satisfying victories or forward movement, either in the divided psychic space of his mind or the fractured physical space of the Lower Rio Grande Valley. 133 By contrast, Paredes did recover from the feelings of futility and emptiness he recorded in his notebook in 1938, but only by working to maintain his capacity for critique – his capacity for imagination. Guálinto’s dissatisfaction with his dreams closely parallels Paredes’ response to the folded scraps of paper that once accumulated in his pockets, between the pages of his books, and on his desk, threatening to suffocate him. Considering that Paredes was writing in the notebook and composing the novel around the same time, Guálinto’s social predicament serves as a commentary on Paredes’ artistic one. In both the notebook and the novel, there is a failure of cohesion that originates in opposing pressures from their respective cultural atmospheres. For Paredes, at the time, the promising yet ultimately disconnected ideas hastily scribbled, strewn, and lost in the spaces of his life seemed like they would never come together to form a masterpiece. But whereas the only way Guálinto can see to escape his Gulliver-like binds is to join those who would bind him, Paredes maintains his commitment to representing the perspectives of the Mexicotexans of the Rio Grande Valley. In doing so, he recovers his status as an insider, capable of seeing clearly and using that vision to move powerfully through a world that would eventually recognize his scraps of paper as “masterpieces.” 134 CHAPTER 4 THE CIRCULAR IMAGINATION IN NATHANAEL WEST’S THE DAY OF THE LOCUST: SEARCHING FOR ORDER IN HOLLYWOODLAND Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust (1939) completes the transition from a western landscape conceived as enabling the freedom to imagine the possible to one perceived as disabling such vision. No longer can Twain realize his fantasies about his own Brobdignagian power to eat those who get in the way of his vagabondizing; no longer can Cather will the land to produce simply by virtue of her visionary skills. Twain fits squarely in, and Cather toes the lines of, the literary category of the “Old Western” – a romantic view of “how the West was won.” But Nathanael West, following Américo Paredes, is part of a new paradigm. According to William R. Travis, one possible date for the emergence of a “New West” – a more realistic account of the losses of minorities and the environment at the hands of the initial “winners” of the region – is the decade of the 1930s (3-4).1 During this period, I argue, authors were constructing newly constricted views of the spaces seen as wide open with potential only a few decades earlier. Like Paredes, West traces the restriction of the western imagination by showing that the power of vision can no longer overcome – let alone be inspired by – the West’s idealized beauty and breadth. With The Day of the Locust, instead, the perception of the West is as unclear and shifting as the path through it. Following along the lines of the previous chapter, Chapter 4 continues to investigate the increasing threats to the Western imagination as the 20th century marched 1 In summarizing the debate about when the “New West” came into being, Travis lists the 1930s, World War II, and the 1960s-70s as options. 135 forward. Here, I analyze The Day of the Locust as a repository for the decline of dreams in and of the West. Set in Hollywood, the novella follows Tod Hackett, a graduate of the Yale School of Fine Arts, on his adventures through the fringes of Los Angeles, where he works as a movie-set designer, plans his apocalyptic painting, pursues a second-rate actress named Faye Greener, and attends both gaudy cinema soirees in the city and desperate outings into the spare desert. Along the way, he comes into contact with Harry Greener, Faye’s sickly father; Homer Simpson, a lonely Midwestern bookkeeper; the cowboy Earle and the Mexican rooster-fighter Miguel, Faye’s suitors; Claude Estee, a screenwriter; and Adore Loomis, an obnoxious child actor. The Hollywood setting – both in its built and natural environs – functions as an object of critical reflection in its capacity to accommodate and produce national fantasies. This critical commentary comes not only from the protagonist, but also from the smorgasbord of characters who are also tangentially involved in the movie industry, as well as from the author himself, who spent the last six years of his life living in Hollywood and writing for its movie houses. These complicated perspectives on the spaces of Hollywood suggest a newly confused and conflicted imagination of the West and its possibilities. When accounting for this instability of The Day of the Locust, most scholars have concentrated on its temporal inconsistencies, but I look at the role inconsistent space plays in destabilizing the novella. This chapter traces Nathanael West’s representation of spatial confusion to its economic and social roots in the West of the 1930s. First, I turn to the history outside the novella, drawing out the relationship between confused space, faulty sight, and cinematic performance during the Great Depression in Hollywood. What do the urban and rural maps of the period show us about how people were orienting 136 themselves toward – or losing their sense of direction within – local and national spaces? How is this disoriented sense of place premised on a metaphorical loss of sight? And how does the failure to clearly imagine space contribute to the confusion of movements through those spaces? Next, I leverage these historical conceptions of space to analyze how place, vision, and movement are coordinated in The Day of the Locust. What is the relationship between the built and natural environments in the novella? How do the characters envision or imagine these spaces, and to what extent do they live up to those expectations in reality? How do the conflicts within and between these spaces affect characters’ agency within them? Why do certain spaces incite violence, or even death, in the novel? And finally, what does all of this mean for a West that had, up to this point – at least for America’s white population – appeared to have lived up to many of its mythical promises? Various visions of the geographies of California, combined through the fiction of The Day of the Locust, allow Nathanael West to underline their inconsistencies. The divided values of Hollywood – primarily between urban and rural, and financial and moral – prevent Locust’s characters from drawing coherent maps of their own setting, and thereby unable to move themselves through that setting with any success. In contrast to visions of the land in Twain, Cather, and Paredes – whose characters often work in close contact with the terrain in order to extract not just material but also personal or even moral value from it – visions of the land in West’s novella seem to be permanently confused and disengaged, and often fail to locate any value at all. Without a solid sense of the ground beneath their feet, West’s characters become dependent on prescribed, perhaps artificial, paths on which to move forward, or convince themselves that they are 137 moving forward. In West’s novella, many of these paths become circular, ultimately wasting energy and leading nowhere, like the false resolution of a movie plot. Below, I follow West’s cast of characters through the spaces of Locust, from city to country and back again – to demonstrate the circularity that confounds the novella. Hollywood and the Great Depression: The Search for American Promise In many ways, Hollywood provided an outlet for the continuation of the idea, begun over a century earlier, that the West could solve any number of American problems. In the 1930s, then, Hollywood served to accommodate any and all of these idea(l)s by proclaiming itself a stage for the performance of the American Dream, whose “bedrock premise” is a “sense of agency” (Cullen, The American Dream 10). Indeed, in The Day of the Locust, one of the movies being filmed on Tod’s lot is titled Manifest Destiny. In the middle of the losses of the Depression, West suggests, Americans felt the need to convince themselves that they could still play the domineering role of American Conqueror to win the West. Just as the winning of the West in the 19th century depended on a view of the territory as an empty canvas to be painted according to (white, male) American prerogatives, Hollywood’s conquering of that same space relied on Americans’ conception of California land as a blank slate that invited the imprint of imagination. In fact, Hollywood continues to be encapsulated by the stones in front of the Chinese Theater that bear the marks of the hands, feet, and signatures of those who give life to dreams: cinema stars. This human imperative to mark one’s territory was key to the formulation of Hollywood, which came to be the site on which the nation’s movies would be shot in large part because of its geographical neutrality, free from the excesses of both 138 weather and industry regulation. Early movie studios had been founded after the turn of the century in cities like New York, Philadelphia, New Jersey, and Chicago, all of which had enacted strict laws that required producers to pay licensing fees (Starr 274). In the West, however, the law of the land in this regard was that there was no law of the land. Hollywood was appealing to movie-makers because it offered distance from the subpoenas that movie houses like Edison were serving to eastern producers who failed to pay requisite fines. In addition to this stereotypical Wild West lawlessness, the rainlessness of southern California was also enticing. When Selig director Francis Boggs needed good weather to film the outdoor scenes of The Count of Monte Cristo (1908), he and his cameraman headed west. In the following years, other filmmakers made the same move, including New York director Cecil B. DeMille, who set up a studio in 1913 in a rented barn next to an orange grove on the corner of the dirt roads of Selma and Vine. Ironically, it was this kind of tabula rasa mentality – starting from scratch in territory whose atmospheric conditions were limited by neither rules nor rain – that allowed for the development of the “Hollywood approach,” whose “taste for pageantry” necessitated a neutral set on which to project its outlandish fantasies (Starr 276). The imposition of the imagination on reality, in other words, necessitated a neutral, accommodating stage. Hollywood conceived of as a space that allowed for the freedom to dream, and to realize those dreams on the big screen, tag-teamed with other promises, too. California was advertised profusely, for instance, as offering health and vitality. It is on his doctor’s orders, after getting pneumonia in Iowa, that Homer Simpson comes West in The Day of the Locust. Hollywood also offered, in the midst of the Depression, the promise of employment. Although John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath famously depicts the 139 hopes the Midwestern Joad family pins on California to provide them with farming jobs, Nathanael West focuses on an different kind of dreamer: the starving artist of the East Coast.2 In The Day of the Locust, Tod Hackett arrives in Los Angeles from Yale to take a job with a movie studio as a set designer. It was for employment’s sake, too, that Nathanael West went to Hollywood, where he had secured work as a script writer for Columbia in 1933. Ultimately, the promise of the West in the 1930s was pinned on a national expectation for what Rita Barnard calls a “culture of abundance” premised on an excess of production and consumption offered by the seemingly endless possibilities housed in neutral territory. Whether in the form of sunshine or oranges, health or jobs, California offered a regional space that promised happiness and fulfillment to counteract the bleak national landscape of the Depression. The problem with such promises, of course, is that their projections clashed discordantly with the realities of the national mood in general and the Hollywood scene in particular. Hollywood enticed the American public with fantasies of the good life on the big screen, but Nathanael West, who had acted as both consumer and producer of such fantasies, suggests in The Day of the Locust that audiences would revel in these illusions for only so long. Hollywood recognized this unsustainability beginning in 1938, with the onset of declining attendance, negative celebrity publicity, and flat-out bad films (Jurca 2–3). The industry launched a massive public relations campaign, dubbed “Motion Pictures’ Greatest Year,” in an effort to shore up their losses. In Locust, Tod mimics movie audiences’ lost confidence in cinematic fantasy by questioning the value of the artificial horse displayed on the bottom of Claude Estee’s swimming pool. Whereas 2 . The starving artist of West’s The Day of the Locust and the dust-bound farmer of Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath are not dissimilar in their frustrated illusions, nor in the anger that such frustration produces, as indicated by one of West’s original titles for his novella, The Wrath to Come (Martin 313)]. 140 such questioning leaves Mrs. Schwartzen to pout, “You just won’t let me cherish my illusions” (71), Tod’s impulse – that the prop is not simply “cute” – points to a larger sense of impending disillusionment, not only with Hollywood, but also with the promises California, and America at large, appeared to offer. As Chip Rhodes has put it, “Far from being separate from the most alarming aspects of the Depression, Hollywood is seen as a cause of the discontent and alienation of people rather than something to mitigate it” (38). Mapping Disorder: The Disorientation of People in Place Hollywood’s difficulty in maintaining an audience willing to indulge in cinematic fantasy was founded on its audience’s own difficulty in understanding their changing world during the Depression, and their difficulty placing themselves within that world in terms of their needs and desires. In The Love of the Last Tycoon (subtitle: A Western), which F. Scott Fitzgerald was writing just before his death, Monroe Stahr’s rise to success is enabled by his rare understanding of placement: he was “the one who knew where everything was” in a world where “no one knew where anything was” (79). The ability to coherently visualize one’s surroundings, in order to find what one was looking for, becomes crucial to agency and progress in the 1930s – but is a unique characteristic due to the complexity of the landscape Americans faced at that time. Even the prosperous Stahr questions the stability of his own understanding of place, commenting to an airline pilot that we often “choose some one way for no reason at all,” even if we pretend otherwise (20). West’s characters in The Day of the Locust, too, are full of doubt about where, how, or even if to proceed. When Homer arrives in Hollywood, for instance, he must “stop for several minutes on the corner to get his bearings” (87). 3 3 On the other side of the country, Carson McCullers was also questioning the American sense of place, writing in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940), “It is a curious emotion, this certain homesickness I have 141 Norman Podhoretz uses almost exactly the same language to describe the reader’s experience of the novella’s internal confusion: it is “difficult,” he says, “to get one's bearings in” The Day of the Locust (84). In the 1930s, the attempts of the individual to find his or her place are frequently frustrated by a loss of orientation. According to Josephine Herbst, Nathanael West was one of them: he “had the orphaned look of his generation” (314). West was quite aware of his misfit status, worrying that his Jewish heritage marked him as not quite “American” and that his economic class would not support his desired profession.4 As with Américo Paredes’ George Washington Gómez character, Nathanael West’s discomfort with his own identity and position in society is blatantly evident in his manipulation of his own name. Born Nathan Weinstein to parents who arrived in Harlem from Lithuania in the 1880s, he began calling himself Nathaniel von Wallenstein Weinstein in a failed attempt to win a bid from a Christian fraternity house at Brown University (Meade 54). His final name change, to Nathanael West, is well- known but generally misunderstood. Officially, West adopted this new name in September of 1926, when he acquired the passport that would take him on his short- lived European tour. Publicly, he would say the name was inspired by New York Tribune editor Horace Greeley, who famously advised, “Go west, young man.” In reality, though, many members of West’s family, including his mother, sister, and several cousins, had been Americanizing their name in this way for some time (Martin in mind. With Americans, it is a national trait, as native to us as the roller-coaster or the jukebox. It is no simple longing for the home town or country of our birth. The emotion is Janus-faced: we are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.” 4 West’s family was unable to fund a full Grand Tour for the aspiring young writer. As Joseph Freeman wrote, “bohemianism requires a certain amount of social stability” (285). 142 28, Meade 71–72). “[I]n searching for a self,” Jay Martin argues, “West was in danger of losing his self” (33). His efforts to create a name that would “fit” some unknown goal are echoed in the author’s inability to “fit” into any particular writing style or literary movement. “Somehow or other,” he wrote to Fitzgerald in 1939, “I seem to have slipped in between all the ‘schools’” (Martin 334, Bercovitch 791).5 West’s personal and aesthetic sense of dislocation serves as an individual example of a national or even international problem with the organization of ideas, people, and places during the early 20th century. In his study of social change during the Progressive Era that preceded the publication of West’s novella, Robert Wiebe argues that Americans were searching, simply, for order. Although the “sweeping” uniformity ushered in by “nationalization, industrialization, mechanization, and urbanization” around the turn of the century appeared to offer such order, these forces of capitalism often resulted instead in a sense of “dislocation and bewilderment” (Wiebe 12). Even popular culture registered this disorientation: 1933 was the year of a great Jigsaw Puzzle craze (Martin 163). A similar atmosphere of disorientation was embedded on the international stage. Looking back on 1929 twenty years later, Thurman Arnold, a member of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's “Brain Trust,” suggested that a “series of corporate world estates” had proved unmappable – “no one of them is to be found in an atlas” (237–238). On a local level, Hollywood, as both a place and an industry, serves as a microcosm of this national and global search for order. If anything, Hollywood’s locale, at the “end of the Frontier,” and its business, as a “dream factory,” make the hunt for 5 It was his inability to market his unfamiliar brand of fiction that led West to Hollywood, where he could support himself financially through script writing while continuing to pursue his own artistic projects on the side. 143 orientation even more complex. “Hollywood's relation to place and place making is a complicated one,” Jani Scandura writes, “in part because the industry that produced it and was produced by it relies on the construction and remaking of spatial and temporal illusion” (191). Finding one’s bearings becomes more difficult, in other words, when there exists no steady sense of just what California land was, was supposed to be, or could be projected as. We can see an attempt to compensate for these complications in the maps and signs prevalent in Hollywood during this period. In 1923, a local real estate company decided to advertise its properties with 45-foot tall white block letters reading “HOLLYWOODLAND.” Just as the neutrality of the stage of California had allowed film directors to reproduce their visions on its canvas, the apparent “blandness” of this sign, Leo Braudy says, “makes it easier to project upon and associate with” (5). But what values were being projected? If we use William Fox’s notion that we are in the habit of “erecting signs to guide us” in an effort to “map” spaces we perceive as “voids” (The Void, the Grid, and the Sign: Traversing the Great Basin ix), we can begin to see the blank space of the Hollywood sign not as offering the possibility of projection, but rather imposing the threat of uncertainty. In this sense, Hollywood’s iconic white letters encapsulate a lack of clarity about what kind of space, exactly, it advertised. One of the main difficulties in defining Hollywood as a place comes from the tension between its natural and its built environments. On the one hand, maps such as Don Boggs’ “Hollywood Starland” (1937) was sold as an “Official Moviegraph of the Land of Stars: Where They Live, Where they Work, and Where They Play,” organizing Hollywood according to the edifices that housed the celebrities who supposedly 144 represented the space (“Hollywood Star Map: Golden Age Celebrities”; Braudy 267). On the other hand, the “soil soldiers” of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps were, during this same period, busy surveying and mapping millions of acres of nature. The efforts of the CCC were focused especially on the West, and particularly on California, which housed 168 camps and employed nearly 34,000 men by 1933, nearly double the number of any other state (“Civilian Conservation Corps”).6 FDR himself took a dual approach to American values when he identified the country’s greatest assets in both “our land and our people” (Flynn 106). The interplay of this divided view of California – as a natural treasure to be conserved and as an urban stage to be constructed – indicates a fundamental confusion about “where everything was” in 1930s Hollywood. “Trouble in getting…focused”: Locust’s Problem of Sight This sense of Depression-era disorientation – about American place itself (particularly “the West”) as well as about the American identities formed by positionalities in place – becomes visible precisely in the way The Day of the Locust pictures vision itself. Both Thomas Strychacz and James Goodwin have written fascinating catalogues of the many ways in which West’s narrative both co-opts and critiques Hollywood filming techniques – the way that cameras “see” things. In many ways, obviously, Locust is centered on film; in fact, its original cover7 featured a movie camera. However, the novella is quite blunt in its critique of film. The only time we see 6 The next two most active CCC states were Pennsylvania, which boasted of 19,400 men on 97 camps, and Idaho, which employed 19,200 men on 96 camps. 7 West hated the cover – composed of a yellow movie camera on a scarlet background, with the title printed in white on a black strip of film frames – which he believed showed that his work was not being taken seriously (Martin 323-24). Among other things, he thought it could be used as “bait for drunken Mexicans” or for “vampire bats,” or as “a flag when the Day comes.” 145 a movie in Locust, the projection machine encounters technical difficulties: the device “whirred merrily, but he had trouble in getting…focused,” and eventually gets “stuck” (74). This assessment of film’s (in)ability to convey a perspective is straightforward, but West is more subtle in his assessment of his human characters’ ability to do the same. By looking closely at how sight is depicted in Locust, we can see how West questions not just the camera eye, but also the human eye behind it. As with the projector’s lack of focus, the majority of the characters populating Locust have trouble seeing the spaces around them directly, clearly, or easily. For example, when Tod sits on a curb after a party, he is unable to perceive the primary scene, and instead must make do with the secondary one: “…he couldn’t see the city in the valley below the canyon,” but only “the reflection of its lights…” (159). In another instance, three cowboys in front of a saddlery store make it their routine to vaguely “stare across the street” despite the fact that there isn’t anything to look at (110). The most extreme example of faulty sight is the non-existent variety exhibited by Homer, who explains that “[t]he lights” of the Hollywood shows “hurt [his] eyes,” leading him to retreat into the “warm, rich darkness” of “uterine flight,” where the absence of light disallows any vision at all (99). Even the songs featured in Locust betray its characters’ anxiety about the difficulty of seeing well. For instance, when Faye, wants to irritate her father, she sings “Jeepers Creepers” (96). And in the Spanish song with which Miguel woos Faye, the speaker admits the inadequacy of his vision by asking a woman to “loan” him her “brown eyes” in order to see the destruction of a fallen landscape (116).8 8 The song, entitled “Cuatro Milpas” (“Four Fields”), is a ballad written by Belisario de Jesús García during the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). The text of Locust includes only one and a half stanzas of the song, which refer to crying palms, a dry lake, and a fallen terrace. The lyrics regarding the lending of eyes are not included in the novella. 146 The frustrated visions of Locust’s characters are intriguing to Tod, who, upon arriving in Hollywood, immediately wants to find a “clue to the people who stared” (76). An artist, Tod has been trained to distance himself from his world in order to portray it through his painting. Like West himself, Tod is empowered by what West’s friend Josephine Herbst called the “gift of seeing:” his eyes are “electrically awake,” ready for “detection;” they “clicked and sparked” upon perceiving the world (Herbst 312, 320, 324). According to Gerald Locklin, Tod possesses a “painter’s eye,” which is capable of combining many points of view (68, 72).9 Indeed, he finds Faye’s affectations charming because he can see them from multiple angles, not only from “in front,” where her illusions seem “amateurish” and “ridiculous,” but also from “backstage,” where he can appreciate “the wires that held up” her fantasies (104). Whereas the majority of Locust’s cast views the proscenium arch of the Hollywood stage as “permeable,” and therefore has difficulty distinguishing between spectacle and reality (Veitch 128), Tod’s removed analysis suggests that he has constructed his own frame through which to see the frame Hollywood has built for its audience and its residents. Tod alone, then, seems to offer the reader’s key to “critical ability” – to gaining perspective on the “real” landscape of 1930s Hollywood. At the same time, however, Tod’s capacity to see from all angles – he is at once consumer, producer, and critic of his world – he can easily get lost in the details within and conflicts between them. Like West, who wrote to Edmund Wilson10 in 1939 that he was prone to “forget the broad sweep, the big canvas” (Novels and other Writings 9 This combination of perspectives originates in West’s revisions of Locust, each version of which had a slightly different narrator. His second draft took Claude Estee’s voice as its guide and the third split Estee in two, with Tod representing Estee’s “sensitive side. It was only in the final draft of the novella that West bestowed Tod with full narrative rights (Martin 312). 10 Some sources indicate the letter was written to Fitzgerald. 147 792), Tod’s vision can be hindered by his alternating extremes of near- and far- sightedness. In The Day of the Locust, West depicts his characters’ warped visions as a metaphor for their warped imaginations. Neuroscience tells us that there is a real connection between physical sight and intellectual understanding, and that aberrations in the former can indicate faltering in the latter. As Melissa Hogenboom reports, neuroscientific studies show that “Visual, or optical, illusions show us that our minds tend to make assumptions about the world.” Clearly, Nathanael West was no neuroscientist, but his construction of his characters’ perceptions of space, their fantasies about what those spaces might allow, and their movements through those spaces, aligns with research showing that illusions “can reveal everything from how we process time and space to our experience of consciousness.” As Mark Changizi, a theoretical neurobiologist, explains, the brain may make predictions about its surroundings in order to “perceive the present.” As such, the ways in which Locust’s cast sees their world reveals their capacity to understand and act accordingly within their present time and place. By extension, if they are unable or unwilling to really “see” the spaces of Hollywood – after a long day’s work, Claude Estee reasons, people just want to indulge in illusions of “amour and glamor” – their own dreams and behaviors will reflect and reify that disorientation. From City to Soil and Back Again: Nixing and Mixing the Material and the Natural Before moving to close readings of The Day of the Locust’s conflicting perspectives on space, I want to provide a brief review of the novella’s similarly conflicted views of time. Many critics have focused on temporal incoherence in Locust 148 as contributing to its characters’ discombobulation.11 While most agree that the novella is more or less “plotless,”12 scholars disagree about its pace, with some arguing for its “Breughel-like stillness” (Ross xxii) and others calling it “too fast for the eye to follow” (Strychacz 193). In any case, it’s clear that Locust’s timing is confusing, full of chronological reversals,13 transitionless jumps,14 re-enactments and repetitions,15 and moments in which time seems to stop altogether.16 Scholars have attributed these temporal inconsistencies to various sources, including the “splintered” filming techniques of 1930s Hollywood (Strychacz 194). I would add that the novella’s confused sense of time is also shaped by the growing American obsession with speed and progress in the 11 This temporal incoherence also appears in West’s previous novella, Miss Lonelyhearts, each chapter of which, the author explained, “instead of going forward in time, also goes backward, forward, up and down in space like a picture” (West, “Some Notes on Miss L” 401). 12 The Day of the Locust’s narrative has been called a “near plotless plot” (Strychacz 199), “inharmonious” (Goodwin 50), “indeterminate” (Blyn xxv), and “arbitrary” (Lethem 392). Even the author himself was adamant about the fact that his work did not privilege plot. In his 1934 application for a Guggenheim fellowship, West pointed explicitly to his lack of interest in plot, noting that he had made “no attempt…to describe what actually happens to my protagonist because I think an outline of adventures is meaningless” (Novels and Other Writings 466). Despite receiving glowing letters of recommendation from Malcolm Cowley, Edmund Wilson, George S. Kaufman, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, West’s application was rejected in 1935 (Martin 254-55, 263). 13 This temporal disjunction is clear from the opening line, which begins “Around quitting time,” thus positioning a conclusion, the end of the work day, at its introduction (59). Conversely, the novella ends with a movie debut in which the searchlights seem to initiate a new quest even as they herald an apocalypse (175). Meanwhile, the entirety of Locust juxtaposes the idealized search for new beginnings with the actual onset of dead ends. 14 For instance, Faye’s narrative about “how careers are made in the movies and how she intended to make hers” strings together “possibilities,” “probabilities,” and “inevitabilities” “[w]ithout any noticeable transition” (158). Likewise, when Earle is teased, he silently contemplates the “joke” before suddenly kicking his bully “in the rump,” thereby moving “from apathy to action without the usual transition” (111). 15 In the novella, the production of “Waterloo” on a Hollywood backlot exhibits this forced repetition of time. As the narrator explains, the re-enacted battle must be “fought over again the next day” due to a “classic mistake” (134). 16 For example, Faye dreams up movie plots but stops before getting to “how the picture should end” because she “lost interest” (106). In another instance, the director of Harry’s funeral “raised her hand and Bach was silenced in the middle of a phrase” (129). Finally, after Faye moves out , Homer speaks “continuously for about twenty minutes” until he suddenly “stopped in the middle of a sentence[,]…, and seemed to fall asleep” (168). 149 1920s,17 more particularly the pace at which the movie industry’s contingent labor force moved18 and Los Angeles’ increasing reliance on speedy transportation.19 Josephine Herbst’s observation that “the young were in such a hurry, such a panic” during this period suggests that speed was not so much exciting as anxiety-producing (315). Rather than bringing about “youthful vitality,” the fast pace of the era often instead introduced death and destruction. Indeed, Nathanael West himself died from speeding through his own life, crashing to his death in an automobile accident at an intersection in El Centro, at age 37.20 Like Al Manheim of Budd Schulberg’s What Makes Sammy Run? (1941), all 17 As Josephine Herbst wrote in Hunter of Doves, her semi-autobiographical short story about her friendship with West, “[h]is time, the elements in which he had had his chance, was already hopelessly muddled” (310). 18 The term “movie” was not only the shorthand reference for “moving picture,” but also “a general term of contempt for anyone who worked in the ‘flickers’” (Braudy 13). Encouraged to churn out scripts at whirlwind pace, screenwriters were “treated like factory workers” (148). Nathanael West was accustomed to spending years to produce a publishable piece of writing, but the fast pace of Hollywood in some ways matched West’s conception of literary authorship, since he believed he could “leave slow growth to the book reviewers;” book writers, he said, “only have time to explode” (West, “Some Notes on Miss L” 401). When West got his first Hollywood job, with Columbia Pictures in 1933, he had very little time indeed: he signed a four-week contract; they kept him around for six (Meade 147, 150). His next position, with Republic Productions, was even more temporary, offering employment only on a week-to-week basis (201). As fictionalized in Schulberg’s What Makes Sammy Run?, such jobs were comparable to speeding through a marathon at a “mercurial pace” set by “a burning impatience to be further, further on” (186, 80). Although West would land a more temporally stable position with the “big-league” studio RKO after the publication of Locust (Meade 249), such quick-moving, short-lived jobs were the norm in the Hollywood studio system. However, the frenetic energy of movie-making was potentially destructive. Such an atmosphere of super-efficient productivity clearly had implications for the quality, purpose, and reception of the “art” it produced, as Walter Benjamin famously theorized in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” published just three years prior to Locust. As Edmund Wilson reprimanded Nathanael West, “You’re an artist” with “no business” in “a ghastly place” like Hollywood (qtd. in Dardis 174). Similarly, in Locust, Tod “grabbed [his job] despite the arguments of his friends who were certain that he was selling out and would never paint again” (61). 19 By 1920, the region was producing 106 million barrels of oil a year. Los Angeles came in second place for both tire manufacturing (after Akron, Ohio), and automobile assembly (after Detroit) (Starr 182). By 1924, more than 310,000 automobiles were entering Los Angeles daily – more than the total number of cars registered in the entire state of New York (Starr 185). Because the city was built on an integrated plain, it was particularly “amenable” to high-speed automobile traffic. The 1920s saw the inauguration of “great boulevards” like Sunset, and the late 1930s saw the construction of intersection-less roads like the Arroyo Seco Parkway. 20 Ironically nicknamed “Pep” for his exhaustion following a summer camp hike, West’s accident, on Dec. 22, 1940, was not really a surprise. West himself once predicted that he would die in a car accident (Martin 150 of West’s characters are ultimately blown away by the pace required of them, even as they attempt to incorporate that pace into their own worlds.21 In the end, their counteractive conceptions of time clash throughout the novella, resulting in a chronology devoid of clarity or meaning. My aim is not to dismiss the scholarly focus on the inconsistencies of time in The Day of the Locust. To the contrary, this concentration aligns with my own observations, though from a different angle. My goal, then, is to balance the discussions of time that have dominated the criticism on West with what I see as an equally important analysis of space. After all, where did the temporal speeds of the 1930s get us? If, as Mr. Propter concludes in Aldous Huxley’s 1939 After Many a Summer Dies the Swan, “you're never certain of getting there, even when you’ve come near enough to see what sort of thing you’re going to” (177), the answer is nowhere. In the same way that various conceptions of and expectations for time conflict in the novella to create anxiety and chaos, so too do various understandings of space clash, ultimately creating an uneven foundation for movement. Partly because Nathanael West has been deemed a more talented creator of characters and dialogue than description,22 few critics have allotted any detailed, 8); his new wife, Eileen McKenney, often did the driving. The author was known to be a horrible driver, at least in part because the life of his mind, free to take its time, was more engaging to him than literal road of his life, with all its pressures to hurry up. According to Jay Martin, West was “quickly bored by the mechanical routine of driving and …loosened his imagination to drift and daydream” (7). 21 For Twain, Cather, and perhaps even Paredes, the notion of timeless wandering is not as threatening as it is for West or his Depression-era readers. Twain’s meandering work as a legislative worker, timberer, miner, quartz miller, and finally writer and humorist – each phase drawn out over dozens of pages before moving on – points to a relatively stable sense of the long-term (that the nation would continue to prosper beyond Manifest Destiny) – even as those explorations were founded on unstable spaces. In his careless question of “What’s next?” following any apparent failure, Twain’s reader can recognize the open quality of time prior to the closure of frontier space. This sense of timelessness allows entire lifetimes of imaginative exploration of possibility. By contrast, time is of the essence in West’s Hollywood culture. 151 sustained attention to West’s settings. James Goodwin has pointed out the ways in which the novella reduces the world to tonalities of light and dark, but does so as part of a much larger discussion of West’s work as representative of the “grotesque.” Jonathan Veitch offers a more focused analysis of setting, arguing that West’s environments are never “left neutral,” but rather are “always converted into atmosphere, carefully dressed with the appropriate props” (117). Veitch performs close readings of scenes that take place in prop-ridden locales like the Cuban dance club El Gaucho to prove that "atmosphere prescribes performance" (117, italics original). However, if California is defined, according to Kevin Starr, in terms of its “dual attractions” – not only “the entertainment industry,” but also the state’s “natural beauty” (xi) – we should be careful to foreground the former on the latter. I want to add to Veitch’s anlaysis of explicitly staged props by examining, as well, the apparently natural “props” featured in the backyards, neighborhoods, and canyons that punctuate the novella’s more stereotypical Hollywood locales. By looking closely at the urban and rural stages on which Locust’s flashy props are grounded, we can achieve a fuller understanding of West’s characters “performances” on those stages. While Isaac Rosenfeld once argued that West’s “characters are by the measure of their own elevation above the mass cut off from the necessary contact with common life,” I contend that their disconnection from life originates in their disconnected vision of the ground on which they live (110). Indeed, the ground itself is disconnected, partially constructed, or ill-conceived, preventing any possibility of relation to it. As West himself said, his settings constitute “a peculiar half world” (J. Martin 336). Books reviewed this 22 Behind West’s back, Bennett Cerf offered this critique of an early version of Locust to S.J. Perelman. The remarks apparently got back to West, as recorded in Cerf’s letter to him on May 31, 1938 (Meade 243). 152 same concept as a “two-dimensional” quality that rendered the novella “emotionally inert” (“Review of The Day of the Locust”). Although characters like Harry Greener have been analyzed according to this notion of flatness,23 the idea of the “half world” has not been applied to the spaces in which they live. This not-fully-drawn world fails to cohere due to the confused combinations of its natural and built environments, neither of which prove comprehensible, much less fulfilling to their residents. Like the “trail” of character in West’s short story “The Adventurer,” which “becomes hard to follow” because it is “circular, winding back into itself, without direction, without goal” (Novels and Other Writings 445), the trail of geography in Locust is twisted, with no clear ends. West represents his novella’s landscape as fragmented, and his characters’ movements as misdirected, resulting in a circular view of the Hollywood setting that both sets up and mimics the characters’ indirections over it. By constructing skewed visions of these spaces, West shows how a failure to find order in a landscape divided both within and between its natural and material elements results in circularity and stagnation, in both dreams and reality. * Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s inaugural address, given in March of 1933, is well known for its bold declaration that “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” But the meat of the speech reveals a fear of something decidedly more substantive: materiality, or, more bluntly, the edifices, goods, and services that represent wealth. Ironically, however, Roosevelt was intent on proving the material’s lack of substance. We should be 23 James Goodwin has noted that many of the characters in Locust are two-dimensional (85), including Earle, who bears a strong “resemblance to a mechanical drawing” (109), Harry, whose “mask”-like face “had very little back or top” (119), and Faye, who is first introduced by way of a flat photograph Tod keeps stuck in the corner of his dresser mirror. 153 grateful, he reasoned, that “our distress comes from no failure of substance” – “we are stricken by no plague of locusts.”24 Instead, because “our common difficulties…concern, thank God, only material things,” Roosevelt suggests, the path to success should be a relatively easy one. By advising that we simply substitute “mere monetary profit” with “noble social values,” Roosevelt underestimated the embeddedness of the material in America (Goodwin 87). Far from a manageable, eradicable element of 1930s society, materiality, as depicted in The Day of the Locust, is precisely the burden that infiltrates, confuses, and blocks any clear path forward. By default of both history and family, Nathanael West was well-versed in the material culture of building. From roughly 1900 to 1920, much of America’s success was based on a “boom” of construction. In New York, where West was born and raised, rising demands for housing for incoming immigrants, as well as the availability of loose .profit, made the construction business particularly appealing (Martin 20). West grew up in and around the contracting firm of his father, who expected his son to follow in his footsteps. Although it was with much resistance that West participated in his father’s work,25 he was fascinated by the decorative artistry of construction26 and briefly expressed interest in becoming an architect (Martin 20, 75). In addition to his family’s buildings, West was also familiar with the towers and gables of the Flemish Renaissance Revival style of his high school, DeWitt Clinton, and the Beaux-Arts style of the New York Public Library (Meade 26). As a young adult, West worked as a manager in the 24 James Goodwin makes this connection between Roosevelt’s speech and West’s title, but offers no evidence that the latter alluded to the former. 25 West begrudgingly learned the skills of bricklaying and plumbing (Martin 33). 26 His father was known for his ornamental work in limestone. 154 hotels his father’s company had helped to build, including Kenmore Hall and the Sutton,27 which overlooked the Art Deco Chrysler building, constructed in 1930 (Meade 94). Though more subdued than what he would find in Hollywood, the mix of urban architecture West grew up with on the East coast gave him the lexicon with which to critique the more radical western environment he builds in Locust. West was simultaneously intrigued and disgusted by the building styles in California, which had morphed over the years into quite a gaudy collection. Prior to West’s residence in California, in the 1910s and 1920s, the majority of homes were built in an Arts-and-Crafts-inspired shingle style (Starr 295). This same period, however, exhibited experimentation with Tudor, Jacobean, Georgian, and Hansel and Gretel Storybook architecture. As the 1920s progressed, Mediterranean revivals became trendy, and modernism began to appear. When West came to Hollywood in 1933, the “Second Generation” of modernist architects was already at work. The freedom associated with the West – the same freedom that drew Hollywood film directors to its wide-open spaces and tax-free locations – also drew architects to design without limit. Indeed, Hollywood’s smorgasbord of styles led the author to call the city “a desert got up to look like Asbury Park” (qtd. in Meade 148). The buildings that appear in The Day of the Locust, from palatial residences to low-class rentals, reflect this excess of architectural style. Clashing designs abound among the many outlandish mansions28 in the area, including “Mexican ranch houses, 27 Both residences were part of the new fad of “club hotels” designed to attract single young professionals with amenities like lounges, concert theaters, and swimming pools (Meade 105). 28 Locust’s mansions are reminiscent of 1930s Hollywood both in fact (for example, “Pickfair,” the “White House of Hollywood” owned by United Artists founders Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks) and fiction (Jo Stoyte’s castle in Aldous Huxley’s After Many a Summer Dies the Swan and General Sternwood’s estate in Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939)). 155 Samoan huts, Mediterranean villas, Egyptian and Japanese temples, Swiss chalets, Tudor cottages,” a “miniature Rhine castle,” and Claude Estee’s mock-southern mansion (61). 29 Even the San Bernadino Arms, Tod’s apartment complex, illustrates confused style, pictured, on the one hand, as a “nondescript affair” with “plain, unpainted stucco” walls and “unadorned windows” (3), and, on the other, as ornate, marked by “pink Moorish columns” topped by “turnip shaped lintels” (61). Homer’s house similarly flouts the rules of design, appearing to be an “Irish” cottage on the exterior despite its interior decoration in “Spanish,” “New England,” and “nautical” themes. These design conflicts extend to uncertainties in smaller stylistic elements: the front door’s hinges are “carefully stamped to appear hand-forged,” the “thatched roof” is “paper colored and ribbed to look like straw,” and the dresser was “painted to look like unpainted pine” (81). As Miles Orvell writes in The Real Thing, if the 19th century saw factory-created “consumer objects that enthusiastically mimicked handcrafted things,” the Depression-era of the early 20th century carried the imitation of authenticity to the point of “self-parody” (142, 148). To an excessive degree, then, the material constructions in Locust – from houses to hinges – have a shaky grip on reality. “Steel, stone and brick curb a builder's fancy a little,” Tod observes, “forcing him to distribute his stresses and weights and to keep his corners plumb.” But the “plaster and paper” that constitute Locust’s world defy this notion of balance and permanence, as these materials “know no law, not even that of gravity" (61). 29 In the novella, Claude’s house is a replica of the Biloxi, Mississippi Dupuy mansion (68), but it is Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hollyhock House in East Hollywood that plays the role in the film version of Locust. The stand-in is particularly interesting given its “introverted” exterior, which resists analysis or comprehension; its name’s use of the natural environment to describe the built; and its ultimate impracticality, both in terms of its failure as a residential building and its difficulty holding up in earthquakes. 156 One response to this riot of materiality in the midst of the Great Depression was a “back to the land” movement, carried out in varying degrees of intensity. At one extreme was Ralph Borsodi, whose Flight from the City (1933) advocated for an agrarianism that would allow impoverished families to become self-reliant. A more well-known response was that of FDR, who suggested that Americans looking to rid themselves of the material in favor of the moral might do so by calling on “the spirit of the American pioneer” and turning to nature, which “still offers her bounty.”30 Whether in the name of economy, morality, or architectural simplicity, urban Americans during the 1930s were becoming interested in the promise of the land. Nathanael West was not immune to the attractions of nature. On many occasions throughout his life, West turned to the land in the hopes that nature would save him – or at least his writing – from the chaos of the city. In May of 1931, for example, he spent the summer drafting Miss Lonelyhearts in a cabin in the Adirondacks.31 His next trip to the country was initiated by the young novelists John Herrmann and Josephine Herbst,32 who described West’s Manhattan penthouse as “little more than a cage, where to see beyond rooftops merely enhanced his sense of being in jail” (321). With Herbst’s urging, West rented a room in Frenchtown, N.J., a covered bridge across from Herbst’s own home in 30 Many of Roosevelt’s New Deal programs were aimed at protecting nature, especially in the territories west of the Mississippi like Oklahoma’s Dust Bowl. The Civilian Conservation Corps, for instance, fought forest fires for 6 million man-days and planting 3 billion trees (Flynn 19). Although Woodrow Wilson officially established the National Park Service in 1916 with the “Organic Act,” it was Roosevelt who, with Executive Orders 6166 and 6228 of 1933, consolidated the National Parks system (Dilsaver). In doing so, FDR was following his own inaugural mandate to go “back to the land,” which assumed that reconnecting with nature would help to solve the moral problems of materiality plaguing Depression-era America (Flynn 118). 31 The cabin, ensconced in 1,200 acres of forest, served as a refuge from the city, from West’s family, and from the Sutton, where the author’s writing was frequently interrupted by “deadbeats” (Meade 111, Martin 140). 32 The couple showed up at the Sutton at the behest of William Carlos Williams, with whom West was working on the literary magazine Contact at the time (Martin 155). 157 Erwinna. At the end of his six weeks’ country sojourn, he announced that Miss Lonelyhearts would be “positively finished” before he returned to the city (qtd. in Martin 157). West was so enthusiastic about the success he had met in the Pennsylvania countryside that, in December of 1932, he purchased an 83-acre property in Bucks County (Martin 200). The sense of freedom for creative imagination that West found in the open air of New York and Pennsylvania had profound implications for his understanding of the relative values of city versus country, even after he moved to the West coast.33 In Hollywood, West “fled as often as he could to the enchanted woods,” and eventually bought a brick farmhouse north of the city with his new wife, Eileen (Herbst 344, Meade 297). As Jay Martin writes, “West learned not simply to love the outdoors but to regard the wilderness as powerfully curative of city ills. In contrast to the confusing city, where commerce and conformity pressed upon him, the country seemed to provide a place of simple order” (24). The conflation of nature and order is echoed clearly in a film script West wrote for Columbia in 1933 called The Return to the Soil. As the title suggests, the film affirms the rejuvenating value of the land. The story follows a farmer’s son who, having failed in the city, journeys back to the family farm, where he declares that “Nature will always provide for those who love her. Soon she will give us potatoes, corn, sweet butter, eggs… everything that man needs in this world. Not slimy stuff from cans, but rich, beautiful vegetables and fruits that are loaded with life” (Martin 207). 33 After all, it is important to remember that California has been, for the long haul, attractive due to its land – its natural environment. Indeed, the original “HOLLYWOODLAND” sign announces this explicitly. The first San Francisco union organized topographers to map the land. The first building in Hollywood was not, as was traditional, a church, but rather a hotel for those who wanted to buy the land. To this day, the state is known as much for that which grows out of its land – its orange groves and vineyards – as for that which threatens its land – its earthquakes. 158 The fulfillment West projects in Return to the Soil, in which a vision of the land offers “beauty “ and “life,” peeks through briefly, prominently, and problematically in the only scene in The Day of the Locust that takes place in true “nature.”34 Occuring near the middle of book, the characters’ journey “back to the land” seems to offer an anchor, a space of respite, in the center of an otherwise city-bound landscape. As nowhere else in the novella, this vision of nature provides a seemingly bright picture of the setting. In this scene, Tod, Faye, and Earle are making their way toward the cowboy’s camp, and the nature surrounding them looks to be lovely and lively. The narrator notes that “It was full spring.” The banks of the canyon “flowered in purple, blue, and yellow,” while “orange poppies bordered the path” (113). In the next canyon, the “bare round and jagged rocks were even more brilliantly colored than the flowers of the first.” Here, the path was “silver, grained with streaks of rose-gray, and the walls of the canyon were turquoise, mauve, chocolate and lavender.” The entire scene is lit up by “the air itself,” which “was vibrant pink” (113). James Goodwin briefly mentions this particular vision of nature in the novella, aligning it with the art of the Fauvist movement. This group was prominent in California, where they “remained preoccupied with the landscape through the 1920s, most of them working in plein air Postimpressionist style” (Starr 290). In particular, the vibrant hues of the flowers, rocks, and air of the canyon West describes are reminiscent of the masculine, bohemian “Society of Six,” a group of East Bay artists painting together beginning in the 1920s, whose canvases are described as “exploding in vivid color,” perceiving “a whole new range of hues in the landscape.” These were the “… colors that 34 Granted, many of Locust’s mansions are located on a road called “La Huerta,” meaning “The Orchard,” though no orchard seems to exist here. 159 Californians knew instinctively to be their own: colors that had been seen in the mind long before they were experienced in the landscape” (290). Like the Postimpressionists, the Society of Six believed that color could be used in an abstract way to “exercise…power…over the imagination of the spectator” (Grove Art par. 8). The dramatic colors with which West paints his novella’s canyon have a similar effect on both the characters and the reader, working to enliven the scene with an air of contentment, or possibly even joy. Our imaginations are held rapt by these colors, which mimic the myth of vibrant California sunsets romanticized by West coast lore. Goodwin dismisses West’s bright canyon colors as an anomaly, reasoning that the aesthetics of Salvator Rosa, Francesco Guardi and Monsu Desiderio – artists Tod calls “the painters of Decay and Mystery” – are more prominent in Locust (88). I argue that this dismissal is a mistake. Far from an irrelevant detail, the brevity of this vivid perspective suggests quite a conscious choice by West, who was so well-versed in art that he was known in college as an artist more than a writer (Martin 64). In The Red Tablecloth, the Society of Six’s Selden Gile uses Cubism to depict “simultaneous points of view” to guide the viewer’s eyes to particular elements of the painting. Similarly, I suggest that West uses the bright flowers in his canyon scene to draw his reader’s eyes both toward some details and away from others. In this case, the shock of color – especially in a space where characters have admitted that light can be painful – impels us to pay closer attention to this supposedly natural, supposedly salutary setting, and to question its value. In short, the novella’s colorful canyon impels us to be skeptical not only of material glitz, but also of apparently natural beauty, as well as the belief that the natural environment could offer refuge from the confusion of the Great Depression. 160 Locust’s trek into the wilderness is not so beautiful, colorful, or simple as it at first appears. The trip into the canyon is proffered not as a nature-appreciation tour, like the Fauvist scene above suggests, but rather as an escape from the financial burdens of the city: Earle and Faye are supposed to go out on a date, but Earle “ain’t got any dough for supper,” and proposes that they go to his camp to dine on freshly caught quails for free. While the trek toward the camp seems promising in its vivid hues and peaceful atmosphere, these qualities prove to be illusive. The colorful flowers turn out to be desperate weeds struggling to “get a purchase in [the canyon’s] steep banks.” Their petals, rather than dewy with life, are “wrinkled like crepe,” while their leaves are “heavy with talcumlike dust.” Although the second canyon is described as “more brilliantly colored” than the first, it is in fact “sterile,” filled only with rocks. Finally, the “little green valley thick with trees” the characters encounter upon emerging from the canyon is distant and elusive – the group finds themselves “sliding and stumbling down a dry wash” to get there (113). Although Tod momentarily seems to enter a reverie when he notes that a clump of wild mustard “smelled of the rain and sun, clean, fresh and sharp,” his other observations overtake this sense of nature as vital. When Tod listens to a bird singing at the conclusion of the scene, the music is not just melancholic, but discordant, like “water dripping on something hollow” or “a stick dragged slowly over the string of a harp.” The natural world, it turns out, not only fails to serve as a space of financial or moral refuge, but houses as much emptiness and confusion as the city. On a literal level, it is not surprising that West would write uncertain geography into his setting, as the land of southern California during the 1930s – like the land of northern Nevada and California in Twain’s 1860s – really was a moving, living entity. 161 Southern California in the decades just prior to the publication of The Day of the Locust, for example, witnessed a devastating flood in Los Angeles in 1938; major earthquakes in Santa Barbara in 1925, Point Arguello in 1927, and Long Beach in 1933; and wild fires in Matilija Canyon (Ojai) in 1932 and Griffith Park (LA) in 1933. West himself witnessed fires in the canyons near his Hollywood apartment, as well as a house across the street that he watched bur “like a furnace” (Martin 269). These disasters were often exacerbated by the Santa Ana winds, regional downslope gusts that can exceed 40 miles per hour. While West’s Locust takes such natural disasters for granted as appropriate background for the human disasters it narrates, other Hollywood novels of the same period explicitly write the land’s movement into their narratives. For example, the earthquake in John Fante’s Ask the Dust shakes the protagonist to the extent that he begins attending Mass regularly, newly convinced that “The world was dust, and dust it would become” (104). In Budd Schulberg’s What Makes Sammy Run?, however, Kit complains not about the extreme weather itself, but rather about the view of such a natural atmosphere as disastrous. “The Chamber of Commerce,” she says, “boasts about the sunshine and the palm trees and the Chinese Theater...And the things that have the most vitality they’re always on the defense about -- the long rains and the night winds” (Schulberg 155). West, too, had a complicated relationship with the “vitality” nature offered, which could be both exciting and terrifying. His engagements with nature, in which he often attempted to assert order over its instabilities, ended alternatively with comic disaster or decided darkness. For instance, West’s boyhood jaunts to Central Park found West and his friends hunting small critters according to a Boy Scout manual. But as adolescents, they were not so interested in the park as a place to “play at being in the forest,” as in a 162 place to spy on illicit rendezvous (Meade 31, Martin 36). Later, when West and his cousin, at age 15, gathered the survival gear ordered from Field and Stream with the plan to join a western military unit, the boys were “intercepted” at Grand Central Station by parents who knew that lighting out for the Territory might not be so simple. In adulthood, too, nature was not always benevolent for West. Martin suggests that West’s attraction to the natural environment represents an “unconscious… yearning for reimmersion in the less difficult world of his childhood” (140), but the difficulties of adulthood followed him into the idyllic spaces he sought in nature. Some of these difficulties were financial. His trip to the Adirondacks, for instance, was not only a professional necessity, but an economic one, as well.35 Other problems with nature were more slapstick. After West purchased his Bucks County farm in 1932, he decided to create a swimming pool by damming up the brook that cut through the property (Martin 200). When the project turned into a slimy mudhole, though, he had to destroy the dam – to the whispered amusement of the neighbors who had seen the failure of the “city slickers” from a mile away (Meade 154). Even in California, West suffered from awful headaches that he blamed on excessive sunshine and bougainvillea (Meade 148). West’s conflicted views of and experiences in nature can be seen in nearly all his works. The imaginary spaces West created in his fiction became more and more open as they moved further and further west, but this extra space guarantees neither the freedom nor coherence of his characters’ movements. West’s first publication, The Dream Life of Balso Snell (1931), takes place in the dark, confined interior of a Trojan horse, where the 35 The seven-room cabin he found rented for $25 per month – about half the going rate for the average Manhattan apartment in the 1930s (J. Miller). Herbst admitted the financial appeal of nature: “We weren’t in love with the soil, per se. We loved the outdoors but we liked the city also. But to stay in the city meant harnessing yourself to a regular job so you could pay rent” (qtd. in Martin 140). 163 protagonist moves along anatomical courses that only leave him feeling more trapped. West’s second novella, Miss Lonelyhearts (1933), is set along the vertices of stairwells and elevator shafts in New York City, resulting in chapters that “cumulatively take on a slanted, compacted quality” (Lethem 392). While the eponymous character escapes briefly from the dark confines of basement speakeasies and dank bedrooms to an airy country cottage, the conviction that “we have no outer life, only an inner one” guarantees that the expansiveness of the country will provide no respite from the thoughts that “revolved inside the pain” of his head “like a wheel within a wheel” (15, 18). In A Cool Million (1934), the “All American boy” Lemuel Pitkin progresses, along the lines of the American Dream, from a small town, to big cities, to the wide West in search of Opportunity. As in Dream Life and Lonelyhearts, though, any expansion of geography made available to our boy-hero ends up working against his idealistic hopes of finding wealth, health, or happiness in the land he traverses. If nature at first appears to have the capacity to assuage both aesthetic and monetary concerns, it is ultimately bankrupt of the morally redeeming qualities West imagined in Return to the Soil or Roosevelt envisioned for his CCC. As with George Washington Gómez in Américo Paredes’ novel, a nature that might seem to play an aesthetically pleasing, socially accommodating, or imaginatively inspiring role for the misfit can easily turn into an inhospitable environment. But whereas Paredes pictures Guálinto’s banana grove turned “sea of mud” as hastening his departure from his land, his culture, and his imagination, West continued in his attempts to engage with nature in his life and literature. Although the experience of the damned dam was lighthearted enough that Perelman affectionately named the project “[West’s] 164 folly,” Josephine Herbst suggests that these kinds of petty failures point to a much larger concern for the author. Perhaps, she writes, “the mere state of the nation, deep in a depression, awoke in him the desperate struggle of one trying to escape the common fate.” That “[h]e could not summon at will the dream wilderness” that might allow him to do so “wore away some hopeful chance” (334). Although West might at times have viewed nature as offering a “place of simple order,” the disorder he and his characters often find in the spaces they turn to for answers indicates that the landscapes he perceived and created were anything but “simple.” The problematic endings in his own experiences with nature are darkly transformed in Locust, where the “return to the land” results not in a sudden infusion of financial freedom or ethical morality, but rather in a barbarism that sends its cast fleeing back to the city, thereby completing a circular path that leaves them with no escape from their confused world. Having left the apparently vital but actually sterile nature scene, the novella’s characters make their way back to Hollywood proper, where their view of their surroundings is no more clear than it was before their nature trek. Instead, their spatial visions become even more blurry than before: there is no clear dividing line, as Frederick Jackson Turner would have had it, between “wilderness” and “civilization,” between “man-made” and “nature-made.” Homer’s backyard, for example, contains an odd mixture of the natural and the material, all described as carefully staged according to “foreground” and “background: a “sooty, brick incinerator and a pile of rusty cans” lie in front of “the remains of a cactus garden in which a few ragged, tortured plants still survived.” Like the plants in the canyon, the life has been removed from Homer’s cacti, one of which consists of “ugly needles” and a “bright yellow flower” whose “petals never 165 trembled” (89). Clearly, none of this provides Homer with the health and well-being he was sent to California to find. A similar mix of environment and industry can be found in the landscape of the Hollywood backlots, including the “Sargasso sea of the imagination” on which past movie sets are discarded (132). The sets, flats, and props of the lot take an entire global “history of civilization” – represented by, among other things, a 30-foot-high Buddha, a Venetian barque, a Greek Temple – and compress it into a “ten-acre field.”36 This spatial compression is complemented by a conflation of the natural and the material. Here in the “dream dump,” shrubs “carried, not flowers or berries, but armories of spikes, hooks and swords,” broken monuments are “half hidden by great, tortured trees whose roots writhed dramatically” in the Hollywood style, and “clumps of sunflowers and wild gum” protrude unexpectedly from piles of flats (132). Much of this imagery is naturalistic, indicating that nature holds the winning hand against the helpless humans who inhabit it and fill it with illusions. Despite the apparent conquering of the land by the Hollywood film industry and its architectural and material smorgasbords, natural elements continue to invade the space, imperturbable as the cactus flower and attention-grabbing as the “dramatic” roots. Nature is not necessarily protesting the onslaught of these discarded dreams, however, as it seems to claim ownership, even if a burdensome one, of the prop weaponry it “carries.” Instead, the environment seems to remind those who would settle there, and settle it, of its almost god-like presence. This alpha and omega of nature 36 This scene is reminiscent of one in Huxley’s After Many a Summer, in which the scholar Jeremy Pordage remarks that the bricolage of Jo Stoyte’s chapel inspires a “no-track mind”: “In the columned Lady Chapel, with its hat racks and its Magnascos, its Brancusi and its Etruscan sarcophagus used as an umbrella stand, Jeremy Pordage began, all of a sudden, to feel himself more cheerful and at home. ‘It's as though one were walking into the mind of a lunatic,’ he said smiling happily...Or, rather, an idiot,’ he qualified. ‘Because I suppose a lunatic’s a person with a one-track mind Whereas this…’ he made a circular gesture… ‘this is a no track mind. No-track because infinity-track. It's the mind of an idiot of genius. Positively stuffed with the best that has been thought and said...every item is perfectly irrelevant to every other item” (174). 166 appear neatly in the “flight of baroque palace stairs that started in a bed of weeds and ended against the branches of an oak” (131). The cast of Locust, then, resides at an impasse: they can turn to neither the natural nor the built environment of Hollywood for solace, clarity, or order, and, perhaps even more problematically, both are intertwined in the novel’s setting. Herbst saw this conflict play out in Nathanael West himself. Although the author was reliant on “civilization” – he “took the pose of the old-time English squire who cannot function without some ritual of living,” “his good clothes, his elegant shoes, his fine gun…his fine dog and…a new car” – he was only “steeped…in content” in the “wilderness,” when he was “wandering over the hills” (333). Despite the potential disasters nature brings – comic or tragic – it is his journeys into nature that give him “the glow of a navigator who has discovered strange ports.” Moving back and forth between the civilized “rituals of life” and “wild” journeys into nature, both West and his work move along a circular path whose entropic lack of clear order leads nowhere but paralysis. “Too deep in scenery to flee:” Arrested Development in an Unfinished Hollywood Far from mere background, Nathanael West believed that the elements that make up a space – whether urban buildings or rural flora, or some awkward combination of the two – shape its inhabitants. West recorded this belief in an initial galley proof for Locust that included an epigraph from Lewis Mumford: “From the form of a city, the style of its architecture, and the economic functions and social grouping it shelters and encourages, one can derive the essential elements of a civilization” (Martin 309). If a “civilization” is defined by advancement, development, or progress, however, the “form” of West’s settings prevent that movement. When Dorothy Parker reviewed The Day of the Locust 167 as "brilliant, savage and arresting,” that final adjective was meant to describe the reader’s stunned reaction to the books’ brilliance. “Arrested,” however, would also be an appropriate description for West’s characters, who, whether “whirring merrily” or stuck in “uterine flight,” ultimately fail to progress – fail, according to Roosevelt’s framework, to “convert retreat to advance.” In fact, Locust’s cast makes literal Jay Martin’s observation that all of West’s characters “are caught in their own or others’ illusions” (131, italics mine). Unable to clearly see their own conflicted surroundings, they find it difficult, if not impossible to move through them. The first twelve pages of Locust exhibit no small degree of spatial movement – we go from Tod’s office, to his apartment, to Claude Estee’s party, to Audrey Jenning’s movie screening. While Tod is interested by the rapid movements of the masqueraders he observes at the outset of the novel, he is more interested by a lack of movement: the targets for his artistic work are the “loitering people of a different type” (60). According to Herbst, West had a “preoccupation” with the “gargoyles of human existence,” which she labeled “the fallen element” (321, italics mine). This fascination might have partly been self-reflective, as West himself tended to have an unsteady demeanor. Described as “one badly-made boy” by his childhood friend Julian Shapiro, West was small for his age and apt to stumble around (Meade 10). Even as an adult and a professional writer, a pencil between his fingers “became a sixth finger hostile to the other five” (47). At Brown University, West was known for his hesitant mannerisms and slow speech, leading the dean to ask his roommate, “Does Mr. Weinstein take dope?” (54). But West’s fascination with physical fallenness indicates a concern beyond his own awkward 168 movements. The cast of The Day of the Locust, whether they spin or loiter, are all “wanderers” who fall, in an endless circle, through the spaces they inhabit. West sets the stage is for paralysis with his unfocused setting, which provides the rationale for the misdirections, stumbles, and falls of animals and inanimate objects. The novella is populated, for instance, by a lopsided chicken (155), a lizard who “occasionally miscalculate[s]” in his efforts to catch flies (89), and a sadly warbling “trapped bird” (114). Even the searchlights that announce the premier at Locust’s conclusion seem to have trouble finding their target: despite their constant movement, their “wide crazy sweeps” suggest a lack of direction that both mimics and perpetuates the fact that the “crowd lacked an objective” (175, 177). Homer, the novella’s most obviously bumbling character, is often seen “moving blindly” through Hollywood (179). He is described as “sleep-walking” through his life “like a badly made automaton,” “lurch[ing]” from “one side then the other” (88, 178). Like his amvibalent physical movements, Homer’s emotions move in an “enormous wave” that never crashes, forming a “circular…flood” that generally ends in the fetal position, “like a steel spring which has been freed of its function in a machine and allowed to use all its strength centripetally” (87, 168, 171). This static energy is also evident in Homer’s previous employment in a hotel, where he latched on to the comforting permanence of its “warm, rich darkness” (84, 171). While he insists that this space was more like a womb than a “grave,” his “rigid” gestures and movements suggest not so much the possibilities of birth as the inertia of death. Indeed, Tod comments, “If anyone ever lacked malleability Homer did” (178, 136). Even when Homer cries, his tears are “repeated rhythmically but without accent,” achieving “no progress” (167). Just 169 as he does not “bend… his head” to accommodate his emotions, Homer fails to move his deck chair just a quarter circle, which would give him a view of the canyon rather than the incinerator. Homer’s paralysis is so complete that West describes him at the conclusion as a “stone column” (181). By contrast, Faye’s uncertain perspective on her surroundings leads her to an excess of movement – but this turns out to be no more conducive to progress than Homer’s absence of movement. Where Homer regards his hands as “a pair of strange aquatic animals” largely out of his control, Faye gesticulates without end, and without meaning. Her movements do not match her words, a contradiction the narrator speculates is designed to “excite her hearers into being uncritical” of the “foolish” nature of her speech (159). Faye’s larger movements are also confused: when she dances with Earle, the couple succeeds only in “stumbling all over the room, bumping into the walls and furniture.” Faye’s reaction is to “laugh…wildly” at the chaos (163). Like the “merrily whirring” projector of Mrs. Jenning’s smut film, Faye seems imperturbable, like a “cork” that can “spin gaily away” even in the roughest of seas (173). Rather than acknowledge the lack of order in her world and hide from it, circling in on herself, as Homer tends to do, Faye revels in the bedlam (173). Even in Tod’s vision of his painting, Faye appears placid in the face of disaster: despite the fact that “her body is straining to hurl her along at top speed” in “complete, unthinking panic,” she has a “dreamy repose” on her face (108). Faye’s ability to “spin away gaily,” however, can easily switch gears into a death spiral. The line between revelry and disaster is a fine one, and, as Tod points out, Faye’s illusions can serve as traps: she “seemed always to be struggling” in the “soft grasp” of her “little daydreams,” “as though she were trying to run in a swamp” (107). 170 Similarly, Harry’s salesman’s performance proves problematic when he is unable to control his own marketing moves. Like a “mechanical toy that had been overwound,” he “began to spin through his entire repertoire” in “the dance of a paralytic” (92). Crossing the line that separates the actor from his act, he simply “couldn’t stop,” and finds himself compelled to go through the motions in “one dizzy spasm” before he “reeled to the couch and collapsed” (91-92). Tod, looking over Harry as he rests, remarks that the old man’s “worn, dry skin looked like eroded ground,” with even the “few beads of sweat” on his face promising not so much “relief” or refreshment, but “rot” (121).37 Drained of vitality despite California’s mythical promise to restore health, Harry’s spiral, like that of the unfocused projection machine, only gets him “stuck.” His performance, put on an endless rotation that loses sight of its own illusive quality, renders him immobile. At the end of the act, he “had to lean against the table for support;” Faye and Homer must help him to the car (101). Although we might think that Tod’s relative surplus of critical sense would free him from the paralysis to which his comrades succumb, he too is prone to stasis. From the outset, the narrator tells, us, Tod “wanted to move, but inertia and the fact that he didn’t know where to go kept him” from doing so (62-63). In stark contrast to Mark Twain’s giddy, forward-looking question, “What’s next?,” Tod’s insecure immobility points to his era’s perception of enclosure in geographical, professional, and financial terms. In addition to Tod’s own circumscribed vision prohibiting his motion, others’ insecure vision also contributes to his paralysis: since Faye “put love on a special plane, 37 West’s use of agricultural metaphor to characterize human well-being is a sarcastic commentary on the western promise of intimate connection between person and place, an idea that originated with Jefferson’s yeoman farmer and carried through to the marketing of California as a land that would rejuvenate the health of its visitors and residents. Harry’s act, of course, defies such a promise – the rain certainly does not follow the proverbial plow in his case. 171 where a man without money or looks couldn’t move,” Tod is always already excluded from any potential movements in her world (67). When our protagonist does endeavor to move, his footing is uncertain and his direction unclear. In the desert, for example, “the stones and sand” that “moved under his feet” lead him to “f[a]ll prone” (117). Later, in the mob that brings the novella to its violent end, Tod finds himself surfing the crowd: he is “carried rapidly in one direction and then the opposite. He kept pushing and hitting out at the people around him, trying to face in the direction he was going” (181). He is “terrified” by “[b]eing carried backward,” but it “not being able to touch” the ground that proves to be the “more dreadful sensation.” Having literally lost contact with the earth, Tod has no sense of stability or order, and therefore no sense of possible productive agency. Back on the set of Waterloo, a whole other cast of characters loses ground. If the historical Roman Emperor failed to see the ditch that would trap his cavalry, the present movie director fails to see that the set’s artificial Mont St. Jean was “unfinished…still being worked on by property men, grips and carpenters” (134). When the director orders “Millhaud’s cuirarssiers” to charge the giant hill for the film, it collapses, leaving the armies “too deep in scenery to flee” (135). The incompletion of the set, combined with the excess of materials used to construct it, leaves the actors with no solid ground on which or toward which to “charge,” thus leaving the dreams of both the movie’s producers and audience unfulfilled. The unfinished vision of Mont St. Jean results in humans being literally incapacitated by their landscape. 172 X Marks the “Dead Spot”: The Performance of Violence as a Destruction of Agency Isaac Rosenfeld has written that West’s work “showed the death of everything with the walls tumbling down”, but I reverse his emphasis to argue that the “walls tumbling down” is not so much in conjunction with “the death of everything” but rather a cause of such destruction (111, italics mine). Whereas the mysteries of the land inspired Cather’s narrator to investigate and solve its puzzle, the landscape’s lack of clarity in The Day of the Locust does not motivate investigation or hope, but rather is comprehensible only through the rhetoric of Tod’s “painters of Mystery and Decay” (132). Despite Hollywood’s conception as a neutral stage for imaginative production, its spatial confusion produces instead a path to imaginative destruction. In other words, unclear visions of uncertain spaces engender a stumbling that frustrates West’s characters into lashing out violently against their arrest. Josphine Herbst was rather appalled by the violence that proceeds from the distress of West’s characters. “When one read what he wrote,” she said, “one stood on the brink of a new Ice Age” (335). When the conflict between fantasy and reality, between the rural and the urban, and between morality and monetization finally becomes apparent, Tod notes, the only recourse is violence: “The Angelenos would be first” to set their city on fire, “but their comrades all over the country would follow. There would be civil war” (118). Based on West’s unfocused construction 1930s Hollywood, which he represents through his characters’ unfocused perception of its spaces, the movements of Locust’s cast of characters are hindered. Reduced to falling through their lives, their failure to progress or “advance,” West suggests, incites a desperation that only results in destruction. 173 Instruments of violence appear in the background throughout Locust, which West uses to underline the extent to which the aura of destruction has saturated the landscape. When the electric organ plays Bach’s “Come Redeemer, Our Saviour” at Harry’s funeral, for instance, it moves from “polite…supplication” to “a hint of a threat” (129). Hodge’s saddlery store also peddles in violence with its “large collection of torture instruments,” including “fancy, braided quirts, spurs with great spiked wheels, and double bits that looked as though they could break a horse’s jaw without trouble” (108). Finally, the main feature of Homer’s backyard seems to be its incinerator, which would supposedly be used for burning garden waste, if a garden existed. Instead, the most prevalent tree in the novella, appearing on six separate occasions, is the eucalyptus, a plant whose leaves “contain oils that can actually fuel an intense fire,” but whose “thick bark protects its core from damage” (Levine). Even if Homer were to fire up his incinerator, then, much of Hollywood’s landscape would prove impermeable. The idea that the spaces which restrict them are not malleable only further frustrates Locust’s cast, leading them to lash out with yet more violence. There are two main scenes of violence in The Day of the Locust, the first at the end of the characters’ trek into the desert, and the second at the novella’s apocalyptic concluding movie premier. In the desert scene, the brokenness of the cast’s expectations for order and progress is symbolized by a break in the rhythm of Mig’s campfire song: when its “beat became ragged,” chaos ensues. When Faye flirts with Mig, Earle clobbers the interloper with firewood. Faye, whom West has heretofore described as imperturbable – “spinning gaily” within the era’s disorder – makes a linear beeline, running from the violence of the disintegrating stage of the desert. This decisive 174 movement, interestingly, is not based on any physical vision of the scene: Faye’s back is to Mig when Earle’s blow falls, and she “didn’t turn to look” before taking off. West indicates that she refuses to see the disarray of a reality that does not match up with her pre-fabricated, happily-ever-after dreams. Thus, although Faye appears to have acquired agency in this scene, her movements fail to engage in, much less confront, the confusions that have produced such barbarity. In fleeing a violent scene she herself elicited, Faye’s movements work only to maintain her illusive vision of her world as flat and romantic, requiring only superficial gestures rather than authentic, consequential actions. If West presents Faye as the object of violence at the end of Locust, he constructs Homer as an agent of destruction. Unsure of himself and his surroundings throughout the novella, Homer at the conclusion finally breaks out of his sleep-walking death in life by taking out his own insecurities on the easiest of targets: Adore, a child who himself occupies an uncertain place in the world. In the midst of the final mob scene, Homer tramples to death the child, who has played a trick on him (181). Like Faye’s escape from violence, Homer’s enactment of brutality represents not a change in his understanding of or role in 1930s Hollywood, but rather a preservation of paralysis within that space. In killing Adore, whose mannish childhood complements Homer’s childish manhood, Homer has destroyed a version of himself. If Homer was “always afraid he would never get up” after falling asleep (82), he guarantees that Adore never will rise to a coherent world. In short, Homer has gotten revenge on those who dare to progress precisely by precluding any possibility of movement. Finally, West uses Tod to symbolize both sides of the novella’s violence. He acts as both perpetrator and victim, but neither role resolves his confused perception of the 175 spaces in which he is stuck and which he lashes out against. Tod is compelled to destruction by both the buried struggle for order he sees in Faye and the bald struggle for order he sees in Homer. For Tod, Homer’s “servility was like that of a cringing, clumsy dog, who is always anticipating a blow, welcoming it even, and in a way that makes overwhelming the desire to strike him” (143). Tod has a similar desire to attack Faye. When he sees her flee the desert scene, he perceives her not as a victim to rescue, as Faye would have it in her dream deck, but rather as prey to further victimize. He uses his imagination here not to envision potential lines of professional fulfillment, as Twain might; or to dream up possible agricultural fruition, as Cather might; or even to imagine cultural justice, as Paredes attempts to. Instead, Tod imagines “how it would be when he pulled her to the ground” (117). This desire to prevent another’s movement continues when Tod returns to the city, whose proprietary notions of civility appear to hold back, at least for the meantime, his inclinations toward violence. In fact, though, it is precisely this superficial civility that impels Tod to consider brutality: Faye’s “self-sufficient” nature gives Tod “the desire to break” her “smooth surface with a blow” (141). When he begins to see through her “morbid apathy,” he does not want “to aid her to get free” (107). Instead, he wants “to throw her down in the soft, warm mud and keep her there.” “Nothing less violent than rape would do,” he decides later (141). In addition to perpetrating violence, however, Tod also endures it. Trapped in the angry crowd of the movie premier with no sense of direction and no way to plant his feet solidly on the ground, we see Tod “turned again and again,” circling “like a grain between” the “millstones” of the audience’s confused visions and desires. Every so often, he escapes the crush of the crowd when he comes upon isolated spaces of neutrality, which he calls 176 “dead spots” (182). If Tod’s topsy-turvy journey, representative of a much larger search for order and grounding, ends in a missing sense of agency, it ultimately ends in a missing sense of life – in short, it ends in death. Able to find a sense of stability neither within nor between the spaces of city and the country, West’s characters are ultimately able neither to dream nor to move, thus prompting their fury. Conclusion Throughout The Day of the Locust, West describes the dreams of his characters not so much as inspiring as “troubling” (132). As Tod explains, any dream is both pernicious and expendable: A dream “troubles some unfortunate person, and some day, when that person has been sufficiently troubled, it will be reproduced on the lot.” After being commoditized – “made photographic by plaster, canvas, lath and paint,” and being staged for the audiences of Hollywood desperate to see their dreams realized – it gets thrown in the “dream dump,” the “Sargasso of the imagination” (132). Like the spot in the North Atlantic Ocean whose surrounding currents gather marine plants and garbage into a giant floating morass of detritus, the Hollywood Sargasso is created by the cultural currents of the 1930s that have collected ideas and ideals that conflict with the realities of the Depression era to the extent that they are deemed trash. Nonetheless, the dream never “entirely disappears,” continuing to nag at both its producers and its consumers despite their inability to move to reach it. At the novella’s conclusion, then, the premier of a new movie – a dream that has troubled someone for some time – proves only a catalyst for violence, and eventually death. Ultimately, West suggests, the combination of disorder, faulty vision, and immobility incite the desire to destroy. The dreams of Locust’s cast – Homer’s for 177 companionship, Faye’s for fame and romance, and Tod’s for artistic recognition – have failed, undercut by the uncertainties of the Depression era and the confusion of the rural and urban spaces of Hollywood. These individual dreams are representative of more general expectations that have also been broken in Locust, including the assumption that California might live up to its mythical promises of restoring health and wealth, that work results in social mobility and happiness, and that nature might provide for aesthetic, economic, or moral redemption. The unraveling of these illusions, which the characters begin to see plainly as such for the first time toward the end of the novella, elicits barbarity. Although this violence sparks an accurate vision of reality, West shows his characters resistance to confronting it. Accustomed to performance rather than authentic action,38 the idea of real agency is confused and overwhelming. Their movements are thus too panicked, too cynical,39 and come too late to stitch together a map that would accommodate them. The violence carried out by individuals and reflected in their backgrounds builds throughout the novella into an overpowering frustration that ends in mass chaos. Although the 37th U.S. Congress succeeded in overcoming the myth of the deadly desert by legislating into being the myth of the life-giving garden through the Homestead Act of 1862 (Smith Ch. XVI), and although that myth continued (and continues) to hold a large degree of power (“Why, it’s a paradise on earth!” exclaims Mrs. Loomis), the opposing 38 Both Jonathan Veitch and James Goodwin have pointed out that some members of the cast of Locust seem to be at their most “authentic” when they’re performing, as with the female impersonator at the Cinderella Bar who becomes awkward only after his act ends (West 146, Veitch 117, Goodwin 91). Similarly, Homer is impressed with how Faye’s feigned mannerisms express a very real sense of “vitality” (94). 39 As Chip Rhodes argues, a character who embraces illusions “cynically recognizes the fictiveness of all belief systems but chooses to participate in mass culture anyway” (31). 178 myth clearly rears its ugly head in Locust. By presenting these competing myths, along with all their attendant sub-myths of social and economic well-being, West produces an unclear vision of the territory for those who inhabit its spaces, residents who generally “looked very much out of place” (127). They are quite literally misfits, in that they fail to merge with their surroundings. Fighting to literally gain ground on which they can steady their balance, their sight, and their imaginations, the assembled crowd at the theater lashes out, “savage and bitter,” at the realization that “sunshine isn’t enough” (178). Just as the battle of Waterloo, recreated on the Hollywood set of Locust, signaled the end of the Napoleonic empire, the mob in front of Khan’s Persian Palace theatre at the conclusion of the novella signals the end – both of the illusion of any coherent version of the American West, and the of the promise of that space. In pursuit of their dreams, the cast of Locust has looked for signs, becoming perpetual “wave, airplane, funeral, and preview watchers” (184). Tod, fascinated from the beginning by “the people who stared,” has been staring back, simultaneously collecting their incoherent visions and adding his own. When they riot, Tod is there, again, to watch the outcome – except he gets caught up in it himself. Just as his fall in the desert in pursuit of one violent episode – the rape of Faye – precipitated his another – his vision of his masterpiece, “The Burning of Los Angeles” – his fall in this city crowd incites him to “think clearly about his picture” (184). At once joining in, recording, and imagining the chaos of the riot, Tod joins the various “cultists” who have signed on for economic or religious hopes that never come to light. They are “stirred by the promise of miracles,” but when “nothing happens,” they turn into “torchbearers” (177). Ultimately, West suggests, the fires they set seek to destroy the illusions that have produced a 179 disordered sense of the spaces of the West. Indeed, according to Tod’s painting, the mob sets out to “purify the land” (184). Jonathan Veitch has argued that the stage roles that become social roles for the characters in Locust “offer protection, but do so at a cost of a derealizing relationship to the world” (117). While I agree that the way West’s characters cast themselves on the stage of Hollywood inhibits their connection to their surroundings, I would argue that West constructs their misunderstanding of the stage itself – rather than, or before, their roles on it – as a foundation that sets them up for apocalyptic disaster. Although Josephine Herbst wanted to tell a shaky Nathanael West to gratefully embrace his own life in spite of the uncertainty of his own setting, The Day of the Locust implies that the fact that “you live” is ultimately precluded by the “quaking” of an unstable “world” (Herbst 328). For West, any “reconciliation scheme” (Herbst 341) between person and place must, if one wishes not to find himself imagining his own voice as an ambulance siren, involve a careful negotiation. West thus navigated the Depression between two extremes of expression: his film scripts, which he wrote out of the “imagination of fulfillment,” and his novels, which he wrote out of “the imagination of personal and collective disaster” (Martin 206). The geographical incapacitation that marks West’s novella is representative of Locust’s larger point: that a disordered landscape, and an uncritical, discoordinated view of that space, precludes the motions that would enable any contribution to personal or national progress. Such authentic, productive movement would require, as Jonathan Lethem suggests, a negotiation between the “imperatives…of the body” to move coherently and the “commoditized rhetorics” that negate such movements. I have argued 180 that these rhetorics originate in large part from the unclear boundaries between the novella’s natural and the built environments, a blur underlined in Locust by characters’ lack of focus on either the city or country spaces they inhabit. The aim of the negotiation between character and place, in all of West’s works, is to “locat[e] an intimate ground of operation from which an authentic loving gesture might effectively be launched” (Lethem 394). But because this ground is not grounded in any clear vision, whether realistic or fantastic, it proves an unsturdy base from which characters might place themselves effectively on its stage. 181 CHAPTER 5 THE DELIBERATIVE IMAGINATION IN JOHN STEINBECK’S EAST OF EDEN: THE MENTALITY OF FREE WILL IN THE SALINAS VALLEY In the Saturday Review, Harvey Curtis Webster declared of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden (1952) that “…it is to be doubted if any American novel has better chronicled our last hundred years, our trek from East to West to discover an Eden that always somehow escapes us and that we as a people yet continue to hope for and believe in” (McElrath, Crisler, and Shillinglaw 386). As Chapters 3 and 4 showed, authors like Nathanael West and Américo Paredes portrayed paradise as beyond hope, if not entirely lost. From West’s The Day of the Locust to Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” many writers were depicting this period of cultural change and confusion as inducing people, quite literally, to scream.1 Meanwhile, Ernest Hemingway – often referred to as a “heavier” version of Steinbeck – didn’t so much lash out at the issues of the 1930s and 40s as face them with an “exhausted stoicism” (Heavilin 95). By mid-century, following both the Great Depression and the Second World War, such pessimism had only grown. As Henry Miller wrote in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare (1945), the challenges America was facing could no longer be papered over by a “veneer of fatuous optimism,” which was “now decidedly cracked,” bringing into plain sight “[t]he lack of resilience, the feeling of hopelessness, the skepticism, the defeatism” (13). Indeed, Miller was so cynical about 1 For Ginsberg, the “howl” comes from “the best minds of [his] generation” who “shrieked with delight in policecars for /committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and / intoxication.” For West, it comes from Tod Hackett, who crazily imitates a (ambulance or police car?) siren during the novella’s final apocalyptic scene. 182 “the dreams and visions of great Americans” that he regretted “the misfortune” of having once been “nourished by” them. In the 1950s, then, writers were actively hostile to idealized specters of progress, which Miller bluntly qualified as “a false progress, a progress which stinks” (24). At the very least, most mid-century writers were self- consciously wary of such dreamy notions. Not John Steinbeck. While authors like Miller and Hemingway were busy critiquing the unreality of “dreams and visions,” Steinbeck reserved his criticism for those who would be so careless as to leave those ideals behind. As he reacquainted himself with the nation in Travels with Charley (1957), he was mortified to realize that “strong opinions were just not stated,” due “partly [to] caution” and “partly [to] a lack of interest” (109). Americans’ “mental fare,” he remarked, had thus become “generalized,” “packaged,” and “undistinguished.” William S. Burroughs noted a similar phenomenon, writing in Queer2 of conformity and ambivalence as a “debilitating affliction” that tended to “water down the revolutionary spirit” (106). Soon, he grumbled, “the people won't have any opinions” (106). This absence of American opinion, the hesitancy to define and claim one’s values, Steinbeck suggests, was eroding the capacity of Americans to reach for those beliefs through dreams, much less enact those dreams. By failing to think about what they wanted out of themselves and out of their environment, they neglect the gift of free will. Steinbeck’s 1952 novel East of Eden represents his protest against such neglect. In this novel, the author picks up the western imagination, dusts it off, and re-hashes its history in order to re-formulate its neglected potential. In doing so, Steinbeck marks the second turning point in this dissertation: the return of the western imagination portrayed as an object acted upon by outside forces to one pictured as a subject seeking agency in 2 Written between 1951 and ’53, but not published until 1985. 183 western space. Steinbeck thus engineers what I am calling the deliberative imagination, which carefully perceives all the elements of a landscape, thoughtfully weighs their meaning and potential, and chooses how to act on its findings in the real world. Steinbeck’s belief in the “perfectibility” of humans – in their capacity to transcend the imperfections of their time and place – was fostered by the tumult that characterized both his cultural milieu and his personal life – in the 40s, the author had divorced his first two wives, lost his best friend, and disappointed his critics (Heavilin 95). He sensed an impending rebirth: “I have too a conviction that a new world is growing under the old,” Steinbeck exclaimed in a 1939 letter to Dook Sheffield, “the way a new fingernail grows under a bruised one” (qtd. in Parini 291). This conviction grew following the end of WWII, when General Douglas MacArthur declared that “A new era is upon us” (qtd. in Parini 356). Adding to Steinbeck’s sense of newness was the birth of his two sons, Thom and John IV, born in 1944 and 1946, respectively. By the time he began to write East of Eden in 1951, writes Jeffrey Schultz, he was attempting “to regain his equilibrium through the therapeutic task of writing a novel about his origins in the Salinas Valley, California (62). By mid-century, the author had developed a keen sense of the kind of writing he wanted to do, and why. In Journal of a Novel, the author cemented his notion that writing should serve as a “beacon” in the midst of – or perhaps even as a solution for – a fallen world. He writes, It is the fashion now in writing to have every man defeated and destroyed. And I do not believe all men are destroyed... The writers of today, even I, have a tendency to celebrate the destruction of the spirit and god knows it is destroyed often enough. But the beacon thing is that sometimes it is not… It is the duty of the writer to lift up, to extend, to encourage... Great writing has been a staff to lean on, a mother to consult, a wisdom to pick up stumbling folly, a strength in weakness and a courage to support sick cowardice... 184 In East of Eden, then, Steinbeck wants to convey that things are not nearly so bad as they might seem – that the “beacon” is not so distant after all: “…although East of Eden is not Eden,” he suggests, “it is not insuperably far away” (Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters 116). Aware, then, of both a scrambled world order and glimpses of hope, the author sought a reconciliation of these opposing forces. As Parini remarks, Steinbeck had a “mind that naturally wants to scry the world’s random dots and discover a pattern” (508). As an “instinctive shaper of reality,” Steinbeck believed he could write a book that would do just that, depicting the imagination as a deliberative faculty that chooses how to perceive and think about the western landscape and how to move through it accordingly. Steinbeck’s portrayal of the deliberative imagination is indebted to Frederick Jackson Turner’s notion of American character as energetic and eager to improve. Exactly sixty years before East of Eden was published, the western historian claimed that the American qualities of perseverance and inventiveness were forged in the wilds of the West. Following WWII, Steinbeck found hope in this idea of dedication to perpetual improvement: “We have never sat still for long, we have never been content with a place,” Steinbeck writes in Travels with Charley. More importantly, he continues, we have never been content “with ourselves” (143). Unlike Nathanael West, who pictures his cast stumbling across a Hollywood desert that fosters only disillusionment, Steinbeck in East of Eden creates characters with a profound awareness of self and space that helps them to choose how to imagine their landscape and their next moves across it. It is not despite, but rather because of the uncertainty and confusion of their environment – the “many colored dots that make up darkness” (379) – that they act decisively and 185 pragmatically, using “all the cards in the deck” (262). And it is through these deliberative characters that Steinbeck asserts the importance of imaginative free will in the West. Ultimately, this chapter points to a revaluation of the imagination, which, in the 1930s, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 4 on Américo Paredes and Nathanael West, seemed to lead to enemy camps or dead ends, respectively. Starting in the early 1950s, as Steinbeck’s East of Eden illustrates, the geographical imagination begins to be explored again as a conduit for hope rather than despair, for direction rather than circularity, and for openness rather than confinement. Unlike the majority of scholars, who have located the “fall” of the western imagination everywhere from 1890 to the 1930s, I argue that the western imagination begins to make a resurgence in the 1950s, and that Steinbeck represents a starting point for this incline. Three Phases of Environmental Vision In a 1964 letter to Pat Covici, Steinbeck lamented, “I consider the body of my work and I do not find it good...There may be a few nuggets overlooked but the territory has been pretty thoroughly assayed” (Steinbeck and Wallsten 802). Despite this dark perspective on his career,3 Steinbeck’s comparison of his oeuvre to a geographical area plumbed to its depth is telling. Indeed, from his first work to his last, Steinbeck’s writing was thoroughly embedded in its setting. Over the course of his career, the author’s perspective on these landscapes went through three phases: an idealized view, a naturalistic one, and, finally, a “knitted” balance of the two. This development is based not on changes in the land itself, but rather on changes in Steinbeck’s philosophies about 3 Steinbeck’s insecurity about his work is especially odd at this time given that he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1964. 186 reality, perception, and imagination. The first phase of Steinbeck’s environmental vision is an idealistic one. His debut novel, Cup of Gold (1929), already shows signs of the budding author’s facility with the portrayal of ideal landscapes. As Parini points out, Steinbeck’s atmospheric descriptions of the Caribbean ocean are “lush but evocative” (108). The romanticism with which Steinbeck envisioned the tropics would remain a core perspective for the author throughout his life, but its hegemony did not last long. In Dissonant Symphony, a set of unpublished stories written in 1930,4 the relationship between region and resident grew more complicated. Rather than looking at human agency against a natural backdrop, as he had in his first novel, Symphony began to explore how nature might in fact control human outcomes (Parini 122). The Pastures of Heaven (1932), a short story cycle, furthered this exploration, presenting an Edenic landscape that was susceptible to being ruined by as well as capable of ruining its inhabitants.5 At the same time, the stories in Pastures are full of garden metaphors that represent Steinbeck’s debt to his marine biologist friend Ed Ricketts’ notions of a universal organic whole, in which mind and environment are allied. But despite the tension between romanticism and naturalism, according to Parini, the former takes precedence, as the “aura of place” here is “almost too idealized to be real” (163). The second phase I identify is a fully naturalistic one, which straddles Joseph R. McElrath’s layout of Steinbeck’s apprenticeship and protest phases. This phase begins with To a God Unknown (1933), a novel influenced by the primitive vegetation myths of 4 In a letter to Mavis McIntosh Montrose in January 1933, “I certainly do not want that mess published under any circumstances, revised or not.” 5 As in The Day of the Locust, weeds are particularly threatening in The Pastures of Heaven, growing “as large as small trees,” “with a holiday energy, free of fear of the hoe” (6). 187 James Frazer’s The Golden Bough (Parini 181). To a God Unknown charts the protagonist’s almost pagan connection to his California valley, a connection based not on thoughts “in his mind, but in his chest and in the corded muscles of his legs” (24). Incorporating the Jungian concept of racial memory (taught to Steinbeck by mythologist Joseph Campbell), Steinbeck was locating himself squarely in the camp of naturalism, where human will has little effect on the larger powers that be. “The duty of keeping life in my land is beyond my power,” cries Joseph (To a God Unknown 144). This lack of control continues to characterize Steinbeck’s art through the late 1930s, but these works also testify to the author’s growing humanism. The stories of The Long Valley (1938), for example, generally portray unhappy couples who “seem forcibly tied to the land rather than rooted in some organic sense” (Parini 259). “The White Quail” bears out this theory. Here, Mary Teller identifies “the world that wants to get in” to her garden, “all rough and tangled and unkempt,” as “the enemy,” yet her regulations of a chaotic habitat cost her the human companionship of her husband (The Long Valley 18). But we can see signals of Steinbeck’s difficult negotiation between a nature red in tooth and claw and an environment amenable to human will in “The Chrysanthemums,” in which Elisa Allen’s broken heart is healed by her appreciation of nature’s cycles of death and rebirth (Hadella 61). Similarly, The Grapes of Wrath maintains a naturalist bent but begins to hint at human agency against the tripartite monster of the bank, the machine, and the corporation. On the one hand, Steinbeck’s Big Book embraces non-teleological thinking, recording “history as it happened” and concluding without a clear resolution (Wrobel 331). On the other hand, the small gesture of generosity in Grapes’ final scene points to the potential of human choice to better a seemingly unmanageable world. 188 It was only after the success of The Grapes of Wrath that Steinbeck entered his third phase, which I label the “knitted” period. This era saw the author experimenting with a broad array of genres, and left his critics longing for him to recreate the protest literature they had come to expect from him. But having divorced his politically oriented wife, Carol,6 the author was not as attuned to that arena as he had been. Apparently, it took removing himself from the details of strikes and the anger at individual helplessness against the forces of both nature and capitalism that propelled Steinbeck to develop a more humanistic philosophy. Unlike critics like McElrath, who have concentrated on the author’s aesthetic innovations in this “virtuoso” phase, I focus on the ways in which Steinbeck’s later writing served as a playing field on which all the belief systems and geographical landscapes he had encountered up to this point could mingle. The Sea of Cortez (1941), Travels with Charley (1957), The Winter of our Discontent (1961), and America and Americans (1966) all demonstrate Steinbeck’s continued commitment to the investigation of nature. But in these works, unlike in his first, idealized phase, the author portrays the landscape as containing both pastoral and dystopic elements. And in contrast to his second, naturalistic phase, Steinbeck in his third phase treats the good and the evil in his settings as both necessary and manageable by his characters. Ultimately, Steinbeck’s later writing proposes that geographical exploration must be driven by a human perspective that deliberately processes the all elements of the landscape in order to decide how to see them – and how to move among them. 6 Steinbeck met Carol Henning in a hatchery in Lake Tahoe. They married in 1930 and divorced in 1943. The divorce was the product of Carol’s affair with Joseph Campbell and, later, of Steinbeck forcing Carol to get an abortion, since he believed a baby would interrupt his work. The abortion resulted in an infection, which led to a hysterectomy (Parini 155-57, 277). The couple became friendly again later, even traveling together (283). 189 East of Eden, a fictional novel written in the midst of this two-decade span of mostly non-fiction work at the end of Steinbeck’s life, fits into this third phase, and enacts the author’s careful exploration of the relationship between self and space. Indeed, his wife Elaine admitted that Steinbeck’s “life was different after East of Eden,” precisely because he felt he had found a meaningful way to connect all the themes and philosophies he had been developing since he began writing (qtd. in Parini 426). Although Mark Schorer, in his review of the novel for the New York Times, lamented the apparent vacillation of Steinbeck’s “method” of “poetic hesitation and indecision,” I argue that what appears to be equivocation is actually a concerted effort to accurately represent what the author sees as the “delicate balance” of the world (McElrath, Crisler, and Shillinglaw 392; East of Eden 462). Steinbeck’s view of his work necessitated a negotiation between wide and narrow lenses. Responding to Pat Covici about an early criticism of East of Eden that the novel should “get on with the story and not stop for comment,” he wrote, “…it is necessary to look at the whole thing now and then” even if that big picture can seem mysterious or overwhelming. Comparing the appropriate balance to “swimming with your head down or up,” Steinbeck explains, “[i]t cuts your speed to raise your head but at least you know where you are going” (Journal 65). The geographical imagination in East of Eden is thus born of a deliberate mixture that takes into account both humanistic and naturalistic viewpoints. Unlike the unsteady visions of Nathanael West’s Hollywood, which led characters to stumble through their world, or the constricted images of Paredes’ borderlands, which resulted in narrowly prescribed, self-defeating roles, Steinbeck’s careful construction of his characters’ dual focal points in East of Eden suggests a mid-century need for a sense 190 of balance and steadiness following the economic and political upheavals of the 1930s and 40s. In Journal of a Novel, Steinbeck presents this balanced form of writing as a kind of playful, haphazard “knitting” project that combines multiple considerations (56, 111). The author was fascinated by how the pieces of his world were put together, building his own adjustable writing desk, for instance, or obsessing over how certain types of lead or wood make the best pencils. Though he never actually knit anything, his experience with and interest in the intricate details of everything from carpentry to aviation suggests that the apparently offhand reference to “knitting” together his stories is reflective of a real concern for precise construction and tight pattern. Despite East of Eden being “about everything,” Steinbeck wrote in his Journal, “… I do want everything to be in balance... so it must rock like a star” (99). It is precisely this carefully considered admixture of perspectives that allows Steinbeck to move the western imagination beyond the constricted, static views of the 1930s and 1940s, of political war and economic depression, toward the perspective of the beacon that is nonetheless within reach. By aesthetically and philosophically knitting together a wide array of apparently contradictory concepts – naturalism and humanism, good and evil, and the mystical and the scientific – Steinbeck represents the imagination as a faculty made precisely to deliberate amongst such concepts, finally allowing for visions of the landscape as amenable to free will. East of Eden begins by introducing the Hamiltons, a thinly veiled version of the author’s own ancestors, whose beloved patriarch, Samuel, sires a lively brood on his ranch at the edge of the Salinas Valley, beginning in the mid-19th century. At the same time, on the other side of the country, the domineering Civil War veteran Cyrus Trask 191 lives on a farm in Connecticut with his sons, the delicate, sensitive Adam and the athletic, vengeful Charles. When Cyrus rejects a birthday gift from Charles in favor of one from Adam, Charles attempts to kill his brother. Seeing that Adam is weak, Cyrus forces him to join the Army. When Adam returns to Connecticut, he falls in love with and marries the secretly evil Cathy. Cyrus dies, leaving his sons a huge inheritance. Adam uses his half to move to California with Cathy. The separate stories of the Trasks and Hamiltons merge in Part II, when Adam buys a farm on the advice of Samuel Hamilton. After Cathy bears twins, Aron and Caleb, she shoots Adam in the shoulder and abandons the household, renaming herself “Kate” and setting up shop as a sadomasochistic madam in town. Adam falls into a deep depression, leaving his Chinese servant Lee to raise his sons, who are told their mother has died. Part III traces the growth of the children. Aron and Caleb Trask grow up to be opposites, Aron angelic, cautious, and popular, and Cal arrogant, daring, and tricky. They both hear rumors of their mother’s business, but Aron refuses to believe them while Cal investigates to confirm their truth. Following Samuel’s funeral, Adam Trask visits Kate, where she suggests that his brother Charles might actually be the father of his children. In Part IV, the Trasks move to Salinas. Aron begins a romantic relationship with Abra. When he leaves to attend Stanford, Abra develops feelings for Cal. Meanwhile, Adam starts a refrigeration business and loses his money. Attempting to win his father’s love, Cal embarks on his own business venture to replace his father’s lost investment. In a replay of the prior generation’s birthday competition, Adam rejects Cal’s gift, and Cal seeks revenge by taking the innocent Aron to see Kate. Horrified at his own origins, Aron runs away to join the Army. Kate commits suicide. When Aron dies in combat, Adam has a stroke. A profoundly guilty 192 Cal seeks Adam’s forgiveness; with Lee’s help, Adam, on his death bed, grants Cal the free will to overcome the evil in his character and in his world. East of Eden is a carefully balanced book, dividing itself between two families, two regions, multiple eras, and a conception of the world as simultaneously good and evil. Steinbeck’s chapters alternate between narrating the stories of the Trasks and the Hamiltons. The book also balances its generations by repeating the situations of the Trask patriarch in his progeny. The point Steinbeck wants to make, however, is that there exists a possibility, or even a duty, of the next generation to block this cycle of destructive repetition by recognizing the existence of options, and choosing a new path. In portraying the perceptive, deliberative imagination of the landscape as crucial to finding and taking a higher road, Steinbeck himself chooses a new course for the western imagination in mid-century America. Darkness and Light in the Landscapes of East of Eden Steinbeck’s novel works as a container for his complex vision both of space, which he portrays as simultaneously good and evil, and of humanity, which he pictures in subject and object positions to that landscape. The author begins by creating an environment for his novel that reflects this vision. East of Eden opens with the backdrop of the Galiban and Santa Lucia mountains, the former “full of sun and loveliness” and the latter “dark and brooding” (3). The simultaneity of good and evil is repeated throughout the novel, from “the church and the whorehouse” to the flowers and weeds that grow in close proximity (217-18). The Salinas community is as “well-balanced” as its environment, composed of “conservatives and radicals,” as well as “dreamers and realists” (44). These seemingly opposing elements of the landscape, Steinbeck is careful 193 to point out, are all “different facet[s] of the same thing.” Steinbeck explicitly connects the dark and light elements of the landscape to its residents and their work, suggesting a humanistic perspective that grants power over the environment to its inhabitants. For example, after Cal spills to his brother Aron the secret that their mother is alive and running a brothel, a huge storm lets loose (339). In addition to responding to local, individual events, Steinbeck’s landscape also reacts to occurrences on global level. For example, the years of WWI in the novel are described as “wet years”: February of 1915 is “damp, cold, and miserable,” and the winter is “long, with slow spring growth” (516, 431, 588). By contrast, when the Americans win a battle after attacking the Germans, the azaleas bloom, and “freedom” is accompanied by a “calm, contented spring” (334). In all of these instances, Steinbeck positions the landscape as the object, as secondary to, reflective of, or controlled by the humans who carry out their lives on it. However, East of Eden also demonstrates how the environment can inhabit a subject position in its capacity to influence or even overwhelm its inhabitants. Indeed, when Steinbeck created the character of Adam, he wanted “to indoctrinate [him] with the flavor of the valley” (Journal 62). According to Eric d'Evegnee, the topographical “layers” of earth in Steinbeck’s novel – packed with shells, whale-bones, and remnants of an ancient redwood forest – “compress upon the individual” to “forge a sense of self and cohesion” (79). On the other hand, Steinbeck pictures many of his characters shutting themselves off from the complexities of their landscapes, although some do so as a rule while others retreat only on occasion. For instance, Kate builds herself a grey lean-to that is intended to shield her from a world she sees as tainted (462). Another habitually 194 isolated character is Aron, the son with whom Kate most identifies. He shuts himself off from the world in childhood under the branches of an enveloping willow tree, as a college student under piles of books at Stanford, and as a young adult through military service (423, 494). Retreating only periodically are Adam, who isolates himself in his house after his wife runs away, and Cal, who often wants to flee a world he sees as punishing his deeds (562, 599). Whether they hide from the world as a rule or on occasion, these characters see the landscape as hostile to their existence. Steinbeck fuses his novel’s alternating humanism and naturalism through characters who are intimately engaged with their setting, recognizing that it contains aspects of good and evil, which they can be shaped by but also that they can shape. For example, Charles Trask acknowledges that there is a dream of an ideal California, where for “miles and miles…you can’t find a stone, not even a little one,” but he opts for a more balanced reality: “I don’t think there’s any farm without something wrong with it. Out in the Middle West it’s locusts, someplace else it’s tornadoes. What’s a few stones?” (121). The point, for Steinbeck, is to accept, analyze, and incorporate all the aspects of the landscape into one’s worldview and subsequent actions. Samuel Hamilton is Steinbeck’s primary representative for using recognition and curiosity about the world as a starting point for agency. Samuel never passes a stone without looking under it (267). His family settles on the margins of the valley, yet they are “firm grounded” – they understand the land as a foundation for them and their work. Meanwhile, Adam, like his gardening namesake, is determined, despite his concern that the land is “blowing away bit by bit,” to “plant” his dynasty in the earth (166, 156). Indeed, just as the biblical Adam was literally of the earth, Steinbeck’s Adam is described in terms of geographical solidity, as 195 a “rock of a man” (256). By accepting its mix of hard and soft elements, Adam builds both himself and his life on this delicately balanced landscape. The all-encompassing philosophy of place with which Steinbeck imbues Adam and Samuel is built at least partially on the author’s personal experience of living in a wide variety of locales. Aiming to gain what Brian Railsback calls “the immeasurable view,” Steinbeck ventured through an impressive array of geographies over the course of his life (90). Far from the naturalistic advice that Grandfather Tifflin gives to his grandson in The Long Valley’s “Leader of the People” (1938) that “there’s no place to go” because “[e]very place is taken” (204), Steinbeck’s later thinking and writing belies a good deal of optimism about the potential of place to accommodate people. In 1949, just a few years prior to the publication of Eden, Steinbeck wrote, “I have homes everywhere and many I have not seen yet” (Steinbeck and Wallsten 382). The author’s residences ranged from hovels to estates, from country to city, from West to East, and from leagues under the sea to miles above the ground. There were the tiny bungalows that the author romantically associated with artistic poverty, including “the Sphincter” in Palo Alto and the “shack” on the outskirts of Los Angeles ((Parini 60-61, 122). Then there was the spiritually calming wilderness of Fallen Leaf Lake Lodge in Lake Tahoe, where Steinbeck worked in the summers of 1925 and 26 (Parini 69-71).7 Steinbeck had several experiences with living in cities, but even here, he was attracted to the natural geography to be found in the urban environment. When he served what he called his “tour of duty as an intellectual Bohemian” in San Francisco in 1928, he was working on what would become To a God Unknown, his first book set in California as well as his first effort to 7 These stays were punctuated by a disappointing year in New York City, where Cup of Gold was rejected. Steinbeck’s second residence in Tahoe was a “period of psychological… retrenchment,” a Walden-esque return to nature that would become part of a larger pattern in the author’s life (Parini 82, 84). 196 portray the relationship between humans and nature (Benson, The True Adventures 143).8 Just as Willa Cather hit her stride by following the advice of Sarah Orne Jewett to write about the places that had most often “leased the mind,” Steinbeck began to find his voice when he decided to write about the natural spaces of the west coast he had grown up in.9 Steinbeck further expanded his environmental realm by exploring not only lateral landscapes, but vertical ones, as well. Like Mark Twain, he examined both the panorama and the close-up. On the one hand, Steinbeck “always has his feet on the ground – rooted in the earth and the things of earth” (McElrath, Crisler, and Shillinglaw xii). It is in this respect that Steinbeck said of Sag Harbor, “I grow into the countryside with a lichen grip” (493). This kind of environmental rootedness also compelled Steinbeck to accept a commission from Life magazine to join a team investigating the Mohorovicic Discontinuity, the junction between the earth's lighter crust and its denser mantle.10 But if Steinbeck was fascinated by what was going on at the center of the earth, he was also intrigued by what was happening high above its surface. The author was soothed by vistas of all sorts, from the prospect of his fifty-acre Los Gatos ranch, to the scenery from Cannery Row of Monterey Bay, to the view from his little six-sided “lighthouse”11 in Sag Harbor, to the panorama offered by his 72nd floor Manhattan apartment (Parini 490, 8 Although To a God Unknown was melodramatic and awkward, receiving little critical attention (much less of the positive variety), it served as a kind of testing ground for Steinbeck’s later works dealing with the complexities he saw in the connections between of human mind and natural matter. 9 California was also the site of the cottage at Pacific Grove, a house on the coastline Steinbeck’s sister Beth remembered as a “lucky place” for their family (qtd. in Parini 29), since it was associated with their bounce back from poverty. The children inherited this house, and Steinbeck stayed there whenever he needed to bounce back from his own problems. 10 As a member of “Project Mohole,” Steinbeck wanted not only to observe how the terrain was put together – he literally wanted to possess a piece of the earth. After geologists drilled samples of the earth’s core from beneath the Pacific, 220 miles south of San Diego, Steinbeck stole a piece of the rock – only to later be presented with another piece as a gift (Morsberger 269). 11 Inspired by a similar structure Mark Twain once wrote in. 197 Railsback 89). Steinbeck even took up flying in 1940, writing, “There's something so god damned remote and beautiful and detached about being way to hell and gone up on a little yellow leaf...not loneliness at all but just an escape into something delightful” (Steinbeck and Wallsten 209). In addition to his own personal range of residences, Steinbeck’s engagement with place is also indebted to the environmental movement that was just beginning to take shape in the 1950s. In fact, a presidential commission released a report called Resources for Freedom the same year that East of Eden was published. The document was one of the first to warn of the United States’ “increasing dependence on foreign sources of natural resources,” arguing for “the necessity to transition to renewable energy” (“Earth Days”). Though Franklin D. Roosevelt had established the National Park Service in 1933, his executive order was based on the imperative of administrative consolidation rather than environmental concern. Resources for Freedom represents a new governmental acknowledgment of the need to pay attention to human uses of nature, priming the pump for Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring (1962). The incipient political recognition of the environment in the 1950s was echoed in pop culture around the same time. Spurred by the Dust Bowl, against what Steinbeck, channeling Prufrock, would call the “yellow smoke of progress” (Travels 181), many artists took up the cause of environmentalism: Lead Belly performed “John Henry” in 1939, Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land” was recorded in 1944, and Pete Seeger released his album God Bless the Grass in 1966. The poets of the Beat movement were also denigrating environmental devastation during this period. Allen Ginsberg’s “Sunflower Sutra” (1955), for instance, pictures his narrator apologizing to the blossom for “...all that civilization spotting your 198 crazy golden crown…” Steinbeck began to show an interest in nature early in this trajectory of environmentalism. The American Ecology Association was founded in 1915, and by 1923, Steinbeck was studying at the Hopkins Marine Station, where he absorbed the concept of the “superorganism,” in which cells, organs, individuals, and societies all “depend on the orderly cooperation of their component parts” (Tiffney 3). In the 1930s, Steinbeck could see this notion illustrated by the phalanx theories of his friend Ed Ricketts. Steinbeck’s geographical range and environmental interests represent a craving for both in-depth and above-it-all knowledge that enable him to engage more comprehensively with space, in that the breadth of his experiences with nature allows him to construct a larger picture of place and its significance. The point of outlining Steinbeck’s participation in diverse geographies is to suggest that he felt compelled to explore, discover, and analyze all perspectives and all angles in order to understand his place in the world and convey the importance of that project. Like Tom Joad in The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck “Wants to see it all and be everywhere” (Railsback 89). Or, as the author said of Camelot, it is a “wonderful place and structure” precisely because it entails “layer on layer of work and feeling” (Steinbeck and Wallsten 629). It is this layering of perspectives on the landscape that Steinbeck promotes as crucial to the comprehension of and engagement with one’s environment, in all its complexity. “To Make the Stars Twinkle”: Forging Geographical Vision The various angles Steinbeck encountered in his exploration of his own connection to the environment are reflected in his characters’ visions of their settings. In contrast to the literature of the 1930s, in which figures like Budd Schulberg’s Sammy 199 Glick display a “colossal lack of perspective,” East of Eden’s characters are brimming with perspective. For Steinbeck, perspective was sacred. And after the death of Ed Ricketts, Steinbeck claimed the scientist’s microscope, encasing it – and the viewpoint it might offer – in a glass cube in his living room, like a relic (Parini 395). Steinbeck conveys the importance of perception through the figures he constructs in his novel, offering his readers various models for how to perceive the world by describing his characters’ physical sense of sight. How they see their worlds, in turn, is correlated to their psychological thought processes, their dreams, and, ultimately, their actions. I will address these next steps in the sections that follow. Many of Steinbeck’s characters see the world in only one way no matter the situation. Kate is the most extreme example. Her eyes throughout the novel are described as “expressionless and cold” (82). Kate’s vision is projected onto the earth, which she regards quite literally as a container for evil – she buries the instruments she used to murder her boss in the soil behind her brothel (251). At other times, her eyes serve little purpose at all: she “seemed to see no one” (461). In turn, no one really sees her: she becomes “an invisible woman” (461). In her later years, she claims that the light hurts her eyes, just as Nathanael West’s Homer Simpson does in The Day of the Locust. Meanwhile, Anderson, a son-in-law of Sam Hamilton, studies photography’s capacity to transfer onto paper “the colors the human eye perceives” in “the exterior world,” but himself does not seem to perceive, much less transfer, those colors for himself: he is “an intense dark man” with “little gift for communication” (275). Unlike the inflexible visions of characters like Kate and Anderson, Adam serves as Steinbeck’s main conduit for demonstrating a full range of sight. Even as a young 200 child in Connecticut, Adam is described as seeing his world and its inhabitants through “the long tunnels of his eyes” (20-21). How these “tunnels” work – the ease or difficulty of using them, the objects on which they fix themselves, and how they perceive those objects – varies over the course of the novel. After his wife shoots him and abandons him and their newborn children, for instance, his eyes are “blank like a sleepwalker’s” (207). His depression leaves him feeling that he “saw the world through gray water” (252). Once Adam recovers from the shock of Kate’s actions, however, he emerges from his fog, declaring, “…my eyes have cleared” (331). Aside from Kate herself, one of the first things he sees clearly is his own landscape. Driving along, Adam “found that he was noticing things he had not seen for years” (329). Even on his own ranch, where he had been living for quite some time, “it was all new to him,” from the “wildflowers in the heavy grass” to the “red cows against the hillsides” to “flowered curtains” in his house, “washed so long that the blossoms were pale” (329, 331). His newfound sight is so precise that Lee praises Adam as “one of the rare people who can separate…observation from…preconception” (163). After Adam has a stroke, however, his sight is the main casualty, suggesting that the inability to clearly see one’s surroundings counts as a severe disability, both literally and metaphorically. Adam’s eyes following the stroke are “unmoving,” and he is unable to see well enough to read the newspaper or a postcard from his son (571, 573). Because he has experienced the freeing effects of clear sight, his blindness “really troubled him” (573). Ultimately, Adam’s frustration with his difficulty in seeing at the end of his life is the result of his recognition of the power of perception. The “reality” of the landscape is not what makes it powerful, then, according to Steinbeck’s novel. Instead, it is how we see that landscape that matters, a philosophy 201 Steinbeck underlines when he asserts that “it is the eyes’ business to make the stars twinkle” (429). "The Thinking Life": The Mental Mechanics of Contemplating the Landscape Conducting the “business” of seeing the sparkle in one’s landscape is not an easy or automatic task in East of Eden – it involves a good deal of thoughtful deliberation. Indeed, the author identifies as the prerequisite for “the whole world [to] glow… outside your eyes,” as a “flash…in the brain” that “lights up the mind of a man” (131). Tracing the path of this light from the brain to the land, however, is complicated, since, as Steinbeck wrote in Journal of a Novel on Aug. 20, 1951, “the human mind” is “a dumb brute” (147). Playfully upset and slightly amused by the “rebellious” tendencies of his brain as he tried to get back to work after a vacation, Steinbeck’s remark hints at his serious interest in the mechanics of the psyche. The author’s mock frustration with his own psychology highlights his concern with how and why humans perceive themselves and their environments, and how they mentally deliberate about those perceptions. Essentially, Steinbeck is interested with how the external landscape is processed by the internal mind. As he explained in Travels with Charley, “External reality has a way of being not so external after all” (209). Two of Steinbeck’s closest friends and mentors, Ed Ricketts and Joseph Campbell, had written back and forth about this dilemma, as well, with Ricketts eventually replacing the idea of a “world outlook” with that of a “world inlook” (qtd. in Shillinglaw 11–12). Steinbeck’s Log from the Sea of Cortez also negotiates the line between the mind and the world it perceives, acknowledging that “what we would see and record and construct would be warped, as all knowledge patterns are warped, first, by the collective pressure and stream of our time and race, second by 202 the thrust of our individual personalities” (2). Steinbeck’s East of Eden illustrates this philosophy of subjective information by attending to the mental processes through which his characters perceive their worlds. Several critics have recognized East of Eden as centering on “the mind of John Steinbeck” (Owens, “The Story of a Writing: Narrative Structure in East of Eden” 62).12 Indeed, Steinbeck himself recognized his inclusion in the novel: “I am in it and I don’t for a moment pretend not to be,” he wrote (Journal 24). The author’s fascination with his own psyche is rooted at least in part in his own mental health issues: he was a depressive, psychosomatic hypochondriac who swung between shyness and aggression, self-doubt and self-assertion, and reclusivity and publicity (Parini 25, 522, 46, 54, 84, 98).13 Even Steinbeck himself half-joked that he was on the verge of a personality disorder: thinking through his work often involved picturing various versions of himself fighting over ideas. “Under certain circumstances it might be one of those schizophrenic symptoms,” he mused, “but as a working technique, I do not think it is bad at all” (Journal 106). Others begged to differ: When The Grapes of Wrath was banned by school boards across the country, the rationale was often couched in terms of the mental problems of its author. As Congressman Lyle Boren of Oklahoma put it, the output of Steinbeck’s “twisted, distorted mind” was a threat to every “square-minded reader in America” (qtd. in Shockley 358). For better or worse, then, the author’s novels have been seen as a product of the inner workings of the author’s intellect. 12 John Ditsky calls the novel “a portrait of the self” (14) and Robert DeMott argues for the import of its “subjective, or reflexive interior dimension” (20). 13 Steinbeck’s depression often hit a peak after completing a book manuscript. Parini goes a bit overboard in attributing these emotions and behaviors to Steinbeck’s “weak” father. 203 While Steinbeck’s earlier works hint at an interest in how the mind perceives the world,14 East of Eden betrays an explicit in its interest in the details of how characters’ mental wheels turn. As a contemporary reviewer put it, “Mr. Steinbeck sees this story...through a haze of modern psychology” (McElrath, Crisler, and Shillinglaw 389). Steinbeck would agree. He identified the novel as primarily concerned with the story of good and evil, or “the basis of all human neurosis,” without which “psychiatrists would have nothing to do” (Journal 104). Exploiting such neuroses, the author filled East of Eden with “strange and secret things,” things which “should strike deep into the unconscious…” (118). As his narrator puts it, “I believe there are techniques of the human mind whereby, in its dark deep, problems are examined, rejected or accepted. Such activities sometimes concern facets a man does not know he has” (327). The goal of Eden, Steinbeck tells his editor, is to “give an impression not such much of the physical life of the country as of the kind of spiritual life – the thinking life – the state of mind – the plateau of thought…a kind of mood of the Valley” (31). In order to elucidate the “thinking life” of the Salinas Valley, Steinbeck carefully details the mental processes of his characters as they deliberate about themselves, the spaces in which they live, and the relationship between the two. In sharp contrast to the mental confusion that reigned in the characters of 1930s literature – recall Aldous Huxley’s Jeremy Pordage, who delights in his “no-track mind” – Steinbeck’s characters arrange their thoughts in clear, organized, self-aware ways. For instance, Adam Trask is 14 In works like “Fingers of Cloud” (1932) and Of Mice and Men (1937), these processes are highlighted through the child-like minds of Gertie and Lennie. Steinbeck extended his interest in the psychology of individual characters to a broader consideration of the collective unconscious in 1933’s To a God Unknown, to the extent that its main character was dismissed as “a gigantic piece of half-baked mysticism” (McElrath, Crisler, and Shillinglaw 27). Finally, In Dubious Battle (1936) was considered by Steinbeck himself a psychological portrait of “man’s eternal, bitter warfare with himself” (Steinbeck and Wallsten 98). 204 described variously as taking “up a thought he hoped was finished,” “panning memories,” and “trying to think like” his predecessors (296, 159). At another point, he is “not conscious of any thought at all,” and instead exists “in a cloud of vague forms and sounds and colors” (327). Meanwhile, the mind of Kate, nee Cathy, goes “skipping among possibilities,” “drifted among impressions the way a bat…swoops,” and “tiptoed her mind around the whole subject” (118, 548, 551). Similarly, Samuel has a mind that “grinned inward at itself” as it prances through thoughts with the facility of “a young lamb leaping in a daisy field” (146, 261, 308). Even relatively minor characters are allotted precise descriptions of their psychological operations: Tom takes an idea and “turn[s] it slow in his brain like a roast of pork before the fire,” Lee’s Chinese scholars possess “proud clean brains,” and Sheriff Quinn “play[s] over” faces, scenes, and conversations in his mind “like a record or a film” (271, 303, 561). Finally, it cannot be insignificant that Adam dies of a cerebral hemorrhage: life is not worth living with a damaged mind (589). Steinbeck’s close watch over the mental processes of his characters often clashed with his contemporaries’ stance on the “reality” of the world. Steinbeck’s contemporary Jack Kerouac, for example, uses his belief that both heaven and earth are “[a]ll in the mind” to excuse his behavior: “What difference does it make after all?” (246). Steinbeck uses the same recognition to find meaning in such freedom. The way we imagine the world, which affects the choices we make in and about it, he declares, do make a difference. By flipping the consequences of the world’s lack of “truth” – such factlessness is not a reason to be apathetic about action, but rather a reason to carefully contemplate perception and agency – Steinbeck enacts his faith in the “pattern-making” 205 of mental theorizing. In other words, Steinbeck positions the 1950s’ skepticism of knowledge not as an obstacle to progress so much as an opportunity to embrace and examine the thought processes that affect how his characters see their environment. “Plans Are Real Things”: The Pragmatism of Balanced Dreams Why is Steinbeck so concerned with the details of how his characters’ minds work? And what are the ends of their mental processes? The title of the novel points to some potential answers. The biblical Eden, of course, was a perfect place in which humans could be mentally passive, with no need to think or make decisions about their lives. After Adam and Eve ate of the tree of knowledge, however, they were granted free will. When Cain, Adam and Eve’s son, made the decision to kill his brother Abel, he became the first to take full advantage of this self-determination, as well as the first to suffer the consequences of making that choice. He was cast out of the garden to the Land of Nod, which the Bible locates “east of Eden.” This space is thus intimately associated with choice. In popular culture, the “Land of Nod” is also tied to the act of imaginative dreaming.15 In calling his novel East of Eden, then, Steinbeck is making an implicit connection between free will and the imagination. At the same time, the author’s use of the biblical and cultural Land of Nod as a metaphor for Salinas Valley ties dreams and choices to particularly imperfect spaces that simultaneously entail blessing and curse. Located just beyond the divine geography of Eden and just past the “civilized” safety of colonized America, respectively, the Land of Nod and the Salinas Valley are both marginal, frontier spaces that not only allow, but demand free will. All told, then, 15 According to the Oxford English Dictionary, Jonathan Swift first made the pun that combined the geographical space of “Nod” with the sleepy behavior of “nodding” in A complete collection of genteel and ingenious conversation (1738) (“Nod, n.1”). However, the phrase did not become common until the 19th century, around the time the notion of childhood as a distinct phase of life arose. Today, “The Land of Nod” is the name of a retail company selling children’s furniture and bedding. 206 Steinbeck’s interest in the precisions of his characters’ mental functions point to several key messages of the novel. First, that choice, including the intellectual processes from which choice results, matters. Second, that choices can be unconscious, but that this fact should incite a greater awareness and fostering of our mental workings and their capacities, including those of dreams and the imagination. And third, that place matters, in that a flawed residence can spur its residents to mentally engage with their surroundings in order to imagine their potential. Steinbeck’s careful descriptions of how his characters see and think about their worlds, then, serve as preludes to the ways in which they dream about those worlds. The author provides various ways to understand the process and purpose of the imagination, but the crucial point Steinbeck makes about dreams is that they must originate from a thorough and balanced investigation of the environment. Only with clear sight and deliberate thought about what one sees, he suggests, are dreams able to serve their purpose of producing a sense of agency. In order to fully intuit the wide-ranging characteristics of their environment, Steinbeck’s characters use a similarly wide-ranging set of tools, including the apparently contradictory fields of science and myth. For example, Samuel, a “well borer,” “knew the earth very well,” but this knowledge is partially premised on what looks like mysticism (Journal 63). While Samuel uses a “magic wand” to find water on Adam’s land, he explains that the stick serves as a crutch for “disbelief” in human instinct that simply “bring[s] up to the surface inherent knowledge” (169). Similarly, Steinbeck sees place as subject to both mythical and scientific interpretation. He distinguishes between these perspectives on place in Travels with Charley. In the scientific version, “Most 207 areas in the world may be placed in latitude and longitude, described chemically in their earth, sky and water, rooted and fuzzed over with identified flora and peopled with known fauna, and there’s an end to it” (233, italics mine). He was equally interested, though, in the idea of mythical space. These endless places are best understood through human experience and emotion. Here, “fable, myth, preconception, love, longing, or prejudice step in and so distort a cool, clear appraisal that a kind of high-colored magical confusion takes hold…One quality of such places as I am trying to define is that a very large part of them is personal and subjective.” While we tend to think of the scientist as the one seeking answers, solutions, ends, Steinbeck’s definition of the scientist, like Willa Cather’s of the investigator, focuses on an appreciation of the endlessness of the spaces that continue to be shrouded in mystery. “A child’s world spreads only a little beyond his understanding,” Steinbeck writes in Log of the Sea of Cortez, “while that of a great scientists thrusts outward immeasurably” (137). Jack Benson has labeled Steinbeck’s visionaries “Merlin figures,” or “magical characters who recognize the living whole” and “interpret” it (John Steinbeck, Writer 116–117), but the author’s dreamers – despite their occasional use of divining rods like Samuel’s – are not entirely “magical.” Associating imaginative “daydreaming” simply with “planning,” Steinbeck writes in Journal of a Novel that “Plans are real things” (74). For Steinbeck, the act of imagining is not magical but practical: making plans should involve rehearsing choices, even if they are imperfect. He is realistic in acknowledging potential deficiencies of dreaming up propositions about the land, whether in the present or for the future: “If they [plans] don't come off, they are still a little bit realized. If they do, they may be disappointing…” Nevertheless, he suggests, it is exactly this kind of 208 fallible hope that marks humanity worthy of free will in pursuing possibility: “Plans are daydreaming and this is an absolute measure of man,” he declares (74). Indeed, Parini defines Steinbeck’s “essential humanism” in terms of “his deep belief in the power – destructive and constructive – of the human imagination” (537). Steinbeck’s works are all full of practical dreamers, visionaries, artists, and creators, who serve as the philosophical guides of his texts: Slim from Of Mice and Men, Doc from Cannery Row, and Lee from East of Eden. This figure was not always present, however. In The Wayward Bus (1947), for example, the absence of a dreamer suggests that, among these “selfish and self-deluding characters,” there is “no common language or shared vision for an ideal society” (Parini 370). Without such a connection, no progress is possible. In some ways, the lack of a visionary figure signals that Steinbeck was beginning to suspect the “moral degradation of American society.”1 But even his last work, America and Americans, Richard Peterson writes, “reiterates his faith in the value of myth, even if the people have lost their visionary powers...he insists that the energy remains for America to rediscover its principles and purpose” (15). In other words, even if dreamers came and went over the course of Steinbeck’s authorial trajectory, he relied on the notion of the visionary – whether present or absent – to promote the value of the imagination. East of Eden is clearly a “visionary epic” (Parini 437), but the extent to which its characters’ “visions” play a role in allowing for the epic to proceed has not received adequate attention. The first brand of dreaming Steinbeck identifies in East of Eden is a wholly idealized one. Aron serves as his representative for this kind of overly optimistic imagination, which denies reality. For example, when Aron learns that his mother is 209 alive, despite the fact that his father has told him she is dead, his mind cannot handle this new reality. His sense of his world, which has been constructed around his father as “the essence of truth,” is shaken by the notion that Adam could be a liar. In order to save his image of his father as “the foundation,” he “pushed his mother back into death and closed his mind against her” (429). Similarly, Aron creates a fictional version of his fiancée, Abra. “He doesn’t think about me. He’s made someone up,” Abra tells Lee, “and it’s like he put my skin on her.” This “made-up” figure is “just absolutely pure. Nothing but pure – never a bad thing” (496-7). In the same way that Aron imagines perfection in the people around him, so does he build perfect images of the places in which he lives. When he goes off to study at Stanford, he has already constructed a “vague and beautiful” “picture” of students in “academic robes,” “converging on a white temple on the crown of a wooded hill in the evening” (523). The reality of the school, of course, does not match his expectation: Stanford instead consists of “a formal square of brown sandstone blocks set down in a hayfield.” In order to compensate for his disappointment, Aron creates another fantasy world, this one of the home he has left behind. Rather than “try to learn the life around him or to enter it,” he “decorate[s] another dream” as a “hiding place.” By imagining his childhood home as “warm and dear,” as a place in which he “could live in purity and peace with the world,” he allows himself to “hide” from the “ugliness” he wants to deny exists in his world. In doing so, he “never really inspected” all the elements of his landscape, and “goes all one way,” toward an ideal image that fails to take into account the many dimensions of reality, and therefore always ends in disappointment (523, 496). 210 The second type of imagination in East of Eden also “goes all one way,” but in the opposite direction. This version of imagination is a profoundly negative and often destructive one, which sees the world as inherently evil. Steinbeck’s representative for this dark dreaming is Kate. Like Aron, Kate dreams in an effort to escape the multifaceted realities of her landscape rather than engage with or negotiate through them. But because her worldview is shadowy to begin with, the images that fill Kate’s mind are often far from pretty: she routinely “tried to think of other things, even unpleasant ones,” in order to distract herself from her “distorted” world (502). She even manufactures such unpleasant dreams for others, for her own benefit. For example, Kate fabricates nightmares for Faye, her employer at the brothel, a good-natured, matronly woman, using an ammonia-drenched handkerchief, an ivory crochet hook, and a glass of cold water. Faye wakes up with a “look of horror,” screaming, “the dreams, the dreams! I can’t stand them!” (239). Kate uses the nightmares she induces as the starting point for a drawn-out murder plot that will eventually allow her to take over the brothel for herself. Even when Kate has “pretty” dreams of her own, they defy a balanced understanding of the world. For instance, her dream of living with Aron in New York is premised on denying her own sordid past.16 By deciding that “she did not want Aron to know about her” brothel days, and imagining instead that he could “think she had always lived in an elegant little house on the East Side,” she essentially adopts her son’s extreme idealism (513). Even with its focus on the “loveliness” of this reverie, however, the dream ends on a negative note, with mother and son attending the funeral of another woman Kate plans on murdering. 16 Barbara Heavilin analyzes this daydream as evidence of Steinbeck’s use of Fielding-esque “speculative characterization” in constructing a postmodern work (20). She suggests that Steinbeck uses the dream to gesture toward the “possibility of goodness” even in a character who “embodies evil.” But Heavilin dismisses the possibility as “tiny” because Kate “is daydreaming after all.” Like many critics, and critics of western literature in particular, Heavilin sets aside instances of imagination as insignificant 211 The idea leaves Kate “filled with amusement.” Steinbeck’s portrayal of Kate’s imagination is, in the end, not only negative, but lethal. That she is entertained by, and that her ego benefits from, such morbid dreams, only underlines the lopsided, perverted nature of her imagination. As Adam puts it to Kate, “You see only one side, and you think – more than that, you’re sure – that’s all there is” (385). Finally, the third kind of dreaming Steinbeck presents in East of Eden is a balanced imagination. Represented primarily by Adam, this type of imagination takes into account all facets of the environment in constructing a dream. Steinbeck presents Adam as “given to dreaming” (181). When he first arrives in Salinas, he “talked and planned and dreamed,” transforming his uncultivated property “in his mind,” so that he “could see the wheat growing tall and square of green alfalfa near the river” (134, 156). His ambition gives him a reputation as “a man of substance” (134). Many of the more skeptical characters in the novel, however, regard Adam’s imagination as naïve: Kate calls him a “sweet dreamer” whose ability to see good in his world amounts to “hallucination,” and the town’s businessmen see him as a “know-it-all dreamer” whose visions would “always g[e]t [him] into trouble” (385, 438). For Adam, however, the purpose of dreaming is not to “know it all,” but rather to explore all options. Although Adam has a tendency to become monomaniacal, “obsessed” with “one idea,” he is careful to round out his dreams with other perspectives (432). For example, when he dreams of starting a refrigeration business, he seeks out the opinion of the town’s local business guru, Will Hamilton. Will is inherently anti-“idea,” convinced that “plans” are more sound than “dreams.” He therefore advises Adam to “kick dust over” his refrigeration idea. Adam buys the ice plant anyway, and his idea promptly fails. However, he is not 212 disappointed, regarding the endeavor simply as a “game” that he “lost” (543). Because he had closely investigated his dream, analyzing it from multiple perspectives, and still found it compelling, he was satisfied no matter the outcome. In the end, Steinbeck suggests, it is because he “thought in all directions” that his imagination serves its purpose of exploration that leads to understanding and satisfaction, and, eventually, progress (381). Timshel: The Choice of Geographical Movement The ability to see one’s landscape fully, to think about those spaces deliberately, and to use those considered visions to construct well-balanced dreams, according to East of Eden, are the prerequisites for engaged movement within and across those spaces. The ways in which Steinbeck’s characters use their eyes, their minds, and their imaginations determines their fate in the novel. Although there exists a “ballet of business for men doing nothing,” Steinbeck defines the responsibility of being a person as “more than just taking up space” (55, 455). To illustrate his point, the author shows how those who fail to see, evaluate, and dream about their landscape in balanced ways are ultimately removed from it, trapped by it, or fall out of it altogether, while those who make efforts to see all sides of their world, to deliberate about those visions, and to imagine their spaces according to those findings, find themselves free to move through their environment in fulfilling ways. Ultimately, rather than being “caught in a net of good and evil,” Steinbeck suggests that a deliberative imagination allows one to “choose his course” (413, 303). The characters in East of Eden who fail to move are the same ones who see their landscapes negatively, who think only in one direction, and whose dreams are 213 destructive. Clearly, Kate is the prime example of this type of static character. Steinbeck portrays her as moving “as though she were surrounded by a glass shell” (461). Kate’s methods of movement are thus qualified mainly by a lack thereof: she is always waiting, sitting, never hurrying (184, 240). Neither her brain nor her body are capable of flexibility: her mind is described as “wooden,” her fingers are curled by arthritis as she grows older (553). Even when she is pregnant as a young woman, her physical presence is more like an “absence,” in which “a breathing doll” seems to have taken her place (185). Kate’s non-action reaches its peak, ironically, in a dream. Imagining herself inside Lewis Carroll’s story Alice in Wonderland, Kate finds “freedom” only by envisioning herself as shrunken to the size of a thimble. While this illusion allows her to hide from “the forest of her enemies,” Kate’s diminutive scale soon goes off the deep end (552). Because she views her surroundings as inherently evil, she sees the continuation of this shrinkage as the only way out: “she would dwindle and disappear and cease to exist.” Believing that “whatever she had done, she had been driven to do,” she sees only one path open to her: suicide. In the end, then, Kate’s “all one way” vision, thought, and imagination renders her motionless, the opposite of free to choose, six feet under. Aron, Kate’s son, takes after his mother in the extreme way he looks at his environment and how he moves through it. Though their perspectives are from opposite sides – Kate sees all as evil, whereas Aron idealizes everything – their severity results in a similar refusal to engage with the worlds in which they live. Aron is thus merely “content to be part of his world,” but does not fully consider or interact with it (349). His “set course” through his dream land is not based on a thorough analysis of his environment, but rather on his own one-sided vision of it. When his imagination of that 214 landscape is interrupted by its less-than-ideal reality, he flees. Indeed, even as a child, any “change of direction confused” him (422). Given his lack of “versatility,” the news that Abra, his fiancée, is not perfect; that Kate, his mother, is a whore; or that his childhood home in Salinas is not as pastoral as he believed is earth-shaking to Aron. Rather than adapting his vision, his thought process, or his imagination to accommodate such realities, Aron escapes the landscape that hasn’t lived up to his ideals to join the Army, where he is promptly killed in battle. Like his mother, Aron’s unbalanced view of his world finally prevents him from moving through it at all. In contrast to the motionlessness of Kate and Aron, Samuel, Cal, and Adam represent Steinbeck’s deliberative dreamers, and, by connection, his deliberative movers. Samuel is an “inventor” from the novel’s beginning, and uses his considered perception, analysis, and dreams of his landscape to “always try…to improve” it. Although neither Aron nor Cal fully take on Samuel’s model until the end of the novel, the difficulty of arriving at such a position is part of the author’s point: that recognizing the ability to choose how one sees and moves across his landscape is not automatic, but takes experience and deliberation. Cal, for instance, begins his life with “a wall of self- sufficiency” built around him, “strong enough to defend him against the world” (444). His solitary, isolated stance against his landscape leads him not to interact with his world, but rather to “walk alone” through it (445). Cal’s initially disengaged existence, however, is only a starting point from which Steinbeck will show that such a stance is not written in stone. Indeed, as he grows up, Cal begins to realize that “he wanted to dig out the truth” from his landscape (445). His actions and behaviors spring directly from what he finds, and his moods and movements are thus constantly changing. For example, after 215 his father turns down Cal’s gift, he feels “suspended in space” and then drinks until “the earth tipped and swayed” (566). By contrast, after Cal rejects Kate’s claims that he has inherited her evil nature by declaring, “I’m my own,” he leaves with “light quick footsteps” (466). Unlike his brother Aron, who is fixed on a narrow vision and equally narrow path, Cal plays what Lee calls a “personal hide-and-seek” in a wider realm (488). His movements are thus closely coordinated with his landscape, his vision of it, and his dreams about it. Even if those individual movements are not always perfectly enacted, Steinbeck suggests that his engagement enables him to move beyond his brother’s position of simply “taking up space.” Similarly, Adam serves as a representative for breaking out of a one-sided vision that prevents action. Adam, at first, views his often negative perspective on his environment as inescapable: “My father made a mould and forced me into it…I was a casting but I couldn't be re-melted. Nobody can be re-melted. And so I remained a bad casting” (448). Under this system of belief, Adam goes through periods in which his fuzzy sense of sight “held his thoughts down” and “clothed [him] in a viscosity that slowed his movements” (252). When he remembers the pain of serving in WWI, for instance, the memories he pictures in his head are “frozen,” with “no motion or emotion in them” (520). Or when he learns that Cathy runs the local brothel, he trips and falls (306). However, Adam’s model of how he has been “cast” relies on the cast with which he perceives his world. Cyrus, the novel’s patriarch, envisioned the world as a battlefield that shapes him into a frightened man whose lack of confidence must be buttressed by hubris and violence. What Adam finally realizes, with the help of Samuel and Lee, is that his father’s perception of the world, as well as the influence that had on his son, is not 216 fixed. Thus, like his son Cal, Adam makes the effort not only to “dig himself out of the crashing in his head,” but also to dig in to the world around him (261). Following Samuel’s advice to “go through the motions,” Adam finally acknowledges his “need to do something” (215, 432). Whether he carries out his vision for a refrigeration business or simply plants his long-dormant fields, his decision to look at his environment from all angles allows him to make choices about what to do with it and how to move through it. Samuel advises Adam, “You're going to pass something down, no matter what you do or if you do nothing. Even if you let yourself go fallow, the weeds will grow and the brambles. Something will grow” (215). The goal, then, is to “always think…about how to change things” (146). In the end, rather than passing down a hard-cast “mould” as he was once convinced his father did for him, Adam instead passes on to Cal and Abra the blessing of choice, and therefore the possibility of “greatness.” Far from the glass shell in which Kate moved through the world, or the “set course” on which Aron placed himself, Adam encourages Cal to continue to fully see and enthusiastically engage with his landscape according to his vision. Even though “blackness lay ahead of them and the road was unpaved and sticky,” Cal and Abra close East of Eden moving forward with recognition, consideration, and acceptance of the complexities of the space. Because Cal has come to understand the truth of his father’s blessing, timshel – “thou mayest” – he enacts Steinbeck’s dictate to see, to deliberate, and to imagine the “glorious flux,” all in order not simply “to be part of his world,” but rather to “change it” (602, 600, 349). Whether an act is big or small – even “a stone stepped over in the path” or “a finger-nail nicked in the garden soil” – its “direction” has the capacity to “warp history” (34). 217 Conclusion Steinbeck’s recalibration of the geographical imagination following two world wars and the Great Depression relies on a new focus on the inner landscape of the mind. By attending to the ways we psychologically process our outer worlds, Steinbeck constructs a simultaneously mystical and scientific system of pattern-making that points not to dead ends or endless circles, but rather to a beacon of hopefulness. The path he lays out for his characters in East of Eden, however, does not readily make this beacon visible, as it entails “joy and sorrow felted into one fabric” that leaves them to determine how to negotiate its good and evil (120). Although Steinbeck believes in man’s inherent goodness and the “immortality” of “virtue,” his novel emphasizes that human choice is necessary to bring those attributes to fruition (414, 415). As Samuel suggests in the novel, that which is left fallow – whether land or man – is “a waste” (295). Both resident and residence must be mentally perceived and carefully considered in order to be outwardly improved, and it is man’s prerogative to do this. “Don’t you see?” asks Lee, when he considers various readings of the biblical story of free will. While the American Standard translation of the Bible “orders men to triumph over sin,” and “the King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’” it is the original “Hebrew word, the word timshel – ‘Thou mayest’ - that gives a choice” (303). By recognizing that “the way is open,” Steinbeck reclaims a deliberative geographical imagination that had – and has – been left for dead. In doing so, he simultaneously opens the way for later writers like N. Scott Momaday, the subject of the next and final chapter. 218 CHAPTER 6 THE POSTURING IMAGINATION IN N. SCOTT MOMADAY’S HOUSE MADE OF DAWN: VISIONS OF U.S. INDIAN POLICY In N. Scott Momaday’s House Made of Dawn (1968), Abel, the protagonist, arrives in Los Angeles and is given a test: Please complete each of the following in one or two words. (It is important that you complete this section as quickly as possible, filling in each of the blanks with the first response that comes to mind.) I would like _____. I am not _____. Rich people are _____. I am afraid of _____. It is important that I _____. I believe strongly in _____. The thing I remember most clearly is _____. As a child I enjoyed _____. Someday I shall _____. People who laugh loudly are _____. etc. (94) In reducing identities to simplistic notions of themselves, the social work form provides a helpful distillation of an ideology of exclusion that pervades U.S. culture. By relying on only “one or two words” to define a human being, the brief inventory fails to comprehend the Abel’s intricacies. For example, while the test touches on attitudes toward class and personality, it reveals no concern for race or ethnicity. Although it points to various temporal registers, it glosses over distinctions and connections between past, present, and future. While the test centers on the individual, it does not acknowledge the role of community, nation, or policy in shaping him. And even though the test’s purpose is to help Abel acclimate to his new habitat, nowhere does it question the impact of place on identity. Finally, the test denies that, much less how, any of these issues might be imagined, constructed, or perceived, rather than simply defined. Tellingly, after Abel 219 takes the test, it disappears entirely from the narrative, thereby affirming its irrelevance to comprehending his problems or tracing his progress. In short, the static, piecemeal test fails to interrogate where Abel’s identity comes from, what outcomes it might reach, and the dynamic connections between the two. Ironically, then, the social worker fails to explore the social work Abel’s imagination does in processing his world, constructing his self, and moving that self forward. Ultimately, Momaday's novel performs a critique of U.S. bureaucracy and its understanding of human subjectivity, in an attempt to revise conceptions of the Native American subject both for himself and within the nation as a whole. House Made of Dawn is widely known as the marker of the beginning of the Native American Renaissance,1 a period of significantly increased literary production among that ethnic group during the 1970s and 1980s. The Pulitzer-Prize winning novel serves as an introduction to the modern Native American identity as Momaday understands it. House Made of Dawn centers on Abel, a young Pueblo, in 1945, upon his return from serving in World War II, to his childhood home, a Walatowa Jemez reservation in north central New Mexico. Through the local priest, Father Olguin, Abel gets a job working for Angela St. John, a white woman visiting the town for her health, with whom he has a brief affair. In an attempt to reconnect with his heritage, Abel participates in a local ceremonial festival, but ends up killing an albino man, Juan Reyes, and is sentenced to jail. After his release nearly seven years later, Abel moves to Los Angeles, under the auspices of the Bureau of Indian Affairs Voluntary Relocation Program. In LA, he works in a factory alongside Navajo transplant Ben Benally, 1 The term was coined by Kenneth Lincoln, whose book of the same name was published in 1983. Lincoln’s book covers Native American authors including Momaday, James Welch, and Leslie Marmon Silko. 220 befriends the test-proctoring social worker Milly, and attends the religious ceremonies of peyote priest Tosamah. Feeling disconnected from his new locale, depressed and drunk most of the time, Abel loses his job, is kicked out of his apartment, and ends up badly beaten in a fight. He returns to the reservation to find his grandfather, Francisco, dying. Francisco tells him stories from his youth and encourages Abel to try again to reconnect to the traditions of Walatowa. When Francisco dies, Abel completes his burial rites before participating in a ritual footrace in which he finally begins to reintegrate himself into the “house made of dawn” of his homeland. In House Made of Dawn, then, Abel’s efforts are directed at coming to know, to imagine, and to actively connect himself to his place. These efforts refute the stereotype of the Indian as always already embedded in nature. Although many critics, especially those writing at the beginning of the Native American Renaissance, assumed an inherent connection between the Indian and nature, Lee Schweninger has deftly challenged this stereotype by exploring the often ambiguous ways that Native American characters relate to the land. Even the novel’s peyote priest figure Tosamah acknowledges that this relationship is not inbred. When telling the tale of the migration of the Kiowa from the mountains to the plains, he emphasizes that they did not find immediate harmony with their new surroundings. The tribe had to “wean their blood from the northern winter,” and when they approached unknown territory, they realized that man “must never fail to explain [natural phenomena] to himself” in order to avoid being “estranged forever from the universe” (115). Momaday affirms this philosophy: “You have to spend time in a place, and come to know it as it changes in the hours of the day and in the seasons of the 221 year.2 And if you put yourself into it, it absorbs you and you come to know it and depend upon it in numerous ways” (Woodard 50). Through his tenures as Stanford University and the University of Arizona, Momaday came to depend on the western landscape as both personal muse and fictional setting. “I wouldn’t consider writing about a landscape that I didn't know intimately,” he told Charles L. Woodard (136). “I do know intimately the landscapes of the Great Plains and the Southwest. I would be foolish to write about any other landscapes.” Like Willa Cather, Momaday believes “that the writer is the intelligence of his soil,” and by extension, that his characters are profoundly influenced by the locales into which he writes them. What does it mean, then, for Momaday’s Abel to connect himself to and integrate himself within his place? Critics of Momaday’s novel have explored various ways in which the protagonist uses space to overcome his “crisis of identity.”3 Irene Moser, most generally, has defined the spaces of Native American literature as serving to “surround protagonists and interrelate individuals to each other, to history, and to the cosmos itself” (285–6). Robert Nelson, more precisely, identifies land in Native American literature as the “antidote” to postmodern alienation. Momaday has repeatedly underlined the connection between the individual and his landscape, a relationship which had been clear to him since his childhood. Born Navarre Scott Mammedaty in Lawton, OK in 1934, he adopted the “tribal custom for men to have three names, traditionally given at birth, adolescence, and adulthood.” Momaday’s names were all closely tied to elements of 2 In fact, Momaday knew about place, especially its vegetation, more intimately than most: his doctoral dissertation focused on Frederick Goddard Tuckerman, a poet whose works were heavily influenced by his career as a botanist (Morgan 44). 3 Matthias Schubnell identified the “crisis of identity” as the central problem of House Made of Dawn in his 1985 book, which was the first full-length work on Momaday. This focus on identity set the foundation for the large majority of the scholarship that would follow. 222 nature – “Rock Tree Boy,” “Red Bluff,” and “Eagle Alone” (Morgan and Lincoln 20) – thus underlining the idea that identity is premised on the land. As he explains in “Navajo Place Names,” “We know who we are…only with reference to the things about us, the points of reference in both our immediate and infinite worlds, the places and points among which we are born, grow old, and die” (124). In addition to underlining the literal relationship between self and space, however, Momaday also emphasizes that the connection can be constructed or imagined. Although Momaday’s father, Alfred Morris, was a full-blooded Kiowa, his mother, Mayme Natachee, “embraced an imagined Indian heritage” despite the fact that her descendants were early white American pioneers. This model of how people “must imagine who they are and where they come from” provides the basis for Momaday’s “central statement on the search for selfhood” (Schubnell 100; Woodard 4). As the boy’s family moved around the Southwest, he had plenty of opportunities to dream up identities for himself against different geographical backdrops. As Charles L. Woodard puts it, the Momaday family “centered themselves on several southwestern landscapes across which [the child] could move in imaginative play” (48). If a sense of self is dependent on place, however, a sense of place is dependent on one’s perception of it. In this chapter, I use “perception” in both the literal sense of physical sight through the eyes and in the figurative sense of mental “sight” that can take the form of imagining or dreaming. The two are not mutually exclusive. Momaday suggests that Native Americans are endowed with a special capacity for imagination that is founded on literal sight. “There is a remarkable aesthetic perception in the Indian world,” the author notes, in which one “sees with both his physical eye and the eye of his 223 mind; he sees what is really there to be seen, including the aesthetic effect of his own observation upon the scene… the shadow of his own imagination” (qtd. in Woodard 152). For Momaday, then, place is not about the “empirical verification” of geography or cartography. “His is much more a personal or ideological connection,” says Lee Schweninger, such that the interpretation of any particular space is an individual creation (147). For example, Momaday has acknowledged that a place like Rainy Mountain “as I have described it” may not align with someone else’s view of it (Woodard 8). Between Sacred Mountains, a collection of Navajo stories, explains this kind of personal vision of the land in terms of literacy: because “[a] piece of land is like a book,” a “wise person can look at stones and mountains and read stories” there (qtd. in Scarberry-Garcia 9). Momaday is particularly interested in this act of looking at place, questioning “what it is to see, how seeing is accomplished, [and] how the physical eye and the mind’s eye are related” in constructing space (“The American West” 105). In House Made of Dawn, Louis Owens argues, Abel “achieves a coherent self-definition through his ability to see the space surrounding him” (Other Destinies 117). Philosopher Pierre Hadot, a scholar of ancient religions, has identified this focus on the development of spatial sight as crucial to the processes of spiritual healing. Using Merleau-Ponty’s dictate to “relearn to see the world,” Hadot explains that “peace and serenity” can be achieved “by becoming aware of [the mind’s] relationship with the world.” Such healing, however, can only happen with a “profound transformation of the individual’s mode of seeing” (83). A holistic sense of place and a clear perception of its elements, however, are only a means to an end of agency, motion, or progress. Indeed, Momaday defines dreams as “powerful” because they not only “determine who I am” but also “what I do” (Bruchac 224 106, italics mine). “The whole idea,” he says, “is how the human can accommodate himself to… the universe” (Woodard 206). This focus on movement is grounded in many Native American languages, which center on action. In fact, Margot Astrov has called the Navajo language a “language of the verb” (45). For example, the standard Jemez greeting asks, “Where are you going?” (Momaday, “The Morality of Indian Hating” 74). Anthropologist Talal Asad underlines the importance of “body techniques” as a “precondition” for many non-Western religions (76–77). According to Kenneth Lincoln, the Lakota understand their higher power in terms of the motion of “... a Taku or ‘power’ that energetically ‘moves’ (skan) through the ‘sky’ (also skan) of all things...The creation is alive, kinetic, animized, in a phrase, ‘What moves-(all that)- moves’... Interactive motion is all’ (Morgan and Lincoln 3). Given these considerations, Sean Kicummah Teuton argues that the landscape must be bodily engaged in order to gain significance for Native-American characters: “only if the body is in tune with the land can the relationship be communicated” (55). Similarly, it is only by actively positioning themselves in relation to their new landscape that the Kiowa, according to House Made of Dawn, are able to be “transformed” (114). In other words, the point of perceiving one’s place and defining oneself within its context is to enable meaningful action. If the key to connecting oneself to and integrating oneself within a place is perceiving that place both physically and spiritually, it would seem important to understand what that place entails, both in its physical geography and its cultural history. Surprisingly, only one critic, Robert Warrior, takes a new historical approach to Momaday’s landscapes, zooming out from investigations of identity to elucidate the relationship among Momaday’s fiction, nonfiction, and the historical and political 225 moments out of which those arose. However, Warrior focuses on the moment in which Momaday is writing – during the American Indian Movement of the 1960s – rather than the moments and places about which he is writing. I fill this gap by looking at how Abel’s vision of and motion through the novel’s landscapes reflect changes in U.S. Indian Policy from the 1930s through the 1950s. Not taking into consideration the specific political debates, acts, and laws that shape the places Abel perceives and moves through results in an incomplete understanding of how his identity develops. Without first accounting for the historical particularities of the Indian Policies that Abel confronts, it is difficult to appreciate the perceptions, movements, and spaces through which he manages them. This chapter, then, will explore how changes in U.S. Indian Policy sanction Abel’s changing perceptions of place, which in turn impact his movements through his landscape. Although the novel follows a non-linear narrative in order to evoke the protagonist’s confusion as he moves through a journey across physical and mental time and space, I address each phase of Abel’s life chronologically. The main life phases I discuss are 1) Abel’s childhood, in which he develops an understanding of his place at the “center,” where he explores and celebrates his capacity for perception, in preparation for coherent motion, 2) Abel’s early adulthood, in which he experiences a loss of place that disables his vision and suspends his motion, and 3) Abel’s adulthood, in which he regains a sense of place, allowing him to view his landscape holistically, and therefore move in a meaningful way again. Each of these phases corresponds to phase(s) of United States Indian Policy, including the Indian Reorganization Act, Relocation, Termination, and Self-Determination. By coordinating, on the one hand, the way in which Abel’s identity 226 and motion fluctuates with his place and perceptive abilities, with, on the other, how cultural institutions and regulations affected those abilities, I show that the western imagination around the WWII period was on the incline, envisioning viable grounds for progress even as it harkened back to history to do so. In this final dissertation chapter, we see a hopeful heightening of the possibilities for a western imagination that had been losing ground since Américo Paredes and Nathanael West were writing the land as confining and disordered in the 1930s. Although John Steinbeck deliberates about the potential for choosing good in the West in East of Eden, I argue that it is not until the 1960s that those dreams begin to fully come to fruition. Finding Place: The Indian Reorganization Act and the Exploration of Perception Federal Indian Policy from 1887 to 1934 was based on the General Allotment Act, also known as the Dawes Act, which divvied up Indian territory according to European notions of land ownership. Specifically, much of the Dawes Act was based on the property rights theories espoused by the English Enlightenment philosopher John Locke. Locke’s Second Treatise of Government (1689) defined land ownership in terms of the work done on that land. “Men had a right to appropriate, by their Labour, each one to himself, as much of the things of Nature, as he could use,” Locke wrote (Ch. 5, Sect. 37). Following from this conflation of individual industry and personal property, the Dawes Act assigned precise plots of land to particular Native American persons: To each head of a family, one-quarter of a section; To each single person over eighteen years of age, one-eighth of a section; To each orphan child under eighteen years of age, one-eighth of a section; and To each other single person under eighteen years now living, or who may be born prior to the date of the order of the President directing an allotment of the lands embraced in any reservation, one-sixteenth of a section (“Transcript of Dawes Act”) 227 In addition to the meticulous quantification and distribution of land, Locke also qualified how to use that land – not for hunting, mining, or even grazing, but rather for agricultural clearing, tilling, planting, and cultivating.4 Locke’s demarcations of appropriate quantities of space, designations of individual owners, and acceptable types of labor are all “peculiarly English and Protestant,” and grant no recognition to native conceptions of space, which regarded the land’s worth more broadly, in terms of the resources it could provide, the users it could support, and the psychological and moral values it could possess (Anderson and Zerbe 305). As Garrick Small and John Sheehan assert, “Indigenous people do not view land as individual property per se but rather as a part of an ethical/spiritual/legal matrix of rights, obligations, and community relationships” (106). Allotment, then, constituted what Frank W. Porter calls “a radical departure from the Indian’s concept of land tenure.” While understandings of space certainly varied across regions and tribes, generally, “to the Indian the land was a whole and individually-owned parcels were unknown” (F. W. Porter 116). Thus, as Barbara Arneil contends, Locke’s definition of the “natural” right to property effectively “exclude[s] non-Europeans from being able to exercise it” (609). “Unlike the Spanish conquistador or native American hunter,” she explains, “the Devonshire farmer described in the Second Treatise” becomes “the only legitimate proprietor and citizen,” as well as “the only legitimate member of the newly forming civil society” (609). If the American Indian were unable or unwilling to labor in the specific 4 Locke’s focus on agriculture as the basis for claiming property is essentially a rejection of the “Strange Doctrine” that imperial conquest through war could somehow grant to the victor the right to the lands of the conquered. Distinguishing his natal England from other, lesser imperialists such as Turkey, Holland, and Spain, he insists that land ownership does not result from “rapin[g] and plunder,” but rather from farming. The English belief in the value of agricultural industry can be traced at least back to Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, published nearly two centuries prior to Locke’s Treatises. 228 agricultural ways Locke and his supporters deemed appropriate, on land divided into the precise plots the Dawes Act determined, he would be dispossessed of that land. Locke reasoned, simply, that if there was more land available than “each one” can till, the remainder would be up for grabs: “Where there being more Land, than the Inhabitants possess, and make use of, any one has liberty to make use of the waste” (Ch. XVI, Sect. 184). In other words, by figuratively challenging Native Americans’ spiritual, communal definitions of and claims to “property,” the empirical, individual Dawes Act literally diminished their territories. Allotment not only allowed for the possibility that “any one” with “liberty” would “make use” of what Locke regarded as “waste[d]” property, but guaranteed it.5 As Arneil puts it, “… the transcendence of the state of nature by civil society… becomes a philosophical justification for both the usurpation of Indian land and the assimilation of ‘natural man’ into civil society” (609). More bluntly, James Tully has argued that Locke developed his agricultural philosophies precisely to create a perspective that would render English colonists blameless when they seized Native American lands. Even contemporaries of General Allotment seemed to recognize its not- so-hidden goals. According to Merrill E. Gates, a leader of a “friends of the Indian” organization, the Dawes Act amounted to “a mighty pulverizing engine for breaking up the tribal mass” (qtd. in Warrior 75). This understanding remains predominant today. As Momaday tells us in “The Morality of Indian Hating,” Allotment was “an obvious and efficient means of land robbery” which ultimately claimed close to 100 million acres of 5 For a detailed weighing of each side of the debate over just how intentional Locke’s work was in its apparent justification of commandeering Indian lands, see Kathy Squadrito’s “Locke and the Dispossession of the American Indian.” 229 Native American territory (70).6 With the onset of the Great Depression and the election of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, however, Indian Policy made a 180 degree turn. The change was largely dependent on Roosevelt’s appointment of John Collier to the position of Commissioner of Indian Affairs. A social scientist, Collier understood the psychological toll Allotment had taken on Native Americans,7 as well as the cost of such a program to American beliefs in exceptionalism and supposed opposition to imperialism (Momaday 71, Rosier 65). Using this logic, Collier instituted policies that would allow the Indian to “remain on his own land, in an environment of his own making” (Momaday 71).8 The main outcome of this thinking was the Indian Reorganization Act (IRA), passed by Roosevelt in 1934 as part of his liberalizing New Deal. When Abel thinks of his childhood9 in House Made of Dawn, he is remembering this New Deal era, which Momaday calls one “of mutual discovery and respect” (“Morality” 71). This open attitude, in which the Indian could “be exposed on his own terms and without urgency to the world around him,” clearly influences Abel’s childhood understanding of place. In contrast to the rigid Lockean thinking of the Dawes Act, this new, relatively laissez-faire policy enables Abel to position himself “right there in the center of everything, the sacred mountains, the snow-covered mountains and the hills, the 6 According to the Dawes Act, the federal government was supposed to hold allotments of land “in trust” for twenty-five years, thereby preventing the property from falling out of Native American hands. However, this trust was weakened in 1891 in a concession to white speculators and settlers, and nearly abolished with the 1906 Burke Act, which explicitly allowed for the land’s sale (Rosier 28). 7 This toll was confirmed by a Survey of Indian Conditions commissioned by the U.S. Senate in 1943. 8 By the 1930s, under the influence of Collier’s new Indian Arts and Crafts Board, even assimilationist Indian boarding schools like Richard Henry Pratt’s encouraged Native American students to practice the music and art of their own cultures (Warrior 124). 9 If we do the math based on the dates and ages presented in the novel, Abel is 13 in 1937. 230 gullies and the flats, the sundown and the night, everything” (138). Along with the IRA, the already-isolated locale of Abel’s childhood home contributes to the boy’s ability to develop an understanding, at his own pace and according to his own culture, of the landscapes around him. Because the town, “a remote place,” is “divided from the rest of the world” by the physical features of mountains, wasteland, and dunes, but “more than these by time and silence,” it often “seemed to disappear into the earth” (50, 27). This seclusion aligns with how the Walatowa10 define themselves in relation to their northern New Mexico landscape – the name literally translates to “the people in the canyon” (Schubnell 103). Like the chaparral of Chapter 3’s George Washington Gómez, such remoteness is a boon for creating a strong connection to the land and culture. “As a result of their geographical isolation and their cultural conservatism the Rio Grande Pueblos have succeeded in keeping their languages, religions, and traditional customs relatively intact despite the pressures of Spanish and Anglo-American cultural encroachment” (Schubnell 103). Such geographical protection allows for not just the connection, but even the conflation, of resident and residence. For example, when Francsico thinks of ceremonial dancers, he considers “where they were in relation to…the slope of the earth” (76). Similarly, he instructs Abel and his brother to “learn the whole contour of the black mesa …as they knew the shape of their hands, always and by heart” (172-3). Just as they are familiar with their own bodies, so should they be intimate with the landscapes on and in which those bodies exist. During his childhood, Abel’s exploration of the space in which he exists takes the form of a celebration of perception. Abel is particularly self-conscious of his own sense 10 “Walatowa,” a tribal name, is more or less synonymous with “Jemez.” These tribes are subsets of the larger “Pueblo” population (named by Spanish colonists for the types of buildings they lived in). Their language belongs to the Kiowa-Tanoan Language Family. 231 of sight due to the particular culture that surrounds him. Although he has Tanoan and Navajo heritage, he is aware of the existence of “the ancient blood” of a “forgotten tribe,” the Bahkyush, that “still ran in the veins” of many of those who live in his town (14-15). The Bahkyush, a “wretched people” who “had experienced great suffering” were marked by “difference.” When the few remaining members of their tribe were incorporated into the Kiowa clan, however, such difference was simultaneously viewed as “superiority.” Their “journey along the edge of oblivion” endowed the Bahkyush with a “tragic sense” that ultimately provided the “dignity and bearing” that led them to positions as “seers and soothsayers,” medicine men and rainmakers, and, most importantly, “eagle watchers.” Abel is heir to these men, whose roles combine natural and supernatural vision of the landscape. As such, he is fascinated by his own developing sense of perception. Abel has three other models – his brother, his grandfather, and his grandmother – who help to usher him in to an attuned vision of his world. We first see his enthusiasm for sight when Abel and his older brother, Vidal, go hunting for water birds. Here, Vidal demonstrates fully developed sight, which senses with more than just the eyes. As Abel follows his brother, Vidal, “without looking around, motioned for him to be still” (104). Abel “searched the river below” but “could see nothing at first” (105). When Abel does see, it is unexpectedly, but with precise detail. First, he notes the surrounding space that precedes, and is connected to, the vision to come: “the black water shattered and crawled.” Next, he perceives twenty-four gray geese, which broke from the river, lowly, steadily on the rise of sounds, straining to take hold on the air. Their effort was so great that they seemed for a time to hang beating in the willows, helplessly huge and frantic. But one after another they rose southward on their great thrashing wings, trailing bright beads of water in their wake. Then they were away, and he had seen how they craned their long slender necks to the moon, ascending slowly into 232 the far reaches of the winter night. They made a dark angle of the sky, acute, perfect; and for one moment they lay out like an omen on the bright fringe of a cloud. (105) He records, in the slow motion of painstaking exactness, the difficulty of the geese’s initial movement, the emotional and temporal weight of their liftoff, the reaction of the river to their sudden flight, the strain of their bodies toward their destination, and their geometrical relation to the heavens. With these specifics noted, Abel cries out in delight, desperate to share his vision, “Did you see? Oh, they were beautiful! Oh Vidal, oh my brother, did you see?” (105). For John A. McClure, Abel’s experience represents a progressive development, in which a pragmatic question morphs into an aesthetic appreciation, which yields an “ethical-ontological recognition of connection” between two people (149). What appears at first to be a simple act of perception expands into a larger comprehension of how one fits one’s self into a space and a community. Or, in McClure’s words, how “local understanding yields a conception of the cosmos” (149). However, during his childhood, we do not see Abel deploy his growing sense of sight to accommodate his body to the world through movement. The closest Abel gets to physical motion is when he tells us that “you felt like yelling and running and jumping up and down” when “[y]ou put your hands in the snow and rubbed your face with it and it made you come alive and feel good…” (136). Nonetheless, Abel’s youth is full of examples of what appropriate physical movement would look like, ranging from slow and deliberate to fast and strenuous. For instance, he remembers his grandmother, Aho, in terms of “the several postures that were peculiar to her,” including cooking, “bent above her beadwork,” walking slowly upon a cane, and, most often, standing at prayer. Aho’s prayers, consisting of “suffering and hope,” are particularly notable because they originate in her having “seen many things” (117, emphasis mine). In other words, any 233 motions Aho makes through the world are based on her perception of that world, including her memories. In addition to Aho’s “postures” of relative stillness, Abel is also provided with models for postures of speed. His grandfather makes a point of taking the young Abel to see the annual ceremonial “race of the dead” (180). Here, just as the “sun took hold of the valley,” Francisco instructs Abel to “listen” to the “one sound of a hundred men running.” The motion is not forced; the men run “easily and forever,” as a “sudden burst of colors came out upon the land” (180). Again, Abel learns that perception of and motion through space are correlated.11 As a child, then, Abel constructs a sense of sight by studying the movements of the occupants of his environment, thereby preparing for his own action. When his chance to make a respectable move in the eyes of his community arrives, though, he fumbles. Just as Abel’s grandfather gained “a voice in the clan” after performing the “perfect act” of beating a drum during a ceremonial dance (181), Abel’s inclusion in a ceremonial eagle hunt – at age 17 – is meant to offer him a rite of passage into his tribe. Instead, Abel’s participation in the Eagle Watchers society concludes with him taking the unsanctioned action of wringing the neck of the eagle he captures, resulting in his voluntary departure from the reservation. This act serves as an important pivot point as Abel moves from a largely positive childhood experience of place, perception, and posture to a disastrous early adulthood experience of those same concepts. Whereas, during his childhood, Abel was learning to perceive his surroundings in holistic ways, his experience during the eagle hunt gradually breaks down rather than 11 Even the animals of Abel’s world teach him this lesson: “road runners take on the shape of motion itself,” quail use “the imminence of…danger” to “explode away like a shot,” and coyotes, with “the gift of being seldom seen,” move only at night, “when the whole world belongs to them” (50-51). 234 builds up his vision of his world. Just prior to the hunt, Abel continues to hold on to the grand perspective on place he had been developing in his youth. Coming upon the Valle Grande, he notes, with awe, that “…all the objects in the landscape were washed clean and set away in the distance…It was almost too great for the eye to hold...” (16) This comprehensive view sets the tone for how Abel sees the animals that inhabit it. When he catches sight of the eagles, he perceives them as “cavorting, spinning and spiraling on the cold, clear columns of air,” “screaming with delight.” They “swooped and hovered” with “streamlined and perfectly controlled” movements, “rolled and swung,” and finally “soared out over the plain” (16-17). This wide, open view of both the landscape and its inhabitants changes drastically when Abel participates in a rabbit hunt, which will provide the eagle hunters with bait. After Abel nabs a jack-rabbit, he creates a “latticework of beams” atop a hollow shrine, on which he places the rabbit as an offering (19). Upon finishing this work, Abel’s line of sight undergoes a profound shift. Whereas his initial vision of the valley had encompassed “the world,” his new arena for perception is decidedly bounded: “[h]e could see here and there through the screen,” and “the eagles “were almost too high to be seen.” His circumscribed perception is contrasted by the “vantage point” of the eagles themselves, which [see] that “the land below reached away on either side,” all the way to “the far end of the earth bending on the sky” (19). Momaday himself became familiar with this type of holistic vision when he learned to fly an airplane. In fact, he explicitly connected his sight from above to that of the creatures Abel hunts: “I saw the land as a hawk or an eagle sees it,” he explained, “immense and wild and all of a piece” (Morgan 31). But at this point in the author’s novel, his protagonist’s vision no longer 235 approximates that of the eagle. By the end of the scene, Abel’s vision is blurred in parallel with the “dusk fading quickly into night.” Although he can see the eagle “in the mind’s eye,” he is unable to perceive its one-time freedom, because “his eyes were filled with tears” (20). Abel’s watery vision clearly affects his perception of his surroundings. We first see this shift in sight when he observes an eagle bagged by another hunter, which the group frees. This eagle, far from the soaring freedom Abel registered earlier, is “stoop[ed]”, “full of fear and suspicion.” Rather than “spinning and spiraling,” it goes “clattering through the still shadows of the valley.” Even when it reaches the sky, the light that encompasses it enacts a prison, as it “lay like bars” and “set a dark blaze upon” the animal (20). Unlike the eagle that had been “buoyed up” prior to the hunt, Abel “felt the great weight” of his own captured bird as he holds its sack. And in contrast to the earlier “wide and full-blown” character of the eagle’s “pivots and wheels,” Abel now sees his eagle as “drab and shapeless” (16, 20). Why does Abel make the “wrong” move of killing the eagle? His act is not a bodily malfunction – indeed, later in the novel, Abel remembers that, during his early adulthood on the reservation, “he had loved his body. It had been hard and quick and beautiful; it had been useful, quickly and surely responsive to his mind and will” (88). When he kills the eagle, this is certainly true – he wrings its neck easily and quickly; the hands that complete this motion are “surely responsive” to his thoughts. Since the problem is not with Abel’s body, several critics have looked instead at the connection between his body and mind. Schubnell argues that Abel’s actions originate in his “misunderstanding of tribal culture,” which causes him to act out in “rebellion against 236 tribal custom” (107-8). Teuton claims that Abel’s behavior is problematic due to its reliance on an individual, rather than communal, mandate (64). In addition to looking at how Abel’s perception clashes with that of past traditions, it is also necessary to think about how the contemporary historical moment in which the scene occurs has catalyzed those conflicts. Indeed, all the lessons in space, sight, and motion Abel has received are not enough to hold off modernity. Momaday himself was well aware of the effects of “progress” on indigenous cultures during the 1940s and 50s. As he explains in “The Morality of Indian Hating,” For three hundred years the pueblos remained nearly impervious to the white man’s interference, but after the Second World War…the old ways were lost. The sense of temporality which has pervaded the old costumbres is, one thinks, an illusion produced by the sad certainty that, beyond these sanctuaries, cultural extinction is imminent. (75) Thus, while Abel’s changing perspectives on the landscape during the hunt can be attributed to an adolescent reaction against the “old ways,” those views are also undoubtedly influenced by a pull toward a realistic recognition of the inevitable imposition of modernity. Because the development of Abel’s perceptions and postures was never fully completed during his childhood, he is especially vulnerable to this pull. His failure to move in culturally sanctioned ways during the hunt only underlines this vulnerability. Abel’s shifting vision reveals both the ambiguous nature of the Indian Reorganization Act that covered Abel’s childhood and the impending changes to U.S. Indian Policy leading up to World War II. According to Kenneth William Townsend, the IRA actually “concealed a shrewd and cleverly orchestrated plan for assimilation rather than tribal revitalization” (206). This plan became much more blatant during the war. 237 Losing Place: The Effects of WWII Indian Policies on Perception and Posture The loss of visual perception and physical stability that Abel experiences on his reservation during the eagle hunt foreshadows changes in how the U.S. government viewed and treated Native Americans, their cultures, and their lands leading up to, during, and following World War II. According to Paul C. Rosier, the war “both diverted attention from and heightened an ongoing ideological battle over Native American self- determination” (73). For Momaday, this internal battle within the larger external battle of WWII “represents such a dislocation of the psyche in our time. Almost no Indian of my generation or Abel’s generation escaped that dislocation, that sense of having to deal immediately, not only with the traditional world, but with the other world which was placed over the traditional world so abruptly and with great violence” (Coltelli 162). Just as the author portrays Abel’s childhood development of a sense of location – made possible in part by the Indian Reorganization Act – through a parallel development of perception and motion, Momaday’s depiction of his protagonist’s loss of that sense is evidenced along similar lines, this time made possible by the new policies that accompanied the war. As Rosier puts it, WWII “brought dramatic changes to Native Americans’ ideas about their literal and figurative place in American society and in the world” (72). Given the confusing status of Native Americans as simultaneously autonomous and dependent, it was unclear whether and how they would serve in the armed forces during WWII. Debates surrounding the proper “place” for Native Americans during the war involved federal administrators, non-governmental advocate organizations, and, of 238 course, Indians themselves.12 The first question was one of citizenship. While the 14th amendment (1868) technically extended citizenship to all those “born or naturalized” in the U.S., this extension was generally not granted to Native Americans.13 Even the Indian Citizenship Act14 granted citizen status only to those Native Americans born after its passage.15 This was enough for Captain W.B. Palmer of the Joint Army and Navy Selective Service Committee, who was relieved when Commissioner of Indian Affairs John Collier assured him that those of the age most fit for service were citizens (Franco 42). Second was the question of culture. Oliver LaFarge, president of the American Association on Indians,16 was concerned that many native customs – such as a prohibition on cutting one’s hair or eating fish – would be “incompatible with standard military routine” (qtd. in Franco 44). Nevertheless, LaFarge asserted that Native Americans were well equipped to serve in the armed forces, especially if they could be trained in “special corps” where their “peculiarities could be considered sympathetically.” Finally, there was the question of how to incorporate Native Americans into the troops. Whereas during the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Civil War, and even the Indian Wars, Native Americans had been grouped into “auxiliary units,” they were integrated into “regular” regiments in World War I. Twenty years later, though, the question was reopened for debate. At first, the Bureau of Indian Affairs contended that all-Indian units 12 Although many of the issues up for discussion had been deliberated during the first World War, they were rehashed all over again in the second (Rosier 72). 13 Native Americans were neither counted as members of the population (for purposes of representation) nor taxed. 14 Signed by Calvin Coolidge in 1924 partly in recognition of Native Americans’ contributions to WWI. 15 It was not until the 1940 Nationality Act that all those born on U.S. soil (no matter on what date), including Native Americans, were considered citizens. 16 Originally founded in New York in 1922 as the Eastern Association on Indian Affairs 239 would make “the best possible use of Indian special skills” (Rosier 91). Many Native Americans aligned themselves with this view, including J.C. Morgan of the Navajo Tribal Council, who reasoned that an “indigenous regiment” would help prepare them to later enter into integrated units, and William T. Snake, a Ponca, who wanted to form an all-Indian troop to “defend OUR COUNTRY” (qtd. in Rosier 92). But because of enemy propaganda, the U.S. government had to be very careful about how it treated its minorities. As journalist Carey McWilliams explained, WWII symbolized “a clash between the idea of racial superiority (central to the Nazi doctrine) and the idea of racial equality (central to the concept of democracy)” (qtd. in Rosier 79). As such, Rosier writes, “it became imperative for U.S. officials to ameliorate the racial conflicts that proved useful for German, Spanish, and Japanese propagandists, who seized on the mistreatment of African Americans and Native Americans as evidence that the United States had no claim to the moral high ground.” Another rationale for integrating Native Americans into the general body of the military was logistical: as Assistant Chief of Staff General William E. Shedd insisted, adding a third segment to the two already existing – black and white – would result in “utter confusion” (qtd. Rosier 93). In the end, the BIA changed its position, and supported the military integration of Native Americans. If the threats of international propaganda and national logistics pushed official U.S. policy to include American Indians to fight within white regiments, what inspired Native Americans to accept such inclusion from a country that had so often excluded them from the nation? Rosier offers multiple reasons: “Native Americans served in the war not only because of patriotism but also because of martial traditions embedded in family or tribal community histories for economic opportunity, and, of course, because 240 they were drafted” (Rosier 87). These reasons are not mutually exclusive. In fact, the first two can be combined into what Rosier calls “hybrid patriotism,” perhaps best summed up by Lewis Naranjo, a member of the Pueblo tribe who described his service to his country as follows: “We are doing our best to win the war to be free from danger as much as the white man. We are fighting with Uncle Sam's army to defend the right of our people to live our own life in our own way” (qtd. in Rosier 104). In this way, Native Americans “perceived themselves fighting for two linked geographical spaces – their ancestral homelands and the United States of America – both facing a crisis of national security” (Rosier 73). More precisely, American Indians were interested in protecting these entities as places, as “specific piece[s] of ground that sustained a nation within a nation” (Rosier 87). For example, Navajo soldier Cozy Stanley Brown explained, “My main reason for going to war was to protect my land and my people because the elderly people said that the earth was our mother.” Similarly, Albert Smith, another Navajo, reasoned that “This conflict involved Mother Earth being dominated by foreign countries,” and it was the Indian's “responsibility to defend her.” U.S. governmental authorities were not unaware of this sense of responsibility to place. As Secretary of Interior Harold Ickes wrote in his 1941 report, “If the Indian's love of his homeland once proved an obstacle to the white man, today it is making an unique contribution...to the total national defense effort” (Rosier 88). Indeed, by July 1941, nearly 1 in 10 Indians of military age had entered the armed forces, and ultimately 25,000 Native Americans served in WWII. 241 Abel on the Battlefront: Integration, Incoherence, and the “Goddam War Dance” Abel’s preparation for “inclusion” in the troops that will defend American values abroad gets off to a rough start, characterized by uncomfortable territory, curtailed sight, and conflicted motion. The sheer number of Native Americans soldiers enlisting in the armed forces during WWII is not equated to an easy decision to serve, and the dislocation Abel begins to feel during the eagle hunt of his early adulthood is only exacerbated when he physically departs from his home to enlist in the U.S. Army. As soon as Abel hears the horn of the bus that will carry him away, the “town and the valley and the hills” – “everything he knew and had always known” – seem “already miles and months away, gone long ago” (21). Because both the familiarity of the space and its inhabitants is now absent – “suddenly he had the sense of being all alone” – Abel’s range of vision shrinks accordingly: he “looked straight ahead, centered upon himself in the onset of loneliness and fear” (21). With his unrecognizable surroundings and limited perspective comes a confusion of motion, as “he felt the lurch and loss of momentum” of the bus quickly followed by “a lot of speed and sound” (21). Abel “tried desperately” to reconcile this opposition of forces, but comes to no conclusions about “what it meant.” Abel’s experiences during the war represent a continuing decline in his sense of place, his ability to clearly perceive that place, and his capacity to posture himself accordingly. In fact, Momaday portrays him as so discombobulated that he later remembers that period of “days and years” as “without meaning,” full of “awful calm and collision,” with “time always immediate and confused,” such that “he could not put [it all] together in his mind” (21). His one clear recollection of the war – despite its supposedly “sharp,” “distinct” character – is plagued by incoherence. First, the setting is 242 unclear: “he didn’t know where he was, could not remember having been there.” Second, Abel’s spatial vision contains an unsettling mixture of confusion and clarity. Although Sioux scholar Ella Deloria has argued that WWII “wrought an overnight change in outlook…of the Indian people” (qtd. in Rosier 72), Momaday presents such a change, on the individual level, as much more gradual and complex. In Abel’s war flashback, the author describes the shift in terms of oscillating vision. On the one hand, Abel “could barely see” the “bodies of men” “strewn among the pits,” and has trouble distinguishing their “sprawling limbs” from the “litter of leaves” in which they rest. There are multiple obstacles in his line of sight as he “look[s] into the sun,” including “splinters of light,” and “countless leaves” that “dip and sail” (22). On the other hand, the narrator tells us that, in the midst of these blockages, Abel’s “vision cleared” when he sees a tank in the distance, which, at least “for a moment,” appears distinctly as “apart from the land.” Abel’s sight quickly blurs the vehicle with its background again, however, as Marx’s proverbial machine in the garden approaches: it is described as “nestling almost into the splash and boil of debris” (22-23). Finally, this unclear setting and confused perception make for equally incoherent movements within it, both by Abel and by the tank. Abel’s motions range from insensible – “He reached for something, but he had no notion of what it was; his hand closed upon earth and the cold, wet leaves” (22) – to inert – he momentarily “played dead” (103) – to chaotic – according to the testimony of a fellow soldier, “he just all of a sudden got up and started jumping around…doing a goddam war dance…two-step or something…” (103-4, italics original). The tank that responds to Abel is similarly unpredictable in its movements, beginning with a “concentrated calm” and “slow, steady motion and approach” (22) before it “all of a sudden crunched down 243 and bounced – yes, sir, bounced, actually bounced to a stop – and they all started shooting at him, pop, pop, ping, ping, pow!” (103, italics original). War, by definition, is chaotic. But the lack of consistency that characterizes Abel’s place and positioning during his tour of duty is clearly aided and abetted by the complications inherent in the federal Indian policies at the time – complications espoused by the BIA itself in its definition of “the Indian of today” as “the product of an adjustment of tradition and modernism.” If the decision to include Native Americans in “regular” troops was a conflicted one, so, too was the practice of this inclusion. On the one hand, much of the war effort relied on the preservation of Indian cultural elements, particularly language, which were used to create codes that would unite the U.S. against its enemies (qtd. in Rosier 91). Indeed, the solidarity of units composed of whites and Native Americans is written in the stone of the Iwo Jima Memorial, which recreates the famous 1945 photograph of the American flag being raised over Mount Suribachi by six soldiers, including Ira Hayes, a member of the Pima tribe. However, the logistical inclusion of Native Americans in the operations of WWII did not necessarily promote cultural understanding, much less cohesion, when the boots hit the ground. Momaday makes this clear when Bowker, one of Abel’s fellow soldiers, discusses Abel’s behavior at the warfront. In his testimony, he calls Abel a “chief,” labels his language “Sioux or Algonquin or something,” and describes his gestures in terms of the racialized stereotypes of “jumping around” and “clapping whoops from his mouth just like in the movies” (103-4). Even more problematically, Bowker misinterprets Abel’s erratic motions as originating from hubris rather than confusion or terror. In declaring certainty 244 that Abel “was not afraid, no sir,” Bowker’s testimony points to an utter disconnect, despite the integration of troops, between these “comrades” in arms (102). Abel on the Reservation: Termination Policy and the Shrunken Landscape The conflict between Native Americans’ technical inclusion in WWII and their actual miscomprehension by their comrades grew after the war ended. Like an ethnic version of WWI’s Lost Generation, the Native Americans who had fought in WWII came home to an America where they could find their place among neither Indians nor whites. Having become accustomed to integration (if not cohesion), equal employment opportunity, and foreign landscapes, Native Americans endured reverse-culture shock upon returning stateside, many back to their reservations. If Abel had already experienced difficulties in aligning himself with the traditions of his culture before the war, those difficulties were compounded after the war by both the geographical and demographic changes that had occurred during the war on the reservation, and in the shift of federal Indian Policy from Reorganization to Termination. When Abel returns to Walatowa in 1945, his geographical and cultural disconnect from the reservation is illustrated in the veteran’s hazy vision and drooping movement, which is placed in opposition to the sharp memory and proud carriage of his grandfather. When Francisco arrives at the bus station to pick up his grandson, he sees clearly and stands tall. He begins by vividly recalling a pencil drawing – made to memorialize his 1889 participation in a ceremonial race – depicting a “straight black man running” (7-8). He has held on to this posture for 56 years, despite a crippled leg. In anticipation of his grandson’s disembarking, “instinctively he drew himself up in the dignity of his age” (8). In sharp contrast, when Abel gets off the bus, he is drunk: his sight is impaired – “his 245 eyes were half closed and rolling” – and his motions are off- balance – he “stepped heavily to the ground and reeled.” In a reversal of the roles appropriate for their ages, the grandfather must hold his grandson “upright.” On their way home, Abel lies prostrate while Francisco, sitting “bent to the lines” of the wagon, takes responsibility for their motion (9). In addition to the contrast between the postures of Abel and his grandfather on the post-war reservation, Abel’s slumping motion offers a stark contrast to his actions during his military service. Whereas, as a soldier, he threw around his body in a “goddam war dance” amongst the “speed and sound” of chaos, his stance following his return to the reservation is closer to “playing dead.” He is even described at this point as a “wooden Indian” (32). Aesthetically, Momaday records Abel’s static stance on and dulled sight of his place in this section of the novel by leaving his protagonist’s perspective almost entirely out of the narrative. Most critics agree that the author makes this move to underline a loss of some sort for Abel, whether it be his identity, voice, culture, or place. Abel at this point is caught between a rock and a hard place. He is unable to call on or enact the place-based traditions of his culture that he never fully grasped as a child. Neither, however, does he find meaningful or useful the foreign unfamiliar practices he learned from the whites alongside whom he fought during the war. Following his return stateside, then, Abel is pictured as abandoning all pretense of having any beliefs in or knowledge of how to be in a place, how to see it, or how to move through it. Instead, he begins his childhood journey all over again by re-examining his place, perceptions, and postures. Now, as then, he completes this exploration by observing both the place itself and how those around him see and move through it. But whereas Abel during his 246 childhood could examine relatively untouched land and learn from seasoned residents like his grandfather, his options for study following the war have changed drastically. Together, these shifts in landscape and inhabitants contribute to Abel’s difficulty in relocating himself after the war. If Abel’s eyes are “rolling” over the land and his steps “reeling” upon it when he returns to the reservation, this is in part because lands like his had been taken over, changed, or shrunken by federal authorities while he was fighting abroad. In the 1943 inaugural issue of the The American Indian magazine,17 Oliver LaFarge wrote, “I do not want...any...Indians ...to come home with a chestful of medals and a sleeveful of stripes to find their Reservation wrecked” (qtd. Rosier 103). LaFarge’s skepticism that “the American people will repay their loyalty” was well-placed. As the Secretary of the Interior's 1942 Annual Report noted, “blocks of Indian land … have been requisitioned for military use, and the removal of Indian families…constituted a direct war service for the [BIA]” (qtd. in Rosier 96). Indeed, the military found many reasons for such requisitions, including gunnery practice,18 dam construction,19 and Japanese American internment.20 This land was meant to be returned following the war, but as Rosier reminds us, “To give up more land, and to be ‘removed’ from it, despite the promise that the situation was temporary, did not appeal to Native Americans, who saw the 17 Published by the Association on American Indian Affairs 18 The lack of population and infrastructure made the land appealing: “it could be bombed with little risk,” writes Rosier (96) 19 HR 323 (1943) would authorize construction of dams on the Rio Grande in New Mexico (Rosier 102- 104) 20 These included the Poston center on the Colorado River Reservation and the camp at the Gila River Reservation. About 25,000 Japanese Americans were being held on Native American lands by the end of 1942 (Rosier 98). 247 requisitions as extending military subjugation and government appropriation of their land” (97). While Abel’s dim sight and immobilized body after his military service functions as a commentary on the usurpation of Native American property in the name of war, his compromised faculties also reflect impending changes to the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Following the war, many viewed the BIA’s treatment of Indians as outdated in its continued paternalism. In 1942, the Bureau’s headquarters had been moved from Washington, D.C., to Chicago, and its federal funding cut. Although perhaps the real reason for these changes was that the government needed resources to fund its war abroad, the critique of the BIA as effectively reversing the assimilation many had achieved during their service was used to justify its demise. As pro-integration journalist Oswald Villard explained, “Indians themselves will tire of being considered human museum pieces seeking to keep alive vestiges of a life that was picturesque” (qtd. in Rosier 112). In 1944, the Senate Indian Affairs committee issued a report that affirmed the increasing opposition of Congress to the Indian Reorganization Act’s efforts to protect reservations. In rationalizing the “Liquidation of the Indian Bureau,” the report essentially advocated for the “termination” of reservations (Rosier 103). Many Native Americans who had served abroad could have seen this coming. For instance, when Private First Class Joseph Roybal learned that the ceremonies of Alaskan natives had declined as the U.S. encroached on their land, he wrote that he was “thankful that I came from adobe land where I hope that in the years to come no ill-thinking white man will attempt to change our way of living…in the Southwest, the land I wouldn’t trade for any part of the world…” (qtd. Rosier 102). In response to recognitions, like Roybal’s, of the 248 connections between tradition and geography, the National Congress of American Indians was formed to safeguard “Indianness” by preserving the spaces on which it was founded (Rosier 102). Despite these efforts, Native Americans lost nearly 1 million acres of land during WWII, effectively overturning the Indian New Deal that had guaranteed the maintenance of reservations and their cultures. In addition to the new policy of Termination and the changes it rendered on the land itself, Abel’s post-war vision and motion is also confused by his new models for how to see and move through that space. Whereas his grandparents and brother had provided him during his childhood with demonstrations of culturally integrated methods of perception and posture, his post-war examples are unsure of how to see or move through space. Abel’s first model, Father Olguin, a white priest, is displaced, an “alien in an unfathomably pagan colonial outpost” who feels “mocked by the Indians’ cultural persistence, by the subversiveness of their very survival in remoteness” (Owens 107). This sense of isolation inspires a sense of constriction in Olguin, who feels that the pueblo’s “endless succession of steep earthen walls…enclosed him all around” (65). Due to his outsider status, he feels most comfortable enclosed by his own set of walls, alone inside his house, reading and writing in near darkness. It is only in this isolated space that “he could take stock of all his resources and prospects, and…could find his place among them” (41). Olguin feels out of place in Jemez in part because he has only one good eye with which to see, and mostly uses it to perceive his own private world, full of European religious texts not particularly applicable to the Walatowa region or its people. When Olguin does venture out, his myopic sense of place makes his motions rushed – “he always awoke with a strange sense of urgency” (40) – as if he needed to get back to 249 his own realm as soon as possible. For example, as Sean Teuton has noted, when the priest races through the maze-like pueblo during a festival, he nearly crashes into a child. Like his tires, which “lock upon the packed earth,” Olguin’s motions are abrupt and violent. Ironically, just before this incident, Olguin has convinced himself that “he had at last begun to sense the rhythm of life in the ancient town, and how it was that his own pulse should eventually conform to it” (61). Eventually, Olguin does “come to terms with the town,” but only by letting the “fire of his spirit…burn…low, and with it the waste of motion…” (170). Clearly, the priest’s sense of constricted place, halved sight, and rash movements do not contribute to Abel’s ability to find himself here. Abel’s second model in this section of the novel is Angela St. John. In search of better health, she rents a residence known as the Benevides House – literally, “good life” – near the region’s mineral baths. Her need for recalibration is first evidenced in her descriptions of her world as alternately upside-down and fixed. For instance, she describes the intense blue of the sky as “like water, very still and deep” (25). At first glance, this conflation of air and sea is reminiscent of Momaday’s anecdote in The Names, in which the author describes looking up from the bottom of a canyon and seeing a “serpentine strip of the sky…like a river running across the top of the world.” When Momaday explains this passage in his essay “The American West and the Burden of Belief,” however, he mandates that, “[i]n order to be perceived in its true character, the landscape of the American West must be seen in terms of its sacred dimension” (105). Due to Angela’s own “dense, impenetrable world,” she is unable to gain a full comprehension of this space (33). Rather than seeing the connection between sky and sea as an inspirational whole, she describes it as “empty” and “eternal beyond all hope” 250 (29). Although she learns to be “alive to the black silent world of the canyon,” she does not allow herself to be affected by it, instead using the Benevides house to “h[o]ld the world at bay” (49). Angela’s vision is removed. The Benevides house is located in a town called Los Ojos – “the eyes” – but Angela’s sight is overly focused, either on her own contemplations or on that which she observes. In the first case, we see Angela “lost in thought,” thereby missing the setting entirely (26). In the second case, her hyperawareness leads her to miss the forest for the trees. For example, when Abel chops wood for her, we see her “taking his motion apart.” Or, when waiting for that wood to burn in her fireplace, “she did not see it happen, though she looked hard for it” (32). Or, finally, when she watches a traditional corn dance, her concentration on the dancers’ vision, “intent upon something that she could not see,” leads her to conclude that “they saw nothing after all, nothing at all” (33). Given the emptiness of her world and her inability to see it clearly, it is no surprise that Angela has physical difficulty in traversing it. Pale and “too thin” (26), inhabited by a baby she views as a “monstrous fetal form,” she harbors a “fear and disgust of her body.” At one point, “it was nearly beyond her to walk” (40). Abel and Angela have a brief affair, but it is not only Abel’s “lack of articulation” that prevents their relationship from developing, as Schubnell claims (118). Angela clearly has her own “obstacles,” including her confused senses of space and sight, both of which prevent her from moving coherently, if at all. Neither, however, can Abel “effect” Angela’s “restoration…to wholeness,” as Louis Owens suggests (105-6). At this mid-point in the novel, the blind are leading the blind. Given the examples of Father Olguin and Angela St. John, that Abel’s attempts to rightly see and move through the spaces of the Jemez Pueblo fail should be 251 unremarkable. This is not to say that Abel’s return to the reservation is for naught. Indeed, there are isolated instances in which we see his efforts to grasp his connection to this place, as when he observes that “The breeze was very faint, and it bore the scent of earth and grain.” Briefly attuned to the landscape, he acknowledges that “for a moment everything was all right with him. He was at home” (27). But these moments of feeling in place are short-lived, and ultimately overwhelmed by a feeling of being burdened by place. For example, when Abel feels “the weight of the sun on his head and hands,” his view of the valley is correspondingly freighted: “the land became hard and pale” (24). He understands that this is not the vision he seeks, as his “eyes roved after something…something” (23). Gaining the ability to see this “something” in the landscape is the prerequisite for movement; without it, both his mind and body are paralyzed: “He stood without thinking, nor did he move…” (23). When Abel does make a move, it is with good intention, but inelegant because uninformed. Desperate to regain his place in his culture following his absence, he participates in the traditional ceremonies of the Feast of Santiago, including the rooster pull, symbolic of agricultural abundance (35). The ritual takes place in “the Middle,” an “ancient place” that defies the visions of outsiders. Here, the “smooth, packed earth was not level, as it appeared at first to be, but rolling and concave;” although “the space appeared to be enclosed,” there were in fact “narrow passages” and “a wide opening” (36). The area is characterized by “the soft contours and depressions of things worn down and away in time.” But because Abel’s comprehension of the history that imbues the land is uncertain, and his vision of the space therefore unclear, the quick, smooth movements required to win the competition are impossible for him to enact. Instead, he 252 “sat too rigid in the saddle” and is “too careful of the gentle mare” he rides (37). Although the reader sees all of this through Angela’s eyes, her perspective acts as a stand-in for Abel’s. She sees a “brilliant disorder of motion,” “a perfect commotion” in which “something was out of place” (39). Like Abel, she senses the possibility of “brilliance” or “perfection,” but cannot coalesce the movements she sees in the space before her. Later, Momaday presents the more holistic perspective of Francisco on two other ceremonies of the festival, the horse dance and bull run. The old man critiques the bull, which he says had “no holiness to it” (71). His explanation of this critique helps to explain his grandson’s difficulty with seeing the land clearly and enacting ceremonies upon it. Playing the ceremonial role of the bull is “harder now,” Francisco reasons, because “the men of the town had relaxed their hold upon the ancient ways, had grown soft and dubious.” The grandfather is able to carry forward traditions like these only because he has memories and experiences on which to depend, unlike those who joined the military based on second-hand knowledge of a love for the earth. His mental perception is so clear, in fact, that he “knew without looking around” when the bull arrives at the present ceremony: “he could see it perfectly in his mind,” and is carried back to the moment when “he, too, had been the bull” (72). By contrast, Abel’s lack of experience on the land and absence of understanding of its history render him clumsy. Informed more by war trauma than by the weakened culture in which he finds himself residing, his actions are understandably brusque. Out of frustration at his failure to find his place through ceremonial participation, Abel resorts to violence, killing the winner of the rooster pull, Juan Reyes, a giant albino. For the 253 majority of critics, the albino represents some form of evil that Abel feels must be eradicated. But while many scholars have examined Abel’s vision of this evil creature from philosophical, symbolic, and literary stances, few have asked where his perception originates. Louis Owens is the only one to consider the implications of Abel’s war service, arguing that the veteran has adopted the Allied worldview that the Axis forces are “embodiments of an absolute evil that must be destroyed” (105). It is only after Abel has committed murder, and after he has been sentenced to jail, that he becomes conscious that he has misplaced the centeredness he had begun to establish in his childhood. Following his trial, the narrator tells us, “He had lost his place. He had been long ago at the center, had known where he was, had lost his way, had wandered to the end of the earth, was even now reeling on the edge of the void” (92). It is this sense of displacement, once again, that renders him blind: he “had no real insight into his own situation” (93, emphasis mine). This lack of vision becomes literal when Abel is incarcerated, unable even to distinguish the color of the walls that surround him, much less project his vision beyond those confines: “The walls of his cell were white, or perhaps they were gray or green; he could not remember. After a while he could not imagine anything beyond the walls…” (92). And, again, with neither a place in which to situate himself nor the ability to see such a space clearly, Abel is left without recourse to physical movement: during the trial, Abel “sat like a rock in his chair” (90). As when Angela referred to him as “wooden,” Abel’s reduction to natural materials like wood and stone indicates the imposition of nature metaphors as Indian stereotypes. While those imposing the stereotype might see such objects as inanimate, and therefore denying 254 motion, much of Abel’s stillness is an active refusal to participate in a space regulated by white viewpoints.21 Abel in Los Angeles: The Relocation Program and the Polarized Landscape If Abel is unable to find a stable sense of place, perception, or position in the rural Jemez Valley upon returning from war, neither is he capable of locating himself in the urban space of Los Angeles, where he moves following his release from jail. His move is supported by the BIA’s Voluntary Relocation Program, which provided Native Americans with financial and social support to transition from reservations to urban centers in the 1950s and 60s. The program was widely used: between 1950 and 1970, almost 160,000 Native Americans left their reservations for cities like St. Louis, Chicago, Denver, and San Francisco (Rosier 164). Abel’s psychological and physical experiences of L.A., like those during the war and back on the reservation, are plagued by confusion. Depending on perspective and position, this section of the novel portrays the city and the reservation Abel has left behind as alternately occupying the opposing poles of new and old, full and empty, and alive and dead. I argue that these unsettling dualities are reflective of the both/and positions taken by many federal authorities at this point in history. As Toby Morris, the Chairman of the House Indian Affairs Subcommittee, told President Truman, more funding was necessary for Native American programs both “on and off reservations” (Rosier 164). Although Morris ideally wanted these groups to “take their proper place in our American society,” his proposals for a “hybrid program of 21 When he “refused to speak” after “he had told his story once, simply,” he chooses not to engage in “their language,” through which they “were disposing of him.” It is clear to Abel that the court’s monologue is lacking integrity, “strangely uneasy, full of hesitation” (90), and that such “reluctan[t]” meaning making will not produce stable ground on which to move. Although Navajo code talkers had used their own language during the war to forward the ideals of American “freedom,” Abel’s silence ultimately supports the need for the rallying cry of the National Congress of American Indians to “let Indians speak for themselves” and on their own terms (Bernstein 171). 255 reservation rehabilitation and relocation” suggests that just where that “proper place” might be was unclear (165). In Brothers under the Skin (1943), Carey McWilliams underlined the difficulty of placing Native Americans “properly” by asking, “just what is meant by assimilation?” (74). In a chapter titled “The Non-Vanishing Indian,” he argued that “Indians have already been largely assimilated” in politically, but not culturally. For McWilliams, “cultural uniformity” is not the goal. Instead, he advocates for the continuation of New Deal programs that provide for the “gradual and orderly adjustment of Indian culture to the demands of a modern industrialized society” (73). However, Ruth Muskrat Bronson, a Cherokee cofounder of the NCAI, was not so certain that such a gradual approach would be acceptable to Native veterans. In “What Does the Future Hold?” Bronson predicts Indian soldiers, having gained “a new perspective” abroad, “will come home demanding full status in American life” (qtd. in Rosier 107). But these demands would be difficult to meet, according to BIA official John Embree, who noted that the continuing “color prejudice” of most Americans would prevent Indians from being “accepted into the white world…no matter how fully they adopt white ways” (Rosier 100). These conflicting post-war opinions about the definition and possibility of assimilation are reflected in the conflicted spaces of Los Angeles in House Made of Dawn, which operate in confused dichotomies of old and new, empty and full. Although sociologists at the time believed that “the power of the urban space” was supposed “to dissolve minority cultures into the national fabric,” Momaday counters that the city can only awkwardly accommodate Native Americans like Abel (Douglas 226). On the one 256 hand, Abel finds himself in a “new” place, both in that he has never been there before and in that the city was experiencing some of its highest levels of growth in the 1940s and 50s.22 In this modern city, “everything is clean and bright and new-looking” (124). Even Abel’s work centers on newness – his job is to make boxes that maintain the freshness of products. As with the underbelly of glitzy Hollywood in Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust, however, an old, dark, dirty side of L.A. also exists. On his first night there, Abel has the option to sleep at the Indian Center, “an old frame building” where “you can see through the cracks in the walls.” It is a last resort of a place, where “you can stay…if you don’t have anyplace else to go,” in contrast to L.A.’s streets, full of “everybody going someplace, going home” (134). The apartment Abel ends up living in, with Navajo Ben Bennally, certainly does not feel like “home,” with its noisy radiator pipes, stale smell, and blank, mostly windowless walls. In contrast to the history- and culture-laden Jemez Valley, it would seem that L.A. would be considered “empty.” But the economic focus of the Relocation Program on which Abel relies flips the definition of emptiness. As John Collier wrote to Robert G. Caldwell, chairman of the State Department’s Cultural Relations Program, “we have a great potential undeveloped market which, by educating the Indians to desire an improvement in their standard of living and by increasing their purchasing power, would relieve greatly the economic strain caused by the loss of European markets (qtd. in Rosier 81). An urban center marked by consumer culture, according to these values, is full. Abel’s roommate Ben tells him: 22 Whereas Los Angeles’ population grew by 266,229 people from 1930 to 1940, it added 466,081 from 1940-1950, and 508,657 from 1950-1960. 257 Everything is here, everything you could ever want. You never have to be alone. You go downtown and there are a lot of people all around, and they’re having a good time. You see how it is with them, how they get along and have money and nice things, radios and cars and clothes and big houses. And you want those things; you’d be crazy not to want them. And you can have them, too; they’re so easy to have. (158, italics original) Native American reservations, then, come to be defined as empty. As Ben puts it, “there’s nothing there, you know, just the land, and the land is empty and dead” (158). Indeed, the rationale behind Relocation policy followed this same logic. In explaining his support for Section 6 of the Navajo-Hopi Rehabilitation Act of 1950, a precursor to the Relocation Program, Secretary of the Interior Julius Krug reported to President Harry Truman that Navajos were experiencing a “material crisis” in which the economic vacuum of their reservations could no longer support their growing numbers (Rosier 148). More radical advocates of impending termination policies were more blunt, using reservations’ lack of economic opportunity to label them “prisons” (Rosier 147).23 It appears at first that Ben has accepted this reversal of definitions, but John A. McClure reminds us that his pronouncements of reservations’ emptiness are challenged by the traditional chants he sings for Abel, which extol tribal lands as “beautiful all around” (130). For McClure, these conflicting depictions of place indicate a “profound self- division,” propelling an “ambivalence” that has been enabled by “their history of partial secularization” (140-41). Although Ben surmises that he and his fellow displaced Native Americans “could talk about” and “could understand” things “if we all came from the same place” (135), his own unsteady portrayals of a single space suggest that the problem is not so much the lack of a place in common as the lack of a clear communal perception of that space. 23 If whites did acknowledge the value of these spaces, it was only for their natural resources’ potential to be “liquidated” into cash (Rosier 181). 258 And clear perception is hard to come by in Los Angeles, where the privilege of perspective is generally granted to the whites at the top of the social ladder. Abel’s sense of sight in Los Angeles is unsteady, if not blocked altogether. For instance, at a poker game, Ben says that Abel “couldn’t get his eyes to hold still” (141). In another case, vision is impossible, since the only lightbulb in his apartment’s foyer “blew out a long time ago” (125). As with George Washington Gómez, Abel’s compromised vision is set in contrast to, or even subjected by, the hyperfocused surveillance by which he is tracked as an “other.” In L.A., “…everybody’s looking at you,” including Abel’s aged neighbor, Carlozini, who’s “always watching you” (139, 157); his boss, who “inspect[s] everything he did” (142); and the “Relocation people,” who are constantly checking on him. Because of this surveillance, Benally warns, “you have to watch where you’re going” in L.A (124). Ironically, the Relocation Program’s offer of economic and social mobility actually achieved the opposite, preventing the movements of its wards by rendering them surveilled objects without their own vision. As Momaday shows, Abel’s physical movements in Los Angeles range from paralyzed – “he couldn’t move” – to manic – “shaking all over” – sometimes in the space of a few moments (141). These incoherent motions result from his increasingly tenuous sense of place and perception. His uncertainty about movement is in some ways simply a logistical problem of acclimating to the expectations of a new geography, ideology, and timetable. As Ben explains: “you don’t know where you’re going or why or when you have to get there” (139). National Congress of American Indians president Joseph Garry echoed this sentiment in 1956, writing that the expansion of the Relocation Program had resulted in Native Americans’ 259 feelings of “unrest and fear” (Rosier 193). But when Abel looks for answers to the questions of where, why, and when to move, the responses are mixed. On the one hand, he harbors the Kiowa tribe’s historical “love of going.” On the other hand, Ben denigrates this same culture for its present-day representation by “a lot of old people” who are “going noplace” (140). Another possible model of motion is the city itself, full of lights that “go on and off and move all around” and people who “wonder… why you don’t hurry up” (124, 139). But while Abel knows “he had to do something…he didn’t know what it was” (154). Even the accessories of Abel’s life underline his inability to move, including his shiny but uncomfortable shoes and his suitcase, across which a spider is always making a web (93, 109, 156). Like Benally’s compulsive use of the phrase “I guess,” Abel is plagued by indecision about his direction. Even the pigeon who visits his apartment “couldn’t seem to make up its mind” about whether or not to land on the windowsill (126). We’re a far cry from the grandiose control and joy of the movements of the soaring eagle Abel observed seven years earlier. Abel’s immobilization, caused by the conflicted nature of the city’s spaces, pushes him to escape to removed locales, both high and low, that appear to offer him new perspectives. As with Mark Twain’s exaggerated visions from mineshaft and mountaintop, the spaces of depth and height in House Made of Dawn provide the protagonist with imaginative possibilities enabled by a distanced point of view. Irene Moser has noted that Native American authors “often associate extraordinary powers and experiences with high points in the landscape…as well as with places underground,” arguing that such places allow characters to “gain a self-knowledge that frees and renews them as they return to the ordinary spaces of their lives…" (292). Moser analyzes Abel’s 260 connection to the “cosmic dimension” of the Pacific Ocean, but does not examine two other spaces in the novel that are crucial to Abel’s process of self-identification: a buried church and a hill above Los Angeles. In addition to adding these spaces to Moser’s discussion, it is important to recognize that Abel’s reason for seeking them out is not only based on his supposed cultural proclivities toward nature, but also impacted by the institutional restrictions he is subjected to under the Relocation Program. Because the underground church and the aboveground hill are removed from the threat of surveillance, they allow for experimentations – not always successful – with sovereign sight. The one place in L.A. that appears to offer some stability is Reverend John Big Bluff Tosamah’s Holiness Pan-Indian Rescue Mission, located in a basement. The Mission’s earthen altar is marked by a “fine groove” that functions to “symbolize… the life of man from birth, ascending from the southern tip to the crest of power and wisdom at the center, and thence in descent through old age to death at the northern tip” (97). Both the symbolic and literal connections between the earth and human life in the basement encourage Tosamah’s congregation to visualize the spectacular during a peyote ceremony. The visions Abel has here, however, are no more steady than those in the rest of L.A.: he sees “hallucinations” and “derangements” that span from the diffuse – “there was no center to it; it was everywhere at once” – to the distilled – a “single… crystalline…brilliant bead of light (97-99). This range of visions is paralleled by a range of feelings, from “exhilaration” to “depression” to “nausea.” If the sights and sensations in the basement are chaotic, however, the movements associated with them are more promising than the urban shaking Abel has experienced at ground level. And unlike the 261 loss of articulation at his court trial, the underground congregation explicitly (if tritely) expresses its needs through prayers for “prosper’ty an’ worl’ eace an’ brotherly love” (100). Despite the apparently meaningful connections between earth, vision, and motion that take place in the basement church, its isolation ultimately leaves it without impact. At the end of the ceremony, the priest “arose and went out” to “serve notice that something holy was going on in the universe” (101). That universe, however, does not belong to the congregants, so the eagle-bone whistle Tosamah blows must compete with the sounds of traffic and juke-box music. The basement space they’ve carved out of the world for themselves is clearly not exempt from its hierarchical pressures. Even the church’s leader is prone to poking fun of his own parishioners’ status as “longhairs.” And as Robert Warrior points out, an office supply company’s storage facility sits atop the underground meeting place, allowing “the materiel of bureaucracy” to “weigh…down on the everyday realities” of the displaced Indians who inhabit it (169). The depth of the basement church is balanced by the height of a hill above the city on which Abel and his fellow relocated Indians congregate. More than the basement, this above-ground space provides them with a place to be themselves, out from under the watchful eyes of their “patrons.” From the hilltop, Ben observes, vision is unobstructed: “we could see one whole side of the city, all the way to the water” (127). This far- reaching sight, which enables the group to occupy the position of surveyor rather than surveilled, is buoyed by its freedom from the sounds of the city that challenged Tosamah’s whistle at the end of the basement scene: “we couldn’t hear anything down there” (127). The hill, then, because its remoteness enables sight and disables sound, offers space for uninhibited, intentional motion, including drumming, dancing, and 262 singing. In fact, the traditional song that Ben sings, the Night Chant, is specifically concerned with space (“May it be beautiful before/behind/below/above/all around me,”) perception (“Restore my mind for me…”), and mobility (“Restore my body for me,” so that “Happily I go forth…Happily may I walk…”) (130). It is this chant that inspires Abel and Ben to hatch a plan for action. Together, they envision “the way it was going to be…we were going to meet someplace, maybe in a year or two, maybe more. He was going home, and he was going to be alright again” (128). Although Ben later admits that he “made all of that up,” this vision of motion, facilitated by the open space of the hilltop, inspires a hope for its possibility in reality for both of them: “he believed in it, I guess, and…then I guess I started to believe in it too” (129). Following his visits to the extreme geographical locales beneath and above the ground of L.A., Abel finally ends up at the end of the ground, on the “frontier” of a beach. As with most of the places he encounters in L.A., this is a liminal space in which he is pulled in a couple directions at once. On the one hand, he lies in a “depression” which a number of scholars have suggested reflects a grave (it also indicates Abel’s level of mental health). On the other hand, Momaday qualifies the hollow as “shallow,” hinting that Abel is not as entrenched as we might think. While I agree with Schubnell’s theory that a fence on the other side of this beach “is symbolic of his failure to break through the barriers between him and the mainstream of society” (125), it is also important to note Abel’s failure to overcome another barrier: the one between him and natural realm represented by the sea. The beach, then, like the ambiguous Indian policies of the ‘50s, acts as a kind of middle ground that lets Abel see both sides of the equation he is negotiating, neither of which fully makes sense to, is appealing to, or is accepting of 263 him. It is this middle ground, however – rather than the heights and depths he explored earlier – that allows him to see a potential for his own balance in the world. Before he reaches that realization, however, Abel is literally unable to see the ground at all because his eyes are too swollen to open (87). With the “backs of his eyelids…black and murky like the fog,” all he can make out are “microscopic shapes” that “vanished in the great gulf of his blindness” (106). His mind “wobbling,” he pinpoints a light on the loading dock only to have “the swirling fog close…over it again” (104). Not only are Abel’s eyes unable to see the land, but his hands – which during his childhood represented his knowledge of the land (153, 173) – have been broken. In fact, his whole body is incapacitated, “contracting, quaking involuntarily” and “flopping like a fish” (87, 101). This last description is particularly interesting. Although “flopping” is certainly not an ideal motion, its connection to fish is ripe. These creatures appear regularly throughout House Made of Dawn, representing Abel’s still-developing comprehension of how creatures inhabit the world. The loveliest passage shows how “the fishes lay out in the black waters, holding still against all the force and motion of the sea; or close to the surface, darting and rolling and spinning like lures, they played in the track of the moon” (107). This vision of the fish, which symbolize both steadfast stillness and playful movement, and, perhaps in between, “flopping” between the two, marks a turning point in the novel. This sight of various models of movement, contained in a single creature, encapsulates all the models he has observed up to this point – from his grandfather to Angela to Ben. In doing so, the fishes spur Abel’s healing, in which he recovers a place he can both see clearly and move through coherently.24 24 On the one hand, the stillness of the fish recalls Abel’s childhood observation of his grandmother’s 264 The significance of Abel’s acknowledging that the fishes act either with stillness “or” with “darting and rolling and spinning,” then, is that he recognizes the necessity of interplay not only in the types of motion that are available and necessary, but also between the actor, his stage, his perception, and his motion (italics mine). As Schubnell puts it, Abel’s new awareness of “the interrelatedness of all elements” allows him to “discover…that he too is tied up in the totality of creation and has a legitimate place in it” (131). In order to claim that place, however, he knows that physical movement is necessary: “[h]e had to get up…” (110). It is only once he establishes an “[u]pright” posture, the narrator observes, that “his mind cleared…” Once again, motion and perception are intimately connected with person and place. Regaining Place: Self-Determination, Holistic Vision, and Running toward Balance Abel’s decision to “get up” at the frontier space of the beach impels him to return, once again, to the reservation. This move, which takes place in 1952, is aligned with a shifting national mindset toward Native Americans at mid-century. First, Natives’ service in the war had helped them to recognize the connection between “their people's struggles against colonialism at home and foreign peoples’ struggles against colonialism abroad.” This stimulated a pan-Indian nationalist movement that emphasized the need for the elimination of paternalism and the establishment of Native American rights to prayer posture, reverent of the motions of her world even as she sits motionless among them. On the other hand, this stillness is reminiscent of John Steinbeck’s flouting of naturalism in East of Eden, asserting that the strength of an individual’s choices for how to act in an environment can outweigh the “force and motion” of that environment. This notion of free will, however, is too dichotomous for Momaday, in that it pits good against evil, and man against world. It is also important to note that the idea of choice is a more difficult one for Momaday’s Abel than for Steinbeck’s Adam. After all, the American Indian Movement was founded the same year that House Made of Dawn was published, with the goal of reclaiming the sovereignty that would give Native Americans the authority to choose their own paths forward. Ironically, one type of protest during this time period was the “fish-in,” which was meant to raise awareness of the need for Native American fishing rights. Fish-ins were organized primarily by the Survival of American Indians Association (SAIA) in the mid-1960s (Johnson, Champagne, Nagel 15). 265 determine the paths of their own lives (Roiser 72, 105). This movement called attention to the failures of both assimilationist programs like Relocation and detribalization efforts like 1953’s House Concurrent Resolution 108, which officially “terminated” many Native American tribes by withdrawing federal aid, abolishing reservations, and submitting tribal members to the benefits and duties of all other U.S. citizens. In many ways, the National Congress of American Indians’ protest of such top-down programs and declarations fulfilled its role as a “national instrument to make [Native American] voices heard in legislation and implementation of federal Indian policy” (qtd. in Townsend 207). Although proposed bills for reservation rehabilitation and self- determination such as SCR 3 (“An American Indian Point Four Program”) and S. 809 (“A Bill to provide economic assistance to the American Indians”) failed to become law, such proposals steadily chipped away at notions of Termination (Rosier 195). For example, Associate Justice Hugo Black, in a 1960 Supreme Court dissent acknowledged that, while “It may be hard for us to understand why these Indians cling so tenaciously to their lands and traditional way of life… this is their home – their ancestral home…,” which is “worth more than money and the costs of a new enterprise” (Rosier 213-214). Even Eleanor Roosevelt publicly sympathized, in 1956, with a Native American woman who had requested “land and work, and not relocation off the reservation” (Rosier 199). Abel’s return to the Jemez Valley, then, can be seen as predictive of the 1968 Indian Civil Rights Act and the official implementation of the policy of Self-Determination, which would be introduced by Richard Nixon in 1970. Whether they opted for assimilation or tribalization, the point of self-determination was that neither should be forced by the federal government. 266 Abel’s traumatic experiences during the war and his “relocated” time in Los Angeles lead him to take advantage of the impending policy of Self-Determination by determining his own identity not as Milly or Tosamah would have it, but according to his own notions of place and how he fits into it. In doing so, he follows the NCAI’s 1955 proposal of a Point Nine Program, which aimed to make “officials recognize native people ‘as they are’ and not as the government wished them to be” (193). Abel’s return to Walatowa is also reflective of Momaday’s own predilection for rural western locales, or, in his own words, “this kind of prejudice about nature and the wilderness” (qtd. in Schubnell 121). As the author said of his own move from Stanford back to Arizona in 1980, “I always knew that I would return to the Southwest, to the real world, if you will… To me it’s more real than city life.” The level of “reality” Abel feels at his homecoming is evidenced by the weight of the land itself. Earlier in the novel, the lights and hustle of L.A. allowed Abel to become geographically and psychically “disoriented.” As Momaday explains in “An American Land Ethic,” he “may have been perfectly sure of where [he was] in relation to the supermarket and the next coffee break,” but his “sense of natural order has become dull and unreliable” (47-48). By contrast, the Jemez Valley upon Abel’s return is calmly impervious, covered by “a great, gray motionless cloud of snow and mist,” on which “no shadow” and “no impression” could fall (169). The space’s undeniable existence makes an impression on Abel. His previous dislocation, and his subsequent blindness and paralysis, is remediable only by re-determining his place. Positioning himself back on the landscape his grandfather had tried to teach him about during his childhood, Abel continues the education of his childhood by re-orienting himself to this space. 267 We can see Abel’s process of reorientation by considering how he looks at it, and how that perception enables or disables agency. An ideal corollary to this process is a story Momaday has told repeatedly, including in The Way to Rainy Mountain. The version in House Made of Dawn is told by Tosamah, who narrates a tale of changed vision upon returning to his grandmother’s house. At first, the priest only realizes “how small it was” according to his adult stature, compared to his childhood perception. Later, however, his sight undergoes an opposing change. Observing a cricket on a handrail against the backdrop of the moon, he finds that his “line of vision was such that the creature filled the moon like a fossil” (119). It is this awareness of position and perception that enable Tosamah to say that he has “seen to the center of the world’s being” (120). This awareness also permits his physical movement, completing an arduous pilgrimage to Rainy Mountain that allows him to mourn his grandmother. Just as Tosamah relearns the art of geographical perception and motion through a return to his ancestor’s territory, so, too, does Abel. This re-education about the relationship between place, sight, and posture does not happen overnight, however. When Abel first takes up vigil beside his grandfather’s deathbed, he feels that “the room enclosed him,” his “eyes burned,” and his “body ached even with the motion of getting up and crossing the room” (171). Estranged from the reservation’s spaces and rituals, he is mentally and physically uncomfortable with his role. Abel is quickly reminded of the import of sight, however, when he notices his grandfather’s eyes “open and roving and straining to see.” In an acknowledgment of Francisco’s efforts to view his surroundings, Abel, rather than laying a cool, damp cloth across his grandfather’s line of vision, “laid it on the brow instead” (172). As in the rite 268 of passage Francisco remembers at this point in the novel, it is only by ensuring that “all the angles of his vision” remain open that he – and, later, Abel in his stead – will succeed in eventually “looking straight ahead” (178). In contrast to Abel’s tunnel vision on his way to war – a vision inspired by fear and loneliness – the directed sight Francisco silently promotes is the product of careful consideration of a holistic perception. In addition to the land itself, such all-encompassing vision must also incorporate its inhabitants. By taking care of his grandfather at the end of his life – and acknowledging the role he played in helping Abel form an understanding of place – Abel enacts the kind of communal vision that was conspicuously absent in Los Angeles: vision as “looking out for each other” (143, emphasis mine). Having recognized the steady weight of the land and the importance of perceiving that space holistically and communally, Abel is finally capable of moving in a meaningful way by participating in the ritual act of running. By the time Francisco dies after six dawns, Abel “knew what had to be done.” This knowledge is dependent on his having reoriented himself to the land by ceremonially sprinkling meal “in the four directions” (183). Quite literally, by recognizing these compass points, Abel positions himself in space. This completes the ceremony, and provides a sturdy foundation from which Abel can launch himself into motion. He further strengthens his relationship to the land by placing its elements on his body, rubbing “his arms and chest with ashes” (184). Situating himself among the runners, we see their line of sight focused on “the clear pool of eternity” ahead (185). Because “they held their eyes upon it,” they are able to see the slow changes the dawn brings to the earth: “pumice, and pearl, and mother-of-pearl, and the pale and brilliant blush of orange and rose” (185). The runners align their motion 269 with these changes in their perception of the landscape, as they “sprang away” only when “the sudden cold flare of the dawn struck upon the arc” (185). Again, however, the process of developing an understanding of the land, seeing it holistically, and moving through it coherently does not happen easily or automatically. Abel is not yet completely in tune with his surroundings – he is “startled” by the “soft and sudden sound” of the runners beginning the race, and must “run after them” to catch up. When he does so, “his body cracked open with pain.” He is overtaken by “pure exhaustion,” but is spurred on by the very earth upon which he moves: “there was no reason to run but the running itself and the land and the dawn appearing.” Just as, during his childhood, he recalls how “you put your hands in the snow and rubbed your face with it and it made you come alive” (136), the intermixture of land and body during the race fuels Abel’s motion. After he falls, he sees “how the rain made streaks upon [his broken hands] and dripped soot upon the snow.” The sight of the earth marking his body and his body marking the earth inspires his continued movement: “he got up and ran on.” In turn, his motion across the landscape invokes a new mode of perception – “he could see at last without having to think” (185). Abel’s final vision – of “the canyon and the mountains and the sky,” “the rain and the river and the fields beyond,” and the “dark hills at dawn” – is far-reaching. Because he has determined himself in a landscape that has historical and familial meaning to him, his vision of it has expanded and deepened, and this newly open scope allows him room to move both freely and intentionally. Conclusion: Questioning Abel’s “Rise” Although Abel is not yet capable of voicing his direction in the novel’s concluding race, it is clear that, as he continues “running on the rise of the song,” he is 270 indeed “on the rise” in several ways (185). First, physically, he has gotten up from a prostrate position. Second, geographically, his line of sight suggests that he is following the contours of the “rise” and fall of the land. Third, genealogically, he has re-located himself in the space of his ancestors’ origin – where they “arose” historically. Finally, however, it’s difficult not to question Abel’s “rising” direction, self-determined as it may be. Schubnell has argued that Abel is “special” because his running – unlike that of other characters of American fiction, from Huck Finn to the Invisible Man to Rabbit Angstrom, whose “alienation” causes them to “run away from something without a viable alternative” – is toward something, “his native culture” (76). But if western literature, as this dissertation has argued throughout, is about exploring potential futures through an imagination that takes into account both the realities and the fantasies of the past and present landscape, Abel’s running toward his roots can look a lot like a move backward. Granted, he has given other “alternatives” a chance and found them not “viable,” in that their spaces failed to accommodate him, disallowing his clear perception of them and coherent movement through them. And, granted, his concluding run restores to him an understanding of his landscape, along with a holistic perception of that space and how he can traverse it well. In turn, unlike Milly’s questions, Abel is spurred to understand himself in a context that makes sense to him. Perhaps this backward movement is a price worth paying for a productive imagination and secure identity. 271 CONCLUSION On ranches in the West today, it is not unusual for cowboys to round up their cattle on four-wheelers, or to keep track of their livestock with drones (Turkewitz). New technologies allow cattlemen to brand their herds using liquid nitrogen rather than red-hot irons, and to use a machine called the “calf table” to catch, hold, and turn an animal during the branding process. Modern farmers use iPhone irrigation apps, self-driving tractors, and genetically modified crops to make the most out of the land (Hardy). Meanwhile, Silicon Valley charges ahead with the newest in high-tech software and hardware, from social media platforms to electric cars. All of these western phenomena are exciting and innovative – even, it could be argued, imaginative. What my dissertation demonstrates is that the continual western focus on improvement or “progress” through data and technology – bringing the “Old West” into the 21st century – unnecessarily devalues the very human, very fallible, but very important faculty of the imagination. Contrary to trends in western scholarship of unearthing facts from and imposing figures on the landscapes of the West, this project has shown that the geographical imagination, in various forms, has continued to hold sway in the region. For authors writing prior to the “closure” of the frontier, like Mark Twain, the imagination functions, alongside a landscape viewed as geographically open, as an experimental medium through which to envision a wide range of aesthetic practices, individual careers, and national trajectories. After the turn of the century, when the landscape of the West had become more densely settled, characters’ dreams enter an investigative mode, becoming at once narrower and more practical. During this period, authors such as Willa Cather 272 picture the imagination as precise and pragmatic, thus simultaneously coopting and critiquing the era’s increasingly scientific quantification of the land. As the Great Depression approaches, however, writers’ representation of the imagination begins to shift. No longer an easy avenue for dreaming up coherent visions of or approaches to the landscape, the imagination in the 1930s becomes a cipher for a social sense of helplessness in the face of economic and cultural change. Through characters newly marginalized or disconnected from their environments, the dreams offered up by authors like Américo Paredes and Nathanael West are chaotic and confused. Their characters’ fretful visions work to obstruct any paths forward, pointing to frustration and disappointment with a West that had come to clash violently with its mythical promises of freedom, equality, wealth, and fame. It is at this point that most critics of western American literature begin to eulogize the western imagination. My investigation suggests, instead, that the dream of the West makes a resurgence following World War II. As I showed in Chapter 5, John Steinbeck signals a rekindling of the imagination through his gestures toward the biblical notion of free will, through which his characters make the choice to see their worlds anew. Writers of the Civil Rights era, represented in this dissertation by N. Scott Momaday, continue to offer rehabilitated portrayals of the imagination, drawing out the faculty’s continued struggle against federal regulations while insisting on its capacity to challenge such policies. In outlining how authors over the course of a century have envisioned, mourned, and then re-envisioned the social function of the western imagination, this dissertation contributes to a number of critical conversations. Most broadly, my research shows how the 20th century literature of the American West bolsters calls made by scholars ranging 273 from Frederic Jameson to Arjun Appadurai to take seriously, as both cultural symptom and social influencer, the dreams that have often been neglected as unworthy of critical attention. In the literary realm, my project makes clear the need to reconsider the rigid timeline to which novels dealing with dreams have been confined. Both in American literary studies in general and in western American literary studies in particular, critics have been intent on assigning beginning and end points to the imagination.1 My work illustrates that the effort to draw hard lines in the sand works against the grain of the faculty itself, which ebbs and flows within and between novels, historical periods, and landscapes. In the same way that this project points to the need for a more open timeline to house representations of imagination, it also calls for a more flexible definition of the imagination itself. Whereas scholars like Kathryn Hume have qualified the post-1960s “American nightmare” as a sign of the culture’s “lost vision,” I have shown that even the confused dreams analyzed in the middle chapters of my dissertation nevertheless constitute visions – visions that serve as commentaries on the landscape just as much as the more positive dreams investigated at the project’s bookends. By re-envisioning chaotic fantasies not only as signs of “devastating disappointment” but also as spaces through which to test solutions to overcoming disillusionment, my study helps us to 1 There is little agreement about where the western imagination starts and stops. In fact, critics like David Fussell have practically equated the rise of the Myth of the West with its fall. “The West exerted serious imaginative impact in the United States only so long as it remained a living idea,” Fussell writes,” and thus “the winning of the actual West brought the Westward Movement of American writing to a natural and inevitable end a few years after the closing of the frontier” (24). Others are only slightly more generous. For example, David Wyatt finds that the land’s “encroachment” on “human hopes” begins with those he terms “later naturalists,” such as Norris, Steinbeck, and Chandler (xvii). More recent scholarship, however, has suggested that these death sentences were premature. Although I found no works on the return of the imagination specifically in western literature, critics like John J. Su have begun to recognize the phenomenon in the wider field of the contemporary Anglophone novel . Ironically, where previous scholars tended to see the prevalence of dreams only in the late 19th and early 20th century, contemporary critics tend to relegate the imagination to the late 20th century, arguing that the faculty works as a response to issues of globalization. 274 understand the imagination as more than a rosy cliché. Instead, this faculty incorporates and processes the realities of the world, whether or not they fit the stereotypical notion of dreams as inherently positive. Acknowledging this broader conception of the imagination enables us to recognize some of the more subtle ways that authors across the 20th century have challenged problematic social, political, and economic landscapes. Finally, this dissertation contributes to debates over multiculturalism in general, and in the West in particular. While I value studies that attend to how and why individual ethnic communities imagine their landscapes, along with studies that compare how certain groups view particular spaces in contrast to other groups, my project aims to prove the utility of granting the primary power of organization to historical periods rather than to ethnic or racial divisions. Clearly, these categories are not mutually exclusive, and, as my chapters show, I have no interest in neglecting the very real consequences of membership in an oppressed group on that group’s view of their environment. Nevertheless, my dissertation demonstrates that it can be as enlightening, if not more so, to analyze geographical dreams of their own accord before looking to ethnic differentiation to justify their origins or their place in the canon. These chapters, of course, are far from exhaustive. In tracing the path of the western imagination over the arc of a century, my scope is neither broad enough nor deep enough to do full justice to the topic. For instance, it would be interesting to extend the timeline of the project to cover more contemporary literature. Indeed, my initial, overly ambitious vision of this dissertation included Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine (1984), Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian (1985), John Rechy’s The Miraculous Day of Amalia Gómez (1991), and Sherman Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in 275 Heaven (1993). I see Erdrich and McCarthy’s novels as offering the opportunity to explore how authors use postmodern self-reflexivity to comment on their characters’ imaginative negotiation of the western terrain. Interestingly, whereas Erdrich’s characters endorse the “dreamstuff” in the western landscape as “powerful,” McCarthy’s identify such territorial illusions as the deceptive trappings of an “optical democracy.” Meanwhile, Rechy and Alexie’s texts seem to illustrate contemporary authors’ understanding of the imagination as a faculty particularly useful for navigating spaces of social blight. But if Rechy’s eponymous protagonist imaginatively “overwhelms” her dilapidated Chicano neighborhood with fake flowers and religious visions, Alexie promotes a “politics of dreams” that positions the imagination as a “weapon” for “survival.” Further research is necessary to determine the use to which post-Civil Rights-era western writers are putting the imagination in their works, and to glean the direction in which they see the faculty heading. In addition to expanding this project’s timeline into the late-20th century, it might also be interesting to focus in on a narrower historical period. Clearly, I found the 1930s to be a particularly fascinating era in its illustration of a turning point – on ethnic, political, and economic levels – for the western imagination. While the scope of my dissertation did not permit me to delve too deeply into that era, I came across a number of potentially enlightening avenues of inquiry, including a burst of Mexican-American ethnographic and linguistic scholarship during the 1930s, much of which focused on preserving imaginative cultural structures such as folk and fairy tales.2 Alternatively, more research could be done to explore how a single 2 Examples include Jovita González’s “Folklore of the Texas-Mexican Vaquero” (1927), Juan Rael’s A Study of the Phonology and Morphology of New Mexican Spanish, Based on a Collection of 410 Folk-tales (1937), Cleofas Jaramillo’s Spanish Fairy Tales (1939), and Arturo Campa’s Spanish Folk-Poetry in New Mexico (1946). 276 genre delineates the western imagination. My study unintentionally tends toward the bildungsroman,3 for example, but I have not dedicated any sustained attention to how that genre might be particularly well suited to scenes of dreaming, or, more specifically, to a particular conception of how the imagination functions. It might be fruitful to explore how individual generic categories overlap with particular ways of representing the imagination. Another possible extension of this project might explore how gender maps on to various portrayals of the western imagination. As it now stands, I have included only one female writer in my study – Willa Cather – and have not looked closely at how her woman’s identity (or, in this case, her partially cloaked lesbian identity) may have influenced her portrayal of her female protagonist’s dreamscapes. Especially given the general cultural tendency to view women as more prone to magical thinking and men as more suited to scientific inquiry, a study of the correlation of gender and the western imagination would be intriguing. A final option for expanding this project would be to focus more intently on the social functions of the western imagination as represented outside of literature, in the realms of painting or film, for instance. Although my current project does touch on extra-literary mediums – landscape painting in Chapter 1, postcard photography in Chapter 3, the 1930s film industry in Chapter 4 – it would be worthwhile to investigate how different artistic modes of representation line up against each other in their conceptions and depictions of the imagination. 3 Which works qualify as members of this genre depends on how we define it. Using Oxford’s definition, “a kind of novel that follows the development of the hero or heroine from childhood or adolescence into adulthood, through a troubled quest for identity,” perhaps only Américo Paredes’ George Washington Gómez and N. Scott Momaday’s House Made of Dawn could be described as true bildungsromans. If we take the genre to mean, more loosely, a “novel of education,” we could argue that all the texts featured in this dissertation are bildungsromans, in the sense that their characters learn and progress over the course of the narrative. 277 Ultimately, I hope that my work here has continued to stretch the conception of the western imagination beyond its stereotype as mythical, escapist, and unworthy of attention due to its sentimental or romantic associations. This dissertation has demonstrated, instead, that the imagination functions as a pragmatic tool for viewing the landscape and its components, understanding its history as well as its future potential, and preparing to make moves through it accordingly. I have shown a wide range of authors across the 20th century American West to be dedicated to representing through their characters’ geographical dreams what Friedrich Nietzsche has called an “artist’s sense of truth,” which privileges “splendid and profound interpretations of life,” rather than “sober, simple methods and results.” In portraying the imagination at work, in all its “fantastic, mystical, uncertain, extreme” varieties, the writers I study reject objective, scientific “truth” in favor of a more human version of reality – the reality recorded in dreams. In doing so, these authors essentially “fight for the higher dignity and significance of man.” The issue is oddly meta. In imagining how their characters imagine their worlds, these western authors ultimately contribute to what Azar Nafisi terms the “Republic of Imagination.” The ability to imagine is crucial to maintaining, guarding, critiquing, and strengthening America, in all its geographical regions. As authors from Mark Twain to N. Scott Momaday demonstrate, the American West throughout the 20th century has been, and will continue to be, an important pioneer of that social imagination project. 278 REFERENCES CITED Abrams, Robert E. Landscape and Ideology in American Renaissance Literature: Topographies of Skepticism. Cambridge University Press, 2004. Print. Allmendinger, Blake. Ten Most Wanted: The New Western Literature. New York: Routledge, 1998. Print. Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatus (Notes Toward an Investigation).” Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2001. 85–126. Web. 4 July 2016. “Amen, Sinner.” TIME 3 Aug. 1931. 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work_oin73hnmbfbhfo5fdsfmdensgq	----	THE PEOPLE'S VOICE: THE ROLE OF AUDIENCE IN THE POPULAR POEMS OF LONGFELLOW AND TENNYSON By AVRIL DIANE TORRENCE B.A., Simon F r a s e r U n i v e r s i t y , 1981 M. A., The U n i v e r s i t y o f T o r o n t o , 1983 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY i n THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (The Department o f E n g l i s h ) We a c c e p t t h i s t h e s i s as c o n f o r m i n g t o t h e r e q u i r e d s t a n d a r d THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA October 1991 ©Avril Diane T o r r e n c e , 1991 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. Department of & Ll S H The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date Z>£. JO DE-6 (2/88) ABSTRACT A t t h e h e i g h t o f t h e i r p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e m i d - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , a v a s t t r a n s a t l a n t i c r e a d e r s h i p c o n f e r r e d on L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson t h e t i t l e "The P e o p l e ' s P o e t . " T h i s e x a m i n a t i o n o f A n g l o - A m e r i c a n V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y a t t e m p t s t o a c c o u n t f o r t h a t phenomenon. A p o e t i c work i s f i r s t d e f i n e d as an a e s t h e t i c e x p e r i e n c e t h a t o c c u r s w i t h i n a t r i a n g u l a r m a t r i x o f t e x t , a u t h o r , and r e a d e r . As r e c e p t i o n t h e o r i s t Hans R o b e r t J a u s s c o n t e n d s , b o t h t h e c r e a t o r ' s and t h e r e c e p t o r ' s a e s t h e t i c e x p e r i e n c e s a r e f i l t e r e d t h r o u g h a h i s t o r i c a l l y d e t e r m i n e d " h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s " t h a t g o v e r n s p o p u l a r a p p e a l . A h i s t o r i c a l a c c o u n t o f t h e p u b l i c a t i o n and p r o m o t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y p r o v i d e s e m p i r i c a l e v i d e n c e f o r how and why t h e i r p o e t i c t e x t s a p p e a l e d t o a w i d e s p r e a d r e a d e r s h i p . T h i s a c c o u n t i s f o l l o w e d by an a n a l y s i s o f t h e c l a s s and gender o f V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s o f p o e t r y t h a t c o n s i d e r s t h e r o l e o f "consumers" i n t h e p r o d u c t i o n o f b o t h p o e t r y and p o e t i c p e r s o n a e as c o m m o d i t i e s f o r p u b l i c c o n s u m p t i o n . The development o f each p o e t ' s v o i c e i s t h e n examined i n a c o n t e x t o f a gendered " s e p a r a t e - s p h e r e " i d e o l o g y t o e x p l a i n how b o t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's a d o p t i o n o f " f e m i n i n e " cadences i n t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e v o i c e s i n f l u e n c e d t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e c e p t i o n o f t h e i r work. The f i n a l two c h a p t e r s a n a l y z e s e l e c t t e x t s — l y r i c and n a r r a t i v e — t o d e t e r m i n e r e a s o n s f o r t h e i r p o p u l a r a p p e a l i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e l e v e l o f a c t i v e r e a d e r engagement i n t h e p o e t i c e x p e r i e n c e . Through a f f e c t i v e l y r i c i s m , as i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm o f L i f e " and Tennyson's "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k , " t h e s e p o e t s demanded t h a t t h e i r r e a d e r s l i s t e n ; t h r o u g h s e n t i m e n t t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y , as i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch Arden. t h e s e p o e t s demanded f u r t h e r t h a t t h e y f e e l . W h i l e b o t h V i c t o r i a n p o e t s were l a t e r d e c a n o n i z e d by t h e i r modern s u c c e s s o r s , contemporary c r i t i c s , m a i n l y academic, have r e s t o r e d Tennyson t o t h e l i t e r a r y canon w h i l e r e l e g a t i n g L o n g f e l l o w t o a s e c o n d - r a t e s c h o o l r o o m s t a t u s . The c o n c l u s i o n s p e c u l a t e s on t h e p o s s i b l e r e a s o n s u n d e r l y i n g t h e d i s p a r a t e r e p u t a t i o n s a s s i g n e d t o t h e two p o e t s , b o t h o f whom, d u r i n g t h e i r l i f e t i m e s , s h a r e d e q u a l l y t h e fame and f o r t u n e t h a t a t t e n d e d t h e i r r o l e as "The P e o p l e ' s V o i c e . " i v CONTENTS A b s t r a c t i i Acknowledgements v I n t r o d u c t i o n 1 One: " F o o t p r i n t s on t h e Sands o f Time": The Emergence o f P o p u l a r P o e t r y , i n t h e V i c t o r i a n P e r i o d .... 42 1. P o e t r y and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e 42 2. P o e t s and T h e i r B i b l i o g r a p h i e s : L o n g f e l l o w 49 3. P o e t s and T h e i r B i b l i o g r a p h i e s : Tennyson ... 78 4. Caveat L e c t o r : The Reader and t h e P o e t 135 Two: The B i r t h and A d o l e s c e n c e o f t h e P o e t i c V o i c e : L o n g f e l l o w ' s "New" England i n A m e r i c a 184 Three: Tennyson and t h e B i r t h o f a Legend 247 F o u r : Tennyson and t h e A d o l e s c e n c e o f a V o i c e 3 07 F i v e : The N i n e t e e n t h - C e n t u r y P o p u l a r L y r i c 405 S i x : The N i n e t e e n t h - C e n t u r y P o p u l a r N a r r a t i v e Poem . 468 C o n c l u s i o n 54 3 Works C i t e d 563 A p p e n d i c e s 589 V ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS L i v i n g n e a r l y a t h o u s a n d m i l e s from Vancouver and t e a c h i n g c o l l e g e f u l l t i m e , I have had t o r e l y on many p e o p l e i n many d i f f e r e n t ways o v e r t h e c o u r s e o f w r i t i n g t h i s d i s s e r t a t i o n . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , n o t a l l o f them can be acknowledged by name. However, I do w i s h t o t h a n k t h o s e who a s s i s t e d i n t h e f i n a l s t a g e s . I am g r a t e f u l t o each member o f my f a m i l y and each f r i e n d and c o l l e a g u e who has encouraged me t o c o n t i n u e my s c h o l a r l y p u r s u i t s . I n p a r t i c u l a r , E m i l y gave me e m o t i o n a l s u p p o r t and a much-needed second home i n Vancouver. When I t u r n e d my home i n C a l g a r y i n t o a w o r k p l a c e , my f r i e n d , c o l l e a g u e , and roommate, J a n e , worked a s s i d u o u s l y t o o f f e r v a l u a b l e c r i t i c i s m and a d v i c e b u t , more i m p o r t a n t l y , c a r e and c o m f o r t . My h e a r t ' s companion, N e i l , made even t h e most m e n i a l o f c o m p u t e r - r e l a t e d t a s k s w o r t h d o i n g . I a l s o want t o t h a n k each member o f my committee, Dr Fredeman, Dr Q u a r t e r m a i n , and Dr Johnson who o f f e r e d u n i q u e encouragements and a s s i s t a n c e . I am e s p e c i a l l y i n d e b t e d to. Dr Fredeman f o r b e i n g a t h o r o u g h r e a d e r , a g r a c i o u s s c h o l a r , and a most generous h o s t . T h i s work i s d e d i c a t e d t o t h e memory o f my mother. 1 INTRODUCTION C r i t i c s "cannot s t o p w i t h s t u d y i n g p o e t r y , [ t h e y ] must a l s o s t u d y p o e t i c s . . . . Theory, w h i c h i s e x p e c t a t i o n , a l w a y s d e t e r m i n e s c r i t i c i s m , and n e v e r more t h a n when i t i s u n c o n s c i o u s . The r e p u t e d c o n d i t i o n o f n o - t h e o r y i n t h e c r i t i c ' s mind i s i l l u s o r y , and a dangerous t h i n g i n t h i s o c c u p a t i o n , w h i c h demands t h e utmost g e n e r a l i n t e l l i g e n c e , i n c l u d i n g p e r f e c t s e l f - c o n s c i o u s n e s s . " — John Crowe Ransom (The W o r l d ' s Body 173-4) The t h e o r e t i c a l a s s u m p t i o n s o f t h i s s t u d y , however i m p e r f e c t l y s e l f - c o n s c i o u s i n Ransom's t e r m s , a r e grounded i n t h e c o n v i c t i o n t h a t a l i t e r a r y work i s an a c t i v i t y , a " d o i n g " i n v o l v i n g a t r i a n g u l a r m a t r i x c o n s i s t i n g o f t h e t e x t , t h e a u t h o r , and t h e r e a d e r r a t h e r t h a n an autonomous " b e i n g " u n t o i t s e l f , d i v o r c e d from a u t h o r i a l i n t e n t i o n o r t h e r e c e p t i o n o f i t s r e a d e r s . Any s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r v e r s e must t a k e i n t o a c c o u n t b o t h t h e p r o d u c t i o n and r e c e p t i o n o f t h e i r p o e t r y i f t h e i r " p o p u l a r i t y " i s t o be p r o p e r l y u n d e r s t o o d . W h i l e a poem may c r e a t e a t y p e o f meaning s o l e l y t h r o u g h r e f e r e n c e t o i t s e l f — i t s imagery, s t r u c t u r e , rhyme, and rhythm — a s an autonomous p r e s e n t a t i o n as "poem" on a page, s i g n i f i c a n c e o f t h i s k i n d i s s u e s , a t b e s t , from o n l y t h e f i r s t l e g , t h e t e x t , o f t h e t r i a n g u l a r m a t r i x . More i m p o r t a n t l y , s e l f - r e f e r e n t i a l t e x t u a l r e a d i n g s assume a u n i v e r s a l i t y o f i n t e r p r e t a t i o n based on t h e p r e s u m p t i o n t h a t t h e words i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s "A P s a l m o f L i f e " mean t o d a y e x a c t l y what t h e y d i d i n 1839, and f o r any c l a s s , gender, o r n a t i o n a l i t y o f 2 r e a d e r s . The a r r o g a n c e o f such an a s s u m p t i o n need n o t be a d d r e s s e d h e r e ; what s h o u l d be mentioned i s t h e way i n w h i c h a poem's presumed autonomy and u n i v e r s a l i t y o f r e c e p t i o n have l e d t o t h e f o r m a t i o n o f l i t e r a r y canons w h i c h have, i n many c a s e s , s e r i o u s l y d i s t o r t e d t h e l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i c a l r e c o r d . By r e j e c t i n g f o r s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n p o e t r y w h i c h seems not t o c o n f o r m t o p r e s c r i b e d n o t i o n s o f autonomous s i g n i f i c a n c e , c r i t i c s o f t e n e s t a b l i s h l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i e s a t odds w i t h t h e l i v e d s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l r e a l i t i e s o f t h e p e r i o d s t h e s e h i s t o r i e s a r e d e s i g n e d t o " r e f l e c t . " The p r o b l e m l i e s n o t so much w i t h t h e c a n o n i z e d t e x t s t h e m s e l v e s , n o r even i n t h e methods u s e d t o s t u d y them, b u t r a t h e r i n t h e subsequent c l a i m t h a t c a n o n i z e d t e x t s w i t h autonomous meaning r e p r e s e n t l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y . S i m i l a r l y , W.K. Wimsatt's h y p o s t a t i z i n g o f t h e poem as v e r b a l i c o n , i n h i s work o f t h e same name, has l e d t o a h a s t y d i s r e g a r d f o r a u t h o r i a l i n t e n t i o n as a r e c o g n i z a b l e f e a t u r e i n t h e l i t e r a r y work. S i n c e p r o f e s s i o n a l , s o c i a l , and p o l i t i c a l f o r c e s a f f e c t an a u t h o r ' s c h o i c e s o f m a t e r i a l and t e c h n i q u e and n e c e s s a r i l y d e t e r m i n e , t o some e x t e n t , t h e l i t e r a r y r e s u l t , r e a d i n g s t h a t i g n o r e t h e a u t h o r r e i n f o r c e t h e i d e a o f l i t e r a t u r e as a h i s t o r i c a l . I n t h e c a s e o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson, b o t h t h e " a f f e c t i v e f a l l a c y " and t h e " i n t e n t i o n a l f a l l a c y " have had d e l e t e r i o u s consequences f o r a f u l l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e i r most p o p u l a r poems, w h i c h a r e r e g a r d e d 3 as l i t t l e more t h a n o u t r i g h t p a n d e r i n g s t o t h e supposedly- p u e r i l e l i t e r a r y t a s t e s o f t h e V i c t o r i a n m i d d l e c l a s s e s . The t y p e o f c r i t i c i s m t h a t c o n t i n u e s t o d i s t o r t s t u d e n t s ' u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f Tennyson and e s p e c i a l l y o f L o n g f e l l o w as n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t s stems l a r g e l y from I.A. R i c h a r d s ' s P r a c t i c a l C r i t i c i s m . 1 W h i l e l i t e r a r y judgment i t s e l f i s not a l w a y s and a b s o l u t e l y an i n v a l i d e n t e r p r i s e , i m p o s i n g t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y a e s t h e t i c s on n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y so as t o v a l i d a t e i t s i n c l u s i o n o r e x c l u s i o n from s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n s e v e r e l y l i m i t s s t u d e n t s ' a b i l i t i e s t o u n d e r s t a n d l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y as e v o l v i n g o u t o f and a l o n g w i t h s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l f o r c e s . Moreover, i n h i s a t t e m p t t o e s t a b l i s h a p s e u d o - s c i e n t i f i c r a t i o n a l e f o r t h e e x p e r i e n c e o f l i t e r a t u r e , R i c h a r d s p l a c e s undue emphasis on t h e t e x t as an i s o l a t e d t e c h n i c a l a r t i f a c t , and t o o r e a d i l y d i s r e g a r d s t h e v a r i e t y o f r e a d e r s ' r e s p o n s e s o p e r a t i n g i n t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f meaning. F o r R i c h a r d s , p o e t r y must n o t be v i o l a t e d by i d i o s y n c r a t i c p e r s o n a l " i n t r u s i o n s " ; r e s p o n s e s "must be g e n u i n e and r e l e v a n t , and must r e s p e c t t h e l i b e r t y and autonomy o f t h e poem" ( 2 7 7 ) . A g a i n , t h i s emphasis on p o e t i c autonomy does l i t t l e t o e x p l a i n a p o p u l a r i t y so p r o f o u n d t h a t r e a d e r s were w i l l i n g t o exchange L o n g f e l l o w ' s o r Tennyson's 1 R i c h a r d s ' s e x p e r i m e n t w i t h s t u d e n t r e s p o n s e s t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s " I n t h e C h u r c h y a r d a t Cambridge" p r o d u c e d a 92% r e j e c t i o n v o t e ; L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem was by f a r t h e most d i s l i k e d o f t h e works t h e y c r i t i c i z e d ( 1 6 3 ) . 4 work f o r t h e B i b l e w i t h no l o s s o f h e r m e n e u t i c v a l u e . S e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f p o p u l a r poems must, o f n e c e s s i t y , e n t a i l e x p l i c a t i o n o f t h e m a n i f o l d f e a t u r e s i n f l u e n c i n g t h e c o n t e x t s o u t o f w h i c h and i n t o w h i c h l i t e r a r y t e x t s move and o p e r a t e . A f u r t h e r o b j e c t i o n t o R i c h a r d s ' s P r a c t i c a l C r i t i c i s m i s i t s u n s t a t e d a s s u m p t i o n t h a t o n l y c r i t i c i s m o f t h e k i n d he d e m o n s t r a t e s i s " p r a c t i c a l , " t h a t i s , i n t h e sense o f t h e term a p p a r e n t l y n o t i n t e n d e d by R i c h a r d s b u t n e v e r t h e l e s s i m p l i c i t , " u s e f u l o r a v a i l a b l e i n p r a c t i c e " t o r e a d e r s (OED). The i m p l i c a t i o n i s t h a t r e a d i n g s w h i c h s t r a y from t h e t e x t t o t r y t o a c c o u n t h i s t o r i c a l l y f o r r e a d e r s and a u t h o r s a r e " i m p r a c t i c a l " and, more s e r i o u s l y , n o t " u s e f u l " t o a c r i t i c a l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f l i t e r a t u r e . A l t h o u g h R i c h a r d s does n o t o v e r t l y e x p r e s s t h e above meaning i n h i s use o f t h e t e r m , subsequent a p p l i c a t i o n s o f " p r a c t i c a l c r i t i c i s m " have r e n d e r e d i t i n e v i t a b l e . As a p p l i e d by R i c h a r d s ' s f o l l o w e r s , h i s t o r i c a l d i s c u s s i o n s o f p r o f e s s i o n a l , s o c i a l , and p o l i t i c a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s a f f e c t i n g a poem's p r o d u c t i o n by i t s a u t h o r o r o f t h e i m p a c t v a r i o u s a u d i e n c e s have had upon i t s o r i g i n a l i n c e p t i o n and subsequent r e c e p t i o n o v e r t i m e a r e i r r e l e v a n t . A d m i t t e d l y , t h e a v a i l a b i l i t y o f f a c t u a l e v i d e n c e t o s u p p o r t r e a d i n g s w h i c h t r y t o a c c o u n t e q u a l l y f o r i n c e p t i o n and r e c e p t i o n as c o - p r o d u c e r s o f t h e l i t e r a r y work w i l l o f t e n d i c t a t e t h e " p r a c t i c a l i t y " o f such e n t e r p r i s e s . Moreover, c r i t i c s ' own b i a s e s w i l l , t o some d e g r e e , d e t e r m i n e t h e f a c t u a l m a t e r i a l s deemed r e l e v a n t and w i l l , t o a g r e a t e r 5 d e g r e e , a f f e c t t h e u s e s t o w h i c h t h a t i n f o r m a t i o n i s p u t . N e v e r t h e l e s s , t h e s e s h o r t c o m i n g s s h o u l d n o t d i s s u a d e c r i t i c s from a t t e m p t i n g t o p r e s e n t t h e f u l l e s t p o s s i b l e r e a d i n g s a v a i l a b l e t o them. On t h e c o n t r a r y , i f c r i t i c s t h o u g h t o f " p r a c t i c a l " c r i t i c i s m i n a d i f f e r e n t sense as r e a d i n g s w h i c h a r e w h o l l y p r a c t i c a l o r a v a i l a b l e , t h e n a s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l r e a d i n g o f t h e p r o d u c t i o n and t h e r e c e p t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y would be e n t i r e l y c o n s i s t e n t w i t h t h e u t i l i t a r i a n n a t u r e o f p r a c t i c a l c r i t i c i s m as i t i s more g e n e r a l l y u n d e r s t o o d . A t t h e same t i m e , t h e t h e o r e t i c a l f o u n d a t i o n f o r t h i s s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y i s n o t e x a c t l y s t a b l e o r f i x e d because i t i s a s i t e o f c o n f l u e n c e and c o n f l i c t i n v o l v i n g d i v e r g e n t c u l t u r a l t h e o r i e s more t h a n i t i s formed by one s p e c i f i c l i t e r a r y t h e o r y p e r s e . These i n c l u d e p h e n o m e n o l o g i c a l approaches t o l i t e r a t u r e , v a r i o u s forms o f r e c e p t i o n t h e o r y , and d i v e r s e s t r a i n s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e t h e o r y from b o t h t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and B r i t a i n . T o g e t h e r , t h e s e t h e o r i e s a l o n e m i g h t have c o n s t i t u t e d a s u f f i c i e n t b a s i s f o r s p e c u l a t i o n about p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y i n g e n e r a l were i t n o t t h a t , f o r t h e most p a r t , t h e o r i s t s i n each o f t h e s e t h r e e a r e a s t e n d t o d i s r e g a r d t h e g e n d e r - s p e c i f i c r o l e o f women w i t h i n t h e t r i a n g u l a r m a t r i x o f t h e t e x t , t h e a u t h o r , and i t s r e a d e r s . To s t u d y t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson, i g n o r i n g t h e i n h e r e n t d i f f e r e n c e s between women and men, b o t h as members o f a h i s t o r i c a l l y s i t u a t e d r e a d i n g a u d i e n c e , and as 6 p a r t i c i p a n t s i n p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n h i b i t s any a c c u r a t e u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f how p o e t r y t h a t i s " c r i t i c a l l y " d i s d a i n e d i n t h i s c e n t u r y was n o n e t h e l e s s f u n d a m e n t a l t o n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c u l t u r a l f u l f i l m e n t . F o r t h i s r e a s o n , f e m i n i s t t h e o r i e s t h a t s i t u a t e l i t e r a t u r e w i t h i n t h e s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l m i l i e u i n f o r m i n g A n g l o - A m e r i c a n , n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y women's e x p e r i e n c e s as w r i t e r s and r e a d e r s a r e i n c l u d e d i n t h i s s t u d y t o a v o i d what m i g h t o t h e r w i s e have p r o d u c e d t o o narrow a t h e o r e t i c a l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d . A l t h o u g h s e e m i n g l y d i s p a r a t e , a l l o f t h e s e t h e o r i e s — i n c l u d i n g t h o s e o f f e m i n i s t s — d o c o n v e r g e a t p o i n t s where t h e a c t i v i t y o f r e c e p t o r s becomes t h e f o c u s o f d i s c o u r s e s i n v o l v i n g t h e c r e a t i o n o f meaning and, f o r p o p u l a r c u l t u r a l t h e o r i s t s , i n v o l v i n g t h e degree t o w h i c h t h e p o p u l a c e p a r t i c i p a t e s i n , r a t h e r t h a n m e r e l y a c c e p t s , t h e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f i t s c u l t u r a l p r o d u c t s by an e l i t e c u l t u r e . Phenomenology p l a y s a l e s s e r r o l e t h a n o t h e r t h e o r i e s i n t h i s c a s e because o f i t s t e n d e n c y t o d e h i s t o r i c i z e t h e r e a d i n g s u b j e c t and p r i v i l e g e t h e t e x t as o b j e c t i v e phenomenon. Works s u c h as George P o u l e t ' s "Phenomenology o f R e a d i n g " and Wolfgang I s e r ' s "The R e a d i n g P r o c e s s : A P h e n o m e n o l o g i c a l A p p r o a c h , " o r h i s f u l l - l e n g t h s t u d y , The A c t o r R e a d i n g : a Theory o f A e s t h e t i c Response, w h i l e t h e y o b v i o u s l y c o n c e r n r e a d e r s , c o n c e n t r a t e on p r o c e s s e s o f r e a d i n g w h i c h r e q u i r e t h e s u s p e n s i o n o f i n d i v i d u a l s u b j e c t i v i t y and s u b m i s s i o n t o t h e c o n v o l u t i o n s o f t h e t e x t . Hence any p o t e n t i a l " r o l e " f o r t h e 7 a u d i e n c e t o p l a y i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f meaning i s m i n i m i z e d . J a n i c e Radway's "Phenomenology, L i n g u i s t i c s , and P o p u l a r L i t e r a t u r e , " on t h e o t h e r hand, does make some c o n c e s s i o n s t o t h e phenomenon o f d i f f e r e n t l e v e l s o f r e a d i n g a c t i v i t y i n an a t t e m p t t o e x p l a i n why c e r t a i n t e x t s a r e p o p u l a r and o t h e r s a r e n o t . But Radway a l s o g r a n t s o b j e c t i v e a u t h o r i t y t o t e x t s , t o what M e r l e a u - P o n t y i n t h e Phenomenology o f P e r c e p t i o n d e f i n e s as two s e p a r a t e u s e s o f l a n g u a g e : c r e a t i v e and e m p i r i c a l (Radway 3 0 ) . She s p e c u l a t e s t h a t e l i t e ( c r e a t i v e ) l i t e r a t u r e "deforms" r e a d e r e x p e c t a t i o n w h i l e p o p u l a r ( e m p i r i c a l ) l i t e r a t u r e , because i t i s c o n v e n t i o n a l , can be p e n e t r a t e d and i s t h e r e f o r e t r a n s p a r e n t o r r e f e r e n t i a l . Such a d i c h o t o m y n o t o n l y f a i l s t o a c c o u n t f o r t e x t s t h a t , s e e m i n g l y d e f o r m a t i v e , a c h i e v e enormous p o p u l a r i t y ( o r v i c e v e r s a ) , b u t a l s o d i s r e g a r d s r e a d e r s whose l e v e l s o f l i t e r a r y e x p e c t a t i o n d i f f e r a c c o r d i n g t o h i s t o r i c a l d e t e r m i n a t i o n s o f c l a s s , gender, and l i t e r a r y awareness, b u t who n o n e t h e l e s s a s s i s t o r h i n d e r t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f a t e x t becoming p o p u l a r . Thus, when Radway l a t e r a p p l i e s h e r t h e o r y o f c r e a t i v e v e r s u s e m p i r i c a l t e x t s i n one o f t h e o n l y t h e o r e t i c a l a r t i c l e s on n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r p o e t r y , e n t i t l e d " V e r s e 2 M e r l e a u - P o n t y ' s c o n c e p t o f " d e f o r m i n g " language i n o r d e r t o a c h i e v e c r e a t i v i t y p a r a l l e l s t h e R u s s i a n f o r m a l i s t V i c t o r S h k l o v s k y ' s n o t i o n o f " d e f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n " i n " A r t as T e c h n i q u e . " That c r e a t i v i t y i n h e r e s i n d i s r u p t e d r a t h e r t h a n r e w a r d e d e x p e c t a t i o n i s f a m i l i a r as w e l l t o New C r i t i c s who a s c r i b e v a l u e t o n e g a t i v e a e s t h e t i c s , t h a t i s l i t e r a t u r e a l i e n t o t h e s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l communities from w h i c h i t d e r i v e s . 8 and P o p u l a r P o e t r y , " she c o n f l a t e s p o e t s as d i s t i n c t as L y d i a S i g o u r n e y and W i l l i a m C u l l e n B r y a n t as s u p p l i e r s o f r e a d e r s ' demands, w i t h l i t t l e o r no c o n s i d e r a t i o n f o r t h e u n i q u e r o l e s t h a t each p o e t p l a y e d i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f v a r i o u s r e a d e r e x p e c t a t i o n s . The p o s s i b i l i t y t h a t , s t r u c t u r a l l y , i d e a t i o n a l l y , o r t e c h n i c a l l y , t h e s e p o s t - r e v o l u t i o n a r y p o e t s were, a l b e i t i n d i f f e r e n t ways, " c r e a t i v e l y " i n t r o d u c i n g p o e t i c forms and c o n c e p t s new t o t h e i r f l e d g l i n g A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e s does n o t u s u a l l y e n t e r i n t o d i s c u s s i o n s , even o f p o p u l a r f o r m s , t h a t p r i v i l e g e t h e t e x t o v e r t h e i n t e r a c t i v e p r o c e s s o f t e x t and r e a d e r . R e c e p t i o n t h e o r y , t o some e x t e n t , c o u n t e r s t h e d i c h o t o m y t h a t p h e n o m e n o l o g i s t s such as Radway pose t h r o u g h a h i s t o r i c a l r e v a l u a t i o n o f r e a d e r s . I n t h i s a r e a , t h e t h e o r e t i c a l work o f Hans R o b e r t J a u s s has been most i n f l u e n t i a l . A v a i l a b l e t o Wolfgang I s e r , b e s i d e s b e i n g a p h e n o m e n o l o g i s t , i s a l s o f e l t t o be one o f N o r t h A m e r i c a ' s l e a d i n g r e c e p t i o n t h e o r i s t s . As s t a t e d p r e v i o u s l y , a t h o r o u g h e x p l i c a t i o n o f I s e r ' s t h e o r y o f r e a d i n g i s found i n h i s The A c t o f R e a d i n g : A Theory o f A e s t h e t i c Response. However, t h e r e a r e a t l e a s t two r e a s o n s why, when a p p l i e d t o I s e r , " r e c e p t i o n t h e o r i s t " seems t o be a misnomer: h i s p a r a d i g m o f t h e " i m p l i e d r e a d e r " i n t h e t e x t e f f e c t i v e l y removes t h e r e a d e r from t h e h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t o f h e r o r h i s l i t e r a r y e x p e r i e n c e ; and h i s f o c u s on a n e g a t i v e a e s t h e t i c s , t h e " n e g a t i o n " o f e l e m e n t s w h i c h t h e r e a d e r must t h e n s e a r c h f o r t o s u p p l y meaning, e s s e n t i a l l y e l i m i n a t e s t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f r e a d e r s a t i s f a c t i o n h a v i n g a p o s i t i v e v a l u e . Hence, what I s e r would c a l l " l i g h t " r e a d i n g — t h e p o p u l a r — i s c a s t o f f as p a s s i v e c o n s u m p t i o n , o r worse, u n e n j o y a b l e . R e c e p t i o n , f o r I s e r , i s a v e r y l i m i t e d , e l i t i s t phenomenon. R o b e r t H o l u b has l e v e l l e d s i m i l a r c r i t i c i s m s a g a i n s t I s e r i n h i s R e c e p t i o n Theory: A C r i t i c a l I n t r o d u c t i o n ( 9 4 - 9 ) . A d d i t i o n a l l y , one o f t h e problems w i t h I s e r ' s work f o r a s t u d y s u c h as t h i s o f p o p u l a r p o e t r y i s t h a t he d e a l s a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y w i t h f i c t i o n , d r a w i n g c o n c l u s i o n s about r e a d e r s based on l e v e l s o f p a r t i c i p a t i o n w i t h n a r r a t i v e s . H i s work 9 N o r t h A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s i n 1974 i n a s e m i n a l e s s a y , " L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y as a C h a l l e n g e t o L i t e r a r y Theory," J a u s s ' s work t a k e s up t h e " u n r e s o l v e d d i s p u t e between t h e M a r x i s t and f o r m a l i s t s c h o o l s " ( 1 1 ) ; i t p o s i t s r e a d e r a c t i v i t y o v e r t i m e , a 4 h i s t o r i c a l v i e w o f a work's " h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s " ( 1 6 ) , as a p o t e n t i a l b r i d g e between t h e s e o p p o s i n g s c h o o l s . J a u s s v i e w s r e a d e r s n o t as s o l i t a r y , p a s s i v e r e c e p t o r s o f t e x t s , but r a t h e r as p a r t i c i p a n t s i n an e v e r - c h a n g i n g , s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l l y and a e s t h e t i c a l l y d e t e r m i n e d a u d i e n c e t h a t , t h r o u g h i s , t h e r e f o r e , l e s s u s e f u l t h a n t h a t o f J a u s s , who r a n g e s w i d e l y among v a r i o u s g e n r e s and c u l t u r a l forms i n t h e o r i z i n g about s i t e s o f a e s t h e t i c p l e a s u r e . 4 A key p h r a s e i n J a u s s ' s e a r l y work, " h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s " i s n e v e r a c t u a l l y d e f i n e d . I t d e r i v e s from a v a r i e t y o f s o u r c e s f a m i l i a r t o German p h i l o s o p h i c a l s c h o o l s , i n p a r t i c u l a r Hans Gadamer ( h i m s e l f i n f l u e n c e d p r i m a r i l y by H e i d e g g e r ) , J a u s s ' s t e a c h e r and e a r l y mentor. Gadamer had d e f i n e d " h o r i z o n " as " t h e range o f v i s i o n t h a t i n c l u d e s e v e r y t h i n g t h a t can be seen from a p a r t i c u l a r v a n t a g e p o i n t . " F o r J a u s s , " h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s " "would appear t o r e f e r t o an i n t e r s u b j e c t i v e system o r s t r u c t u r e o f e x p e c t a t i o n s , a 'system o f r e f e r e n c e s ' o r a m i n d - s e t t h a t a h y p o t h e t i c a l i n d i v i d u a l m i g h t b r i n g t o any t e x t " (Holub 5 9 ) . A t t h e same t i m e , however, s u c h an h o r i z o n i s s u p p o s e d l y c a p a b l e o f b e i n g o b j e c t i v e l y d e t e r m i n e d on s e v e r a l f r o n t s . The l i t e r a r y h o r i z o n i s s e l f - d e f i n e d ' by t h e t e x t ' s own a d a p t a t i o n t o c o n v e n t i o n s o f g e n r e , s t y l e and form; t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y h o r i z o n i s d e t e r m i n e d by i m p l i c i t r e l a t i o n s h i p s between t h e t e x t and f a m i l i a r works i n t h e l i t e r a r y - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t ; and t h e a u d i e n c e ' s i d e o l o g i c a l h o r i z o n i s measured i n t h e d i s t a n c e between t h e p o e t i c and p r a c t i c a l f u n c t i o n o f t h e language as i t i s made a v a i l a b l e t o t h e r e a d e r i n t h e r e a d i n g p r o c e s s ( J a u s s " L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y " 1 5 ) . The o r i g i n a l t e x t p a r t i c i p a t e s i n i t s f u t u r e s i g n i f i c a n c e by l a t e r becoming a p r i m a r y f e a t u r e i n t h e i n i t i a l l i t e r a r y h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s f u t u r e a u d i e n c e s employ when t h e y d e t e r m i n e t h e meaning o f t h e t e x t w i t h i n t h e i r own p r e s e n t h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s . 10 i n t e r a c t i o n w i t h l i t e r a r y t e x t s , a s s i s t s i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f s u c c e s s i v e meanings: " H i s t o r y o f l i t e r a t u r e i s a p r o c e s s o f a e s t h e t i c r e c e p t i o n and p r o d u c t i o n w h i c h t a k e s p l a c e i n r e a l i z a t i o n o f l i t e r a r y t e x t s on t h e p a r t o f t h e r e c e p t i v e r e a d e r , t h e r e f l e c t i v e c r i t i c and t h e a u t h o r i n h i s c o n t i n u e d c r e a t i v i t y " (14) . I n a subsequent work, A e s t h e t i c E x p e r i e n c e and L i t e r a r y H e r m e n e u t i c s (1982) , J a u s s m a i n t a i n s t h a t " p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e cannot be d e f i n e d i n i t s a e s t h e t i c and s o c i a l f u n c t i o n u n l e s s i t i s seen w i t h r e f e r e n c e t o t h e h i g h e s t l e v e l s o f l i t e r a r y a r t " ( x x x i i ) . T h i s " s e e i n g " i s an a c t i v i t y b e l o n g i n g t o r e a d e r s ; hence, L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's most p o p u l a r poems need t o be r e a d w i t h i n a c o n t e x t t h a t e s t a b l i s h e s a u d i e n c e p a r t i c i p a t i o n as i n t e g r a l t o t h e s e poems' s i g n i f i c a n c e , w i t h i n t h e p o e t s ' l i v e s as w e l l as i n t h o s e o f l a t e - t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s . J a u s s ' s c h a l l e n g e t o l i t e r a r y t h e o r y t o i n t e g r a t e r e a d e r s w i t h i n a h i s t o r i c a l d e t e r m i n a t i o n o f l i t e r a r y s i g n i f i c a n c e i s p a r t i c u l a r l y r e l e v a n t t o r e c e n t c r i t i c a l d i s c u s s i o n s o f t h e l i m i t i n g e f f e c t s o f a e s t h e t i c i s m upon t h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y c a n o n . 5 R u s s e l l R e i s i n g , i n The U n u s a b l e P a s t : T h e o r i e s and 5 Of t h e many s c h o l a r s t r y i n g t o u n d e r s t a n d t h e h i s t o r y o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y canon f o r m a t i o n , two seem t o be most i n f l u e n t i a l : Sacvan B e r k o v i t c h and G e r a l d G r a f f . B e r k o v i t c h ' s r e c e n t e d i t o r s h i p o f two c o l l e c t i o n s o f e s s a y s has spawned much c r i t i c a l d e b a t e about t h e "American i d e o l o g y " t h a t i n f o r m s t h e canon: R e c o n s t r u c t i n g A m e r i c a n L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y (1986) and I d e o l o g y and C l a s s i c A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e (1986). H i s own e s s a y i n C r i t i c a l I n g u i r y , "The P r o b l e m o f I d e o l o g y i n A m e r i c a n L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y " (1986), p r o v i d e s an o v e r v i e w o f c o m p e t i n g i d e o l o g i e s o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , and o u t l i n e s t h e p l u r a l i s t a p p r o a c h t h a t , as e d i t o r , he has f o l l o w e d i n t h e 11 S t u d i e s o f A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e (1986), i s one among many l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n s who e x p r e s s c o n c e r n f o r t h e n a r r o w n e s s o f t h e A m e r i c a n canon and t h e ways i n w h i c h A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y t h e o r i s t s have d i s c o u r a g e d r e a d e r s from " v i e w i n g l i t e r a t u r e as a form o f s o c i a l knowledge o r b e h a v i o u r " d e s p i t e a r e c e n t t r e n d w h i c h s u g g e s t s t h a t s o c i a l and i d e o l o g i c a l c r i t i c i s m i s on t h e r i s e i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ( 6 ) . I f i t i s , t h e n t h i s r e c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's poems w i t h i n a s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t o f r e a d e r s and w r i t e r s m i g h t be seen, t o some e x t e n t , t o p a r t i c i p a t e i n t h i s t r e n d . Y e t R e i s i n g ' s c r i t i c i s m o f t h e a h i s t o r i c i s m o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y t h e o r y r a i s e s o t h e r d i f f i c u l t i e s because, even w h i l e R e i s i n g e n d o r s e s " p l u r a l i t y " as a s o l u t i o n t o a r e s t r i c t e d A m e r i c a n canon, he does so by u n d e r s c o r i n g once a g a i n t h e b i n a r y o p p o s i t i o n between " a e s t h e t i c " and " s o c i a l " t e x t s . That i s , he s t i l l s e e s A m e r i c a n t h e o r y a s , on t h e one hand, f o r t h c o m i n g f i v e volume New Cambridge H i s t o r y o f A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e . As B e r k o v i t c h c o n f e s s e s , when i t comes t o a n a l y z i n g n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y i t " w i l l be a major p r o b l e m o f t h e new l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y t o e x p l a i n t h e p a r a d o x o f an a n t a g o n i s t i c l i t e r a t u r e t h a t i s somehow a l s o c u l t u r a l l y r e p r e s e n t a t i v e " ( 6 4 2 ) . G r a f f has a l s o c o n s i d e r e d t h e "problem" o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y s t u d i e s , b u t from t h e p e r s p e c t i v e o f i t s i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z a t i o n as p a r t o f A m e r i c a n u n i v e r s i t y c u r r i c u l a . H i s c h a p t e r , "The P r o m i s e o f A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e S t u d i e s , " i n P r o f e s s i n g L i t e r a t u r e (1987) examines t h e c o n f l i c t between i n t e r d i s c i p l i n a r y a p p r o a c h e s t o A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e and t h e New C r i t i c i s m , w i t h t h e f i e l d e v e n t u a l l y won by t h e l a t t e r . He ends w i t h a r e q u e s t t r a n s m i t t e d v i a James K i n c a i d t h a t A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e i n s t r u c t o r s "'reexamine how [ t h e y ] s i t u a t e [ t h e m ] s e l v e s ' i n r e f e r e n c e t o l i t e r a r y t e x t s " t o a v o i d t h e a t t e n u a t i o n and t h e p a t t e r n e d i s o l a t i o n o f c o m p e t i n g t h e o r i e s t h a t G r a f f a r g u e s have weakened t h e s t u d y o f l i t e r a t u r e i n A m e r i c a n u n i v e r s i t i e s ( 2 6 2 ) . a e s t h e t i c p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h l a n g u a g e , s t y l e and form ( F o r m a l i s m — N e w C r i t i c i s m — S t r u c t u r a l i s m — D e c o n s t r u c t i o n ) p i t t e d a g a i n s t , on t h e o t h e r , c o n s i d e r a t i o n s o f t e x t s as e x p r e s s i o n s o f s o c i a l r e a l i t y , o f t e n m i m e t i c , f o r t h e p u r p o s e s o f i d e o l o g i c a l c r i t i q u e ( M a r x i s m ) . S u i t e d t o n e i t h e r t h e a e s t h e t i c n o r t h e s o c i a l v i e w , t h e s c h o o l r o o m p o e t s i n A m e r i c a — o f w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w was t h e most r e v e r e d , w i t h Tennyson as h i s B r i t i s h c o u n t e r p a r t — s u p p o s e d l y had t h e i r say i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y and, a c c o r d i n g t o R e i s i n g , have ample v o i c e now b u t o n l y as bases f o r o p p o s i t i o n : Many a u t h o r s and t e x t s have e i t h e r been e x p e l l e d o r n e v e r g r a n t e d a d m i s s i o n i n t o t h e A m e r i c a n canon, though t h e y have p l a y e d s i g n i f i c a n t r o l e s i n t h e development o f A m e r i c a n w r i t i n g . . . . [ T ] h i s i s e s p e c i a l l y t r u e o f t h e s o c i a l r e a l i s t t r a d i t i o n i n A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . The s o - c a l l e d s c h o o l - r o o m p o e t s , t o c i t e an example o f a d i f f e r e n t n a t u r e , a t l e a s t p r o v i d e d an enemy f o r a d v o c a t e s o f l i t e r a r y r e a l i s m , n a t u r a l i s m , and modernism and a r e t h u s p r e s e n t , i f o n l y as a n t i t h e s e s t o t h e t r a d i t i o n , i n subsequent w r i t e r s . (237) D i s m i s s i n g s c h o o l r o o m p o e t r y as c o n s i s t e n t l y " o t h e r " t o t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y t r a d i t i o n a l forms o f l i t e r a t u r e i n A m e r i c a , R e i s i n g u n w i t t i n g l y p a r t i c i p a t e s i n t h e v e r y p r a c t i c e o f e x c l u s i v i t y he a c c u s e s A m e r i c a n t h e o r i s t s o f d e f e n d i n g . S i n c e t h e g e n t e e l t r a d i t i o n — t o use S a n t a y a n a ' s t e r m — conforms n e i t h e r t o t h e s o c i a l - r e a l i s t t r a d i t i o n t h a t R e i s i n g wants i n s t i t u t e d i n t h e canon, n o r t o t h e e s t a b l i s h e d ' t r a d i t i o n i n w h i c h a e s t h e t i c i s m has come t o d o m i n a t e , g e n t e e l p o e t s can o n l y occupy t h e m a r g i n s o f l i t e r a r y r e s p e c t a b i l i t y . T h e i r t e x t s e x i s t i n A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y o n l y i n so f a r as s e r i o u s , r e s p e c t a b l e l i t e r a t u r e can be made t o seem e v e r y t h i n g t h a t t h e y a r e n o t . F o r a M a r x i s t c r i t i c l i k e G r a n v i l l e H i c k s , t h e " g r e a t t r a d i t i o n , " t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f p o l i t i c s , b u s i n e s s , and l a b o u r i n i t s p r o g r e s s i v e i m p u l s e , r e j e c t e d t h e g e n t e e l l i t t e r a t e u r s . w i t h t h e i r c o r r e c t s o n n e t s and t h e i r p o l i t e e s s a y s , . . . [who] p r e s e r v e d t h e i r r e a d e r s from s o r d i d c o n t a c t s w i t h t h e f a c t s o f t h e f i e r c e i n d u s t r i a l s t r u g g l e ; [and who] somehow made t h o s e f a c t s v a n i s h and t h e r e a l w o r l d y i e l d t o a w o r l d o f r e s p e c t a b l e , s e n t i m e n t a l , l i l y - w h i t e l a d i e s and gentlemen. (The G r e a t T r a d i t i o n (193 3) 30, q t d . i n R e i s i n g 1 5 ) . F o r s i g n i f i c a n t l y d i f f e r e n t r e a d e r s o f t h e 193 0s, t h o s e i n f l u e n c e d by t h e a e s t h e t i c p r i n c i p l e s o f New C r i t i c a l methods, h i s t o r i c a l and s o c i o l o g i c a l c o n s i d e r a t i o n s such as " t h e f a c t s o f t h e f i e r c e i n d u s t r i a l s t r u g g l e " were e x t r i n s i c t o l i t e r a r y s t u d y . N o n e t h e l e s s , t h e g e n t e e l t r a d i t i o n , and L o n g f e l l o w i n p a r t i c u l a r , were once a g a i n r e j e c t e d , o n l y t h i s t i m e t h r o u g h t h e r i g o u r s o f a t e c h n i c a l s c r u t i n y under w h i c h t h e p o e t r y s i m p l y c o u l d n o t h o l d up. Doubly d i s m i s s e d , g e n t e e l l i t e r a t u r e i s e i t h e r c o n f o r m i s t when i t s h o u l d be c o n f r o n t a t i o n a l i n i t s v i s i o n o f r e a l i t y , o r l a c k i n g i n t h e a m b i g u i t y and t e c h n i c a l p l a y t h a t g i v e s l i f e t o a l l g r e a t a r t . I n t h e b e g i n n i n g o f t h i s c e n t u r y , t h e p o e t r y o f L o n g f e l l o w and T e n n y s o n — s o p o p u l a r i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y — f e l l from t h e h e i g h t s o f c r i t i c a l r e s p e c t a b i l i t y t o t h e d e p t h s . Through an i n i t i a l h i s t o r i c a l a n a l y s i s o f t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f b o t h p o e t s , t h i s s t u d y t r i e s t o a c c o u n t c r i t i c a l l y and t h e o r e t i c a l l y f o r t h a t phenomenon. The c o n t e m p o r a r y s o c i o - economic c o n t e x t s i n f l u e n c i n g t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p r o d u c t i o n o f b o t h p o e t s ' t e x t s i s f a r e a s i e r t o e x p l a i n t h a n r e a s o n s f o r t h e p o p u l a r r e c e p t i o n o f t h e i r work o r , f o r t h a t m a t t e r , i t s subsequent r e j e c t i o n . I n t h i s l a t t e r i n s t a n c e , v a r i o u s t h e o r i e s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r c u l t u r e , from t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and B r i t a i n , have c o n t r i b u t e d t o t h e p r o c e s s o f d e f i n i n g what m i g h t be c a l l e d , f o r want o f a b e t t e r t e r m , " V i c t o r i a n p o p u l a r p o e t r y . " S i m p l y d e f i n i n g " t h e p o p u l a r " o c c u p i e s t h e e n e r g i e s o f a s u b s t a n t i a l number o f t h e o r i s t s on b o t h s i d e s o f t h e A t l a n t i c s i n c e i t means so many d i f f e r e n t t h i n g s t o so many p e o p l e . The f o l l o w i n g summary o f r e l e v a n t c a t e g o r i e s o f i n t e r e s t and t h e i r major e x p l i c a t o r s i s i n t e n d e d o n l y as an o u t l i n e o f t h e work i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r c u l t u r e t h a t has i n f l u e n c e d t h i s a n a l y s i s o f t h e r e l a t i o n between t e x t s and r e c e p t i o n t h a t made L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson e q u a l l y " p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e " i n t h e i r l i f e t i m e s . One o f t h e t h i n g s i m m e d i a t e l y o b v i o u s t o anyone s t u d y i n g t h e o r i e s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i s t h e g r e a t d i s t i n c t i o n between t h e o r i s t s i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and t h o s e i n B r i t a i n . B r i e f l y \ p u t , A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r c u l t u r e s c h o l a r s t e n d t o p r o d u c e d e s c r i p t i v e s o c i a l h i s t o r i e s documenting t h e g r o w i n g phenomenon o f "mass" c u l t u r e i n t h e i r own c o u n t r y , w h i l e most B r i t i s h s c h o l a r s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e w r i t e from t h e l e f t i n t h e o r e t i c a l a n a l y s e s o f t h e c l a s s s t r u c t u r e s o f t h r e e d i s t i n c t y e t o v e r l a p p i n g v a r i a n t s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e : " f o l k c u l t u r e , " " w o r k i n g - c l a s s (sometimes r a d i c a l ) c u l t u r e , " and "mass c u l t u r e . " U n d e r l y i n g t h e s e t r a n s a t l a n t i c d i f f e r e n c e s i n s c h o l a r s h i p i s an i m p l i c i t awareness o f d i s t i n c t , s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l r e a l i t i e s o f t h e " p e o p l e " : t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s as a r e p u b l i c a n democracy dominated by t h e s e e m i n g l y homogeneous w i l l o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s , and B r i t a i n as f r a c t u r e d by c l a s s t e n s i o n s l i n k e d t o a r e s i d u a l , p r e - i n d u s t r i a l d e f e r e n c e t o f i g u r e s o f a u t h o r i t y . The s o c i a l h i s t o r i a n who seems t o have had t h e g r e a t e s t i n f l u e n c e i n s t u d i e s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i s R u s s e l l Nye, b o t h i n h i s The Unembarrassed Muse: The P o p u l a r A r t s i n A m e r i c a and i n h i s S o c i e t y and C u l t u r e i n A m e r i c a (1830-1860). And w h i l e Nye's work i s an i n v a l u a b l e h i s t o r i c a l r e f e r e n c e f o r u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h e s o c i a l , c u l t u r a l , and t e c h n o l o g i c a l c o n t e x t s w i t h i n w h i c h l i t e r a t u r e was p r o d u c e d and consumed, he seems n o t t o have q u e s t i o n e d t h e v a l u e judgements o f l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e , l i k e F r a n k L u t h e r M o t t , James H a r t , and C a r l Bode, i n t h e i r a s s u m p t i o n s t h a t c o n v e n t i o n a l i t y and s e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n l i t e r a t u r e g u a r a n t e e d p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . A l l q u e s t i o n s o f l i t e r a r y t a s t e a s i d e , f o r now, t h e s e s c h o l a r s do n o t r e c o g n i z e e s s e n t i a l d i s t i n c t i o n s among t h e v a r i o u s g e n r e s t h e y document as " p o p u l a r " s i n c e p r e s u m a b l y t h e pap t h a t f e e d s t h e masses i s as f o r m l e s s and as t a s t e l e s s as t h e a u d i e n c e s t o w h i c h i t i s s e r v e d . The p a s s i v e v o i c e i s d e l i b e r a t e h e r e s i n c e , i n t h e s e s c h o l a r s ' v i e w s , t h e masses a r e o n l y e v e r t h e p a s s i v e r e c i p i e n t s o f p r e p a c k a g e d i d e o l o g i c a l p r o d u c t s ; t h e y p r e s u m a b l y t a k e no a c t i v e r o l e i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f meaning. I n a manner f a r d i f f e r e n t from t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s o f " s e r i o u s " l i t e r a t u r e , b u t w i t h s i m i l a r r e s u l t s , A m e r i c a n s c h o l a r s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r c u l t u r e d i s p l a y t h e same t e n d e n c y t o v i e w t h e p r e v i o u s c e n t u r y t h r o u g h a t t i t u d e s d e r i v e d i n t h i s one. Thus i n t h e c a s e o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e , i t i s s t u d i e d as i f i t were e q u a l t o t h e H a r l e q u i n romances o f t o d a y , o r worse s t i l l , t h e s e r i a l i z e d melodramas o f r a d i o and, l a t e r , o f t e l e v i s i o n . The p o p u l a r i t y o f a n t e b e l l u m l i t e r a t u r e and, more r e m o t e l y , o f i t s p o e t r y has y e t t o be c o n s i d e r e d from a t h e o r e t i c a l e x a m i n a t i o n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a e s t h e t i c s t h a t r e c o g n i z e s i s s u e s o f n a t i o n a l i t y and gender as c e n t r a l t o A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s ' c o n c e r n s as t h e y p u r c h a s e d t e x t s t h a t would u l t i m a t e l y become n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y " b e s t s e l l e r s . " 6 I n t e r e s t i n g l y , i t i s n o t p o p u l a r c u l t u r e s c h o l a r s p e r se who a r e b e g i n n i n g t o r e c o n s i d e r t h e o r e t i c a l l y t h e v a l u e o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e i n A m e r i c a , b u t r a t h e r f e m i n i s t r e a d e r - r e s p o n s e t h e o r i s t s t r y i n g t o c o r r e c t p a r t o f 6 The p e r i o d i c a l p r o d u c e d by A m e r i c a ' s " P o p u l a r C u l t u r e A s s o c i a t i o n , " J o u r n a l o f P o p u l a r C u l t u r e , has o c c a s i o n a l l y p r i n t e d a r t i c l e s t h a t c a l l f o r a f a r more t h e o r e t i c a l l y based s t u d y o f t h e f i e l d . D a v i d Madden's "The N e c e s s i t y f o r an A e s t h e t i c s o f P o p u l a r C u l t u r e " and Hayden W h i t e ' s " S t r u c t u r a l i s m and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e " a r e two examples from t h e e a r l y 197 0s, b u t t h e i r c a l l seems n e v e r t o have been s e r i o u s l y answered. The v a s t m a j o r i t y o f s c h o l a r s o f A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r c u l t u r e t o d a y appear t o be p r e o c c u p i e d w i t h t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y phenomena. t h e i m b a l a n c e n o t e d e a r l i e r i n t h e A m e r i c a n canon. N i n a Baym's N o v e l s , R e a d e r s , and R e v i e w e r s : Responses t o F i c t i o n i n A n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a , and Jane Tompkins's " S e n t i m e n t a l Power: U n c l e Tom's C a b i n and t h e P o l i t i c s o f L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y " a r e s t u d i e s t h a t see t h e c r i t i c a l s c o r n i n t h i s c e n t u r y f o r p o p u l a r f i c t i o n by n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y women as p a r t o f a l a r g e r , i d e o l o g i c a l a t t e m p t by a p a t r i a r c h a l c u l t u r e t o d i m i n i s h p o l i t i c a l l y t h e m o r a l a u t h o r i t y o f women by r e l e g a t i n g t h e t e x t s t h a t t h e y r e a d , w r o t e , and r e v i e w e d t o t h e m a r g i n s o f l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y . I n r e i n s t a t i n g t h e " s e n t i m e n t a l " as a n o n - p e j o r a t i v e l i t e r a r y t e r m i n s t u d i e s o f f i c t i o n , and r e i n v e s t i n g i t w i t h a p o t e n t i a l l y s u b v e r s i v e p o l i t i c a l f o r c e , Baym's and Tompkins's work s u g g e s t s i n t e r e s t i n g new ways t o reexamine a l s o t h e r o l e o f p o e t s and, more i n t e r e s t i n g l y s t i l l , o f male p o e t s s u c h as L o n g f e l l o w whose p o p u l a r i t y has f o r so l o n g been t h o u g h t t o have been d e r i v e d from a s u c c e s s f u l a d m i x t u r e o f s e n t i m e n t and c o n v e n t i o n . S u b s t a n t i a l l y d i f f e r e n t from A m e r i c a n a n a l y s e s o f c u l t u r e f o r t h e m i l l i o n s , t h e o r i e s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y B r i t a i n t e n d f a r more t o v a r i o u s d e f i n i t i o n s o f " t h e p e o p l e " as t h o s e i n d i v i d u a l s a l l i e d c o l l e c t i v e l y by f o r c e s o f r e s i s t a n c e a g a i n s t t h e r u l i n g e l i t e , be i t a r i s i n g upper m i d d l e c l a s s o r i t s c u l t u r a l b y - p r o d u c t , t h e c o m m e r c i a l i z a t i o n o f a e s t h e t i c s t h a t a p p a r e n t l y f o l l o w e d i n i t s wake. F o r s c h o l a r s such as R o b e r t S t o r c h , D a v i d V i n c e n t , and Morag 18 S h i a c h , who a r e i n t e r e s t e d i n f o l k c u l t u r e , t h e p e o p l e ' s r e s i s t a n c e can t a k e t h e form e i t h e r o f r e t a i n i n g t r a d i t i o n a l forms s u c h as o r a l p o e t r y o r o f m o d i f y i n g them t o i n c r e a s i n g l y u r b a n ways o f l i f e . B r o a d s h e e t p u b l i c a t i o n o f p r e v i o u s l y o r a l poems, f o r example, stemmed t h e i r c o m p l e t e e r o s i o n . Two t h e o r i s t s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y l e i s u r e i n r e l a t i o n t o w o r k i n g - c l a s s p o p u l a r c u l t u r e , Hugh Cunningham and P e t e r B a i l e y , f o c u s on v a r i o u s a c t i v i t i e s i n u r b a n c e n t r e s : t h e y examine a c o n f u s e d c u l t u r a l t e r r a i n where p r e v i o u s f o l k t r a d i t i o n s compete f o r t h e working-man's f r e e t i m e w i t h r a d i c a l p o l i t i c a l o r g a n i z a t i o n s , u p p e r - m i d d l e c l a s s p r o v i s i o n s f o r p u b l i c forms o f " r a t i o n a l r e c r e a t i o n " i n c l u d i n g a t h l e t i c a c t i v i t i e s , and e v e n i n g e n t e r t a i n m e n t a t t h e pubs and m u s i c h a l l s o f p r i v a t e e n t r e p r e n e u r s . F o r t h e p u r p o s e s o f t h i s s t u d y , t h e i r r e f l e c t i o n s on r a t i o n a l r e c r e a t i o n i n p a r t i c u l a r s u g g e s t p o i n t s o f e n t r y f o r c o n s i d e r i n g why a t l e a s t some o f Tennyson's poems e n t e r e d t h e homes and h e a r t s o f t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s ; y e t , Cunningham and B a i l e y do l i t t l e t o e x p l a i n t h e l e i s u r e o c c u p a t i o n s o f p e o p l e o t h e r t h a n w o r k i n g - c l a s s men. Indeed, B a i l e y h i m s e l f r e g r e t s t h e l a c k o f a t t e n t i o n p a i d t o t h e m i d d l e c l a s s among h i s t o r i a n s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y l e i s u r e and, more r e g r e t t a b l y s t i l l , t h e i r gender b i a s e s : " A n o t h e r acknowledged s h o r t c o m i n g i n t h e new h i s t o r y o f l e i s u r e i s t h e c o n c e n t r a t i o n on i t s more p u b l i c , a s s o c i a t i o n a l , v i s i b l e and a c c e s s i b l e forms t o t h e e x c l u s i o n o f t h e p r i v a t e , p e r s o n a l , and i n f o r m a l . T h i s i n t u r n has r e i n f o r c e d t h e n e g l e c t o f women and t h e q u e s t i o n o f gender i n l e i s u r e " (17-18) . A p o p u l a r p o e t r y consumed i n t h e p r i v a c y o f one's home y e t a l l e g e d l y s u p p o r t i v e o f p u b l i c c o n f o r m i t y i n t h e f a c e o f V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y ' s m o r a l i m p e r a t i v e s seems i d e a l l y s u i t e d as one t y p e o f p r i m a r y s o u r c e m a t e r i a l t o encourage t h e s t u d y o f l e i s u r e a c t i v i t i e s t h a t c o u l d and d i d c r o s s c l a s s and gender b o u n d a r i e s . Many t h e o r i s t s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y , w o r k i n g - c l a s s p o p u l a r c u l t u r e t a k e E. P. Thompson's s t u d y , The Making o f t h e E n g l i s h W o r k i n g C l a s s , as a h i s t o r i c a l p o i n t o f d e p a r t u r e , and r e e x a m i n e h i s c o n c l u s i o n s i n l i g h t o f t h e r e c e n t M a r x i s t r e d e f i n i t i o n o f "dominant i d e o l o g y " n o t as c o e r c i v e b u t as "hegemonic." C o i n e d by A n t o n i o G r a m s c i d u r i n g h i s i m p r i s o n m e n t i n F a s c i s t I t a l y , "hegemony" i s now a common t e r m t o d e s c r i b e s o c i a l dominance s i n c e i t a l l e g e d l y a v o i d s t h e economic m a t e r i a l i s t r e s t r i c t i o n s s p e c i f i c t o p r e v i o u s M a r x i s t c l a s s a n a l y s e s o f dominant i d e o l o g y . G r a m s c i ' s use o f "hegemony," l o o s e l y d e f i n e d , d e s i g n a t e s an e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f l e a d e r s h i p d i s t i n c t from o b v i o u s l y c o e r c i v e forms o f d o m i n a t i o n ; i t t h u s i n c l u d e s m u l t i p l e forms o f c o n s e n t t o and d i s s e n t w i t h i n s t r u c t u r e s o f economic, i n t e l l e c t u a l , and m o r a l power. I n g e n e r a l , however, p o e t r y does n o t e n t e r i n t o G r a m s c i a n - based d e f i n i t i o n s o f t h e p o p u l a r s i n c e t h e u s u a l " s t r u c t u r e " i n w h i c h i t made i t s m a r k — t h e h o m e — i s n o t o r d i n a r i l y t h o u g h t o f as a s i t e o f p o l i t i c a l n e g o t i a t i o n . C h a p t e r s l i k e S t u a r t H a l l ' s " P o p u l a r C u l t u r e and t h e S t a t e , " and C o l i n M e r c e r ' s " C o m p l i c i t P l e a s u r e s " i n t h e "Themes and I s s u e s " s e c t i o n o f P o p u l a r C u l t u r e and S o c i a l R e l a t i o n s , w h i l e t h e y go a l o n g way i n a n a l y z i n g t h e s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l i n t e r a c t i o n s o f t h e s t a t e and p o p u l a c e , p a r t i c u l a r l y t h o s e i n s c r i b e d i n p u b l i c a t i o n s o f t h e p o p u l a r p r e s s , p r o v i d e l i t t l e room f o r s p e c u l a t i o n about how l i t e r a t u r e n o t a t t h e c e n t r e o f d a i l y p u b l i c s c r u t i n y a l s o c o n t r i b u t e d t o t h e s t a t e ' s hegemonic c o n t r o l and, more i n t e r e s t i n g l y , how and when i t d i d n o t . G r a m s c i ' s awareness o f " p o p u l a r b e l i e f " as c o n s t i t u t i v e o f hegemonic " n a t i o n a l i s m " and " p a t r i o t i s m " a c t u a l l y i s q u i t e u s e f u l i n t r y i n g t o e x p l a i n t h e s o c i a l c o n s t r u c t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson as v o i c e s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e n a t i o n s . That t h e s e v o i c e s m i g h t be h e a r d i n p r i v a t e a r e n a s r a t h e r t h a n p u b l i c ones does n o t n e g a t e t h e i r power t o sway p o p u l a r b e l i e f e s p e c i a l l y as t e c h n o l o g i c a l improvements i n p u b l i c a t i o n methods i n c r e a s e d t h e i r p o t e n t i a l f o r e v e r l a r g e r r e a d i n g a u d i e n c e s . 7 L i t e r a t u r e seldom forms a p a r t o f M a r x i s t t h e o r i e s o f B r i t i s h p o p u l a r c u l t u r e s i n c e i t p r e s u m a b l y f a l l s o u t s i d e o f t h e p u r v i e w s o f t h e p o p u l a r because i t i s u s u a l l y t h o u g h t o f 7 S e l e c t i o n s from G r a m s c i ' s P r i s o n Notebooks appear i n C u l t u r e , I d e o l o g y and S o c i a l P r o c e s s e d i t e d by Tony B e n n e t t e t a l , f o l l o w e d by C h a n t a l M o u f f e ' s a n a l y s i s o f G r a m s c i ' s c o n t r i b u t i o n t o M a r x i s t s o c i a l i s t d i s c o u r s e . R o b e r t Gray's " B o u r g e o i s Hegemony i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n " i n t h e same volume i s e s p e c i a l l y i n t e r e s t i n g as an a p p l i c a t i o n o f G r a m s c i a n s o c i a l t h e o r y t o t h e economic and c u l t u r a l m i l i e u t h a t Tennyson and, by l i t e r a r y a s s o c i a t i o n , L o n g f e l l o w would have i n h a b i t e d . 21 as p r i v a t e r a t h e r t h a n p u b l i c , i n d i v i d u a l i s t r a t h e r t h a n c o l l e c t i v e . N o n e t h e l e s s , Leo L o w e n t h a l ' s s o c i a l h i s t o r y o f t h e r e l a t i o n between mass p r o d u c t i o n and t h e c o n s u m p t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e , L i t e r a t u r e . P o p u l a r C u l t u r e , and S o c i e t y , s u g g e s t s p o s s i b i l i t i e s f o r a r e v a l u a t i o n o f Tennyson's p o e t r y as a p o p u l a r g e n r e i n i t s own r i g h t . 8 One o f t h e most i m p o r t a n t f e a t u r e s o f L o w e n t h a l ' s work i s h i s s u r v e y o f t h e d i s p u t e between " a r t " and " e n t e r t a i n m e n t " t h a t he a r g u e s began as e a r l y as t h e s i x t e e n t h c e n t u r y i n B r i t a i n and c u l m i n a t e d i n t h e e i g h t e e n t h t h r o u g h p h i l o s o p h i c a l d e b a t e s about t a s t e and a e s t h e t i c v a l u e . 9 U n f o r t u n a t e l y , L o w e n t h a l d i s r e g a r d s t h e S t u d i e s l i k e Amy C r u s e ' s The V i c t o r i a n s and T h e i r R e a d i n g . R i c h a r d A l t i c k ' s The E n g l i s h Common Reader. M a r j o r i e P l a n t ' s The E n g l i s h Book T r a d e , and V i c t o r Neuburg's P o p u l a r L i t e r a t u r e : A H i s t o r y and a Guide from t h e B e g i n n i n g o f P r i n t i n g t o t h e Year 1897 a r e o f c o u r s e i n v a l u a b l e as s o u r c e s f o r any d i s c u s s i o n o f p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d . But because t h e s e works a r e more e m p i r i c a l t h a n t h e o r e t i c a l , t h e y have been l e f t out i n t h i s summary o f a n a l y s e s o f B r i t i s h p o p u l a r c u l t u r e . T h e i r f i n d i n g s , however, have been most u s e f u l e l s e w h e r e i n t h e t h e s i s . 9 . D i s t i n c t i o n s between " p o p u l a r " c u l t u r e and " h i g h " c u l t u r e based upon t a s t e do n o t form p a r t o f t h i s s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y a l t h o u g h c e r t a i n l y t a s t e has, s i n c e t h e e a r l y e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y , g e n e r a l l y g u i d e d c r i t i c a l o p i n i o n , e i t h e r e x p l i c i t l y o r i m p l i c i t l y . B a s i c a l l y , however, t a s t e has dominated t h e c r i t i q u e o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n A m e r i c a w h i c h i s , as H e r b e r t Gans p o i n t s o u t , about two hundred y e a r s o l d ( 1 9 ) , and as such i s f a r t o o v a s t t o summarize h e r e . I n h i s P o p u l a r C u l t u r e and H i g h C u l t u r e : An A n a l y s i s and E v a l u a t i o n o f T a s t e , Gans p r o v i d e s a t h o r o u g h d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e major f i g u r e s l e a d i n g t h e c r i t i q u e a g a i n s t p o p u l a r c u l t u r e ; t h e i r work i s c o n t a i n e d i n two b a s i c a n t h o l o g i e s o f mass c u l t u r e t h e o r y : B e r n a r d Rosenberg and D a v i d M. W h i t e , eds., Mass C u l t u r e : The P o p u l a r A r t s i n A m e r i c a and Norman J a c o b s , ed., C u l t u r e f o r t h e M i l l i o n s . As a c o u n t e r t o t h e p e j o r a t i v e d e f i n i t i o n s s u p p l i e d by mass c u l t u r e c r i t i c s i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y , Gans p u t s f o r w a r d 22 n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y a l t o g e t h e r , p r e f e r r i n g i n s t e a d t o a p p l y t h e r e s u l t s o f h i s s t u d y o f e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y d e f i n i t i o n s o f h i g h and low c u l t u r e o n l y t o p o p u l a r forms o f l i t e r a t u r e i n t h e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y i t s e l f and t o p o p u l a r b i o g r a p h y i n t h e t w e n t i e t h . T h i s f a i l u r e t o c o n s i d e r forms o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e i s most u n f o r t u n a t e f o r two r e a s o n s : 1) many o f t h e o b s e r v a t i o n s t h a t he makes about a e s t h e t i c t a s t e i n t h e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y s u g g e s t i n t e r e s t i n g p a r a l l e l s w i t h t h e n i n e t e e n t h ; and 2) t h e s p l i t between low brow and h i g h brow c u l t u r e s was d e f i n e d and r e d e f i n e d d u r i n g t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d , r e s u l t i n g i n t h e e v e n t u a l chasm t h a t s e p a r a t e s t h e two c u l t u r e s t o d a y . That d i s t i n c t i o n s were n o t c l e a r l y demarcated i n t h e p r e v i o u s c e n t u r y i s y e t a n o t h e r r e a s o n t o c o n s i d e r p o e t r y as a p o t e n t i a l l y p o p u l a r c u l t u r a l form i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d . I n s h o r t , t h e p o p u l a r poems o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson have y e t t o be t h o u g h t o f t h e o r e t i c a l l y i n ways t h a t m i g h t a c c o u n t e q u a l l y f o r t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c c o n d i t i o n s o f t h e i r r e c e p t i o n h i s " t a s t e c u l t u r e " t h e o r y ; t h a t i s " p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i s , l i k e h i g h c u l t u r e , a t a s t e c u l t u r e , chosen by p e o p l e who l a c k t h e economic and e d u c a t i o n a l o p p o r t u n i t i e s o f t h e d e v o t e e s o f h i g h c u l t u r e " ( x ) . S u p p o s e d l y f r e e d o f t h e v a l u e judgements o f h i s p r e d e c e s s o r s , by r e s t r i c t i n g h i s argument t o a e s t h e t i c s t a n d a r d s w i t h i n v a r i o u s s u b s t r a t a o f " t a s t e c u l t u r e s , " Gans n e v e r t h e l e s s e s t a b l i s h e s a h i e r a r c h y o f t a s t e i n w h i c h t h e l o w e r o r d e r s would, under i d e a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s , n a t u r a l l y and n e c e s s a r i l y a s p i r e upward. T h i s s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson, where p o s s i b l e , a v o i d s v a l u e judgements a l t o g e t h e r , and l o o k s s t r i c t l y a t t h e l i t e r a r y phenomenon o f v e r s e w h i c h was b o t h " p o p u l a r " and t h o u g h t o f as " p o e t r y " i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y by e d u c a t e d and non-educated, e l i t e and w o r k i n g c l a s s e s a l i k e . i n b o t h t h e i r own and each o t h e r ' s c o u n t r i e s , and f o r t h e i r c u l t u r a l v a l u e as examples o f a " s e r i o u s " l i t e r a t u r e t h a t was n o n e t h e l e s s r e a d by t h e masses. V a r i o u s d i s c o u r s e s on n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r c u l t u r e have h e r e a l l o w e d f o r an e x a m i n a t i o n o f how t h e work o f t h e s e two p o e t s i s i n t e r s e c t e d by s e v e r a l o v e r l a p p i n g d e b a t e s : s e n t i m e n t v e r s u s i n t e l l e c t , f e m a l e v e r s u s male p r o d u c e r s and consumers o f c u l t u r e , c o n s u m p t i v e v e r s u s p r o d u c t i v e methods o f r e a d i n g , o r a l v e r s u s w r i t t e n c u l t u r e s , w o r k i n g - c l a s s v e r s u s m i d d l e - c l a s s forms o f r a t i o n a l r e c r e a t i o n , e n t e r t a i n m e n t v e r s u s e n l i g h t e n m e n t , c o l l e c t i v e v e r s u s i n d i v i d u a l i s t r e s p o n s e s t o c u l t u r e . F u r t h e r b i n a r i e s c o u l d be added t o t h i s l i s t b u t t h e t r e n d i s c l e a r . What may n o t be as c l e a r i s how t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c i s m — o f b o t h s e r i o u s and p o p u l a r c u l t u r e — t h a t a s c r i b e s " v a l u e " o n l y t o t h o s e terms above on t h e r i g h t has e f f e c t i v e l y s i l e n c e d a p o e t r y t h a t a c h i e v e d p o p u l a r i t y t h r o u g h i t s d i s r e g a r d o f b o u n d a r i e s and r e a c h e d a c l a s s l e s s m u l t i t u d e o f women and men: n o t because i t was an u n d i f f e r e n t i a t e d monotone, b u t because i t was n o t . I n a d d i t i o n t o t h e t h e o r e t i c a l r e a s o n s f o r t h i s s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y , t h e p r a c t i c a l r e a s o n s f o r a s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson t o g e t h e r as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e , r a t h e r t h a n i n i s o l a t i o n , a r e t h e m s e l v e s e q u a l l y i n t e r e s t i n g . They a r e e s s e n t i a l l y t h r e e : 1) t o d e m o n s t r a t e t h a t , i n t h e i r l i f e t i m e s , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson were r e a d by t h e i r A m e r i c a n and B r i t i s h a u d i e n c e s w i t h an awareness o f t h e p o p u l a r i t y and n a t i o n a l r e p r e s e n t a t i v e n e s s o f b o t h p o e t s ; 2) t o a c c o u n t f o r t h e i r enormous p o p u l a r i t y t h r o u g h a d i a c h r o n i c e x a m i n a t i o n o f c o m p a r a t i v e i n f l u e n c e and a u d i e n c e a p p e a l ; and, f i n a l l y , 3) t o a n a l y z e t h e c o n s t i t u e n t f a c t o r s t h a t d e t e r m i n e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's s i m u l t a n e o u s d e c l i n e i n p o p u l a r i t y , a l o n g w i t h o t h e r s t h a t have r e c e n t l y r e s t o r e d Tennyson t o t h e pantheon o f p o e t i c fame, an e l e v a t i o n n o t e x t e n d e d t o L o n g f e l l o w . C o m p a r a t i v e s t u d i e s o f p o e t s who were c o n t e m p o r a r i e s a r e , o f c o u r s e , n o t w i t h o u t p r e c e d e n t i n E n g l i s h s t u d i e s , stemming p e r h a p s from Johnson's L i v e s o f t h e P o e t s , b u t c e r t a i n l y g a i n i n g i n c u r r e n c y t h r o u g h F.R. L e a v i s ' s s t u d y o f t h e r e l a t i v e m e r i t s o f Wordsworth and S h e l l e y i n R e v a l u a t i o n s : T r a d i t i o n and Development i n E n g l i s h P o e t r y (166-75, 192-99). F o r t h e most p a r t , however, such c o m p a r i s o n s a r e seldom t r a n s a t l a n t i c , g o v e r n e d i n s t e a d by a p r o x i m i t y o f p l a c e o r n a t i o n a l i t y i n t h e i r s e l e c t i o n o f p o e t s t o be v i e w e d l e g i t i m a t e l y t h r o u g h a s i n g l e l e n s . R e c e n t l y , however, t h e f i e l d o f v i s i o n f o r d e t e r m i n i n g l i t e r a r y i n f l u e n c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y has broadened, so t h a t one m i g h t e x p e c t t o f i n d a c o m p a r a t i v e a n a l y s i s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson among t h o s e s t u d i e s a t t e m p t i n g t o d e t e r m i n e how l a r g e a r o l e B r i t a i n , 25 p l a y e d i n f o r m i n g a n a t i o n a l A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . 1 0 Y e t t h e s e s t u d i e s adhere t o a c u r r e n t p r a c t i c e o f i d e n t i f y i n g t h e e s o t e r i c i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n p o e t r y , and t h e r e f o r e l o c a t e s t r a i n s o f B r i t i s h r o m a n t i c i s m i n t h e work o f p o e t s s u c h as Poe, Emerson, and Whitman. N e e d l e s s t o s a y , e x o t e r i c p o e t s s u c h as L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson do n o t f a l l w i t h i n t h e p u r v i e w s o f t h e s e s t u d i e s . A t t h e same t i m e , o f s t u d i e s o f Tennyson's r o l e as a n a t i o n a l r e p r e s e n t a t i v e , o n l y E i d s o n ' s Tennyson i n A m e r i c a (1943) and a 1987 M e m o r i a l A d d r e s s by B a r b a r a R. C l a r k , "Tennyson A c r o s s t h e A t l a n t i c , " a c t u a l l y d e m o n s t r a t e t h e i n f l u e n c e o f Tennyson i n t h e New W o r l d . And a l t h o u g h E i d s o n d i s c u s s e s Tennyson's pronounced sway o v e r A m e r i c a n p o e t a s t e r s and p o e t s s u c h as L o w e l l and B a y a r d T a y l o r , he s a y s s u r p r i s i n g l y l i t t l e about Tennyson's i n f l u e n c e on L o n g f e l l o w . E i d s o n ' s r e l a t i v e n e g l e c t o f t h e A m e r i c a n b a r d i s c u r i o u s , e s p e c i a l l y s i n c e many o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's c o n t e m p o r a r i e s and immediate d e s c e n d a n t s c o n s i s t e n t l y r e a d t h e i r work i n ways t h a t acknowledged them as c o u n t e r p a r t s . P a r t o f t h e n a t u r a l c o u p l i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e stemmed from t h e f a c t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ( a f t e r 1846) and Tennyson s h a r e d t h e same p u b l i s h e r i n 1 0 R e c e n t examples o f t h i s k i n d i n c l u d e Stephen Spender's Love-Hate R e l a t i o n s : A Study o f A n g l o - A m e r i c a n S e n s i b i l i t i e s ( 1 9 7 4 ) , B e n j a m i n L e a s e ' s A n g l o - A m e r i c a n E n c o u n t e r s : E n g l a n d and t h e R i s e o f A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e (1981), and L i n d e n Peach's B r i t i s h I n f l u e n c e on t h e B i r t h o f A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e (1982). A m e r i c a — t h e B o s t o n f i r m o f T i c k n o r and F i e l d s . And t h e s e p u b l i s h e r s e n s u r e d t h a t " [ e ] v e r y t a s t e and e v e r y p o c k e t b o o k was r e a c h e d " f o r b o t h o f t h e i r p o e t s (Tryon " N a t i o n a l i s m " 3 0 5 ) . The c a r e e r s o f t h e p o e t s t h e m s e l v e s , moreover, e x h i b i t some s u r p r i s i n g l y s i m i l a r t r e n d s . S i n c e L o n g f e l l o w worked p r i m a r i l y as a p r o f e s s o r o f Modern Languages, f i r s t a t Bowdoin C o l l e g e and t h e n a t H a r v a r d U n i v e r s i t y , h i s l i f e o b v i o u s l y seems more v o c a t i o n a l l y v a r i e d t h a n Tennyson's. B u t , i n g e n e r a l , t h e r e a r e many s i m i l a r i t i e s . F o r L o n g f e l l o w , as f o r Tennyson, c o l l e g e a s s o c i a t i o n s s p a r k e d h i s d e s i r e t o p u r s u e p o e t r y as a v o c a t i o n ; and i n t h e 183 0s, he e x p e r i e n c e d a p o e t i c h i a t u s s i m i l a r t o Tennyson's s o - c a l l e d " t e n y e a r s ' s i l e n c e . " F o r b o t h p o e t s , t h i s h i a t u s c o i n c i d e d w i t h d e a t h and d e s p a i r : t h e d e a t h s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i r s t w i f e Mary, and Tennyson's b e l o v e d f r i e n d A r t h u r H a l l a m . The n e x t p e r i o d ( s l i g h t l y e a r l i e r f o r L o n g f e l l o w t h a n f o r Tennyson) sees b o t h p o e t s p r e o c c u p i e d by a p r i v a t e - p u b l i c d e b a t e about p o e t i c v o i c e w h i l e , a t t h e same t i m e , engaged i n p r o l o n g e d u n r e q u i t e d l o v e a f f a i r s w h i c h e v e n t u a l l y met w i t h s u c c e s s : f o r L o n g f e l l o w , i n 1843, and f o r Tennyson, i n 1850. W h i l e L o n g f e l l o w was, t h r o u g h j o u r n a l e s s a y s , p r e p a r i n g h i m s e l f and h i s a u d i e n c e f o r t h e p o e t ' s f i t p l a c e w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f A m e r i c a n n a t i o n a l i s m , Tennyson was s t r u g g l i n g w i t h a s i m i l a r p r o b l e m i n t h e n a r r a t i v e l y woven l y r i c s t h a t e v e n t u a l l y became I n Memoriam (1850). I n b r i e f , a p a r t from e x t e n d e d p r o j e c t s — L o n g f e l l o w ' s C h r i s t u s and Tennyson's I d y l l s — b o t h p o e t s ' work can be c l a s s i f i e d c h r o n o l o g i c a l l y by dominant p o e t i c forms: 1) e a r l y s u c c e s s t h r o u g h s k i l f u l use o f v a r i o u s l y r i c a l v o i c e s ; 2) a m i d d l e p e r i o d t h a t s e c u r e d each p o e t ' s p o p u l a r i t y t h r o u g h a c o n s i s t e n t i n t e r e s t i n t h e l o n g , e s s e n t i a l l y n a r r a t i v e poem; and 3) a f i n a l p e r i o d t h a t r e p r e s e n t s a c o n c e r t e d e f f o r t t o l e g i t i m i z e p o e t i c drama, i n w h i c h n e i t h e r p o e t had much s u c c e s s . W h i l e s c h e m a t i z e d c o m p a r i s o n s a r e u n a v o i d a b l y g e n e r a l , and b o t h p o e t s c o n t i n u e d t o w r i t e l y r i c poems o f v a r i o u s t y p e s t h r o u g h o u t t h e i r l i v e s , t h e s e p a r a l l e l s a r e n e v e r t h e l e s s v a l i d . Y e t d e s p i t e t h e contemporary r e c o g n i t i o n o f s i m i l a r i t i e s and d i f f e r e n c e s between t h e p o e t s , and t h e p a r a l l e l s n o t e d above, p r e s e n t s c h o l a r s have y e t t o c o n s i d e r L o n g f e l l o w i n r e l a t i o n t o Tennyson even though an abundance o f s c h o l a r s h i p e x i s t s p o i n t i n g out t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s dependence on European l i t e r a t u r e s . But E n g l i s h i n f l u e n c e i s u s u a l l y n o t t h e i s s u e when i t comes t o L o n g f e l l o w . W h i l e no one would d i s c o u n t t h e p o t e n t i a l i n L o n g f e l l o w f o r dependence on European models, h i s " s o u r c e s " s h o u l d , a l m o s t c e r t a i n l y , i n c l u d e Tennyson's p o e t r y as r e p r e s e n t a t i v e V i c t o r i a n v e r s e a g a i n s t w h i c h t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s s u c c e s s was and can s t i l l be s y n c h r o n i c a l l y measured. Recent p u b l i c a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s L e t t e r s (1967-82), a l o n g w i t h e x i s t i n g r e f e r e n c e s i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s L i f e , f u l l y document 28 t h e power Tennyson's work e x e r c i s e d o v e r h i s A m e r i c a n c o u n t e r p a r t . 1 1 A t t h e same t i m e , t h e e f f e c t s o f t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s i n o r d i n a t e p o p u l a r i t y upon t h e p o e t r y o f t h e Queen's a p p o i n t e d spokesman f o r t h e age t h a t was t o b e a r h e r name have y e t t o be f u l l y c o n s i d e r e d . I n h i s l i f e t i m e , L o n g f e l l o w a c h i e v e d t h e d e m o n s t r a b l e s u c c e s s t h a t comes w i t h a p p e a l i n g t o a m a s s i v e r e a d i n g p u b l i c . As s u c h , he embodied t h e p o e t t h a t Tennyson b o t h d i d and d i d n o t want t o become, t h e p o e t who w r o t e f o r " t h e h e r d d—m'em."1 2 Tennyson's own s o l i c i t a t i o n o f fame and f o r t u n e was, a t b e s t , a m b i v a l e n t . Though sometimes c h a r g e d w i t h an envy o f t h e " b e s t s e l l e r s , " Tennyson r e c o g n i z e d i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s work a p o e t i c c u l t i v a t i o n o f t h e masses t h a t , i f he were t o a c h i e v e anywhere n e a r t h e same k i n d o f p o p u l a r i t y , h i s own p o e t r y would have t o adopt. H i s most s u c c e s s f u l 1 1 U n f o r t u n a t e l y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s J o u r n a l s t h e m s e l v e s a r e as y e t u n a v a i l a b l e though t h e y have been p r o m i s e d f o r p u b l i c a t i o n by J . C h e s l e y Matthews f o r some t i m e . A t p r e s e n t , t h e y a r e h e l d a t Houghton L i b r a r y , H a r v a r d . Samuel L o n g f e l l o w ' s L i f e , n o t u n l i k e H a l l a m Tennyson's Memoir, i s a h i g h l y s e l e c t i v e , p i o u s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f t h e t y p e o f p o e t a c l o s e r e l a t i v e would w i s h t o commit t o p u b l i c memory. 1 2 T h i s p h r a s e i s used i n a l e t t e r t o F i t z G e r a l d i n 1842 ( L e t t e r s I 2 0 4 ) . Tennyson's r e s p o n s e t o A m e r i c a and A m e r i c a n s g e n e r a l l y i s ambiguous and changes t h r o u g h o u t h i s c a r e e r , though o v e r a l l he seems t o have been most f r i e n d l y t o c e r t a i n i n d i v i d u a l A m e r i c a n s , s u c h as L o n g f e l l o w , g r a t e f u l f o r h i s wide f o l l o w i n g i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , y e t s c e p t i c a l and even c r i t i c a l o f A m e r i c a n s ' a p p a r e n t l a c k o f s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l r e f i n e m e n t (see M a r t i n 565). Tennyson, e s p e c i a l l y i n l a t e r l i f e , e x h i b i t e d a r e c l u s e ' s f i x a t i o n w i t h p u b l i c s p e c t a c l e , and was o b s e s s e d ( o f t e n w i t h good reason) by a u t o g r a p h s e e k e r s , many o f whom were A m e r i c a n t o u r i s t s ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 339-40). s i n g l e volumes, I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g (1859) and Enoch Arden (1864), have y e t t o be a s s e s s e d i n terms w h i c h r e c o g n i z e L o n g f e l l o w as t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y barometer o f p o p u l a r p o e t i c s u c c e s s . Why L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson a p p e a l e d so e f f o r t l e s s l y t o a mass r e a d e r s h i p i s a q u e s t i o n w h i c h , i f d e a l t w i t h a t a l l by l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s , i s more o f t e n assumed t h a n e x p l i c i t l y examined. G e n e r a l o b s e r v a t i o n s a r e o f t e n advanced t o e x p l a i n t h e phenomenon o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y as t i e d t o a c h i l d - l i k e p o e t i c s i m p l i c i t y t h a t p r e s u m a b l y a p p e a l e d t o an A m e r i c a t h a t , i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , was e n t e r i n g i t s a d o l e s c e n c e (see B l a n k e n s h i p 336-38). The ways i n w h i c h Samuel L o n g f e l l o w ' s L i f e — a p o r t r a y a l d e v o t e d t o t h e s i m p l i s t i c m o r a l p u r i t y o f a t e a c h e r - c u m - p r e a c h e r i n t h e f i g u r e o f t h e p o e t — have h e l p e d t o produce and t o p e r p e t u a t e t h e above o b s e r v a t i o n have y e t t o be c h a l l e n g e d i n a manner t h a t would do more t h a n m e r e l y s u g g e s t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w d i d n o t f i t h i s b r o t h e r ' s 13 p e r c e p t i o n o f him. R e a d e r - r e c e p t i o n t h e o r y , o f t h e k i n d p r o p o s e d by J a u s s , s u g g e s t s p o s s i b i l i t i e s f o r new i n s i g h t s i n t o t h e h i s t o r i c a l s i g n i f i c a n c e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y o v e r t i m e , f u r t h e r i n g , i n t u r n , an u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e as more t h a n s i m p l y " a d o l e s c e n t . " Moreover, a n a l y s i s 1 3 H a l l a m Tennyson's Memoir o f h i s f a t h e r , on t h e o t h e r hand, has been c h a l l e n g e d by s e v e r a l c r i t i c s and b i o g r a p h e r s i n t h i s c e n t u r y . These c h a l l e n g e s a r e d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r t h r e e . o f a s i m i l a r i t y i n method between L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson adds a t r a n s a t l a n t i c d i m e n s i o n t o t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a u d i e n c e , t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f w h i c h i s o n l y b e g i n n i n g t o be r e a l i z e d . C r i t i c s have y e t t o a n a l y z e Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y i n r e l a t i o n t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s ; t h i s n e g l e c t seems t o d e r i v e from a sense t h a t s u c h an a n a l y s i s m i g h t undermine t h e c r i t i c a l r e p u t a t i o n t h a t Tennyson has o n l y r e c e n t l y r e c l a i m e d . N e v e r t h e l e s s , Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y was acknowledged by h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s i n ways s i m i l a r t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s a s , f o r example, when t h e L a u r e a t e f i r s t won t h e t i t l e "Poet o f t h e P e o p l e " from c r i t i c s a f t e r t h e g r e a t s u c c e s s i n 1864 o f Enoch A r d e n ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 3 5 4 ) . Though t h i s s t u d y d e v o t e s much o f i t s a t t e n t i o n t o L o n g f e l l o w as a p o p u l a r p o e t , w i t h Tennyson as h i s c o u n t e r p a r t , i t s p r i m a r y i n t e n t i o n i s t o d e v e l o p a new u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e r o l e o f t h e p u b l i c p o e t , w h i c h Tennyson a l s o was. C o n f i n e d t o a c o n t r a s t between p r i v a t e and p u b l i c m o t i v a t i o n s , t h e t e n s i o n s i n Tennyson's p o e t r y have been r e s t r i c t e d by most c r i t i c s t o t h o s e p r e s e n t i n an e a r l y , f o r m a t i v e p e r i o d a s , f o r example, i n "The P a l a c e o f A r t . " D u r i n g t h e 1840s, Tennyson worked a t a l i g n i n g , i f n o t c o n f l a t i n g , p r i v a t e and p u b l i c c o n c e r n s , w i t h I n Memoriam (1850) as t h e s u c c e s s f u l r e s u l t o f t h i s e f f o r t . Y e t no sooner had he a c h i e v e d p u b l i c l a u r e l s t h a n new and e q u a l l y f o r m i d a b l e t e n s i o n s a r o s e , stemming from h i s p o p u l a r i t y , t h a t were no l e s s c h a l l e n g i n g t o h i s s t a t u s as a p u b l i c spokesman t h a n h i s e a r l i e r p r i v a t e s e l f had been. Tennyson's s t r u g g l e now between a p u b l i c v o i c e and a p o t e n t i a l l y p o p u l a r one t u r n e d on whether he was g o i n g t o speak t o h i s age o r f o r i t . The d i s p a r a t e poems i n Tennyson's f i r s t f u l l volume a f t e r t h e l a u r e a t e s h i p , Maud and O t h e r Poems (1855), may be seen as a b a t t l e g r o u n d f o r j u s t such a s t r u g g l e : Tennyson as a p u b l i c p o e t was c o u n t e r e d , by t h e v o i c e , a l b e i t h i s own, o f t h e p o p u l a r p o e t . I n a famous l e t t e r , an anonymous r e a d e r i m m e d i a t e l y w r o t e t o e x p r e s s h i s h a t r e d f o r t h e L a u r e a t e ' s new p o e t r y : S I R , — I used t o w o r s h i p you, b u t now I h a t e you. I l o a t h e and d e t e s t you. You b e a s t ! So you've t a k e n t o i m i t a t i n g L o n g f e l l o w . Yours i n a v e r s i o n * * *. (Memoir 3 3 8 ) 1 4 A c c o u n t s o f Tennyson's r e s p o n s e t o t h i s i n d i c t m e n t v a r y . H i s son s u g g e s t s he t o o k i t humorously, w h i l e S i r C h a r l e s m a i n t a i n s t h a t i t was p a r t o f h i s "morbid i r r i t a t i o n about t h e c r i t i c i s m s " t h a t Maud had engendered ( 2 8 9 ) . Whatever h i s Two c l a r i f i c a t i o n s need t o be made h e r e . F i r s t , t h e one-volume Memoir has been used t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y f o r c o n v e n i e n c e and easy c r o s s - r e f e r e n c e . Second, n o t e s o f t e n i n c l u d e f u r t h e r remarks i n t h e same v e i n o r p o i n t o u t c o n t r a d i c t i o n s i n s o u r c e m a t e r i a l s . F o r i n s t a n c e , Tennyson b e l i e v e d t h a t t h i s l e t t e r was w r i t t e n by a c l e r i c a l p o e t and a c q u a i n t a n c e , A r c h e r Gurney, whom R o s s e t t i d e s c r i b e d as a "poor moke o f a f e l l o w " f o r b e i n g c o n s t a n t l y m a l i g n e d by Tennyson as i t s a u t h o r (see L e t t e r s I I 119, n. 2) However, s e v e r a l months l a t e r he w r o t e t o Gurney c o n f e s s i n g h i s b e l i e f and a p o l o g i z i n g f o r i t ; whether he s i n c e r e l y f e l t he had been m i s t a k e n seems d o u b t f u l , though, s i n c e t h e o v e r a l l t o n e o f h i s l e t t e r t o Gurney sounds a n o n e t h e l e s s a c c u s a t o r y n o t e (see L e t t e r s I I 137-8). a c t u a l r e s p o n s e , Tennyson's f r e q u e n t r e f e r e n c e s t o t h i s l e t t e r s u g g e s t t h a t t h e l i n k i n g o f h i s p o e t r y w i t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s a f f e c t e d h i s sense o f h i m s e l f as a p o e t a t a t i m e when h i s awareness o f h i s r e a d i n g p u b l i c seemed t o be a t odds w i t h h i s p r i v a t e b e l i e f i n h i s p o e t i c s u c c e s s . I n a l a r g e r s e n s e , Tennyson's c o n f l i c t m i r r o r e d t h e p r i m a r y d e b a t e o f V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d i t s e l f : t h e s t r u g g l e o v e r t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h t h e r u l i n g c l a s s e s would empower t h o s e below them t h r o u g h e x t e n s i o n o f p o l i t i c a l f r a n c h i s e . The p u b l i c p o e t , w e l l accustomed t o s p e a k i n g t o h i s a u d i e n c e , c o u l d a l l o w t h e i r v o i c e s t o be h e a r d b u t o n l y t h r o u g h h i m s e l f as t h e i r c o n d u i t . The p o p u l a r p o e t , on t h e o t h e r hand, speaks f o r h i s a u d i e n c e by a d a p t i n g t h e form and c o n t e n t o f h i s p o e t r y t o t h e t e n o r o f h i s a u d i e n c e ' s needs and d e s i r e s , t h e r e b y e n f r a n c h i s i n g them as c o - p r o d u c e r s o f h i s t e x t s . And s i n c e t h e p o l i t i c a l c h a l l e n g e t o B r i t a i n ' s c e n t u r i e s - o l d t r a d i t i o n o f p u b l i c w e a l was now coming from t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , w i t h i t s newly c o n s t i t u t e d democracy, i t seems o n l y f i t t i n g t h a t a s i m i l a r c h a l l e n g e t o B r i t a i n ' s t r a d i t i o n o f t h e p u b l i c p o e t s h o u l d a l s o come from A m e r i c a , t h r o u g h L o n g f e l l o w , t h e f i g u r e o f t h e p o p u l a r p o e t . O b v i o u s l y , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson assumed t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e r o l e s as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e u n i q u e l y , i n k e e p i n g w i t h t h e p o l i t i c a l i d e o l o g i e s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e n a t i o n s . Y e t by and l a r g e t h e y b o t h r e a c h e d o u t s i d e o s t e n s i b l y p o l i t i c a l a r e n a s f o r t h e i r p o e t r y , t o a s h a r e d p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h women as theme and, l i k e l y , as a u d i e n c e . The m i d d l e p e r i o d o f each p o e t ' s c a r e e r i s dominated by a f e m a l e - c e n t r e d p o e t r y w h i c h , i f n o t l i k e E v a n g e l i n e (1847) o r The P r i n c e s s (1847) e x p r e s s l y d e v o t e d t o women, sought t o i n t e r p r e t l i f e a c c o r d i n g t o d o m e s t i c p a t t e r n s o f l o v e , f a m i l i a l r e l a t i o n s , and t h e s i m p l e p l e a s u r e s o f t h e h e a r t h , w i t h w h i c h women were i n t i m a t e l y f a m i l i a r . Long r e c o g n i z e d as a major g e n r e i n t h e Tennyson canon, t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l has n o t been g i v e n much a t t e n t i o n i n L o n g f e l l o w c r i t i c i s m . M i l e s S t a n d i s h . f o r example, i s more o f t e n a n a l y z e d f o r i t s b o o k i s h i n f l u e n c e s t h a n f o r any i n t r i n s i c p o e t i c m e r i t o r f o r i t s r e c e p t i o n among i t s c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a d e r s . T h i s f a i l u r e t o r e c o g n i z e t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s canon, e s p e c i a l l y as i t r e l a t e s t o t h e r e c e p t i o n o f h i s p o e t r y by an i n c r e a s i n g l y f e m a l e a u d i e n c e , a t f i r s t g l a n c e a p p e a r s n o t t o have a f f e c t e d Tennyson s t u d i e s . As W. E. Fredeman c o n t e n d s , Tennyson " i s t h e d o m e s t i c p o e t p a r e x c e l l e n c e i n E n g l i s h " (365). And a few c r i t i c s o t h e r t h a n Fredeman, i n h i s "'Sphere o f Common D u t i e s ' " a r t i c l e , have c o n s i d e r e d Tennyson's use o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l i n some d e p t h : V a l e r i e P i t t i n Tennyson L a u r e a t e , P a t r i c k S c o t t i n h i s s h o r t monograph on Enoch Arden, and H e r b e r t T u c k e r i n h i s " I n E n g l a n d " c h a p t e r o f Tennyson and t h e Doom o f R o m a n t i c i s m . The number o f examples i s s m a l l , however, compared t o t h e c e n t r a l i t y o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l i n Tennyson's canon, and t o i t s enormous p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . Of book- l e n g t h s t u d i e s , D o n a l d H a i r ' s r e c e n t Domestic and H e r o i c i n Tennyson's P o e t r y seems t o make up f o r t h i s r e l a t i v e s h o r t f a l l i n Tennyson s c h o l a r s h i p . Y e t H a i r , a l t h o u g h r e c o g n i z i n g Tennyson's n o t i o n o f t h e home as a g u a r a n t o r o f s o c i a l s t a b i l i t y , n e v e r t h e l e s s v i e w s t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l as V i c t o r i a n d o m e s t i c i z a t i o n o f v a r i o u s r o m a n t i c and h e r o i c a r c h e t y p a l p a t t e r n s . Seen i n t h i s l i g h t , Tennyson's d o m e s t i c i d y l becomes s i m p l y a r e s e t t i n g o f t r a d i t i o n a l p o e t i c forms i n d o m e s t i c c o n t e x t s and n o t a s p e c i f i c p o e t i c form shaped by t h e d o m e s t i c i n t e r e s t s o f Tennyson's a u d i e n c e o f f r i e n d s , e d i t o r s , c r i t i c s , f e l l o w w r i t e r s ( i n c l u d i n g women), and g e n e r a l p u b l i c . C r i t i c a l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l w i t h i n a V i c t o r i a n c o n t e x t can o n l y be enhanced by a s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f t h e a u d i e n c e t h a t h e l p e d i t t o a c h i e v e s u c h prominence, an a u d i e n c e i n c r e a s i n g l y made up o f women. P a t t e e ' s The F e m i n i n e F i f t i e s and D o u g l a s ' s The F e m i n i z a t i o n o f A m e r i c a n C u l t u r e a r e j u s t two examples o f s t u d i e s d e v o t e d t o u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h e enormous power women e x e r t e d w i t h i n t h e l i t e r a r y and c l e r i c a l l i f e o f a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a . I n B r i t a i n , works such as S a r a Delamont and L o r n a D u f f i n ' s (eds.) The N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y Woman: Her C u l t u r a l and P h y s i c a l W o r l d and The Woman Q u e s t i o n : S o c i e t y and L i t e r a t u r e i n B r i t a i n and A m e r i c a , 1837-1883 ( E l i z a b e t h H e l s i n g e r e t a l ) e x p l o r e t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h V i c t o r i a n women p l a y e d r e c o g n i z a b l e r o l e s i n s h a p i n g t h e s o c i e t y i n w h i c h t h e y l i v e d . These s o c i o - c u l t u r a l h i s t o r i e s p o i n t t h e way t o w a r d a r e a s s e s s m e n t o f t h e c u l t u r a l m i l i e u t h a t L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n h a b i t e d , b o t h i n f l u e n c e d s p e c i f i c a l l y by women. T w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e c o g n i t i o n o f t h e p e j o r a t i v e l y " f e m i n i n e " cadences i n t h e p e o p l e ' s v o i c e o f t h e s e p o e t s i s , i f b r o u g h t f o r w a r d a t a l l , l i k e l y t o be d e r i s i v e r a t h e r t h a n e s p e c i a l l y p e r s p i c a c i o u s . And i n many r e s p e c t s , i t i s t h i s f e m i n i n e element i n b o t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y , i n i t s c l o s e a s s o c i a t i o n w i t h t h e s o - c a l l e d i n f a n t i l i s m o f V i c t o r i a n s e n t i m e n t , t h a t c o n t r i b u t e d t o t h e s e p o e t s ' e v e n t u a l d e c l i n e i n p o p u l a r i t y b e g i n n i n g i n t h e l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y and s p u r r e d on by t h e advent o f New C r i t i c i s m i n t h e e a r l y t w e n t i e t h . By 1932, L o n g f e l l o w had been r e l e g a t e d f o r e v e r t o t h e c l a s s r o o m s o f "wretched s c h o o l c h i l d r e n " ( L e w i s o h n 65) , t h e p e r i p h e r y o f c r i t i c a l r e s p e c t a b i l i t y . H i s c u r r e n c y can be d e t e r m i n e d a t a g l a n c e by h i s p l a c e m e n t w i t h i n A m e r i c a n L i t e r a r y S c h o l a r s h i p ; An A n n u a l (see Woodress) where works on L o n g f e l l o w a r e m e n t i o n e d i n t h e s u b - s e c t i o n " P o p u l a r W r i t e r s o f t h e M i d c e n t u r y " a l o n g w i t h t h o s e on o t h e r " F i r e s i d e P o e t s " and f e m a l e n o v e l i s t s l i k e Stowe, A l c o t t , and K i r k l a n d . I n c o n t r a d i s t i n c t i o n , Poe has a s e c t i o n o f h i s own and Whitman and D i c k i n s o n s h a r e a s e c t i o n . Tennyson can be s a i d t o have s u f f e r e d i n i t i a l l y a s i m i l a r d e c l i n e i n r e p u t a t i o n under t h e New C r i t i c i s m ; y e t , i r o n i c a l l y t h i s same l i t e r a r y p e r s p e c t i v e has c o n t r i b u t e d t o Tennyson's u l t i m a t e r e s t o r a t i o n t o t h e E n g l i s h canon. H a r o l d N i c o l s o n ' s s e p a r a t i o n o f Tennyson t h e b a r d from Tennyson t h e p o e t , w i t h t 36 d i s d a i n f o r t h e f o r m e r and v a l o r i z a t i o n o f t h e l a t t e r , o s t e n s i b l y began t h e b i f u r c a t i o n p r o c e s s by w h i c h Tennyson o v e r t i m e r e g a i n e d h i s c r i t i c a l s t a t u r e . Because he saw t h e p u b l i c b a r d as h a v i n g been u n d u l y i n f l u e n c e d by women, N i c o l s o n f e l t c o m p e l l e d t o s i l e n c e Tennyson's " V i c t o r i a n " f e m i n i n e v o i c e t o r e i n v i g o r a t e t h e p o e t ' s weakened r e p u t a t i o n ; i n so d o i n g he h e l p e d t o r e c a s t him as a modern p o e t a t odds w i t h h i s age, a r e c a s t i n g t h a t has c o n t i n u e d , i n v a r i o u s f o r m s , t o t h i s d a y . 1 5 A c t u a l l y , A.C. B r a d l e y ' s e a r l i e r l e c t u r e The R e a c t i o n A g a i n s t Tennyson (1917) began t h e p r o c e s s o f s e p a r a t i n g Tennyson as a l y r i c R o m a n t i c i s t from Tennyson as a V i c t o r i a n p o e t i n t e r e s t e d i n t h e m o r a l i t y o f t h e i d y l ( d o m e s t i c and A r t h u r i a n ) . N i c o l s o n ' s f u r t h e r b i f u r c a t i o n o f t h e p o e t a l o n g s i m i l a r l i n e s m e r e l y l i n k e d t h e m o r b i d , m e l a n c h o l i c p r i v a t e p o e t t o Tennyson's s o - c a l l e d "Romantic" l y r i c v o i c e . What f o l l o w e d was a f u r t h e r i n g o f t h e s p l i t between Tennyson's p u b l i c V i c t o r i a n i s m on t h e one hand and h i s p r i v a t e ( t o N i c o l s o n ) Romantic i m p u l s e s , on t h e o t h e r . The f o r m e r was e l a b o r a t e d on i n t h e f i r s t s c h o l a r l y , y e t s e v e r e l y c r i t i c a l , f u l l l e n g t h s t u d y o f Tennyson by P.F. Baum, Tennyson S i x t y Y e a r s A f t e r (1948). W h i l e Baum's argument d i d much t o r e v i v e Tennyson's p o e t r y f o r c r i t i c a l c o n t e m p l a t i o n ( a l b e i t n e g a t i v e l y ) , i t u l t i m a t e l y s t r e n g t h e n e d t h e p u b l i c ( t o Baum, ' p o p u l a r ' ) v s p r i v a t e d i v i s i o n i n Tennyson s t u d i e s t h a t has c o n t i n u e d t o t h i s day. Arguments a g a i n s t Baum, i f t h e y were t o c h a l l e n g e s u c c e s s f u l l y h i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f Tennyson as a p o e t l i m i t e d by h i s p u b l i c a c c e p t a n c e o f V i c t o r i a n s e n t i m e n t a l i t y , would have t o p r o v e Tennyson's c u r r e n c y as a p o e t by e q u a t i n g h i s p o e t r y w i t h t h a t o f a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y , o s t e n s i b l y p r i v a t e s e n s i b i l i t y . I m p l i c i t l y r e l i a n t on N i c o l s o n ' s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s , A . J . C a r r ' s e s s a y , "Tennyson as a Modern P o e t , " t r a n s f o r m s what N i c o l s o n had c a s t i n Tennyson as Romantic i n t o a f o r e s h a d o w i n g o f m o d e r n i t y : p r i v a t e moodiness i n c o n f l i c t w i t h p r o f e s s i o n a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , w i t h c o n f l i c t i t s e l f as t h e u l t i m a t e symbol o f a modern c o n s c i o u s n e s s . C h a p t e r t h r e e examines t h e p r i v a t e v s p u b l i c s p l i t i n Tennyson b i o g r a p h y and c r i t i c i s m i n d e p t h . But i t i s n o t enough t o r e s t o r e r e s p e c t a b i l i t y t o Tennyson by a t t e m p t i n g t o t r a n s f o r m him i n t o a modern p o e t : h i s major modes, e s p e c i a l l y t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l , b e l o n g t o t h e s e n s i b i l i t i e s o f a n o t h e r e r a , and t h e y , r a t h e r t h a n any r e c o g n i t i o n o f h i s m o d e r n i t y , a c c o u n t e d f o r h i s u n i v e r s a l p o p u l a r i t y among V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s . E q u a l l y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r v o i c e needs t o be r e e x a m i n e d i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e L a u r e a t e ' s i f t h e f e a t u r e s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r p o e t r y s p e c i f i c t o E n g l a n d and A m e r i c a a r e t o be e x p r e s s l y u n d e r s t o o d . O b v i o u s l y , a s t u d y o f t h i s k i n d c a n n o t p o s s i b l y hope t o p r o v i d e c l o s e a n a l y s e s o f a l l o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's most p o p u l a r poems; even i f s u c h a l i s t c o u l d be c o m p i l e d c o n c l u s i v e l y from t h e s a l e s r e c o r d s o f t h e s u c c e s s f u l volumes i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and E n g l a n d , t h e l i s t i t s e l f would be unmanageably l o n g . F u r t h e r m o r e , though i t i s f a i r t o say t h a t L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson b o t h o r i g i n a l l y a c h i e v e d p o e t i c a c c l a i m t h r o u g h t h e i r e a r l y l y r i c poems, i t i s e q u a l l y t r u e f o r b o t h p o e t s t h a t t h e l o n g poem s e c u r e d t h e i r n a t i o n a l and i n t e r n a t i o n a l r e p u t a t i o n s . And t h e l o n g poem r a r e l y l e n d s i t s e l f t o c l o s e a n a l y s i s . Tennyson's most p o p u l a r p o e m s — t h e E n g l i s h I d y l s , I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g (1859), and Enoch A r d e n — t e n d n o t t o be j u d g e d on t h e b a s i s o f t h e i r a p p e a l t o Tennyson's age, b u t r a t h e r on how c l o s e l y t h e y a p p r o x i m a t e t h e c l o s e s c r u t i n i z i n g t a s t e s o f our own, o f t e n w i t h d i s p a r a g i n g 38 r e s u l t s . 1 6 F i n a l l y , because Tennyson c o n t i n u e d t o e x p e r i m e n t w i t h v e r s e forms t h a t a c h i e v e d w i d e l y d i v e r g e n t d e g r e e s o f p u b l i c a c c e p t a n c e , b o t h i n h i s day and o u r s , any f u l l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e L a u r e a t e as a p u b l i c p o e t must a c c o u n t e q u a l l y f o r h i s s u c c e s s e s and r e l a t i v e f a i l u r e s i n a p e r i o d o f g e n e r a l l y acknowledged p o p u l a r a p p e a l . Such an a c c o u n t i s enhanced by a c o m p a r a t i v e s t u d y o f t h e most p o p u l a r p o e t o f t h e day, L o n g f e l l o w , s i n c e p o e t i c c o m p a r i s o n s encourage a f a r g r e a t e r a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h e impact o f a u d i e n c e upon p o p u l a r i t y t h a n does an e x a m i n a t i o n o f t h e p o e t r y i n i s o l a t i o n from i t s r e c e p t i o n . C o n s e q u e n t l y , t h e f i r s t f o u r c h a p t e r s o f t h i s s t u d y p r o v i d e a h i s t o r i c a l framework f o r c h a p t e r s f i v e and s i x f o c u s e d on s e l e c t poems from m i d - c e n t u r y when, a t t h e h e i g h t o f t h e i r c a r e e r s , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson p u b l i s h e d t h e i r major work, f u l l y c o g n i z a n t o f t h e i r p u b l i c l y s a n c t i o n e d r o l e s as n a t i o n a l r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s . C h a p t e r one d e f i n e s V i c t o r i a n p o p u l a r p o e t r y L i m i t e d t o pre-1855 poems, T u c k e r ' s most r e c e n t a t t e m p t i n h i s " I n E n g l a n d " c h a p t e r o f Tennyson and t h e Doom o f R o m a n t i c i s m , f o r a l l h i s p r o f e s s e d i n t e n t i o n s t o r e m a i n t r u e t o t h e h i s t o r i c a l r e l e v a n c e o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l s as a p o p u l a r V i c t o r i a n form, c a n n o t h e l p b u t expose h i s "modern" ( l a r g e l y New C r i t i c a l ) a e s t h e t i c b i a s a g a i n s t t h e s e poems p a r t i c u l a r l y s i n c e he h i m s e l f acknowledges t h a t h i s c r i t i c a l e x e g e s i s i s d r i v e n by t h e a s s u m p t i o n " t h a t good p o e t r y embodies c o n f l i c t s . a n d works t h r o u g h r e s i s t a n c e s " ( 7 8 ) . When t h e poems do n o t c o n t a i n c o n f l i c t o r pose r e s i s t a n c e — a c c o r d i n g t o T u c k e r — T e n n y s o n i s m e r e l y b e n d i n g h i s t a l e n t s t o h i s p u b l i c i n t h e " a r t i c u l a t i o n o f an a c c e p t a b l e w o r l d " ( 2 7 4 ) , and t h e poems a r e r e a d as " c a r e e r making" r a t h e r t h a n l i t e r a r y . " I n E x t r e m i s , " T u c k e r ' s c h a p t e r on Tennyson's e a r l y d r a m a t i c monologues, d e m o n s t r a t e s T u c k e r ' s d e c i d e d p r e f e r e n c e f o r what he r e c a s t s as modern, c o n f r o n t a t i o n a l v e r s e . i n e m p i r i c a l and t h e o r e t i c a l t e r m s . C h a p t e r s two, t h r e e , and f o u r d i s c u s s t h e u n d e r l y i n g b i o g r a p h i c a l and c u l t u r a l r e a s o n s f o r t h e e v o l u t i o n , on b o t h s i d e s o f t h e A t l a n t i c , o f what m i g h t be c a l l e d B a r d i c v o i c e s t h a t a p p e a l e d t h e m a t i c a l l y t o a p o p u l a r r e a d e r s h i p , i n c r e a s i n g l y f e m a l e , c o n d i t i o n e d t o d o m e s t i c v a l u e s o f home and f a m i l y — l o v e and d u t y . 1 7 C h a p t e r f i v e l o o k s a t p o p u l a r l y r i c s w h i l e c h a p t e r s i x examines p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poems. I n t h e s e two c h a p t e r s , t h e r o l e o f t h e a u d i e n c e i s b r o u g h t t o b e a r upon an u n d e r s t a n d i n g , i n t e r p r e t a t i o n , and a p p l i c a t i o n o f s e l e c t e d p o p u l a r poems o f m i d - c e n t u r y by L o n g f e l l o w and T e n n y s o n . 1 8 F i n a l l y , t h e c o n c l u s i o n d e s c r i b e s t h e d e c l i n e o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson r e s p e c t i v e l y as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e , and q u e s t i o n s some o f t h e To some e x t e n t , such an a n a l y s i s must acknowledge t h e p o e t r y o f t h e p o p u l a r f e m a l e p o e t s o f t h e d a y — M r s . Hemans i n E n g l a n d and Mrs. S i g o u r n e y , commonly c a l l e d " t h e Mrs. Hemans o f A m e r i c a " — i f o n l y t o p r o v i d e a background o f w i d e s p r e a d p o p u l a r i t y g a i n e d t h r o u g h o v e r t s e n t i m e n t a l i z a t i o n a g a i n s t w h i c h t h e use o f s e n t i m e n t by t h e i r male c o n t e m p o r a r i e s may be v i e w e d . U n d e r s t a n d i n g , i n t e r p r e t a t i o n and a p p l i c a t i o n a r e t h e t h r e e f a c e t s o f h e r m e n e u t i c r e a d i n g d e s c r i b e d as s u c c e s s i v e l e v e l s by J a u s s i n h i s e s s a y "The P o e t i c T e x t w i t h i n t h e Change o f H o r i z o n s o f R e a d i n g : The Example o f B a u d e l a i r e ' s ' S p l e e n I I ' " i n Toward an A e s t h e t i c o f R e c e p t i o n (139-85). U n d e r s t a n d i n g i n v o l v e s an a e s t h e t i c r e a d i n g o f p o e t i c s t r u c t u r e s (a l a r g e l y s u b j e c t i v e e n t e r p r i s e ) ; i n t e r p r e t a t i o n r e q u i r e s r e t r a n s l a t i o n ( s u b j e c t i v e ) o f t h e o r i g i n a l a e s t h e t i c t e x t i n t o t h e h o r i z o n f o r a subsequent d i a l e c t i c a l r e a d i n g ( o b j e c t i v e ) i n w h i c h t h e t e x t poses q u e s t i o n s t h a t i n t e r p r e t a t i o n a t t e m p t s t o answer, t h e r e b y a l l o w i n g f o r t h e r e a d e r ' s p a r t i n t h e g e n e s i s o f t h e a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t ; a p p l i c a t i o n demands a t h i r d g e n e r a l l y o b j e c t i v e r e a d i n g i n w h i c h t h e h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t p r o v i d e s a h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s t h r o u g h w h i c h meaning i s c r e a t e d . r e a s o n s f o r t h e i r p r e s e n t l i t e r a r y s t a t u s . The u l t i m a t e aim, however, i s n o t t o r e s t o r e e i t h e r L o n g f e l l o w ' s o r Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y t o t h e i r e s t a b l i s h e d A m e r i c a n o r B r i t i s h canons p e r s e . Nor i s i t , i n t h e c o n c l u s i o n , t o q u e s t i o n t h e a u t h o r i t y o f canon f o r m a t i o n i t s e l f as a c r i t i c a l endeavour. R a t h e r , t h e f i n a l p a r a g r a p h s o f t h i s s t u d y examine t h e s e l e c t i o n p r o c e s s e s t h a t e x c l u d e d L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson from u n i v e r s i t y c u r r i c u l a as t h e y e x i s t e d w i t h i n a h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s g o v e r n i n g t h e d i s t i n c t i o n between " p o p u l a r " and " r e s p e c t a b l e " l i t e r a t u r e i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h i s c e n t u r y . There a r e , o f c o u r s e , i n h e r e n t d i f f i c u l t i e s i n a s t u d y i n r e a d e r - r e c e p t i o n h i s t o r y . As J a u s s h i m s e l f a d m i t s o f a l l a e s t h e t i c e x p e r i e n c e , " [ w ] h e t h e r t h e e x p e r i e n c e o f t h e p a s t v i e w e r , t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y o f t h e t e x t , can be de f a c t o r e c o v e r e d . . . c o u l d o n l y be c o n f i r m e d by ( u s u a l l y l a c k i n g ) documents d e t a i l i n g t h e s p e c i f i c s e n s o r y p e r c e p t i o n o f p a s t p e r i o d s " ( A e s t h e t i c E x p e r i e n c e 6 4 ) . The p a u c i t y o f d o c u m e n t a t i o n about L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a d e r s h i p , p a r t i c u l a r l y w i t h r e s p e c t t o women, i s an o b v i o u s d i f f i c u l t y w i t h w h i c h t h i s s t u d y has had t o c o n t e n d . E x t a n t d o c u m e n t a t i o n o f i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson, from t h e s e r i o u s t o t h e g l i b , from t h e i m i t a t i v e t o t h e p a r o d i c , does however shed v a l u a b l e l i g h t on t h e p r o d u c t i o n and r e c e p t i o n o f a much m a l i g n e d body o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y . W h i l e t o o easy g e n e r a l i z a t i o n s about one c u l t u r e based on a n o t h e r — e s p e c i a l l y two s e p a r a t e d by an o c e a n — i s a p i t f a l l t o be a v o i d e d , r e c e n t t r a n s a t l a n t i c c o m p a r a t i v e s c h o l a r s h i p , w h i c h i s b r o a d e n i n g t h e h o r i z o n s o f l i t e r a r y r e s e a r c h , l e n d s a d i s t i n c t t i m e l i n e s s t o an e x a m i n a t i o n o f t h e two most p o p u l a r p o e t s o f t h e age, whose p o e t r y b o t h r e f l e c t e d and i n f l u e n c e d t h e c u l t u r e o f t h e i r own and each o t h e r ' s c o u n t r i e s . That t h e y c o n t i n u e t o do s o , a l t h o u g h i n ways g r e a t l y d i f f e r e n t from t h e i r o r i g i n a l i m p a c t , a t t e s t s t o t h e t r u l y h i s t o r i c a l s i g n i f i c a n c e o f t h e i r most r e v e r e d poems. 42 CHAPTER ONE 'FOOTPRINTS ON THE SANDS OF TIME' THE EMERGENCE OF POPULAR POETRY IN THE VICTORIAN PERIOD P r o b a b l y no p o e t who has e v e r l i v e d e n j o y e d more fame d u r i n g h i s l i f e t i m e t h a n d i d Tennyson. — J o h n E i d s o n 1943 (149) L o n g f e l l o w . . . a t t r a c t e d d u r i n g h i s l i f e t i m e a number o f r e a d e r s t h r o u g h o u t t h e w o r l d u n e q u a l l e d by any p o e t i n h i s day. — C l a r e n c e Ghodes 1944 (American L i t e r a t u r e 99) Poetry and Popular Culture A l t h o u g h fame and w i d e s p r e a d r e a d e r s h i p a r e n o t i d e n t i c a l , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson appear t o have s h a r e d e q u a l l y t h e V i c t o r i a n t i t l e o f t h e " P e o p l e ' s P o e t . " S e c t i o n s two and t h r e e o f t h i s c h a p t e r d i s c u s s t h i s c l a i m based on e m p i r i c a l e v i d e n c e c o n c e r n i n g t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f v a r i o u s t e x t s i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e t r a n s a t l a n t i c p r o d u c t i o n and p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h e two p o e t s ' works. B u t , because an a u t h o r ' s p o p u l a r i t y a l s o stems from t h e r e a d e r s ' i n t e r a c t i o n s w i t h t e x t s , whether a c t u a l l y p u r c h a s e d o r n o t , any e m p i r i c a l a n a l y s i s o f p o p u l a r p o e t r y needs t o be supplemented by a t h e o r e t i c a l e x a m i n a t i o n o f V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s as p o p u l a r i z e r s . S e c t i o n f o u r i s a two- p a r t s t u d y o f A m e r i c a n and B r i t i s h a u d i e n c e s : as consumers w i t h i n a s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t t h a t a l l o w e d f o r book c o n s u m p t i o n , and as consumers and c o - p r o d u c e r s o f n a t i o n a l c u l t u r e , w i t h t h e p o e t s t h e m s e l v e s as c o m m o d i t i e s f o r p u b l i c p e r u s a l and p u r c h a s e . F o r t h e f i r s t t i m e i n Western c u l t u r a l 43 h i s t o r y , t e c h n o l o g i c a l i n n o v a t i o n s i n book p r o d u c t i o n and advances i n l i t e r a c y and e d u c a t i o n c o i n c i d e d t o p r o d u c e p o e t i c t e x t s t h a t c o u l d be, and i n d e e d were, r e a d by an A n g l o - A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e t h a t was n o t r e s t r i c t e d by n a t i o n a l , c l a s s , o r gender b o u n d a r i e s o r d i s t i n c t i o n s . The p u b l i c a t i o n and s a l e s h i s t o r i e s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson have been p a i n s - s t a k i n g l y r e s e a r c h e d and documented i n t h i s c e n t u r y , b u t , however s u g g e s t i v e l y c o n v i n c i n g t h e f a c t u a l d e t a i l s may seem i n e s t a b l i s h i n g t h e r e l a t i v e p o p u l a r i t y o f t h e two p o e t s , t h e y a r e n o t by t h e m s e l v e s s u f f i c i e n t t o v a l i d a t e L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's t r u e p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e i r own o r each o t h e r ' s c o u n t r y . Of c o u r s e , t h e f a c t s a r e n e i t h e r c o m p l e t e n o r w h o l l y a c c u r a t e . F o r t h i s r e a s o n , s t a t i s t i c a l e v i d e n c e r e l a t i n g t o p r o d u c t i o n and s a l e s f i g u r e s i s used i n t h i s c h a p t e r and i n t h e a p p e n d i c e s on L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson ( I & I I ) w i t h t h e c a v e a t s t h a t t h e numbers a r e m e r e l y t h e b e s t a v a i l a b l e e s t i m a t e s d e r i v e d by c o m p a r i n g s e v e r a l d i f f e r e n t s o u r c e s ; and, t h e i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f t h o s e numbers t e n d s t o be more s p e c u l a t i v e more t h a n c o n c l u s i v e . 1 They a r e , however, based on s t a t i s t i c a l e v i d e n c e 1 Where p o s s i b l e , o b v i o u s c o n t r a d i c t i o n s among d i f f e r e n t s o u r c e s a r e n o t e d i n t h e t e x t o r i n a f o o t n o t e . A n o t h e r d i f f i c u l t y w i t h w h i c h t h i s c h a p t e r has had t o c o n t e n d i s t e r m i n o l o g y : e d i t i o n s , i m p r e s s i o n s , r e p r i n t s , i s s u e s , and so f o r t h . N i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p u b l i s h e r s t e n d e d t o use " e d i t i o n " f o r a l m o s t any new p r i n t - r u n s , even i f t h e t y p e - s e t had n o t changed. G e n e r a l l y s p e a k i n g , u n l e s s a new e d i t i o n ( i n t h e modern sense) i s b e i n g r e f e r r e d t o , e d i t i o n i s u s e d h e r e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y sense t o i n d i c a t e a new r e l e a s e o f however many c o p i e s t o t h e p u b l i c . m a r s h a l l e d , f o r L o n g f e l l o w , by W. S. T r y o n and W i l l i a m C h a r v a t i n The C o s t Books o f T i c k n o r and F i e l d s and, f o r Tennyson, by June Hagen i n Tennyson and H i s P u b l i s h e r s , supplemented i n each c a s e by p e r i p h e r a l p u b l i c a t i o n s — b i o g r a p h i e s , l e t t e r s , b i b l i o g r a p h i e s , and p u b l i s h i n g h i s t o r i e s . The p r o b l e m a t i c n a t u r e o f s t a t i s t i c a l i n t e r p r e t a t i o n i s w e l l i n d i c a t e d by t h e s e e m i n g l y c o n t r a d i c t o r y c l a i m s made by E i d s o n and Ghodes f o r t h e g r e a t e r p o p u l a r i t y o f Tennyson and L o n g f e l l o w i n t h e e p i g r a p h s t o t h i s c h a p t e r . On b a l a n c e , Ghodes's c l a i m , based on s u r v i v i n g d o c u m e n t a t i o n , would seem t o be more f i r m l y grounded, b u t T r y o n and C h a r v a t ' s r e s e a r c h e s , based on t h e T i c k n o r and F i e l d s c o s t books, i n t o t h e r e l a t i o n s h i p between t h e p r o d u c t i o n , m a r k e t i n g , and s a l e s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n A m e r i c a , o f f e r c o n v i n c i n g e v i d e n c e t h a t b o t h p o e t s s o l d e q u a l l y w e l l i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . The west t o e a s t c o u n t e r p a r t t o T r y o n ' s " N a t i o n a l i s m and I n t e r n a t i o n a l C o p y r i g h t , " a c o m p a r a t i v e s t u d y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n A m e r i c a , and C h a r v a t ' s two e s s a y s on L o n g f e l l o w i n The P r o f e s s i o n o f A u t h o r s h i p i n A m e r i c a , i s f o u n d i n t h e works o f C l a r e n c e Ghodes who, i n " L o n g f e l l o w and h i s A u t h o r i z e d B r i t i s h P u b l i s h e r s " (1940) and an a n a l y s i s o f t h e i m p a c t o f u n a u t h o r i z e d e d i t i o n s , cheap r e p r i n t s , and v a r i o u s s o r t s o f p i r a t e d e x t r a c t s o f A m e r i c a n t e x t s i n E n g l a n d , t r a c e s t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w i n E n g l a n d . Comparable B r i t i s h r e c o r d s f o r Tennyson a r e f a r l e s s c o m p l e t e . The l a c u n a i s u n f o r t u n a t e , b u t even t h e f u l l e s t s a l e s r e c o r d s would n o t p r o v i d e an adequate e m p i r i c a l b a s i s on w h i c h t o p r o v e o r d i s p r o v e p o p u l a r i t y . S a l e s f i g u r e s a l o n e — e s p e c i a l l y t h o s e l i m i t e d t o t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and E n g l a n d — d o n o t r e f l e c t a c c u r a t e l y enough t h e numbers o f t e x t s t h a t may have been r e a d : n o t o n l y do t h e y f a i l t o a c c o u n t f o r s a l e s i n t r a n s l a t i o n s and i n t h e c o l o n i e s , p i r a t e d e d i t i o n s , p u b l i c a t i o n i n newspapers and magazines, a n t h o l o g i e s and g i f t b o o k s , b u t t h e y a l s o e x c l u d e b o r r o w i n g s from l i b r a r i e s . L i t e r a r y and s o c i a l h i s t o r i a n s a l i k e r e l y on documented a c c o u n t s o f a u t h o r s ' contemporary a c c e p t a n c e t o adduce t h e i r p o p u l a r i t y w i t h i n a g i v e n s o c i a l c o n t e x t , w h i c h may r a n g e from p u b l i c r e v i e w s t h r o u g h s e m i - p u b l i c l e t t e r s and a n e c d o t e s o f l e a d i n g p u b l i c f i g u r e s c o n t a i n e d w i t h i n j o u r n a l s , d i a r i e s , memoirs, and t h e l i k e , t o t h e somewhat more p r i v a t e r e s p o n s e s o f t h e members o f t h e g e n e r a l p u b l i c who, f o r t h e i r u n i q u e o r t e l l i n g q u a l i t y , make i t i n t o p r i n t i n d i r e c t l y i n a v a r i e t y o f p u b l i c s o u r c e s documenting t h e " l i f e and t i m e s " o f a g i v e n f i g u r e . As h i s t o r i c a l e v i d e n c e o f a more o r l e s s " f a c t u a l " k i n d , s u c h a c c o u n t s a r e h e r e added t o e x i s t i n g s t a t i s t i c a l p r o o f s as e q u a l l y u s e f u l e m p i r i c a l gages o f p o p u l a r i t y . The use o f t h e s e a c c o u n t s , however, n e c e s s a r i l y i n v o l v e s a c e r t a i n d e g r e e o f c a u t i o n , s i n c e t h e i r e v i d e n t i a l r e l i a b i l i t y i s c o n d i t i o n e d by a t l e a s t t h r e e f a c t o r s : t h e a v a i l a b i l i t y o f t h e s e a c c o u n t s o v e r t i m e ; t h e u n d e r l y i n g m o t i v e s o f t h e s p e a k e r s o r w r i t e r s o f them; and t h e s u b j e c t i v e r a t i o n a l e ( o r 2 b i a s ) o f s c h o l a r s i n s e l e c t i n g t h e i r d o c u m e n t a t i o n . Because e v i d e n c e o f t h i s s o r t i s b e s t employed q u a l i t a t i v e l y r a t h e r t h a n q u a n t i t a t i v e l y , t h i s c h a p t e r perhaps r i s k s some i n a c c u r a c y i n i t s use o f c o n t e m p o r a r y v o i c e s ; y e t , t h e i n t e n t i o n i s t o h e a r them as r e p r e s e n t a t i v e o f p o p u l a r o p i n i o n r a t h e r t h a n as a u t h o r i t a t i v e . I n s h o r t , t h e l i m i t a t i o n s o f e v i d e n c e mean t h a t V i c t o r i a n p o p u l a r p o e t r y c a n n o t o n l y be d e f i n e d e m p i r i c a l l y . " P o p u l a r " c o n c e p t u a l i z e s a r e l a t i o n s h i p among a r t i s t s , t h e i r work, and t h e i r c o n t e m p o r a r y a u d i e n c e s . 3 The p o p u l a r i t y o f a p o e t ' s work must t h e r e f o r e be s t u d i e d t h e o r e t i c a l l y as w e l l as e m p i r i c a l l y , n o t s i m p l y a c c e p t e d as an o b j e c t i v e measure o f t h e p o e t ' s p o s i t i o n i n a g i v e n s o c i e t y . V a r i o u s f e a t u r e s o f t h e p o e t ' s work must be a n a l y s e d so as t o d e t e r m i n e t h e l i k e l y d e g r e e o f p o p u l a r i t y and r e a s o n s f o r i t even when t h e Where p o s s i b l e , a t t e m p t s have been made t o use p r i m a r y s o u r c e s f o r a c c o u n t s from l e t t e r s , memoirs, and so on. E x c e r p t s from r e v i e w s , however, have been t a k e n from c o l l e c t i o n s o f r e p r i n t s o r from s e c o n d a r y s o u r c e s . A t l e a s t two a s p e c t s o f " p o p u l a r " a r e n o t s t a t e d d i r e c t l y i n t h e g e n e r a l d e f i n i t i o n t h a t f o l l o w s . F i r s t , i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y p o p u l a r i s used p r i m a r i l y t o d e s c r i b e dynamic a c t i v i t i e s — s p o r t s f o r e x a m p l e — r a t h e r t h a n s t a t i c a r t i s t i c c r e a t i o n s . Y e t i t i s a l s o used t o d e s c r i b e a v a r i e t y o f e n t e r t a i n m e n t s ( i n c l u d i n g s p o r t s , f i l m s , m u s i c , e t c . ) , and as s u c h has l i n k s t o t h e ways i n w h i c h a r t i s t i c c r e a t i o n s a l s o i n d u c e d i f f e r i n g l e v e l s o f " a c t i v i t y " on t h e p a r t o f t h o s e whom t h e y a r e d e s i g n e d t o engage. Second, a r t i s t i c c r e a t i o n s may a c h i e v e t h e i r p o p u l a r i t y among a u d i e n c e s h i s t o r i c a l l y and g e o g r a p h i c a l l y d i s t a n t from t h o s e f o r whom t h e y were o r i g i n a l l y i n t e n d e d . On t h e p r o b l e m a t i c n a t u r e o f t h e terms " p o p u l a r " and " t h e p e o p l e " see Tony B e n n e t t ' s "The P o l i t i c s o f 'the P o p u l a r ' and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e " i n P o p u l a r C u l t u r e and S o c i a l R e l a t i o n s ( 6 - 2 1 ) . 47 e m p i r i c a l d a t a t o v e r i f y t h e work's p o p u l a r i t y a r e u n a v a i l a b l e . I n t h i s c e n t u r y , p o e t r y r a r e l y forms a p a r t o f t h e o r e t i c a l d i s c u s s i o n s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e . Even i f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e t h e o r i s t s r e c o g n i z e p o e t r y as a n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r medium, t h e y do so o n l y i n a l i m i t e d f a s h i o n . H i s t o r i a n s o f p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e i n A m e r i c a , f o r example, u s u a l l y f o c u s t h e i r a t t e n t i o n s on t h e n o v e l , i n an a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y e m p i r i c a l a c c o u n t i n g o f t h e " b e s t s e l l e r " phenomenon. And s i n c e s a l e s o f p o e t r y c o u l d h a r d l y be s a i d t o match s a l e s o f n o v e l s s u c h as U n c l e Tom's C a b i n — s a l e s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f n o t e d r e a c h e d a m i l l i o n c o p i e s w i t h i n t h e f i r s t y e a r o f i t s p u b l i c a t i o n — L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson a c c o u n t f o r v e r y l i t t l e i n d i s c u s s i o n s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e . 4 On t h e o t h e r s i d e o f t h e A t l a n t i c , s t u d i e s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d seldom i n v o l v e " l i t e r a t e " a c t i v i t i e s a t a l l , d e s i g n e d as t h e y a r e t o a c c o u n t f o r t h e n e w l y - c r e a t e d l e i s u r e p a s t i m e s o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y as a W r i t i n g i n h i s j o u r n a l f o r Feb. 24, 1853, L o n g f e l l o w a l s o remarked w i t h some envy o f H a r r i e t Beecher Stowe t h a t a t "one s t e p she has r e a c h e d t h e t o p o f t h e s t a i r c a s e up w h i c h t h e r e s t o f us c l i m b on our knees y e a r a f t e r y e a r . Never was t h e r e s u c h a l i t e r a r y coup de main as t h i s " ( L i f e I I 233). But L o n g f e l l o w knew f u l l w e l l t h a t p o e t r y was n o t f i c t i o n . Of s t u d i e s d e v o t e d t o p o p u l a r c u l t u r e , R u s s e l l Nye's "Rhymes f o r E v e r y b o d y " i n The Unembarrassed Muse: The P o p u l a r A r t s i n A m e r i c a (88-137) i s an e x c e p t i o n t o t h e r u l e t h a t because o f enormous s a l e s o n l y f i c t i o n w a r r a n t s s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n as p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e s i n c e Nye a t t e m p t s more t h a n an e m p i r i c a l s t u d y o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r A m e r i c a n p o e t r y . Nye's work i s d i s c u s s e d below. 48 phenomenon o f i n d u s t r i a l c a p i t a l i s m . I f and when p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e does e n t e r i n t o s u c h d i s c u s s i o n s , i t does so p r i m a r i l y i n a n a l y s e s o f t h e magazine o r newspaper t r a d e ; s e n t i m e n t a l romances even f i n d i t d i f f i c u l t t o make t h e i r mark i n s t u d i e s o f V i c t o r i a n p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n B r i t a i n . 5 T h i s o v e r l o o k i n g o f b o t h t h e " b e s t s e l l e r i s m " o f p o e t r y and t h e f e a t u r e s t h a t i t s h a r e s w i t h t h e l e i s u r e a c t i v i t i e s o f V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n stem p r e d o m i n a n t l y from an e l i t i s t t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y d e f i n i t i o n o f p o e t r y as " h i g h c u l t u r e " : p o e t r y i n t e l l e c t u a l l y , a e s t h e t i c a l l y and e m o t i o n a l l y s t i m u l a t i n g t o a s e l e c t c l a s s o f r e a d e r s e d u c a t e d t o a p p r e c i a t e i t s s u b t l e a p p e a l . By t h e same t o k e n , t h e e x p e r i e n c e o f p o e t r y i s t h o u g h t o f as an i n d i v i d u a l one 5 A l t h o u g h p u b l i s h e d more t h a n t w e n t y y e a r s ago, The H i s t o r y o f P o p u l a r C u l t u r e ( C a n t o r n and Werthman eds.) i s s t i l l an o b v i o u s r e c o r d o f t h e e x c l u s i o n o f p o e t r y from s t u d i e s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e . T h i s mammoth a n t h o l o g y o f b r i e f e s s a y s on s o c i a l i s s u e s a f f e c t i n g t h e r i s e o f v a r i o u s c u l t u r a l a c t i v i t i e s o v e r t i m e does n o t i n c l u d e p o e t r y even among t h o s e a c t i v i t i e s d i s c u s s e d i n " D i v e r t i n g and I m p r o v i n g t h e M i n d " i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y B r i t a i n and A m e r i c a (480-97). B r i t i s h p o p u l a r c u l t u r e s c h o l a r s who do s t u d y l i t e r a t u r e i n c l u d e Leo L o w e n t h a l , i n h i s L i t e r a t u r e , P o p u l a r C u l t u r e , and S o c i e t y ( 1 9 6 1 ) , V i c t o r E. Neuburg, i n h i s P o p u l a r L i t e r a t u r e , A H i s t o r y and a Guide (1977) , and D a v i d V i n c e n t i n h i s r e c e n t L i t e r a c y and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e (1989). L o w e n t h a l ' s s o c i o l o g i c a l s t u d y i s u n f o r t u n a t e l y l i m i t e d t o changes i n p r e - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y p o p u l a r t a s t e , w h i l e Neuburg's h i s t o r y o f v a r i o u s l i t e r a t u r e s p u b l i s h e d f o r t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s c o n c e r n s i t s e l f w i t h p o e t r y o n l y i n t h e forms o f s t r e e t b a l l a d s , cheap r e p r i n t s o f " c l a s s i c s , " o r as p a r t o f an o r a l t r a d i t i o n . 1 The f o c u s o f V i n c e n t ' s work i s a l s o t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s , i n t h i s c a s e , t h e ways i n w h i c h l i t e r a c y , e d u c a t i o n , and s o c i o - economic c o n d i t i o n s a f f e c t e d t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f work w r i t t e n by and f o r t h e l a b o u r i n g c l a s s e s . As s u c h , t h e s e s t u d i e s s e r v e as i n t e r e s t i n g bases f o r c o m p a r i s o n w i t h t h e p o p u l a r p o e t r y o f B r i t a i n ' s m i d d l e c l a s s e s . t 49 e l i c i t i n g p r i v a t e ( a l t h o u g h — p a r a d o x i c a l l y — s u p p o s e d l y u n i v e r s a l ) a p p r o v a l r a t h e r t h a n c o l l e c t i v e a s s e n t by an e n t i r e community o f r e a d e r s . Judged by t h e s e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s t a n d a r d s , V i c t o r i a n " p o p u l a r p o e t r y " c a n c e l s i t s e l f out as a c o n t r a d i c t i o n i n t e r m s . Indeed, many l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i a n s choose t o c a l l n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y r e a d on a mass s c a l e " p o p u l a r v e r s e " i n s t e a d , e s p e c i a l l y when d e a l i n g w i t h l y r i c s by f e m a l e p o e t s such as F e l i c i a Hemans.6 Y e t s u c h o v e r - d e t e r m i n i s t i c c l a s s i f i c a t i o n s i n v a r i a b l y n e g l e c t works w h i c h s i m p l y do n o t f i t t h e scheme: L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's t r u l y p o p u l a r poems a r e c a s e s i n p o i n t . Poets and Their Bibliographies: Longfellow A l t h o u g h c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson emerged w i t h i n t h e i r own c o u n t r i e s as u n i q u e " p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e " n o t j u s t because o f t h e d i f f e r e n c e s between A m e r i c a ' s and B r i t a i n ' s a u d i e n c e s . R a t h e r , t h e p u b l i c a t i o n methods and m a r k e t i n g o f l i t e r a t u r e s p e c i f i c t o A m e r i c a and B r i t a i n a l s o a s s u r e d each p o e t a d i f f e r e n t , t h o u g h no l e s s r e m a r k a b l e , P e t e r T r i n d e r ' s r e c e n t s t u d y , Mrs Hemans. i s t y p i c a l . He c o n t e n d s t h a t " t h e c r i t i c a l q u e s t i o n w i l l a l w a y s be a t what p o i n t s can we d i s t i n g u i s h h e r v e r s e by t h e name o f p o e t r y , " t h a t i s , i n h i s t e r m s , a " s e l f - c o n t a i n e d e x p e r i e n c e s u i g e n e r i s " ; he adds t h a t t h e r e " i s a d i v i d i n g l i n e between t h e c o n v e n i e n t terms v e r s e and p o e t r y . . . . I t a k e t h i s l i n e t o be a d i s t i n c t i o n i n k i n d . " D e f i n i n g h i s c a t e g o r i e s f u r t h e r s t i l l , T r i n d e r u l t i m a t e l y c o n t e n d s t h a t Mrs Hemans was n o t , however, one o f t h e " i n t e r m i n a b l e p o e t a s t e r s " ( 7 - 8 ) . O n l y i n t h i s c e n t u r y have s u c h r i g i d c l a s s i f i c a t i o n s become e n t r e n c h e d i n c r i t i c a l d i s c o u r s e ; a l t h o u g h t h e terms t h e m s e l v e s were used by n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s , t h e y r a r e l y c a r r i e d such p r e s e t d e t e r m i n a t i o n s o f v a l u e upon a s c a l e t h a t t h e r e a d i n g p u b l i c would u n a n i m o u s l y r e c o g n i z e and s u p p o r t . s u c c e s s . These t r a n s a t l a n t i c d i f f e r e n c e s i n t h e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f t h e p h y s i c a l t e x t and i t s subsequent p o p u l a r i z a t i o n r e s u l t e d i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s managing t o a c h i e v e a more immediate, and t h u s p o t e n t i a l l y more w i d e s p r e a d , n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r i t y t h a n Tennyson d e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t began h i s p o e t i c c a r e e r p r o p e r a l m o s t a decade l a t e r t h a n Tennyson: i n 183 9 w i t h V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t a f t e r Tennyson had a l r e a d y p u b l i s h e d b o t h Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l (183 0) and Poems (1833). I n c o n t r a s t t o Tennyson's r e l u c t a n t p r o m o t i o n o f h i m s e l f ( e s p e c i a l l y i n t h e e a r l y y e a r s o f h i s c a r e e r ) , L o n g f e l l o w was f u l l y p r e p a r e d t o p l a y b o t h businessman and p o e t t o e n s u r e t h a t h i s "wares" r e a c h e d t h e i r l a r g e s t p o s s i b l e market. L o n g f e l l o w ' s e n t e r p r i s i n g n a t u r e f i r s t r e v e a l s i t s e l f i n s e l f - p r o m o t i o n . From t h e l a t e 1820s and even i n t o t h e 1850s, he p u b l i s h e d i n p e r i o d i c a l s and a n n u a l s many i s o l a t e d l y r i c s , b a l l a d s , e s s a y s and o t h e r s h o r t p i e c e s d e s i g n e d f o r w i d e s p r e a d a u d i e n c e a p p e a l . I n The P r o f e s s i o n o f A u t h o r s h i p i n A m e r i c a , C h a r v a t a l l e g e s o f L o n g f e l l o w t h a t i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , " i t i s d o u b t f u l whether any o t h e r p o e t o f t h e c e n t u r y was so r e s o u r c e f u l i n b r i n g i n g h i s work b e f o r e t h e p u b l i c i n so many forms and on so many p r i c e l e v e l s . " He f u r t h e r p o i n t s o u t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w chose t h r e e d i f f e r e n t media: s i n g l e p u b l i c a t i o n i n a newspaper, magazine o r a n n u a l ; c o l l e c t i o n i n a s m a l l volume; r e a s s e m b l y o f s m a l l volumes i n a " c o l l e c t e d " e d i t i o n ( 1 5 7 ) . The f i r s t o f t h e s e b r o u g h t h i s name b e f o r e t h e p u b l i c ; t h e second and t h i r d e n s u r e d t h a t i t would r e m a i n t h e r e . As c h a p t e r two d e m o n s t r a t e s , L o n g f e l l o w o r i g i n a l l y began h i s c a r e e r as a p o e t i n t h e 1820s w i t h an i n t e n s e d e s i r e t o be famous y e t w i t h a d i s c o u r a g i n g awareness t h a t t h e " b u s i n e s s " o f A m e r i c a was a n y t h i n g b u t l i t e r a r y . However, a v a r i e t y o f p e r i o d i c a l s i n t h e 1820s, 30s, and 4 0 s — i n p a r t i c u l a r t h o s e t a r g e t t e d a t women—were a t t r a c t i n g l a r g e r e a d e r s h i p s as were t h e l a v i s h l y p r o d u c e d a n n u a l s and g i f t b o o k s o f t h e same p e r i o d . By u s i n g such forms o f p u b l i c a t i o n as a means o f p u t t i n g h i m s e l f a t t h e f o r e f r o n t o f p o e t i c l i t e r a t u r e i n A m e r i c a , L o n g f e l l o w r e c e i v e d t h e i r g e n e r a l l y modest payments e s s e n t i a l l y t o a d v e r t i s e h i m s e l f and h i s c r a f t . Throughout h i s e a r l y c a r e e r , L o n g f e l l o w chose v a r i o u s means t o e f f e c t a r e a d e r s h i p f o r p o e t r y w r i t t e n by and f o r A m e r i c a n s . A t e i g h t e e n , he began a s e r i e s o f c o n t r i b u t i o n s t o B o s t o n ' s U n i t e d S t a t e s L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e (1824-26): f o u r t e e n poems and f i v e a r t i c l e s ( d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r t w o ) . I n h i s New York Review and Anthenaeum Magazine (Aug 1825), W i l l i a m C u l l e n B r y a n t p r a i s e d t h e s e " b e a u t i f u l " poems by t h e as y e t unknown H.W.L. ( q t d . i n L o r i n g H a r t 6 3 ) . They were r e p r o d u c e d i n t h e volume M i s c e l l a n e o u s Poems S e l e c t e d from t h e U n i t e d Sta-fces L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e (1825), and a g a i n drew h i g h p r a i s e , t h i s t i m e from t h e N o r t h A m e r i c a n Review (Apr 182 6 ) . A l t h o u g h a s s u r e d o f an a u s p i c i o u s p o e t i c b e g i n n i n g , L o n g f e l l o w n e v e r t h e l e s s changed h i s l i t e r a r y c o u r s e i n 1829. N e a r i n g t h e end o f h i s f i r s t European t o u r , he was c o n v i n c e d t h a t he had p u t f o r w a r d h i s p o e t r y t o o e a r l y . Upon h i s r e t u r n t o A m e r i c a , t h e r e f o r e , L o n g f e l l o w t h e p r o f e s s o r p u b l i s h e d t r a n s l a t i o n s and grammar t e x t s w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w t h e p o e t c o n t i n u e d t o d i s s e m i n a t e i n t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s h i s i d e a s c o n c e r n i n g an a u t o c h t h o n o u s A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , t h i s t i m e i n p r o s e — a r e v i e w o f a new e d i t i o n o f S i d n e y ' s Defense o f Poesy ( N o r t h A m e r i c a n Review 1832) ( d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r t w o ) . Thus, a l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w d i d n o t c o n t r i b u t e any p o e t r y t o t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s i n t h e e a r l y 183 0s, he encouraged h i s r e a d e r s i n p r o s e t o seek o u t A m e r i c a n p o e t s f o r r e a s o n s t h a t l a t e r i n t h e decade h i s own p o e t r y would answer. L o n g f e l l o w c o n t i n u e d t o work as a l i t e r a r y c r i t i c and e s s a y i s t i n v e i l e d forms i n h i s s k e t c h book, Outre-Mer ( p u b l i s h e d i n pamphlets i n 1833 and 1834, 2 volumes 1835), and i n t h e n o v e l s H y p e r i o n (1839) and Kavanaqh (1849) .. He resumed work as p o e t i n t h e mid-1830s a f t e r h i s r e t u r n from a second European t o u r . E v e n t u a l l y , he a l l o w e d L e w i s G a y l o r d C l a r k t o p u b l i s h "The Reaper and t h e F l o w e r s " (1837) and t h e n "A Psalm o f L i f e " (1838) i n h i s New York K n i c k e r b o c k e r magazine. I n so d o i n g , L o n g f e l l o w broadened h i s p o t e n t i a l a u d i e n c e s i n c e New York was a l r e a d y b e g i n n i n g t o s u r p a s s B o s t o n as t h e c e n t r e f o r p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n . Lawrance Thompson c o n t e n d s t h a t , by 1842, because "New York p e r i o d i c a l s o f f e r e d f a r more o p p o r t u n i t i e s f o r t h e a u t h o r t h a n t h o s e i n B o s t o n , [ L o n g f e l l o w ] s e n t most o f h i s p i e c e s t o t h e New W o r l d , Colman's M o n t h l y M i s c e l l a n y , t h e New York M i r r o r , t h e L a d i e s Companion, and t h e K n i c k e r b o c k e r " (307) . As L o n g f e l l o w ' s e x p o s u r e i n c r e a s e d w i t h t h e s u c c e s s o f V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t (1839), h i s r e c o r d e d income documented i n A p p e n d i x I-B d e m o n s t r a t e s t h a t he commanded i n c r e a s i n g l y h i g h e r p r i c e s f o r i n d i v i d u a l poems f o r p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n . W r i t i n g t o h i s f a t h e r on 29 December 1839, L o n g f e l l o w remarks on t h e immediate p o p u l a r i t y o f V o i c e s , and adds t h a t he now g e t s "a good d e a l o f p r a i s e and c o n s t a n t a p p l i c a t i o n s t o w r i t e f o r p e r i o d i c a l s , a t [ h i s ] own p r i c e " ( L i f e I 338) , d e s p i t e a slump i n A m e r i c a n magazine i n d u s t r y i n t h e e a r l y 1840s. Buoyed by h i s f i r s t volume's i n s t a n t a n e o u s s u c c e s s , L o n g f e l l o w n o t e d i n h i s j o u r n a l a d e s i r e t o c r e a t e a "new s e n s a t i o n " among a "new s e t o f c r i t i c s " by p u b l i s h i n g h i s " B a l l a d o f t h e Schooner Hesperus" as a b r o a d s i d e , " p r i n t e d on a s h e e t and s o l d l i k e V a r s e s w i t h a c o a r s e p i c t u r e on i t . " L o n g f e l l o w i n t e n d e d h i s " n a t i o n a l b a l l a d " t o work upon " t h e p e o p l e ' s f e e l i n g s " ( L i f e I 342-3) i n a f o r m a t b e s t s u i t e d t o t h e masses' t a s t e s . W h i l e t h i s b r o a d s i d e scheme n e v e r m a t e r i a l i z e d , "Hesperus" d i d r e a c h i t s mass a u d i e n c e i n t h e n e x t b e s t form: P a r k Benjamin's New W o r l d magazine ( J a n 1840), w h i c h C h a r v a t r e f e r s t o as a c r u d e "mammoth newspaper" o f t h e t i m e w i t h a p o t e n t i a l w e e k l y c i r c u l a t i o n o f 39,000 ( P r o f e s s i o n 124-5). A l t h o u g h Benjamin's $25 payment t o L o n g f e l l o w may seem modest t o d a y , i t was g r a n t e d a t a t i m e when most p o e t s r e c e i v e d o n l y about $5 p e r poem. D o u b t l e s s , L o n g f e l l o w c o u l d w e l l have c o n t i n u e d t o s u p p l y such p o e t r y t o cheap mass- c i r c u l a t i o n p a p e r s b u t , as C h a r v a t a r g u e s , t h e s e p a p e r s ' r a p i d e x p a n s i o n g e n e r a t e d s u c h f i e r c e c o m p e t i t i o n i n t h e 1840s t h a t s t a n d a r d s q u i c k l y l o w e r e d , and L o n g f e l l o w soon r e a l i z e d t h a t a newspaper a u d i e n c e was n o t t h e one t o w h i c h h i s work would b e s t be p i t c h e d . I n s t e a d , he sought and r e a c h e d "an a u d i e n c e t h a t i n c l u d e d a l l l e v e l s e x c e p t t h e two e x t r e m e s — t h e s t o r y p a p e r r e a d e r s a t t h e v e r y bottom and t h e i n t e l l e c t u a l s ( t h e T r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s t s ) a t t h e t o p " ( P r o f e s s i o n 127). W h i l e r e c o g n i z i n g t h a t h i s was a p o t e n t i a l l y w i d e s p r e a d , m i d d l e - c l a s s a u d i e n c e , L o n g f e l l o w n e v e r d i d f u l l y abandon t h e i d e a o f a b r o a d s i d e b a l l a d f o r t h e masses. I n 1863, he f i n a l l y s u c c e e d e d w i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f one o f h i s most p o p u l a r s e n t i m e n t a l b a l l a d s , "The S h i p o f S t a t e . " C l e a r l y , L o n g f e l l o w was a p o e t a t t u n e d t o d i v e r s e A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s , y e t he d i d n o t r e s p o n d i n q u a n t i t y t o t h e i r needs by becoming a p r o l i f i c w r i t e r o f poems f o r t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s . W h i l e he m i g h t s t r i k e h a r d monetary b a r g a i n s — f o r example w i t h George Graham o f Graham's Magazine, f o r $50 a poem i n exchange f o r Graham's monopoly on L o n g f e l l o w ' s work f o r p e r i o d i c a l s ( 1 8 4 3 - 4 8 ) — h e a c t u a l l y c o n t r i b u t e d on a v e r a g e o n l y t h r e e poems a y e a r t o p e r i o d i c a l s and a n n u a l s from 1840-52 i n c l u s i v e , so t h a t such s u b m i s s i o n s c o n s t i t u t e d l e s s t h a n 10% o f h i s t o t a l l i t e r a r y income f o r t h i s p e r i o d ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 157). By t h e same t o k e n , however, L o n g f e l l o w d i d r e c e i v e some n o t e w o r t h y payments f o r l a t e r c o n t r i b u t i o n s . I n June 1857, f o r example, he pronounced i n h i s j o u r n a l t h a t he had "had t h e o f f e r o f one t h o u s a n d d o l l a r s f o r t e n poems o f any l e n g t h from t h e New Y o r k L e d g e r . D e c l i n e d . I do n o t w i s h t o w r i t e f o r any newspaper" ( L i f e I I 300). W h i l e he would n o t , a t an e d i t o r ' s r e q u e s t , w r i t e f o r t h e New York L e d g e r o r f o r any newspaper on a r e g u l a r b a s i s , i n 1874 he c o u l d h a r d l y d e c l i n e t h e L e d g e r ' s o f f e r o f $3,000 f o r "The Hanging o f t h e Crane," n o r d e c l i n e "Keramos" i n 1877 t o H a r p e r s magazine when t h e y o f f e r e d him $1,000 f o r t h e ode. P e r i o d i c b u t s t e a d y c o n t r i b u t i o n s t o F i e l d s ' s A t l a n t i c M o n t h l y i n t h e l a t e 1850s and 1860s, a v e r a g i n g $50 and t h e n l a t e r $150 a poem, e n s u r e d t h a t L o n g f e l l o w was a l s o r e a d , a t l e a s t on an o c c a s i o n a l b a s i s , by B o s t o n ' s l i t e r a t i . New York and B o s t o n , t h e masses and t h e c u l t u r e d e l i t e a l i k e were p e r s i s t e n t l y reminded o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o n t i n u e d p r o d u c t i v i t y even though t h e s a l e s o f h i s new p o e t i c volumes began t o d e c l i n e i n t h e 1860s. I n s h o r t , L o n g f e l l o w p r o d u c e d poems f o r t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s n o t o n l y t o e x a c t a l i v e l i h o o d , b u t e q u a l l y t o e s t a b l i s h , enhance, and, u l t i m a t e l y , p r o l o n g h i s r e p u t a t i o n among a v a r i e t y o f r e a d e r s . S i m i l a r l y , t h r o u g h o c c a s i o n a l s u b m i s s i o n s t o a n n u a l s and g i f t books, L o n g f e l l o w a l s o e n s u r e d t h a t h i s name was known among a d e c i d e d l y f e m a l e a u d i e n c e . I n A m e r i c a n L i t e r a r y A n n u a l s and G i f t Books, R a l p h Thompson a r g u e s t h a t t h e " e v o l u t i o n o f t h e a n n u a l i n t o a d e c o r a t i v e l i t e r a r y p e r i o d i c a l was t h e r e s u l t o f an i n c r e a s i n g r e g a r d f o r f e m i n i n e t a s t e " ( 3 ) , and t h a t " n e a r l y e v e r y A m e r i c a n w r i t e r was p r e s s e d i n t o s e r v i c e " ; o n l y M e l v i l l e , Thoreau, and Whitman escaped ( 2 3 ) . Of B r i t i s h w r i t e r s , F e l i c i a Hemans was t h e most f r e q u e n t l y r e p r i n t e d , w h i l e L y d i a S i g o u r n e y — d u b b e d " A m e r i c a ' s Mrs H e m a n s " — v i r t u a l l y made h e r l i v i n g by s u b m i s s i o n s t o p e r i o d i c a l s , a n n u a l s , and g i f t b o o k s . 7 U n l i k e i n B r i t a i n , a n n u a l s were t a k e n more s e r i o u s l y i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , and t h e i r c o n t e n t s were o f t e n s u b j e c t t o l e n g t h y r e v i e w s i n i m p o r t a n t p e r i o d i c a l s ( 1 8 - 1 9 ) . But t h e t e x t s L o n g f e l l o w s u b m i t t e d t o t h e s e p u b l i c a t i o n s were n o t among h i s b e s t known works n o r l i k e l y t o w i n him l a s t i n g fame. To t h e s e a n n u a l s L o n g f e l l o w c o n t r i b u t e d b o t h poems and p r o s e : "The Song o f t h e B i r d s " and "The B u r i a l o f t h e M i n n i s i n k " appeared i n t h e A t l a n t i c S o u v e n i r i n 1827, as d i d "The S p i r i t o f P o e t r y " t h e f o l l o w i n g y e a r ; and t h r e e s t o r i e s — " T h e I n d i a n Summer," "The B a l d E a g l e , " and "An E v e n i n g i n Autumn" were p r i n t e d i n 1832 and 1833 r e s p e c t i v e l y i n The Token; L o n g f e l l o w ' s P h i B e t a Kappa poem, " T r u t h , " was r e p r i n t e d i n The B o s t o n Book (1836). C o n t r i b u t i o n s t o The Token and t o The B o s t o n Book c o n t i n u e d i n t o t h e 1840s; o t h e r p o p u l a r a n n u a l s i n t h e 40s such as The 7 Hemans was t h e most p o p u l a r E n g l i s h a u t h o r i n A m e r i c a n a n n u a l s and g i f t b o o k s . James D. H a r t n o t e s t h a t a " c o u n t made by P r o f e s s o r B r a d f o r d A. Booth shows t h a t s e v e n t y - f i v e o f h e r poems a p p e a r e d i n t h e s e a n t h o l o g i e s between 1825 and 1865, as a g a i n s t a mere s e v e n t e e n by Tennyson" ( 1 3 3 ) . Of A m e r i c a n p o e t s , S i g o u r n e y was by f a r t h e most p o p u l a r i n a n n u a l s , g i f t b o o k s , and magazines combined; H a r t m a i n t a i n s t h a t she p u b l i s h e d as many as 2,000 poems i n t h e s e p u b l i c a t i o n s , l a t e r c o l l e c t e d i n as many as 65 volumes o f p o e t r y (13 3 ) . L i b e r t y B e l l o f t h e M a s s a c h u s e t t s A n t i - S l a v e r y S o c i e t y , The G i f t , and The O p a l a l s o c o n t a i n e d o c c a s i o n a l t e x t s by L o n g f e l l o w . L o n g f e l l o w ' s works were a l s o s o l i c i t e d i n t h e 1850s f o r i n c l u s i o n i n s p e c i a l a n t h o l o g i e s l i k e Garden Walks w i t h t h e P o e t s (1852), Autumn Leaves (1853), and The Harp and t h e C r o s s : A C o l l e c t i o n o f R e l i g i o u s P o e t r y (1857). L o n g f e l l o w ' s u s u a l payment f o r such poems was $50 p e r s u b m i s s i o n . From t h i s e v i d e n c e , i t would seem t h a t w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w was n o t p r e p a r e d t o a l l o w h i s work t o become a s t a p l e o f t h e f u g i t i v e p r e s s — n e i t h e r p e r i o d i c a l s nor g i f t - a n n u a l s — h e was more t h a n w i l l i n g t o c a p i t a l i z e on t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f t h e s e media t o enhance h i s own r e p u t a t i o n as a w r i t e r by i n c r e a s i n g h i s r e a d e r s h i p , p a r t i c u l a r l y among m i d d l e - c l a s s women, who were g i f t - a n n u a l s ' p r i n c i p a l consumers. To assume, however, t h a t i n c o n t r i b u t i n g t o t h e s e volumes he was m e r e l y p a n d e r i n g t o t h e " S i g o u r n e y - l i k e " t a s t e o f t h e i r a u d i e n c e i g n o r e s b o t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r o m o t i o n a l r e a s o n s f o r p u b l i s h i n g i n them and h i s i n t e n t i o n t o c o n v e r t t h e i r a u d i e n c e t o become r e a d e r s o f h i s f a r more l u c r a t i v e s i n g l e volumes. I n t h i s e n t e r p r i s e , he was a i d e d by an e q u a l l y e n t e r p r i s i n g p u b l i s h e r and subsequent f r i e n d , James T F i e l d s . A l t h o u g h T i c k n o r and F i e l d s d i d n o t become L o n g f e l l o w ' s p u b l i s h e r s u n t i l 1846, L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l y p u b l i s h i n g v e n t u r e s a r e marked by an e n t e r p r i s e t h a t t h e y would l i k e l y have a d m i r e d . A p p e n d i x I c o n t a i n s f i r s t an o u t l i n e o f f o r m a t , 58 p r i c e s , and volume o f s a l e s i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and, second, a r e c o r d o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s income from a l l p u b l i c a t i o n s , 1839- 65. D u r i n g t h i s t i m e , L o n g f e l l o w r e a c h e d t h e peak o f h i s p o p u l a r i t y i n A m e r i c a w i t h t h e s a l e o f o v e r 50,000 c o p i e s o f Hiawatha ( 1 8 5 5 ) . 8 I t i s o b v i o u s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w and h i s p u b l i s h e r s were p r e p a r e d t o e x p e r i m e n t w i t h f o r m a t s , p r i c e s , and numbers t o t r y t o r e a c h as d i v e r s e a market as p o s s i b l e . What i s n o t o b v i o u s , however, i s t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w a c t e d as a p a r t n e r i n t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f h i s work, e s p e c i a l l y from 1845 t o 1865 when he owned and c o n t r o l l e d t h e use o f t h e s t e r e o t y p e p l a t e s o f h i s books, i n c l u d i n g t h o s e p r e v i o u s t o 1845 w h i c h he had p u r c h a s e d o u t r i g h t from John Owen. C h a r v a t d i s c u s s e s t h e f i n a n c i a l advantages t h a t L o n g f e l l o w e n j o y e d because o f t h e above arrangement t h a t , i n s h o r t , y i e l d e d on a v e r a g e a n e t r o y a l t y o f 18 1/4% i n s t e a d o f t h e c u s t o m a r y 10% o f t h e t i m e t h r o u g h payments t h a t were due when t h e c o p i e s were p r i n t e d and n o t a t t h e t i m e t h e y were s o l d ( " L o n g f e l l o w " 159, 160). Y e t C h a r v a t m e n t i o n s o n l y i n p a s s i n g one o f t h e more h i d d e n advantages o f such an arrangement: L o n g f e l l o w c o u l d d i r e c t l y i n f l u e n c e t h e f o r m a t o f h i s t e x t s i n t h e c h o i c e o f p r i n t e r and t y p o g r a p h e r , and i n t h e numbers t o 8 The i n f o r m a t i o n a v a i l a b l e c o n c e r n i n g t h e p u b l i c a t i o n and s a l e s o f L o n g f e l l o w volumes i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s a p p e a r s p r i m a r i l y i n " L o n g f e l l o w ' s income," c h a p t e r n i n e o f C h a r v a t ' s The P r o f e s s i o n o f A u t h o r s h i p i n A m e r i c a , 1800-1870 and T r y o n ' s " N a t i o n a l i s m and I n t e r n a t i o n a l C o p y r i g h t " a r t i c l e . be p r i n t e d . W h i l e t h i s e n t a i l e d s o i l i n g h i s hands i n t h e i n k and d i r t o f p r i n t i n g and p u b l i c a t i o n — a n a c t i v i t y most A m e r i c a n V i c t o r i a n w r i t e r s chose t o a v o i d r a t h e r t h a n embrace — L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n d u s t r y c o u l d a l l o w him t o a n t i c i p a t e and r e s p o n d t o t h e needs o f what he f e l t h i s a u d i e n c e t o be i n ways d e n i e d t o t h o s e a u t h o r s who a l l o w e d p u b l i s h e r s n e a r a b s o l u t e c o n t r o l o v e r t h e i r t e x t s . Shrewd, i n d u s t r i o u s , and w i l l i n g t o t a k e r i s k s , L o n g f e l l o w s h o u l d be c r e d i t e d n o t o n l y f o r h i s p e r f o r m a n c e a t c e n t r e s t a g e as t h e w r i t e r o f some o f t h e most t r e a s u r e d v e r s e s i n t h e E n g l i s h l a n g u a g e , b u t a l s o f o r h i s work b e h i n d t h e s c e n e s i n t h e p r o d u c t i o n o f h i s t e x t s . Indeed, even b e f o r e L o n g f e l l o w owned and c o n t r o l l e d t h e use o f h i s s t e r e o t y p e p l a t e s , he had t r i e d t o work o u t arrangements w i t h h i s p u b l i s h e r s t h a t y i e l d e d g r e a t e r p r o f i t f o r h i m s e l f once h i s books p r o v e d s u c c e s s f u l , and t h a t a l l o w e d him t o work w i t h o t h e r p u b l i s h e r s i n d i f f e r e n t f o r m a t s f o r d i f f e r e n t m a r k e t s . V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t (1839) and B a l l a d s (1841), f o r example, p u b l i s h e d by Owen under s t a n d a r d arrangements o f f l a t payment f o r c o p y r i g h t and s h a r e d p r o f i t w i t h t h e p u b l i s h e r , y i e l d e d an a v e r a g e o f o n l y 8% r o y a l t y on t h e r e t a i l p r i c e . But once L o n g f e l l o w n e g o t i a t e d a new c o n t r a c t i n F e b r u a r y 1842, t h e s e volumes y i e l d e d 13 1/2%, as would The S p a n i s h S t u d e n t (1843). A c c o r d i n g t o F r a n k L u t h e r M o t t ' s c a l c u l a t i o n s , L o n g f e l l o w ' s V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t was t h e f i r s t A m e r i c a n volume o f p o e t r y t o 60 become a b e s t - s e l l e r . 9 A p a r t from Edgar A l l a n Poe and M a r g a r e t F u l l e r ( b o t h d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r t w o ) , e a r l y r e v i e w e r s p r a i s e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t i c t a l e n t , d u b b i n g him an A m e r i c a n p o e t o f t h e f i r s t o r d e r . L o n g f e l l o w ' s c a r e e r was so f i r m l y e s t a b l i s h e d t h a t even a c r i t i c a l l y d i s c l a i m e d t e x t such as Poems on S l a v e r y (1842) , a l t h o u g h i t s o l d p o o r l y , d i d l i t t l e t o damage h i s g r o w i n g r e p u t a t i o n . W i t h E v a n g e l i n e (1847), L o n g f e l l o w e n l i s t e d T i c k n o r and F i e l d s as h i s p u b l i s h e r s ; t h e i r b u s i n e s s acumen added t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s own shrewdness e s t a b l i s h e d him as a p o e t o f no mean a c c o u n t . I n s e l e c t i n g f o r m a t s , T i c k n o r and F i e l d s s e l f - c o n s c i o u s l y p a t t e r n e d t h e i r volumes on t h e " s t y l e o f Moxon's p o e t s " ; i n f a c t , F i e l d s was f r e q u e n t l y r e f e r r e d t o by h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s as " t h e A m e r i c a n Moxon" (Tryon P a r n a s s u s 177). T r y o n c l a i m s t h a t T i c k n o r "employed t h e b e s t b i n d e r s , t h e b e s t p r i n t e r s , and p u r c h a s e d t h e b e s t p a p e r , n o t from a e s t h e t i c c o n s i d e r a t i o n s , b u t because he b e l i e v e d i t was f i n a n c i a l l y u n w i s e t o c u t c o r n e r s " ( P a r n a s s u s 161). Thus was b o r n t h e 9 I n G o l d e n M u l t i t i u d e s . L u t h e r M o t t d e f i n e s b e s t s e l l e r as a t e x t t h a t , o v e r t h e h i s t o r y o f i t s s a l e , was p u r c h a s e d by what would have been 1% o f t h e t o t a l p o p u l a t i o n o f t h e c o n t i n e n t a l U n i t e d S t a t e s i n t h e decade i n w h i c h t h e t e x t was o r i g i n a l l y p u b l i s h e d ; t h u s f o r a " t e x t p u b l i s h e d i n t h e 1830s, l i k e V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t , t h i s would e q u a l 125,000 o r more c o p i e s . I n 1871, S. A u s t i n A l l i b o n e n o t e d i n h i s C r i t i c a l D i c t i o n a r y o f E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e and B r i t i s h and A m e r i c a n A u t h o r s t h a t V o i c e s had s o l d more t h a n f o r t y - t h r e e t h o u s a n d c o p i e s by 1860 ( q t d . i n L o r i n g H a r t 73) p r e s u m a b l y i n a l l i t s v a r i o u s r e p r i n t s . The f i g u r e s i n a p p e n d i x one, on t h e o t h e r hand, r e f e r j u s t t o s a l e s o f e d i t i o n s and r e p r i n t s o f t h e Owen's f i r s t e d i t i o n o f V o i c e s as a s i n g l e volume. T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n : " c h o c o l a t e - b r o w n c o v e r s , stamped i n b l i n d w i t h t h e d e l i c a t e , l a c y , a c a n t h u s p a t t e r n s f r o n t and back" ( 1 7 7 ) . T h i s was t h e f o r m a t i n w h i c h E v a n g e l i n e was p u b l i s h e d and, as an i n d i v i d u a l volume, i t s o l d b e t t e r t h a n any o t h e r s t o d a t e : 14,425 c o p i e s by 1864 ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 160). Even L o n g f e l l o w seemed s u r p r i s e d by i t s s u c c e s s , n o t i n g i n November 1847 t h a t " E v a n g e l i n e goes on b r a v e l y . I have r e c e i v e d g r e a t e r and warmer commendations t h a n on any p r e v i o u s volume. The p u b l i c t a k e s more k i n d l y t o hexameters t h a n I c o u l d have i m a g i n e d " ( L i f e I I 9 6 ) ; he l a t e r remarked on s a l e s o f one t h o u s a n d a month s i n c e i t s p u b l i c a t i o n ( L i f e I I 112). The L o n g f e l l o w — F i e l d s a s s o c i a t i o n o f n e a r l y t w e n t y f i v e y e a r s had b e g u n . 1 0 But w i t h t h e e x c e p t i o n o f H i a w a t h a , n o t e d below, L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s r a t h e r t h a n h i s i n d i v i d u a l volumes a c t u a l l y y i e l d e d t h e g r e a t e s t f i n a n c i a l r e w a r d s . C h a r v a t a l l e g e s t h a t , even though t h e s a l e s were somewhat s m a l l e r t h a n t h o s e o f i n d i v i d u a l volumes, t h e c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s t o 1850 b r o u g h t him a l m o s t d o u b l e t h e r e t u r n s : E x p e r i e n c e e a r l y showed L o n g f e l l o w t h a t t h e t e c h n i q u e o f t h i s form was w o r t h w a t c h i n g . On t h e one hand, s e v e r a l l e v e l s o f market c o u l d be r e a c h e d by v a r i a t i o n s o f p r i c e ; on t h e o t h e r hand, each 1 0 A f t e r T i c k n o r d i e d i n t h e s p r i n g o f 18 64, F i e l d s r e t a i n e d T i c k n o r and F i e l d s as t h e firm''s name. I n 1871, F i e l d s s o l d h i s i n t e r e s t i n T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t o James Osgood; t h e company became James R. Osgood and Company, owned j o i n t l y by James Osgood, John C l a r k , and B e n j a m i n T i c k n o r . I n 1878, t h e y amalgamated w i t h R i v e r s i d e P r e s s t o become Houghton, Osgood and Company. L o n g f e l l o w c o n t i n u e d w i t h t h e f i r m t h r o u g h o u t i t s changes u n t i l h i s d e a t h i n 1882. c o l l e c t i o n c o u l d be s t r a t e g i c a l l y outmoded t h r o u g h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f new s e p a r a t e volumes o f v e r s e and t h e i n c l u s i o n o f t h e s e i n new c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s . L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i r s t v e n t u r e , t h e de l u x e i l l u s t r a t e d e d i t i o n a t $3.50, was b r o u g h t o u t on t h e i n i t i a t i v e o f t h e p u b l i s h e r s , Carey and H a r t ; b u t t h e f i f t y - c e n t , p a p e r - c o v e r e d H a r p e r c o l l e c t i o n o f 184 6 was L o n g f e l l o w ' s i d e a [as was t h e t w e l v e and o n e - h a l f c e n t R e d d i n g e d i t i o n o f V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t ] . . . . E a r l y i n 1849 he f r e s h e n e d up t h e [ H a r p e r ] c o l l e c t i o n c o m m e r c i a l l y by a d d i n g t o i t new d o u b l e - column p l a t e s o f E v a n g e l i n e f r a i s i n g t h e r e t a i l p r i c e from f i f t y t o s i x t y - t w o c e n t s . The whole o p e r a t i o n c o s t him about $340 f o r p l a t e s , b u t h i s n e t r o y a l t y f o r t o t a l H a r p e r s a l e s o f 6,000 a v e r a g e d 16 p e r c e n t . (162-3) H a v i n g l a i d t h e f o u n d a t i o n h i m s e l f f o r h i s e a r l y s a l e s i n b o t h t h e e x p e n s i v e i l l u s t r a t e d market and t h e cheap book market, L o n g f e l l o w h e r e a f t e r t u r n e d t o T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t o s u p p l y t h e r a n g e o f h i s r e a d e r s w i t h t h e volumes b e s t s u i t e d t o t h e i r t a s t e s and p o c k e t b o o k s . I n i t i a l l y , t h i s was done t h r o u g h t h e t r a d e C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n o f 1850. But w i t h subsequent r e p r i n t s and new e d i t i o n s o f t h i s t e x t , T i c k n o r and F i e l d s e x p e r i m e n t e d w i t h v a r i o u s f o r m a t s and p r i c e s f o r c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s , r a n g i n g from 50 c e n t s t o e i g h t d o l l a r s . Of h i s s i n g l e volumes, Hiawatha was L o n g f e l l o w ' s a l l - t i m e , most p o p u l a r t e x t : w i t h i n a month o f i t s p u b l i c a t i o n i n 10 November 1855, 11,000 c o p i e s had been p r i n t e d , and f o u r months l a t e r , 30,000 had been s o l d (James H a r t 129-30). I n f a c t , 4,000 o f t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n o f 5,000 had been s o l d even b e f o r e p u b l i c a t i o n ( L i f e I I 2 6 3 ) . A l r e a d y by 6 December, w h a t e v e r t h e damage t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s a t t e m p t e d t o i n f l i c t , L o n g f e l l o w c o u l d l o o k upon c r i t i c i s m c a s u a l l y , and s h r u g i t o f f : "The p u b l i s h e r s a r e g o i n g t o p u t t o p r e s s t h e n i n t h and t e n t h t h o u s a n d o f H i a w a t h . C r i t i c s may a s s a i l as t h e y p l e a s e , eppur s i muove" ( L i f e I I 2 6 9 ) . 1 1 The r e m a r k a b l e d o u b l i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p u b l i c a t i o n e a r n i n g s i n 1855 a l s o a t t e s t s t o t h e i n s t a n t p o p u l a r i t y o f Hiawatha (see A p p e n d i x I - B ) . By 1856, i t was c l e a r t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e p u t a t i o n was more t h a n s e c u r e , and T i c k n o r and F i e l d s f o l l o w e d up an e x p e r i m e n t w i t h Tennyson's poems ( d i s c u s s e d below) by a d d i n g L o n g f e l l o w t o t h e i r l i s t o f a u t h o r s f o r t h e i r " B l u e and G o l d " c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s : each was "a s m a l l handy volume, p r i n t e d i n e a s y t o r e a d t y p e on t h i n b u t good p a p e r " (Tryon P a r n a s s u s 2 2 9 ) . A t a c o s t o f $1.75 t h e t e x t s were e x p e n s i v e , y e t s o l d e x c e e d i n g l y w e l l : 40,000 by 1864. F o r t h e s e r i e s o v e r a l l , t h e "demand exceeded a l l e x p e c t a t i o n s " : 41 t i t l e s i n 57 volumes; t h e " B l u e and G o l d " soon began t o be i m i t a t e d by f i r m s i n New Y o r k and P h i l a d e l p h i a ( 2 2 9 ) . T h e i r a t t r a c t i v e c o v e r s , g i l t stamp, and g i l t edges, however, were n o t u n i q u e t o t h i s e d i t i o n s i n c e H i a w a t h a a c t u a l l y had a l r e a d y appeared i n a s i m i l a r d e s i g n i n r e d as w e l l as t h e s t a n d a r d brown, and The C o u r t s h i p o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h was t o appear i n p u r p l e . But t h e i r 3 2mo s i z e made them v e r y handy and c e r t a i n l y t h e a t t r a c t i v e n e s s o f each 1 1 U n f o r t u n a t e l y , space does n o t a l l o w f o r a d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e c r i t i c a l r e s p o n s e s t o H i a w a t h a ; s u f f i c e t o say t h a t t h e r e were s e v e r a l n e g a t i v e v o i c e s among r e v i e w e r s and f r i e n d s . L o n g f e l l o w was most s t u n g by c h a r g e s o f h i s h a v i n g borrowed h i s t r o c h a i c hexameters from t h e K a l e v a l a , even t h o u g h many p e o p l e f e l t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s meter and s t y l e had c a p t u r e d what was c o n s i d e r e d a t t h a t t i m e t o be t h e " i n f a n t i l e " c h a r a c t e r o f I n d i a n p e o p l e . p r o d u c t i t s e l f and t h e d e s i r e t o c o l l e c t t h e c o m p l e t e b l u e and g o l d " s e t " w o u l d have enhanced L o n g f e l l o w ' s s a l e s . L o n g f e l l o w ' s subsequent s e p a r a t e volumes, M i l e s S t a n d i s h (1857) and T a l e s o f a Wayside I n n (1863), f u r t h e r e d h i s • • • 12 r e p u t a t i o n a l t h o u g h n e i t h e r r e a c h e d t h e numbers o f H i a w a t h a . M i l e s S t a n d i s h . however, had a r e m a r k a b l e i n i t i a l s a l e : two 10,000-copy p r i n t r u n s made up t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n ; upon p u b l i c a t i o n , 16 O c t o b e r , 5,000 s o l d i m m e d i a t e l y i n B o s t o n a l o n e ; and by t h e 2 3 r d L o n g f e l l o w was n o t i n g i n h i s j o u r n a l , " i n a l l an army o f t w e n t y - f i v e t h o u s a n d i n one week. F i e l d s t e l l s me t h a t i n London t e n t h o u s a n d were s o l d t h e f i r s t day" ( L i f e I I 326, 327). But such r e m a r k a b l e s a l e s were n o t t o l a s t . A p p a r e n t l y by 1860, t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f new L o n g f e l l o w t e x t s was b e g i n n i n g t o wane. C h a r v a t e x p l a i n s L o n g f e l l o w ' s d e c l i n e i n p o p u l a r i t y w i t h i n t h e l a r g e r c o n t e x t o f a d e p r e s s e d , C i v i l War economy, and i t s subsequent impact on t h e p u b l i s h i n g i n d u s t r y ( P r o f e s s i o n 164). I n a d d i t i o n , T r y o n r e g i s t e r s t h e f i n a n c i a l e f f e c t s o f t h e war i n T i c k n o r and F i e l d s ' s o v e r a l l 1 2 I n h i s own r e c o r d s f o r 1857, L o n g f e l l o w n o t e s h i s s a l e s r e c o r d i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s t o d a t e : " V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t 43,550; B a l l a d s e t c . 40,470; S p a n i s h S t u d e n t 38,400; B e l f r y o f Bruges 38,300; E v a n g e l i n e 35,850; S e a s i d e . . . 30,000; G o l d e n Legend 17,188; Hiawatha 50,000; Outre-Mer 7,500; H y p e r i o n 14,550; Kavanagh 10,500" ( L i f e I I 295). P r e s u m a b l y , t h e s e f i g u r e s embrace s a l e s w i t h i n c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s (as t h e s i m i l a r i t y o f t h e i r numbers s u g g e s t s ) ; t h e s a l e s f i g u r e s f o r t h e f i n a l t h r e e p r o s e works t h e r e f o r e appear s i g n i f i c a n t l y l o w e r s i n c e i n 1857 t h e s e had n o t y e t been i n c l u d e d i n c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s . r e d u c t i o n i n p o e t i c o u t p u t : from 59,560 volumes i n 1860 t o o n l y 19,105 i n 1861 ( P a r n a s s u s 253). A l t h o u g h p r o s p e r i t y w o u l d r e t u r n t o t h e A m e r i c a n p u b l i s h i n g i n d u s t r y i n g e n e r a l by 1863, b o t h p o e t r y and L o n g f e l l o w became permanent v i c t i m s o f t h e d e p r e s s e d market s p a r k e d by t h e war. P o s t - w a r l i t e r a r y t a s t e s had changed: m i d d l e - c l a s s A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s had w h o l e h e a r t e d l y embraced t h e n o v e l , and p o e t r y was n e v e r t o r e c o v e r i t s f o r m e r s t a t u r e . I n d e e d , F i e l d s ' s d e c i s i o n i n 1865 t o i s s u e a cheap, s e l e c t e d e d i t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y as H o u s e h o l d Poems i s i t s e l f a t e l l i n g s i g n t h a t t h e market f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y was c h a n g i n g . 1 3 By 1865, L o n g f e l l o w had n e g o t i a t e d a new c o n t r a c t w i t h F i e l d s t o be p a i d an a v e r a g e y i e l d each y e a r r a t h e r t h a n i n v o l v e h i m s e l f , as p r e v i o u s l y , i n t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f h i s work; and by 1875, h i s c o n t r a c t had been r e n e g o t i a t e d t o a f l a t sum o f $4,000 p e r annum f o r a l l h i s o l d books ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 112-13). Even though by 1869 L o n g f e l l o w had s o l d o v e r o n e - t h i r d o f a m i l l i o n c o p i e s o f h i s works, and i n t h e e a r l y 1870s h i s c o l l e c t e d works were s e l l i n g about 15,000 c o p i e s a y e a r , t h e p u b l i s h e r s , i n a d e s p e r a t e a t t e m p t t o d i s p o s e o f a t o t a l p r i n t i n g o f 6,000 c o p i e s o f t h e newly 1 3 L o n g f e l l o w ' s own o u t p u t was a l s o c h a n g i n g , e s p e c i a l l y because o f t h e t r a g i c d e a t h by f i r e o f h i s second w i f e i n 1861, and h i s a t t e m p t t o b u r y h i s g r i e f p r i m a r i l y i n h i s t r a n s l a t i o n o f Dante. A l t h o u g h he k e p t w o r k i n g on o r i g i n a l t e x t s s u c h as T a l e s o f a Wayside I n n , even t h e s e poems have t h e r i n g o f p r o s e p i e c e s t r a n s l a t e d i n t o a v a r i e t y o f v e r s e forms r a t h e r t h a n c r e a t i v e p o e t i c work. c o m p l e t e d C h r i s t u s (1871), i s s u e d t h e work i n no l e s s t h a n s i x d i f f e r e n t f o r m a t s t o s u i t e v e r y p o c k e t book ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 150). The s h i f t s i n t a s t e among r e a d e r s f o l l o w i n g t h e C i v i l War meant t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e p u t a t i o n had now t o be s u s t a i n e d by two d i s t i n c t new a u d i e n c e s : young p e o p l e , because o f A m e r i c a ' s b u r g e o n i n g need f o r d o m e s t i c p o e t r y w i t h i n i t s n e w l y - e s t a b l i s h e d p u b l i c s c h o o l s , and an e x p a n s i v e f o r e i g n market. The above a c c o u n t o f s a l e s f i g u r e s d u r i n g L o n g f e l l o w ' s peak y e a r s c a n n o t by i t s e l f convey t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h , a t t h e h e i g h t o f i t s p o p u l a r i t y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s work had t o u c h e d p e o p l e f r o m a l l c l a s s e s . H i s s t a t u s as A m e r i c a ' s n a t i o n a l b a r d i s r e g i s t e r e d i n t h e i n n u m e r a b l e l a u d a t o r y v o i c e s o f h i s e d u c a t e d c o n t e m p o r a r i e s documented t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y . L e s s o f t e n h e a r d , however, a r e t h e v o i c e s o f t h e l o w e r c l a s s . I n t h e r e m i n i s c e n c e s g a t h e r e d f o r Samuel L o n g f e l l o w ' s L i f e o f h i s b r o t h e r , an unnamed woman r e c o u n t s t h e f o l l o w i n g i n c i d e n t i n New Y o r k : s e e i n g a crowd g a t h e r e d o u t s i d e o f a j e w e l l e r ' s window, she was s t r u c k by a " v o i c e i n u n m i s t a k a b l e brogue s a y i n g , 'Shure, and t h a t ' s f o r H i a w a t h a . ' The s p e a k e r was a r a g g e d I r i s h l a b o r e r , unshaven and u n s h o r n . She l o o k e d , and saw a s i l v e r b o a t w i t h t h e f i g u r e o f an I n d i a n s t a n d i n g i n t h e prow. 'That must be,' c o n t i n u e d t h e s p e a k e r , ' f o r a p r i s i n t a t i o n t o t h e p o e t L o n g f e l l o w ; t h i m two l i n e s c u t on t h e s i d e o f t h e b o a t i s from h i s p o e t h r y ' " ( q t d . i n L i f e I I I 352). The woman f u r t h e r remarked, " [ t ] h a t i s fame," t o h e r companion. T h i s a n e c d o t e c l e a r l y i n d i c a t e s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o m p o s i t i o n a l t a c t i c s , c o u p l e d w i t h t h o s e o f h i s p u b l i s h e r i n m a r k e t i n g h i s p o e t r y , had been s u c c e s s f u l i n r e a c h i n g t h e g r e a t "unwashed" among A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s . I n a b i d t o enhance s a l e s , T i c k n o r and F i e l d s u s e d t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s t o t h e i r own and L o n g f e l l o w ' s advantage by s e n d i n g volumes f o r r e v i e w t o t h o s e magazines i n w h i c h t h e i r f i r m most f r e q u e n t l y a d v e r t i s e d , t h u s i n d i r e c t l y e n s u r i n g f a v o u r a b l e r e v i e w s . " P u f f i n g , " as i t was c a l l e d , was a common c o v e r t p r a c t i c e i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A n g l o - A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y c i r c l e s . T r y o n m a i n t a i n s t h a t " L o n g f e l l o w , Hawthorne, W h i t t i e r , and Holmes r e v i e w e d each o t h e r ' s v o l u m e s — a l l p u b l i s h e d by F i e l d s — f r e q u e n t l y and w i t h sympathy" ( P a r n a s s u s 199). But i n 1855, T i c k n o r and F i e l d s made t h e m i s t a k e o f making t h e p r a c t i c e o f p u f f i n g o v e r t by w r i t i n g t o t h e T r a v e l l e r a f t e r an u n f a v o u r a b l e n o t i c e o f H i a w a t h a , and w i t h d r a w i n g t h e i r b u s i n e s s from t h e p a p e r . I n r e s p o n s e , t h e e d i t o r s o f t h e T r a v e l l e r p r i n t e d t h e p u b l i s h e r s ' l e t t e r v e r b a t i m i n t h e i r p a p e r . Thus ensued a c o n t r o v e r s y t h a t r a g e d f o r months i n v o l v i n g s e v e r a l p u b l i s h i n g f i r m s , p e r i o d i c a l s , and r e v i e w e r s ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 181-5). W h i l e L o n g f e l l o w r e m a i n e d s i l e n t t h r o u g h o u t t h e c o u r s e o f e v e n t s , and t h e c o n t r o v e r s y d i d l i t t l e i f a n y t h i n g t o dampen t h e s a l e s o f H i a w a t h a , one o f t h e 68 l e s s h o n o u r a b l e means by w h i c h p u b l i s h e r s marketed t h e i r wares was b r o u g h t t o l i g h t . One m i g h t t h i n k t h a t r e v e a l i n g t h e s e means m i g h t have l e s s e n e d p u b l i s h e r s ' w i l l i n g n e s s t o c o n t i n u e w i t h s i m i l a r p r a c t i c e s , b u t s u c h was n o t t h e c a s e w i t h F i e l d s . A f t e r T i c k n o r ' s d e a t h i n 1864, F i e l d s a c q u i r e d The N o r t h A m e r i c a n Review. And, a c c o r d i n g t o T r y o n , j u s t as h i s p u b l i s h i n g f i r m was about t o i s s u e a new seven volume e d i t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r o s e and p o e t r y , F i e l d s t o l d C h a r l e s N o r t o n t h a t i t was a good t i m e f o r a f e a t u r e a r t i c l e i n t h e N o r t h A m e r i c a n on L o n g f e l l o w ( P a r n a s s u s 288) . I n t h e end, w r i t e r s somewhat l e s s p o p u l a r t h a n L o n g f e l l o w — H o l m e s , B a y a r d T a y l o r , W h i t t i e r , E m e r s o n — a l l r e c o g n i z e d t h a t F i e l d s had "made" them ( P a r n a s s u s 323). The e n t r e p r e n e u r i a l s p i r i t t h a t m o t i v a t e d F i e l d s t o t a k e p u b l i s h i n g r i s k s a l s o prompted him t o t a k e s u c h t y p e s o f m a r k e t i n g r i s k s , t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s and o t h e r w r i t e r s ' u l t i m a t e b e n e f i t . More t h a n F i e l d s , L o n g f e l l o w ' s p u b l i s h e r s i n E n g l a n d had t h e f i n a n c i a l o p p o r t u n i t y and m o t i v a t i o n t o t a k e even g r e a t e r r i s k s . P r i o r t o t h e passage o f t h e i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t a c t i n 1891, L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y r e a c h e d E n g l i s h a u d i e n c e s o u t s i d e t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s p r i m a r i l y t h r o u g h u n p a i d r e p r i n t s i n B r i t i s h p e r i o d i c a l s and i n i n n u m e r a b l e p i r a t e d e d i t i o n s c o s t i n g a s h i l l i n g o r l e s s , a f f o r d a b l e t o even t h e l o w e s t l e v e l s o f t h e r e a d i n g c l a s s e s . Y e t d e s p i t e t h e a d v a n t a g e s t h a t p i r a t i n g o f f e r e d p u b l i s h e r s i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , s e v e r a l B r i t i s h f i r m s a c t u a l l y made c o n t r a c t s w i t h L o n g f e l l o w — n o t a l w a y s k e p t h o w e v e r — t o o b t a i n advance r e l e a s e o f h i s work i n E n g l a n d so as t o s e c u r e t h e market on i n i t i a l s a l e s . 1 5 The a u t h o r i z e d s a l e s n o t e d by t h e R o u t l e d g e f i r m a l o n e ( r e c o r d s from 1858-1900 t h a t a r e t h e m s e l v e s i n c o m p l e t e ) t e l l an amazing s t o r y o f 716,000 c o p i e s among 3 2 d i f f e r e n t t i t l e s i n c l u d i n g t r a n s l a t i o n s , p r o s e works, p o e t r y , and v a r i o u s s e l e c t e d e d i t i o n s . R o u t l e d g e ' s c o l l e c t e d P o e t i c a l Works, f o r example, s o l d 390,000 c o p i e s w h i l e t i t l e s s u c h as H i a w a t h a , 37,000 c o p i e s , and T a l e s o f a Wayside I n n . 33,000 c o p i e s , s o l d t h e b e s t among h i s i n d i v i d u a l volumes o f p o e t r y , and h i s t e x t o f Dante's D i v i n e Comedy. 39,000 c o p i e s , t h e b e s t among h i s t r a n s l a t i o n s (Ghodes " L o n g f e l l o w " 1179). Of c o u r s e , one o f t h e r e a s o n s f o r such p o p u l a r i t y i n E n g l a n d was t h e p r a c t i c e by Among magazine e d i t o r s , T h a c k e r a y was i n d e e d t h e e x c e p t i o n when he w r o t e t o L o n g f e l l o w i n November 1859, t o ask "Has H i a w a t h a e v e r a s p a r e s h a f t i n h i s q u i v e r , w h i c h he can s h o o t a c r o s s t h e A t l a n t i c ? How p r o u d I s h o u l d be i f I c o u l d have a c o n t r i b u t i o n o r two from you f o r our C o r n h i l l magazine" ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 346). Ghodes e x p l a i n s t h a t even i n t h o s e magazines who announced L o n g f e l l o w as a c o n t r i b u t o r , h i s poems were u s u a l l y p i r a t e d (American L i t e r a t u r e 50-55). 1 5 C l a r e n c e Ghodes's " L o n g f e l l o w and h i s A u t h o r i z e d P u b l i s h e r s " examines v a r i o u s f i r m s ' s t r a t e g i e s t o s e c u r e and m a i n t a i n c o n t r a c t s w i t h L o n g f e l l o w , w h i l e h i s l a t e r s t u d y , A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e i n N i n e t e e n t h - C e n t u r y E n g l a n d , w i t h i t s c h a p t e r on L o n g f e l l o w (99-171), adds i n f o r m a t i o n about p i r a t e d c o p i e s t o h i s o r i g i n a l work and a n a l y z e s v a r i o u s c r i t i c a l r e s p o n s e s t o L o n g f e l l o w i n B r i t i s h p e r i o d i c a l s t o d e t e r m i n e r e a s o n s f o r t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s enormous p o p u l a r i t y i n E n g l a n d . B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r s o f t a r g e t t i n g b o t h u p p e r - m i d d l e and l o w e r c l a s s r e a d e r s t h r o u g h d i f f e r e n t l y p r i c e d e d i t i o n s , u s u a l l y b o t h a f i v e s h i l l i n g e d i t i o n and a one s h i l l i n g r e p r i n t . B e f o r e L o n g f e l l o w i n 1858 a c c e p t e d R o u t l e d g e ( w e l l known f o r h i s " R a i l w a y l i b r a r i e s " s e r i e s ) as h i s a u t h o r i z e d B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r , t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t had been r e p r e s e n t e d by s e v e r a l d i f f e r e n t f i r m s . A f t e r a r a t h e r u n p r o f i t a b l e a t t e m p t w i t h O u t r e Mer, B e n t l e y p u b l i s h e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l y poems i n h i s M i s c e l l a n y f o r 1839. I n 1843, Tennyson's p u b l i s h e r , Edward Moxon, " a r r a n g e d f o r an e d i t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems from s h e e t s p r i n t e d i n P h i l a d e l p h i a " (Ghodes A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e 105-6). P r e s u m a b l y , he p r i n t e d 250 c o p i e s each o f B a l l a d s and t h e S p a n i s h S t u d e n t i n t h a t y e a r ( L i f e I I 1 3 ) . I n 1849, r e c e i v i n g i n i t i a l payments o f $100 p e r volume, L o n g f e l l o w began t o have h i s work p u b l i s h e d by John W a l k e r o f L i v e r p o o l . C o m p l i c a t i o n s i n e v i t a b l y ensued and by 1851, W a l k e r , D a v i d Bogue, and George R o u t l e d g e were a l l b i d d i n g f o r t h e r i g h t s t o p u b l i s h The G o l d e n Legend, e v e n t u a l l y p u b l i s h e d by Bogue. Bogue a l s o p u b l i s h e d Hiawatha i n 1855, d e s p i t e R o u t l e d g e ' s c o n t i n u e d a t t e m p t s t o p e r s u a d e L o n g f e l l o w o v e r t o h i s f i r m t h r o u g h h i s i n s i s t e n c e t h a t he would be b e t t e r a b l e t h a n h i s c o m p e t i t o r s t o promote L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y . The s u c c e s s o f H i a w a t h a — 2 , 2 5 0 c o p i e s o f a f i v e - s h i l l i n g e d i t i o n and 15,000 o f a o n e - s h i l l i n g i s s u e i n l e s s t h a n a y e a r — c o u l d o n l y have f u r t h e r c o n v i n c e d R o u t l e d g e t o c o n t i n u e t o p r e s s f o r t h e r i g h t s t o L o n g f e l l o w i n E n g l a n d . Y e t w i t h Bogue's d e a t h i n 1856, L o n g f e l l o w l o y a l l y a u t h o r i z e d W. K e n t , Bogue's p u r c h a s e r , t o p u b l i s h h i s upcoming M i l e s S t a n d i s h . H a v i n g f a i l e d t o w i n L o n g f e l l o w o v e r because o f a b o t c h e d scheme t o o b t a i n B r i t i s h c o p y r i g h t on t h e volume, however, Kent was r e p l a c e d i n 1858 f i n a l l y by R o u t l e d g e , who r e m a i n e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s a u t h o r i z e d B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r f o r t h e r e s t o f h i s c a r e e r (Ghodes " L o n g f e l l o w " 1166-73). The number o f a u t h o r i z e d c o p i e s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems, t h a t i s t h o s e p u b l i s h e d by R o u t l e d g e , t o t a l l e d 716,000 by t h e t u r n o f t h e c e n t u r y (1179). The s c r a m b l e t o o b t a i n a u t h o r i z a t i o n from L o n g f e l l o w , and s i m i l a r l y t o s e c u r e a t y p e o f c o p y r i g h t , a r e t h e m s e l v e s measures o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y s i n c e p u b l i s h e r s r e c o g n i z e d v e r y w e l l t h e p r o f i t s t o be s n a t c h e d from t h e i r p i r a t e c o m p e t i t o r s i f t h e y c o u l d m o n o p o l i z e advance s a l e s . Ghodes c i t e s a M a c m i l l a n p a r t n e r ' s a s s u r a n c e t o a group o f A m e r i c a n a u t h o r s and p u b l i s h e r s i n 1867 t h a t , d u r i n g t h e t w e n t y y e a r s p r e v i o u s , L o n g f e l l o w had l i k e l y been d e p r i v e d o f more t h a n $250,000 i n r o y a l t i e s ( " L o n g f e l l o w " 1175); i n d e e d , o f t h e p i r a t e s , "one p u b l i s h e r a l o n e d i s p o s e d o f 410,919 c o p i e s o f t h e p o e t ' s work between 1865 and 1900" (1179) . "More t h a n s e v e n t y d i f f e r e n t B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r s b r o u g h t out one o r more volumes by t h e p o e t i n t h e y e a r s p r i o r t o 1901"; t h e s e e d i t i o n s o r i s s u e s t o t a l l e d 94 i n t h e 1850s, 44 i n t h e 1860s, 52 i n t h e 1870s, 55 i n t h e 1880s, and 36 i n t h e 1890s. And as Ghodes f u r t h e r r e m a r k s , i n " p r i c e s t h e books i n d i c a t e t h e wide r a n g e o f t h e p e o p l e who r e a d them, f o r t h e y r a n from s h i l l i n g o r even s i x p e n n y volumes t o e l a b o r a t e d l y i l l u s t r a t e d C h r i s t m a s books c o s t i n g a good r o u n d sum" (American 107), l i k e l y a g u i n e a o r more. Of c o u r s e , c o s t s t o t h e p u b l i s h e r were m i n i m a l s i n c e t h e r e were no payments t o t h e p o e t , and l i t t l e o r no a d v e r t i s i n g needed t o be done t o s e c u r e s a l e s s i n c e p i r a t e d poems and volumes a c t e d as t h e i r own a d v e r t i s i n g . Y e t i n s p i t e o f l o s t r o y a l t i e s and payments, L o n g f e l l o w a c c e p t e d r a t h e r t h a n begrudged u n a u t h o r i z e d p u b l i c a t i o n . As he p o i n t e d o u t t o Emma M a r s h a l l , a B r i t i s h a u t h o r c o m p l a i n i n g o f u n a u t h o r i z e d A m e r i c a n r e p r i n t s : " I have had twenty-two p u b l i s h e r s i n E n g l a n d and S c o t l a n d , and o n l y f o u r o f them e v e r t o o k t h e s l i g h t e s t n o t i c e o f my e x i s t e n c e , even so f a r as t o send me a copy o f t h e books. S h a l l we c a l l t h a t ' c h i v a l r y , ' — o r t h e o t h e r word? Some good comes o f i t , a f t e r a l l ; f o r i t i s an a d v e r t i s e m e n t , and s u r e l y h e l p s what f o l l o w s . I t g i v e s you t h o u s a n d s o f r e a d e r s i n s t e a d o f hundreds" ( L i f e I I I 2 65- 6 6 ) . C e r t a i n l y , L o n g f e l l o w was p r e p a r e d t o see t h e b r i g h t s i d e h e r e , b u t he d i d n o t do so by a c c e p t i n g w h a t e v e r h i s a u t h o r i z e d p u b l i s h e r s wanted, o r by i g n o r i n g l o b b i e s f o r i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t l e g i s l a t i o n . On t h e c o n t r a r y , h i s e p i s t o l a r y d e b a t e s w i t h B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r s a r e l e g i o n and w e l l documented by Ghodes's s t u d i e s and by F. A. Mumby i n The House o f R o u t l e d g e : 1834-1934. Moreover, L o n g f e l l o w a p p e a l e d t o h i s c l o s e f r i e n d and w e l l known r a d i c a l R e p u b l i c a n Congressman C h a r l e s Sumner i n 1867, j u s t a f t e r t h e C i v i l War, t h a t he "not l e t t h e m a t t e r o f i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t f a d e o u t o f s i g h t . " He d i d so on t h e p r e t e x t o f a s s i s t i n g none o t h e r t h a n Tennyson, who had w r i t t e n t o L o n g f e l l o w u r g i n g t h a t now t h a t t h e war had p a s s e d "We E n g l i s h and A m e r i c a n s s h o u l d be b r o t h e r s as none o t h e r among n a t i o n s can be; and some o f us, come what may, w i l l a l w a y s be so, I t r u s t " ( L e t t e r s - L o n g f e l l o w V 108, L e t t e r s - T e n n y s o n I I 4 4 8 ) . And w h i l e i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t l e g i s l a t i o n was s t a l l e d f o r more t h a n two decades, i n t h e l a t e 1860s, 70s and 80s, L o n g f e l l o w ' s w o r l d w i d e r e p u t a t i o n grew a t a f a s t e r r a t e t h a n e v e r b e f o r e . L o n g f e l l o w ' s f o r e i g n a u d i e n c e , o f c o u r s e , was e s t a b l i s h e d e a r l y and was g r e a t e s t i n B r i t a i n . F e l l o w A m e r i c a n s t r a v e l l i n g o r r e s i d i n g t e m p o r a r i l y i n E n g l a n d , s u c h as F i e l d s and Hawthorne, seldom f a i l e d t o i n f o r m L o n g f e l l o w o f t h e i m p r e s s i o n s he made a c r o s s t h e A t l a n t i c . A f t e r m e e t i n g w i t h Bogue ( t h e n L o n g f e l l o w ' s a u t h o r i z e d B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r ) i n November 1851, F i e l d s w r o t e t o L o n g f e l l o w as f o l l o w s : " I f i n d y o u r w r i t i n g s a l l o v e r E n g l a n d . A t t h e houses o f a l l s o r t s of p e o p l e , h i g h c h u r c h & no c h u r c h , y o u r name i s r e v e r e n c e d . A t O x f o r d a few days ago I had t h e p l e a s u r e o f m e e t i n g many o f y o u r warm a d m i r e r s and as I came d i r e c t from y o u r p u b l i s h i n g o f f i c e and c o u l d speak o f y o u r fame i n y o u r own l a n d I was l i s t e n e d t o w i t h i n t e r e s t " ( q t d . i n Ghodes " L o n g f e l l o w " 117 0 ) . I n May 1855, Hawthorne w r o t e from L i v e r p o o l : "No o t h e r p o e t has a n y t h i n g l i k e y o u r vogue. D i d you h e a r how t h e Harrow s c h o o l - b o y s , a few months ago, d e c i d e d by a f o r m a l v o t e (as I u n d e r s t a n d ) t h a t you a r e t h e f i r s t p o e t o f t h e age? I make g r e a t p l a y a t d i n n e r - t a b l e s by means o f you. E v e r y l a d y — e s p e c i a l l y t h e younger o n e s — e n t e r s on t h e t o p i c w i t h e n t h u s i a s m " ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 258). A y e a r l a t e r , Hawthorne w r o t e a g a i n i n t h e same v e i n , s t a t i n g t h a t L o n g f e l l o w c o n t i n u e d t o be spoken o f " w i t h t h e h i g h e s t i n t e r e s t and a d m i r a t i o n " a t p a r t i e s he a t t e n d e d i n E n g l a n d ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 276) . H i g h c h u r c h , no c h u r c h , O x f o r d u n d e r g r a d u a t e s , Harrow p u b l i c s c h o o l boys, l a d i e s a t p a r t i e s — i t seems t h a t L o n g f e l l o w i n t h e 1850s had a f o l l o w i n g t h a t c r o s s e d r e l i g i o u s , c l a s s , and gender b o u n d a r i e s . L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i n a l c r o s s i n g o f t h e A t l a n t i c i n 1868 b r o u g h t a f u r t h e r i n c r e a s e i n t h e c r o s s - c u l t u r a l i s m o f h i s B r i t i s h a u d i e n c e ; and o f t h e m u l t i p l e r e a s o n s f o r t h e r a p i d e x p a n s i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y was t h e t i m i n g o f h i s c e l e b r a t e d j o u r n e y t o E n g l a n d . F o l l o w i n g t h e end o f t h e A m e r i c a n C i v i l War i n 1865, and t h e passage o f t h e second Reform B i l l i n B r i t a i n i n 18 67, s o c i a l b o u n d a r i e s and c l a s s - s p e c i f i c a l l e g i e n c e s i n b o t h c o u n t r i e s were weakening t o s u c h an e x t e n t t h a t a d e m o c r a t i z a t i o n o f i n t e l l e c t and l a i s s e z - f a i r e c a p i t a l i s t economies worked hand i n g l o v e t o make L o n g f e l l o w t h e most w i d e l y r e a d p o e t i n B r i t a i n . E n g l a n d ' s p r e v i o u s c l a s s - b a s e d h o s t i l i t y t o w a r d R e p u b l i c a n A m e r i c a — t h a t had r e a c h e d a c u t e p r o p o r t i o n s d u r i n g t h e C i v i l War when E n g l a n d a i d e d t h e S o u t h ' s s l a v e economy by c o n t i n u i n g t o t r a d e w i t h t h e C o n f e d e r a t e S t a t e s — g r a d u a l l y gave way i n t h e l a t e 18 60s t o a c c e p t a n c e and even a d m i r a t i o n f o r A m e r i c a ' s p o l i t i c a l and e d u c a t i o n a l systems t h a t c o u l d accommodate t h e masses. S i n c e p r e v i o u s l y d i s e n f r a n c h i z e d groups i n E n g l a n d — p o l i t i c a l and r e l i g i o u s r a d i c a l s , women, and t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s — h a d been more l i k e l y t o be A m e r i c a n s y m p a t h i z e r s i n any c a s e , as t h e y became empowered s o c i a l l y and e c o n o m i c a l l y t h e i r i n f l u e n c e s were f e l t i n a number o f o t h e r a r e a s , n o t t h e l e a s t o f w h i c h was as p u r c h a s e r s o f "cheap" l i t e r a t u r e . A w r i t e r f o r The Times h e r a l d e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s j o u r n e y t o E n g l a n d as f o l l o w s : A g u e s t i s a p p r o a c h i n g our s h o r e s , o r has a l r e a d y l a n d e d whose name i s a h o u s e h o l d word t o t h e E n g l i s h p e o p l e . No p o e t o f our own o r o f any o t h e r l a n d i s so w i d e l y known and a p p r e c i a t e d by s t r a n g e l y v a r i o u s c l a s s e s o f s o c i e t y . . . . He i s n o t l e s s t h e p o e t o f t h e p e o p l e t h a n a chosen companion o f t h e c u l t u r e d and r e f i n e d ; and h i s words a r e i n t h e mouths o f t h o u s a n d s t o whom our own Tennyson i s o n l y p a r t i a l l y f a m i l i a r , and t o whom B r o w n i n g i s an unknown name. (June 1868 q t d . i n Ghodes A m e r i c a n 101) L o n g f e l l o w ' s enormous p o p u l a r i t y g e n e r a t e d a r e v e r e n c e t h a t even t h e Queen and h e r L a u r e a t e acknowledged and h e l p e d t o f u r t h e r . F o r example, d u r i n g L o n g f e l l o w ' s v i s i t w i t h Queen V i c t o r i a , she o b s e r v e d a g r e a t s t i r among h e r d o m e s t i c s e r v a n t s w h i c h she l a t e r r e c o r d e d i n h e r j o u r n a l : The A m e r i c a n P o e t L o n g f e l l o w has been h e r e . I n o t i c e d an u n u s u a l i n t e r e s t among t h e a t t e n d a n t s and s e r v a n t s . I c o u l d s c a r c e l y c r e d i t t h a t t h e y so g e n e r a l l y u n d e r s t o o d who he was. When he t o o k l e a v e , t h e y c o n c e a l e d t h e m s e l v e s i n p l a c e s from w h i c h t h e y c o u l d g e t a good l o o k a t him as he p a s s e d . I have s i n c e i n q u i r e d among them, and am s u r p r i s e d and p l e a s e d t o f i n d t h a t many o f h i s poems 76 a r e f a m i l i a r t o them. No o t h e r d i s t i n g u i s h e d p e r s o n has come h e r e t h a t has e x c i t e d so p e c u l i a r an i n t e r e s t . Such p o e t s wear a crown t h a t i s u n p e r i s h a b l e . ( q t d . i n W i l l i a m s 20) W h i l e i n E n g l a n d , L o n g f e l l o w was g i v e n a u n i q u e honour f o r an A m e r i c a n by b e i n g r o y a l l y t r e a t e d by Tennyson. C o n t r a r y t o h i s g e n e r a l l y p r i v a t e r e s p o n s e s t o h i s n e i g h b o u r s , Tennyson h o s t e d a n e i g h b o u r h o o d t e a p a r t y o f some 40 o r 50 p e o p l e f o r L o n g f e l l o w on 16 J u l y d u r i n g h i s v i s i t t o F r e s h w a t e r , 15 t o 19 J u l y 1868 (Memoir 4 6 3 ) . 1 6 The h o n o r a r y d e g r e e s awarded L o n g f e l l o w from O x f o r d and Cambridge a l s o c o n f i r m e d t h e A m e r i c a n L a u r e a t e ' s achievement among t h e c u l t u r e d e l i t e . Y e t i t i s r e a l l y as a " m i d d l e - c l a s s " w r i t e r t h a t L o n g f e l l o w i s f e l t t o have made h i s mark, even i n E n g l a n d . A c c o r d i n g t o Ghodes, " e a r l i e r t h a n any o t h e r n a t i o n i n t h e w o r l d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s p r o d u c e d a l i t e r a t u r e w h i c h was e n t i r e l y t h e p r o d u c t o f t h e g r e a t m i d d l e c l a s s " (American L i t e r a t u r e 1 1 ) . The 'enormous i m p a c t o f t h i s A m e r i c a n m i d d l e - c l a s s p r o d u c t i n J . E. S a i t ' s b r i e f n o t e on Tennyson and L o n g f e l l o w ' s a c q u a i n t a n c e i n c l u d e s an i n t e r e s t i n g j o u r n a l e n t r y by one o f t h e n e i g h b o u r s , T i n y C o t t o n , who d e s c r i b e s t h e e m o t i o n a l s t i r L o n g f e l l o w i n s p i r e d i n t h e women p r e s e n t , and how she h e r s e l f f e l t t o r n i n a l l e g i a n c e between L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson, t h e l a t t e r r e f e r r e d t o as "our b a r d " f o r whom i t was "our p r i v i l e g e " t o pour t e a ( 1 8 7 - 8 ) . The A m e r i c a n and t h e B r i t i s h p o e t s became f r i e n d s as a r e s u l t o f t h i s m e e t i n g , s e n t one a n o t h e r poems, and m a i n t a i n e d an o c c a s i o n a l c o r r e s p o n d e n c e u n t i l t h e i r d e a t h s . I n a d d i t i o n , I r v i n g T. R i c h a r d s has p u b l i s h e d p r e v i o u s l y u n p u b l i s h e d e x t r a c t s from L o n g f e l l o w ' s j o u r n a l t h a t document h i s t h r e e p r e v i o u s t r i p s t o E n g l a n d : 1829, 1835, and 1842. On none o f t h e s e o c c a s i o n s d i d he meet Tennyson a l t h o u g h he met many o t h e r w r i t e r s , among them D i c k e n s and C a r l y l e . 77 E n g l a n d was b o t h f e a r e d and welcomed by p e o p l e o f a l l c l a s s e s , y e t i t c o u l d n e v e r be d e n i e d . Near t h e end o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y , t h e I l l u s t r a t e d London News r e f l e c t e d : P e r h a p s t h e most e n t i r e l y p o p u l a r books i n p r o s e and p o e t r y w h i c h have been r e a d by t h e masses o f t h e E n g l i s h p e o p l e d u r i n g t h e l a s t f i f t y y e a r s have come t o us from A m e r i c a — t h e poems o f L o n g f e l l o w and " U n c l e Tom's C a b i n , " b o t h l a r g e l y t e n d i n g t o make our m i d d l e c l a s s e s s t r o n g l y s y m p a t h e t i c t o t h e S t a r s and S t r i p e s . C e r t a i n i t i s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s s a l e s i n t h i s c o u n t r y have f a r exceeded t h o s e o f any one o f our own p o e t s . ( J a n 1896, q t d . i n Ghodes A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e 101) How L o n g f e l l o w s p e c i f i c a l l y came t o r e p r e s e n t t h e p o e t i c v o i c e o f an amorphous, w i d e - r a n g i n g m i d d l e c l a s s i s d e a l t w i t h t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y . F o r t h e moment, i t i s n e c e s s a r y t o c o n t i n u e w i t h e v i d e n c e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s s t a t u r e w o r l d w i d e . Even more a s t o u n d i n g t h a n s u c c e s s i n E n g l a n d was L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n t e r n a t i o n a l r e p u t a t i o n t h a t a c c r u e d from i n n u m e r a b l e t r a n s l a t i o n s o f t h e s u c c e s s f u l T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n s . A l t h o u g h amply r e c o r d e d by many, no one p r o v i d e s a more comprehensive t r e a t m e n t o f t h e s u b j e c t t h a n does F i e l d s h i m s e l f n o t l o n g b e f o r e he d i e d i n A p r i l 1881: I remember how i n s t a n t a n e o u s l y i n t h e y e a r 18 3 9 'The V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t ' sped t r i u m p h a n t l y on i t s way. A t p r e s e n t h i s c u r r e n c y i n Europe i s a l m o s t u n p a r a l l e l e d . T w e n t y - f o u r p u b l i s h i n g houses i n E n g l a n d have i s s u e d t h e whole o r a p a r t o f h i s works. Many o f h i s poems have been t r a n s l a t e d i n t o R u s s i a n and Hebrew. ' E v a n g e l i n e ' has been t r a n s l a t e d t h r e e t i m e s i n t o German, and 'Hiawatha' has n o t o n l y gone i n t o n e a r l y a l l t h e modern l a n g u a g e s , b u t can now be r e a d i n L a t i n . I have seen t r a n s l a t i o n s o f a l l L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r i n c i p a l works i n p r o s e and p o e t r y , i n F r e n c h , I t a l i a n , German, S p a n i s h , P o r t u g e s e , Dutch, Swedish, and D a n i s h . The Emperor o f B r a z i l has h i m s e l f t r a n s l a t e d and p u b l i s h e d 'Robert o f S i c i l y , ' one o f 78 t h e poems i n ' T a l e s o f a Wayside I n n , ' i n t o h i s n a t i v e tongue, and i n C h i n a t h e y use a f a n w h i c h has become immensely p o p u l a r on a c c o u n t o f t h e 'Psalm o f L i f e ' b e i n g p r i n t e d on i t i n t h e language o f t h e C e l e s t i a l Empire. P r o f e s s o r K n e e l a n d , who went t o t h e n a t i o n a l m i l l e n i a l c e l e b r a t i o n i n I c e l a n d , t o l d me t h a t when he was l e a v i n g t h a t f a r a w a y l a n d , on t h e v e r g e a l m o s t o f t h e A r c t i c C i r c l e , t h e p e o p l e s a i d t o him: ' T e l l L o n g f e l l o w t h a t we l o v e him; t e l l him t h a t we r e a d and r e j o i c e i n h i s poems; t e l l him t h a t I c e l a n d knows him by h e a r t . ' To-day t h e r e i s n o t d i s p u t i n g t h e f a c t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w i s more p o p u l a r t h a n any o t h e r l i v i n g p o e t ; t h a t h i s books a r e more w i d e l y c i r c u l a t e d , command g r e a t e r a t t e n t i o n , and b r i n g more c o p y r i g h t money t h a n t h o s e o f any o t h e r a u t h o r , n o t e x c e p t i n g Tennyson, now w r i t i n g E n g l i s h V e r s e . ( q t d . i n A n n i e F i e l d s 17-18, added emphasis) T r a n s l a t i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s work e v e n t u a l l y numbered 708 i n t w e n t y - f o u r d i f f e r e n t l a n g u a g e s ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 150). A l t h o u g h by t h e 193 0s L o n g f e l l o w may have been r e l e g a t e d by Ludwig L e w i s o h n t o c l a s s r o o m s o f " w r e t c h e d s c h o o l c h i l d r e n , " a t t h e end o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , h i s poems were b e i n g r e a d w o r l d w i d e , by a l l c l a s s e s and a l l ages. Poets and Their Bibliographies: Tennyson U n f o r t u n a t e l y , t h e s a l e s r e c o r d s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s o n l y s e r i o u s c o m p e t i t o r , t h o s e o f T e n n y s o n — i n E n g l a n d , A m e r i c a , o r i n t r a n s l a t i o n — a r e n o t anywhere n e a r so c o m p l e t e as t h e y a r e f o r L o n g f e l l o w . T h i s i s p a r t i c u l a r l y r e g r e t t a b l e s i n c e i n "not e x c e p t i n g " Tennyson i n t h e remarks above, F i e l d s a l l u d e s t o a p e r v a s i v e c o u p l i n g o f t h e two p o e t s i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y i n t h e h e a r t s and minds o f c r i t i c s , f r i e n d s , and t h e p u b l i c a t l a r g e i n b o t h A m e r i c a and B r i t a i n , p e r h a p s even a r o u n d t h e w o r l d . T h i s easy c o u p l i n g may s u r p r i s e many l a t e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s o f b o t h p o e t s i f t h e y d i v o r c e p o e t i c t e x t s from t h e i r means o f p r o d u c t i o n and c i t e s o f r e c e p t i o n . However, L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's " e q u a l " p o p u l a r i t y as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e d e r i v e d from t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s , i n p a r t i c u l a r , where L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's poems were r e p r i n t e d and c r i t i c i z e d j o i n t l y i n each o t h e r ' s c o u n t r i e s , n o t o n l y because o f a l a c k o f i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t , b u t because o f each c o u n t r y ' s need t o d e f i n e i t s e l f a g a i n s t t h e o t h e r d u r i n g t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . E q u a l l y i m p o r t a n t i s t h e f a c t t h a t t h e i r p u b l i s h e r s o f t e n p r o d u c e d v e r y s i m i l a r l o o k i n g v o l u m e s — e s p e c i a l l y i n A m e r i c a where L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson s h a r e d t h e same p u b l i s h e r — a n d marketed t h e s e volumes t o s i m i l a r enough a u d i e n c e s so t h a t s u b s t i t u t i o n o f one f o r t h e o t h e r i n r e a d e r s ' minds became common. The i n t r i n s i c d i f f e r e n c e s between t h e two p o e t s ' work n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g , t h e y a c h i e v e d t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e s u c c e s s e s w i t h i n c o n t e x t s o f p r o d u c t i o n t h a t u l t i m a t e l y l e d t o a r e m a r k a b l y s i m i l a r r e c e p t i o n f o r b o t h p o e t s . Throughout t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n d e e d s h a r e d t h e t i t l e "The P e o p l e ' s P o e t . " U n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w ' s , t h e h i s t o r y o f Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n as a p o e t i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s p u b l i c a t i o n methods does not f o l l o w a c l e a r p r o g r e s s i o n upward t o i n c r e a s i n g l y g r e a t e r h e i g h t s o f p o p u l a r i t y b e f o r e i t s d e c l i n e . Moreover, Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n i s chequered by t h e e f f e c t s o f n e g a t i v e r e v i e w s t o w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w was by and l a r g e i n d i f f e r e n t . 80 Tennyson's c a r e e r t h u s d i v i d e s i n t o d i s t i n c t p h a s e s , d r a m a t i c a l l y b i f u r c a t e d by t h e a l m o s t o v e r n i g h t s u c c e s s o f I n Memoriam. From 1827-1850, t h e p r o g r e s s o f Tennyson's p o e t i c c a r e e r was a t b e s t s p o r a d i c . H i s e a r l y volumes i n t h e 183 0s met w i t h c r i t i c a l s c o r n a t t h e hands o f r e v i e w e r s s u c h as W i l s o n and C r o k e r ; b u t t h e a p p r e n t i c e y e a r s o f what u s e d t o be c a l l e d t h e "Ten Y e a r s ' S i l e n c e , " d u r i n g w h i c h he p u b l i s h e d l i t t l e , c u l m i n a t e d i n t h e new and r e v i s e d Poems o f 1842, w h i c h e s t a b l i s h e d h i s p o e t i c r e p u t a t i o n and won him an i n c r e a s i n g l y w i d e a u d i e n c e , b o t h i n E n g l a n d and A m e r i c a . W i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f I n Memoriam i n 1850, Tennyson was v i r t u a l l y t h e o n l y c o n t e n d e r w o r t h y t o assume t h e m a n t l e o f Wordsworth's l a u r e a t e s h i p . A f t e r w a r d , h i s fame c o n t i n u e d more o r l e s s unchecked u n t i l t h e mid-1870s when, f o l l o w i n g h i s s h i f t t o drama, h i s r e p u t a t i o n began a g r a d u a l d e c l i n e . 1850, t h e r e f o r e , i s a c o n v e n i e n t t r a n s i t i o n a l d a t e t o l a u n c h an a n a l y s i s o f h i s p u b l i c a t i o n h i s t o r y . Tennyson's e a r l y p u b l i s h i n g c a r e e r c o u l d n o t have been more d i f f e r e n t from L o n g f e l l o w ' s . Most Tennyson s c h o l a r s a g r e e t h a t when i t came t o p r o m o t i n g h i s work Tennyson was a t b e s t r e l u c t a n t and sometimes p l a i n l y o b s t r u c t i v e o f o t h e r s who would do i t f o r him. F o r example, had i t n o t been f o r A r t h u r H a l l a m ' s i n i t i a t i v e i n s e n d i n g Tennyson's "Sombre V a l l e y " s o n n e t i n J u l y 1831 t o Edward Moxon f o r h i s newly e s t a b l i s h e d E n g l i s h m a n ' s M a g a z i n e — - a f t e r Tennyson had f a i l e d t o comply w i t h H a l l a m ' s r e q u e s t t h a t he h i m s e l f s u b m i t poems t o t h a t 81 j o u r n a l — M o x o n , who was about t o l a u n c h h i s own c a r e e r as a book p u b l i s h e r , may n e v e r have t a k e n an i n t e r e s t i n 17 Tennyson. D u r i n g t h e f i r s t two decades o f h i s c a r e e r , Tennyson v i e w e d s u b m i s s i o n t o p e r i o d i c a l s and a n n u a l s i n a manner d i a m e t r i c a l l y opposed t o t h a t o f h i s A m e r i c a n c o u n t e r p a r t , Tennyson's i n i t i a l f a i l u r e t o comply w i t h H a l l a m ' s r e q u e s t t o send o u t poems f o r p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n l a t e r became o u t r i g h t r e f u s a l . By t h e e a r l y 1 8 4 0 s — a f t e r Tennyson had s u f f e r e d a f i n a n c i a l c o l l a p s e t h r o u g h a m i s p l a c e d i n v e s t m e n t — h i s f r i e n d s began t o s u g g e s t t h a t he " w r i t e s h o r t p o p u l a r poems f o r t h e magazines and newspapers" t o ease h i s economic d i f f i c u l t i e s . But Tennyson's r e p l y was f i r m : " I w r i t e o n l y what I f e e l . . . and w i l l n e v e r w r i t e a n y t h i n g e l s e " ( q t d . i n 1 7 H a l l a m was even p r e p a r e d t o e n l i s t a t y p e o f b u s i n e s s agent o f h i s own, C h a r l e s M e r i v a l e , t o work o u t r e g u l a r payments f o r c o n t r i b u t i o n s and d i s c o v e r what r o y a l t i e s Moxon w o u l d pay f o r a f u l l volume (see Hagen 18-20). 82 C h a r l e s Tennyson 182) . Presumably, t h e e a r l y Tennyson f e l t t h a t h i s p o e t r y demanded volume p u b l i c a t i o n o r none a t a l l . 1 8 Tennyson v o i c e d s i m i l a r n e g a t i v e r e s p o n s e s t o numerous f r i e n d s ' a t t e m p t s t o g e t him t o s u b m i t poems t o a n n u a l s and g i f t b o o k s , p e r h a p s because c o n t r i b u t o r s were u n p a i d . The l i s t o f e a r l y poems a n t h o l o g i z e d i n t h e s e p u b l i c a t i o n s i s b r i e f and no poem was e x t r a c t e d from Tennyson w i t h o u t some g r u m b l i n g : "No More," " A n a c r e o n t i c s , " and "Where i s t h e G i a n t o f t h e Sun" f o r The Gem (1831); "There a r e t h r e e t h i n g s " f o r t h e Y o r k s h i r e L i t e r a r y A n n u a l (183 2 ) ; "Me my own F a t e " f o r F r i e n d s h i p ' s O f f e r i n g (183 2 ) ; "Check e v e r y o u t f l a s h , e v e r y r u d e r s a l l y " f o r F r i e n d s h i p ' s O f f e r i n g (1833), r e p r i n t e d from t h e E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine (Aug 1831); " S t Agnes Eve" f o r The Keepsake ( 1 8 3 7 ) ; and "0 t h a t t w e r e p o s s i b l e " f o r The T r i b u t e ( i 8 3 7 ) . U n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , Tennyson d i d n o t r e g a r d s u c h p u b l i c a t i o n s as a c o n v e n i e n t means o f advance a d v e r t i s i n g . On t h e c o n t r a r y , he r e g r e t t e d h a v i n g e v e r a l l o w e d h i m s e l f t o be c o e r c e d by f r i e n d s t o s u b m i t work t o p u b l i c a t i o n s t h a t he f e l t were b e n e a t h him. Tennyson was, however, p r o v o k e d i n t o p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n i n 1846. The F e b r u a r y and March i s s u e s o f Punch c o n t a i n e d "The New Timon, and t h e New P o e t s " and " A f t e r - Thought," s a t i r i c r e s p o n s e s t o B u l w e r L y t t o n ' s a t t a c k on Tennyson i n The New Timon (1845-6) ( d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r f o u r ) . A p p a r e n t l y , t h e f i r s t poem was n e v e r i n t e n d e d f o r p u b l i c a t i o n ; John F o r s t e r , annoyed a t B u l w e r L y t t o n ' s r e f u s a l t o a d m i t h i s a u t h o r s h i p o f The New Timon. had s e n t Tennyson's v e r s e s t o Punch, and t h e y appeared under t h e s i g n a t u r e " A l c i b i a d e s . " R e g r e t t i n g t h i s poem's p u b l i c a t i o n , Tennyson p u b l i s h e d t h e second under t h e same s i g n a t u r e as a means t o end t h e s e "pigmy wars," w h i c h i t d i d do. T h i s e p i s o d e f u r t h e r c o n f i r m s t h e f a c t t h a t t h e e a r l y Tennyson o n l y e v e r p u b l i s h e d i n t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s when prompted o r p r o v o k e d by o t h e r s . 83 On 3 August 1832, f o r i n s t a n c e , he r e p l i e d c r a n k i l y t o B r o o k f i e l d ' s r e q u e s t f o r s u b m i s s i o n s t o The Y o r k s h i r e : "Have I n o t f o r s w o r n a l l a n n u a l s p r o v i n c i a l and m e t r o p o l i t a n — I have been so beGemmed and b e - A m u l e t t e d and b e - f o r g e t - m e - n o t - t e d t h a t I have g i v e n a l l t h e s e t h i n g s up . . . . [ S ] e r i o u s l y , B r o o k f i e l d , I have a v e r y s t r o n g o b j e c t i o n t o a p p e a r i n g i n a n n u a l s and i t i s o n l y because you ask me t h a t I have s e n t you t h e f o l l o w i n g s o n n e t ["There a r e t h r e e t h i n g s " ] . . ." ( L e t t e r s 19 I 63) . A subsequent r e q u e s t from B r o o k f i e l d — t h i s t i m e f o r Lady Emmeline S t u a r t W o r t l e y ' s K e e p s a k e — r e s u l t e d i n a s i m i l a r , c r o t c h e t y r e p l y . Tennyson w r i t e s , "had t h e r e been any p r o s p e c t o f f i l t h y l u c r e , o r p e r h a p s had t h e l a d y h e r s e l f wooed me w i t h h e r f a i r e y e s , I m i g h t have s e n t s o m e t h i n g w h i c h would have f i l l e d a l a r g e r space i n h e r a n n u a l . . . ," and he r e m i n d s B r o o k f i e l d o f h i s " i n s t i n c t i v e h a t r e d t o w a r d a n n u a l s " ( L e t t e r s I 144) . I n t h i s l e t t e r , Tennyson's grounds a g a i n s t a n n u a l s b e g i n t o s u g g e s t t h e m s e l v e s : a n n u a l s a r e f i l l e d w i t h amusing t r i f l e s f o r t h e l e i s u r e d , a r i s t o c r a t i c c l a s s ( t h a t i s , • • 20 t h o s e who do n o t d e i g n t o t o u c h ' f i l t h y l u c r e ' ) . 1 9 I n a n o t e t o t h i s l e t t e r , C e c i l Lang adds t h a t Tennyson a p p a r e n t l y d i d n o t p u b l i s h i n Samuel H a l l ' s Amulet. 20 • . . . R i c h a r d A l t i c k e x p l a i n s t h a t i n E n g l a n d " t h e w e l l - t o - do c l a s s [were] e n t e r t a i n e d a t t h e C h r i s t m a s s e a s o n and f o r months t h e r e a f t e r , by g i f t - b o o k s — t h e 'keepsakes' and ' p a r l o r albums' whose a n n u a l i s s u e , i n t h e i r p e r i o d o f g r e a t e s t vogue d u r i n g t h e 1820's and 1830's, had e n r i c h e d p u b l i s h e r s , p r i n t e r s , b i n d e r s , w r i t e r s , and i l l u s t r a t o r s . . . . These a n n u a l s , i m p o r t a n t though t h e y a r e i n Regency and e a r l y V i c t o r i a n l i t e r a r y and c u l t u r a l h i s t o r y , were p r i c e d t o o h i g h t o a f f e c t t h e mass a u d i e n c e " (Common Reader 3 6 2 ) . 84 T h i s c l a s s - b a s e d a t t i t u d e i s e x p r e s s e d d i r e c t l y on 21 December 1836, i n Tennyson's s a r c a s t i c r e s p o n s e t o R i c h a r d Monckton M i l n e s ' s r e q u e s t t h a t he "be a good boy" and s u p p l y " s o m e t h i n g p r e t t y c o n s i d e r a b l e " f o r t h e M a r q u i s o f Northampton's p h i l a n t h r o p i c v e n t u r e , The T r i b u t e ( M i l n e s q t d . i n Memoir 131-2); Tennyson r e p l i e s : That you had p r o m i s e d t h e M a r q u i s I would w r i t e f o r him s o m e t h i n g e x c e e d i n g t h e a v e r a g e l e n g t h o f a n n u a l c o m p o s i t i o n s — t h a t you had p r o m i s e d him I would w r i t e a t a l l — I t o o k t h i s f o r one o f t h o s e e l e g a n t f i c t i o n s w i t h w h i c h you amuse y o u r A u n t s o f e v e n i n g s , b e f o r e you g e t i n t o t h e s m a l l h o u r s , when dreams a r e t r u e . Three summers back, p r o v o k t by t h e i n c i v i l i t y o f E d i t o r s , I swore an o a t h , t h a t I would n e v e r a g a i n have t o do w i t h t h e i r v a p i d b o o k s — a n d I b r o k e i t i n t h e sweet f a c e o f Heaven when I w r o t e f o r Lady (what's h e r name?) W o r t l e y : b u t t h e n h e r s i s t e r w r o t e t o B r o o k f i e l d and s a i d she (Lady W) was b e a u t i f u l — s o I c o u l d n ' t h e l p i t : b u t whether t h e M a r q u i s be b e a u t i f u l o f n o t I d o n ' t mind much. I f he be, l e t him g i v e God t h a n k s and make no b o a s t . To w r i t e f o r p e o p l e w i t h p r e f i x e s t o t h e i r names i s t o m i l k h e - g o a t s : t h e r e i s n e i t h e r honour n o r p r o f i t : up t o t h i s moment I have n o t even seen t h e Keepsake: n o t t h a t I c a r e t o see i t , b u t t h e want o f c i v i l i t y d e c i d e d me n o t b r e a k mine o a t h a g a i n f o r man o r woman. And how s h o u l d s u c h a modest man, as I , see my s m a l l name i n c o l l o c a t i o n w i t h t h e g r e a t ones o f Southey, Wordsworth, R. M. M. e t c . and n o t f e e l m y s e l f a b a r n d o o r f o w l among p e a c o c k s ? ( L e t t e r s I 146) The above l e t t e r i s q u o t e d a t l e n g t h h e r e t o i l l u s t r a t e f u l l y why Tennyson found a n n u a l s v a p i d : t h e y were g o t up by "he- g o a t s " t h r o u g h c o n t r i b u t i o n s by " p e a c o c k s , " Tennyson's a d m i r a t i o n f o r Wordsworth and company n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g . ' The " b a r n d o o r f o w l " — t h a t can s e r v e some u t i l i t a r i a n p u r p o s e — s a r c a s t i c a l l y b e l i e v e s h i m s e l f unworthy t o p u b l i s h i n an a n n u a l . Not s u r p r i s i n g l y , M i l n e s a c c u s e d Tennyson o f 85 " i n s u l t i n g i r o n y , " and t h r e a t e n e d t o p u b l i s h h i s own m a n u s c r i p t copy o f "Anacaona" s h o u l d t h e p o e t r e f u s e him. P i n n e d i n t h i s way, Tennyson a c q u i e s c e d s i n c e he c l a i m e d t h a t he would "not be backward i n d o i n g a r e a l l y c h a r i t a b l e deed" ( L e t t e r s I 148), a l t h o u g h n o t b e f o r e he c h i d e d M i l n e s a t some f u r t h e r l e n g t h . Out o f a sense o f p h i l a n t h r o p i c d u t y , Tennyson e v e n t u a l l y s u b m i t t e d what would become t h e seed poem f o r Maud: "Oh! t h a t 'twere p o s s i b l e . " N e v e r t h e l e s s , t h i s exchange w i t h M i l n e s ended Tennyson's c o n t r i b u t i o n s t o a n n u a l s f o r o v e r a decade. A t f i r s t g l a n c e , Tennyson's i n i t i a l r e l u c t a n c e t o p u b l i s h i n t h e " p o p u l a r " p r e s s o r t o c u l t i v a t e r e a d e r s o f a n n u a l s seems t o c o n t r a d i c t h i s l a t e r p o p u l a r i t y . And, i n d e e d , a f t e r 18 50 when Tennyson f e l t h i s r e p u t a t i o n was s e c u r e , he d i d c o n t r i b u t e t o s e v e r a l a n n u a l s i n c l u d i n g The M a n c h e s t e r Anthenaeum Album (1850), F r a n c e s Powers's The Keepsake (1851), and A d e l a i d e P r o c t e r ' s The V i c t o r i a R e q i a (1861). He a l s o p u b l i s h e d more t h a n f i f t y poems i n v a r i o u s newspapers and p e r i o d i c a l s . 2 1 To e x p l a i n s u c h a c o n t r a d i c t i o n , many t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s c h o l a r s i n v o k e a now f a m i l i a r p a r a d i g m o f two T e n n y s o n s — t h e Romantic and V i c t o r i a n . They 2 1 I n B r i t a i n , t h e Anthenaeum, Contemporary Review, C o r n h i l l Magazine, C o u r t J o u r n a l , D a i l y T e l e g r a p h , Examiner, F r a s e r ' s M a g a z i n e , Good Words, M a c m i l l a n ' s Magazine , New Review, N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y . P a l l M a l l G a z e t t e . Punch, and The Times; and i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , t h e A t l a n t i c M o n t h l y , E v e r y S a t u r d a y , New York L e d g e r , S t . N i c h o l a s , and Youth's Companion (see Wise I 301-63). 86 s i m p l i s t i c a l l y r e f e r t o Tennyson's p r e - L a u r e a t e c a r e e r as t h a t o f a r o m a n t i c a r t i s t who, a l i e n a t e d from h i s a u d i e n c e , sought e x c l u s i v e l y p o e t i c t r u t h and t h e r e f o r e d i d n o t d e i g n t o p u b l i s h i n t h e p o p u l a r p r e s s . A l t h o u g h Raymond W i l l i a m s does n o t use him as an example, t h e e a r l y Tennyson i s f r e q u e n t l y seen by o t h e r s as a r o m a n t i c a r t i s t who " w i l l n o t a c c e p t t h e market q u o t a t i o n o f p o p u l a r i t y " ( C u l t u r e 3 4 ) . Of t h o s e c r i t i c s who a n a l y s e s p e c i f i c a l l y Tennyson's r e l a t i o n t o h i s a u d i e n c e i n t h e 183 0s, M a r i o n Shaw, i n "Tennyson and h i s P u b l i c 1827-1859," and P a u l J a m i e s o n , i n "Tennyson and h i s 22 A u d i e n c e i n 1832," v i e w Tennyson i n t h i s way. Many r e a s o n s , some a c c u r a t e , some f a n c i f u l , have been advanced by modern c r i t i c s t o e x p l a i n Tennyson's r e l u c t a n c e i n t h e 1830s t o p u b l i s h h i s poems s e p a r a t e l y . One r e a s o n t h a t seems t o have been o v e r l o o k e d , however, c o n c e r n s Tennyson's g r o w i n g awareness o f t h e r e l a t i o n s h i p between h i s a r t and h i s a u d i e n c e , an e x p l a n a t i o n t h a t r u n s d i r e c t l y c o u n t e r t o any a t t e m p t on h i s p a r t t o i s o l a t e h i m s e l f from h i s r e a d e r s . 2 3 2 2 Numerous o t h e r t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s c o u l d be added t o t h o s e who v i e w t h e e a r l y Tennyson as Romantic s u p e r s e d e d by a l a t e r , V i c t o r i a n , Tennyson. The most i m p o r t a n t o f t h e s e a r e d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r s t h r e e and f o u r i n an a n a l y s i s o f t h e two Tennysons l e g e n d t h a t has come t o dominate c r i t i c a l t h i n k i n g i n t h i s c e n t u r y . 23 • The e x p l a n a t i o n t h a t f o l l o w s summarizes a l e n g t h y a n a l y s i s i n c h a p t e r f o u r o f H a l l a m ' s key r o l e i n d e f i n i n g f o r Tennyson t h e i n t e r r e l a t i o n between a e s t h e t i c a p p r e c i a t i o n and m o r a l r e s p o n s i b l i t y . The d i s c u s s i o n o f Tennyson's volume p u b l i c a t i o n s t h a t a p p e a r s i n t h i s c h a p t e r i s r e s t r i c t e d t o s a l e s , m a r k e t i n g , and r e v i e w s . Reviews, however, a r e o n l y d e a l t w i t h b r i e f l y h e r e because i n c h a p t e r f o u r t h e more i m p o r t a n t o f t h e s e a r e examined i n some d e t a i l i n r e l a t i o n t o 87 Most c r i t i c s acknowledge t h a t Tennyson was s c r u p u l o u s l y c a r e f u l about what he i n c l u d e d i n h i s s i n g l e volumes and c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s : t h e two-volume Poems (1842), c o n t a i n i n g one volume o f new and one volume o f r e v i s e d e a r l i e r poems, i s t h e b e s t i n s t a n c e i n p o i n t . T h i s a t t e n t i o n s u g g e s t s t h a t Tennyson v i e w e d h i s volumes as c o m p l e t e e n t i t i e s r a t h e r t h a n m e r e l y c o l l e c t i o n s o f i s o l a t e d poems, and he had a v a l i d r e a s o n f o r d o i n g so. I n s t e a d o f c o n s i d e r i n g h i s p o e t i c r o l e as one r o m a n t i c a l l y remote from h i s r e a d e r s , T e n n y s o n — e v e n a t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f h i s c a r e e r — f e l t t h a t h i s s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o h i s p u b l i c was t o c o n v i n c e h i s r e a d e r s o f a m o r a l i m p e r a t i v e u n d e r l y i n g a e s t h e t i c a p p r e c i a t i o n . Such a g r a n d p u r p o s e c o u l d n e v e r be c o n t a i n e d w i t h i n t h e b r e v i t y o f i s o l a t e d l y r i c s s i n c e i t would demand o f h i s r e a d e r s o p p o r t u n i t i e s f o r r e f l e c t i o n , c o n t e m p l a t i o n and c o m p a r i s o n s among d i s p a r a t e y e t c o n n e c t e d poems. I f s u c h a p u r p o s e were t o be a c h i e v e d a t a l l , t h e n i t c o u l d o n l y be so w i t h i n a c o m p l e t e volume. C o n s e q u e n t l y , Tennyson began h i s p u b l i s h i n g c a r e e r w i t h volumes o f p o e t r y i n s t e a d o f i n d i v i d u a l poems so t h a t he c o u l d p e r s u a d e h i s r e a d e r s o f h i s l a r g e r c l a i m f o r p o e t r y as a e s t h e t i c m o r a l i s m r a t h e r t h a n r i s k b e i n g m i s r e a d i n poems i s o l a t e d from one a n o t h e r . That he f a i l e d t o g a r n e r s y m p a t h e t i c r e a d e r s had f a r more t o do w i t h t h e n a t u r e o f t h e B r i t i s h p u b l i s h i n g i n d u s t r y i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s t h e development o f Tennyson's p o e t i c v o i c e . 88 i n t h e 1830s t h a n i t d i d w i t h Tennyson, h i s p o e t i c s , o r h i s p u b l i c a t i o n methods. Once Tennyson f e l t t h a t h i s p o e t i c aims had been s e c u r e d ( e v i n c e d i n h i s e n l a r g e d r e a d e r s h i p o f t h e 1 8 5 0 s ) , he o f t e n c o n s e n t e d , as has been shown, t o t h e s e p a r a t e p u b l i c a t i o n o f i n d i v i d u a l poems, knowing t h a t t h e y c o u l d be r e a d as i f t h r o u g h a f i l t e r o f t h e l i t e r a r y e x p e c t a t i o n s e s t a b l i s h e d by h i s p r e v i o u s f u l l - l e n g t h volumes. As t h o s e w i t h B r o o k f i e l d and M i l n e s , d e b a t e s between Tennyson and h i s f r i e n d s a l s o ensued i n t h e 183 0s o v e r t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f h i s f i r s t two volumes: Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l (183 0) and Poems (183 3) (see A p p e n d i x I I ) . P r i o r t o t h e s e two volumes, Tennyson's p o e t r y had appeared anonymously i n 1827 w i t h t h a t o f h i s b r o t h e r s , C h a r l e s and F r e d e r i c k , i n Poems by Two B r o t h e r s . T h i s " e a r l y r o t " — a s Tennyson l a t e r c a l l e d i t — was o f f e r e d a t f i v e s h i l l i n g s and a p p a r e n t l y s o l d b a d l y . 2 4 A second c o l l a b o r a t i v e e f f o r t , w i t h A r t h u r Henry H a l l a m , e v e n t u a l l y r e s u l t e d i n Tennyson's f i r s t i n d e p e n d e n t volume once H a l l a m r e l u c t a n t l y w i t h d r e w h i s c o n t r i b u t i o n s under p r e s s u r e from h i s f a t h e r . P u b l i s h e d i n June 183 0, by 2 4 Hagan s p e c u l a t e s t h a t t h e p u b l i s h e r s J . and J . J a c k s o n may have p r i n t e d as many as 800 a l t h o u g h r e c o r d s a r e n o t a v a i l a b l e . That t h e y p r i n t e d f a r t o o many, however, i s c l e a r from t h e " c o n s i d e r a b l e s t o c k o f r e m a i n d e r s " d i s c o v e r e d i n 1870 i n t h e p r i n t e r ' s warehouse (see Hagen 7 ) . Y e t i n 18 65, i n an a t t e m p t t o c a p i t a l i z e on t h e L a u r e a t e ' s p o p u l a r i t y , J a c k s o n a p p a r e n t l y b l a c k m a i l e d Tennyson by t h r e a t e n i n g t o p u b l i s h a t l e a s t 10,000 c o p i e s o f Poems by Two B r o t h e r s , w h i c h he avowed would b r i n g him £1000 p r o f i t . How much Tennyson p a i d t o J a c k s o n i s n o t known, b u t t h e book was n o t r e p u b l i s h e d u n t i l t h e E v e r s l e y e d i t i o n (see Lang L e t t e r s I I 391 n . l ) . 89 E f f i n g h a m W i l s o n , Poems. C h i e f l y L y r i c a l was l i k e l y seen t h r o u g h t h e p r e s s by H a l l a m ; t h u s began a w o r k i n g r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h H a l l a m as b u s i n e s s agent and Tennyson as a r t i s t t h a t l a s t e d u n t i l H a l l a m ' s d e a t h i n September 1833. A l t h o u g h t h e p r e c i s e number o f c o p i e s s o l d i s n o t known, Tennyson a p p a r e n t l y s t i l l owed W i l s o n e l e v e n pounds i n 183 3 f o r t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l , s u g g e s t i n g t h a t — i f an arrangement o f h a l f - s h a r e s o f c o s t s and p r o f i t s had been s t r u c k — t h e volume had n o t s o l d w e l l (see Hagen 1 5 ) . A g a i n , i t was H a l l a m who was p r e p a r e d t o h a n d l e t h e d i s p u t e s c o n c e r n i n g t h i s d e b t . As C h r i s t o p h e r R i c k s a r g u e s , "what Tennyson g r a t e f u l l y l o v e d i n H a l l a m was n o t l i m i t e d t o t h e g r a n d l y p l a t o n i c m a r r i a g e o f t r u e minds, b u t i n c l u d e d t h e shrewd and generous p r a c t i c a l i t i e s w i t h w h i c h H a l l a m f u r t h e r e d t h e p u b l i c a t i o n and p r o m o t i o n o f Tennyson's poems" ( 6 9 ) . W h i l e L o n g f e l l o w chose t o manage b o t h t h e p r a c t i c a l and t h e p o e t i c a s p e c t s o f h i s c a r e e r , t h e e a r l y Tennyson w i s e l y r e l i n q u i s h e d t h e f o r m e r r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o H a l l a m , l i m i t i n g h i m s e l f t o t h e p o e t r y . F o l l o w i n g p u b l i c a t i o n o f Poems. C h i e f l y L y r i c a l . H a l l a m f u n c t i o n e d as b o t h agent and r e v i e w e r t o promote h i s f r i e n d ' s work: he s e c u r e d a f a v o u r a b l e t w o - p a r t r e v i e w from L e i g h Hunt, e d i t o r o f The T a t l e r (Feb and Mar 1831); he s e n t t h e s o n n e t , "Sombre V a l l e y , " w i t h o u t Tennyson's p e r m i s s i o n t o Moxon's E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine (see above p. 8 0 ) ; and he t r i e d t o a r r a n g e t h r o u g h M e r i v a l e f o r c o n t i n u e d Tennyson c o n t r i b u t i o n s ( w i t h payment) t o t h e E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine (Aug 1831). Most i m p o r t a n t l y , however, he w r o t e h i s r e v i e w - e s s a y "On Some o f t h e C h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f Modern P o e t r y , and on t h e L y r i c a l Poems o f A l f r e d Tennyson" f o r t h e same August i s s u e o f t h e E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine i n w h i c h Tennyson's s o n n e t appeared. A l t h o u g h t h e E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine f a i l e d b e f o r e t h e end o f t h e y e a r — s o t h a t f u r t h e r c o n t r i b u t i o n s were i m p o s s i b l e — H a l l a m ' s d e a l i n g s w i t h Moxon e s t a b l i s h e d a r e l a t i o n s h i p between Tennyson and Moxon's p u b l i s h i n g f i r m t h a t w o u l d l a s t t w e n t y - e i g h t y e a r s . A g a i n , u n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w who engaged i n c o n s i d e r a b l e s e l f - p r o m o t i o n t h r o u g h p e r i o d i c a l s and a n n u a l s , Tennyson had c l o s e f r i e n d s such as H a l l a m do h i s p r o m o t i o n f o r him. Tennyson's p r e f e r r e d method o f advance n o t i c e was t h e c i r c u l a t i o n o f v a r i o u s m a n u s c r i p t s ( o f t e n v i a Hallam) among h i s Cambridge f r i e n d s so as t o r e c e i v e d i r e c t l y , o r i n d i r e c t l y t h r o u g h H a l l a m , immediate r e s p o n s e s and c r i t i c i s m o f h i s p o e t r y . E v e n t u a l l y , h i s c i r c l e o f f r i e n d s widened t o i n c l u d e Moxon, and by t h e e a r l y f a l l o f 1832 H a l l a m had c o m p l e t e d t h e arrangements f o r Moxon's p u b l i c a t i o n o f Tennyson's Poems. I n h i s r e f u s a l t o i n c l u d e "The L o v e r ' s T a l e " i n Poems, Tennyson overcame h i s r e t i c e n c e i n d e a l i n g d i r e c t l y w i t h h i s p u b l i s h e r . H a l l a m had been p r e s s u r i n g Tennyson t o keep t h e poem i n h i s new volume, b u t Tennyson was adamantly a g a i n s t i t . On 20 November 1832, Tennyson w r o t e t o Moxon e x p l a i n i n g t h a t "The L o v e r ' s T a l e " was " t o o f u l l o f f a u l t s " f o r i n c l u s i o n and t h a t , a l t h o u g h Tennyson t h o u g h t i t m i g h t be p o p u l a r , i t s p o i l e d what he c o n s i d e r e d t o be t h e e f f e c t o f t h e whole. C e c i l Lang and Edgar Shannon i n c l u d e i n t h i s l e t t e r a t e l l i n g c a n c e l l a t i o n o f Tennyson's: " p o p u l a r i t y i s n o t what I am p a r t i c u l a r l y a n x i o u s f o r " ( L e t t e r s I 8 4 ) . I n b o t h h i s a c t i o n s and words, Tennyson r e v e a l s e a r l y h i s a r t i s t i c i n t e g r i t y : p r o v i d e d h i s work appeared b e f o r e t h e p u b l i c i n a manner a c c e p t a b l e t o h i s p o e t i c s e n s i b i l i t y , Tennyson had no d e s i r e o r need t o s o i l h i s own hands i n t h e b u s i n e s s o f p u b l i c a t i o n — f o r p o p u l a r i t y o r p r o f i t . But when i n d o u b t , Tennyson a c t e d f o r h i m s e l f and was n o t t o be swayed by any amount o f s p e c i a l p l e a d i n g on t h e p a r t o f f r i e n d s o r p u b l i s h e r . 2 5 I n December, 450 c o p i e s o f Poems were p u b l i s h e d a t a c o s t o f s i x s h i l l i n g s . A c c o r d i n g t o S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson, a f t e r two y e a r s , o n l y 300 had been d i s p o s e d o f ( 1 3 7 ) . Most Tennyson s c h o l a r s a g r e e w i t h S i r C h a r l e s t h a t C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h ' s n e g a t i v e r e v i e w o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l , Tennyson's e p i g r a m i n r e p l y t o him i n Poems, and John C r o k e r ' s s c a t h i n g r e v i e w o f Tennyson i n t h e Q u a r t e r l y — a p e r i o d i c a l g u i d i n g " t h e t a s t e o f t h o u s a n d s o f r e a d e r s , " and s e t t i n g " t h e t o n e f o r t h e m a j o r i t y 2 5 Tennyson's s t u b b o r n n e s s a l s o c r e a t e d what S i r C h a r l e s r e f e r s t o as "one o f t h e w o r s t m i s t a k e s t h e p o e t made i n t h e whole o f h i s c a r e e r " (13 0 ) . H a l l a m had c a u t i o n e d a g a i n s t i n c l u d i n g i n Poems an epigram condemning C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h who had c r i t i c i z e d Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l t h e y e a r b e f o r e . But Tennyson i n s i s t e d t h a t i t r e m a i n ; he t h u s p r o v o k e d t h e s u b s e q u e n t and more v i t r i o l i c anger o f John C r o k e r i n h i s r e v i e w o f Poems. 92 o f c r i t i c s " — i r r e t r i e v a b l y i n j u r e d t h e s a l e s o f Poems (13 5-7). But t h e p o o r s a l e s may a l s o have been due i n p a r t t o Tennyson's c h o i c e o f p u b l i s h e r , s i n c e i t was Moxon's c o n s e r v a t i v e b u s i n e s s p r a c t i c e s t h a t r e s u l t e d i n d i r e c t l y i n t h e c r i t i c a l r e v i e w s h a v i n g s u c h a p r o f o u n d e f f e c t on Tennyson's s a l e s . H a v i n g o n l y r e c e n t l y l a u n c h e d h i s c a r e e r , i n 183 2, Moxon had y e t t o c u l t i v a t e t h e f r i e n d s h i p s w i t h i m p o r t a n t e d i t o r s and c r i t i c s (a d e f i c i e n c y he l a t e r remedied) t h a t would h e l p g u a r a n t e e f a v o u r a b l e r e v i e w s t o o f f s e t any n e g a t i v e ones. H a r o l d Merriman, moreover, a r g u e s t h a t Moxon's m a r k e t i n g s t r a t e g i e s a c t u a l l y i n f l u e n c e d t h e n e g a t i v e t o n e o f t h e r e v i e w s , w h i c h i n t u r n a f f e c t e d s a l e s . R a t h e r t h a n spend l a r g e sums f o r a d v e r t i s e m e n t s i n p e r i o d i c a l s , Moxon chose i n s t e a d t o i n c l u d e f l y l e a f pages o f book n o t i c e s i n h i s p u b l i s h e d volumes. Merriman c o n c l u d e s t h a t t h i s "narrow p u r s e " c o n s e r v a t i v i s m , e s p e c i a l l y when i t came t o a d v e r t i s i n g , meant t h a t Moxon was o f t e n f o r c e d t o send h i s volumes f o r r e v i e w t o " t h e v e r y j o u r n a l s he was m e a g e r l y p a t r o n i z i n g " ( 7 9 ) . Moxon's p r a c t i c e may have r e d u c e d t h e s u s p i c i o n o f " p u f f i n g " among a u t h o r s , p u b l i s h e r s , e d i t o r s , and r e v i e w e r s — a c h a r g e t h a t F i e l d s and L o n g f e l l o w had t o e n d u r e — b u t what i t meant f o r t h e p o e t s whom Moxon p u b l i s h e d was t h a t t h e p r o m o t i o n o f t h e i r work was u n d u l y r e s t r i c t e d t o t h e a r e n a o f c r i t i c a l r e v i e w s and t h e i r r e a d e r s . The e a r l y Tennyson had, t h e r e f o r e , t o r e l y a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y upon u n s y m p a t h e t i c r e v i e w s t o b u i l d h i s a u d i e n c e s i n c e he h i m s e l f was u n w i l l i n g t o s e l f - a d v e r t i s e t h r o u g h p o e t i c s u b m i s s i o n s t o p e r i o d i c a l s , and Moxon was u n p r e p a r e d t o do much a d v e r t i s i n g f o r him. N o n e t h e l e s s , Moxon's b u s i n e s s r e t i c e n c e need n o t be c o n s t r u e d as n i g g a r d l y . Moxon's m o t i v e s must be seen w i t h i n t h e l a r g e r c o n t e x t o f t h e B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r ' s p e r c e p t i o n o f h i s r o l e i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s w r i t e r s and h i s market. Hagen a l l e g e s t h a t Tennyson l i k e l y p u b l i s h e d w i t h Moxon a t f i r s t under a c o n s e r v a t i v e , h a l f - s h a r e s arrangement t h a t was B r i t i s h s t a n d a r d f o r t h e t i m e ; t h a t i s , t h e p u b l i s h e r assumed a l l c o s t s o f p r i n t i n g , s t e r e o t y p i n g , p u b l i s h i n g , and a d v e r t i s i n g . Once t h e s e had been p a i d back t o him from i n i t i a l s a l e s , t h e p u b l i s h e r and t h e p o e t s h a r e d e q u a l l y any r e m a i n i n g p r o f i t s ( 2 7 ) . A t a t i m e when Moxon was j u s t b e g i n n i n g t o e s t a b l i s h h i s c a r e e r , i t i s n o t s u r p r i s i n g t h a t he sought t o m i n i m i z e h i s advance c o s t s . H a r d l y w e a l t h y h i m s e l f and t h e r e f o r e s u b j e c t t o w h a t e v e r b u s i n e s s methods h i s p u b l i s h e r c o u l d a f f o r d , Tennyson e x e r c i s e d f a r l e s s c o n t r o l o v e r t h e e a r l y p u b l i c a t i o n o f h i s work t h a n d i d L o n g f e l l o w who a f t e r 1845 owned t h e s t e r e o t y p e p l a t e s t o h i s volumes. Tennyson c o u l d not d i r e c t Moxon; he had t o r e l y f a r more on Moxon's assessment o f t h e market t h a n L o n g f e l l o w d i d on T i c k n o r and F i e l d s . I n terms o f p r o d u c t , however, Moxon's e d i t i o n s were p r a c t i c a l and a e s t h e t i c a l l y p l e a s i n g . A t f i r s t , t h e y were i n d r a b p a p e r b o a r d s . But w i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f The P r i n c e s s 94 (1847), Moxon e s t a b l i s h e d h i s t r a d e - e d i t i o n : c l e a r - c u t , w e l l - s p a c e d t y p e ; s i m p l e , d i g n i f i e d t i t l e pages u s u a l l y w i t h o u t r u l i n g s o r ornaments; s i m p l e , s u b s t a n t i a l b i n d i n g i n p l a i n g r e e n - c l o t h b l i n d - s t a m p e d b o a r d s w i t h g i l t l e t t e r i n g on t h e s p i n e (see Merriman 7 6-7). B o t h h i s p r o m o t i o n and h i s p r o d u c t s r e s u l t e d from Moxon's p e r c e p t i o n o f h i m s e l f as a q u a l i t y p u b l i s h e r . Merriman summarizes Moxon's c h a r a c t e r i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s b u s i n e s s p r a c t i c e as f o l l o w s : The g e n e r a l t e n d e n c i e s o f Moxon's c a r e e r i n b u s i n e s s by t h i s t i m e [1832] . . . have been f a i r l y w e l l s e t . He i s t o be a l i t e r a r y - m i n d e d p u b l i s h e r , n o t m e r e l y a c o m m e r c i a l maker o f books. H i s p r i n t i n g , b i n d i n g , and g e n e r a l book make-up a r e t o be s i m p l e and t a s t e f u l . Moxon books a r e t o be c a r e f u l l y s e l e c t e d , so t h a t h i s i m p r i n t s h a l l be a symbol o f q u a l i t y . He p r e f e r s t o i s s u e volumes o f p o e t r y . H i s p l a c e o f b u s i n e s s i s t o be a l i t e r a r y c e n t e r . . . . He w o u l d l i k e t o become a p a t r o n - p u b l i s h e r and p o s s e s s a s a l o n w h i c h l i t e r a r y gentlemen s h o u l d f r e q u e n t . He i s a g e n i a l man, who has t i m e f o r a c h a t o r f o r s e r i o u s c o n v e r s a t i o n . H i s " a u t h o r s " a r e t o be h i s f r i e n d s , and he a l w a y s t h e i r f r i e n d . He w i l l spend a good d e a l o f t i m e a t b r e a k f a s t s and l u n c h e o n s o f l i t e r a r y men, and i n r e t u r n w i l l g i v e s i m i l a r e n t e r t a i n m e n t i n h i s own house. H i s b u s i n e s s methods a r e t o be c o n s e r v a t i v e . There s h a l l be no d i s p l a y , no b o l d a d v e r t i s i n g o r n o i s y p u b l i c i t y . W e l l - b r e d p e o p l e a r e t o say "Moxon has j u s t p u b l i s h e d . . . ," and t h a t w i l l be a recommendation o f h i s books. Y e t he has "a Y o r k s h i r e head," w h i c h d o e s n ' t l o s e i t s e l f i n t h e c l o u d s . He w i l l d r i v e good b a r g a i n s , i n a f i r m , q u i e t way; whenever a d v i s a b l e , an a u t h o r w i l l f i n a n c e h i s own book. (43-4) V a r i o u s s t a n d b y s o f t h e p u b l i s h i n g t r a d e - — f i c t i o n , r e l i g i o u s books, t e x t b o o k s , g u i d e b o o k s , and c o o k b o o k s — M o x o n r e f u s e d t o t a k e up, p r e f e r r i n g t o t h i n k o f h i m s e l f s t r i c t l y as a l i t e r a r y p u b l i s h e r . 2 6 T h i s c o n c e p t i o n o f h i m s e l f meant t h a t Moxon was g e n e r a l l y p r e p a r e d t o t a k e r i s k s o n l y i n terms o f q u a l i t y r a t h e r t h a n t o gamble on h i s market t h r o u g h r i s k s o f q u a n t i t y f o l l o w e d up by a g g r e s s i v e m a r k e t i n g . Thus, when c o n s i d e r i n g r e a s o n s f o r Tennyson's f a i l u r e t o g a i n as w i d e s p r e a d an a u d i e n c e i n E n g l a n d as d i d L o n g f e l l o w , l i t e r a r y s c h o l a r s must be c a r e f u l n o t t o c o n f i n e t h e i r s t u d i e s s t r i c t l y t o t h e p o e t r y i t s e l f o r t o t h e i m p a c t o f n e g a t i v e r e v i e w s , s e p a r a t e from t h e t e x t s ' p u b l i c a t i o n and p r o m o t i o n . I t goes w i t h o u t s a y i n g t h a t , as a p r o d u c t f o r p u r c h a s e , a L o n g f e l l o w o n e - s h i l l i n g volume i s n o t a Tennyson f i v e - s h i l l i n g Moxon's c h a r a c t e r and b u s i n e s s p r a c t i c e were n o t i d i o s y n c r a t i c . R a t h e r , l i k e many a s p i r i n g men o f b u s i n e s s i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d , he was i n f l u e n c e d by an a r t i s t o c r a t i c hegemony t h a t s c o r n e d v u l g a r e n t e r p r i s e , and sought t o b r i n g c a p i t a l i s t s i n t o l i n e t h r o u g h p r o m o t i o n o f t h e i d e a l o f t h e "gentleman." Hence, Moxon's " a s p i r a t i o n s " were n o t so much economic as t h e y were s o c i a l o r c u l t u r a l . B o t h t h e a r i s t o c r a c y ' s r e f u s a l t o be made s o c i a l l y s u b o r d i n a t e t o i n d u s t r i a l and c o m m e r c i a l c a p i t a l i s m , and i t s c o - o p t i n g o f t h e upper m i d d l e c l a s s e s t h r o u g h t h e s t r e n g t h o f i n s t i t u t i o n s l i k e t h e " C l a r e n d o n n i n e " p u b l i c s c h o o l s , form t h e b a s i s f o r M a r t i n J . Weimer's E n g l i s h C u l t u r e and t h e D e c l i n e o f t h e I n d u s t r i a l S p i r i t , 1850-1980. Weimer a r g u e s t h a t t h e r e a s o n s f o r E n g l a n d ' s f a i l u r e i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y t o a c h i e v e economic e q u a l i t y w i t h o t h e r i n d u s t r i a l i z e d c o u n t r i e s l i k e t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and Germany was n o t p u r e l y economic b u t i d e o l o g i c a l , and c a n be h i s t o r i c a l l y d e m o n s t r a t e d i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . H i s s t u d y s u g g e s t s , i n a r e l a t e d way, t h a t t h e o b v i o u s c o n t r a s t s between T i c k n o r and F i e l d s ' s p u b l i c a t i o n and p r o m o t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w and Moxon's o f T e n n y s o n — a n d each p o e t ' s subsequent r e p u t a t i o n — s t e m from t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c e t h o s s p e c i f i c t o t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and t o E n g l a n d . Indeed, Tennyson's g r e a t e r p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s t h a n i n E n g l a n d r e s u l t s as much from F i e l d s ' s "American" e n t r e p r e n e u r i a l s p i r i t g u i d i n g t h e p u b l i c a t i o n and p r o m o t i o n o f Tennyson's t e x t s as i t does from any p r e d i l e c t i o n on t h e p a r t o f A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e s f o r t h e p o e t r y i t s e l f . e d i t i o n , b u t what i s n o t so o b v i o u s a r e t h e d i f f e r e n c e s i n t h e p e r s o n a l i t y and b u s i n e s s e t h o s o f p u b l i s h e r s , between men l i k e Edward Moxon and James F i e l d s , o r George R o u t l e d g e f o r t h a t m a t t e r , t h a t c o n t r i b u t e t o t h e s u c c e s s o f t h e p o e t ' s work among a s e l e c t c l a s s o f r e a d e r s . U n l i k e F i e l d s and R o u t l e d g e , who were f a r more l i k e l y t o t a k e p u b l i c a t i o n r i s k s w i t h t h e number o f c o p i e s , Moxon i n t h e e a r l y 183 0s h e l d back, a l m o s t w i t h a " l e t ' s w a i t and s e e " a t t i t u d e . A decade l a t e r , i t was Tennyson who h e l d back. From 18 3 3 t o 1842, he e n t e r e d h i s s o - c a l l e d "Ten Y e a r s ' S i l e n c e , " a p e r i o d i n h i s p u b l i c a t i o n h i s t o r y t h a t has o c c a s i o n e d e x p l a n a t i o n s t o o numerous and t o o d e t a i l e d t o a c c o u n t f o r 27 h e r e . The consensus v i e w i s t h a t Tennyson was s c o r n e d i n t o s i l e n c e by c r i t i c s , and b u l l i e d i n t o p u b l i c a t i o n once more by a n x i o u s A m e r i c a n s . N e i t h e r o f t h e s e g e n e r a l i z a t i o n s i s w h o l l y t r u e , o f c o u r s e , s i n c e t h e r e a l i t y o f Tennyson's l i f e i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s work was f a r more c o m p l i c a t e d t h a n any g e n e r a l i z a t i o n s can p o s s i b l y e x p l a i n . However, d e s p i t e h i s o b v i o u s f i n a n c i a l and p r a c t i c a l r e a s o n s f o r d o i n g s o , Tennyson c l e a r l y d i d n o t f e e l under any p r o f e s s i o n a l p r e s s u r e t o 2 7 Some o f t h e s e e x p l a n a t i o n s a r e d e a l t w i t h i n b o t h c h a p t e r s t h r e e and f o u r . J o y c e Green's "Tennyson's Development D u r i n g t h e 'Ten Y e a r s ' S i l e n c e ' (1832-1842)," Edgar Shannon J r . ' s Tennyson and t h e R e v i e w e r s , and t h e r e l e v a n t poems o f t h e p e r i o d need t o be r e a d a g a i n s t one a n o t h e r t o d e t e r m i n e t h e p r e c i s e c o r r e l a t i o n between n e g a t i v e c r i t i c i s m by r e v i e w e r s i n t h e e a r l y 1830s and Tennyson's p r e f e r e n c e f o r s u b s t a n t i a l r e v i s i o n o f h i s poems r a t h e r t h a n f u r t h e r p u b l i c a t i o n a t t h i s t i m e . p u b l i s h f o r a l m o s t a decade; Edward F i t z g e r a l d d e s c r i b e d Tennyson i n 1838 as " s t u r d i l y i n d i f f e r e n t t o fame" ( q t d . i n M a r t i n 2 4 5 ) . Hagen, f o r example, a s k s h e r r e a d e r s t o c o n s i d e r t h e f o l l o w i n g s e t o f f a c t s : "Tennyson l o s t m a n u s c r i p t s ; e n t e r e d i n t o p u b l i s h i n g r e l u c t a n t l y , a l m o s t dragged i n by h i s f r i e n d s ; p u b l i s h e d two o f h i s f i r s t f o u r books anonymously (Poems by Two B r o t h e r s and I n M e m o r i a m ) — y e t i n s i s t e d t h a t he wanted fame and p r o f i t o n l y from p o e t r y . " She t h e n s p e c u l a t e s on t h e c a u s e s f o r what a p p e a r s t o be a l a c k o f s e l f - c o n f i d e n c e and c o n c l u d e s t h a t Tennyson d i d n o t doubt h i s a b i l i t i e s as a p o e t ; what he q u e s t i o n e d was " h i s a b i l i t y t o p l e a s e a wide a u d i e n c e , a q u e s t i o n i n g o n l y r e a s o n a b l e a f t e r h i s s m a l l s a l e s " ( 4 9 ) . T h i s q u e s t i o n i n g o f h i s work i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s a u d i e n c e t o o k p l a c e i n t h e 183 0s; h i s s u b s t a n t i a l r e v i s i o n o f o l d poems and development o f new g e n r e s were t h e s u c c e s s f u l r e s u l t s o f t h i s e f f o r t . I t was an e f f o r t t h a t , o f n e c e s s i t y , t o o k a g r e a t d e a l o f t i m e . 2 8 By 1840, Tennyson was a g a i n r e a d y t o p u b l i s h , t h i s t i m e w i t h some measure o f s u c c e s s . Edward F i t z G e r a l d ( F i t z ) , who a f t e r H a l l a m ' s d e a t h i n 1833 had p a r t l y t a k e n on h i s r o l e as Tennyson's l i t e r a r y a d v i s e r , had been u r g i n g Tennyson t o p u b l i s h t h r o u g h o u t t h e l a t e 183 0s. C a j o l e d and badgered i n t o p u b l i c a t i o n by F i t z a t e v e r y s t e p , Tennyson e v e n t u a l l y 2 8 Tennyson's d e v e l o p i n g p o e t i c v o i c e and t h e r e v i s i o n and f o r m a t i o n o f new g e n r e s t h a t he engaged i n a t t h i s t i m e , and t h e i r r e s u l t s , a r e d i s c u s s e d a t l e n g t h i n c h a p t e r f o u r . 98 succumbed t o p r e s s u r e from t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and b r o u g h t h i s poems b e f o r e t h e p u b l i c once more. Moxon f i n a l l y p u b l i s h e d t h e two-volume Poems on 14 May 1842 a t a r e t a i l c o s t o f t w e l v e s h i l l i n g s . The f i n a n c i a l arrangement a t t h i s t i m e was t h a t Moxon w o u l d b e a r t h e c o s t s o f p r o d u c t i o n and t a k e o n e - t h i r d o f t h e p r o f i t s w h i l e Tennyson t o o k t w o - t h i r d s (Hagen 6 6 ) . The f i r s t volume c o n t a i n e d b o t h a r e v i s e d s e l e c t i o n o f t h e p r e v i o u s l y p u b l i s h e d p o e m s — t w e n t y t h r e e o f t h e f i f t y s i x from t h e 1830 volume and s i x t e e n o f t h e t h i r t y o f 1 8 3 2 — a n d seven new poems. The second volume c o n t a i n e d t w e n t y seven new poems ( l y r i c s and t h e new E n g l i s h I d y l s ) , one r e p r i n t e d and one r e v i s e d poem. A l t h o u g h e n t h u s i a s t i c i n g e n e r a l about Tennyson's h a v i n g p u b l i s h e d , F i t z was c e r t a i n l y l e s s e n t h u s i a s t i c about t h e p r o d u c t . W r i t i n g t o F r e d e r i c k P o l l o c k i m m e d i a t e l y a f t e r p u b l i c a t i o n , he c o m p l a i n e d : " I t i s a p i t y he d i d n o t p u b l i s h t h e new volume s e p a r a t e l y . The o t h e r w i l l d r a g i t down. And why r e p r i n t t h e Merman, t h e Mermaid, and t h o s e e v e r l a s t i n g E l e a n o r s , I s a b e l s , — w h i c h a l w a y s were, and a r e , and must be a n u i s a n c e . . . . E v e r y woman t h i n k s h e r s e l f t h e o r i g i n a l o f one o f t h a t s t u p i d G a l l e r y o f B e a u t i e s " ( q t d . i n Hagan 6 2 ) . S e v e r a l months l a t e r , however, F i t z had t o a d m i t t o Tennyson's b r o t h e r , F r e d e r i c k , t h a t t h e book had " s o l d w e l l , " p a r t i c u l a r l y a t Cambridge ( q t d . i n Hagen 63) . S e l l i n g w e l l i n m i d - V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d c o u l d h a r d l y be t h o u g h t o f as t o p p i n g t h e b e s t - s e l l e r l i s t . P e r h a p s Moxon was 99 b e i n g t o o c o n s e r v a t i v e when he p r i n t e d o n l y 800 c o p i e s . Y e t when one c o n s i d e r s Tennyson's p r e v i o u s s a l e s , t h e p o e t ' s absence from t h e market f o r many y e a r s , and a s i g n i f i c a n t slump i n t h e book t r a d e d u r i n g t h e l a t e 183 0s, Moxon's v e n t u r e may even appear e x t r a v a g a n t . By September, 500 c o p i e s had been s o l d ; a c c o r d i n g t o Moxon's b r o t h e r , W i l l i a m , Tennyson had made a " s e n s a t i o n " (see L e t t e r s I 209-10, Hagen 201 n.21). P r i n t r u n s and s a l e s i n c r e a s e d g r a d u a l l y t h r o u g h o u t t h e 184 0s (see a p p e n d i x I) and by t h e 5 t h e d i t i o n , Poems had become one • • • 30 volume a t n i n e s h i l l i n g s . Whether Tennyson's modest s u c c e s s c o u l d now be a t t r i b u t e d t o f a v o u r a b l e r e v i e w s , however, i s a s u b j e c t o f c o n t i n u e d c o n t r o v e r s y . S i r C h a r l e s i m p l i e s i n t h e f o l l o w i n g remarks t h a t p e r h a p s Tennyson j u s t happened t o p u b l i s h a t an o p p o r t u n e t i m e : I n f a c t , t h e moment c o u l d h a r d l y have been more p r o p i t i o u s f o r t h e making o f a new r e p u t a t i o n . Wordsworth had p u b l i s h e d no new book s i n c e 1835; Moore had w r i t t e n no v e r s e s i n c e 1822; Crabbe had d i e d i n 1832 and C o l e r i d g e i n 1834. Mrs. Hemans and "L.E.L." had a l s o p a s s e d away, and Samuel Rogers had l o n g been r e g a r d e d as t h e r e l i c o f an e a r l i e r age. Southey had w r i t t e n no new v e r s e f o r some y e a r s , By t h e 1840s, Moxon had expanded h i s t r a d e somewhat from t h a t n o t e d e a r l i e r by Merriman. Hagen remarks t h a t i n a d d i t i o n t o h i s l i s t o f " P o e t i c a l Works," Moxon had added a " D r a m a t i c L i b r a r y " and "Cheap E d i t i o n s o f P o p u l a r Works" ( f i c t i o n , e s s a y s , t r a v e l n a r r a t i v e s , and some more p o e t r y ) ( 6 4 ) . P e r h a p s i t was t h e s e l a t t e r works t h a t a l l o w e d Moxon some l a t i t u d e i n p u b l i s h i n g p o e t r y t h a t he admired. 3 0 Hagen c l a i m s t h a t t h e f i f t h e d i t i o n o f 1848 i s " i l l u s t r a t e d by 30 v i g n e t t e s on e n g r a v e d s t e e l " (66) , b u t Wise makes no m e n t i o n o f i l l u s t r a t i o n s i n h i s B i b l i o g r a p h y ( I 91- 2) . 100 C a m p b e l l had o u t l i v e d h i s vogue, and b o t h were near t h e i r d e a t h s . (192) E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t ' s Seraphim (1838) and R o b e r t Browning's S o r d e l l o (1840) and B e l l s and Pomegranates (1841-6) were t h e o n l y c o n t e m p o r a r y B r i t i s h volumes o f p o e t r y l i k e l y t o a t t r a c t t h e a t t e n t i o n , o f Tennyson's r e a d e r s , u n l e s s one c o n s i d e r s t h e u b i q u i t o u s P r o v e r b i a l P h i l o s o p h y (1838-42) by M a r t i n F a r q u h a r Tupper. A t t h i s t i m e , Tennyson t r u l y had no r i v a l s i n h i s own c o u n t r y ; he a p p a r e n t l y had o n l y t h e c o n t i n u e d d i s a p p r o v a l o f r e v i e w e r s t o w o r r y about. S i r C h a r l e s c o n c l u d e s t h a t i n t h e 1840s Tennyson's c r i t i c a l r e c e p t i o n c o n t i n u e d t o be hampered by " t h e s p e l l o f C r o k e r and C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h " ( 1 9 6 ) . I f Thomas Lounsbury i s t o be b e l i e v e d , t h e n p r o f e s s i o n a l c r i t i c i s m " f o l l o w e d and f o l l o w e d r e l u c t a n t l y , and a l m o s t p r o t e s t i n g l y , p o p u l a r a p p r e c i a t i o n . Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n advanced a g a i n s t a s u l l e n o p p o s i t i o n w h i c h i n s i n u a t e d a d e p r e c i a t o r y e s t i m a t e w h i c h a t l a s t [ i n 1842] i t d i d n o t v e n t u r e t o p r o c l a i m o p e n l y " (417 q t d . i n Shannon 6 2 ) . Shannon a r g u e s a g a i n s t L o u n s b u r y , c o n c l u d i n g t h a t " t h e s t o r y o f c r i t i c a l n e g l e c t and p o p u l a r a c c l a i m i n t h e f a c e o f r e c a l c i t r a n t r e v i e w e r s i s a myth" ( 7 9 ) . Y e t t a k e n as a whole, t h e e i g h t e e n r e v i e w s o f Poems t h a t Shannon u s e s as e v i d e n c e f o r h i s o p i n i o n do n o t e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y e n d o r s e Tennyson's l a t e s t work (see Shannon 60-96). On t h e c o n t r a r y , t h e s e r e v i e w e r s ' p r a i s e i s m i l d a t b e s t , and t h e y d e v o t e c o n s i d e r a b l e energy t o p r e s c r i b i n g t o Tennyson t h e d i r e c t i o n s t h a t h i s p o e t r y s h o u l d t a k e i n t h e f u t u r e . I n t h e end, b o t h Shannon and Lounsbury a r e r i g h t : t h e p o p u l a r a p p e a l o f Tennyson's new volumes meant t h a t v i t r i o l i c c r i t i c s c o u l d no l o n g e r use t h e i r r e v i e w s t o " s i l e n c e " Tennyson as a p o e t , however opposed t o h i s work t h e y m i g h t a c t u a l l y be. Y e t t h e i r a m b i v a l e n c e and muted r e p r o a c h s u r f a c e between t h e l i n e s i n t h e i r g e n e r a l l y c a u t i o u s approaches t o h i s v e r s e , t h e i r u n d e r c u t t i n g o f p r a i s e w i t h blame, and t h e i r p a t e r n a l i s t i c t o n e s . I f Tennyson had i n d e e d l a i d " t h e c o r n e r s t o n e o f fame" w i t h t h e 1842 Poems. as Shannon c l a i m s , t h e n r e v i e w e r s had c e r t a i n l y n o t h e l p e d t o b u i l d a s o l i d f o u n d a t i o n f o r i t t o r e s t upon. Nor was Tennyson p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t e r e s t e d i n h a v i n g r e v i e w e r s do s o . He may have a l l o w e d f r i e n d s t o a s s i s t him t o a c e r t a i n e x t e n t , y e t u l t i m a t e l y Tennyson w o u l d e s t a b l i s h h i s own f o u n d a t i o n . I n t h e e a r l y 1840s, t h e e n t h u s i a s m o f l i t e r a r y f r i e n d s and a c q u a i n t a n c e s s u c h as S p e d d i n g , R o g e r s , C a r l y l e , and D i c k e n s , buoyed Tennyson's s p i r i t s i n t h e f a c e o f a c u t e f i n a n c i a l and p e r s o n a l d i s t r e s s . R i c h a r d H e n g i s t Home's and E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning's c o l l e c t i o n o f c r i t i c a l e s s a y s , A New S p i r i t o f t h e Age (1844), a l s o buoyed Tennyson's s p i r i t s w i t h i t s d e s c r i p t i o n o f him as "a t r u e p o e t o f t h e h i g h e s t c l a s s o f g e n i u s " ( q t d . i n Shannon 8 2 ) . As f o r h i s p e c u n i a r y t r o u b l e s , t h e s e were somewhat r e l i e v e d i n 1845 when Henry H a l l a m ( A r t h u r ' s f a t h e r ) s u c c e s s f u l l y p e t i t i o n e d t h e government t o g r a n t Tennyson a C i v i l L i s t p e n s i o n £2 00 p e r 102 annum. A l t h o u g h t h i s p e n s i o n c a u s e d a b r i e f s p e l l o f c o n t r o v e r s y , Tennyson's c l a i m t o t h e p e n s i o n was e v e n t u a l l y e n d o r s e d p u b l i c l y . Once Tennyson's volumes began t o s e l l i n t h e 1840s and h i s p u b l i c s t a t u r e i n c r e a s e d , Moxon, i n t u r n , would have t o r e s p o n d t o a u d i e n c e demand and t a k e some r i s k s . Tennyson, meanwhile, c o u l d now t u r n h i s a t t e n t i o n s w i t h o u t f u r t h e r f i n a n c i a l w o r r y t o c o m p l e t i n g a p r o j e c t t h a t had o c c u p i e d h i s a t t e n t i o n s f o r a t l e a s t a decade: The P r i n c e s s (1847). The P r i n c e s s "had s e e m i n g l y t a k e n more t h a n two and a h a l f y e a r s i n c o n t i n u o u s c o m p o s i t i o n , and p e r h a p s as l o n g as e i g h t y e a r s i n t h e g e s t a t i o n " ( K i l l h a m P r i n c e s s 1 4 ) . Once i n p r o o f s t a g e , Tennyson a l s o t o o k what was f o r Moxon ah a g o n i z i n g l y l o n g t i m e o v e r r e v i s i o n s so t h a t t h e book j u s t m i s s e d t h e C h r i s t m a s t r a d e . I t was p u b l i s h e d on 25 December 1847, a t a c o s t o f f i v e s h i l l i n g s i n Moxon's t r a d e - e d i t i o n . The f i r s t p r i n t i n g o f 1500 c o p i e s s o l d o u t a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y so t h a t a second e d i t i o n o f 1500 was needed by t h e s p r i n g o f 1848; a t h i r d e d i t i o n o f 1500 appeared e a r l y i n 1850; Moxon i n c r e a s e d t h e r u n t o 2000 f o r t h e f o u r t h e d i t i o n i n t h e s p r i n g o f 1851; and t h e f i f t h e d i t i o n , a l s o 2000 c o p i e s , was t h e f i r s t t o t a k e more t h a n a y e a r t o s e l l o u t (Shannon 118, Hagen 7 9 ) . Hagen a l l e g e s t h a t t h e r e a f t e r " s a l e s h e l d s t e a d y a t about 1000 a y e a r , " and t h a t by 1848 Tennyson's a n n u a l income was £500 (79) . I n r e l a t i v e t e r m s , Tennyson's poem a c h i e v e d c o n s i d e r a b l e p u b l i c s u c c e s s . 3 1 T h i s s u c c e s s o f The P r i n c e s s a g a i n c o n t r a s t e d w i t h t h e p u z z l e m e n t and even d i s a p p o i n t m e n t o f many r e v i e w e r s . The medley o f v o i c e s i n t h e poem seemed a l m o s t a p a r o d i c r e s p o n s e t o r e v i e w e r s ' demands f o r a l o n g poem o f t o p i c a l i n t e r e s t . And Tennyson's m o c k - h e r o i c t r e a t m e n t o f t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y i s s u e o f women's e d u c a t i o n r e m a i n s as c r y p t i c t o d a y f o r Tennyson s c h o l a r s as i t was f o r h i s m i d - V i c t o r i a n c r i t i c s ( d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r f o u r ) . I n s p i t e o f t h e poem's i n c o n g r u i t i e s , Shannon c u r i o u s l y m a i n t a i n s o f The P r i n c e s s t h a t " [ s ] e l d o m has a poem owed so much t o c o n t e m p o r a r y l i t e r a r y d o c t r i n e " (92) . Y e t Shannon r e a d s i n t h e e a r l y r e v i e w s o f t h e poem i s o l a t e d n o t e s o f " a p p r e c i a t i o n " as e v i d e n c e f o r t h e above c l a i m w i t h o u t r e g i s t e r i n g f u l l y enough t h e c h o r u s a g a i n s t Tennyson f o r h a v i n g f a i l e d t o l i v e up t o t h e c r i t i c s ' e x p e c t a t i o n s . John F o r s t e r ' s remarks m i g h t be t h o u g h t o f as t y p i c a l : The P r i n c e s s 3 1 A l t i c k g a t h e r s t o g e t h e r from s e v e r a l s o u r c e s r e c o r d s o f p o e t r y s a l e s t h a t p r o v i d e u s e f u l r e l a t i v e measures o f Tennyson's s u c c e s s e s . These works' s a l e s were, however, b u i l t up o v e r g e n e r a t i o n s w h i l e Tennyson's volumes t e n d e d t o have a f a r more immediate p o p u l a r i t y : R o b e r t P o l l o c k ' s The Course o f Time s o l d 78,000 between 1827 and 1869; John K e b l e ' s The C h r i s t i a n Y e a r s o l d 379,000 from 1827 t o 1873; and M a r t i n Tupper's P r o v e r b i a l P h i l o s o p h y p a s s e d t h e 200,000 mark i n 1866, t w e n t y e i g h t y e a r s a f t e r t h e f i r s t s e r i e s had appeared ( W r i t e r s , Readers and O c c a s i o n s 340). A l t h o u g h t h e s e f i g u r e s seem i n o r d i n a t e l y h i g h when compared w i t h t h o s e o f Tennyson, i t must be remembered t h a t Tennyson had t h e advantage o f c o m b i n i n g h i s i n d i v i d u a l volumes i n t o c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s whereas t h e above a u t h o r s had o n l y t h e i r i n d i v i d u a l volumes (many r e v i s e d a n n u a l l y ) t o market. " i s y e t o n l y an omen f o r t h e f u t u r e . I t s g l o r i o u s p r o m i s e has y e t t o be f u l f i l l e d " (Examiner J a n 1848 q t d . i n Shannon 115). As w i t h t h e 1842 Poems, r e v i e w e r s u n e q u i v o c a l l y gave t o Tennyson an o b v i o u s p o e t i c t a l e n t , y e t t h e y a l m o s t u n a n i m o u s l y r e f u s e d t o c o n f i r m h i s m a t u r a t i o n as E n g l a n d ' s p o e t i c v o i c e . The p o s i t i v e i n f l u e n c e o f f r i e n d s and t h e n e g a t i v e i m p a c t o f r e v i e w e r s upon Tennyson's e a r l y development and s u c c e s s as V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d ' s f o r e m o s t p o e t d u r i n g t h e 1830s and 1840s have been e x t e n s i v e l y documented by Tennyson b i o g r a p h e r s and s c h o l a r s . L e s s f r e q u e n t l y a c c o u n t e d f o r , however, i s Tennyson's r e c e p t i o n by t h e p u b l i c a t l a r g e , e s p e c i a l l y by t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s and by women. F o r d e s p i t e t h e c r i t i c a l d o u b t s t h a t r e v i e w e r s m a i n t a i n e d t h r o u g h o u t t h e 184 0s, w i t h t h e 1842 Poems t h e p u b l i c had i n f a c t begun w h o l e h e a r t e d l y t o a c c e p t Tennyson as t h e p o e t i c spokesman o f t h e V i c t o r i a n age. The p u b l i c ' s i n t e r e s t s were o f t e n r e g i s t e r e d i n ways o t h e r t h a n i n t h e p u r c h a s e o f t e x t s . I f mentioned a t a l l by Tennyson s c h o l a r s , Tennyson's a p p e a l among t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s i s most f r e q u e n t l y conveyed i n t h e h i g h p r a i s e g i v e n t o Tennyson's " d e m o c r a t i c s p i r i t " by C h a r l e s K i n g s l e y ' s t a i l o r h e r o o f A l t o n L o c k e (1850): Why i s i t t h a t t h e l a t e s t p o e t has g e n e r a l l y t h e g r e a t e s t i n f l u e n c e o v e r t h e minds o f t h e young? S u r e l y n o t f o r t h e mere charm o f n o v e l t y ? The r e a s o n i s t h a t he, l i v i n g amid t h e same hopes, t h e same t e m p t a t i o n s , t h e same s p h e r e o f o b s e r v a t i o n as t h e y , g i v e s u t t e r a n c e and outward form t o t h e v e r y q u e s t i o n s w h i c h , vague and w o r d l e s s , have been e x e r c i s i n g t h e i r h e a r t s . And what endeared Tennyson e s p e c i a l l y t o me, t h e w o r k i n g man, was, as I a f t e r w a r d s d i s c o v e r e d , t h e a l t o g e t h e r d e m o c r a t i c t e n d e n c y o f h i s poems . . . . [ T ] h e r e i s i n A l f r e d Tennyson an element e s p e c i a l l y d e m o c r a t i c , t r u l y l e v e l l i n g ; n o t h i s p o l i t i c a l o p i n i o n s , about w h i c h I know n o t h i n g and c a r e l e s s , b u t h i s h a n d l i n g o f t h e t r i v i a l e v e r y d a y s i g h t s and sounds o f n a t u r e . (107-8) Of c o u r s e , K i n g s l e y ' s A l t o n Locke i s an i d e a l i z e d p o r t r a y a l o f w o r k i n g - c l a s s e x i s t e n c e , as t h e s t a t i s t i c s on e d u c a t i o n l e v e l s and l i t e r a c y i n B r i t a i n ( d i s c u s s e d below) r e v e a l . Y e t among t h o s e members o f t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s who c o u l d r e a d i n t h e 1840s, Tennyson was b e g i n n i n g t o have a s i g n i f i c a n t i m p a c t . F o r example, Shannon m e n t i o n s t h a t , a p a r t from t h e many s t a n d a r d p e r i o d i c a l s , t h e Weekly D i s p a t c h a l s o r e v i e w e d Tennyson's 1842 volume. I t s a r t i c l e " i s n o t e w o r t h y f o r e a r l y b r i n g i n g Tennyson t o t h e a t t e n t i o n o f an e x t e n s i v e c l a s s o f r e a d e r s f a r removed from t h o s e o f t h e M o r n i n g P o s t . The Weekly D i s p a t c h was a r a d i c a l paper a d d r e s s e d t o ' a r t i s a n s and o p e r a t i v e s ' and d e d i c a t e d t o t h e d e n u n c i a t i o n o f abuses . . . [T]he p a p e r had a c i r c u l a t i o n o f o v e r 6 6 , 0 0 0 — a v a s t f i g u r e f o r 1842 and t r i p l e t h a t o f t h e Sunday Times, i t s n e a r e s t w e e k l y c o m p e t i t o r i n numbers o f r e a d e r s " ( 6 9 ) . Tennyson's p o e t r y a l s o r e a c h e d a w o r k i n g - c l a s s r a d i c a l a u d i e n c e t h r o u g h l e c t u r e s . E a r l y i n 1845, W.J. Fox l e c t u r e d on Tennyson i n h i s s e r i e s " L i v i n g P o e t s ; and T h e i r S e r v i c e s t o t h e Cause o f P o l i t i c a l Freedom and Human P r o g r e s s " f o r t h e Working Men's A s s o c i a t i o n o f H o l b o r n (Shannon 8 3 ) . The above e v i d e n c e s u g g e s t s t h a t Tennyson's w o r k i n g - c l a s s r e a d e r s h i p o f t h e 184 0s 106 f o u n d i n h i s p o e t r y s u p p o r t f o r a d e m o c r a t i c r e s t r u c t u r i n g o f B r i t a i n ' s s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l systems. An i n c i d e n t i n 1849, m a r k i n g h i s r e p u t a t i o n among t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s , b r o u g h t Tennyson " t h e h i g h e s t honour [he had] y e t r e c e i v e d " ( L e t t e r s I 309). E l i z a b e t h G a s k e l l had w r i t t e n t o John F o r s t e r about a f o r m e r L a n c a s h i r e handloom weaver, w r i t e r , and d e v o t e d a d m i r e r o f Tennyson's, Samuel Bamford. Bamford was so d e d i c a t e d t o Tennyson's work t h a t he c o u l d r e c i t e as many as t w e l v e poems s i m p l y from h a v i n g h e a r d them. He was, however, t o o p o o r t o a f f o r d h i s own copy o f Poems. A t G a s k e l l ' s r e q u e s t , F o r s t e r asked Tennyson t o f o r w a r d a copy o f t h e book t o Bamford as a g i f t , w h i c h Tennyson i m m e d i a t e l y a s k e d Moxon t o do, t o Bamford's i n f i n i t e d e l i g h t ( L e t t e r s I 307-9). T h i s e p i s o d e i l l u s t r a t e s n o t o n l y Tennyson's a p p e a l t o t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s , b u t a l s o t h e p o e t ' s own p l e a s u r e i n 32 b e i n g a b l e t o a t t r a c t t h i s c l a s s o f r e a d e r s . 3 2 Bamford's d e v o t i o n t o Tennyson a l s o r e v e a l s a l o v e f o r l e t t e r s and f o r p o e t r y t o o f r e q u e n t l y o v e r l o o k e d i n a n a l y s e s o f w o r k i n g - c l a s s l e i s u r e a c t i v i t i e s . A l t h o u g h r a t h e r u n s y s t e m a t i c i n h i s p r e s e n t a t i o n , V i c t o r Neuburg does p r o v i d e some e v i d e n c e t h a t t h e V i c t o r i a n w o r k i n g c l a s s e s had a f a r g r e a t e r penchant f o r r e a d i n g and p u r c h a s e d f a r more t e x t s o f v a r i o u s s o r t s and i n g r e a t e r q u a n t i t y t h a n R i c h a r d A l t i c k a l l o w s i n e i t h e r o f h i s s t u d i e s . Neuburg's h i s t o r y o f t h e many p u b l i s h e r s o f "cheap" books f o r t h i s d i v e r s e a u d i e n c e , w h i c h forms p a r t o f h i s c h a p t e r on n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e (148-234), p r o v i d e s a comprehensive b a c k g r o u n d o f t h e p u b l i s h i n g a r e n a a l o n g s i d e w h i c h a o n e - s h i l l i n g c o l l e c t i o n o f p o e t r y w o u l d have t o make i t s mark: b r o a d s i d e s , s t r e e t b a l l a d s , j e s t b o o k s , chapbooks, s e n s a t i o n a l n o v e l s , romances, and penny l i b r a r i e s o f t h e " c l a s s i c s . " A l t e r n a t i v e l y , D a v i d V i n c e n t ' s c h a p t e r on " I m a g i n a t i o n " i n L i t e r a c y and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e d i s c u s s e s t h e s h e e r p l e a s u r e o f s e r i o u s l i t e r a r y r e a d i n g a p p a r e n t i n w o r k i n g c l a s s a u t o b i o g r a p h i e s and memoirs from n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y B r i t a i n . None o f t h e s e m e n t i o n s 107 G a s k e l l ' s r e q u e s t i s r a r e among a c c o u n t s o f Tennyson's f e m a l e r e a d e r s h i p f o r , a p a r t from Tennyson's w i f e , f a m i l y members and, o f c o u r s e , Queen V i c t o r i a , Tennyson's f e m a l e r e a d e r s — a s r e a d e r s — a r e seldom mentioned by h i s b i o g r a p h e r s . Such n e g l e c t i s p a r t i c u l a r l y r e g r e t t a b l e i n s t u d i e s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t s and c u l t u r e because, w i t h t h e i n c r e a s i n g p o p u l a r i t y o f t h e n o v e l , women were b e i n g c o u n s e l l e d by many f e m a l e s o c i a l r e f o r m e r s t o t u r n t h e i r b e t t e r minds away from t h e r e a l i s m o f f i c t i o n t o w a r d t h e i d e a l i s m o f p o e t r y . M a r i a Grey and E m i l y S h i r r e f f , i n Thoughts on S e l f - C u l t u r e (1851), o u t l i n e t h e o p p o s i n g arguments w i t h an o b v i o u s p r e f e r e n c e f o r p o e t r y : The g r a n d c o n c e p t i o n s o f t h e p o e t a r e t r u e i n i d e a l b e a u t y ; t h e n o v e l i s t ' s p i c t u r e s o f r e a l l i f e a r e f a l s e , because n e c e s s a r i l y c o v e r e d w i t h an u n r e a l g l o s s . The o b j e c t o f t h e p o e t and a r t i s t i s t o embody t h e i r own l o f t y v i e w o f t h e t r u l y b e a u t i f u l ; t h a t o f t h e n o v e l i s t , t o p r e s e n t us w i t h an i m i t a t i o n o f a l l we see around u s , and t h e r e f o r e t o m i n g l e w i t h t h e b e a u t i f u l a l l t h a t g e n e r a l l y d e t r a c t s from i t i n r e a l l i f e . . . . The p o e t , i n s h o r t , e l e v a t e s t h e t h o u g h t s , w h i l e t h e n o v e l i s t e x c i t e s t h e f e e l i n g s , and t h i s one d i f f e r e n c e s u f f i c i e n t l y e x p r e s s e s how a d m i r a b l e i s t h e one and how p e r n i c i o u s t h e o t h e r k i n d o f r e a d i n g f o r women. ( q t d . i n H e l s i n g e r I I I 27) Tennyson was more t h a n a b l e t o p r o v i d e " l o f t y v i e w s o f b e a u t y " f o r t h i s f e m a l e r e a d e r s h i p ; whether g r e a t numbers o f women saw them o r n o t i s l e s s c e r t a i n . Tennyson, however, s i n c e cheap l i t e r a t u r e c o u l d o n l y be p r o d u c e d f o r u n c o p y r i g h t e d a u t h o r s ; as V i n c e n t p o i n t s o u t , t h e s t a n d a r d r e p e r t o i r e o f l i t e r a t u r e a v a i l a b l e i n s h i l l i n g e d i t i o n s o n l y c o n t a i n e d "up t o and i n c l u d i n g t h e R o m a n t i c s " (209) . 108 When t h e y a r e d i s c u s s e d a t a l l by Tennyson's b i o g r a p h e r s , women a r e seen more as a d m i r e r s o f Tennyson's p e r s o n and c h a r a c t e r t h a n as s e r i o u s r e a d e r s and c r i t i c - f r i e n d s . Moreover, t h e s e women a r e f r e q u e n t l y r e c o r d e d o n l y as t h e w i v e s o f men w i t h whom Tennyson was f a m i l i a r : H e l e n and W i l l i a m A l l i n g h a m , M a r i a n and G r a n v i l l e B r a d l e y , Jane and W i l l i a m B r o o k f i e l d , Mary and W i l l i a m H o w i t t , and E m i l y and C o v e n t r y Patmore t o name a few. Even t h o s e women who a r e h e a r d as i n d i v i d u a l s by Tennyson's b i o g r a p h e r s — J a n e C a r l y l e , A n n i e T h a c k e r a y , Fanny Kemble, and E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning — t h e two f o r m e r women a l s o s u p p o s e d l y c o n f l a t e d t h e i r i m p r e s s i o n s o f t h e p o e t ' s work w i t h t h e i r e s t i m a t i o n s o f h i s p e r s o n , making o f him e i t h e r a s u b s t i t u t e husband i n Jane • • 33 C a r l y l e ' s c a s e o r a s u b s t i t u t e f a t h e r i n A n n i e T h a c k e r a y ' s . Even though E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning i s o f t e n v i e w e d i n a s i m i l a r w a y — e s p e c i a l l y i n h e r e a r l y l e t t e r s t o Mary R u s s e l l M i t f o r d — b e c a u s e she was a p o e t and n o t j u s t an " a d m i r e r , " h e r c r i t i c i s m , o f Tennyson's work d e s e r v e s e x a m i n a t i o n . R o b e r t M a r t i n , f o r i n s t a n c e , u s e s B a r r e t t Browning's v o i c e t h r o u g h o u t The U n q u i e t H e a r t , t o make i t appear as i f E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t echoed h e r c o n t e m p o r a r y male c r i t i c s i n h e r d i s d a i n f o r t h e 3 3 Fanny Kemble's f r i e n d s h i p w i t h Tennyson, as i t was w i t h L o n g f e l l o w , was l i f e l o n g and s i n c e r e . Y e t M a r t i n , who q u o t e s s e v e r a l o f Kemble's r e c o l l e c t i o n s o f Tennyson, u n d e r c u t s h e r p r a i s e o f t h e p o e t and g e n e r a l l y p o r t r a y s h e r as t o o e f f u s i v e i n h e r " w o r s h i p . " As i t seems f o r M a r t i n , Kemble's e x t r a o r d i n a r y a c t i n g a b i l i t y d i s q u a l i f i e s h e r as an a c c u r a t e a c c o u n t a n t o f Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y . r a r e f i e d atmosphere o f Tennyson's poems. I n a c t u a l i t y , h e r d i s l i k e stems from h e r own d e c i d e d p r e f e r e n c e f o r t h e power o f " o r d i n a r y f o r m s . " M a r t i n q u o t e s from E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t ' s l e t t e r t o M i t f o r d , December 1842, i n w h i c h she c l a i m s t h a t Tennyson "has n o t f l e s h and b l o o d enough t o be s e n s u a l — h i s forms a r e t o o o b v i o u s l y on t h e s u r f a c e t o wear p u l s e s . H i s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f b e a u t y . . . i s r a t h e r t h e fantasma o f b e a u t y , t h a n t h e t h i n g . You can no more t o u c h o r c l a s p i t , t h a n b e a u t y i n a dream. I t i s n o t t h e l e s s b e a u t i f u l f o r t h a t ; b u t l e s s s e n s u a l i t i s " ( M i l l e r E l i z a b t h B a r r e t t 152, q t d . i n M a r t i n 2 6 7 ) . Her awareness o f Tennyson's l a c k o f s e n s u a l i t y i n h i s p o e t r y i s p r e s e n t e d as a commonplace c r i t i c a l r e s p o n s e . I n a d d i t i o n , she l a t e r a p p a r e n t l y c r i t i c i z e d Tennyson's rumoured poem The P r i n c e s s , b e f o r e i t s a p p e a r a n c e , i n a s i m i l a r way, by a s k i n g R o b e r t i f t h e w o r l d were n o t " t o o o l d & f o n d o f steam, f o r b l a n k v e r s e poems, i n e v e r so many books, t o be w r i t t e n on t h e f a i r i e s " ( L e t t e r s o f RB and EBB I 441 q t d . i n M a r t i n 301). However, i n an e a r l i e r l e t t e r o f May 1842 t o M i t f o r d , w h i c h M a r t i n does n o t i n c l u d e i n h i s b i o g r a p h y , B a r r e t t comments on t h e E n g l i s h I d y l s o f 1842; and i n t h i s c a s e , h e r v i e w s a r e a u n i q u e i l l u s t r a t i o n o f h e r awareness o f m u l t i p l e p o e t i c e f f e c t s . She r e m a r k s : " t h e r e i s l e s s o f t h e q u a i n t p e c u l i a r i t y , more i n d i v i d u a l i t y , more power i n t h e sense o f n e r v o u s u t t e r a n c e , more t h o u g h t under t h e o b v i o u s o r d i n a r y f o r m s , and l e s s o f t h a t h i g h i d e a l i t y w h i c h d i s t i n g u s h e d t h e o l d Tennyson l y r i c s " ( M i l l e r 117). She t h e n e x p r e s s e s h e r d e l i g h t t h a t , i n h i s n o t e t o "Dora," Tennyson had acknowledged h i s d e b t t o "a p a s t o r a l o f M i s s M i t f o r d ' s " ( 1 1 8 ) . Because documents o f V i c t o r i a n women's r e s p o n s e s t o Tennyson's p o e t r y a r e s c a r c e , i t i s d i f f i c u l t t o draw any f i r m c o n c l u s i o n s from B a r r e t t ' s v a r i e d r e m a r k s . N e v e r t h e l e s s , when p u t i n t o a c o n t e x t o f h e r own and o t h e r n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y f e m a l e p o e t s ' marked c o n c e r n f o r " o r d i n a r y " forms and c o n t e m p o r a r y i s s u e s i n t h e i r work, t h e s t i n g i n B a r r e t t ' s c r i t i c i s m o f t h e f a n t a s t i c i n Tennyson's v e r s e i s a m e l i o r a t e d ; i n s t e a d , h e r v i e w s a r e r e a d as p a r t o f a much more complex o v e r v i e w o f V i c t o r i a n p o e t i c s t h a n has h i t h e r t o been g r a n t e d h e r . W i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f I n Memoriam i n 1850, c r i t i c i s m by e i t h e r gender v i r t u a l l y s t o p p e d . Tennyson had t u r n e d h i s a t t e n t i o n s away from t h e f a n t a s t i c t o w a r d t h e i m m e d i a t e — h i s two decade a p p r e n t i c e s h i p had ended. A t t h e same t i m e , he a d o p t e d a f a r more p r a c t i c a l a t t i t u d e t o p u b l i s h i n g t h a n p r e v i o u s l y . W i t h I n Memoriam, he r e n e g o t i a t e d h i s b u s i n e s s arrangements w i t h Moxon. A c c o r d i n g t o S i r C h a r l e s , Tennyson "made a new arrangement w i t h Moxon under w h i c h he p a i d a l l t h e expenses and gave t h e p u b l i s h e r o n e - t h i r d o f t h e p r o f i t s and 5 p e r c e n t on g r o s s s a l e s , k e e p i n g t h e b a l a n c e o f t h e p r o f i t s f o r h i m s e l f . I n t h i s way, he r e t a i n e d f i r m e r c o n t r o l o v e r t h e p r i n t i n g and p u b l i s h i n g arrangements and, o f c o u r s e , s t o o d t o b e n e f i t more by t h e s u c c e s s o f t h e book, though he t o o k a l l t h e r i s k o f l o s s " ( 2 4 7 - 8 ) . As S i r C h a r l e s adds, t h i s r e n e g o t i a t e d c o n t r a c t d e m o n s t r a t e s Tennyson's " i n c r e a s e d c o n f i d e n c e " and "sound b u s i n e s s i n s t i n c t " ( 2 4 8 ) . Tennyson a l s o r e c e i v e d a £300 advance from Moxon f o r I n Memoriam. A l l o f t h e s e new terms l i k e l y stemmed from t h e s t e a d y s a l e s o f t h e 1842 Poems and t h e r a p i d s a l e s o f The P r i n c e s s t h a t were b e g i n n i n g t o make Tennyson's p o e t r y seem l i k e a v e r y sound i n v e s t m e n t i n d e e d . The s a l e s o f I n Memoriam q u i c k l y exceeded even t h o s e o f The P r i n c e s s . Moxon p u b l i s h e d 1500 c o p i e s i n l a t e May, anonymously ( a t Tennyson's r e q u e s t ) , i n p u r p l e - c l o t h b o a r d s , f o r s i x s h i l l i n g s . These s o l d o u t i n s t a n t l y so t h a t , by J u l y , Moxon p r i n t e d 1500 more and t h e n 2000 more by August t o make a t o t a l f i r s t - e d i t i o n r u n o f 5000. B r i s k s a l e s r e q u i r e d 3000 more c o p i e s by C h r i s t m a s and a n o t h e r 5000 by November 1851. T h e r e a f t e r , " t h e poem s o l d a t a s t e a d y r a t e and r e m a i n e d p o p u l a r as a s i n g l e volume even a f t e r v a r i o u s m u l t i - v o l u m e c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s o f Tennyson's p o e t r y became a v a i l a b l e " (Hagen 8 5 ) . Moxon's advance and t h e p o t e n t i a l f i n a n c i a l s e c u r i t y t h a t h i s new volume p r o m i s e d meant t h a t Tennyson c o u l d f i n a l l y r e a c t i v a t e a l o n g - d e f e r r e d romance w i t h E m i l y S e l l w o o d : t h e y were m a r r i e d i n June 1850. O t h e r t h a n i n s a l e s f i g u r e s , e v i d e n c e f o r t h e a p p e a l o f I n Memoriam abounds i n documented a c c o u n t s o f r e s p o n s e s t o t h e poem. P r i n c e A l b e r t ' s p a r t i c u l a r r e g a r d f o r t h e e l e g y i s s a i d t o have s e c u r e d t h e l a u r e a t e s h i p f o r Tennyson (Memoir 2 8 0 ) . Tennyson became p o e t L a u r e a t e i n November 1850. And, a t l o n g 112 l a s t , t h e r e c e p t i o n by t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s was, as Shannon o b s e r v e s , " i n g e n e r a l e x t r e m e l y l a u d a t o r y . " ( 1 4 2 ) . A l t h o u g h t h e r e c e p t i o n o f I n Memoriam i s d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r f o u r o f t h i s s t u d y , S i r C h a r l e s , a t t h i s p o i n t , summarizes w e l l t h e g e n e r a l V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s ' e x p e c t a t i o n s t h a t Tennyson's p o p u l a r e l e g y was a b l e t o meet: [ C r i t i c s ] had n o t f o r s e e n . . . t h e a p p e a l w h i c h t h e warm humanity o f t h e poem would make t o t h e A n g l o - Saxon r a c e . I t was n o t o n l y t h a t I n Memoriam d e a l t w i t h a u n i v e r s a l e x p e r i e n c e — t h e g r i e f o f p e r s o n a l l o s s w h i c h comes t o a l l s e n s i t i v e men and women w i t h g r e a t e r o r l e s s e r i n t e n s i t y a t some t i m e o r o t h e r d u r i n g t h e i r l i v e s . I t was n o t o n l y t h e h u m i l i t y and s i n c e r i t y w i t h w h i c h t h e p o e t r e c o r d e d h i s passage from d e s p a i r t o a f i n a l c o n v i c t i o n o f p e r s o n a l i m m o r t a l i t y and a b e l i e f i n . . . [God]. The message o f l o v e and hope was r e i n f o r c e d w i t h so many t o u c h e s o f e x q u i s i t e p a t h o s . . . . (252) Queen V i c t o r i a ' s r e s p o n s e s t o t h e poem, e s p e c i a l l y a f t e r t h e t h e d e a t h o f P r i n c e A l b e r t i n 1861, a r e p e r h a p s t h e b e s t known example o f t h e e l e g y ' s p a t h e t i c e f f e c t . The Duke o f A r g y l l had w r i t t e n t o Tennyson on h e r b e h a l f , e x p l a i n i n g t h a t I n Memoriam c o m f o r t e d h e r t o such a degree t h a t "she had s u b s t i t u t e d 'widow' f o r 'widower' and 'her' f o r ' h i s ' i n t h e l i n e s 'Tears o f a widower.'" ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 336). Tennyson had i n d e e d r e a c h e d t h e " p i n n a c l e o f s u c c e s s " (Shannon's t e r m ) . As L a u r e a t e , Tennyson would have t o n e g o t i a t e a b a l a n c e among h i s p r i v a t e i m p u l s e s , p r o f e s s i o n a l aims, p o e t i c s e n s i b i l i t y , p o p u l a r s u c c e s s , and newly a c q u i r e d p u b l i c r e s p o n s i b l i t i e s . I r o n i c a l l y , t h e v e r y t e x t on w h i c h (as a s e p a r a t e volume) h i s name n e v e r appeared b r o u g h t him such p u b l i c s u c c e s s t h a t he c o u l d n e v e r a g a i n hope f o r anonymity as an a u t h o r . H i s " I " would now a l w a y s be " t h e v o i c e o f t h e human r a c e s p e a k i n g t h r o ' him" (see Memoir 255) a t l e a s t a t some l e v e l . 3 4 T h i s i s e s p e c i a l l y a p p a r e n t i n t h e s i n g l e poems on war and p a t r i o t i s m f o r t h e p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s t h a t Tennyson now c o m f o r t a b l y p u b l i s h e d i n t h e 1850s: " F o r t h e Penny-Wise" i n F r a s e r ' s Magazine (Feb 1852); s e v e r a l i n The Examiner: " B r i t o n s Guard Your Own" (Jan 1851), "The T h i r d o f F e b r u a r y , 1852" (Feb 1852), "Hands a l l Round" (Feb 1852), and "The Charge o f t h e L i g h t B r i g a d e " (Dec 1854); and "The War [ R i f l e m e n Form]" i n The Times (May 1859). These poems would t h e n be i n c o r p o r a t e d i n t o h i s l a t e s t volume. S i m i l a r l y , Tennyson p u b l i s h e d " l a u r e a t e " poems i n r e s p o n s e t o t h o s e o c c a s i o n s — b i r t h s , m a r r i a g e s , and d e a t h s — a f f e c t i n g n o b l e p e r s o n a g e s . The most p o p u l a r o f t h e s e was h i s famous Ode on t h e Death o f t h e Duke o f W e l l i n g t o n . "The poem appeared i n s l a t e - c o l o r e d paper w r a p p e r s , a t one s h i l l i n g p e r copy, on 15 November, two days b e f o r e t h e Duke's f u n e r a l " (Hagen 8 8 ) . A c c o r d i n g t o Hagen, " a l l 10,000 c o p i e s were q u i c k l y t a k e n up by t h e memento-hunting n a t i o n . A second e d i t i o n was i s s u e d i n e a r l y 1853, w i t h t h e poem f i r s t 3 4 M a r t h a Nord's u n p u b l i s h e d d i s s e r t a t i o n , "A P e o p l e ' s V o i c e : The R h e t o r i c a l A r t o f Tennyson's P o e t r y " i s a r h e t o r i c a l a n a l y s i s o f Tennyson's p o e t i c s t r a t e g i e s e v i d e n t p r i m a r i l y i n h i s p u b l i c , p o s t - L a u r e a t e p o e t r y . V a l e r i e P i t t ' s Tennyson L a u r e a t e t h o r o u g h l y d i s c u s s e s t h e compromises Tennyson a l l e g e d l y had t o make between h i s p r i v a t e a r t and h i s p u b l i c demands. 114 a p p e a r i n g i n a volume i n Maud and O t h e r Poems ( 1 8 5 5 ) " ( 8 8 - 9 ) . F o r t h i s poem, Tennyson r e c e i v e d £200 from Moxon. Y e t Tennyson was a l s o p r e p a r e d t o r e l e a s e p u b l i c poems w i t h o u t r o y a l t y i n t h o s e i n s t a n c e s when he t h o u g h t t h a t t h e y would be o f b e n e f i t t o t h e i r r e a d e r s . S i r C h a r l e s r e c o r d s t h a t a c h a p l a i n s e r v i n g i n t h e Crimea w r o t e t o E n g l a n d t o r e q u e s t t h a t he be s e n t "out c o p i e s o f "The Charge o f t h e L i g h t B r i g a d e " on p r i n t e d s l i p s f o r d i s t r i b u t i o n among t h e s o l d i e r s . I t was, s a i d t h e w r i t e r , t h e g r e a t e s t f a v o u r i t e o f t h e men. ' H a l f a r e s i n g i n g i t and a l l want t o have i t i n b l a c k and w h i t e , so as t o r e a d what has so t a k e n them.'" ( 2 8 8 ) . The r e q u e s t e v e n t u a l l y r e a c h e d Tennyson and he a c t e d i m m e d i a t e l y by h a v i n g John F o r s t e r a r r a n g e t o have 1,000 and t h e n a l a t e r 1,000 p r i n t e d t o send t o t h e c h a p l a i n , who was c o n v i n c e d t h a t t h e poem a c t e d as a t y p e o f t o n i c t o t h e s u f f e r e r s (see L e t t e r s I I 117-18, 132-3). Such may have been t h e impact o f "The Charge o f t h e L i g h t B r i g a d e , " b u t t h e volume i n w h i c h i t l a t e r appeared, Maud and O t h e r Poems (1855) g e n e r a t e d no s u c h p o p u l a r a c c l a i m . The t i t l e poem, Tennyson's f i r s t e x t e n d e d t e x t s i n c e I n Memoriam and t h e l a u r e a t e s h i p , p r e s e n t e d V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s w i t h y e t a n o t h e r new g e n r e : m u l t i p l e v o i c e s such as The P r i n c e s s had u s e d , o n l y i n t h i s c a s e , c o n t a i n e d w i t h i n a c o n t e m p o r a r y monodrama o f a s i n g l e "mad" s p e a k e r . Few o f Tennyson's a d m i r i n g f r i e n d s , c r i t i c s , o r r e a d e r s i n g e n e r a l c o u l d u n d e r s t a n d Maud. " [ P ] o o r Maud was r e c e i v e d w i t h a l m o s t 115 u n i v e r s a l r e p r o b a t i o n " a c c o r d i n g t o S i r C h a r l e s (286) ; and Shannon's a r t i c l e on t h e r e v i e w s o f Maud c e r t a i n l y s u p p o r t s t h i s v i e w . One c a n n o t say w i t h t h e same c e r t a i n t y , however, t h a t s a l e s o f t h e volume s u f f e r e d t h e r e b y . As Hagen n o t e s , Moxon's o r i g i n a l l y h i g h e x p e c t a t i o n s f o r t h e volume's s u c c e s s " a r e r e f l e c t e d i n t h e s i z e o f t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n — 1 0 , 0 0 0 c o p i e s s e l l i n g a t f i v e s h i l l i n g s each" ( 9 5 ) . 3 S A t f i r s t , s a l e s were e x c e l l e n t ; Moxon w r o t e t o E m i l y Tennyson s h o r t l y a f t e r p u b l i c a t i o n t o s a y t h a t he had a l r e a d y r e c e i v e d o r d e r s f o r 3,000 and had p r i n t e d o f f 2,000 more (Hagen 9 5 ) . A l t h o u g h t h e p r e c i s e number o f c o p i e s o f each e d i t i o n i s n o t known, Maud r e a c h e d n i n e t e e n e d i t i o n s by 1884, a r e m a r k a b l e achievement f o r a s u p p o s e d l y u n p o p u l a r t e x t . Moreover, i n 1854 Moxon had, a g a i n s t Tennyson's i n c l i n a t i o n , l a u n c h e d a p r o j e c t f o r a l a v i s h l y i l l u s t r a t e d e d i t i o n o f Tennyson's 1842 poems. Had t h e s a l e s o f Maud been d r a s t i c a l l y h u r t by n e g a t i v e r e v i e w s , Moxon m i g h t have r e c o n s i d e r e d g o i n g ahead w i t h t h i s new, h i g h l y e x p e n s i v e p r o j e c t . S i n c e he d i d n o t do t h i s , one can o n l y c o n c l u d e t h a t , w h i l e Tennyson may have been p e r s o n a l l y s t u n g by i n t e n s e c r i t i c i s m o f h i s "pet b a n t l i n g " as he l a t e r c a l l e d t h e poem, 3 5 Hagen's use o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y t e r m , " e d i t i o n , " i s s l i g h t l y m i s l e a d i n g h e r e because i t makes i t seem as i f 10,000 c o p i e s were r e l e a s e d a t once. More t h a n l i k e l y , 10,000 were p r i n t e d b u t bound and r e l e a s e d g r a d u a l l y . She a l s o f o l l o w s Wise i n t h i n k i n g t h a t a "second e d i t i o n was r e q u i r e d b e f o r e t h e end o f t h e y e a r " ( 9 5 ) . T h i s e d i t i o n has y e t t o be' d i s c o v e r e d . The e x t a n t second e d i t i o n appeared i n 1856. 116 he and h i s p u b l i s h e r s u f f e r e d no f i n a n c i a l s t i n g because o f Tennyson's most r e c e n t volume. They were, however, t o l o s e a g r e a t d e a l o f money on Moxon's I l l u s t r a t e d E d i t i o n v e n t u r e . Moxon p e r s u a d e d Tennyson t o p u t a s i d e h i s a e s t h e t i c p r e f e r e n c e f o r s i m p l i c i t y and h i s c o n v i c t i o n t h a t p o e t r y was damaged by i l l u s t r a t i o n s . 3 6 He had a s s u r e d Tennyson t h a t he c o u l d make a t l e a s t £2,000 by an i l l u s t r a t e d e d i t i o n , and t h a t t h e p u b l i s h i n g f i r m would b e a r t h e advance c o s t s ; t h e y would t h e n s h a r e p r o f i t s a c c o r d i n g t o a t w o - t h i r d s o n e - t h i r d arrangement. But t h e r e were t o be no p r o f i t s o f t h e k i n d Moxon e n v i s i o n e d . The t e x t i t s e l f was an e l a b o r a t e , one- volume e d i t i o n o f t h e 1842 Poems. I t c o n t a i n e d f i f t y - f o u r woodcuts drawn by e i g h t d i f f e r e n t a r t i s t s , t h e most famous o f whom were t h e P r e - R a p h a e l i t e s : Dante G a b r i e l R o s s e t t i , W i l l i a m Holman Hunt, and John E v e r e t t M i l l a i s who, t o g e t h e r , s u p p l i e d W h i l e t h e volume was i n p r o g r e s s , Tennyson f r e q u e n t l y f o u n d f a u l t w i t h i t s v a r i o u s i l l u s t r a t i o n s . He even t o o k t h e a r t i s t s t h e m s e l v e s t o t a s k o c c a s i o n a l l y , f o r example, when he i n v e i g h e d a g a i n s t W i l l i a m Holman Hunt f o r c r e a t i n g a l a d y o f S h a l o t t whose h a i r , i n Tennyson's v i e w , l o o k e d as i f were " f l y i n g a l l about t h e shop" ( q t d . i n L a y a r d 4 1 ) . I n Tennyson and h i s P r e - R a p h a e l i t e I l l u s t r a t o r s (1894), George Somes L a y a r d r e m a r k s , i n b r i e f , t h a t " M i l l a i s has r e a l i z e d , Holman Hunt has i d e a l i z e d , and R o s s e t t i has s u b l i m a t e d o r t r a n s c e n d e n t a l i z e d , t h e s u b j e c t s w h i c h t h e y have r e s p e c t i v e l y i l l u s t r a t e d " ( 9 ) . L a y a r d o c c a s i o n a l l y a s s e s s e s t h e i m p a c t o f i l l u s t r a t i o n s upon r e a d e r r e c e p t i o n a s , f o r i n s t a n c e , w i t h Holman Hunt's i n c l u s i o n o f a c r u c i f i x b e s i d e t h e l a d y o f S h a l l o t ' s m i r r o r w h i c h , i n L a y a r d ' s v i e w , h e l p e d t o l a b e l Tennyson a C h r i s t i a n p o e t (42) . I l l u s t r a t i o n s , l i k e m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s and p a r o d i e s ( d i s c u s s e d b e l o w ) , a r e a l s o methods o f p o p u l a r i z i n g . A f u l l d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e i r i n f l u e n c e has n o t been a t t e m p t e d h e r e , however, because o f Tennyson's p r o f e s s e d d i s l i k e o f i l l u s t r a t e d t e x t s and h i s pronounced a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r p o e t i c sound. 117 t h i r t y o f t h e i l l u s t r a t i o n s . But t r o u b l e s w i t h a r t i s t s and e n g r a v e r s p l a g u e d p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h e volume so t h a t i t m i s s e d t h e i n t e n d e d C h r i s t m a s t r a d e i n 1856, and was n o t p u b l i s h e d u n t i l May 1857. Moxon was c e r t a i n l y c o n f i d e n t o f i t s s u c c e s s : he p r i n t e d 10,000 a t 31s 6d p e r copy, a p r i c e t h a t a l m o s t 37 c e r t a i n l y p u t i t o u t o f r e a c h o f most o f Tennyson's r e a d e r s . Hagen s t a t e s t h a t s a l e s were v e r y p o o r : " I n 1863, o n l y s i x y e a r s a f t e r p u b l i c a t i o n , 5000 u n s o l d c o p i e s [ s h e e t s ? ] were r e m a i n d e r e d t o R o u t l e d g e . . . . [ 0 ] f t h e o t h e r 5000, Moxon had a c t u a l l y s o l d o n l y 2210" ( 1 0 6 ) . By p u b l i s h i n g s u c h a l a r g e e d i t i o n , Moxon had c l e a r l y m i s r e a d t h e upper end o f t h e market f o r Tennyson's p o e t r y . I n w a n t i n g t o keep h i s volumes l o w - p r i c e d and s i m p l y d e s i g n e d , Tennyson seemed more aware t h a t h i s p o e t r y p r i m a r i l y a p p e a l e d t o t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s . Edward Moxon d i e d a y e a r l a t e r , i n June 1858; i n i t i a l l y , Tennyson r e m a i n e d l o y a l t o t h e Moxon f i r m ( h a n d l e d a t f i r s t by B r a d b u r y and Evans, t h e n l a t e r by J . B e r t r a n d P a y n e ) , b u t when d i s a g r e e m e n t s a r o s e , he went t o A l e x a n d e r S t r a h a n (1869-73). When S t r a h a n ' s b u s i n e s s f a i l e d i n 1873, he t u r n e d t o Henry 3 7 As f o r t h e t e x t ' s f o r m a t , Hagen a l l e g e s t h a t i t was "a t h i c k book bound i n b r i g h t b l u e s i l k - l i k e c l o t h w i t h g i l d e d edges and w i t h a g i l t u r n on t h e c o v e r " ( 1 0 2 ) . Wise, however, d e s c r i b e s i t as "dark g r e e n c l o t h b o a r d s , t h e back and s i d e s ornamented w i t h d e s i g n s i n ' b l i n d ' and g o l d " ( I 9 7 ) . The s i n g l e copy o f t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n t h a t I have seen i s bound i n b l u e - c l o t h b o a r d s , t h e f r o n t and back c o v e r s b l i n d - s t a m p e d w i t h a g i l t u r n over-stamped, w i t h p l a i n edges and g i l t l e t t e r i n g on t h e s p i n e . D i s c o u n t i n g h e r b i b l i o g r a p h i c a l i n a c c u r a c i e s , i n d e s c r i b i n g t h e Moxon i l l u s t r a t e d Tennyson, Hagen makes i t more d e c o r a t i v e t h a n i t a c t u a l l y was. 118 K i n g (1874-8) and l a t e r t o C h a r l e s Kegan P a u l (1879-83) a f t e r t r o u b l e s ensued w i t h K i n g . A f t e r h i s f i v e - y e a r c o n t r a c t w i t h P a u l came t o an end, Tennyson s e c u r e d h i s f i n a l p u b l i s h e r : A l e x a n d e r M a c m i l l a n (1884-92). Tennyson's f i r s t v e n t u r e w i t h t h e new management o f t h e Moxon f i r m was h i s f o u r f e m a l e i d y l l s o f " t h e F a l s e and t h e T r u e " : I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g i n 1859. Tennyson's s e l f - c o n f i d e n t r e t u r n t o A r t h u r i a n m a t e r i a l , a f t e r he had l a i d a s i d e t h e "Morte d ' A r t h u r " i n 1842, may w e l l have been prompted by t h e d i s a p p o i n t m e n t he e x p e r i e n c e d i n m e e t i n g t h e demands f o r c o n t e m p o r a r y t o p i c s t h a t he had a t t e m p t e d t o do i n Maud. Whatever t h e r e a s o n , t h e I d y l l s was a " s t a r t l i n g s u c c e s s . " A t a c o s t o f 7 s h i l l i n g s , "no l e s s t h a n 40,000 c o p i e s were p r i n t e d and 10,000 s o l d i n 6 weeks. Indeed, so g r e a t was t h e demand t h a t a second e d i t i o n had t o be i s s u e d w i t h i n s i x months" ( S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson t y p e s c r i p t q t d . i n Hagen 110). I n h i s r e v i e w o f t h e I d y l l s ( Q u a r t e r l y Review Oct 1859), W i l l i a m G l a d s t o n e ' s e f f u s i v e p r a i s e f o r Tennyson's " c r o w n i n g " a c h i e v e m e n t i n d i c a t e s t h e s t a t u r e Tennyson had r e a c h e d by t h e l a t e 1850s: . . . we do n o t d e s p a i r o f s e e i n g Mr. Tennyson a c h i e v e on t h e b a s i s he has chosen t h e s t r u c t u r e o f a f u l l - f o r m e d e p i c . . . . [ I ] f he can keep t h e l e v e l he has g a i n e d , s u c h a work w i l l be t h e g r e a t e s t , and by f a r t h e g r e a t e s t p o e t i c a l c r e a t i o n , t h a t , whether i n o u r own o r i n f o r e i g n p o e t r y , t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y has p r o d u c e d . I n t h e f a c e o f a l l c r i t i c s , t h e L a u r e a t e o f E n g l a n d has now r e a c h e d a p o s i t i o n w h i c h a t once imposes and i n s t i l s r e s p e c t . (Jump 260) 119 Tennyson's s a l e s would n e v e r a g a i n have t o s u f f e r as a r e s u l t o f t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s ; h i s r e p u t a t i o n was f i n a l l y s e c u r e . Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y can a l s o be measured i n v a r i o u s p u b l i c a t i o n o f f e r s made t o him a t t h i s t i m e . F o r i n s t a n c e , George S m i t h ( o f S m i t h E l d e r ) o f f e r e d him 5,000 g u i n e a s i n 1860 f o r a volume t h e same l e n g t h as t h e I d y l l s ; and S m i t h wanted o n l y a t h r e e - y e a r c o n t r a c t . A c c o r d i n g t o S i r C h a r l e s , no o t h e r p o e t up t o t h a t t i m e had e v e r r e c e i v e d s u c h a h i g h o f f e r ( 3 2 2 ) . Magazine e d i t o r s a l s o began t o make o v e r t u r e s . The e d i t o r o f Once a Week o f f e r e d Tennyson £100 f o r "The Grandmother's A p o l o g y " ( J u l y 1859); A l e x a n d e r M a c m i l l a n gave Tennyson £300 f o r "Sea Dreams," w h i c h appeared i n M a c m i l l a n ' s Magazine ( J a n 1860); and T h a c k e r a y s e c u r e d Tennyson's " T i t h o n u s " f o r £50 f o r h i s C o r n h i l l Magazine (Feb 1860). A l t h o u g h t h e s e amounts do n o t compare t o some o f t h e payments t h a t Tennyson r e c e i v e d from t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s f o r p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n , t h a t t h e y were p r o f f e r e d a t a l l and by s u c h h i g h p r o f i l e j o u r n a l s s u g g e s t t h e s t r e n g t h o f Tennyson's g r o w i n g r e p u t a t i o n . U l t i m a t e l y , i t was t h e i n s t a n t s u c c e s s o f Enoch Arden and O t h e r Poems i n 1864 t h a t d e t e r m i n e d Tennyson as a "poet o f t h e p e o p l e " t h e a p p e l l a t i o n h a v i n g been bestowed upon him by r e v i e w e r s o f t h i s t e x t . Tennyson and h i s p u b l i s h e r s f e l t c o n f i d e n t s i n c e t h e f i r s t i m p r e s s i o n i n August 1864 a p p a r e n t l y was 60,000 c o p i e s a t a c o s t o f s i x s h i l l i n g s . A c c o r d i n g t o Hagen, 17,000 s o l d on t h e f i r s t day and 40,000 by November 12 0 ( 1 1 2 ) . H a l l a m w r i t e s t h a t t h e e n t i r e 60,000 were s o l d " i n a v e r y s h o r t t i m e " (Memoir 421). As t h e Times o b s e r v e d , even t h o u g h t h e s a t i r i s t s might c r y t h a t " t h e most u n s a l e a b l e o f wares i s a volume o f p o e t r y , t h e L a u r e a t e i s s u e s a l i t t l e book, w h i c h , a l t h o u g h t h i s i s f o r p u b l i s h e r s t h e dead s e a s o n o f t h e y e a r , goes o f f l i k e a p r a i r i e on f i r e " ( q t d . i n S c o t t Enoch Arden 1 ) . The volume a p p e a l e d t o t h e e n t i r e s p e c t r u m o f Tennyson's r e a d e r s . R e v i e w e r s were l a v i s h i n t h e i r p r a i s e : one f e l t t h a t "no s i m p l e t a l e was e v e r so n o b l y t o l d " (Chambers); a n o t h e r c l a i m e d t h a t "No o t h e r o f h i s poems can r e a c h above i t " (The Q u a r t e r l y R e v i e w ) ; and s t i l l a n o t h e r t h o u g h t Enoch Arden t o be "as h o l y as an a n g e l ' s dream" ( l a b o u r p a p e r , t h e B r i t i s h C o n v e r s a t i o n a l i s t ) ( S c o t t Enoch A r d e n 2 ) . Even p o e t s as d i f f e r e n t as Browning and Swinburne e x p r e s s e d t h e i r a p p r o b a t i o n (see S c o t t Enoch Arden 2 ) . That Enoch Arden t o u c h e d t h e masses i s c o n f i r m e d by H a l l a m ' s r e t e l l i n g o f j u s t one o f s u p p o s e d l y many s t o r i e s c o n c e r n i n g t h e e f f e c t s o f t h e poem upon t h e "uneducated": an o l d , poor woman had e a r l i e r h e a r d p a r t o f t h e poem from a woman d i s t r i b u t i n g r e l i g i o u s t r a c t s a t a l a r g e m e e t i n g . The p o o r woman was now t h a n k f u l f o r h e r t r a c t , b u t added t h a t she would " g i v e a n y t h i n g f o r t h a t o t h e r b e a u t i f u l t r a c t w h i c h you r e a d t ' o t h e r day (a s e n t i m e n t w h i c h was echoed by t h e o t h e r s ) , i t d i d me a power o f good" (Memoir 423). The r e a s o n s f o r t h e enormous s u c c e s s o f t h e p o e t r y o f Enoch Arden a r e d e a l t w i t h a t l e n g t h i n c h a p t e r s i x . F o r t h e moment, i t i s n e c e s s a r y t o 121 c o n s i d e r t h e d i f f e r e n c e s between Tennyson's r e s p o n s e s t o h i s now w i d e - r a n g i n g a u d i e n c e and t h o s e o f h i s B r i t i s h p u b l i s h e r . As d e m o n s t r a t e d t h r o u g h o u t Tennyson's p u b l i s h i n g h i s t o r y t o d a t e , t h e p o e t d i d h i s b e s t t o a v o i d l a v i s h p r o d u c t i o n s — a n n u a l s , g i f t books, o r i l l u s t r a t e d e d i t i o n s o f h i s work. H i s a e s t h e t i c t a s t e s were s i m p l e and p r a c t i c a l , and h i s volumes had been m o d e r a t e l y p r i c e d i n k e e p i n g w i t h h i s e s t i m a t i o n o f h i s a u d i e n c e . S i r C h a r l e s n o t e s t h a t once c o n v i n c e d o f h i s e f f e c t upon t h e masses, Tennyson p r o p o s e d t o Payne (now managing t h e Moxon f i r m ) t h a t t h e y " i s s u e a s e l e c t i o n o f t h e more p o p u l a r o f h i s poems i n s i x p e n n y p a r t s , h o p i n g t h a t t h e s e would r e a c h t h e w o r k i n g men o f E n g l a n d , t o whom he d e d i c a t e d t h e s e l e c t i o n s " ( 3 5 4 ) . But a c c o r d i n g t o Hagen, t h e scheme was n o t l u c r a t i v e enough f o r Payne, who i n s t e a d i s s u e d a f i v e s h i l l i n g S e l e c t i o n from t h e Works o f A l f r e d Tennyson i n Moxon's M i n i a t u r e P o e t s s e r i e s i n 1865 ( 1 1 4 ) . D e s p i t e i t s f i n a n c i a l s u c c e s s , t h e e d i t i o n b r o u g h t Tennyson i n t o d i s p u t e w i t h p u b l i s h e r s o v e r i t s " o r n a m e n t a l s t y l e . " S i m i l a r l y , Payne had e n l i s t e d G u s t a v e Dore t o i l l u s t r a t e t h e 1859 I d y l l s ; t h e " V i v i e n " and " G u i n e v e r e " volumes appeared f o r t h e C h r i s t m a s t r a d e i n 1867, p r i c e d a t one, t h r e e , and f i v e g u i n e a s (Hagen 113). Payne a l s o i s s u e d Enoch A r d e n , i l l u s t r a t e d by A r t h u r Hughes, i n 18 66. Thus w h i l e Tennyson's i n c l i n a t i o n s seemed t o be t o w a r d a p o p u l a r , mass a u d i e n c e , Payne c o n c e i v e d o f h i m s e l f 122 and h i s p o e t ' s work i n a g r a n d s t y l e . 3 8 Such d i s c o r d between them e v e n t u a l l y caused Tennyson t o seek a new p u b l i s h e r . I n 1869, Tennyson f o u n d i n A l e x a n d e r S t r a h a n ( f o u n d e r o f Good Words e s t a b l i s h e d i n 1860) a p u b l i s h e r w i t h v i e w s s i m i l a r t o h i s own. S t r a h a n b e l i e v e d t h a t h i s r o l e was n o t o n l y t o make money, b u t t o d e v e l o p a t a s t e f o r t h e r e a d i n g o f l i t e r a t u r e by a l l c l a s s e s , e s p e c i a l l y t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s . He p r e d i c t e d t h a t [ i ] f t h e n , we would g e n e r a t e a t a s t e f o r r e a d i n g , we must, as our o n l y chance o f s u c c e e s , . . . [ f ] u r n i s h t h e p e o p l e l i b e r a l l y w i t h l i t e r a t u r e — n o t w r i t t e n e x p r e s s l y f o r them as a c l a s s , b u t f o r a l l a l i k e — and t h e b e s t o f i t s k i n d . . . . We s h a l l f i n d t h a t i n t h e w r i t i n g s o f our b e s t a u t h o r s we p o s s e s s a l l we r e q u i r e t o s t r i k e our g r a p p l i n g - i r o n i n t o t h e w o r k i n g p e o p l e ' s s o u l , and c h a i n them, w i l l i n g f o l l o w e r s , t o t h e c a r o f a d v a n c i n g c i v i l i z a t i o n . ( q t d . i n Hagen 122) A l t h o u g h h i s metaphor seems r a t h e r v i o l e n t , h i s s o c i a l i s t i c c u l t u r a l i n t e n t i o n s c o n c u r r e d w i t h Tennyson's. Thus t o g e t h e r t h e y p l a n n e d a one-volume e d i t i o n , t h e f i r s t c o l l e c t e d Tennyson's c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f a mass a u d i e n c e a t t h i s t i m e i s a l s o e v i n c e d i n h i s s e v e r a l p u b l i c a t i o n s f o r t h e p o p u l a r p r e s s : "The S p i t e f u l L e t t e r " (Once a Week J a n 18 6 8 ) , "The V i c t i m " (Good Words J a n 1868), "Wages" ( M a c m i l l a n ' s Magazine Feb 1868), and "1865-1866" (Good Words Mar 1868). " L u c r e t i u s " appeared i n May i n M a c m i l l a n ' s . I n A m e r i c a T i c k n o r and F i e l d s s e c u r e d f o r t h e i r p e r i o d i c a l s "The V i c t i m " ( A t l a n t i c M o n t h l y (Feb 1868), "1865-1866" ( E v e r y S a t u r d a y Feb 1868),and " L u c r e t i u s " ( E v e r y S a t u r d a y May 1868). Hagen b e l i e v e s t h a t Tennyson may have p u b l i s h e d t h e s e s e v e r a l poems i n p e r i o d i c a l s r a t h e r t h a n g e t up a new volume because o f annoyances w i t h h i s p u b l i s h e r (115). A l t h o u g h payment was o f t e n l u c r a t i v e (£700 from Good Words f o r "The V i c t i m " ) E m i l y Tennyson p r e v a i l e d upon Tennyson t o t h i n k r a t h e r o f volume p u b l i c a t i o n t h a n g e t c a u g h t i n t r y i n g t o s a t i s f y t h e c o n f l i c t i n g t a s t e s o f p e r i o d i c a l s (Hagen 115-6) . 123 e d i t i o n , a t a moderate p r i c e . W h i l e S t r a h a n ' s b u s i n e s s f a i l e d b e f o r e t h e scheme c o u l d m a t e r i a l i z e ( i t was f i n a l l y p u b l i s h e d by Kegan P a u l i n 1878), S t r a h a n ' s u n o r t h o d o x v i e w s a l s o drew s u s p i c i o n from a p u b l i s h i n g i n d u s t r y t h a t i n t h e 1870s s t i l l c l e a r l y demarcated i t s c l a s s - b a s e d a l l e g i a n c e s (see S u t h e r l a n d 174-5, Hagen 122). I n a t t e m p t i n g t o r e a c h a l a r g e p u b l i c a t t h i s t i m e , S t r a h a n and Tennyson were l i k e l y r e a c t i n g t o s e v e r a l c o n v e r g e n t f o r c e s : p i r a t e d c o m p e t i t i o n from t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s — e s p e c i a l l y from L o n g f e l l o w ; Tennyson's own d e m o n s t r a b l e a p p e a l t o a " c l a s s l e s s " A m e r i c a n r e a d i n g p u b l i c ; and an a r t f o r a r t ' s sake movement t h a t , i n Tennyson's v i e w , was t h r e a t e n i n g t o remove p o e t r y from an a p p r e c i a t i o n o f common, e v e r y d a y l i f e . I f i n o f f e r i n g cheap e d i t i o n s , Tennyson c o u l d m a i n t a i n t h e q u a l i t y o f h i s p o e t r y and S t r a h a n t h e q u a l i t y o f t h e p r o d u c t , t h e n t h e p o e t ' s work c o u l d p o t e n t i a l l y f u l f i l a l i t e r a r y and c u l t u r a l p u r p o s e f a r d i f f e r e n t from t h a t o f p u r e a e s t h e t i c i s m . Such a scheme was n o t t o be; a e s t h e t i c i s m d i d , e v e n t u a l l y , t o p p l e Tennyson from h i s t h r o n e as s a c e r v a t e s . T h i s i s n o t t o s u g g e s t t h a t Tennyson i m m e d i a t e l y d e c l i n e d i n p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e 1860s and 1870s, e s p e c i a l l y s i n c e he r e m a i n e d L a u r e a t e u n t i l h i s d e a t h i n 1892; h i s p o p u l a r i t y on t h i s s c o r e i f n o t h i n g e l s e was a l m o s t a s s u r e d . Y e t s a l e s o f new volumes i n t h e 1870s and 1880s had now t o be supplemented by r e p r i n t s o f o l d f o r newly a c q u i r e d cheap markets and f o r e i g n m a r k e t s i n 124 o r d e r t h a t Tennyson's p u b l i s h e r s c o u l d c o n t i n u e t o p r o f i t from h i s p o e t r y . The p u b l i c a t i o n h i s t o r y o f Tennyson's p o e t r y c l e a r l y i l l u s t r a t e s t h e i n t i m a t e c o n n e c t i o n between t h e methods o f p r o d u c t i o n , p u b l i c a t i o n , and p r o m o t i o n and r e s u l t i n g p o p u l a r i t y : i n s h o r t , how and by whom Tennyson's p o e t r y came t o be r e a d . F o r a p o e t l i k e Tennyson, whose work p r e v i o u s t o 1850 r e c e i v e d p r e d o m i n a n t l y n e g a t i v e r e v i e w s , Moxon's m i n i m a l p r o m o t i o n c o u l d v e r y w e l l have r e s t r i c t e d t h e e a r l y Tennyson's r e a d e r s h i p t o an e d u c a t e d e l i t e ( f o r example, r e a d e r s o f r e v i e w s ) . Once Tennyson's p o e t r y began t o be r e a d by a f a r more h e t e r o g e n e o u s p u b l i c i n t h e 1840s ( t h a t i n c l u d e d t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s and women), Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y i n c r e a s e d . But i t d i d so o n l y g r a d u a l l y s i n c e n e i t h e r Moxon n o r Tennyson was p r e p a r e d t o t a k e p u b l i s h i n g r i s k s d i r e c t e d a t t h i s new market a t t h i s t i m e . 3 9 The c r i t i c a l p r e s s c o n t i n u e d as a s t r o n g i n f l u e n c e i n t h e 1850s and even 1860s, by e n d o r s i n g I n 3 9 P o e t s l i k e Browning who f a i l e d t o a c h i e v e immediate c r i t i c a l a c c l a i m were t o s u f f e r t h e most from Moxon's c o n s e r v a t i v e b u s i n e s s p r a c t i c e s . I n a l e t t e r t o E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t i n August 1846, Browning c o m p l a i n s o f Moxon's s l o w n e s s , l a c k o f a d v e r t i s i n g , and l a c k o f e n t e r p r i s e and adds, " I f one o f h i s books can o n l y c o n t r i v e t o pay i t s e x p e n s e s , you may be s u r e t h a t a more e n t e r p r i s i n g b r o t h e r o f t h e c r a f t would have s e n t i t i n t o a second o r t h i r d e d i t i o n " ( q t d . i n Merriman 8 0 ) . As Merriman p o i n t s o u t , however, Moxon's meager a d v e r t i s i n g may w e l l have been l i n k e d t o h i s b e l i e f i n t h e poor s a l e a b i l i t y o f work l i k e B r o w n i n g ' s , and t o t h e f a c t t h a t t h e B r i t i s h t a x on a d v e r t i s i n g was, u n t i l 1853, q u i t e heavy. Thus Moxon, a l t h o u g h n i g g a r d l y i n g e n e r a l , s e l e c t i v e l y promoted p o p u l a r w r i t e r s l i k e H a r r i e t M a r t i n e a u (though n e v e r n o i s i l y ) because t o do so was a f i n a n c i a l u n d e r t a k i n g t h a t would pay e a s i l y f o r i t s e l f . 125 Memoriam and t h e r e b y e n h a n c i n g i t s s a l e s , by c a s t i g a t i n g Maud, by r e t u r n i n g i t s f a v o u r t o I d y l l s and, e s p e c i a l l y , by l a u d i n g Enoch Arden. W i t h t h e enormous s u c c e s s o f I n Memoriam, Tennyson seemed t o want t o l e a v e t h e r e v i e w s b e h i n d and e s t a b l i s h new ground amid a more p o p u l a r a u d i e n c e t h a n p r e v i o u s l y . However, i n t h i s he was t h w a r t e d by t h e c o n s e r v a t i v i s m o f t h e p u b l i s h i n g i n d u s t r y and by p u b l i s h e r s ' s u p p o s e d l y l u c r a t i v e schemes t o i s s u e l a v i s h , h i g h - p r i c e d volumes. By t h e t i m e Tennyson's p o e t r y began t o r e a c h a cheap market i n t h e 1870s, i t s a p p e a l had l e s s e n e d among t h e e d u c a t e d e l i t e . Y e a r s e a r l i e r , w i t h Enoch Arden. Tennyson had r e a c h e d t h e apex o f h i s c a r e e r as a p o p u l a r p o e t by t o u c h i n g t h e h e a r t s o f a l l c l a s s e s , men and women a l i k e . I n s h o r t , Tennyson's p o e t r y had b a s i c a l l y t o s e l l i t s e l f i n B r i t a i n (and o f t e n a g a i n s t f o r m i d a b l e odds) w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n A m e r i c a was marketed and s o l d f o r h i m — b y h i m s e l f and by h i s e n t e r p r i s i n g p u b l i s h e r s . As a p o t e n t i a l c h a l l e n g e t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y , Tennyson's t e x t s r e c e i v e d p r o m o t i o n i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s s i m i l a r t o t h a t w h i c h t h e A m e r i c a n b a r d e n j o y e d . A l t h o u g h t h e f i r s t A m e r i c a n e d i t i o n o f Tennyson's p o e t r y d i d n o t appear u n t i l 1842, New E n g l a n d ' s l i t e r a t i had a c c e s s t o t h e 1833 Poems t h r o u g h Emerson, t h r o u g h b o t h B r i t i s h and A m e r i c a n r e v i e w s , and t h r o u g h t h e v o i c e s o f i n f l u e n t i a l women. Edward E v e r e t t H a l e , f o r example, c o u l d n o t remember "whether i t was L o n g f e l l o w o r Emerson who i n t r o d u c e d Tennyson 12 6 i n c o l l e g e " i n t h e 1830s ( q t d . i n E i d s o n 6 ) . 4 0 Of c o u r s e , awareness o f Tennyson's p o e t r y i n t h e 183 0s a l s o d e r i v e d from i t s e x t e n s i v e q u o t a t i o n i n t h e B r i t i s h r e v i e w s r e c a s t f o r A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e s , w i t h much o f t h e i r v i t r i o l d i l u t e d ( E i d s o n 1 2 ) . As e a r l y as J a n u a r y 1838, one o f Tennyson's f i r s t A m e r i c a n c r i t i c s , John S u l l i v a n Dwight o f The C h r i s t i a n Examiner, r e c o g n i z e d t r a i t s i n Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y t h a t would come t o dominate A m e r i c a n c r i t i c a l r e v i e w s : h i s poems "charm by t h e i r m e l o d i o u s sound" ( q t d . i n E i d s o n 29) and, i n t h e f e m a l e p o r t r a i t s , Tennyson c r e a t e s a " g a l l e r y o f l o v e l y l a d i e s , w h i c h a l l b u t b r e a t h e from t h e c a n v a s " ( q t d . 3 0 ) . I n h i s r e v i e w o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t (1839) f o r B u r t o n ' s Gentleman's Magazine (Feb 1840), Poe f u r t h e r p i q u e d t h e g r o w i n g A m e r i c a n i n t e r e s t i n t h e E n g l i s h b a r d . By c h a r g i n g L o n g f e l l o w w i t h p l a g i a r i s m , c l a i m i n g t h a t he had s t o l e n t h e i d e a o f t h e " M i d n i g h t Mass f o r t h e D y i n g Y e a r " from Tennyson's "The Death o f t h e O l d Y e a r " (Poe 6 7 5 - 9 ) 4 1 , Poe's I t l i k e l y was Emerson s i n c e i t was he who had t r a v e l l e d t o E n g l a n d and had r e t u r n e d w i t h Tennyson's 1833 Poems. L i k e o t h e r s i n New E n g l a n d , however, L o n g f e l l o w was aware o f Tennyson's p o e t r y i n t h e 1830s. I n O c t o b e r 1837 he w r i t e s t o Fanny A p p l e t o n d r a w i n g on examples from "The L o t u s E a t e r s " and " R o s a l i n d " : " D i d you e v e r r e a d T e n n i s o n ' s [ s i c ] Poems? He i s t o o q u a i n t , and a t t i m e s so w o n d e r o u s l y b e a u t i f u l i n h i s e x p r e s s i o n , t h a t even t h e n i c e s t e a r can ask no r i c h e r m e l o d y : — a n d t h e most l i v e l y i m a g i n a t i o n no l o v e l i e r p i c t u r e n o r more t r u e " ( L e t t e r s I I 4 8 ) . 4 1 L o n g f e l l o w , o f c o u r s e , d e n i e d t h i s c h a r g e by c l a i m i n g t h a t he had n e v e r seen Tennyson's poem, w h i c h l i k e l y i s n o t t r u e g i v e n t h a t e l s e w h e r e i n h i s l e t t e r s he q u o t e s from t h e same 183 3 volume c o n t a i n i n g "Death o f t h e O l d Y e a r " (see l e t t e r t o Samuel Ward L e t t e r s I I 215). However, Poe's c h a r g e i s i t s e l f n o t p a r t i c u l a r l y sound s i n c e t h e i d e a o r theme o f a 127 a t t e m p t s t o d i s c r e d i t L o n g f e l l o w may a c t u a l l y have enhanced b o t h p o e t s ' r e p u t a t i o n s , and now i n r e l a t i o n t o one a n o t h e r . I n a d d i t i o n , E i d s o n s u g g e s t s t h a t r e v i e w s o f Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y i n t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s h e l p e d t o c r e a t e an a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r Tennyson among A m e r i c a n women even i n advance o f p u b l i c a t i o n i n 1842: M a r g a r e t F u l l e r p r a i s e d Tennyson h i g h l y i n The D i a l , J u l y 1841; i n s o c i a l c i r c l e s , Fanny Kemble d i d much t o make t h e E n g l i s h p o e t known i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ; and Fanny A p p l e t o n ( l a t e r L o n g f e l l o w ' s second w i f e ) f i l l e d h e r l e t t e r s t o Kemble w i t h q u o t a t i o n s from Tennyson ( 8 ) . Thus E i d s o n c o n c l u d e s t h a t Tennyson " g a i n e d f a v o u r i n t h e eyes o f a p e c u l i a r c l a s s o f s e n t i m e n t a l i s t s . Young l a d i e s were known t o copy [ h i s poems] e n t i r e and l e a r n them by h e a r t " ( 8 ) . D e s p i t e E i d s o n ' s p e j o r a t i v e use o f " s e n t i m e n t a l i s t s " t o d e s c r i b e Tennyson's f e m a l e r e a d e r s , i t i s c l e a r t h a t Tennyson made an e a r l y and l a s t i n g i m p r e s s i o n n o t j u s t among male s c h o l a r s and c r i t i c s , b u t a l s o among d i v e r s e A m e r i c a n women w h i c h added g r e a t l y t o h i s p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . The f a v o u r a b l e r e p u t a t i o n t h a t Tennyson g a i n e d i n A m e r i c a i n t h e 1830s prompted a s c h o l a r l y f r i e n d o f Emerson's, C h a r l e s S t e a r n s Wheeler, t o a p p e a l t o Tennyson on C h r i s t m a s day, 184 0, f o r t h e r i g h t t o e d i t h i s poems f o r p u b l i c a t i o n i n what d y i n g y e a r i s n o t e x a c t l y new t o e i t h e r Tennyson o r L o n g f e l l o w , and t h e s t y l e s and t o n e s o f t h e i r poems a r e c o m p l e t e l y d i f f e r e n t . Poe's a n t a g o n i s m t o w a r d L o n g f e l l o w i n c r e a s e d r a t h e r t h a n l e s s e n e d , however, and c h a r g e s o f p l a g i a r i s m became more f r e q u e n t ; f o r a c o m p l e t e d i s c u s s i o n see c h a p t e r two. 128 Tennyson r e f e r r e d t o as " t h a t l a n d o f t h e f r e e men" (Memoir 149). Tennyson's r e p l y t o Wheeler i s a c a r e f u l l y worded r e j e c t i o n : s e n s i t i v e t o t h e honour bestowed on him by A m e r i c a n f a v o u r , Tennyson n o n e t h e l e s s i m p l i e s t h a t , w i t h o u t an i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t , he i s i n no l e g a l p o s i t i o n t o deny Wheeler. He r e q u e s t s , however, t h a t Wheeler w a i t f o r t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h e new two volume E n g l i s h e d i t i o n o f h i s poems, whereupon he "can t h e n o f c o u r s e do as [he] c h o o s e [ s ] w i t h them" ( L e t t e r s I 187). A c c o r d i n g t o E i d s o n , Wheeler worked a s s i d u o u s l y as a t y p e o f A m e r i c a n agent f o r Tennyson once t h e 1842 Poems r e a c h e d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s by t r y i n g t o s e c u r e f o r him t h e " b e s t p o s s i b l e d e a l " ; Wheeler f i n a l l y s e t t l e d on W. D. T i c k n o r ( j o i n e d i n 1845 by F i e l d s ) as p u b l i s h e r . Wheeler c o u l d n o t have made a more f i t t i n g c h o i c e f o r Tennyson a t t h e t i m e . T i c k n o r ' s r e s p o n s e t o Tennyson's p o t e n t i a l a u d i e n c e was t o pay Tennyson $150 i n l i e u o f c o p y r i g h t f o r t h e 1842 Poems. T i c k n o r saw t h e v a l u e and p r e s t i g e t h a t Tennyson c o u l d b r i n g t o h i s f i r m , and was p r e p a r e d t o pay Tennyson i n r e t u r n so as t o s e c u r e advance s a l e s o f h i s volumes i n A m e r i c a . A l t h o u g h E i d s o n c l a i m s t h a t T i c k n o r i s s u e d a f i r s t e d i t i o n o f t h e 1842 Poems, p e r h a p s as many as 1500 t o 2000 c o p i e s (37-8) , T r y o n m a i n t a i n s t h a t t h i s was a " s m a l l e d i t i o n made up o f o n l y 1,000 c o p i e s " ( " N a t i o n a l i s m " 3 0 5 ) , and s i n c e T r y o n r a t h e r ' t h a n E i d s o n had a c c e s s t o t h e c o s t books o f T i c k n o r and F i e l d s , h i s f i g u r e s 129 a r e l i k e l y more a c c u r a t e . T i c k n o r ' s w i l l i n g n e s s t o pay Tennyson and t o t a k e a moderate r i s k w i t h t h e number o f c o p i e s , a t a t i m e when most A m e r i c a n p u b l i s h e r s were making t h e i r f o r t u n e s p i r a t i n g a n y t h i n g B r i t i s h , seems u n u s u a l l y b o l d and g e n e r o u s . But h i s s t r a t e g y was rewarded, f o r , d u r i n g t h e n e x t q u a r t e r c e n t u r y , Tennyson remained l o y a l t o T i c k n o r and F i e l d s who c o n t i n u e d as h i s A m e r i c a n p u b l i s h e r s under t h e same o r s i m i l a r agreements u n t i l 1870. I n f a c t , from 1864 u n t i l 1870, t e x t s p u b l i s h e d by T i c k n o r and F i e l d s ( l a t e r F i e l d s and Osgood) p r i n t e d t h e f o l l o w i n g Tennyson c e r t i f i c a t e : " I t i s my w i s h t h a t w i t h M e s s r s . T i c k n o r and F i e l d s a l o n e t h e r i g h t o f p u b l i s h i n g my books i n A m e r i c a s h o u l d r e s t . " As T r y o n p o i n t s o u t i n h i s c o m p a r a t i v e a n a l y s i s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n A m e r i c a , " N a t i o n a l i s m and I n t e r n a t i o n a l C o p y r i g h t , " s a l e s o f t h e 1842 volume were s l o w b u t s t e a d y d u r i n g t h e 1840s. Then, i n t h e 1850s, T i c k n o r and F i e l d s s o u g h t , by t h e c r e a t i o n o f new f o r m a t s , t o a r o u s e i n t e r e s t and, by e s t a b l i s h i n g a p r i c e r a n g e from f i f t y c e n t s f o r a pamphlet t o t e n d o l l a r s f o r a de l u x e i l l u s t r a t e d one, t o s t i m u l a t e s a l e s . They succeeded. Between 1842 and 1870 no l e s s t h a n 13 0 s e p a r a t e i s s u e s o f t h e c o l l e c t e d poems t o t a l i n g 206,044 c o p i e s ( i n 267,948 volumes) were p u b l i s h e d . E v e r y t a s t e and p o c k e t b o o k was r e a c h e d , and by 18 6 5 t h e p u b l i s h e r s c o u l d c o u n t on an a n n u a l s a l e o f between 25,000 and 3 0,000 c o p i e s o f t h e i r v a r i o u s Tennysons. (Tryon " N a t i o n a l i s m " 305) The f i g u r e s i n Appendix I i n d i c a t e , however, t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s s a l e s i n A m e r i c a were n o t n e c e s s a r i l y i n j u r e d by c o m p e t i t i o n w i t h Tennyson d e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t Tennyson's volumes s o l d 130 f o r s e v e n t y - f i v e c e n t s w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w ' s were p r i c e d a t one d o l l a r . From a p p r o x i m a t e l y 1840 t o 1870, " i n c l u d i n g a l l t h e v a r i o u s p o e t i c a l works o f t h e two a u t h o r s , whether i n c o l l e c t e d o r s e p a r a t e f o r m a t s , t h e s a l e s o f Tennyson amounted t o 400,770 c o p i e s ; o f L o n g f e l l o w , 374,786 c o p i e s " (Tryon " N a t i o n a l i s m " 308-9). Tennyson's h i g h e r f i g u r e s a r e a l s o t h e r e s u l t o f s a l e s o f 118,230 i n 1865 ( 3 0 9 ) , a r e g i s t e r o f t h e enormous s u c c e s s o f Enoch Arden i n A m e r i c a . T r y o n c o n c l u d e s t h a t a l t h o u g h o t h e r A m e r i c a n a u t h o r s may have s u f f e r e d from f o r e i g n c o m p e t i t i o n , L o n g f e l l o w c l e a r l y d i d n o t : "when A m e r i c a n s w r o t e as w e l l as E n g l i s h m e n , t h e y s o l d as w e l l as E n g l i s h m e n " ( " N a t i o n a l i s m " 3 0 9 ) . I n f a c t , Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s may a c t u a l l y have enhanced L o n g f e l l o w ' s s a l e s and v i c e v e r s a . By b e i n g f r e q u e n t l y compared t o one a n o t h e r i n t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s , L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's works became f a m i l i a r t o r e a d e r s whose h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s i n c l u d e d knowledge o f b o t h . T i c k n o r and F i e l d s ' s " B l u e and G o l d " e d i t i o n s a r e a c a s e i n p o i n t . The f i r m d e c i d e d i n 1856 t o l a u n c h t h i s e l a b o r a t e l y d e s i g n e d , e x p e n s i v e s e r i e s w i t h Tennyson's c o l l e c t e d poems. The t h o u s a n d c o p i e s were e x h a u s t e d a l m o s t i m m e d i a t e l y (Tryon P a r n a s s u s 2 2 9 ) ; T i c k n o r and F i e l d s knew t h a t t h e y had a s u c c e s s . They t h e n i s s u e d L o n g f e l l o w i n t h e same s e r i e s . As E i d s o n p o i n t s o u t , American a u d i e n c e s r e s p o n d e d t o Tennyson's work o f t e n i n ways o p p o s i t e t o t h o s e o f B r i t i s h 131 r e a d e r s : g e n e r a l a c c e p t a n c e o c c u r r e d much e a r l i e r i n A m e r i c a t h a n i n E n g l a n d , and i t i n c r e a s e d s u b s t a n t i a l l y i n t h e 1840s w i t h t h e 1842 Poems and The P r i n c e s s (1847). I n t e r e s t i n g l y , however, t h e A m e r i c a n r e c e p t i o n o f I n Memoriam (1850) was mixed, even though i n E n g l a n d t h e poem had r e c e i v e d a l m o s t i n s t a n t , unanimous a p p r o v a l . Readers i n New E n g l a n d and c r i t i c s i n r e l i g i o u s p e r i o d i c a l s a p p l a u d e d i t s sonorous e m o t i o n a l i s m . Fanny A p p l e t o n L o n g f e l l o w ' s l e t t e r t o Emmeline Wadsworth e x p r e s s e s t h i s v i e w : "Henry i s f e a s t i n g upon i t w i t h eyes f u l l o f t e a r s , and a t Nahant, w i t h t h e m e l a n c h o l y sea c h i m i n g i n as m u s i c t o t h e d i r g e - l i k e words, I s h a l l sadden m y s e l f w i t h i t t o a j o y p u r e r t h a n j o y i t s e l f . The p i e c e s were e v i d e n t l y w r i t t e n a t d i f f e r e n t i n t e r v a l s , and t h e r e i s a h i g h e r t o n e and a deeper f e e l i n g i n them t h a n i n a n y t h i n g he has w r i t t e n , wedded t o t h e most p e r f e c t melody" ( 1 7 1 ) . Readers i n New Y o r k , on t h e o t h e r hand, d i s t r u s t e d Tennyson's s u b j e c t m a t t e r and e x p r e s s i o n , as seen i n Brownson's c o n c e r n f o r t h e " e x a g g e r a t e d degree o f s e n t i m e n t between two grown men" (Brownson's Q u a r t e r l y q t d . i n E i d s o n 8 0 ) . S i m i l a r l y , i n a l e t t e r t o L o n g f e l l o w , May 1850, F e l t o n t r a n s c r i b e s a d i s c u s s i o n he had w i t h a S c o t t i s h woman c o n c e r n i n g t h e poem; h i s remarks about t h e p e r c e i v e d e f f e m i n a c y o f t h e e l e g y echo t h e New Y o r k r e v i e w s : " P a r t s o f i t a r e v e r y sweet: b u t i t i s t o o l o n g drawn: t o o e f f e m i n a t e : mushy and womanish f o r a manly f r i e n d s h i p . " The woman a p p a r e n t l y a g r e e d ( q t d . i n E i d s o n 81- 2 ) . Once I n Memoriam r e c e i v e d w i d e s p r e a d a p p l a u s e i n B r i t a i n , 132 " d e f i n i t e d i s a p p r o v a l became a l m o s t t a b o o " a c c o r d i n g t o E i d s o n ( 8 6 ) . N o n e t h e l e s s , u n t i l t h e n e a r l y c o m p l e t e a p p r o b a t i o n o f Enoch Arden i n 1864, Tennyson's A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r i t y seemed t o r e s t more on i n d i v i d u a l l y r i c s and songs from t h e 1842 Poems and The P r i n c e s s t h a n h i s l o n g e r p o e m s — I n Memoriam, Maud, and t h e I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g ( 1 8 5 9 ) — a n d , n o t s u r p r i s i n g l y , s i n c e u n t i l L o n g f e l l o w ' s E v a n g e l i n e (1847), and Hiawatha (1855), t h e l y r i c had been t h e contemporary p o e t i c g e n r e most f a m i l i a r t o A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e s . Not s u r p r i s i n g l y t o o , L o n g f e l l o w m a i n t a i n e d a c a r e f u l watch on Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y i n A m e r i c a , r e c o r d i n g h i s o b s e r v a t i o n s i n h i s j o u r n a l . On 25 F e b r u a r y 1848, f o r example, L o n g f e l l o w n o t e s t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f a second e d i t i o n o f The P r i n c e s s , " t h e f i r s t , one t h o u s a n d c o p i e s , h a v i n g s o l d w i t h i n a few weeks" ( L i f e I I 109). A t t h e same t i m e , he r e g i s t e r s h i s s u c c e s s w i t h E v a n g e l i n e i n t h e same y e a r , s o m e t h i n g he a l w a y s d i d w i t h h i s own p o e t r y . L i k e w i s e , when I n Memoriam f i r s t appeared i n A m e r i c a , L o n g f e l l o w f e l t c o m p e l l e d t o "meddle" i n i t s p u b l i c a t i o n t o e n s u r e Tennyson's anonymity, r e m a r k i n g i n a l e t t e r t o F i e l d s on h i s f a s c i n a t i o n w i t h t h e poem t o such an e x t e n t t h a t , i r o n i c a l l y , he c l a i m e d t o be "as much i n t e r e s t e d i n i t as i f [he] had w r i t t e n i t " ( L e t t e r s I I I 262-3). F i e l d s obeyed and t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n o f I n Memoriam appeared w i t h o u t Tennyson's name. L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o n c e r n f o r Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n was g e n u i n e ; he i n no way begrudged h i s B r i t i s h c o u n t e r p a r t t h e s t a t u r e he 133 had a c h i e v e d i n A m e r i c a . On t h e c o n t r a r y , he d i d much t o e n s u r e t h a t Tennyson knew o f t h e i m p a c t t h a t he made i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , as t h e f o l l o w i n g l e t t e r o f August 1856 t o Thomas A p p l e t o n , t h e n t r a v e l l i n g i n E n g l a n d , i n d i c a t e s : I f you go t o t h e I s l e o f Wight you must n o t f a i l t o v i s i t Tennyson. You can t e l l him many t h i n g s about h i s fame i n t h i s c o u n t r y , w h i c h i t w i l l p l e a s e him t o know. He i s t h e o n l y E n g l i s h p o e t , e x c e p t Wordsworth, t h a t Emerson m e n t i o n s w i t h any r e s p e c t . The r e s t a r e n o t h i n g — l e s s t h a n n o t h i n g . But Wordsworth's Ode on ' I m o r t a l i t y ' i s t h e h i g h - w a t e r mark, t h a t t h e i n t e l l e c t has r e a c h e d i n t h i s c e n t u r y . ( L e t t e r s I I I 551) The a d m i r a t i o n t h a t L o n g f e l l o w e x p r e s s e d f o r Tennyson, h i s work, and h i s r e p u t a t i o n i n c r e a s e d t h r o u g h o u t t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s l i f e as each s u c c e s s i v e volume c r o s s e d t h e A t l a n t i c . I t c o n t i n u e d u n a b a t e d even a f t e r Tennyson had t u r n e d t o drama i n t h e m i d - l 8 7 0 s , by w h i c h t i m e L o n g f e l l o w had met Tennyson, so t h a t he no l o n g e r had t o r e l y on e m i s s a r i e s t o speak f o r him. W r i t i n g t o Tennyson i n December 1876, L o n g f e l l o w e x p r e s s e s h i s d e l i g h t i n H a r o l d as "a v o i c e o u t o f t h e P a s t , s o n o r o u s , s t r a n g e , s e m i - b a r b a r i c . " He t h e n adds, " I w i s h you knew, I w i s h you c o u l d p o s s i b l y know, t h e power o f y o u r p o e t r y i n t h i s c o u n t r y . I t would make y o u r h e a r t go f o r t h t o w a r d s t h e t h i r t y o r f o r t y m i l l i o n o f E n g l i s h on t h i s s i d e o f t h e A t l a n t i c " ( L e t t e r s V I 2 1 1 ) . 4 2 L o n g f e l l o w v o i c e d h i s e n t h u s i a s m f o r Tennyson by w r i t i n g him a s o n n e t , "Wapentake t o A l f r e d Tennyson," as a C h r i s t m a s g r e e t i n g f o r 1877: 134 I t would have been s t r a n g e i n d e e d i f by t h e mid-1870s Tennyson d i d n o t know o f h i s p o p u l a r i t y i n A m e r i c a . I n t h e e a r l y 1860s, a c c o r d i n g t o C h a r l e s Tennyson, Tennyson had r e f u s e d an o f f e r o f £20,000 f o r a r e a d i n g and l e c t u r e t o u r i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . 4 3 F u r t h e r m o r e , i n November 1871, he had a c c e p t e d an o f f e r from t h e New York Ledger o f £1,000 f o r any poem o f t h r e e s t a n z a s ; Tennyson p r o m p t l y r e p l i e d w i t h " E n g l a n d and A m e r i c a i n 1782" ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 39 6-7) . More g e n e r a l l y , Tennyson's a n x i e t y about A m e r i c a n p i r a c y even i n t o t h e 1880s (Hagen 180), and t h e c o n s t a n t f l o o d o f A m e r i c a n v i s i t o r s t o F a r r i n g f o r d a r e two f u r t h e r p r o o f s t h a t Tennyson's fame i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s e q u a l l e d t h a t o f h i s most a d m i r i n g P o e t l I come t o t o u c h t h y l a n c e w i t h mine, Not as a k n i g h t who on t h e l i s t e d f i e l d Of t o u r n e y t o u c h e d h i s a d v e r s a r y ' s s h i e l d I n t o k e n o f d e f i a n c e , b u t i n s i g n Of homage t o t h e m a s t e r y , w h i c h i s t h i n e I n E n g l i s h song; n o r w i l l I keep c o n c e a l e d , And v o i c e l e s s as a r i v u l e t f r o s t - c o n g e a l e d , My a d m i r a t i o n f o r t h y v e r s e d i v i n e . Not o f t h e h o w l i n g d e r v i s h e s o f song, Who c r a z e t h e b r a i n w i t h t h e i r d e l i r i o u s dance, A r t t h o u , O sweet h i s t o r i a n o f t h e h e a r t ! T h e r e f o r e t o t h e e t h e l a u r e l - l e a v e s b e l o n g , To t h e e our l o v e and our a l l e g i a n c e , F o r t h y a l l e g i a n c e t o t h e p o e t ' s a r t . (see H i l e n L e t t e r s V I 317) H a l l a m f i r s t p u b l i s h e d t h i s s o n n e t i n t h e Memoir (603) t o g e t h e r w i t h Tennyson's c o r d i a l r e p l y (see Lang L e t t e r s I I I 151) . 4 3 Hagen a l l e g e s t h a t Tennyson had two o f f e r s , t h e f i r s t i n 1861 p r o v i d i n g £3000 f o r an a l l - e x p e n s e s - p a i d r e a d i n g and l e c t u r i n g t o u r ; and t h e second i n 1863 f o r £10,000. Tennyson r e f u s e d b o t h . 135 c o u n t e r p a r t and c o m p e t i t o r , L o n g f e l l o w . Thus, Tennyson and L o n g f e l l o w s h a r e d j o i n t l y , i n t h e i r own and i n each o t h e r ' s c o u n t r i e s , t h e t i t l e o f " p e o p l e ' s p o e t " — w i t h a l l o f i t s a t t e n d a n t p l e a s u r e s and a n x i e t i e s . Caveat Lector: Readers and Poets The t i t l e and p u b l i c r e s p e c t t h a t a t t e n d e d i t , however, v a r i e d enormously f o r t h e s e two p o e t s , i n p a r t owing t o d i f f e r e n c e s between t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e v i e w s o f t h e r o l e o f t h e p o e t , and i n p a r t stemming from s i g n i f i c a n t d i s t i n c t i o n s between t h e A m e r i c a n and B r i t i s h r e a d i n g p u b l i c s . The a t t i t u d e s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson c o n c e r n i n g t h e p o e t ' s s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y ( d i s c u s s e d a t l e n g t h i n c h a p t e r s two and f o u r ) b e t r a y d i s s i m i l a r i t i e s a t t h e h e a r t o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e i d e o l o g i e s , dominated as t h e y were e i t h e r by t h e f u t u r e o r by t h e p a s t . That i s , even though L o n g f e l l o w drew upon a h i s t o r i c a l p e r s p e c t i v e — l a r g e l y E u r o p e a n — h e worked p r i m a r i l y t o e s t a b l i s h and m a i n t a i n t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s r o l e as an agent o f c u l t u r a l u n i f o r m i t y , i n t e g r a l t o t h e n a t i o n ' s f u t u r e s o c i a l s t a b i l i t y . Tennyson, on t h e o t h e r hand, t o o k h i s l e a d from t h e p a s t , from t h e d e s i r e o f B r i t i s h r o m a n t i c s t o p r e s e r v e a l l t h a t was b e s t i n t h e s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l v a l u e s o f p r e - c a p i t a l i s t B r i t a i n . F o r L o n g f e l l o w , p o p u l a r p o e t r y t e n d e d t o be v a l i d a t e d as a means o f p r o m o t i n g n a t i o n a l i s t i d e o l o g y , whereas i n E n g l a n d i t came t o be s c o r n e d as t h e f a i l e d p r o d u c t s o f an e r o d i n g e l i t e c u l t u r e u n a b l e t o m a i n t a i n i t s hegemony i n t h e f a c e o f c a p i t a l i s t p r o d u c t i o n and consumer 13 6 demands. P u t more s i m p l y , L o n g f e l l o w was o p t i m i s t i c w h i l e Tennyson was l a r g e l y p e s s i m i s t i c about t h e r o l e o f l i t e r a t u r e i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e m a r k e t p l a c e . A t t h e same t i m e , however, b o t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson w o u l d l i k e l y have a g r e e d i n p r i n c i p l e t h a t t h e a r t i s t ' s m i s s i o n i s t o promote a m o r a l l y and s o c i a l l y r e s p o n s i b l e c i t i z e n r y by u s i n g whatever a e t h e s t i c r e s o u r c e s i n t h e i r power t o e f f e c t t h i s end. Y e t i n p r a c t i c e , Tennyson d i v e r g e s from L o n g f e l l o w a t t h e p r e c i s e moment when t h e p o e t f e e l s t h a t he i s no l o n g e r s p e a k i n g t o h i s a u d i e n c e b u t i s a l l o w i n g i t t o d i c t a t e t o him. P o p u l a r p o e t r y , t h e r e f o r e , must be u n d e r s t o o d n o t s i m p l y by a n a l y s i n g t h e p o p u l a r t e x t s and volumes as above. The r e c e p t o r s o f t h e p o e t r y must a l s o be examined s i n c e p o p u l a r i t y i s g e n e r a t e d as much from t h e consuming p u b l i c as i t i s from t h e commodity i n q u e s t i o n . Through an u n w i t t i n g consumer metaphor, Shannon r e v e a l s v e r y c l e a r l y t h e r e a d e r ' s r o l e i n t h e r e l a t i o n between p r o d u c t and p u r c h a s e : he d e s c r i b e s t h e c r i t i c a l r e a c t i o n t o The P r i n c e s s as t h a t " o f a d i s s a t i s f i e d s h o p p e r — ' I t ' s v e r y n i c e , b u t n o t e x a c t l y what I had i n mind.'" ( 1 1 6 ) . What n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y s h o p p e r s o f p o e t r y d i d have i n mind, however, i s n o t e a s i l y d e t e r m i n e d . I n a b u r g e o n i n g c a p i t a l i s t e c o n o m y — w h e t h e r A m e r i c a o r B r i t a i n - — t h e r e a d i n g p u b l i c can be d e s c r i b e d i n consumer t e r m s . Y e t , t h i s consumer r o l e s h o u l d n o t be l i m i t e d t o a m a t e r i a l i s t i c a n a l y s i s : i n p u r c h a s i n g l i t e r a r y t e x t s , r e a d e r s do n o t s i m p l y a c q u i r e commodities f o r use o r c o n s u m p t i o n as t h e y do o t h e r c o m m e r c i a l p r o d u c t s . Volumes o f p o e t r y a r e much more t h a n a t t r a c t i v e l y d e s i g n e d a r t i f a c t s w i t h i n one's a f f o r d a b l e p r i c e r a n g e ; and, a l t h o u g h m a t e r i a l c o n s i d e r a t i o n s o f t h i s k i n d c e r t a i n l y do i n f l u e n c e t h e p u r c h a s e r , when b u y i n g p o e t r y , r e a d e r s l o o k beyond t h e p h y s i c a l o b j e c t t o an assumed l i t e r a r y e x p e r i e n c e . And t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h r e a d e r s a r e a l l o w e d , by chance o r by t h e p o e t ' s d e s i g n , t o be more p r o d u c e r s t h a n consumers o f p o e t i c e x p e r i e n c e s w i l l h e l p t o d e t e r m i n e t h e d e g r e e t o w h i c h t h e l i t e r a t u r e may be c o n s i d e r e d " s e r i o u s " o r " p o p u l a r , " and t h e p o i n t i t o c c u p i e s on a c u l t u r a l s c a l e r a n g i n g from h i g h t o low. T h i s s c a l e i t s e l f i s n e c e s s a r i l y a s l i d i n g one s i n c e a poem o r volume t h a t i n i t i a l l y demanded " a c t i v e " r e a d e r s h i p may, o v e r t i m e , become so f a m i l i a r i z e d by subsequent a u d i e n c e s t h a t a c t i v e i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s a r e no l o n g e r n e c e s s a r y f o r t h e m a j o r i t y o f t h e s e t e x t s ' r e a d e r s . O b v i o u s l y , one o f t h e most i m p o r t a n t m a t e r i a l i s t i c d e t e r m i n e r s o f s u c c e s s on a mass s c a l e i s f o r p o e t s t o have a t t h e i r d i s p o s a l t h e means o f p r o d u c t i o n t o accommodate a p o t e n t i a l l y mass r e a d e r s h i p . I n The Unembarassed Muse, R u s s e l l Nye o u t l i n e s s e v e r a l improvements i n t h e m e c h a n i z a t i o n o f p r i n t i n g and book m a n u f a c t u r e i n A m e r i c a t h a t , t h r o u g h o u t t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y , e n s u r e d t h e new p o s s i b i l i t y f o r w i d e s p r e a d d i s s e m i n a t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e : improved p a p e r making p r o c e s s e s t h r o u g h o u t t h e c e n t u r y , s t e r e o t y p i n g i n 1811, e l e c t r o t y p i n g i n 1841, c a s t - p l a t e i n 1813, c l o t h b i n d i n g s i n 138 1812, improved b o o k b i n d i n g m a c h i n e r y i n 1823, f o l d i n g and s e w i n g machines i n t h e 1850s, a b a c k i n g machine i n 1870, and a g a t h e r i n g machine i n 1900 (24) . Moreover, he n o t e s t h a t t h e f i r s t r e v o l u t i o n i n cheap p u b l i s h i n g came i n t h e 1840s w i t h t h e use o f newspaper p r e s s e s f o r t h e m a n u f a c t u r e o f books; p r i n t e d on n e w s p r i n t , t h e y were i n i t i a l l y exempt from t a x e s , c h a r g e d l o w e r p o s t a l r a t e s , and d e l i v e r e d t o r e a d e r s ' homes. Even a f t e r t h e P o s t O f f i c e l e v i e d book r a t e s on them i n 1843, t h e l o w - p r i c e d , mass-produced book was an i n s t a n t s u c c e s s t h a t 44 s t u c k ( 2 4 ) . I n S o c i e t y and C u l t u r e i n A m e r i c a , Nye e s t i m a t e s t h a t g r o s s a n n u a l s a l e s o f books were i n 182 0 — $2,500,000, i n 1850—$12,500,000, and by 1860 — $20,000,000; and, because o f d e c r e a s e d p r o d u c t i o n c o s t s , t w e n t y t i m e s more t i t l e s were b e i n g p u b l i s h e d a n n u a l l y i n 1860 t h a n i n 1820 ( 7 6 ) . Nye a l s o r e c o r d s s i m i l a r l y r e m a r k a b l e i n c r e a s e s i n magazines and newspapers, i n e f f e c t more t h a n s i x t i m e s t h e number p u b l i s h e d i n 1860 t h a n i n 1820. By 1860, A m e r i c a was p u b l i s h i n g 575 monthly magazines, 271 w e e k l i e s , and 372 d a i l y newspapers ( 7 6 ) . T h i s a c c e l e r a t e d book, magazine, and newspaper p r o d u c t i o n r e c i p r o c a l l y h e l p e d t o p r o d u c e and s u p p l y A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s ' v o r a c i o u s a p p e t i t e s . I n a d d i t i o n t o t h e t e c h n o l o g i c a l means o f p r o d u c i n g mass q u a n t i t i e s o f l i t e r a t u r e , n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a a l s o had 4 4 The most s u b s t a n t i a l s u c c e s s e s o f t h i s k i n d were t h e dime n o v e l s m a r k e t t e d by B e a d l e and Adams; Nye e s t i m a t e s s a l e s o f 4,000,000 between 1861-66 a l o n e . 139 a r a p i d l y i n c r e a s i n g p o p u l a t i o n , low i l l i t e r a c y r a t e s , and a " r e l a t i v e l y c l a s s l e s s h a b i t o f r e a d i n g " (Nye Unembarassed Muse 23) t o s u p p o r t s u c h p r o d u c t i o n . Between 1790 and 1830, t h e A m e r i c a n p u b l i c d o u b l e d i n s i z e , r e d o u b l i n g a g a i n by 1860 t o a p p r o x i m a t e l y 30 m i l l i o n . J u s t b e f o r e t h e C i v i l War, i l l i t e r a c y l e v e l s among w h i t e a d u l t s r a n g e d from as low as .03 i n t h e N o r t h e a s t t o as h i g h as .19 i n t h e Southwest w i t h a n a t i o n a l a v e r a g e o f .07 i n 1860 and .09 i n 1 8 7 0 . 4 5 S i n c e t h e 1820s, t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s had had a l m o s t u n i v e r s a l , w h i t e male s u f f r a g e w h i c h A r t h u r E k i r c h a r g u e s a i d e d and a b e t t e d t h e c r e a t i o n o f a " p r o p e r m a t e r i a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l s e t t i n g f o r t h e mass r e c e p t i o n o f t h e i d e a o f p r o g r e s s " ( 3 6 ) . I f A m e r i c a were t o p r o s p e r , t h e i d e o l o g y o f p r o g r e s s demanded t h a t i t s c i t i z e n s be d e m o c r a t i c a l l y and u n i f o r m l y e d u c a t e d . Hence, a c o u n t r y t h a t i n 1800 had no p u b l i c s c h o o l s , by 1860 had a s y s t e m o f e l e m e n t a r y and s e c o n d a r y s c h o o l s i n e v e r y s t a t e (Nye S o c i e t y and C u l t u r e 377) . As t h e s e c r e t a r y t o t h e M a s s a c h u s e t t s S t a t e B o a r d o f E d u c a t i o n remarked, he was " c o n v i n c e d t h a t t h e dangers o f an i l l i t e r a t e b u t e n f r a n c h i s e d democracy o u t w e i g h e d t h e t a x a t i o n n e c e s s a r y t o s u p p o r t f r e e s c h o o l s " ( q t d . i n B r a n c h 304). Beyond j u s t s c h o o l s , however, v a r i o u s o t h e r i n s t i t u t i o n s s p r a n g up i n s u p p o r t o f t h e b e l i e f 4 5 These f i g u r e s a r e from Lee S o l t o w and Edward S t e v e n s , The R i s e o f L i t e r a c y and t h e Common S c h o o l i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ( 1 5 5 ) ; t h e r i s e o f 2% between.1860 and 1870 may be due t o t h e d i f f e r e n t q u e s t i o n s asked i n 1870 t o d e t e r m i n e i l l i t e r a c y . 140 t h a t a b r o a d d i s s e m i n a t i o n o f knowledge would g u a r a n t e e s o c i a l s t a b i l i t y : t h e i n t e r d e n o m i n a t i o n a l A m e r i c a n Sunday S c h o o l U n i o n (1824-60); f o l l o w i n g t h e B r i t i s h l e a d , hundreds o f mechanics and workingmen's i n s t i t u t e s ; t h e A m e r i c a n Lyceum A s s o c i a t i o n ( e s t a b l i s h e d i n 1831); s u b s c r i p t i o n l i b r a r i e s ; c i r c u l a t i n g l i b r a r i e s ; and p u b l i c l i b r a r i e s s u c h as t h e B o s t o n P u b l i c L i b r a r y ( e s t a b l i s h e d i n 1848) (Nye S o c i e t y and C u l t u r e 358-66). One o f t h e p e r h a p s u n f o r s e e n r e s u l t s o f t h e p u b l i c ' s d i v e r s e means o f a c c e s s t o l e a r n i n g and t o l i t e r a t u r e was t h a t women were a b l e t o o f f s e t some o f t h e p o t e n t i a l d i s a d v a n t a g e s i n c u r r e d i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y by a " p o l i t e " e d u c a t i o n and by c o n t i n u e d b a r r i e r s a g a i n s t f e m a l e a t t e n d a n c e a t a l l male u n i v e r s i t i e s . The c u l t u r a l p o s i t i o n o f women i n a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a has a l w a y s been a s u b j e c t o f c o n s i d e r a b l e c o n t r o v e r s y . 4 6 T h e i r T w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s t u d i e s o f t h e c u l t u r a l i n f l u e n c e o f women i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a t a k e t h e i r l e a d from Douglas B r a n c h ' s The S e n t i m e n t a l Y e a r s , 1836-1860 (1934) i n w h i c h B r a n c h ' s g e n e r a l d i s d a i n f o r t h e p e r i o d becomes o u t r i g h t s a r c a s m i n " L i t e r a t u r e : The Scene" (97-124) when he d i s c u s s e s t h e i n f l u e n c e o f women, e s p e c i a l l y F e l i c i a Hemans. F r e d L e w i s P a t t e e r e d r e s s e s t h e b a l a n c e somewhat i n The F e m i n i n e F i f t i e s ( 1 9 4 0 ) , e s s e n t i a l l y a d e s c r i p t i v e l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y o f t h e p o p u l a r e f f e c t s o f t h e s u p p o s e d l y s o f t , p o l i s h e d t a s t e s o f women upon t h e consumers and p r o d u c e r s o f m i d - n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y l i t e r a t u r e and c u l t u r e . Though n o t i t s e l f e s p e c i a l l y d i s p a r a g i n g o f t h i s phenomenon, P a t t e e ' s a n a l y s i s g e n e r a t e d s e v e r a l subsequent s t u d i e s : George Boas's "The Romantic Lady" (63-88) and E l i z a b e t h Winslow's "Books f o r t h e Lady Reader, 1820-1860" (89-109) i n R o m a n t i c i s m i n A m e r i c a (1948) ; and c h a p t e r s i n books about p o p u l a r l i t e r a r y t a s t e s u c h as James H a r t ' s "The S p i r i t o f P o e t r y " (125-39) i n The P o p u l a r Book (1950) and C a r l Bode's "The S e n t i m e n t a l Muse" (188-200) i n The Anatomy o f A m e r i c a n P o p u l a r C u l t u r e . 1840-1861 (1959). These s t u d i e s j u x t a p o s e t h e " s i m p l e , homely" v e r s e s o f F e l i c i a Hemans, L y d i a S i g o u r n e y , and o t h e r c o n t r i b u t o r s t o A n n u a l s and 141 p a r t i c u l a r i n f l u e n c e , as w r i t e r s and as r e a d e r s , upon t h e n a t i o n ' s " b e l l e s l e t t r e s " o f t h e 1840s-60s, g e n e r a t e d a range o f c o n t e m p o r a r y r e s p o n s e s from s c o r n t o e u l o g y ( d e p e n d i n g upon t h e s y m p a t h i e s o f t h e o b s e r v o r ) , a range t h a t c o n t i n u e s t o be h e a r d t o d a y . The q u a n t i t y o f r e a c t i o n s and t h e i r p a s s i o n n o n e t h e l e s s s u g g e s t t h a t f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e i n A m e r i c a n h i s t o r y women were a c o g e n t , w i d e s p r e a d f o r c e i n s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l l i f e . C e r t a i n l y many women t h e m s e l v e s f e l t s o , as e v i n c e d i n t h e f o l l o w i n g s e l e c t i o n s from t h e p r o c e e d i n g s o f t h e 18 50 Woman's R i g h t s C o n v e n t i o n h e l d i n Ohio: I t i s t h e women who r e a d . I t i s t h e women who a r e t h e t r i b u n a l o f any q u e s t i o n a s i d e from p o l i t i c s o r b u s i n e s s . I t i s t h e women who g i v e o r w i t h o l d a l i t e r a r y r e p u t a t i o n . I t i s t h e women who c o n t r o l c l e r g y m e n and c h u r c h e s , p a t r o n i z e and i n f l u e n c e t h e A r t s , and e x e r c i s e u l t i m a t e c o n t r o l o v e r t h e P r e s s . G i f t b o o k s w i t h t h o s e o f p o p u l a r p o e t s l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , Tennyson, and W h i t t i e r , w i t h r e g r e t t a b l e consequences f o r t h e e n d u r i n g v a l u e o f t h e l a t t e r . Most i m p o r t a n t i n t h i s sequence, however, i s Ann D o u g l a s ' s The F e m i n i z a t i o n o f A m e r i c a n C u l t u r e (1977) i n w h i c h she i n d i r e c t l y h o l d s women r e s p o n s i b l e f o r t h e i r own " f e m i n i z a t i o n " t h r o u g h s u b m i s s i o n t o t h e s o c i a l c o n s t r u c t o f t h e " f e m i n i n e , " and d i r e c t l y c r i t i c i z e s t h e s e n t i m e n t a l i z a t i o n o f t h i s f e m i n i n e i d e a l ( d o m e s t i c i t y , l o v e , n u r t u r e ) as c a l c u l a t e d n o t t o i n t e r f e r e w i t h m a s c u l i n e g o a l s : economic e x p a n s i o n , u r b a n i z a t i o n and i n d u s t r i a l i z a t i o n ( 1 2 ) . T h e r e f o r e , a l t h o u g h women a r e a l l e g e d t o have s u p e r f i c i a l l y g a i n e d power t h r o u g h t h e i r f e m i n i z i n g i n f l u e n c e upon c u l t u r a l i n s t i t u t i o n s — l i t e r a t u r e , r e l i g i o n , and o t h e r s — m a l e hegemony was t h e r e b y a l l o w e d t o r e a s s e r t i t s e l f i n l a i s s e z - f a i r e i n d u s t r i a l e x p a n s i o n , t o D o u g l a s ' s c o n s i d e r a b l e r e g r e t and even o u t r a g e . The e x t e n t t o w h i c h f e m a l e w r i t e r s and r e a d e r s i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y a f f e c t e d t h e p o p u l a r p o e t r y o f b o t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i s c o n s i d e r e d from a v a r i e t y o f a n g l e s t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y s i n c e t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y a u d i e n c e w h i c h t h e " P e o p l e ' s P o e t " a d d r e s s e d c o u l d , f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e i n h i s t o r y , be s a i d t o c o n s i s t o f women i n numbers l a r g e enough t o have a s i g n i f i c a n t impact on t h e c u l t u r a l p r o d u c t s o f t h e age. . . . . [ I ] n r e l i g i o n , i n t a s t e , i n g e n e r a l e l e v a t i o n o f s e n t i m e n t and i n c o n s i s t e n c y o f s t a n d a r d o f o p i n i o n , t h e women o f A m e r i c a a r e s u p e r i o r t o t h e men. ( q t d . i n P a t t e e 93) How A m e r i c a n women came t o f e e l t h e i r power so s t r o n g l y , i n t h e f a c e o f t h e i r o b v i o u s economic and p o l i t i c a l d i s e n f r a n c h i s e m e n t , i s open t o d e b a t e . One r e a s o n i s t h a t , u n l i k e t h e i r B r i t i s h c o u n t e r p a r t s , t h r o u g h o u t t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n women were n e a r l y as l i t e r a t e as men. Lee S o l t o w ' s and Edward S t e v e n s ' s r e s e a r c h on i l l i t e r a c y , f o r i n s t a n c e , i n d i c a t e s o n l y a minor sex d i f f e r e n t i a l , more o b v i o u s i n t h e South t h a n t h e N o r t h : "The magnitude o f t h e d i f f e r e n c e v a r i e d from an i l l i t e r a c y r a t e o f .09 f o r women i n 1860 compared w i t h .07 f o r men. I n 1870 t h e r a t e s f o r women and men, r e p e c t i v e l y , were .10 and .09. D i f f e r e n c e s were a c c e n t u a t e d i n t h e S o u t h , where t h e i l l i t e r a c y r a t e i n 1860 was .15 f o r women compared w i t h .11 f o r men. I n t h e N o r t h t h e comparable r a t e s were .06 f o r women and .04 f o r men" ( 1 5 6 ) . The r e l a t i v e l y low l e v e l s g e n e r a l l y and t h e c o m p a r a t i v e e q u a l i t y o f men's and women's l i t e r a c y i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s s u g g e s t h i g h e d u c a t i o n a l s t a n d a r d s f o r b o t h s e x e s . 4 7 B a r b a r a Solomon p o i n t s o u t t h a t , d e s p i t e c o n t i n u e d c o n t r o v e r s y o v e r t h e e d u c a t i o n o f g i r l s i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , " c o l o n i a l p r e c e d e n t s d i d e x i s t f o r t h e 4 7 I n h e r h i s t o r y o f h i g h e r e d u c a t i o n f o r women i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , B a r b a r a Solomon n o t e s t h a t t h e 107 women's s c h o o l s o p e r a t i n g between 1830 and 1870 c o v e r e d most o f t h e s u b j e c t s t a u g h t i n j u n i o r and s e n i o r y e a r s a t men's c o l l e g e s ( 2 3 ) . i n s t r u c t i o n o f g i r l s a t t h e e l e m e n t a r y and s e c o n d a r y l e v e l s . " Once p u b l i c academies were c h a r t e r e d i n t h e l a t e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y , a "few a d m i t t e d g i r l s on an e q u a l b a s i s , whereas o t h e r s l e t them use t h e same f a c i l i t i e s a t d i f f e r e n t h o u r s . " By m i d - c e n t u r y , "more t h a n a q u a r t e r o f a m i l l i o n s t u d e n t s were e n r o l l e d i n o v e r 6,000 academies" ( 1 5 ) . Of t h e s e q u a r t e r m i l l i o n s t u d e n t s , a g r e a t many were g i r l s and women s i n c e t h r o u g h o u t t h e f i r s t h a l f o f t h e c e n t u r y an " i n f o r m a l , u n p l a n n e d p r o c e s s [had] e v o l v e d : g i r l s n o t o n l y a t t e n d e d d i s t r i c t s c h o o l s b u t t a u g h t i n them; t h e n some u s e d t h e money t h e y e a r n e d t o a t t e n d academies, where t h e y s t u d i e d and t a u g h t . I n t i m e some opened s c h o o l s o f t h e i r own" ( 1 7 ) . Advances i n t h e e d u c a t i o n o f g i r l s and women were p a r t i c u l a r l y n o t i c e a b l e i n New E n g l a n d . L o n g f e l l o w , f o r example, had a t t e n d e d a c o e d u c a t i o n a l academy i n P o r t l a n d from 1814 t o 1821. As e a r l y as December 1829, L o n g f e l l o w d r a f t e d a p r o s p e c t u s f o r a new f e m a l e h i g h s c h o o l i n P o r t l a n d t h a t came i n t o b e i n g s e v e r a l months l a t e r (see L e t t e r s I 328-9). A c c o r d i n g t o L o n g f e l l o w , by 1849, women were b e g i n n i n g t o a p p e a l t o H a r v a r d f o r a d m i s s i o n t o u n i v e r s i t y a l o n g w i t h men ( L i f e I I 138). D e n i e d a d m i s s i o n a t t h a t t i m e , d u r i n g t h e w i n t e r o f 1852-53, "unknown 'damsels'" as L o n g f e l l o w c a l l e d them, " i l l i c i t l y a t t e n d [ e d ] h i s l e c t u r e s " a t H a r v a r d . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , he does n o t n o t e i n h i s j o u r n a l what measures, i f any, he t o o k a g a i n s t t h e s e women ( L i f e I I 2 3 7 ) . By 1878, when L o n g f e l l o w was asked by Mrs P h e l p s t o c o n s i d e r t h e e f f e c t s o f c o e d u c a t i o n , i t had a l r e a d y become an a c c e p t e d s t a n d a r d i n b o t h p r i v a t e and p u b l i c u n i v e r s i t i e s (Solomon 4 7 ) . As Nye m a i n t a i n s , t h e " s w i f t growth o f t h e huge market o f e d u c a t e d , l i t e r a t e women p r o m i s e d g r e a t r e w a r d s f o r w r i t e r s who c o u l d s a t i s f y i t " ( S o c i e t y 9 8 ) . I n h e r s t u d y N o v e l s , R e a d e r s , and R e v i e w e r s ; Responses t o F i c t i o n i n A n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a , N i n a Baym i d e n t i f i e s s e v e r a l n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y m o n t h l i e s w i t h l a r g e c i r c u l a t i o n s t h a t were t a r g e t t e d e s p e c i a l l y a t women: Godev's Lady's Book, P e t e r s o n ' s Magazine, Graham's Magazine , The L a d i e s ' R e p o s i t o r y , and S a r t a i n ' s U n i o n Magazine . W e e k l i e s s u c h as The Home J o u r n a l and The New Y o r k Ledger a l s o a p p e a l e d t o women ( 1 5 - 1 7 ) . As Baym's s t u d y i n d i c a t e s , women's i n f l u e n c e s as r e a d e r s i n a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a a r e b e s t i l l u s t r a t e d i n t h e i n c r e d i b l e number o f n o v e l s w r i t t e n by women i n t h e p e r i o d , and by t h e s e r i o u s a t t e n t i o n 48 t h e s e works r e c e i v e d i n t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s . I n s h o r t , t h e c o m p o s i t i o n o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n r e a d i n g p u b l i c changed c o n s i d e r a b l y between t h e wars. By 1860, A m e r i c a ' s " c l a s s l e s s " h a b i t o f r e a d i n g (Nye's term) had a l s o c r o s s e d gender b o u n d a r i e s . As L o n g f e l l o w i n t h e 18 2 0s l o o k e d t o w a r d a c a r e e r as an eminent p o e t , he would have t o c o n s i d e r how b e s t t o market h i s p r o d u c t i n r e l a t i o n t o consumers who i n d e e d were r a p i d l y becoming " t h e masses." I n 48 • • H e l s m g e r and h e r c o - w r i t e r s ' c h a p t e r on " ' P o e t e s s e s ' and 'Lady N o v e l i s t s ' " documents t h e t r a n s a t l a n t i c p r o l i f e r a t i o n and a p p e a l o f women's w r i t i n g a t m i d - c e n t u r y ( I I I 26-78). c o n t r a s t , changes t o B r i t a i n ' s r e a d i n g p u b l i c o c c u r r e d much more s l o w l y , f r u s t r a t e d as t h e y were by an a r i s t o c r a t i c i d e o l o g y t h a t c o n t i n u e d t o e x e r t r e s i d u a l c u l t u r a l f o r c e i n a w o r l d e c o n o m i c a l l y d e t e r m i n e d by t h e r i s i n g power o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s . R i c h a r d A l t i c k ' s The E n g l i s h Common Reader, Raymond W i l l i a m s ' s The Long R e v o l u t i o n , and D a v i d V i n c e n t ' s L i t e r a c y and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e , when r e a d t o g e t h e r , p r o v i d e a c o m p r e h e n s i v e o v e r v i e w o f t h e c h a n g i n g shape o f t h e B r i t i s h p u b l i s h i n g i n d u s t r y and t h e V i c t o r i a n r e a d i n g p u b l i c . When Tennyson a p p e a r e d upon t h e scene, t h e E n g l i s h book t r a d e had been d e c l i n i n g f o r t h e f i r s t q u a r t e r o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y because o f t h e e x t r e m e l y h i g h p r i c e s c h a r g e d t o c o v e r c o s t s , a s h o r t a g e o f paper (and paper t a x e s ) , and an a n t i q u a t e d t e c h n o l o g y ( A l t i c k 2 60-62). V a r i o u s schemes f o r cheap books were t r i e d i n t h e e a r l y t h i r t i e s b u t t e c h n o l o g y had y e t t o improve t o meet r e a d e r s ' demands. I n t h e 183 0s, s e v e r a l improvements i n book m a n u f a c t u r e d i d o c c u r t o a l l o w f o r c h e a p e r c o s t s : machine-produced p a p e r , b o a r d s and c l o t h b i n d i n g s , and t h e i n t r o d u c t i o n o f what a r e o x y m o r o n i c a l l y known t o d a y as " p e r f e c t b i n d i n g s , " u s i n g g l u e r a t h e r t h a n s t i t c h i n g t o b i n d t h e g a t h e r i n g s ( 2 7 8 ) . I n g e n e r a l , however, B r i t a i n l a g g e d f a r b e h i n d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s i n terms o f i t s t e c h n o l o g y . F o r example, i t was n o t u n t i l t h e 18 60s t h a t t h e A m e r i c a n h i g h - s p e e d Hoe p r i n t i n g p r e s s used f o r newspapers was used i n E n g l a n d f o r t h e m a n u f a c t u r e o f paper-bound books; and t y p e s e t s f o r books c o n t i n u e d t o be composed by hand u n t i l t h e i n t r o d u c t i o n o f t h e Monotype machine i n t h e e a r l y t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y ( 3 0 6 - 7 ) . I n sum, t e c h n o l o g y i n B r i t a i n f a i l e d t o keep pace w i t h advances i n t h e " t h r e e g r e a t r e q u i s i t e s o f a mass r e a d i n g p u b l i c — l i t e r a c y , l e i s u r e , and a l i t t l e p o c k e t money" ( A l t i c k 3 0 6 ) . T h i s l a p s e meant t h a t u n l e s s a p u b l i s h e r c o u l d r e d u c e c o s t s t h r o u g h o t h e r m e a n s — f o r example, by p i r a t i n g A m e r i c a n t e x t s o r i s s u i n g r e p r i n t s r a t h e r t h a n new e d i t i o n s — r e t a i l p r i c e s would be h i g h e r i n B r i t a i n t h a n i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . The r e q u i s i t e s t h a t A l t i c k i d e n t i f i e s above were a c h i e v e d by t h e masses i n B r i t a i n o n l y by t h e 1890s, and a g a i n nowhere n e a r as r a p i d l y as i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . I n 1801 B r i t a i n had an a p p r o x i m a t e t o t a l p o p u l a t i o n o f 11 m i l l i o n ; by 1901 i t had more t h a n t r i p l e d : t o 37 m i l l i o n ( e x c l u d i n g I r e l a n d ) . Y e t , as A l t i c k a r g u e s , t h e s e a g g r e g a t e f i g u r e s must be s u d i v i d e d t o i d e n t i f y changes t o c l a s s s t r u c t u r e s and t h e o c c u p a t i o n a l and g e o g r a p h i c a l demographics o f B r i t i s h s o c i e t y t o a c h i e v e an adequate p r o f i l e o f V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n ' s r e a d i n g a u d i e n c e . I n b r o a d t e r m s , 75% o f t h e p o p u l a t i o n i n t h e e a r l y 1800s b e l o n g e d t o t h e l o w e r - m i d d l e o r l o w e r c l a s s e s : a r t i s a n s , m e c h a n i c s , s e r v a n t s . But c e r t a i n o c c u p a t i o n a l groups i n c r e a s e d s u b s t a n t i a l l y i n t h e p e r i o d . A c c o r d i n g t o A l t i c k , t h e new mass a u d i e n c e was t o be r e c r u i t e d from t h e i n c r e a s i n g numbers o f s k i l l e d w o r k e r s , s m a l l s h o p k e e p e r s , c l e r k s , and b e t t e r grade o f d o m e s t i c s e r v a n t s . By 1861, t h e d o m e s t i c s e r v a n t p o p u l a t i o n had grown t o more t h a n a m i l l i o n , and p r e s u m a b l y t h e s e w o r k e r s had t h e e d u c a t i o n i f n o t t h e t i m e t o r e a d ( 8 3 ) . Queen V i c t o r i a ' s o b s e r v a t i o n o f h e r own d o m e s t i c s e r v a n t s ' n o t i c e o f L o n g f e l l o w , mentioned above, c o n f i r m s t h e i r p l a c e w i t h i n t h e a u d i e n c e f o r p o p u l a r p o e t r y . The segment o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s p r o p e r t h a t grew most r a p i d l y was t h a t o f p h y s i c i a n s , t e a c h e r s , c i v i l s e r v a n t s , and o t h e r p r o f e s s i o n a l s : from 1851 t o 1881 i t i n c r e a s e d by 80%, from a p o p u l a t i o n o f 357,000 t o 647,000. By 1855, t h e I n d i a n C i v i l S e r v i c e exam i n c l u d e d " E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e " as one o f i t s s u b j e c t s . As one o f t h e i r e x a m i n e r s e x p l a i n e d , c a n d i d a t e s were t o be n o t o n l y f a m i l i a r w i t h h i s t o r i c a l works, b u t w i t h c o n t e m p o r a r y works as w e l l , t h o s e o f " S i r W a l t e r S c o t t and Tennyson" f o r example ( A l t i c k 183-4). Presumably, Tennyson's p o p u l a r a u d i e n c e w o u l d be drawn from t h e s e p r o f e s s i o n a l r a n k s . P o t e n t i a l advances i n s o c i o - e c o n o m i c m o b i l i t y , i n c r e a s e d numbers o f s e m i - e d u c a t e d w o r k e r s , and a b r o a d e n i n g p r o f e s s i o n a l base combined w i t h p o l i t i c a l u n r e s t i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t o produce a s h a r p e n i n g o f c l a s s c o n s c i o u s n e s s and s o c i a l t e n s i o n s . These, i n t u r n , a f f e c t e d t h e o p p o r t u n i t i e s f o r l i t e r a c y and e d u c a t i o n a v a i l a b l e t o t h e l o w e r c l a s s e s . I n h i s s t u d y o f " L i t e r a c y and E d u c a t i o n i n E n g l a n d , " Lawrence Stone c l a i m s t h a t i n " t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , t h e s t a n d a r d o f l i t e r a c y i n E n g l a n d (and France) was n o t m e r e l y low by c o m p a r i s o n w i t h S c o t l a n d and New E n g l a n d , b u t a l s o . . . w i t h P r u s s i a , S w i t z e r l a n d , H o l l a n d , and p a r t s 148 o f t h e A u s t r i a n Empire" (129). A c o n f u s e d , mismanaged e d u c a t i o n system i n t h e f i r s t h a l f o f t h e c e n t u r y d i d l i t t l e t o i n c r e a s e t h e a g g r e g a t e numbers o f l i t e r a t e a d u l t s l e t a l o n e p o t e n t i a l r e a d e r s o f l i t e r a t u r e . I n 1841, i n E n g l a n d and Wales, 67.3% o f a d u l t males were l i t e r a t e ( t h a t i s , t h e y c o u l d s i g n t h e i r names t o a m a r r i a g e r e g i s t e r ) , w h i l e o n l y 51.1% o f a d u l t f e m a l e s were. However, by 1871 t h e f i g u r e f o r males had i n c r e a s e d t o 80.6% w h i l e f o r women i t was 73.2%.; and by 1900, t h e f i g u r e s f o r men and women were n e a r l y e q u a l : 97.2% and 96.8% r e s p e c t i v e l y ( A l t i c k 171). Over t h e f i f t y - n i n e y e a r p e r i o d , men had i n c r e a s e d t h e i r l i t e r a c y l e v e l by a p p r o x i m a t e l y 3 0 p e r c e n t a g e p o i n t s w h i l e t h e r a t e f o r women had r i s e n by n e a r l y 46 p e r c e n t a g e p o i n t s . I n h i s s t u d y o f L i t e r a c y and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e , V i n c e n t b r e a k s t h e s e f i g u r e s down f u r t h e r by g e o g r a p h i c a l l o c a t i o n , o c c u p a t i o n , and age. H i s maps o f E n g l a n d r e v e a l t h a t , d u r i n g t h e f i n a l decades o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , women i n c r e a s i n g l y exceeded men i n t h e s o u t h e r n d i s t r i c t s i n terms o f l e v e l s o f l i t e r a c y (25) . What A l t i c k n o t e s above as a g r o w i n g demand f o r d o m e s t i c s e r v a n t s , s c h o l a r s s u c h as W. B. Stephens and V i n c e n t s u g g e s t had a s u b s t a n t i a l e f f e c t on t h e l i t e r a c y l e v e l s o f g i r l s and women i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y (see V i n c e n t 104). I n c o n t r a s t t o t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , i n c r e a s e s i n t h e l e v e l s o f l i t e r a c y , f o r men o r women, l i k e l y had v e r y l i t t l e t o do w i t h any s t r u c t u r e d e d u c a t i o n s i n c e B r i t a i n d i d n o t have a s t a t e - f u n d e d e l e m e n t a r y s c h o o l system u n t i l t h e passage o f W. 149 E. F o r s t e r ' s N a t i o n a l E d u c a t i o n A c t i n 1870, and even t h e n i t was n o t f u l l y - o p e r a t i o n a l u n t i l t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y . As A l t i c k e x p l a i n s , a d e b a t e i n t h e 1790s between Andrew B e l l (an A n g l i c a n ) and J o s e p h L a n c a s t e r (a Quaker) o v e r t h e p r o p e r e d u c a t i o n o f t h e p o o r gave r i s e t o two d i a m e t r i c a l l y opposed s o c i e t i e s t h a t would c o n t r o l e l e m e n t a r y e d u c a t i o n f o r a l m o s t a hundred y e a r s : "The B r i t i s h and F o r e i g n S c h o o l S o c i e t y " ( d i s s e n t e r s ) and "The N a t i o n a l S o c i e t y f o r P r o m o t i n g t h e E d u c a t i o n o f t h e Poor i n t h e P r i n c i p l e s o f t h e E s t a b l i s h e d Church t h r o u g h o u t E n g l a n d " ( A n g l i c a n s ) ( 1 4 4 - 5 ) . These s o c i e t i e s , i n t h e i r b i d s f o r e d u c a t i o n a l supremacy, t h w a r t e d any p o s s i b l e c o n j o i n i n g o f d e n o m i n a t i o n s , even a t t h e l o c a l l e v e l . C o n s e q u e n t l y , e l e m e n t a r y e d u c a t i o n i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d c o n s i s t e d o f a h a p h a z a r d system o f s c h o o l s t h a t were e i t h e r c h a r i t a b l y funded, p r i v a t e l y owned, o r p h i l a n t h r o p i c a l l y endowed. The m a j o r i t y o f s c h o o l s chose t o employ a cheap, e f f i c i e n t system o f m o n i t o r s r a t h e r t h a n t o h i r e s u f f i c i e n t t e a c h e r s f o r t h e work, and l e a r n i n g was p r i m a r i l y by r o t e . I n A l t i c k ' s v i e w , i t was e x a c t l y t h e k i n d o f e d u c a t i o n t o d i s c o u r a g e any enjoyment o f r e a d i n g (149-50). A l t h o u g h P a r l i a m e n t a p p o i n t e d a Committee o f C o u n c i l t o i n s p e c t s c h o o l s i n 1839, v e r y l i t t l e change o t h e r t h a n i n c r e a s e d government f u n d i n g t o t h e two S o c i e t i e s o c c u r r e d i n t h e e a r l y 184 0s because o f t h e i r d e n o m i n a t i o n a l d e a d l o c k and a p o l i t i c a l m i s t r u s t o v e r t h e s o c i a l v a l u e o f e d u c a t i o n f o r t h e l o w e r c l a s s e s . However, by 1843 P a r l i a m e n t had i n p l a c e 150 i n s p e c t o r s t o examine l e v e l s o f e d u c a t i o n a t t h e S o c i e t i e s ' s c h o o l s and t o make recommendations t o t h e government f o r 49 improvements. A t f i r s t , t h e government r e s p o n d e d p o s i t i v e l y t o t h e a d v i c e o f i n s p e c t o r s s u c h as Matthew A r n o l d , so t h a t t h e 1850s w i t n e s s e d an u n p a r a l l e l e d e x p a n s i o n o f s c h o o l s and t e a c h e r s c o l l e g e s and a much needed e n l a r g e m e n t o f t h e c u r r i c u l u m ; by 1859, government s p e n d i n g i n e d u c a t i o n had r e a c h e d o v e r £800,000 (see T h o l f s e n 2 4 ) . However, s u c h p r o g r e s s was n o t t o l a s t . A l a r m e d by t h e f u n d i n g i n c r e a s e s f o r an e d u c a t i o n t h a t most members o f p a r l i a m e n t f e l t t h e l o w e r c l a s s e s n e i t h e r needed n o r d e s e r v e d , t h e government p a s s e d a R e v i s e d Code i n 1862 t h a t e s s e n t i a l l y i n s t i t u t e d a payment by r e s u l t s p o l i c y . S c h o o l i n s p e c t o r s had now t o c o n f i n e t h e m s e l v e s m e r e l y t o t h e i n s p e c t i o n o f b u i l d i n g s and t h e t e s t i n g o f s t u d e n t s i n r e a d i n g , w r i t i n g , and a r i t h m e t i c . As Matthew A r n o l d p r e d i c t e d i n h i s pamphlet "The Twice R e v i s e d Code," r o t e l e a r n i n g i n c r e a s e d because i t p r o d u c e d t h e e a s i e s t and most f i n a n c i a l l y r e w a r d i n g r e s u l t s (see S m i t h and S u m m e r f i e l d 157-97). 49 The r e p o r t s o f S i r James K a y - S h u t t l e w o r t h (1840s) and Matthew A r n o l d (18 50s) a r e some o f t h e b e s t known documents i n t h e h i s t o r y o f B r i t i s h e d u c a t i o n . B o t h men a r g u e d f o r a d e q u a t e l y f u n d e d t e a c h e r t r a i n i n g c o l l e g e s and g r e a t e r r e m u n e r a t i o n f o r t e a c h e r s t o encourage systems o f e d u c a t i o n l e s s r e l i a n t on r o t e l e a r n i n g . See T r y g v e T h o l f s e n ' s S i r James K a y - S h u t t l e w o r t h on P o p u l a r E d u c a t i o n and P e t e r S m i t h and G e o f f r e y S u m m e r f i e l d ' s Matthew A r n o l d and t h e E d u c a t i o n o f t h e New O r d e r . 151 The o r i g i n a t o r o f t h e R e v i s e d Code, R o b e r t Lowe, e x p r e s s e d an e l i t i s t a t t i t u d e o f c u l t u r a l dominance t h a t had, t h r o u g h o u t t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , t h w a r t e d t h e i n t r o d u c t i o n o f e g a l i t a r i a n e d u c a t i o n : "The l o w e r c l a s s e s ought t o be e d u c a t e d t o d i s c h a r g e t h e d u t i e s c a s t upon them. They s h o u l d a l s o be e d u c a t e d t h a t t h e y may a p p r e c i a t e and d e f e r t o a h i g h e r c u l t i v a t i o n when t h e y meet i t , and t h e h i g h e r c l a s s e s ought t o be e d u c a t e d i n a v e r y d i f f e r e n t manner, i n o r d e r t h a t t h e y may e x h i b i t i t t o t h e l o w e r c l a s s e s t h a t h i g h e r e d u c a t i o n t o w h i c h , i f i t were shown t o them, t h e y would bow down and d e f e r " ( q t d . i n A l t i c k 156-7). However, p o l i t i c a l changes i n t h e 18 60s, e s p e c i a l l y t h e 18 67 Reform B i l l , r e q u i r e d t h a t t h e e d u c a t i o n system be r e s t r u c t u r e d on f a r more d e m o c r a t i c p r i n c i p l e s t h a n p r e v i o u s l y . F o r s t e r ' s N a t i o n a l E d u c a t i o n A c t o f 1870 e s t a b l i s h e d s c h o o l b o a r d s t h r o u g h o u t B r i t a i n t o e n s u r e s t a n d a r d i z a t i o n ; t h e p r o c e s s o f r e f o r m had begun. W h i l e s t a t e - f u n d e d i n s t i t u t i o n s were l o c k e d i n an i d e o l o g i c a l d e b a t e , t h e w o r k i n g - c l a s s segment o f t h e V i c t o r i a n r e a d i n g p u b l i c sought d i v e r s e a l t e r n a t i v e methods o f l e a r n i n g . C h i l d r e n who worked i n f a c t o r i e s c o u l d r e c e i v e i n s t r u c t i o n i n r e a d i n g a t Sunday s c h o o l s o r , a f t e r t h e passage o f The F a c t o r y A c t o f 1833, f o r two h o u r s p e r day by law a t t h e f a c t o r i e s ( A l t i c k 148). A l t h o u g h m i n i m a l and o f t e n c o n d u c t e d under d e p l o r a b l e c o n d i t i o n s , t h i s e a r l y e x p o s u r e t o l e a r n i n g c o u l d v e r y w e l l l e a d t o o t h e r a d u l t forms o f e d u c a t i o n . Through t h e ' c l a s s e s , l e c t u r e s , and l i b r a r i e s o f M e c h a n i c s ' I n s t i t u t e s 152 ( e s t a b l i s h e d i n t h e 182 0s) a d u l t w o r k e r s had a c c e s s t o s c i e n t i f i c k n o w l e d g e . 5 0 However, by m i d - c e n t u r y , t h e o r i g i n a l s c i e n t i f i c p u r p o s e o f t h e s e i n s t i t u t e s had been a l l b u t abandoned. P o p u l a r l e c t u r e s on h i s t o r y , t r a v e l , b i o g r a p h y , m u s i c , and l i t e r a t u r e meant t h a t p e o p l e came t o be e n t e r t a i n e d more t h a n t h e y d i d e n l i g h t e n e d ( A l t i c k 2 0 1 - 2 ) . F i n a l l y , a d u l t w o r k e r s a t t e n d e d e v e n i n g s c h o o l s , p r i v a t e o r p h i l a n t h r o p i c , t o g a i n a r u d i m e n t a r y l e v e l o f r e a d i n g . Y e t , as A l t i c k c o n c l u d e s , t h e r e s u l t s a t t h e s e s c h o o l s were q u e s t i o n a b l e : "Of t h e 12,400 men and women a t t e n d i n g about a hundred s c h o o l s i n 1832, o n l y 3,148 were a c c o u n t e d a b l e t o r e a d as a r e s u l t o f t h e i r s c h o o l i n g " ( 1 4 9 ) . I n t h e end, i t seems t h a t w h a t e v e r e d u c a t i o n t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s d i d r e c e i v e , t h e b u l k o f i t w o u l d have t o be s e l f - s t y l e d . Indeed, V i n c e n t m a i n t a i n s t h a t i t was t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s f a m i l y ' s own d r i v e f o r i n t e l l e c t u a l development t h a t a c t u a l l y was r e s p o n s i b l e f o r improvements i n l i t e r a c y r a t e s i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y ( 5 4 ) . A l t i c k and W i l l i a m s b o t h remark on t h e f a i l u r e o f t h e I n s t i t u t e s t o r e a c h t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s f o r w h i c h t h e y were o r i g i n a l l y d e s i g n e d . By t h e 1840s, t h e y were a t t e n d e d m o s t l y by a r t i s a n s and p r o f e s s i o n a l s who had l e s s b o n e - w e a r y i n g l a b o u r t o engage i n f o r 12 o r 14 h o u r s b e f o r e coming t o a l e c t u r e . A l s o , employers were o f t e n p a t r o n s so t h a t employees became s u s p i c i o u s o f m o t i v e s . L i t t l e o r no " e n t e r t a i n i n g " l i t e r a t u r e s were a l l o w e d , and p o l i t i c a l t o p i c s were g e n e r a l l y f o r b i d d e n . I n s h o r t , a t o o o b v i o u s d i d a c t i c p u r p o s e t o s c h o o l t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s i n a m i d d l e - c l a s s i d e o l o g y o f s c i e n t i f i c m a t e r i a l i s m and s e l f - h e l p p r e v e n t e d t h e M e c h a n i c s I n s t i t u t e s from becoming p o p u l a r w i t h t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s ( A l t i c k 188- 212, W i l l i a m s Long 143-4). 153 More t h a n even t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s , g i r l s and women o f t h e m i d d l e and upper c l a s s e s had t o r e l y on u n s y s t e m a t i c i n s t r u c t i o n f o r t h e i r e d u c a t i o n s . As S a r a Delamont p o i n t s out i n h e r two a r t i c l e s , "The C o n t r a d i c t i o n s i n L a d i e s E d u c a t i o n " (134-63) and "The Domestic I d e o l o g y and Women's E d u c a t i o n " (164-87), e d u c a t i o n f o r g i r l s and women was l a c e d w i t h t e n s i o n s o f c l a s s and gender c o n c e r n i n g t h e r o l e s o f women i n s o c i e t y . I f t h e y c o u l d keep o u t o f t h e f a c t o r i e s , and i f t h e y were a l l o w e d t o a t t e n d s c h o o l , g i r l s from w o r k i n g - c l a s s f a m i l i e s o f t e n r e c e i v e d a b e t t e r b a s i c e d u c a t i o n t h a n t h e i r c o u n t e r p a r t s o f b e t t e r c l a s s e s . Delamont r e v e a l s t h a t t h e c o n t e n t o f w o r k i n g - c l a s s e d u c a t i o n "was h a r d l y d i f f e r e n t i a t e d by s e x w h i l e t h e e d u c a t i o n o f t h e upper, and t h e emerging m i d d l e c l a s s e s was h i g h l y sex s p e c i f i c . . ." ( 1 6 4 ) . Moreover, Stone p o i n t s o u t t h a t i n r u r a l a r e a s , because boys l e f t s c h o o l e a r l i e r t h a n g i r l s t o work as farm l a b o u r e r s ( a t 10 r a t h e r t h a n 14 o r 1 5 ) , " g i r l s were i n some c o u n t r y d i s t r i c t s more l i t e r a t e t h a n boys" ( 1 1 6 - 7 ) . B r i t i s h g i r l s o f t h e u p p e r - m i d d l e and m i d d l e c l a s s e s , i f e d u c a t e d a t a l l , g e n e r a l l y had t o r e l y on g o v e r n e s s e s o r b o a r d i n g s c h o o l s t o i n s t r u c t them i n g e n d e r - s p e c i f i c s u b j e c t s s u c h as f i n e a r t s , m u s i c , and, i n some c a s e s , f o r e i g n l a n g u a g e s . The p u r p o s e , as Delamont d e s c r i b e s i t , was t o c r e a t e a " g e n t e e l y got-up m a r i o n e t t e , " i d e a l l y s u i t e d f o r m a r r i a g e ( 1 3 8 ) . Such abuses were w e l l known by t h e 1840s, y e t r e f o r m o f f e m a l e e d u c a t i o n i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t i a n p r o c e e d e d s l o w l y because i t was hampered 154 by a d o u b l e c o n f o r m i t y : t o t h e " l a d y " as a s o c i a l c o n s t r u c t and t o t h e c l a s s i c a l l y e d u c a t e d gentleman as h e r o n l y a l t e r n a t i v e . D i s p u t e s r a g i n g o v e r t h e v a l u e o f a c l a s s i c s - based e d u c a t i o n f o r young men, i n t u r n , s p i l l e d o v e r i n t o t h e dilemma o f how b e s t women s h o u l d be e d u c a t e d . However, " t h e p l i g h t o f E n g l a n d ' s 25,000 g o v e r n e s s e s " n e c e s s i t a t e d immediate changes a c c o r d i n g t o P h i l i p p a L e v i n e ( 5 0 ) . Two women's c o l l e g e s were founded i n t h e l a t e 1840s i n r e s p o n s e : F. D. M a u r i c e ' s Queen's C o l l e g e (1848) and E l i z a b e t h R e i d ' s B e d f o r d C o l l e g e (1849). A c c o r d i n g t o L e v i n e , b o t h p r o v i d e d a t h o r o u g h , b a s i c e d u c a t i o n ( 5 6 ) . I n t h e c u r r i c u l a o f P r i n c e s s I d a ' s u n i v e r s i t y o f women i n The P r i n c e s s , Tennyson c l e a r l y o u t l i n e s t h e p a r a m e t e r s o f t h e above e d u c a t i o n a l d e b a t e . That he c o u l d c o u n t women among t h e poem's r e a d e r s , however, was i n no way t h e r e s u l t o f any g u a r a n t e e d o r s y s t e m a t i c e d u c a t i o n p r o v i d e d f o r them. S e l f - i n s t r u c t i o n , as Maggie T u l l i v e r i n E l i o t ' s M i l l on t h e F l o s s d i s c o v e r s , would have t o amend t h e d e f e c t s i n a m e r e l y p o l i t e e d u c a t i o n . An e x p e n s i v e book t r a d e and an i n a d e q u a t e e d u c a t i o n system may a c t u a l l y have a s s i s t e d i n t e l l e c t u a l a s p i r a n t s ( i n c l u d i n g women), f o r i t encouraged r e a d e r s t o seek f u l f i l m e n t and r a t i o n a l r e c r e a t i o n t h r o u g h two o t h e r means: t h e p o p u l a r p e r i o d i c a l p r e s s and c i r c u l a t i n g l i b r a r i e s . I n t h i s c a s e , t h e p o p u l a r i n c l u d e s b o t h t h e r a d i c a l "pauper" p r e s s d e v e l o p e d a f t e r i n c r e a s e s t o t h e Stamp d u t i e s i n 1815 and 1819 and t h e " r e s p e c t a b l e " p r e s s . W i l l i a m s m a i n t a i n s t h a t because o f 155 p o l i t i c a l p r e s s u r e s and c e n s o r s h i p , t h e r a d i c a l p r e s s emerged as a p o l i t i c a l f o r c e d i s t i n c t from t h e c o m m e r c i a l i n t e r e s t s o f t h e r e s p e c t a b l e p r e s s ("Long 185-6) . V i n c e n t a l s o a r g u e s t h a t t h e r a d i c a l p r e s s was i n s t r u m e n t a l i n t r a n s f o r m i n g an e s s e n t i a l l y o r a l c u l t u r e i n t o a w r i t t e n one i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y (242) . A l t h o u g h s e e m i n g l y u n c o n n e c t e d t o Tennyson's development as a p o p u l a r p o e t , b o t h o f t h e s e two changes i n t h e c u l t u r a l h a b i t s o f t h e l i t e r a t e w o r k i n g c l a s s meant t h a t t h e p o s s i b i l i t y was t h e r e f o r Tennyson's p o e t r y t o a p p e a l e i t h e r t o p o l i t i c a l r a d i c a l i s m o r s y m p a t h i e s f o r an o r a l t r a d i t i o n i n p o e t r y among w o r k i n g c l a s s r e a d e r s . E v i d e n c e t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y shows t h a t Tennyson managed t o do j u s t t h a t . The r e s p e c t a b l e p r e s s , on t h e o t h e r hand, dominated t h e c u l t u r a l i d e o l o g y o f t h e m i d d l e - c l a s s e s and, t h r o u g h o r g a n i z a t i o n s s u c h as C h a r l e s K n i g h t ' s S o c i e t y f o r t h e D i f f u s i o n o f U s e f u l Knowledge, a l s o worked t o c o n t r o l t h e c u l t u r a l e d u c a t i o n o f t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s . The s u b s t a n t i a l i n c r e a s e s i n t h e number o f p e r i o d i c a l s and i n t h e i r c i r c u l a t i o n f i g u r e s a t t e s t t o t h e r a p i d development o f a m i d d l e t o l o w e r - m i d d l e c l a s s r e a d i n g a u d i e n c e i n t h e f i r s t h a l f o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . I n t h e e a r l y 1800s, q u a r t e r l y r e v i e w s c o u l d e x p e c t a c i r c u l a t i o n o f 5,000 t o 10,000, m o n t h l i e s l e s s t h a n 5,000, w e e k l i e s l e s s t h a n 10,000, and d a i l y newspapers between 2,000 and 5,000 ( A l t i c k 392). By m i d - c e n t u r y , w h i l e t h e f i g u r e s f o r q u a r t e r l y r e v i e w s had 156 r e m a i n e d v i r t u a l l y unchanged, and m o n t h l i e s had i n c r e a s e d o n l y m a r g i n a l l y , a t l e a s t a h a l f - d o z e n w e e k l y newspapers and cheap m i s c e l l a n i e s had a t t a i n e d a c i r c u l a t i o n o f more t h a n 100,000. " I n 1858 t h e s a l e o f t h r e e f i c t i o n p a p e r s , t h e F a m i l y H e r a l d , t h e London J o u r n a l , and C a s s e l l ' s F a m i l y Paper was s a i d t o t o t a l 895,000, and W i l k i e C o l l i n s e s t i m a t e d t h a t t h e a u d i e n c e f o r s u c h p e r i o d i c a l s was a t l e a s t t h r e e m i l l i o n " ( A l t i c k 3 5 7 ) . Moreover, t h e Times i n c r e a s e d i t s d a i l y c i r c u l a t i o n from j u s t under 6,000 i n 1822 t o a p p r o x i m a t e l y 60,000 by 1860, sometimes a t t a i n i n g c i r c u l a t i o n s o f up t o 108,000 ( 3 9 2 - 4 ) . C l e a r l y t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c p r o f i l e o f B r i t a i n ' s r e a d e r s o f t h e p o p u l a r p r e s s had changed m a r k e d l y i n t h e f i r s t h a l f o f t h e c e n t u r y . The r e s p e c t a b l e p r e s s a l s o a t t e m p t e d t o r e a c h t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s i n t h e 183 0s t h r o u g h low p r i c e s , as i n W i l l i a m Chamber's Chamber's J o u r n a l (a 3 h a l f - p e n n y w e e k l y ) , and w i t h e d u c a t i o n a l i n t e n t i o n s , as i n C h a r l e s K n i g h t ' s Penny Magazine. However, as b o t h A l t i c k and W i l l i a m s n o t e , t h e s e magazines l i k e l y were bought by t h e m i d d l e and l o w e r - m i d d l e c l a s s e s who were s t a r v e d f o r a f f o r d a b l e r e a d i n g ; W i l l i a m s f u r t h e r adds t h e y more l i k e l y a p p e a l e d t o h o u s e h o l d s w i t h £200-300 p e r annum, h o u s e h o l d s t h a t would have had d i f f i c u l t y a f f o r d i n g a 7d. t a x e d d a i l y paper (Long 190). I n s h o r t , w h i l e Tennyson's p o t e n t i a l m i d d l e - c l a s s a u d i e n c e was r a p i d l y e x p a n d i n g downward t o i n c l u d e s k i l l e d w o r k e r s and shop k e e p e r s , wages and p r i c e s n o n e t h e l e s s r e s t r i c t e d t h e i r r e a d i n g m a t e r i a l t o o n l y t h e c h e a p e s t o f p e r i o d i c a l s . A f i v e - s h i l l i n g volume o f p o e t r y , 157 f o r t h e s e f a m i l i e s , would have been out o f t h e q u e s t i o n as a n y t h i n g o t h e r t h a n an e x c e p t i o n a l p u r c h a s e . The p o p u l a r p r e s s a l s o r e s p o n d e d t o a new a u d i e n c e o f women. T h e i r a g g r e g a t e i n c r e a s e i n numbers and i m p o r t a n c e as r e a d e r s d u r i n g t h e V i c t o r i a n age can be measured a t a g l a n c e i n t h e c i t a t i o n s l i s t e d i n B a r b a r a Kanner's b i b l i o g r a p h y o f "The Women i n E n g l a n d i n a C e n t u r y o f S o c i a l Change, 1815- 1914" ( B r a n c a S u f f e r 178-81). E i g h t y - e i g h t i n d i v i d u a l l i s t i n g s , from pamphlets and a r t i c l e s t o m u l t i - v o l u m e works, r e f l e c t c o n c e r n f o r women's n a t u r e and t h e i r s o c i a l r o l e s . The r a p i d l y i n c r e a s i n g p o p u l a r i t y o f m i d d l e - c l a s s women's magazines and t h e i r c i r c u l a t i o n f i g u r e s s u g g e s t a s i m i l a r r i s e i n t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f women as r e a d e r s and consumers. C y n t h i a White n o t e s as one example t h a t Samuel Beeton's Englishwoman's D o m e s t i c Magazine ( e s t . 1852), a two-penny m o n t h l y , had w i t h i n two y e a r s r e a c h e d a s a l e o f 25,000 c o p i e s a month t h a t w o u l d i n c r e a s e t o 50,000 by 1860 ( 4 6 ) . Of c o u r s e , women e x e r c i s e d t h e g r e a t e s t i n f l u e n c e as r e a d e r s and w r i t e r s o f n o v e l s . A l t i c k a r g u e s t h a t s i n c e Pamela i n t h e 1740s "women p l a y e d an i m p o r t a n t p a r t i n t h e h i s t o r y o f t h e E n g l i s h r e a d i n g a u d i e n c e " ( 4 5 ) . E l i z a b e t h H e l s i n g e r and h e r c o - w r i t e r s ' e x a m i n a t i o n o f " ' P o e t e s s e s ' and 'Lady N o v e l i s t s ' " a t t e s t s t o t h e w i d e s p r e a d i n f l u e n c e o f women w r i t e r s i n t h e m i d - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y by a n a l y s i n g t h e r e v i e w s t h e i r work r e c e i v e d i n t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s ( I I I 26-78). I n "The Lady N o v e l i s t s " ( W e s t m i n s t e r Review 1852) George Lewes h e r a l d s t h e r i s e o f women's 158 l i t e r a t u r e f o r " i t p r o m i s e s woman's v i e w o f l i f e , woman's e x p e r i e n c e : i n o t h e r words, a new element." He a s s e r t s t h a t "men and women have d i f f e r e n t o r g a n i z a t i o n s , c o n s e q u e n t l y d i f f e r e n t e x p e r i e n c e s . To know l i f e you must have b o t h s i d e s d e p i c t e d " ( q t d . i n H e l s i n g e r I I I 5 6 ) . That Tennyson h i m s e l f a t t e m p t e d t h r o u g h o u t h i s p o e t r y t o d e p i c t " b o t h s i d e s " c o n f i r m s h i s awareness o f women as i n t e g r a l t o h i s r e a d i n g a u d i e n c e . V a r i o u s l i b r a r i e s p r o v i d e d a c o u n t e r t o t h e p r o h i b i t i v e c o s t s o f Tennyson's t e x t s f o r many r e a d e r s . E a r l y l i b r a r i e s f o r t h e w e a l t h y may have c h a r g e d from two t o f i v e g u i n e a s s u b s c r i p t i o n f e e s , b u t by 1830, as A l t i c k n o t e s , i n London and i n p r o v i n c i a l towns, l i b r a r i e s c h a r g i n g r e n t a l f e e s o f a penny a volume were v e r y numerous ( 2 1 7 ) . Book c l u b s and i n f o r m a l o r g a n i z a t i o n s among n e i g h b o u r i n g f a m i l i e s o r c o - w o r k e r s a l s o bought and exchanged books; a c o r r e s p o n d e n t i n t h e M o n t h l y Magazine i n 1821 c l a i m e d t h a t t h e r e were "not l e s s t h a n 6,500 o f t h e s e u s e f u l i n s t i t u t i o n s o f v a r i o u s d e g r e e s . . . [ s e r v i n g ] above 30,000 f a m i l i e s " ( q t d . i n A l t i c k 218-19). P a r i s h l i b r a r i e s and " i t i n e r a t i n g l i b r a r i e s " ( t h a t moved from v i l l a g e t o v i l l a g e ) s e r v e d t h e needs o f v i l l a g e r s . Readers c o n n e c t e d t o a u n i o n o r c l u b might have t h e i r needs met by t h e boxes o f books t h a t c i r c u l a t e d among groups such as t h e U n i o n o f M e c h a n i c s ' I n s t i t u t e s , t h e Sunday S c h o o l U n i o n , t h e Working Men's C l u b and I n s t i t u t e U n i o n , and t h e N a t i o n a l L i b e r a l C l u b ( A l t i c k 2 2 2 ) . C h a r l e s Edward Mudie, however, managed t o t u r n 159 t h e c i r c u l a t i n g l i b r a r y i n t o an e f f i c i e n t b u s i n e s s i n t h e 1850s by c h a r g i n g o n l y one g u i n e a f o r a y e a r ' s s u b s c r i p t i o n and s e t t i n g up b r a n c h l i b r a r i e s i n v a r i o u s p a r t s o f London. H i s volume o f p u r c h a s e s r e f l e c t s t h e s i z e o f h i s c l i e n t e l e : 960,000 new volumes between 1853 and 1862 ( A l t i c k 2 9 6 ) . As e v i d e n c e o f Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y , Amy C r u s e n o t e s t h a t i n t h e 1860s Mudie p u r c h a s e d 2,500 c o p i e s o f Enoch A r d e n , 2,400 o f M a c a u l a y ' s H i s t o r y o f E n g l a n d ( V o l s 3 & 4 ) , and 2,000 o f E l i o t ' s The M i l l on t h e F l o s s (315-16). The l i b r a r y o b v i o u s l y was one way i n w h i c h Tennyson's p o e t r y c o u l d be r e a d i f n o t p u r c h a s e d . 5 1 I n e f f e c t , t h e l a c k o f a s t a n d a r d i z e d e d u c a t i o n a l system i n B r i t a i n and t h e d i v e r s e means by w h i c h e d u c a t o r s and p e o p l e d e s i r o u s o f knowledge s a t i s f i e d t h e i r d e s i r e s c r e a t e d a t r u l y h e t e r o g e n e o u s r e a d i n g p u b l i c i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y . When Tennyson and Moxon chose t o i s s u e a new volume, t h e c l a s s , age, o r gender o f i t s p o t e n t i a l r e a d e r s c l e a r l y c o u l d n o t be d e t e r m i n e d i n advance. What i s c l e a r from t h e a v a i l a b l e s t a t i s t i c s on l i t e r a c y i s t h a t a r e m a r k a b l e i n c r e a s e i n women's l e v e l s o f l i t e r a c y c o i n c i d e d w i t h t h e p e r i o d o f Tennyson's g r e a t e s t p o p u l a r i t y . That t h e r e was a c a u s a l l i n k 5 1 P a r a d o x i c a l l y , t h e c i r c u l a t i n g l i b r a r y may a l s o have c o n t r i b u t e d t o s m a l l e d i t i o n s and i n o r d i n a t e l y h i g h p r i c e s f o r t h e i n d i v i d u a l consumer. They were a ready-made market f o r books t h a t were e a s i l y s u p p l i e d , o f t e n a t a d i s c o u n t , so t h a t n e i t h e r t h e p u b l i s h e r s nor t h e l i b r a r i e s had any need t o r e d u c e r e t a i l p r i c e s (see A l t i c k 295-7). 160 between t h e s e two a c h i e v e m e n t s , however, i s i m p o s s i b l e t o d e t e r m i n e . U l t i m a t e l y , any p r o f i l e o f A m e r i c a n and B r i t i s h r e a d e r s as consumers o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y f a l l s s h o r t o f r e p r e s e n t i n g f u l l y t h e degree t o w h i c h r e a d e r s c o l l e c t i v e l y c o l l a b o r a t e i n c r e a t i n g t h e l i t e r a r y e x p e r i e n c e t h e y a n t i c i p a t e when p u r c h a s i n g a volume o f poems. As consumers o f p h y s i c a l p o e t i c t e x t s , p u r c h a s e r s o f p o e t r y c l e a r l y added, a t l e a s t s t a t i s t i c a l l y , t o t h e r e p u t a t i o n s L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson e n j o y e d as p o p u l a r p o e t s . A t t h e same t i m e , by t h e v e r y e x e r c i s e o f t h e i r a e s t h e t i c t a s t e as r e a d e r s i n p u r c h a s i n g t h e volumes, t h e y s h a r e d i n t h e r e f l e c t e d s t a t u s t h e p o e t s t h e m s e l v e s had a c h i e v e d . I n o t h e r words, t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y c a n n o t be a c c o u n t e d f o r i n i s o l a t i o n from V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y ' s c r e a t i o n and r e c r e a t i o n o f t h e s e p o e t s ' work as c o m m o d i t i e s a v a i l a b l e f o r p u r c h a s e , a c o l l e c t i v e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e s e men as v o i c e s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e n a t i o n s . Two o t h e r a c t i v i t i e s , b o t h i n v o l v i n g t h e p a r t i c i p a t i o n o f r e a d e r s o r a u d i e n c e w i t h i n t h e c o n t e x t o f a c r e a t i v e m i l i e u , enhanced t h e p o s i t i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson as v o i c e s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e n a t i o n s . T h i s c r e a t i v e m i l i e u i s p e o p l e d p r e d o m i n a n t l y by m u s i c i a n s and p a r o d i s t s , t h e s i n c e r e and t h e s u s p e c t b o r r o w e r s o f a v o i c e and o f a p o e t r y so r e c o g n i z a b l y p o p u l a r t h a t i t can be added t o , a l t e r e d , and even mocked w i t h o u t l o s s t o t h e i n t r i n s i c w o r t h o f t h e o r i g i n a l . A l t h o u g h m u s i c sometimes a l i g n e d i t s e l f w i t h p a r o d y i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , as i n t h e comic o p e r a s o f G i l b e r t and S u l l i v a n , g e n e r a l l y s p e a k i n g m u s i c a l r e s p o n s e s t o t h e p o e t r y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n d i c a t e a s i n c e r e r e g i s t e r o f b o t h t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f t h e s e p o e t s a t t h e t i m e and t h e a t t e m p t t o f u r t h e r t h a t p o p u l a r i t y t h r o u g h s e t t i n g t h e i r b e s t - l o v e d v e r s e s t o m u s i c . The l u r e o f t h e p i a n o - f o r t e as a p r i v a t e , d o m e s t i c symbol o f m i d d l e - c l a s s p r o s p e r i t y , and t h e i n c r e a s i n g p u b l i c r e s p e c t f o r s o l o f e m a l e v o i c e s , s u c h as t h a t o f Jenny L i n d , t o g e t h e r c r e a t e d an i d e a l c u l t u r a l e n v i r o n m e n t f o r t h e r e c a s t i n g o f t h e V i c t o r i a n s ' f a v o u r i t e l y r i c s i n t o songs f o r p i a n o accompaniment. 5 2 I n h i s b i b l i o g r a p h y o f M u s i c a l S e t t i n g s o f A m e r i c a n P o e t r y , M i c h a e l H o v l a n d n o t e s 1,223 d i f f e r e n t e n t r i e s f o r L o n g f e l l o w , t h e g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f w h i c h were w r i t t e n i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h r a t h e r t h a n i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y (177-244). Whitman's p o e t r y r a n k s second w i t h 640 e n t r i e s a l t h o u g h t h e m a j o r i t y o f t h e s e were w r i t t e n a f t e r W o r l d War I I . Of L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems p u t t o m u s i c , t h e f i v e most p o p u l a r were t h e s e r e n a d e , " S t a r s o f t h e summer n i g h t , " from The S p a n i s h S t u d e n t ( 8 9 ) , v a r i o u s l y r i c s from Hiawatha ( 5 2 ) , "The Warning" from Poems on S l a v e r y ( 4 1 ) , t h e song "Good N i g h t " from The S p a n i s h S t u d e n t ( 4 1 ) , and 5 2 Charmenz L e n h a r t ' s M u s i c a l I n f l u e n c e on A m e r i c a n P o e t r y p r o v i d e s an i n t r o d u c t i o n t o t h e r i s i n g a e s t h e t i c p o p u l a r i t y o f m u s i c i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a , w h i l e Dave R u s s e l l t r a c e s t h i s development as a s o c i a l phenomenon i n E n g l a n d i n h i s P o p u l a r M u s i c i n E n g l a n d , 1840-1914: A S o c i a l H i s t o r y . 162 "A P s a l m o f L i f e " from V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t ( 4 0 ) . Samuel C o l e r i d g e - T a y l o r p r o d u c e d t h r e e s u c c e s i v e c h o r a l - o r c h e s t r a l p i e c e s a t t h e end o f t h e c e n t u r y : Hiawatha's Wedding F e a s t (1898), Death o f Minnehaha (1899) , and H i a w a t h a ' s D e p a r t u r e (1900) ; and h i s p r o d u c t i o n s i n d i c a t e a d i s s e m i n a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s f o r t y - f i v e y e a r o l d poem i n t o e v e r b r o a d e n i n g c i r c l e s o f A m e r i c a n p o p u l a r e n t e r t a i n m e n t i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h i s c e n t u r y . However, no s o o n e r had L o n g f e l l o w been borrowed f o r mass e n t e r t a i n m e n t p u r p o s e s t h a n p o p u l a r t a s t e i n m u s i c changed t h r o u g h t h e i n t r o d u c t i o n o f f i r s t t h e phonograph and t h e n t h e r a d i o . Of w e l l o v e r a t h o u s a n d songs, p e r h a p s o n l y " I Heard t h e B e l l s on C h r i s t m a s Day" t o d a y r e t a i n s s o m e t h i n g o f i t s o r i g i n a l p l a c e as a f a v o u r i t e . D e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t even Beethoven w r o t e s e t t i n g s f o r t h r e e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems — " T h e B u i l d i n g o f t h e S h i p , " "A Day o f S u n s h i n e " and "To t h e R i v e r C h a r l e s " — t h e "music" o f L o n g f e l l o w i s r a r e l y h e a r d any l o n g e r . S i m i l a r l y , m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s o f Tennyson's p o e t r y a l s o l o s t t h e i r a p p e a l i n t h i s c e n t u r y a l t h o u g h somewhat l a t e r t h a n L o n g f e l l o w ' s . 5 3 B r y a n Gooch and D a v i d T h a t c h e r , i n t h e i r c a t a l o g u e o f t h e M u s i c a l S e t t i n g s o f E a r l y and M i d - V i c t o r i a n L i t e r a t u r e , r e c o r d 437 e n t r i e s f o r Tennyson (509-629). A l t h o u g h Tennyson had f a r fewer poems s e t t o m u s i c t h a n h i s 5 3 A p p a r e n t l y , R i c h a r d S t r a u s s ' s p i a n o accompaniment f o r a r e c i t a l o f Enoch Arden c o n t i n u e s t o a p p e a l t o a u d i e n c e s . I t s r e c e n t p r o d u c t i o n a t t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a a t t e s t s t o i t s l a s t i n g p o p u l a r i t y . A m e r i c a n c o u n t e r p a r t , t h i s does n o t n e c e s s a r i l y mean t h a t , as a p o e t , Tennyson was p r o p o r t i o n a l l y l e s s p o p u l a r t h a n L o n g f e l l o w . Tennyson a c t u a l l y had a much s m a l l e r c o r p u s o f s h o r t l y r i c poems a v a i l a b l e f o r p o t e n t i a l use as songs t h a n L o n g f e l l o w . Hence, f a v o u r i t e Tennyson l y r i c s a r e s e t t o m u s i c more f r e q u e n t l y t h a n L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems, w i t h many o f t h e s e s e t t i n g s o c c u r i n g i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h i s c e n t u r y r a t h e r t h a n i n t h e l a s t : v a r i o u s l y r i c s from I n Memoriam ( 1 0 7 ) , " C r o s s i n g t h e B a r " from Demeter and O t h e r Poems (83) , "Break, B r e a k , B r e a k " from t h e 1842 Poems ( 7 2 ) , v a r i o u s l y r i c s from Maud ( 5 9 ) , and an a s t o u n d i n g 222 s e t t i n g s o f l y r i c s from The P r i n c e s s : w i t h "Sweet and Low" ( 4 9 ) , "Tears I d l e T e a r s " ( 3 8 ) , "The S p l e n d o u r F a l l s on C a s t l e W a l l s " ( 2 8 ) , and "Now S l e e p s t h e C r i m s o n P e t a l " (23) as t h e most p o p u l a r . These f i g u r e s and t h e i r l a t e r d a t e s o f r e l e a s e s u g g e s t t h a t w h i l e fewer Tennyson l y r i c s were s e t t o m u s i c , i n d i v i d u a l Tennyson poems g e n e r a t e d g r e a t e r m u s i c a l i n t e r e s t , and f o r a l o n g e r p e r i o d o f t i m e t h a n t h o s e by L o n g f e l l o w . A c o l l e c t i o n o f Tennyson's p o e t r y e n t i t l e d Songs by L o r d Tennyson was p u b l i s h e d j u s t a f t e r t h e p o e t ' s d e a t h i n 1892, c o n t a i n i n g t w e n t y two o f E m i l y Tennyson's own c o m p o s i t i o n s . O b v i o u s l y , s h e e r numbers o f m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s o f V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y a r e n o t , i n and o f t h e m s e l v e s , u n q u a l i f i e d i n d i c a t o r s o f p o p u l a r i t y . C h r i s t i n a R o s s e t t i had 758 m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s o f h e r poems, and R o b e r t Browning had 680, m o s t " o f t e n composed i n t h i s c e n t u r y , y e t no one would argue t h a t e i t h e r o f t h e s e two V i c t o r i a n p o e t s approached L o n g f e l l o w o r Tennyson i n terms o f p o p u l a r i t y . I n t h e end, one can o n l y s p e c u l a t e on t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s a c t u a l l y h e l p e d promote t h e p o e t r y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson, and t h e r e b y i n c r e a s e s a l e s and o v e r a l l p o p u l a r i t y . The a d d i t i o n o f m u s i c t o p o e t r y r e i n f o r c e s t h e r h y t h m i c and t o n a l f e a t u r e s o f t h e i r p o e t r y . M u s i c a l s e t t i n g s may have p r o l o n g e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n s as l y r i c p o e t s even though b o t h p o e t s by t h e 1850s had t u r n e d t h e i r p r i m a r y a t t e n t i o n s f i r s t t o n a r r a t i v e and l a t e r t o d r a m a t i c p o e t r y . On a more p r a c t i c a l l e v e l , t h e s e t t i n g s l i k e l y added t o t h e a p p e a l o f t h e p o e t r y among t h e many mothers and d a u g h t e r s who p r o v i d e d home e n t e r t a i n m e n t f o r t h e i r f a m i l i e s . The p o p u l a r p o e t was t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o a c u l t u r a l commodity a v a i l a b l e f o r w i d e s p r e a d p u b l i c p u r c h a s e , y e t d e s i g n e d f o r p r i v a t e use w i t h i n t h e home by f e m a l e r e a d e r s and s i n g e r s , t h e r e b y h e l p i n g t o c o l l a p s e d i v i s i o n s between t h e s o - c a l l e d male p u b l i c and f e m a l e p r i v a t e s p h e r e s o f V i c t o r i a n l i f e . 5 4 L o n g f e l l o w a p p a r e n t l y b e l i e v e d t h a t h i s own meters were not s u i t a b l e f o r music (Ghodes A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e 1 0 3 ) ; i f t h e y were n o t , t h e y c e r t a i n l y were s u i t a b l e f o r p a r o d y . Many 5 4 Of c o u r s e , t h e work o f f e m a l e l y r i c p o e t s i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d was a l s o s e t t o music. U n f o r t u n a t e l y , H o v l a n d does n o t m e n t i o n i n h i s b i b l i o g r a p h y t h e most p o p u l a r f e m a l e p o e t i n A m e r i c a , L y d i a S i g o u r n e y . Gooch's and T h a t c h e r ' s r e c e n t c a t a l o g u e o f t h e M u s i c a l S e t t i n g s o f B r i t i s h Romantic L i t e r a t u r e n o t e s 617 e n t r i e s f o r F e l i c i a Hemans, and t h e i r V i c t o r i a n c a t a l o g u e r e c o r d s 339 e n t r i e s f o r E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning. L o n g f e l l o w p a r o d i e s came from B r i t i s h w i t s , p e r h a p s t h e b e s t known b e i n g t h e s m a l l s h i l l i n g volume, Drop o' W a t h e r — a London Legend by H a r r y Wandsworth S h o r t f e l l o w , p u b l i s h e d i n 1856 by none o t h e r t h a n R o u t l e d g e and Company who l i k e l y were h o p i n g t o enhance t h e p i r a t e d p r o f i t s t h e y were a l r e a d y making from t h e o r i g i n a l , Hiawatha (1855). I n t h e 1850s, B a y a r d T a y l o r formed and p u b l i s h e d h i s D i v e r s i o n s o f t h e Echo C l u b ; t a l e n t e d women s u c h as Phoebe Cary mimicked w r i t e r s o f t h e day, i n c l u d i n g L o n g f e l l o w , i n h e r Poems and P a r o d i e s (18 6 6 ) , and L o n g f e l l o w p a r o d y c o n t e s t s were l a u n c h e d by v a r i o u s p o p u l a r magazines such as t h e W o r l d i n 1879 and t h e T r u t h i n 1880. I t i s from what Ghodes r e f e r s t o as an i n i t i a l l y "bad m i s t a k e " t h a t so many o f t h e s e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p a r o d i e s o f L o n g f e l l o w (and Tennyson too) a r e e x t a n t t o d a y . I n 1884, W a l t e r H a m i l t o n had c a l l e d f o r s u b m i s s i o n s t o h i s j o u r n a l , P a r o d i e s o f t h e Works o f E n g l i s h & A m e r i c a n A u t h o r s ; u n f o r t u n a t e l y , he began w i t h Tennyson and L o n g f e l l o w , and t h u s had u l t i m a t e l y t o p u t h i s e n t i r e p l a n on h o l d w h i l e o l d and new p a r o d i e s f l o o d e d i n . By t h e t i m e he was done, he had f i l l e d t h e b e t t e r p a r t o f two volumes. A c c o r d i n g t o H a m i l t o n ' s c o l l e c t i o n , t h e most p o p u l a r L o n g f e l l o w poems f o r p a r o d y i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y i n c l u d e " E x c e l s i o r " ( 4 6 ) , Hiawatha (31) , and "A P s a l m o f L i f e " (24) a l t h o u g h e l s e w h e r e H a m i l t o n avows t h a t " ' E x c e l s i o r ' s e r v e d as a model f o r hundreds o f p a r o d i e s " ( I 8 0 ) . S i n c e o n l y t h o s e poems 166 s u f f i c i e n t l y w e l l - k n o w n t o t h e i r a u d i e n c e s t o be i m m e d i a t e l y r e c o g n i z a b l e as bases f o r p a r o d y can p o s s i b l y be mimicked, t h e q u a n t i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w p a r o d i e s i s f u r t h e r t e s t i m o n y t o h i s p o e t r y ' s w i d e s p r e a d p o p u l a r i t y . Y e t w i t h a l l o f t h i s mocking o f A m e r i c a ' s most famous p o e t , H a m i l t o n m a i n t a i n s t h a t " i t i s d o u b t f u l whether one u n k i n d l y worded, o r s p i t e f u l b u r l e s q u e was e v e r penned about L o n g f e l l o w o r h i s works" ( I 6 5 ) . R a t h e r , t h e p a r o d i e s appear t o be a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y c o n c e r n e d w i t h p e c u l i a r i t i e s o f s t y l e , l a n g u a g e , and i d e a , and n o t d i r e c t e d a t L o n g f e l l o w p e r s o n a l l y o r p r o f e s s i o n a l l y . One m i g h t c o n c l u d e t h a t , s i n c e L o n g f e l l o w ' s v e r s e c o n t a i n s a w e a l t h o f s t y l i s t i c i d i o s y n c r a c i e s f o r p o t e n t i a l r i d i c u l e , p a r o d i s t s had no need t o t u r n t o t h e p o e t f o r f u r t h e r s u b j e c t m a t t e r . S t i l l , L o n g f e l l o w ' s own r e a c t i o n t o p a r o d i e s o f Hiawatha may be c o u n t e d as a barometer o f t h e i r b i t e : e i t h e r he was v e r y t h i c k - s k i n n e d o r t h e y were f a i r l y p a i n l e s s . H i s remark t h a t "Hiawatha p a r o d i e s come i n from a l l q u a r t e r s , — e v e n from C a l i f o r n i a " ( L i f e I I 272) sounds more f a s c i n a t e d t h a n i t does c o n c e r n e d . H a m i l t o n ' s c l a i m t h a t " i m i t a t i o n i s t h e s i n c e r e s t form o f f l a t t e r y " ( I 1) may be t r u e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y and r e p u t a t i o n , b u t Tennyson p a r o d i e s l i k e l y i s s u e d from f a r d i f f e r e n t m o t i v e s . A c c o r d i n g t o H a m i l t o n ' s r e c o r d s , a l m o s t as many n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p a r o d i e s o f Tennyson's poems e x i s t as t h o s e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s ; t h e f a v o u r i t e s i n c l u d e "The May Queen" ( 3 8 ) , "The Charge o f t h e L i g h t B r i g a d e " ( 3 0 ) , "The Brook" ( 2 5 ) , "Break, Break, Break" ( 1 9 ) , and " L o c k s l e y H a l l " ( 1 9 ) . J e l l e Postma's s t u d y o f Tennyson as Seen by h i s P a r o d i s t s a r g u e s c o n v i n c i n g l y t h a t t h e o n l y compliment t h a t Tennyson's i m i t a t o r s e v e r i n t e n d e d t o pay him was t o show t h a t t h e y supposed Tennyson " t o e n j o y a s u f f i c i e n t amount o f p o p u l a r i t y , and t o p o s s e s s some c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s making him e m i n e n t l y f i t t o be [ t h e i r ] v i c t i m " ( 1 3 ) . U n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , Tennyson h i m s e l f — t h e p o e t and t h e man—was o f t e n s u b j e c t t o p u b l i c , p a r o d i c s c o r n e s p e c i a l l y on t h o s e o c c a s i o n s when he a c c e p t e d p o l i t i c a l p a t r o n a g e . A l t h o u g h Tennyson's a c c e p t a n c e o f a c i v i l l i s t p e n s i o n i n 1845 d i d c r e a t e a c r i t i c a l s t i r i n t h e magazines, h i s work was n o t y e t s u f f i c i e n t l y w e l l known t o g e n e r a t e many p a r o d i e s as a r e s u l t . But by 1850, when he became p o e t L a u r e a t e , and c e r t a i n l y l a t e r , i n 1883, when he f i n a l l y a c c e p t e d a Baronecy, Tennyson's supposed w i l l i n g n e s s t o p l a y p o e t i c handmaid t o t h e Queen became t h e s u b j e c t o f many b u r l e s q u e s r e c a s t as s t y l i s t i c p a r o d i e s o f h i s poems, n o t a l l o f them q u i t e so p o l i t e as t h o s e t h a t mock t h e A m e r i c a n p o e t . L o n g f e l l o w (and h i s p o e t r y ) had t h e l u x u r y o f b e l o n g i n g t o a c o u n t r y l e s s dominated by c l a s s t e n s i o n s and l e s s i n c l i n e d t o s e l f - r i d i c u l e t h a n B r i t a i n . The U n i t e d S t a t e s , i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , was f a r t o o l i t e r a l - m i n d e d and f a r t o o c h a r g e d w i t h i t s own s e l f - i m p o r t a n c e t o r i s k s e r i o u s l y u n d e r m i n i n g i t s e l f as a n a t i o n by p a r o d y i n g t h e i d e o l o g y r a t h e r t h a n j u s t t h e s t y l e o f i t s n a t i o n a l p o e t . 168 B r i t a i n , on t h e o t h e r hand, had a l o n g h i s t o r y o f p o l i t i c a l s a t i r e t h a t c o u l d j u s t as e a s i l y be a p p l i e d t o p o e t r y when t h e need a r o s e , p a r t i c u l a r l y i f t h e p o e t i n q u e s t i o n seemed t o be h y p o c r i t i c a l l y a c c e p t i n g a s t a t i o n i n l i f e c o n t r a r y t o t h e e g a l i t a r i a n s e n t i m e n t s e x p r e s s e d e l s e w h e r e i n h i s p o e t r y . P a r o d i e s o f Tennyson t h u s f r e q u e n t l y b e l i t t l e d t h e a t t i t u d e s and p o s t u r e s assumed by Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n s p e a k e r s so as t o expose an a l l e g e d i n s i n c e r i t y a t t h e c o r e o f t h e L a u r e a t e ' s s o c i a l s t r u g g l e between doubt and f a i t h . Y e t d e s p i t e t h e i r p o t e n t i a l l y damaging e f f e c t s , p a r o d i e s o f Tennyson l i k e l y added t o r a t h e r t h a n d e t r a c t e d from h i s o v e r a l l p o p u l a r i t y . I n "Tennyson i n P a r o d y and J e s t , " George 0. M a r s h a l l c o n t e n d s t h a t even a p a r o d y d e v a s t a t i n g l y c r i t i c a l o f i t s o r i g i n a l i s n o n e t h e l e s s "a compliment t o i t , o r t o t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e a u t h o r , f o r one does n o t p a r o d y t h e unknown" ( 6 ) , and f u r t h e r adds t h a t he can t h i n k o f no Tennyson p a r o d y t h a t has d e s t r o y e d s e r i o u s a p p r e c i a t i o n o f i t s o r i g i n a l ( 7 ) . However, M a r s h a l l l a t e r r e v e a l s t h a t , a t t h e o u t s e t , c e r t a i n k i n d s o f poems s h o u l d be e x c u s e d from s e r i o u s a p p r e c i a t i o n i n any c a s e and a r e t h e r e f o r e q u i t e j u s t i f i a b l y l a u g h e d a t : Tennyson's " m i l k - s o p " p o e t r y s u c h as t h a t f o u n d i n "The May Queen," and a l l o t h e r works dominated by h i s " p r e d i l e c t i o n f o r t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l " ( 8 - 9 ) . Y e t t h e r e i s no r e a s o n t o t h i n k t h a t p a r o d i e s o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l s any more t h a n t h o s e o f o t h e r Tennyson g e n r e s would have damaged t h e L a u r e a t e ' s p o e t i c p r e s t i g e . Even " m i l k - s o p " p a r o d i e s would enhance a w r i t e r ' s c u r r e n t c r i t i c a l a c c l a i m by d r a w i n g a t t e n t i o n t o t h e p u b l i c r e c o g n i t i o n o f t h e o r i g i n a l . And, as t h e above d i s c u s s i o n o f s a l e s c o n c l u d e s , Tennyson's d o m e s t i c n a r r a t i v e poems f u r t h e r e d r a t h e r t h a n h i n d e r e d h i s g r o w i n g r e p u t a t i o n . R a t h e r t h a n encourage p a s s i v e c o n s u m p t i o n o f p o p u l a r t e x t s , b o t h m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s and p a r o d i e s a c t u a l l y demand a w i d e s p r e a d y e t a c t i v e a u d i e n c e f o r t h e i r o r i g i n a l s i n o r d e r t o be s u c c e s s f u l t h e m s e l v e s . I n t h i s s e n s e , t h e s e a r t i s t i c forms c r e a t i v e l y r e c r e a t e t h e v o i c e s o f p o p u l a r p o e t s by e c h o i n g i n new ways t h e p u b l i c s e n t i m e n t s t o w a r d them. These c r e a t i v e forms t h u s work s y m b i o t i c a l l y as two d i f f e r e n t modes o f r e c e p t i o n t o p o p u l a r t e x t s t h a t a c t i v e l y a t t e m p t t o i n t e r p r e t , t r a n s f o r m , and r e t r a n s m i t o r i g i n a l works. C o n t r a r y t o t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y o p i n i o n s about p o p u l a r p o e t r y i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d , such p o e t r y a c t u a l l y encouraged a c t i v e i n v o l v e m e n t on t h e p a r t o f i t s r e a d e r s . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y t h e o r e t i c a l b i a s t h a t u s u a l l y d e f i n e s r e a d e r " a c t i v i t y " s t r i c t l y , as i n t e l l e c t u a l s c r u t i n y r e n d e r s a c t i v i t i e s s u c h as m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s o r p a r o d i e s n e g l i g i b l e r e g i s t e r s o f contemporary i n t e r p r e t a t i o n . I n s t e a d , c r i t i c a l r e v i e w s c o n t a i n e d i n j o u r n a l s , magazines, and newspapers a r e a l o n e t h o u g h t t o i l l u s t r a t e contemporary p u b l i c o p i n i o n . T h i s p r i v i l e g i n g o f r e v i e w s has l e d t o a d i s t o r t e d p i c t u r e o f t h e c u r r e n c y o f p o p u l a r p o e t s i n p a r t i c u l a r s i n c e one o f t h e p r i m a r y f e a t u r e s o f any r e v i e w i s t o c o n t r o l f u t u r e o p i n i o n r a t h e r t h a n r e s p o n d f u l l y t o t h e p r e s e n t c u l t u r a l s t a t u s o f 170 p o e t s o r t e x t s i n q u e s t i o n . Nowhere i s t h i s more e v i d e n t t h a n i n t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d . N i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e v i e w e r s promoted t h e p r o p e r p o e t i c p e r s o n a as much as t h e p o e t r y i n o r d e r t o g e n e r a t e consumer a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h e c o n n e c t i o n between t h e most r e c e n t volume o f p o e t r y , and t h e s o c i a l s t a t u s c o n f e r r e d by i t s p u r c h a s e . As C h a r v a t o u t l i n e s i n h i s s t u d y o f The O r i g i n s o f A m e r i c a n C r i t i c a l Thought 1810-1825. i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , r e l i g i o n and l a w — t h e most common p r o f e s s i o n s o f A m e r i c a ' s f o r t y most i m p o r t a n t c r i t i c s — c o n v e r g e d t o c r e a t e a s p e c i e s o f p r o f e s s i o n a l c r i t i c i s m whose b a s i c p r i n c i p l e s summarized below, dominated c r i t i c a l p r a c t i c e u n t i l t h e C i v i l War: 1. The c r i t i c was t o be " t h e watchdog o f s o c i e t y " ( 8 - 9 ) . 2. L i t e r a t u r e must n o t condone r e b e l l i o n o f any k i n d a g a i n s t t h e e x i s t i n g s o c i a l and economic o r d e r ( 9 - 1 3 ) . 3. L i t e r a t u r e must n o t c r e a t e a n y t h i n g d e r o g a t o r y , i m p l i c i t l y o r e x p l i c i t y , t o r e l i g i o u s i d e a l s and m o r a l s t a n d a r d s ( 1 3 - 1 7 ) . 4. L i t e r a t u r e s h o u l d be o p t i m i s t i c : i t s h o u l d n o t condone p h i l o s o p h i c a l p e s s i m i s m o r s k e p t i c i s m ( 1 7 - 2 1 ) . 5. L i t e r a t u r e s h o u l d d e a l w i t h t h e i n t e l l i g i b l e , n o t t h e m y s t i c a l o r o b s c u r e ( 2 1 - 3 ) . 6. L i t e r a t u r e s h o u l d be s o c i a l i n p o i n t o f v i e w , n o t e g o c e n t r i c ( 2 3 - 6 ) . Stemming as t h e y d i d from t h e c r i t i c s ' own e d u c a t i o n a l and o c c u p a t i o n a l t r a i n i n g , t h e i r j u d i c i a l , m o r a l , and p a t e r n a l i s t i c a t t i t u d e s n o t o n l y a f f e c t e d t h e n a t u r e o f p o e t r y w r i t t e n i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , b u t d e t e r m i n e d 171 r e a d e r s ' c o n c e p t i o n s o f t h e m s e l v e s — i n r e l a t i o n t o b o t h c r i t i c i s m and l i t e r a t u r e — a s c h i l d r e n o r p u p i l s who r e q u i r e d m o r a l and s o c i a l g u i d a n c e . A l t h o u g h t h e Young A m e r i c a movement was t o c h a l l e n g e t h e p r o f e s s i o n a l e l i t i s m o f t h i s e s s e n t i a l l y New E n g l a n d l i t e r a t i , and t o encourage a d e m o c r a t i z a t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e i n t h e 1830s and 40s, t h e g r i d l o c k o f m o r a l c o n s e r v a t i v i s m t h a t New E n g l a n d ' s c r i t i c s m a i n t a i n e d o v e r t h e r e c e p t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e t h r o u g h o u t t h e r e s t o f t h e c o u n t r y e n s u r e d t h a t whatever p o p u l a r s u c c e s s a p o e t s u c h as L o n g f e l l o w might a c h i e v e would come o n l y t h r o u g h h i s c a r e f u l o b s e r v a n c e o f s o c i a l v a l u e s e n d o r s e d by A m e r i c a ' s p r o f e s s i o n a l c l a s s e s . Because c r i t i c s used e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y S c o t t i s h r h e t o r i c i a n s t o promote, i n t h e o r y , t h e a e s t h e t i c means by w h i c h l i t e r a t u r e , i n p r a c t i c e , s h o u l d a p p e a l t o t h e masses and, more i m p o r t a n t l y , t o t h e i r g r o w i n g sense o f n a t i o n a l i s m , a n t e b e l l u m p o e t r y was i n e v i t a b l y drawn i n t o d i s c u s s i o n s about " t a s t e " and t h e p o t e n t i a l f o r a u n i v e r s a l m o r a l i t y (see C h a r v a t 27-58). Thus Wordsworth came t o be f a v o u r e d as t h e c r i t i c s ' Romantic p o e t , d e s p i t e Byron's e a r l y p o p u l a r a p p e a l , s i n c e he a l l e g e d l y w r o t e o f "common l i f e " i n t h e " r e a l language o f men" and c o u l d t h e r e b y a p p e a l t o A m e r i c a ' s g r o w i n g d e m o c r a t i c s y m p a t h i e s w i t h l i t t l e o r no l o s s t o t h e d i d a c t i c p o t e n c y o f v e r s e . A c c o r d i n g t o C h a r v a t , t h e s h i f t from s t a t i c , e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r u l e s o f decorum t o W o r d s w o r t h i a n r o m a n t i c i s m , a l s o meant "a r e a d j u s t m e n t between t h e a r t i s t and 172 h i s a u d i e n c e , a w i l l i n g n e s s t o see t h i n g s t h r o u g h t h e eyes o f p o e t s who no l o n g e r w o u l d see o n l y what t h e y were supposed t o s e e " (92) . N e v e r t h e l e s s , t h e e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y d o c t r i n e o f a s s o c i a t i o n c o n t i n u e d t o e x e r t r e s i d u a l p r e s s u r e t o r e s t r i c t i n d i v i d u a l i s m and e n s u r e t h a t , u n t i l t h e C i v i l War, p o e t r y w o u l d a t t e m p t t o e x a c t o n l y u n i v e r s a l s e n t i m e n t s from i t s r e a d e r s . E i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y i d e a l s a l s o i n f l u e n c e d s t y l e s o f p o e t r y s i n c e r h e t o r i c and o r a t o r y t o o k s u c h a p r o m i n e n t p l a c e i n t h e A m e r i c a n s c h o o l system. As t h e e d i t o r f o r t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e remarked i n 1826, t h e " a r t o f p u b l i c a d d r e s s . . . o c c u p i e s a d i s t i n g u i s h e d p l a c e among t h e d e p a r t m e n t s o f our l i t e r a t u r e , and c o n t r i b u t e s g r e a t l y t o form t h e t a s t e , g u i d e t h e o p i n i o n s , and i n c r e a s e t h e i n f o r m a t i o n o f our p e o p l e " ( q t d . i n Nye S o c i e t y 136). Of n e c e s s i t y , L o n g f e l l o w would have t o d e v e l o p h i s p o e t i c v o i c e w i t h i n and a g a i n s t t h e c o n f i n e s o f e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a e s t h e t i c s as d i c t a t e d t o him from v a r i o u s e d u c a t i o n a l , p e r i o d i c a l , and l i t e r a r y s o u r c e s . I n a s i m i l a r way, i n f l u e n t i a l f a m i l y members and f r i e n d s had t h e f i n a l say i n h e l p i n g t o f a s h i o n t h e p o e t — t h r o u g h r e m i n i s c e n c e s , memoirs, b i o g r a p h i e s , and t h e l i k e — i n t o a commodity f o r p u r c h a s e e q u a l t o i f n o t g r e a t e r t h a n t h e p o e t r y i t s e l f . L o n g f e l l o w ' s b r o t h e r Samuel's L i f e o f Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w (1886) i m m o r t a l i z e d L o n g f e l l o w as a p o e t o f immense p i e t y and openness, one whom a l l r e a d e r s c o u l d l o v i n g l y 173 embrace as a f a m i l i a r f r i e n d . 5 5 A n n i e F i e l d s ' s A u t h o r s and F r i e n d s (1897) d i d t h e same. T r y o n a l l e g e s t h a t F i e l d s r e l i e d h e a v i l y upon h i s w i f e , A n n i e , t o j u d g e t h e w o r t h o f p r o p o s e d m a n u s c r i p t s f o r p u b l i c a t i o n by h i s f i r m . " I t was t h e woman's p o i n t o f v i e w , he s a i d , w h i c h he f o u n d o f v a l u e . I t was n o t l o n g b e f o r e w r i t e r s d i s c o v e r e d t h i s power b e h i n d t h e t h r o n e and t h e r e were f r e q u e n t a p p e a l s t o h e r t o s e c u r e a f a v o r a b l e o p i n i o n on a m a n u s c r i p t . . . " ( P a r n a s s u s 272). A l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w had n e v e r t o c o n c e r n h i m s e l f w i t h A n n i e ' s h i g h o p i n i o n o f him and h i s work, as A n n i e ' s own A u t h o r s and F r i e n d s more t h a n c o n f i r m s , h e r i m p r e s s i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w p r o v i d e a g l i m p s e o f t h e c r i t e r i a by w h i c h p o e t s came t o be w o r t h y t o s t a n d b e s i d e L o n g f e l l o w by s h a r i n g h i s p u b l i s h e r . She f e l t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w had been c h a r g e d w i t h " t h e energy o f a s o u l l o o k i n g f o r l a r g e r e x p a n s i o n ; a s p i r i t t r u e t o i t s e l f and i t s own p r o m p t i n g , f i n d i n g i t s way by l a b o r and l o v e t o t h e f r e e use and development o f t h e power w i t h i n him" ( 4 - 5 ) . O b v i o u s l y w a n t i n g , i n 1897, t o c o u n t e r a g r o w i n g r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t L o n g f e l l o w t h a t d e f i n e d him as o v e r l y s c h o l a r l y , d i d a c t i c , and i m i t a t i v e , i n h e r f o c u s upon t h e p o e t ' s s o u l and s p i r i t , A n n i e i n d i r e c t l y r e v e a l s t h e v a l u e o f A m e r i c a n V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y t o be t h a t o f a s e c u l a r i z e d r e l i g i o n o f d o m e s t i c i t y w i t h L o n g f e l l o w as i t s c h i e f m i n i s t e r . Hence, t h e e x e m p l a r y f e a t u r e s o f t h e man i n c l u d e : t h e " s e n s i t i v e n e s s o f 5 5 Samuel L o n g f e l l o w ' s L i f e o f h i s b r o t h e r i s a n a l y s e d i n c h a p t e r two. 174 h i s n a t u r e " ( 7 ) ; " t h e eager a c t i v i t y o f h i s mind" ( 1 0 ) ; h i s " s i n g l e n e s s o f aim and s t r e n g t h o f c h a r a c t e r " ( 1 5 ) ; an " e s p e c i a l l o v e o f home and a l l d o m e s t i c i t i e s " ( 1 9 ) ; and t h e " t e n d e r n e s s , sweetness, and c a l m " w i t h w h i c h he f i l l e d h i s own home (2 6 ) . A n n i e s t r e n g t h e n s t h i s d o m e s t i c v i e w o f t h e A m e r i c a n b a r d by q u o t i n g from one o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s many a d m i r e r s and a c q u a i n t a n c e s , W i l l i a m W i n t e r : L o n g f e l l o w " a r o u s e d [a] mixed f e e l i n g o f m i n g l e d t e n d e r n e s s and r e v e r e n c e " f o r s e v e r a l r e a s o n s , n o t t h e l e a s t o f w h i c h were h i s " d i g n i t y and g r a c e , " t h e " b e a u t i f u l r e f i n e m e n t o f h i s c o u n t e n a n c e , " and h i s v o i c e w h i c h "was s o f t , sweet, and m u s i c a l , and l i k e h i s f a c e , . . . had t h e i n n a t e charm o f t r a n q u i l i t y " ( q t d . 2 8 ) . To most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s o f L o n g f e l l o w , t h e above p o r t r a i t c a r r i e s few s u r p r i s e s . What i t r e v e a l s , however, i s t h e p r o f o u n d way i n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w t h e man became i n e x t r i c a b l y t i e d t o L o n g f e l l o w t h e p o e t i n l a t e - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y o p i n i o n . I t i s as i f by t h e end o f t h e c e n t u r y t h e f i g u r e o f L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f had s u r p a s s e d h i s p o e t r y as t h e p r i m a r y commodity f o r p u b l i c p u r c h a s e by A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e s as t h e y became more and more i n t r i g u e d by t h e p r i v a t e v i e w s and s e n t i m e n t s o f t h i s a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y p u b l i c p o e t . R e v i e w e r s and i n f l u e n t i a l f a m i l y members and f r i e n d s a l s o e x e r t e d c o n s i d e r a b l e i n f l u e n c e i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n . I n V i c t o r i a n S c r u t i n i e s : Reviews o f P o e t r y , 1830-1870, I s o b e l A r m s t r o n g o u t l i n e s t h e f e a t u r e s o f c r i t i c i s m s h a r e d by t h e 175 m a j o r i t y o f V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d ' s j o u r n a l i s t s and r e v i e w e r s . Her r e s u l t s a r e s i m i l a r t o t h o s e l i s t e d by C h a r v a t above. I n a b b r e v i a t e d form, h e r summary i s as f o l l o w s : 1. t h e r e f u s a l t o r e g a r d poems as s e l f - c o n t a i n e d e n t i t i e s , s e a l e d o f f from m o r a l c o n t e x t s and s o c i a l i s s u e s ; 2. t h e absence o f a s p e c i a l i z e d o r t e c h n i c a l c r i t i c a l v o c a b u l a r y c a p a b l e o f a r t i c u l a t i n g t h e f o r m a l and a e s t h e t i c q u a l i t i e s o f a poem; 3. a p e r c e p t i o n o f p o e t r y as p r a g m a t i c : a l l u s i o n s t o human, s o c i a l , and h i s t o r i c a l i s s u e s , t o t h e r e a d e r ' s i d e n t i f i c a t i o n w i t h and r e s p o n s e t o t h e p o e t i c s u b j e c t - m a t t e r , and t h e c h a r a c t e r s and emotions i n a poem; 4. a r e q u i r e m e n t t h a t p o e t r y be p r o d u c t i v e o f sympathy: a m o r a l f a c u l t y s h a r e d among p o e t s and r e a d e r s e n a b l i n g p e o p l e t h r o u g h e m o t i o n a l t r a n s f e r e n c e t o u n d e r s t a n d t h e s i t u a t i o n s and f e e l i n g s o f o t h e r p e r s o n s . 5. d i s d a i n f o r o b v i o u s d i d a c t i c i s m : p o e t r y s h o u l d s u g g e s t r a t h e r t h a n impose i t s e l f on t h e r e a d e r ; 6. t h e terms o f d i s c u s s i o n i n c l u d e d f i t s u b j e c t s f o r p o e t r y and t h e f u n c t i o n i t h e l d f o r t h e r e a d e r . (4-14) C l e a r l y , A r m s t r o n g ' s r e s e a r c h i n d i c a t e s t h a t t h e V i c t o r i a n c r i t i c a l m i l i e u i n w h i c h Tennyson was t o make h i s mark was d i a m e t r i c a l l y opposed t o t h e p r i n c i p l e s o f p o e t r y l a t e r espoused by t h e New C r i t i c i s m , and opposed a l s o t o t h e t e n e t s o f R o m a n t i c i s m upon w h i c h c r i t i c s such as I..A. R i c h a r d s d e r i v e d t h e i r m o d e r n i s t t h e o r i e s . 5 6 As A r m s t r o n g c l a i m s o f V i c t o r i a n c r i t i c i s m , " i t i s a l m o s t as i f C o l e r i d g e had n e v e r 5 6 One o f t h e most r e c e n t a r t i c l e s t h a t l i n k s R i c h a r d s ' s p r a c t i c a l c r i t i c i s m t o R o m a n t i c i s m i s Ann E. B e r t h o f f ' s " C o l e r i d g e , I.A. R i c h a r d s , and t h e I m a g i n a t i o n " i n a c o l l e c t i o n o f e s s a y s e n t i t l e d The E d u c a t i o n a l Legacy o f R o m a n t i c i s m . 176 been" ( 1 4 ) . A r m s t r o n g echoes Shannon's Tennyson and t h e R e v i e w e r s i n w h i c h t h e r e v i e w s o f Poems (1842) "had b r o u g h t o u t f i v e p o i n t s c o n c e r n i n g p o e t r y i n g e n e r a l o r Tennyson i n p a r t i c u l a r " : 1. modern p o e t r y must i d e a l i z e and m i r r o r c o n t e m p o r a r y l i f e and t h o u g h t ; 2. t h e h i g h e s t t y p e o f p o e t r y must be c o n c e r n e d w i t h human e x i s t e n c e ; 3. t h e p o e t ' s p r i m a r y d u t y i s t o t e a c h ; 4. Tennyson's p o e t r y must d i s p l a y more human sympathy; 5. Tennyson, i f he i s t o e s t a b l i s h h i s c l a i m t o g r e a t n e s s , must w r i t e a l o n g p o e m — a s u s t a i n e d work on a s i n g l e theme. (Shannon 92) U n l i k e r e v i e w e r s i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , r e v i e w e r s i n B r i t a i n were f a r more s o c i a l l y and p o l i t i c a l l y h e t e r o g e n e o u s . As i n d i c a t e d above i n Tennyson's r e a c t i o n s t o h i s r e v i e w e r s ( a l s o d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r f o u r ) , j o u r n a l s o f t e n s t r e n g h t e n e d c l a s s and p o l i t i c a l a l l e g i a n c e s by u s i n g a p o e t ' s most r e c e n t volume as f o d d e r i n t h e i r i n t e r n e c i n e wars. As a consequence, recommendations t o " t e a c h " o r t o " d i s p l a y human sympathy" would mean d i f f e r e n t t h i n g s t o d i f f e r e n t r e v i e w e r s . Tennyson c o u l d r e l y f a r l e s s t h a n L o n g f e l l o w on any i d e o l o g i c a l harmony among h i s a u d i e n c e o f c r i t i c s . I r o n i c a l l y , however, Tennyson d i d manage t o a p p e a l t o some i n t r i n s i c , homogeneous, i d e o l o g i c a l a s s u m p t i o n s o f h i s d i v e r s e r e a d e r s . The n a r r a t o r ' s r e s p o n s e t o E v e r a r d H a l l ' s r e a d i n g o f t h e "Morte D ' A r t h u r " m i g h t 'well s u f f i c e as a d e s c r i p t i o n o f how Tennyson's p o e t r y t o u c h e d t h e h e a r t s o f r e a d e r s as 177 s o c i a l l y and c u l t u r a l l y d i s t i n c t as Samuel Bamford was from Queen V i c t o r i a , as an o l d , uneducated v i l l a g e woman was from R o b e r t Browning: " i t was t h e t o n e w i t h w h i c h he r e a d — / P e r h a p s some modern t o u c h e s h e r e and t h e r e / Redeemed i t from t h e c h a r g e o f n o t h i n g n e s s — / Or e l s e we l o v e d t h e man, and p r i z e d h i s work; / I know n o t " (276-80). Once r e v i e w e r s p u t a s i d e t h e i r p o l i t i c a l s t r i f e , and h e a r d c l e a r l y t h e t o n e o f Tennyson's p e o p l e ' s v o i c e , t h e y t o o came under h i s s p e l l . W i t h o u t q u e s t i o n , V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n l o v e d Tennyson t h e man as much as t h e y l o v e d h i s work. I n h i s l i f e o f C a r l y l e , James Froude remarked o f t h e p e r i o d 1842-1850 t h a t p e o p l e were " d e t e r m i n e d t o have done w i t h i n s i n c e r i t y , t o f i n d ground under t h e i r f e e t , t o l e t t h e u n c e r t a i n r e m a i n u n c e r t a i n , b u t t o l e a r n how much and what we h o n e s t l y r e g a r d as t r u e , and t o b e l i e v e t h a t and l i v e by i t . Tennyson became t h e v o i c e o f t h i s f e e l i n g i n p o e t r y , C a r l y l e i n what was c a l l e d p r o s e . . . . We r e a d [Tennyson's poems], and t h e y became p a r t o f our minds, t h e e x p r e s s i o n i n e x q u i s i t e l a n g u a g e , o f t h e f e e l i n g s w h i c h were w o r k i n g i n o u r s e l v e s " ( 4 1 8 - 9 ) . As a commodity f o r p u b l i c p u r c h a s e , Tennyson's "market v a l u e " i n c r e a s e d s u b s t a n t i a l l y a f t e r he became L a u r e a t e . I n s h o r t , Tennyson became f a s h i o n a b l e . The c u r r e n c y o f h i s p o e t r y d e c r e a s e d among t h e e d u c a t e d c l a s s e s a l m o s t i n d i r e c t c o r r e l a t i o n t o t h e p o p u l a r i z i n g o f Tennyson t h e man embodied i n Tennyson t h e p o e t . T h i s p r o c e s s i n c l u d e d works such as W i l l i a m H o w i t t ' s Homes and Haunts o f 178 t h e Most Eminent B r i t i s h P o e t s (1857) and G. C. N a p i e r ' s Homes and Haunts o f A l f r e d L o r d Tennyson (1892). D u r i n g h i s l i f e , Tennyson's fame spawned a f l o o d o f a u t o g r a p h s e e k e r s , v i s i t o r s w i t h n o t e books, and p h o t o g r a p h e r s s u c h as J u l i a M a r g a r e t Cameron a l l h o p i n g , i n some way, t o i m m o r t a l i z e Tennyson. A f t e r d e a t h , i n n u m e r a b l e " r e m i n i s c e n c e s " were p u b l i s h e d i n t h e 1890s and e a r l y 1900s i n o r d e r t o make permanent h i s e v a n s c e n t g e n i u s . H i s son H a l l a m ' s A l f r e d Tennyson, A Memoir (1897) was t h e p a r a d i g m a t i c V i c t o r i a n b i o g r a p h y : a p a s t i c h e o f s t o r i e s , l e t t e r s , poems, and r e m i n i s c e n c e s o f o t h e r s d e s i g n e d t o s e c u r e i t s p u b l i c ' s s y m p a t h i e s f o r t h i s s u p p o s e d l y most p u b l i c o f men. 5 7 Thus was g e n e r a t e d a new commodity f o r r e a d e r s ' p e r u s a l and p u r c h a s e , one w h i c h r e f l e c t e d t h e m s e l v e s back t o t h e m s e l v e s as i f h e l d w i t h i n a m i r r o r . 5 8 I n many r e s p e c t s , Tennyson as a new c o m m o d i t y — t h e V i c t o r i a n p o e t a t one w i t h h i s p o e t r y — w a s n o t s i n g u l a r . F o r d e s p i t e t h e i r many d i f f e r e n c e s i n terms o f p u b l i s h i n g and H a l l a m ' s Memoir i s c o n s i d e r e d a t l e n g t h i n c h a p t e r t h r e e . 5 8 However, t h e m i r r o r was a l r e a d y c r a c k i n g by t h e 18 60s. P o e t s s u c h as John A d d i n g t o n Symonds had l o o k e d i n t o i t and no l o n g e r saw t h e m s e l v e s . He w r o t e t o Mrs C l o u g h i n 18 68 as f o l l o w s : "Have you o b s e r v e d t h a t we a r e g o i n g t o have an i n s u r r e c t i o n a g a i n s t Tennyson . . . . I have s y m p a t h i z e d w i t h t h i s r e v o l t , h a v i n g been a s l a v e as a boy, and s p o i l t my t a s t e and s t y l e by a b s u r d r e v e r e n c e f o r t h e f a u l t s o f o u r g r e a t p o e t " ( S c h u e l l e r I 825) . Reasons f o r t h e " r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t Tennyson" a r e i n c l u d e d t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y . A l s o , see P. G. S c o t t ' s "John A d d i n g t o n Symonds and t h e R e a c t i o n A g a i n s t Tennyson." p r o m o t i o n o f t h e i r work, by t h e l a t e 1840s, L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson came t o be a d m i r e d i n B r i t a i n and A m e r i c a i n ways t h a t s u g g e s t t h a t f o r many p e o p l e t h e y e x i s t e d c o - e q u a l l y upon t h e i r r e a d e r s ' h o r i z o n s o f e x p e c t a t i o n , r e a d e r s t h e m s e l v e s who c r o s s e d c l a s s , gender, and i d e o l o g i c a l b o u n d a r i e s . W a l t e r Cameron's L o n g f e l l o w Among h i s C o n t e m p o r a r i e s , f o r example, i s an e x h a u s t i v e c a t a l o g u e o f r e p r i n t s o f r e v i e w s , r e m i n i s c e n c e s , and s t o r i e s o f L o n g f e l l o w . Here, Tennyson i s c i t e d t h i r t y t h r e e t i m e s whereas Goethe, who has a l w a y s been r e c o g n i z e d as an i n f l u e n c e upon L o n g f e l l o w , i s m e n t i o n e d o n l y s e v e n t e e n t i m e s . I n B r i t a i n , Ebenezer E l l i o t t ( t h e Corn-Law rhymer) remarked i n a l e t t e r t o Samuel S m i l e s t h a t " L o n g f e l l o w i s i n d e e d a p o e t , and he has done what [ E l l i o t t ] deemed an i m p o s s i b i l i t y ; he has w r i t t e n E n g l i s h hexameters, g i v i n g our m i g h t y l y r e a new s t r i n g ! When Tennyson d i e s , he s h o u l d r e a d E v a n g e l i n e t o Homer" ( q t d . i n Ghodes A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e 118). And i n a more s c h o l a r l y t r e a t m e n t — a n a r t i c l e on L o n g f e l l o w i n t h e D u b l i n U n i v e r s i t y Magazine (Apr 1 8 5 0 ) — t h e c r i t i c b r o u g h t L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson t o g e t h e r a l t h o u g h he f e l t Tennyson t o p o s s e s s more " q u a i n t n e s s and v a r i e d power" t h a n L o n g f e l l o w (see Ghodes A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e 112) . That Tennyson h i m s e l f r e c o g n i z e d how p o p u l a r o p i n i o n e q u a t e d him w i t h L o n g f e l l o w i s shown i n t h e f o l l o w i n g s t o r y deemed " a p o c r y p h a l " by Ghodes, b u t w h i c h o t h e r s l i k e M a r t i n have t a k e n as r e v e a l i n g Tennyson's u n c o u t h , r u s t i c manners ( 2 4 0 ) . C h a r l e s H. B r o o k f i e l d i n Random R e m i n i s c e n c e s w r i t e s : 180 My f a t h e r was d i n i n g one n i g h t a t t h e O x f o r d and Cambridge C l u b w i t h George V e n a b l e s , F r a n k L u s h i n g t o n , Tennyson, and two o r t h r e e o t h e r s . A f t e r d i n n e r t h e p o e t i n s i s t e d on p u t t i n g h i s f e e t on t h e t a b l e , t i l t i n g back h i s c h a i r more Americano. There were s t r a n g e r s i n t h e room, and he was e x p o s t u l a t e d w i t h f o r h i s u n c o u t h n e s s , b u t i n v a i n . "Do p u t down y o u r f e e t ! " p l e a d e d h i s h o s t . "Why s h o u l d I ? " r e t o r t e d Tennyson. "I'm v e r y c o m f o r t a b l e as I am." "Everyone's s t a r i n g a t you," s a i d a n o t h e r . " L e t 'em s t a r e , " r e p l i e d t h e p o e t p l a c i d l y . " A l f r e d , " s a i d my f a t h e r , " p e o p l e w i l l t h i n k y o u ' r e L o n g f e l l o w . " Down went t h e f e e t . ( q t d . i n Ghodes 1 1 9 ) 5 9 Whether Tennyson's prompt r e a c t i o n was due more t o h i s d e s i r e n o t t o be t h o u g h t o f as A m e r i c a n t h a n h i s u n w i l l i n g n e s s t o be m i s t a k e n f o r t h e p o p u l a r A m e r i c a n p o e t i s u n c e r t a i n . What i s c e r t a i n , however, i s t h a t Tennyson's immediate c i r c l e p e r c e i v e d t h a t t h e l i n k between t h e two p o e t s was f a m i l i a r enough t o use i n a way t h a t c a l l e d f o r no f u r t h e r e x p l a n a t i o n . S i m i l a r l y i n A m e r i c a , L o n g f e l l o w was t h e "American Tennyson" (Tryon " N a t i o n a l i s m " 3 0 4 ) . T h i s was p a r t i c u l a r l y t r u e i n t h e 1850s. I n A p r i l 1853 w h i l e a t t e n d i n g a " w r e t c h e d p l a y " o f f a s h i o n a b l e l i f e i n New York, L o n g f e l l o w was a s t o n i s h e d t o h e a r t h e f e m a l e s t a r ask o f h e r m i l l i n e r w h i c h she p r e f e r r e d : " L o n g f e l l o w o r Tennyson" ( L i f e I I 243). E i d s o n n o t e s t h a t p a r t i c u l a r l y i n 1855, when Hiawatha and Maud came b e f o r e A m e r i c a n a u d i e n c e s a t t h e same t i m e , i n subsequent r e v i e w s M a r t i n q u o t e s t h e same s t o r y as h a v i n g been c i t e d i n Jane B r o o k f i e l d ' s " E a r l y R e c o l l e c t i o n s o f Tennyson" ( M a r t i n 240) . 181 Tennyson was f r e q u e n t l y compared t o L o n g f e l l o w , u s u a l l y t o t h e L a u r e a t e ' s d i s a d v a n t a g e (138-41). Y e t by t h e l a t e 1850s, r e v i e w e r s i n E n g l a n d i n p a r t i c u l a r had come t o make c r i t i c a l d i s t i n c t i o n s between t h e two p o e t s . The r e v i e w e r o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h f o r t h e Chamber's J o u r n a l (Nov 1858) m i g h t be t h o u g h t o f as r e p r e s e n t a t i v e o f t h o s e E n g l i s h r e a d e r s who had begun t o r e a c t a g a i n s t t h e p o p u l a r c o n j o i n i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson: No m i s s a t a b o a r d i n g - s c h o o l e v e r y e t had t h e headache i n consequence o f a t o o e a r n e s t a p p l i c a t i o n t o t h e pages o f Mr. L o n g f e l l o w . He i s , f o r a t r u e p o e t — and we do n o t deny him t h a t t i t l e — t h e most s u p e r f i c i a l t h i n k e r p o s s i b l e . There i s a g u l f between h i s mind and Mr. Tennyson's i n t h i s r e s p e c t — a l t h o u g h t h e y a r e o f t e n v u l g a r l y c l a s s e d t o g e t h e r — f a r b r o a d e r t h a n t h e s e p a r a t i n g A t l a n t i c , ( r p t d i n Cameron 61) E c h o i n g t h e s e s e n t i m e n t s , s e v e r a l o f Tennyson's f r i e n d s began t o q u e s t i o n t h e p o p u l a r l i n k i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson. I n a l e t t e r t o Mrs Tennyson i n J a n u a r y 1859, Thomas Woolner d e s c r i b e s m e e t i n g a M i s s Waugh (who l a t e r m a r r i e d W. Holman Hunt i n 1865), and remarks t h a t he " c o n v e r t e d h e r t o Browning and a l m o s t — o f c o u r s e n o t q u i t e — b u t a l m o s t made h e r l o o k w i t h s u s p i c i o n upon t h a t s c h o o l g i r l p o e t L o n g f e l l o w ; Tennyson was h e r e s t a b l i s h e d p o e t , b u t she l o o k e d w i t h a g e n t l e eye upon t h e Yankee and c o u l d make n e i t h e r head nor t a i l o f R o b e r t . . ." (Amy Woolner 159). Growing t e n s i o n s i n t h e l a t e 1850s between B r i t a i n and t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s o v e r a b o l i t i o n , and t h r e a t s o f B r i t a i n b e i n g drawn i n t o A m e r i c a ' s C i v i l War c o u l d v e r y e a s i l y have g e n e r a t e d c a u s t i c remarks t o w a r d L o n g f e l l o w 182 as A m e r i c a ' s n a t i o n a l b a r d . Moreover, t h e r e f e r e n c e s t o b o a r d i n g - s c h o o l m i s s e s and s c h o o l g i r l p o e t s s u r e l y echo B u l w e r - L y t t o n ' s infamous " S c h o o l - M i s s - A l f r e d " l a b e l t h a t he had p i n n e d on Tennyson i n 1845 (see c h a p t e r f o u r ) , and a r e a means o f v i n d i c a t i n g Tennyson from t h i s e a r l i e r c h a r g e as w e l l as a f a i r l y a c c u r a t e e s t i m a t e o f a l a r g e segment o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e a d e r s h i p i n B r i t a i n . Y e t d i s p a r a g e m e n t o f t h e p o e t r y need n o t t h e r e b y f o l l o w i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f s c h o o l g i r l s as i t s r e a d e r s . G e o r g i n a Macdonald, a s t u d e n t o f W i l l i a m F u l f o r d ' s and l a t e r w i f e o f B u r n e - J o n e s , i d e n t i f i e s t h e " v a l u e " t h a t F u l f o r d p l a c e d on L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y i n h e r r e c o l l e c t i o n t h a t F u l f o r d " f e d " h i s s t u d e n t s " w i t h L o n g f e l l o w f i r s t o f a l l as t h e f o o d s u i t e d t o our y e a r s and so b r o u g h t us g r a d u a l l y i n t o a c o n d i t i o n more o r l e s s f i t f o r t h e r e v e l a t i o n b e f o r e i n t r o d u c i n g us t o h i s p r i m e h e r o , Tennyson" ( q t d . i n C r u s e 240). Indeed, as " E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e " was becoming e s t a b l i s h e d i n t h e 1870s as a s u b j e c t f o r s t u d y i n t h e s c h o o l system, Matthew A r n o l d had recommended t h a t Mrs Hemans's "The Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " and "The Homes o f E n g l a n d " be used w i t h s c h o o l c h i l d r e n because t h e y have " r e a l m e r i t s o f e x p r e s s i o n and s e n t i m e n t [ t h a t ] t h e c h i l d r e n can f e e l " ( q t d . i n A l t i c k 161). The e d u c a t i o n a l v a l u e o f p o e t r y as a h u m a n i z i n g i n f l u e n c e , n o t j u s t f o r t h e young b u t f o r a l l ages o f r e a d e r s , was a s t r o n g i d e o l o g i c a l f o r c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , i n b o t h A m e r i c a and B r i t a i n . I t must be 183 t a k e n i n t o a c c o u n t i f t h e t r a n s a t l a n t i c p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i s t o be f u l l y u n d e r s t o o d . As a c u l t u r a l commodity, V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y — i f i t were t o be p o p u l a r — w o u l d have t o embrace t h e s p i r i t o f t h e age, y e t n e i t h e r r e f l e c t i t n o r d i r e c t i t i n a t o o o b v i o u s o r d i d a c t i c way. T h i s e n t a i l e d on b o t h s i d e s o f t h e A t l a n t i c a l e v e l o f a u d i e n c e p a r t i c i p a t i o n commensurate w i t h each i n d i v i d u a l r e a d e r ' s u n i q u e l i t e r a r y h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s . T h i s p a r t i c i p a t i o n would n o n e t h e l e s s a c t i v a t e r e a d e r s t o c r e a t e c o l l e c t i v e s y m p a t h i e s a p p r o p r i a t e t o t h e t e x t and t o i t s age. I n t h i s way, p o p u l a r p o e t r y embraced t h e p a r a d o x e s o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d i t s e l f , and nowhere more t h a n i n i t s a b i l i t y t o e l i c i t p r i v a t e r e s p o n s e s w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f n a t i o n a l , p u b l i c a s s e n t . The p o p u l a r must t h e r e f o r e n o t be c o n s i d e r e d as t h e a n t i t h e s i s o f t h e p r i v a t e , o r t h e debased c o u s i n o f t h e p u b l i c . R a t h e r , t h e p o p u l a r i s a s i t e o f c o n f l u e n c e w h e r e i n i n d i v i d u a l s ' p r i v a t e c h o i c e s a r i s e i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e hegemony o f s o c i a l l y c o n s t r u c t e d p u b l i c s e n t i m e n t s . 184 CHAPTER TWO THE BIRTH AND ADOLESCENCE OP THE POETIC VOICE: LONGFELLOW'S "NEW" ENGLAND IN AMERICA I most e a g e r l y a s p i r e a f t e r f u t u r e eminence i n l i t e r a t u r e . . . . S u r e l y t h e r e was n e v e r a b e t t e r o p p o r t u n i t y f o r t h e e x e r t i o n o f l i t e r a r y t a l e n t i n our c o u n t r y , t h a n i s now o f f e r e d . . . . [ N a t u r e ] has a t any r a t e g i v e n me a v e r y s t r o n g p r e d i l e c t i o n f o r l i t e r a r y p u r s u i t s , and I am a l m o s t c o n f i d e n t i n b e l i e v i n g t h a t , i f I can e v e r r i s e i n t h e w o r l d , i t must be by t h e e x e r c i s e o f my t a l e n t s i n t h e w i d e f i e l d o f l i t e r a t u r e . — L o n g f e l l o w t o h i s f a t h e r (5 Dec 1824, L e t t e r s I 94-5) Hans R o b e r t J a u s s a r g u e s t h a t l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y i s b e s t u n d e r s t o o d t h r o u g h c l o s e a n a l y s i s o f an a u t h o r ' s t e x t s i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e i r v a r i o u s changes w i t h i n a c h a n g i n g h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s . R e c e p t i o n t h e o r y o f t h i s k i n d i s n o t r e s t r i c t e d t o r e a d e r s a l o n e , however, s i n c e a u t h o r s t h e m s e l v e s — i n t h e v e r y a c t o f w r i t i n g and r e v i s i n g — a r e t h e i r own r e a d e r s , and t h e y a s s e s s t h e i r work a c c o r d i n g t o t h e i r own e x p e c t a t i o n s : o f t h e g e n r e , o f t h e i r t e x t s ' r e l a t i o n t o f a m i l i a r works w i t h i n t h e l i t e r a r y - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t , and o f t h e c o n t r a s t between t h e l i t e r a r y language o f t h e t e x t and t h e p r a c t i c a l f u n c t i o n o f language w i t h i n t h e l i v e d r e a l i t y o f t h e t i m e ( " L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y " 1 8 ) . Hence, t h i s method o f a n a l y s i s "not o n l y f o l l o w s t h e fame, image, and i n f l u e n c e o f a w r i t e r b u t a l s o examines t h e h i s t o r i c a l c o n d i t i o n s and changes i n h i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g " (23) . I t p l a c e s a u t h o r i a l i n t e n t i o n w i t h i n a m u l t i - f a c e t e d c o n t e x t o f t h e w r i t e r ' s p e r s o n a l , p r o f e s s i o n a l , and s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l aims b e f o r e i t " f o l l o w s " t h e a u t h o r i n t o 185 r e a l m s d e t e r m i n e d by t h e r e c e p t i o n o f h e r o r h i s work. A s t u d y o f t h e s i g n i f i c a n c e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y must t h e r e f o r e f i r s t be p r e c e d e d by a n a l y s e s o f t h e p o e t s t h e m s e l v e s i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e f o r m a t i o n , f o r each p o e t , o f a p o e t i c v o i c e e x p r e s s i v e o f t h e m u l t i p l e m o t i v a t i o n s d e s c r i b e d above. That i s , b e f o r e t h e impact o f t h e p o e t r y can be c l e a r l y u n d e r s t o o d , t h e i m p a c t o f f o r c e s g o v e r n i n g i t s i n c e p t i o n must f i r s t be examined. Because t h e f o c u s o f t h i s s t u d y i s on L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e , r e a s o n d i c t a t e s t h a t any b i o g r a p h i c a l f o u n d a t i o n w h i c h i s l a i d s h o u l d t r a c e t h e s o c i a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l f e a t u r e s o f t h e p o e t s ' c h a r a c t e r s r a t h e r t h a n , as i n many c o n v e n t i o n a l b i o g r a p h i e s , t h e p s y c h o l o g i c a l o r p s y c h o - f a m i l i a l f o r c e s o f p e r s o n a l development. T h i s s t r a t e g y may seem m e r e l y a c o n v e n i e n t means o f s i d e - s t e p p i n g , on t h e one hand, t h e d e a r t h o f m a t e r i a l d e s c r i b i n g L o n g f e l l o w ' s p e r s o n a l l i f e and, on t h e o t h e r , t h e p e r p l e x i t y s u r r o u n d i n g t h e degree t o w h i c h Tennyson was i n f l u e n c e d by an a n c e s t r a l l i n e a g e dominated by m o r b i d i t y , d e p r e s s i o n , and even i n s a n i t y — t h e T e n n y s o n i a n " b l a c k - b l o o d . " 1 The s e a r c h f o r p r i v a t e c a u s e s f o r a V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y w h i c h , o f n e c e s s i t y , encouraged p u b l i c , e x o t e r i c b e h a v i o u r i s u l t i m a t e l y wrong- headed s i n c e i t o f t e n l e a d s t o u n p r o f i t a b l e d e r i s i o n when t h e 1 R o b e r t B e r n a r d M a r t i n ' s b i o g r a p h y Tennyson: The U n q u i e t H e a r t and Ann C o l l e y ' s b i o c r i t i c a l Tennyson and Madness a r e t h e most r e c e n t s t u d i e s o f t h e p s y c h o l o g y o f Tennyson. 186 p o e t r y seems n o t t o r i n g t r u e t o p r e c o n c e i v e d n o t i o n s o f p s y c h o l o g i c a l temperament. F o r t h i s r e a s o n , p s y c h o l o g y p l a y s a l i m i t e d r o l e i n t h e b i o g r a p h i c a l s k e t c h e s h e r e and i n c h a p t e r s t h r e e and f o u r . The d i f f e r e n c e s o f c h a r a c t e r i n t h e e a r l y L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson a r e a c t u a l l y q u i t e s u r p r i s i n g when j u x t a p o s e d w i t h t h e many p a r a l l e l s t h a t may be drawn i n t h e p o e t s ' l a t e r 2 • . . . p r o f e s s i o n a l c a r e e r s . Y e t , i n g e n e r a l , t h e s e d i s p a r i t i e s a r e a f u n c t i o n o f p l a c e i n i t s e f f e c t upon t h e c r e a t i o n o f t h e i n d i v i d u a l t h r o u g h u p b r i n g i n g and f a m i l y i n f l u e n c e . . Each p o e t ' s s e n s e o f p e r s o n a l i d e n t i t y and subsequent v o c a t i o n d e v e l o p e d o u t o f a c o n s c i o u s awareness o f h i s p o s i t i o n w i t h i n a s o c i o - e c o n o m i c c l a s s shaped by t h e l a r g e r f o r c e s o f n a t i o n a l i d e n t i t y . L o n g f e l l o w was, q u i t e s i m p l y , an A m e r i c a n w h i l e Tennyson was an E n g l i s h m a n . To c l a i m t h a t , s i n c e L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson were b o t h b o r n i n t o what i s p e r v a s i v e l y known i n t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y as t h e B l i s s Carman's c o n f l a t i o n o f t h e two p o e t s i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h i s c e n t u r y b e t r a y s a p r e v a i l i n g l a t e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a s s u m p t i o n — u t t e r l y f a l s e one m i g h t a d d — a b o u t t h e e s s e n t i a l sameness o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e . Carman a l l e g e s t h a t " [ b ] o t h were g e n t l e b o r n ; b o t h were c o l l e g e b r e d ; b o t h were happy i n t h e i r f r i e n d s , t h e i r homes; b o t h were p e r m i t t e d by f o r t u n e t o be exempt from p o v e r t y and d i s t r e s s f u l c a r e s w h i c h have h a r a s s e d so many p o e t s and d i s s i p a t e d t h e i r powers; b o t h were s e r e n e and moderate g e n t l e m e n , g r e a t l y and w i d e l y b e l o v e d ; and b o t h had l o n g unbroken c a r e e r s o f w o r l d l y and a r t i s t i c p r o s p e r i t y , crowned a t l a s t w i t h m e m o r i a l s i n t h e g r e a t E n g l i s h Abbey" (The P o e t r y o f L i f e (1905) r p t W a l t e r 313). O n l y t h e l a s t p h r a s e , t h a t each i s honoured a t W e s t m i n s t e r Abbey, i s t r u e and, r e m a r k a b l y , Carman s a y s n o t h i n g about t h i s d i s t i n c t i o n h a v i n g been c o n f e r r e d upon an A m e r i c a n p o e t . 187 " b o u r g e o i s i e , " t h e y may be s a i d t o s h a r e t h e same i d e o l o g y would be an e g r e g i o u s example o f m i s t e r m e d and m i s a p p l i e d s o c i a l h i s t o r y . F o r n o t o n l y d i d t h e b o u r g e o i s i e as s u c h have no commonly s h a r e d s i g n i f i c a n c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y b u t , more i m p o r t a n t l y , s h o u l d t h e r e e x i s t any s i m i l a r i t y between an A m e r i c a n and a B r i t i s h f a m i l y ' s s t a t u s i t would l i k e l y be o n l y monetary and would n o t n e c e s s a r i l y l e a d t o s i m i l a r i d e o l o g i e s . I n h i s two volume s t u d y , The B o u r g e o i s E x p e r i e n c e : V i c t o r i a t o F r e u d , s o c i a l h i s t o r i a n P e t e r Gay a r g u e s t h a t " b o u r g e o i s i e " was v i e w e d as a F r e n c h l o a n word i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , and was seldom used by E n g l i s h p e o p l e , who p r e f e r r e d " m i d d l e • 3 • • c l a s s e s " i n s t e a d . " M i d d l e c l a s s e s " i s t h u s used h e r e s i n c e i t s o b v i o u s E n g l i s h p l u r a l i t y u n d e r s c o r e s t h e t r u l y h e t e r o g e n e o u s n a t u r e o f t h i s s o c i a l group: " t h e most d r a m a t i c s o c i a l a s p e c t o f t h e b o u r g e o i s e x p e r i e n c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y was t h e economic, s o c i a l , and p o l i t i c a l i n e q u a l i t y t h a t p r e v a i l e d w i t h i n t h e b o u r g e o i s i e i t s e l f ; i t s h i e r a r c h i c a l d i v i s i o n s were more t e l l i n g t h a n any c l a s s s o l i d a r i t y — e x c e p t when o u t s i d e p r e s s u r e s were b r o u g h t t o b e a r by a r a d i c a l i z e d r u r a l p o p u l a t i o n o r a m i l i t a n t l a b o u r movement" (Gay I 2 4 ) . The d i v e r s e c o m p o s i t i o n o f m i d d l e c l a s s c u l t u r e , e s p e c i a l l y as i t i s i n t h i s c a s e s e p a r a t e d by an ocean o f d i s t i n c t p o l i t i c a l t i e s and a l l e g i a n c e s , t o a l a r g e e x t e n t d e t e r m i n e d t h e 3 Gay n o t e s t h a t " b o u r g e o i s i e " was, however, u s e d w i t h i n s o c i a l i s t d i s c o u r s e , t h e most o b v i o u s example b e i n g E n g e l s ' s C o n d i t i o n o f t h e Working C l a s s i n E n g l a n d (1844). 188 d i f f e r e n c e s between t h e e a r l y L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson. I r o n i c a l l y , however, o u t s i d e p r e s s u r e s from s i m i l a r though not p r e c i s e l y t h e same k i n d o f p o l i t i c a l and s o c i o l o g i c a l f o r c e s as t h o s e d e s c r i b e d above by Gay a s s i s t e d i n t h e f o r g i n g o f a s h a r e d v o c a t i o n a l i d e n t i t y t h a t i n t h e m i d - c a r e e r o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson m i g h t , f o r a l l i t s g e n e r a l i t y , be d e s c r i b e d as t h e p o e t i c v o i c e o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s . F o r L o n g f e l l o w a t l e a s t , t h i s m i d d l e - c l a s s v o i c e e s t a b l i s h e d i t s e l f e a r l y as an i n t e r a c t i v e complex o f r e f l e c t i o n and r e j e c t i o n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y f e m i n i n e c u l t u r a l i n f l u e n c e s . I n p a r t , t h e " f e m i n i z e d " v i e w o f t h e A m e r i c a n b a r d can be a t t r i b u t e d t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s b r o t h e r Samuel, who, i n h i s L i f e o f Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w (188 6) , i m m o r t a l i z e d a p i o u s , " g e n t l e " p o e t . B l u n t l y p u t , " t h e t o t a l e f f e c t i s a m i s l e a d i n g , e m a s c u l a t e d , l a t e V i c t o r i a n v e r s i o n o f t h e t r u t h , a s c i s s o r - s i l h o u e t t e , w i t h o u t c o l o u r " ( x i x ) a c c o r d i n g t o Lawrance Thompson, t h e o n l y s e r i o u s c h a l l e n g e r t o Samuel's L i f e . Y e t t h e a b s o l u t e sway o f t h e L i f e o v e r even t h o s e c r i t i c s l i k e Edward Wagenknecht—who c l a i m t o be exempt from t h e V i c t o r i a n - b a s h i n g t e n d e n c i e s o f t h e 192 0s t o 4 0 s — bespeaks a l i n g e r i n g c r i t i c a l a c c e p t a n c e o f an e f f e t e L o n g f e l l o w , e s p e c i a l l y i n h i s p r e - c o l l e g e y e a r s . F o r most b i o g r a p h e r s o f L o n g f e l l o w , t h e g e n t l e n e s s o f t h e p o e t ' s n a t u r e can be d i r e c t l y a t t r i b u t e d t o t h e i n f l u e n c e s o f h i s mother, Z i l p a h Wadsworth. And, a c c o r d i n g t o t h e b i o g r a p h e r ' s c r i t i c a l o u t l o o k , t h e s e i n f l u e n c e s were e i t h e r 189 m a i n t a i n e d and deepened t h r o u g h o u t L o n g f e l l o w ' s l i f e by h i s r o m a n t i c t i e s t o b o t h Mary S t o r e r , h i s f i r s t w i f e , and Fanny A p p l e t o n , h i s second, o r c o n s i s t e n t l y a t odds w i t h an i n h e r i t e d "Yankee shrewdness" o f h i s l a w y e r / c o n g r e s s m a n f a t h e r , Stephen L o n g f e l l o w . The f i r s t o f t h e s e v i e w s p l a c e s t h e young L o n g f e l l o w s q u a r e l y w i t h i n a f e m a l e - c e n t r e d V i c t o r i a n A m e r i c a s u c h as t h e one d e s c r i b e d i n Ann D o u g l a s ' s The F e m i n i z a t i o n o f A m e r i c a n C u l t u r e . T h i s A m e r i c a , and t h e young L o n g f e l l o w w i t h i n i t , i s examined f i r s t , b e f o r e c o n s i d e r i n g p o s s i b l e c o n t r a d i c t i o n s t o , o r even w i t h i n , t h a t w o r l d . B o r n 27 F e b r u a r y 1807 i n P o r t l a n d , Maine, i n t o a f i n a n c i a l l y c o m f o r t a b l e U n i t a r i a n f a m i l y , L o n g f e l l o w e x p e r i e n c e d e a r l y l i f e w i t h i n t h e c l o i s t e r e d s e c u r i t y o f home and h e a r t h . The second o f e i g h t c h i l d r e n , he was shaped by p r o v i n c i a l d o m e s t i c i t y : m o r a l v i r t u e embodied i n and m a i n t a i n e d by a s t r o n g m a t r i a r c h ; p r o f e s s i o n a l v o c a t i o n m a n i f e s t e d i n and d e t e r m i n e d by an e q u a l l y s t r o n g though o f t e n a b s e n t p a t r i a r c h ; and e a r l y e d u c a t i o n i n p a r o c h i a l s c h o o l s , e x p e r i e n t i a l l y broadened i n c o l l e g e by t h e " a s s i s t a n c e " o f an o l d e r b r o t h e r . I n t h i s v i e w o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s u p b r i n g i n g , t h e p o e t ' s mother as a f o r m a t i v e i n f l u e n c e r e i g n s supreme. Edward H i r s h f o c u s e s on Z i l p a h ' s c r e a t i o n f o r h e r s e l f and h e r f a m i l y o f a r e l i g i o u s l y m o t i v a t e d i d e a l i s m and a l i f e - l o n g h a t r e d o f war ( 6 ) . 'For H i r s h , L o n g f e l l o w ' s mother a s s i s t e d i n t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a c h i l d h o o d A r c a d i a t o w h i c h h e r son would, 190 i n l a t e r l i f e , h a r k e n back i n h i s p o e t r y and a t t e m p t t o r e c a p t u r e . And, d e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t L o n g f e l l o w r e c e i v e d a f o r m a l e d u c a t i o n o u t s i d e t h e home b e g i n n i n g as e a r l y as age t h r e e a t Ma'am F e l l o w s dame s c h o o l , Wagenknecht m a i n t a i n s t h a t "though L o n g f e l l o w was an e x c e l l e n t s t u d e n t from t h e b e g i n n i n g , one c a n n o t h e l p b u t f e e l t h a t t h e s c h o o l s he a t t e n d e d were o f l e s s i m p o r t a n c e t h a n t h e e a r n e s t b u t b e n e v o l e n t i n f l u e n c e o f h i s home, where P u r i t a n highmindedness s u r v i v e d , s h o r n o f a l l i t s e a r l y h a r d n e s s and f a n a t i c i s m " ( F u l l L e n g t h 2 ) . B o t h H i r s h and Wagenknecht a p p a r e n t l y a c c e p t Samuel's s p e c u l a t i o n upon h i s b r o t h e r ' s e a r l y l i f e as d e t e r m i n e d by a r e c o l l e c t i o n o f h i s own. N e i t h e r man q u e s t i o n s t h e n o s t a l g i c a l l y i n d u c e d r o s e c o l o u r i n g i n t h e l e n s e s o f Samuel's g l a s s e s when Samuel w r i t e s o f t h e i r mother's i n f l u e n c e upon t h e p o e t : "From h e r must have come t o h e r son t h e i m a g i n a t i v e and r o m a n t i c s i d e o f h i s n a t u r e . . . . F u l l o f a t e n d e r , s i m p l e , u n q u e s t i o n i n g p i e t y , she was a l o v e r o f c h u r c h and sermon and hymn; a devout and c o n s t a n t r e a d e r o f t h e B i b l e , e s p e c i a l l y o f i t s Psalms . . . . [She] was an u n t i r i n g a d v o c a t e o f peace" ( L i f e I 4 ) . And, a t f i r s t g l a n c e , Andrew H i l e n s ' s r e c e n t L e t t e r s o f Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w seem t o s u p p o r t t h i s p i o u s p o r t r a i t w h e r e i n , once L o n g f e l l o w i s a t c o l l e g e , he engages i n d i s c u s s i o n s o f p o e t i c s e n t i m e n t w i t h h i s mother, i n t e r s p e r s e d w i t h d o m e s t i c c o n c e r n s and r e l i g i o u s 4 191 m o r a l i s m o f a m a r k e d l y s o f t and g e n t l e k i n d . 4 The known image o f Z i l p a h L o n g f e l l o w , from t h e above b i o g r a p h e r s , t h u s a p p e a r s t o f i t n e a t l y i n t o t h e l a r g e r v i e w o f e a r l y A m e r i c a o u t l i n e d by D o u g l a s , a w o r l d i n w h i c h p a t r i a r c h a l C a l v i n i s m had been d e f e a t e d by t h e a n t i - i n t e l l e c t u a l s e n t i m e n t a l i s m o f women ( 1 2 ) , and a m u l t i t u d e o f s o c i a l f o r c e s were making i t c l e a r t h a t "women were t o c u l t i v a t e d o m e s t i c p i e t y b e h i n d c l o s e d d o o r s w h i l e t h e i r male c o u n t e r p a r t s were t o f a c e , and i f p o s s i b l e conquer, t h e c o m p e t i t i v e w o r l d o f commerce" ( 5 7 ) . 5 4 I n " L e a r n i n g about Manhood: Gender I d e a l s and t h e M i d d l e - c l a s s F a m i l y i n N i n e t e e n t h - C e n t u r y A m e r i c a , " E. Anthony Rotundo examines t h e f a m i l y c o r r e s p o n d e n c e o f young men t o d e m o n s t r a t e how V i c t o r i a n mothers p r i m a r i l y i n f l u e n c e d t h e m o r a l c h a r a c t e r o f t h e " C h r i s t i a n Gentleman," w h i l e f a t h e r s h e l p e d t o f o s t e r t h e " M a s c u l i n e A c h i e v e r . " However, he goes on t o n o t e t h a t " t h e r e was n o t h i n g e x c l u s i v e about e i t h e r one o f t h e s e t e a c h i n g r o l e s . Women t e n d e d t o supplement t h e i r husband's [ s i c ] a t t e m p t s t o t e a c h t h e v a l u e s o f achievement and s u c c e s s and men h e l p e d t o s u p p o r t t h e i r w i v e s ' e f f o r t s t o t e a c h m o r a l i t y and C h r i s t i a n p i e t y " ( 4 5 ) . 5 The s p l i t between t h e " d o m e s t i c " w o r l d o f women and t h e " c a p i t a l i s t i c " w o r l d o f men i s b e s t c a t a l o g u e d i n B a r b a r a W e l t e r ' s "The C u l t o f True Womanhood," w h e r e i n she p r o v i d e s c o n t e m p o r a r y d o c u m e n t a t i o n f o r p u b l i c a c c e p t a n c e o f t h i s c u l t u r a l d i v i s i o n i n A m e r i c a . Glenna Matthews's J u s t a H o u s e w i f e a r g u e s t h a t t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f women as m o r a l a u t h o r i t i e s w i t h i n t h e home i n i t i a l l y l e d t o t h e s o c i a l a c c e p t a n c e o f d o m e s t i c v a l u e s w i t h i n t h e l a r g e r p o l i t i c a l c o n t e x t o f t h e M o r a l Reform S o c i e t y . I n c o n t r a s t , t h e e n e r v a t i n g i n f l u e n c e o f d o m e s t i c i t y i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e more o v e r t l y p o l i t i c a l m o v e m e n t — n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n f e m i n i s m — i s d i s c u s s e d i n Ann D o u g l a s ' s s t u d y as w e l l as i n C a r r o l l Smith-Rosenberg's D i s o r d e r l y Conduct. E q u a l l y r e l e v a n t d i s c u s s i o n s o f gender s p e c i f i c s p h e r e s o f i n f l u e n c e g e n e r a l l y form a t l e a s t p a r t o f most n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y s o c i a l h i s t o r i e s ; Volume I I o f Gay's B o u r g e o i s E x p e r i e n c e (291-7) i s a n e u t r a l example, w h i l e an a c e r b i c a t t i t u d e t o w a r d women's r o l e s o f w h a t e v e r k i n d m i l i t a t e s a g a i n s t g e n e r a l a c c e p t a n c e o f t h e v i e w s e x p r e s s e d i n E. Douglas B r a n c h ' s The S e n t i m e n t a l Y e a r s . C h a l l e n g e t o u n q u a l i f i e d a c c e p t a n c e o f V i c t o r i a n A m e r i c a ' s f e m i n i n e s e n t i m e n t a l i s m , and t o women's r o l e s as The most v i g o r o u s o p p o s i t i o n t o t h e argument t h a t L o n g f e l l o w was, from an e a r l y age, molded by f e m i n i n e s e n t i m e n t o f t h e k i n d d e s c r i b e d by Douglas i s t o be f o u n d i n Thompson's Young L o n g f e l l o w . H i s c o r r e c t i v e s come from two s o u r c e s : e x t e r n a l l y , from t h e busy c o m m e r c i a l l i f e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s s e a p o r t home o f P o r t l a n d and, i n t e r n a l l y , from L o n g f e l l o w ' s l i n e a g e on h i s mother's s i d e . Thompson s t r e s s e s t h e m e r c a n t i l e s h i p p i n g i n t e r e s t s o f p o s t - R e v o l u t i o n a r y P o r t l a n d as a d e c i s i v e i n f l u e n c e on t h e young L o n g f e l l o w ' s i m p r e s s i o n a b l e mind. The v i g o u r o f t h e s e a p o r t was a l s o embodied i n Z i l p a h ' s f a t h e r , G e n e r a l P e l e g W a d s w o r t h — a l o c a l r e v o l u t i o n a r y h e r o and l a t e r congressman (as was L o n g f e l l o w ' s f a t h e r f o r a t e r m ) — w h o e s t a b l i s h e d t h e f a m i l y i n P o r t l a n d ' s p u b l i c eye as r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s o f s p i r i t e d and courageous, endeavour ( 4 - 8 ) . Newton A r v i n and C e c i l B. W i l l i a m s b o t h f o l l o w Thompson's l e a d by c o u n t e r i n g t h e p o p u l a r image o f L o n g f e l l o w as u n d u l y i n f l u e n c e d by an o v e r - p r o t e c t i v e , d o m e s t i c u p b r i n g i n g . A r v i n e n d o r s e s Thompson's v i e w o f P o r t l a n d as a hub o f c o m m e r c i a l e n t e r p r i s e and o f t h e W a d s w o r t h - L o n g f e l l o w f a m i l y as p o l i t i c a l magnates i n t h e l o c a l community. Though p r i m a r i l y c o n c e r n e d n e c e s s a r i l y weak and i n e f f e c t u a l i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e development o f t h e n a t i o n as a whole has r e c e n t l y come from a t r a n s - a t l a n t i c p e r s p e c t i v e p r o v i d e d i n E l i z a b e t h H e l s i n g e r ' s and o t h e r s ' t h r e e volume e d i t i o n o f e s s a y s t h a t make s u b s t a n t i a l use o f p r i m a r y s o u r c e s t o d i s c u s s The Woman Q u e s t i o n : S o c i e t y and L i t e r a t u r e i n B r i t a i n and A m e r i c a , 1837- 1883 . 193 w i t h L o n g f e l l o w i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s p o e t r y r a t h e r t h a n w i t h h i s e a r l y l i f e , W i l l i a m s n o n e t h e l e s s i n i t i a l l y f o c u s e s on Stephen L o n g f e l l o w t o s u g g e s t t h a t he p l a y e d a s i g n i f i c a n t r o l e i n i n s t i l l i n g w i t h i n h i s young son a "Yankee shrewdness" t h a t would, t h r o u g h o u t t h e p o e t ' s l i f e , d e t e r m i n e L o n g f e l l o w ' s e v e r - p r e s e n t awareness o f h i s w r i t i n g w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f v o c a t i o n a l n e c e s s i t i e s — w i t h w o r l d - w i d e p o p u l a r i t y as t h e r e w a r d . I n s h o r t , f o r t h e s e b i o g r a p h e r s , t h e m a s c u l i n e w o r l d o f commerce, s t r e n g t h e n e d when n e c e s s a r y by p o l i t i c s and m i l i t a r y e x p l o i t s , p l a y s j u s t as g r e a t a r o l e , i f n o t g r e a t e r , i n d e f i n i n g t h e young L o n g f e l l o w ' s c h a r a c t e r as t h e g e n e r a l l y a c c e p t e d f e m i n i n e c l o i s t e r o f h e a r t h and home. F o r Thompson and, t o a l e s s e r d e g r e e , A r v i n and W i l l i a m s , t h e most n o t e w o r t h y f e a t u r e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s mother i s h e r f i r m n e s s o f m o r a l c h a r a c t e r t h a t g i v e s h e r a s t r o n g - m i n d e d n e s s e q u a l t o t h e e b u l l i e n c e o f h e r f a t h e r ( 8 ) . What i s known o f Z i l p a h ' s c h a r a c t e r , however, i s d e c i d e d l y ambiguous and i s nowhere more e v i d e n t t h a n i n t h e f o l l o w i n g l e t t e r she w r i t e s t o h e r o f t e n a b s e n t husband, a l e t t e r w h i c h Thompson c o n t e n d s i l l u s t r a t e s " t h e p a t i e n t d e v o t i o n [ w i t h which] Z i l p a h t e n d e d h e r modest though c a p a b l e husband t o w a r d w i d e r h o r i z o n s w i t h h e r shrewd u n d e r s t a n d i n g " (12) . I t h i n k my d e a r husband you w i l l be a b l e t o p a s s a month from home v e r y p l e a s a n t l y , p r o v i d e d we s h o u l d a l l c o n t i n u e p r e t t y w e l l . The T h e a t r e w i l l occupy many o f y o u r e v e n i n g s , and a t t e n t i o n t o y o u r f r i e n d s and mine w i l l I hope a g r e e a b l y b e g u i l e t h e r e m a i n d e r . I t i s good f o r us a l l , e s p e c i a l l y f o r Gentlemen, o c c a s i o n a l l y t o s t e p beyond our own narrow s p h e r e and e n l a r g e our a f f e c t i o n s & i d e a s by an i n t e r c o u r s e w i t h p o l i s h e d s o c i e t y . Now as I am so e n t i r e l y s h u t o u t from t h e w o r l d , you must be my r e p r e s e n t a t i v e , and e n j o y t h e p l e a s u r e s , and f u l f i l t h e d u t i e s o f l i f e f o r me as w e l l as f o r y o u r s e l f . . . I have w r i t t e n i n t h e m i d s t o f t h e c h i l d r e n ; w r i t i n g , c h a t t i n g , l a u g h i n g , c r y i n g . Amid s u c h c o n f u s i o n o f sounds who c o u l d w r i t e w i t h much c o n n e c t i o n . ( q t d . i n Thompson 12) C l e a r l y , c o n f l i c t i n g i m p u l s e s u n d e r l a y Z i l p a h ' s "shrewd u n d e r s t a n d i n g , " b u t t h e s e a r e n o t emphasized by Thompson. U s i n g e x c e r p t s from l e t t e r s s i m i l a r t o t h e above, Thompson a r g u e s f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s mother as a woman o f "courage and u n s e l f i s h n e s s " w i t h c o n s t a n t " d e l i g h t i n h e r c h i l d r e n " (12- 1 3 ) . I n a c t u a l f a c t , i n a l m o s t e v e r y l e t t e r he q u o t e s , Z i l p a h j u x t a p o s e s h e r husband's s t i m u l a t i n g s o c i a l s e t w i t h t h e "narrow [ y e t h a r r i e d ] s p h e r e " o f home and c h i l d r e n . Her i m p l i c i t envy and even c r i t i c i s m o f t h e "gentleman's" l i f e t h a t so f r e q u e n t l y l e a v e s h e r a l o n e , w i t h t h e f u l l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y o f s e v e r a l c h i l d r e n and an e n t i r e h o u s e h o l d , a r e o b v i o u s t h r o u g h o u t . A f t e r a l l , as she p o i n t s o u t , t h e f r i e n d s h e r husband w i l l see a r e a l s o h e r f r i e n d s ; and a l t h o u g h she t a k e s an o b v i o u s p l e a s u r e i n c o n t e m p l a t i n g h i s " w i d e n i n g s p h e r e , " h e r i n t e r e s t seems as much a s e l f - g r a t i f y i n g v i c a r i o u s n e s s as i t does u n s e l f i s h p r o m o t i o n o f h e r husband. The e x t e n t t o w h i c h Z i l p a h h e r s e l f was aware o f c o n f l i c t i n g m o t i v a t i o n s i n l e t t e r s s u c h as t h e one above c a n n o t n o t be known. What i s known, however, i s t h a t i n a s h o r t t i m e t o come a g r e a t many m i d d l e - c l a s s women would c o n s c i o u s l y seek " l e g i t i m a t e l y " t o widen t h e i r p r o p e r s p h e r e s f o r t h e m s e l v e s by t r a n s f e r r i n g t h e i r p r i v a t e d o m e s t i c o c c u p a t i o n s i n t o any number o f p u b l i c c a u s e s t a k e n up by t h e M o r a l Reform S o c i e t y ( e s t a b l i s h e d n a t i o n a l l y i n 18 3 7 ) . They would no l o n g e r have t o l i v e e x c i t i n g l i v e s v i c a r i o u s l y t h r o u g h t h e i r men. I n r e l a t i o n t o t h e " f e m i n i n e " i n f l u e n c e s embodied i n t h e mother a t work upon t h e young p o e t , t h e n , Z i l p a h s h o u l d r i g h t f u l l y be d e s c r i b e d i n h e r t r u e c o m p l e x i t y , w i t h a "shrewdness" o f c h a r a c t e r s u f f i c i e n t t o a l l o w f o r h e r p e r c e p t i o n o f t h e r o l e s o c i e t y had a l l o t t e d h e r and f o r r e f l e c t i v e comment upon i t s l i m i t a t i o n s . Inasmuch as s u c h a complex v i e w o f Z i l p a h has n o t been a t t e m p t e d , n e i t h e r has t h e n e a t l y b i f u r c a t e d v i s i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s w o r l d — f e m a l e o r male-dominated a c c o r d i n g t o t h e p r e d i l e c t i o n s o f h i s b i o g r a p h e r s — b e e n s e r i o u s l y c h a l l e n g e d . L i k e w i s e , t h e p o e t and h i s p o e t r y have been s u b s e q u e n t l y j u d g e d , o f t e n a p p a r e n t l y u n c o n s c i o u s l y , by s i m i l a r l y g e n d e r i z e d p e r c e p t i o n s w i t h n e g a t i v e o r p o s i t i v e r e s u l t s d e p e n d i n g upon t h e c r i t i c a l b i a s e s o f t h e s c h o l a r o r c r i t i c i n q u e s t i o n . To d a t e , l i t t l e o r no c o n s i d e r a t i o n from a l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i c a l o r c r i t i c a l p e r s p e c t i v e has been g i v e n t o t h e ways i n w h i c h t h e s o - c a l l e d f e m i n i n e and m a s c u l i n e s p h e r e s may have m u t u a l l y r e i n f o r c e d one a n o t h e r i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s w o r l d o r , f o r t h a t m a t t e r , i n L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f . S o c i a l h i s t o r i a n s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a , however, a r e b e g i n n i n g t o t r a c e t h e ways i n w h i c h t h e s h i f t from a f a m i l y - c e n t r e d d o m e s t i c economy t o a c o m m e r c i a l and i n d u s t r i a l 196 c a p i t a l i s m h e l p e d t o d e f i n e t h e newly e s t a b l i s h e d m i d d l e - c l a s s home, f a m i l y l i f e , and hence t h e r o l e o f women i n t h e t r a n s i t i o n a l p e r i o d o f t h e l a t e e i g h t e e n t h and e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r i e s . B r o a d l y p u t , t h e r e m o v a l o f m a t e r i a l p r o d u c t i v i t y from t h e home n e c e s s i t a t e d t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f c o m m e r c i a l m a r k e t - p l a c e v a l u e s i n c o n s i s t e n t w i t h t h e s p i r i t u a l and m o r a l v a l u e s p r a c t i s e d p r e v i o u s l y by t h e community a t l a r g e . The l a t t e r t h u s became c o n f i n e d w i t h i n t h e c o n t e x t o f home and f a m i l y and f e l l t o t h e management o f t h e now non- p r o d u c t i v e f e m a l e members o f t h e h o u s e h o l d , w h i l e i n d u s t r i a l c a p i t a l i s m g e n e r a t e d an e v e r i n c r e a s i n g s t o r e o f p r o d u c t s t h a t h e l p e d t o u n d e r s c o r e women's r i g h t f u l p l a c e w i t h i n t h e home. C a r o l l Smith-Rosenberg, f o r example, a r g u e s t h a t i n i t i a l economic d i s c r i m i n a t i o n a g a i n s t women e n t e r i n g t h e newly e s t a b l i s h e d i n d u s t r i a l w o r k f o r c e a c t u a l l y a s s i s t e d t h e development o f a " c o n f i n i n g i d e o l o g y " t h a t e r e c t e d " t h e n o n p r o d u c t i v e woman i n t o a symbol o f b o u r g e o i s c l a s s hegemony; t h e new b o u r g e o i s men o f t h e 1820s, 1830s and 1840s f o r m u l a t e d t h e C u l t o f True Womanhood, w h i c h p r e s c r i b e d a f e m a l e r o l e bounded by k i t c h e n and n u r s e r y , o v e r l a i d w i t h p i e t y and p u r i t y , and crowned w i t h s u b s e r v i e n c e " ( 1 3 ) . I n a c t u a l i t y , t h e True Womanhood t o w h i c h Smith-Rosenberg r e f e r s was a v phenomenon c r e a t e d n o t j u s t by b o u r g e o i s men b u t , as W e l t e r p o i n t s o u t , by women and c l e r g y m e n i n " t h e women's magazines, g i f t a n n u a l s , and r e l i g i o u s l i t e r a t u r e o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y " ( 1 5 1 ) . F o r i n s t a n c e , w r i t i n g i n 1841, Mrs. A . J . Graves u s e s r e l i g i o u s r h e t o r i c t o p r o v i d e a c a p i t a l i s t r a t i o n a l e f o r a f e m a l e - g o v e r n e d d o m e s t i c m o r a l i t y : ... . our homes s h a l l be made a t t r a c t i v e by t h e pure and s a t i s f y i n g enjoyments w h i c h r e l i g i o n , i n t e l l e c t , and t h e s o c i a l a f f e c t i o n s have g a t h e r e d a r o u n d them. Then . . . when o u r husbands, and our sons go f o r t h i n t o t h e busy and t u r b u l e n t w o r l d , we may f e e l s e c u r e t h a t t h e y w i l l w a l k u n h u r t amid i t s s n a r e s and t e m p t a t i o n s . T h e i r h e a r t s w i l l be a t home, where t h e i r t r e a s u r e i s ; and t h e y w i l l r e j o i c e t o r e t u r n t o i t s s a n c t u a r y o f r e s t , t h e r e t o r e f r e s h t h e i r w e a r i e d s p i r i t s , and renew t h e i r s t r e n g t h f o r t h e t o i l s and c o n f l i c t s o f l i f e . ( q t d . i n Ewen 126). T h i s i n t e r d e p e n d e n c e o f a b u r g e o n i n g c a p i t a l i s t economy and t h e s p i r i t u a l s a n c t u a r y o f t h e home a l s o was, d e s p i t e i t s imposed l i m i t a t i o n s , empowering t o women. C i t i n g S a r a h H a l e , e d i t o r o f t h e v e r y e a r l y L a d i e s Magazine (1828) , Douglas makes c l e a r t h e economic means by w h i c h m i d d l e - c l a s s women's m o r a l a u t h o r i t y was g u a r a n t e e d : " A u t h o r i t y o v e r men must . . . n e v e r be u s u r p e d ; b u t s t i l l women may, i f t h e y w i l l , e x e r t t h e i r t a l e n t s , and [by] t h e o p p o r t u n i t i e s n a t u r e has f u r n i s h e d , o b t a i n an i n f l u e n c e i n s o c i e t y t h a t w i l l be paramount t o a u t h o r i t y . They may e n j o y t h e l u x u r i e s o f w e a l t h , w i t h o u t e n d u r i n g t h e l a b o r s t o a c q u i r e i t ; and t h e h o n o r s o f o f f i c e , w i t h o u t f e e l i n g i t s c a r e s , and t h e g l o r y o f v i c t o r y , w i t h o u t s u f f e r i n g t h e dangers o f t h e b a t t l e " ( q t d . 7 3 ) . Douglas h e r s e l f , however, s e e s women n o t as h a v i n g been empowered by " t h e l u x u r i e s o f w e a l t h , " t h e p r o d u c t i v i t y o f l a i s s e z - f a i r e c a p i t a l i s m , b u t r a t h e r c o - o p t e d i n t o t h e s p e c i f i c r o l e s o f s a i n t and consumer, an a c t u a l e n f e e b l e m e n t f o r women w h i c h , i n 198 D o u g l a s ' s v i e w , had a p e r n i c i o u s i n f l u e n c e on n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e as a whole by i n f u s i n g f e m i n i n e s e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n t o r e l i g i o n , l i t e r a t u r e , t h e o l o g y , and h i s t o r i c a l s t u d i e s w h i l e men were o t h e r w i s e engaged i n t h e b u s i n e s s o f making money. C l e a r l y , whether o r n o t one v i e w s d o m e s t i c a l l y - b a s e d m o r a l a u t h o r i t y as empowering o r e n f e e b l i n g , t h e r o l e s o f women t o w h i c h s u c h a u t h o r i t y was a s c r i b e d and t h e c a p i t a l i s t r o l e s o f men i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a were so i n t e g r a t e d t h a t any a t t e m p t t o u n d e r s t a n d t h e one w i t h o u t t a k i n g i n t o a c c o u n t t h e o t h e r l e a d s t o u n j u s t s i m p l i f i c a t i o n o f an a m a z i n g l y complex s o c i e t y . T h i s s o c i e t y was shaped by a d i a l e c t i c between, on t h e one hand, t h e s p i r i t u a l y e t n o n - p r o d u c t i v e and t h e r e f o r e s u p p o s e d l y e n e r v a t i n g r e a l m o f women and, on t h e o t h e r , t h e c a p i t a l i s t i c , p r o d u c t i v e , and t h e r e f o r e s u p p o s e d l y i n v i g o r a t i n g r e a l m o f men. I n f a c t , d u r i n g h i s l a t e t e e n s , L o n g f e l l o w was m o t i v a t e d by a s i m i l a r d i a l e c t i c when, a t Bowdoin C o l l e g e (1822-25) , he t r i e d t o e s t a b l i s h f o r h i m s e l f h i s i d e n t i t y as a p o e t w h i l e n e a r l y a l l t h e e v i d e n c e around him p o i n t e d t o t h e p o p u l a r c o n c e p t i o n o f p o e t r y as an e m a s c u l a t i n g e n t e r p r i s e . I n h i s commencement o r a t i o n a t Bowdoin C o l l e g e , "Our N a t i v e W r i t e r s " (182 5 ) , L o n g f e l l o w c r i t i c i z e d " t h e p r e v a l e n t modes o f t h i n k i n g w h i c h c h a r a c t e r i z e [ h i s ] c o u n t r y and [ h i s ] t i m e s " : We a r e a p l a i n p e o p l e , t h a t have had n o t h i n g t o do w i t h t h e mere p l e a s u r e s and l u x u r i e s o f l i f e : and hence t h e r e has s p r u n g up w i t h i n us a q u i c k s i g h t e d n e s s t o t h e f a i l i n g s o f l i t e r a r y men, and an a v e r s i o n t o e v e r y t h i n g t h a t i s n o t p r a c t i c a l , o p e r a t i v e , and t h o r o u g h g o i n g . But i f we would e v e r have a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e , our n a t i v e w r i t e r s must be p a t r o n i z e d . ( q t d . i n H i g g i n s o n 82) And i n t h e y e a r s t o come, L o n g f e l l o w was t o denounce d i r e c t l y what he f e l t t o be t h e p u b l i c ' s m i s c o n c e p t i o n " t h a t l i t e r a t u r e b e g e t s an e f f e m i n a t e and c r a v e n s p i r i t " (Review o f S i d n e y ' s "Defense o f Poesy" (1832) i n Works [Davos P r e s s ] 365). The dilemma t h a t L o n g f e l l o w f a c e d i n t r y i n g t o e s t a b l i s h h i m s e l f as a male p o e t i n a f i e l d p u b l i c l y c o n c e i v e d o f as e f f e m i n a t e had as much t o do w i t h t h e f a c t t h a t t h e g r e a t m a j o r i t y o f p o e t s i n e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a were women as w i t h t h e f a c t t h a t t h e c u l t u r e p e r c e i v e d p o e t r y as m e r e l y a f e m i n i n e e n t e r p r i s e . E m i l y S t i p e s Watts p o i n t s o u t t h a t from 1800 t o 1850 o v e r e i g h t y f e m a l e p o e t s i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s (not c o u n t i n g e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t s s t i l l p u b l i s h i n g i n t o t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y ) p u b l i s h e d a t l e a s t one volume o f v e r s e o r were b e i n g p u b l i s h e d r e g u l a r l y i n t h e a n t h o l o g i e s , and t h a t t h e "number o f women who p u b l i s h e d o n l y i n j o u r n a l s (most w i t h a wide d i s t r i b u t i o n ) [was] a t l e a s t t w i c e t h a t number" (65) . She adds t h a t i t "was a c t u a l l y e a s i e r and more ' r e s p e c t a b l e ' f o r women t o p u b l i s h p o e t r y t h a n i t was f o r men" s i n c e p o e t r y was g e n e r a l l y c o n f i n e d t o p u b l i c a t i o n w i t h i n p e r i o d i c a l s w h i c h , as Watts m a i n t a i n s , " l a r g e l y a p p e a l e d t o t h e new m i d d l e - c l a s s women r e a d e r s . F o r t h i s r e a s o n , t h e f i r s t A m e r i c a n p o e t who c o u l d a c t u a l l y be c a l l e d a p o e t by p r o f e s s i o n , who a c t u a l l y made enough money t o s u p p o r t h e r s e l f 200 and h e r f a m i l y was p r o b a b l y L y d i a Hunt S i g o u r n e y " ( 6 7 ) . I f L o n g f e l l o w were t o choose f o r h i m s e l f t h e p r o f e s s i o n o f a u t h o r s h i p — t o use C h a r v a t ' s t e r m — a s h i s s o l e p r o f e s s i o n , he would have t o t a k e i n t o a c c o u n t t h e themes, s u b j e c t m a t t e r , and t e c h n i q u e s o f t h e b e s t - s e l l i n g f e m a l e p o e t s o f t h e day, and c r e a t e f o r h i m s e l f a p o e t i c v o i c e w i t h i n t h a t c o n t e x t . And t h i s i s e x a c t l y what he d i d . Thus i t i s s u r p r i s i n g t o r e a d i n H i l e n ' s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o Volume I o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s L e t t e r s t h a t " t h e y c o n t a i n few s t a t e m e n t s o f p o e t i c a l a m b i t i o n and o n l y o c c a s i o n a l a l l u s i o n s t o p o e t i c t h e o r y , and h i s comments on t h e p o e t r y o f o t h e r s a r e r a r e l y marked by c r i t i c a l p e r c e p t i o n " ( 4 ) . H i l e n ' s v i e w o f t h e e a r l y L o n g f e l l o w i s m i s l e a d i n g i n t h e extreme. F o r t h r o u g h o u t h i s c o l l e g e l e t t e r s , L o n g f e l l o w f r e q u e n t l y d i s c o u r s e d upon p o e t r y and l i t e r a r y t o p i c s w i t h h i s mother, s i s t e r s , and male and f e m a l e f r i e n d s a l i k e ; he s p e n t c l o s e t o a y e a r i n an e p i s t o l a r y d e b a t e w i t h h i s f a t h e r o v e r t h e v a l u e o f a " m e r e l y l i t e r a r y " c a r e e r . I n f a c t , d u r i n g t h i s exchange w i t h h i s f a t h e r , L o n g f e l l o w made m a n i f e s t h i s p e r s o n a l commitment t o l i t e r a t u r e d e s p i t e h i s f a t h e r ' s s c e p t i c i s m about t h e s o c i a l and p r a c t i c a l v a l u e o f l i t e r a t u r e as a p r o f e s s i o n . A c c o r d i n g t o one o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o l l e g e c l a s s m a t e s , J.W. B r a d b u r y , i n a c l a s s d e f i n e d by a m b i t i o n and " s t r u g g l e f o r r a n k i n s c h o l a r s h i p . . . . L o n g f e l l o w s t o o d j u s t l y among t h e f i r s t " ( q t d . i n L i f e I 27-8). G i v e n h i s r a n k , h i s q u e s t i o n i n g o f how b e s t t o use h i s e d u c a t i o n and o b v i o u s a b i l i t i e s assumed paramount i m p o r t a n c e as L o n g f e l l o w approached g r a d u a t i o n . As b e f i t t e d h i s s o c i a l p o s i t i o n and e d u c a t i o n , L o n g f e l l o w ' s o b v i o u s c a r e e r o p t i o n s were p r o f e s s i o n a l : t h e law, c l e r g y , o r m e d i c i n e . But as e a r l y as March 1824, a t age s e v e n t e e n , he began t o a l l u d e t o t h e a l t o g e t h e r d i f f e r e n t p r o f e s s i o n o f w r i t i n g , f e a r i n g t h a t h i s f a t h e r would n o t approve ( L e t t e r s I 8 3 ) . L o n g f e l l o w was r i g h t . I n t h e n e x t month, he had g e n t l y t o admonish h i s f a t h e r f o r c h o o s i n g law as a c a r e e r f o r him: " I n t h i n k i n g t o make a l a w y e r o f me, I f e a r you t h o u g h t more p a r t i a l l y t h a n j u s t l y . . . . I h a r d l y t h i n k N a t u r e d e s i g n e d me f o r t h e b a r , o r t h e p u l p i t , o r t h e d i s s e c t i n g room" ( L e t t e r s I 8 9 ) . These s e n t i m e n t s a r e r e i t e r a t e d more s t r o n g l y i n a l e t t e r t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s f r i e n d , George Washington W e l l s : " I c a n n o t make a l a w y e r o f any eminence because I have n o t a t a l e n t f o r argument, I am n o t good enough f o r a m i n i s t e r , — a n d as t o P h y s i c , I u t t e r l y and a b s o l u t e l y d e t e s t i t . ..." ( L e t t e r s I 9 3 ) . Y e t , as Thompson p o i n t s o u t , " f i l i a l r e s p e c t and o b e d i e n c e " p r e v a i l e d , and L o n g f e l l o w r e l u c t a n t l y a g r e e d t o a c a r e e r i n law ( 5 4 ) . N e v e r t h e l e s s , L o n g f e l l o w was bent on f i r s t t e s t i n g h i s m e t t l e as a p r o f e s s i o n a l w r i t e r . By t h e end o f J a n u a r y 1825, he had s u c c e e d e d i n c o n v i n c i n g h i s f a t h e r t o a l l o w him t o s t u d y " g e n e r a l l i t e r a t u r e f o r one y e a r a t Cambridge" ( L e t t e r s I 103) and t o engage i n w r i t i n g p o e t r y and e s s a y s f o r p e r i o d i c a l s b e f o r e assuming h i s l e g a l t r a i n i n g . A l t h o u g h t h e y e a r a t Cambridge n e v e r came about, preempted as i t was by t h e 202 o f f e r o f C h a i r o f Modern Languages a t Bowdoin C o l l e g e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e a s o n i n g w i t h h i s f a t h e r b e t r a y s t h e young p o e t ' s s e l f - c o n f i d e n t a s s u m p t i o n o f h i s f u t u r e preeminence as a w r i t e r . A f t e r p r o p o s i n g a y e a r o f s t u d y i n H i s t o r y , " t h e b e s t a u t h o r s i n p o l i t e l i t e r a t u r e , " and I t a l i a n , he adds t h e f o l l o w i n g : A f t e r l e a v i n g Cambridge, I would a t t a c h m y s e l f t o some l i t e r a r y p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n . . . . [T]he f a c t i s . . . I most e a g e r l y a s p i r e a f t e r f u t u r e eminence i n l i t e r a t u r e . . . . S u r e l y t h e r e was n e v e r a b e t t e r o p p o r t u n i t y f o r t h e e x e r t i o n o f l i t e r a r y t a l e n t i n our c o u n t r y , t h a n i s now o f f e r e d . [ N a t u r e ] has a t any r a t e g i v e n me a v e r y s t r o n g p r e d i l e c t i o n f o r l i t e r a r y p u r s u i t s , and I am a l m o s t c o n f i d e n t i n b e l i e v i n g t h a t , i f I can e v e r r i s e i n t h e w o r l d , i t must be by t h e e x e r c i s e o f my t a l e n t s i n t h e wide f i e l d o f l i t e r a t u r e . (5 Dec 1824, L e t t e r s I 94-5) L o n g f e l l o w c o n t i n u e d t o a t t e m p t t o p e r s u a d e h i s f a t h e r o f h i s n a t u r a l l i t e r a r y a b i l i t i e s by c i t i n g s e v e r a l e x p r e s s i o n s o f a p p r o b a t i o n by T h e o p h i l u s P a r s o n s , e d i t o r o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e t o w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w had, by P a r s o n s ' s i n v i t a t i o n , become a r e g u l a r c o n t r i b u t o r . 6 P a r s o n s was " w e l l - s a t i s f i e d " t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s " l i t e r a r y t a l e n t s [were] o f no o r d i n a r y c h a r a c t e r " ( P a r s o n s q t d . by L o n g f e l l o w i n L e t t e r s I 9 5 ) . H a v i n g f a i l e d t o r e c e i v e an immediate answer from h i s ° From Nov. 15, 1824 t o Nov. 15, 1825, L o n g f e l l o w c o n t r i b u t e d s e v e n t e e n poems f o r t h e semi-monthly G a z e t t e a l o n g w i t h known p o e t s s u c h as B r y a n t t o whom one o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems was f a l s e l y a t t r i b u t e d ( t o t h e g r e a t d e l i g h t o f t h e younger p o e t ) . F i v e o f t h e s e L o n g f e l l o w r e p r i n t e d i n V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t . L o n g f e l l o w a l s o c o n t r i b u t e d s e v e r a l s h o r t e s s a y s , t h e most i m p o r t a n t o f w h i c h a r e t h e f i v e t h a t make up h i s "Lay Monk" s e r i e s a p p e a r i n g i n 1825. f a t h e r c o n c e r n i n g h i s Cambridge p l a n , L o n g f e l l o w w r o t e a g a i n a t t h e end o f December and, once more, used P a r s o n s ' s h i g h r e g a r d f o r h i s p o e t r y as e v i d e n c e o f an i n n a t e p o e t i c a l a b i l i t y . Here, L o n g f e l l o w p o s i t s t h a t , a f t e r h i s y e a r o f s t u d y i n g B e l l e s L e t t r e s , i t would n o t " r e q u i r e a s p i r i t o f p r o p h e c y t o p r e d i c t w i t h some degree o f c e r t a i n t y what k i n d o f f i g u r e " he would have commenced " t o make i n t h e l i t e r a r y w o r l d , " f o r , a f t e r a l l , he i s c o n v i n c e d t h a t he " w i l l be eminent i n s o m e t h i n g " ( L e t t e r s I 9 8 - 9 ) . G i v e n t h a t L o n g f e l l o w was o n l y e i g h t e e n , and t h a t he had n e c e s s a r i l y t o a p p e a l t o h i s f a t h e r i f he w i s h e d t o f u r t h e r h i s e d u c a t i o n , h i s f i n a l d e f e r e n c e t o h i s f a t h e r ' s d e c i s i o n t o g r a n t him o n l y one y e a r a t Cambridge does n o t seem e x c e s s i v e l y s u b s e r v i e n t . On t h e c o n t r a r y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s managing a t t h i s t i m e t o s e c u r e a l i m i t e d l i t e r a r y e d u c a t i o n c o u p l e d w i t h p r a c t i c a l l i t e r a r y e x p e r i e n c e d i s p l a y s h i s s e l f - a s s u r a n c e and d e t e r m i n a t i o n as a w r i t e r , p a r t i c u l a r l y s i n c e h i s f a t h e r had warned him t h a t " t h e r e [was] n o t w e a l t h enough i n t h i s c o u n t r y t o a f f o r d s u f f i c i e n t encouragement and p a t r o n a g e t o m e r e l y l i t e r a r y men" ( q t d . i n L i f e I 5 5 - 6 ) . P a r s o n s , i n d e p e n d e n t l y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s f a t h e r , had echoed a s i m i l a r v i e w . L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f was f o r c e d t o admit t h a t "most o f our l i t e r a r y men, t h u s f a r , have n o t been p r o f e s s e d l y so, u n t i l t h e y have s t u d i e d and e n t e r e d t h e p r a c t i c e o f T h e o l o g y , Law, o r M e d i c i n e " ( L e t t e r s I 9 5 ) . These v i e w s o f t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y market f o r l i t e r a r y t a l e n t a r e c o r r o b o r a t e d by C h a r v a t i n h i s 204 s t u d y o f The O r i g i n s o f American C r i t i c a l Thought: 1810-1835, i n w h i c h he n o t e s t h a t l e s s t h a n h a l f a dozen men (women a r e n o t c o n s i d e r e d i n t h i s c o n t e x t ) d e v o t e d t h e i r l i v e s t o l i t e r a t u r e i n t h i s p e r i o d ; none made a l i v i n g a t i t ( 5 ) . L o n g f e l l o w , f o r a l l h i s l i t e r a r y a m b i t i o n s , was n o t p r e p a r e d t o s t a r v e i n o r d e r t o r e a l i z e them. The law was t h e r e f o r e t o " s u p p o r t [ h i s ] r e a l e x i s t e n c e , l i t e r a t u r e an i d e a l one" ( L e t t e r s I 104). I n o t h e r words, L o n g f e l l o w would do h i s utmost t o s u s t a i n a d u a l l i f e by f o l l o w i n g h i s f a t h e r i n t o t h e " r e a l " m a s c u l i n e w o r l d o f p r o f e s s i o n a l (and l i k e l y p o l i t i c a l ) a c t i v i t y t h r o u g h h i s s o c i a l l y r e s p e c t a b l e r o l e as a l a w y e r , w h i l e p r o v i d i n g s a n c t u a r y and r e p o s e f o r h i m s e l f i n t h e s o c i a l l y d u b i o u s " i d e a l " w o r l d o f p o e t r y , dominated as i t was by women. W i l l i a m s o p e n l y commends L o n g f e l l o w ' s "yankee shrewdness," i n h e r i t e d no doubt from h i s f a t h e r , he adds, i n r e c o g n i z i n g t h a t t h e c l i m a t e was n o t r i g h t f o r a s e l f - s u p p o r t i n g l i t e r a r y c a r e e r i n e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a ( 4 1 ) . Y e t L o n g f e l l o w ' s shrewdness o f v i s i o n may j u s t as r e a d i l y be a t t r i b u t e d t o h i s mother's i n f l u e n c e , c o n d i t i o n e d as she was, t o a c c e p t t h e l i m i t a t i o n s o f h e r " r e a l " l i f e o f home and f a m i l y w h i l e i m a g i n a t i v e l y p r o j e c t i n g h e r s e l f i n t o an " i d e a l " m a s c u l i n e w o r l d o f s o c i a l a c t i v i t y . I n s h o r t , two o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s most f i r m l y h e l d a s s u m p t i o n s about h i m s e l f — a n a t u r a l i n c l i n a t i o n t o w a r d a l i t e r a r y f u t u r e and a c a p a c i t y f o r eminence r e g a r d l e s s o f p r o f e s s i o n — s u g g e s t t h a t h i s c h a r a c t e r was e q u a l l y shaped by two f o r c e s : a f e m a l e - i n h e r i t e d i m a g i n a t i o n r e s t r i c t e d , as were women, by r e l i g i o u s m o r a l i s m , and a m a l e - i n h e r i t e d d r i v e f o r p r o f e s s i o n a l r e c o g n i t i o n . As L o n g f e l l o w l o o k s t o a f u t u r e A m e r i c a o f i n c r e a s i n g l i t e r a c y and w i d e s p r e a d e d u c a t i o n , p a r t i c u l a r l y among women, he sees h i m s e l f as a b l e t o a t t a i n l i t e r a r y eminence w i t h i n t h a t c o n t e x t . L o n g f e l l o w ' s a m b i t i o n s i n t h i s r e g a r d n o t o n l y s u r f a c e i n t h e above l e t t e r s t o h i s f a t h e r , b u t s p e c i f i c a l l y appear i n h i s l e t t e r s t o h i s s i s t e r s and l a t e r t o C a r o l i n e Doane, a f i r s t c o u s i n once removed. E v i d e n t i n t h e s e l e t t e r s a r e t h e u n d e r l y i n g r e a s o n s f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r e v i o u s l y n o t e d c o n v i c t i o n t h a t " [ s ] u r e l y t h e r e was n e v e r a b e t t e r o p p o r t u n i t y f o r t h e e x e r t i o n o f l i t e r a r y t a l e n t i n our c o u n t r y , t h a n i s now o f f e r e d . " I n 1824, a t t h e same t i m e t h a t he i s a n x i o u s l y p e r s u a d i n g h i s f a t h e r a g a i n s t making a l a w y e r o f him, and p e t i t i o n i n g f o r an o p p o r t u n i t y f o r a y e a r ' s e d u c a t i o n a t Cambridge, L o n g f e l l o w d i s p a r a g e s t h e " m u l t i t u d e o f w e e k l y and s e m i - w e e k l y j o u r n a l s , " i n p a r t i c u l a r , t h e p r o p o s e d "'Wreath,' a l i t e r a r y Museum f o r t h e L a d i e s . " He adds t h a t h i s s i s t e r , E l i z a b e t h , has vowed t o him t h a t she w i l l n o t r e a d i t " ' i f i t i s composed o f such t r a s h as u s u a l l y f i l l s t h e l a d i e s M a g a z i n e s . They pay b u t a poor compliment t o t h e l a d i e s t o t h i n k t h a t t h e y can be p l e a s e d w i t h such n o n s e n c e ' [ s i c ] " ( L e t t e r s I 8 4 - 5 ) . By t h e end o f t h a t y e a r , L o n g f e l l o w had become a r e g u l a r c o n t r i b u t o r , i n b o t h p o e t r y and p r o s e , t o t h e more r e p u t a b l e U n i t e d S t a t e s 206 L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e . I n t h e meantime, however, L o n g f e l l o w p a i d c l o s e a t t e n t i o n t o s o - c a l l e d "women's l i t e r a t u r e . " I n f a c t , he once remarked t o h i s s i s t e r , Anne, 24 O c t o b e r 1824: "Do you know who w r o t e t h a t r i d i c u l o u s , l i f e l e s s , l i t t l e p i e c e o f P o e t r y i n t h e 'Wreath' s i g n e d 'H'? [ L o n g f e l l o w a t t h a t t i m e u s u a l l y s i g n e d h i s work 'HWL'.] I am a f r a i d f o l k s w i l l t h i n k t h a t I w r o t e i t , and t h a t I am i n t h e h a b i t o f w r i t i n g f o r t h e puny p a p e r ! " ( L e t t e r s I 9 2 ) . C l e a r l y , as L o n g f e l l o w was e s t a b l i s h i n g h i s own p l a c e w i t h i n t h e e x i s t i n g l i t e r a r y community, he c l e a r l y saw h i m s e l f as c o m p e t i n g , on some l e v e l , f o r t h a t p l a c e w i t h women. H i s l e t t e r s o f 1825 t o C a r o l i n e Doane a l s o b e t r a y a f a s c i n a t i o n w i t h t h e p o e t r y o f t h e f e m a l e p o e t s o f t h e t i m e , and i t s r e c e p t i o n , i n p a r t i c u l a r o f t h e enormously p o p u l a r • • 7 • B r i t i s h p o e t s , L.E.L. and Mrs Hemans. A c c o r d i n g t o I n The V i c t o r i a n s and t h e i r R e a d i n g , Amy C r u s e n o t e s t h a t a l t h o u g h F e l i c i a Hemans d i e d i n 1835 a l l " t h r o u g h t h e e a r l y y e a r s o f V i c t o r i a ' s r e i g n she was r e a d and p r a i s e d and a l m o s t r e v e r e n c e d . E v e r y young l a d y [ i n c l u d i n g F l o r e n c e N i g h t i n g a l e and Mary Ann Evans] had a copy o f h e r poems, and i n e v e r y s c h o o l r o o m t h e y were r e a d and l e a r n t by h e a r t . . . . Not o n l y t h e l a d i e s , b u t o l d e r p e o p l e t o o , o f c u l t i v a t e d t a s t e s p r a i s e d Mrs. Hemans . . . ; and Wordsworth lamented h e r d e a t h w i t h h i g h e u l o g y " (178). The t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y e d i t o r o f Hemans's p o e t r y , Donald H. Reiman, c l a i m s t h a t "whatever f i n a l judgment a w a i t s h e r p o e t r y , [she] has t h e d i s t i n c t i o n o f h a v i n g a c h i e v e d w i d e r r e c o g n i t i o n and p o p u l a r i t y among h e r c o n t e m p o r a r i e s t h a n has any o t h e r woman p o e t i n E n g l i s h . " He p o i n t s o u t t h e i n n u m e r a b l e e d i t i o n s o f Hemans's w o r k — f r o m 1808 t o 1 9 0 0 — a n d t h e n adds t h a t a l t h o u g h "some have m e n t i o n e d L.E.L. ( L a e t i t i a E l i z a b e t h Landon) as h a v i n g had a l a r g e r r e a d e r s h i p , such a judgment must be r e s t r i c t e d t o t h e p e r i o d between 1824 and 1835 when l i t e r a r y a n n u a l s were i n t h e i r heyday" ( v ) . L o n g f e l l o w , " M i s s L e t i t i a [ s i c ] E l i s a b e t h Landon (L.E.L.) has w r i t t e n c e r t a i n l y some v e r y b e a u t i f u l p o e t r y , b u t she i s r a t h e r t o o c a r e l e s s . She can no more compose w i t h Mrs. Hemans t h e n [ s i c ] P e r c i v a l can w i t h B r y a n t " ( L e t t e r s I 13 2-3*) . I n subsequent remarks c o n c e r n i n g L.E.L., L o n g f e l l o w a d m i r e s t h e "beauty i n h e r i d e a s " and t h e " e l e g a n c e i n h e r l a n g u a g e , " b u t he a l s o c r i t i c i z e s h e r e f f u s i v e n e s s w h i c h , i n h i s mind, f r e q u e n t l y r e s u l t s i n a r t l e s s s t r u c t u r e s and i m i t a t i v e n e s s ( L e t t e r s I 141-2). As f o r Mrs Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n i t i a l l y h i g h r e g a r d f o r h e r began t o wane. A d m i t t i n g t h a t she " p o s s e s s e s g r e a t g e n i u s and g r e a t power o v e r l a n g u a g e , " he c r i t i c a l l y adds t h a t " o f l a t e , by h e r own c a r e l e s s n e s s , she has f a l l e n s h o r t o f h e r own e x c e l l e n c e . Moreover, she has i n t r o d u c e d t o modern p o e t r y a hop, s k i p , and jump k i n d o f measure, w h i c h has had, i n my humble o p i n i o n , a v e r y d e l e t e r i o u s i n f l u e n c e i n our own c o u n t r y " ( L e t t e r s I 139). N o n e t h e l e s s , t h e o v e r a l l i m p o r t a n c e o f Mrs Hemans i n A m e r i c a s h o u l d n o t be u n d e r e s t i m a t e d : "No o t h e r p o e t was so c h e r i s h e d by A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s , no o t h e r spoken w i t h s u c h unanimous r e s p e c t " (Branch 107). No o t h e r , t h a t i s , u n t i l L o n g f e l l o w . Where a p p r o p r i a t e , t h e q u a l i t i e s o f v e r s e t h a t s e c u r e d Mrs Hemans h e r p u b l i c r e c o g n i t i o n a r e d i s c u s s e d i n r e l a t i o n t o s i m i l a r t e n d e n c i e s i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s work (see c h a p t e r f i v e ) . A t t h i s p o i n t , however, i t i s s u f f i c i e n t t o n o t e t h a t L o n g f e l l o w was t a k i n g an a c t i v e i n t e r e s t i n women's p o e t r y 208 p r e c i s e l y a t t h e same t i m e t h a t he was c r e a t i n g h i s own f l e d g l i n g p o e t i c i d e n t i t y . A l t h o u g h i t can be a r g u e d t h a t i n t h e s e l e t t e r s L o n g f e l l o w was m e r e l y r e s p o n d i n g t o h i s f e m a l e c o r r e s p o n d e n t ' s e n t h u s i a s m f o r women's p o e t r y o f t h e t i m e , w i t h o u t a c c e s s t o C a r o l i n e Doane's l e t t e r s , i t seems e q u a l l y a r g u a b l e t h a t much o f h i s c o n c e r n f o r t h e s e women's work was i n i t i a t e d by L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f . L o n g f e l l o w , a t t h i s t i m e , i s e v i d e n t l y f o r m i n g an u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f A m e r i c a n p o e t r y , and h i s p l a c e w i t h i n i t , n o t s t r i c t l y by what he deems i t s h o u l d become b u t by what i s : a p o e t r y f a s h i o n e d , t o a g r e a t e x t e n t , by " s c r i b b l i n g women" (Hawthorne's term) and f e m a l e r e a d e r s . I r o n i c a l l y , s i m i l a r c r i t i c i s m s r e g a r d i n g " e f f u s i v e n e s s " and " c a r e l e s s n e s s " had been l e v e l l e d a g a i n s t L o n g f e l l o w ' s own p o e t r y b o t h by h i s f a t h e r and by P a r s o n s a t p r e c i s e l y t h i s same t i m e . I n t h e d e c i s i v e y e a r o f 1825, w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w was p l a g u e d by t h e q u e s t i o n o f what p r o f e s s i o n he s h o u l d p u r s u e — and, i f l i t e r a r y , what q u a l i t y o f l i t e r a t u r e was c u r r e n t l y b e i n g w r i t t e n and r e a d i n A m e r i c a — h e was a l s o u n d e r s t a n d a b l y a n x i o u s about t h e q u a l i t y and r e c e p t i o n o f h i s own p u b l i s h e d poems. And i t i s t h e p e r s o n a l (Stephen L o n g f e l l o w ) and p r o f e s s i o n a l ( T h e o p h i l u s P a r s o n s ) male a u t h o r i t y f i g u r e s , and n o t h i s mother, s i s t e r s , o r c o u s i n , who i n f l u e n c e d h i s v i e w s i n t h i s r e g a r d . I n t h e same l e t t e r t o h i s f a t h e r i n w h i c h he o u t l i n e s i n d e t a i l t h e p o t e n t i a l expenses o f a y e a r ' s s t u d y a t Cambridge, and h i g h l i g h t s h i s c o n t i n u e d endeavours t o e x a c t payment f o r w r i t i n g s he had s u b m i t t e d t o t h e A m e r i c a n M o n t h l y Magazine , L o n g f e l l o w b e g i n s by g r a c i o u s l y a c k n o w l e d g i n g t h e v a l i d i t y o f t h e f o l l o w i n g c r i t i c i s m t h a t h i s f a t h e r had made o f h i s p o e t r y : "You s h o u l d make i t a r u l e n e v e r t o send an e f f u s i o n o f t h e moment t o t h e p r e s s , t i l l t h e a r d o r and t h e f e e l i n g s , w i t h w h i c h i t was w r i t t e n , have s u b s i d e d " (see L e t t e r s I 108 n o t e 2 ) . H i s son r e p l i e d : "Your good a d v i c e I s h a l l h e r e a f t e r f o l l o w , and have t h e r e f o r e s e n t no p o e t r y f o r t h e n e x t number o f t h e G a z e t t e , — t h o u g h I have a p i e c e w r i t t e n f o r t h a t p u r p o s e . Your o p i n i o n upon my w r i t i n g c o i n c i d e s i n a g r e a t measure w i t h t h a t o f Mr. P a r s o n s , t h e e d i t o r o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e , who s a y s t h a t I must use more c a r e , o r r a t h e r , t h a t i t w i l l be f o r my own advantage t o use more c a r e , t h a n my communications g e n e r a l l y e x h i b i t ( L e t t e r s I 106) . 9 P a r s o n s , f o r h i s p a r t , had a d o p t e d a p a t e r n a l t o n e i n h i s c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h t h e young p o e t , e v e r a n x i o u s t o encourage L o n g f e l l o w i n ways t h a t would advance h i s r e p u t a t i o n and, one m i g h t add, t h e r e p u t a t i o n o f P a r s o n s ' s G a z e t t e . O b v i o u s l y , L o n g f e l l o w would be most s e n s i t i v e t o t h o s e same 8 These c o n t r i b u t i o n s have been i d e n t i f i e d as a poem, "To t h e N o v i c e o f t h e Convent o f t h e V i s i t a t i o n , " a d r a m a t i c s k e t c h i n v e r s e , "The Poor S t u d e n t , " and an e s s a y , "Youth and O l d Age." L o n g f e l l o w n e v e r d i d r e c e i v e payment f o r t h e s e s u b m i s s i o n s ( L i f e I 4 1 ) . 9 C r i t i c i s m o f y o u t h f u l p r e c o c i t y as a d e t r i m e n t t o "manly" v e r s e forms p a r t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s l a t e r v i e w o f t h e impediments t o n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e o u t l i n e d i n h i s r e v i e w a r t i c l e o f t h e new e d i t i o n o f S i d n e y ' s "Defense o f Poesy," d i s c u s s e d below. c r i t i c i s m s t h a t he h i m s e l f had so a d e p t l y a p p l i e d t o L.E.L and Mrs Hemans; t h u s i t i s n o t s u r p r i s i n g t o d i s c o v e r t h a t , by and l a r g e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s " p u b l i s h e d " p o e t i c p r o d u c t i v i t y dropped o f f a t t h i s t i m e and d i d n o t e f f e c t i v e l y resume u n t i l t h e l a t e 183 0s w i t h t h e a l m o s t o v e r n i g h t s u c c e s s o f V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t i n 1839. A d m i t t e d l y , t h e p e r i o d l e a d i n g up t o t h i s achievement i n p o e t r y was h a r d l y c o n d u c i v e t o c r e a t i v i t y , marked as i t was by many p e r s o n a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l u p h e a v a l s f o r t h e young p o e t : h i s f i r s t European t o u r (1825-29) i n p r e p a r a t i o n t o become t h e f i r s t C h a i r o f Modern Languages a t Bowdoin C o l l e g e (18 2 9 ) ; m a r r i a g e t o Mary S t o r e r P o t t e r (1831); a second European t o u r , d u r i n g w h i c h Mary d i e d (183 5-3 6 ) ; and a p p o i n t m e n t as S m i t h P r o f e s s o r o f Modern Languages, H a r v a r d U n i v e r s i t y (183 6 ) . What i s c o n s i s t e n t t h r o u g h o u t t h i s p e r i o d , however, i s L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a p e r s o n a l p o e t i c s , t h e development o f w h i c h can be t r a c e d i n h i s p u b l i s h e d p r o s e — n o t p o e t r y — o f t h e t i m e : h i s Bowdoin C o l l e g e commencement o r a t i o n , "Our N a t i v e W r i t e r s " (1825); h i s "Lay Monk E s s a y s , " i n c l u d i n g "The L i t e r a r y S p i r i t o f Our C o u n t r y , " (March-Oct 1825); h i s r e v i e w o f t h e new e d i t i o n o f S i d n e y ' s "Defense o f Poesy" (1832); and v a r i o u s p a s s a g e s i n h i s I r v i n g e s q U e ' ' t a l e — O u t r e Mer (1835) and p r o s e romance, H y p e r i o n (1839). As no o t h e r p r o f e s s i o n o f t h e t i m e c o u l d have, work w i t h i n t h e newly e s t a b l i s h e d f i e l d o f Modern Languages must have seemed t o L o n g f e l l o w a f o r t u i t o u s 211 o p p o r t u n i t y t o f u s e a n e c e s s a r y , r e s p e c t a b l e l i v e l i h o o d — a " r e a l " l i f e — w i t h h i s " i d e a l " p u r s u i t o f l i t e r a t u r e . That L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r o s e works o f t h e 1820s and 1830s a d o p t e d an i n s t r u c t i o n a l t o n e i s t h u s n o t s u r p r i s i n g g i v e n t h a t he n o t o n l y was s c h o o l i n g h i s a u d i e n c e b u t was a l s o g u i d i n g h i m s e l f i n t h e f i t r e l a t i o n s h i p between t h e p o e t and h i s a u d i e n c e , between t h e l i f e o f t h e mind and p r a c t i c a l endeavour. The f i n a l r e s u l t o f t h i s p r o s a i c e n t e r p r i s e , Kavanagh (1849), a l a r g e l y a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l n o v e l , c o n t a i n s L o n g f e l l o w ' s l a s t p u b l i s h e d pronouncements i n p r o s e c o n c e r n i n g t h e v a l u e o f l i t e r a t u r e , and p o e t r y i n p a r t i c u l a r , t o i t s n a t i o n . Thus, even w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w a t c o l l e g e was p r e o c c u p i e d w i t h h i s own p r i v a t e c o n f l i c t o f t h e r e a l v e r s u s i d e a l l i f e , d e s c r i b e d above i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s r o l e as a p o t e n t i a l c o n t e m p o r a r y o f f e m a l e p o e t s , he was a l s o p r e p a r i n g t o p a r t i c i p a t e i n t h e o n g o i n g p u b l i c d e b a t e o v e r t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a s p e c i f i c a l l y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . I r o n i c a l l y , many o f t h e terms used i n t h i s d e b a t e r e v e a l f o r L o n g f e l l o w a t l e a s t , i f n o t f o r many o f t h e w r i t e r s who p a r t i c i p a t e d , n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a ' s d e s i r e t o e s t a b l i s h a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e as a m a s c u l i n i s t e n t e r p r i s e , t h e b r e a k i n g f r e e o f a d o u b l e yoke: from t h e s u f f o c a t i n g i n f l u e n c e s o f t h e "mother" c o u n t r y , E n g l a n d , and from t h e e q u a l l y s t u l t i f y i n g p u b l i c m i s c o n c e p t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e as a w o r t h l e s s l y " f e m i n i n e " e n t e r p r i s e . As Benjamin Spencer d e m o n s t r a t e s i n h i s s t u d y o f A m e r i c a ' s Quest f o r N a t i o n a l i t y , 212 r e s i s t a n c e t o B r i t i s h c u l t u r e was " u n d o u b t e d l y most i n t e n s e i n t h e e a r l y decades o f t h e c e n t u r y d u r i n g t h e ' l i t e r a r y war,' b u t even t h r o u g h t h e m i d d l e o f t h e c e n t u r y major w r i t e r s t h r o u g h o u t t h e l a n d r e i t e r a t e d Simms's c h a r g e t h a t E n g l a n d m a i n t a i n e d such a ' p e r n i c i o u s i n f l u e n c e . . . o v e r our m e n t a l and m o r a l c h a r a c t e r ' t h a t 'we a r e e m a s c u l a t e d and e n s l a v e d ' " ( 8 5 ) . The l a c k o f an i n t e r n a t i o n a l c o p y r i g h t law was one o b v i o u s c o m m e r c i a l r e a s o n f o r t h e c o n t i n u e d sway o f B r i t i s h o p i n i o n i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . But f e a r i n g more t h a n a mere p r e p o n d e r a n c e o f B r i t i s h t e x t s , A m e r i c a n c r i t i c s a l s o w o r r i e d t h a t c i s a t l a n t i c l i t e r a t u r e might be w a n t i n g i n t h e s t r e n g t h and v i g o u r needed t o compete e f f e c t i v e l y f o r p u b l i c r e c o g n i t i o n w i t h a c e n t u r i e s - o l d B r i t i s h t r a d i t i o n . Hence t h e l i t e r a t i o f a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a s e t t o work t o e s t a b l i s h an i d e n t i f i a b l y v i r i l e n a t i o n a l c u l t u r e . I n t h i s endeavour, L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l y v o i c e was c l e a r l y h e a r d , b u t i t became d i f f u s e d o v e r t i m e as h i s t r a v e l s i n Europe m i l i t a t e d a g a i n s t what he l a t e r f e l t t o be A m e r i c a ' s c h a u v i n i s t a t t i t u d e . A t t h e o u t s e t , t h e young p o e t ' s p e r s o n a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s d e s c r i b e d above shaped h i s e a r l y s e l f - a w a r e n e s s o f what h i s r o l e c o u l d be i n t h e c r e a t i o n and m a i n t e n a n c e o f a d i s t i n c t l y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . Y e t , H e r b e r t Gorman a r g u e s t h a t w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w " u n d o u b t e d l y b e l i e v e d i n h i s h e a r t t h a t he was an A m e r i c a n , and so f a r as b i r t h and t r a d i t i o n go he was one, . . . he had no c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e d u t i e s — a n d t h e r e were d u t i e s — t h a t d e v o l v e d upon t h e 213 A m e r i c a n l i t t e r a t e u r i n t h o s e y e a r s o f s c a n t y c u l t u r e when t h e b a s i s o f a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e was b e i n g formed" ( v i i - i x ) . A c c o r d i n g t o Gorman, who i m p l i e s r a t h e r t h a n s t a t e s d i r e c t l y t h e s e " d u t i e s , " o n l y F u l l e r , Poe, and Whitman a t t h a t t i m e u n d e r s t o o d t h e r e q u i s i t e d u t i e s o f t r u e A m e r i c a n s i n t e r e s t e d i n f o s t e r i n g n a t i o n a l c u l t u r e . Gorman's e s t i m a t i o n o f t h e above a u t h o r s as c h a r a c t e r i s t i c A m e r i c a n s seems t o d e r i v e more from t h e i r a c t i v e d e n u n c i a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w t h a n from any d i s c e r n a b l e f e a t u r e s i n t h e i r own w r i t i n g t h a t would l i n k them w i t h one a n o t h e r as s p o k e s p e r s o n s f o r a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e . 1 0 G r a n t e d , F u l l e r , Poe and Whitman a t d i f f e r e n t t i m e s and i n d i f f e r e n t ways spoke t o A m e r i c a ' s p o s t War-of-1812 need t o c r e a t e a l i t e r a t u r e as r e s o l u t e l y a t odds w i t h E n g l a n d as t h e c o u n t r y i t s e l f had so r e c e n t l y been. B u t , i n t h e i r own ways, a l m o s t e v e r y a n t e b e l l u m w r i t e r argued f o r a d i s t i n c t i v e l y n a t i o n a l v o i c e i n l i t e r a t u r e (see Spencer 7 7 ) , n o t t h e l e a s t o f whom was Emerson (not m e n t i o n e d i n t h i s c o n t e x t by Gorman) who, i n h i s "American S c h o l a r " (1837), added g r e a t l y t o h i s c o u n t r y ' s u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e p o e t ' s n a t i o n a l commitment. I n t h i s r e g a r d , Emerson's i n f l u e n c e 1 0 W h i l e b o t h F u l l e r and Poe p u b l i s h e d s h a r p l y c r i t i c a l r e v i e w s o f L o n g f e l l o w , Whitman's p u b l i c s t a n c e t o w a r d t h e b a r d was, f o r t h e most p a r t , h i g h l y l a u d a t o r y . Each o f t h e s e c r i t i c s , a l o n g w i t h Emerson, i s d i s c u s s e d a t l e n g t h below because i n t h e i r own ways t h e y a s s i s t e d i n t h e development o f an A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e a t odds w i t h r a t h e r t h a n a l i g n e d w i t h t h e k i n d o f p o e t r y L o n g f e l l o w was e v e n t u a l l y t o w r i t e . S i n c e o t h e r l e a d i n g p o e t - c r i t i c s o f t h e " s c h o o l r o o m " s u c h as B r y a n t o r L o w e l l have g e n e r a l l y been t h o u g h t o f as s i m i l a r t o L o n g f e l l o w i n s e n t i m e n t , t h e i r work i s n o t d i s c u s s e d . 214 s h o u l d n o t be o v e r l o o k e d , p a r t i c u l a r l y g i v e n t h a t L o n g f e l l o w a t t e n d e d s e v e r a l o f Emerson's l e c t u r e s and m a i n t a i n e d f r i e n d l y r e l a t i o n s w i t h him t h r o u g h o u t h i s l i f e . 1 1 T h e r e f o r e , a b r i e f s u r v e y o f v a r i o u s v o i c e s — i n c l u d i n g E m e r s o n ' s — w i t h i n t h e o n g o i n g d e b a t e between a n a t i v e and a f o r e i g n - d o m i n a t e d l i t e r a t u r e i s n e c e s s a r y t o e s t a b l i s h a l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t t h a t would a l l o w f o r a b e t t e r u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i n a l a d o p t i o n o f what he f e l t t o be a u n i v e r s a l i s t - A m e r i c a n v o i c e i n h i s p o e t r y . The war o f words t h a t f o l l o w e d t h e War o f 1812 was no l e s s p o l i t i c a l l y c h a r g e d t h a n i t s m i l i t a r y c o u n t e r p a r t . 1 2 F e d e r a l i s t l e a n i n g j o u r n a l s and r e v i e w s s q u a r e d o f f a g a i n s t u p s t a r t D e m o c r a t i c " r a g s " whose w r i t e r s were d e s c r i b e d as h e r o i c a l l y as t h e i r n a v a l p r e d e c e s s o r s . The N o r t h A m e r i c a n From t h e m a t e r i a l s w h i c h a r e a v a i l a b l e i n t h e v a r i o u s b i o g r a p h i e s , Samuel's L i f e , and t h e L e t t e r s , I have f o u n d no e v i d e n c e t o i n d i c a t e t h a t L o n g f e l l o w e i t h e r h e a r d Emerson's "American S c h o l a r " as a P h i B e t a Kappa A d d r e s s (Cambridge, Aug. 1837) o r r e a d i t i n subsequent p u b l i c a t i o n s . However, L o n g f e l l o w was S m i t h P r o f e s s o r a t H a r v a r d a t t h e t i m e , and he r e c o r d s i n h i s j o u r n a l h i s a t t e n d a n c e a t n e a r l y a l l o f Emerson's subsequent l e c t u r e s , w i t h c o n s i s t e n t comment and p r a i s e f o r t h e t r a n s c e n d e n t a l p h i l o s o p h e r . The l i k e l i h o o d o f h i s h a v i n g no knowledge o f "The A m e r i c a n S c h o l a r " i s v e r y s l i m . 12 • From t h e R e v o l u t i o n u n t i l t h e war o f 1812, u n i v e r s a l i s t s e n t i m e n t s , d e r i v e d from a c o m b i n a t i o n o f n e o c l a s s i c a l c r i t i c s and S c o t t i s h common-sense p h i l o s o p h e r s and r h e t o r i c i a n s — e s p e c i a l l y L o r d Kames and Hugh B l a i r — r e i g n e d i n A m e r i c a w i t h o u t w i d e s p r e a d r e s i s t a n c e . A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e between t h e wars, i f seen as d i s t i n c t from B r i t i s h , was so o n l y t o A m e r i c a n s i n i t s a b i l i t y t o become f o r them " t h e p e r f e c t e d o r g a n o f u n i v e r s a l t a s t e " (Spencer 37, added e m p h a s i s ) . 215 Review o f 1815, f o r example, d e s p i t e i t s avowed i n t e n t i o n t o " f o s t e r A m e r i c a n g e n i u s , and, by i n d e p e n d e n t c r i t i c i s m , i n s t r u c t and g u i d e t h e p u b l i c t a s t e " (N.Am.Rev, q t d . i n Spencer 63) was a c t u a l l y p r e p a r e d , a c c o r d i n g t o John M c C l o s k e y , t o " w a i t f o r d e c i s i o n on [a t e x t ' s ] m e r i t s o r d e m e r i t s from t h e h i g h e r a u t h o r i t i e s o f London" (N.Am.Rev. q t d . i n M c C l o s k e y 262). Meanwhile, D e m o c r a t i c magazines l i k e N i l e s ' R e g i s t e r , t h e A n a l e c t i c and, i n p a r t i c u l a r , The P o r t i c o used r e c e n t n a v a l v i c t o r i e s o v e r B r i t a i n as a n a l o g u e s t o i n s p i r e A m e r i c a ' s c a s t i n g o f f o f " t h e i n t e l l e c t u a l homage she had p a i d so l o n g t o t h e mother c o u n t r y . . . " (McCloskey 264). I n what r e a d s as a l a r g e l y s e l f - s e r v i n g e n t e r p r i s e , The P o r t i c o (1816-18) t r i e s t o d i s p e l t h e b e l i e f t h a t l i t e r a t u r e i s i n c o m p a t i b l e w i t h w e a l t h , i n d u s t r y , t r a d e , m e r c a n t i l i s m , and l a b o r — t h e c o r n e r s t o n e s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a : "The h a b i t o f r e a d i n g must become i n c o r p o r a t e d w i t h t h e wants o f t h e p e o p l e , and e v e r y man must deem a book as n e c e s s a r y t o h i s h a p p i n e s s as a d i n n e r o r an e s t a t e " ( q t d . 2 66) . A t t h e same t i m e t h a t The P o r t i c o was e n c o u r a g i n g i n t h e g e n e r a l p o p u l a c e a t a s t e f o r l i t e r a t u r e , i t was s o l i c i t i n g c o n t r i b u t i o n s from young n a t i v e w r i t e r s t h r o u g h p r o m i s e s o f p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n t h e b u i l d i n g o f t h e n a t i o n ' s c h a r a c t e r and v i s i o n s o f fame as b u r g e o n i n g and as e x p a n s i v e as A m e r i c a i t s e l f ( 2 6 6 - 7 ) . A l t h o u g h no r e c o r d e d e v i d e n c e e x i s t s t o p r o v e t h a t L o n g f e l l o w had any i n t e r e s t i n e a r l y D e m o c r a t i c magazines, i t i s known t h a t t h e n a t i o n a l i s t s e n t i m e n t s e x p r e s s e d i n them were n o t c o n f i n e d t o t h e i r c o v e r s b u t were h e a r d as w e l l w i t h i n t h e c o l l e g e s and u n i v e r s i t i e s o f New E n g l a n d . One i n f l u e n t i a l v o i c e i n 1819, t h a t o f P r o f e s s o r Thomas C. Upham o f Bowdoin C o l l e g e , b e a r s a f u l l h e a r i n g i f o n l y f o r Upham's i m p o r t a n c e t o L o n g f e l l o w as a t y p e o f p o e t i c mentor from 182 3- 25. I n h i s A m e r i c a n S k e t c h e s , Upham m a i n t a i n e d t h a t even t h o u g h Europeans c o u l d r i d i c u l e t h e name and p r o s p e c t s o f h i s c o u n t r y , none c o u l d deny t h a t an ample and most i n t e r e s t i n g f i e l d i s open f o r l i t e r a r y s p e c u l a t i o n s and e x e r t i o n s . The c h a r a c t e r and c i v i l h a b i t s , t h e p i e t y and magnanimity o f t h e f i r s t s e t t l e r s , t h e s u f f e r i n g s and d e v o t e d n e s s o f t h e m i s s i o n a r i e s , who p e n e t r a t e d i n t o d r e a r y f o r e s t s and abodes o f s a v a g e s ; t h e s o c i e t i e s o f C h r i s t i a n i z e d I n d i a n s ; t h e c h a r a c t e r o f c e l e b r a t e d c h i e f s ; t h e a d v e n t u r e r s o f t h e f i r s t e x p l o r e r s o f t h i s c o u n t r y ; t h e s e c l u s i o n , d e v o t i o n s , and s u f f e r i n g s o f f r o n t i e r v i l l a g e s , a r e e n c h a n t i n g t o p i c s as w e l l f o r t h e p e n c i l o f t h e l i m n e r as t h e l y r e o f t h e b a r d . . . . ( q t d . i n C u r t i 2 50) W i t h t h e p o s s i b l e e x c e p t i o n o f f r o n t i e r v i l l a g e s , t h e above l i s t r e a d s l i k e a c a t a l o g u e o f t o p i c s from w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w was l a t e r t o s e l e c t h i s most n a t i o n a l i s t i c themes. A y e a r l a t e r , c h a l l e n g e d by t h e o f t - q u o t e d s t a t e m e n t , "Who r e a d s an A m e r i c a n book?" by Rev. Sydney S m i t h ( E d i n b u r g h Review, 1820), A m e r i c a n s were c a l l e d i n t o y e t a n o t h e r "War o f Independence" w i t h B r i t a i n . A l t h o u g h a p a c i f i s t i n a c t u a l w a r f a r e , i n t h i s war, L o n g f e l l o w assumed a c t i v e d u t y . C h o o s i n g t o speak on "Our N a t i v e W r i t e r s " f o r h i s commencement o r a t i o n i n 1825, and e c h o i n g s e v e r a l o f Upham's c l a i m s , t h e 217 young p o e t s t a t e d h i s own o p t i m i s t i c b e l i e f t h a t i n A m e r i c a " [ e ] v e r y r o c k s h a l l become a c h r o n i c l e o f s t o r i e d a l l u s i o n s ; and t h e tomb o f t h e I n d i a n p r o p h e t be as h a l l o w e d as t h e s e p u l c h r e s o f a n c i e n t k i n g s " ( q t d . i n Higgonson 3 3 ) . He c o n t i n u e s i n t h i s y o u t h f u l , p r o p h e t i c v e i n by f o r e c a s t i n g h i s hopes f o r "a l i t e r a t u r e a s s o c i a t e d and l i n k e d i n w i t h t h e g r a n d and b e a u t i f u l s c e n e r y o f our c o u n t r y , — w i t h our i n s t i t u t i o n s , our manners, our customs" ( 3 1 ) , t h e r e p e a t e d " o u r " p r o m i s i n g t h a t i t would be o n l y a m a t t e r o f t i m e b e f o r e t h e o v e r t h r o w o f t h e p a r e n t by t h e c h i l d r e n . That o v e r t h r o w would have t o be d e l a y e d however. As L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f a d m i t s , A m e r i c a "cannot y e t throw o f f [ i t s ] l i t e r a r y a l l e g i a n c e t o O l d E n g l a n d " (31) because i t has no sympathy f o r c r e a t i v e g e n i u s . A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s were u n a b l e t o e x e r c i s e t h e n e c e s s a r y d e v o t i o n t h a t g e n i u s r e q u i r e s , a c c o r d i n g t o L o n g f e l l o w , because " p l a i n p e o p l e , " t h e r e a d i n g p u b l i c , m i s t a k e n l y p e r c e i v e d l i t e r a r y works as "mere p l e a s u r e s and l u x u r i e s o f l i f e " (32) . That t h e A m e r i c a n p u b l i c was t o blame f o r t h e l a c k o f a t r u l y n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e i s c l e a r l y o u t l i n e d i n "The L i t e r a r y S p i r i t o f Our C o u n t r y , " a p u b l i s h e d e s s a y r e p e a t i n g t h e themes o f h i s commencement o r a t i o n . He a r g u e s t h a t " t h e c h i e f cause w h i c h has r e t a r d e d t h e p r o g r e s s o f p o e t r y i n A m e r i c a i s t h e want o f t h a t e x c l u s i v e c u l t i v a t i o n w h i c h so n o b l e a b r a n c h o f l i t e r a t u r e would seem t o r e q u i r e " ; he goes on t o c l a i m t h a t t h i s "want" i s a c t u a l l y t h e r e s u l t o f 218 t h e more s e r i o u s "want o f a r i c h and abundant p a t r o n a g e . I t i s t h e f e a r o f p o v e r t y t h a t d e t e r s many g i f t e d and p o e t i c minds from coming f o r w a r d i n t o t h e a r e n a , and w i p i n g away a l l r e p r o a c h from [American] l i t e r a t u r e " (Works I I [Davos] 372). P r e s u m a b l y , t h e r e p r o a c h t o w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w r e f e r s i s t h a t o f a p r e s e n t - d a y l i t e r a r y e f f e t i s m s i n c e he adds t h a t w i t h ample p a t r o n a g e , "minds o f t h e f i n e s t mould w i l l be a c t i v e t o i n v i g o r a t e o u r l i t e r a t u r e " (372) . B e f o r e t h i s i n v i g o r a t i o n c o u l d t a k e p l a c e , however, r e a d e r s and w r i t e r s a l i k e would have t o d i s c a r d " t h e d e l i c a t e l y f i n i s h e d model o f E n g l i s h t a s t e " w h i c h e x e r c i s e d a p e r v a s i v e and i n j u r i o u s i n f l u e n c e on A m e r i c a n l e t t e r s . I n i t s s t e a d , t h e m a g n i f i c e n t s u b l i m i t y o f t h e n a t i o n ' s c l i m a t e and n a t u r a l s c e n e r y s h o u l d " g i v e s t r e n g t h and v i g o r t o [ t h e American] i n t e l l e c t , " ' a n d t h e c o u n t r y ' s s c a r c i t y o f t r a d i t i o n a l , c l a s s i c a l a l l u s i o n s be one day overcome by t h e n a t u r a l l y h e r o i c c l a s s i c i s m i n h e r e n t i n t h e " g l o r y o f b a t t l e s , and . . . t h e v o i c e o f e l o q u e n c e " b e l o n g i n g t o A m e r i c a ' s " f a s t p e r i s h i n g " N a t i v e I n d i a n s (370-72). ( H i a w a t h a , a t t h i s p o i n t , seems o n l y a few y e a r s away.) F o r t h e young L o n g f e l l o w , A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s needed t o l a u n c h and m a i n t a i n a v i g o r o u s campaign a g a i n s t n o t o n l y t h e p e r c e i v e d e n f e e b l e m e n t o f l i t e r a r y p u r s u i t i t s e l f , b u t t h e a c t u a l e n f e e b l e m e n t t h a t was a f f e c t i n g A m e r i c a n w r i t i n g because o f i t s e m u l a t i o n o f i t s B r i t i s h p a r e n t . I f , i n d i s p l a y i n g p a s s i o n f o r h i s c o u n t r y ' s i n n a t e p o e t i c a l e n e r g i e s and r e j e c t i n g a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a ' s " d e l i c a t e " 219 s e n s i b i l i t y i n h e r i t e d from E n g l a n d , t h e e a r l y L o n g f e l l o w s o u n d s — t o o u r t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y e a r s — m o r e l i k e Whitman t h a n he does h i m s e l f , t h e c o n f u s i o n stems from a t l e a s t two s o u r c e s : 1) L o n g f e l l o w d i d n o t r e m a i n committed t o a s t r i c t l y n a t i o n a l i s t v i e w , b u t r a t h e r , o v e r t i m e , i n c o r p o r a t e d European s e n s i b i l i t i e s i n t o h i s own t o p r o d u c e , i n t h e end, a mixed v i e w as s e e m i n g l y e f f e t e as t h e " d e l i c a t e " E n g l i s h t a s t e he o r i g i n a l l y condemned; and 2) so few c r i t i c s ( w i t h Thompson as a n o t a b l e e x c e p t i o n ) have been w i l l i n g t o g r a n t t h e young L o n g f e l l o w any o p p o r t u n i t y t o speak o u t f o r h i m s e l f a g a i n s t t h e i n s i p i d , l a t e - V i c t o r i a n c r e a t i o n o f h i s b r o t h e r t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l y e s s a y s a r e n o t o n l y d i f f i c u l t t o o b t a i n , b u t seldom i f e v e r r e f e r r e d t o . The r e s u l t i s t h a t t h e v o i c e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s n a t i o n a l i s m r i n g s f a l s e t o o u r p r e j u d i c e d e a r s . L o n g f e l l o w ' s p e r s o n a l p o e t i c s were s u b s t a n t i a l l y a l t e r e d by h i s f i r s t and l o n g e s t o f f o u r j o u r n e y s t o Europe (1825-29). L e t t e r s and j o u r n a l n o t e s d u r i n g t h i s p e r i o d r e v e a l L o n g f e l l o w ' s d e l i b e r a t e a t t e m p t s t o l e a r n n o t o n l y t h e l a n g u a g e s o f t h e c o u n t r i e s he i n h a b i t e d — F r a n c e , S p a i n , I t a l y , and G e r m a n y — b u t t h e l i t e r a t u r e s as w e l l , e s p e c i a l l y o f t h e t r o u b a d o u r p o e t s o f F r a n c e and t h e Sturm und Drang w r i t e r s o f Germany. One key r e s u l t o f h i s e x p e r i e n c e 'of m u l t i p l e n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e s was L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e a l i z a t i o n o f t h e weakness o f h i s own. N e a r i n g t h e end o f h i s t r a v e l s , 28 March 220 1829, he w r o t e t o h i s s i s t e r t o e x p l a i n h i s l o s s o f p o e t i c v o i c e : My p o e t i c c a r e e r i s f i n i s h e d . S i n c e I l e f t A m e r i c a I have h a r d l y p u t two l i n e s t o g e t h e r . I may i n d e e d s a y t h a t my muse has been s e n t t o t h e House o f C o r r e c t i o n — a n d h e r l a s t o f f s p r i n g were l a i d a t t h e d o o r o f one o f t h o s e F o u n d l i n g h o s p i t a l s f o r poor p o e t r y — a New Y e a r ' s ' s o u v e n i r ' 1 3 . . . . [N]o s o f t p o e t i c r a y has i r r a d i a t e d my h e a r t s i n c e t h e Goths and V a n d a l s c r o s s e d t h e R u b i c o n o f t h e f r o n t e n t r y , and t u r n e d t h e sanctum s a n c t o r u m o f t h e ' L i t t l e Room' i n t o a c h i n a c l o s e t . ( L e t t e r s I 305) The image o f a c h i n a c l o s e t t o r e p l a c e h i s p o e t i c s a n c t u a r y s u g g e s t s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e c e n t e x p o s u r e t o i m p a s s i o n e d Europeans had r e v e a l e d h i s p o e t r y t o him f o r what i t was: a r t f u l , d e l i c a t e c r a f t w o r k , n o t h i n g more. A j o u r n a l e n t r y w r i t t e n s h o r t l y a f t e r t h e above l e t t e r s u g g e s t s t h e c h a n n e l i n t o w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w w o u l d e v e n t u a l l y r e d i r e c t h i s v e r s e now t h a t he f o u n d i t w a n t i n g : p o p u l a r c u l t u r e . N o t i n g t h e p r o f o u n d i n f l u e n c e o f B y r o n upon t h e t a s t e o f t h e age, L o n g f e l l o w n e v e r t h e l e s s r e j e c t s B y r o n ' s "upper a i r " and " t h u n d e r o f h i s w h e e l s " f o r t h e s i m p l i c i t y o f Wordsworth who "drove t o P a r n a s s u s by t h e l o w e r r o a d , g o t sometimes l o s t i n t h e bushes and l o w l a n d f o g s , and was much A c c o r d i n g t o H i l e n , " S o u v e n i r " l i k e l y r e f e r s t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o n t r i b u t i o n s "The Song o f t h e B i r d s " and t h e " B u r i a l o f t h e M i n n i s i n k " p u b l i s h e d i n The A t l a n t i c S o u v e n i r ; a C h r i s t m a s and New Y e a r ' s O f f e r i n g ( P h i l a d e l p h i a , 1827) and t o "The S p i r i t o f P o e t r y " p u b l i s h e d i n The S o u v e n i r f o r t h e f o l l o w i n g y e a r ( L e t t e r s I 3 08 n . 5 ) . The p o p u l a r i t y o f s u c h A n n u a l s and G i f t b o o k s , and L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o n t r i b u t i o n s t o them, i s d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r one. 221 m o l e s t e d by m o s q u i t o c r i t i c s . " " I n o u r own c o u n t r y , " L o n g f e l l o w adds, " t h e Wordsworth s c h o o l has e v i d e n t l y had t h e upper hand. H i s s i m p l e a u s t e r i t y and r e p u b l i c a n p r i n c i p l e i n p o e t r y were i n u n i s o n w i t h our m o r a l and p o l i t i c a l c r e e d . Our modes o f t h o u g h t were s o b e r and p r a c t i c a l . So, i n most 14 i n s t a n c e s , were h i s " ( e n t r y o f May 1829 q t d . i n L i f e I 169). L o n g f e l l o w ' s f r e q u e n t t r a v e l s o u t s i d e o f t h e European u n i v e r s i t i e s ' i n t e l l e c t u a l l y e l i t e c i r c l e s i n o r d e r t o e x p e r i e n c e d o m e s t i c l i f e i n t h e v i l l a g e s s u p p o r t e d h i s g r o w i n g i n c l i n a t i o n , i m p l i e d above, t o become a v o i c e f o r h i s own n a t i o n ' s s i m p l e f o l k . Such a p r o j e c t , however, became i n t i m a t e l y t i e d t o h i s r o l e as a P r o f e s s o r o f Modern Languages ( i n i t i a l l y a t Bowdoin C o l l e g e and l a t e r a t Harvard) once he r e t u r n e d t o A m e r i c a i n 1829 and d i s c o v e r e d t h a t A m e r i c a ' s s i m p l e f o l k , t o w h i c h he w o u l d a d d r e s s h i m s e l f , r e p r e s e n t e d a l i n g u i s t i c and c u l t u r a l body as d i v e r s e as t h e European t e x t s he had h i m s e l f so r e c e n t l y a c q u i r e d . F o r European i m m i g r a t i o n was as r a p i d l y c h a n g i n g t h e v i s i b l e e t h n i c c a s t o f A m e r i c a as European p h i l o s o p h y was a l t e r i n g i t s i n t e l l e c t u a l i d e o l o g y . F o r L o n g f e l l o w , an A m e r i c a n n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e would t h e r e f o r e 1 4 L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r e f e r e n c e f o r Wordsworth o v e r B y r o n became a common s e n t i m e n t i n A m e r i c a i n t h e 183 0s, and L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f may w e l l have been an i n f l u e n c e i n t h i s r e g a r d s i n c e i n h i s r e v i e w o f S i d n e y ' s "Defense o f Poesy" ( d i s c u s s e d below) he c r i t i c i z e s a t some l e n g t h t h e m u l t i t u d e o f B y r o n i c i m i t a t o r s i n A m e r i c a , and p o i n t s o u t t h e s i m p l i c i t y o f Wordsworth's d i c t i o n as more i n k e e p i n g w i t h A m e r i c a n e x p e r i e n c e , though i t t o o was s u b j e c t t o p u e r i l e i m i t a t i o n . have t o t a k e i n t o a c c o u n t a m u l t i - e t h n i c p o p u l a t i o n , u n s c h o o l e d i n t h e E n g l i s h t r a d i t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e , o f t e n f o r c e d by n e c e s s i t y i n t o w h o l l y p r a c t i c a l as opposed t o i n t e l l e c t u a l p u r s u i t s by s h e e r want o f t h e E n g l i s h language i f n o t by s o c i o - e c o n o m i c c l a s s . L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i r s t p u b l i c r e s p o n s e t o h i s newly a d o p t e d r o l e as i n s t r u c t o r o f and as a p o t e n t i a l v o i c e f o r A m e r i c a ' s m i d d l e c l a s s e s was t o merge h i s v a r i o u s i n t e r e s t s i n t o t h e s i n g l e a t t e m p t t o t e a c h t h e g e n e r a l p o p u l a c e t h a t a l o v e o f l i t e r a t u r e was e n t i r e l y c o m p a t i b l e w i t h t h e A m e r i c a n d o c t r i n e o f p r a c t i c a l u t i l i t y . I n h i s r e v i e w a r t i c l e o f S i d n e y ' s "Defense o f Poesy," p u b l i s h e d i n 1832 i n t h e N o r t h A m e r i c a n Review, L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l i e r c o n c e r n f o r t h e p u b l i c ' s m i s c o n c e p t i o n o f p o e t r y as e f f e m i n a t e nonsense i s l i n k e d t o a d e s i r e t o i n s t r u c t h i s r e a d e r s i n t h e s p e c i f i c ways i n w h i c h t h i s c o n c e p t i o n i s f a u l t y . Moreover, L o n g f e l l o w ' s r o l e as a . p r o f e s s o r o f Modern Languages r e v e a l s i t s e l f i n t h e examples chosen from European l i t e r a t u r e s t o d e m o n s t r a t e t h e e f f e c t s o f c l i m a t e upon a n a t i o n ' s v e r s e , and t o s u g g e s t t h e p o t e n t i a l f o r a n a t i o n a l u n i q u e n e s s i n p o e t r y based on a s s o c i a t i v e p r i n c i p l e s o f t h i s k i n d . These p r i n c i p l e s t h e m s e l v e s L o n g f e l l o w a d o p t e d from Madame de S t a e l and t h e S c h l e g e l s , F r e d e r i c k i n p a r t i c u l a r ; y e t , he p u t them t o a s p e c i f i c a l l y A m e r i c a n use as many o f h i s f e l l o w l i t e r a t i would a l s o d o . 1 5 1 5 I n h i s r e v i e w , L o n g f e l l o w q u o t e s F r e d e r i c k S c h l e g e l : " I f we c o n s i d e r l i t e r a t u r e i n i t s w i d e s t s e n s e , as t h e v o i c e w h i c h g i v e s e x p r e s s i o n t o human i n t e l l e c t , — a s t h e a g g r e g a t e Here, L o n g f e l l o w d i s p a r a g e s t h e m a s c u l i n e " s p i r i t o f t h e age" i n i t s c l a m o u r i n g a f t e r " b a r e , brawny, m u s c u l a r u t i l i t y , " i t s v a r i o u s m a n i f e s t a t i o n s i n "schemes f o r g a i n , " and t h e a c q u i s i t i v e push westward o f A m e r i c a ' s " r a p i d l y i n c r e a s i n g p o p u l a t i o n " (Works [Davos] I 360) . F o r him, a n a t i o n ' s g r e a t n e s s l i e s n o t i n i t s c o m m e r c i a l and t e r r i t o r i a l c o n q u e s t s , b u t i n i t s "moral and i n t e l l e c t u a l p r e e m i n e n c e " (3 6 1 ) , m i s t a k e n l y t h o u g h t i n A m e r i c a t o be a t odds w i t h p r a c t i c a l endeavour. A more s e r i o u s m i s c o n c e p t i o n i s r e v e a l e d i n t h e p u b l i c ' s n o t i o n t h a t " p o e t r y and nonsense a r e c o n v e r t i b l e t e r m s ; t h a t l i t e r a t u r e b e g e t s an e f f e m i n a t e and c r a v e n s p i r i t . . . [ t h a t ] i n t e l l e c t . . . [ i s t o ] d i s p l a y a r o u g h and n a t u r a l e n e r g y , — s t r e n g t h , s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d s t r e n g t h , u n t u t o r e d i n t h e r u l e s o f a r t , and unadorned by e l e g a n t and c o u r t l y e r u d i t i o n " (365). A m e r i c a needs t o l e a r n from S i d n e y t h a t t h e s o - c a l l e d " o r n a m e n t a l a r t s , " n o t t h e l e a s t o f w h i c h i s p o e t r y , a c t u a l l y s e r v e a u t i l i t a r i a n f u n c t i o n as i n s t r u m e n t s " f o r i m p r o v i n g t h e c o n d i t i o n o f s o c i e t y , and a d v a n c i n g t h e g r e a t p u r p o s e o f human h a p p i n e s s " ( 3 6 8 ) . L o n g f e l l o w goes on t o show t h a t he wants b o t h t o " s o o t h e " t h o s e whose "mind and body a r e worn down by t h e s e v e r i t y o f mass o f symbols, i n w h i c h t h e s p i r i t o f an age o r t h e c h a r a c t e r o f a n a t i o n i s shadowed f o r t h , t h e n i n d e e d a g r e a t and v a r i o u s l i t e r a t u r e i s , w i t h o u t a doubt, t h e most v a l u a b l e p o s s e s s i o n o f w h i c h any n a t i o n can b o a s t " ( L e c . V I I L e c t u r e s on t h e H i s t o r y o f L i t e r a t u r e Works [Davos] I q t d . 377). F o r t h e p e r v a s i v e i n f l u e n c e o f Madame de S t a e l , see C h a r v a t O r i g i n s , 63. 224 d a i l y t o i l " and " i n s p i r e a l o v e o f heaven and v i r t u e " (3 68-9). Throughout t h e r e v i e w , p o e t r y i t s e l f — b e i t t h e p a s t o r a l v e r s e o f b u c o l i c l i f e o r t h e h e r o i c romance o f p a s t a g e s — i s t h u s p o r t r a y e d as a s a n c t u a r y from t h e h u s t l e and b u s t l e o f l a b o r i o u s a c t i v i t y , a s a n c t u a r y n o t u n l i k e t h e d o m e s t i c , s p i r i t u a l p a r a d i s e a woman was t o p r o v i d e f o r h e r over-worked husband. A c t i v i t y p r o v i d e s o n l y t h e e x t e r n a l f a c t s o f a n a t i o n ' s h i s t o r y w h i l e t h e " t h o u g h t s and f e e l i n g s o f a p e o p l e " t h a t a r e t h e p r e r o g a t i v e s o f p o e t r y become " t h e s p i r i t o f t h e age i t s e l f , — e m b o d i e d i n t h e forms o f language, and s p e a k i n g i n a v o i c e t h a t i s a u d i b l e t o t h e e x t e r n a l as w e l l as t h e i n t e r n a l s e n s e " ( 3 7 5 - 6 ) . I t f o l l o w s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w s h o u l d t h e r e f o r e e x p r e s s c o n s i d e r a b l e d i s d a i n f o r t h e numerous A m e r i c a n p o e t s who have " i m b i b e d t h e d e g e n e r a t e s p i r i t o f modern E n g l i s h p o e t r y " by becoming " t u r g i d and e x t r a v a g a n t " mimics o f B y r o n (388-90) s i n c e i m i t a t i o n , and poor i m i t a t i o n a t t h a t , f r u s t r a t e s t h e A m e r i c a n p e o p l e ' s a b i l i t i e s t o e x p r e s s " t h e i r own f e e l i n g s and i m p r e s s i o n s from what t h e y see around them" (emphasis added 387). C o n v i n c e d t h a t i m i t a t i v e v e r s e r e i n f o r c e s i t s e l f by " t h e i n d i s c r e e t and i n d i s c r i m i n a t e p r a i s e o f f r i e n d s , " t h e c r i t i c a l " p u f f e r y " common a t t h e t i m e , L o n g f e l l o w c o m p l e t e s h i s d i s c u s s i o n w i t h a comment t h a t sounds s t r a n g e l y l i k e s e l f - c r i t i c i s m : he c l a i m s t h a t a n o t h e r " c i r c u m s t a n c e w h i c h t e n d s t o g i v e an e f f e m i n a t e and unmanly c h a r a c t e r t o our l i t e r a t u r e , i s t h e p r e c o c i t y o f our w r i t e r s . 225 Premature e x h i b i t i o n s o f t a l e n t a r e an u n s t a b l e f o u n d a t i o n t o b u i l d a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e upon" (391). G u i l t y h i m s e l f o f a t o o e a r l y , t o o e a s y e f f u s i o n — a c r i t i c i s m he had a d r o i t l y l e v e l l e d a t L . E . L . — L o n g f e l l o w now i n s i s t s t h a t A m e r i c a ' s l i t e r a t u r e c a n n o t a f f o r d such unmanly p r e c o c i t y i f i t i s t o combat s u c c e s s f u l l y t h e i n s i d i o u s i n f l u e n c e s o f t h e mother c o u n t r y . The s i g n i f i c a n c e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e v i e w o f S i d n e y ' s "Defense" c a n n o t be o v e r s t r e s s e d . Not o n l y does i t e s t a b l i s h t h e g e n e r a l p r i n c i p l e o f m o r a l u s e f u l n e s s upon w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w was t o base h i s p o e t i c v o i c e , b u t i t a l s o b e t r a y s h i s p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h t h e r e c e p t i o n o f p o e t r y i n A m e r i c a as d o m i n a t e d , i f n o t by women t h e m s e l v e s , t h e n c e r t a i n l y by a p u b l i c a t t i t u d e t h a t c o n f i n e d p o e t r y t o a f e m i n i n e a r e n a . As s u c h , L o n g f e l l o w ' s v i e w s were d e r i v e d from and s h a r e d by s e v e r a l w e l l - k n o w n and l e s s e r - k n o w n a u t h o r s o f t h e t i m e . James Fenimore Cooper, f o r example, had used h i s t r a n s a t l a n t i c e x p e r i e n c e s t o c a s t i g a t e t h e e d u c a t e d c l a s s e s o f A m e r i c a i n t h e i r c o n t i n u e d d e f e r e n c e t o E n g l a n d ; a c c o r d i n g t o Spencer, Cooper " m a i n t a i n e d t h a t u n l e s s a 'manly, i n d e p e n d e n t l i t e r a t u r e ' i n harmony w i t h A m e r i c a n f a c t s were f o r t h c o m i n g , t h e v e r y ' s a f e t y ' o f t h e i r i n s t i t u t i o n s was i n danger" ( q t d . i n Spencer 7 8 ) . I n c o n t r a s t , Dr Channing, i n h i s "Remarks on N a t i o n a l L i t e r a t u r e " (1830), argued t h a t even w h i l e A m e r i c a must seek t o d e f i n e i t s s o c i a l i n s t i t u t i o n s and s p i r i t u a l h a r v e s t s i n ways unembarrassed by t h e outworn g u i s e s o f t h e 226 O l d W o r l d , she must do so t h r o u g h t h e c u l t i v a t i o n o f an i n t e l l e c t u a l e l i t e who would, i n t u r n , f r e e l y s h a r e t h e i r d i s c o v e r i e s w i t h t h o s e l e s s g i f t e d t h a n t h e m s e l v e s (see C u r t i 249-50). A l t h o u g h Cooper and Channing would l i k e l y have seen t h e m s e l v e s as embarking upon a s i m i l a r c o u r s e — o n e w h i c h would e s t a b l i s h and p r o t e c t A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e t h r o u g h n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e — t h e y c l e a r l y d i v e r g e on c l a s s l i n e s . I n p r i n c i p l e , L o n g f e l l o w e v e n t u a l l y came t o s h a r e Channing's b e l i e f i n t h e v a l u e o f an i n t e l l e c t u a l n o b i l i t y t o l e a d t h e masses; however, i n h i s p o e t i c p r a c t i c e he d e f e r r e d t o t h e commonality when n e c e s s a r y t o s e c u r e a r e a d e r s h i p l a r g e enough t o make t h e m o r a l u s e f u l n e s s o f h i s l e a d e r s h i p r o l e a c o g e n t f o r c e i n A m e r i c a . Thus, a f u l l p i c t u r e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s a t t i t u d e t o w a r d h i s p u b l i c a t t h i s t i m e demands a b a l a n c i n g o f t h e i n t e l l e c t u a l and p h i l o s o p h i c a l e r u d i t i o n he d i s p l a y s i n h i s 1832 r e v i e w w i t h t h e a r t l e s s n a i v e t e t h a t he a d o p t s t o n a r r a t e h i s I r v i n g e s q u e t a l e s o f Outre-Mer: A P i l g r i m a g e Beyond t h e Sea p u b l i s h e d o n l y t h r e e y e a r s l a t e r . Throughout t h i s t e x t , L o n g f e l l o w r e t e l l s as r e f l e c t i o n s o f v a r i o u s c u l t u r a l i d e n t i t i e s t h e s t o r i e s and poems g a t h e r e d from h i s f i r s t European t o u r . And he does so w i t h an e x c i t e m e n t d e s i g n e d t o i n d u c e i n h i s r e a d e r s a s i m i l a r o p t i m i s m f o r t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f t h e i r own c o u n t r y : "How u n i v e r s a l i s t h e l o v e o f p o e t r y 1 E v e r y n a t i o n has i t s p o p u l a r songs, t h e o f f s p r i n g o f a c r e d u l o u s s i m p l i c i t y and u n s c h o o l e d f a n c y " ( 3 5 6 ) . S e v e r a l examples o f p e a s a n t s ' p o e t r y f o l l o w , capped by t h e b e l i e f t h a t " p e a s a n t — s e r f — s l a v e — a l l , a l l have t h e i r b a l l a d s and t r a d i t i o n a r y songs. M u s i c i s t h e u n i v e r s a l language o f m a n k i n d — p o e t r y t h e i r u n i v e r s a l p a s t i m e and d e l i g h t " ( 3 5 7 ) . F i l l e d w i t h v i g n e t t e s , p a s t i c h e s , and s p l a s h e s o f l o c a l c o l o u r , Outre-Mer r e p r e s e n t s an e c l e c t i c " s o m e t h i n g - f o r - e v e r y o n e " r e f l e c t i o n o f d i v e r s e c u l t u r e s , an i d e a l b l e n d o f European c o n t e n t and an A m e r i c a n form made p o p u l a r by I r v i n g ' s S k e t c h e s . Y e t amid t h i s l i g h t - h e a r t e d s i m p l i c i t y , t h e w r i t e r s o f New E n g l a n d had a l s o been p r e p a r i n g t h e A m e r i c a n p u b l i c i n t h e 1830s t o a c c e p t an i n t e l l e c t u a l l y and s p i r i t u a l l y c h a r g e d n a t i o n a l l i t e r a r y i d e n t i t y , as Channing a t t e s t s and Emerson s u b s t a n t i a l l y c o n f i r m s i n h i s t r e n c h a n t a d d r e s s on "The A m e r i c a n S c h o l a r " i n 1837.. Spencer m a i n t a i n s t h a t " t h e c r e a t i o n o f a w o r t h y n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e was t o t h e T r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s t s a p r i m e d e s i d e r a t u m . . . . [T]he f i r s t m e e t i n g o f t h e c l u b on O c t o b e r t h e t h i r d [183 6] was g i v e n o v e r t o a d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e t o p i c : 'American G e n i u s — t h e Causes w h i c h H i n d e r i t s Growth and g i v e us no F i r s t - R a t e P r o d u c t i o n s ' " ( 1 5 8 ) . Moreover, Emerson's P h i B e t a Kappa a d d r e s s n o t o n l y f o l l o w e d from c u r r e n t t r a n s c e n d e n t a l c o n c e r n s , b u t echoed as w e l l s i m i l a r themes i n a number o f P h i B e t a Kappa speeches o f p r e v i o u s y e a r s . Y e t i t i s n o t so much i n what Emerson had t o say as i n how he chose t o say i t t h a t h i s preeminence as a l i t e r a r y n a t i o n a l i s t r e v e a l s i t s e l f ; f o r Emerson i s n o t h i n g i f n o t f o r c e f u l l y e l o q u e n t , a p e r f e c t 228 example h i m s e l f o f t h e n a t i o n a l v o i c e he was h o p i n g t o i n s p i r e . » W h i l e Emerson a p p l a u d s A m e r i c a ' s embryonic l i t e r a r y r e s p e c t f o r n a t u r e , he a l s o c h a l l e n g e s t h e p o p u l a r adherence t o and m i s c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e s c h o l a r as a b o o k i s h pedant. As a s t r o n g p r o p o n e n t o f t h e i n d i v i d u a l man, he t h u s d i s p a r a g e s t h e " s l u g g i s h and p e r v e r t e d mind o f t h e m u l t i t u d e " t h a t i s e a s i l y g u l l e d by dogma r a t h e r t h a n e x c i t e d by i n d i v i d u a l t h i n k i n g ( 5 6 ) . Of e q u a l c o n c e r n t o Emerson, as i t was t o L o n g f e l l o w , i s t h e p u b l i c ' s m i s c o n c e p t i o n o f l i t e r a r y men as e m a s c u l a t e : " I have h e a r d i t s a i d , " n o t e s Emerson, " t h a t t h e c l e r g y , — w h o a r e a l w a y s more u n i v e r s a l l y t h a n any o t h e r c l a s s , t h e s c h o l a r s o f t h e i r d a y , — a r e a d d r e s s e d as women: t h a t t h e r o u g h , spontaneous c o n v e r s a t i o n o f men t h e y do n o t h e a r , b u t o n l y a m i n c i n g and d i l u t e d s p e e c h " ( 5 9 ) . F u r t h e r , l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , Emerson goes on t o d e m o n s t r a t e t h a t , i n f a c t , t r u e s c h o l a r s h i p (as Emerson d e f i n e s l i t e r a r y a c t i v i t y ) i s n o t i n d e p e n d e n t o f " a c t i o n , " o f l i f e as i t i s l i v e d by men; r a t h e r , i t i s t h r o u g h engagement w i t h t h e r e a l w o r l d t h a t s c h o l a r s i n f u s e power i n t o t h e i r words ( 6 0 ) . Hence w i t h s e l f - t r u s t as h i s o v e r r i d i n g p r i n c i p l e , Emerson d e s c r i b e s t h e " d u t i e s " s c h o l a r s must obey i f t h e y a r e t o c o u n t e r a c t t h e i r p u b l i c image as b o o k i s h , e f f e m i n a t e i d l e r s : t h e y must seek " t o c h e e r , t o r a i s e , t o g u i d e men" and " d e f e r n e v e r t o t h e p o p u l a r c r y " (63) ; t h e y must d i s p l a y p e r s o n a l freedom and b r a v e r y even i n t h e f a c e o f p o l i t i c a l c o n t r o v e r s y , and f e e l shame i f t r a n q u i l l i t y b r e e d s a 229 sense o f s e l f as a p r o t e c t e d c l a s s — " l i k e c h i l d r e n and women" ( 6 4 ) ; t h e y each must become h e r o i c i n and o f t h e m s e l v e s ; and, f i n a l l y , t h e y must work a g a i n s t t h e l u r e o f money t o e s t a b l i s h " t h e g r a d u a l d o m e s t i c a t i o n o f t h e i d e a o f C u l t u r e " ( 6 5 ) . F o r Emerson, as f o r many o t h e r s c h o l a r s and c r i t i c s b e f o r e and a f t e r him, t h e s c h o l a r ' s d u t i e s must conform t o A m e r i c a ' s new s p i r i t , a t one w i t h " t h e n e a r , t h e low, [and] t h e common [ s i n c e ] [ t ] h e l i t e r a t u r e o f t h e p o o r , t h e f e e l i n g s o f t h e c h i l d , t h e p h i l o s o p h y o f t h e s t r e e t , t h e meaning o f h o u s e h o l d l i f e a r e t h e t o p i c s o f t h e t i m e " and s u b l i m i t y r e s i d e s t h e r e i n ( 6 7 ) . 1 6 A m e r i c a has " l i s t e n e d t o o l o n g t o t h e c o u r t l y muses The most o b v i o u s p r o p o n e n t s o f A m e r i c a ' s l i t e r a t u r e as t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f common humanity were o f c o u r s e t h e l e a d i n g l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s o f t h e Young A m e r i c a movement: C o r n e l i u s Mathews, E v e r t A. D u y c k i n c k , W i l l i a m A. J o n e s , John 0 ' S u l l i v a n , and P a r k e Godwin. Members o f t h e l i b e r a l and r a d i c a l w i n g o f t h e D e m o c r a t i c P a r t y ( t h e L o c o f o c o s ) , t h e y p u b l i s h e d i n many New York p e r i o d i c a l s from 1835-50, n o t t h e l e a s t o f w h i c h was t h e i r c h i e f o r g a n , t h e D e m o c r a t i c Review. T h e i r work i s n o t d e a l t w i t h s p e c i f i c a l l y i n t h i s s u r v e y f o r a l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w p r i v a t e l y s c o r n e d what he c a l l e d t h e " L o c o - f o c o p o l i t i c o - l i t e r a r y system" o f Young A m e r i c a , he was c o n t e n t t o l e t L e w i s G a y l o r d C l a r k , t h e e d i t o r o f t h e K n i c k e r b o c k e r ( t o w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w c o n t r i b u t e d ) , r a i l t h e c o n s e r v a t i v e l i n e a g a i n s t Young A m e r i c a . L o n g f e l l o w e n d o r s e d C l a r k , r a t h e r t h a n o p e n l y denounce t h e movement h i m s e l f . However, each o f t h e c r i t i c s who a r e h i g h l i g h t e d i n t h i s s u r v e y — E m e r s o n , Poe, F u l l e r , and W h i t m a n — d i d have d i r e c t c o n n e c t i o n s w i t h members o f t h e Young A m e r i c a group e i t h e r as c o n t r i b u t o r s t o o r r e c i p i e n t s o f t h e i r g e n e r a l aims t o d e m o c r a t i z e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e a l t h o u g h , o t h e r t h a n Whitman, t h e y d i d n o t o v e r t l y s h a r e t h e i r p o l i t i c s . I n t h i s r e s p e c t , L o n g f e l l o w t o o must be seen as a p a r t i c i p a n t i n Young A m e r i c a ' s g e n e r a l c a u s e , though he d i s a g r e e d s t r o n g l y w i t h t h e p a r t i c u l a r methods and h a s t e by w h i c h w r i t e r s and c r i t i c s were t o e n d o r s e t h e o r d i n a r y c i t i z e n as t h e v o i c e o f A m e r i c a . John S t a f f o r d ' s "The L i t e r a r y C r i t i c i s m o f Young A m e r i c a " i s a t h o r o u g h d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e p o l i t i c s , p e o p l e , and t h e o r i e s o f Young A m e r i c a i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e c o n s e r v a t i v e f o r c e s t h a t a s s i s t e d i n t h e d e f i n i t i o n o f t h e movement. P e r r y M i l l e r ' s o f Europe." Her "freemen a r e s u s p e c t e d o f b e i n g t i m i d , i m i t a t i v e , tame, d e c e n t , i n d o l e n t , c o m p l a i s a n t " ( 6 9 ) . Though l e s s f o r c e f u l t h a n Emerson's c o n c r e t e c o n t r a s t between A m e r i c a n v i t a l i t y and i m i t a t i v e e n e r v a t i o n , L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r e f e r e n c e f o r Wordsworth o v e r B y r o n , n o t e d above, a l s o d e n o t e s t h e r e c o g n i t i o n o f an i n h e r e n t l y p o e t i c energy i n t h e "common" language o f A m e r i c a . S u p p o r t f o r common, e v e r y d a y l i f e as t h e l o c u s f o r a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e was a f a m i l i a r theme among A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t i . The e x t e n t t o w h i c h p o e t s s h o u l d i m b i b e t h e c u l t u r e o f t h o s e t h e y s u p p o s e d l y were t o t e a c h , however, g e n e r a t e d d i s p u t e s c o n c e r n i n g t h e d i f f e r e n c e s among s p e a k i n g t o , s p e a k i n g f o r , s p e a k i n g w i t h , o r s p e a k i n g as one o f t h e commonality. I n h i s p r o s e romance, H y p e r i o n (1839), w r i t t e n a f t e r t h e d e a t h o f h i s f i r s t w i f e i n H o l l a n d d u r i n g h i s second European t o u r (1835-36), L o n g f e l l o w t r i e s t o r e s o l v e any d i s p u t e s by a r g u i n g t h a t a l l v o i c e s come from w i t h i n . I n t h e German Baron who becomes a mentor t o t h e W e r t h e r - l i k e h e r o , P a u l Flemming, L o n g f e l l o w echoes t h e i n w a r d g l a n c e and i n d i v i d u a l i s m o f Emerson's s c h o l a r . R e s p o n d i n g t o Flemming's need t o l o c a t e a s o u r c e f o r p o e t i c i n s p i r a t i o n , t h e Baron s t a t e s : G l o r i o u s i n d e e d i s t h e w o r l d o f God around u s , b u t more g l o r i o u s t h e w o r l d o f God w i t h i n u s . There a c c o u n t o f t h e p e r i o d i c a l wars between New York and B o s t o n , i n The Raven and t h e Whale, a l s o p r o v i d e s an h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t f o r t h e p o l i t i c s o f p e r i o d i c a l p u b l i c a t i o n i n m i d - n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a . 231 l i e s t h e Land o f Song; t h e r e l i e s t h e p o e t ' s n a t i v e l a n d . . . t h e many homes and h o u s e h o l d s , each a l i t t l e w o r l d i n i t s e l f , r e v o l v i n g round i t s f i r e s i d e , as a c e n t r a l sun; a l l forms o f human j o y and s u f f e r i n g b r o u g h t i n t o t h a t narrow c o m p a s s ; — a n d t o be i n t h i s , and be a p a r t o f t h i s ; a c t i n g , t h i n k i n g , r e j o i c i n g , s o r r o w i n g w i t h h i s f e l l o w - m e n ; s u c h , s u c h would be t h e p o e t ' s l i f e . (48) T h i s f u s i o n o f t h e i n t e r n a l v i s i o n w i t h t h e e x t e r n a l mundane image o f d o m e s t i c i t y made s u b l i m e by i t s l i n k t o God and t o a l l humanity s u g g e s t s t h e i n f l u e n c e o f Emerson, whose l e c t u r e s L o n g f e l l o w was r e l i g i o u s l y a t t e n d i n g w h i l e w r i t i n g H y p e r i o n . L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e c e n t s t u d y o f German p h i l o s o p h y and romance i s a l s o a p p a r e n t h e r e . H i s e p i g r a p h f o r H y p e r i o n , d i s c o v e r e d i n a c h a p e l a t S t . G i l g e n w h i l e he was d e s u l t o r i l y w a n d e r i n g i n Germany a f t e r t h e d e a t h o f h i s w i f e i n November 1835, becomes f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s P a u l Flemming a t y p e o f " E v e r l a s t i n g Yea" l a u n c h i n g him, l i k e C a r l y l e ' s T e u f e l s d r o c k h , i n t o a l i f e o f a c t i o n and r e a l i t y : Look n o t m o u r n f u l l y i n t o t h e P a s t . I t comes n o t back a g a i n . W i s e l y improve t h e f u t u r e . I t i s - t h i n e . Go f o r t h t o meet t h e Shadowy F u t u r e w i t h o u t f e a r , and w i t h a manly h e a r t . (1) Though o b v i o u s l y n o t s p e c i f i c a l l y i n d e b t e d e i t h e r t o Emerson o r C a r l y l e f o r t h e above s e n t i m e n t s — b e l o n g i n g as t h e y do t o a t r a n s a t l a n t i c a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r Goethe and German r o m a n c e — L o n g f e l l o w ' s c r e a t i o n o f a p u b l i c , p o e t i c i d e n t i t y a t t h i s same t i m e ( r e v e a l e d i n V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t ) n e v e r t h e l e s s i s i n s p i r e d by a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a r y atmosphere c h a r g e d w i t h r e v e r e n c e f o r t h e e v e r y d a y , s u s p i c i o n o f i n f l a t e d d i c t i o n t h a t 232 smacks o f B r i t i s h i m i t a t i o n and b o o k i s h u n r e a l i t y , and f a i t h i n l i t e r a t u r e ' s r o l e i n t h e improvement o f h u m a n i t y . 1 7 I r o n i c a l l y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i r s t p u b l i s h e d volume o f p o e t r y e l i c i t e d n e g a t i v e c r i t i c i s m i n p r e c i s e l y t h o s e a r e a s where he had p u b l i c l y a t t e m p t e d t o e s t a b l i s h a r o l e f o r h i m s e l f . H i s w i l l i n g n e s s t o echo E n g l i s h s e n s i b i l i t y when a p p r o p r i a t e t o t h e s e n t i m e n t s he was e x p r e s s i n g s p a r k e d a h e a t e d d e b a t e o v e r L o n g f e l l o w ' s i m i t a t i v e n e s s and o v e r h i s t r u e v a l u e as an A m e r i c a n b a r d . T h i s d e b a t e was i g n i t e d by Edgar A l l a n Poe who f a n n e d t h e f l a m e s c o n s i s t e n t l y u n t i l j u s t p r i o r t o h i s d e a t h i n 1 8 4 7 1 8 , and was s u s t a i n e d by M a r g a r e t F u l l e r among o t h e r s . O b v i o u s l y , Poe's s p e c i f i c r e v i e w s o f L o n g f e l l o w c a n n o t be s e p a r a t e d e n t i r e l y from h i s c e r t a i n b e l i e f i n L o n g f e l l o w as a Where a p p r o p r i a t e , s p e c i f i c poems from t h i s and s e v e r a l o t h e r L o n g f e l l o w volumes w i l l be d i s c u s s e d i n d e t a i l . F o r t h e moment, i t i s enough t o n o t e t h a t V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t c o n t a i n e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s most famous l y r i c poem, "A Psalm o f L i f e , " i n w h i c h t h e s p e a k e r u r g e s e a r n e s t endeavour as a c o u n t e r t o d e s p a i r (see c h a p t e r f i v e ) . 1 8 Poe's o r i g i n a l c h a r g e o f p l a g i a r i s m (mentioned i n c h a p t e r one) became a p r o l o n g e d harangue a g a i n s t L o n g e l l o w . Poe's p u b l i s h e d c r i t i c i s m on L o n g f e l l o w o c c u p i e s more t h a n one hundred pages o f Thompson's e d i t i o n o f Poe's E s s a y s and R e v i e w s , more t h a n f i f t y p e r c e n t o f t h o s e pages stemming from r e p e r c u s s i o n s and subsequent a c c u s a t i o n s d e r i v e d from Poe's i n i t i a l c h a r g e , and c o v e r i n g a p e r i o d o f f i v e y e a r s . Poe's f i n a l judgment o f L o n g f e l l o w i n 1845 as "not o n l y a s e r v i l e i m i t a t o r , b u t a most i n s o l e n t l i t e r a r y t h i e f " (777) had n e v e r been a g g r a v a t e d by any d i r e c t p u b l i c r e s p o n s e from L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f . I r o n i c a l l y , t h i s may have a c t u a l l y p r o v o k e d Poe a l l t h e more s i n c e i t seemed t h a t h e r e , as e l s e w h e r e , L o n g f e l l o w a l l o w e d h i s f r i e n d s t o speak f o r him p u b l i c l y , as he h i m s e l f had s u p p o s e d l y been c o n t e n t i n h i s p o e t r y t o speak t h e v o i c e s o f o t h e r s as i f t h e y were h i s own. 233 s e l f - s e r v i n g p l a g i a r i s t . H i s low e s t i m a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t i c p r i n c i p l e s , and t h e r e f o r e h i s w o r t h as p o e t o f t h e A m e r i c a n p e o p l e , however, e q u a l l y d e r i v e from Poe's own p o e t i c p r i n c i p l e s w h i c h he was d e v e l o p i n g a t t h e same t i m e t h a t he was w r i t i n g h i s v i t r i o l i c r e v i e w s o f t h i s p a r a d i g m a t i c New E n g l a n d b a r d . I n "The P h i l o s o p h y o f C o m p o s i t i o n " (Graham's Magazine Apr 1846), Poe p r o v i d e s an a n a l y t i c e x p l a n a t i o n f o r "The Raven" i n w h i c h he d e s c r i b e s s e v e r a l f e a t u r e s o f h i s poem, and hence a l l t r u e poems: u n i t y o f i m p r e s s i o n , u n i v e r s a l s e n t i m e n t , h e i g h t e n e d t o n e , sonorous l y r i c i s m , v a r i a t i o n o f images and p a t t e r n s , o r i g i n a l v e r s e form, a s t r u c t u r e as f i t t i n g as a frame i s t o a p i c t u r e , e f f e c t i v e use o f c o n t r a s t , p l a u s i b i l i t y o f scene and s u b t l e s u g g e s t i v e n e s s ( i n E s s a y s and Reviews 13- 2 5 ) . H i s " P o e t i c P r i n c i p l e , " p u b l i s h e d p o s t h u m o u s l y f o u r y e a r s l a t e r , i m p l i e s many o f t h e same p r i n c i p l e s . T h i s a r t i c l e a l s o a c h i e v e d i n t e r n a t i o n a l n o t o r i e t y t h r o u g h Poe's d u a l c l a i m s t h a t "a l o n g poem does n o t e x i s t " ( 7 1 ) , and t h a t a poem s h o u l d be " w r i t t e n s o l e l y f o r t h e poem's s a k e " ( 7 6 ) . The l a t t e r c l a i m , because o f i t s i n f l u e n c e on B a u d e l a i r e , h e l p e d t o l a u n c h an e n t i r e " a r t - f o r - a r t ' s - s a k e " movement, a movement t h a t c o u l d n o t be more d i a m e t r i c a l l y opposed t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y t h a n Poe a p p a r e n t l y was h i m s e l f . P a r a d o x i c a l l y , however, t o i l l u s t r a t e t h e r h y t h m i c a l c r e a t i o n o f b e a u t y a t work i n a l l p o e t r y , Poe u s e s L o n g f e l l o w ' s Proem t o The W a i f , "The Day i s Done," i n h i s 234 " P o e t i c P r i n c i p l e " e s s a y , r e m a r k i n g f a v o u r a b l y upon t h e p o e t ' s c a r e f u l a t t e n t i o n t o t o n e . Indeed, " p a r a d o x i c a l " b e s t d e s c r i b e s t h e work o f an e n t i r e h o s t o f L o n g f e l l o w c r i t i c s , n o t t h e l e a s t o f whom were Poe, F u l l e r and Whitman, s i n c e L o n g f e l l o w ' s t e c h n i c a l s k i l l s , t h e e l e g a n c e , and t h e b e a u t y o f h i s v e r s e c o u l d seldom i f e v e r be d e n i e d even by t h o s e who, l i k e Poe, would most l i k e t o d i s m i s s him e n t i r e l y . Thus, w h i l e L o n g f e l l o w i s d i s p a r a g e d t h r o u g h o u t Poe's r e v i e w s f o r h i s l a c k o f u n i t y and h i s o v e r t m o r a l d i d a c t i c i s m (not t o m e n t i o n h i s i m i t a t i v e n e s s ) Poe concedes t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s " a r t i s t i c a l s k i l l i s g r e a t , and h i s i d e a l i t y h i g h " ( 6 8 2 ) . He even commends t h o s e poems o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s w h i c h d e m o n s t r a t e Poe's own n o t i o n s o f a e s t h e t i c p u r i t y . A t odds a b s o l u t e l y w i t h L o n g f e l l o w o v e r t h e "purpose" o f p o e t r y and i t s r e l a t i o n t o i t s a u d i e n c e , however, Poe c o u l d n e v e r e x p r e s s a n y t h i n g but q u a l i f i e d p r a i s e f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s work. More i m p o r t a n t l y , he d i d n o t l i v e l o n g enough t o w i t n e s s L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n o r d i n a t e p o p u l a r i t y a c h i e v e d i n t h e l a t e 1840s and 1850s t h r o u g h h i s s u c c e s s f u l use o f t h e " l o n g poem." By t h e t i m e M a r g a r e t F u l l e r p u b l i s h e d h e r "American L i t e r a t u r e , i t s P o s i t i o n i n t h e P r e s e n t Time and P r o s p e c t s f o r t h e F u t u r e " (1846), A m e r i c a had a l r e a d y s h i f t e d i t s l i t e r a r y t a s t e s away from a dependence on E n g l a n d and E n g l i s h models t o w a r d Europe, more s p e c i f i c a l l y Germany, i n a d e l i b e r a t e a t t e m p t t o c u t t h e apron s t r i n g s o f i t s mother c o u n t r y . A c c o r d i n g t o F u l l e r , E n g l a n d had become " u n c o n g e n i a l and 235 i n j u r i o u s t o our c o n s t i t u t i o n . . . . [She] does n o t s u i t a mixed r a c e c o n t i n u a l l y e n r i c h e d w i t h new b l o o d from o t h e r s t o c k s t h e most u n l i k e t h a t o f our f i r s t d e s c e n t " ( 3 5 9 ) . Though c r i t i c a l o f t h e easy f e l i c i t y e v i d e n t i n i m i t a t o r s o f Europe, w i t h L o n g f e l l o w as a p r o t o t y p e , F u l l e r n e v e r t h e l e s s a c c o r d s t h e s e w r i t e r s a t l e a s t s e c o n d a r y s t a t u s as " c o l o n i s t s and u s e f u l s c h o o l m a s t e r s t o our p e o p l e i n a t r a n s i t i o n s t a t e " ( 3 5 8 ) . I n F u l l e r ' s o p i n i o n , A m e r i c a n a u t h o r s weaken t h e i r p r i m a r y p o t e n t i a l s by r e l y i n g on European models and p a n d e r i n g t o t h e c o u n t r y ' s e t h n i c a l l y d i v e r s e r e a d e r s as a means o f s e c u r i n g a l i v e l i h o o d . She r e c o g n i z e s , however, t h a t t h e o n l y way t o f r e e w r i t e r s o f " t h e l u r e s o f money o r c e l e b r i t y " i s t o t a k e l i t e r a t u r e o u t o f t h e m a r k e t - p l a c e by i n s t i l l i n g a sense o f what c o n s t i t u t e s " t r u e " l i t e r a t u r e i n e d u c a t e d r e a d e r s — j u d i c i o u s c o n s u m e r s — a r e c o g n i t i o n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f had d i s p l a y e d t h r o u g h o u t h i s e a r l y e s s a y s . Such a p r o j e c t , F u l l e r adds ( i n e v i d e n t s u p p o r t o f Emerson), must be t a k e n up by c a p a b l e e d i t o r s who a r e w i l l i n g t o l e a d t h e i r p u b l i c r a t h e r t h a n f e a r i t s c e n s u r e : " t h e work o f d i f f u s i o n . . . l i e s i n t h e j o u r n a l s w h i c h monthly, w e e k l y , d a i l y send t h e i r messages t o e v e r y c o r n e r o f t h i s g r e a t l a n d and form a t p r e s e n t t h e o n l y e f f i c i e n t i n s t r u m e n t f o r t h e g e n e r a l e d u c a t i o n o f t h e p e o p l e " ( 3 7 0 ) . A s s e s s i n g major A m e r i c a n p o e t s o f t h e p e r i o d — a m o n g o t h e r l i t e r a t i — F u l l e r p o l i t e l y d i s m i s s e s B r y a n t f o r h i s l a c k o f r e a l i t y , H a l l e c k and W i l l i s f o r t h e i r e x c l u s i v i s m w i t h i n t h e 236 s o c i e t y s e t , Dana f o r t h e s c a r c i t y o f h i s work, and L o w e l l f o r b e i n g " a b s o l u t e l y w a n t i n g i n t h e t r u e s p i r i t and t o n e o f poesy" ( 3 6 5 - 6 ) . E v e r l o y a l t o h e r f e l l o w t r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s t , F u l l e r m a i n t a i n s t h a t o n l y Emerson d e s e r v e s " h i g h e s t r a n k " o f t h e t r u e p o e t s i n c e o n l y he d e m o n s t r a t e s o r i g i n a l g e n i u s . She r e s e r v e s h e r most e x t e n s i v e remarks, p o s i t i v e and n e g a t i v e , f o r L o n g f e l l o w . She p r a i s e s h i s t e c h n i c a l s k i l l s (non- m e c h a n i c a l p h r a s i n g and e l e g a n c e ) and h i s l o v e o f t h e b e a u t i f u l , y e t s u p p o r t s Poe i n t h e c l a i m t h a t u l t i m a t e l y L o n g f e l l o w i s " a r t i f i c i a l and i m i t a t i v e . He borrows i n c e s s a n t l y , and mixes what he borrows so t h a t i t does n o t appear t o b e s t advantage" (365) . To F u l l e r , L o n g f e l l o w i s , a t b e s t , a s e c o n d a r y p o e t . I n an a p p e n d i x t o h e r o r i g i n a l a r t i c l e , F u l l e r p r o v i d e s h e r r e v i e w s o f Hawthorne, B r o c k d e n Brown, and L o n g f e l l o w t o i l l u s t r a t e s p e c i f i c a l l y t h e f e a t u r e s o f h e r p r e v i o u s argument. W h i l e l a u d i n g e v i d e n c e o f o r i g i n a l i t y i n t h e two p r o s e w r i t e r s , F u l l e r i s u n d u l y c r i t i c a l i n h e r o p i n i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w l a r g e l y because, as she h e r s e l f a d m i t s , " t h e e x a g g e r a t e d p r a i s e s t h a t have been bestowed upon him" have r a i s e d him t o a s t a t u r e above h i s t r u e a b i l i t i e s as a p o e t ( 3 8 2 ) . H i s p o e t r y l a c k s g e n u i n e v i s i o n and spontaneous e x p r e s s i o n , p r o v i n g i n h e r mind t h a t L o n g f e l l o w i s o f t h e p o e t i c " m i d d l e c l a s s , composed o f men o f l i t t l e o r i g i n a l p o e t i c power, b u t o f much p o e t i c t a s t e and s e n s i b i l i t y " ( 3 8 2 ) , a h y b r i d o f t h e i n s p i r e d p o e t and t h e e l e g a n t v e r s i f i e r . She t h e n comments a s t u t e l y upon L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n c l i n a t i o n t o borrow "as d e r i v e d from an a c q u a i n t a n c e w i t h t h e e l e g a n t l i t e r a t u r e o f many n a t i o n s " (384) w h i c h , though common t o a l l e d u c a t e d p o e t s , i n L o n g f e l l o w had been i n a d e q u a t e l y a s s i m i l a t e d i n t o h i s own l i f e . F u l l e r c o n c l u d e s h e r r e v i e w w i t h an i n t e r e s t i n g p a r a d o x . She s u g g e s t s t h a t t h e r e a s o n f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s b e i n g o v e r - r a t e d i n A m e r i c a i s t h a t t h e n a t i o n ' s r e a d e r s a r e i n s u f f i c i e n t l y e d u c a t e d i n f o r e i g n l i t e r a t u r e s t o r e c o g n i z e L o n g f e l l o w ' s l a c k o f o r i g i n a l i t y . I r o n i c a l l y , however, L o n g f e l l o w w i l l be t h e w r i t e r who w i l l do t h e d u t y o f " p r o m o t i n g a t a s t e f o r t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f t h e s e f o r e i g n l a n d s b e f o r e h i s r e a d e r s a r e aware o f i t " (386) . F u l l e r ' s e s t i m a t i o n o f t h e v a l u e o f A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e and o f L o n g f e l l o w w i t h i n t h a t c o n t e x t c l e a r l y o u t l i n e what were f o r h e r t h e d e l e t e r i o u s e f f e c t s o f t h e p o e t ' s c o n c e r n f o r t h e e t h n i c d i v e r s i t y o f h i s r e a d e r s , a c o n c e r n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f h i n t e d a t i n h i s e a r l y e s s a y s and d i s p l a y e d i n h i s e a r l y p u b l i s h e d volumes. R e i s i n g n o t e s i n h i s a n a l y s i s o f t r e n d s i n A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y s t u d i e s , t h a t t h e t r o u b l e s o m e q u e s t i o n o f "what i s an A m e r i c a n a u t h o r " i s n e c e s s a r i l y p r e c e d e d by "what i s an A m e r i c a n ? " I n r e s p o n s e , R e i s i n g q u o t e s C r e v e c o e u r ' s L e t t e r s from an A m e r i c a n Farmer (1782) w h i c h a r g u e s t h a t A m e r i c a n s have a r i s e n from a "promiscuous b r e e d " o f " E n g l i s h , S c o t c h , I r i s h , F r e n c h , Dutch, Germans, and Swedes" ( q t d . 1 8 ) . F i f t y - f i v e y e a r s l a t e r , i n a j o u r n a l e n t r y o f 6 J a n u a r y 1847, L o n g f e l l o w echoes C r e v e c o e u r ' s v i e w o f t h e 238 d i v e r s e c u l t u r e s i n f o r m i n g A m e r i c a n i d e n t i t y . L o n g f e l l o w d e t e r m i n e s t h a t A m e r i c a n " n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e " i s t h e e x p r e s s i o n o f a n a t i o n a l c h a r a c t e r t h a t i s "a c o m p o s i t e one, e m b r a c i n g F r e n c h , S p a n i s h , I r i s h , E n g l i s h , S c o t c h and German p e c u l i a r i t i e s . Whoever has w i t h i n h i m s e l f most o f t h e s e i s t r u l y o u r n a t i o n a l w r i t e r . I n o t h e r words, whoever i s t h e most u n i v e r s a l i s a l s o t h e most n a t i o n a l " ( L i f e I I 7 4 ) . Concerned about t h e p o t e n t i a l r e c e p t i o n o f E v a n g e l i n e , L o n g f e l l o w h e r e p r e d i c t a b l y c o n n e c t s l i t e r a t u r e t o i t s a u d i e n c e ; t h a t i s , l i t e r a t u r e ' s n a t i o n a l v a l u e i s d e t e r m i n e d by t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h i t s u p p o s e d l y r e s p o n d s t o t h e h e t e r o g e n e i t y o f A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s . T h i s i s n o t t o say t h a t l i t e r a t u r e c o u l d n o t i n s t r u c t an a u d i e n c e i n a s i n g l e m o r a l p o i n t o f v i e w , as L o n g f e l l o w most o f t e n d i d , b u t r a t h e r t h a t i t s s u b j e c t m a t t e r and s t y l e must f i n d t o u c h s t o n e s among a d i v e r s i t y o f r e a d e r s t o be c o n s i s t e n t w i t h i t s n a t i o n a l i s t i c g o a l s . I n s h o r t , as t h e r e a d e r s a r e , so t h e w r i t i n g must be: o f m u l t i p l e e t h n i c backgrounds, eager t o t e s t t h e l e g i t i m a c y o f c u l t u r a l a t t i t u d e s i n t h e "new" w o r l d . P u b l i c l y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s s u p p o r t f o r a m u l t i - e t h n i c as opposed t o a c h a u v i n i s t n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e appeared i n Kavanagh (1849) t h r o u g h t h e v o i c e o f t h e s c h o o l m a s t e r - p o e t , C h u r c h i l l . 1 9 Here, t h e a s p i r i n g p o e t i s approached by a Mr 1 9 The exchange C h u r c h i l l has w i t h Hathaway i n Kavanagh i s based upon a s i m i l a r d i s c o u r s e L o n g f e l l o w c o n d u c t e d i n l e t t e r s w i t h A l e x a n d e r H. S m i t h who was t r y i n g t o e s t a b l i s h an A m e r i c a n " P o e t ' s Magazine" (which n e v e r d i d m a t e r i a l i z e ) w h i l e i m p l o r i n g L o n g f e l l o w t o c o n t r i b u t e . To S m i t h , L o n g f e l l o w Hathaway who r e q u e s t s t h a t C h u r c h i l l become a c o n t r i b u t o r t o t h e f l e d g l i n g N i a g a r a , a new magazine d e v o t e d t o n a t i o n a l A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . The n a t i o n a l i s m v e r s u s u n i v e r s a l i s m d e b a t e ensues s i n c e Hathaway wants a l i t e r a t u r e "commensurate w i t h our mountains and r i v e r s , — c o m m e n s u r a t e w i t h N i a g a r a , t h e A l l e g h a n i e s , and t h e G r e a t L a k e s " (535). But t o C h u r c h i l l , l i t e r a t u r e i s more "an image o f t h e s p i r i t u a l w o r l d t h a n t h e p h y s i c a l " ( 5 3 6 ) , so much so t h a t a l l " t h a t i s b e s t i n t h e g r e a t p o e t s o f a l l c o u n t r i e s i s n o t what i s n a t i o n a l i n them, b u t what i s u n i v e r s a l " (537) . Hence, when Hathaway i n v e i g h s a g a i n s t B r i t i s h t e n d e n c i e s i n A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e , C h u r c h i l l c o u n t e r s w i t h t h e f o l l o w i n g u n i v e r s a l i s t s e n t i m e n t s : "our l i t e r a t u r e can be s t r i c t l y n a t i o n a l o n l y i n s o f a r as our c h a r a c t e r and modes o f t h o u g h t d i f f e r from t h o s e o f o t h e r n a t i o n s . Now, as we a r e v e r y l i k e t h e E n g l i s h , — a r e , i n f a c t , E n g l i s h under a d i f f e r e n t s k y , — I do n o t see how our l i t e r a t u r e can be v e r y d i f f e r e n t from t h e i r s " ( 5 3 7 ) . A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e t o C h u r c h i l l i s t h e r e f o r e n o t an " i m i t a t i o n " o f E n g l i s h , b u t a " c o n t i n u a t i o n " o f i t ; i f l e f t t o grow n a t u r a l l y , A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e w i l l t a k e on an o r g a n i c shape o f i t s own t h a t w i l l , u l t i m a t e l y , r e f l e c t t h e m u l t i p l e n a t i o n s from w h i c h a c o m p o s i t e A m e r i c a w i l l have been d e r i v e d . r e p l i e d t h a t a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e was n o t a mere r e p l i c a o f n a t i o n ' s p h y s i c a l p r e s e n c e , b u t r a t h e r " t h e e x p r e s s i o n o f n a t i o n a l c h a r a c t e r and modes o f t h o u g h t ; and as our c h a r a c t e r and modes o f t h o u g h t do n o t d i f f e r s u b s t a n t i a l l y from t h o s e o f E n g l a n d , our l i t e r a t u r e c a n n o t " ( L e t t e r s I I I 4 0 ) . See S t e v e n A l l a b a c k ' s " V o i c e s o f L o n g f e l l o w : Kavanagh as A u t o b i o g r a p h y . " 240 A c c o r d i n g t o C h u r c h i l l , as " t h e b l o o d o f a l l n a t i o n s i s m i n g l i n g w i t h our own, so w i l l t h e i r t h o u g h t s and f e e l i n g s f i n a l l y m i n g l e i n our l i t e r a t u r e . We s h a l l draw from t h e Germans t e n d e r n e s s ; from t h e S p a n i a r d s , p a s s i o n ; from t h e F r e n c h , v i v a c i t y , t o m i n g l e more and more w i t h o u r E n g l i s h s o l i d s e n s e " ( 5 3 8 - 9 ) . Though f a r more p r e s c r i p t i v e t h a n L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f , as q u o t e d above, C h u r c h i l l n o n e t h e l e s s d e s c r i b e s a m u l t i - e t h n i c l i t e r a t e A m e r i c a t h a t L o n g f e l l o w , t h e P r o f e s s o r o f Modern Languages, a s p i r e d t o c r e a t e , b o t h i n t h e c l a s s r o o m and i n h i s w r i t i n g . S t r i c t l y s p e a k i n g , L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n t e n t i o n t o r o o t A m e r i c a ' s n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e i n i t s a u d i e n c e — i n a l l i t s c o m m o n a l i t y and e t h n i c d i v e r s i t y — r a t h e r t h a n impose i t from above was r e a l l y no d i f f e r e n t from t h o s e aims o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r y c r i t i c s . The d i f f e r e n c e s l a y , however, i n t h e methods by w h i c h he i n t e n d e d t o i n s t r u c t h i s a u d i e n c e i n a t a s t e f o r d i s c o v e r y o f t h e p o e t i c i n t h e common p l a c e . A c c o r d i n g t o Poe and t o F u l l e r (and Emerson t o o a l t h o u g h he n e v e r p u b l i c l y s t a t e d as much), L o n g f e l l o w t o o r e a d i l y c a t e r e d t o p o p u l a r t a s t e by p r o v i d i n g h i s r e a d e r s w i t h B r i t i s h o r European i m i t a t i o n s i n an a t t e m p t t o s e c u r e a r e a d e r s h i p l a r g e enough t o a l l o w h i s m o r a l i s m t o have t h e p e r v a s i v e impact he d e s i r e d . Whitman, however, g e n e r a l l y a p p l a u d e d as u n i q u e l y A m e r i c a n L o n g f e l l o w ' s sympathy f o r common humanity. I n h i s e a r l y e s s a y s and c r i t i c i s m o f t h e 1840s, Whitman a c t u a l l y echoes some o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s own e a r l y p r o s e . He g r a t e f u l l y a p p r e c i a t e s , f o r example, E n g l a n d ' s g e n i u s w h i c h " A m e r i c a i s t o add t o r a t h e r t h a n i m i t a t e " ("Independent A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e " G a t h e r i n g 240). A y e a r e a r l i e r , i n h i s r e v i e w o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s The B e l f r y o f Bruges and o t h e r Poems (1845), Whitman had a g r e e d w i t h Poe and F u l l e r by c l a i m i n g t h a t L o n g f e l l o w was " g i f t e d by God w i t h a s p e c i a l f a c u l t y o f d r e s s i n g b e a u t i f u l t h o u g h t s i n b e a u t i f u l words." He c o u l d n o t d i f f e r more from them, however, i n h i s b e l i e f t h a t t h e " c o u n t r y i s n o t h a l f j u s t t o t h i s e l o q u e n t w r i t e r ; an honor and a g l o r y as he i s t o t h e A m e r i c a n name—and d e s e r v i n g t o s t a n d on t h e same p l a t f o r m w i t h B r y a n t and Wordsworth" ( " L o n g f e l l o w ' s 'Poems' G a t h e r i n g 297). Whitman had d i s c o v e r e d i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s work a l o v e f o r t h e commonplace c o m p a t i b l e w i t h h i s o w n — n o t n e c e s s a r i l y e x p r e s s e d i n s i m i l a r t e r m s , b u t no l e s s A m e r i c a n . As were Poe's and F u l l e r ' s b e f o r e , Whitman's l a t e r r e s p o n s e s t o L o n g f e l l o w were governed by h i s own p o e t i c s , c l e a r l y o u t l i n e d i n h i s 1855 " P r e f a c e " t o Leaves o f G r a s s ( P r o s e Works I I 434-58). I n t h i s work, Whitman's d e m o c r a t i c s p i r i t , i m b i b e d p a r t l y though n o t e x c l u s i v e l y from a s s o c i a t i o n w i t h Young A m e r i c a n s and t h e D e m o c r a t i c P a r t y , s u r p r i s i n g l y i s n o t a t odds w i t h L o n g f e l l o w b u t i s i n many ways s u p p o r t i v e o f some o f t h e o l d e r p o e t ' s s e n t i m e n t s . S p e c i f i c a l l y , Whitman's b e l i e f i n t h e common p e o p l e as an unrhymed poem p a r a l l e l s L o n g f e l l o w ' s O u t r e Mer. F u r t h e r m o r e , Whitman's endorsement o f c u l t u r a l d i v e r s i t y would have a p p e a l e d t o t h e L o n g f e l l o w o f 0 242 t h e f o r t i e s : "The A m e r i c a n p o e t s a r e t o e n c l o s e o l d and new f o r A m e r i c a i s t h e r a c e o f r a c e s . Of them a b a r d i s t o be commensurate w i t h a p e o p l e . To him o t h e r c o n t i n e n t s a r r i v e as c o n t r i b u t i o n s . . . . [H]e g i v e s them r e c e p t i o n f o r t h e i r sake and h i s own s a k e " (Whitman 437) . However, Whitman f e l t t h a t i n o r d e r t o speak t o h i s r e a d e r s he had t o be e q u a l w i t h them, e q u a l l y immersed w i t h i n t h e poem o f e v e r y day l i f e t o w h i c h he g i v e s v o i c e . C o n s e q u e n t l y , when he c a s t i g a t e s m o r a l i s m i n p o e t r y , he draws a d i v i d i n g l i n e between h i m s e l f and L o n g f e l l o w w i t h r e s p e c t t o t h e p o e t ' s r e l a t i o n s h i p t o h i s a u d i e n c e . Whereas L o n g f e l l o w f e l t a b s o l u t e l y t h a t i t was h i s d u t y t o i n s t r u c t h i s r e a d e r s m o r a l l y and a e s t h e t i c a l l y , Whitman f e l t j u s t as s t r o n g l y t h a t i t was h i s d u t y t o r e f l e c t and t o a r t i c u l a t e an u n d e l i n e a t e d s t r a t a o f i n t e r e s t s t h a t made up Whitman's c o m p o s i t e A m e r i c a . U l t i m a t e l y , Whitman's comments upon t h e d e a t h o f L o n g f e l l o w s u g g e s t t h e a c t u a l e f f e c t L o n g f e l l o w had had upon n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e : p a r a d o x i c a l . W h i l e Whitman condemns t h e s t y l e and form o f t h e age i n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w had l i v e d , an age a d d i c t e d , " a l m o s t t o a s i c k n e s s , " t o v e r b a l melody, L o n g f e l l o w must a l w a y s be a p p l a u d e d f o r e m p h a s i z i n g what was d e a r e s t t o t h e g e n e r a l human h e a r t and t a s t e ( i n Specimen Days P r o s e Works I 284). More i m p o r t a n t l y , L o n g f e l l o w p r o v i d e d m i d d l e - c l a s s r e a d e r s w i t h a s a n c t u a r y from c o m m e r c i a l c a p i t a l i s m : He i s c e r t a i n l y t h e s o r t o f b a r d and c o u n t e r - a c t a n t most needed f o r our m a t e r i a l i s t i c , s e l f - a s s e r t i v e , 243 money-worshipping, Anglo-Saxon r a c e s , and e s p e c i a l l y f o r t h e p r e s e n t age i n A m e r i c a — a n age t y r a n n i c a l l y r e g u l a t e d w i t h r e f e r e n c e t o t h e m a n u f a c t u r e r , t h e merchant, t h e f i n a n c i e r , t h e p o l i t i c i a n , and t h e day w o r k m a n — f o r whom and among whom he comes as a p o e t o f melody, c o u r t e s y , d e f e r e n c e — p o e t o f t h e mellow t w i l i g h t o f t h e p a s t i n I t a l y , Germany, S p a i n , and i n N o r t h e r n E u r o p e — p o e t o f a l l s y m p a t h e t i c g e n t l e n e s s — a n d u n i v e r s a l p o e t o f women and young p e o p l e . I s h o u l d have t o t h i n k l o n g i f I were a s k ' d t o name t h e man who has done more, and i n more v a l u a b l e d i r e c t i o n s f o r A m e r i c a . (285) Whitman's e u l o g y r e s o u n d s w i t h i r o n y on t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y •a e a r s , c o n d i t i o n e d as t h e y a r e t o b e l i e v e t h a t Whitman and L o n g f e l l o w were a n t i t h e t i c a l t o one a n o t h e r ' s p o e t i c p u r p o s e s , and t o b e l i e v e t h a t Whitman's p r e s e n t e x a l t e d s t a t u s as t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n b a r d came about from a d e p o s i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w i n w h i c h Whitman h i m s e l f had a hand. Y e t t h e above words a r e a s i n c e r e e x p r e s s i o n o f a p p r e c i a t i o n from a younger p o e t f o r one who'had gone b e f o r e him, who had h e l p e d t o f o s t e r a c u l t u r a l awareness i n a n a t i o n i l l - d i s p o s e d t o p a t r o n i z e a n y t h i n g b u t t h e a c c u m u l a t i o n o f w e a l t h and p r o p e r t y , an awareness w i t h o u t w h i c h Whitman's own fame i n t h i s c e n t u r y c o u l d n e v e r have come about. I n t h e end, t h e c r e a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t i c v o i c e as t h a t o f a "new" m i d d l e - c l a s s A m e r i c a must be seen i n i t s v a r i e d c o m p l e x i t y as an o r g a n i c p r o c e s s , i n v o l v i n g p e r s o n a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l i n h e r i t a n c e s and i m p u l s e s r e l a t e d t o t h e l a r g e r s o c i o - e c o n o m i c and p o l i t i c a l f o r c e s g o v e r n i n g t h e n a s c e n t g r o w t h o f l i t e r a t u r e as a r e p u t a b l e p r o f e s s i o n and not as a p a s t i m e . C l e a r l y , t h e e r r o n e o u s . t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y v i e w o f a f e m i n i n e d o m e s t i c c u l t u r e s e p a r a t e d from i t s c o u n t e r p a r t , a m a s c u l i n e dominated c o m m e r c i a l c a p i t a l i s m , has done much t o compromise any s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o n t r i b u t i o n t o t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a s p e c i f i c a l l y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l y c o n v i c t i o n t h a t he would be eminent i n t h e f i e l d o f l i t e r a t u r e was as much m o t i v a t e d by a s o - c a l l e d male need t o a s s e r t h i m s e l f i n a p u b l i c s p h e r e as i t was c o n d i t i o n e d by h i s p r i v a t e awareness o f t h e i n h e r e n t power and b e a u t y o f t h e f e m a l e s a n c t u a r y o f t h e home, and o f t h e ways i n w h i c h t h e i m a g i n a t i v e s a n c t u a r y o f h i s v e r s e c o u l d r e p l i c a t e t h e peace and s e r e n i t y t h e r e i n t o a c h i e v e p o p u l a r s u c c e s s on a s c a l e w i t h L.E.L. and F e l i c i a Hemans. A t f i r s t , L o n g f e l l o w had p a r t i c i p a t e d f o r c e f u l l y i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f a l i t e r a t u r e a t odds w i t h f e m i n i n e d e l i c a c y w h i c h he, l i k e many o t h e r s , i n i t i a l l y a t t r i b u t e d t o f a l s e r o m a n t i c s e n t i m e n t s borrowed from E n g l a n d . H i s subsequent j o u r n e y s t o Europe, however, l e d him t o supplement h i s e a r l i e r b e l i e f i n an A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e o f e x t e r n a l n a t u r e and h e r o i c endeavour w i t h a p r o f e s s e d a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h e l i v e s o f common humanity as an e x p r e s s i o n o f t h e s p i r i t o f a n a t i o n . Europe, i n t u r n , broadened L o n g f e l l o w ' s n a t i o n a l i s t c l a i m s i n t o a u n i v e r s a l i s t commitment t o a m u l t i - e t h n i c r e a d e r s h i p d e s i r o u s o f f i n d i n g i t s own v a r i o u s needs met i n v e r s e . I n p r i n c i p l e , t h e T r a n s c e n d e n t a l Emerson and F u l l e r m i g h t have e n d o r s e d t h e m o r a l u s e f u l n e s s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y , were i t n o t f o r t h e f a c t t h a t , i n p r a c t i c e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t i c methods l a c k e d s u b t l e t y . S i m i l a r l y , Poe s c o r n e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s supposed b o r r o w i n g f o r t h e p u r p o s e s o f i n s t r u c t i o n . Of t h o s e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s who r e m a i n c r e d i b l e t o d a y , o n l y W h i t m a n — p e r h a p s because o f t h e e x t e n t o f h i s e x p o s u r e t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s v e r s e — c a m e t o u n d e r s t a n d L o n g f e l l o w f u l l y , i n p a r t i c u l a r h i s r o l e i n t h e c r e a t i n g an i d e n t i f i a b l y A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e . And, i r o n i c a l l y , Whitman's e u l o g y h a r k e n s back t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l i e r endeavour t o expose t h e consequences o f A m e r i c a ' s u n h e a l t h y p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h " b a r e , brawny, m u s c u l a r , u t i l i t y " : i m a g i n a t i v e and s p i r i t u a l e n e r v a t i o n . P a r a d o x i c a l as i t may seem, L o n g f e l l o w u l t i m a t e l y was t o combat what he p e r c e i v e d as an e n f e e b l e d A m e r i c a w i t h what t h e g e n e r a l A m e r i c a n p u b l i c i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y saw as an e n f e e b l e d v o i c e : t h e v o i c e o f women i n t h e i r l i m i t e d c a p a c i t i e s as d o m e s t i c , m o r a l p r o t e c t o r s o f t h e n a t i o n ' s s o u l . Thus, L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y grew a l o n g w i t h t h e p e r v a s i v e f o r c e o f a f e m a l e - c e n t r e d d o m e s t i c m o r a l i t y r e a c h i n g outward t o i n h a b i t e v e r w i d e n i n g i n t e l l e c t u a l and r e l i g i o u s c i r c l e s . That n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c u l t u r a l h i s t o r i a n s a r e now b e g i n n i n g t o r e c o n s i d e r f e m i n i n e p r i n c i p l e s as n o t n e c e s s a r i l y n e g a t i v e s u g g e s t s t h e p o s s i b i l i t y t h a t , i n t u r n , t h e p r e s e n t a s s u m p t i o n s g o v e r n i n g t h e c u r r e n t r e c e p t i o n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y 'American p o e t r y may broaden t o i n c l u d e f e m i n i n e v o i c e s , i n c l u d i n g L o n g f e l l o w ' s , as i n t e g r a l t o t h e h i s t o r y o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ' c u l t u r a l development. C l e a r l y , Gorman's e v a l u a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e l a t i v e weakness as a s p o k e s p e r s o n f o r A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e i s s u e s from a modern m a s c u l i n i s t m i s r e a d i n g o f A m e r i c a n " V i c t o r i a n i s m " as p e j o r a t i v e l y f e m i n i n e , g i v i n g l i t t l e o r no c r e d e n c e t o t h e m u l t i p l e ways i n w h i c h f e m a l e and male s p h e r e s o f i n f l u e n c e r e i n f o r c e d and even i n t e r s e c t e d one a n o t h e r . C r i t i c a l p r e j u d i c e a g a i n s t L o n g f e l l o w ' s " f e m i n i n e " b r a n d o f A m e r i c a n i s m as i n s i p i d b o r r o w i n g s f o r t h e p u r p o s e s o f m o r a l d i d a c t i c i s m d i s r e g a r d s c o m p l e t e l y t h e p o e t ' s p r e s c i e n t awareness o f h i s audience,, and o f t h e m o r a l a u t h o r i t y women's v o i c e s c a r r i e d i n a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a . T h i s c r i t i c a l l y b i a s e d v i e w o f L o n g f e l l o w p e r s i s t s t o d a y d e s p i t e t h e s i g n i f i c a n t impact L o n g f e l l o w had i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y upon t h e f o r m a t i o n o f a n a t i o n a l A m e r i c a n l i t e r a t u r e o f i n t e r n a t i o n a l r e p u t e . L o n g f e l l o w c r e a t e d an i d e n t i f i a b l y A m e r i c a n c o n s c i o u s n e s s w i t h i n h i s r e a d e r s , and an awareness o f A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e t h r o u g h o u t t h e w o r l d . N e i t h e r p e r c e p t i o n had such p e n e t r a t i n g o r p e r v a s i v e f o r c e i n Western l i t e r a t u r e b e f o r e h i s t i m e . Gorman and c r i t i c s ( s u c h as O d e l l Shepherd) who f o l l o w e d him may o b j e c t t o t h e s p e c i f i c t y p e o f A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e t h a t L o n g f e l l o w r e p r e s e n t e d and p r o j e c t e d w o r l d w i d e , b u t t h e y s e r i o u s l y d i s t o r t t h e l i t e r a r y h i s t o r i c a l r e c o r d i n s u g g e s t i n g t h a t L o n g f e l l o w d i d n o t see h i m s e l f as d u t i f u l l y bound t o t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a n a t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e . Indeed, he d e v o t e d h i s l i f e t o i t . 247 CHAPTER THREE TENNYSON AND THE BIRTH OP A LEGEND A l f r e d and I o f t e n t o o k l o n g r a m b l e s t o g e t h e r , and on one p a r t i c u l a r a f t e r n o o n , when we were i n t h e home f i e l d s t a l k i n g o f our r e s p e c t i v e f u t u r e s , he s a i d most e m p h a t i c a l l y , " W e l l , A r t h u r , I mean t o be famous." (From h i s e a r l i e s t y e a r s , he f e l t t h a t he was a p o e t , and e a r n e s t l y t r a i n e d h i m s e l f t o be w o r t h y o f h i s v o c a t i o n . ) — A r t h u r Tennyson (Memoir 14) One t u r n s now from L o n g f e l l o w , away from t h e manly h e r o i c s o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ' s n a t i o n a l l i t e r a r y d e b a t e c o n c e r n i n g t h e s h a r e an a p p a r e n t l y e f f e t e New E n g l a n d was t o have i n t h e f u t u r e p o e t i c v o i c e o f v i r i l e A m e r i c a . The g l a n c e now i s backward upon t h e mother c o u n t r y , on t h e b i r t h and g r o w t h t h e r e o f a p o e t who, a p a r t from b e i n g an i n s p i r a t i o n t o L o n g f e l l o w , was t o be t h e o f f i c i a l v o i c e o f V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d — Q u e e n and c o u n t r y — A l f r e d Tennyson. T h i s g l a n c e a p p e a r s , a t f i r s t , d i r e c t e d away from t h e f u t u r e t o w a r d t h e p a s t , away from what a young c o u n t r y might become, what y o u t h f u l p a t r i o t i s m e q u a l l y y o u t h f u l p o e t s might i n s p i r e , t o w a r d t h e " o l d " c o u n t r y : s t e e p e d i n t r a d i t i o n , u l t r a - c o n s c i o u s o f i t s s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l power as a n a t i o n , l a d e n w i t h c r i t i c s and r e v i e w e r s a n x i o u s t o promote t h o s e p o e t s who would b e s t c a p t u r e t h i s a u g u s t n a t i o n ' s h i s t o r y . Y e t Tennyson, f o r a l l h i s a l l e g e d c o n s e r v a t i s m , appeared i n 1830 as a t r u l y new p o e t i c v o i c e w i t h i n t h i s o l d E n g l a n d . 248 Moreover, t h i s i n i t i a l backward g l a n c e i s a t once r e f r a c t e d , f o r s c h o l a r s t o d a y as i t was e q u a l l y f o r Tennyson and many o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , by a s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l u p h e a v a l i n E n g l a n d t h a t would f o r e v e r t r a n s f o r m e v e n t s i n t h e p a s t i n t o a u g u r i e s o f t h e f u t u r e : t h e b i r t h and r a p i d g r o w t h o f i n d u s t r i a l c a p i t a l i s m . As Tennyson d e v e l o p e d h i s p o e t i c v o i c e , h e — l i k e t h e n a t i o n he came t o r e p r e s e n t — s h a p e d and r e s h a p e d t r a d i t i o n a l v a l u e s t h r o u g h o u t t h e mid and l a t e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , p a r t i c i p a t i n g even beyond t h e g r a v e i n "ye' o l d E n g l a n d ' s " t r a n s f o r m a t i o n i n t o a v i r i l e "New" E n g l a n d o f i m p e r i a l d i m e n s i o n s by t h e end o f Queen V i c t o r i a ' s r e i g n . The e x a c t n a t u r e o f Tennyson's p a r t i c i p a t i o n , however, was, i s , and l i k e l y w i l l f o r e v e r be open t o d e b a t e . A l t h o u g h h i s p o e t i c v o i c e u s h e r e d i n new p o s s i b i l i t i e s f o r t h e f u t u r e o f p o e t r y , Tennyson came t o e x p r e s s t h e r e i n an e s s e n t i a l l y c o n s e r v a t i v e v i s i o n . He p r o p h e s i e d t h e d i r e m o r a l consequences o f an i n d i v i d u a l i s m t h a t had, i n t h e p a s t c e n t u r y , f u e l l e d major s o c i o - e c o n o m i c changes, and would c o n t i n u e t o d r i v e h i s n a t i o n ' s f u t u r e . 1 J u s t as L o n g f e l l o w ' s 1 The t e r m " i n d i v i d u a l i s m " i s used g u a r d e d l y h e r e . "You ask me why though i l l a t ease," f o r example, e n d o r s e s " s i n g l e t h o u g h t " and t h e v o i c e o f " i n d i v i d u a l freedom." I n h i s l o n g l i f e t i m e , Tennyson n e v e r r e s c i n d e d t h e s e b e l i e f s . However, a c t i o n s ( r a t h e r t h a n s i m p l y t h o u g h t s o r v o i c e s ) w h i c h s a c r i f i c e d t h e h a p p i n e s s o f even one o t h e r i n d i v i d u a l f o r t h e b e n e f i t o f one's s e l f i n c u r r e d h i s w r a t h , p a r t i c u l a r l y i f t h a t b e n e f i t was monetary. I t i s t h i s " i n d i v i d u a l i s t " b e h a v i o u r r a t h e r t h a n an i n d i v i d u a l i s t m e t a p h y s i c s t h a t i s r e f e r r e d t o h e r e . New E n g l a n d v o i c e i n t h i s c e n t u r y has come t o r e p r e s e n t p u b l i c l y an e n f e e b l e d p a s t , t i e d t o t h e f e m i n i n e s e n s i b i l i t i e s o f a s u p p o s e d l y aged mother c o u n t r y , so Tennyson's new v o i c e o f o l d E n g l a n d has, i n p a r t , been shown by t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s c h o l a r s t o c h a r a c t e r i z e an outmoded way o f l i f e even w i t h i n h i s own p e r i o d . T h i s l i f e i s l i n k e d t o t h e f o r c e s o f s t a b i l i t y i n h e r e n t i n a f a m i l y - c e n t r e d d o m e s t i c i t y a t once and s e e m i n g l y f o r e v e r c u t o f f from a w o r l d dominated by p r o g r e s s i v e s o c i a l change and m a t e r i a l p r o s p e r i t y . Tennyson's w o r l d v i e w has t h u s n o t o n l y been seen i n t h i s c e n t u r y as " o l d " w i t h i n an E n g l a n d a n x i o u s t o announce i t s newly c r e a t e d s o u r c e s o f w e a l t h and power, b u t seen as e s s e n t i a l l y f e m i n i n e as w e l l , d e t e r m i n e d as i t was by t h e p r i v a t e m o r a l and s p i r i t u a l a u t h o r i t y g r a n t e d by t h e f e m a l e p r e s e n c e w i t h i n t h e f a m i l y r a t h e r t h a n by a male-dominated p u b l i c a u t h o r i t y s a n c t i o n e d by economic s t a t u s . I n t h i s s e n s e , t h e w o r l d t h a t Tennyson i n h a b i t e d was a w o r l d n o t u n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w ' s . Y e t as w i t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s A m e r i c a , new s o c i a l h i s t o r i e s o f t h e s o - c a l l e d s e p a r a t e s p h e r e s o f f e m a l e and male a c t i o n i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d r e v e a l them t o have been m u t u a l l y s u p p o r t i v e and i n t e r l i n k e d . Recent s t u d i e s o f t h e p r e - s u f f r a g e t t e f e m i n i s t movement i n E n g l a n d , f o r example, document t h e ways i n w h i c h women, bent on p r o v i d i n g a l t e r n a t i v e s f o r t h e m s e l v e s o t h e r t h a n h e a r t h and home, o p e r a t e d — n e c e s s a r i l y y e t p a r a d o x i c a l l y — a c c o r d i n g t o t h e d i c t a t e s o f t h e a c c e p t e d i d e o l o g y o f d o m e s t i c i t y as a woman's p r o p e r s p h e r e o f i n t e r e s t 250 and i n f l u e n c e . 2 I n E n g l a n d , however, u n l i k e A m e r i c a , whatever m i x i n g o f g e n d e r i z e d r o l e s c o u l d and d i d o c c u r was f u r t h e r c o m p l i c a t e d by o f t e n v i o l e n t a c t i o n s and r e a c t i o n s a c c o r d i n g t o c l a s s - b a s e d i d e o l o g i e s . T h i s i s n o t t o say t h a t A m e r i c a was w i t h o u t c l a s s c o n s c i o u s n e s s , n o r even t h a t L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f was unaware o f c l a s s d i f f e r e n c e s , b u t r a t h e r t h a t t h e A m e r i c a n n a t i o n ' s o f f i c i a l i d e o l o g y o f d e m o c r a t i c e q u a l i t y among men made d i r e c t r e f l e c t i o n upon c l a s s a l e s s p r o m i n e n t 2 S t u d i e s i n t h i s v e i n i n c l u d e S a r a Delamont and L o r n a D u f f i n ' s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o The N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y Woman: Her C u l t u r a l and P h y s i c a l W o r l d , B a r b a r a T a y l o r ' s Eve and t h e New J e r u s a l e m : S o c i a l i s m and Feminism i n t h e N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y , P h i l i p p a L e v i n e ' s V i c t o r i a n Feminism, 1850-1900, and Mary Maynard's " P r i v i l e g e and P a t r i a r c h y : F e m i n i s t Thought i n t h e N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y . " A r e l a t e d work, d e a l i n g w i t h women o f l e s s p u b l i c s t a t u r e t h a n t h o s e i n t h e above s t u d i e s , i s P a t r i c i a B r a n c a ' s S i l e n t S i s t e r h o o d : M i d d l e c l a s s Women i n t h e V i c t o r i a n Home. R a t h e r t h a n d i s p a r a g e t h e V i c t o r i a n woman's a c c e p t a n c e o f a male v i e w o f woman as s t r i c t l y " t h e a n g e l i n t h e house," as many p r e v i o u s s o c i a l h i s t o r i e s ( f e m i n i s t and n o n - f e m i n i s t ) have done, t h e s e s t u d i e s t r y t o e x p l a i n b o t h t h e p e r v a s i v e s o c i a l f o r c e o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d e o l o g y and t h e many r e a s o n s why women s p e c i f i c a l l y c o u l d see t h e m s e l v e s as o c c a s i o n a l l y empowered by i t . They come c l o s e r t o u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h e c o m p l e x i t i e s o f V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y t h a n s c h o l a r s l i k e K a t h e r i n e Moore, f o r example, who i n V i c t o r i a n Wives f o c u s e s l a r g e l y upon t h e l e g a l and m o r a l s t r i c t u r e s a g a i n s t f e m a l e independence i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t o t h e e x c l u s i o n o f t h e ways i n w h i c h V i c t o r i a n women t u r n e d t h e s e a p p a r e n t s o c i a l l i m i t a t i o n s t o t h e i r advantage. The r e s t r i c t i o n s imposed upon V i c t o r i a n women s h o u l d be seen by women—and m e n — a s a b h o r r e n t t o d a y , b u t t h a t t h e y were n o t c o n s i s t e n t l y nor even a t a l l p e r v a s i v e l y seen t h a t way by women t h e m s e l v e s does n o t a u t o m a t i c a l l y l e a d t o t h e a s s u m p t i o n t h a t t h e m a j o r i t y o f V i c t o r i a n women were dupes o f s o c i e t y . R a t h e r , women's c o m p l i c i t y i n . t h e c r e a t i o n o f a V i c t o r i a n d o m e s t i c i d e o l o g y must be seen, i n p a r t , as a s e l f - c o n s c i o u s p r o m o t i o n o f t h o s e m o r a l i d e a l s and b e l i e f s t h a t n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y women f e l t t o be l a c k i n g w i t h i n t h e i r b u r g e o n i n g c a p i t a l i s t s o c i e t y . f e a t u r e o f c r i t i c a l and p o e t i c d i s c o u r s e i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s t h a n i n E n g l a n d . The added d i m e n s i o n o f c l a s s a n a l y s i s i n Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y makes h i s work i n f i n i t e l y more complex t h a n h i s A m e r i c a n c o u n t e r p a r t ' s , hence d i s t i n c t from and more i n t e r e s t i n g t h a n L o n g f e l l o w ' s f o r t h e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s c h o l a r , i r r e s p e c t i v e o f any t e c h n i c a l s u p e r i o r i t y o f t h e E n g l i s h b a r d . Thus, even though Tennyson t o o was a p o e t p r e o c c u p i e d w i t h " f e m i n i n e " d o m e s t i c themes s i m i l a r t o t h o s e o f L o n g f e l l o w , he was o v e r t l y c o n s c i o u s o f t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c r o o t s i n f l u e n c i n g c o n c e p t i o n s o f gender i n h i s c o u n t r y i n a way t h a t L o n g f e l l o w a p p e a r s n e v e r t o have c o n s i d e r e d . I n t u r n i n g t o Tennyson's E n g l a n d , and t h e p o e t ' s p l a c e i n i t , one u l t i m a t e l y s e e s a w o r l d w h i c h , i n 1855, A r n o l d e n i g m a t i c a l l y c h a r a c t e r i z e d as "two w o r l d s , one dead / The o t h e r p o w e r l e s s t o be b o r n " ("Stanzas From t h e Grande C h a r t r e u s e " ) . I n e f f e c t , Tennyson was b o r n i n t o t h e f o r m e r , t h e dead o r d y i n g w o r l d o f a r i s t o c r a t i c p r i v i l e g e , a r u r a l a g r a r i a n economy, and a r e l i g i o u s m o r a l i t y i n v e s t e d i n l o c a l c h u r c h a u t h o r i t i e s . C o i n c i d e n t a l l y — y e t s i g n i f i c a n t l y and p e r h a p s even s y m b o l i c a l l y — t h a t w o r l d d i e d f o r Tennyson w i t h A r t h u r H a l l a m i n 1833. Tennyson, n e a r t h e end o f I n Memoriam, had f i n a l l y a s k e d t o l e t i t d i e , "The y e a r i s d y i n g i n t h e n i g h t ; / R i n g o u t , w i l d b e l l s , and l e t him d i e " (CVI 3-4), so t h a t he m i g h t g i v e b i r t h t o a new v o i c e b o r n o u t o f g r i e f and l o s s t o speak "Beyond t h e second b i r t h o f Death" (XLV 903). 252 As t h e p e o p l e ' s v o i c e , t h e l a u r e a t e s h i p h a v i n g been bestowed upon him subsequent t o t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f I n Memoriam i n 1850, Tennyson would have t o spend t h e second h a l f o f t h e c e n t u r y g r a p p l i n g w i t h t h e second h a l f o f A r n o l d ' s e q u a t i o n : t h e " o t h e r " w o r l d dominated by m i d d l e - c l a s s w e a l t h , u r b a n i n d u s t r i a l m a n u f a c t u r i n g , and seeming m o r a l d i s s i p a t i o n . F o r Tennyson a t l e a s t , such a p r o j e c t demanded r e s u r r e c t i o n o f a l l t h a t he v a l u e d i n h i s " o l d " E n g l a n d r e i n f u s e d i n t o h i s p r e s e n t "new" one. T h i s r e s u r r e c t i o n can be t r a c e d i n Tennyson's r e c r e a t i o n o f A r t h u r H a l l a m i n t h e f i g u r e o f t h e "once and f u t u r e " K i n g A r t h u r . Once ( r e ) c r e a t e d , however, K i n g A r t h u r and a l l he r e p r e s e n t e d a l s o would have t o d i e i n o r d e r f o r E n g l a n d t o be b o r n anew once a g a i n : as K i n g A r t h u r h i m s e l f r e m a r k s , "'The o l d o r d e r c h a n g e t h , y i e l d i n g p l a c e t o new, / And God f u l f i l s h i m s e l f i n many ways, / L e s t one good custom s h o u l d c o r r u p t t h e w o r l d . ' " ("The P a s s i n g o f A r t h u r " 407-10). T h i s f u l f i l m e n t t a k e s p l a c e i n t h e subsequent a c t o f r e c r e a t i o n t h a t r e a d e r s u n d e r t a k e as t h e y e x p e r i e n c e Tennyson's work and t h e r e b y t h e "New" E n g l a n d t h e p o e t p r o f f e r s y e t does n o t p r o v i d e . I n t h i s s e n s e , Tennyson's a t t e m p t t o c r e a t e a "New" E n g l a n d out o f t h e o l d must be seen as f o r e v e r e m b r y o n i c , i n A r n o l d ' s p e s s i m i s t i c terms " p o w e r l e s s t o be b o r n , " d e v o i d o f t r u e "power" and p u r p o s e . Y e t i n a more o p t i m i s t i c s e n s e , one t o w h i c h Tennyson h i m s e l f would l i k e l y have s u b s c r i b e d , i t was Camelot: " ' b u i l t / To m u s i c , t h e r e f o r e n e v e r b u i l t a t a l l , / And t h e r e f o r e b u i l t f o r e v e r ' " ("Gareth and L y n e t t e , " 272-4). I n s o f a r as such a v i s i o n was d i f f i c u l t t o s u s t a i n , i t was t h a t much more d i f f i c u l t t o r e a c h . Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e r e v e a l s t h a t t h e p e r s o n a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l d i f f i c u l t y o f coming t o terms w i t h a s e e m i n g l y f r a c t u r e d l i f e w i t h i n a f r a c t u r e d E n g l a n d i n f u s e d i n Tennyson's v e r s e a t e n s i o n t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s a p p e a r s n e v e r t o have h e l d . A l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson were t o s h a r e many o f t h e same l i t e r a r y p r e o c c u p a t i o n s d u r i n g t h e i r c o l l e g e y e a r s , t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e boyhood " e d u c a t i o n s " a t home c o u l d n o t have been more d i s s i m i l a r . L o n g f e l l o w ' s s e d a t e , l a r g e l y p r e d i c t a b l e f a m i l y l i f e and e a r l y e d u c a t i o n i n P o r t l a n d , f o r a l l i t s b u s t l i n g s e a p o r t , p r o v i d e d a f i n a n c i a l and d o m e s t i c s e c u r i t y t h a t Tennyson was n e v e r t o know u n t i l he e s t a b l i s h e d i t f o r h i m s e l f f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e a t C h a p e l House, Twickenham, i n 1851. I n c o n t r a s t , Tennyson's l i f e as a boy i n Somersby (1809-1821) has been v a r i o u s l y d e s c r i b e d by h i s s e v e r a l b i o g r a p h e r s i n t h i s c e n t u r y as "overcrowded, h u d d l e d and even i n s a n i t a r y " ( N i c o l s o n 3 3 ) ; "a l i t t l e w o r l d o f t h e i r own" w i t h l i f e "rough and t h e atmosphere o f t e n s t o r m y " ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 2 6 ) ; and o v e r r u n w i t h " c h i l d r e n h a r d l y t r a i n e d i n any o f t h e normal modes o f s o c i a l b e h a v i o u r " ( M a r t i n 1 8 ) . Even i n t h e s e s h o r t e x t r a c t s i t i s o b v i o u s t h a t t h e " a b n o r m a l l y " p r i v a t e , s e l f - i n c l u s i v e w o r l d o f t h e e a r l y p o e t has. come t o dominate modern u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f l i f e a t Somersby. To Tennyson's l a t e V i c t o r i a n b i o g r a p h e r , h i s son H a l l a m , however, Somersby was a 254 p u b l i c l y s a n c t i o n e d , p e r f e c t p i c t u r e o f d o m e s t i c b l i s s , t h e f i r s t c h a p t e r i n H a l l a m ' s m y t h i c c r e a t i o n . H a l l a m ' s A l f r e d L o r d Tennyson: A Memoir by h i s Son e x h i b i t s many o f t h e same e l i s i o n s and p a r t i a l r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s t h a t Samuel L o n g f e l l o w ' s L i f e o f h i s b r o t h e r d o e s . 3 I n b o t h c a s e s , t h e p r i v a t e i n d i v i d u a l — a s boy o r m a n — s e p a r a t e from an i n i t i a l l y s e l f - p r o f e s s e d and l a t e r p u b l i c l y a c c l a i m e d v o c a t i o n as a p o e t i s s u p p r e s s e d . The v e r y e a r l y y e a r s o f boyhood a r e t h e r e f o r e h a s t i l y d e a l t w i t h i n b o t h b i o g r a p h i e s so as t o f o c u s a t t e n t i o n p r i m a r i l y on t h e p o e t i n t h e man. I n t h e c a s e o f t h e Memoir, H a l l a m , a s s i s t e d by t h e c o - e d i t o r s o f Tennyson's p r i v a t e documents and c o r r e s p o n d e n c e , Henry S i d g w i c k and F r a n c i s T u r n e r P a l g r a v e , p u r p o s e l y d e s i g n e d t h i s l i f e o f h i s f a t h e r a c c o r d i n g t o t h e eminent p o e t ' s " s t r o n g l y e x p r e s s e d d e s i r e t h a t h i s p e r s o n a l i t y and p r i v a t e l i f e s h o u l d o n l y be s t u d i e d t h r o u g h h i s poems" ( C h a r l e s Tennyson v i i ) . 4 Hence, w i t h t h e a d d i t i o n a l m a t e r i a l s made a v a i l a b l e t o him i n 1949, S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson f e l t c o m p e l l e d t o f i l l i n t h e gaps c r e a t e d by H a l l a m ' s a c c o u n t o f h i s f a t h e r ' s l i f e , b u t o n l y 3 To Tennyson s c h o l a r s , t h e s h o r t c o m i n g s o f H a l l a m ' s Memoir a r e so w e l l known as n o t t o b e a r r e p e a t i n g . However, a c o n v e n i e n t s h o r t l i s t does appear i n Lang and Shannon's i n t r o d u c t i o n t o t h e L e t t e r s ( I x x ) . I t c o n s i s t s p r i m a r i l y o f i n s t a n c e s o f f a m i l y i n s t a b i l i t y and/or madness. A t h o r o u g h a c c o u n t o f t h e c r e a t i o n o f t h e Memoir i s now a v a i l a b l e i n P h i l i p L. E l l i o t t ' s The Making o f t h e Memoir. 4 S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson s u g g e s t s i n a d d i t i o n t h a t Tennyson's i n j u n c t i o n was a p s y c h o l o g i c a l l y m o t i v a t e d "morbid r e a c t i o n t o t h e p e c u l i a r c i r c u m s t a n c e s o f h i s e a r l y l i f e " ( v i i ) . These c i r c u m s t a n c e s a r e d i s c u s s e d a t l e n g t h below. i n s o f a r as t h e y c o u l d be f i l l e d by " f a c t s and o b v i o u s i n f e r e n c e s " and n o t by " e x e r c i s e o f t h e i m a g i n a t i o n " ( v i i i ) . That he f u l f i l s t h i s p u r p o s e as w e l l as he does has made A l f r e d Tennyson i n d i s p e n s a b l e as t h e s t a n d a r d b i o g r a p h y o f Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e a l t h o u g h S i r C h a r l e s m o d e s t l y a d m i t s t h a t t h e "Memoir must a l w a y s r e m a i n t h e s t a n d a r d l i f e o f Tennyson . . . " ( v i i i ) . Y e t what S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson o v e r l o o k s i n p o i n t i n g out Tennyson's d e s i r e t o have h i s l i f e d e m o n s t r a t e d p u b l i c l y r a t h e r t h a n p r i v a t e l y — t h r o u g h h i s work r a t h e r t h a n t h r o u g h h i s p e r s o n a l e x p e r i e n c e s — i s t h e genre o f V i c t o r i a n b i o g r a p h y i t s e l f , w h i c h i s dominated by t h e sense t h a t a man's p e r s o n a l i t y a c t u a l l y was a t one w i t h how he was v i e w e d i n t h e w o r l d . The b i f u r c a t i o n o f t h e p r i v a t e p o e t and t h e p u b l i c b a r d t h a t began i n 1923 w i t h H a r o l d N i c o l s o n ' s i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c a c c o u n t o f Tennyson as y e t h e l d no s i g n i f i c a n c e f o r t h e l a t e V i c t o r i a n , d e c i d e d l y p r e - F r e u d i a n , b i o g r a p h e r . Exposure and a n a l y s i s o f f a m i l y i n f l u e n c e i n t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f t h e p o e t i c p s y c h e h e l d no c o m p e l l i n g i n t e r e s t f o r a p u b l i c w i s h i n g t o know t h e man who had g i v e n them i n s p i r a t i o n a l v e r s e t o w h i c h t h e y c o u l d a l l c o l l e c t i v e l y a s s e n t . W i t h o u t p u t t i n g t o o b o l d a f a c e on i t , any i d i o s y n c r a t i c p r i v a t e l i f e s i m p l y d i d n o t e x i s t o r , a t t h e v e r y l e a s t , was so e f f e c t i v e l y s u p p r e s s e d t h a t i t was t h o u g h t n o t t o e x i s t . What i s a t i s s u e h e r e i s H a l l a m ' s f a b r i c a t i o n o f a m y t h i c Tennyson, l a t e r t o become a s u b s t a n t i a l f e a t u r e upon t h e h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s e a r l y t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s would keep i n v i e w when t r y i n g t o u n d e r s t a n d t h e L a u r e a t e and h i s work. A l l subsequent s c h o l a r s w o u l d have t o acknowledge, e i t h e r o v e r t l y o r c o v e r t l y , H a l l a m as head o f t h e f a m i l y o f Tennyson b i o g r a p h y , and choose e i t h e r t o a c c e p t o r r e b e l a g a i n s t h i s a u t h o r i t y . S i n c e N i c o l s o n ' s b i o g r a p h y , most have chosen t o r e b e l . I n t e r e s t i n g l y , t h e y r e b e l a g a i n s t t h e m a t r i a r c h a l c a s t o f H a l l a m ' s v i s i o n o f Tennyson i n t h e Memoir and n o t — a s H a r o l d Bloom's A n x i e t y o f I n f l u e n c e might s u p p o s e — a dominant p a t r i a r c h . Born 6 August 18 09, f o u r t h o f t w e l v e c h i l d r e n , "most o f them more o r l e s s t r u e p o e t s , " T e n n y s o n — a s r e a d by h i s s o n — a p p e a r s t o have i n h a l e d p o e t i c s p i r i t w i t h h i s f i r s t b r e a t h . I n t h e p r e f a c e t o t h e Memoir, H a l l a m c o n t e n d s t h a t even i n boyhood h i s f a t h e r "had f e l t t h e magic o f M e r l i n — t h a t s p i r i t o f p o e t r y — w h i c h bade him know h i s power and f o l l o w t h r o u g h o u t h i s work a p u r e and h i g h i d e a l , w i t h a s i m p l e and s i n g l e d e v o t e d n e s s and d e s i r e t o e n n o b l e t h e l i f e o f t h e w o r l d . . . " ( v i i i ) . From t h e s t a r t , H a l l a m c o n n e c t s i m a g i n a t i o n and p o e t r y t o p u b l i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t y ; t h e above p r e f a t o r y s t a t e m e n t e f f e c t i v e l y c a p t u r e s t h e essence o f t h e Memoir i n t h a t t h e p r i v a t e p e r s o n (even i n boyhood) i s p o r t r a y e d as a t one w i t h t h e p u b l i c p o e t . Readers o f t h e Memoir a r e i n v i t e d i n t o t h e p r i v a t e homes a t Somersby, Twickenham, F a r r i n g f o r d , and t h e l i k e o n l y i n s o f a r as t h e s e homes s y m b o l i z e p u b l i c l y t h e p r i v a t e peace o f d o m e s t i c i t y t h a t anyone c o u l d p a r t a k e o f t h r o u g h f i t and p r o p e r r e v e r e n c e f o r "Him who i s i n v i s i b l e " ( v i i i ) . S i n c e V i c t o r i a n r e l i g i o u s b e l i e f and p r a c t i c e r e a d i l y m a n i f e s t e d i t s e l f i n t h e s p e c i a l s a n c t u a r y o f women, H a l l a m n o t s u r p r i s i n g l y i n v e s t s even t h e s u r r o u n d i n g c o u n t r y s i d e o f Somersby w i t h an a u r a o f f e m i n i n e d o m e s t i c harmony. H a l l a m d e s c r i b e s h i s own j o u r n e y t h e r e i n 1892 as f o l l o w s : " i n a l a n d o f q u i e t v i l l a g e s , l a r g e f i e l d s , g r a y h i l l s i d e s , and n o b l e t a l l - t o w e r e d c h u r c h e s , on t h e l o w e r s l o p e o f a L i n c o l n s h i r e w o l d , t h e p a s t o r a l hamlet o f Somersby n e s t l e s , embosomed i n t r e e s " ( 1 ) . The p r o t e c t i v e embrace o f embosoming t r e e s s h o u l d n o t be o v e r l o o k e d . Subsequent d e s c r i p t i o n s o f f a m i l y l i f e a r i s e o u t o f H a l l a m ' s and h i s f a t h e r ' s n o s t a l g i a t h a t t r i g g e r s f e l i c i t o u s v i s u a l memories o f h i s f a t h e r ' s c h i l d h o o d mixed s k i l f u l l y w i t h Tennyson's own v o i c e and poems t h a t s u p p o s e d l y " r e f l e c t " t h i s p a s t . Such i s t h e p u r p o r t e d d e s i g n o f t h e Memoir: a p a s t i c h e o f v o i c e s , w i t h H a l l a m ' s h e a r d r a r e l y ( x i i ) . Y e t t h e r e a d e r ' s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o Somersby i s d i s t i n c t l y c o n t r o l l e d by H a l l a m and, as s u c h , i s a k i n t o e n t r y i n t o an i n n e r , womb-like s a n c t u a r y f a s h i o n e d j o i n t l y by t h e minds o f H a l l a m and h i s f a t h e r i n 1892, and t h e e a r l i e r p o e t ' s mind a t work b e h i n d t h e v a r i o u s l y c i t e d poems. The e n c l o s u r e a f f o r d e d by t h e s e minds o p e r a t i n g t o g e t h e r i n harmony e f f e c t i v e l y d e n i e s any s u b s t a n t i v e v a l u e t o t h e w o r l d o u t s i d e o f t h e p r i v a t e , y e t p u b l i c l y s a n c t i o n e d , e n c l a v e o f t h e Tennyson f a m i l y . 258 E n c o u n t e r s w i t h t h e o u t s i d e w o r l d a r e t h u s o f t e n t h r e a t e n i n g , s y m b o l i c i n s t a n c e s o f s o c i a l l y condoned v i o l e n c e : t h e Rev. J . W a i t e — " a tempestuous, f l o g g i n g m a s t e r " o f t h e s c h o o l a t L o u t h Tennyson went t o when he was seven ( 5 ) ; t h e h o r r i f i c — a n d g r a t u i t o u s — s t o r y t o l d by Tennyson's grandmother about a young woman who was p u b l i c l y s t r a n g l e d and b u r n t for. p o i s o n i n g h e r husband ( 5 - 6 ) ; and t h e "rough independence" o f s e r v a n t s and L i c o l n s h i r e l a b o u r e r s (12) . To be s u r e , t h e r e was v i o l e n c e enough i n t h e Tennysons' own p r i v a t e home, v i o l e n c e w h i c h H a l l a m e l i d e s by r e f e r r i n g o n l y t o Tennyson's f a t h e r ' s " u n k i n d n e s s and i n j u s t i c e " and " f i t s o f despondency" ( 1 2 - 1 3 ) . But r a t h e r t h a n e x p l a i n any e f f e c t t h i s v i o l e n c e may have had upon t h e Tennyson c h i l d r e n , H a l l a m chooses i n s t e a d t o f o c u s on t h e p o s i t i v e , d e m o n s t r a b l y m a s c u l i n e power o f t h e R e c t o r : " t h e d o m i n a t i n g f o r c e o f [ h i s ] i n t e l l e c t " ( 1 3 ) . By f o c u s i n g on t h e R e c t o r ' s m a s c u l i n e i n t e l l e c t , H a l l a m a v o i d s d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e p o t e n t i a l l y damaging impact o f Tennyson's f a t h e r upon h i s c h i l d r e n ' s c h a r a c t e r s : c h a r a c t e r and m o r a l development become t h e a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e p r i v i l e g e o f women i n k e e p i n g w i t h c o n v e n t i o n a l V i c t o r i a n n o t i o n s o f women's a p p r o p r i a t e s p h e r e o f i n f l u e n c e . 5 These women i n 5 Rotundo's s t u d y " L e a r n i n g about Manhood: Gender I d e a l s and t h e M i d d l e - c l a s s F a m i l y i n N i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a " s u g g e s t s t h a t a c l o s e s t u d y o f c o r r e s p o n d e n c e between sons and f a m i l i e s i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d a l s o might y i e l d i n t e r e s t i n g r e s u l t s . A t p r e s e n t , some o f t h e most p r o v o c a t i v e s t u d i e s o f t h e development o f t h e m a s c u l i n e c h a r a c t e r i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d i n c l u d e J e f f r e y Weeks's Sex, P o l i t i c s and S o c i e t y : t h e R e g u l a t i o n o f S e x u a l i t y S i n c e 1800 and J e f f r e y R i c h a r d s ' s " ' P a s s i n g t h e Love o f Women': Manly Love and V i c t o r i a n Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e can t h e r e b y be p o r t r a y e d m e r e l y i n b r i e f , a b s t r a c t ways s i n c e t h e i r c o n c r e t e " r e a l i t y " would s u p p o s e d l y be s u p p l i e d by H a l l a m ' s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e : "A Dream o f F a i r Women" young and o l d s e r v i n g as a p o s i t i v e c o u n t e r t o a c t u a l male anger and a g g r e s s i o n t h a t i s i n t i m a t e d b u t n e v e r d i s c u s s e d . A l s o i n t i m a t e d b u t n e v e r d i s c u s s e d a r e women's encouragement and p o s i t i v e p r a c t i c a l endorsements o f t h e young Tennyson's e a r l y awareness o f h i m s e l f as a p o e t . F o r example, w h i l e h i s mother's mother was o c c u p i e d i n s t o r y - t e l l i n g when Tennyson s t a y e d w i t h h e r a t L o u t h , h i s f a t h e r ' s mother was c o n v i n c e d t h a t " A l f r e d ' s p o e t r y a l l comes from me [Mary T u r n e r T e n n y s o n ] " ( 1 0 ) . Tennyson a l s o f u l f i l l e d an o b l i g a t i o n a t t w e l v e t o w r i t e \ t o h i s aunt M a r i a n n e F y t c h e ( h i s mother's s i s t e r ) c o n c e r n i n g h i s r e a d i n g — t h e r e b y p r o d u c i n g a l o n g e x p l i c a t i o n o f Samson A g o n i s t e s ( 6 - 8 ) . H a l l a m adds i n a f o o t n o t e t h a t Tennyson's p a t e r n a l Aunt and l a t e r b e n e f a c t o r , E l i z a b e t h Tennyson R u s s e l l , " d a b b l e d i n p o e t r y " t h a t b r o u g h t h e r g r e a t p r a i s e from h e r b o t h e r , a l s o a p o e t ( 9 - 1 0 ) . A c o u r t l y b i l l e t d'eux o f s o r t s t o Tennyson's s i s t e r s ' g o v e r n e s s , h i s " D u l c i n e a , " i s p r o d u c e d t o show t h e l i t e r a r y p r e c o c i t y o f an a d o l e s c e n t d e v o t e d t o books, p o e t r y and, S o c i e t y . " Eve K o s o f s k y - S e d g w i c k ' s Between Men: E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e and Male H o m o s o c i a l D e s i r e i s a l s o v a l u a b l e i n u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h e e f f e c t s o f t h e s o - c a l l e d f e m i n i z a t i o n o f men as i t e x i s t s w i t h i n l i t e r a r y c u l t u r e . N o n e t h e l e s s , t h e " s e p a r a t e s p h e r e i d e o l o g y " n o t j u s t as i t a f f e c t e d women b u t as i t a f f e c t e d men c o n t i n u e s t o dominate c r i t i c a l t h i n k i n g about t h e g e n d e r i z a t i o n o f men i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d . 260 c o i n c i d e n t a l l y , women. C l e a r l y , t h e s e women's i n f l u e n c e s were n o t s i m p l y m o r a l , nor was " i n t e l l e c t " t h e e x c l u s i v e p r i v i l e g e o f Tennyson's f a t h e r . Of c o u r s e , o f t h e s e women i n Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e , h i s mother r e c e i v e s t h e most e x t e n s i v e t r e a t m e n t a l t h o u g h , one m i g h t add, o f a y e t s u r p r i s i n g l y s h o r t and a b s t r a c t k i n d . H a l l a m p r e s e n t s E l i z a b e t h Tennyson l i t e r a r i l y , t h a t i s , e x c e r p t e d from t h e l a s t f o u r l i n e s o f " I s a b e l " (183 0 ) , c a u g h t w i t h i n a m a t r i x o f language making memory. Through H a l l a m ' s s e l e c t i v e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f t h e vague images o f " g r e a t c h a r i t y " and " f i n i s h ' d c h a s t e n ' d p u r i t y " from t h e " I s a b e l " poem, Tennyson's mother becomes a c o n c e p t r a t h e r t h a n a woman. I n i t s a c t u a l e n t i r e t y , " I s a b e l " c o n t a i n s s e v e r a l s p e c i f i c c o n c r e t e images t h a t d i s p l a y h e r o v e r t p u r i t y o f c h a r a c t e r and c o v e r t m o r a l s u p e r i o r i t y o v e r h e r husband. 6 Y e t because, i n h e r g r a n d s o n ' s o p i n i o n , E l i z a b e t h " d e v o t e d h e r s e l f e n t i r e l y t o h e r husband and h e r c h i l d r e n , " i f she i s d e s c r i b e d c o n c r e t e l y t h e n i t can o n l y be i n t h o s e i n s t a n c e s i n w h i c h she i s shown Most o f t h e v i s u a l images i n t h e poem, w h i l e n o n e t h e l e s s m e t a p h o r i c , a r e d e c i d e d l y d e t a i l e d and t o t h e p o i n t : "A c l e a r s t r e a m f l o w i n g w i t h a muddy one, / T i l l i n i t s onward c u r r e n t a b s o r b s / W i t h s w i f t e r movement and i n p u r e r l i g h t / The vexed e d d i e s o f i t s wayward b r o t h e r " (30-33) d e s c r i b e s E l i z a b e t h ' s r e l a t i o n s w i t h h e r husband. Moreover, s t a t e m e n t s o f f a c t s u c h as "The i n t u i t i v e d e c i s i o n o f a b r i g h t / A n d thorough-edged i n t e l l e c t t o p a r t / E r r o r from c r i m e " and "A h a t e o f g o s s i p p a r l a n c e " p o r t r a y d i r e c t l y Tennyson's mother's s t r e n g t h o f c h a r a c t e r and p e r s o n a l i n t e g r i t y , and p e r h a p s i m p l i c i t l y c a l l i n t o q u e s t i o n t h e l a c k o f s u c h i n t h e "wayward" husband. These l i n e s o f t h e poem a r e e x c l u d e d from E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's p o r t r a y a l i n t h e Memoir. c r e a t i n g a home f o r h e r f a m i l y : h e r sense o f humour, f o r example, making " t h e room a p a r a d i s e f o r t h e c h i l d r e n . They i n h e r i t e d h e r l o v e o f a n i m a l s , " w h i c h i n Tennyson became " t h e t r u e p o e t ' s l o v e " ( 1 5 ) . H a l l a m ' s p o r t r a y a l o f t h e women i n Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e , i n p a r t i c u l a r h i s mother, i s one f e a t u r e o f Tennyson's l i f e t h a t seems n e v e r t o have been s e r i o u s l y c h a l l e n g e d even i n t h i s c e n t u r y . I n a s e n s e , t h e v e r y d e s i g n o f t h e Memoir t o use r e m i n i s c e n c e s (Tennyson's and o t h e r s ) and p u b l i s h e d poems p r o d u c e s t h e vague, u n r e a l q u a l i t y t h a t H a l l a m a s s i g n s t o women i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f h i s f a t h e r ' s l i f e . Because he e l e c t s n o t t o f o c u s on h i s t o r i c a l l y a c c u r a t e d e t a i l s o f p e r s o n a l l i f e , deeds, o r e v e n t s ( f o r example, i n f o r m a t i o n c o n t a i n e d i n e i t h e r E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l ' s o r E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's l e t t e r s ) , H a l l a m can t h e r e b y r e a d i l y p o r t r a y t h e p r i v a t e l i f e o f t h e Tennysons as a model o f p u b l i c r e s p e c t a b i l i t y . I t a p p a r e n t l y c o n t a i n e d o n l y t h o s e f e a t u r e s t o w h i c h any h o m e - l o v i n g , m i d d l e - c l a s s V i c t o r i a n c o u l d s u b s c r i b e . Women i n t h e Memoir a r e t h u s used t o d e m o n s t r a t e t h a t l i f e a t Somersby was n o t i n any way i d i o s y n c r a t i c i n terms o f i t s p o t e n t i a l i n f l u e n c e upon t h e development o f c h a r a c t e r i n t h e young p o e t . H a l l a m s u c c e s s f u l l y a v o i d s d i s c u s s i o n o f p r i v a t e i d i o s y n c r a s i e s — i n t h i s c a s e Tennyson's f a t h e r ' s w o r l d o f v i o l e n t f i t s — b y l i m i t i n g t h e R e c t o r ' s i n f l u e n c e t o a s t r i c t l y m a l e - s a n c t i o n e d i n t e l l e c t u a l and e d u c a t i o n a l r e a l m . I n 262 H a l l a m ' s v i e w , t h e R e c t o r p o s s e s s e d a m a n i f e s t l y s u p e r i o r i n t e l l e c t t o any i n h i s p a r i s h w h i c h added t o h i s h a v i n g "no r e a l c a l l i n g f o r t h e m i n i s t r y " ( 1 1 ) . I f Tennyson i s t h o u g h t , l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , t o have i n h e r i t e d t h e s p i r i t o f p o e t r y from h i s mother, u n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , he s u p p o s e d l y l e a r n e d t h e t e c h n i c a l e x p e r t i s e o f p o e t i c a r t from h i s f a t h e r who "'was a p o e t and c o u l d w r i t e r e g u l a r metre v e r y s k i l f u l l y ' " (Tennyson q t d . 9 ) . H a l l a m s t r e s s e s t h e s e l f - a c q u i r e d c l a s s i c a l e d u c a t i o n t h a t George Tennyson i m p a r t e d t o h i s s o n s , t h e " r u n o f t h e i r f a t h e r ' s e x c e l l e n t l i b r a r y , " and t h e " g e n i a l i t y and b r i l l i a n t c o n v e r s a t i o n " t h a t made t h e R e c t o r a much i n v i t e d g u e s t f o r s o c i a l o c c a s i o n s ( 1 3 ) . I n t h e s e i n s t a n c e s , one sees c l e a r l y t h e d i s t i n c t i o n between t h e B r i t i s h t r a d i t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e and c l a s s i c a l t r a i n i n g as n e c e s s a r y t o a man's p r o p e r e d u c a t i o n and t h e y o u t h f u l A m e r i c a ' s s c o r n o f l i t e r a t u r e as i r r e l e v a n t t o t h e e d u c a t i o n o f f u t u r e male p r o f e s s i o n a l s . These t r a n s a t l a n t i c d i f f e r e n c e s i n t h e p u b l i c p e r c e p t i o n o f p o e t r y s i g n i f i c a n t l y a f f e c t e d t h e development o f t h e e a r l y p o e t r y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson s i n c e t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a p o e t i c v o i c e t a k e s p l a c e w i t h i n t h e c o n t e x t o f an assumed a u d i e n c e . That t h e s e a u d i e n c e s were so v a s t l y d i f f e r e n t a t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f each p o e t ' s c a r e e r makes t h e s i m i l a r i t i e s o f t h e i r l a t e r p o e t r y a l l t h e more i n t e r e s t i n g from t h e p o i n t o f v i e w o f t h e changes i n t h e i r r e a d e r s h i p and how t h e y r e s p o n d e d t o them. 263 U n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , as a c h i l d Tennyson was e d u c a t e d o u t s i d e t h e home f o r o n l y a b r i e f p e r i o d (1815-20). A p p a r e n t l y l a c k i n g a temperament t o w i t h s t a n d t h e r e g i m e n t e d punishment and r o t e l e a r n i n g a t L o u t h s c h o o l , Tennyson had r e t u r n e d home w i t h h i s e l d e r b r o t h e r C h a r l e s t o be e d u c a t e d by t h e R e c t o r f o r seven y e a r s . Throughout t h i s p e r i o d , p o e t r y seems t o have c o m p l e t e l y o c c u p i e d t h e Tennyson c h i l d r e n . 7 I t was s u f f u s e d by i m i t a t i o n o f and l i b e r a l q u o t a t i o n from a v a r i e t y o f p r e c u r s o r s , n o t t h e l e a s t o f whom, f o r A l f r e d , was B y r o n , who had a l s o been an i n s p i r a t i o n on L o n g f e l l o w i n A m e r i c a . On h e a r i n g o f B y r o n ' s d e a t h i n A p r i l 1824, T e n n y s o n — a g e f o u r t e e n — i s s a i d t o have c a r v e d t h e words, "Byron i s dead," upon a r o c k , and t o have f e l t t h e whole w o r l d d a r k e n ( 3 ) . H i s r e s p o n s e has s e r v e d s i n c e as a f e a t u r e i l l u s t r a t i o n o f Tennyson's p r e c o c i o u s a w a r e n e s s — w h i c h he seems t o have s h a r e d e q u a l l y w i t h h i s s i s t e r s and b r o t h e r s — o f t h e r o l e o f t h e p o e t and t h e p u b l i c c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e b a r d as a c u l t u r a l emblem. Poems by Two B r o t h e r s , p u b l i s h e d i n 1827 b e f o r e C h a r l e s and A l f r e d l e f t f o r Cambridge, and c o n t a i n i n g poems by C h a r l e s , F r e d e r i c k , and A l f r e d was t h e s u c c e s s f u l r e s u l t o f t h e Tennyson b r o t h e r s ' a d o l e s c e n t f a c i l i t y i n v e r s e . H e r b e r t T u c k e r ' s d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e i n f l u e n c e o f Romantic p r e c u r s o r s upon t h i s volume i n Tennyson and t h e Doom o f R o m a n t i c i s m i s t h e most r e c e n t a n a l y s i s o f Tennyson's e a r l y i n d e b t e d n e s s t o t h e themes and s t y l i s t i c d e v i c e s o f major Romantic p o e t s , t h o u g h t h e s e a r e , as T u c k e r a d m i t s and as o t h e r s c h o l a r s b e f o r e him have r e a d i l y acknowledged, much more a r t i s t i c a l l y h a n d l e d i n t h e poems o f h i s w h i c h Tennyson d i d n o t p u b l i s h a t t h i s t i m e : The D e v i l and t h e Lady, " Armageddon," and "The Coach o f Death." Tennyson h i m s e l f t h o u g h t o f h i s c o n t r i b u t i o n s as " e a r l y r o t " and most a g r e e w i t h C h r i s t o p h e r R i c k s t h a t t h e p o e t was " r i g h t never t o i n c l u d e any o f i t i n h i s a u t h o r i z e d body o f work" (Tennyson 2 0 ) . No doubt B y r o n ' s i n o r d i n a t e p o p u l a r i t y , e q u a l l y e v i d e n t i n A m e r i c a , f u e l l e d Tennyson's despondency o v e r t h e l o s s o f t h i s p r e c u r s o r p o e t . F o r Tennyson h i m s e l f , l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , had from " ' h i s e a r l i e s t y e a r s . . . f e l t t h a t he was a p o e t and e a r n e s t l y t r a i n e d h i m s e l f t o be w o r t h y o f h i s v o c a t i o n ' , " a c c o r d i n g t o h i s younger b r o t h e r , A r t h u r , who a l s o r e c o r d s A l f r e d as c l a i m i n g " ' W e l l , A r t h u r , I mean t o be famous'" ( 1 4 ) . L o n g f e l l o w ' s " I w i l l be eminent" sounds a s i m i l a r n o t e . I n b o t h o f t h e s e young men's l i v e s a v e r y e a r l y p e r s o n a l commitment t o p u b l i c s t a t u r e always r e i g n e d supreme. F o r Tennyson, a t l e a s t , eminence as a p o e t was i n c l u d e d i n h i s r e a l m o f p r o f e s s i o n a l p o s s i b i l i t i e s . Indeed, h i s f a t h e r f o r m a l l y encouraged him. The R e c t o r f e l t t h a t i f " ' A l f r e d d i e , one o f our g r e a t e s t p o e t s w i l l have gone'" ( 1 0 ) . Thus, Tennyson's r a t h e r h i s t r i o n i c r e a c t i o n t o B y r o n ' s u n t i m e l y d e a t h i s as much a lament f o r t h e l o s s o f a p o e t i c v o i c e t h a t he h i m s e l f was wont t o emulate as i t was f o r t h e l o s s o f a p o e t i c v o i c e f o r a l l E n g l a n d , a r o l e w h i c h he h i m s e l f had p r e c o c i o u s l y , y e t c l e a r l y n o t d i s c r e e t l y , c o v e t e d . I n t h i s c a s e , Tennyson's f a t h e r , u n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w ' s , a c t i v e l y a s s i s t e d h i s sons, A l f r e d i n p a r t i c u l a r , i n t h e i r s c h o l a r l y and l i t e r a r y p u r s u i t s . The R e c t o r gave l i t t l e o r no s e r i o u s a t t e n t i o n t o t h e l a c k o f a p o t e n t i a l u t i l i t a r i a n v a l u e such p u r s u i t s m i g h t y i e l d . 8 I n s h o r t , e v e r y t h i n g Tennyson's f a t h e r 8 S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson does r e l a t e t h a t t h e R e c t o r used t o say o f h i s s o n s ' w r i t i n g s t h a t t h e y "'would n e v e r g e t b r e a d by s u c h s t u f f " y e t t h e c o n t r a r y i n t e r e s t i n t h e i r t e x t s t h a t p r o v i d e d , o t h e r t h a n f i n a n c i a l c a p i t a l (of w h i c h w i t h such a l a r g e f a m i l y he had l i t t l e t o spare) seemed t o augur t h e p u b l i c s u c c e s s o f h i s f o u r t h c h i l d , i f n o t t h e o t h e r s , e v e r y t h i n g t h a t i s e x c e p t what H a l l a m l e a v e s o u t o f t h e Memoir: t h e Tennysons' a c t u a l p r i v a t e l i f e . H a l l a m p r o v i d e s o n l y two u n c o n n e c t e d r e f e r e n c e s t o a l i f e w i t h i n t h e Tennyson home t h a t would seem i n any way e x t r a o r d i n a r y , a n y t h i n g o t h e r t h a n e x a c t l y t h e t y p e t o encourage V i c t o r i a n p o e t i c s e n t i m e n t i n a h e a l t h y and p o s i t i v e way. I n t h e f i r s t r e f e r e n c e , H a l l a m m e n t i o n s t h e f a c t t h a t Tennyson's g r a n d f a t h e r had d i s i n h e r i t e d h i s e l d e s t s o n — f o r r e a s o n s u n s p e c i f i e d — i n f a v o u r o f t h e younger son, and promoted George Tennyson i n t h e c l e r g y i n s t e a d . To H a l l a m , s u c h a f l o u t i n g o f t h e r i g h t s o f p r i m o g e n i t u r e p r o d u c e d m e r e l y "a f e e l i n g o f i n j u s t i c e i n h i s [ g r a n d f a t h e r ' s ] mind w h i c h descended t o h i s s o n s " (11) . I n t h e second r e f e r e n c e , H a l l a m a l l u d e s t o " u n k i n d n e s s and i n j u s t i c e " on t h e p a r t o f t h e R e c t o r w h i c h p l a y e d upon t h e s e n s i t i v e n e r v e s o f t h e young p o e t t o s u c h an e x t e n t t h a t he more t h a n once, " s c a r e d by h i s f a t h e r ' s f i t s o f despondency, went o u t t h r o u g h t h e b l a c k n i g h t he d i d show r e v e a l s t h a t he i n no way p r o h i b i t e d t h e i r c h o i c e o f p u r s u i t s ( 3 1 ) . Tennyson's g r a n d f a t h e r , t h e e l d e r George Tennyson, however, was d e c i d e d l y more m a t e r i a l i s t i c t h a n h i s son and a c t i v e l y d i s p a r a g e d A l f r e d ' s c h o i c e o f v o c a t i o n . A f t e r t h e R e c t o r ' s d e a t h i n 1831, Tennyson's g r a n d f a t h e r s t r o v e t o have t h e young p o e t , a l o n g w i t h F r e d e r i c k and C h a r l e s , e n t e r t h e Church. Tennyson f o r t u n a t e l y managed t o a v o i d t h e f a t e t h a t b e f e l l h i s f a t h e r t h r o u g h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l and i t s subsequent p r o m o t i o n by h i s f r i e n d s ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 105-18). and t h r e w h i m s e l f on a g r a v e i n a c h u r c h y a r d , p r a y i n g t o be q b e n e a t h t h e sod h i m s e l f " (12-13) . H a l l a m n e v e r s u g g e s t s any o s t e n s i b l e r e a s o n s f o r t h e R e c t o r ' s b l a c k moods, and r e a d e r s a r e f o r c e d t o c o n c l u d e t h a t h i s h i g h s t r u n g temperament f o l l o w e d as a n a t u r a l consequence o f t h e R e c t o r ' s a p p a r e n t l y a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y i n t e l l e c t u a l p r e o c c u p a t i o n s . H a l l a m r e f u s e s t o s p e c u l a t e t h a t t h e r e may have been any c o r r e l a t i o n — e i t h e r as c a u s e , consequence o r b o t h — b e t w e e n h i s g r e a t g r a n d f a t h e r ' s d e c i s i o n n o t t o p a s s on t h e Tennyson e s t a t e t o h i s e l d e s t son and George Tennyson's c h a r a c t e r d e f e c t s . Moreover, any l a s t i n g e f f e c t t h a t e i t h e r t h e R e c t o r ' s d i s i n h e r i t a n c e o r b l a c k moodiness may have had upon t h e c h a r a c t e r development o f A l f r e d Tennyson i s q u i e t l y d i s m i s s e d C l e a r l y , f o r H a l l a m t o d i s c u s s t h o s e a s p e c t s o f t h e Tennysons p r i v a t e l i f e t h a t would have d i s p e l l e d t h e myth and compromised t h e V i c t o r i a n p u b l i c ' s p o s i t i v e r e s p o n s e t o t h e L a u r e a t e , would have been o u t o f t h e q u e s t i o n i n 1897. Or so H a l l a m b e l i e v e d . I n a r e a l s e n s e , t h e Memoir c r e a t e d , b o t h i n and o f i t s e l f and i n t h e v a r i o u s r e a c t i o n s t o i t , t h e Tennyson o f t o d a y because, whether c o n s c i o u s l y o r n o t , an a u d i e n c e ' s u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f p o e t i c t e x t s i s g r e a t l y a f f e c t e d by who t h e p o e t i s b e l i e v e d t o have been. I n t h i s c a s e , H a l l a m ' s e v a s i v e n e s s c o u p l e d w i t h a l l u s i v e n e s s i n v i t e d r e a d e r s o f t h e 9 C h a r l e s Tennyson c l a i m s t h a t such v i o l e n t f i t s on t h e p a r t o f t h e R e c t o r were g r e a t l y a g g r a v a t e d by a l c o h o l ( 4 8 ) . 267 Memoir t o f i l l i n t h e gaps and i n d e t e r m i n a c i e s i n Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e i n s u b j e c t i v e , i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c ways, e s p e c i a l l y when, a c c o r d i n g t o t h e p r e r o g a t i v e s o f t h e i n d i v i d u a l Tennyson s c h o l a r / t h e e a r l y l i f e c o u l d be used t o e x p l a i n seeming c o n f l i c t s i n Tennyson's subsequent p o e t r y and c a r e e r . Hence, t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e r e a d i n g s o f Tennyson's l i f e f a l l i n t o t h r e e c a t e g o r i e s , each o f them i n some way a r e s p o n s e t o t h e Tennyson myth c r e a t e d by t h e p o e t ' s son. As s u c h , t h e y t o o a r e among t h e p r e s e t a s s u m p t i o n s o f t h e l a t e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y Tennyson s c h o l a r . The f i r s t , b a s i c a l l y o b j e c t i v e s u p p l e m e n t a r y v i e w , b e l o n g s e x c l u s i v e l y t o S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson's A l f r e d T e n n y s o n . 1 0 D e s p i t e h i s t e n d e n c y t o p s y c h o l o g i z e f a c t s and e v i d e n c e , S i r C h a r l e s c l a i m s t o be i n t e r e s t e d o n l y i n p r o v i d i n g a f u l l and j u s t e s t i m a t e o f a v a r i a b l e Tennyson, made p o s s i b l e because o f h i t h e r t o unknown "hundreds o f l e t t e r s exchanged between t h e p o e t ' s f a t h e r , g r a n d f a t h e r and t h e i r immediate f a m i l y and f r i e n d s " ( v i i ) . The p o e t ' s g r a n d s o n t h u s p r o v i d e s d e t a i l e d f a c t u a l i n f o r m a t i o n r e g a r d i n g George Tennyson's temper and 1 0 Most b i o c r i t i c a l s c h o l a r s o f Tennyson's l i f e and work acknowledge t h e i r enormous d e b t t o S i r C h a r l e s A l f r e d Tennyson as t h e " d e f i n i t i v e " b i o g r a p h y (Henderson x i ) . Indeed, Henderson's Tennyson, P o e t and P r o p h e t (1978) adds v e r y l i t t l e t o t h e l i f e t h a t S i r C h a r l e s had so c a r e f u l l y f i l l e d i n . R i c k s ' s p r e f a t o r y remarks i n h i s s t u d y o f Tennyson (197 2) r e m a i n as t r u e t o d a y as t h e y d i d t w e n t y y e a r s ago: A l f r e d Tennyson i s "compact, humane, w i d e - r a n g i n g , and u n s u p e r s e d e d " ( x ) , d e s p i t e t h e most r e c e n t a t t e m p t by M a r t i n i n t h e U n q u i e t H e a r t (1980) t o i n j e c t l i f e i n t o t h e Tennyson l e g e n d . See n o t e 11. 268 d i s i n h e r i t a n c e w h i c h i s l a t e r used i n two ways: 1) as a p r e t e x t f o r some, n o t a l l , o f t h e p e r s o n a l d i f f i c u l t i e s Tennyson had as a young p o e t i n e s t a b l i s h i n g a p u b l i c l y s a n c t i o n e d l i f e f o r h i m s e l f ; and 2) as a p r e t e x t f o r Tennyson's p u b l i c endorsement o f d o m e s t i c s t a b i l i t y as a g u a r a n t o r o f s o c i a l harmony. The second v i e w i s " p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d " i n t h e sense t h a t i t s a d h e r e n t s — t h e major b i o g r a p h e r s , H a r o l d N i c o l s o n and R o b e r t B e r n a r d M a r t i n — d i r e c t t h e i r a t t e n t i o n s t o a p r i v a t e , m o r b i d l y s e n s i t i v e p o e t a t odds w i t h and p r o f o u n d l y d e b i l i t a t e d by t h e i d e o l o g y o f p u b l i c c o n f o r m i t y i n t h e V i c t o r i a n a g e . 1 1 The t h i r d v i e w , w h i l e s u b s c r i b i n g t o t h e p r i v a t e - p u b l i c s p l i t o f t h o s e who h o l d t h e second v i e w , n e v e r t h e l e s s p r e s e n t s t h e p o e t as a c c e p t i n g a n d — t o a d e g r e e — e v e n b e n e f i t t i n g from t h e v a l u e s o f h i s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e r a t h e r t h a n f i g h t i n g them. H e l d p r i m a r i l y by V a l e r i e P i t t ( a l t h o u g h Joanna 1 1 Of t h e two b i o g r a p h i e s , M a r t i n ' s i s t h e more s u b s t a n t i a l and t h e more p e r n i c i o u s f o r two r e a s o n s : 1) M a r t i n advances a p s u e d o - s c i e n t i f i c ( t h e r e f o r e , s e e m i n g l y v a l i d ) t h e o r y o f e p i l e p s y t o p r o v e t h a t Tennyson's f a m i l y and t h e p o e t w i t h i n i t were " d i s f u n c t i o n a l " i n t h e modern s e n s e ; and 2) as J a c k K o l b c o n c l u d e s i n " P o r t r a i t s o f Tennyson," h i s r e v i e w a r t i c l e o f The U n q u i e t H e a r t , t h e b i o g r a p h y i n 1983 was a l r e a d y b e g i n n i n g t o be a c c e p t e d by t h e g e n e r a l a u d i e n c e as " t h e v e r s i o n o f t h e L a u r e a t e f o r our t i m e s " (19 0 ) . K o l b p o i n t s o u t t h e b i o g r a p h y ' s many f l a w s t h a t o f t e n r e s u l t from one o f two p e t t h e o r i e s o f M a r t i n t h a t he works i n wherever p o s s i b l e : T e n n y s o n i a n e p i l e p s y and t h e p o e t ' s c u p i d i t y . R e g r e t t a b l y , M a r t i n does n o t seem t o l i k e Tennyson v e r y much, as K o l b s u g g e s t s ( 1 8 1 ) , and t h i s d i s d a i n has r e s u l t e d i n a f r e q u e n t l y d i s t o r t e d p o r t r a i t o f t h e p o e t . R i c h a r d s o n s h a r e s some f e a t u r e s w i t h h e r ) , t h i s v i e w s h o u l d be t h o u g h t o f as " p u b l i c l y - f o c u s e d " i n i t s e s s e n t i a l o p p o s i t i o n t o t h e second v i e w . N e i t h e r t h e p r i v a t e l y n o r p u b l i c l y f o c u s s e d a p p r o a c h e s , a l t h o u g h o s t e n s i b l y d e s i g n e d t o c o r r e c t t h e V i c t o r i a n myopia p r e s e n t i n t h e Memoir, has y e t t o a n a l y z e f u l l y t h e complex i n t e r a c t i o n , even i n t e r d e p e n d e n c e , o f t h e p r i v a t e and t h e p u b l i c i n b o t h t h e man and t h e p o e t , a n e c e s s a r y c o n f l u e n c e t h a t d e t e r m i n e d t h e major work o f someone who c o u l d so r e a d i l y assume t h a t i n h i s most a g o n i z i n g l y p r i v a t e moments, t h e " ' I ' i s n o t a l w a y s t h e a u t h o r s p e a k i n g o f h i m s e l f , b u t t h e v o i c e o f t h e human r a c e s p e a k i n g t h r o u g h him" (Tennyson q t d . i n Memoir 255). I n a d d i t i o n , t h e p u b l i c / p r i v a t e d i c h o t o m y t h a t i s t h o u g h t t o have i n f l u e n c e d t h e development o f Tennyson's p o e t i c v o i c e has y e t t o be c o n s i d e r e d w i t h i n i t s own c o n t e x t o f a gender and c l a s s - b a s e d V i c t o r i a n i d e o l o g y o f a c c e p t a b l e p u b l i c l i f e . I n s h o r t , Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e has n o t been r e a d i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s g r o w i n g awareness o f h i s own V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e r a t h e r t h a n i n r e a c t i o n t o p r e v i o u s " m i s r e a d i n g s . " Of t h e t h r e e v i e w s b r i e f l y n o t e d above, o n l y S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson's comes c l o s e t o u n d e r s t a n d i n g Tennyson as a young man and l a t e r as an i n c r e a s i n g l y r e s p e c t e d p o e t w i t h i n a s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l m i l i e u t h a t h e l d no r e a d y made r e g a r d f o r t h e 12 p r i v a t e / p u b l i c d i v i s i o n predominant i n t h i s c e n t u r y . 1 2 C h a r l e s Tennyson's v i e w s i n t h i s r e g a r d , w h i l e e v i d e n t i n h i s b i o g r a p h y , a r e emphasized f u r t h e r i n h i s monograph Tennyson and h i s Times, i n w h i c h t h e p o e t ' s p u b l i c and p r i v a t e 270 However, A l f r e d T e n n y s o n — a s a supplement t o t h e M e m o i r — f a l l s h e i r t o a d i v i s i o n o f a r e l a t e d though somewhat d i f f e r e n t k i n d : t h e r i g i d b i f u r c a t i o n o f f e m a l e and male w o r l d s . Whereas H a l l a m was c o n t e n t m e r e l y t o image women a b s t r a c t l y w i t h i n a d o m e s t i c c o n t e x t s u g g e s t i v e o f p u b l i c r e s p e c t a b i l i t y , S i r C h a r l e s does add a f u l l e r and p r i v a t e d i m e n s i o n t o t h e s e women's l i v e s . Y e t because o f h i s p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h what he s e e s as t h e " m a s c u l i n e " i n f l u e n c e o f w e a l t h and p r o p e r t y g o v e r n i n g t h e Tennysons' l i v e s , he f o c u s e s e x c l u s i v e l y on men as a g e n t s ( n e g a t i v e and p o s i t i v e ) i n Tennyson's d e v e l o p i n g p r o f e s s i o n as a p o e t . He does n o t s e r i o u s l y c o n s i d e r women's l i v e s w i t h i n t h i s c o n t e x t and so g i v e s s h o r t s h r i f t t o E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l ' s p a t r o n a g e o f h e r nephew. As s u c h , h i s b i o g r a p h y s u g g e s t s p o s s i b i l i t i e s w h i c h he does n o t e x p l o r e : t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h two women i n p a r t i c u l a r , E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l and E l i z a b e t h Tennyson, a f f e c t e d t h e p r o f e s s i o n a l n o t j u s t t h e p e r s o n a l l i f e o f t h e young p o e t . C o n s e q u e n t l y , a l t h o u g h A l f r e d Tennyson s h o u l d be seen as a p r i v a t e supplement t o t h e o s t e n s i b l y p u b l i c Memoir, i t n e v e r t h e l e s s d i s p l a y s some o f t h e same l i m i t a t i o n s t h e e a r l i e r work does w i t h r e s p e c t t o i t s t r e a t m e n t o f t h e i n f l u e n c e s o f women i n Tennyson's l i f e . As s u c h , t h e s e l i m i t a t i o n s m i l i t a t e a g a i n s t c o m p l e t e a c c e p t a n c e o f S i r C h a r l e s ' s u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f " t h e human sympathy" w h i c h V i c t o r i a n i s m i s shown c l e a r l y w i t h i n i t s s p e c i f i c s o c i o - economic c o n t e x t . 271 d i d i n d e e d i n s p i r e Tennyson's work "more and more as t h e y e a r s went by" ( A l f r e d Tennyson 541) . The f i r s t c h a p t e r , "1800-1808," e x p l a i n s i n d e t a i l t h e e l d e r George Tennyson's d e c i s i o n t o f l y i n t h e f a c e o f t r a d i t i o n and a p p o i n t h i s second son, C h a r l e s , as h i s h e i r . As a remote d e s c e n d a n t o f Baron d ' E y n c o u r t . a n d t h e r e c e n t l y w e a l t h y Tennyson f a m i l y , t h e e v e r w o r l d l y George Tennyson ( t h e e l d e r ) seems t o have been e x c l u s i v e l y c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e p r o m o t i o n o f h i s f a m i l y i n s o c i e t y : " i t became h i s c h i e f aim i n l i f e t o e n s u r e , so f a r as he c o u l d , t h a t t h e Tennyson name s h o u l d be w o r t h i l y u p h e l d by t h o s e t o whom he i n t e n d e d t o hand on t h e Bayons e s t a t e " and o t h e r p r o p e r t i e s (5). When t h e e l d e s t son George ( t h e p o e t ' s f a t h e r ) was o n l y t w e l v e , h i s f a t h e r d e c i d e d t h a t he s h o u l d a c c e p t t h e r o l e t r a d i t i o n a l l y a l l o t t e d t o t h e younger son and go i n t o t h e C h u r c h ; S i r C h a r l e s s u g g e s t s that h i s b e i n g " d i f f i c u l t t o d e a l w i t h " was t h e l i k e l y c a u s e . George Tennyson, t h e son, s u f f e r e d from "a h i g h l y n e r v o u s temperament" and an " e x c e s s i v e s e n s i t i v i t y and i n t o l e r a n c e o f d i s c i p l i n e , " w h i c h caused him t o be " f r e q u e n t l y i n t r o u b l e f o r i d l e n e s s and i n s u b o r d i n a t i o n " a t s c h o o l d e s p i t e h i s " c o n s i d e r a b l e i n t e l l e c t u a l power" ( 6 ) . He was, q u i t e s i m p l y , i l l - s u i t e d t e m p e r a m e n t a l l y t o t h e s o c i a l l y p r o m i n e n t l i f e t h e e l d e r Tennyson p l a n n e d f o r h i s h e i r . W h i l e he n e v e r s t a t e s so e x p l i c i t l y , S i r C h a r l e s p r o v i d e s examples o f "model" l i v e s — p r o d u c t s o f i n d u s t r y — t o w h i c h George Tennyson S e n i o r c o u l d and d i d s u b s c r i b e : o f A l f r e d ' s f u t u r e u n c l e , M a j o r Matthew R u s s e l l ( E l i z a b e t h ' s h u s b a n d ) , and o f t h e younger b r o t h e r and e v e n t u a l h e i r , C h a r l e s Tennyson [ d ' E y n c o u r t ] . M a j o r Matthew R u s s e l l was t h e "son o f W i l l i a m R u s s e l l a w e a l t h y c o a l owner" who i s d e s c r i b e d as an " e a r l y example o f t h e s e l f - m a d e i n d u s t r i a l i s t . Though t o t h e end o f h i s [ W i l l i a m ' s ] l i f e he w r o t e l i k e an i l l i t e r a t e l a b o u r e r , he had amassed a s u f f i c i e n t f o r t u n e t o e n a b l e him t o p u r c h a s e B r a n c e p e t h C a s t l e , t h e a n c i e n t home o f t h e N e v i l l e s " and manage s e v e r a l p o c k e t boroughs i n t h e Whig i n t e r e s t ( 6 - 7 ) . That i n t e l l e c t u a l acumen i s no g u a r a n t o r o f w e a l t h o r p o l i t i c a l p r e s t i g e i s t h e u n d e r l y i n g message h e r e . Nor even any l o n g e r i s i n d u s t r y as S i r C h a r l e s goes on t o d e s c r i b e how Matthew R u s s e l l was t r a i n e d i n a m e r e l y " o r n a m e n t a l c a r e e r " i n t h e M i l i t i a , and t o r e v e a l how he l i v e d o u t h i s s h o r t l i f e a t B r a n c e p e t h as a t y p e o f j o v i a l e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y s q u i r e (7 and 19) . 1 3 The second o f S i r C h a r l e s ' s models, George's b r o t h e r C h a r l e s , " e a r l y showed a marked a b i l i t y and, as he was i n d u s t r i o u s and a m b i t i o u s , e v e r y y e a r c o n f i r m e d h i s f a t h e r ' s s t r o n g p r e j u d i c e i n h i s f a v o u r " ( 7 ) . C h a r l e s Tennyson a p p a r e n t l y had a " b r i l l i a n t c a r e e r " : Cambridge, law, an 1 3 R a l p h Rader s u g g e s t s t h a t Matthew R u s s e l l and B r a n c e p e t h C a s t l e may w e l l have s e r v e d as p a r t i a l models f o r t h e s p e a k e r ' s s c o r n i n Maud when he s n e e r s a t Maud's c o u r t e r : t h e "new-made l o r d " whose " o l d g r a n d f a t h e r has l a t e l y d i e d " and l e f t a f o r t u n e i n c o a l mines, a l l o w i n g him t o o b t a i n a "bought c o m m i s s i o n " and l i v e i n a "gew-gaw" c a s t l e , "new as h i s t i t l e , " " b u i l t l a s t y e a r " (Maud q t d . Rader 9 1 ) . e v e n t u a l l y f o r t u n a t e m a r r i a g e , and p o l i t i c a l advancement ( a l b e i t t i n g e d w i t h a n x i e t y - p r o d u c i n g R a d i c a l i s m ) . By c o n t r a s t i n g George's f o r c e d e n t r y i n t o t h e s e c l u d e d , c o u n t r y l i f e o f a p a r i s h R e c t o r ( t h e t r a d i t i o n a l r o l e o f t h e g e n t r y ' s younger son) w i t h t h e p a t e r n a l l y advanced p r e s t i g i o u s l i v e l i h o o d s o f George's b r o t h e r - i n - l a w and b r o t h e r , S i r C h a r l e s i n t i m a t e s r a t h e r t h a n e x p l o r e s a s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l cause and consequence o f f a m i l i a l and s o c i a l d i s u n i t y . D e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t t h e y o f t e n e x h i b i t e d p u b l i c l y acknowledged i n f e r i o r i n t e l l e c t u a l c a p a c i t i e s , t h e r i s i n g m i d d l e c l a s s e s were a s s u m i n g — t h r o u g h s h e e r " i n d u s t r y " ( i n a l l s e n s e s o f t h e t e r m ) — t h e l a n d e d w e a l t h and s t a t u s p r e v i o u s l y h e l d by t h e a r i s t o c r a c y . I n t h e s p e c i f i c c a s e o f George Tennyson and h i s f a m i l y , t h e n , t h e y appear i n t h e i r s e c l u d e d c o u n t r y p a r i s h as i f r e l e g a t e d t o an outmoded way o f l i f e w h i l e t h e busy w o r l d o f commerce and p o l i t i c s p a s s e s them by. As S i r C h a r l e s p u t s i t " t h e r e was no s h o p p i n g c e n t r e n e a r e r t h a n S p i l s b y , seven m i l e s t o t h e s o u t h e a s t " ( 1 0 ) , h i s somewhat p r o l e p t i c use o f " s h o p p i n g c e n t r e " u n d e r s c o r i n g t h e i n c r e a s i n g l y modern s o c i e t y t h a t t h e Somersby Tennysons were c u t o f f ^ f r o m t h r o u g h George Tennyson's d i s i n h e r i t a n c e . Through a g a r i s h d e c k i n g out o f home and f a m i l y , each o f t h e s e p r o d u c t s o f i n d u s t r y — M a t t h e w R u s s e l l and C h a r l e s Tennyson [ d ' E y n c o u r t ] ( t o whom t h e Somersby Tennysons would n e c e s s a r i l y compare t h e m s e l v e s ) — e v e n t u a l l y became r i d i c u l o u s emblems o f m i d d l e - c l a s s , a r i s t o c r a t i c m i m i c r y f r e q u e n t l y 274 r a i l e d a t by c r i t i c s o f V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y , n o t t h e l e a s t o f whom was A l f r e d T e n n y s o n . 1 4 The s o c i a l consequences o f h i s g r a n d f a t h e r ' s a c t i o n s s u r e l y c o n t r i b u t e d t o Tennyson's own f r e q u e n t c a s t i g a t i o n o f t h e c a s h nexus and p s e u d o - a r i s t o c r a t i c o s t e n t a t i o n o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s i n h i s p o e t r y , a p o i n t w h i c h S i r C h a r l e s a g a i n i n t i m a t e s b u t n e v e r r e a l l y e x p l o r e s . To h i s c r e d i t , S i r C h a r l e s does n o t d w e l l on t h e s p e c i f i c a n i m o s i t i e s among t h e Tennyson f a m i l y members t h a t were g e n e r a t e d by t h e r e s u l t i n g i m b a l a n c e i n d e s e r v e d f o r t u n e s and p r o s p e c t s . 1 5 Y e t i n d o w n p l a y i n g t h e r e l a t i o n s among t h e e l d e r Tennysons, he a l s o under v a l u e s t h e p o s i t i v e f i n a n c i a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l encouragement E l i z a b e t h Tennyson R u s s e l l gave t o h e r nephew. S i r C h a r l e s mentions m e r e l y t h a t " [ p ] o o r Mrs R u s s e l l , " t h e u n j u s t l y c r i t i c i z e d s i s t e r and r e c e n t widow o f M a j o r R u s s e l l , was "always r e a d y t o h e l p w i t h money" when t h e Tennyson's r e l a t i v e s a r e m e r e l y two e g r e g i o u s examples o f f a m i l i e s t h a t succumbed t o v a r i o u s mechanisms o f s o c i a l a b s o r p t i o n : " t h e z e a l f o r work, i n v e n t i v e n e s s , m a t e r i a l p r o d u c t i o n , and money making gave way w i t h i n t h e c a p i t a l i s t c l a s s t o t h e more a r i s t o c r a t i c i n t e r e s t s o f c u l t i v a t e d s t y l e , t h e p u r s u i t s o f l e i s u r e , and p o l i t i c a l s e r v i c e " (Weiner 1 3 ) . I t became a s o u r c e o f comedy and c o n s t e r n a t i o n how w e l l t h e s e new a r i s t o c r a t s c o u l d outdo t h e o l d i n terms o f a r i s t o c r a t i c p r e t e n s i o n s . 1 5 M a r t i n ' s b i o g r a p h y , however, t a k e s t h e e x p o s u r e o f t h e Tennysons' f a m i l i a l s t r i f e a l m o s t as i t s mandate; he uses dozens o f l e t t e r s among f a m i l y members t o expose A l f r e d Tennyson as h a r b o u r i n g a . l i f e - l o n g r e s e n t m e n t t o w a r d t h e Tennyson [ d ' E y n c o u r t ] f a m i l y made m a n i f e s t i n 1883 when t h e L a u r e a t e f i n a l l y a c c e p t e d a peerage. A c c o r d i n g t o M a r t i n , Tennyson i n h i s f i r s t c h o i c e o f " L o r d d ' E y n c o u r t " showed "how l i t t l e he had f o r g o t t e n a l l t h e i n j u r i e s o f h i s y o u t h , f o r he wanted t o t a k e t h e t i t l e t h a t had e l u d e d h i s u n c l e " ( 5 4 3 ) . 275 Somersby Tennysons needed i t ( 3 0 ) . What he n e g l e c t s t o add i s t h a t i n t h e c a s e o f A l f r e d , h i s Aunt R u s s e l l g r a n t e d him an a n n u i t y o f £100 i n 1827, making p o s s i b l e h i s e d u c a t i o n a t Cambridge and c o n t i n u i n g w e l l i n t o h i s m a r r i e d l i f e ( M a r t i n 4, 48, 6 0 ) . As M a r t i n would have i t , Mrs R u s s e l l ' s s p o n s o r s h i p o f h e r nephew was prompted by h e r r e a l i z a t i o n t h a t A l f r e d " c o u l d n o t go on f o r l o n g i n t h e R e c t o r y w i t h h i s f a t h e r " ( 4 8 ) , a r e s p o n s e s o l e l y t o t h e n e g a t i v e e m o t i o n a l atmosphere o f Somersby, w h i c h d i s r e g a r d s t h e i n t e l l e c t u a l r e s p e c t t h a t she had f o r A l f r e d . N e i t h e r o f t h e above b i o g r a p h e r s c o n s i d e r s a c o m b i n a t i o n o f " f a c t s " such as t h e f o l l o w i n g . E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l had a documented t a l e n t f o r p o e t r y h e r s e l f ; i n 1823 she had become widow t o a l a r g e f o r t u n e and was now i n a p o s i t i o n t o use h e r w e a l t h as she saw f i t ; and i n t h e s p r i n g o f 1827 Poems by Two B r o t h e r s had been p r i v a t e l y r e l e a s e d , d e m o n s t r a t i n g an o b v i o u s p o e t i c t a l e n t i n A l f r e d and C h a r l e s t h a t would need t o be f u r t h e r e d o u t s i d e t h e Somersby R e c t o r y l i b r a r y i f i t were t o mature beyond s k i l f u l i m i t a t i o n . I n s h o r t , beyond h e r p r i v a t e r e a s o n s f o r s u p p o r t i n g A l f r e d ' s e d u c a t i o n , E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l c o u l d r e a d i l y have f e l t t h a t i n o r d e r t o promote h e r nephew's a b i l i t i e s he would have t o e n t e r p u b l i c l i f e . 1 6 The f i n a n c i a l 1 6 R i c k s q u o t e s an exchange o f l e t t e r s between E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l and h e r f a t h e r (Tennyson's g r a n d f a t h e r ) t h a t d e m o n s t r a t e t h a t she was w i l l i n g t o pay a d d i t i o n a l sums f o r a m a t h e m a t i c s t u t o r f o r h e r nephew so t h a t he m i g h t e n t e r c o l l e g e ( 9 ) . b a r t h a t had c o n f i n e d A l f r e d ' s e d u c a t i o n t o Somersby would have t o be removed i f h e r nephew and h i s p o e t r y were t o mix w i t h i n t h e i n t e l l e c t u a l and s o c i a l e l i t e o f O x b r i d g e t h a t d i c t a t e d t h e h i g h c u l t u r e o f p o e t r y a t t h a t t i m e . T h i s i s n o t , o f c o u r s e , t o deny t h a t A l f r e d h i m s e l f would n o t have wanted p r i v a t e l y t o f l e e an u n b e a r a b l e s i t u a t i o n a t home, but r a t h e r t h a t t h e r e a s o n s f o r h i s r e m o v a l t o Cambridge a r e more complex t h a n , as M a r t i n would have i t , t h e p s y c h o l o g i c a l f e a r and a n x i e t y t h a t t h e R e c t o r ' s " i l l n e s s " caused i n h i s son. I n s p i t e o f M a r t i n ' s a t t e m p t s t o p r o v e e p i l e p s y as t h e s o u r c e o f t h e R e c t o r ' s f i t s , h i s i l l n e s s has n e v e r been c o n c l u s i v e l y d e t e r m i n e d . S i r C h a r l e s u s e s v a r i o u s terms t h r o u g h o u t h i s b i o g r a p h y r a n g i n g from s i m p l e " i l l h e a l t h " t o "moods o f m o r b i d i n t r o s p e c t i o n and i r r i t a b i l i t y , dangerous t o h i m s e l f and v e r y d i s t r e s s i n g t o o t h e r s " ( 1 4 ) , moods w h i c h S i r C h a r l e s l a t e r a d m i t s were g r e a t l y e x a c e r b a t e d by a l c o h o l ( 4 6 ) . O n l y once does he m e n t i o n t h a t t h e R e c t o r i n 18 2 4 began t o e x p e r i e n c e s e i z u r e s t h a t " h i s f r i e n d s f e a r e d m i g h t be e p i l e p t i c " ( 4 6 ) ; and e p i l e p s y as a p o t e n t i a l s o u r c e o f t h e T e n n y s o n i a n " b l a c k b l o o d " t h a t p l a g u e d t h e e n t i r e f a m i l y i s n e v e r c o n s i d e r e d . More t o t h e p o i n t , S i r C h a r l e s a r g u e s t h a t t h e outward e f f e c t o f Tennyson's f a t h e r ' s i l l n e s s was t o p u t t h e young p o e t i n a " p o s i t i o n o f d i v i d e d l o y a l t y " w i t h r e s p e c t t o h i s f a t h e r and h i s mother ( 4 8 ) . E l i z a b e t h Tennyson i s d e s c r i b e d by S i r C h a r l e s , i n terms v e r y s i m i l a r t o t h o s e used o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s mother, as "a woman o f e x c e p t i o n a l s i m p l i c i t y and charm and o f a p r o f o u n d , i n s t i n c t i v e , and u n q u e s t i o n i n g E v a n g e l i c a l p o s i t i o n , w h i c h c o n t r a s t e d s t r o n g l y w i t h t h e more m a t t e r - o f - f a c t a t t i t u d e o f h e r husband . . .1 1 ( 1 4 ) . S i m i l a r t o Z i l p a h L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r o m o t i o n o f p o e t r y w i t h i n h e r f a m i l y , Mrs Tennyson would r e a d a l o u d t o h e r c h i l d r e n from t h e e v e r p o p u l a r Mrs Hemans and B e a t t i e ' s C a l e n d a r ( 1 4 - 1 5 ) . S i r C h a r l e s i m p l i e s t h a t E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's p i e t y (and no doubt h e r c h o i c e o f r e a d i n g m a t e r i a l ) had a p e r n i c i o u s i n f l u e n c e on t h e young p o e t t h a t added t o t h e p r i v a t e s u f f e r i n g Tennyson f e l t a t t h e hands o f h i s f a t h e r (48) . L i k e Mrs R u s s e l l , she t o o i s d e s c r i b e d as " [ p ] o o r E l i z a b e t h " o n l y i n t h i s c a s e t h e e p i t h e t s e r v e s as much a g a i n s t h e r as i t does i n sympathy f o r h e r . S i r C h a r l e s s u g g e s t s t h a t E l i z a b e t h l a c k e d t h e shrewdness t o r e a l i z e t h a t i n e n c o u r a g i n g h e r s o n s ' p o e t i c t a l e n t s , "no doubt she s p o i l e d them as w e l l . . . and t h i s , as t h e y grew up, became a s o u r c e o f s e r i o u s t r o u b l e w i t h h e r moody and e r r a t i c husband . . . " ( 1 4 - 1 5 ) . L i k e H a l l a m Tennyson b e f o r e him, S i r C h a r l e s a l s o c o n f i n e s Tennyson's mother t o l i n e s a p p a r e n t l y d e s i g n e d t o c o n s e c r a t e h e r ( 2 2 2 ) , i n t h i s c a s e t h o s e i n The P r i n c e s s t h a t t h e P r i n c e u s e s t o d e s c r i b e h i s mother t o P r i n c e s s I d a as p a r t o f h i s p e r s u a s i o n t o have h e r marry him: Not l e a r n e d , save i n g r a c i o u s h o u s e h o l d ways, Not p e r f e c t , nay, b u t f u l l o f t e n d e r wants, No a n g e l , b u t a d e a r e r b e i n g , a l l d i p t I n a n g e l i n s t i n c t s , b r e a t h i n g P a r a d i s e , I n t e r p r e t e r between t h e Gods and men, . . . Happy he 278 W i t h s u c h a mother! F a i t h i n womankind B e a t s w i t h h i s b l o o d , and t r u s t i n a l l t h i n g s h i g h Comes easy t o him. ( V I I 299-303, 308-11) A g a i n l i k e H a l l a m , S i r C h a r l e s e l i d e s e x a c t l y t h o s e l i n e s i n t h e poem t h a t d e m o n s t r a t e h e r a u t h o r i t y w i t h r e s p e c t t o men: t h e mother i n The P r i n c e s s i s n o t s i m p l y p u r e i n and o f h e r s e l f ; r a t h e r , she i s so i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e men who " p e r f o r c e / Swayed t o h e r from t h e i r o r b i t s as t h e y moved" ( V I I 3 0 6 - 7 ) , a r e l a t i o n t h a t S i r C h a r l e s chooses n o t t o i n c l u d e . More s e r i o u s l y , S i r C h a r l e s does n o t d i r e c t l y quote Tennyson's mother's l e t t e r s t o t h e e l d e r George Tennyson w h i c h d e m o n s t r a t e h e r s t r e n g t h o f c h a r a c t e r . I n one s u c h l e t t e r , she a s k s t o have r e t u r n e d t o h e r h e r own p o n i e s and c h a i s e f o r h e r s e l f and h e r d a u g h t e r s t h a t , i n a f i t , h e r husband had s e q u e s t e r e d a t h i s f a t h e r ' s . T h e r e i n , she d e s c r i b e s i n no u n c e r t a i n terms t h e h e l l t h a t she had endured w h i l e m a r r i e d t o h i s son so as t o i n f o r m him o f h e r i n t e n t i o n t o l e a v e t h e R e c t o r . 1 7 S i r C h a r l e s o n l y m e n t i o n s t h e s e i n c i d e n t s , and t h e n somewhat i n a c c u r a t e l y s i n c e E l i z a b e t h was p r e p a r e d t o , and d i d , d i s c u s s h e r s e p a r a t i o n w i t h h e r f a t h e r - i n - l a w h e r s e l f r a t h e r t h a n , as S i r C h a r l e s c l a i m s , t h r o u g h h e r b r o t h e r , John F y t c h e . H i s f a i l u r e t o quote E l i z a b e t h Tennyson d i r e c t l y 1 7 These l e t t e r s a r e d a t e d 30 Oct, 1827, 23 Feb, 1829, 27 Feb, 1829, and ? c. 9 March, 1829 ( L e t t e r s I 14, 26-27, 29-30 and 3 1 ) . 279 a p p e a r s most c u r i o u s i n a b i o g r a p h y t h a t p u r p o r t s t o be based on s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d e v i d e n c e . E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's l e t t e r s t h e m s e l v e s s u g g e s t t h a t she d i d n o t a c q u i e s c e n t l y s u b m i t e i t h e r p r i v a t e l y t o an u n q u e s t i o n i n g , s i m p l i s t i c E v a n g e l i c a l i s m o r p u b l i c l y t o h e r i r r a t i o n a l husband o r h e r d e l i b e r a t e l y b l i n d and o b d u r a t e f a t h e r - i n - l a w . R a t h e r , she a c t i v e l y embraced E v a n g e l i c a l i s m as a p e r s o n a l l y empowering s p i r i t u a l f o r c e , and r a t i o n a l l y c o n s i d e r e d t h e meagre economic and d o m e s t i c o p t i o n s a v a i l a b l e t o h e r s h o u l d she choose t o l e a v e h e r h u s b a n d . 1 9 F o r example, S i r C h a r l e s does i n d e e d sum up t h e c o n t e n t s o f E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's l e t t e r s ; y e t , by n o t a l l o w i n g h e r t o speak f o r h e r s e l f he d e n i e s h e r a s e l f - a u t h o r i t y t h a t he i s more t h a n w i l l i n g t o g r a n t t o h e r husband. I n a d d i t i o n , she i s d e s c r i b e d i n t h e f i r s t i n s t a n c e a g a i n as " [ p ] o o r E l i z a b e t h Tennyson," s p e a k i n g i n "moving t e r m s " r a t h e r t h a n as h e r l e t t e r i t s e l f d e m o n s t r a t e s , p r o v i d i n g a r a t i o n a l argument f o r h e r c h o i c e t o s e p a r a t e ( 6 1 ) . L a t e r , he d e s c r i b e s E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's e a r l i e r r e q u e s t f o r t h e r e t u r n o f p o n i e s and c h a i s e w h i c h r i g h t f u l l y b e l o n g e d t o h e r as h a v i n g been s p a r k e d o n l y by h e r r e s e n t m e n t t o w a r d " t h e measures o f economy" f o r c e d upon h e r r a t h e r t h a n , as she h e r s e l f d i s p l a y s , anger a t h a v i n g been t r e a t e d w i t h such w i l l f u l l d i s r e s p e c t ( 8 1 ) . 1 9 As p r o o f o f E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's " s i m p l e p i e t y , " b i o g r a p h e r s and c r i t i c s u s u a l l y quote from h e r l e t t e r t o Tennyson c o n c e r n i n g t h e 1859 I d y l l s . Here, she l a u d s h e r son's s p i r i t o f C h r i s t i a n i t y and, t o h e r , new found use o f " t a l e n t s He has g i v e n t h e e , by t a k i n g e v e r y o p p o r t u n i t y o f e n d e a v o u r i n g t o i m p r e s s t h e p r e c e p t s o f H i s H o l y Word on t h e minds o f o t h e r s " (Memoir 380). What s h o u l d be emphasized, however, i s t h a t a t age 80, E l i z a b e t h Tennyson had h e r s i g h t s s e t a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y i n t h e w o r l d beyond, even as Tennyson's own d e c l a r e d f a i t h i n t h e i m m o r t a l i t y o f t h e s o u l i n c r e a s e d i n b o t h f r e q u e n c y and v o c i f e r o u s n e s s as he aged. As Tennyson h i m s e l f had d e s c r i b e d h i s mother f o u r y e a r s e a r l i e r t o G e r a l d Massey: "My mother [ i s ] now between 70 and 80, one who t a k e s f a r more i n t e r e s t i n t h e n e x t w o r l d t h a n i n t h i s , and n o t g e n e r a l l y g i v e n t o t h e r e a d i n g o f l i t e r a t u r e . . . " ( L e t t e r s I I 114). That she was e x c l u s i v e l y s p i r i t u a l r a t h e r t h a n p r a c t i c a l i n h e r e a r l i e r y e a r s , however, i s n o t borne o u t i n 280 i n h e r l o n g e s t l e t t e r t o George Tennyson, i n w h i c h she e x p l a i n s t h e r e a s o n s f o r h e r d e s i r e t o s e p a r a t e from h e r husband, she does n o t h e s i t a t e t o p o i n t o u t — a n d p r o v i d e e v i d e n c e f o r — t h e s e v e r i t y o f h e r husband's m e n t a l s t a t e . She adds, p o s s i b l y w i t h an u n d e r l y i n g a c c u s a t o r y i n t e n t , t h a t h e r f a t h e r - i n - l a w has been c o n s i s t e n t l y m i s i n f o r m e d as t o t h e t r u e c i r c u m s t a n c e s o f t h e Somersby Tennysons: "Indeed S i r i f t h e w e l f a r e o f so many human b e i n g s i s a m a t t e r o f t h e s m a l l e s t c o n s i d e r a t i o n , I am s u r e i t can be o n l y want o f i n f o r m a t i o n a t many p o i n t s , and m i s - i n f o r m a t i o n on o t h e r s t h a t c o u l d i n d u c e you n o t t o c o n c u r most f u l l y i n what I am a t l a s t d e t e r m i n e d t o c a r r y i n t o e f f e c t " ( L e t t e r s 29-30). She m a i n t a i n s t h a t i n h e r more t h a n t w e n t y y e a r s as t h e v i c t i m o f v i o l e n t i n t i m i d a t i o n and d e g r a d i n g e p i t h e t s she has p r o v i d e d ample p r o o f t h a t " m a t r i m o n i a l o b l i g a t i o n s were i n [ h e r ] eyes o f f a r g r e a t e r i m p o r t a n c e t h a n mere p e r s o n a l c o n s i d e r a t i o n s . " The i n c r e a s e d s e v e r i t y o f t h e c i r c u m s t a n c e s , h o w e v e r — n o w t h a t t h e R e c t o r had t a k e n t o k e e p i n g a k n i f e and l o a d e d gun i n h i s room, and had t h r e a t e n e d t o use t h e f o r m e r upon h i s e l d e s t s o n — h a v e l e f t h e r no c h o i c e b u t t o f l e e . Whatever p u r p o s e S i r C h a r l e s may have had f o r n o t q u o t i n g d i r e c t l y Mrs Tennyson's r e a s o n s f o r l e a v i n g h e r husband, h i s o m i s s i o n seems t o be l i n k e d t o h i s o v e r a l l p r e s e n t a t i o n o f women as p r o v i d e r s h e r c o r r e s p o n d e n c e w i t h h e r f a t h e r - i n - l a w c o n c e r n i n g h e r husband, n o r i n t h a t w i t h h e r b r o t h e r - i n - l a w c o n c e r n i n g h e r and h e r c h i l d r e n ' s i n v e s t m e n t i n Dr. Matthew A l l e n ' s wood- c a r v i n g scheme. 281 o f d o m e s t i c peace and s a n c t u a r y f o r t h e i r men. He does n o t c o n s i d e r women as e q u a l p a r t n e r s ( E l i z a b e t h R u s s e l l ) w i t h men i n t h e p r o f e s s i o n a l p r o m o t i o n o f t h e f u t u r e L a u r e a t e , o r as d e f i a n t d i s s e n t e r s ( E l i z a b e t h Tennyson) t o t h o s e same men when t h e p u b l i c l y - s a n c t i o n e d p r i v a t e w o r l d o f d o m e s t i c b l i s s became a f r i g h t e n i n g l i e . S i r C h a r l e s ' s l a t e r a l l u s i o n t o Tennyson's l i f e a t Cambridge as a r e l i e f from " d o m e s t i c b i c k e r i n g s " (82) i m p l i c i t l y c r i t i c i z e s t h e f a c t t h a t , i n h e r l o n g overdue d e f i a n c e o f h e r husband, E l i z a b e t h Tennyson was no l o n g e r p r e p a r e d t o p r o t e c t h e r c h i l d r e n from t h e i r f a t h e r i n a d o m e s t i c s a n c t u a r y o f h e r own making. A d m i t t e d l y , S i r C h a r l e s c a n n o t be f a u l t e d f o r t h e narrow r o l e he a s s i g n s t h e women i n Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e . Indeed, he a l o n e among Tennyson's b i o g r a p h e r s seems t o a c c e p t w i t h o u t r e s e r v a t i o n s t h e l a t e r p o s i t i v e i n f l u e n c e t h a t Tennyson's w i f e , E m i l y , had upon h e r husband as a man and as a p o e t . R a t h e r , S i r C h a r l e s ' s c o n c e p t i o n o f women i n A l f r e d Tennyson i s c o n s i s t e n t w i t h t h e p r o m o t i o n i n t h i s c e n t u r y o f a V i c t o r i a n s e p a r a t e s p h e r e i d e o l o g y t h a t has o n l y r e c e n t l y been c h a l l e n g e d . That S i r C h a r l e s t h u s f a i l s t o acknowledge V i c t o r i a n women as h a v i n g had an i n f l u e n c e beyond t h e a c c e p t e d c o n f i n e s o f t h e home i s t h e r e f o r e n o t s u r p r i s i n g . To h i s c r e d i t , he i s o n l y i m p l i c i t l y c r i t i c a l o f f e m a l e i n f l u e n c e i n Tennyson's l i f e r a t h e r t h a n , as t h e male b i o g r a p h e r s o f t h e " p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d " View, e x p l i c i t l y condemnatory. 282 The d i v i s i o n o f male and f e m a l e w o r l d s i n t h e Tennysons' l i v e s by t h o s e s c h o l a r s who endorse a p r i v a t e / p u b l i c s p l i t i n t h e p o e t becomes p a r a d o x i c a l when r e l a t e d t o b o t h George Tennyson's and A l f r e d Tennyson's v o c a t i o n s . A l t h o u g h i n g e n e r a l V i c t o r i a n women's a u t h o r i t y m i g h t be c o n f i n e d t o t h e s t r i c t l y p r i v a t e d o m e s t i c s p h e r e o f t h e home, i n t h e s p e c i f i c c a s e o f t h e Tennysons, s i n c e e v e r y o n e — f e m a l e and male a l i k e and sometimes as many as t w e n t y - t h r e e p e o p l e — l i v e d and worked w i t h i n t h e home, such a s i m p l i s t i c d i v i s i o n i s i m p o s s i b l e . P a r a d o x i c a l l y , t h e p r i v a t e f e m a l e w o r l d i n N i c o l s o n ' s " p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d " Tennyson seems t o be a s s o c i a t e d w i t h p u b l i c r e s p e c t a b i l i t y , a r e s p e c t a b i l i t y s u p p o s e d l y a t odds w i t h Tennyson's own, t r u l y p r i v a t e , p o e t i c s p i r i t . I n N i c o l s o n ' s v i e w , t h e s e c r e t , p r i v a t e w o r l d o f a n c e s t r a l f e u d s among men, l e a d i n g t o d i s s i p a t i o n and madness, i s t h e more l i k e l y s e a t o f p o e t i c i n s p i r a t i o n t h a n home and h e a r t h . T h i s " r o m a n t i c " v i e w o f p o e t r y has p r e d o m i n a t e d i n Tennyson b i o g r a p h y and c r i t i c i s m t h r o u g h o u t t h i s c e n t u r y . The b i f u r c a t i o n o f Tennyson's l i f e and p o e t r y i r o n i c a l l y began w i t h a b i d n o t t o d i s c r e d i t t h e p o e t ' s a b i l i t i e s b u t r a t h e r t o r e s t o r e h i s t a r n i s h e d r e p u t a t i o n i n t h e 192 0s. H a r o l d N i c o l s o n ' s s e l f - a c k n o w l e d g e d i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c a c c o u n t o f Tennyson: A s p e c t s o f h i s L i f e , C h a r a c t e r , and P o e t r y i n t e n d s t o d i f f e r e n t i a t e between "Tennyson t h e p o e t " and "Tennyson t h e b a r d " so as t o have him mean s o m e t h i n g t o t h e " p r e s e n t g e n e r a t i o n " ( 6 ) . F o r c e d i n t o t h i s t y p e o f s u b j e c t i v e - 283 o b j e c t i v e s p l i t , a c c o r d i n g t o N i c o l s o n , Tennyson chose t h e l a t t e r , " t h e e a s i e r and more p r o s p e r o u s c o u r s e : he became t h e L a u r e a t e o f h i s age; he s u b o r d i n a t e d t h e [ s u b j e c t i v e ] l y r i c t o t h e [ o b j e c t i v e ] i n s t r u c t i o n a l . And h i s p o e t r y t h e r e b y l o s t one h a l f o f i t s p o t e n t i a l v a l u e " ( 1 0 ) . N i c o l s o n u n a b a s h e d l y c o n t e n d s t h a t i f Tennyson's r e a d e r s were t o be exposed t o " t h e b l a c k unhappy m y s t i c o f t h e L i n c o l n s h i r e w o l d s " t h e y would t h e r e b y l e a r n anew " t h e s e c r e t o f h i s p r e p o n d e r a t i n g and t r i u m p h a n t s t r e n g t h " ( 1 5 ) . Charged w i t h a modern a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r a n e g a t i v e a e s t h e t i c — f o r t h e Romantic, B y r o n i c a l i e n as p o e t — N i c o l s o n t r i e s t o t o p p l e t h e Tennyson myth o f t h e p u b l i c b a r d bequeathed t o him and t o o t h e r modern s c h o l a r s as a t y p e o f V i c t o r i a n i n h e r i t a n c e . Modern w r i t e r s must, o f n e c e s s i t y , d i s c r e d i t t h e r o l e o f t h e p o e t as p u b l i c v a t e s i f f o r no o t h e r r e a s o n t h a n t o make a p l a c e f o r t h e m s e l v e s and t h e i r p o e t r y w i t h i n t h e i r own s u b j e c t i v i s t v i s i o n s o f t h e w o r l d . Y e t i n t h e end, what N i c o l s o n managed t o do was n o t t o d e t h r o n e t h e k i n g , b u t t o c r e a t e an a l t e r n a t e kingdom w i t h a p r i v a t e Tennyson as monarch so t h a t t h e Tennyson myth now l e g e n d i z e d two p o e t s , t h e p u b l i c and t h e p r i v a t e . S u b s e q u e n t l y , and i n p a r t i c u l a r w i t h t h e r i s e o f d e c o n s t r u c t i v i s m , t h e most 284 e x c i t i n g c r i t i c a l t e r r i t o r y t o s t a k e a c l a i m would be i n t h e • 20 f i s s u r e s between t h e s e two. W h i l e N i c o l s o n ' s i n t e n t i o n t o r e s t o r e Tennyson as a r e s p e c t e d p o e t was i n d e e d a d m i r a b l e i n 1923, c o n s i d e r i n g t h e v e r y low p o i n t t o w h i c h Tennyson had f a l l e n , u l t i m a t e l y he damaged Tennyson's o v e r a l l r e p u t a t i o n , e s p e c i a l l y by i m p l i c i t l y and e x p l i c i t l y condemning t h e d o m e s t i c w o r l d o f women and i t s a l l e g e d l y p e r n i c i o u s i n f l u e n c e upon t h e p o e t . S u p p o s e d l y , Tennyson t h e p o e t s u f f e r e d e q u a l l y a t t h e hands o f " t h e t e n d e r d o m e s t i c atmosphere o f h i s mother's p a r l o r " and t h e "moral e a r n e s t n e s s " and " e t h i c a l p u r p o s e " o f t h e A p o s t l e s ( 1 6 ) . W h i l e N i c o l s o n n e v e r d i r e c t l y c o n f l a t e s t h e s o - c a l l e d p r i v a t e f e m a l e s p h e r e w i t h t h e A p o s t l e s ' p u b l i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , t h e u n d e r l y i n g c o r r e l a t i o n r e m a i n s . I n e f f e c t , N i c o l s o n s u g g e s t s t h a t t h e s o f t e n i n g i n f l u e n c e and r e l i g i o u s m o r a l i s m t h a t women emanated o u t w a r d l y from t h e home e v e n t u a l l y t r a n s f o r m e d what might have been a v i g o r o u s p o e t i n t o a s e n t i m e n t a l b a r d : from h i s v e r y e a r l y days Tennyson was i n f l u e n c e d by t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y demand f o r c a l m e l e v a t i o n and f o r human s e n t i m e n t . H i s mother's f o n d n e s s f o r F e l i c i a Hemans c o u l d n o t f a i l t o l e a v e a t r e m u l o u s i m p r e s s i o n ; t h e s o c i e t y o f t h e young l a d i e s a t H o r n c a s t l e , t h e t y p e o f v e r s e s w h i c h t h e s e young l a d i e s e x p e c t e d and r e c e i v e d , i n c r e a s e d , and f o r t h e moment j u s t i f i e d , what was, we must a d m i t , an E.D.H. Johnson's c h a p t e r on Tennyson i n The A l i e n V i s i o n o f V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y (1952) marks a b e g i n n i n g i n c r i t i c a l a t t e n t i o n p a i d t o t h e " t e n s i o n " i n Tennyson's v e r s e c o i n c i d e n t w i t h t h e i n s t i t u t i o n a l predominance o f New C r i t i c i s m i n N o r t h A m e r i c a . 285 i n h e r e n t p r e d i l e c t i o n f o r t h e d a i n t y and t h e e l e g a n t . (25) E l i z a b e t h Tennyson's r e a d i n g Mrs Hemans and B e a t t i e ' s C a l e n d a r t o h e r c h i l d r e n i s d e s c r i b e d by N i c o l s o n as h a v i n g been spoken " i n h e r g e n t l e , e x h a u s t e d v o i c e , " c o n s p i r i n g t o p r o d u c e "a p l e a s a n t element o f c o n f e d e r a c y " a g a i n s t t h e R e c t o r ( 4 1 ) . Young A l f r e d r e t u r n s from L o u t h s c h o o l t o t h e " s o f t p r e s e n c e o f h i s mothers and s i s t e r s " because "he was n o t , e x c e p t i n p h y s i q u e , a v e r y manly boy," and was u n a b l e t o w i t h s t a n d b e i n g b u l l i e d ( 4 4 ) . The e m a s c u l a t i n g atmosphere o f Somersby c o u l d n o t be made more e x p l i c i t . Once Tennyson e n t e r s t h e a l l male w o r l d o f Cambridge, however, N i c o l s o n ' s a n a l y s i s o f t h e p r i v a t e / p u b l i c d i v i s i o n i n t h e p o e t o f c o u r s e no l o n g e r c o n c e r n s i t s e l f o v e r t l y w i t h women. F o r N i c o l s o n , A r t h u r Henry H a l l a m becomes t h e p i n n a c l e o f Tennyson's p r i v a t e w o r l d opposed t o t h e p u b l i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t i e s t h e o t h e r A p o s t l e s imposed upon t h e m s e l v e s and Tennyson. Love and e m o t i o n a r e now n o t o f a c r a v e n , s e n t i m e n t a l k i n d , as above, b u t r a t h e r "no e n e r v a t i n g i n f l u e n c e . . . [an] a l l - a b s o r b i n g , p e r s i s t e n t and i n t e n s e l y e m o t i o n a l s t i m u l u s " p r o d u c i n g t r u e p o e t r y i n " H a l l a m - i n s p i r e d o c c a s i o n s " ( 8 2 - 3 ) . Presumably, m a l e - c e n t r e d p a s s i o n empowers " p o e t r y " w h i l e f e m a l e - c e n t r e d emotion e n f e e b l e s " v e r s e . " The d o m e s t i c s e n t i m e n t s o f women i n Tennyson's e a r l y l i f e a r e now a l l u s i v e l y r e p l a c e d by t h e A p o s t l e s ' " r e l i g i o u s " and p o e t i c a l l y e n e r v a t i n g " ' m i s s i o n t o e n l i g h t e n t h e w o r l d upon 286 t h i n g s i n t e l l e c t u a l and s p i r i t u a l " 1 ( M e r i v a l e q t d . 7 3 ) . T h i s " m i s s i o n " p r o d u c e d i n Tennyson an i n s t r u c t i o n a l m o t i v e t h a t , i n N i c o l s o n ' s o p i n i o n , s h a c k l e d t h e p o e t ' s n a t u r a l l y w i l d t e n d e n c i e s . I n t h e end, N i c o l s o n a s k s t h a t h i s r e a d e r s " f o r g e t t h e d e l i c a t e L a u r e a t e o f a c a u t i o u s age; t h e s h a l l o w t h o u g h t , t h e v a c a n t compromise; t h e honeyed i d y l l ; t h e c o m p l a c e n t ode" and remember o n l y t h e m y s t e r i o u s , h a u n t i n g cadences o f Tennyson's i s o l a t e d l y r i c v o i c e (3 03-4). The i m p l i c i t p a i r i n g o f d e l i c a t e f e m i n i n i t y and p u b l i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t y i s e v i d e n t i n N i c o l s o n ' s c h o i c e o f a d j e c t i v e s . Indeed, many t w e n t i e t h - 21 c e n t u r y c r i t i c s t o o k N i c o l s o n ' s s u g g e s t i o n t o h e a r t . N i c o l s o n i n a u g u r a t e d an i n f a t u a t i o n w i t h Tennyson as an e s s e n t i a l l y p r i v a t e p o e t t h a t , i n b i o g r a p h i c a l t e r m s , c o u l d o n l y be e x p e c t e d t o i n c r e a s e once S i r C h a r l e s ' s A l f r e d Tennyson i n 1949 r e v e a l e d h i t h e r t o unknown, p o t e n t i a l l y p s y c h o l o g i c a l c a u s e s f o r t h e w i l d d e s p a i r o f Tennyson's most i m p a s s i o n e d l y r i c s . I n a d d i t i o n , t h e i n c r e a s i n g l y s c i e n t i f i c s p i r i t o f t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y s e r v e d t o h e i g h t e n p u b l i c i n t e r e s t i n e m p i r i c a l l y m e a s u r i n g t h e p s y c h o l o g i c a l and p h y s i o l o g i c a l w o r k i n g s o f t h e i n d i v i d u a l human c o n s c i o u s n e s s . 2 1 Those c r i t i c s who a s c r i b e t o N i c h o l s o n ' s d i c t u m o f Tennyson as a g r e a t l y r i c p o e t , w h i l e d e v a l u i n g t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e p o e t ' s sense o f r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o h i s age, e s s e n t i a l l y f o l l o w e d Baum's d i s p a r a g i n g o f Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n i s m i n Tennyson S i x t y Y e a r s A f t e r (1948); t h e y i n c l u d e Jerome H. B u c k l e y (1951), A. Dwight C u l l e r (1973), F.E.L.. P r i e s t l e y (1973), W. D a v i d Shaw (1976), and H e r b e r t T u c k e r J r . (1988). 287 The c o i n c i d e n c e o f t h e s e s e v e r a l i n t e r e s t s p r o d u c e d a s p e c i e s o f Tennyson b i o g r a p h y t h a t can o n l y be d e s c r i b e d as p s e u d o - s c i e n t i f i c a l l y o b j e c t i v e i n i t s c l o s e o b s e r v a t i o n o f i t s s u b j e c t : R o b e r t B e r n a r d M a r t i n ' s Tennyson: The U n q u i e t H e a r t . 2 2 Y e t h i s c o n c l u s i o n s a r e h i g h l y s u b j e c t i v e and t h e r e f o r e s p e c i o u s d e s p i t e h i s a p p a r e n t l y e m p i r i c a l methodology. I n i t s p h y s i o l o g i c a l v i e w o f t h e i m p o s i t i o n s h e r e d i t y p l a c e s upon t h e i n d i v i d u a l , M a r t i n ' s b i o g r a p h y o f Tennyson a t t e m p t s t o p r o v i d e a t y p e o f s c i e n t i f i c r a t i o n a l f o r t h e f i t s o f despondency Tennyson endured. The T e n n y s o n s — a n d A l f r e d i n p a r t i c u l a r — w e r e under t h e t h r a l l o f an e p i l e p t i c i n h e r i t a n c e so p r o f o u n d t h a t , c o u p l e d w i t h o t h e r m e n t a l and Ann C o l l e y ' s Tennyson and Madness (1983) e x t e n d s M a r t i n ' s t r e a t m e n t o f t h e Tennysons' " b l a c k - b l o o d e d n e s s " t o p l a c e Tennyson h i m s e l f and h i s p o e t r y w i t h i n a h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t o f d e v e l o p i n g p s y c h o l o g i c a l t h e o r i e s , n o t t h e l e a s t o f w h i c h was t h a t by Dr Matthew A l l e n , E s s a y on t h e C l a s s i f i c a t i o n o f t h e Insane (1837), whose a s y l u m i n t h e l a t e 1830s and e a r l y 1840s A l f r e d v i s i t e d and Septimus r e s i d e d i n . Her h i s t o r i c a l t r e a t m e n t o f madness i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y i s i n d e e d a d m i r a b l e . However, h e r subsequent p s y c h o - c r i t i c a l argument t h a t Tennyson's p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h i n s a n i t y i n h i s p o e t r y r e s t e d on t h e p o e t ' s h e r e d i t a r y f e a r s o f i n c i p i e n t m a d n e s s — w i t h w r i t i n g as a t y p e o f F r e u d i a n d i s p l a c e m e n t — t o o r e a d i l y a c c e p t s M a r t i n ' s t h e o r y o f e p i l e p s y as a p h y s i o l o g i c a l cause f o r such p o e t i c i n t e r e s t . Thus, she s u p e r f i c i a l l y e q u a t e s Tennyson t h e man w i t h h i s s e v e r a l mad s p e a k e r s — t h e l o v e r i n Maud and L u c r e t i u s i n p a r t i c u l a r — w i t h o u t due c o n s i d e r a t i o n f o r Tennyson's c r e a t i o n o f p e r s o n a , n o t as a second s e l f , b u t as a p o e t i c d e v i c e . Because C o l l e y e s s e n t i a l l y adheres t o a p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d v i e w o f Tennyson as a p o e t , she seems u n a b l e t o t r a n s f e r h e r i n i t i a l , h i s t o r i c a l a n a l y s i s o f madness as a p u b l i c p r e o c c u p a t i o n i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d o v e r t o h e r s t u d y o f Tennyson's mad poems. They r e m a i n p r i v a t e , m o t i v a t e d by Tennyson's own m o r b i d i t y r a t h e r t h a n by any i n t e r e s t s o f t h e p e r i o d . 288 p h y s i c a l d i s a b i l i t i e s , t h e y were c o n s i s t e n t l y f r u s t r a t e d i n t h e i r p r o p e r e n t r y i n t o V i c t o r i a n p u b l i c l i f e . The d r i v i n g f o r c e o f M a r t i n ' s U n q u i e t H e a r t i s , as i t s t i t l e s u g g e s t s , t h e need t o p r o v e e m p i r i c a l l y t h a t Tennyson h e l d no s e c u r e p l a c e a t t h e p u b l i c podium s i n c e h i s p r i v a t e l i f e was f r a u g h t w i t h d i f f i c u l t i e s , t h e most i m p o r t a n t b e i n g h i s f e a r o f i n h e r i t e d e p i l e p s y . N e v e r t h e l e s s , M a r t i n h i m s e l f a d m i t s t h a t t h e e v i d e n c e t o p r o v e e p i l e p s y i s e n t i r e l y l a c k i n g . Thus, he employs a method o f p r e s e n t a t i o n t h a t u s e s t h e number o f s e e m i n g l y s i m i l a r m e n t a l a b e r r a t i o n s i n t h e Tennyson f a m i l y t o g i v e q u a l i t a t i v e l e g i t i m a c y t o an o t h e r w i s e u n q u a n t i f i a b l e argument: t h a t t h e Tennysons a p p a r e n t l y had a " c o n s t a n t , b r o o d i n g c o n c e r n about one d i s e a s e : e p i l e p s y " : The f a m i l y l e t t e r s show t h a t b o t h young George [ f a t h e r ] and C h a r l e s [ u n c l e ] s u f f e r e d from t i m e t o t i m e w i t h some form o f t h e i l l n e s s , t h a t one o f C h a r l e s ' s sons [George] was a v i c t i m , and t h a t p e r h a p s o l d George h i m s e l f had a t t a c k s o f l e s s s e v e r i t y t h a n t h o s e o f h i s d e s c e n d a n t s . One o f A l f r e d Tennyson's b r o t h e r s [Edward] was t o t a l l y i n s a n e most o f h i s l i f e , a n o t h e r [ S e p t i m u s ] s u f f e r e d from some form o f m e n t a l i l l n e s s n e a r l y as i n c a p a c i t a t i n g , a t h i r d [ C h a r l e s ] was an opium a d d i c t , a f o u r t h [ A r t h u r ] was s e v e r e l y a l c o h o l i c , and t h e r e s t o f t h e l a r g e f a m i l y each had a t l e a s t one bad m e n t a l breakdown i n a l o n g l i f e . I f t h e r e a r e any d e t a i l e d r e c o r d s e x t a n t o f what p r e c i s e l y a i l e d them a l l , I have been u n a b l e t o f i n d them, and i t i s i m p o s s i b l e t o say whether any o f young George's c h i l d r e n a c t u a l l y s u f f e r e d from a form o f e p i l e p s y . What i s most p r o b a b l e i s t h a t among A l f r e d Tennyson's t e n b r o t h e r s and s i s t e r s , some had a t t a c k s t h a t r e s e m b l e d e p i l e p s y , and t h a t A l f r e d e i t h e r had t h e d i s e a s e w h i l e young and r e c o v e r e d from i t i n l a t e r l i f e , o r , more p r o b a b l y , m i s t a k e n l y f e a r e d as a young man t h a t he had i n h e r i t e d a 289 t e n d e n c y t o i t t h a t he m i g h t t r a n s m i t t o any o f f s p r i n g o f h i s own. (10) M a r t i n c o n t i n u e s , t h e n , by assuming e p i l e p s y as t h e cause o f t h e Tennysons' " b l a c k b l o o d " even though he concedes he has no f o u n d a t i o n f o r d o i n g so. He e x c u s e s t h e l a c k o f m e d i c a l r e c o r d s as owing t o a V i c t o r i a n r e l u c t a n c e t o r e g i s t e r s u c h a " ' s h a m e f u l ' d i s e a s e l i k e e p i l e p s y . . . on t h e d e a t h c e r t i f i c a t e s o f members o f t h e g e n t l e c l a s s e s . . . " (10) s i n c e e p i l e p s y was s u p p o s e d l y t h o u g h t t o have been r e l a t e d t o i f n o t c a u s e d by h e i g h t e n e d s e x u a l i t y o f t e n r e s u l t i n g i n e x c e s s i v e m a s t u r b a t i o n ( 2 7 - 8 ) . M a r t i n ' s p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h e p i l e p s y as t h e p r i v a t e cause o f Tennyson's f r a c t u r e d p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n p u b l i c i s made m a n i f e s t i n h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f two r e l a t e d a s p e c t s o f Tennyson's l i f e : h i s r o l e as a p o t e n t i a l husband and h i s v o c a t i o n as a p o e t . I n each c a s e , Tennyson's a l l e g e d r e l u c t a n c e t o p a r t i c i p a t e f u l l y i n what M a r t i n p e r c e i v e s t o have been t h e d i c t a t e s o f V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y i s t i e d t o t h e p o e t ' s n e u r o l o g i c a l d i f f i c u l t i e s , t h e r e b y g i v i n g pseudo- s c i e n t i f i c c r e d e n c e t o t h e modern t h e o r y o f t h e p r i v a t e Tennyson as h a v i n g been a t odds w i t h t h e p u b l i c demands o f h i s age. I n d i s c u s s i n g Tennyson's l o n g and d i f f i c u l t engagement t o E m i l y S e l l w o o d , M a r t i n d i s r e g a r d s t h e m o r a l and s o c i o - e c o n o m i c demands o f V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y t h a t s u r r o u n d e d m a r r i a g e i n f a v o u r o f t h e p u r e l y p s y c h o l o g i c a l p r e s s u r e s t h a t Tennyson's assumed i n h e r i t e d t e n d e n c y t o e p i l e p s y e x e r t e d . Tennyson f i r s t met E m i l y S e l l w o o d i n 1830 t h r o u g h t h e f r i e n d l y a s s o c i a t i o n s o f t h e i r f a m i l i e s a l t h o u g h he d i d n o t d e v e l o p an e m o t i o n a l a t t a c h m e n t t o h e r u n t i l she was b r i d e s m a i d t o h e r s i s t e r , L o u i s a , i n h e r m a r r i a g e t o C h a r l e s Tennyson, 24 May 1836. I n 1837, t h e S e l l w o o d s r e c o g n i z e d A l f r e d and E m i l y ' s engagement. Y e t s i n c e a l m o s t a l l o f t h e c o r r e s p o n d e n c e o f A l f r e d and E m i l y was d e s t r o y e d by H a l l a m and h i s c o - e d i t o r s a f t e r Tennyson's d e a t h , l i t t l e can r e a l l y be known o f t h e p r o b l e m s t h a t k e p t them from m a r r y i n g u n t i l 1850. C e r t a i n l y by t h e summer o f 1840, t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f f u t u r e h a p p i n e s s was c a s t i n doubt. I n a l e t t e r t h a t Lang d a t e s as J u l y o r August 1840, Tennyson r e f e r s t o h i s " v i c e o f o l d " as t h e cause f o r h i s f l y i n g from h e r f o r h i s own good and p e r h a p s f o r h e r s ( L e t t e r s I 182-3). What t h i s " v i c e " may have been i s d e b a t a b l e . H a l l a m m e n t i o n s o n l y " [ e ] t e r n a l want o f pence" (Memoir 147) as t h e cause f o r t h e l e t t e r s c e a s i n g . S i r C h a r l e s adds t h a t Mr S e l l w o o d n o t o n l y d i d n o t approve o f Tennyson's a p p a r e n t i n a b i l i t y t o e a r n a d e c e n t l i v i n g , b u t l o o k e d a s k a n c e on Tennyson's Bohemian way o f l i f e , r e p l e t e w i t h p o r t , t o b a c c o , and q u e s t i o n a b l e r e l i g i o u s o p i n i o n s ( 1 7 9 ) . Because Tennyson would n e i t h e r compromise h i s p e r s o n a l i n t e g r i t y by a c c e p t i n g h a l f o f h i s mother's a n n u i t y nor damage h i s p r o f e s s i o n a l r e p u t a t i o n by w r i t i n g s h o r t , p o p u l a r poems f o r magazines and newspapers so as t o a f f o r d to* marry, a c c o r d i n g t o S i r C h a r l e s , h i s engagement was b r o k e n o f f (182). M a r t i n , however, e x t e n d s what S i r C h a r l e s had e a r l i e r i n t i m a t e d : t h a t A l f r e d ' s b r o t h e r C h a r l e s ' s a d d i c t i o n t o opium and t h e d i s a s t r o u s consequences t h e r e b y imposed upon h i s w i f e L o u i s a had made Mr S e l l w o o d s c e p t i c a l o f t h e s t a b i l i t y o f t h e e n t i r e Tennyson f a m i l y ( S i r C h a r l e s 179). Throughout h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e "Break w i t h E m i l y S e l l w o o d : 1838-1842" (244- 6 0 ) , M a r t i n a r g u e s t h a t Tennyson had no r e a l d e s i r e t o marry because o f a f e a r o f h e r e d i t a r y i l l n e s s t h a t k e p t him r e t i c e n t i n r e s p o n s e t o E m i l y who a l l e g e d l y had w i s h e d t h e i r engagement t o c o n t i n u e . I n l i m i t i n g h i s v i s i o n t o Tennyson's p r i v a t e c o n c e r n s , however, M a r t i n f a i l s t o acknowledge r e s t r i c t i o n s t h a t E m i l y h e r s e l f , o r most c e r t a i n l y t h e S e l l w o o d s , p u t upon t h e i r engagement. A c c o r d i n g t o S i r C h a r l e s , even i n 1850 when A l f r e d and E m i l y d i d marry, t h e S e l l w o o d s were s c e p t i c a l , " l a r g e l y on r e l i g i o u s g r o u n d s " ( 2 4 1 ) , a s c e p t i c i s m l i k e l y stemming from p u b l i c p r e s s u r e f o r c h u r c h a t t e n d a n c e and r e l i g i o u s c o n f o r m i t y . I n a d d i t i o n , t h e enormous i n f l u e n c e t h a t Mr S e l l w o o d had upon h i s d a u g h t e r r e a d s v e r y much l i k e t h a t o f Mr B a r r e t t upon h i s own e q u a l l y i n v a l i d d a u g h t e r , E l i z a b e t h , o r l i k e t h e c o n t r o l t h a t J u s t i c e Wightman t r i e d t o e x e r c i s e o v e r h i s d a u g h t e r , F r a n c e s Lucy, b e f o r e h e r e v e n t u a l m a r r i a g e t o Matthew A r n o l d . A l t h o u g h M a r t i n acknowledges t h a t E m i l y S e l l w o o d " i d o l i z e d " h e r f a t h e r , he r e f u s e s t o p l a c e A l f r e d ' s and E m i l y ' s b r o k e n engagement w i t h i n a f a i r l y common V i c t o r i a n s c e n a r i o o f p a t e r n a l d e l a y o f a d a u g h t e r ' s f u l l p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n a d u l t l i f e . F u r t h e r m o r e , M a r t i n c l a i m s t h a t Tennyson's f i n a n c i a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s were an i n a d e q u a t e r e a s o n f o r s e p a r a t i o n s i n c e i n M a r t i n ' s v i e w Tennyson was n e v e r as i m p o v e r i s h e d as he made o u t ; he had £100 p e r annum from h i s a u n t and t h e i n t e r e s t , p o s s i b l y as much as £500 p e r annum, from t h e i n h e r i t a n c e he r e c e i v e d on t h e d e a t h o f h i s g r a n d f a t h e r i n 1835 (207 & 247) . A g a i n , however, M a r t i n n e g l e c t s t o p l a c e Tennyson w i t h i n a p u b l i c c o n t e x t o f s o c i a l p r o p r i e t y t h a t — f a r more t h a n i n d i v i d u a l d e s i r e — d e t e r m i n e d t h a t m a r r i a g e s h o u l d o c c u r l a t e i n l i f e o n l y when, as Houghton p o i n t s o u t , a man c o u l d " p r o v i d e h i s w i f e w i t h a c a r r i a g e and . . . a s s o c i a t e w i t h men o f w e a l t h " ( 3 8 4 ) . I n 1842, J.S. Wade e x p l a i n e d : "The i m m o r a l i t y o f m a r r y i n g w i t h o u t t h e means o f s u p p o r t i n g a f a m i l y [was] a d o c t r i n e o f r e c e n t p r o m u l g a t i o n " ( q t d . i n Banks 3 0 ) . W h i l e Tennyson was, a t 41, above t h e a v e r a g e male age o f m a r r i a g e (which had r i s e n t o 2 9 ) , and may have conformed t o o c l o s e l y t o economic, m o r a l s t r i c t u r e s , n o n e t h e l e s s , h i s d e t e r m i n a t i o n t o p o s t p o n e m a r r i a g e u n t i l he c o u l d g u a r a n t e e h i s w i f e a s e c u r e f u t u r e was c e r t a i n l y i n k e e p i n g w i t h m i d d l e - c l a s s v a l u e s . Moreover, postponement was p a r t i c u l a r l y r e a s o n a b l e i n Tennyson's c a s e g i v e n h i s f a m i l y ' s p e r c e p t i o n o f t h e r e l a t i v e p o v e r t y t h a t t h e Somersby Tennysons endured t h r o u g h o u t t h e i r l i v e s compared t o t h e i r w e a l t h y d ' E y n c o u r t r e l a t i v e s . Indeed, once Tennyson l o s t most o f h i s i n h e r i t a n c e t h r o u g h an unsound i n v e s t m e n t i n Dr Matthew A l l e n ' s w o o d c a r v i n g scheme (1841-43), h i s r e l u c t a n c e t o marry c o u l d o n l y have i n c r e a s e d . As c h a p t e r one e x p l a i n s , t h e p r e s s u r e s by f r i e n d s and f a m i l y upon Tennyson t o produce a d d i t i o n a l volumes f o r p u b l i c a t i o n , t o w r i t e p o e t r y f o r a w i d e r market, and even t o supplement w r i t i n g p o e t r y w i t h some form o f " r e a l " employment i n c r e a s e d i n t h e 1840s as h i s f i n a n c i a l c i r c u m s t a n c e s worsened. Y e t , Tennyson was u n p r e p a r e d t o compromise h i m s e l f as a p o e t i n o r d e r t o g a i n t h e f i n a n c i a l s e c u r i t y he needed t o a l l o w him t o marry. Such r e l u c t a n c e , however, need n o t be m i s c o n s t r u e d as i t i s by M a r t i n as a p r i v a t e l y m o t i v a t e d f e a r o f m a r r y i n g . On t h e c o n t r a r y , Tennyson a p p e a r s more t o have been d r i v e n by a sense o f p r o f e s s i o n a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o what he p e r c e i v e d as h i s a u d i e n c e , and a p e r s o n a l commitment t o g i v e h i s r e a d e r s o n l y h i s b e s t work, as t h e d i s c u s s i o n i n c h a p t e r f o u r c o n c e r n i n g Tennyson's r e s p o n s e t o c r i t i c i s m i n t h e 1830s c l e a r l y i n d i c a t e s . H i s f i n a l agreement t o p u b l i s h t h e 1842 Poems was prompted by s i m i l a r l y p r o f e s s i o n a l c o n c e r n s because p u b l i s h e r s i n A m e r i c a were t h r e a t e n i n g t o p u b l i s h t h e o r i g i n a l 18 3 3 volume, and Tennyson c o u l d n o t a b i d e h a v i n g poems t h a t he had s p e n t a decade r e w o r k i n g appear i n t h e i r p r e v i o u s , and t o h i s mind, immature form. M a r t i n ' s d i s r e g a r d f o r Tennyson as a p r o s p e c t i v e husband w i t h i n h i s s o c i a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l c o n t e x t i s n o t s u r p r i s i n g s i n c e h i s p u r p o s e i s t o argue f o r a Tennyson a t odds w i t h h i s age, n o t a man s e n s i t i v e t o t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c c i r c u m s t a n c e s o f t h e t i m e . A s i m i l a r l i n e o f r e a s o n i n g i n M a r t i n ' s d i s c u s s i o n o f Tennyson as a p o e t , however, i s e n t i r e l y u n a c c e p t a b l e s i n c e i t m i s l e a d i n g l y p o r t r a y s Tennyson as w o r k i n g s o l e l y from w i t h i n an i s o l a t e d p o e t i c s , d i v o r c e d from h i s p u b l i c . M a r t i n c o n t e n d s t h a t Tennyson, i n c o n s t a n t f e a r o f e p i l e p s y , used h i s p o e t r y as an "anodyne" t o numb " t h e p a i n t h a t h i s h y p o c h o n d r i a b r o u g h t on him. I t was n o t a c u r e , b u t i t was c e r t a i n l y an a l l e v i a t i o n " (140) . H e r e i n l i e s M a r t i n ' s a p p r o a c h : t h e p u b l i c e x p o s u r e o f g r i e f and l o s s i n I n Memoriam i s r e c o n f i g u r e d i n p r i v a t e terms as Tennyson's p e r s o n a l t h r e n o d y on h i s own p s y c h o l o g i c a l w h o l e n e s s : B u t , f o r t h e u n q u i e t h e a r t and b r a i n , A use i n measured language l i e s ; The sad mechanic e x e r c i s e , L i k e d u l l n a r c o t i c s , numbing p a i n . (V 5-8) The metaphor o f language as a n a r c o t i c i s n o t a s u r p r i s i n g one f o r Tennyson; A l f r e d ' s b r o t h e r C h a r l e s had chosen opium w h i l e o t h e r s i n t h e f a m i l y had sought s o l a c e i n a l c o h o l . The Tennysons' i n d i v i d u a l r e a s o n s f o r escape from p a i n , however, c a n n o t r e a s o n a b l y be c o n f l a t e d . Moreover, v e r s e as a d r u g t o numb t h e p a i n o f e x i s t e n c e i s n o t u n i q u e t o Tennyson. As a l o v e r o f K e a t s — - i n p a r t i c u l a r because o f H a l l a m ' s i n t r o d u c t i o n o f h i s p o e t r y t o h i m — t h i s t r o p e seems e n t i r e l y n a t u r a l t o Tennyson's e l e g i a c p u r p o s e : t o s u b s t i t u t e measured language f o r t h e l o s s o f t h e a b s e n t o t h e r . I n assuming t h a t Tennyson's v e r s e s u p p l i e s t h e same p r i v a t e n a r c o t i c f u n c t i o n as v a r i o u s d r u g s d i d f o r t h e o t h e r members o f t h e p o e t ' s f a m i l y , M a r t i n e n t r e n c h e s t h e m o d e r n i s t v i e w o f Tennyson as t h e t o r t u r e d Romantic p o e t advanced e a r l i e r by N i c o l s o n . I n so d o i n g , he s e v e r e l y l i m i t s Tennyson's p o e t r y t o a p u r e l y p r i v a t e r e a l m : i n t h e "harmonies and s y m b o l i c o r d e r o f t h e poems, he was a b l e t o p e r c e i v e m o m e n t a r i l y some k i n d o f u n i t y and wholeness t h a t was a p p l i c a b l e t o h i s own l i f e . . . . One o f t h e d i f f i c u l t i e s w i t h p o e t r y t h a t s e r v e s so p r i v a t e a p u r p o s e i s t h a t i t i s n o t e s s e n t i a l l y d i r e c t e d t o a r e a d i n g p u b l i c , and f o r t h i s r e a s o n Tennyson was o f t e n r e l u c t a n t t o p u b l i s h , p a r t i c u l a r l y w h i l e a young man." W i t h so p r i v a t e a p o e t i c p u r p o s e , p u b l i c a t i o n would s u p p o s e d l y be " s u p e r e r o g a t o r y " (14 0 ) . But i f a n y t h i n g , Tennyson's r e l u c t a n c e t o p u b l i s h r e s u l t e d from a s e n s i t i v e awareness o f t h e l i t e r a r y demands o f h i s a u d i e n c e , i n c l u d i n g h i s c r i t i c s , and a d e s i r e t o e n s u r e c o n s a n g u i n i t y between h i s v o i c e and t h e i r s . M a r t i n d i s m i s s e s Tennyson's a c t i v e awareness o f h i m s e l f as a p r o f e s s i o n a l p o e t because i t does n o t f i t w i t h h i s o v e r r i d i n g t h e o r y o f t h e Tennysons, and o f A l f r e d i n p a r t i c u l a r , as b i o l o g i c a l l y i l l - s u i t e d t o t h e i r age. I n c o n t r a s t t o t h e p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d v i e w s o f Tennyson's l i f e and work, p u b l i c l y - f o c u s e d v i e w s n o t s u r p r i s i n g l y t a k e Tennyson's i n j u n c t i o n " t o be s t u d i e d t h r o u g h h i s poems" t o h e a r t . They i n d e e d see t h e man i n terms o f h i s p o e t r y r a t h e r t h a n a t t e m p t i n g b i o g r a p h i c a l a n a l y s i s o f t h e man as a p r e t e x t f o r u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h e p o e t r y . Beyond t h i s , p u b l i c l y f o c u s e d v i e w s a l s o p l a c e t h e p o e t w i t h i n h i s l a r g e r s o c i a l c o n t e x t so t h a t r e c e p t i o n becomes i n t r i n s i c t o an o v e r a l l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e p o e t r y . B o t h p u b l i s h e d i n 1962, Joanna R i c h a r d s o n ' s 296 The P r e - e m i n e n t V i c t o r i a n : A Study o f Tennyson and V a l e r i e P i t t ' s Tennyson L a u r e a t e p r e s e n t a p u b l i c v i e w o f Tennyson from w i t h i n a h i s t o r i c a l t r a d i t i o n o f Tennyson s c h o l a r s h i p b e s t i l l u s t r a t e d by S i r C h a r l e s ' s s e v e r a l a t t e m p t s t o p r o v i d e a n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c o n t e x t f o r Tennyson's t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s . 2 3 Of t h e two s t u d i e s , R i c h a r d s o n ' s i s t h e l e s s s a t i s f y i n g s i n c e as a t y p e o f b i o g r a p h y i t adds v e r y l i t t l e t o S i r C h a r l e s ' s A l f r e d Tennyson. Moreover, as a s o c i o l o g i c a l a n a l y s i s o f a l i t e r a r y f i g u r e , i t f a l l s f a r s h o r t o f P i t t ' s e x t e n s i v e t r e a t m e n t o f t h e c o n d i t i o n s w i t h i n w h i c h Tennyson assumed t h e v o i c e o f t h e L a u r e a t e i n r e s p o n s e t o h i s V i c t o r i a n p u b l i c . R i c h a r d s o n p r o c e e d s a l m o s t as i f t h e p r i v a t e Tennyson had n e v e r e x i s t e d . F o r i n s t a n c e , she s t a t e s o n l y t h a t a t Cambridge Tennyson " c o n c e i v e d f o r H a l l a m a s u b l i m a t e d p a s s i o n t h a t would shape h i s l i f e and work" ( 2 2 ) , b u t f a i l s t o e x p l o r e t h e d e p t h o f t h i s r e l a t i o n s h i p , even w i t h i n t h e p u b l i c r e a l m o f H a l l a m ' s p r o m o t i o n o f Tennyson i n h i s r e v i e w o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l . F o r R i c h a r d s o n , Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n p r e - 2 3 O t h e r s t u d i e s i n t h i s h i s t o r i c a l v e i n t h a t p r e c e d e d R i c h a r d s o n ' s and P i t t ' s , a p a r t from t h o s e p u b l i s h e d n e a r t h e t u r n o f t h e c e n t u r y i n t h e a f t e r g l o w o f V i c t o r i a n i s m , i n c l u d e Shannon's Tennyson and t h e R e v i e w e r s (1952), K i l l h a m ' s Tennyson and "The P r i n c e s s " : R e f l e c t i o n s o f an Age (1958) and, o f c o u r s e , S i r C h a r l e s ' s S i x Tennyson E s s a y s (1954). H i s s h o r t monograph Tennyson and h i s Times, though p u b l i s h e d l a t e r , i n 1974, r e p r e s e n t s some o f h i s b e s t work i n p l a c i n g Tennyson i n h i s V i c t o r i a n c o n t e x t . R i c h a r d s o n ' s work i s d e v o t e d t o p r e c e d e n t s s e t by S i r C h a r l e s and r e l i e s on m a t e r i a l l e f t t o h e r by him; The P r e - e m i n e n t V i c t o r i a n i s t h u s d e d i c a t e d t o him. eminence i s e n t i r e l y p u b l i c and s o c i a l , c o n f e r r e d upon him because he s o c i a l i z e d and a s s o c i a t e d w i t h t h e r e c o g n i z a b l y c a n o n i z e d . Thus, R i c h a r d s o n ' s s t u d y r e a d s l i k e a V i c t o r i a n l i v e s o f t h e ( m o d e r a t e l y ) r i c h and ( c e r t a i n l y ) famous, i n w h i c h Tennyson r e i g n e d supreme: t h e Brownings, t h e C a r l y l e s , G l a d s t o n e , M i l n e s , and, o f c o u r s e , Queen V i c t o r i a . A p p a r e n t l y , Tennyson i s p r e - e m i n e n t as a V i c t o r i a n i n h i s a b i l i t y t o m i r r o r t h i s p a s t i c h e . Y e t nowhere does R i c h a r d s o n e v e r examine t h e h e t e r o g e n e i t y o f t h i s a u d i e n c e and what i t meant t o a p r o f e s s i o n a l p o e t t o t r y t o s a t i s f y i t s c o n f l i c t i n g demands. Nor does she q u e s t i o n V i c t o r i a n i d e o l o g y i t s e l f . A c c o r d i n g t o R i c h a r d s o n , " V i c t o r i a n o p i n i o n was much more c l e a r l y v o i c e d by t h e c o n s t a n t , overwhelming h o s t o f Tennyson's a d m i r e r s " (290) t h a n by h i s d e t r a c t o r s a l t h o u g h t h e e x a c t n a t u r e o f t h e s e o p i n i o n s on e i t h e r s i d e i s n e v e r an i s s u e f o r h e r . Hence, h e r s t u d y l a c k s i n - d e p t h a n a l y s i s and i s l i m i t e d t o a c o l l e c t i o n o f a d m i r i n g l e t t e r s , a g r e a t many o f them from w o m e n — E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning i n p a r t i c u l a r — because u l t i m a t e l y she b e l i e v e s t h a t "Tennyson's muse was f e m i n i n e , and gazed towards t h e s t a r s " ( 2 4 3 ) . The c o n f l a t i o n o f t h e s e two c o n c e p t s i s n e v e r e x p l a i n e d . Even though R i c h a r d s o n ' s p u r p o s e i s t o p a i n t a p u b l i c p i c t u r e o f t h e L a u r e a t e , h e r u n q u e s t i o n e d a s s u m p t i o n o f V i c t o r i a n l i f e as e s s e n t i a l l y f e m i n i n e and s p i r i t u a l s u g g e s t s h e r p a r a d o x i c a l a l l e g i a n c e t o t h e v i e w o f p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d s c h o l a r s l i k e N i c o l s o n who see V i c t o r i a n c u l t u r e as 298 p e j o r a t i v e l y dominated by women, and ( i n N i c o l s o n ' s case) t h e r e f o r e t o be d i s p a r a g e d . That she n o n e t h e l e s s l a u d s t h e p e r i o d and t h e L a u r e a t e w i t h i n i t t h r o u g h i l l u s t r a t i o n s o f V i c t o r i a n h e r o - w o r s h i p seems t o p l a c e h e r work a l m o s t s i x t y y e a r s b e f o r e i t s t i m e , as i f she n e v e r f u l l y a c c o u n t e d f o r B r a d l e y ' s R e a c t i o n A g a i n s t Tennyson, w h i c h she l i s t s i n h e r b i b l i o g r a p h y . She a s s e r t s Tennyson's pre-eminence as a V i c t o r i a n c o m p l e t e l y w i t h i n t h e r e a l m o f t h o s e f e a t u r e s o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d t h a t m o d e r n i s t s have r e j e c t e d : a r d e n t s p i r i t u a l i t y , f e m a l e w o r s h i p , and complacency. She f a i l s t o e x p l o r e Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n i s m as a t y p e o f compromise, an e x p l o r a t i o n a l r e a d y begun i n 1952 by E.D.H. Johnson i n The A l i e n V i s i o n o f V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y , a t e x t w h i c h i s l i s t e d i n h e r b i b l i o g r a p h y b u t s e e m i n g l y i g n o r e d i n h e r a n a l y s i s . I n c o n t r a s t , P i t t ' s Tennyson L a u r e a t e i s w r i t t e n i n open acknowledgement o f and d i r e c t r e s p o n s e t o h e r p r e d e c e s s o r s . She i n t e n d s t o r e s c u e Tennyson from " t h e g a r d e n s o f a p r i v a t e s e n s i b i l i t y " (x) sown by N i c o l s o n and l a t e r c u l t i v a t e d by many o t h e r s so t h a t t h e L a u r e a t e ' s p o e t r y can be e n j o y e d i n t h i s c e n t u r y as i t was i n t h e l a s t : i n f u l l , and by a l l c l a s s e s and v a r i e t i e s o f r e a d e r s — i n s h o r t , p o p u l a r l y . U n d e r l y i n g P i t t ' s a n a l y s i s i s a b e l i e f t h a t now seems a l m o s t a b s u r d t o r e a d e r s i n t h e l a t e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y : " p o e t r y i s , f u n d a m e n t a l l y , a p u b l i c n o t a p r i v a t e a r t " ( 2 5 0 ) . But u n l i k e many t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s c h o l a r s , P i t t g l a n c e s backward when r e a d i n g Tennyson, g l a n c e s t o an o s t e n s i b l y e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r h e t o r i c a l t r a d i t i o n r a t h e r t h a n , as C a r r and a h o s t o f o t h e r t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s have done, t o Tennyson as a Modern P o e t . She a n a l y s e s Tennyson's d u a l i t y as i n w a r d l y d r i v e n , o u t w a r d l y e x p r e s s i v e . N o n e t h e l e s s , f o r P i t t t h i s m a r r i a g e o f t h e p e r s o n a l and t h e s o c i a l was " i n c o n g r u o u s " and, u l t i m a t e l y , i n j u r i o u s t o Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n i n t h i s c e n t u r y . W h i l e P i t t ' s o v e r a l l i n t e n t i o n i s t o r e i n v e s t t h e p u b l i c o f f i c e o f L a u r e a t e w i t h p o e t i c v a l u e , h e r f i n a l " E v a l u a t i o n " c h a p t e r r e v e a l s t h a t , even f o r h e r , Tennyson's l a c k o f p o e t i c v i t a l i t y — a p r i v a t e l y c h a r g e d e m o t i v e e n e r g y — m i l i t a t e s a g a i n s t i t s c o m p l e t e a c c e p t a n c e . Thus, she and p r e s u m a b l y o t h e r t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s come away w i t h "a sense o f p o t e n t i a l i t y w h i c h r e m a i n s i n much, though n o t a l l , o f h i s work, o n l y h a l f f u l f i l l e d " ( 2 4 7 ) . The "two Tennysons" l e g e n d p r e v a i l s even h e r e i n Tennyson L a u r e a t e , o n l y i n t h i s c a s e from t h e p e r s p e c t i v e o f t h e V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e ' s p u b l i c demands r a t h e r t h a n , as w i t h p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d s c h o l a r s , d e r i v e d from t h e p o e t ' s own p e r s o n a l m o r b i d i t y . To h e r c r e d i t , P i t t ' s f o c u s on t h e h e t e r o g e n e i t y o f Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e , and t h e p o e t ' s e q u a l l y v a r i o u s r e s p o n s e s t o i t , r e c o n s i d e r a complex r e l a t i o n s h i p t h a t had p r e v i o u s l y been t o o r e a d i l y d i s m i s s e d a l o n g t h e m o d e r n i s t r e a c t i o n a r y l i n e s e s t a b l i s h e d by L y t t o n S t r a c h e y ' s Eminent V i c t o r i a n s . 2 4 The V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e ' s "monumental 2 4 Of t h e s e c o n d a r y s o c i a l h i s t o r i e s upon w h i c h P i t t based h e r u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d , o n l y J.H. B u c k l e y ' s The V i c t o r i a n Temper (1951) would have d e a l t w i t h complacency," "moral s t a g n a t i o n , " " s e l f - c o n g r a t u l a t i o n , " and " s e l f - d e c e p t i o n " assumed by S t r a c h e y ( P i t t 248) P i t t e f f e c t i v e l y d e m o n s t r a t e s as s i m p l i s t i c . I n so d o i n g , she r e c a s t s Tennyson as a p u b l i c p o e t i n ways t h a t s u g g e s t t h a t t h e L a u r e a t e d i d f a r more t h a n m e r e l y pander t o t h e s u p p o s e d l y homogenous demands o f t h e s e l f - s a t i s f i e d m i d d l e c l a s s e s . P i t t b e g i n s w i t h an i n t r o d u c t o r y c h a p t e r , "The S t a t u s o f Tennyson i n C r i t i c i s m , " t h a t c l e a r l y a r t i c u l a t e s t h e p r i v a t e t r e a t m e n t t o w h i c h Tennyson has been s u b j e c t i n t h i s c e n t u r y : "Tennyson i s supposed t o be e s c a p i n g t h e t e r r o r s and c o n f l i c t s o f a s e n s i t i v e temperament, and t h e r e s p o n s i b i l i t y o f h i s own i n s i g h t , by r u n n i n g i n t o t h e s h e l t e r o f s t a n d a r d V i c t o r i a n m o r a l i t y . T h i s v i e w o f h i s L a u r e a t e s h i p i s as much a r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t t h e V i c t o r i a n s as a g a i n s t Tennyson" ( 1 2 ) . To c o u n t e r t h i s v i e w , i n l a t e r c h a p t e r s she p u t s f o r t h e s s e n t i a l l y two r e l a t e d arguments: 1) t h a t Tennyson was n e v e r an e s c a p i s t i n e i t h e r h i s p r i v a t e l i f e o r h i s p u b l i c work, b u t r a t h e r m a r r i e d t h e p e r s o n a l w i t h t h e i m p e r s o n a l so as t o p r o d u c e a p o e t r y o f s o c i a l d u t y t h a t v i e s w i t h t h e b e s t o f Wordsworth's i n i t s a b i l i t y t o communicate " t h e m o r a l o f man's r e l a t i o n s h i p t o man i n n a t u r e and t h e common s o c i a l o r d e r " ( 6 5 ) ; and 2) t h a t Tennyson i n a s u b s t a n t i a l way. C u r i o u s l y , P i t t does not l i s t Houghton's The V i c t o r i a n Frame o f Mind (1957) i n h e r b i b l i o g r a p h y even though Houghton's work has assumed a l m o s t c a n o n i c a l s t a t u s among V i c t o r i a n s c h o l a r s , and many o f t h e c o n c l u s i o n s she makes o f Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e , p a r t i c u l a r l y i n terms o f i t s s e v e r a l a n x i e t i e s , a g r e e w i t h Houghton's c h a p t e r on " A n x i e t y " ( 5 4 - 8 9 ) . V i c t o r i a n m o r a l i t y a f f o r d e d no such s h e l t e r t o escape t o i n any c a s e s i n c e i t was n o t s t a b l e b u t , i n f a c t , c o n s t a n t l y c h a n g i n g t o a c c o u n t f o r a " c r u m b l i n g w o r l d " (a r e c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f V i c t o r i a n i s m w h i c h has s i n c e become a c c e p t e d by t h o s e s c h o l a r s who see Tennyson as a V i c t o r i a n p r e c i s e l y because o f h i s awareness o f t h e f r a c t u r e d w o r l d i n w h i c h he l i v e d ) . P i t t s e e s Tennyson's achievement i n t h e 1830s and 1840s as r e l a t e d t o h i s s k i l f u l use o f p o e t i c symbols, E l i o t ' s " o b j e c t i v e c o r r e l a t i v e s , " t o e x p r e s s e m o t i o n a l and sensuous s t a t e s o f awareness t o w h i c h h i s a u d i e n c e would t h e n g i v e t h e i r a s s e n t ( 4 7 - 7 7 ) . T h i s t a l e n t c u l m i n a t e s i n I n Memoriam. where Tennyson u n i v e r s a l i z e s h i s p e r s o n a l l o s s t h r o u g h s t o c k symbols, common-place a n a l o g i e s t h a t i n v i t e d i v e r s e r e a d e r s i n t o a "knowledge o f h i s e x p e r i e n c e and h i s theme" ( 1 1 8 ) . D e s p i t e h e r i n s i g h t i n t o t h e e x p e c t a t i o n s Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e may have s h a r e d (though n o t u n i f o r m l y ) , P i t t n e v e r t h e l e s s seems t o e x p e c t from Tennyson a g i f t f o r s o c i a l r e a l i s m l i k e t h a t o f M r s , G a s k e l l t h a t P i t t h e r s e l f acknowledges "was n o t o n l y o u t s i d e t h e scope o f Tennyson's e x p e r i e n c e , b u t a l i e n t o h i s i m a g i n a t i o n " ( 1 2 9 ) . Because o f h e r e x p e c t a t i o n , she a r g u e s t h a t Tennyson's s e c l u s i o n (as a c h i l d a t Somersby and as an a d u l t a t F a r r i n g f o r d and A l d w o r t h ) l e f t him i g n o r a n t o f t h e volume o f s p e c i f i c s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l l e g i s l a t i o n s and t h e i r p r o f o u n d r a m i f i c a t i o n s t h a t a f f e c t e d h i s i n c r e a s i n g l y w i d e s p r e a d a u d i e n c e ( 1 5 1 - 2 ) . C o n s e q u e n t l y , she n e c e s s a r i l y v i e w s Tennyson's achievement as " l i m i t e d " even w h i l e she a d m i t s t h a t he a l o n e r e p r e s e n t e d t h e V i c t o r i a n age because " h i s r e s p o n s e t o t h e mood and c o l o u r o f t h e p e r i o d i s f u l l e r and more a l i v e t h a n any o t h e r c o n t e m p o r a r y p o e t " ( 1 5 2 ) . A c c o r d i n g t o P i t t , Tennyson's l i m i t a t i o n s as a s o c i a l r e a l i s t were as much a f a c t o r o f a u d i e n c e as t h e y were o f a u t h o r s h i p . I n t h e d e c i s i v e decades o f t h e t h i r t i e s and f o r t i e s , Tennyson a t t e m p t e d t o convey " t h e v a l u e o f t h e w o r l d i n a l l i t s a s p e c t s as c o n t r a s t e d w i t h t h e s o l i t a r y mind" ( 1 2 7 ) . P i t t a l l e g e s , however, t h a t t h i s " w o r l d " i t s e l f was l i m i t e d t o " t h e w o r l d o f i n t e l l i g e n t , c u l t u r e d V i c t o r i a n s o f t h e upper m i d d l e - c l a s s and n o t t h e s t r u g g l i n g e n e r g e t i c communities o f an i n f a n t i n d u s t r i a l s o c i e t y " (127) and, as s u c h , p r e s c r i b e d t h e b o u n d a r i e s o f Tennyson's p u b l i c awareness. As V a t e s , he would d i s r e g a r d t h e a p p a r e n t l y s u r f a c e r e a l i t i e s o f s o c i o - e c o n o m i c and p o l i t i c a l s t r u g g l e i n f a v o u r o f t h e deeper " r e a l i t i e s o f s p i r i t u a l and m o r a l l i f e " (149) t h a t p r e s u m a b l y p r e o c c u p i e d t h e u p p e r - m i d d l e c l a s s . L a t e r , P i t t s u g g e s t s t h a t Tennyson d e r i v e d h i s sense o f p u b l i c v o c a t i o n by r e s p o n d i n g t o a s e l e c t , a l b e i t h e t e r o g e n e o u s , i n n e r c i r c l e o f a c q u a i n t a n c e s who m i c r o c o s m i c a l l y r e p r e s e n t e d h i s l a r g e r p u b l i c : F.D. M a u r i c e , F i t z g e r a l d , C l o u g h , J o w e t t , Patmore, Ward, and (on i t s o u t e r edges) Henry S i d g w i c k (248-49). Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n compromise i s t h u s t h o u g h t t o m i r r o r t h a t o f h i s f r i e n d s : an outward, q u i e t a c c e p t a n c e o f i d e a l i s m and a b s o l u t e v a l u e s (249) even i n t h e f a c e o f i n n e r doubt, w e a r i n e s s , u n c e r t a i n t y and d i f f i c u l t y . F o r a c c o r d i n g t o P i t t , " t h e V i c t o r i a n s s h a r e d emotions when t h e y d i d n o t s h a r e i d e a s " ( 2 5 1 ) . Hence, because P i t t sees Tennyson as w o r k i n g from w i t h i n a s e c l u d e d e n v i r o n m e n t and f o r a l i m i t e d a u d i e n c e , she has t r o u b l e d e a l i n g w i t h Tennyson as a " p o p u l a r " p o e t , one who was a b l e — a s t h e p e o p l e ' s p o e t — t o t o u c h t h e h e a r t o f t h e masses. The p o p u l a r i t y o f I n Memoriam she wants t o a s c r i b e p a r t l y t o " l u c k " ( 1 1 6 ) . Tennyson's achievement as a p o p u l a r p o e t i s v i t i a t e d by h e r f i n a l c l a i m t h a t , i n h i s p o e t r y g e n e r a l l y , t h e " c o i n c i d e n c e o f h i s i n s i g h t s w i t h common symbols was a c c i d e n t a l , and on t h e whole t h e V i c t o r i a n p u b l i c m i s u n d e r s t o o d him" ( 2 6 9 ) . She adds, however, t h a t such m i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g was n o t Tennyson's f a u l t . Because h i s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e a t l a r g e i s p e r c e i v e d by h e r as h a v i n g l a c k e d commonly h e l d b e l i e f s , no p o e t c o u l d have hoped t o a s p i r e c o n s c i o u s l y t o p o p u l a r i t y on a mass s c a l e ( 2 6 7 - 8 ) . These c o n c l u s i o n s , however, seem t o b e l i e what P i t t m a i n t a i n s a t t h e o u t s e t , t h a t t h o s e p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d s t u d i e s , t o w h i c h Tennyson L a u r e a t e i s a r e a c t i o n , c a n n o t "deny t o him what he h e l d i n common w i t h h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , r e v e r e n c e f o r c h a s t i t y , and i t s i n t e l l e c t u a l c o u n t e r p a r t , i n t e g r i t y , an a f f e c t i o n f o r t h e d o m e s t i c c h a r i t i e s , a p a s s i o n a t e r e s p o n s e t o p h y s i c a l o r s p i r i t u a l c o u r a g e , and an i n t e n s e , i n s u l a r , and i r r i t a b l e a t t a c h m e n t t o t h e o r d e r and v a l u e s o f t h e s o c i e t y o f w h i c h he was a member" ( 1 2 ) . But i t s h o u l d be remembered 304 t h a t , f o r P i t t , t h i s contemporary a u d i e n c e was a narrow e l i t e r a t h e r t h a n t h e V i c t o r i a n p u b l i c as a whole. As s u c h , P i t t a l l o w s h e r s t u d y o f Tennyson's b a r d i c r o l e t o be o v e r d e t e r m i n e d by h e r t h e o r y t h a t Tennyson may have been t h e l a s t i n a t r a d i t i o n o f g r e a t e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r h e t o r i c a l p o e t s . Indeed, t h i s i s an e f f e c t i v e c o u n t e r t o t h e h i g h l y r o m a n t i c n o t i o n s o f p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d s c h o l a r s who see Tennyson engaged i n a m o d e r n i s t s t r u g g l e , b u t i t i s l e s s e f f e c t i v e as a s t u d y o f Tennyson as a man and as a p o e t l i v i n g and w o r k i n g w i t h i n a b r o a d l y - b a s e d V i c t o r i a n c u l t u r e t h a t d i d i n f a c t s h a r e t h e b e l i e f s t h a t she a c c o r d s o n l y t o a s e l e c t c l a s s . U l t i m a t e l y , h e r t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y p r e d i l e c t i o n s r e v e a l t h e m s e l v e s when she, t o o , l i k e t h o s e s c h o l a r s she has t r i e d t o combat, laments t h e t o n e o f " c u r i o u s i n n o c e n c e " t h a t , d e s p i t e c o n f l i c t s and m o r a l c h a l l e n g e s , dominates Tennyson's l i f e and work, and r e g r e t s t h a t t h e V i c t o r i a n p o e t had n e v e r t h e sense o f " t r a g i c g u i l t " t h a t makes Shakespeare's work t r u l y g r e a t (246) . P i t t ' s i n s i g h t s i n t o t h e n e c e s s a r y compromises demanded by V i c t o r i a n l i f e n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g , Tennyson L a u r e a t e i r o n i c a l l y does l i t t l e t o e r a s e t h e Tennyson l e g e n d from t h e h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s t h a t dominates t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y i m p r e s s i o n s o f t h e p o e t . I n m o n u m e n t a l i z i n g h i s f a t h e r as t h e V i c t o r i a n p o e t - p r i e s t - p r o p h e t i n t h e Memoir, H a l l a m Tennyson e s t a b l i s h e d a f o u n d a t i o n a l myth f o r t h e two Tennysons l e g e n d , a myth t h a t s c h o l a r s i n t h i s c e n t u r y have r e a l l y been u n a b l e t o d i m i n i s h o r r e p l a c e d e s p i t e i n o r d i n a t e e f f o r t s t o do so. S i r C h a r l e s ' s f i l l i n g i n o f t h e l a c u n a e o f h i s g r a n d f a t h e r ' s l i f e , i n an a t t e m p t t o d i m i n i s h t h e o v e r w e e n i n g p i e t y o f H a l l a m ' s V i c t o r i a n b i o g r a p h y , n o n e t h e l e s s has a l l o w e d i t s m y t h o l o g i z i n g o f women's r o l e s t o s t a n d u n c o r r e c t e d , t h e r e b y s u p p o r t i n g t h e m a t r i a r c h a l c a s t o f t h e Tennyson's l i f e and e n t r e n c h i n g t h e p o e t ' s supposed a l l e g i a n c e t o " t h e a n g e l i n t h e house." B i o g r a p h e r s such as N i c o l s o n and M a r t i n have sought t o r e p l a c e t h e p i o u s , p u b l i c p o r t r a i t drawn by t h e son w i t h Tennyson as t h e b r o o d i n g m y s t i c and n e u r o t i c . However, i n so d o i n g , t h e y have r e v e a l e d t h e i r own s u b j e c t i v e i m p u l s e s more t h a n o u t l i n e d t h e s p e c i f i c f e a t u r e s o f t h e i r o b j e c t o f s t u d y . L a s t l y , s c h o l a r s o f t h e p u b l i c Tennyson, i f t h e y examine t h e V i c t o r i a n i d e o l o g y t h a t Tennyson i s s a i d t o r e p r e s e n t — a s does P i t t — have come away d i s s a t i s f i e d w i t h t h e c u r i o u s d i s t a n c e t h a t seems t o have e x i s t e d between t h e p a s s i o n o f Tennyson's i n n e r l i f e and t h e outward e x p r e s s i o n o f b e l i e f t h a t marks h i s L a u r e a t e v e r s e . H a l l a m ' s m y t h i c A l f r e d L o r d Tennyson r e m a i n s u n t o p p l e d because each s c h o l a r , i n h i s o r h e r own way, w r i t e s i n r e a c t i o n t o Tennyson as H a l l a m ' s c r e a t i o n r a t h e r t h a n i n r e s p o n s e t o Tennyson as a p r o f e s s i o n a l p o e t w o r k i n g w i t h i n h i s own V i c t o r i a n c o n t e x t o f p e r s o n a l , p r o f e s s i o n a l , and s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l aims. An a n a l y s i s o f Tennyson as t h e p e o p l e ' s v o i c e o f V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d , i f i t i s t o do j u s t i c e t o t h e p o e t and n o t t o t h e myth, must examine t h e v a r i e t y o f f o r c e s t h a t p r o d u c e d changes i n h i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g as he worked t o w a r d 306 m a r r i a g e , q u i t e l i t e r a l l y h i s own and t h e wedding o f v o i c e s t h a t marks t h e p o p u l a r achievement o f I n Memoriam. T h i s p e r i o d i n Tennyson's development i s f i g u r a t i v e l y l a b e l l e d " a d o l e s c e n c e , " n o t l e a s t because o f t h e c h a n g i n g t e n o r o f Tennyson's " s c h o o l m i s s A l f r e d " v o i c e as he approaches manhood. 307 CHAPTER POUR TENNYSON AND THE ADOLESCENCE OF A VOICE . . . t h e p o e t l i t t l e u r g e d , But w i t h some p r e l u d e o f d i s p a r a g e m e n t , Read, mouthing o u t h i s h o l l o w oes and aes, Deep c h e s t e d m u s i c . . . . — T e n n y s o n ("The E p i c " 48-51) One o f t h e d i s a d v a n t a g e s i n w r i t i n g about V i c t o r i a n c u l t u r e w h i l e l i v i n g i n t h e l a t e - t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y i s t h a t t h e metaphors used t o d e s c r i b e e x p e r i e n c e a r e i r r e v o c a b l y c o l o u r e d by t h e p s y c h o - s e x u a l c o n n o t a t i o n s t h a t a r i s e o u t o f a p o s t - F r e u d i a n i d e o l o g y . Indeed, Tennyson s c h o l a r s h i p has been p r o f o u n d l y a f f e c t e d by t h e d e h i s t o r i c i z i n g t e n d e n c i e s o f p s y c h o l o g i c a l and, more r e c e n t l y , p s y c h o l i n g u i s t i c t h e o r i e s , w h i c h e i t h e r c o n f l a t e Tennyson's development as a p o e t w i t h h i s own p r i v a t e ego f o r m a t i o n , o r p o s i t a s e l f - d i v i d e d Tennyson as a n e c e s s a r y v i c t i m o f t h e d i s l o c a t i n g f o r c e s o f langauge f o r m a t i o n . N e i t h e r o f t h e s e a p p r o a c h e s p l a c e s Tennyson w i t h i n a h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t t h a t p r o d u c e d changes i n h i s s e l f - c o n s c i o u s development o f h i s p o e t i c v o i c e as an a r t i s t i c c o n s t r u c t . I n o t h e r words, he i s n o t seen as a p r o f e s s i o n a l p o e t . Y e t i f Tennyson's y o u t h f u l , " I mean t o be famous," i s g i v e n any c r e d e n c e w h a t s o e v e r , c l e a r l y t h e p o e t ' s awareness o f a u d i e n c e r e c e p t i o n as a d e t e r m i n i n g f e a t u r e i n t h e s u c c e s s f u l r e a l i z a t i o n o f t h i s dream must be t a k e n i n t o a c c o u n t when s t u d y i n g t h e m a t u r a t i o n o f Tennyson's p o e t i c 308 v o i c e p r i o r t o what Edgar Shannon r e f e r s t o as "The P i n n a c l e o f S u c c e s s , " t h e w i d e s p r e a d p o p u l a r i t y o f I n Memoriam. The n o t i o n o f a d i s t i n c t i v e p o e t i c v o i c e t h a t d e v e l o p s i n a s s o c i a t i o n w i t h Tennyson's m a t u r a t i o n as a p s y c h o - s e x u a l b e i n g s h o u l d n o t be m i s c o n s t r u e d as a t y p e o f F r e u d i a n d i s p l a c e m e n t o f p r i v a t e a n x i e t i e s . I n s t e a d , Tennyson's p o e t i c a d o l e s c e n c e s h o u l d be c o n s i d e r e d i n p u b l i c t e r m s , a d o l e s c e n c e b e i n g t h a t p e r i o d i n w h i c h t h e i n d i v i d u a l g r a d u a l l y works t o w a r d f u l l a d u l t a c c e p t a n c e as a member o f a s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l community. I n t h i s s t u d y , a d o l e s c e n c e i s u s e d m e t a p h o r i c a l l y — n o t b i o l o g i c a l l y , p s y c h o l o g i c a l l y o r even s o c i o l o g i c a l l y p e r s e — t o i n d i c a t e t h a t p e r i o d i n Tennyson's l i f e , r o u g h l y 1827-50, i n w h i c h he s t r u g g l e d t o c r e a t e a v o i c e t h a t w o u l d n o t o n l y echo h i s d i s t i n c t i v e i n d i v i d u a l i t y as a new p o e t w i t h i n t h e E n g l i s h l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n , b u t a l s o sound h i s a l l e g i a n c e t o t h e l a r g e r c u l t u r a l and s o c i a l p o l i t y o f B r i t a i n . That t h i s s t r u g g l e was f o r Tennyson, even as i t was f o r L o n g f e l l o w , f r a u g h t w i t h a f e m i n i n e - v e r s u s - m a s c u l i n e c o n t r o v e r s y , e n l a r g e n s t h e m e t a p h o r i c scope o f Tennyson's p o e t i c a d o l e s c e n c e . On i n n u m e r a b l e o c c a s i o n s t h r o u g h o u t t h e 160 y e a r s t h a t h i s poems have s t i r r e d a u d i e n c e s , Tennyson, l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , has been l a b e l l e d a " f e m i n i n e " p o e t . The meaning o f s u c h an a p p e l l a t i o n has been h i s t o r i c a l l y d e t e r m i n e d , r e f e r r i n g t o d i f f e r e n t t h i n g s a t d i f f e r e n t t i m e s . To h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , e s p e c i a l l y Edward B u l w e r - L y t t o n , i t d e r o g a t o r i l y s i g n a l l e d a 309 t e n d e n c y t o l y r i c a l e f f u s i o n , m e t r i c a l n i c e t i e s , and f a l s e e m o t i o n o r s e n t i m e n t a l i t y t h a t assumed even g r e a t e r prominence w i t h B u l w e r - L y t t o n ' s s a t i r e o f Tennyson i n c l u d e d i n h i s "The New Timon" (1846). Tennyson had been g r a n t e d a C i v i l L i s t P e n s i o n o f £200 i n 1845; t h i s " g i f t " r a n k l e d B u l w e r - L y t t o n t o s u c h an e x t e n t t h a t he used h i s "New Timon" t o c a s t doubt upon Tennyson's m a n l i n e s s : L e t S c h o o l - M i s s - A l f r e d v e n t h e r c h a s t e d e l i g h t On ' d a r l i n g l i t t l e rooms so warm and b r i g h t ! ' Chaunt, 'I'm aweary,' i n i n f e c t i o u s s t r a i n , And c a t c h h e r ' b l u e f l y s i n g i n g i ' t h e pane.' (pages 51-2) A l t h o u g h B u l w e r - L y t t o n ' s infamous " S c h o o l - M i s s - A l f r e d " j i b e , among o t h e r s , may have t r i g g e r e d a " t r i u m p h a n t v i n d i c a t i o n o f Tennyson" a t t h e t i m e , as M a r t i n c o n t e n d s ( 2 9 8 ) , i t l a b e l l e d Tennyson once and f o r a l l as a f e m i n i n e p o e t . Indeed, more generous r e a d e r s t h a n B u l w e r - L y t t o n , s u c h as W.J. Fox, had v e r y e a r l y d e t e c t e d i n Tennyson's p o e t r y a p r e f e r e n c e f o r f e m a l e s u b j e c t m a t t e r d e f i n e d by a K e a t s i a n r i c h n e s s o f imagery t h a t c o u l d l e a d t o a f f e c t a t i o n a l t h o u g h Fox d i d n o t n e c e s s a r i l y d e r i d e t h i s as " f e m i n i n e . " 1 W h i l e t h e 1 W. J . Fox's u n s i g n e d r e v i e w o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l a p p e a r e d i n t h e W e s t m i n s t e r Review, J a n u a r y 18 31 (see Jump 21- 3 3 ) . H i s e f f u s i v e p r a i s e o f Tennyson's a b i l i t y t o e n t e r c h a r a c t e r and mood, e s p e c i a l l y o f women, i s n o t e w o r t h y s i n c e i t c l e a r l y d e r i v e d from Fox's r a d i c a l p o l i t i c s y e t e s t a b l i s h e d a p r e c e d e n t i n T e n n y s o n i a n c r i t i c i s m t h a t c o n t i n u e d t h r o u g h o u t t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d . From Tennyson's f o c u s on women, Fox g e n e r a l i z e s : "Upon what l o v e i s , depends what woman i s , and upon what woman i s , depends what t h e w o r l d i s , b o t h i n t h e p r e s e n t and i n t h e f u t u r e . There i s n o t a g r e a t e r m o r a l n e c e s s i t y t h a n t h a t o f a r e f o r m a t i o n o f f e m a l e e d u c a t i o n " ( 3 0 ) . From h i s e a r l i e s t work t o h i s f i n a l Death o f Oenone, Tennyson worked w i t h i n t h i s m o r a l , s o c i a l i m p e r a t i v e ; and i t " f e m i n i n e " l a b e l would f o l l o w Tennyson t h r o u g h o u t h i s c a r e e r , s u c h l a b e l l i n g d i d l i t t l e t o damage Tennyson's p o p u l a r r e p u t a t i o n i n i t s e a r l y s t a g e s . By t h e 18 60s, however, w i t h t h e m o r a l o u t c r y s u r r o u n d i n g t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f Swinburne's Poems and B a l l a d s (18 6 6 ) , c r i t i c s began t o condemn, i n no u n c e r t a i n t e r m s , any s u g g e s t i o n s o f s e x u a l a m b i g u i t y i n t h e p o e t i c v o i c e s o f E n g l a n d ' s male p o e t s . A l f r e d A u s t i n ' s r e e v a l u a t i o n o f Tennyson as a " f e m i n i n e " p o e t p a r e x c e l l e n c e i n The Temple Bar (1869) , r e p r o d u c e d i n The P o e t r y o f t h e P e r i o d (1870 i n Jump 294-311), c r y s t a l l i z e d a c r i t i c a l r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t Tennyson's " f e m i n i n e " l u x u r i e s o f language and e m o t i o n t h a t had been b u i l d i n g f o r some t i m e , most n o t i c e a b l e p e r h a p s i n W a l t e r Bagehot's "Wordsworth, Tennyson, and B r o w n i n g ; o r , P u r e , O r n a t e , and G r o t e s q u e A r t i n E n g l i s h P o e t r y " (1864). I n a r e l a t e d way, R o b e r t Buchanan's e s s a y "The F l e s h l y S c h o o l o f P o e t r y " (1871) though aimed a t R o s s e t t i , l a b e l l e d Swinburne a p o e t i c h e r m a p h r o d i t e , and had c l e a r i m p l i c a t i o n s f o r any male p o e t "Who A f f e c t e d an E f f e m i n a t e Manner." The s p r e a d i n g homophobia o f t h e l a t e r decades o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y c o u l d o n l y s e r v e t o h e i g h t e n c r i t i c i s m o f Tennyson's " f e m i n i n e muse" ( A u s t i n ' s term) so t h a t by t h e 1920s Tennyson's b a r d i c v o i c e was c a t e g o r i c a l l y i s i n h i s f o c u s upon t h e v a l u e o f women i n s o c i e t y , t h a t Tennyson may be b e s t t h o u g h t o f as p r e e m i n e n t l y V i c t o r i a n . 311 denounced by N i c o l s o n as e m a s c u l a t e and, t h e r e f o r e , t o be e x c i s e d . 2 D e s p i t e changes i n t h e h o r i z o n o f gender e x p e c t a t i o n s imposed on male p o e t s , what r e m a i n s c o n s i s t e n t i n most c r i t i c s ' v i e w s o f Tennyson i s t h e f e m i n i n e l a b e l i t s e l f , i r r e s p e c t i v e o f t h e c o n n o t a t i o n s s u c h n o m e n c l a t u r e m i g h t c a r r y . A c c o r d i n g t o a m i d - t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s y m p a t h i z e r such as P i t t , " f e m i n i n e " d e s i g n a t e s s o m e t h i n g a t t h e h e a r t o f Tennyson's c r e a t i v e p r o c e s s , s o m e t h i n g n o t t o be d e n i g r a t e d b u t u n d e r s t o o d and a p p r e c i a t e d : " H i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f e x p e r i e n c e was s l o w i n f o r m i n g i t s e l f , moving n o t by t h e arrangement o f n e a t c o n c e p t u a l c o u n t e r s , b u t i n a l o n g o r g a n i c g r o w t h . H i s m e n t a l l i f e was, i f t h e d i s t i n c t i o n be a d m i t t e d , f e m i n i n e n o t m a s c u l i n e , c o n t e m p l a t i v e , n o t a c t i v e " ( 8 ) . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , P i t t n e v e r e x p l a i n s why an o r g a n i c , c o n t e m p l a t i v e mind s h o u l d be deemed " f e m i n i n e . " Moreover, o f t h o s e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s who do q u e s t i o n Tennyson's " f e m i n i n e " p o e t i c v o i c e few c o n s i d e r i t o u t s i d e o f t h e c o n t e x t 2 J e f f r e y Weeks's c h a p t e r on "The C o n s t r u c t i o n o f H o m o s e x u a l i t y " (96-121) e x p l a i n s how, p r i o r t o t h e 1870s, t h e g e n e r a l p u b l i c had no c l e a r c o n c e p t u a l i z a t i o n o f t h e s o c i a l t y p e , "homosexual," a l t h o u g h v a r i o u s laws and forms o f p e r s e c u t i o n s had e x i s t e d t o c o n t r o l "sodomy." I n t h e l a t t e r p a r t o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , however, l e g a l and m e d i c a l i n t e r e s t s a c c o r d w i t h a p u b l i c c o n c e r n f o r " s o c i a l p u r i t y , " and t h e r e g u l a t i o n o f s e x u a l i t y i n g e n e r a l , c r e a t i n g n o t o n l y o u t b u r s t s o f "moral p a n i c " s u c h as t h o s e f o l l o w i n g t h e W i l d e t r i a l s , b u t " d e f i n i t e n e s s and s e l f - c o n s c i o u s n e s s t o t h e m a n i f e s t a t i o n s o f h o m o s e x u a l i t y " ( H a v e l o c k E l l i s q t d 1 0 3 ) ; i n o t h e r words, t h e homosexual, as a s o c i a l c o n s t r u c t , came i n t o b e i n g a t t h i s t i m e . 312 o f t h e p o e t ' s own s e x u a l d e t e r m i n a t i o n . C o n s e q u e n t l y , p r e s e n t c r i t i c a l d i s c u s s i o n s o f Tennyson's f e m a l e muse o f t e n i m p l i c i t l y o r e x p l i c i t l y i n v o l v e t h e s t a n d a r d b i o g r a p h i c a l d e b a t e c o n c e r n i n g t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h Tennyson may o r may n o t have engaged i n homosexual a c t i v i t i e s w i t h H a l l a m , even as i t d i d i n t h e 1830s f o l l o w i n g t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f "O D a r l i n g Room" (1832) and, more m a r k e d l y l a t e r , f o l l o w i n g t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f I n Memoriam. 3 That i s , Tennyson's v o i c e has seldom been 3 V a r i o u s c r i t i c s have t r i e d t o answer d i r e c t l y t h e q u e s t i o n R i c k s posed t o h i m s e l f and h i s r e a d e r s i n 1972: " I s Tennyson's l o v e f o r H a l l a m a homosexual l o v e " (215)? R i c k s ' s answer i s "no," and he t r i e s " t o say why" (216) by c i t i n g b i o g r a p h i c a l e v i d e n c e o f Tennyson's l a c k o f a n x i e t y c o n c e r n i n g h i s s e x u a l i t y . I n h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o The L e t t e r s o f A r t h u r Henry H a l l a m , J a c k K o l b c o n f i d e n t l y a s s e r t s t h a t t h e q u e s t i o n o f Tennyson's and H a l l a m ' s f r i e n d s h i p as homosexual i s p u t " f i n a l l y t o r e s t " by H a l l a m ' s l e t t e r s ( 1 7 ) . However, K o l b ' s a s s e r t i o n has been i g n o r e d by s e v e r a l s c h o l a r s i n t h e 1980s. U s i n g J e f f r e y Weeks's s o c i o l o g i c a l c l a s s i f i c a t i o n s o f homosexual e x p e r i e n c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , A l a n S i n f i e l d , . f o r example, d e f i n e s Tennyson's r e l a t i o n t o H a l l a m as " t h e h i g h l y i n d i v i d u a l i z e d , t h e d e e p l y e m o t i o n a l , sometimes even s e x u a l , r e l a t i o n between two i n d i v i d u a l s who a r e o t h e r w i s e n o t r e g a r d e d , o r do n o t r e g a r d t h e m s e l v e s , as ' d e v i a n t ' " (Weeks q t d . S i n f i e l d 131). S i n f i e l d f u r t h e r e x p l a i n s t h e s e x u a l s i t e o f s t r u g g l e i n Tennyson's l i f e and p o e t r y w i t h i n i t s " c h a n g i n g c l a s s and power r e l a t i o n s " (13 2 ) . T a k i n g a d e c o n s t r u c t i v i s t a p p r o a c h t o I n Memoriam, C h r i s t o p h e r C r a f t a r g u e s t h a t " R i c k s ' e x t e n d e d 'defense (so t o speak) o f Tennyson' a g a i n s t i m p u t a t i o n s o f h o m o s e x u a l i t y r e m a i n s s y m p a t h e t i c t o c e r t a i n T e n n y s o n i a n n o t i o n s o f an o r d e r l y and c o n v e n t i o n a l androgyny . . . " ( 8 7 ) , an androgyny w h i c h C r a f t s e e s i n I n Memoriam as f r a u g h t w i t h a n x i e t i e s o f gender i n v e r s i o n t h a t c r e a t e a m b i v a l e n c e a t t h e l e v e l o f t h e s i g n i f i e r and e n s u r e " t h e i n t r a c t a b l e c i r c u l a t i o n o f male homosexual d e s i r e " (94) i n t h e poem. H a l l a m ' s d e a t h e n s u r e d t h a t homosexual " t o u c h i n g " c o u l d r e m a i n "always a l r e a d y . . . e x i l e d t o a r e a l m beyond t o u c h " ( 9 8 ) , and t h e r e f o r e beyond r e a l i z a t i o n though n o t n e c e s s a r i l y beyond d e s i r e . Most r e c e n t l y , R i c h a r d D e l l a m o r a l o o k s a t M a s c u l i n e D e s i r e from t h e p e r s p e c t i v e o f t h e s e x u a l p o l i t i c s o f V i c t o r i a n a e s t h e t i c i s m . I n h i s c h a p t e r on Tennyson, he comes c l o s e s t t o a p p r e c i a t i n g Tennyson's ambiguous s e x u a l v o i c i n g n o t as e v i d e n c e o f t h e 313 t h o u g h t o f as a p r o d u c t o f d e s i g n r a t h e r t h a n as a b i o l o g i c a l o r p s y c h o l o g i c a l a c c i d e n t . What needs t o be examined i s Tennyson's awareness o f s o - c a l l e d e f f e m i n a c y as an a e s t h e t i c c o n s t r u c t d e s i g n e d t o engage t h e p r i v a t e s y m p a t h i e s o f an i n c r e a s i n g l y l a r g e f e m a l e r e a d e r s h i p y e t w i t h i n a c o n t e x t t h a t would appease t h e p u b l i c demands o f h i s male c r i t i c s . I n t h i s way, Tennyson's p r i v a t e - p u b l i c , female-male c o n f l i c t p a r a l l e l s L o n g f e l l o w ' s s t r u g g l e t o meet t h e demands o f h i s own n a t i o n ' s i n c r e a s i n g l y m a s c u l i n i s t c r i t i c s w h i l e s t i l l a p p e a l i n g t o t h e f e m i n i n e s y m p a t h i e s o f h i s g e n e r a l p u b l i c . Such a p a r a l l e l , however, i s i n Tennyson's c a s e f u r t h e r c o m p l i c a t e d by s o c i o - economic s t r i c t u r e s g o v e r n i n g t h e i n t e r a c t i o n o f men and women, making c l a s s an a d d i t i o n a l l y i m p o r t a n t f e a t u r e g o v e r n i n g t h e development o f Tennyson as t h e p o e t i c v o i c e o f V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d . I n i t i a l l y , t h e p i v o t a l f o r c e i n t h e s t r u g g l e t o c r e a t e Tennyson's p o e t i c v o i c e was n o t t h e p o e t h i m s e l f b u t r a t h e r A r t h u r Henry H a l l a m . A f t e r moving t o Cambridge i n 1827, Tennyson t h e p o e t saw h i s a u d i e n c e broaden from f a m i l y and p o e t ' s h o m o s e x u a l i t y ( c l o s e t o r o t h e r w i s e ) , b u t r a t h e r w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f c o n s t r u c t e d a e s t h e t i c s : Tennyson's own as w e l l as t h o s e o f s e v e r a l A p o s t l e s , some o f whom were known homosexuals (16-3 0 ) . D e l l a m o r a ' s f u r t h e r c o n c e p t i o n o f two d i s t i n c t s e t s o f r e a d e r s o f I n Memoriam seems t o f o l l o w P i t t ' s r e a l i z a t i o n o f t h e p o e t ' s i n n e r and o u t e r c i r c l e s o f r e a d e r s h i p , w h i l e h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f Tennyson's gender c o n s t r u c t i o n i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e s e a u d i e n c e s i s u n i q u e a l t h o u g h u n f o r t u n a t e l y b r i e f (3 5- 40) . The e n t i c i n g power o f Tennyson's androgynous v o i c e makes i t u n l i k e l y t h a t t h e i s s u e o f t h e p o e t ' s p o t e n t i a l h o m o s e x u a l i t y w i l l e v e r t r u l y be p u t t o r e s t . 314 i n t i m a t e f r i e n d s t o Cambridge dons and s c h o l a r s , d i r e c t e d i n t h i s by t h e l e a d e r s h i p r o l e p l a y e d by t h e A p o s t l e s d e b a t i n g s o c i e t y . Tennyson, t h e man, a l s o d e v e l o p e d t h e most p r o f o u n d <- e m o t i o n a l a t t a c h m e n t o f h i s l i f e : t h e l o v e and c o m p a n i o n s h i p — s h o r t - l i v e d as i t w a s — o f f e l l o w A p o s t l e , A r t h u r H a l l a m . H a l l a m was t o be f o r Tennyson a b r i d g e between t h e p u b l i c p o e t and t h e p r i v a t e man; t h e c e n t r a l i t y o f t h e i r f r i e n d s h i p i n t h e i n i t i a l development o f Tennyson as t h e " p e o p l e ' s v o i c e " o f V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d c a n n o t be o v e r s t r e s s e d . I n h i s i n t e r e s t i n immediate Romantic p r e c u r s o r s , H a l l a m showed Tennyson how h i s own c l a s s i c a l e r u d i t i o n g l e a n e d from t h e p r i v a t e l i b r a r y o f t h e Somersby R e c t o r y c o u l d r e i n s c r i b e i t s e l f w i t h i n a c o n t e m p o r a r y p o l i t i c a l and s p i r i t u a l c o n t e x t . He t h u s s u g g e s t e d t o Tennyson h i s p l a c e w i t h i n a l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n , e x t e n d i n g i n t o t h e p r e s e n t t h r o u g h t h e i n c l u s i o n o f K e a t s and S h e l l e y . He a l s o gave Tennyson p r a c t i c a l a i d i n r e s p o n s e t o T r e n c h ' s A p o s t o l i c i n j u n c t i o n : "Tennyson, we c a n n o t l i v e i n A r t . " By t a k i n g on an a g e n t ' s r o l e i n t h e e a r l y 1830s, he e n s u r e d t h a t Tennyson was p u b l i s h e d and promoted. He showed t h e p o e t how t o make p r i v a t e s u f f e r i n g a p u b l i c v i r t u e . W h i l e a l i v e , he c h a n n e l l e d Tennyson's p o e t i c v o i c e ; once dead, he f o r c e d Tennyson t o do t h i s f o r h i m s e l f . H a l l a m ' s r o l e i n Tennyson's c a r e e r , however, needs t o be seen w i t h i n a l a r g e r c o n t e x t : t h e f r i e n d l y i n t e l l e c t u a l and p r o f e s s i o n a l s u p p o r t t h a t Tennyson and H a l l a m b o t h b e n e f i t t e d from when, i n 1829, t h e y j o i n e d t h e Cambridge C o n v e r s a z i o n e 315 S o c i e t y more commonly known as t h e A p o s t l e s . The i m p o r t a n c e o f t h i s s o c i e t y i n t h e development o f Tennyson's c r e a t i v e temperament has r a r e l y gone u n n o t i c e d by h i s s e v e r a l b i o g r a p h e r s . S i n c e N i c o l s o n ' s damning p o r t r a i t o f t h e group, however, i t s e f f e c t s have u s u a l l y been t h o u g h t o f as d e l e t e r i o u s , t o g r e a t e r o r l e s s e r d e g r e e s d e p e n d i n g on how t e n a c i o u s l y t h e s c h o l a r i n q u e s t i o n c l i n g s t o Tennyson's " g e n i u s " as e s s e n t i a l l y p r i v a t e . Tennyson i s t h o u g h t t o have a c q u i r e d h i s sense o f p u b l i c o r s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y a t t h i s t i m e a l m o s t as i f i t were f o r c e d upon him as an i n e l u c t a b l e d e s t i n y . And t h e A p o s t l e s were t o blame, o r so t h e s t o r y goes. As P e t e r A l l e n i n h i s h i s t o r y o f The Cambridge A p o s t l e s a r g u e s , F.D. M a u r i c e — n o t j u s t t h e man b u t h i s p r e s e n c e — r e i g n e d o v e r t h e A p o s t l e s , p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t h e 1820s and 30s. L e a d e r o f a s e l f - s t y l e d subgroup o f A p o s t l e s known as " m y s t i c s , " M a u r i c e e s t a b l i s h e d a s p i r i t u a l , q u a s i - p h i l o s o p h i c a l b a s i s f o r t h e i r i d e n t i t y as a g r o u p . 4 S e l f - I n t h e l a t e 182 0s, t h e m y s t i c s c o n s i s t e d o f M a u r i c e , John S t e r l i n g , John Kemble, W i l l i a m Donne, R i c h a r d T r e n c h , and J o s e p h B l a k e s l e y . A l l e n c l a i m s t h a t M a u r i c e ' s b e l i e f s d e r i v e d from h i s f a m i l y ' s U n i t a r i a n i s m and p o l i t i c a l l i b e r a l i s m f r a u g h t w i t h i n t e r n e c i n e b a t t l e s w i t h h i s s i s t e r s o v e r E v a n g e l i c a l i s m ' s p r o m o t i o n o f a p e r s o n a l God ( 5 6 - 7 2 ) . The p h i l o s o p h i c a l i d e a l i s m w h i c h M a u r i c e e v e n t u a l l y r e a c h e d was a t y p e o f compromise: " H i s f a m i l y ' s p o l i t i c a l l i b e r a l i s m , w i t h w h i c h he had a l w a y s been i n sympathy, demanded commitment t o s o c i a l r e f o r m . H i s s i s t e r s ' and mother's r e l i g i o u s z e a l , w h i c h he c o u l d n o t i g n o r e , demanded t h e p u r s u i t o f p e r s o n a l s a l v a t i o n and c o n c e r n f o r t h e s o u l s o f o t h e r s . By i d e n t i f y i n g t h e s o u l o r e s s e n t i a l s e l f w i t h C o l e r i d g e ' s ' r e a s o n ' , M a u r i c e f o u n d i n p h i l o s o p h i c a l i d e a l i s m an a l l y , p e r h a p s a r e p l a c e m e n t , f o r e v a n g e l i c a l f a i t h " (79) . The C a l v i n i s t - 316 s c r u t i n y became a t e s t o f " r e l i g i o u s " f a i t h , w i t h l i b e r a l a c c e p t a n c e o f one a n o t h e r ' s v i e w s seldom v i o l a t e d ( 7 1 - 5 ) . A l l e n r e f e r s t o s e v e r a l t e n e t s o f " A p o s t o l i c T h e o l o g y " : a s t r o n g , a n t i - B e n t h a m i t e o b j e c t i o n t o m a t e r i a l i s m ; b e l i e f i n man's i n n a t e e x p e r i e n c e o f God; s t r u g g l e f o r s e l f - k n o w l e d g e ; an a p p a r e n t d i s r e g a r d f o r s o c i a l r e f o r m s i n c e i t d e a l t m e r e l y w i t h " m a t e r i a l " p r o b l e m s ; and t h e p r o m o t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e as a v e h i c l e f o r s p i r i t u a l and t h e r e f o r e s o c i a l s a l v a t i o n (see esp. 7 5 - 8 6 ) . 5 The a s s u r a n c e w i t h w h i c h v a r i o u s members h e l d and i n s p i r e d f a i t h o f M a u r i c e ' s s i s t e r s was a common r e a c t i o n a r y r e s p o n s e t o g r o w i n g r e l i g i o u s t o l e r a n c e and o u t r i g h t d i s s e n t i n t h e e a r l y 1800s. Tennyson was made d i r e c t l y aware o f t h i s r e l i g i o u s r e a c t i o n a r i s m t h r o u g h t h e r i g i d C a l v i n i s m o f h i s aunt Mary Bourne, w h i c h she r e p e a t e d l y i n f l i c t e d upon t h e "damned" Tennyson c h i l d r e n (Memoir 12-13). Tennyson's r e l i g i o u s t o l e r a n c e seems t o have d e v e l o p e d g r a d u a l l y , l i k e M a u r i c e ' s , o u t o f f a m i l y c i r c u m s t a n c e s p r i o r t o Cambridge r a t h e r t h a n h a v i n g been t a k e n on t h e r e a f t e r as an A p o s t o l i c c r e e d . B o t h M a u r i c e and Tennyson c o n t r a s t s h a r p l y w i t h L o n g f e l l o w who, as a U n i t a r i a n i n a f a r more l i b e r a l A m e r i c a , n e v e r had t o q u e s t i o n t h e l i b e r a l i s m o f h i s r e l i g i o u s f a i t h . T h e r e f o r e , r e l i g i o u s s t r u g g l e s — a n d t h e v a r i o u s t e n s i o n s and a m b i g u i t i e s t h a t c o m p r o m i s e - s o l u t i o n s c o u l d g i v e r i s e t o — a r e v i r t u a l l y a b s e n t from L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y , o f t e n making i t l e s s i n t e r e s t i n g t h a n Tennyson's t o modern and post-modern r e a d e r s . 5 These e s s e n t i a l l y s p i r i t u a l b e l i e f s o f t h e 1820s had some p e r h a p s u n e x p e c t e d e x p e r i e n t i a l consequences i n t h e 183 0s. D e l l a m o r a a l l e g e s t h a t t h e i n t i m a c y o f t h e group, t h e members' f e e l i n g s o f s h a r e d m o r a l s u p e r i o r i t y t h a t a b s e n t e d them from t h e p r e s c r i p t i o n s and p r o s c r i p t i o n s o f s o c i e t y , and t h e l i b e r a l a c c e p t a n c e o f a wide range o f v i e w s may a c t u a l l y have f o s t e r e d an i n t e l l e c t u a l and e m o t i o n a l v e n t u r i n g t h a t i n c l u d e d s e x u a l n o n c o n f o r m i t y f o r such members as A r t h u r B u l l e r , R i c h a r d Monckton M i l n e s , James S p e d d i n g , Henry L u s h i n g t o n , and George V e n a b l e s a l l o f whom were f r i e n d s o f H a l l a m and Tennyson, some more than, o t h e r s ( 1 9 - 2 8 ) . H a l l a m ' s b r i e f f r i e n d s h i p w i t h M i l n e s i n 1829 and H a l l a m ' s own w r i t i n g s o f t h e p e r i o d i n d i c a t e t h a t b o t h "Tennyson and H a l l a m were w e l l aware t h a t sex o c c u r s between men" (see 24-30). 317 espoused t h e s e b e l i e f s u n d o u b t e d l y l e f t t h e S o c i e t y open t o c h a r g e s o f e l i t i s m — c h a r g e s w h i c h members u s u a l l y d i d l i t t l e t o d i s p e l and may a c t u a l l y have encouraged. A l l e n , though c r i t i c a l , n o n e t h e l e s s l i n k s t h e A p o s t l e s ' e l i t i s m t o t h e i r m y s t i c a l adherence t o C o l e r i d g e ' s t h e o r i e s o f noumenal as opposed t o phenomenal e x i s t e n c e ( 8 1 ) . I n 1828, M a u r i c e had a r g u e d t h a t t r u e s o c i a l r e f o r m e r s were t h o s e who "though i n t h e age, a r e n o t o f i t , who p a r t a k e n o t o f i t s s p i r i t , w o r s h i p n o t i t s i d o l s , b u t who have p r o p o s e d t o t h e m s e l v e s a more s u b l i m e i d e a o f i n t e l l e c t u a l e x c e l l e n c e and m o r a l p u r i t y t h a n any i t w i l l s u p p l y them w i t h . . . ." S o c i a l r e f o r m e r s were t o l i f t up t h e minds o f t h o s e below them t o t h e i r same e x a l t e d s t a n d a r d ( q t d . 8 1 ) . To t h i s end, M a u r i c e used t h e p r i n t e d word as a form o f s p i r i t u a l e d u c a t i o n . The A p o s t l e s ' " m y s t i c a l " i d e a s were promoted i n two magazines w h i c h he and John S t e r l i n g owned and e d i t e d i n 1828-9: t h e L i t e r a r y C h r o n i c l e and t h e Athenaeum ( 7 5 - 6 ) . I n t h e c o n f u s e d y e a r s j u s t b e f o r e t h e passage o f t h e f i r s t Reform B i l l , S t e r l i n g summed up t h e r e a s o n s f o r h i s " m y s t i c " f a i t h i n s p i r i t u a l r e f o r m v i a e d u c a t i o n o v e r t h e s o c i a l o r p o l i t i c a l r e f o r m demanded a t t h e t i m e . He a r g u e s t h a t a "change o f i n s t i t u t i o n s i s n e c e s s a r y ; and t h i s change c a n n o t t a k e p l a c e w i t h o u t an a l t e r a t i o n i n t h e mind o f t h e c o u n t r y . To t h i s r e f o r m o f t h o u g h t and f e e l i n g , i t i s n o t l i k e l y t h a t E n g l a n d w i l l a r r i v e , u n t i l she has been t a u g h t by much s o r r o w , been d i s c i p l i n e d i n t o wisdom by s u f f e r i n g , and l e a r n t t o l i s t e n t o 318 t h e v o i c e s o f t e a c h e r s , o f such men as Wordsworth and C o l e r i d g e " ( q t d . 8 0 ) . I n 1827, Tennyson a p p e a r s t o have had much t o l e a r n h i m s e l f i f he were e v e r t o f u l f i l t h e m i s s i o n t h a t t h e " m y s t i c s " d e t e r m i n e d f o r t h e p o e t i c v o i c e . D e s p i t e t h e A p o s t l e s ' e n t h u s i a s t i c s u p p o r t f o r Tennyson i n t h e 1830s and 40s as t h e i r p o e t - p r o p h e t ( e v i d e n t t h r o u g h o u t t h e i r p e r s o n a l c o r r e s p o n d e n c e ) , Tennyson n e v e r d i d a c t u a l l y assume t h e r o l e o f p o e t as e d u c a t o r , a t l e a s t n o t i n t h e way t h a t S t e r l i n g d e s c r i b e s i t . Shannon r e m a r k s , w i t h some o b v i o u s p u z z l e m e n t , t h a t e x c e p t f o r "The P a l a c e o f A r t " and "Oenone," " t h e poems o f 1833, t h e f r u i t o f t h e Cambridge p e r i o d , a r e s t r a n g e l y l a c k i n g i n t r a c e s o f t h e A p o s t l e s ' c r e e d " ( 5 0 ) . T h i s may be because Tennyson n e v e r r e a l l y was as a r d e n t an A p o s t l e as most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s and b i o g r a p h e r s have t r i e d t o make him o u t t o be. H a l l a m was t h e t r u e A p o s t l e . When Tennyson f i r s t a r r i v e d a t Cambridge, he seems t o have k e p t t o h i m s e l f , s o c i a l i z i n g p r i m a r i l y w i t h o n l y h i s b r o t h e r s . As A l l e n r e m a r k s , t h e " t h r e e Tennyson b r o t h e r s - F r e d e r i c k , C h a r l e s and A l f r e d - were n o t a b l e o d d i t i e s i n t h e u n d e r g r a d u a t e w o r l d , b o t h f o r t h e i r b e h a v i o u r and t h e i r r e p u t a t i o n as p o e t s " (13 3 ) . A c c e p t a n c e i n t o u n d e r g r a d u a t e l i f e a t Cambridge, f o r A l f r e d , was f r u s t r a t e d by an u n w i l l i n g n e s s , p e r h a p s even an i n a b i l i t y t o e x p r e s s h i m s e l f i n p r o s e . I n t h i s way, he d i f f e r s m a r k e d l y from L o n g f e l l o w who d e l i b e r a t e l y v o i c e d h i s p o e t i c c r e d o s t h r o u g h o u t h i s c o l l e g e y e a r s i n s e v e r a l p r o s e e s s a y s and f i c t i o n d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r two. But Tennyson i s perhaps u n i q u e as a p o e t i n t h a t " [ w ] r i t i n g p r o s e was u n p l e a s a n t t o him, and he spoke f o r t h e most p a r t i n s u c c i n c t , i s o l a t e d r a t h e r awkwardly p h r a s e d s e n t e n c e s . I n r e f r e s h i n g c o n t r a s t t o t h e s m o o t h l y p r o f i c i e n t r h e t o r i c and easy, w i t a c h i e v e d by so many o f t h e A p o s t l e s , Tennyson's c o n v e r s a t i o n was a l m o s t c h i l d l i k e i n i t s d i r e c t n e s s , u n p r e t e n t i o u s n e s s , and s i m p l e d e l i g h t i n humour" ( A l l e n 133). I n c o n t r a d i s t i n c t i o n , H a l l a m was w i d e l y known a t Cambridge f o r h i s s k i l f u l o r a t o r y . The p a p e r s t h a t he p r e s e n t e d t o t h e A p o s t l e s s p e c i f i c a l l y c o n c e r n r e c e p t i o n as a r h e t o r i c a l p r i n c i p l e , e x a m i n i n g t h e a f f e c t i v e means by w h i c h p e o p l e d e v e l o p m o r a l (hence r e l i g i o u s ) s e n t i m e n t . 6 I n h i s v a l o r i z a t i o n o f human s y m p a t h y — o r l o v e — a s a b a s i s f o r m o r a l i t y , H a l l a m ' s b e l i e f s echo S h e l l e y ' s c o n c e p t o f f r e e l o v e . Y e t , i n h i s e s s a y "On C i c e r o " H a l l a m , u n l i k e S h e l l e y , u l t i m a t e l y e n d o r s e s t h e " C h r i s t i a n f a i t h [as] t h e n e c e s s a r y complement o f a sound e t h i c a l system" ( q t d . i n A l l e n 157), and t h u s appends a r e l i g i o u s l y c o n s e r v a t i v e c o n c l u s i o n t o a 6 The e s s a y s i n q u e s t i o n a r e 1. a n e g a t i v e r e s p o n s e t o t h e q u e s t i o n " I s t h e e x i s t e n c e o f an i n t e l l i g e n t f i r s t Cause d e d u c i b l e from t h e phenomena o f t h e U n i v e r s e ? " (Dec 1829) 2. "On Sympathy" (Dec 1830) 3. "On C i c e r o " (May 1831). They a r e d i s c u s s e d by A l l e n as p a r t o f a d e v e l o p i n g t h e o r y t h a t H a l l a m e x p r e s s e d p o e t i c a l l y as " t h e p u r e atmosphere o f F e e l i n g " t o c o u n t e r i n t e l l e c t u a l and r e l i g i o u s doubt. Tennyson's " ' I c a n n o t u n d e r s t a n d : I l o v e . ' " ( I n Memoriam XCVII 36) seems t o d e r i v e from a s i m i l a r b e l i e f i n f e e l i n g as a w e l l s p r i n g o f m o r a l i t y . p o t e n t i a l l y r a d i c a l t h e o r y . N o n e t h e l e s s , " f e e l i n g " r e m a i n s t h e g u i d i n g f o r c e i n H a l l a m ' s e p i s t e m o l o g y . I t a p p e a r s i n subsequent work: h i s pamphlet on Dante, where t h e "work o f i n t e l l e c t " i s s a i d t o be " p o s t e r i o r t o t h e work o f f e e l i n g , " and a l a t e r e s s a y i n w h i c h l o v e i s " a t once t h e base and p y r a m i d i c a l p o i n t o f t h e e n t i r e u n i v e r s e " ( q t d . 157). I n t h i s p e r i o d o f p e r s o n a l and p u b l i c q u e s t i o n i n g o f t h e r e l e v a n c e o f r e l i g i o u s d o c t r i n e , H a l l a m a n c h o r s h i s f a i t h i n a God o f l o v e as t h e exemplar t o whom human b e i n g s a s p i r e i n t h e i r t r a n s i t o r y p a s s i o n s f o r one a n o t h e r . Through h i s own s e a r c h f o r m o r a l and r e l i g i o u s v a l u e i n t h e e x p e r i e n c e o f i n t e n s e e m o t i o n , H a l l a m a c t e d as a model f o r Tennyson t h r o u g h whom t h e p o e t c o u l d see s e e m i n g l y p r i v a t e v i c e t u r n e d t o p u b l i c v i r t u e . A c c o r d i n g t o R i c k s , Tennyson's " m e l a n c h o l i a ( w i t h i t s r e l a t i o n s h i p t o what he had seen o f h i s f a t h e r ' s m e l a n c h o l i a ) found i n H a l l a m t h e deeper r e a s s u r a n c e n o t o f s e r e n i t y b u t o f s i m i l a r s u f f e r i n g , d o u b t s , and m o r b i d i t i e s w h i c h y e t were n o t i g n o b l e " ( 3 8 - 9 ) — n o t i g n o b l e because H a l l a m had managed t o t u r n s u f f e r i n g i n t o a n e c e s s a r y m o r a l i m p e r a t i v e . Hence, as A l l e n a r g u e s , t h e e m o t i o n a l i n t i m a c y e v i d e n t between Tennyson and H a l l a m s h o u l d be v i e w e d as h a v i n g t a k e n p l a c e w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f m o r a l v a l u e t h a t each a s c r i b e d t o t h e p h y s i c a l s e n s a t i o n o f f e e l i n g s a c t i n g upon t h e p e r s o n : w h i l e t h e s e f e e l i n g s a r e a l l t o o o f t e n s u b j u g a t e d t o t h e s e x u a l p a s s i o n s , p r o p e r l y u n d e r s t o o d (as P l a t o u n d e r s t o o d them) t h e y a r e n o t s e x u a l b u t m o r a l and f i n d t h e i r u l t i m a t e meaning i n r e l i g i o u s t e r m s . F o r 321 H a l l a m , t h e n , homosexual f e e l i n g s w o u l d have been m e r e l y p a r t o f t h e l a r g e r p r o b l e m o f r e c o n c i l i n g h i s e x p e r i e n c e o f human l o v e w i t h t h e o r t h o d o x f a i t h he w i s h e d t o p r o f e s s . H i s ' g r a p p l i n g s w i t h A t h e i s m ' , t h e ' s p e c t r e s o f t h e mind'[which] he f a c e d b e f o r e he 'came a t l e n g t h / To f i n d a s t r o n g e r f a i t h h i s own', had t o do w i t h d i s c o v e r i n g a l i n k between h i s d e e p e s t emotions and t h e v i s i o n o f P r o v i d e n t i a l l o v e t h a t he saw as c e n t r a l t o h i s f a i t h . ( 1 5 8 ) 7 The development o f H a l l a m ' s p h i l o s o p h i c a l b e l i e f has been b r i e f l y m e n t i o n e d h e r e because i t b e a r s d i r e c t l y upon Tennyson's a d o l e s c e n t development o f h i s p o e t i c v o i c e . T i e d more t o H a l l a m t h a n t o any o t h e r Cambridge a s s o c i a t e , Tennyson had d i f f i c u l t y as an a c t i v e member o f t h e A p o s t l e s . "He was 7 A l l e n a l s o a t t r i b u t e s Tennyson's l a t e r f a i t h i n emotion t o M a u r i c e ' s " L e t t e r s t o a Quaker" w h i c h began a p p e a r i n g i n 1837, t h e f i r s t v e r s i o n o f one o f h i s most i m p o r t a n t books, The Kingdom o f C h r i s t (1839, 1842) . A l l e n summarizes M a u r i c e ' s work by e x p l a i n i n g how M a u r i c e had examined t h e t e a c h i n g s o f v a r i o u s groups t h a t make up C h r i s t i a n i t y and t h e n t r i e d t o show how each c o n t a i n s an i m p o r t a n t element o f r e l i g i o u s t r u t h ; how t h e r e l i g i o u s "systems" d e r i v e d from t h e s e t e a c h i n g s have f a l s i f i e d them by c l a i m i n g t o be i n p o s s e s s i o n o f t h e whole t r u t h ; and how t h e p o s i t i v e a s p e c t s o f t h e s e r i v a l v i e w s can be seen t o be complementary t o one a n o t h e r and t o f i n d t h e i r n a t u r a l f u l f i l m e n t , f o r E n g l i s h p e o p l e , i n t h e Church o f E n g l a n d . "But by t h e Church o f E n g l a n d he meant t h e Church as he would have i t be, n o t as i t was . . . . He a r g u e d t h a t t h e i n d i v i d u a l ' s f i r s t e x p e r i e n c e o f s p i r i t u a l r e l a t i o n s h i p s , f o r b e t t e r o r worse, i s d e r i v e d from h i s e x p e r i e n c e o f t h e f a m i l y , and t h a t 'human r e l a t i o n s h i p s a r e n o t a r t i f i c i a l t y p e s o f s o m e t h i n g d i v i n e , b u t a r e a c t u a l l y t h e means and t h e o n l y means, t h r o u g h w h i c h man ascends t o any knowledge o f t h e d i v i n e ' . The m i s s i o n o f t h e Church i s t o a s s i s t i n t h e development o f t h e u n i v e r s a l s o c i e t y o r u n i v e r s a l f a m i l y t h a t C h r i s t has p l a n n e d f o r man, and t o s t r u g g l e a g a i n s t t h e c o n t e n d i n g f o r c e s t h a t have h i t h e r t o p r e v e n t e d t h e f a m i l y , t h e n a t i o n and humanity from a c h i e v i n g t h e d i v i n e g o a l o f s p i r i t u a l u n i t y t h a t has been s e t f o r them ( A l l e n 173). Tennyson's a c c e p t a n c e o f M a u r i c e ' s f a i t h i n l o v e and f a m i l y i s perhaps b e s t e x p r e s s e d i n E m i l y and A l f r e d ' s r e q u e s t t h a t , a l o n g w i t h Henry H a l l a m ( A r t h u r ' s f a t h e r ) , M a u r i c e a c t as g o d f a t h e r t o t h e i r f i r s t son, H a l l a m , b o r n 11 August 1852 ( M a r t i n 366-67). 322 e l e c t e d on 31 O c t o b e r 1829 and a t t e n d e d t h e m e e t i n g o f t h a t d a t e b u t f a i l e d t o a t t e n d t h e n e x t two and was f i n e d f i v e s h i l l i n g s f o r t h e o f f e n c e . The punishment does n o t seem t o have encouraged him t o conform t o A p o s t o l i c e x p e c t a t i o n s . F u r t h e r a b s e n t e e i s m o c c u r r e d , and when h i s t u r n t o d e l i v e r a p a p e r came around he had n o t c o m p l e t e d t h e t a s k and had t o r e s i g n from t h e S o c i e t y " ( A l l e n 133). Thus he was a member f o r fewer t h a n f o u r months and a t t e n d e d no more t h a n f i v e m e e t i n g s . I f Tennyson i s t o be r e g a r d e d as an A p o s t l e a t a l l , t h e n , he can o n l y be seen as a t y p e o f member e m e r i t u s , n o t as a bona f i d e h o n o r a r y member s i n c e he n e v e r gave a p a p e r . T h i s r e q u i r e m e n t was o v e r l o o k e d i n 1856, b u t Tennyson n o n e t h e l e s s n e v e r a t t e n d e d m e e t i n g s o r any o f t h e A p o s t l e s ' a n n u a l d i n n e r s t h e r e a f t e r ( 1 3 4 - 5 ) . I n s h o r t , as A l l e n r e m a r k s , t h e e v i d e n c e s u g g e s t s t h a t "Tennyson c a r e d a g r e a t d e a l l e s s about t h e S o c i e t y t h a n i t s o t h e r members d i d about him . . . . Much t o t h e p u z z l e m e n t o f t h o s e A p o s t l e s [ e s p e c i a l l y B l a k e s l e y ] who f e l t t h a t t h e y knew b e t t e r t h a n he how h i s t a l e n t s s h o u l d be employed, Tennyson was q u i t e p e r s i s t e n t i n d o i n g t h i n g s h i s own way" (13 5) . Tennyson a p p e a r s t o have had g r e a t r e l u c t a n c e i n p r o m o t i n g h i m s e l f as a member o f t h e A p o s t l e s i n any p r e s c r i b e d o r r e g u l a t o r y way a l t h o u g h he c e r t a i n l y sought t h e i r company s o c i a l l y . To i n d i v i d u a l A p o s t l e s o r t o s m a l l groups o f them, Tennyson would o f t e n r e c i t e poems i n p r o g r e s s . I t seems as i f Tennyson r e c o g n i z e d v e r y e a r l y i n h i s c a r e e r t h a t what o r a t o r y 323 he had t o o f f e r was n o t s t r i c t l y r h e t o r i c a l ; t h a t i s , t h e a p p e a l s he c o u l d make were n o t g o i n g t o be t o h i s a u d i e n c e ' s i n t e l l e c t , b u t r a t h e r t o t h e i r e m o t i o n a l c a p a c i t y f o r human sympathy. I n t h i s way, Tennyson can be seen as t h e p o e t i c r e g i s t e r o f H a l l a m ' s p r o s a i c t h e o r y o f t h e m o r a l power o f f e e l i n g s . The e s s a y t h a t Tennyson f a i l e d t o d e l i v e r a t t h e A p o s t l e s ' m e e t i n g i s a c a s e i n p o i n t . D o r o t h y Mermin has examined what r e m a i n s o f t h e m a n u s c r i p t e s s a y on " G h o s t s " t h a t Tennyson i n t e n d e d t o r e a d , and a r g u e s t h a t i t does n o t r e a l l y f o c u s on g h o s t s as s u c h b u t r a t h e r on " t h e immense power o f a s t o r y t e l l e r o v e r h i s l i s t e n e r s " ( 1 7 ) . Tennyson d e s c r i b e s t h e s t o r y t e l l e r ' s power as c o n t r o l o v e r " t h e inmost r e c e s s e s o f t h e human mind" o f each o f h i s a u d i t o r s , a t y p e o f d e s p o t i s m t o w h i c h t h e y w i l l i n g l y s u b m i t . A c c o r d i n g t o Tennyson, t h i s d e s p o t i s m o r i g i n a t e d i n t h e v o i c e : " h i s v o i c e a l o n e l i k e a m o u n t a i n s t r e a m on a s t i l l n i g h t f i l l s up & o c c u p i e s t h e s i l e n c e : he s t a n d s as i t were on a v a n t a g e - g r o u n d he becomes t h e m i n i s t e r & expounder o f human s y m p a t h i e s : h i s words f i n d t h e h e a r t l i k e t h e a r r o w s o f t r u t h " ( q t d . 17-18). Mermin goes on t o e x p l a i n t h a t Tennyson's s h i f t from l y r i c p o e t r y t o a p o e t r y t h a t i n c l u d e d a u d i t o r s ( t h e d r a m a t i c monologue) was h i s p r i m a r y method o f r e c o n c i l i n g t h e p r i v a t e / p u b l i c t e n s i o n t o w h i c h V i c t o r i a n p o e t s who p a i d a t t e n t i o n t o t h e i r c r i t i c s as t h e i r p r i m a r y a u d i e n c e had n e c e s s a r i l y t o s u b m i t . Y e t Mermin's a n a l y s i s o f Tennyson's use o f t h e d r a m a t i c monologue 324 as a u n i q u e s o l u t i o n t o t h e p r i v a t e / p u b l i c dilemma, r a t h e r t h a n s i m p l y as one o f s e v e r a l s o l u t i o n s t h a t Tennyson sought t o p r o d u c e a r a n g e o f p u b l i c s y m p a t h i e s , m i n i m i z e s t h e f u n c t i o n o f t h e sound o f t h e p o e t i c v o i c e i t s e l f as an e l i c i t o r o f r e a d e r s ' e m o t i o n s . Hence, w i t h l a t e r poems s u c h as "The H o l y G r a i l , " she sees Tennyson's methods o f p o e t i c r e s o l u t i o n becoming i n c r e a s i n g l y p r i v a t e , c u t o f f from t h e s o c i a l w o r l d t h a t i s now seen as a n t a g o n i s t i c t o t h e w o r l d and e x p e r i e n c e o f t h e i n d i v i d u a l . I n a l l f a i r n e s s , Mermin i s — a s t h e t i t l e o f h e r s t u d y s u g g e s t s — c o n c e r n e d w i t h The A u d i e n c e i n t h e Poem and n o t w i t h t h e a u d i e n c e o u t s i d e o f i t . However, as Tennyson's comments i n " G h o s t s " i m p l y , t h e power o f t h e v o i c e i s n o t r e g i s t e r e d s o l e l y upon s i l e n t , p a s s i v e a u d i t o r s : t h e s e f i g u r e s w i t h i n a c t as c o n d u i t s t o t h e w o r l d o f a c t i v e l i s t e n e r s o u t s i d e t h e poems t h e m s e l v e s i n t h e r e a l m o f "human s y m p a t h i e s . " I n a d d i t i o n , many s p e a k e r s w i t h i n poems, r a t h e r t h a n a s i n g l e s p e a k e r as i n t h e d r a m a t i c monologue, a l l o w f o r d i f f e r i n g r e s p o n s e s . Tennyson's e a r l i e s t v o c a t i o n poems s u g g e s t t h i s p o e t i c r e a c h i n g outward ( t h r o u g h r e f e r e n c e t o v a r i o u s sound d e v i c e s ) t o w a r d as e x p a n s i v e an e x t e r n a l a u d i e n c e as p o s s i b l e . I n "To Poesy" (comp. 1828) he a s k s t h a t t h e Mind's " t r u m p e t - t o n g u e d a e r i a l melody / May blow a l a r u m l o u d t o e v e r y w i n d , / And s t a r t l e t h e d u l l e a r s o f human k i n d " ( 3 - 5 ) . The s p e a k e r o f "The I d e a l i s t " (comp. 1829) i n v i t e s h i s a u d i e n c e i n , "Come l i s t e n a l l who c a n " ( 3 ) , e x p l a i n i n g t h a t h i s s i n g l e v o i c e i s 325 t h e v o i c e o f m u l t i t u d i n o u s p e o p l e s o f a l l r a c e s . By 183 0, t h e i d e a l i s t has become "The P o e t " who, w i t h s i m i l a r h i g h - m i n d e d i d e a l i s m , e x p e c t s t o sow and c u l t i v a t e t r u t h and freedom t h r o u g h seeds i m a g i n e d as a u d i t o r y d e v i c e s : " e c h o i n g f e e t , " " v i e w l e s s a r r o w s o f h i s t h o u g h t s . . . // L i k e I n d i a n r e e d s blown f r o m h i s s i l v e r t o n g u e , " and " v a g r a n t m e l o d i e s " l i k e n e d t o " a r r o w - s e e d s " (9, 11-13, 17, 1 9 ) . I n s h o r t , t h e sounds o f t h e p o e t ' s words a r e t o " f i n d t h e h e a r t l i k e a r r o w s o f t r u t h , " as he had e a r l i e r m a i n t a i n e d i n " G h o s t s , " and a r e t o sow t h e r e t h e e m o t i v e r e s p o n s e r e q u i s i t e t o shake t h e w o r l d from i t s m o r a l complacency. Even w h i l e e n r a p t u r e d w i t h t h e power o f language t o e f f e c t s o c i a l change, however, Tennyson was e q u a l l y s c e p t i c a l : "Supposed C o n f e s s i o n s o f a Second-Rate S e n s i t i v e M i n d , " and t h e p a i r e d poems " N o t h i n g W i l l D i e , " " A l l T h i n g s W i l l D i e " work t h r o u g h a q u e s t i o n i n g , d i a l e c t i c a l v o i c e t h a t a s k s o f i t s r e a d e r s f a r more a c t i v e c o n t e m p l a t i o n r a t h e r t h a n a p a s s i v e s u b m i s s i o n as f e r t i l e ground f o r t h e i m p l a n t a t i o n o f i d e a s . Hence o t h e r e a r l y v o c a t i o n poems such as "The P o e t ' s Mind" and "The M y s t i c " p e s s i m i s t i c a l l y c o n t e n d t h a t t h e p o e t i s n o t l i k e l y t o e f f e c t changes upon e a r t h , b u t r a t h e r n e c e s s a r i l y works a t a h e i g h t e n e d remove from humanity, t h e " v a n t a g e - g r o u n d " o f t h e " G h o s t s " e s s a y . Thus1 p o e t r y — i f i t i s t o have an i m p a c t — w i l l do so o n l y , as i n "The D y i n g Swan," t h r o u g h a "music s t r a n g e and m a n i f o l d " t h a t h a r k e n s t o a m u s i c known a l r e a d y t o i t s r e c i p i e n t s , a m u s i c t h a t can r e v e r b e r a t e e v e r 326 o u t w a r d i n m e l l i f l u o u s s t r e a m s , e v e n t u a l l y t o e n v e l o p a l l o f n a t u r e i n " e d d y i n g song" (42) . F o r Tennyson's l a r g e c l a i m s f o r p o e t r y t o be r e a l i z e d , a u d i t o r s o u t s i d e h i s t e x t s would have t o l e n d t h e i r own v o i c e s t o them, a c o n c l u s i o n f a r d i f f e r e n t from S h e l l e y ' s s e l f - p r o m o t i o n as p r o p h e t o r "unacknowledged l e g i s l a t o r . " I n Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y , H a l l a m , i n h i s r o l e as a c o n d u i t t o t h e w o r l d o u t s i d e o f t h e p o e t ' s i m a g i n a t i o n , became f o r Tennyson a t y p e o f a u d i t o r e x t r a o r d i n a i r e s i n c e H a l l a m c o u l d r e l a y back t o h i s f r i e n d n o t o n l y t h e c u r r e n t and f l o w o f e a r l y V i c t o r i a n c u l t u r e , b u t a l s o Tennyson's p l a c e w i t h i n p a s t p o e t i c t r a d i t i o n . B o t h t a s k s he u n d e r t o o k most a s s i d u o u s l y i n h i s r e v i e w o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l (183 0) i n E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine (Aug 1831). Y e t H a l l a m ' s r o l e as a r e a d e r o f Tennyson's a u d i e n c e i s seldom m e n t i o n e d by t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s ; i n s t e a d , H a l l a m i s t h o u g h t o f more as a w e l l - i n t e n t i o n e d , b u t m i s g u i d e d r e a d e r o f Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t i c w o r t h t h a n as an a s t u t e o b s e r v e r o f t h e e a r l y • 8 V i c t o r i a n r e a d i n g p u b l i c . O b v i o u s l y , Shannon pays c l o s e a t t e n t i o n t o H a l l a m ' s r o l e as one o f Tennyson's e a r l i e s t r e v i e w e r s , y e t he g i v e s him no s p e c i a l s t a t u s as s u c h . I s o b e l A r m s t r o n g ' s V i c t o r i a n S c r u t i n i e s a l i g n s H a l l a m w i t h Fox t o e x p l a i n t h e v o c i f e r o u s n e s s o f W i l s o n ' s condemnation, and i n so d o i n g weakens t h e u n i q u e power o f H a l l a m ' s r e v i e w . June Hagen e x p l a i n s H a l l a m ' s r o l e as an e a r l y a g e n t , w o r k i n g t o see Tennyson p u b l i s h e d and promoted, y e t because h e r work c o n c e r n s Tennyson's p u b l i s h i n g p r a c t i c e s r a t h e r t h a n h i s p o e t r y as s u c h , she does n o t d e v e l o p H a l l a m ' s r o l e as Tennyson's i d e a l r e a d e r ( 1 5 - 2 0 ) . H. M. McLuhan i s n o t a b l e s i n c e i n h i s "Tennyson and P i c t u r e s q u e P o e t r y " he s e e s H a l l a m ' s 1831 r e v i e w , and i t s p r o m o t i o n o f a e s t h e t i c , s e n s a t i o n a l e f f e c t as Of Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l , and more s p e c i f i c a l l y o f i t s weaknesses, I a n J a c k o b s e r v e s t h a t "Tennyson had n o t y e t e s c a p e d from t h e t r o u b l e d womb o f t h e r e c t o r y " (12 0 ) . J a c k f u r t h e r c h a r g e s t h a t Tennyson's r e l i a n c e on sound d e v i c e s makes h i s l y r i c s " t o o ' p o e t i c a l ' " t o be poems, and compares them f a v o u r a b l y o n l y i n terms o f t h e i r g r e a t e r m e t r i c a l s o p h i s t i c a t i o n t o " o r d i n a r y Album v e r s e o f t h e day," a s p e c i e s o f p o e t r y w r i t t e n a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y f o r and by women ( 1 2 1 ) . J a c k ' s a l l u s i o n s t o a " f e m a l e " w o r l d a r e s t a n d a r d i n s l i g h t s a g a i n s t Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y . 9 A l t h o u g h J a c k can r e a d i l y i d e n t i f y Tennyson's f e m a l e w o r l d , he c a s u a l l y d i s m i s s e s women from t h e i n t e r a c t i v e r e l a t i o n o f The P o e t and H i s A u d i e n c e . I n a d d i t i o n , J a c k may r e c o g n i z e t h e i n h e r e n t l y o r a l q u a l i t y o f Tennyson's p o e t r y , b u t he does n o t d i s c u s s Tennyson's m u s i c a l i t y as one o f t h e p r i m a r y means by w h i c h t h e p o e t had hoped t o a c h i e v e p o e t i c s u c c e s s . I n s t e a d , J a c k c o n c l u d e s t h a t a t t h i s t i m e ""Tennyson had no c l e a r i d e a o f t h e a u d i e n c e f o r w h i c h he was w r i t i n g " (121). But by assuming t h a t t h e a u d i e n c e whom Tennyson had hoped t o a t t r a c t o u t s i d e o f h i s c o t e r i e o f f a m i l y and f r i e n d s would n e c e s s a r i l y be u n i f o r m i n paramount i n Tennyson's e a r l y development as a p o e t . But McLuhan t a k e s a v i s u a l a p p r o a c h t o Tennyson's p o e t r y , and so does n o t h e a r H a l l a m ' s remarks on sound n o t e d below as t h e key i n f l u e n c e i n t h e f o s t e r i n g o f a e s t h e t i c a p p r e c i a t i o n and hence m o r a l r e s p o n s e . 9 M a r t i n , f o r i n s t a n c e , i n w r i t i n g o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l i d e n t i f i e s " t h e mawkish s e n t i m e n t a l i t y about such m a t t e r s as motherhood and c h i l d r e n ' s p r a y e r s " as "one o f t h e p e r s i s t e n t f a i l u r e s o f h i s v e r s e " ( 1 0 7 ) . 328 e i t h e r p r a i s e o r condemnation, J a c k r e l i e s t o o h e a v i l y on t h e a l l - m a l e n e g a t i v e c r i t i c a l p r e s s f o r h i s p e r c e p t i o n o f whom Tennyson's p o t e n t i a l f i r s t r e a d e r s may have been. H a l l a m ' s r e v i e w , a r e v i e w w h i c h J a c k p r a i s e s as "a s k i l f u l p i e c e o f r h e t o r i c " d e s i g n e d t o b o o s t Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y , c l e a r l y l i n k s Tennyson t o t h o s e p o e t s o f s e n s a t i o n s u c h as S h e l l e y and K e a t s who work a c t i v e l y t o p r o v o k e s e n s a t i o n a l , e m o t i v e r e s p o n s e s i n t h e i r a u d i e n c e s . I n so d o i n g , H a l l a m a t t e m p t s a m e t a p h y s i c a l a s s o c i a t i o n between a e s t h e t i c i s m and a f f e c t i o n , an a s s o c i a t i o n d e r i v e d from t h e t h e o r i e s he d e v e l o p e d i n t h e e s s a y s d e s c r i b e d above. He t h e n wonders how s u c h p o e t s c o u l d e v e r be p o p u l a r s i n c e t h e y had e x p e r i e n c e d l i f e as a " r i c h e r and ampler t a l e t h a n most men c o u l d u n d e r s t a n d , and [ t h e y had] c o n s t a n t l y e x p r e s s e d , because t h e y c o n s t a n t l y f e l t , s e n t i m e n t s o f e x q u i s i t e p l e a s u r e o r p a i n w h i c h most men were n o t p e r m i t t e d t o e x p e r i e n c e " ( 3 8 ) . L a t e r , i n c o m p a r i n g Tennyson f a v o u r a b l y t o Dante and P e t r a r c h , H a l l a m e x p l a i n s t h e a e s t h e t i c r e a l i z a t i o n o f s e n t i m e n t when he w r i t e s t h a t a l l p o e t s o f s e n s a t i o n "produce t w o - t h i r d s o f t h e i r e f f e c t by sound." He c o n t i n u e s : There a r e i n n u m e r a b l e shades o f f i n e e m o t i o n i n t h e human h e a r t , e s p e c i a l l y when t h e s e n s e s a r e keen and v i g i l a n t , w h i c h a r e t o o s u b t l e and t o o r a p i d t o a d m i t o f c o r r e s p o n d i n g p h r a s e s . The u n d e r s t a n d i n g t a k e s no d e f i n i t e n o t e o f them; how t h e n can t h e y l e a v e s i g n a t u r e s i n language? Y e t t h e y e x i s t ; i n p l e n i t u d e o f b e i n g and b e a u t y t h e y e x i s t ; and i n m u s i c t h e y f i n d a medium t h r o u g h w h i c h t h e y p a s s from h e a r t t o h e a r t . The t o n e becomes t h e s i g n o f t h e f e e l i n g ; and t h e y r e c i p r o c a l l y s u g g e s t each o t h e r . (Jump 45) 329 Such i s t h e i n t e n t i o n and t h e e f f e c t o f poems l i k e "The B a l l a d o f O r i a n a " : t h e i n s p i r i n g o f sympathy t h r o u g h t h e s e n s a t i o n o f sound. E l s e w h e r e i n h i s r e v i e w , H a l l a m i d e n t i f i e s f e a t u r e s he had p r a i s e d i n Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y , f e a t u r e s w h i c h r e a d i l y c o r r e s p o n d e d b o t h w i t h h i s own e s s a y s on t h e m o r a l v a l u e o f s y m p a t h e t i c e m o t i o n and w i t h Tennyson's i n c o m p l e t e e s s a y on " G h o s t s . " These i n c l u d e : l u x u r i a n t i m a g i n a t i o n , c a p t u r i n g o f c h a r a c t e r s ' moods, v i v i d l y p i c t u r e s q u e d e l i n e a t i o n s o f o b j e c t s f u s e d w i t h s t r o n g e m o t i o n , m e t r i c a l v a r i a t i o n s t o s u i t moods, and e l e v a t e d h a b i t s o f t h o u g h t (42) . A t t h e o u t s e t , H a l l a m c l a i m s t h a t s u c h f e a t u r e s , a l t h o u g h t h e o r e t i c a l l y c a p a b l e o f e l i c i t i n g u n i v e r s a l sympathy, have i n r e a l i t y s u b j e c t e d p o e t s o f s e n s a t i o n t o c r i t i c a l s c o r n , and would do l i k e w i s e t o T e n n y s o n . 1 0 I n "The R o l e and Treatment o f Emotion i n V i c t o r i a n C r i t i c i s m o f P o e t r y , " I s o b e l A r m s t r o n g wonders why c r i t i c s ' and p o e t s ' endorsement o f f e e l i n g and e m o t i o n as r e q u i s t e t o e f f e c t i v e p o e t r y d i d n o t l e a d p o e t s t o " d e v e l o p a n o t i o n o f t h e e p i p h a n y w h i c h seems, f o r many t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s , t o be o f f e r e d by symbol" ( 4 ) . A r m s t r o n g ' s l i m i t e d v i e w t h a t r e v i e w e r s c o n f l a t e d " s e e i n g p r o p e r l y w i t h f e e l i n g p r o p e r l y " (4 added emphasis) u n a v o i d a b l y l e a d s h e r t o an u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f e m o t i o n t h a t i s t i e d t o t h e v i s u a l and, t h e r e f o r e , c o g n i t i v e r e s p o n s e s o f t h e m i n d — i . e . symbolism. Her emphasis on t h e v i s u a l i s a l s o a p p a r e n t i n V i c t o r i a n S c r u t i n i e s , where she a l l e g e s t h a t V i c t o r i a n c r i t i c s ' " v o c a b u l a r y i s borrowed m a i n l y f r o m p a i n t i n g and d r a w i n g " ( 2 7 ) . W h i l e o b v i o u s l y Tennyson was p r a i s e d f o r h i s p i c t u r e s q u e imagery and h i s a t t e n t i o n t o v i s u a l d e t a i l , t h e power o f t h e " i n e x p r e s s i b l e " t o e l i c i t e m o t i v e r e s p o n s e s i n h i s r e a d e r s d e r i v e d e q u a l l y from h i s s k i l f u l use o f sound d e v i c e s a c t i n g a d d i t i o n a l l y upon t h e v i s c e r a r a t h e r t h a n j u s t t h e mind. S e n s i t i v i t y t o w a r d sound was e q u a l l y i f n o t more i m p o r t a n t t o Tennyson's c o n t e m p o r a r y c r i t i c s : H a l l a m , W i l s o n , S t e r l i n g , K i n g s l e y and G l a d s t o n e . A r m s t r o n g ' s q u e r y about t h e l a c k o f V i c t o r i a n t h e o r i e s o f A l t h o u g h t h r o u g h o u t h i s r e v i e w H a l l a m u s e s "men" as a synonym f o r " t h e p u b l i c , " i t i s t e m p t i n g t o t h i n k t h a t he had an i n f o r m e d i m p r e s s i o n o f Tennyson's most s y m p a t h e t i c a u d i e n c e as p e o p l e o t h e r t h a n t h e common h e r d o f men. O b v i o u s l y , he saw h i m s e l f as Tennyson's i d e a l r e a d e r . Y e t i n a f i n a l , f a c e t i o u s l y s e l f - d e p r e c a t i n g move, he a l l e g e s t h a t i n p r o m o t i n g Tennyson he m i g h t be t h o u g h t t o have p l a y e d one o f two r o l e s : " t h e p a r t o f a f a s h i o n a b l e l a d y , who d e l u d e s h e r r e f r a c t o r y mate i n t o d o i n g what she chooses by p r e t e n d i n g t o w i s h t h e e x a c t c o n t r a r y , o r o f a c u n n i n g pedagogue, who p r a c t i s e s a s i m i l a r manoeuvre on some s e l f - w i l l e d F l i b b e r t i g i b b e t o f t h e s c h o o l - r o o m " (49) . A l t h o u g h H a l l a m goes on t o deny b o t h m i s p e r c e p t i o n s , t h e " f a s h i o n a b l e l a d y " and " c u n n i n g pedagogue" n o n e t h e l e s s r e m a i n as two extreme v a r i a t i o n s , f e m a l e and male, o f t h e h i g h l y m o r a l " f e e l i n g h e a r t s and i m a g i n a t i v e tempers" t h a t H a l l a m a s c r i b e s t o Tennyson's i d e a l r e a d e r s . H a l l a m t h u s a l l u d e s t o t h e most l i k e l y venues f o r Tennyson's e a r l y p o p u l a r i t y : t h e f e m a l e p a r l o u r and t h e male u n i v e r s i t y s c h o o l r o o m . I t was n o t t o be f o u n d , as H a l l a m w e l l knew, i n t h e male-dominated c r i t i c a l p r e s s . s y m b o l i s m t h u s seems t o r e s u l t from a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y p r i v i l e g i n g o f t h e v i s u a l i m a g i n a t i o n and i n t e l l e c t u a l i s m , and does n o t f u l l y a r t i c u l a t e t h e c o m p l e x i t y o f V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y ' s a f f e c t i v e v i g o u r . T h i s f o c u s on t h e v i s u a l i s s o m e t h i n g t h a t A r m s t r o n g s h a r e s w i t h C a r o l C h r i s t , whose work i s d i s c u s s e d below. 331 The immediate e f f e c t o f H a l l a m ' s a t t e m p t t o promote h i s f r i e n d was t o i n c r e a s e c r i t i c a l h o s t i l i t y r a t h e r t h a n t o l e s s e n i t . By May 1832, H a l l a m ' s r e v i e w had i n c i t e d t h e i r e o f J o h n W i l s o n ( " C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h " ) , a c r i t i c who m i g h t have seen h i s s t y l e o f c r i t i c i s m as " p e d e s t r i a n " i n c o n t r a s t t o what he d e s c r i b e s as t h e "superhuman—nay, s u p e r n a t u r a l — p o m p o s i t y " o f Tennyson's r e v i e w e r i n The E n g l i s h m a n ' s Magazine. N o r t h a r g u e s t h a t H a l l a m had " i n c a p a c i t a t e d t h e whole work f o r l i v i n g one day l o n g e r i n t h i s unceremonious w o r l d . The s o l e m n i t y w i t h w h i c h t h e c r i t i c approached t h e o b j e c t o f h i s a d o r a t i o n , and t h e s a n c t i t y w i t h w h i c h he l a i d h i s o f f e r i n g s on t h e s h r i n e , were t o o much f o r our i r r e l i g i o u s age. The E s s a y 'on t h e g e n i u s o f A l f r e d Tennyson' awoke a g e n e r a l g u f f a w , and i t e x p i r e d i n c o n v u l s i o n s " ( u n s i g n e d r e v i e w Blackwood's E d i n b u r g h Magazine q t d . Jump 5 1 ) . S e t t i n g h i m s e l f up as a f i t t e r g u i d e t o Tennyson's " g e n i u s " t h a n H a l l a m , N o r t h a t t e m p t s t o "save him from h i s w o r s t enemies, h i s f r i e n d s " ( 5 1 ) . M i s t a k e n l y , N o r t h had i n c l u d e d Fox among t h i s group o f f r i e n d s , and c h a r g e d Fox w i t h w r i t i n g " s u p e r - h y p e r b o l i c a l u l t r a - e x t r a v a g a n c e o f o u t r a g e o u s Cockney e u l o g i s t i c f o o l i s h n e s s . . . " ( 5 4 ) . But b o t h Jump and Shannon n o t e t h a t t h e v i t r i o l i c t e n o r o f N o r t h ' s r e v i e w comes as much from h i s T o r y d i s t r u s t o f t h e p o l i t i c a l r a d i c a l i s m a s s o c i a t e d w i t h t h e magazines f o r w h i c h Fox and H a l l a m had w r i t t e n as i t does from any extreme d i s l i k e o f Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y (Jump 2, Shannon 8 ) . F o r , on t h e c o n t r a r y , N o r t h a c t u a l l y p r a i s e s 332 Tennyson's " f i n e m u s i c " and h i s p e r c e p t i o n o f t h e " p u r i t y o f t h e f e m a l e c h a r a c t e r " ( 5 9 ) . Moreover, as Shannon f u r t h e r r e m a r k s , N o r t h ' s v i t u p e r a t i v e s t y l e was common among c r i t i c s o f t h e p e r i o d ( 8 ) . S t y l e n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g , N o r t h ' s r e v i e w had a s e r i o u s e f f e c t on T e n n y s o n — a n e f f e c t w h i c h H a l l a m worked t o c o u n t e r by a r g u i n g t h a t s u c h e x p o s u r e was u l t i m a t e l y b e n e f i c i a l t o h i s f r i e n d ' s r e p u t a t i o n (see C h a r l e s Tennyson 121, Shannon 8-9). By c a s t i g a t i n g t h e p o e t as one o f t h e "Cockney S c h o o l " (of K e a t s , S h e l l e y and Lamb), N o r t h p i n n e d on Tennyson a l a b e l t h a t would s t i c k . F o l l o w i n g h i s n e x t volume o f Poems (18 3 2 l a b e l l e d 1833), t h e L i t e r a r y G a z e t t e (Dec 1832), i m m e d i a t e l y c a s t Tennyson w i t h Lamb (who had r e c e n t l y been p i l l o r i e d ) as one o f t h e "Baa-Lamb S c h o o l " t h a t c o u l d n o t b r o o k c r i t i c i s m ( M a r t i n 166). Two r e v i e w s i n p a r t i c u l a r b e a r f u r t h e r m e n t i o n i n g : Edward B u l w e r ' s i n t h e New M o n t h l y o f J a n u a r y 18 3 3 (Shannon 17, M a r t i n 168-9), and John W i l s o n C r o k e r ' s infamous r e v i e w i n t h e Q u a r t e r l y Review o f A p r i l 1833 (Jump 66-83, Shannon 19-21, M a r t i n 169-73). As M a r t i n p o i n t s o u t , B u l w e r ' s c r i t i c i s m o f Tennyson's muse as one "wasted i n a f f e c t a t i o n " i s s u r e l y i r o n i c s i n c e no one knew more o f a f f e c t a t i o n t h a n B u l w e r , t h e d a n d i f i e d p r a c t i o n e r o f S i l v e r F o r k n o v e l s (168). Yet i n h i s r e v i e w o f Poems, B u l w e r seemed d e t e r m i n e d t o f u r t h e r a b u r g e o n i n g t r a d i t i o n i n Tennyson c r i t i c i s m , o f f e r i n g such c h a r g e s as " e f f e m i n a c i e s " o f t h e Cockney s c h o o l , a "want o f a l l m a n l i n e s s i n l o v e . . . [and] an eunuch s t r a i n " ( q t d . i n M a r t i n 169). And w h i l e M a r t i n l i n k s B u l w e r ' s c e n s u r e t o h i s p e r s o n a l t i e s w i t h t h e d ' E y n c o u r t Tennysons and t h e i r d i s l i k e o f t h e Somersby Tennysons, n o n e t h e l e s s , what Bulwer had t o say was n o t u n i q u e . N o r t h had a l r e a d y condemned H a l l a m ' s a s s o c i a t i n g Tennyson w i t h K e a t s , and C r o k e r was t o admit i n J a n u a r y t h a t he wanted t o "make a n o t h e r K e a t s o f him [ T e n n y s o n ] " ( q t d . i n M a r t i n 169). He p r o c e e d e d t o do so i n A p r i l t h r o u g h s a t i r i c , h y p e r b o l i c p r a i s e and by f o c u s i n g , l i k e Bulwer b e f o r e him, upon "0 D a r l i n g Room," l e a v i n g i n t h e minds o f h i s r e a d e r s q u e s t i o n s about t h e vague s e x u a l c o n n o t a t i o n s o f t h e "two c o u c h e s " i n t h e poem. He s u g g e s t s , i n t h e end, t h a t Tennyson r e g a i n h i s " h e a l t h " t h r o u g h t h e sound m e d i c i n a l t o n i c a d m i n i s t e r e d by c r i t i c s s u c h as C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h and h i m s e l f , and n o t t o r e s o r t t o t h e i n f a n t i l e nausea o f "To C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h " (Jump 8 2 - 3 ) . Though he d i d n o t manage t o s i l e n c e Tennyson f o r e v e r , as S h e l l e y t h o u g h t he had done w i t h K e a t s , C r o k e r d i d a p p a r e n t l y s u c c e e d i n g e n e r a t i n g a decade o f T e n n y s o n i a n s i l e n c e . D u r i n g t h i s decade o f seeming s i l e n c e (1832-42) , however, Tennyson was a c t i v e l y v o i c i n g h i s r e c i p r o c a l h o s t i l i t y t o w a r d h i s c r i t i c s . A l t h o u g h he was n o t t o r e p e a t t h e m i s t a k e o f "To C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h " and a l l o w h i s anger t o appear i n p r i n t , he n o n e t h e l e s s d i d n o t — a s many Tennyson s c h o l a r s s u g g e s t — succumb t o t h e p r e s s u r e s o f h i s h o s t i l e l y d i r e c t i v e c r i t i c s . R a t h e r , he sought a v a r i e t y o f v o i c e forms by w h i c h t o r e a c h 334 what he s e n s e d t o be a f a r more h e t e r o g e n e o u s a u d i e n c e t h a n t h e c r i t i c a l p r e s s had a l l o w e d him. I n "What Thor S a i d t o t h e B a r d B e f o r e D i n n e r " (comp. 1833), f o r example, Tennyson p o s i t s a d e c i d e d l y male "hammer o f i r o n rhyme" as one p o t e n t i a l s o l u t i o n t o c o u n t e r t h e c h a r g e s o f e f f e m i n a c y p l a c e d upon h i s work. T h i s "rhyme-hammer" i s h e a r d a few y e a r s l a t e r i n t h e a n g r y d e c l a m a t i o n s o f t h e s p e a k e r i n " L o c k s l e y H a l l " who r a i l s a g a i n s t t h e i n c o n s t a n c y o f women, c u r s e s " s o c i a l wants," and w i t h a r o a r t o match t h e wind t h a t p r e s a g e s i t s f i n a l s t o r m , e x i t s t h e poem i n a t h u n d e r o u s r a g e . 1 1 I n " P o e t s and C r i t i c s " (comp. 183 3-4), on t h e o t h e r hand, Tennyson c a l m l y acknowledges t h a t "Minds on t h i s round e a r t h o f o u r s / V a r y l i k e t h e l e a v e s and f l o w e r s " ( 3 - 4 ) , and so r e s o l v e s t o h o l d f a s t and a l l o w h i s p o e t r y , t h r o u g h t i m e , t o work i t s w i l l e v e n t u a l l y upon an e a r l y V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e o f d i v e r s e c o m p o s i t i o n . T h i s b r i e f poem s u c c i n c t l y e x p l a i n s one r e a s o n f o r Tennyson's a p p a r e n t s i l e n c e : he was p r e p a r e d t o w a i t , even f o r as l o n g as a decade, f o r h i s p u b l i c t o h e a r h i s p o e t r y as 1 1 I t s h o u l d be n o t e d , however, t h a t Tennyson's u n p u b l i s h e d poem "The F l i g h t , " s e e m i n g l y a f e m a l e companion poem t o " L o c k s l e y H a l l , " R i c k s d a t e s a t a p p r o x i m a t e l y t h e same t i m e p e r i o d , 1836-7. I t t o o i s w r i t t e n i n open t r o c h a i c c o u p l e t s . Here, t h e s p e a k e r i n s i s t s upon h e r u n d y i n g d e v o t i o n t o h e r p o t e n t i a l l y s h i p w r e c k e d l o v e r "Edwin," and c u r s e s t h e f a t h e r t h a t "pays h i s d e b t " w i t h h e r by wedding h e r t o a man she l o a t h e s ; he i s a " t y r a n t v a s s a l o f a t y r a n t v i c e " ( 2 5 ) . E v i d e n t l y b o t h sexes can c u r s e i n Tennyson's p o e t r y though p e r h a p s o n l y t h e male i s a l l o w e d t o do so i n p u b l i c h e a r i n g . 335 h e a r t f e l t e m o t i o n b e f o r e he would p u t h i s work f o r w a r d a g a i n . 1 2 C h a p t e r t h r e e has a l r e a d y i d e n t i f i e d s e v e r a l b i o g r a p h i c a l r e a s o n s f o r t h e s t a l l i n Tennyson's p o e t i c g r o w t h d u r i n g t h e 183 0s and e a r l y 4 0s: t h e d e a t h o f h i s f a t h e r , v a r i o u s i l l n e s s e s and a d d i c t i o n s among t h e members o f Tennyson's immediate f a m i l y , t h e d e a t h o f h i s g r a n d f a t h e r , economic h a r d s h i p s and m i s p l a c e d i n v e s t m e n t s , and t h e preempted c o u r t s h i p o f E m i l y S e l l w o o d . Two o t h e r s i g n i f i c a n t l o s s e s , however, need t o be a c c o u n t e d f o r s p e c i f i c a l l y as i n f l u e n c i n g t h e m a t u r a t i o n o f Tennyson's v o i c e s i n c e t h e y c r e a t e a t e n o r o f f r u s t r a t e d d e s i r e and d i s a p p o i n t m e n t t h a t c h a r a c t e r i z e s so much o f t h e p o e t r y t h a t Tennyson w r o t e d u r i n g t h i s p e r i o d : t h e S e v e r a l y e a r s ago, P a u l F. J a m i e s o n a r g u e d t h a t Tennyson's e a r l y c o n c e p t i o n o f h i s a u d i e n c e was i n f l u e n c e d by an A p o s t o l i c f a i t h i n Wordsworth's c r e d o t h a t p o e t s must i n i t i a l l y c r e a t e t h e t a s t e by w h i c h t h e i r work w i l l l a t e r be e n j o y e d ( 4 1 1 ) . J a m i e s o n r e a d s t h i s p o e t i c m o t i v a t i o n i n "Mine be t h e s t r e n g t h , " Tennyson's p r e f a t o r y s o n n e t t o h i s 1832 Poems, s u g g e s t i n g t h a t t h e s u p p o r t o f Tennyson's c o t e r i e o f Cambridge a s s o c i a t e s p r o v i d e d Tennyson w i t h t h e c o n f i d e n t b e l i e f t h a t he and t h e y would e v e n t u a l l y s u c c e e d i n a t t r a c t i n g even P h i l i s t i n e r e a d e r s . Y e t Tennyson's e x p e r i m e n t a t i o n w i t h a v a r i e t y o f v e r s e forms i m m e d i a t e l y f o l l o w i n g t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f Poems s u g g e s t s t h a t r a t h e r t h a n e x p e c t h i s r e a d e r s t o r e a c h t h e O l y m p i a n h e i g h t s from w h i c h t h e A p o s t l e s l o o k e d down upon t h e w o r l d , he w o u l d — " L i k e some b r o a d r i v e r r u s h i n g down a l o n e " — a d d h i s c u r r e n t s even t o t h o s e o f " u n c o n g e n i a l s p i r i t s " i n t h e hopes o f e v e n t u a l l y m i x i n g w i t h them. Tennyson d i d n o t , as J a m i e s o n c o n c l u d e s , a d d r e s s o n l y t h e "young men o f Cambridge" i n h i s e a r l y poems; r a t h e r , t h e y formed an i n n e r c i r c l e i n w h i c h h i s poems, l i k e p e b b l e s dropped i n t o a p o o l , g e n e r a t e d c o n c e n t r i c r i n g s o f r e v e r b e r a t i o n . 3 3 6 d e a t h o f H a l l a m i n 1833, and h i s f a i l e d romance w i t h Rosa B a r i n g i n 1834-6. I n seeming t o c r e a t e o f H a l l a m ' s d e a t h a t y p e o f f e l i x c u l p a . r e a d e r s seldom f a i l t o comment on t h e i n t e n s e e m o t i o n a l power t h i s c r u c i a l e v e n t g e n e r a t e d i n Tennyson's p o e t r y . M o r e o v e r , H a l l a m ' s d e a t h p r o v i d e d Tennyson w i t h t h e s u b j e c t s f o r b o t h o f h i s most memorable l o n g poems: I n Memoriam, i n w h i c h H a l l a m i s e v e n t u a l l y a l l o w e d t o d i e , and The I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g f i n w h i c h he i s a l l e g o r i c a l l y b r o u g h t back t o l i f e . Of t h e many s c h o l a r s who w r i t e o f t h e i m p a c t o f H a l l a m ' s l o s s on Tennyson, t h e man, none has p u t i t i n more c l e a r l y t h a n R i c k s : " t h e e s s e n t i a l f a c t i s s i m p l y t h a t A l f r e d Tennyson and h i s s i s t e r l o v e d and needed A r t h u r H a l l a m and were l o v e d and needed by him. I t was i n t e g r a l t o t h a t l o v e (as t o a l l l o v e ) t h a t t h e y had so much t o o f f e r H a l l a m ; h e r e was somebody whom t h e Somersby T e n n y s o n s — s o i n c e s s a n t l y i n need o f s u p p o r t — c o u l d s u p p o r t , whether i n h i s b i t t e r n e s s o f f r u s t r a t i o n o r h i s e n e r g y o f i n v o l v e m e n t . The r e c i p r o c i t y o f l o v e e n a b l e d H a l l a m t o s u p p o r t them t o o " ( 1 1 5 ) . W i t h t h i s r e c i p r o c i t y o f p r i v a t e e a r t h l y l o v e s u d d e n l y removed, Tennyson, t h e p o e t , was f o r c e d g r a d u a l l y t o t r a n s f o r m h i s own p e r s o n a l a f f e c t i o n i n t o a f a r more p u b l i c — s i n c e f a r more d i f f u s e — f a i t h i n t h e power o f H a l l a m ' s s p i r i t u a l p r e s e n c e t o engender i n many o t h e r s t h e human sympathy t h a t , w h i l e l i v i n g , H a l l a m had i n s p i r e d i n h i s f r i e n d s . Tennyson's f i n a l a c c e p t a n c e o f such d i f f u s i o n , as w i t n e s s e d i n I n Memoriam, i s t e s t i m o n y t o t h e p o e t ' s r e f u s a l t o be s i l e n c e d by H a l l a m ' s d e a t h , b u t t o make o f i t a c r e a t i v e womb o u t o f w h i c h h i s u n i q u e p o e t i c v o i c e would i s s u e f o r t h beyond " t h e second b i r t h o f Death" (XLV 1 6 ) . That i t s g e s t a t i o n t o o k s e v e n t e e n y e a r s i s t h e r e f o r e n o t s u r p r i s i n g g i v e n t h e e n o r m i t y o f t h e t a s k o f a l t e r i n g , by way o f language a l o n e , what was now v a c a n c y i n t o a p r o f o u n d c o n f i r m a t i o n o f p r e s e n c e . A f t e r H a l l a m ' s d e a t h i n 1833, Tennyson, as R a l p h Rader p o s i t s , a t t e m p t e d t o " r e d i r e c t t h e e m o t i o n a l e n e r g i e s w h i c h , [were] once a b s o r b e d i n H a l l a m , [and] were now w i t h o u t a l i v i n g o b j e c t " ( 2 9 ) , i n t o an i n f a t u a t i o n w i t h Rosa B a r i n g . Here a g a i n , t h e l i v i n g o b j e c t o f Tennyson's l o v e and a f f e c t i o n would be l o s t t o him, b u t n o t b e f o r e he was made p r o f o u n d l y aware o f a c t u a l s o c i o - e c o n o m i c b a r r i e r s t h a t f r u s t r a t e t h e p r a c t i c a l r e a l i z a t i o n o f a s y m p a t h e t i c r e c i p r o c i t y o f human e m o t i o n , a r e c i p r o c i t y t h a t Tennyson a t Cambridge had i d e a l i s t i c a l l y f e l t would l e n d c o h e s i o n t o h i s f r a c t u r e d w o r l d . Tennyson's a f f e c t i o n s were, i n a c c o r d a n c e w i t h H a l l a m ' s t h e o r i e s o f t h e m o r a l v a l u e o f r e s p o n s i v e e m o t i o n , i n i t i a l l y a c t i v a t e d by Rosa B a r i n g ' s a e s t h e t i c b e a u t y , t h e s o u r c e f o r t h e f e m a l e p o r t r a i t i n "The G a r d e n e r ' s Daughter" (comp. 183 3- 4 ) , about 'which Tennyson m a i n t a i n e d t h a t t h e c e n t r a l d e s c r i p t i o n o f Rose, t h e g i r l , had t o be " f u l l and r i c h " s i n c e t h e s p e a k e r was a p a i n t e r whose p e n c i l was g u i d e d by Love t h e 338 " i d e a l A r t i s t " (25) (Memoir 1 6 4 ) . 1 3 But any p e r s o n a l emotion i n Tennyson's poem i s c l e a r l y s u b o r d i n a t e t o i t s d e s i g n , w h i c h i s t o frame t h e f e m a l e f i g u r e as s t a t i c o b j e c t w i t h i n a garden s u r r o u n d e d by a male w o r l d o f sound and a c t i o n . As "News from t h e humming c i t y comes t o i t / I n sound o f f u n e r a l o r o f m a r r i a g e b e l l s " (3 5-6), t h e g a r d e n and i t s p r e t t y inmate r e c e i v e s y m b o l i c i n d i c a t o r s o f t h e passage o f l i f e and d e a t h . L i k e w i s e , t h e g a r d e n e r ' s d a u g h t e r i s s i l e n c e d by t h e abundance o f d e s c r i p t i v e d e t a i l s o f t h e i d e a l A r t i s t , Love. The o n l y sound she makes i s r e c a p t u r e d v i s u a l l y by t h e p a i n t e r when he d e s c r i b e s h e r " s i l v e r f r a g m e n t s o f a b r o k e n v o i c e " (229) t h a t f a l t e r i n g l y u t t e r " ' I am t h i n e ' " (23 0 ) . Tennyson's poem i s s i m i l a r t o Browning's f a r more famous "My L a s t Duchess" i n i t s use o f a v e i l e d p o r t r a i t whose v e i l t h e s p e a k e r c o n t r o l s , and whose image t h e s p e a k e r more t h a n f l e s h e s o u t f o r "you" ( i n t h i s case t h e r e a d e r / v i e w e r ) t h r o u g h h i s m o n o l o g i c , v i s u a l r e c a s t i n g o f t h e woman. Y e t i n c o n t r a s t t o Browning's duke, Tennyson's p a i n t e r r e f u s e s t o l e t i n t h e l i g h t o f day upon t h e " s e c r e t b r i d a l - c h a m b e r s o f t h e h e a r t " ( 2 4 5 ) . I n s t e a d , he g i v e s vague h i n t s o f e v e n t s w h i c h l i k e l y 1 3 Rader a l l e g e s t h a t i t s "Rose" was p a t t e r n e d a f t e r Rosa B a r i n g , and b i o g r a p h i c a l e v i d e n c e s u g g e s t s t h a t she may have been. R i c k s a l s o n o t e s s e v e r a l p a s s a g e s from t h e "Gardener's D a u g h t e r " i n t h e T r i n i t y M a n u s c r i p t s t h a t a l l u d e more o b v i o u s l y t h a n does t h e p u b l i s h e d poem t o Tennyson's d i s a p p o i n t m e n t i n h i s a f f a i r w i t h Rosa B a r i n g . That Tennyson s h o u l d choose n o t t o i n c l u d e t h e s e l i n e s i n d i c a t e s h i s d e s i r e t o u n i v e r s a l i z e h i s p r i v a t e e x p e r i e n c e by k e e p i n g o n l y t h o s e a t t i t u d e s and emotions w i t h w h i c h h i s a u d i e n c e m i g h t r e a d i l y sympathize'. f o l l o w e d t h e i r m a r r i a g e . I n so d o i n g , Tennyson b r i n g s h i s r e a d e r s t o t h a t p r e c i s e moment a t w h i c h t h e v e i l i s t o be l i f t e d from t h e p a i n t i n g so t h a t Rose may be seen i n a l l h e r g l o r y . . . o n l y t o s t o p . F o r u l t i m a t e l y i t i s n o t t h e v e i l on t h i s p a i n t i n g o f Rose t h a t i s t o be r a i s e d a t a l l : " r a i s e t h y s o u l ; make t h i n e h e a r t r e a d y w i t h t h i n e e y e s " (267-8 emphasis added) t h e s p e a k e r - p a i n t e r commands o f h i s v i e w e r s ( r e a d e r s ) . And presumably each o f Tennyson's male r e a d e r s who has e v e r l o v e d , r e g a r d l e s s o f h i s age, i s t o see i n t h a t n o n e x i s t e n t p a i n t i n g " t h e i d o l o f [ h i s ] y o u t h , " o r " t h e d a r l i n g o f [ h i s ] manhood," o r , a l a s , " t h e most b l e s s e d memory o f [ h i s ] age" ( 2 7 1 - 3 ) . Tennyson's s t r a t e g y t o use h i s own l o v e f o r Rosa as t h e s o u r c e f o r t h e p a i n t e r ' s l o v e t h a t , i n t u r n , i s u l t i m a t e l y d e f l e c t e d o n t o h i s v i e w e r s , p r e s a g e s t h e s t r a t e g i e s o f I n Memoriam. The e a r l i e r poem a l s o employs a s p e a k e r who i s n o t h i m s e l f a l o n e b u t t h e whole w o r l d s p e a k i n g t h r o u g h him. The d e s i g n o f "The G a r d e n e r ' s Daughter" t o engage i t s r e c i p i e n t s becomes more a p p a r e n t i f c o n t r a s t e d w i t h an e a r l i e r companion poem, "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter" (comp. 1832). L i k e t h e g a r d e n e r ' s d a u g h t e r , t h e m i l l e r ' s d a u g h t e r , A l i c e , i s a l s o remembered by a n o s t a l g i c husband, b u t i n t h e e a r l i e r poem t h e w i f e i s s t i l l l i v i n g , and he a d d r e s s e s h i s r e t r o s p e c t i v e t o h e r . The s p e a k e r , i n t h i s c a s e n o t a p a i n t e r but s o m e t h i n g o f a p o e t a s t e r , a l s o c l a i m s t h a t "Love" compels him (187-94) t o r e c r e a t e h i s i n i t i a l wooing. Not s u r p r i s i n g l y , g i v e n h i s 340 o c c u p a t i o n , he r e l i e s on songs t o e x p r e s s t h i s l o v e , and A l i c e i s a s k e d t o s i n g back t o him h i s l o v e songs. As Rose u l t i m a t e l y becomes t h e p a i n t e r ' s c a n v a s , so A l i c e becomes t h e p o e t - s i n g e r ' s echo. The s i g n i f i c a n t d i f f e r e n c e between t h e s e two d a u g h t e r poems i s t h a t w h i l e "The G a r d e n e r ' s Daughter" w i t h h o l d s c l o s u r e and s e e k s i t s c o m p l e t i o n from i t s a u d i e n c e , "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter" i s an e n t i r e l y s e l f - c o n t a i n e d m e d i t a t i o n o f i t s s p e a k e r . He a s k s o f A l i c e : "Look t h r o u g h mine eyes w i t h t h i n e . True w i f e / Round my t r u e h e a r t t h i n e arms e n t w i n e / My o t h e r d e a r e r l i f e i n l i f e , / Look t h r o u g h my v e r y s o u l w i t h t h i n e ! " (215-18). The assonance, i n t e r n a l rhyme, and r e p e t i t i o n r e i n f o r c e t h r o u g h sound what t h e s p e a k e r m a i n t a i n s : t h a t she and he a r e i n t e r c h a n g e a b l e : "Two s p i r i t s t o one e q u a l mind" (236). I n such a t i g h t l y c l o s e d system o f f e l i c i t o u s r e c i p r o c i t y o n l y t h e m e l o d i o u s v e r s e engages t h e h e a r t f e l t sympathy o f t h e a u d i e n c e , and t h e n a t an a l m o s t e n t i r e l y e m o t i o n a l r a t h e r t h a n i n t e l l e c t u a l l e v e l . By t h e t i m e Tennyson had begun t o rework "The G a r d e n e r ' s D a u g h t e r " i n 1834, H a l l a m — f i g u r e d as t h e s p e a k e r ' s p a i n t e r companion, E u s t a c e , i n t h a t poem—had d i e d , and Rosa B a r i n g was on h e r way t o becoming f i r s t l o v e d and t h e n d e s p i s e d as t h e supposed p r o t o t y p e o f t h e "femme f a t a l e " o f Tennyson's " m a r r i a g e - h i n d e r i n g Mammon" poems: " L o c k s l e y H a l l , " "The F l i g h t , " "Edwin M o r r i s , " Maud, and "Aylmer's F i e l d . " 1 4 I n 1 4 R a l p h Rader's s t u d y o f t h e b i o g r a p h i c a l g e n e s i s o f Maud i s t h e f u l l e s t t r e a t m e n t o f Rosa B a r i n g ' s i n f l u e n c e upon Tennyson's p o e t r y . Rader makes much o f t h e f a c t t h a t t h e germ September 1834, Tennyson began s e v e r a l c o n v e n t i o n a l l y r i c s t o o r about Rosa w h i c h , i f t a k e n as a s e r i e s and a t f a c e v a l u e , seem t o r e c o r d , as M a r t i n s u g g e s t s , Tennyson's " i n f a t u a t i o n w i t h h e r , t h e n t h e s l o w r e a l i z a t i o n t h a t she d i d n o t l o v e him, t h a t h e r a t t r a c t i o n s were o n l y o f t h e s u r f a c e , and t h a t h e r w e a l t h and p o s i t i o n s t o o d between them as l o v e r s " ( 2 1 6 ) . Yet t h e poems above, and Tennyson's s o n n e t s o f f o r s a k e n l o v e (183 6) t h a t owe so much o f t h e i r f u r y and t h e i r s o r r o w t o t h e i m p o s i t i o n s o f c l a s s and w e a l t h upon t h e freedom o f l o v e r s , d e r i v e e q u a l l y from Tennyson's f r e q u e n t e x p o s u r e t o t h i s " s t o c k s i t u a t i o n " i n h i s own f a m i l y : H a l l a m was p r e v e n t e d from m a r r y i n g A l f r e d ' s s i s t e r E m i l y ; A l f r e d ' s b r o t h e r C h a r l e s was s e p a r a t e d from t h e f a m i l y g o v e r n e s s and l a t e r M i s s B u r t o n ; and F r e d e r i c k was u n a b l e t o marry C h a r l o t t e B e l l i n g h a m o r h i s c o u s i n J u l i a Tennyson d ' E y n c o u r t ( M a r t i n 217-18). Of m a r r i a g e s c o n t r a c t e d f o r w e a l t h and t i t l e , unhappy examples abound among Tennyson's r e l a t i v e s so t h a t Rosa B a r i n g need not be t h e s o l e c a t a l y s t f o r t h e p o e t ' s c a u s t i c v i e w o f women who were bought and s o l d as commodities upon t h e V i c t o r i a n m a r r i a g e market. I t i s c l e a r i n a poem l i k e "The F l i g h t " t h a t Tennyson h i m s e l f (as opposed t o h i s j i l t e d - l o v e r s p e a k e r s ) d i d f o r Maud, t h e "0 t h a t 'twere p o s s i b l e " l y r i c , d e r i v e s from t h e same p e r i o d i n w h i c h Tennyson was engaged i n an a l l e g e d l y t r a u m a t i c , u n r e q u i t e d a f f a i r w i t h Rosa. Hence, Rader does n o t v i e w Tennyson's f r u s t r a t e d m a r r i a g e poems w i t h i n t h e i r a l l t o o common V i c t o r i a n s o c i a l c o n t e x t o f t h e commodifying o f l o v e ; i n s t e a d , he i n c l i n e s t o t h e p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d v i e w , and sees Tennyson's l o v e p o e t r y as a r i s i n g out o f t h e p o e t ' s own f r u s t r a t e d p s y c h o - s e x u a l d e s i r e s . 342 n o t condemn women s p e c i f i c a l l y f o r t h e p r i d e t h a t k e p t them a t a haughty d i s t a n c e from t h e i r s i n c e r e l o v e r s . R a t h e r he condemned t h e i r f a m i l i e s who were p r e p a r e d t o use t h e i r s i n g l e women t o i n c r e a s e t h e i r own p r o p e r t y and p r e s t i g e . 1 5 C o n s e q u e n t l y , what b e g i n s w i t h "The M i l l e r ' s D a u g h t e r " i n t h e e a r l y 1830s as a b u c o l i c s e r i e s o f d o m e s t i c p o r t r a i t poems s e t t i n g f o r t h , i n a s t i l t e d f a s h i o n , t h e l o v e o f a male s p e a k e r f o r a b e a u t i f u l young woman, ends i n 184 2 w i t h d o m e s t i c c o m p l i c a t i o n s and t h e a n t i - f a m i l y v i t r i o l o f t h e d r a m a t i c " L o c k s l e y H a l l " . S i m i l a r a n t i - d o m e s t i c themes a r e t a k e n up l a t e r i n "Edwin M o r r i s " (1851), Maud (1855), and "Aylmer's F i e l d " (18 6 4 ) . As Tennyson g r a d u a l l y became aware o f t h e a l l - t o o - r e a l s o c i o - e c o n o m i c b a r r i e r s t h a t c o u l d f r u s t r a t e h i s and H a l l a m ' s i d e a l i s t i c hope f o r human sympathy 1 5 I n "Tennyson on Women's R i g h t s , " C a t h e r i n e B. S t e v e n s o n q u o t e s from a notebook k e p t by H a l l a m Tennyson as a s c h o o l b o y (1866-72) t h a t r e c o r d s h i s f a t h e r ' s l a t e r v i e w s on v a r i o u s i s s u e s , s p e c i f i c a l l y t h e r i g h t s o f women. I n r e s p o n s e t o t h e " M a r r i e d Women's P r o p e r t y A c t " (1870), f o r example, Tennyson i s r e c o r d e d as b e i n g s t r o n g l y i n f a v o u r o f i t : " A f t e r m a r r i a g e , i t i s s c a n d a l o u s t h a t a woman i s n o t a l l o w e d t o keep h e r m o n e y . . . . . Then whatever she e a r n s , she ought t o be a l l o w e d t o keep" ( q t d . 2 3 ) . Tennyson was a l s o i n f a v o u r o f p o l i t i c a l e n f r a n c h i s e m e n t f o r s i n g l e women a l t h o u g h n o t f o r m a r r i e d women s e e m i n g l y because o f p r o p e r t y and common laws t h a t bound m a r r i e d c o u p l e s t o g e t h e r . S u p p o s e d l y f o r Tennyson, t h e combined e n t i t l e m e n t t o one's own p r o p e r t y and t h e r i g h t t o v o t e ( i f s i n g l e ) "might ma[ke] h e r more wary about m a r r y i n g " ( 2 4 ) , s i n c e economic and p o l i t i c a l s e l f - d e t e r m i n a t i o n f o r s i n g l e women c o u l d p r e v e n t i l l - c o n t r a c t e d m a r r i a g e s b e i n g f o r c e d upon them by t h e i r f a m i l i e s . O b v i o u s l y , Tennyson's v i e w s on women, p r o p e r t y and m a r r i a g e d i d n o t change much i n f o r t y y e a r s ; what changed was V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y ' s g r a d u a l a c c e p t a n c e o f l e g a l r e f o r m as a means o f d e a l i n g w i t h t h e s e i s s u e s , changes o f w h i c h Tennyson k e p t w e l l a b r e a s t . 343 as a s a l v a t i o n f o r humankind, he began t o i n c o r p o r a t e r e a l l i f e i s s u e s i n t o h i s p o e t r y . Moreover, he acknowledged c o m p l i c a t i o n s o f t h e day i n ways t h a t would a l l o w f o r p a r t i c i p a t i o n by h i s r e a d e r s i n t h e dilemmas posed. D e s p i t e h i s enormous p e r s o n a l l o s s e s d u r i n g t h e 183 0s decade o f a l l e g e d " s i l e n c e , " Tennyson was p r o f e s s i o n a l l y engaged i n two d i s t i n c t a c t i v i t i e s : t h e c r e a t i o n o f a new mode o f p o e t r y , t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l , and s u b s t a n t i a l r e v i s i o n t o p r e v i o u s l y p u b l i s h e d l y r i c s , b o t h n a r r a t i v e and d r a m a t i c . W h i l e s e e m i n g l y d i s p a r a t e i n b o t h form and i n t e n t , s e v e r a l o f Tennyson's d o m e s t i c i d y l s and r e v i s e d l y r i c poems, such as "The Lady o f S h a l o t t , " s h a r e a common s t r u c t u r a l d e v i c e t h a t w o u l d come t o dominate Tennyson's p o e t i c p r a c t i c e : t h e use o f p e r i p h e r a l a c t i v i t y e i t h e r p a r a l l e l t o o r i n c o n t r a s t w i t h t h e c e n t r a l a c t i o n , s e r v i n g as a t y p e o f window o r frame t h r o u g h w h i c h t h e r e a d e r ' s gaze upon t h e c e n t r e i s f i l t e r e d . Of t h e i d y l s , t h e "Morte d ' A r t h u r " i s t h e most o b v i o u s example o f Tennyson's use o f a frame as a p o e t i c d e v i c e . Here, t h e p o e t ' s c o n s c i o u s engagement w i t h h i s r e a d i n g p u b l i c i s e v i d e n t s i n c e h i s frames o f t e n a l l u d e t o i f n o t a c t u a l l y comment d i r e c t l y upon c o n t e m p o r a r y e v e n t s and s i t u a t i o n s f a m i l i a r t o h i s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e , e x a c t l y t h e k i n d o f p o e t i c s u b j e c t m a t t e r t h a t Tennyson's c r i t i c s had r e q u e s t e d o f him. Nowhere i s t h i s more e v i d e n t t h a n i n t h e medley o f v o i c e s t h a t e v e n t u a l l y became The P r i n c e s s . Y e t Tennyson's i n i t i a l d e c i s i o n t o use a p e r i p h e r y t o draw s h a r p e r a t t e n t i o n t o t h e c e n t r e does n o t seem t o have a r i s e n s o l e l y o u t o f a r e s p o n s e t o c r i t i c i s m ; r a t h e r , i t stems from t h e g r a d u a l p o e t i c e x p a n s i o n o f h i s e a r l y f i x e d " p o r t r a i t s " o f women i n 18 3 2 i n t o s h o r t n a r r a t i v e poems o r i d y l l s ( l a t e r c l a s s e d as one '1' i d y l s t o d i s t i n g u i s h them from t h e I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g ) . I n t h e " E n g l i s h I d y l s " o f 1842, p o r t r a i t s o f women as d i s t i n c t as C l a r i b e l , L i l i a n , I s a b e l , M a d e l i n e , A d e l i n e , M a r i o n ( u n p u b l i s h e d ) , L i s e t t e ( u n p u b l i s h e d ) , E l e a n o r e , R o s a l i n d , M a r g a r e t , and K a t e f u r n i s h a g a l l e r y o f male r e s p o n s e s t o v a r i e t i e s o f f e m a l e n e s s . I n a s e n s e , t h e y s e r v e as a V i c t o r i a n c o n t r a s t t o Tennyson's "Dream o f F a i r Women," women who a r e a l l o w e d t o d e f i n e t h e m s e l v e s and t e l l t h e i r own s t o r i e s . U n l i k e "The Dream o f F a i r Women," Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n p o r t r a i t s a r e c o n t r o l l e d by t h e s p e a k e r ' s gaze. C o n c e n t r a t e d , d i r e c t , and u n s w e r v i n g i n i t s d e s i r e t o f i x t h e woman upon t h e page, t h e gaze r e n d e r s h e r a s t a t i c o b j e c t o f male c o n t e m p l a t i o n and o f t e n f r u s t r a t e d d e s i r e . 1 6 T h i s i s n o t t h e c a s e i n o t h e r f e m a l e - c e n t r e d poems o f 1832. I n c o n t r a s t t o t h o s e above, t h e f o l l o w i n g group shows Tennyson 1 6 W h i l e s e v e r a l o f Tennyson's male c r i t i c s p r a i s e d t h e s e " b e a u t i e s , " many o t h e r s t o o k extreme d i s l i k e t o Tennyson's g a l l e r y . The A m e r i c a n c r i t i c , F. M. F i n c h i n h i s " F r o l i c w i t h Tennyson" i n t h e Y a l e L i t e r a r y Magazine (Jan 1849) i s a t y p i c a l i n h i s use o f an u n u s u a l metaphor, b u t h i s i n t e n t t o c r i t i c i z e Tennyson's " u n n a t u r a l " p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h women i s common. A c c o r d i n g t o F i n c h , l i k e a s k i l f u l " a n g l e r " Tennyson had hooked women " t o h i s l i n e s , and d r a w i n g them o u t o f t h e i r n a t u r a l e l e m e n t s had d i s p l a y e d them t o us f l o u n d e r i n g u n e a s i l y i n t h e b a s k e t o f S c i e n c e and L i t e r a t u r e " ( q t d . i n E i d s o n 6 3 ) . t e n t a t i v e l y w o r k i n g out methods o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g f e m a l e b e h a v i o u r t h r o u g h t h e v o i c i n g o f f e m a l e mood and c h a r a c t e r i n a c t i o n r a t h e r t h a n s t a t i c p o r t r a i t u r e : t h e two M a r i a n a poems, "The Lady o f S h a l o t t , " " F a t i m a , " "Oenone," "The S i s t e r s , " and "The May Queen." W h i l e m a r k e d l y d i f f e r e n t i n t e c h n i q u e , s t r u c t u r e , and s e t t i n g , t h e s e poems s h a r e t h e theme o f pent-up e m o t i o n stemming from u n r e q u i t e d l o v e o f t e n l e a d i n g t o d e a t h . I n t e r e s t i n g l y , Tennyson combined t h i s theme w i t h h i s use o f "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter" as a model f o r t h e 1842 i d y l s t o c r e a t e poems w h i c h seldom a c h i e v e i t s i d y l l i c b l i s s , b u t r a t h e r i n t e n s i f y t h e dilemma o f f r u s t r a t e d l o v e so c e n t r a l t o Tennyson's p e r c e p t i o n o f women i n t h e 183 0s and 184 0s. I n t h i s development, "Dora" seems a t r a n s i t i o n poem: a s i m p l e n a r r a t i v e t h a t i s l e s s t e c h n i c a l l y c o m p l i c a t e d t h a n t h e i d y l s t o f o l l o w , y e t as t h e m a t i c a l l y complex as t h e b e s t o f Tennyson's poems o f l o v e and m a r r i a g e . The r e c i p r o c i t y o f l o v e h e a r d i n "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter" r e s u l t s from a language bond so s t r o n g t h a t t h e husband can c l a i m o f A l i c e " L i k e mine own l i f e t o me t h o u a r t " (19 6) ; t h u s she s i n g s h i s words, h i s l a n g u a g e . To f u r t h e r s y m b o l i z e t h i s bond, theme and t e c h n i q u e a r e a l s o i n harmony. For i n Tennyson's p o e t r y , d o m e s t i c p r o b l e m s g e n e r a l l y m a n i f e s t t h e m s e l v e s t h e m a t i c a l l y i n a d i s c o r d a n c e o f v o i c e and i d e a . As H a l l a m had a r g u e d i n h i s r e v i e w o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l , w i t h a p o e t o f s e n s a t i o n " t h e t o n e becomes a s i g n o f t h e f e e l i n g . . . . They r e c i p r o c a l l y s u g g e s t each o t h e r " (above 328). I n Tennyson's d o m e s t i c i d y l s , and i n d e e d t h r o u g h o u t h i s p o e t r y , when t h e spoken language bonds t h a t s y m b o l i z e o b l i g a t i o n s o f e i t h e r l o v e o r d u t y (among l o v e r s , f a m i l y members o r n e i g h b o u r i n g f a m i l i e s ) a r e b r o k e n , t h e n t h e s t r u c t u r e o f t h e n a r r a t i v e f r a c t u r e s , and t h e s o l e a u t h o r i t y t h a t might o t h e r w i s e be g r a n t e d by a s t r o n g , n a r r a t i v e v o i c e i s d i f f u s e d . I n t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l s , e i t h e r one o r b o t h o f two c a u s e s l e a d s t o such b r e a k a g e s : l o v e i s w i t h d r a w n i n f a v o u r o f a n o t h e r s u i t o r , o r , more s e r i o u s l y , money r e p l a c e s language as a medium o f exchange, r e s u l t i n g i n a c a s h nexus r a t h e r t h a n a l o v e c o n t r a c t . The t h e m a t i c c o m p l i c a t i o n s i n "Dora," f o r example, b e g i n even b e f o r e t h e poem's n a r r a t i v e p r o p e r w i t h t h e r e c o l l e c t i o n o f " h a r d words" spoken between f a r m e r A l l a n and h i s b r o t h e r . T h i s r e s u l t s i n A l l a n f e e l i n g o b l i g e d t o t a k e i n h i s b r o t h e r ' s c h i l d , Dora, as h i s own d a u g h t e r , and make h e r l i f e s e c u r e t h r o u g h m a r r i a g e t o h i s son, W i l l i a m , as recompense f o r h i s h a r s h t r e a t m e n t o f h e r f a t h e r . Throughout t h e poem, A l l a n a c t s as t h e a b s o l u t e p a t r i a r c h , a t t e m p t i n g t o c o n t r o l t h e l i v e s and f o r t u n e s o f o t h e r s t o a c h i e v e h i s own ends: t h r o u g h t h e m a r r i a g e o f Dora and W i l l i a m , a r e f o r g i n g o f t h e f a m i l y bond he had e a r l i e r b r o k e n ; and t h r o u g h h i s son's p r o v i s i o n o f a g r a n d c h i l d , a s s u r a n c e t h a t h i s f a m i l y s h o u l d r e m a i n s t r o n g t o g e t h e r d e s p i t e e a r l i e r d i s p u t e s . He t r i e s t o e f f e c t t h e s e ends t h r o u g h d i c t a t o r i a l language: " I n my t i m e a f a t h e r ' s word was law, / And so i t s h a l l be now f o r me" ( 2 5 - 6 ) . By r e f u s i n g t o l i s t e n , A l l a n ' s son W i l l i a m c h a l l e n g e s t h e h i s t o r i c a l a u t h o r i t y o f p a t r i a r c h a l law as an abuse o f language and s e t s i n p l a c e t h e s t r u c t u r e s by w h i c h i t w i l l be o v e r t h r o w n . T h e r e a f t e r , s i m i l a r d i c t u m s t o s i l e n c e Dora b i n d h e r f o r a t i m e t o h e r u n c l e ' s w i l l u n t i l a s t r o n g e r b o n d — m a t e r n a l l o v e f o r W i l l i a m ' s c h i l d b o t h b e f o r e and a f t e r t h e c h i l d i s g i v e n t o A l l a n — c a u s e s h e r t o r e p u d i a t e h e r u n c l e , and work t o r e p l a c e t h e v o i c e o f t h e d i c t a t o r w i t h t h e language o f s h a r e d human l o v e and s e n t i m e n t t h a t she e x p r e s s e s w i t h W i l l i a m ' s w i f e Mary, a woman who m i g h t o t h e r w i s e have been c o n s i d e r e d h e r r i v a l . Thus t h e f i n a l scene o f A l l a n ' s r e p e n t a n c e i s prompted by Mary s p e a k i n g f o r Dora. Here, as i n "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter," t h e two women r e c i p r o c a t e each o t h e r ' s e m o t i o n s . T h e i r r e c i p r o c i t y c h a l l e n g e s A l l a n t o echo h i s son's p e n i t e n c e f o r f i l i a l d i s o b e d i e n c e by a d m i t t i n g h i s g u i l t ; A l l a n , i n t u r n , must ask f o r g i v e n e s s o f h i s own f a t h e r — G o d . I n one s e n s e , "Dora" c l o s e s w i t h a d o m e s t i c harmony s i m i l a r t o t h e one e x p r e s s e d i n "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter." T h i s harmony i s s y m b o l i z e d by t h e f o u r c h a r a c t e r s l i v i n g o u t t h e i r l i v e s t o g e t h e r under a s i n g l e r o o f . I n t h i s r e s p e c t , Tennyson keeps t o t h e c h e e r f u l t o n e o f h i s s o u r c e , Mary R u s s e l l M i t f o r d ' s s t o r y , Dora C r e s s w e l l ( R i c k s Poems I I 6 7 ) . Y e t a m e l a n c h o l i c , d i s c o r d a n t n o t e r e v e r b e r a t e s i n t h e l a s t l i n e ' o f Tennyson's poem: "Dora l i v e d u n m a r r i e d t i l l h e r d e a t h " ( 1 6 7 ) . I t i s p r e c i s e l y t h i s p l a y i n g out t o t h e d e a t h o f t h e t r i a l s o f 348 l o v e ' s m a r t y r s t h a t w i l l come t o dominate Tennyson's v e r s e . "Dora" t h u s ends where Tennyson's l a t e r i d y l s o f t e n b e g i n . A l t h o u g h t h e i d y l s s h a r e a p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h u n r e q u i t e d l o v e , t h e r e a r e d i f f e r e n c e s — o n e s w h i c h r e g i s t e r a u d i b l y r a t h e r t h a n i d e a t i o n a l l y . That i s , t h e v o i c e s o f t h e u n l o v e d a r e h e a r d upon a t o n a l s p e c t r u m t h a t r a n g e s from t h e w i s t f u l , t o t h e m o u r n f u l , t h r o u g h t o t h e i r a t e . "Edwin M o r r i s , " w r i t t e n i n 1839 though n o t p u b l i s h e d u n t i l 1851, r e g i s t e r s d i f f e r e n t v o i c e s i n a medley n o t u n l i k e i t s more sonorous s u c c e s s o r , The P r i n c e s s , as Tennyson t r i e s m u l t i p l e p o e t i c r e s p o n s e s t o t h e same o r s i m i l a r s o c i a l r e s t r i c t i o n s a f f e c t i n g l o v e , m a r r i a g e , f a m i l y r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , and p r o p e r t y . S i n c e s i m p l i s t i c s o l u t i o n s t o t h e s e complex i s s u e s were becoming i n c r e a s i n g l y i m p o s s i b l e , t h e poem's v e r y s t r u c t u r e r e p l i c a t e d t h e d i v e r s i t y o f o p i n i o n Tennyson knew h i s a u d i e n c e l i k e l y h e l d . "Edwin M o r r i s " r e c o l l e c t s p r e v i o u s e v e n t s o f l o v e g a i n e d and l o s t w i t h i n a framework o f t h e p r e s e n t f o r r e a s o n s s i m i l a r t o Wordsworth's i n h i s poem " T i n t e r n Abbey": as an o a s i s o f memory a m i d s t t h e " d u s t and d r o u t h / Of c i t y l i f e " ("Edwin M o r r i s " 3-4). I n Tennyson's c a s e , however, t h e woman as l o v e r i s not r e c o l l e c t e d f o r h e r a t t a c h m e n t t o r e j u v e n a t i n g n a t u r e as i s D o r o t h y Wordsworth. L e t t y i n "Edwin M o r r i s " i s r e c a l l e d by t h e p a i n t e r - s p e a k e r as p a r t o f a memory f a r more human t h a n d i v i n e : "She seems a p a r t o f t h o s e f r e s h days t o me; / F o r i n t h e d u s t and d r o u t h o f London l i f e / She moves among my v i s i o n s o f t h e l a k e " (142-4). Tennyson's use o f p a s t o r a l c o n v e n t i o n s i n h i s i d y l s ( i n t h i s c a s e , t h e o p p o s i t i o n between town and c o u n t r y ) a r e u s u a l l y n o t , as Donald H a i r s u g g e s t s , echoes o f T h e o c r i t u s . R a t h e r , t h e y a r e b u t f a i n t t r a c e s o f a t r a d i t i o n a l p o e t r y whose b u c o l i c v i s i o n o f t h e w o r l d can no l o n g e r c a p t u r e t h e t e n s i o n s a t work i n Tennyson's s o c i e t y . The form t h a t Tennyson's i d y l s t a k e t h u s r e s u l t s n o t from t h e p o e t ' s r e w o r k i n g o f a c l a s s i c a l form t o s u i t V i c t o r i a n needs, b u t from t h e i r b e i n g s e t f i r m l y w i t h i n t h e c o m p l e x i t i e s o f h i s t i m e . The t r i o o f male v o i c e s i n "Edwin M o r r i s " used t o a r t i c u l a t e t h e v a l u e o f woman t o man i s a c a s e i n p o i n t . These men a r e n o t p a s t o r a l i n n o c e n t s , s h e p h e r d s , o r d r o v e r s . I n t h e n a r r a t i v e p r o p e r , Edwin M o r r i s and Edward B u l l , f u l l y grown men w i t h a n t i t h e t i c a l v i e w s o f l o v e , t r y t o shape t h e o p i n i o n o f t h e t h i r d , soon t o be j i l t e d , young l o v e r . And t h e l o v e r h i m s e l f l i s t e n s t o b o t h , c r i t i c a l o f each man's e x c e s s e s . D e s p i t e h i s age, Edwin M o r r i s r e c i t e s a n a i v e p a s t o r a l t o l o v e t h a t s w e e t l y oozes s e n t i m e n t from h i s " f u l l - c e l l e d honeycomb o f e l o q u e n c e " ( 2 6 ) . The s p e a k e r r e s p o n d s t o him " h a l f - s a r d o n i c a l l y " because he s e n s e s i n M o r r i s ' s language a " t o u c h o f s o m e t h i n g f a l s e , some s e l f - c o n c e i t " (74) , a s u p e r e r o g a t o r y emotion. C o n v e r s e l y t h e c u r a t e , Edward B u l l , p i t c h e s h i s " p i p e t o o low" (52) f o r t h e s p e a k e r , c l e a r l y d e p i c t i n g women as mere human b r e e d e r s . B o t h t h e a r t i f i c i a l and t h e g r o s s a r e r e j e c t e d . I n t h e i r p l a c e , t h e s p e a k e r t e l l s h i s own s t o r y i n w h i c h t h e p o e t i c d i s p o s i t i o n he s h a r e s w i t h Edwin i s tempered by t h e r e a l i t y o f t h e " r e n t r o l l C u p i d " t h a t c a u s e d him t o l o s e L e t t y , a f o r c e p e r h a p s as g r o s s as t h e C u r a t e ' s y e t f a r more w i d e l y a c c e p t e d s o c i a l l y and t h e r e f o r e more i n s i d i o u s . Y e t t h e l o v e r h e r e does n o t r a n t as Maud's l o v e r w i l l l a t e r do a g a i n s t t h e " l u s t o f g a i n , i n t h e s p i r i t o f C a i n " (Maud I 23) o r as L e o l i n w i l l a g a i n s t " f i l t h y m a r r i a g e - h i n d e r i n g Mammon" ("Aylmer's F i e l d " 3 74) . R a t h e r , he a l l o w s t h e p r e s e n t moment w i t h i n t h e frame t o q u a l i f y t h e p a s t by q u e s t i o n i n g h i s p r e v i o u s judgement o f L e t t y . Then, by l e t t i n g h i s p a i n t e r l y i m a g i n a t i o n t a k e o v e r , w i t h t h e a z u r e b r u s h o f n o s t a l g i a , he r e c a p t u r e s h e r i n a summer l a n d s c a p e o f b l i s s f u l q u i e t u d e . Through t h e i r use o f an i m a g i n a t i v e language t h a t can, d e s p i t e b a r r i e r s o f t i m e and p l a c e , r e f o r g e i n t h e mind t h o s e bonds t h a t have been b r o k e n i n r e a l i t y , o r can c a s t women i n t o images o f t h e m s e l v e s , Tennyson's male s p e a k e r s i n t h e i d y l s c r e a t e a v a r i e t y o f moods a p p r o p r i a t e n o t o n l y t o t h e i r own c h a r a c t e r s , b u t t o t h e d i f f e r i n g s e n s i b i l i t i e s o f t h e h e t e r o g e n e o u s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e . Through s u c h d i v e r s i t y , Tennyson t h e r e b y encourages m a n i f o l d r e s p o n s e s among h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s : a c c e p t a n c e , r e j e c t i o n , o r c o n t e m p l a t i o n o f t h e a r r a y o f p o t e n t i a l a t t i t u d e s t o w a r d t h e i s s u e s o f l o v e , m a r r i a g e , p r o p e r t y , and d u t y . I n c o n t r a s t , Tennyson's f e m a l e j i l t e d - l o v e r s a r e l i m i t e d i n t h e i r r e s p o n s e s because o f t h e i r gender. T h e i r l i m i t a t i o n s , i n t u r n , d e v o l v e d upon Tennyson h i m s e l f . H i s use o f f e m a l e s u b j e c t s was n o t w i t h o u t c o n s i d e r a b l e c o n t r o v e r s y i n t h e V i c t o r i a n c r i t i c a l p r e s s . A c c o r d i n g t o C a r o l C h r i s t , i n h e r a n a l y s i s o f "The F e m i n i n e S u b j e c t i n V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y , " " c o n c e r n w i t h t h e gender o f p o e t i c s e n s i b i l i t y , l i k e gender c o n c e r n s o f a l l k i n d s , becomes i n c r e a s i n g l y a c u t e i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d , and Tennyson, [as A u s t i n had a s s e r t e d i n h i s Temple Bar a r t i c l e o f 18 69] i s t h e V i c t o r i a n p o e t most c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e f e m i n i z a t i o n o f p o e t r y " (385-86). As i n h e r p r e v i o u s work i n V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y , The F i n e r O p t i c , C h r i s t a t t r i b u t e s Tennyson's p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h women a l s o t o h i s "gaze." She v i e w s t h i s male gaze as u n a u t h o r i z e d , a t y p e o f " e r o t i c t h e f t t h r o u g h w h i c h t h e male i n c o r p o r a t e s a power he l o c a t e s i n t h e f e m a l e " (386). Commenting on numerous e a r l y l y r i c s t h a t use t h e f e m i n i n e s u b j e c t as a c o n t r o l l i n g p r i n c i p l e , C h r i s t c o n c l u d e s ( a l o n g l i n e s s i m i l a r t o h e r e a r l i e r a r t i c l e , " V i c t o r i a n M a s c u l i n i t y and t h e A n g e l i n t h e House" t h a t " t h e o r g a n i z i n g power o f t h e f e m a l e s u b j e c t s a t i s f i e s a d r i v e t o w a r d f e m i n i n e i d e n t i f i c a t i o n , w h i l e t h e e f f a c e m e n t o f t h e n a r r a t o r h i d e s t h e gaze t h a t i s i t s v e h i c l e " ( 3 9 1 ) . F o r C h r i s t , problems ensue i n l a t e r n a r r a t i v e poems, s u c h as Maud o r t h e I d y l l s , when t h e gaze i s f r a c t u r e d because Tennyson's h e r o e s t r y t o imbue " t h e power o f c i v i l i z i n g s e l f and w o r l d t o t h e image t h e y c o n s t r u c t o f t h e i r b e l o v e d " woman, a power w h i c h t h e image as a " f r a g i l e p o e t i c i z a t i o n " c a n n o t s u s t a i n ( 3 9 1 ) . C h r i s t c o n c l u d e s t h a t d a n g e r s t o h i s 352 r e p u t a t i o n u l t i m a t e l y b e s e t t h e male p o e t who " a s s o c i a t e s b o t h w i t h t h e d i r e c t gaze a t t h e woman and w i t h t h e f e m i n i n e i d e n t i f i c a t i o n t o w h i c h he f r e q u e n t l y r e s o r t s t o a v o i d such a gaze. L o o k i n g a t t h e woman, t h e p o e t can l o s e name and fame; l o o k i n g as a woman, he d i e s " ( 3 9 5 ) . A u s t i n ' s a n x i e t y about Tennyson's " f e m i n i n e muse" i s , f o r C h r i s t , t y p i c a l o f t h e V i c t o r i a n f e a r s o f b o t h sexes "about w h i c h gender p o s s e s s e s t h e power o f a u t h o r s h i p " (399) . W h i l e C h r i s t i n h i n d s i g h t a c c u r a t e l y a s s e s s e s t h e n e g a t i v e consequences t h a t Tennyson s u f f e r e d i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h i s c e n t u r y because o f h i s a p p r o p r i a t i o n o f women's " v i e w s , " h e r f o c u s on t h e v i s u a l gaze t e n d s t o l i m i t t h e means by w h i c h Tennyson t r a n s f o r m e d h i s s t a t i c p o r t r a i t s o f women i n t o complex p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e s . C o n s e q u e n t l y , C h r i s t can o n l y c o n c l u d e t h a t Tennyson's v i s i o n i s t h e r e f o r e f r a c t u r e d i n l o n g e r , i n t r i c a t e l y p l o t t e d works s i n c e t h e eye's f i e l d i s n e c e s s a r i l y c i r c u m s c r i b e d by what i t can t a k e i n a t once. T r y i n g t o be b o t h s u b j e c t and o b j e c t s i m u l t a n e o u s l y , v i s i o n n e c e s s a r i l y f a l t e r s . However, Tennyson's a d o p t i o n o f t h e " f e m i n i n e " i n s u b j e c t m a t t e r and i n form was i n no way r e s t r i c t e d t o t h e v i s u a l . As many n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s had n o t e d , Tennyson's t i e s t o t h e f e m i n i n e a l s o d e v e l o p e d i n terms o f sound and language and n o t j u s t t h r o u g h v i s u a l imagery. Had C h r i s t added t o h e r s t u d y Tennyson's a p p r o p r i a t i o n o f t h e f e m a l e v o i c e , she m i g h t have more f u l l y e x p l a i n e d how Tennyson c o u l d s i m u l t a n e o u s l y speak about women, 353 speak t o women, and speak w i t h a woman's v o i c e , and n o t l o s e any e s s e n t i a l a e s t h e t i c power s i n c e v a l u e would be i n s c r i b e d i n t e r a c t i v e l y between t h e t e x t and an a u d i e n c e t h a t would i n c l u d e women. I n t h i s c a s e , t h e s o - c a l l e d f r a c t u r i n g o f a poem w o u l d be a d e l i b e r a t e way o f b r i n g i n g a c h o r u s o f v o i c e s i n t o p l a y a l l a t once. Tennyson's t r a n s f o r m a t i o n o f t h e s e e m i n g l y v i s u a l m a s t e r p i e c e , "The Lady o f S h a l o t t , " d e m o n s t r a t e s w e l l t h e p o e t ' s awareness o f f a r more t h a n j u s t v i s u a l r e c e p t i o n as a d e t e r m i n e r o f meaning. I t s r e v i s e d e n d i n g i l l u s t r a t e s Tennyson's m a n i p u l a t i o n o f t h e d e f l e c t e d v o i c e and n o t j u s t t h e d e f l e c t e d gaze as a p o e t i c method o f d i v e s t i n g t h e l y r i c s p e a k e r o f s o l e a u t h o r i t y , t h e r e b y e n h a n c i n g t h e p o t e n t i a l f o r 17 a u d i e n c e i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f t h e dilemma h i s l y r i c evokes. The p o p u l a r i t y o f t h e 1842 poem i s due, i n p a r t , t o t h e range o f i n t e r p r e t a t i v e p o s s i b i l i t i e s t h e l y r i c a l l o w e d ; t h i s i s e v i d e n t i n t h e number and d i v e r s i t y o f i l l u s t r a t i o n s o f t h e l a d y o f S h a l o t t t h a t appeared i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . Of many c r i t i c a l s t u d i e s o f "The Lady o f S h a l o t t , " L i o n e l S t e v e n s o n ' s "'The h i g h b o r n maiden' symbol i n Tennyson" i s l i k e l y t h e b e s t known as S t e v e n s o n a t t e m p t s t o p l a c e t h e l a d y p s y c h o l o g i c a l l y , as one "anima" a m i d s t many i n Tennyson's g a l l e r y o f u n r e q u i t e d f e m a l e l o v e r s . K a r e n Hodder's "The Lady o f S h a l o t t i n A r t and L i t e r a t u r e " i s p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t e r e s t i n g as an i n t e r d i s c i p l i n a r y v i e w o f how and why Tennyson and V i c t o r i a n a r t i s t s came t o v i e w t h i s m e d i e v a l l a d y as a s t r o n g symbol o f t h e V i c t o r i a n woman. 1 8 A c a t a l o g u e o f i l l u s t r a t i o n s and e s s a y s a n a l y z i n g t h e more i m p o r t a n t o f t h e s e was r e c e n t l y p u b l i s h e d subsequent t o an e x h i b i t i o n a t Brown U n i v e r s i t y e n t i t l e d L a d i e s o f S h a l o t t : A V i c t o r i a n M a s t e r p i e c e and I t s C o n t e x t s (1985); t h e e s s a y s i n t h e volume f o c u s p r i m a r i l y on work by t h e P r e - R a p h a e l i t e s , 354 And w h i l e Tennyson may have o b j e c t e d t o such an i l l u s t r a t i o n as W i l l i a m Holman Hunt's, he had n o n e t h e l e s s t o a c c e p t , as R u s k i n reminded him i n a l e t t e r , 24 J u l y 1857, t h a t good p i c t u r e s would n e v e r be i l l u s t r a t i o n s o f h i s poems: " t h e y a r e a l w a y s a n o t h e r poem, s u b o r d i n a t e b u t w h o l l y d i f f e r e n t from t h e p o e t ' s c o n c e p t i o n , and s e r v e c h i e f l y t o show t h e r e a d e r how v a r i o u s l y t h e same v e r s e s may a f f e c t v a r i o u s minds" (XXXIV 264-5). The same may have been t r u e o f v o c a l i z a t i o n s o f h i s poems a l t h o u g h w i t h o u t a c t u a l r e c o r d i n g s o f d i v e r s e r e a d i n g s , one can o n l y s p e c u l a t e on t h e a u d i t o r y i m p a c t o f "The Lady o f S h a l o t t . " As a p r o t o t y p e o f f e m i n i n e e m o t i o n a l postponement, t h e 18 3 2 l a d y o f S h a l o t t u n k n o w i n g l y i s s u b j e c t t o a c u r s e : i n e s s e n c e , t h i s i s t h e c o n t r o l o f h e r p e r s o n by t h e n a r r a t o r who l i m i t s h e r s o l e l y t o a n a r r a t i v e o f t h e p e r p e t u a l weaver t h a t , i n 19 t u r n , c o n f i n e s h e r t o s t a t i c s e l f - i m a g i n g t h r o u g h a r t . That e s p e c i a l l y W i l l i a m Holman Hunt's famous 1857 Moxon i l l u s t r a t i o n o f t h e l a d y ' s entrapment w i t h i n t h e s k e i n s o f h e r unwound web once she d i s o b e y s t h e i n j u n c t i o n s o f t h e c u r s e upon h e r . 19 . . . . I n Love and t h e Woman Q u e s t i o n i n V i c t o r i a n L i t e r a t u r e : The A r t o f S e l f - P o s t p o n e m e n t , K a t h l e e n B l a k e s t u d i e s v a r i e t i e s o f f e m a l e s e l f - p o s t p o n e m e n t : " f e m i n i n e , " " f e m i n i s t , " and a r t i s t i c . I n t h e f i r s t c h a p t e r , she a r g u e s t h a t C h r i s t i n a R o s s e t t i was an exemplar o f f e m i n i n e "hope d e f e r r e d , " and t h a t a g a i n and a g a i n h e r p o e t r y c o n c e r n s f e m a l e f i g u r e s who deny e a r t h l y f u l f i l m e n t as i f w a i t i n g p a t i e n t l y f o r s p i r i t u a l wholeness t o a r r i v e t h r o u g h d e a t h as a form o f s e x u a l y e t s y m b o l i c a l l y immaculate u n i t y w i t h God t h e p a t r i a r c h ( 3 - 2 5 ) . Her work on R o s s e t t i s u g g e s t s i n t e r e s t i n g p a r a l l e l s w i t h s e v e r a l o f Tennyson's e a r l y l y r i c s about women who w a i t , s i m u l t a n e o u s l y , f o r l o v e and d e a t h : " M a r i a n n a , " " M a r i a n n a i n t h e S o u t h , " " O r i a n a , " ( t h r o u g h t h e v o i c e o f t h e male l o v e r ) , " F a t i m a , " "Oenone," "The May Queen," " S t Agnes' 355 she was p o r t r a y e d s t r i c t l y as an a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t , as p a r t o f t h e e l a b o r a t e t a p e s t r y t h a t she weaves, i s e v i d e n t i n p h r a s e s t h a t Tennyson d e l e t e d from t h e 1842 e d i t i o n . The 1832 l a d y was d i s p l a y e d i n r e g a l p o s t u r e : "A p e a r l g a r l a n d winds h e r head: / She l e a n e t h on a v e l v e t bed, / F u l l r o y a l l y a p p a r e l l e d " ( 2 4 - 6 ) . Moreover, she was once b o t h web and m i r r o r : " B e f o r e h e r hangs a m i r r o r c l e a r , / R e f l e c t i n g t o w e r e d Camelot, / And, as t h e mazy web she w h i r l s " ( 4 9 - 5 1 ) . F i n a l l y , b e f o r e l e a v i n g h e r t o w e r , "A c l o u d w h i t e crown o f p e a r l she d i g h t . / A l l r a i m e n t e d i n snowy w h i t e / That l o o s e l y f l e w , ( h e r zone i n s i g h t , / C l a s p e d w i t h one b l i n d i n g diamond b r i g h t , ) " ( d e l e t e d l i n e s i n p a r t I V ) . The 1832 poem may o s t e n s i b l y p o s i t t h a t h e r d e a t h r e s u l t s from h e r a s s u m p t i o n o f agency, and a r e f u s a l t o e x i s t any l o n g e r as t h e p a s s i v e i m p r i n t o f . a w o r l d t h a t i s p a s s i n g h e r by, b u t t h e c o n c l u d i n g l i n e s n o n e t h e l e s s r e t a i n t h e i m p r e s s i o n t h a t t h e l a d y i s s t i l l t o be v i s u a l l y gazed upon as an a r t i s t i c c o n s t r u c t o f t h e c u r s e ' s d e s i g n i n g : Eve," "The Day Dream," "Rosamund's Bower," and, most c o m p l e t e l y , "The Lady o f S h a l o t t . " Tennyson's use o f " f e m i n i n e postponement" a c h i e v e s i t s a p o t h e o s i s i n I n Memoriam i n w h i c h t h e s p e a k e r b o t h images H a l l a m as an a b s e n t l o v e r and i d e n t i f i e s him w i t h C h r i s t ; t h e i r r e u n i f i c a t i o n he, a t f i r s t , d e s i r e s i n a p h y s i c a l , e r o t i c way t h a t becomes i n c r e a s i n g l y s p i r i t u a l i z e d as t h e poem p r o g r e s s e s . I n Memoriam i s d i s c u s s e d a t l e n g t h below. They c r o s s e d t h e m s e l v e s , t h e i r s t a r s t h e y b l e s t , K n i g h t , m i n s t r e l , abbot, s q u i r e and g u e s t . There l a y a parchment on h e r b r e a s t , That p u z z l e d them more t h a n a l l t h e r e s t , The w e l l f e d w i t s a t Camelot. 'The web was woven c u r i o u s l y The charm i s b r o k e n u t t e r l y . Draw n e a r and f e a r n o t — t h i s i s I , The Ladv o f S h a l o t t . ' (163-71) I n t h e s e l i n e s , t h e r e c i p i e n t s o f t h e l a d y as an a e s t h e t i c c r e a t i o n a r e i d e n t i f i e d as a mixed group o f members o f t h e c o u r t , w i t h c u r i o u s a l l e g i a n c e s t o C a t h o l i c i s m ( c r o s s e d t h e m s e l v e s ) , astronomy ( s t a r s t h e y b l e s t ) , and e p i c u r e a n i s m ( w e l l - f e d ) . They c o l l e c t i v e l y come upon t h e l a d y as a crowd, p u z z l e d more by t h e parchment t h a n " a l l t h e r e s t " (which has no a n t e c e d e n t , b u t presumably r e f e r s t o h e r f a n t a s t i c pose and r a i m e n t s ) , y e t a r e t h e m s e l v e s d e n i e d any r e a l r e s p o n s e . They a r e d i r e c t e d i n how e x a c t l y t o v i e w h e r and h e r s i t u a t i o n t h r o u g h h e r parchment's d e c l a r a t i v e s and i m p e r a t i v e s , c r y p t i c as t h e y a r e . I n t h i s way, she r e m a i n s an a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t , a s t a t i c , s e l f - a r t i c u l a t i n g r e g i s t e r o f t h e powers o f t h e charm; h e r parchment t e x t m e r e l y r e p l a c e s t h e p r e v i o u s t e x t i l e r e g i s t e r o f h e r l i f e . She i s d e n i e d any t r u e agency o r s u b j e c t i v i t y t o a f f e c t h e r immediate a u d i e n c e i n any i n t e g r a l way s i n c e t h e group r e a c t s s i m p l y w i t h s u p e r s t i t i o u s g e s t u r e s as i f i n t h e p r e s e n c e o f t h e embodiment o f t h e c u r s e i t s e l f r a t h e r t h a n a dead woman. I n t h e 1842 v e r s i o n o f t h e poem, however, s e v e r a l f e a t u r e s a r e a l t e r e d t o f i t w i t h a s u b s t a n t i a l l y d i f f e r e n t c o n c l u s i o n t h a t g r a n t s agency t o b o t h t h e l a d y and h e r Camelot r e c e p t o r s , u l t i m a t e l y l i m i t e d t o L a n c e l o t h i m s e l f . The agency g r a n t e d t o t h e poem's p a r t i c i p a n t s t h e r e b y l i b e r a t e s Tennyson's a u d i e n c e as w e l l t o r e a c t t o i t s e n i g m a t i c dilemma i n a l e s s s t r u c t u r e d way t h a n p r e v i o u s l y . The r e f e r e n c e s t o t h e l a d y ' s b e j e w e l l e d appearance a r e e i t h e r removed a l t o g e t h e r o r r e p l a c e d by q u e s t i o n s c o n c e r n i n g h e r c o r p o r e a l i t y : "But who h a t h seen h e r wave h e r hand? / Or a t t h e casement seen h e r s t a n d ? / Or i s she known i n a l l t h e l a n d [ ? ] " ( 2 4 - 6 ) . These a n t i c i p a t e t h e q u e s t i o n s t h a t open t h e new f i n a l s t a n z a . The l a d y i s a l s o now g r a n t e d p h y s i c a l b e i n g and s u b j e c t i v i t y t h r o u g h t h e s e q u e s t i o n s ( a l b e i t i n c o n c l u s i v e l y ) . I n t h e 183 2 poem, she had been unaware o f t h e charm t h a t i m p r i s o n e d h e r w i t h i n i t s web; t h u s h e r c h o i c e t o abandon i t s d e s i g n f o r t h a t o f Camelot r e a d a l m o s t as a t y p e o f n a i v e s u b s t i t u t i o n o f one g l i t t e r y t e x t f o r a n o t h e r , one now f i l l e d w i t h t h e " r e d c l o a k s o f market g i r l s " ( 5 3 ) , t h e " l o n g - h a i r e d page i n c r i m s o n c l a d " ( 5 8 ) , and, o f c o u r s e , t h e s h i n i n g g o l d and s i l v e r o f L a n c e l o t h i m s e l f . Once t h e l a d y i s s h o r n o f h e r own f i n e r y i n 1842, however, h e r " r e d - c r o s s k n i g h t " and h i s armour b l a z e more b r i g h t l y i n c o n t r a s t , and t h e s i g n i f i c a n c e o f L a n c e l o t as h e r v i s u a l a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t i n P a r t I I I o f t h e poem, w h i c h remained unchanged, i s t h e r e b y enhanced. C o n s e q u e n t l y , h e r i m p u l s e t o b r e a k f r e e o f t h e c u r s e — w h i c h i n t h i s v e r s i o n she a c t u a l l y o v e r h e a r s ( 3 9 - 4 1 ) — n o w r e s u l t s from a c l e a r l y s e l f - d e t e r m i n e d w i s h t o assume an a c t i v e s u b j e c t i v i t y w i t h L a n c e l o t as h e r d e s i r e d o b j e c t . Newly added 358 images o f t r a f f i c on t h e r i v e r r e i n f o r c e t h e t e n s i o n between t h e l a d y ' s s t a t i c c l o i s t e r and t h e dynamic human a c t i v i t y t h a t t h e a r t o f h e r loom f i x e s so t h a t , when she does make t h e c h o i c e t o f l e e such s t a s i s , r e a d e r s s h a r e w i t h h e r a p r o f o u n d sense o f t h e i n e v i t a b i l i t y o f h e r c h o i c e and t h e i n e l u c t a b l e doom t h a t such a d e c i s i o n e n t a i l s . Because t h e l a d y i n 1842 i s shown t o be more aware t h a n i n t h e e a r l i e r v e r s i o n t h a t a " c u r s e i s on h e r i f she s t a y / To l o o k down t o Camelot" (40-41) , t h e new e n d i n g t o t h e poem p e r f o r c e q u e s t i o n s r a t h e r t h a n g i v e s answers f o r t h e l a d y ' s p e r p l e x i n g d e s i r e t o abandon h e r s e l f t o h e r f u t u r e d e s t r u c t i o n . Once dead, she no l o n g e r d i r e c t s t h e gaze o f h e r a u d i e n c e t h r o u g h any t y p e o f c o n t r o l l e d n a r r a t i v e , b u t a l l o w s f o r i t s d i f f u s i o n t h r o u g h p o t e n t i a l l y autonomous r e s p o n s e s t o t h e q u e s t i o n s o f who she i s and what h e r d e a t h s i g n i f i e s : Who i s t h i s ? and what i s h e r e ? And i n t h e l i g h t e d p a l a c e n e a r D i e d t h e sound o f r o y a l c h e e r ; And t h e y c r o s s e d t h e m s e l v e s f o r f e a r , A l l t h e k n i g h t s a t Camelot: But L a n c e l o t mused a l i t t l e s p a c e ; He s a i d , 'She has a l o v e l y f a c e ; God i n h i s mercy l e n d h e r g r a c e , The l a d y o f S h a l o t t . ' (163-71) The i n t e r r o g a t i v e s . t h a t b e g i n t h e s t a n z a a r e n e v e r r e a l l y answered; r a t h e r , t h e y a r e d e s i g n e d t o engage t h e l a d y ' s immediate a u d i e n c e i n c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f h e r s i t u a t i o n . They s e r v e t h e a d d i t i o n a l p u r p o s e , however, o f d r a w i n g Tennyson's own r e a d e r s as a whole i n t o r e f l e c t i o n upon h e r c i r c u m s t a n c e s , and t h e s i g n i f i c a n c e t h a t t h e y may h o l d f o r t h e m s e l v e s i n 359 t h e i r own l i v e s . W i t h t h e r e m o v a l o f t h e parchment t e x t t h a t had e a r l i e r d i r e c t e d t h e r e a d i n g o f h e r s i t u a t i o n , t h e p o t e n t i a l f o r p e r s o n a l i z e d r e s p o n s e s i s s i g n i f i c a n t l y i n c r e a s e d . Y e t Tennyson does n o t a l l o w t h e s e r e s p o n s e s t o be c o m p l e t e l y random. I n s t e a d , h i s r e a d e r s a r e g i v e n d i f f e r e n t a l t e r n a t i v e s as t h e poem narrows s p a t i a l l y t o w a r d L a n c e l o t a l o n e : t h e p a l a c e ' s seeming i n d i f f e r e n c e g i v e s way t o t h e k n i g h t s who a l m o s t r e f l e x i v e l y e n a c t a group r e a c t i o n by c r o s s i n g t h e m s e l v e s i n t h e p r e s e n c e o f d e a t h . I n c o n t r a s t , L a n c e l o t ' s p e r s o n a l i z e d musing narrows t h e f i e l d o f v i s i o n t h a t much f u r t h e r by d w e l l i n g upon t h e l a d y ' s p h y s i c a l i t y . A t f i r s t , h i s "'She has a l o v e l y f a c e ' " seems a r a t h e r g l i b r e s p o n s e t o t h e s e l f - s a c r i f i c i a l d e a t h she has e l e c t e d f o r h i s s a k e . However, as a s u b s t i t u t e v o i c e t e x t f o r t h e e a r l i e r parchment, L a n c e l o t ' s comment upon t h e l a d y ' s f a c e a l l u s i v e l y c o n t a i n s t h e new t e n s i o n s Tennyson added t o t h e 1842 poem. I t s u g g e s t s t h e l a d y ' s own s u b j e c t i v e , c a r n a l r e a l i t y y e t t r a n s f o r m s h e r a t t h e same t i m e , because o f L a n c e l o t ' s s t u d i e d g a z e , i n t o a f e m a l e a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t o f h i s c o n t e m p l a t i o n i f n o t a c t u a l d e s i r e . And a g a i n , unaware o f h i s r o l e i n t h e s a c r i f i c e she has made, L a n c e l o t t h e n c a l l s upon God t o be h e r g r a c i o u s r e c e i v e r , an i r o n i c d i s p l a c e m e n t o f h i m s e l f as t h e l o c u s o f h e r d e s i r e , as t h e agent o f h e r r e d e m p t i o n from a l i f e o f e n f o r c e d i l l u s i o n imposed upon h e r by t h e charm. Whereas t h e 1832 poem had e l i c i t e d v a r i o u s C h r i s t i a n and pagan r e a c t i o n s o n l y t o s i l e n c e them t h r o u g h t h e s u p e r i o r 360 n a r r a t i v e a u t h o r i t y o f t h e r e l i g i o u s l y n e u t r a l parchment, t h i s new e n d i n g a p p e a r s a t f i r s t more s p e c i f i c a l l y C h r i s t i a n . I t c h a n n e l s i t s r e s p o n s e s upward t o w a r d God who i s a s k e d " t o l e n d h e r g r a c e " s i n c e He i s t h e u l t i m a t e s e a t o f f u l f i l m e n t o f a l l l i f e n a r r a t i v e s . Y e t by h a v i n g L a n c e l o t — t h e o b j e c t o f t h e l a d y ' s own a e s t h e t i c gaze and human d e s i r e — v o i c e t h i s p r a y e r , even w h i l e r e m a r k i n g upon t h e p h y s i c a l b e a u t y o f h e r f a c e , Tennyson d e n i e s t h e p o s s i b i l i t y f o r u n e q u i v o c a l c h a n n e l l i n g upward. The a u d i e n c e , l i k e L a n c e l o t , i s drawn back t o e a r t h t h r o u g h t h e s o u n d i n g o f h i s v o i c e and, i n t u r n , reminded o f t h e i n e s c a p a b l e r e s t r i c t i o n s imposed upon t h e f u l l enjoyment o f e a r t h ' s p l e a s u r e s . F o r Tennyson's f e m a l e r e a d e r s , t h e s e were t h e m s e l v e s C h r i s t i a n , s p e c i f i c a l l y P a u l i n e , i n j u n c t i o n s t h a t s e r v e d t o e n t r e n c h t h e f e m a l e as an a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t o f male d e s i r e t h r o u g h t h e d e n i a l o f f e m a l e agency i n l o v e r e l a t i o n s . I n Tennyson's poem, as i n a g r e a t many poems w r i t t e n by V i c t o r i a n women—most n o t a b l y C h r i s t i n a R o s s e t t i and E m i l y D i c k i n s o n — G o d t h u s becomes a s p i r i t u a l succedaneum f o r an e a r t h l y male l o v e r . 2 0 But t h e major d i s t i n c t i o n between "The 20 I n h i s r e c e n t a r t i c l e , "'Descend,and Touch, and E n t e r ' : Tennyson's S t r a n g e Manner o f A d d r e s s , " C h r i s t o p h e r C r a f t u s e s "succedaneum" t o d e s c r i b e t h e r o l e o f C h r i s t i n I n Memoriam, a s u b s t i t u t e l o v e r ' f o r w h i c h H a l l a m i s t h e g r e a t o r i g i n a l : "Tennyson would m a s t e r h i s u n c o n v e n t i o n a l [homosexual?] d e s i r e f o r H a l l a m by f i g u r i n g i t as a s u b s p e c i e s o f a v e r y c o n v e n t i o n a l d e s i r e f o r 'the S t r o n g Son o f God'" ( 8 9 ) . W h i l e "succedaneum" i s i t s e l f a u s e f u l t e r m f o r a b r u p t c l o s u r e s i n Tennyson's p o e t r y , such as t h e use o f God i n t h e "The Lady o f S h a l l o t " o r t h e Crimean War i n Maud, C h r i s t i n I n Memoriam seems a more i n t e g r a l p a r t o f t h e p h i l o s o p h y o f t h e Lady o f S h a l o t t " and comparable poems w r i t t e n by women i n v o l v e s t h e s h i f t i n g r o l e s o f s u b j e c t and o b j e c t p l a y e d out between t h e l a d y and h e r l o v e r - G o d . As K a t h l e e n B l a k e n o t e s , R o s s e t t i a l m o s t a l w a y s images h e r women w i t h o u t agency t h e m s e l v e s , w a i t i n g p a t i e n t l y f o r e a r t h l y f u l f i l m e n t t h r o u g h s p i r i t u a l s u b m i s s i o n t o a d e c i d e d l y male G o d . 2 1 A l t h o u g h B l a k e seldom r e f e r s t o t h e e r o t i c q u a l i t y o f R o s s e t t i ' s v e r s e , t h e f e t i s h i z a t i o n o f r e l i g i o u s f u l f i l m e n t would l i k e l y have c a r r i e d an e r o t i c p o t e n t i a l f o r i n d i v i d u a l V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s , i n p a r t i c u l a r t h e i n n u m e r a b l e women, who w e r e — t h r o u g h w a i t i n g f o r p o t e n t i a l , a b s e n t o r even dead l o v e r s and h u s b a n d s — l o c k e d i n t o s t a t i c p o s t u r e s o f c o n t i n u a l e m o t i o n a l and s e x u a l poem as a whole t h a t a s s o c i a t e s t h e a b s e n t H a l l a m w i t h C h r i s t as l o g o s , a language o f s p i r i t u a l p o e t i c s t h a t t h e p o e t woos t h r o u g h o u t t h e poem t o e n a b l e him t o a r t i c u l a t e t h e magnitude o f h i s l o s s . Succedaneum s e r v e s w e l l t o d e s c r i b e d i s p l a c e d e r o t i c i s m , b u t I n Memoriam a r i s e s out o f a f a r more complex s e r i e s o f d o u b t s t h a n C r a f t seems p r e p a r e d t o e n t e r t a i n . 2 1 A v i s u a l i z a t i o n o f t h e s i m i l a r i t y i n mood between Tennyson's poems o f f e m i n i n e s e l f - p o s t p o n e m e n t and t h o s e o f C h r i s t i n a R o s s e t t i may be found i n t h e s t r i k i n g sameness o f p o s t u r e and d e s i g n t h a t D. G. R o s s e t t i e f f e c t s between h i s 1857 " M a r i a n n a i n t h e S o u t h " and h i s c o v e r i l l u s t r a t i o n , "The l o n g h o u r s go and come and go" f o r h i s s i s t e r ' s P r i n c e ' s P r o g r e s s and O t h e r Poems (1866). (See t h e c a t a l o g u e o f t h e e x h i b i t i o n h e l d by t h e Dept. o f A r t , Brown U n i v e r s i t y , 14 8 and 151) . 362 22 d e f e r r a l . E m i l y D i c k i n s o n ' s s p e a k e r s , on t h e o t h e r hand, f r e q u e n t l y v e n t u r e o u t o f t h e i r e n c l o s e d spaces t o become a g e n t s r a t h e r t h a n mere r e c e i v e r s o f a d i s p l a c e d e r o t i c i s m t h r o u g h s p i r i t u a l e x p e r i e n c e . T h i s v e n t u r i n g , however, i s u s u a l l y s y m b o l i c , d i s p l a c e d i n t o a t y p e o f g i v e and t a k e f l i r t a t i o n w i t h " t h e Word" ( l o g o s , God i n c a r n a t e ) o f h e r own c r e a t i o n , a p o e t i c a u t o e r o t i c i s m t h a t s u b s t i t u t e s h e r s e l f - g e n e r a t e d t e x t s f o r t h e a b s e n t O t h e r . I n t h i s way, D i c k i n s o n ' s s p e a k e r s r e s e m b l e t h e p r e - l a p s a r i a n l a d y o f S h a l o t t ; b e f o r e h e r s u b j e c t i v e gaze happened t o f a l l upon L a n c e l o t as t h e o b j e c t o f h e r d e s i r e , she had been c o n t e n t w i t h d i s p l a c e d f u l f i l m e n t t h r o u g h h e r own a r t i s t i c c r e a t i o n . 2 3 John S t e r l i n g , i n h i s r e v i e w o f Poems (1842) comments upon t h e p a r t i c u l a r r e l e v a n c e o f Tennyson's poems f o r abandoned women i n h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f " F a t i m a " : "Many w i l l r e a d i t as i f i t b e l o n g e d o n l y t o some F a t i m a o r Sappho t o f e e l w i t h t h i s e n t i r e n e s s o f abandonment. But t h e r e a r e hundreds o f women i n t h e West end o f L o n d o n — a n d i n t h e E a s t end t o o — who would f i n d i t o n l y a s t r a i n t h a t n a t u r e had a l r e a d y t a u g h t them" ( q t d A r m s t r o n g S c r u t i n i e s 139) . 23 The i n t e n s e l y p r i v a t e n a t u r e s o f b o t h R o s s e t t i and D i c k i n s o n do r a i s e some q u e s t i o n s about t h e i r use as f e m a l e c o u n t e r p a r t s t o Tennyson s i n c e I have a l r e a d y a r g u e d t h a t Tennyson's f e m i n i n e muse stems from a p u b l i c awareness o f women as p o t e n t i a l r e a d e r s . From t h e p e r s p e c t i v e o f t h e a r t i c u l a t i o n o f p u b l i c i s s u e s s u r r o u n d i n g women, a c o m p a r i s o n between Tennyson and a f e m a l e p o e t — e q u a l l y p o p u l a r and a l s o c o n c e r n e d w i t h dichotomous o b j e c t - s u b j e c t , female-male l o v e r e l a t i o n s — m i g h t have been made w i t h E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning r a t h e r t h a n , as h e r e , e i t h e r R o s s e t t i o r D i c k i n s o n . T h i s has, o f c o u r s e , a l r e a d y been done by M a r j o r i e Stone and B i n a F r e i w a l d i n t h e i r a n a l y s e s o f The P r i n c e s s and A u r o r a L e i g h . But t h e f o c u s h e r e i s on t h e p o e t i c r e n d e r i n g o f f e m i n i n e s u b m i s s i o n t o God t h e p a t r i a r c h as a form o f d i s p l a c e d s e x u a l i t y . B a r r e t t Browning i s n o t c o n s i d e r e d i n t h i s c o n t e x t because, as h e r Sonnets from t h e P o r t u g u e s e i m p l y , God i n heaven i s w i l l i n g l y s a c r i f i c e d f o r t h e male l o v e o b j e c t p o s s e s s e d on e a r t h r a t h e r t h a n , as i n t h e p o e t r y o f 363 Tennyson's p r e - l a p s a r i a n l a d y a l s o h a r k e n s back t o male s p e a k e r s such as t h e husband i n "The M i l l e r ' s Daughter" who c o m p l e t e s h i s n a r r a t i v e w i t h t h e l o v e songs o f h i s own d e s i g n i n g . Y e t u n l i k e e i t h e r R o s s e t t i , D i c k i n s o n , o r even t h e e a r l y Tennyson, who w r o t e i n near i s o l a t i o n from t h e i r r e a d i n g p u b l i c s , t h e Tennyson o f 1842 f e l t a need t o r e s p o n d on some l e v e l t o t h e s o c i a l i m p e r a t i v e s demanded by h i s male c r i t i c s . He n o t o n l y t r i e d t o meet h i s c r i t i c s ' e x p e c t a t i o n s t h r o u g h a new s p e c i e s o f p a s t o r a l poems termed d o m e s t i c i d y l s (as d i s c u s s e d e a r l i e r ) , b u t a l s o r e v i s e d p r e v i o u s l y p u b l i s h e d poems f o r s i m i l a r r e a s o n s . The r e v i s i o n s t o "The Lady o f S h a l o t t " i l l u s t r a t e t h a t even though Tennyson l e f t h i s n a r r a t i v e t h r e a d s v i r t u a l l y u n c h a n g e d — a s he a l s o d i d w i t h "The L o t o s E a t e r s , " f o r e x a m p l e — h e a l t e r e d h i s t e x t s i n such a way as t o d i v e s t h i s c o n t r o l l i n g n a r r a t o r o f a u t h o r i t y t h r o u g h t h e r e i n v e s t m e n t o f agency i n c h a r a c t e r . These changes, i n t u r n , c o u l d open up new p o s s i b i l i t i e s f o r h i s h e t e r o g e n e o u s r e a d e r s t o i n v e s t a s p e c t s o f t h e m s e l v e s and t h e i r own c o n t e m p o r a r y c o n c e r n s i n t h e dilemmas o f t h o s e poems f e m i n i n e s e x u a l d e f e r r a l , t h e o t h e r way around. T h a t , once s a c r i f i c e d by B a r r e t t Browning, God's power t o g e n e r a t e f e m a l e s u b m i s s i o n i s a t t i m e s r e i n v e s t e d i n h e r e a r t h l y l o v e r , and a t o t h e r t i m e s n o t , i s a d i f f e r e n t dilemma from t h e o b j e c t - s u b j e c t s t r u g g l e d i s c u s s e d h e r e as " f e m i n i n e postponement." A l t h o u g h p r i v a t e , R o s s e t t i and D i c k i n s o n more c l o s e l y a p p r o x i m a t e Tennyson i n t h i s p a r t i c u l a r c o n j o i n i n g o f s e x u a l i t y and s p i r i t u a l i t y t h a n h i s p o p u l a r c o u n t e r p a r t , B a r r e t t Browning. t h a t s i t u a t e t h e m s e l v e s i n t i m e and space a t an e x o t i c d i s t a n c e from V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d . Such an a l l o w a n c e i s r a r e l y , i f e v e r , a f f o r d e d t o r e a d e r s o f e i t h e r C h r i s t i n a R o s s e t t i o r D i c k i n s o n s i n c e t h e i n t e n s e l y p r i v a t e p o s t u r i n g s o f t h e i r s p e a k e r s ' e x p e r i e n c e s t e n d t o f o l d i n upon t h e m s e l v e s , t h e r e b y c i r c u m v e n t i n g any s u b j e c t i v e i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s by t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e r e a d e r s o t h e r t h a n i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f t h e s e l f w i t h t h e • s p e a k e r . T h e i r poems a r e t h u s r e n d e r e d s t a t i c , s e l f - a r t i c u l a t i n g o b j e c t s o f a e s t h e t i c d e l i g h t t o be v i e w e d , by many, from a d i s t a n c e . T h i s i s n o t t h e c a s e w i t h Tennyson's l y r i c s o f 1842. The r e v i s e d "Lady o f S h a l o t t , " f o r i n s t a n c e , c o u l d s t i l l be r e a d even as i t had been i n 1832 by Tennyson's l a r g e l y male, academic a u d i e n c e p r e o c c u p i e d w i t h how t o c o u n t e r p e r c e i v e d t h r e a t s by t h e p u b l i c t o l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n . That i s , i t c o u l d be r e a d as t a k i n g p a r t i n an a e s t h e t i c debate s i m i l a r t o t h a t i n "The P a l a c e o f A r t " c o n c e r n i n g t h e d e t a c h e d r o l e o f t h e a r t i s t i n an i n c r e a s i n g l y m a t e r i a l i s t i c s o c i e t y . I n a d d i t i o n t o t h i s r e a d i n g , and n o t i n p l a c e o f i t , because t h e new poem g r a n t s human agency t o b o t h t h e l a d y and L a n c e l o t i n 1842, i t c o u l d a l s o t e n t a t i v e l y g e s t u r e t o w a r d an e q u a l l y f o r c e f u l c o n c e r n o f t h e 1840s, p a r t i c u l a r l y f e l t by Tennyson's f e m a l e r e a d e r s : t h e s o c i a l i z a t i o n o f women as s e x u a l b e i n g s . Tennyson u n i t e s male a e s t h e t i c c o n c e r n s w i t h f e m a l e s o c i a l i s s u e s . Thereby, he f o l l o w s i n t h e d i r e c t i o n t h a t H a l l a m ' s r e v i e w o f Poems, C h i e f l y L y r i c a l had i n d i c a t e d : t o c r e a t e a 365 p o e t r y t h a t would make pure a e s t h e s t i c i s m t h e a p o t h e o s i s o f humankind's m o r a l r e s p o n s e t o t h e w o r l d . I n "The Lady o f S h a l o t t , " r e a d e r s o f b o t h genders a r e c h a l l e n g e d by f e m a l e - male s e x u a l r e l a t i o n s i n ways t h a t i n v i t e them t o p a r t i c i p a t e a c t i v e l y as r e a d i n g s u b j e c t s v i s a v i s Tennyson's poem as t h e i r own a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t . What C h r i s t i d e n t i f i e s as a p u r e l y male gaze upon a f e m a l e o b j e c t may have been t r u e o f t h e 1832 poem, may have h e l d t r u e f o r t h e m a j o r i t y o f Tennyson's male r e a d e r s i n t h e 1840s, and may-even be t r u e o f a g r e a t many r e a d e r s t o d a y . But as Tennyson h i m s e l f was aware, h i s r e a d e r s were d i v e r s e , i n b o t h t h e i r i n t e r e s t s and t h e i r a e s t h e t i c demands. Thus, w i t h t h e s u b t l e s h i f t i n 1842 away from t h e l a d y as a v i s u a l a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t t o w a r d h e r s u b j e c t i v e agency as a p h y s i c a l b e i n g r e s p o n d i n g t o L a n c e l o t as a male o b j e c t o f d e s i r e , Tennyson's a u d i e n c e c o u l d now r e a d i n h e r s i t u a t i o n t h e s o c i a l r e s t r i c t i o n s t h a t i n h i b i t e d women's f u l l p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n t h e b u s i n e s s o f l i f e . Tennyson's poem c o u l d t h e r e f o r e be r e a d i n 1842 i n a t l e a s t f o u r d i f f e r e n t ways d e p e n d i n g on t h e gender a s s u m p t i o n s o f i t s r e a d e r s . A r t i c u l a t i n g t h e s e f o u r i s not t o s u g g e s t t h a t t h e y were t h e o n l y ways t o "make s e n s e " o f t h e poem i n 1842, b u t r a t h e r t o make c o n s c i o u s t h e v a r i o u s u n c o n s c i o u s r e a d i n g s t h a t Tennyson's new poem c o u l d p o t e n t i a l l y g e n e r a t e . F o r t h o s e men who saw t h e t e x t and t h e l a d y w i t h i n i t as an a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t , t h e poem c o u l d s a t i s f y an e r o t i c a e s t h e t i c by c h a n n e l l i n g t h e i r male g a z e s : f i r s t , t h r o u g h t h e v i l l a g e r s ; second, t h r o u g h t h e k n i g h t s ; and, f i n a l l y , t h r o u g h L a n c e l o t as he gazes down upon t h e l a d y ' s f a c e . T h i s f i n a l p o s i t i o n u l t i m a t e l y a l l o w e d them t o s e r v e as God by b e s t o w i n g t h e i r own g r a c e upon t h e l a d y . F o r t h o s e men who a l i g n e d t h e m s e l v e s w i t h t h e l a d y (and many d i d ) , she c o u l d be f o r them a f i g u r e o f t h e d i s p l a c e d a l i e n — o f t e n though n o t a l w a y s an a r t i s t — whose s u b j e c t i v i t y h o l d s so l o n g as she r e m a i n s d e t a c h e d from s o c i e t y , b u t who becomes t h e dead o b j e c t o f o t h e r s ' p o t e n t i a l m i s r e a d i n g s once she r e l e a s e s h e r s e l f (her own b e s t t e x t ) i n t o t h e w o r l d a t l a r g e . F o r t h o s e women c o n t e n t t o l i v e t h e i r l i v e s as c o n f i n e d as t h e l a d y o f S h a l o t t i s a t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f t h e p o e m — a s f e m i n i n e o b j e c t s a w a i t i n g f u l f i l m e n t t h r o u g h t h e s u b j e c t i v e agency o f a m a n — t h e male p o e t ' s t e x t i t s e l f c o u l d s e r v e t h e two p u r p o s e s t h a t i t g r a n t s t o God: a e s t h e t i c i z e d e r o t i c i s m and s p i r i t u a l d i s p l a c e m e n t o f any a c t i v e f u l f i l m e n t o f c a r n a l d e s i r e s . And f i n a l l y , f o r t h o s e women who a l s o l i v e d c o n f i n e d , m a r g i n a l l i v e s b u t were b e g i n n i n g t o q u e s t i o n t h e P a u l i n e r e s t r i c t i o n s imposed upon them, t h e male p o e t ' s t e x t c o u l d a c t , as L a n c e l o t does f o r t h e l a d y , as t h e i r a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t o f d e s i r e t h a t s e d u c t i v e l y beckons them out o f t h e i r p a s s i v e l i v e s ("Who i s t h i s ? and what i s h e r e ? " ) t o r i s k d e a t h i f needs be t o a c h i e v e agency o v e r t h e i r own p e r s o n s . R e g a r d l e s s o f t h e r e a d i n g , t h e l a d y (and Tennyson's t e x t ) u l t i m a t e l y s u b m i t s t o t h e l o s s o f a p r i v a t e , s e l f - c o n t a i n e d e x i s t e n c e upon p u b l i c i n t e r p r e t a t i o n . F o r women who assumed agency ( o r f o r Tennyson as a p o e t ) , w h i c h was t h e g r e a t e r c u r s e : d e a t h by a r t i s t i c c o n f i n e m e n t o r d e a t h by p u b l i c ( m i s ) i n t e r p r e t a t i o n ? T h i s same q u e s t i o n Tennyson a t t e m p t s t o answer i n The P r i n c e s s . L i k e h i s h e r o i n e P r i n c e s s I d a , he t o o was c a s t i g a t e d by h i s c r i t i c s f o r h i s a r t i s t i c i s o l a t i o n from t h e w o r l d . A t t h e same t i m e , t h e t e x t s t h a t he gave t h a t w o r l d , p a r a l l e l e d by I d a ' s l e c t u r e s , were s u b j e c t t o numerous i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s and m i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s . A m b i v a l e n t , sometimes even n e g a t i v e echoes o f t h e r e v i e w s o f t h e 1830s c o n t i n u e d i n t o t h e 1840s. C r i t i c s such as F r a n c i s Garden ( Jump 98-102) and L e i g h Hunt (Jump 12 6-3 6) r e s t a t e t h e d e r o g a t o r y argument t h a t Tennyson i s an e f f e t e i m i t a t o r o f K e a t s i n h i s detachment from t h e w o r l d even w h i l e t h e y remark on t h e b e a u t i e s t h a t b o t h p o e t s ' v e r s e s o f f e r t o t h e human s p i r i t . Hunt, i n p a r t i c u l a r , d i s p a r a g e s Tennyson's " l i t e r a r y dandyism," " f i n e - g e n t l e m a n i s m , " and "rhyming f i n e - l a d y i s m " ( 1 2 7 ) ; he r e s e r v e s p r a i s e o n l y f o r t h o s e poems l i k e "The Two V o i c e s " t h a t a l l e g e d l y c o n t a i n a " g e n u i n e , C h r i s t i a n , manly and p o e t i c a l p h i l o s o p h y " (13 6 ) . These gendered l i t e r a r y terms were by now commonplace i n r e v i e w s o f Tennyson's p o e t r y . S e c o n d l y , even among t h o s e c r i t i c s ( s e v e r a l o f whom Tennyson c o u n t e d as h i s f r i e n d s ) i n c l i n e d t o compliment him f o r t h e l u x u r i o u s language o f h i s f e m a l e g a l l e r y , many sowed t h e i r p r a i s e o f t h e p o e t ' s l y r i c i s m i n t h e hope t h a t i t would r e a p a much l a r g e r p o e t i c h a r v e s t . S p e d d i n g , f o r example, a s k s t h a t 368 Tennyson become a v a t e s s a c e r (Jump 146) and c a l l s f o r a " s u b j e c t l a r g e enough t o t a k e t h e e n t i r e i m p r e s s o f h i s mind" (Jump 1 5 2 ) . 2 4 And d e s p i t e generous p r a i s e e l s e w h e r e i n t h e i r r e v i e w s , S t e r l i n g and M i l n e s u l t i m a t e l y c a u t i o n a g a i n s t d i d a c t i c i s m by p o i n t i n g o u t m o r a l s t h a t " o b t r u d e d " ( S t e r l i n g Jump 125), and by g e n t l y r e m i n d i n g Tennyson t h a t he i s " t o t e a c h s t i l l more t h a n he d e l i g h t s , and t o s u g g e s t more t h a n he t e a c h e s " ( M i l n e s Jump 138). P a r a d o x i c a l l y , The P r i n c e s s managed t o conform t o t h e s e d i v e r s e d i r e c t i v e s . Even w h i l e i t encompassed a much l a r g e r scope t h a n any o f Tennyson's p r e v i o u s poems, i t d i d n o t s a c r i f i c e t h e p o e t ' s h i g h l y p r a i s e d l y r i c a l power. I t a d d r e s s e d an i m p o r t a n t c o n t e m p o r a r y c o n c e r n , y e t i n such a way t h a t t h e p o e t ' s a b i l i t y t o t o u c h t h e human s p i r i t was i n no way l e s s e n e d . F i n a l l y , i t o b v i o u s l y d i d n o t t e a c h a l e s s o n d i d a c t i c a l l y s i n c e w h a t e v e r m o r a l i t may have i n c l u d e d was s u g g e s t e d a t b e s t o n l y t o be undermined e l s e w h e r e i n t h e poem. I t i s h a r d l y s u r p r i s i n g t h a t i n a l l t h i s c o n f u s i o n , Tennyson's l o n g poem, whether i n r e a c t i o n o r n o t t o h i s c r i t i c s ' demands, was a s e l f - a c c l a i m e d Medley t h a t p u r p o r t e d l y c o n t a i n e d seven d i f f e r e n t male v o i c e s . 2 4 U n l i k e what was t o come i n t h e 1860s, however, c r i t i c s who c h a s t i z e d Tennyson i n t h e 1840s f o r a s t i l l t o o f e m i n i n e v o i c e c o u l d o p t i m i s t i c a l l y p r e d i c t what would be i n t h e i r minds a b r i g h t e r p o e t i c f u t u r e , i e . a l o n g poem ( p r e f e r a b l y e p i c ) t h a t , i n i t s manly c o n f r o n t a t i o n w i t h c o n t e m p o r a r y e v e n t s , would p r e s e n t i t s arguments w i t h enough f o r c e f u l r e a l i s m t o s e t t l e t h e gender debate once and f o r a l l . 369 John K i l l h a m ' s e x h a u s t i v e s t u d y Tennyson and 'The P r i n c e s s ' : R e f l e c t i o n s o f an Age" (1958) c o n t a i n s a f u l l and c o n v i n c i n g h i s t o r i c a l r a t i o n a l e f o r Tennyson's p u b l i c l y m o t i v a t e d c o n c e r n w i t h f e m i n i s t i s s u e s d u r i n g t h e w r i t i n g o f t h e poem i n t h e 183 0s and 40s. As K i l l h a m a r g u e s , Tennyson w o u l d h a v e — t h r o u g h t h e p r o t r a c t e d d i s c o u r s e o f t h e A p o s t l e s and o t h e r a s s o c i a t e s — b e e n aware o f t h e S o c i a l i s t d e b a t e i n t h e 18 3 0s o v e r t h e r o l e o f women i n s o c i e t y , 2 5 and i n t h e 184 0s o f t h e more s p e c i f i c c o n t r o v e r s y o v e r t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a f e m a l e c o l l e g e , a p r o j e c t begun by F.D. M a u r i c e i n 1843 t h a t was e v e n t u a l l y r e a l i z e d i n t h e f o u n d i n g o f Queen's C o l l e g e i n 1848. I n a d d i t i o n t o s e t t i n g f o r t h t h e h i s t o r i c a l " f a c t s " o f w h i c h Tennyson would l i k e l y have been i n f o r m e d , K i l l h a m d e v o t e s t h e l a s t t h i r d o f h i s s t u d y t o t h e " f a i r y t a l e " s o u r c e s t h a t m i g h t a l s o have c o n t r i b u t e d t o t h e p o e t ' s mock- K i l l h a m ' s d i s s c u s s i o n o f t h e d i s t i n c t e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y forms o f S o c i a l i s m , o f t h e S a i n t S i m o n i a n s , F o u r i e r , and Owen, and t h e i r d i f f e r e n t a s s o c i a t i o n s w i t h f e m i n i s m appear i n h i s C h a p t e r s I I and I I I , w h i l e t h e v a r i o u s r e s p o n s e s o f t h e A p o s t l e s a r e shown i n C h a p t e r IV. K i l l h a m b e l i e v e s t h a t a l t h o u g h c e r t a i n l y n o t S t S i m o n i a n h i m s e l f , Tennyson may have d e r i v e d some o f h i s c o n v i c t i o n s about t h e e n n o b l i n g i n f l u e n c e o f women from t h i s d i s c o u r s e . Y e t A l l e n , f o r example, a r g u e s t h a t t o t h e A p o s t l e s t h e S t S i m o n i a n s ' s r e v o l u t i o n a r y i d e a s "must have seemed a demonic p a r o d y o f t h e i r own" (12 5 ) . L a t e r on, he q u o t e s a l e t t e r from H a l l a m t o Donne ( J a n 1832) i n w h i c h H a l l a m denounces t h o s e " p r o p h e t s o f a f a l s e F u t u r e " and d e r i d e s t h e F r e n c h f o r i m b i b i n g t h e i r p o i s o n ( 1 4 7 ) . W h i l e i t would be a m i s t a k e t o c o n f l a t e H a l l a m ' s v i e w s w i t h Tennyson's, A p o s t o l i c c o n s e r v a t i v i s m i n g e n e r a l may e a s i l y be seen t o u n d e r l i e r e j e c t i o n o f r e v o l u t i o n a r y change o f any s o r t i n The P r i n c e s s . F o r an a n a l y s i s o f t h e a m b i g u i t y and even c o n f l i c t between S o c i a l i s m and i t s p r o m o t i o n o f f e m i n i s t c a u s e s see B a r b a r a T a y l o r ' s Eve and t h e New J e r u s a l e m (1983). h e r o i c method and t h e e x o t i c s e t t i n g o f t h e romance. These i n c l u d e Tennyson's l a t e r r e a d i n g o f P e r s i a n p o e t r y i n t h e 1840s and e a r l i e r r e a d i n g o f S i r W a l t e r S c o t t , t h e A r a b i a n N i g h t s , and t h e P e r s i a n T a l e s , w h e r e i n romance, f e m a l e c o l l e g e s , and d e a t h p e n a l t i e s f o r male i n t r u d e r s p r e d o m i n a t e (177-229). Y e t Tennyson's " s o u r c e s " were n o t e x c l u s i v e l y remote o r m e r e l y l i t e r a r y . A c c o r d i n g t o K i l l h a m , t h i s e x o t i c romance a l s o c o u p l e s t o p i c a l d i s c u s s i o n s o f e v o l u t i o n a r y t h e o r y w i t h i s s u e s o f f e m a l e e m a n c i p a t i o n . Based on h i s r e a d i n g o f Chambers's V e s t i g e s o f C r e a t i o n (1844), Tennyson w i s h e d t o s u g g e s t , i n K i l l h a m ' s v i e w , t h a t " t h e f u t u r e o f t h e r a c e t u r n s on a l l o w i n g women t o r e a l i z e t h e i r i n t e l l e c t u a l a s p i r a t i o n s w i t h o u t j e o p a r d i z i n g t h e m a r r i a g e r e l a t i o n s h i p , w h i c h i s v i e w e d as an e s s e n t i a l i n s t r u m e n t i n f o r w a r d i n g human development" ( K i l l h a m 232). " F u t u r e " i s t h e o p e r a t i v e word, f o r K i l l h a m sees i n The P r i n c e s s Tennyson's d u t y as a p o e t t o o u t l i n e t h e c h o i c e s s o c i e t y must make a f f e c t i n g i t s own d e s t i n y , i n o r d e r t o f u r t h e r an e v o l u t i o n a r y d o c t r i n e " t h a t we s h o u l d l i v e our l i v e s so as t o ' t y p e ' i n them t h e q u a l i t i e s we d e s i r e t o see g e n e r a l l y p r e v a i l i n t h e f a r f u t u r e " (264) . I n t h i s c a s e , K i l l h a m seems t o s u g g e s t a meaning f o r " t y p e " as i t i s used by t h e P r i n c e t o i n s c r i b e h i s c o n v i c t i o n o f gender e q u a l i t y ( V I I 239-79) upon h i s r e l u c t a n t b r i d e t o be: "'Dear, b u t l e t us t y p e them now / I n our own l i v e s . . .'" ( V I I 281- 2 ) . The t y p e s e t o f t h e l i n e s t h e m s e l v e s upon t h e pages i s c l e a r l y meant t o r e i n f o r c e t h e P r i n c e ' s use o f t h i s metaphor. However, as K i l l h a m h i m s e l f i s w e l l aware, Tennyson was w r i t i n g I n Memoriam s i m u l t a n e o u s w i t h The P r i n c e s s , and i n t h e e l e g y " t y p e " does n o t h o l d p o s i t i v e c o n n o t a t i o n s f o r t h e f u t u r e (a p o i n t w h i c h K i l l h a m does n o t m e n t i o n ) : "So c a r e f u l o f t h e t y p e she seems / So c a r e l e s s o f t h e s i n g l e l i f e " (LV 7- 8 ) . T h i s i s N a t u r e ' s p l a n a t f i r s t , y e t t h i s t o o i s i m m e d i a t e l y c a s t i n doubt: "'So c a r e f u l o f t h e t y p e ? ' b u t no. / From s c a r p e d c l i f f and q u a r r i e d s t o n e / She c r i e s , 'A t h o u s a n d t y p e s a r e gone: / I c a r e f o r n o t h i n g , a l l s h a l l g o " 1 (LVI 1-4). The P r i n c e ' s dream v i s i o n o f gender e q u a l i t y , even i f t y p e d i n t h e p r e s e n t , must be c o n s i d e r e d as p o t e n t i a l l y among t h e t h o u s a n d s t h a t w i l l be d e s t r o y e d i n t h e f u t u r e . P r e s u m a b l y , t h e P r i n c e i s n o t aware o f h i s d e l u s i o n when he c o n f i d e n t l y o u t l i n e s t h e p a r a m e t e r s o f h i s and I d a ' s f u t u r e : 'For woman i s n o t u n d e v e l o p t man, But d i v e r s e : c o u l d we make h e r as t h e man, Sweet Love were s l a i n : h i s d e a r e s t bond i s t h i s , Not l i k e t o l i k e , b u t l i k e i n d i f f e r e n c e . Y e t i n t h e l o n g y e a r s l i k e r must t h e y grow; The man be more o f woman, she o f man; He g a i n i n sweetness and i n m o r a l h e i g h t , Nor l o s e t h e w r e s t l i n g thews t h a t throw t h e w o r l d ; She m e n t a l b r e a d t h , nor f a i l i n c h i l d w a r d c a r e , Nor l o s e t h e c h i l d l i k e i n t h e l a r g e r mind; T i l l a t l a s t she s e t h e r s e l f t o man, L i k e p e r f e c t m u s i c u n t o n o b l e words;' ( V I I 259-70) ' . . . s e e i n g e i t h e r sex a l o n e I s h a l f i t s e l f , and i n t r u e m a r r i a g e l i e s Nor e q u a l , nor u n e q u a l : each f u l f i l s D e f e c t i n each, and a l w a y s t h o u g h t i n t h o u g h t , Purpose i n p u r p o s e , w i l l i n w i l l , t h e y grow, The s i n g l e pure and p e r f e c t a n i m a l , The t w o - c e l l e d h e a r t b e a t i n g , w i t h one f u l l s t r o k e , 3 7,2 L i f e . ' ( V I I 283-89) I d a , however, r e c o g n i z e s t h e P r i n c e ' s hopes as c h i m e r i c a l , e v i d e n t i n h e r i n i t i a l r e s p o n s e t o t h e P r i n c e ' s v i s i o n as "'A dream / That once was mine'" ( V I I 290-91). L a t e r , i n h e r c o n c l u d i n g remarks about h i s a t t e m p t t o r e c a s t h e r i n t h e t y p e o f h i s mother, she adds: " ' I t seems you l o v e t o c h e a t y o u r s e l f w i t h words: / T h i s mother i s y o u r model. I have h e a r d / Of y o u r s t r a n g e d o u b t s : t h e y w e l l might be: I seem / A mockery t o my own s e l f . Never, P r i n c e ; / You c a n n o t l o v e me.'" ( V I I 314- 1 8 ) . A l t h o u g h I d a ' s h e s i t a n c e t o marry a p p e a r s t o a r i s e from a sense o f u n w o r t h i n e s s now t h a t h e r f e m i n i s t cause has f a i l e d , h e r f r a n k a d m i s s i o n t h a t t h e P r i n c e ' s m a t e r n a l s u b l i m e i s p a r t l e x i c a l t r i c k e r y and p a r t w i l d i m a g i n i n g s , o f w h i c h h e r r e a l s e l f p l a y s no p a r t , d e m o n s t r a t e s t h a t , u n l i k e h e r p a r t n e r , she i s p r e p a r e d t o d i v i d e t h e shadow from t h e s u b s t a n c e . Of h e r newly d i v i d e d s e l f , she i s aware t h a t h e r p r e v i o u s , s u p p o s e d l y emancipated s e l f i s now mocked by h e r s u b m i s s i o n t o male w i l l , w h i l e h e r f o r m e r e m a n c i p a t o r y cause t o e d u c a t e women was marred by h e r own p e r s o n a l d e s i r e f o r power ( V I I 220-23). Such r e a l i s t i c awareness i n t h e f a c e o f d e f e a t s u g g e s t s n o t t h a t t h e P r i n c e s s w i l l a u t o m a t i c a l l y s t e p i n t o t h e P r i n c e ' s dream o f h e r as h i s s u r r o g a t e mother o f a new r a c e , as K i l l h a m s u g g e s t s , b u t r a t h e r t h a t h e r h i g h f l o w n i d e a l i s m has been tempered by t h e r e a l i t y o f human weakness and s e l f - c o r r u p t i o n . That Tennyson makes h i s P r i n c e s s b o t h a s c h o l a r and a p o e t and, u l t i m a t e l y , a s c r i b e s h e r f a i l u r e t o p r i d e , s u g g e s t s a l i n k between I d a and h e r f e m a l e p r e c u r s o r a r t i s t i n "The P a l a c e o f A r t " and, more i m p o r t a n t l y , between I d a and Tennyson h i m s e l f . And, l i k e h e r p o e t - c r e a t o r , I d a does n o t y i e l d d i r e c t l y t o t h e clamour o f male v o i c e s t h a t t e l l h e r what she s h o u l d be. T h i s l i n k between I d a and Tennyson f l i e s i n t h e f a c e o f most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s t h a t would have Tennyson a t one w i t h t h e P r i n c e . Y e t n e i t h e r t h e P r i n c e nor I d a s h o u l d be a l l i e d e x c l u s i v e l y w i t h t h e p o e t . The P r i n c e ' s i d e a l i s t i c v i s i o n i s shown t o be as e v a n e s c e n t as I d a ' s , a t r u m p e t i n g o f a power t o change t h e f u t u r e t h a t c l e a r l y n e i t h e r p o s s e s s e s . Indeed, Tennyson i n c r e a s e d h i s r e a d e r s ' d o u b t s about t h e P r i n c e ' s a b i l i t i e s i n t h e 1851 f o u r t h e d i t i o n when, t h r o u g h r e v i s i o n s t h a t most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s f i n d t r o u b l e s o m e , he h i g h l i g h t e d t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e P r i n c e ' s " w e i r d s e i z u r e s " t o p e r p l e x f u r t h e r t h e c o n f l a t i o n o f dream and r e a l i t y a p p a r e n t t h r o u g h o u t t h e poem. By i n c r e a s i n g t h e s i g n s o f t h e P r i n c e ' s p o w e r l e s s n e s s , Tennyson c o u l d a l s o s t r e n g t h e n t h e f o r c e o f I d a ' s r e l u c t a n c e t o a c q u i e s c e t o h e r P r i n c e , d e s p i t e t h e P r i n c e ' s f i n a l a s s u r a n c e t h a t s i n c e h i s "doubts a r e dead," she s h o u l d t h e r e f o r e " t r u s t t o " him ( V I I 327, 345). Of w i l d dreams i n g e n e r a l , and P r i n c e s s I d a ' s and t h e P r i n c e ' s i n p a r t i c u l a r , t h e c o n t r o l l i n g n a r r a t o r i n t h e 1850 e d i t i o n r e a s s u r e s h i s companions t h a t t h e s e , l i k e t h e r e v o l u t i o n a r y dreams o f e q u a l i t y i n F r a n c e , "Are b u t t h e n e e d f u l p r e l u d e s o f t h e t r u t h ' " ( C o n c l u s i o n 7 3 - 4 ) . Y e t dreams a r e n o t t h e t r u t h — t h e y cannot become r e a l i t y m e r e l y by i n d i v i d u a l w i l l . To a t t e m p t t o do so i s t o u s u r p t h e power o f t h e "hand t h a t g u i d e s " ( 7 9 ) , t o l a c k t h e p a t i e n c e t h a t n a t u r a l e v o l u t i o n demands and, f o o l i s h l y , t o d e s i r e permanence from a shadow c a s t as a t y p e upon e t e r n i t y when a l l t y p e s s h a l l — e v e n t u a l l y — g o . The u n i o n t h a t t h e P r i n c e p r o p h e s i e s , i t s " t y p e " as i t were, t o end t h e romance n e v e r a c t u a l l y t a k e s p l a c e . T h i s wedding i s d e l i b e r a t e l y w i t h h e l d from t h e c e n t r a l n a r r a t i v e . 2 6 I n 1850, Tennyson f u r t h e r emphasized t h i s i n c o n c l u s i v e n e s s by r e v i s i n g t h e frame n a r r a t i v e , making t h e f i r s t r e s p o n s e from a member o f t h e immediate a u d i e n c e a r e s o u n d i n g " ' I w i s h she had n o t y i e l d e d ! ' " ( C o n c l u s i o n 5 ) . The emphatic n a t u r e o f t h i s r e s p o n s e once more q u e s t i o n s i f n o t n e g a t e s I d a ' s n e c e s s a r y s u b m i s s i o n t o t h e P r i n c e ' s v i s i o n . Moreover, t h e P r i n c e s s ' s and t h e P r i n c e ' s Utopian dreams (and t h e f o r m e r ' s c r u s h i n g d e f e a t ) , j u x t a p o s e d w i t h one a n o t h e r and r e a d i n terms o f I d a ' s r e s p o n s e s , work t o u n d e r s c o r e Tennyson's c o n s c i o u s awareness t h a t even t h e v i s i o n a r y w o r l d s o f h i s own c r e a t i o n would n e c e s s a r i l y a c h i e v e r e a l i z a t i o n o n l y w i t h i n t h e c o n t e x t o f t h e i r r e c e p t i o n . 2 6 The f a i r y t a l e wedding t h a t s h o u l d u n i t e I d a w i t h h e r P r i n c e does t a k e p l a c e i n I n Memoriam where T e n n y s o n — h i m s e l f now t h e n a r r a t o r — d o e s n o t w i t h h o l d c l o s u r e from h i s r e a d e r s b u t g i v e s away t h e b r i d e i n t h e t e x t and i n r e a l i t y . I n t h i s c a s e t h e shadow, p o e t i c language, i s a t one w i t h s u b s t a n c e , h i s t o r i c a l t r u t h . 375 That t h i s r e c e p t i o n was, i n t h e c a s e o f The P r i n c e s s , c o m p l i c a t e d by gender i s h i g h l i g h t e d by y e t a n o t h e r 1850 r e v i s i o n t o t h e frame n a r r a t i v e . The c o n t r o l l i n g n a r r a t o r now a d m i t s t h a t t h e romance s p a r k e d a f e u d between t h e m o c k - h e r o i c w i s h e s o f t h e men and t h e t r u e - h e r o i c o f t h e women. H i s " s t r a n g e d i a g o n a l " s o l u t i o n t o p l e a s e b o t h by moving between them sounds a s i m i l a r n o t e t o Browning's much l a t e r " A r t may t e l l a t r u t h / O b l i q u e l y " (The R i n g and t h e Book) a l t h o u g h mockery a l i g n s i t s e l f f a r l e s s e a s i l y w i t h t r u t h t h a n does Browning's doubt about t h e s i n c e r i t y o f human t e s t i m o n y . I n b o t h c a s e s , however, t h e r e l a t i v i t y o f meaning based on an a u d i e n c e ' s p e r c e p t u a l d i f f e r e n c e s i s a t s t a k e . Why Tennyson chose t o combine mock h e r o i c s w i t h an e a r n e s t f e m i n i s t cause c o n t i n u e s t o p l a g u e r e a d e r s t o d a y even as i t d i d i n 1847. C r i t i c s such as F. E. L. P r i e s t l e y have sought a s i m p l e s o l u t i o n t o t h i s q u e s t i o n by c o n f l a t i n g Tennyson's p u r p o s e w i t h t h a t o f t h e c o n t r o l l i n g n a r r a t o r i n t h e poem. However, i t i s q u e s t i o n a b l e whether Tennyson h i m s e l f e v e r p e r c e i v e d h i s a u d i e n c e i n such a s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d f a s h i o n as P r i e s t l e y does when he r e c a s t s t h e s p e c t r u m o f Tennyson's r e a d e r s i n t h e gendered r o l e s a s s i g n e d t o them i n t h e frame n a r r a t i v e : To many men, t h e s t r u g g l e f o r f e m a l e e m a n c i p a t i o n was p u r e l y and s i m p l y comic: t o many women, d e e p l y and f i e r c e l y t r a g i c . B o t h e x t r e m e s , o f f a c e t i o u s n e s s and o f e a r n e s t n e s s , made f o r t i g h t l y s h u t minds. As Tennyson knew, a comic t r e a t m e n t would d e l i g h t t h e men, i n f u r i a t e t h e women, and c o n f i r m b o t h s e t s o f p r e j u d i c e ; a solemn one would p l e a s e t h e women and d i s g u s t t h e men. H i s d i f f i c u l t t a s k i s t o p e r s u a d e b o t h s i d e s , t o w r i t e s o m e t h i n g w h i c h b o t h s i d e s w i l l r e a d and w h i c h w i l l moderate b o t h extremes. (80) L i k e many t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e s p o n s e s t o The P r i n c e s s , P r i e s t l e y ' s a r i s e s o u t o f a common a s s u m p t i o n t h a t Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s would have e i t h e r r i g i d l y demarcated t h e s e p a r a t e s p h e r e s o f f e m a l e and male b e h a v i o u r , o r c h a l l e n g e d t h e s e "norms" i n a d i r e c t and o b v i o u s f a s h i o n . He a l l o w s no scope w h a t e v e r f o r b o t h genders t o doubt o r q u e s t i o n s o c i a l b o u n d a r i e s i n a s i m u l t a n e o u s l y l i g h t - h e a r t e d and s e r i o u s f a s h i o n , a c t i o n s a n t i t h e t i c a l t o t h o s e o f P r i e s t l e y ' s " t i g h t l y s h u t minds." Y e t c e r t a i n l y K i l l h a m ' s m e t i c u l o u s r e c o r d i n g o f d i v e r s e c o n t e m p o r a r y r e s p o n s e s t o t h e "woman q u e s t i o n " i n h i s h i s t o r i c a l s t u d y o f The P r i n c e s s s h o u l d , i f n o t h i n g e l s e , i n v a l i d a t e any p o s s i b i l i t y f o r h o m o g e n e i t y — e i t h e r f e m i n i s t o r male r e a c t i o n a r y — a m o n g Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s . Moreover, i n h e r assessment o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y f e m i n i s t i d e o l o g y , Mary Maynard argues t h a t f o r most V i c t o r i a n women " m a r r i a g e and motherhood were s t i l l r e g a r d e d as n o r m a l " ; however, women q u e s t i o n e d f e m a l e s u b o r d i n a t i o n i n m a r r i a g e i n f a v o u r o f e g a l i t a r i a n r e l a t i o n s h i p s based on t h e p r i n c i p l e o f complementary d i f f e r e n c e s (230). Her c l o s e s c r u t i n y o f V i c t o r i a n women's magazines d e m o n s t r a t e s many p a r a l l e l s w i t h t h e P r i n c e ' s dream o f " l i k e i n d i f f e r e n c e " ( V I I 262). Any r i g i d gender d i s t i n c t i o n s would, i n any c a s e , be undermined by t h e P r i n c e ' s b e l i e f t h a t " i n t h e l o n g y e a r s l i k e r must t h e y grow" ( V I I 263). F i n a l l y , answers t o t h e poem's dichotomous p u r p o s e need n o t be found j u s t i n t h e f i c t i o n a l a u d i e n c e d e s c r i b e d i n t h e p r o l o g u e and c o n c l u s i o n , b u t a l s o i n one o f Tennyson's own a c t u a l a u d i e n c e s i n t h e 1840s and 50s c o m p r i s e d l a r g e l y o f A p o s t l e s . S p e a k i n g o f h i s e x p e r i e n c e i n t h e S o c i e t y , Henry S i d g w i c k n o t e d t h a t one o f i t s most a t t r a c t i v e q u a l i t i e s was a p u r s u i t o f t r u t h f r e e d o f a c o n s i s t e n t g r a v i t y o f t r e a t m e n t : "The g r a v e s t s u b j e c t s were c o n t i n u a l l y d e b a t e d , b u t g r a v i t y o f t r e a t m e n t , as I have s a i d , was n o t imposed, though s i n c e r i t y was. I n f a c t i t was r a t h e r a p o i n t o f t h e a p o s t o l i c mind t o u n d e r s t a n d how much s u g g e s t i o n and i n s t r u c t i o n may be d e r i v e d from what i s i n form a j e s t — e v e n i n d e a l i n g w i t h t h e g r a v e s t m a t t e r s " ( q t d . i n A l l e n 6 ) . I n t h e 1847 c o n c l u s i o n , Tennyson's n a r r a t o r had a c t u a l l y r e f e r r e d t o t h e romance as h a v i n g e v o l v e d " w i t h l e s s and l e s s o f j e s t " t o w a r d a s e r i o u s end.. M a u r i c e ' s a s s i s t a n c e i n t h e s u c c e s s f u l e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f Queen's C o l l e g e f o r women i n 1848 might have c o n v i n c e d Tennyson t o enhance t h e s e r i o u s t o n e g i v e n t o f e m a l e e d u c a t i o n a l r e f o r m i n t h e poem, and t h e r e b y l i n k i t more d i r e c t l y t o t h e " e a r n e s t " demands o f t h e women i n t h e frame n a r r a t i v e . Y e t t h e A p o s t l e s , i n g e n e r a l , seem t o have promoted among t h e m s e l v e s a l i g h t - h e a r t e d s c e p t i c i s m w i t h w h i c h t o temper any t e n d e n c i e s t h e y may have had as a group (and c e r t a i n l y d i d have on o c c a s i o n ) t o d i s p l a y a t o o e a r n e s t , even p r i g g i s h s e l f - r i g h t e o u s n e s s , a s e l f - r i g h t e o u s n e s s d i s p l a y e d o n l y t o o w e l l by b o t h t h e P r i n c e and I d a a l i k e . 378 T h i s A p o s t o l i c d u a l i s m , w h i c h has n o t h i n g w h a t s o e v e r t o do w i t h t h e s e x o f i t s a d h e r e n t s , c o u l d have i n f l u e n c e d Tennyson i n t h e d i r e c t i o n o f a " s t r a n g e d i a g o n a l " t r e a t m e n t i n The P r i n c e s s l o n g b e f o r e he had h i s c o n t r o l l i n g n a r r a t o r a t t r i b u t e i t t o gender d i f f e r e n c e s i n 1850. O b v i o u s l y t h e s o c i a l r o l e o f women i n t h e f u t u r e i s t h e p r i m a r y c o n c e r n o f t h e poem. Y e t , more i m p o r t a n t l y , Tennyson wants t o make h i s r e a d e r s aware o f t h e d u a l i n f l u e n c e o f i n d i v i d u a l p e r c e p t i o n and of- a language m o t i v a t e d by p e r s o n a l d e s i r e i n s h a p i n g contemporary s o c i a l e v e n t s . Hence, t h e romance i n The P r i n c e s s i s a medley o f s e v e r a l v o i c e s . These a r e j u x t a p o s e d by t h e i r degr ees o f adherence e i t h e r t o p r i v a t e o r t o p u b l i c m o t i v a t i o n s ; c o n s e q u e n t l y , no one v o i c e h o l d s a b s o l u t e a u t h o r i t y . The poem i s a s e r i e s o f p e r c e p t i o n s and m i s p e r c e p t i o n s i n w h i c h Utopian v i s i o n s a r e n o t t h e e x c l u s i v e p u r v i e w o f women, nor a r e s c e p t i c i s m o r mockery t h e p r i v i l e g e d male r e s p o n s e . F o r example, t h e P r i n c e ' s d e s i r e t o ' " c l e a r away t h e p a r a s i t i c forms / That seem t o keep h e r up b u t d r a g h e r down'" ( V I I 253-4) echoes I d a ' s e a r l i e r l e c t u r e s about m i s p e r c e p t i o n . And h i s i d e a l o f "'Not l i k e t o l i k e , b u t l i k e i n d i f f e r e n c e ' " ( V I I 262) i n h i s p e r f e c t u n i o n o f man and woman was, as I d a c l a i m e d , p a r t o f h e r own dream. Y e t , a l t h o u g h t h e i r words and t h e i r dreams appear s i m i l a r , t h e P r i n c e ' s e s p o u s i n g o f f e m a l e e q u a l i t y does n o t a r i s e o u t of a p u b l i c d e c l a r a t i o n o f p u r p o s e , as I d a ' s d i d a t t h e women's u n i v e r s i t y , b u t from a d e l i b e r a t e , p r i v a t e l y m o t i v a t e d a t t e m p t t o a c h i e v e h i s own ends and p e r s u a d e I d a t o marry him. Because t h e P r i n c e ' s t r u e m o t i v e s a r e h e l d i n abeyance, h i s dream n o t b e i n g r e a l i z e d a t t h e end o f t h e poem, t h e i n d i v i d u a l r e a d e r i s t h u s c h a l l e n g e d t o a s c r i b e s o c i a l o r p u b l i c v a l u e where and how she o r he p r i v a t e l y sees f i t . Tennyson's r e a d e r s i n t h i s c a s e a r e g r a n t e d i n d i v i d u a l autonomy and do n o t , n e c e s s a r i l y , s p l i t a l o n g t h e gender l i n e s p r o p o s e d by e i t h e r t h e n a r r a t o r o r P r i e s t l e y . I n f a c t , t h e poem's p r i n c i p a l a u d i t o r , L i l i a , r e m a i n s s i l e n t . S i n c e , a f t e r h e a r i n g t h e f a n t a s y , she a s k s h e r b o o k i s h a u n t t o " ' t e l l us what we a r e ' , " t h e i m p o r t o f t h e P r i n c e ' s v i s i o n i s a g a i n weakened, g i v e n t h e i m p l i c a t i o n t h a t a l t e r n a t e n a r r a t i v e s o f women's l i v e s abound. Indeed i n 1847, L i l i a ' s aunt had l a u n c h e d i n t o an i n t e r r u p t e d " t r e a t i s e " s a t i r i c a l l y d e s c r i b e d by t h e n a r r a t o r as comparable t o h i e r o g l y p h s — a x i o m s "graven on r o c k . " T h i s metaphor o f p a s t ages now swept away ( e c h o i n g I n Memoriam) a g a i n r a i s e s some doubt as t o t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f any " s t o r y " h o l d i n g t r u e f o r v e r y l o n g . I n t h e p r o l o g u e , h e r aunt had been c a p a b l e o f t a k i n g even " t h i s f a i r day f o r t e x t . " She c r e a t e s from t h e i s o l a t e d e x p e r i e n c e o f S i r W a l t e r ' s o p e n i n g up o f h i s b a r o n i a l manor t o t h e w o r k i n g c l a s s e s a s o c i o - e c o n o m i c p r o p h e c y a n a l o g o u s t o I d a ' s f e m i n i s t dream: "An u n i v e r s a l c u l t u r e f o r t h e crowd" ( 1 0 8 - 9 ) . Among such a company o f i d e a l i s t s , r e a l i t y i s h a r d t o l o c a t e ; one dream may j u s t as e a s i l y be s u b s t i t u t e d f o r t h e n e x t . Hence, meaning i s f o r c e d t o r e s i d e 380 more i n t h e i n d i v i d u a l ' s r e s p o n s e t o a s p e c i f i c v i s i o n , t h a n i n any v i s i o n i t s e l f . However, dream and v i s i o n a p p a r e n t l y f a i l e d t o g e n e r a t e t h e " d r i f t " o f t h e poem t h a t Tennyson had hoped h i s p u b l i c would c a t c h . C o n s e q u e n t l y , he i n c l u d e d s i x rhymed, i n t e r c a l a r y songs i n t h e t h i r d e d i t i o n (1850), sung i n t h e s o f t l i n n e t v o i c e s o f t h e women, s u p p o s e d l y t o emphasize t h a t t h e " c h i l d i s t h e l i n k t h r o ' t h e p a r t s " (Tennyson q t d . i n Memoir 212). I n a c t u a l i t y , t h e women's songs p r o v i d e a s t i l l , l y r i c c h o r u s t o t h e d r a m a t i c a c t i o n o f t h e male n a r r a t i v e , more t h a n t h e y comment d i r e c t l y upon t h e r o l e o f t h e c h i l d . 2 7 As w i t h Maud's v o i c e , t h e y can a c t as m a r t i a l songs by i n t e r r e l a t i n g sensuous a l l u r e (song t h r e e ) and d o m e s t i c i t y (song f o u r ) w i t h male "As t h r o u g h t h e l a n d a t eve" speaks o f a f a l l i n g o u t between a husband and w i f e t h a t i s r e s o l v e d i n t e a r s upon t h e i r l o s t c h i l d ' s g r a v e . The l u l l a b y "Sweet and low" s i n g s o f a f a m i l i a r V i c t o r i a n scene o f a mother and babe a w a i t i n g t h e a r r i v a l o f t h e husband from o v e r s e a s . But d o m e s t i c i t y i s soon r e p l a c e d by a c a l l t o arms as The P r i n c e s s g r a d u a l l y moves t o t h e b a t t l e f i e l d . "The s p l e n d o u r f a l l s on c a s t l e w a l l s " seems t o be a l l echo, as a b u g l e sounds and r e s o u n d s i n t o a " d y i n g " s t i l l n e s s , s u g g e s t i n g t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f d e a t h t o t h e l o v e r who answers i t s c a l l . I n L i l i a ' s s i n g i n g o f t h e f o u r t h , "Thy v o i c e i s h e a r d , " a scene o f b l i s s f u l d o m e s t i c i t y now becomes t h e b u g l e c a l l t h a t i n c i t e s h e r o i c a c t i o n . The a r r i v a l o f t h e husband, a n t i c i p a t e d i n song two, i s c o m p l e t e d i n song f i v e , "Home t h e y b r o u g h t h e r w a r r i o r dead," i n w h i c h t h e husband, (now w a r r i o r ) i s b r o u g h t home dead, and t h e w i f e f a i l s t o r e s p o n d u n t i l she r e a l i z e s t h a t she now has o n l y h e r c h i l d t o l i v e f o r . F i n a l l y , "Ask me no more" b e a r s d i r e c t l y upon I d a ' s i n d e t e r m i n a t e f a t e as t h e s p e a k e r i m p l o r e s "Ask me no more" t o y i e l d . C l e a r l y , i f t h e c h i l d and d o m e s t i c scenes a r e used i n t h e s e songs, t h e y a r e f o r s y m b o l i c p u r p o s e s t o a l l u d e t o t h e c o n f u s i o n o f d o m e s t i c i t y and w a r f a r e , t h e a c t i o n o f t h e romance, r a t h e r t h a n t o g e n e r a t e i d e o l o g i c a l s u p p o r t s o l e l y f o r m a t e r n a l i s m o r d o m e s t i c i t y . 381 w a r f a r e and, i n song s i x , i n c r e a s e t h e sense o f doubt t h a t p r e v a i l s a t t h e end o f t h e romance. D e s p i t e how much Tennyson may have i n t e n d e d t o c r i t i c i z e as u n n a t u r a l women's d e s i r e s t o " l o s e t h e c h i l d " and, l a t e r , t o have i t r e s t o r e d t o them t h r o u g h t h e a c t i v a t i o n o f t h e i r t r u e m a t e r n a l n a t u r e s (an i n t e r p r e t a t i o n g i v e n i n The Memoir (208-9) i n H a l l a m ' s v o i c e r a t h e r t h a n h i s f a t h e r ' s ) , t h e songs w h i c h he added do n o t r e i n f o r c e t h i s message. On t h e c o n t r a r y , t h e i r sombre t o n e s , m e l a n c h o l y r e f r a i n s , and f r e q u e n t r e c o u r s e t o images o f d e a t h i m p l y t h a t a woman's l i f e o f f a m i l y and c h i l d r e n i s b e s e t w i t h r e a l d i f f i c u l t i e s , and t h a t t h e m a r r i a g e t o w h i c h t h e s i n g e r o f t h e s i x t h song must y i e l d may i n d e e d be t o "a h o l l o w cheek o r f a d e d eye" and n o t t o a h e r o i c P r i n c e o f a new g o l d e n age. These women's songs p r o v i d e a d e c i d e d l y s e r i o u s c o u n t e r p o i n t t o a p r e v i o u s l y l i g h t - h e a r t e d medley, and s u g g e s t t h a t w h a t e v e r c h o i c e s a r e made f o r t h e f u t u r e , t h e y must n o t be made w i t h o u t an awareness o f t h e i r p o t e n t i a l r e p e r c u s s i o n s . The l y r i c s ' i n d i v i d u a l p o p u l a r i t y as songs s e t t o m u s i c i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g , once a g a i n , Tennyson's a d d i t i o n s open up r a t h e r t h a n i n v o k e c l o s u r e upon an . a l r e a d y c o m p l i c a t e d a r r a y o f v o i c e s . A l t h o u g h t h e many r e s p o n s e s t o The P r i n c e s s ( b o t h b e f o r e and a f t e r r e v i s i o n s ) c a t a l o g u e d by Shannon i n Tennyson and t h e R e v i e w e r s (97-140) , on t h e whole, a p p l a u d Tennyson's " t h o u g h t , f e e l i n g and e x p r e s s i o n , " t h e i r o b v i o u s d i s a g r e e m e n t as t o t h e i m p o r t o f t h e poem does i n d e e d s u g g e s t t h a t i t e l i c i t e d t h e 382 autonomous, d i v e r g e n t r e a c t i o n s and, i n s e v e r a l c a s e s , out and o u t c o n f u s i o n t h a t i t had p r o v o k e d (see esp. t h e r e v i e w s i n The Athenaeum and t h e A t l a s q t d . 123). L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e a c t i o n t o t h e f i r s t e d i t i o n might be c o n s i d e r e d t y p i c a l : o f h i s w i f e Fanny's r e a d i n g , h i s r e p l y was " S t r a n g e enough! a u n i v e r s i t y o f women! A g e n t l e s a t i r e , i n t h e e a s i e s t and most f l o w i n g b l a n k v e r s e , w i t h two d e l i c i o u s unrhymed songs, and many e x q u i s i t e p a s s a g e s . I went t o bed a f t e r i t , w i t h d e l i g h t f u l m u s i c r i n g i n g i n my e a r s ; y e t h a l f d i s a p p o i n t e d i n t h e poem, though n o t knowing why. There i s a d i s c o r d a n t n o t e somewhere" ( L i f e I I 106) . The A m e r i c a n p o e t ' s p u z z l e m e n t was n o t • 28 u n i q u e . Shannon m a i n t a i n s t h a t "[h]owever much some r e v i e w e r s l i k e d The P r i n c e s s , t h e y r e i t e r a t e d a now f a m i l i a r c o m p l a i n t . Once more, i n s t e a d o f p r o p h e s y i n g , Tennyson was m e r e l y s i n g i n g . He had d i s r e g a r d e d t h e i r a d v i c e and b e t r a y e d t h e i r t r u s t " (114-5) . Indeed, t h r o u g h r e v i s i o n , Tennyson had d e l i b e r a t e l y evaded t h e r e s p o n s i b i l i t y demanded o f him t o p r o v i d e h i s r e a d e r s w i t h p h i l o s o p h i c a l , a n d — i n V i c t o r i a n t e r m s — u n e q u i v o c a l t r u t h : a t l e a s t i n t h i s poem. I t t h e r e f o r e seems v e r y odd t o d i s c o v e r t h a t , w i t h s p e c i f i c r e g a r d t o Tennyson's p o t e n t i a l l y s u b v e r s i v e c o n f u s i o n o f 2 8 The r e s p o n s e among women, i n p a r t i c u l a r , was mixed and c o n t r a d i c t o r y . I n a v a r i e t y o f t e x t s p u b l i s h e d f o r and about women i n t h e 1850s and 60s, ( e x c e r p t s d i s c u s s e d i n The Woman Q u e s t i o n — L i t e r a r y I s s u e s ) , The P r i n c e s s i s w i d e l y q u o t e d i n s u p p o r t o f b o t h f e m i n i s t c a u s e s and n o n - f e m i n i s t ( f e m i n i n e ) v a l u e s . The P r i n c e ' s v i s i o n o f men becoming more f e m i n i n e and women more m a s c u l i n e i s a l m o s t e n t i r e l y n e g l e c t e d ( H e l s i n g e r I I I 9 4 - 6 ) . 383 gender r o l e s , most o f Tennyson's t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s p e r c e i v e t h e p o e t as u n e q u i v o c a l l y a t one w i t h h i s h e r o P r i n c e ( d e s p i t e h i s poem b e i n g t o l d by seven d i f f e r e n t male v o i c e s ) . They t h e r e b y a c c e p t w i t h o u t h e s i t a t i o n t h e P r i n c e ' s dream o f gender e q u a l i t y as Tennyson's own. The e a r l i e r m a l e - f e m a l e gender c o n f u s i o n , and i t s e r u p t i o n i n t o w a r f a r e , a r e e i t h e r l i n k e d by p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d c r i t i c s t o Tennyson's own p e r s o n a l , s e x u a l c o n f l i c t s , o r a r e f e l t by p u b l i c l y - f o c u s e d c r i t i c s t o be t h e p o e t ' s r e m o n s t r a n c e o f "abnormal" gender r o l e s , r e c t i f i e d t h r o u g h a p r o p e r s e x u a l a l i g n m e n t i n m a r r i a g e . I n h i s p r i v a t e l y - f o c u s e d s t u d y o f T e n n y s o n i a n Love (1969), G e r h a r d J o s e p h sees The P r i n c e s s as a t r a n s i t i o n a l poem i n Tennyson's c a r e e r t h a t marks h i s p s y c h i c a l s t r u g g l e between sense ( m a s c u l i n e ) and s o u l ( f e m i n i n e ) r e t r a n s c r i b e d i n t h e N o r t h (male a g g r e s s i o n ) - S o u t h ( f e m a l e p a s s i o n ) c o n f l i c t between t h e P r i n c e ' s and P r i n c e s s ' s f a m i l y s e a t s (90-101). A c c o r d i n g t o Johnson, u n t i l The P r i n c e s s , Tennyson had c o n c e n t r a t e d h i s e n e r g i e s i n f e m a l e a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l p r o t a g o n i s t s (94) , b u t now i n t h e P r i n c e , "Tennyson f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e p r e s e n t s h i s r e a d e r s w i t h a male l o v e r who c o n v i n c i n g l y d r a m a t i z e s h i s own s e a r c h f o r p s y c h i c i n t e g r a t i o n and s t a b i l i t y " (93-4) . The movement t o w a r d m a r r i a g e , i n t h e poem and i n Tennyson's l i f e , i s t h u s r e a d as a m e d i a t i o n between o p p o s i n g and d i s r u p t i v e s e x u a l i m p u l s e s . J o s e p h ' s argument seems t o have a r i s e n from t h e s i m i l a r v i e w p r e s e n t e d 384 two y e a r s e a r l i e r by W e n d e l l S t a c y Johnson i n h i s Sex and M a r r i a g e i n V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y a l t h o u g h no m e n t i o n i s made o f t h i s s t u d y i n J o s e p h ' s b i b l i o g r a p h y . F o r Johnson, t h e s o u l - sense d i c h o t o m y i s n o t m e r e l y p s y c h o l o g i c a l b u t t a k e s on a s o c i a l d i m e n s i o n as w e l l i n terms o f Tennyson's p r i v a t e compromise w i t h p u b l i c a c c e p t a n c e : "The i d e a o f m a r r i a g e means f o r Tennyson an escape from shadows and s o l i p s i s m t o t h e l o n g e d - f o r r e c o n c i l i a t i o n o f i m p u l s e and s o c i a l o r d e r t h r o u g h a u n i o n o f s p i r i t and f l e s h , o f t h e c r e a t i v e s e l f and t h e r e s p o n s i v e m i l i e u , o f woman and man" (183) . The gender terms o f t h e P r i n c e ' s r e s o l v e t o marry a r e c l e a r l y g r a n t e d a p p r o v a l by t h e s e male c r i t i c s . I n c o n t r a s t , p u b l i c l y - f o c u s e d c r i t i c s i n t e r e s t e d i n gender t e n d t o l o o k more c l o s e l y a t t h e c r o s s g e n d e r i n g o f t h e P r i n c e , r a t h e r t h a n g r a n t s p e c i a l s t a t u s t o h i s f i n a l v i s i o n o f s e x u a l harmony. C a r o l C h r i s t ' s " V i c t o r i a n M a s c u l i n i t y and t h e A n g e l i n t h e House" (1977) i s t h e most s a t i s f y i n g o f t h o s e s t u d i e s o f The P r i n c e s s t h a t see t h e poem a r i s i n g o u t o f Tennyson's own p e r s o n a l r e s p o n s e t o t h e s o c i a l / s e x u a l c o n f l i c t s o f h i s a g e . 2 9 C h r i s t a s s e r t s t h a t Tennyson, a l o n g w i t h C o v e n t r y Patmore, e x p r e s s e s i n h i s p o e t r y a " f e a r and d i s t r u s t o f male a c t i o n and s e x u a l i t y " (159) a s s o c i a t e d as i t was w i t h t h e c r a s s n e s s o f t h e m a r k e t p l a c e and P h i l i s t i n e 2 9 A l a n S i n f i e l d , i n h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e " F e m i n i n e and M a s c u l i n e " i n A l f r e d Tennyson (127-53) draws s e v e r a l o f h i s arguments from C h r i s t , as w e l l as from T e r r y E a g l e t o n . 385 b e h a v i o u r (146). Hence, Tennyson i d e n t i f i e s w i t h and i d e a l i z e s "women's p a s s i v i t y and a s e x u a l i t y " ( 1 4 7 ) . "Both t h e f e a r o f a c t i o n and t h e p a t t e r n o f f e m i n i n e i d e n t i f i c a t i o n and i d e a l i z a t i o n a r e ways o f r e s p o n d i n g t o a w o r l d i n w h i c h a c t i o n has l o s t i t s r e l i g i o u s i m p e r a t i v e and seems t o have g a i n e d meaning o n l y from a M a l t h u s i a n and D a r w i n i a n m a r k e t p l a c e " ( 1 5 8 ) . C h r i s t t h u s sees t h e f e m i n i z a t i o n o f t h e P r i n c e as l i n k e d t o Tennyson's own p s y c h o - s o c i a l s t a b i l i t y i n V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y . But u n l i k e C h r i s t , most p u b l i c l y - f o c u s e d c r i t i c s a r e n o t s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y i n c l i n e d t o r a t i o n a l i z e Tennyson's a p p a r e n t a d o p t i o n o f a f e m i n i n e s e n s i b i l i t y i n The P r i n c e s s . T e r r y E a g l e t o n a r g u e s f o r a c o n c l u s i o n s i m i l a r t o C h r i s t ' s i n h i s "Tennyson: P o l i t i c s and S e x u a l i t y i n The P r i n c e s s and I n Memoriam" (1978). That i s , t h e p o e t ' s a d o p t i o n o f t h e , f e m i n i n e was i n r e s p o n s e t o a b u r g e o n i n g (male) c a p i t a l i s t economy. But w h i l e C h r i s t c o n t e n d s t h a t Tennyson was m o t i v a t e d by " f e a r , " E a g l e t o n c l a i m s t h a t t h e p o e t c o m p l i e d w i t h a c a p i t a l i s t hegemony: a " b r u t a l l y e x p l i c i t dominance f a i l s t o s e c u r e t h e c o n d i t i o n s o f r u l i n g - c l a s s hegemony." T h e r e f o r e , t h e " ' c i v i l i z i n g ' v a l u e s o f 'sweetness' and 'moral n o b i l i t y ' w h i c h a r e p a r a d i g m a t i c a l l y ' f e m i n i n e ' " a r e e n l i s t e d t o s e r v e hegemonic c o n t r o l (97, see a l s o S i n f i e l d 135). Diane Long H o e v e l e r t a k e s a s i m i l a r v i e w , though l i b e r a l - f e m i n i s t as opposed t o E a g l e t o n ' s M a r x i s t . She f i n d s t h a t t h e androgynous i d e a l t o w a r d w h i c h t h e poem t e n d s may l i b e r a t e t h e s e x e s from 386 r e s t r i c t i v e n o t i o n s o f s o c i a l r o l e s , b u t " i t a l s o c o n f i r m s t h e image o f woman as s e x u a l 'Other,' t h e e t e r n a l F e m i n i n e whose s o l e f u n c t i o n i s t o complement t h e dominant m a s c u l i n e f i g u r e " ( 1 ) . H o e v e l e r t h u s c r i t i c i z e s Tennyson f o r a l l o w i n g t h e p o t e n t i a l l y d e s t a b i l i z i n g i n f l u e n c e o f t h e male e f f e m i n a t e t o be drawn i n t o i t s p r o p e r hegemonic e x p r e s s i o n i n androgynous u n i o n a c c o m p l i s h e d t h r o u g h m a r r i a g e ( 8 - 9 ) . More f u l l y t h a n t h e above mentioned c r i t i c s , Eve K o s o f s k y - Sedgwick s i t u a t e s t h e romance n a r r a t i v e w i t h i n t h e gender and c l a s s i m p l i c a t i o n s r e v e a l e d i n t h e poem's frame n a r r a t i v e o f a male h o m o s o c i a l d i s c o u r s e . For Sedgwick, "one i m p o r t a n t f e a t u r e o f t h e myth propounded i n The P r i n c e s s ' s i n n e r n a r r a t i v e i s t h a t i t t r a c e s t h e o r i g i n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y b o u r g e o i s gender arrangements d i r e c t l y back t o t h e f e u d a l a r i s t o c r a c y " ( 1 2 1 ) . Because t h e frame n a r r a t i v e "seems a l m o s t t o r e p r e s e n t a s i m p l e p r o j e c t i o n i n t o t h e p r e s e n t o f t h e i n n e r n a r r a t i v e ' s f a n t a s y o f a f e u d a l p a s t " ( 1 2 5 ) , Sedgwick c r i t i c i z e s The P r i n c e s s i n a t l e a s t two ways: i t p e r m i t s a v i e w o f m i d d l e - c l a s s V i c t o r i a n f a m i l y t h a t d e n i e s any r e l a t i o n between i t s s t r u c t u r e and i t s economic f u n c t i o n s ( t h a t i s , a wage system f o r males and d o m e s t i c s e r v i t u d e f o r f e m a l e s ) , and i t o b s c u r e s h i s t o r y by g l a m o u r i z i n g and d e h i s t o r i s i z i n g (124). Sedgwick m a i n t a i n s t h a t t h e poem r e i n f o r c e s a r i s t o c r a t i c p a t r o n a g e by a l i g n i n g i t w i t h s o c i a l p r o g r e s s , and a l s o e n d o r s e s a n c i e n t p r i v i l e g e and c o n n o i s s e u r s h i p as a p r e f e r r e d method o f modern s c i e n c e : 387 The a s s e r t i o n t h a t s c i e n c e , o r t e c h n o l o g y , i s t h e l e g i t i m a t e o f f s p r i n g o f p a t r o n a g e and c o n n o i s s e u r s h i p , t h a t a l l t h e s e p u r s u i t s a r e harmonious, d i s i n t e r e s t e d , and n a t i o n a l l y u n i f y i n g , t h a t t h e r a i s o n d ' e t r e o f t h e g r e a t landowners i s t o e x e c u t e most i m p a r t i a l l y a n a t i o n a l consensus i n f a v o u r o f t h e s e o b v i o u s d e s i d e r a t a — t h e frame n a r r a t i v e assumes t h e s e p r o p o s i t i o n s w i t h a c o n f i d e n c e t h a t i s a l m o s t a s s a u l t i v e . (125) Sedgwick d i s p a r a g e s what she sees as a v i s i o n o f s o c i a l change as one "from t h e t o p down" (12 6 ) . I d a t h e r e f o r e f a l l s because she s t e p s o u t s i d e o f h e r f i t r o l e and assumes a f e u d a l - b a r o n ' s a t t i t u d e a t h e r s c h o o l : "A f e m i n i s m based on t h i s p a r t i c u l a r n o s t a l g i a w i l l be w i t h o u t f a i t h o r f o r t i t u d e , a s i s t e r h o o d w a i t i n g t o be s u b v e r t e d " (127). U l t i m a t e l y , however, Sedgwick a r g u e s t h a t The P r i n c e s s b o t h e n d o r s e s "an a r i s t o c r a t i c i d e o l o g y — a i m e d a t an a r i s t o c r a t i c and a b o u r g e o i s a u d i e n c e , b u t [ i s ] embodied t h r o u g h a s p e a k e r whose r e l a t i o n t o p a t r o n a g e i s n o t t h a t o f t h e p a t r o n b u t o f t h e p a t r o n i z e d " ( 1 3 3 ) . From t h e v i e w o f t h o s e who e n j o y e d hegemonic p r i v i l e g e , t h e " p o e t ' s work and women's work f e l l i n t h e same o r n a m e n t a l , a n g e l i c , and n e g l i g i b l e c l a s s " ( 1 3 3 ) . Sedgwick's c o n c l u s i o n s a r e somewhat p u z z l i n g . On t h e one hand, she a p p e a r s t o c r i t i c i z e Tennyson f o r t h e poem's s u p p o r t f o r an a r i s t o c r a t i c i d e o l o g y ; on t h e o t h e r , she c l a i m s f i n a l l y t h a t t h e p o e t ' s work, l i k e women's work, i s m e r e l y o r n a m e n t a l and t h u s , p r e s u m a b l y , o f l i t t l e s o c i a l consequence. T h i s c o n f u s i o n seems t o stem from t h e p r e v i o u s l y mentioned t e n d e n c y o f Tennyson s c h o l a r s t o c o n f l a t e t h e p o e t and h i s poem. I n s u c h r e a d i n g s , Tennyson h i m s e l f seems t o become as p r i v a t e l y 388 c o n f u s e d and as p u b l i c l y t r o u b l e d as t h e many s p e a k e r s who a r e a l l o w e d v o i c e w i t h i n t h e medley, i n p a r t i c u l a r t h e P r i n c e . S e v e r a l s c h o l a r s who f o c u s on t h e p o t e n t i a l l y s u b v e r s i v e q u a l i t i e s o f c r o s s - g e n d e r i n g i n The P r i n c e s s a l s o s e a r c h t h e poem f o r d e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f s o c i a l l y c o n s t r u c t e d , V i c t o r i a n gender norms. To them, t h e a p p a r e n t l a c k o f s u b v e r s i o n i n t h e P r i n c e ' s m a r r i a g e s o l u t i o n o f t e n p r o v e s d i s a p p o i n t i n g . M a r j o r i e S t o n e , f o r example, d i s c u s s e s t h e d i a l e c t i c between g e n r e s u b v e r s i o n and gender i n v e r s i o n by c o m p a r i n g The P r i n c e s s t o A u r o r a L e i g h . Tennyson's medley i s shown t o be d e c i d e d l y more c o n s e r v a t i v e t h a n B a r r e t t ' s Browning's " n o v e l - poem." Stone c l a i m s t h a t Tennyson makes a " t r a v e s t y o f p a r o d y , [ t h a t ] l i k e t h e t r a v e s t y o f t r a n s v e s t i s m , can o f t e n be i n h e r e n t l y c o n s e r v a t i v e i n i t s e f f e c t f o r a l l i t s show o f s u b v e r s i v e n e s s " (115). A c c o r d i n g t o Rod Edmond, t h e marked s t r a i n o f androgyny e x p r e s s e d as t r a n s v e s t i s m i s f o r c e d t o y i e l d t o a c o n f l i c t i v e d i s c o u r s e on t h e f a m i l y , gender, and m a r r i a g e s i t u a t e d w i t h i n p i c t o r i a l as w e l l as p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e s o f t h e p e r i o d (126). B i n a F r e i w a l d a l s o o f f e r s a f e m i n i s t - d e c o n s t r u c t i v i s t p e r s p e c t i v e i n h e r r e c e n t s t u d y "Tennyson's P r i n c e s s : I s There a T e x t i n t h i s Woman." By e x a m i n i n g The P r i n c e s s as "a s i t e o f c o n f l i c t i n g d i s c o u r s e s , " she s u g g e s t s Tennyson's i d e o l o g i c a l m o t i v a t i o n s u n d e r l y i n g i t s " r e s o l u t i o n o f c o n f l i c t u a l f o r c e s " ( 4 6 0 ) . A l i g n i n g Tennyson w i t h h i s c o n t r o l l i n g n a r r a t o r , F r e i w a l d a r g u e s t h a t t h e f e m i n i s t a s p i r a t i o n s i n t h e p o e m — t h a t p i t I d a ' s w i l l a g a i n s t 389 t h a t o f t h e P r i n c e — a r e s u c c e s s f u l l y c r u s h e d by " t h e i r o n hand o f a hegemonic i d i o m " i n I d a ' s f i n a l s u b m i s s i o n t o m a t e r n a l i s m as t h e n e c e s s a r y consequence o f a t o u c h e d f e m i n i n e h e a r t (473) . F o r F r i e w a l d , t h e f i n a l , p u z z l e d r e s p o n s e o f L i l i a , " Y o u — t e l l us who we a r e " ( C o n c l u s i o n 3 4 ) , t o t h e n e a t c l o s u r e e n f o r c e d on t h e romance e f f e c t i v e l y s i l e n c e s t h e e a r l i e r o p p o s i t i o n I d a had g e n e r a t e d t o t h e male n a r r a t i v e , a n a r r a t i v e t h a t I d a , and presumably h e r f e m a l e r e a d e r s , w i l l now have t o l i v e as t h e s t o r y o f t h e i r l i v e s . However, F r i e w a l d ' s c o n f l a t i o n o f t h e n a r r a t o r ' s " i r o n hand" w i t h t h a t o f Tennyson h i m s e l f (475) d i s r e g a r d s h i s a c t i v e p r o f e s s i o n a l i s m and, i r o n i c a l l y , c a s t s Tennyson i n a p a s s i v e , " f e m i n i n e " r o l e c u r r e n t l y b e i n g d e b a t e d by V i c t o r i a n s c h o l a r s : i n e f f e c t , women as dupes o f t h e i r s o c i e t y . I n F r i e w a l d ' s and o t h e r s c h o l a r s ' v i e w s , Tennyson i s so c l e a r l y s i t u a t e d w i t h i n t h e V i c t o r i a n male-dominated i d e o l o g y t h a t any q u e s t i o n o f h i s f e m a l e s y m p a t h i e s s i m p l y does n o t a r i s e . Y e t n e i t h e r he, nor h i s f e m a l e r e a d e r s , u n c o n d i t i o n a l l y saw t h e m s e l v e s as v i c t i m i z e d by p a t r i a r c h a l hegemony (even as t h e y , n e c e s s a r i l y , l i v e d w i t h i n i t ) . D i s r e g a r d f o r t h e c o m p l e x i t y o f V i c t o r i a n l i f e and Tennyson's development as a p o e t w i t h i n t h a t c o n t e x t c o n t i n u e s t o e n t r a p Tennyson and h i s work i n a gendered, p r i v a t e - p u b l i c dichotomy. Once e n t r a p p e d , Tennyson's p o e t r y i s r e a d as e v i d e n c e f o r one's own s u b j e c t i v i s t v i e w s o f a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y V i c t o r i a n 390 i n h e r i t a n c e r a t h e r t h a n as a complex r e s p o n s e t o an e q u a l l y complex s o c i e t y i n i t s own r i g h t . T h i s dilemma c o n c e r n i n g Tennyson as a V i c t o r i a n spokesman f o r gender r o l e s and s o c i a l b e h a v i o u r was and c o n t i n u e s t o be even more a c u t e i n I n Memoriam t h a n i n The P r i n c e s s . That t h e d e b a t e c o n c e r n i n g Tennyson's gender s t i l l r a g e s a l m o s t 150 y e a r s l a t e r among h i s r e a d e r s a t t e s t s t o t h e power o f Tennyson's androgynous v o i c e . The i s s u e o f Tennyson's p o t e n t i a l h o m o s e x u a l i t y as an i n f l u e n c e i n h i s c r e a t i o n o f I n Memoriam c o n c e r n s s e v e r a l t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s . G e n e r a l l y , r e a d e r s q u e s t i o n Tennyson's s e x u a l i t y , u s i n g e i t h e r gender s u b v e r s i o n i n The P r i n c e s s , s e x u a l i n v e r s i o n i n I n Memoriam, o r b o t h as t h e l o c u s c l a s s i c u s o f t h e i r arguments. A t l e a s t t h r e e c r i t i c s , however, t r a n s f o r m t h i s i s s u e o f s e x u a l v o i c i n g i n I n Memoriam i n t o a d i s c u s s i o n o f p o e t i c m o t i v e s , t h e p u b l i c e x p r e s s i o n o f l o v e , and t h e i r r e l a t i o n t o a u d i e n c e e x p e c t a t i o n s : A l l e n S i n f i e l d , Timothy P e l t a s o n , and R i c h a r d D e l l a m o r a . T h e i r work has opened up Tennyson c r i t i c i s m t o a new n e g o t i a t i o n between t h e p u b l i c and t h e p r i v a t e t h a t a l l o w s f o r q u e s t i o n s o f r e a d e r s h i p and gender. I n h i s " F e m i n i n e and M a s c u l i n e " s e c t i o n o f h i s book on Tennyson (127-53), S i n f i e l d adds t o t h e p u b l i c - p r i v a t e argument i n two ways. F i r s t , he c o m p l i c a t e s t h e r e l a t i o n between t h e p o e t and s o c i e t y ' s dominant i d e o l o g y — s i n c e "meaning i s a l w a y s n e g o t i a t e d i n t h e c o n d i t i o n s o f r e c e p t i o n " (13 6 ) — b y s u g g e s t i n g t h a t Tennyson a l m o s t u n c o n s c i o u s l y c a s t h i m s e l f as an " e f f e m i n a t e " w r i t e r i n t h e eyes o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r y c r i t i c s , t h e r e b y making Tennyson's f e m i n i n e l a b e l a c o n d i t i o n o f r e c e p t i o n r a t h e r t h a n a u t h o r i a l i n t e n t i o n . Reviews m e n t i o n e d by S i n f i e l d i n c l u d e t h o s e by C r o k e r (Jump 66-83) and B u l w e r - L y t t o n (see M a r t i n 168-73) t h a t p u t Tennyson i n t h e " a f f e c t e d " Cockney s c h o o l ; K i n g s l e y ' s l a u d a t o r y 1850 r e v i e w , u n d e r s c o r e d t h r o u g h o u t by h i s C h r i s t i a n m a n l i n e s s (Jump 172-85); t h e anonymous r e v i e w i n The Times (1851) ( p o s s i b l y by Manley Hopkins) t h a t d i s p a r a g e d Tennyson's "amatory t e n d e r n e s s " i n v e r s e s l i k e l y t o be g i v e n a " f e m i n i n e a p p l i c a t i o n " (see Shannon 156-8); and Bagehot's f i n a l c r i t i c i s m o f Tennyson's " o r n a t e " p o e t r y as u n d u l y i n f l u e n c e d by women, who " e v e r p r e f e r a d e l i c a t e u n r e a l i t y t o a t r u e o r f i r m a r t " ( L i t e r a r y S t u d i e s I I 380-81). I n m e n t i o n i n g t h e s e c r i t i q u e s , S i n f i e l d t o o r e a d i l y c o n c l u d e s , however, t h a t Tennyson r i s k e d m a r g i n a l i z a t i o n by e x p r e s s i n g " t h e f i n e r f e e l i n g s and v e r b a l a r t s , not t h e m a s c u l i n e c o n c e r n s o f u t i l i t a r i a n i s m , p o l i t i c a l economy and m a c h i n e r y . " He adds t h a t " t h i s was i n p a r t t h e r o l e a l l o c a t e d t o p o e t r y w i t h i n t h e d e v e l o p i n g b o u r g e o i s hegemony: even as p o e t r y was pushed t o t h e m a r g i n s , so i t was a s s o c i a t e d w i t h t h e ( a l l e g e d l y ) f e m i n i n e " ( 1 3 8 ) . Y e t S i n f i e l d p r o l e p t i c a l l y d e s i g n a t e s t h e e n t e r p r i s e o f p o e t r y as e f f e m i n a t e and t h e r e f o r e m a r g i n a l i z e d i n t h e 1840s and 50s. Such m a r g i n a l i z a t i o n d i d n o t r e a l l y o c c u r i n f u l l f o r c e i n E n g l a n d u n t i l a decade o r two l a t e r i n 392 t h e c o i n c i d e n c e o f s u f f r a g e t t e demands, homophobia, and t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f a s e x u a l a e s t h e t i c i s m spearheaded by Swinburne i n t h e 18 6 0 s . 3 0 Second, S i n f i e l d examines common "modes o f l o v e w r i t i n g " i n I n Memoriam t o i m p l y r a t h e r t h a n s t a t e o u t r i g h t t h a t Tennyson may have h a r b o u r e d s e x u a l f e e l i n g s f o r H a l l a m f i l t e r e d t h r o u g h g e n r e s a c c e p t a b l e t o h i s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e (143-53). A g a i n , S i n f i e l d d i s r e g a r d s Tennyson's immediate c o n t e x t o f w o r k i n g as a p r o f e s s i o n a l p o e t r e s p o n d i n g t o t h e demands o f a h e t e r o g e n e o u s r e a d e r s h i p (even w h i l e he c l a i m s t o be c o n c e r n e d about r e c e p t i o n ) . Here, he p r o v i d e s a p s y c h o - b i o g r a p h i c a l e x p l a n a t i o n f o r Tennyson's " d i s t u r b a n c e o f customary gender c a t e g o r i e s " i n h i s work. A n a l y z e d i n t h i s way, t h e p o e t i s r e v e a l e d n o t t o have "'homosexual t e n d e n c i e s ' — t h a t would e n a b l e us t o p i g e o n - h o l e him"; however, S i n f i e l d c o n c l u d e s o f Tennyson's androgyny t h a t " t h e r e i s no p r o p e r f i t t o be a c h i e v e d w i t h r e c e i v e d d i s c o u r s e s " (145). U l t i m a t e l y , S i n f i e l d ' s a n a l y s i s o f Tennyson's s e x u a l a m b i g u i t y i n r e l a t i o n R i c h a r d Monckton M i l n e s ' s r e v i e w o f t h e 1842 Poems, f o r example, p l a c e s p o e t r y a t t h e c e n t r e o f s o c i a l and c u l t u r a l l i f e : " P o e t r y i s s u r e l y now more r e s p e c t a b l e t h a n i t has e v e r been b e f o r e i n t h i s c o u n t r y ; no man, o f w h a t e v e r g r a v i t y o f s t a t i o n o r c h a r a c t e r , would be ashamed o f h a v i n g w r i t t e n good v e r s e . . . . Among t h e l a r g e and i n t e l l i g e n t m i d d l e c l a s s e s o f t h i s c o u n t r y t h e r e i s much p o e t r y r e a d and e n j o y e d " (Jump 137). I n c h a p t e r two o f t h i s s t u d y , however, m a r g i n a l i z e d e f f e m i n a c y i s shown t o be t h e p r e v a i l i n g a t t i t u d e t o w a r d p o e t r y i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a a l t h o u g h , as c h a p t e r one d e m o n s t r a t e s , s a l e s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y i n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s were n o t a d v e r s e l y a f f e c t e d by i t . 393 t o h i s a u d i e n c e i s c o n f u s i n g s i n c e he appears t o want i t b o t h ways and a l l ways s i m u l t a n e o u s l y . S e e i n g Tennyson f a r more as a p r o f e s s i o n a l , p o e t t h a n does S i n f i e l d , P e l t a s o n — i n h i s f o c u s upon t h e language and s t r u c t u r e o f I n Memoriam r a t h e r t h a n i t s s e x u a l c o n n o t a t i o n s p e r s e — p o i n t s o u t one o f t h e p r i m a r y means by w h i c h Tennyson managed t o make p u b l i c h i s i n t e n s e l y p r i v a t e e m o t i o n s : s e l f - r e f l e x i v i t y , t h a t i s , by h a v i n g t h e poem q u e s t i o n and i n t e r p r e t i t s e l f even as i t was b e i n g composed and, p r e s u m a b l y , r e a d ( 4 1 - 5 ) . Tennyson's words, l i k e "widow's weeds," a r e t h u s worn d e l i b e r a t e l y as a " s h a r e d human c o n v e n t i o n " (43) d e s i g n a t i n g t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t as a member o f a community ( 4 4 ) . P e l t a s o n , however, does n o t e x p l o r e f u l l y t h e s h i f t i n g gender p o s i t i o n s t h a t t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t assumes as he p u t s on t h e s e widow's weeds and t a k e s them o f f f o r t h o s e o f t h e widower. A l t h o u g h i n b a s i c agreement w i t h P e l t a s o n ' s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n , D e l l a m o r a a r g u e s t h a t i t f a l l s s h o r t i n two ways. P e l t a s o n f a i l s t o e x p l o r e f u l l y h i s own metaphor o f "widow's weeds" and t h e language o f g r i e f , t h a t i s , t o c o n s i d e r what p r i v a t e e m o t i o n s t h e p o e t ' s widow's weeds would " h a l f r e v e a l / And h a l f c o n c e a l " (V 3-4, D e l l a m o r a 3 5 ) . He a l s o n e g l e c t s t o s p e c i f y t h e n a t u r e o f t h e community t h a t Tennyson e n t e r e d w i t h t h i s poem. A c c o r d i n g t o D e l l a m o r a , Tennyson's emotions a r e n o t s e x u a l f e e l i n g s as such b u t r a t h e r an " a f f e c t i v e i n t i m a c y t h a t so f a r exceeds normal e x p e r i e n c e , p e r h a p s e s p e c i a l l y t h e e x p e r i e n c e i n r e l a t i o n s between men and women, t h a t t h e bond becomes s o m e t h i n g f o r t h e e l e c t t o c o n c e a l from t h e eyes o f t h e mundane" ( 3 5 ) . Thus Tennyson's i n n e r c i r c l e o f r e a d e r s a r e , f o r D e l l a m o r a , an e l e c t group o f " l o v i n g f r i e n d s " — t h e A p o s t l e s — w h i l e t h e o u t e r c i r c l e a r e " t h o s e who, t o u n d e r s t a n d Tennyson a t a l l , w i l l have t o u n d e r s t a n d him i n widow's weeds, i . e . i n terms w h i c h r e s t r i c t d e v o t i o n l i k e Tennyson's t o r e l a t i o n s between t h e s e x e s " ( 3 5 ) . D e l l a m o r a f u r t h e r n o t e s t h a t , c l o t h e d i n widow's weeds, Tennyson can speak b o t h t o and from women. Wearing, " c o a r s e s t c l o t h e s a g a i n s t t h e c o l d , " he can speak b o t h t o and from t h e l a b o u r i n g c l a s s e s . Because gender d i f f e r e n c e s and c l a s s d i f f e r e n c e s a r e f a s h i o n e d by human b e i n g s and hence s u s c e p t i b l e t o c h a n g e — j u s t as c l o t h e s a r e — t h e " r h e t o r i c a l c h a r a c t e r o f p o e t i c a d d r e s s a l s o means t h a t — w i t h i n t h e l i m i t s o f communicating w i t h a c o n v e n t i o n a l p u b l i c — p o e t r y may u t t e r a s h i f t i n g c o n g e r i e s o f v o i c e s — o f w o r k e r s , o f women, o f l o v e r s " ( 3 5 ) . Y e t D e l l a m o r a seems u l t i m a t e l y t o f a v o u r p r i v a t e " i n t i m a c y " ("the s p e c i a l n e s s o f 'manly l o v e ' " (36)) and i t s p o t e n t i a l a u d i e n c e more t h a n he does t h e p u b l i c e x p r e s s i o n o f h e t e r o s e x u a l l o v e r e l a t i o n s 3 1 . C o n s e q u e n t l y , he r e a d s t h e s h i f t i n g c o n g e r i e s o f v o i c e s , e s p e c i a l l y t h o s e o f d o m e s t i c i t y , as o v e r d e t e r m i n e d and t h e r e b y 3 1 T h i s i s e v i d e n t i n t h e language t h a t D e l l a m o r a u s e s ; f o r example, once he has e s t a b l i s h e d t h e c l o t h e s - l a n g u a g e metaphor, w h i c h I n Memoriam does i n d e e d p l a y w i t h , he l a t e r d i s p a r a g e s i t t h r o u g h such p h r a s e s as " t h e g a r b o f m a r r i a g e and f a m i l y " ( 3 5 ) . D e l l a m o r a ' s own s u b j e c t i v e p r e f e r e n c e s a r e m a n i f e s t i n h i s c h o i c e o f words l i k e " g a r b . " 395 t e n d i n g t o u n d e r c u t Tennyson's commitment t o h i s p u b l i c and, i n d i r e c t l y , t o r e i n s c r i b e t h e p o e t i c power o f p r i v a t e emotion. D e s p i t e e f f o r t s by t h e above s c h o l a r s t o i n c l u d e r e c e p t i o n as a d e t e r m i n i n g f a c t o r i n Tennyson's c r e a t i o n o f a p o e t i c v o i c e d u r i n g t h e 183 0s and 40s, t h e candour o f t h a t v o i c e c o n t i n u e s t o be c a s t i n t o doubt by v a r i o u s post-modern p e r s p e c t i v e s . B e l e a g u e r e d by a p u b l i c - p r i v a t e d i c h o t o m y t h a t n o w — i n post-modern f a s h i o n — m a n i f e s t s i t s e l f as language a g a i n s t i t s e l f , Tennyson's p u b l i c g u i s e f o r h i s a l l e g e d l y p r i v a t e r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h H a l l a m has, i n a n a l y s e s o f I n Memoriam. become t h e f o c a l p o i n t f o r r e v e a l i n g Tennyson's s e x u a l i t y as a s o c i a l c o n s t r u c t and a s s e s s i n g i t s a t t e n d a n t s c h i s m a t i c e f f e c t s upon h i s p o e t i c v o i c e . I n t h e above v i e w s , H a l l a m n e c e s s a r i l y b e l o n g s t o a p r i v a t e , h o m o s o c i a l s p h e r e u n a f f e c t e d by t h e p r e s e n c e o f women i n any s u b s t a n t i a l way. Indeed, Tennyson's many f e m a l e p e r s o n a e a r e o f t e n r e a d as t h e p o e t ' s s u r r o g a t e means o f e x p r e s s i n g male-male d e s i r e . The s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t f o r Tennyson's development as a p r o f e s s i o n a l p o e t — o n e t h a t i n c l u d e s H a l l a m as a s u b s t a n t i a l f i g u r e r a t h e r t h a n e x c l u d e s him as a s t r i c t l y p r i v a t e f a c t o r i n Tennyson's l i f e — n e e d s t o be c o n s i d e r e d . H a l l a m ' s p r a g m a t i c r o l e as Tennyson's promoter, t h a t he assumed w h i l e a l i v e , has a l r e a d y been d i s c u s s e d . What has y e t t o be examined a r e t h e r e s o n a n c e s o f h i s p h i l o s o p h i c a l b e l i e f s t h a t , a f t e r h i s d e a t h , echo t h r o u g h o u t I n Memoriam. These cause Tennyson t o v o i c e a s p i r i t u a l , d i s e m b o d i e d l o v e f o r h i s f r i e n d t h a t goes f a r beyond t h e f a c t t h a t he i s now dead and t h e r e f o r e o u t o f p h y s i c a l r e a c h . I n t h e e a r l y 1830s, H a l l a m had made i t p o s s i b l e f o r a v e r y p r i v a t e Tennyson t o p a r t i c i p a t e v i c a r i o u s l y i n s o c i e t y as a p u b l i c v o i c e , s i m i l a r t o a V i c t o r i a n husband's p r o v i d i n g a v i c a r i o u s c o n n e c t i o n w i t h s o c i e t y f o r h i s s h e l t e r e d w i f e , a l o n g t h e l i n e s s u g g e s t e d by L o n g f e l l o w ' s mother's l e t t e r s t o h e r husband. I n I n Memoriam, Tennyson l a t e r chose v a r i o u s c o n v e n t i o n a l f a m i l i a l r o l e s t o s y m b o l i z e h i s and H a l l a m ' s f r i e n d s h i p , b o t h w i t h i n and a g a i n s t a gendered, s e p a r a t e - s p h e r e i d e o l o g y t h a t l i m i t e d V i c t o r i a n women's l i v e s t o p r i v a t e s p i r i t u a l c o n c e r n s w i t h i n t h e home w h i l e men's l i v e s c o u l d be e x p e r i e n c e d f u l l y i n a p u b l i c r e a l m . I n d o i n g so, hi a p p e a l e d t o t h e emotions o f h i s h e t e r o g e n e o u s a u d i e n c e i n a 32 d e l i b e r a t e l y a f f e c t i v e way. I n t h e f i r s t v e r y g e n t l e poem Tennyson composed f o r I n Memoriam, H a l l a m and t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t s h a r e s e v e r a l gendered r o l e s : "My f r i e n d , t h e b r o t h e r o f my l o v e ; // My A r t h u r , whom I s h a l l n o t see / T i l l a l l my widowed r a c e be r u n ; / Dear as t h e mother t o t h e son, / More t h a n my b r o t h e r s a r e t o me" (IX 16-20) . These l i n e s e x p r e s s a power r e l a t i o n i n w h i c h H a l l a m c l e a r l y has s u p e r i o r a l t h o u g h n o t e x c l u s i v e l y male s t a t u s as 3 2 Indeed, Queen V i c t o r i a h e r s e l f had t o l d Tennyson t h a t "'Next t o t h e B i b l e ' I n Memoriam' i s my c o m f o r t ' " as she c o n s o l e d h e r s e l f o v e r t h e d e a t h o f P r i n c e A l b e r t (Memoir 406) she was a l s o known t o have a l t e r e d t h e gender pronouns i n h e r e d i t i o n so as t o i d e n t i f y d i r e c t l y w i t h t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t i n t h e poem ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 336) . f r i e n d , b r o t h e r , husband, and even mother. E a r l y i n t h e poem, t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t a l s o assumes a male r o l e i n r e l a t i o n t o H a l l a m as a l o s t f e m a l e , e a r t h l y l o v e : "A happy l o v e r who has come / To l o o k on h e r t h a t l o v e s him w e l l " ( V I I I ) and "Tears o f t h e widower, when he sees / A l a t e - l o s t form t h a t s l e e p r e v e a l s " ( X I I I ) . The s p e a k e r - p o e t can t h u s be b o t h widow and widower. Through t h e use o f f a m i l i a r d o m e s t i c imagery, Tennyson p e r s o n i f i e s Sorrow and c o n n e c t s h e r t o h i s d u a l , m a l e - f e m a l e d e p i c t i o n o f H a l l a m . I n t h e f i r s t t h i r d o f t h e poem, Sorrow i s p e r s o n i f i e d as an e r o t i c i z e d f e m a l e o b j e c t o f d r e a d and d e s i r e ( I I I , XVI, XXXIX, X L V I I I , see M a r i o n Shaw A l f r e d 152- 3) . By S e c t i o n L I X , however, she i s t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o an image o f t h e d u t i f u l w i f e and l i n k e d back t o H a l l a m t h r o u g h echoes o f t h o s e words used t o d e f i n e him e l s e w h e r e : "My b o s o m - f r i e n d " and " t h o u a r t mine": 0 Sorrow, w i l t t h o u l i v e w i t h me No c a s u a l m i s t r e s s , b u t a w i f e , My b o s o m - f r i e n d and h a l f o f l i f e ; As I c o n f e s s i t needs must be; 0 Sorrow, w i l t t h o u r u l e my b l o o d , Be sometimes l o v e l y l i k e a b r i d e , And p u t my h a r s h e r moods a s i d e , I f t h o u w i l t have me w i s e and good. My c e n t r e d p a s s i o n c a n n o t move, Nor w i l l i t l e s s e n from t o d a y ; But I ' l l have l e a v e a t t i m e s t o p l a y As w i t h t h e c r e a t u r e o f my l o v e ; And s e t t h e e f o r t h , f o r t h o u a r t mine, W i t h so much hope f o r y e a r s t o 'come, T h a t , howso'er I know t h e e , some C o u l d h a r d l y t e l l what name were t h i n e . (1-16) 398 R a t h e r t h a n i n e a r l i e r s e c t i o n s i n w h i c h he i s a mere l o v e r o f Sorrow and t h e r e f o r e s u b j e c t t o h e r c a p r i c e s , h e r e t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t assumes a male m a s t e r y o v e r h e r i n m a r r i a g e . T h i s m a s t e r y p r e f i g u r e s h i s f i n a l a s s u m p t i o n o f a s t r o n g v o i c e o f r e l i g i o u s f a i t h t o r e p l a c e t h e doubt t h a t H a l l a m ' s d e a t h had g e n e r a t e d : "Dear h e a v e n l y f r i e n d t h a t c a n s t n o t d i e , / Mine, mine, f o r e v e r , e v e r mine" (CXXIX 7-8) sounds a c o n f i d e n t n o t e v e r y l i k e t h a t o f t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t / h u s b a n d who now s e c u r e l y p o s s e s s e s Sorrow as h i s w i f e . Y e t o t h e r s e c t i o n s o f t h e poem d e l i b e r a t e l y c a s t t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t , n o t H a l l a m , i n t h e f e m a l e r o l e . I n t h e l i n e s below, s/he seems b e g r u d g i n g l y s u b s e r v i e n t i n r e l a t i o n t o H a l l a m : He p a s t ; a s o u l o f n o b l e r t o n e My s p i r i t l o v e d and l o v e s him y e t , L i k e some poor g i r l whose h e a r t i s s e t On one whose r a n k exceeds h e r own. He m i x i n g w i t h h i s p r o p e r s p h e r e , She f i n d s t h e baseness o f h e r l o t , H a l f j e a l o u s o f she knows n o t what, And e n v y i n g a l l t h a t meet him t h e r e . The l i t t l e v i l l a g e l o o k s f o r l o r n ; She s i g h s amid h e r narrow days, Moving about t h e h o u s e h o l d ways, I n t h a t d a r k house where she was b o r n . (LX 1-12) The " h o u s e h o l d ways" o f f e m a l e d o m e s t i c i t y r e c u r i n S e c t i o n XCVII when Tennyson a g a i n uses t h e woman's r o l e t o s u g g e s t t h e i n e q u a l i t y o f h i s and H a l l a m ' s f r i e n d s h i p : "She knows b u t m a t t e r s o f t h e house, / And he, he knows a t h o u s a n d t h i n g s " ( 3 1 - 2 ) . Sounding a n o t e s i m i l a r t o t h a t i n Z i l p a h L o n g f e l l o w ' s l e t t e r s t o h e r f r e q u e n t l y a b s e n t , p u b l i c l y s t i m u l a t e d husband, t h e o c c a s i o n a l l y f e m a l e v o i c e o f t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t o f I n Memoriam a l s o bespeaks c o n f u s e d j e a l o u s y and a sense o f i n f e r i o r i t y . I n Tennyson's c a s e , t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t ' s s u b o r d i n a t e p o s i t i o n d e r i v e s as w e l l from an a c u t e awareness o f c l a s s , and h i s (her) own s o c i a l i n f e r i o r i t y i n r e l a t i o n t o H a l l a m "whose r a n k exceeds h e r own," i n a r i s t o c r a t i c u p b r i n g i n g and e d u c a t i o n (see a l s o X L I I ) . However, such f e e l i n g s c o u l d a l s o be m i n g l e d , f o r Tennyson even as t h e y were f o r Z i l p a h L o n g f e l l o w , w i t h v i c a r i o u s s a t i s f a c t i o n i n t h e d e m o n s t r a b l e p u b l i c s u c c e s s e s o f h i s (her) p a r t n e r : W h i l e I , t h y n e a r e s t , s a t a p a r t , And f e l t t h e t r i u m p h was as mine; And l o v e d them more, t h a t t h e y were t h i n e , The g r a c e f u l t a c t , t h e C h r i s t i a n a r t ; Nor mine t h e sweetness o r t h e s k i l l , But mine t h e l o v e t h a t w i l l n o t t i r e , . And, b o r n o f l o v e , t h e vague d e s i r e That s p u r s an i m i t a t i v e w i l l . (CX 13-20) By a d o p t i n g b o t h male and f e m a l e p e r s o n a e i n r e l a t i o n t o H a l l a m , Tennyson's s p e a k e r - p o e t f r u s t r a t e s p u b l i c e x p e c t a t i o n s o f t h e l y r i c v o i c e as t h a t o f a s i n g l e s e l f . R a t h e r , Tennyson t r i e s i n I n Memoriam t o a c h i e v e f u l l v o i c e t h r o u g h m a r r i a g e w i t h — i n t h i s c a s e — a n a l t e r n a t e l y f e m a l e and male " o t h e r " . As a metaphor f o r s h a r e d language, m a r r i a g e i m p l i e s a u n i o n o f v o i c e , o f t h e dead H a l l a m w i t h h i s l i v e s p e a k e r - p o e t f r i e n d . As E r i c G r i f f i t h s has r e c e n t l y n o t e d , t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t 400 g i v e s v o i c e t o H a l l a m ' s dead l e t t e r s (XCV) and h i s now l o n g s i l e n t spoken v o i c e (LXXXIX) by i n c o r p o r a t i n g q u o t a t i o n s from H a l l a m d i r e c t l y i n t o h i s t e x t . "The p r i n t e d v o i c e i s s h a r e d between them, w i t h o u t d i s t i n c t i o n (though t h e i n v e r t e d commas p r e s e r v e t h e i r d i s t i n c t i d e n t i t i e s ) ; t h e y a r e composed as one, become one now i n t h e f a c t t h a t each e q u a l l y needs t o draw on a r e a d e r ' s b r e a t h f o r c o n t i n u e d l i f e " (166-70). But what G r i f f i t h s does n o t e x p l a i n i s j u s t why Tennyson i m a g i n e d t h i s 33 oneness o f v o i c e i n terms o f m a r r i a g e . F o r i n s t a n c e , j u s t p r i o r t o t h e c l i m a x , t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t had a s k e d t h a t H a l l a m "Descend, and t o u c h , and e n t e r " him, i n a l i n e t h a t had o r i g i n a l l y r e a d "Stoop s o u l and t o u c h me; wed me" ( X C I I I 1 ) . Of c o u r s e , m a r r i a g e i s a c e n t r a l metaphor t h r o u g h o u t t h e poem, as t h e above a n a l y s i s o f r o l e s i n d i c a t e s . T h i s i s n o t t o say t h a t G r i f f i t h s i g n o r e s t h e a n a l o g y between m a r r i a g e and p o e t i c r e c e p t i o n as s u c h , b u t t h a t h i s i n t e r e s t s i n t h i s r e g a r d c o n c e r n t h e Brownings r a t h e r t h a n Tennyson. I n s p e a k i n g o f b o t h E l i z a b e t h ' s and R o b e r t ' s l o v e p o e t r y o f t h e i d e a l and t h e r e a l , G r i f f i t h s n o t e s t h e s w i f t n e s s w i t h w h i c h t h e i d e a l becomes t h e r e a l and v i c e v e r s a . He f u r t h e r compares t h i s t r a n s f o r m a t i o n t o t h e a l t e r a t i o n o f speech i n t o w r i t i n g , t h e "changes i n t h e l i f e o f a poem, as i t moves from spoken u t t e r a n c e o f t h e p o e t t o w r i t t e n t e x t and t h e n t o p r i n t e d book [so as t o ] c o n d u c t a c o u r t s h i p i n and o f t h e language, from t h e f i r s t i m p u l s e s o f s t i l l u n f o r m u l a t e d d e s i r e t o t h e i n t i m a t e d e c l a r a t i o n s o f l o v e r s t o each o t h e r and t h e n t o a r e s t r i c t e d c i r c l e o f f a m i l y and f r i e n d s , and f i n a l l y t o t h e p u b l i c avowal o f an a t t a c h m e n t t h a t i s t o l a s t i n t h e ceremony o f m a r r i a g e " ( 1 9 2 ) . Tennyson's deployment o f s i m i l a r s t r a t e g i e s o f r e a d e r i n v o l v e m e n t a r e more complex t h a n t h o s e o f t h e Brownings s i n c e h e t e r o s e x u a l m a r r i a g e i n h i s p o e t r y i s o f t e n f r u s t r a t e d t h r o u g h gender o r c l a s s d i s r u p t i o n s , as i n The P r i n c e s s o r Maud, o r made t o seem an e a r t h l y s u b s t i t u t e f o r a s p i r i t u a l , a s e x u a l u n i o n as i n I n Memoriam. And a m a r r i a g e o f minds m e t a p h o r i c a l l y c h a l l e n g e s t h e s i l e n c e o f doubt t h a t i s , a t t h e c l i m a x o f I n Memoriam, f i n a l l y b r o k e n when "word by word, and l i n e by l i n e , / The dead man t o u c h e d [him] from t h e p a s t " (XCV 33-4). Once t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t i s i n f u s e d w i t h H a l l a m ' s s p i r i t , he i s t h e r e b y a b l e t o g i v e v o i c e t o t h e b e l i e f t h a t a l l o f n a t u r e p a r t i c i p a t e s i n one " b o u n d l e s s day" o f m i x t E a s t and West, l i f e and d e a t h (XCV 61- 4 ) . Thus, a p u b l i c d e c l a r a t i o n o f h i s unbounded f a i t h — t h e development and c o m p l e t i o n o f t h e " E p i t h a l a m i u m " — i s made p o s s i b l e t h r o u g h a p r i v a t e , t r a n c e - i n d u c e d s u b m i s s i o n t o a s p i r i t u a l power much g r e a t e r t h a n and e x t e r n a l t o t h e s e l f . H a l l a m ' s f e m a l e n e s s has, by t h i s p o i n t , become a b s t r a c t e d i n t o t h a t o f a s p i r i t u a l i n t e r m e d i a r y between t h e male s p e a k e r and t h e heaven i n w h i c h H a l l a m now s u p p o s e d l y r e s i d e s . L i k e C h r i s t , he now r e p r e s e n t s "manhood f u s e d w i t h f e m a l e g r a c e " (CIX 1 7 ) . I n s u b m i t t i n g t o t h i s i n t e r m e d i a r y , t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t may be t h o u g h t t o assume a t y p i c a l f e m a l e s t a n c e . But t h e s e x u a l d u a l i s m i n t h e C h r i s t - l i k e H a l l a m i m p l i e s t h a t t h e r e c i p i e n t can adopt e i t h e r gender. To c l o s e t h e poem, however, t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t h i m s e l f r e v e r t s t o t h e v o i c e o f a m a l e - a u t h o r i t y f i g u r e i n r e l a t i o n t o h i s own a u d i e n c e . T h i s i s now p o s s i b l e because o f t h e s p i r i t u a l empowerment he r e c e i v e s from t h e i n t e r m e d i a r y and h i s p u b l i c e n u n c i a t i o n o f h i s own s p i r i t u a l f a i t h . U l t i m a t e l y , H a l l a m ' s d e a t h r e q u i r e d t h a t Tennyson commingle male and f e m a l e v o i c e s w i t h i n a u n i f i e d s e l f . I n so d o i n g , 402 Tennyson's androgynous v o i c e was b o r n . Because t h i s v o i c e r e f u s e d a d e f i n i t i v e gender, i t was p o t e n t i a l l y a v a i l a b l e f o r any r e a d e r t o wed, i n e f f e c t , t o do as Tennyson had done w i t h H a l l a m : t o a l l o w t h e a b s e n t v o i c e — h e r e now T e n n y s o n ' s ^ — t o "descend, and t o u c h , and e n t e r , " t o speak t h r o u g h h e r o r him, j u s t as Queen V i c t o r i a had done when she a l t e r e d t h e gender o f t h e v o i c e s i n t h e poem. 3 4 Thus, t h e m a r r i a g e t h a t n e v e r t a k e s p l a c e i n The P r i n c e s s i s reworked i n t o I n Memoriam i n two ways. F i r s t l y , t h e " E p i t h a l a m i u m " c e l e b r a t e s C e c i l i a Tennyson's and Edmund L u s h i n g t o n ' s u n i o n as a s y m b o l i c c o n t i n u a t i o n o f l i f e made p o s s i b l e t h r o u g h an a c c e p t a n c e o f m a t e r i a l d e a t h and a r e s o l u t e f a i t h i n s p i r i t u a l a f t e r l i f e . The medley o f v o i c e s i n I n Memoriam adopted by t h e s p e a k e r - p o e t u l t i m a t e l y narrows t o j u s t t h a t o f t h e a c t u a l a u t h o r h i m s e l f as he n o t o n l y c o n f i r m s h i s r e a l i t y by g i v i n g away h i s own s i s t e r i n m a r r i a g e w i t h i n t h i s poem, b u t a l s o s u b m i s s i v e l y a c c e p t s t h r o u g h f a i t h what he cannot r e a l i z e on e a r t h . T h i s t h e p r o t a g o n i s t s o f The P r i n c e s s were u n a b l e ( i n t h e c a s e o f t h e P r i n c e ) o r u n w i l l i n g ( i n t h e c a s e o f P r i n c e s s Ida) t o do. 3 4 I n one o f many b r i e f , u n p u b l i s h e d poems,"On one who A f f e c t e d an E f f e m i n a t e Manner" Tennyson remarks on e x a c t l y t h e k i n d o f androgyny d e s c r i b e d h e r e . I t does n o t f u s e male and f e m a l e p r i n c i p l e s i n t o a t y p e o f h y b r i d , b u t r a t h e r s u g g e s t s a " m e e t i n g " o f o p p o s i t e s : W h i l e man and woman s t i l l a r e i n c o m p l e t e , I p r i z e t h a t s o u l where man and woman meet, Which t y p e s a l l N a t u r e ' s male and f e m a l e p l a n , But, f r i e n d , man-woman i s n o t woman-man. ( R i c k s Poems I I I 217-18) S e c o n d l y , t h e wedding t h a t ends I n Memoriam a l s o s y m b o l i z e s t h e u n i t i n g o f t h e p o e t i c t e x t i t s e l f w i t h i t s r e a d e r s : p e r s o n a l s u f f e r i n g w i t h a c u l t u r e ' s l o s s o f r e l i g i o u s f a i t h ; a p r i v a t e , f e m a l e - c e n t r e d d o m e s t i c i t y w i t h male-dominated p u b l i c e n t e r p r i s e ; and a v o i c e t h a t s h i f t s i n gender w i t h s y m p a t h e t i c l i s t e n e r s o f b o t h s e x e s . F o r Tennyson, t h e s e r e a d e r s numbered i n t h e t e n s o f t h o u s a n d s . The a p p r o a c h t a k e n h e r e t o w a r d Tennyson's "man-woman" p o s t u r e i s n o t t h e p s y c h o - s o c i a l q u e s t i o n i n g most c r i t i c s adopt when a n a l y z i n g t h e p o e t ' s a l l e g e d s e x u a l c o n f u s i o n . A l t h o u g h much r e c e n t work i n t h i s v e i n has c o n t r i b u t e d t o t h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f Tennyson's f i n a l a d o p t i o n o f a s e x u a l l y ambiguous v o i c e i n I n Memoriam, Tennyson i s v i e w e d h e r e as i n a p e r i o d o f p o e t i c a d o l e s c e n c e . He worked w i t h i n and a g a i n s t c o n v e n t i o n a l gender r o l e s known t o h i s V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e so as t o e s t a b l i s h p r o f e s s i o n a l l y a v a r i t o n a l p o e t i c v o i c e t o echo h i s r e a d e r s ' h e t e r o g e n e i t y . A t t u n e d t o Tennyson's p h y s i c a l v o i c e i t s e l f , F r a n c i s B e r r y s e v e r a l y e a r s ago d e s c r i b e d t h e p o e t ' s androgyny i n t h i s way: Tennyson's w o n d e r f u l o r g a n , f o r a l l i t s 'deep- c h e s t e d n e s s ' , i t s murmuringness, i t s s o n o r i t y . . . i n c l u d e d a v o i c e o f f e m a l e t i m b r e and r a n g e , c a p a b l e b o t h o f e x p r e s s i n g t h e ' p i e r c i n g w a i l ' o f t h e t h r e e Queens ( i n The P a s s i n g o f A r t h u r ) and t h e more subdued c o m p l a i n t s o f young women o r maidens who have been d e s e r t e d , such as C l a r i b e l , L i l i a n , I s a b e l , M a r i a n a , M a d e l e i n e , o r A d e l i n e . But as t h e comprehensive v o i c e o f t h e man Tennyson deepened w i t h age, so d i d t h e woman's v o i c e i t i n c l u d e d , and t h e v o i c e s o f Oenone, E l e a n o r e and, i n t h e I d y l l s , o f E n i d , E l a i n e , and G u i n e v e r e a r e l o w e r and l e s s g i r l i s h t h a n t h o s e o f t h e e a r l i e r h e r o i n e s . And we have o n l y t o r e f l e c t on t h i s i n c l u d e d f e m a l e v o i c e 404 t o u n d e r s t a n d a l i t t l e more t h a t s t r a n g e work', The P r i n c e s s . I n t o t h a t 'Medley' o f women's v o i c e s , o f men's w h i l e masquerading as women, and o f women's a s p i r a t i o n s , he smuggled most o f t h e h e a r t - f e l t l y r i c s he e v e r w r o t e , i n c l u d i n g "Now s l e e p s t h e c r i m s o n p e t a l , now t h e w h i t e ' , 'The s p l e n d o u r f a l l s on c a s t l e w a l l s ' , and ' T e a r s , i d l e t e a r s , I know n o t what t h e y mean'. (And l e t us t a k e a s t a n d on t h i s a t once, and say t h a t Tennyson's i n c a p a c i t y — h o w e v e r he t r i e d , i n L o c k s l e y H a l l and e l s e w h e r e — t o g i v e h i s v o i c e t h e s h a r p o r h a r s h edge o f c r u e l o r v i n d i c t i v e anger o f a h a r d man was t o h i s honour. I t i s t o our own l o s s when we m i s t a k e , as we o f t e n m i s t a k e , g e n t l e n e s s f o r s o f t n e s s . ) (60) P e r h a p s a r e v a l u a t i o n o f g e n t l e n e s s , f r e e from t h e d i s p a r a g i n g c o n n o t a t i o n s o f t h e s e n t i m e n t a l , needs t o o c c u r b e f o r e t h e power w i t h i n t h e androgynous v o i c e . o f Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y can t r u l y be h e a r d . C h a p t e r f i v e , i n i t s d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e p o p u l a r l y r i c , works t o w a r d t h i s end. 405 CHAPTER FIVE THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY POPULAR LYRIC H i s and n o t h i s , a r e t h e l a y s He s i n g s ; and t h e i r fame I s h i s , and n o t h i s ; and t h e p r a i s e And t h e p r i d e o f a name. — L o n g f e l l o w ("The P o e t and H i s Songs" " L ' e n v o i " t o U l t i m a T h u l e 21-4) A l t h o u g h a d e f i n i t i o n o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r p o e t r y based on e m p i r i c a l e v i d e n c e and t h e o r e t i c a l a n a l y s i s has been a t t e m p t e d i n c h a p t e r one, t h e phenomenon o f p o p u l a r i t y i t s e l f as a f e a t u r e o f r e c e p t i o n a t work i n " p o p u l a r " l y r i c s has y e t t o be examined. S e l e c t i o n s from t h e b e s t - l o v e d poems o f Mrs Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w , and Tennyson a r e o b v i o u s c h o i c e s f o r c o m p a r a t i v e a n a l y s i s s i n c e each p o e t a c h i e v e d p o e t i c s u c c e s s t h r o u g h a p p e a l t o t h e d o m e s t i c and r e l i g i o u s s e n t i m e n t s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e a u d i e n c e s b u t i n g r e a t l y d i f f e r e n t ways. T h i s c h a p t e r e x p l o r e s p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y by q u e s t i o n i n g whether t h e r e a r e f e a t u r e s w i t h i n poems t h e m s e l v e s t h a t d e s i g n a t e a p p e a l t o a w i d e s p r e a d r e a d e r s h i p — p o p u l a r i t y as a t e x t u a l phenomenon—or i f a p p e a l i s p u r e l y a f u n c t i o n o f r e c e p t i o n — r e a d e r s o p e r a t i n g w i t h i n a s o c i o - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t t h a t p r e - d i s p o s e s them t o a p p l y f a m i l i a r t h e m a t i c c o n t e n t t o poems t h a t do n o t n e c e s s a r i l y s u g g e s t such c o n t e n t when removed from t h e c o n t e x t i n w h i c h t h e y o r i g i n a l l y appear. I n t h e end, i t i s o n l y by p l a c i n g " p o p u l a r " t e x t s t h e m s e l v e s w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f r e c e p t i o n , t o supplement a n a l y s i s o f e m p i r i c a l e v i d e n c e and 406 t h e o r e t i c a l d e f i n i t i o n s , t h a t t h e p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y s p e c i f i c t o L o n g f e l l o w and t o Tennyson can be u n d e r s t o o d . W i t h o u t q u e s t i o n , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson b o t h e s t a b l i s h e d t h e i r r e p u t a t i o n s t h r o u g h an e a r l y , s k i l f u l use o f t h e l y r i c . Reason d i c t a t e s , t h e n , t h a t s i n c e any d e f i n i t i o n o f p o p u l a r p o e t r y w o u l d have t o d e m o n s t r a t e where and how t h e groundwork was l a i d f o r t h e s e p o e t s ' contemporary fame, a n a l y s i s o f p o p u l a r i t y s h o u l d . f o c u s on examples o f t h e i r e a r l i e s t w i d e l y - r e a d l y r i c s t h e m s e l v e s . As perhaps t h e s i n g l e most famous l y r i c s o f b o t h V i c t o r i a n p o e t s , L o n g f e l l o w ' s "A P s a l m o f L i f e " (1839) and Tennyson's "Break, Break, Break" (1842) s e r v e t h i s p u r p o s e w e l l . 1 Y e t such a c o m p a r a t i v e s t u d y must a l s o t a k e i n t o a c c o u n t L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's most s u c c e s s f u l p r e c u r s o r : Mrs Hemans. A l t h o u g h w r i t t e n p r i o r t o t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n s , Hemans's p o e t r y a c t u a l l y g a i n e d i t s l a r g e s t r e a d e r s h i p a f t e r h e r d e a t h i n 1835 i n t h e decades i n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson were b o t h emerging as p o e t s o f t h e p e o p l e . Hemans's m a n i f e s t p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d t h u s makes h e r work an o b v i o u s barometer o f p o e t i c s u c c e s s on a mass s c a l e . D o u g l a s B r a n c h c o n t e n d s t h a t o f s i n g l e poems n o t even t h e f i r s t " N i g h t " o f Edward Young's N i g h t Thoughts s p a r k e d more i m i t a t i v e p o e t r y i n A m e r i c a t h a n Hemans's "The Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " ( 1 0 7 ) . C h a p t e r s two and t h r e e have d e m o n s t r a t e d 1 See A p p e n d i x I I I f o r t h e t e x t s o f t h e s e poems and Hemans's "Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d . " t h e e a r l y e x p o s u r e o f b o t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson t o Hemans's work as i t was t r a n s m i t t e d o r a l l y w i t h i n t h e e v e r p o p u l a r d o m e s t i c r e a d i n g c i r c l e p r e s i d e d o v e r by t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e mothers. As s u c h , t h e g e n t l e cadences o f Hemans's r e l i g i o u s h o m i l i e s i n v e r s e , o f t h e Domestic A f f e c t i o n s and R e c o r d s o f Woman i n p a r t i c u l a r , p r o v i d e an o b v i o u s , as y e t u n s t u d i e d , v o i c e by w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's i n i t i a l p o p u l a r i t y 2 can and s h o u l d be measured. As a t e n t a t i v e w o r k i n g d e f i n i t i o n , " p o p u l a r p o e t r y " c o u l d be u s e d t o d e s c r i b e p o e t i c t e x t s t h a t s a t i s f y c o m p l e t e l y t h e i r c o n t e m p o r a r y a u d i e n c e ' s h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s and, as a consequence, s e l l i n mass q u a n t i t i e s r e l a t i v e t o t h e t o t a l l i t e r a t e p o p u l a t i o n . 3 The a u d i e n c e ' s h o r i z o n i n c l u d e s , as 2 B y r o n m i g h t j u s t as w e l l have been chosen o v e r Hemans i n terms o f b o t h p o p u l a r i t y and e a r l y i n f l u e n c e on t h e young L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson. But B y r o n had n o t t h e same k i n d o f l a s t i n g i n f l u e n c e as Hemans. That i s , f o r b o t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson (as f o r many o t h e r s ) t h e B y r o n i c was more o f an a d o p t e d f a s h i o n i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t h a t p o e t s w r o t e t h e m s e l v e s o u t o f . B y r o n ' s w i d e s p r e a d a p p e a l was g e n e r a l l y c o n f i n e d t o t h e Regency, f o r by t h e 1830s t h e m a j o r i t y o f V i c t o r i a n s had f o l l o w e d C a r l y l e ' s i n j u n c t i o n t o " c l o s e t h y B y r o n " and had adopted an a t t i t u d e o f m o r a l p u r p o s e f u l n e s s . I n t h i s a t t i t u d e , Hemans t r u l y e x c e l l e d , and she d i d so t h r o u g h more t h a n t h i r t y f o u r " C o l l e c t e d " o r "Complete" e d i t i o n s from h e r d e a t h i n 1835 u n t i l 1920 (see T r i n d e r 6 0 ) . 3 W i t h any d e f i n i t i o n , a d d i t i o n a l d e f i n i t i o n s a r e g e n e r a l l y r e q u i r e d . I n t h i s c a s e , "mass" as an a d j e c t i v e i s u s e d b o t h t o d e s c r i b e g r e a t q u a n t i t y and, i n c l a s s s p e c i f i c t e r m s , t o d e s c r i b e " t h e p o p u l a c e o r ' l o w e r o r d e r s ' " i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y a c t i n g as "a m u l t i t u d e o f p e r s o n s m e n t a l l y v i e w e d as f o r m i n g an a g g r e g a t e i n w h i c h t h e i r i n d i v i d u a l i t y i s l o s t " (OED). These d e f i n i t i o n s a r e t a k e n from t h e noun "masses" s i n c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y t h e a d j e c t i v e was u s e d s i m p l y as an e x p r e s s i o n o f s h e e r numbers and d i d n o t c a r r y t h e " l o w e r c l a s s " c o n n o t a t i o n s common i n t h e use o f t h e 408 J a u s s s u g g e s t s , t h r e e o v e r l a p p i n g s t r a t a o f e x p e c t a t i o n : 1) t h e l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n s o f genre, s t y l e and form; 2) t h e i m p l i c i t r e l a t i o n s t o f a m i l i a r works w i t h i n t h e l i t e r a r y - h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t ; and 3) i d e o l o g i c a l s u p p o s i t i o n s based on t h e a u d i e n c e ' s p r e c o n c e i v e d d i s t i n c t i o n s between t h e i r p r a c t i c a l w o r l d and t h e w o r l d o f t h e p o e t i c t e x t . However, i f " p o p u l a r " i s d e f i n e d as t h a t w h i c h w h o l l y s a t i s f i e s , t h e n t h e d e f i n i t i o n ' s l i m i t a t i o n s become i m m e d i a t e l y a p p a r e n t . F o r t h e s i n g l e - m o s t c r u c i a l f e a t u r e o f t h i s d e f i n i t i o n o f p o p u l a r p o e t r y i s l e f t untouched: i n e f f e c t , whether t h e a u d i e n c e ' s s a t i s f a c t i o n i s i n s u r e d b e f o r e h a n d t h r o u g h c e r t a i n f e a t u r e s i n h e r e n t i n t h e p o e t i c t e x t i t s e l f o r whether i t i s e n t i r e l y s u p p l i e d by i t s r e a d e r s . O n l y an a n a l y s i s o f e m p i r i c a l l y p r o v e n p o p u l a r poems t h e m s e l v e s can e s t a b l i s h whether l e v e l s o f r e a d e r a c t i v i t y might a s s i s t i n t h e d i s t i n c t i o n s made between t h e v a r i o u s c a t e g o r i e s o f " s e r i o u s " p o e t r y , " p o p u l a r " p o e t r y , " p o p u l a r " v e r s e , and so f o r t h , d i s t i n c t i o n s w h i c h a r e t h e m s e l v e s t i e d t o t h e s u b j e c t i v e awareness o f " v a l u e " s p e c i f i c t o t h e i n d i v i d u a l r e a d e r . A t f i r s t g l a n c e , L o u i s e R o s e n b l a t t ' s The Reader, t h e T e x t , t h e Poem (based on a " t r a n s a c t i o n a l t h e o r y " o f r e a d i n g ) , seems t o o f f e r an a p p r o p r i a t e t h e o r e t i c a l model f o r a s s e s s i n g v a l u e from a r e a d e r l y p e r s p e c t i v e s i n c e she works t o e s t a b l i s h d i s t i n c t i o n s n o t i n t e x t s t h e m s e l v e s b u t r a t h e r i n p r o c e s s e s e x p r e s s i o n t o d a y . o f r e a d i n g . F o r R o s e n b l a t t , a e s t h e t i c r e a d i n g s g e n e r a t e a e s t h e t i c t e x t s — p o e m s o r o t h e r " l i t e r a r y " g e n r e s ; g o a l c e n t r e d , " e f f e r e n t " r e a d i n g s g e n e r a t e i m m e d i a t e l y a c c e s s i b l e meanings f o r p r a c t i c a l p u r p o s e s . Her s t u d y , w h i l e c e r t a i n l y an e n g a g i n g a n a l y s i s o f t h e a c t i v i t y o f r e a d i n g i t s e l f , does l i t t l e t o e x p l a i n , however, how V i c t o r i a n t e x t s c o u l d g e n e r a t e d i f f e r i n g d e g r e e s o f a e s t h e t i c i n v o l v e m e n t i n h e t e r o g e n e o u s a u d i e n c e s t h a t n o n e t h e l e s s s h a r e d s i m i l a r l i t e r a r y and i d e o l o g i c a l a s s u m p t i o n s , and c o u l d t h e r e b y a c h i e v e w i d e s p r e a d p o p u l a r i t y by s a t i s f y i n g b o t h " a e s t h e t i c " and " e f f e r e n t " e x p e c t a t i o n s s i m u l t a n e o u s l y . The l y r i c poems o f Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w , and Tennyson managed t o do j u s t t h a t . Hemans's "Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " (1828) p r o v i d e s a u s e f u l v a n t a g e p o i n t on t h e h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s i n f o r m i n g t h e c u l t u r e i n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's subsequent l y r i c a l s u c c e s s e s f i r s t appeared. As s u c h , h e r poem s h o u l d be " v a l u e d " a c c o r d i n g l y . P e t e r T r i n d e r a r g u e s t h a t V i c t o r i a n s c h o l a r s s i m p l y c a n n o t i g n o r e Hemans's " c o n t r i b u t i o n i n h e l p i n g t o c r e a t e t h e p o p u l a r l i t e r a r y t a s t e o f t h e n e x t hundred y e a r s [ i . e . u n t i l a p p r o x i m a t e l y 1890]" ( 6 0 ) . But t h e e x a c t n a t u r e o f t h a t c o n t r i b u t i o n i s open t o d e b a t e . What D o n a l d Reiman d e s c r i b e s as e v i d e n c e o f a c u l t u r a l l a g — Hemans's e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y n e a t n e s s and p o l i s h o f v e r s i f i c a t i o n and c l a r i t y o f s y n t a x and d i c t i o n ( x i ) — T r i n d e r d e s c r i b e s as a t y p i c a l l y n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a t t r i b u t e i n h i s e y e s : h e r m e t h o d i c a l i n s t i n c t was a " k i n d o f a r t i s t i c 410 e x t e n s i o n o f t h e e f f i c i e n t h o u s e w i f e ' s u r g e t o see e v e r y t h i n g p u t i n i t s p r o p e r p l a c e " ( 5 8 ) . T h i s " d o m e s t i c t i d i n e s s " as a metaphor f o r Hemans's o b v i o u s f a c i l i t y w i t h r e g u l a r metre, p o l i t e d i c t i o n , and u n i f i e d s t r u c t u r e s u g g e s t s T r i n d e r ' s i m p l i c i t c o n t e n t d i s c r i m i n a t i o n : d o m e s t i c a f f e c t i o n s s i m p l y do n o t t o d a y c o n s t i t u t e f i t m a t e r i a l f o r p o e t r y howsoever t h e y may be p r e s e n t e d . 4 Y e t i f t h e f o r m - v e r s u s - c o n t e n t d i v i s i o n t h a t so r e a d i l y r e d u c e s Hemans's work t o mere p o l i s h e d v e r s e can be d i s p e n s e d w i t h , h e r t e x t s can be a p p r e c i a t e d as t h e y m i g h t have been r e a d by h e r a u d i e n c e , r e a d as c o m f o r t a b l e s a f e havens from w h i c h more a d v e n t u r o u s p o e t s t h a n h e r s e l f c o u l d v e n t u r e o u t . O b v i o u s l y r e c r e a t i o n o f a n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e a d i n g e x p e r i e n c e i s i m p o s s i b l e . What can be measured o b j e c t i v e l y , however, i s t h e degree t o w h i c h "Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " i n and o f i t s e l f s a t i s f i e s known e x p e c t a t i o n s among i t s c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a d e r s . W i t h i n a l i t e r a r y c o n t e x t , f o r example, Hemans's poem i s a b s o l u t e l y c o n v e n t i o n a l . She employs a common measure hymn s t a n z a w i t h u n v a r y i n g i a m b i c s t h r o u g h o u t i n c a r e f u l 4 Hemans's V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s , however, c l e a r l y r e g a r d e d h e r as t h e b e s t example o f f e m a l e g e n i u s . A c c o r d i n g t o t h e S c o t t i s h c r i t i c George G i l f i l l a n , Hemans was " e v e r a 'deep, m a j e s t i c a l , and h i g h - s o u l e d woman'—the c a l m m i s t r e s s o f t h e h i g h e s t and s t o r m i e s t o f h e r e m o t i o n s . " He honoured h e r i n 1847 n o t as t h e b e s t b u t as " t h e most f e m i n i n e w r i t e r o f t h e age" (see H e l s i n g e r I I I 28-30). Her s t u d i e d c o n t r o l , i n t h i s c a s e , i s n o t d e r i d e d as d o m e s t i c t i d i n e s s , b u t r a t h e r i s l a u d e d as a p u b l i c c u r t a i l m e n t o f i n t e n s e , p r i v a t e e m o t i o n . r e c r e a t i o n o f a w i d e l y a c c e p t e d and h i g h l y v a l u e d l y r i c f o r m . 5 She e s t a b l i s h e s s t r u c t u r a l decorum t h r o u g h a b a l a n c e d symmetry o f p i c t u r i n g t h e h o u s e h o l d o f h e r t i t l e i n t h e f i r s t two s t a n z a s . The r h e t o r i c a l q u e s t i o n , "Where a r e t h o s e dreamers now?" p r o v i d e s a n e c e s s a r y t r a n s i t i o n t o t h e g r a v e s o f t h e n e x t f o u r s t a n z a s , and t h e f i n a l two s t a n z a s r e t u r n t o t h e home. I n s t r u c t u r e as i n form, "Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " i s e n t i r e l y r e g u l a r so as t o p r o v i d e r e a s s u r a n c e o f p a t t e r n and d e s i g n t o c o u n t e r t h e p e r p l e x i t i e s w h i c h t h e g r a v e s o f t h e t i t l e and t h e embedded q u e s t i o n a r e c o n t r i v e d t o i n c i t e . T h e m a t i c a l l y , Hemans's poems s h a r e a p o e t i c c o n c e r n w i t h t h e b i n a r y o p p o s i t i o n o f d e a t h and l i f e common t o poems o f a l l ages, and t o t h e two s e l e c t e d l y r i c s o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i n p a r t i c u l a r . A t l e a s t two a s p e c t s o f V i c t o r i a n l i f e , however, i r r e v o c a b l y t i e d t h i s p o e t i c p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h d e a t h t o r e a d e r s ' l i v e d r e a l i t i e s : t h e h i g h i n c i d e n c e o f m o r t a l i t y e s p e c i a l l y among c h i l d r e n and women, and r e l i g i o u s doubt c o n c e r n i n g t h e e x i s t e n c e o f God and a f t e r l i f e t h a t was b e g i n n i n g t o c o l o u r a l l a s p e c t s o f d a i l y e x i s t e n c e . C a r l y l e a p p r o p r i a t e l y combined t h e s e two f e a t u r e s o f d e a t h i n h i s 5 Hemans u s e s a b a l l a d q u a t r a i n o f a l t e r n a t i n g 4 and 3 s t r e s s i a m b i c l i n e s . Hymnals had been v e r y p o p u l a r t h r o u g h o u t t h e s e v e n t e e n t h and e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r i e s p a r t i c u l a r l y among E v a n g e l i c a l s such as John and C h a r l e s Wesley. Noted p o e t s s u c h as M i l t o n , Dryden, Cowper, and B l a k e a l s o w r o t e hymns, Cowper p e r h a p s h a v i n g had t h e l a r g e s t i n f l u e n c e upon Hemans h e r s e l f . I n h e r a r t i c l e , "Books f o r t h e Lady Reader, 1820- 1860," O l a Winslow a l s o n o t e s t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f I s a a c W a t t s ' s D i v i n e and M o r a l Songs as s u i t a b l e Sunday r e a d i n g a l o n g s i d e Hemans's works ( 9 2 ) . 412 " C h a r a c t e r i s t i c s " e s s a y when he d e s c r i b e s t h o s e who e x p e r i e n c e d r e l i g i o u s doubt as l i k e l y t o become " s t u p e f i e d i n t h a t f e a r f u l l o n e l i n e s s , as o f a s i l e n c e d b a t t l e - f i e l d " and t o f l y back t o t h e c h u r c h "as a c h i l d m i g h t t o i t s s l a i n mother's bosom, and c l i n g t h e r e " ( q t d . i n Houghton 9 7 ) . However, Hemans, a l o n g w i t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson a f t e r h e r , p e r c e i v e d t h a t i f mother c h u r c h had indeed.been s l a i n by s c e p t i c i s m , i n d i v i d u a l l i v i n g mothers c o u l d s t i l l s y m b o l i z e God's p e r s i s t e n t v i t a l i t y on e a r t h . A t t h e v e r y l e a s t , t h e d o m e s t i c havens o v e r w h i c h t h e y l o v i n g l y p r e s i d e d c o u l d p r o v i d e an e m o t i o n a l s h e l t e r t h a t t h e e s t a b l i s h e d c h u r c h no l o n g e r a f f o r d e d i t s p u b l i c . 6 To t h i s end, Hemans's poems i n t u r n became s u b s t i t u t e s a n c t u a r i e s i n t o w h i c h h e r r e a d e r s c o u l d e n t e r s e c u r e i n t h e u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h a t f o r a l l o f them t h e "same f o n d mother" p o e t would assuage t h e i r f e a r s . 6 Though L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson do n o t a c t u a l l y d w e l l s p e c i f i c a l l y upon t h e d o m e s t i c s e t t i n g i n t h e l y r i c s s e l e c t e d f o r a n a l y s i s i n t h i s c h a p t e r , t h a t t h e y d i d do so i n v a r y i n g d e g r e e s t h r o u g h o u t t h e i r c a r e e r s i s e v i d e n t p r i m a r i l y i n l y r i c s o f L o n g f e l l o w such as t h e famous " C h i l d r e n ' s Hour" o r "The Hanging o f t h e Crane," and i n i d y l s o f Tennyson such as t h e e a r l y "May Queen" and h i s b e s t s e l l i n g s i n g l e poem o f t h e c e n t u r y , "Enoch A r d e n . " Moreover, t h e l y r i c s s e l e c t e d h e r e a l l u d e t o t h e e m o t i o n a l s e c u r i t y o f d o m e s t i c i t y t h r o u g h an i n t e n s i t y o f f e e l i n g i n t h e " h e a r t " o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm" and t h r o u g h Tennyson's " t e n d e r g r a c e o f a day now dead" a l l u s i v e l y g r a n t e d an e t e r n a l r e t u r n i n t h e "haven" o f t h e sea as a f i n a l r e s t i n g p l a c e . The power o f t h e d o m e s t i c t o evoke an e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e was s u r e l y n o t l o s t upon p o e t s who, i n poems s e e m i n g l y p l a c e d o u t s i d e o f t h e s p a t i a l c o n t e x t o f t h e home, n o n e t h e l e s s c o n c e i v e d o f p o e t r y i t s e l f as a r e f u g e from t h e h a r d s h i p o f l i f e . 413 A s e c u r i t y o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g among r e a d e r s o f "The Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " i s t h u s p r o v i d e d f o r w i t h i n t h e t e x t i t s e l f t h r o u g h t h e c o o p e r a t i o n o f t h e poem's s t r u c t u r a l u n i t y and i t s imagery. E s s e n t i a l l y , t h e p o e t i c e x p e r i e n c e t a k e s p l a c e t h r o u g h f a m i l i a r s p a t i a l terms w h e r e i n r e a d e r s a r e i n i t i a l l y i n v i t e d i n t o t h e u n i f i e d i n n e r s a n c t u a r y o f t h e home i n o r d e r t o v i e w t h e d i v e r s e , s c a t t e r e d g r a v e s from w i t h i n t h e s a f e t y o f t h e mother's c o n s c i o u s n e s s . She, a c c o r d i n g l y , e n v i s i o n s t h e s e g r a v e s w i t h i n a c o n t e x t o f a c t i v i t i e s f a m i l i a r t o V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s even i f t h e l o c a l e s a r e a p p a r e n t l y e x o t i c : Western e x p a n s i o n and c o l o n i a l s e t t l e m e n t , merchant s h i p p i n g , European w a r f a r e , and f o r e i g n t r a v e l . Thus t h e c h i l d r e n ' s dead b o d i e s " l i e , " " s l e e p " and " r e s t " p e a c e f u l l y i n t h e i r g r a v e s , t h e i r mother's i m a g i n a t i o n p r o t e c t i n g them t h r o u g h language and imagery from t h e l i k e l y v i o l e n c e o f t h e i r a c t u a l d e a t h s . S t a n z a seven p r o v i d e s t h e n e c e s s a r y r e t u r n t o t h e home, " t h e one home w i t h g l e e " o f s t a n z a one c o n v e n i e n t l y r h y m i n g w i t h "Beneath t h e same g r e e n t r e e " o f s t a n z a seven so as t o r e i n f o r c e t h r o u g h sound what i s a p p a r e n t i n s t r u c t u r e . Y e t t h e r e t u r n h e r e r e l i e s on a c r u c i a l d i f f e r e n c e t h a t a l l o w s f o r t h e poem's c l o s u r e . I n s t a n z a s one and two, d o m e s t i c l i f e seems an e n t i r e e n t i t y u n t o i t s e l f , t h e use o f " t h e y " w i t h i n "one home" s u g g e s t i n g complete u n i t y . S t a n z a s e v e n , however, i n t r o d u c e s a s i g n i f i c a n t absence i n t h e d o m e s t i c image: t h e c h i l d r e n ' s v o i c e s had " m i n g l e d as t h e y p r a y ' d / Around one 414 p a r e n t knee" o f t h e mother, t h e f a t h e r f i g u r e d e c i d e d l y a b s e n t . 7 Innocuous i n h e r s e l f p e r h a p s , t h i s "one p a r e n t " o f s t a n z a seven seems t o i n v i t e a p a r t n e r i n t h e r e a d e r ; absence p r o v o k e s t h e need t o f i l l up v a c a n c y and c l o s e up t h i s gap. Y e t Hemans does n o t end h e r poem a t s t a n z a s e v e n . Not c o n t e n t t o l e t h e r r e a d e r s c o m p l e t e t h e poem as t h e y see f i t , she a l s o w i l l n o t a l l o w t h e c o n t r o l l i n g c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f t h e f o n d mother o f h e r poem, h e r one p a r e n t , t o m i n g l e r e c k l e s s l y w i t h r e a d e r s ' minds o v e r w h i c h Hemans h e r s e l f has no c o n t r o l . R a t h e r , i n t h e f i n a l two l i n e s , t h e s p e a k i n g v o i c e o f t h e poem s h i f t s away from t h e c o n t r o l l i n g c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f t h e mother. I t becomes an o b j e c t i v e v o i c e o f e m o t i o n a l r e f l e c t i o n l o o k i n g back upon t h e mother's s i t u a t i o n as a c o n c r e t e i n s t a n c e o f an a b s t r a c t r e a l i t y w e l l known t o Hemans's r e a d e r s : t h e c o n d i t i o n o f absence i t s e l f . The mother becomes now t h e a b s t r a c t p e r s o n i f i c a t i o n " l o v e " r e f e r r e d t o as " t h o u " when t h e s p e a k e r m o u r n f u l l y ponders " i f t h o u w e r t a l l / And nought beyond." By o p e n i n g w i t h " A l a s , " t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f t h e r e b e i n g n o t h i n g beyond a mother's l o v e , and t h e r e f o r e n o t h i n g beyond t h e " e a r t h " t h a t i s so p i t e o u s l y lamented as a s u b s t i t u t e , Hemans Here, t h e r e a d i n g o f t h i s image may be g o v e r n e d , t o t o o l a r g e a d e g r e e , by a b i o g r a p h i c a l u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f Hemans's own d o m e s t i c c i r c u m s t a n c e s . A t n i n e t e e n , F e l i c i a Browne m a r r i e d C a p t a i n Hemans, b o r e f i v e sons i n s i x y e a r s , o n l y t o have h e r husband l e a v e f o r Rome " f o r t h e sake o f h i s h e a l t h " s h o r t l y b e f o r e t h e b i r t h o f t h e f i f t h i n 1818. (Reiman v i i ) . U n t i l h e r own d e a t h i n 183 5, h e r husband r e m a i n e d d e l i b e r a t e l y " a b s e n t , " though a b s e n t husbands were a common f e a t u r e o f V i c t o r i a n l i f e t o w h i c h Hemans's r e a d e r s would have r e a d i l y t e s t i f i e d , and h e r own husband's absence was n o t k e p t s e c r e t . 415 i n v i t e s h e r r e a d e r s t o f i l l t h e absence o f t h e f a t h e r w i t h t h e p r e s e n c e o f God and t h e a f t e r l i f e "beyond" as t h e unspoken c o u n t e r t o t h e n e g a t i v e q u a n t i t y o f t h e "nought beyond" w h i c h i s e a r t h . The r e a d e r ' s e a r l i e r p o s i t i o n from w i t h i n t h e s a n c t u a r y o f t h e mother's c o n s c i o u s n e s s i s t h u s r e i n f o r c e d h e r e as t h e mother i s now a d d r e s s e d d i r e c t l y i n t h e second p e r s o n " t h o u " as a s p i r i t o f l o v e on e a r t h w i t h w h i c h t h e r e a d e r i s a s k e d t o i d e n t i f y . I n o t h e r words, t h e r e a d e r i s n o t a l l o w e d t o t a k e t h e r o l e o f God i n r e l a t i o n t o "The Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " and s u p p l y f o r h e r s e l f o r h i m s e l f a f i t c o n c l u s i o n o r m o r a l "beyond" t h e c o n f i n e s o f t h e poem i t s e l f . The r e a d e r must assume t h e a t t i t u d e o f t h e c o n t r o l l i n g c o n s c i o u s n e s s p r o v i d e d f o r and imbedded w i t h i n t h e poem, i n t h i s c a s e t h e f e m a l e a t t i t u d e o f t h e mother. Hemans's f i n a l a l l u s i o n t o a s p i r i t o f l o v e beyond e a r t h s u p p l i e d i n t h e h e r e a f t e r by God encourages h e r r e a d e r s t o c o m p l e t e t h e poem i n s p a t i a l t e r m s . The v a c a n t s p a c e s w i t h i n t h e home c r e a t e d by now dead c h i l d r e n may be f i l l e d on e a r t h by t h e c r e a t i v e c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f a l o v i n g mother who e n v i s i o n s r e s t f u l g r a v e s p a r a l l e l t o t h e once i n h a b i t e d warm beds; b u t t h e harmonious u n i t y o f d o m e s t i c b l i s s can o n l y be r e p l a c e d i n e t e r n i t y by r e l i g i o u s f a i t h i n t h e h e r e a f t e r . The h e a v e n l y s a n c t u a r y on e a r t h e x i s t s o n l y i n t h e i m a g i n a t i o n s o f r e a d e r s who a r e w i l l i n g t o l i s t e n t o t h e a d d r e s s o f " t h o u , " and i n v i t e God t o become a superabundant p r e s e n c e w i t h i n a h o u s e h o l d 416 p u n c t u a t e d by a b s e n c e s . F o r Hemans, t h e s e r e a d e r s numbered i n t h e t e n s o f t h o u s a n d s . I n "The Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d , " Hemans a l l u d e s t o b u t does n o t answer d i r e c t l y t h e most d i f f i c u l t q u e s t i o n f a c e d by h e r r e a d e r s — w h a t happens a f t e r d e a t h — a n d i n t h e p r o c e s s assuages t h e i r f e a r s t h r o u g h t h e r e g u l a r i t y o f t h e hymnal l y r i c , t h e g e n t l e n e s s o f h e r d i c t i o n and t h e o v e r a l l harmony o f image and s t r u c t u r e . That h e r p o e t r y a p p e a l e d t o c h i l d r e n and was v i e w e d as s u b s t i t u t e r e a d i n g f o r t h e B i b l e on Sundays i s t h e r e f o r e n o t s u r p r i s i n g . T h i s poem, f o r example, engenders an a t t i t u d e o f s p i r i t u a l peace l i k e t h a t f o s t e r e d t h r o u g h t h e V i c t o r i a n i d e a l o f h e a r t h and home; i t becomes i t s e l f a s i m i l a r r e f u g e f o r h e r o l d e r r e a d e r s from r e l i g i o u s s c e p t i c i s m and doubt. God e x i s t s as an a b s e n t p r e s e n c e w h i c h Hemans c a r e f u l l y m a n i p u l a t e s t h r o u g h a p p r o p r i a t e a l l u s i o n t o v a c a n c i e s and t h e r e l i g i o u s l y s a n c t i o n e d means by w h i c h t h e y s h o u l d be f i l l e d . As s u c h , h e r t e x t may be s a i d t o meet h e r r e a d e r s ' e x p e c t a t i o n s a l m o s t i n and o f i t s e l f . I t r e q u i r e s l i t t l e o r no r e a d e r a c t i v i t y i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f meaning o t h e r t h a n p a s s i v e l y t o s u b m i t t o t h e c o n t r o l l i n g c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f t h e mother w i t h i n t h e poem and t h e n l a t e r t o r e g i s t e r t h e a l l u s i o n s i n s t a n z a s seven and e i g h t i n t h e "beyond" o f heaven, a c o n c l u s i o n w h i c h t h e poem p o i n t s t o r a t h e r t h a n d i d a c t i c a l l y s u p p l i e s . 8 See n o t e 6 i n c h a p t e r one and n o t e 7 i n c h a p t e r two. A t f i r s t g l a n c e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s " h e a r t w i t h i n and God o'erhead" o f "A Psalm o f L i f e " a p p e a r s t o i n c i t e an a s s u r a n c e i n t h e r e a d e r o f God's u l t i m a t e p r e s e n c e no d i f f e r e n t from Hemans's e a r l i e r poem. However, t h e d i f f e r e n c e s a r e p r o f o u n d . They have t o do n o t o n l y w i t h d i s t i n c t i o n s i n s p a t i a l terms o f t h e e x a c t p l a c e m e n t o f t h e a u d i e n c e i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e poem's c o n t r o l l i n g c o n s c i o u s n e s s , and t o God as t h e c o n c l u s i o n t o w a r d w h i c h t h e poem t e n d s , b u t a l s o w i t h d i f f e r e n c e s i n t h e sound o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s v e r s e . W i t h r e s p e c t t o l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n s o f p o e t i c sound, t h e c l a s s i c a l l y e d u c a t e d L o n g f e l l o w was, n o t s u r p r i s i n g l y , f a r and away more e x p e r i m e n t a l and more s u c c e s s f u l as a p r o s o d i s t t h a n Hemans. I n h i s j u v e n i l e poems, however, L o n g f e l l o w had o r i g i n a l l y employed many o f t h e measures common t o h i s p o p u l a r f e m a l e p r e c u r s o r w h i c h were i n t h e m s e l v e s t h e most w i d e l y known and used i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y : f o u r - s t r e s s i a m b i c , b l a n k v e r s e , h e r o i c c o u p l e t , and b a l l a d measure. Some o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s most p o p u l a r l a t e r poems, l i k e " E x c e l s i o r , " were w r i t t e n i n i a m b i c t e t r a m e t e r ( A l l e n 159). C o n v e r s e l y , "A P s a l m o f L i f e " would have posed some new and u n e x p e c t e d d e l i g h t s f o r i t s f i r s t r e a d e r s . W h i l e i t t e n d s t o w a r d a b a l l a d rhythm o f a l t e r n a t i n g 4 and ( i n t h i s case) 3 1/2 s t r e s s l i n e s s u g g e s t i n g common measure, i t s f e e t a r e t r o c h a i c and n o t t h e a n t i c i p a t e d i a m b i c o f such q u a t r a i n s , o r o f poems t h a t r e a d e r s would i m m e d i a t e l y i d e n t i f y as p s a l m s . T h i s u n u s u a l use o f t r o c h e e s stems from t h e f a c t 418 t h a t t h e poem i s n o t i t s e l f spoken by t h e p s a l m i s t b u t r a t h e r by t h e h e a r t o f t h e young man. The poem's rhythm i s d e s i g n e d t o emulate t h e c o u r s i n g o f i t s l i f e b l o o d and n o t t h e " m o u r n f u l numbers" r e a d i l y a s s o c i a t e d w i t h b i b l i c a l p s a l m s . Moreover, L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f n e v e r i n t e n d e d t h a t t h e "psalm" o f t h e t i t l e be u s e d e x c l u s i v e l y f o r t h i s poem a l o n e ; r a t h e r , he o r i g i n a l l y t h o u g h t o f p s a l m as a g e n e r i c t i t l e f o r s e v e r a l l y r i c s : "The Reaper and t h e F l o w e r s , A P s a l m o f Death," "A Second P s a l m o f L i f e , The L i g h t o f S t a r s " and "The F i f t h P s a l m — M i d n i g h t Mass f o r t h e D y i n g Y e a r " b e i n g t h e o t h e r t h r e e r e p r i n t e d i n V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t w i t h o u t t h e i r h e a d i n g s o r s u b t i t l e s . Not o n l y does t h e meter and measure v a r y between t h e s e poems, b u t L o n g f e l l o w , u n l i k e Hemans, a l s o a l t e r s h i s m e t r i c s t o s u i t h i s themes, w h i c h a r e s u b s t a n t i a l l y more v a r i o u s t h a n t h o s e f o u n d i n Hemans's many volumes. None o f t h e above c o m p a r i s o n s between Hemans's and L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t i c t e c h n i q u e s s h o u l d come as much o f a s u r p r i s e t o t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s o f a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a n p o e t r y w i l l i n g t o g r a n t Hemans h e r enormous t r a n s a t l a n t i c p o p u l a r i t y . C h a p t e r two has a l r e a d y d e m o n s t r a t e d how L o n g f e l l o w i n i t i a l l y shaped h i s p o e t r y f u l l y c o g n i s a n t o f t h e p o p u l a r f e m a l e p o e t s o f t h e day; he l a t e r came t o d i s p a r a g e b o t h h i s own e a r l y e f f u s i o n s and t h e "hop, s k i p , and jump" measure t h a t Hemans had i n t r o d u c e d i n A m e r i c a . Y e t Hemans's e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p e r f e c t i o n i n a n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c o n t e x t , t h a t i s , h e r use o f b a l a n c e and symmetry, p r e c i s e rhyme and rhythm, and t h e t h e m a t i c e f f e c t s t h a t s u c h t e c h n i c a l r e g u l a r i t y o f sound and s t r u c t u r e c o u l d a c h i e v e were s u r e l y n o t l o s t upon h e r male s u c c e s s o r . D a n i e l L i t t l e f i e l d , J r . , however, a r g u e s t h a t t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r i t y o f "A Psalm o f L i f e " s h o u l d be s o l e l y a t t r i b u t e d t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s " a p h o r i z i n g i n t h e t r a d i t i o n o f s u c h works as The P r o v e r b s , The New E n g l a n d P r i m e r , and Poor R i c h a r d ' s Almanack" ( 4 9 ) . A f t e r s u g g e s t i n g s o u r c e s f o r t h e poem's a d d i t i o n a l b o r r o w i n g s from s e v e r a l l i n e s o f Goethe and S c h i l l e r , L i t t l e f i e l d goes on t o p o i n t o u t many p a r a l l e l i d e a s i n B e n j a m i n F r a n k l i n ' s "The Way t o W e a l t h " t o s u p p o r t t h e v i e w t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s s u c c e s s w i t h t h i s poem, as opposed t o t h e l a c k o f s u c c e s s o f o t h e r s i n V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t volume, s h o u l d be r e a d s t r i c t l y as a f u n c t i o n o f i t s c o n t e n t and n o t i t s t e c h n i c a l a s p e c t s ( 4 9 ) . Y e t any i d e a s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w a l l e g e d l y borrowed would have l i k e l y been t h o u g h t o f a t t h e t i m e as b e i n g s i m p l y i n t h e a i r r a t h e r t h a n s p e c i f i c a l l y t i e d t o any p a r t i c u l a r l i t e r a r y t e x t s . More s e r i o u s l y , i n r e s t r i c t i n g h i s a n a l y s i s o f t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem t o i d e a s , L i t t l e f i e l d u n w i t t i n g l y f l a w s h i s own argument. He t r i e s t o make a s p e c i a l c a s e f o r t h e w i d e s p r e a d a p p e a l o f t h e themes e x p r e s s e d i n "A P s a l m o f L i f e " as a p h o r i s m s by c l a i m i n g t h a t t h i s l y r i c c o n t a i n s t h e same m e t r i c a l p a t t e r n as and s i m i l a r language t o t h e l e s s p o p u l a r " F o o t s t e p s o f A n g e l s , " a l s o i n t h e 1839 volume (49) . T h i s s i m p l y i s n o t t r u e o f " F o o t s t e p s " as s t a n z a seven, f o r example, c l e a r l y d e m o n s t r a t e s : W i t h a s l o w and n o i s e l e s s f o o t s t e p Comes t h a t messenger d i v i n e , Takes t h e v a c a n t c h a i r b e s i d e me, Lays h e r g e n t l e hand i n mine. Three o f t h e t e n s t a n z a s i n t h i s poem do n o t f o l l o w e x a c t l y t h e abab rhyme scheme w h i c h a l t e r n a t e s between f e m i n i n e and m a s c u l i n e rhymes, f o u n d i n i t s o t h e r seven s t a n z a s and i n a l l n i n e s t a n z a s o f "A Psalm o f L i f e . " And t h e l i n e s a l t e r n a t e from t r o c h e e s t o a n a p e s t s i n " F o o t s t e p s o f A n g e l s , " l a c k t h e f o r c e f u l n e s s o f t h o s e i n t h e "Psalm," and t h e r e b y c r e a t e a s o o t h i n g , p e a c e f u l a u d i t o r y language c o m p l e t e l y i n k e e p i n g w i t h t h e " f o o t s t e p s o f a n g e l s " and c o m p l e t e l y u n l i k e t h e s t r o n g e x c l a m a t i o n s o f "A Psalm o f L i f e . " The m e t r i c f e e t o f "A Psalm o f L i f e " must i n and o f t h e m s e l v e s make t h e i r i m p r i n t as t h e " f o o t p r i n t s on t h e sands o f t i m e " o f t h i s s p e c i f i c p o e t i c t e x t , i n e f f e c t , t o be t a k e n up a g a i n and a g a i n by L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o t e n t i a l l y s h i p w r e c k e d r e a d e r s , who c o u l d t h e r e b y t a k e " h e a r t " as t h e y l i s t e n t o t h e p u l s a t i o n s o f t h e " h e a r t " o f t h e young man speak t o them. C l e a r l y , t h e s u c c e s s o f "A Psalm o f L i f e " depends on L o n g f e l l o w ' s use o f a p o e t i c language and rhythm v e r b a l l y e x p r e s s i v e o f t h e i d e a s he needed t o convey t o h i s a u d i e n c e . F o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s o r i g i n a l a u d i e n c e was a c t u a l l y made up o f a t t e n t i v e l i s t e n e r s . The poem was i n i t i a l l y r e c i t e d by him t o h i s H a r v a r d c l a s s a t t h e c l o s e o f a l e c t u r e on Goethe, a l m o s t as i f t o p u n c t u a t e by way o f a f i n a l e x c l a m a t i o n mark mankind's need t o f a c e doubt r e s o l u t e l y i n t h e l i v i n g p r e s e n t . However f a m i l i a r t h e a p h o r i s m s i n "A P s a l m o f L i f e " may have been t o h i s n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s , i t i s t h e m e t r i c a l f o r c e o f t h e language i t s e l f as i t s t r i v e s b o l d l y a f t e r c o n f i r m a t i o n i n a w o r l d o f u n c e r t a i n t i e s t h a t would have r e s o u n d e d i n i t s a u d i e n c e ' s e a r s , as i t does i n t h e a p h o r i s m s o f Pope. To be s u r e , t h e i d e a s a l o n e v o i c e d w i t h i n t h e poem would have been and were immensely p o p u l a r s i n c e t h e y were e n t i r e l y f a m i l i a r themes i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a : m o r a l e a r n e s t n e s s , a b e l i e f i n human p r o g r e s s , and h e r o i c i n d i v i d u a l i s m . I t i s o f t e n s a i d by L o n g f e l l o w ' s t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s , even by t h o s e s y m p a t h e t i c t o h i s p o e t r y i n g e n e r a l , t h a t t h e c o n v e n t i o n a l i t y o f t h e s e n t i m e n t s e x p r e s s e d i n "A P s a l m o f L i f e " have now debased i t s p o e t i c v a l u e , making i t "more a rhymed m o r a l i t y t h a n a poem" (Wagenknecht P o e t r y and P r o s e 6 2 ) . Y e t t o a p p r e c i a t e f u l l y t h e o r i g i n a l n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y e f f e c t o f t h i s poem, i t s n o v e l t y must n o t be r e a d s t r i c t l y on t h e l e v e l o f i d e a s , o r even o f imagery, f o r even t o i t s f i r s t r e c i p i e n t s t h e "message" o f t h e poem was n o t new, as a c l a s s s t u d y i n g Goethe would have o n l y t o o r e a d i l y a t t e s t e d . R a t h e r , t h i s p o p u l a r poem s h o u l d be r e a d a l o n g l i n e s s i m i l a r t o t h o s e r e a d e r s i m m e d i a t e l y g r a n t t o a " s e r i o u s " p o e m — a f e l i c i t y o f sound and s e n s e — w h i l e b e a r i n g i n mind t h a t t h e poem was o r i g i n a l l y d e s i g n e d f o r an a u d i e n c e 422 f a r l e s s s c e p t i c a l t h a n t h o s e o f t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y b u t no l e s s d e s i r o u s o f a e s t h e t i c p l e a s u r e f o r a l l t h a t . 9 A t f i r s t g l a n c e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem seems m e r e l y l i k e s c o r e s o f o t h e r V i c t o r i a n v e r s e s t h a t r e c o r d a s t r u g g l e between l i f e and d e a t h , and p o s i t a t r i u m p h a n t f a i t h i n t h e a f t e r l i f e as an anodyne t o d o u b t ; t h e r e f o r e , i t seems a poem n o t u n l i k e "The Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d . " Y e t whereas t h e v o i c e o f Hemans's poem c l e a r l y emanates from w i t h i n t h e s a n c t u a r y o f t h e home, t h e s p e a k e r o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm" seems, i f anywhere, p r e c a r i o u s l y r e s t i n g w i t h i n " t h e b i v o u a c o f l i f e , " a t e m p o r a r y encampment upon t h e " w o r l d ' s b r o a d f i e l d o f b a t t l e " t h a t forms t h e e x a c t c e n t r e o f t h e poem. Hemans's poem i s s t r u c t u r e d i n i t s f i n a l s t a n z a s so as t o prompt a r e t u r n t o i t s b e g i n n i n g , t h e r e b y c o m p l e t i n g t h e poem i n as s a f e and e n c i r c l i n g a manner as t h e d o m e s t i c haven from w h i c h t h e poem i s s u e s . The n i n e s t a n z a s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s l y r i c , however, b r e a k i n t o two o p p o s i n g camps w i t h t h e " b i v o u a c o f l i f e " i n s t a n z a f i v e a s e c u r e y e t impermanent s h e l t e r from t h e b a t t l e waged between t h e p a s s i v e a c c e p t a n c e o f d e a t h i n t h e f i r s t 9 R i c h a r d R u l a n d ' s " L o n g f e l l o w and t h e Modern Reader" i s t y p i c a l . I t d i s r e g a r d s L o n g f e l l o w ' s n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y a u d i e n c e by a p p l y i n g t h e New C r i t i c a l p r e c e p t o f " o r g a n i c w h o l e n e s s " t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm." When t h e poem a p p e a r s d i s u n i f i e d , R u l a n d c o n c l u d e s t h a t t h e "Psalm" f a i l s p o e t i c a l l y : " T h i s i s a bad poem b e c a u s e — a m o n g o t h e r t h i n g s — i t s rhythms a r e t o o j i n g l y f o r t h e s e r i o u s n e s s o f i t s s e n t i m e n t , i t s t h o u g h t and d i c t i o n a r e s t r a i n e d i n t o e a s y rhyme, and i t s metaphors a r e e i t h e r c l i c h e s o r nonsense" ( 6 5 ) . L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem s u f f e r s from none o f t h e s e f a i l i n g s i f r e a d w i t h i n t h e c o n t e x t f o r w h i c h i t was o r i g i n a l l y i n t e n d e d . f o u r s t a n z a s and t h e v i g o r o u s a c t i v i t y o f l i f e i n t h e f i n a l f o u r - As s u c h , t h e b i v o u a c becomes t h e c e n t r a l s p a t i a l and t e m p o r a l image o f t h e poem r e p r e s e n t i n g f o r i t s r e a d e r s j u s t what t h e "Psalm" i t s e l f p r o v i d e s : a b r i e f r e s t i n g p l a c e from s t r u g g l e . I t i s n o t t h e a p p a r e n t l y permanent s a n c t u a r y Hemans a f f o r d s h e r r e a d e r s . Y e t , w i t h o u t a doubt, L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem i n s p i r e s a b e l i e f i n "God o'erhead" as r e s o l u t e as t h a t o f h i s f e m a l e p r e c u r s o r . T h i s f o s t e r i n g o f r e l i g i o u s f a i t h i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm," however, i s more a f u n c t i o n o f t o n e , and t h e c r e a t i o n o f a f i t a t t i t u d e i n h i s a u d i e n c e t h a n i t i s a t e x t u a l l y d e v i s e d c o n c l u s i o n as i t i s i n Hemans's s t r i c t l y c o n v e n t i o n a l hymn. The young man's p u l s a t i n g h e a r t t h a t c o n t r o l s "what" he s a i d t o t h e p s a l m i s t , a l s o c o n t r o l s "how." The m a r t i a l "drums" o f s t a n z a f i v e echo t h r o u g h o u t i n t h e c o n s i s t e n t o p p o s i t i o n between f e m i n i n e and m a s c u l i n e r h y m e s . 1 0 The two s y l l a b l e " m o u r n f u l numbers" s l o w t h e pace and p r o v i d e a c o n t r a p u n t a l rhythm o f " t h e m u f f l e d drums" o f " f u n e r a l marches" s o u n d i n g a g a i n s t t h e a b r u p t m o n o s y l l a b l e s t h a t seem t o r i n g o u t as a b u g l e c a l l summoning i t s l i s t e n e r s t o l i f e ' s b a t t l e . L o n g f e l l o w t h u s r e c r e a t e s i n sound what h i s l i s t e n e r s a n t i c i p a t e i n s e n s e : t h a t even w h i l e p h y s i c a l f o r c e s may d r i v e 1 0 N e a r i n g t h e end o f h i s l i f e , L o n g f e l l o w was once asked h i s o p i n i o n on c o e d u c a t i o n ; he r e s p o n d e d " t h a t l i f e , l i k e F r e n c h p o e t r y , i s i m p e r f e c t w i t h o u t t h e f e m i n i n e rhyme" ( L i f e I I I 2 7 3 ) . F e m i n i n e rhymes a r e commonplace i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y , n o t o n l y a l i k e l y r e s u l t o f h i s l o v e o f F r e n c h l y r i c s , b u t o f h i s e a r l y a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r B y r o n as w e l l . 424 p e o p l e by c o n s i s t e n c y and r e g u l a r i t y l i k e so many c a t t l e t o t h e i r d e a t h s , t h e s p i r i t e d a c t i o n s o f i n d i v i d u a l h e r o e s r e s o u n d i n g l y p r o v e t h a t l i f e i s more t h a n s i m p l y mundane. The t e n o r o f t h e young man's s i n g l e h e a r t b u i l d s t o w a r d r i n g i n g i m p e r a t i v e s t o i n s p i r e t h o s e o f o t h e r i n d i v i d u a l s t o wage a p i t c h e d s t r u g g l e a g a i n s t t h e s i l e n c e o f d e a t h . 1 1 Death's a l l u r e b e g i n s i n s i d i o u s l y i n t h e mind, i n s c e p t i c i s m , and t h e b e l i e f t h a t " l i f e i s b u t an empty dream," an e m p t i n e s s w h i c h t h e l y r i c i t s e l f w i l l a t t e m p t t o f i l l by p r o p o s i n g a more v i t a l l i f e , and c h a r g i n g i t w i t h t h e energy o f l i f e ' s b l o o d . Y e t by v o i c i n g b o t h s i d e s o f t h e d i a l e c t i c , t h e h e a r t o f t h i s young man a t f i r s t u n w i t t i n g l y j o i n s i n w i t h t h e " m o u r n f u l numbers" o f t h e m u l t i t u d e o f " h e a r t s , though s t o u t and b r a v e , / S t i l l , l i k e m u f f l e d drums a r e b e a t i n g / F u n e r a l 12 marches t o t h e g r a v e . " A l m o s t as a r e a c t i o n , t h e young man Of t h e t e n t r a n s l a t i o n s w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w a l s o i n c l u d e d i n V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t none seems t o have had more d i r e c t b e a r i n g upon h i s own v e r s e s t h a n Johan Gaudenz von S a l i s - S e e w i s ' s "Song o f t h e S i l e n t Land." The s i l e n t l a n d i s , o f c o u r s e , t h e r e g i o n o f d e a t h , and i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s t r a n s l a t i o n t h e v o i c e a s k s q u i e t l y f o r one w i t h "a g e n t l e hand" t o l e a d us i n t o t h e " b o u n d l e s s r e g i o n s / Of a l l p e r f e c t i o n . " L o n g f e l l o w ' s t e n d e r cadences, and m i l d images o f a c c e p t a n c e i n "The Reaper and t h e F l o w e r s , A Psalm o f Death" i n s t a n t l y come t o mind. However, t h e l i f e p i t t e d a g a i n s t "The S i l e n t Land" echoes t h a t o f "A Psalm o f L i f e , " f o r i n i t we f i n d " s h a t t e r e d w r e c k s " upon t h e s t r a n d , a w a i t i n g "Who i n L i f e ' s b a t t l e f i r m d o t h s t a n d " t o l e a d them t o where t h e " b r o k e n - h e a r t e d " beckon from t h e o t h e r s i d e o f d e a t h . B o t h t h e p o w e r f u l Romantic a t t r a c t i o n o f e a s e f u l d e a t h and i t s e s s e n t i a l l y V i c t o r i a n a d v e r s a r y — t h e e a r n e s t n e s s o f l i f e ' s s t r u g g l e — o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s t r a n s l a t i o n f i n d t h e i r way i n t o h i s own s h a r p l y d i v i d e d poem. 1 2 I n t h i s way, t h e a r t i c u l a t i o n o f o p p o s i n g a t t r a c t i o n s i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm" seems t o a n t i c i p a t e Tennyson's "Two V o i c e s " p u b l i s h e d i n 1842 (though w r i t t e n much e a r l i e r i n 425 p r o d u c e s t h e image o f t h e b a t t l e so t h a t he m i g h t p l a c e h i m s e l f v e r y d i s t i n c t l y i n a camp opposed t o t h e p o p u l a c e whose h e a r t s w i l l be m u f f l e d , i n e f f e c t among t h e h e r o i c i n d i v i d u a l i s t s and a g a i n s t t h o s e d r i v e n i n t o s i l e n c e — t h e "dumbness" o f c a t t l e — b y p a s s i v e l y a c t i n g en masse. S t a n z a s i x t h u s l a u n c h e s t h e s p e a k e r ' s c o n c e r t e d a t t a c k on p a s s i v i t y . " T r u s t no F u t u r e , how'er p l e a s a n t ! " and " A c t , — a c t i n t h e l i v i n g p r e s e n t ! " he commands, t h e t e m p o r a l i m p e r a t i v e s c o r r e s p o n d i n g d i r e c t l y w i t h t h e s p a t i a l i n d i c a t i v e s i n t h e same s t a n z a : " H e a r t w i t h i n , and God o'erhead!" ( t h e p a s t o f c o u r s e b e i n g a l r e a d y dead and b u r i e d ) . L i f e , a c t i o n , t h e l i v i n g p r e s e n t can o n l y be made v i t a l by t h e i n d i v i d u a l who d e r i v e s s u s t e n a n c e from a h e a r t w i t h i n made r e a d y " f o r any f a t e . " F o r t h e i n d i v i d u a l ' s a b s o l u t e " d e s t i n e d end o r way" i s unknowable: o v e r s e e n by God, t h e f u t u r e i s i n H i s s a f e - k e e p i n g ; t h e u l t i m a t e outcome o f t h e b a t t l e i s n o t t o be 1833) o r t o echo t h e "Supposed C o n f e s s i o n s o f a Second-Rate S e n s i t i v e Mind" (1830). L o n g f e l l o w had a c c e s s , however, o n l y t o Emerson's copy o f t h e Poems d a t e d 1833, a y e a r b e f o r e h i s d e l i v e r y o f t h e "Psalm" t o h i s c l a s s and l a t e r p u b l i c a t i o n i n The K n i c k e r b o c k e r o f Oct 1838. The "Psalm" i t s e l f , L o n g f e l l o w s a i d , had been w r i t t e n much e a r l i e r " a t a t i m e when [he] was r a l l y i n g from d e p r e s s i o n " ( q t d . i n Works 2) f o l l o w i n g t h e d e a t h o f h i s f i r s t w i f e , Mary i n Nov 1835, and as such e n a c t s a s p i r i t u a l and e m o t i o n a l c r i s i s n o t u n l i k e t h a t g e n e r a t e d by Tennyson's l o s s o f H a l l a m . F o r L o n g f e l l o w , a t l e a s t , t h e d e c i s i o n t o " a c t i n t h e l i v i n g p r e s e n t " s h o u l d i t s e l f be l i n k e d n o t o n l y t o h i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f Goethe, b u t t o t h e motto he appended t o H y p e r i o n ( a l s o p u b l i s h e d i n 1839 and d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r t w o ) . L o n g f e l l o w acknowledged and p u b l i s h e d t h e s e a n t e c e d e n t s f o r h i s v e r s e as p r o s a i c echoes o f h i s p o e t i c s e n t i m e n t s . He d i d n o t a l w a y s , as Poe and o t h e r s c h a r g e d , borrow from h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s a l t h o u g h he o f t e n may have sounded l i k e them. 426 a n t i c i p a t e d , however p l e a s a n t l y i m a g i n e d by p e o p l e s t i l l w i t h i n t h e b i v o u a c o f l i f e on e a r t h . The f i n a l message, as i t were, o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s "Psalm o f L i f e " i s u l t i m a t e l y u n r e a l i z a b l e w i t h i n t h e t e x t i n s p a t i a l and t e m p o r a l terms and, as a consequence, t h e metaphor t h e p o e t chooses t o couch i t i n i s i n t e l l e c t u a l l y p r o b l e m a t i c , f o r r e a d e r s t o d a y even as i t was f o r t h o s e o f one hundred and f i f t y y e a r s a g o . 1 3 " F o o t p r i n t s on t h e sands o f t i m e " b l e n d s s p a t i a l and t e m p o r a l images i n s u c h a way t h a t , when c o u p l e d w i t h t h e i d e a s i n s t a n z a e i g h t o f l i f e as a sea w a s h i n g upon a s h o r e o f t i m e , w i t h f o o t p r i n t s upon t h a t s h o r e s t i l l v i s i b l e t o p o t e n t i a l l y s h i p w r e c k e d b r o t h e r s , t h e e n t i r e image a p p e a r s u t t e r l y i n c o n g r u o u s . However, L o n g f e l l o w has u s e d "Time" e a r l i e r i n s t a n z a f o u r where "Time i s f l e e t i n g " i n o p p o s i t i o n t o " A r t " w h i c h " i s l o n g " t o p u n c t u a t e p r e c i s e l y t h e c o n f l i c t between t i m e and space t h a t h i s " f o o t p r i n t s " c r y p t i c a l l y The d i f f i c u l t y t h a t " f o o t p r i n t s on t h e sands o f t i m e , e t c . " posed f o r i t s contemporary r e a d e r s i s e v i d e n t i n t h e f o l l o w i n g , l a r g e l y t y p i c a l , remarks f o u n d i n an e x c e r p t from t h e London Review r e p r i n t e d i n t h e E c l e c t i c Magazine LV 2 (Feb. 1862) 189-91: How i s i t t h a t t h e s e f o o t p r i n t s can make any permanent i m p r e s s i o n on t h e "sands" o f t i m e — how i s i t t h a t t h i s f o r l o r n b r o t h e r s a i l i n g o'er t h e solemn main can manage t o see t h e s e p r i n t s on t h e s h o r e , o r what i s t h e p a r t i c u l a r c o n n e c t i o n between s e e i n g them and t a k i n g h e a r t a g a i n , a r e , we c o n f e s s , t h i n g s n o t e a s i l y u n d e r s t o o d . (Cameron 72) T w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s have been l a r g e l y c o n t e n t t o echo t h e c o n t e m p o r a r y p u z z l e d r e s p o n s e r a t h e r t h a n seek any v a l i d r e a s o n s f o r why L o n g f e l l o w chose t h e images t h a t he d i d . convey. G r e a t men's a c t i o n s t a k e p l a c e w i t h i n t h e b i v o u a c o f l i f e upon t h e s h i f t i n g sands o f t i m e and, as s u c h , a r e f l e e t i n g , impermanent and n o t c a p a b l e o f l a s t i n g i n t o e t e r n i t y . The i m p r i n t s upon t h e i r own t i m e t h a t t h e s e men l e a v e b e h i n d a r e , a t w o r s t , as t e m p o r a r y as t h e a c t i o n s w h i c h b r o u g h t them i n t o b e i n g and, a t b e s t , i n s p i r i n g beyond t h e i r mere t e m p o r a l i t y t o anyone by chance exposed t o them and i n need o f t h e i n c e n t i v e t o s i m i l a r a c t i o n t h a t t h e y p r o v i d e . A r t w h i c h i s l o n g (though n o t permanent e i t h e r ) can, however, c a p t u r e t h e o r i g i n a l i m p r e s s o f g r e a t a c t i o n and, as i n t h i s poem, f a s h i o n t h e n e c e s s a r y f e e t ( i n t h i s c a s e t r o c h a i c ) t o make t h e i r mark upon t h e i r own t i m e ' s f l e e t i n g s h o r e . The e v a n e s c e n c e o f sound t h e r e b y g a i n s a " l o n g " t h o u g h s t i l l n o t e t e r n a l a f f e c t i v e power t h r o u g h s p a t i a l r e p r e s e n t a t i o n as p o e t r y upon t h e page. As James R u s s e l l L o w e l l r e s p o n d e d t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s d e t r a c t o r s i n "A F a b l e f o r C r i t i c s " (1848), "You may say t h a t he's smooth and a l l t h a t t i l l y o u ' r e h o a r s e , / But remember t h a t e l e g a n c e a l s o i s f o r c e ; / A f t e r p o l i s h i n g g r a n i t e as much as you w i l l / The h e a r t keeps i t s t o u g h o l d p e r s i s t e n c y s t i l l " (1309-12). Indeed, L o n g f e l l o w ' s own r e s p o n s e t o t h e a l m o s t i n s t a n t p o p u l a r i t y o f t h i s l y r i c , as w e l l as h i s l a t e r comments upon p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y i n g e n e r a l , i n d i c a t e h i s a c u t e awareness o f t h e m u s i c a l i t y o f v e r s e as an a f f e c t i v e agent and n e c e s s a r y f e a t u r e o f p o e t i c s u c c e s s . I n a j o u r n a l e n t r y o f 2 4 O c t o b e r 1838, a f t e r t h e l y r i c ' s p u b l i c a t i o n i n The K n i c k e r b o c k e r , 428 L o n g f e l l o w n o t e s : "My 'Psalm o f L i f e ' seems t o t a k e e f f e c t h e r e and t h e r e . T h i s i s a g r e a t p l e a s u r e , t o see t h e w o r k i n g o f i t upon o t h e r minds" ( L i f e I 303). By 1846, L o n g f e l l o w had become even more s e n s i t i v e t h a n p r e v i o u s l y t o p o e t r y ' s e x c i t e m e n t o f r e a d e r s ' e m o t i o n s . I n 1840, f o r example, he p l a n n e d t o c h a r t t h e b a l l a d ' s " v i r g i n s o i l " i n A m e r i c a t h r o u g h t h e v e r s e s i n B a l l a d s and o t h e r Poems (1841), i n s p i r e d by "a g r e a t n o t i o n o f w o r k i n g upon t h e p e o p l e ' s f e e l i n g s " ( L i f e 1 342-3). E a r l y i n 1846, L o n g f e l l o w c l e a r l y l i n k e d t h i s i d e a o f a n a t i o n ' s " f e e l i n g s " t o p o e t i c m u s i c ; i n a l e t t e r t o W i l l i a m C u l l e n B r y a n t he p r a i s e d h i s p r e d e c e s s o r f o r j u s t t h i s a s s o c i a t i o n : "The e x q u i s i t e m u s i c o f y o u r v e r s e d w e l l s more t h a n e v e r on my e a r ; and more t h a n e v e r am I a f f e c t e d by t h e i r d e p t h o f f e e l i n g and s p i r i t u a l i t y . . . ." He c o n t i n u e s by a n n o u n c i n g t h a t he l o n g e d t o add h i s " v o i c e t o t h e many w h i c h make up t h e v o i c e o f p o e t i c fame" ( L i f e I I 3 1 ) . Working o u t f o r h i m s e l f i n h i s j o u r n a l s a p o e t i c d o c t r i n e t h a t i s o b v i o u s l y a f f e c t i v e i n i t s d e f i n i t i o n o f t h e i m p a c t o f p o e t r y upon i t s a u d i e n c e , L o n g f e l l o w t h u s s u r m i s e s t h a t R. H. Home's v o i c e i n t h e r e c e n t l y p u b l i s h e d O r i o n (U.S., 1847) w i l l n o t l i k e l y become famous; t h e poem "can h a r d l y be p o p u l a r , f o r i t comes more from t h e b r a i n t h a n t h e h e a r t ; and r e a d e r s now demand p a s s i o n , — a t l e a s t f e e l i n g " ( L i f e I I 7 8 ) . W i t h i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s immediate c i r c l e , f r i e n d s s u c h as George H i l l a r d ft e x p r e s s e d a s i m i l a r a t t i t u d e about how p o p u l a r i t y c o u l d be d e t e r m i n e d by a p p e a l t o t h e e m o t i o n s . W r i t i n g t o L o n g f e l l o w , 3 0 December 1849, H i l l a r d p r e d i c t s t h a t " ' R e s i g n a t i o n ' w i l l be among t h e most p o p u l a r o f [ L o n g f e l l o w ' s ] poems, and d e s e r v e d l y s o ; f o r i t i s f u l l o f t e n d e r n e s s and f e e l i n g , and t o u c h e s w i t h a d e l i c a t e hand t h o s e s t o p s whose m u s i c i s t e a r s , — n o t b i t t e r t e a r s , b u t t h e s o f t dew t h a t f e r t i l i z e s t h e h e a r t on w h i c h i t f a l l s . . . " ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 155). I n e s t i m a t i o n s o f a u d i e n c e a p p e a l , i d e a s , e v i d e n t l y , a r e o f s e c o n d a r y i m p o r t a n c e t o L o n g f e l l o w and t o many o t h e r s who knew h i s work b e s t . Thus, u l t i m a t e l y , t h e "message" o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s "A P s a l m o f L i f e " i s h a r d l y t r a n s m i t t e d on t h e l e v e l o f i d e a s a t a l l . I t can o n l y be d e f i n e d as a p o e t i c p u r p o s e : t o engender i n h i s a u d i e n c e , t h r o u g h t e c h n i c a l c o n t r i v a n c e s o f l a n g u a g e , a h e a r t f e l t a c c e p t a n c e o f s t a l w a r t human endeavour even i n t h e f a c e o f acknowledged doubt as t o t h e e v e n t u a l outcome o f such a c t i v i t y . I n a l e t t e r t o John Dwight o f 10 December 1847, L o n g f e l l o w f i r m l y remarks t h a t "what a w r i t e r a s k s o f h i s r e a d e r i s n o t so much t o l i k e as t o l i s t e n " ( L i f e I I 101). Hence, even i f t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s do n o t l i k e t h e i d e a s e x p r e s s e d i n "A Psalm o f L i f e , " t h e y can s t i l l l i s t e n w i t h o u t p r e j u d i c e t o "what t h e h e a r t o f t h e young man s a i d t o t h e p s a l m i s t , " and h e a r a s i n g l e h e a r t b e a t i n g r e s o l u t e l y a g a i n s t t h e h e r d ; h e a r t h e s h i f t t o t h e f i r s t p e r s o n p l u r a l as t h a t one h e a r t commands o t h e r s t o j o i n i n t h e s t r u g g l e ; and f i n a l l y , h e a r a h e a r t r e g i s t e r i n g i t s b e a t as marks upon a page i n an a t t e m p t t h r o u g h a r t t o d e f y t h e e t e r n a l s i l e n c e o f d e a t h . 430 U n l i k e Hemans's h o u s e h o l d p u n c t u a t e d by absences w h i c h she i n t e n d s God t o f i l l (and t h e r e b y t o f i l l i n t o e t e r n i t y ) L o n g f e l l o w ' s b i v o u a c o f l i f e a f f o r d s o n l y a t e m p o r a r y r e s p i t e from a d v e r s i t y . S i n c e t h e b i v o u a c i s grounded i n t h e w o r l d , t h e h e a r t can o n l y p o i n t r e a s s u r i n g l y t o God o v e r h e a d and o u t s i d e o f t h e poem r a t h e r t h a n i n v i t e Him t o become a s p a t i a l , p r e s e n c e w i t h i n i t . I n s t e a d , L o n g f e l l o w i n v i t e s h i s r e a d e r s t o s u b m i t t o t h e sound o f t h e r h y t h m i c p u l s a t i o n s o f a h e a r t f e l t d e s i r e f o r c e r t a i n t y and i m m o r t a l i t y w h i l e i n t h e t h r o e s o f d o u b t , and t h e r e b y t o become r e v i t a l i z e d . Inasmuch as t h e achievement o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem i s due t o t e c h n i c a l d e v i c e s o f t h e t e x t and n o t , f o r t h e most p a r t , s t r i c t l y dependent upon a c t i v i t i e s o f r e a d e r s o v e r w h i c h t h e p o e t has l i t t l e o r no c o n t r o l , "A Psalm o f L i f e " may be s a i d t o embed i t s p o p u l a r i t y w i t h i n i t s e l f , j u s t as "Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " a s k e d l i t t l e more t h a n t h e r e c e p t i v i t y o f i t s o r i g i n a l a u d i e n c e . However, t h e c r u c i a l d i f f e r e n c e between t h e s e two poems, and between Hemans's and L o n g f e l l o w ' s work i n g e n e r a l , i s t h a t w h i l e Hemans meets h e r a u d i e n c e ' s e x p e c t a t i o n s on e v e r y l e v e l , p o e t i c a l l y and i d e o l o g i c a l l y , L o n g f e l l o w p l a y s w i t h h i s a u d i e n c e ' s p o e t i c e x p e c t a t i o n s even w h i l e r e i n f o r c i n g a l a r g e l y a c c e p t e d i d e o l o g i c a l s t a t u s quo. I n f a c t , L o n g f e l l o w o f t e n i n o t h e r poems a c t u a l l y m a n i p u l a t e s h i s v e r s e so as t o make a t t r a c t i v e t o t h e e a r t h o s e i d e a s w h i c h he deems may s p a r k some c o n t r o v e r s y i n t h e minds o f h i s l i s t e n e r s : h i s a b o l i t i o n i s t Poems on S l a v e r y (1842) a r e an o b v i o u s example. Thus L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y , as i n d i c a t e d i n "A P s a l m o f L i f e , " depends as much as does Hemans's upon h i s a u d i e n c e ' s r e c e p t i v i t y , a l t h o u g h t h e t e c h n i c a l c h a l l e n g e s t h a t he o f t e n p o s e s demand, a t t h e o u t s e t , a r e a d e r a c t i v i t y t h a t Hemans's more c o n v e n t i o n a l l y r i c s s i m p l y do n o t . A l t h o u g h , l i k e Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w seldom v e n t u r e s i n t o u n f a m i l i a r i d e o l o g i c a l t e r r a i n w i t h o u t p r o v i d i n g d o m e s t i c r e a s s u r a n c e s a t some p o i n t , he does n o t n e c e s s a r i l y r e p l i c a t e s p a t i a l s e c u r i t y t h r o u g h t h e s t r u c t u r e o f h i s i n d i v i d u a l poems t h e m s e l v e s . T h e r e f o r e , i d e a s w h i c h were t h e m s e l v e s , as L o n g f e l l o w w e l l knew, a l r e a d y a c c e p t e d and f a m i l i a r b e f o r e he p u t pen t o p a p e r must sometimes a c h i e v e p u b l i c s a n c t i o n o u t s i d e o f r a t h e r t h a n a u t h o r i a l l y w i t h i n t h e imagery o f h i s poems. F o r i f a poem i s t o r e m a i n p o p u l a r w i t h l a r g e numbers o f p e o p l e beyond i t s i n i t i a l r e a d i n g , i t must pose some n o v e l t i e s , i f n o t c h a l l e n g e s , f o r i t s a u d i e n c e i n o r d e r t o p r o v o k e i n i t s r e c i p i e n t s a d e s i r e t o c o n t r i b u t e a l a s t i n g s i g n i f i c a n c e t o t h e poem s u f f i c i e n t t o r e v i t a l i z e i t a g a i n and a g a i n . I n t h i s s e n s e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y stemmed from h i s e x t r a o r d i n a r y a b i l i t y t o e l i c i t — t h r o u g h t e c h n i c a l d e v i c e s as y e t u n f a m i l i a r t o t h e m a j o r i t y o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s — m o o d s w i t h i n h i s a u d i e n c e a p p r o p r i a t e t o t h e m o r a l s he w i s h e d t o convey. I n t h e t r a n s f e r e n c e o f f e l t e m o t i o n n o t as a g i v e n , as i n Heman's p o e t r y , b u t as a v i t a l f o r c e w o r k i n g o u t w a r d l y 432 from h i s poems t h r o u g h sound upon t h e h e a r t s o f h i s l i s t e n e r s , L o n g f e l l o w s e c u r e d h i s s u c c e s s . A s m a l l measure o f t h a t s u c c e s s was r e c o r d e d many y e a r s l a t e r i n 1855 by L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f i n h i s j o u r n a l . He n o t e s t h a t he had been t o l d o f "a d y i n g s o l d i e r on t h e f i e l d b e f o r e S e b a s t o p o l [who] was h e a r d r e p e a t i n g t h e l i n e " F o o t p r i n t s on t h e sands o f Time" ( L i f e I I 2 5 5 ) , s m a l l recompense f o r t h e l o s s o f l i f e i n a f u t i l e f o r e i g n war, b u t r e a s s u r a n c e t o L o n g f e l l o w t h a t h i s l i n e s c o u l d p r o v i d e s o l a c e a t a t i m e o f need. That L o n g f e l l o w i s no l o n g e r a b l e t o e l i c i t such moods o r prompt s u c h emotions t o d a y i s as much a consequence o f t h e i n c r e a s i n g l y s o p h i s t i c a t e d t e c h n i c a l demands p u t upon p o e t r y i n t h i s c e n t u r y as i t i s o f any i d e o l o g i c a l changes t h a t m i g h t have made h i s m o r a l p o s i t i o n s u n p a l a t a b l e . L o n g f e l l o w a c h i e v e d h i s i n i t i a l p o p u l a r i t y t h r o u g h l y r i c s t h a t , w h i l e t h e y s u p p o r t e d t h e i d e o l o g y o f t h e s t a t u s quo, d i d so by i n s p i r i n g i n t h e i r r e a d e r s moods t h a t w o u l d a l l o w them t o s u p p o r t e m o t i o n a l l y t h o s e s p e c i f i c i d e a s t h r e a t e n e d by p h i l o s o p h i c a l o r r e l i g i o u s doubt. T h i s i s an achievement t h a t t h e e a r l y Tennyson seldom matched. F o r w h i l e t h e r e i s no q u e s t i o n t h a t , o f t h e two, Tennyson was t h e more s k i l l e d and t e c h n i c a l l y v e r s a t i l e p o e t , L o n g f e l l o w ' s p e r s p i c a c i o u s awareness o f h i s a u d i e n c e and o f t h e means by w h i c h h i s p o e t r y c o u l d b e s t speak t o t h e m a j o r i t y among them was o n l y r a r e l y s h a r e d by Tennyson. 433 As o u t l i n e d i n c h a p t e r f o u r , Tennyson's o r i g i n a l p u r p o s e s i n a d d r e s s i n g h i s a u d i e n c e were vexed by a p e r s o n a l c o n f l i c t between t h e s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y o f t h e p o e t as a p u b l i c f i g u r e , and h i s more g e n e r a l l y p r i v a t e r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o h i s a r t . Even i n h i s most s u c c e s s f u l volumes, as f o r example t h e two volume Poems (1842), Tennyson seldom r e s o l v e d t h i s c o n f l i c t w i t h i n i n d i v i d u a l poems. He chose i n s t e a d t o p u t f o r w a r d a v a r i e t y o f v e r s e s t h a t , s i n g l y and i n r e l a t i o n t o one a n o t h e r , f i l l e d an e n t i r e s p e c t r u m o f h i s own and h i s a u d i e n c e ' s e x p e c t a t i o n s : from o f t e n c r y p t i c h i g h l y p e r s o n a l s t a t e m e n t s t o m o r a l o r d o m e s t i c p l a t i t u d e s , from complex e x p e r i m e n t s i n rhyme and meter t o b l a n k v e r s e . S i n c e t h e a u d i e n c e t o whom Tennyson p i t c h e d h i s v o i c e was c o m p o s i t i o n a l l y v a r i o u s , t h a t he o n l y g r a d u a l l y a c h i e v e d t h e w i d e s p r e a d p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w , and t h e n t o a l e s s e r d e g r e e i n E n g l a n d t h a n i n A m e r i c a , i s n o t s u r p r i s i n g . Indeed what i s s u r p r i s i n g i s t h a t any s i n g l e poem o f Tennyson's managed t o a c h i e v e a w i d e s p r e a d p o p u l a r i t y . Y e t "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " was j u s t s u c h a poem. An i n t e r e s t i n g measure o f i t s p o p u l a r i t y , and t h e c o n f l a t i o n o f t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson on b o t h s i d e s o f t h e A t l a n t i c , i s f o u n d i n W i l l i a m W i n t e r s ' s " R e m i n i s c e n c e s " o f L o n g f e l l o w . W i n t e r s n o t e s t h a t "once L o n g f e l l o w drew o u t o f h i s p o c k e t a queer r e q u e s t f o r an a u t o g r a p h , s a y i n g , ' t h a t t h e w r i t e r l o v e d p o e t r y i n 'most any s t y l e , and would he p l e a s e copy h i s 'Break, b r e a k , b r e a k ! ' f o r t h e w r i t e r ? ' " ( q t d . i n L i f e I I I 318). R e a c t i n g t o one o f t h e many m u s i c a l s e t t i n g s o f t h e poem, L o n g f e l l o w h i m s e l f was i n 1863 once b r o u g h t t o t e a r s a t Dempster's p i a n o t h r o u g h t h e s i n g i n g o f "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " and was f o r c e d t o l e a v e t h e room ( 3 2 1 ) . P o e t i c a l l y i n s p i r e d t e a r s a r e d i f f i c u l t t o i m a g i n e t o d a y , b u t what can be a t t e m p t e d i s an a c c o u n t o f how Tennyson's poem m i g h t be a b l e t o produce such a v i s c e r a l r e s p o n s e i n a f e l l o w p o e t . F o r i f L o n g f e l l o w ' s own v e r s e i s a f f e c t i v e i n i t s d e l i b e r a t e a t t e m p t t o e l i c i t s p e c i f i c e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e s i n i t s r e a d e r s , t h e n Tennyson's v i b r a n t , s y n a e s t h e t i c p o e t r y can o n l y be d e s c r i b e d as " i m p a c t i v e . " I n "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k , " t h e p o e t c r e a t e s and r e c r e a t e s s e n s o r y e x p e r i e n c e a t i t s t e m p o r a l and s p a t i a l p o i n t o f i m p a c t . The Sea's waves, f o r example, would be s i l e n t w i t h o u t t h e s t o n e s upon w h i c h t h e y b r e a k . So i n t u r n , sound must j o i n w i t h sense t o become symbol, f o r by i t s e l f , t h e s p e a k i n g v o i c e i s i n a r t i c u l a t e ; i t o n l y comes i n t o b e i n g i n i t s i m p a c t upon r e c i p i e n t s . L i k e Hemans, Tennyson i s c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e s p a t i a l v a c a n c y o f d e a t h ; t h e t h o u g h t s w h i c h t h e s p e a k e r c a n n o t u t t e r a r e u n r e a l i z a b l e i n t h i s w o r l d o f t a n g i b l e o b j e c t s because t h e y i n v o l v e absence: "a v a n i s h e d hand" and "a v o i c e t h a t i s s t i l l " t o g e t h e r c o n s t i t u t e "a day t h a t i s dead." However, r a t h e r t h a n f i l l absence as Hemans does t h r o u g h n o m i n a l r e p l a c e m e n t s , Tennyson s u g g e s t s s e n s o r y e x p e r i e n c e as a t e m p o r a l s u b s t i t u t e : t h e " t o u c h " o f a hand and t h e "sound" o f a v o i c e r e e n a c t " t h e t e n d e r g r a c e o f a day" now dead i n o r d e r t o g r a n t t h i s day meaning beyond i t s b r e v i t y t h r o u g h t h e q u a l i t y o f i t s a f f e c t i v e power o v e r t h e p e r s o n who remembers t h e o r i g i n a l s e n s a t i o n . L i k e L o n g f e l l o w i n "A Psalm o f L i f e , " Tennyson t o o w i s h e s t o s p a t i a l i z e sound. Y e t u n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , whose p o e t i c f e e t i n p r i n t a r e v i s u a l l y f i x e d upon t h e s t a t i c page, Tennyson d y n a m i c a l l y i m a g i n e s sound as a coming t o g e t h e r o f p h y s i c a l o b j e c t s a t a p r e c i s e p o i n t o f i m p a c t , a s e n s o r y c r e a t i o n r e p l i c a t e d by t h e f o r c e o f waves s t r i k i n g upon t h e 14 eardrums o f t h e poem's l i s t e n e r s . As a s e n s o r y e x p e r i e n c e — a spoken poem—Tennyson's l y r i c has an a f f e c t i v e q u a l i t y t h a t i s as d i f f i c u l t t o a r t i c u l a t e as t h e " t h o u g h t s " w h i c h t h e s p e a k e r c a n n o t " u t t e r . " Here t o o t h e p r o b l e m i s one o f absence. The E n g l i s h language s i m p l y l a c k s t h e a d j e c t i v e s n e c e s s a r y t o d e s c r i b e t h e f u l l i m p o r t o f sound as a s y n a e s t h e t i c e x p e r i e n c e . I n t r y i n g t o f i n d words t o g i v e t o t h e combined t a c t i l e and a u d i b l e s e n s a t i o n o f t h e spondees — " B r e a k , b r e a k , b r e a k " — t h e l i m i t a t i o n s o f a language d o m i n a t e d by v i s u a l metaphors a r e soon r e a l i z e d . Those words w h i c h d e s c r i b e sound, such as " r e s o n a n t " o r " r e s o u n d i n g , " h a r d l y c a p t u r e t h e p h y s i c a l s e n s a t i o n o f c o n t a c t n e c e s s a r y t o p r o d u c e sound a l t h o u g h " r e v e r b e r a t i n g " comes c l o s e . But t h e s e words i n a d e q u a t e l y convey t h e s i m u l t a n e o u s h e a r i n g and f e e l i n g 1 4 Compare Tennyson's "Dream o f F a i r Women" where t h e s p e a k e r o f t h e dream r e c a l l s " H e a r i n g t h e h o l y o r g a n r o l l i n g waves / Of sound on r o o f and f l o o r " ( 1 9 1 - 2 ) . o f t h e s t r e s s e s e l s e w h e r e i n t h e poem as t h e y seem t o s t r i k e t h e many m o n o s y l l a b i c nouns and t h e i r a d j e c t i v e s i n s u c h a way as t o d u p l i c a t e t h e a c t i o n o f t h e tongue upon t h e t e e t h as t h e r e a d e r u t t e r s t h e poem a l o u d . F o r t h i s r e a s o n , Tennyson's poem i s r e f e r r e d t o as " i m p a c t i v e " so as t o s u g g e s t t h e t r u l y p h y s i c a l q u a l i t y o f sound as an i n f l u e n t i a l f e a t u r e g o v e r n i n g t h e a u d i e n c e ' s r e s p o n s e t o "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k . " " I m p a c t i v e " a l s o d e s c r i b e s t h e a s t o u n d i n g i d e a t i o n a l impact t h e poem was and i s s t i l l a b l e t o g e n e r a t e . D e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t o u t o f s i x t e e n l i n e s , s i x speak d i r e c t l y o f h o p e l e s s n e s s , v a c a n c y , and d e a t h (3-4, 11-12, 15-16), and f o u r s e e m i n g l y o f d e s t r u c t i o n ( b r e a k i n g ) (1-2, 13-14), t h e t o n e o f t h e poem i s t h o u g h t o f p a r a d o x i c a l l y as u p l i f t i n g . I t s "buoyant i m p r e s s i o n s a t t h e c e n t r e , " as W. D a v i d Shaw c a l l s them ( 2 5 9 ) , somehow q u a l i t a t i v e l y o u t w e i g h t h e q u a n t i t a t i v e p u l l t o w a r d d e s p a i r . And on t h e l e v e l o f i d e a s , "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " t o d a y u s u a l l y prompts a f f i r m a t i v e r e s p o n s e s such as t h e f o l l o w i n g : "a c e n t r a l meaning i s c r e a t e d about homecoming, j o y i n s o l i t u d e , t h e a f f e c t i v e power o f memory, and t h e f a t e o f t h e s o u l " (Shaw 287). Shaw's e s s e n t i a l l y p o s i t i v e r e a c t i o n r e s u l t s , as he h i m s e l f s u g g e s t s , from " e p i p h o r i c i m p l i c a t i o n " t h a t a t t r i b u t e s meaning t o t h e images i n t h e poem r a t h e r t h a n a n a l y z e s meaning i n t h e images t h e m s e l v e s t a k e n i n i s o l a t i o n ( 2 8 6 ) . What Shaw does n o t m e n t i o n , however, i s t h a t t h i s a c t i v i t y i s p e r f o r m e d e n t i r e l y by i t s r e a d e r s ; i t i s n o t an i n h e r e n t f e a t u r e imbedded i n t h e poem. To say as Shaw does, f o r example, t h a t " t h e s a i l o r l a d , / [who] s i n g s i n h i s b o a t on t h e bay!" d e f i n e s a s t a t e o f " l i b e r a t i o n " i s t o r e p l a c e a c o n c r e t e e x p e r i e n c e w i t h e m o t i o n a l s i g n i f i c a n c e i n r e s p o n s e t o an unnameable q u a l i t y i n Tennyson's poem t h a t somehow a s k s t h a t t h e i n e x p l i c a b l e be e x p l a i n e d . The u l t i m a t e s i g n i f i c a n c e t h a t Shaw a t t r i b u t e s t o t h e sounds o f t h i s poem, e m i t t e d as u t t e r a n c e s , cannot r e a l l y be d i s p u t e d . I t i s n e v e r t h e l e s s t r u e t h a t t h e a u d i b l e , t a c t i l e and v i s u a l images o f "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " do n o t i n i s o l a t i o n i m p l y e m o t i o n a l s t a t e s ; r a t h e r , t h e y d e f i n e a s e r i e s o f p h y s i c a l , e x p e r i e n t i a l f a c e t s o f l i f e . O n l y t h r o u g h t h e s o f t e n i n g (of a l l t h r e e senses) o f t h e i n t e r a c t i o n s o f o b j e c t s and p e o p l e i n i t i a l l y opposed does what i s a t f i r s t seen by r e a d e r s as e x p e r i e n t i a l l y d e n i e d t o o r i n c o n f l i c t w i t h t h e s p e a k e r become g r a d u a l l y t r a n s p o s e d t h r o u g h sound i n t o e m o t i o n a l a c c e p t a n c e . E m o t i o n a l a c c e p t a n c e o c c u r s a t t h e p r e c i s e j u n c t u r e where sound becomes s e n s a t i o n and i s t r a n s l a t e d i n t o s e n s e : i n t h e complex i n t e r a c t i o n o f t e x t and r e a d e r . Through r e p e t i t i o n , t h e a u d i e n c e i s t r i c k e d by sound i n t o r e p l a c i n g an i n i t i a l l y f o r c e f u l image w i t h a subsequent s o f t — t a c t i l e and a u d i t o r y — o n e . T h i s , i n t u r n , c r e a t e s a r e c e p t i v i t y t h a t s u b s t i t u t e s an e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e f o r one w h i c h , i n t h e poem, i s a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y p h y s i c a l . A v i s u a l r e c a s t i n g o f t h e poem t h r o u g h p a i r e d sounds c l e a r l y i l l u s t r a t e s t h i s t r a n s f e r e n c e : 438 1 Break, b r e a k , b r e a k , 2 On t h y c o l d g r a y s t o n e s , 0 Sea! 13 B r e a k , b r e a k , b r e a k , 14 A t t h e f o o t o f t h y c r a g s , 0 Sea! 3 And I would t h a t my tongue c o u l d u t t e r 4 The t h o u g h t s t h a t a r i s e i n me. 9 And t h e s t a t e l y s h i p s go on 10 To t h e i r haven under t h e h i l l 5 O w e l l f o r t h e f i s h e r m a n ' s boy, 6 That he s h o u t s w i t h h i s s i s t e r a t p l a y ! 7 O w e l l f o r t h e s a i l o r l a d , 8 That he s i n g s i n h i s b o a t on t h e bay! 11 But O f o r t h e t o u c h o f a v a n i s h e d hand, 12 And t h e sound o f a v o i c e t h a t i s s t i l l ! 15 But t h e t e n d e r g r a c e o f a day t h a t i s dead 16 W i l l n e v e r come back t o me. The second two l i n e s i n each c a s e echo t h e f i r s t two i n s o f t e r t o n e s and images. Heard i n t h i s way, t h e poem r e l i e s on i t s l i s t e n e r s t o g e n e r a t e i t s "message." Y e t most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " n e g l e c t t h e i m p a c t i v e sound o f Tennyson's poem as a p r o d u c e r o f e m o t i o n a l r a t h e r t h a n i d e a t i o n a l s i g n i f i c a n c e . C o n s e q u e n t l y , t h e y t e n d t o d i f f e r w i d e l y from one a n o t h e r because o f r e a d e r s ' c o n f l i c t i n g i d e o l o g i e s and t h e o r i e s o f p o e t i c meaning and n o t because o f t h e i n h e r e n t d i f f i c u l t y o r o b s c u r i t y o f t h e poem. F o r example, F. E. L. P r i e s t l e y , w i t h whom Shaw c o n c u r s , speaks o f t h e s t r o n g i m p r e s s i o n t h a t t h e poem's o p e n i n g l i n e s c r e a t e as n o t j u s t a f u n c t i o n o f t o n a l i t y and rhythm b u t o f "vague s y m b o l i c s u g g e s t i o n s " ( 1 4 5 ) . He d e f i n e s t h e s e s u g g e s t i o n s as a l l u s i o n s t o o t h e r images o f t h e sea i n Tennyson's p o e t r y , t h e " g r e a t deep" o u t o f w h i c h and i n t o w h i c h l i f e , l i k e waves, a r i s e s and s u b s i d e s ( 1 4 5 ) . "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " u n q u e s t i o n a b l y e v i n c e s Tennyson's f a s c i n a t i o n w i t h t h e m y s t e r i o u s e t e r n a l v i t a l i t y o f t h e ocean. That i t i s a l s o a d e s t r u c t i v e f o r c e i n t h i s poem, as P r i e s t l e y c o n t e n d s , i s l e s s c e r t a i n . I n h i s v i e w , t h e sea o f t h e poem b r e a k s upon " t h e ' c o l d g r a y s t o n e s ' o f d e a t h , . . . o b v i o u s l y 'the d e s t r u c t i v e e l e m e n t ' h e r e " (14 6 ) . But i f t h e y a r e d e s t r u c t i v e , t h e n t h e s t o n e s pose an i d e a t i o n a l p r o b l e m s i n c e t h e y a r e r e f e r r e d t o as "Thy" s t o n e s and "Thy" c r a g s i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e "Sea." P r i e s t l e y s o l v e s t h i s dilemma by a r g u i n g f o r t h e sea as a symbol o f a " u n i f i e d s y s t e m c o n t a i n i n g b o t h l i f e and d e a t h , " and goes on t o add t h a t t h e " l i n e s t h u s c o n t a i n an a c c e p t a n c e , a l o n g w i t h t h e i r s o r r o w and q u e s t i o n i n g " ( 1 4 6 ) . I n s h o r t , P r i e s t l e y has t h e Sea c o n t a i n a l l f l u x , a l l o p p o s i t i o n w i t h i n i t s e l f so t h a t , as t h e c o n t r o l l i n g symbol, t h e Sea t h e r e b y s u p p o s e d l y h o l d s a l l q u e s t i o n s and answers w i t h i n t h e c o n f i n e s o f t h e poem i t s e l f : a p e r f e c t example o f o r g a n i c w h o l e n e s s . I n q u i c k e n i n g t h e poem t o w a r d i t s own r e s o l u t i o n , P r i e s t l e y does n o t d i f f e r e n t i a t e between t h e wave a c t i o n and t h e s p e c i f i c l o c a t i o n i n t h e poem o f t h e two d i s t i n c t "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " c o u p l e t s . The f i r s t i s t h e b l e a k , d e s o l a t e r o c k f a c e "on" w h i c h t h e s e a ' s waves b r e a k ; t h e s e c o n d , however, i s "At t h e f o o t o f t h y c r a g s . " The c r u c i a l d i f f e r e n c e i n p r e p o s i t i o n h e r e l e s s e n s t h e second i m p a c t o f t h e t i d a l f o r c e and, a l o n g w i t h t h e f a c t t h a t i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e r o c k s t h e sea i s l a t e r a t " t h e f o o t " o f t h e c r a g s , s u g g e s t s t h a t t h e t i d e has r e c e d e d . The a c t i o n o f t h e waves i s no l o n g e r as d e s t r u c t i v e as i t seemed t o be a t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f t h e poem. I n a d d i t i o n , t h e use o f " t h y " t o d e s c r i b e t h e a s s o c i a t i o n o f sea and s t o n e s does n o t , as P r i e s t l e y m a i n t a i n s , s i m p l y equate t h e s t o n e s w i t h t h e sea so t h a t , as p o t e n t i a l l y n e g a t i v e symbols, t h e y can be subsumed by t h e l a r g e r c o n t r o l l i n g metaphor o f t h e poem. R a t h e r , t h e s t o n e s have a t a n g i b l e p r e s e n c e o f t h e i r own w i t h i n t h e poem and, when wedded t o t h e o t h e r w i s e s i l e n t s e a , d e s i g n a t e a p o i n t o f r e s o n a n c e i n p h y s i c a l i m p a c t as t h e waves s l a p a g a i n s t t h e i r h a r d , i m p e n e t r a b l e s u r f a c e s . R a t h e r t h a n d e s t r u c t i v e , t h e s t o n e s a r e i n s t r u m e n t a l i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f sound as a v i b r a n t symbol o f l i f e . So, t o o , Tennyson's r e a d e r s become i n s t r u m e n t a l i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f meaning. I n f a c t , t h e poem's "message," as i t were, p o i n t s o n l y t o e x p e r i e n c e o r human i n t e r a c t i o n as a s u b s t i t u t e f o r v a c a n c y . As a s u b s t i t u t i o n f o r i n a r t i c u l a t e t h o u g h t , t h e l y r i c p e r f o r c e r e g i s t e r s i t s i m p a c t upon a human a u d i e n c e o u t s i d e o f t h e s t r i c t c o n f i n e s o f t h e v e r s e . The s p e a k e r ' s s u p p o s e d l y s i l e n t tongue, f o r example, i s a t h o u g h t i t s e l f c o n n e c t e d by "and" t h a t i s c r e a t e d o u t o f t h e o r i g i n a l sound image o f t h e a c t i o n o f t h e waves upon t h e r o c k s . T i e d by sound and r e p e t i t i o n t o i t s mate, t h e a d d i t i o n a l "and" i n l i n e n i n e , t h e o r i g i n a l emerging t h o u g h t i s t h e n t r a n s p o s e d and r e t u r n e d s a f e l y home i n t h e image o f t h e s h i p s submerging s i l e n t l y i n t o t h e ocean beyond t h e h o r i z o n d e s c r i b e d as a "haven under t h e h i l l . " What a r i s e s o u t o f s i l e n c e and d e s p a i r r e t u r n s as s i l e n t l y b u t w i t h t h e c r u c i a l d i f f e r e n c e t h a t t h e i n i t i a l Sea/me p o i n t o f o r i g i n i s now p i c t u r e d as a s a f e p o i n t o f r e t u r n , a s a f e "haven" o r heaven imbued w i t h a l l t h e human d o m e s t i c c o n n o t a t i o n s t h a t o n l y r e a d e r s c o n v e r s a n t w i t h p o e t r y s u c h as Hemans's Domestic A f f e c t i o n s c o u l d s u p p l y i n f u l l . The p a i r e d a c t i v i t i e s o f t h e "boy" and " l a d , " a p a r t from p r o v i d i n g a y o u t h / i m p l i e d age, v o c a l / s i l e n t , o u t w a r d l y v i t a l / i n w a r d l y d e s p a i r i n g c o n t r a s t w i t h t h e s p e a k e r , a l s o work w i t h one a n o t h e r t o s o f t e n a g a i n by s u b s t i t u t i o n t h e f o r c e o f t h e i n i t i a l image. The a u d i t o r y image o f t h e f i s h e r m a n ' s boy a t p l a y w i t h h i s s i s t e r i s t o t h e b r e a k i n g waves a t t h e poem's b e g i n n i n g what t h e s i n g i n g o f t h e s a i l o r l a d i n t h e bay i s t o t h e s t a t e l y s h i p s t h a t p a s s q u i e t l y o u t o f s i g h t . C l o s e r s p a t i a l l y t o t h e s t o n e s t h a n t h e y a r e t o t h e ocean, t h e boy and g i r l " s h o u t " t o one a n o t h e r as t h e y i n t e r a c t upon t h e s h o r e s e e m i n g l y t i e d , t h r o u g h a named o p p o s i t i o n o f gender, t o t h e f o r c e s o f o p p o s i t i o n l i k e t h e sea and s t o n e s t h a t a r e e q u a l l y p r o d u c t i v e o f f o r c e f u l sounds. The s a i l o r l a d , on t h e o t h e r hand, s e e m i n g l y o l d e r , i s p i c t u r e d i n i s o l a t i o n though no l e s s a u d i b l e f o r a l l t h a t . H i s " s i n g i n g , " however, s u g g e s t s a more s t r u c t u r e d and subdued p r o d u c t i o n o f sound t h a n t h a t o f t h e c h i l d r e n . H i s s p a t i a l l o c a t i o n as a s i n g l e v o i c e w i t h i n t h e c o n f i n e s o f a "boat upon t h e bay" c a r r i e s a p o t e n t i a l f o r t h e a u d i e n c e t o t i e b o t h h i s s i n g i n g t o t h e 442 v o i c e o f t h e i s o l a t e d s p e a k e r h i m s e l f , and h i s b o a t i n i t s s a f e h a r b o u r t o t h e s h i p s i n t h e i r haven. I n t h e t h r e e e x t e r n a l images t h a t t h e s p e a k e r s u b s t i t u t e s f o r t h e "day" t h a t has been d e n i e d t o him by d e a t h , Tennyson c a r e f u l l y s h i f t s t h e a c t i v i t y from a p u r e l y e x p e r i e n t i a l c o n t e x t o f s e n s o r y i m p r e s s i o n t o a v i c a r i o u s i m a g i n a r y p r o j e c t i o n o f s e n s a t i o n t h a t cannot be p h y s i c a l l y r e a l i z e d . F o r what b e g i n s i n s y n a e s t h e t i c c r a s h i n g ends, b e f o r e i t r e t u r n s i n t h e r e f r a i n , i n a q u i e t l y assumed p o i n t o f v i s u a l and t a c t i l e i m p a c t when t h e s h i p s r e a c h t h e haven beyond t h e c o n f i n e s o f t h e poem i t s e l f . The v a n i s h i n g s h i p s awaken t h e s p e a k e r t o t h e l o s s he s u f f e r s i n t h e absence o f a hand once s e e m i n g l y t u c k e d as s a f e l y i n h i s own as t h e s h i p s i n t h e i r haven. The now s t i l l v o i c e seems t o r e v e r b e r a t e i n t h e h o l l o w "O's" o f t h e poem as even w i t h i n t h e s p e a k e r h i m s e l f who, i n r e c r e a t i n g t h e s h o u t i n g o f y o u t h f u l v o i c e s and t h e s i n g i n g o f t h e l a d i n i s o l a t i o n , b e l i e s t h e s i l e n c e and t h e r e f o r e u l t i m a t e d e a t h o f t h e t h o u g h t s he has t u c k e d s a f e l y away w i t h i n t h e haven o f h i s memory. I n a d d i t i o n , t h e a l l i t e r a t i v e and r h y t h m i c sound p a t t e r n s r e n d e r i n some ways a u d i b l y i n d i s t i n c t t h e f o l l o w i n g images: "boat on t h e hay," "haven under t h e h i l l , " and "day t h a t i s dead" t h a t by sound a s s o c i a t i o n g e n e r a t e t h e s e n s a t i o n o f a s t i l l , s a f e p l a c e o f r e s t w i t h i n u n c e r t a i n t y , change, and f l u x . Y e t t h i s s e n s a t i o n , i f i t o c c u r s a t a l l , comes about o n l y w i t h i n t h e e a r s o f t h e poem's l i s t e n e r s who, i n h e a r i n g s i m i l a r sound p a t t e r n s , make a s s o c i a t i o n s i n t h e i r minds and s u b s t i t u t e one f o r t h e n e x t . The v a c a n c y o f t h e day now dead i s t h e r e b y n o t s i l e n t b u t r a t h e r f i l l e d s y n a e s t h e t i c a l l y by t h e t a c t i l e sounds o f t h e images i t echoes. Hence t h e d e a t h i n t h e poem i s o f a day d e f i n e d i n a f f e c t i v e e m o t i o n a l terms as t h a t o f " t e n d e r g r a c e , " s i n c e any p o t e n t i a l f o r i t s r e c o v e r y w i l l o n l y be i n t h o s e r e c i p i e n t s who a l l o w t h e a u d i t o r y r e t u r n s i n t h e poem t o a f f e c t them i n an e m o t i o n a l way. As t h e f o l l o w i n g d i s c u s s i o n i l l u s t r a t e s , " t e n d e r " e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e s were much more r e a d i l y g r a n t e d by Tennyson's n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s t h a n by t h o s e s c h o o l e d i n t h e New C r i t i c i s m . C r i t i c s such as C l e a n t h B r o o k s , f o r i n s t a n c e , p r e f e r t o a n a l y z e Tennyson's work i n i d e a t i o n a l t e r m s . I n The W e l l Wrought Urn, B r o o k s d e s c r i b e s "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " as " t h i n n e r " t h a n " T e a r s , I d l e T e a r s " because f o r him i t r e q u i r e s t h a t he " y i e l d c o m f o r t a b l y and e a s i l y t o t h e s t r a i n o f g e n t l e m e l a n c h o l y , " s o m e t h i n g w h i c h he does n o t f e e l p o e t r y s h o u l d ask o f him. B r o o k s a r g u e s t h a t "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " l a c k s d r a m a t i c f o r c e because i t u s e s c o n v e n t i o n a l p r o s e d i c t i o n , i t s d e s c r i p t i v e d e t a i l s l a c k r e l e v a n c e , and t h e s p e a k e r ' s e x p e r i e n c e r e c e i v e s s u p e r f i c i a l t r e a t m e n t ( 1 7 6 ) . I t does n o t f o r him, as a p p a r e n t l y " T e a r s , I d l e T e a r s " does, r e p r e s e n t an o r g a n i c s t r u c t u r e i n w h i c h i n t e n s i t y o f e f f e c t comes from t h e t o t a l s t r u c t u r e o f t h e poem. As P h y l l i s R a c k i n has p o i n t e d o u t , however, B r o o k s ' s r e a d i n g o f "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " does n o t f u l l y adhere t o t h e New C r i t i c a l p r i n c i p l e o f t h e poem as an o r g a n i c whole. R a t h e r , B r o o k s a p p e a l s t o an " e x t r a p o e t i c " c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f p o e t r y as a p s y c h o l o g i c a l e x p l o r a t i o n o f e x p e r i e n c e because he demands an " i r o n i c c o u n t e r t h r u s t " i n t h e poem, and i n so d o i n g he p r e j u d i c e s t h e f u n d a m e n t a l p r i n c i p l e o f o r g a n i c u n i t y o f t h e v e r y p o e t i c t h e o r y he espouses ( R a c k i n 221-22) . R a c k i n adds t h a t because B r o o k s ' s a s s u m p t i o n s as a r e a d e r o f Tennyson were so c l o s e t o t h o s e o f B r o o k s ' s own r e a d e r s , most o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s s i m p l y o v e r l o o k e d t h e f a c t t h a t h i s demand f o r p s y c h o l o g i z i n g and i r o n y as n e c e s s a r y f e a t u r e s o f p o e t i c s u c c e s s were e x t e r n a l t o t h e poem (222) . As a New C r i t i c h e r s e l f , R a c k i n t h u s r e - r e a d s "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " t o r e i n s c r i b e o r g a n i c u n i t y i n Tennyson's poem. A c c o r d i n g t o R a c k i n , Tennyson's l y r i c p u r p o s e i s n o t t o q u e s t i o n f a t e o r i r o n i c a l l y examine d e s p a i r ; i n s t e a d , t h e poem's imagery, m e t r i c s , and c l i c h e d p h r a s e s s u c c e s s f u l l y " e s t a b l i s h t h e c o m p l e t e t y r a n n y o f p h y s i c a l f a c t o v e r t h e w o r l d o f t h e p o e t ' s d e s i r e " ( 2 2 7 - 8 ) . I n 1966, R a c k i n ' s c r i t i c a l l o o k a t some o f t h e h i d d e n a s s u m p t i o n s o f New C r i t i c i s m was p e r s p i c a c i o u s ; r e g r e t t a b l y , however, she s t o p p e d s h o r t o f e x a m i n i n g t h e a s s u m p t i o n s u n d e r l y i n g h e r own r e a d i n g o f " p h y s i c a l f a c t " as a t y r a n n i c a l f o r c e i n t h e poem. R a c k i n ' s r e a d i n g , f o r example, i s d i a m e t r i c a l l y opposed t o b o t h t h e p a r a d o x o f a c c e p t a n c e and doubt t h a t P r i e s t l e y c l a i m s i s c o n t a i n e d i n t h e Sea's s y m b o l i c u n i t y , and t o t h e buoyancy t h a t Shaw l a t e r s e n s e s i n t h e poem. The p o t e n t i a l f o r such d i s p a r a t e r e a d i n g s n o t o n l y i d e n t i f i e s t h e p r o b l e m a t i c n a t u r e o f o r g a n i c u n i t y i n g e n e r a l , b u t a l s o emphasizes t h e enormous d e g r e e t o w h i c h Tennyson's "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k , " i n p a r t i c u l a r , e x a c t s i t s a f f e c t i v e meaning from i t s a u d i e n c e more t h a n i t embeds meaning w i t h i n i t s e l f . Indeed, t h e poem s u g g e s t s t h a t i t a l o n e h o l d s no r e a l f i n a l answers s i n c e t h e spondees "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " sound a g a i n i n l i n e 13 as a c y c l i c a l i n d i c a t o r o f r e t u r n r a t h e r t h a n f i n a l i t y even as t h e poem i s s u p p o s e d l y d r a w i n g t o i t s c l o s e . Here t h e y p r e s a g e a l e s s a c t i v e l y h o s t i l e ocean, a somewhat more subdued sea " a t t h e f o o t o f t h e c r a g s . " So, t o o , t h e rhythm seems t o l e n g t h e n and s o f t e n so t h a t t h e f i n a l m e l a n c h o l i c lament i n t h e f a c e o f absence draws t h e poem s l o w l y t o i t s c l o s e . Y e t t h e s p e a k e r ' s m o u r n f u l " w i l l n e v e r come back t o me" b e l i e s i t s own f i n a l i t y and d e s p a i r because t h e c y c l i n g back o f t h e sea t h a t began t h e poem a l s o prompts a new b e g i n n i n g : i t s waves w i l l a g a i n b r e a k i n c r e s c e n d o s upon s t o n e s as new and d i f f e r e n t r e a d e r s g i v e p h y s i c a l v o i c e t o t h e waves o f sound t h a t "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " p o s i t s w i t h i n i t s narrow compass, c a u s i n g them t o r e v e r b e r a t e o u t w a r d l y i n t o t h e u l t i m a t e s i l e n c e o f d e a t h . A l t h o u g h as p o p u l a r as any o f Hemans's o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s l y r i c poems r e a d i n t h e 1830s and 1840s, c l e a r l y Tennyson's "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " c o u l d , w i t h i n i t s own c o n f i n e s , a f f o r d i t s r e a d e r s few'of t h e r e l i g i o u s a s s u r a n c e s i n t h e a f t e r l i f e t h a t e i t h e r o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s ' l y r i c s promoted. L y r i c p o p u l a r i t y i n Tennyson's c a s e s i m p l y c a n n o t be d e f i n e d i n i d e a t i o n a l terms as v e r s i f y i n g an i d e o l o g i c a l s t a t u s quo. R a t h e r , "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " e x a c t e d i t s measure o f s u c c e s s i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y a l m o s t c o m p l e t e l y from i t s a u d i e n c e , an a u d i e n c e p r e d i s p o s e d t o a t t r i b u t e d o m e s t i c s e n t i m e n t s (and t h e e m o t i o n a l a s s u r a n c e s t h a t went a l o n g w i t h t h e t e r r i t o r y ) t o images o f v i b r a n t e x p e r i e n t i a l l i f e e s s e n t i a l l y l a c k i n g i n any o b v i o u s r e l a t i o n t o t h e s p e a k e r ' s c r y p t i c a l l y v o i c e d dilemma. T h i s p r e d i s p o s i t i o n on t h e p a r t o f t h e a u d i e n c e , however, Tennyson t e a s e d i n t o a c t i v i t y t h r o u g h t h e m a n i p u l a t i o n o f sound p a t t e r n s i n t h e poem t o g e n e r a t e a p h y s i c a l s e n s a t i o n o f p o s i t i v e e m o t i o n a l a c c e p t a n c e i n a poem a l m o s t e n t i r e l y g i v e n t o images o f v a c a n c y and d e s p a i r . Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s were t h u s r e q u i r e d t o c r e a t e t h e "message" o f h i s l y r i c i n a way t h a t Hemans's o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s r a r e l y i f e v e r were e x p e c t e d t o do. That Tennyson e x p e c t e d as much from h i s a u d i e n c e i s e v i d e n t i n t h e f a c t t h a t t h e l y r i c i t s e l f i s d e v o t e d , i n p a r t , t o d e s c r i b i n g t h e way i n w h i c h sound becomes p h y s i c a l s e n s a t i o n and i n t u r n i n s p i r e s s i g n i f i c a t i o n i n t h e minds o f i t s l i s t e n e r s . The p o p u l a r i t y o f t h i s l y r i c t h u s r e s t s i n t h e p o e t ' s s k i l f u l c o n t r o l o f sound t o e l i c i t a r e a d e r l y a c t i v i t y s u f f i c i e n t t o f i l l t h e v a c a n c y o f d e a t h w i t h t h e p r o m i s e o f e t e r n a l l i f e . On an i d e a t i o n a l l e v e l , one o f t h e most u n i v e r s a l themes i n V i c t o r i a n l i t e r a t u r e o f a l l g e n r e s i s t h e m u l t i f a c e t e d c o n c e p t o f d e a t h , doubt, and t h e a f t e r l i f e , u n i v e r s a l a t l e a s t i n i t s f r e q u e n c y o f appearance i f n o t i n t h e s i m i l a r i t y o f i t s t r e a t m e n t . Death, o f c o u r s e , has been a c o n s t a n t theme i n E n g l i s h p o e t r y from i t s e a r l i e s t i n c e p t i o n i n Beowulf and A n g l o - S a x o n l a m e n t s . To f i n d Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w , and Tennyson s h a r i n g d e a t h as a p o e t i c theme i s t h e r e f o r e n e i t h e r new nor s u r p r i s i n g . Y e t , each o f t h e s e p o e t s g e n e r a t e s a d i s t i n c t v o i c e from w i t h i n t h e s i l e n c e and v a c a n c y o f d e a t h i n u n i q u e ways a c c o r d i n g t o p r i v a t e r e s p o n s e s t o doubt and p u b l i c a c c e p t a n c e o f r e l i g i o u s f a i t h i n God and t h e h e r e a f t e r . Of t h e t h r e e , Hemans i s most c o n v e n t i o n a l i n h e r e s s e n t i a l l y " r e s t i n peace" r e s p o n s e t o d e a t h s i n c e she euphemizes p h y s i c a l decay o u t o f e x i s t e n c e , and l i n k s h e r a t t e n t i v e mother w i t h an e q u a l l y a t t e n t i v e f o r c e w a t c h i n g o v e r h e r c h i l d r e n ' s t r a n q u i l s l e e p a f t e r d e a t h . L o n g f e l l o w ' s "God o'erhead," w h i l e r e l i a n t on h i s r e a d e r s ' f a i t h i n t h e h e r e a f t e r as an a c c e p t e d i m p e r a t i v e o f l i f e , i s n o n e t h e l e s s c h a l l e n g e d by t h e p o e t ' s i n t r o d u c t i o n o f doubt as humankind's enemy so t h a t l i f e ' s b a t t l e w i l l seem t h a t much more w o r t h t h e s t r u g g l e . As Tennyson was t o p u b l i s h l a t e r : "There l i v e s more f a i t h i n h o n e s t doubt, / B e l i e v e me, t h a n i n h a l f t h e c r e e d s " (IM x c v i 11-12). Of c o u r s e , Tennyson's I n Memoriam i s t h e V i c t o r i a n p o e t i c m a n i f e s t o on d e a t h , doubt, and d e s p a i r w i t h o u t p a r a l l e l i n i t s d e p t h o f t r e a t m e n t o f t h e s o c i a l and p s y c h o l o g i c a l a f t e r s h o c k o f t h e p u b l i c and p r i v a t e d e a t h o f c e r t a i n t y i n b o t h m a t e r i a l and s p i r i t u a l t e r m s . S u r p r i s i n g l y , a l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w was as p u b l i c l y committed t o t h e s t r u g g l e 448 a g a i n s t doubt as h i s E n g l i s h c o u n t e r p a r t , when L o n g f e l l o w ' s own p r i v a t e g r i e f and d e s p a i r r e a c h e d i t s d e p t h s w i t h t h e d e a t h o f h i s second w i f e Fanny, i t was t o Tennyson r a t h e r t h a n h i s own " h e a r t w i t h i n " t h a t he t u r n e d . On 9 J u l y 1 8 6 1 — a t t h e h e i g h t o f h i s c a r e e r as t h e most p o p u l a r p o e t o f t h e Western w o r l d — L o n g f e l l o w w i t n e s s e d t h e t r a g i c d e a t h o f h i s w i f e by f i r e . He d e s t r o y e d h i s j o u r n a l e n t r i e s o f t h a t summer, l e a v i n g , as h i s l i f e i t s e l f must have seemed, an empty c h a p t e r i n t h i s s c r u p u l o u s l y r e c o r d e d c a t a l o g u e . Y e t i t d i d n o t r e m a i n e n t i r e l y empty. Many days a f t e r , he f i l l e d t h i s v o i d w i t h t h e p e n u l t i m a t e s t a n z a o f Tennyson's "To J . S.": S l e e p s w e e t l y , t e n d e r h e a r t , i n peace! S l e e p , h o l y s p i r i t , b l e s s e d s o u l ! W h i l e t h e s t a r s b u r n , t h e moons i n c r e a s e And t h e g r e a t ages onward r o l l . ( L i f e I I 368) And, n e a r i n g t h e f i r s t C h r i s t m a s c h a r g e d w i t h h i s w i f e ' s absence, L o n g f e l l o w f i t t i n g l y s e l e c t e d a passage from I n Memoriam t o h e l p him b e a r up under t h e i n s c r u t a b i l i t y o f God's w i l l : Known and unknown; human, d i v i n e ; Sweet human hand and l i p s and eye; Dear h e a v e n l y f r i e n d , who c a n s t n o t d i e , Mine, mine, f o r e v e r , e v e r mine; (IM c x x i x 5-8) ( L i f e I I 371) H i m s e l f a p o p u l a r i z e r o f t h e b e l i e f t h a t t o " a c t i n t h e l i v i n g P r e s e n t " would m o l l i f y doubt and s o r r o w , L o n g f e l l o w r e v e a l s h i m s e l f i n h i s c h o i c e t o a l l o w Tennyson t o a c t f o r him i n t h i s 449 p e r i o d o f h i s g r e a t e s t m i s e r y (even as he had a c t e d f o r t h e L a u r e a t e e a r l i e r by " m e d d l i n g " i n t h e A m e r i c a n p u b l i c a t i o n o f I n Memoriam). I n so d o i n g he r e v e a l s a p e c u l i a r i t y o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h d e a t h . W h i l e L o n g f e l l o w was p r e p a r e d t o make p u b l i c many l y r i c s t h a t would p e r s o n i f y d e a t h ("The Reaper and t h e F l o w e r s , " "The Two A n g e l s " ) , s i n g d i r g e s and e l e g i e s f o r unknown dead ( " M i d n i g h t Mass f o r t h e D y i n g Y e a r , " "The J e w i s h Cemetery a t N e w p o r t " ) , and i n c o r p o r a t e d e a t h i n t o l o n g , t h i r d - p e r s o n n a r r a t i v e s ( E v a n g e l i n e . H i a w a t h a ) , he r e f u s e d t o t r e a t d e a t h from a s u b j e c t i v e p o i n t o f v i e w , even when i t e n t e r e d h i s own l i f e i n e x c e e d i n g l y t r a g i c ways t h r o u g h t h e d e a t h o f n o t j u s t 15 • one w i f e b u t two. P o e t i c r e s p o n s e s t o d e a t h were f o r t h e p u b l i c t o s h a r e i n , and n o t i n t e n s e l y f e l t , p r i v a t e i n d u l g e n c e s . The V i c t o r i a n p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h d e a t h , as e x p r e s s e d i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s l i f e and work, seems t o be t i e d t o t h e p o e t ' s sense o f s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o p r o v i d e o n l y t h o s e t e x t s w h i c h would a l l o w r e a d e r s t o s h a r e f u l l y i n s t r u g g l e as a f f i r m a t i o n o f l i f e , b i r t h as n a t u r a l r e n e w a l , and a b s t r a c t argument as r e a s s u r a n c e i n t h e a f t e r l i f e . P o e t r y c o u l d t h u s become a p l a c e o f r e f u g e , an anodyne t o t h e doubt 1 5 These were, o f c o u r s e o f Mary S t o r e r L o n g f e l l o w and o f Fanny A p p l e t o n L o n g f e l l o w . Of t h e l a t t e r , i t i s s a i d t h a t L o n g f e l l o w ' s s o n n e t , "The C r o s s o f Snow," w r i t t e n 18 y e a r s a f t e r Fanny's d e a t h and k e p t h i d d e n u n t i l a f t e r L o n g f e l l o w ' s own, i s t h e p o e t ' s o n l y poem t h a t e v e r d e a l t w i t h h i s l o s s , and even t h i s poem a b s t r a c t s Fanny o u t o f any r e a l l i f e , and t h e p o e t ' s g r i e f o u t o f any r e a l p a i n . and d e s p a i r t h a t was b e g i n n i n g t o c h a r a c t e r i z e a c e n t u r y s u f f e r i n g from a d e c l i n i n g f a i t h i n s p i r i t u a l l i f e and an i n c r e a s i n g v a l o r i z a t i o n o f m a t e r i a l i s m . I n c o n t r a s t , Tennyson's a b i l i t y t o r e c a s t h i s p r i v a t e g r i e f i n p u b l i c terms (as seen most n o t a b l y i n I n Memoriam) was an a b i l i t y t h a t L o n g f e l l o w e i t h e r l a c k e d o r d e n i e d i n h i m s e l f . P a r a d o x i c a l l y , Tennyson c a p t u r e d t h i s V i c t o r i a n s p i r i t o f r e s p o n s i b i l i t y i n ways t h a t would i n t h i s c e n t u r y c a l l i n t o q u e s t i o n t h e happy m a r r i a g e o f Tennyson's s u b j e c t i v i s t and o b j e c t i v i s t i m p u l s e s . But i n q u e s t i o n i n g Tennyson's supposed c o n f l i c t o r t e n s i o n a t t h e c o r e o f some o f h i s most r e v e r e d poems, t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s o f t e n n e g l e c t t o c o n s i d e r t h e d e g r e e t o w h i c h Tennyson i n v i t e d h i s r e a d e r s i n t o h i s poems t h r o u g h t e c h n i c a l p l a y i n o r d e r t o engage them a c t i v e l y i n t h e dilemmas t o w h i c h he gave v o i c e . And i t was t h i s t e c h n i c a l a b i l i t y t h a t e v e n t u a l l y gave r i s e t o h i s enormous p o p u l a r i t y . I f s c h o l a r s t o d a y t r e a t t h e p o p u l a r poems o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson w i t h any d e p t h w h a t s o e v e r , t h e y do so by c o m p a r i n g t h e p o e t r y ' s c o n t e n t t o s i m i l a r l y p o p u l a r i d e a s e x p r e s s e d i n c o n t e m p o r a r y p r o s e m e r e l y as p a r t o f t h e Z e i t g e i s t . 1 6 F o r t h e 1 6 James H a r t ' s c h a p t e r , "The S p i r i t o f P o e t r y , " i n The P o p u l a r Book (125-39) i s perhaps t h e b e s t example from a p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e p o i n t o f v i e w , a l t h o u g h H a r t makes a p r e l i m i n a r y d i s t i n c t i o n between " a t t i t u d e " and "theme," c l a i m i n g t h a t p o p u l a r p o e t r y a g r e e d w i t h f i c t i o n i n t h e f o r m e r t h o u g h n o t a l w a y s i n t h e l a t t e r : i n t h e end, t h e " b e l i e f o r i d e a t h a t c a l l e d o u t a p r o s e s t a t e m e n t j u s t as s u r e l y evoked a p o e t i c p h r a s e " ( 1 2 5 ) . From a " s e r i o u s " l i t e r a t u r e p o i n t o f v i e w , John K i l l h a m ' s "Tennyson and V i c t o r i a n S o c i a l V a l u e s " a l s o a r g u e s t h a t Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y d e r i v e d from t h e p o e t ' s f i t awareness o f t h e " p o p u l a r t a s t e f o r i d e a l i z e d b e h a v i o u r " 451 u n d e r l y i n g a s s u m p t i o n o f t h e m a j o r i t y o f c r i t i c s — o f p o p u l a r o r s e r i o u s l i t e r a t u r e a l i k e — i s t h a t t h e t e c h n i c a l f e a t u r e s o f " t r u e " p o e t r y such as p r o s o d y , rhyme, p o e t i c s t r u c t u r e , t r o p e s , schemes and so f o r t h a r e so s t a n d a r d o r c o n v e n t i o n a l i n t h e p o p u l a r poem as n o t t o b e a r m e n t i o n i n g . C o n s e q u e n t l y , s c h o l a r s who n e g l e c t p o e t r y as a p o p u l a r l i t e r a r y genre i n i t s own t e c h n i c a l r i g h t (and n o t as mere v e r s i f i e d s e n t i m e n t s more a b u n d a n t l y and s u c c e s s f u l l y p r o d u c e d i n f i c t i o n ) a l s o d i s r e g a r d t h e m u s i c a l i t y o r t o n a l q u a l i t i e s o f v e r s e as a p r i m a r y f e a t u r e o f a poem's p o s i t i v e r e c e p t i o n by i t s a u d i e n c e . They f a i l t o c o n s i d e r f u l l y and w i t h o u t p r e j u d i c e t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e p h y s i c a l v o i c e i t s e l f as a key f e a t u r e 17 o f " t h e p e o p l e ' s v o i c e " e x p r e s s e d i n i t s f a v o u r i t e poems. I r r e s p e c t i v e o f t h e enormous i n c r e a s e i n p u b l i c a t i o n s i n b o t h t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s and B r i t a i n i n t h e e a r l y n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , i n m i d - c e n t u r y p o e t r y was s t i l l v e r y much a p a r t o f an o r a l c u l t u r e w i t h r e s p e c t t o l i t e r a t u r e consumed by t h e e v i d e n t i n n o v e l s by D i c k e n s , Mrs G a s k e l l , George E l i o t and o t h e r s , as w e l l as i n e s s a y s by C a r l y l e and R u s k i n . 1 7 A n o t a b l e e x c e p t i o n i s Charmenz L e n h a r t who, i n s t u d y i n g t h e M u s i c a l I n f l u e n c e on A m e r i c a n P o e t r y , c o n t e n d s t h a t t h e enormous p o p u l a r i t y o f German m u s i c i n p a r t i c u l a r i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a a r o s e from a "merger o f m u s i c and p h i l o s o p h y " as p a r t o f t h e R o m a n t i c i s m t h a t g o v e r n e d t h e i n c e p t i o n o f p o e t r y o f t h e p e r i o d . L o n g f e l l o w , h i m s e l f a f l u t i s t , i s acknowledged h e r e as p o e t i c a l l y p r e o c c u p i e d w i t h sound imagery and f e l i c i t o u s rhythms: " C e r t a i n l y some p a r t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s a p p e a l i s t r a c e a b l e t o t h e easy, s w i n g i n g l i n e he a c h i e v e s " ( 1 1 8 ) , L e n h a r t c l a i m s , a l t h o u g h he i s n o t c o n c e r n e d t o t r a c e why such a l i n e may have been p e c u l i a r l y a p p e a l i n g f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s a u d i e n c e . f a m i l y i n t h e home. To be s u r e , t e c h n o l o g i c a l advances such as r a i l w a y t r a n s p o r t and, l a t e r , gas l i g h t i n g ( t o name j u s t two) a s s i s t e d t h e development o f r e a d i n g as a p r i v a t e , i n d i v i d u a l i z e d , and s i l e n t e x p e r i e n c e by t h e end o f t h e c e n t u r y s i n c e each o f t h e s e advances a l l o w e d f o r r e a d i n g by t h e i n d i v i d u a l t o t a k e p l a c e a t a l m o s t any p l a c e a t any t i m e . But t h e s e changes i n t h e s t r u c t u r e o f d a i l y l i f e i m p i n g e d l i t t l e upon t h e p o p u l a r p o e t s o f t h e 1840s and 50s who were a b u n d a n t l y a w a r e — i n t h e i r own homes as i n t h o s e o f t h e i r r e a d e r s — o f t h e t y p i c a l c o n t e x t i n w h i c h a new poem was l i k e l y t o make i t s p r e s e n c e f e l t : t h e f a m i l y r e a d i n g c i r c l e o f t e n , though n o t a l w a y s , dominated by t h e f e m a l e v o i c e o f t h e w i f e / m o t h e r . L o n g f e l l o w ' s l i f e l o n g e x p o s u r e and p r o f e s s e d a t t r a c t i o n t o t h e m u l t i p l e sounds o f f e m a l e v o i c e s a r e amply e v i d e n t t h r o u g h o u t t h e L i f e . Perhaps t h e most famous o f t h e s e b e l o n g e d t o Jenny L i n d and t o Fanny Kemble. A f t e r Jenny L i n d ' s f i r s t c o n c e r t i n A m e r i c a i n 1850, L o n g f e l l o w n o t e d i n h i s j o u r n a l t h a t she sang i n " c l e a r , l i q u i d , h e a v e n l y sounds" ( L i f e I I 1 7 8 ) ; he l a t e r came t o h e a r t h a t h e a v e n l y v o i c e i n a I n hxs s t u d y o f l e i s u r e a c t i v i t i e s i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n , P e t e r B a i l e y acknowledges t h a t among s c h o l a r s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e , a t t e n t i o n " t o l i t e r a c y , e d u c a t i o n and t h e p o p u l a r p r e s s t e n d s t o o b s c u r e t h e f a c t t h a t p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y was s t i l l v e r y much an o r a l c u l t u r e i n i t s e v e r y d a y t r a n s a c t i o n s and key a r e a s o f i t s l e i s u r e " ( 1 3 ) . One r e a s o n f o r such a t t e n t i o n p a i d t o t h e p r i n t e d word r a t h e r t h a n t h e spoken o r sung i s o b v i o u s : a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y v a l o r i z a t i o n o f e m p i r i c a l l y v e r i f i a b l e e v i d e n c e as c o n s t i t u t i v e t r u t h . more e a r t h l y s e t t i n g as he and Fanny e n t e r t a i n e d Jenny L i n d a t C r a i g i e House. The e f f e c t o f h e r c o n v e r s a t i o n a l v o i c e he r e c o r d e d i n oxymoronic terms as a " s o f t w i l d n e s s o f manner and sudden pauses i n h e r s p e a k i n g " ( L i f e I I 2 0 7 - 8 ) . A l t h o u g h u n d o u b t e d l y commanding a d i f f e r e n t womanly p r e s e n c e t h a n t h e s i n g e r , t h e a c t r e s s Fanny Kemble c a p t i v a t e d L o n g f e l l o w a g a i n because o f t h e s e n s u a l q u a l i t y o f h e r v o i c e . Her famous p u b l i c r e a d i n g o f h i s "The B u i l d i n g o f t h e S h i p " (12 Feb 1850) L o n g f e l l o w d e s c r i b e d as a congruence o f e m o t i o n and p i t c h : "out upon t h e p l a t f o r m , book i n hand, t r e m b l i n g , p a l p i t a t i n g , and weeping, and g i v i n g e v e r y word i t s t r u e w e i g h t and emphasis" ( L i f e I I 161). H i s r e s p e c t f u l s o n n e t t o h e r , w r i t t e n w h i l e he was r e l i g i o u s l y a t t e n d i n g a l l h e r r e a d i n g s o f S h a k e s p e a r e i n B o s t o n i n t h e same w i n t e r o f 1849/50, he r e a d t o h e r a t a supper he gave i n h e r honour. T h e r e i n she i s d e s c r i b e d i n h e r "Readings from S h a k e s p e a r e " as " [ i ] n t e r p r e t i n g by t o n e s t h e wonderous pages"; and h i s a p o s t r o p h e t o t h e " s i l e n t " Shakespeare s u r e l y a p p l i e d e q u a l l y t o h i m s e l f : "O happy P o e t l by no c r i t i c v e x t l / How must t h y l i s t e n i n g s p i r i t now r e j o i c e / To be i n t e r p r e t e d by s u c h a v o i c e ! " ( 1 1 2 ) . I n and o f t h e m s e l v e s , h i s r e f e r e n c e s t o famous women's v o i c e s might p r o v e l i t t l e o t h e r t h a n , as a t y p e o f c e l e b r i t y h i m s e l f , L o n g f e l l o w was a t t e n t i v e t o t h e t a l e n t s t h a t made o t h e r c e l e b r i t i e s p o p u l a r . But t h e l i s t o f f e m a l e v o i c e s i n t h e L i f e i n c l u d e s t h o s e o f s e v e r a l o t h e r l e s s p o p u l a r o r l e s s known women: h i s two w i v e s ; "Mrs d a u g h t e r " r e a d i n g a d r a m a t i z a t i o n o f U n c l e Tom ( I I 2 6 9 ) ; Mr Tanner's I n d i a n w i f e ( I I 272) ; "Grace D a r l i n g " and Mrs Barrow ( b o t h r e a d i n g from Hiawatha) ( I I 275) ; P r i s c i l l a Green ( I I 3 0 4 ) ; and Mrs H a t c h — t h e " t r a n c e medium" ( I I 310). The most i m p o r t a n t i n t h i s c a s e i s t h a t o f t h e Quakeress from E n g l a n d , P r i s c i l l a Green, whom t h e p o e t had h e a r d i n c h u r c h d u r i n g t h e summer he was w r i t i n g M i l e s S t a n d i s h . 1 9 W i t h each m e n t i o n o f t h e s e women i n h i s j o u r n a l , L o n g f e l l o w i d e n t i f i e s t h e q u a l i t i e s o f v o i c e t h a t most a t t r a c t e d him, h i s e a r w e l l - t u n e d t o rhythm and p i t c h . A l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w c e r t a i n l y u n d e r s t o o d t h e a f f e c t i v e p o s s i b i l i t i e s o f v o i c e and sound as a f e a t u r e o f p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y , as d e m o n s t r a t e d i n "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k , " Tennyson i n d e e d had " t h e f i n e s t e a r o f any E n g l i s h P o e t , " W. H. Auden's o t h e r c r i t i c i s m s o f t h e p o e t n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g . U n d o u b t e d l y Tennyson's e a r f o r t h e r e s o n a n c e o f v e r s e stemmed from h i s s e n s i t i v i t y t o t h e i n c a n t a t o r y a b i l i t y o f t h e human v o i c e i t s e l f t o i n d u c e r e v e r i e o r prompt r e s p o n s e s a t a p u r e l y e m o t i v e l e v e l . I n o l d age, Tennyson r e c a l l e d t h a t b e f o r e he c o u l d r e a d he had h e a r d a v o i c e s p e a k i n g i n t h e w i n d , and t h a t " t h e words ' f a r , f a r away' had a l w a y s a s t r a n g e charm" f o r him (Memoir 9 ) . Tennyson's s e v e r a l b i o g r a p h i e s a r e r e p l e t e w i t h images o f t h e young p o e t and o t h e r s o f h i s f a m i l y w a n d e r i n g about t h e L i n c o l n s h i r e c o u n t r y s i d e a t a l l h o u r s r e a d i n g and 19 . . . . P r i s c i l l a ' s v o i c e i s h e a r d i n c h a p t e r s i x . t a l k i n g l o u d l y t o t h e m s e l v e s . And h i s p r a c t i c e o f r e c i t i n g h i s v e r s e s a l o u d o u t o f d o o r s , even t o I s l e o f Wight f i s h e r m e n a t n i g h t i n t h e s t e r n s o f t h e i r b o a t s r e g a r d l e s s o f w e a t h e r , c o n t i n u e d i n t o Tennyson's o l d age ( R i c h a r d s o n 142). What emerges from t h e s e s e v e r a l p o r t r a i t s o f Tennyson i s n o t a v i s u a l image b u t an a u d i t o r y one o f t h e p o e t ' s p r o f o u n d a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h e sound o f t h e l i n e and t h e rhythm o f v e r s e t h a t dominated h i s p o e t i c p r a c t i c e . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , v e r y few c r i t i c s o f Tennyson a r e p r e p a r e d t o g i v e t h e p o e t ' s a c t u a l p h y s i c a l v o i c e t h e f u l l acknowledgement i t d e s e r v e s . F r a n c i s B e r r y ' s r e g r e t t a b l y b r i e f c h a p t e r on "The V o i c e o f Tennyson" i n h i s P o e t r y and The P h y s i c a l V o i c e (47-65) b e g i n s w i t h t h e p a r a d o x i c a l c l a i m t h a t "Tennyson was a w i l l i n g p r i s o n e r o f h i s v o i c e , f o r i t was a l a r g e and m a g n i f i c e n t p r i s o n " (48) . He goes on t o e x p l a i n b o t h t h e l i m i t a t i o n s and t h e range i n t i m b r e and i n p i t c h t h a t Tennyson's envelopment w i t h i n t h e sound o f h i s own v o i c e imposed upon h i s work. A r g u i n g a g a i n s t B e r r y , E r i c G r i f f i t h s ' s r e c e n t c h a p t e r on "Tennyson's B r e a t h " (97-170) i n The P r i n t e d V o i c e o f V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y , d e r i v e s from h i s more g e n e r a l t h e s i s about " t h e power o f w r i t i n g t o g e n e r a t e f o r i t s e l f a second c o n t e x t o v e r and above, and sometimes i n t h e e n t i r e absence o f t h e c o n t e x t o f u t t e r a n c e " ( 5 1 ) . B r o a d l y p u t , B e r r y ' s s t u d y i s a p o e t - c e n t r e d v i e w , w h i l e G r i f f i t h ' s work i s more r e a d e r - c e n t r e d i n i t s c l a i m s t h a t p r i n t e d u t t e r a n c e s n e c e s s a r i l y i n v o l v e gaps, o r b r e a t h s p a c e s , between t h e v o i c i n g o f i d e a and i t s f e l t i m p a c t upon i t s a u d i e n c e . Hence, G r i f f i t h s a p p e a r s more c o n c e r n e d w i t h t h e absences o f s o u n d — t h e pauses f o r b r e a t h — i n Tennyson's p o e t r y t h a n w i t h t h e a u d i b l e e f f e c t o f t h e words. He s e n s e s i n Tennyson's work a deep, m o r a l i m a g i n a t i o n t h a t c a n n o t be l e g i t i m a t e l y v o i c e d , a c o n c e r n f o r t h e " s p e e c h l e s s needs t o w h i c h o n l y r e t i c e n c e answers"; hence f o r G r i f f i t h s , Tennyson's b e s t p o e t r y i s f e l t as an " i n t e r p l a y o f sound and s i l e n c e , w i t h d r a m a t i c f e e l i n g f o r t h e c h a r g e d needs i n u t t e r a n c e " ( 1 0 5 ) . C o n s e q u e n t l y , when b r e a t h i s r h y t h m i c a l l y r e i n f u s e d i n t o t h e p r i n t e d l i n e so as t o t r a n s f o r m i t i n t o u t t e r a n c e , t h e p o e t r y a p p r o x i m a t e s Tennyson's o s c i l l a t i o n between a s s u r a n c e and doubt i n h i s d e s i r e f o r s p i r i t u a l i m m o r t a l i t y ( 1 1 6 ) . What m i g h t n o r m a l l y be c o n s i d e r e d as n a r r o w l y a e s t h e t i c i s , i n G r i f f i t h s r e a d i n g o f Tennyson's t e x t s , broadened i n i t s i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f " i m a g i n a t i v e a c t i v i t y as a form o f c o n d u c t " ( 1 4 2 ) . Indeed, a l t h o u g h G r i f f i t h s does n o t quote Tennyson as- h i s own b e s t w i t n e s s , remarks s u c h as t h e f o l l o w i n g made by t h e p o e t h i m s e l f r e i n f o r c e t h e n o t i o n t h a t i n t h e a c t i v i t y o f r e a d i n g and u t t e r i n g t h e p r i n t e d v o i c e , r e a d e r s engage i n p o e t i c a l l y i n s t i g a t e d m o r a l e x e r c i s e s . N e a r i n g t h e end o f h i s l i f e , Tennyson a p p a r e n t l y t o l d Edmund Gosse t h a t " e v e r y good p o e t has t h e r i g h t , has t h e d u t y , t o s t e a l a n y t h i n g t h a t s t r i k e s him i n a bad p o e t and improve i t " ; p r e s u m a b l y he meant improvements t o t h e q u a l i t y o f sound i n poems t h e m s e l v e s , f o r he went on t o add t h a t i t i s o n l y t h e dunces who " f a n c y i t i s t h e t h o u g h t t h a t makes p o e t r y l i v e ; i t i s n ' t , i t ' s t h e e x p r e s s i o n , t h e form, b u t we mustn't t e l l them s o , t h e y w o u l d n ' t know what we meant" 1 (unpub. mat. q t d . i n M a r t i n 5 6 2 ) . Tennyson's h e i g h t e n e d awareness o f t h e "charm" o f t h e p o e t i c v o i c e was n o t l o s t upon h i s immediate a u d i e n c e even i f a t t i m e s h i s l a r g e r p u b l i c f a i l e d t o h e a r h i s poems a c c o r d i n g t o t h e d e s i g n s o f t h e i r a u t h o r . F o r Tennyson was n o t e d t h r o u g h o u t h i s l i f e f o r h i s p r i v a t e r e a d i n g s t o f r i e n d s and f a m i l y o f work i n p r o g r e s s as w e l l as s e v e r a l p u b l i s h e d poems, t h e most common o f w h i c h was Maud, n o t c o i n c i d e n t a l l y t h e most m a l i g n e d and l e a s t u n d e r s t o o d o f h i s major works. Of Tennyson's v o i c e , Anne T h a c k e r a y once remarked t h a t i t was " n o t u n l i k e an ocean's sound; i t f i l l s t h e room, i t ebbs and f l o w s away; and when we l e a v e i t i s w i t h a s t r a n g e m u s i c i n o u r e a r s , f e e l i n g t h a t we have, f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e , p e r h a p s , h e a r d what we may have r e a d a hundred t i m e s b e f o r e " ( q t d . i n 20 R i c h a r d s o n 142). S e v e r a l o f t h o s e p e o p l e t r e a t e d t o Tennyson's r e a d i n g o f a poem i n p r o g r e s s , i n p a r t i c u l a r h i s w i f e , E m i l y , p r e f e r r e d t h a t i n o r d e r t o g e t t h e meaning s t r a i g h t t h e y have t h e o p p o r t u n i t y t o r e a d t h e poem f o r 2 0 Tennyson and H i s F r i e n d s c o n t a i n s many p e o p l e ' s r e s p o n s e s t o h e a r i n g Tennyson r e a d ; i n g e n e r a l , h i s f r i e n d s c o n c u r i n d e s c r i b i n g Tennyson's v o i c e as deep c h e s t e d , m e l o d i o u s , i n c a n t a t o r y , and ( e n ) c h a n t i n g w i t h a p o w e r f u l a f f e c t i v e a b i l i t y t o move i t s l i s t e n e r s . As E m i l y R i t c h i e remarks "The r o l l o f h i s g r e a t v o i c e a c t e d sometimes a l m o s t l i k e an i n c a n t a t i o n , so t h a t when i t was a new poem he was r e a d i n g , t h e power o f r e a l i z i n g i t s a c t u a l n a t u r e was s u b o r d i n a t e d t o t h e wonder a t t h e sound o f t h e t o n e s " ( q t d . 76) . 458 t h e m s e l v e s f i r s t . Of " E l a i n e , " E m i l y w r o t e i n h e r j o u r n a l t h a t i t " i s w e l l t o r e a d t h i n g s t o o n e s e l f w i t h o u t t h e glamour o f h i s r e a d i n g , w h i c h may b e g u i l e one" (unpub. mat. q t d . i n M a r t i n 425) . B e g u i l e m e n t i s c e r t a i n l y one o f t h e s e n s a t i o n s f e l t by t h e a u d i e n c e Tennyson i n c l u d e s i n "The E p i c " o f "Morte d ' A r t h u r " who " S a t r a p t " because o f " t h e t o n e " w i t h w h i c h E v e r a r d H a l l had r e a d t h e poem, and by t h e s p e a k e r who, i n h i s dreams, l a t e r merges A r t h u r w i t h a modern g e n t l e m a n , and t h e M i d d l e Ages w i t h h i s own. W e l l aware o f t h e i n c a n t a t o r y a t t r a c t i o n and even b e g u i l e m e n t o f h i s own v o i c e ' s " h o l l o w oes and a e s " ("The E p i c " 5 0 ) , Tennyson t r i e d t o i n f l u e n c e i f n o t a c t u a l l y c o n t r o l t h e a u d i t o r y r e c e p t i o n o f h i s poems i n p r i v a t e c i r c l e s i n a way t h a t he s i m p l y would n o t do by s u b m i t t i n g h i s works t o p u b l i c r e a d i n g s . The v a r i o u s r e s o n a n c e s o f h i s own v o i c e were t o make t h e m s e l v e s f e l t upon h i s immediate l i s t e n e r s so as t o c r e a t e moods o r s e n t i m e n t s w i t h i n w h i c h t h e c o n t e n t o f h i s poems were t o be f e l t as an e m o t i v e f o r c e , and n o t as i d e a t i o n a l argument. I n n o t i n g b o t h o f t h e s e p o e t s ' s e n s i t i v i t y t o t h e m u s i c a l i t y o f t h e v o i c e ( p r i m a r i l y f e m a l e f o r L o n g f e l l o w ; h i s own f o r Tennyson) a d d i t i o n a l r e f e r e n c e must be made t o t h e f a c t t h a t b o t h men had e x t r e m e l y poor e y e s i g h t and l i v e d much o f t h e i r a d u l t l i v e s w i t h i n t h e r e a l m o f sounds and v o i c e s . F o r example, L o n g f e l l o w ' s second w i f e , Fanny, a f t e r h e r m a r r i a g e t o t h e p o e t i n 1843 was i m m e d i a t e l y p r e s s e d i n t o s e r v i c e as a t y p e o f amanuensis as would be E m i l y S e l l w o o d f o r Tennyson. 459 L o n g f e l l o w ' s e y e s i g h t had d e t e r i o r a t e d s e v e r e l y d u r i n g h i s honeymoon, o n l y t o be r e g a i n e d f o r f u l l use f o r one o r two d a y l i g h t h o u r s by March 1844 and t h e r e a f t e r ( L i f e I I 1 6 ) . F o r L o n g f e l l o w , as s i m i l a r l y f o r Tennyson, some o f t h e demand f o r o r a l r e a d i n g by h i s w i f e r a t h e r t h a n v i s u a l r e a d i n g by h i m s e l f was owing t o s e r i o u s eye t r o u b l e . I n h i s 1934 s e l e c t e d e d i t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y , O d e l l Shepard l i n k s t h e p o e t ' s s e e m i n g l y s i m p l i s t i c v e r s e t o t h e f a c t t h a t much o f t h e n e a r l y b l i n d L o n g f e l l o w ' s e x p o s u r e t o t h e l i t e r a t u r e o f h i s t i m e came t o him v i a t h e eyes and v o i c e o f h i s w i f e . I n so d o i n g , Shepard t r i e s t o l e s s e n L o n g f e l l o w ' s c u l p a b i l i t y f o r h i s a l l e g e d i n t e l l e c t u a l e f f e t e n e s s . "Her l i t e r a r y t a s t e s as w e l l as h i s own may w e l l have been c o n s u l t e d i n t h e s e l e c t i o n o f books f o r f i r e s i d e r e a d i n g " ( x x x i i i ) , Shepard adds, as i f now t o e x c u s e t h e p o e t from t h e c h a r g e s o f e f f e m i n a t e n e s s w h i c h Shepard h i m s e l f had p r e v i o u s l y l a i d t h r o u g h o u t h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n . 2 1 A p a r t from t h e f a c t t h a t t h e r e i s no e v i d e n c e t o s u p p o r t Shepard's c l a i m c o n c e r n i n g t h e s e l e c t i o n o f t e x t s , h i s c h a r g e t h a t i t was o n l y i n t h e s e l e c t i o n o f m a t e r i a l t h a t t h e i n f l u e n c e o f Fanny L o n g f e l l o w ' s v o i c e s h o u l d be r e g i s t e r e d f u r t h e r c o n f i n e s p o p u l a r p o e t r y and t h e i n f l u e n c e s upon i t 2 1 - O b v i o u s l y , no e d i t o r o f M i l t o n ' s would e v e r dream o f making such a c l a i m a g a i n s t P a r a d i s e L o s t even though i t was r e a d c o n s i s t e n t l y by t h e v o i c e s o f h i s d a u g h t e r s t o t h e b l i n d p o e t t h r o u g h o u t i t s c r e a t i o n . Female v o i c e s a r e o n l y f e l t t o have a n e g a t i v e i n f l u e n c e on p o e t s w r i t i n g i n a c e n t u r y i n w h i c h women were a t l a s t b e g i n n i n g t o be h e a r d i n g r e a t numbers c u l t u r a l l y and, l a t e r , p o l i t i c a l l y . w i t h i n d i s c u s s i o n s o f i d e a s , w i t h o u t a c k n o w l e d g i n g t h e p o t e n t i a l p h y s i c a l e f f e c t o f t h e f e m a l e v o i c e i t s e l f upon p o p u l a r n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y . L i k e w i s e , a l l h i s l i f e Tennyson s u f f e r e d t h e t o r m e n t o f an e y e s i g h t t h a t was, a t b e s t , u n r e l i a b l e and, a t w o r s t , p o s i t i v e l y d i s t o r t i n g . On as many as s e v e n t e e n o c c a s i o n s , M a r t i n m e n t i o n s Tennyson's v i s u a l weakness, and g e n e r a l l y a l l u d e s t o what he i n t e r p r e t s as t h e h y p o c h o n d r i a c a l t e n d e n c y o f t h e Tennysons t o i n v e n t p h y s i c a l a i l m e n t s f o r p e r s o n a l , 22 p s y c h o l o g i c a l , and s o c i a l a b n o r m a l i t i e s . I n any c a s e , i t does n o t m a t t e r where Tennyson's impairment may be s a i d t o l i e , b u t r a t h e r how t h e p o e t chose t o compensate f o r t h e narrowness t h a t r e s t r i c t e d v i s i o n n e c e s s a r i l y imposed upon h i s l i f e , and t h e l i f e o f t h e v e r s e he bestowed upon h i s a u d i e n c e . I n l a r g e measure, t h i s c o m p e n s a t i o n came t h r o u g h Tennyson's a c u t e awareness o f t h e t r u l y p h y s i c a l q u a l i t y o f s o u n d — t h e t a c t i l e s e n s a t i o n s o f t h e music o f t h e v o i c e as i t r e v e r b e r a t e s i n t h e e a r s o f i t s l i s t e n e r s — a n d t h e e n s u i n g v i s c e r a l r e s p o n s e . The p o e t r y ' s i d e a s a r e t h e r e b y e n v e l o p e d i n a r e c e p t i v i t y so p r o f o u n d t h a t r e a d e r s c o u l d become p l i a n t 2 2 See pages 25, 77, 83, 93-4, 121, 129, 139, 358, 379, 394, 398, 485, 520, 538, 555, 563, and 574. I n t h e summer o f 18 31 a f t e r t h e d e a t h o f h i s f a t h e r , Tennyson was so c e r t a i n t h a t he would l o s e h i s s i g h t t h a t he sought o u t one o f t h e b e s t s u r g e o n s i n London, Benjamin B r o d i e , who p r e s c r i b e d a " m i l k d i e t , " t h a t somehow was t h o u g h t t o have a i d e d Tennyson's r e c o v e r y ( 1 3 9 ) . t o t h e p o e t ' s e v e r y i d e a t i o n a l a l l u s i o n as i f i t were a demand. W h i l e d i f f e r e n t from L o n g f e l l o w ' s , Tennyson's awareness o f t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e p o e t i c m u s i c a l i t y o f t h e v o i c e as a means o f a c h i e v i n g p o p u l a r i t y a l s o came t o dominate t h e L a u r e a t e ' s p o e t i c p r a c t i c e . The impact o f t h e v o i c e as a f e a t u r e o f t h e r e c e p t i o n o f Tennyson's work i s b e s t u n d e r s t o o d , f o r example, i n r e l a t i o n t o R o b e r t Browning's f a i l u r e t o a c h i e v e a w i d e s p r e a d contemporary r e a d e r s h i p (a f a i l u r e w h i c h d i d n o t , i n c i d e n t a l l y , b e f a l l h i s w i f e ) . S i n c e most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y s c h o l a r s o f V i c t o r i a n l i t e r a t u r e assume t h a t p o e t s a c h i e v e d p o p u l a r i t y t h r o u g h t h e v o i c i n g o f c o n v e n t i o n a l a t t i t u d e s and b e l i e f s , w h i l e t h e y o v e r l o o k t h e v o i c e i t s e l f , James H a r t ' s f i n a l c o n c e s s i o n t o sound as a f e a t u r e o f v e r s e — p o p u l a r o r o t h e r w i s e — c o m e s as a welcome s u r p r i s e . Of Browning, H a r t w r i t e s t h a t h i s " v e r s e was o f t e n t o o gnomic, t h e language t o o condensed t o y i e l d q u o t a b l e l i n e s s u c h as t h e p u b l i c l i k e d . I t was a p o e t r y o f i d e a s r e q u i r i n g more t h a n one r e a d i n g f o r s e n s e , and i t was l a c k i n g i n t h e o b v i o u s music t h a t most p e o p l e equated w i t h p o e t r y " ( 1 3 1 - 2 ) . Y e t even i n t h i s f i n a l c o n c e s s i o n t o sound r a t h e r t h a n s e n s e , H a r t n o n e t h e l e s s c o n t i n u e s t o see n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y from a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y i n t e l l e c t u a l p o i n t o f v i e w , t h a t i s , w i t h i t s r e a d i n g p u b l i c s i m p l i s t i c a l l y demanding " q u o t a b l e l i n e s " and " o b v i o u s m u s i c . " H a r t does n o t r e g i s t e r a t a l l t h e e m o t i v e — a s opposed t o i d e a t i o n a l — d e m a n d s p u t upon t h e 462 m u s i c a l i t y o f v e r s e d e s i g n e d t o be r e a d a l o u d by a s i n g l e v o i c e w i t h i n a group o f l i s t e n e r s . I n c o n t r a d i s t i n c t i o n , W i l l i a m R o s s e t t i ' s comments upon Tennyson and Browning r e a d i n g t h e i r work a l o u d on t h e same e v e n i n g o f f e r a u n i q u e , though a d m i t t e d l y s i n g u l a r , o p p o r t u n i t y t o u n d e r s t a n d n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y as i t was h e a r d by a member o f i t s own a u d i e n c e . Of Tennyson's r e a d i n g o f Maud, R o s s e t t i n o t e d t h a t h i s "grand deep v o i c e sways onward w i t h a long-drawn c h a u n t , w h i c h some h e a r e r s m i g h t deem monotonous, b u t w h i c h g i v e s n o b l e v a l u e and emphasis t o t h e m e t r i c a l s t r u c t u r e and p a u s e s " ( q t d . i n M a r t i n 394). On t h e o t h e r hand, Browning's r e a d i n g o f " F r a L i p p o L i p p i " was s a i d by R o s s e t t i t o t a k e "much l e s s a c c o u n t o f t h e poem as a r h y t h m i c a l whole; h i s d e l i v e r y had more a f f i n i t y t o t h a t o f an a c t o r l a y i n g s t r e s s on a l l t h e l i g h t and shade o f t h e c o m p o s i t i o n — i t s t o u c h e s o f c h a r a c t e r , i t s c o n v e r s a t i o n a l p o i n t s , i t s d r a m a t i c g i v e - a n d - t a k e . I n t h o s e q u a l i t i e s o f e l o c u t i o n i n w h i c h Tennyson was s t r o n g , and aimed t o be s t r o n g , Browning was c o n t e n t e d l y weak; and v i c e v e r s a " ( q t d . i n M a r t i n 3 9 4 ) . F i t t i n g l y , i n r e g i s t e r i n g t h e i m p a c t o f Browning's d r a m a t i c v o i c e , R o s s e t t i a u t o m a t i c a l l y u s e s t h e v i s u a l image o f " l i g h t and shade" t o d e s c r i b e t h e p o e t i c t e n s i o n s o f Browning's r e a d i n g whereas he h e a r s Tennyson's v o i c e as an o s c i l l a t i o n o f " m e t r i c a l s t r u c t u r e and p a u s e s . " Tennyson once remarked t o W i l l i a m A l l i n g h a m t h a t i f " t h e p r o n u n c i a t i o n o f t h e E n g l i s h language were f o r g o t t e n , Browning would be h e l d t h e g r e a t e s t o f modern p o e t s , h a v i n g t r e a t e d t h e g r e a t e s t v a r i e t y o f s u b j e c t s i n a p o w e r f u l manner" ( A l l i n g h a m 290). L a t e r , Tennyson w i s h e d he c o u l d i n d i c a t e a f i x e d way o f p r o n o u n c i n g h i s v e r s e s , f o r " i t d o e s n ' t m a t t e r so much (he s a i d ) i n p o e t r y w r i t t e n f o r t h e i n t e l l e c t — a s much o f Browning's i s , p e r h a p s ; b u t i n mine i t ' s n e c e s s a r y t o know how t o sound i t p r o p e r l y " ( A l l i n g h a m 344) . A l l i n g h a m ' s numerous r e f e r e n c e s t h r o u g h o u t h i s D i a r y p o i n t t o Tennyson's p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h c l e a r , c o r r e c t p r o n u n c i a t i o n i n d i c a t i n g h i s a c u t e awareness o f sound as e l e m e n t a l t o t h e p r o p e r use o f l a n g u a g e . P r e s u m a b l y , o n l y Tennyson h i m s e l f knew how t o sound t h e language p r o p e r l y , e s p e c i a l l y when i t came t o h i s own poems. I n h i s b r i e f i n c l u s i o n i n t h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o e t r y , Browning s h o u l d n o t be t h o u g h t o f as j u s t a n o t h e r v o i c e i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c h o i r t h a t i n c l u d e d Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w , and Tennyson as p o p u l a r s o l o i s t s . The more f a m i l i a r Browning, A r n o l d , Tennyson t r i o i n t h i s c e n t u r y , i n s t u d i e s such as E. D. H. Johnson's The A l i e n V i s i o n o f V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y , more t h a n amply p r o v i d e s scope f o r i n - d e p t h c o m p a r i s o n s and c o n t r a s t s among Tennyson and h i s " l i t e r a r y " c o u n t e r p a r t s i n i d e a t i o n a l t e r m s . Here, however, Tennyson i s t i e d t o h i s B r i t i s h p r e d e c e s s o r , Hemans, and h i s A m e r i c a n c o n t e m p o r a r y , L o n g f e l l o w , because t h e L a u r e a t e ' s p o p u l a r p o e t r y had an impact upon V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e s s i m i l a r t o Hemans's and L o n g f e l l o w ' s . T h i s impact Tennyson owed t o t h e e m o t i v e q u a l i t y o f t h e sound o f h i s v e r s e , and n o t because he was a p t t o emulate t h e r e a d y a c c e p t a n c e o f f a m i l i a r i d e a s and a t t i t u d e s t y p i c a l o f p o e t s more i m m e d i a t e l y p o p u l a r t h a n h i m s e l f . I n r e l a t i o n t o t h e a u d i t o r y i m p a c t o f Browning's work as a t y p e o f i n t e l l e c t u a l p o t e n c y a f f e c t i n g t h e minds o f i t s r e a d e r s , Tennyson's p o e t r y as a v i s c e r a l l y f e l t e m o t i v e f o r c e upon i t s l i s t e n e r s was a f o r c e w h i c h Tennyson a l o n e i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n u n d e r s t o o d and came t o p e r f e c t . U l t i m a t e l y , t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y l y r i c poems must be seen as a c o n d i t i o n g r a n t e d t o a p o e t ' s work by m a n i f o l d r e a d e r s who draw s u p p o r t from t h e t e x t i n q u e s t i o n on an e m o t i v e r a t h e r t h a n i d e a t i o n a l l e v e l . Whether t h e r e a r e i d e a s p r e s e n t w i t h i n a poem t h a t p r o v i d e e m o t i o n a l a s s u r a n c e i n t h e s t a t u s quo, as i n Hemans's "Graves o f a H o u s e h o l d " ; o r i d e a s a l l u d e d t o and i n d i r e c t l y s u p p o r t e d t h r o u g h t h e t o n a l q u a l i t i e s o f t h e v e r s e , as i n "A Psalm o f L i f e " ; o r i d e a s s u p p l i e d by t h e l i s t e n e r s i n a poem s u c h as "Break, b r e a k , b r e a k " because t h e l y r i c ' s sounds m a n i p u l a t e i t s r e a d e r s i n t o a s c r i b i n g p r e s e n c e where t h e r e i s o n l y v a c a n c y , i s a degree o f d i f f e r e n c e t h a t has l i t t l e o r no r e a l b e a r i n g on t h e e m p i r i c a l p o p u l a r i t y o f a g i v e n poem. The s o c i a l and h i s t o r i c a l c o n d i t i o n s o f V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s w i l l , i f prompted i n t o a c t i v i t y by t h e t e c h n i c a l d e v i c e s o f sound w i t h i n t h e p o e t r y , d e t e r m i n e i d e a t i o n a l c o n t e n t a c c o r d i n g t o t h e a u d i e n c e ' s own e m o t i o n a l needs when a p o e t , l i k e Tennyson, e i t h e r i n t e n t i o n a l l y o r u n i n t e n t i o n a l l y f a i l s t o p r e s c r i b e modes o f t h i n k i n g . I n t h e end, t h e "message, 1 1 as i t were, i s l i t t l e d i f f e r e n t f o r r e a d e r s o f Hemans, L o n g f e l l o w , o r Tennyson, o r e v e n — a t odd m o m e n t s — f o r r e a d e r s o f Browning: "'God's i n h i s h e a v e n — / A l l ' s r i g h t w i t h t h e w o r l d " ("Pippa P a s s e s " ) . The i m p o r t a n c e o f t h e p o e t i c v o i c e o v e r mere message as a d e t e r m i n i n g f e a t u r e o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r p o e t r y , t h e r e f o r e , s h o u l d n o t be o v e r l o o k e d . T w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s ' n e g l e c t o f t h e a f f e c t i v e q u a l i t y o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y v e r s e has l e d t o a t o o easy d i s m i s s a l o f t h e most p o p u l a r V i c t o r i a n poems as i n s i p i d s e n t i m e n t a l i s m w i t h o u t s e r i o u s r e g a r d f o r t h e v a r y i n g d e g r e e s o f a c t i v i t y r e a d e r s must engage i n t o a c h i e v e e m o t i o n a l s a t i s f a c t i o n from t h e poems t h e y r e a d o r h e a r — i n t h e company o f o t h e r s o r a l o n e . T h i s degree o f a c t i v i t y on t h e p a r t o f l i s t e n e r s was s e l f - c o n s c i o u s l y a n t i c i p a t e d i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t i c p r a c t i c e . I t i n f l u e n c e d t h e p h y s i c a l v o i c e t h a t each p o e t a d o p t e d f o r h i s poems, l y r i c and n a r r a t i v e a l i k e . L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r i n c i p a l v o i c e s h o u l d t h u s be c o n s i d e r e d as " f e m i n i n e " i n t o n e though n o t d e n i g r a t e d f o r t h i s q u a l i t y , nor s i m p l i s t i c a l l y c o n f u s e d w i t h seeming " f e m i n i n e " s e n t i m e n t s as i t has been by most o f h i s t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s . I t spoke e q u a l l y from h i s sense o f m i s s i o n t o c r e a t e i n A m e r i c a c u l t u r a l c o h e s i o n o u t o f e t h n i c d i v e r s i t y . Tennyson's v o i c e , on t h e o t h e r hand, s h o u l d be t h o u g h t o f as "androgynous," i n e f f e c t more v a r i o u s l y p i t c h e d t h a n h i s A m e r i c a n c o u n t e r p a r t ' s and t h e r e b y more r e s o n a n t o f t h e h e t e r o g e n e i t y o f h i s r e a d e r s i n E n g l a n d t h a n L o n g f e l l o w ' s . These p o e t s ' v o i c e s a r e d e s c r i b e d i n gender terms n o t because t h e y a l w a y s o r a b s o l u t e l y spoke i n p h y s i c a l ways t h a t s u g g e s t a g e n d e r i z e d p e r c e p t i o n o f t h e m s e l v e s as s p e a k e r s o r o f t h e gender b i a s e s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e a u d i e n c e s as l i s t e n e r s . R a t h e r , t h e i r v o i c e s a r e e i t h e r " f e m i n i n e " o r "androgynous" d e p e n d i n g on t h e awareness t h a t each h e l d o f t h e e x t e n t t o w h i c h t h e s e p a r a t e s p h e r e i d e o l o g y (which g r a n t e d women m o r a l a u t h o r i t y b o t h i n and o u t o f t h e home w h i l e men p u r s u e d s o c i a l , economic, and p o l i t i c a l power) m i g h t f i n d e x p r e s s i o n d i r e c t l y o r i n d i r e c t l y w i t h i n t h e i r p o e t i c t e x t s . That i s , w h i l e b o t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson i d e o l o g i c a l l y s u p p o r t e d a t t i t u d e s l i t t l e d i f f e r e n t from Hemans's i n t h e b e l i e f t h a t , i n t h e i r r o l e s as w i v e s and mothers, women were t h e p u b l i c l y s a n c t i o n e d g u a r d i a n s o f s p i r i t u a l p u r i t y , t h e degree t o w h i c h each p o e t spoke d i r e c t l y from w i t h i n o r was p r e p a r e d t o q u e s t i o n t h a t i d e o l o g y d i f f e r e d . E s s e n t i a l l y , L o n g f e l l o w u s u r p e d a " f e m i n i n e " v o i c e i n so f a r as he s t r o v e a t t h e o u t s e t o f h i s c a r e e r t o f a s h i o n h i s p o e t r y from w i t h i n and a g a i n s t a p o p u l a r f e m a l e t r a d i t i o n . He l a t e r r e s h a p e d t h i s t r a d i t i o n t o h i s own ends by w o r k i n g upon h i s n a t i o n ' s f e e l i n g s t h r o u g h a p o e t i c m u s i c t h a t c o u l d c o n t a i n a l l o f t h e most p o w e r f u l f e a t u r e s o f t h e p h y s i c a l f e m a l e v o i c e i t s e l f w i t h o u t t h e " s i n g song" measures t h a t p o p u l a r f e m a l e p o e t s had, i n h i s mind, somehow assumed as t h e i r own. Tennyson, on t h e o t h e r hand, ( f o r a l l h i s " s c h o o l m i s s A l f r e d " q u a l i t i e s ) i n i t i a l l y d e r i v e d h i s p o e t i c v o i c e from w i t h i n a male academic t r a d i t i o n o f p o e t i c m u s i c ( K e a t s and S h e l l e y t r a n s m i t t e d v i a t h e A p o s t l e s ) . Once drawn t o t h e d o m e s t i c s e n t i m e n t s o f women, Tennyson embedded t h o s e s e n t i m e n t s i n r o m a n t i c l u x u r i e s o f v e r s e t h a t women, as consumers o f p o e t r y , c o u l d r e a d i l y a p p l a u d . U n l i k e L o n g f e l l o w ' s , t h e androgynous v o i c e o f Tennyson's l y r i c p o e t r y r e m a i n e d h i s own. Y e t i t was v a r i o u s l y m o d u l a t e d t o e l i c i t e m o t i v e r e s p o n s e s from many d i f f e r e n t l i s t e n e r s — f e m a l e and male a l i k e — w i l l i n g t o g r a n t t h e p o e t t h e l i c e n c e t o move them t o s u p p o r t s e n t i m e n t s t h a t Tennyson's h o s t i l e r e v i e w e r s (and t h o s e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s o n l y t o o r e a d y t o e x c i s e t h e f e m i n i n e from Tennyson's v o i c e ) w i s h e d t h e p o e t n e v e r f e l t c o m p e l l e d t o e n t e r t a i n . N e v e r t h e l e s s , Tennyson r a r e l y i f e v e r spoke o u t d i r e c t l y and w i t h o u t q u a l i f i c a t i o n i n h i s own v o i c e i n s u p p o r t o f c o n v e n t i o n a l a t t i t u d e s t h a t c o n v e n i e n t l y r e s t r i c t e d women t o t h e home. R a t h e r , and h e r e i n l i e s h i s e s s e n t i a l d i f f e r e n c e from more i m m e d i a t e l y and e m p i r i c a l l y p o p u l a r p o e t s t h a n h i m s e l f , Tennyson p e r s u a d e d h i s r e a d e r s t h r o u g h s h i f t s and changes i n t h e p o e t i c m u s i c o f h i s t e x t s t o work a c t i v e l y t h e m s e l v e s , t o s u p p l y t h e i d e o l o g i c a l s i g n i f i c a n c e he o b l i q u e l y i n t e n d s b u t seldom g i v e s . S i m i l a r d i f f e r e n c e s i n v o i c e and m o t i v e a r e a l s o t r u e o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poems, d i s c u s s e d i n t h e n e x t c h a p t e r . 468 CHAPTER SIX THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY POPULAR NARRATIVE POEM O l d and y e t e v e r new, and s i m p l e and b e a u t i f u l a l w a y s , Love i m m o r t a l and young i n t h e e n d l e s s s u c c e s s i o n o f l o v e r s . — L o n g f e l l o w ( M i l e s S t a n d i s h IX 91-2) So t h e s e were wed, and m e r r i l y r a n g t h e b e l l s , And m e r r i l y r a n t h e y e a r s , seven happy y e a r s , Then came a change, as a l l t h i n g s human change. — T e n n y s o n (Enoch Arden 80-81, 101) Throughout i t s l o n g h i s t o r y , E n g l i s h p o e t r y has been p e o p l e d by an e n d l e s s s u c c e s s i o n o f l o v e r s . I f t h e s e l o v e r s p r o c e e d t o m a r r i a g e , t h e i r u n i o n has u s u a l l y been f o r t h e p u r p o s e s o f t e x t u a l c l o s u r e , a ready-made comic r e s o l u t i o n t o t h e m a t i c and s t r u c t u r a l dilemmas. L o n g f e l l o w ' s The C o u r t s h i p o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h (1858) and Tennyson's Enoch Arden ( 1 8 6 4 ) — p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poems o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d — w o r k w i t h i n and a g a i n s t t h i s p r e s e t paradigm. John A l d e n ' s and P r i s c i l l a M u l l e n ' s m a r r i a g e i n t h e l a s t book o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h s e c u r e s L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem w i t h i n t h i s comic t r a d i t i o n . As s u c h , M i l e s S t a n d i s h may be s a i d t o meet e n t i r e l y t h i s f e a t u r e o f i t s a u d i e n c e ' s l i t e r a r y h o r i z o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s . However, a c o n c u r r e n t f o r c e i n t h e poem i s m a r t i a l n o t m a r i t a l . The t i t u l a r h e r o ' s b r u t a l w a r r i n g w i t h t h e I n d i a n s d e t e r s r e a d e r s ' c o m f o r t a b l e s e t t l e m e n t w i t h i n t h i s t e x t . A n a l y s i s o f t h e p o p u l a r i t y o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h has t h e r e f o r e t o c o n s i d e r t h e poem's p o p u l a r a p p e a l i n r e l a t i o n t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n t r i c a t e b a l a n c e between t h e two o p p o s i n g t e n d e n c i e s t o w a r d l o v e and t h e d e s t r u c t i o n a t i t s h e a r t . Tennyson's Enoch Arden meets i t s a u d i e n c e ' s l i t e r a r y e x p e c t a t i o n s by b e i n g a l s o , i n p a r t , d r i v e n by t h e f o r c e s o f l o v e l e a d i n g t o m a r r i a g e . However, Tennyson's A n n i e Lee m a r r i e s w i t h i n t h e p o e m — n o t a t i t s e n d — and n o t once b u t t w i c e . A l s o n o t m a r i t a l , t h e c o u n t e r v a i l i n g winds o f m e r c a n t i l i s m blow s t o r m s i n Enoch Arden. Hence f o r i t s t i t u l a r h e r o , f i s h e r m a n and f i r s t husband, t h e poem's r e s o l u t i o n i n a second m a r r i a g e i s t h e r e f o r e n o t comic b u t p a t h e t i c a l l y t r a g i c . Enoch i s f o r c e d t o l i v e n o t one " d e a t h - i n - l i f e " b u t two b e f o r e h i s own a c t u a l d e a t h . The p o p u l a r i t y o f Tennyson's poem a l s o has, t h e r e f o r e , t o be c o n s i d e r e d i n terms o f i t s o p p o s i n g t e n d e n c i e s t o w a r d r e s o l u t i o n and d i s s o l u t i o n a t i t s h e a r t . I n b o t h t h e s e poems, t h e o p e r a t i v e mood s u r r o u n d i n g t h e l o v e t r i a n g l e s a t t h e c e n t r e o f t h e i r p l o t s i s p a t h o s , more p e j o r a t i v e l y known as s e n t i m e n t a l i t y . T h i s mood and t h e d o m e s t i c s o l u t i o n s sought t o t h e m a t i c dilemmas e n s u r e d a d i f f e r e n t though no l e s s r e m a r k a b l e p o p u l a r i t y f o r each poem. The s i m i l a r i t i e s o f p l o t and method i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch Arden make them i d e a l l y s u i t e d f o r a n a l y s i s o f t h e t r a n s a t l a n t i c d i f f e r e n c e s i n h e r e n t i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poem. B o t h p l o t s i n v o l v e l o v e t r i a n g l e s i n w h i c h t h e d o m e s t i c h e a r t h s o f t h e p r i z e d w o m e n — P r i s c i l l a and A n n i e — a r e t h e t h e m a t i c c e n t r e s . The h e r o e s — M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch A r d e n — l e a v e t h e i r communities and t r a v e l t o t h e " e x o t i c " m a r g i n s , o n l y i n t h e end t o l o s e t h e women t o t h e o t h e r m e n — J o h n A l d e n and P h i l i p Ray—who a r e c l o s e r s t r u c t u r a l l y t o t h e c e n t r e t h a n t h e y a r e . These h e r o e s r e t u r n a t t h e c o n c l u s i o n s as men b r o u g h t back "from t h e dead" w i t h t h e p o t e n t i a l t o d i s r u p t d o m e s t i c peace and s t a b i l i t y , a l t h o u g h t h i s does n o t e x p l i c i t l y happen i n e i t h e r poem. The c h a r a c t e r i z a t i o n o f t h e men i s s i m i l a r a l t h o u g h t h e women d i f f e r . The t i t u l a r h e r o e s b o t h conform t o a t y p i c a l l y m a s c u l i n e i d e a l o f p h y s i c a l s t r e n g t h , a c t i v i t y and s t u b b o r n r e s o l v e . The " o t h e r " men a r e f i g u r e d i n more f e m i n i n e t e r m s : weak, p h y s i c a l l y p a s s i v e , and l o n g s u f f e r i n g i n t h e i r a b n e g a t i o n o f s e l f . The women, however, d i f f e r i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e r e s p e c t i v e s o c i a l c o n s t r a i n t s upon them. Because P r i s c i l l a i s n o t even b e t r o t h e d t o M i l e s S t a n d i s h , she can w i t h a c l e a r c o n s c i e n c e a c t i v e l y e x p r e s s h e r d e s i r e s . I t i s John A l d e n who assumes t h e b a t t l e between l o v e and d u t y ( i n t h i s c a s e t o h i s f r i e n d ) . A n n i e , on t h e o t h e r hand, i s bound by h e r f o r m e r m a r r i a g e t o Enoch. The c o n f l i c t between h e r l e g a l and m o r a l d u t y t o h e r husband and h e r l o v e f o r P h i l i p c o n f i n e s h e r t o s t a s i s f o r most o f t h e poem. I n s e t t i n g and mood, M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch A r d e n a l s o r e v e a l some s i m i l a r i t i e s ; y e t , t h e i r d i f f e r e n c e s h e r e s u g g e s t d i v e r g e n c e on n a t i o n a l i s t i c grounds. B o t h poems a r e s e t i n a p r e i n d u s t r i a l w o r l d o f s m a l l communities and c o l l e c t i v e awareness. Through l u s h d e s c r i p t i o n , b o t h s e t t i n g s o v e r t l y r e c a l l e d e n i c i n n o c e n c e ; however, a c t i v i t i e s w i t h i n t h e s e c o m m u n i t i e s c o v e r t l y t h r e a t e n t h i s i n n o c e n c e a t e v e r y t u r n . L o n g f e l l o w ' s v i l l a g e o f P l y m o u t h Rock i s more s o c i o l o g i c a l l y s i m p l e t h a n Tennyson's f i s h i n g v i l l a g e s i n c e t h i s i s A m e r i c a ' s e a r l i e s t w h i t e s e t t l e m e n t . S o c i a l c o n f l i c t s i n t h i s c a s e i n v o l v e r e l i g i o n and r a c e as t h e P u r i t a n s d e t e r m i n e t o c o n v e r t t h e h e a t h e n I n d i a n s , by t h e g o s p e l o f cannon f i r e i f needs be. A l t e r n a t i v e l y , Tennyson's E n g l i s h community i s s t r u c t u r e d on c l a s s r e l a t i o n s and t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c f o r c e s t h a t d e t e r m i n e f a t e and f o r t u n e . A l t h o u g h d i s s i m i l a r i n t y p e , t h e s o c i a l t e n s i o n s i n b o t h poems c o n c l u d e w i t h each h e r o ' s r e c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f e x t e r n a l f o r c e s i n f a v o u r o f an i n t e r n a l , s p i r i t u a l c o n v e r s i o n t h a t i s b r o u g h t about i n each c a s e by a s a c r i f i c e o f s e l f t o e n s u r e t h e d o m e s t i c h a p p i n e s s o f t h e l o v e d woman. The u l t i m a t e mood i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch A r d e n i s s e n t i m e n t a l t r u s t i n t h e i n t r i n s i c goodness o f each i n d i v i d u a l and h e r o r h i s r o l e i n t h e c o l l e c t i v e w e l l - b e i n g o f t h e community. L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson approached s o c i a l i s s u e s from d i f f e r e n t p e r s p e c t i v e s based on t h e p r e o c c u p a t i o n s o f t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e n a t i o n s . However, t h e c o n c l u s i o n s t h e y d e r i v e d from t h e s e i s s u e s and t h e t e c h n i q u e s t h e y used t o i n v o l v e t h e i r r e a d e r s i n t h o s e c o n c l u s i o n s a r e e s s e n t i a l l y 472 s i m i l a r . M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch Arden a r e b o t h d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r i e s . 1 As c h a p t e r one p o i n t s o u t , t h e volumes i n w h i c h t h e t i t l e poems a p p e a r e d e n j o y e d g r e a t c o m m e r c i a l s u c c e s s . F i v e t h o u s a n d o f t h e 20,000 c o p i e s p r i n t e d o f t h e A m e r i c a n e d i t i o n o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h s o l d i n B o s t o n a l o n e on t h e f i r s t day o f p u b l i c a t i o n , 10,000 o f t h e B r i t i s h e d i t i o n i n London. G i v e n t h e poem's m a r t i a l s u b j e c t m a t t e r , L o n g f e l l o w f i t t i n g l y n o t e d i n h i s j o u r n a l t h a t i n a l l he had s o l d "an army o f t w e n t y - f i v e t h o u s a n d i n one week" ( L i f e I I 327) . Enoch A r d e n was even more s u c c e s s f u l : 17,000 o f t h e 60,000 B r i t i s h f i r s t e d i t i o n s o l d t h e f i r s t day, 40,000 w i t h i n f o u r months, and t h e whole 60,000 two months l a t e r (Hagen 112). I n t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s , Enoch Arden was f a r and away Tennyson's b e s t s e l l i n g volume: i n f i v e y e a r s , i t s o l d an amazing 119,028 c o p i e s i n f o r t y - o n e p r i n t i n g s ( T r y o n " N a t i o n a l i s m " 397) . Moreover, w h i l e M i l e s S t a n d i s h was c r i t i c i z e d f o r i t s hexameter meter, and Enoch Arden p r o v o k e d debate c o n c e r n i n g t h e m o r a l i t y o f bigamy, b o t h poems g e n e r a t e d c o n s i d e r a b l e a p p l a u s e from t h e r e v i e w e r s . 2 1 D o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y i s a t e r m used l a t e r i n t h i s c h a p t e r t o d i s t i n g u i s h t h e e s s e n t i a l l y s i m i l a r p u r p o s e s u n d e r l y i n g L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's i d y l s as opposed t o t h o s e o f t h e m u l t i p l e p o e t i c g e n r e s each drew on. The v a r i o u s f e a t u r e s o f d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y t h e r e f o r e a r e d i s c u s s e d as t h e y o c c u r . 2 A l t h o u g h n o t e x p l i c i t l y condemnatory, d i s a p p r o v i n g v o i c e s c o u l d be h e a r d i n t h e r e v i e w s o f b o t h poems. As Ghodes p o i n t s o u t , B r i t i s h and A m e r i c a n c r i t i c s g e n e r a l l y d i s l i k e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s hexameters (American 110). And M i l e s S t a n d i s h d i d n o t have t h e n o v e l t y o f E v a n g e l i n e (1847) t o a s s i s t i t on t h i s s c o r e . B r i t i s h c r i t i c s were u s u a l l y more a p t t h a n A m e r i c a n s t o condemn even w h i l e p r a i s i n g . F o r i n s t a n c e , t h e 473 Indeed, i n 1970, P a t r i c k S c o t t was more t h a n j u s t i f i e d i n naming Enoch A r d e n "A V i c t o r i a n B e s t - S e l l e r " i n h i s a r t i c l e o f t h e same name. Y e t S c o t t ' s i n d e p t h - t r e a t m e n t o f Enoch Arden as a poem and, f u r t h e r s t i l l , as a p o p u l a r poem i s r a r e . I f m e n t i o n e d a t a l l by t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y Tennyson s c h o l a r s ( o f t e n i t i s n e g l e c t e d a l t o g e t h e r ) , Enoch Arden i s u s u a l l y used t o i l l u s t r a t e t h e a l l e g e d m e d i o c r i t y o f Tennyson's " p u b l i c " v e r s e . 3 The p r o b l e m , i n t h i s c a s e , seems t o stem from two s o u r c e s : a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y d i s t a s t e f o r t h e p o e t i c g e n r e o f t h e " i d y l " i t s e l f , 4 and a s u s p i c i o n o f poems t h a t g e n e r a t e r e v i e w e r f o r Chamber's J o u r n a l (Nov 1858) c a l l s L o n g f e l l o w ' s hexameters i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h "baggy, l e n g t h y , u n c o m f o r t a b l e , " b u t adds t h a t even though " t h e metre i s f a u l t y . . . t h e s t o r y i s n a r r a t e d w i t h a s i m p l i c i t y a l m o s t s e v e r e , and n o t w i t h o u t a moderate s p r i n k l i n g o f p o e t i c a l t h o u g h t s " (Cameron 6 1 ) . W a l t e r Bagehot's c r i t i c i s m s o f t h e o r n a t e language i n Enoch Arden ("Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning: o r , P u r e , O r n a t e , and G r o t e s q u e A r t i n E n g l i s h P o e t r y " N a t i o n a l Review Nov 18 64 i n Jump 282-93), were u n u s u a l . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , t h e c o n s i s t e n t r e p r i n t i n g o f and r e f e r e n c e t o Bagehot's a r t i c l e , and t o G e r a r d Manley H o p k i n s ' s i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f t h e " P a r n a s s i a n " i n Tennyson's poem (as opposed t o any " i n s p i r a t i o n " ) have l e d t o a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y m i s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f t h e c r i t i c a l r e c e p t i o n o f Enoch Arden. 3 E x c e p t i o n s o t h e r t h a n S c o t t ' s i n c l u d e V a l e r i e P i t t ' s Tennyson L a u r e a t e , Thomas J . Assad's "On t h e M a j o r Poems i n Tennyson's 'Enoch A r d e n ' Volume," W i l l i a m E. Fredeman's "'The Sphere o f Common D u t i e s ' : The Domestic S o l u t i o n i n Tennyson's P o e t r y , " Douglas F r i c k e ' s "A Study o f Myth and A r c h e t y p e i n 'Enoch A r d e n ' , " and Donald H a i r ' s The Domestic and H e r o i c i n Tennyson's P o e t r y . 4 Tennyson used e i t h e r a s i n g l e o r d o u b l e "11," i d y l l , t o r e f e r t o poems as d i s t i n c t as h i s E n g l i s h ( d o m e s t i c ) i d y l s o f 1842, t h e I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g , and t h e i d y l l s o f t h e Enoch Arden volume, i n c l u d i n g t h e t i t l e poem. F o r t h e E v e r s l e y e d i t i o n o f h i s f a t h e r ' s work, H a l l a m Tennyson a d o p t e d t h e s i n g l e " 1 " s p e l l i n g f o r t h e E n g l i s h i d y l s t o d i s t i n g u i s h them p o p u l a r a c c l a i m . As a s e p a r a t e t e x t , L o n g f e l l o w ' s M i l e s S t a n d i s h has n o t borne t h e p a r t i c u l a r b r u n t o f t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c i s m s i m p l y because n e a r l y t h e e n t i r e L o n g f e l l o w canon has been i n d i c t e d as "merely p o p u l a r . " W i t h t h e e x c e p t i o n o f a h a n d f u l o f l y r i c s and s o n n e t s , L o n g f e l l o w ' s w o r k — e s p e c i a l l y h i s n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y — s e l d o m r e c e i v e s s e r i o u s s c h o l a r l y a t t e n t i o n . 5 F u l l - l e n g t h s t u d i e s s u c h as Newton A r v i n ' s L o n g f e l l o w : H i s L i f e and Work (1962), C e c i l B. W i l l i a m s ' s Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w (1964), Edward H i r s c h ' s Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w (1964), and Edward Wagenknecht's Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w : H i s P o e t r y and P r o s e (1986) p e r f o r c e m e n t i o n M i l e s S t a n d i s h , b u t o f t h e s e l a r g e l y b i o c r i t i c a l s t u d i e s , none examines t h e methods o f t h e i d y l o f A m e r i c a ' s e a r l i e s t s e t t l e r s , i n r e l a t i o n t o i t s p o p u l a r i t y . Tennyson's and L o n g f e l l o w ' s i d y l s a p p a r e n t l y f o c u s on such mundane s u b j e c t s as l o v e and d o m e s t i c i t y , and i n s u c h a m e l o d r a m a t i c f a s h i o n , t h a t b o t h poems have been e f f e c t i v e l y b u r i e d as m a n i f e s t a t i o n s o f a V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y a l l e g e d l y more n a i v e t h a n t o d a y ' s . However, i f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r i t y i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d i s t o be f u l l y u n d e r s t o o d , from t h e I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g . The s i n g l e " 1 " s p e l l i n g i s used h e r e t o d e s i g n a t e t h e contemporary as opposed t o t h e M e d i e v a l poems. 5 R o b e r t F e r g u s o n ' s " L o n g f e l l o w ' s P o l i t i c a l F e a r s : C i v i c A u t h o r i t y and t h e R o l e o f t h e A r t i s t i n Hiawatha and M i l e s S t a n d i s h " i s a n o t a b l e e x c e p t i o n . t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poem, as a g e n r e , needs t o be d i s i n t e r r e d . D e f i n i n g t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poem i s more d i f f i c u l t t h a n might f i r s t appear. Once t h e p r e c i s e n a t u r e o f t h e p r o d u c t — p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e — i s d e t e r m i n e d , t h a t p r o d u c t must t h e n be a n a l y z e d i n t h e c o n t e x t o f i t s c o n s u m p t i o n — i t s r e c i p i e n t s ' a c t i v i t y and p a s s i v i t y i n t h e g e n e r a t i o n o f m e a n i n g — i n o r d e r t o gage t h e l o c u s o f t h e poem's p o p u l a r a p p e a l . H i s t o r i c a l o r t h e o r e t i c a l s t u d i e s o f n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y w r i t t e n i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y a r e r a r e . I n d e e d , t h e r e c e n t E n g l i s h t r a n s l a t i o n o f Hermann F i s c h e r ' s R o m a n t i s c h e V e r s e r z a h l u n g i n E n g l a n d (1964 pub. 1991) i s one o f a v e r y few s t u d i e s o f t h i s g e n r e . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , F i s c h e r c o n f i n e s h i m s e l f t o Romantic t e x t s , t h e most p o p u l a r o f t h e s e b e i n g S i r W a l t e r S c o t t ' s The Lav o f t h e L a s t M i n s t r e l . F i s c h e r c o n t e n d s t h a t a f t e r S c o t t ' s p o p u l a r i t y waned, c r i t i c s s u c h as C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h i n t h e e a r l y 1830s j u s t l y d e a l t t h e g e n r e i t s " f i n a l blow: t h e r o m a n t i c t a l e i n v e r s e was exposed as l i g h t p o e t r y f o r t h e masses, and even i f , up t o t h e end o f t h e c e n t u r y , i t was r e p e a t e d l y r e s u r r e c t e d by p o e t s such as M a c a u l a y , Matthew A r n o l d , Tennyson, and B r o w n i n g , i t s heyday was o v e r — t h e m e t r i c a l romance d i e d w i t h t h e r o m a n t i c movement" ( 2 2 0 ) . To F i s c h e r ' s l i s t c o u l d be added P h i l i p B a i l e y ( F e s t u s ) , E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t B r o w n i n g , A r t h u r Hugh C l o u g h , C o v e n t r y Patmore, C h r i s t i n a R o s s e t t i , W i l l i a m M o r r i s , and A l g e r n o n C h a r l e s Swinburne. W i t h a l m o s t a l l V i c t o r i a n 476 p o e t s a t t e m p t i n g n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y o f some d e s c r i p t i o n a t some p o i n t i n t h e i r c a r e e r s , i t i s d i f f i c u l t t o a c c e p t t h a t w h a t e v e r p o i s o n t h e c r i t i c s had a d m i n i s t e r e d k i l l e d t h e genre as " s e r i o u s " p o e t r y . On t h e c o n t r a r y , n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y had m e r e l y changed form. The o p p o s i t i o n t h a t F i s c h e r o u t l i n e s i n t h e Romantic p e r i o d — b e t w e e n t h e l o n g , e p i c - l i k e v e r s e t a l e s o f S c o t t , B y r o n , and Southey and t h e l y r i c a l forms o f K e a t s and S h e l l e y — c o l l a p s e d i n t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d . Moreover, d o m e s t i c s t r a i n s were added t o t h e g e n r e , as b e f i t t e d t h e V i c t o r i a n a u d i e n c e s f o r whom n a r r a t i v e poems were w r i t t e n . The form now i n c o r p o r a t e d v a r i o u s p o e t i c t y p e s a c c o r d i n g t o t h e p r e d i l e c t i o n s o f t h e i r c r e a t o r s : b a l l a d , p a s t o r a l , l y r i c , romance, e p i c , drama, and p r o s e . Perhaps t h e p r o d u c t s t h a t V i c t o r i a n p o e t s p u b l i s h e d were l e s s " p u r e " t h a n t h o s e o f t h e R o m a n t i c s , b u t t h e i r d i v e r s i t y and p r o l i f e r a t i o n a t t e s t t o t h e c o n t i n u e d i n t e r e s t t h r o u g h o u t t h e c e n t u r y — a t a l l c l a s s l e v e l s — i n p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e as a u n i q u e g e n r e . 6 6 Rod Edmonds's A f f a i r s o f t h e H e a r t h i s one o f t h e few s t u d i e s o f what Edmonds terms a "new k i n d o f n a r r a t i v e poem w h i c h emerged i n t h e 1840s" ( 3 5 ) . Edmonds's d i s c u s s i o n o f h i s i l l u s t r a t i v e examples i s as v a r i e d and w i d e - r a n g i n g as h i s c h o i c e s : A u r o r a L e i g h , t h e G o b l i n M a r k e t . The B o t h i e o f T o b e r - n a - V u o l i c h , The P r i n c e s s and Modern Love, chosen because o f t h e i r o b v i o u s d i f f e r e n c e s more t h a n t h e i r a p p a r e n t s i m i l a r i t i e s . Edmonds's work i s l e s s s a t i s f y i n g , however, as an i n - d e p t h s t u d y o f t h e development o f V i c t o r i a n n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y s i n c e h i s p r i m a r y i n t e r e s t i s v i s u a l ; he l o o k s a t p o e t r y i n r e l a t i o n t o V i c t o r i a n g e n r e p a i n t i n g and t h e i d e o l o g i c a l u n d e r p i n n i n g s o f t h e c o n n e c t i o n s between them. He t h e r e f o r e i d e n t i f i e s t h e s e poems as s i g n i f i c a n t commentary upon V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y and c u l t u r e t o t h e e x c l u s i o n o f t h e i r p a r t i c i p a t i o n w i t h i n and a g a i n s t a g e n r e t r a d i t i o n t h a t The s u c c e s s f u l a d m i x t u r e o f p o e t i c t y p e s , r e a d i l y c o n f o r m i n g t o p r o t e a n r e a d e r s ' l i t e r a r y e x p e c t a t i o n s , h e l p e d t o make b o t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's n a r r a t i v e p o e m s — t h e i r " i d y l s " — t r u l y p o p u l a r . S t r i c t l y s p e a k i n g , i d y l s s h o u l d f o l l o w p a s t o r a l t r a d i t i o n as s o n g - l i k e , l y r i c a l d e p i c t i o n s o f wholesome r u r a l l i f e . The s e v e r a l o t h e r g e n r e s t h a t i n t r u d e on b o t h o f t h e s e poems make " i d y l " a c o n v e n i e n t , i f l e s s t h a n a c c u r a t e l a b e l , b u t i d y l has t h e advantage o f b e i n g a t e r m t h a t b o t h L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson u s e d t o d e s c r i b e M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch Arden. On 2 December 1857, L o n g f e l l o w n o t e d i n h i s j o u r n a l t h a t he had o r i g i n a l l y w r i t t e n M i l e s S t a n d i s h as a drama "some t i m e ago." He had i n f a c t w r i t t e n t h e " f i r s t scene o f The C o u r t s h i p o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h " i n December 1856 ( L i f e I I 2 8 9 ) . But he d e c i d e d t o b e g i n t h e work a g a i n a y e a r l a t e r . " P r i s c i l l a , " as i t was now c a l l e d , was t o be "a k i n d o f P u r i t a n P a s t o r a l . " L o n g f e l l o w added: " T h i s , I t h i n k , w i l l be a b e t t e r t r e a t m e n t o f t h e s u b j e c t t h a n t h e d r a m a t i c one" ( L i f e I I 310-11). The n e x t day, L o n g f e l l o w r e f e r r e d t o t h e poem as i t was e v e n t u a l l y t o appear: "My poem i s i n h e x a m e t e r s , an i d y l o f O l d C o l o n y t i m e s " ( 3 1 1 ) . By March, t h e o r i g i n a l name o f " M i l e s S t a n d i s h " had been r e s t o r e d . I n sum, L o n g f e l l o w ' s mix o f g e n r e s — d r a m a , p a s t o r a l , and i d y l — a n d h i s s h i f t i n g t i t l e — f r o m M i l e s S t a n d i s h t o P r i s c i l l a and back a g a i n — r e v e a l r e a c h e s as f a r back as T h e o c r i t u s ' s p a s t o r a l s . 478 t h e poem as two s k e i n s woven t o g e t h e r : t h e d r a m a t i c a c t i o n o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h ' s a d v e n t u r e s and t h e i d y l l i c romance o f John A l d e n and t h e P u r i t a n maid, P r i s c i l l a . A l t h o u g h s c h o l a r s have l e s s a c c e s s t o Tennyson's methods o f c o m p o s i t i o n (as opposed t o h i s p u r p o r t e d s o u r c e s ) t h a n L o n g f e l l o w ' s , r e a d e r s o f Enoch Arden can a l s o r e c o g n i z e i t s b l e n d o f a t l e a s t two p o e t i c g e n r e s : t h e h e r o i s m o f e p i c p o e t r y and Tennyson's s e l f - s t y l e d d o m e s t i c i d y l o f t h e 1840s. L i k e L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem, Tennyson's p o e t i c d u a l i s m i s a l s o l i n k e d t o : changes i n t i t l e . E m i l y Tennyson r e f e r r e d t o t h e poem as "Enoch A r d e n " i n h e r d i a r y (11 Dec 1861 and 1 Feb 18 62) , a l t h o u g h Tennyson o f t e n r e f e r r e d t o t h e poem as s i m p l y "The F i s h e r m a n , " a t i t l e s u g g e s t e d by Thomas Woolner who had p r o v i d e d t h e b r i e f p r o s e n a r r a t i v e t h a t i s t h e p r i n c i p a l s o u r c e o f Enoch Arden (Amy Woolner 5 4 ) . I n w r i t i n g t o t h e Duke o f A r g y l l i n F e b r u a r y 1862 c o n c e r n i n g h i s o v e r a l l p l a n f o r " I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g , " Tennyson remarks t h a t he i s "now about [ h i s ] ' F i s h e r m a n , ' w h i c h i s h e r o i c t o o i n i t s way" (Memoir 4 0 5 ) . By 1863, Tennyson had a p p a r e n t l y f i x e d on "Enoch A r d e n " as t h e t i t l e o f t h e poem; b u t , t h e r e s o l u t i o n o f t h e volume's t i t l e p r o v e d c o n t r o v e r s i a l , as an exchange o f l e t t e r s between Tennyson and E m i l y i n d i c a t e s . E m i l y p r e f e r r e d Enoch Arden and O t h e r Poems; Tennyson wanted a t i t l e i n c o r p o r a t i n g t h e word " I d y l l s , " p e r h a p s h o p i n g t o d i g n i f y t h e l a t e r poem w h i c h , as S i r C h a r l e s s u g g e s t s , he f e a r e d would be i n v i d i o u s l y compared w i t h I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g ( 3 5 0 ) . S e v e r a l p o s s i b i l i t i e s were a d v a n c e d — " I d y l l s C h i e f l y o f S e v e n t y Y e a r s Ago," " I d y l l s o f t h e P e o p l e , " and "Home I d y l l s . " The p r o o f t i t l e , " I d y l l s o f t h e H e a r t h , " w h i c h b o t h d i s p l e a s e d E m i l y — w h o had named b o t h I n Memoriam and I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g — a n d i n s p i r e d T . J . Wise's t i t l e - p a g e f o r g e r y , was f i n a l l y r e t u r n e d 7 t o Enoch A r d e n E t c . • Two f e a t u r e s o f Tennyson's c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e poem and t h e p l a c e i t was t o occupy i n h i s volume a r e s u g g e s t e d by t h e s e s h i f t i n g t i t l e s . By c a l l i n g t h e poem "The F i s h e r m a n , " Tennyson i d e n t i f i e d h i s i d y l w i t h i t s p r o t a g o n i s t ' s o c c u p a t i o n as he had done w i t h "The N o r t h e r n Farmer," a m o n o l o g i c i d y l o f r u s t i c l i f e i n t h e same volume. H i s MS. n o t e s i n H a l l a m ' s Memoir r e v e a l Tennyson's h i g h r e g a r d f o r " s i m p l e f i s h e r - f o l k " (425) a l i f e - l o n g l o v e and r e s p e c t t h e p o e t p a i d them, e v i d e n t e l s e w h e r e i n t h e Memoir. By a l t e r i n g i t t o "Enoch A r d e n , " however, Tennyson a l s o i d e n t i f i e d t h e i d y l ' s o v e r a l l t r a g e d y w i t h t h a t o f i t s h e r o , as he d i d w i t h " T i t h o n u s , " a l s o i n Enoch Arden volume. B o t h h e r o e s s u f f e r from " d e a t h - i n - l i f e , " one o f Tennyson's most p e r s i s t e n t themes t h r o u g h o u t h i s work. The i d y l l i c mixed w i t h t h e h e r o i c a l s o forms t h e b a s i s f o r t h e d e b a t e o v e r t h e volume's t i t l e . O b v i o u s l y E m i l y f e l t s t r o n g l y 7 T h i s exchange o f l e t t e r s a p p e a r s i n C h a r l e s Tennyson ( 3 5 0 ) , M a r t i n ( 4 5 1 - 2 ) , E m i l y Tennyson's L e t t e r s ( 1 8 0 - 2 ) , Tennyson's L e t t e r s ( I I 377) ; t h e f o r g e r y i s d i s c u s s e d i n F a n n i e E. R a t c h f o r d ' s " ' I d y l l s o f t h e H e a r t h ' : Wise's F o r g e r y o f Enoch A r d e n , " and n o t e d i n W.B. Todd's "Wise, Wrenn, and Tennyson's Enoch Arden." and N i c o l a s B a r k e r and John C o l l i n s ' s S e q u e l (249-52). 480 t h a t t h e " f i s h e r m a n " poem s h o u l d r e c e i v e g r e a t e r prominence w h i l e Tennyson f e l t j u s t as s t r o n g l y t h a t t h e e n t i r e c o l l e c t i o n s h o u l d t a k e " I d y l l s " ( d e c i d e d l y d o m e s t i c ) as i t s t i t l e . The e v e n t u a l r e s u l t i s l e s s i m p o r t a n t t h a n t h e s u g g e s t i o n s a r i s i n g from t h e d e b a t e . S i m i l a r t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s M i l e s S t a n d i s h (though n o t i d e n t i c a l ) , Tennyson's i d y l , Enoch A r d e n , was a l s o t o be composed o f two s k e i n s woven t o g e t h e r : t h e e p i c h e r o i s m o f Enoch, and t h e i d y l l i c d o m e s t i c romance o f t h e t h r e e major c h a r a c t e r s : Enoch, A n n i e , and P h i l i p . I n composing t h e s e poems, L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson a l s o drew upon t h e i r own p r e v i o u s l y p u b l i s h e d g e n r e s and t h o s e o f t h e i r c o n t e m p o r a r i e s . L o n g f e l l o w ' s e a r l i e s t use o f p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e began w i t h B a l l a d s and O t h e r Poems (1841) i n h i s d e s i r e t o c r e a t e a n a t i o n a l b a l l a d ("The Wreck o f t h e Hesperus") t o work "upon t h e p e o p l e ' s f e e l i n g s " ( L i f e I 242-3). H i s i n t e r e s t i n drama a l s o began e a r l y w i t h h i s t h r e e - a c t p l a y , The S p a n i s h S t u d e n t (1843), and c o n t i n u e d w i t h The G o l d e n Legend ( 1 8 5 1 ) . 8 N e v e r t h e l e s s , i t was L o n g f e l l o w ' s f a c i l i t y w i t h p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e , w h i c h a c h i e v e d i t s w i d e s t scope i n E v a n g e l i n e (1847), t h a t would e v e n t u a l l y l e a d t o t h e s u c c e s s o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h . The G o l d e n Legend was t o become p a r t I I o f C h r i s t u s (1872), L o n g f e l l o w ' s l i f e - l o n g p r o j e c t : an h i s t o r i c a l drama t r a c i n g t h e development o f C h r i s t i a n i t y . The o t h e r p a r t s were I — T h e D i v i n e Tragedy (1871), I I I — T h e New E n g l a n d T r a g e d i e s (18 6 8 ) , and I V — a p r o j e c t e d h i s t o r y o f t h e M o r a v i a n Nuns w h i c h was n e v e r c o m p l e t e d . L a t e r p o e t i c dramas i n c l u d e d "The A b b o t t J o a c h i m , " "The Masque o f Pandora," (1872) and t h e posthumous " M i c h a e l A n g e l o " (pub. 1884). 481 D e c l i n i n g t o t r e a t t h e t a l e o f E v a n g e l i n e i n p r o s e , N a t h a n i e l Hawthorne had g i v e n i t t o L o n g f e l l o w ( L i f e I I 7 0- 7 1 ) . E v a n g e l i n e i s a h i s t o r y o f t h e e x p u l s i o n o f t h e A c a d i a n s o v e r l a i d by t h e r o m a n t i c t a l e o f E v a n g e l i n e ' s h e r o i c s e a r c h f o r h e r e x i l e d husband. I n e v e n t u a l l y c h o o s i n g d a c t y l i c hexameters f o r E v a n g e l i n e , L o n g f e l l o w may have i m p l i e d p a r a l l e l s w i t h Greek e p i c p o e t r y . C e r t a i n l y E v a n g e l i n e ' s q u e s t i s no l e s s f r a u g h t w i t h danger ( r e a l and s y m b o l i c ) , h e r s t r u g g l e between f a i t h and doubt no l e s s t o r t u o u s , and h e r f i n a l r o l e as a " S i s t e r o f Mercy" no l e s s d e m o n s t r a t i v e o f h e r superhuman c a p a c i t i e s . However, L o n g f e l l o w ' s u n u s u a l h e x a m e t e r s — a n awkward meter f o r E n g l i s h p o e t r y — e n g e n d e r a more p r o s a i c rhythm and t o n e i n E v a n g e l i n e t h a n t h e b l a n k - v e r s e o f E n g l i s h e p i c p o e t r y u s u a l l y c a r r i e s . O l i v e r W e n d e l l Holmes d e s c r i b e d L o n g f e l l o w ' s meter as f o l l o w s : t h e hexameter "marks t h e t r a n s i t i o n o f p r o s e i n t o v e r s e . . .; and t h e c o n t i n u o u s n e s s o f t h e n a r r a t i o n i s p e r h a p s more p e r f e c t l y f e l t i n t h e s e l o n g r e a c h e s o f s l o w l y u n d u l a t i n g v e r s e t h a n i n t h e s h o r t e r measures, s u c h as t h e o c t o s y l l a b i c , w i t h i t s va e t v i e n t movement and t h e c l a t t e r i n g c a s t a n e t s o f i t s f r e q u e n t rhyme" ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 7 2 ) . 9 That L o n g f e l l o w ' s a u d i e n c e r e s p o n d e d e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y t o t h i s u n i q u e b l e n d o f h e r o i c v e r s e and n a r r a t i v e i s d e m o n s t r a t e d i n t h e poem's r e m a r k a b l e s a l e s (see A p p e n d i x I) and i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s remarks t h a t , l i k e The p r o s e - l i k e rhythm o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s hexameters i s even more marked i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h . 482 i t s p r o t a g o n i s t , " E v a n g e l i n e goes on b r a v e l y . I have r e c e i v e d g r e a t e r and warmer commendations t h a n on any p r e v i o u s volume. The p u b l i c t a k e s more k i n d l y t o hexameters t h a n I c o u l d have i m a g i n e d " ( L i f e I I 9 6 ) . 1 0 U l t i m a t e l y , L o n g f e l l o w had Hawthorne t o t h a n k f o r h i s m e t r i c a l e x p e r i m e n t : " T h i s s u c c e s s I owe e n t i r e l y t o you, f o r b e i n g w i l l i n g t o f o r e g o t h e p l e a s u r e o f w r i t i n g a p r o s e t a l e w h i c h many p e o p l e would have t a k e n f o r p o e t r y , t h a t I m i g h t w r i t e a poem w h i c h many p e o p l e t a k e f o r p r o s e " ( L i f e I I 9 9 ) . L o n g f e l l o w ' s own t a l e n t as a p r o s e w r i t e r had been e s t a b l i s h e d i n t h e 183 0s t h r o u g h h i s s k e t c h book, Outre-Mer (183 5) and h i s p r o s e romance. H y p e r i o n (1839). Kavanagh (1849) would a l s o be a p r o s e romance. These g i v e ample p r o o f t h a t , had he so d e s i r e d , L o n g f e l l o w c o u l d e a s i l y have w r i t t e n E v a n g e l i n e as a p r o s e romance. However, i n c h o o s i n g v e r s e — p a r t i c u l a r l y v e r s e o f such a d i s t i n c t i v e m e t e r — L o n g f e l l o w d e m o n s t r a t e s t h a t even i n p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e t h e p e o p l e ' s v o i c e S h o r t l y a f t e r t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f E v a n g e l i n e . A r t h u r Hugh C l o u g h p u b l i s h e d h i s i d y l l i c B o t h i e o f T o b e r - n a - V u o l i c h (1848), a l s o i n hexameters. I n a j o u r n a l e n t r y f o r 7 J a n u a r y , 1849, L o n g f e l l o w e x p r e s s e s g r e a t a d m i r a t i o n f o r t h i s poem and i t s meter ( L i f e I I 130). Tennyson, i n c o n t r a s t , d i s l i k e d hexameters i n g e n e r a l and L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n p a r t i c u l a r . / When t h e two p o e t s met i n 1868, Tennyson t o l d him so and L o n g f e l l o w d e f e n d e d them (see M a r t i n 4 6 9 ) . (See Tennyson's "On T r a n s l a t i o n s o f Homer," where he i n v e i g h s a g a i n s t " b a r b a r o u s h e x a m e t e r s " ) . Y e t Tennyson d i d o c c a s i o n a l l y w r i t e hexameter poems; t h e " N o r t h e r n Farmer" i n t h e Enoch A r d e n volume i s a good example o f hexameter c o u p l e t s , " J a c k and t h e B e a n s t a l k " and " B l u e b e a r d " o f q u a n t i t a t i v e hexameter poems. 483 t h a t made him p o p u l a r would w i n o u t . The b e a u t y o f E v a n g e l i n e as a poem i s due t o t h e a f f e c t i v e a p p e a l o f h i s l y r i c i s m . By t h e 1850s ( f o l l o w i n g a r e t u r n t o drama w i t h t h e Golden L e g e n d) , L o n g f e l l o w was r e a d i n g t h e F i n n i s h K a l e v a l a i n p r e p a r a t i o n t o w r i t e h i s own saga o f i n d i g e n o u s A m e r i c a n l i f e — T h e Song o f Hiawatha (1855). L o n g f e l l o w a g a i n e x p e r i m e n t e d w i t h meter, i n t h i s c a s e an a l m o s t u n v a r i e d t r o c h a i c t e t r a m e t e r . A l t h o u g h r i d i c u l o u s l y easy t o p a r o d y — a s L o n g f e l l o w and h i s w i f e knew i t would be even b e f o r e he p u b l i s h e d — t h e rhythm o f Hiawatha was f e l t by many A m e r i c a n s t o " c a p t u r e " t h e e s s e n c e o f I n d i a n l i f e . F o r example, B a y a r d T a y l o r , d i s r e g a r d i n g t h e f a c t t h a t sagas a r e g e n e r a l l y w r i t t e n i n p r o s e , c l a i m e d t h a t " t h e whole poem f l o a t s i n an atmosphere o f t h e A m e r i c a n I n d i a n summer . . . . I t i s t h e measure i n w h i c h a Saga s h o u l d be w r i t t e n , and f i t s i t s e l f w e l l t o t h e rhythm o f I n d i a n names and words" ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 264-5). Thomas P a r s o n s f e l t t h e measure t o be " m o n o t o n o u s , — a d m i t t e d ; b u t i t i s t r u l y I n d i a n . I t i s c h i l d - l i k e , and s u i t e d t o t h e savage e a r " ( q t d . i n L i f e I I 2 6 7 ) . Three y e a r s l a t e r , L o n g f e l l o w ' s s i g n i f i c a n t l y d i f f e r e n t t r e a t m e n t o f I n d i a n s i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h , and t h e s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d p r o s a i c rhythms o f t h e i r v o i c e s , would u n d e r s c o r e t h e s i n g u l a r l y u n c h i l d - l i k e , b l o o d y r e a l i t y o f P u r i t a n - n a t i v e c o e x i s t e n c e , a r e a l i s m t h a t had come from L o n g f e l l o w ' s o r i g i n a l c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e poem n o t as h e r o i c romance o r saga, b u t as drama. 484 W h i l e L o n g f e l l o w was engaged i n w r i t i n g M i l e s S t a n d i s h i n i t s d r a m a t i c form ( i n t h e w i n t e r o f 1856-7), he happened upon a poem t h a t may have changed h i s t h i n k i n g about c o n t i n u i n g M i l e s S t a n d i s h as a drama. He and Fanny were " r e a d i n g e a g e r l y Mrs. Browning's new poem A u r o r a L e i g h . R a t h e r a n o v e l i n v e r s e t h a n a poem; b u t f u l l o f g l o r i o u s p o e t r y , and w r i t t e n i n t h e f r e e s t and most d a s h i n g s t y l e . I t i s v e r y deep, i m p a s s i o n e d , s t r o n g and t e n d e r ; e v i d e n t l y an a u t o b i o g r a p h y , — n o t o f f a c t s b u t o f f e e l i n g s " ( L i f e I I 290). I n l i g h t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s p e r s i s t e n t emphasis on a poem's g e n e r a t i o n o f f e e l i n g s as a marker o f p o e t i c a p p e a l (see c h a p t e r s one and f i v e ) , h i s r e c o g n i t i o n o f t h i s q u a l i t y i n A u r o r a L e i g h may have caused him t o r e j e c t drama as t h e most a p p r o p r i a t e genre f o r M i l e s S t a n d i s h i n f a v o u r o f a more n a r r a t i v e c a s t . But i t was p r o b a b l y t h e r e l a t i v e l y low s a l e s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s most r e c e n t work, t h e d r a m a t i c Golden Legend (see A p p e n d i x I) — t h a t c a u s e d him t o r e c a s t M i l e s S t a n d i s h , w h i c h a p p e a r e d as a n i n e - p a r t i d y l w r i t t e n i n unrhymed, d a c t y l i c hexameters. The r o u s i n g rhythm o f t h e b a l l a d , d r a m a t i c a c t i o n , t h e u n d u l a t i n g meter o f n a r r a t i v e hexameters, and t h e e m o t i o n a l f o r c e o f n o v e l i s t i c p o e t r y — e a c h o f t h e s e i n some way c o n t r i b u t e d t o t h e i d y l o f P u r i t a n l i f e t h a t was e v e n t u a l l y t o become M i l e s S t a n d i s h . As a s k i l l e d c r a f t s m a n , L o n g f e l l o w had a v a i l a b l e t o him a v a r i e t y o f g e n r e s t h a t c o u l d o n l y enhance h i s p o e t r y ' s p o p u l a r i t y . I t c o u l d a p p e a l on a number o f d i f f e r e n t l e v e l s t o an i n c r e a s i n g l y d i v e r s e r e a d e r s h i p i n t h e 485 l a t e 1850s whose members' l i t e r a r y e d u c a t i o n was even l e s s u n i f o r m t h a n t h a t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s a u d i e n c e i n t h e 1830s. I n 1850, L o n g f e l l o w p u b l i s h e d h i s most famous n a t i o n a l b a l l a d , "The B u i l d i n g o f t h e S h i p " i n The S e a s i d e and t h e F i r e s i d e . I t s w e l l known c o n c l u s i o n , " s a i l on, 0 S h i p o f S t a t e ! / S a i l on, 0 U n i o n , s t r o n g and g r e a t ! " , can be seen as a s t a r t i n g p o i n t f o r h i s n a t i o n a l poem a t t h e end o f t h a t d e c a d e — M i l e s S t a n d i s h . F o r t h i s s h i p had i t s o r i g i n s i n t h e M a y f l o w e r t h a t had s a i l e d t o Plymouth R o c k — " t h e c o r n e r - s t o n e o f a n a t i o n " ( M i l e s S t a n d i s h V 7 0 ) . A t f i r s t g l a n c e , M i l e s S t a n d i s h does n o t seem a n a t i o n a l poem, does n o t seem t o evoke t h e o b v i o u s p a t r i o t i s m t h a t h i s e a r l i e r b a l l a d c o u l d . Y e t i n "The B u i l d i n g o f t h e S h i p , " t h e s h i p becomes n o t o n l y t h e r e q u i s i t e " s t a u n c h and s t r o n g , " " g o o d l y v e s s e l " o f n a t i o n a l i s m b u t a " g e n t l e , l o v i n g , t r u s t i n g w i f e " t o o . I t i s t h i s c o n f l a t i o n o f s e e m i n g l y a n t i p o d a l metaphors t h a t M i l e s S t a n d i s h borrows from h i s n a t i o n a l b a l l a d . B o t h t h e o b v i o u s and t h e l e s s o b v i o u s encouragement o f t h e " U n i o n " o f o p p o s i t e s stem from L o n g f e l l o w ' s n a t i o n a l i s t i c i m p u l s e s . I n 1858, t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s was p o i s e d on t h e b r i n k o f a C i v i l War t h a t had been f o m e n t i n g f o r a t l e a s t a decade. By t h e s p r i n g and summer o f 1856, L o n g f e l l o w ' s remarks i n h i s j o u r n a l and h i s l e t t e r s t o h i s c l o s e s t companion, C h a r l e s Sumner, r e f u t e any c l a i m s t h a t A m e r i c a ' s n a t i o n a l b a r d was p o l i t i c a l l y unaware. R o b e r t F e r g u s o n l i s t s t h e e v e n t s o f t h e 1850s t h a t t r i g g e r e d n e g a t i v e r e a c t i o n s from L o n g f e l l o w : " t h e 486 p e r i o d i c l o c a l e n f o r c e m e n t s o f t h e F u g i t i v e S l a v e Laws, debate and passage o f t h e Kansas-Nebraska A c t o f 1854, t h e c a n i n g o f C h a r l e s Sumner on t h e f l o o r o f t h e Senate on May 22, 1856, by South C a r o l i n i a n Congressman P r e s t o n S. B r o o k s , t h e e l e c t i o n o f James Buchanan i n November 1856, and t h e e x e c u t i o n o f John Brown i n 1859" ( 1 9 0 ) . A l t h o u g h Ferguson's r e a d i n g o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h d i f f e r s c o n s i d e r a b l y from t h a t o f f e r e d h e r e , h i s r e c o g n i t i o n t h a t L o n g f e l l o w d i d n o t s u f f e r from an " a r t i s t i c disengagement from c u r r e n t e v e n t s " i s a s t u t e . C a r e f u l r e a d i n g o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s poems o f t h e 1850s i n d e e d p r o v e s t h a t t h e p o e t ' s " p o l i t i c a l u n h a p p i n e s s e x t e n d e d t o a p e r c e i v e d need and hope f o r l a r g e change. The u n i o n was b r e a k i n g a p a r t and L o n g f e l l o w was d e e p l y p e s s i m i s t i c about i t s chances f o r s u r v i v a l " ( 1 9 1 ) . How L o n g f e l l o w managed i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h t o overcome h i s p e s s i m i s m — t o accommodate p o e t i c a l l y f o r t h e s e f e a r s y e t s t i l l p r o v i d e hope f o r c h a n g e — i s l i n k e d t o h i s use o f i n t e r c o n n e c t e d g e n r e s t o s u p p o r t s t r u c t u r a l l y what h i s poem encourages t h e m a t i c a l l y : t h a t i n u n i t y t h e r e i s s t r e n g t h . F e r g u s o n b e l i e v e s t h a t L o n g f e l l o w d i d n o t r e a l l y r e s o l v e a n y t h i n g i n h i s p o e t r y o f t h e 1850s. R a t h e r t h a n c o n s i d e r L o n g f e l l o w as w o r k i n g p u b l i c l y t o r e c o n c i l e i n h i s v e r s e t h e w a r r i n g t e n d e n c i e s i n h i s n a t i o n , F e r g u s o n i n t e r p r e t s L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e a c t i o n s t o e v e n t s o f t h e 1850s as p r i v a t e s e l f - c r i t i c i s m o f h i s i n e f f e c t u a l i t y . He t h e r e f o r e p e r c e i v e s i n Hiawatha and M i l e s S t a n d i s h L o n g f e l l o w ' s "masked p r e s e n t a t i o n o f p e r s o n a l a n x i e t i e s " o v e r t h e r o l e o f t h e a r t i s t i n s o c i e t y 487 ( 1 9 5 ) . F e r g u s o n a l l e g e s t h a t i n t h e l a t e r poem, L o n g f e l l o w f o u n d h i s v o i c e i n John A l d e n : " t h e t y p e f o r t h e a r t i s t i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h [who] r e m a i n s u t t e r l y p a r a l y s e d f o r much o f t h e poem, c a u g h t by c o n f l i c t i n g l o y a l t i e s and f e e l i n g s o f i r r e l e v a n c e w i t h i n a community endangered by war" (204) . However, by l o c a t i n g t h e poem's p r i m a r y c o n c e r n w i t h i n A l d e n , F e r g u s o n s h i f t s t o t h e c e n t r e a f i g u r e who i s e s s e n t i a l l y m a r g i n a l . A l d e n m e r e l y embodies one o f two a l t e r n a t i v e s i t e s o f male c o n f l i c t ; t h e o t h e r , o f c o u r s e , i s M i l e s S t a n d i s h . A l d e n ' s b a t t l e i s w i t h words; S t a n d i s h ' s w i t h weapons. One i s a "maker o f p h r a s e s " ; t h e o t h e r i s a "maker o f war." The s c r i b e l i v e s i n a s t a t i c l y r i c w o r l d o f e l e g a n t language w h i l e t h e C a p t a i n l i v e s i n a d r a m a t i c w o r l d o f h e r o i c a c t i o n . I n o n l y one f i g u r e , P r i s c i l l a , do t h e b e a u t y o f l y r i c i s m and t h e v i t a l i t y o f d r a m a t i c a c t i o n u n i t e . The P u r i t a n maid i s t h e poem's c e n t r e . These t h r e e f i g u r e s a r e t y p i c a l o f t h e g e n r e s t h e y r e p r e s e n t — d r a m a , l y r i c , and v e r s i f i e d p r o s e — a n d i n c o n j u n c t i o n , t h e y d e m o n s t r a t e how L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t i c s t r u c t u r e s work t o w a r d r e i n f o r c i n g t h e theme o f u n i t y so c r i t i c a l t o t h e A m e r i c a n n a t i o n i n t h e 1850s. S i n c e t h e poem was o r i g i n a l l y c o n c e i v e d as a drama, t h e P u r i t a n C a p t a i n ' s r o l e as t h e r e p r e s e n t a t i v e o f t h i s genre s h o u l d p e r h a p s be examined f i r s t . The dynamicism o f S t a n d i s h ' s r o l e i s s e l f - a r t i c u l a t e d ; he i s a p r o c l a i m e d f i g h t e r o f I n d i a n s , a g u a r d i a n o f t h e p i l g r i m s ' b o d i e s , as t h e P l y m o u t h E l d e r g u a r d s t h e i r 488 s o u l s . Whatever " e l e g a n c e " L o n g f e l l o w ' s hexameters may a c h i e v e e l s e w h e r e i n t h e poem, when i t i s t i m e f o r S t a n d i s h t o f i g h t , t h e v e r s e becomes as h a r d - h i t t i n g and as f o r c e f u l as t h e s k i r m i s h e s i n w h i c h he engages. Enraged by t a u n t i n g v e r b a l i n s u l t s from n a t i v e w a r r i o r s , S t a n d i s h s t r i k e s back p h y s i c a l l y : A l l t h e h o t b l o o d o f h i s r a c e , o f S i r Hugh and o f T h u r s t o n de S t a n d i s h , B o i l e d and b e a t i n h i s h e a r t , and s w e l l e d i n t h e v e i n s o f h i s t e m p l e s , Headlong he l e a p e d on t h e b o a s t e r , and, s n a t c h i n g h i s k n i f e from i t s s c a b b a r d , P l u n g e d i t i n t o h i s h e a r t , and, r e e l i n g backward, t h e savage F e l l w i t h h i s f a c e t o t h e s k y , and a f i e n d l i k e f i e r c e n e s s upon i t . S t r a i g h t t h e r e a r o s e from t h e f o r e s t t h e a w f u l sound o f t h e war-whoop, And, l i k e a f l u r r y o f snow on t h e w h i s t l i n g wind o f December, S w i f t and sudden and keen came a f l i g h t o f f e a t h e r y a r r o w s . ( V I I 71-8) L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o n s i d e r a b l e use o f 11 b" a l l i t e r a t i o n r e g i s t e r s i n r e p e a t e d sound t h e e f f e c t s o f t h e s e b o a s t s upon S t a n d i s h ' s s o r e l y t r i e d p a t i e n c e . When he snaps, t h e movement i s s w i f t and d i r e c t . Then, P e c k s u o t ' s r e e l i n g backward w i t h i t s a t t e n d a n t d e s c r i p t i o n o f h i s f a c e p r o v i d e s a c a r e f u l l y c r a f t e d , m i n u t e pause as t h e a u d i e n c e wonders what w i l l happen n e x t . The f o r c e o f t h e d a c t y l — " S t r a i g h t t h e r e a r o s e " — s i g n a l s t h e b a t t l e ' s b e g i n n i n g . The subsequent metaphor o f snow c o u l d have been i n a p p r o p r i a t e l y s o f t and g e n t l e were i t n o t t h a t i t comes upon t h e " w h i s t l i n g wind o f December" t o d e s i g n a t e t h e s w i f t r e v e r s a l o f autumn l a n g u o r i n t o f i e r c e 489 w i n t e r . The a s y n d e t o n o f l i n e s e v e n t y - e i g h t e n f o r c e s t h e r e p e a t e d v o l l e y s o f a r r o w s . The a l l i t e r a t i o n o f "w", " s " , and " f " r e p l i c a t e t h e a c t i o n s i n c e t h e p r e s e n c e o f t h e w a r r i o r s i s an o f f - s t a g e , a u d i b l e and k i n e s t h e t i c f o r c e r a t h e r t h a n a v i s i b l e one. These sounds and images a l s o h e i g h t e n t h e f e e l i n g o f t e r r o r as S t a n d i s h seems ambushed a l m o s t as i f by unseen s p e c t r e s r a t h e r t h a n v i s i b l e enemies. S t a n d i s h ' s i n d i v i d u a l h e r o i s m a t c e n t r e s t a g e i s t h u s enhanced by t h e f o r c e f u l i m p a c t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s d r a m a t i c v e r s e . Y e t no s o o n e r i s t h e a u d i e n c e c h e e r i n g t h e i r m y t h i c n a t i o n a l h e r o ( V I I 79-82) t h a n t h e d e a t h k n e l l t o l e g e n d i s sounded i n t h e a m b i v a l e n t t o n e s o f f i c t i o n a l r e a l i s m . The summing up o f t h i s b a t t l e i s n a r r a t e d i n s l o w , d e l i b e r a t e l i n e s t h a t i m m e d i a t e l y dampen t h e e x c i t e d mood and emphasize t h e r e a l i t y o f d e a t h . The t r i b e s ' sachem, t h e " b r a v e Wattawamat," has been k i l l e d : "Unswerving and s w i f t had a b u l l e t / P a s s e d t h r o u g h h i s b r a i n , and he f e l l w i t h b o t h hands c l u t c h i n g t h e greensward, / Seeming i n d e a t h t o h o l d back from h i s f o e t h e l a n d o f h i s f a t h e r s " ( V I I 8 3 - 5 ) . These l i n e s i n t r o d u c e new c o m p l i c a t i o n s : t h e p o s s i b i l i t y o f t h e r e b e i n g s e l f - s a c r i f i c i n g I n d i a n h e r o e s t o o , and q u e s t i o n s about t h e " f o e " who a r e now w h i t e and t h e i d e o l o g i c a l p u r i t y o f t h e i r s e t t l e m e n t o f n a t i v e l a n d . Thus, t h e drama o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h may be e x c i t i n g a d v e n t u r e , b u t L o n g f e l l o w i r o n i c a l l y r e f u s e s t o a l l o w i t t o p a s s i n t o myth a t t h i s p o i n t , even though t h e poem i s d e r i v e d from l e g e n d . W h i l e t h e drama o f M i l e S t a n d i s h l e a d s t o q u e s t i o n s o f a p u b l i c ' s c o l l e c t i v e m o t i v e s f o r a c t i o n , John A l d e n ' s l y r i c i s m engenders d o u b t s c o n c e r n i n g t h e i n d i v i d u a l ' s p r i v a t e u s e s and m i s u s e s o f l a n g u a g e . As t h e " e l e g a n t s c h o l a r , / H a v i n g t h e g r a c e s o f s p e e c h , and s k i l l i n t h e t u r n i n g o f p h r a s e s " ( I I 89- 9 0 ) , John A l d e n i s t h e m a s t e r o f empty r h e t o r i c , a p o i n t made m a n i f e s t i n h i s exchanges w i t h P r i s c i l l a , d i s c u s s e d below. By h i m s e l f , however, t h e e m p t i n e s s o f h i s m e t a p h o r i c t r a n s f o r m a t i o n o f r e a l i t y i s r e v e a l e d i n t h e p r o f u s e l y r i c i s m t h a t s u r r o u n d s him as i f i t were h i s own p e r s o n a l a t m o s p h e r e . 1 1 The c l e a r e s t i n s t a n c e o f A l d e n as an e l e g a n t v e r s i f i e r o c c u r s i m m e d i a t e l y a f t e r P r i s c i l l a a s k s h e r famous d i r e c t q u e s t i o n : "Why d o n ' t you speak f o r y o u r s e l f , J o h n ? " ( I l l 154). When d e s c r i b i n g A l d e n ' s a c t i o n , t h e n a r r a t o r sounds p r o s a i c : A l d e n " r u s h e d , " "wandered," "paced," and " b a r e d h i s head t o t h e e a s t w i n d " (IV 2-3). But once i n s i d e A l d e n ' s t h o u g h t s , t h e n a r r a t o r ' s language l e a d i n g t o A l d e n ' s own i s d e c i d e d l y l u x u r i a n t and overdone: S l o w l y as o u t o f t h e heavens, w i t h a p o c a l y p t i c a l s p l e n d o u r s , Sank t h e c i t y o f God, i n t h e v i s i o n o f John t h e A p o s t l e , So, w i t h i t s c l o u d y w a l l s o f c h r y s o l i t e , j a s p e r , and s a p p h i r e , Sank t h e b r o a d r e d sun, and o v e r i t s t u r r e t s u p l i f t e d Glimmered t h e G o l d e n r e e d o f t h e a n g e l who measured t h e c i t y . 'Welcome, o w i n d o f t h e E a s t ! ' he e x c l a i m e d i n h i s w i l d e x u l t a t i o n . 'Welcome, 0 w i n d o f t h e E a s t , from t h e c a v e s o f t h e m i s t y I n M i l e s S t a n d i s h , each c h a r a c t e r and v o i c e i s so i n d i v i d u a l t h a t one can a l m o s t h e a r p r e s a g e s o f P r o k o f i e v ' s s c o r e f o r P e t e r and t h e Wolf w h e r e i n each p a r t i s p l a y e d by a d i f f e r e n t i n s t r u m e n t . A t l a n t i c ! B l o w i n g o'er t h e f i e l d s o f d u l s e , and m e a s u r e l e s s meadows o f s e a - g r a s s , B l o w i n g o'er r o c k y w a s t e s , and t h e g r o t t o e s and g a r d e n s o f ocean! Lay t h y c o l d , m o i s t hand on my b u r n i n g f o r e h e a d , and wrap me C l o s e i n garments o f m i s t , t o a l l a y t h e f e v e r w i t h i n me!' (IV 5-15) The n a r r a t o r ' s s e l e c t i o n o f a B i b l i c a l metaphor f o r t h e s u n s e t m i m i c s A l d e n ' s use o f t h e B i b l e i m m e d i a t e l y f o l l o w i n g t h i s p a s s a g e . I n h i s t o r m e n t o v e r h i s l o v e o f P r i s c i l l a and h i s d u t y t o h i s f r i e n d , A l d e n arms h i m s e l f w i t h ready-made i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f what he p e r c e i v e s t o be p a r a l l e l B i b l i c a l e v e n t s so as t o a v o i d t h e use o f a p r e c i s e language t h a t would s i g n a l r e a l d e c i s i o n making (IV 16-50). H i s m i s u s e o f a P u r i t a n i c a l r e l i a n c e on God's s y m b o l i c t e x t as t r u t h i s c o u p l e d w i t h h i s s i m i l a r m i s r e a d i n g o f n a t u r e as s i g n s o f d i v i n e o r d i n a n c e . U n l i k e Holmes's i m p r e s s i o n o f t h e meter o f E v a n g e l i n e . A l d e n ' s u n d u l a t i n g hexameters do n o t advance t h e n a r r a t i v e ; nor a r e t h e y i n t e n d e d t o . The e a s t w i n d o f f t h e A t l a n t i c i s l y r i c a l l y r e c o n f i g u r e d as a m i n i s t e r i n g a n g e l w h i l e A l d e n s t r u g g l e s i n t h e s t a t i c t h r o e s o f a S a t a n i c t e m p t a t i o n (IV 2 8 ) . C o n s e q u e n t l y , h i s s o - c a l l e d r e s o l v e t o r e t u r n t o E n g l a n d comes about from a m i s r e a d i n g o f t h e M a y f l o w e r r i d i n g a t a n c h o r — i t presumably i s t h e L o r d ' s w i l l f o r him t o r e t u r n r a t h e r t h a n r e m a i n i n P l y m o u t h and r e s o l v e h i s c o n f l i c t d i r e c t l y . Throughout t h e poem, A l d e n ' s s t u l t i f y i n g i n a b i l i t y t o speak h i s own mind w i t h h i s ' own v o i c e — t o b o t h M i l e s S t a n d i s h and P r i s c i l l a — s t e m s from a t o o p a s s i v e dependence on t h e e x t e r n a l a u t h o r i t y o f t h e words o f t h e g o s p e l . C h r i s t i a n i t y , however, i s n o t r e j e c t e d . R a t h e r , t h r o u g h t h e e x p o s u r e o f A l d e n ' s h o l l o w r h e t o r i c , L o n g f e l l o w s u g g e s t s t h a t i t i s o n l y i n t h e s i n c e r e t r a n s l a t i o n o f t h e Word i n t o human a c t i o n t h a t war o f any k i n d i s a b a t e d and can, p e r h a p s , be p r e v e n t e d a l t o g e t h e r . D r a m a t i c a c t i o n f o r i t s own sake and l y r i c u t t e r a n c e f o r i t s own b e n e f i t — t h e s e two male g e n r e s a r e r e j e c t e d i n f a v o u r o f t h e i r p e r f e c t u n i o n , f o r t h e community's s a k e , w i t h i n t h e p u r i t a n maid, P r i s c i l l a . I n h e r v o i c e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s r e a d e r s h e a r s t r e n g t h and g e n t l e n e s s , e q u a l l y j u s t i f i a b l e anger and compassion. Not j u s t a f i g u r e o u t o f h i s t o r y , P r i s c i l l a had a c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a l - l i f e model i n P r i s c i l l a Green whom t h e p o e t had h e a r d i n c h u r c h d u r i n g t h e summer he was w r i t i n g M i l e s S t a n d i s h . He r e c o r d s i n h i s j o u r n a l t h a t "She spoke w i t h a sweet v o i c e and v e r y c l e a r e n u n c i a t i o n ; v e r y d e l i b e r a t e l y , and b r e a k i n g now and t h e n i n t o r h y t h m i c c h a n t , i n w h i c h t h e v o i c e seemed f l o a t i n g up and down on w i n g s . I was much i n t e r e s t e d and c o u l d have l i s t e n e d an hour l o n g e r . I t was a v e r y g r e a t p l e a s u r e t o me t o h e a r such a m u s i c a l v o i c e " ( L i f e I I 304). As n o t e d p r e v i o u s l y , by December 1857, L o n g f e l l o w had changed h i s d r a m a t i c M i l e s S t a n d i s h t o " P r i s c i l l a " a " k i n d o f P u r i t a n p a s t o r a l " i n n a r r a t i v e hexameters w h i c h he t h i n k s w i l l be a b e t t e r t r e a t m e n t o f t h e s u b j e c t t h a n h i s e a r l i e r d r a m a t i c b l a n k v e r s e . P r i s c i l l a i s one among o t h e r s t r o n g - m i n d e d women i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y who a c h i e v e t h e t h e m a t i c s t a t u r e o f m y t h i c h e r o i s m because o f t h e s i n c e r i t y o f t h e i r u n i o n o f v o i c e and a c t i o n . E v a n g e l i n e , an o b v i o u s example, has a l r e a d y been m e n t i o n e d . L o n g f e l l o w ' s i d e a l i z e d p o r t r a y a l o f t h e " l a d y w i t h t h e lamp," F l o r e n c e N i g h t i n g a l e , i n " S a n t a F i l o m e l a " i s a l s o one o f t h i s number and an immediate E n g l i s h c o u n t e r p a r t t o P r i s c i l l a s i n c e L o n g f e l l o w was a l s o w r i t i n g about h e r i n t h e l a t e 1850s. She i s "A n o b l e t y p e o f good, / H e r o i c womanhood" (39-40) whose "speech and song" w i l l be r e c o r d e d i n " E n g l i s h a n n a l s " ( 3 4 - 5 ) . Y e t b o t h o f t h e s e women a r e s a i n t l y m a r t y r s t o t h e w e l l - b e i n g o f o t h e r s . They do n o t have t h e r e a l i s t i c v e r v e o f P r i s c i l l a who, A l f r e d Kreymborg (not w i t h o u t a c e r t a i n amount o f o b v i o u s wonder) i n 1929 c a l l e d " I b s e n e s q u e " and " t h e f i r s t f e m i n i s t i n A m e r i c a n p o e t r y " ( 1 0 7 ) . As a poem, " P r i s c i l l a " manages t o combine b o t h models: one an i d y l o f h e r o i c a c t i o n , t h e o t h e r a l y r i c a l ode t o t r u e f e m i n i n e v i r t u e . L o n g f e l l o w i s n o t r e l u c t a n t t o m y t h o l o g i z e , nor i s he r e l u c t a n t t o s p i r i t u a l i z e h i s n a t i o n ' s e a r l i e s t b e g i n n i n g s . Y e t t h e r e a l i t y o f compromise and c o n c i l i a t i o n must n o t be s a c r i f i c e d e i t h e r t o t h e drama o f w a r f a r e o r t h e h o l l o w l y r i c i s m o f w o r d p l a y . Hence, i n h i s p o r t r a y a l o f P r i s c i l l a , L o n g f e l l o w t r i e s t o a c h i e v e " t h e e m o t i o n a l f o r c e o f a n o v e l , " t h e p a s s i o n and t h e p r o s a i c q u a l i t y t h a t he had a d m i r e d i n A u r o r a L e i g h . P r i s c i l l a ' s s t r e n g t h o f v o i c e r e g i s t e r s c l e a r l y 494 i n t h e m a t t e r - o f - f a c t t o n e s o f h e r r e a l i s t i c a p p r a i s a l o f h e r two l o v e r s and h e r s e l f . P r i s c i l l a i s a t f i r s t " s t u n n e d " and " r e n d e r e d . . . s p e e c h l e s s " by A l d e n ' s b l u n t d e l i v e r y o f S t a n d i s h ' s m a r r i a g e p r o p o s a l . She f e e l s A l d e n ' s "words l i k e a blow" ( I I I 107), b u t , u n l i k e h e r companion, she i s a b l e t o r e c o v e r h e r v o i c e t o d e l i v e r an i n d i g n a n t speech about S t a n d i s h ' s t y p i c a l l y one- s i d e d male c o u r t s h i p ( I I I 118-26). U n l i k e S t a n d i s h ' s maxim on s e l f - r e l i a n c e t h a t p r o v e s t o be a sham, however, t h e maxim w i t h w h i c h P r i s c i l l a p u n c t u a t e s h e r speech r i n g s t r u e i n h e r b e h a v i o u r t o w a r d A l d e n : "When one i s t r u l y i n l o v e , one n o t o n l y s a y s i t , b u t shows i t " ( I I I 127). L a t e r , P r i s c i l l a i d e n t i f i e s f o r A l d e n t h e b a r r i e r s t o t h i s i d e a l y o k i n g o f language and a c t i o n t h a t she and o t h e r women f e e l a c u t e l y — P a u l i n e i n j u n c t i o n s t h a t deny h e r t h e f r e e use o f h e r v o i c e : . . . ' f o r i t i s t h e f a t e o f a woman Long t o be p a t i e n t and s i l e n t , t o w a i t l i k e a g h o s t t h a t i s s p e e c h l e s s , T i l l some q u e s t i o n i n g v o i c e d i s s o l v e s t h e s p e l l o f i t s s i l e n c e . Hence i s t h e i n n e r l i f e o f so many s u f f e r i n g women S u n l e s s and s i l e n t and deep, l i k e s u b t e r r a n e a n r i v e r s R u n n i n g t h r o u g h c a v e r n s o f d a r k n e s s , unheard, unseen, and u n f r u i t f u l , C h a f i n g t h e i r c h a n n e l s o f s t o n e w i t h e n d l e s s and p r o f i t l e s s murmurs.' (VI 29-35) Her d i r e c t speech, s i m p l e metaphors, and r e p e t i t i o n s f o r emphasis r e v e a l c l e a r l y t h e s i n c e r e d e p t h o f t h e p a i n and f r u s t r a t i o n t h a t she f e e l s . Hence when John A l d e n , " t h e l o v e r 495 o f women," g i v e s h e r c l i c h e s o f womanhood i n r e s p o n s e (VI 36- 4 0 ) , P r i s c i l l a j u s t l y r e b u k e s him: 496 'Ah, by t h e s e words I can s e e , . . . How v e r y l i t t l e you p r i z e me, o r c a r e f o r what I am s a y i n g . When from t h e d e p t h s o f my h e a r t , i n p a i n and s e c r e t m i s g i v i n g , F r a n k l y I speak t o you, a s k i n g f o r sympathy o n l y and k i n d n e s s , S t r a i g h t a w a y you t a k e up my words, t h a t a r e p l a i n and d i r e c t and i n e a r n e s t , T u r n them away from t h e i r meaning, and answer w i t h f l a t t e r i n g p h r a s e s . ' (VI 41-6) The l o n g l i n e s o f n a r r a t i v e hexameters h e r e a p p r o x i m a t e an a n g r y y e t c a r e f u l l y c o n t r o l l e d p r o s e rhythm o f a h i g h l y r a t i o n a l r e d r e s s . U n l i k e A l d e n , P r i s c i l l a t h e n g i v e s a s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d e s t i m a t e o f h e r companion's c h a r a c t e r . She s t e r n l y r e m i n d s him t h a t i f he m e r e l y f l a t t e r s h e r , he i m p l i e s t h a t she i s " ' o n l y as one among many, / I f [he] make[s] use o f s u c h common and c o m p l i m e n t a r y p h r a s e s / Most men t h i n k so f i n e , i n d e a l i n g and s p e a k i n g w i t h women, / But w h i c h women r e j e c t as i n s i p i d , i f n o t as i n s u l t i n g ' " (VI 5 1 - 4 ) . I n s h o r t , i f A l d e n ' s words do n o t c a r r y t h e i m p o r t o f h i s t h o u g h t s o r t h e s i n c e r i t y o f h i s e m o t i o n s , t h e n he abuses h i s r i g h t t o speak t o h e r . Even Tennyson's P r i n c e s s I d a c o u l d n o t have b l a s t e d a man more f o r c e f u l l y . S t r u c t u r a l l y , L o n g f e l l o w ' s i d y l meets t h r e e d i f f e r e n t l e v e l s o f g e n r e e x p e c t a t i o n s i n i t s a u d i e n c e : drama, l y r i c , and p r o s e ( d i s g u i s e d as v e r s e ) . Y e t u l t i m a t e l y , The C o u r t s h i p o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h — i n i t s f u l l t i t l e — c e n t r e s on P r i s c i l l a ' s c a r e f u l a r t i c u l a t i o n o f f e m a l e i s o l a t i o n , and t h e r u l e s and p r o p e r b e h a v i o u r t h a t g o v e r n l o v e , c o u r t s h i p , and m a r r i a g e . W h i l e i t may a t i t s p e r i p h e r y o v e r t l y p o r t r a y S t a n d i s h ' s s a f e - g u a r d i n g o f A m e r i c a ' s f i r s t s e t t l e r s , t h e poem c o v e r t l y i m p l i e s t h a t o n l y t h r o u g h t h e a c t i o n s and r e a c t i o n s o f human l o v e c a n one r e a d t h e means by w h i c h t h e s a f e - g u a r d i n g o f t h e U n i o n i n t h e 1850s c o u l d t a k e p l a c e . Through a t h o u g h t f u l l y c o n s i d e r e d u n i o n o f s i n c e r e language and f i t a c t i o n , t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s c o u l d f o r e s t a l l t h e i r d i s s o l u t i o n . A t i t s h e a r t , L o n g f e l l o w ' s i d y l i s a d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y . I n i t s e q u a l emphasis on c o n j o i n i n g language and a c t i o n Enoch Arden i s a l s o a d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y . Tennyson melded s e v e r a l g e n r e s f o r t h i s i d y l — h i s own and o t h e r s , and, i n so d o i n g , c r e a t e d a t e x t w i t h even g r e a t e r i n t r i c a c i e s and an even more s u c c e s s f u l r e a c h i n g o u t t o a b r o a d s p e c t r u m o f r e a d e r s t h a n M i l e s S t a n d i s h . The i m m e d i a t e l y r e c o g n i z a b l e genre t h a t Tennyson drew upon f o r Enoch A r d e n i s t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l t h a t he i n v e n t e d i n t h e E n g l i s h I d y l s f o r t h e 1842 Poems. C h a p t e r f o u r has e x p l a i n e d a s p e c t s o f s e v e r a l i d y l s as complementary poems t o Tennyson's r e v i s e d l y r i c s f o r t h e same volume. As Fredeman p o i n t s o u t , t h e most r e m a r k a b l e f e a t u r e o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l s i s t h e i r v a r i e t y o f s t y l e and t r e a t m e n t . F o r t h e most p a r t , however, he v i e w s them as " i n t e n t i o n a l l y s t a r k , m i l i t a n t l y a n t i - l y r i c a l . P a r e d o f a l l s u r f a c e d e c o r a t i o n , t h e y a r e marked by an a l m o s t t o t a l absence o f c h a r a c t e r i z a t i o n , an economy o f n a r r a t i o n , . . . s t y l i s t i c s i m p l i c i t y and d i r e c t n e s s " ( 3 6 9 ) . I n t h i s f a s h i o n , Tennyson echoed t h e R e n a i s s a n c e I d y l t h a t 498 began t o i n c o r p o r a t e s o c i a l commentary v i a a l l e g o r i c a l s y m b o l i s m — S p e n s e r ' s Shepherd's C a l e n d a r f o r example. Y e t , i t was V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y i t s e l f t h a t f o s t e r e d Tennyson's d i r e c t t r e a t m e n t o f s o c i a l abuses, " m a r r i a g e - h i n d e r i n g mammon" b e i n g t h e most common. S i m p l i c i t y and d i r e c t n e s s , however, were n o t Tennyson's u s u a l methods. He p r e f e r r e d t o move " i n a s t r a n g e d i a g o n a l " as i n The P r i n c e s s . T h i s Medley i n t e r w e a v e s t h e d o m e s t i c frame n a r r a t i v e w i t h t h e m e d i e v a l romance n a r r a t i v e o f P r i n c e s s I d a and, l a t e r , w i t h t h e newly added i n t e r c a l a r y l y r i c s . Tennyson's n a r r a t i v e l y - w o v e n l y r i c s i n I n Memoriam and t h e d r a m a t i c monologue, Maud, r e v e a l t h e p o e t c o n t i n u i n g t o e x p e r i m e n t w i t h o b l i q u e meaning i n r e l a t i o n t o g e n r e i n t h e 1850s. But he r e t u r n e d t o t h e i d y l as a f o u n d a t i o n a l genre i n t h e 1859 I d y l l s . i n w h i c h he acknowledged t h e i n h e r e n t l y n a r r a t i v e t e n o r o f f e m a l e b e h a v i o u r i n l o v e r e l a t i o n s . Once wed t o male n a r r a t i v e s o f q u e s t , c o n q u e s t , and m i s a d v e n t u r e , however, t h e t w e l v e - b o o k I d y l l s a c h i e v e d i t s e p i c s t a t u r e . A t t h i s p o i n t , i t seems r e a s o n a b l e t o c o n s i d e r V i c t o r i a n c r i t i c s ' demands f o r a " l o n g poem" upon an i m p o r t a n t , t o p i c a l i s s u e . I n t h e i r d i f f e r e n t ways, B r i t i s h r e v i e w e r s i n t h e 1830s and 1840s had been a s k i n g t h e i r p o e t s f o r a n o t h e r P a r a d i s e L o s t , a poem o f e p i c sweep and g r a n d e u r t o complement what t h e y f e l t t o be t h e a u g u s t n a t u r e o f t h e t i m e s i n w h i c h t h e y l i v e d . However, as Aubrey de V e r e p o i n t s o u t i n h i s r e v i e w a r t i c l e "Modern P o e t r y and t h e P o e t s " ( E d i n b u r g h Review 499 1849 r p t . i n S t a s n y ' s V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y : A C o l l e c t i o n o f E s s a y s from t h e P e r i o d ) , t h e t i m e s were h a r d l y p r o p i t i o u s f o r w r i t i n g n a t i o n a l p o e t r y o f e p i c s t a t u r e . L i k e Tennyson's The P r i n c e s s . w h i c h de V e r e r e v i e w s f o r t h e p u r p o s e , t h e age was i t s e l f a "Medley": d i v e r s i t i e s i n p h i l o s o p h y , s o c i e t y , p o l i t i c s , a r t , and a r c h i t e c t u r e abounded. D e s p i t e t h i s r e c o g n i t i o n , de V e r e c o n c l u d e s w i t h an argument h i n t i n g t h a t , t h r o u g h t h e p r i o r e x e r c i s e o f v e r s a t i l e t a l e n t s , Tennyson i s i m a g i n a t i v e l y p r e p a r i n g t o w r i t e a n a t i o n a l poem. He adds: A g r e a t poem i s a g r e a t a c t i o n ; and r e q u i r e s t h e a s s i d u o u s e x e r c i s e o f t h o s e h i g h m o r a l powers w i t h w h i c h c r i t i c i s m has no c o n c e r n and a c t i o n m u c h ; — c o u r a g e , prudence, e n t e r p r i s e , p a t i e n c e , s e l f - r e l i a n c e founded on s e l f - k n o w l e d g e , a magnanimous s u p e r i o r i t y t o p e t t y o b s t a c l e s , a d i s i n t e r e s t e d d e v o t i o n t o a r t f o r i t s own s a k e , and f o r t h a t o f a l l w h i c h i t i n t e r p r e t s and communicates. S h o u l d Mr. Tennyson d e v o t e h i m s e l f t o a g r e a t work, he has a l r e a d y e x h i b i t e d t h e f a c u l t i e s n e c e s s a r y f o r h i s s u c c e s s . ( E d i n b u r g h 227 r p t . i n S t a s n y ) De V e r e ' s p r a i s e i s n o t s u r p r i s i n g s i n c e he and Tennyson were f r i e n d s , De V e r e had h e a r d p a r t s o f The P r i n c e s s b e f o r e i t was p u b l i s h e d , and he knew t h a t t h e p o e t was c o n t e m p l a t i n g The I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g i n t h e l a t e 184 0s. Tennyson l a t e r came t o s t a y w i t h him i n C u r r a g h , I r e l a n d , i n t h e s p r i n g o f 1848 ( C h a r l e s Tennyson 224-6). S t i l l , de V e r e ' s a r t i c l e and h i s f i n a l r e c i p e on how t o w r i t e a g r e a t poem bespeak much o f t h e t e n o r o f t h e t i m e s s i n c e he o b v i o u s l y i m p l i e s d e f e c t s i n e i t h e r t h e age o r i t s w r i t e r s t h a t m i l i t a t e a g a i n s t e p i c p o e t r y . 500 F i s c h e r a r g u e s t h a t e a r l i e r i n t h e c e n t u r y t h e " r o m a n t i c v e r s e n a r r a t i v e [had] d e t h r o n e d t h e e p i c , i n o r d e r t h a t an e p i c t y p e a p p r o p r i a t e t o t h e age m i g h t be c r e a t e d . That was t h e o r i g i n a l aim [ o f Romantic p o e t s ] b u t i n p r a c t i c e t h i s was n e v e r a c h i e v e d " ( 2 1 4 ) . F i s c h e r adds, however, t h a t i n t h i s a t t e m p t , many i m p o r t a n t d i s c o v e r i e s were made: h y b r i d g e n r e s o f g r e a t b e a u t y and e x p r e s s i v e n e s s were p r o d u c e d and a h i g h e r c l a s s o f l i g h t f i c t i o n i n v e r s e came i n t o b e i n g w h i c h d e l i g h t e d t h o u s a n d s because i t was more u n d e r s t a n d a b l e and d e a l t w i t h s u b j e c t s w i t h w h i c h i t was p o s s i b l e t o i d e n t i f y , by c o n t r a s t w i t h t h e neo- c l a s s i c a l e p i c i n w h i c h t h e emotions were subdued by r e a s o n , t h e w i l l and a c o n t r o l l e d s t y l e , and w i t h t h e c l a s s i c e p i c from a remote p e r i o d o f h i s t o r y . Another' o f t h e many i m p o r t a n t consequences o f t h i s a t t e m p t was t h e development o f t h e s y m b o l i c and a l l e g o r i c a l c o n t i n u i t y on w h i c h a l l g r e a t r o m a n t i c p o e t r y i s based. (214) The r e l a t i o n o f l y r i c and a l l e g o r y i s d i s c u s s e d below; f o r t h e moment, i t i s n e c e s s a r y t o o u t l i n e Tennyson's r e a c t i o n t o t h e r o m a n t i c v e r s e n a r r a t i v e . The e a r l y Tennyson's use o f t h i s genre i s e v i d e n t i n h i s l o n g , d i f f u s e " L o v e r ' s T a l e " (comp. 1832). T h i s poem combines p a s s a g e s o f l u x u r i a n t d e s c r i p t i v e d e t a i l w i t h t h e h e r o ' s monologues o f p s y c h o l o g i c a l p a i n i n a l o o s e romance n a r r a t i v e o f l o v e f o r s a k e n , r e t a k e n , and r e s t o r e d t o i t s r i g h t f u l "owner." I n t h i s e a r l y n a r r a t i v e poem, Tennyson p r e s a g e s s e v e r a l o f t h e themes o f Enoch A r d e n : t h e l o v e t r i a n g l e ( J u l i a n ' s dreams o f h a p p i n e s s a r e dashed by C a m i l l a ' s m a r r i a g e t o L i o n e l ) ; wedding b e l l s as an i r o n i c h a r b i n g e r o f doom; t h e presumed d e a t h o f one o f t h e p r o t a g o n i s t s ( i n t h i s c a s e C a m i l l a i s m i s t a k e n l y entombed and J u l i a n r e s u s c i t a t e s h e r ) ; and t h e s e c r e t l i f e ( C a m i l l a l i v e s a t J u l i a n ' s house unbeknownst t o a l l u n t i l J u l i a n can f i n d L i o n e l and r e t u r n C a m i l l a t o h i m ) . U n l i k e t h e l a t e r poem, "The L o v e r ' s T a l e " ends w i t h C a m i l l a and L i o n e l r e u n i t e d i n l a w f u l w e d l o c k , a c o n c l u s i o n t h a t a l s o , as i n Enoch Arden. comes about because o f t h e h e r o ' s s e l f - s a c r i f i c e . Indeed, i t i s t h i s h e r o i c martyrdom t h a t m a i n t a i n s t h e l i n k between Tennyson's r o m a n t i c n a r r a t i v e poem and t h e e p i c . A l t h o u g h n o t a s e l f - s a c r i f i c e t o t h e f u t u r e s t a b i l i t y o f one's community o r n a t i o n , J u l i a n ' s f o r e g o i n g o f h i s own p l e a s u r e i n f a v o u r o f C a m i l l a ' s h a p p i n e s s i s an e a r l y s t e p i n Tennyson's development t o w a r d h i s g r e a t e p i c poem: The I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g . Enoch A r d e n i s an i n t e r m e d i a t e s t e p i n t h i s p r o c e s s . What John D. Rosenberg a s s e r t s o f t h e I d y l l s . c o u l d be s a i d e q u a l l y o f Enoch A r d e n : " L i k e e v e r y g r e a t l o n g poem, t h e I d y l l s draws on t r a d i t i o n a l forms and i s i t s e l f a new g e n r e . . . . [W]e have y e t t o a s s i m i l a t e i n t o our l i t e r a t u r e t h i s poem w h i c h i s a t once e p i c and l y r i c , n a r r a t i v e and drama, t r a g e d y and romance" (33) . The d i f f i c u l t y i n w r i t i n g about Enoch Arden stems from i t s p r o f u s i o n o f g e n r e s r a t h e r t h a n i t s s o - c a l l e d s i m p l i c i t y . An e x a m i n a t i o n o f r e a d i n g s o f t h i s " i d y l , " r e v e a l s t h a t i t can and has p r o v o k e d r e s p o n s e s i n k e e p i n g w i t h 12 each o f t h e above g e n r e s . 1 2 The d i s c u s s i o n t h a t f o l l o w s does n o t i n c l u d e " l y r i c " because t h i s g e n r e i s d e a l t w i t h l a t e r i n r e l a t i o n t o a l l e g o r y . I t a l s o does n o t m e n t i o n t h e v a r i o u s g e n r e s and 502 The e p i c t e n d e n c i e s i n Enoch Arden a r e most c l e a r l y p r e s e n t e d i n Douglas F r i c k e ' s a r t i c l e , "A Study o f Myth and A r c h e t y p e i n 'Enoch A r d e n ' . " F r i c k e a s s e r t s t h a t " t h e movement o f 'Enoch A r d e n ' r e s e m b l e s t h e m y t h i c p a t t e r n o f voyage t o an o t h e r w o r l d / u n d e r w o r l d ( P a r a d i s e - H a d e s ) , a s y m b o l i c d e a t h , and a subsequent r e b i r t h " ( 1 0 6 ) . T h e r e f o r e , Enoch's i s o l a t i o n on t h e "beauteous h a t e f u l i s l e " i s h i s d e s c e n t i n t o an " u n d e r w o r l d " , w h i l e h i s r e t u r n — a n d h i s s u b s e q u e n t gaze upon A n n i e ' s new home w i t h P h i l i p — i s r e a d as h i s r e n e w a l and r e b i r t h . Because a l l e a r t h l y avenues a r e now b l o c k e d f o r him, "Enoch c a n n o t be renewed i n l i f e o r on e a r t h , b u t o n l y i n d e a t h and i n heaven" ( 1 1 3 ) . From h i s t r a n c e - l i k e p r a y e r o f r e s o l v e n o t t o r e v e a l h i s t r u e i d e n t i t y , he emerges as a man t r a n s f o r m e d ( 1 1 3 ) . A c c o r d i n g t o F r i c k e , once " [ c ] o n d e n s e d i n t o a s i n g l e image, l i f e and d e a t h a r e seen from Tennyson's p e r s p e c t i v e as a t i m e l e s s , m y t h i c c y c l e i n w h i c h d e a t h i s j u s t a phase from w h i c h new l i f e w i l l s p r o u t " ( 1 1 4 ) . F r i c k e ' s o v e r l a y o f myth upon Enoch's a l l - t o o - h u m a n s t r u g g l e t e x t s by Tennyson's c o n t e m p o r a r i e s t h a t may have i n f l u e n c e d t h e theme and s t r u c t u r e o f Enoch A r d e n . S c o t t has c o v e r e d t h i s t o p i c t h o r o u g h l y so t h a t t h e r e i s no need t o r e t r a c e t h i s ground. I n b r i e f , however, t h e y a r e : Homer's Odyssey o f t h e r e t u r n i n g s a i l o r ; " A u l d R o b i n G r a y " — a b a l l a d by Lady Anne B a r n a r d ( 1 7 7 2 ) ; t h e A d v e n t u r e s o f G i l B i a s ( 1 8 0 2 ) ; Crabbe's and Wordworth's poems o f humble l i f e ; John Thomas H a i n e s ' s My P o l l and My P a r t n e r J o e — a p o p u l a r n a u t i c a l melodrama (183 0s) ; "The M a n c h e s t e r M a r r i a g e " — E l i z a b e t h G a s k e l l ' s s h o r t s t o r y ( 1 8 5 8 ) ; "Homeward B o u n d " — A d e l a i d e P r o c t e r ' s v e r s e monologue ( 1 8 5 8 ) ; C a s t l e R i c h m o n d — A n t h o n y T r o l l o p e ' s n o v e l ( 1 8 6 1 ) ; Lady A u d l e y ' s S e c r e t — E l i z a b e t h Braddon's b e s t - s e l l i n g n o v e l (1862) ; and S y l v i a ' s L o v e r s — E l i z a b e t h G a s k e l l ' s n o v e l (1863) ( S c o t t 4-6). 503 w i t h j e a l o u s y and h i s sense o f v i o l a t e d p e r s o n a l p r o p e r t y do e n t a i l a r e a d e r ' s l e a p o f f a i t h . But t h i s l e a p i s n o t one w h i c h r e q u i r e s t o o much s t r e t c h i n g b e f o r e h a n d , s i n c e t h e u n d e r w o r l d p a r a d i g m i s a s t a n d a r d l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n . I t i s d i f f i c u l t t o b e l i e v e t h a t Tennyson d i d n o t have t h i s m y t h i c s t r u c t u r e a t l e a s t p a r t l y i n mind f o r t h i s poem's c r e a t i o n . Tennyson's Enoch Arden as p o e t i c i z e d n a r r a t i v e o r v e r s e - n o v e l l a has been t h e more common i n t e r p r e t a t i o n , however, b o t h by c r i t i c a l and n e u t r a l r e a d e r s . I n h i s R e a c t i o n A g a i n s t Tennyson, B r a d l e y f o u n d Tennyson t o o e l a b o r a t e i n h i s " n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y " ( 1 5 ) . He t h u s began a m o d e r n i s t t r e n d f a v o u r i n g Tennyson's l y r i c i s m t o t h e e x c l u s i o n o f o t h e r g e n r e s : " h i s s t y l e i s most c o n s t a n t l y and p e r f e c t l y r i g h t when he i s . u s i n g l y r i c a l f o r m s " ( 1 4 ) . 1 3 S i n c e t h e 1960s, s e v e r a l r e a d e r s have t r i e d t o v a l i d a t e Tennyson's use o f p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e . Sometimes, as i n G e r h a r d J o s e p h ' s a n a l y s i s o f T e n n y s o n i a n Love, r e a d e r s c a r r y t h e i r n a r r a t i v e e x p e c t a t i o n s t o o f a r , and demand o f t h i s p o e t r y a s o c i a l r e a l i s m t h a t o n l y n o v e l s can g e n u i n e l y p r o v i d e . J o s e p h c l a i m s t h a t "Tennyson's n a r r a t i v e poems [ i n g e n e r a l ] r a r e l y show a b e l i e v a b l e impingement o f c l a s s d i f f e r e n c e s upon t h e p r i v a t e e n t a n g l e m e n t s o f h i s l o v e r s — w h a t he g i v e s us i n s t e a d a r e t h e 13 Fredeman a r g u e s t h a t , a f t e r 1842, "Tennyson does n o t abandon t h e l y r i c , b u t he u t i l i z e s i t l a r g e l y i n c o n j u n c t i o n w i t h o t h e r forms": t h e d e s c r i p t i v e t e x t u r e o f t h e language i n I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g ; i n t e r c a l a r y r e l i e f i n The P r i n c e s s o r "The B r o o k " ; o r t h e i n t e n s e l y p e r s o n a l emotions w i t h i n t h e drama o f Maud o r I n Memoriam ( 3 6 9 ) . b r o a d m e l o d r a m a t i c f a m i l i a l o p p o s i t i o n s . . . " ( 1 8 9 ) . But t h e b e l i e v a b i l i t y o f s o c i o l o g i c a l dilemmas c o n t a i n e d w i t h i n p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y i s s o m e t h i n g p r o v i d e d f o r by i t s r e a d e r s more t h a n i t i s by t h e p o e t i c t e x t s t h e m s e l v e s . Hence judgements o f t h i s k i n d must be made w i t h i n a h i s t o r i c a l c o n t e x t . One i s s u e from Enoch Arden i l l u s t r a t e s t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f r e a d e r s i n t h e above d e t e r m i n a t i o n : A n n i e ' s s h o p - k e e p i n g . As E l i z a b e t h H e l s i n g e r and h e r c o - a u t h o r s p o i n t o u t i n The Woman Q u e s t i o n , f o r many V i c t o r i a n s t h e Woman Q u e s t i o n f o c u s e d on t h e d i f f i c u l t i s s u e o f "do we want women t o work o r do we want them t o s t a y home? . . . On p e r h a p s no o t h e r i s s u e were t h e arguments o f b o t h s i d e s — o f t h o s e who f a v o u r e d women's work, and t h o s e who opposed i t — s o i m p o s s i b l y and p a r a d o x i c a l l y i n t e r t w i n e d " ( I I 110). F o r m i d d l e - c l a s s women, one o f t h e arguments t h a t drew them t o l a b o u r o u t s i d e t h e home was t h e i m p l i c i t s e l f - d e f i n i t i o n t h a t a c c r u e d t h r o u g h "work" e s p e c i a l l y s t r o n g among t h o s e who m i g h t have " i n t e r n a l i z e d t h e work e t h i c t h a t Thomas C a r l y l e had r a i s e d t o t h e s t a t u s o f a new r e l i g i o n " ( I I 113). Enoch i s d e f i n i t e l y i n f l u e n c e d by t h i s e t h i c , and so he n a t u r a l l y assumes t h a t A n n i e w i l l be 1 4 J o s e p h does add t h a t " [ p ] e r h a p s n o v e l i s t i c s o c i a l r e a l i s m i s n o t what one r e q u i r e s from a p o e t . " However, he r e t u r n s t o h i s o r i g i n a l i n t e n t by a l s o a d d i n g t h a t " i n s u c h poems on l o v e and m a r r i a g e as C l o u g h ' s The B o t h i e o f T o b e r - n a - V u o l i c h . C o v e n t r y Patmore's The A n g e l i n t h e House. E l i z a b e t h B a r r e t t Browning's A u r o r a L e i g h , as w e l l as Tennyson's own The P r i n c e s s . t h e V i c t o r i a n p o e t seems t o be r e a c h i n g f o r t h e n a r r a t i v e range o f t h e n o v e l form" ( 1 8 9 ) . t o o . Y e t women f o r c e d i n t o "work" t h r o u g h p o v e r t y a r e r e v e a l e d i n p a r l i a m e n t a r y commissions ( B l u e B o o k s ) , and r e c a s t i n v a r i o u s f i c t i o n s , as v i c t i m s o f a new economy: needlewomen, g o v e r n e s s e s , and f a c t o r y g i r l s ( I I 114-15) . A n n i e ' s b u s i n e s s f a i l u r e u l t i m a t e l y t r a n s f o r m s h e r i n t o one o f t h e s e i m p o v e r i s h e d v i c t i m s o f a new economic o r d e r t h a t c a u s e s Enoch t o a s p i r e t o m a t e r i a l w e a l t h a t t h e expense o f h i s f a m i l y ' s e m o t i o n a l s e c u r i t y . A l t h o u g h n o t e x p l i c i t i n Enoch A r d e n , t h e m o r a l c o n t r o v e r s y c o n c e r n i n g women's work i n c r e a s e s t h e t e n s i o n t h a t Tennyson's r e a d e r s m i g h t f e e l i n t h e poem when A n n i e ' s b u s i n e s s f a i l s because o f h e r i n e p t i t u d e — " n o t b e i n g b r e d / To b a r t e r " (2 48- 9 ) ; when h e r b u s i n e s s f r e q u e n t l y c a l l s h e r away from a t t e n d i n g h e r s i c k c h i l d who e v e n t u a l l y d i e s (260-69); and w h e n — a t l o n g l a s t — s h e a g r e e s t o marry P h i l i p , g i v e up h e r u n p r o f i t a b l e s h o p k e e p i n g , and r e l i e v e h e r s e l f and h e r c h i l d r e n from p o v e r t y and want (503-05). Even though t h e poem i s s e t a hundred y e a r s p r e v i o u s t o t h e dilemma s u r r o u n d i n g women's r i g h t t o l a b o u r , Tennyson c o u l d v e r y w e l l have s t i r r e d h i s c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a d e r s ' a n x i e t i e s by p i t t i n g t h e w o r k i n g "widow's" p o v e r t y and m a t e r n a l f a i l i n g s a g a i n s t t h e s e c u r i t y o f h e a r t h and home g u a r a n t e e d by m a r r i a g e . 1 5 1 5 I n 1858, a c o n t r o v e r s y e r u p t e d o v e r t h e " w o r k i n g mother" l e d by John S i m o n — a n o t e d h e a l t h r e f o r m e r — w h o i n one s t u d y l i n k e d h i g h i n f a n t m o r t a l i t y r a t e s w i t h w o r k i n g mothers. The d e b a t e c o n t i n u e d i n t h e 1860s t h r o u g h p a p e r s o f t h e N a t i o n a l A s s o c i a t i o n f o r t h e P r o m o t i o n o f S o c i a l S c i e n c e (see H e l s i n g e r I I 130-33, and 228 n.28). F a r from m e l o d r a m a t i c , t h i s scene i m p l i e s a m o r a l l y complex s o c i a l r e a l i t y t h a t i t s r e a d e r s would f e e l a l t h o u g h n o t n e c e s s a r i l y r e c o g n i z e i d e a t i o n a l l y . The same, o f c o u r s e , h o l d s t r u e o f t h e c o n t r o v e r s y o v e r t h e Deceased W i f e ' s S i s t e r ' s B i l l t h a t , by a s s o c i a t i o n , p l a y s a p a r t i n Tennyson's e m o t i o n a l a l l o w a n c e f o r bigamy a t t h e end o f t h e poem. A l t h o u g h t h e theme was p o p u l a r i n V i c t o r i a n melodrama, t h i s f a c t does n o t s u f f i c e t o d i s c r e d i t Tennyson's h a n d l i n g o f bigamy. S c h o l a r s s u c h as Hagen and S c o t t do n o t see melodrama as c o n t r a r y t o Tennyson's use o f n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e s , n o r as n e c e s s a r i l y u n i n t e n d e d by t h e p o e t . 1 6 June Hagen t a k e s a t h e m a t i c a p p r o a c h . She a t t r i b u t e s t h e i n c r e d i b l e s u c c e s s o f Enoch Arden t o " t h e p u b l i c ' s a p p r e c i a t i o n o f Tennyson's h a n d l i n g o f a theme c u r r e n t i n b o t h n o n - r e s p e c t a b l e f i c t i o n , b a l l a d s and p o p u l a r melodrama: t h e bigamous m a r r i a g e " ( 1 1 2 ) . To s u p p o r t h e r c l a i m , she p o i n t s t o H a l l a m Tennyson's i n c l u s i o n o f p o p u l a r f e m a l e n o v e l i s t s i n h i s C e r t a i n l y t h e m o r a l i t y o f bigamy prompted t h e s t r o n g e s t n e g a t i v e r e a c t i o n s t o Enoch A r d e n . As S c o t t e x p l a i n s i n s e c t i o n t h r e e o f h i s s t u d y , A n n i e ' s c o n t r o v e r s i a l c h o i c e t o r e m a r r y u l t i m a t e l y i s j u d g e d by " e m o t i o n a l c o m p a s s i o n " (12) C r i t i c s , n a t u r a l l y , were n o t a l w a y s i n c l i n e d t o s y m p a t h i z e . Nor s h o u l d one assume t h a t women would n e c e s s a r i l y t a k e A n n i e ' s s i d e i n t h e m a t t e r , though t h e y m i g h t g e t h o t l y i n v o l v e d i n h e r dilemma. The p u b l i c i t y s u r r o u n d i n g t h e poem i s i n shown i n t h e f a c t t h a t M i s s C. H. P a r i s h , f o r i n s t a n c e , p u b l i s h e d Enoch Arden ( C o n t i n u e d ) (1866) i n o r d e r t o p u n i s h A n n i e and P h i l i p f o r h e r l e g a l t r a n s g r e s s i o n . She " g r a s p e d t h e P o e t ' s g o l d e n l y r e " and s i n g s a much i n f e r i o r song as post-mortem. I t m o r b i d l y d w e l l s on g o s s i p and on t h e c h i l d r e n ' s b e w i l d e r e d gaze upon t h e i r f a t h e r ' s s t i f f e n e d c o r p s e and A n n i e ' s agony o f g u i l t . m e n t i o n o f h i s f a t h e r ' s " c a t h o l i c " r e a d i n g h a b i t s : M i s s Braddon, Mrs O l i p h a n t , Rhoda B r o u g h t o n , and O u i d a " (see Memoir 7 3 0 ) . S c o t t , on t h e o t h e r hand, i s p r i m a r i l y i n t e r e s t e d i n t e c h n i q u e and s t r u c t u r e . S e c t i o n f o u r o f h i s s t u d y o u t l i n e s t h r e e f e a t u r e s o f t h e "common n a r r a t i v e t r a d i t i o n " e v i d e n t i n Enoch A r d e n : a s e r i e s o f d r a m a t i c s e t p i e c e s , a s h a r e d c o r p u s o f g e n e r a l i z e d m o r a l s e n t i m e n t s , and t h e f r e q u e n t use o f d r a m a t i c i r o n y ( 1 8 ) . W h i l e i t i s t r u e t h a t t h e s e e l e m e n t s f i n d t h e i r e x p r e s s i o n i n f i c t i o n a l n a r r a t i v e s , Tennyson's emphasis on t o n e and s e t t i n g o v e r t h e development o f c h a r a c t e r i n a c t i o n s u g g e s t s t h a t h i s i d y l borrows more from melodrama t h a n i t does from f i c t i o n . The " e v e n t s " o f Enoch Arden r e g i s t e r s y m b o l i c a l l y a t t h e l e v e l o f mood o r s e n t i m e n t more t h a n t h e y do l i n e a r l y as advances o f p l o t o r c h a r a c t e r development. Hence, even t h e drama h e r e i s melodrama r a t h e r t h a n a d v e n t u r e , s o c i a l r e a l i s m , o r s a t i r e . 1 7 Fredeman l a b e l s Tennyson's i d y l o f t h e 1840s as a " n a r r a t i v e - d r a m a t i c mode," "a c l o s e c o u s i n t o t h e d r a m a t i c monologue" ( 3 6 8 ) . But Enoch Arden i s l e s s d r a m a t i c t h a n t h e s e e a r l y poems p a r t i c u l a r l y s i n c e t h e t h r e e c h a r a c t e r s i n t h e l o v e t r i a n g l e seem t o spend most o f t h e i r t i m e i n e n f o r c e d i s o l a t i o n from one a n o t h e r . T h e i r p o t e n t i a l f o r d r a m a t i c i n t e r a c t i o n i s m i n i m a l . However, t h e key s c e n e s w h i c h i n v o l v e 1 7 S t i l l , r e a d e r s must be c a r e f u l i n a p p l y i n g n e c e s s a r i l y n e g a t i v e c o n n o t a t i o n s t o melodrama as a g e n r e t o evoke human sympathy, as t h e d i s c u s s i o n below c o n c e r n i n g s e n t i m e n t a l i t y r e v e a l s . 508 d i a l o g u e and/or a c t i o n do r e g i s t e r t h e i r e f f e c t s — a s melodrama. The a u d i e n c e i s c a l l e d upon t o s y m p a t h i z e a c t i v e l y w i t h t h e c h a r a c t e r whose d e s i r e s a r e unheeded: Enoch's d e p a r t u r e from t h e v i l l a g e when he d i s r e g a r d s A n n i e ' s p l e a s t h a t he r e m a i n ( A n n i e ' s f e a r and f o r e b o d i n g ) ; t h e r e a f t e r , P h i l i p ' s i n f r e q u e n t communications w i t h A n n i e and h e r f u t i l e p r o l o n g a t i o n o f t h e hope t h a t Enoch i s a l i v e ( P h i l i p ' s f r u s t r a t i o n and l o n g i n g f o r h a p p i n e s s ) ; and, f i n a l l y , t h e r e t u r n e d Enoch's a c t i o n s as a man who has l o s t h i s i d e n t i t y and i s d e n i e d v o i c e as h i s t r u e s e l f u n t i l t h e f i n a l t e l l i n g o f h i s t a l e t o M i r i a m Lane (Enoch's a n g u i s h and c a t h a r t i c r e l i e f i n h i s r e s u m p t i o n o f v o i c e ) . Indeed, Enoch A r d e n seems i d e a l l y s u i t e d f o r s i l e n t f i l m s i n c e much o f i t s "drama" o c c u r s i n s t i l l - l i f e p i c t o r i a l s o f f r u s t r a t e d d e s i r e and u n v o i c e d needs. S c o t t ' s added "Note on t h e [ S i l e n t ] F i l m V e r s i o n s o f 'Enoch A r d e n ' " ( o f w h i c h t h e r e were f o u r ) , r e c o r d s n o t o n l y "an e l a b o r a t e r e v e r e n c e f o r Tennyson's poem, b u t a l s o t h e development o f new t e c h n i q u e s f o r t h e cinema, s p r i n g i n g d i r e c t l y from t h e poem's n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e " ( 2 6 ) . Tennyson's i d y l was t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o "An E n g l i s h P i c t u r e Poem" (as one r e v i e w e r termed t h e 1914 Neptune p r o d u c t i o n ) , a t r a n s f o r m a t i o n made p o s s i b l e because o f Tennyson's v i s u a l l y e x a c t d e t a i l s o f s e t t i n g i n b o t h t h e f i s h i n g v i l l a g e and Enoch's t r o p i c a l i s l a n d . I t was a l s o made p o s s i b l e t h r o u g h what S c o t t d e s c r i b e s as Enoch's " v o y e u r i s m o f t h e h e a r t h " ( 1 5 ) — h i s l o o k i n g i n t h r o u g h t h e window a t t h e 509 scene o f A n n i e ' s and P h i l i p ' s b l i s s f u l d o m e s t i c i t y . J o s e p h summarizes what Enoch sees as key f e a t u r e s o f a V i c t o r i a n d o m e s t i c scene p a i n t i n g : The c h i l d r e n a r e c a r e f u l l y d i s p o s e d a c c o r d i n g t o s i z e , s e x , and t h e demands o f symmetry. P o i s e d i n t h e i r i n n o c e n c e , c h a r m i n g l y d e v o t e d t o one a n o t h e r and t o t h e i r p a r e n t s , t h e y a r e s t a r c h e d e x e m p l a r s o f a harmony t h a t i s s a n c t i o n e d by and p r o o f o f a b e n e f i c e n t God. A n n i e , t h e s a t i s f i e d w i f e and a l l - p r o t e c t i n g mother, o v e r s e e s a domain o f p o l i s h e d f u r n i t u r e and g l e a m i n g c u t l e r y . J o h n R u s k i n has a p o t h e o s i z e d t h e t y p e . . . . And ' s t o u t , r o s y ' P h i l i p i s Tennyson's v e r s i o n o f t h e V i c t o r i a n husband p r e s i d i n g o v e r a h e a r t h whose glow p r o v i d e s s u f f i c i e n t r e f u g e from a t h r e a t e n i n g u n i v e r s e . 1 8 (4- 5) A c c o r d i n g t o R i c h a r d A l t i c k , Tennyson's g e n r e s t u d i e s and d o m e s t i c n a r r a t i v e s t y p i f i e d t h e c l o s e bond between V i c t o r i a n p o p u l a r I n "Of Queens' Gardens" from Sesame and L i l i e s (1865), R u s k i n ' s p o r t r a i t o f v i r t u o u s womanhood s t o o d f o r more t h a n a c e n t u r y as t h e supposed apex o f V i c t o r i a n f e m a l e m o r a l i t y and d o m e s t i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . A f t e r d e p i c t i n g t h e home as a " s a c r e d p l a c e , a v e s t a l t e m p l e o f t h e h e a r t h watched o v e r by H o u s e h o l d Gods" ( 1 2 2 ) , R u s k i n t h e n e q u a t e s woman w i t h t h i s home: "wherever a t r u e w i f e comes, t h i s home i s a l w a y s around h e r " ( 1 2 3 ) . F o r u l t i m a t e l y , she i s " e n d u r i n g l y , i n c o r r u p t i b l y good; i n s t i n c t i v e l y , i n f a l l i b l y w i s e — w i s e , n o t f o r s e l f - development, b u t f o r s e l f - r e n u n c i a t i o n : w i s e , n o t t h a t she may s e t h e r s e l f above h e r husband, b u t t h a t she many n e v e r f a i l from h i s s i d e : w i s e , n o t w i t h t h e narrowness o f i n s o l e n t and l o v e l e s s p r i d e , b u t w i t h t h e p a s s i o n a t e g e n t l e n e s s o f an i n f i n i t e l y v a r i a b l e , because i n f i n i t e l y a p p l i c a b l e , modesty o f s e r v i c e — t h e t r u e c h a n g e f u l n e s s o f woman" ( 1 4 2 ) . I n 1969, K a t e M i l l e t c h a l l e n g e d R u s k i n ' s " s e n t i m e n t a l i z e d " v i e w o f women as r e i n f o r c i n g i n e g a l i t a r i a n s o c i a l systems and f u r t h e r i n g t h e s u b j e c t i o n o f women w i t h i n t h e home. Her r e v o l u t i o n a r y work, S e x u a l P o l i t i c s , began an o n g o i n g p r o c e s s o f r e t h i n k i n g f e m a l e s o c i a l s t e r e o t y p e s as i n s c r i b e d i n Western c u l t u r e ' s a r t i s t i c p r o d u c t s . I n t h i s p r o c e s s , H e l s i n g e r and h e r c o - w r i t e r s , i n t u r n , have r e c e n t l y c h a l l e n g e d M i l l e t ' s a n a l y s i s o f R u s k i n ' s v i e w s . They argue t h a t R u s k i n was f a s h i o n i n g women t o be t h e " n a t i o n ' s m o r a l c o n s c i e n c e " ( I 79) as R u s k i n l a t e r expands h e r r o l e i n k e e p i n g w i t h t h e l a r g e r , d o m e s t i c p r o t e c t i o n o f t h e s t a t e . a r t and l i t e r a t u r e . I n d i f f e r e n t o r b l i n d t o a e s t h e t i c e f f e c t s , t h e o r d i n a r y man and woman " r e a d " p i c t u r e s , as Lamb s a i d p e o p l e r e a d H o g a r t h ' s . . . . The i m p o r t a n t t h i n g was t h a t each e p i s o d e o r s t o r y s h o u l d have immediate and u n m i s t a k e a b l e i m p a c t on t h e b e h o l d e r . . . . No e x p l i c a t i o n o r i n t e r p r e t a t i o n was needed: t h e meaning was i n s t a n t l y c l e a r . And when a r t i s t s chose, i n s t e a d , t h e a l l e g o r i c a l mode, t h e y t o o k p a i n s t h a t t h e l e s s o n be s p e l l e d o u t as p l a i n l y as i t was i n P i l g r i m ' s P r o g r e s s . S u b t l e t y and i n d i r e c t i o n were n o t h i g h l y v a l u e d i n V i c t o r i a n a r t , because t h e y d e l a y e d and c o n f u s e d r a t h e r t h a n a s s i s t e d t h e b e h o l d e r ' s r e s p o n s e . ( V i c t o r i a n 277- " R e a d i n g s " o f t h e key s c e n e s i n Tennyson's " P i c t u r e Poem," however, a r e n o t as e a s i l y e x e c u t e d as A l t i c k c l a i m s . As J o s e p h h i m s e l f r e c o g n i z e s , t h e above scene must be r e a d "not t h r o u g h t h e c o n s c i o u s n e s s o f t h o s e who e x p e r i e n c e i t b u t t h r o u g h t h e eyes [ o f Enoch] a d e s p a i r i n g e x i l e " ( 6 ) . Readers a r e t h u s v o y e u r i s t i c a l l y i n s i d e and o u t s i d e t h e t a b l e a u a t once, and must n e g o t i a t e f o r t h e m s e l v e s where t h e y f e e l most c o m f o r t a b l e . T h i s i s a l s o t r u e o f o t h e r key s c e n e s i n Enoch A r d e n : A n n i e ' s and Enoch's romancing seen t h r o u g h t h e eyes o f P h i l i p ; Enoch's d e p a r t u r e seen t h r o u g h t h e eyes o f A n n i e ; and Enoch's d e a t h - b e d scene seen t h r o u g h t h e eyes o f M i r i a m Lane. R a t h e r t h a n " i n s t a n t l y c l e a r , " t h e meaning o f each o f t h e s e Rod Edmonds's A f f a i r s o f t h e H e a r t h b e g i n s w i t h t h e s e t p i e c e o f P h i l i p ' s and A n n i e ' s snug h e a r t h from Enoch Arden a l m o s t as a p r o t o t y p e o f t h e f a m i l y t a b l e a u . " I t combines two common s u b j e c t s o f m i d - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y p a i n t i n g : f a m i l y r i t u a l s ; and t h e f a t h e r r e t u r n i n g home from work, war, o r s e a " ( 2 ) . t a b l e a u x i s imbedded w i t h i n a complex n a r r a t i v e o f t r a g e d y and r o m a n c e — t h e l a s t two o f t h e g e n r e s i d e n t i f i e d by Rosenberg. P e r h a p s h e r o i c t r a g e d y i s t o o s t r o n g a t e r m f o r what happens t o t h e h e r o o f Enoch Arden. y e t Tennyson's " f i s h e r m a n " i s f a r more t h a n a common seaman. He i s seen f i s h i n g and s e l l i n g h i s wares f o r a mere 25 o f t h e 911 l i n e s i n t h e poem (44-60, 91-100). H i s p r i m a r y p a r t i n t h e n a r r a t i v e i s as an embodiment o f t h e d e s o l a t i o n o f t h e s o u l , as V a l e r i e P i t t d e f i n e s i t , " a n o t h e r m e d i t a t i o n on t h e i n d i v i d u a l i s o l a t e d from h i s s o c i e t y , and, l i k e t h e I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g , a s t u d y i n h e r o i c f a i l u r e " ( 2 1 8 ) . The f o r c e t h a t l e a d s t o Enoch's i s o l a t i o n and f a i l u r e i s n o t u n i q u e t o him, f o r i t r e c u r s t h r o u g h o u t Tennyson's w o r k — e a r l y and l a t e — t h e t r a g i c f l a w o f p r i d e . B e f o r e Enoch i s humbled by f a t e , a c c o r d i n g t o t h e i n n k e e p e r , M i r i a m Lane, he had " [ h ] e l d h i s head h i g h , and c a r e d f o r no man" ( 8 4 4 ) . Enoch's h u b r i s p l a c e s him amid numerous o t h e r Tennyson h e r o e s who s u f f e r from a s i m i l a r c h a r a c t e r weakness o f p u t t i n g t h e m s e l v e s and t h e i r d e s i r e s 20 b e f o r e o t h e r s . As Fredeman s u g g e s t s o f Tennyson's e a r l y e g o i s t s , a l l o f them "may w e l l ask, w i t h T i t h o n u s " : 'Why 20 . . . . Fredeman's s t u d y o f " S t Simeon S t y l i t e s " i d e n t i f i e s a p r i d e s i m i l a r t o S a i n t Simeon's i n P a r i s i n "Oenone," t h e S o u l i n "The P a l a c e o f A r t , " t h e M a r i n e r s i n "The L o t o s - E a t e r s , " " U l y s s e s , " and " T i t h o n u s . " L a t e r Tennyson c h a r a c t e r s who s u f f e r from t h e same f l a w i n c l u d e P r i n c e s s I d a i n The P r i n c e s s . t h e deranged s p e a k e r i n Maud, and s e v e r a l K n i g h t s o f t h e Round T a b l e i n I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g . 512 s h o u l d a man d e s i r e i n any way/ To v a r y from t h e k i n d l y r a c e o f men . . . ?'" (28-9) . One o f t h e r e a s o n s t h a t Fredeman g i v e s f o r U l y s s e s ' s d e s i r e s , a t l e a s t , c a l l s i n t o q u e s t i o n t h e s t a t u r e o f Tennyson's m y t h i c h e r o . More t h a n j u s t t o " d r i n k l i f e t o t h e l e e s , " t h e a d v e n t u r e r ' s i m p u l s e t o resume v o y a g i n g a l s o d e r i v e s from h i s o v e r w e e n i n g sense o f s e l f - i m p o r t a n c e t o t h e e x c l u s i o n o f o t h e r s — p r e s u m a b l y l o v e d ones ("Sphere" 3 8 0 ) . U l y s s e s ' s " a b n e g a t i o n o f d o m e s t i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . . . does n o t go u n p u n i s h e d o r . . . i s n o t w i t h o u t d i r e consequences e l s e w h e r e i n Tennyson" (382). Fredeman draws a p a r a l l e l t o "Enoch A r d e n " as w e l l a l t h o u g h he does n o t p u r s u e i t s c a u s e s o r "unhappy" consequences. The o s t e n s i b l y l a u d a b l e ( p o t e n t i a l l y h e r o i c ) c a u s e s f o r Enoch's d e p a r t u r e , and t h e f o r c e s a t work a g a i n s t h i s l e a v i n g , a r e a c t u a l l y more p r o b l e m a t i c i n Enoch A r d e n t h a n i n U l y s s e s ' s monologue. S o c i o - e c o n o m i c d e t e r m i n e r s cause him t o l e a v e : 1) Enoch w i s h e s t o p r o v i d e a b e t t e r l i f e f o r h i s c h i l d r e n ; and 2) h i s b r o k e n l e g and r e d u c e d employment have i n j u r e d t h e f a m i l y ' s economic s t a b i l i t y . These a r e p i t t e d a g a i n s t r o m a n t i c f o r c e s t h a t s h o u l d make t h a t l e a v i n g more e m o t i o n a l l y d i f f i c u l t f o r Enoch t h a n i t t u r n s o u t t o be: 1) Enoch and A n n i e have e n j o y e d seven y e a r s o f wedded b l i s s ; " a r i d 2) A n n i e begs him n o t t o go. W i t h i n c o n t e x t , t h e u n r e f o r m e d Enoch's m o t i v e s a r e n o t as p o t e n t i a l l y s e l f - s e r v i n g as U l y s s e s ' s , nor a r e t h e y y e t w i t h o u t s u s p i c i o n . Thus, m o r a l c o m p l i c a t i o n s 513 m i l i t a t e a g a i n s t t h e poem's i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s t r i c t l y as e i t h e r e p i c o r t r a g i c h e r o i s m , a t l e a s t t o t h i s p o i n t . B o t h t h e r o m a n t i c t i e s t h a t b i n d and t h e s o c i o - e c o n o m i c f e t t e r s t h a t c h a f e , once a g a i n h a r k e n back t o t h e g e n r e t h e y r e p r e s e n t . A n n i e ' s r o l e as a d e t e r r e n t t o Enoch's m a t e r i a l i s t i c p u r s u i t s i s s u e s from t h e i d y l ' s i n i t i a l f a i r y t a l e - l i k e romance, t h e l a s t o f Rosenberg's g e n r e s . D o n a l d H a i r m a i n t a i n s t h a t " V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s and c r i t i c s g e n e r a l l y e x p e c t e d an i d y l t o p r e s e n t a p a s t o r a l l a n d s c a p e , a p a r a d i s a l r e t r e a t t h a t c r i t i c i s m has l a b e l l e d t h e l o c u s amoenus o r 'the p l e a s a n c e , ' a l a n d s c a p e where l i v i n g i s easy and p l e a s u r e c o n t i n u o u s . " H a i r adds t h a t V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s a c c e p t e d " d o m e s t i c b l i s s " i n Enoch Arden as a p a s t o r a l s u b s t i t u t e ( 9 7 ) . Y e t from t h e o u t s e t , t h e t h r e e c h i l d r e n ' s q u a r r e l s a t t h e s t a r t o f t h e poem foreshadow f u t u r e d o m e s t i c t r o u b l e . A l t h o u g h Enoch's p h y s i c a l s u p e r i o r i t y as a c h i l d c a r r i e s i n t o a d u l t h o o d , and he g e t s t h e g i r l " i n t h e end," t h e y do n o t l i v e h a p p i l y e v e r a f t e r . I n a d d i t i o n , Enoch does n o t j o u r n e y from home on a r o m a n t i c ( I d a ' s P r i n c e ) o r h e r o i c q u e s t ( t h e k n i g h t s o f t h e Round T a b l e ) . H a i r ' s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f t h e V i c t o r i a n d o m e s t i c scene as a v a r i a n t o f a t r a d i t i o n a l p a s t o r a l s t r u c t u r e m i s t a k e n l y r e i n f o r c e s Enoch A r d e n as a romance (even i f i t s f a i r y t a l e e n d i n g must now be t h e second o n e ) , and e x c l u d e s t h e o b v i o u s s o c i a l r e a l i s m i n t h e r e a s o n s why Enoch f e e l s he must l e a v e t h e f i s h i n g v i l l a g e . 514 As even F r i c k e who r e a d s t h e poem's mythos r e a l i z e s , t h e " s u g g e s t i o n s o f Enoch as a m y t h i c h e r o " a r e undermined by t h e f a c t t h a t he i s common, and has common f l a w s — " s t r o n g - w i l l e d , p o s s e s s i v e , and f e a r f u l o f p o v e r t y " ( 1 0 6 ) . H i s p u r s u i t o f economic independence makes him " b l i n d t o l o v e " ( 1 0 6 ) . I n w e i g h i n g t h e p r o s and cons o f j o i n i n g t h e crew o f t h e "Good F o r t u n e " (128-47) , Enoch, i n F r i c k e ' s v i e w , r e v e a l s h i m s e l f t o be "as b e n t upon a d v e n t u r e and t h e a c c u m u l a t i o n o f r i c h e s as upon t h e h a p p i n e s s o f h i s own f a m i l y " ( 1 0 6 ) . I n Enoch Arden, Tennyson a m b i v a l e n t l y i m p l i e s t h a t a p r i v a t e c o n c e r n f o r s e l f - w o r t h and n o t t h e " s e l f - h e l p " p h i l o s o p h y o f Samuel S m i l e s may a c t u a l l y be d r i v i n g t h e p u b l i c m a c h i n e r y o f l a i s s e z - f a i r e c a p i t a l i s m . I f s u c h a r e a d i n g o f Enoch's a d v e n t u r e s i s a l l o w e d , t h e n i t can o n l y be so t h r o u g h t h e a d d i t i o n a l a l l o w a n c e t h a t , u l t i m a t e l y , t h e meaning o f a l i t e r a r y t e x t , e s p e c i a l l y i f i t i s "a g r e a t poem," r e s t s more w i t h i t s r e a d e r s t h a n i t does w i t h e i t h e r t h e a u t h o r o r t h e t e x t i t s e l f . F o r a l t h o u g h Enoch A r d e n i s " a t once e p i c and l y r i c , n a r r a t i v e and drama, t r a g e d y and romance," t h i s i d y l a c t u a l l y a c h i e v e s i t s g r e a t e s t p o t e n t i a l as a d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y . And a l l e g o r y , more t h a n any o t h e r l i t e r a r y form, draws i t s s i g n i f i c a n c e from i t s r e a d e r s . F o r t h e "message" t o be u n d e r s t o o d a l l e g o r i c a l l y , r e a d e r s must w i l l i n g l y r e s p o n d — a l m o s t a t a p r e - c o g n i t i v e l e v e l — t o codes w i t h i n t h e t e x t t h a t p r o v o k e m o r a l i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s d i f f e r e n t 515 from t h o u g h s t i l l a l l i e d t o t h e i d e a t i o n a l meanings o s t e n s i b l y - p r o v i d e d by t h e a u t h o r . Indeed, f o r a g r e a t many r e a d e r s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poems, t h e i n i t i a l c a t a l y s t f o r a l l e g o r i c a l r e a d i n g was a f f e c t i v e and n o t c o g n i t i v e . One o f t h e most s e r i o u s t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y m i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y i n g e n e r a l , and o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch A r d e n i n p a r t i c u l a r , c o n c e r n s t h e a l l e g e d l y s o f t , " f e m i n i n e " r e s p o n s e t o l i t e r a t u r e , t h e s e n t i m e n t a l , a c h a r g e a g a i n s t p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y t h a t i t has s h a r e d 21 w i t h p o p u l a r f i c t i o n . F o r example, Baum's comments on Tennyson's E n g l i s h I d y l s and on Enoch A r d e n a r e i n t e r e s t i n g because n o t o n l y do t h e y t y p i f y many t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a c t i o n s t o n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y s e n t i m e n t a l i t y , b u t t h e y a l s o work a t l e s s e n i n g Tennyson's c u l p a b i l i t y f o r t h e s e n t i m e n t a l i n h i s work. S p e a k i n g o f t h e Two c l a r i f i c a t i o n s need t o be made h e r e . M i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o r m i s r e a d i n g i m p l i e s i n t e l l e c t u a l o r i d e o l o g i c a l a n a l y s e s a t odds w i t h t h e emotions o r s e n t i m e n t s t h a t c o n s t i t u t e poems' t o n e s . S e c o n d l y , t h e use o f gendered t e r m s , " f e m i n i n e " o r " m a s c u l i n e " p r o c e s s e s o f r e a d i n g , does n o t c a r r y n e g a t i v e o r p o s i t i v e c o n n o t a t i o n s . T h i s b i n a r y i s n o t meant t o s t e r e o t y p e women as r e a d i n g p r i m a r i l y w i t h t h e i r h e a r t s and men w i t h t h e i r heads. V i c t o r i a n men's f r e q u e n t and f r a n k a d m i s s i o n s t o t e a r f u l r e s p o n s e s t o p o e t r y and many women's j u d i c i o u s comments about Tennyson's v e r s e d i s p e l any n o t i o n t h a t i n d i v i d u a l s were, as a group, d o m i n a t e d by one l e v e l o f r e s p o n s e o r t h e o t h e r . "On One Who E f f e c t e d an E f f e m i n a t e Manner" c l e a r l y r e v e a l s t h a t , f o r Tennyson, when r e a d i n g s were a t t h e i r b e s t , t h e y a c t i v a t e d b o t h h a l v e s o f t h e p e r s o n a l i t y . 516 e a r l y i d y l s , Baum a b s o l v e s Tennyson o f r e s p o n s i b i l i t y f o r h i s " V i c t o r i a n " e m o t i o n a l i s m : [ I ] t need n o t be t h o u g h t t h a t Tennyson d e l i b e r a t e l y w r o t e down t o a m i d d l e - c l a s s a u d i e n c e f o r t h e mere sake o f p o p u l a r a p p e a l . The t e m p t a t i o n t o do so may have e x i s t e d l a t e r , y e t t h e r e was s o m e t h i n g g e n u i n e i n Tennyson as i n h i s contemporary r e a d e r s w h i c h made t h i s k i n d o f t h i n g a t t r a c t i v e . B o t h he and t h e y l i k e d i t . I t was p a r t o f t h e s e n t i m e n t a l s t r a i n , b e g i n n i n g b e f o r e t h e a c c e s s i o n o f V i c t o r i a , w h i c h made V i c t o r i a n h e a r t s b l e e d e a s i l y and w h i c h Tennyson came t o r e l y upon h e r e a f t e r t o s a t i s f y h i s numerous f o l l o w i n g . A s i n c e r e i n s i n c e r i t y made him f a l s e l y t r u e . (145-6) He t h e n a s s e r t s t h a t Enoch Arden was " c o n c e i v e d i n s e n t i m e n t and b r o u g h t f o r t h i n complacency" (167). Y e t , l a t e r , Baum q u a l i f i e s t h e s e c r i t i c i s m s . Of Tennyson's t r e a t m e n t o f c o n t e m p o r a r y i s s u e s , he remarks t h a t H i s age p l a c e d on him t h a t bad eminence o f I n t e r p r e t e r G e n e r a l , and i t gave him t h e g i f t o f i t s own weakness, s e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n t h e s e r i o u s c o n c e r n s o f d a i l y l i f e . I t gave him t h e dangerous g i f t a l s o o f p o p u l a r i t y — w h i c h a t f i r s t unsought grew by what i t f e d upon. I t r e c r e a t e d him i n h i s own image and t h e r e f o r e i n t h e end dominated him. I t made him, t o a l a r g e d e g r e e , o r encouraged him t o make h i m s e l f , a m i r r o r i n d e e d , r a t h e r t h a n a p o e t . (250) Baum's i n t e r p r e t a t i o n c a s t s Tennyson as a v i c t i m o f s e n t i m e n t a l i t y , i n t h e t h r o e s o f a presumed e m o t i o n a l p a s s i v i t y s i m i l a r t o t h a t o f t h e t h o u s a n d s o f V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s who i n d u l g e d i n s e n t i m e n t a l f i c t i o n and p o e t r y . Baum assumes t h a t s e n t i m e n t a l i t y n e c e s s a r i l y a r i s e s from a r t i s t s ' e m o t i o n a l weaknesses and t h e i r r e c i p i e n t s ' p a s s i v i t y . To v i n d i c a t e Tennyson from t h e c h a r g e o f s e n t i m e n t a l i t y , he a r g u e s t h a t b a s i c a l l y t h e p o e t c o u l d n o t h e l p h i m s e l f : he was 517 v i c t i m i z e d by t h e t i m e s i n w h i c h he l i v e d . S i n c e Baum's Tennyson: S i x t y Y e a r s A f t e r (1948), s e v e r a l s c h o l a r s have been i n t e n t on c o r r e c t i n g c h a r g e s o f s e n t i m e n t a l i t y a g a i n s t Tennyson t h r o u g h i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s t h a t t r y t o p e r s u a d e r e a d e r s a g a i n s t p a s s i v e , s e n t i m e n t a l r e a d i n g s i n f a v o u r o f ones more a c t i v e l y " i n t e l l e c t u a l . " T h i s , f o r example, i s what Thomas A s s a d t r i e s t o do i n h i s s t u d y o f "The M a j o r Poems o f Tennyson's 'Enoch A r d e n ' V o l u m e . " 2 2 A t t h e end o f h i s a r t i c l e , A s s a d d i s m i s s e s e x c l u s i v e l y a f f e c t i v e r e s p o n s e s : " I t i s w e l l known t h a t a f f e c t i o n w i t h o u t an adequate b a s i s o f c o g n i t i o n c a n n o t l o n g command our i n t e r e s t . We c a l l s u c h f e e l i n g s s e n t i m e n t a l " (55) . He can do t h i s because he f e e l s c o n f i d e n t t h a t he has, i n p l a c e o f t h e s e n t i m e n t a l , s u p p l i e d r e a d i n g s o f Tennyson's " c o n s c i o u s t e c h n i q u e s and themes" i n t h e f i r s t f i v e poems o f t h e Enoch Arden volume. A s s a d r e a d s t h e f i r s t f i v e poems i n r e v e r s e o r d e r and i n r e l a t i o n t o one a n o t h e r : "Enoch A r d e n , " "Aylmer's F i e l d , " "Sea Dreams," "The Grandmother," and " N o r t h e r n Farmer." I n t h e "Farmer," A s s a d p o i n t s o u t t h e f a r m e r ' s sense o f d u t y v e r s u s n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y m a t e r i a l i s m ( 3 3 ) . I n t h e "Grandmother," " t i m e and a w e a l t h o f s p i r i t u a l r e l a t i o n s h i p s have b r o u g h t t h e o l d grandmother t o a s t a t e o f p e a c e f u l r i p e n e s s i n w h i c h n e i t h e r m a t e r i a l w e a l t h n o r d o g m a t i c r e l i g i o n have any p a r t " ( 3 6 ) . "Sea Dreams" "shows t h e w i f e ' s t r u l y C h r i s t i a n s p i r i t o f f o r g i v e n e s s , p i t y , and g e n t l e n e s s — as c o n t r a s t e d w i t h t h e p r e a c h e r ' s l o u d , empty f o r m a l i s m — f i n a l l y s u c c e s s f u l i n q u e l l i n g t h e r a g e o f h a t r e d i n s p i r e d by t h e e v i l s o f m a t e r i a l i s m " ( 4 0 ) , and i n "Aylmer's F i e l d , " " [ p j r i d e n o u r i s h e d by m a t e r i a l i s m has c a u s e d t h e d e a t h o f i n n o c e n t young l o v e r s , has changed a C h r i s t i a n s p i r i t o f g e n t l e n e s s and p i t y i n t o one o f vengeance and w r a t h , and has b r o u g h t t h e name and house o f Aylmer t o d e s o l a t i o n and r u i n " ( 4 4 ) . W i t h each poem, Tennyson's condemnation o f m a t e r i a l i s m i s r e v e a l e d ; A s s a d t h e n re-examines t h e more s u b t l y d e v e l o p e d "Enoch A r d e n " i n l i g h t o f t h i s key p r e o c c u p a t i o n . 518 W i t h t h e s e poems, Tennyson a l l e g e d l y c r e a t e d i n c r e a s i n g l y d r a m a t i c r e n d e r i n g s o f t h e t r a g i c consequences t h a t r e s u l t from o b s e s s i o n s w i t h p h y s i c a l and m a t e r i a l w e l f a r e t o t h e e x c l u s i o n o f t h e e m o t i o n a l and s p i r i t u a l (49) . A s s a d i s c o r r e c t i n i d e n t i f y i n g t h e e v i l s o f m a t e r i a l i s m i n t h i s volume s i n c e t h i s i s a p r e o c c u p a t i o n o f Tennyson's t h r o u g h o u t h i s work. And A s s a d ' s a n a l y s i s o f Enoch A r d e n i n r e l a t i o n t o t h e o t h e r f o u r poems r e v e a l s i n t e r e s t i n g p a r a l l e l s between r e l i g i o u s and m a t e r i a l i s t dogma. Y e t , i n h i s t r e a t m e n t o f t h e " s e n t i m e n t a l " e n d i n g o f Enoch A r d e n , A s s a d b e t r a y s h i s b i a s e s . Enoch's e m o t i o n a l and s p i r i t u a l a c c e p t a n c e o f h i s d e s t i n y draws a " c u r r e n t o f . . . e a s y t e a r s " from h i s a u d i t o r , M i r i a m Lane, and w o u l d l i k e l y have had a s i m i l a r e f f e c t on Tennyson's V i c t o r i a n a u d i t o r s a l s o . However, A s s a d moves q u i c k l y p a s t t h i s e m o t i o n a l i s m t o t h e f o r m e r l y m a t e r i a l i s t i c Enoch d y i n g i n an " i m p o v e r i s h e d l o n e l y h o s t e l " so as t o c l a i m t h a t t h e " f i n a l i r o n y o f t h e s t o r y i s hammered home" ( 5 3 ) . The s t r o n g "hammer" o f t h i s p a r t o f h i s argument p r e c i p i t a t e s h i s c o n c l u s i o n t h a t Tennyson's t e c h n i q u e s and themes " p r o v i d e t h e i n t e l l e c t u a l edge w h i c h keeps t h e a f f e c t i v e p a r t o f t h e awareness from b e i n g s e n t i m e n t a l l y s o f t " ( 5 5 ) . Because A s s a d w r i t e s o u t o f a m o d e r n i s t l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n t h a t p r i v i l e g e s i d e a t i o n a l o v e r e m o t i o n a l s i g n i f i c a n c e , even a f f e c t i v e r e s p o n s e s a r e made t o s u p p l y t h e m e t a l f o r a s t e e l y , h a r d - edged i n t e l l e c t u a l i s m . However, t h e r e i s no r e a s o n t o b e l i e v e t h a t h e i g h t e n e d e m o t i o n a l i s m i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y was u n c o n d i t i o n a l l y f e l t t o p r o d u c e f l a w e d work. I n S a c r e d T e a r s : S e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n V i c t o r i a n L i t e r a t u r e . F r e d K a p l a n r e d e f i n e s s e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y as a n a t u r a l p r o d u c t o f e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y m o r a l p h i l o s o p h y , e x a m i n i n g w i t h o u t t h e a h i s t o r i c a l p e j o r a t i v i s m o f t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y t h e means by w h i c h a u t h o r s s u c h as D i c k e n s , T h a c k e r a y , and C a r l y l e worked w i t h i n and a g a i n s t a known l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n o f s e n t i m e n t a l i s m . 2 3 E s s e n t i a l l y , he c o n c l u d e s t h a t w h i l e a l l t h r e e s h a r e d w i t h t h e m a j o r i t y o f t h e i r V i c t o r i a n c o n t e m p o r a r i e s a f a i t h i n "human n a t u r e , " o n l y C a r l y l e p e s s i m i s t i c a l l y d o u b t e d t h e v a l u e o f s e n t i m e n t t o r e l e a s e t h e m o r a l r e s p o n s i v e n e s s i n h e r e n t i n t h a t n a t u r e ( 1 4 2 - 3 ) . As K a p l a n p o i n t s o u t , " C a r l y l e was aware t h a t s e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n t h e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y had d i v i d e d i n t o two main c u r r e n t s , one a s s o c i a t e d w i t h s e n s i b i l i t y , t h e o t h e r w i t h m o r a l p h i l o s o p h y " (134). I n K a p l a n ' s v i e w , by b e i n g t h u s aware, C a r l y l e m i s t r u s t e d them b o t h : s e n s i b i l i t y had been t a k e n up by Romantic p o e t s and had, s u p p o s e d l y , become d e v o i d o f m o r a l c o n t e n t w h i l e m o r a l p h i l o s o p h y f o s t e r e d among V i c t o r i a n w r i t e r s t h e i n c i t e m e n t o f p o t e n t i a l l y m o r a l i s t i c 2 3 Leo L o w e n t h a l ' s c h a p t e r on t h e h i s t o r i c a l "Debate o v e r A r t and P o p u l a r C u l t u r e " summarizes a s i m i l a r argument t o t h a t o u t l i n e d by K a p l a n . Here, v a r i o u s f i g u r e s from M o n t a i g n e t o F l a u b e r t , P a s c a l t o N i e t z s c h e v o i c e t h e c o n f l i c t i n g demands o f t h e a u d i e n c e ' s need f o r p l e a s u r e and t h e a r t i s t ' s a l l e g e d m o r a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y t o improve s o c i e t y ( 1 4 - 5 1 ) . f e e l i n g s t h a t were w i t h o u t t r a n s c e n d e n c e and were r a r e l y t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o any p u r p o s e f u l a c t i o n (134-41). Somehow, i t i s C a r l y l e ' s d i s p a r a g i n g v o i c e r a t h e r t h a n t h e a p p r o v i n g ones o f D i c k e n s and T h a c k e r a y t h a t has come t o dominate t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f t h e s e n t i m e n t a l i n V i c t o r i a n p o e t r y and o f Tennyson's s e n t i m e n t a l i t y i n p a r t i c u l a r . I n i t i a l l y , C a r l y l e exempted Tennyson's e a r l y p o e t r y from h i s c r i t i c a l d i s d a i n . K a p l a n a r g u e s t h a t i n t h e 1840s C a r l y l e saw i n Tennyson's p o e t r y a "consonance between t h e p o e t i c language and t h e m o r a l c o n t e n t " ( 1 3 7 ) , a B a r d i c v o i c e " g e n e r a t i n g c o s m i c v i s i o n s and t h e o p t i m i s m o f a r e g e n e r a t i v e b e l i e f system" (13 6 ) . W i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l s and t h e I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g , however, C a r l y l e f e l t t h a t Tennyson's p o e t r y had become " m e r e l y s e n t i m e n t a l . " That i s , l a c k i n g a t r a n s c e n d e n t m o r a l v i s i o n , i t had become d o m e s t i c r a t h e r t h a n e p i c , e x a c t i n g o n l y " s a c r e d t e a r s " from i t s a u d i e n c e ( K a p l a n 137-8). R o b e r t M a r t i n , i n h i s d i s c u s s i o n o f " I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g , 1872-1874" (493-510), echoes C a r l y l e ' s l a t e r a t t i t u d e as e x p l a i n e d by K a p l a n d e s p i t e h a v i n g e a r l i e r i n h i s b i o g r a p h y a t t r i b u t e d C a r l y l e ' s c r i t i c i s m s o f Tennyson e i t h e r t o h i s d i s d a i n f o r p o e t r y i n g e n e r a l o r t o C a r l y l e ' s u s u a l i r a s c i b i l i t y (see 241, 2 67, 3 0 3 ) . The c r u x o f t h e m a t t e r i s whether o r n o t p o e t s such as Tennyson d e l i b e r a t e l y p r o d u c e d work t h a t p r o v o k e d p r o t e a n l e v e l s o f r e s p o n s e , i n c l u d i n g t h e s e n t i m e n t a l . Tennyson's o b v i o u s p o p u l a r i t y i n c r e a s e d d r a m a t i c a l l y w i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f Enoch Arden. and g e n e r a t e d a s u s p i c i o n among h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s and h i s l a t e r r e a d e r s t h a t was t o l a s t f o r more t h a n a c e n t u r y . Presumably, a p o e t o f Tennyson's s t a t u r e who d e l i b e r a t e l y chose p o e t i c s u b j e c t s t h a t would a p p e a l t o t h e b r o a d s e n t i m e n t s o f h i s a u d i e n c e c o u l d o n l y have m e r e t r i c i o u s i n t e n t s . Tennyson, however, d i d n o t p r o s t i t u t e h i m s e l f and h i s a r t w i t h Enoch Arden. I n d i r e c t o p p o s i t i o n t o C a r l y l e ' s b e l i e f t h a t s e n t i m e n t a l i t y l a c k s a t r a n s c e n d e n t m o r a l v i s i o n , Jane Tompkins s t r e s s e s t h e " S e n t i m e n t a l Power" o f V i c t o r i a n A m e r i c a n f e m a l e n o v e l i s t s , t h e most p o p u l a r o f whom was H a r r i e t B e e c h e r Stowe. Tompkins i n i t i a l l y summarizes t h e s t a n d a r d v i e w t h a t she a r g u e s a g a i n s t : " t h e s e women a r e g e n e r a l l y t h o u g h t t o have t r a d e d i n f a l s e s t e r e o t y p e s , d i s h i n g o u t weak-minded pap t o n o u r i s h t h e p r e j u d i c e s o f t h e i l l - e d u c a t e d and underemployed f e m a l e r e a d e r s h i p . S e l f - d e l u d e d and u n a b l e t o f a c e t h e h a r s h f a c t s o f a c o m p e t i t i v e s o c i e t y , t h e y a r e p o r t r a y e d as m a n i p u l a t o r s o f a g u l l i b l e p u b l i c who k e p t t h e i r r e a d e r s i m p r i s o n e d i n a dreamworld o f s e l f - j u s t i f y i n g c l i c h e s " ( 2 6 9 ) . I f j u d g e d s o l e l y by t h e s e c r i t i c i s m s , t h e n c e r t a i n l y L o n g f e l l o w — i f n o t T e n n y s o n — c o u l d j o i n hands w i t h f e m a l e s e n t i m e n t a l i s t s . I n Tompkins's mind, t h o u g h , t h i s j o i n i n g would have been t o t h e s e male p o e t s ' c r e d i t . Opposing t h e s t a n d a r d v i e w , Tompkins a l l e g e s t h a t t h r o u g h t h e i r work f e m a l e n o v e l i s t s a c t i v e l y p u r s u e d s o c i a l r e f o r m . She adds, however, t h a t " [ t ] h e i r f i g h t a g a i n s t t h e e v i l s o f t h e i r s o c i e t y was a f i x e d match from t h e s t a r t " (269) . I t was so because even i f i n t h e i r work and t h e i r l i v e s t h e y s u p p o r t e d systems o f b e l i e f " t h a t gave women t h e c e n t r a l p o s i t i o n o f power and a u t h o r i t y i n t h e c u l t u r e , " s o c i o - economic and p o l i t i c a l power were t h e e x c l u s i v e r i g h t s o f men ( 2 6 9 ) . O b v i o u s l y , under t h e s e c i r c u m s t a n c e s , d i r e c t a p p e a l s t o r e a d e r s ' r a t i o n a l , i n t e l l e c t u a l s y m p a t h i e s f o r a l l - encompassing p o l i t i c a l change would be i n e f f e c t u a l . C o n s e q u e n t l y , p o p u l a r f e m a l e n o v e l i s t s s t i m u l a t e d t h e i r r e a d e r s ' c o l l e c t i v e e m o t i o n a l i s m and s e n t i m e n t , i n t h e hopes o f c h a n g i n g t h e i n d i v i d u a l ' s p r i v a t e b e l i e f system. C o n t r i v a n c e s t h a t many t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s r e g a r d w i t h contempt, Tompkins c l a i m s had l e g i t i m a t e p o l i t i c a l p u r p o s e s . F i r s t , b o t h t h e c o n t i n u a l and o b v i o u s a p p e a l s t o t h e r e a d e r ' s e m o t i o n s and t e c h n i c a l d e v i c e s d i s t i n g u i s h e d by t h e i r u t t e r c o n v e n t i o n a l i t y s i t u a t e d p o p u l a r women's n o v e l s i n a f a m i l i a r l i t e r a r y t e r r a i n , " h a l f w a y between sermon and s o c i a l t h e o r y , t h a t b o t h c o d i f i e s and a t t e m p t s t o mold t h e v a l u e s o f i t s t i m e " ( 2 7 1 ) . Second, s e n t i m e n t a l r e s p o n s e s t o t h e s e t e c h n i q u e s , i n t u r n , c o u l d a c t i v a t e awareness o f p r e s e t a s s u m p t i o n s r e g a r d i n g f a m i l y and s o c i a l i n s t i t u t i o n s , power and i t s r e l a t i o n t o i n d i v i d u a l human f e e l i n g , p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l e q u a l i t y and, most i m p o r t a n t l y , t h e r e l i g i o u s b e l i e f s t h a t o r g a n i z e and s u s t a i n t h e r e s t (271). T h i r d , by e n t r e n c h i n g a r e l i g i o u s e t h i c o f s e l f - s a c r i f i c e t h r o u g h t h e power o f t h e dead o r d y i n g — i n p a r t i c u l a r c h i l d r e n — t h e s e n o v e l i s t s c o u l d s u g g e s t r e d e m p t i o n even f o r t h e u n r e g e n e r a t e (272) . F o u r t h , r e l i g i o u s o r s p i r i t u a l c o n v e r s i o n s were t o form t h e b a s i s f o r a new s o c i a l o r d e r ; t h e r e f o r e , a n o v e l ' s e v e n t s were r e a d a l l e g o r i c a l l y , as t h e e t e r n a l t r u t h s o f Heaven and H e l l , Death and Judgment r a t h e r t h a n as h i s t o r i c a l r e a l i s m ( 2 7 6 - 8 ) . And, f i n a l l y , s e t t i n g s would be r e a d a l l e g o r i c a l l y as w e l l , as p o s i t i o n s upon a s p i r i t u a l map r a t h e r t h a n s p e c i f i c t i m e s o r p l a c e s ( 2 7 8 ) . G i v e n t h e c u l t u r a l prominence o f women and d o m e s t i c i t y i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , Tompkins s u g g e s t s t h a t n o v e l i s t s s u c h as Stowe u s e d s t o c k , s e n t i m e n t a l s i t u a t i o n s and c h a r a c t e r s i n d o m e s t i c s e t t i n g s n o t because t h e y were weak-minded o r f e e b l e , b u t because t h e y wanted d e l i b e r a t e l y t o draw upon t h e i r r e a d e r s ' e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e s i n o r d e r t o a c t i v a t e an a f f e c t i v e awareness o f s o c i a l problems t h a t , i n t u r n , c o u l d prompt an i n n e r , s p i r i t u a l t r a n s f o r m a t i o n . That s u c h p r o c e s s e s have v e r y l i t t l e t o do w i t h c o g n i t i o n makes t h e i r s t a g e s d i f f i c u l t t o a r t i c u l a t e i n i d e a t i o n a l t e r m s . I n " S e n t i m e n t and S u f f e r i n g : Women's R e c r e a t i o n a l R e a d i n g i n t h e 1860s," S a l l y M i t c h e l l a t t e m p t s a d e f i n i t i o n o f t h e s e s t a g e s by s u g g e s t i n g — a l o n g l i n e s s i m i l a r t o T o m p k i n s — t h a t t h e power o f t h e " p o p u l a r e m o t i o n a l n o v e l " l i e s i n i t s v e r y commonness: " i t p r o v i d e s a mode o f d i s t a n c i n g w h i c h makes r e p r e s s e d emotions a form t h a t i s p u b l i c l y a c c e p t a b l e and t h a t makes them a s o u r c e o f p l e a s u r e . I t a l s o a f f o r d s r e c o g n i t i o n t h a t t h e s e needs a r e 524 common—shared between a u t h o r and r e a d e r , and r e a d e r and r e a d e r " ( 3 4 ) . T h i s s h i f t from a f f e c t i v e p l e a s u r e t o c o g n i t i v e awareness o f c o l l e c t i v e r e s p o n s e r e q u i r e s f u r t h e r s t u d y i f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's n a r r a t i v e poems a r e t o be r e a d a p p r o v i n g l y as d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r i e s r a t h e r t h a n watered-down i m i t a t i o n s o f c l a s s i c a l p o e t i c forms o r i n f e r i o r c o u s i n s t o t h e f a r more r e a l i s t i c — a n d t h e r e f o r e more v a l u e d — f i c t i o n o f t h e p e r i o d . Tompkins's and M i t c h e l l ' s s t u d i e s o f s e n t i m e n t a l f i c t i o n go o n l y so f a r i n a s s i s t i n g i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t i c u s e s o f t h e s e n t i m e n t a l because t h e y , o f c o u r s e , f o c u s on e l e m e n t s o f f i c t i o n — e v e n t , c h a r a c t e r , and s e t t i n g — i n t h e i r f o s t e r i n g o f s e n t i m e n t a l moods. F o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's r e a d e r s , t h e a c t i v a t i o n o f s e n t i m e n t o c c u r s l e s s a t t h e l e v e l o f r e s p o n s e s t o s t o c k , m e l o d r a m a t i c c h a r a c t e r s i n a c t i o n as such t h a n a t t h e l e v e l o f e m o t i o n a l / v i s c e r a l r e a c t i o n s t o t h e a f f e c t i v e l y r i c i s m o f each • p o e t ' s v o i c e . But Tompkins's o v e r a l l c o n c l u s i o n , however, has p o l i t i c a l s i g n i f i c a n c e f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y s i n c e , t h r o u g h s e n t i m e n t , l i t e r a r y t e x t s can be t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o a l l e g o r i e s o f a new p o l i t i c a l o r d e r t h a t p o s i t s woman a t i t s c e n t r e . Tompkins's i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f s e n t i m e n t ' s a l l e g o r i c a l p u r p o s e — t o engender a new, f e m a l e p o l i t i c a l o r d e r — r e l a t e s t o t h e means by w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's n a r r a t i v e poems g e n e r a t e d t h e i r p o p u l a r a p p e a l . S e n t i m e n t ' s a l l e g o r i c a l f u n c t i o n , i n r e l a t i o n t o form and a u d i e n c e , i n t e r s e c t s t h i s c h a p t e r ' s e a r l i e r a n a l y s i s o f t h e o v e r l a p p i n g p o e t i c g e n r e s t h a t c o n s t i t u t e M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch A r d e n as p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poems. O b v i o u s l y n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s and w r i t e r s o f b o t h genders q u e s t i o n e d t h e s o c i a l v a l u e o f t h e " a f f e c t i o n s " i n r e l a t i o n t o p o e t i c g e n r e . And male c r i t i c s f r e q u e n t l y a s s i g n e d f e m a l e p o e t s t o l y r i c i s m — t h e l o w e r r e a c h e s o f t h e t r a d i t i o n a l p o e t i c h i e r a r c h y — b e c a u s e t h i s g e n r e p r e s u m a b l y a l l o w e d them t o d i s p l a y t h e i r g r e a t e s t s t r e n g t h s : compassion and b e a u t y . I n Female W r i t e r s (1842), Mary Ann S t o d a r t a r g u e s t h e same r a t i o n a l e f o r f e m a l e l y r i c i s m b u t from a woman's p e r s p e c t i v e and w i t h g r e a t l y d i f f e r e n t r e s u l t s . R a t h e r t h a n acknowledge t h e t r a d i t i o n a l male h i e r a r c h y , she a r g u e s f o r s e p a r a t e b u t e q u a l s p h e r e s : " t o t h e man b e l o n g s t h e e p i c , w i t h i t s g r a n d manner, i t s sense o f h i s t o r y , and i t s knowledge o f good and e v i l ; t o t h e woman b e l o n g s t h e l y r i c , w i t h an emphasis on i n d i v i d u a l f e e l i n g and d o m e s t i c e x p e r i e n c e " (summarized by H e l s i n g e r I I I 3 0 ) . S t o d a r t champions f e m a l e p o e t s f o r t h e i r l y r i c a l l y e x p r e s s e d , d o m e s t i c s e n t i m e n t s : We may n o t , we c a n n o t 'murmur t a l e s o f i r o n wars,' f o l l o w t h e c u r r e n t s o f a heady f i g h t , p o r t r a y w i t h t h e v i v i d power o f Homeric song, t h e h o r r i d d i n o f war, t h e r u s h o f c o n t e n d i n g w a r r i o r s , t h e p r a n c i n g o f t h e n o b l e s t e e d , t h e c l a n g , t h e t u m u l t , t h e s t i r r i n g i n t e r e s t o f t h e b a t t l e - f i e l d — n o — b u t we can do what m i g h t i e r man would p e r h a p s d i s d a i n — w e can f o l l o w one s o l i t a r y s o l d i e r as he d r a g s h i s wounded l i m b s beneath t h e s h e l t e r i n g hedge; and w h i l e we mark h i s g l a z i n g eye, we c a n r e a d w i t h woman's k e e n n e s s , t h e t h o u g h t s o f w i f e , c h i l d r e n , and home, w h i c h a r e p l a y i n g around h i s h e a r t , ( q t d . 30-31) As male p o e t s w o r k i n g w i t h i n and a g a i n s t f e m a l e t h e m a t i c p a r a d i g m s , o f t e n from women's p e r s p e c t i v e s i f n o t w i t h t h e i r v o i c e s , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson c r o s s e d back and f o r t h between t h e s e p a r a t e s p h e r e s S t o d a r t o u t l i n e s above. Through each p o e t ' s e x t r a o r d i n a r y s k i l l a t c o n f l a t i n g s e e m i n g l y opposed g e n r e s i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch Arden and, t h r o u g h s e l e c t i v e l y r i c i s m , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson encouraged t h e h e i g h t e n e d e m o t i o n a l i s m o f w h i c h S t o d a r t s p e a k s . F o r many o f t h e i r r e a d e r s — w o m e n and men a l i k e — t h i s e m o t i o n a l i s m c o u l d r e a d i l y have f o s t e r e d a l l e g o r i c a l r e a d i n g s o f women's c e n t r a l r o l e i n s o c i a l s t a b i l i t y . The s e n t i m e n t a l t r i g g e r i n p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y t h a t p u t s t h i s a l l e g o r i c a l p r o c e s s i n t o p l a y i s n o t t h e m e l o d r a m a t i c c h a r a c t e r s and s c e n e s o f f i c t i o n . I t i s a f f e c t i v e l y r i c i s m . A l t h o u g h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's l y r i c v o i c e s a r e wed t o n a r r a t i v e p u r p o s e s and become d i f f u s e d i n t o a c t i o n , c h a r a c t e r , s e t t i n g , and m o o d — t h e e l e m e n t s o f f i c t i o n — t h e y a r e p e r h a p s even more sonorous because more r e s o n a n t i n n a r r a t i v e t h a n t h e y a r e i n song. E r i c G r i f f i t h s d e s c r i b e s V i c t o r i a n l y r i c i s m i n a way t h a t s u g g e s t s s t r o n g l y i t s p o t e n t i a l t i e s w i t h a l l e g o r y : " t h e l y r i c u t t e r a n c e c o n s c i o u s l y i d e a l i z e s t h e f a c t s o f t h e d a r k w o r l d i t i s s u e s from as i t i d e a l i z e s t h a t w o r l d ' s speech. I t d o e s n ' t come as a s u r p r i s e when we f i n d t h a t p e o p l e a c t u a l l y behaved t o w a r d s 527 each o t h e r i n ways q u i t e d i f f e r e n t from what we i m a g i n e i f we r e a d works o f t h e i m a g i n a t i o n as i f t h e y weren't a t a l l i m a g i n a t i v e " ( G r i f f i t h s 177). N e i t h e r L o n g f e l l o w n o r Tennyson c o u l d have r e a l i s t i c a l l y e x p e c t e d h i s r e a d e r s t o behave as e i t h e r as P r i s c i l l a s o r A n n i e s . However, i n t h e l y r i c u t t e r a n c e o f t h e d o m e s t i c s o l u t i o n s t h a t each p o e t s o u g h t , he r e g i s t e r s t h e a l l e g o r i c a l power o f t h e f e m i n i n e p r i n c i p l e w i t h i n humanity as a whole. I n M i l e s S t a n d i s h , L o n g f e l l o w i m p l i c i t l y v i l i f i e s h i s s o c i e t y ' s l o s s o f t h i s f e m i n i n e p r i n c i p l e by v o i c i n g s t r o n g s e n t i m e n t a l bonds between a j u s t and humane C h r i s t i a n i t y and t h e d o m e s t i c w o r l d o f t h e P u r i t a n maid, P r i s c i l l a . The P u r i t a n s , o f c o u r s e , s a i l e d t o A m e r i c a because o f t h e i r r e l i g i o u s c o n v i c t i o n s t h a t t h e C h r i s t i a n Word was Law. From a m i d - n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p e r s p e c t i v e , L o n g f e l l o w r e a f f i r m s t h i s o r i g i n a l " s e n t i m e n t " on w h i c h h i s n a t i o n was founded. On t h e b r i n k o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s ' u l t i m a t e d i s s o l u t i o n i n t o C i v i l War, L o n g f e l l o w a l l e g o r i c a l l y s u g g e s t s t h a t s o c i a l d i s i n t e g r a t i o n stems from a p e o p l e ' s l o s s o f compassion f o r one a n o t h e r : t h e i r l o s s r e g i s t e r s i n t h e i r i n s i n c e r e u s e s o f l a n g u a g e and e q u a l l y i n s i n c e r e r e a c t i o n s t o t h e words t h a t o t h e r s use t o d e s c r i b e t h e i r d i f f e r i n g r e a l i t i e s . By e x p o s i n g t h e s e c a u s e s , L o n g f e l l o w ' s poem t h e r e b y s e e k s i t s s o l u t i o n s i n t e r n a l l y i n P r i s c i l l a as she b o t h v o i c e s and m a n i f e s t s t r u e C h r i s t i a n compassion. A t t h e same t i m e , L o n g f e l l o w ' s d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y o f h i s n a t i o n draws upon i t s e x t e r n a l r e a d e r s ' own 528 w i l l i n g n e s s t o i d e n t i f y s e n t i m e n t a l l y w i t h t h e dilemmas and s o l u t i o n s p o s e d — n o t n e c e s s a r i l y t o l i k e what t h e y h e a r , b u t t o l i s t e n . L i s t e n i n g i s s o m e t h i n g t h a t b o t h M i l e s S t a n d i s h and John A l d e n have g r e a t d i f f i c u l t y d o i n g . Because t h e C a p t a i n i s s o l e l y o c c u p i e d i n i n t e r p r e t i n g t h e w o r l d v i a h i m s e l f and h i s m i l i t a r y e x p l o i t s ( h i s f i g u r a t i v e language c o n s i s t s a l m o s t e n t i r e l y o f metaphors o f weaponry), h i s most f r e q u e n t r e s p o n s e t o o t h e r s ' words i s "unheeding." When A l d e n i n t e r j e c t s d u r i n g S t a n d i s h ' s t a l e o f n e a r d e a t h a t F l a n d e r s , t h e C a p t a i n c o n t i n u e s r i g h t on, "unheeding t h e words o f t h e s t r i p l i n g " ( I 3 4 ) . When A l d e n i n t e r r u p t s t h e i r d i s c u s s i o n about J u l i u s C a e s a r w i t h i n f o r m a t i o n o f h i s own, S t a n d i s h a g a i n i g n o r e s him, "not h e e d i n g o r h e a r i n g t h e o t h e r " ( I I 1 2 ) . More s e r i o u s l y , S t a n d i s h d i s m i s s e s c o m p l e t e l y t h e P l y m o u t h E l d e r ' s C h r i s t i a n p e t i t i o n f o r peace i n r e s p o n s e t o t h e I n d i a n s ' " c h a l l e n g e o f w a r f a r e " v i a "arrowy t o n g u e s o f d e f i a n c e " (IV 113-14). F o r t h e C a p t a i n i n t e n d s t o r e t u r n l i k e w i t h l i k e s i n c e he i s c o n v i n c e d t h a t " ' t h e o n l y tongue t h a t i s u n d e r s t o o d by t h e savage / Must be t h e tongue o f f i r e t h a t speaks from t h e mouth o f t h e cannon!'" (IV 1 2 4 — 5 ) . Thus when t h e E l d e r d e l i v e r s him a m i l d r e b u k e f o r h i s " i r r e v e r e n t l a n g u a g e , " i t t o o f a l l s "unheeded" on d e a f e a r s . F o r M i l e s S t a n d i s h i s by now so committed t o t h e v e n t i n g o f h i s anger a t b e i n g r e j e c t e d by P r i s c i l l a t h a t n a t i v e i n s o l e n c e i s j u s t t h e s p a r k he needs t o s e t o f f h i s e m o t i o n a l powder keg. I n b o t h P r i s c i l l a ' s r e j e c t i o n o f S t a n d i s h ' s words by p r o x y , and t h e I n d i a n s ' r e f u s a l t o l i s t e n t o P u r i t a n i c a l g o s p e l , L o n g f e l l o w i m p l i c i t l y compares v a r i o u s s i t e s o f c o n f l i c t o v e r t h e s i n c e r e b e s t o w a l o f s e n t i m e n t . F o r n o t h e e d i n g i s n o t t h e same as r e j e c t i o n o r r e f u s a l . The l a t t e r two i m p l y a g e n u i n e h e a r i n g and a c a r e f u l l y c o n s i d e r e d , "no." A l d e n a l s o s u f f e r s from n o t h e e d i n g because he i s t o o c a u g h t up i n t h e f a s h i o n i n g o f p h r a s e s t o pay a t t e n t i o n t o t h e i m p o r t o f h i s c o n v e r s a n t ' s speech. He i g n o r e s P r i s c i l l a ' s i n d i g n a n t r e s p o n s e t o S t a n d i s h ' s p r o p o s a l by p r o x y because by now he has warmed t o h i s t a s k : "unheeding t h e words o f P r i s c i l l a , " he u r g e s t h e s u i t o f h i s f r i e n d by " e x p l a i n i n g , p e r s u a d i n g , e x p a n d i n g " ( I I I 131-2). A l t h o u g h A l d e n ' s m e t a p h o r i z i n g does n o t s t o p i m m e d i a t e l y once he and P r i s c i l l a p l e d g e t h e i r f r i e n d s h i p , i n t h e d o m e s t i c c o m m u n i t y - b u i l d i n g c h a p t e r , "The S p i n n i n g - W h e e l , " P r i s c i l l a i s a b l e t o d i r e c t A l d e n ' s a t t e n t i o n away from h i s " i d l e " s p i n n i n g o f words i n t o a p r a c t i c a l s p i n n i n g o f a c t u a l w o o l . T h e r e i n , she i s " t o be t h e p a t t e r n f o r h o u s e w i v e s , " and g u i d e him i n how t o become " e q u a l l y w o r t h y o f b e i n g t h e model o f husbands" ( V I I I 6 4 - 5 ) . T h e i r d o m e s t i c l a b o u r t o g e t h e r t h e r e b y p r e s a g e s t h e i r u n i o n . P r i s c i l l a ' s p r a c t i c a l , no-nonsense a p p r o a c h t o l i f e does n o t , however, p r e v e n t h e r from b e i n g p o r t r a y e d i n p o s t u r e s t h a t prompt r e a d e r s ' s e n t i m e n t a l r e s p o n s e s . F o r she i s f r e q u e n t l y r e a d t h r o u g h A l d e n ' s p o e t i c i z i n g . A l t h o u g h she a l o n e c a r r i e s t h e a l l e g o r i c a l w e i g h t o f t h i s d o m e s t i c i d y l , 530 she i s y e t t o A l d e n , i n i t s s i m p l e s t l y r i c a l s e n s e , t h e "May- f l o w e r o f P l y m o u t h . " Hence, h e r i n w a r d u n i t y o f words and a c t i o n i s e x p r e s s e d o u t w a r d l y f o r him i n s t o c k p o s t u r e s o f d o m e s t i c b l i s s . F o r i n s t a n c e , A l d e n h e a r s t h e " m u s i c a l v o i c e o f P r i s c i l l a , " even b e f o r e he s e e s h e r , as she s i t s s i n g i n g t h e h u n d r e d t h p s a l m w h i l e she s p i n s . Through A l d e n ' s eyes and e a r s she i s t r a n s f o r m e d i n t o " t h e P u r i t a n g i r l , i n t h e s o l i t u d e o f t h e f o r e s t , / Making t h e humble house and t h e modest a p p a r e l o f homespun / B e a u t i f u l w i t h h e r b e a u t y , and r i c h w i t h t h e w e a l t h o f h e r b e i n g ! " ( I l l 5 2 - 4 ) . A s i m i l a r p a s t o r a l l y r i c i s m g e n t l y b l e s s e s t h e c o u p l e on t h e i r wedding day. Even t h i s " l a n d o f t o i l and p r i v a t i o n " t h a t i s s a i d t o l i e b e f o r e them, P r i s c i l l a and A l d e n t r a n s f i g u r e t h r o u g h t h e i r l o v e i n t o " t h e Garden o f Eden" (IX 6 3 ) . The f i n a l s t a n z a ' s murmuring b r o o k s , g o l d e n l e a v e s , and odorous grape v i n e s whose s c e n t s m i n g l e w i t h t h e balm o f p i n e and f i r - t r e e , c o m p l e t e t h e poem i n a p a r t i n g image " o f t h e p r i m i t i v e p a s t o r a l ages" (IX 8 5 - 9 ) , 2 4 T h i s s e n t i m e n t a l , h a p p y - e v e r - a f t e r e n d i n g , however, does n o t have t o be s c o r n e d f o r mawkishness. Moreover, t h e n a r r a t o r c l e a r l y a d m i t s t h a t i t i s m e r e l y e x t e r n a l , t h a t i d e a l i s m has m o m e n t a r i l y c o l o u r e d t h i s y o u t h f u l P u r i t a n w o r l d . Moreover, t h e poem's comic r e s o l u t i o n o f y o u t h o v e r age i s 2 4 The r e c o v e r y o f t h e L o t u s l a p s u s , w i t h w h i c h M i l e s S t a n d i s h c o n c l u d e s , m i r r o r s t h e many e i g h t e e n t h and n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y Edens e n c y c l o p e d i a c a l l y t r e a t e d i n Max F. S c h u l t z ' s P a r a d i s e P r e s e r v e d (1985). 531 a l s o m e r e l y e x t e r n a l c o n v e n t i o n because i t i s undermined by S t a n d i s h ' s " r e t u r n from t h e dead" a l l e g e d l y t o b l e s s P r i s c i l l a ' s and A l d e n ' s u n i o n . H i s s p e c t r a l appearance a t t h e c h u r c h d o o r , however, r e c a l l s an e a r l i e r " s p e c t r e o f t e r r o r " : t h e b l o o d y " t r o p h y o f war t h e head o f t h e b r a v e Wattawamat" upon t h e r o o f o f t h i s same c h u r c h / f o r t r e s s ( V I I 9 4 ) . P r i s c i l l a had i n i t i a l l y " a v e r t e d h e r f a c e " from t h i s s p e c t r e because she r e a d i n Wattawamat's f a t e a f u t u r e t h a t m i g h t have s y m b o l i c a l l y been h e r s . She t h a n k s God t h e n t h a t she d i d n o t marry M i l e s S t a n d i s h , f o r she f e a r s t h a t "coming home from h i s b a t t l e s " he m i g h t have one day l a i d " c l a i m t o h e r hand, as t h e p r i z e and r e w a r d o f h i s v a l o u r " ( V I I 99-100). The C a p t a i n ' s a r r i v a l a t t h e w e d d i n g — e v e n though i t i s meant t o convey h i s a p o l o g y — b y a s s o c i a t i o n c o n t i n u e s t o t h r e a t e n p e r i p h e r a l l y t h e peace o f P r i s c i l l a ' s and A l d e n ' s u n i o n a t c e n t r e s t a g e . S t a n d i s h s t i l l has "an i r o n w i l l " t h a t s t a y s h i s f u l l c o m m u n i c a t i o n ; and when he i s c a l l e d upon t o e x p l a i n h i s m y s t e r i o u s d i s a p p e a r a n c e , he r e l a p s e s i n t o metaphors o f w a r f a r e . I n s h o r t , L o n g f e l l o w ' s a f f e c t i v e l y r i c i s m i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h works t h r o u g h a l l u s i o n and t h e t o n a l q u a l i t i e s o f t h e v e r s e , even as i t d i d i n "A Psalm o f L i f e , " t o encourage r e a d e r s ' p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n b o t h t h e dilemmas o f w a r f a r e and t h e i r d o m e s t i c s o l u t i o n . That h i s r e s o l u t i o n l i e s i n t h e d i s t a n t P u r i t a n p a s t does n o t d i m i n i s h i t s p o t e n t i a l as a l l e g o r y . The i d y l engages r e a d e r s ' p r i v a t e , s p i r i t u a l s e l v e s more t h a n t h e i r i n t e l l e c t s so t h a t as a c o l l e c t i v e e m o t i o n a l f o r c e t h e y can p a r t i c i p a t e a c t i v e l y and p u b l i c l y i n t h e m o r a l c r i s i s f a c i n g t h e i r n a t i o n i n t h e 1850s. As i n M i l e s S t a n d i s h , t h i s t o o was t o e r u p t i n a war between language and a c t i o n , f o u g h t i n t h e houses o f government and on t h e b a t t l e f i e l d s . I n t h e s c r i b e ' s w i n n i n g o f t h e maiden and i n t h e poem's a t t e m p t s t o i n s p i r e d o m e s t i c p e a c e — w i t h i n t h e s e l f , w i t h i n t h e home, w i t h i n t h e n a t i o n — L o n g f e l l o w may w e l l have been a l l u d i n g t o t h e w e l l - w o r n metaphor t h a t " t h e pen i s m i g h t i e r t h a n t h e sword." U n f o r t u n a t e l y , by 1860, t h e adage had worn o u t a l t o g e t h e r — i t was t o p r o v e as much a sham as M i l e s S t a n d i s h ' s p r o c l a m a t i o n on s e l f - r e l i a n c e . The t h r e a t s t o d o m e s t i c b l i s s w h i c h c o n t i n u e t o l i n g e r a t t h e p e r i p h e r y o f M i l e s S t a n d i s h f i n d t h e i r p a r a l l e l o u t s i d e t h e t e x t i n a contemporary atmosphere o f s o c i a l t e n s i o n and p o l i t i c a l unease. C o n s e q u e n t l y , t h e n a r r a t i v e i t s e l f , l i k e t h e b i v o u a c o f t h e "Psalm," can o n l y e v e r r e a l l y p r o v i d e a t e m p o r a r y s h e l t e r from t h e s t o r m . F o r t h e t r u e s h e l t e r c o u l d n o t be g a i n e d o b j e c t i v e l y even i n l y r i c i s m o f p o e t r y — i t c o u l d o n l y r e s t w i t h i n t h e s e l f . I f r e s p o n s i v e t o s e n t i m e n t and c o m p a s s i o n , t h e n r e a d e r s — w h e t h e r t h e y be M i l e s S t a n d i s h o r Enoch A r d e n — a r e s u b s e q u e n t l y p r o v o k e d by a d e s i r e t o r e c r e a t e t h e s e c u r i t y o f t h e h e a r t h w i t h i n t h e m s e l v e s , t o make o f t h e i r own p e r s o n s d o m e s t i c havens o f e m o t i o n a l and p s y c h o l o g i c a l c o m f o r t . 533 T h i s t r a n s f o r m a t i o n o c c u r s i n Enoch when he " r e a d s " t h e b l i s s i n A n n i e ' s and P h i l i p ' s f a m i l y t a b l e a u and t h e n w i s h e s t o p r o t e c t i t . T h i s , i n t u r n , i s what Tennyson's r e a d e r s a r e t o do w h e n — t h r o u g h M i r i a m Lane's e y e s — t h e y " r e a d " Enoch's e m o t i o n a l and p s y c h o l o g i c a l peace. I t c a n n o t be o v e r s t r e s s e d t h a t t h i s r e a d i n g does n o t t a k e p l a c e o n l y a t a c o g n i t i v e l e v e l . R e a d e r s ' a f f e c t i v e r e s p o n s e s t o t e x t s , p a r t i c u l a r l y i f t e a s e d i n t o a t y p e o f v i s c e r a l a c t i v i t y t h r o u g h t h e p h y s i c a l s e n s a t i o n o f sound, i n s p i r e an e q u a l i f n o t g r e a t e r p a r t i c i p a t i o n i n t h e c r e a t i o n o f meaning t h a n do c o g n i t i v e ones. F o r i n s t a n c e , Enoch Arden may have c a u s e d i t s c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a d e r s t o sense i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c a l l y t h a t t h e l i f e l i v e d one-hundred y e a r s ago was s u p e r i o r t o t h a t o f t h e 18 60s. But when c a l l e d upon t o a r t i c u l a t e e x a c t l y why t h i s i s t r u e , t h e y may n o t have been a b l e t o e x p l a i n t h e i r r e s p o n s e ; t h e " f e e l " o f t h e poem s i m p l y s u g g e s t s i t . To be e f f e c t i v e as a l l e g o r y , Enoch A r d e n must i n s p i r e i t s r e a d e r s o u t s i d e t h e t e x t t o t a k e up t h e poem's e v e n t s as i f t h e y were t h e i r own, and t o a s s o c i a t e t h e m s e l v e s v i c a r i o u s l y w i t h t h e c h a r a c t e r s w i t h i n t h e poem who a r e c a l l e d upon t o " r e a d " v a r i o u s s i t u a t i o n s and p e o p l e . The p l a c e s w i t h i n t h e poem where t h i s r e s p o n s e o c c u r s a r e p u n c t u a t e d by a h e i g h t e n e d e m o t i o n a l i s m t h a t r e g i s t e r s i n t h e sonorous l y r i c i s m o f Tennyson's b l a n k v e r s e . The f i r s t i s P h i l i p ' s v i e w o f A n n i e and Enoch i n l o v e . Tennyson e n s u r e s t h a t h i s r e a d e r s ' s y m p a t h i e s a r e w i t h P h i l i p even b e f o r e he goes t o t h e h a z e l - 534 wood by p o i n t i n g t o h i s s e l f - s a c r i f i c i n g , f e m i n i n e r o l e o f n u r s i n g h i s s i c k f a t h e r as t h e r e a s o n f o r h i s d e l a y . Then, he s e e s t h e l o v e r s : And i n t h e i r eyes and f a c e s r e a d h i s doom; Then, as t h e i r f a c e s drew t o g e t h e r , g r o a n ' d , And s l i p t a s i d e , and l i k e . a wounded l i f e C r e p t down i n t o t h e h o l l o w s o f t h e wood. (73-6) Echoes o f t h e o p e n i n g o f Maud l i n k P h i l i p ' s " l i f e l o n g hunger i n h i s h e a r t " t o Tennyson's many o t h e r j i l t e d l o v e r s . The i m p a c t o f P h i l i p ' s r e a d i n g i s f e l t v i s c e r a l l y i n h i s g r o a n i n g , and i n t h e assonance o f t h e l o n g " i " and s h o r t "o" t h a t c r e a t e s a l o n g d r a w i n g o u t o f t h e m i s e r y t h a t he f e e l s . Tennyson manages t h r o u g h sound t o t r a n s f o r m P h i l i p ' s e m o t i o n a l a n g u i s h i n t o p h y s i c a l p a i n . He r e s p o n d s l i k e a k i c k e d dog, who must h i d e h i m s e l f t o l i c k h i s wounds. The s e n t i m e n t s b r o u g h t i n t o p l a y h e r e n e c e s s a r i l y i n f l u e n c e r e a d e r s ' i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f P h i l i p ' s s u f f e r i n g t h r o u g h o u t w h i l e A n n i e w a i t s f o r a s i g n from God t o b r i n g an end t o h e r and h i s s o r r o w . A n n i e ' s h i g h l y e m o t i o n a l p l e a d i n g w i t h Enoch n o t t o go on h i s merchant v e n t u r e i s y e t a n o t h e r i n s t a n c e where r e a d e r s a r e made t o f e e l p h y s i c a l l y t h e p a i n f u l e f f e c t s o f a c h a r a c t e r ' s u n r e q u i t e d needs (157-66). I t r e g i s t e r s more f o r c e f u l l y s t i l l i n h e r r e s p o n s e t o h i s s e r m o n i z i n g j u s t b e f o r e Enoch l e a v e s : . . . she h e a r d , Heard and n o t h e a r d him; as t h e v i l l a g e g i r l , Who s e t s h e r p i t c h e r u n d e r n e a t h t h e s p r i n g , Musing on him t h a t used t o f i l l i t f o r h e r , Hears and n o t h e a r s , and l e t s i t o v e r f l o w . (205-9) The r e p e t i t i o n i s t h e key means by w h i c h A n n i e ' s l i n g e r i n g f e a r and doubt s t i m u l a t e i n h e r a k i n d o f somnambulism. She i s numb t o t h e r e a l i t y o f p r e s e n t and f u t u r e ; she d w e l l s o n l y as a symbol o f t h e abandoned v i l l a g e g i r l . Enoch's words a r e now a waste o f b r e a t h t h a t r e c a l l w a t e r w a s t e d upon t h e ground, f o r h e r p r e d e t e r m i n e d r o l e as "widow" has been t a k e n up even b e f o r e Enoch l e a v e s . As i n P h i l i p ' s a l i e n a t i o n from l o v e , r e s p o n s e s t o A n n i e ' s a r e s e t e a r l y so t h a t i n i t i a l s e n t i m e n t s can be drawn upon l a t e r i n t h e poem. Her most t r a g i c moment, f o r example, comes about by h e r use o f t h e B i b l e t o a u t h o r i z e a c h o i c e t h a t she i s t o o weak t o make o p e n l y . She m i s r e a d s Enoch's p r e d i c a m e n t as d e a t h so t h a t she can g e t on w i t h l i f e . I n a l e t t e r t o J o a n Agnew, 19 June 18 69, R u s k i n e x p l a i n s t h e d e p t h o f h i s own e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e t o t h i s scene i n p a r t i c u l a r : "To my mind, t h e s a d d e s t and s t r a n g e s t t h i n g — y e t so l i k e human l i f e — b u t t h e d e e p e s t p i e c e o f t h e t r a g e d y — i s t h e d e c e i v i n g o f t h e w i f e by t h e True Dream, 'Under t h e Palm T r e e s . ' The V a i n P r o v i d e n c e , t h e Good S p i r i t becoming a l y i n g one. E v e r y day t h e w o r l d and i t s ways g e t more t e r r i b l e t o me" (XXXVI 570-71). The q u i n t e s s e n t i a l humanism i n A n n i e ' s dilemma makes Enoch's a c t u a l d e a t h p a t h e t i c a l l y t r a g i c . Of c o u r s e , once Enoch i s c a s t away upon a t r o p i c a l i s l a n d , h i s p h y s i c a l i s o l a t i o n and a l i e n a t i o n a r e f e l t most a c u t e l y . T h i s sense i s a c h i e v e d p r i m a r i l y t h r o u g h t h e l i n e s t h a t d e s c r i b e t h e i s l a n d , l i n e s t h a t W a l t e r Bagehot, and many o t h e r r e a d e r s a f t e r him, d e t e r m i n e d as t o o o r n a t e f o r n a r r a t i v e p o e t r y ( l i n e s 568-95, see Jump 282-93). But what Bagehot f a i l e d t o h e a r i n t h e s e l i n e s i s t h e s e n s a t i o n o f b e i n g a l m o s t p h y s i c a l l y s i c k e n e d by t h e l u s h n e s s o f v i s u a l imagery and t h e human e m p t i n e s s i n t h e p o w e r f u l sounds o f n a t u r e t h a t have no r e s o n a n c e f o r t h e h e r o . The v i s i o n he most d e s i r e s , " t h e k i n d l y human f a c e , " and t h e sound he l o n g s f o r , "a k i n d l y v o i c e , " a r e d e n i e d t o him as a form o f punishment f o r h i s f a i l u r e t o r e g i s t e r t h e s e b e f o r e i n t h e c o m p a s s i o n a t e l o o k s and p l e a d i n g s o f h i s w i f e . But t h i s f a c e and v o i c e can now be s u p p l i e d by t h e r e a d e r s o f t h e poem i f t h e y v i s u a l l y and a u d i b l y r e a d Enoch's l o n e l i n e s s as i f i t were t h e i r own. I f s y m p a t h e t i c t o t h e a f f e c t i v e l y r i c i s m o f t h e v e r s e , t h e n r e a d e r s f e e l t h e t e d i u m and e x p e r i e n c e v i c a r i o u s l y t h e o v e r s t i m u l a t i o n o f sense and u n d e r s t i m u l a t i o n o f e m o t i o n . They b e g i n h e r e t o i d e n t i f y w i t h Enoch's s u f f e r i n g , and f e e l a n x i e t y a t h i s r e s c u e because o f e v e n t s back i n t h e v i l l a g e . O b v i o u s l y , Enoch's m a s o c h i s t i c d e s i r e t o l o o k i n upon A n n i e ' s and P h i l i p ' s h e a r t h once he r e t u r n s i s t h e c l i m a x t o t h e i d y l ' s s e t - p i e c e s . What Enoch sees has been d i s c u s s e d p r e v i o u s l y ; what r e m a i n s i s Enoch's e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e t o t h i s d o m e s t i c t a b l e a u . Here, Enoch echoes P h i l i p ' s e a r l i e r m i s e r y , a t a h e i g h t e n e d p i t c h . Enoch w i s h e s t o d e s t r o y what he sees v i s u a l l y by u t t e r i n g a " s h r i l l and t e r r i b l e c r y , / Which i n one moment, l i k e t h e b l a s t o f doom, / Would s h a t t e r a l l t h e h a p p i n e s s o f t h e h e a r t h " (7 64-6). However, he t u r n s away 537 s o f t l y . H i s v o i c e i s s i l e n c e d f o r t h e d u r a t i o n o f t h e poem by h i s i n v o c a t i o n t o God t o b r i n g him t h e s t r e n g t h o f i n n e r r e s o l v e so t h a t he w i l l n o t i n t r u d e upon A n n i e ' s peace. S u b s e q u e n t l y , Enoch a c h i e v e s h i s i n w a r d s p i r i t u a l peace t h r o u g h h i s h e r o i c s e l f - s a c r i f i c e . T h i s f i n a l c o n t e n t m e n t i s f e l t by t h e poem's r e a d e r s t h r o u g h M i r i a m Lane who undergoes a p r o c e s s s i m i l a r t o Enoch's on h e a r i n g h i s t a l e . She a t f i r s t v e n t s h e r emotions p h y s i c a l l y i n an " h a l f - h y s t e r i c a l c r y " o f d i s b e l i e f . Then, " F a s t f l o w ' d t h e c u r r e n t o f h e r e a s y t e a r s " (862) as she s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y i d e n t i f i e s w i t h Enoch's p a i n and s u f f e r i n g . F i n a l l y , M i r i a m r e s i s t s t h e u r g e t o r u s h o u t and p r o c l a i m "Enoch Arden and h i s woes" ( 8 6 4 ) , f o r she i s bound t o Enoch as Enoch i s t o God i n vows o f s i l e n c e . She and t h e " l a z y g o s s i p s o f t h e p o r t " a r e — l i k e E n o c h — a l s o n o t a l l o w e d t o i n t r u d e on A n n i e ' s and P h i l i p ' s l i v e s by t a k i n g p l e a s u r e i n t h e r e t e l l i n g o f Enoch's s u f f e r i n g . They a r e t o e x p r e s s c o m p a s s i o n , n o t f a s c i n a t i o n , and must s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y b e a r o t h e r p e o p l e ' s p a i n even as t h e i r own. T h a t Tennyson's r e a d e r s n e c e s s a r i l y r e a d Enoch Arden t h r o u g h s y m p a t h e t i c eyes and e a r s i s s u g g e s t e d by i t s t h o u s a n d s o f p u r c h a s e r s . Whether t h e y r e a d i n t o t h i s i d y l t h e deeper c o n n o t a t i o n s o f d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y i s l e s s c e r t a i n . One a l l e g o r i c a l i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f Enoch Arden c o n c e r n s t h i s p r o c e s s o f a l l e g o r i c a l r e a d i n g i t s e l f . Readers o f t h i s poem must be made t o f e e l t h a t l o v e f o r t h e e m o t i o n a l and n o t m e r e l y t h e m a t e r i a l w e l l - b e i n g o f o t h e r s has t o s u p e r s e d e 538 s e l f - l o v e t o e n s u r e t h e s t a b i l i t y o f t h e community. Enoch's t r u e c a r i n g f o r A n n i e a l l o w s him, f i n a l l y , t o r e a d h e r f u t u r e c o r r e c t l y and a v o i d t h e l e g a l r a m i f i c a t i o n s o f h i s s e l f - d i s c l o s u r e . I n h i s r e f u s a l t o i n t r u d e upon A n n i e ' s and P h i l i p ' s "bigamous" m a r r i e d l i f e , Enoch i r o n i c a l l y p r e s e r v e s t h e s a n c t i t y o f t h e bonds o f u n s e l f i s h l o v e t h a t have p r e c e d e d i t . He i d e a l i z e s a m a r r i a g e o f t h e h e a r t a t t h e expense o f t h e l e g a l i n s t i t u t i o n . T h i s , i n t u r n , r e a f f i r m s t h e community's g e n e r a t i o n t h r o u g h t h e s e l f - s a c r i f i c e o f t h e h e r o so t h a t t h e c h i l d r e n w i l l be s e c u r e . By a c t i v a t i n g t h e s y m p a t h e t i c emotions o f h i s a u d i e n c e f o r Enoch's dilemma, Tennyson a c h i e v e s h i s a l l e g o r i c a l p u r p o s e : h i s r e a d e r s g e t o u t s i d e o f t h e m s e l v e s and t h e i r own narrow c o n c e r n s , and i m a g i n a t i v e l y f e e l f o r t h e p l i g h t s o f t h e i r " c r e a t e d " f r i e n d s . F o r Tennyson, t h i s i s what i t means t o be f u l l y human. A c c o r d i n g l y , he s e t s h i s poem a hundred y e a r s i n t h e p a s t because he w i s h e s t o convey t h a t t i m e p e r i o d when " a l l t h i n g s human" began t o change, when p e o p l e a l l o w e d m a r k e t - f o r c e s and t h e d e s i r e f o r w e a l t h t o r e p l a c e b o t h t h e i r l o v e o f home and community and t h e i r e m o t i o n a l s a t i s f a c t i o n , i n s h o r t , a t t h a t p o i n t when t h e d e h u m a n i z i n g p r o c e s s i n s o c i e t y began. C l e a r l y , t h e l o c u s o f human i n t e r a c t i o n i s t h e d o m e s t i c h e a r t h and home s i n c e i t i s t h e r e t h a t c h i l d r e n f i r s t l e a r n how t o l i v e and l o v e as s o c i a l b e i n g s . P i t t r i g h t l y a s s e r t s t h a t , c o n t r a r y t o t h e o p i n i o n s o f many o f Tennyson's 539 t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s , i t " i s f o o l i s h t o l a u g h a t Tennyson's c o n c e r n w i t h d o m e s t i c r e l a t i o n s h i p s — t h e y were a t t h e f o r e f r o n t o f t h e V i c t o r i a n e t h i c a l t a b l e a u , t h e y a r e t h e b a s i s o f a l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n , and Tennyson u s e s t h a t c o n v e n t i o n , as most p o e t s use t h e c o n v e n t i o n s o f t h e i r p e r i o d , as t h e medium o f s o m e t h i n g e l s e . " T h i s s o m e t h i n g e l s e P i t t d e f i n e s as o b l i q u e w r i t i n g , n o t t r u e a l l e g o r y where " b o t h a c t o r s and a c t i o n s a r e d e s i g n e d t o s t a n d f o r some s p e c i f i c s i t u a t i o n o u t s i d e t h e m s e l v e s , b u t . . . t y p e s t o r i e s , s t o r i e s i n w h i c h t h e a c t i o n , though c o m p l e t e and s a t i s f y i n g i n i t s e l f , p o i n t s t o and r e f l e c t s some o t h e r s i t u a t i o n " (13 6-7). P i t t ' s " t y p e s t o r y " i s h e r e r e f e r r e d t o as d o m e s t i c a l l e g o r y i n w h i c h t h e t e x t ' s p o i n t i n g t o and r e f l e c t i n g , a p r o c e s s w h i c h P i t t does n o t e x p l a i n , a c t u a l l y o c c u r s i n t h e h e a r t s and minds o f Tennyson's r e a d e r s . I n s t e a d , P i t t e x p l a i n s Tennyson's use o f a l l e g o r y w i t h i n t h e c o n t e x t o f h i s p u b l i c r e s p o n s i b i l i t i e s . "The L a u r e a t e ' s v o i c e was meant t o warn and t o encourage, he r e c e i v e s and e x p r e s s e s t h e s u b c o n s c i o u s f e a r s and d o u b t s o f h i s g e n e r a t i o n , b u t he a l s o f e e l s and p r e s e n t s t h e i r sense o f v a s t achievement and t h e i r o b s t i n a t e sometimes i r r i t a t i n g o p t i m i s m " ( 1 5 3 ) . A l t h o u g h i n h e r i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f T e n n y s o n i a n a l l e g o r y P i t t a g a i n p r i v i l e g e s t h e a u t h o r ' s i n t e n t i o n s o v e r t h e r e a d e r ' s , she n e v e r t h e l e s s acknowledges t h a t , as a p u b l i c p o e t , Tennyson p e r f o r c e o p e r a t e d on t h e two l e v e l s o f i n c o m i n g and o u t g o i n g s t i m u l i s i m u l t a n e o u s l y : r e c e i v i n g and e x p r e s s i n g , f e e l i n g and p r e s e n t i n g . As n o t e d above f o r Tennyson's own r e a d e r s , t h e f i r s t i s p r i m a r i l y i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c . I t i s p e r f o r m e d by t h e " f e e l i n g h e a r t s " ( f e m i n i n e ) t h a t A r t h u r H a l l a m p o s i t s as one h a l f o f Tennyson's i d e a l r e a d e r s h i p . The second, n a t u r a l l y , i s c o g n i t i v e , t a k e n up by t h e " i m a g i n a t i v e t e m p e r s " ( m a s c u l i n e ) o f t h e second h a l f . T h e i r p e r f e c t u n i o n i n Tennyson's androgynous v o i c e f a s h i o n e d a haven o f d o m e s t i c peace and s e c u r i t y o u t o f Enoch Arden i t s e l f t h a t , i n t u r n , l e d t o i t s immense p o p u l a r i t y . A c c o r d i n g t o Fredeman, t h e " d o m e s t i c element i n Tennyson's p o e t r y goes w e l l beyond m a t t e r s r e l a t i n g t o t h e h e a r t h , t h e h e a r t , and t h e home: i t i s t h e s t a b i l i z i n g f o r c e i n i n d i v i d u a l l i f e , t h e p r o t e c t i o n a f f o r d e d by a c i v i l i z e d o r d e r i n s o c i e t y , and t h e a s s u r a n c e o f a p u r p o s e f u l meaning. I t s c o n c o m i t a n t s a r e t h o s e v a l u e s on w h i c h t h e V i c t o r i a n s p l a c e d so h i g h a p r e m i u m — v i r t u e , i n t e g r i t y , l o y a l t y , d u t y , d i s c i p l i n e , c h a s t i t y , h o n o u r — v a l u e s w h i c h Tennyson t h o u g h t o f as u n i v e r s a l , t h e h u m a n i z i n g d e n o m i n a t o r s t h a t b r i d g e d i s t i n c t i o n s o f s e x , c l a s s , g e n e r a t i o n s , and even n a t i o n s " ( 3 6 5 - 6 ) . That t h e d o m e s t i c i d y l a f f o r d s s t a b i l i t y i n t h e f a c e o f i n s t a b i l i t y , r e a s s u r a n c e i n t h e f a c e o f doubt has a l w a y s been acknowledged as a p r i m a r y r e a s o n f o r i t s p o p u l a r i t y among V i c t o r i a n r e a d e r s . Y e t p u r p o s e f u l meaning and a b r i d g i n g between s o c i a l b a r r i e r s — t h e s e r e s p o n s e s come about t h r o u g h s e n t i m e n t and, where a p p l i c a b l e , a l l e g o r y . I n f l u e n c e d by t h e New C r i t i c i s m ' s p r i v i l e g i n g o f t h e t e x t , most t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s assume t h a t t h e poems t h e m s e l v e s engender t h e s e r e s p o n s e s . However, Tennyson's d o m e s t i c i d y l s , i n p a r t i c u l a r Enoch Arden. r e v e a l t h a t Tennyson s e t much g r e a t e r s t o r e i n r e a d e r i n t e r a c t i o n w i t h h i s p o e t i c n a r r a t i v e s t h a n has h i t h e r t o been g r a n t e d . I n b o t h M i l e s S t a n d i s h and Enoch A r d e n , t h e f i x e d d o m i c i l e o f h e a r t h and home a l l e g o r i c a l l y r e p r e s e n t s language i t s e l f as a g u a r a n t o r o f communal peace and s e c u r i t y . Indeed, i n h i s " F a b l e f o r C r i t i c s , " James R u s s e l l L o w e l l i m p l i e s as much i n h i s r e f e r e n c e t o E v a n g e l i n e : Had T h e o c r i t u s w r i t t e n i n E n g l i s h , n o t Greek, I b e l i e v e t h a t h i s e x q u i s i t e sense would s c a r c e change a l i n e I n t h a t r a r e , t e n d e r , v i r g i n - l i k e p a s t o r a l E v a n g e l i n e . T h a t ' s n o t a n c i e n t nor modern, i t s p l a c e i s a p a r t Where t i m e has no sway, i n t h e r e a l m o f p u r e A r t , ' T i s a s h r i n e o f r e t r e a t from E a r t h ' s hubbub and s t r i f e As q u i e t and c h a s t e as t h e a u t h o r ' s own l i f e . (1328-34) I n M i l e s S t a n d i s h . L o n g f e l l o w s i m i l a r l y c r e a t e s a s e c u r e home i n P r i s c i l l a h e r s e l f t h r o u g h t h e p e r f e c t u n i o n o f a c t i o n and l a n g u a g e t h a t , i n t u r n , e s t a b l i s h e s " P r i s c i l l a " as L o n g f e l l o w ' s p r o t o t y p i c a l f e m i n i n e t e x t . F o r Tennyson, however, s t a b i l i t y does n o t r e s i d e i n t h e f e m i n i n e t e x t ; i t r e s i d e s i n t h e f e m i n i n e r e a d e r wedded t o h i s t e x t s . I n i t s f u n c t i o n w i t h i n a s h a r e d community o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g , language s e e k s i t s s y m b o l i c r e p r e s e n t a t i o n i n Tennyson's p o e t r y i n images o f d o m e s t i c i t y . I n o t h e r words, t h e e x p e r i e n c e o f p o e t r y (and n o t t h e p o e t r y o f e x p e r i e n c e ) 542 t a k e s p l a c e w i t h i n t h e f i x e d d o m i c i l e o f t h e poem i t s e l f i n w h i c h a u t h o r i t y i s i n c a r n a t e i n t h e v e r y b r e a t h o f t h e l o g o s . The l o g o s o r head o f t h i s f a m i l y u n i t i s a c o r p o r e a l c o u n t e r p a r t t o t h e d i v i n e Logos and i s m a s c u l i n e . Y e t t h e m a s c u l i n e l o g o s i s w i t h o u t s i g n i f i c a t i o n u n t i l e x p e r i e n c e d by a r e a d e r who, i f n o t b i o l o g i c a l l y f e m a l e , n o n e t h e l e s s r e s p o n d s e m o t i o n a l l y , i n a " f e m i n i n e " way, t o t h e i n t e r a c t i o n o f word and r e a d e r : o n l y t o g e t h e r do t h e y c r e a t e meaning. Spoken from t h e male p o i n t o f v i e w v o i c e d by K i n g A r t h u r , i t i s t h e "maiden p a s s i o n f o r a maid" t h a t w i l l " t e a c h h i g h t h o u g h t , and a m i a b l e words / And c o u r t l i n e s s , and d e s i r e o f fame, / And l o v e o f t r u t h , and a l l t h a t makes a man" ( " G u i n i v e r e " 476-80). The p a s s i o n must t h e r e f o r e be compassion. F o r t h e m e d i e v a l k n i g h t , t h e f i r s t terms o f t h i s a p p o s i t i v e s e r i e s a r e most i m p o r t a n t : " h i g h t h o u g h t , " " c o u r t l i n e s s , " and " l o v e o f t r u t h . " But f o r t h e p o e t , t h e second terms a r e paramount: " a m i a b l e words," " d e s i r e o f fame," and " a l l t h a t makes a man." F o r as a p u r v e y o r o f t r u t h t h r o u g h l a n g u a g e , Tennyson can o n l y a c h i e v e h i s own " f a m e " — h i s t r u e m a s c u l i n i t y — t h r o u g h s u c c e s s f u l a t t a i n m e n t o f t h e r e a d e r / m a i d . One o f t h e most p r o b l e m a t i c f e a t u r e s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r n a r r a t i v e poems i s t h a t , i n t h e i r m u l t i p l i c a t i o n o f g e n r e s , t h e y r i s k s e v e r a l t i m e s o v e r t h e p o t e n t i a l t o be m i s r e a d . F o r g e n r e c a r r i e s w i t h i t an e n t i r e h o s t o f l i t e r a r y p r e s u p p o s i t i o n s t h a t g u i d e r e a d e r s ' d e t e r m i n a t i o n s o f meaning. These f u n c t i o n as c o g n i t i v e g r i d s t h r o u g h w h i c h t e x t s a r e i n t e r p r e t e d . E d u c a t e d r e a d e r s , o f c o u r s e , have a c c e s s t o more g r i d s t h a n u n e d u c a t e d r e a d e r s . Y e t p r i o r t o genre e x p e c t a t i o n s coming i n t o p l a y , r e a d e r s o f a l l c l a s s e s and b o t h g e n d e r s a r e a f f e c t e d by p o e t r y t h a t s t i m u l a t e s t h e e a r and, l i k e l y , t o u c h e s t h e h e a r t , p e r h a p s even w i t h o u t t h e i r knowing i t . Through t h i s b a s i c , a l m o s t p r i m i t i v e r e s p o n s i v e n e s s i n e v e r y o n e , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson c o n c e i v e d t h e i r i n i t i a l p o p u l a r i t y v i a l y r i c . I n l y r i c ' s f e l i c i t o u s u n i o n w i t h a l l e g o r y v i a n a r r a t i v e , L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson n u r t u r e d t h a t p o p u l a r i t y t o w o r l d w i d e s u c c e s s . 5 4 3 ^ CONCLUSION How w i l l men speak o f me when I am gone, When a l l t h i s c o l o u r l e s s , sad l i f e i s ended And I am d u s t ? They w i l l remember o n l y The w r i n k l e d f o r e h e a d , t h e marred c o u n t e n a n c e , The r u d e n e s s o f my speech, and my rough manners, And n e v e r dream t h a t u n d e r n e a t h them a l l There was a woman's h e a r t o f t e n d e r n e s s . They w i l l n o t know t h e s e c r e t o f my l i f e , L o c k e d up i n s i l e n c e , o r b u t v a g u e l y h i n t e d I n u n c o u t h rhymes, t h a t may p e r c h a n c e s u r v i v e Some l i t t l e space i n memories o f menI Each one p e r f o r m s h i s l i f e - w o r k , and t h e n l e a v e s i t ; Those t h a t come a f t e r him w i l l e s t i m a t e H i s i n f l u e n c e on t h e age i n w h i c h he l i v e d . — L o n g f e l l o w ( M i c h a e l Ancrelo I I i v ) P o p u l a r , P o p u l a r , U n p o p u l a r 1 'You're no P o e t ' — t h e c r i t i c s c r i e d ! 'Why?' s a i d t h e P o e t . 'You're u n p o p u l a r ! ' Then t h e y c r i e d a t t h e t u r n o f t h e t i d e — 'You're no P o e t ! ' 'Why?'—'You're p o p u l a r ! ' Pop-gun, P o p u l a r and U n p o p u l a r ! — T e n n y s o n 1874 ( R i c k s Poems I I I 14) One o f t h e b e s t means o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g how and why L o n g f e l l o w ' s . a n d Tennyson's p o e t r y was p o p u l a r i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y i s t o c o n s i d e r when, how, and why t h e i r work p a s s e d from f o r m e r p o p u l a r i t y . I n f a i r n e s s , t h e s e q u e s t i o n s demand a t h o r o u g h i n v e s t i g a t i o n o f t h e r e c e p t i o n p r o c e s s e s a t work i n s h a p i n g L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's d i f f e r e n t p r o s p e c t s , b u t such an i n v e s t i g a t i o n i s n o t a t t e m p t e d h e r e . R i s k i n g r e d u c t i o n i s m p e r h a p s , t h e f o l l o w i n g remarks o u t l i n e g e n e r a l t r e n d s more t h a n i d e n t i f y e x a c t l y t h e p r o c e s s by w h i c h p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y was l o s t , b u t t h e i n t e n t i o n i s t o p r o v o k e d i s c u s s i o n about r a t h e r t h a n i n v o k e c l o s u r e on t h i s much m a l i g n e d body o f g e n t e e l p o e t r y . Indeed, one a l m o s t h e s i t a t e s t o c l o s e t h e book a t a l l on L o n g f e l l o w , knowing t h a t , i n t h e p r o c e s s , h i s v o i c e c o u l d be " [ l j o c k e d up i n s i l e n c e , " h i s f a t e s e a l e d once more by t h o s e w r i t e r s who, coming a f t e r him, s c o r n e d h i s " i n f l u e n c e on t h e age i n w h i c h he l i v e d . " Here a g a i n , t h e i n t e n t i o n i s n o t t o l o b b y f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n c l u s i o n i n t h e A m e r i c a n l i t e r a r y canon. R a t h e r , i t i s t o c o n s i d e r how changes t o b o t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n s d e v e l o p e d i n a s o c i o - e c o n o m i c and c u l t u r a l m i l i e u i n w h i c h " p o p u l a r p o e t r y , " because p o e t r y has become a l m o s t e x c l u s i v e l y a t t a c h e d t o academic p u r s u i t s , i s now l i t t l e more t h a n an oxymoron. As e a r l y as t h e 1860s, t h e t i d e s o f p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y t h a t had washed b o t h s h o r e s o f t h e A t l a n t i c were b e g i n n i n g t o r e c e d e f o r L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson. Today, L o n g f e l l o w ' s v o i c e has l o n g s i n c e been s i l e n c e d by waves o f m o d e r n i s t c r i t i c i s m a g a i n s t an e f f e t e V i c t o r i a n A m e r i c a . The f u l l range o f Tennyson's v o i c e was a l s o d a m p e n e d — i f n o t a l t o g e t h e r s i l e n c e d — b y s i m i l a r waves o f r e v i s i o n i s t B r i t i s h h i s t o r y a f t e r t h e F i r s t W o r l d War. N e v e r t h e l e s s , a l o n g w i t h t h e V i c t o r i a n age i t s e l f , Tennyson g r a d u a l l y managed t o r e g a i n some o f h i s l o s t g l o r y , so t h a t i n academic c i r c l e s a t l e a s t he i s now c o n s i d e r e d V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n ' s f i n e s t p o e t . L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p r e s e n t i m b a l a n c e o f f o r t u n e , p a r t i c u l a r l y s i n c e t h e y had s h a r e d e q u a l l y i n t h e s u c c e s s f u l 545 e v o c a t i o n o f t h e " p e o p l e ' s v o i c e " i n t h e m i d - n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , r a i s e s many q u e s t i o n s about p o e t i c p o s t e r i t y i n r e l a t i o n t o p o p u l a r i t y f o r w h i c h d e f i n i t i v e answers a r e h a r d t o f i n d . I n t h e b r o a d e s t t e r m s , however, b o t h L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's d e c l i n e , and t h e l a t t e r ' s p a r t i a l r e s t o r a t i o n , stem from r e a d e r s ' i n c r e a s i n g l y b i f u r c a t e d s e n s i b i l i t i e s o v e r t h e l a s t 120 y e a r s . U l t i m a t e l y , Tennyson was a l l o w e d r e s t o r a t i o n by h a l v e s — L o n g f e l l o w n o t a t a l l . The f i r s t b i n a r y o p p o s i t i o n c o n c e r n s t h e p u b l i c v e r s u s p r i v a t e c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e a r t i s t i n r e l a t i o n t o a u d i e n c e . P a r t i c u l a r l y a c u t e i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n , p r o f e s s i o n a l c r i t i c s ' v o i c e s r e g i s t e r e d and sought t o g u i d e t h e s h i f t s and v i c i s s i t u d e s o f r e a d e r s ' t a s t e s : from t h e c r i e s s u c h as t h o s e o f C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h i n t h e 1830s c o n c e r n i n g Tennyson's n e g l e c t o f " t h e s t r a i g h t - f o r w a r d and s t r o n g s i m p l i c i t y o f n a t u r e and t r u t h " (Jump 52) t o H i p p o l y t e T a i n e ' s d e r i s i o n i n t h e 18 60s t h a t Tennyson c o u l d be r e a d " i n t h e f a m i l y c i r c l e by n i g h t " (Jump 2 7 2 ) . 1 Tennyson's e p i g r a m m a t i c s t a n z a on p o p u l a r i t y c l e a r l y i d e n t i f i e s t h e changes t h a t had t a k e n p l a c e o v e r f o r t y y e a r s from t h e d i r e c t i v e s by e a r l y r e v i e w e r s t h a t p o e t s n o t s e p a r a t e t h e m s e l v e s from t h e i r p o p u l a r r e a d e r s h i p t o e q u a l l y f o r c e f u l demands by l a t e r r e v i e w e r s t h a t t h e y e x i s t a p a r t i n p r i v a t e w o r l d s o f t h e i r own a r t i s t i c d e s i g n . 1 C h r i s t o p h e r N o r t h ' s famous r e v i e w was i n Blackwood's (May 1832) w h i l e H i p p o l y t e T a i n e ' s comments f i r s t appeared i n h i s H i s t o i r e de l a L i t t e r a t u r e A n q l a i s e (1863-4), t r a n s l a t e d i n 1871 by H. van Laun. 546 Tennyson's enormously s u c c e s s f u l poems s u c h as Enoch Arden may have g a r n e r e d a wide r e a d e r s h i p a t t h e t i m e o f p u b l i c a t i o n , b u t s o - c a l l e d p u b l i c poems s u c h as t h i s became t o u c h s t o n e s f o r r i d i c u l e t h a t has, as c h a p t e r s t h r e e and f o u r p o i n t o u t , c o n t i n u e d t o t h i s day. R e l a t e d t o t h e above s h i f t i n c r i t i c a l s e n s i b i l i t y away from p o e t r y t h a t i s a c c e s s i b l e t o a l l l e v e l s o f t h e r e a d i n g p u b l i c i s a second b i n a r y t h a t c o n c e r n s t a s t e i n r e l a t i o n t o c l a s s . Edmund C l a r e n c e Stedman's r e v a l u a t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w and Tennyson a y e a r a f t e r L o n g f e l l o w ' s d e a t h ( C e n t u r y Magazine 1883) r e v e a l s d i r e c t l y t h e c l a s s d i v i s i o n s b e i n g drawn i n t h e i r l a t e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y t r a n s a t l a n t i c r e c e p t i o n . H i s i n s i g h t s i n t o t h e i n f l u e n c e s o f h i s own and f u t u r e a u d i e n c e s ' d i v i d e d p e r c e p t i o n s on t h e two p o e t s i s w o r t h c i t i n g a t some l e n g t h : I n E n g l a n d , L o n g f e l l o w has been s t y l e d t h e p o e t o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s . Those c l a s s e s i n c l u d e , however, t h e m a j o r i t y o f i n t e l l i g e n t r e a d e r s , and Tennyson had an e q u a l s h a r e o f t h e i r f a v o u r . The E n g l i s h m i d d l e c l a s s e s f u r n i s h an a n a l o g u e t o t h e one g r e a t c l a s s o f A m e r i c a n r e a d e r s , among whom o u r p o e t ' s s u c c e s s was so e v i d e n t . T h i s was because he used 2 I n h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n t o C r i t i c a l E s s a y s on t h e P o e t r y o f Tennyson, J o h n K i l l h a m p r o v i d e s "A Review o f Modern C r i t i c i s m , " i n w h i c h he c o n t e n d s t h a t t h e r e " i s no doubt t h a t Enoch Arden s e t " o f f t h e r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t Tennyson ( 3 ) . K i l l h a m c i t e s b r i e f l y t h o s e comments o f t h e 1860s t h a t have p a s s e d i n t o p o s t e r i t y by b e i n g " a s c r i b e d t o by i n n u m e r a b l e c r i t i c s e v e r s i n c e " : Bagehot's c r i t i c i s m o f Tennyson's o r n a t e t r e a t m e n t o f an i n f e r i o r s u b j e c t i n "Pure and O r n a t e A r t " (Jump 282-93); G e r a r d Manley H o p k i n s ' s d i s p a r a g e m e n t o f Tennyson's " P a r n a s s i a n " v e r s e i n a l e t t e r t o W. M. B a i l i e i n September 1864 (Jump 278-81); and s l i g h t s a g a i n s t Tennyson's o v e r w e e n i n g m o r a l i t y i n Swinburne's Notes on Poems and Reviews (Hyder 15-32). 547 h i s c u l t u r e n o t t o v e i l t h e word, b u t t o make i t c l e a r . He drew upon i t f o r t h e p e o p l e i n a manner w h i c h t h e y c o u l d r e l i s h and comprehend. Would n o t any p o e t whose work m i g h t l a c k t h e s u b t l e t y t h a t commends i t s e l f t o p r o f e s s i o n a l r e a d e r s be r e l e g a t e d by U n i v e r s i t y c r i t i c s t o t h e m i d d l e - c l a s s wards? C a s t e and l i t e r a r y p r i e s t h o o d have s o m e t h i n g t o do w i t h t h i s . Were i t n o t f o r " L u c r e t i u s " and " I n Memoriam," t h e a u t h o r o f "The May Queen" and " L o c k s l e y H a l l " and "Enoch A r d e n " would be i n t h e same c a t e g o r y ; as i t i s , he s c a r c e l y e s c a p e s i t i n t h e judgment o f t h e p s y c h o l o g i c and Neo-Romantic s c h o o l s . . . . So f a r as c o m f o r t , v i r t u e , d o m e s t i c t e n d e r n e s s , and freedom from t h e extremes o f p a s s i o n and i n c i d e n t a r e c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s , [ L o n g f e l l o w ] has been t h e i r m i n s t r e l . . . . (Cameron 183) Stedman's remarks s u g g e s t s e v e r a l l a y e r s o f t h e d u a l i s m t h a t would come t o dominate t h e i n s t i t u t i o n a l r e c e p t i o n o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o p u l a r p o e t r y i n t h i s c e n t u r y . C o n c e r n i n g p o e t i c t e x t s t h e m s e l v e s , t h e o p p o s i n g i s s u e s became c l a r i t y v e r s u s a m b i g u i t y and s t r a i g h t - f o r w a r d n e s s v e r s u s s u b t l e t y , c l e a r l y t h e h a r b i n g e r s o f t h e New C r i t i c i s m t h a t would have d e l e t e r i o u s consequences f o r p o e t r y t h a t a p p e a l e d t o t h e p o e t i c s e n s i b i l i t i e s o f r e a d e r s o f a l l c l a s s e s . As f o r i t s r e c i p i e n t s , t h e y t o o were t o become s p l i t by t h e d u a l i s m g e n e r a t e d by t h e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f an e l i t e u n i v e r s i t y p r i e s t h o o d above and a g a i n s t t h e amorphous m i d d l e - c l a s s p u b l i c . 3 Stedman a l s o s u g g e s t s t h e means by w h i c h Tennyson's v o i c e would be p r e s e r v e d w i t h i n academic c i r c l e s , t h a t i s , t h r o u g h t h e c r e a t i o n o f t h e two Tennysons l e g e n d . D u a l i s m i n r e l a t i o n t o Tennyson's and L o n g f e l l o w ' s own s p e c i f i c p o e t i c canons i s d i s c u s s e d below. 548 I n 1908, f o r example, P a u l Elmer More c o u l d c l a i m t h a t L o n g f e l l o w was s t i l l " t h e most b e l o v e d p o e t o f t h e p a s t c e n t u r y , and t h i s n o t o n l y among t h e i g n o r a n t and h a l f e d u c a t e d , b u t among p e o p l e o f t h e f i n e s t c u l t u r e " (13 6 ) . Such an even-handed assessment, however, c o u l d n o t s u r v i v e t h e i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z a t i o n o f l i t e r a r y t a s t e i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h i s c e n t u r y . By t h e 193 0s, a t l e a s t one u n i v e r s i t y p r o f e s s o r had r e l e g a t e d L o n g f e l l o w t o t h e c l a s s r o o m s o f " w r e t c h e d s c h o o l c h i l d r e n " (Lewisohn 6 5 ) , and many more were t o f o l l o w . 4 I n one a t t e m p t t h e r e a f t e r t o r e j u v e n a t e a t l e a s t p a r t o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s f o r m e r r e p u t a t i o n , Norman P e a r s o n i d e n t i f i e d "Both L o n g f e l l o w s , " a l o n g l i n e s s i m i l a r t o t h e two Tennysons l e g e n d , a l t h o u g h i n t h e A m e r i c a n b a r d ' s c a s e d i v i d e d by c l a s s . "There were i n f a c t two L o n g f e l l o w ' s , " P e a r s o n a r g u e s , "whose c a r e e r s were i n c o n f l i c t . There was t h e ' b e t t e r maker' who, l i k e an E z r a Pound de s e s j o u r s , w i s h e d t o b r i n g t o t h e c r a f t o f A m e r i c a n p o e t r y and t o t h e r e s o u r c e s o f t h e c o u r t o f Cambridge and o f t h e H a r v a r d Y a r d a l l t h a t was d e x t r o u s and e n n o b l i n g from t h e r e s o u r c e s o f t h e p a s t " ( 2 4 5 - 6 ) . P e a r s o n ' s 4 To t h i s p o i n t , t h e q u e s t i o n o f t a s t e has v i r t u a l l y been a b s e n t from t h i s , s t u d y o f p o e t i c p o p u l a r i t y . G r a n t e d , most o f t h e r e s p o n s e s t o L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's p o e t r y b e t r a y t h e i n d i v i d u a l r e c i p i e n t ' s met o r unmet l i t e r a r y e x p e c t a t i o n s g o v e r n e d l a r g e l y by t a s t e o r s e n s i b i l i t y . However, i t was n o t u n t i l c o n t e m p o r a r y l i t e r a t u r e began t o be p e r c e i v e d i n b o t h A m e r i c a and B r i t a i n as a s u b j e c t f o r academic s t u d y t h a t t a s t e began t o i n f l u e n c e t h e i r r e p u t a t i o n s . W h i l e t h e s h i f t s and changes i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s academic r e p u t a t i o n i s i t s e l f a t o p i c w o r t h y o f f u r t h e r s t u d y , t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y canon f o r m a t i o n i s n o t t h e p r i m a r y c o n c e r n h e r e . p e r c e p t i o n o f New E n g l a n d ' s i n t e l l e c t u a l " a r i s t o c r a c y " c l e a r l y o v e r s i m p l i f i e s L o n g f e l l o w ' s a t t e m p t s as a m i d d l e - c l a s s A m e r i c a n p o e t t o n e g o t i a t e h i s c u l t u r a l i n h e r i t a n c e . P e a r s o n c o n t i n u e s : "and t h e r e was t h e f a m i l i a r b a r d , he who f o r t h e m i d d l e c l a s s e s and t h e p o p u l a c e c o u l d now t h r o u g h p e r i o d i c a l s and c o l l e c t e d - e d i t i o n s s i n g t o t h e p e o p l e by t h e i r f i r e s i d e s " ( 2 4 6 ) . P e a r s o n ' s c o n c l u s i o n t h a t t o " s e r v e b o t h [ a u d i e n c e s ] a t once i s a d e m o c r a t i c c o n c e p t , b u t i t makes f o r awkward p o e t i c a l r e l a t i o n s h i p s " (252) l e a d s t o no s o l u t i o n o t h e r t h a n t o e x c i s e o n e - h a l f o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s c o r p u s . And a l t h o u g h P e a r s o n n e v e r s t a t e s d i r e c t l y w h i c h o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s two v o i c e s he w o u l d s i l e n c e , one s u s p e c t s v e r y s t r o n g l y t h a t i t i s " t h e p e o p l e ' s v o i c e . " However, a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a was no where n e a r as d i v i d e d by c l a s s as P e a r s o n makes i t seem, p a r t i c u l a r l y w i t h r e s p e c t t o e d u c a t i o n , as c h a p t e r one has d e m o n s t r a t e d . P r i o r t o t h e i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z a t i o n o f l i t e r a t u r e , and f o r most o f h i s e n t i r e c a r e e r , L o n g f e l l o w r e a l i z e d t h e enormous i n f l u e n c e o f V i c t o r i a n A m e r i c a ' s i d e a l i s t i c a l l y " c l a s s l e s s , " m u l t i - e t h n i c a u d i e n c e . I f a p o e t were t o speak t o t h i s h e t e r o g e n e o u s a u d i e n c e ' s c o n c e r n s , he would have d e v e l o p a v a r i t o n a l l y r i c v o i c e and v e r s a t i l i t y o f genre and s t y l e . As shown t h r o u g h o u t t h i s s t u d y , L o n g f e l l o w d i d i n d e e d promote and e x c e l i n numerous p o e t i c g e n r e s t o such an e x t e n t t h a t , i n e s s e n c e , he c r e a t e d an a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r p o e t r y among a w i d e s p r e a d a u d i e n c e where p r e v i o u s l y i t had e x i s t e d o n l y f o r t h e Brahmin l i t e r a t i o f New E n g l a n d . By t h e 1860s, however, L o n g f e l l o w ' s l i t e r a r y i n t e r e s t s were c h a n g i n g . The t r a g i c d e a t h o f h i s w i f e i n 1861 and t h e s t a r t o f t h e C i v i l War seem t o have e x h a u s t e d t h e g r i s t f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s e m o t i o n a l m i l l . Thus, even as t h e c u l t u r a l l a n d s c a p e was becoming i n c r e a s i n g l y d i v e r s i f i e d , w i t h t h e e x c e p t i o n o f "The Hanging o f t h e Crane," L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y p u b l i s h e d a f t e r t h e C i v i l War became more n a r r o w l y p r o s a i c and m o r a l i s t i c . L e s s t h e l y r i c s o f home and h e a r t h t h a t m i g h t have c o n t i n u e d t o prompt r e a d e r s ' modest p r i v a t e r e s p o n s e s , h i s new p u b l i c n a r r a t i v e s o f myth and l e g e n d i n T a l e s o f a Wayside I n n r e q u i r e d l i t t l e e m o t i o n a l i n v o l v e m e n t from h i s r e a d e r s . H i s f i n a l t u r n t o drama c o n t i n u e d t h i s t r e n d i n i t s s e v e r a l a t t e m p t s t o e x o r c i s e s o c i e t y ' s r e l i g i o u s d o u b t s about t h e r e l e v a n c e o f C h r i s t i a n i t y i n modern l i f e . The most i m p o r t a n t i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s e s t i m a t i o n , t h e t h r e e - p a r t C h r i s t u s ( 1 8 7 1 ) , s o l d b a d l y , w h i l e t h e most p o w e r f u l i n c r i t i c a l e s t i m a t i o n , M i c h a e l A n q e l o (1884), was l e f t u n f i n i s h e d a t h i s d e a t h , 24 March 1882. What t h i s meant f o r L o n g f e l l o w was t h a t even as h i s c u r r e n t work a t t r a c t e d fewer r e a d e r s among t h e p u b l i c a t l a r g e , p r o c e s s e s were a t work i n t h e development o f l i t e r a t u r e as a f i e l d f o r s p e c i a l s t u d y t h a t would a l s o have c o n s i d e r a b l e n e g a t i v e e f f e c t s on b o t h h i s f u t u r e r e p u t a t i o n and on t h e f u t u r e o f p o p u l a r p o e t r y i n g e n e r a l . I n t e r e s t e d i n e x p o s i n g t h e i r s t u d e n t s t o B r i t i s h and European c u l t u r e s i n t h e b r o a d e s t ways p o s s i b l e , H a r v a r d i n s t r u c t o r s s u c h as L o n g f e l l o w (1835-54) and James R u s s e l l L o w e l l (1855-86) had s e t a t r e n d f o r an i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c s t y l e o f t e a c h i n g , i n G e r a l d G r a f f ' s t e r m s , a " g e n e r a l i s t - p r o f e s s o r " a p p r o a c h (82) t h a t had c o n t i n u e d t h r o u g h o u t much o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y . The " g e n e r a l i s t p r o f e s s o r " had a l l o w e d f o r f a r more c r o s s i n g back and f o r t h between c u l t u r a l a c t i v i t i e s f o r t h e g e n e r a l p u b l i c s u c h as l i t e r a r y s o c i e t i e s , t h a n t h e i n n e r sanctums o f l a t e r l i t e r a t u r e and language departments were t o do. I n " V i c t o r i a n C u l t u r e i n A m e r i c a , " D a n i e l Howe a r g u e s t h a t n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y " [ c ] o l l e g e p r o f e s s o r s t a u g h t what seems t o us a b e w i l d e r i n g v a r i e t y o f s u b j e c t s ; l a d i e s and gentlemen o f l e t t e r s f e l t f r e e t o p o n t i f i c a t e on a l l t o p i c s . " Howe adds, however, t h a t i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y , s c h o l a r s h i p became "so r e c o n d i t e and s p e c i a l i z e d , so c o n s c i o u s l y e x c l u s i v e , as t o be i n a c c e s s i b l e t o a l l b u t a h a n d f u l o f i n i t i a t e s . When t h i s happened, i t was a symptom o f t h e d i s i n t e g r a t i o n o f V i c t o r i a n c u l t u r e " ( 1 4 ) . I t a l s o t o l l e d t h e d e a t h k n e l l f o r p o p u l a r p o e t r y . I n t h e f i r s t t h i r t y y e a r s o f t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y , A m e r i c a n c o l l e g e s and u n i v e r s i t i e s e s t a b l i s h e d " l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m " as i t i s known t o d a y as an academic endeavour; a c c o r d i n g t o G r a f f , A m e r i c a n s c h o l a r s "wanted t o purge l i t e r a r y s t u d i e s o f t h e s e n t i m e n t a l i t y and amateurism o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y " (121-2). L o n g f e l l o w ' s s e n t i m e n t a l v e r s e c o u l d n o t h e l p b u t become p a r t o f t h i s l a r g e r purge. I n E n g l a n d , t h e p r o c e s s e s a t work t h a t would expunge Tennyson's p o e t r y from " s e r i o u s " c o n s i d e r a t i o n seem t o have been i n v i d i o u s l y a t work t h r o u g h o u t h i s c a r e e r and were t h u s n o t e x c l u s i v e l y t h e r e s u l t o f a f u l l - s c a l e i n s t i t u t i o n a l r e v o l u t i o n . I n t h e comments t h a t f o l l o w , one must b e a r i n mind, however, two p o i n t s : 1) t h a t a f t e r 1850 Tennyson was L a u r e a t e u n t i l h i s d e a t h on 6 O c t o b e r 1892; and, 2) t h a t b o t h t h e s a l e s o f h i s work and t h e s e v e r i t y o f c r i t i c s were i n f l u e n c e d by h i s p u b l i c s t a t u r e . I t s i n f l u e n c e i s most a p p a r e n t i n t h e s a l e s o f h i s l a s t volume o f p o e t r y . A c c o r d i n g t o Hagen, " o v e r 26,000 c o p i e s " o f The Death o f Oenone, A k b a r ' s Dream, and O t h e r Poems, p u b l i s h e d p o s t h u m o u s l y on 28 O c t o b e r 1892, were s o l d i n a few months, whereas s a l e s dropped o f f s h a r p l y t h e r e a f t e r ( 1 8 4 ) . L a t e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y i n t e r e s t i n Tennyson's new p o e t r y had waned f o r a t l e a s t two r e a s o n s : l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , Tennyson t u r n e d t o p o e t i c dramas t h a t d i d l i t t l e t o advance and may a c t u a l l y even have damaged h i s r e p u t a t i o n among t h e p u b l i c a t l a r g e ; and p o e t i c t a s t e s i n l i t e r a r y c i r c l e s a c c e p t e d many o f t h e a e s t h e t i c p r e c e p t s o f F r a n c e ' s " a r t f o r a r t ' s s a k e " movement t o w h i c h Tennyson h i m s e l f was a s e l f - p r o f e s s e d opponent (see " A r t f o r A r t ' s Sake" i n R i c k s Poems I I I 1 2 ) . The p r o d u c t s o f Tennyson's e x p e r i m e n t w i t h drama—Queen Marv (1875), H a r o l d (1876), The Cup and The F a l c o n (1884), and B e c k e t ( 1 8 8 4 ) — a p p e a r t o have been w r i t t e n w i t h a c o n f i d e n c e t h a t was seldom w a r r a n t e d i n t h e i r p r o d u c t i o n s . Hagen w r i t e s o f " l a c k - l u s t r e " s a l e s and Tennyson's d i f f i c u l t i e s a t g e t t i n g Henry I r v i n g t o p e r f o r m B e c k e t on t h e London s t a g e ( i t was p e r f o r m e d i n 1893 a f t e r Tennyson's d e a t h ) . 5 Why Tennyson chose drama a t t h i s l a t e s t a g e i n h i s c a r e e r i s i n t r i g u i n g from t h e p o i n t o f v i e w o f t h e s t u d y o f genre i n r e l a t i o n t o a u d i e n c e d i s c u s s e d i n c h a p t e r s i x . S i r C h a r l e s c o n t e n d s t h a t Tennyson had e x h a u s t e d o t h e r g e n r e s — t h e e p i c , d r a m a t i c monologue, and i d y l — a n d " f e l t t h a t h i s f u l l powers c o u l d n o t be r e a l i z e d u n l e s s he c o u l d s u c c e s s f u l l y e x e r t them i n t h e f i e l d o f p o e t i c drama . . . . Moreover, s u c c e s s f u l p l a y s based on Dora and Enoch Arden had been p r o d u c e d i n A m e r i c a , and i n 1870 young W.S. G i l b e r t had made a h i t a t t h e O l y m p i c w i t h a r e s p e c t f u l p a r o d y o f The P r i n c e s s (410-11). However, r a t h e r t h a n m e r e l y new v e n t u r e s i n t o t h e t h e a t r e , Tennyson's p o e t i c dramas can be r e a d as c o n t i n u a t i o n s o f t h e d r a m a t i c n a r r a t i v e v o i c e t h a t he a d o p t e d f o r t h e l a t e r I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g , a v o i c e t h a t r e q u i r e d i n c r e a s i n g l y a c t i v e p a r t i c i p a t i o n on t h e p a r t o f l i s t e n e r s i f t h e m o r a l and s o c i a l dilemmas u n d e r l y i n g t h e a c t i o n were t o be u n d e r s t o o d . I n a d d i t i o n , t h e h i s t o r i c a l s u b j e c t s o f h i s new p l a y s t h e m s e l v e s encouraged a c o l l e c t i v i s t , p u b l i c awareness o f B r i t a i n ' s p a s t i n t h e f a c e o f c u r r e n t p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l d i s s o l u t i o n t h a t Tennyson f e a r e d was t h r e a t e n i n g t h e s t a b i l i t y o f t h e n a t i o n . When h i s dramas p r o v e d u n s u c c e s s f u l conveyances o f t h i s w a r n i n g , Tennyson r e t u r n e d t o t h e d r a m a t i c monologue, " L o c k s l e y H a l l 5 Reasons f o r Tennyson's s h i f t t o drama i n t h e 187 0s r e q u i r e f u r t h e r s t u d y t h a n t h e y have r e c e i v e d t o d a t e . One o f t h e o n l y r e c e n t d i s c u s s i o n s o f Tennyson's p l a y s i s D e n n i s Organ's Tennyson's Dramas: A C r i t i c a l Study (1979). S i x t y Y e a r s A f t e r , " f o r example, t o c h a s t i s e h i s age. And a l t h o u g h Tennyson's l a t e v o l u m e s — B a l l a d s and O t h e r Poems (1880), T i r e s i a s and O t h e r Poems (1885), Demeter and O t h e r Poems (1889), and The Death o f Oenone, E t c . ( 1 8 9 2 ) — s o l d much b e t t e r t h a n h i s p l a y s and c o n t a i n e d some t e c h n i c a l l y b r i l l i a n t poems, h i s p o p u l a r i t y had e r o d e d t o o f a r t o r e c l a i m t h e v a s t r e a d e r s h i p he had once commanded (see Hagen 156-7, 176-7, 181- 2, 184-5). R i c h a r d A l t i c k m a i n t a i n s i n V i c t o r i a n P e o p l e and I d e a s t h a t i n V i c t o r i a n B r i t a i n t h e " c r i t i c s o f i t s p r e s e n t s e l f were j o i n e d by c r i t i c s o f i t s e a r l i e r p h a s e s , so t h a t t h e age s p o n s o r e d numerous r e a c t i o n s a g a i n s t i t s e l f w h i l e i t was s t i l l r u n n i n g i t s c o u r s e " ( 2 9 9 ) . One e a r l y V i c t o r i a n s e l f - c r i t i c i s m t h a t spawned an enormous r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t Tennyson i n t h e 18 60s was s u s p i c i o n — e v e n d i s p a r a g e m e n t — o f t h e f e m i n i n e : " t h e woman's t e n d e r h e a r t " as L o n g f e l l o w c a l l e d i t . 6 F o r example, w i t h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n o f Poems and B a l l a d s (1866), Swinburne s u f f e r e d a h o s t i l e c r i t i c a l r e a c t i o n w h i c h he a t t r i b u t e d , i n p a r t , t o t h e L a u r e a t e ' s t r a n s f o r m i n g " t h e d o m e s t i c c i r c l e " i n t o t h e " o u t e r l i m i t and extreme h o r i z o n o f [ t h e male p o e t ' s ] w o r l d o f work" ("Notes on Poems and R e v i e w s " Hyder 2 9 ) . 6 I n h i s e x a m i n a t i o n o f t h e p r i n c i p l e i n g r e d i e n t s used by t h e p o e t i c c h e f s he d i s c u s s e s i n E v e r y Man h i s own P o e t : The I n s p i r e d S i n g e r ' s R e c i p e Book (1877), W.H. M a l l o c k o b s e r v e s t h a t i t " i s d i f f i c u l t t o know what t o say o f Mr. T*nn*s*n, as t h e m i l k and w a t e r o f w h i c h h i s books a r e composed c h i e f l y , make i t a l m o s t i m p o s s i b l e t o d i s c o v e r what was t h e o r i g i n a l n a t u r e o f t h e m a t e r i a l s he has b o i l e d down i n i t " ( 9 ) . 555 A l t h o u g h Swinburne's comments were as much a r e a c t i o n t o t h e p u b l i c d i s t a s t e f o r h i s work as t h e y were s l i g h t s a g a i n s t Tennyson's p o e t r y p e r s e , Swinburne's c a s t i g a t i o n o f " t h e i d y l " and h i s r e f u s a l t o j o i n " t h e s i l v e r f l o c k o f i d y l l i c swans" (Hyder 3 1 ) , f o l l o w e d by f u r t h e r c h a r g e s a g a i n s t t h e " e f f e m i n a t e p o e t r y " o f t h e t i m e i n "Under t h e M i c r o s c o p e " (Hyder 35-87), s e t a t o n e f o r c r i t i c i s m a g a i n s t Tennyson t h a t would c o n t i n u e i n t o t h e t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y . One o f t h e f e a t u r e s o f Swinburne's c r i t i c i s m o f t h e " f e m i n i n e " v o i c e i n Tennyson's p o e t r y t h a t foreshadowed t h e development o f f o r m a l i s t s c h o o l s o f c r i t i c i s m a t t h e end o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y was h i s r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t t h e e m o t i o n a l demands t h a t " f e m i n i n e " p o e t r y r e q u i r e d o f i t s a u d i e n c e . F a r from b e i n g autonomous, o r g a n i c w h o l e s , Tennyson's i d y l s r e q u i r e d a f f e c t i v e r e s p o n s e s from h i s r e a d e r s i n o r d e r t o be a p p r e c i a t e d and u n d e r s t o o d . 7 The c o i n c i d e n c e o f an a n t i - f e m i n i n e movement i n t h e 18 60s and 1870s ( h e a r d most v i r u l e n t l y i n A l f r e d A u s t i n ' s " P o e t r y o f t h e P e r i o d " i n Jump 294-311) and t h e demand f o r p o e t i c P a r a d o x i c a l l y , R o b e r t Buchanan i n h i s n o t o r i o u s a t t a c k on t h e F l e s h l y p o e t s , l o c a t e s Swinburne among t h e "sub- T e n n y s o n i a n s c h o o l " who d i s t o r t t h e s e n s u a l i s m o f Tennyson's " V i v i e n " and t h e " h y s t e r i c t o n e and o v e r l o a d e d s t y l e " o f Maud "The ways o f a g r e a t p o e t , " Buchanan s a y s , " l e a d him i n a l l d i r e c t i o n s , i n t o a l l moods, w h i l e t h e way o f a s m a l l p o e t i s narrow and w i t h o u t v a r i e t y . The g a i n o f good i n t h e P r e - R a p h a e l i t e s t y l e comes from t h e l a u r e a t e ; what i s bad comes from I t a l y and F r a n c e " ( 3 2 n . ) . Buchanan deemed " V i v i e n " "an e s s e n t i a l pendant t o t h a t w o n d e r f u l a p o t h e o s i s o f M a s c u l i n e C h a s t i t y , w h i c h i s t h e h e a r t o f t h a t A r t h u r i a n e p i c on w h i c h t h e l a u r e a t e has p o u r e d a l l h i s o r i e n t w e a l t h " ( 8 6 ) . 556 autonomy stemming from " a r t f o r a r t ' s s a k e " p r e s a g e d t h e p a r a d o x a t t h e h e a r t o f Tennyson's r e p u t a t i o n t o d a y . On t h e one hand, p o e t r y t h a t a p p e a l e d t o " f e m i n i n e " e m o t i o n a l i s m was t o be s c o r n e d by b o t h t h e p u b l i c a t l a r g e and by a c a d e m i c i a n s as t h e a r t i f i c i a l p r o d u c t s o f an e f f e m i n a t e c u l t u r e . On t h e o t h e r , i f Tennyson's " f e m i n i n e " V i c t o r i a n i s m were e x c i s e d , t h e n Tennyson c o u l d assume h i s " p r o p e r " s t a t u r e among l i t e r a r y s c h o l a r s s e e k i n g t o p r e s e r v e from t h e p a s t t h o s e c u l t u r a l p r o d u c t s w h i c h s h o u l d y e t r e m a i n i n t h e wake o f s t r i d e n t m o d e r n i s t campaigns a g a i n s t a V i c t o r i a n c u l t u r a l and s o c i o - p o l i t i c a l i n h e r i t a n c e . I n 1923, Hugh I'Anson F a u s s e t c a p t u r e s t h i s mood a t i t s most s t r i d e n t : T e n n y s o n i a n m o r a l i t y "cannot b e a r t h e c a n d i d s c r u t i n y o f a g e n e r a t i o n w h i c h has r e a p e d t h e b i t t e r f r u i t s o f h i g h - s o u n d i n g e g o t i s m " ( 2 9 9 ) . As L o n g f e l l o w ' s a l s o would be, Tennyson's " f e m i n i n e " v o i c e was drowned i n waves o f r e a c t i o n a r y h i s t o r y . P e r h a p s even more s t r o n g l y t h a n i n B r i t a i n , women o f a n t e b e l l u m A m e r i c a had managed t o assume c u l t u r a l s t a t u s i n a s o c i e t y e c o n o m i c a l l y and p o l i t i c a l l y d r i v e n by men. Howe summarizes t h e i r s t a t u s as f o l l o w s : The i n n o v a t i o n s i n p r i n t i n g and i n women's e d u c a t i o n b r o u g h t w i t h them t h e emergence o f an enormous new a u d i e n c e o f women r e a d e r s , who were s e r v e d t o a l a r g e e x t e n t by a new group o f women w r i t e r s . There was a women's communication network i n m i d d l e - c l a s s V i c t o r i a n s o c i e t y . O f t e n t h i s f e m i n i n e V i c t o r i a n i s m o p e r a t e d as complementary, even compensatory, i n r e l a t i o n t o m a s c u l i n e V i c t o r i a n i s m , e m p h a s i z i n g v a l u e s l i k e s e c u r i t y and s e n t i m e n t . I n t h e hands o f women l i k e H a r r i e t Beecher Stowe and S a r a h J o s e p h a H a l e , t h e s e c o u l d be p o w e r f u l a p p e a l s . (27) As c h a p t e r s two and s i x d e m o n s t r a t e , L o n g f e l l o w became very- p o p u l a r because o f h i s a b i l i t y t o a p p e a l t o t h e f e m i n i n e s e n t i m e n t s o f h i s r e a d e r s . However, p o s t b e l l u m A m e r i c a was v a s t l y d i f f e r e n t , f o r a l o n g w i t h i t s l o s t i d e a l i s m came a t u r n t o n a t u r a l i s m i n l i t e r a t u r e i n w h i c h L o n g f e l l o w c o u l d have no p o s s i b l e s h a r e s i n c e s e n t i m e n t a l i s m and n a t u r a l i s m c o u l d n o t be more d i a m e t r i c a l l y opposed. P a u l More, f o r example, advances s e v e r a l r e a s o n s f o r L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y , a l l o f them t i e d i n some way t o More's b e l i e f t h a t p o p u l a r p o e t r y b e g e t s a c r a v e n s p i r i t and engenders p a s s i v i t y i n t h e r e a d e r . The e m o t i o n i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o e t r y i s " b a r e l y , i f a t a l l , d i s t i n g u i s h e d from t h e ' s e n t i m e n t a l p a t h o s o f d a i l y , commonplace l i f e " ( 1 4 0 ) . L o n g f e l l o w ' s " p e c u l i a r p o p u l a r i t y i s due t o t h e f a c t t h a t he does n o t r e q u i r e o f us any v i o l e n t r e a d j u s t m e n t o f our o r d i n a r y moods, t h a t he s e t s our own d a i l y t h o u g h t s and emotions t o m u s i c " (140). L o n g f e l l o w i s t h e "one p o e t you w i l l f i n d i n a l m o s t e v e r y h o u s e h o l d , t h e p o e t who i s r e a l l y r e a d and e n j o y e d by t h e p e o p l e ; f o r i t i s j u s t t h i s s e n t i m e n t o f f a c i l e p a t h o s t h a t marks t h e t r u e p o p u l a r i t y " ( 1 4 1 ) . F i n a l l y , L o n g f e l l o w " r e p r e s e n t s a b e a u t i f u l s o c i e t y now p a s s e d away and a l m o s t f o r g o t t e n " (151) . However, Jane Tompkins a l l e g e s t h a t s u c h " f o r g e t t i n g " has been p a r t o f a c o n s c i o u s e f f o r t t o c o n s t r u c t a h i s t o r y o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y f r o n t i e r A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e a t odds w i t h t h e way a t l e a s t f i f t y p e r c e n t 558 o f l i f e was a c t u a l l y l i v e d ; h e r remarks about f i c t i o n c o u l d a p p l y e q u a l l y t o p o e t r y : The v e r y grounds on w h i c h s e n t i m e n t a l f i c t i o n has been d i s m i s s e d by i t s d e t r a c t o r s , grounds t h a t have come t o seem u n i v e r s a l s t a n d a r d s o f a e s t h e t i c judgment, were e s t a b l i s h e d i n a s t r u g g l e t o s u p p l a n t t h e t r a d i t i o n o f e v a n g e l i c a l p i e t y and m o r a l commitment t h e s e n o v e l i s t s r e p r e s e n t . I n r e a c t i o n a g a i n s t t h e i r w o r l d v i e w , and p e r h a p s even more a g a i n s t t h e i r s u c c e s s , t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y c r i t i c s have t a u g h t g e n e r a t i o n s o f s t u d e n t s t o e q u a t e p o p u l a r i t y w i t h debasement, e m o t i o n a l i t y w i t h i n e f f e c t i v e n e s s , r e l i g i o s i t y w i t h f a k e r y , d o m e s t i c i t y w i t h t r i v i a l i t y , and a l l o f t h e s e , i m p l i c i t l y , w i t h womanly i n f e r i o r i t y . ( " S e n t i m e n t a l Power" 82) Tompkins a r g u e s a g a i n s t s u c h a l i m i t e d v i e w o f what c o n s t i t u t e d s i t e s o f p o l i t i c a l power i n t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y , and a g a i n s t t h e m o d e r n i s t d i s p a r a g e m e n t o f V i c t o r i a n l i t e r a t u r e o f s e n t i m e n t because i t demands o f r e a d e r s an a c t i v e i n t e g r a t i o n o f t h e w o r l d o u t s i d e t h e t e x t w i t h t h e w o r l d i n s i d e i t . The d i s p a r a g i n g c o n t r a s t s between p a s s i v e e m o t i o n a l i s m and a c t i v e c o g n i t i o n echo a now f a m i l i a r v i e w o f L o n g f e l l o w as a t o o g e n t l e , f e m i n i n e p o e t r e a d o n l y by t h e u n e d u c a t e d . F r e d L e w i s P a t t e e ' s remarks on L o n g f e l l o w ' s p o p u l a r i t y , made i n 1940, c a p t u r e t h e m i d - t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y v i e w o f h i s work t h a t c o n t i n u e s t o t h i s day: H i a w a t h a F w h a t e v e r i t s r e a l i s t i c d e f e c t s , has won t h e A m e r i c a n p e o p l e , a t l e a s t t h e v a s t m a j o r i t y t h a t have ended t h e i r e d u c a t i o n w i t h t h e e i g h t h g r a d e . (171) and, . . . though he w r o t e w i t h no t h o u g h t o f t h e newspaper r e a d i n g masses, i t was t h e y who bought h i s books and i t was t h e y who gave him t o - d a y what i s 559 h i s most e n d u r i n g fame. I n a c r i t i c a l p e r i o d o f A m e r i c a n h i s t o r y , L o n g f e l l o w p r e s e n t e d p o p u l a r l i t e r a t u r e t h a t was on t h e h i g h l e v e l s o f i t s t i m e . H i a w a t h a may n o t be t r u e t o h i s t o r y o r t o e t h n o l o g y , b u t as p o e t r y o f b e a u t y and s o u l i t u n d o u b t e d l y b r o u g h t t o t h e u n c u l t u r e d many o f A m e r i c a a new v i s i o n o f r e a l p o e t r y . (176) Y e t , P a t t e e assumes a d i c h o t o m y between " h i g h " c u l t u r e and "low" c u l t u r e i n n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y A m e r i c a t h a t was i n no way as c l e a r - c u t as i t has become i n t h i s c e n t u r y . The same was a l s o t r u e o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y B r i t a i n , as Howe p o i n t s o u t : Some d i v i s i o n s t h a t we t a k e f o r g r a n t e d w i t h i n our own c u l t u r a l system d i d n o t y e t f u l l y e x i s t d u r i n g t h e V i c t o r i a n age. One o f t h e s e i s t h e d i c h o t o m y between "mass" and " h i g h " c u l t u r e . I t was 1915 when Van Wyck B r o o k s [ A m e r i c a ' s Coming o f Age] c o m p l a i n e d t h a t A m e r i c a n c u l t u r e was b i f u r c a t e d i n t o "lowbrow" and "highbrow." V i c t o r i a n a u t h o r s w i t h l a r g e r e a d e r s h i p s l i k e L o n g f e l l o w , Horace B u s h n e l l , H a r r i e t Beecher Stowe, however, had d e f i e d t h i s c l a s s i f i c a t i o n , as had p e r f o r m e r s l i k e Edwin B o o t h and t h e European v i s i t o r Jenny L i n d . Nor d i d o n l y a few g r e a t i n d i v i d u a l s t r a n s c e n d t h e c a t e g o r i e s ; many l o n g - s i n c e o b s c u r e w r i t e r s l i k e L y d i a S i g o u r n e y and W i l l i a m Ware d i d t o o . [Asa B r i g g s ] has w r i t t e n : " I have no doubt t h a t t h e r e was a h i g h e r p r o p o r t i o n o f t h e p o p u l a t i o n who had r e a d and were p r e p a r e d t o d i s c u s s t h e n o v e l s o f D i c k e n s and t h e poems o f Tennyson t h a n c o u l d be found t o d i s c u s s t h e works o f any p a r t i c u l a r n o v e l i s t o r p o e t t o d a y . " S u b s t i t u t e L o n g f e l l o w f o r Tennyson and t h e same c o u l d be s a i d o f t h e V i c t o r i a n U n i t e d S t a t e s . . . . That w h i c h we would r e g a r d as ' h i g h ' c u l t u r e was c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y u n d i f f e r e n t i a t e d i n t h e V i c t o r i a n w o r l d ; t h e s p e c i a l i z e d " e x p e r t " had n o t y e t become p r o m i n e n t . (14) The s e v e r a l b i n a r y o p p o s i t i o n s i d e n t i f i e d t h u s f a r — a p u b l i c v e r s u s p r i v a t e p o e t i c s ; a mass m i d d l e c l a s s v e r s u s an e d u c a t e d e l i t e ; g e n e r a l i s t v e r s u s s p e c i a l i s t approaches t o l i t e r a t u r e as an academic s t u d y ; and f e m i n i n e s e n t i m e n t ' v e r s u s m a s c u l i n e i n t e l l e c t — p o i n t f i n a l l y t o a t l e a s t one r e a s o n f o r t h e d e v a l u a t i o n o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e i n t h i s c e n t u r y , and t h e n e a r i m p o s s i b i l i t y t h a t p o e t r y w i l l e v e r g a r n e r s u c h l a r g e r e a d e r s h i p s a g a i n i n e i t h e r t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s o r B r i t a i n : t h e l o s s o f p l e a s u r e as a c o l l e c t i v i s t m o r a l p r i n c i p l e . I n " C o m p l i c i t P l e a s u r e , " C o l i n M e r c e r t r i e s t o u n d e r s t a n d " t h e s p e c i f i c ways i n w h i c h we c o n s e n t t o t h e forms o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e " (50) even though we may n o t s u p p o r t them i d e o l o g i c a l l y . One such way i s t h r o u g h " p l e a s u r e . " M e r c e r c l a i m s t h a t " i n t h e i n t e r s t i c e s o f r e g r e t , d e s i r e , a m b i t i o n , i d e n t i f i c a t i o n , n o s t a l g i a . . . p l e a s u r e does i t s work" ( 5 3 ) . M e r c e r r e c o g n i z e s t h a t one o f t h e r e g r e t t a b l e r e a s o n s why s c h o l a r s a v o i d d i s c u s s i o n s o f p l e a s u r e i s a sense o f g u i l t : " ' g u i l t ' o f enjoyment o f s u c h and s u c h i n s p i t e o f i t s known i d e o l o g i c a l and p o l i t i c a l p r o v e n a n c e " ( 5 4 ) . I n o t h e r words, once r e a d e r s c a n no l o n g e r i d e o l o g i c a l l y s u p p o r t L o n g f e l l o w ' s p a t r i o t i s m o r Tennyson's j i n g o i s m , t o use two extreme examples, t h e y r e f u s e t o s u p p o r t t h e p o e t r y a t a l l t h r o u g h a s e n s e o f g u i l t t h a t t h e y have r e s p o n d e d a f f e c t i v e l y t o t h e p l e a s u r e t h e t e x t s p r o v i d e . T h i s n a t u r a l l y l e a d s t o an a v o i d a n c e o f s i t e s o f p l e a s u r e , and s u c h a p r o c e s s i s r e v e a l e d no where more c l e a r l y t h a n i n t h e n e g a t i v e a e s t h e t i c t h a t has come t o dominate t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m . And i t i s j u s t s u c h an a e s t h e t i c t h a t "has s e v e r e l y d i s t o r t e d i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r p o e t r y . Modern and post-modern o v e r r e l i a n c e on i d e a t i o n a l s i g n i f i c a n c e and i d e o l o g i c a l a n a l y s i s has, i n g e n e r a l , l i m i t e d 561 t h e o r i s t s ' u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e r e a s o n s f o r v a r i o u s forms o f c o n s e n t and r e s i s t a n c e t o p o p u l a r c u l t u r e . S p e c i f i c t o t h e p o p u l a r p o e t r y o f t h e V i c t o r i a n p e r i o d , t h e p r i v i l e g i n g o f i n t e l l e c t o v e r e m o t i o n has l e d t o a t o o h a s t y d i s r e g a r d f o r t h e m u l t i p l e l e v e l s o f c o m p l i c i t y t h a t g o v e r n t h e p l e a s u r a b l e c r e a t i o n o f meaning. R e s p o n d i n g t o t h i s d i s r e g a r d o f what L o n g f e l l o w has s t i l l t o o f f e r t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y r e a d e r s , S t e v e n A l l a b a c k t r i e s t o r e a c t i v a t e an a p p r e c i a t i o n f o r t h e m u l t i p l i c i t y o f p o e t i c r e s p o n s e . I n " L o n g f e l l o w Now" (1982), he a r g u e s t h a t r e a d e r s ' "embarrassment" o v e r L o n g f e l l o w ' s s i m p l i c i t y d e r i v e s from p r o f e s s o r s o f l i t e r a t u r e t e a c h i n g s t u d e n t s t o a p p r e c i a t e more " p r o b l e m a t i c " r e a l i t i e s t h a n t h e ones w h i c h most o f them a c t u a l l y l i v e . That i s , o u t o f embarrassment, t h e y r e f u s e t o " a l l o w a more v u l n e r a b l e and t e a c h a b l e r e a d i n g s e l f t o come f o r w a r d , " a r e a d i n g s e l f "more i n need" he adds (113). The p o i n t h e r e i s t h a t t h e a f f e c t i v e l e v e l o f r e s p o n s e ( i n s t i g a t e d by c o r p o r e a l , v i s c e r a l r e s p o n s e s t o v a r i o u s d e v i c e s o f sound and image), can e a s i l y cause r e a d e r s c o n d i t i o n e d t o e x p e c t i n t e l l e c t u a l e n l i g h t e n m e n t from p o e t r y t o f e e l g u l l e d by c o m p l i c i t p l e a s u r e i n t h e t e x t (as M e r c e r would argue) o r embarrassed i n t o s i l e n c e (as A l l a b a c k p o s i t s ) i f t h e y f e e l c a l l e d upon t o l e n d i d e a t i o n a l s u p p o r t t o i d e o l o g i e s embodied i n t h e t e x t t h a t t h e y f i n d i n t e l l e c t u a l l y u n a p p e a l i n g . As Henry G i r o u x and Roger Simon argue i n P o p u l a r C u l t u r e : S c h o o l i n g and E v e r y d a y L i f e , l i m i t i n g t h e o r e t i c a l a n a l y s e s o f p o p u l a r c u l t u r e t o an i d e o l o g i c a l t e r r a i n , " l i m i t s our a b i l i t y t o u n d e r s t a n d how p e o p l e a c t i v e l y p a r t i c i p a t e i n t h e dominant c u l t u r e t h r o u g h p r o c e s s e s o f accommodation, n e g o t i a t i o n , and even r e s i s t a n c e " ( 1 7 ) . P l e a s u r e , need, d e s i r e — v a r i o u s l e v e l s o f a f f e c t i v e r e s p o n s e — t h e s e a r e a l l embodied i n L o n g f e l l o w ' s i n t e n t i o n t o work upon h i s r e c i p i e n t ' s " f e e l i n g s " and i n H a l l a m ' s and Tennyson's r e s o l v e t o i n d u c e a m o r a l i t y o f human l o v e o u t o f a e s t h e t i c r e s p o n s e . To f a i l t o r e s p o n d e m o t i o n a l l y t o n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y p o p u l a r p o e t r y i s t o f a i l t o u n d e r s t a n d i t s t r u e power i n i t s t i m e and, p e r h a p s , i t s power f o r a l l t i m e . As A l l a b a c k remarks, i n r e j e c t i n g L o n g f e l l o w "we r e j e c t a p a r t o f o u r s e l v e s w h i c h t h r i v e s upon s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d n e s s , s i m p l e wisdom, and h o n e s t e x p r e s s i o n s o f unadorned e m o t i o n " ( 1 2 0 ) . P o p u l a r p o e t r y i n g e n e r a l , and L o n g f e l l o w ' s and Tennyson's i n p a r t i c u l a r , has l o s t i t s v a l u e i n Western c u l t u r e because n o n - c o g n i t i v e r e a d i n g p l e a s u r e has become d e v a l u e d i n t h i s c e n t u r y . WORKS CITED A l l a b a c k , S t e v e n . " V o i c e s o f L o n g f e l l o w : Kavanagh as A u t o b i o g r a p h y . " Matthews 3-14. A l l e n , Gay W i l s o n . "Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w . " A m e r i c a n P r o s o d y . New York: A m e r i c a n Book Company, 1935. 154-92. A l l e n , P e t e r . The Cambridge A p o s t l e s : The E a r l y Y e a r s . New Y o r k : Cambridge, 1978. A l l i n g h a m , H. and D. R a d f o r d , eds. W i l l i a m A l l i n g h a m : A D i a r y . London: M a c m i l l a n , 1907. A l t i c k , R i c h a r d . The E n g l i s h Common Reader: A S o c i a l H i s t o r y o f t h e Mass R e a d i n g P u b l i c 1800-1900. C h i c a g o : U o f C h i c a g o P, 1957. V i c t o r i a n P e o p l e and I d e a s . New York: N o r t o n , 1973. . W r i t e r s . R e a d e r s , and O c c a s i o n s : S e l e c t e d E s s a y s on V i c t o r i a n L i t e r a t u r e and L i f e . Colombus: Ohio S t a t e UP, 1989. Arms, George. The F i e l d s Were Green: A New View o f B r y a n t . W h i t t i e r . Holmes, L o w e l l , and L o n g f e l l o w . S t a n f o r d : S t a n f o r d UP, 1935. A r m s t r o n g , I s o b e l , ed. The M a j o r V i c t o r i a n P o e t s : Recon- s i d e r a t i o n s . London: R o u t l e d g e and Kegan P a u l , 1969. "The R o l e and Treatment o f Emotion i n V i c t o r i a n C r i t i c i s m o f P o e t r y . " V i c t o r i c a n P e r i o d i c a l s N e w s l e t t e r 10 (1977): 3-16. V i c t o r i a n S c r u t i n i e s : Reviews o f P o e t r y . 1830-1870. London: A t h l o n e , 1972. A r v i n , Newton. L o n g f e l l o w : H i s L i f e and Work. B o s t o n : L i t t l e Brown and Co., 1962. A s s a d , Thomas J . "On t h e M a j o r Poems o f Tennyson's Enoch A r d e n Volume." T u l a n e S t u d i e s i n E n g l i s h 14 (1965): 29- 56. Auden, W. H. I n t r o d u c t i o n . A S e l e c t i o n from t h e Poems o f Tennyson. New Y o r k : Doubleday, 1944. i x - x x . 564 A u s t i n , J . C. " J . T. 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The A m e r i c a n Adam: I n n o c e n c e , Tragedy, and T r a d i t i o n i n t h e N i n e t e e n t h C e n t u r y . C h i c a g o : U o f C h i c a g o P, 1955. L o n g f e l l o w , E r n e s t Wadsworth. Random Memories. B o s t o n : Houghton M i f f l i n , 1922. L o n g f e l l o w , Henry Wadsworth. E v a n g e l i n e . 1951. Ed. and I n t r o . C. B r u c e F e r g u s s o n . H a l i f a x : Nimbus, 1982. M a t t h i e s s e n , F. 0. A m e r i c a n R e n a i s s a n c e : A r t and E x p r e s s i o n i n t h e Age o f Emerson and Whitman. 1941. London: O x f o r d UP, 1972. McSweeny, K e r r y . Tennyson and Swinburne as Romantic N a t u r a l i s t s . T o r o n t o : U o f T o r o n t o P, 1981. M i t c h e l l , S a l l y . The F a l l e n A n g e l : C h a s t i t y , C l a s s , and Women's R e a d i n g 1835-1880. B o w l i n g Green, Ohio: B o w l i n g Green UP, 1981. N a t i o n a l P a r k S e r v i c e , L o n g f e l l o w N a t i o n a l H i s t o r i c P a r k [ C o o r d i n a t o r s ] . P a p e r s P r e s e n t e d a t t h e L o n g f e l l o w Commemorative C o n f e r e n c e , A p r i l 1-3, 1982. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government P r i n t i n g O f f i c e , 1982. Nemerov, Howard. "On L o n g f e l l o w . " 1963. A m e r i c a n P o e t r y t o 1914. Ed. H a r o l d Bloom. New York: C h e l s e a P u b l i s h e r s . 169-82. O ' N e i l l , J o s e p h E. "Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w , P o e t o f t h e F e e l i n g H e a r t . " A m e r i c a n C l a s s i c s R e c o n s i d e r e d . Ed. H a r o l d C. G a r d i n e r . New York: C h a r l e s S c r i b n e r s ' Sons, 1958. 146-75. O x e n h a n d l e r , N e a l . "The Changing Concept o f L i t e r a r y Emotion: A S e l e c t i v e H i s t o r y . " New L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y 20 (1988-89): 105-21. P a r r i n g t o n , Vernon L. Main C u r r e n t s i n A m e r i c a n Thought. V o l . 2 o f The Romantic R e v o l u t i o n i n A m e r i c a , 1800-1860. New Y o r k : H a r c o u r t B r a c e , 1927. P a t t i s o n , R o b e r t . Tennyson and T r a d i t i o n . Cambridge: H a r v a r d UP, 1979. P e a r c e , Roy Harvey. The C o n t i n u i t y o f A m e r i c a n P o e t r y . M i d d l e t o w n Conn.: Wesleyan UP, 1987. R i c h a r d s o n , C h a r l e s F. A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e : 1607-1885. 2 v o l s . New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1889. 587 R u s t , R i c h a r d D i l w o r t h . "Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w . " F i f t e e n A m e r i c a n A u t h o r s B e f o r e 1900: B i b l i o g r a p h i c a l E s s a y s on R e s e a r c h and C r i t i c i s m . Eds. E a r l N. H a r b e r t and R o b e r t A. Rees. M a d i s o n : U o f W i s c o n s i n P, 1984. 357-78. S a i n t s b u r y , George. P r e f a c e s and E s s a y s . London: M a c m i l l a n , 1933 . S a n d e r s , C.R. "Tennyson and t h e Human Hand." V i c t o r i a n N e w s l e t t e r 11 (1957): 5-14. Sendry, J o s e p h . " I n Memoriam: T w e n t i e t h C e n t u r y C r i t i c i s m . " V i c t o r i a n P o e t r y . 18 (1980): 105-18. S p i l l e r , R o b e r t E. e t a l . , eds. A L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y o f t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s . 1946. New York: M a c m i l l a n , 1963. S u l e i m a n , Susan R. and Inge Crossman, eds. The Reader i n t h e T e x t : E s s a y s on A u d i e n c e and I n t e r p r e t a t i o n . P r i n c e t o n : P r i n c e t o n UP, 1980. Tennyson, A l f r e d L o r d . Dear and Honoured Lady: The C o r r e s - pondence Between Queen V i c t o r i a and A l f r e d Tennyson. Eds. Hope Dyson and S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson. London: M a c m i l l a n , 1970. I n Memoriam. Ed. Susan S h a t t o and M a r i o n Shaw. O x f o r d : C l a r e n d o n P r e s s , 1982. . Maud: A D e f i n i t i v e E d i t i o n . Ed. Susan S h a t t o . London: A t h l o n e P r e s s , 1986. A V a r i o r u m E d i t i o n o f Tennyson's I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g . Ed. John P f o r d r e s h e r . New York: C o l u m b i a UP, 1973. . The Works o f Tennyson. [ E v e r s l e y E d i t i o n 9 V o l s . ] London: M a c m i l l a n , 1908. Tennyson, S i r C h a r l e s . "Tennyson as P o e t L a u r e a t e . " Palmer 203-25. and Hope Dyson. The Tennysons: Background t o G e n i u s . London: M a c m i l l a n , 1974. Tennyson, H a l l a m . M a t e r i a l s f o r a L i f e o f A.T. 4 V o l s . N.P.: P r i v a t e l y P r i n t e d , 1895. . Tennyson and h i s F r i e n d s . London: M a c m i l l a n , 1911. 588 T h o l f s e n , T r y g y v e . "The T r a n s i t i o n t o Democracy i n V i c t o r i a n E n g l a n d . " I n t e r n a t i o n a l Review o f S o c i a l H i s t o r y 6 (1961): 226-48. Tompkins, Jane P. "The Reader i n H i s t o r y : t h e Changing Shape o f L i t e r a r y Response." Reader-Response C r i t i c i s m . Ed. Jane Tompkins. B a l t i m o r e and London: Johns H o p k i n s U. P., 1980. 201-26. T r e n t , W i l l i a m P e t a l . , eds. The Cambridge H i s t o r y o f A m e r i c a n L i t e r a t u r e . 3 v o l s . New York: M a c m i l l a n , 1942. V o l . 2. T u c k e r , H e r b e r t F. J r , "Tennyson and t h e Measure o f Doom." PMLA. 98 (1983): 8-20. V i n c e n t , D a v i d . B r e a d . Knowledge, and Freedom: A Study o f N i n e t e e n t h - C e n t u r y Working C l a s s A u t o b i o g r a p h y . London and New York: Metheun, 1981. V i n c e n t , Leon. A m e r i c a n L i t e r a r y M a s t e r s . B o s t o n : Houghton M i f f l i n , 1906. Von H a l l b e r g , R o b e r t , ed. Canons. C h i c a g o : U o f C h i c a g o P, 1984. Waggoner, H y a t t H. A m e r i c a n P o e t s from t h e P u r i t a n s t o t h e P r e s e n t . 1968. B a t o n Rouge: L o u i s i a n a S t a t e UP. 1984. W a i t e s , B e r n a r d e t a l . , eds. P o p u l a r C u l t u r e : P a s t and P r e s e n t . London: Croom Helm, 1982. W e l t e r , Rush. The Mind o f A m e r i c a 1820-1860. New York: C o l u m b i a UP, 1975. 589 APPENDIX I A: AMERICAN VOLUMES OP LONGFELLOW'S POETRY: 1839-18 65 Note: The f o l l o w i n g i n f o r m a t i o n and f i g u r e s p r o v i d e o n l y an i n c o m p l e t e r e c o r d o f L o n g f e l l o w ' s volumes and s a l e s , drawn from s e v e r a l d i f f e r e n t s o u r c e s : C h a r v a t ' s The P r o f e s s i o n o f A u t h o r s h i p ( 1 0 6 - 6 7 ) ; T r y o n ' s " N a t i o n a l i s m and I n t e r n a t i o n a l C o p y r i g h t " and L i v i n g s t o n ' s A B i b l i o g r a p h y o f t h e F i r s t E d i t i o n s o f t h e W r i t i n g s o f Henry Wadsworth L o n g f e l l o w . Year Volume Publisher Format & Cost Copies 1839 V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t John Owen f i n e paper 750 14 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 5 2 : 8,800 ( l a r g e p a p e r i s s u e o f 250 c o p i e s o f 3 r d e d i t i o n ; s i m i l a r p r a c t i c e o c c u r s w i t h each major volume even w i t h T i c k n o r and F i e l d s ) 1841 B a l l a d s and O t h e r Poems Owen f i n e p a p e r 750 9 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 4 8 : 3,770 1842 Poems on S l a v e r y Owen f i n e p a p e r 750 1,750 ( L o n g f e l l o w g i v e s p l a t e s t o A n t i - S l a v e r y T r a c t A s s o c i a t i o n f o r r e p r i n t i n g ) 184 3 The S p a n i s h S t u d e n t Owen f i n e p a p e r 750 5 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 4 5 : 1,600 1845 B e l f r y o f Bruges Owen f i n e p a p e r 750 4 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 4 6 : 2,050 1845 ( L o n g f e l l o w p u r c h a s e s p l a t e s from Owen, and w i l l own a l l p l a t e s o f h i s poems u n t i l 1865) 1845 V o i c e s o f t h e N i g h t R e d d i n g d o u b l e column pamphlet 12 1/20 1,000-2,000 1845 C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n Carey and H a r t i l l u s t r a t e d 1,000 Moroccan l e a t h e r , s t e e l p l a t e s $3.50-$7.00 184 6 C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n H a r p e r s d o u b l e column pamphlet p a p e r c o v e r e d 500 2,000 1846 ( T i c k n o r and F i e l d s buy a l l Owen's o l d s t o c k and become L o n g f e l l o w ' s p u b l i s h e r u n t i l 1882) 1847 E v a n g e l i n e T i c k n o r and F i e l d s * t r a d e e d i t i o n $1.00 37 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 6 9 : 28,005 184 9 C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n H a r p e r s ( w i t h E v a n g e l i n e ) d o u b l e column pamphlet p a p e r c o v e r e d 620 6,000 1849 The S e a s i d e T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n $1.00 5,000 and t h e F i r e s i d e 1850 C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n $2.00 Two Volumes 1 s t e d i t i o n : 20,000 ( o t h e r p r i c e s range from 500 t o $8.00; 85 i m p r e s s i o n s from 1850-70: 164,168 c o p i e s s o l d ) 1851 The G o l d e n Legend T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n $1.00 13 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 6 4 : 9,848 1855 Song o f Hiawatha T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n $1.00 29 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 6 8 : 50,771 1856 C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n T i c k n o r and F i e l d s B l u e and G o l d $1.75 40,000 1858 M i l e s S t a n d i s h T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n $1.00 1 s t e d i t i o n : 10,000 10 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 6 5 : 29,424 1863 T a l e s o f a T i c k n o r and F i e l d s t r a d e e d i t i o n $1.00 Wayside I n n 3 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 6 5 : 22,000 1865 H o u s e h o l d Poems T i c k n o r and F i e l d s I l l u s t r a t e d 500 20,000 ( s e l e c t e d ) b l u e p a p e r c o v e r s * T i c k n o r and F i e l d s ' t r a d e e d i t i o n was o f stamped brown c l o t h c o v e r s , 12mo.; o t h e r e d i t i o n s m i g h t a l s o be c o l o u r e d : Hiawatha ( r e d ) ; M i l e s S t a n d i s h ( p u r p l e ) w i t h s i d e s stamped i n g i l t and g i l t edges. B: LONGFELLOW'S RECORDED INCOME FROM WRITING: 1840-6 4 Y e a r Books P e r i o d i c a l s T o t a l 1840 $173.00 $46.00 $219.00 1841 212.00 45. 00 257.00 1842 202.00 , 315.00 517.00 1843 235.00 100.00 335.00 1844 225.00 300.00 525.00 1845* 2,610.00 250.00 2,860.00 1846 1,700.00 100.00 1,800.00 1847 1,100.00 1,100.00 1848 1,425.00 100.00 1,525.00 1849 2,556.25 305.00 2,861.25 1850 1,750.00 150.00 1,900.00 1851 2,537.70 2,537.70 1852 1,055.60 50.00 1,105.60 1853 1, 275 250.00 1,525.00 591 1854 1,600.00 100.00 1,700. 00 1855** 3,475.00 200.00 3,675. 00 1856 7,400.00 7,400. 00 * L o n g f e l l o w ' s f i r s t C o l l e c t e d E d i t i o n appeared i n 1845. ** L o n g f e l l o w p u b l i s h e d Hiawatha i n 1855. 1857 2,450.00 100.00 2,550. 00 1858 2,410.00 250.00 2,660. 00 1859 1,767.00 50. 00 1,817. 00 1860 1,132.00 50.00 1,182. 00 1861 874.50 50.00 924 . 50 1862 1,022.50 50. 00 1,072. 50 1863 1,131.00 250.00 1,381. 00 1864 2,382.00 300.00 2,682. 00 L o n g f e l l o w e s t a b l i s h e d a new c o n t r a c t w i t h T i c k n o r and F i e l d s i n 1865. H i s a v e r a g e y i e l d f o r c o l l e c t e d e d i t i o n s was $3,284 f o r t h e n e x t t e n y e a r s . A f t e r 1875, he was p a i d a f l a t sum o f $4,000 p e r annum f o r a l l h i s o l d books ( C h a r v a t P r o f e s s i o n 112-13). Average wages i n t h e 1840s-60s were Congressmen: $8.00 p e r day L a b o r e r s : $2.00 p e r day 592 APPENDIX II A: ENGLISH VOLUMES OF TENNYSON'S POETRY: 1830-1865 Note: The f o l l o w i n g i n f o r m a t i o n and f i g u r e s p r o v i d e o n l y an i n c o m p l e t e r e c o r d o f Tennyson's volumes and s a l e s , drawn from s e v e r a l s o u r c e s : Hagen's Tennyson and h i s P u b l i s h e r s . Shannon's Tennyson and t h e R e v i e w e r s . S i r C h a r l e s Tennyson's A l f r e d Tennyson, and Wise's B i b l i o g r a p h y . Year Volume Publisher Format & Cost Copies 1830 Poems C h i e f l y L y r i c a l E f f i n g h a m W i l s o n 5s 600 d r a b paper o r p i n k b o a r d s 1832 Poems Edward Moxon d r a b paper b o a r d s 6s 450 1842 Poems (2 v o l s ) Moxon d r a b paper b o a r d s 12s 24 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 7 2 : 800, 1000 (drab o r g r e e n ) , 1500 ( g r e e n ) , 2000; 5 t h (one v o l ) : i l l u s t r a t e d , e n g r a v e d s t e e l , 9 s ; 7 t h morocco: 18s 1847 The P r i n c e s s Moxon * t r a d e e d i t i o n 5s 17 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 6 8 : 1500, 1500, 1500, 2000, 2000 (1000 a n n u a l l y t h e r e a f t e r ) ; 1875 r e d u c e d t o 3s 6d 1850 I n Memoriam Moxon p u r p l e c l o t h b o a r d s 6s 21 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 7 2 : 5000+3000, 5000, 3000, 3000 (60,000 i n a few m o n t h s ) ; i n 1875 r e d u c e d t o 5s, i n 1877 r e d u c e d t o 4s 1855 Maud E t c . Moxon t r a d e e d i t i o n 5s 19 e d i t i o n s - 1 8 8 4 : 10,000, 2000, 1857 I l l u s t r a t e d E d i t i o n Moxon b l u e c l o t h b o a r d s 10,000 wood b l o c k i l l u s t r a t i o n s , g i l t d e s i g n c o v e r : 31s 6d (Moxon's d e a t h i n 1858; B r a d b u r y & Evans manage p u b l i s h i n g ) 1859 I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g Moxon t r a d e e d i t i o n 7s 8 e d i t i o n s : 40,000, f o l i o e d i t i o n ( 1 8 6 7 — ) e n g r a v e d s t e e l i l l u s t r a t i o n s : 1, 3, and 5 g u i n e a s . 1864 Enoch Arden E t c . Moxon t r a d e e d i t i o n 6s 60,000 i l l u s t r a t e d ( 1 8 6 6 ) ; i n 1875 r e d u c e d t o 3s 6d 1865 Moxon's M i n i a t u r e P o e t s : a S e l e c t i o n from t h e Works o f A l f r e d Tennyson Moxon c l o t h b o a r d s 5s 8 p a r t s mauve w r a p p e r s , 6d p e r * Moxon's t r a d e e d i t i o n s were i n g r e e n c l o t h b o a r d s w i t h g i l t l e t t e r i n g on t h e s p i n e ; t h i s f o r m a t becomes s t a n d a r d w i t h o t h e r Tennyson p u b l i s h e r s a f t e r Moxon (1869-1892). B: TENNYSON'S INCOME FROM WRITING: 1840-1864 Poems (1842) 1843 £156 2s 6d 1844 1845 £259 18s I d C i v i l L i s t p e n s i o n : £2 00 p e r annum 1846 £330 7s 6d ( a v e r a g e s £100 a n n u a l l y t h e r e a f t e r ) P r i n c e s s (1847) 1848 £103 13s 7d 1849 £118 4s 7d 1851 £106 19s 4d 1852 £147 3s l O d 1853 £L82 3s 2d 1854 £L66 4s l O d ( a v e r a g e s £L75 a n n u a l l y t h e r e a f t e r ) I n Memoriam (1850) 1850 £445 L a u r e a t e p e n s i o n : £2 00 p e r annum 1851 £273 1852 £133 1853 £175 1854 £150 1855 £100 1856 £100 ( a n n u a l a v e r a g e s t h e r e a f t e r unknown) Maud (1855) 1856 £2000 ( c u m u l a t i v e from a l l volumes t o d a t e ) I l l u s t r a t e d (1857) 1858 £2000 (by c o n t r a c t w i t h Moxon) 1863 £923 4s ( r o y a l t i e s from R o u t l e d g e on r e m a i n d e r e d volumes R o u t l e d g e i s s u e s 5000 (1865) and 5000 (1869) 1865 £924 6s 1869 £924 6s I d y l l s o f t h e K i n g (1859) ( a v e r a g e s £2300 p e r y e a r f o r f i v e y e a r s : £11,500) Enoch Arden (1864) 1865 £8065 I s l O d S e l e c t i o n (1865) 1865 £5710 4s 2d Average a n n u a l income i n t h e 1840s-60s: S k i l l e d a r t i s a n s , p r i n t e r s : £400 APPENDIX III The Graves of a Household They grew i n beauty, side by side, They f i l l ' d one home with g l e e ; — Their graves are sever'd, f a r and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each f a i r sleeping brow; She had each folded flower i n s i g h t , — Where are those dreamers now? One, midst forests of the west, By a dark stream i s l a i d — The Indian knows h i s place of r e s t , Far i n the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He l i e s where pearls l i e deep; He was the lov'd of a l l , yet none O'er h i s low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble s l a i n : He wrapt h i s colours round h i s breast, On a blood-red f i e l d of Spain. And one—o'er her the myrtle showers I t s leaves, by s o f t winds fann'd: She faded midst I t a l i a n f l o w e r s , — The l a s t of that bright band. And parted thus they r e s t , who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee! They that with smiles l i t up the h a l l , And cheer'd with song the h e a r t h , — Alas! for love, i f thou wert a l l , And nought beyond, oh, earth! F e l i c i a Hemans 1828 A Psalm of L i f e What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist T e l l me not, i n mournful numbers, L i f e i s but an empty dreamI — For the soul i s dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. L i f e i s r e a l ! L i f e i s earnest! And the grave i s not i t s goal; Dust thou a r t , to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day. Art i s long, and Time i s f l e e t i n g , And our hearts, though stout and brave, S t i l l , l i k e muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad f i e l d of b a t t l e , In the bivouac of L i f e , Be not l i k e dumb, driven c a t t l e ! Be a hero i n the s t r i f e ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury i t s dead! A c t , — a c t i n the l i v i n g Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men a l l remind us We can make our l i v e s sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, S a i l i n g o'er l i f e ' s solemn main, A f o r l o r n and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, s h a l l take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart f o r any f a t e ; S t i l l achieving, s t i l l pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1838 Break, break, break Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could u t t e r The thoughts that a r i s e i n me. 0 well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with h i s s i s t e r at play! O well for the s a i l o r lad, That he sings i n h i s boat on the bay! And the s t a t e l y ships go on To t h e i r haven under the h i l l ; But 0 for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that i s s t i l l ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that i s dead W i l l never come back to me. A l f r e d Tennyson 1842